A/N: Once again, alpha/beta love goes to biscuitsforpotter and disenchantedglow! They let me bug them all the time with crazy musings and tiny details. Y'all are great people.

The world is a scary place these days. I appreciate you taking the time to read this and I hope you're all staying safe and healthy. Be kind to one another and to yourself. Social distancing is so important and a perfect time to read all the fics and leave your authors some love! Stay healthy! Wash your hands!

Name: Hermione Jean Granger

Blood status: Mudblood

D.O.B: 19/09/79 (Age: 19 yrs, 11 mos)

Wand: Dragon heartstring, vine wood

Known affiliations:

-Member of the Order of the Phoenix

-Friend of Harry Potter

-Founding member of Dumbledore's Army

Profession: Healer - St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries - Fourth Floor

Parents: David and Jean Granger - Location: Unknown

Identifying marks/scars: 'Mudblood' scar on left forearm. Long scar on torso.

Draco read the detailed file on Hermione Granger. Page after page, he pored over the details of her life told by someone who had clearly never met the witch. He had read several files like this one. Reduced to these simple, clinical facts, it was easy to think of his targets as just that: a file full of information.

But Granger was not just a file. She was a person. A person he knew. A person with whom he had gone to school for six years.

Draco had never killed anyone he knew. It was quite easy to dissociate from the task when they were just names in a file who sometimes shouted for help before their death.

He thought of Granger. An annoying, swotty know-it-all in school, she'd been a thorn in his side since first year. Always getting better marks in classes and hanging around with Potter and Weasley. He remembered the over-eager way she used to raise her hand when a professor would ask a question, flailing it in the air like she could barely contain the answer. He grimaced at the memory.

With a chill, he recalled the day she'd been tortured in this very house. He had heard many screams in his life, but few haunted him the way Granger's had. There was just something about a woman's screams that always pierced him to his soul.

He wondered what she was like now. A Healer, apparently, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Did she ever have nightmares about her torture? Had the war crushed her fiery spirit like it had for so many others? What had she done to earn this fate? Did she know how much danger she was in? That her hours were numbered?

He shook his head. He couldn't think of her like that. She was his target now. A file. A mission, nothing more. Draco turned the page to find a map of London, which highlighted her typical route from St. Mungo's to her apparation point. He studied the page for several moments, memorizing her route as well as any potential alternates she may take.

St. Mungo's was located on the corner of Virginia and Columbia Roads. The highlighted route had Granger turning east along Columbia Road and then taking a right onto Chambord Street to take a left into the alley for apparation. However, it wouldn't take her much longer to turn south on Virginia to Chambord and then take a right into the alley. That course would take her past a small garden. Granger seemed like the type that would like to walk past a garden.

A knock on the door made him jump slightly.

"Draco, dear," his mother called softly. "It's me."

Draco closed the file and unlocked the door with a flick of his wand.

Narcissa walked in, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her pale eyes surveyed him carefully, dragging over his disheveled hair, his unshaven face, the thick file on the desk before him. She frowned. "Surely he doesn't expect you to—"

"Mother… " he sighed, exasperated.

"Who is it this time? Another Ministry official just doing his job?" She sank into the chair next to him, eyeing the file with curiosity.

He placed a hand over the paperwork, pushing it across the desk out of reach of her prying eyes. "No," he answered simply. "Not this time."

His stomach twisted painfully. Dolohov really had asked too much of him today. It was too soon, yes, but more importantly, it was too personal. Though he cared nothing for Granger—and really didn't care whether she died today or not—he shouldn't be the one to do it. Draco grimaced, and his mother saw.

"What is it?" she breathed, lifting her hand to his cheek.

He sighed. "It's… someone I went to school with."

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly. Perhaps it was the thought of her only son taking yet another life, or perhaps it was the idea of someone so young, her own child's age, having their life snuffed out, but Narcissa seemed to almost break at Draco's words. "A friend?"

Draco shook his head slightly. "Not at all, but she's still someone I knew."

"My poor dragon," his mother cooed gently. Draco's heart fluttered. She hadn't called him that since he was quite young. He'd always loved the nickname, but now it just made him feel small. Like a child clinging to his mother for protection. "You don't have to do this, you know," she pleaded in a whisper.

Draco winced. Why did his victims need to beg? His mother had begged for their lives over the past few months enough for all of them. "Yes, I do. Now, please Mother, I don't have much time and I need to prepare."

Narcissa stood, her eyes swimming with tears. "If I weren't here and you didn't have to worry about me, would you still do this?"

Draco didn't reply, but he didn't need to. They both knew the answer.

No. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't even consider it.

His mother made a thoughtful little noise before bending to kiss the top of his head. She turned and left the room.

New burdens weighing heavily atop the ones he already carried, Draco opened the file again. This time he turned to the page regarding Granger's personal relationships. He read a detailed account of failed a mission, the objective of which was to find, torture, and kill her parents. But the Granger home in Kensington had been abandoned before the start of the war. There was no trace of them whatsoever. Curious.

Draco turned the page. Suspected romantic entanglements. He doubted this information would be useful, but he skimmed the page all the same. Dolohov had taught him that a good agent never knew what details would be useful in the field. Perhaps he could trick her by disguising himself as someone she trusted.

No, no luck there. He would need Polyjuice for that, and there was no time to procure a hair from… he skimmed the page… Ronald Weasley.

Draco grimaced again. He would rather fail his mission than have to turn into a Weasley.

He read the vague account of someone having witnessed Granger and Weasley holding hands. It sounded like hearsay to Draco, but he had always assumed that the two of them would pair up eventually. Beneath Weasley's paragraph was a brief statement of her involvement with Krum during her fourth year. Draco nearly laughed. He'd always wondered why Viktor Krum had decided to slum it with the Mudblood. Maybe she knew how to put her know-it-all mouth to good use. No, couldn't be. She was surely too much of a prude for anything like that.

Turning the page again, he read as much as he could about her career at St. Mungo's. She was admitted into the training program despite having not completed her N.E.W.T year. No doubt her connections with Shacklebolt helped her there. Top of her class in the training program. No great surprise. Now she was a full-fledged Healer with a concentration in spell and potion damage.

Draco's stomach grumbled. It was well after noon. Perhaps he had time for a quick bite and a short break. He closed the dossier and placed it in the top drawer of his desk, shutting and locking it with a quick spell.

The dining room was scattered with Death Eaters sitting at various tables, some speaking in low voices, some reviewing files alone, and some laughing uproariously over a crass joke.

Draco spotted Pansy and Theo at a far table and made his way over to them. As he sat down, a house elf popped up next to him and presented him with today's lunch, a bowl of steaming hot beef and vegetable stew. The elf disappeared with a crack and Draco picked up his spoon.

"Where have you been today?" Theo asked, his brown eyes taking in Draco's disheveled appearance.

"Working," Draco grumbled.

"I thought you had a mission yesterday," remarked Pansy with a sniff.

"I did. Apparently McNair's mission this morning went tits up, and it had something to do with…" he trailed off. He mustn't reveal the name of his target. His work was always strictly classified. He cleared his throat. "...my next target. I have to clean up his mess."

"Well, you look like hell, mate."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Theo."

"Are you alright?" Theo asked with concern.

"Yeah… It's just… The target is someone I used to know."

"Who is it?" Pansy asked, her eyes glistening with the promise of a juicy secret.

Draco scowled at her. "You know I can't say, Pansy."

Pansy pouted, skewering a carrot with her fork.

"What are you going to do?" asked Theo.

"What do you mean? He's going to do his damn job!" Pansy insisted. She looked to Draco for confirmation.

He hesitated briefly and she balked. "Draco, it's a Mudblood, right? Or at least a Mudblood lover? Your targets almost always are."

Draco cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. After everything he had seen, the issue of blood didn't carry much weight for him anymore. He knew—as he always had—that being a pureblood was his birthright, but when it came to matters of life and death, Pureblood, Halfblood, Mudblood, it didn't matter. It seemed like a trivial issue in the grand scheme of things these days. "Yes," he confirmed. "It's a Mudblood."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Then what's the problem? Just do it. What's one less Mudblood in the world?"

Theo was frowning at his stew. "I think you should think about it," he said, finally looking up into Draco's eyes. "I mean, it's someone you've met. That's different than killing some random person, at least I think it would be for me."

Draco considered this. It felt different to him too. A person he knew, even if she was someone he had once hated, would be much harder to murder than someone he had never met. He recalled his very first assignment as a Death Eater, and how naive he had been. Albus Dumbledore at the end of his wand, completely at his mercy. But when the moment came, Draco had been unable to say the words. Would his failure repeat itself today? No. He was no longer that cowardly boy. Months of training had turned him into something else entirely. There was no doubt in his mind. When the moment came, he would do what must be done.

His mother entered the room. She bent slightly to deliver orders to a passing elf before leaving again, her blonde hair disappearing around the corner. "I don't have a choice," he said adamantly. He took a few more bites of his stew, the hunger in his stomach finally subsiding.

"When do you go?" Pansy asked.

Draco checked his watch. Nearly two o'clock. "In just a couple of hours. I'd better get back to work." He took two more bites of his lunch before standing up. "I'll see you two later."

He read every detail of Granger's file over the next hour and a half. The following thirty minutes were spent getting dressed and ready. His uniform was simple: black dragonhide boots, black trousers, and a black jumper. Nothing ostentatious or flashy. Nothing that would draw attention to him in Muggle London. Nothing that would raise suspicions.

He thought of the ostentatious depictions of assassins he had read in books and smirked. Why would an assassin wear a long cloak with a menacing hood? No, it was much better to blend in. People were suspicious of those who wore things like hoods and cloaks. Not that Draco never wore a hood, but he reserved those for stalking his prey at night.

As he passed through the foyer on his way out of the Manor, he spotted his mother. He gave her a reassuring smile, ignoring the tears in her eyes.

Walking through the front doors and down the path to the gates, he made it beyond the boundaries and apparated to London.

Hermione Granger was nothing if not prompt. From his vantage point at the cafe across the street, he saw her exit the muggle entrance to St. Mungo's at precisely five o'clock. Dressed in a black skirt, heels, and a red cardigan, she was the picture of a Gryffindor witch in the professional world. Her unruly curls had been pulled back into a thick plait. He thought of the last time he had seen her at the Battle of Hogwarts. She'd been wild, bloodied, and war torn. The difference was shocking. Despite the war raging on, she'd taken the time to plait her hair and dress the part of a typical Healer. Meanwhile, Draco hadn't even bothered to shave today.

He stood from his table at the cafe and followed her from a safe distance. She was taking the long way: the one which would lead them by the garden. When she walked past it she slowed down, her brown eyes drifting over the flowers. A young couple was in the garden, their two small children running and playing. Laughter danced through the air. Draco shivered. Granger smiled.

He continued to follow her down a small residential street, slowly closing the gap between them. Glancing around for witnesses, Draco quickly cast a disillusionment charm on himself. The apparation point was close. He would have to do it while she was in the alley and away from public view, but before she apparated. It was a narrow window. He quickened his steps.

How did she walk so quickly in those heels? He had to be careful to keep his steps quiet as he hurried to catch up with her. Just a few meters away now. Granger rounded the corner into the alley and he was just a few steps behind. Peering around the corner, he saw that her back was facing him. Squaring off for his attack, he moved into the entrance of the alley. As he went, his boot caught a small rock and sent it skittering across the pavement.

Draco stood frozen at the entrance to the alley as Granger turned, her eyes darting to the rock as it hit the wall of a building with a clack. She looked at the mouth of the alley, searching for the source of the stone's movement. He didn't dare breathe as she stared right through him. The disillusionment charm would help, but if he moved she would surely see the glimmer of his outline.

Silence stretched between them. He gripped his wand. This was his chance. Do it now. Before she disapparates.

For a brief moment, she appeared to look right at him, her eyes meeting his. Draco's heart pounded and he hesitated. Could she see him? No. She didn't seem quite focused on him.

Her eyes were wide and bright as she tried to evaluate the threat she felt. He blinked, trying to remember if he had ever truly looked Hermione Granger in the eye until this moment. He had. Just once. He recalled a battered, tortured girl on the floor of his drawing room. Crying and whimpering, she had turned her head in his direction, her eyes boring into his with a silent plea for help. A silent plea to help her stay alive.

A gust of wind swept through the passage, freeing sections of frizzy hair from its plait and whipping them around her face. She squinted against the gust and brought one hand up to brush the strands out of her eyes, still on high alert. One small strand had become stuck to her lips, and he watched as she pulled it free. Her dark pink lips parted slightly as the hair dragged through her lipstick. His grip on his wand loosened slightly and in that brief moment of hesitation, Granger disapparated with a crack.

Fuck.

She was gone.

He had failed.

Fuck.

Taking long strides down the alley to where she had disappeared, he looked around for any traces of her, but he knew it was no use. She'd returned to the Order safe houses. He couldn't reach her now. Granger would live to see another day.

He dragged his hands through his hair. Dolohov was going to be livid. Granger needed to die for some reason—probably due to McNair's stupidity. Draco had never failed a mission before. What would Dolohov do to him? To his mother?

His heart raced at the thought of that terrible man raising his wand to one of the only people he cared about.

There was no point in dragging it out. Draco had failed and there was no fixing it now. He turned on the spot and apparated back to the Manor.

Draco looked for his mother as he made his way toward the parlour. Perhaps he could tell her to run. Barricade herself in her chambers until all of this had blown over. She was nowhere to be found and he didn't have time to look for her. It was nearing six now and Dolohov needed his report.

Dolohov stood by the window as Draco entered. He turned his manic eyes on the blonde and smiled. "Ah, Malfoy. It is done, I trust?"

Draco shifted his weight between his feet and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, my Lord. She got away."

The wizard's eyes grew dark with rage and disbelief. "What do you mean 'she got away'?" he hissed.

"I did not have the opportunity, sir. Perhaps tomorrow I can—"

"Tomorrow she will have…" He cut himself off and took three steps to stand menacingly in front of Draco. "I needed this done today, Malfoy. Not tomorrow."

Though every self-preserving instinct inside him told him to run, Draco didn't dare step back. "I know, my Lord. I apologize."

Dolohov sneered. "Oh, you apologize. I couldn't give a shite about your apologies, Malfoy. I don't need excuses. I need Hermione Granger dead today!" He was shouting now, and it took everything Draco had not to wince or look away.

Draco stood very still and silent. If Dolohov needed to shout at him, so be it. He could handle that. After all, he deserved it. He had failed.

He let the words wash over him, tuning many of them out, but catching pieces here and there. "I didn't train you for six months to be a failure when it matters most… Disgrace to the organization… See what your mother has to say about all of this."

Draco blinked, his blood running cold. No.

Dolohov was already stalking out of the parlour and toward the grand staircase. Draco hurried after him. "No, sir," he pleaded. "It isn't her fault. The fault is mine, my Lord. Punish me, please."

His requests fell on deaf ears. With a snap of Dolohov's fingers, Rowle and Mulciber came forward and restrained Draco's arms. He struggled to break free, to reach his wand and tear the two goons limb from limb, but it was no use. His wand was wrenched from his pocket and his arms twisted painfully behind his back.

Dolohov burst through the door to Narcissa's room. The bright sunset cast the bedroom with a bright orange glow and Draco squinted against it. He looked frantically around the chamber for his mother but did not see her. The bed was made up and her wardrobe door stood ajar, revealing its lack of clothing within. A few drawers were open, their contents also missing.

Dolohov ran to the bathroom and wrenched the door open. Empty as well. Narcissa was gone. "Search the house. No one leaves without my permission," he barked, pointing a knobby finger at Rowle. "You," he glared at Mulciber, the one who had taken Draco's wand. "Don't let him out of your sight."

Rowle ran off, shouting orders at others to barricade the exits and search each room.

Draco didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. His mother was gone. She'd run away. Taken control of her own destiny at last. He wondered where she'd gone. Was she safe? Did she ever intend to return?

His heart twisted like a vice. She hadn't said goodbye and he may never see her again.

He shook his grief away. It was better this way. She was no longer under Dolohov's thumb. She was free, and they couldn't use her as a weapon against Draco anymore. He thought back to his conversation with her this morning.

If I weren't here and you didn't have to worry about me, would you still do this?

She'd probably made up her mind at that moment. While he was planning his assassination of Granger, she'd been planning her escape from the Manor. At least one of their tasks had been successful that day. He smiled in spite of himself.

Dolohov's eyes were nearly black with rage as he came to stand before Draco. "Where is she?"

Draco stared back at the man defiantly. "I don't know. And even if I did, I would never tell you."

In a flash, Dolohov had whipped out his wand and trained it on Draco. "Crucio," he spat.

Pain erupted in every fibre of Draco's body and he screamed out, falling to his knees in agony, but he didn't care. His mother was safe.

By the time Dolohov lifted the curse, Draco's throat burned from screaming and sweat dripped from his forehead. He stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, gasping for air.

"No sign of her, my lord," a Death Eater announced.

Dolohov shouted with rage. "Keep looking. And search the grounds."

Hurried footsteps departed.

"Give him his wand back," Dolohov hissed.

His wand landed next to him with a clatter and he looked up in surprise.

"You're lucky we still need you." Dolohov kneeled before Draco, his grotesque face mere inches away. He spoke slowly and patronizingly, as if to a child. "Tomorrow you're to go back and finish the job, or you'll find we don't need your mummy around to encourage you."

With that, Dolohov swept from the room, shouting orders at his many followers as he made his way back down stairs. Mulciber followed him out like an obedient dog.

Draco listened to them go. He could still feel the effects of the Cruciatus curse rushing through his body. Picking up his wand, he pushed himself to his feet with a groan. Draco staggered out of his mother's room and down the hall to his own chambers.

Once inside, he locked the door, placing as many wards on it as he could think of to prevent Dolohov from coming back for more torture. He threw himself onto the bed. The sheets made a soft crackling noise beneath him.

Draco lifted his head in confusion. Egyptian cotton sheets did not crackle. He pulled the covers back, revealing a small envelope hidden there. With trembling fingers, he picked it up and read the word written on the front of it.

Draco

His heart swooped. He would recognize his mother's elegant script anywhere. He ripped the flap open and pulled the letter from within, reading what could be his mother's last words to him.

My dearest dragon,

I cannot stand this life anymore. I can no longer allow these wretched men to use me against you. You must choose your own path in this war, and I know that my presence here will always leave you trapped. I am leaving so that you can be free.

I will not say where I am going, lest this letter fall into the wrong hands, but rest assured that I will be perfectly safe. I plan to go far from this place, where the war cannot reach. You needn't worry about me anymore. When the war is over I will return and find you.

Please consider your actions carefully. You are a better man than what they have turned you into. Be the man I raised you to be. Forge your own path in this war. You have been trapped by the mistakes of your parents for far too long. I know you will make the right choice.

Be safe. Stay strong. Trust your instincts.

Never doubt my love for you.

Your Mother

Draco read the letter twice before folding it carefully and placing it in his pocket.

She was safe. He could rest easily tonight knowing that his mother was far away from this dreadful place.

But tomorrow… tomorrow he would have to go back to London, to that breezy alley and he would have to finish the job. Hermione Granger would have to take her last breath, or else Draco would take his.

His stomach twisted at the thought. Why had he hesitated? He'd been so ready… so poised to attack. Perhaps he'd been distracted by the normality of her actions and her sheer humanness.

He pondered his mother's words. Consider your actions carefully. Be the man I raised you to be.

Narcissa Malfoy hated Draco's job in this new organization of Death Eaters. She had hated it since the day Draco had taken the mark, but it had only grown worse when Dolohov had taken Draco under his wing to train him. She had pleaded with the High Minister many times to try to prevent it, but all it had earned her was a few painful moments at the end of his wand.

His mother wanted him to leave, that much was clear. Could he leave? He was an assassin. Surely he could not just live a simple, neutral life. The Death Eaters would hunt him for desertion, the Ministry would hunt him for his assassinations. That just left…

The Order.

Their headquarters and safe houses were extremely well guarded secrets. No Death Eater had ever been able to discover the location of any of them. He could not just walk up to Order headquarters and knock on the door to ask for asylum. Even if he knew the location and could get past the wards, he would probably be killed on sight.

Shacklebolt.

He was Minister of Magic now, as well as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. If Draco could just get a brief audience with him, perhaps he could persuade the Minister to grant him clemency for his past crimes in exchange for information about Dolohov and the Death Eaters.

It was worth a shot. Perhaps he would be imprisoned. A cell next to his father's might not be so bad. At least he would be free of Dolohov in Azkaban.

He had to try.

With a flick of his wand, a rucksack flew from his closet and landed on the bed. Another flick sent clothes soaring from drawers and hangers. They folded themselves and landed in the bag, perfectly packed. He went through his desk, taking every parchment or paper that might be useful, including Granger's file. He added them to the bag before heading for his washroom. He took a few essentials and tossed them in as well.

The clock ticked closer to eight in the evening. Outside his door, he could still hear quite a lot of commotion caused by his mother's sudden departure. He wondered how much more chaos would descend upon the house after he left. At any rate, it was far too risky to try to leave now. He would have to wait until the heavy cover of darkness.

Draco waited for several hours, the incessant shaking of his right leg rattling the desk at which he sat. His packed rucksack was disillusioned and hidden under his bed in case he had any visitors. He filled his time by rereading Granger's file and flipping through a few old Quidditch magazines, though he didn't really retain much information.

At last the house was quiet. Everyone must have finally given up the search and gone to bed. He checked the clock. Two in the morning seemed like a perfectly acceptable time for an escape. Grabbing his wand and his rucksack, he took one last look around his bedroom. His heart twisting, he walked to the closet and reached up to the highest shelf. Feeling around for a moment, his fingers finally closed around what he'd been looking for and pulled it down. A gift from his parents long ago, a dusty, well-worn, stuffed green dragon. He hesitated, but ultimately added it to his bag before venturing out into the dark manor.

As he walked through the grand hallways of the home he had once loved so much, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever come back. He looked out the window to the back garden where he had learned to fly a broom and passed the dining room where he had had so many dinners with his parents, now a mess hall for hundreds of Death Eaters. The beautiful parlour where they had spent every Christmas morning, now the office for the High Minister.

It wasn't his home anymore. Just a building holding the ghosts of memories and things that could never be again. Draco walked through the foyer and out into the cool night air.

No one stopped him as he made his way to the gates. They opened for him as he approached and he walked through. He turned, sparing one final glance at the imposing manor before he apparated away.

Draco had never used the visitor's entrance of the Ministry of Magic before. His heart pounded anxiously and he considered his words carefully when the pleasant voice asked him what his business there was.

What was his business there? Breaking into the Minister of Magic's office seemed like a foolish thing to tell the automated system. Perhaps there were guards in the Ministry after hours who would arrest him if his badge said anything suspicious. Perhaps he would be arrested no matter what his badge said.

For a wild moment, he considered that this might be a horrible mistake. That he might be better off simply running away and taking his chances in the wild. With a bracing breath, he shook the doubts from his mind. Anywhere was better than where he'd come from.

He spoke his name and purpose and a little badge fell into the coin return and he took it.

Draco Malfoy

Surrendering

A/N: Updates every Monday

Next chapter: March 23rd

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