ccxliv. an answer

Hermione flipped through the Daily Prophet, scrutinizing the pages.

"'Speculation continues on the exact nature of Potter's defense,'" she mumbled under her breath as she skimmed the paragraphs. "'Reports from the courtroom have been censored by the Office of the Minister, and further information is deemed privileged.' Damn."

She couldn't say it was an entirely unexpected development. Even Harriet had anticipated Gaunt would enforce a quick, ruthless moratorium on her testimony, but she'd hoped more people would carry the information out of the courtroom. Even so, though there were no blaring headlines about the Dark Lord's return, Hermione found other traces smattered among the articles and op-eds. Whispers about Dark wizards being among them had touched a few ears, and people were turning their heads.

Sighing, Hermione folded the Prophet up—using more force than was strictly necessary—and set it aside, reaching for her morning tea. She sipped it, glaring daggers at the fabricated topic printed in the top fold, obviously boosted at the last minute when Gaunt issued his silencing order. 'New strain of Dragon Pox? St. Mungo's weighs in.'

A letter from Harriet, sent in the early hours of the morning, rested by her saucer. Hugh had woken her from unsettled dreams by screeching her name, and Hermione had felt her heart drop to her toes when she spotted the dark-feather bird. She'd assumed the worst—that Professor Slytherin had done something nefarious, that he'd hurt her, that she needed help—but no. By all accounts, Harriet's first evening with Slytherin had been rather banal. She'd written to let them know where she was to the best of her ability, and had told them again about Gaunt's threats against their lives.

Hermione found herself unsurprised. Everything she knew about the wizard pointed to him being a person who thrived on control, and Harriet had thoroughly challenged that control when she walked into his courtroom and contradicted his expectations. He was cruel, selfish, and vindictive; he was bound to lash out, and when Harriet proved impervious to attacks against her person, he aimed for her weaknesses. Now, whether or not he'd follow through with the threat was yet to be seen, and Hermione wasn't convinced he'd extend the effort. The uncertainty plaguing them all could be torturous enough while Gaunt handled the newest hurdles to hit his office, but just how angry would he be?

What Hermione had found surprising in Harriet's letter had only been included as an afterthought, her friend mentioning Snape hadn't been sent back to Hogwarts or wherever else he brooded during his holidays. How curious. Surely Slytherin would have no further need of him, and yet he'd allowed the Potions Master to stay. Hermione wasn't sure what it meant yet, but it meant something, and that something felt…dangerous. She hardly ever relied on anything as wishy-washy as intuition, but in this instance, her hunch seemed right.

Hermione reached for another paper, a less circulated issue out of Bantiaumyrddin called the Gazing Gazette.

'Dark Wizards return? Experts recommend caution.'

Brow raised, Hermione's keen eyes skated over the words in front of her, another piece speculating on the outcome of Harriet's trial, though with much less oversight from the Ministry.

'"It's nothing good," says one anonymous source from the courtroom. "If you and your readers know what's good for you, you'll start preparing for the worse."

The Boy Who Lived provided us with his own insight into this matter. "Whatever else Potter is, she's not a liar," Mr. Longbottom, 15, writes. "Beyond that, Professor Dumbledore believes her story, and I believe Professor Dumbledore. If he has no reason to doubt her, than neither do you."'

"Hmm," Hermione commented, lifting her gaze to look across the dining table. It was still quite early in Grimmauld Place, most of the residents nicely tucked in their beds—aside from Hermione and the other occupant of the room. Longbottom sat picking at a plate of dry toast, leaning heavily on one arm with his fingers loosely cupping his forehead. Hermione suspected the twins had smuggled firewhiskey past their mother for Neville's birthday.

"Longbottom," she said, earning a wince. He grunted. "You gave the Gazette a statement?"

"Is that who it was?" he mumbled, tearing his toast into pieces. "Dunno. Dad has a solicitor who looks things over and approves comments for the paper."

"You said Harriet isn't a liar."

"No, I said people should believe Professor Dumbledore." He chewed a bit of toast and grimaced. "I don't know what happened to Terry, but if Potter was guilty, Dumbledore would throw her in Azkaban. Doesn't matter if she's his favorite or not."

Hermione raised a brow but didn't disagree. In the impossible hypothetical situation where Harriet had indeed killed Terry, she knew Professor Dumbledore would not have hesitated to see justice carried out, no matter if he cared for Harriet or not—but would others believe the same? Would people doubt the Headmaster?

She folded the Gazette and set it with the Prophet, reaching for her tea.

"…why did he go for Potter?"

Hermione's hand paused, cup hovering by her mouth. "I beg your pardon?"

Longbottom didn't respond for a long moment. He didn't look at her either, finding something in the kitchen more worthy of his annoyed glare. "Voldemort wanted her blood," he said at length. "Specifically Potter's. He sent Crouch, who apparently went through a great deal of effort to get her off the grounds. I don't…get it, I guess. And Dumbledore spends a lot of time with her, like he's preparing Potter. I've spent my entire life surrounded by Aurors and training and—well. Voldemort's come back, and when he did, he didn't look twice at me. I don't understand."

Hermione could only stare. Of course Neville didn't understand; he'd been raised under the title Boy Who Lived since infancy, and as far as he and the world knew, he was the Boy Who Lived. It wasn't true, though, and while the subterfuge had worked for a while, the Dark Lord hadn't been fooled forever. He knew Harriet was truly the one who defeated him fourteen years ago. Not Neville.

"Does it matter?" Hermione finally settled on saying. "In the end, does it make a difference who the Dark Lord decided to target? He's still your enemy. He's the enemy of any forward thinking person—and even those who fancy themselves his followers. What he decides to do doesn't matter so much as how you respond."

"That doesn't really answer the question though, does it?"

"No, I suppose not." Hermione gathered her tea and papers and headed out of the room without further comment to Neville. She simply didn't know what else to tell him. He'd built much of his identity off the idea of being the Boy Who Lived, but he had no concept of what that meant. Oh, he knew what others told him, what others believed, but Neville struggled to know what that meant for himself, what he thought the Boy Who Lived should be. It wasn't Hermione's responsibility to help him. Not when the rest of the world was falling to pieces around them.

Hermione spent the rest of the morning in her room, alternating between reading the papers or attempting to draft a letter to Harriet, a letter she couldn't be certain the other girl would receive. Should she write to Snape and hope he delivered the message? Or would it be clever to write directly to Slytherin? A sleight of hand to show they were thinking of Harriet and thus watching him?

No, Hermione sighed. That has the greatest potential to backfire on Harriet.

Lunch was almost upon them when she finally decided to put away her thoughts and head down to eat with the others. Elara's mood is particularly morose as she picks over her sandwich. "It's Harriet's birthday," was all she would say, and Hermione's own appetite suffered. It's Harriet's birthday. And she couldn't spend it with them, with family.

It was as they gathered their dishes together and helped Molly Weasley clean up after the meal that they heard a commotion coming from the foyer. Sirius and Remus climbed the stairs first to see who had come—and Elara followed after when Sirius' shout echoed down to them. Mrs. Wealsey kept her own children in the kitchen, but Hermione quickly darted away from them, rushing up the stairwell.

"What do you think you're doing coming here—?!"

"Get out of the way, Sirius—!"

Hermione pulled up short, almost colliding with Elara's back. There, standing at their door, stood three people Hermione had never thought to see visiting Grimmauld Place. The three Malfoys looked worse for wear, with Mr. Malfoy only managing to stay upright with his arm around his wife's shoulders, his face nearly unrecognizable under the injuries.

His head turned in Hermione's direction. He saw her there and grit his teeth.

"You have my answer," he said.

Hermione gaped.

xXx

"He's utterly mad," the Head of House Malfoy ranted as his wife dabbed at his bloodied face, staining her pristine handkerchief. The bruises made an ugly pattern on his porcelain skin—older, yellowing ones on his cheeks as if he'd been backhanded, green blotches bleeding into new, swollen marks around his eyes and mouth. He seemed more annoyed than pained by Narcissa's efforts and kept angling his head away from her as he addressed Professor Dumbledore. Dark stains ruined his robes.

The Headmaster had been summoned only minutes after the Malfoys descended on Grimmauld Place, Mr. Malfoy nearly being thrown right out the door by Sirius if Hermione hadn't intervened. Professor Dumbledore had taken in the scene with his usual alacrity, and then invited the Malfoys into the kitchen. Mr. Malfoy had wasted no time in lambasting the Minister.

"Potter's actions at her trial infuriated him, naturally—but it's his failure to contain the gossip that has truly sent him over the edge." Mr. Malfoy flicked his long, pale hair over his shoulder. "He and the Dark Lord spent much of the evening terrorizing my family."

"So Tom has taken residence at Malfoy Manor?" Dumbledore asked, and when Mr. Malfoy inclined his head with a single, grim nod, he hummed. "It's as we thought, then."

"Not that it matters," Malfoy returned. "The Manor is much like Black's hovel here, wherein the uninvited will find it all but impossible to enter."

"Oh, I've no interest in following Tom to his den, so to speak," the Headmaster said. "But it serves us well to know where he's decided to quarter himself."

At the hob, Hermione moved the small cauldron to the counter, using the metal rod to gently spill the hot bruise paste into a ceramic dish. It chilled quickly in the Charmed container, and Narcissa picked it up, moving back to her son and husband. Sirius and Remus leaned against the outer wall, their heads inclined toward one another as they shared a hushed conversation. Mrs. Weasley had removed her children and Neville, just in case, and Elara had gone with them.

"The Order is prepared to offer you and your family sanctuary," Professor Dumbledore said. "If you mean to forsake Tom, you must know it will be at considerable risk to both yourself and your family—."

"Your precious Order can hardly protect itself," Malfoy spat. "Do you truly think we made the decision to show up here without knowing what catastrophe we're unleashing upon ourselves?" He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, Narcissa smearing the Bruise Paste over his cheekbone. Her hands shook, the skin mottled from curse damage that spilled from under her sleeves.

"He threatened my son," she said, her voice low with anger, shaking at the edges in a way Hermione had never heard before. "When Lucius informed Gaunt rumor of Potter's testimony had made it out of the courtroom, the Minister demanded he find the leak. When unable to do so, Gaunt saw fit to curse my son, to make allusions of him taking his father's place—."

Hermione glanced toward Draco. He sat with his hands folded on the table, a dazed expression on his face, Dipthy and Delby standing at his side exchanging uneasy looks. Hermione's hands moved from the cauldron to the kettle, and she started prepping a new cup of tea. As his parents and the Headmaster argued, she brought the drink to Draco and sat next to him. Draco blinked, then peered through his pale lashes at her.

"You must think me a coward," he muttered, accepting the cup with a shaking hand. Hermione noted his fingernails looked rather blue.

"Why on earth would I think you a coward?"

"Because I was too frightened to stay. Too frightened of my own home." He swallowed, the muscles of his throat moving convulsively. "I begged father to come here. I begged him to—." Draco took a breath. "I said I would not serve the Dark Lord. That I would rather die."

"Idiot," Hermione said, though she had to stop herself from reaching out and clasping his wrist. "That doesn't make you a coward."

"Isn't it cowardly to abandon my home to that nutter? You and Black and Potter wouldn't have done it."

"We would have. We would. If the choice was between—well, between living and dying? A house is just stone and wood. Your lives are much more important than that."

Draco's mouth twitched, struggling into a strained half-smile. "Liar," he said. "You wouldn't have given up."

"Do shut up, Draco. You're ruining your shining Gryffindor moment."

"Bloody hell…."

Mr. Malfoy's voice rose, catching Hermione's attention. "I don't agree with your Order," he said. "It is my belief playing nice with the Muggles will see us robbed of our magic when all is said and done, but Minister Gaunt and the—." He stopped as if physically incapable of saying more, and it took more effort than Hermione could conceive for him to continue. "And the Dark Lord will lead us to ruin. That said, my assistance does not come with its price."

Dumbledore idly stroked his beard, seeming for all the world as if he were having a lovely afternoon chat. "Your assistance, Lucius? Forgive me, but I'm uncertain of what you mean by that."

Mr. Malfoy glowered. "Certain assurances, then," he clarified. "That I shan't be voting for Gaunt in the upcoming election."

"A most prudent idea. But I must inquire what it is you want in return for your civil service?"

"My family." Malfoy rolls his injured lower lip through his teeth, and he doesn't stop Narcissa from pointing her wand at his neck to heal an abrasion there. "I expect the Order to live up to their embarrassingly Gryffindor standards and protect my wife and my son from the Dark Lord's displeasure."

"I see. You don't include yourself in that demand?"

"Myself? No. Save your bleeding heart for those who need it; I find it leaves too much blood on my robes."

Narcissa said his name, sharp and quiet. Lucius' gaze flicked to her, and his jaw tightened.

"I have to question if you've truly considered what it is you mean to do." Malfoy's attention had moved from Dumbledore to Hermione, and she froze, staring back at him. "You wish to remove Gaunt from his office. A noble aspiration, but for a moment, suppose you are successful. Do you believe that will be the end of it? What do you think will happened next?"

All eyes including those of the Headmaster had come to rest on Hermione, and she forced herself to find her voice. "He'll fight the outcome," she said. "He'll attempt to have the election overturned, demand a recount, etcetera. Inevitably though he'll have to wait three years for the next election and run again."

Malfoy scoffed. "I told you how terribly naive you are. For Merlin's sake, girl." He rubbed his open palm over his injured face. "He will not accept defeat. You cannot win without expecting him to scorch the earth in his wake. Consider everything and everyone you love. If you aren't prepared to see them taken from you, you are not comprehending what it is Gaunt will take from you."

Hermione's hands balled into fists. "And what would you suggest, Mr. Malfoy? Doing nothing?"

"I would suggest deciding which situation is more palatable: Gaunt in a known environment, seemingly happy with his prize, or Gaunt denied. The Dark Lord unhappy." Malfoy studied her for a minute longer, allowing the silence to spread like a heavy, weighted blanket before he looked to the Headmaster again. "I share this information in a show of good faith, Dumbledore. It may be worth considering leaving his rule unchecked, but it should be known your group might never have a better opportunity than now. He's…preoccupied. Distracted. In the past, he's been far more meticulous in planning the election season, but of late, his obsession with something within the Department of Mysteries has made him…sloppy."

Hermione's brow furrowed. Department of Mysteries? How curious.

She had just enough knowledge of the department to know it was rather erroneous to label it as such; the D.O.M only nominally fell under the blanket of the Ministry's authority and thus didn't operate as a typical department. It had existed in one form or another long before the British Ministry built its headquarters in London, and the Unspeakables were notorious for governing themselves. Gaunt's authority as Minister ended at the threshold where the department began.

What does Gaunt want from there?

"We are aware of where his interests lay, Lucius," the Headmaster told him, smiling. "And you're correct; he is distracted."

Professor Dumbledore made as if to rise, undoubtedly with many things to do now in face of these new circumstances, but Mr. Malfoy had one last comment before he could depart.

"It's been worse. He's been worse. Ever since the Dark Lord returned and the…girl escaped the graveyard. There's little else that sways His mind." The bruises around his eyes had lessened, but the harsh color still offset the terror that lurked therein, the hopelessness. Hermione knew if things had been different, if his family hadn't of been threatened, Lucius wouldn't be here. He didn't believe they would win, but he would do what he must for his wife and son. "It won't end until she's dead."

"Fortunately for you, Mr. Malfoy, Harriet's safety isn't your concern." The Headmaster stood. "I will arrange accommodations for your family. For the time being, your best option for your safety is to remain here at Grimmauld Place. It will protect you from reprisal—at least, for a time."

None of the Malfoys argued. Mr. Malfoy exhaled and covered his face with his hand, defeated, while Mrs. Malfoy sat next to him. She reached for his arm, her delicate, injured fingers encircling his wrist, and Lucius covered her hand with his. Draco looked off into space, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. They made for a haunting image of Gaunt's idealized society: witch, wizard, and child, beaten and chased from their own home by the monster they had supported.

Hermione had no words of comfort to spare for them, so she stood from her chair and followed Professor Dumbledore from the kitchen. "Headmaster?" she called, and he stopped at the head of the basement stairs to peer down at her. "Are we doing the right thing?" she asked. "Will this be worth it in the end?"

"We can only hope, Miss Granger," he replied. "And hope is a powerful gift."