Chapter 9 - Reflection, Part 2

January 17th, 2004, Malfoy Manor

The Library, 8:00 am

"So what do you think?" Hermione said. She was so relieved and happy that Harry was finally in the library with her. "I've tried Specialis Revellio over and over again, and it tells me something, but not enough. I mean, yes, there are enchantments on the books; and some of them . . ." she shuddered, "some of them are like dipping your wand into something dark and thick that won't let go. But I can't even work out what they're composed of, let alone the exact construction. There are definitely some identifiable spells in the mix, but it's as though they've been reworked somehow and . . . I don't know," she strongly felt that she was onto something, but could not quite trust her own judgment and was excited to get his help, "it's like they're triggered by one another, but as soon as I think I know how, the pattern changes."

"I think you need a Magical Locksmith," Harry said briskly. "As luck would —"

Her relief and happiness evaporated with his curt words and turned into deflated disappointment, "You're not even going to try to help me?"

"What makes you think I'd do any better than you?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "The fact that you're an Auror, maybe?"

"Well, yes," he said irritably. "But as luck would have it, and this suggestion is me trying to help you, by the way." He glared at her, challenge and sarcasm written all over his face. "Obaidur McQuoid, Malfoy's Case Auror, was a Magical Locksmith for years, and a really good one. It's one of the reasons they recruited him as an Auror when he was already so old. He can look at the physical locks and the enchantments." He raised his eyebrows. "I think he's due for a visit sometime this week anyway. Will that do?"

"Sometime this week? Really?" Hermione, hurt and angry, said acidly. "How can I possibly thank you for all your effort?"

Harry stared at her for a moment, then said, "All right, then? Can I go now?"

"Can you —?" Hermione didn't have a response. She felt so let down and disrespected, she couldn't even put it into words. Instead, she stared back at him.

"What now?" he said.

"Nothing." She shook her head, giving up. "I shouldn't've even . . . "

"Yeah, but you did," he said. "So . . . what now exactly?"

"Harry, we're adults!" Hermione began, and cringed inwardly as she said it. Not only was it provocative, but she sounded, not like an adult, but like a petulant teenager. She sounded, in fact, like herself when she, Harry and Ron were at Hogwarts and she was lecturing them about not doing their homework. However, she had started, and it mattered to her. "We're colleagues and we've been assigned an important mission. We have to be able to communicate properly. And what's more, we're friends! And ever since we arrived here, instead of working with me, you seem to have been avoiding me."

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Delegating to another Auror, so you won't have to help me, and trying to get away as fast as possible," she blurted out, knowing she was degenerating the conversation further. "Why won't you just do your job?!"

There was a silence as they eyed each other, until Harry muttered, "Why don't you just do yours?"

Hermione was shocked. "That's precisely what I'm trying to do!"

"No!" he said and shook his head slowly. "No. You had a simple task to look for a book, that's all. That was your job. But, like always, you had to go and complicated it!"

"Actually, it's not all that simple," she said. "And it never was, as you perfectly well know."

"Yeah, it was," he said. "Difficult, challenging, okay . . . but simple. Kingsley asked you to find a book in a library. You were the obvious choice. Except . . ." He shook his head again. "Except for your huge fucking blind spot."

"My . . .?" She really wanted to protest, but the words died on her lips, because even if he was being unfair, he was right.

"I mean, I get it that you don't understand," Harry went on, warming to his subject. "This is the first time you've been in the field. It's nice and cushy and protected sitting in an office pushing parchment, isn't it? But there's not time in the real world for . . . " he struggled for a word, and when he finally found it spat it out as thought it were an obscenity, "ethics!"

The chagrin and guilt Hermione had been feeling as he spoke turned instantly into cold clarity at his disgusted use of a word that was important to her.

"Ethics," she spat back, "like the ones we were fighting for, together, all that time we were 'in the field,' against Voldemort."

"Yeah, but . . . " He shot back, then hesitated for several seconds, apparently debating with himself, before he continued. "It wasn't really ever us, was it?"

Hermione actually gasped; his words stung as badly as though he had hexed her.

"You just looked things up in books and worked out how to do spells," he said. "Which is the whole reason you're here. But it was always me in the end, by myself, facing Voldemort. The fucking chosen one!" He took a deep breath and pressed his eyes closed, then opened them again and glared at her. "And as for the ethics we fought for — have you forgotten that Lucius Malfoy was part of everything we were against?"

"Oh!" She was truly angry now. "Unlike his wife, who you took under your wing and personally saw to it that she got off scot free. How the hell does giving a man a book — a man who, incidentally, actually served nearly six years in solitary confinement in Azkaban, compare with letting a dark witch go free without any kind of punishment?"

"She saved my life," he said quietly. "She gave me another chance to kill Voldemort."

Then they both realised at the same time what Hermione had said.

"You gave him a book?" Harry said and an incredulous smile appeared on his face.

"I told Kingsley," she said defensively. "Who didn't mind, incidentally, despite being 'in the field,' for years and years longer than you!"

Harry let out a soft, cynical laugh. "You gave Malfoy a book, then?" he said. "I mean, we knew he was outside the library from the traces; we knew the door was opened. That's what made me more or less certain you hadn't given up on your crusade. But that's . . . " He shook his head. "I've got nothing more to say," he said. "Let me know when you need me to pick up the pieces, won't you?" A muscle in his jaw twitched. "McQuoid should be here in the next couple of days," and without another word, he disapparated with a nasty whoosh far louder than his skills required as if to underline his anger.

Narcissa's Bathroom 8:00 am

From the day he acquired it from Ollivander's at the age of eleven, Lucius had rejoiced in his wand. Elm with a dragon heartstring core — the wand did not just choose him, give him its allegiance, it was as though it had been crafted precisely to fit him and to amplify him.

As soon as he got his hands on the wand, a desire for dueling took him over. Because this pleased Abraxas, his father supported him with lessons not only in magical dueling, but with fencing lessons from an Italian duke's half-blood son. Lucius became expert and deadly in both, and the disciplines complemented one another other perfectly. Naturally, at Hogwarts, Defence Against the Dark Arts had been his passion. He had also enjoyed Potions and Transfiguration, and achieved excellent marks, excelled, in everything except Herbology, for which he had little talent or interest.

The wand had been an extension of him through all of this.

It had also come in hand for cosmetic applications. As a child, he had seen his mother use her magic (although she had never required a wand) with undulating movements of her hands to improve her complexion, smooth her hair, enhance the benefits of beautifying potions and brushes. At about fourteen years old, when wizards of both genders stared open-mouthed at him, smiling foolishly and seeking his attention, he had realised that he was considered beautiful, and his innate opportunistic nature led him to capltalise on it. Especially the hair and eyes. He had inherited these features from his mother, and with a few simple spells, a few flourishes of his wand, he could ensure that his hair was pristine-silver-blond; his eyes a not-quite-silver, not-quite-slate shifting of colour that fascinated and allured lovers and intimidated victims.

His magic, his wand, his intellect, his prowess and his beauty had been a gift he bestowed, a weapon he wielded and, most importantly, the very essence of himself. Now he had neither wand nor magic, he looked dreadful and, based on his last conversation with Hermione Granger, his intellect malfunctioned at a level of near-idiocy.

But he had time to kill. He had heard nothing so far from Hermione Granger about his request for War and Peace. Now, impatient for an answer and lacking anything to do to while away the time which would leave him in a fit state to speak to her if and when she sent for him, he had decided to have a bath.

In Narcissa's bathroom (all blue and white now, presumably the changes to the wallpaper had been hers), he manually turned on the taps to fill the large, sunken bath. Every time he did this, a pang of regret went through him that he had been so cavalierly complacent all his life about his magic. From the moment that Voldemort had taken it to this moment, he was shamed by the lack of a wand. Even more, he was shamed by the fact that his wand was now lost. Even if the authorities ever allowed him a new one, it would not be the same. Of course, he could summon the house-elf and ask it to fill the bath, but at least the humiliation of bathing himself like a Muggle was private and unpunctuated by the creature's pity.

The water splashed from the twin, silver serpent-forms of the taps — hot and cold, mixing in a small whirlpool in the center of the bath. Though he supposed, by the standards of Muggles, it was luxurious, it was nothing to what it had been at one time. Fueled by Narcissa's whimsical magic, added to by his own when he shared the bath with her, it had all been far more spectacular. Narcissa had favoured colored water, soft lights hidden in the depths, bubbles and perfumes that filled the sense. All achieved with a flick of her wand. Strangely, instead of wounding him, he found the memories soothing. A pleasant surprise, as he had only chosen her bathroom because it did not require him to walk past the portraits, and it was still well-stocked with things she had left behind — soap, sponges, a loofah, shampoo, and crucially a bottle of Sleekeazy's.

Soaping himself, he noted with some disgust the unnatural thinness of his body. He had given it no thought until this moment. Now he felt diminished yet again. Once he had prided himself on his sleek, hard muscles. Another thing lost.

He sighed and lay back against the wall of the bath, he thought about his conversation with Hermione Granger, and realised that he had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed her. Possibly, in his state of near-isolation and mental frailty, he would have enjoyed civilised conversation with anyone, but he thought there was more to it. He didn't exactly want her to like him; he did not seek her approval (other than the official matter of the books). He had wanted approval once, craved it, but since it had left him entirely, he had learned to do without it. But for some reason he wanted to talk to her again and see her eyes and stand in the presence of her shifting emotions.

Clean now, at least, he rose from the bath and wrapped a large towel around himself. He wiped steam from the bathroom mirror and looked steadily at his reflection, taking in his too-sharp cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his face. He sighed. He had forgotten to bring a razor with him; if he wanted to shave, he must call the house-elf. He longed for the days when a brief Accio razor! would have easily summoned it. He had once enjoyed the skill and tactile pleasure of shaving by hand. Still — he could do something about his hair.

He reached for a brush and the Sleekeazy's and placed them before him on the edge of the sink, then began to use the towel to dry his hair, still thinking about magic and how easy everything had once been. An unfamiliar sensation of warmth spread through his hands. For a moment he wondered if this was a new beginning to the cursed agitation. But although the warmth increased, nothing else happened. Relieved, he removed the towel and inspected his reflection again.

He was astonished to find that his hair was not only almost dry, but smooth and even somewhat shiny, even though he had not yet picked up the brush or opened the bottle of Sleekeazy's. Perhaps it was only by contrast with his low expectations of his appearance these days, but strangely even the stubble growing on his face looked somehow less disordered and more distinguished.

The Library 9:00 am

Still furious, Hermione glared at the empty space where Harry had stood before he disapparated, still having a one-sided fight with him. "Parchment pushing! Seriously! You absolute fucking —"

She broke off, defeated and dismayed by her own anger. She didn't want to fight with Harry, she didn't want to hate him, most especially she didn't want him to hate her. What's more, she didn't want to be the source of his stress, because now that he had gone the truth was more obvious. He had always been like this when he was stressed; and she had always known he was in denial about his feelings. It would blow over, she told herself. They would work it out. Until then, it was inevitable he wouldn't understand her; until Kingsley had sanctioned her actions, she had barely understood herself! But now she had permission, and she had a framework, and she was clear there was a middle-ground between excusing Lucius Malfoy and treating him like a human being.

What was the point of fighting a war against oppression, when you just turned the oppression around against the losing side? If they were so certain they were better than him, shouldn't they act that way? Isn't that what Kingsley was trying to do all along? And, for God's sake! It was — she said this as much to herself as to an absent Harry, bolstered by Kingsley's support — only a bloody book!

She found that she was trembling, yes, with the emotions that plagued her, yes with the aftermath of her horrible row with Harry, but also with resolve. Kingsley had told her explicitly that was allowed to feel, allowed to take risks. She could be damaged and still be effective. She could do more than 'look things up in books and work out how to do spells,' — although she'd like to know where Harry would be today if she hadn't! She could be the one to act on what she found. But she had to start somewhere; and she had to start with the opportunities that presented themselves. So, first of all, yes — see what Obaidur McQuoid could do with the library magic, but by putting in a floo call to the Ministry and getting him here tomorrow, not waiting until he showed up for a routine visit. Secondly, she would have to maintain more or less cordial relations with Lucius Malfoy. Because it was respectful, and because without it, she could not be effective.

Just for the freedom and emotional release of enjoying her magic, she levitated herself back down to the first floor and to the Muggle books, and took the copy of War and Peace from the shelf. Instantly, the smell hit her nostrils of the old books she had loved to unearth in the Muggle library as a fledgling bookworm, reading beyond her maturity anything she could get her hands on. It seemed utterly unmagical and unthreatening, the only aura of any kind she could detect was the invitation inherent in any loved book, Read me! Remembering the names in the other books, she opened the cover; the smell intensified. Written in the inside cover, in open, generous, loopy script:

Chère Céleste,

Alors quand ils te marieront enfin, ma petite soeur, tu pourras apprendre l'anglais avec l'aide de mon deuxième livre préféré. Un livre sur les Russes qui parlent français! C'est drôle, hein?

Je t'aime à fond, Antoine

The translation, Hermione worked out:

Dear Céleste

So when they finally marry you off, my little sister, you can learn English with the help of my second favorite book. A book about Russians who speak French! Funny, huh?

I love you to bits. Antoine

Another relative — a brother, an uncle, writing in friendly, loving terms. Again, the message was driven home to her, these aristocratic, pure-bloods were human beings.

Her first thought had been to summon Tilly, and ask her to take the book to Lucius Malfoy. Now, though, she wondered about a different course of action. Nothing had happened when he was outside the library and they talked. Why didn't she invite him to come back? To talk again? Perhaps she would learn something; at the very least some kind of familiarity would be established that might help in her work. The worst that could happen, she reasoned, would be that he betrayed some intent to harm her; but then it would be revealed and she could deal with it instantly, as the only one of them who had a wand, and they would all know where they stood. Although she would have to endure the smug look on Harry's face, she couldn't help thinking, before her better-self dismissd the petty distraction. Perhaps she would ask the elf to bring tea. Would Malfoy mind drinking tea in the corridor of his own house outside his own library? She really didn't know, but she could take a risk and find out.

Consider that I am at the effect of a game I no longer control, he had said, and the words had stuck in her mind. She suspected that he would mind very much drinking tea in the corridor, but she also suspected that he would submit to it, and that it was an invitation worth making.