"You're back."
There's something wholly different about the way those two words are enunciated from the last time they were spoken here.
Emphasis—a breath of relief—on the second word distinguishes the deliverance. Gives the sentence a whole new meaning in this entirely new set of circumstances.
Because the last time they were spoken in the Slytherins' apartment was on Christmas Eve. There was something warm about Draco's particular greeting to Hermione. The release of those two simple syllables from his chapped lips and the softness of his weary voice, dragged down by the weight of his withdrawal, felt like satin smoothing against Hermione's skin.
Somehow, beneath the misery of the withdrawal, Draco spoke with the voice of an angel that day, and so Hermione was reduced to a puddle of concern and compassion.
Now, today, when a sudden gust of silvery smoke fills the apartment, and five Slytherins slowly but surely start to emerge from beneath the clearing haze, it's Hermione who is eager to do the greeting.
She jumps to her feet and cranes her head in the speed of light. And her heart practically bursts forward when she lays eyes on Draco.
She sighs those words without even considering what they stood for in the past.
"You're back," Hermione exhales, charging towards the group and, with total disregard for whatever state he is currently in, dropping to her knees, throwing herself into Draco's arms, and zealously crashing into his chest.
The way she hugs him is like she's been deprived of embraces all of her life.
Even when she hears Draco groan and seethe through his teeth in an obvious indication of pain, Hermione can't help but hold onto him tightly. Constrict his neck with her arms and dip her head into the crook between his neck and head to just smell him, remember him, be with him.
She's attached, ascribed, transfixed to his body. From one bone to the next, with just a patch of ligament bonding them together, Hermione squeezes Draco like she's bound to lose him again.
She feels a hand touch her lower back, but judging by the angle of the placement, it's not Draco's.
"Hermione." The voice is Theo's. As distracted as Hermione is by Draco's sudden presence, she can still discern who it is that's attempting to calm her down. "Hermione, be careful with him—"
"Granger." Now that—that'sDraco's voice. And it's just as soft as she remembers, but it's also stern. Coarse. Singed with a hint of self-negligibility—like whatever he's quietly groaning about is not really all that important. "I'm fine, I'm fine—"
"No, no," Hermione repeats, shaking her head and gripping him a little tighter. "No, I'm not letting you go, no—"
Hermione wonders if what she just said sounds weak. But that's just for a moment. Her self-doubt is soon replaced with that same, initial sense of panic, and then she's right back to refusing to let go of him. She's right back to denying any other source of warmth. Draco's arms do the trick—always have. How can she possibly pull away now?
"Hermione," Daphne whispers from behind her as she places her hands upon Hermione's shoulders and begins to lightly tow her out of Draco's arms. "He needs a moment. Let us look at him—"
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispers to Draco, ignoring everyone and everything else around them and simply feeding him with her genuine regrets—moments of shame that she deems necessary for reconciliation. "I'm sorry. I should've stayed. I should've stayed with you. I should've waited for you and helped you escape—"
"Granger—"
"I'm sorry," she continues, apology after apology gushing out of her mouth like a lively stream. She just can't seem to stop—not when she's been overwrought with anxiety since parting from them all. "I should've waited for you, or come back for you at the very least—"
"Stop," Draco mutters into her hair. "Granger, stop—"
"Hermione." That's Blaise. And judging by the elocution of her name, Hermione slowly begins to consider the consequences of clinging onto Draco too hard. Blaise tugs her arm lightly, untwining it from Draco's shoulders and then taking her right hand in his. "Let us take a look at him. Please."
Hermione fights the truth—the surefire knowledge. But realizing that she has to desert his arms at some point, Hermione finally relents. Bends to the will of the universe and allows Blaise to guide her out of Draco's own now taut embrace.
And when she's able to look at him, resting on his knees, supported by Theo and Pansy on either side of him, and she notices that his head is hanging rather limply and that there's a small cut that runs across his left cheekbone, the surrounding skin swollen in a beet red hue, Hermione gasps lightly, granting her lips to part in astonishment.
Draco looks up at her with his tired eyes. And then he surreptitiously rolls them. "I'm fine," he insists. "Seriously, Granger. I told you we were all fine and that we would be back soon."
"Yeah, we saw," Adrian interjects, leaning his head over the side of the couch and peering at Draco from across the room. "B-Brilliant Patronus you have there, my wise and brave Dragon. Never before seen s-spectacle, and I got a front row seat. I'm c-counting my blessings."
Draco looks over Hermione's shoulder at Adrian. Accidentally allows an unpretentious and unfraudulent smile to shine through his stoic expression.
Rushing almost immediately to Adrian's side, Blaise kneels on the ground beside the couch and throws his arms around him with a laugh. Harry has to shift backwards towards the window to allow Blaise the proper space for reuniting with his friend. There's a universal yet silent sigh of relief that comes from everyone in the apartment who witnesses Adrian lift his arms and slowly wrap them around Blaise's back to return the jovial and amicable gesture.
Blaise laughs and sighs in relief when Adrian eventually falls back onto the cushions. Wipes a stray tear from his left eye and then pats Adrian's outside shoulder.
While the eyes of the Slytherins rest on Adrian in relief, Hermione cannot take hers off of Draco. Physically refuses pull her gaze away from the man in front of her. Draco's like this blinding light that lures her in and holds her captive, but it's not involuntary, not forced, not artificial. It's this compulsory need to be sure in the knowledge that he's safe. It's this undying blaze inside of her that combusts when she notices that he's in pain. It's the promise she made to herself to protect them. Help them.
Regardless of the slash on his cheek, Hermione is just relieved that Draco has returned. Perhaps that's selfish of her—perhaps she shouldn't be so comforted by the struggle he went through in order to come back—but she can't help it. She wants to scream in gratitude. Throw herself around him again and just hold on for dear life. Letting him go like that—letting any of them go, really—is too draining to think about any longer.
"His ankle," Theo says, glancing down at Draco's foot.
Hermione patiently watches as Theo and Pansy help maneuver Draco's legs out from under himself so that he can sit firmly on the ground. They stretch his legs forward, leading Draco to grit his teeth in pain. Delicately, Pansy leans forward and rolls up his pant leg to inspect his ankle—his red—almost purple—completely swollenankle.
A moment away from channeling all of the Healer spirits in the universe, Hermione scrambles backwards and retrieves her wand from the floor at the base of the couch. Crawls back to where Draco sits and grips the wand tightly, preparing it for use.
Her voice is steady and determined. "Let me help—"
"Granger—"
"Malfoy—"
"It's fine," he maintains, but how canthat be fine? How can those red and purple hues meshing together and enflaming his skin not be causing him such concentrated, powerful pain? How, even now, when his ankle is about a moment from being reduced to sticks and slush, can he not just accept her help?
Hermione shakes her head. Stands firm in her intentions. Pushes him to venture outside of his comfort zone and just say "yes."
"No," she responds, steadying her wand against his ankle with the notion that she'll do it either way. "Let me just help you. Please."
Draco stares at her for a few moments in intense contemplation. Hermione knows how strongly he hates that word—knows that in his eyes it equates to weakness.
But were the eyes of the world to fall on Draco in the next moment—the moment when he nods, when his eyes glitter and his tense shoulders fall lax—then it would see Draco as being strong. Self-aware. Not weak—resilient.
It's how Hermione sees him, anyways.
So, she centers her wand on his ankle and whispers, "Episkey."
Followed by a sharp and acute crack in the air, Draco emits a quick groan and slams the palm of his hand against the ground. He plunges his head back and glares at the ceiling, attempting to shield the pain of the healing process. But already Hermione can see the color slowly start to fade, and after a few moments, it's been reduced to a soft, pink shade. The inflammation sinks away, and Draco flexes his foot slowly to test the precision of the spell.
He seethes in pain for a moment but quickly becomes used to the sore feeling. And then, lowering his head and meeting Hermione's line of vision, Draco forms a flat, barely visible smile with his lips. Nods in gratefulness and then slowly—very slowly—reaches his hand out to touch her face. Pull her in. Guide her towards him yet again and wrap his arm around her shoulder for a hug.
He hugs her. Initiates the affectionate contact.
By then, the others have circled around Adrian and Harry, offering words of affirmation and occasionally giggling when Adrian unmistakably cracks several jokes to lift their spirits. As they shower one another with tales of longing, brief words of support, and harmonious jokes, Hermione and Draco find a sort of haven on the floor of the apartment. Hugging Draco on the ground in this authentic, organic, perfectly tranquil way, Hermione feels another slice of peace embed within her heart. She hopes that it's found a home in Draco's, too.
Curiosity guides her next thought. "You conjured a Patronus," she whispers.
Draco nods, tilting his head against hers. "Yes."
Hermione inhales briefly. "I... didn't know that you could."
There's a long pause, followed by Draco's tepid response. "I didn't know that I could either."
She wants to ask about the memory he used to form his Patronus, but she refrains. Forces herself to be content with the knowledge that he was able to perform this sophisticated, emotionally driven spell using some happy memory. Because that in itself is a feat worth celebrating. Worth holding him a little closer.
"You're dying to know how I was able to do it, aren't you?"
Hermione snickers under her breath. And when she pulls away to cup Draco's cheeks with her hands—gently slide the pad of her thumb just below the cut on his bone—she sees that the right corner of Draco's lips is pulled up in a trying smile.
"Wasn't easy," he continues, dipping his eyes down for a moment. "It felt more like desperation—this compulsive need to reassure everyone that we were safe—than happiness which drove the spell to work." Silver irises meet bronze when Draco lifts his eyes back up again. "I just thought that you ought to know that we were okay."
Hermione has to sit on that reality for a moment. Desperation and communication compelled his Patronus to take flight—soar through the sky and then leap through the apartment window. It was all to assure his remaining friends that he and the others were fine.
And so what does that say about Draco, exactly? Perhaps that his relationships with everyone here are the most important thing to him. Perhaps that, when in times of desperation, Draco prefers to turn to his friends for comfort. And perhaps that there was something so special at the apartment—so undeniably important to Draco's happiness—that he simply had to conjure a Patronus for them.
Crookshanks. It had to have been Crookshanks.
Or perhaps Harry—the love of his life. They are newlyweds after all.
"It was brilliant," Hermione responds with a smile. "Really. I realized it was yours and just—"
She doesn't finish her sentence because she finds herself mesmerized by the way Draco is looking back at her. There's this glow to his eyes and a hint of satisfaction to his smile. He looks proud of himself, and that causes Hermione's heart to flutter.
"It was just such a relief."
"Yeah," he starts, nodding his head in reflection. "It was a relief for me too."
Their conversation is interrupted when Theo suddenly exclaims, "You're kidding!"
Hermione turns her head over her shoulder, and Draco looks past Hermione to fixate on the already flushed out conversation taking place near the couch. Surrounding Adrian, the Slytherins listen intently as he retells the events of the previous night.
It's funny—Adrian only overdosed last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago. Yet it feels like days since it happened.
Hermione still can't wrap her head around the tumultuous events of the evening. How something tragic turned into something organically perfect, and then another obstacle yielded a rescue mission so necessary—so essential—that every other responsibility and every fear of straying from the law or acting within the boundaries of mandates seemed entirely unimportant. And it all took place in the span of less than a day.
That's the peculiar thing about time. Its speed fluctuates by day. The sun rises, then sets, and then the moon rises, then sets, and time works its way around those beings, casting shadows and drawing tides and generating heat without fault. And time moves solely based on the events of the day, which begs the question of whether it really has any meaning at all? Whether or not it is dependent on the rest of the phenomena of the world? Whether time really is an enigma or is just something to embrace?
In any case, less than twenty-four hours feels surreal to Hermione. Wholly impossible in this otherwise infinitesimal world.
"Not kidding," Adrian responds, tapping his index finger against his chest. "One minute I'm in the restroom, m-minding my own business, and the next thing I know, Aberfield and Bruiser are in there with me, holding me down and forcing this... liquid... down my throat. And then I started to feel w-weird. Out of control. And there was this voice that was coercing me to snort the cocaine, and I—I couldn't help it. It was like I was intrinsically drawn to it. Like I had absolutely no authority over what I was doing."
"That's terrible," Daphne sighs, placing her hand on Adrian's left arm, right where his bandage is still wrapped tightly around his skin.
But as quickly as she touches him, Daphne has to pull away in a quick yelp. She holds her fingers with her other hand and gazes down at the discolored bandage. Mouth dropping in shock, Daphne cranes her neck to look at Blaise—Blaise, who's already inspecting the bandage with a confused and disturbed expression.
"Those psychotic bastards," Pansy seethes, studying the ominous phenomenon on his arm. "What did they do to you in St. Mungo's?"
Adrian clears his throat. The way his eyes crease and his cheeks flush leads Hermione to believe that perhaps the pain which he was feeling from his arm had vanished when his friends returned to his side, only to return at the mention of the grotesque spectacle. It's like the aching, the stinging, the burning reappears with double the discomfort.
"It's all sort of hazy, but I think B-Bruiser was injecting me with something," Adrian responds, glancing down at his forearm. "I had a little needle in my hand, right—" he points to a spot on the back of his left hand— "here. But I don't know what exactly was in the fluids."
Hermione knows. She knows, and she hates herself for knowing, for not being able to pinpoint and comprehend the clear immorality and corruption embedded in the program and lurking in the faulty Draught of Peace that Aberfield brewed almost every day.
"Nulliwinkle," Hermione blurts. The Slytherins turn to look at her, initially confused. "It was Nulliwinkle," she continues. "The same plant that Draco and I found out Aberfield was using to reverse the effects of the Draught of Peace."
"You mean the plant that was making our bodies ache so badly that our marks started to move?" Theo asks, furrowing his eyebrows and clenching his fist in anger.
Hermione recoils. Thinks he's angry at her.
But then Theo releases the pressure in his fist and exhales out of his nostrils. Drops his head and pats Adrian's calf with his hand three times. Slowly. He lowers his forehead in the palm of his hand and sighs despondently.
It's likely he's more angry at the world than he is with Hermione. That's what she hopes, at least.
"It must've been an incredibly high dosage," Blaise starts, his eyes glazing over Adrian's wound, "Because that smell—even the sound—"
"And the pain," Adrian adds, forcing a cheeky grin. "Don't forget about my s-searing pain, Healer Zabini."
Blaise compulsively smiles. "Yes. We can always count on you to state the obvious, can't we?"
"Just making sure you're all aware that I am still the star of this show," Adrian grumbles, lifting his finger and tracing the back of it across Blaise's jaw.
"Oh, we've known for quite some time now," he playfully answers, gently swatting his finger away from his face. "Really, though. The severity of the wound on your arm is... daunting. We only started noticing bursts of pain after a few months of ingesting the potion. If it did that much damage to your arm in only one night..." Blaise trails off, latching his tongue between his teeth and shaking his head, like he can't bear to say the words that float around in his head. Taunt him. Terrify him. "I just... can't imagine how much worse it could've gotten."
"You mean, I could've lost an arm?" Adrian asks, widening his eyes like a puppy-dog and bending his lips in a playful frown. His voice mimics an innocent child's, the intonation ripe with mischief and mockery. And to round out the joke, he turns to Harry and says, "That'd have been a shame for us, huh, Potter?"
Harry chokes on a laugh, pushing hot air out of his mouth in a drowned-out bleat. When he composes himself, he turns his lips inward and shakes his head.
Behind her, Hermione can hear Draco let out a laugh as well. It's solemn and calm, and she wants so badly to turn around and gaze at the smile she knows is paired with the sound of his satin laugh. But she refrains, letting the burst of happiness in her body pull her lips up in a grin so wide that her cheeks ache with pressure.
Pansy shakes her head, attempting to guard her high-pitched giggling sounds. "The sheer fact that you can crack such inappropriate jokes at a time such as this—"
"Oh, w-won't you let a poor boy cope the way he must?" Adrian pleads, dipping his head to the side to complete the puppy-dog look. "It's a surefire method, Parkinson. Humor. Basking in misery. Searching for little silver-linings in seas of woefulness." Adrian turns to Hermione and points his finger at her. "That's a nice, big word, huh Granger?"
Hermione nods at the recollection of their game, but she's even more enchanted by the willpower present in Adrian's behavior. Not one hour ago he was tied to a hospital bed, his body suffering under a plant so malicious, so treacherous, so bloody painful, and now he's in his apartment, cracking jokes as if it never happened. As if being with his friends again in this tranquil space is like a natural remedy to the dark magic imbued in his system. He's stronger than it—that's for certain.
It's in that next moment, when Adrian offers a perfectly genuine smile, that Hermione realizes what she has to do. Her heart twists with anxiety as she contemplates her next step. She's fully aware of the necessity of it all—standing up to her boss. Confronting him. Forcing him to admit what's been happening.
She has to speak to Aberfield.
She has to speak to Kingsley, as well.
To let this go another second without fully articulating her concerns—stepping beyond her comfort zone and addressing the severity of the situation—would be inexcusable. She could've done so much more before. Allowing herself to make the same mistake again is not an option. Fear cannot hold her back—not when the people that she has grown to love are getting hurt. Not when they're so damn close to happiness. Not when she is capable of enacting change.
The Ministry. She has to go. Now.
It's only the early evening. If she leaves now, it's possible that she'll be able to stop Kingsley on his way out. Explain everything that's happened in detail, absolutely nothing spared. And once he found it in his heart to trust her, then they could both go to Aberfield and confront him together. Bring down his program and actually do some fucking good for the Slytherins.
Sighing, Hermione lifts her eyes and glances at the others. "I have to go talk to them," she says, engaging with their irises in a plea. "Kingsley. Aberfield. I have to go and explain everything."
"Alone?" Theo asks, tipping his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.
It takes a moment, but Hermione eventually nods. "Yes. I just don't want you all to get into any more trouble than we all are in already. It would probably be best if I just went alone."
The Slytherins exchange worried glances. Hermione doesn't even bother turning around to see the expression on Draco's face.
"You've all been through so much this past day," Hermione justifies. "Let me do this for you."
"We can come with you—"
"No," Hermione insists. "It's alright, really. I'm the one who forced all of you into this mess, thinking that it would actually help. But I know now that this... can't be forced. This process can't be coerced or manipulated or done out of anything other than an actual desire to help." Gnawing at her lower lip, Hermione relaxes her shoulders and lets her heart do the talking. "I need to bring this program down. I need to reconcile what I've put you all through. Just... let me do this for you all. Please."
To her surprise, she hears a short scoff from behind her. Bending her eyebrows inward, Hermione turns over her shoulder just fast enough to see Draco finish rolling his eyes.
"When are you going to stop trying to be a hero all the time?" Draco asks, his tone condescending but his eyes—those damn eyes—sparkling with admiration. Like they can't help it. Like as much as he wants to yell at her for inserting herself into this strenuous position for their sake, he can't help but be in awe of her bravery.
"It's nothing to do with that," Hermione responds, to which Draco raises his eyebrows again as if to say oh, really? You expect me to believe that the Type A, insufferable, swotty little Gryffindor in front of me doesn't have an uncontrollable hero complex?
"Care to explain the stunt in St. Mungo's, then?" Draco retorts.
Hermione is quick to respond. "What, are you referring to me saving your life?"
"By putting yourself in danger?"
"Well, it was worth it, wasn't it?"
"Could've ended very differently."
"But it didn't, and that's what matters."
"Oi," Adrian exclaims, rolling his eyes. "Like a married couple you two are."
"Actually, that's Potter and Malfoy," Blaise comments, followed by a snicker.
Adrian's eyes dance between Harry and Draco, his lips dipped in a confusing frown. "Damn. You overdose one night and miss a whole fucking wedding—"
"Merlin's ball sack," Draco groans, dropping his head as the others fill the room in resounding laughter. Hermione drops her bickering with Draco and allows herself to laugh at Adrian's inappropriate yet hilarious self-deprecating joke. It's music to her ears—the sound of everyone laughing.
Once the harmonious energy dies down again, Hermione turns and watches as Draco bites his tongue. And after several seconds, he glances back up at her with this new attitude in his eyes: I know I can't stop you from doing this.
And as infuriated as she is that Draco has a point—that her hero complex is alive and thriving—Hermione can't help but emulate his smile in a way that reads, you can't stop me. My mind is made up.
"Just be careful Granger, alright?" Theo advises Hermione. "Those fuckers are unpredictable."
Adrian's advice is slightly different from Theo's: "Give Kingsley hell and give Aberfield a nice kick in the groin from me."
As Hermione shakes her head in delight, she feels a hand wrap around her wrist. She turns around and focuses on Draco again. Smiles comfortingly when she catches a glimpse of the amazement in his eyes.
"Don't do anything too heroic," he says, lowering his head. "Seriously, Granger. Don't make me worry about you and don't make me apparate over there. I know you don't need saving, so for the love of the gods, don't make me turn into a Gryffindor who runs blindly into these kinds of situations."
Hermione places her hand over his. Smiles once more for good measure and for show.
"Don't worry," she says, "I'll be fine. I'll just have a mature, honest, and civil conversation with Kingsley and Aberfield."
The others exchange skeptical glances, to which Hermione responds, "Really. I plan to keep it very, very peaceful."
Whereas Hermione would normally float across the Atrium and glide down the corridors of the Ministry, today she struts. Marches. Determinedly strides across the tiled floor and weaves her way through the bustling throng of departing employees.
Beating against traffic like she's trying to break through a windstorm, Hermione treks through the Ministry, the object of her visit plastered behind the lids of her eyes so that every time she blinks, she's reminded of her purpose.
There's no time to flounce, linger, or allow the crowd to get the best of her. Every moment that she's not confronting Aberfield about his immoral abuse towards the Slytherins is a moment wasted. Exploiting any more time would be completely unethical, especially when every second she's spent with the Slytherins has been a worthwhile journey of self-discovery and reconciliation. When time has gifted her with such fruitful gifts, she can't allow any more of it to go without doing the right thing.
So, Hermione walks with determination and purpose. Shoves her way through hordes of workers and lets her tunnel vision guide her to confrontation.
She knows that she promised peace, but she suddenly feels the wings of a dragon materialize on her back. Can physically sense the scales surge from her spine and the heat exude from her nostrils, ears, and mouth.
Letting go in the way that Draco taught her doesn't feel like such a terrible idea. Not when Kingsley and Aberfield and Bruiser deserve to suffer under it.
It's by some sheer stroke of luck that when Hermione turns the corner to Kingsley's office, she stumbles upon Rowena again. Kingsley's assistant pleasantly traipses down the corridor in Hermione's direction, and so with tenacious steps and a heart racing faster than a shooting star, Hermione jumps into her line of vision and storms towards her.
"Yes, Hermione?" Rowena asks when she approaches her.
Hermione's response is curt and sharp, defined by the gravity of the situation. "Is Kingsley here?" she asks, her eyes glancing towards the massive, wooden door to his office. "I really need to speak to him."
Rowena bends her lips in an almost patronizing frown and shakes her head, much to Hermione's indignation. "No," she responds. "I'm afraid he's still traveling at this time for a few more days. Would you like me to—"
"What about Quincy?" Hermione interrupts, almost lifting her hand to dismissively wave the suggestion but stopping herself from coming off too strong.
"Well, he should be in his office—"
She doesn't bother waiting for Rowena to finish her sentence. Upon hearing the confirmed whereabouts of Aberfield, Hermione's tunnel vision grows narrower, and she spins on her heels and practically flies to his office. Round the corridors and up the flights of stairs, Hermione arrives at the fifth floor of the Ministry.
And when she eventually turns the corner of that fateful corridor and reaches Aberfield's door, she doesn't bother knocking. Miles past her stage of being patient or sympathetic or giving anyone the benefit of the doubt, Hermione barges right into the office.
She's unshocked to find Aberfield and Bruiser hunched over the back of his desk in the midst of a seemingly important conversation.
Their heads jerk up at the same time, and judging by the unsurprised expression on Aberfield's face, Hermione infers that he's been expecting her. Knew that her Gryffindor tendencies would draw her here at some point.
Figures. Bruiser is still in her white coat, so she's probably come straight from St. Mungo's to inform Aberfield of what happened there. How Hermione, Harry, and the Slytherins were able to rescue Adrian from her prison. Hermione estimates from the expression on Bruiser's face—flushed cheeks, dipped eyebrows, and a frown so irate that her cheekbones protrude—that Bruiser is enraged. Wrathful, even.
But she's not a dragon. She's not Hermione, whose anger hasn't even begun to manifest.
Aberfield clears his throat and speaks first, but he's cut off rather quickly. "Hermione—"
"I have a lot of things to say to you," Hermione starts, bunching her hands into fists and sticking her nails into her palms. They're balmy and flushed with nervousness, but the surge of incense that crosses her brain helps alleviate the trepidations enough for her to continue. "And these things will probably get me fired for good, but I don't care."
Hermione turns her attention to Bruiser, who menacingly taps her long, polished fingernails on the mahogany desk. She sneers at the Healer with a curl of her lip. And then her eyes wander to the shelves on the left wall, and she desperately searches for the jar of Nulliwinkle. Unable to locate it through the irrationally discombobulated stack of jars, Hermione turns back to face Aberfield and Bruiser yet again. She grits her teeth. "Where's the Nulliwinkle?"
Aberfield tips an eyebrow—looks like the world's biggest arsehole while he does it. "Whatever do you mean by that—"
"The Nulliwinkle," Hermione repeats with more force. "The plant you've been using to dilute the Draught of Peace. The plant you used to stimulate the Slytherins' Dark Marks. The plant you used to poison Adrian while he was in St. Mungo's." Hermione takes a step forward, unphased by the way Aberfield patronizingly glares at her. "Where is it now?"
Aberfield chuckles. Merlin, she feels so angry that she considers how satisfying it would be to someday put Aberfield in Azkaban for his misconduct. Wave goodbye on the other side of the metal bars and then perhaps flip her middle finger in the air for good measure.
"Those are baseless and preposterous accusations—"
"Are they?" Hermione tests, the tone of her voice riddled with impatience. "Your obtuse attitude about this astounds me—"
"Watch your tone, Ms. Granger," Aberfield warns.
"It is clear as day that this program has always been about something other than rehabilitation to you," Hermione restarts, shaking her head and glancing up at the ceiling. "Using a dangerous substance in the Draught of Peace—one that not only nullifies but reverses the properties of the potion it is added to, is a sordid breach of trust between the head of a program and the participators. This initiative was never about reintegration to you. It was all about control."
Aberfield grows dangerously quiet, the color in his face turning a scarlet color.
"And I know things about you," Hermione admits, recalling that first day back when Aberfield pulled the 'mudblood' stunt. "I know what you are. So... maybe this program isn't just about control, but also about revenge."
She thinks she's got him. Hermione is confident in her calculations. Aberfield created this program to get revenge on the purebloods who bullied him in school. It's retribution, payback, vengeance.
But when Aberfield curls his lips in a sinister grin, Hermione considers that maybe she hasn't hit the nail on the head just yet.
Aberfield tuts at her. The sound of his tongue smacking against the roof of his mouth is terrifying as it echoes in the small office. Bounces off the walls and permeates into Hermione's brain like a flight warning.
"Yes," he finally speaks, "We all know things about each other now, don't we?"
Cryptic, to say the least. Hermione's jaw locks in anxiety as Aberfield steps to his right and gestures to the vials on the shelf.
The Location Beams.
The trackers.
Hermione's arms tense, then her chest, and then in a matter of seconds her whole body grows overwrought with fear as the memories of her time with the Slytherins flood her brain in a reel that's glorious to her yet also highly implicating.
Aberfield is already glaring at her with victory in his eyes as he reaches for one of the vials, removes it from its nook in the wooden casing, and twirls it in his finger. Hermione briefly notices the initials on the side: P. P.
"For example, I know all about your secret conversation with Ms. Parkinson just before the holiday when she complained about her Dark Mark. On that same day, you burst into Shacklebolt's office with that very concern. Pity that he wasn't able to sympathize." Aberfield pauses and ruminates over the initials on the vial. "To be candid with you, I didn't think I would ever see the day when Pansy Parkinson trusted Hermione Granger with sensitive information. As I recall, her mother was rather cold when I worked with her in the initial program. I figured that Ms. Parkinson here would adopt those traits in this program as well, but alas, it seems as though she's different."
With that, Aberfield places Pansy's vial back in the wooden slot and then reaches for another one just next to it, the initials being T. N.
"Witnessed quite a few things happen through this beam as well," Aberfield resumes, turning it in his fingers in the same menacing way. "Heart to heart conversations about keeping Ms. Parkinson safe, a faulty grip while walking up a staircase that led to a brief moment of pain from his—what did you call it—stimulated mark? And even a very special, small gift in a nightclub. Small, white, round. Ingenious little thing. Appears as though you and Mr. Nott have become quote close. He would, it seems, go to the ends of the earth for you. Make you feel like you are a part of this group without dragging you down with them."
As Aberfield releases a small hmpfhand reaches for another vial, Hermione's heart rate heightens. She realizes that Aberfield has probably known all of this all along—perhaps even watched her snort that line of cocaine while on their holiday break.
Yet he kept her on the team. Didn't fire her. And that's what befuddles Hermione the most.
D. G. is the next vial to be selected.
"Sweet girl," Aberfield derisively whispers. "Incredibly trusting. Dependent. Perhaps... a little too helpless."
"She's not helpless," Hermione snaps, her nostrils flaring as she does so. "She's one of the strongest people I have ever met. Her loyalty is unmatched."
"Yes, speaking of Ms. Greengrass' loyalty," Aberfield says, ignoring Hermione and reaching for the next vial, marked B. Z. He spins the vial in his hand. "I had high hopes for Mr. Zabini." Looking over his shoulder at Bruiser, Aberfield shrugs. "As did Cleo. He showed the most promise in the group. Clearly one of the stronger ones. Smarter, too. But he's been held back time and time again by everyone, especially that little blonde—"
"Stop it," Hermione says, but Aberfield is already reaching for the next vial.
"Ah, Mr. Pucey," Aberfield relentlessly continues. "What is there not to be said about this lively spirit? Very welcoming towards you, yes, but why? Why washe so adamant about creating a hospitable environment for you to join them?" Aberfield tuts as he darts his eyes back and forth between the vial and Hermione. "Generous, too. Heart to hearts in bathrooms of all sorts. He's grown quite attached not only to you, but to two other important things in your life, hasn't he? A kneazle... and the Chosen One."
Hermione grits her teeth at the mention of Crookshanks and Harry. Her protective instincts take over.
"You know," Aberfield continues, shaking Adrian's vial in his hand, "Speaking hypothetically, it's people like him that often make the perfect target. He's the glue of the group. The one holding everything together—or, at least, trying to. The one who brings joy to each and every network of relationships. He builds and maintains those webs that would otherwise be quite difficult to cultivate. Without him, things would be rather bleak." Aberfield raises an eyebrow at Hermione. "But you might know that already."
Teeth like jelly at this point from clenching down on them too hard, Hermione exhales a shaky breath. Feels her ears turn red with anger. It's all too much—the way he speaks about her friends like they're pawns in his game, each one a piece just waiting to be stepped on, manipulated, driven for the sake of whatever sick and twisted ideas he has about life. It disgusts Hermione.
Aberfield lets out a low laugh as he reaches for the next vial: Draco's. And when he turns to Hermione and looks at her—holds Draco's vial up in the air for her to see—Aberfield is silent, though it's a deadly sort of silence. It creates this lethal, poisonous atmosphere that's almost too much for Hermione to handle.
"If you'd really like to discuss things that could get you fired—"
"That is an enormous breach of trust," Hermione contends, half-laughing at the absolute debauchery, the nerve, the fucking nerve of Aberfield to violate her privacy, Draco's privacy, all of their privacy.
"It is, isn't it?" Aberfield retorts, now looking quite angry. "It is a breach of trust between you and me.You were brought onto my program in the summer in order to help rehabilitate—"
"You have to stop using that word," Hermione interrupts, shaking her head at the fact that he's still referring to all of this as rehabilitation, therapy, recuperation, treatment—whatever the fuck else he can synonymize. "What you are doing is not rehabilitation—"
"Regardless," Aberfield continues, "You were hired by me to assist with the program. Your objectives were simple: facilitate discussions, keep the environment organized, and keep track of their progress through weekly reflections. Yet you've continuously strayed very far from those goals." He looks down at the vial, eyeing it maliciously. "Especially with Mr. Malfoy."
"I am not the only one who defied the initiatives," Hermione argues. "I'm not the one who wrongfully injected trackers into a group of traumatized young adults. I'm not the one who poisoned them with Nulliwinkle and made their stagnant marks come to life again. I'm not the one who enacted disciplinary practices for the sake of some sick retribution."
Aberfield laughs and shakes his head, but Hermione, only angered by the way he responds to her comment, continues to defend herself.
"Every defiant thing I did was done to protect them. To build trust between us. To understand where they were coming from and where they needed to be. My only misstep was allowing them to come back here time and time again to suffer under your insufferable bullshit. I don't regret anything else I've done with them. Not one thing."
"You are brave to admit these things," Aberfield menaces.
"I have nothing to lose. Not when I plan to have this program disbanded and you fired for your unethical approaches to rehabilitation."
Tired of pouting in anger, Bruiser finally speaks, trailing her hand along the edge of the desk as she emerges from around it. "And how do you plan to go about doing that, Ms. Granger?" she asks, leaning her backside against the desk and folding her arms over her chest.
The wheels in Hermione's blazing brain stop turning as she considers that question.
She doesn't actually know what she should do now.
She has all this new information—she's on the fucking cusp of a confession—but with Kingsley gone, who can she inform with any sort of power to remove Aberfield and Bruiser from their positions? How can she formally end this program? How can she make sure that Aberfield and Bruiser don't flee? Get to Kingsley first with another version of the story?
Her heart pounds out of her chest. Words falter. There's implicating material of her floating around those Location Beam—images of her engaging in illicit activities, destroying property, yelling about her frustrations with the program, Kingsley, Aberfield, Bruiser.
She didn't think this through. Oh, curseher Gryffindor spirit. She let her anger drive her too far, and maybe that's why she's kept it in check all these years. Because moments like these, when one is caught in the headlights like a frazzled doe on a freeway, exhibit a sign of weakness. It's embarrassing—shameful, even. She must look so pathetic, so pitiable, so fucking wretched.
Her leap of faith comes in the form of a message to the sky. She begs the celestial beings to bend in her favor. As much as she believes the cosmos to be full of bullshit, Hermione needs her own saving grace in this moment. A saving grace that glimmers like a star. Like the moon.
Bruiser quietly clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she inches even closer to Hermione. The Healer sneers at the Golden Girl with the curve of her upper lip, and that makes Hermione feel even more like a doe in the headlights. Fucking weak. And she hates feeling weak. Prefers to channel the dragon whenever she can.
"Kingsley will hear about this," Hermione says, but it takes everything within her to not cringe at her own statement, and it's because she knows that Kingsley is about as useful as a doormat. He's been blind since the beginning of the program, bothered by everything else in the wizarding world—everything besides the rehabilitation of former Death Eaters. Who's to say how he'll react now? This was never a priority for him—that's been clear for a while. But she persists, using her words as her weapon. "I'll tell anyone that I can. Anyone that will listen."
"And I suppose you think that they will blindly listen to you because—what—you saved the world a few years ago?" Aberfield asks.
"We'll all testify against you," Hermione warns, instinctively taking a step back when she notices that both Bruiser and Aberfield are inching towards her. "The things you've done will not be kept a secret." She inhales deeply and preaches her piece, the proclamation that defines just how far she'll go for the Slytherins: "I'll give up whatever future I had predetermined for myself if that means I can save all of them and drag both of you down with me."
Aberfield glares at Hermione. His threatening brown eyes pierce into hers like daggers, causing her stomach to lurch with anxiety.
"How valiant of you," he taunts, inclining his head to the side.
"Like a sacrificial lamb," Bruiser continues with another step, and now she's far too close for Hermione's comfort. So much so that she intuitively dips her hand into the back pocket of her pants—feels around for her wand. And when Hermione finds it, she wraps her fingers around the wood and prepares to pull it free.
Aberfield tuts. "It's a shame, really. We could've built a stronger world for everyone."
"Your definition of a stronger world is distorted and transfixed in harmful practices," Hermione responds, hoping to buy some time.
"It's rooted in reality—"
"It's rooted in hatred. Retribution. A lack of compassion and understanding."
He chuckles. Obviously finds Hermione's comment to be amusing.
And then he divulges into a rant. "The world is an unfair place, Ms. Granger. It chews you up and spits you out. That's how the world works. How it's always worked. And it doesn't matter how devoted or how loyal you are to someone or something. It doesn't matter how much time and effort you put into pushing an agenda. None of that matters if the world refuses to accept your flaws. If you're born with the wrong fucking blood, then you suffer for it."
Hermione bends her eyebrows at that last statement. Analyzes it. Considers the meaning between the words and the significance of the outburst.
"Unfairness seems to be something you focus on quite often," Hermione says, lifting her wand ever so slightly out of the pocket of her pants. She holds it in her hand, ready to whip it out in front of her should she need to defend herself further. "Why are you projecting your misfortunes on them? What did any of them do to you?"
Aberfield clenches his jaw at the question, so Hermione asks him again.
"What made you so vengeful?"
Hermione doesn't expect what happens next.
It unfolds rather fast. Totally unexpected.
The space between her, Aberfield, and Bruiser is suddenly filled with an explosion of white mist, and out of the haze emerges a tall figure. Hermione backs up into the door and watches in awe as the silhouette materializes into a human being, and when the haze dissipates, she realizes who lurks beneath the smog.
Hermione never thought that dragon attacks would become so ordinary a spectacle for her.
Before she knows it, she sees Draco with his right arm wrapped around Bruiser's neck and his left hand holding a wand against her skull.
Bruiser lets out a whimper, her throat constricted beneath Draco's forearm, but Draco doesn't falter. Doesn't remove his wand from her forehead. In fact, he drives it deeper against her skull. One inch further and he'd break right through the membrane.
"Nobody move" is all he says, and judging by the look in his argent eyes, he means it.
Aberfield slowly raises his hands in halfhearted submission as Bruiser attempts to call for him.
"Quincy—"
"Shut the fuck up," Draco sneers into her ear, simultaneously rolling his eyes.
"Alright," Aberfield starts, "Calm down, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco scoffs, digging his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. "You know something, Aberfield? The more you say such pitiful shit like that, the more I want to slice your head off and feed it to dogs, the Inferi, fucking Dementors if they'd have it. I'm sure soul-sucking is getting boring for them."
"How dare you—"
"I'll kill both of you," Draco says, nodding his head. "I swear to Salazar that I'll fucking do it."
"No, you won't," Aberfield carefully taunts. "Do you know why I say that, Mr. Malfoy? It's because you'd be sent to Azkaban without question. And you have too much to live for."
For a second, Draco's eyes dip to face Hermione. He gazes at her, desperation plaguing his glance as he inhales deeply.
That look sets Aberfield off. Confirms his suspicions and pushes him further. "Yes. I've seen the memories. You wouldn't want to do something rash that might sully your time with Ms. Granger here. Say, kidnap and attack a muggle? Hold him captive and torture him for information?"
Draco's eyes widen. As do Hermione's.
"Or attack the head of your rehabilitation program and your assigned Healer?"
The comment has the opposite effect on Draco than Aberfield intended. He smiles deviously and laughs at the insinuation. "On the contrary," he starts, gripping his wand a little tighter. "I'd do anything for her. Kill. Go to prison. You can send Dementors to suck out my soul, and I promise you that the only image you will see embedded in the bright light of my soul is of her. My dying breath will be her name if it comes to that."
"Her name?" Aberfield sneers. "You can't even say her name."
It's true. Draco's never said her name before. Probably cringes just thinking about it. There's something comfortable about the way that they refer to one another—Malfoy, Granger. It just makes sense. She's never really questioned it. Never wanted to force it.
It's why Hermione is shocked when Draco snarks at that comment of Aberfield's.
"You honestly think that I wouldn't do or say anything for her? You've seen the memories. You've heard the things I've said to her. You should know very well by now that I would bleed this whole world dry for Hermione Granger."
Hermione's breath is in her throat. Lodged on the very cusps of her trachea. When she exhales, the pressure in her neck and chest only doubles. And it's all because of the way her name leaves his lips like it's a prayer. A blessing. Something to be proud of.
The utterance of her name throws Aberfield for a spin. His mouth gapes open, and his eyes tighten in shock. When he finally shuts his mouth, he angrily exhales out of his nostrils.
Draco raises an eyebrow at Aberfield and digs the wander further against Bruiser's skull, causing her to grunt yet again in massive discomfort. "Every last person on this earth who even looks ather the wrong way will receive my wrath. Do you know what my name means, Aberfield? Do you know what I always have and always will represent?"
Aberfield doesn't respond. Just tenses at the malicious grin that festers on Draco's face.
"I'm a fucking dragon. And do you know what dragon's do when provoked?"
His lip curls in a grin as Aberfield takes a cautious step backwards.
Draco delivers his iconic, archetypal line. "They shower you with rage."
Swiftly redirecting the aim of his wand towards Aberfield, Draco casts a stunning spell that hits him square in the chest. The spell sends Aberfield flying across his office and into the back wall. He lies on the ground just behind his desk, completely unconscious.
Bruiser lets out a gasp and begins to struggle beneath Draco's arms, but somehow he's stronger. His hand clasps above her mouth, and he tilts his head into her neck and whispers, "Your turn, bitch."
Draco shunts her forward and trips her on the way down. Bruiser lands on her hands and knees, but before she can shuffle to her feet and retrieve her own wand from her coat pocket, Draco stuns her execution style. Glowers as the white light bursts from his wand and strikes her in the head, rendering her unconscious as well.
Hermione can't believe her eyes. Can't tame her heart from beating out of her chest. It almost pulls her down to the ground like lead, but she manages to stand upright and find Draco's eyes.
In the next moment, he's crossing the office to reach her, and when he finally does, he throws his arms around her waist and holds her tight.
Hermione follows suit, draping her arms across his shoulders and exhaling a shaky breath.
"How'd you know—"
"You took too long," Draco mumbles in her hair. "I told you I'd come if you took too fucking long."
Closing her eyes and turning her head so that it rests on top of his shoulder and in the crook of his neck, Hermione says, "I... I was only gone for twenty minutes—"
"It was twenty minutes too long."
A smile creeps on her lips, but then it's overshadowed by another thought.
"Your ankle—"
"It's fine," he whispers, his hand finding the back of her head. Hermione can picture Draco rolling his eyes as he responds to that comment, and that's comforting in itself. "You did a fair job, Granger."
Hermione pulls back and looks into his eyes. Almost leaps up on her tiptoes to close the few inches of space between us with a kiss, but he ends up beating her to it. Lowers his head, plants his hands on the sides of her face, and captures her lips in his. Exhales sweetly when she eventually pulls away and dips her forehead against his.
"What do we do?" she whispers, her eyes glancing to the side to peer at Bruiser and Aberfield's unconscious bodies.
Draco clears his throat. "I have an idea of where we can keep them. For now."
Hermione returns her gaze to Draco as he looks away.
"Amortentia," he preemptively answers. "Titus is... already looking after something there for me. Perhaps two more pieces of baggage are doable for now."
"What's already there?" Hermione asks, though judging by the things Aberfield was saying to Draco, she has a slight suspicion. Considers the possibility that it's something to do with that muggle he mentioned.
Draco doesn't answer, though. Just keeps his eyes off of Hermione's, probably because he knows that if he looks in them for even a second, he'll fall victim to the beautiful bronze and spill every fucking secret, every inner thought, every emotion he's ever known.
"Malfoy..." she whispers, dropping her hand to wrap around his wrist. "What's there?"
He gulps. Takes that leap of faith and raises his eyes to look back at her.
"It's just a vital answer to our questions. Trust me."
With that cryptic message, Draco drops his hand to wrap around hers. Finishes with another solemn "trust me," and then cranes his neck to look at Aberfield and Bruiser yet again.
She doesn't want to push him. If Hermione's learned anything, it's that forcing Draco to talk about these things only drives him away. Shuts him off further from the world around him.
So, instead of pushing, Hermione mutters, "Okay. I trust you." And then she pulls away from Draco and begins to walk towards the bodies.
But when Hermione's eyes wander for a moment to the shelf with the Location Beams, she does a double take and notices something peculiar.
There's seven of them.
Seven.
"What is it?" Draco asks as Hermione slowly approaches the shelf.
Hermione doesn't respond immediately. She reads the initials on the vial first: G. M.
Reaching forward, she pulls the vial from its spot in the wooden casing. The vessel feels heavier than the others, like the weight of the memories is heavier—filled with something dark and terrible.
"It's Graham's," she whispers. "It's his memories."
As her eyes fixate on the beam, Draco approaches Hermione from the back. She can feel him breathe near her neck as she inspects the vial for anything outstanding. But she comes up empty-handed—it's the same as the others. Just has those haunting initials written across the piece of tape on the side.
"We should bring this with us," Draco suggests, placing his left hand on her hip. "We might be able to learn more about what happened to him. Could help when we can finally put these fuckers in Azkaban." On the word 'fuckers,' Draco's grip tightens, but he's quick to release the pressure when he realizes that he's holding on a little too tight.
Hermione nods and turns around, wrapping her fingers around the vial and holding it to her heart.
She barely knew Graham, but there's something about keeping his memories close to her that becomes incredibly important. Paramount in her list of goals for proper rehabilitation.
"Come on," she says, gesturing her head to the side. She bends down and takes hold of Bruiser's limp wrist in her hand, while Draco edges around the desk and grabs Aberfield by his wrist.
Draco swivels his head to look at Hermione. "To Amortentia," he says.
Hermione nods. "To Amortentia."
They take off in separate puffs of white smoke, twirling into the air and dragging their baggage with them through the stratosphere.