Sputtering, Hermione wondered how saintly one had to be for one's Polyjuice to not taste absolutely foul. Even Harry's, who had looked almost like Felix Felicis, hadn't been particularly pleasant to swallow, and he was one of the best people she could imagine! The poor Muggle woman she had ambushed had seemed alright—early thirties, maybe, with a cheery complexion and a respectable office job in central London. Yet as Hermione tried to will away her gag reflex, she wondered if this woman was perhaps harbouring some terrible secret (an affair with her supervisor? Or did she mistreat her children?) that cast a dark shadow on her character and thus caused her Polyjuice to taste what she imagined mulch must be like if one were put it in a blender like a smoothie.
Hermione could only hope that if anyone should wish to steal her own identity, her essence tasted of something more tolerable, like Earl Grey, or maybe the oral equivalent of the smell of fresh parchment.
Her new body did not feel as unpleasant as transforming into Harry had done, at least. She stood easily a full inch taller, but her angles were softer and it was nice to feel the curves outlining her torso and legs. Perhaps people called this woman plump, but Hermione preferred to think of it as voluptuousness, and she liked it a great deal.
She did her best to leave the unconscious Muggle as comfortably as she could, propped on the toilet in the public loo. Hermione hoped that when she came to, she wouldn't be terribly alarmed. Yet, though it saddened her to yet again take advantage of a Muggle to fight a war that they had no part in, she couldn't help but be a little bit proud of how efficient she'd got at pulling it off.
Even Narcissa seemed fairly nonplussed by the logistics of it.
"Do you need help with the transfigurations?" she quietly asked from the adjacent toilet.
"Mm," Hermione nodded the affirmative. "I can't see enough of myself to figure out where the robes don't fit," she explained with hushed frustration. A moment later, she grunted as the olive shade she'd meant to produce came out as a bright and uneven green. "Not to mention this wand does not seem to like me at all!"
The same could not be said for Narcissa, who relished every moment with her true wand. When Hermione slipped into the stall with her, she immediately found herself being fussed over, twirled around like a mannequin as her clothes were transfigured beyond recognition into perfectly bedraggled witch's robes. She yelped as Narcissa flicked her wand at Hermione's neckline, causing the material to retract several inches.
"There is a certain kind of witch who lurks about Knockturn Alley," explained Narcissa as she evaluated Hermione's appearance with critical brown eyes. "We will not be noticed if we present ourselves as such." She frowned. "However, given your recent endowments, perhaps we should take care not to attract any attention at all."
With a huff, Hermione drew her cloak closed across her chest, wondering how she ought to feel at being transfigured into some sort of tart. "Can we go now? Harry and Ron are waiting for us outside."
"Yes, I suppose we must…" Narcissa fiddled with her wand before stashing it inside her robes. The tension in her posture—no doubt from fear—became apparent again, even in the body of a Muggle with hair and skin so many shades darker than Narcissa's own. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to offer the assurances she'd been giving the last several days, had whispered into her hair as Narcissa had wept on her in the dark, but bit her tongue. The time for coddling had passed and surely they all knew it.
Now was time for doing and Hermione's blood thrilled with it.
When the pair of them stepped out onto the street, a Muggle man—just about the only one who didn't give them odd looks—fell into step just in front of them.
"Remember, I'll be out by the Leaky Cauldron," he murmured, eyes still ahead as they moved with the pedestrian traffic. "Harry'll be around under the cloak, and he can call me if anything gets nasty. In and out, quick as you can. Good luck."
Hermione gave Ron's back a thankful glance as he kept walking, leaving them at the Leaky. Even with her hood up, it felt terribly strange to walk through wizarding society again. It had been nearly a year now that she'd been an outcast, trapped in the obscurity of the Muggle world or the pockets of resistance.
And what a difference a year could make. Diagon Alley could barely be distinguished from Knockturn Alley—though the latter had far more business than its abandoned counterpart. Hermione tried to follow Narcissa's body language, kept her torso caved inwards, drew her gaze down, tried to stop looking around so bloody much, but with Death Eaters surrounding her it felt nearly impossible to let them carry on without a wand in her hand and a careful eye tracking their movements.
Narcissa eventually came to stand in an empty doorway. Hermione casually came up beside her.
"Now we wait?" she asked.
"Now, we wait."
The day felt pleasant enough against her skin, with just enough gentle heat that told of imminent summer, that Hermione didn't really mind being outside so long. She did mind, however, the lecherous glances and occasional touches of the wizards prowling about the alley; some Death Eaters, some just desperate. The first time a man approached them directly, Hermione nearly leapt out of her skin at the sudden shout Narcissa offered him in return, telling him exactly where he could put his wand if he dared to presume to be up to their standard.
After that, Hermione didn't worry too much about being approached again. She did, however, remark on the power of Polyjuice. How could such a powerful magic allow her and Narcissa to parade freely through a nest of Death Eaters and go completely unnoticed? Surely the other side must also be utilising it—the ability to steal another's identity in nearly every single way was the sort of thing that won wars, after all. And with Snape on their side, or at least pretending to be, there ought to be no reason they couldn't get their hands on the stuff by the gallon.
The notion of a Death Eater going around as Lupin or Shacklebolt or one of the Weasleys made Hermione slightly nauseous with fear, and yet it calmed her immensely, too. There was no way in hell they could pass as one of the Order. The intense personal bonds would be impossible to impersonate; someone would notice if someone else's behaviour were even slightly amiss within minutes. Hermione couldn't say terribly much about the dynamic amongst Voldemort's followers, but she knew for certain that the Order was a family—in some cases, literally. That kind of love and decades-long intimacy couldn't be faked by an outsider, no matter how cunning the enemy could be.
Besides, she thought, they don't have the subtlety to pull off a move like that. The Dark Lord and his followers were all about the big and bold; ironic, considering Slytherins were known for their calculating strategies while it was the Gryffindors who usually conspicuously charged head-first. Yet the Death Eaters had demonstrated again and again that they lacked the cohesive foresight to plan anything more complicated than an ambush.
And that was why it was the side of the Light that currently stood disguised at the epicentre of the enemy's movement, calmly awaiting inevitable defection from one of the opposition's elite.
From where she stood, Hermione had a clear view up and down the alley, and though many of the wizards were familiar to her, none of them bore the shock of blonde they stood waiting for.
"Do you know which shops he usually goes to?" she asked, trying to test how discreetly she could stand on her toes to see further down the lane.
"It varies from week to week. Regardless, there is no reason for witches such as ourselves to go into any of these businesses. Our most discreet option is to remain here."
"I believe you," murmured Hermione, hoping it would appease Narcissa's obvious agitation. Since they had begun to construct this little plan, she had proven herself to be remarkably helpful. She gave all the necessary information they could need and proposed logical solutions which bore just enough risk to get them what they needed. Hermione was substantially impressed by the witch's demonstration of rationality in the face of all the passionate sentimentality she'd shown before. Her shrewd strategizing truly exemplified the best qualities of Slytherin House, yet Hermione couldn't help but wonder where those maternal anxieties lay, no doubt coiling uneasily somewhere deep below the forced calm.
"Is my new face really that fascinating?"
Hermione jumped and quickly returned her eyes to the street. She hadn't meant to stare. "Sorry. Got distracted." She hoped Narcissa couldn't see her blush.
Narcissa's smirk seeped into her voice as she remarked, "You didn't answer the question."
"What? Oh." Hermione swallowed and refocused on cataloguing the darkly-robed wizards making their way across the cobblestones. "Your new face is lovely, though I think I prefer the old one."
"Hmm," Narcissa hummed while Hermione momentarily pondered how much she enjoyed the way Narcissa's blue eyes glimmered, often telling of a witty retort that rarely saw the light of day. She wondered what it would take for this woman who cared so much about presentation to relax enough to share the scathing cleverness kept safely tucked away. Protected by the image of someone else, she currently leaned casually against the stone archway they stood under, one hand on her hip, and Hermione suspected her ankles were crossed underneath her robes. Did the Death Eaters know that their ice queen was really more of a fiery warrior? Probably not, Hermione thought. If they had realised how much of a threat she could pose, they wouldn't have delegated her to the role of glorified house elf.
"Fancy another drink?"
"I suppose it's probably about time." Hermione reached into her robes and pulled out a flask. The swig of Polyjuice tasted no better the second time and she scrunched up her face, pouring all her focus into shutting down her gag reflex until the stuff was safely past her oesophagus.
"Well, if we can make it about an hour and a quarter between doses, I reckon we have about four hours' worth of potion."
"We won't need that long," declared Narcissa with confidence. When a particularly refined looking gentlewizard strode by, she leaned out into the street and crassly called, "Lovely cloak, sir! Must've cost a very pretty galleon indeed!"
"What are you doing?!" Hermione hissed as the wizard rushed away from the brazen witch with a scowl. As though it would restrain her mouth as well as her body, Hermione wrapped her arm around a chuckling Narcissa's waist and held her fast.
"Well, we must play the part, after all!"
"Yes, but what if one of them actually takes you up?"
"Oh, come now. He was obviously not interested at all. I wouldn't have harassed him if I thought he might actually take the bait."
"You know," Hermione mused, still keeping at least one arm securely wrapped around Narcissa's middle, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were enjoying this.
"Not at all, my dear." And though Narcissa's eyes sparkled, the sobriety in her voice left no room for doubt.
Hermione didn't say anything, just squeezed Narcissa's waist a little tighter. After a moment, Narcissa's arm came to rest around Hermione's shoulder as the two witches off ill repute watched the worst of Britain's wizardry tread past.
"I didn't think we'd get him on the first try. We can come back next week."
Narcissa glanced at the dusky sky with a frown. "Give him one more hour. We have enough potion to manage it."
"You really think he'll come?"
"I'm sure of it."
Hermione let out a breath. Alright. Her feet had begun to hurt half an hour ago and she was growing impatient with this whole enterprise. Not to mention the idea of Ron still patrolling the Muggle streets outside the Leaky Cauldron and Harry somewhere nearby under the cloak made her uneasy. There was only so long they could outrun the risk of being caught, and she had a feeling they were already on borrowed time.
"There!"
Snapping her head up, Hermione immediately saw the blonde head strutting down the alley. Draco had the look of all the Death Eaters: ferocious entitlement and a kind of inherent aggression in his step that caused bystanders to scurry out of his path. Watching him near their little nook, Hermione's heart tied itself in a furious knot. How on Earth were they supposed to approach him? And live to do it again?
Narcissa had insisted she could do it and no-one had thought to question her, but now Hermione really wished she had a clue as to what the hell was about to happen.
Looking at her now, Hermione could see the tightening of the woman's demeanour, watching her son's approach like she was ready to pounce on prey.
"What do you need me to do?!" whispered Hermione frantically.
"Just don't let him get away, and don't forget who you're supposed to be."
"Wha—?"
"Good evening, sir!"
Hermione fought not to show her alarm as Narcissa grabbed Draco's sleeve and didn't let go, even as he tried to shake her off. She tugged, trying to pull him into their little alcove with a near-manic glint in her eye. When it became obvious he couldn't ignore her, he pulled his wand and Hermione surged forward, ready to do something, because surely this could not be the plan—!
"Get off me you fucking—!"
"Draco, it's me."
Despite the sudden character change of Narcissa's Polyjuiced voice to a sedated whisper, Draco's frenzy only doubled.
"I don't know what you're talking about! Now let go or—"
"Really! It's me!"
"I don't believe you!"
"It's the truth!" Hermione interjected, coming up flush against him to meet his panicked eyes with her own desperation. "Please, you have to believe us!"
"Prove it!"
Without missing a beat, Narcissa reached into her robes and retrieved her wand. Her wand, stolen from Lucius at the opera.
"Where did you get that?" hissed Draco. "My father lost that wand—"
"Yes! To me! As I'm sure you know!"
Draco looked at the dark, slender wood and then back to the stranger's face. His lips trembled and his wide eyes held more fear than Hermione thought one person's sanity could manage. She gripped his forearm, just under his elbow, not sure whether she was trying to stop him from escaping or offering comfort. If he didn't believe them, or if he turned violent, things would rapidly deteriorate and she had no idea how they could reconstruct a viable plan if this all went to shite. But there, somewhere in his pale eyes, she could see how much he wanted to believe them. Needed to believe them.
She and Narcissa had been free of the Death Eaters for weeks now. Merlin knew the last time Draco had had even a fraction of hope.
"Draco, darling… it's me. I'm here. Do you remember your seventh birthday? You wanted a gooseberry tart. And your father couldn't fathom why in Merlin's name a child would turn down all the finest chocolates for some gooseberries." Narcissa chuckled and Hermione had the distinct feeling that water levels were rapidly surpassing her shoulders, so deep was she in familial intimacy she had no right to witness.
The muscles under her fingers gave way. Draco's eyes turned shiny, and his voice was hoarse as he gasped, "Mummy?"
For a moment, as Draco broke down and let Narcissa tug him into the relative seclusion of their archway, Hermione found it strangely heartening to see a Death Eater cry. Voldemort believed that love was meaningless, but clearly he couldn't breed it out of his followers, and now Hermione hoped it would be his downfall. Again.
She cast a Muffliato and hoped it would all be enough.
Not quite sure what her role would be in this operation, Hermione decided to situate herself as a human shield and stood by Draco's back, guarding him from the view of the alley. It wouldn't do to have him spotted sniffling on a street witch's shoulder, she figured.
He blubbered almost coherently against Narcissa as she stroked his back and gently shushed him, his mutterings about their escape and the not knowing and the fear and loneliness and on and on, breaking Hermione's heart with every word. Draco Malfoy had never been particularly pleasant to say the least, in fact he'd actively chosen to be a violent bully even beyond the age when it could be excused as adolescent idiocy. But he still didn't deserve this.
Hermione looked away as he tried to collect himself and rubbed frantically at his eyes and nose. "Why are you here?" he whispered anxiously. "You shouldn't be here! If anyone knows that I saw—"
"We're here because we need your help. Can you successfully lie about having seen us?"
"You mean can I protect my memories?" he snorted. "Of course, I wouldn't be here otherwise, but why—?"
"Can you get into Bella's vault?"
"In Gringotts?"
Narcissa nodded.
"Are you mad? You know I can't get in there on my own!"
"Doesn't have to be on your own," advised Hermione in a frantic whisper. Draco whirled around and squinted at her, obviously trying to make sure she was who he thought she was. "Go along with her if you have to. We just need something from inside."
"What? And why?"
"Something that will help end all this, darling."
Draco looked to his mother, hidden in a stranger's body, and then to Hermione. Squinting between them both, he said slowly, "You're working with them, aren't you?" It hardly sounded like a question.
Narcissa's response was cold. "There isn't any other choice, and I think you know that."
For a moment, Hermione wondered if Draco would try and argue. Instead, he exclaimed in a hush, "But I can't steal from Gringotts! Do you have any idea what the goblins would do to me? Not to mention the D-d—him?"
"No-one will know, Draco," Narcissa soothed. "It's just a little thing."
"What, then?"
"A golden cup with the Hufflepuff insignia. Probably not much bigger than a drinking goblet."
"And how am I supposed to bloody find it?"
"Not sure, just count on luck."
"'Count on luck?'" Draco looked around a moment to judge the privacy of their conversation, then tugged both witches in by their wrists until he had them uncomfortably near to his face. "Look," he nearly spat, switching between both pairs of eyes with a kind of hysterical severity that frightened Hermione more than any of his Death Eater intimidation tricks. "I'm not sure where you've been the last few months. But out here, things are not good. For anyone. I'm glad you're alive—" he glanced at Hermione, "both of you, but if you think that these suicidal adventures are going to just—just fix everything like they did at Hogwarts, you're wrong."
"Draco, listen—"
"No, Granger, you listen for once. I risked my neck once to save you, and that nearly cost me all of it. I can't do it again. And I don't have enough time to stand here cavorting with—" He looked them both up and down with a sneer and pulled away, already donning the mask of disinterested Death Eater—
"Wait! Please!" Draco grunted angrily as both witches grabbed hold of his robes, tugging him back into the shadows. "Damn you, Draco Malfoy!" hissed Hermione, all intention of politely reasoning with him now thoroughly out the window. "Don't you dare insult us by saying we don't know it's all gone to shite! And it wouldn't be saving us, it would be saving everyone. And look, if you help us by doing this tiny thing, you'll have reasonable grounds to claim you defected and get lesser sentencing when we win this. And, well, if we don't, I don't think it's going to be pleasant for anyone regardless of whether they have a Dark Mark or not. So, logically, what have you got to lose?"
Hermione glared up at him (when had he grown so tall?), breathing heavily and daring him to try and rebuke her. She was right, and she knew it, and she knew that he did, too.
Draco looked between Hermione and his mother, clearly stuck in a web of conflicting emotions and an overwhelming amount of fear that had grown so constant it coursed through him stronger than blood.
"How much Polyjuice have you got left?" he asked, voice flat.
"Enough for whatever you need us to do," answered Hermione, equally blank. Draco's eyes didn't move from his mother's.
"Be back here 'round this time next week. If I have it, I'll give it to you. If not, don't try to contact me again."
"Alright," promised Hermione. "We'll be here."
Draco stepped out of their clutches and coolly brushed off his robes. Hermione waited for some sort of parting word or another instruction, her heart still racing so hard she thought it must echo off the stones. Instead, with one last lingering look at his mother, Draco Malfoy stepped back into the streets and strode away, the cold Death Eater once more.
Hermione watched him disappear around a corner, not entirely sure what to make of him or anything that had just happened.
"Well," she remarked more for her own benefit than anyone else's. "I suppose that went… decently."
For a moment, all she could do was stand there where he had left her and breathe. The adrenaline still hung heavy in her blood vessels, but rather than weigh her down, it prickled her senses and woke molecules deep in the crevices of her bones. For weeks she'd done nothing but fester in that damn flat and she hadn't realised how stale she had become. Now, she had erupted back into reality, and everything felt so sharp and new again.
She looked at Narcissa, standing there with her arm extended after her son and suddenly transformed from masquerading harlot to a woman whose body could no longer bear the weight of her own heart. In the few months Hermione had been with Narcissa, through the worst kinds of hell imaginable, she had not once seen the witch look this broken.
But it didn't stop the sweet rushing through her veins, keeping her one beat ahead of reality, and in a precise cut, the rest of Knockturn Alley was neatly severed from her concerns. She'd lost count of how many times Narcissa had come to her, held her through the agony and offered the comfort of her words and caresses, or helped yank her out of her own misery by whatever means necessary; anything to force her back into the real world with a perspective to match.
Abruptly, the only thing Hermione needed was to comfort and protect this woman who still stood reaching, unmoving and alone.
With sturdy determination in her step, Hermione moved to Narcissa's side and gently guided her stretched arm to hang limp. "Come on," Hermione murmured as she brushed dark hair away from Narcissa's cheek. She wasn't sure how much longer the Polyjuice would last. Knockturn Alley was not ideal for lingering at the best of times; she didn't fancy discovering what would happen if they materialised in their own bodies in the middle of the street.
Narcissa looked at her and Hermione saw so much exhaustion there. "Come on, it's done now. We can go home…" You did so well… I'm sorry we put you through this… Take my hand… Please, let me help you like you've helped me… Let me take care of you now…
Hermione wrapped her arm around Narcissa's shoulders and gently pulled her against her side. She felt Narcissa's arm snake around her waist, keeping her close as Hermione guided them from the safety of the archway into the traffic of the alley. An oblivious witch with matted brown hair hanging limply from beneath her pointed hat bumped forcefully into Narcissa's shoulder, causing the woman to pull Hermione closer and lean her head against Hermione's shoulder.
The unmindful witch continued bustling down the alley without a glance, let alone a word of apology; Hermione scowled after her retreating back. A cough from the space on her other side brought her back to the task at hand.
"Time to go home, Harry," she murmured to her empty side as she let her fingers wander gently along Narcissa's neck, creep up to her jaw and lose themselves in her hair as the two-thirds visible trio walked to the end of the street. It hardly mattered where Knockturn ended and Diagon Alley began, Hermione thought vaguely as she felt Narcissa's breaths against her collarbone. (It was marvellously convenient that this Muggle woman was taller than Hermione's own stature; it would have been impossible to hold Narcissa like this in their own bodies…) Everything looked the same degree of desolate…
No-one gave the pair any trouble as they made their way back to the threshold to Muggle society. When they emerged onto the London street, Ron stood waiting.
Hermione came to a halt and took a moment to pull Narcissa tighter against her side, reached with her other arm to push stray hair out of her eyes and cup her jaw. As she searched the drained woman's eyes, Hermione saw fatigue and melancholy, yet enough alertness and sense that Hermione didn't fear she would be incapable of getting back to the flat without some sort of breakdown or a high risk of splinching.
She felt a tugging around her middle and instantly pulled Narcissa into a fierce hug, crushing their bodies together purely to rejoice in the fact that they could touch.
"Forgive me, I didn't think I would be overcome like that, that seeing h-him—" Hermione shushed Narcissa's choking and pulled back enough to look into her eyes, hoping to transmit some sort of comfort with her own. She stroked the woman's clammy cheek with her thumb.
"Please, don't be sorry. You'll be okay. It's all alright…" Hermione couldn't help it; she pulled Narcissa near again, pressed her lips against her cheek so firmly that she wondered if it could still be considered a kiss, needed to show her with her bodily presence just how safe and protected she was despite it all…
When they separated, Narcissa swiped at her eyes and readjusted her robes. Hermione watched, couldn't take her eyes away, and offered one last reassuring smile when she got caught staring.
Ron shifted on his feet. "She alright?"
Tearing her eyes away from Narcissa, Hermione nodded. "She will be."
"Right. Good." Ron looked between them for a moment, his face apparently stuck in a terribly awkward rendering of a polite smile. "You know, I, um, can't actually remember which one of you is who," he said with an attempt at a chuckle.
Hermione gave him a smirk and, taking Narcissa's hand, set off down the street toward their established apparition point.
"Yeah, that didn't help," she heard him mutter as he fell into step behind them with an invisibly cloaked Harry by his side.
Perhaps Draco was right and it all really had gone to shite. This war had stretched on for years now and every day the casualty list grew in the most obscenely violent ways. Hopelessness had thoroughly entrenched itself in the ranks of the resistance. Already, she had been battered into a quivering, fractured shell of who she'd used to be. She had no hope for who she would become anymore. And it was only a matter of time before someone very near and dear to her became another tallied obituary.
There was no practical way to win this war.
And yet, striding through central London in wizarding clothes and a Muggle body, Narcissa's hand in hers, Hermione could see more glittering possibilities than she had since Harry had emerged from the maze.