Chapter 4: Fingers Crossed
7 May 1929
WEDDING OF THE DECADE:
THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY
By Rita Skeeter
In the beginning of their relationship, it can be seen that Miss Granger struggled with her new role in the spotlight if you look closely enough at her appearance. This is understandable, of course, for someone who was not groomed for the circumstance they find themselves in. However, since coming forward with their relationship, Miss Granger has blossomed into a beacon of hope for all young aspiring women.
Can you feel how infuriated Rita is at having to write that last sentence about me? I'm quite certain it nearly killed her to do it – which is a shame because I would much have preferred it actually have killed her.
Oh well, we can't always get what we want.
Miss Granger's Forbes cover in the autumn of 1928 is enough proof that, despite her early missteps in the public eye, she is more than ready for the role of Lady Malfoy that lies ahead for her. There are several instances in particular in which I believe, as a nation, we were floored by the poise and elegance displayed by the future wife of our beloved Lord Draco Malfoy – all of which can be told through the dress she wore for each occasion.
The first dress is, of course, the one mentioned a bit earlier – the iconic emerald gown, a custom by Miss Daphne Greengrass, was worn when Miss Granger stepped out for the first time as Lord Malfoy's wife-to-be! The choice of emerald fabric was clearly a nod to the future House of Malfoy with which Miss Granger would be joining.
The second dress was a beautiful periwinkle number. Its innovative chiffon fabric was loose and freeing, which encapsulate the symbolism of the moment perfectly. A drop waist, giving way for the openly tiered, flouncy skirt that was even – in part – translucent! While the dress alone might have perhaps been viewed as racy, especially given the circumstances in which it was worn, when paired with white kitten gloves, strings of pearls, and a stylish periwinkle cloche hat to hide her lack of bob hairstyle. Miss Granger wore this unique day dress the day she was released from the hospital following the attack on both her and Lord Malfoy in the spring of 1926.
The third dress was worn as Miss Granger was, conversely, rushed into hospital two years later. Her appearance as well as her attire left the nation in quite a mess – neither giving a clue as to what her fate would be. This dress, a custom Chanel shift dress, was as enigmatic and intriguing as the woman who wore it at the time. Its late summer style of white linen with pops of pretty pink and bright blue hydrangeas stirred a lot of controversy over the next few days. Tomorrow, for the first time in a year, we will get a glimpse at the outcome – will the wedding feature the addition of a precious flower girl or an adorable ring bearer?
Tomorrow will be the most notable dress of all.
Oh, Rita.
I bet it hurt her to have to leave out the dresses I wore when she was accusing me of being an adulteress, getting my hands dirty with known riffraff (or, as I like to call them, the New Order), and generally being inadequate for Draco. I can't even begin to explain how many times I have seen my name in the Daily Prophet since me and Draco began "dating" and every instance – except for one – was bloody blasphemes.
It physically pained me to invite her to the wedding tomorrow, but I knew it would be far worse for her to be left outside of Westminster Abbey dreaming up a false turn of events.
Even though I am actually grateful that Rita didn't mention the dresses I wore during any of the fucking several times she accused me of being literal filth, I believe they do need to be discussed. For me, every instance she criticized in the press was a momentous occasion for me.
There was the stylish red dress-suit that was easily recognizable as I stepped out of the car and strode up towards Tom's mansion. Then, there was the olive fringe tweed knit dress that I absolutely destroyed when trying to uncover who was behind the missing boy cases. Finally, there was the floor-length yellow silk dress with tiny white gardenias patterned all over it that I wore when I was actually getting engaged to Draco – a very different setting compared to the planned moment the rest of the world knows about.
It's bizarre, thinking back on all of the wonderful times Draco and I have shared as I read this absurd piece of shit article. It was a long fucking road to get to where we are now, and I sincerely hope tomorrow doesn't completely fuck it up.
Hey, God – if you exist, that is; I'm still skeptical – we deserve a happy ending, right?
Actually, don't answer that… I don't want to know.
As for our child being present tomorrow, within the vicinity of a vengeful Tom and a sniper – I especially don't want to think about it. Fuck.
4 August 1926
Hermione removed her cloche hat, pearls and kitten gloves, leaving them carelessly on the floor behind her as she crossed her room and collapsed on the bed. After spending ten long weeks in a hospital cot, her feather mattress felt like a cloud. She inhaled the lingering scent of lavender and smiled; she'd been collecting lavender from Narcissa's garden and been using its sleep-inducing scent to help her sleep through her withdrawals. After a while, it became more of a comfort than a necessity.
"You should take it easy," chimed Astoria's voice from the doorway. Hermione lifted her head and fixed her with an impatient glare. She'd already spent the entire ride home berating Draco into leaving her alone and had stormed straight to her room to avoid any other coddling. "I'm serious, Hermione. I know you think you're invincible - "
"Maybe I am," she cut in.
Astoria pursed her lips. "While I applaud the self-confidence, I implore you to think of the rest of us." She inhaled, then exhaled sharply. Hermione let the other woman lean down to press a warm kiss on her burning forehead. Astoria patted her curls, pushing them away from Hermione's face and shook her head softly. As she turned and headed for the door, she added, "I'm glad you are home."
"Me too," smiled Hermione.
With a flick of her ebony hair, Astoria and her attentive jade eyes left. Hermione exhaled, thankful for the first real minute of solitude in weeks. However, it didn't last long. She heard a subtle cough erupt from the doorway and sat up, expecting to have to lecture another bloody Death Eater into leaving her alone. Instead, she was greeted by a petite and doe eyed Winky.
"Winky is here to help Miss Granger prepare for bed," she dimpled. "Winky is very happy to see Miss Granger is home! Winky has missed her."
"I've missed you, too, Winky," Hermione assured her. And she had; there were a lot of silly things that Hermione had missed about Malfoy Manor.
Spending most of the summer away from it made her realize just how much she had come to think of it as home. Her morning and nightly routines with Winky were underappreciated before, but Hermione had no intention of letting that happen now that she was back. Her friends – who had come to resemble her family – were constantly in and out of the Manor, and she found solace in all of their interwoven lives.
Where there had once been mistrust and betrayal, now existed encouragement and loyalty.
Not at the very least, more than her real family. Hermione wasn't particularly close with her parents growing up; they were often preoccupied with their dental practice and their own academic achievements outside of it. They supported her, of course, but they also taught her to be independent and reliable on no one but herself. Since their move to Australia, Hermione's parents had been in contact with her roughly once a year. The first few years, their letters were intercepted by her old employment in order to protect her identity and the case.
Since then, though, there still wasn't frequent communication.
Draco, with good intentions and the approval of Hermione – albeit reluctantly – wrote to them during her extended stay in the hospital. He informed them that she was recovering, slowly but still, and that he and his family were doing everything in their power to take care of her and assure that the assailants would be dealt with accordingly.
Their response?
Ok, thank you for letting us know.
No hugs and kisses. No Stay safe! We love you! Thank you for taking care of her! We miss you! Visit soon! and so on. Nothing.
Draco had been slightly put off by their dry response, which had been a bit unexpected for Hermione. Then again, even Narcissa was a far more attentive and affectionate parent than either of them. It was almost comical, really, when Hermione had to pry the letter out of Draco's hands and reassure him that he did the right thing; that their response was not to be a reflection of his character, but theirs. She supposed it was odd that she would be the one consoling him, but she hadn't expected any better of them.
That isn't to say she doesn't love her parents – because she does.
Just… Not for anything more than her biological drive to love those who share her bloodline. It wasn't personal, per se, merely logical.
Hermione drifted to sleep on the reassuring thought that she didn't need her parents because she grew into the young, powerful woman her younger self could have only dreamed of, and her family was here in the Manor with her which was more than enough for Hermione. She slept peacefully with that on her mind, until she woke up to find it used against her.
She stirred, kicked the sheets and duvet off of her sweltering skin and rubbed her eyes to clear the morning sleep from her eyes. Hermione blinked. In the corner of the room, slumped and snoring in an armchair, was Draco. In the other corner sharing the wall with her bedroom door, Astoria was curled up, also asleep.
Hermione groaned.
Slipping silently off the bed, she crept to the other side of the room bearing two enormous pillows. Hermione tossed both of them simultaneously at Astoria and Draco, then shifted her hands to her hips and scowled as both of them woke up with a jolt.
"What the bloody hell do you two think you're doing?" She bellowed.
"We – Err – Well," mumbled Astoria, cracking her back as she stood. "Why does it matter what we're doing?"
"What does it matter?" Repeated Hermione, aghast. "Because you're in my room, and I was sleeping. Does that not strike either of you as creepy?" She paused as they exchanged a vacant expression, simultaneously returning their gaze to Hermione's and shrugging nonchalantly. "Unbelievable," Hermione exhaled.
"We were only trying to protect you," retorted Astoria, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Oh, yeah?" Hermione countered. She gestured to both of them and went on, "Well, thank you very much. I feel so well protected with both of you sleeping on your watch! What good that does me – even if I did need protecting. Which I don't," she sniffed.
Draco's head immediately snapped to the side; he regarded Astoria suspiciously. "You were supposed to be on watch last," he said. "It was your turn."
"No," argued Astoria, grimacing. "It was your turn."
He opened his mouth to give a smartass retort, Hermione was sure, then promptly closed it and blinked. "It might have been my turn," he muttered, unhappy about the confession.
"Brilliant," sighed Hermione. "Thank you both very much, now get the fuck out."
Suddenly, the door opened to reveal Harry and Theo, both holding steaming cups of tea and plenty of chocolate biscuits – one of which Draco stole from Theo. They both halted as soon as they registered the tension in the room, and Theo's eyes fell on Hermione, widening at the sight of her as if he hadn't expected to see her in her own bedroom. More likely, she thought, he hadn't expected to see her awake.
Proving her point, Harry blurted out, "I thought you said we were supposed to leave before she got up? Has that changed now?"
"Bloody hell," muttered Astoria at the same time Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a few expletives. "Thank you, Potter," input Draco, "for not only being late to your shift, but for also outing us to her."
"Whoa," Theo remarked, taking a languid sip of his tea. "That's definitely not our fault." – "I said, Potter, didn't I?" – "Same thing," said Theo. "By the looks of it, you two messed that part up so, don't come after us for your failure."
"Well, it's hardly my failure," added Astoria with pursed lips, glancing pointedly at Draco.
"Now hold on a fucking second, Greengrass - "
"Enough!" Hermione shouted, growing tired of watching them all argue. She sank down at the end of her bed and hid a wince as her abdomen flexed painfully. "Will all of you drop this nonsense? I do not need to be babysat, and I definitely don't need to be treated like fine china. I'm not going to bloody break, alright?" She glared at all of them until their chins dropped. Then, in a kinder tone, she added, "Would any of you be doing this if it had been anyone else?"
Theo shrugged. "Narcissa would certainly have done it if it were Draco." He quipped.
Hermione launched a pillow at him, which he avoided expertly, causing it to strike Harry in the arm; his teacup fell to the floor and shattered on the hardwood. "Sorry, Harry," mumbled Hermione, feeling slightly guilty. "I'll make you a new one, come on," and she led the rest of them out of her bedroom and toward the dining room.
"Oh," chimed Theo, "There's probably something you should know."
"What's that?"
"Since you've been away, there's been - "
"What the fuck is she doing here?" Hermione screeched, coming to a halt in the entryway of the dining room upon seeing a haunting head of blonde curls in front of her.
"Yeah," Theo chuckled, shooting Draco a taunting smirk behind her back, "That."
"It's about fucking time they let you out of that blasted hospital," commented Luna with a sidelong smirk.
Hermione tentatively took a seat across from her.
"The healers wanted to keep an eye on my recovery, for good measure - "
"Oh, you misunderstand, Miss Granger." Luna cut in. Her teeth bared slightly as her lips curved into a sickly-sweet smile. "I wasn't fucking referring to the healers." Her gaze shifted to Draco and Astoria on either side of Hermione pointedly, then returned to hers with a knowing glint. Hermione hesitated, digesting the accusation with a bitter taste on her tongue. However, moments later, Luna began attempting to stack her bread-soldiers in the form of a pyramid, having abandoned her boiled eggs.
"Ignore her," muttered Astoria, reaching across Hermione for the teapot and filling both their cups. "She's a bloody lunatic. It's very fitting actually, her name, and makes complete sense as to why her gang has the reputation they do."
Hermione pursed her lips, unsure what to make of that. "Since when did you speak out so plainly against other women? Particularly in our field of work," she noted.
Astoria stilled. "Are you telling me she hasn't given you any reason to think she's a few pieces short of a chess board?"
Hermione grimaced. She didn't want to disagree with Astoria; for one thing, she'd certainly witnessed more than one occasion where Luna had been less than perfectly lucid or reasonable. Then again, she didn't want to disagree with Astoria, either. She knew perfectly well that just because Luna may see or say things that didn't make much sense didn't necessarily mean she wasn't brilliant.
Nevertheless, it didn't explain why she was there at the Manor eating breakfast with all of them.
"What the hell is she doing here?" She hissed to Draco. Their relationship had been somewhat more stable since her hospitalization; trust was still a far way away, but at the very least they were able to talk to each without verbal assaults. "And the Three Stooges," she added under her breath.
"Extra protection," Draco replied stiffly, avoiding her stare in favor of carefully selecting something to eat. Hermione, exasperated, spooned a selection of fresh fruit, two boiled eggs, and lightly buttered toast for both she and him. His lip curled slightly, "What the hell do you think you're doing? I can make my own bloody breakfast." To prove his point, Draco reached out to scoop up some fatty bacon and ham slices. "Ouch," he hissed, retracting the hand that Hermione had just slapped.
"Your cholesterol was worse than mine when the doctor checked our vitals, Draco," she chided, nodding to his healthier breakfast. "Watch what you eat, or you'll die of a heart attack rather than in a blaze of glory, bullets and blood like you want to."
"How do you know that is how I want to go out, Granger?" Draco remarked.
"Because I know you," she replied, rolling her eyes when he wasn't looking. "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell Luna Lovegood is doing here or what?"
"I told you," he said, pouting at the fruit and begrudgingly popping a strawberry in his mouth. He dabbed his serviette at the corners of his perpetually downturned mouth. "She and her – What did you call them?"
"Three Stooges," she offered at a whisper in case they overheard her.
"Oh, yes," he chuckled under his breath. "Them. Right, well, they were hired as a security detail, so to speak. Safety in numbers," he supplied.
Suddenly, Hermione glanced around the room; when she had walked in earlier, something was off, but now what exactly that had been was evident. There were too many people – more than usual.
The dining room was exceptionally busy that morning, and not only with the usual Malfoy Manor miscreants. Scar Joe, Handsome James, and Muscles McGee were talking idly in the corner over some pieces of toast and fruit. Dobby was dutifully running in and out from the kitchen with refills of eggs, buttered toasts, Welsh cakes, and other foods that were becoming rapidly scarce thanks to Greg and Vince. Astonishingly, they were accompanied by their female counterparts, Emmeline on one side and Millie on the other with a toddler on her lap.
Hermione was taken completely by surprise. Ordinarily, the wives and girlfriends who were not directly Death Eaters – or somewhere in limbo like herself and Astoria – did not spend too much time at the Manor. They definitely did not sit around for meals with children on their laps.
Scanning the room further, Hermione noticed that Emmeline and Millie were not the only two loved ones present that weren't normally present. Opposite Greg and Vince sat Graham and Malcolm, as they often did, but on the far end of the dining table also sat Marietta and Graham's oldest son. The other three children were playing on the floor in the corner, apparently done with their breakfast. Malcolm sat next to Luna, and both leaned in close to discuss something Hermione very much wanted to hear. Instead, she had to listen to the constant bickering of Draco and Astoria on either side of her.
Theo leaned over Harry in his chair, but their conversation seemed far more intimate than suspicious, so Hermione didn't spend another breath trying to eavesdrop. It didn't matter, anyway, because soon enough her attention was directed elsewhere as Narcissa stepped into the room with Pansy and Daphne on her heels.
"Hermione," she said, voice clipped. Hermione looked up, meeting the woman's pale eyes and slid out of her chair at the curl of Narcissa's finger, beckoning her to come. The four women traipsed out of the noisy dining room and into a smaller, calmer office upstairs.
Hermione blinked, noticing the few personal items on the desk.
A golden locket, a tiny key chain black horse – the very one Hermione bought for Narcissa a few summers ago – and a framed photograph of Draco in full military ensemble, medals and all.
"This is your office," remarked Hermione.
"Yes," confirmed Narcissa. "Excellent deduction skills," she added drily.
"I thought your office was downstairs, across from Draco's," huffed Hermione, irritated at being ridiculed like a self-absorbed teenager. "We were there just before – Did you move?"
"No," non-answered Narcissa.
Pansy sighed, dropping into one of the two chairs facing Narcissa's desk and said, "She has two offices, Hermione. I know you've been out of commission for a few weeks but do try and keep up. Its exceedingly tiresome to have to explain everything to you."
Daphne rolled her eyes, "Pans, that's a bit harsh, don't you think?"
"No," Pansy sniffed.
"Anyway," snapped Narcissa, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "I called you in here, Hermione, for a reason. That reason being that you are no longer suitable to assist me in my workload with Malfoy Company Limited. Pansy," she said, flicking her cigarette toward the smug, raven-haired beauty, "will take your place as COO."
Hermione stiffened. "Alright," she replied between gritted teeth.
Narcissa stared at her. "Aren't you going to ask why?"
"I'm told I ask too many bloody questions," she shrugged. "It's not like you would answer me unless you wanted me to know anyway. And if you did want me to know, then I expect you'll tell me so, why bother wasting my breath?"
"Ah, too true," mused Narcissa. "Well, as it so happens, this is one of the rare occasions that I would like you to be informed." Hermione raised her brow expectantly during Narcissa's pause. "Pansy will be taking over your role – your workload – as COO, this is true, but she won't be able to publicly do so. In other words," she went on, catching the furrowed brows on Hermione's face. "The rest of the nation will still believe it is you who holds the title and does the work."
Hermione shut her eyes, then snapped them open again; they were bloodshot.
"Why?" she sighed.
"Because," Narcissa answered, narrowing her eyes. "We can't be seen as weak, as shifting our board members so readily and so often. If it were to be common knowledge that Pansy were to step up in your place, then that would be the third shift in management in less than eighteen months. Other companies will begin to take stock of such things, and we cannot have that." She exhaled several rings of smoke. "Besides, the nation – despite Rita's constant efforts – does actually like you. They may adore Pansy and Daphne as well, undoubtedly, but that doesn't mean they want to see any of you in a predominately male role. It's unnerving to the weak-minded."
Hermione conceded with a silent nod to Narcissa, then turned to Pansy. "You're alright with this?"
"Are you genuinely asking me that question?" She grunted. "Personally, I'm growing extremely irate with all of my humanitarian work and can't wait to finally do something else, especially since it pertains to the family business. Besides, Daph is more than capable of handling both our workloads since Hannah completely took over one of their projects."
"I meant," Hermione said softly but sternly, "Are you alright with not taking the credit for any of the work you do – for having to hide behind my name?"
Pansy blinked.
Her face contorted into an expression which Hermione didn't see too often, especially not on Pansy: humility.
"Yes," she said, clearing her throat and painting a scornful expression across her features. "Of course, I'm fine with it. Why wouldn't I be?" Not giving Hermione a chance to further press her on the subject, Pansy spun around in her chair to face Narcissa behind the desk.
"Is that all?" Hermione asked.
"Yes," nodded Narcissa. "That is all. Oh – There is one more thing," she said, stopping Hermione from leaving her office. "You will need to find a project to preoccupy yourself with in order to prevent yourself from falling back on some of your less-desirable habits." Her pale eyes glinted, and Hermione fought the urge to make a smart retort. "At least, Hermione," she added, "You don't have to worry about picking anything the public can demonize. Whatever you choose to do won't be known to anyone outside the Manor."
Hermione nodded her assent, then left the room without another word, leaving the three women to their work.
She wondered if, perhaps, the last sentiment Narcissa had said was intended to spark ingenuity in Hermione for a particular project Narcissa had in mind? Similarly, for instance, with the types of projects Astoria typically got involved with. Chewing on that food for thought, Hermione made her way back to the dining room, eager to steal a banana or piece of toast and a cup of tea before Dobby cleared everything out.
Successful in her endeavors, Hermione stepped into the main sitting room to see Draco, Malcolm and Luna discussing something fervently. "Oh, how fucking lovely," trilled Luna, clasping her hands and grinning mischievously at Hermione. "I was wondering when the fuck you were going to join us." She patted Malcolm on the back harshly, then affectionately. "I was just telling Malfoy what a fucking terrible idea it would be to send me with just this lad to keep me company."
Draco groaned.
"Lovegood," he growled, "She's not going. I told you that already, and I loathe repeating myself."
She tutted dispassionately. "Oh, Malfoy. Your threatening little speeches fucking don't intimidate me." Luna directed her attention back at Hermione, gesturing to the loveseat across from her; she reluctantly took a seat, eying Draco leaning against the hearth and Malcolm sprawled out on another sofa. "I want to know what you fucking think, Miss Granger," Luna said. "Care to join us?"
"In what?" Hermione asked cautiously.
"The Carrows," said Malcolm. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and balancing his smug expression in his palms. "We're going to take them down and claim their racing territory. It's brilliant, and I bet there'll be tons of blood and - "
"Shut up, Malcolm," snapped Draco. "I told you, your job is to be the ghost. Daphne will be the honeypot and Lovegood and her goons will do the dirty work." His dark, stormy gaze shifted again to Luna. The mischievous grin still spread widely across her face; Hermione admired how much this woman didn't give a fuck, even if it was mildly disturbing. "Keep him out of the fighting. I mean it, Lovegood."
"Yeah, yeah," she replied, waving her hand the same way she waved away his concerns. "Fucking noted, Malfoy. Baby Flint will be fine, though he would be even better if I said someone else with me… Say, a bright, bushy-haired - "
"No."
Luna laughed, a maniacal and yet eerily beautiful laugh, then crossed and uncrossed her legs pointedly ignoring the daggers he sent her way.
"Worth a fucking try," she shrugged, winking at Hermione.
Hermione, meanwhile, sat dumbstruck. She'd known they had been plotting something for some time now, but she was never sure as to what it was. Until Malcolm mentioned the Carrows, Hermione hadn't the slightest clue. Alecto and Amycus Carrow were typical familial mobsters, not unlike the Malfoys, especially since their family also came from wealth; their family money, from what Hermione deducted, was not as old or well-endowed, therefore preventing them from appearing in high society as Draco and Narcissa did. Instead, they terrorized Croydon, in the far southern outskirts of the city.
"Why wage a war against the Carrows if we don't need to?" She pressed, arching her brow at Draco.
He stared back, unblinking, for several long moments. Then, he crossed the room to one of the bar carts and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey from one of the crystal decanters. "We do need to," he informed her. Draco took a large gulp, hissed as the fiery liquor burned the back of his throat, then went on. "The Carrows think they can take Kensington from us, and from there, I have no doubt they will attempt to take Ascot as well. With a sizeable amount of our income from betting shops, we can't afford to not engage them in war."
"You sound so sure we'll win," she remarked drily. "How can you be so sure about that? Their affinity for violence precedes them, Draco."
"So does ours," he shrugged.
He had a point, but Hermione wasn't quite done arguing her case.
"You know we can't risk being seen involved in any criminal activity. Not only will it interfere with the bills you want to pass, but it could very well eradicate any future for you in Parliament – or any form of government. It would tarnish the family name and business as well." She said.
"Which is why I will be not be the face of the attack," he countered with a smirk creeping over the corners of his mouth.
Hermione frowned. "The last time you said something like that, it didn't exactly go according to plan." She muttered under her breath, noticing the exchanged glances between Draco, Luna and Malcolm.
"What was that?" Malcolm asked, catching the end of her mutterings.
"Nothing," she grumbled, standing up and exhaling loudly. "Carry on with your war, then. By all means, I want nothing to do with it." She paused, glancing over her shoulder and catching the three of them resuming their huddle, filled with hushed conversation. Plotting. "Don't come crying to me when someone else gets hurt, or worse…" Hermione mumbled to herself, exiting the room.
"What's going on?" Hermione shouted, stumbling out of her position by the library window to see Harry running through the halls. Just a few moments ago, she had seen Theo approach Draco in the garden, whisper something into his ear, and then the two of them tore off toward the Manor. "What happened? Is everyone ok?"
Harry came to a halt before her; from the flash of guilt behind his emerald eyes, Hermione could tell he didn't want to share with her whatever it was he knew.
"Spit it out, Harry, for fuck's sake," she huffed.
"More boys from one of the orphanages went missing," he said.
"There's something else," she noted, blocking his path toward the grand staircase and effectively stopping him from leaving the Manor to go trailing after either Theo and the Death Eaters or Ron and the New Order. "What is it? What aren't you telling me?"
"There were more than usual, this time," he sighed. Harry chewed his lip, then shifted to move past her. "I need to go help Ron," Harry said. "They're gathering people to storm on Camden."
"They have a lead?" Hermione gasped.
Harry nodded.
"I'm coming."
"Whoa," Harry said, yanking free of her grip. "No, you're not."
"Yes, I am, Harry. You owe me."
He groaned, throwing his hands in the air and gesturing wildly to her abdomen. "Hermione, you're still healing! Malfoy – Fuck – The whole bloody Death Eater gang will kill me if you get hurt on my watch." He shook his head, turning to head down the main staircase. "Absolutely not, I like my head where it is, thank you very much."
"I won't get hurt," she insisted, trailing behind him. "Harry, it's been fucking months. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, and besides, you need me, and you know it. If there's new intel from Camden, and if more boys from the Death Eater orphanages are gone, then I'll be able to provide information your beloved New Order don't have. That is, unless, you'd rather take Narcissa or Pansy?"
Harry grimaced.
"You owe me," she repeated, sensing his resolve thinning.
Hermione could see the internal battle flashing angrily behind his eyes, curled into his fists, and in the tension of his trapezoids. "Fine," he huffed. "Fine, you can come. Just – Don't do anything stupid, alright? The last thing I need is to be worried about my head and yours, where evidently the fate of mine lies."
"Deal." Hermione grinned wickedly.
There was a lot of commotion coming from the hallway downstairs that was home to Draco's study; from the shrieks and clanging – bullets being loaded into pistols and blades being sharpened – she expected half of the household to emerge ready to storm on Camden Town as well. Knowing full well that any of them would object to her involvement, and with more authority than Harry, she quickly devised a plan to stall them.
Hermione grabbed Harry by the arm and took him through the garage, avoiding half of the added security Draco had stationed around the Manor in the past month, and sprinted through the side door onto the lawns. On the far eastern side of the property were the horse stables; she selected a Pinto that she had always had a soft spot for since Draco retired her from racing, and Harry climbed onto his trusty Clydesdale.
"Bloody hell," muttered Harry, bringing his horse – named Buckbeak – to a halt on the edge of the Manor. They were planning on slipping out of the front drive, then ducking through the woods surrounding the Manor before anyone had seen them. For both of their sakes, it was best if the Death Eaters were not involved. "There's no way we're going to beat them to Camden on horseback," he said, gesturing to where the others had gathered around the half-dozen cars.
"Don't worry," Hermione replied, pulling the reigns on Crookshanks and shifting to hold them in one hand. "They won't be able to follow us." She held up six shiny car keys and smirked askance at Harry.
"They could always go on horseback, like us," countered Harry, nodding behind them to the barn as they took off at a gallop.
"They won't," assured Hermione, wincing at the sudden jerking of her body as Crookshanks picked up speed. Her wounds may have healed, but they were still subject to pain with certain movements. "I mean, they could, there's definitely more than enough horses to go around, and they all know how to ride. However," she huffed, narrowly avoiding a mud puddle only to get splashed by Harry riding right over it, "I may have sabotaged the saddles. I doubt anyone other than Draco, Theo, Greg and Vince know how to ride bareback, and they won't be stupid enough to run off with just the four of them."
Harry laughed, "You realize we're talking about Theo, right?"
"True," she allowed, joining in the laughter.
The laughter died out, of course, as the two of them skirted through the dirty streets toward one of the New Order safehouses just outside of Camden Market. The air was still, quiet; the streets, ordinarily packed with locals buying produce, trading goods, and children playing games, were deserted. Hermione led Crookshanks into a side alley, tied her up, whispered reassurances in her ear as she stroked her soft, spotted face, then left a few carrots to reward her for the journey. Harry did the same with Buckbeak.
The two of them entered the safehouse from its side door, wincing as the creak of the metal door swinging open rebounded through the empty streets, echoing and alerting anyone listening closely to their whereabouts. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation sank into Hermione's bloodstream; rather than fight the nervous anxiety, though, she allowed it to feed into her adrenaline and give her an exceptional buzz. The high of the danger; the thrill of the chase.
It was what she lived for.
"Good. You're here," Ginny said when she and Harry stepped into the small kitchen. There were a few others gathered around, but no more than a seven. She recognized all of them and was glad to see none of the elder Order members were among them. "Harry, where is the London Police in all of this?"
"They're keeping an eye on the orphanages from afar. There's no case for them yet because although Malfoy has raised concerns for them, the wardens in charge felt that there was no foul play. Apparently, orphaned children disappear all the time," he replied. The muscles in his arms stiffened, and Hermione was abruptly reminded that Harry was an orphan.
She brushed her pinky against his clenched fist.
"We have to be quiet," Ginny ruled. "If the coppers are keeping an eye on the situation but not actively involved, then we can't use Harry's position to our advantage. Instead, it'll have to be more of a stealth operation." She met Hermione's eye; there was a fire, a glint of anger resonating behind the rich blue of her eyes. "We believe the boys have, in fact, been kidnapped – or otherwise persuaded to run away."
Hermione bit down on her lip, then nodded, waiting for the pin to drop.
"I've been surveying the area for a few months now, and in all that time, I have only ever seen one man fit the description." Supplied the younger Diggory – Cedric, she recalled – crossing his arms over his broad chest. "There were definitely some other men with him, but it was unclear if they were the missing boys or not."
"How many are missing now – in total?" Hermione asked, glancing around.
"Fifteen," said one of the Weasley twins amidst the silence that followed her question. Hermione was still trying to learn which was which, but she was fairly certain he was Fred.
"Bloody tragic," said maybe George, possibly Fred.
"How can someone can do that," went on most likely Fred.
"Is beyond me," finished almost definitely George, but still possibly Fred, with a deep frown contorting his dirty, freckled face.
"He must be trying to build his gang," added Cho Chang, a tiny, beautiful woman to Hermione's right. She leaned her head on Cedric's shoulder and cursed under his breath. "I can't believe he's even capable of this level of violence provided his upbringing. His father is practically a fucking hero," she hissed.
"We should know better than most that public reputation doesn't necessarily mean anything," grumbled Ron, not bothering to hide his glare toward Hermione. "For all we know, his father is as much of a fucking snake as he is."
"Who the hell are we even talking about?" Hermione snapped, irate at not being fully in the know. She expected them to ignore her and bully her for asking too many questions, but to her complete astonishment, they didn't.
Ginny sighed. "Barty Crouch," she said, then at Hermione's shocked expression, added, "Junior."
Still, Hermione was surprised. She knew Barty Crouch Senior's reputation and had even spoken to him on more than one occasion as he was part of the bourgeoise that she and Draco had recently joined. He was the Speaker of the House; it would be incredibly enigmatic – and shameful – for his son to be involved in the kidnappings of young orphaned boys, especially if it was gang affiliated.
"Cedric, Amos and Cho," Ginny went on, gesturing to the three of them and drawing a line of advance on the kitchen counter with her finger, "You three take the front entrance, and on your signal the rest of us will enter the house. Macmillan, Fred, George, and I will enter from the rear entrance. Harry and Ron, you two take the side entrance. Understood?"
Everyone nodded their assent, except for Hermione.
"Wait a bloody second," she barked, chasing after Ginny as everyone readied themselves for the invasion. "What about me? I'm an asset. I can fight – I know a lot about these boys, and Crouch - "
"I'm sure you do." Ginny replied, sparing Hermione a tired grimace. "I know perfectly well you can fight, Granger, and I'm not at all surprised that you would know intimate details about the boys under the care of your boyfriend's enterprise." Hermione opened her mouth to correct Ginny about her use of the term boyfriend when referring to Draco (they weren't quite there yet, though she wasn't exactly sure where it was that they were), but Ginny cut her off, holding up a hand. "I also know that your social status places you quite frequently in the vicinity of Barty Crouch Senior." She cocked her revolver, spinning it to ensure every bullet was in place, then slid it into her trousers. "Did it ever occur to you that your profoundly recognizable presence in the press will put us all in danger if Barty Crouch Junior recognizes you?"
Hermione frowned, unwilling to admit the other woman had a point.
"It won't matter if he recognizes me if we kill the bastard. Dead men tell no tales," she quipped.
Ginny's lips pursed. "Nor do dead women, Granger. Stay here."
"Remember, everyone," came Harry's voice from across the room, holding his own gun in the air and placing the bullets in each revolver slot pointedly. "Save the last bullet for yourself." He tucked an extra bullet in the pocket over his chest.
Hermione caught his arm, preventing him from joining the others from gathering around Ron for a last-minute pep-talk. "What do you mean by that? Save the last bullet for yourself – What the hell?"
Harry's face fell; his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's from the war," he admitted. A flash of pain and sadness shone behind the brilliant emerald green of his eyes. "It's a tactic we're taught because it's far better to choose your own fate than to let the opposition capture you and decide your fate for you. It was originally to protect yourself from being tortured into revealing information to the enemy."
"Oh," Hermione murmured, unable to say more than that. It was appalling and foreboding, but she supposed in some twisted way, it made sense.
Ron made a grunting sort of noise and the group dispersed. Without another word, Ginny led the others out of the safehouse and across the street to one of the many terraced houses. Harry was the only one to glance back, offering her a small shrug of his shoulders in condolences. Though, of course, Hermione had zero intention of staying put and following orders, especially from Ginny Weasley of all bloody people.
She glanced around the abandoned building, scouring the tables and cupboards for any weapons they may have left behind. There were none. Brilliant.
"Looks like I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way," she muttered under her breath, glancing down as her fingers curled into her palm, forming two miniscule fists.
Hermione watched from a gap in the tattered curtains as the others stormed into the house, followed by immediate gunfire and shouting. She launched herself across the street, ducking around corners until she heard a noise. There was muffled fighting, and then suddenly, "It's a fucking trap! Get down, get down!" from what was unmistakably Ron's timbered voice.
There was a loud explosion, and Hermione was thrown back against the opposite wall with an unearthly force; the ringing in her ears echoed painfully, blocking out any other noise around her. Slowly, her vision corrected itself, putting the scene before her back into focus; the walls that had once existed had been blown apart, debris and dust coated her lungs. Hermione hacked and wheezed, struggling to pull herself to her feet.
Her muscles buzzed; the adrenaline was running full speed through her veins.
A bomb had gone off.
Miraculously, Hermione only suffered minor cuts and was otherwise unharmed. Covered in soot, blood and dirt, she stumbled through the ruins to find the others. Not all of them had been so lucky as to avoid fatal injuries. Amongst the rubble, Hermione saw a horrible sight; the elder Diggory – the father – was kneeling over his son and bellowing between heaving, racking sobs.
"My son… My boy… No, no, no…"
Cedric Diggory was dead, as was the young girl beside him.
Hermione stifled a sob, swallowing the bile rising in her throat as she noticed a devastating detail about their lifeless bodies. Twisted, bloodied, and with half of their limbs blown off, the young Diggory and Chang's remaining fingers were intertwined. She stumbled backwards and tripped over yet another body. Three of them, actually.
Two were unrecognizable, and must have belonged to Crouch's petty organization, but the last face belonged to that of a kind-faced, cheerful young man Hermione knew to belong to their side. Macmillan, she recalled moments before emptying her stomach contents on a pile of brick and mortar to her left.
The twins emerged from one side of the remains of the house to announce that Crouch was nowhere to be seen. He must have gotten away before the bomb detonated. They immediately crouched down beside Diggory and attempted to pull him away from his son, reasoning with him that there was nothing more they could do. They had to leave. Ron and Harry stepped forward, the latter cupping a hand around Hermione's elbow and helping her up.
Fueled by unbelievable rage, she spun on him. "What a bloody waste,"
"The fucker got away," hissed Ron, equally frustrated and anger.
"We'll get him," Harry assured them both, fists clenched, and emerald eyes narrowed sharply.
"That's not what I meant," snapped Hermione. She groaned, slamming her fists against one of the few standing walls. "They weren't even here. Look around – See any evidence of the missing fifteen fucking boys? Because I don't." She wiped away the tears welling in her eyes and stomped furiously away. "I have to go," she growled as Harry shifted to follow her. "I have to leave before - "
"Before Malfoy sees you?" Harry guessed, coming to an abrupt halt.
"Too late for that, I'm afraid." Draco's voice caused Hermione's head to snap up from her wrecked olive tweed knit dress to meet cold, steel grey eyes. "I admire your efforts to keep me away from this mayhem, Hermione, I really do. It keeps me on my toes." From the icy tone in his voice, however, Hermione could tell Draco was not at all pleased by her so-called efforts. "Hiding the car keys was a nice touch."
"I didn't hide them." Hermione replied effortlessly. It wasn't technically a lie, though Draco saw right through that particular play on semantics.
"Stole them, then," he shrugged, gesturing behind him to where Theo and Astoria were crossing the street from where they parked the car. "Clever, but futile. You must have forgotten how handy Theo and I can be with our hands when necessary."
"You hotwired your own car," she scoffed, hiding a laugh. She had forgotten about that pesky talent of theirs. "You realize your presence here will only make matters worse once the press arrives, don't you? I doubt it would be good for you to be seen at a building that was just imploded by a homemade bomb, killing several inside." Hermione challenged, not daring to look away from his steel gaze.
"Why ever not? I think it would make excellent news for a man to be seen making an effort to locate the missing boys of one of his own holdings outside the grubby office scene. Frankly, it's heroic. You, however, look an utter mess. Your appearance here, Hermione, will be questionable. Especially to Rita."
"I've been gone one bloody day," shrieked Astoria as she stormed up to Hermione and Harry, brandishing a manicured nail at the former. "One bloody day, and this is what happens? You go gallivanting around with the New Order and decide to – What? – relive the good old days? For fuck's sake, Hermione, you look terrible."
"Get her out of here before the press arrives, then," grumbled Theo, shooting daggers toward Potter, who only glared back defiantly.
"Come on," Astoria insisted, dragging Hermione away and calling over her shoulder for Draco to join. "We have to get back to the Manor before anyone suspects either of you had anything to do with this."
"I'm going to stay," Theo said, nodding toward the rubble. "They could use some help with the clean-up and - " He cut himself off, clearing his throat, but all of them heard what wasn't said. It was only Harry, curling his dirty fingers into a fist, that voiced it.
"And the dead."
As it turns out, the New Order had a member, Colin Creevey, who worked for the Daily Prophet. This proved exceptionally useful during the coverage of the bombing, and any follow-up investigation (under wraps, of course) pertaining to the whereabouts of Barty Crouch Junior. The residence that had been blown to pieces had belonged to him, but where he was now, nobody knew. Not even his father, Barty Crouch Senior, who gave a short speech over a BBC radio broadcast relaying the tragic events. He painted his son as the recipient of a violent act of terrorism, and he used the public's sympathy to further his political agenda.
While Hermione may have, at one point, agreed with the anti-terrorism bill, she now questioned its humanitarianism; it no longer sounded genuine.
A prickling feeling in the back of her mind told her not to trust either Barty Crouch and a muffled conversation with Harry and Theo in the Manor following the broadcast let her know where both of their heads lie. Harry, relying on a sickly feeling in his gut, believed the corruption may go deeper than they first thought. Theo, on the same wavelength, added that the explosion could have been a set-up to destroy and evidence, and to generate public sympathy quickly before the deadline for the bill to pass.
Hermione sighed.
Often, in the evenings, her mind wandered to Draco. Where he was, what he was doing, and if he would be back from Westminster any time soon – and safely. There was still no news about the attack on either of them; all that they were able to discover was the make of the guns based on the bullet fragments dug out of her. They were military-grade, both the pistol and the semi-automatic rifle, which unnerved everyone. The Death Eaters knew, first-hand, how difficult it was to acquire such weaponry, even with the right contacts.
"You don't think the coppers had anything to do with this, do you?" Theo prompted, nudging Harry a few weeks later. When the evening conversation came to a lull, the next topic was most likely about either of their unsolved open cases. "Blaise already reached out to his contacts, and Draco spoke to Scabior and any others on his payroll, but - "
"No," cut in Harry with a deep frown. "I don't think so. My gut tells me it's not them."
"Oh, you're gut told you that?" Pansy mocked, sipping at a golden whiskey; she tipped the crystal glass to her ruby red lips, taking another languid sip, then added, "Potter, how many times have you listened to that proverbial gut of yours and still nearly gotten yourself killed?"
"My guess would be about five times," said Astoria with a smirk, "this week."
"Shut up," snapped Harry, exasperated. Hermione sank further in her armchair by the fireplace, eager to drown out their bickering. Daphne, meeting her eye from the chair opposite her, seemed to think the same thing; they both rolled their eyes.
"What do you think?" Daphne murmured.
Hermione shrugged. She didn't know what to think, and she was tired of thinking; it was exhausting. The same fucking issues were coursing through her mind, over and over and over again. Who shot at her and Draco? Why did they do it? Was it political – involving the bill he was trying to pass in the House? Or, was it personal – perhaps, involving his role as a Death Eater? Were they even aiming for him?
Then, there were the mind-boggling questions regarding the missing boys. Where were they? Did Crouch hide them somewhere else before the bombing? Was he even the one responsible? Was there someone he worked for? Was it his father? Or, is there someone else they haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet?
Over and over and over.
Like a carousel ride Hermione could not get off of, no matter how much she tried.
Then, there was the added stress of living under the same bloody roof as a madwoman. Luna had become slightly more unhinged since the plot to eradicate the Carrows from the racing tracks; although the Death Eaters income would be the primary benefit from the absence of the Carrows, Luna also stood to gain a substantial amount from the deal. One of her many business avenues – not unlike that of Draco's – was betting shops and fixing races to her benefit. With the Carrows out of the way, she would become one of the largest betting enterprises in England; second only to the Death Eaters.
Hermione thought that was, perhaps, more reason not to trust her, because now not only were they the only thing standing in her way of becoming the largest enterprise – increasing her income significantly, especially with them out of the way – but also, she knew exactly how they operated. It made her very uneasy around Luna.
Of course, everyone was uneasy around Luna these days.
The plot against the Carrows – as Hermione rightfully predicted – had not gone according to plan. Luckily, this time, it didn't result in Malcolm taking another bullet. Instead, he had been reprimanded by one of the Carrows lackeys and been held at gunpoint until Luna caught up to them. She was faced with a moral dilemma: chase after the Carrows and leave Malcolm for dead (destroying any chance at whatever her absurd deal was with Draco) or save Malcolm and let the Carrows get away. Luna, per her unpredictable personality, found a third option.
She threw a blade at the man holding Malcolm in a chokehold, causing him to loosen his grip and dig the serrated blade out of his hand. Luna, apparently, told Malcolm to "Fuck off and get on with it," before racing after the Carrows. As they drove off, Luna made an impossible shot; the bullet hit Amycus Carrow between the eyes.
However, Alecto Carrow had been the getaway driver and, although her brother had just been killed, sped off.
"She'll go into fucking hiding now," muttered Luna, swirling her gin around her glass and watching the liquid whirl around, splashing onto her fingers. "She'll go into fucking hiding until she finds the opportune moment to resurface and come after me. She'll want fucking revenge for her brother." Luna shook her head, meeting Hermione's wide eyes.
It was late, one evening, and Hermione couldn't sleep. Rather than toss and turn for hours, she opted to give up and go down to the kitchen and try and secure a midnight snack. The waft of gin was too tempting, though, and she quickly turned to leave.
In the darkness, though, Luna's golden hair caught her attention. For a second, she thought it was Draco, and was thoroughly disappointed when it wasn't. Once Luna had seen her there was no leaving. Hermione was subject to her midnight speech.
"Alecto is as clever as a fox," she noted, tipping her glass toward Hermione. "You would fucking outwit her, though, I bet. Fucking hell. In fact, I think you know far more than even you realize. I bet you know fucking everything – everything is fucking connected, you know." She laughed, piercing the silence of the dark kitchen. "Of course, you fucking know. You're Hermione fucking Granger."
She paused, hopped off the kitchen counter and strode up to Hermione, narrowing her big, blue eyes at her. Luna's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Tell me," she said, circling Hermione, "the more you fucking take away, the bigger I fucking get – What am I?"
"I – I don't - "
"Yes, you do," interrupted Luna.
"The more you fucking take away, the bigger I fucking get. What – Am – I?"
"Listen, it's late, Luna. You've been drinking. I don't want to play your games - "
"What the fuck am I?" She hissed, circling Hermione faster. "You know, Granger. I know you bloody know. The more you fucking take away, the bigger I - "
"A hole!" Hermione screamed, irate. She breathed heavily, regarding Luna with a piercing glare. "A bloody hole," she repeated, at a lower volume. Luna's blue eyes glinted, and a mischievous grin spread across her lips.
"About bloody time, Miss Granger," she replied, teetering off into the night.
Hermione blinked.
"She's out of her fucking mind," muttered Hermione to herself, foregoing the idea of a snack and returning to bed.
Before long, the bleak midwinter was upon them. There was a distinct cinnamon scent in every corner of the Manor; the gardens were covered in a lovely blanket of snow that had fallen all season – unusual but not entirely unwelcome; spirits were honestly a bit low despite the cheery holiday season, but that was nothing Theo felt his cynical humor could not cure. He gathered everyone who stayed in the Manor for Christmas (which luckily did not include Luna and her Three Stooges) around the large entertainment table in one of the upstairs sitting rooms for a game he liked to call Which Rapscallion Done It? It was a glorified guessing game, designed to bring laughter to most at the cost of a few.
Everyone loved it.
Hermione, who had not been drinking loads of cinnamon firewhiskey or peppermint mules, did not find it nearly as entertaining as the others did, but she admitted it provided a good laugh. There were only a few of them present this Christmas, but anyone in the Death Eater family could be a possible answer.
Theo, the host, read from a card, then whomever guessed the subject of the card correctly, won the card. The person with the most cards collected at the end of the game would be announced the winner. Harry, as Theo's partner in more than just crime, was the equivalent of a showgirl. It was quite a sight.
"Next one!" Theo said, flashing a card along with a wicked grin. "Category is Lying Bastards." Hermione shifted uncomfortably; she'd been the subject more than once in the category, and while the others had been arguably fair, she figured it was only a matter of time before a serious Penny one was made. "This person lied about their relationship with the enemy until they were quite literally held at gun point."
"That has to be Hermione, right?" Astoria guessed. She took one of Hermione's hands in her own and squeezed it; a private apology for bringing her name up. "Didn't you all say Draco had a gun to her head the first night they met?"
"Nope!" Theo declared. "Hermione never lied about her relationship with Draco, only who she was," he smirked at her, pointing a finger gun playfully and nearly tripped over the rug in the process. Hermione stifled her laugh into her next sip of tea.
"My son, then," speculated Narcissa, exhaling several rings of smoke into the air above her head. "Conversely lying about Hermione until that bastard Shacklebolt had him."
"Also, wrong," smiled Theo, triumphant with his tricky card. "Draco also didn't lie about his relationship with Hermione. He may have hidden it from the press, but he never outright lied."
"Then, who - " Draco began, but was cut off by Harry loudly gasping and stumbling to his feet to take the card from Theo's hand.
"It was you!" Harry announced, smirking at Theo. "You lied about us to the Death Eaters until Draco nearly blew your head off!"
"Correct," beamed Theo. "Well done, Potter. Took you long enough," he sniffed. "Honestly, you call yourself a copper," he added, shaking his head. "Bloody rotter."
There was a bit of an uproar amongst those taking the game seriously. The others merely chuckled and passed the biscuit tray around; Hermione selected a chocolate wafer. Theo quickly moved on, and the next three cards were quickly won by Draco, strengthening his lead over the others (The first was about someone who had pulled a muscle in a dangerous sex position yet still managed to finish, which was about Graham in the Sex Freaks category; the second was about someone who had a weapon on them at all times that one would never presume was actually a weapon, which was about Astoria in the Sly Piece of Shite category; the third was about someone who, when handling a rifle for the first time, tripped and shot their best mate, which was Vince in the Hopeless Bloody Git category).
"Alright! Last one," Theo announced, selecting the final card. "Category is Cheating Motherfuckers."
Astoria, who sat between Hermione and Wood on one of the larger loveseats, leaned forward. She was highly competitive, and this category was worth the most of all of them, meaning if she could guess the subject of the card correctly, then she would surpass Draco for the lead. Narcissa, however, who lounged in an armchair on Hermione's other side, was also tied for second. The rest of them were doing pitiful and were hardly competing this late in the night; Pansy and Daphne were cuddling under a wool blanket in the corner by the hearth and not paying attention at all anymore, and Blaise was drowning his losing streak in several shots he lined up for he and Wood (they had grown quite close this past year).
"Ok, here it is," Theo went on, winking at Harry, "This person cheated death the most, surpassing the previous contender to the point where even I stopped counting how many times that they actually escaped death when they decidedly should not have."
"Draco," scoffed Astoria. "Obviously."
Theo shook his head, "Amazingly no."
"Fucking Potter, then," supplied Draco, gesturing toward Harry with his lit cigarette. "Isn't he known as the Chosen One for precisely that reason?"
"You know," mused Theo, glancing at Harry. "That's true. You should really rethink that stupid nickname of yours, Potter, it no longer suits you." Harry grimaced, tossing a crumpled-up card at Theo, who ducked it and blew a kiss in his direction. "But no, it's not Potter. I'll give you a clue, Draco was the previous contender."
"Granger," Narcissa said.
"Yes?" Hermione replied, turning to face the other woman.
"No," Narcissa sighed, pursing her lips and flicking her white and jet-black hair over her shoulders. "You, Granger, are the answer. You've certainly cheated death more than the rest of us, even Draco."
"Correct!" Theo cheered. Harry took the proffered card and shifted to hand it to Narcissa; she took it from him with the swiftness of a viper strike. "Narcissa wins!"
"Rightfully so," sniffed Narcissa, grinning smugly around the room.
Hermione blinked; she certainly felt like the cheated death often, but she had no idea it was so much to the point that Theo had lost count. A warm hand wrapped around her calf, and she looked down to see Draco – who had been lounging on the floor, resting his head between Astoria and Hermione's legs – patting her reassuringly. He winked, then offered her a small smile. Hermione felt her chest tighten. She smiled weakly back.
At the end of the night, or early hours of the morning, more accurately, everyone started dispersing throughout the Manor, stumbling off toward their bedrooms.
Wood carried Astoria away, muttering Scottish nonsense in her ear and chuckling at how irritated she became the less she could understand him. Blaise, conveniently, lived next door so he crawled to bed. Narcissa didn't hesitate to wake Dobby for some food, and Pansy and Daphne woke just in time to hear, "Chips," and ran off after Narcissa and Dobby for the promised potatoes. Which left Hermione and Draco alone in the room.
"Hermione," he said, stuffing his hands in hit trouser pockets, "Do you have a minute?" He quickly added, "To talk," after correctly registering the nervous expression across her face.
"I – Yes," she replied, nodding. They both awkwardly stood there for an additional minute, but the tension in the air was so thick, Hermione couldn't cope with it anymore. She swallowed a lump at the back of her throat, then flicked her wrist toward the door, "Should we go somewhere, or shut the door…?"
"We can – Err – I mean – My bedroom is just around the corner, if you want to - "
"Oh, right,"
"You don't have to, of course. If it makes you uncomfortable - "
"No, it's fine - "
"We can go somewhere else. Really, it won't be long - "
"Draco," Hermione sighed. "It's fine, really. Let's go." He nodded mutely, then led them out of the sitting room and down the dimly lit corridor. Hermione followed silently behind him, glancing out of the windows lining the wall as they made a sharp right. The sun was only an hour or so from rising, judging by the deep blue of the night sky outside.
The minute Hermione crossed the threshold into Draco's bedroom, her body went rigid; she was torn by the onslaught of both wonderful and terrible memories of what ensued between them in this room. The very first time she had stepped into the room, it had been to calm Draco's shell shock fit; shortly afterwards, they shared their first kiss. Then, a few years later – to another white Christmas – Hermione had given in to her deepest desire to be trusted, valued and loved. Draco had loved her; of that she was certain. She had loved him, too. Did she still? That was difficult to determine when her last memory in this room was when they had lost the baby.
She swept quickly at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes and cleared her throat. "What – Err – What was it that you wanted to talk about?" Hermione asked, shaking herself free of the memories and forcing her mind back to the present.
"Us."
"Oh," she replied dumbly.
Draco walked over to the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge, though it didn't seem like he was sitting at all; like a bird prepared to fly at any moment, perched and poised. He brushed the duvet beside him, inviting her without saying a word, and Hermione stilled. Draco looked so handsome with his hair falling into his face rather than being swept back, his eyes a sparkling silver despite not meeting her own, and body caved in, crouched, instead of puffed out with his usual amount of smugness and authority. He was handsome, and he was vulnerable; she was, too.
Slowly, Hermione shifted to sit beside him.
She, unlike him, crept fully up onto the mattress and tucked her knees under her chin. "So," she began, watching Draco reach for a cigarette and spark it, holding one out for her. Hermione took it, let him light it, and was thankful for the rush of nicotine into her lungs; the familiar scent of smoke filled her with a sense of calm and confidence. "What about us?"
"Is there an 'us', Hermione?"
"I – I don't," she sighed. "I don't know, Draco. That's not fair. We were good, until we weren't anymore, and then we were bad – really bad. I just – I don't know how to overcome what we've been through. Since – Since the hospital, I know we've made an effort to talk – to be friendly – but I don't – Is that enough – to move on? Are we even capable of moving on?"
"I don't see why not," Draco answered, toying with the cigarette between his fingers.
"You don't see why not," Hermione repeated, scoffing. "Of course, you don't. Because you always get what you bloody want, right?" Tired of always ending up hurt, Hermione slid off the bed and headed for the door.
"Hey, wait," he said, pulling her back into the room and running a hand through his hair, exasperated. "I didn't mean it like it. I meant – We should be capable of moving on from our past. I – I know I had a lot to do with our toxicity, that I was responsible for most of the mess we made, and I accept that. I'm sorry, Hermione. I am." He sighed, lightly tugging her back to the bed and sitting to face her.
"I needed space, at first," he continued, holding both her hands and her gaze. "I pushed you away because it was easy. I didn't want to have to think – to feel – to anything. I just wanted everything that hurt me to go away, and that was you. You hurt me. You lied to me - "
"This again?"
"No, wait – Let me finish," he pleaded. Hermione huffed, unhappy, then nodded. "You lied to me. I didn't know who you were. I didn't know if I'd fallen for you, or someone you made up to spy on me. I was hurt, but," he exhaled deeply, "that didn't give me the right to turn around and hurt you. For that, I am deeply sorry. I know I ruined this," Draco went on, "I know I reacted… poorly… after we lost the child. It was too much for me – losing you and the baby. I couldn't – I still can't - "
He broke off, swallowing a sob.
Hermione finally let the tension run off her shoulders; she lifted a hand from within his grasp to cup his cheek, rubbing her thumb along the sharp structure of his cheekbone. "Shh," she murmured. "I understand. I know – Fuck – I know how hard that was – I just – I wish you wouldn't have pushed me away. I needed you then, more than ever, Draco. I lost the baby. Me – I did that."
"No," he cut in briskly, eyes blazing. "That wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself for that."
Hermione's face fell. "How can I not?" She whispered.
"You," he stressed, "are a strong, independent, and badass woman, Hermione Jean Granger. Don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise, not even me. Do you understand? You, who are far too brave and clever for your own good, can do anything. You did not fail."
Hermione shook her head. "Penny was brave and strong and - "
"No, she wasn't. You were. Penny didn't even – she didn't really exist, alright? – It was you. It was always you. Hermione, you are the woman I fell in love with. The woman I love still." His silver eyes scanned her face, desperate for comprehension. He shifted pulling her closer and tucking loose curls behind her ear. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I don't care if you don't love me back, because my affection for you will never change. It never has. I know I was stupid and took advantage of your patience and generosity in the past, but that won't happen again. Ever."
"I - "
Hermione's throat was dry; she couldn't form the words even if she wanted to, but a quick shake of Draco's head cut off her attempt.
"Don't say it, yet. Not if you don't mean it."
She nodded, but a pit formed in her stomach, turning it upside down. Hermione wanted to cry; she wanted to break down and ugly cry, letting all of the pain and frustration out, but she couldn't. As pent up and distraught with emotion as she was, Hermione knew nothing would come even if she screamed and hid her face in her hands.
Did she love him?
This question had plagued her for longer than she would like to admit, and while it wasn't new, she felt that she was no closer to finding an answer than she was in the beginning. She wanted him; Hermione was quite sure she would always want Draco. Tom Riddle, of all people, had brought on that particular revelation. Since the realization, and subsequently the attack, there had been a distinct shift in their relationship; it was healthier and there was a clear vision of hope for a future, and even now, with his pretty words, Hermione could sense something changing between them.
Still… was it enough?
She wasn't sure if it would be enough – if their fate in one another equaled love, or if it was just a mutual belief that they had ruined themselves for anyone else. One thing Hermione was sure of was that she wanted him, especially now, when he looked at her like that.
Hermione tucked her hand into his hair, admiring the soft golden strands as they slid between her fingers like silk. Her hand cupped the base of his neck, bringing his face closer to hers; closer and closer and closer, until his next breath was hot against her lips. A single movement – a single breath – was all they needed to close the space between them (physically speaking, of course).
Her nose nudged softly against his; their lips parted, existing just out of reach, but enough for her to feel the electricity buzzing between them. Throwing caution to the wind and deciding – for once – not to think about anything, or him. Hermione inhaled sharply, then brushed her lips against his. At first, it was hardly a kiss at all; almost experimental in nature, their lips sat still against one another, barely even touching. But then, the inevitable happened.
They both gave in.
He pulled her bottom lip between his, sucking lightly on it before releasing it to run his tongue along it; she slid her own tongue along his, deepening the kiss and pressing herself flat against him, diminishing any space that previously existed. It wasn't enough. He pulled her closer, tugging on her hair and tangling his hands within its monstrosity of curls, and then she was tumbling on top of him. He expertly rolled them over, pinning himself expertly above her; she bucked her hips up against his, desperate to feel his body flush against hers.
Hermione pushed back against him, forcing Draco to sit back on his knees. Her fists were clenched in the fabric of his shirt, which she released only in favor of letting her hands trail up his muscular abs instead. His skin was hot, searing and almost painful to touch, but she didn't care. He was her sun. He was her sun. Draco reached behind him and peeled the button-down shirt off his back, tossing it carelessly to the side and Hermione's eyes drew hungrily down his chest.
Without a moment's hesitation, she rid herself of her cashmere crewneck; before she could unclasp the bralette behind her back, Draco had lowered her back onto the mattress and begun trailing his lips down the side of her neck. His lips, tongue, and occasionally his teeth, left tiny love marks down her neck, her chest, all the way to her breasts. His tongue flicked over her nipple, causing her to dig her nails deeper into his skin, leaving red crescents all over his back, shoulders and biceps.
Lost in the feel of him – the familiarity, the nostalgia and the warmth – Hermione nearly lost herself.
It was only the friction, his erection pressed against his trousers, rubbing against her highly sensitive cunt through her lifted skirt, that struck her like a bolt of lightning, bringing her to her senses.
"Wait," she gasped, and he immediately stopped what he was doing, lifting his head in alarm. "Wait, Draco, we can't."
"Oh," he muttered, "Right, sure."
Draco rolled off of her, but Hermione reached out to grasp his wrist before he went too far. "No – I – I don't mean – I want to," she assured him, rubbing small circles over his wrist bone and tugging him back towards her. "Trust me," she exhaled, "I want to. But – Well, last time we did this, especially when we were both hurting, it didn't – It wasn't good. In the long run." She clarified. "I want to, but - "
"But you want it to mean something?" He guessed. Hermione nodded, biting her lip. Draco's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile, then flattened. He reached out, brushing his thumb against her lip, drawing it out from between her teeth, then used it to tilt her chin up to meet his. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips, then again on the top of her head. "I want it to mean something, too. We don't have to rush it," he promised. "In fact, we shouldn't."
Hermione sighed; she was sure she would be proud of herself come morning light, but right now she was thoroughly upset with herself because her sexual frustration was somehow worse than it had been earlier that night.
"So," she exhaled, leaning her head against his shoulder, burying it in the crook of his neck. "Now what?"
"Well," Draco began, leaning back against the headboard and tucking an arm around her, tossing the duvet over them with the other. "It's nearly morning, so why don't you stay? No pressure. We can just sleep."
"I doubt I'll be able to get much sleep," mumbled Hermione into his neck, drawing circles in the golden hairs glistening on his chest. It shook as he laughed, and she smiled inwardly, pleased with how comfortable they quickly became in each other's presence. "You know," she added, her gaze studying the many scars that littered his body (she used to do this all the time, though she never asked about them), "we sort of match now."
Hermione gestured to her own scarred abdomen, and Draco's dexterous fingers immediately began to trace along the white, jagged skin where one of the bullets pierced through just months ago. Hermione gritted her teeth; the skin was still sensitive, but it didn't pain her, not really. Especially not when Draco touched it.
"Yes," he finally murmured in response, "you look a bit like me now. Someone once told me that every scar has a story and that we should not be ashamed of them because they resemble something we overcame. Something that made us stronger."
"A story, huh?" She echoed. "I must read like an open book to you," she half-laughed. "I'm fairly certain the only scar I had before I met you was from when I fell off my bike as a child and split my temple open. I had to get nine stitches." Hermione's gaze followed Draco's fingers as they traced along the many other scars that she gathered in the past several years. "You know how I got all the other ones."
"Hm," he assented. "Yes. From the many times you defied death, as Theo so kindly reminded us all," he added.
Hermione shrugged.
Draco caught her eye snagging on something, then sighed, taking her hand in his and guiding it over one of the many scars across his chest; this one stretched across his shoulder, disappearing out of eyesight to his back. "This one, like many of my scars, was acquired during the war," he told her under his breath. Hermione held hers, aware of how little Draco liked to talk about his time in France and how sacred this moment might become.
"This one, however," he went on, "you'll probably find the most interesting of all as it pertains to a time when Harry bloody Potter saved my life." Draco interlaced their fingers. "I was a young leader, but a damned good one. Most of the men who were in my company you're familiar with. Greg, Vince, Blaise, Graham, Theo, all of them. Harry, and the Weasleys too, along with some other rag-tag bastards, were also in my charge. It was nerve wrecking, to be responsible for so many young lives when I was young myself…"
So, Draco told her of his most precarious night during the war – a pitch-black night in 1915, and the very one that Theo tried telling her about all those years ago.
The young company had found themselves in an unusual position; the front lines were shifting, with Italy having just entered the war, and were pushing against the French border the Allied Powers believed they had a strong hold on. Not anymore. With the Italians advancing, the Allies were losing precious ground. Determined not to let the Axis Powers destroy all of the pain and suffering the French and British troops had put into the frontlines, Draco, a young but remarkably clever leader, opted to do something about it.
In their particular region, in the south of France, many of the troops lining the trenches in the actual frontlines had been blown to smithereens. The Italians marched ever forward. They took over a mountain range just above where Draco and his company were camped; they were the next logical target for enemy advancement. They held their own for a few days, assisted by a few other remaining companies on the side of the mountain range, but the battle seemed futile. They couldn't hold them off forever.
Draco, feeling either incredibly heroic or unbelievably suicidal, decided to go out on his own to undermine the Italians camping atop the mountain.
He climbed through the mud with a rifle strapped across his back and a makeshift bomb stowed in one of his pockets. Draco planned to shoot down as many important-looking members in the Italian base as he could before being spotted, then he would ignite the bomb and annihilate the rest, and the camp along with them. The only problem – which he had foreseen – was that the range of the bomb was far wider than Draco's range of escape down the jagged mountain side.
It was a suicide mission.
Still, he was ready for it. Well, he was, he told her, until Harry Potter showed up.
"He was as much of a suicidal idiot then as he is now," Draco said, shaking his head; Hermione could feel the rumble of his chest under her cheek, though, and knew he was grateful, if not amused, by this particular character trait of Harry. "Potter must have followed me, because he caught up to me just as I came up to the edge of the camp. I shot several rounds into the night, hoping they connected with any target at that point because it was so fucking dark that I couldn't make out anything."
"Several shots came back at me, but when I tried to duck out of the way, I snagged on a branch. It pierced the skin – it must have been one thorny motherfucker – and dragged through my skin, holding me captive and injuring me further as shots kept coming." He inhaled sharply as Hermione traced the scar along his chest and shoulder again. "Potter was there, lucky for me, and cut me loose from the thorny bush and shoved me behind a large boulder. Theo, for some fucking reason, had also followed. He helped Potter get me back down the mountain, but after hearing my pathetic excuse for the solo mission, stole the bomb and made his way back up the mountain."
He paused, staring off into the distance. Hermione saw the sun peeking through the clouds, coming over the horizon, and prompted Draco to continue. "And then?" She pressed, eager to hear the rest.
"And then he was gone. He was quick as lightning, Theo, always has been." He paused again, to laugh, then said, "Did you know Theo always carried a slingshot around with him? I always made fun of him for it, but I stopped making fun of him after that night. He pulled the pin on the bomb, then launched it over the mountain side and into the far end of their camp with his slingshot."
"It lit up the entire night, nearly blinding us all the whole journey down. It was worse, even, when the mountain began to shake, literally falling beneath our feet." He shook his head, freeing himself of the memory, then smiled down upon Hermione. "They saved my fucking life, and all of our lives, that night with their brave stupidity, yet I was the one who received the bloody fucking medal. It's a joke, and I hate being reminded of it every fucking time they use my title."
He tucked a curl behind her ear, kissing the spot on her temple where it had rested. "So much for sleeping tonight, hm?" Draco teased.
Hermione's lips stretched into a soft smile, grateful for the intimacy they shared that night. Even if it hadn't been the intimacy that she thought she wanted, it had been the kind the evidently needed from him, to heal them. To bring them back to a state of complete trust, understanding, and faith in one another.
"I told you I didn't think I'd get much sleep anyway," she smirked. Her fingers trailed lower down his abs, to a scar just above his hip bone; it was a small, circular scar that didn't seem to fit in with the other, larger jagged ones. "What about this one? Will you tell me this one's story?"
Draco laughed and kissed her again, this time sweetly on the lips.
"Yes, Hermione. I will tell you this story, and all of the stories, because I want you to know me as I believe I know you now." Draco shifted them, turning on his side to better tangle their limbs together. "This one was – It was before the war. My father he – he wasn't a very kind man." He stilled, and Hermione glanced up to see his eyes dark and stormy.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I understand - "
"No, no. You should know." Draco inhaled deeply, then exhaled, pulling her closer. "I was six, and Mother was out for the day…" He began.
The sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the room and blinding Hermione so much that she ducked her head back into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt herself drift into a peaceful half-sleep as Draco began his next story.
Perhaps, she thought dreamily, tightening her grip on him, scars were not always skin-deep, but with the help of those close to you, they were all capable of healing.
A/N - Thank you for sticking with this story! It is about to really get going now...
Chapter title comes from Lil Wayne's song featuring Adam Levine called Trust Nobody from the lines two fingers, I keep 'em crossed, I can't be looking for peace / I've been looking at the stars and they don't glisten for me xx
