The shadows faded from Harry's eyes. Hermione wasn't sure if the Horcrux had been to blame, the nightmares, or the frightening power of the two in tandem, but she was grateful, nevertheless. Even Harry seemed to notice the difference; she often caught him looking around as though he'd been away for a little while.

"We never got through all the memories," he said at breakfast, ignoring Draco.

Draco, who was sat in his regular spot, ignored him back.

"Do you think we missed anything important?" asked Ron.

"Honestly? No. It was probably just more of the same. I just wish I knew what he was trying to tell us with them…" Harry adjusted his glasses anxiously. "You don't think he was really losing it, do you?"

Hermione considered her porridge. Truthfully, she wasn't sure if Dumbledore had skirted senility in his final days, but she couldn't deny that he'd at the very least had an intention in bequeathing them his memories, whatever that intention may have been.

"I'll have a think about it, Harry," she promised. "Maybe now, away from the castle, we'll be able to work something out."

"Alright." Harry nodded. "I'm going to try and get in touch with Minerva today, just to get an update. See what she'll tell us."

Draco cleared his throat.

"Yes, Malfoy?"

Draco eyed them cautiously. "Just… a request." When they continued to stare at him, he went on, "If you're able to get a hold of someone — of Snape, specifically — I'd like" — he swallowed — "I'd just like to know — how my mother is."

There was an awkward beat during which no-one said anything, waiting for Harry's verdict, until finally Harry said with a shrug, "Sure. I don't see why not. I'll ask her if she has any information about your family —"

"No, Potter, not my family. Just my mother."

Hermione nearly winced. Ron's eyebrows rose and Harry looked puzzled. "Right. Got it," he said.

And that was all that was said on the matter of Lucius Malfoy's catastrophic fall from grace. Hermione could feel the years of esteem Draco held for his father scattered amongst them, another casualty of war, but not one anybody felt a need to mourn.

Breakfast ended in that same awkward silence, and Harry excused himself to contact the Order. Draco disappeared upstairs, leaving Hermione with Ron. Kreacher appeared to tidy up, though he hovered strangely by Hermione's arm.

"Would miss be wanting anything more?"

It was several seconds before Hermione could speak, so stunned was she by Kreacher's sudden change in behaviour. She'd almost got used to his snatching away her plate before she'd finished and making sure her tea was full of tannins; now, he was looking at her with a sizeable fraction of that keen desperation to please.

"N-no thank you, Kreacher. That's all," she stammered.

Kreacher nodded, snapped his fingers, and her plate disappeared. Ron whistled low.

"There you go," he teased, "next time someone calls you a you-know-what, just destroy a bit of You-Know-Who's soul in front of 'em and they'll change their mind." He frowned. "Or brew a potion, I guess. That seemed to work, too."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that.

"Are you going to ask him about it?"

"Ask who about what?"

"Malfoy. And his dad."

Hermione looked to Ron in confusion. "No. Why should I?"

Ron shrugged. "Don't you want to know why he changed his mind?"

"I'm not sure that it matters, as long as he has."

"You really think it was just brewing with you that showed him, hey, maybe Muggle-borns aren't so bad after all?"

"I'm sure it wasn't just me, Ron. Things… things have changed since You-Know-Who came back. A lot. I think that could change anyone's mind."

Ron hummed thoughtfully, though she could see he didn't quite believe her. They were interrupted, however, by Harry shouting down the stairs.

"Oi! Has anyone seen a portrait of a bloke named Phineas?"

"What, mate?" bellowed Ron back.

"Phineas Nigellus!"

"Potter! Why are you yelling?"

"We're looking for a portrait, Malfoy!"

"MUDBLOODS! BLOOD TRAITORS! FILTH!"

"No — not that one!"

It was several minutes before the portrait of Mrs Black was silenced, and then ensued a thorough examination of every portrait in the house, starting on the first floor. Many of them scowled at Hermione as she tried to read the plaques on the frames. She ignored them.

"There's a portrait of him — Phineas Nigellus Black — somewhere in here, and in the headmistress's office at Hogwarts. We should be able to use it to communicate securely, she said."

"Who was he?" asked Ron as he wiped dust off a heavy gold frame.

"He was a headmaster himself," answered Hermione, "about a hundred years ago."

"Phineas," scoffed the painting of a woman Hermione was evaluating. "You'll be lucky to find him here! Thinks he's much too important to hang 'round us."

"If you could at least tell us where his frame is —" began Hermione, but the woman turned on her fiercely.

"I'll not be saying anything to the likes of you!"

"And what about the likes of me?" demanded Draco from across the hall.

"Oh, I see what you've been up to, young Mr Black!" seethed the painting. "And when I say I've never seen a more unworthy heir —"

"Silencio!" Hermione put her wand back in her pocket. "Let's move on, shall we?"

It seemed none of the rest of the Grimmauld Place portraits were willing to be helpful, either. Hermione supposed she would feel uncharitable, too, if she'd been left to fester in this house for decades. It was with great relief they discovered Phineas hung on a wall in a neglected third floor bedroom.

"Oh, finally!" declared the portrait with great exasperation. "Madame headmistress — headmistress! Here! At length, they've found me."

"Thank you, Phineas," came Minerva McGonagall's voice through the canvas, and Hermione nearly cried. "Harry? Are you there?"

"Here!" called Harry. "And Ron's here, too, and Hermione, and — er — Malfoy."

"Very good." Minerva cleared her throat. "Now, Mr Malfoy, I am endeavouring to find out the latest on your mother, though my most recent intelligence tells me she is well."

She felt Draco sag with relief beside her as they crowded around the painting. "Thank you, headmistress."

"As to your request, Harry, I'm afraid you cannot speak with Dumbledore's portrait."

"What? But why?"

"Because the portrait is refusing to speak anything but nonsense," said the headmistress with bitterness. "I assure you, when I have useful information which may assist you, I will be more than happy to share it."

Harry shook his head in frustration as Ron took over to ask about his family. Perhaps sensing his welcome had elapsed, Draco slipped from the room.

After only a few minutes, however, the pseudo-phone call was ended, as the headmistress was needed elsewhere in the castle. Phineas made a great deal of fuss about how taxing the whole enterprise was, seeing as he had to occupy two frames at once.

"Can't you just, like, stick a toe in the other one, though?" pointed out Ron, which got Phineas so riled up they had to leave the room.

"You know," said Harry thoughtfully, "I know I was a little out of it last time I said it, but I still think we should go to Malfoy Manor."

"Harry —"

"I know you think it's crazy, Hermione, but think about it? And if Malfoy will help us…"

"Well, he'd have to," said Ron. "We don't even know where it is."

"I'll think about it," Hermione promised. I'll think it's mad, and delusional, and —

"Thanks."

The three of them went to the stairs, Phineas' portrait still shouting at them from behind the closed bedroom door.


War notwithstanding, Hermione was overall quite satisfied with how things were developing at Grimmauld Place. That is to say, Harry, Draco, and Ron were not constantly at each other's throats, which was more than she had hoped for. She spent a great deal of time in the library, still, with Draco to help her, but had switched from researching Horcruxes to memories and recent magical history to see if that might fill in any missing gaps Dumbledore's memories had left behind.

The thoughts followed her throughout the day, repeating images of Dumbledore as a young man, questing for power, and an elusive, unknown sample of Snape's past, too…

She thought it over as she washed her hair, the hot water dragging heavy bubbles down her back as she massaged her scalp. Dumbledore had wanted them to know something after he died, something maybe he hadn't had time to tell them while he'd been alive, something he knew was unfinished…

BANG!

Shouts followed the noise — yells and cries — and before Hermione could think, she stumbled from the shower, wrapped a towel around her torso, took her wand and ran. Her wet feet caught on the rugs and she left a trail of soapy water behind her as she flew down the stairs, following the noise until she crashed into one of the drawing rooms, wand raised, her other hand holding her towel at her chest.

She found herself facing three boys, all sat on the floor by the fire, staring at her.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" demanded Ron.

"I heard shouting," she stammered, eyes still frantically searching for an enemy she could now see didn't exist.

Ron laughed good naturedly and nodded at Harry who, Hermione saw, was covered in soot. "Exploding Snap," explained Ron. "We found a set. Must be ancient. Harry's losing at the moment, in case you can't tell."

"Oh." Hermione suddenly felt very stupid. "I — I thought —"

"Hey, it's okay. We're okay." Harry smiled at her. "Why don't you go finish your shower?"

"R-right." Hermione felt heat rush through her whole body, countering the water dripping down her legs. Foamy bubbles were still sluicing down her back from her unrinsed hair. Harry and Ron saw her as a sister, she knew, but Draco —

He was looking at her with huge, dark eyes. Hermione swallowed.

"I'll — I'll leave you to your game, then."

And she scurried from the room, face burning. She followed her own watery trail back to the bathroom where the shower was still on, trying to get her thoughts in order. Something about seeing the three of them sitting on a rug, playing a game like it was a weekend in the common room, had brought a swell of warm emotion she wasn't prepared for.

And then there was Draco, looking at her like he had that night — Christmas — in the prefect's bath, when he'd touched her ravenously —

A sound escaped her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth as it echoed off the tile. She couldn't help herself, couldn't stop her imagination as she remembered every kiss he'd ever given her and all the ones he might give in the future, to her lips, her neck; all the ways he'd touched her in their stolen moments in laboratories and bedrooms…

If Harry and Ron weren't here, he'd have followed her up, she was sure of it.

She reached around the curtain for her wand by the sink and locked the door. "Muffliato," she added as an afterthought.

He would have followed her in, shut the door behind him, and grabbed her wrist, she imagined, tugging her close, uncaring of the fact her hair would have soaked through his clothes. Maybe, then, his clothes would come off, too, and she'd feel the warm, flat expanse of his chest against hers…

Her eyes shut as the hot water beat down against her flushed skin and her hand slid between her legs.