Chapter eleven: Fine China
Hermione was dreaming.
There were shapes and figures behind her eyelids, and she rolled over on the couch as flashes of spells, shadowed figures, the familiar halls of Hogwarts flickered in dream-memory. Lost in the mire of her dreams, shadows coalescing in the corners of her mind, she barely noticed when one, then two, owls perched upon her table, making soft rustling noises as they carefully stepped on the already-overlarge pile of letters.
It might have been the third owl that woke her, or the flash of green light that obscured her vision as she jerked out of sleep, overbalanced, and very nearly fell off the couch. Heart fluttering, she rubbed ineffectively at her eyes and looked around for the source of what had woken her.
There was no green light, no attacking force, just the inky blanket, her day-old clothes and messy hair, and three owls watching her from her table. Hermione groaned and almost hid under the covers once more, but managed to pull herself together and push off of the couch, muscles protesting as she wobbled over to the table and carefully removed the letters the owls carried.
The first was a missive from her Potions Master – nothing that couldn't have waited, but just like the eccentric individual to demand that the owl wait for a reply. Hermione hastily scrawled off an answer and gave the owl a treat, making a mental note to finish up her latest experiment soon. The second two were entirely more serious, and Hermione took a moment to read through them a second time to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. She rather thought she might be, to be honest.
Resisting the urge to throw something, possibly a chair, Hermione sat down hard instead, rubbing at her temples while her mind- still sluggish from dreams imbued with dark memories- frantically tried to catch up.
In all her investigations and protests involving House Elf rights, she'd barely made a dent. People listened, and occasionally agreed with her, but the legislation was quite some way away. So the fact that the department was now investigating various Elves held by Pureblooded families was… suspicious. Hermione scanned the list she'd been sent and made a face – of course Malfoy was on it. Why he hadn't told her… she brushed aside that brief sting of hurt and hurtled into Crusader mode, heading to her bedroom to shower and change before she had to face the world once more.
On her way back, she grabbed the rest of the letters on the table and tucked them into a bag, fully intending to deal with them throughout the day. Her last thought before she Flooed to the Ministry was that she really should be demanding a wage from Kingsley, considering how much time she spent there.
…
Draco was entirely focused. His sleeves were rolled up, hair unstyled, and he was focused wholeheartedly on the wand before him, learning its personality. If he had looked up, he'd have seen Ollivander's benevolent, almost proud smile – but he didn't, too immersed in listening. Wands could speak, he'd discovered, if you listened closely enough. Like all magic, it had a story to tell.
There was a flutter of activity near the door, enough for Draco to pause and look up, though Ollivander flapped a long-fingered hand his way. The housekeeper was holding an owl with a rather harried expression, and Ollivander spoke in low tones as he deftly removed the letter.
The old man frowned at the outside of the letter, looking up to Draco, whose stomach dropped with a sudden certainty that the letter was for him… and that he wasn't going to like what it held. As the wandmaker lofted the piece of paper, Draco spotted the Ministry's seal on it and felt dizzy, wobbly – as if he'd missed a step on the stairs and was suddenly no longer sure which way was up.
Ollivander's expression was flat and cautious, and Draco was aware that his fingers had tightened on the wand he was holding, which was protesting. He loosened his grip instantly and held out a hand for the letter, proud that it was still and steady despite the sudden cold that had gripped his limbs.
They just won't leave me alone, he thought bitterly, sliding a fingernail under the seal to flip open the parchment. Why can't they just let me be?
He wasn't going to get an answer.
"Mr. Malfoy," the letter read,
"As you know, we have been investigating your claim that you are not mistreating your house-elves. We invite you to an informal hearing today to defend your position. If you do not attend, you will be divested of the ownership of your house-elves immediately.
"Sincerely,
Edith Bletchley
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
Office for House-Elf Relocation
Elf Rights Department"
He was vaguely aware of a tearing sound, which must have been the paper, and his hands fell to his lap in defeat. Ollivander and his housekeeper were asking if everything was okay, and Draco pulled himself together to offer as pleasant a smile as he could, replying, "Hopefully this doesn't take too long." The letter fell to the floor, and he was rolling his sleeves down once more to hide the Mark before standing and giving Ollivander the wand he'd been listening to. "I'll be back tomorrow," he added, bowing respectfully before marching out the door and disapparating with a loud and final crack.
…
Hermione was seated at a conference table in the middle of the Ministry, reading an official-looking document when Draco walked in.
She didn't realize it at first, brow furrowed at whatever she was reading, and the righteous anger that was simmering in Draco's chest somehow flared at that, making his flat expression transform into a sneer. Her hair was a mess, as usual, and she looked tired and rumpled, and for some reason all he could think was that she could have put more effort in if she was going to represent him.
It was an unfair thought and he knew it, which is why he managed not to say anything, but he was angry with the Ministry, and the nearest convenient target was Hermione.
She looked up at him and her mouth dropped open, hands moving on the papers as if she'd lost something. "You're not supposed to be here," she said, worried, hands moving frantically through the papers. Hermione started to say something else, but Draco cut her off.
"What," he drawled, "You mean that the Ministry doesn't want to drag me away from my life to a hearing like I'm some criminal?" His voice was dangerous and heated, and Hermione blinked at him, obviously short on patience herself and tightly restraining herself from replying in the same tone.
"I was under the impression that the problem was being solved," she said, voice steady but hands tight on the edge of the table. "If you've been called in then-"
"News to me," Draco bit out. "All that ever seems to happen is that they want more and more, just like your lot always do, and can't ever let me have one tiny sodding thing-"
"My lot?" Hermione replied incredulously, sidetracked from whatever she'd been about to say. "Great, thanks, Malfoy. Glad to hear that my work has been appreciated. Next time you can do your own bloody paperwork and see how far you get-"
"-it's not like you're doing any good-"
"-You don't know how much I've been doing for you, you prat-"
"-Then maybe you should stop doing it," Draco returned coldly, and Hermione looked down at her lap, cheeks pink with frustration. "If this is what's going to happen. I don't need this kind of help."
She looked up and her eyes were like ice, almost making Draco take a step back. "Great," she said flatly. "Find someone else to take all your crap, Malfoy." Hermione stood, scooping up the papers in front of her, and started around the table.
Part of him wanted to stop her, to keep her from leaving him alone with his burdens. Part of him remembered her hand on his arm, the Mark no longer burning, someone who actually seemed to care. And part of him was tired and furious and in pain, and Hermione was just an easy target.
So he said nothing, and let her pass.
She didn't even fling a retort his way before she left.
…
Hermione made it to another empty office without crying or shredding the incredibly important and incredibly irritating papers she was carrying. She managed to finish her work and submit it all to the right people to stall the "investigation" in its tracks. She even managed to stop by Harry's office without him catching on that she was hurt by Malfoy's words (though perhaps Harry wasn't the best barometer for that sort of thing).
Where Draco had been furious, angry, and filled with righteous fire, Hermione was felt cold. It wasn't anger, no; more a feeling of resignation, something like falling into icy water and accepting you couldn't get out. Her bones were ice, her limbs were heavy, and all she wanted was to stop fighting and rest. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would float instead of sinking.
She was home, having fallen exhausted onto her bed, when she remembered the letters from the morning. Rolling to the side, she dug in her bag until her fingertips were met with the texture of expensive parchment.
Two of the letters were unimportant. Another was from her mother. One was from Minerva…
And one was from Narcissa Malfoy.
Hermione stared at the return address, momentarily stymied as Draco's frustrated face superimposed itself on her vision. She could throw the letter away and never open it, she supposed. Perhaps that would give her less heartache. But that wasn't the right thing to do, and her fingers were already moving of their own accord to remove the seal.
She hadn't broken down in front of Draco (Merlin forbid), and she hadn't broken down in the Ministry, or in the grocery, or when she'd fallen onto her bed and stayed there. Not at Draco's angry, desparate face, or Harry's familiar one, or her own tired eyes in the mirror.
But Narcissa's letter did the trick.
…
Dear Miss Granger,
I am aware that it is an utterly strange occurrence that I should be writing to you. We've barely ever spoken; and when we have it was never in the most pleasant of situations. Of all the people in the universe whom I expected my life to be entwined with, you were never on the list.
Imagine my surprise to hear of you and Draco.
Though I have never in my life thought to say this of someone of your birth, I have been proven wrong (not for the first time, and certainly not the last). Miss Granger, I want to thank you for what you have been doing for my son. His father and I, for all the love we bear for him, cannot help him now. But you can.
I beg of you - and Malfoys do not beg - to continue to do so. It is my greatest wish that Draco be able to have the kind of life we never did, and with your assistance, that almost seems possible.
I hope you will not find the task too distasteful. It is difficult to teach an old Pureblood new tricks, of this I am aware. That is one of the reasons I am no longer in England. But a younger one, perhaps, will be able to learn. I hope so.
My son doesn't need to know that I have written to you. You may reply, however, if you wish.
Sincerely,
Narcissa Malfoy