Disclaimer: None of these characters or situations belong to me. I make no profit from the making of this story.
A/N: This is a re-write of an old story that I had posted on here. Don't expect much fluff here and there won't be any insta-love. As you read, please keep an eye out for any mistakes that you may see and let me know. Part of the reason that I am writing this story is to become a better writer, and so all of your critical feedback will be much appreciated. Even if you don't end up liking this story, I would like to know why. I'm not easily offended so feel free to be honest. Just no flames.
The Dangers of Floo Travel
Chapter One: Not According to Plan
Three things helped Hermione Granger stay sane after the final battle: Ron Weasley, her friends, and a five-year plan. In two weeks, the plan she spent long, sleepless nights detailing and countless hours at dawn revising would reach its conclusion with her marriage ceremony. Of course, the success of the first plan merely meant that she had the next one already prepared. Since last year.
Hermione reached for the floo powder of the Ministry fireplace, remembering Ron's reaction to her sharing parts of her next plan. Mainly, that they would have exactly two children, a boy and a girl named Hugo and Rose.
She informed him about a month ago when the two of them sat huddled close together in a booth at the Leaky Cauldron. Both of them treated Thursday afternoons with a special sort of reverence. They might cancel Friday night dates because she needed to answer a complaint or romantic weekend trips because he needed to question a witness, but their weekly lunch dates took place on Thursday afternoons. Those were set in stone. Even if she needed to steal an hour away from the chaos that was the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and he pretended to fill out auror paperwork, they met.
At her announcement about their future children, Ron sat down his butterbeer right on top of the forms in front of him. Internally, Hermione winced—those forms would reach the desk of his supervisor sticky and smelling like the pub—but Ron just gave her a solemn nod. "And if the girl is born first, we'll stick to the plan and call her Hugo. That would mean, of course, that our son will forever hate us for naming him Rose." The corners of his blue eyes crinkled. "But eventually he'll learn that years of playground teasing were a worthy sacrifice in service to the Five Year Plan."
Hermione threw a crumpled napkin at him, smothering her laugh with a press of her hand and relieved that he hadn't blown up and called her insane for the incessant planning. She never even asked him how many children he wanted to have, or if he wanted to name them Hugo and Rose. She just told him. Just like she told him when she wanted to get engaged and the date of their wedding. He let her make the decisions without complaint. Hermione's hand curled around her left forearm, as she tried to tell herself that he understood her need for control. That nothing good came from a future draped in mystery, even if that mystery lasted less than a day. An hour. A second.
Dark, mad eyes flashed in front of her.
A sudden, warm pressure on her cheek brought her back to the smell of butterbeer and fried food, and the feel of the beaten down leather of her seat. "It's OK. I get it." The breath exhaled with the whispered words tickled her ear, and as Ron leaned back, he smiled in an easy, careless way that almost made her think that he hadn't said anything at all. Almost.
Thursday afternoons with Ron let her catch the breath she needed to stay afloat the rest of the week.
Because of these lunch dates, Hermione spent fifteen minutes planning her escape from the office today. Keeping an eye out for the perfect number of stretches, yawns, roaming eyes, and twitches that hinted at just the right amount of restlessness in the office, she took out her secret weapon: a box of scones picked up that morning from a muggle bakery. Then, Hermione took the long, meandering route to the break room, making sure to open the box along the way and loudly let the secretary know about the treat she'd brought to share with everybody. Pretty soon all seven of her co-workers found one excuse or another to visit the breakroom. Except McCain.
The haggard man was married to his work, or at least, his desk. He never took a break and consistently worked through lunch. First one to arrive at the office and the last one to leave, he was also the only one left in the room to glare at her from underneath a pair of thick, graying eyebrows as she made her escape through the cubicles.
Now in front of the fireplace, Hermione tried to shrug off the guilty feeling crawling around inside at the thought of dodging work responsibilities. The problem was that there was always work. They were understaffed. Since even her own boss showed more concerned toward petty office drama and politics than getting any actual work done, the rest of the departments though of them as a joke. Luckily, her next five year plan included a transfer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
It felt like giving up, but after five years Hermione came to realize that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was a dead end. Someone always stood ready to slap her down when she tried to push for progress and change. If she wanted to actually get anything done, she needed to leave.
With that frustrated thought, Hermione threw the floo powder with a bit more force than necessary into the fireplace. The flames roared green, and Hermione winced at the sudden brightness before stepping inside. "The Leaky Cauldron."
Her words echoed: "on-on-on."
Hermione jumped. Instinctively, turning toward the sound while she zoomed past other fireplaces and hearths in a stream of green, at a speed too great to see any of the locations clearly. She forgot to keep careful control of her body. For a second in the midst of her turn, her right elbow jutted out from its usual tight position next to her side. Hermione immediately made to jerk it back in, but it was too late. She'd bumped into something—a girl with pale hands and a shining, silver ring.
She careened off course but kept her knees locked together and elbows glued to her sides. Spinning, spinning, spinning. It felt like she got thrown out of a car at high speed. She kept catching glimpses of the girl, who was being tossed around by the violent currents of the floo as well. For less than a second she saw more of that thin, womanly figure, dressed in black robes from the corner of her eye. Then, as an invisible force twisted and threw her, she caught sight of a head of sleek, brown hair flowing in circles below her. Her stomach dropped, and she squeezed her eyes. When she opened them again, she caught a flash of small feet in black boots above her. Bile and nausea rose up in her throat. She closed her eyes, head feeling light and dizzy. Anymore of this and she would pass out.
Suddenly, Hermione brushed against something solid. Great folds of fabric beat against her face. Opening her eyes and mouth, Hermione meant to call out to the other girl. To apologize. Communicate. Try to find a way to work together in getting out of this mess. But whatever she was about to say was either pulled out of her mouth and lost to the currents around them, or died on her lips before it was even formed.
For a moment, the fabric of their robes cleared out of the way, and Hermione was able to fully see who she'd bumped into. The girl looking back at Hermione had her mouth open in a neat and elegant "O." An expression that Hermione had never seen on that face before even though she was intimately familiar with it. After all, the face was her own.
Then a force jolted her up, spinning her upside down a few times like rag doll. Her purse ripped away from her shoulder. Hermione kept one hand over her right pocket, making sure that her wand stayed in place. Heart frozen in fear at what she would do if it was lost. How helpless she would become.
A sound like bubble popping, and she landed back in the current of the floo. Hermione lost control of her stomach there and watched its contents rip away from her on the strings of the current. Unfortunately, a large portion of the sick still managed to splatter itself to her robe and hair even as she stumbled out of the floo.
She landed on the stone floor of the Leaky Cauldron with a vow: never again would she take the floo. Ever. Admittedly, at the time the vow had been a muddle of nonsense words that loosely wove themselves together, while she dry-heaved on the floor. Hermione looked up, searching for someone…red…but the room spun too much for her to coherently think of whom. Her ears were plugged. She couldn't swallow.
Hermione couldn't have been on the floor for more than a few seconds, trying to get her bearings, trying to get her mind to form coherent thought, when a strong hand gripped her upper arm and roughly pulled her up. In the end, whoever had her by the arm had to half push, half carry her out of the pub or risk sweeping the floor with her robes. She couldn't stand on her own. Bright light and cold air assaulted her as soon as they made it out of the pub, but the other person didn't even slow down.
Meanwhile, she stumbled and tripped over her own feet. Hermione tried to tell whoever it was to stop and let her go, but she never managed to catch a breath. The next moment, she was shoved against a rough a wall and allowed to sag down to the ground, back scraping against brick. Placing her head between her knees, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and focused on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Ever so slowly, the ragged sound of her breaths faded away. Her head stopped pounding, and her stomach settled into something a bit calmer than a boiling geyser ready to spew. For a moment, she avoided opening her eyes, not wanting to check the current speed of the earth's rotation, but someone was there, watching her. She might be in danger, but no one had followed them from the Leaky Cauldron. At least, she didn't think so, so maybe whoever had pulled her out was a well-known acquaintance of hers.
"Finished?"
Or not. The word that hit her ears startled her. Hard, quiet, and speaking volumes about restraint and rage in its three syllables, yet said using the voice of her childhood bully. A coward and daddy's boy. A witness whose ears were deafened by fear, selfishness, and self-preservation. Someone who was also supposed to be under house arrest, at least for another year and had no right to be here. With her.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" The harsh words were on their way out of Hermione's mouth even before her eyes opened and she met Draco Malfoy's dumbfounded stare. There was no other way to describe the shock written clearly on his face. Hermione took the moment to observe him.
In some ways, he changed: taller, broader, a stronger jaw, and a harder look to his eyes. In other ways, he stayed the same: expensive black robe and boots, hair slicked back, and a familiar sneer already beginning to twist his lips. Why had Harry bothered testifying for him?
Hermione didn't like this. One look around showed that they were far into an alley at the back of the Leaky Cauldron. Past the cans overflowing with trash, Hermione could see Diagon Alley. The people there seemed to happily go about their business, unaware of escaped prisoners and ex-Death Eaters.
"Have you gone insane, Mudblood?"
Hermione didn't bother taking note of the soft, edged tone he used or the way his eyes had narrowed. One inch at a time, using the back of the wall for support, she began to rise to her feet. Anger kindled a fire in her. Once a bigot, always a bigot. "News flash, Malfoy, derogatory slurs have fallen grossly out of fashion." On the outside she tried to remain calm, reminding herself that Azkaban would welcome him with open arms. It didn't really help.
He said nothing, watching her. Standing a little too close for comfort, his eyes scanned her from head to foot. Clinical. Assessing.
When she straightened, the change in position made her dizzy again. She brought a hand to her temple. Acutely aware of the wand in her robe pocket, Hermione leaned against alley wall with her shoulder, transferring her weight there and leaving her other hand free to carefully make its way to her wand. Hoping to further distract him, she said, "You haven't changed at all. Still the same—"
"What's happened to the ring." He grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her hand away from her head and staring at it. On her ring finger, a small, simple diamond nestled in a gold band stared back up at him.
Her right hand wrapped itself around the wand. She gritted her teeth and tried to pull back her left hand. Slowly, Hermione began to edge her wand out. "Let go of me. Right now." A plan budded in her mind. It started with her casting a Stupefy and ended with him rotting in Azkaban.
He let go. In one swift movement, he released her hand and captured her wand. Hermione took a full three second to gape at him. The way he moved spoke of years of training. Training, which he could have hardly received while locked away in his home with his father in Azkaban and all visitors to the manor strictly monitored. Unless, the ministry had been deceived. Unless…
Hermione shut the door on her imagination, preventing it from running wild, and lunged for her wand. She hoped the element of surprise would aid her. He used one forearm to slam her back against the wall with force that expelled all breath from her lungs. Then, he kept her in place. His arm as strong and unyielding as a metal bar, even as she clawed and pinched and pulled at it. As much as she struggled against it, she struggled to expand her lungs for breath.
He examined her wand briefly, giving her an assessing look when he finished. "An original Olivander." He sounded impressed. A drop of regret tainted his voice, even as with one hand, he snapped her wand in two.
The fight drained out of her. "Malfoy." She meant to say more, but rest of the words disappeared while she watched those precious two pieces of wood burn in his hand. Some of the ash drifted to the ground like snow. The wind picked up and carried away the rest.
Something wet and cold rolled down the sides of her cheeks, dripping off her chin and jaw.
He looked back at her with his features arranged in a mask, cold and disdainful. However, Hermione stood close enough to read the anger in the stiffness of his shoulders, clenching of his teeth, and hardness of his eyes.
Hermione gave a single scream, buckling against the arm holding her in place and kicking, slapping, anything to cause him pain. She needed vengeance.
With ease that gave birth to a cold pit of fear in her stomach, he captured both her wrists and slammed them against the wall, one on either side of her head. The bones of her hands ached, and she failed to prevent an involuntary swallow when he brought his face close. Hermione immediately re-evaluated her previous judgement. He'd changed completely. Too much. There were tiny scars scattered throughout his face; the end of a larger, thicker scar showed its puckered edge from the collar of his robes. She saw no trace of softness or mercy in his eyes. No trace of the pity she remembered seeing in there mixed with disgust, fear, and self-loathing. She'd had plenty of time to study the emotions in the youngest Malfoy's eyes while his aunt tortured her.
Her left forearm began to ache.
The change is too great, so maybe, she thought, this isn't Draco Malfoy. Maybe this is someone else using polyjuice. The thought brought her no comfort, but she refused to show him more fear. "You're a monster."
"I saved your life."
He meant it. Hermione felt the truth of his words—or his belief in their truth. She gave a low scoff. At one point, he had the chance to save her. He let her bleed.
Malfoy must have noticed the scorn in her face because he squeezed her wrists, grinding the bones together. Hermione winced in pain, and he loosened his grip. "Fine," he said, drawing back. The hard mask of superiority gone from his features, uncovering the snarling anger underneath. "I'm done." He let go of her wrists. "If you—"
A red burst of light hit him in the back. He fell backwards. Rigid.
Hermione rubbed her sore wrists, not bothering to hide the grim smile spreading across her face. Someone had fulfilled the first of her plan in her stead, and, polyjuice or not, whoever just burned her wand was going straight to Azkaban.
She raised her head, ready to thank her rescuer, when a red flash of light hit her as well. Her stiff body fell right on top of Malfoy.
A/N: I hope you liked this. I have no beta-reader, so I write the story as it is. If anyone is interested in becoming my beta-reader feel free to let me know.