Chapter 13: Anxious
I am anxious.
It has been four days and I haven't heard from Hermione. I don't know what that means, gentle reader, but I assume the answer is nothing good.
The headlines were not as half as horrible as I'd feared. There was a photo of us with her arm around me, but her departure with Potter served to cut the sordid speculation. The entire affair, as it were, was buried deep in the pages and described in small print. The sort of thing that even bored housewives don't read.
Merlin be praised.
I have contemplated picking up my motile phone and calling her a hundred times. Perhaps a thousand. But I can't escape the queasy sensation that calling her would be inappropriate. And the last thing I dare do during this time is offend her.
Concern about her condition continues to plague me, gentle reader. What if Potter couldn't cure her? What if I was mistaken about the nature of her affliction? What if something went wrong, and she's seriously ill?
I considered trying to ring St. Mungo's, but even the Internet couldn't supply me with a phone number that worked. I have been putting it off, but I see no other choice. Sometimes circumstances spur us to desperate acts. I pick up my phone, consult the book Hermione left for me, and proceed to do the unthinkable.
I punch 6-2-4-4-2 into my motile phone and hit the green button. "Ministry. Please say the magic words!" says a cheerful voice.
I roll my eyes as I read from the book. Shacklebolt has propelled his political propaganda to a level of breathtaking ubiquity. "If you want peace, work for justice."
"Thank you! The Ministry of Magic hopes you're having a magical day. How may I direct your call?"
The words nearly catch in my throat before my tongue can spit them out. "I need to speak to Harry Potter."
"I'm sorry, Auror Potter is not taking calls from the public. I can forward you to the auror office if you'd like?" The sunshine smile that seeps into the voice of the secretary on the phone reminds me powerfully of Cheerful-chops. I wonder again whether she is, in fact, a Slytherin. And whether she has a sister.
"I need to speak to Potter," I growl. "I want you to – "
"Forwarding you to the auror office now!"
I swear as there is a click, and another ring, and a bored voice mutters "auror office" into the phone.
"I am calling for Harry Potter. I need to speak with him." The sentence is no easier to spit out a second time.
"I'm sorry sir, but it is DMLE policy that individual aurors may not be called by members of the wizarding public. If you'd like, I can take a message and forward it to Auror Potter when he is available."
"I don't want to leave a message!" I growl into the phone. "I need to speak to Potter!"
"If you don't want to leave a message, the DMLE hopes you have a nice – "
"Wait!" I know of no other way to reach Potter. If the simple sod serving me won't put me through, I must make do with a message. "Tell him to call me."
"And who are you, sir?" I didn't think it was possible, but the dullard on the other end of the phone sounds even more disinterested.
"Draco Malfoy," I answer through bared teeth.
The whiny little wanker takes my number and hangs up. And I am left to anxiously await an answer that may or may not ever come.
Who am I kidding? Potter calling me for any reason at all is preposterous. Saint Scarhead condescending to spare a moment to speak to me about Hermione is just laughable. Resigned, I return to my study to review my plans for my next potion. My fear over Hermione's fate has just begun to fade from the foreground of my mind when my motile phone's obnoxious noise demands my attention.
Caller Unknown. I tell myself I shouldn't expect it to be her, but I am still disappointed.
"Malfoy?" asks a hesitant voice on the other end.
"Yes." I suppose I should be happy he returned my call. But I just can't pretend to be pleased to be speaking to Potter.
"I'm glad you called."
That makes one of us.
"We've been trying to reach you, but you don't have a floo connection and we weren't sure an owl would find you. We had to resort to mailing you a letter through the muggle post. I can't believe you have a phone!"
"You know where I live," I say irritably. If they wanted my help finding whoever attacked us at the Ministry, they could have simply knocked on my door and asked.
"Yeah," says Potter uneasily. "We've got a lot of questions. We're hoping you'll cooperate with answering them, and we weren't sure how you'd react to aurors showing up at your flat unannounced."
Aurors. Always with the annoying questions. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. "I understand. What would you like to know?"
There is a pause on the other end, as though Potter is having trouble processing my response. "You… you don't mind answering questions?"
"No. If it helps you catch whoever poisoned her, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"Would you consider coming to the Ministry?" asks Potter in a voice that suggests he's pressing his luck.
"Yes, if that's what you want. Would tomorrow morning be suitable?"
"Erm… yeah. That would be great. I'll meet you by the visitor's entrance at nine."
"Potter," I begin, before he can beg his leave. "How is she?"
There is a long pause. I almost wonder if Potter has wandered off. "She's okay, I think. Ron's been staying with her."
"Really?" The Weasel King seems a curious choice for comfort and companionship. Or is there more between them than I'd thought?
"Yeah. Ron's… Ron's good for her like that."
"I see." I don't really, but then I do not think I am meant to. A silence stretches. I suppose I should be ending the call, but somehow I can't quite hit the red button. I just wait, hoping Potter will volunteer answers to the dozens of questions that I don't dare ask.
"She's…" Potter sighs dramatically. "You should call her," he mumbles.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice hardens. "I think she wants to talk to you, but she's… well, you can talk to her about it yourself."
"I'll do that," I agree instantly.
Potter makes a noise somewhere between a grunt of satisfaction and a growl of something else, and the phone goes dark.
Would Potter tell me to call her if calling her would upset her? Somehow, I don't think so. But what does one say to a witch who was compelled to give you her love, even if it was just for a few fleeting moments?
I still don't know the answer to this question as my finger flickers over the buttons of the phone.
"Hello?" asks a tentative voice.
"Hermione?" My answer is even less certain.
"Draco."
There is a long lagging pause, a lingering chasm between us that neither knows how to fill.
"You weren't busy, were you?" I ask finally.
"No," she says. "How are you?"
"Fine. Just working on some brewing notes."
"Oh?" Her voice brightens just a shade. "Is this part of your modified Draught of Peace, or something else?"
"A new project, actually." A normal conversation, just like dozens we've had over drinks at the Flying Horse. Friendly. Familiar. Free of any awkwardness or embarrassment. I find myself relaxing as I continue to speak.
"I've been experimenting with aconite. I thought perhaps the Wolfsbane potion would be easier to brew if all the components were harvested during the new moon. As it is, the potion is highly unstable because of the incompatibility of the aconite with giant moonwort. Half the other ingredients are just there to keep those two from making the cauldron explode. But I was thinking if they were taken when the moon's influence was at its least powerful, perhaps that incompatibility would be less stark and the whole potion would become more stable."
"Wolfsbane that is less complex and easier to brew? Draco, that would be an incredible breakthrough! I can't wait to look at the notes with you!"
"I'd like that," I reply. "Perhaps at lunch this week?"
"You still want to have lunch this week?" she asks. Her voice has rediscovered its reticent uncertainty.
"Of course. Unless… you would prefer we didn't?" I have been fearing for the fate of our lunches ever since Hermione disappeared with Potter at the Ministry.
"No! I mean yes! I'd like to have lunch. I'll…" I can hear her hesitance. But, true to form, she makes a decision and she plunges ahead. "I'll pick you up as usual at your flat. Is one o'clock okay?"
I hear a muffled voice in the background. "Hermione, you can't be serious! You're not going to his flat by yourself!"
"Ron, I – " There is an exasperated sigh. "I'm sorry Draco, I have to go. But I will see you on Tuesday."
"I will look forward to it," I say.
Instead of punching the button to put an end to the call I pause with the phone still at my ear. "Ron, I'm going, and I don't care what you think about it. I'm not going to let some idiot dictate who I will and won't spend my time with. And I don't need you sticking your nose – "
My lip curves up as the line goes dead. Lucky Weasley, getting a taste of her temper. Couldn't happen to a more deserving wizard.
xxxXxxx
The ride through London the next morning is relatively peaceful. The car I've ordered crawls carefully through the morning traffic. I relax in the back seat, spending the ride reading a book Happy has procured for me on extraction of myrrh. The substance is quite useful in potion making, but the use of cutting charms to bleed the trees often leads to their death. A less destructive process would allow more harvests, and more resin.
I wonder what Aunt Bella would make of my musings on myrrh and its trees. Something amusing, probably. And something painful. But that was the thing about Aunt Bella. Amusement, adoration, and the ability to inflict unfathomable anguish all mingled amicably in her mind. It was why she was so terrifying. And so powerful.
But Aunt Bella's beyond the veil, I remind myself. Agonizing over the agony of her disapproval is pointless.
The driver stops the car on an unremarkable street corner. If he finds opening the door for me at an out-of-service phone box unusual, he keeps the opinion to himself. It is one similarity I've found between the muggle and the magical worlds. One of the benefits of wealth is that it buys discretion.
When I'm sure the car has pulled away, I step into the phone box and dial 6-2-4-4-2.
"Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and your business," comes a cool female voice.
I am not in the mood for pleasantries. "Draco Malfoy here to meet Harry Potter," I respond curtly.
A metal badge flies out of the phone and flings itself to the floor of the phone box.
DRACO MALFOY
Interrogation
"Thank you," continues the cool witch. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."
I have selected a muggle suit for the day, robes being rather difficult to explain on a ride across the city. Uneasily, I unfasten the unsettling little badge and clip it to my jacket where it sits uncomfortably as the phone box disappears below the pavement.
When I arrive at the Ministry atrium, Potter is waiting. His face is impassive.
"Malfoy." The word is simply spoken, no searing malice nor simpering cordiality.
"Potter."
We stare at each other for a long moment. But this isn't my meeting. I make him speak first.
"Will you come with me?" he says finally.
"In a minute. I'm waiting for – "
There is a crack. The wizard that appears is tall, but not so tall as to be intimidating. His short dark hair and beard are immaculately trimmed. He turns toward us with a flourish, his brilliant silk robes billowing behind him.
"Mr. Malfoy." Titus Rosier offers his hand.
As I shake it, I recall that I am still somewhat resentful toward the younger Rosier for his silencing charm at my trial. But my displeasure with my disappointing barrister is nothing compared to my distrust of the Ministry. They are dreaming if they think I was going to submit to cross-questioning without counsel.
"My client and I are ready," says Rosier pleasantly.
"I didn't realize you were bringing a friend," grumbles Potter.
"If you are trying to discourage my client from availing himself of legal advice, Auror Potter, we will just leave. Mr. Malfoy is here as a favor to the Ministry, a token of respect for Minister Shacklebolt's government. Respect that the Ministry should be grateful for, considering my client's treatment by this – "
"It's fine," says Potter quickly. "Follow me."
I nod. He leads us to the lifts, up several levels, and to a small nondescript room. It contains a table, three chairs, and no windows. Its austere décor immediately makes me uneasy.
Another auror joins us, and to my surprise I recognize her immediately. She is the sergeant who accompanied the Ginger Git to my flat. She gives me a small nod of greeting, though her eyes widen when she takes in Rosier.
Potter pulls the door closed, but I put up my hand. "Please leave it open," I request. "I don't care for small, sealed spaces."
He looks at Sergeant Auror, who gives him a nod of approval. Potter pushes the door open, creating a welcome portal to the world outside this small cell.
"Mr. Malfoy, thank you for agreeing to meet with us," begins Sergeant Auror. "As you know, we're here to discuss the events surrounding the attack on Hermione Granger at the signing ceremony last week, and – "
"You mean the attack on Ms. Granger and my client," interrupts Rosier.
"Your client?" asks Sergeant Auror, her eyebrows raised.
"Did you analyze the champagne glasses provided to you, Auror Clark?" asks Rosier.
"Yes," says Sergeant Auror uneasily.
"And did you find Amortentia in both glasses?"
"Yeah, we did," supplies Potter.
"Then while you may rest assured that my client's sympathies are with Ms. Granger, who is no doubt justifiably upset by this latest fiasco from Ministry security, I will remind you that she was not the only target of this reprehensible attack. It was only my client's quick thinking and admirable skill in recognizing an unwelcome potion that prevented an even more unfortunate incident. I will thank you to remember this when addressing him."
I knew I was paying Rosier for a reason. Sergeant Auror's face reddens.
"Maybe you could just tell us what you remember about that night," says Potter placatingly.
I pause to look at Rosier, who gives a small nod of approval.
"I am not sure how much I can help," I begin. "Hermione met me at my flat and took us to the Ministry with side-along apparition. We saw you and Weasley, and aside from the usual affront of Weasley's manners, everything seemed fine. We witnessed the signing. Hermione answered a few questions from a reporter, and – "
"What do you remember about the reporter?" interrupts Potter.
"He was short. It had been too long since he last shaved. His robes were of poor quality." I strain to recall more. "He had bad manners," I add.
"Do you remember where he was from?" asks Sergeant Auror.
"The Prophet," I say confidently. "Or…" I am aware that my only evidence for this is a badge that was hanging haphazardly from the hideous robes that Pushy-prat was wearing. "That's what his badge said," I add, sounding far less sure.
"Alright," Potter seems less than satisfied with this, but I can tell him no more. "Then what happened?"
"Then we walked away. Hermione wanted to look at the signed parchment. I got us some champagne, and – "
"You obtained the tainted champagne?" asks Sergeant Auror sharply.
"Yes," I say, my ears burning red hot. "From a tray carried by a waiter."
"What did this waiter look like?" asks Potter intently.
"I… " I try to think. Was he short? Or was he just hunching over when I took the glasses? What color was his hair? I want to say it was dark, but the lights in the atrium were not very bright. A growl of frustration forms at the base of my throat, making my body shake from the sheer effort of keeping it contained. "I don't know," I admit through clenched teeth.
"You must have seen him," pursues Potter. "Was he heavy? Thin? Did he – "
Rosier cuts in. "My client has told you he does not recall. Kindly move along to your next question."
Sergeant Auror looks like she might have more to say, but Potter moves on. "Then what happened?"
"Then Hermione… well, she was under the influence of Amortentia," I say. I don't want to discuss the matter further.
"We understand that, Mr. Malfoy," says Sergeant Auror. "But we need to know – "
"As soon as I realized what had happened, I brought it to the attention of two nearby aurors. One of them was Potter. Nothing… happened between me and Hermione."
"Mr. Malfoy, what – "
"My client has answered the question. I don't see what further details of any conversation between Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger might be of assistance to the Ministry." Rosier folds his arms belligerently, and for the first time I am truly grateful for his presence.
"Is there anything else?" I ask. I am quite ready to leave.
"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" Potter's question sounds strange. Not in its subject, which is understandable, but in its tone. It is not said with the aggressiveness of an accusation, but rather the cautiousness of a careful query.
"I don't know," I sigh. "I'm not exactly privy to the plans of the pureblood political activists anymore."
Potter nods, but Sergeant Auror seems less inclined to accept that I can offer nothing further. She continues to stare at me suspiciously. "You have no idea, Mr. Malfoy? You can't name a single person you know who might have a vendetta against the Ministry?"
"My client has already answered that," interjects Rosier. "Unless you have more questions, I think we're about finished."
"One more thing." Sergeant Auror pulls a small vial from her robes and places it on the table. "Mr. Malfoy, would you be willing to repeat some key answers under Veritaserum?"
Potter's jaw drops. Apparently this was not part of the script.
"Absolutely not!" bellows Rosier. "My client is here voluntarily! He has been through quite enough at the hands of an incompetent government. He certainly will not agree to be drugged for the Ministry's amusement!"
"He knows more than he's telling us!" Sergeant Auror fires back. "He has to, with his connections. I know what honest looks like, and this isn't it. He's hiding something, and I want to know what!"
Potter's eyes open wide at Sergeant Auror's outburst, then leap over to me. Some of Potter's previously polite demeanor seems to have hardened.
Before Rosier can remind me of the right and sensible course, I reach over and grab the little bottle of Veritaserum and toss its contents back in one swallow. Potter's face freezes in a flabbergasted expression of astonishment. I look at Sergeant Auror.
"I know that Hermione has had threats. I don't know who is sending them. I don't remember seeing the face of the waiter who gave us those drinks, and I don't know who he might be working with. I am not involved in pureblood politics anymore. I don't know anything about a plot to discredit Hermione or embarrass the Ministry."
I turn to Potter. "I am not the same… " Potter stares up at me with those brilliant green eyes. Eyes that, unlike Sergeant Auror's, do not exude accusation. The moment is slightly dizzying, gentle reader, and it gives me pause. For just a moment, my voice catches in my throat. "I am sorry for how I acted at Hogwarts. I regret it, and I would change it if I could. I'm not my father. I don't care about politics, and I don't want to interfere at the Ministry. And anyone…" My breath catches again. "Anyone who wants to harm Hermione will have to go through me. You have my word."
I turn back to Sergeant Auror. "And I have nothing else to say." For what would the point be? Nothing I say will be good enough for her.
Rosier draws his wand, probably to silence me again, but I don't give him the chance. I stand and stride out of the room without a single backward glance at the speechless Potter, the seething Sergeant Auror, or anyone else.
Fuck the Ministry.
xxxXxxx
The next morning my head aches. I have been given Veritaserum before, but several drops are sufficient to squeeze the truth out of the drinker. Pounding a bottle like it's pumpkin juice was probably unwise. At least the little adventure was expensive for the Ministry. Veritaserum isn't cheap.
"Mr. Malfoy is having headaches?" grumbles Happy as he watches me pour the powdered willow bark into my potion.
"Yes," I acknowledge. "But this should sort them out nicely." A good headache cure, fortunately, can be brewed in about an hour.
"Happy could be buying Mr. Malfoy some aspirin from the shop," says Happy as he lowers the flames at my signal.
"A wizard doesn't take pills," I remind Happy curtly. We've had this conversation before. "I won't rely on muggle medications."
Happy gives me a haughty snort, but he has no further comment. Which is just fine. I recall the muggle medications from my ordeal at the hospital. I'll not be doing that again.
As I grind scallop shells, I suddenly consider that perhaps a headache isn't the sole side effect of my Veritaserum binge. A few drops are frequently effective for an hour, depending on the size of the drinker. But a bottle?
"Harry Potter is the greatest, noblest, kindest, and best-looking wizard I've ever had the pleasure to meet," I say clearly.
Thank Merlin. I don't have any lies planned for my day, but telling the total truth at all times tends to get inconvenient.
I decant the potion into a mug and drink it down. My head feels better already.
"It is nearly time," Happy reminds me.
I look down at my wristwatch. So it is. I scarcely have a second to change clothes. "Would you please clean up in here, Happy? Any ingredients that can be preserved can be boxed or bottled. Anything questionable should be discarded."
"Happy will see to it. Mr. Malfoy is finding his clothes ready for him in his bedroom."
A shirt, trousers, and tie in tasteful shades of grey await me. Happy doesn't need directions these days. He simply knows what I want. One more thing I ought to thank her for.
The door chime rings as I fasten my cuff. I consider my cane, but I think I am strong enough to go without it today. A small smile has already snuck onto my face before I open the door.
It is short lived. "Hello," I say stiffly.
"Hi, Draco," she replies. At least the girl has the good grace to look embarrassed.
"Ferret face," grunts Weasley. His arms are folded, and he's wearing his auror red. He looks as though he's about as pleased at the present situation as I am.
"Well done teaching him to walk on his hind legs, Hermione," I scowl. "Now if you could only do something about the barking."
"Am I going to have to deal with this all afternoon?" she asks us sternly.
"Depends. Malfoy, are you going to be a twat?" asks Weasley with a sneer.
"Ron, that's enough!" She expels a long-suffering sigh. "Kingsley only said he wanted me to have an auror with me. I'll send for someone else if you're going to be like that."
Weasley scowls, but he does so quietly. I'm aware that my face probably matches his. She's slipped her security before, and on those occasions that she doesn't, they're usually at a discreet distance. An auror accompanying her to my door feels new and uncomfortable.
I stand aside and let them in. There's little else I can do.
"Ready to go?" she asks brightly, as though there's nothing amiss.
I nod and hold out my hand, trying very hard not to look at the oversized toddler she's brought with her. I feel her hand on my arm and with a snap, we vanish.
Thankfully, as we arrive at the Flying Horse, I learn that Weasley will be watching from a more respectful distance. Thank Merlin. The mere thought of watching the Weasel eat was enough to make me reconsider whether I wanted lunch at all.
We stare at each other awkwardly across the table. I am not sure what to say. Even a simple 'how are you' feels like a loaded question.
"How are you?" she asks.
"I'm well, thank you." I pour us each a glass of wine. She watches me nervously. It makes my chest ache. "I was at the Ministry yesterday."
I take an ostentatious drink from my glass. If someone's trying to poison us, gentle reader, I'd rather find it out for myself than leave that fate to her.
"Oh?" she asks, looking interested. And a bit relieved.
"They had some questions about the other night."
"Oh." This time the sound is far more uncomfortable. She looks into the wine glass that she still hasn't touched. "Yes, that makes sense. They asked me some things, too."
This is completely expected. The Ministry must have questions for her, too. But it still manages to make me angry. I want to ask, but I don't dare disturb the peace between us.
"I couldn't help them much. I think Harry was disappointed," she says. She looks like upsetting Scarhead has disappointed her too.
"I'm not sure I was much help either. Though I did try. I told them everything I could about the waiter who gave us the drinks, and the reporter who interviewed you, and everything else. They seem to think I know who would try to poison us, but I promise you that I don't."
"Poison us?" she asks. Her eyes narrow, but they remain aimed at the table.
"Yes… how else would you describe what happened?" I ask uncomfortably.
"But you said us… Draco, did you get some too?"
"Yes. I told Potter that. Did he not mention it?"
"I didn't talk to Harry about the details. I was angry with him for a little while. We're okay now, but he had to hex me to get me to drink the flushing draught. I… I said a few fairly horrible things, I think. I don't know what I'd have done without Ron. I really didn't want to be alone, and he stayed with me the past few days. I know you two hate each other, but he's lovely when he wants to be. But no, he didn't mention anything about it happening to you, too." She says this last loudly, like she wants it to carry.
A small bit of me smirks. There's a righteous scolding set to happen, and I'm sorry I won't get to see it. She takes a drink of her wine as she scowls in the general direction of the disillusioned Weasel King.
"I don't understand something, though," she says. Her cheeks are pink, and she's still staring at anything but me. "If you got it too, how come you… how is it that we didn't… am I just weak, or something? That I couldn't fight it?"
"No!" I correct quickly. "No, nothing like that. You said you smelled something strange before I'd taken a sip of my champagne. That's when I realized I could smell…" I pause for a moment, reluctant to mention the Manor in her presence. "Well, I smelled something that had no business at the Ministry. That's how I knew. If you hadn't mentioned it, I'm sure I'd have drunk it, too."
She looks up at this, meeting my eye for the first time since we sat down. "So you're the one who told Harry?"
"Yes. How else did you think he'd figured it out?"
"I just thought maybe he'd noticed… nevermind, it doesn't matter." She inhales one of those great Gryffindor gulps of air, the kind I imagine they take just before juggling firecrabs or engaging in naked dagger fights or doing whatever else it is that a member of Godric's house does when they want to take all that grit and gallantry for a spin. "Draco, I just want to say that I'm… I'm sorry, and I'm embarrassed, and I would never want to make you uncomfortable, and I'm so ashamed that I couldn't stop myself from – "
"There's no need," I say gently. "You weren't yourself. Don't apologize for something you didn't choose to do."
"But still, I can't imagine what you thought, and – "
"I thought a beautiful witch had just propositioned me," I say, smiling slightly. "I think I'll recover. I've been through worse."
She blushes deeply at this. "I'm sorry I didn't call you or anything. I just… I would have done it, you know. I would have gone home with you, and it scared me, and I… I didn't know what to think. Why… why did you tell Harry?"
I blink with surprise. This was a question I was not expecting. "Why did I tell Potter? Instead of what, taking a witch under the influence of Amortentia back to my flat? That seems… well, inappropriate is the first word that comes to mind."
"I thought maybe it was because you were… I don't know… embarrassed, or disgusted, or…"
The volume of her voice vanishes to almost nothing. I understand the question that she hasn't quite asked, and why she's asking it. The thought makes me angry at a lot of people, myself principle among them. "I was disgusted, but only when I realized what had happened. Before that, I thought…" I feel a little color rise to my own cheeks. "Well, disgust was definitely not involved."
She nods, though the look on her face is an odd mixture of restlessness and relief. What did she expect I would say, I wonder? What would any wizard say, with that witch whispering in his ear?
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It doesn't concern me. Living alone, I've become comfortable with the quiet. I think it best to allow her to decide when she wants to continue to talk.
"Why?" she asks finally.
"Pardon?" I am concerned I didn't catch a key part of the question.
"Why would someone do this? What does anyone care if we…" she blushes again. "Why should it matter?"
"You're a powerful symbol, Hermione. The muggleborn witch who helped Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord? The champion of muggleborn rights? Can't you see how some might delight in embarrassing you with a Death Eater? How would that look at the next photo opportunity?"
"Why do you assume it's me they're after? What about you?"
I laugh, though there's little humor left in it. "What else could anyone possibly do to embarrass me? I've lost my home, my family, and my magic. The people who concern themselves with such things don't care if I have an affair with a muggleborn. To them, I'm a muggle now myself. You're the one with something to lose, not the Death Eater who's already lost everything."
There's another silence, though this time I am the one whose eyes uncomfortably find the floor, the food, anything but her face. I'm not looking at her as she speaks.
"You're not a Death Eater, Draco. Not anymore."
If only I could feel as certain of that as she sounds.
"To you, maybe. To some, I'll never be anything else."
"Who cares what they think?" she asks, her voice becoming light. She takes another sip from her glass. "I didn't understand when we were fighting the war, but some people on my side are just as awful about blood status as the ones on yours. If we're going to tell people that it doesn't matter if you're pureblood or muggleborn, we should act like it. If people want to judge me for spending time with you, that's their problem, not mine. It certainly isn't for you to worry about."
Blood status doesn't matter? I don't know if she's breathtakingly brave or dangerously delusional.
Either way, I find myself making a mental note to thank Merlin.
As she apparates us back to my flat, I find no trace of Weasley. I'm not sure if this means that he's got better at disguising himself or if it means that she no longer feels the need for nanny to chaperone her visit. Whatever the answer, I don't miss the Witless Wonder.
"I'm sorry I don't have much in the way of potions this week," I say. "What with… well, everything, I haven't had much time for brewing. I did make a headache-reliever this morning, with plenty of extra vials, if you think St. Mungo's would like – "
We are interrupted by a glowing shape bursting through the wall of the flat. The stag stops in front of Hermione, speaking in a voice that I instantly recognize. "You're late back to the Ministry. Are you alright? I'm worried. Please answer."
As soon as the words are spoken, the stag shimmers and fades from view. She sighs.
"I'm sorry, I've just had a message from Harry," she says unnecessarily. She draws her wand and closes her eyes, taking a slow breath. "Locuto patronum!" she incants.
A brilliant otter leaps from her wand. It flits around her feet, its phantasmal head nuzzling her calves as though to reassure her that it understands its mission. It then bolts back through the wall, blazing a trail back in the direction from which the stag arrived.
"An otter?" I ask. "I wouldn't have expected that. I see you more as an owl, or a bull, or even a griffin, but – "
"Wait, what?" she says, her head snapping around.
"Your patronus," I say, sounding uncertain. Perhaps she loves otters? "I was just saying that I was surprised it was an otter, that's all. I kind of expected something else. But otters are good. Very… playful, and – "
I struggle to think of something else nice to say about otters. I've always thought of them as ragged little river rats, personally.
"How do you know about my patronus?" she asks, her eyes wide.
"Well you just cast it, didn't you?" I say, uncertain why this is even a question.
"You saw Erasmus?"
"The Dutch wizard that died five hundred years ago? Hermione, are you – "
"That's his name. My patronus, I mean. I call him Erasmus. But that's not important," she says, shaking her head dismissively. "What I meant was, you saw my patronus?"
"Well yes you just cast it in front of me. Was I not supposed to?"
A wide smile breaks across her face, and the golden, luminescent light that I love flares in her eyes. "Draco, I've been thinking this for a while, but I wanted to wait until I was sure… but if you can see Erasmus, I know I must be right."
"What?" I ask. She's practically bouncing on her feet, and her excitement is infectious. I'm not sure whether I should be grinning along with her or grumbling that I'm not yet in on the secret.
"Muggles can't see a patronus. Neither can squibs. If you can see Erasmus, your magic is still with you. We just need to find it."
I stare. I think my mouth might have fallen open. I'm not sure.
My magic?
I hoped for so long. I tried so many times, in so many ways, to draw the delicious, delicate feeling of my magic back to my mind, that cool crackle of power that has been my companion since I was a child. Eventually, I had to tell myself it was impossible. Hope had become a hinderance… a taunt… a tease that tempted me to live in the past. Hope had become an enemy that I had to conquer, a hurdle on the path to accepting my new life.
From anyone else, I would assume that this was some sort of cruel joke. But here, standing next to her, hope has a whole new meaning.
"Draco?"
I start, suddenly aware that I've been staring without speaking a word. "Do you think so?" The words are spoken with a curious calm that I can't say I feel.
"Yes." She says it with such conviction that my legs feel weak. "We'll talk about it more later. But if I don't get back to the Ministry soon, Harry will send out a search party. I'll call you. I promise."
I don't have words. I nod mutely. She smiles again, reaches over, and squeezes my hand. I barely register the brush of her skin before it's over and, with a snap, she's gone.
My magic.
It's a thought I'd buried beside the rest of the bones of my old life. At first, I'd mourned its passing, but with time I came to view it as the price I had to pay to purge myself of the past, and the lies it was built upon.
But with her… with her I believe that maybe the price doesn't have to be quite so punitive. Perhaps the reward for reform is real, after all.
I am Malfoy
And with her, I think maybe I can make that mean something else.