a/n: If you are sensitive to topics of physical/emotional parental abuse, take caution ahead. Important to the plot, I promise.
Chapter 7: Just Trees
Potterverse
"Harry, you can't seriously be thinking of—"
"Shh," Draco warned Ron sharply, glaring at him. At the moment, he was considerably less sure he was in the right choice of company, he thought, as he gestured frantically for the others to stop their obtrusive bickering. True, Theodore Nott Sr was downstairs and therefore hardly able to hear the whispering from where they were concealed in one of Nott Manor's narrow passages, but it certainly wasn't doing anything for his nerves. As it was, Draco's thumb drummed percussively against the side of his leg, only easing when the side of Hermione's pinky oh-so-carefully brushed his hand.
He glanced at her briefly, but her facial expression hadn't changed. She stared straight ahead, and even if the little not-a-hallway they were shoved in (probably once used to transport mistresses discreetly, if Draco were to guess) had permitted anything more than narrow crevices of light, nobody would have been able to see the two of them were touching.
At once, his apprehension faded. It was an ongoing series of tides, in terms of Draco's certainty. There were moments when he was quite sure he'd made the right choice in taking her here, or even further back, in the permitting of himself to be taken by her. She really was brilliant in ways the Hermione Granger he had known was not; she seemed, in fact, almost Theo-esque in the way she blended to her surroundings, picking up on the moods of others and responding beautifully to their shifts in countenance. A consequence of lonerdom, Draco suspected; camouflage.
She'd also been able to school her expression fairly well when picking out a wand. Draco suspected it was only because he'd seen the look on her face when he'd performed his initial spell on her palm that he even noticed the way her eyes had widened. She'd been called almost immediately to a pale wood, almost an ivory, which he'd nearly whispered to her was a polished vine when Ollivander had done it for him.
"Vine wands mean the owner has a greater purpose. A vision beyond the ordinary," the old wandmaker noted softly, the first words he'd spoken that Draco had heard, and nearly everyone in the room had jumped at the sound of it. He crept closer with difficulty, leaning heavily on Luna Lovegood's diminutive form, and rested a wrinkled hand on Hermione's shoulder. "The same wood as your first wand, of course."
Hermione barely heard him. "My first wand," she echoed, momentarily looking lost.
Draco suspected only he could hear the touch of longing in her voice, though even if the others could as well, it was certainly easily explained. It wasn't an easy thing to be parted from a wand; even now, with the Elder Wand concealed, Draco wouldn't have wished to part with his own.
"This one," Ollivander said, scrutinizing the wand she'd been drawn to, "has some distinctions." He squinted at her for a moment, a look of concentration creeping over his features. "A bit longer than yours was, and this one is strung with—" He picked it up, appearing to listen to the sound of the wood. "Unicorn hair. But all in all—" He turned it over in his fingers, closing his eyes briefly. "Yes. Very similar to your first wand."
"Oh," Hermione said, and Draco watched, curious, to see what she'd do next. She reached out, about to take the wand from Ollivander's hand, and abruptly froze, her fingers still outstretched before her gaze fell on a wand tucked further back. "I, um—sorry," she said, turning to Theo, "may I?"
Theo shrugged, unconcerned (and likely uninterested) and Hermione glanced at Ollivander, who watched curiously as she pointed to a wand nearly concealed from view.
"That one," Ollivander noted, shifting slightly at the sight of it, "is laurel. They say that a laurel wand cannot perform a dishonorable act; although, in the quest for glory, laurel wands have been known to perform powerful, and—" he hesitated before adding, "sometimes lethal magic."
Hermione frowned uncertainly, her itching fingers stilling in something Draco suspected was a careful read of Ollivander's tone, and in her hesitation, Ron had reached for her, settling his hand on her arm.
Abruptly, sparks ignited from the tips of Ron's fingers where they brushed Hermione's skin. He brought them to his mouth with a yelp, sucking lightly at them.
"What was that?" he asked, frowning, and though Hermione didn't look at Draco, he abruptly recalled what she had said: I can definitely make things happen on occasion. Nothing I can control, of course, but I know I have magic.
Draco probably shouldn't have been quite so pleased her reaction to being touched by Ron Weasley was so visceral even her mostly-dormant magic was opposed, but some things couldn't be helped. He opened his mouth to cover for her (he hadn't yet decided how) but to his surprise, she spoke first.
"After a traumatic event," Hermione hurriedly explained, turning to face Ron, "magic can sometimes… it can be rather unpredictable. It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she added, reaching out to rest her hand gently on his with a poised deliberation. "I'm sure it's nothing."
Draco exhaled, half-relieved and half-astonished. It did sound very much as if Hermione Granger was in the room with them, and she'd certainly bought herself an excuse, in case anything misbehaved in the future. Ron looked worried, but not suspicious; Harry looked curious, but not concerned.
Clever girl, Draco thought, and only then did she look up, sparing him a twitch of a non-smile before firmly taking hold of the laurel wand.
"This one, I think," she said, and the moment her fingers wrapped around the handle, the wand gave a low, faint glow, warming all of her features with the softness of arrival; with the particular sensation of arriving home. "It feels right."
"It looks well on you," Ollivander agreed, as Hermione continued to stare down at it, letting her fingers mold to the feel of the wood. "This one is phoenix feather. A wand of resurrection," he noted, curiously eyeing her features as Harry tore his gaze away, shifting to inspect his feet. "Renewal, and rebirth. Not unrigid," he added, watching her test it through the air, slicing with the deftness of a knife, "but certainly subject to change. An excellent choice for someone beginning a journey," he finished, "as the wand will gradually pledge its fealty to you, and learn you over time."
"Probably shouldn't try any spells, though, don't you think?" Luna said, her dreamy voice surprising them. "Since, as you said. The stress," she mused, "which can have similar effects to canadensis infestations, in my experience."
They all looked blankly at her.
"Explosions," was her added clarification, and they all nodded, determining such a thing was uniformly undesirable.
For a moment, Draco permitted himself to let out a breath, feeling they'd once again managed to escape something of an apocalyptic fiasco. But such breaths were never to last long, and now, hidden behind Theo's bedroom wall with the quibbling set of hero-twins, he was apprehensive again, tensed and anxious as Nott Sr's voice echoed below them, gravelly with rage at his son.
"—WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN'T SEEN HIM, YOU RECKLESS FOOL! AS IF I WOULDN'T KNOW HE'D COME TO YOU—"
"Papá, as I've said," Theo replied coolly, "Draco and I haven't spoken in at least a year. If you were listening, you would know I'd be the absolute last place he would go."
"DO YOU THINK I'M AN IDIOT?"
"We can't take him with us," Ron was continuing to argue with Harry. "I mean, if we already have to take Malfoy along—"
"They'll kill him," Hermione snapped, the pressure of her touch momentarily firm against Draco's leg. "You can't possibly still be insisting we leave him behind after he's helped us!"
"I'm just saying, this is rather a cumbersome crowd—"
"We'll take Luna and Mr Ollivander to Bill's," Harry said, frowning in calculation or, perhaps, in pain. Draco had already observed him rubbing absently at his scar a few times, which wasn't unlike the prickling at Draco's own Mark. He wasn't quite sure he understood Harry's connection to the Dark Lord, but he assumed the two were not unrelated, given the coincidental timing. "But you might be right. It might be dangerous to take Nott with us," Harry conceded, cutting a glance at Draco as Ron nodded, relieved. "For your sake as well as his, Malfoy. If neither of you go back to Hogwarts tomorrow—much less even one of you—"
"First of all, shut your goddamn mouths," Draco hissed for the umpteenth time, "and second of all, you can't honestly be thinking of leaving him. You just said—"
"I know what I said," Harry growled tightly. "But think about it, Malfoy. You can't go back, fine—but if Nott doesn't go back, that's a target on all our backs. I can't fit five people under the cloak, and—"
"Cloak?" Draco asked, but immediately held up a hand as a shout came from downstairs again.
"—DO YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME, THEODORE? DO YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW MY OWN SON'S A COMPULSIVE LIAR? IF VERITASERUM WON'T DO IT, THE DARK LORD WILL CERTAINLY GET IT OUT OF YOU—"
"Well," Theo replied with a dry, weighty sigh, "much as I love being drugged by my own father—"
"Where's the cloak now?" Ron asked Harry, panicked. "Last I checked it, was in Hermione's bag, but she—"
"I left it with you," Hermione cut in quickly. "With Harry, I mean," she amended, glancing meaningfully at him, and he nodded, patting his pocket. Draco exhaled swiftly, realizing she must have been watching her other self while they'd all been in the Manor. "Everything should be in there."
"The point is, we don't have to take Nott with us," Ron said. "He'll be fine at Hogwarts, won't he?"
"Depends," Luna mused, her voice several octaves too high.
"On what?" Harry asked her.
"What definition of 'fine' you're using," she replied, idly watching a piece of lint that floated through the air.
For his part, Draco was torn. On the one hand, Theo was very clearly a liability, particularly if he intended to force Draco on an unwilling hunt for the Deathly Hallows. On the other, however, Draco knew all too well what awaited Theo back at Hogwarts.
That, and he owed him much more.
"If you don't take Theo," Draco said in a low voice, "then I can't leave him. I can't."
"Then maybe we don't need you, either," Harry mused at once, not looking at him, and Hermione jammed an elbow into his side. "Ouch, Hermione—"
"He's not wrong," Ron grumbled. "Even if you have information, you hardly need to follow us around. It's not like it isn't dangerous enough with three of us, and—"
"Or two," Harry cut in under his breath, and Ron's mouth snapped shut.
For a moment, Draco finally got the silence he'd been demanding for the past several minutes. Unfortunately, in this particular instance, he firmly hoped it didn't last.
"I thought," Ron ventured quietly, "you understood that I was…"
He trailed off, catching Draco's look of bemusement before Draco blithely averted his gaze, becoming fascinated with the darkened beams of the ceiling.
"I forgave you," Harry said. "That doesn't mean I understood."
Hermione's fingers tapped lightly at Draco's thigh. He didn't need a translation; she was asking him what happened between them, but he had no idea.
A troubling thought, though only mildly troubling compared to what came next.
The sound of footsteps came closer, drawing into the room, and Nott Sr's voice grew louder as Theo's lengthy footfall broke into a run, his voice panicked in a way Draco had not heard it before.
"Father, listen to me," Theo was saying, "I wouldn't hide him, Father. I wouldn't do that, I know perfectly well it could get me killed—"
"GET OUT OF MY WAY, BOY—"
"Father," Theo gritted out, "Sir, please, if you would just listen to me, I c-"
He broke off with a halted gasp and there was a thud, a loud one; the unmistakable sound of a body dropping to the floor.
"Listen to you?" Nott Sr spat, as they saw the shadows changing shape through the cracks in the walls beside them, all of them holding their breaths. "Give me one reason I should listen to you. Do you think I trust you, Theodore? You've been a liar and a coward all your life. You've been a disappointment from the day you were fucking born, and if you think I won't have a word with the Carrows about what to do with you when you return to Hogwarts—"
Draco caught the sputtered sound of a low groan.
"Fucking stay down while I'm talking to you," Nott Sr snarled. "Did I say you could get up?"
Hermione's hand tightened on Draco's leg.
"No, Sir," Theo said quietly, the sound of a long-familiar rage caught at the backs of his teeth and sticky from his throat. "But," he forced out, and now even Harry and Ron were glancing apprehensively at each other, "as I said, he isn't here—"
"Are you sure?"
Nott Sr's voice cracked through the room as Theo let out a strangled yelp of pain.
"I'm—I swear," Theo panted. "I fucking swear, he's not here." He gave a ragged breath and then repeated, "I swear. He's—he's not here."
Silence.
Draco permitted a gradual look up, scanning the others for their reactions. Ron was pale. Hermione was so still Draco wondered if she were still breathing. Harry had his eyes forced shut, casting demons out of his head.
"You'd better not be lying to me, boy," Nott Sr said eventually, and then his footfall sounded through the room, the door slamming behind him and bathing the rest of them in hateful, blanketing silence.
It was Harry who moved first, scrambling to force his way through the passage back into Theo's bedroom. He took only one moment's glance around before shoving through the door, Draco directly at his heels, and the two of them spilled into the room as Theo was still struggling to rise to his feet, his head carefully turned away.
All at once, whatever had propelled Harry forward paused him, wrenching him back in place.
"Nott," he said, and Theo glared at him, the cut on his cheek smeared across his nose. His face was swollen and red, but the bruising would start later. Draco had seen it enough times to know. He felt a deep crevice of shame open up in his chest, forcing itself wide and nearly swallowing him up as Hermione and Ron crept out behind him, their attention carefully glued to the beams of the floor.
"Something you'd like to say, Potter?" Theo asked, gritting his teeth.
Harry blinked, one hand curling tightly to a fist.
"You can't stay here," he eventually said.
"You don't fucking say," Theo mused harshly, turning to spit on the floor. Draco didn't have to look to see the stain it left behind; instead, he waited for Theo's eyes to fall on his and forced himself not to flinch. It was what he deserved, after all. He didn't have the right to look away; not when he'd already done so for the entirety of the last year.
These are the men you choose to stand with, Theo had hurled at him during their last fight. You know what they are, what they've done—and that's what you fucking choose over me?
"My dad says hi," Theo told him, catching the echo of Draco's thoughts.
Draco forced a swallow. "I heard."
"Jesus Christ, Nott," Ron exhaled, shaking his head, and Theo turned, glaring at him.
"About that thing I need to find," Theo began, but Harry cut him off.
"We can talk about it later," Harry said flatly. "Right now, we need a plan."
Draco looked over his shoulder at Hermione, whose face had gone from pale with concern to flushed with sourceless anger. She seemed to be calculating something in her head, and after a moment's pause, she walked directly up to Theo, taking hold of his chin in one hand and aiming her newly-acquired wand at his cheek. Theo, who wasn't accustomed to being touched (much less by parallel-universe muggleborns) wrenched himself away, but she held him steady, ignoring both the motions of him flinching and of Draco stepping forward, unsure whether to intervene.
"Tergeo," she said firmly, voice clear as she used the spell Draco had inadvertently taught her, and miraculously, the wound healed. Cleaned itself, smoothed over, leaving behind nothing but a faint line in testament to what it had been. Then she released him, astoundingly betraying no surprise at what Draco knew to be her very first (intentional) use of magic, and stepped back.
"Now you can continue plotting," she said to Harry, without pause for refusal. Theo looked stunned, drawing a hand over the ghost of his injury, and glanced questioningly at Draco, who spared him the smallest of shrugs.
She learns quickly, he thought.
(As if he'd really needed a reason to want her more.)
Harry, meanwhile, was launching manically into action. "Take them to Bill's," he said to Ron, gesturing to Luna and Ollivander as they made their way out behind him. "When they're settled, I want you to meet us at King's Cross."
Ron frowned. "King's Cross? Why would y-"
"Because," Harry said, turning to Theo and Draco, "I have something else you need to help me do before we go anywhere. Or look for anything."
"Which is?" Theo prompted brusquely, still tense.
Harry's mouth curled into an alarmingly unsettling smile. "We're going to blow up the Hogwarts Express."
Grindelverse
By the time they'd returned to Malfoy Manor, Draco's parents still weren't home. Instead, a small creature toddled into the room, presenting Draco a letter on a delicate silver platter and holding it aloft for his reach.
"Wait a minute," Hermione said, noting the elf's familiar expression (albeit unfamiliar set of non-clothing bearing the Malfoy seal) as Draco distractedly picked up the letter addressed to him. "Dobby?"
The elf she could now see very clearly was Dobby turned to look at her, mildly disinterested.
"Is you needing something from Dobby, Miss?" the elf asked. He seemed to be checking her for something, his gaze drifting ambiguously near her pockets, when Hermione realized he must have been confusing her for her other version. She wondered what this universe's Hermione had thought of house elves; probably something similar, she assumed, though Dobby seemed mostly concerned with looking for evidence of a knife.
"Some food would be ideal, Dobby," Draco suggested, having skimmed the letter and replaced it on the tray. Hermione could see that the broken wax seal also bore the Malfoy crest, and was therefore likely a note from his parents. "Do tell Marla to see what she can put together in the kitchen, would you? I'm famished—"
"Well, hold on," Hermione said, stepping forward with a lurch just before Dobby raised a hand to apparate himself away. "I'm sure that won't be necessary. We can make something ourselves, can't we?"
Draco gave her a wildly skeptical look, which was magnified tenfold by the elf's expression of near-contemptuous disbelief.
"Would not be proper, Miss," Dobby said doubtfully, and as Hermione opened her mouth to reply (something along the lines of what's 'proper' can go and hang, I have literature on the subject in case you'd like to read some—) Draco stepped in carefully, addressing the elf.
"Miss Granger has slightly different customs from ours, Dobby. Please tell Marla I would appreciate it if she'd set out some fresh ingredients, but Miss Granger and I will prepare dinner ourselves." He paused, waiting for the elf's expression of disagreement to ease before adding firmly, "Thank you, Dobby."
Dobby gave something of a crinkled grimace before bowing low, then disapparating with a crack. Hermione, meanwhile, turned to Draco with surprise.
"That was… unusual," she remarked, unsure whether to be pleased or simply bemused. "The Draco I know wouldn't have been nearly so polite to an elf. Or to anyone," she amended, grimacing.
"You know, I'll have to thank the Draco you knew for being such a flaming wastebasket of a human being," Draco replied casually, "as it makes improving upon him so effortless—but I can't actually take credit for that particular episode of betterment." He beckoned for her to follow as he made his way through the hall, continuing, "I learned my lesson, you know. I can't say whether I was particularly cruel to Dobby before, not having thought about my treatment of him much. However, I certainly make an effort not to be now, considering I know perfectly well what that elf does to my family in your universe." He glanced at her, shaking his head. "Needless to say, I'm rather not in the business of provoking any sort of mutiny, elvish or otherwise."
"You know about Dobby?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"I know about a great many things," Draco reminded her. "Not much about cooking, though, so I can't say I'm too thrilled about preparing supper myself."
He flashed her his unnerving smile again, and she wondered (not for the first time) just how much information he'd gathered about the universe she came from.
"I take it the note was from your parents?" she asked instead, figuring 'tell me everything you know' was likely a conversation that would have to wait, and he nodded.
"Wishing me a lovely final term while they extend their holiday with Grindelwald's elite," he offered tartly, rolling his eyes. "Sycophants, the both of them. They really only wish to be comfortable, not powerful."
"Is that so terrible?" Hermione asked him.
"Terrible? No. Admirable? Hardly," Draco replied. "You should see Sirius' impression of them after Grindelwald's visits. He does a particularly spot-on imitation of my father's most sickeningly feigned laugh. In here," he beckoned, gesturing her through a rather small door. "You'll have to duck, obviously. Not too many wizards come through here."
She conceded to bend her head, entering what was clearly the kitchen, and what was obviously a space occupied exclusively by elves. Everything was slightly smaller than normal-sized, the shelves placed low on the walls, but it was all spotlessly in place. The whole kitchen gleamed with cleanliness, and in the center of the room, a variety of fresh produce and carefully portioned meats were waiting beneath the spherical glow of an artful, temperature-controlling chilling charm.
"That was fast," Hermione commented, impressed.
"They're elves," Draco reminded her. "They're better at many things than humans." She arched a brow, surprised, and he shrugged. "Or perhaps that's merely my convenient excuse for not having freed them. In my defense, there's not exactly any place they could go without being rejected by the rest of their kind—though that's also true in your universe," he mused, not looking at her, and she sighed, realizing now why he'd so quickly offered to do the cooking.
"You know about S.P.E.W., then," she said, half-grumbling it under her breath. It was difficult to tell how much of him was sincere and how much was curated for her appreciation.
Regardless, his response was as coy as ever. "I know a great number of things, Hermione."
Dinner was something of a challenge, given she was deathly certain he'd never prepared his own meals in his life, but cooking was still more easily managed with magic than with muggle equipment. Ultimately, Hermione was guiltily relieved to finally sit down and fill her long-deprived stomach with something comforting. She hadn't had fresh vegetables in months, and certainly not enough of anything to permit her the long-lost swells of satisfaction in the base of her stomach; it was the luxury of being full, after months on the run.
Even Draco's company was something of a pleasure, despite the constant wavering of her faith in him. He was extremely well-educated, highly well-read; probably not unlike her own version of Draco Malfoy, albeit much more tolerable to be around, given his lack of unassailable prejudices. They spoke about a variety of topics, from Caesar's Rome to Shakespeare's Caesar ("So Shakespeare was a wizard?" she asked, to which Draco had shaken his head; "Fae, and scarcely trying to hide it, much to Mab's displeasure") and for a minute, caught up in conversation that wasn't about horcruxes or Hallows for the first time in weeks, Hermione began to relax, settling into her new environment.
She was so relaxed, in fact, that she didn't even argue when Draco suggested Dobby fit her for some new clothes, advising that at the very least she would need more than one set of them. She stepped onto something of a makeshift platform without much fuss, feeling that of all the places to temporarily occupy, perhaps this one wasn't so terrible. She was comfortable, after all, and well-fed; she could make her way back to Harry and Ron soon enough, she thought, while Dobby bustled his way around her, taking her measurements.
For the time being, the best way to survive was to simply… be. At least until a useful opportunity presented itself.
"Knee length," Draco advised Dobby, sipping what looked like an espresso as he gestured for the elf to alter the hem of something he was conjuring.
"Higher," came a voice behind them, and Hermione turned sharply, nearly knocking Dobby aside with the suddenness of her motion. "Just above the knee," Theo suggested to the elf, entering the room in a slightly more casual outfit (only in that it did not feature any particular symbols or crests) and falling into a seat beside Draco, "given her height."
"Excuse me," Hermione began, feeling oddly exposed despite being fully dressed. She hadn't expected to be observed and was about to protest that he shouldn't be permitted to watch, but it became clear right away that Theo was scarcely paying her any attention.
"I thought we were aiming for something a bit more respectable," Draco said, turning to Theo.
"It's not unrespectable simply because it's more flattering," Theo said. "It's not going to escape his notice that she's still a teenager, for fuck's sake. Hem it above the knee," he suggested to the elf, who bowed, lifting a finger to comply before being interrupted.
"Wait," Draco instructed Dobby curtly, and Hermione watched with idle hesitation, still no less bewildered by their back-and-forth. "Is it going to fit her character, though? I thought we were aiming to implicate old money."
"You were thinking that, yes, but I was thinking no," Theo replied smartly. "Perhaps something a bit sillier, you know—like a young witch collecting trinkets, or seeking out some sort of bauble. Something he won't take seriously."
Hermione frowned. The sensation of being out of her element was quickly returning, leaving her unhappily adrift.
"He needs to take the money seriously, though," Draco told Theo sternly. "Or else why would he even agree to the commission?"
"Well, hence her being… I don't know. A disgraced heiress," Theo suggested wildly, as Hermione sighed, hands on her hips.
"What's going on?" she demanded, and both boys turned to look at her, each expressing varying degrees of misbehavior.
"Look," Draco began tentatively, "it's just th-"
"Give us a minute, would you, Draco?" Theo interrupted, cutting Draco off with a glance. "Miss Granger and I aren't particularly well-acquainted, after all."
It was a rather unsubtle way of saying let me handle this, and Hermione fully expected Draco to argue, only it seemed that Theo, like this universe's Harry, was not someone Draco readily refused. Instead, Draco merely opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded.
"As you wish," he determined with a sigh, and rose to his feet, glancing at Hermione. "I'll be right outside the door," he told her, gesturing. "Just there."
"Am I in danger?" she asked drily, letting her gaze flick to Theo, who shrugged.
"Never can be too careful," Theo advised.
Draco rolled his eyes. "I'll be outside," he said again, and slipped outside the door.
In Draco's absence, Theo rose to his feet, stepping carefully towards Hermione. She was on a platform but he was still plenty tall enough to meet her eye, placing himself directly in front of her.
"Your other iteration was a very good actress when she wanted to be," Theo commented. "Did us quite a few favors in places we couldn't afford to show our faces." He paused before adding, "It's rather an invaluable thing, being invisible. She was very good at it—again, when she wanted to be."
Interesting he would say that, Hermione thought. The Theo Nott she knew was certainly an expert at invisibility; so much so that she'd scarcely noticed him for six entire years, and still couldn't name any remarkable facets of his personality.
This one, however, wasn't particularly difficult to read.
"You want me to be the one to commission Tom Riddle for the resurrection stone," Hermione sighed, and Theo's mouth quirked up, pleasantly satisfied. "What a wonderful treat for me," she added with a scowl, and at that, Theo's lips curled into a full, uninhibited smile, preternaturally amused by her sulky retreat into how did I get here, how did I get here, how did I bloody get here and how the bloody hell will I get out?
"You know, your other self was rather easy to manipulate," Theo postured delicately, "or so Draco believed. I think he believed he was using her as much as she believed she was using him—but as they both had such clear-cut goals, in the end they were probably both right. He wanted the Hallows, she wanted magic. But then, that begs the question," he mused, staring entirely too intently at her face. "What exactly do you want from this, Hermione Granger?"
She opened her mouth, about to let the dam break—I don't know, I don't know, I DON'T KNOW—and saved herself at the last second, holding herself aloft against the precipice of breaking.
"What do you want me to want?" she managed to counter, and his smile broadened knowingly again.
"Have you ever looked a monster in the eye?" he asked, his tone neutral, and she blinked, caught off guard. "A real one, I mean. Not a creature. Not what Grindelwald calls monsters—which you are, of course," he teased, and she grimaced, shaking her head. "No, I mean a true monster," he continued, the smile gradually fading as he spoke. "Have you ever looked in a man's eyes and known, somehow, that he felt nothing? Less than nothing, even. That where a heart would feel empathy, or a brain would at least process some semblance of morality, there is nothing in him but a ringing, faltering silence. A vacancy," he clarified, "where something else should be."
Hermione swallowed, fairly certain Theo wasn't speaking exclusively about Grindelwald.
"Maybe it's rather foolish of me to claim I want to rid the world of monsters," Theo mused, abruptly falling back on his toneless charm. "But in fairness, I never said I wasn't a fool, did I?"
He transitioned easily to humor, but Hermione found her own throat rather dry.
"Tom Riddle is a monster," she eventually managed to point out.
"Is he?" Theo countered, shrugging. "Or is he just a man? Because those you can crush underfoot, you know." He scrutinized her again, curling a hand around his mouth before dragging his gaze back to hers. "Maybe you mythologize him, romanticize him. In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter, really. Truth is monsters bleed just the same."
She shivered, suspecting he'd seen as much already.
"In my universe, Tom Riddle corrupted his soul," she reminded him. "He made himself as close to immortal as he could get."
"Do you think he did the same thing here?" Theo asked. It was a highly neutral question; he seemed genuinely unmoved about the answer. Her answer, like a subtle breeze, would do nothing to shift the placement of his feet, nor the certainty of his decision. He wanted to know it, his tone indicated, but it would not change his mind.
"I don't see why not," she replied. "His wanting to live forever seemed… unavoidable, somehow. As if he might have tried it either way."
"Well, he's one of the last half-bloods remaining to have attended Hogwarts," Theo mused aloud, and Hermione was pleased to see he'd done his research, at least. "I suppose he'd have the means, magically speaking. Shortly after his tenure there, Dumbledore lost the duel to Grindelwald," he added in explanation, as she nodded, piecing the timeline together. "Riddle himself had a promising future, or so they say, until Grindelwald's rise forced him into hiding."
"Hiding?" Hermione echoed, surprised. "But if he's hiding, how are you all so familiar with his dealings?"
"It's a criminal's form of hiding," Theo amended with a shrug. "Black market. He's a purveyor of rare goods for Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. The sort of purveyor," he clarified slyly, "one doesn't exactly speak of in polite company—"
"Which is why a Black, a Nott, and a Malfoy can't be seen seeking him out," Hermione sighed, grudgingly making the connection.
Theo's broad smile returned. "Exactly."
"You really think he won't find me suspicious?" Hermione asked, skeptical. "I'm muggleborn, in case you've forgotten, which is hardly an improvement—"
"Well, I distinctly hope you're not going to go in reciting your family history," Theo advised, arching a brow. "We'll give you an alias, of course. What that will be is obviously another story," he conceded, "because as you've heard, Draco wants to pass you off as a respectable British pureblood, whereas I think differently." He glanced at her for a reaction before continuing, "Tom Riddle has the resources to check your pedigree if he thinks you might be someone he can leverage. Therefore, I say we make you someone far more irresponsible. Someone with nothing to lose. An heiress with a drug problem, for example," he suggested, either pretending not to notice or not particularly minding as she blanched with dismay, "or with an affinity for gambling. In short, someone with too much money and no useful concept what to do with it. Maybe some daddy problems, too."
"Like you," Hermione guessed, and Theo paused for a moment, and then laughed.
"Yes," he agreed. "Someone very much like me."
They paused in silence; for a moment, oddly, something nagged at her.
"The other me," Hermione ventured carefully. "What did you think of her?"
For once, Theo looked surprised by the question.
"I liked her," he confessed eventually. "I recognized things in her. The loneliness. The boredom. The crippling, burdening sensation she didn't belong," he added drily, as if this were something as equally nondescript as her hair color. "The things that made Harry mistrustful of her—and which made Draco underestimate her," he added, as Hermione inclined her head in agreement, "were the very things I found… extremely tolerable."
"What a compliment," Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes. Extremely tolerable. A sparkling review.
"It is," Theo said simply. "From me, it is."
She realized she believed him, which she didn't like in the slightest. She hated the feeling, in fact.
It reminded her of trust, which was something she resolutely didn't want to do. Not here.
"So you want to kill a monster. Is that it?" Hermione asked.
"That's it," Theo said, shrugging.
Hermione sighed, composing herself, and then nodded.
"Take the hem up, then," she ruled, and he blinked, surprised a second time. "But use a more expensive fabric, and maybe add some rips in the hems; some holes or damage or something. I should look like I've lost everything, or that I'm about to," she clarified. "Like I have nothing to lose, so that he'll think I'm nothing. He'll think I'm nothing, and he'll be wrong."
Theo smiled slowly, nodding his head.
"And that's how you kill a monster," he murmured.
"That's how you kill a monster," Hermione agreed, exhaling it out onto the tenuous foundation of their understanding.
a/n: Dedicated to hesitantsoup, who always asks the thoughtful questions.
