A/N: I am so excited about this chapter and a lot happens so please spare a few second to leave a review. Thanks for reading!

Stolen

Chapter 44: A Pale Reflection

It would be years before the Wizarding World could forget what happened when Harry Potter arrived at the Ministry of Magic. Of course, it would always be remembered, but for years it would be more than that—it would be impossible to go a day without thinking of it, without sensing how incredibly close they all came to another world entirely. Parents would hug their children close for no reason other than a sudden memory of that battle. A cold wind would blow goose pimples across their skin as they walked Diagon Alley, as though a ghost were passing though them, as they remembered the photographs of its wreckage, and it would be real to them how close they came to losing everything.

The reverence they gave Harry Potter was unnerving those who knew him well, who had seen him as human. To Hermione, Harry's hand trembling on hers and his eyes glassy with tears would be how she forever saw him on that day as they entered the ministry to face his destiny. The destiny she had been unable to change, that his parents could not spare him, that he could not outrun.

The halls of the Ministry of Magic were packed with people, and they pushed through unnoticed at first. These men and women, the law and the security of a people, its leaders, were nothing more than a fickle and impassioned mob.

Kingsley Shakelbolt stood before them on one platform, compelling and demanding the fearful and enraged before him to take up their wands in defense of their nation and way of life. Knott, a Death Eater also employed at the Ministry, stood opposite him, red in the face, savaging arguing as well, but also hurling threats of his master who would soon arrive and make anyone who defied him and his noble purpose pay more dearly than any before him. They would live forever, but their families would not be so fortunate.

Minor scuffles here and there broke out among the crowd, but no duels yet. They were waiting. Waiting for someone, anyone, to keep his word. Not long after the three friends arrived, observing the events as though they were a freakish carnival spectacle, Knott shot a curse at Kingsley who deflected it, hitting the fountain and destroying it. Water and bits of rock flew through the air, colliding with objects which shattered and people who cried out. Kingsley quickly returned it and their hexes met with a snap of sparks.

The three friends stopped the progress of hysteria and violence by making themselves apparent. A hush came over the crowd as the trio pushed their way to the front. Hermione could not help that her eyes scanned the faces for Draco. She did not find him.

Kingsley spotted Harry and there was second of hesitation. Then, the older man announced proudly, extending his hand, "Harry Potter." Harry went forward and Hermione and Ron stepped up with him, flanking him with their wands out. The people pressed their bodies together to get close to the boy who lived.

"He did not ask to be alive." Kingsley reminded the mass, his deep voice rolling over them. "He did not ask to be the Chosen One, but here he is. He could have run and hid, but he chose not to abandon you. Now who will do the same for him?"

"I Will!" shouted Mr. Weasley, raising his wand from the back of the crowd. Some turned, some murmured, and some raised their wands as well, following his declaration with a chorus. Some were older, friends of Dumbledore. Some were family of Hogwarts students. Some were members of the Order. Some were strangers, hands still shaking with uncertainty.

The moment was torn asunder by the ruckus and whoosh of fireplaces filling and a blinding rain of spells came down upon them. Death Eaters had kept their promise too, or at least clearly intended to do so. The fastest and most frightening rush of dueling commenced. Even using everything they had learned, it was infinitely confusing. Every rapid second and swift heartbeat was an inch from death, everything moving too quickly to perceive anything but light and heat and breezes. Luckily, the Death Eaters were wearing black and that helped distinguish them, but not their followers.

Ron, knowing it was his strength, turned any spell that came their way back upon its master—deflecting spells may hit someone on their side. From his height, he could spot many and catch them without hitting anyone in between. His mind, like a chess player, predicted their nest move. It was guiltless, thoughtless, hex. He had no idea what spell had hit them—they got exactly what they intended to do to others.

Hermione ran out of breath to shoot her most powerful stunning spells towards the aggressors and began to send them wordlessly to those she could safely reach. Occasionally, she lifted an object hurled at a person from their path, or knocked a death eater unconscious with a light fixture. Once angered, she erased their memories or disoriented them, rendering them relatively harmless.

Harry placed well-aimed disarming spells again and again. Agile with sharp sight, he hit many targets and although the effects were only temporary, the goal of reducing the number of casualties and the number those fighting were successful.

They remained stationary on the platform, protecting each other and dodging spells. Their presence, next to Kingsley, was like a beacon of stability and bravery to those below, watching as they too fought. A constant visual reminder that they were there, not leaving. Slowly, the number of people fighting waned from their efforts and, unfortunately, the efforts of their enemies. Some ran away, but many who tried were killed— bodies in a lumpy pile near the great fireplaces. Hermione still felt sick at the sight of their limbs protruding at impossible angles.

A white face appeared in a clutter of soulless black masks.

A smile and grimace at once, he sniffed the air like a snake through slits that were nostrils, his wicked eyes trained on Harry. Wand pointed towards him, she struggled to get her body in front of her best friend. But she could not get there in time.

The main lobby was all but deserted by then. Few people really saw what happened.

He fell as he had many times before. She saw it happen slowly. Heard herself scream as if hearing someone else. All the things one hears about, one dreads, one sees in nightmares a hundred times before they happen. But this time, he did not get up. He did not move. She did not wake up.

"Ron, no!"

"What is it?"

"He's going to sacrifice himself!"

"No. You can't there must be another way!"

"It's you that has to go on Harry…I know it…"

Ron.

From across the lobby, Mr. Weasley cried out like an animal fatally wounded; his grief rang over the clamor of the fighting. Hermione wiped her tears away hastily and leaned over to pull Harry away. She placed a kiss to Ronald's hair and saw from the corner of her eyes Mr. Weasley send a tremendous curse at the Death Eater that had killed his son. There was nothing left. Even his clothes became ashes, littering the already filthy floor.

Voldemort stood calmly in the center of the lobby, making his way slowly closer to them, and smiled, reveling in the pain that did not belong to him, that he had not right to witness and could never feel.

"Stop!" Harry shouted, and with all her force, Hermione Granger performed a spell which locked the hall in action, surprising herself. Those who remained were forced to halt mid-yell and watch, frozen, all but she and Harry and Voldemort.

"This is pointless, Tom." He panted, his voice pained. Still, Harry bravely insisted on using his real name, as Dumbledore had done. A wise choice, Hermione thought. The others hung on every word with hope and horror.

"No one else needs to die save one of us. That's what it comes down to, isn't it? 'Neither can live while the other survives.'" Hermione did suspect that this may not be the literal meaning of the prophecy and had little faith in the inescapability of prophecy as well, but Harry was right. They could not run in circles forever, spilling blood all the way.

Tom Riddle smiled his sickeningly smile and Hermione felt her skin crawl. She tried to suppress the shiver he would receive perverse enjoyment from—and stared him in his eyes, bizarre and inhuman holes that bore down upon them with tremendous power. "I'm glad you agree." Tom Riddle replied so politely he might have been at a garden party. "Shall we retire to somewhere a little more private?"

"If you wish." Harry agreed, tried. She could feel his fear by standing next to him, but his voice hardly waivered as the young man insisted to the powerful wizard before him, "But I want witnesses. I want everyone to see and know whatever happens here. The truth."

Something about this did not sit well with Voldemort. He resisted. Trying to push her grief from her mind, Hermione attempted to focus on what this could mean, what window of opportunity or secret was hiding in plain sight. All she could see was Ron's hand on hers…winter…Hogsmeade.

"You know, it's a shame we could not see eye to eye."

"There's no point in trying to talk me over." Harry told him plainly. "I've destroyed your Horcruxes." There were a few gasps. Voldermort's face was cold and impassive, but his jesting smile was gone.

"No matter. I can make more. You are a child. I am the greatest wizard alive. I would say this will be overly quickly, but I'm not sure I'd enjoy that." His friends laughed.

Harry Potter turned his back on Lord Voldemort, wand in pocket, and trudged into the bowels of the ministry. It was a strange turn of events, and Hermione—on his heels— was a little afraid they would kill him while his back was turned. Harry knew, instinctively somehow, that if Voldemort killed him before these witnesses, word would get out that he couldn't face Harry Potter and his martyrdom would inflame their passion, make them more dangerous.

Voldemort's tall figure all but glided swiftly after Harry, wand out. He did not look weakened yet. He looked alive and almost excited, as if finally playing a game against a worthy opponent.

The sparse remnants of the mob that was left relatively uninjured made their way, some tentatively and others urgently. The importance of the moment silently hung on air. They knew they were bearing witness to the greatest duel of their lifetime.

The room they ultimately reached was a familiar one in the department of mysteries. It was quiet and still and full of dark, cool air, more befitting Riddle than Harry, empty really, save a platform upon which stood an ancient-looking archway hung with a thin veil.

Circling in the center like predators, they paced a few minutes. Exchanging no words. It was not that there was nothing to say to one another, it was that there was too much to ever begin speaking.

Voldemort got right to the point, most people agree with that, and sent a killing curse.

He did not attempt to spare his opponent pain either and Harry withstood the ones he could not escape, of his endurance people were most admiring. For the most part, even through his inexperience, his agility and natural speed showcased in quidditch kept him safe. However, his attempts of expeliarmus were futile. The boy who lived said very little, waiting it seemed, conserving energy. She hoped he was not giving up.

But after a while, it began to seem possible. Riddle had fifty years of killing behind that wand, everything to lose, and so much anger and fuel. Harry had lost his best friend, his family, his mentor. Harry seemed to be tiring and his supporters began to edge towards to the door, maybe even flee though she was not paying close attention. Harry Potter was losing then, people would say, and everyone knew it.

And then it happened—what Harry had been waiting for.

Their wands locked, creating a string of what looked like electricity. Hot and burning and a phoenix song began. The two struggled tremendously, pushing with all their force and all their power the light towards each other. One weakened, looking sick or aged, stumbling under its massive weight, then they held a look of triumph and the other waivered. Some argue there were jeers and shouts of encouragement from the spectators. Others insist that everyone remained silent. Hermione did not remember which was true, nor any sound but that of the phoenix.

Carefully, Harry held on, circling and positioning in a way which looked haphazard. Harry said something she could not quite make out, though she believed he was speaking to Sirius. Realization hit as soon as Voldemort realized where he was positioned, but he could not move. His wand held him in place and to let it go would be to surrender his life. The most perfect look of fear filled the sick eyes of Tom Riddle, a look she would always savor the memory of, and Harry let go of the wand. It splintered, a piece lodging in the skin jest below her eye. It filled with blood, staining the image that would haunt her dreams and release her from her nightmares. Riddle was shot backwards into the veil. He passed silently from the world as Sirius had and they held a half hope that at last, that would be the last they heard from him: a yell of anger slipping backwards into the thin, white shroud. Disappeared.

They do not write about after the battle, Hermione noticed once she was at her friend's side and had mended her eye. The way people show up, timidly darting like mice, looting, photographing, staring. They do not write about the way the bodies are cramped up, blotchy, after sitting there dead for a while. They do not tell you how it's not just the inability to tell friends bodies from enemies' remains, it becomes impossible to tell bodies from rubble. The do not, perhaps, cannot describe the stench in the clouded air. The panic does not leave the knot in your chest. The grief does not lessen, and the exhaustion is so profound that you don't want to wash off the blood, or eat or drink, or even tell anyone the good news. You want to sleep. You want to sleep for months and months until everything that happened was a dream you can no longer remember.

They went home and they slept.

And two months later, Hermione still felt tired. Ron's funeral made her feel drained. The press made her feel weary. The endless search for Draco made her feel exhausted. The stagnant pool their lives had become with Riddle gone and school over made her lethargic.

Hermione found herself lying in bed and reading the lies she had printed in her diary about Draco, the dreary daily recordings through some half-remembered code. She saw the blood soaked page and shivered, reaching out to pet the crippled cat laying at her side. She remembered being frightened and later being angry, but she also remembered so much more that she had never dared write down.

She remembered storms and duels. Playing in the snow. A room of powder blue and garnet. A cold hotel room in London. Dancing in an apartment above the kitchen. She remembered watching him, tenderhearted and even weak at times, other times selfish. She remembered him saving her life. She remembered him watching television and washing dishes by hand. Changing. Not all of him, but some.

And she remembered feeling herself changing as well under the burn of his grey eyes. Remembered running away from everyone together. She was supposed to keep her emotions a calm surface, but now she realized in trying not to fall in love with him, not to feel, she had never let herself feel so much.

Her friends from the Order had given the diary to her when they became increasingly disturbed by her remaining attachment to Draco. They did not understand her determination to find him or her certainty that he was on their side. She was an enigma to them.

"It's normal," Ginny had first offered sympathetically, "To stay hung up on your first…time. Even if the guy is a cad. You don't want to dirty the memory in your mind. But Dean was my first, and the sooner I forgot him the better."

"We did not sleep together." Hermione assured her, to which Ginny shrugged.

"It's normal," Harry admitted, "to love people more after they leave you. When you miss them, it's easy to forget even the ones that made things more difficult by being here."

"Oh I know he's a pain, Harry. But I did love him even when he was a pain." Harry just frowned, deep in thought, and fell silent again.

Lupin gave her book on Stockholm Syndrome. "It was normal," the book explained, "for hostages to feel attachment to their captors after some time and even defend them. A bond is formed by a survival instinct and eventually a lack of abuse is mistaken for acts of kindness."

"He's not for you, Hermione! He's not even our side. He wasn't in the battle." Fred yelled a few weeks after Ron's funeral, taking her by the shoulders and trying to shake the sense into her.

"How can you say that? He made it possible to save Harry!"

"He killed him."

"So we could bring him back and he sent him to safety when he could have handed him over!"

"So where is he now then? The war has been over for months. Where was he during the final battle and why hasn't he contacted you?"

"Maybe something's happened to him. Maybe he's in Azakaban. The ministry has no idea which prisoners are theirs and which are Voldemorts deifiers and captives!"

"Fred, let go." Harry demanded gently.

He released her, looking hurt. "Why are you doing this? Over him." Of course he was hurt; she was disrespecting the memory of his brother who had, in his mind, been so devoutly in love with her.

She did not try to explain. He would never understand. She was still the Hermione they knew, but she had also become someone else as well. As long as she had waited and much as she had tried to come back to what they were and the life they had, and she had been overjoyed at first to return, she found there was no going back entirely. It was a bit like trying to fit in your favorite dress after she had outgrown it. Of course, you would keep it anyway, but it would never be worn again. Maybe she'd wear one like it, but she had grown. It was not quite right anymore.

Harry did not understand how she felt, but he seemed to understand what she needed. "If you think he's out there, then we won't stop looking until we find to what has happened to him." He promised.

Months passed. No sign of Draco. Letters, missing posters, Death Eater interrogations, retracing their old haunts. Hermione interrogated Lupin's father dozens of times.

"All he said was to take you and Harry to the address. He left. That's all."

And that was the last time, it seemed, anyone had seen him.

She worked tediously away at any leads. It wasn't just love—real or imagined—that drove her to find him. It was anger that he would just disappear. It was fear that he had saved her life and she had been unable to even save his memory. Most of all, it was deep and desperate, urgent need to prove to herself and everyone else that all her memories and feelings and the young man she remembered were real. She needed to know, as it began to fade from her memory, that she was not mad.

"The war is over Hermione." Fred tried to convey as they sat by the fire in Grimmauld place one night after dinner. "How well did you really know him? And considering how you mastered disguise, will you find if he doesn't want to be found? Would you even know him now, if you passed him in the street?"

"I'd know." She insisted. He shook his head, disappointed, and dropped the subject, giving her arm a comforting rub.

Kingsley approached her a few months after the battle while the ministry was finally getting back on its feet and Hogwarts was preparing to welcome new students.

"It's a bloody mess." He said. "Of course they wanted to release the muggles straight away, but it was damn near impossible to tell which ones were Voldemort's captives and which weren't. Plus, they hadn't decided how to clean up the media fiasco and memories yet. Not that's there had been anyone to spare. We've only just got straight everyone in their positions between the pre-Voldemort ministry and post-Voldemort and the new Minister." Kinglsey shook his head, then continued.

"Anyway, I spoke to him, the new minster, and he wanted me to talk to you."

"To me?" she raised her eyebrows over her tea.

"You are a bright witch, Hermione. And everyone is aware you are muggle-born. You even took muggle studies at Hogwarts, didn't you? That and having, according to Harry Potter, been instrumental in defeating Voldemort qualifies you to run the muggle liaison operations. You'd be Secretary of Muggle Relations and your first job would be to sort out the Azkaban's prisoners. "

"I'm much too young for a job like that. I have no practical experience!"

"That's not what Harry says." Kingsley smiled. "Arthur and I have both written you recommendations. You'll be working alongside him and as I work directly for the minister now, that should be more than enough to get you the job. However, it may be a good idea to get a teacher from Hogwarts to write about your performance to accompany your test records. Harry might not be a bad idea either."

"I'll write to them today. Thank you Kingsley." She meant it. Ever since the end of the final battle, she had been struggling with what to do with herself. When Hogwarts decided she was finished and could not return, she was devastated. Honorary diploma or no, she still had so much to learn and there was only so much one could learn without a teacher! There had always been a front to be involved in-house elf liberation, the Order, the DA, being a spy. Now there was nothing. No goal. Of course, she was famous. She could get a job anywhere she applied, but where to apply? Diagon Alley? She had no experience or training to do anything substantial, though she did not want to be a barmaid.

She took a job, at last, in Flourish and Blotts, but the constant nagging with questions and pictures and autographs as time wore on had her hiding almost entirely behind the books. Now here before her Kinglsey had laid a purpose. A job worth doing, which catered to her skills. She had no business taking on something so important; it was daunting, but she also knew that she could help the muggles she had worried about and maybe continue the search for Draco.

Not long after she began, fixing a nameplate on her small office door, Arthur said there was someone there to see her. It was an elf she did not recognize.

"Have a seat, please. How can I help you?" she offered politely.

"My name is Pip, Miss." The creature squeaked. "Are you Miss Hermione Granger?"

"I am." She answered, cautious.

"Then this is yours." The elf handed her a small object, metallic, familiar. A lovely ring. She gasped.

"Draco! You've seen Draco?"

"I used to work in Malfoy Manor, Miss. Master Draco gave this to Pip when he freed us."

"Freed you?" she asked, bewildered.

"Yes, Miss. Just before the end of it all. Master Draco set us free and then some bad men hurt him, those nasty brothers, Miss, and we all were told to leave."

Hermione's eyes welled with tears she dared to fall. Sadness that Draco was probably dead. Pride that he freed and protected these elves.

"Thank you, Pip."

"You are most welcome, Miss." Then bashfully he added, "Master Draco says we could return when things were over if we wanted, and Pip would like to Miss, if that's alright."

"Oh Pip, I think, well Master Draco is…he's gone."

"Gone, Miss?"

"Well, we cannot seem to find him and if they had him then I'm afraid that, perhaps, he's d-dead."

"No, Miss! He can't be." The elf grabbed her hand to comfort her.

"I'm afraid so, Pip."

"No, Miss." He shook his head, big ears wagging. "Master Malfoy is our master. We would know if anything had happened, even once freed. We would feel it. And so would the ring, Miss!" He squeaked.

Two weeks later, she found herself before the Minister of Magic proposing their plan. Arthur stood at her side, proud but nervous.

"You're no doubt aware," the minister told her from behind a great oak desk, "that I am only allowing someone as young as you are to take on this position because you are obviously bright, because you are muggle born, and because you come so highly recommended."

"I am aware, Minister. I never expected such an opportunity and I am thrilled to have it."

"She's done a fantastic job, Minister." Mr. Weasley volunteered. The tall, slender woman in black acknowledged it with a nod, but her impassive face seemed unaffected.

"You realize that what you are asking will take months? Maybe longer. Cost a good deal of money. Be somewhat dangerous…"

"Minister, I do know," Hermione risked. "There are other solutions which may be more…efficient, but there is not one other avenue that would ensure justice. It is simply the only way to be thorough, and if we do not handle this correctly, the repercussions that will arise will be much more costly, though they may be a decade away."

The minister, her expression unmoved, considered this while pressing her fingertips together. "I shall give the order. You must organize everything. I want this to go smoothly and quickly as possible, no accidents."

Their sighs of relief and excitement were audible. The middle-aged woman attempted to keep the smile from her features as she silently held up a hand to be heard. "I will not beat around the bush, Ms. Granger, This is your big project. If things go terribly, you will likely lose your preliminary position here. However, should you handle this impressively, it will more than fix your standing." The thin and stoic face of Dahlia Battox expressed the significance behind her words subtlety but effectively.

"Thank you, Minister."

The work was draining. The most immediate business had been meeting with muggle leaders to establish what they could of a story to explain the attacks. Not an easy task by any means. Luckily, she was able to take care of that pesky business of removing both Sirius Black as well as herself and Draco from the list of wanted criminals.

The next months of her profession were monopolized by hearings. Each prisoner within Azkaban was being brought up before the court to determine the reason for their imprisonment. The task became daunting, then impossible.

With every long day and close inspection, she began to lose hope that she would find Draco. For if she did find him, what would she find?

On day forty-seven of inspections, Hermione began to allow herself out of the courtroom at five o'clock. The final interrogation was starting late and the poor retch seemed totaly lost. His dirty hair was the same grey brown they all were. His skin pale, almost translucent. His eyes were darting, angry and fearful. They looked more animal than human. She truly loathed that they used dementors for what they did to people.

She did not normally leave before the proceedings were finished, but the last one had been especially trying—a child murderer of Voldemort's attempting to trick them into giving them his freedom. Before that, an innocent muggle who could only beg them to find his wife, who was likely dead. His grief had been emotionally taxing.

She had agreed to meet Fred for dinner and she was tired of being late. If he could get off work on time while running his own successful business, with his brother of course, then she could be polite enough to not make him wait. Fred had pushed for her to start taking better care of herself. His brother, Fred explained, would want them to look after her. Later, he admitted that it more than that—he believed people needed to learn how to laugh again, hence their joke shop. And no one needed a laugh more than her, especially after such a hellish job. Today, she agreed with him.

At the opposite end of the room, she had to pass the prisoner to escape. She tried, as she always did, not to feel anything. It was becoming too easy. She was scarring herself.

But she hesitated. She looked. The man, completely bewildered with a dark mark exposed, was shaking. And something about him was familiar. Slowly, concentrating very hard she searched him and her memory. Then, she shook her head and continued on her way, heels tapping away on the stone floor.

Something ruffled the prisoner. She passed, mentally kicking herself, checking her watch. He was unable to answer them, twitching, murmuring. A little unnerved by his filthy and unstable appearance, she approached him, drawn closer by something she did not understand. He seemed to take note of her by his body language. She examined every pale, thin, inch of him. Dirty. Scared. Trembling. Bones sticking out like dragon ridges, black mark imprinted plainly on his forearm.

"Hermione?" Someone inquired, their voice drifting down to her as if from a great distance.

She felt a shiver down her spine and commanded herself to leave this time. For some reason she felt like running. She spun around. The others were murmuring amongst themselves about what to do with the man, ignoring him as he injured himself on restraints.

She really needed to leave.

She took just one step, to mend his wound, but something caught her ears. She got closer, sensing danger, only distantly hearing the inquisitive calls of her colleges, superiors, friends. She strained her ears to hear the prisoner's prayer, or his gibberish, that he kept repeating to himself, rocking backwards and forward. She recognized the rhythm, like a poem she knew. She tried to place it.

Grey eyes met hers and a spark of something shot through her so that she yelped and covered her mouth at once.

She ignored them all.

"Draco," she placed her hands on his bars, trying to catch his eye. "It—It's me." This sight, of all the corpses and mourning and wreckage and ruins she had witnessed, this was the most pathetic and repulsive thing she had yet seen. The man before her rocked backwards and forwards and placed his grimy face against hers and his bars, her breath stroking his cheeks; he calmed. He murmured almost like a human, "Hermione. Hermione. Hermione."

She sensed him coming closer to the surface, or a pale reflection of who he was once was. She heard him coming back in his voice. Nearer with each repetition, as if it were a train calling through a tunnel.

A/N: This is one of my last chances to hear from you all and I want to know what each of you think! Review and the more who do, the sooner I'll post the conclusion to our story. What do you think is going to happen?