The Kindest Curse
by Quillusion
Disclaimer: JKR invented them, and she still owns them, but she lets Warner Brothers and several other big fish play with them. I must beg forgiveness in lieu of permission, as I am not worthy. I am also not making any money, or attempting to show disrespect. Quite, quite the contrary.
Rating: If this were a book, it would be in the Fiction section at Barnes and Noble. Any lemony scenes that may or may not emerge (the muse is not telling) will be posted at aff.net or other sites, with an altered version here.
Summary: The war is long since over and has passed from news into history, and Hermione Granger has settled into life as a commercial curse-breaker. But the past resurfaces when someone she has long since forgotten returns, asking for her help in finishing a task left unrecognized and undone by the heroes of the war. Can a curse-breaker's art uncloak the heroes and villains, as well as the secrets of a 300 year old curse?
Author's Note: this story was inspired by the Marriage Law challenge on WIKTT, although it has almost nothing to do with it. I fear it will meet very few of the criteria- if any- for that challenge, but I'm glad for the inspiration the challenge provided, just the same. The challenge itself is absolutely delicious, (as are many of the responses!), but fundamentally it requires a certain amount of suspension of disbelief and willingness to accept uncharacteristic behavior in order to work. Because of my casting choices, I must rely a great deal on the reader's store of these qualities to get through the first few chapters, so I don't want to push my luck. If I do my job right later, it'll all pay off, though. ;-) I've always enjoyed the challenge of keeping characters 'in character' while maneuvering them where I want them to go, but I've no wish to strain your credibility further than good sense will allow. After all, it's all fun and games until someone loses their interest in the story!
Chapter 1
It was snowing.
Hermione Granger only registered the fact when Crookshanks batted a lazy paw at the clumps of snowflakes ticking almost imperceptibly against the windowpane. Looking up at her elderly pet, she caught the expression on his squashed-looking face; indolence always warred with interest in the cat's expression nowadays, though he was too old now to bother with the motivation required to appease his feline curiosity. He was sitting next to the window, effortlessly blocking most of the light from her desk lamp, and he was unlikely to stir until dinnertime from the warm nest he'd made of her favorite cashmere shawl. That would teach her not to hang it up as soon as she came home.
"Pretty, isn't it, Crooks?" she asked, scratching him behind the ears and smiling when he purred with delight. She dropped her quill into the stand in front of her, massaging her tired hands to release the scrivener's palsy that had settled into the muscles. She cast an eye over the letter drying before her, wondering if there were anything she needed to add in a post script before sending it to Fiji, where her parents had opted to spend the winter.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Greetings from wintry Great Brrritain! It's gotten cold out in the last week or two, no surprise there, and I'm sure you and Dad are congratulating yourselves on having had a very good idea indeed. It's about time you enjoyed your retirement, but I do wish I could have joined you for at least a little while while Fall was busy becoming just autumn. It's looking to be another dull November.
I shouldn't say that, really; work is going well, and I'm getting some of the most fascinating cases these days. UnRavel has acquired a reputation for top-notch magical reversal, and between the private sector and the military contracts from the Ministry and the Muggle military, things are picking up and we're doing quite a business. And you thought I'd molder away in an office, Dad! I knew this job would be better than my first one, even if it took a few years of hard work to get things going. I've gotten farther in two years here than I ever did in five with Meers Consulting. I'm certainly reaping the rewards of my effort now, with the clients I've had recently- and I'm finally getting to travel to more interesting places than Brighton for consultations. The work's fascinating, far more than I thought it would be when I started, and I've put all the hard-earned skills of a bookworm triple major to work many times over. I suppose I owe Professor Snape a debt of gratitude for that; I wouldn't have thought to add Arithmancy and Transfigurations to Potions if he hadn't remarked that my overeager tendencies must have finally been petering out if I were only planning one major. I ought to let him know what I've done with his advice, even if he probably wouldn't have classified the remark as 'advice', per se.
Which reminds me- I should tell Bill Weasley that all the tricks he taught me that summer at the Burrow are being applied with conscientious regularity. He'd get a kick out of that. Next time I see him, I'm sure we'll spend hours talking shop; Molly pointed out last week that my job isn't really all that different from Bill's, and she has a point- he just gets the more exotic locations. I suppose he also does more treasure recovery than I do, although now that I think about it, that rather depends on what one considers treasure. The definition is likely different for someone with money and someone without... and for someone with power, and someone without.
I apologize for my cramped penmanship- the furnace is acting up, and my flat is on the cold side these days. The repairman will be coming tomorrow, but for now, I've got Crookshanks and my blankets for warmth, and my hands are cold enough to make writing difficult. Just once, I wish I could be sent to break a curse in Fiji. There aren't many curses laid in Fiji- or in the Caribbean, for that matter. It must be the climate; I suppose it mellows even the bad guys. Oh well- I'm sure Fiji has its own delightful little dark side; it's such a lovely place, though, that I think I'll just let it remain a rosy little perfect paradise in my mind. Why spoil such a beautiful thing with reality?
I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about some of the jobs I've worked on recently in my last letter, but now that matters are settled I can say a little. Last month I removed a concealment charm that had been in place for almost a hundred years, and found a birth certificate. I can't say whose, of course, but that little find had quite a few ramifications, as you can imagine. It all came right in the end, though, and I got a bonus for my trouble. For another client I recovered a treasure map, if you can believe such things exist- no word on the treasure yet, since it's supposedly on an Unplottable island. Maggs is working on decrypting the rest of the map with the directions on it, so I'll keep you posted. Watch the social column for anyone new named the Count of Monte Cristo, just in case.
You asked me once, Dad, what made me choose this career after everything I've been through, with the war and all. I thought a lot about your question, and I think I've finally come up with an answer of sorts. I like having a job where the answers have to be invented- they can't be looked up. I've gotten so good at finding answers in books that it's not a challenge any more; I want to find things that no one else has found and written down. Maybe it's that I want to be the one writing the books now, not the one reading them. Yes, there are times when the answers I find reveal nothing but darkness and horror, just as you said; but there are many times, perhaps a surprising number of them, when the answers lead to closure, enlightenment, joy, peace. In those moments, it's as if I can reclaim a little of what Voldemort stole from us the way I might reclaim a lost jewel or a secret letter. I like that feeling, even if I know it doesn't mean I've erased all the harm the Dark Lord did in his years of power.
Well, Crookshanks is starving, and if I don't feed him soon the RSPCA will have my head on a platter or know the reason for his caterwauling. Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Neville say hello, and of course I miss you both terribly. Once the holidays are over and work is less hectic, I'm hoping to Apparate over in stages for a visit, but it takes time that I don't have at the moment, so I must content myself with these letters. There was a time when I thought it was terribly silly to bother writing a letter when you could simply pick up the phone- but living in the wizarding world has taught me the beauty of sending and receiving mail. Every envelope with that familiar writing on it is precious and welcome, its contents sure to bring delight- unlike the uncertain tidings of a ringing phone. And besides, I no longer grumble about the time difference and the cost of long-distance phone service.
Enjoy your next week in paradise; I miss you!
Love always,
Hermione
She addressed the envelope carefully, then called the small spotted owl that her parents had given her for graduation.
"Here you go, Nicodemus," she said, tying the letter to his ankle. "Do you need something to eat before you go?"
The owl tweaked his head sideways in the odd gesture that Hermione had long since learned to interpret as 'yes', and so she went to the refrigerator and pulled out the large roast beef sandwich she'd bought at the delicatessen down the road. It was far too large for her alone, even if she had bought it for her dinner. Slicing off an owl-sized portion of the sandwich, she cut it up and set it before the owl, and he bolted his meal down with a flurry of feathers. Blinking with sleepy gratitude, the owl turned toward the window and waited for Hermione to open it.
"Take the letter to my parents in Fiji," Hermione instructed, and the owl sighed a little. It was a long trip. "They'll have fresh fish for you," she coaxed, and the bird settled its feathers and spread its wings. Nicodemus did like fish, after all. At least, she thought he did; he'd eaten three quarters of her takeout sushi one night when she'd gone to the door for a moment to accept a parcel from the postman.
When the owl's form had vanished in the distance, Hermione returned to the refrigerator and picked out one of the half- used cans of cat food for Crookshanks. His teeth were sensitive now, and he preferred the softer texture of Muggle cat food to anything else she had found. She put the food into his dish and cast a heating charm on it, then set the fragrantly steaming meal before her cat with a little flourish.
She seated herself at her desk again, picking up the remaining post and sorting through it while she ate her sandwich. Bill, bill, advertisement for carpet cleaning company, bill... credit card offer. She tossed that into the sink and with a casual "Incendio!" the paper combusted and vanished.
Wedding invitation- from her cousin Sherry in Dorsetshire- and a magazine subscription offer, then two more credit card offers. One Incendio did for the latter three. The last few items were catalogs and circulars, and she flipped through them while she finished her meal. Finding nothing she wanted, she put the catalogs in the recycling bin. No sense burning what could be recycled without risk to her credit report.
She was about to move to the couch to enjoy a cup of tea before going to bed, when she remembered the last of her work mail. She had had enough in her box that afternoon that the stack of mail had outlasted her patience with her office mate's loud experiments. Josh Chibbens was working on a cursed safe that would have been straightforward enough, if not for the curse's ability to detect near-breaking and begin to emit ear-piercing shrieks loud enough to rob the curse breaker of consciousness. She'd found Josh on the floor after the first attempt, and after a quick trip to St Mungo's he'd been back at work, as eager as she had ever been to try something new and unknown. Which was laudable, except for the interruption to her concentration.
The first several items were sensitive memos- another Incendio took care of those once they had been read- and then there were a few pieces of correspondence relating to recently completed cases. There was also an invitation to a retirement reception for one of the elder members of the firm, whom she had never met and had only once seen in the hallways. More memos (followed by flashes in the sink), a copy of a requisition that had been approved, two final reports of cases in which she'd been peripherally involved, a notice for a series of seminars to be sponsored by Gringott's in Amsterdam, and she was all but done.
The last piece of mail was heavy in her hand, despite its slender size; it was smaller than the others, and she realized it was personal stationery. Good stationery, to judge by the thick, crisp feel of the paper. Curious, she turned the envelope over and looked at the return address. She had to read it twice to make certain she hadn't misread it.
Lucius Malfoy.
What on earth?
She frowned, studying the envelope and turning it over in her hands. She could think of no reason in this world why Lucius Malfoy would care to address a letter to her. She knew it was his handwriting; she'd seen enough of it during the last stage of the war to be familiar with the clipped script he used for notes and letters. Loathing and gratitude made odd bedfellows, but they were both of them tangled up in the sheets of paper she'd pored over in those last frantic days, carved into her memory with slashes of green ink and sharp penstrokes, preserved in unfading brilliance with her last sight of him, ten years ago.
She hadn't thought of him even once in over eight- and despite herself, she felt a twinge of remorse.
After a long, slow breath, she lifted her letter opener and deftly slid it under the flap of the envelope. The silver blade slit the envelope open with the faintest whisper of tearing fibers, and she slid the folded sheet of paper out and opened it to the light.
Dear Miss Granger,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I am writing to you on a matter of professional interest, although I confess the matter is somewhat delicate and I am reluctant to trust details to paper. Your skills are highly recommended to me by many of my acquaintances- in particular Professor Severus Snape, who paid you the highest compliment of which I believe he is capable when he told me that you were- and I quote- 'less idiotic than anyone else I've ever taught'. Such unguarded praise from this quarter suggests that Severus might actually be fond of you, if such a notion is credible with respect to that particular gentleman. But if adding the approbation of Albus Dumbledore to the list will convince you of my sincerity, then I may tell you that he, too, has recommended I approach you with this particular problem.
I am well aware that this letter has likely come as quite a surprise to you, and that you may have many reasons for not wishing to do business with me, Miss Granger. I cannot blame anyone but myself for that simple truth, and I can only offer you my honest word that the matter which I wish to lay before you should interest you in both a professional and a personal capacity. I shall have to trust that your Gryffindor sense of curiosity will aid my cause and win your agreement.
At five o'clock on Friday the 17th I will wait for you at Flourish and Blott's in Diagon Alley. If you are inclined to forgiveness- or simple curiosity- please meet me there. I should be pleased to discuss the matter over dinner. If you have any questions, or wish to meet at a different time and place, please owl me at the return address above and I will be glad to accommodate you in any way possible.
Sincerely,
L. Malfoy
Hermione reread the letter twice more, scarcely able to believe its civil tone. She'd never in a hundred years thought Lucius Malfoy could be so polite to anyone, least of all her! All the same, it gave her more insight than she'd ever before had into how he'd charmed the rest of the wizarding world. If this was how he behaved to people who held a high place in his esteem, it was a wonder he hadn't become Minster of Magic.
Her intellectual reaction notwithstanding, Hermione's immediate instinct was to burn the letter, to ignore it, or to write a scathing refusal and send it straight through the Floo to his home. She didn't much care for the idea of revisiting the past of which he was such a vivid reminder. Her hand was already gripping the paper in preparation for a savage tear when she forced herself to stop, putting the letter down and folding her hands on top of it.
There was no reason for her to behave this way. Lucius Malfoy was addressing her in her professional capacity, with Albus Dumbledore's and Severus Snape's encouragement. That meant that whatever he wanted to discuss was real, and important. This was likely to be far more interesting than anything currently on her desk at the office, and that was saying something. Returning to her writing desk, she opened a drawer and drew out some of her own professional stationery- she could hardly send common parchment back after the lovely stuff he'd sent to her- and penned a short reply, taking the time to form her letters with more flair than she usually did. Something about his letter had stirred her sense of pride.
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
I confess I was surprised to find your letterhead on my desk, but the contents of your letter did indeed intrigue me. I would be pleased to meet you on the 17th at 5 PM to discuss your situation and determine if I may be of some assistance to you. I look forward to our meeting.
She studied the letter for a moment, thinking. Things looked much different from eight year's calm distance than they had in the immediate aftermath of the war, and she was suddenly aware that, even after the confusing events of the war's climax and aftermath, she'd never stopped to consider the conflicting things he had said and done. She hadn't known what to make of them at the time, and she hadn't had the time to really think about them. Eventually, the necessity of spending her time and energy on other things had become the unquestioning acceptance of old and never-challenged thoughts, and eight years had passed without her realizing it.
But those eight years had not given her any new insight. She still didn't understand him, and that still unsettled her. She didn't trust him, and the old uncertainties rose easily in her mind. She'd ignored him because she hadn't known what to do with him in her mind: leave him a villain in black and white, or accept the shades of grey and wonder if he might be something else, as well.
Perhaps ignoring the matter had been a mistake. After all, she mused, no one- no matter how atrocious their actions- believes they are evil. Before she consigned him permanently to the ranks of lost causes, she ought to hear his side of things, judge for herself what manner of man he was to have done what he did. If Severus Snape had once been given a chance to explain himself and make restitution, it was not for her to deny Lucius Malfoy the same chance.
The thought prompted her to set quill to parchment again.
And may I add, Mr. Malfoy, that I try my best to remember that the world, and the people in it, are living creatures that constantly change. Without that, we would lead dull lives indeed.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
She addressed the envelope neatly and set it aside to take to work in the morning, when she could use a company owl. She didn't want the reply to wait for her own owl to return from Fiji. Setting her teacup in the sink for washing in the morning, she switched off the kitchen light and padded into her bathroom to brush and floss.
Hermione smiled to herself as she settled into bed and waved her wand to turn out the lights; she'd have a longer letter for her parents next week, and a heavier one.
Poor Nicodemus.
A/N: There is, of course, far more to come. Including explanations for Hermione's cryptic musings. This is likely to be a longish fic again- not sure how it will compare to Soul Searching, but my Muse is delighted to have a meal-sized project again instead of just snacks. We'll see how it goes!