What We Know of War

by thewanderers'wanderingdaughter

ON HIATUS. Part 3 of my Power and Control series. They're on the run. They're on their own. Dark forces are hunting them, and won't stop at anything to get what they want. They have to find the Horcruxes, but how? The darkness is closing in and it's going to take all they have and more to not give in. Not canon compliant. Dark. Forbidden romance. Every warning applies for this one.

3. The Set-Up

The nightmare had been on the fringes of his subconscious for most of the night, growing heavier until his head ached. Kreacher had shocked the other three again by coming back with fresh ingredients and preparing food dutifully, serving it to them with a bow.

Potter's eyes had been wide, almost suspicious, but Hermione had smiled at the Elf and tried the soup and thanked him for it, said it was delicious. The rest of them, following her bravery, had tried the soup too. Weasley had muttered something about checking for poison, but Hermione had been right. The soup was delicious, and Kreacher was watching them anxiously, his face looking like that of a new elf, not cantankerous in the least but rather pleasant, and Draco caught Potter stealing glances at the Elf repeatedly as if he couldn't believe it, himself.

Aside from that, dinner had been a quiet affair. They had gone to bed after that. Hermione had sensed something was wrong with Draco, and once they were alone in his room and he'd closed the door behind them, she walked into him slowly and kissed him, her neck arching upwards to meet his lips.

"You'll be sleeping alone again?" She asked when they broke apart. His arms were around her waist. His head dropped low, he breathed her in.

"Yes."

"Shall I put wards on your door?"

A sharp pain pierced his temple then.

"Please."

They still had not been able to figure out how he'd gotten his wand back and left the Weasley's house all those weeks ago. That mystery sat heavy and dark on his mind. It terrified him.

"I'll be right here," she said in a low voice. She squeezed his arm. "If you need anything, you'll be able to open the door and shout for me if you have to, but you can't come out. I've put a sensor charm on it just in case."

He nodded again, watching her with heavy eyes, struck again by her compassion, her loveliness in the midst of his ruin.

She walked to the door and stood just outside of it; he followed as far as the doorframe. They gazed at each other for a moment.

"I've ruined everything," he whispered. "I'll never be able to take any of it back, will I?"

Something in her composure fractured—her features twisted in sorrow—for him, for Dumbledore, for Harry, for everything that had changed at the hands of the evil that plagued them.

She came forward, reached up, and took his face in her hands.

"The best thing you can do is keep going," she said, her voice low and haunted. "Fight with us. You can't take it back—"

His eyes closed.

"—But you can make it better," she finished. "You can help us end this."

"They'll never accept me," he said softly. "No matter what I do, I'll always be a Malfoy. I'll always have this mark on me."

Hermione's brows lifted in worry.

"Your name may be Malfoy but you're not like your family. You're here, and that's what matters. You deserve to be here."

Draco felt something break inside him. He hadn't known he'd needed that reassurance so badly at this particular moment, and his gratitude was overwhelming. He crushed her against him, stifling her gasp with his mouth, one hand on the nape of her neck. He pressed her against the doorframe, and she let out a little moan, her hands on his back, her lips warm and soft.

"Thank you," he whispered when they broke the kiss moments later, panting.

"I can't imagine what you're feeling after all this," she said. "But I want to help you heal from it."

He doubted he would ever heal, and he was right. What was to come and what was already in motion would destroy them, alter them further, but they weren't aware of it yet. At that moment their world was confined to Grimmauld Place, to each other, to their fear and their sorrow. Their desire. They would learn, as Harry had already learned through multiple tragedies, that one never really stopped healing, and that when one seemed to finally have done so, something fresh and new and rotten came up just in the nick of time to restart the whole game.

But those lessons were yet to come.

Draco ran his other hand through her hair, his kiss turning softer, remembering himself. He trailed his kisses along her cheek, her throat, his breath and his lips lingering there. Her eyes were closed, her body heated. She shivered as he pulled away and opened her eyes.

Draco sighed. His headache had faded, almost imperceptible but for the dull pounding in his temples. "We should get to sleep."

Hermione was smiling faintly, her eyes glinting in the low light. "Are you sure you don't want me in there with you tonight?"

He'd gone half-hard in an instant at her suggestion, but shook his head, trying to smile back. Like the loosening of a valve, her words, her kiss had released that tension inside of him. He found that dark presence in his mind farther removed. He thought he might be okay for the rest of the night.

He was wrong.

"You know any other time, there would be nothing I would better prefer," he said. "But not tonight."

She nodded and stepped back from the doorframe. The glow of the gas lamp in the hallway cast her in half-shadow.

"Goodnight, Draco," she said softly.

"Goodnight, love."

She smiled to herself and began to cast the ward on his room.

Her worried face was the last thing he saw before he closed the door and faced his empty room.

He'd dressed for bed, the sharpness in his temple receding and cresting like a wave trying to whittle down a rock.

He'd been in bed, wide awake and still as stone for the better part of three hours. The headache had finally receded and he was barely aware of it. It wasn't until three in the morning that sleep took hold of him so quickly and deeply that he might have been suspicious of other forces at play had he been allowed time to process it as it happened.

The nightmare had moved in like a dense, rolling fog. It had cloyed in his throat like a thick, bitter wine, almost choking him. It settled around him so naturally and subtly that when it started, he fully believed he was still awake, that time had lost meaning, and had forgotten his current circumstances.

He was in his own home, walking down the long corridor that led to the dining hall and the foyer. He could hear multiple voices echoing faintly at the end.

When was the last time he'd walked through here? He didn't have time to remember. His steps were long and hurried, a frigid sense of urgency in the space around him, clinging to him.

He stopped abruptly before the entrance to the dining hall. The doors loomed large. The Manor, usually bright inside, was dark.

He let out a shaky breath, steeling his nerve.

The doors to the dining hall opened before him.

There was a mass of people inside, all crowded around in a circle. When the doors opened, they all looked up instantaneously in his direction, their faces and figures hooded.

Dread gripped his spine.

"Enter," Draco," he heard the Dark Lord call.

Heart pounding, he obeyed.

He meant to look ahead only, but his eyes were restless and jumped from figure to figure in that staring, faceless crowd, seeking his mother and father. Any familiar face.

The Dark Lord was at the back of the group, the only one not wearing a mask besides him. He smiled at Draco, his thin, pale lips drawing back slowly, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth.

Draco knelt on one knee before him, bending his neck.

"My Lord."

"Rise, Draco."

He obeyed. The Dark Lord's eyes were as red and dark as freshly drawn blood. They gleamed wetly in the thin light. There was a curious shuffling sound behind him.

"Are you not excited, Draco?" The Dark Lord asked. He held his wand in both hands, his long weathered nails scraping against the wood. There were already several old, deeper scratches along the wand.

"I am, my Lord," Draco said, his voice void of infliction.

"Good, good," the Dark Lord said, beginning to walk towards the huddled group, who were staring at them silently. Draco followed.

"The gift is coming," the Dark Lord announced.

"The gift is coming," repeated the hooded figures from behind their masks. The Dark Lord faced Draco, smiling that ugly unnerving smile.

"Your gift is coming, Draco. I confess I find myself impatient for it. You ought to be, too. You've earned it."

Was this a dream? Or a vision? Draco felt as though he'd been drugged. Horror gripped his mind, caging him inside it to where he watched it all play out, but was helpless to break free. His body moved on, his mouth spoke, but he was as disconnected from it as though he were watching it through a screen instead, or as if he were under an Imperio.

What's happening?

Oblivious—or ignorant—to his distress, his outer shell bowed at the Dark Lord's words.

"I'll be honored with any gift my Lord gives me," he replied automatically. "Although I know I am unworthy."

This pleased the Dark Lord. He smiled again and looked at the others who watched, faceless.

"Make way."

They parted at once, splitting the group cleanly in half. The Dark Lord walked through the center, eyes straight, his followers bowing as he passed until he bridged the gap between both groups at the top. Draco stayed on the other end, closing the circle they formed.

A tense silence filled the room.

"Are you ready, Draco?" The Dark Lord asked.

Everyone stared.

His lips moved.

"Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord snapped his fingers, and a large sack materialized and dropped heavily onto the floor with a sickening sound that made him want to recoil for fear of splatter. It was writhing.

"The gift is coming," the Dark Lord said.

"The gift is coming," the others repeated.

What gift?

The Dark Lord beckoned Draco forth.

"This is only for my benefit. The true gift is a ways off, yet. We'll save that for a better time. But for now…I want to see what you accomplished. Open it, Draco."

Draco stepped forward, pointed his wand at the moving mass. The material cut in half and dropped to the floor.

At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing, but the realization hit him a solid second later. His skin rolled out in waves from gooseflesh.

Maggots.

A huge mass of maggots. So many, their movements were audible. A tiny, sickening series of squelches. Like dipping his fist into a vat of cooked pasta. A hideous, wet, writhing sound.

Underneath the blanket of thriving worms, Dumbledore's corpse lay.

Vomit rushed up his esophagus. He almost staggered. Both those old, dead eyes were open, staring at the sky.

They were all watching. He couldn't react.

Shouldn't react.

He had seen terrible things before, in circumstances not unlike this. He had seen his father participate in these meetings for years. Now, it was his turn—and he'd done this before, hadn't he?

How else would he have ended up here?

Serve. And obey.

Was that not what his father had told him so often as he'd been growing up?

Serve and obey. Do not fail him, and you will be successful.

Serve.

And die, that voice whispered inside him.

Regardless of whether it was a dream or not, as irrational as his reaction seemed, he didn't dare move. Too often growing up, he had seen that to betray one's feelings resulted in death or punishment. Especially considering his current company, it was a habit that was difficult to let go of.

He froze himself, willing his eyes to not water at the sight, the stench. His lips were clamped shut.

"Wonderful," the Dark Lord was saying. "Absolutely wonderful, Draco."

Dumbledore's eye was moving. Draco couldn't help it—he stepped back in alarm, his heart plummeting in the same moment as that milked-over blue eye fixed on him, void of emotion, void of life, but as he stared at it Draco could have sworn it was glaring at him.

He's still alive.

And then—

There was a sickening pop. The eye burst out of the socket, hanging by a nerve, and a surge of fat maggots appeared through the gaping hole, wriggling sickly, tumbling down onto Dumbledore's wasted, rotting cheek. More maggots crawled around in his long silver beard.

The Dark Lord sighed as if experiencing climax, and Draco awoke.

Vomit pushed at his lips, burning a trail through up his throat. He stumbled out of bed, almost tripping over his own legs, still half-asleep, but he made it to the joined bathroom and slammed the door shut.

As Hermione obliviously slept on across the hall, he violently emptied the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot, sweat dripping down his forehead, the Dark Lord's nauseating sigh replaying in his mind, his ominous words hanging over him. He stayed there, white-faced and unable to sleep for hours afterward.

---

Hermione awoke and stretched in her bed. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and dressed for the day. Her sleep had been dreamless and restful. She made her bed and left her curtains open, and exited her room.

When she had undone the ward on Draco's room, she knocked on the door.

"Come in," came Draco's voice, and she entered to find him pulling a jumper over a plain shirt.

"Good morning," he said as she sat on the edge of his cold, unslept in bed. She took note of that immediately and her gaze sharpened on him.

"I wasn't aware you owned any t-shirts," she said.

"I've got very few," he admitted. "At home, we always dress formally. The only t-shirts I own are meant for sleeping in." He turned to her. "I feel overdressed here."

"We're not going to judge you for what you wear if that's what you're thinking," she said.

"I wouldn't really care if anyone did," he said. "I was just thinking—it wouldn't be very practical if we had to run out again and I stick out like a sore thumb because I'm not in regular Muggle attire."

She frowned.

"That's a good point. Have you tried transfiguring some of your other shirts, then?"

He nodded. "I did two before you came in. I reckon I'll do the trousers later. What do you call those? Denim, was it?"

"Yes. Jeans also works." She pointed her wand at a pair of trousers he had lying on the bed and muttered something. They transformed as they both watched, and Draco picked them up.

"Have you ever worn jeans before?" She asked.

"No," he said and pulled them on over his boxers. "They're quite stiff."

"That's normal," she said. "They were originally created for Muggles who do hard labor. Meant to withstand a lot of wear, and the like, but everyone wears them now."

"Interesting." He looked down at himself. "Thanks. It's a good fit."

They were a great fit. Hermione eyed him appreciatively, but said no more, knowing he was skirting around what she wanted to ask.

Draco was raising and bending his legs at the knee as if marching in place, getting used to the feel of the fabric, it's unusual toughness, so different from the finer fabrics he usually wore. She suppressed a giggle and watched.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked instead.

He stopped.

"Not at all."

"What happened?"

"Another nightmare," he said. "Nothing new."

She was about to ask what it was about when he came forth and held out his hand. She saw the remnants of that nightmare in shrouds around him, shadowing around his eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Please. Not now."

She hesitated and nodded. She took his hand, and they left for the kitchen.

---

Potter and Weasley were already downstairs. Weasley was a little more than half-asleep at the table. Potter was fidgeting with the Snitch Dumbledore had bequeathed him.

"Anything?" Hermione asked as she and Draco approached the table.

Potter shook his head and handed it to her.

"That's all it does," he said, pointing to the inscription.

I open at the close.

"Morning, sunshine," Draco said to Weasley as he sat down. His eyes were dry and his body a little sluggish, perhaps rebelling against him for not having slept much, if at all the night before. Several steaming cups of tea on saucers appeared all around the table, one for each of them. He took his and drank from it, scalding his tongue and not caring.

Weasley opened his eyes reluctantly.

"Kreacher's making breakfast."

"Did you sleep as badly as I did?" Draco asked him.

"I slept fine," Weasley said. "I'm not an early riser, that's all."

He almost fell backward out of his chair when Kreacher Apparated in and snapped his fingers to usher in breakfast

The dinner Kreacher had made them the night before had been good—great, even. But perhaps it had been a ruse to let their guards down for a pinch of poison, perhaps. That was Harry and Ron's initial thought. Neither said it out loud but they confirmed it with a glance at each other, and Hermione, knowing and sensing this, sent them a 'don't be daft' look of her own, and followed Draco by starting to eat her own.

"This is delicious, Kreacher," Hermione said, beaming at the elf.

Kreacher approached the table, and despite Hermione's praise, they still caught themselves a little tense as the elf began to speak, waiting for him to utter his usual hateful mutterings.

"Kreacher is glad the friend of Master is liking the food," he said, and through his croaking voice, they could detect no sarcasm or resentment. Hermione smiled at the elf again.

"Yeah, Kreacher, this is great," Harry added around a mouthful of food. "Thanks."

Kreacher simply bowed. As he did so, they caught a flash of the chain of the fake locket underneath his tattered tunic.

Weasley looked at them and then poked at his food with his fork, slightly suspicious. Hermione elbowed him and he made a face, waiting a minute more, staring at Draco to see if he'd had any reaction to the food.

Draco only raised a brow at him.

Potter was still eating his eggs. The elf had left the kitchen briefly, muttering under his breath, but it was not the hateful, resentful sort of muttering they were used to from him. It was the thoughtful kind as if he were composing a list of things to do out loud.

They ate busily, and it was Draco who was first to notice that the kitchen was cleaner than it had been the night before.

The windows, which had been covered both with heavy, ancient drapes and a thick layer of dust, were now open and dust-free. The floor, which had been clean but unswept, now gleamed. The wood burner and the sink were tidy; a stack of dried dishes had been put off to the side, waiting to be tucked away into the cabinet.

Potter had followed his gaze and noticed the difference.

"The place looks almost…nice," he said, looking around himself as if he'd suddenly been transported to a different location without knowing.

"This must have been a beautiful house, once," Hermione agreed. "I understand why Kreacher would want to hang onto as much of it as he could, even if all that stuff we saw downstairs is never going to be used again. It belonged to his family."

Draco barely remembered it from his youth, the few times he had been brought over as a child to meet his relatives before his mother had burnt their names off the family tapestry that hung in her living room. He had been so young, then. Had he met Regulus before? Or even Sirius Black? They would have been quite a bit older than him, then. Tonks had been closer to his age, and he hardly remembered her.

---

Harry had looked away and back down at his plate, busying himself with finishing his meal. Hermione's words had brought up so many questions about Sirius—what had it been like, to grow up here? Had his parents ever visited? What had his family been like, when they were all alive? What would it have been like had Sirius never died, and Harry been allowed to move in here with him, finally with some semblance of a real family?

His eyes had grown a bit wet—he blinked and cut a chunk of roasted potato into three pieces.

Nobody else noticed, thankfully.

"What's the plan for today, then?" Ron was asking.

"Well," Hermione said after a drink of pumpkin juice, "we're going to need Polyjuice Potion. Quite a bit of it, actually. We need to get supplies for that, preferably from Hogwarts."

"We can't just go into Diagon Alley?" Potter asked.

"The risk is too great," she said. "We can try disguise spells and cloaks to hide, but in the event that there's higher security, we need to see about other options first before we go in headfirst."

She looked thoughtful suddenly, and added, "If we're going to be hunting and destroying Horcruxes, we'll need to find things that will destroy them, too."

"The Basilisk venom," Potter said, catching on at once. "Reckon the corpse will still be in the Chamber?"

"Considering no one knew it was there for centuries, I'll bet there's a rather large and hideous skeleton there now," Hermione said, making a face. "If the fangs are intact, that's our best bet."

"Right," Potter said, looking grim. "You'll come with me, Ron?"

"Sure, mate," but Weasley looked uneasy.

Draco looked at Hermione. "Is there any other way besides the venom?"

"Likely, yes," she said. "But the information is so hidden or protected that this is the only way we know, and Harry discovered that by accident. Or luck. We'll start with the venom and continue research...but I doubt we'll find much else."

"Better to have something than nothing," Potter said, nudging her arm, and she nodded.

"Great," Weasley said in a forced cheerful tone. "Let's take this step by step. So how are we going to get into Hogwarts?"

"We'd have to speak to McGonagall," Draco said. "How can we contact her? We haven't got any owls here."

"I'll ask Pansy and Ginny," Hermione said, taking the charmed galleon out from her pocket. She pressed it hard between her fingers, and sent her question through with only a thought, watching the words etch themselves into the gold of the coin and then disappear immediately after:

We need to speak to McGonagall. Where is she?

She'd expected to have to wait for their reply, but fumbled and nearly dropped it when the coin flashed hot in her palm almost a second later.

McGonagall on her way to see you. Be ready.

Her eyes widened.

"McGonagall's already on her way here," she said, just as there was a loud CRACK by the front door, followed by a second's pause, and then a rap on the door.

They almost jumped back in surprise as Kreacher appeared at Harry's side with another loud CRACK.

"Kreacher sees Minerva McGonagall waiting outside," he said. "Will Master be wanting her visit?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, grabbing his napkin to mop at the pumpkin juice he'd spilled upon the first notice of Apparition. Kreacher snapped his fingers to clear the mess and Apparated away again.

They all looked at each other.

"Holy shit," Ron muttered, "If I wasn't awake before I am now."

"That was faster than I thought it'd be," Harry said, nodding.

Draco frowned. "I wonder why."

There was no more time to continue wondering, as the esteemed Professor herself was led into the kitchen by Kreacher, who announced her arrival as she eyed him warily. She'd spent enough time at Grimmauld Place to be familiar with Kreacher, and was likely wondering about his sudden reversal in attitude. Harry supposed she might ask, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

"It's good to see you're all safe," she said, her slight Scottish accent so familiar and refreshing that Harry fought the sudden urge to smile.

Harry invited her to sit, half-expecting her to decline and stay standing, as she often did, but she accepted and sat opposite him at the table.

"You, too, Professor. We worried about everyone after we left."

"There is not much need to worry," she said. "There has been little damage."

She turned to Weasley.

"Your sister told me about your foot," she said. "I was sorry to hear about it. Is it healed? May I assist in any way?"

Ron shook his head. "Hermione healed it," he replied, sending her a grateful look. "I can still walk, which is all that matters."

"Good." She looked at each of them squarely in the eye. "After what happened at the wedding, we must be more careful about who we trust with our secrets. I'm sure you were told about why the wards were broken around your home?" She asked, looking at Ron.

They nodded.

"Then I suggest that wherever you go from here, whatever you do, you tell no one."

Ron opened his mouth.

"Not even your sister. Or your best friend," she added, looking at Draco. "I know they are trustworthy. They didn't reveal you staying here to me. I only came here to inspect the wards at Arthur's suggestion, and when your sister and Miss Parkinson heard, I could tell by the look in their eye I would find something here. And as it's been for the past six years, whenever I get a feeling like that, it's usually you three behind it," she said, a rare smile turning her lips.

"Is Grimmauld Place at risk, then, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"It's highly unlikely for now, but I can't guarantee anything," McGonagall said. "Even if they knew you were hiding here, they would have to locate it first, and seeing as the person who betrayed us at the Burrow is a notorious drunkard who had to be let in here more than half of the time for not remembering the password—" her tone had grown sharp with dislike here. She paused and cleared her throat. "Be prepared for anything. It may happen, it may not. We have been searching for him since the wedding but he knows we're looking, and evades us at every turn. We must get him before an enemy does, and extracts more secrets from him."

"But Ginny and Pansy would never rat us out like that," Ron insisted.

"I know they wouldn't," McGonagall said. "But under duress, even the most loyal and the strongest minds can be broken or bent. If the enemy becomes aware of any emotional ties any of you might have to someone else, they will try to exploit it. I imagine you would want to prevent that in any way possible."

Ron had gone pale.

"Professor," Harry cut in. "We need access to Hogwarts."

They were prepared for her hesitation, and for a load of questions, or a refusal. Instead, she simply nodded slightly, as though she had been expecting it, and stood from her seat.

"Will it take long?"

"No," Hermione said, surreptitiously checking her pocket for the folded piece of parchment she'd tucked inside. "We know what we're after."

---

After McGonagall had Apparated them in through her office in groups of two, she had instructed them to be ready and waiting back in her office within an hour, and she would come to Apparate them back to Grimmauld Place. They'd nodded, and she'd Apparated away again without a sound.

It was strange to be back inside Hogwarts so soon. Somehow, Hermione had held the previously unknown assumption that they would never see its insides again, yet there they stood, alone and small in the wake of the castle's size. They peered anxiously around themselves as they passed through long corridors, almost expecting to run into hordes of other students or even one of their professors, but they encountered nothing.

"I feel like Filch is going to come out at any second and scare the living shit out of us," Ron muttered, his eyes sweeping the space around them.

"He's probably on holiday since there are no students," Hermione said.

And there likely won't be for a long while.

Her stomach sank.

They climbed down into the dungeons, taking turns and following the familiar path to the Potions classroom they had taken countless times before when things had been so different.

The classroom was unlocked, thankfully. Draco closed the door behind them.

There were still cauldrons set up at every workbench. The seats were all pushed in, the curtains to the tiny, dingy windows drawn. Gone were the luxurious scents of Slughorn's incenses that they'd grown accustomed to over the year. Now, the room only had its usual musk of cold and mold, which they remembered from Snape's years as Potions Master.

Ron was the first to reach the storeroom. "What do we need?"

"I've got a list," Hermione said and began to read from it. "Lacewing flies, beetroot powder, salamander blood—"

"One thing at a time, please," Harry said, as he and Ron started to go down the aisles of the storeroom, searching for the first of many ingredients.

"How do you even remember all that?" Ron asked.

Hermione shrugged. "It just stayed with me. We don't have much room for error, if at all. We don't want to have to risk a trip into Diagon Alley. I found the ingredients list in one of my books, but it didn't have the brewing instructions." She bit her lip. "We'll have to go to the library to look that up, among other things."

"One thing at a time," Harry said, and she smiled.

"Some more light might be nice," Ron called from the farther end.

Draco raised his wand. "Lumos maxima."

Suddenly it was easier to see. Light glinted off the jars around them, making them squint a little as they looked around.

"Thanks," Ron said rather awkwardly and continued his search.

"Here's the flies," Harry said, handing the bottle to Hermione. She inspected the label, nodded, and stored it carefully inside her bag.

"I'll have to be really careful with this from now on," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

Ron came with another jar next, and after it received Hermione's approval, the jar was placed gently in her bag and she sent him off to find the next item on the list.

It really was a long list, Draco mused ten minutes later when his arms were aching from holding his Lumos maxima up high enough so that both Potter and Weasley could reap its benefits. He wondered at why they were going to the trouble of actually searching for every ingredient when a simple Accio might do the trick easily enough, but in a crowded storeroom like this, there was bound to be a few collisions, and cleanup duty wasn't something they really had time for.

He glanced around the storeroom again, fighting back a shiver. It was here no less than two months ago that this classroom had been full of students carefully brewing potions. In this very storeroom he had encountered Hermione (then merely Granger—how different everything was now) who upon seeing him at the door had fumbled and shattered some glass vials. He had been on the verge of turning away and leaving, mindful of the flash of fright in her eyes, but Slughorn had asked him to help her, and having no excuse ready to wiggle out of the request, he'd obeyed. He remembered the wordless look of surprise and wariness on her face as she accepted one of the unbroken vials back. He remembered her beautiful, half-illuminated face, how soft and dark her hair looked. He remembered how badly he had craved to kiss her then—and how she had gone away immediately after, muttering a quiet 'thank you' as she passed.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and with a jump in his stomach, realized she was doing the same. Was she revisiting the memory, too? He felt his ears go warm.

Had she sensed how he'd wanted to kiss her then?

He had the urge to do it now.

If only Potter and Weasley weren't there…

He would take that list from her hands and put it in his pocket. He would press her into the cold wall and warm her with his heat, brush his lips against her neck—he could picture the way her lips would part—he would kiss her, dispel his Lumos Maxima so they wouldn't be bothered, so he could explore her in the dark.

He started slightly as she moved against him briefly, placing another jar into the seemingly bottomless depths of her bag. Draco realized he had a semi-erection, and flushing, turned away from the others and pretended to be suddenly interested in what the jars behind him contained. He flexed the muscles of his upper thighs, willing it to go away quickly, and switched his wand to his other hand.

She appeared to not have noticed and he was thankful for that.

When they'd gotten the last ingredient Hermione sighed satisfactorily and folded the piece of parchment up, stuffed it into her bag, and closed it securely.

"That's all?" Ron asked.

"That's all." She peered at the doorway past Draco, although knowing they were alone in the castle. "We should go. I keep feeling like Snape's going to walk in at any—"

The words died in her throat as Professor Snape appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow over them.

"Find everything you need?" came his sarcastic, toneless drawl.

Hermione clutched at her bag, heart beating wildly. Snape's cold eyes tracked the movement of her hand.

"Erm, Professor…"

The barest hint of a smirk lifted his lip.

"Finally lost your tongue, Miss Granger?"

Hermione went red and found she could barely look him in the eye. The embarrassment of him catching her and Draco snogging not too long ago was still fresh in her memory, and based on Draco's blush, was for him, too.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"This is my classroom you are in, Potter," Snape said. "Imagine my ire when I received a letter an hour ago from McGonagall letting me know I was to have…visitors… to my storeroom, and that I'm to let you take what you wish."

"Technically, aren't these Slughorn's stores now?" Ron asked.

Snape stared at him, and if looks could cast curses, Ron would have been a pile of ashes.

"Slughorn may have been teaching Potions," he said slowly, "but these have always been my stores. I look after them, and I restock when students take to thieving."

"Well, the shops were all closed," Ron said, withering into silence as Snape glared at him. Beside him, Harry had to repress a snicker.

"Each and every item that comes into this room to be stored is tracked down and bought from a range of shops, some of them not in this country, and endures an excruciating customs process to be delivered safely to this classroom. I weigh every ounce, I label every bottle, I keep an accurate inventory of every ingredient in this room. I have never once allowed students to stroll in here and take things at their leisure…"

His eyes found Harry's.

"Until you came along."

"Professor McGonagall gave us permission," Harry replied coolly.

"Because she knew if you had asked me, I would have turned you out to the streets," Snape replied scathingly. "It isn't my problem that you're fugitives who can't be seen in public."

He looked back at Hermione, who had regained her composure.

"What did you take? You have a list, of course," he said, though he had never seen it. He held out his hand to her. "Give it to me."

Hermione glared back at him. Harry and Ron had gone tense behind her as if they expected Snape to call in some Aurors to take them away, but she knew better. She opened her bag and withdrew the parchment, eliciting some clinking sounds within from the glass jars. Snape narrowed his eyes at her.

She handed him the list.

He scanned it quickly and before he'd even seen half of it, he lowered his arm and fixed her with a long stare.

"Polyjuice potion."

No one said anything.

He handed back the parchment.

"One might wonder what you would be making Polyjuice for."

Again, they were silent.

It was remarkable, Hermione thought. Years had passed and yet still when standing under his scrutiny, she always felt like she was her eleven-year-old self again, small and nervous and unaccustomed to his caustic behavior.

"Practice," she said at last, and Ron and Harry barely managed to contain their explosive, unanticipated snickers with coughs.

She glanced at Draco. He was hiding a smile.

Snape's expression only darkened. He moved away from the doorframe and pointed to the exit.

"Get. Out."

---

Ron let his laughter loose the second Snape had slammed the door shut behind them. It echoed loudly across the dungeons.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said, once it had died down. "You've got nerve."

"He almost had fire in his eyes," Draco said. They had begun to walk down the corridor. "Talk about bad timing…"

"Are we ready to go?" Harry asked.

"No," Hermione said. "I forgot to swipe a cauldron from the classroom. We'll need one, and some vials or more cups, something to stir with, and the book with the recipe for Polyjuice. And you still need to go to the Chamber of Secrets."

"Reckon we can go back in and ask Snape for a cauldron, too?" Draco asked. Ron let out half a laugh, check himself, and looked at Draco curiously.

"I don't remember you being so funny, Malfoy," he said.

"I've always been funny," Draco said matter-of-factly. "But I used that to be an ass."

"Ah, right," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "How could I ever forget?"

"Okay," Harry said, and they all stopped walking. "Ron and I'll go get the book from the library and then run down to the Chamber."

"It's in the Restricted Section," Hermione warned them. "You'll have to take it off its chains."

"As long as it doesn't scream, it should be no problem," Harry said, remembering the cursed book that had screamed shrilly upon being opened when he had snuck into the Restricted Section in first year.

"At least Pince isn't there," Ron said, sounding relieved. "You saw how mad Snape was. Can you imagine Pince's reaction if she found us in the Restricted Section trying to take a book?"

Harry shook his head.

"Rather not." He looked at Hermione and Draco.

"We'll get the rest," Hermione said before he could ask.

"Alright. We'll meet back at the grand doors in…" he looked at the watch Mrs. Weasley had given him on his last birthday. "Thirty-five minutes."

"I think we can scrounge up some vials and a ladle of some sort in the kitchens," Hermione told Draco, so they headed down there.

---

It was odd for Draco to see the kitchen so empty. He was so used to hearing and seeing the bustling elves toiling merrily at their work, that to find the kitchens so silent and empty was haunting, almost. He fought back a shiver.

The sheer amount of cabinets in the walls made them balk. Hermione raised her wand and was about to utter an Accio when a squeak from behind made them jump.

They whirled around, Hermione with her wand drawn and ready to attack.

They found Dobby behind them, looking confused.

"Dobby, you scared us," Hermione said, sighing, lowering her arm.

"Dobby apologizes," the House Elf said. He was staring at Draco as he spoke. "Dobby was not expecting visitors in the kitchen for some time."

"Hullo, Dobby," Draco said, not knowing what reaction he should expect from the House Elf, who had undoubtedly known that he had committed perhaps the largest crime in the school's history nearly a month before.

"Dobby thinks he sees ghosts," Dobby said. "First, he thinks he sees Dumbledore in his office, now he sees Draco Malfoy in the kitchens. Poor Dobby is grieving and does not know what to think."

"You saw Dumbledore?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Dobby thinks he sees Dumbledore," Dobby said, shaking his head as if that might clear his confusion. "Dobby did not see, but heard what Draco Malfoy does to Albus Dumbledore, and Dobby was very sad indeed. Dobby though his former Master had changed."

His hand came up, and Hermione saw with a jolt of fear that his fingers were poised to snap—would he turn Draco in?

"Dobby—" Draco started.

"—And then Dobby is grieving in his room after the students have gone home, and there is no need to cook, and McGonagall comes to see Dobby, and shows him a memory of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Weasley taking Truth potion and saying he did not mean to do it."

Dobby's huge blue eyes were fixed on Draco.

"Dobby hears Draco Malfoy say he was being threatened, and he had no choice, and that Dumbledore asks him to do it," Dobby said. "And McGonagall tells Dobby this is true."

"She's right," Draco said. "It's all the truth. I told him what was happening. I tried to turn myself in. He was dying—he was ill, somehow, and he was in pain. He wanted me to, even when I said I wouldn't."

Dobby's eyes were swimming with tears.

"It's true, Dobby," Hermione said, fighting the sadness that thickened her tongue. "Draco is helping us now, and we're helping Harry. He's on our side."

Dobby finally looked away from Draco to see Hermione, the truth in her eyes. His arm slowly lowered back down to his side.

"You are helping Harry Potter?" Dobby asked, looking at Draco again.

Draco nodded. "To the end."

He hadn't realized those were the words that were going to come out. He flushed a little, hearing them again in his head. But it was true—he wouldn't stop until it was over.

Dobby rubbed at his eyes and blew his nose.

"Dobby is very glad to hear it," he said. "And Dobby will do what he can to help Harry Potter and his friends."

Draco opened his mouth to argue. I'm not his friend. But that was a dumb technicality and they were losing time.

"Speaking of that," Hermione said, "you wouldn't happen to have any cauldrons here, would you?"

"No, but Dobby can go to the Potions class and take one!"

"No, no, no," Hermione and Draco said together in a rush.

"We'll find one somewhere," Hermione said. "Do you have any flasks, then? Anything we can stir with?"

"Yes, Dobby may supply many things!" The House Elf cried. Hermione consulted her list and read items off one by one, and Dobby happily summoned them.

"Where is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?" Dobby asked as they exited the kitchen some minutes later. Draco helped Hermione safely tuck their wares away into her bag.

"In the library, trying to steal a book." Hermione smiled. "I'm sure they'd be happy to see you. They might even need some help."

She could picture them now, trying to navigate through the intricate mess that was the Restricted Section.

"Then Dobby shall go help them!"

"Ok, then we'll see you later," Hermione said, and the House Elf Apparated away.

"Let's go upstairs," Draco said. "To the Room of Requirement."

"Why?" Hermione asked, then realization dawned on her face. "Oh, are there cauldrons there?"

"Plenty," Draco said, "though it might take us a while to find one that isn't a ruined wreck."

Draco glanced at her bag.

"Is that heavy? Here, let me carry it."

"It's fine," Hermione said, though she blushed at the gesture. He watched her, charmed. "Pansy had it made so that it's weightless no matter what I put into it, because she knows how heavy my schoolbags get. I could hold a dragon in here if I wanted to, though I certainly wouldn't try."

"That must've come in handy," he said, raising his brows. "I remember it was particularly bad in third year. You seemed like you were carrying the contents of the school library in your bag. I remember you were late to every class because you'd show up out of nowhere and nobody had ever seen you come in."

Hermione grinned.

"I was never late."

He frowned. "Yes, you were. I specifically remember a few instances where I was bored enough to watch the doors as everyone came in for some classes we had together, and I never saw you until later, when class had already begun." He paused, and she was still grinning. "But knowing you, there's probably something crucial I'm missing." He smiled back. "Go on, what is it? Were you wearing Potter's Invisibility cloak?"

"Not quite," Hermione said. "You see, in third year I took about six classes, which meant a few schedule conflicts…"

They began the climb up the stairs.

---

They were out of breath and sore when they reached the fifth floor. Hermione had finished the recounting of her experience with the Time Turner, and Draco was still trying to wrap his mind around it.

"So that's why they never found that Hippogriff?"

"Yes," she said. "He's safe and secure somewhere out there."

Draco rubbed at his forearm absently. The scar had faded to a thin, silvery sliver on his skin. "I hope he's having the time of his life. I wish I hadn't been so rotten to it."

Hermione smiled bitterly, wondering how Buckbeak was faring without Sirius. Was he free, now? Or had Hagrid found him another home?

"I'm sure he's fine," she said. "Although there were lots of us who were glad you were taught a lesson."

"Would've been nicer if I'd actually learned that lesson."

"Better late than never," she said coyly.

He shrugged.

"Still, a Time-Turner," he mused as they wound their way through more corridors. "That's really something."

"Sometimes I think I could go through it all again," Hermione said. "Take extra classes, bend time."

"But?" Draco prompted.

"It got tiring after a while," she admitted. "Having to run around and pretend I'd been there all along, gaslighting Ron, because he was always the first to notice when I'd suddenly appear, and I felt bad, but I had to keep the secret. He wasn't very pleased with me when I finally told him the truth."

"I'm sure you'd manage it just as well as you did then," Draco said.

"Even if I made up my mind and went through with it, it isn't possible anymore," Hermione said. "All the Time-Turners were destroyed when we broke into the Department of Mysteries a few years ago."

Draco, who had known exactly what he would have done with a Time-Turner if he ever got the chance, blinked.

"All of them?"

She nodded, wincing. "It was my fault. The Death Eaters were coming after us. There wasn't much time to think straight. I knocked over a lot of shelves to block them from our path. A lot of other things were destroyed, but I saw all the Time-Turners smash up into bits. Prophecies were lost, too."

It smarted to think about. Sure, she had bought her friends time to run away, but how much had she ruined in the process? Those prophecies in their glass orbs had chilled her the moment she laid eyes on them, remembering her dislike of Professor Trelawny. When the glass Harry had taken had smashed, she and the others had heard the voice rise from within, and Hermione had heard the unmistakable shaky tones of the Professor whom she'd written off so long before.

' Neither can live while the other survives,'

"What's that?" Draco asked, and Hermione started.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes." He was looking at her strangely. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think so," she said. "I got lost in thought."

"The Prophecy talk had something to do with it, I suppose."

She nodded and hesitated. "Do you believe in Divination?"

"I do." She looked surprised. "I know you don't. I heard you walked out of Trelawney's class in third year. That was quite the hot gossip for some time."

"I never pictured you as a gossip," Hermione said, raising a brow.

"And I never thought Hermione Granger would ever walk out of a class," he replied.

"It just seems so…arbitrary to me," Hermione said. "All we did was look inside teacups and crystal balls. Trelawney would see the Grim in every class just to rile everyone up! She was torturing Harry with it. You see what you want to see."

"Anyone can learn Divination," Draco said. "But not everybody is a Seer."

"You think there's a distinction between the two?"

She half expected him to look at her with surprise that she didn't know the difference, as Ron or maybe even Harry might. Instead, he only shrugged.

"Oh, of course," he said as they turned into another corridor. "Divination shows you only glimpses. Symbols, like the Grim, or the Claw, a seed, etc. You're left to interpret it as best as you can. It's terribly vague. Seeing shows you things a little more clearly. It's not a trick you can learn, like swishing your tea leaves in just the right manner."

Hermione snorted.

"People are born with the ability to See," he continued. "No tea leaves. No crystal balls. It's eerie, really. It just happens."

"You sound like you've had some experience with it."

"My family tree is dotted with Seers," he explained. "I've had Great-Great Grandmothers and Great-Aunts who had the Seeing eye. I didn't know them, but my mother did, and she said she saw them deliver prophecies."

"Like what?"

"She'd never tell me," Draco said. "I'd ask and she wouldn't say a word. The only thing she ever told me was that one of the prophecies was about me, but I'll never know what it was."

Hermione frowned.

They had finally reached the dead-end hall. They approached it, and Draco followed the ritual to summon the door. When it appeared, he opened it and waited for Hermione to enter first. He followed her inside, hearing her gasp of amazement.

"Oh."

It was all just as he'd left it. The sprawling mass of rubbish and curious artifacts. The dust floating thickly in the air. The high, high windows letting in thick streams of light.

"I didn't know it was like this," Hermione said, turning round in a slow circle, her eyes dazed with the sheer amount of objects crammed in the space around them. Draco watched, secretly amused.

"You've never seen this room?" He asked.

"No. Harry has, he's mentioned it a few times, but I've only ever seen the room where Dumbledore's Army practiced, the room I snuck in after you, and—well, the study room where you almost found me out. Those were all quite different."

He winced. It was still very much a vivid memory. It stung to remember, but not as much as the pain he had probably caused her.

There was a rustling sound as the room around them changed, and it was back. The plain, smallish room that he had cornered her in, inspected the contents of her bag and wrapped his hands around her throat when he'd been overcome by fury.

He started, felt his face drain of color, staring at the spot on the wall where it'd happened. He had lost control of himself. He'd turned into a monster.

His eyes wouldn't look away from that wall. His hands had gone cold. He didn't know if it was the Room itself or some random creature lurking around but her could hear some faint choking sounds. Something bumped against his foot, and he looked down.

It was a green apple with a bite taken out of it.

Something clutched at his mind.

Monster. Red flashed through his mind.

He staggered backward.

" Draco."

Her hand was on his arm, pleading for him to look away. It took him a second, but he managed it, and her hands reached upwards and cupped his face, her eyes boring into his, sharing the memory, the fear.

His hands connected with hers.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

What kind of monster had he been, that he had succumbed to that rage so easily, over something so small?

"We're over it," she was repeating slowly. "It's over. You are forgiven."

He nodded faintly. She kissed him. He gave in, reciprocated eagerly.

They broke apart and she reached up to hold his face. Her eyes were reassuring and calm.

"You are not the same Draco Malfoy that did that. I wouldn't have stood by your side if you were."

Draco nodded again and kissed her firmly. The room slowly melted away.

When they broke apart, they were back in the mess of the hidden room. Hermione pushed her hair from her face and sighed.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"I'm more worried about you," she said. "but I'm fine."

"I don't know why I reacted like that," he said, scrubbing his face with his palm. "I know we're over it. I know. I think the dream from last night has me on edge, but worse than usual."

She took his hand and squeezed it.

You are forgiven, her eyes seemed to say. It's in the past.

"I'm okay," he said.

She squeezed his hand again.

"Right," she said and stepped forward. "This was where you—?"

"Yes. Way off towards the back of this place."

"You said you'd fixed the Vanishing cabinet?" She asked, frowning.

"Yes. I turned it into a portal of sorts, to transport the Death Eaters from Borgin and Burke's to here."

Hermione was looking at him, frowning.

"Is it still active?"

He went still.

"Most likely, yes."

They rushed forward at the same moment, but since Hermione didn't know the way to it, Draco went ahead and remembered the path he'd cleared out among the rubbish, helping Hermione over the more difficult obstacles, his heart pounding all the while.

Suppose the others had remembered the cabinet, too, and were planning to use it again without him? What if they'd done it already?

Doubtful, a rational voice whispered inside him. If there'd been another infiltration, we would have heard of it by now. They would have thought I was behind it, and they would have questioned me again.

He clung to that thought desperately.

It took several minutes, but when they found the cabinet, it felt like only seconds had passed. It stood proudly, old and weathered but still gleaming along some of its silver filigree that had not been tarnished yet. Its door was still ajar, and Draco shuddered to see it that way, half expecting a gloved hand to reach out and pull him in by his cloak.

Hermione raised her wand, and the door opened all the way, as if she'd had the same exact thought.

It was empty.

"Shall I?" She asked, not taking her eyes off the cabinet. There was a sense of malevolence around it that Draco had never noticed before. Was it merely the memory of the foulness that cabinet had carried within, or was it all the negative energy he had put into it with every hateful, reluctant hour he had spent to fix it?

His mind flashed back to the corpse of the dead little bird, mangled and bloody.

"No," he heard himself say. "I'll do it."

She nodded.

He raised his wand.

"Incendio."

Flames roared to life and wrapped around the cabinet.

Hermione stepped back. The heat was already overbearing. She held her wand out, ready to contain the fire to destroy only the cabinet, anticipating a spark to fly, and then chaos. She glanced nervously around the room.

A fire would spread very easily in here.

Draco's face was intent. He seemed almost in a trance. His eyes reflected the bright orange of the fire as cabinet began to creak and groan and pop, buckling in on itself, sparks flying upwards but not outwards. He wasn't blinking. She almost called to him, a thread of fear tugging at her tongue, but she said nothing, jumping instead when the cabinet began to collapse on itself, blowing more sparks around, but none caught or even were able to spread too far, as Draco seemed to be making sure they would not.

There was a pool of melted silver on the ground, trailing slowly along the cold stone floor. Smoke stung at her eyes. Hermione looked up to the windows and raised her wand to open them all to clear the room.

Draco coughed a bit but didn't move. His arm didn't falter.

The flames were taller now. Stronger in their hunger. There was a louder pop and hiss this time, and the cabinet, now jagged and charred, lit from within by embers, caved in on itself completely, and what once had been a proud, handsome black piece of furniture lay in drifts of still-burning wood and ashes. The flames were dying down rapidly, having eaten their fill.

Hermione stepped forward as Draco lowered his wand.

He took a deep breath, as if he'd just woken, and turned to look at her. His eyes were wet, but he wiped at them.

"That felt good."

Hermione stared at the dying flames as they moved through the ashes, seeking more sustenance. There was nothing left. The silver was cooling against the stone, turning solid again. She pointed her wand at the mess.

"Aquamenti."

Water neutralized the remaining flames instantly. More smoke billowed up.

The room had gone cold now that the windows were open.

Draco came to her. She took his hand.

"Shall we move on?" He asked.

"I can see a few cauldrons already," she said, nodding, fighting back a cough. "Let's go see if we can use one."

They found six cauldrons right away, but all of them were severely damaged and beyond repair. They set about to finding more and calling to each other if they found one that was usable.

At last, it was Hermione who emerged triumphant with a standard pewter cauldron she'd found hidden underneath a pile of moth-eaten witches robes that seemed more suited for playing dress-up than for daily wear. It had no physical defects upon inspection, unless one could count the graffiti scrawled across the side in Everlasting Ink. Hermione had called out to Draco and he had come over only to find her smiling, shaking her head as she'd discovered the word 'WANKER' under a film of dust at the bottom of the inside of the cauldron. She'd shown it to him and he'd grinned.

"I wonder if that was meant for Snape to see," he said.

"I can't imagine what his reaction must have been if he'd seen it," she said, and tried an impression of Snape: she looked down her nose at some poor invisible student, and said, "Go to Filch's office at once."

It wasn't a terrible impression. She had been spot on with the mannerism. Draco laughed, something squeezing gently at his heart to see her be so endearing. The episode from earlier was far flung in their minds. She had gone pink, stifling her laughter as if she thought Snape might find them again, her eyes dancing with light. Draco felt something pass between them and felt he ought to say something, or do something, but didn't know what—a kiss didn't seem quite enough so he floundered, and the moment passed. Hermione hadn't noticed his turmoil. She'd calmed down and shrank the cauldron, tucked it into her bag, and they left the Room of Requirement.

Harry and Ron were waiting in McGonagall's office when Draco and Hermione found them. It appeared they had been talking to each other about something serious, but when they caught sight of them, had both fallen silent.

"Have we got everything, then?" Hermione asked.

Ron nodded and picked up a book that had been lying by his feet on the floor. Harry had another tucked under his arm.

"What's the extra for?" She asked.

"Some light reading," Harry said casually. Hermione gave him a look, but he said nothing and she supposed it wasn't the best time to pry when they were almost out of time. She held her bag open and they deposited their finds inside.

"Did you get to the Chamber?" she asked.

Harry nodded. "It's still there. All of it. I don't think a thing's been touched since we were there," he said, glancing at Ron. "Took us a bit to get this-" he reached into each of his pockets and pulled out two massive fangs wrapped in rags.

Hermione's eyes widened, fascinated. They were impressively intact. There were light stains on them that might have been blood or basilisk venom.

Draco stared at it uneasily. He had not doubted Potter's word about the existence of the basilisk, but to see the evidence was another thing entirely. The size of the fangs alone had him picturing its true size. He repressed a shiver. His father had been part of that plot. They'd had a Horcrux under their noses all that time. Ginny Weasley might have died. Quickly, his mind conjured up an alternate reality where that had happened. Had that actually happened, there would have been no chance in hell that Weasley would ever forgive him or even want to work with him in any capacity had he known his father was the culprit. And Hermione-he remembered her Petrified form and then shook the thought away. What might have happened had they actually succeeded then?

The fangs were taken and carefully stored into Hermione's bag. Just as she was closing it, there was a flash of light that startled them badly and McGonagall appeared at the fireplace, having Floo'd in.

"Blimey, Professor," Ron said. "You've got a flair for entrances."

She did not smile but looked at them expectantly.

"You have what you came for?"

They nodded.

"Then we must get going." She gestured to the fireplace. "Floo networks are not secure currently and are likely to remain that way for some time. The Ministry has increased their monitoring of them. I do not recommend you use it while you are in hiding. It is best to Apparate or travel by broom. As a precautionary measure, while I waited for you I blocked off the Floo access to Grimmauld Place."

"Thanks Professor," Harry said.

---

"Strangest thing happened," Ron mentioned after they'd arrived back at Grimmauld Place and McGonagall had left. "We ran into Dobby. He said he'd seen you two."

"Yes, he surprised us," Hermione said distractedly as she set her bag down on the kitchen table and began to pull out items carefully. "Did he help you in the library?"

"Yeah," Harry said, taking off his cloak. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and sat down at the table. "He said he wants to help us."

Hermione paused. "Did he? How?"

"He said McGonagall gave him a new place to stay inside the castle," Harry said. "A secret place. She told him that Hogwarts will open again but she won't be in charge, and not because she doesn't want to be. The Ministry's probably going to send a bunch of plants and Death Eaters there to teach the way they see fit, and she's asked him to be an informant and spy on them to see what the Order can do to stop them. Said he's not the only elf secretly stationed there."

"Why not do anything right now?" Draco asked, frowning.

"She's about to be stripped of her position at Hogwarts," Ron said darkly. "The Minister's making it official next week, apparently. She'll still be teaching, though."

Hermione's eyebrows dipped lower. "No wonder she was so quick to help us. Then who's going to be the new Headmaster?"

"No one knows yet," Ron said. "Dobby said there's lots of secret places inside the castle, and he knows how to access them. He showed us one, on the third floor by the storage room in front of the painting of the lunar eclipse." His voice went quiet. "We checked the map. It wasn't on there. Fred and George didn't know about it, and neither did Harry's dad and his lot. That's how secret it is."

"Do they lead anywhere?" Draco asked.

"They're not sure. Dobby's been mapping them all one by one. In case we ever need to go back to Hogwarts and McGonagall can't help bring us in, he says he might be able to find a way through."

"That would be incredibly useful," Hermione said. "But how can we contact him if he's staying at Hogwarts in secret?"

"We gave him your galleon," Ron said, sounding apologetic. "It was the only thing we could think of. Any other way would attract too much attention."

"No, that was smart thinking," Hermione said. "I can charm more, one for each of us. Probably should have done that from the start."

"I don't think we've got many galleons lying around," Harry said even as he looked through his pockets, checking to see if he might be wrong.

"I might have some in my bag," Hermione said, and dove in again up to her elbows to start bringing out more items from their Hogwarts haul. "But I think this time we'll go with a sickle. Less conspicuous, that way, I think. Soon as I find them—"

She pulled out the books and stacked them on the table. Then the fangs and cauldron and carefully moved them to the side to make room for the rest. Then the vials, and so on.

Kreacher apparated into the room and made them all jump except for Hermione, who was so focused on emptying her bag she almost had not heard him.

He bowed to Harry. "What will Master be wanting for dinner?"

"Er, anything will do," Harry said.

"That's hardly helpful, Harry," Hermione said, her voice muffled as she reached deeper into her bag.

Harry turned to Ron.

"Do you have steak and potatoes?" He asked. Kreacher nodded.

"Then we'd like that," Harry said. "Thanks."

"As Master wishes," Kreacher said, and disappeared.

"I still keep thinking he's pulling a long one on us," Ron muttered.

"Where does he even get the food from?" Draco asked. "We're not exactly a working household, here."

"I think mum mentioned once that Dumbledore provided funds for food and bills for this place, seeing as we used it so much for Order stuff. I'm sure it's still linked to Sirius's vault, too, unless…" he trailed off awkwardly, not having realized in enough time where that sentence was headed.

"Unless it ran out," Harry finished. "You're probably right."

A not too terrible silence ensued. Hermione had pulled out half of the ingredient jars by this point. The table grew more and more cluttered.

"So when will we start brewing the potion?" Ron asked. He'd taken the stolen potions book from the small stack that had assembled on the table and began to thumb through it.

"As soon as possible," Hermione said. "As soon as I get all of this out, preferably. Draco, I need you to fill a pitcher with water and bring it here. Ron, find the recipe page. Harry, clean out that cauldron. Polyjuice takes about a month to brew and we're going to need a larger quantity of it. From what I remember last time I made it, the hardest part is the first week or so. We have to get the ingredients to the exact measurements required, so this will take some arithmetic, too, if we're making multiple portions."

"I'm reminded why I'm shit at Potions," Ron said, sighing, and began to flip faster through the book.

"Just look it up in the index, Ron," Hermione said.

"Where's that?"

"Never mind. Harry, bring me a knife if you can. A scale, too, if Kreacher has one somewhere."

The dining room suddenly bustled with activity. Ron found the right page a moment later, and read off the top of the ingredients list.

Harry set down the now clean cauldron (with that 'WANKER' still emblazoned on the side) on the table. Kreacher had sent up a burner for it, which she set aside. Draco provided the water and she set that aside, too.

"I'll need paper and ink," she said and dove back into her bag, emerging with those items a moment later.

Once she'd calculated the exact measurements of every ingredient down the list for four people for at least two doses each, she set down her parchment and took the burner, set it alight.

"Now we begin."

Kreacher Apparated in again, and they jumped again.

"Master and friends of Master Potter, dinner is ready," Kreacher said. "Kreacher needs the table cleared so master and friends may eat."

Hermione looked at the crowded, busy table.

"Is there somewhere we can brew a potion and not bother anyone?"

"Master Regulus used his room to brew often when he was young," Kreacher croaked thoughtfully. "Friends of Master may brew there, but very carefully."

Hermione looked at the fake locket still around his neck, hidden under his ragged tunic.

"Of course, Kreacher. Thanks."

"Shall we start moving everything?" Ron asked, but Kreacher snapped his fingers, and it was all gone in an instant, transported into his former Master's room. He snapped his fingers again, and the table was set and full of food. Ron made a sound of appreciation and scooted his chair close to the table.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said, "this smells great."

The others began to tuck in. Hermione still had her eyes on Kreacher, who still stood near the table, his face twitching oddly. At first, she thought he was going to insult them and was fighting the impulse, but incredibly, he smiled instead. It was by no means a pretty smile, but it touched her heart.

When was the last time you were treated with kindness? She thought. She remembered how Sirius used to yell at him; even Harry and Ron had been rude to him on occasion and she supposed his life with the Blacks couldn't have been paradise.

"Hermione, pass me the green beans."

She blinked and turned back around just as she heard Kreacher Apparate away. She passed the bowl to Ron and then began to fill her own plate. Draco sat down beside her.

"Eat quickly," she said. "We'll start brewing the Polyjuice as soon as we're done. We need all the time we can get."

They nodded.

---

The rain fell heavily in Knockturn Alley, making the cobblestone floor slippery wherever she went, but she kept careful footing, and she had remembered to cast an Impervius on herself before heading out.

She loved spending time here—not that she had any reason to, except when a job called for it. There was something different in the air here that kept her senses sharp and always on alert. It was good practice, though she'd gotten in scrapes before that had not been worth the exercise.

Hood secured over her head, she walked along the rows of dingy shops, making sure her walk was confident, so as to not attract grabby panhandlers or pickpockets. The others walking around stared only straight ahead. Knockturn was different from Diagon in the manner that people whispered in its streets, or muttered and sometimes screamed, but there was never any happy chatter or cheerful greetings, nor music playing, unless one counted the sour laughter and occasional fights emitting from the local pubs.

She scratched at her nose—had opted for a bigger one this time, and full lips. Her eyes were brown and dull. A large mole resided on her right temple. Her hair was long and light brown. She supposed she hadn't needed to go for such a drastic change, as she didn't plan to show her face, but safe was better than sorry, as she'd learned before. That, and it was another lesson Moody had almost engraved into her mind when she had still been an Auror In Training years ago.

The shops weren't terribly busy. Not yet, anyway. Business usually picked up by the afternoon, but she hadn't come here for the shops.

Not these, anyway.

She glanced over a tattoo shop, noting the moving designs taped to the window. Someone was getting work done inside—a wizard with blonde hair—she almost mistook him for Draco, but she slowed her walk as she passed by the second window and sharpened her gaze—no, this was someone else. She walked on and diverted from the main street into a smaller street with fewer shops in it.

The black market was a bit of a distance away for lack of space. They would be setting up now, rain-proofing their tents and filling their flasks with alcohol, grumbling about the weather, or the last raid.

A man was walking toward her, and the look in his eyes wasn't friendly. Her arms were at her sides, her wand stowed up her sleeve, ready to be whipped out at a second's notice. He was leering at her. Her skin crawled.

"Give us a smile, love," he crooned as he came closer. Tonks debated.

To flip him off would probably make him angry, and he might follow her, as had happened before. It would attract attention.

To hex him or retort back would have the same effect.

She ignored him instead and walked on as if he weren't even there.

"Bitch!" He called after her, and her hand twitched, ready for her wand. Tonks listened keenly for his footsteps in case he was walking back to her anyway, but thankfully, they were growing only more distant.

There was an open square surrounded by trees and a large, decrepit grocery store. The flea market had been set up by the time she arrived, and already, buyers had come. She approached casually as if she were some local who'd been out for a stroll and had found something interesting.

She knew most of the regular vendors by now; Mark who sold hawked goods from estate sales, Tom who sold questionable handmade art from local artists. Mariah, who sold meat pies that looked dodgy but tasted heavenly. Closest to her on the right was Andy, who sold leather hides from his family's farm. Her eyes skipped over the many others who she couldn't see very well or didn't know at all. Over there, coughing violently into his stained handkerchief was Daniel, who sold robes and hats and other rags, well-tailored and handmade. Tonks had heard him say once he went through the rubbish of the local robes shops to find discarded fabric and other bits and pieces to take home and make into something new. He was skilled at clothes making and his profits could attest to that. Under a different guise, Tonks had once asked him why he didn't buy his own fabric or open his own shop.

"What for, when I've already got my shop?" He'd asked, grinning, wrinkles hatching across his face. "The shops give me all the fabrics I need. Why should I waste me own money?"

She couldn't argue with that.

Daniel wasn't whom she was after today, not that she had ever been. Daniel was by far the most talkative of the other vendors, and in exchange for a pint and a flirty smile, he was more than happy to divulge in the local gossip, and other handy bits of information. It was thanks to Daniel that she knew most of the regular vendors here in the square, but it was only one in particular she was looking for today.

"A set of magenta robes for you, lady?" He asked as she passed, pulling out the robes from the rack behind him, a pleasant smile on his face.

She shook her head and walked on, heading farther down the market, where it would take a turn and end up by the gutters of the canal.

Here, there were fewer people. She took the opportunity to duck her head down and age herself, stooping her posture, fleshing out her body so that no one might look twice at her. Down by the canal's end were the more unsavory merchants, and she didn't need extra eyes on her.

There were alleyways tucked away just above where the opioid dealers made their money but they weren't here today. Tonks had seen sex workers lingering around before but there were none here now, and she wasn't about to blow her own cover, anyway. The numerous tunneled passageways made for a quick getaway if you knew where you were going, and the narrow walkways limited the number of people that could cluster around any particular area. The brackish, flowing water split the area down the middle and there was a shoddy little arched bridge to aid anyone wanting to get to the other side.

It might have looked nicer a couple of decades ago. The smell, according to Daniel, had never changed.

There were shoppers here already as well, but not many, and all as cloaked as she was.

They'd pulled stings here before. Several, in fact. The vendors here knew the risk. She recognized some she had arrested before and had done time, but today wasn't for arrests. Today was for gathering information.

She found him at the far end of the walkway, after walking slowly past several shady vendors and pretending to be interested in some of their wares.

Morty, the identity thief had caught her eye. He was known for digging through the rubbish looking for hairs, nail clippings, lost teeth and the like. It was standard practice for most wizards to burn their discarded hairs and other bits in the incinerator, but there was always ignorant folk who assumed they would always be in the clear, or that the market for identities was a made up thing meant to scare you into looking silly. Dealers who worked in the small and unsettling industry of identity-theft were known for their variety of tactics meant to distract strangers in order to cut off a lock of hair.

"Looking for a new fit?" Morty asked, grinning, showing two upper missing teeth. "I can help you hide from creditors, debt collectors, anything. Anyone." He pulled a vial out of his pocket. It was full of nail clippings. "Take your pic, good lady. Unless you want to turn younger? Relive the glory of youth?"

He brought out another box filled with vials. They were all individually labeled with their age ranges. There were so many locks of hair. Tonks looked them over slowly.

16-18. Female. Brown eyes/hair/dark skin/slim

18-21. Female. Blue eyes/blonde hair/fair skin/slim

18-21. Male. Brown eyes/dark skin/tall/average

And so on.

She ignored the disgust she felt, kept her face neutral.

"If I wanted to get away from some Aurors?" Tonks asked quietly, leaning in like she was considering it.

"Aye, I can do that." Morty leaned in, too. "I know a bloke who can fix you up new papers," he said. "He supplies Polyjuice, too, for those who can't brew it. All for a fair price. Won't break your vault, but I don't go through all this work for cheap."

That was new. Tonks made a mental note of that. Morty had done time before—she'd never been assigned to his case, but she'd heard enough about him. He was slippery, too. He'd been arrested several times before and had served five years in Azkaban the last time they'd managed to retain him. He'd gotten out months ago and they hadn't heard of him since, but here he was. Tonks wondered who this mysterious partner was, and where Morty had met him.

Behind him was a table with similar vials, some filled halfway with what looked like eyelashes, others with more nail clippings. There was a small cardboard box filled with what she found out were teeth. Some still had bits of gum on them, as if they'd just been yanked out. They were all adult teeth. Somehow, that was more disturbing.

"How much?" She asked.

"One-hundred and fifty galleons for the package," Morty said, and she dug out her purse and looked through it.

"I'm short," she said. "I'll come back tomorrow."

She made to leave, and Morty went after her, eager not to lose a possible sale.

"I won't be here tomorrow—I'll give you a discount!" He said. "One-hundred galleons!"

She snorted. "Still short."

He looked exasperated.

"Ninety!"

She shook her head. Up ahead, another customer was loudly haggling over the price of some jewelry to another vendor.

"Eighty-five?"

Nothing.

He sighed, a trace of anger in his face now.

"Seventy. I won't go lower."

She gave him her coin purse and he snatched it, as if thinking she might yank it away.

"This is enough for a month," he said, handing her the vial marked 16-18. "If you need Polyjuice, I've got my supplier. I'll be here again two weeks from now and we'll talk about getting you in touch with someone about your papers. I'll be here from 3-7, and you remember that, because it's your own money wasted if you come later than that."

Tonks nodded, slipped the vial inside her pocket, and left.

Truth be told, there had been forty galleons inside her coin purse, and every one of them was fake, but a remarkable copy made for situations like this, just for use by Aurors and those they intended to track. If Morty had been that desperate to make a sale, he might not realize he had been duped right away. Most vendors inspected their revenue right after making a sale, usually at the end of the day when things had died down in the market, but she recognized Morty was out of practice and he clearly had a need for the money, as he was rapidly taking down his setup and preparing to leave.

Moody and the others would have pinned him down by day's end tomorrow. First, they would see where and how he spent that money. She'd have to dispatch a message later.

I bloody love my job, she thought.

She crossed the small bridge and made her way to the other side of the canal and found her target at last.

She could smell him before she saw him, and that smell was recognizable enough after having to sit through countless Order meetings with him.

He was slurring information about prices to another customer who was looking rather disinterestedly at his wares. Tonks looked at Mundungus Fletcher coolly.

Traitor, she wanted to hiss at him. You betrayed us all.

Her hand brushed over her wand secured tightly in her pocket. Cursing him might feel good but it'd attract attention, and he'd flee. He had a habit of running, Mundungus. But not this time. She'd found him and he would answer to the Order soon enough for what he did, because the biggest question they'd had running through their minds since the catastrophic wedding was why?

She shoved that impulse deeper down and feigned interest in a golden pair of cascading earrings that when worn, would touch her shoulders. The other customer wandered on.

"Y've got guhd tsste, dearie," Mundungus slurred, and Tonks fought that barb of annoyance that prickled at her. Every time she came here, it was always "dearie, and sweetheart, and lovely". It was one of the many reasons she had never liked Mundungus. His intentions might have been good but the drink had addled his brain and made him overly familiar. Others had complained about him and had briefly talked of kicking him from the Order. He was a liability more than he was an asset, but Dumbledore had rejected their concerns, saying that Mundungus at that point knew too much of their inner workings to be cast out. Plus, he had done great work for the Order many years ago.

Of all the Knockturn alley vendors, Daniel was the only one who used the same words but in a way that didn't have her gritting her teeth, like he wasn't talking down to her, like he genuinely meant it as a polite greeting. The others leered even when she made herself unattractive, and she could always guess their thoughts whenever she snooped around their tables, setting up another dupe.

'You poor, ugly thing. That necklace/bracelet/scarf/earrings won't make you look any prettier. I'll drive up the price because I know how bad you want them.'

Even when she made herself more attractive, there was that condescension, still. It met her on every road.

' You vain, dumb, pretty thing. You're probably bad with money so I'll drive up the price because I know you'll buy it anyway.'

It only made it all the more satisfying when she handed over her fake, expertly disguised coin-trackers.

She smiled at him, pointed at an intricately detailed silver filigree hand mirror.

"How much?" She asked Mundungus.

"Fuhhr you," he squinted at her. "Thir'y galleens."

She could smell the drink on his breath and fought not to step away.

She took out a second coin purse and pretended to count through its contents.

"I've only got twenty." She took the mirror and inspected its other side. "And it's cracked. I'm not giving you more than ten."

"Alrigh' then. Deal," he muttered, and she handed the coins over. He threw them all into his own coin purse without even counting or checking and took a long swig from his flask.

Good. I only gave him seven.

"Good day, " he said, grinning, stumbling over himself. Tonks smiled brightly at him and pocketed the mirror, and exited the canal as fast as she could without appearing suspicious.

When the coast was clear and there was no one around, she ducked into an alleyway and Apparated away.

Moody was seated at his desk and tearing into a venison sandwich when she entered. His magical eye looked up and he waved her in. She sat down, letting her features morph back into her true self—pink hair, crooked mouth, freckles, and brown eyes. She'd pulled her uniform back on hastily.

Moody swallowed his bite and looked up without saying a word, waiting for her to speak.

She didn't smile.

"I found him."