Chapter 9: Started to Say Sorry
24 December 1924
BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY
By Rita Skeeter
The official notice of Mr. Draco Malfoy as a missing person has rocked Great Britain to its core and we humbly wait for an update and have our fingers and hearts crossed for that news to be not only good, but the very best it could be. However, given the arrival of a healer to the Malfoy Manor this morning, as well as the continued lack of statement from anyone inside the Manor – namely Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy – it can be presumed that the young bachelor's health is in critical risk. So much so that he was too ill to attend the Christmas Gala! May we all pray for a speedy recovery.
As I have tried to make very evident, with the help of the Daily Prophet, Mr. Malfoy's presence in our society has been immensely positive and beneficial and we sincerely hope that he is well and will return to us as soon as possible.
Well, fuck.
Me too, Rita, me fucking too.
Here we are, at the very end of Rita's horrendous tribute to Draco. She wasn't entirely far off in regard to Draco's health as I'm sure it is very much the reason for his absence – though, again, I do hope I am wrong and that his life is not in as much danger as I fear it is. Mine, too. I want to believe that I can save his life, even if it costs mine to do so. I will try my fucking best, of course, not to die in the process which means I need to put this bloody paper down and get the fuck out of the car now.
22 December 1924
Hermione sank into the bathtub and let the steaming water soothe her sore breasts and muscles; this menstrual cycle coming up would be a brutal one if her current aches and pains were any indication. She twisted her chestnut curls into a messy bun atop her head and leaned her head against the cool porcelain, but just as she closed her eyes and began to feel the cramps subside, a voice caused her eyes to snap open.
"Here," Draco said, stepping into the bathroom and holding out a wine glass for her.
When she reached a bubbly hand out to take it from him, though, he pulled it back and arched a condescending silver brow at her. Hermione frowned; her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?" She asked, eyes trailing down the impeccable oxford clinging to his puffed chest as he pulled up a seat beside the tub. "Draco," Hermione warned, "Give me the glass."
"Not until you tell me what the fuck you and Astoria are hiding from me." He replied without missing a beat.
There it was.
The inevitability of them included the inevitability of fighting now, apparently.
Ever since Marcus' death, emotions had been running at an all-time high in the Manor. Where before the men and the women in the Manor's dark corridors, dripping in its expensive fabrics, had been in check of their baser needs, they were now incontrollable and volatile. Hermione wasn't immune to the new wave of hysteria, and she was no more willing to suppress it either.
She remembered a time when conversation between her and Draco had been intellectual and stimulating and full of secrets and plots. Now, it was more or less one argument or another, leading to either rough, senseless fucking or a string of unforgiving words. Always ending with a mutter – a choke – of I love you and I need you and I know. Spat out like venom and infecting each other just as similarly.
"Are we really about to do this again?" Hermione snapped. "Aren't you tired of having this argument, Draco? I know I am." She pursed her lips and tried her best to relax her shoulders so as not to give away the truth behind his accusations. The grey storm brewing in his irises was bad enough. He'd been onto her and Astoria for some time now; as if the death of Marcus had somehow woken a sixth sense of his and returned them to a time where she was no longer worthy of his trust.
Which was true, she had been lying to him. Hiding from him. But still. It was upsetting to think that they had come all this way to end up back where they started. Hermione was sick of it; quite literally nauseous.
"Yes," he growled. "We're bloody doing this again, and we'll keep bloody doing it until you stop fucking lying to me."
Hermione's lips twitched downward.
"Well?"
His tone was ice.
The distaste dripping from her mouth grew to mirror his, then she carefully reigned her expression back to nonchalance and gave him her best apathetic shrug.
"There's nothing to discuss," she stated, muttering an additional, "per usual," under her breath. Except, Draco caught it. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Hermione's pulse quickened unhelpfully. The usual bout of nausea she'd been fighting all day reared its head again, but she swallowed the slick at the back of her throat and sat up, sloshing the warm water onto the tile floor.
"What are you hiding, Penny?" Draco glowered.
"Nothing," she seethed, the anger boomeranging back into her veins in a matter of seconds from his dangerous tone.
He was fast as lightning, and about as unforgiving. His hand shot out, fingers tangled in her curls, and he yanked her head back so that she had no choice but to stare into his dark, murderous gaze. "Don't," Draco began in a low, almost inaudible voice. Though it was as terrifying as when he screamed so loud his voice rasped dry and beaten. "Don't fucking lie to me. Again."
Hermione held her own.
Or tried to.
Her gaze flickered down to his clenched jaw, then back up to his stormy eyes before she replied. Slowly and calculating and as convincingly as she could. "There's nothing to tell, Draco. Ask Astoria if you don't fucking believe me but take your fucking hands off of me." She swung her hand out, connecting it with his forearm between their inclined necks with a brute force she didn't know that she possessed.
Draco let go of her, but he didn't back away. He didn't back down. He simply kept his icy, silver gaze trained on her face; she knew he was searching for something, looking for any twitch of muscle – any sign of deceit – that he could grasp like a loose thread and pull and pull and pull until he discovered where it lead. What it was that she was hiding.
"I will get to the bottom of this, Penny. You'll regret not disclosing it to me when I do," his pale eyebrows furrowed as he murmured the last part into the air between them. The electricity between them sparked and flared as it normally did; Hermione withered a little despite knowing that particular fact about them hadn't changed.
She arched a dark eyebrow, swiping the red-stained glass from his grip. "Is that a threat, Draco?"
"No," he laughed, twisting his lips upward to mock her. "You know how I loathe threatening people."
"Not as much as you loathe having to explain your threats." Hermione dared to quip, earning a sharp turn from Draco as he stood under the door archway. His eyes – always a clue to his truer intentions – were blazing and furious, sending chills up Hermione's spine despite the scalding water she was submerged in.
For a moment, for the briefest moment, she feared that he would turn and storm back into the bathroom and put his hands on her. But then he gave her a sneer and disappeared through the doorway.
Hermione deflated. "Where are you going?" She hollered, sloshing the water all over the tile floor as she shot to her feet and stumbled over the lip of the tub to get out of it. "Draco! Where are you – Ah!" She slipped. It was stupid. The floor was soaked; she was rushing to catch up to him and forgot about the wine in her hand.
The floor – originally a beautiful pattern of black and white so soothing it would settle an obsessive-compulsive person's nerves – swam with red. Whether it was from the wine or her blood or a combination of both, she was uncertain.
"Fucking Christ, Penny," Draco swore under his breath, appearing once again in the doorway. His arms, strong and clad in an expensive suit, wrapped around her waist and pulled her up. Hermione didn't feel his eyes scouring over her naked body. She didn't feel him smooth aside her damp curls and settle her atop the bathroom counter. She didn't feel anything.
She felt numb.
"Draco," she murmured, blinking away the blurriness in her vision and focusing it on the soft glint of stubble on his cheek. "What - " Her glance slid over his tensed shoulders to see the red stains soaking his suit as well as the bathroom floor. Hermione's brows furrowed and her breathing hitched. "What happened?"
Draco's face, previously contorted with a mix of concern and disapproval, slacked. "You don't – Penny, don't you remember?" His eyes danced across her face, and she slowly turned her head from one side to the other. "Fuck, Pen." Draco raked a bloodied hand – Was he bleeding? Was it her blood? It had to be, right? – through his hair and sighed. "You fell. Slipped, I think."
"Oh," she replied dumbly. She couldn't recall. Her hand levitated to her head, trying to locate the origin of the pins and needles. Her fingers slid through her damp curls and retracted suddenly as they touched somewhere along her hairline. "Ouch, fuck," she hissed.
Her hands were readily replaced by Draco's; his dexterous fingers making quicker work of locating the gash in her forehead. He winced at the same time she did. "You - " He paused, eyes flickering down her body once more. "Stay here."
The chill in the air returned the moment Draco swept out of the room, and a shiver ran up the back of Hermione's spine. Her gaze dropped to her palms, catching a glimpse of glass shimmering – and red. A lot of red. She was trying to rack her brain for what happened when a flush of heat sent her head swimming. By the time Draco returned with Dobby, Hermione had emptied the entirety of her stomach content into the toilet.
"Pen," whispered Draco, the rough of his palm trailing down the ridges of her spine as he draped a towel around her. "Come on," he lifted her and directed her toward her bed, taking care to lower her gently.
Hermione went through the motions as Draco, with the added help of Dobby, washed the glass out of her hands, forearms, and knees – from where she must have crawled across the floor to the toilet to be sick – and cleaned the wounds with a stinging splash of vodka. The curtains were drawn to envelop the room in more darkness than it already contained; the silver glint of Draco's eyes shone more prominently, like that of the moon.
Her head was fuzzy and throbbing, but Hermione managed to slowly point out, "You think I have a concussion?"
"Dobby," Draco ordered. The long-time servant of the Malfoy's inclined his head in his master's direction. "Don't tell Mother." He paused wrapping Hermione's palms with gauze to give Dobby a stern, fear-inducing glance. "Don't. That's a bloody order, understood?"
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir," replied Dobby obediently. "Dobby will not tell Mistress, sir."
"Dobby send a message to Mr. Bagman that I will be an hour late to our meeting. Throw in a bottle of our finest gin with the notice." He sighed, eying the blood stains on his suit. For once, not caused by harm he had himself personally inflicted on another person.
Dobby loitered for a moment.
With a firm nod, Draco dismissed him and shifted to sit beside Hermione on the bed. He patted her ankle, almost absentmindedly, and tilted his head back, craning his neck toward the canopy draped over the four-poster bed. His hair falling in front of his eyes for a brief moment before he hastily swept it away and lowered his eyes to meet hers.
Hermione shuddered, ice filling her veins despite the heavy blankets wrapped around her.
"Penny," growled Draco. Thunderstorms boomed in his eyes; the grey nearly completely encompassed by the black. "What the fuck is going on with you? Ever since – Well – You and Astoria have been attached at the hip, and I'm not jealous - "
"You sound jealous," mumbled Hermione through forcible swallows of foul-tasting medicine.
"I'm not." Draco seethed. "I'm the head of this household, Penny. The fucking head of the Death Eaters. I need to know everything that goes on involving its members. Everything." He gritted his teeth, "I can't have these fucking secrets between us. I can't. I need to know everything. I need to protect you so that – fuck, I just need to, ok?"
"I can protect myself, Draco," she snapped. Her eyes drooped, and she fought to keep them open. The numbness of the medicine was warming her from the inside out; drops of perspiration forming on the base of her neck. "And since when did you preach about honesty? You don't seem to need to know what Narcissa is ever up to, especially when it involves Astoria. So, why the bloody hell do you care now?"
He scoffed, "Are you – are you fucking serious right now?" Draco stood up abruptly, loosening his tie and beginning to strip off the stained clothes from his tensed muscles, one article of clothing at a time. "I can't believe you. You think just because you're my – that I – How long have you been here, Penny, hm? You're family."
"I'm not," countered Hermione.
Draco paused, placing his signet ring on the bedside table with a clang.
"That could change."
Hermione's throat dried; her tongue sat thick and helpless against the roof of her mouth. "Listen," said Draco with an exasperated sigh. "We'll talk about this later. I have to shower and change. Bagman is expecting me and if Mother hears about what happened she'll have both of our heads for disrupting the deal." He sighed, returning to the endeavor of stepping out of his trousers. "Not to mention I have to – Never mind."
"What? You have to what, Draco?" Hermione asked, struggling to fight the wave of nausea that came when she sat up against the head of the bed.
"Don't worry about it," he clipped in response. "Just fucking lie down and rest, will you? Here," he shoved the glass bottle into her hands along with a silver spoon. "Take another dose or two."
Hermione was about to open her mouth to protest his coddling and insist that she was perfectly capable of handling herself, thank you very much. It was a stupid fall (apparently). That was all. But then she noticed the labeling on the bottle and tried to piece together why a simple liquid pain reliever was making her feel so groggy and sleepy. Not to mention the fact that every word that came out of her mouth felt forced and –
"Did you drug me, Draco Malfoy?" She snarled.
He was halfway to the bathroom by then but had spun slowly to look down at her over his obscenely arrogant nose. "Excuse me?" There was no venom, no trace of resentment, lingering in his voice. Where Hermione had normally expected there to be when she falsely accused him of something.
"You did!" Her jaw dropped and she slammed the vial onto the bedside with so much passion that half of the items littering it had dispersed among the floor. Her head throbbed and pulsed unhelpfully, but she blinked through it and twisted her lips into a furious frown. "How dare you? Let me guess – sodium amytal? You really think that is going to help you discover what I'm so-called hiding from you?"
Draco shrugged.
"Fuck you," she spat. "You really want to know?" Hermione panted, screaming the next sentiment at his obstinately stoic expression. Dying to drag some form of reaction out of him. "We killed Sirius Black! There – are you fucking happy now? Will you leave me alone about it now?"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
For a moment, she wondered if he wouldn't react. If he wouldn't because either he didn't believe her, or that he genuinely expected something more sinful. Perhaps killing another man – a relative if nothing else – meant nothing to the Death Eaters so long as that person was an enemy. Or at least, a perceived one.
Then, he exploded.
His face contorted into the very devilish form she anticipated all those years ago whenever she upset him or disappointed him or simply did not give him what he wanted. The whereabouts of Frank Longbottom? The forgiveness for when he traded her to Viktor Krum? The gun he planned to aim at Theo's head?
"You what?" He bellowed. "Are you fucking serious? Are you – Do you have any idea – You don't even know what you've done and – I can't do this. I can't do this right now, Penny. I have to go. I have to fucking go."
"Where are you going?" Hermione fumed as Draco reached for a robe and disregarded the idea of showering and changing in her newly cleaned bathroom. "Where are you going?" She demanded, brows furrowed and heart racing. "Draco! Draco!"
However, the only response she got was the deafening boom as the heavy wooden door slammed shut, leaving her to wallow in silence.
Before she could fully succumb to exhaustion, a trilling voice sounded from the door as it swung open.
"What was that all about? Draco looked ready to murder someone, and while I appreciate that look not being thrown in my direction for once, I wonder who the poor soul is that is about to suffer his wrath." Astoria said, gesturing lazily over her petite shoulder as she strode into the room and took in Hermione's bandaged body. "Oh, fuck, Penny. What happened to you? Is that why Draco - "
"No," she cut in quickly, pulling herself up and welcoming Astoria into the spot beside her on the bed. The petite woman took care to favor her leg – the one that Hermione had not had to perform near-surgery on only six months ago – as she settled beside her. Hermione blinked away from where Astoria's skirt rose up. She felt bile at the back of her throat imagining what the scar looked like. "I'm fine." She insisted. "I just… slipped. It was an accident. Draco's – Well, I don't want to talk about it."
Astoria pursed her lips disapprovingly; her sage green eyes twinkled. "Fair enough." Then, she reached out a pale hand and brushed away the curls that had fallen over the butterfly bandage on Hermione's scalp. "Do you want to talk about this?" Hermione shook her head, and Astoria sighed. "If he did this to you - "
"He didn't," insisted Hermione, jerking away from Astoria's grasp with vehemence. "I told you, I fell. It was stupid. Can you just let it go?"
"Fine." Astoria grumbled. "But if he so much as lays a hand on you, I swear - "
She groaned, "He didn't. He won't. Bloody hell, Astoria,"
The other woman's icy glare didn't let up. She merely dropped her gaze to the rest of Hermione's bandages, fixating on her wrought hands before leveling her green eyes to Hermione's chestnut ones. "I know he didn't. He wouldn't still be walking and breathing if he had. Still…" Catching the other woman's displeasure, she moved on swiftly to a new topic. "I won't be able to attend the gala tomorrow evening."
"I know," Hermione lamented.
"But," she went on, intertwining her delicate fingers between Hermione's, "I won't be around the Manor either to make sure you're well taken care of so, be on your best behavior. I won't tell Narcissa about this – God knows she'd have a right fit about your appearance, and that's just the beginning – but don't you dare try to attend the gala either. Stay in bed. Make up whatever lie it takes to get out of it."
"Astoria, you can't be - "
"Serious? I am, Penny. Don't do anything stupid." Her eyes narrowed into slits, effectively silencing any more opposition on Hermione's part. Then, they let up as she tilted her head to the side and regarded the bushy-haired woman with affection. "You don't know how valued you are in this family."
By now, Hermione was so deep undercover that she was quite certain there was no way out of this life that she created. Her life as Penelope Clearwater; her life as an honorary Death Eater – there was some ceremonial event that she hadn't been subject to yet so technically she was still only honorary – and more than those, her life with Draco.
With all of them.
They were her family.
They were more of a family to her than she had ever had before. She cherished them; valued them more than she imagined they could ever value her. Then, a sudden thought plagued the sweet memories of her time in the Manor (pretending to sleep when Draco come home late and slipped under the covers, pranking Theo with the help of Harry when the frost didn't allow them to escape the house, attending the shotgun wedding of Greg and Millie and welcoming their firstborn a few months later) and her blood ran cold.
"Astoria," she hiccupped, tears streaming down her face and racking sobs catching in her throat.
"Hey," whispered Astoria. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
Hermione swiped furiously at her eyes, blinking through the blurriness to see Astoria's pale green eyes and bit down on her lip. "Draco," she croaked; the name ripping through her lungs. "Draco – I – He – What if he doesn't come back? What if he doesn't forgive me?"
"That's nonsense - "
"I told him, Astoria. I bloody told him." She paused, catching the realization dawn over the other woman's normally soft features, hardening them. Reminding Hermione of the signature quiet fury that Draco did not inherit. Reminding Hermione in the most terrifying way of Narcissa.
"I didn't mean to," she blurted out, the words spilling into the dark space between them. Pleading. "I swear it just – it was the medicine – and I couldn't help it. I couldn't lie. I couldn't lie." More hiccups. "I've never been a gifted liar – No, that's not true. I've been lying this whole time. You have no idea." The tears were falling faster than she could swipe them away, staining her flushed cheeks in their salty regret.
Astoria was silent.
"Oh, god," Hermione sobbed, lifting a hand gingerly to her forehead. It was throbbing more so than before and now her nausea had returned with some added cramps. She felt so ill, both inside and out. "What have I done, Astoria? What have I done? I've done something terrible. I'm not – I'm not – Draco will never forgive me. None of you will. None of you. Oh my god. Oh my god,"
She collapsed against the pillows, covering her face with her bandaged hands and letting the wave of guilt run her over – crash into her and drown her.
"Penny," came a quiet voice. Floating somewhere near her ear.
"I'm not," she wailed in response.
The rushing of blood to her head and the heavy, rhythmic beat of her frantic heart drowned out any further attempts Astoria made to get her attention. Hermione might as well have been six-foot under from how little she actually heard from the other woman. All she could picture was Draco – furious and betrayed and murderous.
Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't register her hands being peeled from her face and soft lips pressing against hers, but when she did register what was happening, it struck her like lightening. She blinked.
Astoria pulled away, dark brows furrowed and rosy pink lips downturned.
"Pull yourself together." She reprimanded unkindly. Then, she slipped off the high mattress and padded quietly toward the door. Astoria paused momentarily at the door to toss one last sentiment over her delicate shoulder, "If you're so talented a liar, then you should have no issue staying here tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid."
Hermione woke the next morning – or late afternoon, rather – with a debilitating migraine but quickly called for Dobby to bring in some pills for her, then reminded him of his master's wish for her fragile state to remain under wraps. He nodded his assent before ducking back out of the room and leaving her to her own devices.
As she stepped off the bed, she bit down on her lip to prevent a shrill cry from escaping. Hermione clutched the sole of her foot and grimaced at the tiny golden object she'd stepped on. Draco's signet ring. She thought about tossing it out the window into the abyss of Narcissa's gardenias, coated with a soft blanket of snow. She thought about leaving it in the fireplace or pawning it off just to spite him.
Hermione did none of those, however, and simply slipped it onto her left ring finger (the only one that it would fit).
It was difficult but not impossible to remove the bandages and apply just enough make up to cover and marks that the slinking satin gown did not. Its long sleeves – which she had initially upturned her nose to when Daphne presented her with the dress over a week ago – were now her saviors. Taming her curls to cover the edge of her hairline where the deep cut had begun to heal over was difficult, but again, she managed.
She wasn't missing out on the gala.
Fuck that.
To hell with Astoria and her demands, and to hell with Draco's continued absence. She was going to attend the gala with Theo as planned and confront Draco when he showed up for his ridiculous speech. Some Man of the Year he is; if only the general public had any idea of the man they had carelessly fallen so in love with (though, she was hardly one to talk because was she not in the same detrimental situation?).
Draco was less of an angel and more of a fallen one.
"Penny," Theo smirked, buttoning his suit as he stood up to greet her formally. "About time you grace us with your presence."
"I keep to myself for one day and you're already a mess. My goodness, Theo, does Harry know how badly you've suffered in my absence?" She shook her head playfully, taking his arm and letting him lead her to the car. "Where is everyone else?" Hermione asked, glancing around the garage to see two other cars missing. One of them belonging to the other half of her damaged heart.
"They already went ahead," he supplied readily. "Here," he said, offering her a glinting silver flask. "This should help take off the edge of the unbelievably long evening we have ahead of us. I am quite looking forward to lurking around the palace, though I wish it didn't come at the cost of having to socialize with its occupants. Fuck – especially the King," Theo grumbled.
Hermione shook her head at the blatant disrespect for the head of their great nation and took the cold metal from his proffered hand. The scent of cinnamon and whiskey wafted through her senses moments before what little that sat in her stomach found its way out of the side of the car.
"Holy fuck, Penny!" Theo exclaimed, skidding across the leather seats to pat her back and wipe at her mouth carefully with his handkerchief.
"Sorry," mumbled Hermione. She coughed into the handkerchief and leaned back against the seat as Kreacher lurched the car into motion again, speeding toward the city center. "I'm fine."
"Are you, though? No offense, but you don't look like." He asked, blue eyes searching her flushed face. She nodded, then made a concerted effort to dab at the beads of sweat forming on her hairline while not daring to expose her cut. "Is that why you've been avoiding us? You don't feel well?"
"It's nothing," she assured him. Hermione coughed once more, then took the flask and tipped it back to prove herself despite the lingering nausea. "I told you, I'm fine." Hermione regarded Theo with as much of a stern look as she could muster as he helped her out of the vehicle and up the stairs, branding a finger at him. "Don't you dare tell Narcissa about this."
"Tell me about what?"
Hermione blanched. Her automatic response was a slur of trying to wave it off as nothing. However, at the same time, Narcissa had already cornered Theo and discreetly wrapped her hand around his wrist, fixing her icy glare onto him. "Spill." Much to Hermione's dismay, he did.
"Penny's ill." Theo muttered, pausing to nod and smile to the few reporters stood outside. Hermione tried to plaster a false smile across her lips, knowing that her role as the unknown brunette on Theo's arm was imperative if she didn't want anyone to speculate about her actual involvement with the bloody Man of the Year.
"Ill?" Narcissa prodded, her eyes gliding past Theo's dark hair to Hermione's unruly curls. "Bloody hell, I don't have time for this. Draco's still not here yet, and Pansy and Daphne are having some form of row or something. I don't even know anymore. Theodore – go find them and sort it out, will you? I'll deal with Penny here."
"Right, no problem," he replied, nodding obediently.
Her hand shot out to close around his wrist once more, and he turned toward her with a quizzical expression, arching his eyebrows. "For the love of god, Theodore," Narcissa hissed. "Be discreet. I don't need that horrible Skittle woman writing another article about them crying over Draco or something to the likeness of that. You know how much I detest playing maid, cleaning up all of your dirty work, and I don't need something as petty as a love scandal on top of it."
"Of course," Theo said. He dimpled at her, then disappeared among the crowd of aristocrats.
Hermione cleared her throat gently when the other woman turned slowly to face her. "It's Skeeter, by the way. Rita Skeeter."
"I don't give a flying fuck what her name is, Penny. All I know is she makes my life more difficult and as much as I would love to do away with her, I can't." Her tone and her facial features warned Hermione against anymore smartass retorts. Which was fine, because she didn't have any more to say to Narcissa on the subject anyway. She wasn't exactly wrong with her observations on the nasty woman.
Hermione hardly had a second to catch her breath or school her face into vacant pleasantness before Narcissa whisked her away to an obscured corner. Her hand struck out like that of a cobra's and grasped harshly to Hermione's breast.
"Ouch!" She cried, biting down on her lip and wrestling out of Narcissa's reach. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?"
"Penny," the older woman said cautiously. "How late are you?"
"Late?"
"Yes. Late." She sighed. "I was wondering why you haven't touched your sanitary towels yet this month. Winky tells me everything, you see. At first, I supposed that you were ignoring them intentionally – that you and Draco had an understanding. Now, I can see that's not the case. Is it? You two didn't plan this, did you?"
"Narcissa, I'm – I'm not pregnant!" Hermione hissed in a low tone, darting her eyes over the woman's shoulder to the guests filing into the palace. "I'm going to bleed this week. I'm not pregnant. I can't be, there's no way."
"There's no way?" Narcissa scoffed. "Surely, Penny, you won't continue to lie to me. I can guarantee you won't find it nearly as fruitful as you think it will be. I am not stupid, nor am I new to this sort of thing. I was there for both Marietta and Millicent if you recall. Not to mention, I went through a pregnancy of my own," her pale eyes twinkled knowingly at Hermione, making her cringe under their scrutiny.
"But - "
"You're in shock." Narcissa ruled, looping her arm in Hermione's and nodding to someone approaching them. It was Theo with Pansy and Daphne on either side of him, both sobbing. Hermione wasn't sure as to why either woman was crying but suddenly tears welled in her eyes as well. She sniffled as Narcissa directed them all back towards the cars. "Now, we're going to get out of here. We're going to go home and sort this shit out. I won't have the entire United Kingdom trading rumours of our family for their vile entertainment."
"Here," Theo said, stopping their entourage just before the palace doors opened to the few privileged reporters standing beside the sleek cars waiting to take them away. "Narcissa, you take these two. It will be much easier explained if you are escorting them and I am escorting Penny. Do you think they," – he cocked his head toward the door, then mouthed the rest – "know about Draco?"
"If they didn't notice his failure to turn up to his own celebrated event, then I don't doubt it will take them long after we all pile out looking like this," she groaned, taking his advice and tucking both of the other women under her glittering arms. "Make sure to hide her face from them," she added, nodding to Hermione, now, but keeping her eyes fixed on Theo's.
A slender arm slipped around her waist, and Theo once again came to her rescue, saving her from both her physical and emotional turmoil this evening (in the past hour alone). "Come on, Penny," he whispered, quickly delivering her to the comfort of the dark interior of the car. Away from all the flashes. "Do you," – he cleared his throat, looking extremely uncomfortable – "Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head.
"Ok," he nodded, bringing her into his embrace and holding her as she shook with uncontrollable sobs. God, she was a mess. First, Theo's arms were stiff and cold and unbending. Then, slowly, as if he was gaining confidence in her leaning into him, let the tension fall from his shoulders and let his fingers trace circular paths over her back. "It's fine, Penny. He'll be alright. He's probably just back at the Manor, pissed as hell, and sticking it to the King in the best way he knows how. He must have had a good reason for not showing up. He must have."
An unwelcome, dark and twisted thought stuck in the back of Hermione's mind as she was quietly ushered back to bed by Narcissa with the help of Winky.
He must have had a good reason for not showing up.
Hermione wondered if Draco had figured it out before she did – before even Narcissa did – and had not come back because he didn't want her anymore. Because he didn't want it.
The smooth fabric of one of his old shirts was cool and calming against her searing skin, and Hermione lulled herself into a deep sleep trailing circular paths across her lower abdomen. A baby. A motherfucking baby. Who knew? The minute Narcissa had spelled it out for her – the combination of all of her symptoms and what they meant – it was as if some missing piece had clicked into place in her brain. It all made sense. Hermione Granger, as Penelope Clearwater, was pregnant with Draco Malfoy's child and was even more fucked than she was before.
Lovely.
The air was cold.
Nearly as cold as the metal instruments against her skin. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to put herself under the warm summer sun, but when she successfully let her mind wander to brighter, happier times, she found herself wrapped in Draco's arms beside a gardenia bush. She shuddered and bolted upright, causing the healer's gentle touch to suddenly clamp down on her inner thigh.
"There, there, dear," the older woman said. "I know it's scary, but it won't take long and then it'll all be over." She glanced over her shoulder to Narcissa leaning against the desk by the window, where snow flurries trickled down outside. "Mrs. Malfoy, why don't you hold Miss Clearwater's hand? I'm sure that will help alleviate her anxiety a bit."
"Oh, no, that's not necessary," Hermione began to protest, but Narcissa had already crossed the room and taken her right hand firmly between her own.
"Nonsense, child," tutted Narcissa. She peered down at Hermione and pursed her lips, "Don't look so surprised. Close your mouth, its unladylike." A sleek black eyebrow arched itself upward, daring Hermione to question her maternal nature further. She did not. She also drew her jaw back up from the floor and bit down on her lip as the cold instruments entered her.
Hermione winced, incapable of obscuring her discomfort.
As the cramps returned, Narcissa's hands tightened around her own, providing a rather helpful distraction from the mild pain if nothing else. "There," the healer said, pulling out the instruments and depositing them in a bowl full of cleansing alcohol. "All done, dear. You can sit up now and put your clothes back on."
Narcissa patted Hermione's hand twice firmly before crossing the room with the healer and engaging her in hushed conversation. Hermione didn't bother trying to strain her ear to hear what they were saying. It was out of her hands. More than that, Draco wasn't around still which was evidence enough that he wanted nothing to do with her or her possibly fertilized egg.
Just as she was pulling the loose fitted blouse and skirt – which were a bit tight around her waist, but she told herself that could be just due to bloating and she could still be expecting a period – Narcissa and the healer had approached her with unreadable expressions. Hermione steeled herself for the worse. Whatever that was.
"Miss Clearwater," began the healer. Her silvery gray hair glinting in the late afternoon light. "I have reason to believe, based on my examination, that you are with child." All of the air rushed out of Hermione's lungs and she barely caught the rest of what the woman said. "However, there are a few concerns I have regarding the health of you and your unborn child. So, I will be making home visits over the next few days to make sure everything is on track with both of you."
"I have already taken the liberty of putting the finances for the home visits on the family's health account, Penelope, and I will not stand to listen to any objections you may have. This is a matter of the utmost importance." Narcissa inserted, interrupting the buzzing thoughts whirring helplessly around Hermione's thick skull.
"Thank you," she stammered out, blinking through the haze of confounding emotions bubbling inside her. Daring to burst and send her into another spiral; one of anger or of distress, she wasn't sure. "What about - "
"Madam Pomfrey holds the highest level of doctor-patient confidentiality." Narcissa added with an added lifted eyebrow. Hermione nodded her understanding: Madam Pomfrey would not leak to the public who she was treating and what for.
Narcissa started to direct Madam Pomfrey out of the room, and Hermione followed quickly behind them, noting the craning necks from around darkened corridors as the three women made their way through the puzzling hallways of the enormous Manor. At the foyer, the healer bid them both goodbye and assured Hermione that she would be back the next evening for another evaluation.
"I do hope Mr. Malfoy is able to attend tomorrow's appointment," she said with a kind smile as she was escorted into the car in the driveway by Kreacher.
Back in the safety of the foyer – where the possibility of lurking camera lenses or nosy blonde reporters were slim to none – Theo had appeared with Harry on his heels, one looking arguably more uncomfortable than the other (much to Hermione's surprise, it was Theo who rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, fidgeting with his cuticles).
"So," he said, crossing his arms to stop his nervous habits. "Still no word from Draco?"
"No."
Narcissa pursed her lips and held out a hand to gesture the men, and Hermione, into the large sitting room where Draco typically gathered them for family meetings. Hermione chose a particularly plush looking velvet armchair and hugged a pillow to her stomach, avoiding eye contact from others in the room. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the stray silver hairs falling from Narcissa's intricate chignon.
In the loveseat sat Pansy and Daphne. Luckily, they looked like they had gotten over whatever argument or whatnot that had driven them to hysteric tears the night before, though they weren't nearly as handsy as they normally were. Daphne sat erect and stared blankly into the fireplace with her hands curls tightly in her lap, while Pansy crossed one knee over the other and rested her chin on her fist on the edge of the arm, her jaw clenched.
Theo nodded amicably to Greg and Vince as he came in, passing them to sit next to a somber-looking Blaise, forcing Harry to lean either against the arm of their sofa or sit in the velvet armchair opposite Hermione that sat unoccupied. She had rather hoped that he would leave her to her space, though evidently, he didn't share the same feeling.
Harry sat beside Hermione with a roguish grin across his face. His disheveled hair as unruly as her curls, and she felt her traitorous lips quirk into a semi-smile before she could compel them into submission.
Hermione noticed that Astoria was also missing.
"Now," Narcissa began, lighting a cigarette and taking a long inhale. "Draco is still missing. He hasn't been back to the Manor in nearly two days. He hasn't been sighted by anyone in the city, either, or his disappearance wouldn't be a hot commodity for those bloody vultures outside." She exhaled a puff of smoke, waiting until it cleared from her face to add, "Does anyone have anything they want to fucking say before I go on?"
All eyes fell on Hermione.
Narcissa cleared her throat. "No. Not her. That's none of your bloody business. Anyone else?" The sharpness in her voice was unmistakable. That was not a request, but one bloody hell of a demand. Leave her alone, or else. Did they dare to defy her and poke and prod Hermione for information – for why there was a healer to see her today? No. No, they did not dare. Hermione let out a shaky breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand.
She tried not to think about whether or not she was growing a little boy or a little girl, or whether or not it would get her monstrous curls and his slate eyes, or vice versa. She tried to think only of Draco's wellbeing, and whether or not he was truly missing or if he was simply avoiding her because of the baby. Did he even know about it? Surely, he figured it out. Surely, that's why he left. Did he run off with Astoria? Surely, not. She said so herself that she was on another errand. She wouldn't lie to Hermione, would she?
"- and it's not as if any of us necessarily wanted to be there, either." Theo pointed out, which Hermione only barely caught as she tuned back into the debate unfolding in the sitting room.
"Still," Blaise opposed, tipping a decanter into his glass to refill it. A moment later, the crystal decanter was swiped from the table by Pansy, and it continued to be passed back and forth between Daphne and her until the end of the meeting.
"Blaise is right," Narcissa interjected.
Theo scoffed, "You're just saying that because he's your favorite, other than Draco." Though, his features softened a bit when he added, "Does he have to be right though? Isn't there a chance he isn't missing?"
"Unlikely," sniped Narcissa. She shook her head and took another sharp inhale from the cigarette. "I wouldn't want to have to show up to the bloody palace and accept that pretentious award or give that monotonous speech, either, but there's no way Draco would be thick enough to miss it. No matter how horrid the circumstance, he would have been there." She exhaled a ring of smoke, then dabbed out the half-lit bud into the crystal ashtray. "My son is missing. Of that, I'm certain."
"Well, fuck," Theo exclaimed with a sullen glare at the same time Blaise said, "What do we do now?" and also at the same minute Harry decided to turn to Hermione and whisper, "Did he say anything to you?"
She felt her head shake without her permission. Better off, anyway, as she didn't think it was something worth hiding from him. Ex-Order member or not, there was probably nothing to be gained or lost from that knowledge. The fact that she had none, that is. His face sunk, and she felt another wave of tears prick at the back of her eyes. Rather than let them fall, though, she fixed her expression pointedly on Blaise's intricate periwinkle suit.
"Right, very well then. Here's what we're going to do," said Narcissa with her hands on her hips. She aimed a long, manicured finger at Greg and Vincent, "You two are going to check in with our connections around the dock and trains. I want to know if he so much as breathed the same air as any type of transportation. His car is missing so, be on the lookout for that, all of you."
Then, her finger aimed itself at Pansy and Daphne, who looked slightly worse for wear than they did at the start of the hour. "You two need to sober up – I'll have Winky get on top of that right away – and then I want you both going around to the men on our payroll, especially the coppers, and see what they know. Be. Discreet." She hissed.
Next was Theo and Blaise. "You two check in with our higher-end connections, you know who I'm talking about." She paused, glancing askance at Harry before continuing, "While you're at it, pay a visit to Remus and see what his lot have been up to. I don't trust that they have nothing to do with this."
Theo cleared his throat, no-doubt feeling Harry's emerald eyes boring into him. "Shouldn't Potter come with us? I'm sure they'd be more willing to help if there was a friendly face present."
"No." She brandished her finger again, then snatched the decanter out of the women's hands and took a large gulp, not even bothering to fill a glass. "Absolutely not. For one, I wouldn't be quick to consider his face friendly among the Order at the moment." She sighed, rocking back on her heels. "I'll get in touch with my sister's. They have connections I can stand to exploit for whatever they decide the cost is, especially if it means I'll get my son back. I swear if I find out this is the IRA's doing, I will burn down the whole bloody island if that's what it takes."
"Fuck," Theo scoffed, nudging Blaise beside him. "I'll burn it down just for shits and giggles. To hell with the lot of them, I say."
Finally, the bossy finger landed on Hermione. "You," she muttered, already shaking her head in disapproval. "You stay here." Her eyes settled on hers, causing the hair at the nape of her neck to stand up. "Don't you dare do anything stupid."
"I'll watch her," Harry supplied, despite no one asking – nor demanding – what he planned to do.
The entire family filed out quickly – only Daphne and Pansy pausing with Winky in the kitchen to procure a green drink – and each left in their respective groups, taking a sleek, black car each. Hermione had to watch them pull out of the driveway and speed off into the hazy smog-filled sunset from one of the smaller sitting rooms on the third floor of the Manor. Harry interrupted her detrimental train of thoughts by gesturing awkwardly toward a chess table on the other side of the room.
Hermione sighed.
Approximately four moves from capturing his queen and another three from capturing his king and winning again, Hermione noticed something peculiar about Harry's strategy. Or, rather lack thereof. Per usual, Harry Potter was rushing into the game headfirst, and quickly dispersing his pawns across the checkered table. What was odd – what she noticed that she hadn't before – was that Harry had placed his stronger players (aside from the queen) in positions that should she care to, Hermione could easily seize.
It was this, the careless sacrifice of his rook and both of his knights, that sparked a web of thoughts in her brain. Her mind was whirling a thousand miles a minute; spinning out each thought and connecting them like the fine, silver thread of a spider's web. It kept going – spinning and connecting – until she was able to fully see the masterful web her mind had created.
"Holy shit," she murmured.
Hermione was so caught up fact-checking her revelation against anything she could grasp in her memories that she didn't notice Harry smirk and chuckle under his breath as he apprehended one of her bishops. It was the one angling toward his queen, taking her victory back by a few steps and forcing her to use one of her back-up plans of attack.
Still, it didn't matter.
It wasn't even a fly on her newly established web.
"Potter," Hermione said as monotonously as she could muster so as not to raise suspicion. His messy black hair flitted this way and that as he peered at her through his spectacles. His green eyes narrowed minuscule. "Would you mind if we paused this game? I have to fetch Dobby about – Err – some medication I'm supposed to take," – her eyes lifted to glance at the grandfather clock ticking over his shoulder – "by half-past ten tonight."
Harry sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Oh, is that right? You wouldn't be looking for a reason to get out of a game you know that you're finally going to lose?" He taunted.
"No," she replied exasperated. Hermione stood up and beckoned toward the door. "Come with me if you don't believe me but I'll be back now in a minute." Summoning a look of impatience was not difficult, and believed it helped to drive the lie further home.
Seconds later, Hermione was panting as she reached the bottom of the staircase and flung the kitchen doors open, relieved to see that Dobby was – as she had sincerely hoped – without company in the kitchen.
"Miss Clearwater, ma'am," he greeted, fidgeting as he usually did around anyone that wasn't by blood a Malfoy.
"Dobby," Hermione exhaled in a rush of breath, tying the coat she'd nipped from the foyer on her way down and flashing him a brilliant smile. "I need your help with something."
"Miss?"
"Miss," Dobby squeaked from behind the wheel – which he gripped too tightly – "Where am I bringing you to, Miss? Master Malfoy would be very upset with Dobby if something were to happen to you. Very, very upset. Not to mention, Mistress made it very clear to Dobby that you weren't allowed out of the Manor under any circumstances."
"Listen, Dobby, I mean no personal offense, but I don't give a fuck what Narcissa has to say about where I should and should not be. What do you think Draco would want, hm? For you to listen to her or to me?" Hermione hissed, growing more impatient with the fragility of her getaway driver. He was too sensitive for this line of work.
"Tell you what," she went on. "I'll make this easier for you." Hermione's hand aimed outside of the car and she let one of the bullets shatter the side mirror on the driver's side. She clicked the safety back on soundlessly, then gripped the revolver in her hand and aimed it at the back of Dobby's head. "Drive."
There was an audible gulp from him, followed by a stutter of, "Where am I bringing you, Miss?"
"I told you," huffed Hermione impatiently. "You're taking me to Draco. I promise, Dobby, he won't be cross with you." Though, that statement seemed to make little difference to him the first ten times so, why should now be any different? Then, Hermione leaned forward over the front bench and pointed over his shoulder to loudly exclaim, "Left here, Dobby!"
A flash of white beside her in the backseat caught her eye, and Hermione bent down to take the paper between her hands. It was that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet.
Hermione frowned at the black-and-white grainy image of Draco. He wore his signature bachelor smug expression, and her heart lurched. The article did little to control the racing of her pulse, and by the time Hermione reached the end of the lengthy piece, she felt even more nauseous than she had before Dobby got behind the wheel for what he claimed was "the first time in so long Dobby can't even remember, Miss!"
They were in the heart of the city, only a block or two from the River Thames. Winding slowly through the narrow, cobblestone streets now, Hermione squinted into the heavy darkness for any sign of familiarity.
Again, her hand jerked up, "Up there! On the right. Alright, Dobby, listen to me very closely. Stay in the car." She swung the door open and tried to close it as quietly as she could. Who know who could be watching or listening? "Stay here. Whatever happens, whatever you hear or see, do not get out of the car. Do you understand?"
"Miss, I'm not sure that - "
Her nose scrunched, lips twisting downward with disapproval, mimicking that of Narcissa's favorite expression.
"Dobby."
"Yes, Miss. Dobby understands." He replied, hanging his head and regarding her with wide, scared eyes. Hermione fought to keep her jaw clenched, lest it go slack and allow her lips to tremble as they want to; for her tears swelling behind her eyes to dare to stream down her cheeks.
Hermione quickly ducked down an alley and made a sharp turn, placing herself on the street opposite where Dobby sat. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the warm glow of the headlights. With one last deep breath, she stepped under the streetlamp and stopped at the third door on her left. The door was as she remembered it with its ordinary knocker, worn wood structure, and prime location in an inconspicuous street in one of the rougher areas of London proper.
It was in a rough part of the city, practically some hole in the wall…
If Neville Longbottom had been telling the truth, then Hermione should have an idea of what she was about to walk into. At least, as an enemy of the men on the other side of the door.
…and there were tons of other men there. Not law enforcement.
No, they weren't law enforcement. Or, as Neville has riddled, they weren't adjacent enough to the law to abide by the very laws they swore to uphold and protect. Hermione held her breath, leaning in closely to the keyhole and immediately leapt back when she caught the dark shadow of a man passing by the door, demonized by the glint of silver tucked into his trousers.
Think, Hermione, think.
How was she supposed to get in undetected? She could probably talk her way inside, but it was unquestionably best if no one knew she was even there. Think. The building, like many of the other terraced ones on this side of the Thames, was built in the late 1850s meaning that there should be service door –
Yes!
Back in the alley, and skirting through a few piles of rubbish, Hermione found herself facing a large metal door that was originally built as a service entrance and now likely stood as an operating emergency exit. She racked her brain for where it would possibly deposit her once she emerged inside the building, but her mind came up blank. It was so long ago, now, that she couldn't recall the interior blueprint clearly enough to be of any use.
"Well," she muttered under her breath, resting her hand on the infinitesimally small bump, "I guess it's now or never, huh? Time to go save your daddy."
It was dark, damp and freezing cold. Hermione had to clamp down on her gloved hand to stop her teeth from chattering and giving her away. She crept through the dimly lit corridor and kept her eyes peeled for anyone or anything that could be around the corner. So far so good.
They put me in a windowless room, kicked me around a bit.
If Neville had recalled his capture correctly, then there should be a room situated in the center of the room or against one of the walls shared with the other terraced buildings. At the end of the dark corridor, there was a door with a sizeable keyhole that she bent to peer through.
It was a relatively empty space. No rooms visible anywhere. Then, her heart leapt into her throat and she backed away as quickly and quietly as she could, feeling along the slick brick walls for anywhere she could duck into. She found one and had just positioned herself in its corner as the door opened and two men strode down the corridor with confidence despite the pitch blackness.
One of them sparked a cigarette as they passed by where she was hiding, and Hermione instinctively backed away from them. They didn't see her. She let out a massive exhale as the sound of the metal door thudded shut. In her haste to back away from their light, Hermione nearly lost her footing and fell further into the darkness. As she righted herself, she realized that she was standing on a stone staircase.
A windowless room…
"Interesting," she breathed. With a quick maneuver, Hermione unclicked the safety from the gun and began descending into the darkness.
Incredibly, her theory had been correct. The windowless room that Neville must have been referring to had been beneath the old building. The light emanating from the room was blinding, and the door, unlock the others she'd come across so far, had an enormous windowpane above eye level. Hermione took a deep breath and stood on her tippy toes.
Her heart plummeted into her stomach.
Another wave of nausea came with a vengeance and, incapable of holding it back, she retched into the darkness behind her. Wiping the gross slickness across her face off with the back of her coat sleeve, Hermione mentally prepared herself to enter the room.
Not that she had a plan but clearly, she couldn't afford to wait any longer.
"Stop!" Hermione shouted as she barged in. "Don't move. Don't fucking move!"
The men stopped what they were about to do, lowering their weapons if only due to shock, not fear for what she would do to them if they didn't. Which was fair, she supposed. What reason did they really have to fear her?
There were four of them. Four men. All older than she was. Across from them, bound to a metal chair, was Draco. He looked terrible; his lip was busted and bleeding, one of his eyes was swollen shut and black, and across his arms and bare torso were bruises and cuts in various stages of healing that suggested this was where Draco had been the past two days.
Made me bleed. That was typical.
"Holy shit," she inhaled, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. "Draco. Draco, I'm here. It's me." Her fingers – the ones not gripping tightly to her revolver – brushed the silver hairs that fell into his eyes away from his forehead and placed a gentle kiss where they used to be. Flicking her tongue over her bottom lip, Hermione tasted copper.
In response, Draco's grey eyes flickered open and rested on her face. He tried to say something, but the only noise that escaped his bruised, bleeding lips was disgruntled and pained. Hermione tore her dilated eyes away from the sight of him – tortured and likely half-dead – and directed the fury that swelled and bubbled in her veins at the four men.
Three of them she didn't recognize, but then her eye caught on one of their palms, the one standing flank to the highest-ranking man, and her breath hitched. The gun in her hand felt heavy, and she was even more tempted to blindly fire it and worry about the consequences later.
He was plain, short brown hair and pale skin – I may have left a bit of a scar on his left hand… with my teeth.
Neville was proving exceedingly helpful. Perhaps, it would be worth mentioning this to Draco and Narcissa if they ever made it out of here alive. Work out some kind of pardon that allowed Neville back into the country without a bounty over his head.
"You," she seethed.
The man smiled, displaying his yellowed teeth.
He killed them – The other man, the new one, he shot them – Execution style.
Her eyes fell to the gun in his hand and she inched herself between the men and Draco. No way in hell was she letting them get away with this. Not if she had anything to say about it. The end of her revolver shifted from the pale man's hand to the inch of dark skin between the leader's eyebrows. He was the only man she had immediately recognized and knew by name, not simply by a ragged scar in the palm of his hand.
"Miss Penelope Clearwater, or should I say Miss Hermione Granger," came his low, baritone voice. "How delightful for you to finally join us. We were beginning to wonder when you would show up. Weren't we, Dawlish?"
The man to his immediate right nodded, flashing her another sickly smile. She grimaced.
There was a new man – I didn't trust him right away because he didn't fight in France – He started going on about the destruction of the Death Eaters – I got the feeling that he was commanding the Order, using them, for his own agenda.
No wonder Harry had run from the Order as fast as he could and found solace among the Death Eaters. They may have been a lawless, violent gang but at least they had some rules of their own worth upholding. They were a business, first and foremost, and unless you threatened their way of life, they didn't bring trouble to your front door with a box full of bullets.
This man ticked all of the boxes that Harry had laid out for her.
He didn't fight in France, and as Neville had also pointed out for her, he had risen in rank faster and higher than any other man his age. While everyone else was fighting for their life in the trenches, he was busy climbing the ladder and establishing a name for himself. Harry didn't trust him because of that. Hermione didn't get that feeling when she first met him, but it wasn't as if she had ever found him inherently trustworthy, either.
Then, there was his – almost singular interest – in arresting Draco Malfoy and destroying his entire organization. At first, she thought the assignment was about justice and taking down a corrupt company. Little did she know, she had been put in place to provide him with the evidence he needed to destroy the Death Eaters as well.
Harry had the privilege of sitting in the meetings with other Marauder-related Order members. It's where he met this man for the first time and decided his control over the Order of the Phoenix was more than just for the sake of the good of the public. It was, again, for his specific agenda and his singular interest in destroying the Death Eaters.
Another means to an end.
They had all been fools. All along. They were all pawns in his game. This was the ultimate betrayal.
She had a feeling, when Harry had altered his chess strategy to expose his king while sacrificing his stronger pieces. It was this, paired with her recollection of his and Neville's experiences that clued her in.
Then, I realized where I recognized his face from…
"Commander Kingsley Shacklebolt," Hermione exhaled shakily. "I should've known that you had something to do with this." Her head shook disbelievingly. "How could you? Have you no respect for the law?"
"Oh," Shacklebolt scoffed, arching a dark brow at her quizzically, "and I suppose you do?"
Hermione frowned. "Evidently more than you." Her eyes narrowed at his smug expression and realized that she was not only outnumbered four to one, but that she had given up the element of surprise and would have to devise a new plan of escape. That would require time, which was something she was desperately lacking by the hunger in their eyes. "So," she went on, opting to try and stall the inevitable. "I suppose this whole assignment was a ruse then. And I presume Fudge is in on this as well? The whole secret organization within the police known as the Ministry doesn't even exist, does it? None of your bloody Aurors are sanctioned."
Her chestnut eyes flitted across the four sets of dark eyes glaring at her.
"Hm," Shacklebolt grunted. "You were always too bright for your own good. I warned Fudge against choosing you for this role, of course, but he wouldn't listen. He swore you were all-too eager to prove yourself after the academy that you would pay off." His chuckle reverberated, bouncing off the white walls of the small room. "I look forward to telling him 'I told you so'."
"I might have done a good job in your eyes if you had actually wanted what I had to offer." Hermione admitted, feeling small and inadequate in front of her old boss. "You didn't care about any information I gathered, did you? You didn't need it because you already knew. You knew everything Malfoy was up to because you had the Order wrapped around your finger."
He grinned. "Have," he corrected. "I still have them wrapped around my finger. Other than the disheveled boy – we're better off without his defiance seeping into their weaker minds though, good riddance – they are all still very much in debt and in awe of their leader."
"Unbelievable," she said. "How dare you? What the point of sending me deep undercover, then? Why bother? You didn't need any of the intel I gathered. You didn't once check in on me to see if I was even alive in five years. Five. Years. Fuck you," spat Hermione.
"Your time among the savages has wrecked you, Miss Granger." Dawlish input, smirking at her distraught over being abandoned by the men – the cause – she had once trusted and valued more than her own life.
No longer.
She was a Death Eater now, through and through. Officially or not, her heart and mind and body belonged to them and to Draco. "They aren't the savages, you are." She hissed, sliding her finger along the trigger and readying herself for the gunfire that was surely to come. "They valued me. Trusted me. Took care of me. Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for any of you."
"They don't even know who you really are." He taunted. "How can you possibly think that they trust you and value you when you've been lying to them this entire time? Miss Granger, I regret to inform you that they will not take too kindly to that if you think they will welcome you back with open arms. That is, of course, presuming you will survive this little encounter."
Hermione grimaced. "I'd rather take my chances with them, then even consider rejoining the ranks and serving alongside you."
"You would rather align yourself with them?" Shacklebolt questioned. The dark beads of his eyes were cold and menacing, matching the expression painted across the rest of his face. "With him?"
"Yes." Hermione replied without hesitating.
Shacklebolt sighed so long it transformed into a sinister laugh. "I don't see why I bothered to ask. That dastard piece of gold on your finger speaks volumes for where your current allegiance lies." His dark eyes dropped deliberately to the finger in question and Hermione caught herself doing the same.
The gold of Draco's signet ring glinted in the harsh light as it wrapped around the trigger of the gun.
"Why now?" Hermione pressed, intent on distracting him further. She hadn't yet finalized an escape plan. All she knew was that she only had five bullets left (the one she'd shot earlier reminding her how cruel cosmic karma could be). "You could have kidnapped him, tortured him and killed him, any time over the past few years and possibly even before then. Why did you wait so long to do it, hm? Why now?"
Shacklebolt shrugged.
"It was the opportune moment." He said.
Hermione, being as brilliant as everyone claimed her to be, understood what he meant by this. Draco must have appeared rattled and furious when he sped away from the Manor after their row to meet with Mr. Bagman. He would have been unaccompanied for one of the few seldom times in his life. There would have been no media following his whereabouts as it was late in the evening a few days prior to Christmas, and it was for an ordinary, boring scheduled meeting.
Add in the fact that his emotions – and anything they might have gotten out of him by brute force – and Shacklebolt could have easily held him for a few days without raising too much suspicion. Or, at least, enough to give himself a few hours head start, making everyone else run on a wild goose chase looking for him.
"You understand, Miss Granger, that I can't let you go. You've been compromised and must be disposed of with Malfoy." His gun, much more intimidating than hers, was aimed at her. "Looks like you will be taking your chances with him as you so dreadfully desired. Any last words?"
Hermione took a deep breath.
Her own gun was raised, leveled with his traitorous face.
She could feel her blood running –
Pounding in her ears.
She could feel butterflies –
Reminding her who she was fighting for; both of them.
Hermione could swear the sky was falling.
She could do this; she'd done it before.
All she had to do was –
Just keep breathing.
Then, there was a loud bang. It echoed throughout the small room, bouncing off the thick, white walls and causing a ringing in her ear. She blinked, realizing that her left side hurt. The pain setting her nerves on fire. Before her vision swarmed and blackness enveloped her, the last thing she saw was a sea of red spreading out around her.
A/N - Welcome back to this story! I hope you didn't forget about it. I promise I didn't. I hadn't planned on taking such a long break but after the holidays I struggled to get back into the mindset of these characters and this story. Final chapter coming soon, and if you haven't already noticed, the Christmas surprise at the bottom of my page is that there will be a sequel to come! The playlist has been changed (if you were quick enough to catch the original) so, it will remain in the rap genre similar to this story's playlist.
This chapter's title comes from Iggy Azalea's song Started from the lines I started from the bottom and now I'm rich / I got in my bag and I ain't look back since / I started to say sorry, but fuck that shit xx