Draco looked at him.
For the first time since he'd walked in, Draco looked at Harry directly, without malice, his pale brow slightly knitted, grey eyes stormy with confusion. Which wasn't surprising. Harry believed he'd had that same look on his face when his instructor, at the Auror Academy, told him they'd be focusing on physical fighting before magical dueling.
"Excuse me?" said Draco. His hand was already going for his robe pockets. "Hit you?"
"Not with magic." Harry nodded to his raised fists.
Draco Malfoy scoffed, jerking his head in disbelief, and the motion made his hair fall over one shoulder. Harry still wasn't used to seeing his hair like that, long and flowing. He thought it'd make Draco look more like his father, but after seven years in Azkaban, the true edges of Draco's face had begun to emerge, his pale eyes and lashes more pronounced, like his mother's.
Harry realized he was staring. Sizing up my enemy.
"No wands?" Draco repeated. "Why?"
"The physical comes before the magical," Harry said, using one of his former instructor's favorite phrases. "Come on. Don't make me go first. Roll up your sleeves."
"Ugh…" Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, but he relented. He shrugged off his outer robes, laying them on the bench nearby. With practiced rhythm, Draco's pale hands unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and folded them up. Right arm first, left arm second. Harry could see the Dark Mark's faint lines. From his pocket, Draco produced a black ribbon, which he used to tie his hair back. "What now?" He moved to mirror Harry's stance: left foot in front, fists up to protect the face.
"Wait, wait." Harry stepped forward and grabbed Draco's wrist.
"What?" Draco snatched it back.
"I'm just trying to show you proper form," Harry said impatiently. Gently, he took one of Draco's hands in both his, moving his thumb from the outside and repositioning it in front of the other fingers. "That's how you make a fist. If the thumb's out there by itself, you could break it." Draco nodded. "Okay. Now-"
Before Harry could step back and position himself, Draco's fist came at him in a blur. Harry heard the punch land first, half a second before the pain bloomed along his jaw, making his eyes water.
"Jesus!" Harry cried, mostly out of surprise; he'd never known exactly what that Muggle expletive meant, but it occasionally burst from somewhere deep inside him.
"Like that?" Draco said with ill-disguised glee.
"You wanker." Harry rubbed his bruised jaw. "Wipe that sorry look off your face. I know you've wanted to fill me in since first year."
"Can't I be sorry and happy at the same time?" Draco said with the smallest of smiles.
"Not quite how it works, Malfoy."
"No, I think it is," Draco said with a pompous air - genuine or put-on, Harry couldn't quite tell. Draco put a hand on his hip, and in the gesture, Harry glimpsed the boy from first year, cocky, a little naïve. Unscathed, unmarked.
Where have you been? Harry wanted to say to that boy, who wore far too much hair gel, cowered in the Forbidden Forest during detention, flew sleekly through the air on a broomstick. The Draco before him now was scarred. No matter how he tried to hide it.
"Malfoy…" Harry said, resisting that odd yet compelling urge to call the man before him Draco, "What's going on with your magic?"
The way Draco's eyes widened betrayed the lie in his first answer: "It's like I said. I'm rusty."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That can't be all."
"Can't it?"
"You're a terrible liar, Malfoy."
"It's none of your concern," Draco snapped. He raised his fists. "Let's go again. No surprises."
"Fine by me." Harry positioned himself once more. Now that he knew Draco could fight, the tension between them had grown, trapped between motes of dust. The light dimmed slightly; clouds must be passing far, far overhead, affecting the enchanted window. "If I win, you have to tell me exactly what's hindering your magic. Hide nothing. If you win, I promise I'll drop it."
Draco's mouth pursed in skepticism. "You're so sure you're that good?"
"The way we know who wins," Harry said, ignoring him, "Is who gets pinned to the floor. Harder than it sounds."
"For you, maybe."
"You're pretty cocky, Malfoy," Harry said, pushing up his rolled sleeves, "For someone who's about to-"
Before Harry could finish, Draco shot forward, fist headed for the same spot as before. Harry didn't let him have the satisfaction of finishing his trajectory; he deflected the blow with his forearm and ducked as Draco came in with a fierce hook.
Harry found himself on the defense, which he hadn't expected. He stepped backwards once, twice, put off by the steely glare that had overtaken Draco's gaze, his speed and accuracy. Harry bided his time, blocking hits, backing away, watching how Draco occupied the space around him. He was good, there was no doubt, but he was sloppy. The air of elegance and stiffness that usually surrounded Draco had dissipated.
"Stop holding back," Draco growled as Harry hastily dodged an otherwise well-aimed punch.
"Stop underestimating me," Harry shot back, and Draco hesitated - just for a moment, but it was enough to give Harry room, and he moved quickly, kicking towards Draco's stomach. It connected, and Draco let out a small oof; before he could recover, Harry was there, knocking aside a feeble attempt at a return kick.
Don't give up now, damn you.
Draco was growing weary. Harry felt it rather than saw it, as if the air around him was becoming less charged, the light around him growing weaker. Draco slowed, and so did time; he left his guard open, and Harry wasn't one to let opportunities pass him by.
Draco yelped as Harry performed his favorite takedown; he roughly grabbed the collar of Draco's shirt, simultaneously sweeping his legs from underneath him. Draco fell back, Harry holding onto him, and for a split second they were suspended, Harry smug, Draco's fingers digging into his arm.
Then Harry dropped him, and Draco tumbled to the stone floor with a grunt. He immediately tried to scramble up, but Harry pressed, none too lightly, his boot to Draco's shoulder.
Harry leaned over, observing the thinly veiled hatred in Draco's eyes. The victory was well-earned, and Harry was pleased with Draco's skill, but he'd been training junior Aurors for long enough to know that Draco wasn't ready for the field.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" Harry said with a raised eyebrow.
"Fuck you."
"And?"
Draco gave an exaggerated roll of the eyes. "I'm ready to talk, Potter. Just… get off me, for Merlin's sake."
Harry thought about making him say "please," but he decided against it, and released his weight from Draco's shoulder. Draco got to his feet none too gracefully, brow crinkled.
Harry began, "So what's-"
"I hear voices." Draco suddenly looked horribly uncomfortable, his face in shadow, just out of reach of the patch of sunlight streaming through the enchanted window. As he spoke, he lifted a pale hand to his hair, undoing the black ribbon that tied it back. "When I cast. Some of them, I… I recognize. Mum. Father, or Crabbe." A portion of white-blond fell across his shoulder, and he ran his hand through it, detangling knots visible only to himself. Harry found himself distracted by the action, which Draco no doubt performed without thinking. "Others I don't."
"When you cast," Harry repeated. "Just… any spell?" He found himself thinking of his own experiences with the Disarming Hex, which he'd had trouble with a year or so after the war. Every time he said the incantation, he recalled the pale, snakelike face that had faced the spell, that had fallen before it. Voldemort, for a frustratingly long time, had haunted Harry in Expelliarmus.
Draco nodded. "I've noticed that if I'm not making skin-to-skin contact with my wand, they fall silent. Otherwise, they're all just… too loud. It's unbearable."
"You're not making skin-to-skin contact with your wand?" Harry asked. "How?"
A small smile appeared at the corner of Draco's mouth. "Easy." He lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers. "Gloves."
Harry had never heard of such a thing. Contact with a wizard's wand was essential to casting any spell, unless you were as experienced as Dumbledore, Morgana, or, well, himself. Although Harry wouldn't ever trust himself wandless in a fight. Casting without one was a hit or miss.
It was hard to believe Draco could perform magic without touching his wand. But perhaps Harry had underestimated him. "All right, then," Harry said, stepping back. "Show me."
-.-.-.-
No breezes ever swept through the Ministry's atrium courtyard. Which made sense, since it lay underground, but the lack of movement made Hermione a little uneasy. She wished there was something more than a fountain to drown out the murmurs of the wizards and witches moving outside the courtyard's boundaries. Still, it was a better place to be when she was stressed, compared to her office.
Ron met her beneath the canopy of a willow tree, whose trunk was enchanted to be veined with gold. "Good morning," he sighed. Hermione responded by drawing her thumb across her chest in the WSL morning greeting.
"Ah, damn," Ron said. "I forgot." The day before, he'd met Ferris Chintz, a mute junior Unspeakable, and been reminded that his knowledge of WSL was barely passing. Good morning, Ron signed, albeit clumsily. "I don't have to do much signing, do I? I mean, I only need to understand it. Not do it."
"Two sides of the same coin, Ron," Hermione said; there was no direct translation for that phrase, not as far as she knew, so she simply signed the letters of his name. She wasn't quite sure he'd notice, anyhow. "So…" What happened?
"I…" Ron pointed to himself, and Hermione sensed his hesitation had almost nothing to do with his poor knowledge of sign language. "I don't really know."
Steadily, punctuating his spoken words with bits of WSL, Ron revealed the events of the interview.
Finlay Estelle MacInnes remained a mere suspect in the murder of her two children. Both had clearly been slain by the Killing Curse, but who had casted it? Both Ferris Chintz and Darla Wimbledon had been unable to report success, as it was the Unspeakables' job to confirm the source of any criminal spell. Estelle's signature was present, but only faintly - there were several others, including those of neighbors, a few noted deceased members of the Order of the Phoenix, Estelle's late husband, and…
"Voldemort," Ron said, his mouth trembling at the word. Hermione grimly supplied the sign for the Dark Lord, forcing her hands not to shake. Even the mention of him brought forth memories shrouded in sorrow: standing behind her parents, erasing their minds, running scared along dark alleys, watching her classmates crumple, waiting desperately for her dearest friend to appear, wanting to shout herself hoarse into a night-dark forest.
"He can't be back," Hermione said firmly, and she knew it to be true, though fear welled like a sore in her heart.
"He's not." Ron reached out an arm, placing it around her shoulders, and Hermione nestled into his touch. The willow's glittering, leafy strands mostly hid them from view from the rest of the courtyard. Ron kissed the top of her head. "He's not back, Hermione. This is something new. We'll deal with it as it comes."
Hermione nodded, her mass of curls brushing against his shoulder. "We always have." She paused. "Have you told Harry?"
"He was busy this morning," Ron said, then a hint of amusement crept into his voice, "Training Malfoy."
"As I suggested. But it's not morning anymore," Hermione pointed out.
"I left a report on his desk."
Hermione shot him her very best scolding look. "You know as well as I what happens to things that end up on Harry Potter's desk."
"He'll get to it! I have faith in him."
"More than I do, when it comes to paperwork. Look, I hate to keep bringing work home, but maybe tonight, we and Harry could-"
A familiar noise, a soft meep meep startled them both. Hermione groaned as she retrieved her enchanted gold pocket-watch from within her robes. She blew softly on the glass face, and the noise stopped. "Nearly forgot," she said, "I've got a meeting with someone in Transportation."
"'Someone?'"
"Um… Oh, goodness. I'll remember on the way." Hermione gave Ron a peck on the cheek before reluctantly detangling herself from his warmth. "What was I saying?"
"Dinner with Harry."
"Right." Hermione expertly twisted her curls against the back of her head, using her tortoiseshell claw clip to keep them out of her face. "We'll talk more then."
"Sure. Good luck with your meeting, darling."
"Thanks, love you!" Hermione called over her shoulder as she burst through the willow's canopy, brushing glittering leaves off her robes as she made her way to the lift. She hatedbeing late, and according to her reminder watch, she only had five minutes to get to level six and figure out where exactly she was supposed to be.
Nearly a decade of working at the Ministry was enough for Hermione to tell that something was wrong. As soon as she stepped into the lift with five or six other employees, she felt it - in the tense, muttered chatter, in the sudden higher-than-average volume of memos fluttering above their heads. Everything had seemed normal not half an hour ago.
"Excuse me," Hermione whispered to a yellow-haired witch who wore the red robes of Magical Games. "What's going on?"
"Not sure," she muttered back. "Something in the Department of Mysteries, I think. Best not to discuss it." The witch pressed her mouth into a thin line, but the flow of conversation around Hermione remained steady throughout every stop of the lift. If she trusted the Ministry to do anything, it was to keep the grapevine going whether the topic of gossip was taboo or not. Hermione kept her ears open on the way to the sixth basement floor, hearing the word "breach" several times. Breach of what?
"Department of Magical Transportation," spoke the disembodied voice, and the lift grate rattled open. Hermione gently maneuvered herself to the front, coming face to face with an Unspeakeable. The chatter immediately halted.
"Excuse me," said the wizard, brushing past her, and his unnaturally bright gray eyes seemed to bore into her back as she exited. Hermione shivered, drawing her cloak around her.
"Ah, Mrs. Granger!"
Hermione looked around for who had spoken. The décor on this floor was rather gaudy, the wallpaper a busy pattern of purple and silver gears and tiny locomotives, the carpet woven in shades of violet and magenta. It took a few seconds for Hermione to notice the lilac-clad wizard leaning halfway out of a well-polished door.
"Fraycliff," Hermione said, mostly to herself. That was who she was supposed to meet; Evan Fraycliff, the man who had piped up during the assembly earlier that week. "Good afternoon," she said, and, "Thanks," when he held the door open.
"Of course," he said smoothly, and moved with long, lanky strides to his desk. The inside of the Head office was decorated a little more tastefully than the corridors; the wallpaper was more mutely colored in mauve, the furniture a dark ebony wood for contrast. Fraycliff seemed much more at ease now than he did a few days ago, perhaps because he was operating within his own territory, faced with only one department Head - and a younger one at that.
Hermione took a seat opposite Fraycliff, noting the lack of photographs in his office, compared to others she had seen. The walls were mostly taken up with newspaper clippings, some more yellowed than others, related to transportation-related news and updates. One picture did stand on his desk, but the frame's back faced towards her.
"Thank you for meeting with me on such late notice," said Fraycliff apologetically. He folded his hands, which were as spindly and freckled as the rest of him. Despite his slim physique, the robes buttoned tightly beneath his chin gave his head a slightly ballooned appearance. Hermione wondered how he wasn't uncomfortable. "This shouldn't take long. Let's see…" He waved his wand over his desk, and Hermione heard a drawer slide open. A thick folder, stuffed with multiple sheaves of parchment, landed with a thud before him.
Hermione's eyes widened in concern.
"Oh, please don't worry. Most of this is transportation jargon." Fraycliff flipped open the folder and tapped the top sheet, which was filled with tiny, neat type. "The summary is what's most important." He slid the folder over to Hermione.
She blinked. "Mr. Fraycliff… I'm so sorry, but I've had so many meetings and paperwork to deal with these past few days, not to mention finding training for my apprentice; I've just had so much on my mind. Remind me again what this," she touched the stack of parchment lightly with her fingertips, "Is for?"
"It's a prototype proposal for an Apparation enhancer," replied Fraycliff, who seemed none too miffed at her lapse of memory. "As you know, Apparation has a limit of a few hundred miles. For most wizards, anyway. We must use Portkeys and Floos for longer distances, which, especially for international ambassadors, is a pain in the neck." As Fraycliff spoke, Hermione reopened the folder, skimming its contents. She came across a diagram of whatever device the Transportation Department was working on. It depicted a tiny, person-shaped figure, standing in the middle of eight metallic concentric circles. Latticed scaffolding grounded the device from the outer circle, but the others were not supported - not by anything visible, at least.
"The materials in the enhancer would allow Apparational travel for thousands of miles," Fraycliff continued. "Imagine: Instantaneous movement from continent to continent. Wizards traveling from country to country in times of international emergency. No more bureaucratic red tape."
"Really?" Hermione said skeptically.
"Well… Perhaps some red tape," he admitted. "I've been meeting with Charli Wells on that front."
"If this is for international travel, what do you need me for?"
Fraycliff's pale face flushed pink. "That's the rub. Erm…"
"The rub?" Hermione pressed.
"The materials being used for this prototype… well, it's all pretty powerful stuff. Dragon beozars, sanctified amethyst crystal, roc feathers, etcetera. Physical magic in this amount could act as a sort of… Well, how do I put this delicately." A patina of sweat had formed on his forehead. "Beacon. For Dark magic."
"Excuse me?" Hermione looked up sharply from the contents of the folder, which she had begun to spread across the desk. "You're accidentally building a beacon for Darkness? And for what? Faster transportation?"
"No, no. You misunderstand. The device, once finished, will be perfectly safe. We'll install mufflers in the right spots; it'll be like sending up a flare in a lightning storm. Undetectable. The process of building these is what we're having trouble with. Once Wells gets approval from the other international Ministries, their Defense Bureaus and equivalents will have the same job I'm assigning to you now. To put together a small team to defend the device in their respective locations. Ours, of course, being London."
Christ. Hermione really did not need this on her plate right now. There was too much going on, too much movement of Dark wizards and creatures around England. But the cogs of the Ministry turned onwards. There were revolutions and inventions to be made. Constantly.
"I'll put some people on this," Hermione said finally, sweeping up the parchment. "To be frank, Mr. Fraycliff, I will not have the time nor the energy to be heading up a team myself. I don't know if you've heard, but I talked to the Minister recently about setting up defenses around England. I suppose a unit or two could be stationed at whatever location you're thinking of."
"Of course," Fraycliff said, swallowing nervously. "Priorities are priorities. But, please, keep me updated. We're ready to move when you are."
"I'll keep an open line of communication," Hermione promised.
"Bloody hell," Hermione said under her breath as she strode towards the lifts. The phrase was more Ron's speed, but she felt she was justified in using it, this once. She understood the Ministry's need to keep chugging along like the machine it was, no matter what; that was simply in the nature of the system. One that she had chosen to work in. But couldn't this wait? She felt a pang of irritation towards Fraycliff and his enthusiasm for a new gadget. Hermione was not one to condemn fervor for invention, but seriously- the Ministry had bigger problems on their hands right now.
Hermione's thoughts swirled like a storm, blurring her attention, and as the lift she'd entered begun to move, she realized that it was sinking. No matter. It would come back up eventually. Hermione, the only passenger, retreated to the corner, clutching the heavy folder to her chest.
The lift came to a grinding halt before a long, dark, marble corridor.
"Department of Mysteries." Hermione could have sworn there was a slight gasp at the end of the command uttered by the lift, but that was impossible. She must have imagined it.
For a moment, the hall remained still. Then a shadowy figure materialized halfway down its length, hurrying along, midnight-blue robes billowing around its legs. The wizard's face remained hidden by a hood, and Hermione felt a jab of irrational fear.
The wizard swept into the lift and slammed the grate shut. Hermione jumped at the sound. She heard him panting slightly, saw his shoulders sink in relief as the lift began to move upwards, sensing that no passengers awaited at the final level below their feet. What was he running from?
The Unspeakeable lowered his hood, revealing a face she recognized; he was the same, grey-eyed wizard she'd nearly bumped into earlier that afternoon. He towered over her; his sharp features softened slightly as he turned to her. "Sorry to startle you, Miss…?"
He doesn't know who I am. It was refreshing, after years of being recognized from her, Harry, and Ron's pictures in the Prophet after the war. Perhaps he was a transfer. "Granger," she said, holding out a hand. "Mrs. Hermione Granger."
The Unspeakeable gave her hand a firm shake before withdrawing both his into his robes. "Roanoke Suleman." He faced forward again, his face neutral. Torchlight flickered across his dark skin as they ascended. Hermione had trouble gauging how old he was - twenty? Forty?
"I don't suppose you could illuminate me," Hermione said, before she could stop herself, "About what's going on down there in Mysteries? Pardon me, but I'm curious. I've been hearing a lot of gossip."
The silence that followed made her words hang awkwardly in the air. Suleman looked at her again, slowly shook his head, and put a finger to his lips.
"Ah. Sorry."
"That's all right. It never hurts to ask. If I could tell you, I would."
The voice above, cool and neutral, came on. "Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."
"That's me," said Suleman. "Goodbye, Mrs. Granger."
"Goodbye."
The heavy folds of Suleman's robes seemed to flutter in slow-motion as he walked out of the lift. Hermione looked down, eyes drawn to a rather large, singed tear on the bottom; she hadn't noticed it before. As if he felt her gaze, Suleman's wand emerged from his robes, flicking a murmured spell over his shoulder. In a blink, the flaw in the fabric was gone.