A/N: Back on the writing schedule! Yay! Of course, school starts next week… we'll see how long the schedule lasts. This is a rather longer chapter than usual (do I say that either time?), so sit down with a beverage and popcorn to read, enjoy, and review my latest offering. Popcorn not included.

Chapter Eighteen:

Hermione could see Mrs. Weasley, poised over a cabinet with a bright blue feather duster emitting silver sparkles, stiffen and pause in her dusting. Even from this distance she could see the tension in her posture, not anticipatory this time but angry. Once an avid reader of Rita Skeeter (that had a nice ring to it, Hermione thought idly), Molly Weasley had become disillusioned with the flamboyant journalist after she had printed one – and then ten – too many exaggerations and distortions and outright lies about her family and good friends.

"I can see it now," she replied with a smile, "Brutal Kidnapping or Secret Elopement?" with pictures of me looking… what, secretive, I suppose and distinctly unharmed and…" In the heat of the moment, she had almost said 'Lucius' and only barely stopped herself. It would make little difference in how Rita perceived her, but Hermione did not want to imagine how Mrs. Weasley would look at her if she heard her calling her captor by his given name.

"…and Mr. Malfoy looking cool and calm and despicable as ever. Very clever, Rita. And in a few weeks, when the people have forgotten about your lurid tale and come to see reason, as they always do even if it takes them awhile, you'll probably be forced to issue another retraction. How many does that make now?"

That unpleasant smile wavered but did not disappear. "Then you won't deny my personal theory that you were not kidnapped at all, that you were a willing traveler with Mr. Malfoy on your little sojourn to the sunny south of France. Fascinating. What better way to cover up your illicit affair and more importantly your harbouring of a known fugitive than with a convenient marriage that spares you the necessity of speaking a word about your flight. Very clever. I'd even wager it was your idea, but how did you get him to agree to such a plan? A wizard like that is very concerned with his public image, you know, very careful to make sure that no touch of mud should stain his reputation."

Hermione shrugged. "Print what you like, Rita. It makes no difference to me. I'll ride it out like I always have and always will. I might have thought you would aspire to journalistic integrity after all these years, but really, you just bore me anymore. Tell Britain I'm Malfoy's mistress… well, was his mistress. Now his wife. Tell them I was the impetus behind the whole affair." She grinned and looked downright sinister for a moment. "You can tell them that I'm a Death Eater hopeful myself, looking to worm my way in to Voldemort's inner circle. You've accused Harry of worse."

She stood and brought her cup of tea over to the sink. "Now, if you please, we have a lot of sitting around and staring out the window to finish before we start dinner. And don't even think about snooping around the house; I'll be watching you."

"You'll be sorry," Rita warned as she stuffed her quill and parchment back into her garish handbag. "The Daily Prophet has made careers and it has broken them."

Hermione laughed. "You give yourself too much credit and your readers too little."

Without a further word, Rita huffed out the door. The easy smile on Hermione's face disappeared the moment the reporter was out of sight. God, but it had been hard maintaining that carefree façade. She could talk about the common sense of the people to see beyond Rita's sensationalism, but she knew better. If Rita did print everything Hermione knew she wanted, her career might be in serious danger. As a Ministry official, dull as her job description as director of research sounded to most people, it was a public position and was therefore vulnerable to public scrutiny and her bosses subject to public pressure.

She ran her hands through her bushy hair, momentarily tempted to rip it out. She sighed and felt hot tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. And she had thought being recruited to the Death Eaters and then saving the life of one of their members while on the run from the others had been stressful. Mrs. Weasley dropped her duster and came over to engulf Hermione in a quiet embrace. Hermione clung to the older woman as if she were her only lifeline.

"I have to go," she said after a moment's silence. "I can't…" She hiccupped and wiped her eyes. "I can't stay here, not after Rita's story breaks. You'll be flooded with Howlers and worse. It's bad enough that you… that any of you will be associated with me. After you've been so kind, I can't bring all that down on you."

"There, there," Mrs. Weasley said as she patted Hermione's back. "Everything will be all right. You were right; people have a very short memory. They're all worked up about this trial, and you'll make a scandalous side note, but then the next development will come along and you'll be quite forgotten. I've seen it happen… we all have. There, there, dear."

"I have to tell Harry and Ron tonight," she said, dreading that scene. Was that the sort of news to break over the dinner table? The roast is good, have you tried the potatoes, oh and please, call me Mrs. Malfoy. Hmm. "Mrs. Weasley, what am I going to say to them?"

To her surprise, she heard a rumble of a laugh. "Now that we're both married women, you can call me Molly."

And despite the situation, Hermione found herself chuckling a little, too. "Thank you… Molly. But what do I tell them? Malfoy tried to kill your daughter in her first year at Hogwarts as part of a conspiracy to resurrect Lord Voldemort. Now I'm married to him."

That had been the hardest point to reconcile during their time together. The murder and torture of innocent people she had not known was one thing, but Ginny was her friend and confidante. They had shared dating stories and complaints about the boys they knew, and Lucius Malfoy had been the major instrument in the younger woman's near-death experience with the diary of a teenage Tom Riddle. She was not sure she ever had successfully reconciled that, actually, but then, since when did logic have anything to do with… whatever she had felt? Did still feel, in fact. Was it possible for her now to despise and miss and maybe even love Lucius Malfoy all at the same time?

"If you don't mind my asking, Hermione, how did that come about?"

Hermione would have liked nothing more than to confide in… Molly, but she knew she would not. She doubted there was anyone she could trust with her secret, certainly none of her well-meaning but ultimately single-minded friends. "I… I can't say. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. You'll get through this, you're a strong girl. Strong woman."

They fell silent for another minute, and then something else occurred to Hermione. She groaned and gently extracted herself from Mrs. Weasley's arms. "There's someone else I have to speak with tonight, as soon as possible. I know you're not supposed to share this, but… I need to get in touch with Draco."

Molly gave Hermione a long, level look and finally nodded. "He does deserve to know before the rest of the country. I'll… do what I can. I can't promise anything, but I might be able to pass along the message that you wish to see him urgently."

Hermione could only thank her again and watch her hurry out the door after little more than a fluffing of her hair and a straightening of her robes. It was difficult to remember sometimes that Molly Weasley played the important role that she did in the Order of the Phoenix. As a housewife she could have been an idyllic poster child, but she was also a capable witch entrusted with secrets and plans known to very few.

To her horror, Hermione realised just after Molly left that no one had begun to prepare dinner for the arrival of the menfolk. As tempting as it was to let them forage for themselves… she knew how Harry and Ron, at least, took Mrs. Weasley for granted… she decided that the news she would have to break would be stressful enough. The least she could do was make sure they did not receive it on empty stomachs.

She gazed in despair around the kitchen for a moment. Nothing helpful in cooking for a family jumped out at her. She was accustomed to cooking a little bit at a time for herself, nothing like this. Inspiration soon struck, however, as she Summoned a book of cooking spells. Surely she could find something filling within those pages to whip up. When she had spent time here over the holidays, she had watched Mrs. Weasley and offered her help, but the older woman always had refused with a smile. She was not even certain she knew how the appliances worked.

She more than half-seriously considered setting them up with beans and toast. Wasn't that England's famed contribution to global cuisine? But finally she made her way through the introductory chapter and found something easy enough. By the time Mr. Weasley came home, with Ron and Harry trailing a few minutes later, a pot bubbling on the stove top and a dish baking in the oven sent tantalising aromas wafting into the dining room. Feeling strangely domestic, she asked everyone how their day had gone and even scolded Ron a little for something she could not remember five minutes later. Probably a smudge, either on his person or something he left on floor.

Mr. Weasley asked after the whereabouts of his wife, to which Hermione was able to honestly reply that she could not say where Mrs. Weasley had gone but she thought it had something to do with a message. Everyone seemed to take this in stride and sat down after Hermione reminded them to wash their hands. Ron and Harry exchanged nervous glances they failed to hide from Hermione, who glared as she served up her concoctions. It was just a spot of stew with some hearty bread, more appropriate for winter than the middle of summer, she thought belatedly, but it went over well. She set an extra place for Mrs. Weasley and hoped the other woman would show up soon, so Hermione could postpone her announcement a little longer.

No such luck. Soon enough, Harry was asking Hermione how her day had gone, and she knew this was the perfect opportunity. It was perfunctory question; by his tone, she guessed that he was expecting her to say nothing at all interesting.

"I helped Mrs. Weasley with the housework… how she managed this house when all of you were at home, I can't imagine. An attorney for the… the trial stopped by, but he didn't stay long, and then Rita Skeeter dropped in for a chat."

The three men had looked mildly interested when she mentioned the attorney, but when she mentioned Rita, Harry's head in particular whipped around to face her.

"That horrible reporter who said you were… right," Ron finished lamely when Hermione raised her eyebrow.

"What did she want?" Harry asked.

Hermione stared into her bowl as if hoping that all the answers to her current predicament might emerge from the fragrant liquid. "Oh, you know Rita. She wanted to hear a tear-jerking story about my abduction, preferably with a picture of me looking absolutely devastated for the front page."

Ron snorted. "I bet you gave her the what for, didn't you? Sent her packing. Good riddance."

Mr. Weasley looked as though he was considering reprimanding Ron and then decided against it. He had no more reason to love Rita than anyone else at the table.

"Right," Hermione replied, "but she didn't like that… of course. And, er, you know what happens when she doesn't like someone."

Mr. Weasley nodded slowly. "I remember, all right. I know you, Hermione, you've got more sense than to get worked up about anything that woman has to say about you."

She gave him a shaky smile. "Thanks. Er, I feel I should warn you what she's going to say. It's, er… you're not going to like it."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "What, she warned you ahead of time?"

"Sort of." She sighed. "It has to do with the trial. Remember how I said I wasn't going to testify?" At their encouraging nods, she continued after another deep breath. "That's why Mr. Grimpole, the attorney, was here. I told him the same thing, and I told Rita. I mean, I didn't tell her why, but she figured it out. While I was… away, Mr. Malfoy and I… we were married." She winced.

"Married!" Ron yelled. Harry paled. Mr. Weasley almost fell out his chair. "What do you mean, married? Please tell me you're joking."

Worse than Ron's bluster was Harry's dead silence. She could feel his eyes boring into her, could feel anger and shock radiate from him like heat from a stove.

"She's not," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "Spousal immunity. A wife, in this case, cannot be called to testify against her husband." He gave Hermione a disconcertingly sharp glance. "Is that why he did it? He knew he'd be put on trial… but why would he care? It isn't as if he's going to submit to the Wizengamot's authority."

"It doesn't matter why," Ron persisted in a much louder voice than his father, "you're married to Lucius Malfoy! Merlin, I think that's even worse than being married to Draco Malfoy, and that's saying something! Hermione, how could you let this happen?"

For the first time since she had made her announcement, Harry spoke up. "How could you let this happen? Because of him, Ginny nearly died during her first year at Hogwarts. He would have cursed me or worse if Dobby hadn't intervened. He tortured those innocent Muggles at the World Cup." His voice, like Mr. Weasley's, was quiet, but it cut like a knife. His anger was white hot and all the more unpleasant for its apparent calm.

"Now, now," Mr. Weasley began nervously, "let's not go making assumptions, Harry. I'm sure Hermione would not have done this if there were any other choice… right, Hermione?" He turned hopeful eyes on her.

She flushed and looked at her hands. "I can't say."

"You can't say?" Ron exclaimed. "We're your best friends, and you can't say? It's not like we won't believe you or can't keep a secret."

"It's not… that isn't it, Ron. I can't say, and that's that."

Harry's jaw was clenched, and he was gripping his spoon so hard that his knuckles were bloodless around the handle. "You should have-"

"Should have what!" she exploded. "If he threatened to kill me unless I agreed, should I have let myself die? If he threatened to hurt my family or my friends, should I have let them die?" She took a slow, calming breath before she continued. "That's really nice, Harry."

If he wanted to hurt her, fine. She could pay him back in kind. "It's funny, though, isn't it, how you're willing to condemn me to death because I'm married to a man who nearly caused Ginny's death… and yet when she's around, you can barely force yourself to acknowledge her existence?"

Since he had decided that he could not pursue a relationship with the youngest Weasley, Harry had been avoiding her like the plague. Hermione was sure that had not changed in her absence and that the only way Mrs. Weasley had persuaded Harry to stay with them for the moment was by promising that Ginny was still living away from home.

His reasons were very noble and self-sacrificing, but what he could not seem to get through his thick skull, Hermione and Ginny had agreed, was the fact that Ginny deserved just as much say in the state of their relationship as he did. He had made some soothing noises about wanting to remain friends, but it was hard to do that when he could not bring himself to be around her for more time than absolutely necessary at Order meetings.

"Don't you ever talk to me about Ginny," he hissed at her before shoving his chair away from the table and storming out of the dining room.

"Then don't talk to me about Malfoy!" she shouted.

Now it was Mr. Weasley and his son who were exchanging nervous looks. Ron seemed especially discombobulated that he was not the one Hermione was shouting at for once.

"You… you really can't say?" he finally managed.

She said nothing, only rolled her eyes.

"Right. Okay. Er, I should go… talk to Harry." Ron stood slowly, looking around him as if suddenly unsure that he was still occupying the usual dimension. "Blimey, isn't he supposed to be the one making peace between you and me?"

Hermione shrugged. He wandered after Harry, muttering to himself. Mr. Weasley stood also but only went as far as the sink. "You should, er, take a break. I'll make you some tea and get this cleaned up."

"Thank you, but I have a lot of reading I have to get to." With that, she left the dining room and climbed the stairs to Ginny's room. She did have reading, but, as she remembered as soon as she opened the bedroom door, none of it was here. Instead, she sat at the window, flipping through some of Ginny's old magazines and staring out the window.

She had made her way through nearly half a year of Teen Witches Weekly when a timid knock interrupted her reverie. It was Mrs. Weasley, come to tell her that she had made contact with Draco and that Hermione could go see him as soon as she liked. She also came bearing a steaming cup of tea, which was as welcome as the news. Hermione tried to make her voice sound casual as she thanked Molly, but the other woman's eyes were too full of sympathy to pretend that she did not know what had happened earlier.

"Don't worry," she said as she sat on her daughter's bed, "he'll come around. You three are always fighting, or at least two of you are, and you always pull through."

Hermione took a sip of tea. "What about you?"

Mrs. Weasley blinked. "Me? What about me?"

"Well… Harry's right. I mean, he did do all those things… he almost left Ginny to be killed by Voldemort's diary. Aren't you… I mean, I've ended up married to him, and you're allowing me to sleep under you roof in her bed."

"It was… a shock," Molly admitted, "but I trust you, Hermione. It's a simple as that." They shared a friendly look before Mrs. Weasley continued briskly. "If you want to speak with Draco, it's going to be a bit complicated. We don't want anyone finding him who shouldn't find him, and it was a little difficult to remember everything. But we finally located him and told him to expect an urgent visit tonight." She unfolded a scrap of parchment and handed it to Hermione. "Here are the directions. He's living in a little village in Finland… I'm not really sure how to pronounce it."

"Finland?"

"It's for his own protection," Mrs. Weasley explained. "He's been under threat of death from You-Know-Who for years now… we don't know if he'll ever be able to return to Britain, at least while the war is still going on."

Hermione stifled a giggle at the thought of the playboy she had known from school shivering in a Scandinavian village somewhere. No, this was serious. Very serious. She should look as dour as possible. She thanked Molly again and turned her attention to memorising the directions before incinerating the scrap of parchment. It was impossible to Apparate to the starting point, but there was a Squib in the area who kept a fireplace connected to the Floo network for wizards and witches who needed to travel in that region (for a price, naturally).

Luckily, summer nights were pleasant even in this part of Finland. Hermione had brought a jumper with her and was more than warm enough as she picked her way over what in the daylight was probably a very picturesque cobblestone street. She turned this way and that, crossed a couple of bridges, and finally ended up on the doorstep of a rather attractive little frame house. Yellow light streamed from curtained windows, and she thought she could see the figure within.

The door swung open when she knocked to reveal Draco Malfoy, glaring down at Hermione. He looked so like his father in some ways, but especially now, he lacked his father's cool self-confidence, that arrogance which appeared at first glance like laziness.

"What, you're my urgent visit?" he said, voice a bit slurred. "Have you come to shout at me for my father's latest crime? Don't think I don't know about it… I do get a paper and then."

It was hard not to stare. Draco Malfoy had always been slender, but now he looked almost emaciated. Dark smudges lay under his eyes and made the rest of his face even paler by comparison. His clothes hung off him, and a reek of alcohol drifted outside to meet her. He had looked bad during their sixth year at school, but this was worse.

"It's not that," she replied. "Not exactly."

He scrutinised her in silence for awhile before giving a short nod. "Yeah, fine. It's not like I have anything better to do. You might as well come in."

She followed him in to what looked like a cosy little sitting room. A fireplace sat unused at one end, next to a flickering television and across from a sofa decorated in muted greens and blues. Apparently Draco had discovered the joys of the telly. She wondered what he would find worthy of his attention, especially this late. Perhaps it was better she didn't find out, she thought after further reflection.

"What could be so important that the Order would risk compromising my location?" he mused aloud, surprisingly articulate considering the smell of the place and the slur in his speech. "Like a drink?"

Hermione started to shake her head and reconsidered. "Yes, please. Whatever you have is fine."

"Vodka it is. Good stuff, straight from Russia. I'll say this for Muggles, they appreciate a wide variety of spirits." He poured the liquor straight into a tumbler which looked clean enough from a distance and handed it to Hermione. She sniffed it and shrugged and noted with approval that he did not take any more for himself.

He sat on the sofa and motioned for her to do the same. "They said it was urgent. Does it have anything to do with my father?"

She nodded and took a sip of her vodka. It was not quite as good as Draco had promised; it burned on the way down.

"Hm…" He snorted. "You're not pregnant with his unwanted child, are you?"

Hermione choked, and the drink burned worse than ever. She coughed for a few moments and rubbed her throat. "Ow. No, I'm not pregnant." She thought wryly that after that, he might be relieved that she was just married to Lucius, but just in case, she downed the rest of her drink. "But… I am married to him."

He goggled at her. "Married? To my father?" He looked at his hand as if expecting to see a drink of his own there. "Are you sure you've come to right place? You're married to my father, Lucius Malfoy, scourge of Muggles and Mu… Muggle-borns who have the bad fortune to cross his path?"

She wanted to laugh. Sometime since she had last seen him, Draco Malfoy had developed a sense of humour beyond the amusement he had always found in hurting and bullying people. A bitter sort of humour, but there it was. She nodded. "That's right."

He actually did laugh. "Mother will hate that. She never liked you. Never liked anyone who showed me up in anything. But she did her best with me." He looked dreamy for a moment and then cut his eyes toward the bottle with a thoughtful expression.

Hermione fiddled with her glass. "Er, right. I thought I'd better tell you before you saw it plastered across the papers." This was nowhere near how she had envisioned this meeting, but on the whole, she thought he was taking it pretty well. At least he had not yelled at her or accused her of betraying anybody. "You're… taking this better than I expected."

At this, Draco barked a short laugh. "Better than your friends are taking it, I bet. What can I say, Granger, when your father's a boastful murderer and your mother's recently run away to Greece with a boyfriend half her age, your whole attitude about what wizarding society can do with its opinions of your family really changes. Take my word for it." He laughed again. "Tell me, are you going to be at this trial I've read about?"

This time Hermione snorted. "It's a farce, and we both know it." She stood and left her glass balanced precariously on the over-stuffed arm of the sofa. "Thank you for the drink. It's been… interesting."

"Do say hello to everyone for me," he said with mock formality. He waved her out as he went to fetch her glass from the sofa.

Hermione Apparated back to the Burrow and climbed straight into bed. Of the many strange and sundry days she had had lately, this was easily the strangest. She fell asleep without even a second thought for the nightmares that were to come.