DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. I'm just gamboling on JKR's turf like the sabre-toothed bunny I am.

Chapter 2 - A Thickening Agent

Hermione stared at the spot where the Patronus had disappeared for several long seconds, and then said, "Draco Malfoy."

"So it seems," said Harry, his face cloudy. "Why was Malfoy there?"

Hermione made a gesture that she hoped would convey her confusion. "I know we need to get to St. Mungo's, but that's about it, Harry." She closed the doors and punched the button. "Malfoy might know something."

"What's he going to tell us?" Harry challenged.

"I don't know. Think about it, Harry. Mult was with Malfoy when Stein found her. What else might she have been doing, if not speaking to him? He and Parkinson have a past, remember."

"I do remember, but mightn't they just as well have been seeing each other?" Harry countered.

"He's meant to be marrying Astoria Greengrass next summer, Harry," said Hermione. "He's not going to jeopardize that union before it's good and settled. Mult must have thought Malfoy was in on it."

"And why wouldn't he be?"

"Why would Stein try to kill Malfoy if he were part of the plot?"

"Maybe he was kept in the dark on that information."

"But why wouldn't Malfoy just kill him as soon as he'd killed Mult?" pressed Hermione. "He had the perfect opportunity, and they'd have found Stein's body. No, I don't think Malfoy comes into it at all, and if he does, at best it's because Astoria Mult went to him for clarification. She was probably thinking along the same lines that you are, Harry. She likely thought he'd know, and went to corner him about it."

"We don't know that for sure, Hermione," said Harry doubtfully.

"We don't know for sure that he's involved, either," she insisted. "Innocent until proven guilty, Harry."

Harry muttered something under his breath that Hermione felt sure was a condemnation because "his surname was Malfoy, and really, after everything we've been through with him, it's only a logical conclusion."

She didn't respond. There wasn't really a response to give. They could only talk to Malfoy and see what he had to say before they arrested him. If there was one thing Hermione hoped Harry understood, it was what it meant to imprison a man innocent of committing a crime. Their political party was currently trying to push through by-laws that made the wizarding world an easier place to inhabit, and the one thing standing in their way was Malfoy money; the very last thing Hermione's party needed was to piss off the Malfoy family enough that the law never made it off the floor. Putting Draco Malfoy in prison without knowing for certain what he'd been up to would certainly do just that.

Once out the doors of the Ministry, and beyond the confines of the anti-Apparition wards, Harry and Hermione turned into a desolate alley and Apparated away. Landing across the street from St. Mungo's, Hermione took a moment to breathe in and straighten her clothes. She wasn't as angry with Ron anymore, but her temper was still frayed and it wouldn't do her any good to slap Malfoy again if he was making irritable retorts about her state of dress. She looked to Harry, whose jaw was visibly clenching and unclenching, and linked her hand to the crook of his arm. No doubt he was debating whether or not to be surly or forcedly polite.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"It'll be fine."

"I know," he said. "As long as he doesn't get snarky."

"It's Malfoy; I don't think he's capable of not being snarky."

"Maybe being half-dead will change that."

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens, don't be a prat."

He looked at her, frowning. "I'm not a prat."

"You are sometimes."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

He was quiet a moment. "Really?"

"Don't be a prat to Malfoy, and if he does something we don't like, you can always arrest him for heckling an Auror. Just don't you cast the first stone, all right?"

"I'm never a prat to Malfoy."

"Harry," she said, pulling him along so they could cross the street, "you and Malfoy have been prats to each other since first year. Technically since before first year, but never mind that."

"Guess who started it?" Harry stated petulantly. "I'll give you a hint: He's Pureblood, got loads of money, and everyone treats him like a god."

"You know," Hermione said thoughtfully as they entered the foyer, "in the world of politics he's at least a demi-god. He's yet to prove he's Lucius Malfoy, but he's doing a bang-up job, so far."

"It's because his surname is Malfoy," griped Harry, "and he'll go whinging to his father to fix everything if it doesn't go his way."

Hermione stopped a few feet from the receptionist's desk, a small frown on her face. "Harry, Lucius Malfoy has been locked in Azkaban for five years. Exactly what are you expecting Draco to complain about to him?"

"He's only serving fifteen years, Hermione."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and given the state of Azkaban, it's not likely he'll last that long, is it, Harry?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Fine. Let's just talk to the git and be gone, can we?"

Hermione eyed Harry a moment longer, patted his shoulder, and then approached the girl at the counter. "Mr. Draco Malfoy?" she said.

"Are you family?" the girl drawled boredly without looking up.

"No," said Hermione, feeling more than a little irritated at being brushed off as unimportant. "We're from the Ministry. Auror Potter and Hermione Granger."

The girl looked up sharply, as though suddenly aware that a lackluster attitude was probably not going to do her any favours. "You're here to see Draco Malfoy?" she repeated, as though unable to fully comprehend that simple fact.

"Yes," said Hermione as politely as possible. "Have you any information on his status?"

The girl shook her head rapidly. "No. You'll have to get that from the Healer-in-charge. That's Broderick Clifton; tall, sort of stringy, orange hair."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you." Since Harry didn't look keen on going anywhere, she took his arm and pulled him along. "Be nice," she whispered, sure that the receptionist heard her anyway. "He's in hospital, Harry. He's hardly going to start jinxing you."

Harry muttered something under his breath about hoping Hermione was right, and didn't object too much to being pulled into the lift. It was when they reached the fourth floor that he put up the real fight. When Hermione hissed that he was acting childish, Harry puffed out his chest and exited the lift on his own, looking about for a someone he could identify as Healer Clifton, as though daring Hermione to repeat the sentiment. She refrained, tempting as it was.

Healer Clifton was just stepping out of a room when they finally found him. It wasn't Draco Malfoy's room, and he didn't look particularly pleased when Harry and Hermione said they needed to speak with him.

"Why?"

"It's Ministry business," said Harry stubbornly.

"Yes, but he is also my patient, and he is under great stress at the moment; you will understand, Auror Potter, if I refuse."

Hermione wondered, quite briefly, if the vein in Harry's neck was about to explode. "Healer, I realize you've got a job to do, and I'm not asking you to play nanny, I just need – "

"But you see, Auror Potter, I would have to play nanny. Your history with Mr. Malfoy precedes you, and given the terms on which you were last known to have spoken" Hermione cringed, "I cannot, under good conscience, allow you in to see my patient."

"Healer Clifton, what if I spoke to Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione interjected.

He stared at her. "What exactly are you expecting to gain, Miss Granger? No offense, ma'am, but you are Muggleborn." Harry muttered something under his breath about "another supremacist prick," at which Clifton looked morbidly offended. "I'll have you know, Mr. Potter," he hissed, "that my wife is a Muggleborn witch. My sole concern lies in the fact that Mr. Malfoy does not have an altogether clean slate as far as treating Muggleborns fairly."

Hermione bit back a sigh: The Healer had a point. "I can handle whatever Malfoy throws at me, Healer Clifton," she assured him. "Please, this interview is important; it's a matter of national security, and we wouldn't be here, honestly, if Malfoy's help weren't absolutely essential."

Clifton seemed to vacillate. "Fine," he finally said. "But you have to be quick, and if there's any sign of distress, you must summon me immediately."

Hermione nodded. "I understand."

"And your Auror friend is not to be in the same room with Mr. Malfoy," Clifton declared firmly. "War hero or not, I will toss you out of my ward if you cause my patient trouble."

Yes, fine, whatever; could they please just get to Malfoy already? "I understand, sir," she said. "Harry won't go anywhere near the door, will you, Harry?"

He snorted. "As if I'd want to."

Hermione sighed and looked back to the Healer. "That's as good as it's going to get, I'm afraid."

He scowled at Harry another long moment, and motioned for them to follow him down the hall. They turned a few corners, went up a small flight of stairs, and down to the end of another hallway. At the last door on the right, Clifton stopped and put in a key. Two other Aurors stood on either side of the door; they saluted Harry and nodded politely to Hermione. She acknowledged them, waiting for Clifton to unlock the door. Harry took up a post on the opposite wall, arms crossed, gaze locked on the door.

"Carefully now, Miss Granger," said Clifton. "Do be careful, please. His injuries are most extensive."

He let Hermione in, propping open the door so the Aurors could watch as he checked Malfoy's vitals. Hermione felt relieved that this was a man who wasn't at all put off by another person's job, and had no qualms about bluntly telling the Head Auror, "Hell no." The world would be a much easier place to live if other professionals behaved in the same way.

"I'll wake him up," Clifton said softly. "I don't know how long he'll manage staying awake; if he starts to drift off, just let him go. He needs as much rest as he can get." Hermione nodded, trying not to look too closely at Draco Malfoy's heavily bandaged body. "We'll be in to change the dressings once you've finished." He waved his wand, eliciting a small moan from the man in the bed, nodded once, apparently satisfied that nothing was amiss, and stowed his wand away. "At your leisure, Miss Granger."

And then Clifton left the room, and Hermione was forced to look at Draco Malfoy's broken body. She sat down on a small chair next to the bed, folding her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for the blonde Slytherin to come to full consciousness. When he saw her, he stared, blinked, and then opened his mouth.

"Granger?" he croaked.

"Hiya, Malfoy," she returned.

He seemed momentarily befuddled, then amused. "I expected Potter." His voice was dry and scratchy.

"Clifton wouldn't let him in to see you."

"Figures," he said, his voice pitching. "If it's not too much to ask. . . ." he began, and then his voice trailed off.

"Care for some water, Malfoy?" Hermione said softly.

"Please," he whispered.

She procured the desired liquid, helping him tip the cup just so; she didn't need him choking and spluttering during this conversation. "Better?"

"Much," he said, his voice a little clearer, but still weak. He leaned back against the pillows, struggling to sit up. "This damned bed is charmed, I swear."

"Maybe it's best if you stay lying down," Hermione said. "Give your body a chance to recover."

She half-expected him to argue; Malfoy always argued. This time he didn't. He just obediently sank back onto the fluff, taking a deep breath. "Where's Potter?"

"Just outside," said Hermione softly.

"In case I attack you. . .again?" His voice was wry.

"He knows you didn't attack me last time," Hermione said dryly. "He knows, and you know it."

Malfoy snorted. "He only knows if you told him; I certainly didn't."

"Harry is much more intuitive about his friends than you give him credit for, Malfoy."

"Then he'll know I didn't off Astoria Mult," he deadpanned.

"I said he's intuitive about his friends, Malfoy. I think he's kind of hoping you did it."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Of course he is."

"I told him not to be a prat."

"Oh, that helps, I'm sure, Granger."

"It would help if you didn't give him reason to act like one."

"It's not my fault he was born with a sense of self-righteous – "

"I'm not saying anyone's at fault," she interrupted. "I'm just saying, it would benefit the world – and by that I mean me – if one of you two would extend the olive branch."

"He'd take it and spit in my face," Malfoy retorted.

"You could work with me on this," Hermione said with a huff.

Malfoy grinned. "I could. But you look pretty when you're irritated, Granger."

She blushed. "Don't let's get off track," she said.

"Right," he sighed. "Right. Astoria Mult."

"What happened, Malfoy?"

He shrugged as much as he could for lying down. "I've no idea, Granger. She asked to meet me at an out-of-the-way place in Knockturn Alley; said it was urgent. I thought, because she was an Unspeakable, I probably ought to go. It could be anything. I got there, and she'd had a room set up for us. I started to think it was some sick joke, but then she launched into this whole tirade about some plot to blow up the Ministry, and Parliament Square along with it. At first I thought she'd gone completely dotty." He stopped to draw breath; even talking was a chore.

"So you didn't know what it was about?"

"Well," he said, "like I said, at first I thought she'd gone off her rocker. And then I remembered hearing Blaise arguing with his brother about it at some soirée his mother had cooked up to celebrate Louis' betrothal."

"Louis?" repeated Hermione.

"Blaise and Edmund's younger brother," Malfoy explained. "He's set to marry Iris Parkinson."

"Pansy's cousin."

"Indeed," he answered, and then chuckled. "That poor bastard."

"What's wrong with Iris?"

"Oh, nothing," Malfoy replied. "That is, if you don't mind your wife messing about behind your back at all times of day and night. She's not very discreet about it, either. It's one thing to have an affair. Nobody cares about that; every Pureblood couple has partners on the side. But multiple affairs and airing that dirty laundry in public. . . ." He managed a weak whistle. "And Louis isn't known for being the type to share. He doesn't like Iris, and she can shag who she wants while they're engaged; but when those vows are said, and he puts that ring on her finger. . . ." Malfoy looked back at Hermione. "Let's just say, the next poor sod to bed Iris probably won't make it past the wards alive."

Hermione nodded, not sure which party was more deserving of her pity. "So, Blaise and Edmund were arguing at their mother's soirée about this plot?"

"I can't imagine what else it might have been," Malfoy said calmly. "You have to understand, Granger, Blaise and Edmund are about as close as brothers come. They're two extremely different creatures, and that comes with having two different fathers, but they're as close as it gets. Blaise is the more level-headed of the two. He may not like the way the Ministry's going, with these new pro-Muggleborn policies, but he's not about to blow it up and throw our society into chaos. Edmund, on the other hand. . .he's what you might call an anarchist."

"So this is exactly the type of thing he'd do?" Hermione clarified, not liking the twisting feeling in her gut.

"Oh, yes," Malfoy said coolly. "And he's got the brains to pull it off. Anyhow, from what I could tell, he'd asked Blaise his advice; what would Blaise do if such-and-such a situation arose, that sort of thing. Blaise more or less told him he wouldn't be stupid enough to have been in the middle of something that led to those circumstances in the first place. Well, you can imagine how much Edmund didn't like that."

Hermione nodded, thinking of all the times Harry and Ron had disagreed over the years. "Yeah, I think I can imagine that pretty well."

Malfoy took a breath. "Then you can probably imagine what went down: He accused Blaise of not caring about the wizarding world, anymore. Said he'd gone soft, betrayed their family values, virtually everything short of calling him a blood traitor. He wouldn't go that far, I don't think. That would lead to a Wizard's Duel, and Edmund knows that if it came to it, Blaise could kill him. It would probably kill Blaise, but he'd do it. It's a matter of honour."

"Whatever happened to being close?" Hermione prompted.

Malfoy looked at her funny for a long moment, and then understanding seemed to dawn on him. "Granger, how close do you think aristocrats are? This isn't your Muggle world, where everyone, rich and poor alike, are overly emotional and open about how they feel about things. Money runs governments, and governments run the world. It's a different reference for closeness than what you've had."

Clearly, Hermione thought. "Did they know you'd overheard them?"

He shook his head, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. "No. I stayed quiet, and Disillusioned myself before I snuck away. But when Astoria Mult mentioned Edmund, everything clicked. He'd been awfully chummy with Pansy at that party, but they looked quite serious. Intense discussions, and so on. I told Mult I knew what she was talking about, and I understood why she was suspicious, but I had nothing to do with it." He looked at Hermione then, his face almost pleading for her to understand. "Granger, I swear I have nothing to do with it."

She nodded, shifting in her seat so she wouldn't pat his arm. "I believe you, Malfoy." She gestured to the rest of him. "Clearly someone didn't want you leaving that room alive, though."

Malfoy groaned and made a movement that Hermione had to assume meant he wanted to punch something. "I was in the loo," he ground out. "I'd made up a tea, but there was something sticky on the cup. I went to wash it off, and probably just as well, or I'd be dead too. There was this god-awful explosion, it rocked the entire room, probably the whole floor. Mult had just enough time to yell my name, and then he hit her with an Avada. Had she not yelled for me, he probably wouldn't have known I was there."

"You got a good look at him?" Hermione said.

Draco nodded. "Yeah, except that he was a Hit-wizard. Any Hit-wizard worth his salt would have been Polyjuiced. I'm willing to bet you anything that what I saw wasn't the real man."

Hermione nodded, her hopes sinking. She ought to have thought of that. No Hit-wizard would want to be recognized, and certainly not by any surviving victims. "You obviously anticipated a healthy fight," she offered.

Draco shook his head. "I did my best to over-estimate him. Always over-estimate your opponent when surprised; every Auror knows that, Granger."

"It may have escaped your notice, Malfoy, but I'm not an Auror."

He smiled. "True. I thought you'd have known it anyway."

"What curse did you use?" Hermione asked, purposely ignoring the thinly veiled compliment.

"A Reducto," Malfoy said tiredly. Hermione winced. "The strongest I could muster. D'you mind if I have another drink?"

Hermione obliged, cradling Mafoy's head as gently as possible. He drank more than before, and it seemed to do him well. His eyes were much brighter, at least; Hermione briefly wondered what St. Mungo's staff put in their water. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "So. . .Reducto."

"Yes."

"The strongest I had. A Stunner wouldn't cut it, I thought. It took off a good chunk of his arm, so that'll be his blood on the wall by the door." Malfoy sighed. "And then he put one through the wall, I think trying to get me with debris. Of course, I had anticipated he'd try to blow a hole through me, so I'd put up a shield charm. Not strong enough, though. Whoever he was, that was one helluva hex."

"You were hit anyway," Hermione said. It wasn't a question so much as a thought process.

Malfoy nodded. "Yup. I'm pretty sure there're still bits of wood stuck in somewhere. I gave him a nice Cutting Hex to the knee, though. Of course, he tried to hit me with an Exviscer, but I Silenced him in time. It was a non-verbal curse, so it wasn't as strong, but it still did a good bit of damage. I couldn't do much casting after that. Of course, with his arm and leg in the state they were in, he wasn't in much shape to be duelling either, and made off as quick as he could. He might have Apparated, but I don't know. I was a bit out of it, I think."

Hermione nodded. Those curses were no joke. "That's it? That's all you remember?"

He nodded. "Going to have a jolly good time proving it, aren't I, Granger?"

"Actually," she said, standing up, "you may not have to."

He frowned. "You're not planning to plead my case to Potter, are you?"

"As it happens, Malfoy," she said, "a man was killed in my office earlier."

His eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"Another Unspeakable who had the misfortune of overhearing what Zabini and the rest were planning."

"Sweet Merlin, you can't be serious."

Hermione nodded. "I think it was the same Hit-wizard who killed Astoria Mult, and we think he'll be out looking for Ron as well."

"The Weasel, too? You three really are in the thick of everything, aren't you?"

"I think it's a side-effect of being best friends with Harry," said Hermione. "Anyway, it's doubtful Ron heard anything, as he wasn't exactly down there for – ah, professional reasons."

"I heard the story in The Prophet, Granger," said Malfoy wryly. "I know what happened. I hadn't realized his life was in danger, though."

"Yes," said Hermione. "Well, there you have it. I'll speak to Harry about setting you up with some protection; I don't think the odds are in your favour that our new favourite Hit-wizard will just let you walk away."

Malfoy chuckled. "Protection will only do so much, Granger. Unless someone else kills him, he'll get to me eventually. I don't exactly have a low profile."

Hermione had considered that. "We're going to do what we can to keep you from getting yourself killed, Malfoy, whatever that entails."

He frowned. "You're not thinking of doing something stupid, like changing my identity, are you? I don't think that's going to work."

Hermione shrugged. "You may be required to go completely underground, Malfoy."

He blanched. "Witness protection? Granger, don't be absurd. I'm a Malfoy! I've businesses that need tending!"

"Yes, Malfoy, you do. But you also have a life that needs saving, and, quite frankly, twenty-four-hour Auror security isn't going to cut it. Not with this. We don't know whose idea this was, why they're doing it, or who's funding them, and until we do, you'll still be a target. Wherever our Hit-wizard is now, he'll have told his bosses that you're in the know. They'll want your head on a silver platter!"

"They'd probably want it on gold, actually," he mused.

"Malfoy!"

"Granger, just because Slytherin colours are green and silver, does not mean that silver is a Pureblood's favourite metal. We are aristocrats, remember. We prefer gold."

She rolled her eyes. "The point is, you may be required to go into some kind of programme to hide yourself from your newfound friend. You need to be ready to do what is necessary, do you understand?"

Malfoy didn't look remotely pleased with the suggestion, but he nodded. "Fine. I'll go along nicely."

Hermione shuffled her feet. "It might not come to that, but it probably will. I just think you ought to know."

He nodded, looking away. "Yeah, I know."

Hermione stood there awkwardly, not quite sure how to end the conversation. "I'll – er, call your Healer."

"He'll be right outside," said Malfoy sullenly. "He has to be during interviews, just in case."

Hermione hesitated, and then went to the door, poking her head outside. Sure enough, there was Clifton. He and Harry seemed to be having some sort of desperate staring competition. There was no indication as to who was winning, and Hermione didn't particularly care. She cleared her throat, and they both snapped to attention.

"Miss Granger?"

"I'm finished with Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you ought to check him once more?"

The Healer nodded, going in as Hermione went out. Harry had resumed his stance of folded arms and petulant frown. "Got what you needed?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and I've got loads to tell you, Harry."