Chapter 6: Smoke the Monster Out
After bidding everyone goodnight and sneaking down to the kitchen to nick a glass of elfwine and a cauldron cake from her stash, much to Rosie's disapproval, Hermione seemed to glide to her room. She felt much lighter than she had in a long while, thanks to her day spent with Susan and Callie. Sitting at her desk, she drew her feet up in the chair as she enjoyed her snack and fiddled with the letter she'd received from Malfoy earlier in the day. She pondered over the possible motivations behind such an offer.
It was obvious that Narcissa had thoroughly admonished him, which was the point of bringing her to lunch. But it seemed that she may also have told him about Rodolphus, something Hermione hadn't expected. Though the incident had never been properly discussed, she assumed it had been the reason behind her very first meeting with Narcissa. And given the lady's reluctance to bring up the issue, she'd assumed it would remain their secret. Part of her was discomfited knowing that Malfoy would feel indebted to her because of something that caused such festering guilt in her mind. Another part of her wanted to use this opportunity, one of very few she'd ever had, to gain valuable information on the missing Lestrange brother. Her eyes brightened as she realized that Malfoy had control of the Lestrange's Gringotts vault.
Wiping the crumbs of her cauldron cake from her robes, she took out a fresh sheet of parchment. As she scratched out a short reply to Malfoy, her heart fluttered with hope that had been slowly fading for the last two years. Time was a luxury she could not afford. There was simply too much at stake. She rolled up her parchment and gripped it as tightly as she was grasping the new hope within her as she opened her bedroom window and called for Kingsley's tawny owl. As Wilson approached the window, he greeted Hermione with a happy hoot. She scratched his head while she attached the reply to his leg and sent him off with a wistful half-smile.
After closing the window, she gulped down the rest of her elfwine and called for Rosie.
"Yes, Missy Hermione?" Rosie chirped brightly.
"Could you please pop over to the Ministry and get the Lestrange file from my desk?"
Rosie's eyes grew impossibly wider. "But Master said—"
"I know what Master said, Rosie," Hermione sighed. "But I may be acquiring some new information tomorrow and I need all my research and Auror's notes at my disposal."
Rosie eyed Hermione warily, but slowly nodded her head.
"I will also be needing all of the Healer's notes," Hermione added with a slight frown.
"For the Mistress?" Rosie shrieked, an almost manic look on her wrinkled face. "Yes, Missy. Rosie will bring them here at once!"
Before Rosie could disapparate, Hermione called out, "And Kingsley must not know yet."
Rosie was obviously at war with herself. Her eyes were tightly shut in a look of extreme concentration.
Hermione very gently tried to explain to Rosie that if Kingsley knew that Hermione was resuming her research, it might give him hope that she had no right to give him. After all, she did not know if the information she would gain tomorrow would be enough to help. She sighed as a still conflicted Rosie disapparated, leaving her once again alone in her bedroom. Opening a drawer of her desk, she pulled out a vial of Invigoration Draught and sipped it down along with a small sip of her red potion. Cracking her neck, she headed down to the library to start on a long night of research.
**HGDM**
Draco had spent the majority of his Sunday attempting to read through Quidditch Quarterly but he barely made it through the first article. Thoughts of Granger, his mother, and the Lestranges kept invading his mind. In the final year of the war, when the Dark Lord occupied their home and the Inner Circle of Death Eaters were based in rooms adjacent to his own. When people were tortured and killed in front of him. When his parents became so terrified that they looked like skeletal spectres of themselves. When Rodolphus and Aunt Bella pushed him to do more. When Rabastan cursed him any time nobody else was paying attention. When Aunt Bella tried to get him to identify Potter, then torture Granger. It was all making more sense now.
If Rodolphus and Bellatrix really had made him heir above Rabastan, it would explain Rabastan's increasing animosity toward him and it was possible that he could still be alive. He hadn't even thought about it until now. If Rabastan were still alive, he could be a target just as well as Granger. And he still couldn't believe she had killed Rodolphus to save him. Was it even legal for a confirmed killer to be Chief Warlock? Not to mention the memory crime she had committed against her muggle parents.
Most of his time at school had been spent envying Granger's pure talent. He had never hated her, but her blood status made a friendship impossible, so it was easier to pretend as though he hated her. Occasionally, he had been in awe of her raw power and ferocity. After the stunt she had pulled in fifth year with Marietta Edgecomb, he had been thoroughly impressed. He even had a passing thought that if she'd not been a muggleborn, she would have done well in Slytherin. But he had treated her awfully. Mostly in the hopes of making his father proud. His treatment of Potter and Weasley could be justified by their constant bumbling about but bullying Granger had never been deserved. He'd always felt guilty about that. And then standing by while she was tortured was the most difficult thing he had done during the war. After all of this, to think that she would care enough to save his life? Was it possible that even then, even though he had never properly asked, she had forgiven him?
His musings were interrupted by the stream of tears he'd been unconscious of until they'd splashed on his magazine. He angrily wiped them away with the sleeve of his robe. Thinking this way would get him nowhere. He looked up when he heard a tapping at his window. When he'd retrieved the missive from the beautiful tawny owl, given it a treat, and re-closed the window, he returned to his armchair and unrolled the parchment. It was from Granger.
Malfoy,
Make it tomorrow at noon.
HG
Well, hell.
**HGDM**
"Rosie brings you breakfast, Missy Hermione!" chirped a cheerful voice.
Hermione jolted awake at the noise, gasping and grabbing her wand. She blinked a few times and relaxed as she noticed the little elf levitating a tray of scones and a pot of tea. She rolled her shoulders and stretched out the kinks in her neck from sleeping in the library's armchair, her foggy mind not allowing her to pay attention to what Rosie was saying. She automatically took the teacup that was held out for her and sipped gratefully.
"What time is it, Rosie?" Hermione yawned.
"Rosie just told Missy Hermione! It is after nine already and she must go to the Ministry!" the elf's voice was hurried and exasperated.
Suddenly in a panic, Hermione cast a tergeo on her clothes and summoned her work robes from her room, simultaneously sweeping her wayward curls into a quick knot. She didn't even look behind her as she grabbed a lemon scone from the tray and asked Rosie to gather the files from the desk and send them to her office. Racing through the house at a speed she had not achieved since the war, she made it through the floo into her office just as Penelope was knocking on the door. Breathlessly, she bid her assistant to enter.
"Good morning, ma'am. I've got several appointments lined up for you today. First of all, Mrs. Hodgekin's solicitor has the preliminary statement for her trial on Thursday. He should be here at 9:30" Penelope looked up from her clipboard and stopped, startled. "Why, Ms. Granger, have you just arrived?"
"It is as you see, Penelope," Hermione snapped, rebuttoning her robes as she had skipped a hole. She sighed and gave her secretary an apologetic look, gesturing for her to resume listing out her appointments. She chewed lazily on her scone and listened peripherally as Penelope detailed her morning full of various meetings, messages, and requests. She nodded along stoically and agreed to all the requests that were mentioned until Penelope mentioned that Neville had requested a lunchtime meeting with her.
"Did he say what he'd like to speak to me about?" her brow furrowed, hoping that he wasn't coming to her for help on his Gringotts case. She had no jurisdiction over the bank and little, if any, influence with the goblins.
"No ma'am, but he did seem a bit excited. I believe he recently became engaged, did he not?" Penelope added thoughtfully.
Hermione gave a small, sad smile. She would love to have a nice lunch with her old friend and discuss his upcoming nuptials. She longed to enjoy the company of her friends and pretend everything was fine, but she knew that with friendship came questions. Questions that would not be met with answers. Then would come suspicion and resentment. Even so, the temptation was so strong that it was on the tip of her tongue to say yes to lunch with Neville before she recalled her scheduled lunch with Malfoy at noon.
"I'll have to send him a card. But I have a previous engagement at noon. As a matter of fact, please make sure that my afternoon schedule is clear. I have a feeling this appointment may run over longer than I had planned," her tone was slightly apologetic but brooked no refusal.
"Consider it done," Penelope answered primly, dashing back to her desk to quickly rearrange her previously busy afternoon.
Sighing, Hermione laid a fresh roll of parchment on her desk to write a quick note to Neville officially congratulating his engagement, wishing him the best in his Gringotts case, and apologizing for her lack of availability.
The rest of her morning felt as if it lasted an age. She thought to herself that if a single thing went smoothly that day, it would surprise her right out of her socks. Her meeting with Mrs. Hodgekin's solicitor ended with the painfully thin, balding man shuffling quickly out of her office, huffing indignantly. She rolled her eyes at the pompous arse. Her appointment with the Head of Magical Creatures consisted of her marking up the proposed draft of the new transportation bill until it looked like the parchment was bleeding and the poor woman was so nervous, she threatened to cry. The press conference regarding the replacement of Hyperion Greengrass with his daughter Astoria in the Wizengamot was probably the worst. Most of the reporters were, mercifully, willing to keep their questions strictly to the business at hand and were happy to write about the father who had groomed his daughter for politics and was prematurely stepping aside to let her practice what she had learned. But Rita Skeeter was unfortunately in attendance and it had taken all of Hermione's self-control and quite a bit of Kingsley's not to hex the witch and tell her to get the fuck out of their conference.
By noon, Hermione was sufficiently ready to leave and was beyond grateful she'd thought to cancel her afternoon appointments. After apparating to the alley behind Le Café Blanc, she replaced her glamours from their previous meeting and transfigured her Ministry robes to a form-fitting black dress. She rushed into the café, beyond nervous to see if Malfoy would be willing to help her.
**HGDM**
Draco tapped his fingertips impatiently on the black linen-topped table and glanced again at his watch. 12:06. Friendly intentions or not, he would give the witch two minutes before he left to take his lunch at his desk while catching up on paperwork. If it had been Blaise, he wouldn't have waited for him half so long. He had just begun perusing the menu for some sandwich or other to take back to the Ministry with him when the woman in question slunk gracelessly into the seat opposite him with a huff.
"Sorry I'm late," she got out between gasping breaths. "The press conference on the Greengrass Wizengamot seat went over by a good half hour thanks to a particular bitchy beetle."
Draco's eyebrows raised and he canted his head in confusion. "Skeeter?" At Granger's nod and look of unmistakable loathing, he smirked. "I was unaware that her gifts were common knowledge. Has she finally registered her form, then?"
"Oh of course not," she scoffed. "Though it would be safer for her if she had."
Granger's dark tone sent chills through his body and he had the distinct impression that Skeeter had messed with the wrong witch one too many times. He very nearly smiled at the thought of Granger squishing Skeeter in her animagus form.
"It may not matter either way," he shrugged. "If she writes anything in the Prophet to interfere with Astoria's big day, Hyperion will likely be out for her blood, beetle or human."
Granger smiled beatifically and her glamoured blue eyes glazed over with delight at the thought. Draco couldn't help but stare. That smile. That look. His heart fluttered that something he said could make her look like that. He was very sure he'd never seen a more beautiful face. And the only thing that could possibly be more beautiful would be if it had been her lush chocolate coloured eyes beneath her wild mane of rich brown curls. He shook himself out of his reverie, unsure of where those thoughts had come from and wishing with all his might that such thoughts were flukes that would not plague him again. This was Granger after all.
The same waiter from their last visit stepped up to their table and took their order, blushing when Granger smiled at him. Draco was glad for the distraction, but nearly curled his lip in anger at the waiter's brazen flirting. He was watching the uppity boy's retreating form when Granger cleared her throat. Returning his attention to the witch, he instantly sobered at the look of careful concern on her face.
"So, I gather Narcissa told you about Rodolphus?" she nervously twirled a golden curl and took a sip of her Chardonnay.
Draco couldn't find his voice to reply, so nodded and looked down at the table.
"I honestly thought she wanted to never tell you," Granger's voice was low, almost a whisper. Draco looked up to see sadness written on her face as she looked to her hands fiddling with her napkin on the table. "I've always had a funny feeling that she didn't want you to know because you might feel that you owed me something. I've wondered for some time now if she was ashamed of our association." A single tear slid down her cheek and her glamoured eyes met his, begging him to tell her otherwise.
Draco shook his head and cleared his throat. "I don't know how you could possibly think that," his voice was also low but sincere. "I know my mother probably better than anyone. And I have never seen her show such affection as she did with you."
Granger narrowed her eyes in confusion and disbelief at the undertone of jealousy in his last statement. "Why would she wait so long to tell you, then?"
"In case you haven't noticed, my mother is quite protective of those she cares about, of those she loves." Draco gave her a meaningful glance, hoping she would finally take the hint.
"Oh, come off it ," she breathed. "We're friendly, sure. But she hardly knows me well enough to love me."
"I'm not sure that matters, Granger. From what I've seen, it's obvious she sees you as the daughter she never had," he said grudgingly, trying to make her feel better, though he didn't know why.
Granger's tears spilled over her eyes and she let out quiet sobs. Oh, no. Oh, hell. That was not what he'd been trying to do. He awkwardly passed her a silken handkerchief which she accepted to dry her eyes. She gave him a bashful watery smile.
"And I do owe you, by the way," he said, this time holding her gaze. "I owe you my life."
He wasn't expecting her lips to pull down in a hard line and her head to shake vigorously. "No," she whispered fiercely. "I refuse to claim that debt over an act that has caused me such guilt."
"Guilt?" the confusion must have been clear on Draco's face.
"Of course," she said vehemently. "Have you ever killed someone, Draco?"
And there it was. Not the question, to which she already knew the answer. But his name. His name from her lips. He'd never heard it said quite like that before. And now that he had, he didn't think he could bear if she reverted to calling him anything else. His heart raced, but he struggled to remember her question. They'd come here for a reason, hadn't they? He'd told her he wanted to be friends. And friends listened to questions instead of daydreaming about a name. So, her question?
"No," he croaked out. "But I was responsible for two deaths."
"Dumbledore doesn't count," she waved off. "He was already dying and probably would've been dead within hours after he drank that potion." At his frown, she shook her head. "But that's a discussion for another time. Who was the other one?"
"Dobby," he whispered the name.
"How?" she asked. "It was Bellatrix who threw the knife. How is that possibly your responsibility?"
"If I had stood up to them like I wanted to, if I had helped you all escape, Dobby wouldn't have even been there. Did you know he was my elf?"
"He was a Malfoy elf, wasn't he?"
"Not originally. He was mine when I was just a baby. But when I went to school, I gave him to my father so he wouldn't be lonely. There are so many things I wish I had done differently," he sighed.
Granger looked at him thoughtfully. "Even with all these things, your wand and your hands never caused someone to die. Never took the life and the remaining years from another being. Do you know what that does to your soul?" The look on her face was almost identical to the one from his mother's memory.
"It's different for you," Draco was quick to point out. "You feel genuine remorse."
"And the pain, I assure you, is excruciating," she sighed.
Then, suddenly, she groaned and shut her eyes. Holding her head with one hand, the other fumbled in her pocket until she produced a vial of a viscous red-orange potion which she unstopped and gulped greedily from. Draco's eyes grew wide and he looked around them in panic before casting strong notice-me-not and anti-muggle wards. He snatched the vial from her hands and smelled the scant remainder of its contents. He coughed at the bitter odour and became even more panicked. Noticing the dazed look on Granger's face, he made a decision.
Standing and dropping a few muggle bills onto the table, he stood Granger up and threaded her arm through his. Cancelling his wards, he hurried her to the alley behind the café and disapparated them both.
**HGDM**
When Hermione regained awareness, she was in a strange flat, on a strange couch, with a strange blanket tucked around her. The smell was vaguely familiar. Indian ink and something distinctly masculine. There was no pain, but her head felt thick, as if her mind was trying to swim through molasses. She sat up and the room felt as if it was swaying. She moaned and lay back down, closing her eyes.
"Granger?" she knew that voice. It usually had a much rougher inflection, but just now it sounded gentle, almost concerned? But those dulcet tones were lazy and aristocratic, just like their owner.
"Malfoy?" she slurred out, following the word by another moan as the dizziness returned.
There was a pause for a minute, then a warm hand shook her shoulder twice. "Granger!" This time, there was less concern and more annoyance.
"Wha?" she blinked her eyes open and tried to focus on him, but his face kept blurring.
"Come on, sit up. I need you to drink this," the warm hands were back, pulling her to a sitting position and pressing a cool glass to her lips. She brought her weakened arms up to help the glass and drank deeply. The cool water soothed her dry throat and helped in waking her up. She tried again to focus and this time could see Malfoy's face much more clearly.
"Thanks," she murmured, reclining her head back against the couch cushions.
"Granger, we need to talk," his voice was insistent. "Do you know what this is?"
She looked at him again as he held up the vial her red potion had been in. She waved nonchalantly. "Course I do. Wouldn't take a potion I don't know."
"Do you know that you just took well over half a vial of this?" he sneered.
"It was pretty bad this time," she sighed sleepily.
"This time?" his voice tightened. "How long have you been taking this, Granger?"
"Mmbe thir yers," she mumbled. Snapped fingers in front of her face woke her again.
"I'm sorry, Granger. Did you just say three years?" he was practically yelling now.
"Mmhmm," she nodded, then frowned when the room spun again.
"I'm calling a healer," he yelled from the other room in a panicked voice.
"Healer Umber," she sang out as loudly as she could and she barely saw him nodding from the doorway before losing consciousness.
The next time she awakened, she was in a bed. Her surroundings were still strange, but there was still that now-familiar smell. Her head felt a bit clearer, but she was cold. So cold. She snuggled into the covers and shivered. Opening her eyes, she took in the details of the room. What she could, at any rate. It was quite dark. But what she could see was a lounge chair with a table in the corner opposite her, the hazy outline of a door on the far wall, a large wardrobe on the near wall, and a tall window framed with heavy drapes. From the window, she could easily see that it was night-time. Though she was still shivering, she desperately had to relieve her bladder, so she climbed from the bed and stood on slightly shaky legs.
As soon as she reached the door, a familiar figure opened it quietly from the other side. He stood aside for her to pass through.
"Washroom?" she managed to rasp out through chattering teeth.
The man pointed to the door across the hall and nodded at her. "Make it quick," he said, all business.
Returning as quickly as she could, she had become aware enough to have many questions for the man. "Healer Umber?" she called.
"In here, Ms. Granger," he whispered from the kitchen.
Hermione made her way to the familiar voice and sat down in a chair which he pulled out for her.
"I think I've got a fever," she muttered.
"Astute observation, Ms. Granger," he drawled, already waving his wand over her to cast diagnostic charms.
"Where am I?" she wondered aloud.
"A flat in London owned by Draco Malfoy," the healer answered distractedly, gazing at the glowing runes surrounding Hermione's body and scratching a quill across his notepad.
"Where is he?" she looked around her as if the man would appear.
"In the room you just left, probably asleep in the lounge chair. He hasn't left your side all day," the healer gave her a significant look over the rims of his glasses.
Hermione's face scrunched up trying to remember what had happened that day. She remembered very well that she'd had an awful day at work, then going to meet Malfoy where they'd had a surprisingly pleasant conversation, then blank. She finally gave up and turned to the healer for answers. "What happened?"
"It seems you've been self-medicating again," his stern look had her looking at the ground.
"Only when it's unbearable," she whispered.
"And how often is that?"
"Lately? Every other day," she admitted dejectedly.
Concern flashed across the healer's face as he flicked his wand at the runes surrounding Hermione's head. He clucked his tongue and returned his attention to the notepad.
Hermione huffed and waved her wand over her transfigured dress to revert it back to her Ministry robes, hoping they would keep her a bit warmer. She frowned when nothing happened. She waved her wand again and this time succeeded, gathering her robes tightly around her freezing form. Hearing an absence of quill movement, she looked back up to Healer Umber. Her lip quivered when she took in his wide-eyed expression. The usually stoic healer had never, in the three years of weekly check-ups, been surprised or thrown by anything they'd seen. "Is it that bad?" she squeaked out.
"How long have you been experiencing magical hiccups?" he visibly tried to reign in his shock.
"You mean spells that don't work?" she asked. "First time was last week. I thought I was just exhausted. Do you think it could be a side effect of the potion?"
"Not likely," he said as he cast another diagnostic spell over her, this time studying the runes intently with no attention left for her or the notepad. After several minutes, he turned his back to her, removed his glasses, and swiped a handkerchief across his forehead.
"How long?" she breathed out.
"I can't say for sure," he turned back around to face her. "But knowing what I do now, I would expect no more than six months. I'm sorry, Ms. Granger."
She stared blankly at the cooling cabinet behind the healer, trying to come to terms with the prognosis she'd been given. Six months. There were many things that could be done in six months. But she couldn't help but focus on what could not be done. She couldn't fall in love in six months. She couldn't be married in six months. She couldn't have a child in six months. She couldn't see Callie's next birthday in six months. And, most probably, she could not find a cure in six months. She was numb and though she felt she should probably cry, she couldn't.
Healer Umber squeezed her shoulder in support as they both stood in Draco Malfoy's kitchen in silent contemplation. Neither of them noticed the dark figure that had been lurking in the hallway who was now frozen in place.