Blood & Connection

Chapter Three

A/N: Hello everyone! As always, I love reviews (*hint hint*)! PS: You get to meet someone new this chapter! Everyone say hello to ----------- Malfoy! And through this lovely man, you shall learn a bit about Hermione's research!

I watch him glide down the aisle between the raised seats of the Wiznagemot, his robes swirling gently around his ankles, his graceful stride belying the trouble he was in; the extreme desperation of his current situation.

"Name?" Demands the High Prosecutor, snarling softly in the light of his candle, his quill poised over his paper, ready to condemn or pardon with a simple check or cross. By the look on his face, I know his quill is set and ready over the little box which would condemn this man, my age, to Azkaban forever. And by the half-crazed smirk playing on his cracked, pale lips, I know which outcome he would prefer.

"Draco Abraxas Apollo Black Malfoy," says the young man, his blond head raised and his voice proud, caressing the names his family has given him. For a moment I wish I had the same sort of familial greatness to boast of, but I don't, and I am alright with that. I have never heard his whole, full name before. I am surprised to know that he carries the name Black, and by the stiffening beside me, so is Harry. But I can admit, it does make sense. Sirius is dead, and the Black line has ended in name, and Malfoy is the last descendant. Harry got the house, but Draco must carry on the lineage. All at once, I realize how much Wizarding society stands to lose if Draco is sentenced to Azkaban for life - two great pureblood lines. I am not particularly enamoured with the division between Pureblood and Mudblood, but I do understand the symbolic significance. I might personally think Draco is a git, but he is the Wizarding equivalent of Royalty, and his line has a symbolic importance. If he is sentenced, it would be tantamount to Muggle society sentencing the Queen for treason to her own people, and then wiping out her entire family in one go. It would be heresy, a desecration of history and important symbolism.

Suddenly, even though I came into this courtroom hoping for his immediate downfall, I want him to get out of here a free man. "Harry," I whisper, as the questioning begins, "Harry, you need to testify."

"What? Are you mad?" He's furious.

"Harry, if he goes, the Black line is dead!"

"The Black line is already dead. Sirius is gone, Hermione," he spits at me. I see his hands curled into fists, gripping his nicest pants like he's trying to strangle them.

"No it isn't," I say, trying to make him understand the significance of Draco Malfoy. "The direct line is gone, but the family is still alive! Harry, please!"

"Why do you care, anyways? You're a mudblood? He's a pureblood? What's the difference to you?"

I flinch when he says 'mudblood' even though I know he is simply stating it as a fact within context and not trying to hurt me. "I know, but this is history, and we're just throwing it away, and you know we wouldn't have won without him."

"History," he whispers in a tone so derisive I am uncharacteristically insulted. I know he doesn't like history, I just forget. "Well, you know that he was just trying to save his own arse. He didn't give a shit if we won or lost."

"He has a family to protect," I say, "He had to think about them."

"So did we," he says, gesturing across the hall where most of the Weasleys are sitting, Ron as well, having chosen to sit with his parents for this one day.

"I know. And we did everything we could to help keep them safe, didn't we?" I look at him hard, waiting for him to give in. But he is being stubborn today, and I need to spell it out for him. "Ginny. Harry, you left Ginny to keep her safe, even though we both know she can fight almost as well as you." If not better, I think, glancing at her family again. Ginny might be slight and pretty, but her attack skills were absolutely on par with Harry, possibly higher – the girl had saved them countless times with her powerful jinxes, when the rest of them were still using Expeliarmus and Stupefy.

Harry sighs and I know I've gotten somewhere. Draco is now recounting his attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore in a bored, carefully monotonous voice, and I think Harry might get irrationally angry again at the memory of his Headmaster and go back to being stubbornly against the freedom of Malfoy, but he surprises me, and relaxes in his seat.

"Fine," he says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "You owe me."

"Deal," I say, relieved.

We wait until the Prosecutor, who is positively gleeful now, seeing the end of Draco Malfoy's good name, calls for any further witnesses.

"Going once," his nasal, slimy voice sneers to the room, raising his gavel, "Going twice, going -"

"I will testify," Harry says beside me, loudly and clearly to the courtroom. Whispers break out along with astonished gasps.

"Name and position," growls the prosecutor, even though he obviously recognizes the voice. Everyone does.

"Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class, Head Special Investigations Auror, Chief Correspondent to the Minister for Magic, testifying on the behalf of Draco Malfoy."

"On- on behalf, you say?" Squeaks the prosecutor, uncomprehendingly.

"Yes. I wish to offer proof of Draco Malfoy's innocence."

"In – innocence?"

The roar in the room is palpable now, and as Harry begins his descent to the floor, I look at Draco Malfoy, whose steel masked expression is gone, replaced by a shocked gape.

"Innocence," Harry affirms when his feet touch the platform for the witness. He sits down, looking very at ease and pleased with himself, even though I know he's hating himself for doing this.

"Very well then," the Prosecutor mumbles. His face is downtrodden and depressed. If Harry Potter was willing to testify on behalf of a criminal, his case was probably over. "Proceed with your testimony."

Harry looks at me, and I can see the faint glare behind his glasses. I feel another pair of eyes and look at Ron, but he isn't looking at me, he is staring furiously at Harry, mouthing obscenities. I look to Draco, and I jump nervously when he is staring directly at me, having recovered his mask of indifference and raising his eyebrow.

Harry is also slow, but methodical, carefully recounting each event as it happened, making absolutely certain not to unintentionally implicate one of his friends or leave room for question. He could be a Prosecutor himself, I think, he learned well at a young age. I suppose we all did.

"He saved my life," Harry says finally, rubbing his knee absently, where I know there lies a scar which might have been a stump of a leg if Draco had not taken out the Death Eater who had tried to curse the Boy-Who-Lived at the last second, preventing Harry from further injury, and allowing the Light to win the war. Harry usually tried to forget that it had been Draco watching his back, and not Ron, who had been in another part of the castle fighting with me, and he'd only told Ron and I because we'd noticed the injury after Voldemort was dead. It had probably taken all of Harry's personal strength to thank Draco afterwards, much less this, publicly defending him.

It gives me an entirely new source of pride, watching Harry do this, for no personal gain. I hope Malfoy knows what kind of thing Harry is doing for him. I hope Malfoy says 'thank-you'.

"You're quite sure these events are truthful?" The Prosecutor wheedles, fishing for any last hint of unexploited scandal.

"Quite sure," Harry says firmly, moving both hands to press the armrests of his hard wooden chair.

"Very well then." The Prosecutor says, a dejected air in his tone. "You may go."

Harry nods and stands, and the whispers begin again, feverish and angry, only ceasing when Harry is again seated beside me and the Prosecutor bangs his gavel sharply, calling for a renewal in order. Harry's hands are shaking, whether with anger or nervousness, I don't know.

We stare tensely down at Draco for the few minutes the Prosecutor takes to deliberate, wondering how much worse the drawn out suspense must be for the young man down on the platform.

The Prosecutor returns with loud, stomping footsteps. He does not formally reconvene the court, he simply barks out, "All for the prosecution of Draco Abraxas Apollo Black Malfoy?"

Of the one hundred and twenty formal members of the courtroom, fifteen raise their hands, all pure-bloods. I haven't felt so relieved in a long time. I haven't had much to get excited over, and even while my heart feels like it can beat freely again after waiting so long in tense agitation, I can still not quite understand why I care so much to begin with.

Out of respect for the court system, the High Prosecutor is bound to ask as well for those in favor of Malfoy's release to raise their hands. The response is a deafening movement of cloak and fabric and body parts, signaling the sound of Draco Malfoy's freedom.

"Draco Malfoy, you are hereby pardoned of any and all charges before you, standing before the court of the Wiznagemot in its entirety, and no more such charges may ever be again brought against you. You are dismissed, and the court extends its hand in a formal offer of camaraderie. May your freedom bring you joy." The High Prosecutor grits from behind his teeth, his strident, angry voice, carrying over the happy and surprised chatter among the court, barely reaching my ears. My eyes are still watching Draco.

He stands from his seat, his bonds released with the magic of the room, and he holds his hand out as the Prosecutor's page comes down from the High Box with Draco's wand, holding it tremulously in front of him. Draco takes it silently and walks off the platform, stepping lightly onto the stairs, his grace fully returned and intact, and his feet lead him up to Harry and I. This scares me.

"Potter," Malfoy says, his blond hair flashing in the candlelight and his white, straight teeth shine in the glow. Harry is startled, standing clumsily, dropping his gloves from his lap.

"Malfoy," Harry says, his voice tight. I stand too, still staring. Malfoy looks different up close. Bigger, obviously. But also smaller. More like a man, and less like an effervescent volcano waiting to erupt. But when his steely eyes catch mine, I see that he isn't much different from a volcano after all. Molten silver, what should have been a warm, sensual color in the light of the candles, a cold, icy blue grey with only anger and flint. From this close a distance, I can see the light, barely-there imperfections in his skin. I imagine that his skin is hot under the coolness of his skin tone.

"I wanted to -," Draco swallows, "Thank you. Thank you, for... that."

"Don't thank me," Harry says, and I silently beg him not to say what I know is coming next, but he says it anyways: "Thank Hermione."

Draco's gaze swivels back to me, and I feel like sinking into the floor. "You?" He asks imperiously, obviously thinking the same thing I was – why did I care?

"Me." I say, too lost for words to come up with anything else.

"Well," Malfoy says after staring at me for an uncomfortable moment. "Thank you."

And then he walks off, leaving Harry and I to stare after him with matching bewildered expressions.

I go to bed that night, after following my usual routine to the letter, but I can't fall asleep.

I loathe Divination and all that goes with it,but the war has taught me to trust my gut. And now, my gut is whispering softly to me, so softly that I am straining to hear it, and it is keeping me awake. And my gut is telling me that something has changed.

***

On the second day of my marriage to Draco Malfoy, I woke up with the grudging knowledge that I needed to do some work. I had neglected my research for three days, and even though I was now granted a small amount of immunity to fears of deportation, I also knew that the Ministry of Magic was a good deal smarter than it had been when I was a girl, and I knew that eventually, they would figure out a loophole. It was only the power of my new family that was keeping me in England, and as had been proved when Draco had been put on trial to begin with, almost three years before, the Malfoy's, powerful as they were, were not infallible. I needed to get some concrete evidence for my theories, and quickly.

I felt awful doing so, but I snapped my fingers and called for a House Elf to bring me some breakfast to my laboratory. While I was waiting I arranged a cauldron into a work station similar to what had been in my old office, before I had been fired, and pulled out the necessary ingredients and the precious vials of blood, which I had stored in a wooden box, spelled to be unbreakable, impenetrable, and I had charmed the environment to maintain a period of stasis at 0 degrees.

Just as I was pouring my liquid ingredients into separate bowls, arranging them neatly in a half moon circle, the Elf popped into the room, hovering over a work table behind me, a beautiful, scrumptious smelling tray with an omelet and coffee. My stomach rumbled and I thanked the little creature, smiling at him. He seemed dazed when he popped back to where ever it was he went. I supposed the previous Lady of the Manor hadn't smiled much.

I turned back to my work, letting the omlette cool first. I surveyed my hastily written list of ingredients and double checked that I had each portion in the correct amounts.

3 Parts Nettle Leaves, powdered

.5 Parts Boomslang Skin Juice

7 strips Bulls Tongue, 1 inch each

4 Ounces Fennel, diced and dried

1 Ounce Thyme

1 Ounce Bezoar, dried

1 inch strand donor's hair

2 drops donor blood

12 drops Dragons blood, added last

I wasn't entirely sure what would happen, but if the properties were correct, which they were, the potion should produce the means for a diagnostic spell, breaking the blood down into separate, defined components, known in the muggle world as a reading not unlike a DNA test. I would use my own blood for her first tests, as I had a fairly inexhaustible supply.

An hour later, after heating the cauldron to the perfect temperature and adding my base, purified water, I turned back to my now stone cold omlette. It was just when I'd shovelled my first bite into my mouth when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I called through the bits of tomato and egg.

The oak door creaked open and in stepped my new grandfather-in-law - Abraxas Malfoy. His silver hair was tied back into a slick, short pony tail, pulling tight the skin on his forehead. He was still a handsome man, or at least, I could see the remnants of the strong jaw, the neat, patrician lines of his face, the aristocratic tilt of his cheekbones. I had met him only once or twice before, and at the wedding. He came closer and crossed to the other side of the second worktable, sitting directly across from me, and arranging his expensive, tailored robes around his legs as he waited for me to swallow my biteful of food.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, his strange blue-white eyes pinned on my face, "I wished to speak with you."

"No, not at all," I said, "I was just taking a break."

"Good." He continued to stare at me, unblinking. I forced myself not to look down. After another moment, he nodded slightly and muttered to himself, "Good," suddenly looking softer. The harsh lines in his face became less pronounced and his eyes relaxed.

"Was there anything in particular you wished to speak about?" I asked slowly. He watched me as if in a stupor before answering.

"Yes, actually," he said. "I know that you are a muggleborn," he began, making himself more comfortable at the table. I stiffened. "Don't misunderstand me, I consider you no threat. I am not like that son of mine." He cleared his throat. "I merely wish to inquire as to the – activities –which placed you in such a misfortune situation as to be threatened with excommunication from the wizarding world."

"Oh," I said.

"Specifics, please." He said. At my wary expression he clarified. "My interests are purely in protecting the Malfoy name, Hermione. Ever since Lucius threatened the survival of 'Malfoy' with his extracurricular activities, and Draco got himself put on trial for much the same thing, the family interests have fallen to me. But I believe you know this." He cleared his throat again. "I am, until Draco's twenty-fifth birthday, the acting head of this family and her interests. As such, it is very much my business if a new addition to the family represents a threat."

"Sir, with all due respect, why did we not have this conversation before I married into the family?"

His lips curved into the slightest touch of a smile. "Because I don't particularly care what it is you do, so long as you do not shame the family." I grimaced. If anything, I might destroy his family. "Again, don't misunderstand me. Malfoy's thrive on controversy, and Malfoy's do best when surrounded by some degree of mystery, and above all, power. Draco tells me you developed an idea for a research project. When I say shame, I mean that, should you fail, or find yourself unable to back up the bluster which has landed you in trouble, that is shame." He folded his fingers. "And, as I believe you will soon find out, Malfoys do not fail." His eyes became piercing again. "Now tell me what exactly you are researching."

I stared at him in shock for a few moments. I had expected, from our last encounters, a hard, puritanical man filled with irrepressible pride and pomp. But Abraxas was surprisingly so... interesting.

"Blood," I said finally. "I'm researching blood."

All of a sudden, Abraxas Malfoy's face lit up with barely restrained mischievousness. "O-ho!" He leaned forward.

"Yes, well-"

"The beginning, girl, start at the beginning."

"Alright." His new-found intensity was somewhat off-putting. "Okay." The beginning, I thought. What was the beginning? "When I was told I was a witch, I was just ten years old. I was so excited, to finally realize that all of my misgivings about being different, never quite belonging in the muggle world, which was all I knew, were true. Suddenly I was part of something different, special. I was among other people like me – other outcasts, people who didn't quite fit in. But when I got to Hogwarts, I realized that in all of my excitement, I'd never realized that not everyone was going to be like me. Not all of the other students were raised like muggles. In fact, I was again, the minority. I was still the outsider. And no matter how hard I worked to prove myself, to make everyone believe I belonged, I was still a mudblood. And so I wanted to know more.

"I looked for books. I wrote to scholars. I spoke to professors. But everyone had the same answer. I was a muggleborn, lesser, and my magic was supposed to be less powerful. But I was the top of my class. I was the brightest witch in fifty years! I knew that the same drivel they fed everyone else was no good. It was wrong. So during the summers, and during the year if my parents could send me books, I tried to find information on the other side of the equation. The side most wizards ignored – the muggle side. And so I discovered genetics.

"The Wizarding community is built on the misconception that muggles are stupid and worthless and blind, but I know it's not true. You have no idea how advanced muggle scientists are in understanding genetics – that's the study of, essentially, why people are born the way they are. Genetics determine everything. You were blond, with blue eyes, because your genetics predetermined it to be so. And, likewise, your genetics passed on those traits to your son, though I suspect your wife had grey eyes, which is where Lucius and Draco got their eye-color from. Do you understand, so far?

"After discovering genetics, I realized that Wizards follow the same rules, and therefore, there must be a 'magic gene'. I stole blood from a half-blood and a pure-blood, and obviously I have muggle-blood. After the war, I retrieved the samples and began my job at the Ministry as a Research Assistant to a Head Scholar in the Department for Genaeology. We mostly just went through old letters and artifacts and created broader family trees, but when I tried to discuss genetics with him, he told me I was crazy, and that he would fire me if I brought it up again. For a while, I worked in secret. But when I was working on my theories, I needed another professional ear to critique my ideas and give me feedback. He reported me to the Head Auror and told him I was a threat to Wizarding Security.

"I was given a warning and my license to roam the Ministry was restricted, but I still had the Geneaology Department almost to myself. I made copies of the five Great Pureblood lines and set out determining the instances of Squibs, intermarriage between close relatives, and genetic deformities and cases of insanity. From that, I got close to many family secrets, including some, admittedly, of the Malfoys. The Bulstrodes got wind of my research and demanded that I be fired and my license revoked, and, as they are an old family, they got their wish. But the Bulstrodes told several other of the families I was researching what I was doing, and the lot of them tried to have my wand snapped.

"I wasn't given a trial, because the Head Prosecutor still dislikes me after helping Draco escape imprisonment almost three years ago. I was given a deportation notice, and I was told to hand in my wand. They were to send me to Canada. But in the two weeks I was given to prepare, I researched the Bills and Charters and the Laws of the Ministry, and I discovered a loophole. Marriage."

I stopped and looked at Abraxas, who was studying me intently, unnervingly silent.

"And now you are here," he said finally, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. He looked at me apraisingly for another second or so before slapping his hand back onto the table, startling me. "Excellent!"

"Sir?"

"Truly excellent!" He smiled at me, the first genuine smile I had ever seen on the lips of a Malfoy done without malice. It was beautiful. "Tell me, what do you plan to do when your research is complete?"

"Well, I had planned to publish it, but-"

"Hermione," he interrupted, still looking positively jovial, "I am very relieved."

I gaped.

"You have a brain on you, girl. Lets just hope you've got the nerve." He stood from his stool and crossed the room to the door, turning around to add, just before he left, "You have the full backing of the Malfoy family, Hermione. I shall expect weekly progress reports, and in return, you shall have research assistants, should you require them, and unlimited supplies of any ingredients and materials you require." He opened the door. "Good luck."

And then he was gone, leaving me to stare dumbly at the door through which he had disappeared, stunned into silence. What had just happened? Had the Abraxas Malfoy just offered me financial and academic backing?

I looked at the clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon and I still needed to go to Diagon Alley. Shaking my head I cast a stasis over my workstation, slightly annoyed that my work had been disrupted, but astonished and grateful to Abraxas for his visit and promise.

A half hour later, I was in Diagon Alley, staring nervously at the entrance to Knocturn Alley, my purse crossed tightly over my chest and my wand handle in my sleeve and ready to be grabbed. I needed Shredded Romulian Dragon liver, and the only place to buy it in London was Knockturn Alley. I didn't want to go in, but I was desperate, and I saw no other alternative.

At any rate, I was Lady Malfoy now, Queen of the Underworld. I should have been safe, shouldn't I?

Gritting my teeth and clamping my jaw firmly shut, I straightened my back and straightened my cloak. I was Lady Malfoy, a War Hero, and Harry Potter's best friend. I was going in.

I marched forwards, every footstep taking me closer and closer to the underbelly of the deep, dark heart of the Underworld. Every echo made my heart leap, every scuffle made my breath freeze. My hands were cold, but I kept going. I tried not to let my anxiety show on my face.

At the end of the Main street, there was a tiny Apotheke, run by a German witch with a heavy accent and hair even wilder and bushier than mine. She was a stern woman, and I wondered, as I walked into her relatively clean store, how she had managed to set up shop in such a dangerous part of the city.

"Vass do you need?" She asked, her chins wobbling. I swallowed and told her my list. She nodded to herself, waving her wand to call each item forth to the desk. She weighed and bagged each ingredient, and held out her hand for payment. Five galleons. If I hadn't just married the richest man in the United Kingdom, both muggle and wizard alike, I might have choked.

I handed her the slip which permitted her to withdraw the amount directly from the Goblins at Gringotts, signed and dated it, and spelled the Malfoy crest onto the bottom of the page. The witch stared at me, at the paper, and back at me. "Lady Malfoy?" she asked, her voice suddenly tremulous. I was in no mood to soothe her anxiety today. I was nervous and wanted out.

"Yes."

The woman bowed hastily. I grew more uncomfortable.

"Good day, ma'am. Thank you." I shrunk the bag and stuck it in my purse, sheathing my wand, but not completely.

"Good day, Lady Malfoy!" She called behind me. I nodded and carried on my way out the store.

I stayed on the sidewalk, focusing on the destination in front of me, a tiny bead of light at the end of the dark, dank tunnel through which I trudged, ignoring the offers from storekeepers, the temptations from saleswitches. I ignored the whistles and the catcalls, and the attempts of old, decrepit men to gain my attention. I felt sick, but I kept trudging, trudging, trudging, until, at the corner of Main Street and Knockturn Avenue, I felt a sharp prick in my shoulder. And before I could turn to see what had poked me, a hand covered my mouth, and the world went black.