Guys, it's been TWO YEARS since I updated this story! I don't know what to say-other than I AM SO SORRY! Thank you so, so much to all the wonderful people who left reviews. You all intermittently reminded me to get back to this story and continue pushing myself to write it! I really hope you all love where it's going (you may have to re-read it all to remember what happened, LOL). Shout out to somethingnew2016, ZoeyOlivia, Catulla (twice!), Arnoldloveshelga7, MayisGJ, m-m8011, LadyKatetheGreat, isabeliza93, Aspe, lia. , "Guest", and AuntCori :) You guys are the real superstars behind this chapter!


Chapter 5

When Malfoy said they would peruse every centimeter of skin, he was not exaggerating. He was extremely meticulous, yet it was his systematic approach that earned Hermione's begrudging respect. Eventually, they fell into an easy routine of him making observations, and her jotting them down. Every now and then he would make her do an incision, or feel an abnormality, but overall, it was not very exciting.

Hermione did eventually get used to the smell. It wasn't the most pleasant scent in the world, but it was a fact of life that one eventually becomes accustomed to that pungent formaldehyde odor.

Hermione tried to listen carefully when Malfoy started teaching, but she felt strangely jittery. Even though she'd been alone with Malfoy loads of times this past week, this was different. The morgue was so isolated, it had almost felt like they had entered another realm. In the lab she knew she could run into someone she knew quite easily if she stepped out into the hall. In the morgue—well, no one ever came down to this part of the building, did they?

Is this why Malfoy standing so close to her? She took a subtle step backward, but of course at that moment he waved a hand to have her look closely at the victim's tooth.

"He's got a cavity in his left mandibular second molar." He remarked, turning his head to flash her a quick grin, his eyes crinkling in utter delight by the inane finding.

That's it, she was definitely calling a therapist tonight. Were the carcass beetles still buzzing? Perhaps they were being poisoned by the dank air.

"Please note that the victim, an unidentified middle-aged male, has no Dark Mark on either forearm."

"Noted."

Malfoy straightened up, and walked over the rather large cabinets on the other end of the room. They had been charmed to stay very cold, and contributed to the chill of the room. He threw open one of the cabinet doors, and wheeled out a second body, wrapped in a white sheet.

"This is the second victim—well, the second to die," he amended as he rolled the body towards her.

Hermione nodded, feeling a little sick. She had always hated cadaver lab, and it had required a lot of concentration on her part to not think about the fact that she was cutting into a real person. It didn't help that Malfoy seemed so comfortable.

Her thoughts were interrupted however, when Malfoy pulled back the sheet covering the dead woman. She felt all the blood drain from her face.

"Granger!" Malfoy barked, "Lie down! Now."

Hermione's head was spinning. In her dizziness, she felt a firm hand grip her underarm and slowly guide her to the floor. She immediately laid flat and closed her eyes. Even a first-year healing student knew that if you ever felt dizzy it was imperative to lie down as fast as possible to minimize the risk of a head injury due to fainting. Plus, the cold stone floor was soothing.

Her arm seemed to sting where he had touched her, but Malfoy was long gone. He was standing about a meter away, beginning his autopsy of the second victim without her.

"Feeling sick at the sight of the dead, Granger?" He mocked, "How the hell did you get through anatomy lessons?"

When she didn't answer, he continued, "I mean it's rather pathetic. Aren't you the current chief resident healer at St Mungo's? If you're what they consider the best, I shudder to meet any of the other residents."

He could be rather cruel sometimes.

Hermione took a deep breath to steady herself. He paused thinking she was going to rise to the occasion and continue their one-sided verbal spar.

When she didn't, he said, "I suppose I'm lucky you didn't faint while I was coding. Tell me, were you the one who put my lines in? Because it was right shoddy work and left me with an ugly scar on my neck—"

"Shut up." Hermione commanded weakly.

"Ah, there she is! Our sweet walking-encyclopedia-reference has decided to re-enter the pitch. I see your intelligence is unscathed by this most recent bout of fainting fits."

"Water." She muttered, adding "please."

At first, Hermione thought he was going to ignore her. However, after a moment he did leave the bedside and she heard a quiet aguamenti.

"You'll have to sit up if you want to drink it." His voice was hard, but he was lifting her shoulder up gently as he put the cup into her hand.

Hermione flinched—the stinging sensation was back—causing him to release her rather quickly. She fell back, but then caught herself before she could thump her head against the floor. Naturally, she spilled water all over herself.

"Brilliant," remarked Malfoy before starting to stand.

"Wait!" Hermione said urgently, her voice starting to return. She gulped down the water remaining in her cup. Malfoy was crouched down, watching her carefully, but he hadn't moved.

"I—it's not because she's dead—" Hermione tried to explain. There was a buzzing sound in her ear that wasn't coming from the carcass beetles. It was irritating.

Malfoy frowned, "You don't look so good, Granger. I'm going to have to insist you go home—"

"No! No, listen to me!" she snapped. "It's not because she's dead… it's because I know her!"

XXX

Draco felt his blood go cold. "What do you mean you know her?"

Hermione shivered, not from the chill of the morgue, but from the memory of what she was about to share with a man she never thought she would ever have to speak to again only three weeks ago.

"I know her. I remember her from the final battle. She was fighting for Voldemort."

Draco winced.

"But she doesn't have a dark mark?" he insisted.

"It doesn't matter. I'm telling you I know her. We have to go tell Harry and Ron."

Something about the earnestness in her tone convinced him.

"You stay here." Draco ordered, moving to get up. He was about to walk away from her, leaving her alone on the cold floor of the morgue, when she seized his hand. He stopped not so much from the force of her grip, but from the surprise of her touch. Her hands were remarkably soft and much smaller than he could have imagined. For a moment, he forgot where he was even going. He could only think soft, soft, soft, soft like some kind of teenage braindead moron.

"Don't leave me here."

Her eyes didn't have the familiar hard edge that he had become used to. His hand still hung limply in hers. It was a strange sensation. He hadn't held a girl's hand since he was sixteen. She wasn't a girl though; she was Hermione Granger.

Without thinking, he promptly and roughly removed her hand from his.

He watched her face fall before he realized his mistake. Twenty-nine years of pureblood supremacy couldn't be erased with banter, no matter how much he wished it.

That word rang between them.

She turned her hurt eyes away from him in a poor attempt to hide her emotions. Before Draco could think better of it, he grabbed her waist and slung her arm around his shoulders in his desperation to assure her that he did not feel repulsion—not in the least—at her touch.

She yelped. "What are you doing?!"

"You really should eat more if you don't want to be dragged around like a ragdoll, Granger."

"I—what are you—I eat plenty, thank you!" Hermione finished lamely, attempting to sound strong but failing miserably as she could barely stand on her own.

Draco couldn't help himself. He laughed. She was flustered. She was snuggled against him. Her dreadful hair was in his face, in his mouth, tickling his neck. They were still wearing their sterile gowns, and he was half-dragging her through the ministry dungeons as if he were a troll determined to rut.

He felt, rather than saw, her incredulous look. He must seem insane to her, but he was too giddy to worry about appearances right now. He was floating in the clouds, holding on to a big red balloon with Hermione Granger tucked under his arm.

"Don't struggle so much, Granger," Draco chided, "You look as if you're going to puke all over my very expensive shoes."

She muttered something – likely about how that would improve his outfit a great deal – but Draco ignored her. They were almost at the lift. He would have to let go. He felt his balloon deflating with each step, as if he were steadily coming back down to earth again.

The lift dinged. The metal doors clanged open. The balloon popped.

Staring at them, with the most unbelieving look on his face, was one Ronald Weasley.

XXX

"Ron, calm down!" Charity urged, pulling on his arm.

"I will not!" Ron growled, pointing and accusatory finger at his wife.

"I know you are not pointing that finger at me right now!" Charity warned, and suddenly Ron aimed his finger away from the angry blonde woman and at the mantle above his fireplace.

"Were you the one who repaired the frame on our wedding photo, my love? It looks absolutely breathtaking." He remarked innocently, drawing a laugh from Charity.

"You always did know how to talk your way out of a solid scolding." she said fondly, putting her wand in her hair.

"I do have Molly Weasley for a mum," Ron joked weakly, looking out of his small office window to the waiting room right outside.

"When are you going to let them in?" Charity asked when she followed his line of vision.

"When hell freezes over." Ron remarked coolly, pulling the roller shade shut over the window in the door, as if to end the conversation.

"Ronald!" she said, and although she was simply using his given name, Ron knew his wife was scolding him.

"Charity, he was manhandling her and she was letting him!" Ron pleaded, as if he could make her see reason. He had no choice but to blast them apart. They were wrapped around each other like a pair of horny teenagers for crying out loud! And why was she wet?! Ron was forced to leg-lock Malfoy and drag him up to his office for questioning. As for his best friend and ex-girlfriend, he was currently doing his best to give her the cold shoulder.

But they had already been over this. Much to his chagrin, Charity had been unable to listen to the story with a straight face.

"You're being a child."

"I am a child."

They stared at each other in tight-lipped resignation. Charity walked over to the door and pulled it open, calling out, "You may both come in."

Hermione stood up first, clearly furious. It wasn't exactly difficult to ascertain with her beet-red face and hair a little more wild than usual.

"Thank you, Charity." She stated coolly, straightening her jacket to appear more proper. She turned her furious eyes at her oldest friend and coldly said, "And thank you, Auror Weasley, for agreeing to meet with us."

"Oh Hermione, cut the shite. What's going on between you two?" Ron demanded, throwing decorum to the wind.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth like a freshly caught fish.

"I see nothing has changed Weasley." Draco shot back, carefully rubbing his calves before standing and making his way into the small office.

"The same sunny disposition, Malfoy."

Draco nodded at the small witch behind Weasley's desk, and she smiled back. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Draco introduced himself, "I'm Draco Malfoy." He extended his hand. She shook it amiably, as if her husband wasn't standing a foot away, glaring daggers at her.

"I know," she greeted him jovially, "I've heard a lot about you, all of it bad." If she wasn't so damn cheerful, Draco would have assumed she was having a dig at him, but really she seemed to laughing at a private joke between them. She was impossible not to like. Draco found himself giving her a small smile despite himself.

"I'm Charity Weasley." She finished, and let go of his hand. Draco gave her a polite nod and turned to look at her husband, whose ears had gone bright red to match his hair.

"I believe Granger had something important to discuss with you." He said neutrally, keeping his expression carefully blank. The friendliness of Weasley's wife reminded him that he ought to play nice, for appearances sake. It wouldn't do to have so many ministry favorites turn on him. He could lose everything he worked so hard for with just one nasty word from them.

"What?" Ron turned rudely to Hermione, who had taken a seat on the oversized arm chair by his fireplace, staring gloomily into the fire.

"If you could avoid being your charming self for just a minute, I have something rather serious to discuss with you," Hermione snapped, motioning at the chair opposite hers. When Ron made no move to sit down, Draco took the seat with a pointed look towards the redhead. This greatly amused the newest Weasley addition for some reason, much to Draco's annoyance.

Hermione and Draco shared a quick glance before Hermione launched into her story. She talked quickly and ended with how she almost fainted. Ron didn't move an inch from his position behind his desk, looking comically frozen although he was listening very carefully.

"This isn't good." He said softly when she was finished, and grabbed a fistful of floo powder from a small chalice on his desk.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked, looking determined to make him stay and explain.

"Don't worry," Ron reassured quickly. All traces of his previous irritation at seeing Malfoy with his arm wrapped around Hermione's waist were now replaced with tight anxiety.

"I'm going to call Harry; he needs to hear this."

And that is how, within only fifteen minutes, Draco found himself sandwiched between Ronald Weasley and Harry bloody Potter on Hermione Granger's couch, holding an ugly chintz cup filled with delicious earl grey tea.

XXX

"You need to start from the beginning." Potter demanded, again.

Draco barely restrained himself from groaning. The man needed to hear the same thing repeated over and over in order to even begin to process the information. Draco had no idea how someone as brilliant as Hermione could stand to be around him. Even Weasley had made the connection immediately.

"The woman who died as a result of the attacks—she was one of Voldemort's supporters arrested after the battle of Hogwarts. I remember her clearly.There is no question about it. She was sobbing her eyes out pouring over the dead body of one of the slain death eaters. It took McGonagall and Flitwick together to pull her away. She must have been sent to Azkaban! We must have some record of her somewhere."

"We've already gone through almost all of the Azkaban records for the last ten years Hermione, I've had my interns working night and day to see if we can find a match. But, nothing." Harry stated, then turning to Draco, "and you're absolutely sure you have no idea who this woman is?"

This time, Draco did roll his eyes. "For the last time, Potter, just because I was a child sacrifice to the alter of the Dark Lord does not make me some kind of expert in all things 'Death Eater'."

"Well, you were one of them." Potter pointed out coolly, looking frankly put out that Malfoy couldn't identify the woman by name immediately. "If you can't identify her, I would think your parents would be able to."

"The only way you'll ever step foot into the Manor again is with a warrant." Draco warned rashly, feeling hot at the thought of aurors once again rummaging through his mother's most precious belongings, ripping up their family albums, throwing around their heirlooms, trying on his mother's jewelry and throwing her clothes a little too close to the lit fireplace.

"Oi!" Ron interrupted, seizing the colorful throw pillow next to him as if to contain his rage, "Don't remind us of the first time we came to your bloody house."

Draco flinched as if Ron had just slapped him across the face. His heart stopped beating, and then picked back up again at a dizzying pace. For a moment, he wasn't in Hermione Granger's flat for the first time. He wasn't sitting on a soft sofa, cushioned between his school enemies. He wasn't there at all.

He was sitting in the large drawing room, the one with the purple walls he hated so much. Draco knew he wasn't alone, but he couldn't be arsed to know who was in the room with him. He felt drugged by the constant fear and anxiety of being home. If Hogwarts was Azkaban, the Manor was hell.

Someone was calling his name—his mother. Yet when he turned in reply, it was only to see the disgusting face of Fenrir Greyback, his eyes giddy with bloodlust. There were people scattered about on the floor, tied with magical rope, struggling like freshly caught fish.

Amongst them, her.

Her.

Granger.

The sluggish blood in his veins turned instantly to ice. Draco never knew fear before now. This was hell, and she was here with him. His mind ran through a dozen scenarios at once, and none of them involved her leaving his home alive.

He had to do something. But what? And what the fuck had happened to Potter's face? Draco had to deny it was them, but how? If he dismissed the question too quickly, it would be instantly suspicious. He forced himself to focus. If Potter was caught, Draco would never be able to escape the reality his parents had built for him in their greed for prestige and purity. He couldn't worry about Granger now; she would die. The thought caused a pang to go through his heart. He didn't have time to think about why.

Draco met his father's crazed eyes, eyes that were urging him to seal their fate as slaves to the most deranged wizard who ever lived.

Draco could feel himself trembling. He was too scared, too alone. He wasn't a bloody Gryffindor. He couldn't help her. Not in the way she wished. He wasn't a Weasley, willing to throw himself and his family into the fire to do what was right. Draco wasn't even sure what right and wrong were anymore. How could he assume to have morals when he had sat at his dining room table, seated between his mum and dad, and watched a revolting serpent devour a dead professor? He lived with the knowledge that he was vile, that to be a Malfoy meant to be vile, disgusting, low, debased.

What he said next was in bad faith.

"I can't—I can't be sure,"

"I don't know,"

"I… maybe… yeah…"

"Yeah… It could be…"

In bad faith. Just like his name.

He didn't do it for her. He wasn't good or noble or loyal. He didn't know how to do things for other people. He'd only ever known how to look out for himself. He only knew how to be Slytherin. He didn't know how to lo—

"Look, we ought not to fight."

Draco was jolted back to reality with the sound of Hermione's strained voice, "this has been the biggest lead thus far in the case. Malfoy and I haven't even begun to properly conduct these autopsies. Perhaps… perhaps if this woman can be identified, we can identify the man as well? The man doesn't have a dark mark either, but that doesn't mean he never participated in illicit activities in the war."

"We're doing everything we can to figure out who these two people are." Charity reassured Hermione by putting her arm around her shoulder, "We can't go into specifics on the case, but we have a few leads already. Everyone we've questioned has denied recognizing the pictures we've shown them, as if they're afraid—"

"Charity!" Ron warned, and although she shot him a deadly look, she stopped talking.

"The true issue is," Ron corrected, "the records we have are incomplete. When Voldemort fell, he had the ministry under his control. Many of the most damning records were destroyed long before the final battle. Azkaban was stripped down to basically just an empty building. Even Hogwarts—hell, Snape tried to save the most valuable stuff—but the Carrows went so far as to destroy trophies that were given to muggleborns from three, four generations back. I mean, it was academic carnage!"

He paused, seemingly lost in thought, then continued, "If like Hermione says, this woman was a supporter enough to fight in the final battle even without a dark mark… The killer behind all this must have intimate knowledge of Voldemort's ranks. I mean, there isn't a wizard alive today in the United Kingdom that doesn't know the Malfoys were Death Eaters!"

He glanced quickly at Draco and then cleared his throat.

"The only logical conclusion is that the killer must be known to all three murder victims. He—

"Or she." Charity interrupted.

"Or she," acquiesced Ron, "may be trying to even the score, so to speak. After all, it isn't a secret that most Death Eaters are in Azkaban."

"So this person—this killer," Harry interjected, "is attacking people he felt weren't committed enough?"

"That's exactly what I was getting at." Ron smiled grimly. "Malfoy was sixteen when he joined, and his family's trial was detailed extensively in the Daily Prophet. Like I said, it's common knowledge that he was cleared rather quickly."

Draco felt a silent swell in his chest that felt weirdly like pride. He almost shook himself—he must be losing his mind if he was getting proud from a compliment (if you could even call it that) from Weasley.

"And then, this woman. No dark mark but she was seen sobbing at the end of the final battle? I reckon that would feel insincere to a Voldey-fanatic. I'm also willing to bet the male victim in your morgue has a similar story." He nodded to Malfoy.

Draco didn't immediately answer. "If what you're saying is true," he started, "then why do I have no clue who the other two victims are? Shouldn't I be able to identify them immediately?"

"I didn't say you would know them; I am saying the killer knows all of you."

"Plus," Harry added, "Like Ron said, everyone knows you."

"I don't know how any of this is helping us," Hermione suddenly said in an exacerbated tone, "we're still nowhere closer to identifying the deceased victims, so how are we meant to figure out the common link between all three?"

Ron absentmindedly stroked the throw pillow in his lap, as if trying to smooth it out. "You're right, 'Mione. But I don't think Malfoy was the killer's intended victim… I mean, just think. Who would hurt the most from Malfoy's death?"

Ron looked directly at Draco. Indeed, everyone was now staring at him. Years of training allowed Draco to keep an entirely blank countenance.

The answer hung like low fruit in the air.

His parents.

An uncomfortable silence followed. Draco was the first to speak.

"If this little tea party is over, I would like to leave now."

XXX

When Draco returned to his office two hours later, he did not expect to find Hermione there. He definitively did not expect to see her brewing a potion.

"What are you doing?" He asked dumbly, pausing by the door, as if unsure about stepping into his own office.

"I am trying to brew the poison that almost killed you." Hermione stated matter-of-factly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her mass of curls had formed a halo around her face and fell languidly down her back, her hair tie sitting lazily on her wrist.

She clearly had no fear of him, the cheeky witch.

Draco scanned over the scene quickly: Her shirt was half-untucked, she was sweating with the effort it took to stir the heavy looking potion, and a slight blush covered the bridge of her nose, spreading the width of her face to her cheekbones.

She looked positively appealing.

"I guess it's true that the most brilliant are almost always insane." Draco spat nastily, almost throwing his cloak over the coat rack behind the door and sweeping into his lab with untethered vehemence.

Hermione seemed to calculate for a moment.

"You've never done that before," she finally remarked calmly.

"Done what?" Draco snapped, agitated that she was still stirring the putrid concoction. That her hair was still everywhere and on everything. That her skirt had shifted higher on her waist, just enough to fully expose one delicious right calf.

"Compliment me." She stated simply, without relish, but she did lift her head to look at him.

Draco was so startled, she may as well have produced a toad out of her bra.

"I would hardly call that a compliment." Draco scoffed, when he had finally collected himself.

"You think I'm brilliant," she insisted, and continued to stir her potion methodically.

Draco wanted to scream. The situation was just too absurd.

"I think you're insane." He bit out, removing her slight fingers from the stirrer, and stirring in half-moon shape on one end of the cauldron only. She was almost finished with healing training and still didn't know how to properly stir a potion, he thought nastily.

"That's the same thing," Hermione insisted, now smiling slightly, tucking yet another stray curl behind her ear.

Draco looked away. She was too beautiful—he couldn't bear it. He rubbed his chest absently, feeling an unfamiliar ache, and snapped at her about her rotten technique. He may have called her an incompetent toad, he didn't know. He was in a foul mood.

But she just. kept. smiling.

"You're just embarrassed at having been caught admiring me." she teased, her smile widening.

This time Draco did almost shout, "what?"

"Because I'm brilliant," Hermione explained slowly, as if he was an especially thick first-year Hufflepuff. The relief of not being caught for what he had actually been admiring her for prevented Draco from speaking for a moment.

Finally, he was able to calmly say, "I need to reorganize my study. If you could stop being so insufferable for just a moment, I need some quiet." And with that, he retreated into the glorified cupboard he called an office as quickly as he could without looking panicked.

He could feel her eyes on him even after he had closed the door.

XXX

Hermione was sweating.

Making this bloody potion was no easy feat. First of all, it was extremely viscous and thus very difficult to stir. Yet it needed stirring constantly so it wouldn't turn into a nasty sludge in the bottom of the cauldron. Perhaps that meant the killer was very strong and muscular. She made a mental note to mention that to Ron next time she saw him.

Her thoughts flitted back to Harry and Ron. She knew they were desperate for any leads on the case. They had quizzed her quite thoroughly after Malfoy had suddenly abandoned their impromptu gathering. Hermione tried to answer as honestly as she could, but the conversation kept turning back to their desperate need to enter the Malfoy Manor.

Ron seemed to think Hermione had more pull with Malfoy than she let on, and he kept asking her if she could speak to Malfoy for them. She internally rolled her eyes. It was obvious to everyone else how much she and Malfoy detested each other, but it wasn't a surprise to her that Ron could be so oblivious.

"Hermione, just try. Even if he only lets me come, it will be worth it—seriously."

"Oi! Why are you the one going?" Harry had interjected.

"Let's face it mate, you're shite at talking to people." Ron admitted, quickly adding, "you're way better at fighting compared to me though."

Harry muttered something about Ron being a prick, but Hermione couldn't make out much else.

"Ron, honestly, you should talk to him yourself. I'm not really in a position to convince him, and anyway—I highly doubt he would go for it. You saw the way he reacted!"

"He's trying to protect his family," Ron agreed, starting to pace, "But he will come to the realization that the killer is the greater danger here; I know he will."

"As compared to aurors invading his mansion again, you mean?" Charity quipped.

"Manor." Hermione, Ron, and Harry corrected in unison.

Hermione wanted to broach the subject with him—she really did. She just had no idea how to do it. Hey Malfoy, mind if my oldest friends and I come over your house and question your parents a bit? And maybe search your home a second time for good measure?For some reason, she didn't think that would go over so well.

Yet, she couldn't help but feel Ron had made some very compelling points. Who was more hated than Draco Malfoy? His parents. And truly, it was well known in the wizarding community that they had been cleared for their crimes by using their desire to protect their son as their defense. Furthermore, the other two victims were virtually unknown. Why group two obscure victims with one very, very famous one? It must be more personal than just attacking random dark wizards.

Ex-Dark wizards, she corrected herself. At least, she hoped so.

XXX

"Potter." Draco greeted coolly, displeased that he had the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die in front of him for the second time in one day.

"Malfoy." he responded before taking the chair opposite Draco's.

Weasley stumbled in after him and uncouthly remarked, "Merlin, Malfoy, your office is even smaller than mine!"

Draco shot him a nasty look. "What do you want?"

"You know why we're here," Potter answered calmly.

"My answer is the same."

"Malfoy, look—I'm going to level with you." Potter started, "We could get subpoenas and make your parents come in to be questioned, but it will be plastered all over the Daily Prophet the next morning, and you know how they jump to wild conclusions."

"Obviously, we know your parents didn't try to kill you," Weasley added casually, leaning against the wall as there was nowhere else to sit, "But you know that's what they're going to print."

"Is this a new interrogation technique? Threatening victims with the press, Potter? Very elegant." Draco snapped, pulling out a stack of parchments and frantically shuffling them for something to do.

"It's not a threat really—we hate the press more than you do, I assure you." Weasley reassured, while Potter gave Draco a long hard look that Draco pretended not to notice.

If anyone had suffered under the oppressive hand of the media, it had been Harry Potter. Draco knew this. He thought it would be best to avoid this topic for now.

"Why would you want to help me?" Draco suddenly demanded, slamming a stack of parchments on his table and abruptly standing. He walked over to the thin window and stared out of it gloomily. No one said anything for a moment.

"Well—" Harry started, but was quickly interrupted by Weasley.

"You couldn't have done yourself in, now, could you?" Weasley said rather stupidly.

"Brilliant." Potter mumbled, but Draco still had his back turned. "Look, it doesn't exactly help us to have the Daily Prophet printing wild assumptions either. Without their interference it will be a lot easier to catch the wizard that did this to you."

"Or witch." Weasley amended.

"Or witch." Potter agreed.

Draco stood still. It was quiet enough that he could hear Granger fumbling with his cauldrons on the other side of the door.

"How do I know you won't conveniently find them guilty?" he finally asked.

"The Auror department does not currently consider Lucius or Narcissa Malfoy as suspicious persons in this case." Potter answered in an official tone.

"How do I know you won't plant something while you're in there, and convict them of something else?"

Weasley laughed sardonically. "I highly doubt we'd have to 'plant' a dark artifact to find one in your house, Malfoy. We already know your dad's fun hobby is to collect them and slip them into first year's rucksacks."

Draco clenched his jaw. He tried to remember he wasn't in Hogwarts, and these two idiots weren't on the Quidditch pitch. They were both highly-praised Aurors and could easily throw him in Azkaban for no reason.

"How would I know what my father was getting up to when I was twelve years old?"

"How would I know what we'll find in your house?" Weasley snapped back.

"Ron—enough." Harry demanded, giving him a stern look. "Our intention is to work together, not bring up old grievances." He turned to Draco. "Are you willing to help us?"

Draco was silent. He shot Weasley a nasty look before replying.

"No."

XXX

"You ready?" Harry asked Hermione.

They were standing over the pensieve. In Harry's hand was a small vial with shimmering blue light inside it—Hermione's memory. Hermione watched the glow emanating from the vial; it was beautiful.

"Yes." she answered simply, and Harry carefully used his wand to send the glowing blue string of light into the pensieve.

"3, 2…1," Harry counted.

It was night. Hermione was helping Neville and Ron carry the seriously injured Professor Sprout into the Great Hall. Hermione was more of a hinderance than anything, and she stepped aside as Neville more firmly took the Professor by the arm with Ron on the opposite side.

Hermione watched herself watching Ron as he walked away. She remembered this moment. She had felt so proud of his bravery. Hermione felt her chest swell up with the long forgotten memory of his love, his loyalty, his selflessness, and how safe she had felt with him then.

Hermione was jolted out of her revery when she felt Harry touch her shoulder. "Look," he motioned, "You're heading back outside."

Hermione followed herself. She was exiting the castle.

It was a strangely chilly night for May. Hermione slowly approached the main entrance, and saw many familiar faces on her way—some dead, some alive and tending to the wounded. At a distance she saw Flitwick and McGonagall using magic to tightly bind surviving Death Eaters so they could later stand trial. Hermione watched from afar as gleaming ropes of red and blue entwined the silhouette of a man.

She walked closer. She was close enough to hear their voices now. She called out to them, "Professors!"

But they didn't hear her. McGonagall was attempting to pull a figure away from a masked Death Eater lying face down in the mud. The person was screaming hysterically. Her hood fell and revealed her to be a woman with a pale face and dark hair. Her face was twisted in such agony, Hermione felt her heart twinge for her.

"Please, please, no! Let me stay here, let me stay with him, please!" she begged, sobbing uncontrollably. "He's all I have, he's all I have!"

McGonagall was having trouble holding the woman, who was clawing at her in order to return to the Death Eater on the ground. Hermione was about to run to McGonagall's aid when she successfully bound the woman in a tight full body bind jinx. The woman continued to cry with her face pointed to the night sky. Flitwick was turning the dead Death Eater over, and was starting to remove his mask when McGonagall called for help.

"Filius!" She called urgently, "Please help me transport this woman to the infirmary!"

Flitwick left the Death Eater masked and rushed quickly to McGonagall's aid. Hermione followed after them, entranced by the crying woman.

The memory started to fade.

"Damn it!" Harry shouted. They were back in his office.

Hermione touched her face—it was wet. She had been crying.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she started, but he quickly interrupted her.

"Nonsense, Hermione. You did nothing wrong." He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it so hard Hermione was worried he'd pull out a great chunk, "Just a few more seconds and we would've known who she was crying over!"

"She never said his name." Hermione stated, extremely disappointed.

"Do you mind if I keep the memory for a while, Hermione?" Harry asked suddenly, "Maybe if I can examine it a little closer I'll find some kind of clue… something to tell me who either of them are."

Hermione nodded her assent.

They sat silently for a few moments, until Harry stood up to make her some tea.

"No, thank you, Harry, I really should get going," Hermione stood, "I still have a lot of research to do. We're nowhere close to figuring out how this poison was made."

"Erm... Hermione. I wanted to ask you... Is Malfoy giving you a hard time?" Harry asked, carefully avoiding Hermione's eyes.

"You feel guilty sticking me with him, don't you?"

"Yeah." he admitted plainly.

"He's alright," Hermione shrugged, "I mean we argue some times, but mostly we just do our work."

"He hasn't tried anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well—" Harry shifted, clearly uncomfortable, "Ron said he saw the two of you holding each other… something about you being wet—"

"Harry!"

"I know! I know! Just—just tell me you're alright." Harry finished lamely, attempting to conceal his tight anxiety.

Hermione considered yelling at him. It was technically Harry's fault she was being forced to do this. Plus, she was miffed Ron had repeated the embarrassing encounter at the lift to Harry, and who knows who else. She briefly considered obliviating them both.

"Really, Harry. I'm fine. You know I can take care of myself." she reassured, and that seemed to satisfy him.

"Yeah," he agreed, grinning, "but if you want help taking care of him, you know where to find me."

XXX