Chapter 19: Choice Methods

Potterverse

There are any number of ways to do any given thing, no matter what anyone tells you. It may occasionally appear as if there is only one route to a given result, but to believe as much would be to fool oneself entirely. In the logical world—wherein the possible means to any end are practically infinite—there are numerous ways to speak to one's mother that do not involve any variety of criminal activity, or burgling of any sort. For example, a casual Floo call. An owl. A visit to her penitentiary. A polite request to speak with the prisoner, should such a thing be permissible. All perfectly suitable options, Draco would have argued, for the same or approximately similar result.

"That may be so, but I just don't see how we're going to manage it otherwise," had been Harry's response when Draco pointed out the logistical pitfalls of his plan, which had been (like most of his plans) to simply arrive unannounced and cause mild-to-moderate property damage. "We're going to be discussing something illegal, Malfoy. I'd rather not have dementors listening in."

"Ah yes, because dementors are notorious gossips," Draco said.

"What are dementors?" asked Hermione, distracting them momentarily. Draco had the distinct impression now that her secret was out she'd likely be asking a number of similar questions. Not unlike a small child, in fact, only hers was something of a rigorously academic tone that served him faintly traumatic flashbacks to certain classes with someone rather like her.

"In an elementary sense? They're soul-sucking monsters," Theo replied smartly. "Basically the embodiment of fear, though the implied corporeality there is arguable at best. Actually, now that I think about it," he added to himself, "I wonder how they reproduce. Sexually?" he asked, hopeful. "Do we think sexually?"

"We don't think about it at all," Harry assured him, looking slightly disturbed.

"Well, fear is theoretically viral, isn't it?" Hermione posed thoughtfully. "Maybe they simply multiply?"

"Let's not do this," Draco sighed, shaking his head. "We were discussing my mother, weren't we?"

"No, we'd already decided," Theo reminded him briskly. "Haven't you been listening? We're breaking her out of Azkaban. Can't wait to tell her about your new girlfriend," he added with a smirk, waving a hand in Hermione's direction. "Think it'll go over well?"

"Which part," Harry chimed in, "the muggleborn bit, or the minor parallel universe detail?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is astounding nobody's murdered you."

"Not successfully, anyway," was Harry's smug reply.

"Should I bring her a gift?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"All things considered, I imagine breaking her out of wizarding prison would be the ideal present," Harry assured her.

"Not that we're doing that," Draco reminded them, "because that's positively mad."

"Sure," Harry permitted idly. "And on a totally unrelated note, do you all know how to cast the Patronus charm?"

They paused, glancing at each other.

"No," Hermione said.

Harry turned expectantly to Theo.

"Theoretically? Yes," Theo supplied.

"And in actuality?" Harry prompted.

"Never been there," Theo assured him.

Harry sighed. "Which is to say…?"

"Nothing," Theo said. "Obviously."

"Right, but—"

"No, Potter, we were never taught the spell, and therefore we don't know," Draco inserted bluntly, already exasperated with the both of them. "Not all of us needed smelling salts at any sight of them third year, so the answer is no."

"Oh," Harry said, ambling away. "Well then, if you don't need my help—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Theo grumbled, lunging after him to take his arm.

That, unfortunately, had been the start of something Draco knew he'd be loath to confess ever took place: the teaching of magical theory by none other than underachieving, Granger-reliant, 'er, well, ghosts are transparent' Harry Potter himself.

"Think of a happy memory," Harry had said, which already made Draco (and by the looks of it, Theo) want to throw something. Preferably Harry himself, though any similar impact would have been acceptable. "Then say the incantation, 'Expecto Patronum'—"

"This is ridiculous," Theo said.

"That's for boggarts," Harry told him.

"What's a boggart?" asked Hermione.

"Well," Theo began, "speaking of fear—"

"Focus," Draco growled again, nudging them both into silence. "Look, I'm not saying we're actually breaking into Azkaban—"

"Though we are," Harry said.

"—but if we are—"

"Which we are," Theo supplied.

"—then I'm certainly not putting my safety in Potter's hands alone," Draco finished, glaring at both of them. "We're all going to learn this. Understood?"

"Sure, Dad," Theo said, before adding slyly, "And what's your happy memory, pray tell?"

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Contemplated his life and his choices and his entire state of being, then scowled. Then, suffering an inadvisable and rarely-ventured brush of optimism, he glanced at Hermione. That would be easiest, wouldn't it? She was right there, after all. Still, 'happiness' was something of a loose term, which he didn't care for. For one thing, it was difficult to define. For another, he wasn't totally sure he remembered how to feel it.

Draco recalled, though, that perhaps there was more than one asinine way to accomplish something. Leave it to Harry Potter, paragon of goodness and morality, to decide the only way to produce a given result was to liken it to something simple. Happiness. How perfectly banal. Of all the emotions, happiness was the simplest. The least faceted; the first to flee, and the easiest to fake. To say something as easily falsified as happiness could successfully combat despair under every circumstance was wildly underwhelming. In Draco's experience, even true happiness was fleeting, at best—but that, of course, begged the question: What would be more lasting, then? He lifted a hand to his mouth, frowning into nothing.

Relief, he thought. It wasn't the same temperature as happiness—it was a cool wave, or sometimes a dousing thrill, versus the warmth of contentment—but it was far more tangible. The sensation of being relieved was one he could trust, Draco suspected. Happiness seemed a distant memory for easier times. But relief? That was something far more powerful, and certainly more easily clung to when he felt it.

His mind wandered to the times he'd been relieved. A pleasing grade on a difficult exam. Receiving his father's approval, even on the small things (the only approval he'd ever gotten, come to think of it) like whether his cuffs had been properly pressed. Draco was a worrier, far more neurotic than he strived to appear, and repressing it was a constant battle. Even now, seeing Hermione conjure what looked to be a very sleek wolf was somewhat disarming. Her delight at her success was utterly palpable, and by comparison, Draco's reticence was considerably limiting. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and wondered at the last time he'd felt a wave of something strong enough to rely on.

"Yes, hello. It's me again," sighed a voice in his head, and Draco's eyes snapped open, alarmed. He peered around the vacant park they'd opted to practice in, looking for proof she'd appeared again, but the memory had been just that—a memory. He frowned, glancing down at his wand with a minor sensation of betrayal.

Was it possible he'd somehow made a mental connection between Hermione Granger and his own sensation that everything might be… fine?

"You could try using the Elder Wand if it's not working," Harry pointed out, sidling up next to Draco. A few feet away, Harry's hand on Theo's shoulder appeared to have done the trick; Theo's falcon flapped amiably next to Hermione's wolf, and Theo himself was smiling faintly, looking more than a little satisfied. "I can't imagine you'd have any problems casting it with one of the Hallows."

"No, I just—" Draco cleared his throat. "Hold on."

He paused, taking a moment to center himself and half-hoping the experiment proved fruitless.

Yes, hello. It's me again.

Please, he thought silently, let this be entirely in his imagination.

"Expecto Patronum," he said, expecting the incantation to fail, only it didn't. It hadn't. Something wholly corporeal had shot out of his wand, and he was so torn at first about the source of the spell's power he hadn't bothered to wonder what it was. He merely stood with abject confusion, unsure what it meant that he'd felt something strongly enough to produce anything at all with it.

But then—"Wait a minute," Draco registered, blinking at the translucent specter he'd cast. "Is that some kind of... cat?"

"Of course it's a cat," Theo said, wandering over to him. "Makes perfect sense. You're moody and unpredictable, you detest being unnecessarily touched, and for as long as I've known you, you've avoided large bodies of water."

"I think it's some sort of predatory cat, if it helps," Hermione contributed, tilting her head to observe it from several different angles. "I mean, I've certainly never seen a domestic cat this large, though I suppose I haven't been exposed to all that many other kinds."

"All cats are predators," Harry told her, and slid a smirk at Draco. "I think it's cute, Malfoy."

"Shut up," Draco muttered under his breath, and then, frowning, "It's definitely too big to be a normal sort of cat, isn't it?"

"Actually," Theo said, grinning, "I think it's a lioness."

"Impossible," Draco said, and paused. "Wait. Lioness?"

"Sure," Harry said, pointing. "See? No mane."

Draco frowned. "But—"

"Maybe you have an intensely female energy," Theo suggested, and though Draco considered expressing his considerable malcontent with a slew of selectively barbed words, he opted instead for the more time-saving method of simply rolling his eyes.

"Well, whatever it is, it doesn't matter," Draco told them firmly as his cat (or whatever it was) wandered over and plunked itself down at his feet. "We're not going," he said, and as the patronus cast a moodily disapproving look (disconcertingly like his own) over the rest of them, he dispelled it with a sigh, glaring at them in its absence. "We're not going," he said again, "and that's final."

Harry looked at Theo, who looked at Hermione, who shrugged. Then she looked back at Harry, who looked at Draco, who looked desperately between the other three, realizing they'd positioned themselves into something of an immovable triangle.

"You're overruling me," he muttered with a groan. "Aren't you?"

"Yes," Theo offered curtly.

"Fuck," remarked Draco, as Hermione slid an arm around his waist, thoughtfully stifling her laugher.

"Well, now that that's out of the way," Harry said cheerily, "let's get going, shall we?"


Grindelverse

Returning to the entry hall of Malfoy Manor was always something of an uncomfortable experience. Hermione was beginning to suspect the context of even being there was a Pavlovian trigger for an underlying sensation of dread. The whole place seemed to radiate with her own undercurrent of anxiety; of not knowing what could come next. The lingering inclination that perhaps trouble was right around the corner was a sliver of something as finely gilded as the art that sat upon the Manor's walls.

"Something's bothering you," Draco noted beside her, and she glanced at him, gauging him with a look. He had transitioned from prickly and fidgety to solemn and mournful, though she wasn't sure what that meant.

She realized for the first time she really didn't know him that well. She couldn't read him the way she'd learned to read Harry or Ron, or even the way she'd learned the mannerisms of his alternate self. The other Draco, for all his terrible flaws, was a bundle of tells she'd had little choice but to observe since she was eleven. This one, on the other hand, was something of an enigma, and though he paused to take her hand, running his thumb over the M on her wrist, she wasn't entirely sure his concern was for her so much as about her.

Was it sympathy, or was it… disappointment?

"Can you tell me something?" she asked him, and his brow furrowed slightly, recognizing that something unpleasant was probably coming next. Whether she could read him or not, he could certainly pick out her moods well enough.

"I imagine so," he replied, voice dry. "Try me."

"You know a lot about me," she ventured slowly, parsing her words carefully through a haze of indecision about whether to indulge her curiosities. In response, his expression didn't change.

"Is that a question?" he asked.

Yes. No. "I guess I'm just wondering why you were so quick to trade the Elder Wand for me," Hermione said, thinking back to her conversation with Theo. "You didn't have to keep me here," she reminded him. "You could have killed both Malfoy and me, if you wanted to. So why…?" She hesitated. "Why am I not—"

"Dead?" he guessed. "Seems like a fairly straightforward answer. Surely you have some vested interest in being alive?" he prompted idly. "I generally find I have no reason to disagree."

She frowned. "Yes, but—"

"I'm not a murderer," he said. "I understand you find my methods… questionable." He paused. "Perhaps even problematic. But it doesn't mean I would have killed you simply because I wished to possess a wand."

"I didn't mean that," she sighed. "I just meant…"

She grimaced, wondering how to explain (without remotely explaining) that Theo's thoughts on her presence there continued to weigh on her. The knowledge that he and Harry might have disapproved of Draco's choice to keep her in their universe was doing something funny to her perception of everything that was happening. Like the brassy angles of Malfoy Manor, the context of what she now knew placed everything in a different light.

"You clearly want the Elder Wand," she established flatly, deciding it best not to dance around the point. "You could have had it. So why choose me instead?"

"You seem to be looking for things to worry about," Draco observed neutrally, shaking his head, "but if you must know, it crossed my mind you might be more useful than a wand."

"Useful?" she echoed doubtfully, bristling at his choice of words, and he sighed.

"Helpful, then. Beneficial." He shrugged. "Obviously having the wand wouldn't have helped me in this scenario, so—"

"But having me didn't help you, either," Hermione commented, and he took a measured step back, frowning at her.

"You trust me less now than you did this morning," he realized. This, like her own initial statement, wasn't entirely a question. "What happened between then and now?"

Oh, only that I spoke to your best friend and another version of you, she thought, and neither of them seemed to trust you much, either.

"I just…" She trailed off, fidgeting. "I guess I'm just realizing I don't have all the answers, that's all."

"Nobody ever does," Draco reminded her. "I told you, I knew when I met you you're precisely what I was looking for. It's all but impossible to exist in your universe without hearing something about you," he informed her. "Even the people who hate you admire you, grudgingly, because you've put them all to shame. And for me to know that," he said, clearly striving to maintain an overly patient tone with painstaking care, "and then to have you in my grasp—"

"You know I'm a person, don't you?" she prompted. "You know, sometimes you talk about me like I'm the same as that wand—"

"Well, what do you want me to do, Hermione?" Draco asked flatly. "I imagine you're too clever by half to accept a meaningless apology, and truth be told, I'm really not sorry. I never was. I think you'll find I'm not an apologist by nature," he added, stepping towards her. "I consider it pointless and a waste of time to obscure the fact that I want what I want, and I do what it takes to get it."

"You never asked what I wanted," she pointed out.

"Very well, then," he said, voice clipped. "Do you want to go home?"

She cleared her throat, hesitating. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm just trying to—"

"No, it's not what you're saying, because you want to stay, don't you? And why?" he asked, eyeing her carefully. "You find me more appealing than you want to admit, Hermione. Why is that?"

"I don't," she began, and then swallowed. "That's not—I didn't have a choice, so—"

"You like power," he told her, as firmly as if that explained everything, and she blinked, startled. "You're drawn to it. The Draco Malfoy in your universe handles it badly—for someone born to it, he manages only to be overprivileged and weak—but you like how it looks, don't you? How it feels?"

She said nothing.

"You like it on me," Draco told her knowingly. "You even like it on Tom Riddle. No, don't deny it," he warned when she opened her mouth. "I know it'd be positively abhorrent for you to admit, even to yourself, so let me be the one to say it for you. You admire power," he said softly, "and that's not a bad thing, Hermione. Part of you even wants to possess it. In fact, you argue so firmly against it because you know, somewhere deep down, that you would be ill-equipped to handle it. Wouldn't you?"

She stared at him.

And stared.

"Why did you keep me here?" she asked after a few beats of silence, voice far more hoarse than she'd intended, and the corners of his lips quirked up to the expression she'd so quickly learned to regard with a mix of promise and fear.

"Because it doesn't end with a wand," he said. "You already know that, don't you? Somewhere, somehow," he murmured, "you know this isn't about the wand. This only starts with the wand. It starts with the fall of Grindelwald, Hermione, but it doesn't end there."

He slid his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and surely felt her shiver as palpably as if he'd produced it himself—and perhaps in some ways he had. "The things you know are valuable, Hermione. You are valuable. Maybe you think that makes you sound like a weapon," he conceded, "but there are worse things to be, I promise you. I am not a soldier," he reminded her, and she'd always known as much, but the admission on his lips was richly sinful. "I do not simply fall in line."

She knew better than to consider that an undangerous position, but it still seemed unlikely he could possibly mean what he'd implied.

"What are you going to do, Draco Malfoy?" she asked him, disbelieving. "Take over the wizarding world at eighteen years old?"

"Certainly not right away," he permitted, shrugging as if she'd told a joke. "I'm not a megalomaniac, after all. Practicality persists."

"But that's—" She swallowed. "That means you've always intended to keep me longer, doesn't it?"

"Keep you? Hermione," Draco said with a laugh. "Don't pretend you've made any effort to go. You're not a hostage," he informed her. "If you'd wanted a way out, you'd have found one. Wouldn't you?"

She felt dizzied. She felt off-kilter, off-balance, off-track. She felt she'd arrived here so certain of everything only to be shoved out into some murky unknown, where nothing was true and yet everything was true, and now she'd never felt so acutely how very little she belonged.

"Tell me the truth," she managed eventually. "What role do you see for me here?"

He had the decency to consider it a moment before answering. "Ideally, you'd stay," he said. "That's a given. You'd be with me, of course, every step of the way. Everything I'd have, you'd have," he assured her. "Wealth, power, status. All of it would be yours."

"And what if I wanted none of those things?" she demanded. "What if I just wanted…" She grimaced. "What if all I wanted was a quiet life where I didn't have to fight in any more bloody wars?"

"That's not remotely what you want," he said, without a beat of hesitation that time. "Have you genuinely never considered what you would do if you were—ah, what do they have where you're from… Minister?" he recalled abruptly, and Hermione blinked, startled by the suggestion. "Sure, perhaps you aspire to something grandly systemic," Draco conceded wryly, "but I find it difficult to believe your ambition has quite the ceiling you think it does."

"It's not ambition," she countered. That, she thought, was a Slytherin word. A dirty word.

"Righteousness, then," he determined, unfazed. "Morality. Goodness, if you prefer. Whatever you think it is you fight for, you don't exactly plan to stop, with or without me—but on your own, you're lost, Hermione." She stared at him, at a loss for what to say, and he shrugged. "You're brilliant without my help, of course, but you could be so much more with me. You get caught by your own hesitation, don't you?" he guessed. "You hit all sorts of snags on your insecurities, your fears. In fact—why do you love your version of Harry Potter?" he asked. She opened her mouth vacantly, too numb to reply, and he shook his head. "Because he convinced you you were worthy. Because without him, you wouldn't have believed it on your own. So, why should I be any different?"

Unfair, she thought. Unfair.

"You're using me," she told him flatly.

"Not any more than he did," Draco said. "Certainly not any more than Tom Riddle would. Not any more than anyone in your life, in fact, because Hermione," he exhaled, a bit of impatience creeping in, "all a person can be is used, or else use others."

She couldn't decide if she was angry or hurt.

"That," she said, "is a terrible way to view the world."

"Or," Draco countered easily, "it's just a terrible world."

It wasn't her world.

Which wasn't to say it was any better or worse, but if she'd never felt at home in her own universe—cast aside as she'd been for her blood, for who she was, for what she believed—then this one was hardly an improvement.

Exactly how many worlds was she obligated to fix?

"What are you going to do about Tom Riddle?" she asked Draco after a few moments of silence, carefully chewing her thoughts.

"Depends," he replied. "Are you going to make me do it alone?"

She thought about it.

And thought.

And thought.

But by the time she opened her mouth to say something she still hadn't quite decided, there was a low sound of throat-clearing from the threshold, and they both turned.

"Draco," said Narcissa Malfoy, her blonde hair neatly coiffed. "Hello, darling," she said, a slow smile pulling at her scarlet-stained lips. "I'm home."


Potterverse

Harry Potter's elf army—which had broadened its recruitment to include Kreacher, Dobby, and a noticeably sloshed Winky—was a truly remarkable source of information. Draco, whose father had been very well undone by a house elf, made a note to himself that the cost of pride was far too high when it came to disregarding any creature who knew the intimate details of wizarding things. The lofty assumption they wouldn't tell a soul was something of an unreliable practice, and certainly an error Draco resolved firmly never to commit while watching them blithely spill to a politely bespectacled teenager a number of secrets the Ministry must have kept under proverbial lock and key.

"Okay," Harry had said, jogging over to them after his criminal consultation, "so. No apparating, that's a given. Brooms again—"

Hermione made a slightly incoherent sound of displeasure, muffling it delicately in her palm.

"—but outside of that, no guards and barely any enchantments," Harry finished, shrugging. "There's almost nothing keeping people out of Azkaban."

"Yeah, that was pretty much assumed, Potter," Theo drawled. "It's not Saint-Tropez. People aren't clamoring to get in."

"Well," Harry said, "all the easier for us, then."

The elves had relayed from what seemed to be a chain of creature-gossip that without a functioning Ministry to establish any new policies for the prisoners transported to Azkaban, people were simply being delivered there en masse until the Wizengamot could reconvene and determine what to do with them. No one wanted to be responsible for the island prison, which was certainly not unreasonable. Not surprising, either. It was the most difficult trip yet by broom, consisting of a strong wind over a tumultuous sea, and landing was no more comforting once they'd reached one of the rocky ledges of the prison walls, all of them trying not to stare down at the perilous waves that crashed below.

There was an eerie humming noise resonating from the prison, which was a massive fortress occupying the only habitable land on the island and dropping off at the edges into a series of jagged cliffs. From afar the gusts of wind had seemed strangely melodic, but by the time they managed to make it onto Azkaban's ramparts it became more obvious the sound was a disconcerting mix of chattering teeth, low voices, and a series of inconsolable moans.

"Still think it's not necessary to break your mother out of here?" Theo murmured to Draco, who shivered slightly. It was impossible to tell whether the chill had come from the icy arctic breeze or from somewhere in his bones, intestines, or conscience.

"Shut up," managed to weakly escape him before Hermione tugged firmly at his hand, pulling him after Harry and towards the dementor-occupied interior.

Perhaps it wasn't true to original intent that the Elder Wand be used for blasting through walls, but there was no doubt it was rapidly becoming a handy explosive. On one side of the fortress, the walls had already been blown apart; the Dark Lord's work, Draco presumed as they all kept moving. Upon reaching the opposite corner, Draco aimed the Elder Wand, bursting through one of the towers as Harry raised his own wand, expelling the smug, stupid stag Draco had so long loathed and envied in equal measures.

"Come on," Harry beckoned, ducking inside through the jagged hole they'd left for an entrance, and immediately, they were eclipsed in darkness, Theo lighting the tip of his wand to permit a glow against the rocky corridor walls.

"Where would she be?" Draco asked, half-whispering it. A hand shot out from one of the cells beside him and he launched himself sideways with a yelp, colliding with Hermione. "Sorry," he said to her, but she merely looped her arm through his, a frown buried into her features.

"This is terrible," she said with a slow glance around, her voice steady and flat. "It's inhumane."

"It's wizard prison," Theo reminded her drily. "These aren't ordinary criminals."

Draco shuddered, wondering just what all these people had done, and worse—just how close he'd come to being one of them. "Mother?" he called tentatively, glancing sideways at Theo, who shrugged. "Mother," he said again, louder this time. "Are you here?"

"Isn't your father here too?" Hermione asked, nudging him.

"I sincerely hope we don't run into him," he whispered to her, and she frowned, not entirely sure what to do with that information. She opened her mouth to ask—or so he assumed, anyway—when Harry's stag came galloping back from where it had been, gesturing with its antlers further down one of the labyrinthine halls.

"You've got more control over that thing than I expected," Theo noted, and Harry turned, half-smiling at him.

"Impressed, Nott?"

Theo made a face. "Keep it in your trousers, Potter."

"Please. I could say the same to you—"

"Shut up immediately," Draco growled as they turned a corner, spotting a stirring head of pale blonde hair that had spread wide across the floor. He rushed towards it, panicking slightly as one of the cloaked dementors loomed above her, circling overhead. "Mother," he said, gripping the bars and gritting his teeth. "Theo," he called over his shoulder, "help me—"

"Expecto Patronum," Theo said quickly, the falcon bursting from the end of his wand to slip through the bars, flapping its wings in a glittering gale wind to force the dementor away. Draco aimed the Elder Wand, blasting another Confringo, and stumbled forward to reach his mother's side, reaching one hand under her head.

"Mother," he said, watching her eyelids flutter halfway. "Mother, can you hear me?"

"We have to get her out," Harry said, climbing through the rubble and glancing apprehensively over his shoulder. "Quickly, too. I think the dementors know we're here."

"They're definitely on the move," Hermione shouted from the corridor, turning over her shoulder to throw out a spell Draco assumed was a patronus as Harry darted after her, rushing to come to her aid. "They're moving really fast, Draco—"

"Okay, come on, Mother," Draco said coaxingly, struggling more with the awkward angle required to take her in his arms than with the hefting of her weight. He hadn't realized before how fragile she'd gotten while Lord Voldemort had been taking refuge in his house; granted, he'd never tried to lift his mother before, but it certainly seemed far too easy now. "Easy, here we go—"

"Run," came Theo's voice in his ear, a hand gripping his shoulder. "I think I've got us covered, but they're coming fast."

Even while climbing out of Narcissa's cell, Draco could already tell as much. It had been difficult to see in near-darkness to begin with, but the growing sensation of coldness and despair in the air around them was like being encased in a tomb; like being buried alive, without the permission of his mutinous limbs. He strained to take in a breath, gulping at air that felt thick and lifeless, and slowly, like little worms that crept into his ear, his thoughts took on cruel, narrow streams of clarity. Better to rest, his mind suggested as his arms grew weary, lungs held hostage by a wave of misery that crashed down on him from above. Easier, don't you think, just to stop running? To stop breathing? To stop existing?

What legacy will you leave behind anyway, his own voice asked him before morphing into the sound and shape of his father, standing coldly at the end of the darkened corridor and blocking out the promise of the clouded sun. What will your worth be to me? To the world? To anyone?

Stop trying, Harry's voice hissed in his ear. You'll never be me. When all is said and done I'll be forgiven, but you? You'll only end up here—so just take a rest, sit down, stay here, stay where you belong—

Faith is a liar, Theo drawled in Draco's head, the motions of his escape suddenly akin to clawing his way out of mud, pointless and cloistered and stuck. Luck is too, and maybe the whole universe is against you. Didn't you ever think about that? That maybe we're not meant to get out of this? Why shed our perfect blood, why meander through our aimless lives, when we could just stay here, right here, with nowhere else to fall—?

Are you sorry? Hermione's voice asked him. Are you sorry?

Draco blinked, his head spinning. Help, he thought, wanting to let it rest against the grimy stone floor, and out of the fog of his thoughts, he heard a sigh.

Yes, hello, his mind presented him, her foot tapping impatiently beside him.

It's me again.

"Fuck," he said, but the single break in clarity was enough. The little rupture of relief; it was enough. He turned over his shoulder, clinging to the sound of it in his head, and aimed the Elder Wand.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

A burst of white; a flash of teeth. Whatever kind of cat he was, it was an effectively threatening one.

A moment later, a hand wrapped around his arm and yanked.

Draco stumbled through the hole they'd blasted in the prison wall and struggled not to fall, still clutching tightly to his mother's half-limp body. Theo caught her other side, easing her out of Draco's arms as he tumbled forward, bracing himself on the heels of his hands. He gasped, sputtering, as his knees collided with stone, choking out the toxicity of his own conscience.

"Fuck," he said again, spitting out something bitter he felt certain was venom, though it couldn't have been real. "That was—fuck—"

It was terrible was what it was. It was the worst thing he'd ever felt. He understood now why Harry had fallen off his broom every time he'd come into contact with a single dementor—which was itself another little bite of remorse, enough to bear down on him again.

Was there no limit to his regrets?

"Draco," Hermione said, gratifyingly drawing him out of his selfish melancholia and easing him towards his mother. "She's waking up."

He let her help him to his feet, leaning on her shoulder for a moment for balance, and then settled himself at his mother's side.

"Mother," he said, checking her pulse; slow, but steady. "Mother, can you hear me?"

Narcissa's eyes swam half-open, then fluttered shut. Behind him, Theo and Harry stood stiffly in wait, both tensed with concern, or possibly fear.

"Mother," Draco said again, "it's me. It's Draco." He paused, considering what she might have been exposed to inside Azkaban, and leaned closer. "It's really me," he said to her softly, aiming to be both gentle and firm. "Mother. Wake up."

Abruptly, her eyes snapped open.

She launched upright, gasping, and stared blankly at him, her blue eyes wide.

Then she registered who he was, and bolted out of reach.

"You shouldn't be here," she said hastily, scrambling backwards and staring at him like she'd seen a ghost. "Do you hear me?" she demanded, nearly kicking him in the chest as she struggled to get away. "Put me back—"

"Mother, what are you talking about?" Draco asked, reaching out to still her hands. "You could have…" He swallowed hard. "You nearly died in there—"

"I'll die for sure if you take me out," she ground out in aggravation, raising a shaking hand to her mouth. "He's coming for me, Draco. He knows. He knows. He's coming, I know it—"

"Mother," Draco said, frowning, and behind him Theo crouched down, one hand on his shoulder. "Who knows what?" Draco pressed her. "Who's coming?"

Her gaze was wild and unfocused. She met his worried glance with unmistakable fear.

"Don't make me say his name," she whispered.

Then, before he could speak, Narcissa's eyes rolled back in her head and she fell, limp, against the stone of the rampart ground.


Grindelverse

"Hermione Granger," Narcissa Malfoy said, extending a slender hand. "How lovely to meet you."

To that, a variety of responses sprung up in Hermione's throat. A great many of them amounted to something along the lines of we've actually already met and to be honest, it was horrifying every time, but that seemed not especially pertinent to mention.

"Lovely to meet you as well," she managed to say without any sort of traumatic inflection, and then Narcissa had turned back to her son, curving her palm around his cheek with a picturesque sort of reverence. Like a painting, Hermione thought, or several paintings. Narcissa's movements were so smoothly unhindered each individual frame of motion could have stood alone as a piece of art.

"Draco, sweetheart," she said, "did you happen to kill Commander Grindelwald?"

Hermione's stomach lurched at the reminder, but Draco merely spared his mother a grimace. "Not quite," he said, before adding, "Is that why you've returned? His unfortunate demise, I mean," he clarified, and she nodded.

"Yes," Narcissa said. "Your father remained behind, of course. There will be fallout, as you'd expect," she added, removing the pair of travel gloves she'd been wearing, one finger at a time. By the middle finger, she'd mused, "I suggested he secure our foothold among the fray, should any of Grindelwald's would-be lieutenants attempt to fill the void in his absence."

"Clever of you, Mother," Draco said. "Though you don't really expect them to manage it, do you? It's not as if Caesar was so easily replaced."

Narcissa shook her head, looking artfully doubtful. "Certainly not, and Grindelwald was barely clinging to any authority over England as it was," she said, before letting her gaze slide carefully to Hermione's. "You know how difficult it can be, of course, having such a vast empire."

Hermione wondered why this particular remark had been directed at her. "I've never actually had an empire," she said, attempting something like humor, and Narcissa's mouth curled up slightly.

"Don't rule it out," was the older witch's reply, which in turn reduced Hermione to silence for most of the evening, leaving her to ponder what Narcissa might have meant.

If Draco's mother had issues (or even curiosities) about Hermione's unexpected presence, she kept them intensely private. So private, in fact, it was impossible for Hermione to identify even the most fundamental measures of approval. Narcissa said nothing when Draco took Hermione's hand, leading her into his bedroom as he'd done all the many nights before. As far as mothers went, Narcissa seemed either suspiciously progressive or wholly ambivalent, and Hermione doubted it was the latter. Narcissa's eyes seemed to follow her son's every motion with a careful scrutiny, which served to indicate only one thing: he mattered greatly.

"Let me guess," Draco guessed, turning to Hermione after slipping with her into his bed. "You don't trust my mother either?"

She gave him a wary look, and he chuckled.

"You're taking this very lightly considering what we were talking about before she arrived," Hermione grumbled, and he shrugged.

"That you haven't answered my question yet, you mean?" he prompted, and she spared a grimace of confirmation in reply. "Well, my mother being home reminded me of one thing, at least." He reached out, tilting her chin up. "I like my time alone with you," he murmured to her, brushing his lips against hers, and she lamented that she still returned his kiss—even while she contemplated kicking him in the shins.

"You're trying to distract me," she told him grumpily, and he laughed, his hand fitting itself comfortably to her waist.

"I'm successfully distracting you," he corrected, "but if you'd like to talk further, we can." He bit lightly at the side of her mouth, lips broadening in a smile she could feel in the dark as she gave him an irritable shove. "Would you like my cards on the table, Hermione?" he mused, voice husky against the sheets. "My intentions have never been pure, but you can't fault me for knowing what I want. Unlike you," he added with a stroke of his thumb along her neck, "who can occupy three hundred states of being an hour."

She rolled her eyes, letting him twine his legs with hers. "I don't want what you want," she told him, shivering a little as his hands wandered. "And I don't want what you think I want, either."

"Well," he said. "We at least both agree Tom Riddle has to go, don't we?"

"Possibly," she said, "but you don't seem to see him as a threat."

"Mm, no, no. Do I see him as a threat? Yes. But is he something to consume my every waking thought? Hardly. We'll find Lily," Draco informed her, lips traveling to her ear and lower, nipping at her jaw. "We'll get the wand. We'll get rid of Tom. Perhaps not necessarily in that order," he added neutrally. "Just, you know. Whatever opportunity happens to present itself first."

She didn't particularly care to mention the errand she'd sent the other version of him on, or the order she'd specifically intended (i.e., the procurement of the wand before Tom Riddle's demise), so she didn't.

"Draco," she sighed instead, "let's be clear. I'm not going to stay. I don't belong here."

"Mm," he agreed unconvincingly, shifting lower. "Well, fair enough. I'll just—" A shrug, his mouth somewhere near her torso. "Expedite my plans, I suppose, in the unlikely event I don't convince you to… change your mind."

"Your plans?" she asked him, going a bit rigid. Abruptly, she remembered the other version of herself had once worked for him, too. She was fairly sure it had been a different arrangement, but still—that Hermione had some expectation of what he'd planned to do, hadn't she? Which, Hermione suddenly realized, he'd probably never intended to fulfill.

"Oh, you know," he murmured to her. "There's going to be a vacancy now that Grindelwald's gone, so isn't it obvious? England needs a savior." His teeth scraped her thigh and she inhaled sharply, trying to piece together what he was saying.

"Political vacuums are such sensitive things, you know," he continued blithely. "This is my home, but I've never really known it. I didn't go to Hogwarts," he pointed out with his lips to the jut of her hip. "I don't know the details, the little ins and outs, because growing up in Grindelwald's regime always meant I'd know his world, not my own."

A pause, and then he slid up against her, taking a handful of her hair.

"But you know it," he finished quietly, and she kissed him back reflexively, from memory, her mind still sorting through what he'd said.

Was this what it was to lie in bed with a traitor? He seemed to be asking her for something she wouldn't want to give, or worse—wouldn't want to want, but might.

It would be so easy for him to break her troubled heart in one way or another, and if she lay here one moment more, she was going to let him.

"I just need to get something," Hermione whispered when they broke apart, untangling herself from him and sliding back. Briefly, his hand shot out, reaching for her.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, sitting up with concern, and she forced a nod.

"Yes, just… need some water," she said. Or some air. Or a place to think that wasn't contaminated with his touch, his scent, the taste of his kiss. Had there ever been a dangerous man who wasn't also upsettingly tempting? She placed her bare feet against the ground with deliberation, sparing him what she hoped had been a reassuring smile before she slipped out of the room.

She'd been blindly making her way down the corridor, tiptoeing to the stairs to aim for the gardens outside when a voice caught her attention, pausing her in the dark.

"You recall our agreement, I'm sure," she heard a voice say flatly.

It's not you, it's me. Goodbye.

"I do. Where's the wand?"

Hermione Granger, how lovely to meet you.

"You'll have the wand when I have my son safe, Narcissa."

Hermione froze, shrinking back against the shadows as she slid safely out of view from the rails of the staircase.

"Lily," Narcissa sighed, "you're being foolish. I promised he'd be safe, didn't I? And he will be. But the deal is contingent on the wand."

Lily was clearly unconvinced. "It's not your promise I want. You know that."

"I can't undo the vow you made."

"No," Lily said, "but he can. And he listens to you."

A pause. Hermione's pulse raced.

The silence went on a tick too long, and something inside her lurched with a flood of panic.

"You should go," Narcissa said after a moment, voice unchanging. "My son has a houseguest. Perhaps you know her? She's listening in the stairwell right now."

FUCK, shouted Hermione's mind.

There was a quick motion of hurried steps from the floor below and without thinking, Hermione rose to her feet, fleeing through the corridor. She paused, glancing around in a panic (what would they do what would they do what would they do if they found her?) and then she lunged for the door to Draco's study, aiming herself at the Floo.

Calm down, her lungs requested. Take a moment to breathe—

Where will you go? her limbs shrieked.

In the midst of her clanging doubts, something inside her was resolute; she found a clear thread of logic and clung to it, following its path. Only one person could help her. She was beyond sure of that now. There was only one person who'd ever set foot in this universe she knew for certain she could trust.

"James Potter's house," she whispered to the Floo and stepped through it, glancing around the vacant room and heading for the study. Specifically, the desk, and the drawer in the upper lefthand corner, where she'd last placed the ring.

The ring, which contained the stone.

Whatever she'd just heard, someone wasn't going to want it repeated, and she didn't have the luxury of waiting to find out.

She had to talk to Draco Malfoy, now—and not the one she'd just left.


a/n: for Kete-Hlin, who really nails the blow-by-blow.