She stares at herself in the mirror
She stares at herself in the mirror. Familiar eyes, familiar smile, the slightly upturned nose, the freckles across her face, the mass of curls framing the sharp chin, the slanted eyebrows.
Familiar to her.
But different too. Now.
Changes. Again.
The first time she and Ron had sex she'd looked at herself in the mirror, tracing the line of her jaw, and had wondered at the differences, or the lack of differences in her face.
She had thought, at the time, that such an act would surely shine through somehow.
But she had looked the same, no different, a young girl of seventeen who had finally lost her virginity. Nothing more than that, just a young girl with bushy hair, brown eyes, and a slightly pouted lower lip.
She'd been disappointed.
Leaning closer, she studies the shadows under her eyes, the bruising there, the slightly frizzy curls around her face, along her cheek, one curl lying against her lips.
She blows at the curl and when it sticks, brings up a finger to move it away.
Pausing.
In mid action.
Remembering the narrowing of a pair of silver eyes at just such an action.
Slowly completing it, pulling the hair away and pushing it behind her ear, wondering, wondering.
The absent smile she gives herself in the mirror is of a woman understanding the power she has.
Truly realising it for the first time.
A smile from the ages, on a witch who has had very little to smile about in the last ten years.
And even the years before that.
But the smile is not nice.
And she has come so far from the girl of seventeen.
A reminder from her charmed clock makes her aware of the time. An owl from Draco earlier informed her that something had come up and he would meet her at the Ministry.
A short, to the point note with only "DM" as his signature.
She'd snorted into her tea at the predictability of him.
Now however, she is late due to a last minute detention with a Slytherin student, a seventh year who, in a voice very much like another Slytherin she used to know, informed her that for a Muggle she was almost attractive.
Should have been a Slytherin, he'd said, a tall boy with shockingly black hair against pale skin.
She had taken points from him with relish, a smile flickering across her lips.
Magic, flickering, flickering.
He'd paled at it.
She'd dismissed him.
And then went back to her room to look in the mirror.
Wondering, wondering.
But now she is late, gathering her things and trying to ignore the thrum of something insistent under her rib cage.
If she were honest with herself she'd label it as nerves.
But she isn't and ignores the feeling entirely.
She Apparates to the Ministry.
Hermione is not entirely surprised to find that she is earlier than Draco and settles herself in one of the chairs in the front lobby to wait for him, pulling out the report she wrote up this morning before breakfast.
Reviewing it for language that would cause uproar.
Especially from the current head of the Auror department.
She twirls a quill between her fingers, going over everything, mentally noting passages that might cause confusion.
Until.
A slight feel of commotion, a barely felt change to the air, to the magic swirling about the lobby. Panic, fear, curiosity, disgust, desire, appreciation, ricocheting off the walls.
Hermione does not have to look to know that Draco has walked through the doors.
But she does.
And the feeling in her stomach strengthens, along with a sparkle of heat moving up and down her spine.
Then her eyes meet his and she stills.
Something is wrong.
She knows it immediately, though his face is carefully blank, a polite mask as he passes people, inclining his head to several, making his way to where she sits.
Rising cautiously, Hermione does not take her eyes away from him as he walks towards her. Tall, lithe, clad in perfectly tailored black robes, moving with the grace of a feline, silent, even in the sudden silence of the lobby.
White hair glinting.
She is vaguely aware of the looks coming their way, curiosity rising substantially at the image of the ex-Death Eater and The Hermione Granger meeting anywhere, especially at the Ministry.
She barely notices.
Most of her attention is on the man in front of her, dark eyes, grey but different, harder, looking down on her, hair immaculate, black robes immaculate, but wrong, tensed.
"Is everything ok?" she asks, low, as soon as he within hearing distance of the near whisper.
Something flashes; she senses it, though she can't feel his magic any more than she could yesterday, but something, underneath.
"Fine," he says and his voice is fine, normal, but wrong.
She knows it is are wrong.
"Shall we?" Perfectly polite.
The tone, instantly causing unease. Reverberating.
"Of course."
An elegant hand, waving her forward.
She moves past him, her instincts are screaming at her.
Never lose sight of the enemy.
And then.
Constant vigilance.
Tense muscles, tensing, tensing. He falls into step beside her. A position of neutrality, equality.
Hermione wonders if he does it on purpose.
Tensions uncoiling, if only slightly.
Because of his money, title, pure-blood ancestry and his notoriously single status, Draco is a very eligible bachelor in the Wizarding world. Hermione has never paid attention and is surprised by the blatant looks thrown his way as they make their way towards the Board Room.
One woman, a taller woman with perfectly smooth black hair and black eyes actually moves towards them and falls into step.
"Draco." Her voice cultured.
"Lislie, how are you?"
Those tones. Polite. Distant.
Hermione can see the shadows moving about him, swirling, swirling, so dark they could almost be black.
Fear.
She tastes it on her tongue. And doesn't understand it.
She can't feel him, can't feel his magic, just a low and distant throb at the base of her spine, but she can see his magic, at least, she can see the grey magic.
The grey turning darker, almost black, storm clouds rolling off the sea.
She doesn't hear what the Lislie girl says to him but as they approach the Board Room she sees the darkness swirling about him stab with brilliant colours of red, blood red, striking, deathly.
Hermione jerks her head up to look at his face, reaching, reaching, even as she is once more listening to their conversation.
"Thank you Lislie, I did receive the invitation but I have prior plans." The tone. Perfect. The face. Perfect.
But wrong.
Hermione trying to remember what it was that Lislie said and then realising with a start the woman had mentioned Draco's father, just barely, in passing, more about the Malfoy Estate than Lucius, but it had caused the violent reds still pulsing about the lean wizard.
The fear tickling Hermione's thoughts and the underside of her belly tightens and hardens.
They reach the Board Room and she is vaguely aware of Draco dismissing the woman. He opens the door for Hermione to pass through and as she does so, reaching as she passes, reaching.
And finding nothing.
But coldness.
Hermione pulls her thoughts away from the wizard behind her, away from the implications of his sudden change, and back to the room in front of her.
Composing. Control.
It's probably all her imagination anyway.
Most of the people who were there at the first meeting are there again speaking amongst themselves. Without thought, Hermione walks over to where Harry is talking with Minerva, both of them giving her smiles a she approaches.
Though she swears the look Minerva gives her is extra inquisitive.
Harry is also studying her. "We had dinner this weekend at the house; I was going to invite you but no one knew where you were."
A jump. In nerves. In shame. Though she doesn't know where the shame comes from.
Moody saves her from having to answer by announcing his presence with the slamming of open of the door and the muttering of a very unhappy individual.
Harry just barely quirks an eyebrow at Hermione and she has to stifle a smile, reminded suddenly of their days, back before. Conspiracies under the Invisible Cloak, sneaking about, times that were dark but seemed so much lighter.
"Everyone is here," Harry says, dismantling the image as he walks towards the head of the table. Magic of Ministry robes lay about his shoulders, shoulders that have fallen easily into the role he once vehemently denied wanting.
Hermione moves around the table and settles herself next to Draco, noticing, even as she sits, that he appears easy, arrogant, a look of polite disinterest on his face, but also noticing the line of his jaw and his eyes, always his eyes.
She never knew the colour grey could have so many different connotations.
But then Harry calls upon her participation and she forgets the paradox of the man beside her and launches into a lecture on the progress they have made in the last several weeks.
It doesn't take her long.
As she speaks she watches the different reactions around the table; the growing paranoid anger of Moody, the thoughtful intelligent gaze of Remus, Minerva's worried frown, and finally, Harry, whose face grows paler and paler as she finishes up with what they know, as she states with clarity and without waver in her voice that she was a sacrifice.
She sees and understands the guilt.
Shadowing his very face.
And the anger, underneath it, tightly controlled. A change from the boy Harry once was.
Silence.
Her last words hanging in the air.
"I don't think I fully understand." Remus breaks the silence with a quiet tone.
Hermione looks over at him.
He continues. "The spell was supposed to kill you? Immediately?"
Hermione sees where he is confused, shaking her head. "No. The nature of the binding spell was to allow the transfer of my Muggle magic to the purebred wizard, but it was a slow transfer. My death should have come at the moment the field was dismantled, not before; only then would the spell have been complete."
Another silence.
Heavy. Hermione feels the eyes of Harry on her. Judging.
"And you did this, knowing what you did?" Remus asks, this time gently. "That this field you created, this magical dimension, was the slow transfer of your magic to Malfoy?"
Hermione nods once, feeling the eyes around the room, heavy on her.
Pressing.
Suddenly she can't breath, the pressure too much, the eyes, the judging, the suspicions, the questions, reactions to something ten years gone.
Choking. Leaning on the table for support, panic clawing at her throat.
And then a cold voice.
Cutting in, cutting through.
"Why did you allow my father to live?"
A startled gasp, somewhere to Hermione's right, a choked cough, an uproar almost immediately. Hermione hears none of this, sees none of this, her eyes instantly on Draco who sits, still ever so elegant, ever so controlled, slouching in his chair as if he had not just asked such a question.
As if he asked about the weather.
Or the latest Quidditch statistics.
Roaring.
In her ears, things suddenly coming clear.
Draco looks up at her and for a moment, the briefest of moments, less than a blink really, she sees pain, horror, and fear, swimming in a sea of sadness so deep it swallows her even as he breaks the gaze and looks away.
She sits down slowly.
Watching. Tense.
The chaos, the noise in the room, rising to a crescendo, overwhelming.
"I pardoned him," the voice, Harry's voice, silencing the noise of the room.
"You what?" Moody, magical eye swirling. "You fool boy, do you know what that man…"
"Enough." Harry, looking calm and collected.
Changes. Changes.
Silence in the room as all look at the Ministry of Magic and not at Harry Potter. But the same.
Changes.
Tension. So tight Hermione can feel it cutting through her body, tightening, squeezing.
"Are you going to explain Mr. Potter, or would you like me too," a new voice, coming from the door. A voice everyone knows, liquid darkness in the light of day.
Hermione looks along with everyone else at Severus Snape, standing just inside the door. A dark presence.
"Severus," Harry says, and the first name of his ex-professor sounds strange, a story told in that one address. "Thank you for joining us."
Severus nods slightly and walks to the chair on the other side of Draco, seating himself with the same careful surety he does everything.
"Boy," Alastor warns suddenly, clearly not liking the delay.
Harry nods. "Of course. An explanation."
Changes. Harry looks over and locks gazes with Draco, green eyes never wavering. "Your father was given full pardon after the Final Battle because of his contribution of this spell you and Hermione cast. It was decided in a counsel consisting of myself, Minerva, Severus and the explicit instructions of Dumbledore, to allow Lucius to live."
On the brink of an uproar.
Harry holds up his hand, looking at the people at the conference table, meeting their eyes, one by one, challenging, daring.
He finishes with Draco and holds it.
Continuing. "Your father was given pardon; however, all his magic was stripped from him except the ability to do basic protection spells. That is the absolute limit of his capability. He was also forced into self exile."
Silence.
And then Draco's cold voice. Decidedly amused.
"You made him a Muggle?"
Hermione winces at the tone in his voice, at the harshness underlying it, and the slight murder tingeing its under belly.
"In essence," Harry replies, looking away from Draco to encompass the entire room again.
"This is a plot, this whole thing is a plot," Alastor stated, his voice rising.
"Alastor," this time from Minerva. She has her stern look about her, the professor look. "That is quite enough. If you would like to see the full Pensieve of what occurred, as well as the documentation left by Dumbledore, then you are more than welcome to it but the decision was made ten years ago."
Hermione sees Draco's fist out of the corner of her eye, the fist without the red stone, lying on black fabric, tightening, tightening, feels the sudden pull on her compulsion, the flare of heat in her chest.
She does not move. Body still. Conversation swirling about her.
Closing her eyes, a moment, brief, and then reaching out.
Compulsion.
Strengthening, vibrating.
Still so very in control. So very in control.
Opening her eyes she catches Remus looking at her oddly.
She smiles.
Not realizing her smile is not one to comfort the former werewolf.
It has death in it.
"You didn't know?" Another voice, nicer, sweeter, only slightly tinged with something else.
Draco looks over at Tonks, his cousin, sitting easily by her husband.
He looks away and glances over at Severus.
"Not until last night," he says.
Cold. Polite.
Several people shiver visibly.
Severus is not one of them.
Hermione is not one of them.
Moody jumps to his feet, hands on the table, leaning, "I don't believe you," he spits out.
Another voice. "Mr. Moody." This time it is Harry.
Moody looks over at the Minister of Magic.
Harry continues. "You have two options right now; either leave or sit down. I will show you, after this meeting, the evidence that Mr. Malfoy was indeed unaware of this; you can meet with Minerva, Severus and I, but right now we are not here to discuss this."
Moody continues to stand, weighing, judging, cataloguing. He finally sinks slowly back into his seat.
Harry nods once and Hermione feels a rush of pride and love for her long-term friend.
Some of that must have shown on her face because Harry, catching her gaze, gives a brief smile. Barely there, but enough for friends of so long.
Harry continues. "I realise this is a shock for everyone but three people in this room. I do realise it is something that needs to be addressed, and it will be addressed." Harry looks on Draco again. "There are reasons, very good reasons, this information has not been shared but now is not the time to discuss it."
A silence.
A pause.
"Wrong." Draco, colder, frigid.
Hermione looks over at him, scanning his profile, understanding, but not quite understanding.
Draco continues. "The issue of my father is directly related to what is being discussed. Did it not occur to either of you, Potter, or you Severus, that this could have been set up by my father?"
"Of course." An almost bored answer from Severus. "I was quite aware of that possibility. When your father came to me and gave me the book I was instantly suspicious. However, your father is, first and foremost, a selfish man intent on surviving. He did what he did because he believed it would save his life."
Silence. Growing. Growing.
"With every intention of taking her life in return." Draco's voice, low, guttural.
A fist, clenching against black fabric.
A shift in the air.
A white heat, pressing, pressing.
"Yes." The answer.
Moments.
Moments.
The fist relaxes.
And something in Hermione cracks, bleeding, whimpering. Just for a moment she had thought, just for a moment, a glimpse of something, something she doesn't know she was looking for, something.
Voices, circling again, discussing, but Hermione keeps her gaze on the side of Draco's face, and as if pulled by that something, vibrating, he turns and locks gazes with her.
Face blank.
No emotion.
Eyes. Grey. Indifferent.
The loss of something she never knew she had. The loss of something ten years gone.
Pieces. Floating in a northern sea.
With a gasp.
Drowning.
"Professor Granger understood the decision she was making at the time."
The voice of an old professor, ingrained, snapping her out of her revere.
She focuses. Focus.
Pain. Nails digging into her palm.
Focus.
Harry's eyes on her. She meets them and suddenly, just as suddenly as it came, she regains thought, focus.
In those green eyes she sees pain. Almost unbearable.
Before they look away and the Minister of Magic is back in Harry's place.
"This is the extent of what you have learned so far?"
Hermione takes up her narrative. "Yes. We believe something went wrong with the spell making it so two things happened: I didn't die and the field did not dissipate. I believe that the two are intrinsically combined."
A moment of silence.
And then.
"Well, we can't have you going and knocking yourself off," Remus says, voice laughing, and the tension in the room lessens. Several degrees.
Hermione smiles at him. "No, I prefer that wasn't the decision."
"Then the only choice in the matter is for you and Mr. Malfoy to continue on with your research and development." Minerva says this with her no-nonsense voice.
Hermione inclines her head, feeling more than seeing Draco do the same next to her.
Harry nods once. "Quite. Then we are done here for today. Minerva, Severus, if you would be kind enough to wait in my office, I'll be right there. Hermione, if you would stay a moment, I would like to speak with you."
She knows what this is and nods. "Of course."
She does not watch Draco leave, though she watches everyone else, waiting, the door closing behind the final person until it is just her and Harry.
He makes it to her in four strides, enfolding her in his arms. She rests her head against his chest and breathes the familiar scent, a scent that reminds her of years gone by, of times both good and bad and the deep connection she has with the man in front of her.
"Why Mione?"
The question strangled, horrid in its pain.
"It was the only way Harry," she answers into his chest.
She feels his arms tighten around her.
She leans into his warmth, in the familiarity and then pulls back.
He lets her go, though only somewhat, hands cupping her shoulders, face serious, a dearly loved face looking down on her.
"You could have told me."
Hermione raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly and suddenly it's all right. Just then. It's all right.
"Or not," Harry says with somewhat of a sheepish smile moving over his own features.
Hermione places her hands over Harry's.
"Or not," she repeats.
Harry drags her into another bone crushing hug. "Merlin Mione, don't know what I would do without you."
They stand there for a moment, comfort in their long existence.
Until.
"And what would Mrs. Potter say to such a touching scene." A familiar voice, snide, tones from all their childhood, smirk clearly intertwined with the words.
Harry gives Hermione another quick squeeze and then steps away. "Sod off, Malfoy," he says, moving around Draco and then out the door of the Board Room.
Hunter and hunted.
Hermione can feel it even as she looks on the man leaning against the door jam.
"Really, after all this time, I would have thought you two would have at least learned how to hide your," a hand, waving in the air, "whatever that was."
Words. Memories.
Hermione waves her hand in imitation of him. "That 'whatever' was called friendship. Something that you have a hard time understanding I believe."
A raised eyebrow.
Mocking.
And suddenly Hermione bursts into laughter. Not able to stop it because it's so ridiculous, his words, her words, the whole bloody mess is so completely ridiculous.
Changes.
Instead of stalking away in a huff of indignation Draco smiles at her.
Her gut clenches in response. Warmth, pooling at the easy open nature of the smile.
But then it's gone.
Replaced by indifference once more.
Enough though, for Hermione, enough, if only it was a glimpse.
"Dinner," he announces.
Hermione startles. "What?"
"Dinner. I have some things I need to discuss with you."
Hermione scans his face, instantly on alert, something not quite right.
"Okay," she says slowly.
And there, just there, a sudden glint of a feral grin before Draco turns away.
"Excellent," he throws over his shoulder.