A/N: At first, I thought I'd leave this story alone; after all, the chapter I had half-written was utter shite, but after a few reviews, and the impending seventh installment of our favourite series, I decided to try again. A few new ideas and sheets of notebook paper and I was rarin' to go. No betas this time, either; I'm under an ever-apparent time-crunch. If you spot any errors, feel free to let me know. I'm going to try to get these chapters (more like "parts") up as soon as possible–hopefully before I leave for Spain on the 19th. Wish me luck, and, of course, enjoy!
.x.
"Malfoy!" she called into the dusk.
He responded with a swish of black robes like a dementor's stride.
"Malfoy!" She stomped toward him, quaking the group with her hooves, but to no avail–he had sped up and cheated the corner, his cloak licking his heels, billowing behind him like thunder.
She switched to a brisk trot, tackled her mane with a pointed hood, and followed him into the alleyway.
"Lumos," she whispered, when she thought she'd lost him, but then she spotted a dark figure gliding up a steel staircase. She tripped over a rock scrambling after him, and apparated up a few flights of stairs, but she was too late to see where he had gone.
She found Malfoy locking a door (with a muggle key, at least), a manilla envelope seemingly bludgeoned to his hands.
He passed it to her, careful not to let their fingers touch, and lowered his hood to reveal a scowl that nearly sliced his nose right off.
Hermione dismissed his gesture with a shake of her head, and ripped the envelope open.
To whom it may concern:
There are two conditions under which you must be reading this letter: first, you have discovered the whereabouts of Mr Draco Malfoy; second, the author is, regretfully, deceased. I implore you to forgo any elegies and consider the matter at hand: in the event of Mr Malfoy's discovery, the late Albus Dumbledore has requested that his location never be disclosed to the wizarding public for his own protection, until Draco, as a consenting adult, deems it necessary or favourable.
To substantiate this demand, I have instated Mr Malfoy as the sole proprietor of my estate–the contents of which, if released to ministry affiliates, would likely incriminate members of the Order of the Phoenix, and require, in the very least, an investigation of its prominent operators–a fate which the reader might hope to avoid.
Furthermore, I have asked Mr Malfoy to sate any reader's curiosity as to the occurrences of June 1997, in the event that the reader complies with the former headmaster's wishes.
Signed,
S.P. Snape
She was careful not to let her expression betray her thoughts as she finished reading, but Snape's last few lines had torn her to pieces. Stabbed her right through the heart.
He may as well have crucio'd her to incapacity. She couldn't even organise her thoughts. First of all, she supposed the question of how Snape's estate mysteriously disappeared off the map upon his death was resolved. At least there was some good in that.
But the rest perplexed her. How could Snape have hidden this information from the Order all along? And for what reason–what reason on earth–could Dumbledore have wanted to protect Draco Malfoy? Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, also known as Voldemort's number one henchman (or at least number two). Draco Malfoy, death-eater-in-training, son of darkness and mischief and terrible crimes against humanity committed in cold blood. Draco Malfoy, prejudiced pureblood prat. Draco Malfoy, Albus Dumbledore's would-be murderer.
Of all her desires, for this–for one conversation with her former headmaster–she would have given anything. Despite his occasional looniness, she knew that Dumbledore was right almost a hundred percent of the time. She could never go against his wishes.
But how was she supposed to follow the rules, and not dishonour the headmaster at the same time?
She had to think about this. She had to consult someone about this. And it had to be someone she could trust. And it had to be immediately.
"Listen to me, Malfoy," she spat through clenched teeth. "I haven't got plans to take you to my supervisor... yet."
Was that a... smile? Trying to force its way through the outer crust of his lips like hot magma?
"But mark my words," she barked, "I'll be back. And if I return to find the Great Draconus has mysteriously disappeared, I'll sic the entire department on your arse like a pack of wild dogs. I'll paint you ten times the heinous villain you actually are. None of London will rest until it has your head on a platter."
"I am not a villain," he whispered, his lips snaking and slithering into the syllables of his sentence.
She narrowed her eyes, searching for the telling twitch, digging for the lie. When she found none, she sneered. "Right. And Minerva McGonagall is the Queen of Scotland."
"So long as that's settled," he snarled, "I shan't be recounting the events of June '97 anytime soon."
"Oh, you'll be recounting them, all right," she muttered, pulling out her wand. "In front of a jury of your peers." With that, she flicked her wrist and shot a sparkling, silver stream of light at him that glittered against his paper-white wrists. "And don't even think about trying to remove those."
She furrowed her brow, triumphing over him. Curiously, he didn't appear to be triumphed over. His arms shot down to his sides, his cloak draping their nakedness, and he stood resolute as ever, spine arched, looking like a wizard king.
Her confusion was only half-appeased by a lovely scowl, and with that, she disapparated.
.x.
"Whore," Lupin said mildly, the word rolling off his tongue with no more gravitas than a noncommital inquiry about the weather. He didn't look up, but he did take a sip of his tea.
Anybody else would have received a mouthful of her fist for that comment, but in Remus Lupin's direction, she sent only a sigh. "W. Sort of. Well, I suppose it's W."
"All right." He peered over his spectacles with a look in his eyes wavering between disgust and amusement. "What is it you kids say today? 'Right-O'?" A smile lit his cheeks, illuminating a visage that might have been beautiful in another time; now tired age-tracks and deep scars lined his forehead, sliced his nose, traversed his cheekbones and chin. But his grin had no mark of weariness. Sometimes she couldn't imagine that just a decade ago the man in a wheelchair before her, sporting a grey mane and a matching expression of exhaustion, was dodging curses like bullets and maturity like the plague. How quickly a man in the prime of his life had deteriorated.
They'd begun this weekly ritual just after they were both effectively estranged from their rebel clique. After the war, there was no need for rebels, and so, wizards and witches could associate with whomever they wished as delegated by politics. Politics dealt both Remus and Hermione a nasty hand, it appeared, so they sought solace from each other. And although she knew he pitied her, she often wondered which of them needed company the most.
When they invented the mnemonic, it was her. W.H.O.R.E. Work, Harry, "Oh," Ron, Everything Else. Of course, the "Oh" referred to anything that might elicit that exclamation in bed. They felt like children, but it got them by with a few laughs.
"I haven't got all day, you know."
"Don't lie to me," she teased, a mischievous smile now stamping her own face.
His eyebrows skyrocketed into his forehead. "Really! I've got a rendez-vous with, um, a certain–"
"Bottle of Firewhisky?"
"Can't get anything past you."
"Not a chance." She again flashed a smile in his direction and took a sip of tea. He took the silence to fidget a little in his chair and stretch his arms over his head like a tired dog.
He lowered his voice, signaling a change of tone in their conversation. "But really, Hermione, what's troubling you at the ministry?"
"Oh gods, oh no, oh no no no no no," she grieved. "You must promise not to tell anybody. Oh, I can't believe I've let myself do this... So unprofessional..." Her forehead crashed into her hands.
"Sleeping with your boss, are you?" He leant backwards, looking quite amused, like he was a five-year-old with a secret he had no intent on sharing.
"No!" she shrieked. Her eyes snapped open in disgust, first at the thought of sex with Mafalda Hopkirk, then at her own reaction. "No," she repeated in a quieter tone. "Nothing like that. But first swear not to tell anybody!"
"Not a soul."
"Okay." She sighed the sigh of a woman much older than she, and took a deep breath before speaking again. "Okay."
"Yes..."
"Okay."
"Yes, I've got that part, I think."
"Okay. Okay."
"Hermione!"
"Okay! I mean–I'm sorry. It's just that... DracoMalfoyisstillaliveandI'venotyetturnedhimintotheministry," she spat, then exhaled like a runner who had just finished her race.
He nodded his head, his chin diving to his breastplate, and licked his lips as though he were deciding whether or not to tell her something. "Mmm." He blinked his eyelids for what seemed like an eternity. "Yes, I suspected something like this might happen."
"You knew he was alive?!"
"Oh, good heavens, no. No, most certainly not. That is indeed a surprise; however, in the wizarding world, and in my experience especially, it is not so uncommon for someone to... how do I put this... come back from the dead, so to speak." His last words dripped from his tongue with a flavour of bitterness; she could see the ghost of Sirius in his eyes. In an instant it was gone, and Remus looked up with a focused, questioning glare. "And you haven't reported this to the ministry?"
A deep frown incised her cheeks and her eyebrows settled into a helpless arrowhead. "No," she whined. "Well, I did tell Harry, but now I need to un-tell him, though I doubt he'll believe me, and I just don't know what to do with–"
"Shush! Calm down," Lupin urged. "Let's start from the beginning."
She gave him a hard stare and flung the roll of parchment Malfoy had given her on the tea table.
"Mmm," he groaned, straining to reach toward it. His fingers buckled under the weight of the parchment, but once it was in his grasp, he unrolled it with finesse. A little fiddling with his spectacles would do the trick–he shoved them in place on the bridge of his nose, prevailing over the wiry spokes, and began to read.
Hermione held her breath. She couldn't tell from his grunts and sighs whether he interpreted it as the coming of the apocalypse or another blip in the system.
"Well." He clapped his hands and obliged her with a half-enthused smile. "It looks like you've got three options here."
"Three?"
"Take him to Hopkirk against his will, leave him to his own devices and pretend you saw a ghost, or–"
"If anyone ever found out, I'd be crucified!"
"Or," he shook his head, as if to shoo her voice away, "you could convince him to turn himself to the Department of his own accord."
A silence hung in the air before she spoke.
"And how... am I supposed to accomplish that?" she asked slowly, forming each syllable carefully between her lips before expelling it.
The older man shrugged. "You would know better than I. You went to school with the prat."
"Exactly! And he despised me then probably as much as I hated him! Maybe more!"
"Hermione, you must do what you feel is right. I cannot make this decision for you. You are the professional. Act accordingly."
She stuck out her lower lip just about as far as it would go. She did not need to be reprimanded by a marauder. "Forget I even brought it up."
He sipped his tea, ignoring her bitterness. "Oh, Severus," he laughed. "Never could make anything easy, could he? Bloody bastard."
.x.
At the end of the war, after everyone had picked up enough of the pieces to quit drinking and venture out into the rubble of the aftermath, hordes of death eaters presumed to be dead ended up on the ministry's doorstep. Some came of their own accord, singing their deepest, most sincere apologies and the praises of a certain Mr Harry Potter; others came kicking and screaming. The ones who knew what was good for them stayed away; after all, the triumphant heroes were not in the mood to afford forgiveness to those who piloted their trips to Hell. Still, the less intelligent ones always managed to get caught, doing ridiculous things, like, say, performing magic shows in front of muggles.
Five years though, that was an anomaly at best. The last one stupid enough to get caught but not influential enough to wriggle his way out of it was Vincent Crabbe, and he reared his ugly head just eight months after the fact. And, at the time, even eight months was one hell of an offence. Five years then would've sounded like a lifetime.
She was going to get to the bottom of this. How could Draco Malfoy have passed under the radar for so long?
She whipped out a giant manilla folder labeled "S. P. Snape Investigation" and skipped it on her desk. It landed with an emphatic thud and she smiled. She would conquer the beast.
Hermione opened the folder and thumbed through pages and pages of records. Snape's trials alone could have comprised a book. And one hell of a book it would have been. All his faults aside–the chief of which being his inability to forgive himself–he had a way with words; she'd give him that. His eloquence rang through the tattered pages.
Free your mind from the shackles of these books, Miss Granger. Magic is not a thing to be tamed but a method to be mastered. Train your mind to memorise, and it will. Train it to recognise, and you have defeated the Dark Lord. I am only telling you this because–
She slammed the folder shut when she realised the too-real, molasses voice was actually speaking to her. On some days she could handle his ghost. Today was not one of them.
She took a deep breath and dove in once again, this time flipping to the section labeled On the Fate of D. A. Malfoy. It read like a surreal interview.
22 September, 1997
7:03 in the evening
R. J. Lupin: Describe the events proceeding the death of Albus Dumbledore.
S. P. Snape: After evading the haphazardly-cast curses shouted by a certain Mr Harry Potter, I apparated to a secluded underground cellar in the Forbidden Forest, in which I had assumed Draco Malfoy lay hidden.
R. J. Lupin: But he was not there.
S. P. Snape: He was not.
R. J. Lupin: Where do you presume Mr Malfoy was?
S. P. Snape: The Dark Lord told his followers that the youngest Malfoy was tortured and killed alongside his father.
R. J. Lupin: Is there any reason to believe that Draco Malfoy is still a threat to the Order?
S. P. Snape: In the name of Albus Dumbledore, there is no reason to believe that Draco Malfoy still is or was ever a threat to the welfare of the Order of the Phoenix.
Hermione slammed the folder once again in frustration. She wanted to scream at Lupin,
whose voice ebbed into obscurity like a dying music box. It's just speculation! It should have seemed so obvious to him then; why didn't he question the professor? If Legilimency was no use, as was probably expected, they could have surely procured a vial or two of Veritaserum.
But of course he would have been the one to brew it. She cursed Snape's cleverness. Nothing he said had to be false, and most likely, none of it was. If he weren't such a bleeding sod, she would have envied his cunning.
And to some extent, she did.
Hermione turned the page.
.x.
She knocked on his door, intent on torturing him into making up her mind for her.
When a burly man answered whom she did not recognise as a bouncer from his show, she hoped to the god in whom she did not believe that this was, in fact, his door. He looked like he hadn't bathed in months–if ever–and smelled just the same. His shirt hung lazily out of his trousers, and looked as if it were three sizes too small; his trousers did little to hide a bulge of skin that she presumed to be his belly, though it was a tad difficult to tell what exactly was hiding beneath that unruly patch of hair. It took every ounce of her willpower to hold back a gag.
"And who're you?" he slurred, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at her. She would have thought he needed glasses if it weren't for where his eyes had fallen: uncomfortably on her bosom. She fidgeted and finally covered herself with her arms.
"My name's Hermione Granger," she enunciated. "I'm looking for the Great Draconus."
" 'e's not here," another man of similar stature called out, though she recognised this one from Malfoy's dressing room. He, too, squinted his eyes, but not in the inappropriate manner his crony had. His expression was one of familiarity. But it was not a kind one. "Yer the broad from the show the other night. 'in't I tell yeh ter get lost and leave the Great Draconus alone?"
Her heart rate quickened as she cowered beneath the men. She felt for her wand in her back pocket, and found small relief in its presence there. The truth of the matter was, she didn't even know if she could get to it should these towers decide to have a little fun with her. And a wand wasn't much help strewn on the floor, only a couple feet out of your grasp as two bullies had their way with you. Even if they were muggles.
And there was certainly a way to be had with a woman in these parts of town.
She stuck her chin up and stood on her toes. She would at least maintain a semblance of superiority. "Well then. If he isn't here, you wouldn't mind if I had a look inside, then?"
The first man laughed; the second one–she remembered his name to be Mason, or Madison, or something along those lines–took two steps forward and looked down on her for effect. "Oh, you can have more than a look inside."
"Leave her alone," came an annoyed voice from the alley.
The men backed down like scared puppies.
Malfoy moved toward her so swiftly that she could have sworn his feet never touched the ground, and nodded, acknowledging her presence. Another head nod sent the men inside, and with a slam of the door, the two wizards were alone.
"If you go venturing into these parts, I can't be held responsible for what happens to you," he said disapprovingly, condescendingly, as though he were speaking to a child and living in his manor rather than the garbage dump she was currently laying eyes on.
"What does it matter to you if I'm raped and murdered?"
"Trust me, Granger, nothing would thrill me more. However, we have a certain understanding that could be breached should another wizard get involved–"
"–Which is now in your control alone, depending on your answer to this question: if you are 'not a villain,' as you so alleged, why are you afraid to go back to the ministry?"
He, too, narrowed his eyes. He paused for two beats, speechless, before ignoring her entirely. "Let's get out of this filthy place."
He didn't wait for her response to lead her away.
They walked in quiet, not silence. The wind whispered sweet nothings into her ears until it ignited in her a nostalgia so deep that it chilled her bones and her knees nearly buckled. It wasn't that she'd not heard silence before then–oh, she'd heard silence, all right. She'd heard the calm before the storm; she'd heard the fear and doubt that knew no words. And she'd heard death, the silent thing; it still rang freshly in her ears like the aftershock of a bombshell. So this is what it is to be free...
But hers was an inevitable impatience. "Out with it already!"
"I'm thinking!"
"Well, now you've thought away another minute. The clock is ticking, Malfoy."
"I wasn't aware I had a time limit," he said coldly, his jaw tightening.
And then the quiet continued, but this time it was anticipating a storm.
"They'll convict me," he said finally.
"Of your crimes, yes."
"Regardless of my crimes! Or whether I committed them at all! Don't you see?"
"You plotted the death of Albus Dumble–"
"Under duress!"
"Forgive me if it would not appear that way."
"Which proves my point entirely. You asked why I can't go back, that's why. There's no pity for a death eater's son."
All it took was two words to make her remember, and she couldn't believe she'd nearly forgotten. She'd nearly forgotten his crime, his prejudice, her plight. Harry's plight. Everything they stood against, for which the pathetic excuse for a man before her stood. Her eyes narrowed, though within them, a burning anger still glistened in the moonlight. "You monster," she spat. "You deserve no pity."
"I'm not asking for pity. I'm simply trying to avoid prison."
"Self-preservation," she muttered disgustedly under her breath. "Always true to form."
"I'm sorry if I'd rather not have my soul sucked out of me!"
"What soul?"
"Ah," he clucked bitterly, and leaned his face toward hers. "So you're the clever one."
"That's what they say, yes," she bit through a set of clenched teeth, refusing to back up, refusing to back down.
He was the one to break their gaze, and she found herself staring into his broad, pale cheekbone. "Snape," he whispered. "Severus wanted–"
"Do not presume to know what Severus would want," she snarled. "You're not half the man he was."
"And I could never be! I am not proud!" He enunciated. "But even I do not deserve his fate! Nobody does." His voice suddenly dropped. "He risked his life for my anonymity."
"What he saw in you aside," she breathed, "this was one bloody fantastic way to honour his memory! Fooling around like this... did you think you'd not get caught?"
"I missed it."
"Missed what?"
"Magic," he said flatly, though there was nothing flat about the fire in his arctic eyes that suddenly flared in display.
"You abused your–"
"I was sixteen years old. I was faced with losing my family or losing my headmaster. Which would you have chosen?"
Her mouth clamped shut, and she closed her eyes, as though trying to recall a memory.
"That's what I thought."
He turned his back to her. She couldn't help but admire the curve of his neck as it plunged into his shoulder blades, broad as ever, white as the snow beginning to kiss her eyelashes and freeze her nose.
He just didn't get it. His personal struggle was for the ministry to judge. She couldn't have cared less why he thought he deserved a second chance. Or at least she shouldn't have.
"Malfoy," she said, and his name had never trickled off her tongue with more tenderness. "Why did you use magic when you knew you would be found?"
"I..." he inhaled sharply without turning around. "Could you?" His hands plummeted into his pockets and he regained his practised slouch.
"Could I..."
"Go without it?" All she could see of him was a cloud of breath against the black sky, streaming from his mouth. She shivered violently, suddenly. "For five years?"
Maybe it was the cold. Yes, she was certain it was the cold chilling her to her core. After all, she lived the first eleven years of her life without magic. She was a reasonable person. She could do it again. Couldn't she?
"You are far too presumptuous for your own good."
"Would you please just listen to me? I can tell you what happened the night Dumbledore died."
"Give me one good reason why I should listen to you," she demanded.
"Because it's the good and honest thing to do," he answered calmly, sincerely, without a second's pause.
"You are neither good nor honest."
"But you are both."
She blinked a few times and shook her head, trying to rid herself of her good nature and Gryffindor mentality. But she'd promised herself she'd at least hear him out. She had to give him a chance, even if he wouldn't have even spared her a consideration in she same situation.
"Do you know any places around here where we could get some privacy?"
.x.
Dear Harry,
I'm sorry to burden you twice in one week, but I was wondering if you'd meet me again for tea at the Luna; I've a very important matter to discuss regarding a certain DM. If Wednesday is inconvenient, owl back.
Mrs. Weasley