cclxxix. erosion
The world fell to pieces in only a matter of hours.
Being so far off from London, Hogwarts only received news in confused bursts or half-thought messages. Several parents arrived to remove their children without explanation. Hogsmeade smoldered in the distance. Everyone kept waiting for the owls to come, for the evening edition of the Prophet to arrive. The Headmaster's seat in the Great Hall remained empty.
When they finally got the full story, Hermione thought she might be ill.
Hogsmeade had been attacked. Yes, several of the Aurors stationed there had been killed, and many buildings suffered structural damage, but the injuries to students and residents had been minimal. It became clear those black-robed terrorists in the village had been sent to cause a scene so the Ministry would rush to send Aurors to the site. After all, only an overwhelming show of force would be suitable when children were threatened. This meant when the Ministry received word that Azkaban had been assaulted, they had very few people to dispatch, and it took precious time to retract Aurors from Hogsmeade and redirect their focus. By then, it'd been too late.
Azkaban was cracked open like an oyster. All the murderers, maniacs, and fiends had been released. All the Death Eaters incarcerated in eighty-one were unaccounted for. The Lestranges. The Carrows. Dolohov. Pettigrew.
In the morning, the situation only worsened.
Hermione looked up at the staff table—and there sat the loathsome, toad-like form of Madam Dolores Umbridge, a smug smile unfurling across her face as she surveyed the baffled students. The Headmaster's seat was still empty.
Hermione would always remember reading the Prophet that breakfast; it would sit with her, a surreal feeling akin to a nightmare becoming a reality, hearing the Great Hall echo with cries of distress. Their professors were unable to give them any form of reassurance.
Madam Bones was dead.
"'A terrible thing,'" says new Interim-Minister Gaunt, selected last night by an emergency council meeting of the Wizengamot to assume the station until a new Minister can be voted into office. Minister Amelia Bones was discovered dead in her home last night with signs of a struggle. 'It's a terrible thing to see such a competent witch lose her life to such senseless violence. But I did warn Madam Bones that fostering paranoia would negatively affect our society.'"
Hermione didn't know how he did it. How he managed to twist what was so clearly a raid committed by You-Know-Who's flunkies into something that was Madam Bones' fault.
"'Those individuals apprehended in Hogsmeade yesterday by our capable members of the Aurory were not Death Eaters. They were criminals who took advantage of flying, superfluous rumors to don a long-dead mantle and wreak havoc. After all, what better time to be a Dark wizard than when it is suggested that the Dark Lord is returning? I am of the opinion that, had Madam Bones seen reason, had she not pushed such an idea upon us, she would be alive today.'"
Hermione gripped her paper so tightly, she tore holes in the sides.
"'For the duration of my tenure, only a single man escaped Azkaban—and not for long. Now, hordes of these witches and wizards we saw fit to remove from our society have been allowed free once more due to lax security and a failure to act. I will begin immediately to ensure such lapses do not occur again.'"
A few members of the Wizengamot had gone missing. Others too. Many of those who'd previously voted against Gaunt's reelection had been quick to ask him to return as Interim-Minister. Umbridge had returned as if she'd never left. The staff looked miserable.
Hermione felt as if she was watching a sandcastle she'd spent all year building fall to pieces. It wasn't a slow, eroding death, swept away by the encroaching tide—it was a sudden kick from a bully, and that bully was Marvolo Gaunt.
She glanced at the High Table again and happened to meet Madam Umbridge's eye. The witch simpered, then waved, wagging her stumpy fingers.
Hermione lurched to her feet, the paper forgotten. She dropped her satchel and started for the doors.
"Hermione!" Harriet called, but she didn't answer. She rushed from the Great Hall through the foyer, her heart pounding, and exited through the main doors to the grounds beyond. Gravel crunched under her shoes as she kept going.
She heard footsteps running behind her. She expected it to be Harriet, but—. "Granger!" Malfoy shouted as he chased after her. He gripped her arm, drawing her to a stop, and held on when she tried to wriggle free. "Granger, where in the blazes are you going?"
"I don't know!" she shouted at him, voice breaking. "I don't know! I don't know where I'm going, I don't—."
It overcame her then, a surge that caught her about the knees and yanked like a riptide, pulling her legs out from under her so she crumpled beneath the weight of her emotions. She hit the ground as the first sob tore through her chest, and she felt the snow and gravel bite at her legs.
Malfoy knelt beside her, heedless of the mud staining his school trousers. "It will be all right," he tried to comfort.
"It won't!" Hermione retorted, the words barely coherent. "It's my fault she's dead. It's my fault—fault Bones is dead and those men and women are missing and those Death Eaters are free. It's my fault!"
"What are you on about?"
She'd spent tireless months on research and letters and blackmail. She spent hours and hours and hours lying awake at night, thinking of all the good she wanted to accomplish, of all the things she wanted to do in Terry's memory. He deserved justice. They all deserved justice. But it didn't matter. All of her efforts meant nothing.
"If I hadn't pushed him, he wouldn't have done this," Hermione cried. "Your father warned me. He warned me there'd be consequences. Did I listen? Of course not! I'm so stupid—."
Draco found a handkerchief in his robes and tried to dab at her wet cheeks, seeming overwhelmed and out of his depth. He pressed the handkerchief into her trembling fist. "Don't be ridiculous," he said.
"I'll be ridiculous if I want to be ridiculous!" Hermione shouted—and he nearly landed on his arse. Some part of her knew she didn't make much sense at the moment, but a greater part didn't care. "None of it matters. Nothing I did matters. He's right back to being Minister, and nothing I say will persuade the Wizengamot to vote against him again. No one will want to run. He's won. Your father was right."
Hermione sobbed, using the handkerchief to wipe away the worst of the snot, and rather than being repulsed, Draco stayed with her, waiting. He kept one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on his thigh—fidgeting and unsure of where it should be. For a long minute, neither said a word, and the worst of Hermione's hysterics eased.
"When I was younger," he murmured, his voice rather shaky and unsettled. "Before you ever came to the Manor, I remember—. Gaunt would visit, and he'd say things about my mother that I didn't understand until I grew up. He'd say such—foul innuendos about her to my dad, and my dad hated him. No matter that he always went along with the Minister's ideas and espoused rubbish in public, I know my father, and I know he despised Gaunt with every ounce of his being. He couldn't do anything about it. He never could until you gave him a choice."
He shifted, gravel crunching his knees as he gripped her hands. "It's not about winning or losing, Granger—Hermione. You said it yourself: father knew better than anybody that there would be consequences, but you gave him and others a choice. It means something that they took it. I'm not bloody stupid, no matter what Potter says. I understand my dad isn't perfect, that he has his moments where he can be…intolerable. I can't say he'll ever treat house-elves better or begin campaigning for Muggle-born rights, but I…I was so proud when he chose to go against Gaunt. Against the Dark Lord. Malfoys do not lay down for anybody, and I think you reminded my father of that."
Hermione gave a watery snort, dabbing at her eyes. "I don't think he's as noble as all that. I think he's just a wizard who loves his family."
"It certainly doesn't hurt."
Wiping her face, Hermione took a deep breath, and then another, letting the last of her tears drip from her lashes. She didn't know if she could stand up just yet. She looked into Draco's face and found him already studying her, his pale eyes bright in the winter sunlight, his blond hair slightly disheveled with strands crossing his brow. Hermione wondered when his jawline had gotten so strong or when he'd dared to grow so tall.
"The things you've done matter, Granger. Don't rob people of their own agency by deciding everything Gaunt does is your fault. I know Potter's head is that fat, but I didn't think yours was as well."
Hermione prodded him in the ribs, huffing a small, humorless laugh. She didn't know if she believed him. Her chest ached with the misery of it all, and she couldn't see a way forward, but Hermione knew she couldn't give up. Giving up wasn't an option. If people like her stopped fighting Gaunt, there would be nothing left of the Wizaring world.
"Can we please get off the ground now? It's cold and I'm filthy."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione accepted Draco's hand, and he helped her stand, waiting when her knees wobbled and she needed a moment more. He kept her hand held in his as they started back toward the castle, letting go when they reached the front steps leading to the open doors.
Harriet and Elara waited there, nervously shifting in their cloaks, and Harriet rushed down the steps when Hermione neared. A breath escaped Hermione in a grunt when Harriet collided with her, but she embraced her friend as tight as she could. She felt Elara's arm come around the pair of them, pulling them closer.
"He won't get away with this," Harriet whispered, voice muffled against Hermione's shoulder. She could feel the shorter witch's breath, the warmth of her two friends making her realize how cold she'd gotten. "One day, Gaunt will get what's coming to him. He's not going to be Minister, even if I have to kill him myself."
Hermione didn't reply. She buried her tear-streaked face in Harriet's hair, and embraced her as closely as she could.