6
Reaching

"So I'm assuming that went well," said Cedric, materializing in the Veil again and crossing his arms over his chest.

He watched as Hermione sat on the floor, legs crossed and palms lightly resting on her knees. Her eyes were closed as she took slow, deep breaths, but she couldn't hide the twitches that plagued her right eye.

She thought she'd developed a better compartmentalization ability since Hogwarts. She thought she could sit and work without dwelling too heavily on her encounter with Malfoy, but judging by the singed parchments and mess of ash all over the stone floor of the Death Chamber, perhaps she needed to practice.

After she stormed out of his office in a huff, barely aware of the electricity crackling in her hair and the way her cold-numbed fingers shook so hard that she had to clutch her purse strap tightly to clamp down on the tremors. She realized, in the five minutes that it took to walk out of St. Mungo's and Disapparate to the Ministry of Magic, that the cold and trembling was not out of anger or lingering fear of Malfoy's dark allegiances. Hermione was upset.

"It went as well as I should've expected with the way I walked in there," she grudgingly admitted, clenching her teeth 'til her head ached.

"You said he turned you down because he didn't want you meddling with shite like this?" asked Cedric, more as confirmation than genuine inquisitiveness. "Especially after what landed you in his care in the first place?"

Hermione took a long inhale and an even longer exhale. "Not you too."

"Yes, me too," said Cedric, shaking his head. "You do realize that he's trying to block you and your coworker because these projects are quite life-threatening, don't you? Granger, the world's survival doesn't hinge on you saving Sirius Black."

Hermione scoffed. "See, if I was hearing this from anyone else—like Harry or Ron or Ginny—I might believe them, but Malfoy simply refuses to—"

"Let you die?" finished Cedric for her, eyebrows high. "Don't you think you're being a tad unreasonable?"

"Unreasonable would be his incessant need to insinuate that I don't know how to take care of myself—as if I hadn't gone through everything we did in the war—"

"I highly doubt your capabilities were on the chopping block, Hermione," he pointed out.

"Oh, but I think it is," she insisted, shooting to her feet and frustratedly righting her blouse. "He has the audacity to rub in my face that I was asking for his help despite me being the alleged expert on top of alluding to some deeper insight into my life as if he knew me better than some random passerby."

"I mean, compared to actual random passerby…"

Hermione glowered at him as her research materials began to rise off the floor again. "Cedric, whose side are you on?"

"Honestly?" One eyebrow crawled up a bit higher than the other. "Much to my own surprise and loathing to admit—Malfoy's." He held up his hands before she could protest. "Like you said earlier. If you were hearing this from Harry or Ron or Ginny, you would spur your high horse, believing you knew better because of your proximity to the project."

Hermione wasn't as single-mindedly passionate as she'd once been. She could fight for a cause but understand the other side, but Merlin she didn't like doing it often.

"Any right-minded Healer who took his vows and values patient life would do his damnedest to deter you from this project because, quite frankly, Hermione, if you stepped back and took a good, long look at yourself from another perspective, you'd see that you're on a dark road that perhaps Malfoy might be more familiar with than you remember."

Hermione nodded, guiding her wand along in a circle around her, conducting her research materials into an organized webbing that she was about to use to create another ritual.

"It's not stopping you though," said Cedric knowingly. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest again, leaning against the side of the archway. "You're seeing sense, but—"

"But there wasn't a whole lot of sense in that second war, Diggory, but we all still fought it, didn't we?"

"That's not the same thing, Granger."

"I acknowledge your stance as well as Malfoy's," said Hermione, banishing a few books negated by Malfoy's crucial little tidbit about windows, "but I also have to ask you to acknowledge that you're here. I've gotten this far in this project, and I'm not turning back now."

"Me being here only shows how far you've dug your hole, love," said Cedric. "I understand why you're doing this—for Harry, for an innocent man, for your own personal motivations—and I'm certain you've thought through every crevice of morality and duty—"

"I have, as a matter of fact."

"—but that doesn't mean a damn thing if you're going to die doing it."

Hermione shook her head. "So he said the Veil was a window, which makes sense. Someone who falls through the Veil hasn't been properly admitted into the realm of the dead."

Sighing, Cedric slid down the side of the Veil and made himself comfortable on the floor. "Surely you wouldn't invite someone into your home through your window. Bad form and all."

Hermione took another few inhales and exhales. She waved her wand to flip a page of the book to her left and glanced at the parchment to her right that listed the ritual she'd used to summon Sirius the last time. She'd edited it heavily to accommodate the mirror tethers, but now with Malfoy's offhand, critical addition to the rhetoric of the Veil, she'd have to scratch it all.

"Not that witches and wizards can say much—we use each other's fireplaces as entrances and exits, for Merlin's sake," she grumbled. "Soot everywhere."

"It's a nearly-unblocked opening to a household," countered Cedric, stretching out his legs. "It's more an entrance than an actual door."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And yet doors still exist, don't they? What would you have us become—Jolly Old Saint Nick?"

Cedric snorted, and it bubbled into genuine laughter. "I wish I'd talked to you more back then, Granger. Life would've been much, much more colorful."

"I'm glad you find me a great source of entertainment, Diggory." She narrowed her eyes at him from between two hovering sheets of parchment—the left an ancient list of ancient runes and the right a modernized rendering of the same symbols.

"Oh, give yourself some credit," he said, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. "You'd be terrible entertainment—like a guilty pleasure book filled with unnecessary, self-inflicted drama."

Hermione stopped and finally glared at him properly, her floating research pausing for a moment. "And how exactly am I to take any credit from a comparison like that?"

"Relax," chuckled Cedric. "I mean, you're not some court jester, Granger. You're less entertainment and more of a…fascinating friend to have."

Several of the books floated off to the side to land in a neat stack. Hermione rolled her eyes. "You certainly know how to make a friend feel like a commodity."

"I'm only trying to express a sense of regret that I didn't know you better when I was still there," he laughed, holding up his hands. "You'll disparage any further attempt of it, however, I can tell."

"Hindsight's twenty-twenty," muttered Hermione, but then she grimaced, remembering that was probably a Muggle colloquialism. "I mean, it's easier to say what you could've done differently now that you know the outcome. No point dwelling on what could've been."

"So you agree," said Cedric wryly. "We shouldn't live in the past?"

It took her a few seconds but his words sank in eventually. She looked up from her research again, her lips pinching into a tight line.

"You admitted you saw his side of the story," said Cedric, with a seriousness that made him look older than seventeen—made him look the age he should've been if he was alive. "Now apologize and show him your side."

The door swung open, and the breath Hermione held whooshed out in a rush of words.

"You're a self-righteous—"

"How—How did you find my address?!"

"—knowledge-hoarding—"

"Did you shatter my wards?!"

"—pompous and arrogant—"

"How did you find my address, Granger?!"

"—complete and utter wanker, Malfoy!" bellowed Hermione over his own shouting. "But I'm sorry!"

Malfoy's face froze, much in the same way it had in their Third Year, when Hermione had punched him. "I beg your pardon?!"

"I"m sorry," she said, sounding a bit less strangled the second time 'round. "I'm sorry for instigating and stirring up old bitterness."

Malfoy could only blink in shock as she stood on the doorstep of his pretentiously-named but easier-to-find "Dragon's Roost." With one hand on the door and the other on the frame, he continued to glare at her in confusion.

"I know how much of you demeanor is your occasionally-horrid personality and how much of it is what I provoke. I can't deny your capabilities as a Healer, and it was cruel of me to demean your motivations. That's the very kind of bitter, unchanging attitude we fought a bloody war against, and here I am, perpetuating it."

Malfoy seemed to shrink. Instead of looming over her like the bully that he was and the self-righteous authority figure he became, he looked like a normal person—an image of him she'd seen less than a handful of times.

"Believe it or not, I take pride in my work, Granger. I'm responsible for my patients' health, and in order for me to keep them alive and well, I assure a well-rounded diagnosis of their health. I need to know about their jobs, their homes, their lifestyles, and every other pertinent facet of their lives to make sure my job to heal them is unimpeded," he said in the softest voice she'd heard from him. There wasn't an ounce of pompousness or arrogance in his tone. "It's my responsibility to keep you alive, despite how many times you try to endanger yourself. You don't think the war took its toll on my soul too? You can be as derisive as you want, but this is my atonement. You seem to have forgotten that the Hippocratic Oath spans both Wizarding and Muggle medicine."

Regardless of how much they'd grown, it was entirely too easy to forget that Draco Malfoy was not exactly the spiteful little git he'd been—regardless of the lingering, blurry image of hims standing, staring down at her fearfully as she was Crucio-ed by a lunatic. In all honesty, it wasn't difficult for Hermione to bridge the gap between teenage Malfoy and the Healer that stood in front of her. He was the poster boy of the reformed pureblood elite, and she could easily plot out the progression. They'd all walked away from the war with learnt lessons, loss paradoxically weighing on their shoulders. Draco Malfoy was no different.

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat—and then held the door open and stepped aside to let her in. "I need a drink," he sighed, "and despite not sharing any heart-to-hearts you Gryffindors are so fond of, I know you do do too."

Hermione hesitated long enough to take a deep breath. She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her with a click. He led the way through the penthouse flat—with gleaming hardwood floors, a surprising amount of indoor fauna, and sleek furniture in varying shades of green, cream, brown, and grey. The kitchen, much to Hermione's shock, looked used. Pots and pans hung over the black marble island, one of which held a steaming pot at the stove, and a chopping board with bell peppers and onions waited on the counter. He'd been in the middle of dinner.

"I'm not a bloody vampire, Granger," grumbled Malfoy, heading to a cupboard and pulling out two crystal tumblers. "Don't look at my food like that."

"I'm not looking for goblets of blood," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "I'm balking at the fact that you're the one using your kitchen."

"Looking for House-Elves then. I thought we were finished with looking for the past in the present." He poured equal amounts of Ogden's Finest into the tumblers and handed her one.

Hermione winced, accepted the glass, and took a long sip.

"I'm not going to apologize, you know."

She looked up from the tumbler, to the inscrutable stare she'd come to regard as something he did now as often as he'd scowled when he was younger. Holding his own tumbler in one hand, he fiddled with the Malfoy signet ring on his other, pulling it past the knuckle of his index finger so he could slowly turn it around.

"I understand I wouldn't be who I am without having learned the lessons I did when I was a child and during the war," he said. "I know that I was a raging twat, but I won't apologize for it, not for the stupidity of an ignorant, foolish little boy—even if that boy is as much a part of me as who I am now."

"I don't know whether to be impressed with your growth or worried about what you just said."

"Would you let me finish? Merlin." Malfoy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I won't apologize because that's not going to take back the pain I caused you—or fix much of anything, really."

Hermione wondered if he'd pull the ring off entirely and slip it into the pocket of his trousers. If she had been writing a story, that's where she'd have his character do—take off the ring and let the action speak the volumes.

But Draco Malfoy didn't take off the Malfoy signet ring. Instead, he pushed it back onto his finger firmly and straightened up, lifting the tumbler to his lips before looking her in the eye again.

"I don't believe in tabula rasa," he said. "We can't erase what we've done in the past."

"No, we can't," she agreed softly.

"But I reckon we can put that old, marked-up slate on a bookshelf and bring out a fresh one—with the knowledge and wisdom to not make the same mistakes again." His serious expression relaxed into a courteous smile, and he held out his hand—his right hand, which bore the ring. "As your Healer and consultant for the Department of Mysteries, I will…"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up from his hand to his face, the expression a cross between long-suffering acceptance and mild disbelief.

"…help you figure out the best means of accomplishing your goals without getting you killed," finished Malfoy. "I have no doubt that your Gryffindor sensibilities and your bleeding heart led you to our little moment of camaraderie two seconds ago, but you've still got that same stubborn, swotty streak, Granger. What is it you're trying to do with all this bloodletting business?"

And it all came spilling out. Malfoy turned back to his meal, but he still listened to her explanation—introduction, content, conclusion, and request—without interruption or change in expression as he went back to puttering around his kitchen to make dinner.

Malfoy didn't speak for a solid three minutes after she finished, instead finishing up the spaghetti bolognese and scooping out enough to fill the two plates he'd set on the bar for them.

"You're going to do this no matter what, aren't you?" he finally asked, setting the pot in the sink to soak and motioning for her to take a seat on one of the barstools.

She sat down and waited for him to take the other seat before picking up her fork. "Yes."

"All right then," he said. "I'll help you bring back the mass murderer—"

"He was cleared of all charges."

"—though I highly doubt mine will be the first face he'll want to see when he steps out from a nine-year limbo."

Though slightly indignant on Sirius's posthumously-acquitted behalf, Hermione brightened significantly, her previously-disintegrating tentative smile blooming into a full-fledged grin. "Honestly, he probably wouldn't care. He might even kiss you for helping to save him."

Malfoy grimaced. "Now I know to take ten paces to the left as soon as I see first hide or hair of him." Then he fixed her with another meaningful stare. "As far as I know about the Veil, Granger, all else you need to know is that after you fish out your convict, you should transfer out of the Death Chamber. Now eat up and give me a day and time you want to lure me out as bait. There's only so much time I can spend with any Gryffindor before I start catching fleas."

Without much preamble, Cedric appeared in the Veil in a swirl of mist, his hair still perfectly windswept. He and Hermione exchanged warm smiles until his slid off when he spotted Malfoy, who was wiping his hands with a rag.

The Veil had been successfully surrounded with the proper candles and runes, a process expedited by two skilled hands instead of one.

"Malfoy," said Cedric, nodding.

The blond returned the gesture stiffly. "Diggory. How're things?"

"Nothing new," said Cedric, shrugging and crossing his arms over his chest. "Things are pretty dead on my end. You?"

Malfoy grimaced. "Bit chilly," he replied and then shot Hermione a raised eyebrow, "and full of grey areas."

Hermione snorted and wished she could hit him with a rolled-up newspaper the same way she would've with Harry and Ron.

"So you're on board with us?" asked Cedric, jerking his chin at Malfoy.

"I'd prefer to think of it as Granger captaining a sinking ship," said Malfoy. "I'm only here to minimize collateral damage."

"You do realize your disapproval is negated by the fact that you're still complicit by virtue of being here at all?"

"Yes, thank you, Diggory. I know."

Grinning, Cedric turned away from the technically-younger man. "You've fixed a new ritual then? To accommodate the window-theory and the tethers?"

"And to minimize the amount of blood loss?" added Malfoy.

"And the elimination of the soul bait?"

"And the what?!" screeched Malfoy, rounding on Hermione with a fury that had her scrambling to refocus.

"Yes, yes, yes, and yes," she answered. "Is Tonks ready on your end, Cedric?"

"You and I will most certainly be having words about this later, Granger," growled Malfoy, tossing the rag aside angrily.

Cedric cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder into the abyss. "Aye, Tonks is here—in a manner of speaking anyway." He turned back to Hermione. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Hermione answered with a helpless little shrug and then took a shaky breath. She waved a hand to wandlessly and wordlessly light the candles before pulling out the familiar ornamental dagger.

"Oh, hell, not with this shite again," groused Malfoy, throwing up a hand and shaking his head. "I thought you said—"

"I said 'yes' to minimizing the blood loss," corrected Hermione.

"How much blood was lost last time, Hermione?" asked Cedric.

Hermione ignored the both of them and stepped up to the Veil, where Cedric had his hands on his hips, shaking his head sternly.

"No. No, no, no, no—"

She rolled up her sleeve and sliced a thin line down her forearm.

"Oh, for Circe's sake, Hermione!"

"I don't take house calls, woman, I hope you know that. This isn't medical attention to-go."

Disregarding both men's grumbling, Hermione pulled out the parchment with the written spell and began to whisper, taking the same volume and subtle cadences of the murmurs of the Veil. The soft syllables tied to the ancient marks slipped from between her lips like an old song quickly remembered, and she let the parchment fall to the floor. The flames of the candles shifted, tilting toward the stone arch, magically warm spotlights that highlighted the silvery undulations. The candlelight cast a golden shimmer on Cedric, who flickered in and out of view.

The Veil rippled—a pool of water now, rather than a misty fabric. And the blood that dripped, warm and thick, down her hand tightly gripped her skin and lifted her hand, almost of its own accord. The sensation pulled her closer to the arch, the murmurs still spilling out as her voice began to meld with the whispers of the Veil.

Cedric's hands shot up, trying to stop her from drawing closer. "Hermione, don't touch—"

The whispers of both Hermione and the voices of the Veil grew louder, drowning out Cedric's warnings until the sounds culminated into one discernible name:

"Sirius."

The rippling image of Cedric breached right as Hermione reached forward. A hand broke through the Veil—a strong, pale hand as corporeal as a punch in the face. Hermione, still propelled by the magical force of her blood on her skin, closed her own bloody palm around the hand just as tightly as it gripped her.

And with a roaring in her ears and a fuzzy feeling in her head, she pulled.

The hand was followed by the rest of its arm, ensconced in an expensive smoking jacket, followed by broad shoulders, and a head of black hair. Sirius Orion Black II tripped through the Veil and crash-landed onto Hermione, grey eyes wide and mouth agog. Only a heartbeat later, the familiar face had closed the distance, and his lips were on hers.

His beard and mustache were softer and more ticklish than she'd anticipated, a supplement to the warmth and the tingles that radiated from his surprisingly soft lips. He pulled back, hovering over her on his elbows and grinning, and though he'd lifted most of his weight off her chest, something else settled on her instead. His breath smiled faintly of cigar smoke and firewhiskey, his eyes were still a bit gaunt and sad, hair just a bit shaggy—just as she remembered him.

"Hermione?" he breathed, blinking those familiar, clear grey eyes and finally recognizing whom he'd just kissed. "Hermione Granger?"

Her smile was just a little awkward, but the emotion behind it was enough. She squeezed his shoulders and shook her head, trying not to cry through the quickly muddying haze. "Hello, Sirius."

His face split into the happiest grin she'd ever seen on his face. "You're two for two in saving my life, did you know that?"

"Didn't realize we were keeping score, but you should know I don't like leaving loose ends," she replied with a shrug and a sniffle as her eyes began to water.

He let out a bark of laughter, and the world tilted again, this time so he was on his back and Hermione was crushed to his chest as he reveled in his return.

"Oi!" cried Malfoy, rushing to her side. "Let go of her—what're you doing?"

"Relishing in my resurrection, complete with a pretty bird astride me," answered Sirius cheerfully, still grinning at the ceiling off the chamber and hugging Hermione tightly so she had no choice but to rest her head on his shoulder, not that she minded much. Her tears began to slip out, though their source was still a confused muddle between the white noise brewing in her head and the overwhelming emotions of Sirius's actual return.

"Then we'll get you a bloody owl later if you've such a bad hankering for a bird," Malfoy pinched Sirius's arms to release her and hauled her back onto her feet. "Still a fucking lunatic, I see, Black."

She steadied herself with a hand on Malfoy's shoulder and turned back to Sirius. He'd folded his arms behind his head and crossed an ankle over the other, seemingly content to lounge on the cold stone floor. "Sirius, how do you feel? Can you stand?"

At that prompting, Sirius grinned widely again and pushed himself up to his feet. He even jumped a few times for good measure. "I feel great—a little sore, but great!"

He lunged forward and scooped up Hermione into a tornado of an embrace that had her latching her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder as the world and her head spun dangerously.

"For Circe's sake, Black, put her down!"

Sirius gently set Hermione back on the ground, but the spinning didn't stop. She held onto his forearms as he cupped her face in his hands. "Hermione Granger, you glorious, wonderful woman. I owe you my life, my firstborn, and the rest of my bloody descendants."

"Before you get to any kind of procreation, you need to get looked at," said Malfoy, eyeing Sirius warily before turning back to Hermione, who was swaying in Sirius's arms. "Granger? Granger, are you—"

Hermione blinked up at Malfoy's worried expression, and all went black.