A/N: Thank you for your patience! Looks like I'll be doing Monday updates for the rest of the month whilst I'm at this program. Thank you again for all your reviews.
The dream-like haze did not last to the morning. Hermione spent breakfast fidgeting with her toast rather than eating it and cursed the fact that Draco had suddenly decided to return to regular meals. How was she supposed to sort this out when he lingered like that in her periphery? How could she sit still knowing he could be looking at her? How could she do anything at all when the memory of his hand tracing her breast sent her into fits of breathlessness and the most scorching blush she'd ever felt?
She couldn't believe how ready she'd been to lose her virginity — to him! — in a bath, of all places. How ready she still was, if she were being completely honest. The thoughts cycled through her head, replaying with such increasing vividness that she began to wonder how much of it she'd made up. Was he doing the same, she wondered?
But when she stole glances at the Slytherin table, all she saw was him drinking tea and reading the Boxing Day edition of The Daily Prophet. Unbothered.
Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him at all. Maybe he was disappointed she hadn't let it go any further. Maybe he was expecting it would next time.
Next time?
The lunar cycle would not begin for several more days. Without the Wolfsbane to bring them together, Hermione had no reason to believe she would see him at all before then. And they could hardly shag in the laboratory!
Right?
Hermione left the Great Hall in a huff. She would need to sort out how she felt about all this before she saw him again. The déjà vu was not lost on her, either, and she returned to her dorm more frustrated than when she'd left that morning.
A letter from Harry brought much-needed distraction, despite the unsettling news that the Minister for Magic had decided to pay Harry a personal visit. News of Percy's latest slight against his family hardly made her feel better, either. In the end, it was Beedle the Bard that saved her, and she happily passed the next two days in fables and the eerie history of young Tom Riddle. Until she stepped into the Great Hall and saw Dumbledore again, she had almost forgotten the more immediate issues at hand.
At the start of term, the headmaster had not looked well. Now, he looked a few shades past death: so frail that Hermione thought it a wonder he didn't need assistance feeding himself. Or perhaps he did, and that was why he didn't show up to every meal anymore. She imagined eating and drinking with only one hand must be difficult enough without whatever other weakness was crippling him.
Not that his condition was limited to just a hand anymore, either. What glimpses she caught of the limb revealed the necrosis had moved from his fingers to nearly past his wrist. How far would it continue to travel? Hermione could not believe he would allow himself to slowly rot like this if there was something to be done about it. And if Dumbledore could not save himself, then whatever had done it must have been very evil indeed.
Hermione wanted to vomit. It was grotesque and tragic and terrifying. And almost poetic, too; she couldn't ignore the irony that Draco had been ordered to kill a dead man.
But isn't that so much easier?
What if Dumbledore just… died on his own?
It seemed inevitable at this point.
But while that would save Draco, she could not imagine the blow it would deal Harry and the Order.
She glanced again at the headmaster. Grey and still, he surveyed the Great Hall with tired resignation. She looked away before he could catch her eye.
But beside him, the Deputy Headmistress drank her tea and chatted with her colleagues as merrily as ever.
Hermione bit her lip and sat up straighter. She needed to speak with Professor McGonagall.
Hermione waited until the map showed a clear path to her Head of House's office. Draco had disappeared into his common room hours ago, much to her vexation, though she wasn't sure what she was expecting him to do. Spell out her name in footprints on the map? Leave a coded signal indicating when to go to the Room of Requirement for a snog? It was ridiculous, and she was more irritated at herself for thinking of such things than at him for being so annoyingly absent.
Nevertheless, Hermione made her way to Professor McGonagall's office with her chin up and several drafted queries ready depending on her professor's mood. This must be done with great care, she thought, and she would make sure she handled it deftly.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Sorry to interrupt, professor, I just — do you have a moment?"
"Of course." McGonagall gestured to the worn armchair in front of her desk. Hermione situated herself under the curious observation of her teacher. The effect was rather heightened by the spectacles perched on the end of her nose. "How was your holiday?"
"It was lovely, professor. And yours?"
A smile. "The same, though I don't think that's what you've come to speak to me about."
"No, it isn't." Hermione wrung her hands. This was turning out to be far more uncomfortable than she'd anticipated. "I'm worried about the headmaster."
McGonagall blinked. "Dumbledore? Whyever for?"
Hermione couldn't tell if she was being deliberately obtuse. It did not bode well. "He hasn't seemed… well." Professor McGonagall merely looked at her in expectation and Hermione found herself incapable of holding back. "Well, ever since the start of term he's seemed — well, ill. And his hand! It's only gotten worse. You must see! I'm worried — I'm worried about what will happen with the Order when he's gone. And the school! He's such an important symbol. I can't imagine what would happen to morale if he were to die suddenly. Not to mention Harry." She swallowed. "I don't think he's ever even thought about the fact that Dumbledore might not be around forever. He wouldn't cope. And that's… that's not…"
Professor McGonagall looked at her with an odd combination of sympathy and gravity. All Hermione's carefully planned dialogues turned to air. "I guess I just want to know there are plans in place. So that when he goes, all hope doesn't go with him, too."
McGonagall closed her eyes, took off her spectacles, and carefully folded them on the table. Leaning on her elbows now, Hermione saw her blink slowly, as though observing something small crawl across the wood. She looked older now, and yet stronger, too.
"Your assessment is not incorrect, Miss Granger."
She'd known it, of course, but to hear it confirmed did not lessen the heavy thud of dread settling in Hermione's stomach.
"The headmaster has informed me of his injury, however he has been… evasive, shall we say, about its prognosis. I admit, I have been perhaps a little too optimistic in that regard…" For a moment, Professor McGonagall looked overcome with emotion. Hermione had never seen her professor like that and quickly looked down to her lap where her hands fidgeted with the hem of her jumper.
McGonagall went on. "As his deputy, I am of course prepared to take his place should he become indisposed for any reason, and" — she held up a hand as Hermione opened her mouth to speak — "that holds true with the Order, too. Rest assured there are procedures in place ready to be mobilised if and when the need arises." Professor McGonagall sighed, though Hermione thought it was more of a huff. "Of course, that will hardly assuage the very serious emotional consequence of such an event!" She swiped a tear from the corner of her eye and Hermione clearly saw now the battle of sadness and fear against the ever-present pragmatism. "You raise legitimate concerns, Miss Granger, ones I admit I have been avoiding for selfish reasons. I will speak to the necessary people. We all must be bracing ourselves. Now is not a time we can afford to be blindsided by such things."
"Thank you, professor. That's all I wanted."
McGonagall nodded. "As for Mr Potter…" Hermione found herself scrutinised once again. "He must be prepared, I agree. But I don't think that it should come from a teacher, but a friend."
Of course it should.
"Right. I understand. Thank you. I… I feel much better now." Hermione nodded and, sensing the conversation was concluded, stood to go.
She'd almost made it to the door when McGonagall spoke again.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione turned. Professor McGonagall's spectacles had returned. Behind them, her eyes sparkled.
"Rest assured, Dumbledore may fall, but Hogwarts will not."
Hermione swallowed, nodded, and carefully shut the door behind her.
She had to go, but she couldn't stop watching the map. She wasn't sure what she expected. Would he really refuse to turn up to brew just because of the Bathroom Incident (as she'd decided to call it in her mind)? But if she waited to see his inkblots in the corridor before she left, she would be late herself.
Bugger it!
She tugged her cloak around her shoulders and strode out the portrait hole. She'd pretend nothing had changed. Because nothing had, right?
They got there at the same time. Hermione was so stunned to turn the corner and find him that she froze, her head going pleasantly blank until he opened the door and gestured for her to enter.
"Oh — thank you."
He was all quiet contemplation and soft smiles and she found the need to talk, to fill this complicated silence, too strong to resist.
"What do you know about invisibility cloaks?" she asked whilst examining a heavy petal of aconite.
"They make you invisible."
"Ha. I mean — Shit!" Her knife skidded across the stem, nearly catching the edge of her glove. "Why aren't they more common? Seems like everyone should want one."
Draco's arm momentarily brushed her elbow as he set a bare stem to the side. "Because they're unreliable. They're not hard to find, but everyone knows they aren't worth a knut. Haven't you seen people selling them? More often than not on Knockturn, I suppose, so perhaps you haven't. Anyone who tells you they've got one that will last more than a month is just trying to steal your money."
Hermione frowned. She'd forgotten about the aconite in front of her and was now fiddling with the handle of the knife. "A month… You mean they don't — they stop working?"
Draco nodded and pulled another flower from the box. Hermione quickly resumed pruning hers. "I've never heard of one that makes you fully invisible in the first place, at least not regularly. It's sensitive charmwork. Can't be trusted. Not to mention they can be summoned. What good will a cloak do if someone can just accio it off you?" He squinted at the petal he'd tried to trim; it had hung on by a fibrous thread. With a calculated slice, it fell cleanly away. "Why do you ask? I hope you're not thinking of buying one."
"No, no." I don't need to. "It's just… I was reading a story. It made me think. Seems like a useful bit of magic no-one ever talks about."
He looked at her thoughtfully and she felt heat bloom in her cheeks. "Do you mean The Tale of the Three Brothers?" He scoffed and Hermione felt very stupid. "It's a fairy tale. The cloak doesn't exist. Can you imagine the bloodbath if it did? People have already lost their minds about the mastery, and those are just the people deluded enough to fall for it."
Hermione blinked at him, aconite now entirely forgotten. He grabbed the last stem in the box and set to work pruning it. "Mastery?"
"Yeah. 'Mastery of Death?' Do you really not —? Oh."
"Oh?"
She saw him smile as he worked and wished he would stop being so smug and get on with it.
"I have a feeling my edition wasn't quite as sanitized as yours."
"What do you mean? The edition in the Hogwarts library looks generations old —"
Draco shook his head and dropped the last handful of petals into the cauldron. "The story is older than that. Much older. And it's not like the rest of Beedle's tales. It's… It's got its own mythos." He turned and faced her, arms crossed, leaning against the benchtop. "Naturally, people assumed that it must be true —"
"That the brothers were real."
"Yes, and that the three relics really exist."
Hermione considered this. "But if that were true, it would be impossible to find them. Beedle specifically says that the trail runs cold after the three brothers die, and that was centuries ago. And without knowing who they were in the first place, I wouldn't even know where to start!"
Draco smirked. "You're right, of course, but there are wizards — and witches — who have devoted their entire lives to tracking them down. They call them the 'Deathly Hallows' and believe that to possess all three would make one 'Master of Death.' It's complete madness."
"And why was this in your book and not mine?"
With a sigh, Draco turned so his back was leaning against the benchtop. Behind him, the potion began to steam as the flowers marinated. "There was an ancestor of mine who thought it was useful to know this sort of thing. After all, if these relics were real, a Malfoy would have a better chance than most at tracking them down."
"Because you have resources."
"Resources, records, contacts in almost every major magical family going back dozens of generations…"
"I get the idea."
"Right. Well, my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, or whatever he was, exactly, took interest. He found nothing, of course. Decided it was a load of bollocks. But all his research is still in our library. We keep very meticulous records."
The sort of information which must be held there, Hermione couldn't imagine. Nor could she picture a small Draco Malfoy, perched on Lucius' knee, being read a story.
"So when you learned The Tale of the Three Brothers, you learned about the Hallows, too?"
"More or less." Draco shrugged. "Not like some other children did. I know Pansy's parents taught her they were real. In fact, I think she still believes it. But my version — well, the Malfoy annotations — were less about the power of procuring the Hallows and more about the type of person who would be worthy of them."
"Worthy?"
"Of the symbolism of them, I suppose. The story itself, very obviously, is about the importance of being — well, not a power-hungry idiot, for one. Or a miserable sod. Even the third one, with the cloak, was compromised by having to hide his whole life. And for what?
"The legend of Mastery tells us that by balancing the three — the stealth, the power, and conquering of fear — that is the true mastery of oneself. Or, at least, that's the Malfoy interpretation."
He watched and waited for her inevitable questioning. It had seemed like such a straightforward children's fable; Hermione couldn't shake the frustration that she'd been so ignorant as to the true cultural significance of the story. And hadn't that been why she had decided to read it in the first place?
"I understand all that," she said slowly, "except for how you summarised the traits. Stealth would be the cloak and power the wand, yes, but how does the stone conquer fear? That brother died precisely because he was afraid. Of grief. Of being alone."
"Yes, but if you can revisit the dead, then Death has no power over you anymore. And then what is there to be afraid of?"
Many things, Hermione thought, but that wasn't the point.
They had finished preparing the flowers (well, Draco had), and with nothing else to keep them there, Hermione went to the hook by the door. Her cloak felt heavy in her hands. "How many children are taught about the Hallows, do you think?"
"Not many. Only Pure-bloods, for sure. And probably only the ones with long lineages who would care about collecting relics. Mine, Parkinson, Black… Nott… Yaxley, maybe… Longbottom, even, though perhaps not anymore… You know, you could try asking Weasley, though I doubt his grandparents would've heard of it."
Hermione didn't think she would. Her understanding of monolithic Pure-blood families was swiftly adjusting itself.
He mistook her silent contemplation for confusion. "You're not about to go charging off on some quest to find the Hallows, are you?"
"No! No, sorry it's just… It's strange to me."
He took a step closer. "Strange?"
She couldn't explain. He wouldn't understand. Still, she tried. "How much I miss. Things like that… I never would have known if you hadn't told me. It's… frustrating."
He frowned. "Well…" And then his arm wound around her waist, bringing them chest to chest, forcing her to look up to his face. "Whenever that happens, you tell me, and I'll be here to explain."
She felt like candlewax melting into him. "You'll make sure I don't eat things in the wrong order at Slughorn's dinner parties?"
"And I'll discreetly scourgify your robes when you do."
"Magical food is ridiculous!"
"So is a Muggle teh-leh-vi-zhun."
"Television."
"Exactly."
Her laugh was cut short by his kiss. He squeezed her closer and didn't seem to mind when she couldn't keep her smile at bay and their teeth bumped. She wondered why she'd ever been nervous at all.
"The flowers are done," she remarked quietly. She couldn't stop looking at his eyes. She'd never imagined he could look so open. "We should probably go."
"But I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too." Another kiss, shorter this time. But when it ended, they pulled apart and she once again wrapped her cloak around herself. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then."
"Tomorrow night," he agreed. They stepped into the freezing corridor. For a second, his hand brushed hers, and then they were moving again, off in opposite directions. She heard him call, "Good night, Granger."
"Good night, Draco."
