The Kindest Curse

by Quillusion

Chapter 3

Diagon Alley was moderately crowded with early weekend shoppers when Hermione arrived at The Leaky Cauldron on Friday afternoon. She had come a few minutes early to allow time for browsing the markdown shelves at Flourish and Blotts, but something made her pause as she stood in the brick archway behind the pub, staring out into the busy street beyond. Turning around, she walked back into the dark, cozy interior of the pub, up to the bar, and purchased a butterbeer. She sat at the bar for a few minutes, sipping it; one never knew what sort of fortification might be needful when on the way to meet Lucius Malfoy, and she rather thought something would be better than nothing. Especially after the nightmares she'd been having.

Malfoy was not in front of the store when she arrived- granted, she was still fifteen minutes early- so Hermione stepped inside to get out of the cold, throwing back the hood of her cloak and sighing with relief at the warmth of the store's interior. She quickly found a rack of newly reduced books a few aisles removed from both the clerk's counter and the front door of the shop, and settled to browse while she waited.

She leafed through several of the volumes idly, taking comfort in the familiar smell of paper and leather, the various feel of gilded page-edges and soft, shaggy cut paper ends beneath her fingers. She only seriously warmed to her perusal when she found a reference on lock-hexes and their local variants. It was a good book, if old, and she decided to purchase it while she waited. She set the book carefully on top of its fellows while she dug for her coin purse, only to see it fall to the floor a moment later when a harried store employee shoved the contents of the entire stack to one side to make room for a new armload of books.

Hermione sighed. It had been that sort of day. She leaned down to retrieve the book from the floor, but it wasn't there. It must have slid across the carpet and under the table behind her.

But a quick check beneath the table showed only worn carpet. The book was nowhere in sight. Then another customer passed on the other side of the table, a cloak's hem sweeping into view and blocking most of the light. When the cloak did not continue past the table, she stood up again.

"Pardon me, sir," she began, and then stopped.

Lucius Malfoy was standing on the other side of the table, his cool grey gaze meeting hers with calm amusement. His cloak was sparkled with snowflakes, and he was holding her book in his left hand.

"Miss Granger," he said cordially, studying her for the slightest fraction of a second before holding her book out to her. "I believe this is yours."

Accio, you idiot girl, she thought to herself fleetingly, hearing an echo of Ron's voice from nearly two decades past: Are you, or are you not, a witch? Sometimes she forgot that even simple things could be made easier with a wand.

"Not at present, but it will be shortly, Mr. Malfoy," she replied smoothly, knowing from long years' experience- and more than a little practice- that her calm tone would give away none of the ambivalence she felt about seeing this man again. Stepping easily around the table, she took the book from him with her left hand, then held her right out in greeting. "It has been a long time," she said, feeling the weight of the understatement lie heavily on her tongue.

To her surprise, rather than shaking her hand, he saluted it in the old-fashioned manner that had always seemed so proper and chivalrous in theory- and which had a decidedly more intimate air than a handshake in practice. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, although his lips did not actually touch her hand; he was not the sort to do anything like this incorrectly. Given the inclement weather of December, the sensation was pleasant, even if it did send a shiver skimming down her spine that owed nothing to the temperature.

"Indeed," Malfoy replied, a hint of irony in his cultured voice. "A very long time." The briefest tightening around his eyes suggested that perhaps he was recalling, as she had, that their last conversation had consisted almost entirely of a hex hurled at Lord Voldemort in the burning wreckage of the Dark Lord's home. Malfoy was just as soft-spoken as she remembered, the command in his voice springing not from the volume of the order, but from the compelling force of the will behind it.

She gestured to the shop's interior with the book in her hand. "Did you need anything from Flourish and Blott's, Mr. Malfoy? I was just about to make a purchase."

He inclined his head. "They are holding a book for me." Moving toward the counter, he drew out a small leather bag and caught the attention of the clerks.

A smiling young woman came to help Hermione, glancing out of the corner of her eye at Lucius as he spoke to the second clerk in a low voice. Hermione paid for her book and then studied Lucius as he leaned against the counter.

He hadn't changed much, at least physically, with the passage of eight years; if anything, he looked better. Although that might have been nothing more than the absence of his formerly habitual sneer. He still had the same face, the same physique, and- part of her was secretly relieved to see it- the same luxuriantly long silver-blond hair, currently tied in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. She chuckled inwardly; as frightening and loathsome a figure as he had been to her in her school years, she had always envied him- and Draco- that beautiful spill of moonlight hair. She would have been sad to find he'd cut it all off, no matter the reason.

The clerk had gone into the storeroom for a moment after speaking to Lucius, and now he returned with a small parcel wrapped tidily in green paper. Malfoy paid the clerk, thanked him, collected his book, and turned to meet Hermione's gaze.

"Hungry, Miss Granger?"

She smiled. "Intellectually and gastronomically," she replied, and went ahead of him toward the door when he gestured for her to do so. Something about having a moment to study him without his direct observation had settled her nerves and let her shake off the unbalancing effect of his sudden appearance. That was twice he'd done that to her, and this time had definitely brought back memories of the first time. And the recent resurgence of her recurring nightmares was not helping matters.

When they were standing in the foyer of the bookshop, Hermione paused to put her gloves back on and pull up the hood of her cloak. With a sudden jolt of memory, she realized that they were now standing in the very spot where they had first met, all those years ago when Lucius and Arthur had very nearly gotten into a fight in front of their children. She'd loathed him then with the ignorant confidence of a child; now she felt toward him an adult's fear and uncertainty, an ambivalence born in the discrepancy between word and deed, between nightmare and memory.

Whatever else had changed with the years, he certainly seemed to have decided to accord Hermione the respect due her as a powerful witch. He was waiting for her with a patience she would not have expected from him, even though she was standing still with her gloves half-on and her expression as vacant as Ron's had been, that long-ago day when they had first met. She shook her head and pulled her hood up, not looking at him, not admitting she was afraid she'd see a mocking expression on his face at the recollection of the naive girl she'd been that day.

They stepped out into Diagon Alley, and Hermione noticed that it was snowing again. She turned to look at Lucius, for she did not know where they would be eating.

"This way," he said cordially, gesturing down the street. "I've reserved a table at Berley's." When he offered her his arm for support- for the street was slick- she hesitated only the merest fraction of a second before taking it.

They moved carefully through the snow, and Lucius paused once to look up into the sky. "This is going to stick," he commented; already the sidewalk was thick with snow, and it had only been snowing in earnest for half an hour. Hermione glanced up as well, and nodded.

"Probably. It would be nice to have a white Christmas."

A soft laugh surprised her, and she looked over at him to find him brushing snowflakes from his lashes. "Ticklish," he said deprecatingly by way of explanation, and she laughed too, then. Whoever would have thought a Death Eater- former or otherwise- would be prone to something as innocent as ticklishness?

She could have reminded him that Impervius would keep the snowflakes off of his face, but she decided that she liked him laughing and ticklish. It was unexpected, and that was refreshing. Besides- he might remind her that Accio was often used to retrieve lost items. She still felt a bit silly at having been caught rummaging on her hands and knees for a dropped book.

The restaurant lay just ahead, golden pools of light falling from its front windows onto the accumulating snow on the sidewalk. Lucius held the door for her, and once she'd shaken the snow from her cloak in the front hall, one of the restaurant's staff took it from her to hang it in the cloak room. He took Lucius's as well, and the maitre d' smiled at them as he led them to a small table in a cozy alcove beside a fountain ringed with palm trees. It was quiet, and private, and Hermione knew that Lucius must dine here often to have his wishes so well known and heeded.

They pursued small talk until the wine had been poured and their orders taken. Lucius enquired about Harry and Ron; while he knew they were playing Quidditch for England, he didn't know what they had made of themselves otherwise, and so she told him about Harry's son and Ron's daughter. She also mentioned their spouses, for neither of them had married classmates from Hogwarts; Harry's wife Deirdre was Irish, and Ron's wife Cassandra had gone to Salem Academy in the United States after living her childhood two years at a time in six states. As she talked, Hermione noted with surprise that Malfoy genuinely seemed interested in what she had to say.

"I'm surprised you're interested in what happened to the Boy Who Lived and his best friends," she remarked as the waiter brought their salads. "I don't presume to know what the last decade has been like for you, but given what I read in the papers back then, I suppose I had expected you to find Harry and Ron- and myself- either an unpleasant reminder of the past, or a persistent irritation to you."

He raised an eyebrow at her directness, but his smile was not forced. "As you said in your letter, Miss Granger- the world, and all the people in it, are living things that constantly change. I imagine it will surprise you to hear that I have followed your career over the years."

Her expression said as much, and he went on. "You piqued my interest, you see- and I can hardly label you as a... er... 'persistent irritation' when you saved my life." His expression sobered a bit. "There were very few witches or wizards in Britain- or anywhere else- who could have done what we did that night at the Dark Lord's manor."

It was Hermione's turn to raise an eyebrow. He mentioned it so easily, and yet she'd been dancing around the issue in her mind all night. All week, if she was honest with herself. She'd never talked to anyone about everything that had happened that night, nor had she said any more about it than had been required for the debriefing. She found herself suddenly wondering what he remembered about it, and if it was much different from what she recalled. She was vaguely tempted to ask him; he was, after all, the only other person who could really understand anything she had to say about it- even if it was odd to hear Lucius Malfoy include her in his concept of a 'we'.

"Meaning?" she prompted.

"Meaning it would normally have taken three or four people at least to exile the demon from his own home." He paused, considered her seriously. "If it had been anyone but you I ran into that night, I would be dead, and the war would have gone far differently. You possess considerable raw magical power, Miss Granger. I doubt you knew it that night- but something tells me you've discovered as much in the intervening years."

Hermione wondered if he had considered that, had she not run into him, she too would most likely be dead; few, if any, of the Aurors who had gone on that mission had had the sort of power she had sensed in Lucius that night. Perhaps that was why she hadn't fully considered the matter herself; it was rather galling to owe her life to this man. She supposed he must have felt something similar, at least once upon a time.

"I see no point in denying it," she said simply in reply. Honesty compelled her to add, "Although I think you underestimate your own contribution that night. Urgency is a powerful motivator."

He snorted. "Urgency? Come now, Miss Granger." His voice was soft, his words plain. "It was desperation and you and I both know it." She could not quite suppress her incredulity, and she knew he would be able to read it in her face; she'd never heard Lucius Malfoy snort before, let alone follow it up with a self-deprecating remark. Despite herself, she felt her own curiosity piqued. He must want something very badly to strive so hard to put her at her ease.

She turned the conversation into less unsettling waters by asking politely after Draco, and Lucius informed her in clipped tones that her classmate had moved to Austria for a five-year business venture with Fleur Delacoeur's family. He hadn't been home in over a year, and was busy enough that his correspondence was intermittent at best.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, and Lucius shrugged.

"He has his own life to live," he replied, his gaze focused on his wineglass, his voice remote. She gracefully let the subject drop, wondering why it struck such a nerve with him. There was more there than met the eye, but she hardly had the right to pry further.

Their food arrived, and they ate in relative silence, enjoying the excellent cuisine. Hermione had not had risotto in ages, and the rich, subtle flavors melted on her tongue so delightfully that she found herself eating more slowly than usual, just to savor it. Lucius had some sort of complicated pork dish that involved Morel mushrooms, and he, too, was paying most of his attention to the meal.

Dessert- or, more accurately, the wine that was served with dessert- prompted a discussion of the book Lucius had purchased, which was a manual on charms for vintners. It seemed that, in the last few years, Malfoy had found the remains of one of his forebears' vineyard on one of his French properties, and decided to rebuild it. He'd had some success, but was hoping to learn a bit more about grape vines before he took things any further.

Hermione, a bit of an oenophile herself, was delighted to hear that the older grape varieties his ancestors had grown were still extant, albeit grown a bit wild; the wines from the Malfoy vineyards of the 1700s were revered among collectors, and she knew better than to think she'd ever taste them on her budget. Unlike Muggle wines, wizarding wines were spelled during fermentation to prevent the deterioration of their components, so even a white wine from 1860 retained its virtues. With such a lifespan, wines could continue to increase in value over the lives of several owners. The current price of a bottle of Chateau Malfoy Grand Cuvée 1699 would pay the operating costs of Hogwarts for over a year.

When the coffee had at last arrived, Hermione sat back with a small groan. "Shouldn't have eaten the cheesecake," she said, and smiled. "But the wine was marvelous."

Lucius nodded in agreement, pushing his own chair back a bit. "Overeating is not good as a trend- but every once in a while, it reminds you of why moderation is such a good idea." He smiled at her, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. Carefully raising her guard so as not to let him know she'd done so, she leaned forward on the table again.

"So." She smiled conspiratorially. What can have brought the head of one of Britain's most noble wizarding houses to invite a Muggleborn cursecracker to dinner?"

Lucius smiled back, and this time there was a hint of his former steely determination in the expression. "Well might you ask." He reached into a pocket of his robes and drew out an old black book, its cover torn, its pages wrinkled with repeated wetting and drying. "I don't doubt you remember this."

Hermione stared at it in surprise for a moment. "Tom Riddle's diary," she said.

"Yes," he confirmed, laying it down between them on the table, leaning forward so that his soft murmurs would reach her ears only. "One volume of several, in fact. Voldemort was always vain enough to want to preserve his thoughts for posterity." He studied the book for a moment, and Hermione considered his words. She'd never heard him say the Dark Lord's name before.

"I have destroyed the six other volumes in the series, and this one no longer contains any residue from his personality. Mr. Potter saw to that quite effectively." He paused, and the subtle shifting of his jaw reminded her very sharply of the predatory creature he was beneath all the manners. "But there are others."

"Others?" she echoed, not liking the ominous sound of the word.

"Oh, not diaries, you understand- but he secreted bits of himself here, there, wherever he could, as if stashing embers and coals from which he could rekindle the flame of his life at need. Much as he nearly did with this diary. I need not explain to you how dangerous these remnants are- nor how vital it is that they be found and destroyed."

"Why haven't you told the Ministry about this?" Hermione asked quietly, not wanting him to think she was accusing him of anything. He'd cooperated fully with the Ministry after the ill-fated raid attempt, after all- even if she didn't really know why.

His laugh was harsh. "I did tell them," he protested. "They didn't quite believe me." His tone was light but derisive, and she knew there was at least a little real bitterness beneath it. "I find it ironic that they accepted without question every bit of good news I gave them, and doubted the bad news I thought they would most expect to hear from me." He shrugged fatalistically, sipping once more from his wineglass as Hermione stared at him in dismay.

Lucius smiled at her consternation. "Oh, they made a brief search, to be sure- but even with the information I had, they wouldn't have known which were the dangerous items among the things they searched, and they wouldn't let me near enough to any of it to be of any use myself. When they didn't find anything obvious, they told me that would be an end to the matter." He studied the remnants of the wine in his glass, then set it back on the table.

"I had no intention of mooning after them like a paranoid lunatic, so I let them think I was content to leave the decisions to them. I was fortunate enough to come to an agreement with the Ministry that left me my freedom, and once things had settled down after the war I set out to deal with the matter myself. It has taken me nearly all of the past decade, but I have now destroyed thirty-one items which had contained residual traces of Voldemort's personality and life force."

"And how many remain?" asked Hermione slowly.

Lucius smiled, and there was just a hint of satisfaction in the curve of his mouth.

"One. I have devised a tracking spell that will tell me if any trace of Voldemort remains in this world, and it indicates that there is only one item left to be destroyed."

"What exactly is it?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you that here."

She blinked. "They why did you ask me to meet you here?"

"Because I needed to know if you would even agree to hear me out. Given my... given the past, I didn't think you would feel comfortable coming to my home." His left eyebrow arched meaningfully, and she knew he hadn't needed to guess on that point.

"What can you tell me, then?" she asked simply.

"The object in question is difficult to reach, for reasons which will become clear to you. It is quite heavily guarded by Muggle security, which makes studying the thing challenging- but even beyond that, it is protected with powerful wards. Old wards. None of the other items I have destroyed were even half so well protected, which makes me think that this particular one has more of him in it than any of the others; given the strength of the protective spells, perhaps more than all the others combined." He paused, his expression unreadable. "I think you see my point."

Hermione considered this, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Yes," she said, but he could hear the unspoken 'but' in her tone.

He wisely remained silent.

She raised her eyes to his again, cool confidence firmly in place. "I must know what this object is," she said.

He glanced about them, his expression clearly indicating his unwillingness.

"I assume you wish my help in breaking the wards and enchantments upon this object?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I cannot agree to help you, Mr. Malfoy, until I know the full extent of the job you wish me to do," she said simply. "If I can form a professional opinion from what you've already said, the inherent power of the object itself could potentially complicate matters, above and beyond any Muggle security issues. If we are dealing with a curse laid by Voldemort, this is going to be a difficult task at best; if the object itself has any power, it will be exponentially difficult. Perhaps beyond my skills."

Lucius smiled grimly. "Oh, the curse was at least in part laid by Voldemort," he said softly. "And as for inherent power... "

He did not continue, and Hermione leaned forward a bit more, the first faint stirrings of unease forming in the back of her mind. Lucius Malfoy was not a man easily unsettled.

"Mr. Malfoy... tell me. What is it that you have to destroy?"

He rose from his seat, came to stand beside her. He paused for a moment, as if making certain of his choice, and then leaned down to put his lips right beside her ear.

She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin again, smelled the faint, rich spice of him, and when he spoke, his voice was a soft murmur barely above a whisper.

"The Hope Diamond."

One minute passed in complete silence.

Inherent power, indeed. No wonder Malfoy was so worried.

When at last she could move, Hermione looked up at Lucius, the old fears twisting into her bloodstream like the first tendrils of smoke from a blossoming fire. The thought of Voldemort reborn from such a potent talisman formed a cold, heavy lump of dread in her stomach. If any project you've ever been handed was worth doing, this is it, she thought.

"We've got our work cut out for us," she observed mildly.

Lucius turned to catch the waiter's eye. "Check, please!"