As you read this chapter, please keep in mind that none of my characters have ever displayed wandless magic. It doesn't exist as far as this fic is concerned, with the exception of moments of extreme emotional distress (this is to address the scenes with Hermione at Malfoy Manor yelling at Bellatrix and her in the hotel room when she confided in Draco).
Twenty minutes and several Apparitions later, Hermione was able to find a place with cell reception and called Harry. He must have either been nearby or waiting for her call, because he picked up instantly and started yelling into the receiver, just like a Weasley.
That family really was rubbing off on him, Hermione thought smugly.
"Hermione!" her old friend hollered. "Hermione, where have you been?! You won't believe what–"
"Shhh. I know, Harry, I've read the papers. Yaxley. Are you alright? And Ron? What happened?" The Daily Prophet had been, unsurprisingly, rather vague on the specifics. How such a rag had ever become wizarding Britain's main source of information was beyond her.
Harry quieted down. "Ron's fine," he said. "Bit of scarring, but he's being chipper about it. Says it'll just make the ladies like him more."
Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled, although the latter slowly waned as Harry told her about the lead he and Ron had been following – the trail of missing people from MCU that had finally brought them to the Death Eater's hideout. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," Harry muttered despondently into the muggle contraption. "He'd been living there for over a year. Just took the house for himself and loaded up on groceries from old Martha Berkins next door. She'd been complaining about it for some time, but among all her other allegations – things going missing, poltergeist in her attic, stuff like that, everyone just thought she was off her rocker! And I was laughing at her along with everybody else! One visit, Hermione! That's all it would've taken! One damn visit to Berkins and we would have caught the bastard so much earlier!"
"Harry, you can't blame yourself," Hermione scolded. "No one knew. Besides, you've been fighting this war since you were an infant; if anything, you've gone above and beyond–"
"That was different," Harry shot back. "I was fighting for my survival back then. But this… I'm an Auror, Hermione. This was my job, and I failed. I was unprofessional, and all those hurt and dead… it's my fucking fault. If I hadn't let the case be handed off to Rawlings and ignored–"
"Harry James Potter, you sit down and you listen to me!" Hermione barked in the signature bossy tone that was so reminiscent of her school days. "Nobody, and I repeat, nobody has done more for this world than you, and that includes Albus fucking Dumbledore! So you take this misplaced guilt and you shove it up your scarred behind! You cannot carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong! Mistakes happen – I'm living proof to that! Now you learn from them and let your friends share the burden of guilt, or I swear that I'll come over there to nag you till your scar turns blue! In fact, not only will I do that, but–"
She paused her rant at the sound of chuckling. "What?" she snapped. "What's so funny all of a sudden?!"
"No, I'm sorry, Hermione." Harry's laugh died down, his tone growing serious. "You're right. It's just… I haven't heard you be so passionate or alive for eternity, it seems. It's just like that spew thing in fourth year: you've found a cause and committed yourself to it."
"S.P.E.W.," she corrected him automatically and then said: "But I know what you mean. I had distanced myself, but now…things are different now. Something's changed."
"Something?"
"I'll tell you later," Hermione replied, unwilling to get into the whole story about where her journey with Draco had taken them. It wasn't exactly a phone conversation.
She heard Harry sigh and imagined him running a hand through his tousled hair, pausing to rub the edge of his scar. "Alright," he said. How about your mission then?"
"I've got the potion," Hermione answered, grateful that he hadn't pressured her on the topic.
"The blood potion? To find Dolohov?"
"Anastasia's babushka says it'll be ready in two days."
"So, in two days…" Harry began, and Hermione finished the thought: "...this story will end."
Neither said anything for a moment, letting the gravity of the statement sink it.
Hermione took several breaths, exhaling slowly, watching the vapor condense in the biting winter air. Braving the chill, a pair of birds twittered merrily in the nearby trees. Their harmonious melodies danced over the frozen land, and flakes of snow softly pattered down, adding on to an already thick blanket. The Dolohov homestead couldn't be seen – it was about twenty miles north of her current location, and the view here was…The mountains stood before her, armored in breastplates of silvery-white. Rugged and vast, they seemed to encompass the whole world. She'd like to return here someday, she realized. Spend the summer, maybe. With Draco. Anastasia said the alpine meadows would bloom with colors so bright they could hurt your eyes.
"...Hermione?"
"Right, sorry," she muttered, shaking off the misplaced sentiments. The time for them would come later. "Harry, we need to meet up. I want us to track down Antonin the second the potion's ready."
"I was thinking the same thing, actually," Harry responded. "I can have you in London by evening."
Hermione had trouble containing her surprise. "You can have a Portkey for our area that quick?"
Harry barked a laugh. "Hermione," he said, "by catching and killing Yaxley, it's as if I'm the second coming of Merlin. Or like I finished off Voldemort… again. Everyone is just fawning over me. I could demand a dozen virgins for some terrible satanic sacrificial rite, and everyone's biggest concern would be whether I preferred blondes or brunettes. So, yeah, I can get a Portkey to pretty much wherever right now, just tell me the coordinates. Actually…"
"Yes?" Hermione prompted.
"It's just something I was meaning to speak with you about. Look, this is all hush-hush at the moment, but when we caught up to Yaxley, he was attempting to destroy mounds of incriminating evidence on pretty much all of his connections at the Ministry. Some of it burned, but most of it didn't, and we got all that data, catalogued and cross-referenced. When it becomes public, it'll be an uproar; three aurors have already been suspended, and we've opened two dozen cases on various Ministry employees, ranging from janitors to department heads. There's some stuff on Dolohov too, but the others in my department don't realize it yet; they're all focused on covering their respective behinds, so to say."
"Well, that's great news, Harry! Obviously, not the last part, but..."
"It is, yeah. What I'm trying to say, is: with all of Yaxley and Dolohov's connections in the Ministry incapacitated…that means you don't have to hide anymore. There's no point in maintaining the fact of your disappearance. We've pretty much nailed all the people who were a danger to you. Only Dolohov's left, and he's alone. That means you can return to England, Hermione. Come back to us. Come home."
Come home. The words reverberated through her mind, more potent than any spell, and her reaction to them was instantaneous, visceral. She started to cry.
Her tears were warm and fat. They welled up in the corners of her eyes, spilling over to run down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand, as if by dispelling them she could deny the very existence of her emotional breakdown, but they persisted, falling down one after another, until she gave in completely and sobbed freely.
"Hermione?" Harry asked, bewildered and even a little scared. She couldn't answer him. She sniffled instead, incapable of articulating the depth of her gratitude. Harry's concern had sparked a revolution in her soul, resonating deep. Come home. He was her home. Him and Ron and Ginny. Her true, loyal, her wonderful friends. And Draco. Draco was one of them too. This was what Harry's words – his deceptively simple, well-meaning words – caused. Crashing through every defence, fear and insecurity, they brought this knowledge to the well of her heart.
She was not alone in this world.
It was a poignant reminder of her connection to humanity, and it sent her down into an emotional spiral that resulted in several minutes of meaningless babble. Harry was completely unprepared, at first responding awkwardly to her unexpected litany of sobbing thank-you's and what-would-I-do-without-you. Then, however, he must have understood – or maybe he didn't, but pretended to, at least – and he simply started to talk. He chatted about everything: the latest gossip, the past, things that meant everything to them and nothing to others… this stream of bumbling chatter was akin to how a parent might act to soothe a weeping child. It's applicable towards any age, for we all become a little more innocent during the times we cry.
Harry's tactic worked. Hermione quieted, the volume of her sobs decreasing gradually until only the even rhythm of breathing remained.
"Thank you, Harry," Hermione mumbled, a tad embarrassed.
"Anytime, 'Mione," he softly answered. "Anytime."
"So, I'll pick you up at… 5 o'clock local time?" he asked when Hermione was finished with her stumbling, sheepish explanations of what exactly sparked her emotional reaction.
"Yeah," she gulped. "Five sounds good."
"Alright, then. Love you, 'Mione."
"Love you too."
Hanging up, Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath, and then wiped her eyes, taking a moment to conceal the signs of her breakdown and contemplate her next actions. Harry's offer to come home was critical on several levels. Yes, it meant she had a home to return to, but it also signified the end to one her life's chapters. For the past several years, her sole occupation had been hunting down Dolohov. She'd quit her job at the Ministry, secluded herself, nearly lost her mind. Then, when Draco had found her on that Muggle train, she had still been forced to remain concealed from the public eye. Any news of her discovery would have alerted Dolohov and Yaxley. Now, however, with the older Death Eater gone, and his corrupt contacts uncovered, she could… well, she could come back, just like Harry said.
Months of hell – years of it, really – were finally at their bittersweet end.
Once Dolohov was apprehended – and that was practically a formality by this point – she could return to lead a normal, boring life, just like millions of others did. People who didn't have to fight in wars or hunt down insane murderers. She'd take a break: walk down the magical cobblestones of Diagon Alley, spend some time perusing Flourish & Blotts, and then maybe stop for an ice cream at Fortescue's. Later, she'd return to the Ministry, implement her plan on changing the world, and there, right by her side, would be Draco.
Draco…
Hermione felt her soul soar at the mere thought of him. With one final glance around, she switched off the cell phone, and then apparated away, eager to share the news with her boyfriend.
. . . .
. . . .
Draco did not take it well.
"You want to return," he stated flatly, as if accusing her of some misdeed. His eyes glittered feverishly, pronouncing a scowling visage. Hermione had interrupted him at the very end of a spell – a glamour charm, by the sound of it, although why he'd be practicing beauty magic was beyond her. He was vain, but not that vain.
That last thought withered away under his frosty glare.
"You want to leave and go back to Potter," he spat. "To Weasel and his ilk." His wand danced between in his fingers, making small stabbing motions.
Hermione didn't understand the reason behind this abruptly foul mood. "I do," she replied, indignance and frustration eating at her words. "And don't call Ron that. Why is this a problem anyway?"
Draco huffed, turning away to gaze out the window. His back was rigid, but the shoulders held a characteristic slump. Hermione observed the defensive, almost frightened posture, and an inkling of comprehension began to dawn. It wasn't that difficult to guess, actually, once she put her mind to it.
He was afraid. Here, on their mutual journey, it was just him and her, and their roles held equal value. But, if they were to return back to London, scores of new variables would be introduced into the fragile equation of their new relationship. Her friends, society, the Ministry…all of which hated him.
And, if that wasn't enough, what did Draco even have to return to? An empty manor with a pair of house-elves for company? He was a pariah, and this trip was the first meaningful human contact he had had in years.
Hermione took only a moment to reel all this information in and then quickly jumped in his direction, hugging the blond wizard from behind, pressing her body into his back.
"This won't end," she whispered, feeling him tremble slightly. "Yes, I want to go back, but I won't leave you."
"Are you so sure of that?" he choked out, after a second's pause. She felt him deflate, like a balloon letting out its air. Instead of hostility, his voice held regret. "When we're back, you'll be Hermione Granger, heroine and brightest witch of her age. What am I? A failed Death Eater? A despised character no one even wishes to associate with? You haven't even told your friends about us. You speak with Potter almost every day, yet somehow you both manage to sound like I don't exist."
"Stop this!" Hermione let go, turning him around to face her. "I'll tell Harry, Ron, Ginny and whoever wants to know. I'm not ashamed of you! There's no reason to be insecure–"
"I'm not inse–"
"Hogwash! Yes, you are! We've been together less than a week, well, romantically, in any way, and here you are, fretting over what my friends will think of you!"
Her bluntness brought on a blush to his skin, and he made to turn away again, but she held him still. "Draco," she said earnestly, "I've told you more about myself than I have to anyone else. I've shared things…you know that. With you, I feel safe, I feel good. You're mine, and if Harry and Ron don't accept that, then I'll just cram you down their throats until they do."
Draco snorted, his spirits lifting considerably. "I don't want to be crammed down anyone's throat," he said. "Especially Weasley's. Merlin, I still remember that hungry gob from school. It's nightmare-inducing." He shuddered theatrically.
Hermione, glad that their first crisis as a couple had been averted, ignored the comment about Ron and chose to give him a wicked grin instead.
"Anyone's throat?" she asked suggestively, and he smirked in response.
"Well, when you put it that way…" His hands rose to cup her from behind, kneading her flesh through the fabric of her pants. She felt his wand too – he hadn't let go of it. He pressed a kiss to her lips, and she parted them eagerly, feeling his tongue penetrate into the warm cavern of her mouth. A moan rose from the back of her throat, her own hands rising to brush his sides and pull him into her, their forms moulding together.
When he broke away, she was breathless. "Drop your wand already," she scolded. Draco frowned. "My wand?"
"Your wand, nitwit! You're still holding it!"
"Oh." The blond hesitated, befuddled, and when Hermione craned her neck to peer into his eyes, she thought she saw something dark flash within their depths.
"Draco?" she inquired, a sudden sting of worry piercing her chest. "Are you alright?"
A moment passed, and then he was back, shooting her a cocky grin. He tossed the wand away, and drawled: "Why? Is my little girl worried?"
Hermione pfffed, rolling her eyes, and he used the momentary distraction to steal a kiss. Another one followed, and another after that, his movements quickly growing urgent, as if their time was limited and could come to an abrupt end. Only when she cried out in pain at a particularly painful nip, did he stop, apologizing profusely. There was something vulnerable about him at that moment, something almost broken that reached in to tug at her heartstrings with a bittersweet pull.
Hermione soothed his worries away and pulled him back into another kiss.
. . . .
. . . .
Harry picked the two of them up at exactly 5 o'clock. He tugged Hermione into a fierce hug; his reaction to Draco was, naturally, much cooler. It pained Hermione. She knew there was a long history of bad blood between the two men; nevertheless, she hoped that, one day, they'd work past it and manage to get along.
The first obstacle to that goal would be telling Harry and Ron about her new relationship. Despite her earlier bravado, she knew this wouldn't be a simple task. Her friends would come around in the long run; they valued and respected her enough to do that. However, the short term could be precarious. Ron worried her the most. His temper had a propensity for explosiveness, and, in the heat of the moment, he could say things that he'd later regret.
Discussing this issue would require a certain level of finesse.
The Portkey tugged them away to a designated Ministry location. Hermione stumbled at the end, felled by the confounding physics of teleportation. Travel by Portkey was efficient, but not graceful. Hermione leaned against Draco for support – Harry shot them a surprised glance – and then the group split up. The blond took out his wand and apparated to Hermione's home – they had agreed in advance that he'd await her return there. Hermione hooked hands to travel with Harry. He side-alonged her to Grimmauld Place, where a flurry of cheers and embraces followed from Ron and Ginny, causing her to melt with joy.
This was home, Hermione thought. Her home.
The group made its way to the kitchen. The previous dinginess of the Black house was long gone; all the rooms were now airy and had windows that, like sunflowers, always followed the sun, unless the residents required a bit of shade. Hermione, surrounded by her friends, sat down at a table laden down with delicious foods. They all praised Ginny, who blushed and admitted that it was mostly Molly's cooking.
The conversation went easy, all four of them falling into a familiar routine. Harry, Ron and Ginny wanted to know everything about Hermione's travels, and she shared freely, although every time Draco's name was mentioned she found herself carefully navigating around the touchy subject.
You're a Gryffindor, she scolded herself silently, your house sigil is a lion! Act like it: just tell that that you're together with Draco now! That you slept with him. Ok, maybe not the last part...
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron shared a bottle of Firewhiskey; Hermione opted for a glass of champagne to settle her nerves. Ginny abstained from anything alcoholic, choosing some sparkling water instead.
Okay, Hermione, the brunette steeled herself after finishing her drink, time to do it. Just open your mouth and say the words. The alcohol shot into her blood, providing just the right amount of liquid courage. Taking a deep breath and feeling confident, Hermione opened her mouth and...
"We have some news!" Ginny exclaimed giddily. Hermione's lips snapped shut.
"Mmm?" Ron was occupied with devouring the mountain of mashed potatoes he'd heaped onto his plate. Everyone paused to stare at him silently, until the sounds of his munching were the only ones left in the kitchen. Ron blushed, quickly swallowing the last mouthful.
"I'm listening, I'm listening," he huffed, somewhat abashed, but Hermione had already put the clues together and rose from her seat to run over to the redheaded girl. "Ginny! You're…"
Squealing, the two girls finished the sentence simultaneously. "...pregnant!
Ron choked, turning red.
"It's really your fault, 'Mione," Harry said. He was off to the side, looking happier than when they'd won the house cup. "Remember when you were in St. Mungo's? We were visiting you every day, which made people suspicious, and then Ginny got asked by that silly reporter about a potential pregnancy? There was no pregnancy, of course, but it was the perfect cover back then – I mean, we couldn't let anyone know you had returned – and it got us to thinking that we'd like–"
"A new addition to the family–" Ginny butted in.
"–and here we are." Harry finished, grinning sheepishly.
"I am so-so happy for both of you!" Hermione cried out, hugging them both. "And so is Ron! Ron? Ron!"
The redhead was still in seat, shocked. "Pregnant?! But, but… but how?!" he finally managed to stammer.
Ginny got the most evil look. "Well," she said slowly, relishing the moment, "when a boy and a girl like each other very much–"
Realizing the depth of his error, Ron paled, but it was too late.
"–and then the boy sticks his–"
"La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!"
"–which I believe happened right at this… well, on this table, possibly where you're sitting, in fact–"
"Not! Interested!" Ron stuck a pair of fingers into his ears, cowering under his sister's advance. Ginny's grin grew, and this may have led to additional needless disclosures of certainly very private information, had not a red-faced Harry tugged his overzealous wife back.
"What Ginny meant to say," he mumbled after clearing his throat, "was that we wanted you two to be the godparents."
Hermione squealed again, and the issue of her and Draco became unimportant in the light of such news. She spent the next several hours with her friends, relishing in the happiness of the moment, until a guilty look out the window reminded her that it was time to go.
Draco was waiting.
. . . .
. . . .
When she landed within the snow-capped boundaries of her wards, the sun was beginning to set. It burned ferociously, coloring the horizon into a wildfire of vicious red. Red…the color of Ares – god of War; god of blood.
Hermione shivered.
She trudged forward, up over the little cobblestone path that led to her front porch. The forest around her was barren, lifeless. Its trees stood naked, casting long shadows onto the cold, hard ground. Their hooded forms and looming, outstretched limbs brought back frightful memories of Azkaban's dementors leaning in for that final kiss of empty eternity. Hermione shuddered, feeling queasy, and tried to dispel the worrisome image. There was no cause for unease: she was home, safe. Dolohov would be captured soon. Then, in less than nine months, she'd be a godmother, cooing over the most wonderful bundle of joy. Oh, she would read Harry and Ginny's little baby all the most wondrous books – the same ones her own mother had read when she was but a toddler.
There was The Little Prince, and Robinson Crusoe, and that one with the green alligator and the furry, big-eared mammal – what was it called? Chebu… Chebura…
Hoot. Hoot.
Hermione glanced up, startled, and a saw a pair of topaz orbs glimmering ominously in the shadows above her porch. Snows. He flew down to give her a welcoming nip, but didn't stay, rising back to his perch to pace anxiously. Hoot, he cried out again, the sound echoing over the empty land. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked him, but he just started back at her, unblinking. "Snows?" she tried once more. He didn't answer.
Her worry – irrational and unsubstantiated – grew. The witch's war-honed senses were screaming danger, and yet nothing stood out. I'm going mad, Hermione thought, and opened her front door, letting Snows follow her through. Draco should be near.
No one greeted her, however. The house was quiet, just as she had left it before leaving with… well, he had been Malfoy to her, then. Hermione's tongue darted out, wetting her dry lips. One of her hands reached down to grasp her wand. "Draco?" she called out apprehensively.
A sound carried over from the kitchen, and she breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the grip on her weapon. He was here. She quickly unclasped her robes and hurried over.
Several spears of waning light filtered in through the curtains, catching on the tiny motes floating in air. Draco was sitting at the table, hunched over and covered in shadow, wand in hand. His arms moved rhythmically, sounds of a spell leaving his lips. She could see the effects of several other charms as well: a piece of parchment in the form of a raven flapped its wings, and the ships in her Turner reproductions now moved, dipping with the broiling sea.
He looked so homely here, among her things. Hermione paused for a moment, letting the sight sink in. She wouldn't mind if he stayed, she realized. Stayed for good.
"Draco?" she said again, this time softly. The noise obviously startled him: he flinched, wand freezing in mid-air, and pivoted. But then he smiled, and it was enough to make all her anxiousness disappear.
"Hermione," he said. "How was Potter's?"
She walked over, giving him a peck on the lips. "They're having a baby," she replied, feeling his arms tug around the small of her back.
"A baby?"
"Mhhm. They want me to be godmother."
Draco gasped. "Oh that poor child!" he exclaimed. "Ten minutes out of the womb, and you'll be teaching it to read."
"Oh, shut it."
"Mhmm, I can picture it already: that kid, quoting Hogwarts: A History by age two. I pity him already." He clucked his tongue in mock disapproval, earning him a slap on the shoulder. "And she hits, too! I think Weaslette needs to reconsider her offer. You obviously lack the necessary responsibility and maturity required for such a station."
Hermione snorted, going pink and tugging her head into his shoulder. "You prat," she hummed, breathing in the masculine scent. "Sorry," he said, rubbing his hands along her back. "You'll be an excellent godmother, you know."
She stayed there a bit, encircled by the embrace of his arms, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. It was so nice, so wonderful to talk with him. "Thanks," she said, and then teased him: "And what have you been up to? Casting magic all day? You know you shouldn't do it too much."
Her tone had been light, but his reaction – disproportionate. It was like someone had turned a light switch off, and the gaiety of the moment fled, chased away by a sudden chill. His whole demeanor changed instantly, and she felt him stiffen under her arms.
"So what if I am?" he snarled, in a voice as frigid as December ice, and then stood, pushing her away, eyes cloaked in madness. "I can do all the magic I want!"
"I know, I didn't mean it like that–"
"And what exactly did you mean it like?"
Jumping back at the abrupt hostility, Hermione vainly cast about for an answer. She felt the thread of the conversation sliding away from her, leaving her powerless to prevent the upcoming exchange. Her mind was reeling, unable to accept this new reality.
"I don't know, I just wanted to say–"
"You want to take away my wand, leave me impotent, squib-like! And you'd like it, wouldn't you?" he hissed, advancing until she was forced to take a step back. "I bet it made you feel powerful, when you found out about me? A pureblood with no wand, unable to do magic? Was it all your dreams come true – putting me in my rightful place? Did your knickers get wet when you returned it in Paris? Admit it: you enjoyed watching me beg for it, kissing your feet in 'gratitude'?"
"No! Draco, stop this!" Hermione cried out helplessly, but he didn't listen.
"Four years!" he spat bitterly. "Four fucking years, wandless, forced to work alongside that filth! Do you know how much I hated all those muggles? How much I wished I could Avada every single one of them?! See them trusted up like the pigs they are?!"
"Don't say that," Hermione pled numbly, trying to suppress the quiver of her voice. "You don't mean it."
"Oh, I don't?! Disgusting, the lot of them. Eager to wallow in their own shit! And you… you're not much better than them, are you… mudblood?"
Hermione froze. You could hear a pin drop, and, in that frazzled silence, she observed him falling back on his old mannerisms – the smirk and sneer that had, for years, chipped away at her self-esteem. The metamorphosis was slow, and she studied the contempt and disgust growing on the jagged lines of his cruel face with an almost clinical detachment. They went through several distinct phases, an iconography of their past relationship, until he was no longer the man she had grown to love, but the spoiled brat that taken a perverse pleasure in her perpetual torment.
"What the fuck is the matter with you?" she whispered, horrified, but he heard.
"Matter with me?" His lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. "I'm simly glad I can be done pretending."
"Pretending?" she breathed out. He walked up slowly, until he was only inches from her face. "Pretending to like you," he answered gleefully, emphasizing every word. "Pretending I care about your troubles, your insecurities, your little drama… what was it? Oh, that's right: the rape. You should be glad, you know," he continued with the airs of someone discussing the weather, disregarding the way her soul had just shattered, "that one of us did it. That a pureblood was your first. It's almost an… honor, isn't it? Isn't it, Hermione?"
Her chest was tight, the sweater constricting her breathing. Somewhere far away, she could feel the acidic sting of betrayal ripping into her heart like a splinter. "Get… out…" she managed to squeeze out from the tightness in her throat. He just smirked in response. "Gladly," he spat. "I'm sick of your presence anyway. But, before I go, remember this: not you, not the Ministry, and not even Harry Potter himself will ever take my wand from me, got it?! I am a wizard, and if I desire to do magic every hour, then that is my right! My right, not yours! Filth!"
He shoved her back brutally, a delighted expression crossing his face when her body hit the wall with a crunch. In a shocked daze, she saw him reaching for his wand, but she couldn't move. It was like she was a marionette trapped in her own body, and the strings had been cut. "Goodbye, mudblood," he sneered, pointing the wand at her face with the beginnings of spell on his tongue.
Hoot.
Snows. He flew in, screeching, claws raking across Draco's skin, drawing blood. The blond cried out, firing a hex at the small owl, but missing. Hermione slid down the wall, watching the fight with unseeing eyes. Snows banked sharply, diving down for a second attack, and then a third, and a fourth until his opponent beat a hasty retreat. Draco cursed one last time and ran out of the room, leaving Hermione lying on the floor, alone.
The sharp crack of apparition could be heard several seconds later, and then it was all silent.
. . . .
. . . .
When Hermione came to, it was dark. She didn't how much time had passed; her body had shut down, leaving her in a fugue-like state, completely unaware of her surroundings. She felt deflated – a skin with no life inside. Trails of tears and snot ran down her face, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand.
She hurt. It wasn't even a physical pain – although there were bruises on her back – but an emotional one. In the course of two minutes, her whole world had been overturned. He had been pretending.
Pretending. Playing a game, getting what he wanted. He didn't love her; he didn't even like her. She had always been filth to him, a mudblood he was forced to humor.
Sobs shuddered through her form. She crawled upwards, curling up into a small ball, hands around her knees. Just like she had sat in Paris… when she had confided in Draco… when he had comforted her with words so warm...
Had it all been a lie? Was she just a naive girl, falling for the first person who offered a listening ear?
Hermione could hear the clock ticking on the wall, and Snows as he ruffled up beside her, letting her pet his feathers. It had been so senseless. One moment, they were fine, hugging, and then…
And then it was all over. And all it took was a single second, an innocent question that went horribly wrong.
The tears dried out, eventually. A little sliver of moonlight illuminated the room. Hermione stood, wincing from the pain in her back and walked over to pour herself a glass of water to soothe her parched throat. She stepped on something along the way; it crumpled under her foot. Leaning down, Hermione picked up the piece of parchment Draco had used for one his spells. It had been a raven, flying around, but the magic had left with the wizard. Now, it was just a piece of paper.
A familiar piece of paper, Hermione noted, automatically unfurling it. It was her letter. Her old letter, the one she'd sent to herself during the battle with Dolohov.
Malfoy No Wand In.
The words mocked her in the moonlight, reminding of the man who had just broken her heart. What good were they anyway? Why did she even send this missive, what had she been trying to tell herself?
Great job, Hermione, the girl remarked, chucking it away as hard as she could. You outsmarted yourself again. You're your own worst enemy.
The words were acid in her mouth, and she reached for a pitcher, filling it up from the tap. Her lips quivered as she recalled the hateful words that Malfoy had thrown at her; the vehemence and bitter anger in his voice; the ashen tone of his skin; the way he'd proclaimed that it was his right and not hers to work magic. It was like he'd been infected with anger, she thought, taking a calming sip of water, like he'd been…
The pitcher fell from her fingers, shattering on the floor into a million pieces.
She didn't care. She stood there, eyes wide, petrified under the light of the new moon. She'd figured it out.
Infected.
Malfoy. No Wand. Infected.
She'd never finished the last word.
And now it all made sense.
It came crashing together in a jumble of images: Draco, ecstatic and grateful when she'd returned his wand in Paris; the way he'd progressively started to use it more and more, until the wand almost never left his fingers; the times when he'd insisted on casting spells himself; the look in his eyes when she suggested he should lay back on the magic.
It wasn't him. Hermione was almost glad – endlessly guilty, but glad – because… it hadn't been him. He was infected. He always had been, ever since the war.
He was The Key.
Voldemort had split up his virus into two parts: The Other and The Key. The latter was supposed to unlock the former, so that, in the unlikely case of the dark wizard's demise, it could wreck havoc on the world. It was a brilliant plan. It had almost worked too...
Draco and Antonin had both been infected, the action probably covered up by memory charms. Antonin's curse had activated once Harry turned Voldemort into a pile of ash, but Draco… This was the one thing that the Dark Lord could not foresee: Draco's wand had been confiscated, leaving him incapable of active magic. And that's exactly what the curse fed on – magic! Monseigneur Lemmen had posited this way back in Paris. And Draco's magic was dormant, leaving the malignant spell in a drought. Four years it had withered with him, while the wizard had been stuck in the muggle world, unable to cast a single spell, unsuspecting of the time bomb within his mind...
Where it had slumbered peacefully, until...
Until she had returned his wand. She had willingly handed him the weapon of his own destruction. The second the wand was in his grasp, the moment he uttered his first spell… magic had coursed through his body, revitalizing, rejuvenating, and… and awakening the old curse. The evil begun to germinate, spreading through his system, demanding the use of more and more magic, feeding it in its fertile medium.
Feeding until… until it could take over.
Hermione gasped. This was the true cause of their altercation! It hadn't been him – she was sure of this – it was the virus, and if it was potent enough to suppress Draco's identity now, then it could do anything. It could find Dolohov, unlock The Other. And what would happen to Draco then? Would it kill him? Wipe his memory? Leave him lobotomized, a walking carcass?
Hermione whirled around, panicking. She needed to find him now. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? Was she too late? "Snows!" she called out, accio'ing a quill and some parchment. The owl flew up to her instantly, waiting patiently as she scribbled down several words. "Take this to Harry," she whispered urgently. "As quick as you can, alright?" Her heart thundered beneath her ribs, slamming against the prison of bone. Time… she needed time… Oh, Gods, let him be alright. Snows gave her a reassuring hoot and took off, disappearing into the night. Hermione was gone a second later. She had apparated to the boundary of Malfoy Manor.
The wrought iron gates, sensing her desperation, flung themselves open, and she bounded over the territory, cursing herself every step of the way. The house itself slowly grew, until Hermione, gasping, practically slammed into its front doors. "Draco!" she yelled out to the dark building, banging her fists on the ancient wood. "Linny?! Draco! Are you there? Please! Ple–"
The handle turned, and the doors noiselessly opened. Linny stood there, her tearful eyes glimmering in the moonlight. It took only a single look at the apologetic mein on the house-elf's countenance for Hermione to collapse down onto the ground and emit a mournful wail.
She didn't need to hear the words.
Hermione knew it already: she was too late, and Draco was gone.
Wow, this chapter took so long to write. I hope the sequence of events has become clear now, however. Also, I'd like to remark that, over the course of this fic, there were two reviewers that almost frightened me with their perceptiveness, when they guessed at Draco's role very early on.
cnf and MaskedLee, you guys rock! (Lee, you figured out the Infected phrase - scary! great job!)