~*~ Two ~*~
The door slammed closed behind Malfoy with a deafening thud. He'd been eerily quiet since their exchange at the top of the tower and Hermione's blood pressure was climbing with every passing second. Malfoy stalked across the room, opening cabinets and drawers, their contents strewn across the room in his wake.
"There are far more important questions you ought to be asking." Stormy eyes flashed with barely contained ire. "Possibly starting with why you aren't dead yet."
"Fine," she huffed, moving to stand between him and his latest pillaging target. "Why hasn't Voldemort's finest disposed of me with due haste?'
Biting silver flashed at her before he returned to opening drawers, moving around her as if she were another piece of the furniture. "Last I checked you had more than half a brain, Granger. You tell me."
An irritated growl tore from her throat. Three years and he was still as insufferable as she remembered, still the sot who'd managed to get under her skin with even the briefest of sneers.
"Then why the bloody hell did you tell me to ask the question?"
Malfoy paused, expression hovering between impatience and something darker. "It is important you figure out the answer."
Her teeth ground, but he was already back to tearing at the drapes by the oversized window. Fine. He wasn't wrong. There was no way Hermione could complete her mission with Malfoy lurking in the background, his intentions unknown and allegiance clearly at odds with her own. So why wasn't she dead? He'd had a chance to kill her at the top of the Astronomy Tower in their own time, but he hadn't taken it. Instead he'd hitched a ride across time with her, taking care not to upset the balance when they'd arrived. He'd known who Dumbledore was and even that Hermione had betrayed his master to the current Transfiguration Professor, but still she was breathing. It made no sense. Voldemort had been on the cusp of absolute victory and Hermione was now the only thing that could stop that chain of events. So any loyal Death Eater would have killed her on the spot.
Her breath hitched, drawing Malfoy's attention. Silver ensnared her as a feral smirk inched across his lips. "So she's got it."
"You don't want Voldemort to win."
A broad shoulder raised in a half-shrug. "I can neither confirm nor deny that. And don't get your hopes up. I am definitely not in favor of you changing the past. Too many things could go wrong and while our future is vile, I'm sure there are far worse possibilities."
Hermione searched his stony features, but there was nothing beyond sharp angles and unfathomable quicksilver. "So why play along?"
"Do I have another option?" Malfoy dropped onto one of the ornate chairs, serpents' heads where the feet ought to have been. "Now that you've given the present Dumbledore access to our entire history, I fear I'm liable to end up in Azkaban if I put one toe out of line. The old coot seemed entirely too eager to let you bring your nefarious plans to fruition. I don't even exist here to begin with so eliminating me would be… trivial. Thus you see, Granger, I find my odds of survival are best if I stick with you."
She crossed her arms and sat back against the oaken desk below the window. "You're not concerned I'll eliminate you? You are a serious liability to my plans."
He quirked a pale brow, the storm within his eyes calm, if only for a moment. "I'm not letting down my guard, if that's what you're asking. I am, however, fairly certain that Hermione Granger does not kill in cold blood."
Her wand twirled between her fingers as she let out a bitter laugh. "Three years of war does a lot to change a person. The girl you knew at Hogwarts is long dead and I make no promises I will protect you, not from Riddle and not from Dumbledore."
Ice cracked over the winter skies within his gaze. "I'm not afraid, Granger. I can hold my own."
The man from the tower, with her wand grasped dangerously between his fingers was back, reminding Hermione not to underestimate him. He might look like the cowardly boy she remembered, but she knew the darkness underneath her own skin, the chilling echoes of the ability to do what was necessary, regardless of cost. If she'd fallen so far fighting for the light, how mangled must he be, an unparalleled agent of darkness and destruction? Her breath was suddenly too heavy in her chest, the air itself suffocating. Hermione broke away from those quicksilver pools that tangled her in a mire of willfully forgotten truths.
When she could breath again, forget just enough to remember how to pretend, she turned back to Malfoy. He was still sitting in the chair, left hand absently rubbing his leg from thigh to knee, as if stroking a cat.
"We need names."
"Dacian Mallet. I've used it undercover before."
Hermione nodded. It was sufficiently French and innocuous enough. "A pureblood name?"
"Of course. French Wizarding aristocracy for at least a thousand years. I wouldn't dream of being descended from anything less." Silver eyes narrowed to slits. "And come to think of it, neither should you. With Grindelwald on the rise on the continent, this is not the time to cling to your… heritage."
Her gaze dropped to the mess beneath her jumper sleeve before she could stop it. They'd managed to destroy Bellatrix's writing, but the scar was a horrific mangle of flesh now. "I'm aware. I was planning on being Hermione Gable. They're not a prominent pureblood family, but their line does go back a few hundred years."
"So perhaps we met one summer at a resort in the South of France while your parents were on vacation. We've kept up a correspondence since then, but only ever as friends." Malfoy visibly shuddered as he concluded.
"Is the thought of me truly that repugnant?" Hermione snapped before she could think better of it.
He glared balefully up at her. "Oh, most definitely."