The Revenant (Part 5)
The memory always began the same way.
Draco ran up the stairs to their flat, his heart in his throat, his palm slick with sweat as he opened the front door. It was already ajar, gaping open like a mouth preparing to scream. And he knew he was too late; he could smell the blood before he even entered the flat. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he called out her name in a voice he hardly recognized as his own. He did not expect a response, nor did he receive one.
The kitchen was empty; the table was blasted to shards of rubble, and a pot of soup was overturned on the stove. The bedroom was also empty, but apparently untouched. He walked through these rooms as if in a daze, but it was in the bathroom where he finally paused. He was frozen in place, his attention captured by the dripping red letters written on the bathroom mirror. He touched them with horror, knowing it was Hermione's blood that stained his fingertips; that it was her blood the word was written in.
TRAITOR.
Draco's eyes snapped open as he awoke to find himself once more clutching his wand in a death-grip. This time, however, he had managed to avoid blowing up any Muggle devices. He stared in bewilderment around the room before recognizing his surroundings. He had dozed off in the guest room, and by the position of the sun slanting through the window, he judged that he had been asleep for a couple hours at least. He slumped tiredly back onto his pillow, and lay there with his heart still racing from his nightmare.
Draco wondered if Hermione was still locked in her bedroom, and whether she had stopped crying yet. He closed his eyes and sighed, knowing he was long overdue for him to give her an explanation for his actions – most notably his sudden departure three years before. He couldn't dodge the issue any longer. The more he and Hermione tried to bury the past, the more it threatened to eat away at them both. If they continued to resort to petty name-calling and childish arguments, he knew he would lose her forever.
He had almost lost her once. He refused to let it happen again.
Hermione jerked awake and rolled over in her bed to look at the clock on the nightstand. It was one in the afternoon. She had been asleep for over two hours.
After her and Draco's confrontation at Goyle's funeral service, she had returned to the flat, locked herself in her room, and sobbed into her pillow. She was angry at Draco, but she was even angrier with herself. Because the truth was, she had been jealous of finding him in an intimate position with Pansy. She had never experienced such jealousy in her entire life. In retrospect, she knew that Draco had probably been doing nothing more than comforting an old friend, but it was her own reaction to the situation that unnerved her. She was not supposed to care if Draco was with another woman. She was engaged to another man and she and Draco were mere days away from finalizing their divorce. Why did her emotions have to complicate things so much?
While she had lain in bed crying, she had heard Draco Apparate into their flat. She had heard him approach her bedroom door and pause outside of it. She had waited in silence, afraid that he would barge into the room…and dreading that he wouldn't. Sure enough, he had sighed and walked away, and she had heard the sound of the guestroom door shutting behind him. Not long afterwards, she had drifted into a fitful slumber.
Hermione groaned and rolled out of bed, determined not to waste the rest of the day moping and crying over things that didn't matter anymore…Or things that shouldn't matter anymore. She hesitated, and then opened her underwear drawer to retrieve a packet of cigarettes that were buried beneath her lingerie. She kept them hidden there so Anthony wouldn't find them whenever he spent the night. Sometimes, when she was home alone, she would secretly smoke a cigarette or two, but only during those moments when her stress became so overwhelming that she thought she would explode without one.
This was definitely one of those moments.
She shuffled over to the door, removed the wards, and cracked it open, peeping out into the corridor beyond. The guestroom door was still shut, and she assumed that Draco was inside, napping. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped boldly out of her own room. She was not about to let him intimidate her in her own home. It was better that he should hide from her than have it be the other way around.
She made her way over to her favorite window seat, cracked open the window, and used her wand to light a cigarette. She took a drag, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs, and releasing it through the opened window, sighing with relief as she began to feel the nicotine course through her veins. She leaned back against the recessed window frame and tried to comprehend how her emotions had become such a jumbled mess.
It had all started that morning, when Draco had come into her room looking for dress robes. She had already been lying awake after a restless night, but she had been tired to face him. So she had pretended to be asleep as he wandered into her room and rifled through the closet. When he had paused beside her bed, her heart had sped up, and she feared that she would give herself away. When Draco had brushed her hair out of her face and kissed her forehead, his actions had both surprised and unsettled her. She had lain there in bed for several minutes after he left, as she tried to understand what had motivated his simple, yet intimate, gesture.
The only conclusion Hermione could come up with was that Draco still cared for her, even if only in a fond, nostalgic way. Perhaps when you loved someone as much as they had once loved each other, loving them became a habit that you couldn't easily let go of; a source of comfort that you returned to in difficult times. And that was why she had gone to him earlier that morning. She couldn't let him face Goyle's funeral alone.
One of these days, her compassionate nature was going to get her into trouble.
Hermione groaned in frustration and closed her eyes, feeling the cold night air drift in through the open window and caress her cheek. Things weren't supposed to have turned out this way between her and Draco. She wasn't supposed to still care. It was supposed to be a clean, simple break; sign on the dotted line, go there separate ways, and move on with their lives. In her case, that meant marrying Anthony. At that thought, she groaned again.
Anthony. She had had her misgivings about their upcoming nuptials, but what she had once thought was a mere case of pre-wedding jitters, was now thrown into a much harsher light. It appeared that she was not as ready to move on as she had once thought. It seemed that some part of her heart - however little he deserved it – still belonged to Draco. Could she willingly enter into a marriage with Anthony, knowing that she could never give her whole heart, intact, and belonging to him alone?
Hermione opened her eyes and stared out the window at the dark river, and the city lights reflected in its waters. Even before she had moved in with Draco, back when this flat had been home to him alone, this had always been her favorite cozy corner. She would come here to read a book, or smoke a cigarette, or just allow herself to have a moment of quiet solitude at the end of a long day. Other times, Draco would join her. They would sit opposite each other with her feet in his lap, or with his back against the window frame and her nestled in between his legs, her back cradled against his chest. And they would sit, share a cigarette, and talk or banter…Or sometimes they would just sit in silence, both of them wrapped up in their own thoughts, but still connected to each other.
Was it really that long ago that they had been happy?
Hermione closed her eyes again and tried to remember. When was the last time that she and Draco had been happy together? As she thought, she ran her hand along the soft, worn fabric of the window seat, and a faint smile teased the corners of her lips. Of course, she could remember the moment perfectly…
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair some time declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.'"
Hermione paused when she heard a soft laugh coming from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She glanced up to see Draco standing there, his shoulder propped against the archway and his arms folded across his chest. He was smirking at her, but his grey eyes were full of warmth.
"Hermione, don't you think it's a bit early for Shakespeare?" He walked over and sat next to her on the window seat, gently lifting her legs to place them in his lap. She was sprawled out with a pillow tucked behind her lower back, and her battered old copy of "The Complete Works of Shakespeare" propped up against the small bump in her stomach.
"Nonsense, all the baby books say that it's beneficial to read to the baby. It gets them used to the sound of your voice."
She gestured to a nearby coffee table, where she had stacked several books, including "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and "The Best of Both Worlds: Raising Your Half-Blood Child to Appreciate Their Muggle and Magical Heritages".
"I don't think you can teach him to love Shakespeare while he's still in the womb," Draco said, rolling his eyes at the pile of parenting manuals. Hermione arched her eyebrow and gave him a sly smile.
"Oh? So I suppose it was equally useless for you to recite Quidditch statistics to my belly last night, wasn't it?"
"I thought you were asleep," Draco huffed petulantly.
"Don't be embarrassed, love. It was cute."
Draco groaned and buried his head in his hands.
"Hermione, it's perfectly acceptable for a young wizard to like Quidditch. But no son of mine is going to grow up to be a sissy. I'll allow the Shakespeare, but if you try taking him to the ballet or something, I'm putting my foot down."
"Draco, there is nothing wrong with raising a boy to have an appreciation for the arts."
"Like I said – a sissy."
Hermione shook her head and smacked him lightly on the arm with her book. When she drew back to hit him again, he latched onto the book with lightning-fast reflexes and wrenched it out of her hands, tossing it to the floor with a thud. Then, before she could protest the abuse of her favorite tome, he grinned and tugged her fully into his lap before ducking his head to capture her mouth with his. Her aggravated grunt melted into a purr of satisfaction as she laced her fingers through his hair to tug him closer. As his tongue and lips worked skillfully against her own, his hands wandered over her body, making a trek from her breasts, which had grown ripe and full during her pregnancy, to her lush hips, and finally to her belly.
Draco's hand grazed over the swell of her stomach, and a fluttering sensation greeted his touch. He gasped in surprise and drew his hand away, breaking their kiss at the same time. Hermione chuckled at his bewildered expression.
"It's just the baby kicking, see?" she said, as she grasped his hand and placed it back on her stomach.
Hermione knew she would never forget the way Draco looked right then, with his hair glowing white in the sun streaming through the window, and his eyes wide with awe at their son's tiny movements beneath his hand. She didn't think she could love anyone more than she loved him at that moment. She watched as his facial expression shifted rapidly from delight to loving reverence, and finally, concern.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing it's just…" He paused, running his fingers lightly over the spot on her belly where the baby was still kicking. "I don't know if I'll be any good at this."
"At what?"
"At being a father. It's not as if I've had a very good example, you know? My father did the best he could with me, but he's not exactly winning any prizes for 'Dad of the Year'."
"Draco, you're not your father. You're not doomed to repeat his mistakes. You're going to make a wonderful dad, I just know it."
"Well, that makes one of us," he muttered.
Hermione laid her own hand on top of the one he still had resting on her belly.
"Two of us," she corrected.
Draco smiled, and his eyes were so full of love for her that it made her breath catch. She knew it was not an easy road that lay ahead of them, but she knew that whatever happened, it would turn out all right in the end. Whatever happened, they would get through it together.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway roused Hermione from her memories. She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and glanced up to find Draco standing there, clad in nothing but a pair of loose-fitting trousers. She tried unsuccessfully to keep her eyes from wandering over his bare torso.
"I thought you quit," he said, indicating her cigarette.
"Hard habit to break," she muttered as she finally managed to tear her eyes away from him.
"Most bad habits are. Mind if I join you?" He did not wait for an invitation, however, and sauntered casually across the room to sit down on the window seat beside her. She shifted to the side to make more space for him and prevent his leg from brushing against hers when he sat. As she watched him pensively, he pulled his own pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers, lit one, and began to smoke in silence.
It was not unlike how it used to be, with the two of them sitting in the window seat, sharing a quiet smoke. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to imagine him as he had been that sunny afternoon, over three years ago, but this time it was dark, and his face was cast in shadow. As she always used to do, she tried to see shapes in the cloud of smoke they created. This time, it looked like a hazy question mark hovering over their heads.
"Why did you quit, anyway?" he asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?" Hermione queried, returning her gaze to him.
"Why did you quit smoking?"
"Besides the fact that it takes years off of your life?" She paused, not entirely sure she wanted to tell him the truth. Finally, she gave in with a sigh and added, "Anthony doesn't like it."
Draco let out a grunt that sounded like a combination of surprise and disapproval.
"The Hermione I used to know would never change herself to please a man."
"The Hermione you used to know doesn't exist anymore," she answered coolly, taking another drag from her cigarette. He frowned, but said nothing else in response. And she decided that the Draco she used to know didn't seem to exist anymore, either.
The man that sat beside her was an enigma. He was broader across the shoulders, and seemed larger than he had been before, but she could not attribute this to changes in his physical size alone. His face seemed harder, the jaw firmer, and the grey eyes keener. And yet there was a sense of weariness about him as well, giving her the impression of someone who had seen much of the world, and not liked what he had found in it. When she had last seen him three years before, there had been a trace of boyhood remaining in his appearance and demeanor. All of that was gone now. In its place was the semblance of a hardened man who felt like a stranger to her.
She caught Draco studying her just as intently, and wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Had she changed as much in his eyes as he had changed in hers?
"This case reminds me of the time in Moscow," he said, finally breaking the silence. Her cheeks immediately flushed at the memory, and he smirked. "No, not the part in the hotel room, although I am rather fond of recalling that little interlude. I'm thinking of before that."
Hermione nodded.
"The trap."
"Yes," he continued, his expression becoming thoughtful. "It feels like the time Dolohov set us up; when we were blindly led to believe that we were the ones in control of the situation, only to have the rug pulled out from under our feet."
"Yes, but we managed to get out of that situation alive, just like we have many times before. Remember the time in the catacombs in Venice, when we were surrounded by vampires? Or that time in New York City, when we finally caught Dolohov?"
"All I remember about New York City is how you got us kicked out of the Plaza Hotel because of your screaming."
Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.
"And whose fault was it that I was screaming in the first place?"
"All right, I take full blame for that one," Draco said with a shameless grin. "Though it's not my fault Americans are such prudes."
Hermione rolled her eyes, and decided to steer the conversation in another direction. She preferred not to think about the more…intimate aspects of her and Draco's past. It only made their present situation more confusing.
"Well, my favorite experience was when we were undercover in Tokyo," she said.
Draco scowled.
"As I recall, you swapped our Polyjuice Potions and I had to spend an entire day as a Japanese schoolgirl."
"Yes, which explains why it's my favorite experience," Hermione concluded with a sly smile. "You were being such a prat that day, and you deserved it."
"Probably," Draco conceded. "But I have to admit, there's something strangely liberating about a plaid miniskirt."
In reaction to his statement, Hermione accidentally inhaled too deeply from her cigarette, causing her to break out into a coughing fit. Draco chuckled as he thumped her gently on the back and she laughed between coughs. When she finally caught her breath, he kept his hand resting between her shoulder blades, and she could feel the heat of his touch burning through her shirt and into her skin. It was like it used to be, when they would sit in this window seat and banter and bait each other, enjoying every moment of it.
"We had a lot of good times together, didn't we?" he said soberly, and Hermione nodded.
"Yes, we did."
Slowly, Draco removed his hand from her back, and Hermione tried not to feel bereft of his touch. He Vanished the stub of his cigarette and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a difficult conversation. Hermione's heart thudded wildly in her chest in anticipation of what he was about to say.
"Hermione, I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"About…" Draco hesitated. "About…Pansy."
Hermione's facial expression shifted into a dark scowl.
"Pansy. You're thinking about Pansy."
"I think she might be in trouble. I think she's using Morpheum…possibly even dealing it, like Goyle."
"And this affects me how?"
He rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Hermione, don't you see? She could be a link to Meachim's master – the man behind all these murders. What if she's somehow connected to him?"
"Oh." Hermione chewed her lower lip, trying to hide her disappointment. She had been so sure that he was about to say something meaningful to her, and build on their brief moment of happiness, but then he had ruined things by talking about Pansy. "Maybe she is the murderer," she added as an afterthought, though she didn't really believe it.
"Pansy Parkinson, the notorious serial killer?" Draco laughed at the idea. "She must weigh what? Fifty kilos, soaking wet?"
"What does her size have to do with anything? You don't have to be a big person to cast an Avada."
"True. But she also doesn't have a motive. Why would she kill Goyle, or any of the other Death Eaters for that matter? And why do you suddenly have such animosity towards her?"
"You know I've always hated her," Hermione replied, bristling in defense. "My despising her is nothing new."
"No, but your raging jealousy of her sure is."
"I am not –" Hermione began. Then she paused and decided she was tired of lying, and tired of playing these childish games with him. She Vanished her cigarette and sighed. "Okay, fine. Maybe I was a bit jealous when I saw her getting so cozy with you earlier this morning."
Draco's jaw dropped in surprise at her admission, but he closed it once more and wisely remained silent.
"I guess I'm just not used to seeing you with someone else," she continued. "I suppose it will take some getting used to, just like you'll have to get used to the idea of me being with Anthony."
"That is something I'll never get used to," Draco growled. "How many other men have you been with while I was gone?"
"Before Anthony, I just dated a few wizards: Seamus Finnigan, George Weasley…"
"Weasley?" Draco interrupted, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You went on a date with George Weasley?"
"So?" she said. "George is a nice man, and he made me laugh, which is what I really needed at the time."
"But all you did with him was share a laugh, right?" Draco said anxiously. "You didn't…I mean, the two of you didn't…"
"Not that it's any of your business, but Anthony is the only person I've slept with since you left." Hermione said crisply. "Besides, like you said, it would be unrealistic for the two of us to have been celibate all this time. Tell me, how many woman have you been with in the past three years?"
Draco stared at her, shifting uneasily in his seat.
"You know I've always had a hard time lying to you, Hermione…"
"Oh god, have you really slept with that many women?" she asked, feeling her face grow pale at the thought. To her shock and aggravation, Draco suddenly burst into laughter. "Fine," she snapped, rising to leave. "If you expect me to be amused by the fact that you've slept with every slut that crossed your path -"
"Shut up and sit down," he cut in, grabbing her wrist and tugging her back onto the seat beside him. "I'm laughing because it's the exact opposite of what you think. The last woman I slept with was you. I haven't been with anyone since I left."
"None?" Hermione squeaked in disbelief.
"None. Zip, zero, nada. I can also say it in Arabic, Farsi, or Dari if it's easier for you to understand."
"You want me to believe that you, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, have abstained from sex for the past three years?"
"Yes."
Hermione's eyes widened as the deeper meaning of his admission washed over her. Could it possibly mean…? No, she refused to believe it. She knew that he was a man with strong sexual needs, and that he certainly must have had his fair share of opportunities to bed a beautiful, exotic woman during his travels. Why would he have chosen to remain celibate all this time? She knew there could only be one answer to that question, and the implications of that answer frightened her. She glanced up to see Draco watching her with an amused expression on his face. But there was something else beneath the amusement – a heated look in his eyes that made her stomach flutter pleasantly.
"Why?" she whispered.
"You shouldn't ask questions that you already know the answer to," he said in a husky voice that made the blood pool in her groin. She shook her head, sliding further away from him on the window seat.
"You left me," she said in a small voice. "You didn't want me anymore."
The look of pain on Draco's face made her breath catch.
"I could never stop wanting you, Hermione. Not in three years. Not in three hundred." He moved closer to her, until she was cornered against the window frame. A war began to rage inside of her. Part of her wanted nothing more than to flee from his overwhelming presence, while another part of her – a part she had buried inside herself so long, she hadn't known it still existed – wished that he would just shut up and kiss her already.
Draco reached out to brush a few curls off her face, and his movements were slow and tentative, as if he were trying not to startle a wounded animal. His face was nearing closer and closer to hers, and her heart was thudding so hard in her chest, she was certain it would crack a few ribs. And when his mouth brushed hers – just the slightest touch of lips on lips – she couldn't help releasing a tiny whimper of need. This encouraged Draco to deepen the kiss, and draw her lower lip into his mouth to lave it gently with his tongue.
Oh Merlin, how she had missed kissing him. How she had missed this burning, all-consuming sensation. Still, his movements were excruciatingly slow, and she could no longer tolerate his hesitation. She drew back from their kiss, and an expression of disappointment passed over Draco's face. Before he could speak, however, she bent down to fasten her mouth to his neck, causing him to gasp in surprise.
As Hermione's lips roved along Draco's jaw line, she wondered if she still remembered all the places that made him squirm with pleasure. She paused to suckle at a patch of skin beneath his left ear, remembering that that particular spot had always driven him crazy, and to her satisfaction, he growled in response. When she discovered a tiny, razor-thin scar on his jaw that she had never seen before, she traced it with the tip of her tongue. Draco hissed and pushed her away, holding her shoulders in a bruising grip. His eyes burned like hot coals, and when he gazed back at her, it was with a hunger that frightened and aroused her at the same time.
This is wrong! The logical part of her brain was shouting at her. No, no, no!
"Draco…"
"Yes," he said, "this is a bad idea."
And then his hands were buried in her hair and he was kissing her in a way that made her feel as if he was trying to consume her – to absorb every ounce of her being. And in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be consumed. He grasped her leg and hooked it over his hip, pulling her closer so that she could feel his hard length pressing against her abdomen, straining through the thin material of his trousers, and.… Yes, her body was begging, please god, yes.
Suddenly, there was a loud popping sound from across the room, and Hermione lurched away from Draco so quickly, she nearly fell to the floor. She turned to see a face hovering in the green flames of the fireplace.
"H-Harry!" she stammered, running her hands over her hair to smooth it. Her friend surveyed the disheveled pair with suspicion.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked.
"No!"
"Yes."
"No," Hermione repeated insistently, shooting a glare in Draco's direction. "You weren't interrupting anything, Harry. What's going on?"
Harry did not appear convinced, but he seemed to decide to let it go for the time being. He turned to focus his attention on Draco.
"I think your family may be the killer's next target after all, Malfoy. Someone just tried to break into your parents' Manor."
Draco pushed through the crowd of Aurors until he reached the two wizards standing at the center of it.
"Weasley, you call yourself an Auror?" he snarled. "How is that you can't manage to do a simple job like protect my parents?" Ron, who was clutching a bag of ice to the back of his head, glared back at him.
"Your parents are fine, Malfoy. The attacker didn't manage to lay a finger on them. Can't say the same for me."
"You poor thing," Draco drawled. "A little bump on the head; how will you survive?"
"That's enough, Malfoy," Harry snapped. "Ron did what he could."
"Well somebody had better explain what the hell happened here," Draco said through gritted teeth as he stabbed a finger in the direction of the front gate to his family's estate. The iron was melted and distorted – clearly the result of some very powerful magic.
"He looked exactly like you," Ron mumbled. "Though of course, it wasn't you. Only took me a minute to figure it out."
"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.
"Well, I was standing at my post when Malfoy – I mean, whoever was impersonating Malfoy – came and said he wanted to see his parents."
"How did you know it wasn't him?"
"When he said 'please'," Ron said ruefully. "I knew the real Malfoy wouldn't have been that polite about it – especially to me. So I went for my wand, but the bloke was too quick. He stunned me and I fell backwards, hit my head and blacked out. No idea what happened next, or what kept him from getting inside."
"It was blood magic," Draco explained. "My family's estate has protective wards built into the foundations, and the grounds itself. When the gate is closed, it's enforced with a powerful spell that won't allow anyone but a Malfoy to pass. My guess is that whoever the attacker was, he tried Polyjuicing himself into me, thinking that he would be able to make it through."
"But the magic was too powerful for that, wasn't it?" Harry mused. Draco nodded.
"My ancestors weren't fools. They would have made it so that the enchantment wouldn't be duped by Polyjuice Potion. It will only recognize a true member of the Malfoy family, through blood or marriage." He cocked his head in Hermione's direction before continuing. "When the magic recognized the person as an imposter, it generated a powerful magical explosion in defense. It probably blew the man off his feet, and injured him in the process. Whoever he is, he won't be trying that trick again."
"But the attacker would have needed a sample of your hair to make the Polyjuice Potion," Hermione added. "How would he have been able to retrieve it?"
"Easy enough," Ron put in. "It wasn't that hard for us to get Crabbe and Goyle's hair back in Second Year."
"What?" Draco asked suspiciously. The trio of friends shared sidelong glances with each other, but gave him no explanation. Hermione cleared her throat.
"It was Pansy," she said. "Pansy was running her fingers through your hair at the Goyle's place earlier this morning."
"No, Pansy would never betray me like that," Draco argued. Frustrated, he turned his back on the group and started walking towards the gate. "How do you know my parents are all right? Did you speak with them?"
"No," Harry responded. "They won't let us in. They refuse to talk to us."
Draco pressed his hand to the gate and it opened effortlessly beneath his touch, recognizing him as a member of the Malfoy family.
"I'll go talk to them. The rest of you wait out here. I'm sure my father is not in the mood to entertain company at the moment – especially not if it's you lot."
"I'm coming with you," Hermione insisted, hurrying to his side. Draco sighed tiredly.
"Of course you are," he said in annoyance. While the others hung back outside the grounds, he and Hermione made their way up the long paved walkway to the front door of Malfoy Manor. Draco couldn't help feeling nervous as he gazed up at the imposing edifice. Of course, it was not the building itself that intimidated him, but its occupants. He had a feeling that this little family reunion would be anything but pleasant. He glanced over at Hermione, who was walking with her head held high and her lips pressed firmly together. At the sight of her determined expression, he couldn't help but smile.
When they reached the front terrace of the Manor, Draco stood up straighter, squared his shoulders, and banged loudly on the door. There were a few moments of silence, and then the door swung open, revealing the master of the Manor himself.
Lucius Malfoy did not appear at all surprised to see his son and daughter-in-law standing on his front stoop. He merely raised his pale eyebrows and drawled, "Oh, it's you." Then he prepared to slam the door in their faces. Draco was too fast for him, however, and stuck his foot in the doorway to prevent it from closing.
"Pleasure to see you too, Father," he muttered as he elbowed his way inside. Hermione followed closely on his heels, her brown eyes cautiously scanning her surroundings as if she anticipated an attack. And Draco had to admit, in his parents' house, one could never be too careful. Lucius scowled and slammed the door shut behind them when it became clear that they were not going to wait for an invitation to stay.
"Narcissa, our worthless son has come to pay us a visit!" he called out. Then he returned his attention to his visitors. "If you've come to apologize for the ineptitude of your Aurors, you needn't bother. I have already drafted a letter to the Minister of Magic himself, outlining your department's failure to protect my family and my property. As such, I expect Mr. Weasley will soon be out of a job."
Hermione's fists curled in anger.
"Why you slimy, conceited, son of a-"
"Draco!" cried a feminine voice, and suddenly he was besieged by an attractive blond woman in elegant blue robes.
"Hello, Mother," he said, flushing in embarrassment as she kissed his cheek. Then she smacked him soundly across the face, causing him to gasp in pained surprise.
"Draco Abraxas Malfoy, do you have any idea how worried I have been? You run away without warning, leave no note telling us where you've gone, and then disappear for three years! I thought we raised you better than that. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Before Draco could manage a response, his mother noticed Hermione standing off to the side, watching the mother-son reunion with amusement. To Draco's shock, Narcissa promptly enveloped his wife in a warm hug.
"Hermione, my dear, I was so worried when you didn't respond to my owl on Thursday. I had so hoped we could have our usual teatime together."
"I'm sorry, Narcissa, but as you can see, things have been a bit crazy over the past few days."
Draco blinked in surprise at this startling new revelation. Hermione and his mother had been spending time with each other while he was gone? While Narcissa had never carried the same amount of loathing towards the Muggleborn witch as Lucius had, they had never been on friendly terms before. Things had certainly changed in three years' time.
"How long will you be staying in town, Draco?" Narcissa asked. "I do hope you're not planning to leave again."
Draco slid a glance in Hermione's direction, and before he could open his mouth to answer his mother's question, she responded for him.
"He is," she said firmly. "We're getting a divorce."
Narcissa's face crumpled in disappointment, while Lucius beamed, looking as if Christmas had come early.
"Really?" he said cheerfully. "And when is this delightful event scheduled to take place?"
Draco decided to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.
"Mother, Father, Hermione and I didn't come here to discuss our marriage. We came to talk to you about Goyle's murder, and anything you may know about it."
When his parents exchanged a significant look, Draco knew he had come to the right source. Clearly, they had some information to share. His mother sighed and gestured towards the parlor.
"Let's discuss this over tea, shall we?" she said, and she led Hermione out of the room, indicating that her son and husband should follow. But Draco first turned to his father with raised eyebrows.
"Since when are Mother and Hermione so close?" he asked. Lucius smirked.
"Ah, well, perhaps you have heard the old saying: 'my enemy's enemy is my friend'?"
"You're telling me the two of them have a common enemy? Who?"
"Why, you of course," his father drawled. "Your mother was horribly put out when you left. I was as well, but I found a healthier outlet for my anger, by writing you out of my will. Your mother, however, turned to your wife for solace. Apparently, the two of them meet for tea in Diagon Alley every Thursday in order to express their frustration with your actions, and come up with all sorts of wonderfully horrid punishments that they would like to issue in return for your abandonment." He paused to tilt his head in the direction of the parlor, where Draco could hear the two women speaking in low voices. "When you walk into that room, it will be like walking into the lion's den."
When Draco gulped audibly, his father laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, son. I'm right behind you."
"Thank you, Father," Draco said sarcastically. "I find that very reassuring."
As the two men entered the room, Hermione and Narcissa immediately fell silent, and Draco didn't doubt that his father was right – they had been talking about him. He took a seat on the settee next to Hermione, while Lucius took the empty chair next to his wife, and for a few minutes, the foursome sipped their tea in awkward silence. When he couldn't take it anymore, Draco spoke up.
"We need to know everything you can tell us about what happened today. And anything you know about Goyle, too."
"Honestly, Draco," Narcissa admonished, as she set her teacup and saucer on the table in front of her. "You haven't seen us in over three years, and the first thing you want to do is interrogate us? Isn't it bad enough that your father and I have had to live as prisoners in our own home?"
Draco ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
"Mother, this is serious. I'm sure Potter explained to you that we think the killer is after our family next. The more we know about the situation, the faster we can catch him. Weasley said the attacker never made it past the front gate. Is that true?"
Lucius nodded.
"According to the Aurors, he had taken Polyjuice Potion to look like you, Draco. Of course, the powerful enchantments on this estate could not be fooled by something as elementary as Polyjuice Potion."
"I still think that Pansy is somehow behind this," Hermione added. "She could easily have snatched a few of Draco's hairs when she was with him at the funeral this morning." Lucius gave her a look of mild surprise.
"Pansy Parkinson attended Goyle's funeral service? The two of you have actually seen her? When I last spoke with her father, he said she had been missing for months. She sends them money on a regular basis, and notes with no return address, but his connections tell him that she is renting a room somewhere in Knockturn Alley."
"Doesn't he wonder where she's getting the money from?" Hermione asked in disbelief. "Doesn't her family worry that she may be in a bad situation?"
"Not feeling sorry for Miss Parkinson, are you?" Lucius drawled, and Hermione flushed.
"No," she mumbled. "I just think it's ridiculous for her parents to allow her to pay for their own mistakes. If Mr. Parkinson's business is failing due to his previous…allegiances, then that should be his problem, not his daughter's."
Draco took a sip of his tea in order to hide the smile that sprang to his face. It had always amazed him how compassionate and forgiving Hermione could be, even to those who had never shown her anything but scorn. It was one of the things he admired most about her, and secretly envied.
"What about Goyle?" he asked his parents. "Have you heard any news about him? We think he was dealing Morpheum potion before his death."
"Well of course he was," Lucius replied. "He told me so himself."
Hermione dropped her cup and saucer to the table with a clatter.
"He what?"
"He came to me a few weeks ago, asking for help. Apparently he was in over his head, and needed a way out. He asked to borrow money, which I gave him, and he asked me to cast a Fidelius Charm over his home, to protect him and his wife from attack."
"You acted as their Secret Keeper?" Hermione asked in disbelief.
"Believe it or not, even a former Death Eater has some integrity," her father-in-law said coolly. "Gregory Goyle's father was a longtime acquaintance of mine. Of course I would do what I could to assist his son."
"Lucius, if you had spoken to him, why didn't you come to the authorities once you learned he had been murdered?"
"My dear, given my past, surely you must understand that I have no desire to involve myself with anyone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if I can help it. Besides, I would have assumed that the Auror Office knew all about this, seeing that Goyle turned himself in. Wasn't there some sort of official report made when he contacted the department?"
Hermione gasped in surprise, and Draco nearly spilled his tea all over his lap.
"Goyle turned himself in?" he repeated in shock. "When?"
"Just a few days before his death. Apparently he was scheduled to meet one of the Aurors in Knockturn Alley the night he was killed. He was going to give himself up in exchange for protection from the Ministry."
"Who?" Draco asked breathlessly. "Father, which Auror was Goyle supposed to meet that night?"
Lucius calmly took another sip of his tea before responding, and Draco knew, with irritation, that his father was enjoying the fact that they were all hanging on his next words.
"I believe the Auror's name was Finnigan," he said finally. "Seamus Finnigan."
Hermione and Draco arrived outside the motel in Dublin with Harry and the other Aurors. Harry immediately established a perimeter, and surrounded the building with anti-Disapparation spells to prevent anyone inside from Apparating away. If Seamus was indeed inside the motel, he would have no way of escaping.
The moment they had heard Seamus's name cross Lucius Malfoy's lips, Hermione and Draco had informed Harry, who had in turn sent a message to the Ministry ordering Dennis Creevey to retrieve an object from Seamus's office and use it to cast a Locator Charm. As they had feared, Seamus was no longer in his London flat, but in a motel close to his parents' home in Ireland.
He had run away, and Hermione knew, with a sinking heart, that it was a sure sign of guilt. And then another memory came to mind, of his pale face and his trembling hand as he gave Harry a vial of poisoned Veritaserum, and there was no denying that he had been the one to poison it. But why? As hard as she tried, there was no way for her to reconcile the kind-faced, sandy-haired man she had known since Hogwarts with the cold-blooded killer who had tortured the Notts to death, and burned the Averys alive.
Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by Harry.
"We need to do this quietly," he said to Draco, Ron, and Hermione. "This is a Muggle motel, and if we go barging in, wands blazing, then we'll have a lot of memories to Obliviate."
"What do you have in mind, mate?" asked Ron.
"Ron, you and the other Aurors hold the perimeter, and make sure Seamus doesn't sneak out the back way. Hermione and I will try to get into his motel room."
"Why does Hermione have to go?" Draco protested.
"Because," Harry explained. "If anyone of us is going to be able to reason with Seamus, and get him to come quietly, it's her."
"Well, then I'm going, too," Draco said firmly. Harry opened his mouth to argue, but from the look of determination on Draco's face, it was obvious that it would be a waste of time to do so.
"Fine," he muttered, "Let's go."
While Ron signaled the other Aurors to hold their places, Harry, Draco, and Hermione slunk quietly towards the door of the motel room Dennis had traced Seamus's signal to. The door was a sickly green color, with peeling paint and a rusty number "17" hammered crookedly on the front of it. The trio flanked either side of the door, their wands held at the ready. Hermione had to suppress a hiss of frustration when Draco maneuvered so that he was standing in front of her. Harry gave them a nod, and then proceeded to kick in the door and enter the room with Draco close behind, and Hermione bringing up the rear.
She heard Harry call out Seamus's name once before there was a gasp of surprise, an uttered curse, and then silence. Draco froze in the doorway, and when Hermione tried to enter the room, he raised his arm in an attempt to hold her back.
"Hermione, I don't think you should –"
But she elbowed her way past him, determined to see what was happening. Her gaze at first fell on Harry, who was standing motionless with his wand at his side. Then she raised her eyes and let out a strangled cry as she saw Seamus's body dangling lifelessly in the air, hung from a rope tied around an exposed ceiling beam.
Hermione dropped her wand to the floor and spun around to bury her face in Draco's chest. Immediately, his arms looped around her, holding her close, and she could no longer hold back the sobs that were rising in her chest.
"Why?" she choked out, her words muffled in the front of Draco's robes. His arms tightened around her, and one of his hands went to stroke her hair, as he bent to rest his chin on top of her head.
"Because," he murmured, "a man can only live with so much guilt."
The memory always ended the same way.
Draco ran through the corridors of the hospital, shoving Healers and their assistants out of the way whenever they tried to slow his progress. His heart was beating so fast, he was certain it would explode out of his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to care. At that moment, he could only think about reaching her side.
He finally arrived at her room and found Harry and Ron standing in the hallway outside. Her parents were seated in chairs nearby, and her father was comforting her mother as she sobbed. And he knew that he was too late, that she was already gone. He stumbled sideways and had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling to the floor.
"What happened?" he croaked.
"Your uncle," Ron answered, his blue eyes glowing with rage. "Rodolphus Lestrange had her. He's the one who kidnapped her from your flat. We d-don't really know why…"
Draco glanced down at his fingertips, which were still red with Hermione's blood. His eyes fell closed and he shuddered as he remembered the message written on their bathroom mirror.
TRAITOR.
"Don't worry, we got Lestrange," Ron continued. "He's locked up in Azkaban as we speak."
Draco's eyes snapped open.
"Hermione," he wrenched out. He seemed incapable of saying anything more coherent.
"He tortured her repeatedly with the Cruciatus Curse," Harry explained. When his voice broke, Draco's eyes widened with horror.
"She's dead, isn't she?"
"No, she's alive!" Ron said quickly. "Malfoy, she's alive. But you should know –"
But Draco couldn't stand it anymore. He pushed Ron aside and stumbled into the hospital room, which was cast in semi-darkness. The only light was from the moonlight streaming in the window, falling on a single cot and its occupant. She was so pale, and her cheeks were so cold to his touch, that he was certain Ron had lied, and that she truly was dead. Then her red-rimmed eyes fluttered open, and his relief was so great that his remaining strength left him, and he collapsed to his knees at her bedside.
"Draco?" Hermione whimpered.
"It's all right, love, you're safe now," he whispered back, running his hand through her hair. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I'm so sorry."
"The baby…" she said, her voice weak and taut with pain. "The Healers tried everything…but he…he couldn't…"
She began to cry brokenly, and Draco could not find any more words of comfort to give her. Instead he crawled into her bed, drew her into his arms, and held her close as she sobbed. And as they lay there together, absorbed in their loss and their grief, he made a silent promise that he would never again allow any harm to come to her on his account. He swore to himself that he would protect her, and ensure that she was safe…no matter what the cost.
A/N: The poem Hermione was reading to the baby is an excerpt from Shakespeare's Sonnet 18.