Disclaimer: Not a thing, is what I own. Jo Rowling is my liege.
A/N: Fastest turnaround of chapters yet - I apologise if this chapter has grammar and spelling mistakes (I still need a beta!) and I wanted to post it as soon as possible.
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Chapter 8 - Outed
The first time Hermione had fallen in love, she'd been at the tender, unassuming age of four.
As curious as a cat, and like any other magical four year old, she'd somehow Alohomora'd her way out of her playpen and had half walked, half stumbled past her babysitter. Annie, a twenty year old university student needing the hours to pay for rent, had been slumped on the sofa, asleep, with the latest episode of 'Allo! 'Allo! blaring on the telly.
Four-year-old Hermione headed to what she considered her Wonderland – her father's study. Duke's special scent of forests and cinnamon was especially strong in his study and Hermione loved to lie on the leather chesterfield that was beside the only window in the room. She'd simply lie and breathe deeply. More than once, her father would come home from work and find his daughter curled up cat-like in one corner of the chesterfield.
It was on this particular night that Hermione found her usual spot on her feather's leather sofa was occupied. Hermione spied a plain brown wrapped parcel, small and innocent looking, and she picked it up, dying to know what was inside. She was sure it was for her as her father regularly left sweets sitting on the chesterfield for her.
Hermione ripped the brown paper away gleefully, stopping short when she pulled out a small hardcover book from the wrappings.
Even if one doesn't believe in love at first sight, it was undeniable in that instant.
Hermione was mesmerized by it's ragged page edges, the musky smell of it, the sound that came from the book when she thumped the cover, flat-palmed. She's just recently started to read at the preschool she'd been attending, but this looked a lot more grown-up than the silly picture books she'd been given.
It hadn't actually been meant for her but for one of her distant uncles who was a book collector. Seeing that the yellowing book had enthralled his daughter, Duke had apologised profusely to his cousin, feigning that he wasn't able to acquire the book after all.
That very book that Hermione had found when she was four still sits on her bookshelf in her flat, well-worn, well read and torn in many places.
So one must be able to understand, after retelling that story, exactly how Hermione reacted when she stepped foot into Malfoy Manor's library.
In short, her heart had stopped and missed two beats.
She stood frozen in the doorway; jaw hanging slack and eyes wide as she stared in wonderment. She was sure she'd let out a strangled squeak, but she couldn't even gather the wits to be embarrassed.
From its gleaming white marble floor to the gorgeously latticed skylight, the library measured about sixty feet of pure grandeur. The walls were lined with oceans and oceans of books, neatly stacked and meticulously organized.
Hermione was glad they'd come during the night because the stars twinkled down impishly at them through the glass ceiling. She had to fight for breath when her chest began to ache.
"Granger," Malfoy called, his voice echoing. "Stop gawking."
Hermione swallowed, blinked, and swallowed again. It took her another moment before she tore her eyes from the walls and ceiling and hunted the blond down, seeing him waiting impatiently in front of a small, black lacquered door.
Like the rest of the room, the door was ornate, bordered by a beautiful frame and coloured with gold leaf. Merlin, everything in this damn library was lavish. It made the Ministry Archives look like a local book dump, or a ratty second-hand book trade store in comparison.
Hermione watched in interest as Draco muttered some spell and, like in Muggle movies, the black door clicked open and swung back slowly, revealing a dim interior. Hermione was almost hesitant to follow the blond in.
"Lumos."
She jumped when Draco's voice echoed her own as their wand-tips glowed with luminosity. The room was tiny, only a little larger than your average broom cupboard and Hermione was suddenly aware of how close she'd come to knocking into Draco, thinking the room would open out to something wider than this.
The tiny room, in comparison to the gorgeous library outside, was shocking. "Why is it so small here?" Hermione frowned when their elbows knocked together.
"These are volumes on Dark Magic, Granger," he sneered at her. "I thought you were the brightest witch of our age."
Ah. Right. Dark Magic anything needed to be encased by protective charms so that the negative energy wouldn't leak out and affect the external environment it was placed in.
"I'm guessing there's containment wards on this room?"
Malfoy ignored her question as if she'd never asked it. "We need to stay in this room a few more minutes so the ward recognises us. Then we can open the books."
"Even you?"
He rolled his eyes at her, his blond hair gleaming in the glow of their wands. "You ask too many questions."
They waited together in the awkward silence until Hermione felt a shift in the air, as if she'd been standing with a blanket wrapped around her and invisible arms had suddenly removed it.
Feeling the change, Draco turned to her. "Take what you want, I'll be working on some things while you're here."
Hermione studied the dark spines of the books before her and began to read, her head tilted sideways so she could make out the titles in the dim lighting. She decided to start lightly, pulling several books from the dark shelving. Among the books she'd taken were Great Artefacts, Embodying Thought, Imbued With The Dark and Torture: The Way It Should Be Done.
She cringed as she felt the weight of the volumes in her arms, her chest growing cold as she hugged them to her. She (thankfully) hadn't recognised the authors of these books. She took a seat at the large oval table situated in the middle of Malfoy's library and gingerly opened Torture: The Way It Should Be Done.
She felt a chill wash over her body as she flicked through the pages. Hermione was grateful she was multilingual, seeing as the small book was written in Latin. She pulled her own notebook from within her purple beaded bag, a quill, inkpot and copies of other parchments she'd made from Ministry files.
She'd been searching for almost an hour with nothing to show with the fruits of her labour. Hermione puffed out her cheeks in frustration. The books were filled with general dark magic, why it was amazing, famous objects and artefacts made by dark wizards… but while Hermione was on her fourth stack of books, there still had been no mention of skin-related torture.
Unless you counted the ancient Egyptian form of torture of setting acidic dung beetles that burrowed under your skin. Or the dark spell that caused your skin to fold inside out, made even worse if inflicted to immortal beings.
Still, there was nothing about flaying as a torture method.
She glanced over at Draco who was engrossed in his work, several parchments spread out on the table. From her vantage point, it looked similar to the files Hermione regularly looked at on a day-to-day basis.
"Did you find anything from these?"
His gray eyes flickered to hers momentarily before they resumed skimming the words before him. "Only a few things were of interest."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at that. "Were they of interest to the case? Or just… of interest?"
This time, Malfoy pushed the papers away and sat further back in his chair, his anger radiating from him in waves. "I don't know how much longer I'll be amused by your constant accusations."
"I wasn't accusing you," Hermione backpedalled, wishing she had just kept her mouth shut. She watched him sigh as he twirled the quill in his long nimble fingers. "What… er.. What did you end up finding?"
"I discovered something a few days ago, but it wasn't from that collection."
Hermione waited, not trusting herself to speak.
"I did some… research into Muggle history," he began, ignoring the look of surprised that flitted across Hermione's face. "The flaying."
"Yes?"
"It's connected to ancient Muggle rituals. It appears in almost all Muggle cultures." Malfoy's upper lip curled in disgust, his eyebrow raised in derision.
Hermione was struck with the thought that he continued to feel disdain towards Muggles but… not her. She wondered when that had changed.
"A Muggle couldn't have done this," Hermione frowned.
"I never said it could be a Muggle. I'm suggesting it's a wizard who has ties to Muggles, or Muggle culture."
"What culture had the biggest presence of flaying?"
"There were two. The Assyrians and the…" he pulled out a parchment from a folder and glanced down at his scribbled notes, stumbling on the pronunciation. "Aztecs?"
She was impressed he'd thought to look it up, and chastised herself that she hadn't done so earlier. She'd been too busy thinking about who it could be that she'd neglected how it had been done. Truthfully, the way that Goyle and Flint had been killed had sickened her to the point where she'd been happy to ignore it.
"In Aztec mythology, there was a death god, a deity of sorts. This god had slaves annually flayed as sacrifices to him."
Hermione grimaced. "Know anyone who's been to Mexico recently?" she gave him a half-hearted smile, but she felt sickened.
"No," he said dryly. "But it's another angle on the murderer's M.O."
"Right. So… We're looking for either a pro-Voldemort supporter or an anti-Voldemort supporter who has ties to Mexican ancient history?"
Malfoy nodded brusquely, scratching at the back of his neck. His blond hair was tied back today, she noticed, and it gave his angular face a severe touch. "That narrows it down," he muttered laconically.
Hermione huffed and stared down at her notebook, cringing when she saw she hadn't written a thing. It was an interesting bit of information that Malfoy had unearthed, but in terms of their progress, it didn't help much.
She was still in awe at the Malfoy's collection and the beautiful room that housed the books but Hermione concluded that her entire trip of going into the library at Malfoy Manor was mostly a wasted visit.
Hermione was momentarily grateful that she hadn't had a run in with Narcissa. The last time she'd seen the Malfoy matriarch, Hermione had been screaming in agony on her parlour floor.
Soon after, Hermione bid her farewell and refused his offer to walk her to the Manor's property line. There was a strange tickle at the base of her throat and she coughed slightly, sure she was coming down with a cold. Shaking her head and suddenly missing the Weasley's, she looked forward to the Weasley fortnightly lunch.
The week couldn't go by fast enough.
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That Sunday at the Burrow proved to be a godsend.
Nothing spectacular happened (unless you count Victoire accidentally eating a Canary Cream and Fleur going berserk at George) and everything was relatively normal, for a Weasley lunch, anyway.
There was just something so comforting about the Burrow that seeped deeply into Hermione's bones and soothed her tension away.
Something about family, maybe? Or maybe it was the familiar sea of bright orange hair that had smiles tugging at the corners of Hermione's mouth. Or perhaps it was Molly's out-of-this-world cooking that always had them in a state of merrymaking (this was especially true in Ron's case).
"You're a million miles away again, Hermione," said Ron, a half eaten pasty dangling from his lips.
To Hermione's surprise, she'd zoned out again during their game of Exploding Snap. She inwardly smiled at the fact that they were fully grown and still playing the games they used to back in Hogwarts.
She slung an arm around the redhead and awkwardly hugged him. "Nothing, nothing. How's the shop doing?"
"You won't believe how crazy it's been! Must be because the hols are almost over and the kids are stocking up on school supplies."
"School supplies," Harry snorted. "Right."
Hermione froze in surprise. Merlin, it was mid-August already, where had the time flown to?
"Your birthday's coming up soon, Hermione," Ginny piped up, offering a plate of biscuits to go with their tea. "Planning on anything?"
"I'm not sure, you guys. I might spend my actual birthday weekend in Port Douglas." Hermione's answer was met with a round of booing and catcalls.
"Come on, love!" Arthur said from the living room.
"You can't just not celebrate," Ron said pouting.
Hermione shrugged. Of the trio, she was the oldest and it was always awkward because she'd be the 'number breaker' between them. "Twenty-three isn't exactly a monumental age, you know."
"That's what you say every year," Harry grumbled, poking her in the side.
"Tell you what, before you go to your parents, we'll fix you up something here," Molly called as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
"A party!"
"Food!"
"Presents!"
Hermione looked at the gaggle of redheads around her and she couldn't fight the smile that burst onto her mouth. "I love you guys," she laughed helplessly.
"Put it this way," Harry said, bopping her lightly on the head with his handful of cards. "Two more years and you'll be a quarter of a century!"
Gasping at that, Hermione tackled her best friend from the couch as everyone laughed on. Covered in biscuit crumbs and rolling around on the rug in the Burrow's living room, Hermione could believe that she was in a different place, a different time.
She could see the tense smiles that were on Harry's own face that he felt it too.
When she was in the Burrow, among loved ones, Hermione could almost believe that she held no responsibility. That people's lives weren't hanging in the balance on her time.
That two people were dead, and she was happily munching on pastries and biscuits at a family luncheon on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Determined not to get sucked in by the misery, Hermione pushed the investigation to the back of her mind and willed herself to get lost in the raucous laughter around her.
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The following day after Hermione had visited Malfoy Manor, Draco did a little visiting for himself.
He sat across from Lucius, who was currently behind cell number fifty-four.
Lucius was looking… better. But the slight tilt to his pale lips and the lively glint in his eyes belied his condition and the truth – that he would be dead soon, very soon.
"How do you fare, father?"
"Well. And your mother?"
The small talk continued for most of his visit, and Draco's words were a bitter tang in his mouth. Many times he'd wanted to blurt out the questions he really wanted to ask. Such as why, for Merlin's sake, why did the past happen as it had?
Draco gazed at his father, his heart – and yes, he did possess one – withering in his chest. He had come to the realisation when he was sixteen that, maybe, just maybe, his father wasn't the great role model he'd always believed him to be.
During the last few months during the war, Lucius had looked… crazed. Unhinged and possessed were other words that Draco thought described his father well.
Draco absently thought of a different alternate reality, where Severus Snape was his father instead of the pathetic excuse of a man before him. Hips mouth tightened into a grim line as a tidal wave of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' drowned his senses and he struggled to breathe.
He'd once buried himself in such fantasies during and after the war. Draco wouldn't ever deny it but Severus Snape was… a wonderful man, someone to look up to and admire. He'd been steadfast in his ambition, was steely of mind enough to defy the Dark Lord and was loyal to the end. He would violently defend the name of his old potions master to anyone who would dare to speak ill of him in his presence.
Still, no matter the past, Lucius was his father – the only father he would ever get, and Draco wasn't the kind of pansy who would moan and wail over his lot in life.
Miles away from the man he once was, Lucius was just a shell.
Draco knew his mother visited often, and he'd sneakily manoeuvred it so that he was never available when Narcissa came to Azkaban. As much as he loved her, seeing her with the man she loved would tear Draco apart.
And he'd had to be strong. He was the head of the family now; the wards bent to his will, the House Elves answered to his call and the Malfoy ring sat upon the ring finger of his right hand proudly.
"Father," he ventured bravely. "Did you ever get any… strange packages before you were imprisoned?"
Lucius cocked his head to the side, his twisted oily pale hair swinging with the movement. "Packages of what nature, son?"
Draco thought for a moment. "Packages that were threatening. Or intended to send a message."
Lucius frowned, scratching at his matted beard with grubby fingers. "Plenty."
Draco waited with baited breath.
"Many were from Death Eaters, wanting to move illicit merchandise due to the Ministry's hounds. I believe we still have some of those… packages at the Manor, considering many of them are now dead."
"What about packages aimed as messages?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, son."
Draco peered at his father, tasting the truth in his frank words and seeing the sincerity in his father's dim gray eyes. He dropped his line of questioning, inwardly sighing. Draco had truly hoped his father would be able to shed some light on the situation.
If Lucius had any inkling of the case, it would prove that it wasn't about Draco at all. Draco had held the hope that perhaps the packages were aimed at the Malfoy family, rather than him individually. His father's denial of any involvement quashed that theory, however, and Draco was back at square one.
A prison guard approached, informing him his visitation time was over. Frustrated and angrier than ever, Draco left shortly after.
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"They know."
Hermione raised her head at the furious tone in Malfoy's voice as he entered the case room, Harry in tow. Malfoy was fuming, but Harry on the other hand just looked tired.
She put her quill down and pushed her notebook aside, catching that morning's Daily Prophet as it slid towards her, propelled by the infuriated flick of Malfoy's hand.
"Who kno—" Hermione gasped when the stark headline blared at her from the table.
Ministry Cover Up: Potter's Work Still Unfinished?
By Paige Lee Price
It seems our Ministry is falling into bad habits, once more. Two and a half months ago, the wizarding world celebrated the successful apprehension of Rabastan Lestrange. But as new evidence comes to light, the recent deaths of Gregory Goyle and Marcus Flint have led the Prophet to believe that the Ministry aims to cut off all Dark Wizardry at the roots.
The two recently deceased wizards were shamelessly connected to the Dark Arts and He Who Must Not Be Named during the war. Could it be that their quiet 'normal lives' post-war was just a front for more sinister activities?
When questioned, head of the Auror department and war hero Harry Potter (The Boy Who Lived) stated that the Ministry was handling the situation and could add no further comment.
So, why has it taken so long for official statements from our darling Minister of Magic?
Heart pounding, Hermione skimmed the rest of the article which was thankfully on page three. Merlin knows how much worse it would be perceived had it received the front page.
"How did the Prophet find out?" she asked, lowering the newspaper.
"Goyle's mother," Malfoy spat. "That bitch went straight to the press after she was released from St. Mungo's."
"I think that's the only reason why the Prophet's gone easy with the article," Harry said. "The fact that she was just freshly discharged from St. Mungo's questions her credibility."
Hermione's eyes flicked back to the article and she paused in thought. "This says nothing about you, Malfoy."
"That doesn't fucking matter, Granger." He began to pace. "The murders are out. Sooner or later they're going to connect it to me."
"Shacklebolt gave me a flogging this morning, too," Harry piped up, removing his glasses and kneading his temples. "Threatened to demote me."
"What!" Hermione was shocked, what would her involvement in the case mean for her?
"Don't worry, he didn't end up doing it but he's written it in my employment file. Anyway, none of that matters, Shacklebolt's in on the case now."
Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, thoughts a jumble.
"I – Merlin's sake, they're portraying the killer as a hero!" Aghast and incensed, Hermione flipped the paper away from her in disgust.
Hermione watched as Malfoy's jaw clenched and she strengthened her resolve.
"Shacklebolt's asked to have a meeting with us," Harry said wearily. "Tonight."
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They sat in individual chairs, Hermione in the middle, in front of Minister Shacklebolt's desk. Hermione smiled inwardly at the size of the Minister's writing table. She'd always thought that the higher up you were, the larger your desk, and since Shacklebolt was the apex of their world's pyramid, his table was huge.
The tiny smile that had appeared on her mouth was gone in an instant when Shacklebolt raised his head from their summarised case notes, his gaze steely, and a dark fire brimming in their depths.
"Mr. Malfoy, you've already expressed to me the reason you felt this should be kept quiet, and I agree, but not for the same reasons."
"What would those reasons be, Minister?" Malfoy asked stiffly, his lips barely moving.
"I am the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy," Shacklebolt said steadily, his voice resonating. "I must protect the interests of our people, and these murders will only inspire fear and panic once more, much like the days of Voldemort."
Hermione didn't miss Malfoy's subtle flinch and inwardly cringed at how serious their situation was.
"We have a vigilante on our hands," Shacklebolt continued.
"Flint and Goyle were pardoned after the war, Minister," Malfoy spoke, his tone even, trying to hide the derision of being in the Minister's presence. "The author of the article twisted it."
Hermione turned to look at Malfoy and noted the way he sat rigidly in his chair. It seemed that the blond still did not trust the Ministry of Magic, let alone the Minister himself.
"Entertainment factor," Shacklebolt intoned, his deep voice resonating around them. "As is the way with the media, Mr. Malfoy, there is nothing that will stop them doing what they do best."
The author of the article, Paige Lee Price, was currently the Prophet's leading reporter. Disgustingly enough, Price was Rita Skeeter's protégé. Hermione cursed at the misfortune. Had the author been Skeeter herself, she could have given that scarlet woman a visit.
She remembered her threats to the bespectacled woman after the Triwizard Tournament with glee. Unfortunately, she had no such leverage over Price, which made things a little trickier.
"Can't we do anything about it, Kingsley?" Hermione twisted her wand in her hands, frustrated beyond belief. She knew, better than most, of the power of the media and it's effects on society. "This will rile up our world, it'll be like it was directly after the war!"
"The Prophet has press rights, Miss Granger. Although there was once a time when the Ministry controlled much of what the Prophet published, I refuse to sink back into that state of censorship."
Shacklebolt eyed them all severely. "Frankly, I am not surprised that you didn't approach me, Mr. Malfoy, when this problem arose. But I am heavily disappointed and was more than surprised when I discovered that two of my best department heads have been involved since the beginning and did not think to inform me."
Hermione's flushed, shame trickling down her throat. Shacklebolt had a way with people that could have you cowering in your seat in mortification, making you feel like an insolent child. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harry was struggling to hold his head high, too.
"Thank you for your immediate co-operation, however. I have given express instructions to both the Auror and the Research and Growth departments to have both your schedules further changed to allow you to continue in this."
Hermione's head snapped up. Wait, they were getting his support? The relief she felt was palpable, but she didn't relax completely just yet. Hermione struggled to concentrate as Shacklebolt continued.
"I agree with Mr. Malfoy that this isn't just acts of random murder. I believe this is just the proverbial tip of the iceberg, and since you three have been involved since the beginning, I will allow your covert investigation to continue."
"I – thank you, Kingsley," Harry stuttered.
"Minister Shacklebolt to you, Harry." Kingsley's brown eyes twinkled and his dark skin around his mouth crinkled in mirth.
Harry and Hermione fought to hide their smiles. It reminded them of their time working with the Minister in the Order of the Phoenix during the war; the support and steadfast charisma of Kingsley had always been comforting. To know that he was behind them in their case, and not flogging them mercilessly, was a huge relief.
"I want weekly reports on your progress on my desk. To be honest, I wouldn't want any other people working on this case than you three."
"… even me?" Malfoy's voice was quiet, hesitant.
"Even you, Mr. Malfoy. Things change, and I truly believe you will use all your characteristics as a businessman to make sure people will aide you in any way you can. I've been following you, you know," Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow at the blond.
The blond pursed his lips and blinked at Shacklebolt's words. Hermione was sure that his body language translated to a blush or at least a nod of gratitude.
Hermione watched Malfoy from the corner of her eye and noticed that he fiddled with the large ring on his right hand, the one with the Malfoy crest.
"You have my full support," Kingsley continued, standing to conclude the meeting. "If you need anything pertaining to the case, Floo me directly and I will do my best."
Nodding happily, Hermione ditched all official titles and launched herself around Kingsley's table and hugged the portly man warmly. Kingsley smiled, patting her awkwardly on the back.
Nodding their thanks, the three of them left Shacklebolt's office.
"Somehow, even having his support doesn't soothe me at all," Malfoy muttered as they strode quickly through the darkened hallways of the Ministry.
"You underestimate him," Hermione defended. "If Kingsley can help, he will."
"But we come back to the problem we had before we received Goyle's remains," Harry slowed to a stop as they approached the elevators. "We've been investigating so hard, but we've come up with dead ends yet again."
"We've got to be strong, Harry. We've got to try harder," Hermione grabbed at her best friend's hand and squeezed. "More people will die and it's up to us to stop it."
Harry, far too sensitive to the responsibility of peoples' lives on his shoulders, pulled Hermione into a hug.
Malfoy watched the intimate exchange with hooded eyes, fighting the urge to roll his eyes and bark at them to stop being so sentimental. But he didn't. He could understand why the other two felt the way they did, and he was only slightly disturbed that he didn't feel quite the same way.
Sure, Flint and Goyle were his mates, their bodies – remains – were being sent to him. But Draco knew that he was stronger than any of this, and he would remain stoic to the end.
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Elsewhere in wizarding Britain, the same article written by Paige Lee Price was being read in the dim firelight of a seedy wizarding pub deep in Bristol. The hooded figure, seated in a conspicuously inconspicuous corner, was oblivious to the ruckus of the taproom and was reading the newspaper in silence.
Once finished, a wand was produced from within the folds of the dark cloak, a cruel smile appearing as the wand tip was set to the article and it began to burn.
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A/N: So. What do you guys think so far? I've actually dropped a few hints already on who the culprit might be. Is anyone game on taking any guesses? :D
Hope you guys enjoyed that chapter, please R&R!