Hermione sat at her desk, redacting yet another report. The chatter of her coworkers, combined with the steady flit of memos zipping through the office, kept her mind absent from her task. She pulled at the collar of her robes, staring out at the door to the hallway beyond.
She'd spent her lunch hour with the Veil, again. At this point, that cold room knew her better than anyone in her department. Unlike her usual visits, Hermione had actually approached the dais. She'd listened to the rustled whisper of tattered fabric, hoping to hear a voice again. His voice. But after twenty minutes of standing just a foot away, she'd hung her head and wandered back to the stone benches. If Sirius Black was still on the other side, he'd apparently taken the day off.
It was quite clear now that either:
A: She'd gone mad, and her unconscious had supplied that madness with the voice of her best friend's dead godfather.
B : Hermione had heard Sirius, but with no obvious way out, he remained trapped there.
C: Hermione had heard Sirius, but she would have to dip into darker magic than she ever dared go near to bring him back.
Of course, option C had nagged her the most—was still nagging her, even though it had been a couple hours since lunch. It also brought up the pesky problem of why she wanted Sirius back so badly, and what she'd do if, God forbid, the man stumbled back into the land of the living. Hermione had already considered Sirius's easy way of comforting those around him, but she could help but feel there was something…more. Something itching inside her brain that refused further acknowledgement. Something about the man's smell, his smile…
Stop it, Hermione chided herself. She refocused her eyes on the report. The redactions were hardly even started. Sirius coming back is hardly going to happen if you're fired and lose access to the Veil.
Another hour later, and her mind had gone blank again. A grumbling in her stomach broke her attention away from the blurry letters. She sighed. Perhaps constantly skipping lunch wasn't such a good idea after all. It was already four o'clock, close to dinner, but her body's growling would only distract her further from her work.
After checking that the others weren't paying attention, Hermione slipped out of the office and made her way to the lifts. Like many policies in the department, taking breaks outside the lunch hour wasn't strictly prohibited, more so…frowned upon. An Unspeakable took pride in his or her work, and wasting time on things such as second lunches or extended gossip breaks was, simply put, unspeakable.
Hermione ignored the flutter of guilt as she entered the Ministry's cafeteria, just off the atrium. False windows spanned the tall, white-plaster walls, depicting views of the drizzling Scottish countryside. Rain even pattered at the windows, the sound just a smidge too hollow to sound like it was tapping against real glass. Last week, some poor intern had accidently charmed the windows to show the waiting room at St. Mungo's. Harry and Ron had been miserable all through lunch with the view of pus-spewing boils and a rather unfortunately hexed man with a horn for a tongue.
Her gaze slid over the near-empty cafeteria, the mint-green tables spotless from whatever magic instantly cleaned up after the patrons hurried back to work. Hermione set off through the room, grabbing a silver lunch tray from the stack and milling through the food line. Only a simple pasta dish remained at this late hour. Hermione frowned at the cilantro-heavy spaghetti, then allowed the floating serving utensils to serve her a small portion.
After grabbing a glass of pumpkin juice and paying the bored witch at the counter, Hermione set off back into the main chamber, her eyes on the closest table. At the sound of the glass doors opening, she glanced up. Her gaze slid away from the incoming witch and over to a distinct blonde head to the right of the doors. He sat alone in a shadowed corner, back to the wall, picking at the pasta.
Lucius Malfoy's head shot up from his food. He met her eyes, unblinking, then turned sharply away. While he feigned interest in the dreary Scottish weather, Hermione studied him a moment longer. So Harry and Ron were right—he was working at the Ministry, or at least for the Ministry, if he was here at four in the afternoon. He was obviously allowed to be here, though his seating choice against the wall, in the shadows to the side of the door, kept him relatively hidden from any gawkers. Mr. Malfoy had tied back his hair too, keeping it in a low knot behind his head. Another attempt to stay unnoticed, she presumed.
He had seen her. He knew she was still watching. He knew she was interested, and yet he made no move to leave. Perhaps he's lonely, she thought with a pitying twinge. Or just up to no good.
Hermione took a few more steps forwards, her hand on the back of a chair when her feet decided to push onwards instead. Heart hammering, she strode across the room with her tray clutched tight. She didn't stop until she hovered at the edge of the man's table. "May I sit?" she asked, looking at him expectantly.
His eyes slid slowly away from the window. They were cold and grey when they met hers. Not friendly, but not sneering either. "If you like," he answered stiffly.
Hermione set down her tray with a clunk. Pumpkin juice sloshed in the glass until she steadied it with a touch. She picked up her fork and began picking out clumps of cilantro, dropping the green leaves into a pile on her napkin. Mr. Malfoy watched her, frowning. At least it wasn't a sneer.
"Not to your liking?"
"Tastes like soap," she responded lightly. At his frown, she added, "It's a muggle thing. Some of us have a gene that turns the taste of cilantro to, well, to soap. I guess witches and wizards don't have it," she said, shrugging before beginning to eat.
He hummed in mild interest, then picked up his fork. He kept it to the side, though, turning it over in his fingers like a wand. Habit, she thought, her eyes trained on his large, steady fingers.
The silence stretched thin, and Hermione felt a wash of embarrassment that she was the only one eating, that she was even sitting with a Death Eater in plain view of—well, only a handful of burned-out Ministry workers, but still. What if someone told on her? Was it even against the unspoken rules? Her cheeks flushed hotter, and she set her fork down with a quiet clink. The rain drummed harder against the fake windows, too rhythmic to be real. Before she could speak—before she could think of what to say—Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat. Her eyes shot up to his. "I assume you have a purpose for choosing this seat?" he drawled, with a lazy wave of his fork towards her.
"I want to know what you're doing here." She folded her hands in front of her tray. "What you're working on for the Ministry."
"Why?"
"Just curious."
His eyes glinted with amusement. "Am I a puzzle for you to crack, Miss Granger?"
She shivered at how quickly he'd figured her out. Though she did have a reputation preceding her, she supposed. Hermione chalked his assessment off to her status as the Brightest Witch of Her Age, or whatever sparkling title the press had bestowed her. "I found it odd that a convicted Death Eater," she said slowly, noting the way he flinched just slightly at his own title, "would be left alone to tromp around the Ministry without so much as a chaperone."
He raised one eyebrow. "Did I not show you my newest jewelry piece?" he asked hotly. "Or do you required a closer inspection? I would offer you to take a look at my ankle, Miss Granger, but I was under the assumption that you didn't want to be seen crouching under my table."
She blushed fiercely at his insinuation but forced her anger down. This was the Lucius Malfoy she'd been expecting, though she had a feeling there wasn't much bite left between those pearly teeth. "It tracks your movement—restricts it to a predetermined area," she added thoughtfully. "While copper acts extraordinarily well as a magic conduit, it can also be charmed to absorb instead, effectively making the wearer magic-less. Even if you had a wand," she said, dropping her eyes to the fork still clenched between his fingers. He set it down, sniffing. "Any magic is re-directed into the metal. That's why you were visiting the DMLE," she said slowly, as the pieces fitted together. "The cuff gets saturated, if enough magic is attempted. An Auror must have to take it off, to neutralize it again before the magic begins to burn too hot inside the copper." She turned her eyes back to his and had to fight a smile at his impressed expression. "What magic were you attempting, Mr. Malfoy?"
He shifted in his seat, the impressed look fading into a sneer. "Accidental magic, Miss Granger." He said her name pointedly, as if they were at an official work meeting. "Some of us have so much magic flowing through our veins, it cannot help but express itself at times."
She scoffed at his obvious attempt to highlight his oh-so-pure blood. "Okay, fine. Let's get back to my question—what work are you doing for the Ministry?"
"Isn't one puzzle enough for you?"
"Figuring out your cuff? That was revision," she said tartly. "Now I want to find out something new. Or are you too afraid to tell me?"
Mr. Malfoy leaned back in his seat. Though he tried to hide it, his eyes flit behind her, checking if the coast was clear. "Seeing as you're hardly more than a school girl, and no threat, I see no reason not to…enlighten you to my circumstances. In exchange for mild freedom from house arrest, the Ministry has given me tasks to complete."
"Like what?" she asked, spearing her spaghetti and lifting it, as gracefully as she could, to her mouth.
He looked back towards the window as she chewed. "After the Dark Lord fell, many of my colleagues had their more…sinister possessions sent out to Muggle London."
"Didn't want to be caught hoarding cursed diaries?"
His lip curled up as his gaze shifted back to her. "Worse things, too," he said quietly. "The sending-out of the dark objects had been pre-arranged with wives and house-elves, just in case the Dark Lord succumbed to Potter." Hermione blinked, noting there was no contempt at her friend's name. "Everything was gone from the estates by the time the raids began."
"So your friends got lesser sentences, and Muggle antique stores got an onslaught of dangerous or deadly items," she said coolly. "Though apparently a lack of dark contraband wasn't even necessary to keep some people out of Azkaban," she said with a pointed look.
At least he had the decency to appear slightly ashamed. "Would you be pleased to know the Manor's own dark objects remain in a Ministry closet somewhere? Or maybe they were taken to your Level Nine for further study? Some of the items were rather mysterious."
Her spine straightened—she hadn't know he was aware she was an Unspeakable. It wasn't even printed in the papers, like Harry and Ron's positions had been. Hermione brushed off her surprise. "So what, you're just allowed to walk around London popping into antique stores with cursed lamps that might bite any muggle who gets too close?"
He smirked, probably at the notion. "While I cannot use magic, I was gifted tools sufficient for collecting these items. The work is perfectly safe, just rather menial and tedious."
"Sounds like a reasonable punishment."
"Oh, quite. You would loath the mundanity of the chore."
She smiled, before realizing he was smiling too. Her mouth dropped back down, and her eyes fell back on her mostly untouched food. At least her stomach had stopped complaining. "I ought to get back to work," she muttered, hands moving to grab the tray.
"What of yours?"
She stilled and met his eyes. His were searching, interested. "My what?"
"Your actual puzzle. Obviously something else has been simmering in that frizzy head, other than lunch with a former enemy dark wizard."
Hermione patted her hair before drawing her hand back, flushing. She scowled, unhappy with both his insult and insinuation that they were only former enemies. Though would you have lunch with a current enemy? She shoved the nagging voice aside. "I don't know what you mean," she answered steadily.
"No? Not something that might necessitate the help of said dark wizard?" He smirked. Her scowl deepened. She kept it plastered to her face, hopefully hiding the sudden panic that he somehow knew. It was impossible he had any clue about the Veil. About Sirius. About that voice and that dream and her strange urge to see a dead man once again. No, Mr. Malfoy was just good at guessing. And that was all he would be doing.
Hermione grabbed her tray, this time jumping up from her seat. She winced at the screech of metal on tile. "I really must be going," she said firmly. The untouched pumpkin juice quivered in its glass. "Good day, and good luck with your work, Mr. Malfoy." She turned on her heel.
"Lucius," he said to her back. "Call me Lucius, next time you need help with your puzzle."
The next day, Hermione repeated her schedule of glowering at the Veil and later ambling up the cafeteria for a four o'clock lunch. She wasn't looking for Lucius—Merlin, she'd started calling him that in her head now—and she certainly didn't want his help. It was merely practical. And besides, he hadn't even been there when she arrived in the cafeteria. Probably off in London, charming some muggle shopkeeper into selling him a cursed dagger.
By Friday, practicality had become habit. Though as Lucius hadn't even been in the cafeteria since Monday, she was hardly expecting him.
She had just entered when she looked instinctually to her left and locked eyes with the blonde wizard. He smiled, ever so slightly, and inclined his head to the table. Besides his tray—pot roast and peas today—sat a red velvet bag and a pair of black leather gloves. His tools, she realized. He'd been out all week, collecting dark objects. And now that he was back, he really was waiting for her.
Hermione set her lips in a firm line and turned resolutely on her heel. She'd wait for dinner at home, thank you very much.
Soft voices drifted in from the sitting room when Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place. She shucked off her robes, stepped out of her heels and stockings, and followed the sound of what sounded like a miserable game of wizarding chess. Miserable for Harry, at least. Ron seemed thrilled as stone clattered the floor.
"Hey, 'Mione," Ron said, not even glancing up from the board as she padded inside. She kissed his cheek and flopped onto the plush leather couch. Harry had long since replaced the stuffy, ornate furniture in the room for pieces decidedly more muggle—and decidedly more comfortable.
"How was work? We've hardly seen you since last weekend." Harry said, grimacing as Ron made another move.
She sighed and leaned back against the armrest, legs stretched out, camel-colored skirt bunched around her knees. "Fine. Mundane." Her mouth twitched, recalling Lucius's same word choice. "You too?" she asked hopefully. If work in the Auror Office had slowed down to boredom levels, maybe Harry and Ron would have a light week coming up. Maybe she'd actually see one of them before midnight. Maybe Ron would be home in time to ask her to bed—she'd stopped crawling in there without him months ago.
The chess pieces roared, and Ron let out a yelp of victory. She rolled her eyes. No surprise Ron won. Harry hadn't beat him at wizarding chess since last Christmas. And that was only because Harry had gotten Ron disastrously drunk. "Nah, work was bloody well busy all week," Ron muttered, stretching as he hopped up from the table. He clambered over onto the couch, grabbing her legs so they rested on his lap. He tickled her calves, and she kicked him—Ron was always forgetting how she hated being tickled.
Harry plopped down in the loveseat across the room, watching his friends with amusement. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and Hermione glanced at Ron to see he wore the same. "Proudfoot has been making us take daily trips to France," Harry told her. "Haven't been home before near dawn all week."
Hermione's brows shot up. "Daily? Whatever for?" The boys glanced at each other. Hermione smacked her boyfriend lightly in the chest. "Come on, Ron. I carried both your secrets since we were children—I think I deserve a bit of work gossip."
"There's been…problems in France," Ron said. He brushed her shin with a light finger, drawing idle shapes. "Reckon it's mostly just people jumping to conclusions and stuff."
"On what?"
"The French Ministry's been seeing an increase in disappearances," Harry told her. "But no one over there can figure out why, or even if the disappearances are real."
Ron snorted. "How's anyone supposed to tell if a bloke's disappeared? Isn't that the point?"
He had a point, even if his phrasing was rather dense. "I don't see why you two—or the British DMLE at all—has to get involved."
"The French began seeing some kind of pattern in the disappearances," Harry said. When she turned her head, she found him picking at a loose thread in the loveseat's armrest. "There's been repeated sightings of the disappeared before they vanish entirely. Like the people are moving towards some location in the north of France. Dunkirk, maybe. Or Calais." Harry sighed and let go of the armrest. "They've only noticed for a couple weeks, though, so no one's been able to pinpoint the location."
"And the French think we've got something to do with it, since it's just across the Strait of Dover?" Hermione confirmed.
"That, or they're just bloody incompetent," Ron said darkly. "We all know the French didn't lift a finger in the war. But now that they've got a problem, we're supposed to come running to help. I reckon Proudfoot has a French bird, and he's making us work over there as an excuse to see her."
Hermione gave him a withering look. He did have a point. Again, lacking any tact. "At least you two are actually working on something important," she muttered. She turned her eyes upward, scanning the low ceiling. The plaster had cracked like a spiderweb, stretching out from the center chandelier. Flames flickered low, shadows dancing on the brass.
"Nothing worth speaking about for you Unspeakables?" Harry asked, stifling a yawn.
"Anything interesting I just get to blot out, so no one else gets to read it. Lunch has been the most interesting part of the day, now that Luc—" She clamped her mouth shut, eyes shifting to Ron and then Harry. They were both staring at her, Ron slack-jawed, Harry pensive.
"Go on," Ron said, clutching harder to her leg.
"Nothing. Just that I saw Mr. Malfoy again," she said nonchalantly. No reason to say she'd seen him twice more, even if she'd only talked to him the once. And that they didn't need to know about at all.
"Hermione, you can't go near him…" Ron began, trailing off when she sat abruptly up and yanked her legs from his lap.
"I'm not," she snapped, earning a wide-eyed look from both of them. She sighed and shoved back her hair. "I mean, I wasn't trying to, okay? I just happened to see him in the cafeteria."
"He goes there?" Harry asked.
She shrugged. "At four o'clock. The place is practically empty, then. You can actually hear yourself think." Both boys were quiet for a moment, still studying her. "What?"
"Er, Hermione, why do you go to lunch so late?" Ron asked her, trying (and failing) to sound only vaguely concerned. "You know me and Harry go at twelve, when we can—which we'll send you a memo about, if we're, you know, still in Britain that day."
She decided not to point out that they hadn't been in Britain all week, apparently, and there was thus no point in bothering with a memo. "I just get caught up with work, okay?"
"I thought work was slow," Harry said pointedly.
"Yes, well, I have other projects in the department as well. I can't spend all my time redacting reports." At their expectant looks, Hermione dropped her gaze to the carpet. Harry hadn't replaced it yet, and the faded, green and black swirls stared up at her like serpents. "I've been thinking about the Veil a bit," she admitted.
Ron jumped from the couch. Harry only flinched. "You what?" Ron barked. "Merlin, 'Mione, that room's not safe. You can't—"
She rose to her feet too, meeting his wide eyes with a glower. "I can do anything I like, Ron. Not that you need to be privy to any of my department's work."
"Yeah, but 'Mione—it's the Veil," Ron stammered, raking a hand through his unruly red hair. "It's where Sirius died."
Harry sucked in a breath. Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You think I don't know that?" she seethed, fingers curling into fists.
Ron looked helplessly at Harry, who took a step forward. "Hermione, we all want him back, but it's not possible. He's gone."
Gone. The word rang in her ears with its falseness. Sirius wasn't gone—she knew that now. He was there. He was just on the other side. He'd been in her dreams, for Merlin's sake. Hermione shook her head, ignoring the bewilderment on both boys' faces. "Maybe to you," she said stiffly. "But if I am going to waste my days as a secretary at the Ministry, I might as well make use of my time there." She brushed past them and flew out the door to Sirius's room.
Sinking into the dead man's bed felt like slipping into a steaming bath. His scent enveloped her, the comforter sun-warmed from a day with the curtains pulled wide. Kreacher must have come in to dust, she mused, tracing a seam along the pillow. A shaft of early evening light cut in from the window, pooling across her face as it pressed into the plump goose-feathers.
She imagined the row that was probably taking place downstairs and cast a silencing charm in case it just hadn't started yet. Harry would tell Ron he needed to come after her. Ron would deflect and say Harry was on her side, after she'd spun on Ron about the Veil. Clearly Harry wasn't on her side, though—at least he was firm in his belief that Sirius was well and truly gone. But Harry was wrong. They both were. She just needed to figure out how.
Sleep came without warning, and when Hermione woke to find the room dark, her stomach ached. But it wasn't the hunger clawing at her mind—it was the dream. She had been in the Shrieking Shack with the boys, their faces still pudgy with baby fat. Hermione had been thirteen too, scrawny in her pink sweater and jeans. But Sirius was not the living corpse he'd actually been that terrible night. No, Sirius had been glowing. Healthy as the last time she saw him, hair curling around his shoulders and a cheeky grin playing on his lips. Sirius had reached for her, taking her small hand in his own. She'd tried to pull him towards her, towards the door, away from the shack, but with every tug he slipped further into the room's seeping shadows.
Find me, kitten, he had called, as his fingers fell away.
Hermione let his words repeat in her head as she stared up at the ceiling. Her lips parted, dry and cracked. She touched her cheeks and felt wetness. "I will," she whispered to the darkness. But first, she'd need help.
Hermione spent the weekend avoiding Ron and Harry, though it wasn't too hard. Both boys decided to hole themselves up in the sitting room in some kind of games tournament, starting at wizarding chess and ending at exploding snap. She had a place of her own to hole up in.
After casting yet another silencing charm, she set to work souring Grimmauld Place's library for any mention of the Veil, death, or traveling through either. No such luck. Apparently the Blacks had been far more interested in killing than what came after. Only a few books spoke of the afterlife, debating Muggle interpretations and their relation to the magical world. Neither mentioned how to get there, or how to come back.
Sunday evening, Hermione found herself curled in an armchair, staring glazed-eyed at the dying fire. She debated a trip to Hogwarts, though even if she was allowed inside (a likely case, if Hermione claimed research for her Unspeakable work or even a friendly visit with old professors), she doubted there were any books worth pursuing. Hermione had searched for answers her sixth year following Dumbledore's death. None had come up. Guilt simmered in her stomach; she'd only thought of bringing back the manipulative great wizard, when she hadn't given Sirius's death any such concern. At least back then. Now, it was all she could think of.
Either no books had anything helpful, or no books she had easy access to did. The Ministry kept a library on Level One, the floor holding the Minister for Magic and Support Staff Offices. Unfortunately any trips into the library were highly sanctioned, and the head librarian more callous than even Madam Pince. Access could only be granted by Hermione's supervisor, and Hermione wasn't about to go begging Ms. Culpepper for a permission slip like some sorry teenager trying to get into Hogsmeade.
Hermione's lips pursed. She needed books on dark magic. Darker than the restricted section, even. Someplace accessible, where she wouldn't be asked prying questions.
She had come up with the answer by Saturday afternoon, but it taken another day and a half to finally admit it; she needed Lucius Malfoy's help.
The whole thing provided both exciting possibilities and infuriating consequences. For one, she'd have to give the man a plausible reason for needing books on dark magic. She could think up a good lie later. But the other issues—that of the drawing room, for one—posed bigger threats. Hermione didn't have any mastery of occlumency. Any pain that manor brought would be writhing on the surface of her mind, dragging the memories with it. And the dreams she'd likely have after—Hermione just hoped that dream-Sirius could save her from those as well. Of course, Lucius himself posed a…dilemma. Spending more time with the man couldn't lead to anything but red-cheeked embarrassment and humiliation.
He was impressed with me, though, a little voice whispered in her head. Maybe it wouldn't be all that bad.
Hermione mused on this point. Maybe she could use Lucius's interest in her to her advantage. Pick his brain for books she wouldn't normally think of. A man that lonely had to be bored, too. Perhaps he would be chomping on the bit to help her out. She'd be a little puzzle of his own. Her cheeks burned at the notion.
Hermione stood and made her way from the library, relieved to find the sitting room quiet. Though as she made her way upstairs to find her own bedroom door open, the relief sank into the pit of her stomach. She'd hoped to sleep in Sirius's again, but apparently Ron had made plans of his own. Apparently he did know the way to her room, after all.
"Hi," she said softly, padding into her room. Ron sprawled in the center of the bed, one arm stretched out. Waiting for her.
"Hey," he said with an inviting smile.
She quickly undressed, feeling his eyes hot on her back as she changed into a big t-shirt. One of Sirius's, she realized, cheeks flaming. The Weird Sisters looked back up at her from the black and green printing. He must have gotten it after Azkaban. She'd forgotten to return it after another trip into his closet, of course. Ron wouldn't notice, though. The boy hardly noticed when Hermione straightened her mane of curls a few times.
Ron waited patiently for her to join him, curling around her from behind when she finally slipped into bed. "I'm sorry for fighting," he murmured into her shoulder.
She held back a scoff. For fighting. Not for what he said. Not for getting angry. "Me too," she muttered back.
"You'll stay away from the Veil?"
Hermione shut her eyes. She didn't want to lie, but she didn't want another row either. "I'll…think about it from a distance," she finally relented. She could manage a few rows back. For now.
Ron brushed his nose into the soft skin of her neck. "You'll keep thinking about it?"
Him, she wanted to correct him. "It's hard not to, Ron."
"Why this, all of a sudden?"
She wanted to laugh—almost did, before her wits got the better of her. Hermione had been focused on the Veil for months. Yes, Sirius was a recent development, but the cold, stone chamber had kept her attention for a long time. And Ron hadn't noticed. Neither had Harry, but Ron was her boyfriend. And he'd never even asked where she always spent her lunch breaks instead of joining him and Harry, why she was always so stuck in her head when they were at home. There was nothing sudden about it.
Hermione let her angry laughter blow out into a sigh. "Just hold me, okay?" she whispered.
Ron's arm wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her flush against his warm, bare chest. He held her for a few minutes before the kisses started. His lips brushed her neck, her ear, her cheek. Hermione rolled over to face him, returning the affection with equal vigor. The sheets tangled around their legs as the kisses and touching grew more frantic, until he was panting on top of her. It was pleasant, and slow, but with each thrust, Hermione worked out the lie to draw Lucius Malfoy into her puzzle.
The lift carried her upwards. She was alone, thankfully, and able to scratch at her bum beneath the shapeless black, wool dress. Though her sweeping plum robes covered the itchy garment, Hermione had chosen it carefully. If she was going to be at Lucius's library this Monday evening, and if she did for some reason have to take off her robes, she wanted no hint at her body underneath. For whatever reason, Lucius Malfoy had taken an interest in her. She wouldn't allow it any further than intellectual, on his part. Better to look as drab as she could, and no one could insinuate anything…dirtier.
She kept her pace slow as she crossed to the cafeteria. Once inside the glass doors, she looked to her left. A smile twitched on her lips. Lucius was here, and, by the looks of his pleased expression, waiting for her. Hermione took her time getting her tray of mash and green beans, then made her way slowly towards the corner table. She sat, all too aware of how loud the chair's screeching was, and met the man's eyes.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello."
She picked up her fork. It trembled in her fingers. Merlin, what am I nervous for? She took a quick scoop of mash, willing her hand to still as it set about its task. "How's the work?" she asked mildly.
"You don't care about that." He clucked his tongue, and she blanched.
She set down the fork. Okay, eating's no good. She settled with folding her hands in her lap, wand over her thighs for comfort. "How do you know?"
"Because if you did, you would have asked me last Friday, when I had a bag of delightfully charmed knickknacks with me." He laced his fingers and set his chin upon them. "How is your work, Miss Granger?"
She frowned, not liking she was on first-name basis with him, but he wasn't with her. She supposed she could remedy that, but it felt improper. Which was ridiculous. Then again, everything about this situation was. "I redacted all but three sentences of a report today," she told him, refusing to look away from his eyes.
"My, my, important work indeed. Have you come to me to purchase more ink? I can direct you to a supply closet, if you like."
Hermione grabbed her pumpkin juice, taking a short gulp. When she wiped a napkin across her lips, his eyes were still on hers. "Not ink. Books."
"Have they run out at Flourish and Blotts?"
Merlin, he was impossible. "Nothing there is…suited to my current interests," she said, glancing sideways as a witch entered the cafeteria in a swirl of red robes. The woman paid them no mind.
Lucius's lips parted, just slightly, in understanding. "What makes you think I have what you're searching for?"
"I don't know, maybe the mark on your arm?"
His eyes fell to his sleeve, covering the forearm in black silk. When his face tipped back up, he was smirking. "I keep many subjects in the manor's library, Miss Granger. You'll have to be more specific."
"I can't."
"Or won't? This isn't official department business, is it? Because I can direct you to the Ministry's official library as well, you know."
"No, it's of personal interest. Research interest."
"You didn't get your fill of academics at Hogwarts?"
"Well my seventh year was so rudely canceled."
He chuckled. "Fine. I would be willing to help a curious witch out. If only I knew what she needed help with. A puzzle, perhaps?"
Hermione set her jaw. After much thought last night, both while she was in Ron's arms and after, she had concluded that a plausible, yet close reason would work best. Something personal, so it seemed genuine. "Before the end of the war, I took my parents' memories," she told him, gut churring. She knew he couldn't leave London to find them, but she didn't think he'd care to harm them anyway. The war was over. Lucius had been cuffed, literally and figuratively. "Professor Snape helped me with the spell—it's not something to be found in any books, you see. A combination of potions and incantations. I need to speak with him, to get his aid in recovering their memories."
Lucius's eyes widened, just a fraction, like he was working to contain his curiosity. "My poor girl, had you not heard the news?" he mocked. When she scowled, her shot her a smirk back. "So you wish to bring Severus back from the dead."
"Yes. Not fully, just…enough to speak with him to obtain the counter-spell and potions."
"You can't consult with the man's portrait?"
"Professor Snape had little time with the portrait before he died," she explained. "The portrait wouldn't know something so…detailed. I'm afraid the thing would just sneer at me and take off points for pestering him."
"And Severus didn't give you this information before he passed?"
She shook her head. "He thought it foolish, in case Voldemort searched my mind. I didn't want him to make my parents remember me, only to kill me. Or them," she said in a whisper.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, observing her with a somber look. "You think my library has the answers?"
"I think it's a start."
"This will be no simple floo-call through the veil, Miss Granger." She stiffened—does he know? "The wall between us and death stands for a reason."
She eased back, matching his posture. He didn't know about the Veil, about Sirius's Veil, then. Well he did, after the fight in the Death Room, but she didn't think he meant to connect it to her true research. "Will you help me Lucius?" Her voice was soft, desperate. Only half of it was an act.
He nodded, just a quick dip of his chin. "What do I get from this research?"
"Redemption?" she offered.
To her surprise, he let out a deep chuckle. A strand of hair slipped free from his ponytail, brushing his cheekbone as his laughter settled into a smirk. "Picking up dark objects like a delivery boy, playing librarian with Gryffindor's princess. Some redemption indeed."