To Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth
1
Normally, she'd opt for more appropriate language — but this is a cock-up.
There's no other way to say it.
Just as there's no way to pretend that what she's about to do isn't the worst idea she's ever had in her life.
It starts out like a normal morning. Tea to-go in one hand — Earl Grey with half a lemon, only slightly over-brewed, as always — and her bag in the other, Hermione steps out of the Floo grate into the Ministry the same way she's done for the past three years. By no means is said cock-up in any way her doing.
Later, she'll be told that it was, in fact, the blunder of an unpaid intern.
But none of that really matters, because she's Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation — and as any Head of any Ministry department would tell you, one cannot simply turn a blind eye. Even if the Head in question has just spilled scalding hot tea — Earl Grey with half a lemon — down her brand new pencil skirt.
She's walked headlong into catastrophe.
Ahead, on one side of the atrium, a wall of Aurors, Healers, secretaries and all other imaginable Ministry employees — and on the other, Dementors. Hundreds.
A thin layer of ice has spread its way across the black marble floors, crawling up the pillars and arches and onto the gold moldings around the Floo grates. The fountain's frozen into a twisted sculpture, and all around, a penetrating sense of dread hangs in the air.
Witches and wizards like herself, on their way in for the day, have stopped in their tracks along the passage of grates, some slack-jawed — others in tears at the abruptly foul atmosphere. Hermione steps around them, wand already tight in hand, forcing herself closer despite the cold. Despite the misery.
The shouts of the Ministry workers trying to control the situation grow louder. Frantically cast Patronus charms, commands to one another, along with general cries of panic. The Dementors swarm them, weightless cloaks dragging through the air, skeletal hands reaching — grasping. Wanting so desperately to suck the life out of something.
Hermione stops few feet in front of the fountain. Struggles to close her eyes and gather a slow breath.
It's been a long time since she's experienced this sort of panic — panic she now links to wartime. A long time since she's needed to dredge up a happy memory.
Staring at the backs of her eyelids, she forces herself to be eleven again. To stand in the kitchen of her family home with the post her father had just brought in. Relives the moment she pried the lip of the Hogwarts envelope free of its wax seal.
"Expecto patronum!"
She opens her eyes to watch the pale blue wisps fly from the tip of her wand, her otter forming delicately in midair. The charm pauses only a second to make eye contact with her, then flies off to do its work, barreling forth into the black cloud of cloaked wraiths.
"Hermione!" The relieved voice of Harry from somewhere to her left. He sprints into sight moments later, a little breathless, wand still outstretched behind him to control his stag.
"Harry! What—"
"No idea. Somehow they got loose. We've called up all Aurors and Curse-Breakers, so we're only just starting to get a handle on it." He nudges her with an elbow. "Glad you're here though. Come on."
They spend the next half hour corralling the sea of Dementors into a somewhat more manageable, walled-in bubble of Patronus charms, and it's then that she notices. Then that the chaos becomes a certified cock-up.
Not for anyone else. Just for Hermione. Just for her stubborn will and her Healer's nature. Professor McGonagall always said she could've considered a career at St. Mungo's…
No, for everyone else, the situation is nearly under control. But as she and the others start the slow exodus back towards the usual holdings for Dementors, her eyes catch on him. Skid to a halt.
Draco Malfoy.
The only former Death Eater who seems able to bear the near-constant judgment that comes with a Ministry career — or perhaps the only one with so few options. He'd trained and been hired as a Curse-Breaker nearly a year after she started, once his house arrest had expired.
And up until this moment, Hermione hasn't thought of him.
Which has been pleasant.
But now her eyes are fixed to the spot, watching unblinking as, time and time again — tucked into the corner behind a pillar — Draco Malfoy tries and fails to produce a Patronus.
"Blast," he spits, shaking his wand as though it'll help. "Come on. Damn you — come on." She watches, transfixed, as he rights himself, blows a steadying breath through the 'o' of his lips and then flicks his wand again. "Expecto patronum."
The tip of his wand coughs out a faded puff of blue smoke and nothing more.
And Malfoy looks about ready to snap it in two.
She doesn't know what it is — will probably never know what it is that makes her do it. Hadn't even noticed herself closing the distance between them. But the words are already too far up her throat.
"The Dementors are gone."
Malfoy jerks and spins to face her with all the vigor and panic of man caught doing something unspeakable. The way a murderer greets the police. Color blooms in his cheeks, though he seems somehow able to command it to disperse just as quickly.
And all too soon, he's pale and scowling again — like always.
"Granger," he announces flatly. There's no disdain in his tone. He's got it carefully hidden beneath a thin veneer of professionalism. "Yes, thank you. I noticed."
Leave it at that, then, says the voice in her head.
"Oh. Well. It didn't seem like you did."
Or don't.
She can see his lip quiver as he actively struggles not to sneer. "I did."
Hermione blinks. "Alright."
"Alright."
There's an impossibly long moment of silence. Strained. Painful.
Malfoy coughs and pockets his wand. "Right." He moves to step past her.
And this is the real cock-up.
Just after his shoulder brushes against hers — just before he's out of earshot — she somehow decides her life isn't complicated enough. That there's always room for more trouble.
"You can't do it, can you?"
And she hears, rather than sees him stop dead. The rough squeak of his shoes. She doesn't turn to face him, even as she twists the knife.
"You can't conjure a Patronus."
A beat of silence.
Then that professionalism dies in the water. "The fuck do you care, Granger?"
Hermione startles, turning to him now with eyes a little wide — though she really shouldn't be surprised. She poked a snake and it bit back.
"It's just an observation," she says quietly.
Malfoy's nose wrinkles as he looks her up and down. "Keep those to yourself," he snaps. Pivots and strides from the atrium, hands jammed into his trouser pockets.
It's the last she sees of him for a week.
What about it that fascinates her, she has no idea.
For several nights, she lies awake — contemplates the meaning of it. The meaning behind it, if there really is any at all.
The simplest and most basic answer, the one all the books she's already read will tell her, is that the Patronus charm takes a great deal of skill. Great discipline. That even the most talented witches and wizards need hours and hours of training to conjure it. Even more to achieve a corporeal form.
She should know. It took her weeks to learn it from Harry in Fifth Year, and she fancied herself a quick study.
Malfoy never got that training, as far as she knows. So that's that.
Only it's not. There's more to it. There — there has to be.
She doesn't know how she knows it but she does. Something's holding him back. Malfoy may've been bested by Harry in school. By her as well, many times over. But he was never any less than third in their entire class. Gifted.
He'd have figured it out on his own by now if there wasn't something standing in his way.
And for some inexplicable reason — tangled up in that agonized frustration she saw on his face and that hopeless resignation she saw in his eyes — she has to know what it is. And if practicality is what she needs to push her forward, then the fact of the matter is she can't afford to lose any more sleep over it.
Friday morning, eyes wreathed dark from exhaustion, she foregoes her usual tea and arrives at the Ministry armed with a triple shot of espresso. That, and a loose plan.
She waits all day to put it into action, second-guessing herself every other minute. Because, of course he won't go for it. Or — well, perhaps he will. If he's desperate enough. Maybe if she backs him into a proverbial corner with it. Uses that toxic Malfoy pride against him. Yes. Maybe. No. No, probably not. Or…well…
She's half-mad by lunch, and even worse off as the dreaded hour grows near. Her hands shake as she watches the clock, that espresso upsetting her usual balance. Paperwork piles up on her desk.
And when at last it's upon her — fifteen minutes before the Ministry closes for the evening — she's almost not sure she can go through with it. She stands anyhow, legs stiff. Straightens her skirt.
She has the good sense to remind herself that these are hardly the highest stakes she's dealt with. For Heaven's sake, it's only Malfoy.
The thought spurs her on. Pushes her feet forward. Before long, she's backed against the wall of the crowded lift, zipping sideways and down as she listens to Cormac McLaggen and Michael Corner discuss their weekend plans.
She tries to relax and let her mind go blank. This is a simple favor she's offering. Nothing more. A way to sate her curiosity.
Almost too suddenly, she's alone in the lift, catapulting straight down and then stopping with a jolt.
"Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes and Hexes," a voice drones, and Hermione staggers out onto the polished mahogany floor.
She's lucky she's greeted first by a friendly face.
"Hermione?" Bill Weasley looks to have been just locking up his office. "Nice surprise. How are you?" He stalks over, tossing all of his personal effects over one arm to give her shoulder a squeeze.
"Hi, Bill. Fine," she smiles, "thank you. Off for the day?"
"Yes, yes — Fleur goes barking when I'm home late, what with the Veela in —" He interrupts himself. "Unless, of course, you needed something? Happy to sta—"
"Oh, no. No, thank you. I'm — erm…I'm actually here to see Malfoy, if he's in."
One of Bill's red brows arches up, scars coming with it.
She tries to keep her face straight. "Just have a question about a case — seems best suited for him."
Bill nods, but that brow stays arched. "Right. Right, yeah." He glances down at his timepiece. "Suppose he's probably still here. Usually one of the last ones out. Second office on the left."
She smiles again. "Thank you. Give my best to Fleur."
His returning smile is tucked — a bit pinched, even — but he leaves without another word. Just the ding of the lift.
For a moment, Hermione just stares down the ominous hallway, working up the nerve to get yelled at. Possibly even called a Mudblood for the first time in years.
But the longer she stands there — the longer she thinks about it — the less ominous it feels.
It's just a hallway. And he's just Malfoy.
And Mudblood is just a word.
She breathes out and steps up to the second door on the left. Knocks twice, succinctly.
"Felix?" comes Malfoy's muffled voice. Pinched, just like his face always is. "Come in. I thought you were dropping them off tomorr—"
He breaks off as she enters.
"Oh," he says, chair halfway swiveled to face her. "You're not Felix."
And there's something odd about it. About the way his expression doesn't instantly sour. It takes a moment. Almost like his disdain forgets to kick in.
But then, of course, it does. It always does.
"What do you want, Granger?" He jolts up an icy blond brow. "Wrong floor?"
She allows herself the luxury of a long pause. Sorts out her thoughts — how she wants to play this — all the while with him just leaning back in his chair, staring at her. Like she's lost her mind.
Maybe she has.
Blinking once, she makes herself turn and shut the door. And if Malfoy looked surprised before, he's absolutely confounded when she looks back. Nevertheless, he manages to dig up some residual snark.
"Oh, I see. Going to attempt a murder?"
She ignores him, tugging once on her blazer before striding across the office to take a seat in the chair facing his desk. It's stiff. The sort of stiff that makes her think it's never been sat in before.
She doubts Malfoy gets many visitors.
To his credit, he waits for her to speak. And all things considered, she should've had plenty of time to come up with the proper phrasing. Instead, all she says is, "I can teach you."
Malfoy's surprise fades into confusion — possibly a bit of exhaustion, as well, from the way he lifts a hand to rub at his temple. "What?"
"I can teach you," she says again, more firmly now. "How to produce a Patronus."
A hot flicker in those cold eyes. Nothing more. Malfoy's learned to school his expressions when it counts. That much is clear. He leans back in his chair, and his voice is passive. "Come off it, Granger." A moment later he drops her gaze and sits up, reaching for his quill. "This isn't Hogwarts." A scratched out signature on a form. Now his tone is business-like. "You are not a tutor. And I don't need one."
She can't help it.
Her eyes catch on the corner of his Mark, revealed when the sleeve of his shirt rides up with another signature. Just the faintest flash of faded black. And it's impossible to look away before he catches her.
Quickly, she glances at her feet, feeling the blush spread out across her cheeks. "It's an important charm to know. I'm offering—"
"There's very little in this world that disgusts me more than charity." His sharp tone draws her eyes, but he doesn't look up from his papers. From more signatures. All the sloping M's and slithering Y's that make up his surname.
And perhaps it's because she doesn't like being interrupted — or perhaps it's seeing that name written out so many times — but for the briefest moment she wants to wound him.
"Except for my blood, of course."
His eyes flit up, sharp as knives. "…What?"
"My blood," she says again, pointedly avoiding his gaze. "That disgusts you more, I'm sure." She clears her throat and starts to smooth out her skirt. She's swimming into murky waters she'd rather not navigate. "Even so, it's not charity. Rest assured."
When she manages to meet his eyes again, she's surprised at the rage she finds there. Not even hidden. Plain across his face, as though he'd like nothing more in this moment than to lunge across his desk and wring her neck.
She actually shifts backward an inch.
"What is it then, Granger?" he practically growls. "Gloating?"
It takes everything in her to manage a shrug. One she hopes appears as a shrug, and not the shiver it feels like. "It's a safety concern. A liability to the Ministry. Everyone working here should know how to produce a Patronus." She swallows as his eyes somehow darken further. Forces out. "Especially a Curse-Breaker."
Malfoy appears to mull this over, breathing out audibly through his nose. Then he huffs out a laugh, and there's absolutely no humor in it. "Always dotting those I's and crossing those T's, aren't you?"
Hermione's cursing every instinct that brought her down here, now, but at the very least she manages to bite back, "I'm offering to help, Malfoy." She shoves herself to her feet. "Stupid of me, I suppose. Forgot you're the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth."
She's halfway to the door by the time he snorts.
"Look a what?"
Her hand hovers over the doorknob. "A gift horse," she echoes quietly. Hears him stand but doesn't turn back.
"Some ridiculous Muggle phrase, I'm guessing?"
His footsteps are impossibly loud, and a part of her panics as she senses him moving closer. But Malfoy doesn't seem stupid or reckless enough to try to hurt her. Not on Ministry property.
She doesn't think.
"What does it mean?" he asks, and he must be less than a meter behind her.
She finally turns, if only not to have her back to him. Finds him standing a few feet away, hands in his trouser pockets, expression unreadable.
Was he always so tall?
She shakes the thought free and juts up her chin. "It means you're ungrateful, Malfoy. As always. It means nothing's changed."
A slow blink is all she gets — equally hard to decipher.
Then, "What makes you think you could teach me?"
Is — is he actually considering it? She tries not to let her brows furrow, but she can't mask her expressions the way he can. "Because…I remember how Harry taught me."
"Then why shouldn't I go to Potter?" Malfoy takes one step closer, and her breath hitches. "If he's the best of the best. The Chosen One."
She steels herself. Clutches the doorknob behind her. "Because he would never offer."
And with that, she wrenches open the door and makes her escape.