The missing Minister didn't remain missing for long.

Two days later, and the news had spread like wildfire. From the Daily Prophet to Witch Weekly, there wasn't a single media report of anything aside from the Minister, the life he had lived, and how tragic it was that he'd been found dead in his own home.

No signs of a struggle. No signs of a break in. No signs at all of foul play.

It was only the Quibbler that dared to suggest it mightn't have been a heart attack, and it was only the Quibbler that likened Kingsley to Narcissa.

Not that Hermione saw any of this. No, two days after the fact, and Hermione was still safely holed up in her cottage, refusing to so much as look at any of the five letters she'd received that day.

She didn't recall making the conscious decision to hide away. She didn't even remember making the decision to apparate to the cottage. The only thing she had in mind when her wand was returned to her, was the need to get far, far away.

So, she had.

He didn't follow her.

And for once, she was almost sad for that fact, because she told herself she'd kill him if he did.

This time, she almost believed herself.

Ginny had taught herself to anticipate loss. She'd been preparing herself for such an occurrence since she was eleven years old and woke up to be told that if it hadn't been for Harry, she would have been dead.

In this particular case, she knew it was coming. All Harry had been able to speak of for the past week was Kingsley, how he was due back over a week ago, how it wasn't like him not to respond to any form of communication, and recently, how he thought Voldemort had taken him.

Yet, even with all this, she still found herself unprepared for the image of Kingsley adjusting his hat printed on the front page of that day's copy of the Daily Prophet, headed with the words; BRITAIN WITHOUT MINISTER.

She was even more unprepared for Harry's outburst of rage as she somberly passed him the paper, which in turn had Lily screeching with everything her little lungs had, successfully disturbing James from his bowl of baby food.

She juggled the squirming baby to the side of her body and bounced her, reaching out for her husband with her other arm.

But before he could accept her touch, James too started to bellow, slamming his hands into his bowl. She diverted her attention to her son with exasperation, while Harry took the opportunity to storm out of the kitchen.

And before she knew it, Harry was gone, and she was juggling two inconsolable infants, and James had managed to throw his food all over the table and himself and through his hair, and she was left, once again, on her own.

Hermione knew she needed to return to work at the Ministry. Not because she wanted to – she didn't – or because she wanted to see anyone – she absolutely didn't – but because no matter how detached she became, and no matter how many times she told herself she hated him, she just couldn't leave the Ministry while Voldemort was there unsupervised.

She needed to go back, for the greater good.

There would be a vote, and even if she wasn't planning on taking the role of Minister, there needed to be someone that would object if Voldemort was nominated. Because if it wasn't her, there was a good chance it might be him.

She couldn't let it be him.

And so, she Flooed to the Ministry that morning, not a care for fixing the bags under her eyes from a lack of sleep or the shaking of her hands from a lack of magic. While she knew that going in while managing her withdrawals wasn't a wise decision, she just didn't have it in her to care. Rumours about her health were the least of her worries, and the detachment from the deeply buried grief was exactly what she needed.

That morning, the Atrium was as busy as any other day, staff and visitors hurrying in every which way, memos flying overhead like a flock of migratory birds. It almost seemed normal. Yet, stepping into the crowd, Hermione easily registered the air of unease among them, the way they all seemed to check over their shoulders and speak in whispers for fear of being overheard.

It reminded her of how it'd been, before. How it had been when they'd snuck into the Ministry in disguise. It - war - truly was rearing its head again, and the citizens were finally seeming to notice.

Good, she thought to herself. It was about time.

"Granger."

She almost yelped at the sudden voice in her ear, taking her off guard. Before she had a single moment to respond, she was roughly pulled off course by her sleeve over to a quiet nook of the atrium. It was only after the man had searched their surroundings and was seemingly satisfied that they weren't being watched that he finally released her.

She readjusted her cloak that he'd pulled all the way off of her shoulder before she narrowed her eyes.

"I was starting to think you weren't gonna show."

She held Draco's stressed expression with her own suspicious one. "Have you been waiting for me?" She asked with a hint of disbelief. "How long were you out here?"

"Doesn't matter," he insisted quickly, his urgent tone rendering her quiet. He searched her as his expression softened, opening his mouth to speak but quickly shutting it, seeming to think better of whatever he was going to say.

She was grateful. She wasn't sure how she'd respond if he asked how she was.

"Look," he started eventually. "I've been thinking about what you said, you know, that time at the Manor? And in light of... recent events... I think you were right about leaving the country. We should go. All of us. Potter and Weasley too."

Had he not spoken as seriously as he had, she might've commented on him admitting that she was right.

"Draco-"

"Let me explain. When my father was in Azkaban, I knew about every dime of what came in and what went out of our accounts. Since he's been released, thousands upon thousands of galleons have been moved out at an unprecedented rate, all into pockets of those sitting on the Wizengamot. I didn't know what to make of it until... until the Minister was found dead," Draco said lowly before he shook his head, the words a knife to her gut. "You-Know-Who… he's taking the position, Granger, for himself, and when he does… I don't want to be here to see the fallout."

Hermione's expression softened shook her head. "That's not it-"

"He's paying off every single member of the Wizengamot, and now the Minister's dead!" Draco shot quietly, his voice lined with panic. "I thought you were the smart one."

"That's not what I mean. You're on the right track, but I mean, he doesn't want to be Minister. He never has."

Draco brushed her comment off with an audible growl. "So he puts in someone else, then. That hardly changes the fact that it'll be just like last time. Worse, even."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but promptly closed it, shifting uncomfortably under Draco's scrutinising watch.

"I... I'm not sure who will end up in the position. I don't think he'd take it for himself, not unless it's a last resort. But if that happens, or if I'm wrong, I'll do everything in my power to make sure it's not him."

"Fat lot of good you'll be able to do once it gets to the Wizengamot," Draco muttered, holding the bridge of his nose as he sighed. "I suppose it could be Croaker... or even Weasley could be nominated now that I think about it, not that he's likely to win a vote. Normally the Ministers are pushed out through Law Enforcement though, and if it's not him, then that leaves Potter, but he'll never win, not with the bribes..." Draco trailed off after a loud intake of air, his eyes widening. "Unless... unless it's you."

She shifted again, averting her eyes.

"Granger, it could be you."

"I know."

"Y-you have to do it."

"No," she said at once. "I won't-"

"But you have to!" Draco cut her off, his tone ever so slightly brighter than it'd been previously. "If it's not you, then it'll be someone else in the circle, and if there's one thing we can trust, it's that whoever that may be will be worse than you."

Slowly, she nodded.

"That's true," she agreed softly. "But I'm not going to accept the nomination. I can't. I don't want it this way, and I refuse to be a pawn in this... this-"

"But you'd be Minister."

She tucked her shaky hands into her pockets before she sighed.

"I can't do it, because that's exactly what he wants."

Draco's eyebrows came together. "That doesn't make sense."

"Draco-"

"He's told you this?" He asked, his expression becoming one she hadn't seen directed at her in many years. "He's told you that he wants you as Minister?"

Slowly, she nodded.

"Granger..." he started, his voice becoming cautious. "I didn't ask you before because I didn't think I had to, but... how deep, exactly, are you in all this?"

"Deep enough," she muttered.

"When you sit next to the Dark Lord... is that just for show?"

"What?"

"Are you in his circle, with the rest of us?" He asked, his tone dropping as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Or are you in his pocket?"

From the way he worded the questions she suddenly didn't feel quite so detached, anymore.

"How dare you stand there and judge me, as if out of the two of us, it wasn't you who chose to take his mark on your arm! I didn't get a say in this!" She shot, her voice cooling to ice. "Or have you forgotten that just as you've forgotten the vows you made to him in the first place?!"

Draco stiffened, as though her words had physically slapped him.

"You know... you sound... almost just like-"

But whoever she sounded just like, she didn't get to hear, for at that moment, Draco's eyes rose to glance over her shoulder and he blanched.

"Mr. Malfoy."

The sound of his voice made her straighten and caused something to rumble deep in her stomach, something thick and unsettled and red.

Seeing him made it lurch.

Voldemort moved gracefully to stand almost between them and rested a hand on Draco's shoulder in what could've easily been mistaken for a friendly gesture.

It was only the whitening of his knuckles that showed it for what it was.

"I must confess myself surprised to see you here so early in the morning," he directed to Draco, his teeth showing as he spoke.

"I-I was... I was just-"

"Especially in such company." Voldemort's eyes glanced to Hermione, though she was quite intentionally looking away. "You know, I'm not sure whether it might've occurred to you, Draco, but a known follower of the Dark Lord, seen publicly speaking with the deputy head of Law Enforcement, might seem… a little bit…well, suspicious."

"I-no," Draco spurt quickly, shaking his head. "I mean – yes. But I-"

"I don't want to see you here again." Though Voldemort was smiling, the words were sharp.

Draco's prominent Adam's apple bobbed.

"I don't care if you have a permit to apply for, or a fine to contest, or even a fucking court summons-" Draco winced as Voldemort's hand squeezed "-unless you're coming in with a team of Aurors and your wrists are tied behind your back, do not come here again," he finished with his smile still in place, his tone perfectly polite yet plainly venomous. "Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes," Draco squeaked, noticeably trying to avoid his eye contact.

"Good." Voldemort released his hold on his shoulder to pat him as if congratulating him. "Now why are you still here?"

Draco didn't hesitate for a single moment before he dashed out of the quiet corner, disappearing out into the crowd in the direction of the exit, leaving the two of them alone.

Hermione glanced up to meet Voldemort's eyes for the first time in days only long enough to glare before she, too, left the corner, heading in the direction of the lifts.

But unlike the last time she left him, he followed.

"Are you going to enlighten me as to what that was?" He asked lowly, catching up with her with ease.

She kept her chin pointed upward stubbornly as she walked. "No."

He gripped her wrist, his touch burning through her sleeve. "Hermi-"

"I don't want to speak with you."

His hand tightened, just as it had on Draco's shoulder.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing that I don't particularly care what you want."

She pulled her arm as suddenly and subtly as she could manage, not wanting to draw any attention from the other workers.

He didn't let go. In fact, it only made him pull her closer.

"Since when are you and Malfoy," he continued lowly, "close enough for visits at the office?"

"We're friends. You should be glad we're getting along," she said tartly as they came to a stop in front of the lifts.

As they stood, she could feel the heat of his eyes boring into her skin, burning the flesh, yet still she refused to look in his direction.

"End it."

The elevator chimed, and the group of workers took their time in vacating it. Hermione stepped forward into the waiting lift as soon as they were clear without a word, her lips thinning as it seemed they would have it to themselves.

"Green really isn't your colour," she eventually said once the doors drifted shut, her head firmly pointed in the direction of the doors.

"Don't flatter yourself." She could hear his scowl. "If he thinks himself close to you, he'll soon think himself close to me."

Hermione scoffed deep in her throat, continuing to hold her head stubbornly high. "I will speak with whom I wish."

The elevator sounded as they passed the first floor, and she nearly missed his soft laugh.

At the sound, she finally turned to look at him to see him grinning in her direction, his eyes alight and greedy like a child who had been offered his favourite toy.

The thing in her stomach became heavy.

"I've missed you."

His voice made it drop lower, the muscles in her lower abdomen tightening to hold onto it.

"I can't say the same."

He didn't respond as his eyes roamed downward hungrily, pausing at her lips, slowly drifting down her neck, down to where her skin vanished behind her cloak.

It was uncomfortable. It was surely how it felt to be consumed, eaten alive slowly, piece by piece, and she hated it, but god, the thing twisting in her stomach wanted it, craved it, needed it-

It made her want to scream.

Instead, she tore her focus off him and looked ahead, her eyes burning into the elevator doors that just wouldn't open.

But then they did, and the feeling passed.

"I'm not speaking with you," she repeated before she moved. Although she'd spoken it as a clearer statement this time, her voice carried none of the conviction she'd intended to put into it, and it almost sounded as if she could've been speaking to herself.

She left the confined space of the lift, and even though he waited behind and gave her the space she desired, she was sure he knew that the words hadn't been for him.

Hermione was yet to experience something more effective than a death in the department at rendering her co-workers silent. While normally she would've hated the way they traded their usual greetings for pitying glances and supportive pats on the shoulder, this time, the way they tip-toed around the subject suited her just fine.

She didn't think she'd be able to handle worker after worker asking how she was doing, or even worse – more talk of who would take the now vacant position.

It wasn't that she was afraid she'd break down, though. It was exactly the opposite.

While she knew she should have mourning like the rest of them were, all she felt was… numb. She felt more disconnected from her own self than she ever had, and while she knew it wasn't healthy, and she knew that the effects of the magic were possibly becoming severe, she just… didn't care.

After all, feeling nothing was far better than the alternative.

With the bags under her eyes doing the talking for her, she found it was relatively easy to return her co-worker's quiet gestures. Most were satisfied with a tight smile and a pat on the shoulder. She even managed to last a whole hour before anyone tried to hug her.

She held back a grimace as she returned the silent hug from Janice and collected the letters that had come in to reception, before heading back in the direction of her office.

But as she reached the hallway coming from the Auror offices, she had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu seeing Harry storm past towards her office.

She knew that face, all too well.

She was absolutely positive; he was about to do something reckless.

She was struck with familiar the urge to step in, protect him by stopping him from doing something he'd regret, but... she didn't.

Instead, she stood and watched stoically as Harry tore the door open and stormed in, all too aware of the havoc he would bring with him.

And then she walked away.

"You bastard!" Harry growled as he approached the man stood over by the large desk in the centre of the room, raising his wand in his direction.

"Good morning, Potter," he greeted pleasantly, his lips turning up in a subtle way that was almost playful. "What might I do for you?"

"Shut up! Just - shut - up!"

Voldemort held his smile as he eyed the tip of Harry's wand and straightened to properly face Harry, slowly raising his hands submissively, palms forward.

"You killed him!"

Voldemort remained quiet, watching the way Harry's arm quivered

A long moment passed before Harry ground out, "well?!"

"I thought you wanted me to shut up."

The following smirk was all it took to tip Harry over the edge. He lunged forward, pushing the tip of his wand into Voldemort's neck.

"You're under arrest," Harry scathed, his words shaking with anger.

But instead of the reaction he expected, all he received was a deeper smirk.

"You don't have the authority," said Voldemort, breaking his smile momentarily to wince as Harry pressed his wand in further.

"A citizens arrest can hold you for 48 hours. That's all I need."

"And what do you think you'll do once your time is up?"

"You'll be convicted."

"Perhaps," he said, another fucking slow smirk forming on his lips. "Or, perhaps you won't find anything at all. Perhaps an unfortunate incident will befall Mrs. Potter and -"

Harry pressed the wand deeper into his neck, the tip visibly starting to burn his skin. "I will kill you."

Voldemort outright grinned.

"Go on then. Do it."

Harry's wand arm shook with anger.

"I'd like to see you try," Voldemort laughed, the movement pressing the wand harder into his neck. "But you can't, can you Harry? You don't have the nerve. Just like then, when she killed your beloved Sirius Black, you didn't have it in you then, and you don't have it in you now–"

With a roaring bang that echoed through the office, Voldemort was thrown back across the room into the bookcase, the impact strong enough to knock multiple shelves out of place, the books tumbling loudly to the ground.

Voldemort winced from the impact of his head into the solid shelf, and let out a groan of pain as he reached up for his neck. Harry's spell had hit right below his jaw, and blood slowly started to weep from the gash that marked the spot. Voldemort grinned for a moment as he inspected the blood on his hand, before he moved his other arm off of the shelf, and his expression very suddenly returned to one of pain.

"What on earth is going on in here?!"

Harry's wand was still directed at Voldemort and he didn't lower it as Penrose barged into the room, followed by multiple Aurors and office workers who had heard the impact of the spell.

"Potter, lower your wand," Finch instructed, his own wand raised in Harry's direction.

He didn't.

"Potter."

Harry didn't budge.

Voldemort slowly rose his hands from where he leaned against the bookcase, palms forward once more. "Put the wand down, Harry," he said in a tone that was so perfectly fucking gentle, so perfectly well-rehearsed that had Harry stepping forward, his feet dangerously close to the edge. "We can sort this out."

"Potter. This is your last warning," Finch urged. "If you don't put your wand down, I will be forced to act."

But he didn't put the wand down. He couldn't, not now that he was certain, not while he had him – Voldemort – on the ground at his mercy after all these years. He'd ignored his gut time and time again and given everyone the benefit of the doubt, and they'd been wrong.

But it would end now. No more would die, no longer would he and his family live in fear, not while he had any say in the matter.

He tightened his grip on his wand. His lungs filled with air.

He'd dreamt about this moment, he'd waited far too long–

But Finch beat him to it.

The stunning spell met its mark at the same moment that Harry opened his mouth, and Harry crumpled to the ground, his head falling back onto the carpet with a dull thud.

The room fell silent momentarily before Penrose and the other Aurors sprung to action. Voldemort allowed Penrose to help him to his feet while Finch pulled the wand out of Harry's unconscious grip.

And after assuring the others multiple times that he was just fine, and the attention of the Aurors turned to Harry, Voldemort, once again, smiled.