Trigger warnings: Mentioned suicide
Patches of Hermione's shirt, soaked by the water regularly dripping from her hair, stuck to her skin as she sat there on the sofa alongside Narcissa.
Waiting.
Not sure if she wanted to prolong or expedite the inevitable confrontation currently on its way.
George, Fred, and Bill had all left without a word shortly after she and Narcissa re-entered the lounge. Hermione's didn't blame them and hated herself just a little bit for the way relief followed their exit, like they took the most painful part of the grief with them and left behind only fragments for her to carry. It was easier.
"Fleur went to fight that night we found you," Harry said by way of overdue explanation, "with the rest of us from the Order. We all split into small attack cells, you know, had it all organised and planned before we went." Hermione nodded, certain she didn't want to hear the rest as much as Harry surely didn't want to tell it. He stared into empty space as he spoke softly while Ron sat on the couch, head in his hands, as present as the furniture. "You were there, you saw how mad it got. Dunno, she just… got separated at some point during the fighting. Hasn't been seen since." Harry sighed and Hermione watched the weight on his shoulders grow heavier. "There've been rumours, of course. Reported sightings of her all over the place but nothing confirmed and all the accounts are so different that it's impossible to put together even a hypothetical narrative of what might've happened. It's been so long now that the Order is running out of excuses to keep her a top priority, what with—" he gestured to the empty room and all the images of increasingly desperate war it contained.
Hermione's eyes flickered to where Ron sat, motionless and yet filled with a tension that left her uneasy. His pain was obvious, and she wondered how much of it he blamed her for.
From where he stood in the middle of the room, Harry drew a slow breath. "Anyway, Fred and George'll take care of Bill. Don't worry about him. They're, um, going to speak to the Order, too. Immediately. Actually. I'm not entirely sure what will happen, to be honest—" Everyone held still as Ron sprang to his feet and rushed to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him without a glance at anything but the floor. "—but I wouldn't be surprised if someone comes by soon. Arthur, maybe. Just to speak with you." His tired eyes met Hermione's and he gave her a weak smile. "I'll stay, of course. Long as you need me to. I'm on your side, like always."
Hermione hoped her expression conveyed the genuine warmth and gratitude she felt, but the contorting of her features felt alien and obscene, completely out of place.
"Mr. Potter," came Narcissa's remarkably steady voice from Hermione's left. "Please allow me to once again express my willingness to cooperate fully in whatever manner is demanded of me."
Harry looked at Narcissa the way someone might observe a horrific accident and be completely incapable of turning away. "Right," he muttered. "Thanks for that."
All the familial comfort of the last weeks had evaporated, Hermione thought, leaving behind the cold remnants of a reality she had been trying to escape for far too long. She could feel it seeping into her bones, slowing her down, waking old pain. It had to happen, she knew, but she couldn't help the profound disappointment in herself for being unable to prevent it.
"Probably best to leave him to himself for a bit," came Harry's voice again and Hermione jumped, turning to face him guiltily. She hadn't realised she'd been staring at Ron's shut door. "He gets restless, you know. Give him some time and he'll sort himself out."
Hermione nodded silently. Wordless. Truly empty of words. How could she say all the things that needed to be said when the Order arrived? No-one else would give Narcissa the defence she deserved, and here at the crucial moment Hermione found herself barren of the needed vocabulary and fortitude to do the job.
The flat descended into a stillness which defied time, stretching out the wait into agony. Harry made tea, let it get cold, then made it again. Ron's door remained silent and closed. Narcissa sat in inhuman composure, either resolved to the fact her fate remained violently unknown or completely oblivious to it.
Hermione wondered if she was supposed to apologise.
A flash of light darted through the air and Hermione jolted, heart leaping into her throat as the shimmering little weasel scurried around Harry's head before dissolving into fading wisps of silver. Harry recovered from his shock quickly, but Hermione didn't miss the moment of gravity which passed across his expression.
"They'll be here soon," he told her with another one of his odd smiles that never really seemed like smiles at all.
Still, she appreciated the effort he took to keep her calm, so she did her best to follow through, and made sure the only evidence of her anxiety was the wringing of her hands in her lap.
She saw Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt stride through the door, tears in their eyes at the first sight of her in so many months. They patted her hands as she told them her story, remarked on how she was but a child, pitifully unable to make these sort of decisions on her own, she couldn't handle it, they're shouting at her, she's a fool, ignorant, out of her depth and handing victory to Voldemort in the palm of a Malfoy—
The sound of the door made her jump, again, and she watched wide-eyed as Harry stood to go welcome their guests to what must surely be one of the most uncomfortable social visits in history. Hermione was stuck, frozen to cushion on which she sat, couldn't quite breathe properly, and she stared at Narcissa in questioning awe at the way the witch had slid so easily into her presentation of coolness. Narcissa had not said a word for so long and remained soundless as they heard the door unlock and low, masculine voices exchange short words. But her hand, folded gently in her lap with the other, darted quickly to Hermione's. The brief squeeze brought Hermione back to Earth in a rush, before the hand returned to rest daintily atop its twin.
Muted footsteps on the carpet suggested two visitors, and Hermione straightened her back as they approached.
She would not apologise. She had done nothing wrong, and nothing they could say would convince her otherwise.
Arthur Weasley looked worn, awfully so. It hurt to see the emotional evidence of war across every inch of his being and yet the fundamental goodness about him remained unchanged. It took Hermione's breath away.
"The first time Hermione Granger came to the Burrow, she taught me how to use a Muggle contraption. What was it?"
Yet the aggression in his voice and eyes made Hermione shrink back. Her mouth opened to answer before she realised she didn't have one—how many times over the past five years had Mr. Weasley excitedly tugged her to his shed for "just a moment! Shan't take much of your time!" to spend hours prodding and deconstructing the most mundane household appliances? Vacuums, microwaves, showerheads, electric kettles—
"A… a toaster?"
The look in his eyes hardened. Behind him, Remus Lupin stood stiffly, hand hovering near his hip.
And then all at once, everything softened. "Oh, Hermione," breathed Mr. Weasley, and she found herself folded into his arms, taking all the paternal love he offered her as tears scorched her eyes yet refused to breach her eyelashes.
When they pulled apart, he held her by the shoulders and surveyed her up and down, a crease folding between his eyebrows. Remus gave her a little smile from over Mr. Weasley's shoulder.
"Right… yes, well, it's a good thing Molly isn't here, I suppose, or she'd be halfway done making you a shepherd's pie!" The sides of his eyes crinkled. "Goodness me, though, it really is you…"
Hermione watched his eyes go from warm to wary as they flickered between her and the space behind her. Indecision unsettled his features and she saw the fatigue and stress which he carried, so much heavier now than when she had last seen him nearly a year ago.
His grip on her shoulders slackened. "Right. Now…"
A rustling behind her and Arthur's grip tightened and fell away all at once. Hermione whirled around at the sound of Narcissa's voice, cool and polite as always and yet somehow possessing the miraculous balance of poise and humility. "Mr. Weasley," she addressed him with a nod. "I have said this already to Mr. Potter and your youngest son, but I do wish to iterate to you now that I am here with no motive other than that which you can plainly see. Any allegiance or connection I had to my family and the agenda of the Dark Lord has been thoroughly severed. I am here entirely on my own and at your disposal, and am willing to cooperate in any fashion you deem fit."
Hermione stood there, stuck looking between Narcissa's unflappable calm and Mr. Weasley's apparent indecision as to whether or not he ought to accept her verbal white flag. For a moment, it seemed he would respond with hostility and Hermione felt near dizzy with the sensation that she was the crux of the issue between them, the only point at which balance could be achieved and yet utterly powerless to make it happen.
"Well, we shall see, Mrs. Malfoy," he finally said with gravity before adding, "but thank you," as a gentler afterthought.
There was a moment of shuffling as everyone seemed unsure of how to best proceed to the next phase of this interrogation; Lupin and Mr. Weasley both sat themselves on the other sofa with great rearranging of limbs while Hermione and Narcissa returned to their original place on the perpendicular facing couch. Harry seemed quite literally caught in the middle, leaning against the wall and gazing between the gendered parties like he wasn't sure whether he was about to spectate a polite tennis match or referee a round of boxing.
"Now, Hermione, Mrs. Malfoy," Mr. Weasley nodded to each with evident discomfort. "You understand the difficult position this puts us in. We also don't appreciate being kept in the dark on something like this—"
"That was my idea, Arthur. I'll take full responsibility. It's not Hermione's fault."
Lupin looked at Harry with a combination of weary frustration and paternal esteem. "Be that as it may, blame is irrelevant at the moment."
"Yes," agreed Arthur. "Though you can imagine—" he tried a chuckle, "—how we must've felt when my sons informed us a few hours ago that they'd found a known collaborator hiding out in your flat!" Everyone seemed to make a valiant effort at smiling at the joke.
"Which, of course, brings us to the matter at hand."
"Yes. Right." Arthur cleared his throat and Hermione waited as he shifted forward to the edge of the cushion on which he sat, braced his elbows on his thighs, and sought the words to address her. "Hermione, you can't imagine how glad we are to see you alive and well. Truly. And believe me when I say the last thing I or any of us want is for you to have to relive all you must have been through, but it would help us to at least have… an outline of what happened in the months you were missing. Would you mind if we spoke in private, for just a bit—hang on, where's Ron?"
"In his room," answered Harry quickly as he came away from his spot in the corner with the kind of conviction Hermione only saw when he was about to attempt something foolhardy. "He'll come out when he's ready. And honestly, I think it's best you interview them both together."
Arthur blinked. Hermione did, too, and wondered if he shared her impression that Harry had matured remarkably; so outspoken yet rational.
"All right, then. I'll defer to you on this one, Harry." Incrementally, the focus of the room shifted across to where Hermione sat. All eyes gazed at her with a sympathetic tenderness which, while touching, did nothing to prevent the familiar heaviness which descended upon her, clouded all thought as she regurgitated once again all that which she had been trying to forget.
"I was taken by Snatchers," she told them, abrupt and clinical. "In the Forest of Dean, where the three of us were at the time. They took me to Malfoy Manor..." Listening to her own voice, she heard the clarity she did not feel and saw the relief on everyone's faces that this would not be an affair of great emotion. As she told them of her torture, she wondered if they had come prepared to drag the words out of her sobbing, hysterical trauma.
And she wished that she would cry. Or scream. Or do anything other than this retreat into herself where she hid so far away from her own feelings that sometimes she forgot they were even there.
Would her detachment concern them as much as weeping would? She didn't know, but just when she thought she might be able to unearth the dormant emotions lurking somewhere within her and provoke some kind of catharsis, she heard herself describing her current surroundings and realised she had reached the end of her story.
Nobody said anything for far too long. Harry, Narcissa, and Hermione all watched the two men beside each other on the couch as they appeared to struggle for breath. Any wave of emotion which may have been approaching shrank away before it could crest, retreating back into the un-findable.
"Blimey," whispered Arthur at length. Lupin merely looked aged. "Goodness me. I'm not really sure what to say, if I'm honest."
Hermione wondered why he said anything at all.
"I'm sorry to ask this, Hermione, but I'm sure you understand it's necessary from a security perspective. You said you confessed certain intelligence..?
Hermione swallowed. "Yes."
Lupin nodded and Hermione hears him become the professor again. "You mustn't feel ashamed. Even Aurors trained for that sort of thing aren't able to endure it. You did marvellously. We're all very proud of you."
Hermione didn't know what to say, so she nodded and waited for the questions.
"Do they know any of our locations?"
"No—I tried but the secret keeping—" she gestured vaguely to her mouth, remembered how many times they'd threatened to rip out her tongue if it didn't stop rolling up every time she tried to say Grimmauld Place.
"Good, that's good. What about our membership?"
"Yes. I told them names—but as I was never officially part of the Order, I didn't know anyone beyond, well, you, really. No-one I named was someone they didn't already know of." Much to their displeasure.
"Do you remember exactly who you listed?"
"Um… You, the Weasleys, Kingsley... Tonks..." she flinched, "Fleur... and they asked me about Dumbledore's Army. So I named students, too, though they already knew about the ones who were at the Department of Mysteries..."
Arthur and Lupin shared a look which stopped Hermione's heart. "What happened?"
"What do you mean—?"
"Did something happen to someone because of what I said?" Oh god—! She thought she'd been prepared to face the consequences of her betrayal, but she had grossly underestimated the magnitude of guilt she was capable of feeling—
"No! No, Hermione, relax. In all earnestness, we have noticed an increase in targeted aggression against people affiliated with the resistance, but that is not necessarily a direct result of any information taken from you. You needn't worry yourself with the death count."
"That's not entirely true."
"Harry—"
"I think she deserves to know!"
"Know what?"
Harry looked at her desperation with an infuriating pity. Hermione had thought she could do this, could ease herself back into the context of ongoing war, and yet she quite suddenly realised that she didn't want any of it at all and would give anything to be back shivering in a tent. Cut off.
"Hogwarts is unrecognisable now that the Death Eaters have taken control," Harry told her. "It's also one of the hardest places for us to access. I mean, even in peaceful times you know how hard it was to get to the grounds if you weren't welcome. We've been working on it, since we think protecting underage students should be a priority, but it's been difficult." A fortifying breath. "And around fifteen days ago one of the students committed suicide."
Not as bad as she had expected and yet somehow worse.
"Who?"
Harry shrugged. "Nobody we knew that well. A third-year Ravenclaw."
Blurs of blue and bronze robes tangled themselves before her eyes, different faceless bodies flickering by until Hermione realised she truly didn't know whom it could be. She wasn't sure whether to be glad to be spared the full grief, or to loathe herself for not hurting enough.
"This war has been very long and very brutal," said Arthur softly. "Many of us who were around for the last one agree that it never felt so hopeless as where we are now."
"But we'll make sure to offer particular protection to the people you named, Hermione. Thank you for your honesty."
Hermione didn't make eye contact with Lupin as she nodded in acknowledgement of his thanks. She felt too muddled, the notion of a never-ending conflict so overwhelmingly terrible that a thirteen-year-old would choose such drastic means of escape within their own school where they are meant to be safe and protected…
And yet she had come so close to making the same decision herself—was not entirely sure she would not make it in future, and yet…
Everything seemed so terribly unbalanced.
"Now, Mrs. Malfoy, if you would be so kind as to oblige us with your perspective of the last few months?"
And so it began again.
Hermione had not expected to learn much from Narcissa's testimony. Their experiences were the same, after all. But nevertheless she found herself launching to her feet, fresh pain blistering her heart as she cried, "What!?"
"Hermione?" asked Arthur, who looked somewhat disturbed by her reaction.
She only stared at Narcissa's bewildered expression. "You never told me Luna was in there, too! And Ollivander?"
"It never became relevant."
"They were my friends! Of course it was relevant!"
"Come now, Hermione, let's sit down—" Hermione glared at Arthur as he tried to guide her back to the sofa but obliged him anyway. "Mrs. Malfoy, I'm sure you have an explanation."
"Yes, thank you," replied Narcissa with an odd look in Hermione's direction. She did not address the men as she elaborated, "You must understand that at any moment the Dark Lord is keeping several prisoners of many sorts. They serve different… functions, if you will. And, thus, experience different treatment." She glanced to Arthur and Lupin. "Miss Granger was the most prolific in that not only is she the most famous Muggle-born, but her close ties to Mr. Potter make her a source of valuable information." With a kind of discomfort that made Hermione feel once again as though she were a specimen for examining, Narcissa turned back to her. "You were treated most barbarically out of anyone there; your friends were mostly ignored. It is my wholehearted belief that no-one was in need of mercy more than you."
Hermione didn't know what to say to any of it. The idea of her as a special case did not sit well at all, and in her head the map of her cell expanded to include neighbouring blocs where Luna Lovegood and Garrick Ollivander listened to her screams and cries and remained largely ignored by the Death Eaters who came expressly to torment her…
She shivered unstoppably and curled into the corner of the sofa, arms around knees for protection. The glances of concern went ignored and she waited for the interrogation to end.
"I can't tell you the names of other prisoners, but I could describe them to you. They were wizards not as well-known as Miss Granger, which is why their names are unfamiliar to me."
"I see. And can you tell us why you were assigned this role to begin with? Seems like a bit of a demotion for the mistress of the manor."
"Yes, well, I do think that was rather the point. I'm sure you are familiar with the numerous ways my family has failed the Dark Lord's wishes in recent years."
"I suppose you're referring to your son's failed assassination of Albus Dumbledore?"
Narcissa visibly bristled. "Among other things. Anyone bearing the name Malfoy is certainly not in the Dark Lord's good graces at the moment. As well as occupying the ancestral home and confiscating my husband's wand, I believe assigning me the duties of a house elf is merely another way he has chosen to exercise his… tyranny."
"Lucius's lost his wand?" Arthur shifted forward eagerly.
"Yes. He was using mine instead, until I confronted him at the opera and took it back. I believe it is in Mr. Potter's possession at the moment."
Harry nodded the affirmative.
"You confronted him?"
"He initially approached me. He recognised me through the Polyjuice."
"How?"
Narcissa gave him a look. "Wouldn't you would recognise your wife even if she wore a different body?"
"All right. What did he say to you?"
"He tried to convince me to return with him."
"To You-Know-Who."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He seemed to think that it would restore our image in the Dark Lord's eyes."
"You don't sound like you believe that to be the case."
"Not for a second."
"So you resisted."
"Yes. And eventually fought him off with my own wand." Narcissa's gaze flickered to where Hermione sat, curled in on herself and watching with a frown. "I believe Miss Granger witnessed that, though I'm not certain."
"Hermione?"
"Yes, I saw it. That was when we tried to leave. And found Harry and Ron."
"I see. Mrs. Malfoy, at any point during your interaction with your husband, did you tell him anything about who you were with or that may lead him to believe you are involved in any way with Hermione or the Order?"
"No."
"And have you at any point attempted to re-establish contact with your family or anyone affiliated with Death Eaters?"
"If I were here to be duplicitous, I would hardly confess to it, Mr. Weasley. But the answer is no and will remain no even under Veritaserum."
"Yes, well, hopefully it won't come to that…"
Hermione watched the evolution of postures from civil to weary to amused to incredibly exhausted and back again as the questions continued, on and on… Harry watched it with resignation, occasionally offering his input with Hermione when they were prompted. His green eyes occasionally met hers in a friendly gesture of support. Did he find it strange, too? To have everyone sitting around like this, having the most difficult conversation in the easiest way? Could they hope that it would be an omen of easy things to come, or merely a façade to disguise the building hostility which would erupt to catastrophe? Hermione couldn't work it out and her head felt too full of clouds and echoes of Cruciatus; cold, clammy stones across her skin.
The tea burned her mouth a little bit but she didn't mind. Preferred it, actually. It brought her a few inches closer to reality, where Lupin looked out the window and Harry settled the tea things in the kitchen while Arthur spoke with Ron alone in the bedroom and Narcissa sat, like always, by Hermione's side on the sofa.
"Are you all right?"
"No." But I'm not sure why! It was fine telling Harry and Ron… This shouldn't be happening—
"What do you need?"
I don't know!
"Right, well. We'd best be off, I think. Good to see you, Harry. Hermione…"
She looked at Arthur's outstretched arm, clearly an invitation for a hug, but she remained where she sat and offered him a smile and a wave instead.
"I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon."
Lupin offered a similar wave and well wish and then they were gone.
Hermione wondered what they would tell the others—
"She was so fragile, poor girl, just sitting there… Not very well at all… Not sure what will become of her, if I'm honest…"
Harry sighed.
"Well, Mrs. Malfoy, the good news is you can keep staying here. The bad news is you can't leave. To be frank, you know too much."
"I suppose that was the optimal outcome."
"Yeah, actually. We got lucky. But someone will come 'round in the next few days to ask you for more information about Death Eater activities. If you really want the protection of the Order, you're going to need to offer as much intelligence as you have."
"Of course."
"Hermione, do—?"
No. Too much. Can't do it.
"I'm going to bed," she snapped and in a flurry of limbs that refused to work the way she wanted, she got up, put the tea on the table, and stumbled to her bedroom.
Nothing made the right amount of sense. It had been so long since she'd felt so stuck, like her brain was living a life somewhere hundreds of miles away from the rest of her body. She didn't know how to pull it back, how to merge reality with the universe in her head. Puzzle pieces refusing to fit.
So she crawled onto the bed and held herself in a tight ball until the sight of Fleur huddled in Hermione's old cell, damp and hungry and dark, reached out and swallowed her whole.