There can be no high civility without a deep morality, though it may not always call itself by that name. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Draco gave the hub of the shower another tap, and the torrent of water above him slowed to a faint drip, echoing hollowly along the tile. He wrapped a large deep blue towel around his midsection and walked over to the mirror, clearing away the steamy film clinging to it with a savage swipe of his hand. He inhaled a cloud of warm fog and ran a hand through his damp hair.
He stared critically at his reflection, cocking his head slightly. Being on the run…not the best thing for his complexion…Merlin—were those circles under his eyes! Arrg… Unable to bear the thought any longer, he turned away from the mirror huffily. He picked up his wand from the bathroom counter and conjured some underclothes. Silk…not bad…but he felt cheap—he infinitely preferred store-bought clothes…conjuring his own made him feel tacky. And poor. God, what if he turned into Weasley? Then again, Granger did seem to prefer the company of the financially deficient bastard… Maybe he could sneak out and buy some clothes when Potter and Granger weren't looking…
He pushed open the door and stepped out into one of the bedrooms, inhaling sharply as the cool air broke upon his damp skin. Then he jumped again, though it was quite unrelated to the air temperature.
Granger was sitting on the bed.
"Merlin and Agrippa, woman—what the hell are you doing in here?" he choked, trying to regain his composure.
"I wanted to talk to you," she said evenly, looking extremely unperturbed.
"Well, could you wait—until I was dressed, perhaps?" he said, annoyed.
"I brought you some clothes," she said, gesturing to the garments lying on the bed next to her. "You got blood on the other ones and I threw them away. Anyway—I wanted to talk to you without Harry and Ron around; all of you tend to get a little on edge in each other's company."
"Of the three of you, you are the only one who has slapped me across the face—so I really don't see how that makes you impartial…" he pointed out. Then he grinned. "You wanted to see me half dressed, then?" He held his arms out, showing off, what was in his opinion, an incredibly manly and ever-so-desirable physique. It never failed to make Hogwarts girls swoon.
"Oh, get over yourself," she said exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. Damn her! Why didn't she swoon? Everyone swooned at the sight of his bare chest! She did however, blush slightly and look away. Ha. Never fails. "And put on some clothes so we can talk like…civilized people."
Draco critically surveyed the clothes. "I can't wear that," he said, rather horror stricken.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Merlin's ghost—black and BROWN? I didn't know you hated me that much Granger—ugh—it's horrid—I can't put those on together—it's a travesty—"
"Oh, for goodness sake!" She threw up her hands. "Fine. Wear something else. I don't care at all." Draco charmed the shirt, changing the color. To black, of course. The charm ought to last long enough for him to find new clothes. She looked away discreetly while he dressed.
"OK," he said.
"Here. Harry said you ran into some Dementors on the way back here." She tossed him a bar of Honeydukes chocolate.
"Where did you get this?" he inquired, turning it over in his hands as if checking for some sign of tampering.
"From Lupin's old room…it was stashed in a drawer," she shrugged. "Honestly, the way he goes through the stuff…I think that man would be as big as Slughorn by now if not for the lycanthropy…" Draco regarded the chocolate with a fresh wave of suspicion. "Oh, just eat it Malfoy—I haven't poisoned the chocolate!"
"Yes—but—half-breed…what if it's infested with fleas?" he inquired in a whiney voice. She glared at him. "Mmm…" Somewhat cowed, he peeled back the wrapper and bit off a chunk of chocolate. "Delicious, delicious chocolate…" The warmth that the shower had failed to return to him crept back slowly into his veins.
"So…" he said slowly, sitting down on the bed next to her. "What exactly did you want to talk about?"
"You kissed me," she said bluntly.
He raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I did. But I've kissed a lot of girls," he pointed out truthfully. "Want to know how you stack up? Or—" He smirked. "Hoping for another go?" He leaned closer to her. "They say third time's the charm."
She scooted backwards slightly, whipping out her wand and leveling it at his face. "Third time—is going to be a curse if you don't watch yourself, Malfoy." He moved away from her, his expression neutral. He certainly didn't want her to think he was disappointed about not being able to touch her disgusting, Muggle-born, know-it-all self. Especially when he wasn't entirely sure if he was disappointed or not himself.
She dropped her wand and turned away, staring at the ground and sighing. "I wanted to apologize."
"For what?" he said, bewildered. "For the clothes? They were awful—but it's really not your fault you have no taste—I mean—look at the company you keep—"
"That's not what I was talking about," she said, clenching her jaw for a moment before regaining her composure. "It's about the kiss. Kisses, actually—plural. I'm very sorry."
"Oh, come now, Granger," he said honestly. "You weren't that bad at all."
She looked as if she was struggling not to roll her eyes. "I shouldn't have done that—it was wrong of me…"
"If I recall," said Draco, swallowing another lump of chocolate before speaking. "I was the one kissing you, thank you very much." Some masculine part of his brain was indeed, screaming at him to take credit for his 'conquests.' Whatever that meant.
"And I let you," she said, looking sorrowful again. "You're very upset right now. With—your mother's death—" Draco nearly bit his tongue on the next piece of chocolate. "—and everything happening so fast—" She sighed. "You were upset. And not thinking straight. And just because I happened to be there—I don't want to make you more confused…"
Well, she wasn't doing a good job of it. Draco was definitely more confused now. And a little bit angry. What? He wasn't attractive? He was in fact, very attractive—it was one of the key elements of his existence.
"So what?" he blurted out. "You think I'm all upset and so I've run off kissing whoever comes along because I'm a confused, troubled youth? Oh, please."
"Basically," she said. He opened his mouth to object. "Look—back in the cave you were almost hysterical—"
"Malfoys do not get hysterical," he protested indignantly.
"You told me you felt horrible—that you wanted to hate me and you couldn't—and you were trying to get rid of the Dark Mark by scratching it off—which was not at all a pleasant sight—you were crying for Merlin's sakes…"
"Well, I was obviously hysterical," murmured Draco, paling. His stomach dropped slightly…he only had vague recollections of the events she was talking about…he did not like that…she clearly was holding some kind of advantage over him…knowing things about him…how awful…
"So what do you want?" he demanded finally. "Blackmail? Is that what this is about?"
She looked taken aback. "Why on earth would I want to blackmail you, you loon?" He pondered this for a moment. It hadn't really occurred to him that knowing deeply personal, embarrassing information about someone else could serve any purpose other than extortion of some kind…
"I don't know…what do you want?"
"I wanted to apologize," she said diplomatically. "To start anew. Things have changed—you've helped us and we've helped you—maybe we could start over—and forget what a nasty little berk you are and get along like civilized people."
"Pity?" he said coldly. "You feel sorry for me, is that it? 'Oh poor, Malfoy—he's all alone and his Mummy's gone, whatever will he do? Maybe if I pity his poor pathetic soul, I can redeem him from his nasty, nasty ways—' "
"Malfoy—"
"What— is it the S. P. W. D. M.—Society for the Promotion of the Welfare of Draco Malfoy, then? Going to make badges? I'm not a bloody house elf or a charity case for you to—"
"Stop that," she said sharply. "I'm not offering pity, and I'm fairly sure that no matter what I do you'll still be as nasty as ever." She drew herself up to full height—unafraid, as always, considering herself his equal, despite her blood, that was what had always annoyed him about her— "What I'm offering you, Malfoy, is friendship." She held out her hand. "Nothing more, nothing less."
He stared at her. Friendship? Honestly. Was she doing all in her power to make him puke? She stared back at him evenly, her face placid, a half smile on her face. He looked appraisingly at her hand.
"Verbal contract, then?" He crossed his arms. "Well I think I'd like to know exactly what such a contract entails before mixing myself up in one. We Malfoys are shrewd business people after all. How do you think we got so rich?"
Granger dropped her hand slightly. "If I had to guess—I'd say centuries worth of burning and pillaging Muggle villages."
"Good guess," he congratulated her. "Nasty bunch, you know."
"You don't really want to be like them."
He glared at her. "How do you know?" he demanded accusingly. "My family has a proud heritage stretching back across a millennia—"
"And you were so proud, weren't you?" Her hand was back down at her side now, and she stood slowly, staring at him with flashing eyes. "Strutting about the school. But you tried it yourself—you finally put your money where your big mouth is and you came up short changed—you couldn't walk the walk...you're all talk…"
"You think you could mix a few more metaphors into that little tirade, Granger? I thought you liked to read," he said lazily, though he squirmed internally under her piercing gaze. "Well? I thought we were reviewing the terms of our contract, not discussing my family history."
"Friendship," she clarified in that scholarly, knowing tone she always used in class when she knew an answer. In other words—all the time. It was rather annoying. "Be nice to each other. Share things—memories, problems, feelings..."
He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You are kidding—right?" he said disbelievingly, curling his lip in disgust.
"Oh fine," she conceded exasperatedly. "We'll try to get along without resorting to physical violence. How's that? And who knows—maybe—someday—we'll actually be able to talk without the first thing coming out of your mouth being some kind of verbal abuse."
"Fine," he heard himself say. WHAT? DID HE JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD? "I'll give you civility, then, Granger, nothing more." He took her hand and shook it. "Just as long as you don't try to dress me again."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied, smiling serenely. She flicked her wand. Something floated over from the dresser and dropped in Draco's lap. He looked at it. It was a book.
" 'To Kill a Mockingbird'?" He read, cocking his head. "What the hell is this? Muggle rubbish?"
"It's not rubbish—it's a book."
"And?"
"You should read it."
"Why should I read it?" he demanded, which he thought was a rather excellent question.
"You said—and I quote—'If we get out of this, I'll read a goddamn book every day.' To which, I replied—that I would hold you to that."
"Nngh…" was all he could manage.
"If you choose not to, I understand, but—" She went to grab for the book, but he snatched it away.
"I said I would do it, and I'll do it." His eyes flashed. "I do not go back on my word. Ever."
"OK," she said, now smiling. Her brown eyes twinkled. Ugh. Twinkling eyes. Such an irritating quality. "If you can't finish it in one day, I understand…you don't read that often…"
"I never said that!" he snapped.
"Fine," she said. "Maybe you can finish it in one day."
"Yeah. Maybe I will."
"Fine."
"Great."
She stood up and walked out of the room without another word. Draco cracked open the book. Where the hell was "Maycomb"?
000
Hermione walked down the hall, feeling considerably less guilty. Poor Malfoy. Even though he was still an ass…maybe she would make those badges just to spite him…ha! She slipped into her room, which was farther down the hall, and pulled a scrap of dress robe out of her pocket. She had torn it off the cuff when she noticed the blood stains on it. She held it up to the light and stared at it, frowning slightly. Malfoy and his pure blood. It didn't look very exciting to her—just like regular blood. Only now it was dark and rather crusty. She wrinkled her nose, and stuffed it into her bag and out of sight. Definitely might have its…uses…some day.
She continued to the stairs, hopping down off the last stair and stepping into the living room. Harry and Ron were engaged in a game of—big surprise—chess.
Ron was winning.
Hermione watched in silence for a few minutes, tilting her head and wincing silently as Harry fell right into one of Ron's traps. She had learned through experience that people did not appreciate her advice while they were trying to play their own game, however abysmally they might be failing on their own.
She whirled around as she heard a faint click on the window. A honey colored owl was fluttering madly against the glass. Hermione dashed over and pushed it open. The owl hurtled in and made a few swoops around the room before doing an impressive aerial dive towards Harry's face, nearly knocking him out of his chair.
The letter the owl was carrying had a rather official looking seal on it. Hermione tilted her head to get a better look. It was from the Ministry of Magic. Harry tore it open and scanned it quickly. Then he rolled his eyes, tossed the letter onto the chessboard, and summoned a quill and parchment from the desk across the room.
"Harry, what is that?" Hermione strode over to the chess board and picked up the letter without asking further permission. "Is it from the Ministry?" She unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Mr. Potter,
I hope this letter finds you well. I want to say again how very sorry we are for your loss—we all know how very close you were to Albus Dumbledore. And, as we both well know, if there was anything that Dumbledore valued—it was cooperation. So, we here at the Ministry sincerely hope that you will give our offer another thought. With the dramatic increase in Death Eater related violence as of late, your support could only aid in the fight against You-Know-Who.
Oh—and Mafalda Hopkirk informed me that she has reason to suspect you broke the Restriction on Underage Wizardry several times while at your Aunt and Uncle's house. Just a reminder that you will be expelled if found guilty!
Please get back to us as soon as possible. Remember—your support means a great deal to our cause.
Sincerely,
Rufus Scrimgeour
Minister of Magic
Hermione gasped at the letter. "Honestly Harry—" she said. "How many of these have you gotten?"
"Six," replied Harry cheerily. He was bent over a piece of parchment, scribbling something that was probably a reply. After a few moments, he leaned back and appraised his work, looking satisfied. Hermione set the Minister's Letter on the chess board in front of Ron and tipped her head so she could read Harry's reply.
Dear Minister,
Sod you, sod the Ministry. I'm not going back to school anyway, so you can quit threatening to expel me. You know very well that I'm not doing magic just to amuse myself, and it won't matter in a few days anyway. I'm going to keep doing what Dumbledore wanted me to do, so sorry to be rude, but sod off.
Sincerely, Harry J. Potter
PS: Released Stan Shunpike yet?
Hermione was so mortified it took her a moment to form words.
"Harry!" she said finally, her hands immediately flying to her hips.
"What?" asked Harry, looking bewildered. She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes fell to Ron, who had the Minister's letter crunched in his fist, and was staring at it, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.
"Ron, what are you doing?" she inquired, turning her Hands-On-The-Hips! Disciplinary stance towards him.
"Trying to light this letter on fire," he said, exhaling as if he had been holding his breath while her concentrated on the letter.
"Without your wand?" said Hermione. Really now.
"Harry can do it," protested Ron.
"Harry can only do it when he's really angry," she snapped back.
"I can be angry!" said Ron defiantly.
"Yes, but you don't have quite the same quality of boundless rage," said Hermione, gesturing with her hand.
"I do have boundless quantities of rage," Harry agreed, nodding.
"Ah, well," sighed Ron. He tossed the letter into the fireplace, where it burst into flames, and smiled cheerfully. Hermione turned around to see Harry stand up, holding his hand out towards the owl still perched on the windowsill.
"Oh, no, Harry," said Hermione, burying her face in her hands. "That letter is awful, you can't possibly send it —"
"What did you say, Hermione?" inquired Harry innocently, turning around from his spot at the window. Hermione raised her head to see the owl soar off into the distance, Harry's letter fluttering at its leg.
"Never mind," she moaned, burying her head again. Harry trotted over and sat back down across from Ron, to continue their game. They both looked immensely pleased with themselves. Hermione flopped down on the couch near to them and picked up a book.
"Checkmate," said Ron, smirking.
"Dammit," said Harry, frowning. "I thought I had you that time."
"No one takes down the master," said Ron, grinning. He leaned back and stretched lazily, raising his arms above his head. Hermione had her neck craned over a book, though she was mucking through it rather slowly—in the past fifteen minutes she had only read about 40 pages. She was ruing…over that stupid letter. What was Harry thinking!
Her eyes flicked towards Ron's reclining form, though she didn't lift her head. He had gotten so…tall—over the summer. He had a few inches on Harry, and at least half a foot on Malfoy, and well—he towered over her, in her personal opinion. His shirt pulled in just the right places as he stretched, his blue eyes sparkling above his bright smile…
'Oh, stop it,' she scolded herself, feeling her face go hot. Ron didn't seem like he's going to figure it anytime soon. Why she should she torture herself like this? It was ridiculous. Then again—she had been torturing herself like this for the past six years. Why stop now? Krum was boring, McLaggen was a pig, Malfoy was just temporary insanity (he was such a bastard…most of the time, who would want to be caught up in something like that? The very thought terrified her more than she liked), Harry was like a brother to her (and Ginny a sister, so that didn't help much) and then…there was Ron. Her best friend. How long did she have to wait around for him? How long, darn it? She had only gone out with McLaggen, and even Krum to some extent—to make him jealous. And he was jealous. Wildly jealous. Hysterically jealous! But that's all he was. Jealous! HE JUST NEVER ACTED ON IT! He was so thick! It was so frustrating! She scowled.
"Hermione's thinking about the letter you sent to the Minister, Harry," Ron informed him candidly. Hermione's head snapped up, to see Ron gazing at her, smiling. "Hermione, don't rue over it all day, it's not going to matter at all. Scrimgeour is just a git."
"Yes, thank you Ron, I realize that," she said haughtily. "And I have not been ruing over it." That was only a partial lie, after all.
Ron looked at the ceiling. "Did Malfoy drown in the shower or something?"
"Don't get my hopes up," sighed Harry, his head resting on one of his hands.
"No, he's upstairs reading," said Hermione truthfully.
"Reading what?" said Ron. " 'How to Repay the Kindness of Others with Betrayal?' or maybe my personal favorite—'Really Evil Plans and the Really Evil Wizards Who Came Up with Them'—"
" 'Perfect Hair Management for the Bigoted Girl—I mean—Git," chimed in Harry, an identical and quite diabolical grin on his face.
Hermione had to fight to repress a grin. "Well, he's not here is he? I should think you'd both be happy about that."
Both boys shrugged. Hermione jumped slightly as the clock chimed. The previous owner of the house had set the clock to emit an eerie wailing noise as it sounded every hour, but Mrs. Weasley had reengineered it to chime a tune Hermione could now identify as 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.' To be perfectly honest, she might have preferred the screeching. She looked up at the clock face. It was eight o'clock.
"One more day," said Harry quietly.
"Until we walk into a trap," piped up Ron, crossing his arms sullenly.
"We don't know it's a trap," pointed out Hermione fairly.
"Yes we do," Ron retorted stubbornly. "It said it right there in the note—'Dear Harry, Come here so I can kill you, Love Slimeball. PS: In case you haven't figured it out yet, this is a trap.'"
"We don't have to go, you know," said Hermione tentatively, looking at Harry.
"Oh, no." Harry's eyes glittered darkly in the firelight. "I want to."
"To be honest—I'd like another crack at him, too," said Ron, nodding.
Hermione looked between the two boys—(well—they were really more like men now), and frowned. "I agree with Ron," she said quietly.
"You want another crack at Snape?" asked Ron brightly, looking impressed.
"No—I mean—not that I don't—" She shook her head. "I agree that it's a trap."
"Ahh," said Harry, leaning back in his chair.
"Yeah—" agreed Ron. "He could be waiting with all his nasty friends to ambush us or something—"
"He doesn't have any friends," Harry stated bluntly.
"True," said Hermione, setting her book down next to her and folding her hands in her lap. "But he has allies. Or at least he used to. Maybe…we should call for—er—'backup'—" she suggested, unable to come up with a word that did not make her feel like she was caught up in a Muggle police drama.
"He's a horrible nasty git," Ron informed them, as if they didn't already know. "Speaking of horrible nasty gits—are we dragging Malfoy along?" he inquired.
Harry tilted his head slightly, as he was prone to do when pondering something. "I don't know. I don't want to bring the cup along to Snape's though, and I don't exactly want to leave him alone here with it…we could hide it, I suppose."
"He'd find it," said Hermione matter of factly. "Besides, he might be useful. We could use more wands on our side…"
"But if we bring him he might team up with Snape and try to kill us—two against three aren't great odds compared to three or four against one—"
"He won't," said Hermione. "Why would he ally with Snape? Snape, as far as we know, is allied with Voldemort—" Harry exhaled sharply, making an angry hissing noise. "—and Voldemort was trying to kill him last time we checked. It's just not smart. He's a Malfoy. He's allied with you, Harry, because right now you're the one with power. Power offers protection. I don't know how far he'll go—but he's not going to betray you to Snape. Not right now."
Harry blushed slightly as she gave him her appraisal. He was always so tentative about any sort of praise. But it was true! He had power—rather a lot of it—whether he knew it or not. He didn't boast about it like say—Malfoy, for one? But he had a quiet intensity that was staggering if one paid the right attention to it.
Ron looked dubious. "I don't know…"
"It's just not smart," Hermione countered, shaking her head. "He may be a lot of things—bigoted, pigheaded, rude, vindictive, petty, irritating—but he isn't stupid."
"Why thank you, Granger," drawled a cold voice from the corner of the room. Malfoy was leaning casually against the doorframe of the living room where they were sitting, smirking slightly. "From that staggeringly flattering portrayal, I can't only assume you were talking about me."
"Why yes," said Harry, politely returning his grin. "We were discussing whether or not we should kill you."
"Actually—we were past that," said Ron solemnly. "We were discussing where we should dump the body."
Malfoy seemed slightly tensed by their threats, but he hid it rather well, and plopped down onto a chair near Ron. Hermione couldn't exactly blame him for being nervous. After all—the verdict was still sort of out on whether or not the three of them would end up killing each other. "There's a good spot on the North Bank of the Thames," he informed them, casually examining his nails. He turned to Ron, who looked rather stricken, and gave him a cat-like smile. "Not that I would know anything about it."
"Tomorrow, Malfoy, we're going to see Snape at—" began Harry.
"Spinner's End," finished Malfoy. He rested his chin on a curled fist and quirked his head. "Gosh—the fun never stops with you three, does it?"
"Nope," said Harry, standing up, and moving towards the fireplace. "And congratulations, you're coming along."
"Oh, goody," replied Malfoy darkly. "I'll just cancel all my plans and pencil in 'walk blindly into trap, following morons.'"
See? Even Malfoy thought it might possibly probably most likely be a trap. Hermione looked at Harry.
"Harry, mate, what are you doing?" Ron stood up as well.
"Hermione is right," said Harry, taking the vase of Floo powder off from the mantle. "We should have…backup."
"You mean the Order?"
"Not all of them, things will get too complicated," said Harry, shaking his head, "We just need a few more wands—someone trustworthy who won't ask too many questions." He took the vase of Floo Powder off the mantle and gathered a handful of fine grey dust in his fist. He called out an address, and plunged his head into the flames.
Hermione imagined that it was her Muggle heritage that had predisposed her to the sudden alarm that she often felt at the sight of someone diving into a fireplace. She was confident that one day the sight of someone with their head engulfed in flames would no longer fill her with the urgent desire to call the fire brigade.
A few moments later, Harry pulled backwards, now sitting a few feet away from the fireplace with his forearms resting on his knees. He was smiling.
"Alright," he said in satisfaction. "We have backup."
"Who—" began Hermione, but the flames roared again and a figure stepped out into the room. He straightened up, brushed the dust off his shabby robes and smiled.
"Hello," said Lupin, looking genuinely pleased to see them.
"Hello, Remus," said Harry. The flames roared again, and another figure tumbled out, in what was very nearly a whirling, pink-colored somersault. She looked as though she would have sprawled right on the floor, but Lupin caught her deftly around the waist with one arm and pulled her casually into an upright position. He seemed as though he had a bit of practice in this exercise. Tonks responded to the contents of the room with an equally bright smile.
"Wotcher, Harry, Ron, Hermione—" Her eyes fell on Malfoy, and her smile faded. "And…you…" she finished, with quite a bit less enthusiasm.
Malfoy curled his lip, looking at them both disdainfully. "Hooray," he said dully. "We're saved."
"Hello, Draco," said Lupin, looking at Malfoy—not unkindly, but with more shrewdness than was usually present in his gaze.
"Mmm…" said Malfoy in response, folding his arms and gazing back at Lupin with narrowed eyes.
"Ahem," said Hermione, raising her eyebrows pointedly. A deal was a deal.
Malfoy looked at her, sighed, and then looked back at Lupin. "Yes, it's lovely to see you again, Professor," he grumbled, not looking at him, voice dripping with sarcasm. He stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go check myself for fleas..."
Lupin looked skyward briefly, as if searching for patience. Not that he seemed to need it. You know. Ever. Harry, Ron, and Tonks all glared at his retreating back, but it was Hermione who serenely flicked her wand as soon as he was out of sight.
"Granger!" Malfoy screamed from what was probably his room. "Granger, you bitch! PURPLE IS NOT MY NATURAL HAIR COLOR!"
Hermione flicked her wand again, and there was a loud slam as Malfoy's door shut in what she sincerely hoped was his face. She turned, satisfied, to see everyone else in the room looking considerably happier.
Lupin looked exasperatedly up at the spot where Draco's voice had been emanating from. "Er—Hermione—that was probably unnecessary…" he said, smiling apologetically.
Hermione turned slightly pink.
"Yeah," said Ron, looking at her and grinning mischievously. "But it was fun, wasn't it?" Hermione met his eyes and smiled back, though she noticed her face did not immediately return to its normal hue.
"So," said Tonks, looking around at them. "What's this 'invitation' you all got?"
The three of them exchanged glances. Harry held his hands up. "Erm—why don't we go in the kitchen and…talk things over?"
000
It was a Muggle village.
The sun was sinking slowly, casting deep pink and red shadows over the grey gloom of the small houses clustered against the hillsides. It was so old the streets were cobbled, and worn dull from years of use. The werewolf had suggested they Floo to a nearby town and Apparate onto the road, so they could walk to the house without being caught at unawares. Everyone had agreed that this was a brilliant plan—and even Draco had to agree that it had its merits—but he was still annoyed.
This place made him uncomfortable. Why Snape would live in this Muggle…dunghill… was beyond him. It seemed to reek of Muggle failure, as if something powerful and promising had come here to die.
As they passed by, a dim street lamp glanced off of the bright pink head of the tart having a fling with the werewolf. It contrasted sharply with the bleak atmosphere around them, and clashed even worse with the orange top she was wearing. How she could stand to be seen in such a horrid outfit was beyond him—but then again, judging from her choice in boyfriends, her taste was obviously sorely lacking.
She and the half-breed were waking in front of him, close, but not holding hands, talking in low voices and occasionally smiling weakly. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were walking in front, looking wary.
Draco's eyes scanned the edges of the street. The hills sloped quickly into dark, dense tangles of trees. He glanced around him suspiciously. Every crackle of a twig could be someone watching them, every rustle of the leaves could be one of the Dark Lord's servants, waiting to ambush them. Every pair of glowing, flickering animal eyes in the forest could be an Auror, waiting to attack.
Or perhaps he had just spent too much time around his Aunt Bella, learning to be paranoid.
000
Spinner's End had the classic look of a small English town decaying slowly in the wake of the industrial boom of hundreds of years ago. It was fitting, she supposed, that Snape should leave in a place that was a drab and depressing as he was. And it was a Muggle village. Had he lived here as a child? Was this his father's house? What had happened to his parents? Were they alive somewhere?
Hermione skipped ahead a few paces, finding that she was lagging slightly behind Ron and Harry.
She looked behind her. Lupin and Tonks were behind them, talking quietly to each other. They were the right people for Harry to go to, she thought with satisfaction, quite proud of him. An Auror and a…an experienced teacher…erm…mentor…person. Who was good in a fight, it seemed. After all—he had survived this long. Oh, that was a rather depressing comparison.
Malfoy trailed along behind them, his eyes sweeping across the woods with an air of cautious alertness.
He claimed to have finished the entire book she had given him. Well—she would see about that. She made a mental note to quiz him mercilessly later, to see if he was telling the truth.
"There it is," said Ron. They came to a halt in front of a small, dark house, quite similar to all the others around it. A candle flickered in the corner of one of the grubby windows. Upon seeing it, Hermione knew that his parents hadn't set foot in that house in ages, provided either of them still possessed feet or bodies at all. He lived there alone, just like he lived his life alone, and he obviously had no intent on changing that.
Severus Snape kept no man's counsel.
Apparently, not even Dumbledore's.
The six of them had clustered together, staring up at the house.
"Best to keep alert," instructed Tonks. "Attack can come from any side." She sounded like she was delivering a very cheerful version of Moody's 'CONSTANT VIGILENCE!' tirade. She looked pointedly at Harry, who accepted the transfer with only a moment of fleeting uncertainty.
"Right," said Harry, nodding. "Eyes open, wands out." He pulled out his own wand as if to demonstrate, speaking to the crowd like he was preparing them for a Quidditch match. "Keep close together."
With one swift, harsh look at the front of the house, Harry strode boldly forward towards the door, everyone else followed quickly in his wake.
000
The musty house looked like a library. Granger would probably be happy, but as he glanced over at her she looked pale and somewhat uneasy.
The house was horrid. It was small, and it looked as though it hadn't seen a house-elf's broom several decades. Draco's eyes scanned along the wall, following the line of dusty tomes to a high backed chair in front of a low burning fireplace.
Sitting in the chair, clothed in black robes, staring at them with a cool expression on his face, was Snape.
000
"Oh, look," said Snape, his black eyes falling on Lupin as he examined the assembled crowd. There was a rather nasty smile on his face. "I see you brought the whole…menagerie."
Lupin frowned slightly—his usual response to insults from Snape it seemed—but something flashed briefly in his eyes. Tonks coughed loudly into her hand, not so covertly instructing Snape to do something very rude and anatomically improbable with his wand.
Snape glared at her with narrowed eyes. "Sorry," she said sweetly. "I think I have a bit of a cough."
Hermione heard Draco snicker in the background. She lifted her wand a little higher, tensing her shoulders to feel the warm, solid forms of her friends standing shoulder to shoulder with her.
She glanced over the tip of her wand, which was aimed right between his eyes. The dying embers of the fire cast faint, reddish shadows that danced and shifted slowly across the dark room.
His white hands were folded in his lap, lip curling, staring back at forth between Harry and Lupin as if he were trying to decide which one of them deserved more of his ire. That was another bonus to bringing Lupin along. He seemed to act as a buffer for Snape's hatred, and he was far less likely to flip out and start hysterically firing curses into the air when insulted—as opposed to say…Harry.
Lupin was staring at Snape with a drawn expression, a slight frown—but otherwise calm and unreadable. Still, for a moment, there was something dark and almost cold flickering in his usually kind eyes. It disappeared quickly. He was still staring at Snape as though he had never seen him before.
000
Snape's wand was sitting on a small, polished mahogany end table next to him—not out of reach, but entirely in easy access. Draco estimated that he could probably curse him before he reached for it. If he felt threatened, that is.
"Charming," said Snape, staring at the pink haired girl as though she were something he had scraped out of the bottom of a cauldron. His eyes swept the room, appraising the half dozen wands pointed at him. "Though I think perhaps such a show of force was uncalled for."
Weasley snorted. "Really? Because I think this is awfully nice of us. We should have cursed you the minute we walked in the door."
"Be quiet, Mr. Weasley," responded Snape.
Weasley, much to Draco's amusement, fell silent as though they were back in school, and Snape had just threatened him with detention.
Draco snickered. "Honestly, Weasel—he's not your teacher anymore. You can tell him to shove it, if it strikes your fancy," he pointed out.
"Hey—" A look of pleased comprehension crossed his face. "You're right." He turned to Snape. "Don't tell me what to do, you great greasy troll-faced arse-headed—"
"I think that's enough, Ron," said the werewolf quietly, not taking his eyes off Snape. There was something very calculated about the way Lupin was aiming his wand at his current opponent. He had the stance of a seasoned fighter that the would-be Auror next to him didn't seem to have entirely matched. His father's associates were the same way; he recognized it well.
Weasley had fallen silent, obviously still open to the advice of the werewolf. "You know—he's not your teacher anymore either…"
"Shut up!" said the Golden Trio in unison, turning around and glaring at him.
000
Hermione fought to keep from fidgeting from nerves. This was a tense situation, with the potential to become highly explosive if they continued behaving like this. Disorder was very dangerous. They should have planned better…
"I suppose it was too much to ask for you to show some discretion, Potter," said Snape lazily, gazing at them. "The Headmaster assumed you would have caught on by now..."
Hermione caught Harry's shirt and gently pulled him backwards. At least he hadn't immediately lunged for Snape's throat.
She noticed that Snape had not said his name…
"Are we alone here?" asked Hermione, finding her voice for the first time.
Snape turned his gaze to her, his black eyes burrowing into hers. She kept calm and flicked her eyes away from him, trying to avoid Leglimency, if possible. She kept her face impassive, hoping that her pale complexion wouldn't betray her nervousness.
"Yes," he said evenly.
"Good," said Harry. He straightened up, and Hermione let go of his shirt. "Why did you ask me to come here? You went though an awful lot of trouble, if you just wanted to kill me."
'If he just wanted to kill you—he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so,' thought Hermione. 'But that doesn't necessarily mean anything…' Snape's eyes flicked towards her, but she looked away haughtily.
"What do you want?" he finished.
"To talk," he said simply. "But I believe you are still too thick to actually trust anything I would have to say to you."
"Are you mad?" Harry let out a short, bitter bark of laughter, then stared at him incredulously. "Am I willing to trust you?" he said, in mock thoughtfulness. "Let me think about this for a moment—NO."
"There are a great many things, Potter," Snape spat, through clenched teeth, "that you do not yet understand."
"Oh," said Harry sarcastically. "And I suppose you—are going to explain to me, huh? Or perhaps you'd rather do what you usually do, stand there sneering at me and then inform me, in the most hateful voice you can muster, that you can't tell me because I am far too young, stupid, and or arrogant to understand? Fine."
Well—he had a point, she supposed…
Snape stared at him through narrowed eyes. After a pause, he began to stand up.
"I wouldn't move, if I were you…" said Lupin. He pressed his lips together tightly, as if to stop himself from saying anymore. Hermione could hear the unspoken word dancing on the tip of his tongue.
Murderer.
Snape straightened the rest of the way up and looked at Lupin.
"If the next thing that comes out of your mouth isn't absolutely polite," said Tonks, smiling. "I'm going to light your head on fire."
"Harsh," said Ron, nodding solemnly, "but fair."
Snape lifted a small box off of the table, and tossed it towards Harry, who caught it effortlessly. He moved to open it, but Hermione stopped him. No surprises. Not yet.
"I will be here, if you wish to contact me," Snape said, his voice toneless.
Harry snorted. "I never want to see your disgusting face again," he snapped back hatefully.
Snape smirked. "You will."
In a smooth, lightning fast motion, Snape snatched his wand off the table and brought it down in a swishing motion in front of him. Half a dozen counter-curses immediately flew towards him—but he hadn't attacked them—he had disappeared.
000
They sat at the table at Grimmauld Place, staring at the tiny box that Snape had thrown to Harry. It looked like it should be a jewelry box. It was square, about the size of her palm, with a skin of crushed black velvet and tiny silver hinges. Harry, taking into consideration the warnings that he should "BE CAREFUL!" slowly opened the box.
It was a jewelry box. Inside was a smooth red pendant on a delicate gold chain. The thin body of a tin, intricately carved golden dragon was wrapped around it.
"Oooh," said Tonks, looking impressed. "Pretty." She waved her wand over it, muttered something, and the tip glowed faintly blue for a moment. "Not a Portkey," she said in satisfaction. "Or cursed. You can touch it if you like." She pushed it towards Harry.
He lifted it carefully out of the box, and examined it, the pendant swinging in the air.
"Yeah…" said Ron slowly. "It's very…erm—shiny. Now why the hell would Snape give you a necklace?"
"He's been carrying around a torch for you for years, Potter," said Malfoy, grinning lazily. "This is the beginning of a beautiful courtship—ow!" He glared at Ron, who had apparently kicked him under the table.
Hermione looked at Lupin, who was silent. This wasn't uncommon, but he seemed paler than usual. His hands were folded in front of his face, resting in front of his nose, and his knuckles were white.
"What is it?" she asked him, curious.
"It's not just a necklace—" he said finally, lowering his hands. "It's got a special spell on it. They're very expensive, and very rare. No two are alike."
Harry examined the necklace as he spoke.
"Isn't that thoughtful?" sneered Malfoy. This time, Hermione kicked him. "Ow! I'm going to have bruises all up my bloody shin, now, thank you very much…"
Lupin spoke again, and Hermione returned her attention to the man who actually had something useful to say.
"There's a special charm on them, so they can't be lost or stolen. They can only be given away voluntarily by the owner."
"So? This was a present from Snape?" asked Ron, looking confused and disgusted. "Eww. And—huh?"
Malfoy looked as though he was considering saying something else snarky, but decided against it for fear of another swift kick to the shins.
"It wasn't his," said Lupin softly. "Not originally. I've seen that necklace before." He clenched his hands together, and he looked down at the tabletop.
"Whose was it?" asked Harry.
Lupin looked up at Harry, and drew a deep breath.
"It was your mother's."
000
AN: Yeah, I'm evil. The "jury" on where Snape's true loyalties lie chased me around my dorm room yesterday, threatening me with bodily harm if I didn't clearly define his position. But I escaped unscathed, and wrote this. Hahaha.
Anyway, sorry about the huge gap between updates. I think I'm going to go back to shorter chapters and more frequent updates.
Thank you all so much for the great feedback!