Chapter 7: La fête de l'Assomption (The Feast of the Assumption)

'How was she, McGonagall?'

She glanced to her right to see Draco looking back at her with curious eyes. 'Erm, she's well. She, along with Kingsley and Andromeda, made a support group for me, the "Hermione Antics" group.'

He narrowed his eyes. 'What's a support group?'

'It's where people can talk about their problems and help each other by talking about it.'

He nodded. 'Makes sense, your antics definitely need some support.'

They chuckled a little before settling into silence. Rapid breaths were all that was heard in the garage, each focused on the steamroller that was their minds. Peering to the man next to her, Draco closed his eyes and held his head up. She was staring at him until he opened his eyes and their eyes met. Hermione looked away and returned to her thoughts. They stayed that way, until…

'Did she say anything about me?'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'Yes. She's said that Dumbledore always believed the best of you.' He snapped his eyes to her. 'He had said that there was always kindness in you.'

He laughed in such a comically maniacal manner she thought he was mocking her. She was about to retort when the light hit his eyes perfectly. His mouth might be stretched in laughter, but his eyes were coated in regret. His shoulders were tense and his laugh seemed rather forced; as if he was laughing to comfort himself.

'W-What a bloody wanker. He knew I was going to kill him and he still believed in me? What a madman. I-If he believed in me so much, why didn't he tell me, "Dear boy, everything's going to be fine"? Was he so prejudiced against me that he didn't tell me my cause was lost? Couldn't he or his precious Order—no offence by the way—save us? Bloody knob.'

Hermione didn't have to say anything; she could see it in how his eyes fluttered, how his brows frowned, and pupils became slightly glassy. He was drowning in remorse. She wanted to swim in it.

'I used to want to be a part of the Department of Magical Creatures.'

Draco turned to her, pupils narrowed. 'That is both like and unlike you.'

She scowled. 'What does that mean?'

He shrugged. 'Well, considering you're a fierce yet stubborn advocate for creatures underrepresented and abused, working in a department caring and regulating those creatures is a logical conclusion. However, I'm not too sure you'd be content to be a mere cog in the bureaucratic nightmare that is the Ministry.'

'Perhaps.' They took a swig of their cups of water before she spoke again. 'What about you, Draco? What do you want?' He scoffed. 'What? Does the great Draco Malfoy not have wants?'

He laughed soullessly. 'What I want? What I want doesn't matter, it's my duty that matters. Probably become a patron like Father, marry some pure-blood witch, squeeze an heir, die peacefully amongst gold.'

'Sounds like a miserable life.'

'It is.'

'Doesn't sound like you want it anymore.'

He shook his head, turning his attention to his spined wand. 'Remember what Gaultier said, about me wanting control? Well, I'm taking control now. I say screw those expectations, I'm just going to do what I want.'

'Were you not doing what you want all those years?'

His face darkened. 'Sometimes—not always—I did things to make Father proud of me. He loved me but there were so many rules and expectations forced upon me that I don't even know now if what I did all those years were truly of my own wishes or of my father's.'

'That doesn't excuse the things you did.'

He took a swig of his bottle.

He sighed. 'You said you used to want to become a Ministry worker. You don't want to, anymore?'

'After a year of running away from a Ministry who wanted to hunt and exterminate you for something you're born with makes you distrustful of ministries in general.'

'Ah, so what will the great Hermioné de Bonnegrâce do then, other than commit to a life dedicated to saving Nifflers and Centaurs?'

She scoffed. 'Piss off. I'm thinking of becoming a Healer, serving my life to healing injuries and whatnot.'

He laughed. 'Knowing how swotty you are—' Hermione rolled her eyes, 'you'd probably become la Grande Guérisseuse de la France by your 40s.'

She laughed along with him, revelling in the sheer ridiculousness of it all. She asked, 'And you? What do you want to do? I'm sure the indomitable Draco Malfoy wants something other than to be a Patron and marry some pure-blood witch to make little pure-blood heirs.'

Another swig.

'Potioneer. It was something in which I excelled—not that I was the best, you and Theo made sure of that—and I would like to continue. It's the pure destruction and construction of it, how you can make potions using ingredients that, to a regular wizard, have no connection to one another. In what way does asphodel, wormwood, a brain of a sloth, and a Sopophorous bean combine and interact in a way to produce a liquid that makes one so intoxicated they would not wake?'

She was enraptured by his explanation. Was this another part of Draco Malfoy she didn't know? She thought back to all her Hogwarts years, to the students that occupied her year. Did she really know them? Did she even know Gryffindor House? Seamus Finnegan was a fellow Gryffindor and DA member, yet it took her nearly six years to realise that his eyes never followed her but her dark-haired best friend. If she realised that with a fellow member, what about people outside of her own house?

'If only I met this Draco Malfoy in school instead of the bully who called me a Mudblood…'

'Look, I'm sorry okay, it was—'

'"Sorry" doesn't cut it!' She stood up and continued her tirade. 'The word had to be explained to me and how vile it is! Yet you, the great Draco Malfoy whose father is some Ministry lobbyist, you threw that word around like it was nothing to you! Just a regular word like any other!'

He stood as well. 'I was raised like that, it wasn't my fault!'

She walked closer. 'It wasn't your fault? It wasn't your fault?! Six years, Draco, six bloody years! Are you telling you are so blind you could not see your prejudices, the pain you've caused us all?!'

He closed the gap. 'I did fucking see it, Hermione!'

'Oh yeah, you did when you had to confront your actions! If you weren't tasked with murdering Dumbledore, you would have NEVER changed! You're a bloody coward!'

'Oi!' They looked at the noise on the far wall. Auror Beaufort stood, wand out. 'If you want to argue, argue in the sparring space. Go.'

They looked at each other and marched to the sparring space. They assumed their stances and prepared to spar. Hermione's stance remained the same though Draco's changed; his wand arm was now extended in front with his left arm at a right angle. It was 'more efficient' according to the Auror. Both of them had sparred so much they knew what the other would do. However, with tensions rising, neither knew anymore.

'Commencez.'

Hermione cast first. Draco cast a Protego, causing it to bounce. He cast a yellow spell. Hermione sidestepped. Hermione cast a Pertundo which Draco sidestepped but… he started marching towards her. She cast Stupefy; Draco cast Protego on the move. She cast Expelliarmus; Draco cast Protego as he closed the distance. He was cornering her. She rushed out of the way and kept launching a barrage of spells at him. He didn't cast anything, just Protego and rushed her. Seeing a gap, she launched a Jelly Legs Jinx and he fell, bringing her with him. He laid on top of her, their noses almost touching. Their ragged breaths calmed as their eyes locked to one another, waiting for the other to release. Draco released first, standing up and pulling Hermione along with him. They finished their sparring sessions and everyone went home. Draco didn't visit as much, and if he did, he was avoidant of her.

/ / / / /

The 15th of August arrived. Hermione was in the house where Draco and Narcissa lived. They were trying out their dresses and robes for the 18:00 gala event. After helping Narcissa with her blue dress, Hermione wandered the halls of Wreath House. Sometimes, she would mentally remind herself that the silver walls were not the same walls that absorbed her screams. Whenever she turned a corner, Snatchers would appear in a flash. The only positive she had was that Narcissa had repainted some of the walls to auburn, her guest room being one of them.

In her thoughts, she didn't notice the ray of light peering through an ajar door. She was about to close it when a grunt came from the other side. She peered inside to see Draco topless. She was about to walk away when he turned to the mirror. There were three gashes from his collarbone to the centre of his chest. They were jagged, marring the skin like a river violently eroding a channel. It stretched every time he moved.

'Are you going to stand there and watch?'

Hermione snapped out of her focus and saw Draco's eyes in the reflection staring at her. Her shoulders tensed as she pushed the door open. The hinges screamed all along the corridors.

'Sorry, I was just exploring.' She stepped closer to him. She whispered, 'Was this… Was this in sixth year?'

He nodded. 'Sectumsempra.'

A dark spell that had long disappeared from her mind resurfaced. Flashes of Harry crying in the common room, Draco lying in the hospital wing, appeared in her mind. She reached out instinctively. She gasped. The skin around the gashes were smooth and the skin inside were rough; it was like touching gravel in between marble. Why were there marks? Shouldn't the magic heal him properly?

'Do you know what it means, Sectumsempra?'

She glanced at his wide eyes, as if screaming No, before returning to his wounds.

'Sectumsempra means always or ever cutting. The wounds would never heal and they would always cut through. If left long enough, they might sever limbs.'

She remembered George's ear sloughing away from the curse. A small part was severed when he came, and by the end of the week, it was almost gone.

'H-How were yours healed?'

He whispered, 'They've had to-to sew the wound, one small piece at a time. When it broke—and it always did after one minute—they would have to sew it again. It took four hours for the sewing to hold; even then, they only held for an hour. So it continued again and again until the sews held.'

'Your screams… I can still hear them.'

'My cowardly screams.'

She eyed him. 'Draco, about last week—'

He grabbed her hand and pushed it off. 'Let's not revisit the past and get this bloody gala over with, alright?'

With her heart hammering in her chest, she marched out of his room and walked to the guest room where her robe was in. She put on the golden ball gown and added accessories with Narcissa's help. Gloves, earrings, choker pendant, everything. Hermione practised her courtesies with Narcissa, reminding her of her own childhood with her grandmother. Soon, Draco came down in a tuxedo with black tie and several Malfoy-adorned cufflinks and accessories. It was difficult not to glance at him. After some discussion, it was decided that Hermione would go first, and Draco and Narcissa would go half an hour later.

It was 18:05 and the letter had already glowed blue; it was ready for Portkey. She tapped it with her hand and the world spun around her in a dizzying array for yellows and greens until she landed outside of a large palace on the hills. It was rather majestic, a little Palace of Versailles replica hidden away in the magical alcove of the world. The dim nocturnal light of the moon was overshadowed by the symphony of lights lighting every inch of the Palace. The non-magical city of Tours stood several kilometres away. If the non-magical world even caught a glimpse of the Palace, the beauty would outshine the largest mansions and tallest skyscrapers.

Crowds were already gathered in a sea of colours, all around the entrance. Hermione stood in line, standing behind several ladies who were gossiping around. Many of them, she noticed, had different flowers tucked in their ears. She wondered if those were fashion statements or something else. A few minutes later, she was at the door. The announcer opened his hand and took Hermione's letter to cast several charms on them. Once he was done, he turned to the room.

With a boisterous noise, he yelled, 'Mademoiselle la Baronne de Baigneaux, Hermioné de Bonnegrâce.'

Immediately, every head turned to her. She took deep breaths and exhaled them slowly. Remember, Hermione, this is just a large Yule ball, a mantra she repeated with every step she descended down the steps. Draco and Narcissa had said that her being announced was likely to turn a few heads; she now knew not to trust a Malfoy ever again. Whispers run rampant across the room with girls almost looking at her with derision while the boys looked at her with excited indecision. As she neared the final steps, she saw Mrs. Bouvier a few tables away and her heart started beating again. Heads were starting to turn back and her shoulders sagged.

She curtsied a little and greeted Mrs. Bouvier. 'I've noticed on the invitation that seating is based on patronage. Where are we, Madame Bouvier?'

'Follow me, please, Mademoiselle.' Mrs. Bouvier led Hermioneaway from the steps. As they walked, Hermione noticed the looks of lust in the eyes of the men as their ladies gossiped to one another. Mrs. Bouvier said, 'It pleases me to tell you, Mademoiselle, that, with your sponsorship, the Protection of Centaurs Bill has passed the État-General so it should become official soon.'

Hermione's face lit up with joy, her smile almost tearing her face apart. 'That's excellent news!' Her smile slowly sunk when she replayed the words with your sponsorship. 'Madame, you said that it passed with my sponsorship. Were my funds that crucial?'

Mrs. Bouvier scrunched her face. 'Erm, not exactly. It has something to do with your title, Baroness.' She eyed the crowd and Hermione followed; in the tempest of men, she was drowning in lust. 'They've taken an interest in you. The pure-bloods like to reminisce about the old aristocracy, so when a new patron comes along with funds appropriate for the Bureau of Sports and Recreation instead of the Bureau of Magical Creatures, it intrigues them. Makes you appealing.'

Hermione replied, 'That is disgusting.'

'Isn't it?'

Hermione turned back to see a middle-aged man in a navy suit next to her. He nodded curtly. He said, 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce, Madame Bouvier. Mademoiselle, puis-je vous parler? (May I talk to you, Miss?)'

Hermione nodded and walked away with him. She asked, 'De quoi souhaitez-vous discuter avec moi, Monsieur? (What is it that you wish to talk to me about, sir?)'

'Votre réputation, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce (Your reputation, Miss de Bonnegrâce).' He chuckled before leaning in and whispering, 'Or should I say, Miss Hermione Granger?'

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Her mind raced with questions and her hand twitched to her wand.

He grinned before putting his hands up and said, 'Be calm, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce, I am not here to reveal your identity. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Apollon Henri Gérard de Bouclier, the Professor of Alchemy at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.'

'Pleasure. How do you know who I am?'

'Your grandmother and great-grandfather saved me and my father's life during the Second World War. You look like her.'

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. 'My grandparents treated wizards in the Resistance?'

'The two of us, yes. We were on the run from Gellert Grindelwald and his followers. They helped us recuperate when I explained we were French Resistance.'

'You lied?'

He frowned. 'The French Resistance was universal. The non-magicals resisted Hitler; us sorcerers resisted Grindelwald. It was that universality that paved the way to a more modern Wizarding France. Nevertheless, your family is known for their service to France, and for that, I applaud you. Your own reputation precedes you; Brightest Witch of Her Age, they say.'

Hermione scoffed. 'A silly name. I'm no one.'

He chuckled. 'I wouldn't consider the woman who topped most subjects in her class and mastered spells even experienced Aurors could only dream of being a nobody, Baroness.' At Hermione's look of horror, he said, 'Academics like us converse to one another, taking note of pupils for apprenticeship and the like. That was how Albus Dumbledore, then-Professor of Transfiguration, was able to build a network of sorcerers and sorceresses against Grindelwald in the 1920s.'

Hermione pivoted before the conversation became too deep, asking, 'So, Professor of Alchemy, what does it mean? I thought Alchemy is a dangerous discipline. It's only an elective in Hogwarts.'

Mr. de Bouclier laughed a little too hard, recovering after a few seconds. 'Oh, I'm sorry, is that what they teach you in Britain? No wonder the rest of the world considers the British and American schools to be backwards. To answer your question, though, Mademoiselle, alchemy is the study of magical composition, how to deconstruct and construct them, how to study their properties, how to mix several parts of different things and see how their resultant magics interact, etcetera etcetera.'

'So, something like Potions then?'

He snapped his fingers. 'Exactement comme les Potions! 19/20 pour vous, Mademoiselle.'

'But still, Alchemy is a dangerous profession isn't it? It deals in human sacrifices after all.'

He chuckled. 'It deals in sacrifices, human or not. Regardless, it still has its uses. After all, the non-magical science of nuclear physics has produced large bodies capable of providing massive amounts of energy yet they're also capable of destroying millions in the blink of an eye.'

She pursed her lips. 'Touché, Monsieur de Bouclier.'

'Of course, I condemn Transmutational Alchemy as it is a dark discipline. The transmutation of corpses, the changing of iron to gold, the creation of a Philosopher's Stone—'

She perked up. 'A Philosopher's Stone? The stone that promises eternal life?'

He shook his head. 'A horrible thing. As far as I know, only two individuals have made it: Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle. One must ask: how many lives had been consumed for the stone?' At Hermione's look of confusion and dread, he continued. 'Everything has a price, Mademoiselle. To prolong your life for one year requires the sacrifice of eight to ten people. How many lives did it take for one to survive for over six hundred years, then? Thousands? Millions?'

Hermione, who knew of the Philosopher's Stone from Harry and Dumbledore, was beyond shocked. She was horrified. Had Dumbledore befriended this evil man? '... He murdered them?'

He shook his head. 'At the time, the Black Death was ravaging across Europe, indiscriminately killing millions. One could say Flamel hastened their deaths, another could say Flamel gave them the mercy of death. However, it is the principle of it—the taking of lives for your own—that disgusts me.'

Hermione was speechless. Magic, to her, was a powerful thing, but what was the cost of magic? She quickly turned the topic around. 'Erm, h-how is Beauxbatons? A friend of a friend went there, and I've heard it's lovely.'

Mr. de Bouclier nodded. 'I'm sure you're referring to Fleur Isabelle Weasley?' She nodded. 'Yes, it is a wonderful institution. Our academy does not have your houses; we're all one large class. We do not believe in them. Your House was Gryffindor, was it not? The house of courage and chivalry?' She nodded. 'It is intriguing, therefore, why you are allied with two figures whose family and personality are known to be extremely ambitious and cunning.'

As if on cue, the announcer's voice proclaimed, 'Madame Narcissa Malfoy et son fils, Monsieur Draco Malfoy.'

The room all turned to the stunning pair but Hermione looked at the crowd. It was the polar opposite of what she experienced; where in their eyes she was honey, the Malfoys were poison. Palpable disdain was felt throughout the room, though she noticed several families looking with near-glee.

'They're the conservative faction in the État-General.' Hermione turned to Mr. de Bouclier who continued speaking. 'Most of them are, well, some of the oldest magical families in France. Some had become mixed-blood during the years; most stayed pure. Massive supporters of Grindelwald during his era. They might not oppose modernisation, but they do oppose those born of non-magical blood.'

'I thought French pure-bloods were for modernisation?'

'Yes, but that does not mean they're egalitarians. As a member of the Cinquante-Six Familles Sacrées, I can say that many of us still harbour prejudices against those non-magicalborns.'

She narrowed her eyes on them. 'They're my enemies, then.'

'And them?'

She followed his eyes to a few tables away where Draco and Narcissa were conversing with several Ministerial figures and patrons. One of them, the man with the scar on his neck, was one of the conservative faction. Rosier was there as well.

She turned back to Mr. de Bouclier and said, 'I've known them for some time, they've changed.'

'Do you trust them?'

Without skipping a beat, she replied, 'Yes.'

He smiled with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Then I'll trust him, though if I may ask you a question?' Hermione nodded, hoping it wouldn't be a probing question. 'Why the Bureau of Magical Creatures? It would seem, to me at least, that you would support the Bureau of Magical Justice or the Bureau of International Relations.'

'Erm, it's always been a dream of mine. I think that creatures deserve equal rights to us and that we shouldn't subjugate them for our own will.'

He pursed his lips. 'A noble cause. How would you endeavour to do that?'

'Through any way I can.'

He laughed. 'Then I shall anticipate your work, Mademoiselle. Tell me, have you thought of any future careers? I've heard you and your friend Draco's grades in Hogwarts.'

'Erm, I've not thought about it, but I'm considering becoming a Healer.'

'Une guérisseuse, an interesting career choice. Why?'

The dead bodies strewn across the Great Hall manifested in front of her. Their eyes were glassy. Like those of Lupin. Lavender. Fred. There they were, sat motionless in the gala seats. All looked at her. All of their mouths agape, as if frozen in scream. 'Because I don't want to see anyone else hurt ever again.'

'I wish you all the luck then, Mademoiselle.'

The man departed and Hermione made her way to the Malfoys. As she walked closer, the neck-scar man sneered in disgust and turned his full attention to Narcissa as if not able to stomach Hermione's presence. She greeted Narcissa and turned to Draco.

'You said that I'll turn a few heads, not the entire bloody room.' He chuckled and she rolled her eyes. 'Also, what's going with the hair flowers? Many of the girls here have them; is there something you've forgotten to tell me?'

Draco laughed in a way that went away too quickly. 'I'll, erm, tell you later.'

She huffed. 'Fine.' She turned to the neck-scar man who was now walking away. 'The man with the scar on his neck, who is he?'

'François César-Auguste de Chartres, Sieur du Chauffours. He's one of the Most Sacred and Honoured Twenty-Seven Families. Incredibly important.' Draco looked around and Hermione followed his eyes, staring at the jealous looks of the male crowd. 'Seems like I might have to fight for your attention, Mademoiselle.'

'You've already won by default, Draco.'

Before Draco could respond, the dinner started. She walked back to the Bureau of Magical Creatures' table. There were only 22 patrons excluding Hermione herself. The dinner was a large occasion with bureau heads giving talks about their programs, their bills—personal and official, what they had achieved, etcetera. Hermione was chatting to a man, a minor pure-blood in the Honoured One-Hundred-and-Fifty-Seven, who was rather fervent in the liberation of House Elves. The dinner itself was grand with several expensive menus she would never have eaten in life, ever. However, three hours went by, and the event was almost over. Draco and Narcissa were still talking to patrons while Hermione was off on her lonesome.

'Mademoiselle la Baronne.'

Hermione turned to see one of the most regal women ever. She had an elegant red ball gown, jewels adorning every seam and button. She had the largest smile yet it didn't reach her eyes. Her hair had been tied in such a complicated style Hermione knew it would have taken hours to style if done the non-magical way. She remembered her seated in the Twenty-Seven, conversing with everyone on the other side of the room.

'Madame Geneviève Françoise Thérèse, Comtesse de Montgarnier-Toulouse.'

Hermione curtsied and said, 'Madame la Comtesse.'

'How have you found this event?'

Hermione gulped. Why is she talking in English? Hermione responded, 'Well, I have enjoyed it immensely. The French Ministry has certainly done an extravagant event.'

She chuckled. 'Yes, though it seems the topic of tonight's gala rests on you, Mademoiselle. I am most, erm, intrigued of you, considering we are both noblewomen. Most of us pure-bloods have—comment vous le dites—relinquished our titles, so to see someone with a title will intrigue us.'

'You have a title as well, Madame la Comtesse.'

'Yes, hence why many are enamoured with me. If I may, how old is your lineage? I've never heard of the Barony of Baigneaux in my ancestral books.'

'It's on the outskirts of Bordeaux. My ancestor was a general under Napoleon and that was his birthplace. Napoleon awarded him a barony as my ancestor was one of his subordinates.'

'Ah, an imperial noble; no wonder I was not aware of you, apologies. And your surname, de Bonnegrâce? Cheerfully?'

'Apparently, my ancestor was known to be incredibly cheerful and so that was his name. Cheerful; bonne grâce. My family has always served France, fighting against injustice and the like. My cause is always right.'

'Mmhm. Yet, you are une noble comme moi. Salic law never accords women titles, it always passes them in favour of any male relative. It seems the cost of righteousness is high.'

Hermione smirked. 'It is, but it is always worth it. You are a noblewoman as well, Madame. It seems the cost of your cause is high as well.'

She frowned. 'It was.' Her eyes scanned Hermione's whole body. 'Perhaps, seeing as we're both noblewomen whose families have borne heavy burdens, we could correspond to one another?'

Hermione sipped her champagne. 'Of course, Madame la Comtesse. I shall wait for your correspondence.'

She nodded. 'Likewise. Until we meet again, Mademoiselle la Baronne.'

Hermione watched the regal woman walk away, not noticing the footsteps behind her.

'Puritas sanguinis.'

Hermione snapped to attention and looked around her. Everyone was talking and none seemed off. The neck-scarred man was on the other side of the room; it couldn't be him. Her heart was hammering in her. Everything in her tensed. The spell was in her mind. Her eyes scanned every single person around her. She focused on specific parts. Their face, hand, wand, body direction. She couldn't even see around her, only those four things. Her hand reached for—

'Hermione.'

She spun backwards. Individual things popped out; grey eyes, silver hair, ivory hand, spined wand holstered, thin body facing her. She shook herself out of it and the picture started to integrate into one: Draco Malfoy.

'I need to get out.'

She rushed away, pushing the crowd with everything she got, and nearly blasted the balcony doors open. She stepped towards the railing, almost tipping over, before she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The moon had been torn in half; one in darkness and one in light. She paid her attention to said division. Was it like her, in a way? One side covered in light and the other in darkness? Or was it that she had two halves that made a whole? Her heart slowly calmed down, and everything in her loosened. She had to grip the rails to stop herself from falling.

Footsteps rushed behind her but she didn't have to look who it was. The sandalwood gave it away. 'What happened? You just ran.'

Her eyes still on the wood, she asked, 'Did you see me earlier? What was I doing?'

'Erm, talking to the Countess, why?'

She turned to him, eyes near-watery. 'Did you see who was around me?'

He shook his head. 'No, Hermione, what—'

She leaned in and whispered, 'Someone whispered "Puritas sanguinis" as the Countess walked away.

'What? Who—'

A cacophony of noises in the far distance snatched their attention. A group of Aurors were walking in the direction of the noise. Instantly, a group of dark-robed wizards apparated in, casting spells to every officer they found. They looked at each other and apparated behind the Aurors. The six or so Aurors soon found themselves outnumbered and outmatched, and Draco and Hermione stepped in. After several sessions, their dynamic and skills had increased tremendously. With Draco and Hermione on the offence and defence respectively, they were able to assist the Aurors. However, one of them spotted a gap between the two. With one swish, Hermione's legs failed her. As she laid in the grass, legs numb, the dark-robed figure stood a few metres in front of her. Hermione raised her wand but he disarmed her. With their wand poised at her, she waited for the spell. Yellow.

'Protego!' A faint blue light surrounded her just as the spell rebounded to the dark-robed figure. Draco rushed to Hermione's side and cast Finite; a rush of sensation flooded her. Pain, cramps, fatigue. Draco offered his hand before pulling her up to the ground. She scourgified herself.

'DRACO! HERMIONE!' They turned to the roaring voice. Auror Beaufort was rushing at them, his pale face now blushed with anger and disappointment. 'What are you doing here?!'

Hermione said, 'W-We saw the fight so—'

'You two are patrons! Guests! This was NOT your fight! My squad would have handled this!'

Draco said, 'Listen, without our help, your Aurors would've been disarmed.'

That made Auror Beaufort even more enraged. 'Disarmed?! Oh, so you're insulting my Aurors, Aurors who've fought far more dark sorcerers for over seven years? You're insulting my ability to lead them, the one who's been leading them for the past three years? You are a guest here, Monsieur Malfoy, do NOT make us reconsider that.'

Hermione said, 'Look, we're sorry, alright? We… We were in over our heads.'

'Yes, you were. This is France, not England where tens of Aurors just accept a takeover of a homicidal maniac. We have laws and jurisdictions here.' At their ashamed faces, he smiled a little. 'What you did, it was amazing. My Aurors certainly have much to learn from the two of you. I know you two are war veterans, but our Aurors are perfectly capable of managing this, understood?'

'Yes, Auror Beaufort', Draco and Hermione said at the same time.

A silver wolf ran to Auror Beaufort, and a squeaky voice emanated from the Patronus. 'Capitaine Beaufort, les menaces, elles avaient été traitées? Le général veut un rapport. Où es-tu? (Captain Beaufort, has the threat been taken care of? The general wants an update; where are you?)'

Auror Beaufort swished his wand and a Bay Stallion patronus appeared. 'On est au sud, près de l'arbre noir (We are to the south, near the black tree).'

After it dissipated, the crack of an apparition rumbled through the ground as several other Aurors appeared near them. To Hermione's surprise, Mr. de Bouclier was with them. The lead Auror talked to Auror Beaufort as they discussed what had happened while Mr. de Bouclier made small talk with Draco and Hermione.

Just before they returned, two more figures appeared. The one to the right yelled, 'Retraitez-vous!' before they jabbed their wands at their left forearms.

'Draco! What happened?'

'Th-The Mark! Fuck, it's burning! It's l-like I'm b-being summo— AH!'

The robed figures who had not been shackled then disapparated along with the two men. Draco fell to the ground on his knees, clutching his left forearm. He screamed and Hermione could see the occlumency walls shielding him from the pain.

Mr. de Bouclier sprinted to his side and turned his left forearm up. The Dark Mark—then looking more like an irritated red scar—now looked clearer and darker; it was as if Voldemort himself had returned and was re-amassing power.

Mr. de Bouclier said, 'Draco, Draco, I'm going to place an alchemical barrier, are you ready?'

'Fuck, just— Do it!'

Mr. de Bouclier nodded. He pulled his wand out and carved a circle into Draco's forearm. Draco's screams grew louder. Blood ran out from the edges. Several letters were pierced all around the circle; Hermione noticed that it was like Runes but with the Latin alphabet. Mr. de Bouclier uttered some Latin chants and pressed his wand into the centre of the circle. Draco's forearm glowed red and it stopped. Draco fell, breath panting, and lips smiling.

As Draco was about to stand up, Mr. de Bouclier pushed him back down. 'No, no, Monsieur Malfoy, if I were to lift my wand from the circle, the pain would return.'

'Shit. How do we… how do we stop it?'

'Erm, this is la Marque des Ténèbres—whatever it is in English—yes?' Draco nodded. 'I've heard some things about it so I'll have to run some tests. It would require me to lift my wand which would return the pain. Could you hold on for two minutes?'

Draco nodded and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and his fiery silver turned dim. In a monotone voice, he only replied, 'Do it.'

Mr. de Bouclier lifted his wand and Draco whimpered. He scrunched his face and lowered it. His forearm was so clenched up Hermione could see the individual muscle strands contracting. Several lights emanated from the circle to which Mr. de Bouclier merely nodded away. At the last one, he gasped.

He turned to Hermione. 'Mademoiselle? I require your help.'

Hermione rushed to his side; Draco was shaking and sweating. 'What is it?'

'Place your finger over the circle.'

Hermione did and in an instant, Mr. de Bouclier slashed the tip. 'Ouch! Hey, what the—'

He pressed the finger right to the circle; the blood filled the depression instantly. Draco's shoulder sagged, and he shuddered before raising his head and opening his eyes. They were bright but not as bright. 'Did… Did you fix it?'

Mr. de Bouclier shook his head. 'No, I've only made a temporary measure using Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce's blood.'

'Her blood? What's her blood got to do with this?'

Mr. de Bouclier sat next to him on the grass while Hermione kept pressing her finger to the circle. 'I've inspected every aspect of the… Mark, and I've discovered several things. It seems to be based on several charms and jinxes all melded into one. I know the rumours of Voldemort's ingenuity, but I hadn't expected this level of complexity. A Protean charm mixed with a maledictio individualis plus several jinxes, amazing.'

'You still have not explained why you need her blood.'

'Ah, yes, apologies for the rambling. One of the properties of the Mark is that it required an element of purity; in other words, only a pure-blood or recent mixed-blood may acquire the Mark itself. If I were to introduce non-magical blood into the spell…'

Hermione completed, '... You would have negated the Mark.'

'Exactement.'

'S-So what, I'll need her blood for the rest of my life?'

He shook his head. 'I would have to research it further, but I suspect your proximity to the Dark Arts had revived the Mark's inner workings. I suggest moving away and/or not being in the presence of Dark Magic. Her blood will expire in two minutes; the spell would've expired long before that.'

Mr. de Bouclier stood up and Draco did as well. Hermione, who'd been standing there intently listening to Mr. de Bouclier, straightened up. She asked, 'Can't you, erm, break it somehow using alchemy?'

He shook his head. 'Unfortunately, no. The admixture of these spells, they could only be achieved by transmutational alchemy and thus breaking it would require transmutational alchemy. Such matters can only be referred to the Grand Alchimiste and even then I do not know the price you have to repay to break it unless you have Voldemort's diaries.'

He pointed to Hermione's finger on his forearm and said, 'So… Am I stuck with this then?'

'No, Monsieur Malfoy.' He lifted her finger and Draco sighed in relief. 'Since the Mark is founded on the maledictio individualis, negating it could dismantle the Mark in its entirety. Even then, it's not an emergency.'

Hermione said, 'That does not mean it won't come up in future. Could you teach us how to do these things?'

A malicious smirk spread on Mr. de Bouclier's face. 'How about we kill two birds with one stone? As the two of you have not done your examinations, I could also tutor you for the exam in Beauxbatons.'

Draco and Hermione's jaws dropped to the ground. Hermione uttered, 'That… That is what you want?'

Mr. de Bouclier shrugged. 'It would be an amazing opportunity, wouldn't it?'

'I think—'

'We'll think about it.'

Hermione turned to Draco in disbelief. She was the one who had the original dream of returning to school so why was he the one actually considering it? Mr. de Bouclier responded, 'Of course. Once you or Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce have made your decision, please message me.'

A man and two guards apparated in. Every Auror stood straight, their boots clicking in unison, echoing over the hills. Their heads then bowed in unison to the man and he bowed in return. His attention immediately turned to Draco and Hermione and he walked over to them.

The man seemed like a regular grandfather from the twenties. Hair side-parted, bushy eyebrows with an even bushier moustache, a square face. His smile was restrained.

He said, 'Monsieur Malfoy, Mademoiselle la Baronne, I had expected to talk to either of you earlier but the dinner was too exquisite. Fortunately, we are able to talk now.' He bowed his head. 'I am General Graf von Greiffen, the Head of the French Auror Office. From what I've heard from Captain Beaufort, you assisted our Aurors and I thank you for that. However, we can take it from here.' His two guards stepped forwards. 'These guards will escort you back to the Palace. Enjoy the evening.'

His smile dropped and the glint in his eyes vanished. Draco and Hermione walked back to the Palace with two guards. Once inside, every eye was on them. After the Aurors announced the threat was over, the attendants sighed in relief and the dinner—which was already nearing its closing remarks—was finished on an unfortunate but good mark. Narcissa went over to Draco and Hermione, fussing over them like she was their mother, and hugged them both. Hermione's heart panged in anguish. She missed it. Narcissa had only hugged her maybe a few times but it reminded her of her mother. She never wanted to let go.

The three then said their goodbyes before apparating back to Wreath House. As she stepped foot in those silver walls, everything in her fell. Her mind was on autopilot. She sauntered over to the guest room where her clothes were. She sat on the edge of the bed and allowed what had happened to flood in her. She was that close to injury, or God forbid, death. The other Aurors were duelling. If it weren't for Draco, she could have died. After all that had happened, was that how she could have died; near a palace wearing expensive dresses by a mere henchman?

It would've been a great epitaph: here lies Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, who died like a bloody idiot.

Her body fell to the bed and she closed her eyes. She barely registered the heels clacking in the hall and something soft being draped over her. She fell into that dream state; it was where her dreams would haunt her like ghosts, and where her fears would pierce her like blades.