Hiiiiiii. So I've spent way too much time trying to sit down and write this one when I should've been doing schoolwork, so I hope you're all happy. While that sounds terribly sarcastic, I genuinely mean it. I feel like I'm finally (mentally) back on track with the story, so I hope it shows and that you all enjoy it.
As always, I love hearing from everyone, so please review and tell me what you think! Your input does help mold future chapters, so I appreciate all advice, compliments, suggestions, maybe not insults, but hey, I'm not entirely opposed to the idea ;)
Love,
Cherry
Draco Malfoy was raised on the belief that if you had enough money and power, people would do anything requested of them.
He was also beginning to believe that that sentiment was utter tosh. Yes, he might've had more wealth than any one person required, and he was the head of his own company (not that all of his employees treated him as such), but for the life of him, Draco couldn't seem to get the results he required out of the private investigator he'd hired just two weeks prior. Rolph Caulfield, ex-Auror and bender of rules, had been hired by Draco just after the first round of his mortuus textus treatment, roughly three weeks after the murders took place. Given that the Aurors on the case (initially just Harry and Ron, though others had been brought on with time) had been producing absolutely no results, and the lead Quizenberry, the Floo analyst, had found went cold, well, Draco had had enough. He tried researching the case himself, but in all honesty, his education had tapered off to practically nothing in his sixth year - what with a certain Dark Lord taking up residency in his home and requiring Draco to do his bidding at Hogwarts - so while it pained him to admit it, he needed a professional. And that's where Rolph Caulfield came in. He was talented, according to his references, and not afraid to do what he needed to do in order to get a job done.
Which is why Draco couldn't understand how the man hadn't made any progress in the case he had been hired to do.
"Look, Mr. Malfoy, this isn't a traditional case. I've never dealt with an unregistered Floo before." Rolph justified, watching his employer toy with the crystal tumbler on his desk, filled with just the slightest bit of firewhisky. He wondered how much the younger man had drank already.
"That's a terribly inconclusive answer, and not the one I hired you to give." Draco responded, his eyes focused on the cube of ice as it began to melt in his glass. He tried wandlessly casting a Freezing Charm on the ice but it only wiggled, hardly affected by his attempt. Like nonverbal spells, my arse, Draco thought, his mind wandering to Hermione's offer to teach him wandless magic. He couldn't imagine the latter years of her education had fared much better than his, but brilliant witches and wizards like her didn't need formal education to learn something new.
"It's not for lack of trying." Rolph continued, unaware of what exactly Draco was thinking at that moment, but it didn't take a psychic to know the man was unimpressed by his work. "Believe me, I've contacted countless wizards about their knowledge of unregistered Floos, I procured a list from the Ministry of those who had their own and questioned them about who set the spells for theirs, and there was no evidence to point to who created your father's. Half the people were either dead or in Azkaban, and the other half was abroad, afraid to return to Britain for fear of imprisonment. They weren't good men who designed these Floos."
"And?" Draco pressed, Rolph's voice grating on his nerves. All he did was whine, it seemed. "I don't care about whatever leads you've chased down that have led you nowhere, I don't care about your pathetic little attempts at trying to justify your deficiencies, what I want," Draco set his tumbler down with perhaps a little too much force, "is for you to present me with some reason to not fire you." Draco looked up at Rolph, who was beginning to sweat with desire as he glanced between the firewhisky and Draco. Draco, of course, had realised Rolph was an alcoholic pretty quickly into their meetings, and it was clear that his addiction was dependent on receiving some form of income, and at the moment, that income came from Draco.
"There's a possible wizard. A man named Dermot Petcher, he designs a variety of untraceable charms - many for people your parents knew - and he still lives somewhere in Britain. I can't pin him down, he doesn't stay in one place for too long, the tricky little bugger, but he might be of some help to us. With any luck, he designed your father's Floo."
Draco mulled over the name, vaguely familiar with someone named Petcher, but he couldn't recall the first name. Was it because he'd been in Draco's home at some time? Or was he only clinging to the name in a desperate attempt to feel like he had an answer?
"I suppose that's something." Draco conceded, and Rolph puffed his chest up with a bit of pride. Not too many hired the older man anymore, and this was the first compliment he had received from Draco.
"Thank you, sir." Rolph nodded, folding his hands behind his back.
"You're fired."
Gobsmacked, Rolph blinked rapidly several times before speaking. "I'm...fired? But you asked for something positive and I gave you the bloody name of a possible lead!"
"A possible lead that you can't even get ahold of, you said it yourself. So what use are you to me if you can't do the job you've been paid to do?" Draco sat up straight before standing, surpassing Rolph's aging height just enough to give him an edge over the angry investigator. While there was a desk separating the two, whatever wind had filled Rolph's sails drained as the young head of the Malfoy line stared at him with sharp, grey eyes. While he wasn't fully aware of the transformations he'd made since becoming head of the house, Draco was intimidating, even to someone who had fought dark wizards for the majority of his adult life.
"Now, do you plan on walking out of here on your own, or should I call Thrump to assist you to the gates?" Draco adjusted his robes, raising a single eyebrow at Rolph, who hesitated, clearly weighing whether or not he should say what it was he was thinking, but in the end, it was either fear or respect of Draco that kept Rolph from voicing his opinion as he let himself out of the room.
With a tired sigh, Draco sat back down, running a hand through his fine hair. If Rolph was supposed to have been able to answer his questions about his parent's murders that the Aurors couldn't, where did he go now? To some other accomplished private investigator? How many people would have to know about Draco's latest obsession?
"I've heard talking about it helps." For the second time that day, Hermione's voice popped into Draco's head. He nearly swatted at some invisible being above his head in hopes of pushing the bushy haired know-it-all from his mind, but instead, Draco called for Thrump, who came to his master's aid with a potion to cure headaches and a fresh glass of firewhisky.
"The Muggles are gifted artists, aren't they, Hermione?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, quite."
"All right, Hermione?" Ginny asked, looking at her friend closely. The three (the third being Luna Lovegood) had gone to a show at Hermione's suggestion since the two pure-blood girls never really ventured into the Muggle world without some sort of guide. When a world famous travelling production of A Midsummer Night's Dream came to London, Hermione jumped at the chance for tickets, knowing Luna would love the story and Ginny would be entertained by the "practically medieval" technology used by Muggles in the theatre.
"Oh yes, quite well, thanks." Hermione smiled in a convincing attempt at carefree, only Ginny picking up that something might've been amiss. She let the subject drop, however, knowing that whatever her friend was concerned with, she would share it when she was ready.
"That character in the tights was quite spectacular." Luna continued on, barely aware of her friends' interaction. "The one who used Amortentia on all those people. Do you think it's based on fact?"
"I highly doubt it." Hermione snickered at the thought that Shakespeare had been a wizard. "Wouldn't we want to claim one of the most famous playwrights in history if he was truly a wizard?"
"He could've been a squib." Ginny justified, having spoken with Harry about Shakespeare before attending the play. While Harry had been full of "I don't know"s and "Well, we learnt about him only once or twice in primary school," Ginny had gleaned that he was quite poetic and well versed for a man of such simple times. "Didn't he write of places there's no record of him ever visiting? What if he was travelling with wizards?"
"I...don't know." Hermione replied lamely, realising that maybe her friends were onto something. It could be an explanation for some of the fantastical descriptions Shakespeare had written during his time.
The trio discussed the issue as they walked to dinner - Hermione producing facts negating the idea that Shakespeare had been from some form of magical heritage while Luna or Ginny provided an opposing logic - and when they arrived at a new, trendy restaurant that had recently opened in Wizarding London, they were immediately seated at a table next to the windows.
"The perks of being famous, eh?" Ginny nodded her head at the line of waiting people they had passed due to the maî·tre d' recognising Ginny as the Chosen One's wife. It was with a belated sense of excitement that he put together that Hermione was there, and within moments of having sat, a bottle of what seemed to be a very nice, very expensive bottle of wine appeared at their table.
"And the detriments." Hermione nodded her head toward the tall window to her left, which framed a number of witches and wizards holding cameras while some floated unsupported in an attempt to capture a photograph of the three friends. Hermione could already see the headlines and - valuing her privacy - she wasn't thrilled at the maî·tre d's transparent attempt to promote his restaurant. Like Ginny and Luna, Hermione shed her coat and hung it over the back of her chair, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse as she sat.
Ginny cleared her throat to gather Hermione's attention and when the two made eye contact, Ginny nodded down at the table, where Hermione was holding her menu. It was with a moment of embarrassment that Hermione saw the edge of her scar poking out from the hem of her sleeve, just the ragged "d" of "mudblood" visible for all to witness. With a grateful smile, Hermione pulled her sleeve down, adjusting the other to match.
"Have you tried Strawberry's Cure?" Luna asked dreamily, causing both girls to look at her. She gazed at Hermione, fully aware of the scar that blemished her skin. She had, after all, been at Malfoy Manor that day; she'd been there quite a bit longer actually, not that anyone could get an exact date out of the seemingly absent-minded woman.
"What is that?" Ginny asked, often trying to put together what her friend was saying. She didn't particularly enjoy not knowing what was going on, but it was the reality of having a Lovegood for a friend.
"Witch's Ganglion, isn't it?" Hermione answered, familiar with the nickname, which was given due to the red skin of the bulb of the plant. During her Healer training, she'd brushed up on eastern medicine and the potion items they stocked at St. Mungo's, but Witch's Ganglion was one she'd found interesting despite it being quite difficult to procure west of Nepal, mostly due to its lacking description in her textbooks. "We know very little of it, but it's supposed to have quite powerful magical properties. It's a key ingredient in the Potion of All Potential."
"The Potion of All Potential?" Ginny sputtered, setting down her glass of water. "No one's correctly made that in over one hundred years." The exact recipe for the Potion of All Potential had been destroyed just after its invention by its creator who claimed it was too powerful for mass consumption. Many had tried recreating it with the ingredients known to be part of the potion, but any and all attempts had been unsuccessful. The exact recipe had died with the inventor, who only made it once during his or her lifetime.
"Strawberry's Cure has an invisibility property to it." Luna explained like it was common knowledge. "Theoretically, you could rub it on your skin for a temporary return to your arm's original state."
"Except it's rather volatile. No one really knows how to handle it correctly." Hermione argued, and Ginny looked at her like she was crazy for even entertaining Luna's suggestion. Hermione felt a little crazy herself (knowing that she'd nearly died when Xenophilius had hung an explosive horn of the Erumpent in his home, utterly convinced it was the horn of some mythical creature) but given that she'd lived with the shame of being branded by a psychotic witch for almost nine years, she was willing to consider any possible lead to reduce the appearance of the cursed letters.
"And no one's really even sure it exists." Ginny interjected. "It could've just been made up by the creator of the Potion of All Potential as a method of keeping people from ever learning the true recipe."
"It exists." Luna continued, undeterred by Ginny's negativity. "My great aunt Elowen travelled to Vietnam and saw it growing in the ponds. Later that evening, she got bitten by a Spargle-Jutted Norflax and used the Strawberry's Cure to treat the bite. Well, it didn't treat it obviously, but she thought she'd treated her wounds because they disappeared when she covered them with the Strawberry's Cure. Moments after she wiped it off, the bites reappeared, so I suppose it wouldn't really help your situation, then, would it?" Luna drifted off, venturing into another subject all on her own as they placed their orders. While the conversation throughout the meal ventured into other subjects, Hermione kept Luna's suggestion at the back of her mind. No one had successfully invented a product or potion to cure wounds inflicted by a cursed blade, and (given her knack for research) Hermione had tested quite a few to see if minimally, she could reduce the appearance of the scar from nearly fresh-looking to somewhat healed. But the suggestion that there was something out there she hadn't tested that could reduce the appearance of a fresh wound to nothing, even if it was for the briefest of moments? That was news to Hermione, and news that little would be able to sour.
Merlin, of course, decided to test that theory later that evening when Hermione got home. Having Apparated into her bedroom, Hermione wasn't aware that she had a visitor until she had changed into her pyjamas and brushed her teeth. She walked into the main living space to retrieve her medical journals she used to take notes whenever she had a thought on her scar and nearly jumped at the appearance of a certain redhead who was standing by her fireplace. Hermione jumped and threw her hand to her chest, her heart racing.
"Merlin, Ronald, how long have you been standing there?" She exclaimed, admonishing her uninvited guest. "I could have hurt you!" Aware that she wasn't carrying her wand for the first time in what must've at least two years, Hermione scolded herself for letting her guard down enough to risk getting hurt. What if it hadn't been Ron? What if it had been an intruder?
"Sorry." Ron apologised, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he stepped forward. "I just, needed to talk to you, I guess."
"At eleven at night?" Hermione glanced at the clock on the mantle, confirming the late hour. "This couldn't have waited until tomorrow? You couldn't have owled me?" Hermione was being accusatory and angry, and she knew it wasn't what a loving partner was supposed to say, but blimey, she had been having such a lovely time being by herself; no fights, no hurt feelings, no emptiness at the realisation that her relationship was dying and she was forcing herself to witness its demise because she couldn't leave...Ron had only been back in her life for minutes and all these feelings of resentment and anger were already bubbling back up into her mind.
"I said sorry." Ron blustered, a little surprised at Hermione's so clearly negative reaction. Hadn't she missed him? Hadn't she wished to see him like he'd wished to see her?
"Right, you did." Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly, forgetting all about what she'd set out to do that night. "Well? What was so important that you pop over to my flat at this hour?"
Gobsmacked, Ron stared at his fiancée, wondering what was going through her head. He couldn't bother trying to figure it out as keeping up with Hermione when she was like this was nearly impossible. Pushing aside his confusion, Ron spoke of why he was there.
"It's been a week and a half, Mione." He breathed, and both parties stilled, Hermione beginning to understand what their conversation was going to entail. She wasn't ready.
"Ron-"
"No, Hermione, I've thought all of this out, I just need to say it." Ron interrupted and Hermione waited while he took a deep breath, refocusing. "I miss you. And I'm sorry that I assumed you were with Malfoy for any reason other than to treat him as a patient. As if the two of you could even be friendly, let alone shagging." Ron scoffed and swallowed thickly, completely unaware as to how Hermione was feeling in that moment. "I was jealous." Ron explained. "You've just been spending so much time obsessing over him that I've felt ignored."
"Please, Ron." Hermione stopped him, holding her hand up to quiet him. "You cannot blame the past month on the reason we're in this predicament now. This has been going on for months, plural. We're not happy, and it's because we're on two entirely different planes of reality." Having started, Hermione found herself unable to stop. It felt nearly uncontrollable as she spilled her emotions and frustrations out to Ron who - to his credit, she thought - didn't interrupt.
"You're ready for a family, Ron. You want me to marry you, and bear your children, and prepare your home for you while you work, and I can't give that to you, at least not any time soon. I know that now! I want to see the world, and learn everything I can, and be with a partner that challenges me and my thinking, not a partner that degrades me for having my own opinion." It was then that Hermione noticed the wetness on her cheeks. This is it, she thought. This is the end.
Ron, on the other hand, seemed to be unaware of Hermione's internal dialogue. "That's not fair." He argued. "When have I ever degraded you for your opinion?"
"Ron, please don't do this. Let's not rehash what's in the past." Hermione pleaded, knowing it would only lead to a bigger fight.
"No, I will do this. Because what it feels like you're telling me is that you don't care to be my fiancée anymore."
A heavy silence fell between the two as Ron waited for Hermione to deny his accusation, and it was with frustration and heartache that she couldn't give him what he wanted. As it began to dawn on him - that this was the last night he could call Hermione his partner - Ron lashed out in desperate attempts to postpone the inevitable. He tried pleading, and reminiscing, and yelling, and at one point, even resorted to blaming Hermione for the predicament they were in now. As much as she wanted to lash out and quarrel, and explain that she wasn't the only person letting this relationship fail, Hermione held back and took his words, knowing that eventually, he would run out of insults and come to accept the fact of what was happening.
Finally beginning to accept what was happening, Ron sat on the couch opposite the fireplace, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Hesitantly, Hermione approached - having been standing in the kitchen area - and sat on the back of the sofa so she could be near the man she loved.
"I am so, so sorry, Ron." Hermione reached for his shoulder, but he yanked it away from her grasp.
"Don't you dare say you're sorry." Ron disputed. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you were truly sorry."
"I can be apologetic without being remorseful." Hermione gently retorted. "I care, so very deeply, for you, and this was inevitable. We've grown apart, and our lives no longer fit together as they once did. Maybe I've changed, and maybe this truly is my fault, but no matter the case, I cannot apologise enough for how this has all ended." When he didn't respond, Hermione continued. "I do love you, Ron."
He jumped up at those words, as though the suggestion that despite all that had happened, Hermione could still love him was unpalatable. Knowing the behavior, and that at any moment, Ron would walk through those green flames, to disappear from her life for Merlin knows how long, Hermione rounded the couch and wrapped her arms around Ron's neck, resting her chin on his shoulder in a final embrace. Ron reciprocated, albeit with less ardor, his hands loosely holding Hermione around her waist. The two breathed each other in, gripping to each other with the awareness that once they left this room, they were no longer the partners they'd been for so long. T
hey held onto each other - for minutes or hours, neither knew - and when Hermione loosened her grip and leaned back, she held his hands and took note of the lack of jewelry on her left ring finger. The engagement ring Ron had given Hermione had been a plain, gold band with a single round diamond on it, but due to her line of work, Hermione hardly ever wore the ring and instead stored it in her jewelry box, just next to her mother's ring.
"Just a moment." She told Ron, letting go of his hands to go to her bedroom and retrieve the ring. She dug into the box and held the ring tightly in her hand, finding it somewhat symbolic that she didn't wear the ring as often as her intended would've liked. Maybe it was a representation of the rest of their relationship.
Ring in hand, Hermione returned to the living room, her heart dropping when she saw the empty room. With a sigh, she set the ring on the mantle, staring into the still cooling hearth as she wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks.
"Goodbye, Ron."
"I would hardly call you an enemy anymore, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes, far too aware that any humour she held in her voice was only there to mask any sincerity she might've felt. "More like an acquaintance."
"Well, I suppose it could be worse." Draco mused, and as grey eyes met brown, the two shared a knowing smile.
