Chapter 3

"I don't know what to do, Neville." I shiver in the window seat, watching the fumes swirl upwards from my coffee mug. "Every time I close my eyes only remember hate and prejudice—every waking moment I feel its sting. There can be no reconciliation—God, even the thought of living with him gives me the creeps. I just—this is a nightmare and I don't know how to wake up."

He's sitting at the desk in his bedroom, scribbling furiously. Apparently, I passed out on the street the previous night just as he was walking by and he brought me to his apartment. I do not feel guilty. I feel the stinging, throbbing headache and it annoys me but it is a daily ritual that I endure peacefully. I remember very little of the night before.

I remember very little of our conversation—it's always the same. The Euphoria. The Stupor. The Pain.

Drink. Drink. Drink. Forget. Forget. Forget.

But this is not a situation I can drink away, try as hard as I might.

"I wish—you would lay off that stuff for a while, yeah?" He scratches his head slowly and looks up at me. "It's not good for you."

I glare at him.

"You were not listening to me. I just shared my problems with you!" I chuckle and throw a cushion at him. "What are you writing anyway?"

His face turns an amusing shade of pink and he sips his coffee hastily.

"It's nothing," he says, averting his eyes.

I let it pass. What do I care anyway?

"So you were talking about—Malfoy," he says as he carefully folds the large sheet of parchment and puts it in an envelope. "You had a meeting with him, right? How'd it go?"

I stare at the wall next to him. His apartment is as small as they come. Ever since his grandmother died, he hasn't set foot inside his ancestral home. And with the economy in doldrums after war, the Ministry job doesn't pay very well. It's not my concern but I think the chapped ceiling paint might be due to rain-leakage. Of course, he could seal it with spells but maybe he doesn't care either.

There's only a single bed in his room and a ratty armchair that looks like it has seen better days, probably at his grandmother's house. The carpet is threadbare and the wallpaper so faded I can barely make out any colour apart from grey.

"It went—" I hesitate. "You know something; I really don't know how it went. I met him last night—I am sure—but the details are hazy and I remember too many… rings. I don't know."

I sigh.

He nods.

And we sit in silence.

He doesn't ask me for details of the previous night though and I am grateful to him. By this time, we both know how the stories go. I look outside the window and see a couple of teenagers making out in the alley. My jaw clenches. And I remember something.

"Neville," I say carefully. "I am sorry for not asking before—but whom did you get fixed with?''

He mumbles something but I don't catch it.

"Well, you could speak louder—I am sure my splitting headache could take another blow."

He bites his lip.

"Susan Smith."

I am confused. It is well-known that she's a nice girl and Neville had a crush on her in school.

So why does he look guilty?

"Well, that's good, right? I mean—she's nice and sweet and you like her… Imagine the torment of he who gets Pansy Parkinson." I snort. "Why are you so glum then?"

"She doesn't want me." His eyes are lowered and I wonder why the hell in the world someone would not like him. My heart would go out to him, except I feel nothing other than numbness. It's always there, like a long, biting winter that no fire can stop.

"She's not in love—well, neither am I but I am willing to try—I guess she's distraught over her boyfriend's death." He shrugs, as if he doesn't care. But I know better.

I look away from him.

The teenagers are still kissing in the alley, like a couple of—

"You'll figure it out." I say without much conviction because I really don't know if he will.

"Yeah well." He runs a hand through his hair. "By the way, I have some information on the law—they moved an amendment yesterday—it allows for review and possible dissolution in case of domestic abuse and assault. It was passed unanimously. Thought you might be interested."

My eyes snap to meet his and a sudden wave of excitement passes through me.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

If this true, and I have faith in Neville's credibility, then I could use this to my advantage.

"I don't know what you think I am saying, Hermione—I just wanted to let you know that you do have a way out if Malfoy ever tries to harm you. Not that I think he would—you're more than enough of a match for him."

I tilt my head and smirk a little.

"But I am considering going beyond that, Neville."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that solves quite a lot of my problems, doesn't it? Maybe—I won't have to put up with Malfoy beyond this week."

He shakes his head vigorously.

"No, no, no—you can't do that, Hermione—If you harm him in any way, you could end up in big trouble—even Azkaban" He crosses the room and takes a seat in front of me. "And you do know that that would be reckless. And stupid."

Pain chokes my throat and I am forced to swallow all the anger, all that hate, all that confusion and sorrow—for I do not want to let him see me cry. I hate it when people see me cry. It only garners pity—and what good is that anyway.

"Neville, this might be my only chance of getting out of this mess—I have to try," I emphasise my words and squeeze his hand. He flinches. "And it won't be reckless—because I'll make sure I'm not alone."

"Hermione—" He protests but I look away and he never finishes his words.

The only affirmation I get is the returning squeeze of his fingers around my palm. He's warm. And I am a little delirious with excitement.

I want to plan this right away.

I feel a little twinge of guilt but I have grown quite adept at suppressing uncomfortable feelings.

What I didn't tell him, you see, was that I had no plans of attacking Malfoy in any way. That would leave a loophole requiring him to file charges against me. Besides, if I end up in Azkaban, what's the point? Swapping one pair of shackles for another is hardly wise.

No, that would never do.

I plan to provoke him into attacking me.

It should be simple enough—he has never before managed to look at me and not want me dead.

Yes, it should be easy enough.

We're all here, the veteran soldiers of the Great War.

The remaining shreds of the Order of the Phoenix.

I am early to the fortnightly meeting held in Minerva's spacious office. It looks the same as ever, quite like it did in Dumbledore's time. The only change is the decoration—or the lack of it. The huge desk which used to be swamped with instruments and trinkets holds drinks and refreshments. Seats have been arranged in a round-table fashion, as always—no surprise, covered in golden-and-red.

Only Minerva and Kingsley are here and they pointedly ignore my presence. My last meetings with both of them have left me sour and I have no motivation to strike up a conversation. One good thing about these meetings, though, is free drinks.

It's probably the only reason why I still attend.

I grab a bottle of Firewhiskey and deposit myself in a corner, watching the crowd trickle in. Slowly.

Harry and Ron arrive together, followed by George. Arthur Weasley looks harried when he arrives followed by Molly. Ginevra is conspicuously absent today, and I wonder why for she never misses.

My attention starts to drift away as more and more people arrive and the sound of chatter grows in volume.

No one pays me much attention and like always, I do not mind. I have my own plans to figure out and I like not being disturbed.

Ron sneaks a look at me and a flash of anger crosses his face, just like it has millions of times before, and I ignore it utterly. That probably bothers him more.

Minerva calls the meeting to order and Shacklebolt gets up, ready for a speech.

I move on to my third bottle before he begins.

"I am afraid I have grave news for all of us today," he begins without a prelude and a hush falls over the crowd. "As we all know, things have not been easy over these past few months—we've had economic downturn, inflation, and instability in government. We're still rounding up the remaining Death Eaters, and also their supporters who do not carry the mark. The law and order situation has been bleak—rising protests and riots all over the country—not to mention the recent fallout from the Marriage Law."

He pauses.

I watch him intently. It looks like he's—serious.

"I have news—from a confidential source—that not all of these activities are spontaneous. Some of them—like the recent riots in East London—are being guided by forces opposed to us."

I snort. Loudly.

Everyone hears me, including Kingsley who turns and fixes me with a nasty glare.

"I do not see what's so funny, Miss Granger," he says and crosses his arms.

I shrug.

"Well, I do. None of this is grave news, Shacklebolt," I emphasise his name just for effect, just to show that I do not respect him. "All of these things you mentioned, they are a general fall out of any war, aren't they? Of course there will be pockets of resistance. Of course there are economic issues. And of course people want to overthrow your government, with its wonderful record. Of course they rioted against your laws limiting work opportunities and the sagacious Marriage Law. Hell, if I had any inkling, I'd revolt against you myself. But sadly, and lucky for you, I have no time. Or sentiment."

I know that my outburst has very little to do with his speech. Everyone knows it. But I can't take it back. People stare at me with revulsion and dislike, and I have grown so used to it that it doesn't prick me in the heart.

Kingsley stares at me but says nothing until Minerva coughs and brings him out of his thoughts.

"Right. As I was saying, before Hermione's rude interruption, my friends, is that there are reports of a new weapon—I don't know what—something that V-Voldemort developed—people, his people are talking—his supporters are talking of its resurfacing. The details are non-existent—but if true, and considering it may be his creation—we must be on guard and make sure a crisis does not develop."

I frown.

A weapon.

Kingsley looks at me once again and I meet his black eyes without flinching, my jaw tight and my head buzzing under influence.

I get up and walk to the refreshment table, grabbing two bottles of Firewhiskey this time. I shall need them.

Disapproving looks shower me all the way on my inebriated parade but what do I care.

When I return and pay attention to the goings-on, however, I realise that Minerva has taken over.

"We realise that the situation is difficult—but we need volunteers to investigate this matter, apart from the regular enforcement agencies. Individual or groups, it doesn't matter which, but we need to verify whether these rumours are true or no. If they are false, all is well and good. But if not, we might just have a huge insurrection on our hands," she says quietly, fingering the edge of her sleeves. She looks weary. "And we are not equipped to deal with another insurgency. Or worse, war."

I'm on my fifth bottle by the time Minerva finishes speaking and I lean against my chair, trying to hold my head up.

People volunteer left and right and I shrink into myself, trying to claw my way into a hidden recess of my mind, a dot deep and dark enough to hold me in secret.

I have to meet Lucius Malfoy at night today. He has suggested an upscale restaurant in the Diagon

Alley. And just this once, for today, I have agreed. It would make things much simpler. If I must provoke him, I need witnesses.

My mind swirls like the liquid in my Firewhiskey bottle and I feel nauseous.

When I look up, enough people have volunteered and the discussions are underway.

I look at Harry, who's at the head of the line, serious and frowning in a private conversation with Shacklebolt.

Perhaps I have managed to alienate him too, after all.

I wonder if he knows about Malfoy.

Maybe, with tomorrow's newspaper, he will—I intend to create a scene tonight.

Willing my feet to walk straight, at least until I leave the room, I slip out quietly, not looking back.

The attendant wrinkles his nose at my shabby appearance as he guides me to Lucius Malfoy's reserved seat. He's probably wondering what I am doing in a place like this, decorated lavishly and running well despite a war, with servicing fit for kings, and he purses his lips as I sit down.

The Blue is outrageously expensive and I know this because I tried to get reservations here for Ron's birthday last year. That was before—

But, never mind. This is to be a theatre for my performance tonight. Not that I am sure of what I'm going to do. I am expecting my presence to be enough. Also, I can't think. The after-effects of this afternoon's drinking have left me rather light-headed and I have decided not to drink here tonight.

I look around and find a familiar face sitting three tables away from mine.

Draco Malfoy?

His shocking blonde here is clearly the most visible thing about him everywhere he goes. He's sitting with—is that Lavender Brown?

She looks pretty, thought, and I really haven't much interest in her. So she's the one he got fixed with, and the one he was appealing against. It could have been worse.

I look away. I wonder if he knows who his father married. Yeah. That would really set him off.

I chuckle at my thoughts.

I look at my watch once again. I can actually smell how much I stink of alcohol right now. I didn't have time to change or take a shower after I left the meeting—but that's fine.

Why dress up for the likes of Lucius Malfoy anyway?

I drink some water and tap my feet. Perhaps I would enjoy this place, its rich shades of blue and silver, the intricate floral arrangements on each table, the chandeliers sparkling gloriously and the soft violin music playing in the background—I would enjoy all of this in another life, with another person. But not here.

All of that is denied to me. And whatever is left, I have denied myself.

"Granger? What are you doing here?"

I turn and see Draco Malfoy hovering close to the table.

"Why, Malfoy, can I not dine in a place as fine as this?" I smile at him, showing him all my teeth. He was probably going to the bathroom when he saw me—and like an imbecile, he needs to enquire.

"No—that's not what I meant, Granger," he says quietly. "Sorry I asked."

Just as he begins to leave, another voice invades our private conversation.

"Asked what, Draco?"

Lucius Malfoy.

I clench my fist.

Draco's face turns pale at his father's voice and he turns carefully.

I am not surprised to see him dressed in shades of black and grey, with his straight hair bound tightly behind his neck and a multitude of rings adorning his fingers. He still carries a stick—it is capped with a bejewelled, silver skull.

But it is the distance in his eyes that makes me wonder if my plan is worthwhile after all. His eyes are cold and dark, shimmering silver, reflecting the blue of the ceiling.

Draco doesn't seem pleased at this address by his father.

"Nothing, father," he says, averting his eyes from his father's piercing gaze.

Something twitches in Lucius's jaw as he scans his son. And then he looks at Lavender over his shoulder.

"I see you've arrived with a date."

I can tell that Lucius Malfoy has used the word 'date' deliberately.

"She's not my date," his son replies softly. "She's my wife—as mandated by the Ministry."

His eyes are downcast, as if the weight of his father's disapproval falls heavy upon him.

"You must introduce her to us then," Lucius Malfoy's tone is calm but there is a command in his voice. Draco flinches.

At the same time he looks at his father with questioning eyes.

"Us? Mother isn't here, is she?" He looks around searchingly.

Lucius Malfoy draws closer to the table at which I am seated and I recoil at his approach.

"No, Draco, Narcissa isn't here." He purses his thin, carved lips. "I believe you've met Hermione though."

Oh no. No. No. No. No.

My face turns into a grimace as I shrink further away from father and son.

Draco's open-mouthed shock at this revelation is too much for me to bear. And even though it isn't logical, I feel guilty for his despair. Perhaps it is the revulsion in his silver eyes, identical to those of his father but so different in every expression of the word, that makes me cringe away further.

If hell is the punishment we face when we die, what do we call the pool of suffering we endure while alive?

Comprehension sets in his eyes as they travel from his father to me and I can see the horror dawn upon his face.

The horror that I feel in my bones. The despair that gnaws my insides every single moment of the day—so much so that I can no more function like a normal human being.

"I—I see," he falters.

For a moment, I panic—I want to run away, to my safe place, to my room with glass windows for walls and drown myself in a bottle of wine—but then I remember. I am here with a purpose. Whatever happens, even if I destroy myself later, I will not have myself related to this despicable man for long.

No matter what.

"Well, I am sure that I don't want to meet Lavender," I comment, shrugging as I look at Draco meaningfully. I want to give him a way out. Small kindnesses. "We have too much history. So did you, right? But apparently the ministry doesn't care about that, does it? And I really wouldn't enjoy your company either, Draco."

Draco gives me a wide-eyed look and swallows.

His father says nothing but sits down opposite to me.

Well, that didn't work.

And taking his opportunity, Draco scampers away quickly.

We sit in silence for a while and when the waiter arrives, Lucius orders for both of us without asking me. I narrow my eyes at him but he's unfazed. He simply taps the table with his bejewelled rings.

For a long, long time, he simply sits and stares at me, his own face inscrutable, his penetrating gaze fixed upon my face and I shudder inwardly.

I feel awful—so small, disposable, inadequate and worthless—all these feelings have had a home with me of late but today they feel magnified.

"So, Mr. Malfoy—wasn't it a joy to see your son again?" I try to smile at his expressionless face. I must do this. "I know how much you must disapprove of his less-than-pureblood wife. What do you call us—ah—mudbloods, right? Does it bother you that your famed Malfoy line will now be as filthy as they come?"

He says nothing—doesn't even blink his eyes at my words.

My words—have left a bad taste in my mouth.

As filthy as they come—I must make sure to break off this farce of a marriage because I cannot, in seven circles of hell, imagine a torment worse than this—to be—

The waiter arrives with a delectable platter of soups to choose from. While he serves us, I deal with my headache. Strangely, the encounter with Draco has left me wide-awake.

I

"And how about your lovely wife, Mr Malfoy? How is she?" I try again. "I do not believe they allow conjugal visits in Azkaban—that must have been a lonely time. Tut. Tut. Also, I hear that you lost your manor, and your wealth, and you honour—everything really—you're probably worse off than the worst dregs of the Wizarding world, aren't you? And still so suave—I mean—If you had an ounce of dignity—no forget that, you never had it anyway— but let's just say something justifies your contemptible existence in this world, then you would jump off a cliff and save us the trouble of putting up with you."

As if he hasn't heard a single word I uttered, he continues with his soup, not taking his eyes off my face.

I am growing frustrated. I don't know what else to do.

What more can I throw into his face, other than his wife and son and his lifelong failure?

So why doesn't he react?

I cross my eyes and lean back.

My plan is not working.

And I am beginning to feel hunger pangs. But no, I won't eat his food.

"Could I have a glass of white wine, please?" I ask the waiter and close my eyes.

"You're already inebriated, Hermione—I would avoid the appalling spectacle to which you subjected yourself last night," Lucius leans forward and pins me with a stony gaze. "It is very unbecoming and disgraceful. To you, of course."

I click my tongue at him.

"Well, then—I must become used to it—saddled as I am with you," I reply, hoping for a reaction but there is none. Meanwhile, my glass of wine arrives. For one frightful moment, I am afraid that he will snatch away my drink and if he does, as God is my witness, I would curse him. But he does nothing except stare. Again.

Frustrated in my efforts, I finish my drink quickly and ask for more. I don't care how much I drink today. Consequences be damned: if I must drown myself in exquisite wine to forget the tumult of this night, I will gladly take without regret.

After a third drink, Lucius asks the waiter to stop.

"You don't get to tell him to stop. I'm the one who's drinking."

He grabs his walking stick and stands up abruptly.

"It's time to go," he says shortly and waves me over towards the exit but I stand my ground.

Did I mention that this is when the alcohol hits me?

"But why? If this is your party, then you must show your a guest a good time, right?" I stand up and lean against the chair for support. My voice is too loud and heads turn to stare at us. Even in the haze of stupor, I realise this might be a good provocation. Humiliate him publicly so that he would snap. "Or is the fabled Malfoy fortune fading at last? In fact, didn't you lose all your money to your wife? Oh come, Lucius, if you're man enough to bring a woman to this fancy restaurant—be man enough to bear the cost."

Yes. Everyone hears me. I sway at my place—the lights around me seem to be fading into a mass of black spots. I close my eyes and lean against the wall.

Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I am ashamed of the obnoxiousness which I have attempted today. Whether I succeed or not, remains to be seen.

This is crazy. I don't need to do this. I can simply run—and run my life again. I will—

A strong arm suddenly grabs me by the shoulder and I am ushered out, stumbling, into the black outdoors. Maybe they kicked me out. Oh well. I can't—think.

But I can smell. And I can feel the fingers still biting into my shoulder—

Who…?

"Let me go!" I yank my arm away when I realise who's dragging me away from The Blue. Where's my wand? I try to punch, trip, kick—everything I can do in my wobbly state—but to no avail.

He drags me to a deserted alley behind the restaurant and slams me against the wall. The impact is hard and I can feel my back throb in pain. He heaves me against the wall and brings me to level with his face.

His eyes bore a hole into mine—such is the tempest rising behind them—and I am reduced to a whimper.

The pain is back—the memories have returned and so have the monsters.

"I will say this only once, so listen carefully—attempting to provoke me into attacking you will not work—yes, I know what you were trying to accomplish in there." He knows? His face, hitherto unreadable, is a tragedy in scars now—every flitting emotion, all that grace, aloofness—gone, and only a haunted, tortured, demented man remains. "It will not work, Hermione. I have no desire to return to Azkaban. So desist. Choose wisely and then act. I could make this situation very painful or you can choose to live civilly and minimise the disgrace of your loathsome, short life."

And quite suddenly, he lets go. I slump to the ground, barely conscious, as he flicks a card my way and walks away, disappearing into the night.

I shiver, barely registering the night growing cold as I hold myself in place, my arms wrapped around me, and wracking sobs echo in the dead-end alley. I can't stop anymore.

I cry and cry until my throat is raw and the cold has infiltrated my bones, effectively dispelling my stupor. After an eternity, it seems, I finally stand, leaning against the dumpster.

My wand-is in my pocket.

I close my eyes and Apparate.

Hello everyone, I know it's been a long time since I updated this fic but here I am and here it is, hopefully you like the chapter. It's going to get angsty and violent... but it'll be worth it.

Don't forget to review. :)