CHAPTER 37: CORRESPONDENCE

Draco had told her to breathe and she had listened. She focused on her breathing, recalling the meditative techniques he had once taught her. As she visualised the candle in her mind's eye she took deep steadying inhales, holding the air in her lungs before exhaling slowly. Gradually, she felt her magic retreat, returning to its place within her core. However, the magic had not calmed, it still swirled violently within her, a reflection of the rage that wished to burst forth. She was so focused on controlling the rampant magic, that she barely noticed Draco wish Neville and Luna farewell before guiding her up from her seat.

As they made their way along one of Hogwarts many corridors – she could not say which, for she was simply following the Slytherin wizard, consumed in her own thoughts as she was – Hermione began to lose the battle against her magic. Her rage was too great to contain. She unclenched her fists and shook her hands abruptly at the wrists to relieve them of their tension. As she did so, a large window they were passing fractured down the middle with a resounded crack.

"Shit, Granger!" Draco exclaimed, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her into the nearest classroom.

As he turned from her to cast a series of charms to lock the door and silence the room, Hermione began to pace.

"Who the fuck does she think she is," Hermione exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "Calling me slurs I can live with, I've been called the same and worse by arseholes much more intimidating than that bint. But hitting me with a Confundus, forcing me into that room with a Boggart! She endangered my life! To get away with practically a slap on the fucking wrist!

"I am constantly astounded by how bloody corrupt the wizarding world is. We fought a damn war, Draco! And for what? Voldemort may be gone, but we didn't do a damn thing to break the status quo. The Hogwarts board of governors, the Wizengamot- they are the same. Family seats and old blood, biases and prejudice. When will it fucking end?"

"Granger, you need to calm down."

"Calm down?" she laughed, the humourless sound ripping from her lungs as her magic seared her skin. "Why the fuck should I calm down? That bitch, she will just keep getting away with it! Treat me like dirt and there's nothing I can do about it!"

"Granger," Draco repeated, his tone growing stern. "Stop."

She could hear the crackle of static now as her magic caused her hair to escape it's confines. "There's no equality, not really. It's all a farce. I'm the public symbol of Muggleborns and what the light supposedly overcame with this horrendous bloody war. But nothing has changed. Those who quietly supported that bastard and his elitist ideals, they're all still out there. Yes, some of them are in prison. The twisted ones who acted brazenly, those figureheads have been removed from the public eye. But they're still there, those who believe me unworthy of my magic, of my place in this society. They're still there, just behind closed doors, pulling the strings.

"Granger!"

So consumed by her ranting, Hermione had not noticed the way her magic had burst forth, lifting the heavy tables and chairs from their place on the stone floor. The furniture levitated ominously around them as she continued to pace, her hands threaded in her wild curls, tugging painfully against her scalp.

"Hermione!"

The sound of her name – not 'Granger' as he had always called her, but her given name – stunned her into silence, her incessant pacing coming to an abrupt halt. In an instant his hands were upon her, cradling her head as his body pushed firmly against hers causing her back to press into the cool stone wall. His lips slanted over hers as he claimed her mouth in a fierce, all consuming kiss.

Instantly her body relaxed, melding into his touch, the furniture falling to the ground with a resounding crash. Finally, she felt her magic calm, receding to the well within her.

Too soon, Draco broke their kiss, instead shifting to rest his forehead against hers.

"She will pay for what she did to you," he whispered in a low, dangerous tone, his hot breath ghosting across her skin.

An anxious knot tightened in her gut, not for the witch whom he had threatened, but for the wizard himself. She couldn't let him do anything to jeopardise his probation. She wouldn't know what to do if he was taken to Azkaban - taken from her. No, she couldn't let that happen.

She brought her hands to the side of his face and guided his head down so she could look into his eyes. She was pleased to see the faint blue hue remained, the telltale sign he had not slipped back into his use of dissociative Occlumency.

"She will get what's coming to her, Draco," Hermione swore. "Do not put yourself or your freedom at risk for that bitch though. She isn't worth it."

"My father," Draco said before inhaling deeply through his nose, his eyelids falling closed. "The level of power he held, the sway he had over his peers… I knew it wasn't right, even as a child. Their world was corrupt and until that changes, people like Parkinson will never truly face the consequences of their actions."

Hermione sighed, as much as it pained her to admit it, she knew all too well he was right.

Sat alone in the small library alcove, Hermione pored over the enchanted scroll yet again, the small list of runes they had identified to date by its side. So far, they had found eleven runes in the Black family Grimoire that coincided with the scroll. Unfortunately, that number was still far too insufficient to form the basis of a translation. On a scrap of parchment Hermione's quill scratched away, noting down all possible combinations of the letters. She had hoped that she could fill in the blanks and decipher any words, that it might provide the leep they needed to make some semblance of significant progress. Realistically, she knew the task was in vain. Ancient languages weren't that straightforward to decipher, there was an ambiguity to the translations, a nuance. An academic as she was, Hermione was all too aware they had unveiled nowhere near enough correlations to establish a viable foundation.

Unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that there was very little she could accomplish without Draco's assistance. Only the runic symbols, the text as it was originally transcribed, was visible to her in the Grimoire. So while she knew she might be able to single out a new rune – one that corresponded with the ancient scroll – she could not identify with which letter or definition it correlated until Draco was present to read the comparative English translation.

Her thoughts strayed from the runes to the blond wizard. It was likely he was in the Great Hall having breakfast. Honestly, that's where she should be too, rather than hidden away alone in the alcove. However, she simply could not bring herself to face the fanfare. Just as the thought crossed her mind, yet another golden cherub flew into the alcove, showering the area with pink, heart shaped confetti before hastily retreating. Hermione sighed, she would have thought of all the places in the school, Madam Pince would have found a way to prevent such nonsense. She waved her wand – perhaps a little too aggressive, she admitted to herself – and the small fragments of paper burst alight, swiftly burning before turning to ash in the air around her.

"Well aren't we in a right mood," Draco drawled, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he slashed his wand to banish the ash that rained down around her.

"This incessant bloody holiday," she grumbled under her breath, a deep scowl upon her face. "Honestly."

At last, he allowed the smirk to grace his features. "Not a fan of Valentine's Day, I take it?"

"A fan?" she scoffed. "It's a ludicrous excuse for a holiday! One fuelled by consumerism and the capitalist agenda."

"Well then," he replied, arching a single brow. "I'm glad I didn't get you anything then."

"You didn't?"

She saw the corner of his lip twitch. "Now now, Granger. No need to get upset. After all, didn't you just express your loathing for the entire farce?"

"I'm not upset. Honestly, I'm not sure I would have even known how to respond if you had given me a gift." She paused, feeling the slight heat that flushed her cheeks in the wake of her embarrassment. She tried her best to not spare a single thought for this stupid excuse for a holiday, but in doing so she had neglected to realise this was likely something they should have discussed. "I guess I just thought extravagant gift giving would have been drilled into you at a young age."

"Oh, it was," he replied. "Though not on this date in particular. In fact my parents held a particular distaste for the holiday, claiming it to be just one more incursion of Muggle influence upon our traditional ways."

She saw the way his jaw tensed and she knew that his thoughts had strayed to his father. She thought to speak, but before she could decide how best to broach the topic Draco cleared his throat.

"My father always insisted that I not wait for any particular day of the year to make my affections known to a witch, but rather to lavish them on the days of insignificance. It might be one of the very few lessons I'm grateful for."

Hermione was momentarily at a loss for words. It wasn't a surprise that Draco himself held such a view. However, to be hit with the realisation that she shared an opinion with Lucius Malfoy – even one so seemingly benign – gave her pause.

She must have been silent longer than she had first thought as Draco had begun to fidget. Her eyes were drawn to the way his long fingers stretched as he traced them along the edges of the letter he held. There was an obvious tension in his movements.

"Got witches sending you Valentine's I see," she quipped, hoping to ease whatever discomfort had taken hold of the wizard.

"Hilarious, Granger," he drawled before releasing a long sigh. "I've been receiving correspondence."

"I am aware," she said, lifting an eyebrow.

It had not escaped her notice that the wizard had been receiving periodic owls ever since Parkinson had been let off by the Board of Governors. In that time, Draco had made no mention of the letters and as such she had decided to not press the matter. She had hoped that, given time, he would decide to divulge the truth of the missives.

Draco moved, grabbing the chair opposite where she sat and turning it around before straddling the seat and leaning forward to fold his arms atop the back rest. He flicked his wrist thrice in quick succession, tapping the parchment against the wooden table top before holding the letter out before him. "Here."

She took the proffered parchment but made no move to open the missive. "Are you sure you want me to read this?"

"Certain," he replied tersely.

Slipping her thumb between the folded parchment, she flipped the letter open. At first glance she thought the elegant, slanted script to be Draco's. But on closer inspection she noted the telltale signs of a waivering hand in the application of ink to parchment. Her eyes snapped to the end of the letter and was unsurprised to find the Malfoy patriarch's scrawled signature. Their penmanship was so similar that Hermione could not help but wonder if they had been tutored under the same governess. Shaking her head as if to clear the thought, she returned her gaze to the start of the missive.

Son,

It has been brought to my attention that, despite my insistence, you have yet to cease your unseemly association with Potter's Mudblood.

I insist that you return my correspondence forthwith. The actions you have committed are unbefitting of the Malfoy heir and I await your explanation. Boy, Salazar help you if you deem to respond with anything less than a confirmation that you are using that filth as a stepping stone to return our family to our rightful social stature.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

Her eyes skimmed the words a second time before she lifted her gaze to meet Draco's. The near monochromatic silver of his irises caught her off guard. He was Occluding. While she wished he wouldn't, she couldn't entirely blame him in this situation. She could only imagine the trauma, the vulnerability, that this man – his father – brought to the surface.

"So?" he asked, tone guarded.

The anger she felt on his behalf caused her magic the stir within her core. She folded the parchment back over, dropping it onto the table top, before using two fingers to slide the letter across the timber towards him.

"So daddy doesn't like who you play with. What's he going to do about it?"

She saw the corner of his lip twitch, but the smile did not break through the stoic mask he wore. Instead, he merely released a long sigh, collecting the parchment from the table top and waving it listlessly between them.

"Do not underestimate the bastard, Granger," he said with evident disdain. "He should be incapable of correspondence, yet he found a way."

She considered his words for a long moment, it was clear the elder Mafoy maintained some connections outside the four walls of his prison cell.

"How many times has he written to you?"

"This owl was the third I have received," he replied. "With each letter it is all too clear he is losing patience at my refusal to yield to his demands. The first I received read as though he believed nothing had changed between the two of us. As if I were still some stupid, helpless little boy who would not only jump when commanded, but eagerly seek clarification as to which height he required."

Hermione reached out, taking his hand in hers. At the contact, she saw his walls crumble and the subtle blue hue bleed out from around his pupils to tint his irises once more. "He can't hurt you or your mother any longer, Draco."

"I wish I could be certain of that," he replied. "But we must be cautious. We have no clue as to what extent his influence remains, even from Azkaban."

"Have you attempted to reply to any of his letters?'' she asked.

"Of course not, Granger," he scoffed, lifting his free hand to comb through his hair in evident frustration. "You know as well as I, that I am not permitted outbound correspondence as a condition not my probation. It would take much more than the opportunity to tell my father to go bugger himself, for me to risk joining the bastard in that hell hole."

She considered his words for a moment, her knee bouncing beneath the desk as her thoughts raced. "Should you tell someone? Professor Hale, perhap?"

"While my head of house doesn't appear to outwardly detest me any longer, I still wouldn't trust the man not to screw me over."

She could understand his want for caution in the matter, but there had to be someone who would help. Someone who would not seek to place blame on him where there was none. "McGonagall would treat you fairly."

"I know," he said. "But I don't think this matter is worth drawing any further scrutiny upon my family name. I do not wish to upset Mother, or provide any cause for the Ministry to harass her in any way."

"Ok," she conceded after a moment. She understood his desire to protect his mother and she would not fault him for it. "But you must promise me that if he continues to threaten you, you will at least consider informing the headmistress."

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "Ok, Granger. As you wish."