It wasn't so much that Draco Malfoy was no longer wealthy, as he was dirt-stinking poor. Not just three-square-meals-of-ramen-student-poor. For him, meals were battled for against rats the size of dump trucks; warmth came in the form of a trash can fire and the body heat of his fellow unfortunate members of society. His bedroom suite at Malfoy Manor was sorely missed every night he slipped into the makeshift tent of crates on the edges of Muggle London.
Malfoy was sleeping in his domicile behind a vacant pawn shop when a gust a chilly wind stirred him from his fitful sleep. After four months of living on the street, salvation, of sorts, came in the form of a hag. Now, 'hag' is not a term used lightly here. It is not meant to merely describe an unattractive, older woman. In this context, hag is to be taken in the historical sense.
Meaning, the witch who found a sleeping Malfoy on that particularly dreary October morning was really quite hideous. Her body was entirely encased in wrinkles, making it barely recognizable as an example of the human form. Several hundred centuries of life had allowed gravity free reign. The thin layers of skin around her face hung from the bones of her skull, resulting in a lovely set of jowls and several chins. Beady red eyes had sunken into the yellow tinged folds of her face while thin lips revealed half a set of progressively rottener teeth.
The entire look was topped off with a head of hair that appeared to be made out of wire and mud. Needless to say, her robes had seen better days. They seemed to be a mixture of what could have been at some point actual wizarding robes, potato sacks, and upholstery material. The bones of small animals and perhaps humans served as clasps to hold the putrid smelling ensemble together. Even given the low average level of hygiene possessed by other individuals in Malfoy's situation and the filth of this portion of the city in general, the hag stood out.
So, when Malfoy opened his eyes, he figured he was still in the midst of a nightmare. But nightmares were common since his stint in Azkaban and time living on the streets. The wizard simply rolled over in his nest of moldy blankets and worn-out jackets and closed his eyes.
Unfortunately, she was real, and to top it all off, she wasn't all that nice either. Rather than a polite tap on the shoulder to wake him up, she'd chosen the rip-off-the-blanket- and-swift-kick-to-the-ribs approach. This, while it worked, did not endear the hag to Malfoy. A string of not entirely appropriate words flowed from his mouth as he scrambled to his feet. All movement ceased at the wave of her wand and the uttering of a petrification spell.
"Boy, wants ye room and board?" she asked with a fitting gravelly voice. She waited for a response that couldn't come, given the whole frozen state of his body and all. "Let's boogie." She lifted the charm and began to move quickly down the alley. Needless to say, the half-starved and not yet fully awake Malfoy was a bit confused.
"In exchange for what?" he asked skeptically and wrapped his robes tighter around his thin frame.
"Ye shall labor."
"What sort of work?" Suddenly his field of vision was full of nothing but hag face.
"Me thinks he doth question too much. Other wand-less wizards be less talkative, so shut yer pie hole." Even two years after losing his wand, Malfoy still grabbed at where it was supposed to be. It was taken the day he got thrown into Azkaban without even the pretense of a trial and never given back.
Cold, hopeless despair had filled Malfoy's veins for what seemed an eternity when the doors of his cell finally opened one day to reveal a human form. The pink cheeks of the official had seemed completely out of place against the drab, black walls of the wizarding prison.
"Draco Malfoy," the Ministry worker announced as he read from the ledger in his leather-gloved hand. Malfoy merely watched in silence from his decrepit cot. He hadn't spoken in months, which was odd for someone who had spent the majority of his teenage years vocally praising their own qualities on a daily basis. There were no cellmates to impress or harass, Malfoy wasn't even entirely sure he still possessed the ability to talk. Instead, he kept his unblinking, grey eyes on the man in crimson robes, waiting for the ball to drop.
"Incarcerated in Azkaban prison for crimes against humanity two years previous," the man glanced over at Malfoy, waiting affirmation. The blond wizard only nodded, though he felt Azkaban had taken more than two measly years from him. "Your appeals process has reached its conclusion and the Wizengamot has decreed that you are to be released on your own recognizance." A gruff sound escaped Malfoy's mouth, which the Ministry wizard took as a grunt of recognition, and continued with his speech.
"In payment for the atrocities committed by members of the Malfoy and Black families, all assets of said estates have been liquefied to provide reparations. In addition to this, no living member of the Malfoy family is allowed to be in possession of a wand, nor practice magic, until it is agreed upon by the Wizengamot that they are reformed and able to function as proper members of the Wizarding community. Any questionable actions will be strictly disciplined. Do you have any questions?"
Malfoy merely shook his head as he scratched at his beard. Any happiness he had felt over leaving Azkaban was quickly replaced by a renewed seething hatred for the Ministry. They had taken everything, his power, his family, his money, and now his wand.
Which lead to here, standing before a hag, her little red eyes watching him angrily. Suddenly it was apparent that her breath smelled quite fragrantly of sulfur and boiled cabbage. Despite the less than appealing sight of his new employer, it didn't take long for Malfoy to decide that playing servant to a crotchety old witch was better than sleeping in a soggy cardboard box for the winter. He might end up dead in an alleyway either way, at least now he had a chance at a good night's sleep. So, he followed the hag through the dark alleyways, visions of four walls and a ceiling dancing in his head.
-----
When someone says 'archives,' romantic pictures of candlelit stacks, old oaken tables, and cobblestone walls usually fill one's imagination. Unfortunately, the archive that Hermione Granger had reported to for the past four months was nothing of the sort. She stepped out of a rainy October morning into a very institutional setting complete with pale yellow cinderblock walls, fluorescent lights, and metal filing cabinets. And rather than smelling of dust and musty books, it smelled quite a bit like fish. This was to be expected, since it was housed underground in the meat-packing district of Muggle London.
Hermione was the sole Ministry employee stationed at The London Branch of the International Archive of Ingenious Ideas, Innovations, and Inventions. This may seem odd given the items kept by the archive represented the entirety of Muggle and Wizard technology from the beginning of time. Anything that had ever been created in what is present-day England could be found somewhere in the shelves of the expansive, underground London Branch.
The fact was, that while a good deal of the inventions in the Archive were fascinating in either their ingenuity or peculiarity, for every interesting concept there were ten excruciatingly boring ones. Hermione nearly ran screaming the entire way to Scotland the week she had to catalog the different varieties of combs. Working in the Archive was quite possibly the most mind-numbing job a wizard could have. Each day was spent maintaining old items and recording new ones.
It was an exciting day if she received a request for an item. The contents of the Archive were used for any number of things. Hogwarts professors used medieval weapons for history lessons, scientists studied primitive watches to improve time-turners, and researchers checked prophecies with Magic 8 Balls.
Beyond the infrequent floo messages, whoever staffed the Archive was basically left to their own devices. The Archive is usually where the Ministry sent old wizards who refused to retire, but were no longer useful. There, spells gain awry could cause little damage to paper work or delicate new potions. Sometimes the wizards staffing the Archive would retire and it would be weeks before anyone noticed. The Archive was where inventions were sent and for the most part forgotten; the same went for wizards.
That's why Hermione Granger had gladly accepted the position.
"The Archive? What are you talking about?" Neville had asked as he once again scanned the Request for Transfer sheet she had handed him.
"I heard there was an opening, I'd like you to consider me for the position," Hermione replied simply.
"What?" Neville scratched his head. He may have worked his way up in the ranks of the Ministry, but he still retained the unassuming charm of his teenage years.
"I've been employed by the Ministry for several years now in a variety of capacities and believe I've proven my competence in a large majority of them. My work history has prepared me well for the position of Chief Librarian at the London Branch," Hermione continued in her formal address.
"Well, yeah, Hermione that's why I'm so confused. You're one of the Ministry's top employees. You discovered the code that located and translated the Lost Loch Ness Scrolls, you worked on the team to develop the first Dragon Pox vaccine, and Port Key travel has never been more efficient since your improvements."
"I'm glad I was able to help in those situations," her reply was soft as she stared at the paper in Neville's hands. He was clasping it with his left fist while gazing at her in confusion.
"Help? Hermione, you've spear-headed so many improvements within the Ministry, I don't even no where to begin!"
"I hope that will persuade you to approve my transfer," her eyes fell to the ground.
"How could I even consider transferring you? It would be a disservice to the Ministry of Magic to do so!"
"I don't believe the Ministry wants me here anymore than I do," Hermione took a deep breath and regarded Neville with new resolve. He opened his mouth to respond, but remained silent. The Director of Ministry Internal Relations looked at the piece of parchment and then back up at his old friend.
"This is about what happened in the cottage," he finally said, his voice low and solemn.
"Neville, please," Hermione sighed and turned away. "Just sign the transfer."
"Hermione, it's been nearly two years."
"Do you not read the news, Neville?" Hermione scoffed and turned back to the wizard. "Death Eaters are being released because of testimony given on their behalf. I never thought I would regret the day the Wizengamot grew a heart."
"It'll pass."
"The Daily Prophet has already printed a front page article," Hermione's laugh was sharp. "With a picture of me, of course. Please, just sign the transfer."
"You'll hate it there," he shook his head. "You aren't made for the monotony of the Archive. You'll go stir crazy"
"I don't care."
"Yes you do," Neville stood and pointed in frustration at the witch. "You're Hermione Granger, you're a war hero!"
"I don't care."
"No one chooses to work in the Archive. It's just an endless tunnel of useless crap. You'll never see anyone. You'll disappear!"
"Exactly."
Neville signed the transfer in silence and sent the little paper airplane after Hermione on her way out.
Hermione Granger had been reporting faithfully to one of the worst jobs in the Ministry for four months after that day. The Archive was a quick rail ride from her house and a mere tap of her wand on the tank of a toilet in the tube station bathroom. It reminded her eerily of second year, but was grateful for the silence and isolation it offered. She shook the rain from her chin-length curly hair and set off for the thrilling task of dusting pianos.
"Hermione, you have to come, it's New Years," Ginny protested as the two women strolled down the icy streets of London two months later. "Everyone is going to be there."
"Exactly, Ginny." Hermione watched her friend take a drag from her cigarette, and suddenly regretted the decision to quit. "I don't want to deal with 'everyone'."
"Is it because Ron is going to be there?"
"No, Ron and I are fine. We've always been fine," Hermione smiled. "You read too many tabloids, Ginny."
"Is it my fault my best friend has disappeared off the face of the planet and I'm forced to get my information from less-than-reputable sources?" Ginny raised her eyebrows and smiled.
"I haven't disappeared," Hermione replied as she kicked a piece of ice
"When are you going to get over this social phobia thing you've embraced recently?" Ginny flicked the cigarette butt into the snow with a sigh.
"When people stop being morons."
"I guess I'll see you at half past never, then."
"Pretty much."
"You can't let gossip get to you Hermione," Ginny wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulder as they strolled along.
"I should be okay with being called a Death Eater supporter, then?"
"I haven't read that."
"Semantics."
"I think you're reading too much into it."
"I knew there would be backlash when my testimony went public," Hermione savagely kicked at the piece of ice again. The crystals broke against the toe of her boot and sprayed out across the sidewalk. "It's like all you can eat at the sleazy reporter buffet. I just didn't think it would go on six months after the fact."
The first in the marathon series of articles featuring the curly-haired witch had appeared less than two years ago and had been anything but malicious. For once, the Daily Prophet published an article that wasn't a complete fabrication and came close to resembling responsible journalism. It gave the facts: six months after the largest group capture of the war, two months after the complete demise of Voldemort at the hands of The Boy Who Lived, a handful of members from the Ministry and the Order had fallen into an ambush lead by stray Death Eaters.
Until that point Hermione had been a member of the Golden Trio, best friend to the Harry Potter, loving fiancée of Ronald Weasley, and a talented witch in her own right. She was the darling of the wizarding world, loved and adored by young and old alike. She was a war hero and a role model. It seemed she could do no wrong.
It all changed the night of the attack, when a pregnant Hermione Granger stepped into a cottage outside of Stratford brimming with Death Eaters. No one was killed, but many were injured. Seamus Finnegan lost the sight out of his left eye and the hearing in his left ear. Hannah Abbot's right femur was so mangled she now walked with a limp and a false leg. Minerva McGonagall was put in a coma for the next twelve months. Hermione herself was on the receiving end of a powerful Reductor spell. Medics arrived in time to heal the internal bleeding, but there was never a chance of saving the baby.
The public was horrified. After the death of Voldemort the entire magical community had defaulted into their preferred mode of cluelessness and denial. As far as Average Joe Potionmaker was concerned, the war was over, there was nothing to worry about, time to go smell the roses. The vicious attack on society's protectors came as a very unwelcome wake-up call that the horrors of war were not over. But rather than acknowledge the work left to be done, they gobbled up the trash that tabloid reporters fed them. They cared about stories they understood, stories that had quick and easy solutions.
According to the daily rags, Hermione Granger was a horribly irresponsible, reckless wizard. She had led a team of unsuspecting Ministry workers into a blatant trap with no regard for their lives or the life of the child she carried. No matter that none of it was true. No matter that it had been a routine Magical Phenomena Investigation and no one had suspected foul play.
Focusing on one person, however, was far easier than writing about a score of the Dark Lord's followers still on the loose. Besides, writing stories on Death Eaters had lost any flavor a long time ago. Digging up dirt on everyone's favorite little bushy-haired witch was far more invigorating and fun. So, Hermione was no longer the curly-haired princess featured shaking hands with the Minister of Magic or proudly battling masked men. Now, Hermione Granger could do no right.
"Apparently I'm an alcoholic too," Hermione announced as she read from the Daily Prophet a few weeks after her release from hospital. The worst of the shock she felt over the backlash had worn off. She tried to stay optimistic, though going to work was becoming increasingly awkward. As new, more inflammatory articles were published, coworkers had started to stare more blatantly every day.
"Let me see that," Ginny grabbed the paper from her friend's hand and laughed as she read the caption. "It must be a slow news day. That must be a picture from sixth year. I think we're in the Three Broomsticks," Ginny added as she examined the large snap-shot gracing the front page. "It'd be a nice picture of you, minus the bottle of firewhiskey they charmed into the photo of course."
"It's like Rita Skeeter has been reincarnated as a million more annoying and less talented hacks," Hermione shivered and took a sip of her coffee. The two girls giggled and fell into an amiable silence as they finished their breakfast
"Ron's seeing Lavender Brown, again," Ginny added nonchalantly and took a sip of her coffee. The silence quickly became strained and the red-head was finally forced to look across the table. There sat Hermione, frozen mid-sip with a blank look smoothed across her face. Ginny started to apologize, but Hermione interjected.
"You're brother does move fast," she smiled half-heartedly. "But, I couldn't expect him to stick around."
"He loves you, you know," Ginny added solemnly. "More than he could ever love Lavender."
"I asked too much of him."
"He was happy to do it."
"I wonder what the papers will have to say about this development," Hermione's false smile pulled her face taut for a moment. When she stood to leave, Ginny knew not to press the matter further.
Sure enough, within the month, several full color spreads on the matter were published. Hermione and Ginny's personal favorite was about how Hermione's black market hemlock dealing business drove Ron into the arms of another woman. But that was just a gem among many.
The publication of Hermione's testimony and the release of several major Death Eaters nearly a year and a half after the incident had only added fuel to the fire. In the public's eye she was not just an incompetent leader, witch, and mother, she was a Voldemort sympathizer as well. Despite the fact that it was ridiculous, too many members of the wizarding world bought into the lies published by the Daily Prophet. So Hermione had transferred to escape the curious and angry eyes of her co-workers.
Meanwhile, Harry was practically being shoved into the public role of Minister of Magic, though he was far keener on staying an Auror. Ron was having the time of his life ordering students about as the new flying instructor and Quidditch coach at Hogwarts.
Hermione was stuck in a basement sorting candlesticks.
"I'll do my best to make it to New Years," she told Ginny as they prepared to split that chilly winter afternoon.
"It's only going to be people that don't believe a lick of what the Daily Prophet publishes," Ginny assured.
"I'll try," Hermione repeated. "I better get back to work, I'm expecting a floo conference with some Ministry official. Oh the joys of the Archive." Ginny Disapparated with a laugh as Hermione grudgingly headed back to work.
-----
It took Malfoy a grand total of two minutes to realize that along with having her picture printed next to the word 'hideous' in the dictionary, his new landlord was certifiably insane. He had time enough to drop his sack of possessions before the lovely lady, who insisted on being called Lucille, had put him to work. He was currently measuring and cataloging the hag's toenail clippings. A few years ago and Malfoy wouldn't have gone within smelling range of the witch, but after Azkaban, living with dogs, and smelling like their feces his senses had been sufficiently dulled. Now, he quickly placed the gnarled purple toenails in their respective containers without so much as a flinch, especially since his efforts garnered him a hay-filled mattress in a dry room with a fireplace.
His bedroom, though nothing more than a glorified broom closet, was heaven sent after four months of living on the streets and two years of wasting away in Azkaban. After two and a half years he could finally decide for himself what he wanted to eat. No more rifling through garbage cans or sucking down the swill handed out in Azkaban. Lucille gave him money to buy the week's groceries after he finally managed to convince her that despite how fond she was of monkey brains, it really was an acquired taste. Though he put in twenty-hour work days for the past two months, it was worth it to have a dry bed and a full stomach. Even Lucille herself wasn't so bad once he got used to her unique dialect and manic habits. In fact, she was the best company he'd had in over two years. For as mad as she was, she was the smartest person he'd talked with since Hermione Granger had visited him during the first week of his imprisonment.
No one informed Malfoy he had a visitor, but as he listened to the footsteps travel the length of the dank hallway he knew their destination. He could recognize the sharp, quick steps echoing off the stone floor anywhere. So, it was no surprise when the lock on his door slid out of place and in walked Granger. She didn't try to make eye contact with him initially, but busied herself with closing the heavy wooden door. The would-be silence was cut in two by the generous groaning of the hinges. Then she just stood facing the door, her thin hands clutching the handle.
While the initial emotional and physical shock of having been thrown into Azkaban and exposed to the dementors had simmered, he was left feeling as miserable and hopeless as he ever had. Not being in the mood to entertain guests, Malfoy watched in silence from his seat on the cold, hard ground. He had known that she would come, she couldn't keep herself away. She was too nosy for her own good. But he wasn't about to make the first move so he sat silently, his elbows on his knees, waiting.
"I knew this would happen," she finally said after a long, drawn out sigh.
"Well, congratulations," he couldn't help but respond acidly. "I hope you're keeping score, because I gave up a long time ago."
"Did you really think you would get away? When you knew all that we knew?" Granger lifted her head and stared out of the grate in the door. When he didn't respond she finally turned to face him. He had wanted her to be crying, to see red, tear-stained cheeks, but there was nothing. She just looked disappointed. Disappointed and as confused as the last time he had seen her.
"Pansy," Granger ran a hand through her bush of hair. "Why did you kill Pansy?"
"Self-defense," Malfoy gritted out between his teeth. "Not that it is any of your concern." She'd cut her hair. Defined little curls fell to her chin, replacing the mane of impenetrable frizz that had been there for the majority of her life. He hated it.
"It is, you know it is," she said as she stalked towards him.
"Well now you know," he quickly stood, not about to let Granger keep the high ground.
"But you used the killing curse!"
"That's usually the best way to kill someone."
"But why? Why did you have to kill her?" her voice squeaked, which made him smile.
"She was the enemy."
"She was your partner!"
"Odd, given we were on opposing sides and all."
"But you weren't."
"Granger, we've been over this," Malfoy dismissed her with a wave of his hand and headed back to his cot.
"Voldemort killed Narcissa," Granger reported firmly. He paused, but couldn't look back at her. Draco traced the mortar between the stones of his cell with his eyes as Granger fished around in her purse. A few clicks of her heels and she was in front of him, holding out a stack of photos.
"I have proof. Look at the photos, Malfoy," she shook the handful of glossy papers at him.
"No," he turned his angry gaze at her, willing her to leave immediately. She grabbed his wrist and tried to force the pictures into his palm.
"Look at them," she insisted.
"No," he yanked his hand out of her grasp. He could see she was losing her temper. The fingers holding the photos were shaking, but her voice remained strong.
"He lied to you," she stuck the pictures out at him again, obviously anxious. "Look and see. See what he did!"
"No!" he finally snapped, grabbed the stack and threw them across the room. All was silent as the photos floated noiselessly to the floor. He couldn't look at them. Granger couldn't be right. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if she were right.
"How could you believe him?" Granger finally sounded upset. He looked at her and saw her eyes were trimmed in bright red. "You ruined everything." Her voice was soft and broken and hardly audible. Draco couldn't respond. He'd spent so much energy being mad and vengeful there wasn't anything left. There was nothing that could make any of it right. So he stood and waited in silence. He watched Granger physically collect herself and prepare for her next speech.
"I've started your appeals process," she finally said after a long sigh. He couldn't stand it when she sighed like that.
"Don't bother," he spat out caustically, his eyes turning back to the fallen pictures, dreading the information they offered. Silent figures moved about in them, just out of his sight. He wished with every fiber of his being that those photos would disappear.
"You need my help," she placed a hand on his shoulder in a familiar gesture. It was like a switch was flicked on inside of him at those words. Malfoy swatted angrily at her arm and stalked up to her. The look in Granger's eyes showed that she recognized the mistake she made. The crimson in her cheeks drained as she back-pedaled hastily across the room.
"I don't need your help," Malfoy spat. "I will never need your help."
"You don't mean that," Granger shook her head. Malfoy felt his lips curl into a snarl as he took a final step, towering completely over her. Her freckles stood out starkly against her pallid skin, dark lashes outlined red, watery eyes.
"Oh really," he replied bitterly. Granger shook her bushy head again.
"Just look at the pictures and you'll see," Granger pointed across the room. "I'm sure I can figure something out." He couldn't let her explain about how she could save him. He didn't want to hear about how she had been right and how horribly wrong he had been. He wouldn't.
So he kissed her. He rammed his mouth full speed into hers, sending them crashing into the wall. Granger's head bounced off the stone and he smiled as she flinched and moaned in pain. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and bore down on her, teeth clashing, tongue impaling, and lips bruising. Malfoy crushed her small frame against the rock, hoping she could feel every single ridge digging into her spine, hoping it would draw blood, wanting her to suffer.
And then her legs were around his hips, her skirt was at her waist, and she was kissing him back. Granger's fingers dug into his shoulders as she returned his attack with equally violent fervor and he knew he had to stop.
"I'll never need help from a Mudblood slut like you," he whispered harshly into her ear as he ground his pelvis angrily into her center. Malfoy only had a moment to savor the sound of her sharp intake of breath before she pulled a wand out of her sleeve and sent him flying across the room.
Granger was the last person to visit him before his release. All he had to keep him company for the next two years were the rats, pictures of Voldemort torturing and killing his mother over and over again, and infinite regrets.
So, while Malfoy may have been residing with a completely insane witch, and currently responsible for placing vials of toenail clippings in a velvet lined box, he was beyond grateful for no longer being stuck with his demons in Azkaban.
-----
"You're closing the Archive?" Hermione stared blankly at the head of the Ministry official floating in her fireplace.
"No no no, Ms. Granger, quite the opposite," the bearded wizard replied quickly. "We're merely consolidating."
"Meaning what exactly?"
"All the branches on the British Isles are being merged at the new location on the Isle of Mann."
"But why?" Hermione asked, flabbergasted. She was at a loss for words. The last six months had been blissfully quiet and uneventful. Working and being pretty much cut off from the magic community had been everything she had hoped for. While there were still articles featuring her in the Daily Prophet, she didn't have to deal with the curious stares of any coworkers. It was as good as she could expect if she didn't want to cut herself off completely.
"We suspect it will be easier to maintain a single facility," he replied simply. Hermione eyed the wizard suspiciously.
"And why is that?"
"Well, a single location will mean less cost."
"Meaning fewer staff."
"Well, yes."
"Will I be transferred there?"
"That has yet to be decided," the tight-lipped wizard replied. Hermione took a deep breath, knowing she had to hold her temper. Not having dealt with Ministry officials in a few months had left her out of practice when it came to trying politics. "For now, we need you to prepare for the move."
"Pack up the entire Archive."
"After you have cross-referenced everything alphabetically and chronologically."
"What? Chronologically!" Hermione couldn't help the exclamation. "No one has updated the chronological listings of the Archive in the last century. I have no idea how long that will take."
"In order to create an efficient major branch it needs to be done."
"I understand that," Hermione smiled stiffly. "It's just a very large job."
"If you are unable to complete it," the wizard cleared his throat. "We could allocate some funds for an assistant." Hermione could practically taste the condescension in his voice.
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," she held her smile even more tightly. Hermione was not one to rely on other people. Her grades in school were never due to asking for help or participating in study groups.
"Good. You have until the end of the month."
"Wait, What?" Hermione shrieked and practically dove in the flames as the wizard disappeared from the fire. Even in the roughest of situations Hermione hated to ask for help. She'd pulled Ron and Harry out of a fair share of trouble by her brains and will alone. It wasn't usually the other way around. It was Ron, however, that was there for her when she needed it more then ever over two years ago.
"Hermione," he had said softly as he opened the door to her bedroom. "Ginny told me you were here."
"Come on in Ron," she replied and quickly wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt, trying to erase any signs of crying.
"You sure?" he asked again.
"Yes," Hermione couldn't help but smile. "Come in, Ronald."
"Don't call me that, it reminds me of Mum," he mumbled as he entered the room.
"Sorry," Hermione giggled and gave a hearty sniff of her nose.
"You cut your hair," he noted amiably. Hermione lifted a shaking hand to her newly shorn curls and shrugged.
"Just trying something new," she replied. "I needed a change."
"Have you been crying?"
"No."
"Hermione."
"Maybe," Hermione sniffed and glared mockingly at the red-haired wizard. "Shut-up."
"Are you okay?" Ron asked meekly and settled himself on the edge of her bed. Hermione grinned weakly at her friend and shrugged.
"I've been better," she replied and pulled her knees up to her chest.
"I guess Ginny told you about the Death Eater raid," he said as he picked at her comforter, pulling the down feathers out through the fabric. The frail smile fell from her face as she nodded in response. "She said you're going to Azkaban tomorrow."
"I have to," Hermione swallowed and tried in vain to steady her voice. "After everything, I have to."
"She also said you're going to testify before the Wizengamot," Ron twisted a tiny feather between his fingers.
"Ron," was all Hermione could sigh.
"No, I get it," Ron shifted uneasily in his seat. "I don't agree with it, but I get it."
"Ron, I'm pregnant." To this day, Hermione could not decipher what made her finally tell him. The best she could reason was the pressure of keeping it a secret, among so many other things, had just been too much. Maybe it was the awful day, no month, she'd been having and the fact that she knew there were so many bad days to come.
Ron was frozen on the bed, gaping stupidly at her. For a moment, she seriously considered a memory charm.
"W-what?" Ron finally managed to get out. "How?"
"Well, Ronald, when a witch and wizard love each other very much-."
"Stop it, you're creeping me out."
"You asked."
"How long have you known?"
"Only about a month now."
"Does Ginny know?"
"No, just you."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know," Hermione wiped at her eyes again, feeling them burn with tears. Ron bit his lip for a moment before jumping to his feet.
"Don't worry about it," he announced with a nod.
"What?" Hermione was beyond confused. Then Ron dropped to his knees in front of her and she was at even more of a loss.
"Hermione Granger, will you marry me?"
"Ronald Weasley, have you completely lost your mind?" Hermione could only stare dumbfounded at the boy in front of her.
"No, Hermione, listen. We can do this, we can be husband and wife," he paused, took her hand, and looked directly into her eyes. "We can raise this baby. Everything will be okay." And as silly as it was, Hermione felt better. As cliché as it was, it felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
"I can't make you do that, Ron," she replied quietly, her eyes filling afresh with tears. "It's not fair. You didn't ask for this."
"Hermione," Ron responded softly and pulled her to her feet. "I want to do this. This is what I've always wanted. I love you, I would do anything for you."
Hermione couldn't manage a response. She was too overwhelmed by Ron's selflessness; too amazed at the wonderful man her tactless friend had grown into. The red-haired wizard pulled her into a strong embrace, soothed her nerves, and she said 'yes.' She said it, even though she knew it was wrong, that it was unfair to Ron. But for once in her life she wanted help, she needed help. For once in her life she was selfish.
After a week of attempting to cross-reference, package, and ship the items to the new Archive, Hermione had only gotten as far as the 'B's. Knowing her job was on the line, she was forced to place a help wanted ad in the Daily Prophet.
-----
"Boy! Get yer arse over here and partake of yonder soup," the hag cackled as she stirred some horrendous potion.
"What kind of soup?" Draco asked obligingly. The hag's cackle kicked into high gear as the concoction in the kettle boiled over the edge into the fire and filled the room with smoke. Draco waited patiently as the ear piercing shrieks of jubilation died down and the smell of burning plastic dissipated.
"Chicken Noodle," the witch responded calmly as she ladled some into an old can.
"Lucille," Draco rolled his eyes.
"Doth he question mine words?"
"Yes, he doth."
"Boy," she warned as she waved her wand menacingly at his feet. Draco stood up reluctantly and walked over to the kettle since he wasn't in the mood to sport a pair of hooves for the next week. Last week she'd given him a set of elk horns for putting the jar of pickled rabbit's feet on the wrong shelf. That had made for an interesting trip to the grocery.
"Fine, but what is it really?"
"Mine own veritaserum. Causes a sharp pinch to the bum in the case of false testimony."
"I'll get hurt if I lie?" Lucille, the demented hag, answered by pouring the can of goop down his throat.
The Aurors hadn't been any less cruel the fateful December evening they finally captured him. The attack on the Death Eater meeting had been a complete surprise for the majority of the members. But not for Draco, who knew that the Order was fully informed on where and when Death Eaters gathered.
While Lord Voldemort remained hidden in the forests of Transylvania on his last legs, nearly twenty of his best Death Eaters were captured that night. They had remained behind to keep the Aurors and the DA at bay while Voldemort regained his strength and recruited new members for his forces. Theodore Nott had been discussing the merits of guerilla warfare when the room had suddenly filled with stunning spells. Draco was thrown to the ground before he even had a chance to grab his wand.
He woke to Dean Thomas slapping him hard across the face. Now, instead of sitting amongst his Death Eater colleagues, he was tied to a chair with three very large, very angry Aurors staring down at him.
"Draco Malfoy," Thomas stated slowly, anger etched in every crease and wrinkle of his prematurely aged face. "It's been a while. How have you been?" Draco only sneered in response. He was rewarded with a punch to his jaw.
"As much fun as it is reminiscing with Death Eater scum, I'm here on business." Thomas nodded at a fellow Auror who stepped forward and pried open his mouth. Draco fought as best he could against the fingers of the man, knowing what was coming. A swift punch to the gut had him gasping for air as Thomas poured the serum down his throat with ease.
"Okay," Thomas rubbed his hands together and looked down at Draco. "Are you Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy?"
"Yes," Draco ground out through his teeth, wanting with all his might not to talk. The only form of retaliation he had was a seething glare directed at Dean Thomas.
"Were you at a Death Eater gathering on December 13th?"
"Yes," Draco growled.
"Do you know the location of Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Lord Voldemort."
"What do you want to know about the Dark Lord? Besides the fact he could wipe your Muggle-loving arse off the face of the planet before you could blink." The second Auror delivered another quick punch to Draco's face. The blonde wizard swallowed the metallic-tasting blood and smiled up at his former classmate.
"Do you really want to make this difficult, Malfoy?" Thomas' jaw clenched as he watched the Death Eater.
"I live to make life difficult for Mudblood-fuckers like you, Thomas," Draco smirked. "By the way, how is that lovely wife of yours? Still sporting that brilliant little white jacket?" This time it was Thomas' left hook that snapped Draco's head to the side. Then Thomas stepped forward and pulled the blonde-haired wizard's face back by the hair.
"Where is Voldemort, you bastard!" Thomas shouted.
"Southern Transylvanian forest. Is there anything else you need?" Draco replied coolly. "Or can you actually do your own job at some point?"
"At least my job doesn't involve blindly following a mad cult leader like a moron," Thomas shoved Draco's face and regarded the capture Death Eater with a sneer as he stepped back.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Thomas," Draco's smile faltered.
"How many people have you killed under Voldemort's orders, Malfoy? Besides your fiancée that is, of course."
"I've lost count," Draco replied quietly. The tall black man watched the unexpectedly solemn Death Eater for a moment. No snide remark came as Draco sat quietly, staring at the air in front of him.
"No use regretting now, Malfoy," Dean Thomas announced as he pulled out his wand. "You can sing your woes to the dementors, you back-stabbing, murderous asshole. You're act may have fooled some, but you'll get no sympathy from me. I hope your stay in Azkaban is everything I've heard and more."
Some say Voldemort's fate was sealed with the success of the raid that night. Information gained from the Death Eater prisoners gave the Ministry the location of an ailing Voldemort and plans for future Death Eater attacks. It was the beginning of the end for the Dark Lord.
Draco Malfoy's end was quite sore after Lucille finished experimenting with her concoction. She'd forced him to lie about things from his favorite ice cream flavor to what color the grass was. He'd drawn the line when it came to lying about sexual preferences, which is why he went to bed under his hard earned roof with ears the size of skillets.
Really, enough was enough. A dry bed and food were all well and good, but there was only so much a man can take. Luckily, Lucille had allowed him to keep the change from all his purchases, since she was scared of the germs from money not recently printed. This meant he was able to buy a fresh set of discount robes and shoes. And every morning before Lucille rose from her coffin Malfoy perused the classified section of the Daily Prophet. Then, during his daily errands, he would stop by and apply for jobs.
Unfortunately, he wasn't having much luck given that he had a fairly recognizable face. Being a convicted Death Eater and spending two years in Azkaban weren't exactly resume builders. All in all, not too many prospective employers were banging down the door to his broom closet.