Chapter Nine:

The Minister, at Harry Potter's request, summoned Hermione Granger to his office at noon, on August 24th. It was a working Tuesday. The investigation had been slow; and even Kingsley Shacklebolt stressed on finding these culprits before they could do greater and terrible damage. That was however unlikely, he reminded himself. These monsters were so bent on tormenting Hermione for whatever reason that evidences of their identities or motives were non-existent.

In his hand, he fiddled with a piece of paper that he received earlier today. He unfolded the parchment again and surveyed his eyes over the words printed in a careful script warily; and the letter read: Sacrifice the Mudblood or I will be forced to slaughter some slimy and filthy muggles. Their blood will be split on the streets of London, and it will be on your hands. You know you cannot stop me. You have twenty-four hours. Minister Shacklebolt dreaded, yet had to take this threat seriously. The killer, or killers, would drag the innocent muggles into their problems; and the Minister needed to find a way to prevent that.

Four days since he received it. No trace, no post records. Nothing. There are things happening—too much, if he would note—that questions were piling up more than its answers. None of it fit the puzzle. He didn't understand how this could've gotten from bad to worse. Solving this case was a necessity; and slipping their developments into the enemies' hands would surely jeopardize achieving that. He needed to solve it so discreetly.

Surely, without having to sacrifice Miss Granger, the Minister thought. At least, Harry Potter agreed with him that they should keep this threat confidential for now. Hermione Granger is far more valuable than most wizards and witches, and the Minister was not slightly compelled to let her go easily. If Hermione knew of this letter, she would definitely sacrifice herself in a heartbeat. Even the Prophet has been buzzing around them lately—trying to get a scoop regarding recent events. And having the public know more, it would certainly cause serious panic.

So far, there are only about less than ten people who are definitely aware of the case, and Minister Shacklebolt wanted to keep it as few as that.

A moment later, a soft knock rang into his office. He immediately slipped the paper back into his drawer before ordering the person behind it to come in. The door opened with control; and the Minister saw Harry Potter step in with Hermione Granger behind her. Of course, Draco Malfoy followed last. The Minister noticed that Hermione seemed restless; her eyes were heavy and dark, her shoulders slumped as if she carried the weight of the world, and her face blotchy.

"Good day, Miss Granger. It's definitely wonderful to see you alright," the Minister greeted her. Restless was better than dead, after all, he thought. He moved his eyes toward Draco and nodded. "How about you both take a seat on the couch? I'll ask someone to deliver some tea." The Minister went on to tend to his guests; while Harry Potter remained standing a few feet from where Hermione sat.

When the secretary came in with four cups of tea in a silver tray, Minister Shacklebolt stood tall next to Harry. He closed his arms over his chest and sent his gratitude to his secretary before she disappeared. He finally said, "This must be too forward, Hermione, and I know that the past few weeks have not been so… great. The investigation, as you can say, is painfully slow; but I trust that Harry is doing his best to solve this. I'm sure he informed you that the trail had gone cold; now, it has gone dead. The evidences lead to nowhere…"

Hermione let out an audible sigh.

"…but worry not, we will still pursue this case as top priority. We cannot simply take Mr. Weasley's death, and your attack, as something to be easily set aside," The Minister continued. His eyes glided to Draco who listened but not saying anything. "First of all, how are you?"

Hermione shut her mouth. She didn't know how to answer. Her emotions these past few weeks have not been reasonable. In fact, she couldn't place her emotions right. She didn't know what to do whenever she had an anxiety attack. She didn't know what to do whenever tears just slipped out of her eyes. She didn't know what to say to Draco whenever he asked her if she was alright because he doesn't believe her anymore. But there was one thing she was sure of: her madness.

She managed to say, "I'm alright, I guess…" Lie.

"Good, good. That's good to hear," the Minister said. He snapped a look at Harry, who then looked as if he weighed the world on his shoulders. Most of them were burdened by the weight of the world after all. He let out a sigh. This was not getting easier. "Well, since Harry couldn't go on with the investigation, we thought that you could help us shed some light into that night…"

That night. Hermione's breath hitched. She told them of that night multiple times. She didn't know how to make them see what she saw. She could barely remember anything except for unclear images and snaps of that incident. Even her nightmares mixed with her memories. How would she differ what was real and unreal? That night had been far too long now that remembering about it brought her headache as if her mind tried to shut itself off. She lodged it in the back of her mind, not wanting to relive it every day by remembering, and only to be uncovered again by her unconscious when sleeping.

"I don't know how to—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her. "We're asking if we can perform Legilimency on you."

Her muscles flexed. Even Draco, who stood at her side, tensed. Both of them knew that Harry was venturing on such dark waters. This was her mind. This was what defined her; stocked away with good and bad memories, an organ that mechanized her personality. For quite a while, she felt control over herself; but now, she felt like a tourist in her own mind.

"We would not ask you this if there were any solid evidence," the Minister said. "But, as I said, there isn't any. This is our chance of knowing what exactly happened that night…"

"But, I barely remember anything—"

"That doesn't matter," Minister Shacklebolt assured her. Hermione's fingers hardened as she fisted her hand. Her chest rumbled as if a storm brewed into the space inside her ribcage. "Your mind can play tricks. But using legilimency, we can relive that night as if we were there."

Relive. Hermione shifted in her seat. Would she even want to relive it? Her shoulder bumped into Draco's elbow, and when she looked over to him, he was already watching her. His eyes didn't leave hers for a moment. She wanted to believe that that was sincerity in his eyes. He looked at her with such concern but did not say anything.

"Okay…" was all she said, and Draco dreaded her answer. He knew, and even she knew, that she was not in her right state of mind to do such thing. Her mind tormented her with memories that she wanted to forget. He knew because he also has memories he wanted to forget. Only, he learned to cope by drowning himself in both Firewhiskey and Draught of Peace just so he wouldn't have nightmares.

Everybody has nightmares, Blaise had told him.

"Wonderful. Harry, shall we?" Minister Shacklebolt said, and they prepared to perform legilimency. Hermione stood from her seat and faced Harry. Harry drew his wand from his side, pointing the narrow end in front of the little spot on Hermione's forehead, before muttering the spell. Without a blinking second, Harry found his way into Hermione's mind.

He was in. It didn't take him five minutes to find the right scene. That dark morning of August 12th.

The scene showed Harry a bedroom. He knew this bedroom. This was Hermione and Ron's bedroom, the last door at the end of the hall on the second floor. In front of him, Hermione—wearing a clean nightgown she was running into that night—stood with her body arched slightly as if she was engaged in a heated argument. On Harry's side was Ron. He hadn't changed his work clothes yet, Harry remembered. And Harry realized—indeed, they were fighting.

It was not an uncommon scene. He had seen numerous accounts of Hermione and Ron fighting. But this seemed to be rather more heated than before. There were tears streaming across Hermione's face. Ron's cheeks were flushed as he fought back. Her hands waved. His head tilted up in defeat. Harry thought to himself, what the hell was going on?

Soon, their voices echoed in Harry's ears. "I'm tired of this bullshit, Hermione!" Ron argued as he paced across their room. "We're losing ourselves over this! How did we end up like this? I love you, Hermione. But I don't know if this is still the right thing… We've lost so much. We've suffered enough. One mistake and we're both deteriorating…"

Hermione snapped her head back at him. Her eyes burned with fire. "How can you call that a mistake? I lost her too!"

"That's it! You think you're the only fucking person who lost her! I lost her too—my fucking child; and for once, I thought I had something good until I fucking lost her! I blame myself every day, Hermione!" Ron snarled. His teeth gnashed, and his blood boiled in so much anger.

Harry suddenly felt his chest burn. He knew now what they were fighting about; and he remembered how it both destroyed his best friends. Ron drank himself to death after work, going from bar to bar, club to club, downing himself with alcohol because he couldn't even speak about it to anymore. Not that he didn't want to, Harry thought, but he simply just didn't know how to. Hermione, however, didn't seem to like talking about it but Harry knew… he knew that she was hurting too.

"I didn't want to be that only one who lost her, Ron!" Hermione shouted back. "I wanted to mourn for her with you!"

Suddenly, Harry felt it. The wards, he thought. Both of them stopped shouting. All of their anger turned into fear in a split second; and next thing Harry saw was Ron moving toward the door with his wand drawn. Ron muttered, "Lumos," as Hermione followed. The moment they reached downstairs, Harry saw beams of light bursting from both of his friends' wands to the other side. Harry tried his best to catch up to what was happening but the assault was too far for him to follow. An exchange of curses was all Harry could hear. Harry tried to see the intruders' faces but they were covered with silver masks.

"Protego!" Ron shouted as he blocked Hermione.

"Confringo!" Hermione fought back with the rest of her strength.

A red beam hit Hermione in the left shoulder, sending her against the wall behind her; and as she tried to regain her balance, several kitchen knives flew to her way when Ron immediately blocked himself in front of her. Hermione's eyes widened as the knives penetrated Ron's back to his chest and a gasp left her mouth softly, followed by a whimper, as Ron breathed one last time. His blood splattered on her like spray. She heard him falter, "I'm—"

Then, Ron's knees gave up and he fell face down in front of her. Her legs softened as the sight of Ron. She reached out her hand to touch his chest; but her hands only made a mess from all the blood that spilled. She moved closer to crawl toward him when she noticed her intruders coming to her. She jumped from where she stood and ran to the back door. One caught her nightgown but Hermione managed to push him away—his mask clattering down from his face—but she failed to see him clearly.

Even in Harry's perspective, the man's face was a blur. Hermione's mind hasn't yet registered his face. He heard her whimper as she stumbled out into the lawn. And he felt it. He felt her fear, her anger, her guilt. She was more terrified for her life. Once she managed to get out, she gathered her remaining strength and disapparated.

When Harry pulled him out of Hermione's memories, he instantly fell down on the floor. Most of his strength has been spent. In front of him, Hermione stood with sweat covering her entire body. He could see her shaking; and he realized he was too. But he was certain that he was shaking out of anger—an emotion that drove him to his edge. He leapt out from where he fell and lunged to Hermione.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry's voice towered over the silence that filled the room. It startled her, as well as Draco and the Minister. "Hermione—why… why didn't you tell me?" This time, his voice came as soft; but none of them was certain it would hold.

"I—" Hermione tried, but her voice broke. Tears welled on the corners of her eyes.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!"

His voice erupted into the spacious room, resulting in echoes, and Draco watched as Harry took another heavy step. Before he could reach Hermione, Draco blocked himself between the two of them. Harry raised his eyes to the blond that came in his way and spat, "Malfoy, this is none of your damn business. So get the fuck away—"

"It is my business if you're going to torment her more than she already suffers," Draco remarked. His voice also sounded threatening as he firmed himself between the two. Draco recalled all the nights Hermione awoke from her slumber because of her dreadful memories. Everything flashed. Her entire body suffered, Draco thought. She suffers more than enough. He couldn't let Harry do more damage.

"Malfoy, I'm warning you—"

"Harry," Minister Shacklebolt interrupted. "Please, this is not the right time and place to do this."

"No, you didn't see what I saw, Kingsley. She—"

"You're right. I didn't see what you saw. Nevertheless, we must all be reminded that she is a victim here; not a suspect. And if it does matter to you, she is still your best friend, and I will not have both of you tear each other apart in my office!" The Minister exclaimed. His voice rose and tensed; but he sighed in defeat when he realized that how he had expressed himself.

Draco eyed Harry Potter as he stepped back. The anger that bounced of Harry's chest was still there; yet Draco was relieved that Harry retreated. Draco began to think of how he was going to pick up the pieces again now that Hermione has started remembering that night. Of course, she hasn't been fine because of her nightmares; what would happen now that her nightmares had become reality?

Behind him, a loud thud was heard. As Draco turned, he saw Hermione down on the floor. Her eyes shut as she moaned unconsciously. He crouched down to her and pushed a strand of curled hair from her eyes. He heard the Minister, "Oh, dear. Is she alright?"

"She'll be fine," Draco assured him. "She's just exhausted. May I take her home now?"

"Of course. We'll keep in touch," the Minister said. "Send her my apologies when she wakes up."

Draco nodded. He slid one of his arm under Hermione's back and the other under her knees before lifting her off the floor; her head nestled against his chest as he cradled her. She let out a soft noise that assured Draco that she was still alive. He leaned close to her ear and whispered softly, "You're alright, Granger. You're safe…"

And with a certain familiar pop, he disapparated them away.

The quiet flat was disturbed at the sound of their arrival. Draco still carried Hermione in his arms when they entered the front door. He took slow steps toward the guest room, keeping her deep in her sleep, and as gentle as he could, he placed her on the bed. Draco pulled the covers from her feet and draped it over her stiff shoulders.

Draco watched her sleep. Just one minute. He stared at her eyelashes—batting as dreams moved behind her eyelids; and he only wished that this time she dreamed of something better. Her hair splayed over the pillow but it wasn't a messy look. Rather, Draco thought that her hair was one of her greatest trademarks. Brown and bushy, tangled and messy. He couldn't really understand why he thought of Hermione as such; but his care for her had grown deeper than he would've admitted.

He hated that he didn't know. He wanted to know why; but the sight of Harry earlier worried him that it might make Hermione worse than she already was. These were things that Draco found difficult to answer, especially that Hermione wasn't someone he'd genuinely cared for in the first place. It was a mystery to him as to why he felt protective of her. Perhaps he simply did not want her to end up as he was—dealing with his nightmares and dramatic antics recklessly.

When Draco had decided to leave, Hermione stirred. He saw her eyes flutter, and the next thing he realized, they were watching each other. Merlin, Draco thought, her eyes. "Draco?" She asked. The sound of his name in her mouth felt heavenly to his ears—again, he didn't know why. Instead he allowed the breath that he didn't realize he had been holding escape.

"Rest, Granger. It's an exhausting day," Draco said. Immediately, he turned to his heel to leave.

"Wait," Hermione stuttered. He heard it in her voice. Each letter came out as broken glass; and he heard nothing but pain. "Can you… Will you please stay?" He turned his head to face her again. Why was she asking him to stay? His eyebrows burrowed into a frown. But he saw her eyes; those eyes that he once saw as something other than plain had now turned into something that seemed lifeless. Her eyes shook as if tears threatened to fall but there were no tears. She said, "I'm just… scared. I don't want to be alone right now."

Before Draco could manage to stop himself, his feet unconsciously made their way back to the side of her bed. He sat on the empty space next to her. His body weighed so heavy that his shoulders felt as if there was something sitting on it. He realized then that it was the weight of Hermione's heart he carried. With her words, it felt as if she was transferring some of her burden to him. Perhaps she needed some outlet to plug herself to—to connect.

He watched her hide behind her hands as she let out a loud sob. "I hate this, Draco. I hate that I'm not the same brave Gryffindor girl. I hate that I'm not as headstrong as I was. I hate that I've lost control over my life," she cried—but Draco couldn't see her; instead he only heard the pain in each of her words. It sounded as if shame and guilt had been mixed in together. This was the first time she showed himself naked in front of her, raw and flawed, in all of her broken pieces and imperfection.

And, if it wasn't for Salazar's sake, he would've taken her in his arms without a second thought. Get over yourself, Draco, he reminded himself.

"Potter's just emotional right now," Draco said. "He'll come around."

"I saw what he saw. I remember, Draco," she whimpered. She sniffed and hiccupped at the same time. He wanted to face her again but he didn't want her to see how much it affected him. So he gripped the edge of the bed tightly in his attempts to avoid himself from doing something stupid. "Ron died because of me. The knives were for me. But… he caught it. He saved me. I should've been the one who died; not him. I should've been the one who died; not him. I should've been dead—"

Draco finally faced her as she began blaming herself. He reached for her hands and pulled them from her face. Her fingers trembled as he touched her. She leaned up slowly; and he finally saw her eyes. Her eyes—bloodshot red and swollen, but in the middle were her brown irises that defined her face well. Slowly, he realized that he was still holding her and decided to let her go. He didn't even know why he took her hands in the first place.

Merlin's beard, Draco, he scolded himself. What the fuck? Get you goddamn shit together.

"I should probably leave you to rest," Draco cleared his throat. He immediately stood from the edge of the bed and soon reached to the door. He needed to leave before he could do something… aggravating. He stopped midway, took a glimpse of Hermione, and said, "You should rest, Granger. I'll be outside if you need me…"

With that, he left her alone in the spacious guest room. He shut the door behind him before pushing his hands between the strands of his pale hair. He let out a sigh and grunted as he recalled what had happened. What exactly had happened? He didn't know. He didn't understand his decisions anymore. It was as if he had lost control of her body as much as Hermione lost control of her mind.

Why does he care so much for her?

He tried to find his resolve. Draco had lost it in the middle of everything. Things were happening too fast. His mind swirled with thoughts that he never knew its origin. He bloody told himself that he would not get personal. This was only a job, he scolded himself. It's not anything more than what it is. Just a job. But even if he tried to convince himself, he couldn't believe his own words. Each syllable, each sound, was dripping with acid; a dangerous taste that he knew would kill him instantly.

Goddammit. Merlin, help me.

Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned on his office chair with eyes closed after an exhausting day. He thought about the events that occurred earlier at his office. He thought of the entire investigation, and how hopeless it now seemed. Harry had filled him in on what he saw in Hermione's memories after he had finally settled down. The Minister couldn't believe that even Hermione's memories proved fruitless; and he already wanted to throw this case on the trash.

However, he couldn't let Ron Weasley's death go unsolved. He owed it that much to Arthur Weasley. Or the Wizarding world. He couldn't simply let the monsters responsible for this crime go unpunished. Minister Shacklebolt, even as much as rational as he tried to be, was still a man. He was entitled to feel anger toward his incident. He tried his best to make the Wizarding London as safe as possible; but with this recent event, he felt as if his efforts were worthless.

At seven o'clock in the evening, Blaise Zabini entered his office. Most of the employees at the Ministry must've already gone home. But the Minister asked Blaise to see him at his office at this late hour. The Minister eyed Blaise as he entered—wearing his normal suit and cloak outside, with an eased look on his face.

The Minister trusted so little. Harry was one, Draco was another. Blaise was something special, he thought. He didn't exactly want to be caught up in the war; but with his family issues, Blaise had nothing but the security Voldemort had promised him. Of course, he was fooled by a madman. However, there was no guarantee for security in Voldemort's ranking; he was, after all, a cold-blooded killer.

After the war, Minister Shacklebolt hired Blaise to be an Auror. Blaise specialized in battle tactics and strategies on Voldemort's side; and the Minister found it helpful in investigations. Blaise's expertise centered on decoding information, psychoanalysis, and strategies. Blaise was one of the few people who knew about the investigations—their developments, even if it were so little. Now, Minister Shacklebolt required him of one thing tonight—finding a leak in this deliberate attack.

"Good evening, Mr. Zabini," Minister Shacklebolt greeted.

"Is it, really?" Blaise inquired before smirking at the tall dark man in front of him. "Is this about the investigation?"

Minister Shacklebolt did not hesitate. He handed Blaise a piece of paper. It was the first threat—and the Minister hoped it would be the last. Blaise carefully opened it with both hands before turning his eyes back at the Minister. "Was this from the suspects?" Blaise asked, finally taking a seat across the desk.

"Not certain; but highly probable," Minister Shacklebolt said.

"Who knows about this if I may ask?"

"Just me, Harry, and you."

"You haven't told Draco yet," Blaise informed. "Why?"

"Well, I didn't want to raise an alarm that we're not sure of. I didn't want to worry Miss Granger more than she already is," the Minister said. "I take it that she's not entirely well right now. Worrying her would lead to panic and rash decisions."

"Even if she was the one required in exchange to stop this madness?"

"Even if, Mr. Zabini," the Minister said proudly.

Blaise nodded in understanding. He studied the handwriting. He even smelled the paper. It smelled old as if it had been stored somewhere for a long time. The handwriting was legible and careful. There were no errors; except for a few ink smudges across the paper. It was carefully written as if written by a woman. He sat the paper back on the desk and leaned against his own chair.

He said, as a matter-of-factly, "It was by a woman."

"A woman, you say?"

"Yes," Blaise said. "The handwriting was neat. There were no errors—"

"What if he was simply neat in his writing?"

"She," Blaise corrected the Minister and continued, "The strokes, the lining, the spaces in between the letters. I'm certain it was by a woman's hand. Left-handed, I might add."

"Left-handed?"

"There are spots of ink smudged on the left side of the paper as if she dragged the ink while she wrote this letter. Neat handwriting, but not so neat in preparation," Blaise concluded.

"We're looking for a woman, then," Minister Shacklebolt said as he finally gained some motivation. Who would do such thing to murder Ron Weasley in cold blood and attack Hermione Granger? The Minister only thought of it as a man; but now, as Blaise said, it was a woman. "That is some valuable information, Mr. Zabini. I'm glad you were able to help."

"Of course. Although, she might be working with someone," Blaise said.

Minister Shacklebolt agreed, "I thought so too." Such deliberate attack couldn't have been done by one person. Then he saw the confusion in Blaise's eyes, and waited; and later on, Blaise found his voice again and asked, "May I ask you a question, Minister?" The Minister nodded. "Do you believe the threat?"

The Minister let out a sigh, before saying, "I don't want to; but it seems like a serious threat. I can't simply ignore it. If the writer then proceeds to kill Muggles, then the dangers of war between Wizarding world and the Muggles would be inevitable. We would be exposed."

"What do you propose to do then?" Blaise asked. "Surely, we have to keep this quiet. Else there would be chaos and panic."

"Of course," the Minister agreed. "I agree, Mr. Zabini. But first, we must track down the writer of this message. And I would very much like you to follow up regarding this."

Blaise knew the moment he saw that letter that the Minister would ask him to follow up on it. The Minister was right; he worked best in decoding. He could easily analyze a person by looking at their handwriting or how they make their tea. Of course, sometimes it takes a bit more than that; but the smallest of things could reveal the biggest of truths.

"Alright," Blaise said. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Minister Shacklebolt said. "Time is of the essence. Thank you for your help, Mr. Zabini."

"Pleasure's all mine, of course. Oh, and please inform me if you get more threats. You or Granger or Potter—anyone." Blaise grinned before saluting, "'Evening, Minister."

The Minister nodded at him. He was sure to do that. He watched as Blaise walk out of his office without another word. At least, they were taking small steps into solving this case. Minister Shacklebolt's head ached earlier; but now, he was relieved.

A woman. Nineteen hours left.

Author's Note: Evening, people. First of all, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas. This is my Christmas gift to all of you. I suppose some of you have been waiting for improvements and answers to some of the questions. So since everyone's suggesting the legilimency, here it is. I might also add that I had planned this before you could even suggest it. Like I said, you'll simply have to wait and see. Now, I realize-and I admit-that the story has been rather slow. So I restarted the outline I wrote for this story, and changed some of the events.

Anyway, I thank those who leave reviews for me. Especially to christineocheallaigh; and I would like to clarify some things for her. First, I want to clarify regarding the Healers using Muggle methods and such. I do admit that I forgot to put some Wizarding methods, but I have mentioned in the story that the Wizarding world now makes an effort to combine their methods with Muggle ways to end prejudices. Second, the attack as meant for Ron instead of Hermione, I would say that it's unlikely. Why? Well, let's say that this is a story focused on Hermione; and because evidences are piling up referring to Hermione. I do apologize for not clarifying that earlier. I suppose you are right. If I left some things to clarify, please message me or leave a review. Whatever's convenient for you, of course.

For those who will ask why Hermione's real memories and nightmares are different, well, that's the different between reality and dreams. Dreams can alter things in your mind. It was simply her mind playing tricks and confusing her more.

Again, I apologize if I left out some details. I'm still trying to finish the outline. It's simply raw, and I admit, still flawed. I know I must revise this after the story's been completed. But I do appreciate your endless support. I love the reviews. Thank you so much. Apologies for the errors. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed this one. Until next time! Thanks!

PS. I own nothing. All characters and references belong to J.K. Rowling.