Good afternoon. I have been busy with the family members visiting, but finally have the next chapter for you. We are moving along inexorably toward some significant movement, do let me know what you think. I am going to try now to FINALLY answer some of your reviews which have been lingering for an age! Thank you so much for reviewing & your wonderful comments. It helps me keep going. Single digit number of chapters left now! I had planned on this chapter being longer but it just made sense to end it where it does. Thank you for reading!
"Severus, you seem to have been through the wars. Dare I hope you are finished for the evening?" Lucius raised a brow and lifted his chin toward the decanter on the side table.
"No, thank you," Snape replied in clipped tones. "I am in the middle of something."
Lucius' gaze traveled down to Snape's sling. "So I see. How clumsy of you—hit with a curse?"
Severus' eyes narrowed minutely. "How peculiar of you to assume I was cursed, Lucius. I would think it far more probable that I had some type of accident with a potion, wouldn't you say?"
"Ah, but these are dangerous times, aren't they, my friend? Transitions between governments can be so hideously messy…just look at the disasters that occurred in Germany after Grindelwald fell! Why, I would scarce be shocked to see similar events occurring here."
Severus observed how Lucius was standing so carefully behind his desk, a book carelessly strewn to the side, a half-drunk glass of firewhisky before him. He did not look well, but he did not look as terrible as he had at the battle at Hogwarts, either. He decided to probe further while the opportunity presented itself.
"Grindelwald's fall and death were inevitable given his arrogant overreach. Had he not moved so quickly in the face of such opposition, he likely would have succeeded in creating a different society. As it was, he drew the opprobrium of many, and had not the wherewithal to maintain it." Severus' words were carefully chosen, and Lucius considered them in a like manner, as if they were merely having a private conversation and not dancing around what amounted to treason in this day and age.
"Indeed. And history does tend to repeat itself, does it not?" Lucius paused to consider his firewhisky, then downed the rest of it in one gulp before he turned his attention fully back to Severus. "I continued reading my father's journals, Severus. There was much there about events in France and Germany after Grindelwald's fall—at a time when the Dark Lord was traveling. My father thought he might have been searching for Miss Granger…which begs the question, who sent her? My father found out several years later that Dumbledore believed it to be Grindelwald himself…curious, isn't it? Given his lengthy detention in Nurmengard? And his disappearance from that prison a few months ago?"
Snape could not believe it. Lucius was connecting the dots, but the wrong ones. It was unlike Lucius to make such a mistake, which led him to the conclusion that Lucius was closer to cracking than he appeared.
"What an interesting and completely implausible theory, Lucius." Severus' tone was sharp, and Lucius' eyes narrowed slightly in response. Lucius had never liked being confronted with rare episodes of idiocy. He continued relentlessly, "Really, who has been whispering in your ear? More to the point, what exactly are you doing for the Dark Lord that you would leave so many stones unturned in your haste to unravel the mystery of how the Dark Lord wed Miss Granger? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were in over your head with your mysterious commission, and are desperately hoping for something to happen before you are out of time." The whip-like innuendoes he tossed nearly caused Lucius to flinch.
"You know nothing, old friend," Lucius said with quiet determination, but Severus noted how his knuckles whitened as he clasped the edge of his desk. "And I would think you would know better than to underestimate my resources under even the direst of circumstances."
Severus' arm burned, a damned inconvenient time. The indrawn hiss of his breath caused Lucius' gaze to drop briefly to Snape's forearm. "Being called, I see. Well, do not let me keep you. I would hate for you to suffer any ill consequences for your reverent attentions."
"How kind of you to be concerned," Severus said snidely, nodding curtly to Lucius. It now became a matter of urgency that he speak to Draco again. With any luck, he could catch the boy after the Dark Lord welcomed back Strout. He could only hope there would be nothing further required of him on this damnable day.
Madame Strout was less than thrilled with the return of her memories from her first visit. She had screamed bloody murder at Severus the second he had finished casting the spell, forcing him to silence her and place her in a body bind.
"Madam, desist!" Snape snapped. "Or would you prefer to be brought to the Dark Lord trussed up like a treat for his snake?"
The woman didn't know that Nagini was dead, and the threat had the desired effect. She calmed herself enough that Snape judged it acceptable to release her from the body bind and silencing spell. She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, smoothing strands of wiry gray hair back into some semblance of order.
"Has he injured someone again?"
"The reason your presence has been requested will be made clear by the Dark Lord. I trust you remember how to conduct yourself with appropriate caution."
The reminder was moot, but as Miriam Strout entered the private quarters of the Dark Lord, once again the former Miss Granger was awaiting her tender mercies.
"My wife is ill. Again." The Dark Lord gave no other proscription, and, vaguely remembering the wizard's formidable wand, Miriam approached Hermione quickly.
"What are your symptoms?"
"I think I may be having contractions." Hermione wished she could infuse a note of apology in her voice, but with Voldemort strung tight and still pissed off about Harry's little escapade, she didn't dare. He would interpret it as an admission of fault, and she was not going to admit to any sort of blame for her current state…not publicly, in any case.
"Let's see…yes, some contractions. Too early, Madame, for that. What have you been doing?"
Between Tom's arctic chill and Strout's disapproval, Hermione was feeling hard done by. "Defending my life, thank you very much!"
"I see." Miriam Strout didn't dare look to see what the Dark Lord thought of or possibly had to do with that turn of events.
After a series of diagnostics and a brief rummage in the case she was allowed to unshrink from her pocket, Strout produced a vial of potion and directed Hermione to drink it.
"What is it?"
The question from the Dark Lord stayed her hand. His sharp tone was a sufficient command unto itself. She dared to meet his gaze briefly but addressed Hermione in her reply.
"This is a potion to stop the contractions and give your body a chance to re-equilibrate itself."
"What caused them?" Hermione asked after drinking the vile concoction.
"Stress." Madame Strout's tone was clipped, and Voldemort sprang to life from his arms-crossed, slouched posture. Fortunately for Miriam Strout, his ire was not directed at her.
"You. Are Not. To Go Out. Again." Voldemort's voice thrummed with ire, and Hermione sat forward as much as her belly would allow.
"I am not your prisoner!" Hermione fired back. "I'm your wife, and I'll come and go as I please!"
"You would put your child at risk?" Voldemort's aura had risen again, and Strout backed away from between the two of them.
"This does not help her or the baby," Miriam began, but both turned on her immediately.
"Shut up!" Hermione said impatiently.
Voldemort was less equivocal. "Silencio!"
Miriam Strout's mouth moved futilely for a few seconds, then she clamped her lips together and wisely waited for them to stop. It wasn't as if she could have done anything to stop them, in any case.
Hermione felt her aura clashing with Tom's in a manner extremely reminiscent of their heated arguments in the Hogwarts library. The tightening of her abdomen had ceased, and for the moment their son seemed content to slumber despite the magical currents passing back and forth between his parents. There was something deeply comforting about the familiarity of arguing with Tom, despite the massive shift in scale.
"You will obey me, madam, or you will find yourself imitating Rapunzel or Aurora Grantschen until that babe is delivered!"
"Try me." Hermione's voice was steely and as hard as granite. She was surprised to find that she felt prepared to duel Tom if necessary, but in hindsight he had likely prepared her quite well to hold her own against him. They were locked in a dueling pair of angry stares when there was a shower of sparks from the mute healer. Hermione removed Tom's silencing charm with a flick of her wand.
"That is quite enough! You are hardly in a position to duel, young lady, and don't get me started on the unhealthiness of using dueling to settle arguments in your marriage!—"
Strout got no further as Voldemort pinned her to the wall with a jab of his wand, his expression pure ice. "Do not tell me or my wife how to conduct ourselves. Ever."
The rictus of pain on the healer's face was an indication of the magnitude of Tom's displeasure.
"Tom, stop."
He ignored her, but Hermione only had to begin to draw the curse toward herself for Voldemort to cease casting instantly, the backlash of his of anger suppressed with some effort. He must have sensed the energy she had to expend to do so, as he fought visibly to regain control of his fury for her sake.
"Please. I am tired. Let's just finish what has to be done with Miriam and let her go about her business. I am sure she thoroughly regrets her thoughtless commentary." Hermione knew it was manipulative to run her left hand over her belly, as surely as he knew it, but it worked nonetheless.
"Fine." The word was bit off and angry, but finally Tom released the healer from the wall. Madame Strout collapsed to the floor with a moan, causing Hermione to hurry toward her to help her regain her feet.
"For Salazar's sake!" Voldemort hissed, but he flicked his wand again to get the healer back onto her feet. "Don't try my limited patience," he snapped as Miriam shakily straightened her robes.
"My apologies," Strout said, the touch of fear in her voice somewhat negating the manner in which she offered her apology; which is to say, she didn't grovel on the floor before him.
"What do I need to do to prevent a relapse?" Hermione asked, redirecting both Voldemort's and the healer's attention to her immediate task.
Miriam did not dare ask what sorts of things the Dark Lady, as she was being called, had been up to. "Avoidance of large stressors should keep that child where he belongs until it is time for his arrival. I would further recommend seeking the assistance of a specialized obstetrical healer…"
"No." Voldemort was adamant.
"I would like to ask you to take an Unbreakable vow. It's just that we would prefer not to keep Obliviating you…" Hermione let her voice trail off, but Miriam was only now suspecting how often she had been visiting Hermione for prenatal care.
"Of course."
The acceptance was swift. Really, there was no other choice in Miriam's mind. Repeated obliviations could result in long term damage, and if she unwittingly found herself in this situation, she would rather be fully cognizant of it at all times. Perhaps it would also give her help with keeping her mouth closed around the Dark Lord. Restored obliviated memories did not have the same visceral impact as unaltered memories, as her still shrieking ligaments attested.
Taking an Unbreakable vow with the Dark Lord himself was not an experience for the fainthearted. Hermione served as the bonder, which was probably for the best as she phrased the vow in a kinder manner than her husband would have done.
"Do you, Miriam Strout, vow to keep all details of your consultations and visits with myself and my husband to yourself for the remainder of your life?" At Strout's murmured 'I do,' Hermione continued, "And do you vow to provide the absolute best care to myself and my child for so long as we choose to call on you to provide this care and are able and competent to do so?"
"I do."
There were no vows on Voldemort's part, which reiterated how very much Miriam Strout was at the mercy of the Dark Lord. That settled, Voldemort seized Strout's arm and forced the sleeve of her robe up above her right arm.
"What are you doing?" She could not keep the note of fear from her voice, which she suspected was exactly the kind of thing that the Dark Lord expected, and perhaps even needed.
"Ensuring you are at our service at any time." His voice was inky and dark, his grip firm, creating just the sort of fear and mindless terror which was his stock in trade.
"It's not a Dark Mark," Hermione said quickly, exchanging a look with Voldemort. His answering look of scalding derision was easily read: As if I would.
Voldemort turned Strout's arm firmly, irritated with the rising panic he could feel coming from her. He traced a serpentine pattern around her upper arm, the snake slithering after his wand and into her skin with the hiss of his words.
"Give me your wand," he said to Hermione, his eyes flicking to hers briefly as she handed over the relatively unornamented rowan, which possessed only a few gordian knots carved at regular intervals with some runes at the base. There was a strange warmth, a caress from the wand's magic as he ordered it, tracing the serpent again carefully. The wand was more pliable than either of his own, but he felt a curious affinity for it, almost as if he were familiar with the wand already. He set that mystery aside, handing it back to Hermione before he returned his attention to Madame Strout. He knew it had not hurt her in the slightest, but she was quivering like a young rabbit. Disgusted, he let go of her arm with a disdainful flourish of his sleeve and put his wand away.
"That charm will allow us to summon you. I recommend not ignoring our summons, as it will restrict your wand arm more and more as time passes without heeding it."
Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. As coercive measures went it was relatively benign by Voldemort's standards, which was remarkably benevolent given his recent ire with the healer…that, or he was not disclosing how truly awful the restriction would be.
"Get out."
Miriam Strout did not have to be told twice this time. Voldemort knew Severus would return her, and would probably be grateful that his damned duty was done for the day. He would go home to suffer the replacement of the bones in his forearm with the stoicism with which he dealt with anything physically painful. Severus had only ever responded to mental agony, which made the gift of mental peace all the more acute. He now had a true servant for life after finally purging the pernicious ghost of Lily Potter from the man's conscience. Hermione's voice snapped him back to the present and the unanswered question of who attacked her.
"What are you going to do about the errant Death Eaters?"
Voldemort caught Hermione's defiant, strong gaze that dared him to accuse her precious Order of attacking her today. Truthfully given Mulciber's continued absence, Voldemort was quite certain that there was more than one traitor in his ranks. It's not like he hadn't suspected it after that business MacNair had spotted at the Prophet, but it rankled to have it percolate enough to bear this type of mutinous attack.
"I will deal with identifying those responsible," he said arrogantly. "What is most pressing now is your continued refusal to do as I say."
"That is such a load of bollocks," Hermione retorted, aware that he despised coarse talk and that he would know she was deliberately goading him by using it outside of a rare appearance in their sex life. "I didn't vow to obey you, Tom, as you well know, and you need more than my help with the soul calling. You need a different perspective and quickly, before more of your mutinous followers decide that they dislike an individual decision enough to risk everything by attempting to overthrow you."
"It is you they dislike, not me," he said nastily, but Hermione only quirked her eyebrow at him.
"Really? Because attacking me was in no way a challenge to your authority or your choice of wife?"
"Sit down," he said suddenly, taking in the high color in her cheeks. "You are supposed to be avoiding stress, not courting it, damn it."
"I thought the courting had been done long ago," Hermione retorted, but she did sit down on their bed.
"Ha, ha," Voldemort replied, pacing once as he thought about the problem at hand. "I already have a few individuals investigating."
"Who are probably also known by the attackers, if indeed they do not comprise some of them."
"I know that," Voldemort snapped, impatience lacing his tone.
"You need someone from outside who can move among the Death Eaters but isn't one of them," Hermione observed. "Someone like a retired Unspeakable who was once one of your favorites."
A sardonic grimace approximating a smile passed briefly over his lips. "That is not amusing in any manner."
"I do not intend it to be. But if you were able to restore their daughter to them, perhaps Evan would be willing to help you again. As a debt repaid."
"I doubt he would see it the same way," Voldemort said irritably. "I am, after all, responsible in part for her condition."
"Only in part?"
Surprise laced her tone, and Voldemort darted a wry look at her. "I am not in the habit of requiring firstborn or any progeny, despite whatever other despicable things you think me capable of. Christine, as I mentioned, was quite a successful brewer. She annoyed Severus with her proficiency, in point of fact. At the time of her incapacitation she was working on a potion that should have functioned a bit like a directed Imperius. Unbeknownst to me she had been testing the formulas on herself. It is most likely that the potion in her system reacted poorly with my…chastisement. It might even have been responsible for her lapse in judgement when the Longbottoms visited her."
Hermione processed that. "That makes it even more likely that you could do for her what you did for me alongside Miriam Strout's auroral casting."
The look he gave her was more measured now. "Perhaps."
She could not help the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. It was another win and she could not help but savor it slightly, even if he would not acknowledge it. Tom's eyes narrowed, and he lifted her chin to look her in the eye, his thumb wiping away the smirk.
"Do not savor your success quite yet, sweetling. There is still the matter of your parents and Harry."
Severus Snape was feeling as irritable as the Bloody Baron, and thus when he did find Draco slipping out of the salon where Narcissa was doubtless hiding, given the charming epithets tossed his way by Bellatrix further back, he had no patience left. Therefore he grabbed Draco by the arm, disapparating himself and Draco to a different part of the manor—the roof. He had little time but cast a Muffliato just in case.
"Hands off!" Draco said angrily, snatching his arm out of Snape's grasp as soon as they landed.
"Your father is neck deep in this, and I owe him a curse of my own for this," Severus snarled without preamble and a gesture to his sling. "He as much as admitted responsibility, and the Dark Lord is on the warpath. He will stop at nothing to uncover who was involved in that little stunt today."
Draco shook his head. "I know. My mother practically confirmed it herself. As to who else is playing, that I don't know."
"I believe we both know your extended family is hardly innocent. However, that is neither here nor there, as the Dark Lord doubtless already knows. Your days playing house with Mr. Potter are at an end," Snape predicted. "Prepare yourself for some hard choices."
Draco's eyes flashed silver in the moonlight as he snarled his answer. "As if that isn't what I've been doing already. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an errant Gryffindor to track."
Draco had successfully avoided his aunt and any other impediments and was on the far side of the house, nearly at the edge of the wards, when his mark began to burn.
"Shit!"
There wasn't time to deal with Harry first or prepare him in any way. Mentally all Draco wanted to do was mutter expletives, but that would not benefit him. Instead he focused on calming himself, on putting his priorities in order. As he walked he centered his magic and put his mind in order so his Occlumency could withstand the Dark Lord. He ignored the dread that was building in his gut that said he knew exactly what the Dark Lord wanted. He could only hope his secret would remain safe for a little longer.
"Harry, Harry, glad you're back."
The nervous figure of Neville Longbottom shuffled away from the doorframe, allowing Harry into the narrow entrance hall. Neville looked out into the waning dusk anxiously, as if ensuring no one was loitering in the gathering shadows.
"There's no one out there, mate," Harry said kindly. The Longbottom house was as secure as it had ever been, perhaps one of the few remaining places where refugees could be undetected.
"Yeah, yeah, I know that." Neville said, shutting the door with some determination. "Come on then. Kingsley and the Grangers are in with Gran."
Harry followed Neville into the overstuffed, wan warmth of the Longbottom sitting room. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were drinking a cup of tea and chatting quietly with Mrs. Longbottom and Kingsley. Harry cleared his throat as he entered, drawing the Grangers' attention.
"Where is Hermione?" Mr. Granger had half-risen to his feet, his wife clutching the side of his trousers as they both belatedly realized that Hermione wasn't going to walk through the doorway behind Harry.
"She's not here," Harry began with a gross statement of the obvious, throwing a glance at Kingsley for some help. The Auror tilted his head slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow as if to say, 'It's your call,' and Harry flashed an apologetic look to Mrs. Granger.
"Where is she then?" This was from Mrs. Granger, who looked at Harry with such a sense of expectation that he felt like he was constantly disappointing people these days. Richard and Jean Granger were understandably anxious, and Harry sat down, explaining very carefully and very succinctly exactly what had happened to Hermione. Kingsley occasionally pitched in to describe in very measured terms the fall of the Ministry of Magic, but they did not spare some of the more macabre details from the Grangers.
"This is unbelievable." The disbelief in Harold Granger's voice was strident and jarring. "Hermione would never marry at such a young age, and certainly not a monstrous wizard intent on eliminating all Muggles."
"This is too fantastical—I know Hermione has been reticent to communicate with us, but this beggars belief," Jean added. "I cannot believe she would engage in such actions without at least communicating something to us."
"She may have been prevented from contacting you by He Who Must Not Be Named," Harry said. "It's hard to believe, I know, but her name has been attached to his vault in Gringotts, and you know the goblins are not easily persuaded. And there is this."
Harry produced the copy of the Daily Prophet which discussed the marriage, and swallowed as he saw Jean's face gray and Richard's droop as they read the article and saw the pictures accompanying it. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat again.
"Here's the thing: she wants to see you. But she can't do that, not without him interfering. And I just don't know what he will do with you, or to you. He's extremely dangerous, and obviously he hasn't let her contact you until this point—but he does not want you in our control. He has asked me to bring you to a dropoff point, but I don't think I can do that. I don't think you will be safe. And if he had you, then he'd have another thing to use as leverage over her." Harry purposely didn't mention the confounding charm on their town. With Hermione saying she had no knowledge of it, he wasn't quite so certain about his conclusions, but he was quite certain that Voldemort was not someone to be trusted with innocent Muggles.
"How did she end up married to him? I thought you were all together, all the time. How was he able to get to her, to do this without her permission?"
"Your daughter had to have participated willingly for the Gringotts changes to take place," Kingsley said. "We don't know what motivated her to do so."
"I have no idea what kind of magical marriage they have, and it's not clear how much say she has in her environment—but I think it's reasonable to conclude, not much. So turning you over to him…"
"You think it would be tantamount to murder." Richard Granger's voice was flat but quivering with underlying emotion. "And you don't think our daughter could stop him."
"I don't know," Harry said seriously. "And that is why I would like to offer a different option to you. We could try to smuggle you out of the country. Some Order members are preparing to go to France, and we may be able to get you out with them. There are magical controls being put in place for departures, so it might be easier if you left as Muggles. You would have to take new names, new passports. You wouldn't be able to bring much, if anything, with you. Your home and surgery are probably being monitored now, and your bank accounts are likely frozen. So it would mean a completely fresh start."
"But what about Hermione?" Jean asked, and Kingsley spoke up.
"We don't have many informants left, but we believe she has some measure of safety in her relationship with He Who Must Not Be Named. Of course, there are those within his ranks who despise Muggleborns, but so long as he maintains power, he will likely be able to keep them in line."
"So our daughter is now married to a malevolent, magical dictator, and her safety is dependent on him maintaining power." Richard Granger stood up and paced the room, then stopped and eyed Harry. "I want to talk to Hermione."
Harry and Kingsley exchanged a look.
"I don't think that is prudent," Kingsley said.
"We don't care what you think is prudent," Jean said before Richard could say anything. "Isn't that right, Richard?"
"Yes," he said resolutely. "We appreciate all that you have told us, but ultimately we want to see our daughter, come hell or high water."
Augusta Longbottom finally spoke up, her shrewd eyes fixing on the Grangers. "You have no idea what you are up against. This wizard is like nothing you can imagine. Even what Mr. Potter has told you doesn't give you the real picture." She paused and looked to the edge of the room. "Neville. Tell them."
Neville came forward slowly, not sitting down. There was some shadow in his expression that drew attention, something that said all was not quite whole still, not quite reacclimated to being in kind company.
"I was a prisoner there. Where she lives. I didn't know she was there, didn't know when or how long they'd had me…worked on me."
There was a bitterness to that word that rolled around in his mouth, the acerbic taste of it bringing back phantom pains and biting shadows. He shook his head as if to clear it, then forced himself to look Hermione's mum in the eye. She would know. The force of Neville's stare caused Mr. Granger to come back to his wife's side, grasping her shoulder in a gesture of comfort.
"Your daughter, Hermione, she can hold her own against him. She helped me, the one time I saw her—healed me some, cleaned me up. She argued with him for me. She is okay, she'll be okay. But you…you wouldn't survive them. You couldn't. Words can't describe how they can torture you…" His voice broke and his gran started talking, comforting him, he thought, as the words poured meaninglessly over him.
"What you're saying tells me that our daughter would be able to protect us," Richard Granger argued, setting off his gran again. Harry and Kingsley were discussing in low tones how many people had disappeared, how many could be undergoing similar tortures now. Neville was having difficulty focusing, heard Harry say, "I hate to even say this, but they might be safer Obliviated if we can't get them out…"
Something in Neville's mind said that wasn't right, that Obliviating people was wrong no matter the circumstances. He was having difficulty focusing, all the arguing a blur of noise that was causing his heart rate to accelerate and the shadow voice to come forward. He was distracted by something, a staccato reverbation. His head swiveled as if trying to pinpoint the source, the jarring noise in the middle of all their voices…
"Stop!"
Everyone stopped at Neville's loud, forceful exclamation, their eyes fixed on him again. He hated that.
"There's someone knocking at the door."
They all exchanged glances. No one else knew where the house was. No one else should be able to detect it, let alone make it to the front door.
"Neville, stand back," Augusta Longbottom said, standing and withdrawing her wand. The rest of them did the same, the Grangers huddling together suddenly in the face of this new threat. Harry had a dreadful feeling in his gut. He knew somehow that this was all his fault, that he had to be the one to answer the door.
"I'll get it."
Harry crossed to the front door in a few steps, his wand at the ready. He could make out dark clothes, a tallish figure on the other side of the wavy glass medallion in the center of the door. He took a deep breath and turned the knob.
"Harry, you unbelievably stupid arsehole! Why did you Stun me?"
Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn't Draco Malfoy. "How did you find me?"
Draco brushed the question aside, taking Harry by the shoulders. "That is indeed something we are long overdue to discuss, but not now. By Salazar, tell me you have taken the Grangers to the Manor."
"I haven't, and how do you know—"
"Fuck!" Draco slammed his fist into the brick, welcoming the pain the reverbated up his arm as he leaned his forehead against the wall. "Harry, you're going to be the death of me. Where are they?"
"We're here." Draco looked up warily, taking in the two Muggles standing just behind Harry. He could perceive the looming figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, with Neville Longbottom behind. He was thankful for the cramped nature of the Longbottom entry hall as he swiftly assessed his options. "And who might you be?"
The question was from the Muggle man, and just like that, Draco was decided.
"Draco Malfoy, reformed Death Eater. Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger." Draco held out his hand, firmly shaking first Mr. Granger's and then Mrs. Granger's hands.
"What—" Richard Granger looked at the slip of paper Draco had palmed into his hand, his eyes flying to the identical piece of paper in his wife's hand. The Grangers vanished in a whirl of blue, making the months Draco had spent mastering the Portus spell wandlessly and wordlessly worth all the effort.
"Draco!" Having his wand at the ready helped, but Harry was caught off guard by the portkey flash, bringing his wand to bear against Draco just one second too late.
"Locomotor mortis," Draco whispered, pointing the applewood wand not where the Grangers had been, but at Harry. As Harry slumped Draco caught him and turned on a knut, narrowly avoiding Kingsley's body bind and disapparating them both. As they landed, Draco briefly pushed Harry's messy hair back from his scar, his lips touching it briefly.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I hope you will forgive me."