Monday, June 9th, 2003.
Hermione had spent her entire week-end exhausting her brain over Malfoy's sodding contracted oath, for nothing. That wicked piece of intricate trash had kept enlarging. Every time she'd thought of something else to play it, Lucius Malfoy had thought of it too and thoroughly detailed the path by which his son would probably loose his mind. How he hadn't already, remained a mystery.
By Monday afternoon, Hermione had practically pulled her hair off her skull in frustration.
Nothing was to be done. They couldn't play it otherwise, the sole flaw, the only detail he'd neglected, was the wife. Suitable. Despicable. Evil, evil man. And his son …
He'd looked so terribly desperate when she'd told him. So fatally dejected. So lonely.
It wouldn't do. It just wouldn't.
She'd find something. Anything. She would.
She needed that authorisation to access the Ministry's archives, so she'd sent a request. No pretext, just a request of access. Her position might help, perhaps she'd be lucky.
She growled at the scattered pages laying on her desk. It was tremendously horrid.
She'd always worked for fairness, always tried to do what was right, for the right reasons, sometimes even breaking the codes and rules to make sure things were fair.
Then, they just weren't. And she couldn't quite grasp the reason why she was so determined to find a solution to Draco Malfoy's ordeal, but she knew it felt so very different from any other case she'd worked on.
She'd been detached emotionally from the others. Then, she just couldn't detach herself from the whole thing. It felt personal. Draco and she had so much history, whether they'd been on different ends of the same thread for years, they still had a past in common. A war.
War did odd things to people.
She felt somehow linked to Draco Malfoy. And she'd probably have even if he'd stayed the petty little bully she'd once known. But she felt even more so to the man she'd met again, the man she'd talked with, that witty and clever man she'd enjoyed the company of. The Draco Malfoy who'd defended her.
How disturbing. It was definitely an unexpected turn of events, something even Trelawney wouldn't have bet on.
And it wasn't even the worst – although it depended on one's priorities, but Hermione's number one was supposed to be work – the worst was that she'd neglected her work.
The thought only occurred to her when Tracey took the time to bring her a note from Kingsley, at the end of the day. He told her to be ready, that they were setting the date for the Montgomery trial, and that's the exact moment reality slapped her right across the face.
She was supposed to work.
She quickly stacked the oath away and jumped out of her chair. Malfoy would have to wait.
She ran to the lift, berating herself for letting her emotions, Merlin no, her compassion maybe, take over what had always been her number one priority.
She confessed it to herself, from the intimacy of a secluded corner of her mind: it was the first time in her life that she neglected her work for anyone.
She hadn't once, even for Ron.
Kingsley's office was empty when she reached it. His secretary told her that he was at Mysteries. She ran back to the lift, and went down there.
When she reached the floor, she got lucky. Kingsley was just out of the courtroom, and even if he looked positively enraged, he greeted calmly:
"Oh, Hermione."
"So? The date?" She asked. He had a sudden flash of nervousness when the door to the courtroom opened, but it vanished so quickly she wondered if she hadn't hallucinated. He walked to her, indicating the lift with a hand and blocking her view.
"You could have sent a note." Indeed, and actually, she should have. But she felt like her presence was somehow disrupting something and tried to peer over his shoulder – tried being the key word here – as he put a hand on hers, slightly pushing her back in the lift. He kept going: "It's just been settled. It'll start next Tuesday. Are you ready?"
"Not nearly." She growled, as he called her floor in the lift. "What's going on?"
"Nothing important." He said blankly but just when the door to the lift started to close, his shoulders slumped just enough for her to catch sight of Arthur Weasley going out of the same courtroom. He seemed as angry as Kingsley had and it definitely meant something was going on.
"Why is Arthur here then?"
"For a case of improper use of magic. Nothing too important, but muggles were involved." He explained in one of his tones that didn't leave place for further questioning. Hermione wasn't dupe though, he'd looked too bland for it to be harmless. He could know her all he wanted, she knew him too.
On the ride back she wondered what had really brought Arthur to Mysteries. She knew all too well that the Weasley patriarch hated this floor, for reasons that involved Order's missions interrupted by giant snakes. She remembered her own first trip down there, it had been chaos. Running from room to room, ducking curses, shooting hexes in the dark …
Her train of thoughts stopped abruptly. There'd been a locked door they hadn't been able to open back then. Now she knew what it contained, even if she'd never been allowed in. The department had a full room of confidential documentation that Unspeakables kept locked at all times.
And they worked on all sorts of things! On magic itself! Yes! Maybe there was a way to break the magic itself, instead of trying to counter the evil thing!
Why hadn't she thought of that sooner? Deconstructing the magic.
Probably because it was nearly impossible. It was dark magic. Blood magic even. Tricky. Brilliant if she achieved it.
Maybe if she found a pretext to access their documents she could find a way to break the oath.
And if there was a way, it was either hidden in Mysteries, either in hell. She had to try.
That she would never admit, even to herself, but once they were back in her office with Kingsley, she thought about that pretext instead of listening to his comments about her notes, Arthur's presence down there completely slipping her mind.
Wednesday, June 11th, 2003.
Draco tipped his head back and swallowed the whole content of his glass in one gulp. The liquor burned his throat from the tongue to the stomach. He tried to repress the wince. Granger had a gift he'd never been given.
His owl was ready, waiting for him to tie the letter to its lifted paw. Draco eventually took a deep breath and tied it. The owl took off through the open window a second after.
The warm air didn't help his state of nerves. He preferred the cold winter and the snow to the warm winds and the burning sun that kilned his fair skin and blinded his eyes. He wished it'd be winter, for his last days of relative freedom. Good thing he didn't have the contract on hand, his already burnt desk wouldn't have survived another one of his tamper tantrums.
The counter-proposition he'd just sent, at the very last minute, would look desperate, even to a regular investor. He offered them ninety per cent of the shops, in exchange for their investment.
No shares in the company.
If Blaise and he were right, his next correspondence with Nott would determine how he'd definitely loose his mind.
Would they simply write asking for a meeting? Or would they show up at his office? Blaise's place received owls, they could even write there. They could find him, they could ask for whatever they wanted, wands pointed at his throat.
Not knowing was actually worse than anything else. Anticipating was nerve-wrecking.
How long would they leave him to gather whatever it was they wanted?
How long could he push them until they told everyone about the oath?
He didn't know, but he'd push them as far as he could. He would try to give Granger as much time as possible.
It'd seemed doomed, the moment she'd told him that it was an evolving contract. But … I'll find something else. Those words had kept replaying in his head, over and over again, until now that he'd sent his counter-proposition.
Now, he regretted having turned his back on her at that moment. That something in her voice, that hint of strong will, of sharp stubbornness, of fierce almost dangerous determination, had kept echoing in his head. It woke something in him.
Something that made him push his glass away, swallow back his nerves, and quit standing by the events, cowardly floating in self-pity. Something that made him stand, and go out in direction of the Manor.
He'd help her. If he could only bring her a tiny detail, anything that might help, he would, whether she'd asked or not. He'd already reviewed the library a thousand times but never with her knowledge of the oath and, of course, she'd found more in less than a week than he had in years, proving yet again how brilliant she was. It was Hermione Granger after all.
And if she'd said she'd find something, there was close to no doubts that she would.
People who doubted the 'never lost a case' head of department, people who called her a coward for instance, were utter morons.
Even he, whose only feeling for the woman had been contempt for almost seven years of school, knew that.
That he would never have admitted, even to himself, a month before, when all he'd known about her had been a blurred picture of the truculent little know-it-all with bushy hair he'd shared classes with, but now, as he knew the brilliant woman better, or at least was getting to know her, he realised that if someone asked him right then to choose in whose hands to put his future, it would be hers, without hesitation. Because he trusted her, as she'd said he could.
And the warmth he'd felt at her words, I'll find something else, it was hope. She'd given him hope.
Or he'd just lost his mind for good, which was a plausible theory too.
Thursday, June 12th, 2003.
Hermione put the final dot to her long scroll. That piece of evidence was thoroughly reviewed. She sighed, and Astoria, who had taken domicile in her office for the day, lifted her head. She nodded, grabbed the scroll from Hermione's hands, and tucked it under the one she was currently annotating, without a word.
Hermione grabbed the next piece of evidence and went back to work.
Both women jumped sometime after the brief exchange of glances when a note came flying around, and irritatingly tangled in what had been Hermione's failed attempt at a top knot.
Her request to access the Ministry archives had been granted. It wasn't Mysteries but it was still a step. Hermione snatched the oath from her drawer, ready to go, but stopped abruptly, her eyes on what she'd been doing before.
"Just go." Astoria hadn't even lifted her face from her reading. Hermione didn't need more convincing. She practically ran out of her office, Malfoy's oath under her arm, to the fifth floor.
She spent as little time as she could in the archives, but it still took her two hours to choose the documents and records that might be helpful. She retrieved those, hoping no one would come and ask questions, and went back to her office to get back to work.
Astoria was half-way through her last scroll. When Hermione sat, not even bothering to hide the documents she'd brought back, the pretty messy-ponytailed witch eyed her as she pushed them aside to return to work.
"I can review that on my own." She said, her eyes back on what she'd been reading. When Hermione didn't react, she sighed: "I don't need you for that." Which meant just what Hermione had thought but hadn't believed. She was giving her time to work on Malfoy's case.
"Thank you."
"Seems important to you." She shrugged. Hermione decided not to comment.
They spent the rest of the afternoon working silently. Well, except from the occasional groaning when Hermione didn't find anything remotely useful in her documents. She needed to access Mysteries.
At precisely six o'clock, Astoria slapped her closed scroll on the desk, making Hermione jump.
"You need a break." She affirmed.
"I don't do breaks."
"You can't work properly if you're exhausted."
"If that were true, I wouldn't be here." Huffed Hermione.
"Alright, then, I, Astoria Greengrass, not a first choice swot, neither the brightest witch of my sodding age, need a break. Your notes are reviewed, and those documents useless. That's enough for today."
"But …"
"But Draco can wait until you're back home Hermione. Don't even try to pretend you don't work at night, you look like shit." That was nice to hear, true or not.
"Well, thank you very much." Hermione grunted bitterly.
"Welcome." She smirked. "Let's take a walk, I could use the air." Hermione didn't even try to argue.
They gathered their papers, and left the office slowly. Tracey waved them goodbye with a small smirk, eyeing the clock. Hermione decided not to thank Merlin for Tracey Davis that day. That she certainly looked like shit, and that Astoria's hair was messy - which was annoyingly the only visible sign of her exhaustion - didn't matter. Tracey wasn't supposed to point it out.
Once they were out of the Ministry and in the surprising hot air, Astoria offered:
"We could go buy that set of robes you liked before the store closes?"
"Err … Now?"
"When then?" Good point. Still, now? Hermione dreaded even the thought of having to enter the shop.
"It's too expensive Astoria." She tried. Astoria's lack of conviction was more than evident without her voicing it, but she did anyway:
"Cause you use your money for … ?" That was a valid argument. Hermione hadn't touched her vault except for food and rent in quite some time.
"Alright," She started, "But no trying on, no …"
"You won't need to, you gave your measurements last time, remember? It won't take more than five minutes." Astoria cut with a lifted palm, chuckling.
"Oh, right."
"Were you afraid I'd take you on a shopping spree?" Astoria smirked.
"Kinda." Hermione grimaced, remembering all too well Christmas shopping with Ginny. She had to repress a shudder.
"I was messing with you the other time. I don't have time for shopping."
"Good." Hermione nodded, but then Astoria frowned:
"It pains me that you'd think I'm some kind of brainless and superficial witch more interested in clothing than work …"
"I never said that!"
"See? Messing with you. Too easy. Maybe you were sorted right after all." That smirk was too happy. Plus, Hermione was too tired to even pull a better comeback than:
"Very funny."
She scowled when they reached the Leaky Cauldron. The place was full, as usual. They ducked through the mass of loud patrons, and ended up, none other than eight minutes later, in the equally hot air of Diagon Alley. Hermione realised at Astoria's frown that they also had that in common: they didn't like crowds.
It caught her eyes this time. She'd been watching in front of her, trying to ignore passers-by that could possibly remember the Witch Weekly article and it was just there, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The bright orange shop had the lights off though, and a flashing sign indicated 'closed' on the door.
They passed it, Hermione lowering her face to her feet. George had asked Blaise, of all people, to remind her that he was still waiting for her visit.
She hadn't forgotten.
They reached Witchety and Hermione caught Astoria watching her thoughtfully. She sighed: "Blaise told you?" Knowing the answer already.
"Yes." The raven-haired witch paused, and after a few seconds of scrutiny, seemed to judge it safe to ask: "Are you going to see him?" Hermione answered without second thoughts:
"I don't know. I don't want him to end up arguing with his family because of me."
"They'd do that?" Astoria's doubtfulness reminded Hermione that the witch didn't know her ex-mother-in-law.
"Molly never approved. Besides, they're all just persuaded I'm some sort of coward for leaving him."
"Nice people." She grunted disapprovingly.
"George is." Hermione said in a soft voice. He was.
"Mm. Blaise said he didn't seem that bad." Her friend shrugged. "You could go."
"Maybe." Astoria didn't press the matter but Hermione suddenly couldn't think about anything else. George had asked she came around. Twice. Maybe she should take the olive branch he was offering. Maybe it would do her some good to find back an old friend who wouldn't judge. He'd talked to Blaise after all. She was still debating with herself when they entered Witchety clothing.
They were indeed out after only five minutes, but leaving Hermione with an unpleasant feeling of amputation. The set of robes had practically cost an entire pay-check.
They weren't back to the Leaky Cauldron yet, that Astoria put a hand on her mouth to hide a yawn. Maybe Hermione should ask about her glamour charms, the witch was definitely as tired as she was.
"I'm drenched. I'll head back home. Go try it on." She said, and Hermione must have made a face because she added with a roll of her eyes: "Or work."
"Work is more likely." The pretty witch shook her head with an expression Hermione had trouble defining.
"Malfoy better appreciate the dress Saturday." She scowled.
"Why?"
"Why?" Astoria shook her head again. "Never mind. See you tomorrow." And she disapparated away, leaving Hermione slightly confused as she disapparated too, to work on the oath at home.
Blaise read the note, not even surprised. Astoria was already in bed. Too much work. Shackelbolt just ended up on his top five of people he definitely despised. Getting Granger and Astoria to work together was the worst thing he could have done to him.
Pushing the note aside, Blaise sighed, no cuddling tonight. What? No, no shagging tonight. Err … That thought felt … dirty. In a bad way. Disrespectful. Cuddling. He was actually reduced to mourn cuddling with Astoria. When had that happened?
He sighed again, and wrote her a note, telling her that he'd give her a good reason to be exhausted the next night. Then he went out of his office to apparate back to his place, thinking it was the worst way to end the first working day of the week.
He opened his front door, still sighing dramatically, and froze.
Living with Draco Malfoy was dull. Nothing really happened. The lad was in bad place, and when he was not irate, he was either drunk or asleep. Well, there were bits and bouts of fun from time to time, but they occurred less and less these days.
It was the least to say that how Blaise found the lad that evening, he wasn't prepared for. Draco had brought work home before, actually he always brought work home, but it usually was in the form of a few files under his arm, and then he'd lock himself in his room.
Now though … The place was in total chaos. Draco was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, hair betraying intense pulling at it, tie abandoned on the back of the couch, shoes near the door.
He was surrounded with books and open scrolls, and was currently scratching his head with his quill.
"I knew it was only a matter of time, but you could have lost your mind somewhere else."
He didn't even blink.
"Draco?" Blaise took a wary step to his best-friend, as if approaching a rare specimen of a very dangerous magical specie. When the obviously crazy man kept reading, ignoring him completely, Blaise sat on the couch and grabbed one of the open scrolls that had landed there.
Oh.
"Granger sent these?" He asked. At the mention, the blond head finally noticed his host and bothered turning his gaze away from his reading.
"No. I made a trip to the Manor, yesterday." Really?
"Oh. Found anything yet?"
"No. Nothing. Or I should say too much. There's lots of nasty types of oaths."
"Err … do those explain how to get rid of them?" Draco snorted his answer derisively:
"As if. If nothing these specify how to make them worse."
"Fantastic."
"Indeed." He grunted, and went back to his reading. Blaise sighed, and lowered himself on the hard floor too, unbuttoned his cuff-links, rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed one of the books that was still closed.
"Marriage bonding? Why would you …"
"I might need it if we don't find anything before Nott decides it's time to empty my vaults."
"Why?"
Draco sighed heavily, and leaned against the couch, letting drop the book from his hands to the floor. What was the point in keeping Blaise ignorant? Greengrass would find out eventually anyway. Nosey little thing.
Plus, he could use the help and to help, Blaise needed to know what to look for.
So he told him everything Granger had found, and ended with the marriage issue.
It wasn't fundamentally funny, at all, but truth was to say that the form was. He'd, himself, broken down in a fit of hysterical giggles thinking about it, the night after she'd told him. The fact that he'd almost cried right after he chose to pretend hadn't happened.
If he wanted to be rid of the company, and not by giving it to his own child, he had to marry an old lady. Or in Blaise's opinion:
"A cripple? You'd have to marry a cripple."
"Don't call her that."
"Who? Your future wife?"
"Not being able to bear children doesn't make you a cripple, Blaise." Scowled Draco. If only he knew about Granger.
"Well, actually, it does." Blaise insisted.
"How? It's not even visible."
"Magic mate." He said, looking at him as if he'd sprouted another head. "We are wizards. Witches can bear children."
"Some of them can't."
"Yes, the cripples." That word, again!
"Stop using that word!" He barked.
"Why?"
"Because it's not fucking funny!"
"Alright calm down!" Blaise started, lifting both his hands in surrender. "I was just trying to explain that when witches …"
"Well, don't." Draco snapped.
"What's gotten you?" Frowned Blaise.
"Nothing."
"Liar." Of course. Draco chose to ignore that:
"Anyway, It's all she's found for now and clearly, I won't take the risk to marry anyone if we're not even sure I could pick the heir after. If I can only …"
"What's wrong?" Like he'd answer that. No, Draco wouldn't explain why the word cripple was everything but appropriate just then. He continued:
"If I can only adopt it would surely involve another child and …"
"Stop pretending you don't hear me." The lad wouldn't stop would he? Persistent leech.
"Alright. I hear you. And nothing's wrong." Draco finally answered.
"Except that you have to marry a cripple." Draco took a deep breath before answering, no need to give Blaise more clues. He'd already been a bit too obvious, Blaise knew that this word was the issue.
"I won't. And I was explaining why." Draco hissed between clenched teeth.
"Because it would be a weird shag?"
"Salazar, do you even hear yourself?" Draco couldn't believe his ears.
"I'm just trying to make you speak." Blaise shrugged as if nothing and Draco was starting to loose patience:
"About what? The oath? That's just what I was doing!"
"There's nothing else then?" He asked, one of his eyebrow drifting up suspiciously.
"Don't you think that's enough already?"
"Nah, you're a magnet to drama. You need a little …" Sweet Salazar he'd never stop. And Draco was not dramatic! Maybe he shouldn't say that. He sighed instead:
"I sent my counter-proposition just this morning." And thank Salazar, it worked.
"Damn. Alright. What's the plan now? Wait until he gives you a delay?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then I hope she's found something."
"She will. She's said so." Blaise foretold.
"I hope so." Draco said truthfully.
"You don't think you should tell her now? About Nott I mean. If she thinks she's got time …" Blaise pressed, his previous annoying questioning forgotten.
"I won't give her a name, what if she decides to go after them?" Countered Draco.
"The press will start digging. Right." Blaise scowled and after a short pause, advised: "You should at least tell her that it's approaching dangerously though. If you think they'll wait a month to ask for whatever it is they want …" Yes, it was only a matter of days now.
"Yes. Right. You're right." Cut Draco.
"Oh am I?" Blaise smugness was back and he was smirking. "What else was I right about already? Oh, yes, asking Granger for help!"
"Shut up." Draco snapped, with no effect on Blaise whatsoever. "It's too late now anyway, I'll tell her tomorrow."
"You do that. Write her a little letter tomorrow. Just don't make it too long, we wouldn't want her to take two hours to read it."
"Salazar do you ever stop being an arse?"
"No. And if you're not happy you can always move in with Granger."
"Oh my!" Blaise chuckled with a little too much enthusiasm:
"What? Wouldn't that be lovely? You could levitate forks together!"
"Fuck off!" That idiot burst out laughing. He stopped abruptly when Draco threw him a book.