The Small Print
Exopolitics
An idea was forming in Harry's mind, taking shape even as he raced along the halls to Zabini's holding cell.
"You said Malfoy had lots of—well—admirers," he panted as he burst into Zabini's cell without preface.
Zabini was lounging in the same chair as usual, but was not reading. He looked up, unruffled by Harry's appearance.
"Lots of girlfriends, Potter, yes," he drawled, looking mostly amused. Harry caught his breath and shut the door to the cell behind him, and approached Zabini. The light from the magical windows was fading; he was meant to leave soon for his engagement party, but he had to do this first. Zabini was silhouetted by the warm sunset light behind him, but his eyes seemed to almost glow, set into his dark face.
"But he and Pansy were getting married, right?"
Zabini regarded him for a long moment.
"Parkinson was a suspect, but your department concluded she hadn't done it," he confirmed slowly, in a voice and with a presence that reminded Harry of why he had been given such an important promotion—over Hermione and Nott—in the Jurator department.
"Do you think there's any chance, though, that it was connected to that?"
"You're grasping at straws—not that this is anything new," said Zabini levelly, "but I see where you're going with this." He paused, looking like he was suffering some sort of inward battle.
"You know something," said Harry quickly, jumping on his chance before he lost it.
"I don't," insisted Zabini calmly. "But…if I were you…I would look around Malfoy Manor a bit more closely."
"Is that why you were there when Pansy saw you, even though you insisted to us you weren't?" asked Harry shrewdly. Zabini's lips curled in a smirk, and he met Harry's eyes, but he said nothing.
Hermione arrived at the Burrow still rain-drenched, with the Transfiguration of her robes wearing off, so that her Muggle trench coat was beginning to grow in length and loosen in fit to look more like her Jurator robes. The sky had darkened and the Burrow twinkled and glowed; bewitched fairy lights floated around it, giving the place an unusually festive feel. For a moment, Hermione stared at it, enjoying the rare peace and quiet of being outdoors, on her own, with no immediate demand on her keen mind.
Alphard's questioning had been infuriating enough that when she Apparated back to the Ministry and saw it was five o'clock, she simply decided to leave. It was unusual for her to leave on time, and she still felt defensive about it. She should have been using the extra time to change and make herself presentable for the engagement party, but somehow she found herself here, early, still soaked and frazzled.
She was tired of everybody assuming she carried some sort of torch for Harry when it could not have been further from the truth, which was that she found herself unable to carry a torch for anyone. Her work consumed her, and when she'd confronted Harry about not letting it happen to him the other day, she had been speaking from experience.
She was missing out on life and Harry's life was just starting—she didn't think it ought to end prematurely just because he was fixated on his job. Her own case was beyond help. She'd obsessed over work to avoid confronting her own memories and emotions about the war, and by the time she'd finally looked up from the figurative—and literal—parchment, years and years had gone by and her life was strangely empty, like a home that had been vacated. Like seeing impressions on the carpet left from furniture and scuffs and fingermarks on the walls, she could still see these last vestiges of meaning in her personal life, but they weren't really there anymore.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, she forced herself onward to the engagement party.
Inside, the Burrow was filled with the smells of Molly's cooking and suffused with warm, golden light from candles, and from fairy lights strung all around.
"Oh, thank goodness you're here—Ginny's upstairs in her room, and she needs help—would you, thank you, dear," bustled Molly, who was up to her arms in cooking, and red-faced with the effort. She barely looked at Hermione, and so Hermione smiled, offered up a few words of encouragement, and hurried to the stairs.
Ginny was in the room she'd grown up in. Of course, she and Harry now lived in their own flat together, but Hermione guessed she was feeling some apprehension and had needed to come home. She stood in the doorway of Ginny's room for a moment, watching as Ginny uncharacteristically fussed over her appearance.
As always, she could not be lovelier. Her waist-length red locks gleamed as though hit by sunlight even in the dim light of her room; her freckled pale skin had just the right flush of excitement and happiness to it; her slim-hipped, petite-yet-willowy figure that had often, during Hogwarts, caused Hermione to be sick with envy, was swathed in a strikingly short, daringly-cut dark green dress. What had once caused Hermione envy now made her swell with pride—that's my best friend, everyone, she wanted to inform people. Clever, witty, lovely, athletic, brave, kind Ginny Weasley was her best friend, and she was finally getting everything she had always wanted and deserved.
"You look perfect, and I hate you," Hermione greeted wryly. Ginny turned and lunged at her best friend, throwing her arms around her and infusing Hermione's breathing air with her signature flowery perfume.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're here. Ugh, I don't even know why I'm nervous; I just am," she prattled, releasing Hermione. Never one to remain too focused on herself—even on such a big day for her—Ginny stepped back, surveying Hermione worriedly. "Were you just out on a mission? Harry mentioned you were shadowing Black for a while," she surmised, looking her over. "You're soaking wet; let me fix you up."
"Thanks," sighed Hermione gratefully. Just as with her house-keeping spells, her beauty charms had never been her strongest suit—perhaps due to how little she practiced them, or perhaps how little her heart was in them. Ginny frog-marched her to the little cushioned seat at her vanity and began pragmatically mumbling spells to neaten Hermione's hair and make her more resemble herself and less resemble a drowned rat.
"That's better," said Ginny finally, adjusting a lock of Hermione's hair almost absently. Hermione smiled gratefully at her friend in the mirror. "How is it?" she asked tentatively, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "With Black, I mean," she clarified. Hermione twisted on the vanity seat to look at Ginny, and shrugged.
"It's...you know," she finished haplessly. "He's a very difficult man."
"I've heard as much," said Ginny grimly. "I personally can barely look at him without remembering her," she added darkly.
For Hermione, she only occasionally saw Bellatrix in Alphard, and more often saw Sirius—particularly, Sirius at his most sulky and rebellious. She was just about to say as much when there was a series of loud bangs coming from downstairs, followed by Molly's shrill shrieking of rage, which meant that George had arrived. Grinning ruefully at each other, Hermione went downstairs to assist Molly, while Ginny begged off, saying she wanted a few more moments of peace.
It must be an emotional day for Ginny, Hermione pondered as she went downstairs, now clothed in her sweeping black Jurator robes. If she and Ginny were the same size, she could have borrowed something, but she'd have to make do with her oddly severe robes.
"Oi, Hermione," greeted George hastily—he was in the process of ducking away from Molly's sailing frying pan. Hermione gave a wave and a wry smile before slinking off to hide in the kitchen.
Guests arrived, and her mood plummeted. As she often found herself lately, with no real life of her own, her own life became consumed by those of others, and now she was caught in a renewed feud between Angelina and Fleur.
"And that ungrateful French bitch," Angelina was seething as they stood in a corner, staring at Fleur. Fleur was tossing her hair and laughing at something Bill and George were discussing. "You don't think you could say something, do you, Hermione? I'd really appreciate it." Angelina, her face genial and attractive, flashed Hermione a brilliant smile. It was this moment that Hermione realized she'd not been listening at all, and had no idea of what she was meant to advise Fleur on.
"Of course," she said graciously. Angelina's dark eyes twinkled and she hugged her.
"You're the best, Hermione, you really are," she said in a rush.
Not five minutes later saw Hermione cornered in the kitchen by a rabid-looking Fleur who was darkly brandishing a spatula dripping with suds, her eyes wild.
"And zen she haz ze nerve to tell me how to cook ze steak! I am French, pardon moi. I zink I know better zan 'er how to cook my steaks!" She faltered and gave Hermione a soft, fond smile. "You know, 'Ermione, you are always so very good with Angelina. If you said something, I am sure she would listen."
"Of course," she said dully, mopping her face. Fleur beamed.
"Oh, I am so very lucky!" she clamored, clapping her hands in delight.
Hermione left, mumbling an unintelligible excuse, as her weariness caught up to her. She wandered into the living room, finding herself between Ron, Harry, and George.
"That prat," said George in a low voice. "Got what was coming to him." He took a long swig of his butterbeer, his face twisted into a look of hatred that Hermione rarely saw on him. Dimly she realized they were discussing Malfoy.
"I dunno, I reckon he had been atoning, y'know," Ron muttered, his face blotchy with inebriation. Harry was silent, his gaze fixed on Ginny, who was dutifully listening to Luna ramble on.
"I ought to go help," Hermione said, meeting Harry's eyes. Harry sighed.
"No, I'll go." She could tell he was similarly exhausted, and watched him drag himself over to Ginny and Luna.
"Alright, Hermione?" Ron asked pleasantly, his eyes looking out of focus as he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Fine," she said shortly. "Listen, I'm going to head out—got a lot of work to do."
"Always the life of the party, 'Mione," snarked George, saluting her with his drink. Something inside her snapped.
"Fuck off," she hissed. George's eyes widened in surprise and—perhaps—some measure of admiration, and then she turned on her heel and left, before anyone could stop her.
When out in the cool night air again, she took long, gulping breaths, as her face burned with shame. What had she done? Looking back, she had behaved horribly. It was Harry and Ginny's night, and she had acted like it was some sort of chore.
She went back to her flat, but it was painfully empty. Feeling wild and impulsive and fearful of being alone with her own gloom, she left her flat and walked to the Leaky Cauldron.
She'd never been one for drinking, really. She sat at the bar and Tom immediately had a pot of tea ready for her. Smiling gratefully, she sat there. She'd grabbed a book on her way out, but found herself unable to bear the thought of focusing on the small print. She could have thought about the cases she was working on at work, but she couldn't bring herself to think about work.
"Ah, there's Nott," muttered Tom, as he wiped down the bar again. "He was in your year, right?"
"Yes, and we work together," said Hermione, twisting in her seat as she marveled at Tom's memory. Indeed, Nott had arrived, swathed in his usual finely-made black cloak. He looked worn and unhappy—exactly how she imagined she was looking.
She debated the merits of calling out to him, versus simply hiding and hoping he didn't spot her, but too late he had noticed her and offered a limp wave.
"Granger," he nodded in greeting, and sat down next to her. She couldn't tell whether she was glad or not for the company, and it was obvious that he was second-guessing his decision.
His already rabbity, worn face looked lined—he'd had deep lines, like a marionette, around his mouth by the time he was twenty. She supposed it was a side-effect of having been through a war. She certainly looked older than her age. "Firewhiskey," he muttered at Tom, and accepted the glass of amber liquid.
"I didn't figure you for a drinker, Nott," she said in amusement. Nott's lips twisted wryly.
"Unfortunate habit I picked up when I moved out," he confessed, twisting his glass on the bar, leaving trails of condensation, before taking a sip. "And you with your tea." He seemed nervous, unsure of what to say. She felt the same—what could they talk about, other than work?
"I was at Harry and Ginny's engagement party," she confessed, changing the subject. It was a relief to let the words out. Nott watched her face carefully. "I just…maybe I've gotten more selfish, but sometimes it's hard to see people so happy."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew how true they were, and she knew she hadn't realized until this moment that this was how she felt. To her surprise, Nott let out a callous laugh.
"Welcome to my life," he said in a hollow voice, though he clearly had intended to sound humorous. He was swirling his firewhiskey in its glass now, his eyes fixed on it. "Everyone's so bloody happy, and how do they do it?" The desperation leaked from his voice. "It looks so easy."
"Yes," Hermione said quietly. Something tightened round her chest, making it hard to breathe. "I feel like I'm missing something—like—like I don't know how."
"Like you were born with something wrong with you?"
She swallowed, nodding, though this wasn't precisely true. It was more like the war had never left her, like she had once been whole and was now broken; a piece was missing and would never come back to her. Conjuring a Patronus had always been hard for her; she'd not attempted it since that day—the Battle of Hogwarts—because she was too afraid to find out that she couldn't do it anymore.
"Look at us," she said, trying to pull herself from this dark spiral. "We sound so melancholy."
"I always knew we would understand each other," said Nott, still looking at his glass. Hermione bristled.
"Oh really? Was that what made it so easy for you to call me mudblood?" Her temper was flaring. Nott snorted; he remained unruffled by her temper.
"No, I was just weakened by peer pressure, and I never bothered to think long enough of how it made you feel. I'm not proud of it but there's no other excuse."
The straightforwardness of his response was startling. "I was always impressed by your intelligence in school, but I thought you had to be an exception. Working with you changed my mind about my own bigotry—but my father finally dying did that, too."
It was the most he had ever spoken to her about something other than a case. Hermione was riveted.
"He died?"
"You-know-who did him in. Before the Battle." He drained his glass. "Good riddance—he was a horrible man. Old, too—I was shocked he'd lasted so long, you know."
She couldn't recall hearing that Nott's father had been one of the murdered Death Eaters, but then, no one ever mentioned Nott much. He was usually forgotten. "What about your parents? I have heard you performed quite the memory charm..." He was so informal, so loose with his language, compared to how she usually saw him. It was jarring. Hermione flushed.
"I lifted the enchantment," she explained. "I see them a couple times a month now. It's still a bit…well, you know." She didn't know how to explain the strangeness of her relationship with her parents now.
"At least they're there. At least they want you as their daughter."
Hermione was torn between compassion for the hollow home life that Nott must have had and the impatience she always felt around people like Nott, who had enjoyed the benefits of being cossetted, protected by someone of Voldemort's inner circle without ever having to exert themselves morally and make a choice between the dark and the light. Nott had been able to hang round Hogwarts as it descended into the clutches of evil, safe as a Pureblood, and then had been able to get a job as soon as the war was done, because he'd never "done" anything wrong. He had never been an outcast, had never ventured to go against the tide.
She felt more compassion for Malfoy.
At least he'd made a choice.
"Well, like you said, he's gone now, and good riddance," she said briskly, watching with concern as Nott took another drink. There was something stagey about his sudden inebriation, almost as though he was uncertain of how he was meant to act when pissed. "I really think you shouldn't drink anymore."
This was not how she had expected—or wanted—this evening to go.
"Thank you for your input," he snapped, more clarity to his voice than moments before. He softened and took another long swig of firewhiskey. "Really, I am fine." He set down his newly emptied glass and, warily, Tom refilled it without a word. Hermione attempted to make eye contact with the bartender, to subtly—wordlessly—ask him if this was some sort of routine, but Tom turned his old stooped back to them, leaving Hermione to stew in frustration.
"Alphard Black thinks I'm in love with Harry," she remarked, eager to change the subject once again, having been staring at her tea, after several moments' contemplative silence. Nott snorted.
"Black's got all the perception of a pixie's arse," he said snidely. Hermione choked on her tea.
"Did something…er…happen between you two?" she asked delicately.
"No. I have no idea why he dislikes me so much. From the start, we've been enemies, though it's truly one-sided, I assure you." He was polishing off his fourth glass of firewhiskey. Though Nott was taller than any man she knew—excluding Hagrid (and Grawp, for that matter)—he was extremely underweight, and she was not clear on how well a man of his size could metabolize that much firewhiskey. It was enough, surely, to have killed someone her own size now, or at least come very close to it.
"I really think you should stop for the night," she said quickly, clapping a hand over his glass. Nott looked at her with brown eyes, slightly unfocused.
"Perhaps you're right," he said vaguely. "I should get home, really. This is pathetic." He fumbled with his cloak for his wallet and left far too many Galleons on the bar, then went to stand and promptly dropped to the ground.
"Oh, dear," Hermione groaned, staring down at his crumpled body, feeling Tom the bartender's eyes on her back.
Alphard was passing through the Leaky Cauldron, on his way to Knockturn Alley to meet with some long-missed school friends, when he spotted Granger seated with Nott at the bar, their heads bowed together; they were locked in apparently intimate discussion. He paused, safe from their view on the other side of the bar, and briefly observed them.
The usual twinge of dislike for Nott rippled through him with ease; he instead watched Granger, who was—of course—not drinking alcohol, and instead had a steaming cup of tea before her. She was enraptured, listening as Nott spoke. What could he possibly be saying that was of so great an interest?
He watched them another moment longer, then could no longer bear it, and looked away, seething with general irritation for Nott, and for Granger, and for their last moment together today before parting. Her reaction to his words had been all the confirmation he had needed, and as he stalked out of the Leaky Cauldron, he contemplated Potter's likely ignorance of Granger's long-harbored passion for him.
The idiocy of it all was both satisfying and infuriating.
How could Potter be so blind—and how could Granger possibly continue to have feelings for someone who bore so little feeling for her beyond that which might be found between siblings?
Alphard continued on, determined to not let thoughts of Granger and all of her petty problems consume him like this.
"'umiliating," Nott slurred, stumbling along, supported by Hermione. "Got a mudblood taking me home, well, times have changed," he was muttering. Hermione's face was beet-red under the weight of him.
"I could just drop you here and leave you here to choke on your own vomit, and don't you forget it," she gasped, the effect of her words somewhat dashed by her wheezing.
"Then do it," goaded Nott in her ear.
"Tempted," she shot back.
They paused in front of Nott Manor as she watched Nott vomit spectacularly into a row of boxwoods by the front door. Hermione watched him, feeling the weight of her own exhaustion—both physical and emotional—on her shoulders, to her bones.
'Manor' was a bit of a stretch. It was a large, rickety house—the sort of which her parents always delightedly referred to as 'firetraps.' Indeed, there was a blackened portion of the face of the house on the top floor, along the windows, to suggest remnants of an extremely powerful curse. Was that where Nott's father had been murdered?
Nott straightened, wiping vomit from his mouth as he swayed on his feet. Hermione stared at him in apathy.
"How's the firewhiskey on the way up?" she asked, crossing her arms. Nott rolled his eyes, then instantly regretted it as a new wave of nausea washed over him, and he turned back to the boxwoods.
She must have been hormonal—her feelings were changing from one minute to the next. She felt sorry for him suddenly again. "Oh, come on—I'll help you up to your room," she said disgustedly.
The house smelled like old parchment and piss; it had not been cleaned in quite some time and it was evident someone quite elderly had lived here. Hermione thought she spotted a House Elf darting out of sight, but other than that it was quite empty and silent. Her throat and nose tingled from the heaviness of the dust.
"Come on, upstairs with you," she ordered. He was too heavy to drag up the stairs but she was concerned that levicorpus would render him choking on his own vomit. Thus she half-dragged, half-magically propelled Nott up the stairs with her, stopping frequently, and at one point swinging rather hard into the wall and nearly knocking herself out. She let out a yelp of pain, which Nott apparently did not register.
Finally she reached his room—she knew it was his because his was the only open door. Scowling, she hurled him onto his large bed. The room was neat but she wondered if that was Nott's usual fastidiousness or if a House Elf had been involved.
After setting him up with a glass of water and a bucket, Hermione left his room. She smelled like vomit and her face was aching from having hit the wall; her left side, which had been supporting Nott's weight, was weak and trembling.
Curioisity and a certain righteousness—she had earned it—propelled her to venture into the large study which was sequestered from the parlor. Unlike the rest of the house, the study was not so cluttered and dusty, and instead contained a neatly-kept bookshelf, an expansive cherry wood desk, and several cabinets which she assumed contained paperwork.
The desk surface was clear, save for an inkwell and a scroll. The scroll caught her eye; it was held open by a glass paperweight. The names Malfoy and Parkinson were scrawled along the top in Nott's elegant script.
It was common knowledge that Zabini had been the Jurator handling the Malfoy-Parkinson union—yes, even in the wizarding world, the rich had pre-nuptial agreements and such. Hermione went to the desk and peered at the scroll, quickly scanning as though the faster she did the thing, the less immoral it was.
It was innocuous enough—merely an agreement on the distribution of property—but something about it seemed furtive. Hermione was positive that Zabini was handling this case; he had even ventured to seek her opinion on a number of tricky items. Nott had offered to handle the case, but Draco had turned him down, mysteriously.
The house was so silent and empty that even from this study she could hear Nott's retching. The noise brought her back to reality, and, with a shake of her head, Hermione left Nott manor.
"You'll want to see this," panted Ron, gesturing for Hermione to follow him. He did not stop long enough to get a good look at her, luckily. She really couldn't take the stares. She'd gotten a black eye and an awful bruise on her face from where she'd hit the wall in Nott's home, and she still felt weak and grimy. Nott's office remained dark—she presumed he'd be out of commission for at least another day, judging by how ill he had been the previous evening. She set aside her scroll, rolling her eyes.
"What started it?" she humored him, following him through the cubicles to the lift. Ron suddenly seemed avoidant; he studied the floor of the lift, not meeting her eyes.
"Er," he said helplessly. Perhaps it was due to the lift's lurching movements, but Hermione's stomach gave a great lurch as well. Something told her she wouldn't like the answer, and seeing as she had known Ron longer than she hadn't, it wasn't exactly mere instinct that told her that it had something to do with her.
The Auror training area was separate from the Auror department, and was on a floor of its own. There were several dueling rooms, and a sort of obstacle course, which was used not only as part of the Auror application, but also for evaluations and brush-ups in skill. Since Hermione had had to work with the Auror department so regularly, she had been subjected to the obstacle course, which luckily greatly resembled Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts end of term exam, if a bit more difficult. She'd run through it easily, but had taken too much time—Harry had been the fastest, by far.
The records for times through the course were posted on a piece of parchment in the entrance hall to the floor. Harry's name was at the number one spot, with his time being thirty-six minutes and forty seven seconds.
Alphard's time was just below his—thirty six minutes, fifty eight seconds. The next name was Moody's, at thirty nine minutes. The gap was noteworthy. Of course, others had never before felt the pressure to compete for the best time, and these days speed was far more heavily emphasized than ever before. Some of the best Aurors—Furness himself—had taken well over two hours to complete the course, and had gotten high points for their creative or intellectual methods to getting past each obstacle.
Still, it was noteworthy that Alphard had clearly strived to beat Harry's time—and come rather close, at that.
"Hurry, or we'll miss it," said Ron, rushing her along.
The dueling arenas were small rooms, conjoined to observation rooms. These were also used as part of the Auror application and evaluation processes, and here Hermione had dueled as well. She followed Ron into the observation room, where a crowd of Aurors had already gathered and were watching Harry and Alphard.
"Oh, no," Hermione moaned, rushing to the window and at once wanting to shield her eyes. It was rare for Auror duels to get bloody—why would anyone want to cause a coworker harm?—and that added all the more shock to the sight.
"Potter and Black have similar dueling styles," Whelkes explained to her as she winced, watching Alphard fire what she assumed was Sectumsempra at Harry. The walls were white in the dueling room; the better to see spells and Hexes more clearly from the observation room. Lines of blood splatter were flung in long spines along the floor and walls.
The side of Harry's face was covered in blood, and Alphard looked pale and weak, barely able to stand, leaving bloody footprints as he stumbled, but his eyes more alert than ever. "Rapid-fire, not a lot of deliberation or finesse, not easily blocked, but then, not usually aimed too carefully, either. Only difference is that Potter disarms and Black always curses."
"What in Merlin's name happened?" Hermione breathed, staring in shock. No one seemed to have an answer for her.
Harry looked up at his opponent again, and at once had to look away slightly. The full force of Black's fury was felt when another curse was unleashed at him. You've got to get past it. Ginny's words rang in his head, and like an invisible hand was pulling his chin, he looked at Black again. He's not Sirius. He never even met Sirius, Ginny had reasoned desperately, looking like she longed to shake Harry.
But he looks and sounds exactly like him, Harry had rebuked, hating the emotion twisting his voice, hating Alphard Black for having escaped the fate that had met all of the other members of the house of Black.
"Look at me," hissed Black, his dark eyes flashing. "For once, Potter, fucking look at me."
How had it even come to this?
Harry supposed it had been coming for a year now—ever since Alphard Black had been poached from Germany to come to Britain's Auror department. He'd heard the name, heard that Alphard was a cousin, heard that he'd attended Durmstrang and had never known his cousins, but he hadn't been prepared to see what he thought, for one fleeting, aching instant swollen with hope, terror, agony, and fierce love, was the ghost of his godfather.
That first day that Alphard had arrived, of course, Harry had stood there, staring, and come to his senses. Alphard looked cared-for and loved in the ways Sirius never had; though he was not much younger than Sirius had been when Harry had met him, he'd not spent the last ten years in Azkaban, of course, and it showed: Alphard looked how Sirius would have looked in the absence of Voldemort. The whites of his eyes were milky and clear; his hair, cut around his elegant jawline, though mussed was thick and dark and gleaming with health; his pale, lightly freckled skin was unmarred and unlined; his teeth were straight; he had walked into the Ministry as though he owned the place.
"Durmstrang," Ron had muttered unhappily next to him that day that Alphard Black had been inducted into the Ministry's Auror department. For an unkind moment, Harry had thought Ron was referencing his old grudge against all things related to Viktor Krum; he had quickly been corrected when Ron had pointed out the well-known tolerance of the Dark Arts that Durmstrang exercised.
They had seen evidence of it almost immediately. Alphard Black's evaluation had more resembled a Dark wizard's demonstration rather than the evaluation of a candidate for a magical police task force. His dueling teemed with Hexes and barely-legal Jinxes; he was mercilessly competitive; and when he had seen the small plaque bearing Harry's time for the obstacle course, he had done anything and everything to beat it—and had come quite close.
Unfortunately, he had also proven, from the start, to be a damn good Auror. He was clever—he saw things coming, anticipated the moves of Dark wizards with an intuition only Harry and Moody had possessed. He was charming—he knew how to manipulate others to get what he wanted. He was daring—he often marched alongside Harry into almost certain death. In other words, he was all of the best qualities of the Black family combined.
However, he also comprised the worst of the Black family. He was reckless, moody, secretive, easily offended, arrogant, and utterly lacking in humility. Add to that a disturbing taste for violence, and just weeks ago Harry had witnessed him fire the Cruciatus Curse, followed by the Killing Curse, at a Dark wizard they were hunting, without a second thought.
Harry had been captain of that team of Aurors. When consulted by Furness on whether a hearing was necessary, Harry had been sorely tempted to say yes, a hearing was necessary, in addition to immediate suspension and possible expulsion from the Auror department.
But in his heart he had seen the origin of what Black had done: he had simply done the math faster than he or Whelkes had, and had not cared enough of the consequences to deliberate over his actions any further. He had weakened the wizard by torturing him, thus getting a confession from him; then, when the wizard had attempted to retaliate, Alphard had acted.
Had Alphard not killed their target, Whelkes—and a handful of other junior Aurors—would be dead now. No matter what Kingsley had insisted, Alphard had saved them.
But all that, for Harry, didn't erase the wicked delight he'd spotted in Alphard's dark eyes, so like Sirius', as he had fired the Cruciatus curse at his opponent as carelessly as if he'd fired the limb-locking curse. He'd glimpsed Black's deeper nature, and he had not liked it.
Alphard seethed, the world spinning round him, and flung an arm out to stabilize himself against the wall. Potter wasn't in better shape; as Alphard was so accustomed, he was now met with the sight of Potter's striking profile.
Because Potter literally could not bear to look at him.
"Diffindo," Alphard fumed under his breath, though Potter turned to block it, and bellowed "Expelliarmus!" as, for one fleeting instant, their eyes met, and Alphard was gutted by the anguish he saw in those eyes.
"This is over, Black," barked Potter.
"You sound like you think you're my superior," sneered Alphard, straightening in spite of the considerable pain he was in.
Potter turned again as Alphard's heart twisted painfully in his ribcage, writhing in rage.
"That's because he is."
Granger had stepped into the dueling room. She looked like hell, as usual, with bags under her eyes, and a purpling bruise under her left eye. When had she gotten that? Her robes were wrinkled and her hair was more disheveled than ever. "Black, it is my job to supervise you. You are on probation, or did you forget?" Her voice rang throughout the dueling room. Potter straightened.
"Hermione, it was—"
"—I don't want to hear it, Harry," she said without looking at Potter, her eyes still locked with Alphard's. "Come on, Black—we're going to be having a little discussion about this. In private."
She marched out of the room. Alphard looked to his opponent once more. Potter was staring down at the ground. Alphard pushed past him to follow Granger, a ringing in his ears.
"What in the name of Merlin was that?"
The infirmary room was dark; storm clouds were visible through the artificial windows, and no one had bothered to light the torches. Alphard was seated on the low cot, watching Granger, who stood, leaning against the cabinets, staring at him.
"We decided to duel."
Hermione stared at Alphard. He was not looking at her.
"Why?" She would not be brushed off so easily. "Don't even think about lying. I want the truth—the whole truth, Black," she added acidly.
"I criticized his handling of the Malfoy case," said Alphard levelly, finally meeting her eyes. Once more, against her wishes, a ripple of attraction, of appreciation for those handsome clever eyes, softened by thick lashes, ran through her. She pushed the observation aside. He rose to his feet. "Zabini doesn't belong in that holding cell." He paused.
Hermione thought of what she had seen at Nott Manor last night. "And," he continued, in a lower, bitter voice, as he advanced on her, a dark silhouette in the dim light, "if he wanted me suspended, he should have bloody well just made it happen. I don't need his pity."
She had the sudden realization that this feud between Harry and Alphard was much bigger than she could handle. It was beyond her—or anyone's—control.
"Why would he want you suspended?"
"Because I killed that Dark wizard," he said impatiently.
"Why did you kill him?" she prompted.
"Because he was going to kill us," shot back Alphard.
"If that's really the case, Harry will see that." She bit her lip, watching blood trickle down Alphard's temple. "Are you harmed anywhere else? I had some Healer training; I can clean you up."
She turned away from him, eager to get away from his blistering gaze, and fussed about the counter, hunting around for Dittany. She heard Alphard behind her; she heard the rustle of cloth signifying he was stripping down. Her face flamed and her hands became clammy, her fingers slippery on the glass phials. She turned round.
Alphard's bare back was to her, and vivid black lettering across his shoulder blades stuck out against his pale, lightly freckled skin. It was in runes, but ones she wasn't familiar with.
"Oh." She started. Alphard looked over his shoulder at her, a roguish look in his eyes.
"Don't enjoy the show too much, Granger." The normalcy of this interaction lightened the mood a little, but she still felt a writhing in her gut.
"What does it mean?" she asked. "Your tattoo."
He turned back and finished shrugging out of his clothes, leaving him in just black pants and black boots. He sat down on the cot again. Harry had done some significant damage; a long slash across Alphard's pectoral muscles and down to his rib cage was leaving angry red trails of blood. "Oh dear," she said uneasily. "Here, take this and put it on the gash—that should be cleaned properly."
"Thanks." The tension returned, strung tight between them. "So what happened to your eye?"
"Ran into a wall," she replied, scowling as she recalled the previous evening. She was aware that Alphard was avoiding answering her question, and the curiosity was killing her. If she could at least see the runes once more, she might be able to memorize them and look them up...
Harry siphoned the blood off of him; Alphard had done significant damage but he wanted a moment alone before venturing to the infirmary where he knew Alphard and Hermione were. He saw red as he thought of Alphard once more, and futilely tried to put the man out of his mind. However, the image of Alphard's eyes flashing, his smooth pale lips forming the criticisms that had been closest to Harry's own heart... They returned repeatedly, washing over him like waves. Alphard had seen what no one else had seen, or, at least, what no one else had had the courage to comment on...
He went to his office and changed into a fresh set of Auror robes; in the little mirror in the closet in his office, he mopped his face and tried his best to tame his hair. It would do for now. The cuts and points of contact with Alphard's powerful Hexes ached, and Harry was determined to focus so singularly on his work that he forgot his pain and humiliation.
He strode to Zabini's holding cell. He would question him once more, then let him go. He had been keeping him here for too many days—in that, as well, Black had been right.
He slid open the door after using his wand to unlock it. Zabini's chair was turned away, to face the window. Over the arm of the chair he saw Zabini's elegant hand hanging limply. Was he being dramatic?
"Zabini," he began, his voice breaking, "I'm releasing you. I can't hold you here any longer; you aren't a suspect anymore. But if you want to help catch the murderer, you've got to tell me why you were at Malfoy Manor after the time of death."
No response.
Was he sleeping? Harry went to the chair. "Zabini?"
He came round to face Zabini. At once there was a rushing in his ears. The world had regained the surreal, too saturated and too slow quality that it had had while dueling Black.
Zabini's blue eyes were open but unseeing.
"...So. What's my punishment?" Alphard's light tone was forced. Hermione turned back to him, holding a cloth sopping with astringent. She wanted to laugh.
"That's not up to me, but I suspect there will not be punishment." She thought back to the moment she had entered the room. She had never seen that look on Harry's face before. She handed Alphard the cloth, watching as he cleaned his gashes himself, the lean sinew twisting appealingly in his forearms and chest as he moved. She had to turn to look away. She busied herself with tidying up uselessly, then turned once more in time to see Alphard shrugging back on his Auror robes.
"Here." He pulled out his wand and uttered a healing spell. At once the pressure building over her left eye lightened. She had been so busy she'd not even thought to heal her own injuries.
"...Thanks," she mumbled, touching her face. The unexpected kindness from Alphard prompted her to confess. "I ran into Nott at the Leaky Cauldron, and he was so drunk he couldn't get himself home. I tried to carry him home, and...well, he was quite heavy, even with magical help," she explained in a rush. She realized now that she and Alphard were standing quite close, and she reflexively took a step back. She considered telling him about what she had found at Nott manor, but something held her back.
"I saw you two in the Leaky Cauldron," he replied, looking briefly amused at something. "Perhaps he fancies you."
"Absolutely not," she groaned immediately. For a brief flash, there had been kinship between them, then was abruptly obliterated as they seemed to simultaneous recall their conversation from yesterday.
They turned away. Hermione gathered her things, and Alphard straightened his clothes. Outside in the hall there was a commotion, and Hermione wondered what had happened. She looked out the window, willing herself to prompt Alphard on what they should do today about Amundsen. She drew in a breath, about to speak, when she heard Alphard's voice, low and bitter.
"Shame," he said.
"Hm?"
They faced each other once more.
His gaze was blistering. He pierced her. "My tattoo," he said softly. "It means shame."