The Disillusionment of Draco Malfoy
(and His Accomplice Hermione Granger)
Chapter 2
It's not a long flight from Wiltshire to London, but the landscape soon becomes thick with twisting roadways and those metal muggle vehicles, and in the distance he can see London looming, tall and white and full of people who would have an aneurism to see him on a broom. He sets down behind some bushes, shrinks his broom and pockets it, and watches as muggles move in and out of the road-side restaurant, fiddle around with their vehicles and maneuver them towards the city.
There's a large vehicle, covered in tarps, and he slips inside and settles down amongst the crates of what he discovers is disassembled furniture. The ride is bumpy, and there are times when Draco isn't sure they've stopped for good and almost leaps out, but eventually the vehicle comes to a rest. He can hear the driver opening his door, getting out, snorting; something makes a jangling sound—keys or coins or a heavy belt buckle. Cautiously, Draco lifts the edge of a tarp, flattening himself against the floor and peering out. The wide, denim-covered rear of the driver is moving away.
Thankfully, they're not too far from the city centre, in an alley behind a furniture shop, and Draco runs in the opposite direction of the driver, so fast that when he hits the pavement he almost smacks into an old woman and her yappy dog.
"Sorry," Draco says, flashing her a smile. The old woman smiles back, and her dog yaps, and Draco shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls away. To Piccadilly Circus. To the West End. To Trafalgar Square. Anywhere, so long as wizards won't be there.
Saying she's going to leave, and actually leaving, are two very different animals. It's November, and after the disastrous turn at the Ministry of Magic, Hermione is more determined than ever to leave. They aren't getting anywhere, except in to more scrapes that seem to escalate in danger by the day, and she knows—because they aren't fully trained, because their minds are fogged by hunger, because they have no proper plan—that one day, one of them is going to die.
She finds it rather telling that when her first thought is about how she doesn't want to die, she doesn't feel all that bad about it. Selfishness, she has found, isn't as bad as she thought.
"This isn't working," she finally says, during dinner that isn't dinner, because three wild mushrooms aren't a meal.
"What do you mean?" Harry asks.
"This, us," she waves her hands around, at their sad little campsite, "this whole stupid quest that Dumbledore sent us on. It's disorganized. It's second rate. And it's going to kill us, either by Death Eaters or because I just get too damn hungry and eat the two of you."
"Cannibalism, Hermione?" Harry smiles.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"'Course we are," Ron says. "But Dumbledore was a smart bloke. Why shouldn't we do as he says?"
"Because smart as he was, he was almost a manipulative bastard who kept his cards too close to his chest, and didn't seem to mind all that much when people died for it." She sees Harry swallow hard. "Harry, you should know. If Dumbledore had been up front with you, this whole…thing may be over by now. Hell, Voldemort may not even have been resurrected if he was more honest about the horcruxes."
"We don't know that," Harry says softly, squirming.
"Bullshit."
Harry looks at his hands, and Ron looks in to the trees, and she can see how it is. Dumbledore will forever be wise and caring and happily mad, and despite Hermione's brains, she will always come in second to a dead man with an Order of Merlin.
"So that's it; you're leaving?" Ron says as he watches her throw her few clothes and toiletries in to her beaded bag.
"Yep," she says.
"You're just going to desert us?"
"Yeah."
"Well…you can't!" he exclaims, leaping to his feet.
"In a minute, you'll find that I can."
"You can't just abandon us! We need you!"
"No, you don't. Not when you won't listen to me. And I'm not about to stand idly by, going fucking treasure hunting, when I could be doing something useful."
"You're useful to us."
She can hear the plaintive sound in his voice, and she knows then that if she leaves now there is no future for them. No dating, no marriage, no children. All her childhood hopes are wrapped up in this fruitless search, and if she leaves it, she leaves them behind too. She'll choose adulthood, planning and strategy and real, honest war, over the adventure and mystery of the years before. And adulthood has no place for her love for Ron Weasley.
"Don't die," she says, and apparates away.