ccxxxiv. a new idea

The long, interminable days stretched on without word of Harriet's pending trial.

They knew it would be soon. In the Muggle world, these things could take years, cases pending for months and months on end until they came to the docket—but the Wizarding world was different, for better or worse. Harriet's fate would be decided before summer's end. They just didn't know the day.

Half the residents of the house were unbothered by the wait. To them, the trial existed as a banal fact; the sky was blue, grass was green, Harriet Potter would go on trial for murder. The outcome or thought thereof didn't impact them in fundamental ways.

For the other residents, it keened as wildly as a death knell—silent, but no less piercing as it shook in their very bones. Hermione hated the inevitability of it more than anything, more than the sheer injustice or stupidity involved. It did not matter where they looked, which laws they invoked, which amendments they cited; Harriet would stand trial.

She would stand trial before a Wizengamot loyal to Marvolo Gaunt.

Sirius and Remus were worried. They pretended not to be, the former making casual, blase remarks about future holidays and asking Harriet if she was looking forward to returning to the summer Quidditch league. Remus kept up a steady stream of interest in her studies, encouraging her to stay focused on schoolwork. All the while, Hermione saw their expressions tense when they thought no one was aware. Sirius spent an inordinate amount of time in conversation with Nicolas Flamel when the old alchemist could spare the time, and Remus kept making tea. That wouldn't be such an oddity if not for the fact that he could have four or five cups of it already sitting on the table or desk and still go back for another.

Harriet was simply drained. Hermione wasn't a doctor, but it seemed her best friend suffered from shock or some form of post-traumatic stress. She would have sharp moments of lucidity where she'd be herself—vivid, jocular, cheeky—followed by longer periods of languor, as if exhaustion had taken the legs out from under her without letting her mind shut off. Harriet would stare into the distance, blank, unseeing, and weakly stir only after being prompted several times. She had something on her mind—something heavier than the death of Terry or Voldemort's return—but she wouldn't share.

Hermione herself had much on her mind. It was one thing to make plans in which she could theoretically sway the agendas of Wizengamot families to vote for someone other than Gaunt and quite another to execute it.

Sirius had it on good authority Amelia Bones would be putting her name forward as a running candidate that Mabon. As far as choices for Minister went, Bones wasn't bad, in Hermione's opinion. She had a solid background in the Ministry, was pure-blooded, and well-respected among the voting Houses. They could do worse. She wouldn't make waves, but finding someone to unseat Gaunt wasn't about waves; it was about being steadfast, someone with a hard enough head and solid bearing to withstand the sheer upheaval that would have to happen to root out the Guardians of the Magical Right. A future Minister could enact change so long as Bones helped the Ministry survive.

Hermione grumbled to herself about putting the horse before the carriage yet again. Having an alternate candidate wouldn't matter a whit if she couldn't convince people to change their votes, and Hermione kept getting forcibly reminded how very little presence she held in the Wizarding world. She wrote letters, attempting to use what scraps of Slytherin charm and guile she could muster, but most of the Houses had no interest in listening to the Muggleborn ward of the Black family. Those who decided to return her letters at all usually did so with scoffing dismissals.

Feeling defeated after reading the latest letter—from House Clagg, who at least humored Hermione with a polite response—Hermione flopped on her bed, disturbing Crookshanks. She reached out to the Kneazle and rubbed her fingers along his ginger head.

"I must be going about this the wrong way," she muttered, her familiar turning his large, golden eyes on her. "If I can't even get a conversation out of House Clagg, who control one measly vote and are already prone to vote against Gaunt, what use is my plan at all? There must be another way to go about this…."

Hermione rolled to her back again, glowering at the ceiling as she folded her hands against her middle. Absolutely infuriating. She could see the end goal and exactly how the pegs should slot themselves, but the unfortunate pegs in her plans were people with their thoughts, wills, aspirations, and political agendas. It has always been a failing of Hermione's, ever since childhood, to lack a certain grasp of empathy. Her parents used to—.

She sucked on her teeth, her cheek twitching.

No matter the odds stacked against her, no matter how she may break in the quiet, candlelit solitude of her room, Hermione wouldn't admit defeat. She was not going to wash her hands of anything and just—just thumb her nose from the sidelines! Terry was dead, people were dying, and Gaunt wanted to send her best friend to prison for the rest of her life—.

No, Hermione was not going to let a few pompous windbags change her mind. What she could change were her tactics, even if she wasn't quite sure how to go about it.

Sometimes, Hermione desperately wished someone else would take this burden from her. Someone older, someone who had all the answers, while Hermione could simply be sixteen and worry about inane, teenage nonsense. It wouldn't happen. Hermione was almost an adult herself—one year off from the age of majority in the Wizarding world—and no one else was going to do a single thing if not forced into action. She had no choice. None of them did.

We need something more. It's not enough. I could convince a dozen House Claggs for all the good it will do us in the end. We need—.

Like a shot, Hermione sat up in her bed. The motion was so fast it startled Crookshanks, who hissed and stole away from her, diving for safety under the bed. Hermione scrambled to stand and dashed for her desk.

The idea lit through her brain as fast as a lightning flash, connecting the thinnest of threads together into a barely comprehensible picture, but if she connected the lines just so, if she played her hand just right—.

Hermione grabbed the first sheet of empty parchment she could lay her hands on and started to write with a fury.

xXx

The next afternoon, Hermione sat outside a Muggle cafe, sipping a terrible latte.

It was one of those popular coffee houses that had sprung up and caught on, and though Hermione could see the draw of convenience, she found they brewed an awful tea. Their coffee was not much better. It was fairly close to Grimmauld however, only a few blocks away, and—more importantly—close to an appointed stop for the Knight Bus.

She could not help how her foot bobbed as she drank and waited. Lying on the ground by her chair's legs, the shaggy black dog huffed at her, and Hermione stilled.

"Yes, yes, of course," she muttered, clearing her throat. She couldn't leave Grimmauld without an escort, necessitating Sirius' participation this afternoon. The danger in the middle of a busy Muggle street was nominal, but a nominal risk did not amount to zero risk. After all, the chance of Harriet being arrested and nabbed off a busy platform not three yards from her godfather had been nominal.

Hermione's foot bobbed again.

After another fifteen minutes or so, a familiar blond head appeared in the crowd.

Draco Malfoy did not look at all happy to be walking along a Muggle street, but he dressed appropriately—if a little fussily for it being summertime—and navigated the road with none of the gawking gaucheness other wizards and witches were prone to exhibit. He flinched when the larger lorries trundled by, though, apparently unconvinced they wouldn't jump the kerb onto the pavement.

Honestly, after having seen how the Knight Bus drove, Hermione didn't blame him.

She almost raised an impatient hand to beckon him closer, but she reeled in the instinct and waited, Sirius giving her trainer a small nip to stop its increased bouncing. Malfoy neared and eyed the sign, then spotted Hermione. He hurried over.

"Granger," he acknowledged, sliding into the chair across from her. The position placed him directly in the sun, and given his black jacket and shirt, his face took on an immediate flushed hue. "Wretchedly hot out here. How do the Muggles make do without Cooling Charms?"

Hermione lifted one brow and wordlessly gave the umbrella propped between them a small push. It didn't sit quite level in the base beneath the table, so it wobbled and rotated, pouring shade over Draco.

"Oh."

"Oh," Hermione mimicked, though she smiled. "Thank you for coming."

He made a show of straightening his sleeves and puffing out his chest. "Of course," he said in a passable pure-blood drawl. Hermione nearly kicked him under the table. "Your letter said it was important and best not to mention where it could be intercepted. I do hope you're not wasting my time, Granger. I'm very busy this summer and need to get back soon."

Hermione traced a bead of condensation along the side of her plastic cup. "He's staying at your house, isn't he?"

The air went out of Draco's bluster as his eyes widened, and Hermione found herself sitting across the table from a frightened teenager instead of a handsome young man. She hadn't said the name—hadn't even uttered one of those insipid pseudonyms—but Draco had still startled as if struck. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

"Mmm." She didn't push the subject but felt her caution validated. Truly, she'd been more worried about Gaunt seizing post at Malfoy Manor, but it occurred to her that of the few followers Harriet indicated returned in the graveyard, the Malfoys were by far the richest and best appointed. They didn't know much about Tom Riddle, but they did know all his incarnations enjoyed comfortable, parasitic lifestyles off the affluent.

"I won't keep you long. What I truly wish is for you to arrange a meeting between me and your dad."

Draco blinked, confused. "Father?" His nose scrunched. "Why in the world would you want to talk to him?"

"What I have to say to him is important, and we cannot afford for it to reach Gaunt's ears." Hermione laid her hands on the table and exhaled. This was a long shot, and yet she had to ask. Had to try. "I believe Lucius and I can help one another if he's willing to listen."

"Granger, I don't, I can't say—." Draco took a flustered breath, and Hermione saw the muscles of his jaw twitch as he sought the right words. "I couldn't say if he'd come. I couldn't say if he'd listen. It isn't a…good time, right now."

"I can only ask you forward my request. That's all." Hermione lifted one of her hands to knead at her temple, pressing down with her thumb and forefinger as if she could find the root of her headache and pluck it right out of her skull. There was no point in writing Malfoy senior; he would bin it directly if Gaunt didn't get his sticky fingers on it first. She needed him to listen, to really bloody listen to her. Just for a minute. If she could have that minute—.

Draco watched Hermione, his pale eyes skimming over her face, the exhausted slouch of her shoulders, the old ink staining her small hands. "You look a fright, Granger," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, opening her eyes to glare.

He grinned, all white teeth and arrogant smugness, but the look faded fast, replaced again by a tired, hollowed-out look behind his eyes. There was a certain dryness to his faultless skin as if he'd spent quite a bit of time with his head in his hands, wearily rubbing at his face.

"I'm sorry about Boot."

The reminder opened already weeping wounds around Hermione's heart as she again recalled how she'd never see Terry again, never share an afternoon listening to his insightful mind, never again feel that rush when his lips would press against her cheek and her stomach would twirl in her middle. It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair.

Hermione's face crumpled, and Draco reached a tentative hand across the table to lay over hers.

"You didn't even like Terry," she managed to say in a steady voice, only sniffing once. He hurried to find a handkerchief and handed it over, Hermione dabbing at her nose.

"Of course I didn't, but not liking a bloke doesn't mean I wanted him dead, for Merlin's sake." His hand lingered on her own for another minute, offering silent comfort before he withdrew, clearing his throat. "I have to get back. With how awful that bus driver is, I need time to ensure I return in one piece."

His scathing account of the Knight Bus earned a weak twitch from Hermione's lips. She nodded.

"Do you need an escort home, Granger? It's not safe, not even in Muggle London."

"No." She tipped her head downward, and Draco peered at the shaggy dog leering up at him. "I have it covered."

"Ah," was all Malfoy said, straightening his buttoned jacket. "I'll see if I can pass your message along, but I…he may not listen."

"I know."

Draco swallowed and raised his head, peering in the direction of the magical bus stop. Hermione thought he looked as if he didn't want to return, as if he would rather sit here and melt in the Muggle sunshine than go home. His pale hands curled into fists at his side, and he swallowed, sweat dotting his brow.

"I'll see you later, Granger."

"See you soon, Draco."

xXx

That evening, Hermione had her window open to allow the cooler air into her bedroom. A sleek black owl swept inside, rushing to drop a single, tiny scroll into Hermione's waiting hands.

When she unraveled it, she found only a date, a time, and a place.

Hermione memorized it before setting the scroll aflame. The resulting light danced over her relieved smile.


A/N:

Draco, excited: "I got your letter. You need me~?"

Hermione: "I want your dad."

Draco, not excited: "This is not how I expected this conversation to go."