Disclaimer: I own diddly-squat.
A/N: This chapter was a lot harder to write than I thought. It took three late nights (one with heavy downpour), about 6 cups of tea and 3 glasses of red wine to finish. Thank you to duffie83, my first reviewer! I value your feedback :)
.
.
Chapter 5 - Second
Flint's funeral was a lonely affair.
As per his will, Marcus Flint was buried in Westgate Cemetery, along with his ancestors. Draco thought that a Muggle cremation would have been less ironic, considering there wasn't much of a body left to bury.
Draco, dressed smartly in inky black robes, glanced slightly to his right where Granger and Potter stood silently. They had opted to attend, insisting that it was an opportunity to scope out possible suspects. Draco wasn't sure why, considering that with the three of them present, they'd effectively doubled the number of attendees.
Asides from himself, Potter, Granger and the officiator, only three others were present. Blaise, Pansy and Gregory Goyle stood across from them. Flint's casket levitated above the dug two by one meter hole, effectively separating them.
He didn't miss the strange looks that Potter and Granger received from his ex-Slytherin housemates. He also didn't miss their questioning gazes when Draco had opted to stand beside Potter. He rationalized that three people facing three people balanced well and the spotlight on Potter and Granger would be intensified had he stood with the others.
Draco had frowned at first when he saw their number. Where was everyone else? Had Flint really led such a solitary life after Hogwarts that the only people who bothered to show up to his funeral were four of his classmates and two Ministry heads sniffing around for clues?
The thought depressed him for some reason.
Draco thought it was appropriate that it was raining heavily. It matched the somber mood and the sour tang that had coated Draco's mouth ever since they had arrived at the cemetery. He stared at Flint's casket, a lead weight in his stomach. It was a closed casket funeral, and only Pansy and Goyle were the ones left in the dark as to why that was. The officiator's voice droned on and Draco found it easy to tune him out.
Instead, his mind drifted as he watched the officiator slowly lower Flint's casket into the ground. Across from him, Pansy was sobbing delicately into a lace handkerchief and he felt Blaise's intense stare.
The officiator flicked his wand and wet clay from a mound nearby slowly filled the casket like water. It was while he watched the mix of soil and water filling Flint's last resting place that a chord was struck deep within Draco.
This whole sordid situation made him think of his own mortality. With Flint's death, yet another of Wizarding Britain's rare pureblood families was wiped from existence. If Draco died without producing an heir, the Malfoy line would be subsequently erased, too. He mentally shrugged, realizing that that point didn't really hold much sway with him.
No, the realization that hit him in the stomach was that Draco didn't want to die like Flint had. He didn't want to be a murder victim, and he sure as hell hoped there would be more than six people at his funeral.
Who would attend? His mother, Blaise maybe, Pansy maybe… and who else?
The thought made him swallow thickly. As closed off as he was to other people, he didn't want to die alone. That would be dismal. Unfit for a Malfoy, he thought arrogantly.
Then again, he didn't exactly want to rush out the next day and befriend a thousand people, just so he'd have a long list of mourners when he died.
The thought made him cough in amusement, and he ignored the glare that Granger sent his way.
They stood around the gates of the cemetery when it had ended. Potter and Granger, realizing that they were in no way welcome, left immediately. Draco assumed it was back to the Ministry, considering it was nine in the morning on a Monday.
Standing around with the other three, Draco was at a loss. He stared into the faces of his friends intensely.
"Goyle," Draco clasped the hand of his old friend, a small smile gracing his lips.
"Malfoy." Greg returned his smile with a goofy grin of his own.
Goyle, Draco noted, still had that slightly dumb look that meant he hadn't gained any intelligence since school. He'd lost some weight in recent months, but it was still the same Greg - flabby jowls and meat-paws for hands.
Draco nodded silently to Pansy who swayed towards him, as if she were about to latch onto his arm. Teary women were definitely not something Draco enjoyed dealing with and he maneuvered himself to stand in between Greg and Blaise. Funny, standing like this reminded him of Hogwarts. How things had changed. It was a pity they hadn't reconnected after the war except for the rare pureblood society galas.
The four of them huddled under a conjured shelter. They made small talk until the awkwardness enveloped them all and one by one, each of them Apparated away.
It was funny, really. They say that a death brings people together. Flint's death was melancholy, at best. The circumstances of his demise were gruesome, but Draco pushed that to the back of his mind. Glancing once more at the tall, silent statues that littered the cemetery, he Disapparated, his mind already back to the investigation at hand.
.
.
"Blimey, 'Mione. It's been ages since I last saw you," Ron said through a mouth full of mashed potato.
"I know." Ginny arched an eyebrow in her direction, her fork loaded with sausages pausing halfway to her mouth. "Where have you been hiding?"
Hermione, not feeling quite hungry due to the fact that she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, could only shrug half-heartedly. She hardly ever ate when she'd had a long night. There'd always be a walnut-sized feeling of pressure below her ribs and she almost always felt sick when she was in the presence of food.
This was no exception, even if it were the Weasley's fortnightly Sunday lunch.
Molly had sent her a severe look but complied when all Hermione had asked for was a hot chocolate and a biscuit.
"Work, mostly," Hermione replied soberly, sipping on her drink. Well, it was a half-truth. Ministry work and her book research was part of why she'd been getting four hours of sleep every night. She didn't mention Malfoy's coercion to write up his Muggle contracts or the flaying murders.
"That explains it," Ginny, who hadn't begun to show yet, grinned at her. "I Floo'd your apartment a few times but you were never home."
"I bet the couch we bought her last year for Christmas is actually in her office," Ron snorted.
Hermione pinked at that, because the couch was at her office.
She let them all assume she'd been spending all her free time at the Ministry, but Harry knew differently. She'd actually been at Godshill twice this week, grateful that Malfoy was never in sight. Each time, the two would settle down at the oak table and stare at the ink wall, scratching out notes and bouncing ideas off one another.
Hermione would have been amused at the idea that two thirds of her life currently revolved around the blond git, had it not been for the fact that she flatly wasn't pleased at all with the situation. Still, for Harry's sake, she was determined to play her part.
Arthur smiled kindly at her, his eyes barely visible above the Sunday Prophet. "That's our Hermione, always working hard."
Harry, who was sitting across from her, was staring at her intensely and she kicked him under the table.
Hermione was a big fan of the Weasley's Sunday lunches. Directly after the war, it'd been weekly – something Hermione attributed to everyone's desperate need for normality, comfort and the generous light-hearted banter between them.
The first couple of lunches were disastrous.
Twice during the meal, Molly had burst into tears. The first was when she'd accidentally set twelve plates at the table, intending to feed the complete nine Weasley's, Hermione, Harry and Fleur. Fred had left a gaping hole that couldn't be filled. The second time she'd been reduced to tears was when Harry had simply asked her to pass the bread rolls. Molly's tears were contagious; everyone had quickly dissolved into mourning and the agony of loss had flowed freely.
They'd changed the weekly get-togethers to a fortnightly event two years ago, mainly because everyone had become too busy post-war to sacrifice four or five hours every Sunday to catch up.
Secretly, selfishly, Hermione preferred it that way. Not only did it impede on her time in working on her projects, but also it had become painfully difficult to be in George's presence.
The Weasley twin had never been the same ever since Fred died.
Hermione felt terrible for George, but it was so much harder to be around him. She never knew what to say to make him feel okay, or if he even wanted her comfort.
Ron had taken over the running of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes a year ago when it became glaringly obvious that George no longer had the knack for managing it. He'd lost his spark, his motivation and drive.
The classic products they'd invented during their Hogwarts years were still bestsellers and kept the company more than afloat, but the recent additions to their product line were… half-hearted. Hermione flinched at her thoughts. "Half-hearted" was the perfect way to describe George - his other half had perished.
"Look at her, she's miles away."
"Probably thinking up another Ministry department to sprout from the ground."
"Or a miraculous cure for prat behaviour in children. Imagine that? No Malfoy's, Crabbe's and Goyle's, ever."
At the mention of Malfoy's name, Hermione's thoughts and eyes flickered back to present company and she blushed, apologising.
"Don't mind them, dear." Molly patted her on the shoulder as she refilled her mug of hot chocolate. She shot sharp looks in Harry and Ginny's direction, pausing to swat Ron on the head.
When she left the Burrow several hours later, it was with a lighter mind and a grateful heart. As she usually did, she quietly thanked the Powers That Be that she had met such wonderful people and that she was a part of something so amazing.
Marcus Flint sailed fleetingly through her mind and Hermione shivered when she reached her apartment. She fervently hoped all of her friends would never suffer a similar fate.
.
.
The second skin arrived in a manner that was worse than the first.
Maybe it was ultimately worse than her discovery of Flint's skin because of the fact that Harry had braced her for bad news. Maybe the arrival of the second skin was worse because it was someone she had recently seen in the flesh. Maybe it was because of how Malfoy had reacted, or the way she had responded in turn.
It was nearing ten in the evening and she had been resting her eyes from the parchment in her hand – an interview for her book that she had conducted with Mafalda Hopkirk earlier that afternoon.
Hermione had surprised herself that night and, instead of Apparating back to her apartment, she found herself outside the case room. Too tired to analyse why she'd gone to Godshill without Harry, Hermione entered the darkened room and was relieved when the house seemed to be empty. Hermione had been squinting at the tiny print on the parchment when loud banging on the other side of the house interrupted her.
Frowning, she set down the parchment.
A moment later, Malfoy burst into the room and Hermione veritably gasped at his appearance. His hair was loose around his face, dishevelled, robes were in disarray and his eyes were suspiciously bright. He was screaming.
"FUCK!"
Hermione jumped up at his roar and backed away, frightened.
It was only then that she noticed what he carried in his right hand and her heart plummeted into her stomach like a lead weight thrown from space.
It was a trunk.
A trunk similar to the one she had used at Hogwarts.
A trunk that eerily resembled the one that Flint's skin had been folded into.
"FUUUCKK!"
Blinking rapidly, breaths coming in gasps now, Hermione approached Draco slowly. She'd never seen him like this before, this emotional, human side of him and it shocked her. She was used to his hate but – this wasn't hate… what she was witnessing was absolutely agony.
Hermione was unsure as to what she should do. Her eyes flickered between Malfoy and the trunk in frozen dread. She was afraid. She was so damn scared of what was in the trunk and dread travelled like electricity up and down her nerve endings. She wished she wasn't there to witness this.
"M-Malfoy," she stammered, a hand raised in alarm. She didn't want to touch him but –
Wild eyed and out of control, Malfoy threw the trunk at their inked wall with massive force, strangled growls escaping his lips. Hermione reacted instinctively, without thought for consequences. She ran to him and grabbed the back of his jumper, tugging him away.
The trunk had sprung open in the violence with which he had flung it at the wall and its contents were splayed out in the open.
They both stared, frozen, at the skin that had flopped half in, half out of the case.
Hermione couldn't breathe, couldn't get the image out of her head. It was exactly like the first time, except the sanitised walls and bright lights of the Auror evidence rooms wasn't here to protect her from the gruesome horror on the floor.
In the soft light cast by her fire, the skin looked soft, almost like dress fabric.
Hermione recoiled at that thought, staggering back and pulling Malfoy with her until their backs hit the opposite wall where they huddled together, sinking down to the timber floors.
"Fuck," Malfoy moaned, the sound coming out strangled.
Hermione could feel the hysterical sobs climb her windpipe like a Devil's Snare, and she fought the need to hyperventilate. She scrabbled weakly for her wand, fumbling. She stood slowly on shaky legs, waving her wand at the trunk. Immediately, the skin folded neatly back into its container, snapping shut with a resounding click.
"Granger." Malfoy rasped, gripping so hard at her ankle that she winced in pain.
"I'll – I'll be back, Malfoy. I need… Harry," she said dazedly. She could still see the closed chest in her peripheral vision and she fought the bile rising in her throat.
"Granger," he whispered hoarsely.
Hermione glanced down at him, noting the look in his eyes. He must already know who it is, she thought, horrified. "I'll be back," she repeated, voice stronger.
She stumbled outside, mind reeling. Crossing her fingers that her state of mind wouldn't affect her Apparition, she disappeared from Godshill with a sharp crack, appearing inside her office at the Ministry an instant later.
Hyperventilating now, Hermione ran through the darkened offices in search of Harry.
Please, she thought desperately. Please be working late tonight.
The entire floor was dark, deserted, and Hermione cursed. Steadying herself against a wall, she wiped her sweaty palms on her office blouse just as the shakes began to claim her. The shock and the terror of what was to come crowded her brain, and she couldn't think. There was no time to head to Ottery St. Catchpole, to Harry's home.
Loathe him as she did, Hermione would never have subjected anyone to the terror Malfoy must be feeling, alone in his house with that trunk. Grasping desperately for her happiest memory of her, Ron and Harry, she pointed her wand and screamed, "Expecto Patronum!"
The light that poured from her wand was like a soft, drowsy mist, and Hermione cursed in despair. Rooting around in her brain for a different scene, Hermione furiously thought of her happiest memory.
Her parents. When she travelled to Australia. When she returned their memories intact a month after the Battle of Hogwarts. The tears of relief, joy and heartbreak, the elation and euphoria she had felt at feeling her father's arms around her once more.
"Expecto Patronum!"
This time, an otter made of blinding white light burst forth like a bullet.
"Go!" she screamed, watching for only a moment as her Patronus disappeared from sight, taking it's comforting light with it. Hermione ran back into her office. Her foot had only just touched the doormat identical to the one in her apartment when she Apparated away.
She found Draco curled in on himself in the same spot as she had left him.
"M-Malfoy?"
He raised his head slowly and Hermione gasped.
His eyes had darkened to a stormy gray that had her crumbling to her knees. His eyes were fathomless, his face blank, but the rigid set of his shoulders spoke volumes of his emotion.
"Malfoy," she whispered, her hand raised warily in the air. "H-Harry's coming, okay? Harry will be here soon, he'll fix this."
He didn't acknowledge her words, eyes flickering to the trunk. He stared at it and Hermione witnessed the dawning fury that slowly seeped into his face.
She heard a sharp crack from outside and she screamed, "Harry!"
The pounding of feet could be heard before the door splintered inwards, obliterated by the force of Harry's Reducto. He burst into the room, wand drawn and eyes fierce.
Hermione almost sagged with relief. Harry was here. Harry was here.
"Hermione!"
"Harry," she croaked. "R-remove it."
"Wha—" He caught sight of the trunk against the far wall. Hermione watched him stiffen as the situation sunk in.
Harry jerked his wand angrily and the trunk flew out into the hallway, away from sight.
Hermione began to cry, not realizing her fists were bunched in the back of Malfoy's jumper. He hadn't moved from his spot on the floor. She met Harry's eyes for a long moment, conveying her fear and anxiety. Together, they both glanced at the blond haired man.
They watched silently as Malfoy rose slowly to his feet, forcing Hermione to let go, her hand remaining claw-like by her side.
"Who… Who was it?" Harry asked haltingly.
Hermione remained on the floor, looking up at them. Malfoy's face was shaded in darkness, but his eyes weren't the stormy gray she had seen earlier. They were a harsh granite, unrelenting and brimming with rage.
"Goyle," he whispered. "Gregory Goyle."
Hermione flinched.
Harry blinked rapidly towards the hallway where the trunk lay. "We – We just…"
"Flint's funeral last week. Yes."
"Merlin," Harry breathed.
Malfoy gazed at Harry, his cold eyes hardening. "Looks like we have new evidence."
Hermione hid her face in her hands.
Not another one. She knew without seeing up close that Goyle's body – his shell – would be exactly like Flint's; perfectly removed, horridly marked and grisly in appearance. Unable to fight it off any longer, Hermione stumbled out of the room, through the shattered doorway and into the freezing night air.
She remained kneeling in the grass long after her retching had subsided, and her breaths had turned from ragged gasps to soft whimpers.
.
.
A/N: Sad-face. So many Story Alerts and Favourites for Fathomless but only 4 Reviews.
Also, I made a tiny change to Chapter 3. Initially I had Lucius serving a heavy 30 year Azkaban sentence but I lessened it to 5 because I've just finished re-reading DH and my love for Narcissa made me feel super sorry for her, had the Fathomless situation been hers, that is.
In reference to that change, I thought I'd just mention that I do try to stay in canon (EWE aside). One canon point, however, that I've never agreed with is the fact that Lucius got off scot-free after Voldemort's reign ended only on the fact that he, along with his family, defected. One 'good' deed doesn't forgive a history of violence. So, sorry Luce, ol' pal but you're goin' ta jail.