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

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Part IV

They spoke, inevitably, of the war.

Hermione learnt why Draco's devotion towards Voldemort and his cause had slowly begun to erode over the years. In Lucius, Draco had seen nothing more than a slave. Once one of the most powerful men in wizarding society, Lucius was now considered nothing more than a weak-minded lackey in the eyes of his son, and there was little to be done to reverse his opinion. Draco's whole reason for originally supporting Voldemort's cause was to see the eventual containment of all those he considered inferior, so that he and the others would be free to indulge in the prejudices of their superiority.

In other words, Draco simply wanted to prove he was better. But after witnessing the slow decay of father's character, he learnt that Voldemort was perhaps not the best person to enforce that superiority. The Dark Lord wished only to display and maintain his own.

So while the dark wizard openly boasted of his ever-increasing following that now, to his delight, included the youngest Malfoy, Draco was silently and slowly separating himself from his father's legacy by building his own. It was not one of virtue, but it was his, and one created by his own hands. His connections to Voldemort had merely opened the door to a more independent way of life and Draco became, in effect, his own master. But still he was aware of the limitations of his freedom, and he wanted free of Voldemort completely.

Hermione asked him if he felt even a little compassion for those that had died for the sake of his supposed cause, and he answered that he did not. They had not mattered before; why should they matter now? He had watched his classmates turn to savagery for the sake of such a cause, and felt no pity in their demise.

They chose to fight, he had said. In that they chose to die.

So she asked in return: Why do you fight now?

And he had answered: Because I know, in this, we can win.

She had no energy to argue his case, to point out that, even if they were to win the war, he would still be continuing the bloodshed, albeit on a much smaller scale.

And now they sat in silence and it stretched and stretched, until finally, in a quiet voice that she was almost ashamed of, she asked, "Why do you hate my kind?"

It made her nauseas to ask, because it shouldn't have mattered. She didn't care to listen to his blind rhetoric; even the question itself made something inside of her hurt. Because the discrimination was there, in her words. My kind. Her kind, his kind, their kind. What difference did it make?

But if the war had taught her anything, it was that everybody had a reason. They all fought for something. And it didn't matter how petty or weak or stupid the reason, it was theirs, and it made every bit of difference. Wars didn't just happen. People made them happen. People chose to let them happen. Even if it only took one -- one person, one reason -- it was enough.

So she asked because she wanted to know his reason. She didn't want to understand, and maybe it was ignorant of her, but she wasn't that person anymore. She couldn't be that girl who saw good in everyone, and logic in every action, because wars didn't call for understanding. It just was. You could rationalise it down to its darkest secret and every war would whisper the same thing over and over. Power. And you could pretend to understand it, but you never would, because war was fought with instinct, not knowledge, and it was the same every time. It was one war, fought over and over, and the only thing to do was pray that you didn't survive one only to witness another.

But she wasn't asking to understand. She was asking out of curiosity.

At first she didn't think he would answer. He was leant against the wall, one foot bent under him, staring at her intently with charcoal-grey eyes. Every now and again she caught the gleam of his dagger as he absently flipped it between the fingers of his right hand, and he looked so much like a muggle stood there that she suddenly felt angry. It was unfair that Malfoy, of all people, would have no problems assimilating into either world, while she was considered inferior in one and an abomination in the other. She hated him a little more for that.

"I don't hate you," he finally answered, in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, "or your kind. I used to, a long time ago. But I don't see the significance in hating something of no importance. As people you mean little to me. As individuals? I take them as they come. I appreciate fragments of your culture, but I consider my own to be superior in comparison." He paused and regarded her solemnly. "I don't respect you as people, Hermione. You fail to preserve our way of life, and even then we have to hide it from you. We have to apologise for who we are, for our magics, because most of you aren't sensible enough to recognise your own envy and bury it. You fear us because you know we're better."

"That's a lie," was her quiet reply, at which Draco's gaze suddenly turned curious. She met his stare head on, and ventured forward towards him. "I think to appreciate one culture, you have to recognise the follies of your own." She stopped mere feet away from him, gauging his reaction. "Your world is lazy, Draco. You use magic for the sake of it, not for its necessity. In that my world is superior. We've learnt to survive, to evolve, by our own means. You haven't."

She moved then, turning to walk lazy lengths back and forth. Draco watched her as she went, steely eyes tracking her movements as he waited for her to continue on whatever thread she had deemed to follow.

"If you want to argue logistics, you could say my world is just as lazy. We drive cars and ride buses, when are legs are just as proficient at carrying us. We have escalators and lifts when we're perfectly capable of climbing a flight of stairs. Everyday we're trying to find a new way to make life easier, more simple. We're doing it by means of technology -- the only way we know -- and you, by magic -- the only way you know." She paused in her pacing and turned her head to look at him. "How does that make one culture better than another? How does that make this war any more justifiable?"

"Because magic is natural," he argued. "Your technology isn't."

Hermione smirked and shook her head. "Then by your logic, we're all potential witches and wizards. If what you say is true, and nature intended for us to possess magical tendencies, then it doesn't matter how diluted your kind become, or how hard you try to eliminate mine, magic will always exist. If it dates back to the beginning of man, and it's survived through the millennia, why do you expect it to disappear now? On the other hand, if magic were to become extinct, it would suggest that it has no place in the natural order of things, that it's your time to adapt accordingly, or perish. And if that's true, and magic is nothing more than a mutation, then by that same theory, we, the muggles came first, making us the purest race of the two."

Hermione, feeling strangely satisfied with herself, folded her arms across her chest and regarded Draco coolly. She felt empowered. She felt like her old self again, the Hermione who could break down every argument and render every point mote or just. It was silly and it was shallow, but it was her life, and for years she had wanted to have her say, to hear whatever argument might arise because of it and shoot it down.

The new Hermione knew it wasn't as easy as that. She couldn't debate the war away. She could argue her point until she was blue in the face, but people like Voldemort, like Lucius Malfoy and the Death Eaters, would hear none of it. Because in their eyes, no amount of logic would change the fact that they believed themselves to be better.

Was Draco Malfoy one of those people?

He was silent, as if he were honestly considering her words. But Hermione had little faith that they had made a difference to him; one did not change their whole belief system overnight.

And to prove her right, he simply smirked and in an amused tone, said, "You haven't changed a bit, Granger."

They didn't talk after that.

---

It was well after four in the morning when Ann-Marie finally managed to crack the last curse. She looked exhausted when Hermione and Draco joined her. While once she had looked exotic, she now looked drained. Her skin was porcelain white, her lustrous hair lank, and as she rose to her feet, Hermione caught the tremors in her legs. Her hands shook as Draco helped her up and she smiled weakly at him in thanks.

"O-okay. Stronger than I thought," she said in a quiet, raspy voice, wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. "But it's done."

No one moved for a long moment, all of them aware that they were mere inches away from salvation. It was Draco that finally broke the silence, indicating for Hermione to grab the scrolls while he took care of Ann-Marie, wrapping her arm around his neck and supporting most of her weight.

"You good?" he asked her softly and Ann-Marie nodded confidently.

"Yeah, just need a recharge."

Hermione's hands shook as she grasped scroll after scroll and placed them in a black carry-all, which she then re-shrank and placed back in the pocket of her jeans. When she was done she nodded at Draco and together they all moved towards the exit, Ann-Marie hanging limply between them. Hermione could feel herself trembling as she took step after step, breath coming in shaky gasps that sounded harsh in the silence.

They passed alcove after alcove while they moved, until finally they came out into the main halls of the Ministry.

And then all hell broke loose.

---

One minute she was standing on unsteady feet, and the next she was falling. She ducked and rolled just in time as green sparks exploded by her feet and disintegrated just as fast. Breathing heavy, she turned her head to see Draco and Ann-Marie scrambling for cover within the Vaults. She followed instinctively, springing to her feet and sprinting the short distance back into the darkness of the cavern, narrowly missing another curse as she ran. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the hooded figures hiding in the shadows of the Ministry and panic seized her.

She was barely safe within the Vaults before a hand wrapped itself around her neck. A familiar dagger came to rest against her windpipe and she stared up at Draco in horror.

"Drac--"

His hand tightened, cutting her off, and she gasped in outrage.

"You played me," he hissed, his grey eyes sparking with fury. His face was paler than she'd ever seen it and he was physically shaking. With anger or fear, she didn't know.

Oh God, she'd laugh at the irony of it if she wasn't so scared. Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, her enemy, calling her a traitor. It didn't get more twisted than this.

"Malfoy," she whispered huskily as she tried to pry his fingers from her neck. "Malfoy, listen to me. They're not mine. They're not Aurors."

But he wasn't listening. His grip grew tighter still and now Hermione could barely breathe. She scrambled frantically, tearing at his fingers with her nails but to no avail. Grey dots began to dance across her vision, and as she fought to keep conscious, she choked out, "They're Death Eaters!"

And then, finally, his hand loosened and Hermione slumped against the wall, coughing harshly. After a short moment -- they didn't have time for this -- she looked up at Draco. He was silent, shaking his head in confusion.

"No," he said to himself. "No one else knows about this but us. Why would they--"

He froze and Hermione saw the realisation dawn across his face. Shock and horror filled his eyes and then, with painful slowness, he turned.

Too late Hermione saw who he was looking at.

And too late she saw the wand that Ann-Marie was pointing towards them.

---

"I'm sorry, Draco."

There were tears in Ann-Marie's eyes as she faced them. Hermione could see the trembling of her hand as she held her wand, but she didn't doubt that the girl would kill them if need be. She wasn't a Death Eater for nothing.

Draco looked mortified. He'd turned completely ashen at this point, his eyes hollow and black against his skin. He stood facing the curse-breaker, completely still, his dagger hanging loosely by his side, not caring that a horde of Death Eaters was waiting for them just outside of the Vaults. At this point they didn't seem to be a in a rush to kill them, but that was probably because they knew they were already trapped in here with one of their own and with no way out.

"I trusted you," Draco said softly and Hermione could see the tension in his muscles from where she was standing. He may have been devastated, but Draco was on alert all right. "And you screwed me."

Ann-Marie shook her head frantically and foolishly wiped at her eyes. Draco was waiting for that moment of distraction and he seized it, leaping across the distance and knocking her wand loose even as he was forcing her to her knees with her arm locked behind her back. Draco followed her descent, slipping to his knees behind her, and it was so much like the art gallery that Hermione wanted to turn away.

But she didn't. She watched as Draco curved an arm around Ann-Marie and pressed the dagger against her throat. There was silence, save for their ragged breathing, until Ann-Marie, with tears streaming down her beautiful face, began to speak in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't want this. He said he'd kill my family if I didn't. He knew you were slipping. He knew. He took them away from me. My mum, my baby sister. She's only two, Draco. I couldn't let her die. He said he'd let them go if I did this. I never meant--I didn't want it to be this way. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, Draco, please."

No one moved or spoke as long seconds ticked by in silence.

And then Hermione saw Draco close his eyes in pain. He slumped backwards and his arm loosened and Ann-Marie turned slowly in his awkward embrace until their faces were bare inches apart."

"I'm sorry, love," she heard the girl whisper brokenly, before she leant forward and brushed her lips against Draco's.

A second later his eyes opened and Hermione would never forget the look in them. It was a look she never thought she'd see in Draco Malfoy's eyes.

Despair. Complete and utter despair. And there was regret there, too, and guilt, and shame, and the kind of love she didn't think he was capable of.

But most of all, there was understanding. Draco and Ann-Marie stared at each other for a long moment before they seemed to come to some sort of agreement. Ann-Marie nodded once and smiled sadly and Hermione knew what was about to happen.

And she knew she could do nothing about it. They didn't have a choice. If they failed, it was over. If Ann-Marie let them escape, Voldemort would know it.

So she did nothing. Nothing but turn her face away as Ann-Marie whispered softly to her lover.

And after a long, long moment passed and a lone gasp broke the silence, she closed her eyes and wept.

---

The group of Death Eaters waiting for them were easy enough to handle. No doubt they'd expected Ann-Marie to have them disarmed and helpless by the time they were needed, but what they did not expect was Draco Malfoy, who came flying out of the Vaults casting deadly curse after deadly curse. They barely had time to react before they were on their knees and Hermione managed the remaining few with ease.

When it was finished Draco was on his knees, breathing heavily and clenching his wand in a death grip. She gave him a moment and then, knowing they had no time to waste, she pulled him to his feet and looped his arm around her neck.

And after casting one last longing look toward the Vaults, she walked him towards the exit.