A/N: There is a lot of moral ambiguity in this fic. Characters are presented in darker ways to further the plot, even though their motivations may be unclear. In no way do the decisions or thoughts of any of the characters represent that of the writer.
Since I've forgotten, this franchise doesn't belong to me. It belongs to JK Rowling.
|Process of Elimination|
"We're older now, the light is dim..."
Hermione - August 31 2008
Forty-seven seconds.
Apart from the clock next to the blinded window ticking rhythmically, Hermione Granger's office has been silent for forty-seven seconds. She reflects on this new record as she takes a tentative sip of her lukewarm coffee. For a further five seconds, she gets the opportunity to scan, dissect, mentally organise and reconcile with the procrastination of dealing with the absolute clutter surrounding her. Then, there is a tap tap tap against her window.
Sighing, Hermione places the mug of coffee back onto her messy desk where it will likely remain abandoned for the next few hours. She flicks her hand and the blinds open up, revealing an irate looking owl hovering behind the glass. With another flick of her hand, the owl swoops in over her head. She swivels her head to follow it — her jaw clenches at what it is delivering. No sooner does it drop the red envelope on her desk, the owl sails away, as if it's anticipating what's coming.
Hermione stares at the letter and knows there will only be three seconds of silence. She sacrifices it to close her window, click, with another flick of her hand.
"MISS GRANGER," the howler erupts, floating to her eye-level. She gives the paper mouth a bored look. "I HAVE ENDURED YOUR UNWELCOME VISITS TO MY HOME. I HAVE ALLOWED YOU TO POKE AND PROD IN MY FAMILY. BUT I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS TREATMENT FROM YOU OR THE MINISTRY." Rummaging through her desk while listening to this predictable eight out of ten response, Hermione retrieves her wand. She points it at the first quill that she catches sight of; a clean piece of parchment also hovers to her view. Hermione begins a calm and collected letter with flicks of her wand, but Mrs Goyle's recording isn't done yet: "MY SON IS FINE. HE IS THRIVING, IN FACT. HE IS LIVING IN WEALTH, WITH A GOOD NAME AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY, HIS BLOOD IS—"
The howler is interrupted by her fireplace roaring to life. Or, rather, her attention from it has completely dissipated to the point its words fade into shrill drivel at the back of her mind. She glances at her coffee cup before she grits her teeth and sets the howler on fire with another flick of her wand. The quill proposing an amiable response to Mrs Goyle pauses as Hermione moves to her fireplace and answers.
"Mr Pucey," she acknowledges, looking down at his scowling face in the flames.
"Granger," he practically spits, making a spark fly from his ember-protruding mouth, "my wife has been pestering me about a matter that I, too, do not understand."
She raises a brow, but maintains a polite expression. "The matter of your children's welfare."
"Yes." His response is stiff. This is not uncommon, so Hermione is prepared.
"Truth be told, Mr Pucey, when it is reported to our reception that a glamour charm on your eldest daughter's bruised arms has faded, your youngest daughter looks as if she's being neglected food, and your son has displayed violent public outbursts explained away with the qualms of adolescence, it raises natural concerns within our department about the manner in which your children are being treated."
If Mr Pucey was physically standing in front of her, she's sure he would be red with rage. It was something she had observed in his son; when she'd been visiting the Pucey residence under the critical eye of Mrs Pucey, a few days ago, after the anonymous tip had come in. "How our children are being treated is none—"
"Actually, Mr Pucey, it is our concern."
"No—"
"Under the Act of Merlin, Clause Ninety-Seven, the Child Welfare Act of June 10, 1998 states—"
"Salazar's Grave," the man hisses, wearing an expression of murder through the flames. Hermione is almost immune to it at this point. In fact, she has a tendency to use her innumerable death threat letters as fuel for her fireplace at home. "I know what it fucking states. That you poncy Ministry folk get the right to march into our houses, invade our privacy and judge the way we raise our children."
Hermione fights the instinctive scowl from her face, fingers clenching over her wand. "If you were raising your children without neglect, Mr Pucey, then there would be no need for invasion of privacy."
He looks on the verge of lashing out, but seems to think better of it and cuts the floo call instead. Smart decision. True to his Hogwarts house, Mr Pucey is not as intemporate as many of the others are. He knows when to spot a losing battle and she knows he's already contacting his wizendefender this very second.
As soon as silence descends, the door to her office bangs open. The silencing and privacy charms and wards over her office are useless when her door is open, for the days she needs to listen for trouble. Today, however, there is the usual clamour of warlock/witch labourers accompanied by doors swinging open and shut and the whooshing of memos zooming through the hallways.
Her newest interrupter of silence is a tall man with cheekbones chiselled like marble, dark hair and a sinful smirk. Her eyes drop to his hands, where he clutches a fat file. "Zabini," she greets, nodding to the file, "I see you're dumping another case on me." She looks up in time to catch the twitch in his smirk, but Blaise Zabini is nothing if not 'smooth'.
"Granger," he drawls, voice thick and sweet like toffee, "as the hearty worker that you are—" she crosses her arms, wand poking through the crevice of her left elbow "—and my dearest friend, I would be grateful..." he strides over to her desk and plops the file onto it to add to the ever-growing pile. "Thank you," he says, smirking at her glare.
"You can thank me by giving me an explanation at lunch."
Zabini turns around and struts out of her office, not before looking over his shoulder and announcing, "I get off one-thirty. See you then."
He closes her door behind him, encompassing her in tranquility for six seconds. She counts. Eyes the newly added case file and wonders if she'll be given at least thirty seconds to skim over it. Then her fireplace flares to life again.
/.\
Lunch break is a violent affair in her department, which is ironic considering what they advocate for. Hermione wholeheartedly understands, however, that after half a day of dealing with stubborn, dangerous and outright vile members of wizarding society, the labourers of the Department of Magical Child Welfare are always insatiably hungry.
The canteen staff — a mixture of people and paid house-elves (an act she'd managed to pass up back in 2006 before she'd switched departments) — are visibly stressed, as they usually are at this time of day. Pots are boiling, pans are sizzling, ovens are roaring, and the smell of food is strong in the air, fuelling irate demands and repeated glances at watches and clocks. Not many people are seated over the dining tables rolling over a large, somewhat clinical room, where harsh fluorescent lanterns filter below, along with the feeble presence of the dim sunlight stretching through the large windows overlooking Muggle London. Hermione has always been a patient woman, however, so she takes an empty seat and drops the file she'd been carrying onto the table.
Her curiosity had piqued her the moment she'd disconnected her fireplace for break, but now she's officially recovered from her initial surprise, she cracks open the cover to stare at the face of the sullen little boy again. He blinks back at her, and she can't help reflecting on his similarities to his father — his sharp face, his sharper eyes, his tame hair, even the slight sneer he's wearing, although whether that last one has been genetically or environmentally inherited, she isn't sure.
The dragging of the seat across her jolts her from her reverie. Zabini's smirking, albeit more tentatively, she notices, and he extends her one of the two trays of food he's holding as an obvious peace offering. Hermione accepts it with a grin.
"How'd you manage that?"
"Decided to take an extra forty-five minutes of break." She rolls her eyes, opening her mouth to express exactly what she thinks about that, but he waves his hand airily. "C'mon, Granger. I've seen you break rules too — and no," he wags a finger as she scoffs, "not just in Hogwarts."
"When else, then?" Hermione challenges, giving him a haughty look.
"Mr Jugson seemed extremely discombobulated during his trial." Hermione schools her features to neutral, but notices her mistake late, because when "someone as expressive as you goes blank, you look suspicious as fuck", but that was a whole other conversation with someone she doesn't want to think about right now. It stands true, though, and Zabini raises a brow. She sighs irritably.
"He was about to win," she hisses, glancing around them surreptitiously. It's not like many people's minds are on anything other than food, anyway, but it never hurts to be cautious. "I wasn't about to let a child molester get away from Azkaban."
She looks up to catch sight of Zabini's triumphant expression, but it's a grim one, so she doesn't scowl. "That bastard deserved it." She nods in agreement. "Which is why…" Hermione raises her brows, "bending rules is necessary, Granger."
Hermione scoffs. "There's an obvious difference."
"I don't see it," he states, and she rolls her eyes.
The air is still heavy, though. It's a common feeling working in this department. It's why the fainter of hearts or the more volatile of tempers aren't usually offered positions here. When there was a joint case a couple years back with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Zabini had been partnered with Harry, the latter had come to her house on the first night completely white with rage. At first she had thought it was because of Zabini and their petty school history. But as a father of two, she supposes Harry hadn't been able to stomach dealing with a case involving child cruelty. In the end he had handed the case to one of his colleagues. Zabini later informed her this was after he'd nearly broken the arm of a suspect he was interrogating.
A throat is cleared, making Hermione blink. "Welcome to the planet, Granger."
"Why, where are we?" she asks, glimpsing Zabini's widening smirk as she looks around in mock confusion. "Mars?"
"Close, but we're actually on Neptune." She snorts.
"I was close," she says in sarcastic awe, and Zabini laughs. Hermione grabs the fork on her tray and stabs it into a sausage. She's not sure when it happened, but in her peripheral vision she notes that half of her colleague's plate has been cleared already.
They eat in companionable silence among the peaceful chaos around them. It's only when the boy sulking up at her catches her eye that she puts her fork down. Zabini pauses, too, and she knows that he's unsettled because he's running his hand through his hair. Most witches mistake it for him trying to catch their eye and he doesn't correct them. But Hermione knows better.
"So," Hermione says, looking between the case file and the man opposite her, "Is there any particular reason you didn't want to take this one?"
Zabini gives her an unwavering stare in answer.
She rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, apart from the elephant in the room."
"It's personal," he deadpans. Of course this would be his definition of an explanation.
Hermione raises her brows, not willing to back down. "It is for me, too, on some levels. Most of our cases are to certain degrees." Zabini meets her stubborn glare in equal measure, before he snickers slightly. The sign that he'll succumb.
"With most people from school, it's easy to work a case. But this is… too close for comfort. Malfoy and I were friends — if you could call it that." Any trace of humour on his face has faded as his eyes drift over to the photo of Malfoy's son glowering up at the clinically white ceiling. His stare snaps out to the window. Hermione follows suit, and she realizes it has started raining. A Muggle man who is wearing a suit and a scowl, with an umbrella in his clutch, is gesturing for a taxi. "He was mean-spirited, prejudiced, bigoted, sure. We all were." He turns his head back to her, as she mirrors him, and he's giving her a pointed stare. "You could argue that more than just Slytherins were." At the slight incline of her head, he has nothing to pin his defensiveness at and he runs his hand through his now wildly tousled hair again, eyes dropping to the table. "But there was another side to him. I think I was the only one who saw it. He —" he pauses, giving her a strange look. As he shakes his head, Hermione frowns. He continues, "I never thought he would be capable of..." He gestures to the case file, and Hermione finds herself locking eyes with Scorpius Malfoy again.
Cruelty.
Neglect.
Abuse.
Of anyone from Hogwarts she'd come across in her line of work, she can honestly say that Draco Malfoy making an appearance surprises her the least.
"Makes sense," is all she can think of saying. She wishes she didn't, because Zabini is giving her a distraughtly knowing look.
She suspects that once this reaches the public's ears (and she knows one of Skeeter's apprentices are bound to be sniffing around this very second) nobody would be surprised.
Draco - February 13 2007
When his son was born, it was snowing outside.
Draco remembers the bitter wind biting at his cheeks, twisting under his fingernails, and how he wouldn't cast a warming charm because he wanted to feel something. He'd Apparated to St Mungo's with the air of a wizard going in for a checkup.
When Voldemort was defeated, he was supposed to be free. But the second the war ended his parents shackled him to a marriage with a girl who wasn't even out of school yet. Astoria Greengrass was a pretty witch — stunning, some might've said — and the perfect Pure wife to carry on the Malfoy line. Essentially, she was nothing more than a broodmare; Draco was nothing more than an heirloom. He'd watched in envy as most of his classmates enjoyed their youth by partying, travelling, attending World Cups and excelling in their careers.
When Astoria got pregnant, Draco was convinced that it would be the end of him.
But the moment his eyes landed on Scorpius Malfoy, he decided that something good had come out of his loveless marriage. Something beautiful.
His son makes sitting in this cage-like drawing room worth it. Every time a well-connected whatsit saunters over to him with a couple glasses of champagne and copied promises for useful investments with his fortune, he plasters on a smile with Scorpius in mind. The boy has, in fact, softened the stiff relationship between himself and his own parents. And for the first time, Draco is united with Astoria on something — their incorruptible love for their son.
His boy is certainly special. He rarely cries; he's well-mannered even though he's much too young to have any concept of what that is… and behind those mercury eyes identical to his own, Draco sees someone intelligent, someone observant, someone shrewd and sly. What a Slytherin he will make.