Chapter 7

"Well, don't you sound like you have a way with people," Draco raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree, wary of its ant-infested surface.

"And I'm getting this from Draco Malfoy, of all fucking people," Hermione sat cross-legged opposite him, a tired expression on her face. Tired from emotion. Exhausted from trying to figure it out.

"I'd wager I could talk to my best friend somewhat successfully if I tried," he replied coolly, smiling slightly at the agitation building in her body language. "Now we're minus the Weasley testimony."

"We're not. We just have to wait until he… cools down a little," she rebutted, mentioning nothing of her own irritation. "And stop sounding like we're on a cheesy court trial show."

Clearing his throat, Draco simply raised his eyebrows in boredom and disapproval. "I'm just trying to help. You mind following suit?"

"Shut up," she shook her head, disgusted, "just shut up. Don't turn this around on me and my inability to get through to Ron. He's just… mad for whatever reason—a reason I have no desire to figure out—so we can just move on. It's not like Ron killed Harry."

Draco raised an eyebrow in her direction when she'd looked away and studied her agitated form carefully, but decided not to expand on his thoughts.

"Okay," he said finally, earning a surprised look from Hermione as she sharply turned her gaze back. "Who next?"

"I don't know," the brunette replied truthfully. "I—I thought of some Gryffindor who might have been there but I don't know if they'd talk to me, especially with the way Ron reacted. Ginny's also got something in for me. I don't know which of them would even take me seriously." Her tone was fairly neutral as she spoke, but her dull eyes expressed her disappointment in finally feeling the ramifications of closing herself off from her friends. "So… I don't know how much help that would be."

The two fell silent, Hermione idly twirling the folded up parchment that allegedly contained names of her fellow housemates. Slowly, Draco reached forward and caught the parchment between his fingers, carefully removing it from Hermione's grasp as their eyes locked. Her gaze on him was questioning and long and solemn, but it didn't contain any malice, which was almost a compliment. If anything, he felt like she was asking him why he was here, helping her when she was obviously so unglued. It was the most vulnerability she'd ever shown him directly.

"I can do it," he volunteered, looking down at the paper and breaking their gaze. "They may hate me but they'll take me seriously. Or they'll comply just to get me to leave."

Shrugging, Hermione took that as her cue to look away and stare at the calm, cold lake. "I guess."

"You guess?" Draco asked, pocketing the parchment. "If you were any more enthusiastic…"

"If you were any more a pain in my ass," she replied without missing a beat. Getting to her feet, Hermione looked down at him. "Just don't fuck it up."

Smirking, Draco shook his head and wondered who was fiddling with the hot and cold taps on that girl as she walked away. "Aye aye," he chuckled to her retreating back and stood up himself.

That night, Hermione's mind couldn't help but keep her awake. She readjusted her pillow beneath her head more times than she could count. Rolling onto her side with her face resting on her hand, she wondered what she would say to Harry's murderer. For some reason, having Draco Malfoy delegate and help her with the investigation suddenly alerted her to the reality of finally meeting the person that killed Harry. Or people. She couldn't even imagine what she would say; what she would do. Of course, her initial response way back when would have been to kill them with a flick of a wand. It would be that easy and they'd be gone and her heart would heal and birds would chirp and the skies would produce the warm sun out of nowhere.

Now, she knew it wouldn't be that easy. She wanted to avenge Harry's death so badly, but she'd never actually seen a destination in front of her along with these thoughts of vengeance; she'd never seen the finish line and hadn't honestly, if she was true to herself, thought she ever would.

Now, with Malfoy's help, the finish line was visible and the goal was set. They were springing—or maybe he was springing—the operation into action and they were going to find out who killed Harry.

She was scared as she stared out into the dark air. And she hoped she was ready.

Scratching his head, Draco sighed as he saw the familiar red hair pass him in the shadows. Stepping into the flowing crowd, he tapped his target on the shoulder.

"Weasley," he grinned, and then smiled as he saw her frown. "Ginny Weasley."

"Is my name," she nodded, raising an eyebrow at him suspiciously. "Any particular reason you're checking, Malfoy?"

"A little paranoid, are we?"

"I would think you'd be offended if I wasn't," she replied.

He paused. "True, that."

"Is there something you want?" Ginny shifted the books resting on her hip.

"Actually," he guided her aside from the moving bodies migrating to class. "There might be a little something."

The redhead's eyes leveled with Draco's. "Might there?"

Hermione's curls bounced as she dropped into a vacant armchair beside him, pulling down the book in which he seemed engrossed.

"Ginny's been glaring at me all day," she informed him neutrally, before folding her legs under her and sitting back. "I take it you talked to her."

Draco met her eyes briefly before reaching for a bookmark. "Yeah. Bloody waste of time that was, but we can check her off the list."

Shrugging, Hermione watched Draco put the book into his bookbag. "Well, she wasn't exactly my prime suspect. She and Harry were pretty close."

"Yeah, they were mates," Draco rolled his eyes, "plus, she was completely hung up on him. And while ruling her out would be daft, it's just…" he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, "…not her."

"Yeah," Hermione frowned. "What's wrong with you?"

Draco looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, is something wrong? You look…" she paused, "tired."

"Thanks," he grimaced, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, you do."

"Well, I had Quidditch practice which I ditched in favor of interviewing Ginny," he said bitingly, "and I had to practice sometime. Now I remember why I prefer it in the daytime."

Hermione could see the tense, sore muscles of his body unable to relax in his chair as he radiated discomfort and exhaustion. "Oh."

"Yes, oh," Draco replied, standing up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have class. I assume you do as well, or are there special rules for private investigators such as yourself?"

Folding her arms across her chest, Hermione rolled her eyes upward toward his. "I don't know, partner-in-crime; you tell me."

Lowering his face dangerously close to hers, noses almost touching, he made her stomach churn and breath hitch at his near proximity. "No."

Then he left the library and left her sitting and staring in his direction.

"You're on the wrong page," he whispered as he leaned over her shoulder before taking a seat beside her.

If she was surprised at his voice, she didn't show it. Her eyes simply met his in hello and returned to the classwork the professor had written for them to start on the chalkboard.

Draco, in turn, pulled out his own book and started turning the pages to the correct one, before glancing a look at Hermione once more. The white-skied morning was evident as the light from the windows beat down on classroom, silhouetting Hermione's form and highlighting the shine in her loosely pulled-back curls as she sat bent over her work, one leg beneath her.

He couldn't not look.

Feeling someone's eyes on her, Hermione looked up and caught Draco staring at her. Moving her eyes uncertainly to both sides of her, she decided that he was really looking, at length, at her.

"Malfoy."

Receiving no signs that he was alive, she tried again, chancing a look at their oblivious professor, reading in the corner of the room.

"Hey. Malfoy. I know you don't want me to squirt you with something cold and acidic, so snap out of it," she hissed, eyes twinkling amusedly as he started to blink rapidly, regaining control of his sight and motor skills.

"Thanks," he replied, "for taking non-acidic action."

"I have great will-power," she smirked and looked back to her book.

As she looked at the words, she found herself suddenly unable to comprehend their meaning, and instead caught her mind traveling toward thoughts of the boy sitting next to her and their unspoken peace treaty, prohibiting any unplanned or planned assaults or injuries on each other. And what had come of that peace treaty.

"Malfoy," she leaned over discreetly.

"Comma Draco."

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyebrow went up in curiosity, but he did not look up from his assignment. "I don't see a point in stopping you."

Rolling her eyes, she fiddled with the corner of page, folding it back and then unfolding it. "How do you have an ex-fiancée?"

He continued writing for a minute or two before he showed any signs of hearing her question at all. When he did, he dropped his quill, laced his hands behind his back and stretched his sore muscles.

"Why do you care?"

Eyes widening a fraction at the logical yet, somehow, harsh statement, she recoiled and leaned back to her rightful position over her book. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't."

He grinned. "Do you always ask people about stuff you don't care for?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, Hermione hissed, "Constantly."

"Time-consuming habit you've got there, don't you think?"

"So is interacting with wretched little blond mosquitoes named Malfoy."

"Ouch," Draco frowned, "but it least you thought outside the box. I was almost sure there was going to be mention of ferrets."

Dropping her quill, Hermione turned to him. "Well, there's still time."

Grinning contentedly, he stared her down joyfully until she turned away in huff and picked up her quill. Watching her write, he unlinked his fingers and moved to turn the page in his book.

"As long as you don't care about—"

"I don't."

"Ron, we have to go in there," Hermione insisted, reaching for the door knob. "He's miserable."

"He needs some time, Mione," Ron explained as calmly as his nerves would allow. "I think I know my best mate."

"Oh, and I don't?" she challenged, eyes flashing. "We should be in there supporting him and—and giving him less to dwell on. We can't leave him alone in there with his thoughts."

"I know you mean well—"

"There better not be a 'but' floating around after that, Ronald Weasley," Hermione fumed.

"But," Ron pressed on, "Harry was close to Dumbledore—closer than either of us. If you think we took it hard, how do you think he feels? What can we possibly say to make him feel better? He just needs to be alone."

Opening her mouth to refute the redhead's logic, her arguments fell short as she simply pressed her lips together in defeat.

"He'll be fine," Ron promised. His eyes were reassuring and trustworthy and his hand on her arm was warm.

"I really, really hope so, Ron," she whispered, looking down. "I don't even think I'm going to be fine anytime soon."

"We all loved Dumbledore," he offered in explanation. "I still think I'm going to sneak down to the kitchens, get caught by Filch and be dragged to Dumbledore's office where he'll offer me a lemon drop."

They both stood in silence outside the boys' dormitory.

"I thought…" Hermione started, taking an uneven breath. "It's like I never thought he'd die. It just… never occurred to me, you know? God, I sound like the dumbest person in the world, but I never thought we'd be without him one day. I mean I must've known but…"

Ron tilted her chin up with his index finger. "I know what you mean."

Shaking her head in disgust, Hermione looked away. "And it's not because of the stupid war, either. He survived that like he was supposed to and now he just had the nerve to…" She paused, unsure of what word to fill in the blank for her feelings.

"Give up?" Ron offered.

"Let go," she whispered, holding back the tears with force. "It's been almost a bloody year, Ron. Why now?"

The redhead smiled sadly at his friend. "I don't think it was scheduled, Mione."

"Of course it wasn't scheduled. Do you think I'm stupid?" Hermione's eyes flashed, but she wasn't angry at him and he knew it. Letting it pass, he closed the distance between them and enveloped her in his arms, placing a small kiss atop her head.

Pulling back, Hermione looked at the wooden block that separated her from her other best friend. "You really think he'll be okay?"

Ron looked to the door as well. "I do."

She buried her face against Ron's sweater again, retreating back into his embrace. "Good, because I don't know what I think."

Kicking a loose pebble with her foot, Hermione watched the Gryffindor Quidditch team do laps around the pitch from the bleachers, the red blast of hair blurry to her at the speed his broom carried him. Beside her, Draco sat and studiously attended to Potions homework, idly muttering obscenities under his breath about the brunette being crazy and the weather being cruelly arctic.

Hermione's cheeks were rosy from said weather and her face was screwed up into a grimace from the harsh cold wind against her vulnerable skin and from the unjustified feeling of pure betrayal. She kept watching him do his laps and wondered if he was as cold as she was.

Author's Note:

So, okay. When I joked about not updating for another six months, who knew that would turn out to hold much truth? Ha ha... ha? Nobody, okay.

My apologies, and it's not like I was busy or anything. I mean, I'm always busy to a degree but I had time to updated Stranded Pieces and and a little Love Conquers All. I was just kind of stuck on where to go from here on this story.

So, it's really thanks to Priah that I got off my butt (metaphorically, cause when I'm on the computer I'm sitting) and revisited the aspect of this story and its plot. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Beach.