The second Draco entered his borrowed bedroom, he flopped onto the covers.
His mother would have scolded him. Draco, my dove, your robes are filthy. At least take your shoes off.
But a missing, presumed dead mother couldn't stop Draco from curling up onto the embroidered duvet, his hair tangled and forehead sweaty. He focused on his breathing for a while, trying to ignore the smoky, citrusy scent that the room's previous occupant had somehow buried into its very foundation.
After a few minutes, a knock came at the door. "Mr. Malfoy, I'm off to dinner with a few friends. There's lasagna from the other night in the fridge if you're hungry. You'll be all right by yourself?" Camilla Thistleton, his Ministry-assigned caretaker. More like a babysitter.
Draco found it ironic that she was even bothering to check in on him. She knew just as well as he did that during curfew - which began in two minutes, he observed, looking up at the old framed clock - he was bound by magical wards to remain in the apartment.
A puddle of shadow lay at the foot of the door. She was waiting for a reply.
Draco swallowed the number of vicious responses his mind came up with and said, "Yes."
"Good." The shadow disappeared, the line of golden light once more becoming whole. Draco waited for the sound of the front door closing.
"I need to take a shower," he muttered to himself, but it would be another five minutes before he convinced himself to get off the bed, and another three to take off his clothes - partly because they were still slightly sticky, and partly because his muscles were aching so badly.
Hot water came in a rush on Draco's head, down his back, and for a moment he just stood there, blinking in the deluge, letting the warmth ease the tension in his limbs. "Physical before the magical," Draco said to the showerhead. "Eat bollocks, Potter."
That morning's training, in Draco's opinion, had gone extremely poorly, besides the first punch. Draco couldn't stop himself from grinning as he thought about it, the satisfying crack of his knuckles against Potter's jaw, the horrified look on the prat's face. But losing the fight, and then revealing that his glove trick hadn't worked after all, had been exponentially worse than those first few minutes.
"Venta minutia," Draco had intoned. A small breeze charm. He'd also tried Serpensortia, a Lightning Hex, and Disarming. The last spell had had mild success, with Potter's wand jerking in his hand, but other than that, Draco's wand had proved itself to be utterly useless.
"Just take the gloves off for now," Potter had said, with more than a little impatience.
"No," Draco had replied vehemently.
Looking into the fogged bathroom mirror, Draco ran a comb through his hair, grimacing at every thin strand that came free from his scalp. His father had begun balding a year or so before he died. Was it from stress? Or genetics?
Draco frowned at his reflection. He hoped it wasn't stress. Otherwise, his head would be smooth and shiny by the time Potter was finished with him.
It had been just over an hour since Camilla's departure when Draco knelt in the dark, his wet hair drying against bare shoulders, his wand on a small bench before him.
"Pick it up," Draco said quietly. He shifted his weight, forward, back, heels digging into his backside. "Pick it up, you prat." He envisioned Potter saying the same thing, standing over him with arms folded, green eyes narrowed in irritation.
That did it. Before Draco could have any second thoughts, he picked up his wand - ten inches hawthorn, unicorn hair core, reasonably springy - with clenched fingers.
The voices started up immediately. They began quietly at first, murmurs that Draco could not distinguish. He lifted the wand, mouth dry, trying to think of a good spell. The volume of the voices rose, goadingly, as if taunting him for trying.
Listen to me… Scum, like his father… Let go! Draco, come. Come with me… You're not safe here…
His parents, his professors, his dead classmates, strangers, overlapping in a deluge that came with waves of abject sorrow, fear, shame. Draco stuttered, trying to form an incantation. A simple Summoning spell. "Acc-Acc…" What was he even summoning? He could barely think. He could not feel anything past his own skin.
You could have been great.
A voice, high and cold as ice. Draco gasped without taking in air. How had he ended up here, curled up on the floor, fingers fused to the wood of his wand? Voldemort was a shadow, lurking behind the curtain, beneath the bed. Any moment now, and he would emerge, fully formed, a nightmare dressed in flowing black robes.
"Shut up!" Draco cried, as laughter, joyless laughter, filled his head.
Let her go, damn it!
The strange plea he had heard before. It cut through the rest of the voices, booming along Draco's skull. He wondered, dimly, if the neighbors had heard it too, and as the wand slipped from his fingers, his eyes fluttered closed.
A sharp crack woke Draco with a start. He sat up in pitch black, and panic seized his heart. His mind had finally snapped - something Dark was coming for him.
But as the adrenaline waned and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Draco realized that the voices had stopped, the room was quiet, and the only thing he was in danger of was back problems. Soft popping sounds erupted as he got to his feet. Had he fallen asleep on the carpet?
Draco looked around for a box of matches among the barely familiar shapes of his borrowed bedroom, bumping against furniture more than once with much cursing under his breath. After five minutes of searching the dresser and the nightstand, Draco concluded, belatedly, that matches weren't necessary in an apartment furnished to accommodate magic-users.
Draco was not eager to try casting again, gloves or no. He went instead to the glass French doors, pulling back the heavy curtains that had obscured a better-than-average view of London.
Except now there was something in the way. A storm cloud, crackling with lightning, had somehow sunk low enough to touch the tops of nearby buildings - residential ones, at that, no skyscrapers. It must have been thunder that had woken Draco, and as he realized it, another rumble shook the whole apartment.
He noticed something strange about the cloud - it was a cloud, singular, and more than that, it swirled with an unnatural violet light, as if something glowed within it. Magic.
The French doors gave way none too easily, loudly creaking and complaining as if it had been decades since they were last opened. Which, Draco considered, was perfectly possible. He crept carefully onto the balcony, which extended a bare meter from the apartment building. The volume of the storm had doubled, lightning flickering violently within the cloud, its field of static so strong that Draco felt the fine hairs on his arms stand straight up. He backed away from the metal railing.
"Beta unit, to me!" Draco heard someone shout. He recognized that voice, the warm, deep timbre, the accent clearly from the countryside.
And it occurred to Draco that the same voice had made an appearance in his mind just a few hours ago. Let her go, let her go. It was Ron.
-.-.-.-
Three wizards, clad in the Auror gray, one with a red junior's sash, crowded against the side of an apartment building. Beige brick rubbed roughly against Ron's robes as he crept forward, slowly leading his unit out of the alleyway. The cloud above crackled menacingly. It appeared to be denser than any cloud Ron had ever seen, void-black at the center. Wind whipped through Ron's hair, and bits of newspaper fluttered towards the cloud, as if the very air was drawn in by its gravity. Ron kept a stable footing, wand out and ready for anything, but the cloud's power didn't seem strong enough to be tugging at him or any of his charges.
"Keep an eye out for Potter!" Ron shouted. His own gaze was glued to the sky, large swathes of it lit up by purple lightning.
"There!" Spencer Zhou pointed. Over the top of an old red-brick complex darted a small black shape - Harry on his Fireball, soaring around the cloud, inspecting it from all angles. His flight only lasted a few minutes before he touched down in front of Ron, dismounting gracefully.
"No Dark wizards around, as far as I can tell," Harry said, raising his voice over the roar of wind. "I have my Alphas checking nearby alleys. You're clear here?"
"Clear," Ron affirmed.
Harry suddenly frowned and looked up, towards the building alongside which Ron and his Aurors were taking shelter. "Scratch that," he said. "One Dark wizard. Of sorts."
"'Of sorts?'" Ron repeated curiously. He moved to stand next to his friend and tilted his gaze upwards. Looking down at them, his expression none too pleased, was Draco Malfoy, in a matching set of green silk pajamas - which Ron would have found hilarious under less tense circumstances.
"You have anything to do with this?" Harry called.
"Surround the cloud," Ron told his Aurors. "We'll try finite in a minute." He turned his attention back to Malfoy, whose legendary eye roll was visible even three stories up.
"I can't cast, Potter, remember?" Malfoy wiggled his empty fingers. "I've got no idea what the hell that is."
"He's barred from any magic now, anyways," Ron muttered to Harry. "Past curfew."
"You're telling me it's pure coincidence Malfoy's here?"
"Don't tell me you're going to arrest him."
"I won't waste my time. He was rubbish today," Harry replied matter-of-factly. "Let's carry on." He swiftly mounted his Fireball and kicked off, robes fluttering like mad behind him.
It was hard to direct people in the semidarkness, but Ron got his Aurors to arrange themselves at the four cardinal directions, wands pointed towards the cloud. Together, they chanted a spell-nullifying charm, but nothing budged. If anything, the cloud seemed to grow in size, and Ron felt himself leaning towards it involuntarily. Harry quickly grounded his airborne team.
"Are we going to call it in?" Ron asked him, shouting over the wind.
"To Mysteries?" Harry scowled. "The hell we are. Stand back." He rolled up his sleeves, aimed his wand at the cloud, closed his eyes, and began to chant in Latin.
And then it was gone. Ron had been looking at Harry, but when he glanced up again, the cloud was gone. The sky had once more turned pitch, the only light from the electric streetlamps at ground level.
"That was quick," Ron said, impressed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," Harry replied, his eyes wide in surprise, "Nothing, I didn't even get through a single round-"
"Where's Zhou?" Someone cried - Piper Kosfeld, the junior Auror. "He was just here-"
"Zhou?" Ron looked around sharply, quickly counting heads. Spencer should have towered above the others, but Kosfeld was right. "Did anyone see him leave?"
"He was standing right next to me," Kosfeld said, her voice growing shrill with alarm, "I didn't blink or nothin', he was just-"
"Gone." A heavy feeling of dread settled over Ron like a blanket of shadow. "Harry, how many of those reports mention lightning clouds?"
Harry's brow was crinkled in concentration. "None. But none of those missing people were reported to have disappeared in front of their eyes."
"Not until now, they haven't." Ron stared at the spot that Spencer had been posted. The cobblestones had remained completely undisturbed. "We Apparated here not five minutes ago. Most people are asleep right now. If the rest of the disappearances happened as quickly-"
"The number of witnesses could have easily been zero." Harry rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "But why Spencer?"
"Is he dead?" Piper asked, and Ron's chest grew tight at the question. Spencer Zhou, despite transferring from the Canadian Ministry only a couple of years ago, had become one of his most treasured mentors. He'd been a safety net of sorts. The office would feel cold and empty without him.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Harry said hastily over the Aurors' concerned murmurs. "We'll file a report. Wherever that thing came from… That must be where Spencer's gone. Elsewhere." Even if the brave face he wore was put on, it was enough for the others, who quieted. "Spread out. Do a final search for witnesses or anyone who could have been responsible for this. Alpha north, Beta south. Ron, you stay with me. The rest of you, go."
The Aurors scattered dutifully. Ron and Harry stood in the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, moths whizzing above their heads. Ron kept glancing up at the sky, wondering if the cloud would reappear, but the London atmosphere remained plainly overcast.
A clearing of the throat came from above. "Don't I count as a witness?"
Harry muttered something unintelligible under his breath; Ron guessed it wasn't kind. But Harry was driven by duty first, and that meant hearing Malfoy out. "By all means, come down."
"I can't," Malfoy replied shortly. "If I set foot out the front door, it'll set off all sorts of alarms, and… Well, you're here. I suppose you could catch me. Shall we give it a go?"
"I see your point, Malfoy," Harry called up, shooting Ron an exasperated look. "We'll come to you." He palmed his broom, and together they flew up to the balcony.
-.-.-.-
"I should be grateful that Malfoy was there," said Harry, "Watching."
Hermione laced her fingers. It was a beautifully sunny Friday morning, and she, Harry, and Ron were holed up inside her relatively small office. Despite having been up all night, the Aurors remained on their feet, Ron slumped against the wall and Harry pacing as he finished recounting their midnight mission.
"Oh?" Hermione said, lifting a brow. "What did he see?"
"He had a clear view of all of us on the ground and in the sky. There was enough light from the moon and streetlamps to see by. He said he noticed a moment when us Aurors were preoccupied, talking to each other. But one person glanced up at the cloud. Just for a second." Harry tilted his head upwards, his tired eyes perhaps unknowingly mimicking the expression of the man of which he spoke. "And he was gone. That man was Spencer Zhou."
Ron let out a groan, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Doesn't make any sense!" He cried out softly. "Doesn't make any sense…"
"Ron, come sit, love," Hermione said, nodding to the chairs before her. "Do you want tea?" Her husband silently shook his head.
"It seemed that Malfoy had come to a conclusion," Harry said, folding his arms, "One that I can't also help but come to, which is that-"
"Making eye contact with the display of magic had something to do with Spencer's disappearance," Hermione finished. "Couldn't it just be a coincidence?"
"If it is, then we're back to square one," Harry said grimly.
Sunlight edged its way into the silence, spreading like a pool of gold onto Hermione's beaten-up desk. She watched the light glint along the flaws in the wood, trying to think of something to say that would be comforting, or intelligent, or helpful. But she was just as lost as Harry was.
"I think I'll take that tea now," Ron said thickly, plopping down dejectedly in a chair.
"Sure." Hermione waved her wand, causing her rose-and-gold teaset to tumble gracefully onto the desk. She filled the pot with water, dropped in a chamomile teabag, and set off a Heating Charm.
"Merlin, I don't like this," said Harry, interlacing his fingers behind his neck, "I really don't like this."
"We have to call in Mysteries," Ron muttered numbly.
"Yup."
"Well, go do that, you two," Hermione said, glancing at her wall clock, "Malfoy's due to be here any minute."
"And what fun activities have you got planned?" Harry asked dryly, "Training how not to be a complete prick?"
It was a mark of how much Spencer's disappearance had shaken Ron that he didn't let out so much as a chuckle. Hermione gave Harry the stink-eye. She was fairly certain much of Harry's animosity was put-on, anyhow. "In fact, no. We're doing some field work today, setting up defense and observation stations around London and Bath. Tomorrow, we head up north."
"Bath?" Harry raised his brows appreciatively. "That'll be fun."
"Again, fun isn't quite the goal, but… yes, I suppose it will be interesting." Hermione glanced over worriedly at Ron, who was finishing off his cup of tea in wan silence. "Good luck to you both."
Ron stood, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets, but before he and Harry could leave, the door opened. Malfoy lingered in the doorway, eyes darting between members of the trio. He was dressed well for travel, just as Hermione had asked him to be - in comfortable Muggle clothes, a lightweight navy cloak, and hair plaited out of his face. Something shimmered at his waist - a silver bag that no doubt had an Expansion Charm on it.
"Potter," Malfoy said stiffly. "Weasley."
"Good morning and goodbye," Harry replied with a brusque nod, and together he and Ron slipped out of the room.
"Morning, Malfoy," Hermione said politely, mostly so awkward silence didn't have to ensue.
"Morning."
"Did you eat?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "What are you, my mum?" Then, hastily, because Hermione put on her best glare, he said, "Yes."
"Good. Tea?"
"No, thanks."
"All right." With a tap of her wand, Hermione drained the pot of hot water. She fastened her cloak and tied her hair back with a daisy-patterned scrunchie - a gift from Luna. "Shall we?"
An enormous cloud of steam billowed from the south across the river. Hermione and Malfoy watched it from their perch on the Pulteney Bridge, its rain-stained stone arching gracefully over grayish green water. Muggle pedestrians shuffled back and forth on the carved tiles, wearing sweaters and sunglasses. It was a bright and unseasonably chilly day, the wind whipping stray curls from Hermione's ponytail. Malfoy leaned over the stone railing, watching a tourists' gondola leave a foamy trail on the water's surface.
The London setups had gone exceedingly well, Hermione reflected. She had positioned three groups in London's hotspots - one of them near Big Ben, where Fraycliff's team was preparing to build one of his Apparation enhancers. She and Malfoy had finished early.
Maybe we shouldn't have come here right away. Bath was a beautiful city, to be sure - Hermione had only ever seen it in postcards until now, but they were accurate: blue skies, deeply colored storefronts, gothic spines and arches and cathedral towers. But something felt off to Hermione. It always felt like this in old cities; the magic ran in layers here, each more ancient than the last, centuries of bloodshed and debris poorly covered by sparkly, contemporary enchantments. Hermione resisted the urge to brush off the chill running up her back. She had instincts for a reason. Best to keep her head on a swivel.
Malfoy squinted at the steam cloud. "What is that?"
"It's coming from the geothermal springs, I think." Hermione replied. "Roman baths."
"Oh." Malfoy brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I thought maybe… smoke."
His statement sent a jolt through Hermione's body. There and then, she was able to pinpoint at least one reason why Bath unnerved her. The enormous swathe of steam above the city reminded her strongly of smoke billowing over the Hogwarts castle, battle fires still lit, cinders carrying the scent of death.
Hermione looked at Malfoy's face, stony and pensive, and realized they were both thinking of the same image. It made her feel peculiar, knowing that.
"We have just under an hour until we make contact with the Aurors stationed here," Hermione said with a glance at her watch. "Let's do a quick sweep of the area. Make sure no one's poised to sabotage."
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Who would be?"
Hermione shrugged. "Who knows. It's protocol." In fact, Hermione usually performed a Ministry-grade sweep with little enthusiasm, but today, she executed the wizard-revealing, protection, and auditory blocking spells with deliberation, Malfoy obediently observing.
The spells and visual analysis of their surroundings took all of ten minutes. Hermione leaned against the railing and folded her arms, idly watching Muggle passerby. A moment later, Malfoy mimicked her positioning, and Hermione watched him do it with more than a little interest, wondering if he had done so consciously. Probably not.
A gaggle of sunhatted women, a family with a dark-haired baby in a stroller, and a primly dressed old couple passed in the silence. Hermione was comfortable with waiting quietly, but Malfoy apparently wasn't, for he shifted his weight from one hip to the other and said:
"Why did you agree to take me on?"
Hermione almost asked him what he meant, but she knew. For the second time that day, their thoughts were concurrent, remembering their days at Hogwarts- him teasing her for her teeth and hair, calling her slurs, bringing tears to her eyes. And worse, when Ron and Harry weren't around to defend her, cornering her in the hallway, knocking books out of her hands, breath hot on her face as he asked what a Mudblood like her had to do to get into a school like Hogwarts… If Hermione had been as brave as Ron, Harry, Ginny, or even Luna, she would have come up with a snappy retort and hit Malfoy's retreating backside with a hex. But she hadn't. Because Draco Malfoy had been part of that rare population with the ability to make her feel very, very afraid.
Was he still?
"Granger?" Malfoy said flatly, and with difficulty, Hermione met his eyes. Stones of such pale grey they were almost blue, sitting dead inside a hollowed-out body. There was not a drop of animosity in those eyes. And not a drop, Hermione realized with a small tug of relief, of fear in her own heart. Malfoy held no sway over her anymore.
"I'm not quite sure," Hermione said slowly. "I suppose… part of me making that decision was just me doing my job. I was asked to take on an apprentice. I did."
"Could you have refused me?"
Hermione hesitated, wavering between telling the truth and lying. "Yes." Then, "You want to know why I did not."
"Well, if answering the question makes you uncomfortable, then don't," Malfoy said bluntly. "I just wonder, because…" He let out a sharp sigh. "I was horrible to you in school, Granger. Really."
Hermione stilled. Was this it? Was he finally going to…?
"I'm sorry," Malfoy forced out, in typical stiff Malfoy fashion, "Truly. I don't deserve to have this apprenticeship. I don't even know if I deserve to be free."
"I accept your apology," Hermione said quickly. "And don't be thick. Of course, you deserve to be free. Legally speaking."
"And morally?"
Hermione looked away then, gaze landing on a potted bush of pink daisies. The bridge's length was dotted with them, bright spots against the gray stone.
"Now there's a question you're too uncomfortable to answer," Malfoy said wryly.
"I don't know if I should…" Hermione stopped. A blackish-brown swallowtail butterfly with a thin yellow line crossing its wings had alighted upon a daisy. "Hello, Wells."
Malfoy had already begun talking in her pause. "I get it, Granger. Maybe I'm just looking for someone, anyone to pass judgement upon me, but…" Hermione could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her focus on the butterfly. "Wells? What wells?"
The butterfly floated down towards the pavement, but before it landed on the ground, it twisted and expanded, transforming into a tall, familiar wizard in sunflower yellow robes, xer dreadlocks tied back with a tie-dyed headscarf.
"Dear, I told you," scolded Wells, "Charli is just fine. Charlemagne, if you must."
"All right. Charli, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, Charli, head of International Magical Cooperation. I'm sure you saw xem at the meeting."
"Xem?" Malfoy mumbled and flinched as Charli whirled xer attention towards him.
"You had some interesting things to say about You-Know-Who," Charli recalled, and to this, Malfoy had no reply.
"Why are you here?" Hermione asked. "We were supposed to be meeting-"
"Something's happened," Charli said soberly. "I don't know why I was sent to tell you, but… here you are." Xe held out xer hands, sleeves sliding back to reveal scarred, dark brown arms. "You'd both best come with me."
Malfoy glanced at Hermione, and she recognized that he was deferring to her, waiting for her to give orders. It was rather refreshing.
"It's all right," Hermione assured him, reaching over and grasping one of Charli's hands with her own. "Stick with me."
It was a mark of Malfoy's newfound trust in Hermione that he didn't hesitate to follow suit. Whether that trust was born of professional obligation or genuine understanding, Hermione wasn't sure. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
The three of them Disapparated with a pop.