Summary: After the Voldemort's defeat in the second war, former Death eaters are still at large. The Ministry of Magic has begun cross-training between departments to make up the shortfall of qualified wizards. Draco and Hermione are involved in a training accident and end up closer than they ever imagined.
The last chapter has been appended. I'm *done*.
Categories: Hermione/Draco Characters: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 14
Completed: Yes
Word count: 24730
Read: 74113
Published: 07/07/05
Updated: 11/10/05
1. Prologue by 3secondfish
2. Fancy meeting you here by 3secondfish
3. Boom! by 3secondfish
4. Your Place or Mine? by 3secondfish
5. Into the Dragon's Lair by 3secondfish
6. Slithering by 3secondfish
7. Heart Failure by 3secondfish
8. She's With Me by 3secondfish
9. Tales of the Darkness by 3secondfish
10. Letters From Old Friends by 3secondfish
11. Hissing by 3secondfish
12. Damn Potter by 3secondfish
13. Party Time by 3secondfish
14. Gate-Crasher by 3secondfish
Draco never imagined he’d be on this side of the law. In fact, he found it ironic considering his background. He was an Auror, one of the youngest at the Ministry of Magic. Not that this was unusual anymore; the war had decimated the Ministry’s ranks. Many of the aging wizards who had trained him had themselves been killed, so that the Aurors’ department now wore a much younger face. Despite the hazardous nature of his employment, Draco enjoyed it. Being an Auror was a job that suited his unique experience, and, young or not, he was good at it.
Life had been much quieter since Voldemort had been vanquished, but there were still pockets of nastiness about. Many Death Eaters saw Voldemort’s defeat as an opportunity to grab a little power of their own. The new alliances they made among themselves were often precarious, resulting in regular ambushes and double-dealing, and causing as much damage to bystanders as to each other. Also roaming about were various dark creatures, giants and dementors and such, who were once allied with Voldemort. Though their loyalties to his minions had largely dissolved, they occasionally kept company with former Death Eaters, the better to sate the appetite for violence of which Voldemort had given such a tantalizing taste.
The random chaos kept the Ministry’s Aurors from having too much time on their hands. All would be quiet for a time, when a bubble of destruction would burst forth, as from a slowly simmering cauldron. Because the Death Eaters’ alliances were so fluid, the targets of attack and retaliation were completely unpredictable. Their opposition’s lack of organization made it practically impossible to plan any sort of counter, leaving Draco and the other Aurors constantly playing catch-up. Many editorials in The Daily Prophet voiced the opinion that all these troublemakers ought to just be rounded up and put in a room to fight it out among themselves; a few added that the remainder ought then to be fed to acromantulas, or just put in a room with acromantulas in the first place. While The Daily Prophet’s sentiments were appealing in theory, Draco felt that the current state of in-fighting made it, in practice, like herding kneazles. At least it kept him busy.
Draco found himself unique among his fellow Aurors. Most were Gryffindor types, willing to risk life and limb to save the proverbial innocents in danger. However talented, these were often the ones that got blasted from behind because it hardly ever occurred to them that others might be less honorable than they. The survivors of such foolish notions rarely made the mistake twice; many of their colleagues would not have that opportunity. Draco was far too wary to make such an error; he had been disappointed too many times already.
Trust was not something that Draco was well-known for. He was inarguably charming and polite to those around him, even if he was a bit full of himself, though none the less likable for it. One could have a delightful conversation with him for hours on end, but upon recalling it find nothing of Draco, not really. Not his favorite color, not his Quidditch team. He was an illusion, though few noticed, being more concerned with maintaining their own illusions.
The illusion of Draco Malfoy was the product of years of subtle accretion. He was well into his second decade before he figured out that his father’s spoutings about pure blood were so much rubbish. Longbottom couldn’t stand a cauldron the right way up, yet Granger should have been born with a wand in her hand. Clearly, there was no advantage to pure blood. Years later, he is chagrinned to realize that he was spoiled rather than privileged; how was he to know? Voldemort’s second attempt to take over made many wizards suspicious that pure-blooded wizards might be sympathetic to his cause. During these times, Draco sometimes wished for the clean slate of a Muggle-born so that everyone would stop suspecting him of being a junior Death Eater.
With Lucius’ incarceration, Draco found himself taking care of his own affairs rather sooner than he had expected. Feeling himself freed of the constraints of his father’s expectations, he made his way, making sure to disassociate himself from his Lucius’ proclivities. His fellow Slytherins proved themselves to be sycophantic toadies, hoping for protection or power or both. If that was how it was to be, Draco decided that they could make themselves useful or get out of his way. He had Crabbe and Goyle to guard his privacy. As they had often been compared (accurately) to trolls, in both size and intelligence, Draco took advantage of their impassibility whenever he wanted to be left alone. Pansy Parkinson was available if ever he wanted an arm ornament, or a quick snog between classes, or even a bit more. The rest were just there for his personal entertainment. He could bully them if he felt like it, or entertain them if he was in the mood; either way the toadies lapped it up. He cultivated an aura of power and mystery, helped by the huge number of curses he was liable to demonstrate on whichever hapless student might offend him. His studies had long since extended to the Restricted Section, thanks to the indulgence of Professor Snape. Once, one of the toadies had compared him to Mudblood Granger. Draco transfigured him into a book stand; no one commented on his studies afterward.
Studying was not an idle pursuit, after all, since Malfoy Manor was a deathtrap to the unwary. Since he had taken it over, it had taken every ounce of his skill and newfound knowledge to tame the vicious artifacts left there by his father. He finally triumphed over a last particularly malevolent tea strainer before returning for his final year of school. His intense study, undertaken primarily for self-preservation, incidentally earned him Outstanding grades in all his N.E.W.T.s, which surprised Draco as much as anyone else. After graduation, he applied to the Ministry of Magic to be an Auror, figuring that the worst they could say was ‘no’. They said ‘yes’.
A/N: I know it seems a bit slow now, but it's a prologue! I'm just setting the scene! Hermione makes her entrance in the next chapter.
Fancy meeting you here by 3secondfish
The losses caused by the war were not only lamentable, but they also caused a shortage of the witches and wizard of the high caliber required by the Ministry of Magic. Because the Ministry could no longer afford to keep talented people locked into a single department, an increasing number had more than one job. The Ministry thus made a practice of cross-training as many of its employees as it could. Anyone who showed an interest was heartily encouraged to expand their skills. Emergency magic was especially needed, since the fighters, and those who patched them up, suffered the most.
Every week, the latest class offering was distributed via flocks of purple memos that circulated the building. Hermione plucked one such flapping paper jet from the air as it circled her desk in the office of the Committee for Experimental Charms. It wriggled briefly before unfolding itself in her hands. Ah, Legilimency! she thought excitedly. Legilimency wasn’t offered very often, since there were very few wizards of skill notable enough to teach it. Opening her appointment calendar, she copied the date in the free space for the next week, and touched the square with her wand to highlight it with a marquee of blinking dots. She scribbled her name on the memo and then tapped it with her wand. The memo quickly refolded itself and flapped back into the air. It dipped its wings briefly in salute, and zoomed away to deliver her RSVP.
Hermione had been working through the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad’s training series. She had already passed their basic exams, and was hoping to take the advanced Oblivation qualifications by the end of the year. Though she enjoyed the tinkering of Experimental Charms, she was also drawn to the on-the-spot challenge of Accidental Magic Reversal. She had done well on her last call, earning praise for reversing a particularly ugly splinch. A pair of lovestruck teenagers had attempted to Apparate someplace more romantic and wound up stuck half-way through a library stack. (Hermione had gotten them sorted out but tsked over the thoroughly mangled state of the innocent bookshelf.) She was secretly glad of the unfortunate short-handedness of the Ministry. If not for that, she would never have had the opportunity to work in Accidental Magic Reversal and so have the best of both worlds.
The week passed with great anticipation for Hermione. Finally, her calendar sounded a great fanfare. Hermione double-checked the room number in her calendar, put away the heavy wires that had been charmed into springs that were rolling and coiling in a box on her desk; she would finish inspecting them later. She checked her hair in a small mirror that she pulled from a desk drawer. A few wisps had escaped from the bun she had made of her hair (flammability was a constant hazard in her work) and judged that she was presentable. She then hung up her work smock, picked up a quill and parchment, and walked down the hall.
Hermione idly brushed away a memo that had flown too low, and entered one of the training rooms of the Accidental Magic Reversal department. It looked like a cross between a conference room and a Muggle gymnasium, with a blackboard and a small group of desks arranged in a semi-circle at one end and a great number of mats and cushions at the other. A few wizards from Magical Games and Sports were already there, discussing the Wimbourne Wasps’ chances for the Quidditch Cup. A small witch, whom Hermione knew from Apparition Testing, nodded in greeting.
As she settled herself into an open seat, she noticed a tall man she didn’t know sauntering into the room. He had slightly shaggy, fashionably unkempt blond hair. She decided he must be an Auror. He had the almost-arrogant confidence of the Ministry’s elite. As he moved, she also noticed a flash of green was revealed underneath his black cloak. The Aurors had recently begun to equip themselves with dragon-hide body armor, worn over a black jumpsuit. The armor’s spell-reflecting properties helped to avoid the worst effects of offensive spells. The tough hide was also handy for protection from flying debris during their frequent duels.
Hermione was interrupted in her musing by the entry of Griselda Marchbanks. Professor Marchbanks was an O.W.L. examiner, whom Hermione had encountered during her time at Hogwarts. She was an ancient witch, but still entered the room with an air of unmistakable authority. She reached the blackboard and tapped it with her wand. The words “Introduction to Legilimency” appeared in large prim handwriting. The conversations stopped, and all faces turned expectantly towards the elderly witch.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” said Professor Marchbanks, in the over-loud manner of one who was a. bit hard of hearing.
The assembly murmured a deferential greeting. She was a familiar face, but still an intimidating one. The Magical Games and Sports wizards sat up straighter in their seats.
“Today we will be discussing the principles and uses of Legilimency. It is a difficult and complex skill, but I know you are all very accomplished wizards; otherwise, you would not be in my class. Later, in this session, you will partner up and try it yourselves,” she said, gesturing towards the cushioned practice area. “Now, we all know that Legilimency allows one to view the images that are currently traversing a person’s mind. In emergency field magic, Legilimency can be used to find out what happened to an injured witch or wizard who is conscious but unable to speak. This information is invaluable to a wizard attempting a counter-curse.”
Hermione copied the notes with great concentration while Professor Marchbanks continued her lecture, and occasionally added a word or a diagram to the blackboard. There was a scratching of quills on parchment as her students took notes on the proper wand technique, which paused during the review of Occlumency. Hermione glanced sideways, and noticed that the blond Auror took no notes but leaned back casually in his seat with a slightly bored look on his face.
“A strong Legilimency spell is of vital importance in trying to find out what has happened to an injured witch or wizard, so that one may best correct it. Most wizards are skilled in neither Legilimency nor Occlumency. However, our colleagues, if injured, often will reflexively try to block you as you attempt to help them. Even a weak Occlumens will make your job far more difficult.”
The white-haired witch tapped the board with a flourish; it was wiped clean once again.
“Now that we’ve covered the basics, it’s time for all of you to give it a whirl. I have paired you up according to skill level. This way, you’ll have a bit of a challenge without being overmatched,” said Professor Marchbanks. “When I call your names, find your partner and form a line in the practice area.” She fitted a pair of half-moon spectacles to her nose and consulted a list that she withdrew from a pocket of her robes. “Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy,” she read.
A/N: Wouldn't you hate to have that sort of information sprung on you? Seems like it's not going over well with Hermione either. Read and review!
After hearing Draco’s name, Hermione’s first thought was “What?!” The rest of her thoughts were replaced by a blank buzzing noise as her brain tried to assimilate this new information. She felt a bit wobbly as she started towards the cushions. The man she had guessed to be an Auror, who she now knew to be the King of Slytherin, got up to follow her. Professor Marchbanks, noticing nothing odd, continued calling names from her parchment. As Hermione arrived at the mats, she mentally shook herself. The other pairs of students were queuing up behind her. It was time to concentrate on the task at hand.
Draco was going through a mental gear shift similar to Hermione’s. He had seen a pretty, if rather prim-looking, witch as he came into the classroom. Though he had a nagging feeling that she was familiar in some way, he couldn’t place her. Her serious, but earnest, countenance made her look as if might belong to the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee; she might be quite convincing to a distressed muggle. Or perhaps he had seen her at that retirement party for Perkins last month. A lot of deferential young assistants had been there to see him off. When Professor Marchbanks had arrived and begun the class, he had not yet properly sorted her out in his mind.
Though his Auror’s training had kept his face from showing it, he was shocked when his name was called with Granger’s. Now he was about to be face-to-face with the celebrated Hermione. Her prowess was legendary at Hogwarts. The hex she placed on Marietta Edgecomb in fifth year was particularly stunning; Draco doubted if Marietta would ever again appear in public without a balaclava. Draco was beginning to get apprehensive about facing the powerful young witch until he realized that he was considered to be a match for Hermione. Though his face still looked bored, he began to smirk inwardly. This was going to be fun after all.
“Have you all found your partners?” asked Professor Marchbanks crisply. “Good, let’s begin then,” she said to the nodding students. “Mr. Binks and Mrs. Tanager, please step over here on the mats. No, these over here, they’re rather thicker and you’ll appreciate the padding.” The witch from Apparition Testing and a short, burly wizard from Magical Games and Sports stepped up onto the puffy blue mats that had been indicated. “Now face each other, wands at the ready,” instructed Professor Marchbanks. Mrs. Tanager and Mr. Binks dutifully squared off and raised their wands. “First, Mrs. Tanager will make the attempt. Don’t forget to use your Occlumency, Mr. Binks!” she reminded.
The small witch jabbed with her wand and shouted, “Legilimens!” Mr. Binks, caught off-guard by the fervor of the spell, looked shocked and fell over. Mrs. Tanager raised her eyebrow at him, regarding him with a little exasperation. That new game that was being invented in his department would shortly be causing hers a lot of extra work.
“Very good!” praised Professor Marchbanks. She flicked her wand and levitated Mr. Binks onto a pile of squashy cushions to recover. “Next pair, please!”
Hermione watched a bit nervously as the other pairs practiced. Although he was now a colleague, she still remembered all the grief he had caused her when they were at school. While Draco was absorbed in watching their classmates being struck unconscious, she looked at him appraisingly. Everybody knew that Draco had studied the Dark Arts extensively on his own. There were whispers that he might have surpassed even Professor Snape. Well, if he’s an Auror now, the Ministry must see something in him, she thought. Despite the Ministry’s seal of approval, she still didn’t trust him.
Her attention was abruptly diverted as she heard Professor Marchbanks calling them forward. Now that she was up close to him, she saw that Draco was taller than she remembered, and his frame had filled out since they’d been in school. Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that if she was a Death Eater on the run, she’d be pretty intimidated. He looked imperious, cold and professional. She knew that she looked a bit like a librarian who had been dragged through a hedge; it was certainly not the look she would have chosen if she had known she would be facing off against Malfoy. She faced him on the mat, and raised her wand, resolute that he wouldn’t be rifling through her memories. Concentrating fiercely on repelling Draco, she was no longer listening to Professor Marchbanks’ instructions.
Draco looked confidently across the mat at Hermione. Draco was one of the best Aurors the Ministry ever had. For him, dueling was a way of life and he rarely came off the worst. Granger might have been the top witch in school, but now she looked as if she had merely been pushing parchment for quite a while. He idly wondered if she still knew how to use the wand clutched in her shaking hand. He lazily raised his wand. Professor Marchbanks’ voice was blocked out of his thoughts. All of his attention was focused on his opponent.
They stared tensely at each other. Then, without warning, Draco slashed his wand towards Hermione and shouted the incantation. Also intending to take the offensive, Hermione had likewise attacked Draco. As their spells collided, there was a burst of dazzling silver light and a loud CRACK as they were thrown backwards to opposite ends of the room where they lay quite still.
There was a loud collective gasp from the rest of the class. Professor Marchbanks regarded her sprawled out students with resignation. With a small shake of her head, she muttered audibly, “Well, that’s what happens when you forget your Occlumency.”
A/N: *This* is why it's so important to follow instructions. Please review!
Another A/N: I can't post more until the queue opens again next week *sigh*, but I have *four* more chapters just about ready to go. Stay tuned!
Your Place or Mine? by 3secondfish
“Ow ow ow ow ow,” Draco groaned through gritted teeth, clutching his head. What the hell happened? he wondered. He sat up and squinted briefly at the room around him, taking in the pale green walls and the row of beds with neatly tucked blankets that awaited the next occupant. On his left, there was a striped cloth curtain screening from view the occupant of the neighboring bed. The décor obviously meant he was at St. Mungo’s, the wizard hospital. He tried to piece together the events precipitating his arrival, but it made his head throb, so he stopped. Clearly, whatever it was, it was Granger’s fault. Wincing as his head gave another painful throb, he levered himself out of bed. He found his clothes in the cupboard of the bedside table, and began to pull them on under his hospital robes. Now that he was dressed properly, he felt more confident, but the effort had tired him out. Draco sat back down on the bed to regroup and consider his next move, all the while swearing like a dragon smuggler.
* * *
“Shush, Crookshanks!” muttered Hermione groggily, annoyed by a growling noise nearby. She had a splitting headache, and wanted to go back to sleep. As she lay in bed, she slowly realized that, while Crookshanks might growl on occasion, or even cat-talk to himself, it was doubtful that she had ever heard him mention “fornicating chizpurfles” before. She was just starting to take in her surroundings when she heard a serene voice addressing her from the doorway.
“Ah, you’re finally awake. I understand that there was quite an explosion,” said a blond Healer, whose wand was tucked behind her ear. She looked at Hermione expectantly.
“Luna? Luna Lovegood? What are you doing here?” asked Hermione. She finally pulled herself together enough to realize that she was in a hospital, rather than a really large bedroom. “Are you a Healer now?” she added lamely. It was quite obviously so, since Luna wore the uniform of a St. Mungo’s Healer, with its crest of a crossed bone and wand. Gingerly rubbing her aching temple, Hermione was beginning to think that all these sudden school chum reunions were bad for her health. The growling noises continued on the other side of the curtain; perhaps her neighbor was a werewolf.
“Yes,” replied Luna dreamily. “I decided to specialize in Spell Damage, after Hogwarts. Very interesting things people manage to do to themselves with magic.” She sat down on the foot of Hermione’s bed and consulted a clipboard she had brought in. “In your case, for instance, there are some nasty side effects to a Legilimency-Legilimency duel. You’ve obviously found out about the explosion, unconsciousness, and the headache.”
Hermione nodded, then, when her head throbbed again, wished she hadn’t.
“Usually, a bond of some kind is created between the duelists, as well,” Luna added.
Bonded? To Malfoy?!? thought Hermione. She deliberately schooled her expression into one that conveyed something more like curiousity, rather than rising panic. “What kind of bond?” she asked Luna in a would-be casual tone.
“That’s the interesting bit,” Luna continued enthusiastically. “There’s a great deal of variation, depending on the strength of the spells involved. I have personally seen a case where the wizards involved consistently chose the same clothing; it was quite funny because they were neighbors and they were always bumping into each other, dressed like twins,” she giggled. “Another bond made the one of the wizards involved aware of the books the other had read. He joined a book club, without ever having to read any books himself.”
Hermione tentatively checked her mind for bits of Malfoy. Finding no obvious signs of incursion, she asked, “Do the effects show up right away? I mean, I would know what sort of bond it is, right?”
“Not necessarily. It takes some time for the bond to fully develop, at least until the headache goes away,” she added thoughtfully. “Usually, it’s just odd bits of information being traded back and forth between the two minds. Theoretically, though,” she added, “the bond could involve the souls. But it would be very unusual. Should be interesting, in any case. ”
Draco had been listening on the other side of the curtain with a sense of foreboding. He had long ago set a policy for himself of avoiding attachments of any kind. He had even sold the now-tamed Malfoy Manor to a tour company after Hogwarts, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the reflected infamy. He much preferred the anonymity of the flat he had gotten for himself in London. He felt that, if he was going to be stared at, he’d at least like to have earned it. And now, this spell backfiring had tied him to Granger. This whole business of soul bonds can go hang, and leave me well out of it, he thought mutinously.
Reaching a decision, he rose from the bed and dramatically ripped the curtain aside. The effect was spoiled a bit by the slight wobble caused by standing up so quickly, but he plunged on, nevertheless.
Hermione was startled but Luna was not at all perturbed by Draco’s sudden entry. She turned and cheerfully greeted him. “Oh, good, you’re awake!” she said. “I was just telling Hermione--”
“I heard what you told Granger,” snarled Draco, cutting her off. “I am not hanging around here waiting to find out what kind of spell-induced weirdness Granger has set me up for.” With a contemptuous glance at Hermione, he strode from the room as with as much haughtiness as he could muster.
Luna raised her eyebrows, but didn’t stop him. Hermione just stared at the doorway through which Draco had just left.
Suddenly, as if in reply to Draco’s outburst, Hermione turned pale, lunged toward the basin on her bedside table, and vomited spectacularly into it. She continued to retch for several moments, while Luna made sympathetic noises and occasionally waved her wand at the basin, vanishing its contents.
Finally, Hermione seemed to feel better. She absently pushed back a few wisps of hair that were tickling her forehead, and gratefully accepted the glass of water that Luna had poured and offered to her. Her recovery, she noted with irritation, coincided with Draco’s return, supported by a thin, bearded wizard with a disgruntled air about him. Draco was even more pale than usual, and allowed himself to be steered back to his bed, where he sat down with a shaken, dumbfounded look.
“Met ‘im in the Atrium, I did, Healer,” the man explained loudly to Luna. “’E comes over all pale, like, so I asks ‘im what’s wrong. Opens ‘is mouth but don’t get a word out afore ‘e pukes all over th’ place. Canna have tha’ at th’ Min’stry,” shaking his head, “so I decides to floo ‘im back ‘ere.” He glanced back at Draco. “I guess you’re no’ done wi’ ‘im.”
Luna thanked the gruff wizard effusively for so kindly returning her patient. The wizard blushed beneath his beard, muttering, “T’weren’t nuthin’,” and left, looking pleased with himself.
“A very deep bond, then,” said Luna softly, as if speaking to herself, “if it demands the close proximity of the wizards involved.” Addressing her patients in a louder voice, she said, “Will you move in together, then?”
Taken off-guard by the seriousness of Luna’s question, and the absurdity of her predicament, Hermione began to laugh. Draco looked at her in astonishment.
“What’s so funny?” said Draco crossly. His head still ached abominably, and the vomiting fit had not improved his outlook.
She asked him in a mock-sultry voice, “Your place or mine?” Her voice cracked at the end, and dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Into the Dragon's Lair by 3secondfish
Draco stared daggers at Hermione; he wasn’t finding anything at all funny about their situation. Luna simply nodded approvingly, thinking Hermione had had an excellent idea.
“Staying in London would be best,” said Luna seriously. “Your flat’s not too far from St. Mungo’s, Draco. I think you both should stay there. In fact,” she said with finality, “as your Healer, I am demanding it.”
Hermione was speechless, now regretting her moment of levity. How could Luna have taken her joking suggestion so seriously? Draco simply looked appalled. It hadn’t been a good day, and it clearly wasn’t getting any better. Both started to protest loudly.
“How” ?”
“But” !”
Luna was uncharacteristically business-like. Cutting off their shouts of dismay, she said, “It’s no good to fuss about it now. You’ve poked a dragon in the eye, and now you’ll just to hope that he’s a forgiving sort. In any case,” she went on in a gentler tone, “there’s no need for you to stay here any longer. I’ve done as much as I can for you both for the moment.”
After making them promise to keep in touch, Luna left them to sort out their living arrangements, and now, it seemed, their life arrangements. With a swish, Hermione pulled the striped curtain around to enclose her bed space, and started to get dressed while Draco sat and sulked. She attempted to make conversation.
“So,” she began awkwardly, “I guess you’re an Auror, now.”
Draco grunted by way of reply.
She tried again, while she searched for her shoes. “That must be very interesting. I’m working for the Committee for Experimental Charms, myself, inspecting and testing new charms. But I’m training to be an Obliviator, as well.”
There was a snorting noise from the other side of the curtain. She pulled it aside as she finished tying her laces.
“OK, I’m ready,” said Hermione, as she retrieved her cloak.
Draco moved toward the door, and Hermione followed.
“That’s why I was taking the Legilimency training,” she continued, walking into the corridor. “Why did you sign up?” she asked curiously as he walked ahead of her.
“The same reason you did,” he replied blandly, “As Professor Marchbanks said, we can’t help someone if we don’t know what’s wrong.” She had nearly caught up to him.
“But how would you use it to catch dark wizards?” she pursued. “I mean, they’re not just going to stand there waiting for you to interrogate them --”
Draco whirled suddenly to face her. He saw his cold and angry expression reflected in her wide startled eyes. “I find that, as an Auror, my quarry will always lie to me. With good reason, I suppose, as one of the foremost goals of a criminal is to evade capture. However,” said Draco acidly, “as a Malfoy, I am also lied to, despite the fact that I am a colleague among the Ministry wizards. I greatly dislike being lied to,” he growled, “but it seems to be the lot of those associated with Death Eaters, deserved or not.”
The blond Auror spun on his heel, and strode quickly down the hall, leaving a chastened Hermione staring at his rapidly retreating back. He was nearly at the end of the long hallway, when he felt the first faint pangs of nausea returning. Briefly, he considered moving even further away for spite, but he didn’t feel up to another fit of vomiting. Draco was furious with himself for reacting so badly to Hermione’s question. This was exactly the sort of outburst that everyone expected from Lucius Malfoy’s son, his supposed protégé. Fiercely, he tamped down that line of thought. Even idle thoughts of Lucius tended to goad him into a mental rant. He stopped at the elevator and waited for her to catch up, forcing himself to appear calm.
As she reached him, she reddened in embarrassment.
“I “ I’m really sorry, Malfoy”, she began tentatively.
He made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind, Granger, you weren’t to know,” he said, only a little awkwardly. Regaining his composure, he attempted a pleasant tone, and said, “If you’re to be a permanent houseguest, we ought to be on a first-name basis, I suppose. Please call me ‘Draco’.”
“Ah “ All right, then,” said Hermione, slightly flustered, casting about for a safe topic of conversation. “Where is your flat, Ma “ I mean, Draco?” she said, as they stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the lobby.
“Not far, but I think we should floo, just the same. No need to tempt fate into adding a splinch to our list of ailments,” he added lightly, as the doors opened on to the hospital lobby. Truthfully, though, Draco was a bit wary of Apparition just at the moment, since his most recent attempt had ended so badly.
There were few people about, and no one at all in line to use a fireplace. Draco stepped up to a nearby fireplace of pale marble. “Together, then?” he asked. “I don’t think I could possibly bear to be separated from you again,” he added sardonically. Hermione, nettled, narrowed her eyes, but upon seeing a slight twinkle in Draco’s, decided to let it pass. She nodded in reply, so he tossed a pinch of floo powder into the flames. “42 Newtown Road, London!” he spoke loudly; the flames blazed up to the top of the fireplace, glowing emerald green.
As they stepped together into the glittering fire, Draco unexpected wrapped his arms tightly around Hermione’s body. Before she could protest, they were spinning rapidly past the fireplaces of the Floo Network. The sight made her queasy, so she closed her eyes, and abjectly buried her face in Draco’s cloak, angry that Draco was taking such liberties, and livid that she felt too ill to do anything about it. She didn’t open them again until she felt herself being released.
They had arrived, she thought sarcastically, at the dragon’s lair.
Slithering by 3secondfish
Hermione had meant to demand what the hell Draco thought he was doing, grabbing her like that, but by the time she had opened her eyes and got her bearings, Draco had already disappeared into another room.
“Would you like some toast?” called Draco, apparently from a kitchen to the right of where Hermione stood on the brick hearth.
Thoroughly wrong-footed by this sudden outburst of thoughtfulness, Hermione assented. She was a bit hungry, after all. While she waited, she peered about her surroundings.
Draco’s flat was large, much larger than she expected. The living room alone could have encompassed the entirety of her own tiny flat in Hogsmeade. A great bay window opened on to a spectacular view of the London skyline. There was a soft rug covering the polished wooden floor, and comfortable-looking wing-back chairs were arranged about the room. A camel-backed settee was upholstered in wine-colored velvet, with fringed cushions piled up at one end. Clearly, this was where Draco liked to sit and read, judging from the pile of books on the floor nearby. The books surprised her. The walls were entirely covered in shelf upon shelf of books, old and new. Even more surprising was finding a report she had herself written and published among the recently-read books by the settee.
Her exploration was interrupted by Draco arriving from the kitchen with a tray containing not only toast, but tea, cups and saucers, and a couple of pots of marmalade. He beckoned her to follow him to another adjoining room. The large polished table seemed as if it had once been intended as a formal eating area, with its graceful matching bentwood chairs and a glittering chandelier hanging overhead. However, the table seemed to have begun a metamorphosis into an over-large writing desk, judging by the parchment and quills that covered one end. There was plenty of room yet at the other end, so there they sat down. Draco poured them both some tea, while Hermione helped herself to some toast and marmalade. They munched in silence for a while.
“Thanks for this,” she said, indicating the remains of the late breakfast Draco had prepared. She had been hungrier than she thought.
Draco nodded in response. It had been an exhausting day. Through the bay window, the sky was beginning to darken, and the shadowy shapes of buildings were studded with lights. He looked forward to putting his feet up later, with a glass of firewhiskey in hand.
“I should probably send for my things. Can I borrow your owl?” The eagle owl, which had been snoozing gently on his perch, opened a yellow eye.
“Sure, go ahead,” he replied, rummaging for some writing things, then handing them to Hermione. “I’ll clear this away while you do that.” He picked up the empty plates and cups, piling them back on the tray, and returned to the kitchen.
Now alone in the dining room, she picked up the quill and wrote a quick note to her neighbor, asking her to bring some clothes and other odds and ends to Draco’s flat, and explaining that she would be needing to stay in London for a while. She rolled it up and put it aside. She chose a second piece of parchment, this time addressing it to her supervisor at the Ministry, and jotted a quick note. Calling the owl down to her, she attached both letters. He zoomed away on powerful wings when she opened the window.
Her letters finished, Hermione walked back to the living room. There she found Draco sprawled on the settee, reading a slim volume from his vast library. Thinking that he had an excellent idea, Hermione chose her own book, and curled up in one of the wing chairs.
She was absorbed in her novel, when the flames roared in the fireplace, and small matronly witch stepped out of it, with a carpet bag dangling from one arm, and a basket from the other.
“Coo-ee!” she called in a creaky voice.
Hermione hopped up from her chair, and embraced the old lady. “Mrs. Chintz, how are you?” said Hermione happily. She unburdened the elderly witch, asking if she would stay for a cup of tea.
“No, not tonight, my duck, not tonight,” she wheezed. “I’ve a gobstones tournament to play, and I’m expected soon. No, I just wanted to drop your things off. Who’s your friend, dearie?” she said, spotting a handsome young wizard sprawled across the furniture.
“This is Draco,” explained Hermione, red spots appearing on her cheeks. “I’m just visiting him for a short time, until Healer Lovegood can reverse the effects of a training accident at work.” Draco looked up and waved cheekily to Mrs. Chintz at the mention of his name. Hermione’s blush expanded to cover her entire face.
“It’s like that, is it, my duck?” She eyed Draco appraisingly. “I’d watch this one, I would. Has a slippery look about him, he does, dearie.” Hermione, stunned into speechlessness, was unable to articulate a reply. Mrs.Chintz gave Draco one last hard stare, stumped back to the fireplace and was gone in a roar of flames.
Her face crimson, Hermione flopped back down in her chair. Draco smirked over the top of his book, thoroughly amused by her discomfort. Hermione glared at him. As much as she loved the sweet old lady, she knew Mrs. Chintz liked to speculate about things with her gobstones club. There was little doubt in Hermione’s mind that she had inadvertently given her plenty of fodder for tonight’s meeting.
“Want a drink?” he asked, as he got up and crossed the room to his liquor cabinet. He picked up a glass and poured into it a measure of firewhisky.
“Thank you, no,” she replied tartly. As bad a day as it had been, she had never been a drinker, and was not about to start on account of Draco.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.
Ignoring Draco, she leaned down to open the basket Mrs. Chintz had brought. Curious, Draco stood and watched, wondering what was inside. As soon as the latch was opened, an enormous shaggy ginger cat hopped out, looking affronted at having been left cooped up for so long. He gave Hermione a disgusted look, and jumped up to settle himself on the settee that Draco had vacated, obviously planning to take a nap.
“Oy, cat, that’s my seat!” said Draco, waving his arm and making as if to shove him off the couch. The huge cat stared at him insolently, daring him to carry out his threat.
“You leave him be, Draco!” said Hermione, still very red in the face.
He looked at her oddly. Though certainly a predicable outburst, he was startled by her vehemence. He decided to play along.
“Okaaay,” said Draco cautiously. “I supposed I’ll just have to learn to live with yet another houseguest. What’s his name?”
“Crookshanks. And he’s the sweetest kitty in the world so don’t you dare hurt him!” cried Hermione, looking a bit unsteady. It suddenly occurred to Draco that, even if Mrs. Chintz had embarrassed her, she ought not to still be blushing over it.
“Fine, we can share the seat,” he said placatingly. “Up you get, Crooks,” said Draco, who picked Crookshanks up, sat down himself, and then set the cat on his lap. He took another sip of firewhiskey and studied Crookshanks. Evidently, the cat had decided that sitting on Draco’s lap counted as staking a claim on the settee. His squashed face looked up at Draco crossly, and Draco obliged him by scratching him beneath the chin.
Regarding them both happily, Hermione cooed, “Oooh, my little ginger man is sooo sweeeet! And sooo charming, yes he is! Yes, he even makes mean old Drakie pet him, yes he does!” She giggled.
Drakie?!? thought Draco. What in Merlin’s name is going on here? This is seriously weird, even for her.
Hermione was still giggling when her glassy eyes rolled up in her head and she slid gracelessly to floor.
Taking another sip of his firewhiskey, it suddenly hit him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered out loud. Shifting Crookshanks to one of the chairs, he stood up and resignedly went to the kitchen to empty his glass into the sink. Coming back to the living room, he picked up Hermione’s limp body, and gently set her on the sofa. He found a blanket and tucked it around her, as she began to snore.
It’s not good to get soused when you have work in the morning, reflected Draco, shaking his head. So thinking, he extinguished the lamp and went to bed.
A/N: This kind of encouragement is great for a first-time fic writer. Who knows, maybe I can go pro one day. ;) Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! (And keep 'em coming!)
Heart Failure by 3secondfish
The experience of waking was not something that Hermione enjoyed that morning. She felt as if someone had been using her temple for brick-throwing practice. Her mouth had inexplicably come to feel like the inside of a sock. She had received all of this information but had yet to open her eyes. Feeling she might as well get on with it, she did so.
* * *
“AIEEEEE!”
The deafening shriek brought Draco to full consciousness. His flat was Unplottable, but he feared that one of his many enemies might have found a way in. Since he himself had first-hand experience in circumventing such measures, he sometimes worried that another might do the same. Draco fearlessly ran into the living room, wand raised, ready to confront the attacker.
He found Hermione confronted with a huge snake, at least six feet long. Its powerful black and orange coils were piled up on her chest where its three heads wavered and hissed ominously near her terrified face. Her mouth moved silently, too frightened to make another sound.
Taking in the tense scene, Draco barked, “Trippy, stop it!”
The snake seemed to roll its many eyes at Draco for spoiling its fun. However, it obediently slithered to the floor. Moodily, it crept under a chair, where it curled up and sulked.
Hermione found her voice, and quavered, “What was that thing?” Then, suddenly, she was on her feet. The sheer number of things she had to be angry about swept over her; the spell damage, the living arrangements, and the new unexplained headache from which Draco seemed to have been exempted. The unorthodox wake-up call was the final straw. She decided to use the incident as an opportunity to express her feelings on the subject. “Malfoy, what the sodding hell is that thing doing here?!” she shouted.
He was taken aback by her fury, but held on to a calm demeanor. “I thought I asked you to call me ‘Draco’,” he replied carelessly. “That,” said Draco, inclining his head toward the snake, “is Triplicity. He’s a runespoor. And I would calm down, if I were you. This sort of excitement makes the left head irritable. That’s the poisonous one, by the way,” he added.
“A what?!” yelped Hermione. “Is that thing your pet?!” She was positively shaking with anger.
“Of course he’s not a pet,” replied Draco indignantly. “I found him during a raid on a Death Eater’s house.” Draco frowned. “The idiot didn’t speak Parseltongue, didn’t know anything about even ordinary snakes, much less runespoors, so I took him home.”
Filtering through her wrath, it dawned on her that taking in a maltreated creature with the capacity to do serious harm was an act that she usually associated with Hagrid. She cooled down a bit, but was still annoyed to have a runespoor sprung on her without warning.
“He wasn’t very happy at first, but with a bit of help, we got it settled eventually,” Draco continued. “So now Trippy is more like a permanent guest; I just allow him houseroom and he takes care of himself. He does,” smirked Draco, “have a sense of humor, though.”
“Not funny,” glowered Hermione. “He nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“It’s just his way,” Draco shrugged. “He won’t do it again, but he can’t resist showing off how big and bad he is.” Hearing this remark, Triplicity blew an unmistakable triple raspberry.
* * *
They set off for work a short time later, Apparating together to the lobby of the Ministry of Magic. Hermione was perfectly cheerful again, but Draco was concerned about how they were to cope with being on different floors of the Ministry, and that assuming that he wasn’t sent off to a distant location to deal with some sort of attack.
While they stood in the Atrium, Draco asked, “Granger, how’s this supposed to work? Aren’t our offices pretty far apart?”
“Oh, I’ve already spoken to my supervisor about that,” said Hermione confidently, as she stepped on to the elevator.
Draco was surprised to see her push the button for the second level. The golden grilles closed, and the elevator chugged and bumped to the offices of Magical Law Enforcement. Puzzling about what she had meant, he followed her as she marched purposefully down the hallway.
Passing a room full of cubicles, Draco heard a familiar voice call out behind him.
“Wotcher, Drakie!” He was faintly annoyed to hear the nickname that Hermione had stumbled upon the previous night.
Hermione continued down the hallway, but Draco stopped to reply, “And good morning to you, too, Nymphadora.” He used Tonks’ first name because he knew that it irritated her.
He had, in the past couple of years, become more friendly with the relatives that had been disowned by his family. Not all were willing to forgive him being a Malfoy, but Tonks was an exception, for which he was grateful. The good-natured teasing they traded was evidence of the eased relations between the cousins.
“Heard you had a bit of trouble in training class,” said Tonks, leaving her desk to lean on the doorframe.
Draco made a non-committal noise. If he was about to be ribbed, he wasn’t going to make it easy.
“Spent a little time in St. Mungo’s, as well,” she continued, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t going to mention it, were you?” said Tonks, folding her arms in mock reprimand. “Heard that you were there twice, actually,” a twinkle in her eye. “MacManus said that you were puking your guts up when he found you and brought you back.” She started to grin.
“Well, I didn’t see any get-well cards from you,” he retorted coolly. He might have known that news like that would travel fast. He sighed inwardly.
“Well, my favorite ickle cousin should take better care of himself,” said Tonks, chuckling. “Feeling better now?”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. I came in with Granger this morning, actually.” Draco paused and looked around, realizing that she’d disappeared while he was speaking with Tonks. “Where’s she gotten to?” he wondered aloud. Wherever she went, it can’t be far, thought Draco. Surreptitiously, he rubbed his stomach.
Noticing the movement, Tonks asked with concern, “Are you sure you’re feeling better?”
Draco was spared from having to answer by Hermione’s return. Hermione had worn her regular work robes today (non-descript color, frumpy, and slightly singed), but now she was wearing a completely different outfit. Strutting forward in her new clothes, she greeted Tonks enthusiastically.
“Hi, Tonks! What do you think?” Hermione turned and her long black cloak swirled away from her body, revealing knee-high boots, and a fitted black jumpsuit with patches of a sparkling green.
“Looking good, Hermione!” enthused Tonks. “The colors really suit you!”
Rather than feeling better upon Hermione’s return, Draco’s stomach had dropped unpleasantly. “Nice one, Hermione,” he laughed, fearing the worst, “but Halloween is months away.”
“Oh, this isn’t a costume; it’s my new uniform. I’m your new partner!” she said cheerfully.
A/N: I'm about to start Chapter 12, but unfortunately I can only post at the speed of moderation . . . *sigh* Stay tuned! Read and Review!
She's With Me by 3secondfish
“You’re
what?” said Draco quietly. He desperately hoped he had misheard.
“Your
partner,” Hermione reiterated, speaking slowly and clearly. “So I suppose that makes me an Auror, as well. My supervisor spoke to yours, and they felt that I had enough experience to go with you into the field. They also felt you would be happier than if they had you testing charms with me.” She raised an eyebrow as if to say,
Well, that is what you want, isn’t it?
Draco stared stupidly at his new partner. His job was supposed to be glamorous, filled with danger and excitement, yet still allowing one to be home on time for tea. It didn't have a partner in the job description.
Partner? She looked so earnest and innocent, like a child playing dress-up. However well her new uniform fit, it looked too big for her.
The world has gone mad, he thought to himself. He realized that he must look like a fish, standing there gaping, lost in his own thoughts. Mentally, he shook himself and reassembled the cool exterior he was known for.
“Brilliant! Congratulations, Hermione!” said Tonks enthusiastically. “I always thought you ought to give up the desk job in favor of one with a bit more challenge. Definitely too much talent to be stuck indoors. You’ll watch my cousin, for me, will you? He’s got a knack for finding trouble.” Tonks winked broadly at Hermione.
“I’m sure she’ll take good care of us both,
Nymphadora,” said Draco icily. “Don’t you have something to do?” He noticed he was clenching his fists, and forced himself to relax.
“Probably,” she replied airily. “Bet you do, too. I noticed you had a new scroll in your in-box, this morning.” She made a show of waving good-bye, adding, “Must be off! Have fun, kids!”
Draco restrained himself from making a rude gesture at her back. Tonks could be extremely annoying at the best of times, and he was in no mood for it.
Finding the pigeon-hole that served as his in-box, he removed the scroll that had rested within. He noticed that ‘H. Granger’ had been stenciled below his own name. The scroll contained something official-sounding about Granger being formally reassigned to Magical Law Enforcement. He skimmed past it; by now it was old news. Near the bottom, he found what he was looking for.
“Hey, Granger!” he called. “Up for some fun?”
“We’ve got an assignment already?” She was practically jumping with excitement. “What is it?”
“Routine patrol,” said Draco with a grin of pure evil. “Vampires.”
* * *
The darkness was gathering about them as they arrived in an alleyway in one of the more sinister districts of London. There was a sense that those who had unwisely wandered these streets might never have returned from its blighted corridors.
Despite the uncheerful surroundings, the district did have a flourishing nightlife, populated by a motley mixture of disaffected young muggles, wearing black clothes and heavy make-up. Hermione was surprised at how well they fit in with the crowd. With their long dark cloaks, they actually appeared to be rather fashionable.
Draco moved effortlessly through the crowd, with his commanding presence and serpentine grace. Hermione was having rather more trouble navigating the crowded nightclub, and found she had to use her elbows to keep up with Draco’s longer stride.
“There she is,” said Draco, almost to himself.
As she peered at the throng of pallid faces, Hermione couldn’t tell which person Draco had singled out. “Where?”
“Just follow me,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll introduce you. Keep you wand up your sleeve, and your wits about you. If it comes to a fight, you’ll be able to flick your wand into your hand,” he drawled. Sparing a backward glance, he saw she was already looking a bit out of her depth. He wondered idly if she would be up to the task at hand.
Too late now, he thought.
Hermione followed behind him as he reached a small knot of admirers who crowded around what had to be the most stunning woman she had ever seen. She had a pale lithe body, and wore a strapless satin gown that appeared molded on to it. Her long dark hair cascaded smoothly down her back. When she leaned forward into the lamplight, it shone a deep blood red.
He caught her deep green eyes. “Esmeralda,” he breathed, as she turned toward him with a smouldering look.
“How
delightful to see you, Draco,” she purred in a slow, heavy accent. Taking his proffered hands, she spoke to her admiring entourage. “You
vill excuse us,” she said; it was not a question. She put her arm around his waist as they moved to a more secluded area. Esmeralda then noticed Hermione, and asked “And who is your little friend?” Leaning closer, she whispered, “I thought you vorked alone?” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Usually, but circumstances have changed,” he drawled. “This is Hermione Granger; she will be working with me until they change again. Shall we dance?” he asked as she entwined herself in his body.
She smiled with glittering teeth. “It vould be my
greatest pleasure.”
* * *
Hermione was starting to feel a bit put out. Draco obviously knew this woman, and knew her well, judging by the way she appeared to be about to climb inside his jumpsuit. She was annoyed at Draco for abandoning her in favor of a tête-à-tête with that red-haired minx, while she was left to her own devices. What were they supposed to be doing here, anyway? Her internal tirade was interrupted by one of the woman’s admirers approaching, a tall man with dark hair, and severe features. Would she like a drink, he asked. Feeling rebellious, she accepted.
* * *
“So, vhat brings you to my neck of the voods?” asked Esmeralda mischievously, as they swayed together on the dance floor.
“I was informed by my superiors that certain vampires were making nuisances of themselves in muggle London,” he drawled, “So, I have come here to investigate these allegations. I trust you are not one of them?”
“Of course not!” Esmeralda looked at Draco askance. “Vell,” she amended, “not very much. A tiny taste, now and then; vould you deny me that?” she pouted. “Vhile the blood potions your Ministry provides are qvite nutritious, they are not nearly so tasty as the real thing,” she grinned, showing a tiny glint of fang. “And here, the muggles enjoy their play-acting so much, that we pass qvite unnoticed.”
“So long as you’re not drawing attention to yourself when you ‘take a sip’,” said Draco, “and definitely not sharing any of you own,” he added imperiously. “I would hate,” said Draco coolly, “to have to run you through with a stake.”
“As vould I,” replied Esmeralda, bored. This was territory they had covered before. “But vhere is your young lady?” she asked changing the subject. “I assure you that I am not the only
vampyre who enjoys the nightclubs. And she seems such a tender young lamb.”
Draco silently agreed with Esmeralda on both points. Why did Granger have to make him go to all this trouble? Was he supposed to be a baby minder while she played Auror?
Esmeralda blew him a kiss as she walked back to the admirers whom Draco knew to be her source of the ‘little sips’ she liked so well.
It was difficult to spot Hermione in the dark club; Draco was beginning to worry. Nearly everyone was wearing the same sort of dark clothing that they did. Finally, he found her at a small table in a distant corner of the club. She was speaking in a low dreamy voice to a pale man with black, shoulder-length hair and heavy brows. He was gazing into her eyes with great intensity, and his fingers were twining in her curly hair as she leaned over the table. Draco walked up behind the man, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“She’s with me, Niklos,” said Draco quietly.
A/N: Oooh, Draco's talking tough here . . . where's this going to go? ;)
Also, if you've seen Francis Ford Coppola's
Dracula, that's the sort of accent you should be hearing in your head for Esmeralda.
Besides the reviews, I've gotten a few emails of appreciation, i.e. fan letters! How cool is that?
You
are reading and reviewing, right? Well, when you get to it, would you guys mind telling me what country you're from, along with it? Just curious . . .
Tales of the Darkness by 3secondfish
“She’s with me, Niklos,” repeated Draco, a little more forcefully.
“I think, right now, she is with me,” he murmured, without looking up. “A tasty morsel, she will be, yes?” He continued to stare into Hermione’s blank eyes, and absently stroked her delicate throat.
“Last chance, Nik.”
“You vouldn’t dare do anything in front of all these muggles,” sneered Niklos, sparing Draco a sideways glance.
“Try me.” Draco shifted his arm, and his wand slid forward. Its point touched Niklos’ shoulder. “I have overlooked a great number of indiscretions on your part, Niklos.” His voice dropped to a cold whisper that conveyed the threat of dire consequences. “However much I have defended your kind, I will kill you; right here, if necessary.”
“Very vell, then.” Niklos shrugged and stood up, making as if to leave.
He whirled suddenly. Niklos lunged for Draco’s throat, his bared fangs glittering lethally. Draco was ready for him. A practiced flick brought his wand to hand, and a silent slashed incantation vanished Niklos in a brief flash of white-hot flame; another quick spell and he was remarking loudly to no one in particular about idiots who do flash photography in nightclubs. His wand disappeared back up his sleeve.
Now he turned his attention back to Hermione. Though no longer mesmerized, she was still dazed, and in no fit state to be left on her own while he finished his rounds. Looking around in indecision, he saw that Esmeralda had followed him to this dark corner to investigate the commotion. Clearly, her preternatural senses were not as easily fooled as the muggles’ were.
“I see you haff found your lost lamb,” she said. Noticing the small pile of ash on the floor, she raised an eyebrow and inclined her head toward it.
“Niklos,” said Draco simply.
“A trouble-maker he vas,” spat Esmeralda. “He tested the patience of your Ministry. At least he vill not now ruin things for the rest of us.”
“Esmeralda, I need to take a quick look around,” he said casually, “You know how it is. Checking for Death Eaters, tying up loose ends, making sure no one noticed I just flamed a vampire in here; piddling routine stuff. Can you keep an eye on Granger for a few minutes?” He flashed his most winning smile.
“Certainly,” she said, rolling her eyes only slightly at Draco’s antics, and sitting in the seat recently vacated by Niklos.
Draco nodded his thanks and moved off into the crowd.
Hermione was looking about in bemusement when she spotted Esmeralda sitting across from her. Her double-take nearly upset the chair.
“Wha? Where is the man I was speaking to?” said Hermione.
“Draco incinerated him,” Esmeralda replied casually. “You really ought to choose your friends more carefully.”
“Incinerated? Why?”
“Because, he vas about to pierce your tender neck, darlink,” said Esmeralda in her seductive purr.
“Pierce . . . ?”
“He vas vampyre,” she said in a more matter-of-fact tone. Then she added with a wistful smile, “That vas very sveet of him. He must like you to risk it in a room full of muggles.”
“Muggles? You mean . . . you’re . . . you’re not . . . ?” Hermione was desperately trying to come up to speed, but events appeared to have overtaken her once again.
“Once . . . long ago . . . but now I live in darkness.” Her strange emerald eyes glittered in the flickering light of the club.
Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say to this. Were you supposed to give condolences to a person on their own death? Or their undeath, as it were? ‘So, you’re a vampire; that must be very interesting’ was one way to go but Hermione wasn’t sure it was the right one. She backtracked, searching for firmer ground.
“So,” she began, “Draco incinerated . . . Niklos.” She thought saying ‘one of you’ would give the wrong impression. “Was he a friend of yours?”
“He vas more of an acquaintance,” said Esmeralda dismissively. Then she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “But he vas also a . . . how do you say . . . a git. I do not like to speak ill of the undead since there are precious few vampyre with whom to while away eternity. And I haff promised Draco that I vould not make any new friends,” Esmeralda smirked and lounged back into her seat.
The evening was becoming a bit surreal. “Does he do that sort of thing often? The incineration, I mean.”
“It is unusual,” said Esmeralda in her slow accent. “I haff known Draco for a long time, even before he vorked for your Ministry. He has been as a shadow among us. I thought, at one time, that Draco might seek to become one with the darkness. The poor creature has struggled against it for so long, as a seedling struggles against the heavy darkness of the soil,” she said with a hint of sadness. “But for now, Draco remains in the light, though he thinks maybe he should not. He moves among the vampyre as a friend, and also as a . . .” She paused, searching for the word. “A liaison, if you vill.”
“A liaison?” repeated Hermione. “How so?” she asked, interested despite the oddness of the whole situation. It wasn’t often that one discovered anything of import at all regarding Draco Malfoy.
“There were times, not long ago, when ve vould be hunted out of hand. Draco makes himself a specialist in the addressing of vampyre, so that he controls the contact between the wizards and muggles, and the vampyre.”
“The Ministry . . . he . . . just lets you hang around in nightclubs?” asked Hermione incredulously.
“It is not qvite so simple as that,” replied Esmeralda thoughtfully. “He sees that our needs are provided for. In return, ve help him with finding certain . . . people . . . who haff wandered into our dark places. Because of Draco, ve may live and let live,” she grinned, flashing a glimpse of pointed fangs. “However,” she frowned, “there are those, like Niklos, who vould flaunt our existence, and endanger us all.”
Esmeralda stopped speaking abruptly. She was looking intently at something behind Hermione, something she had just noticed. Hermione watched Esmeralda as her eyes traveled along an invisible line, widening as they fell upon Draco returning from his rounds.
“Feeling better, Granger?” he asked as he reached the small table.
“Erm . . . yeah, I think so,” said Hermione. She truthfully wasn’t sure whether she felt better or not. She had nearly been an aperitif, had been regaled by an incognito vampire, and was housemates with a person of such uncharted depths that she feared she might fall in and never return. In all, Hermione thought she should either feel very safe or very worried.
Hermione simply felt tired. “Can we go home now?” she asked.
A/N: Whew! It's good to be back! I am simply ready to *burst* with new chapters I want to show you!
Isn't Esmeralda fun? Hundreds of years of perspective and a predilection for bad puns.
A big thank-your to Sonja for her very kind words; it's so nice to get fan mail. :)
Letters From Old Friends by 3secondfish
Luckily, the next day was a Saturday. It had been a long week. Draco had woken late. Turning on the light in the lavatory, he discovered a squashed ginger face glaring at him from the commode.
“I hope you flushed,” he muttered, as Crookshanks made to jump down from the toilet seat. With a reproachful look at Draco, he pushed down the handle and stalked out. Draco watched Crookshanks’ progress with bemusement. It still felt awfully early, as far as Draco was concerned, too early to concern himself with the eccentricities of Hermione’s cat.
* * *
Finished with the morning’s ablutions, Draco pulled a dressing gown over the shorts and old t-shirt he had worn to bed and walked to the living room. There he found the last thing he expected to see.
Hearing Draco’s footsteps, Hermione looked up, greeting him with a radiant smile. “Good morning, Draco!” she called cheerfully. Saving him the trouble of asking foolish questions, she enthusiastically said, “I’ve just been teaching Triplicity some letters.”
Hermione was stretched out on the floor with Triplicity. With trembling coils, he was carefully clutching a quill which he was applying to a piece of parchment. With her encouragement, the runespoor was clearly copying an alphabet. Triplicity’s left-most head briefly looked up at Draco with narrowed eyes and the barest hint of fang. Then, satisfied that Draco didn’t intend to laugh, the head rejoined its fellows in overseeing his penmanship.
“Why?” frowned Draco muzzily. He had a brief mental image of the runespoor taking dictation at the Ministry.
“Well, isn’t it obvious? Triplicity is plainly very intelligent. I mean, he understands when you’re speaking to him and what you’re saying in his presence. The only trouble is that he simply can’t speak English, and we can’t learn Parseltongue. Or, at least,” she said thoughtfully, “we don’t have someone to teach us. At any rate, Triplicity does understand English, so if he learns to write, then we can communicate,” she finished briskly.
“Ah,” said Draco vaguely. He thought she was making sense but wasn’t sure; perhaps it would make far more sense after he dealt with the idea of breakfast, which was calling much more loudly with the rumbling of his stomach. So thinking, he decided to put off attempting to understand what Granger was going on about until afterwards.
As he shuffled into the kitchen, Hermione called out behind him, “I made waffles. They’re on the counter.” Draco mumbled a thank-you, and took a waffle from the stack. Fishing his wand from his pocket, he tapped it gently so that steam wafted enticingly. He opted to forego syrup in favor of portability; so, munching his dry waffle, he started to walk back to where Hermione and Triplicity were working.
He was distracted by the return of his eagle owl. Seeing he had a note attached to his leg, Draco hurried over to the perch. Holding the waffle in his mouth, he untied the fragment of parchment, scanned it, and stuffed it in the pocket of his dressing gown. Noticing the haughty, reproachful golden glare aimed in his direction, he tore off a small piece of waffle, and fed it to the owl. So far satisfied by the morning’s events, he returned to the rug Hermione was using as an impromptu classroom.
With a careful air of casualness, Draco said, “If you don’t have any other plans, would you mind going to Diagon Alley this afternoon? I need to meet someone at the Leaky Cauldron,”
“OK,” said Hermione, concentrating on Triplicity’s latest efforts. “I think he’d do even better if he didn’t have to dip the quill,” she said, thinking out loud. Smiling up at Draco, she said, “He’s doing really well with this. I should go to Flourish & Blotts to see if they have any self-inking quills, or maybe a muggle felt-tip pen.”
In spite of himself, Draco was impressed. He and Trippy had an understanding, but he had never attempted to go beyond the mutual respect they had shared. Triplicity was, he agreed, an unusual and intelligent creature. He tried to imagine himself in Trippy’s place. Draco realized that, however good the care he tried to provide for him, Triplicity had to be lonely. But Granger, unasked, even after being menaced (though in jest) by the runespoor, had taken it on herself to try to ease the burden of his isolation. He thought that if he were that lonely, he, too, might be tempted to try something as ridiculous as obeying the earnest cajoling of a compassionate young woman.
* * *
Although their bond’s range had originally been something like 50 feet, as their bodies healed from the spell damage it had expanded to a couple hundred yards, plenty of room to shop Diagon Alley. It had become a habit, though, to stay close together.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me wandering off?” asked Hermione.
“Go ahead. Diagon Alley’s not a huge place; just come and get me if you need to move further down,” replied Draco, finding a booth near the back of the Leaky Cauldron and slouching comfortably into the seat.
“Well, all right, then,” said Hermione, a bit reluctantly. Though it was a homey sort of place, there were always a few odd people who frequented the inn. Today, Hermione noted a particularly scruffy-looking one dressed in muggle clothes in the booth next to the one Draco had chosen. Dismissing him with a glance, she gave Draco a bit of a wave, and walked out the back door to the secret entrance to Diagon Alley.
She wasn’t sure why she was dragging her feet about shopping by herself. Damn, she thought, What’s the matter with me? She considered herself an independent witch and was used to thinking of herself as a bit of a pioneer. She had lived on her own as soon as could after she left school, unlike many of her classmates who had gotten flats in great gaggles, just like in the dormitories. While she enjoyed company now and then, Hermione had nonetheless jumped at the opportunity for a bit more privacy when a tiny Hogsmeade flat became available. She wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore, and was relieved to not be interrogated about her evening activities by curious room-mates at every turn.
Hermione noticed she was still walking quite slowly. Maybe it was the threat of making a complete spectacle of herself if she wandered too far. The episode at St. Mungo’s still stood out in stark warning in her mind. Yes, she told herself, that was probably it. Although Malfoy . . . Draco . . . wasn’t that objectionable as company. He was certainly quieter than the girls she used to live with. She liked the library of books that he owned, and that he didn’t seem to need to fill the hours with chatter. Hermione reflected that it seemed a little odd, now that she knew more about him, that he always surrounded himself with . . . with minions. Now that she had a few years of perspective on the situation the people who attended him at school seemed more like hangers-on, rather than friends who liked his company.
Her musings were interrupted as she realized that she had already walked past the doorway of Flourish and Blotts. She shook her head and retraced her steps.
* * *
Returning to his seat, Draco had settled himself to wait, sipping at the bottle he had purchased from the bar. It wasn’t long before Draco heard a long low hiss near his right ear. Without turning, he smirked and said, “Hey, Potter. Come over and have a seat.”
The Boy Who Lived got up from the adjoining booth and sat down across from Draco, grinning like a maniac. Very few people would recognize him these days. Gone was the clean-cut, poster-boy-for-the-overthrow-of-evil look. Instead, his dark hair was long and carelessly tied back from his face. Faded jeans, fraying at the hem, were topped by a sun-bleached, untucked corduroy shirt. He still wore round glasses, but now they were tinted a smoky hue. He was tanned from working out-of-doors. A thin streak of a scar slashed from his hairline to his cheek, obscuring the original lightning scar on his forehead. The biggest change, however, was not his physical transformation. When one looked at him, one got the sense that he was free; he was unburdened by the oppressiveness that so many find weighing down their lives.
Draco had been an undemanding friend to him; Harry had been surprised at the amount of common ground they shared. Mostly, it had been obstacles to a quiet life, Harry’s from fame, Draco’s from infamy. They had become friends after leaving Hogwarts, having begun Auror training at the same time, and for similar reasons. Both had had dealings with Dark wizards throughout their lives; pursuing a career along the same lines seemed only natural. But after completing the training, Harry decided that the Ministry could mop up the scraps of the war without him; in fact, the Ministry in general could just sod off. A lifetime of fighting Voldemort, he decided, was enough for anyone; so thinking, he handed in his notice.
He was at a bit of a loss for a while. His whole life had been directed towards a fight that was finished, and the prophesy never mentioned anything about what was supposed to happen next. Casting about for something else to do with his life, he thought of the boa he’d met so long ago at that fateful trip to the zoo. The idea took hold, and so he called in a number of favors owed him until he was able to contact Newt Scamander, author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Though Newt was retired, he was delighted to hear of Harry’s ambition to study snakes in general, and search for magical varieties in particular and thus helped Harry make many useful introductions. In only a few years, Harry was well-known in magico-herpetological circles, and traveling throughout the world enjoying his new career path.
“Been back in town very long, mate?” asked Draco.
“Just got in a couple of days ago. Brazil was dead brilliant. Loads of different snakes, and some definite leads on that Aztec feathered serpent,” said Harry keenly, brushing a stray hair out of his eyes. He gave the distinct impression that he was having the time of his life. Draco felt faintly annoyed, but wasn’t sure why.
“How’s Ginny?” asked Draco. “I heard she’s doing something with curses? Doesn’t her brother do that, as well?”
“She’s doing well. Our work’s meshed together quite nicely, in fact. The places where there are curses to be studied seem to be precisely the sorts of places that contain all sorts of rare magical creatures. But, no,” continued Harry seriously, “she doesn’t just break curses like Bill. She studies them. Takes them apart, and figures out how to recreate them. She’s good at it too; you should see some of the stuff she can do now,” said Harry with a shiver. “Scary stuff. It makes the Bat Bogey Hex look like a Tickling Charm.” Harry finished the drink he’d brought to Draco’s table.
“Wish I’d known that when I was cleaning out the manor,” said Draco wistfully. “She probably could have saved me a burn or two. Not that it would have been likely under the circumstances of the time. I see she didn’t come today, though. Other plans, or just avoiding your git of a school chum?”
Harry snorted a laugh and said, “She’s taking a few days to visit her family before we head out of the country again.”
“On the road again?” said Draco, with a lifted eyebrow.
“Always,” said Harry leaning back in his seat. “Just busy, busy, busy. How’s the Auror’s life treating you, by the way?”
“It’s been interesting,” said Draco evasively.
Harry knew Draco was winding him up. “I’ll take a drink on your Knut, then, while I hear all about it. But maybe something a bit stronger than yours, if you don’t mind,” he said with a grin, taking in Draco’s butterbeer. “Since when do you drink the kid stuff?”
“It’s a long story,” said Draco with a sigh and launched into his account of the past few days.
Harry settled in to hear Draco’s story; Auror’s work was interesting even if he no longer wanted to do it himself. Listening, he was glad to know that Hermione was doing well in the Ministry; he rarely heard from her these days.
As Draco launched properly into his adventures, polite interest in catching up with an old friend was rapidly turning into a growing incredulity. Harry found himself speechless as Draco finished his story, except to repeat his earlier request.
“I’ll take that drink now, mate,” said Harry quietly.
While Draco went to the bar to get a refill for his friend, Harry tried to reintegrate all the characters reemerging from a story he thought finished from a life left behind. Shaking his head, he thought that, however overwhelmed he himself felt, it was nothing compared to how Draco must feel. All that, and not even able to console himself with a glass of firewhiskey, he thought pityingly.
Bringing Harry’s drink, Draco sat back down. “So . . . any ideas?” he asked.
“I think you should retire and take up antiques-dealing,” said Harry gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I retired from the whole saving-the-world bit and it did me no end of good. Instead of the Boy Who Lived, I am now the Prat Mucking About in Dangerously Unstable Ruins Who’s Going to Get His Head Split Open . . . Again,” he added as an afterthought. “Seriously, though, nobody recognizes me anymore. It’s quite a nice change of pace. You might consider it.”
“I had meant, what am I to do about this whole . . . thing . . . with Granger?” said Draco coolly, irritated with Harry’s lack of urgency.
“Perhaps you should retire, really,” said Harry, ignoring Draco and warming to the subject. “Obviously, you’re quite tense in your current job. Look at you, you look like a fashionable undertaker,” he remarked, noting that Draco was dressed head-to-toe in black, even on his day off. “And I doubt you’ve worn short sleeves since fifth year. You should get that Mark removed, you know; it makes you all sullen and melodramatic. Then move someplace sunny. Hermione told me once that the south of France was nice, although Paris seems more the place to indulge in drama,” he added cheerily.
“So you think I should tell the Ministry to get stuffed and go to France and get a tan?”
“In a nutshell.”
“You know you’re talking complete drivel, don’t you? How is this so-called advice on fashion and real estate supposed to help?”
Out of the blue, Harry said, “Do you call her ‘Hermione’?”
“What?” said Draco, taken aback by the change of topic.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t, do you? You live with the woman, you’re probably tied to her for the rest of your life, and you’re calling her ‘Granger’, the same as when you still pulled her pigtails.”
“I never did that!” said Draco indignantly.
“Not literally, of course.” He rolled his eyes as Draco made a face at him. “You know what I mean. You actually sound like you’re having a fairly good time, despite the vomiting and forced togetherness. Or maybe even because of it. You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me,” said Draco sardonically.
“You’re happy.”
“Happy?”
“Yes,” said Harry simply.
Draco could think of nothing to say to this revelation. Instead, he watched Harry sip his drink with not a little envy. The moment stretched in silence.
In frustration, Draco finally asked, “So how did you figure that one out? Shouldn’t I know if I’m happy or not?”
“For a start, you wouldn’t ask me about it if it wasn’t something you thought was important,” began Harry patiently. “Second, the way you keep going on about the situation means you either love it or hate it. Third, I ran into Esmeralda last night after you’d left, (you know how Ginny likes to hit the clubs after being out in the sticks for so long) and she had a few words to say about your new associate.”
“Did she?” said Draco evenly.
“She said you flamed Nik in front of the whole club because he tried to make off with Hermione.”
“The undead are such busybodies,” said Draco with a careless air. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have?”
“No. I probably would and damn the consequences. But we’re talking about you, not me. Aren’t you usually a bit more subtle than that? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a white knight,” said Harry in an amused voice. “Ah . . . the softer side of Draco Malfoy, swooping in to save a damsel in distress.”
For a response, Draco made a face at him.
Then, very quietly, in a sing-song voice, “Draco’s got a girlfriend, Draco’s got a girlfriend . . .”
Draco rolled his eyes at Harry’s juvenile ribbing.
A little too casually, Harry asked, “When is Hermione supposed to be coming back?”
“Dunno, she didn’t say,” replied Draco absently, still chewing on the idea that his life was now supposed to ‘happier’ rather than more complicated.
“I should probably get going, then, before she gets back,” he said with a trace of agitation. As he threw back the rest of his firewhiskey in preparation to making his getaway, he heard her voice calling to Draco. Harry swore under his breath.
“I found this really neat striped quill -- ” she began, but then stopped. Hermione stared at the unkempt man she had dismissed earlier. The light of recognition dawned, but darkly. “You . . .!” she growled menacingly.
“Ah, Hermione,” said Harry with a brave attempt at joviality, “long time, no see.”
Draco looked back and forth between them in confusion. Weren’t Harry and Hermione best friends? Hermione was glaring at Harry as if she could make him vaporize on the spot. In turn, Harry seemed as if he wished that she could, just so he could get the hell out of there.
Hermione rounded on Draco. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded accusingly. Before Draco could stutter an answer, her wrath was directed back to Harry. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just having a drink at my favorite establishment in Diagon Alley,” said Harry, attempting to sound innocent, “and ran into my old school mate. He mentioned that you two were joining forces at the Ministry, which sounds very interesting. Why don’t I get you a drink and you can tell me about it?” He made another stab at a winning smile.
Hermione narrowed her eyes in dislike. Draco was simply bewildered by the exchange. Though he knew Harry well, there was obviously a detail that he had neglected to mention.
“Come on, then,” Harry cajoled, “why don’t we talk about it like adults instead of shouting like children?”
“Very well, then,” she said coolly, sliding into the seat next to Draco. As Harry went to get her drink, she turned back to Draco. “Your ‘old school mate’?” she asked him, in a voice that would cut diamonds.
“He and I became mates during Auror training,” Draco countered dismissively. Then, taking an offensive tactic, he said, “I thought you and he were supposed to be best friends?”
“That was a long time ago,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “Things . . . changed . . . since then.”
Before Draco could probe further, Harry returned with Hermione’s drink and a refill for himself.
“There you are, Hermione,” said Harry brightly, pushing a glass of bright green, slightly smoking liquid in front of her.
“What’s this?” she said suspiciously.
“Oh, um, Tom said this was quite refreshing after a day’s shopping,” said Harry, even more gratingly cheerful. “Quite a popular little quencher.”
Draco caught Harry’s eye and raised his eyebrows. Harry gave the tiniest shake of his head in return.
Hermione elected to take the tiniest sip of the green liquid. She was pleasantly surprised at the light flavor, like the fragrance of fresh flowers condensed into liquid, with a hint of spice. She took a larger swallow.
“So what are you doing here?” repeated Hermione, relaxing back into her seat and eyeing Harry over the rim of her glass.
“I am here at the request of our mutual friend,” he said, raising his glass toward Draco in a small salute. “Are you quite well? I understand you’ve had an interesting week.”
“Interesting?” she repeated in disbelief. “Bloody hell, this has been the worst sodding week of my life! I’ve been blown up, menaced by the local wildlife, and pawed by the undead!”
Draco winced at the tirade. Harry made sympathetic noises, and gestured that she should continue.
“I mean,” she said, taking another swallow, “How should I feel about this? About the only bright spot in the whole mess in that Draco hasn’t been a prat about it. Have you been to his flat, by the way? Huge. Lovely furniture,” she gestured expansively. Squinting at him, a thought occurred to her. “Of course you have been, haven’t you? That’s what Draco meant about having help with Trippy; you’re the only living Parselmouth.”
“Quite right,” nodded Harry, primly sipping his firewhiskey. “And you’re teaching him to write? How’s that going?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose, considering he hasn’t got thumbs to hold the quill. Hey,” she said, tilting her head, “can Parseltongue be taught?”
Harry shrugged, then made a series of hisses in an almost musical rhythm. Hermione tried to copy him, but succeeded only in producing a noise like a raspberry made by a person with a harelip.
“How was that?” she asked.
“I’m sorry to hear that you have a frog in the bidet,” said Harry, suppressing a grin. “So, I guess the answer is that if Parseltongue can be taught, it’s only with great difficulty. Never mind, Trippy will be fine if he can just pen a word or two if he needs one.”
Hermione considered this and gazed at the faint swirls of mist rising from her glass. “This conversation notwithstanding, I’m still not speaking to you.” She regarded him levelly.
“I didn’t think you would,” he agreed gently.
“You’re a complete scruff.”
“Yes.”
Tears stood glittering in her eyes. “I loved him, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” His sadness was genuine.
Harry’s mind flicked back to the day, that day, when their worlds crashed around them. He always knew that his friends would stick by him, right to the end. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Neville; they were all guarding his back so he could do the job he was born to do. He had hoped no one would get hurt; he’d even tried to drive them away so Voldemort wouldn’t find them, so he couldn’t contaminate them the danger he always drew towards himself. During that last battle, he hadn’t held much hope for his own chances. It was going badly, but it couldn’t be a draw. Then the knight sacrificed himself, put the king in check. He had to make the checkmate; there wasn’t time, there wasn’t a choice. He always made sure he was out of the country on the anniversary of his so-called victory.
“I’ll be right back,” she sniffed, and rushed towards the ladies room.
Draco watched her go, then reached across the table and punched Harry hard in the shoulder.
“Ow! What was that for?” said Harry, rubbing his shoulder and gingerly checking to make sure it still worked.
“For giving her
snakebite and making it sound like all the little old ladies drink it after they finish buying cat food!” hissed Draco. “What were you thinking?!”
“Oh, calm down,” said Harry, “It was a very little one; I bet you’ve gotten a better buzz from a strong cup of tea. From what you told me about your bond, you’d know if I’d given her something wacky enough to get her sozzled.”
Draco grudgingly conceded the point.
“Besides, it kept her from hitting me, but I hadn’t counted on you getting a lick in.” He gave Draco a wounded look. “However, it does prove me right on both points. She likes you,” he grinned, “and you definitely like her.” He looked at Draco in syllogistic triumph.
“How can you say that?” erupted Draco. “All right, I admit that I’ve been ‘coming to her rescue’,” he said, making quotes in the air, “but that is merely the duty of a gentleman.” Continuing over Harry’s snort of laughter, he said in a dignified manner, “But the best she’s said about me is that I’m ‘not a prat’. Not a great deal of encouragement,” he finished wryly.
“How can you say that?” said Harry. “She’s practically cuddled right up to you. Likes your flat. Figured out how to keep you both from chundering all over the Ministry. Even made friends with Trippy. A girl with spirit like that is what you want.” He was briefly lost in reverie about another spirited red-haired girl, then realized Draco was speaking. “Hrmm?”
“I said, if you could wrench your mind from your trousers for a moment, ‘what’s between you now?’ I thought you were best friends in school --”
“Ah. Ancient history. You remember that heroic final battle the Ministry keeps bleating about?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, the books don’t mention it, but I lost two friends that day, not one.”
“I see,” said Draco seriously. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter. Every time she sees me alive, it reminds her that he’s not. It’s hard. I miss him, too. I wish I didn’t have to miss her, as well.” He stared into the remains of his firewhiskey as if the answer might be hidden in its amber depths. “But now I’ve gone all maudlin on you. I should probably get on,” he said, standing up. “And I stand by my original advice, on, as you say, ‘fashion and real estate’.”
Draco stood with him and clasped his hands in farewell. “Take care, mate. Give my best to Ginny.”
“I will. Take care of Hermione for me, won’t you, mate?”
Draco was going to say, ‘I’ll try’, but at the solemn look on Harry’s face he said, “I will.” He was surprised to find he meant it.
* * *
Draco watched her as she read, curled up in her favorite chair, her brow softly furrowed in concentration. The flickering firelight danced in her curls, making it seem as if she was lit by stars from within, which, upon reflection, Draco decided she probably was.
The afternoon had passed uneventfully. Hermione complained that she had a headache again, for which Draco brought her an analgesic potion. She was annoyed that she was still having headaches and that Draco seemed to have been exempted from them.
The shadows stretched into evening. Draco opened a book but wasn’t able to concentrate enough to take in a single word. Instead, he mulled over what Harry had told him. Fashion and real estate, he thought. It wasn’t like he needed the salary. Being an Auror was just something he decided to do while he figured out what to do next with his life. Well, he thought, maybe this is the next thing. Maybe if he worked out the fashion and real estate problems, the rest would fall into place.
He gathered his courage and cleared his throat. Hermione looked up in question. Draco realized he hadn’t the faintest idea of how he was supposed to whisk her away. He began to improvise.
“I was planning to leave for a holiday before all this happened. To France. Check out the beach, you know. Museums. Vineyards.” Damn. He groped for an explanation. Real estate. “Perhaps look for a cottage while I’m there. A chateau or something. Someplace to putter about in on the long weekends.”
Stop babbling. Harry said she likes you.
Inwardly he snorted at the blatant excuses. Until now, he’d never missed a day of work at the Ministry and was there for an hour or two most weekends, as well. Come to think of it, he hadn’t spent so much time at his flat before, either. A first time for everything, he supposed.
“That sounds lovely,” she said politely.
Damn, damn, damn. Shouldn’t she be a bit more excited than this? Shit. “I mean, I’d be honored if you’d come with me. Allow me to escort you. To France. Or someplace else, if you’d rather.”
Damn it, stop babbling! He tried to smile, but had lost control of his facial muscles, so he merely hoped that the expression on his face was at least something mammalian; feline or something reasonably assertive would do, but he feared he may have slipped into the piscine.
“I went there once for summer holidays. France will be fine.” She smiled warmly at him.
Draco felt giddy, like someone who was supposed to be thrown off a cliff finding that he was merely being pushed onto an invisible bridge. The only thing he now had to worry about was slipping off before reaching the other side. With this unencouraging image in mind, he plunged onward over the abyss, trying not to look down, or to think too much about it.
“Ah. Beaches. Yes, um, one usually wants to skip the jumper, and wear something a bit more casual. Shirt sleeves, for instance.” He took a deep breath, hoping that she didn’t think he sounded as lame as he thought he did. “I know you work with all sorts of odd charms and things . . . I wondered if . . . if you could help me with a . . . blemish.”
He hated the way his voice faltered. He knelt beside her chair, unbuttoning his cuff. Finally he looked into her eyes, dark eyes filled with concern. Sliding back his sleeve, he revealed his Dark Mark.
“I don’t want it anymore.”
Hermione’s breath caught. She’d heard but didn’t believe it; and now the evidence was here in front of her. She cradled his arm in her hands and traced the pale curving lines on his skin, painted as if by Death’s own brush. He shivered under her touch.
“Can you remove it?”
Her gaze returned to his eyes, eyes the color of slate mixed with a storm at sea. Eyes that anxiously waited for her answer. How could he think she would refuse?
“Of course.”
The moment was punctured by an outbreak of insistent hissing. With a sigh, she let go of Draco’s arm to see what the runespoor wanted. Triplicity’s heads motioned urgently towards the lap desk on the floor that Hermione had bought for his use.
In a painful scrawl, he had written:
DANJR
Hermione blinked. She had only been working with him a few hours in total, and hadn’t gotten to proper words, just letters and sounds. Despite the misspelling, it was quite obvious that he thought she was in danger.
“What’s the matter?” she asked kindly. “What’s dangerous?”
Triplicity took up the quill again. With a few sweeping strokes and a few more dots and slashes, he had drawn, albeit impressionistically, the Dark Mark.
Hermione frowned. “But it’s just a scar, now, isn’t it? How can it be dangerous? Vol--Voldemort is gone; shouldn’t his Mark be dead as well?”
Triplicity shook his many heads, and tapped his earlier message impatiently. Seizing the quill again, he scratched a few more letters. Draco looked on in amazement. Clearly, he had underestimated Trippy.
DRA MOR HER
“Huh?” said Draco in consternation. Hermione looked at the letters thoughtfully.
Triplicity was beginning to think he had overestimated this rather thick pair of humans. His many eyes flicked back and forth between them, as they puzzled over his message. He tapped his quill irritably on the floor.
“It’s like bits of our names,” said Draco, “or maybe instructions of some sort.” Addressing the runespoor, he said, “You think I should ‘dramor’ her? Is that a snake thing?”
The left-most head bared its fangs in impatience while the other heads shook vigorously.
Clapping her hands together, she said, “No, no, you’re on the wrong track altogether. Trippy knows letters, not words. This is phonetic!”
Triplicity nodded vigorously.
“Ok, then . . . dray,” she guessed.
Shake.
“Draw.”
Nod.
“More.”
Nod.
“Her.”
Shake.
“Hair.”
Meaningful glare. Shake.
“Here?”
Nod.
“Draw more here?”
Nod.
“More what?” frowned Draco.
Triplicity again stabbed his quill at the drawing of the skull and snake he had made.
“He wants us to draw pictures with him?” said Draco.
Triplicity flicked his quill away in disgust, and wished fervently that he had limbs just so he could convey the depths of his feelings with a V-sign.
Hermione thought that the runespoor had a point. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, but Draco had seemed a bit distracted when he’d simultaneously decided to reveal, and ask her to remove, the fabled Mark. That, and he seemed to have trouble remembering how to construct a sentence. Odd. Usually Draco was so focused, so intense. It’s what made him a good Auror. Potter seemed very odd today; maybe he was rubbing off on Draco.
There was something tugging at her memory, something to do with Draco’s odd behavior, but she couldn’t immediately place it. Maybe it was something from her other life; those bits of her memory were usually kept on a very short leash and kenneled again as quickly as possible.
Suddenly a nugget of information about Protean charms surfaced in her mind, and she realized why Trippy was so agitated. “Draw more here,” repeated Hermione softly. “I suppose he must have spent a great deal of time with a very skilled wizard to know about Protean charms. Didn’t you, Trippy? Before Draco found you in a Death Eater’s house, you used to live with Voldemort.”
Triplicity nodded.
“The Dark Mark is a Protean charm, right? Or at least a variation on one.” She stood up and began to pace. “A series of Protean charms are connected like strands in a spider’s web. When one strand is touched, it reverberates throughout the whole web. It’s a bit different because the primary Mark was destroyed with Voldemort. But removing your Mark is still going to make one hell of a vibration in the web.” She stopped pacing to look Draco in the eye. “Removing your Mark is going to bring every living Death Eater down right on top of us.”
A/N: These are the chapters formerly known as 11, 12, and 13. We're getting closer to the end now.
Did you like Harry's makeover? I always thought he ought to have a happy ending after all he's put up with. :)
Damn Potter by 3secondfish
The great hairy monster growled again, baring sharp yellow canines. Smell of brimstone. Its face was a cross-hatched mask of blood and fire. Green eyes lit by a hellish phosphorescence glowed malevolently in the dim light. He had fallen, was at the creature’s mercy. It leaped upon him with a roar of triumph. Can’t breathe. Glimpse of claws like a handful of razors, upraised.
The beast batted his cheek again, and miaowed impatiently. Morning sifted greyly into the room. Percolating through Draco’s sleep-sodden brain was the realization that Crookshanks was demanding an audience.
With puffy-eyed dignity, he said, “May I help you?” Then, feeling squashed, he groaned, “Oy, Crooks, shift over, I’m going to need that lung you’re sitting on.”
Crookshanks obligingly hopped from Draco’s chest to the bed proper. Freed of the cat’s weight, Draco hauled himself up in bed, propping his back with the pillow. The orange cat stalked toward the head of the bed where Draco’s left arm lay. There he placed his paw, claws unsheathed, held lightly, meaningfully, atop the Mark. He asked the question with his slitted green eyes.
Draco sighed inwardly. It seemed the entire menagerie had something to say lately.
“I suppose you’d like to talk about that.”
Slight increase in pressure.
“You know why I have that Mark?”
Brief pricking of the skin as invitation to continue.
“Your dear mistress says its removal going to cause a big commotion. I probably could’ve had someone help me with it as soon as Voldemort fell; that would have been best. So much chaos there was then; no would have noticed.” He smiled sardonically. “It has its advantages, though. It’s been a passkey to many circles; circles within circles. Lucius Malfoy’s son, the Death Eater, sauntering past where other Aurors fear to tread,” he sneered, with the smallest curl of a lip.
Faint growl. More pressure.
“Everyone’s entitled to one bad decision, Crooks.” Grey eyes locked with green, defiant. “You want to know why I still carry this Mark? For remembrance. So that I, everyday, can remember what this Mark costs. So that, everyday, I’m reminded to make restitution for this Mark,” he said in a hard voice, eyes blazing. “But I can’t, can I? I do what I can but it can never be enough.” Draco dropped his gaze. “I’m tired of being Lucius Malfoy’s son; I just want to be ‘Draco’.”
Crookshanks sheathed his claws and gently tapped the Dark Mark, his mew insistent.
He looked back at Crookshanks, hoping he understood the cat’s meaning. “‘Why should you trust me?’ I rather hope,” he said wearily, “that you simply trust the evidence of your own eyes. Under my roof, and under my care, your dear mistress has come to no harm whatsoever.”
An attitude of skepticism was conveyed by the angle of Crookshanks’ gaze.
“May I remind you that she was also pointing a wand at me?” replied Draco in annoyance. “Alright, apart from that isolated incident, she has been as safe as I could keep her. I’ve realized, however, that it’s not safe enough. Not for my peace of mind, and clearly not for yours either. You remember Potter, don’t you?”
Crookshanks blinked in assent.
“I met up with him the other day to ask his opinion on our whole . . . situation. And do know what he told me?”
Crook of a feline eyebrow.
“Well, he told me to retire. Told me I was overwrought and overdramatic, and I’ve decided he’s right.” Noting the look of amusement on Crookshanks’ face, he emphasized, “About retirement.”
Slightly nettled by the interruption, he continued, “I’ve got to keep her safe, and to do that I’ve got to get rid of this Mark. Except to get rid of it, I’ve got to put her in more danger than ever. Ironic, isn’t it? I can keep it and maybe she’ll stay safe, but maybe not. Or I get rid of it, putting her in certain danger; but then when it’s over, it’s over. We’ll be free.”
Crookshanks appeared to consider this, then come to a decision. He lay down beside Draco, well within petting range. He didn’t purr exactly, but produced more of an indistinct grumble, as if to say he didn’t like Draco’s chosen course of action, but liked the alternatives even less. Draco took it for a truce between them, and scratched Crookshanks behind the ears.
* * *
Hermione was lying in her borrowed bed, in the room across the hall from Draco’s. She heard his voice and decided it was time to get up.
Draco’s door was ajar. She heard him talking with someone, but couldn’t imagine who it could be. Curious, but still muzzy from sleep, she stumbled into the hallway to peer through the small crack into Draco’s bedroom. There she saw Draco, sitting up in bed, arguing with her cat. Arguing with her cat? She checked again. It must have ended amicably because Crookshanks was asking to be petted.
Hermione padded to the kitchen to make some tea, so she could wake herself properly. While it steeped, she curled up in her favorite reading chair, tucking her chilly feet up beneath her dressing gown, and considered the view framed in the large bay window of Draco’s flat.
The grey morning showed a skyline of misty smudges. The scene reminded her of an ink drawing that had been dropped in a rain puddle, an image that suited her mood. Of late, she had grown weary of the routine that had been her life.
Damn, Harry, she thought, damn him for showing up now and stirring up the unpleasant dregs of what she liked to think of as her old life.
Actually, she preferred not to think of that life at all. Not even to be reminded that it existed. She kept to her own office at work. She crossed the street rather than pass that Wizard Wheezes shop. Keeping company with Harry was impossible. The whole world was infested with red-haired Weasleys; couldn’t they leave her alone? Couldn’t they let her forget?
Ron. Sometimes, before she had woken properly, she would still turn over to wrap an arm around him. She hated those mornings. They were filled with tears and empty beds.
So, she worked. Though she knew that reviewing experimental charms was important work, one that she found rewarding in its challenge, she had been pursuing more than was strictly necessary. Truth be known, she was probably pursuing it more than two people put together, holed up in her office, peering at wires coiling themselves into springs. She cringed inwardly at the mendacity of it. She thought of the other training she had untaken; useful, granted, but still busywork. Many had asked how she could stand to live in the tiny flat she had occupied. If she was honest with herself, she would admit that she rarely stayed in longer than required to shower, change, and return to the Ministry for more busywork.
Hermione thoughts meandered to the trip to France that Draco had proposed. It would be nice to escape for a bit. Maybe they could make a proper long holiday of it, and visit the whole of Europe. Maybe take an entire year to do it. She needed to get out of London for a while. She hoped Draco would be a fun traveling companion.
Draco was still a series of contradictions in her mind. She considered the name for a moment. ‘Malfoy’ was the old prince of Slytherin House; cool, detached, and always ready with a snide comment. Sometimes he still seemed like a taller version of the arrogant school boy she remembered, especially when they were out in public. ‘Draco’ was different. In private, he was almost shy; gentle and deferential to her wishes. Sometimes he forgot himself, though; at those times, he could be almost playful. He had been nothing but a gentleman to her, had taken care of her, since they’d been thrown together like this. She definitely could have done worse. Maybe Esmeralda was right, she thought. He was being . . . sweet. She could think of no other term for it. What an odd word to use in relation to Draco Malfoy. She smiled as she thought about him.
The only thing he’d asked of her was to remove the Dark Mark. The only thing he’d asked at all, actually. Not a difficult thing for her to do, either. No, it was a difficult thing, she amended. Not impossible, just tricky. They’d need to make some plans when he finally got out of bed. They couldn’t do it here, obviously, unplottable flat or not. Maybe someplace out in the countryside with a cottage or a barn or something, and fields so there’d be no hiding places for anyone to use to creep up on them. Draco would need time to recover a bit before they could go home. Home. That sounded nice. Go home and rest, and then pack for France, or wherever. Traveling the world with Draco. With Draco. That sounded nice as well.
Hermione had completely forgotten about the teapot. By the time she remembered it, the tea was cold and bitter. She threw it away and made it afresh.
* * *
Few so-called Death Eaters these days bore the Dark Mark. Many of the real ones, those chosen by the Dark Lord, had killed each other off in the aftermath of the war. Some had even tried to pass themselves off with clever tattoos, trying to gather to themselves some of the power that waiting to be gathered by the strongest of the remainder. Most of those in hoods these days were imposters, hangers-on to anyone flashing a Mark. At least, that’s how he thought of them.
Though he, himself, lacked a Mark, it should have been otherwise. His father was elderly and in poor health; by the time the poor man had recovered the Dark Lord had been defeated. So he, of pure blood, missed his chance. He, one of the few who had not turned out to be a bungler, failed to receive the recognition that he deserved. All the others, with their petty bickering, trying to overawe each other with their little bands of thugs; they sickened him. They didn’t deserve the Marks they bore. No matter. His time would come, and soon.
The slim young man sat up in his armchair, and swung his booted feet off the back of the paunchy individual that he was using as foot rest.
“I distinctly remember telling you to be perfectly still,” he said pleasantly.
The man flinched at the tone of his master’s words. He had learned that when his master spoke in friendly tones was the time when he was apt to be at his most cruel. He cringed in apprehension.
“Stand up. No, stay where you are for the moment,” he said decisively. He got up from the worn satin chair and stood behind it. “You might strike your head falling down again and then you’d be no good to answer my questions. Crucio.”
The wretch thrashed and writhed on the floor like a hooked fish, but made no outcry. He had also learned that his master hated noise. Unfortunately, his master had the patience to teach this lesson over and over, until he could be tortured in perfect silence, except for the muted shuffling noises of his flailing. The master watched in detached interest for a moment, before stopping the spell abruptly.
“Good,” said crisply. “Now that we’ve got the preliminaries taken care of, why don’t you tell me why you could not behave as a proper ottoman, Wormtail?” He slid back into his armchair, and peered over steepled fingers at his groveling manservant.
“Master, my arm . . . itched.” The slim man’s eyes narrowed impatiently. Wormtail hurriedly elaborated, “The Dark Mark, Master. It has been silent since the fall of the Dark Lord. This was not like when he would call us, Master.” He shivered in memory. “It was a tickling, Master Theodore, not a burning.”
The young man looked thoughtfully at Wormtail, who tried to cower even lower under his master’s gaze. He wished he could just get back to being part of the décor. Life as a piece of furniture was far simpler than life as an informant.
“You know what, Wormy? I think you’re finally going to do something useful for me. Someone, somewhere, is tampering with a Dark Mark. You are going to help me find out whom.”
* * *
Hermione gave Draco’s Mark one last experimental tap, observing closely how the spell was woven. She was greatly dissatisfied by what she had discovered.
“This is really complex, Draco.” Complex was an understatement. In addition to the Protean charm, there was a number of booby-traps devised to kill both the bearer of the Mark and the unfortunate wizard who attempted to fiddle with it. “I may have to get some help with this one,” she said with irritation.
Draco rolled his sleeve back down and began to button the cuff. He knew who he ought to suggest, but feared the fury he would unleash if he did. He wracked his brain, but no one else was as qualified as she.
Cautiously, he said, “Ah . . . you know, Ginny Potter is supposed to be quite good at that sort of thing.” He sneaked a sideways glance. There was a slight stiffening in her posture, but she didn’t look like she was about to start yelling.
“Of course.” Her controlled features betrayed no emotion.
“Perhaps we could make a little party of it; invite Harry as well, and serve a few refreshments.” He wasn’t sure if she was buying it, but he continued doggedly. “If we’re expecting trouble anyway, shouldn’t we have a little support behind us? And why not try to have some fun while we’re at it?”
“You are right, of course. Why not?” She tried to smile, but Draco saw there the smallest tremble.
“What’s wrong?”
Hermione tightened her lips, trying to master her expression, but gave no answer.
“Are you worried about seeing them after all this time?” asked Draco, with concern.
Hermione looked down, bit her lip and nodded. He reached out and raised her chin a very little bit. He looked into her eyes, which were starting to fill with tears.
“They miss you, you know.”
A single tear escaped, leaving a shining track on her cheek.
Draco gathered her into his arms, as much to avoid seeing her tears as to comfort her. “It will be okay,” he murmured soothingly, “they love you, it will be okay.”
Despite the fact that she was now sobbing helplessly into his chest, he was a bit shocked at the lines of thought passing through his mind regarding this particular woman, the more for what was omitted rather than that which was included.
He was thinking that he liked how, standing, she fit so neatly with her head just reaching his chin as he held her. He thought about how he liked the softness of her curly brown hair, and how it smelt warm and spicy, like cinnamon. He marveled that he, Draco Malfoy, of all people, had been fortunate enough to come to know this wondrously talented witch, and had not instead been forced to spend the rest of his life shackled to someone like Pansy who positively made him want to retch. Though still shaking with sobs, her shoulders felt more delicate than he had thought they might be, disguised as they were by a mane like that of the Gryffindor lion. The way she clung to his chest made him feel twice as strong as normal, and imbued him with a strange desire to sing ridiculously happy songs about stars and birdies.
As Hermione started to calm down, and dry her eyes, he came to a startling realization. Damn, Potter, he thought. I am happy.
Party Time by 3secondfish
“There’s no need to be so wound up about this,” said Draco helping her to arrange a tray of snacks on an antique wooden side-table at the cottage they’d hired. Hermione immediately started to rearrange them again. Draco let her; it was easier that way.
Hermione continued bustling about the cottage, straightening and rearranging; in a word, fretting. Harry and Ginny were old friends, true; but she feared . . . she didn’t know what she feared. It was too long to leave a friendship hanging like that. There were loads of good memories, but the final bad ones cast a pall over the lot. It was all simpler when they were barricaded away; but now the wall was breached and the memories were streaming over for drinks and light refreshments.
Though Draco was more at his ease, he too was fidgeting. These were his friends after all; real friends, not the cannon fodder he used to keep about him in school.
At least his guests were more enthusiastic. And relaxed.
Harry always jumped at the chance for merry-making, and Ginny was flattered to be asked to perform such an important task. Esmeralda, too, had promised to come, so the time was set at dusk in deference to her. Her senses were far superior to any wizard’s or muggle’s; if there was to be trouble, they would know it as soon as it could be detected.
The sun was setting when Draco heard a knock at the door. Before he could get up to answer it, Harry and Ginny had let themselves in. True to form, from Harry’s satchel could be heard the faint musical clinking of glass bottles.
“Esmeralda not here yet?” asked Harry, peering about the cottage.
Ginny sauntered close behind with her accustomed smoldering air. That is, the air temperature of a room always seemed to increase by a considerable amount when she entered it. For once, Draco seemed curiously unaffected by it, which he put down to the evening’s distractions.
“I’m sure she’ll be here presently,” said Draco, coming to the door to meet them.
“Expecting trouble then?”
“Always. Handing in your notice is never popular among Death Eaters.”
“Nice cottage,” said Ginny, taking in the rustic dwelling. “Take me on a tour?” she asked Draco, raising an elegant eyebrow.
While Draco showed her around, Harry saw himself to the sitting room and found a chair across from a wordless Hermione and unpacked his satchel. One by one, he lined up colorful bottles of varying fumes and fizziness until he had quite a startling collection laid out. He chose a deep magenta one and another full of cheerful bubbles, pouring careful measures with a practiced hand.
“Cheers!” he said with a wink as placed the glass in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“Pink Nimbus. I
did get an ‘Outstanding’ in my Potions NEWT, after all.”
“I doubt that was what Slughorn had in mind,” she replied blandly. She picked up the glass with a faintly shaking hand. “But, then again,” she added, reconsidering, “maybe it was.” Avoiding his eyes, she sipped her drink. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. I’ve got a saving-people thing, remember?”
Draco and Ginny returned from their tour.
“What a lovely little place!” enthused Ginny. “We’ll have to build one, or buy one like it for when we’re in England, Harry.”
Spotting Hermione’s glass, Draco blanched a little. Hastily, he said, “Ah . . . why don’t we get our business done with before we start celebrating?”
“Good idea,” said Ginny briskly. “Now let’s see this dreadful Mark that’s causing so much trouble.”
* * *
“Master, the Mark itches again,” said Wormtail, speaking to the floor. He was serving his usual evening duty as his master’s ottoman.
Theodore leapt up from his chair, delighted. “Excellent! I
had hoped that the evening wouldn’t be a dull one.” He glanced at his manservant. “Get
up, Wormtail,” he said impatiently.
Wormtail raised his body slowly from the contorted crouch which he’d held for the past hour. He didn’t dare raise his eyes, so he watched his master’s boots as they paced a circuit on the hearth rug.
“Excellent,” he repeated, now rubbing his hands in excitement. “Do you think you can find it, Wormy?”
“Y-y-yes, I think so, Master.”
“First
rate. Going to need some
equipment, though. Wormy, go fetch that dementor from the basement, will you? We’ll be needing him.”
“M-master? The d-dementor?”
“Yes, Wormtail, the dementor,” explained Theodore patiently. “Tall chappie in black. Last cell on the left.”
“H-h-how, Master?”
“Just pick up his lead from the hook on the wall,” he said with growing testiness. He made shooing motions. “Honestly, it’s not that difficult.”
“Y-y-yes, M-m-master,” whimpered Wormtail.
He backed out of the room, and then started to make his way toward the dungeons of the Nott family castle, while the sun sank outside. The “basement” was dank and cold, all the colder for housing a dementor. Light from the torch glinted on the wet stone, and the skeletal remains of some of the cells’ occupants.
Wormtail’s steps lagged as he got closer to that deep cell where Master Theodore kept his dementor; even tame ones were unpleasant. He unlocked the door with a rusty key. The dementor had been floating aimlessly about, but at Wormtail’s intrusion it tried to flee and hide in the furthest reaches of its small cell, only to be halted by the narrow chain that tethered it in place.
“Master wants you,” said Wormtail flatly. It shuddered violently, like a squid pinned to a clothesline in a gale. He found the stained metal lead, lifted it from the wall peg, and tugged the reluctant dementor out of its cell.
Dragged behind Wormtail, the once-fearsome dementor sagged like a tattered balloon that had lost most of its helium. Even in its current pathetic state, it gave him the screaming heebie-jeebies. At least, despite his life’s misadventures, he was still alive. He wasn’t sure if dementors even were living things. A thought struck him: If they’re not even alive, what could Master Theodore have done
to it? He shut down that line of inquiry. He didn’t want to know.
Theodore was pacing the sitting room again when Wormtail returned.
“The dementor, Master,” said Wormtail, lowering his eyes and presenting the metal lead.
“Right-o! Let’s be off. Side-along Apparition to the spot,” he said, grasping Wormtail’s forearm with one hand, and wrapping the dementor’s lead around the other. “Wormy, we can’t leave Raggy behind; hold his little hand, will you?” He looked at Wormtail expectantly.
Wormtail didn’t dare disobey, but couldn’t help shuddering as he touched the dementor’s rotted flesh. Less from a wish to be a good servant than a fervent desire to let go of “Raggy’s” arm, he Disapparated.
Gate-Crasher by 3secondfish
For old-time fans: the final chapter is appended to this one. Just scroll down.
“Ow!”
“Don’t be such a baby, Draco. You’re supposed to be a big tough Auror,” teased Ginny.
Easy for her to say, thought Draco. He felt that ‘ow’ was a bit of an understatement. Removing his Dark Mark had felt like white-hot wires were being drawn through his skin.
“That’s it, all done now,” said Ginny, wiping her forehead. “Oh, do stop pouting, Draco.”
“I am not pouting,” said Draco, trying not to do so. Grateful as he was, it hurt. A lot. He studied the now-unmarked skin of his left arm, and then checked his right, as if he couldn’t believe the Dark Mark had finally gone. He peered from one to the other, half-expecting that it might have just slithered away to hide on another part of his body and would turn up at any moment.
“Thanks again for your help, Hermione,” she smiled. “If I ever feel a need to play magical cat’s cradle again, I’ll know who to call.”
Hermione blushed, still unsure of their renewed friendship, and busied herself by examining Draco’s forearm. Realizing what she was doing, she blushed some more, and tried to find something else to do with her hands as casually as she could. Harry had been amusing himself by concocting a great array of foaming drinks while she and Ginny worked. Hastily, she took a glass whose contents were continually throwing up miniature silver fireworks and studied it fiercely.
“Ah, Le Feu Argent. A very festive choice,” nodded Harry. “Would you believe Fleur taught me that one?”
“Really? How interesting,” said Hermione distractedly. She hunted for a neutral topic. “Esmeralda still hasn’t shown up.”
“She’s just being fashionably late. Likes to make an entrance, she does,” said Harry dismissively.
“Harry, could you see if the door’s closed properly?” broke in Ginny. “There seems to be a horrible draft all of sudden.”
The cheerful lights of the cottage were snuffed.
In the flickering firelight, a tall slim man nonchalantly strolled in, followed by his minions. “Sooo sorry I’m late, dears, but I had a terrible time finding the place. Harry, Ginny, Hermione, Draco; it’s been simply ages. Lovely to see you all.”
Theodore Nott smiled at them pleasantly. They stared back at him in shock, completely wrong-footed by the over-casual intrusion.
His eyes took in the rustic surroundings. “This is very quaint, wouldn’t you say, Draco? Wouldn’t think it was your style at all, normally. Oh, but I’ve nearly forgotten to introduce my friends,” he said with a smirk. “This is Wormy, ottoman extraordinaire.” Wormtail cowered at the acknowledgement. “And this is Raggy.” The dementor drifted to a corner and bobbed listlessly.
“Theodore, what are you doing here?” asked Draco icily. He eyed Wormtail and the dementor with dislike. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”
“I thought your owl had just gotten lost,” continued Theodore, ignoring Draco. “And look, you’ve got drinks, and such fancy ones, too!” He chose a frothy one and perched on the arm of a chair.
“I will not ask you again. Get out,” said Draco in a dangerous tone.
“Manners, Draco,” replied Theodore. “My, my, my . . . next time I shall just have to be more punctual. Except, of course, there won’t be a next time,” he added with a wistful sigh.
“Damn straight, there won’t be! Clear off, Theodore!” roared Draco.
Unperturbed, he continued, “No, there won’t be a next time because I’m about to kill you all,” he smiled. With an elegant motion to his cronies, he said, “Ready, Wormy? Raggy? Good. Crucio!”
Draco was ready. He dodged to one side, but a scream told him the curse had struck Ginny. He fired off a spell in return, but it was weak and there was a buzzing of voices like angry bees in his head. The dementor was doing its work, distracting him.
“Stupefy!” yelled Wormtail.
“Proteg--” began Harry, but too late. He slumped to the floor next to Ginny.
“My, your little friends aren’t nearly as much fun as I’d hoped.” Theodore shook his head sadly. “Our Hermione seems rather shy this evening. Not as brash as I remember. Are you alright, darling?” he called sweetly.
Hermione had backed into a wall, horrified. Between the callous cheerfulness of Theodore Nott and the insidious tendrils of cold and rot wafting over from his dementor, she could only look back at him with wide fearful eyes, powerless to move.
Draco stepped toward Theodore, closing the gap between them. With wand upraised, he spoke through gritted teeth. “Leave. Now.”
“I don’t think so,” said Theodore pleasantly. “I understand you have a Dark Mark that you don’t want anymore. I, however, do want it. I’ll have it off you, in fact,” he said, in a chilling voice, “Peel it right off and add it to my little collection of Dark Marks that nobody wanted.”
“Too late for that.” Draco laughed mirthlessly, and pulled back his sleeve revealing . . . nothing.
“Indeed.” His joviality fell away, to be replaced by an expression of utmost loathing. “Wormtail,” he whispered harshly. “I hope you have an excellent explanation of this oversight.”
Wormtail froze. Master Theodore never seemed to have any good moods, only a great variety of bad ones. He had been edging quietly towards the door while his master was distracted, perhaps escape his service. Catching sight of Draco’s unmarked skin, he feared the reprisal that would surely follow.
Suddenly the great oak door of the cottage was flung open, catching Wormtail full in his surprised face. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slithered senselessly, and quite gratefully, to the floor.
Silhouetted in the moonlight, a curvy feminine figure paused, tossed her hair, and struck a dramatic pose. In her husky voice, she said, “I am here.”
Silence.
She waited for the applause that this pronouncement usually elicited. A cricket chirped in the distance. An owl hooted. The moment lengthened. This non-reaction was new to her, and she didn’t care for it. Miffed, she deigned finally to look about to ascertain the source of the non-acknowledgement. Spotting Draco, she sashayed into the room, disregarding the tension in the air, as well as the drawn wands.
“Good evening.” Noticing Theodore, she said, “Are you not going to introduce me to your handsome friend, Draco?” said Esmeralda.
He threw her a brief incredulous look before replying. If she was going to play it cool, he’d be damned if he wasn’t. “Um, yes, of course. Esmeralda, this is Theodore Nott. He was in my year at Hogwarts. Theodore, this is Esmeralda, a friend from work,” he said, wand never wavering.
Theodore hitched his smile back in place. “Charmed, I’m sure, good lady.” He bowed with a flourish, somehow keeping his wand perfectly steady.
Esmeralda waved to Hermione where she stood plastered to the wall. She was slow to respond to this new shock, so her feeble returning wave was made to Esmeralda’s back.
Draco was watching Theodore intently when he felt an overwhelming wave of . . . desire. It caught him off-guard, as he’d never found Theodore particularly attractive before. It also made an odd combination with the dementor-related mind cramps that continued unabated. What the . . .? He shook his head, trying to make sense of the conflict in his head. It was then that he noticed another drama taking place in the room.
Theodore, too, was watching intently, but not Draco. Instead, he stared at Esmeralda, enraptured by her charms as she sauntered toward him. Her dark hair flashed a blood red as the moonlight struck the flowing strands. The green sequins of her closely-fitted gown winked invitingly.
“Theodore,” she purred. As her white arms sinuously encircled his neck, she breathed in his ear, “You look delicious tonight, darlink.”
Theodore gazed into her glittering eyes, and grinned, stunned at his good fortune. Here he’d thought that the evening had gone to waste, all because of Wormtail’s incompetence. And now, miraculously, he had this positively stunning female coiling herself around him. Perhaps he’d not leave empty-handed, after all.
“As do you, my lovely Esmeralda,” he finally replied, a little breathlessly.
“How did you come to find our little party?” she asked with a hint of command, batting her eyelashes.
“Wormy led me the spot,” he said dreamily. “I like to collect Dark Marks. I was hoping to take Draco’s and mount it on my wall with the others.”
“How . . . interesting.” A hint of coolness crept into her voice.
Still giddy, Theodore gestured with his wand. “Draco, do be a good host. Would you like a drink, good lady?”
Esmeralda smiled slowly, revealing pearly pointed teeth. She caressed his flushed cheek. “I thought you vould never ask. Cheers.”
A number of puzzling things stopped spinning and clicked into place at that moment. Though he had never before witnessed a vampiric mesmer before, he realized that this must be why Esmeralda had seemed so overly friendly, and also why Theodore had been so forthright. Esmeralda was hunting; Theodore had unwittingly nominated himself as her prey.
Draco quickly averted his eyes to avoid seeing what he knew must follow. A moment later, he heard the soft thump of the husk of Theodore Nott hitting the floor, and looked up to see Esmeralda dabbing her red lips with a handkerchief.
He was about to ask Esmeralda’s opinion on what to do about Wormtail, when his senses were assaulted by a fierce wave of cold. Theodore’s tame dementor was free.
A/N: Just a reminder - Esmeralda sounds like Dracula in Francis Ford Coppola's
Dracula.
** Final Chapter **
The foul cold of the dementor swept through the cottage, its deadly rattle echoing in the silence. It was free, no longer chained by Theodore Nott’s enchantments, and it was hungry.
The rushing noises in Draco’s head had increased ten-fold. He struggled to stay focused on this new foe, stomach turning, wand shaking. Esmeralda jumped back a step, searching for an opponent she could not see. She hissed, cat-like, baring useless fangs. The creature they faced had no life to drain.
The dementor hovered briefly before choosing its prey. One armed wizard. One undead creature. One tender witch. No contest.
The dementor rushed past Draco in a swirl of black rags. Swooping high, it rubbed its skeletal hands briefly, gleefully, before diving and catching Hermione in its deadly embrace. Together they swayed for a moment, and then sank slowly to the floor with a triumphant howl of wind.
Draco was shocked. Numb. It couldn’t
do this. Not this.
No.
“NOOOOOO!” As he was galvanized into action, his head cleared. He was angry. The past couple of weeks had been both the most miserable and most happy of his life. He was not going to give up the future they portended. Not without a fight.
The dementor raised its head briefly. Draco thought he saw a mocking leer on its motionless face.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” he bellowed, and a huge silver dragon erupted from his slashing wand.
Its head nearly touched the rafters of the cottage. Scales flashing, it threw its head back in a soundless roar, and pawed the floor restlessly. Its nostrils dilated as it caught the scent of prey. With another soundless roar it pounced. Too late the dementor realized its peril. Another silent roar and the silver dragon descended upon it, claws reaching for its rotting quarry. With a shriek like gauze tearing, the dementor was ripped apart.
The patronus trotted back to Draco, obviously pleased with itself. It briefly rubbed its surprisingly solid cheek against its summoner’s face before it dissipated.
Draco was dumbfounded. He had fought dementors before, but his patronus had never been so powerful. The thing was as big as a draft horse this time, and its little show of affection had nearly tipped him over. Not only corporeal, but . . .
corporeal. With an actual body. At least for few moments.
The newly relit lanterns of the cottage threw off the gloom that had oppressed them. The unlikely corpse of the unfortunate dementor looked like a scattering of charred paper shreds that were beginning to crumble in the gentle breeze from the open door. Esmeralda moved to shut it, revealing Wormtail behind it, still unconscious. With a lip curled in disgust, she delicately heaved him outside and barred the door.
Harry and Ginny began to stir.
“Did we win?” asked Harry groggily. “Oi, I guess we did,” he answered himself, spotting the late Theodore Nott.
“I von’t say anything if you von’t,” said Esmeralda with a playful wink. “Perhaps you could take care of this for me? When you haff rested, of course.”
“Sure,” he answered, rubbing the back of his head. It had taken a nasty crack when he’d fallen. “Where’s Wormtail?” He glanced around the room looking for a second corpse.
“I don’t eat
junk food,” she replied contemptuously. “I put him outside. The wolves may haff him. Or perhaps the cats,” she added.
“Are you okay, Gin?” The redhead had sat up and pulled Harry’s arm around her shoulders. He stroked her hair as he hugged her. “Where’s Herm . . . ,” he started to ask.
Esmeralda followed his gaze, finding Draco kneeling beside Hermione’s still form. The soft light glowed on the curls spilled across the floor, and reflected in the unseeing eyes that looked towards the heavens. He held one of her small hands clasped in both of his.
“This is all my fault. I was too slow.” His eyes, storm-cloud grey, regarded hers, windows to the soul that now stood empty. Rain gathered, threatening to fall. “I didn’t keep her safe. She trusted me, and I failed.” Tenderly, he gathered her up from the floor and laid her on the sofa. He couldn’t bear to see her like this, but he could not tear himself away from her.
Crossing the floor, Esmeralda touched his shoulder. “Draco . . .” she began, but he cut her off.
“I’m an
Auror, and I couldn’t fight off one stupid dementor in time! How am I going face Crookshanks? He’s going to kill me! Or scratch my eyes out, or something!”
Esmeralda wondered briefly who Crookshanks was, and why a ‘him’ would scratch Draco’s eyes out. She decided that this was merely blithering on Draco’s part and tried again.
“. . .” said Esmeralda, before she was again cut off.
“I mean, she
trusted me, completely trusted me, and I blew it. Completely bally screwed up,” he ranted. “Look, her heart, her very
soul, was in my hands and I sodding well fucked up!”
Abandoning all attempts at tact, Esmeralda began to squeeze the shoulder on which her delicate hand was resting. Hard.
“Ow! What the . . . can’t you see I’m grieving here?!”
“Draco, she is not gone,” said Esmeralda firmly.
“Of course she is! That dementor Kissed her!” he replied angrily. “That’s what getting Kissed by a dementor means! No soul! Gone!”
“She is not. I see the light of the soul surrounding her, though faintly. I see the thread that connects you still.”
“You what?! What thread?” He was in no mood for metaphysical jokes.
“I saw it when I first saw you together. You are tied by a thread of light.” She traced a line in the air between the two. To her, it was a bright glow; to the others, it was invisible.
“You know,” interjected Harry, “Esmeralda might be describing that bond you developed when you concussed each other. ‘Ere, Ginny,” he said, nudging his wife, “What do you think of this?”
Ginny looked into the distance for a moment before replying. “All right . . . this is pure speculation, mind . . . suppose that your accident worked a bit like a horcrux. It got your soul involved in the damage, but instead of trapping bits of it elsewhere, it created a kind of channel between you both that lets you share certain bits of behaviors.
“Like firewhiskey,” grinned Harry.
“Given what we know about this sort of thing happening to other wizards, this seems reasonable to assume,” said Ginny.
“The real speculative bit is what happened with the dementor. Do you think Hermione could have used the connection to ‘flee’, soul-wise, from the dementor?”
“Possibly. That seems to be what Esmeralda is implying.”
“Ooooh,” said Draco sardonically. “Her soul’s not gone, it’s just hiding.” He made a show of checking his pockets. “Not here.” He moved a sofa cushion. “Not under here, either. So where is it?”
“No need to be short with us, Draco. We’re only trying to help.” Ginny crossed her arms, and gave him a quelling look.
“Right,” growled Draco. “My . . .”
My what? What was he supposed to call this relationship? “My . . . she’s just lying there while you three discuss a spiritual hide-and-seek!” He stood over Hermione as if to defend her against this new outrage.
Can’t they understand this is real,
not a theoretical debate?
“There you go, being all overwrought again,” said Harry. “If you’d been paying attention instead of wringing your hands, you’d realize that you’re missing the important bits, here.”
“And what would those be?” he replied coldly. He liked Harry, but his incessant cheerfulness was grating on him today. Didn’t they understand what had happened?
“First, Hermione is not completely soul-less. Second, you might actually have the thing in your possession. If so, all you have to do is put it back where it belongs. Simple.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Ridiculous.
“You could kiss her,” suggested Harry in jest.
“Very funny.”
“He’s got a very good idea, in fact,” said Ginny seriously. “Like a dementor, but in reverse. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Excuse me?” balked Draco, as un-incredulously as he could manage.
“How romantic,” purred Esmeralda. “The handsome prince vill vake sleeping beauty with a kiss.”
“Go on, then,” urged Harry. “Worth a try. Right, mate?”
“I don’t . . . I . . .” Draco looked at the expressions on his friends’ faces, ranging from earnestness to amusement. As much as he had wanted to kiss Hermione, the circumstances were nothing like he had envisioned them. Particularly, it hadn’t involved an audience. “Do you think you could at least wait outside?”
A babble of excuses broke out, ranging from a need to take out the trash to catching up on astronomy, as his friends left the cottage. Finally, their footsteps died away, and the only sounds of night remained.
The empty cottage was worse, if anything, than his friends’ staring eyes. While he was at it, he closed Hermione’s staring eyes, as well. How to begin? He felt this was not something one could simply jump into. Even if she might not have a soul, it seemed a bit rude to just kiss her without preamble. Perhaps a little small talk was in order.
“Ah . . . I . . . I don’t know where to begin, I’m afraid. Except that I am so sorry. Not just for this.” He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry that I’ve been so blind and so stupid for so long. I’ve been privileged to be so close to you these past weeks, but I never said so to you. For this, I apologize. I wish I could go back in time and take every opportunity to tell you how much you’ve meant to me. Please come back. I love you, Hermione.”
Without much hope, he bent to chastely kiss her lips. Kissing her good-bye, he thought desolately. Since he was expecting nothing, the blast that struck as their lips touched caught him completely by surprise.
* * *
I must be dead. The explosion definitely must have finished me off. Just as well. Life didn’t promise to be any more fun, anyway.
“Draco.”
What a lovely voice. Maybe it’s an angel.
“That must have been a hell of kiss. I think it concussed him again.”
“He vill be fine now. He must only vake up.”
“Draco, wake up.”
How can I wake up if I’m dead? he thought with irritation.
Whoa. Maybe it is
an angel.
He opened his eyes, and was met with a vision of unspeakable beauty. Haloed in soft light, her smile washed over him.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” she said.
“Never,” he breathed. “Never again.”
A/N: Well, that's it. Thank the snooty newbie mod who told me I was ellipsis-happy for it taking so long.
Thanks for reading.
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