The Painted Past

Chapter 9

If I can reach the stars,
Pull one down for you,
Shine it on my heart

xoxox

Her hair was unmanageable. Perhaps it was the London air. Or maybe, it missed Draco's touches.

Whatever the reason, her mane was so unruly even Mrs. Weasley remarked as they waited in the lift, "I do wish we had time to prepare ourselves properly, but the Ministry's pushing for a speedy trial."

Hermione walked silently, momentarily thinking it unfair to ask a wife to testify against her husband...before she remembered herself.

The magical judicial system was just that. Magical. While she believed it a punishably short amount of time to hold trial, many others believed it had taken too long. They arrived at the Ministry in due time. Like all others, they endured the necessary rigors of entering.

Ginny had told the lift-telephone booth voice that their purpose was to "prosecute the bloody hell out of that bastard," and disembodied voice had politely responded.

And Hermione had no wand to be checked so that sped up the process.

It was hard not to notice to the stares of awestruck wizards and witches as she passed, head held high. It was difficult to remain deaf to their whispers. It was terrible.

But it was a pleasant picnic compared to the actual trial.

Hermione considered it rather barbaric, their mode of justice, with no proper platform for the testimonies and witnesses. And no approachable bench where one could speak with the judge. All fifty of them; she shouldn't have been surprised, of course, to see that Draco was to face a full trial. And then, that dreadful, solitary chair, where the suspect was more like a studied specimen. Yes, she decided, the court was definitely something muggles did better.

Her heart gave an unexpected lurch at the sight of Draco's entrance. His hands were locked, bound magically, but everything else was quite natural to him. His arrogant swagger, his cool ease as he moved, his icy gaze that swept about the room as if he owned it...all present and accounted for.

And suddenly, it didn't take as long to find what she had searched for in others. Her eyes latched onto it immediately. She had been looking for the duplicity, the betrayal in all others, that had been well hidden in Draco. No wonder she hadn't found it in the Weasley family. All the time, she had been looking for that heartlessness that belonged solely to the manipulative bastard who sat in the chair.

Hermione was called forth to stand beside him, and waited to be questioned. She shook her head at the offer of a chair; that would have forced her closer to Draco, and she was not aware of how the proximity would affect her. Against her will, her head darted to her left as Draco took a seat.

He smiled wanly. No arrogance, no coldness, no hint of superiority. His lips were curved kindly, wordlessly calling for her response. Abruptly, it mattered very little what they said of Suspect Draco Lucius Malfoy and his crimes; it mattered very little what Witness Hermione Jane Granger was to say against him. All that mattered was the fact that her tiny fear, that awful, gnawing idea that Draco had become broken somehow, while they were separated, was killed with breathtaking relief.

She smiled back, against her will. But her soul was threaded to his, no matter how much she denied it outwardly. And if his happiness called for her happiness, then her heart would comply without protest. Her lips curved wider at the thought—she was just happy she had her mind to stop her heart's silly compliance.

It was noticed. It was whispered about by the council before them. It was written down.

Draco spoke before a single judge could open his or her mouth. His voice rang in the chamber with confident clarity, and unashamed smoothness.

"Yes, I am guilty of all charges. Except the twenty fifth, I think. I never transfigured another wizard's pelican."

And Hermione bit her lip, choking back the laughter as she choked back the tears. Also noticed. Also remembered.

"I fell in love with Hermione Granger a few months before the Dark Year. Such ardor, of course, was hindered by my enlistment in the Dark Lord army, but was renewed once more when I realised my side was to be the defeated." There were a few scoffs and mutters at this shameless reference to his disloyal past. Draco ignored them with cutting disdain. "Because she did not want to even consider the idea of loving me back, I called for drastic measures after the Year had drawn to a close."

Drastic, Hermione repeated inwardly, her tiny amusement shattering abruptly. Too weak a word.

Her heart, she was very certain, stopped for a few seconds. Part of her wished—as crazy and impossible as it was—that he was still innocent. That somehow this was an enormous mistake, and that he would walk free...walk out as her husband.

If Draco knew her insane desire, Hermione reflected, he would not have continued to confess so readily.

"Firstly, I released the house elves, for they were bound to serve only Malfoys, and it proved difficult to have her marry me. I presented Hagrid with a new creature, having overheard Hermione's promise to visit whenever a new animal arrived. On the appropriate day, I asked Dumbledore if I should check the status of the Forest's recovery from the War. He was reluctant, but allowed me to do so. With this opportunity, I deactivated all defenses without consultation—though I suspect that is Dumbledore's jurisdiction, and he may punish me whenever you are done."

Hermione waited for the hatred to boil within her, but found herself blank on the emotional plane. She could not hate Draco, she learned; so who was she to hate Dumbledore for a simple mistake?

"I must speak now of your seventh charge, 'Unlawful Precipitation Interference.' Now, according to the charge, I simply conjured the storm, which is untrue. I borrowed it, from Bath. And then I sent it back after I was done with it." Hermione, as well as the panel, stared at him with thinly veiled surprise. The suspect spoke so casually of a deed that required Boy-Who-Lived abilities. Draco did not notice their reaction. "I sent an illusion of dragons—"

"Who was your accomplice?' one wizard asked in a nasal tone. Draco looked faintly displeased for being interrupted, reminding more than one occupant of Lucius Malfoy. The resemblance in manners did not help his case.

"There was no other. I acted alone. Now, after captur—"

"But to rearrange weather to such precision, and to conjure a convincing illusion of dragons, with such realism," one young witch began with a tone of wonder, "requires a great deal of power, concentration, and skill. If you did have an accomplice, Malfoy, it would be wise to—"

Draco, who was unabashedly annoyed with another interruption, now cut in himself. "Yes, ma'am. You've no idea how talented I am." With those words, Draco added a feral, daring smile, that sent the witch into a flattered blush. Hermione would have buckled at the knees herself if not for the unexpected anger; anger that he should smile at any one like that.

"I was thankful for Weasley's escape, for I did not want to harm her in any way. You'll have to downgrade that abduction charge, by the way, to the third degree. Second degree requires five days and Ginerva Weasley was at my home for four. I assume the extra day she was missing was due to her poor navigation skills."

Although he had not looked at her since entering, Hermione was irritated to see him smile, as if he knew she focused only on him. And that she would be annoyed with his ridicule of her friend.

"Before you ask, I had been planning to put her in the dungeons. And yes, I kept Mione for seven months. And yes, I performed illegal spells on her. Now you'll want which spells, correct?"

And the panel fidgeted uncomfortably, undoubtedly peeved to be deprived of their right to interrogate.

"Just one in January. Then the same, modified in February. And the same, modified and edited in March. And the same spell during April, except tinkered with, of course. May...well, you understand. I learned of the spell out of Gilderoy Lockhart's journal when I went to visit Zabini—I imagine that's a separate trial?"

They did not answer. They glared, they stared sternly, and basically did an impressive variety of things with their eyes that related to disapproval. But they did not answer.

"Yes, for this one's for the events leading to kidnaping, and I'll need a different panel for homicide. But, since they are related, I had killed Zabini because he found out I was responsible for his leg incident, and was ready to tell Mione about my affection for her. And he found out—this part is entirely my fault—"

Words that caused a bit of an uproar. Which part, exactly, they wanted to know, wasn't his fault?

He ignored the reaction. "He discovered my crush because of my involvement with the leg incident. See, I knew he was up for Head Boy, but to have him and Hermione sharing quarters..." Draco grimaced, showing some real emotion. "I didn't trust him. Full of dishonourable intentions, that one."

"And you believed you were of better mettle?" one wizard demanded, voicing all the derision that Hermione felt herself.

"Well, yes. Just because I liked to study her face whenever the opportunity arose did not mean I was ready to rape her when she fell asleep," Draco replied reasonably, staring at the man with cold, hard eyes. Admirably, the wizard, far too ancient to be intimidated by the Malfoy, merely sniffed and bade him to continue. "Getting more to the point," Draco sighed, "After the war, Zabini was ready to ruin everything and owl Hermione. Which I didn't like, for the only reason she remained in contact with me was that we were purely platonic. Ever tasted unrequited love?"

No answer, though one could distinctly hear a judge snort with cynicism.

"I had to kill him, for he would have ruined the plan—yes there was a plan, throw conspiracy in the mix as well. No, don't interrupt, ma'am, I was about to explain why the spell—Volo fiat being the name of the process—needed to be modified. At first, I had obliviated too much, erasing a good part of the battles. Second time I had done too little...each time it had never been enough, or it had been too much. Too strong, to weak, too detailed, too vague...there was never the perfect degree to which I could repair—or damage, whatever term you prefer—Hermione's mind. Until the seventh time. And, even then, she awoke skeptical."

"And how were they modified?" asked that one, forgettable witch.

"It was difficult, for at first only the chant was changed. Volo fiat became Vellum tempus fiat, to Mentiar fiat, to Vellum memoriae, modified becoming Tempus mentiar nuncine...which I think I stuck to. The rest of the changes came from how much blood I took from her, and where I drew it. By the final procedure, I learned I had to mix my own blood in the potion, so that my will could successfully persuade her heart. It was...bad, to say the least, to repeat the incantation and brew daily—or, in my case, nightly—and had negative side effects on my mind and body. Hermione, I'm sure, remembers my fatigue. The concoction, upon being dropped into her veins, also prevented her scars from healing properly."

A strange silence settled into the room as he confessed the last words. It appeared as if Draco Malfoy was regretting his actions...as if he was sorry for hurting another while he realised his ambitions. His sudden silence, his haunted eyes, his displeased mouth...they simply did not fit with the Draco Malfoy the rest of the world knew and hated. Villains were not allowed to regret, for they had dug their own graves.

She did, of course, remember for she was Hermione Granger and bound to notice and remember any anomalies. But that did not matter now. Hermione, forgetting her aloofness, faced him squarely. He did not turn to her, only stiffening under her withering gaze. "You hurt me?" she asked quietly, helpless to stop the hurt creeping into her voice.

"Do not address the suspect, Miss Granger," requested one, large, stalwart wizard. Hermione faced the panel again, and she spied some kindness in that wizard's spectacled eyes.

"Yes sir," she murmured, staring down at her hands so that none could see the tears.

He, Draco, had hurt her. Willingly. He loved her, and yet he was willing to put her health in jeopardy in order to possess her.

Hermione frowned, not sure how to process that information, not sure if believing in that theory would prove disloyal to the man she loved.

"You've left one crime off," Draco added confidently. "Hopefully, this voluntary admission will reduce my sentence." With the darkness and his cold façade, it was difficult to discern whether or not he was joking. "I did not pay the bill at Altworth's, for the readjustment of the Malfoy pensieve. I had it rigged, you see, so that Hermione would only see the pleasant areas of our past."

Hermione was impressed and chilled by his thoroughness. How long, she wondered, would it have taken to find out the truth with a man so meticulous?

"Now," the most stalwart wizard began briskly, "please outline the seven months."

"Beg your pardon?" Draco asked nonchalantly, as though he hadn't really been attending. Hermione frowned, and recognised the underlying worry in his tone.

"The seven months. What happened? Why and how did she find out?"

Now both the suspect and the victim stared up at the questioning judge with furrowed brows. To Hermione, his tone was strange, and not as pitying as it was a few minutes ago. To Draco, it was quite clear what the not-so-subtle idiot was trying to imply.

"She was not an accessory," Draco ground out, furious enough to lose his slick veneer. "Nor did she ever become one."

"Seven times," a witch repeated, "with a poorly cast spell. Surely there were slip ups, and even then, she stayed long enough to be hexed again."

The fact was merciless, and strangely...not entirely untrue.

"My fault entirely," Draco asserted, growing agitated. "No one should condemn for her inability to escape. If anything, one should admire how clever she was for finding out."

"All right then," the nasal wizard said, trying another tactic, "tell us of the seven different occasions she solved the mystery and yet stayed."

Draco sent the man a flinty gaze, and his lips tightened with fiery anger. "I believe the victim has some right to privacy," he bit out coldly.

"It is the right of the court—"

"And it is her to right to keep personal matters personal!" he shouted.

Hermione was abruptly filled with dread, so lead heavy she thought she would choke. Anything this mightily protected must be terrible to hear. And hear it they would, of that she was certain. A few more minutes of arguing, glaring, and entirely inappropriate threats from Draco later, it was decided the methods of discovery were to be listed.

"Oh bloody fucking hell," Draco muttered. "Fine. The first month, she found a red hair only two days after I performed the spell. It was either admitting Ginny was present—which reminded her of Ron, and the insensibility of the lie I fed her—or have her thinking I was having an affair."

Draco hesitated, chewing over his next choice of words.

"The second?" one witch prompted.

"I'm getting to it," he snarled. "The second time...the second time, she found out two and a half weeks after the spell."

"How?" Draco regarded them with mutinous eyes under hooded lids. "Miss Granger, do you remember?"

Bewildered by the address, Hermione only shook her head dumbly.

"Because we slept together," Draco stated baldly. "And it was her first time, and I hadn't known that." His voice was far from remorseful; in fact, he sounded as irate as any husband, being forced to discuss sexual details of his wife. "If I had, I wouldn't have said we were already married."

"And?"

"And what, you fucking moron? And, I hurt her." Draco's words now shook with tangible fury. "And so, she knew. And so, she found out. Any thing else, perverts?"

"Miss Granger." Again, both suspect and victim were startled by the shift of attention. "Is that true?"

Hermione could only part her lips in surprise. Her mind, already shocked by the recent admissions, scrambled to string a coherent sentence. "I...uh...recall something... I had a dream, I think, about that—"

"Consisting of?"

"Let her finish," Draco snapped.

"Let me fight my own battles," she snapped in turn. After a calming breath, Hermione faced the panel again. "It consisted of..." she bit her lip "Well, it consisted of the last part. Of me remembering, and saying it hurt. I thought it was all a dream, before."

"And you're certain," the witch needled.

"That I dreamt it? Yes, of course."

"No," she began delicately, with Hermione regarded as false discomfort. "That it hurt."

Although it had been said before, she could not help but say it. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you lose your virginity that night, Hermione Granger, or was that a simple story to deny your guilt in the crime?"

Hermione studied the panel, half shocked, half disgusted. Instead of rising to the bait, as Draco did verbally beside her, she merely cocked her head and gave a speculative smile. "And if I chose to stay with him," she challenged coolly, "how is it a crime?"

"To aid in the murder and kidnaping—" They were obviously tenacious to the belief that Malfoy could not have accomplished his deeds without some magical assistance. And it was well known how brilliant Hermione Granger was in accomplishing the unthinkable.

"No, no," Hermione dismissed airily, "I mean afterwards. Say I was kidnaped, but tricked into loving him. Why does my voluntary forgiveness render unlawfulness?"

"To fake one's death," the witch began.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Draco murmured out the corner of his mouth. She ignored him.

"You assumed I was dead. I never claimed anything."

"So you admit it," the ancient wizard said triumphantly, evidently glad that the trial would come to a close.

Hermione shook her head, with a shrug. It was the principle of the matter, not the truth. "No. It was a hypothetical situation. Yes, I was virgin until Draco's...well, until Draco."

"Despite your two year relationship with your fiancé?"

"Yes, despite that."

"You never engaged in relations with Ronald Weasley."

"No. Any other ways you can phrase this?" Because one witch was ready to answer her joking query, Hermione quickly interrupted. "Look, I never slept with him, all right? Besides that, this isn't relevant to the case now, is it? The case is Draco's crimes, not my love life."

"You address him familiarly."

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

And there was the knife waiting in the dark, unsheathed and painful. It was a question she knew would pop up, and had yet to formulate an answer.

"Third way," she spoke succinctly. Protests arose for her evasion, but Hermione refused to answer. "Third time, Malfoy, get on with it."

"Right." If not for the situation, Hermione would have caught the faint tinge of amusement in his tone. "Third time, Zabini's blasted owl—which, I thought I had injured enough so that no message could be given—finally delivered the posthumous letter, and I killed it after it attacked me. Of course she was suspicious. Fourth time, it was the first time she noticed her missing cat. When I flew to retrieve it, the damn animal hated me. And, trust Hermione to take the cat's instinct over her growing feelings."

Hermione scoffed, and Draco smiled wider.

"The fifth was nearly perfect. She awoke, easily believed my lies, and we had the perfect honeymoon. My mistake was an after hours picnic. You see, I had fibbed about the exact month, so that she would not send one of those Weasleys a birthday present, but she noticed the stars. I think she actually used the Astronomy Tower for astronomy. The timing was wrong, and I didn't have a good reason to lie about the months."

His lengthy confession seemed to satisfy them. "Right," said one, "moving on—"

"Wait," Hermione said, desperately, "what of the sixth?"

The panel frowned at her. She frowned back.

"You didn't tell her?" one asked Draco.

"Well, we didn't exactly have ample time to discuss it."

One judge, on the far left, reached within his robes, and levitated brick to her slowly. Vaguely, Hermione wondered if she was being physically punished for her outburst. The crude block, roughly hewn except for one smooth, marble veined side, stopped mere inches from her face.

"You feigned ignorance long enough to leave yourself a clue," Draco told her dully.

Hermione squinted into the darkness, and spied faint scratches into the stone. It was the same sort of message she found in the book, with the same date.

"Taken from the fireplace," the witch informed her. "Of the library." Which explained the mess, Hermione remembered, that they later cleaned up.

The fireplace, Hermione repeated to herself, growing annoyed. She just wished that if she went through the trouble of leaving clues, she would have left them in an easier place. As she berated her past selves, the others had moved on, asking about time and place, this detail and that spell. Draco remembered it all with perfect clarity, from whom he had bought the ingredients to where he destroyed or buried the evidence.

They interrogated her as well, though with noticeably less censure and kinder looks. In a word, pity. Finally, after an eternity, they reached the last question.

"All those who find Draco Malfoy guilty of the charges..." The speaking wizard appeared understandably depressed and indecisive, for he did not want to undergo the rigmarole of repeating them once more. Draco saved him from such a tiring dilemma.

"You cannot charge me," he said, very breaking off in an arrogant laugh. "You couldn't possibly."

One witch, in the third row, stood up angrily, her face a huge splotch of angry red. "I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, we can and we could, and we will!"

"But without evidence?" he asked, lips curled in a sneer, voice carried with staggering confidence.

"Evidence," another wizard repeated, sputtering with disbelief, "Were you present in the last hour? You and Miss Granger have provided ample—"

"Witnesses' testimonies are affected by emotion. I could have merely given you a diluted version, in an attempt to lessen my villainous character in my Hermione's eyes."

Hermione swerved to the suspect, eyes wide with alarm, heart thumping erratically. What did this mean? Had he done something terrible, so horrific, that he did not want to repeat it in her presence? What did this mean?

Nothing. Draco's chilling gaze slid to meet hers in the briefest of moments; it was all a bluff, she instinctively knew. It was all merely a bluff, to buy time.

"The veri—"

"If you are referring to the potion which would force me, quite rudely, I might add, to tell you the truth, may I remind you that the Ministry outlawed such abhorrent tactics early last year?"

"It was not," the ancient said roundly, "prohibited by the use of the Ministry on the enemy; only the marked Death Eaters were no longer to lawfully concoct it."

"But you forget the loophole, sir," Draco pointed out pleasantly. Only he was nowhere near as cheerful as his tone implied. By great contrast, his cold eyes were sharpening by the second, like some beast ready to lunge for the kill. "The loophole in the law. It is nothing to be ashamed of, as these mistakes can happen when a bill is enacted as quickly as that one was—in a panic, I presume, because of us.

"In all your wordiness and drivel, you accidentally stated that it would be unlawful to treat one of one's own to such a potion. Was that an effort to protect the Secret Keepers? How quaint. To butcher the law in order to prevent butchering of one's own."

Hermione hoped, no, prayed that Draco knew what he was doing. For it seemed to her that the anger rose in palpable waves from the gamut before them, ready to crush Draco with its red, hot intensity. She understood, of course. How dare he, Draco Malfoy, infamous turncoat—not once, but twice—how dare he taunt them with their past fears and mistakes?

"Hermione Granger," said one witch with a pinched expression, greatly ignoring the issue that Draco had just settled, "has given enough testimony to deal with the inconsistencies of your own..."

Tsk, tsk, tsk came from Draco's pitying mouth. Hermione was ready to strike him herself. Just who the hell did he think he was, she wanted to know, to tease them like this? And just what the hell was he playing at?

"Oh, ma'am," he said now, tone dripping with false remorse. "Is that the only leg you have to stand on? I'll be the first to say that Hermione Granger is of brilliant mind and admirable reasoning. But," he added, leaning forward in a cruel, confiding manner, "can it not also be said that she is of questionable memory?"

His words fell like a dead weight in all their stomachs. All fifty wizards observed him with horror, mouths open in aghast or muttering in desperate doubt.

Draco leaned back, extremely satisfied with himself. It would not be the first time that a Malfoy twisted the Ministry to his fashion.

Hermione herself stood in abject turmoil. Her mind, useless as it was, executed some rapid attempts to find loopholes within his loopholes, to outsmart him as she had all her enemies before him...

But damn it all.

He was right.

"I don't care," the ancient, leathery wizard said abruptly, voice so sharp it cut the thickening silence immediately. "If you're trying to weasel your way out of this, Malfoy, you've got another—"

"I am not denying a thing sir," Draco rejoined, laughably wounded by the accusation. "I am merely suggesting that the Ministry wait for the wizards to finish searching my manor, and then proceed with the fullest amount of evidence. After all, sir, should you convict me now, I may be forced to appeal on account of evidence found later or, naturally, a mistrial.

"I do hate to burden you like this," he continued, upon seeing their murderous and dismal expressions, "but one must act in full accordance to the laws given to us by our government—in respect of the Ministry. I know you were all looking forward to a conviction today, but really, these proceedings are a bit redundant now, don't you think?"

He made no motions to rise, but one witch ordered, voice shrill, "I'll be damned if I let you walk freely, young man."

"Oh, naturally," he agreed, with a shrug. "But, you can't send me to that joke of a prison, Azkaban, can you? For that place, ineffectual as it is, is now for convicted criminals, and no verdict has been made concerning me."

Hermione's head was pounding with all her former husband's logic. Good lord, she thought, minorly dizzy with the turn of events. Good lord, he was a bloody genius when it came to getting away with murder.

"Fine," the leading wizard spat. "You will be kept, however, in the Ministry's custody, until we have gathered enough evidence on both the kidnaping and the homicide. Any arguments for that, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Why, none whatsoever, sir."

"Then the trial is adjourned."

Draco had been ready to stand, thinking it was all over, when the witch posed the last demand. She spoke hesitantly yet quickly, as if the words tripped out of her mouth unwillingly.

"Do you regret it?"

Even her fellow panel had been fidgeting, eager to leave, until she spoke.

Draco leaned back in his seat, seemingly defeated by the four words.

"Do you regret it?" It was Hermione who asked now, tensed up so tightly she was sure she'd explode if he didn't answer soon. It was strange yet vital that she asked it, here, surrounded by the darkness, as he sat in the unflinching light.

Draco did not bother with sighs, nor grimaces, nor save-face smirks. The suspect simply glanced at the witch, and then Hermione. His grey eyes were unapologetic.

"No," he answered softly and shook his head with a fond smile. "I don't. She loves me, and that's what I wanted."

"How could you possibly believe that the end justifies the means?" Hermione demanded as he rose, and was escorted out. All the others left as well, but Hermione could only stand in shock. "How could you not be sorry?"

Draco did not turn to face her. His steps resounded with finality as he left her farther and farther behind. The door opened, the rectangular shaft of life slashing through the inky blackness.

"You were happy for a while, weren't you?"

xoxox

"How dare he?" she muttered heatedly, stomping on the cobblestones as if they were the bane of her life. "How dare he assume so much?"

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny said nothing as they walked through the murky fog. They had been shocked into silence when she told them of Draco's fate. Then, for the past half hour, they did not speak of nothing else except for the burning shame of technicalities. To apparate, of course, would have been the best course of action, but Hermione had not the concentration to do so. Floo powder had no effect on her muggle flat, and the Weasleys, with overwhelming protectiveness, decided to walk her home.

She had been going on in the same manner for some time, and no amount of comforting would stop her. Her quick, impatient steps emphasized her belligerent attitude.

Hermione was aware of the nervous glances exchanged behind her back, and was irrationally irritated with them. Couldn't they understand? Why weren't they as irate as she was?

"I have to go back," Hermione announced and paused in her tracks. Her decision was so abrupt both women behind her stumbled against her.

"It's not wise," Mrs. Weasley declared decidedly, "not when you're so emotional."

Hermione was in no mood to argue. "I made an appointment. I have to go."

"But we just left," Ginny exclaimed in surprise.

Hermione bit back her acerbic response to the obvious statement. Instead she promised that she would visit them at the Burrow as soon as she felt up to it, hoping that those empty words were enough.

As insensible as it was to leave when she had an appointment only an hour later, she had had a good and selfish reason. With the Weasleys half way to the flat, they had no reasonable objection of finishing the journey while she returned to the Ministry alone. And it was, she decided as her steely glare drove them away, something she had to do alone.

An anxious amount of time later, Hermione waited outside the criminal holding cell in the lower bowels of the Ministry. Despite the censuring looks of the officials who passed by, she did not allow her aplomb to crumble. She stared coolly into each critical gaze, and raised her chin defiantly at the wizards who clearly, but silently, questioned her motives and loyalty concerning Draco Malfoy. When the guard finally opened the plain, stone door, Hermione stepped through the threshold with a mask of indifference.

Jail, she decided, was definitely something wizards did better. Azkaban disregarded, of course. It was an indulgently large room, with a decent full sized bed, an undecorated set of table and chairs, an equally plain dresser complete with mirror, and a screened off toilet. It was better furnished and cleaner than some London flats, Hermione noticed wryly.

Draco sat at one of the chairs, facing her as she entered. A kind of doomed serenity rolled off of him in palpable waves, and she was vaguely reminded of a man condemned to a Kiss. Something stirred and ached within her heart, but she quelled it. Draco Malfoy would have plenty of pity, she was certain, but not from her.

He gestured for her to sit, and she ignored the empty chair. Instead she stood in the centre, unyielding and unforgiving. Draco conceded to her recent persistence, and tiredly stood to meet her.

For a few, breathless seconds, she stared into his eyes, where a grey sea churned and swirled with a multitude of emotions. But not guilt. He felt everything from love to desperation, she remembered. But not guilt.

The slap against his left cheek was so hard he stumbled on his own feet for a few steps. Her arm and her palm stung with the force. The print on his pale skin was livid and beautiful.

Without a hint of injury, he turned to her again. "I suppose I deser—"

Hermione slapped him again. Different hand, different cheek, different direction of stumbling. But the same, burning anger.

"Am I not allowed to speak?" he demanded, this time rubbing his injured face to show the pain. Hermione felt strangely satisfied to see him hurt.

"Not if you're not sorry," she hissed. With a sad shake of her head, she stepped closer. "You bastard," she whispered, so that she would not roar. "You bastard! How the hell could you not be sorry?"

"No," he responded, just as heated. "Because I'm happy I finally made you see the truth."

"The truth," she repeated wildly. "The truth? It's a trick, Draco. What we had was based on lies. And clever spells."

"But you love me don't you?" he demanded, triumphantly. "You could go on and on about what falsehoods I created. But you can't deny the one true thing. That you love me just as much."

"Oh I wouldn't go that far," Hermione told him icily. Draco hesitated in replying, for her words, just as she predicted, hurt him. "I would say," she continued spitefully, "that I love you more than you love me."

In different tones and with a different expression, he might have been overjoyed to hear her say that. But the romantic phrase did nothing now but make him wary.

"For instance," Hermione sneered, "I would have never manipulated and hurt you for my own benefit. I wouldn't have fed you lies for a good fuck. You hurt me, Draco, and yet you claim that you did it for love."

"I did! You were so damn stubborn—you didn't even see—God damn it, Hermione, you wouldn't even consider me."

"Obviously I had a good reason! Maybe I didn't want to love you because you're a selfish, psychotic bastard." Hermione stepped closer, jabbing her finger painfully into his chest. "How do you even know I'm still the Hermione you loved? Those memories were a part of me, and made me who I was."

"Unlike others," he replied with a scowl, "I don't doubt my love."

"Your version of love is sick," she spat, and finally sat at the table. Draco followed suit, and glared at her with equal intensity. Though he did not ask for any elaboration, Hermione viciously explained, "If you truly loved me, you would have thought of the consequences. Of course you'd be caught. And of course I'd be implicated. Did you not even think of these things?"

"Of course I did. But..."

"But what?" she pushed savagely. "But you figured it was all worth it? That our love would stand the test of time, and trials? Did you really think that it would last?"

"Shout all you want," he invited in a deadly soft tone. "But I won't be sorry. If you think that I enjoyed tricking you—that I enjoyed hurting you, myself, and others in the process—you're wrong. I hated the necessity. But I had to. I wanted you to love me."

"Answer my questions, Malfoy," she ordered imperiously.

He shrugged with false nonchalance, and crossed his arms. "Yes, yes, and no. Respectively."

"Don't be so fucking smart, Malfoy," Hermione snarled, patience running thin. "Do you think that all this—"she waved a hand over him demonstratively, "will save you? Do you think answering wittily, and defying valiantly will keep you safe?"

"Safe from what, Hermione," he scoffed incredulously, "The UK Ministry of Magic no longer uses the death penalty, nor has there been the use of the Kiss in months—"

"I'm sure there'll be an exception," she cut in savagely. "Not only are your crimes deplorable by themselves—assault by amputation, conspiracy, homicide, and then abduction—"

"Plus the use of a dozen illegal spells," he mentioned flatly.

"But the fact that the crimes were committed by somebody who was on the good side," she emphasized seriously, anger draining away, "makes them monumental. If some nobody Death Eater had done them, that one would have been dealt the normal punishments. But you aren't a nobody, Draco. These aren't just a crimes that hurt me, you see. I'm the fucking little poster child of good wizard martyrdom. I've got bloody wizards who I don't even know giving me protective and pitying looks. There was voluntary search party conducted globally for me, by wizards whom I've never met. And to them, you were and are again the enemy. What you did was a betrayal to our entire world."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the Ministry can be twice as harsh, and nobody will say a word."

"Nobody? Not even you?" Draco had lost his devil may care tone, and now stared at her with something like anxiety.

Hermione, who had leaned forward during her caveat, now settled against the hard back of her chair, and crossed her arms as well. "It wouldn't make a difference if I spoke up."

"But will you?" He made no pretense now, and openly frowned at her.

"Granted," she sighed tiredly, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "the fact that Zabini's unpleasant escapades have come to light may make your murder of him less terrible. Surprisingly enough, nobody missed him."

"Hermione, will you be sorry to see me locked up?"

"And Ginny, because she is a kind sweet girl, apparently has no plans to charge you for her three day stay. Conspiracy for abduction gets two years at most—"

"Hermione, please—"

"So the majority of your punishment relies upon my decision."

Draco studied her, taken aback by the coldness in her tone. Hermione stared back unflinchingly. "Do your worst then," he said colourlessly.

It was not the reaction she expected. Her brow furrowed slightly, for she had enjoyed his unabashed fear and panic, cruel as it was. "Pardon?"

"You have the power keep me locked up for the rest of my life. Go ahead."

"You're not being reasonable—"

"Am I not?" he challenged. "For what have I left? My estates have been seized by the government. I have no friends, nor pets. Nobody will miss me."

"Oh, drown yourself in self pity, why don't you?"

"It isn't self pity. It's fact. I haven't a single reason to keep my freedom."

Draco's eyes bored into her own, demanding the unasked question. Hermione bit her lip, unable to decide herself. She wondered what good it would do if he were to stay miraculously free. She wondered what good it would do if he were confined. Who, indeed, would miss him?

At least one person, she knew without question.

"I would miss you," she admitted coldly, "but most likely I'll survive the pain."

Draco seemingly crumpled. The defeated Malfoy relaxed from his rigid posture, slumped forward, and drooped his head in his hands. "Please leave," he requested quietly. He would have appeared hopelessly pathetic if not for his surprisingly strong, adamant tone. He was not pitiful—no, no Draco Malfoy was never that—but movingly tired. As if his abruptly slack posture had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with the fact that he had had an extremely bad day.

"Honestly, Draco—"

"I don't want you here," he said in a muffled voice. Hermione heard his hidden meaning. He didn't want her to see him like this. "Please go."

She didn't know why she wanted to hurt him so much. Of course there were the obvious reasons, but none of them held any weight with her. A part of her strangely wanted to see him broken and helpless.

Yet another part wanted none of that. It understood the motivation. Hermione loved him, despite what he had done to her, and she did not want him harmed in any way.

She understood her love, and she understood justice. Vaguely, she was aware her priorities had shifted in order since the War began.

Draco lifted his head and said evenly, "Obviously, I am of no concern to you. Please leave."

Hermione remained in her chair, and relaxed as well. Forlornly, she leaned forward and copied his position, chin on folded hands. "You've no right to be mad at me, you know," she said softly. Her hand itched to reach forward and stroke his hair, but she suppressed the ridiculous urge.

"I'm not going to waste my time persuading you," he retorted violently. An ironic statement. Seven months wasted, then.

She shook her head. "I don't mean for you to try and sway my decision."

"Did I say try?" he sneered. Naturally, she understood his implication, and was oddly not insulted by it. Truth be told, if Draco did want to persuade her, he would have very little difficulty.

"Don't be difficult," she rebuked.

"I'm being realistic," he shot back.

"How so? You could build a strong defense—with some incredible truth twisting—and get a minimal sentence. Instead, you say you'll give up and let the system swallow you whole."

"It would be fair, wouldn't it? I'd get everything I deserve."

"Wrong. You'd get more. And don't spout words of fairness, Draco. You'll choke."

"I understand all right? I'm a terrible person. Point taken. You've come and said your piece. And unless you feel the absurd need to draw me a picture, you can put that door just behind you to good purpose."

"Draco—"

"It's feeling neglected," he continued morosely. "It's saying, 'Look at me, somebody needs to walk through me.' What a poor, pitiful door. Soon it will be suicidal—"

"You're being—"

"And will commit portal-suicide. Which, of course, nullifies and voids this so-called 'prison,' for one can't be held in confinement by a doorless room—"

"Enough!" she cut in roughly. "For god's sake, Draco!"

"Yes," he laughed mirthlessly, "he has forsaken me, hasn't he?"

"There's nobody to blame for this but yourself," she reprimanded. "If you had just waited...things might have ended differently."

"I waited!" he contradicted. "I waited forever for you to get over him—"

"During a war, Draco. Do you think I had time to think and heal during the battles? If you had just waited afterwards...when things had settled...and done things the normal way..." Her lips twisted bitterly. "But there's no use, is there? You had to have things your way at your times. So now we're in this mess. You off to who knows where, and me left alone."

"What? Do you think there'll be a harem awaiting me when they put me behind bars?"

"When I said alone, I meant without you," she snapped. "You should have thought, damn it. You should have thought about what would happen to me once you were caught. I'm homeless, Draco. People regard me as some sort of walking corpse. I can't even read without thinking of you. I can't even meet with the Weasleys or Dumbledore without suspecting them of some ulterior motive. You should have thought before you acted."

Throughout her speech, Hermione kept her volume even, but had no control over her eyes. She could not leash the wistful softening, nor the pleading sadness that shined through. Draco met her gaze, and sat seemingly untouched. Then, without warning:

"I'm scared," he confessed in a whisper. Hermione paused, unsure of her expected reaction; this, for all her time with him, she had never seen.

"So am I," she whispered back as the knob began to turn.

Draco shook his head, gaining some of his old confidence, a mirthless smile playing on his lips. "It won't work that way, love. One of us has to be unafraid."

A knock on the door shattered the stillness. Hermione hated whoever stood on the other side, for ruining the tiny illusion of peace they had built. Draco, with raw and unveiled emotion, reached forward and gripped her hand tightly as she arose.

The door knob had rotated and stopped and Hermione, tremulous with conflicting feelings, dashed away in order to intercept it. Nobody except Hermione and Draco had the right to witness this bizarre moment of tenderness in the midst of righteous anger. Without a good bye nor a meaningful look, she opened the door and rushed through to slam it behind her.

The wizard who had opened it did not have time to register her actions, and therefore was still standing very close when she appeared. Their bodies touched awkwardly, and he stepped back with the distinct aura of discomfort. Hermione distractedly glanced at his face.

He was very talented, especially during the war. She had not seen all, but heard of all his military feats. She had heard praise of his magical abilities from all walks of life. But, most importantly, she had practically grown up with him.

"Harry."

xoxox

So you could see the truth:

That this love I have inside
Is everything it seems.

Eric Clapton, If I could change the world