Hermione sat in the study, alone in the dark with her thoughts. The sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy hadn't surprised her, exactly, especially considering Ron's secrecy around who his contact was. As usual, he'd been considerate of Harry's feelings on the matter — solicitous, even — while he hadn't bothered to spare her even a conciliatory glance.

That hadn't surprised her, either, but that didn't mean the oversight didn't sting.

It didn't matter that Malfoy hadn't been the one to cast the Cruciatus on her, when the three of them had been captured during the war — but it had been at his house, for Merlin's sake. Yet again, Ron failed to understand the full effects of a trauma he had not himself experienced, even though she had explained them to him in detail, in spite of how little she really wanted to think about it. It had been a risk, that attempt to confide in someone who, Hermione had been coming to realize, was simply not capable of dealing with her as she was. It had come up again, a year or so ago, when he'd hinted again that they "could do worse" than each other.

That had been their last row. Hermione, after years of keeping it tamped solidly down, had completely lost her temper. She'd been astonished when her hot-headed then-boyfriend hadn't exploded right back at her, but rather had stood stock still while she had given vent to nearly a decade's worth of frustration. When she'd finally run herself out, Ron had simply stared, as if he'd never seen her before. Which, she supposed, he hadn't...not really.

"Okay," he'd said, in a quiet voice so like his father's that Hermione's mouth had nearly fallen open, "if that's how you feel about it." And, just like that, he'd turned heel and walked out of their shared flat, and she'd packed up her things into her beaded bag, and left.

It had taken the death of Ron's father a few months later for them to patch things up enough to have a normal conversation again, which had been more for Molly's sake than anything else. But Ron had kept the flat, and she'd given back the key, and returned to the camp she'd been inhabiting in the Forest of Dean since that final row. Harry had been a true friend, outright refusing to take sides, although there had been some tension between he and Ron at first. Once he had made it clear that he wasn't abandoning anybody, but that they two of them needed to sort themselves out like adults, both she and Ron had relaxed somewhat.

They'd explained her absences — again, mostly to Molly — as an extended research sabbatical. It had been, in many respects, quite a productive time for her, but what Hermione had really been doing was grieving. There had been an assumption from those around them that she and Ron would be together for the rest of their lives, that they were bonded through their exceptional childhood adventures together, being the best friends of THE Harry Potter, and surviving the war. After all that, the rest of their lives had seemed almost too simple — a good rest after the trials of their growing-up years.

It had been completely naive of them both.

So, Malfoy's presence was a thorn in her side, but one she could deal with, for Harry's sake, if for no one else's. She'd been both disappointed and relieved when he hadn't expressed an interest in her after her and Ron's breakup, but then Harry hadn't shown interest in anyone after the war, anyway. There had been a tiny thought in the back of her mind that, maybe, he had been waiting for her, but that had been an errant whimsy, a desire to feel loved when she was in pain, nothing more. Harry had been totally deprived of real family until the three of them had become inseparable in first year. That was who they were to him, and that relationship was far more what all three of them had needed, anyway.

Malfoy, though. Hermione had wondered what had happened to him after the war, after his father had been dragged off to Azkaban. Both Draco and his mother had disappeared after the Battle of Hogwarts — during it, possibly — and not much had been said of them in any of the circles she'd been traveling in, at any rate. She supposed he'd gone back to the manor, and was somehow supporting his mother, who had been raised to serve one function: wed a pureblood wizard and produce children. She couldn't imagine Narcissa Malfoy being equipped to function in the Muggle world, and the Wizarding world wouldn't have her, because of her husband's role in the war. A niggling doubt worked at that thought, at something she couldn't quite call injustice, but there was a misfortune there that Hermione could not quite place.

It was into these contemplations that a bright, silvery presence invaded, bringing Hermione's awareness back to her surroundings. She assumed at first that Harry had sent a message to her, but when she turned around in her chair and looked up to where the stag's face should have been, it wasn't there. She looked down and saw, sitting primly about a meter away from her in the middle of the rug, was a brilliant silver fox.

It opened its mouth, and the words of its caster issued forth: "Granger, I'll need to examine that projectile that felled Loki. Potter says you have it. I can take it with me if you can bring it to the back garden before I leave."

"You'll have it," she replied in clipped tones, and the messenger turned and trotted out of the room.

Sighing, she stood, and followed the fox Patronus most of the way to the back garden, before veering off into the kitchen of Number 13 and Apparating to her camp, where she'd left the insidious, inscrutable device that had made any of this necessary in the first place.

Draco and Harry lingered on the back step of Number 12, waiting for Draco's fox Patronus to come back. It wouldn't do to interrupt the tests, once they had begun, and he had said as much, and so the two of them had let Sirius and Loki go on ahead, to resume what had become their usual places in the overgrown patch of weeds Potter considered a garden. By the time the Patronus returned, Draco considered, the test subject and his shadow would be much more comfortable, which would, with any luck, increase the accuracy of his readings.

Whether Granger would oblige his request was another sticking point, but one he was unwilling to pursue in person. There never had been any love lost between them, and likely never would be. A decade ago, the idea that Hermione Granger would let such enmity get in the way of her assisting some poor, helpless creature would have been preposterous, but now that assumption rang hollow. He'd learned a bit in the last few years, about the extent of human generosity — and gullibility — and the fall of the Brightest Witch into obscurity had been nearly as spectacular as his own. No, Draco no longer depended on being able to manipulate the people around him as entirely as he once had, even though having a personal history with someone was generally an asset in that department. Without the clout of the Malfoy wealth and prestige, results of his former tactics were too uncertain, and had been largely abandoned in favor of more effective methods of navigating the world.

Not that the great Golden Trio had ever made that particularly easy for him, but as he would have done no less, it no longer troubled him as it once had. Still, the fact remained, people who were fundamentally incapable of subtlety and nuance were best dealt with in a straightforward manner, in order to get any kind of desirable outcome: State his case and wash his hands of the rest.

In mere moments his Patronus returned, delivering the short response before Draco waved it away into the ether. Without a backward glance for his host, Draco made his way across the grass, wand outstretched. He cast the first few spells in the Revelio series silently as he walked, noting that the Hominem Revelio had no effect on the prone figure of Loki, but his companion winced and ducked, before turning a fierce glare on him as he approached.

"What the bloody hell did you do that for?" Black protested. "You knew where we were."

Draco paid him no attention. "Black is human," he remarked casually to Potter as the other man caught up to him, "but your guest is not. This may complicate things." A frown creased his face, but Draco did not explain further, and Potter, for once, did not challenge him.

Black did so in his stead, of course. "How do you mean?"

Draco felt his lip curl in annoyance, but answered anyway. "These spells were created for use on witches and wizards — that is, humans. Magical beings function differently than we do. What is the expression," he said tartly, " 'your mileage may vary'?"

At Potter's puzzled expression, Draco just smirked, turning back to the business at hand. "Loki," he addressed the young man, who was lying rather defeatedly on the ground with his head propped on a rather uncomfortable looking stone, "are you ready to begin?"

"Yes," came the exasperated reply.

Ignoring Loki's peevish tone, Draco conjured himself a low stool and sat down. "Just lie still, and concentrate on the ground beneath you. I will be casting a series of spells over you, and you may feel some odd sensations - cold or tingling on the skin. Alert me if you feel anything beyond this."

At Loki's silent nod of assent, Draco began, quietly weaving spells of detection and revealing, and gradually a picture came into his mind. It was a light, small and faint, but persistently alive. Its color and texture, for lack of a better word, were difficult to ascertain. He turned it over mentally, examining it from many angles, before eventually casting a spell of sharpened sight.

What he saw then was as unlike human magic as anything he'd ever seen. Most wizards he'd tested in this way had a flow of magical current like a trickle of water, which, if they regained their magic fully, would eventually course through their bodies like a river, or like their blood. Any such images were, of course, not the magic itself, but merely a representation of its character, created by the spellwork.

The magic flowing through Loki was not one stream, but three completely different bands of magic, crackling and interweaving with each other. The brightest, and most active, the spell depicted as pale blue lightning, and this sparked wildly as it collided with the other two. The second most noticeable was solid, more like a thin strip of metal, as though it had been sculpted or forged, and it hummed faintly. The third was almost entirely translucent, and of indeterminate hue, but this one was much more like what he was used to seeing. It seeped forward almost hesitantly, as though seeking a way through an already occupied space. If he hadn't known better, he'd have said it was new.

All three seemed to fade or black out completely in places, and the interplay was halting, sporadic even, as though they were battling each other for supremacy.

Then he looked closer.

Lost in the skirmishes between the three bands of magic was a fourth - but one so thin and gray that it was more or less hidden by every bright flash that occurred anytime one of the others tried to exert itself. As he watched, he realized that the gray one wasn't composed of magical force, but was rather the echo of where yet another band of magic had once flowed. It sagged and buckled, the deteriorating remains of what must have been incredible power.

Pulling his mind out of the net of spells, Draco regarded the young man, stretched out motionless on the grass. He looked human, not much older than most of them had been when they'd finished at Hogwarts. His youth, at least, made him more resilient. Loki would heal, of that Draco was certain.

What he did not know is what Loki would become, if he were to return to his former strength.