The Breaking of Draco Malfoy

By: Akorah

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy flees to France, expecting to find refuge from the Ministry. He didn't expect to have a roommate and he certainly didn't expect to come face-to-face with his disintegrating beliefs about the world beyond magic. Meanwhile, Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts with one objective: break her parents' Memory Charm. Unfortunately, life tends to get in the way.

Status: Completed

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Hermione G., Draco M., Ginny W., Theodore N.

Published: 2018-04-03

Last updated: 2018-07-16

Words count: 75,165

Chapters count: 24

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2018-07-29

1. Chapter 1

Draco

The end of the war felt like stepping out of a shower that had run hot for too long, only to give way to a winter chill before one could grasp a bathrobe. The atmosphere of the Wizarding world went from stifling fear to icy judgment within days, and for a moment, Draco Malfoy was glad to be a footnote on the eighth page of the Daily Prophet.

Unable to claim the Imperius Curse as his defense a second time, Lucius Malfoy had fled Malfoy Manor alongside Narcissa two days before his portrait appeared on page three. A photo of badly damaged Hogwarts appeared on page two while Bellatrix Lestrange and the other deceased Death Eaters were given prime real estate on page one. The Prophet never printed the likeness of the Dark Lord, as if they were afraid doing so would cause him to return for a third round.

Draco chose to stay at the manor for as long as he could. He didn't doubt that as soon as the Ministry was reorganized, his home would be seized and his assets frozen. He knew he needed to make a plan for when that day came, but for the first week of his sudden freedom he sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor with his hands flat on the table and his eyes closed. For seven days, he relived the moments that seemed to define his ascent into adulthood: receiving the Mark under the sickened gazes of his mother and father; watching Professor Burbage hang helplessly like a grotesque chandelier while her fellow teacher watched with disinterest; turning his head as his aunt carved the word Mudblood into his classmate's arm between administering the Cruciatus Curse.

All of those things came back to this room, this table. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the residual magic of the Dark Lord. He could taste the stale air tainted with burned flesh. He could smell the urine and feces of those whose bowels were no match for the Unforgivable Curses. He could hear the unspoken remorse of disillusioned Death Eaters held back for fear of death.

He didn't need to see the room to remember it. As his fingers traced the grain of the carved mahogany, he knew he needed only feel its polished texture or smell its subtle musk to be transported back to those days.

Outside the manor, Lucius's pompous albino peacocks were starving, if not already dead and scattered through the garden. The master of the house had taken the house-elves when he and his wife disappeared, which had led to somewhat of a mild shock for Draco when he awoke to no breakfast and an untidy bedroom for the first time in his eighteen years. He had no appetite for the first few days, so the lack of sustenance didn't bother him as much as the display of his pants on the floor.

He pulled the spare sheets for his bed from a drawer and covered the mirrors in his bathroom, bedroom, and sitting room. There were no mirrors in the library, for which he was grateful. He didn't need to see the final gifts left to him by the Dark Lord; his traitorous fingers ran over them often enough that he knew their shape intimately.

On day four of his newfound loneliness, Draco scavenged through the kitchen cabinets for anything that didn't need to be cooked, baked, or otherwise prepared. He settled for what remained of a loaf of white bread and a jar of what he assumed was marmalade. He hunted next for the flatware, which proved to be in the drawer to the right of the marble sink. As he retrieved a butter knife, he marvelled at the sheer volume of utensils in the drawer. It was such a minor thing, but he'd only ever seen them displayed on the dining table.

By day eight, Draco was running out of clothes and hadn't the faintest idea how to launder his used ones. In a fit of temper after Scourgify failed to satisfactorily cleanse a faded periwinkle button-down, he shouted the name of every house-elf who had followed his father on the run. When all of them failed to answer his call, he shouted once more.

"DOBBY!"

No familiar crack echoed in the air. The free elf refused, like all the others, to return to Malfoy Manor. Draco was still alone. As he turned his stolen wand on the rest of his garments, he tried to block out the feeling of hollowness that seemed to follow him through the house. It was as if every movement he made left an imprint in a space desperate for life. Malfoy Manor had once been the centre of the pure-blood community, a frequent location for society events, and a resting place for dignitaries passing through Britain.

Now it was silent and empty, and Draco felt both of those things all the way to his bones. There was nothing left for him. No words to share with another human being, no passion or drive to keep him pressing forward. The only thing he needed now was to survive.

He risked his first contact with the outside world on the ninth day after the end of the war. An anxious-looking eagle owl rested near the closed window of the drawing room. The owl rustled his wings several times as Draco re-read the letter. With a resigned sigh, the wizard sealed it and attached it to the bird's ankle. "Lancelot, I need you to make sure this gets to Zabini as soon as possible."

Draco opened the window and watched his only chance at freedom disappear over the horizon. Blaise Zabini had never indicated the slightest interest in joining the Dark Lord, choosing instead to remain neutral through the war. He and Draco had never been particularly close, but he was one of few Slytherins Draco trusted and knew would be free of the Ministry's suspicions. If anyone could secure whatever remained of the Malfoy fortune before the Ministry cut off access, it was Zabini.

The Aurors finally arrived on a Friday in early June. Draco was hunting through the guest rooms for anything he might be able to sell when the Intruder Charm alerted him to the unwelcome, though not unexpected, visitors.

After several frustrating minutes, he transfigured a rather packed trunk into a snuffbox, stuffed it in the pocket of his robes, and headed for the drawing room. This would have to do.

As the alarm rang in his ears, Draco considered the table in the centre of the room. He reached for the unfriendly wand in his sleeve—it still refused to acknowledge him as its rightful owner—and weighed it in his hand for a moment. He stepped closer to the beautiful table and ran his fingers over it one last time before closing his eyes and asking the wand for permission for what he was about to do.

His eyes opened in shock as he felt the wand nearly relax in his hand, as if granting the permission he sought. With a steadying breath, Draco raised the wand to the table. "Incendio!" he shouted.

The force of his hatred for every memory, for every moment of the last two years in this house, burst into life in the form of flames as fire devoured the table. The blaze spread rapidly to the carpet, then licked up the bottom of the walls, catching on the ancient wallpaper. Portraits of long-dead Malfoys exclaimed in horror as the fire tore the room apart, but Draco paid them no mind.

With one sleeve over his mouth to prevent breathing in the smoke, he crossed to the other side of the drawing room and pushed through a hidden door. From his correspondence with Zabini, he knew all of the fireplaces in the manor had been disconnected from the Floo Network, and he was sure Rule 1 of the Auror handbook was to secure any hostile area with Anti-Disapparating Jinxes. The Malfoys were, of course, prepared for such a situation. Grabbing his travelling cloak from just inside the door, Draco followed the hidden passage downward until he was travelling underground. After nearly twenty minutes, the passage angled up again and delivered him to the world outside, just beyond the perimeter of the Malfoys' estate.

He took one final glance backward at the place he had always called home and allowed himself a moment of nostalgia for what he was leaving behind. A bitter chuckle rose from his throat. "Happy eighteenth birthday, Draco," he murmured before he patted the snuffbox in his pocket, raised the hood of his cloak over his head, and set off on his own.

2. Chapter 2

Hermione

Two feet of parchment covered in black ink sat on the desk before Hermione Granger, the only external evidence of her internal struggle. She had never been one for keeping a journal even before Ginny Weasley's exceptionally horrific experience six years earlier. Still, the only way to see all of the facts was to have them laid out in plain view, and preferably in tidy, minuscule handwriting.

Hermione pushed the paper away and knotted her hands in her long, uncontrolled hair. Just this morning she had broken another hairband trying to tame the accursed locks, which added another unnecessary layer of frustration to her difficult decisions. She hated every minute she spent trying to decide the next step in her life. Did she go to Australia and recover her parents? Did she go back to Hogwarts? Did she do both, and if so, in what order? Her parents would be disoriented after she lifted the Memory Charm. Could she move them back to England knowing that she would be leaving them alone again in just a couple of months? Should she bring them home and then attend university instead of completing her N.E.W.T.s?

While the last idea kept coming up as she considered her future, she knew that she couldn't live with herself if she abandoned her magical education. She had been blessed beyond measure to be a witch and to be able to attend the best Wizarding school in the world. She and Hogwarts had been through so much together, and like her, Hogwarts would be recovering over the course of the next year. In her core, Hermione knew she needed to be in an environment where rebuilding after the war was tangible. She needed to physically see the bricks move back into place and become whole again. It was the only way she would be able to put herself back together.

Living with the Weasleys and Harry was difficult and left Hermione yearning for escape most days. The Burrow had been badly damaged by Death Eaters, which led to less than ideal living arrangements: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Percy, and Ginny were living with their Aunt Muriel while Bill, Fleur, Ron, Hermione, and Harry lived at Shell Cottage. George disappeared without a word the day after Fred's funeral, leaving the family in panic until Charlie owled three weeks later with the news George had shown up in Romania looking for dragon skin and a place to sleep.

The Ministry had taken quite some time to get itself sorted, but within an hour of Kingsley Shacklebolt's appointment as Minister for Magic, Harry and Ron had been summoned to his office to discuss their expedited Auror training. Meanwhile, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Fleur, and Percy spent their days digging through the wreckage of the Burrow as Mr. Weasley and Bill returned to work. Percy, it seemed, had no designs to return to the Ministry until he felt he had paid back his debt to his family.

Hermione wound her hair into a bun and, taking a page from Luna Lovegood's book, used her wand to anchor it in place. As her hands returned to the parchment on the desk, she felt slightly better, if only because her hair was one less thing she needed to worry about.

The door to the tiny bedroom flew open and an energetic blur of ginger hair and scarlet robes barrelled onto the bed. Ginny waved her wand and the door shut soundly.

"Ginny! You are not seventeen yet!" Hermione admonished. "Do you want to get expelled?"

The younger girl scoffed and splayed her arms dramatically across the bed. "Why do wizards wear robes during the summer?" she lamented, pointedly ignoring the question. "Muggle clothing is so much more comfortable. It's not like I'm naked without the robes, but no, Mum says it's inappropriate for a young woman of age to be seen without them. She's so old-fashioned."

"You're not 'of age' yet, which is exactly my point. What if the Ministry decides to punish you for that bit of magic you just did?"

Ginny turned to glare at Hermione. "You know, you're about as much fun as the gnomes, but at least I can throw them over the hedge." The younger girl sat up and glanced out the window. "Maybe I'll see if Phlegm and Percy would be up for three-aside Quidditch once the boys get home."

As Ginny had done with Hermione's question, Hermione ignored the unflattering nickname for Bill's French wife. "Fleur and Percy play Quidditch?"

Ginny shrugged. "Percy's doing anything he can to stay in our good graces and Phlegm's actually a pretty decent Seeker. Beauxbatons didn't have anything like the Quidditch matches at Hogwarts, but the students played casually anyway. Not that she's any match for me or Harry." The young woman stood from the bed and shrugged off her robes, exposing loose trousers and a linen shirt. "And you're right. I'm not of age, so Mum can have kittens about my clothes later. God, this feels better."

The redhead paused by the door and examined the parchment in front of Hermione. "Are you writing a letter or practicing your essays?"

Hermione flushed and shuffled the paper out of sight. "Neither. I just have a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can help with?"

The older girl considered her friend for a long minute. "I modified my parents' memories last summer before—before everything," she confessed. "They don't know who I am. They don't know anything about the Wizarding world. They think they're the Wilkinses, and they pursued their lives' ambitions eleven months ago by moving to Australia."

The youngest Weasley looked stunned by this revelation. "Hermione, I'm so—"

"I did it for their safety and it worked. Voldemort never found them and I can bring them home now, but I just don't know if I should. I mean, there are still Death Eaters on the loose. And what if I remove the Memory Charm but they're disconcerted? If I leave them alone after two months to go back to Hogwarts, am I abandoning them just when they need me? Or would leaving them under the spell for another year while I finish Hogwarts be the right thing to do? And what if they hate me afterwards? I didn't even let them choose to go into hiding, I just modified their memories and sent them off." Hermione felt close to hyperventilating as her concerns poured out in a wave of emotion.

Ginny dropped to her knees and took Hermione's hands in her own. "I can't tell you what to do, but maybe we can find another solution. Maybe there's something you haven't thought of yet. Although," she looked toward the abandoned quill on the desk, "I imagine you've thought of nearly everything."

"What do I do, Ginny?"

The younger girl stood and dragged Hermione to her feet. "You come downstairs and have lunch. Mum and Phlegm are making sandwiches before we go over to the Burrow. Getting away from this and working with your hands for awhile will help."

The charred scars of aggressive spellwork on the door of the Burrow still sent shivers down Hermione's back when she walked into the once-friendly home. As they walked through the barren living room and into the kitchen, Hermione noticed Mrs. Weasley studiously ignored the clock on the wall. Though the hands no longer pointed to Mortal Peril as they had for nearly a year, the absence of one hand reminded the Weasleys of what the war had cost them. Losing their possessions was something that could be dealt with over time; being without Fred was a waking nightmare.

Hermione and Ginny picked through Ron's room, peeling the Chudley Cannons posters off the walls and tossing the bedclothes out the window to the garden below. The Weasleys had decided to completely gut the house to facilitate making all of the necessary repairs. Mr. Weasley even suggested they might as well make some improvements to it while they had the opportunity.

After an hour and a half, Hermione took a break to walk out to the garden. The door to the twins' room was ajar as she passed and, out of morbid curiosity, she pushed it open to glance inside.

Percy sat on the edge of a narrow bed with a picture frame gripped tightly in his hands. A trunk bolstered with an Extension Charm sat open at his feet, where he had been packing away the twins' things. A few toffee wrappers and order forms still littered the floor, but most of the reminders of Percy's brothers were gone.

Hermione edged into the room and sat on the bed across from the third Weasley son. She wondered for a moment which bed had been Fred's and which had been George's.

Without looking up, Percy handed the picture to Hermione. She recognized the nine members of the Weasley family, all grinning and unscarred. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were beaming at the bundle in Mrs. Weasley's arms. The twins couldn't have been much older than three but were already terrorizing their younger brother by pulling at his hair and ears. Tiny Percy stood with his shoulders back and chin up next to his older brothers. Bill was only a head shorter than Mrs. Weasley while Charlie barely reached his elder brother's nose.

It was odd to see the family together; in fact, in all her years of knowing the Weasleys, the only time she'd seen all of them at once was in a copy of the Daily Prophet when they'd vacationed in Egypt after Mr. Weasley won the newspaper's Grand Prize Galleon Draw. Between Bill living in Egypt, Charlie in Romania, and Percy in London, the Weasleys hadn't all physically come together in five years. Fred's funeral marked the last time it would ever happen.

"I should have seen it coming," Percy said, startling Hermione. He rubbed his forehead with an anxious hand and stared at the floor. "If I'd been just a bit faster or hadn't been so flippant toward Thicknesse, maybe he wouldn't have been distracted. Maybe he would have seen it and ducked in time." Percy put his head in both hands and breathed deeply. "I should have saved him."

Hermione moved over next to the distraught brother and rested the picture on the edge of the trunk. "If only Harry, Ron, and I had found the Horcruxes faster. If only Snape hadn't killed Dumbledore. If only Voldemort had really died when Harry was a baby." Percy looked at her with confusion. She shook her head. "It's not your fault that Fred died, Percy. Just the fact that you came back to fight with him—the fact that you fought alongside him made him so proud. And you continued to fight, and you will continue to fight until every last Death Eater is locked away because that's what Fred died for. He knew the risks and he chose to fight anyway. It's not your fault."

Emotions warred on Percy's face; distress, derision, pride, and grief all battled for his attention until he wrapped his arms around his legs and laid his head face down on his knees. Hermione sat by him awkwardly, unsure if she should comfort him or let him work through his grief alone.

Deciding on the latter, she began to stand from the bed. Percy's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

"Stay," he whispered. "Please."

She sat back down and he rotated to lay on the bed with his head in her lap. Surprised, Hermione cautiously rested one hand on his shoulder and stroked his hair with the other.

Ginny found them an hour later as Percy lay sleeping with Hermione's hand still absently petting his head. She sat down on the other bed and watched her brother breathe evenly.

"This is the first time he hasn't had nightmares," she said in a low voice.

Hermione nodded, fully aware of what that felt like. Her own nightmares were blessedly infrequent, but she wasn't immune. Some nights—some weeks—were worse than others.

"He and I share a room at Muriel's," Ginny said. "Mum and Dad are afraid of leaving him alone for a long time. I think he's taking this—" she gestured around the twins' room, "—almost as hard as George."

"I think you're right," Hermione agreed. She nodded to the picture on the trunk. "I found him holding that when I came in."

Ginny reached for the frame and looked it over with a grim expression. "Hard to believe there was time before Voldemort." She chuckled. "This was taken on Bill's eleventh birthday. Harry had defeated Voldemort a month earlier." Ginny ran a finger over the glass. "God, they look so happy."

Another hour passed as the girls talked without waking Percy, returning to the discussion of what to do about Hermione's parents. She felt no closer to a decision by the time Ron and Harry arrived to help with the clean-up after their training finished for the day.

The boys looked puzzled when they came across the girls and Percy in the twins' room. Ron's face darkened at the sight of his brother asleep on Hermione's lap while Harry just raised an eyebrow and put a hand on Ginny's shoulder, pulling her backward into an awkward hug.

"How's he doing?" Harry asked. From his tone, Hermione gathered that Ginny had told her boyfriend about Percy's nightmares.

"Better, I think," Hermione answered. "I think he's going to be okay."

"Good," Ron said in a distant voice. "Hermione, can I talk to you?"

Hermione ignored the argument she sensed in his words. If he made comforting Percy into an assault on their tenuous, undefined relationship, it would be the last straw. Jealousy in small amounts, even jealousy enhanced by the Horcrux in Slytherin's locket, was understandable. Jealousy of his own grieving brother edged on absurd.

"Later," she said quietly. She shifted her stiff hand on Percy's shoulder. "I'll come find you when he wakes up."

Ron left the room without a word, followed quickly by an apologetic Harry. Ginny returned the photograph to the trunk before she too left with the boys.

When they were once again alone, Hermione considered the sleeping man on her lap. If she needed evidence that war changes people, she didn't have to look further than Percy Weasley. He was more subdued than the pompous prefect she'd met in her first year at Hogwarts; more loyal than the Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic she'd seen briefly at Christmas of her sixth year. Percy had changed more than all of them, and it showed in the exhausted lines on his face.

And still, the war wasn't quite over. Percy still had demons to deal with, both in his head and on the street. She saw the way he watched the horizon whenever they stood outside, as if expecting a rogue Death Eater to attack his family out of the blue sky.

As Percy's forehead wrinkled with the first sign of an oncoming nightmare, she admitted the full truth to herself: the only reason she wanted to bring her parents home now was because she missed them, but if she was honest, it still wasn't safe. It wouldn't be safe for a long time.

"No," Percy croaked in a sleep-riddled voice. "No, you can't!"

Hermione shook his shoulder. "Percy." When he didn't wake, she shook harder. "Percy."

Blue eyes fluttered open as the man left his nightmare behind. "Hermione?" He bolted upright, a flush on his cheeks. "Oh, lord, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—what time is it?" he asked, glancing out the window.

"Nearly five."

He blanched. "I can't believe you let me sleep for three hours. I am so sorry."

"You seemed like you needed it and I didn't mind."

Percy stood and smoothed out his navy robes. "Still, it was rude of me to fall asleep."

Hermione sighed. "Apology accepted." She stood up and placed her hands on his shoulders for a moment before shaking her head and pulling him into a hug. The man was stiff with surprise but reached his arms around her nevertheless. "You're a fighter, you know," she said in his ear. He pulled back and cocked his head to the side. She nodded. "You're going to make it through this. We all are."

With that, she left to go downstairs, where the rest of the family was gathering to head to Muriel's for an early supper. She slipped her hand into Ron's and rested her head on his shoulder. "How was training?"

She felt the tension go out of his body as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. "It was fine. Ginny told us about your issue with your parents. Have you decided anything?"

Hermione looked at Ginny, who had the grace to look slightly abashed at revealing their private discussion. Harry, on the other hand, looked genuinely concerned.

"I did. Since they haven't caught all of the Death Eaters yet and the Ministry is still getting back on its feet and since I'm going back to Hogwarts, I'm going to wait until next summer. I can't bring them home just to abandon them. Who knows what kind of residual effects the Memory Charm will have?"

Harry caught Hermione's other hand and squeezed it for a quick moment. "I think that's the right decision."

She squeezed back before letting go. "Thank you."

3. Chapter 3

Draco

Hidden four miles from the nearest Muggle town, an ivy-covered cottage sat at the bottom of a low hill in the French countryside. Thick hedges and two ceramic gnomes guarded a plethora of rosemary bushes in the front garden. A tall dark-skinned man waited on the path leading to the front door, his arms folded and eyebrows furrowed at the sight of another man marching toward the house with a black cloak billowing in his wake.

Blaise Zabini held out his hand to Draco as the other man came up the pavement. Draco grasped the proffered hand and shook it once before throwing back the hood of his cloak. He pretended not to notice as Zabini's eyes lingered on the left side of his face before turning away.

"Thank you," Draco said as Zabini led him into the house. It was considerably larger on the inside than it looked from the outside, with a wide entry flanked by long hallways that led to numerous bedrooms. Draco walked into the living room and sat gingerly on a Victorian-era loveseat. As hospitable as his friend was being, he didn't feel it was right to completely relax under the circumstances.

Zabini poured a dark liquid into two tumblers and handed one to Draco. The blond man sniffed and the biting scent of Firewhisky greeted his nose. With a grimace, he took a drink, paused, then downed the entire glass. He rested the empty tumbler on the fingertips of his left hand and stared at how the light refracted through the cut crystal. He didn't want to make eye contact with his former classmate. After weeks of wishing for company, he suddenly didn't want to speak or listen. It was enough to be in the same room as another human being, but in a way, it was almost too much.

He felt the glass being tugged from his hands but he didn't look up until Zabini returned a significantly fuller tumbler. "Thank you," he murmured again.

"Still nothing from your parents?" Zabini asked. His voice was calm, rhythmic. Draco felt his nerves settle with the sound in spite of the subject matter.

"Nothing. I don't expect I'll hear from them again."

"Your parents care for you, otherwise they would have taken all of their gold from Gringotts rather than half."

Draco shook his head. "I chose to stay behind. My father was furious that he couldn't compel me to go on the run with them." He took a sip of the alcohol. "I'm surprised he left me anything at all. I suspect my mother had something to do with that."

Zabini was silent for awhile as they drank. Pouring himself a second glass of Firewhisky, the man spoke again. "How long are you planning to stay here?"

"How long will you let me?"

The tall man shrugged and returned to his high-backed armchair. "Doesn't really matter to me. The house is glamoured against Muggles and I've started spreading the rumour that it was destroyed during the war. My mother is living with her latest husband, so you and Theo should have the run of the place once I'm back at Hogwarts."

At the mention of Theodore Nott and Hogwarts, Draco snapped to attention. "Theo? Hogwarts? What are you talking about?"

"You do realize we never had an opportunity to take our N.E.W.T.s, right? I for one have no intention of letting seven years of schooling go to waste because of your war."

Draco flinched at the word "your", as if he had been personally responsible for the events of the last year. In a way, he felt he was. If only there'd been some way to prevent Dumbledore's death, maybe the war could have been stopped. At the very least, maybe the Malfoys could have found their way out before they were directly subjected to the Dark Lord's cruelties.

He scoffed at himself and cleared the thoughts from his mind. His father would never have abandoned the Dark Lord had Dumbledore lived. He would have remained in loyal service to the powerful wizard, vainly hoping to regain favour. Such was the mentality of Lucius Malfoy, the deluded, eternal optimist.

"Why couldn't you just arrange your exams with the Ministry?" Draco asked, turning his thoughts back to Zabini. "I'm sure they'll set up something for the students who attended last year."

Zabini examined him for a moment before bursting into uncharacteristic laughter. "You think so? Because I don't think anything the Carrows taught will be in the exams. Potions? I can pass that in my sleep; in fact, Slughorn owled me about a week ago and suggested I assist him with the younger students rather than take an eighth year. However, if I have any chance of passing Defence Against the Dark Arts, I need a year—just one godforsaken year—of competent teaching."

Draco mulled over his friend's words before grunting a grudging acknowledgement of their logic. Few seventh-year Slytherins would be welcomed back to the halls of Hogwarts with anything short of a closed fist, but Zabini had remained impartial during the war. He even went so far as to distance himself from the Carrows and the rest of the Slytherins during their Dark Arts classes. Though the students would probably treat Zabini as an outcast, the professors would treat him with a hint of respect.

"And Nott?" Draco asked.

Zabini gestured to the northern hall. "He's been here for a couple of weeks already."

"I never took you for the kind to run a halfway house for hunted wizards."

"I'm counting on the fact that this will all blow over eventually and you'll be a position to grant me a favour should I need it."

The bluntness of the statement didn't surprise Draco. Zabini was a pure-blood and a Slytherin; favours were the ultimate currency in the game of self-preservation.

The wanted man nodded. "I intend to be in such a position soon enough."

Zabini ignored the empty words. Both of them knew it could be years before Draco regained status in the Wizarding world, and that was if the Malfoy name wasn't damaged beyond repair. "You'll be taking the room next to Theo. There's a bathroom at the end of the hall." The lanky man stood and motioned to the room behind Draco. "The kitchen is just past that wall. We don't have house-elves here, so you'll be responsible for making your own meals and cleaning your own messes."

Draco stifled a groan. "Okay," was all he said to his host. Internally, he dreaded the idea of living another day without house-elves. Hopefully Nott had some idea how to cook and launder.

"There are two keys to your new Gringotts vault," Zabini continued. "Yours is in the false bottom of this box." He held up a mirrored box spanning about two hand-widths. "I have the other, and I will be keeping it as collateral.

"Ten percent of your remaining fortune ensured that the goblins left no paper trail regarding the transfer of your gold." Draco nearly choked; that was millions of Galleons and Merlin knew what other treasures the goblins deemed fit to confiscate as 'payment'. "The Ministry nor your parents will be able to trace it. As you requested, you will access it under the pseudonym of Fred Weasley," Zabini made a disgusted face, "although why you would choose to associate yourself with blood-traitors is beyond me."

"Would you suspect a former Death Eater of opening an account under the name of Weasley?" Draco retorted.

"Touché, although you should have picked one that was still alive." The derision was clear in Zabini's voice.

Draco bristled at his former classmate's tone. "And risk them getting accidental access to it? I think not." He drank the rest of his Firewhisky. "What about the other bank account?"

Zabini's eyes narrowed. "It's done. You have an account with Credit Suisse Private Banking. The key to that one is also in the box," Zabini said, ignoring him. "The bank services wizards and Muggles. Wizard vaults get gold keys. Muggle vaults get silver. Your bank account is tied to a serial number, not your name. As long as you have your key, there will be no questions asked. I shouldn't have to tell you how important is it not to lose your key. You can deposit wizard gold and withdraw Muggle money." Zabini eyed Draco with uninhibited distaste. "Have you ever even seen Muggle money?"

"It can't be that different from ours."

The other wizard handed Draco the box with a shake of his head. "This is why you were such an easy target for You-Know-Who."

Draco snarled. "Because I've never seen Muggle money? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and I've suffered arguments with that camera-toting Mud—Muggle-born that was in love with Potter."

He couldn't bring himself to say the slur as the image of the word flashed through his memory, carved in blood. Pure red blood without a hint of mud.

"No. Because you're naïve, you pompous git." Zabini nodded to the mirror-box. "Open it."

The young Malfoy removed the lid of the box to reveal a handful of Galleons sitting on coloured pieces of paper. He shuffled the gold aside and removed two bundles of crisp papers. "What is this?"

Zabini snatched the banknotes out of Draco's hand. "These," he held up the first bundle, "are British pounds. These," he held up the second bundle, "are French francs. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them before you do anything stupid."

"Why do you assume I'm going to do something stupid?"

"You have yet to prove to me that you're a genius. The fact you're even considering putting yourself into a situation in which you would need Muggle money tells me that you're two Sickles short of a Knut."

Draco ignored the insult. "It's a contingency plan."

"Integrating yourself into the Muggle world? You're bordering on insane. I should Apparate you to St. Mungo's before you become a danger to yourself. Unfortunately, I think we're about two years too late." Zabini tossed the money back into the box and wiped his hands on his robes.

Closing the lid of the box, Draco felt a wave of exhaustion hit and he yawned. "Like I said, it's a contingency plan. Ideally, I won't need it."

"We don't live in an ideal world, Malfoy. If this is your contingency plan, you need to make sure you can follow through."

"I'll take that under advisement." Draco stood and crossed to put his tumbler on the bar. "Where exactly is my room?"

"North hall, third door on the right. Theo's behind the second door, but I think he's currently in the library." Zabini pointed in the other direction. "South hall, second door on the left."

Draco nodded and moved in the direction of his room. "Thank you."

Once alone, Draco set the mirror-box aside and removed the snuffbox from his pocket. Setting it on the ground, he pulled the unruly wand from his sleeve and attempted to untransfigure the snuffbox back to its original form. After four tries, Draco threw the wand on the bed, causing red sparks to fly onto the white bedclothes. He held his breath and prayed the sparks didn't set anything on fire. Carefully, he moved the wand aside to see faint scorch marks but nothing more.

"What am I doing?" he muttered as he sat on the bed. He picked up the wand and turned it round and round in his hands, letting the simple action numb his mind. It was too hard. Fighting was too hard. If he'd remained in Britain and allowed the Aurors to arrest him, he'd be locked up in Azkaban and awaiting trial. It wasn't a necessarily pleasant idea, but at least he'd be safe. He wouldn't be struggling, fighting with a wand that detested him, and handling currency he didn't understand.

But, he reasoned, a trial meant facing the Wizengamot and potentially thousands of counts of Conspiracy to Commit Murder, at least three significant counts of Use of Unforgiveable Curses, and one count of Trafficking Cursed Objects Without a Licence. He was a war criminal; the brand on his left arm proved as much. If he stayed in Britain, he would spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. His best chance at freedom would be becoming a ghost in the halls of Hogwarts and he wasn't ready to die.

He set the wand aside with a modicum of respect before he fell flat against the bed. The whorls in the plaster of the ceiling turned into abstract pictures as he let his mind wander. A steaming cauldron sat next to a tightly wound dragon. A wand shot sparks at the shadow of a robed wizard. A butterfly rested on the nose of a bowing hippogriff.

Draco rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Maybe when he woke up, he would find this was all a dream.

4. Chapter 4

A/N: Apologies for the massive delay. I actually completed this story about a year ago and am apparently rubbish at posting on a regular schedule. I have therefore front-loaded the entire story and will be posting the rest over the next week or so. Now, without further ado...

Hermione

Life had returned to Diagon Alley, though it wasn't as busy as Hermione remembered from her earlier years. People still clustered in groups and spoke in hushed voices; habits formed out of fear didn't break easily. Children were the exception to the rule and Hermione was glad to see a handful of laughing young ones darting through the street in a game of tag. There was hope.

Ginny, moaning and picking at her robes in the summer heat, led Hermione through the crowds as they sought after school supplies. They halted suddenly in front of a shop with a large window and Hermione groaned as her friend gravitated toward the glass in a near-trance.

"It's just a broom," Hermione grumbled.

"They've not been able to develop anything better in five years, Hermione. Do you know how rare that is?"

"By the fact you, Harry, and Ron nearly wet yourselves every time you see one—"

"Hermione Granger! Such inappropriate language might lead me to believe you've been spending far too much time with my brother."

The older witch smiled in spite of herself. "I've not spent that much time with your brother."

"No, you just went traipsing around Britain with him for months on end," Ginny retorted.

The conversation ended there in an abrupt silence. This was the closest they'd come to talking about the war since the day Hermione found Percy with the picture of his family. Hermione felt a twinge of awkwardness at the mention of Ron and their adventure hunting the Horcruxes. To her knowledge, Bill and Fleur were still the only Weasleys who knew he'd abandoned them halfway into their search.

"I wonder if George would buy me one," Ginny said in an attempt to return the conversation to safer territory. The redhead stood on her toes to align her reflection in a way that it looked like she was mounted on the Firebolt. She fell several inches too short for the mirage to work and harrumphed before she stomped toward Flourish and Blotts.

"Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7," Hermione mused to herself as she walked through the familiar shelves. The scent of leather and paper slowly calmed the nerves she didn't realize she'd been feeling. A gentle wave of homesickness swept over her as she longed to return to the Hogwarts library and drown her nightmares in a familiar routine.

She bumped into someone reaching for the shelf at the same time. "Pardon," she mumbled and looked up. Blaise Zabini raised an eyebrow at her before brushing past without a word, as if she hadn't been there at all.

Several minutes later, Hermione spied the young man grabbing, not one, but three copies of their Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook. Did he normally buy so many copies? The books didn't seem like something that would need replacing, unlike the self-destructive Monster Book of Monsters disaster of third year.

After Zabini left the store with his suspiciously large stack of books, Hermione approached the display of black books. The covers glistened as though they were wet, except for an engraved title which read Offensively Defensive. She gingerly picked up a book with bated breath, waiting for some sort of sign that it was something more than just a regular textbook. When it stayed decidedly still and unexciting in her hands, she let out the breath and picked up a second copy for Ginny.

Hermione made to join Ginny at the counter, but a book tucked away on a bottom shelf caught her eye. Like the Defence Against the Dark Arts book, it had a simple black cover, but red lettering on the spine. She pulled the book off the shelf to reveal a front cover depicting a wand appearing and disappearing in casual succession.

Wandless, the spine read.

Without a moment's thought, Hermione added the book to an armload which rivalled Zabini's. At the counter, she passed a few books Ginny's direction and handed an assortment of coins to the clerk. The girls meandered back outdoors, with most of their shopping done. Their final destination was Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, in spite of the fact both owners were absent.

With a huff of impatience, Ginny flicked her wand and the books in her arms disappeared.

Hermione gaped. "Ginny! You can't keep doing that. What if you get in trouble? Where did you send them?"

"I have less than three weeks before I turn seventeen. Do you really think the Improper Use of Magic office is going to bother with someone so close to being an adult? From what Harry said, the Ministry is still in shambles. They won't even realize I've done anything until I'm back at Hogwarts." Ginny's smile turned triumphant as she flicked her wand again and Banished Hermione's books as well. The older girl screeched. "Don't worry; your books are safe at home. Fred and I managed to hide a few things around Ron's room without actually stepping through the door. You should've seen Mum's face when she found our entire spoon collection hidden inside a shoe. She made Ron scour the damn things three times before she let them near the utensil drawer."

They reached Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes before Hermione found the right words to lecture her friend. Part of her wished she had seen Mrs. Weasley's expression at discovering the flatware. The redheaded matriarch was a sight to behold when angry. The other part of her realized that Ginny had been playing with underage magic long before the Ministry fell and had somehow avoided the consequences. As far as Hermione knew, the devious young woman had never even been investigated for her offences.

The store was busy, though there was an immediate feeling of lacking in the atmosphere. A blonde woman in magenta dress robes stood chatting with a dazed-looking customer while two other magenta-clad employees darted in and out of the back, restocking half-empty shelves.

In a cursory glance around the store, Hermione noticed more than the twins were missing. Their line of products dedicated to making light of Voldemort's return had disappeared. No more edible Dark Marks, no more cheeky posters advertising U-No-Poo. Even the line of love potions was gone, which Hermione suspected had to do with Harry letting it slip that Voldemort had been conceived under the effects of such a potion.

"Verity, how are you?" Ginny asked, interrupting the blonde's conversation.

The Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes employee dismissed the enamoured customer and embraced Ginny. Hermione wondered for a moment if the woman was part-Veela as the man kept woefully looking back at his indifferent companion.

"As well as can be expected. I don't know how George plans to keep the store going without him. We're running low on products and he pulled one of our most popular lines—"

"The love potions; yeah, I heard. Are you able to manufacture anything on your own?"

Verity sighed. "The Skiving Snackboxes are simple enough, as are the joke wands and most of the sweets. It's everything else. I'm pretty sure the Duplication and Tracking Parchments use spells of their own creation."

Ginny frowned. "I thought those were restricted items."

"They are, but the Minister for Magic himself ordered our entire supply. It seems the Aurors' Office will be using every available resource to track down the remaining Death Eaters."

Hermione nodded to the back of the store. "The restricted items are back there, right? Do you mind if I take a look?"

The employee looked to Ginny first. The redhead nodded and the three of them disappeared behind the curtain. Verity retrieved the items and gave the girls a brief explanation of both.

"The Duplication Parchments are a pretty effective way of communicating covertly. Whatever you write on one parchment shows up on the other. You'd never have to send an owl to your best mate again if you had a pair of these. George Apparated to New Zealand once to make sure distance wasn't an issue."

"How many of these does Kingsley want?"

Verity shrugged. "He said he wanted all of it. He didn't specify a number, per se. I got the feeling he wanted a lifetime supply."

Hermione nodded, filing that information to puzzle out later. "What about the other?"

Verity laid a single paper on the workbench. Hermione and Ginny leaned over and the former stifled a gasp.

Tiny black dots moved around a faded floorplan that looked curiously like the layout of Diagon Alley. As Hermione peered closer, her suspicions were rewarded as she found a miniscule dot labelled Hermione Granger near two others named Ginevra Weasley and Verity Applebaum.

It was the same charm Harry's father's friends had placed on the Marauder's Map.

"Can I buy a set of these off you? I promise not to tell the Minister." At Verity's doubtful look, Hermione explained. "I think I can figure out the charms. The Duplication Parchment seems to be simple enough. It's probably just a variation on the Protean Charm, but this other one..." She felt a rush of excitement at the challenge that she hadn't felt since figuring out how to charm her Extended beaded bag. "I definitely want to figure this one out."

The de-facto store manager nodded in appreciation. "Alright, but they're pricey. If you manage to figure out the charms, I'll refund you the cost."

Hermione handed over nearly twenty Galleons before she and Ginny walked outside with their purchases and headed for the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry and Ron were already seated at a table, but not wearing the grins Hermione expected to see. She dropped into a chair next to Ron, a feeling of worry in her chest. "What's wrong?"

"You tell her," Ron said. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he'd been yelling.

"The Malfoys are on the run," Harry said tonelessly. Hermione felt her heart drop into her stomach. She'd expected something like that. The Malfoys were cowards, bowing to Voldemort in secret until they were sure they were on the winning side, then running away at the first sign the tides were turning. Hermione still remembered the way Draco Malfoy all but whimpered as he tried to play both sides by not admitting their identities when they were captured at Easter. Even clearer, she remembered his panicked screams when the Fiendfyre raged through the Room of Requirement. Even over the roar of the flames, she heard his fear.

Cowards, the lot of them.

"Any leads?" Ginny asked.

Harry shook his head. "Took the Aurors nearly six hours to get through all of the wards on the Manor. Kingsley ended up calling in a favour with Bill, since he'd been a curse-breaker for so long. Even then they could only get into half of the rooms. Rest of them sealed themselves off. Their Gringotts vault was emptied, though the goblins wouldn't tell us a damn thing about when or where they might have transferred the funds. I can't imagine they're roaming the British countryside with millions of Galleons in a trunk." Harry paused and glanced at Ron, looking unsure about something. He looked back at Hermione and chewed the inside of his lip. "You might—they burned the drawing room."

Hermione just nodded, allowing a numbness to spread over her body at the revelation. So there was some semblance of regret on the Malfoys' part. Good.

"Can we talk about something else?" Ron asked. "We spent the entire day talking about those bastards and I want to think about something else."

Across the table, Ginny launched into a lamentation about passing by the ever-unattainable Firebolt. Hermione sank in her chair and simultaneously lamented that her troublesome underage friend had Banished her books nearly 200 miles away.

5. Chapter 5

Draco

"What is this rubbish?" Draco asked as he picked through the newest books in the Zabini library. "'Offensively Defensive'? Is this a joke?"

On the other side of the table, a tired-looking Theodore Nott turned an identical book over in his hands. "This is the Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, isn't it?"

Zabini nodded. "While you're under my roof, you will be studying just like if you were at school. I expect both of you to sit your N.E.W.T.s once your names are cleared."

Draco growled. "I refuse to read anything whose title is a pun."

The dark-skinned man patted the left side of his chest, where a slight indentation suggested a key rested beneath the fabric. "Then you'll have no issue with me financing a small project with your funds. Mr. Weasley."

Nott frowned as Draco and Zabini glared at each other. "What am I missing?"

"That's none of your business," Draco snapped. "What do you care if I sit for the blasted N.E.W.T.s, Zabini?"

"No one is going to take a Slytherin seriously if he doesn't have at least four N.E.W.T.s to his name, and you will be getting five as I need you to be taken very seriously."

"No one cares about the bleeding N.E.W.T.s unless you're planning to—" Draco gagged, "—work for a living. Malfoys have no such inclinations, nor do we need them."

"Malfoys are only as good as their money, and that's even failing you right now. Perhaps if your father had made some honest connections in his life, there would be people of good moral character who could clear your family name. Instead, you're on the run because the Ministry is exorcising itself of anyone who might have been bought off."

"Are you getting to your point?"

"You will achieve N.E.W.T.s in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions, as well as at least three other subjects of your choice. And I'm not talking 'Acceptable'. You will achieve 'Outstanding' in all five."

"Or else what? You'll turn me out? Hand me over to the Aurors?"

"Or else the executor of Fred Weasley's Gringotts vault may suggest moving the gold to an undisclosed location."

Draco drew his wand. "If you dare—"

"You're the one who asked for my help. I am helping you. It's not my fault that the only motivation that seems to work with you Malfoys is threatening your livelihood." Zabini opened his arms wide, leaving his core exposed. "Stun me and take the key. Run away. Waste your intellect. Prove to me that you're as worthless as you're acting."

Draco hissed. "Stu—"

His wand flew out of his hand and traced a graceful arc. Nott held a wand in one hand and caught Draco's with the other. "Listen to him," Nott said with exhaustion. "Blaise is right. When this is over—"

"This might never be over!" Draco tugged at his platinum hair with angry fists. "This might be the rest of my life. I will be a fugitive forever and you both know that, so stop pretending like it's going to make a difference if I—ugh!" He kicked a chair, which hurt his foot more than the solid oak.

With a silent wave of Zabini's wand, the out-of-control young man seized, lost balance, and fell flat on his face. Zabini kicked Draco over and locked eyes. "You are my guest. You will not cause harm to my home. You will take my assistance when I offer it and you will count yourself lucky. Goyle and Bulstrode have both reached out to me and I have denied them.

"You will study the textbooks I have kindly provided for your edification. You will be fully prepared to return to society as a contributing member. You are not unintelligent, and thus you should know not to cross me. You are in my debt and I always collect." Zabini waved his wand over Draco's robes, which turned a deep blue. "Consider yourself Sorted into Ravenclaw." He released the Body-Bind.

Draco gasped as movement returned to his muscles. "How dare you," he spat.

Zabini sighed. "You have two choices, Malfoy. You can be broke and rotting in Azkaban, or you can be rich and studying like the good little Ravenclaw you are."

The blond rolled his shoulders back before regaining his feet. His right foot throbbed as he shifted his weight. "I will get you back for this, Zabini."

"No you won't. I am smarter and better connected than you can hope to be. It's why you came to me in the first place. Now show a little humility." Zabini gestured at Nott, who tossed the stolen wand across the table. Their host ran the wand through his fingers as he held it back from Draco. "Swear to me that you're going to behave, little Malfoy, and I'll give this back."

Draco choked and thrust his chin forward. With an icy stare, he nodded. "Fine. I swear."

"You swear what?"

The man clenched his fists into his robes. "I swear to study for the bloody N.E.W.T.s."

"And?"

"And what?"

Zabini sighed again, and adopted a tone suited for addressing a petulant child. "And how are you going to treat my home?"

"I swear to respect your home."

"And?"

"And WHAT?"

"Do you swear to abide by my rules?"

"Fine, yes, I swear to abide by your blasted rules."

"Excellent." Zabini extended the wand to Draco. "You'll note that your oath is binding. Should you try to break it, the magic in this house will break you first."

"What are you talking about?" Draco asked as he retrieved the wand.

Nott pointed to a distant corner of the library. Draco couldn't see past the shelves, but he could tell the area was mostly bare. "There's a book over there. Oaths made to members of the Zabini family are automatically recorded and enforced."

"For the love of Merlin," Draco groaned. "That's Dark magic, Zabini. I thought you were supposed to be neutral."

"'Neutral' is just a fancy word for 'balanced'. I can hardly have balance if I only use Ministry-approved magic."

"You're a testament to the house of Slytherin, you know that?"

Zabini gave his guest a grim smile. "And you'd best become a dutiful Ravenclaw by the time I board the train."

"Yes, Master," Draco said sarcastically.

His host pinned him with a withering glare. "It's a wonder You-Know-Who never struck you dead. You're a right prat, Malfoy."

Zabini left his guests alone in the library to pour over their new materials. Despite his protests, Draco was actually grateful to have something to focus on, even if it wasn't something of his own choosing.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts. Never thought I'd have to take that class again," Nott mused. He flipped through the thin book. "First half is a bunch of theory, but second half looks like it's basically curses and counter-curses. That can't be too bad."

"It will be when I practice them on you," Draco said. He pushed aside Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 to pick up the Potions text. His old Potions book, with its careful notes from Slughorn's classes, had been left at the Manor. He grieved its loss for a moment as he flipped through the crisp pages of the new book. He would have to work through most of the familiar potions and notate what he could remember.

"Here's a question," Nott said, interrupting Draco's train of thought. "If we're supposed to be learning this stuff—who's teaching us?"

"I think we're being left to our own devices."

"That seems a bit pointless. How are we supposed to know if we're wrong?"

"Generally, then, the spells wouldn't work," Draco sneered.

Nott waved off his unpleasantness. "Fine, but then how do we learn to do it correctly?"

"You practice until you figure it out, unless you have Doxy droppings for brains. If that's the case, I'm afraid there's no hope."

Draco's golden-eyed classmate snickered. "You think you'd be nicer to someone who taught you how to launder your pants." Nott cracked a sideways grin. "Gratitude doesn't cost anything."

Draco cocked an eyebrow with a mischievous expression and felt the wand settle into his hand. A moment later, Nott's robes were an alarming shade of yellow. "Consider yourself Sorted into Hufflepuff," Draco said, echoing Zabini's earlier words.

"Oi!" came Zabini's voice. "Did you explode the sun in my library?" The young man guarded his eyes as he walked back through the door.

"Meet our newest Hufflepuff," Draco said. Nott gave a model spin, his robes flaring so that he looked like a deformed daffodil.

"As long as you don't recruit any Gryffindors. Now—"

"That's who we need!" Nott said. "Granger could teach—"

"Finish that sentence and I will disembowel you," Draco snapped.

Nott said something Draco couldn't quite comprehend, but an instant later Draco's skin began freezing and thawing in rapid succession. It was one of the most disturbing sensations he'd ever felt.

"What did you just do?" he demanded as he started rubbing his arms.

"Nevermind, I think I can teach myself. We don't need Granger." Nott waved Offensively Defensive. "It's one of the curses in here."

"Well, find the counter-curse before I lose my mind!" Less than sixty seconds of the cycling chill and heat felt like some of the worst psychological torture Draco had endured in the last year.

Zabini held up a hand to stay Nott. "Find the counter-curse yourself. You have the book."

"I hate you both," Draco said as he reached a shaking hand for his copy. When he nearly dropped the book, he took a deep breath and drew from his Occlumency training to close off his mind from his body. Eventually the pulsing temperatures felt distant and he was able to hold the book steady long enough to search out the counter-curse. "Stabilis temperatus," he muttered with a complex gesture of his wand, and the cycling stopped.

"Excellent." Zabini motioned to the door. "Dinner is set if you gentlemen are inclined to join me."

Nott bounced into the hall, but Zabini caught Draco before he could follow. "Let me see your wand."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I've never been in to blokes," Draco retorted, but he gripped his stolen wand tightly.

"Expelliarmus."

The traitorous instrument again released itself from Draco's grasp. The youngest Malfoy cursed at being disarmed twice in an hour.

"This isn't your wand," Zabini said after a moment's examination. "What happened to yours?"

Draco was not about to admit he had lost it to Potter of all people. "It was a casualty of the war," he said instead.

Zabini accepted that answer and handed the wand back. "That's Fred Weasley's wand, isn't it? That's why you wanted the vault at Gringotts under his name." Draco nodded, disturbed by the astute observations of his former classmate. "Be careful with it. A blood-traitor's wand is bound to turn on you sooner or later."

"Thank you for your helpful words of warning as always, Zabini," Draco said, unable to bite back the sarcasm.

Zabini knocked him in the back of the head as they left the library. "Someday you'll learn to mind your betters, boy. Even if I have to train you myself."

6. Chapter 6

Hermione

Platform 9 ¾ was bustling as Hermione, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley said their goodbyes. The familiar sight of the scarlet train, the clash of students in Muggle and wizard clothing, and the din of conversation punctuated by the soft hoots of owls helped Hermione as she prepared herself for the next several hours. The first week of school was going to be hard, but the train ride and first night back in the dorms would be the hardest.

Hermione pretended not to notice how many compartments sat half-full instead of crammed with students. She and Ginny tucked themselves away, as far in the back as they could manage, and then they waited.

Crookshanks was asleep on the luggage rack by the time the compartment door opened for a new arrival. He hissed as a trunk slid onto the rack, nearly smashing his already squished face.

"Sorry about that," Neville Longbottom said to the ginger half-Kneazle, half-cat, and turned to Hermione. "Knew you'd come back. Everyone was saying you'd become an Auror like Harry and Ron, but I knew better. You couldn't stand the thought of missing your last year."

Hermione grinned and stood to hug her old friend. "You know me well. How are you?"

"Fine, fine. Gran's a bit peeved at me since I didn't join up with the Aurors this summer, but I've had my fill of fighting."

Ginny and Hermione nodded in silent agreement. Neville sat down with them and the three students watched the compartment door, wondering if anyone else would come through.

At the last minute, Hannah Abbott joined them and settled against Neville's side as the train began to move. Neville wrapped an arm around his girlfriend but frowned at the door. "I expected Luna would at least..."

Ginny shook her head. "Luna and her father are off in the Alps hunting some mythical creature or another. She'll be back a few weeks late." If she comes back at all, was the unspoken reality of the situation. How many students wouldn't be coming back?

The compartment felt huge to Hermione as she tried not to think of her many trips with Harry and Ron. Even when she'd been a prefect and didn't see her friends at first, she and Ron crowded into seats alongside other prefects.

An unexpected bitterness rose in her throat as she reflected on her time as a prefect. She'd always assumed she would become Head Girl, but Snape's appointment to Headmaster had stolen that from her. She had been devastated last summer when she received her Hogwarts letter and Prefect's badge, not that she intended to return to Hogwarts at that time anyway. But she had deserved it more than anyone else Snape could have possibly appointed.

This year the Head Girl was a seventh-year Ravenclaw. A lengthy letter accompanied Hermione's school supplies list this year, detailing the staff's decisions regarding the "eighth-year" students. Neither the Head Boy nor the Head Girl were chosen from the voluntarily returning students. Eighth-year students were also relieved of Prefect duties. Hermione teetered on the edge of gratitude and resentment for these changes. On one side, she was glad that her only responsibility was to finish her education; on the other side, she felt offended that the staff didn't think she could handle the extra stress.

"Hermione, are you okay?" Neville asked.

"Hmm?" She turned her head to look at the young man. He had a barely-healed scar above his left eyebrow. She remembered how the blood dried on his face as he duelled Death Eaters and shouted commands to his allies. Just another of a thousand things she could never forget.

"You've been staring at the same spot on the bench for over an hour."

She backed away from Neville, Ginny, and Hannah to settle into the corner of the compartment. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"We all do," he said wisely. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not yet. I can't."

"I've been thinking about these," Neville said, and pulled a fake Galleon out of his pocket. Hermione's breath caught at the sight of it.

"You still carry that?"

"I do. I think we could—should—use them this year. I think we're going to need a way to deal with what happened. I think—I think talking through it might help." Across from Neville, Ginny was nodding. "Dumbledore's Army trained together, fought together, and now we need to grieve together."

"What's left of us," Hermione mumbled. She stared at the ceiling, willing the tears in her eyes to go away. Not yet. She didn't want to think about it yet.

Instead, Hermione reached into her school bag and pulled out Offensively Defensive. The strap of a much smaller bag caught on the book, and she swept it away with a guilty glance at her classmates. She stuffed the beaded bag deeper into her belongings, hiding it under the heavy Ancient Runes textbook.

Hannah stepped over Neville and Ginny's game of wizard's chess and pulled the textbook from Hermione's hands. She flipped to the second half of the book. "You've already read this, haven't you?" she asked. Hermione nodded. "Figures." Hannah thumbed through the pages for a minute before she stopped. "Alright, Hermione. Which of the following hexes can be countered with finite incantatem? The Small Bowels hex, the Elongated Toes hex, or the Fibbing Tongue hex?"

"Small Bowels and Elongated Toes," Hermione answered immediately. Hannah nodded with a half-smile and Hermione snorted. "You'll have to come up with a harder question than that."

Hannah shrugged. "Sometimes the easy questions are the easiest ones to miss." She read through a few more pages. "What's the counter-curse for the Cycli-Cold curse?"

"Stabilis temperatus." Hermione waved a Muggle pencil in an approximation of the wand movement for the counter-curse.

Hannah shivered. "Now there's a curse I never want to encounter."

The quizzing went on until the train pulled into Hogsmeade. The four students packed up and disembarked, each step towards Hogwarts making their feet feel more and more like lead.

A wall of students stood hundreds of feet back from the carriages, openly gawking. There was a general buzz of confusion until someone started crying. With a sense of dread, Hermione looked at the carriages. She barely had time to choke back her own cries before Neville wrapped his arms around her.

So that was what thestrals looked like.

Hermione buried her face in Neville's robes, trying to wipe the image of the skeletal horses from her mind. If she could imagine they weren't real, maybe it would make the last year not real. If she looked back at the carriages and they were horseless—horseless, like they should have been—then maybe Fred and Lavender and all the others would still be alive.

"Hermione," Neville whispered.

"I can't do it." Her voice shook. How could she think coming back to Hogwarts would ever be okay? Too much had happened here. Too much had been destroyed.

She felt someone take her right hand in a firm grasp and pull her back from Neville. "Hermione," Ginny said. "Come on."

Hermione peered around Neville's arm to look at the other students. Many were clinging to each other. Some were moving forward to investigate the beasts closer. A handful of professors appeared and began guiding the students into the carriages. Hannah was helped someone with a cane climb into a carriage further down the line.

"Come on," Ginny said again.

Hermione held on to Neville's arm and kept her head tucked behind his shoulder, watching the reptilian creatures with one eye. It took far longer than usual for the carriages to start heading for the castle, as the students pet the thestrals with fascination until Professor Sprout finally threatened all of them with detention.

"D'you reckon they've put the castle back together?" the fifth-year Hufflepuff who joined their carriage asked.

Hermione looked out the window of the carriage toward the school. "I don't know."

"You're Neville Longbottom, right?" the Hufflepuff asked, with an edge of excitement to his voice. Hermione felt him nod. "My brother saw you kill You-Know-Who's snake last year. That was awesome."

"Thanks," Neville said. He didn't sound remotely grateful for the praise.

"And you're Hermione Granger, right?"

"Who's your brother?" Ginny asked, steering the conversation away from Hermione. She felt a flare of gratitude toward the younger woman.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley."

Hermione turned her head to face the other student. "But he's Muggle-born! How did he get in to fight?"

"Ernie and Hannah got word to him that we'd started living in the Room of Requirement," Neville answered. "Tonks and Aberforth helped us smuggle him in during the last Hogsmeade weekend."

"He said he was tired of being in hiding," the younger Finch-Fletchley added. "He said 'I didn't join Dumbledore's Army so I could sit at Aunt Ada's and watch the telly.' And then he left a note for me and Mum two days later saying he was gone and might not come back. Beside herself, Mum was. Didn't sleep for days and wanted to go to the police. Aunt Ada told her not to—my Uncle Daniel's a half-blood, you see, and so we knew what was going on—so we got Mum some sleeping drugs and waited for Justin to come home."

"And he did," Hermione whispered.

"And he did," the Hufflepuff confirmed. "Missing a good chunk of his left cheek, though, and has to use a cane to walk. He says a Death Eater cursed the muscles in his left thigh. It spread, so by the time St. Mungo's was able to see him, he'd already lost use of most of his leg. But they were able to stop the curse and he came home."

They arrived at the castle and piled out of the carriages. The fifth-year waved goodbye and went looking for his friends. Hermione grabbed Neville's arm with her left hand and held Ginny's hand in her right. "Are you okay, Gin?" she asked.

The redhead nodded. "You?" Hermione nodded. "Neville?"

The young man stood straight and brought Hermione's hand close. "Let's go."

The stones of the castle fit snugly into the walls as if they had been standing for the last thousand years, rather than two months. It was eerie. Hermione had expected to see cracks in the walls and rubble on the floors...something that made Hogwarts look like the battleground she remembered.

"Look," Ginny said, and pointed to the wall just outside the doors of the Great Hall.

A silver plaque hung on the wall. Hermione read it, trying to steel herself against a rush of emotions.

In Memoriam

Battle of Hogwarts

May 2, 1998

Nearly a hundred names were engraved in fine script. Ginny pushed her way to the front of the surrounding crowd and reached up, tracing the list with a finger.

"Into the Great Hall. To your tables please," came the voice of Professor McGonagall. The crowd drifted away, until Neville, Hermione, and Ginny were all that remained.

Ginny's finger rested on the plaque, her face stony as she refused to display any emotion.

"Miss Weasley, you need to join your classmates."

The youngest Weasley turned to face the Headmistress. There was fire in her eyes. "He's gone." Her voice wavered, betraying the façade.

Professor McGonagall bowed her head. "I know and I am sorry for your loss. Fred was—well, I can't say one-of-a-kind—but he was irreplaceable." The professor motioned for the door. "Please, Miss Weasley."

Ginny dropped her hand, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the Great Hall. Neville and Hermione followed closely.

It was too clean, too tidy, too orderly. Hermione forced her eyes to the table. Looking around hurt too much. The gaps at each table were too large to account for the incoming first years, and the Slytherin table was by far the worst. They could have removed the Slytherin table altogether and redistributed the students to the other three houses with room to spare.

The line of first-years was short compared to the lines of earlier years. Hermione counted fewer than thirty children queued for their moment with the Sorting Hat.

The song was brief this year, filled with hope and advice for the future. It didn't categorize the houses by their traits, but rather advised the students to mix with one another regardless.

After the children were divvied and seated, Professor McGonagall stood.

"For those of you joining us for the first time this year, welcome to Hogwarts. For those of you returning, thank you for coming back." She gestured to the tables. "We will make our announcements and staff introductions in a bit. For now, let us eat."

For the first time since fourth year, Hermione's stomach turned at the sight of all the food at the table. She stared at her empty plate for several minutes before she looked around and saw most of the older students had the same reaction. To her right, Ginny picked at a chicken leg. Across the table, Dean Thomas stabbed a bread roll and tried to make his fork stand upright without magic.

Dinner lasted about half as long as normal and Hermione felt grateful when McGonagall got back to her feet.

"Thank you all for being here this evening," she began. "I know for many of you, returning to these halls may have been the hardest decision of your life, and I applaud you for being brave enough to come back." Professor McGonagall pulled at the corner of her eye and took a breath. "Many of your classmates are not returning this year, and the staff have asked that we have a moment of silence for the following students: Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey..."

Hermione stopped listening, lowering herself into the numbness she felt when Harry and Ron announced the news about the Malfoys.

"...will also be taking over as Head of Gryffindor House," McGonagall said awhile later. Hermione returned her attention to the head table, where a witch in deep red dress robes stood beside the Headmistress. "Thank you, Professor Wainwright."

"McGonagall isn't going to be over Gryffindor?" Seamus Finnigan demanded.

"Don't think she can be now that she's Headmistress," Neville said.

"Do you think she'll still be teaching Transfiguration?"

Hermione hadn't even considered that change to the staffing. She rubbed a hand against her forehead. "I don't know."

"...Professor Marc Dominic, who will be teaching first through sixth year Transfiguration. I will take this year to finish teaching my N.E.W.T.-level students before Professor Dominic takes over the department completely." Hermione and her companions breathed a sigh of relief.

"We will be making two major changes this year regarding house separation." The Gryffindors sat up straighter and eyed McGonagall with suspicion. "As of tomorrow, the student body will only be required to sit at their designated house tables during dinner. In addition, classes will no longer be segregated by house but alphabetically by first name.

"Finally, if our eighth-year students would follow me, I would like to have a word. The rest of you may be dismissed. First-years, please follow your Prefects to your new dormitories."

Hermione and her classmates followed Professor McGonagall into a side chamber, where several chairs were set up. A group far larger than Hermione expected piled into the room. She and Neville shared hugs with Ernie McMillan and Hannah, who were followed closely by a limping Justin Finch-Fletchley. Hermione hugged him harder than anyone else.

"I can't believe you fought," she said.

Justin chuckled darkly. "We Muggle-borns have to stick together."

McGonagall waited for the twenty-odd students to take their seats. "On behalf of the Hogwarts staff, I would like to tell you how proud we are that each of you returned to complete your education," she said after Lisa Turpin settled into a chair. "You will be joining the seventh-years in their classes tomorrow. You will be required to attend each class in which you intend to achieve your N.E.W.T.s. However, I am aware that some of you have made arrangements with your professors to the contrary. Unless these arrangements appear to interfere with the rest of your education, I will allow them to stand for now.

"You will return to your normal dormitories. The first and second years are sharing dormitories for the year to allow you privacy.

"Unlike previous years, you will not be held to a curfew. This only applies to the students currently in this room; the rule stands for seventh-years and below. Please exhibit respect for the rest of your classmates and staff by not causing disturbances in the halls or classrooms. Mr. Filch is displeased enough that we are giving you this freedom, and Peeves is wreaking a remarkably unusual amount of havoc without your assistance. And yes, Miss Granger, the library will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day should you wish."

Hermione pinked as several students snickered. They were distracted, though, when Professor McGonagall looked behind herself with something that almost seemed like nervousness. "Our next order of business is rather sensitive. The Prefects have already been informed and will be addressing the issue with your houses. However, I feel it is necessary to introduce you in a more contained environment. Ladies?"

Hermione bit her fist to hide her shock as two greyish-silver apparitions floated to the centre of the room. Behind her, Parvati screamed.

"LAVENDER?"

The Ravenclaws were also talking in near-panicked tones as the other ghost watched them with apprehension. Hermione focused on Lavender, staring at the ripped skin of her face, neck, and shoulders where Fenrir Greyback had bitten.

"Stop staring," Lavender said to the aghast Gryffindors. The room quieted when she spoke in her new detached, distant-sounding voice.

"Lavender," Parvati whispered. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her best friend. Or, the ghost who was once her best friend.

On the other side of the room, Anthony Goldstein stood and walked over to the Ravenclaw ghost. "I can't believe you're real."

The Ravenclaw ghost, whose name was Jenika Quincey, held tightly to Lavender and didn't say anything. The grief was clear on her face.

"Are there any more ghosts?" Hermione asked.

McGonagall nodded. "We suspect yes, but they haven't shown themselves yet. The trauma of their deaths seems to have made them wary of exposing themselves. We do know there is at least one unidentifiable Slytherin ghost who refuses to leave the dungeons."

Hermione bit back the question that flashed through her mind. Someone who died for our side or theirs? A second thought quickly followed that: Are there Death Eater ghosts?

As if reading Hermione's mind, Professor McGonagall shook her head. "We have not encountered any...ill-meaning ghosts."

The older woman sighed. "I expect each of you to set a proper example for the younger students this year. You survived a war, and I hope gained some maturity from the experience. Many of the students will look to you as heroes. If I find that anyone is taking advantage of this by manipulating the younger students in any way, you will find yourself entering the workforce without a single N.E.W.T. to your name. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Professor," the eighth-years echoed.

"Very well. You are dismissed."

Hermione watched as the four remaining Slytherins—Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis—left the side-chamber first. The rest of the students gradually disappeared to their dorms.

As she expected, Hermione heard Parvati come into their room close to midnight. They were the only two Gryffindor girls left of the seven in their year. Lavender was dead. One was rumoured to be at Beauxbatons. Another had disappeared a month before the battle and hadn't been heard from since. Two more had joined the Auror program with Harry and Ron.

Hermione stared at the ceiling until dawn broke through the windows. If Parvati's sniffles were anything to go by, it would be a long time before the Gryffindor girls' dorm saw any sleep.

7. Chapter 7

A/N: Trigger warning - Google Translated French ahead.

Draco

A clatter echoed in the dining room of the Zabini cottage as a pair of scales hit the wall. Draco felt a shooting pain in his back when the apparatus collided and he was sharply reminded of his oath not to damage the property.

"What's wrong?" Nott asked. He peered into Draco's cauldron, then looked down at the open textbook on the table. "I don't remember that one turning pink."

"I didn't ask you," Draco snapped. He had been snapping more and more since resuming his studies. He essentially had the knowledge of a fifth-year student since he spent his sixth year focused on his assignment to kill Dumbledore—the exception being when he lost himself into his Potions lessons—and his seventh year was...well, the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam would be easy.

"You added the dungbeetles too soon."

"If you don't remember the potion turning pink, how on earth would you know what I did to do so?"

Nott waved his hand over the ingredients laid out on the table. "Your phial of wormwood is still full. That's supposed to come first."

Draco cursed. "Evanesco." The pink solution disappeared. "I need food," he said, and stomped into the kitchen. He restlessly shuffled through the cupboards and the icebox. "There's nothing to eat," he declared.

His bemused housemate opened a cupboard. "There's a bucket of potatoes in here. Bread's on the counter next to the apples and bananas. There's a package of biscuits hidden under the sink, and I know for a fact there's steak in the icebox."

"Then let me rephrase: there's nothing here I want to eat."

"Beggars and choosers," Nott responded. He opened another cupboard and removed a mostly-empty glass jar of peanut butter. "I admit, we do need to go shopping."

"Shopping? For food?"

"Yes, Malfoy. Shopping for food. That's how it gets to your house." Nott's mouth twitched. "Have you never gone to the grocers?"

Draco frowned at the unfamiliar term but kept his mouth shut. The expression on Nott's face turned to unholy delight.

"You honestly didn't know you have to buy food, did you?"

"Of course I knew you have to buy it," Draco protested unconvincingly.

Nott grinned. "This should be fun."

Inside the hour, the pair stood outside of a shabby wood-panelled store with a dancing sign that read 'MagiMart'.

"I don't like this," Draco said.

"Of course you don't. That's why I'm going to enjoy every moment of this experience."

Nott grabbed a handbasket and led Draco through the aisles. Signs spelled out the general contents of each aisle, wiping clean of their own accord to advertise specific products. The store looked like an over-sized, stiflingly organized apothecary.

"See anything you want?"

"What are these?" Draco asked, pointing to thin green vegetables which faded into white ends. He heard Nott snigger. "What?"

"It must be nice to be so rich that you don't even know what uncooked chives look like."

"I've had about enough of your cheek."

"Oooh, I'm so scared." Nott smirked. "Remember, I'm the one who's actually read the Defence book while you fiddle with your potions. Which reminds me, we should stop off at an apothecary before we head back."

Draco looked around the unfamiliar store and felt his appetite disappear. "Let's just go now. I don't want to be here anymore."

"Nuh-uh. We need food."

A witch with a half-full basket turned the corner and Draco immediately turned away. After being locked away in the safety of his own home and then Zabini's for nearly four months, he didn't feel comfortable in public. Any one of these people could recognize him and send him straight to Azkaban. Why didn't he think about that before he left the house?

Nott glanced over at the cause of Draco's discomfort and sighed. "You're in France. You're fine. No one's going to pay any attention to you."

"People always pay attention to Malfoys. It's our family burden."

"They won't pay you any mind if you don't draw attention to yourself. Look, she hasn't even looked over here. You're fine. And who's to say she would even recognize you as a Malfoy, anyway? Your family moved to Britain nearly a millennium ago. I bet France has forgotten your line exists."

Draco gave an indignant snort. "People do not forget the Malfoys. France is well aware of us."

"Then you should have moved to China and left me in peace."

"Now you sound like Zabini."

"He is my best friend." Nott tossed an assortment of vegetables into their basket. "What next?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not the one who's done this before."

"Spending time with you makes me grateful that we were never particularly affluent. You're positively crippled without your damned house-elves." Nott led them away from the produce and into an aisle filled with various jars. "Marmalades, olive oils, mustards...anything strike your fancy?"

Draco looked over his shoulder, watching for the wandering witch. "No," he said shortly. "I want to leave."

Nott selected a few jars with an air of nonchalance and rested them next to the vegetables. "Olive oil, olive oil," he murmured, and moved farther down the aisle.

"We're going to get caught if we don't leave now," Draco hissed. The witch stood at the end of the aisle, examining a display of jellies.

"Stop being so paranoid and help me figure out which olive oil to buy. This one looks good, but this one's imported from California, which could be interesting."

The witch turned to look at them and Draco visualized the Zabini garden and spun on the spot. Nothing happened.

"Did you just try to Disapparate?" Nott chuckled, watching Draco from behind four levitating bottles of oil.

"Why didn't it work?"

"You can't Disapparate inside a store, you dolt. Otherwise, how could they stop people from stealing?"

Draco held his breath as the witch moved closer to them. As she passed by the men, she gave them both cursory nods but there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes.

"I told you," Nott sang. "You can breathe now. You're turning the same shade as your potion."

"Sod off, Nott."

The offending wizard selected a tall bottle, examined the label for a long moment, waved the other three contenders back to their shelves. "Alright, I think I'm finished. Are you sure there's nothing else you want?"

"I want to get out of this bloody store and go home."

"Patience is not a Malfoy virtue, is it?"

"Compassion seems to be missing from your repertoire." Draco headed for the front of the store and tried to stomp out his anxiety. He heard Nott snigger.

"You don't need compassion. You need a reality check."

They approached the clerk's counter and laid their purchases on the tall bar. "Avez-vous taut trové?" the haggard man behind the counter asked. Did you find everything?

Nott looked at the man with a blank expression and turned to Draco. "I don't speak French."

"And you think I do?"

"I've heard you."

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. "Oui." Yes.

The witch arrived behind them and cut into the conversation. "Je ne peux pas trouver le curcuma." I can't seem to find the turmeric.

The clerk nodded and retrieved his wand. "Accio poudre de curcuma." A small jar with an orange-tinted powder whizzed into his hand. He set it on the bar and returned to the men.

Draco glared at Nott before addressing the clerk. "Si je vous ai donné une liste d'articles, les invoquez-vous pour nous?" If I gave you a list of items, would you Summon them for us?

"Oui. C'est un service que nous offrons." Yes. That is a service we offer.

"I'm going to kill you," Draco said to his housemate.

Nott looked confused but shrugged. He retrieved a newspaper and laid it on top of their order. "This too, please."

The clerk nodded and put their items in a paper bag. "Sept gallions."

"Seven Galleons?" Draco sneered. "That's robbery!"

"Oh, shut up. How would you know?" Nott said as he counted out the appropriate coins. "Three Galleons, two Sickles, and eight Knuts. I did the math already."

The clerk grunted as he took the money from Nott. "Vous êtes plus intelligent que votre ami, Anglais." You're smarter than your friend, Englishman.

"Hey!" Draco protested. "Je vais vous faire savoir—" I'll have you know—

Nott grabbed the bag and Draco's arm and dragged him outside. "I may not know what you're saying, but I know that tone. Merci!" he called back into the store. The clerk ignored him.

"I did not have a tone."

"You did. It was your 'I'm going to be a git' tone. Now, are we going to the apothecary to replenish your Potions supplies, or are your delicate nerves sufficiently frayed for today?"

With a pop, Draco Apparated to the cottage and stormed through the front door. His housemate followed behind and kicked the door closed. "I'll take that as a no to the apothecary, then?"

"You're insufferable."

"I could say the same about you," Nott answered mildly. He rested the bag on the kitchen counter and began sorting the groceries. "Damn, I forgot butter."

"I am not going back there."

"Calm down. I wasn't going to ask you to. Go clean off the dining table so we can sit down for a decent meal."

"I am not a house-elf!"

"It's called cleaning up your own mess. Do it now or I will Imperius you."

"I'm immune—"

"Titillando," Nott said calmly.

Purple ribbons of light assaulted Draco, tickling him to the brink of tears. The blond man doubled over, howling with involuntary laughter while trying to scream at Nott. The latter finished sorting the vegetables and levitated them to the sink for washing.

After three minutes or so, Nott released Draco from the hex. "Are you prepared to behave yourself?"

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep."

"Don't get blood on the sheets. Blaise'll kill you next." Nott donned an apron and set a skillet to heat on the stove. "Now, shoo."

As they tucked away a meal of roasted vegetables and steak, Nott flipped through the French Wizarding newspaper. "I can't read any of this rubbish."

Mollified due to the full condition of his stomach, Draco tapped the newspaper with his wand. The words rearranged themselves into English.

"Okay, that was cool. You'll have to teach me that one."

Draco smirked. "Malfoy family secret."

"Malfoy family secret, my foot." Nott turned the page and skimmed a long article. "Thank you." He paused and frowned. "They're training a new class of Aurors. Look who's in the front row."

"Let me guess. Scarhead, Weasley, and the Mud—Muggle-born."

"Two out of three. Blaise said Granger went back to Hogwarts." Nott returned to the front page of the paper to review it now that it was in English. "Oh."

Draco looked up at his friend's tone. "Oh? What's wrong?"

Nott flattened out the paper. "'Rodolphus Lestrange was captured by the British Ministry of Magic late Thursday evening. An emergency session of the Wizengamot was called Friday morning to question the Death Eater, as it is believed he may know the whereabouts of several prominent followers of You-Know-Who. Under the influence of Veritaserum, Lestrange revealed he had been in contact with several Death Eaters, including Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Lucius Malfoy, and Atticus Nott. He was unable to provide specific locations but indicated that Malfoy and Nott may have fled to North America. The Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) and the Parliament of Magical Canada are currently investigating these claims. If discovered, Malfoy and Nott will be extradited to the United Kingdom to stand trial immediately.'"

"Oh," Draco said. A flare of annoyance rose in his chest at his father's carelessness. "Why would he keep in touch with anyone? Doesn't he realize how dangerous that is? When you go into hiding, you go to ground and don't look back!"

"You kept in touch with me," Nott said.

"Not intentionally."

"Fine. You intentionally kept in touch with Blaise."

"That's because I needed him and the only reason I'm still here is because he got one over on me by keeping a key to my Gringotts vault. I should be far away by now, living under a new identity." A small part of his brain chided him on the blatant lie; he'd decided to stay before he knew Zabini had full access to his Gringotts account.

Nott just shook his head. "You can't even shop for necessities. How are you going to survive on your own?"

For once, the biting and sarcastic responses died in Draco's throat as he laid his head in his hands. "I don't know. I really don't know."

8. Chapter 8

Hermione

A varied assortment of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs sat in what once was Amycus Carrow's Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the fifth floor. This room hadn't been repaired yet, and Hermione preferred it that way. She and Neville swept broken stone into the corners while they searched for how to begin the conversation. This was their second meeting and the attendance was much higher than the first one despite the controversial location.

"So we're just talking about the war, right?" a third-year Ravenclaw asked. Hermione nodded. "Should we be talking about last year? Like, the Carrows? Or about our families?"

"Whatever you feel you need to share is fine," Hermione said kindly.

The meek girl, whose dark brown hair was plaited down her back, turned her back to the group and lifted the braid. A long scar stretched from the collar of her robes into her hairline. "They whipped me last year when I cried during class. The whip was too long and caught the back of my neck."

Hermione stared at the scar, horrified by the girl's story. She knew things had been horrible at Hogwarts, and she'd seen the evidence of physical abuse on her friends, but this disturbed her on another level. This girl was a child. She had been a second-year. She had been twelve or thirteen.

"My dad didn't want me to come back. I'm a half-blood—Dad's a Muggle—so when Mum allowed me to come back this year, he picked up and left. He's going to sue Mum for custody of me. I'll be going to Muggle school if he wins."

Another family fallen victim to Voldemort, Hermione thought. He didn't even have to kill one of them to tear this one apart.

A Hufflepuff moved to stand next to the Ravenclaw girl. He unbuttoned the top half of his robes and lifted his undershirt to bare his stomach. Pink lines crisscrossed his skin. "They whipped me across my front so that I could see it coming," he said to her.

Lisa Turpin pushed back the sleeve of her right arm and showed a single, thick scar. "I wouldn't give up my notes to one of the Slytherins, so Alecto made him use the Cruciatus Curse on me. He didn't want to at first, but... I cut my arm open while I was—you know. They didn't let me go see Madam Pomfrey to get it mended."

Student after student removed their robes, pushed aside their hair, or rolled up the legs of their trousers. Student after student displayed scar after scar inflicted by their teachers and their classmates.

Dean pulled down the collar of his shirt. A star-shaped scar decorated the top of his spine. "After Neville and Hannah helped me escape, I spent last year on the run, but I got caught. The Snatchers did that to identify me as a Muggle-born."

Hermione felt her pulse quicken as the number of people who hadn't confessed a scar dwindled. She rested a hand over her left arm. She wasn't ready to let that secret go yet.

But maybe that was the point. She was surrounded by people baring their souls because she and Neville had given them a safe space to do so. Maybe it was time she shared, too.

She stood up and felt the room go still. McGonagall was right when she said the students would treat the eighth-years like heroes. All Hermione had to do was walk in a room for it to grow quiet.

Now the students watched as she pulled up her left sleeve to reveal the word Mudblood carved into her skin. The redness of the lettering had never faded, and Hermione suspected it never would.

The looks on Ginny's and the Muggle-borns' faces were the worst. The Muggle-borns looked pale to the point of being sick. Ginny's hand covered her mouth and she shook her head as hard as she could.

"Bellatrix Lestrange did this when Dean and I were taken to Malfoy Manor." She nodded to Dean, who took a breath and cleared his emotions.

"It looks fresh," Ernie said, almost accusingly, as if she'd pulled out a knife in the middle of their meeting so that she had a scar to share with everyone else.

"I believe it will always look like that. The blade was cursed." Hermione dropped her sleeve and sat back down. The silence in the room was overwhelming.

Ginny was still shaking her head, looking shocked. "I didn't know," she whispered. "You never said anything."

"There was nothing to say," Hermione replied as a fifth-year started sharing his story. "I don't want anyone looking at me like I'm a victim, and your mum would have been beside herself."

"Yeah, but Hermione—"

"No. I'm done discussing this. The point of this is to move on. I'm moving on."

The looks people gave her as the meeting ended made Hermione want to run back to her dorm and hide behind the curtains of her bed. She didn't want their attention, and she certainly didn't want their pity. She stood still, however, and took each condolence with grace. It occurred to her several hours later that by breakfast the next morning, the entire school would know her secret. She wondered how early the eighth-years would be allowed to leave for their first visit to Hogsmeade.

After another sleepless night, Hermione went down to the common room before six A.M. She wasn't surprised to see Neville and Dean already sitting in overstuffed armchairs, talking in hushed tones.

Neville saw her first and waved her over. "I was just telling Dean that Wainwright said we can leave whenever we want."

Professor Wainwright, the new Head of Gryffindor House, had proved to be as level-headed and strict as McGonagall. She was an exceptional Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and focused heavily on the practical application of spells. Her class became a sort of therapy for the seventh- and eighth-years as the professor allowed them to practice jinxes and hexes on her directly. For the students who had attended Hogwarts the previous year, being allowed to hex a teacher was satisfying.

Hermione, for one, had trouble with the concept of harming a teacher and spent most of her time practicing counter-spells and healing charms in the event her classmates were unable to reverse the damage. Her preparation had come in handy more than once.

"We're waiting for Seamus to wake up and then we're going to head out. Rosmerta's opening the Three Broomsticks at eight. We're just going to wander around until then," Dean said.

"D'you think we should wait for Parvati?" Neville asked.

Hermione shrugged. "She's already awake. She's been revising since four. I can ask, but she might want to stay with Lavender since the school's going to be so empty."

"Could you?" Dean looked at Hermione hopefully and a chuckle rose unbidden in her throat.

"Are you sweet on Parvati?" she asked with disbelief.

He chuckled too and shook his head. "Not me. Ernie's got a bit of a thing for her, and she might be the only chance we have of shaking him. Justin's staying in on account of his leg and Hannah's got a date with our Neville here."

"There's a greater chance of him crashing our date than bothering you and Seamus," Neville said darkly. The man looked pleadingly at Hermione. "Could you ask? Please? I've had enough of that prat after what he said to you last night."

By the time Hermione convinced Parvati that a trip out of the castle would do her some good (in spite of the fact she would have to entertain Ernie for a few hours), Seamus had woken up and joined the men in the common room.

"Ready?" Seamus asked the women.

"Let's just go," Parvati answered. She turned to Neville. "I hope you appreciate what I'm doing for you."

"You told her?" Dean demanded of Hermione.

"Just know that if I kill him, it'll be on your conscience," Parvati said by way of response.

Neville gave a grave nod. "I'll risk it."

"Who knows? Maybe he won't turn out so bad," Hermione said. The other four turned incredulous faces to her. "I'm not saying it's likely. Just possible."

"Are you sure Bellatrix didn't addle your brains?" Seamus asked.

Dean, Neville, and Parvati froze. A thousand emotions ran through Hermione, from offence to despair to deranged giddiness.

To their relief and confusion, she burst out laughing. "Are you okay?" Neville asked with alarm.

She waved a hand as she caught her breath. "Yeah," she said with equal surprise. "I am. No one's made a joke about it before. Everyone's been treating me with kid gloves for months and I just—it's a relief, honestly. Not to be treated like I'm going to break." She gave Seamus a genuine smile. "Thank you. I needed that."

"You're welcome." Seamus patted Dean's shoulder. "Come on, then."

Hogsmeade was quiet, but in a peaceful way, unlike the last time Hermione had seen the streets empty. There were no Dementors, no Death Eaters, no sirens. The shuttered storefronts were picturesque as dawn slowly backlit the heavy clouds.

Parvati was the first to break the silence. "It's so—"

"Creepy," Seamus said.

"I think it's lovely," Hermione answered.

"I feel like a Death Eater's going to pop out at any moment." Parvati shivered and hugged herself.

Hermione took her roommate's arm and linked hers through it. "The last time I was here, Harry, Ron, and I set off some sort of alarm because we arrived after curfew. Trust me, this is really quite lovely by comparison."

"If you say so. It's giving me the shakes," Seamus said. "When's the Three Broomsticks opening?"

"Another hour," Neville replied, taking a glance at an ornate pocket-watch. "Let's walk through one of the neighbourhoods. It'll be nice being someplace normal."

"Nah, I say we go to the Shrieking Shack." Seamus gave them all a wicked grin.

"Didn't you just say this was creepy?" Dean asked, rolling his eyes.

"Might as well capitalize on it." Seamus began walking the direction of the 'haunted' building.

"I don't want to," Parvati said resolutely. "We've got enough ghosts at Hogwarts."

"There are no ghosts in the Shrieking Shack," Hermione said. "No ghosts, no poltergeists, no spirits. There's literally nothing to be afraid of."

"I don't believe you."

Hermione looked at her fellow Gryffindors and realized that none of them knew the true purpose of the building. "Dumbledore had it built so Professor Lupin could attend Hogwarts when he was a kid. They encouraged the rumours about it being haunted so that people wouldn't try to break in."

"Because of the werewolf thing," Dean said as he caught on.

"Right." Hermione turned to her roommate. "It's perfectly safe."

"Yeah, but it's a little less exciting now that we know it's not actually haunted," Seamus pouted.

Neville cracked a grin. "Unless we haunt it."

Seamus's jaw dropped. "Neville Longbottom, are you suggesting that we break into a building and terrorize the people of Hogsmeade?" The Irishman nodded with approval. "I am truly impressed. But we need to stop by Zonko's first."

Dean looked wary. "Why?"

"Because we need supplies, of course."

"You aren't going to make me regret telling you this, are you?" Hermione asked. The gleam in Seamus's eye told her everything she needed to know. "Just be careful and don't burn it down," she said with an air of regret. "McGonagall knows what it's used for and since Voldemort let Greyback run loose last year—" She stopped talking as Parvati whimpered. Hermione put a hand on the woman's arm. "Just don't do anything to harm it. We may need it in the near future."

"Yes, ma'am." Seamus saluted her and headed for the Three Broomsticks. "D'you think she'll open early if she sees us sitting out here?"

"She's already opening early. Don't press your luck." Neville turned to Hermione. "What time do you think Harry and Ron'll get here? Hannah and I'd like to see them."

"Harry and Ron are coming?" Dean asked.

Hermione nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised if they Polyjuice, though. Harry's not keen on getting swarmed by a bunch of people. He had enough difficulty at the Ministry the first few weeks of his training."

"You'll be at Hog's Head, then?" Neville asked.

"Yeah. We figured we'd be better off over there."

"Excellent. Hannah and I'll swing by around eleven if you're still there."

"If they're not too busy snogging in some deserted alley," Seamus sniggered. He waggled singed eyebrows (which were casualties of an experimental potion of his own creation).

Neville's ears pinked. "Stay out of it, Finnigan."

"I think Dean and me might need to chaperone this date."

Light flooded through the windows of the Three Broomsticks and Hermione saw Madam Rosmerta organizing something behind the bar. Neville avoided Seamus's eyes and tried the locked door in spite of what he'd just said about not pressing their luck. The barmaid looked toward the disturbance and shook her head with an amused smile. A flick of her wand later, the Gryffindors seated themselves at a table near the counter.

"What'll it be? Pumpkin juice, butterbeer...?"

"A pint of mulled mead," Seamus said.

"It is seven-thirty in the morning," Parvati admonished her house-mate.

"Better late than never," he responded with a wink.

"You're ridiculous."

"A pint for the lady, as well," he said to Rosmerta.

"Seamus!"

"And you'll drink the whole thing."

Dean sighed and rested his cheek on the heel of one hand. "Sometimes, I don't remember why I'm friends with you. Pumpkin juice for me, please."

Before Rosmerta could acknowledge the order, Seamus waved a hand. "Ignore him. A round of mead for the table. They can drink whatever they want after that."

A few minutes later, Hermione sipped her mulled wine with reservation, but found the warmth of the drink surprisingly invigorating. "I'm not saying I approve of this," she prefaced with a very serious look at Seamus, "but thank you. This is delicious."

After the group went their separate ways, Hermione took a few minutes to tour Honeydukes before heading to the Hog's Head. She trailed a hand across the box of Sugar Quills with an odd feeling of sadness. The candy seemed so juvenile now, like it belonged in a childhood she could no longer return to.

The solitary trip to the pub helped settle her disquiet as she thought about her forced ascension into adulthood. She felt a distinct disconnect from her childhood self, and she knew exactly which moment divided her past from her present. Even now, the beaded bag was hidden inside her coat, and within the bag was a heavy book on the nuances of Memory Charms. The day she saw her parents again could not come soon enough.

Aberforth stood behind the bar of the Hog's Head, pouring a drink for a shadowy figure seated on a rickety stool. The last remaining Dumbledore gave her a nod and gestured to the back of the dim room. Turning, she saw Harry and Ron—not Polyjuiced—in deep conversation, with three drinks spread between them.

The men stood up when she arrived and gave her long hugs. She sat in the booth next to Ron and examined the glasses on the table. "What's this?"

"Firewhisky," Ron answered. He picked up his glass and downed it in a single swallow. His cheeks flushed for a moment as the whisky burned hot in his throat.

Hermione groaned. "What is it with men and alcohol today? Seamus already made us drink mulled mead with breakfast."

"Hermione Granger, drinking already? Are we in some sort of alternate universe?"

"This is a one-time thing. I only did it because Seamus made me."

The men laughed. "Hermione, there is not a single person on this planet who can make you do something against your will," Harry said.

They quieted down a moment as Hermione remembered Barty Crouch, Jr. putting her under the Imperius Curse in class. In all reality, there were far too many people who could make her do things against her will. She held back from saying so; she didn't want to ruin Harry and Ron's moods by reminding them of reality.

For an hour, the trio swapped stories of Hogwarts classes versus Auror training. From the sound of it, they had to sit through as many lectures as she did, and do just as much homework. Unlike previous years, the new Auror class hadn't been required to sit for their N.E.W.T.s, which meant they were coming into the Ministry with less education. The department had been trying to pick up the slack, but according to Harry and Ron, there were a few students who were hopeless.

"Regina—you remember Regina Crenshaw, she was a Ravenclaw—not an ounce of common sense," Ron declared. "She can cast the most complex charms this side of Flitwick, but ask her to duel a troll and she's useless. Nearly in tears that day, she was."

Hermione gave a wry grin. "Just because you could best a troll as a first-year..."

"That's exactly my point! I was eleven."

"You were lucky we'd just been working on the Levitation Charm." She playfully knocked into him. "And you were lucky that I taught you how to say it."

Ron glared at her. "That wasn't luck. That was pure genius on my part and you know it. Nerves of steel, I've got."

Another memory rose in Hermione's mind and she fought it back with all her strength. She would not think about last year, about their fights and Ron's 'nerves of steel'. It was the Horcrux, she said to herself. It was the Horcrux.

She repeated the phrase in her mind like a mantra until she almost had herself convinced that the man next to her would never cause her that sort of heartache again.

Almost.

The men launched into an animated discussion about Auror politics, which somehow led to recapping an inter-departmental Quidditch match. As they rehashed who got hit with which Bludger and something about the Snitch hanging out at the goal posts for fifteen minutes, Hermione let their voices fade into the background.

She half-consciously examined her best friends for signs of the war. When she looked too close, the two men almost seemed foreign. Gone was the grime of battle and the hard lines of lost hope. Unlike so many students at Hogwarts, Harry and Ron hadn't collected any physical scars over the last year, except for where Ron had been Splinched. Harry had been Crucio'd and brought to Death's door by Voldemort himself, but Ron... Ron hadn't suffered under someone else's wand or whip or knife the way the Hogwarts students had. The way she had. Hermione suddenly felt a gulf open between them, where nightmares and scars became the choppy waters separating her from the man at her side.

"Any news on the Death Eaters?" she asked, bringing them round to a topic they'd have to cover sooner or later. "The Daily Prophet said you'd caught Bellatrix's husband. Is that true? Does he really know where Malfoy and Nott are?"

Harry nodded. "McInturff and Jameson brought him in. Not without casualties, though. Lestrange took out two Muggle hostages and an Auror."

That gave Hermione pause. She watched her best friends, careful not to show any fear on her face. For the first time, she allowed herself to realize this job was dangerous and potentially deadly. They'd survived a war only to step into the line of fire.

She took Ron's hand under the table and squeezed it. "What about the others?"

"The Americans think they have a trace on Nott, but we're still waiting for confirmation. No sign of Malfoy yet, though. And we're still coming up empty on the others."

"Interesting thing to note," Ron cut in. "The final reports came in on Malfoy Manor. It appears there was only one person living there when we seized it."

"Draco?" Hermione asked.

"That's the assumption. His room was the only one mussed up. It was weird—sheets over all of the mirrors, for some reason. You'd think a narcissist like him... Anyway, Lucius and Narcissa's chambers were thoroughly stripped."

"Do you think he fled to America and caught up with his parents?"

Harry shook his head. "My instincts say no. Not after everything that happened. He was forced into Voldemort's service because of his father's mistakes. You saw what that did to him. I don't think he'd willingly run away with them."

"What will happen to him if—when—he's caught?" The further she got from her experience at Malfoy Manor, the more she'd been able to appreciate the magnitude of Malfoy's situation. It didn't absolve him of his sins—she still couldn't forgive him for trying to turn Harry over to Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, or for the fact he'd been a generally horrible person for the previous seven years—but she acknowledged that he hadn't had much of a choice in choosing his loyalties. Not when Voldemort was literally living in his house.

"It depends on if the Wizengamot chooses to prosecute him as an adult or as a minor," Harry answered. "If he's tried as an adult, he'll go to Azkaban for sure. If he's tried as a minor, Azkaban is off the table, but he'll still have to pay reparations of some sort."

"He's eighteen now. Do you really think they might try him as a minor?"

"He was sixteen and under duress when he took the Dark Mark, so he has a chance."

"I hope they prosecute him as an adult, personally," Ron said. "Bloody git deserves worse than Azkaban in my opinion."

"They've reinstated the Dementors, haven't they?" Nothing could be worse than suffering the Dementors day in and day out. Hermione shivered at the thought.

"Kingsley fought it, but yeah. Said they were too volatile, but there's still too many people in the Ministry who turned a blind eye to the Dementors defecting to Voldemort's side," Harry said with an air of annoyance. It was hard to believe anyone could contradict Kingsley. In Hermione's experience, he was one of the most logical, level-headed people she'd ever met.

"A few rounds with the Cruciatus Curse would do him some good," Ron muttered.

"Kingsley?" Hermione asked, horrified at Ron's statement.

"What? No. Malfoy. All the Malfoys, for that matter."

"Narcissa saved my life," Harry pointed out.

"Fine. Just the male Malfoys then. Torture 'em until they can't remember their own names, I say."

A shadow fell over their table and the three friends looked up to see Neville's stormy expression. Ron furrowed his eyebrows. "Hi, mate. How are you?"

Neville glared at Ron. "I don't know who you're talking about, but that's not a fate I'd wish on anyone. Remember that you're fighting for the good guys."

Ron, of course, promptly displayed his extraordinary talent for digging his own grave. "Sometimes the bad guys deserve a taste of their own medicine. It's the Malfoys. No one'll miss 'em anyway."

Neville turned to Harry and shook the man's hand. "Nice to see you again. I hope your training's going well."

"Thanks, Neville. It's been interesting, though from what Ginny and Hermione have told me, you lot are getting some hands-on experience, too."

Next to her boyfriend, Hannah lit up. "Professor Wainwright's the best teacher we've had since Moody. I mean..." The blonde Hufflepuff trailed off when she saw Harry's features contort.

Hermione jumped to Hannah's defence. "Regardless of the circumstances, we did learn loads that year, Harry."

"I know that," he admitted. "But he was still a Death Eater."

Hermione noticed that Neville had distanced himself from Hannah as well. She looked pained and confused at the shift in Neville's attitude.

"Have you told her?" Hermione asked, hoping that she wasn't overstepping. Neville shook his head.

Hannah looked between Hermione and Neville, growing irritated as they shared a silent pain she couldn't understand. "Told me what?"

"Not yet," Neville said to his girlfriend. "I can't—not yet." He gave her a pleading look that melted the irritation on her face. "Please don't push me. Not yet."

"Okay."

Neville glanced at the door to the pub. "I—we—I think we're going to head back to the castle. Loads of revising to do, you know. When are you coming back, Hermione? Hannah found a brilliant book on Illusion Charms in the Restricted Section."

"I'll still be a few hours," she answered. "I've still got a few errands to run."

"Alright then. Hope to see you again soon, Harry." Neville waved to them and walked for the door, ignoring Ron completely. Hannah gave them a confused wave goodbye and chased after her long-legged boyfriend.

After they were safely out of earshot, Hermione turned on Ron. "You can be the most insensitive wart sometimes, Ronald Weasley."

"I was just stating my opinion!"

"To a man who lost his parents to the Cruciatus Curse."

Delayed understanding dawned on Ron's face. "Oh right. I forgot."

"You forgot? You FORGOT?" Hermione was vaguely aware of her voice getting higher and higher as she lectured. "You forgot that someone you spent six years with, who fought alongside you, whose parents you met in the long-term residents ward of St. Mungo's—"

"It's not like we ever talked about it again! And I had my own dad to worry about at the moment, if you remember."

"I remember everything, Ronald."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Hermione snapped. She looked at her watch and felt annoyed when she saw it was only eleven-thirty.

"What, do you need to run off and revise now, too?" Ron sounded extremely put out over the whole situation.

"If you had been listening, you would know I already said I had errands to run before I go back."

Harry stood and gestured to the door. "Come on, we'll go with you. We don't have to get back for tea at Muriel's until four."

Hermione didn't feel like having her friends along, but couldn't see a way to shake them without being rude. "It won't take long. I do need to get back to the castle soon."

"You've only been here for a couple of hours," Ron protested.

"The eighth-years were allowed to come out early. We got here at seven," Hermione said tersely.

Ron held up his hands in surrender. "I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. Okay, Hermione? I'm sorry."

The curly-haired witch stopped in her tracks and gave Ron a glare to rival Neville's. "You need to start thinking before you speak. It wouldn't hurt you to be a little bit more sensitive."

"Who are you to talk about being sensitive? You've said some of the most insensitive things I've heard in my life. But I guess when you say it, it's just considered being 'honest,' now, innit?"

"Guys," Harry said in a vain effort to stop the bickering.

"I learned my lessons, Ronald. I've grown up, but clearly you've still got some work to do."

"You haven't 'grown-up' as much as you think you have, otherwise you'd see that you're being completely ridiculous right now."

"I'm ridiculous? You're—"

Hermione felt her vocal cords constrict and started gasping for air, as if it would release them. Next to her, Ron was mouthing words with such ferocity that he turned red.

"Oh, thank God for Professor Wainwright," came Ginny's melodic voice. Hermione spun around in time to see Harry kiss Ginny's cheek in thanks.

Glaring at her traitorous friend, Hermione pulled out her wand to do the counter-jinx.

"Expelliarmus," Harry said almost lazily. The vinewood wand flew out of her hand and Ginny caught it in mid-air.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Hermione had one more trick up her sleeve—though she'd only used it with simple spells in a controlled environment.

Accio wand, she thought, and focused all of her energy on the wand in Ginny's hand. It didn't move. Ginny looked amused, assuming that Hermione was just glaring.

Hermione redoubled her efforts and narrowed her field of vision to the wand and the wand alone. Accio wand, she thought again, but this time gestured for the wand to come to her. It remained in place.

You can't Summon a magical object as powerful as a wand while it's in the power of a witch or wizard, a whisper in the back of her mind chided. Right then.

EXPELLIARMUS, she screamed internally and visualized the wand flying out of Ginny's hand and into her own.

The vinewood wand and Ginny's wand ripped themselves from the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain's grasp and flew full force at Hermione. Only instinct moved Hermione's hand in time to block the wands from hitting her smack in the face.

She picked up the wands from the ground and wordlessly performed the counter-jinx while the other three stared.

"You can do wandless magic?" Ginny asked incredulously as she took her wand back from Hermione.

Harry looked like a proud father sending his firstborn off to school. "It's Hermione. Of course she can do wandless magic." The bespectacled man nodded at Ron. "Are either of you going to perform the counter-jinx on him?"

Hermione and Ginny looked at Harry, Ron, and then each other. "No," they chorused, and headed for Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop with two silent men in tow.

9. Chapter 9

Draco

"Oi! Are you trying to jinx me or kill me?" Nott shouted across the garden as yet another one of Draco's spells hit the cement birdbath and sent shrapnel flying at Nott's head.

"It's this bloody wand!" Draco replied. He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he resisted throwing the useless piece of wood to the ground. For the last several days, it seemed the wand would be better served as a projectile than as a magical instrument. "It won't aim, or if it does, it produces a spell so weak it wouldn't hurt a baby."

Nott cast a Mending Charm on the birdbath as he walked over to his distraught roommate. "You might consider taking some time to get to know the wand."

Draco scoffed. "It's a wand. It's supposed to do what I want. That's its entire purpose."

"Do you know anything about wandlore?"

"Old men with nothing better to do arbitrarily mix and match a dozen woods with magical cores and shape them into sticks of various sizes," Draco said flippantly. In truth, he knew there was more to it than that, but it all came down to the same thing: wands were meant to obey wizards, thus this wand was clearly faulty.

"There is nothing 'arbitrary' about designing a wand, and there is nothing simple about wandlore. Wands have loyalties. You, shining example of wizardkind that you are, nicked a wand off a dead guy—who was on the opposite side of the war, I might add—and expected it to work. At best, the wand is grieving its previous master. At worst, the wand is getting so fed up with you that it might backfire at any moment just to get you to stop using it."

"It's a piece of wood. It's not sentient."

"For being a pure-blood, you're awfully dense about magic."

"I am literally a genius when it comes to magic," Draco retorted. "No one got higher marks than me."

Nott rolled his eyes. "You know that's not true."

Draco sneered at Nott, who had been second in their class. For years, the same five students fought for top marks—two Slytherins, two Ravenclaws, and a Gryffindor. More often than not, Draco found himself fourth on the list. "No one who matters got higher marks than me."

The other man narrowed his eyes in a show of uncharacteristic annoyance. "You know, when Granger finally joins up with the Aurors, I hope she's the one to bring your arse in. I want a front row seat to that duel. If I remember correctly, every time that witch pulled her wand on you, you ran for your life."

"I did not."

"Ten Galleons says Granger is the one who catches you. Another ten says you don't even put up a fight."

"You're supposed to be on my side, Nott," Draco snarled. "Remember that. If I find out you're passing information to the Ministry about me..."

"Chill out, Malfoy. I am on your side, and for your sake, I hope I'm wrong. But if you do get caught, Granger'll be the one to do it. It's poetic justice for all the hell you put her through at school."

"I put everyone through hell."

"You called her a Mudblood."

"Yes, but I did that with all the Muggle-borns—"

"You hexed her teeth."

"It was an accident—"

"You tried to sabotage her O.W.L.s."

"Umbridge tried to sabotage her—"

"You stole books from the library so she couldn't revise with them."

"I needed those for my own studies!"

"And she still beat you." Nott folded his arms and levelled an unamused expression at Draco. "You had it out for Granger more than any other student—"

"Not true. Potter—"

"Including Potter."

"You're delusional."

"You were as obsessed with beating Granger as you were with ruining Potter's life. The thing is, Malfoy, I think if things had been just slightly different—if she wasn't so brave and you so bloody selfish—you would have been a pair of Ravenclaws having a friendly competition."

Draco stared at Nott as if the man had just started speaking Parseltongue. "Take that back."

"No. It's the truth. You're both brilliant—no one's going to deny you that—but you're both completely blind to each other's good traits mostly because you deigned to be an insufferable git for six years."

"She's a Muggle-born! She doesn't have any good traits!"

Nott raised his wand and directed it at Draco. "You're going to stop that now."

"Stop what?" the blond demanded.

"Pulling the Muggle-born card. She's a brilliant witch and you can't stand that you were raised to believe that Muggle-borns were inferior only to get to Hogwarts and be consistently shown up by one."

Draco spat on Nott's shoes. "You're starting to sound like a blood-traitor. Maybe you should be using Weasley's wand and I'll take yours."

"Don't ever call me a blood-traitor," Nott said with a sudden storm in his eyes. Gone was the jovial, easy-going roommate Draco had become accustomed to; instead, a fierce warrior stood in his place. "Pure-bloods need to start earning their—our—place in this world rather than feeling entitled to it. You want to be better than the Muggle-borns? Earn it. You can start by figuring out how to make nice with Weasley's wand. Otherwise you'll never stand a chance."

"I'll just go to Gregorovitch and get a new one. One that actually works."

Nott put a hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. "Gregorovitch died almost a year ago. You can go to Ollivander, you can go to some no-name, sub-par wandmaker, or you can take my advice and study wandlore until you figure out what the problem is between you and that wand."

Draco spun the offending wand through his fingers. "I don't understand you."

"What about me is so complex that you're having trouble?"

"'Pure-bloods need to earn their place in the world'? You're everything the Ministry wants pure-bloods to be. Why are you hiding? Your father was the Death Eater, not you."

Nott scoffed. "You honestly didn't think you, Crabbe, and Goyle were the only ones whose fathers forced them to get the Dark Mark, did you?" The lithe man pulled up a sleeve to reveal a faded brand on his tanned left arm. "The Ministry's not going to give a rat's ass if I wanted it or not. Not this time around."

Draco felt stunned at the sight of the Mark on Nott's arm. "When did that happen?"

"Seventeenth birthday, just like I knew it would. My father was so damn proud." He grimaced.

"Seventeenth—but that was sixth year," Draco interrupted with clear confusion.

"You were distracted," Nott replied blandly. "And then seventh year happened, and the Carrows...and Snape...I was their little servant when you and your goons weren't around." A long silence fell over the garden as Nott closed his eyes. "It wasn't my choice any more than it was yours."

"At least you never—"

"'At least I never' what, Malfoy? Used an Unforgivable Curse? Did that. Watched somebody die? Did that. Duelled someone in the name of the Dark Lord? Did that, too. I'm not hiding out here for fun. I'm just as guilty as you. Probably more so, since I was of age when I took the Mark."

"I didn't—"

"No, you didn't know, because I wasn't about to tell anyone. And the Dark Lord and my father—they turned that into a weapon. I was 'undercover', they called it. As long as nobody knew I was a Death Eater, I could get the half-bloods and the blood-traitors and the Mudbloods to trust me." Nott raked a hand through his brown hair and kept going; a dam seemed to have broken and he needed to spill his secrets. Draco got the distinct impression that if he tried to interrupt this confession, he would learn another of Offensively Defensive's curses first-hand.

"Do you realize they went after the Muggle-born Slytherin first? No," he answered his own question. "You wouldn't have realized it. You were too busy doing—whatever it is Head Boys do.

"He was a second-year. The Dark Lord gave him a choice: snap his wand and return home to his parents, or stay and be used as an example. He stayed. Should've been a Gryffindor, that one." Nott shook his head, his eyes looking at something Draco couldn't see. "That was the first time I ever used the Cruciatus Curse. The second time was on a half-blood Ravenclaw during Muggle Studies. She got injured—cut her arm open pretty bad—and Alecto wouldn't let her go to the Hospital Wing. Didn't let anyone help her at all. She had to rip a piece of her own robes to bandage it when they weren't looking."

"I—"

"I'm not finished," Nott snapped. "I used the Cruciatus Curse eighteen times last year on ten different children, and I can tell you the name of every single one. I can tell you the exact spot where they fell in the classroom or in the dormitory or on the grounds. I didn't want to, but I had to put on a show. So I'd imagine it was one of the Carrows I was torturing. I even pictured my father once.

"But I'd suck Merlin's hairy bollocks before I let that define me, so that first Hogsmeade weekend, I smuggled the second-year out of the school. Remember the day Snape and Amycus sent the rest of the Muggle-borns down to Filch's office? That's why."

"I also seem to remember all of the Muggle-borns disappearing," Draco said, remembering the Carrows' massive tantrum that resulted in the destruction of the Dark Arts classroom and requisite move to another room. He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the former Slytherin. "I always assumed it was those bleeding-heart Gryffindors that got them out."

Nott cracked a bitter grin. "We may have crossed paths." He straightened his shoulders and his expression sobered. "We got twenty-seven Muggle-borns out of the castle in two hours, but we couldn't help them past that. Think about it, Malfoy. Twenty-seven kids had to go home and tell their Muggle parents they had to go into hiding. There wasn't a support system for that. How do you, as a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old, explain to people who don't know the first thing about what's going on—how do you explain that you have a price on your head?

"Of course, seven of the bloody idiots couldn't stay away—six Gryffindors and a Hufflepuff—wanted to fight instead. Amycus killed one personally down in Filch's office after he was caught. A couple of others died in the Battle of Hogwarts." Nott looked stricken. "We did that. I did that."

"It wasn't your fault," Draco said quietly.

"I will never stop hearing them scream. I can't sleep, Malfoy, because I see them constantly. And the Ministry won't give half a damn that it wasn't my choice." The man sighed and headed for the door as if he was suddenly exhausted. He kicked at a potted lily as he reached for the handle. "Just—figure out your wand."

Draco looked down at the weapon in his hand with surprise. With becoming immersed in Nott's story, he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Yeah. Okay. I will."

"Thank you. I'm tired of duelling someone who can't even perform a decent Shield Charm."

It was several minutes before Draco went into the house. He pulled his Potions kit and cauldron out of their hiding place in a kitchen cupboard and opened his textbook. For hours, he carefully prepared his ingredients, stirred the potion with precise movements, and cast the appropriate charms. He fell into a trance-like rhythm, enjoying the engrossing task for the first time since...he couldn't remember when. Fifth year, maybe. Fifth year had been the last time he'd enjoyed much of anything. His world went to Hell after that.

As he cast the final charm over the turquoise solution, he felt the wand settle comfortably in his hand. "You like Potions, hmm?" he murmured. "Maybe we do have something in common, after all."

After another ten minutes, the potion faded to a deep purple, and Draco siphoned it into several phials. He cleaned up the work area and packed all but one phial behind his cauldron in the cupboard.

It was nearing midnight by the time Draco stepped into Nott's room. The other man was sitting on top of his bedclothes with an open book to his left and a half-filled parchment to his right.

"What's that?" he asked, looking up from his revising.

Draco rested the phial on the bureau just inside the door and bit the inside of his cheek. "Something to help you sleep." His lips twitched up as Nott stood to collect the potion. "I can't duel someone who's too tired to cast a decent hex."

An easy but tired grin slid across Nott's face. "I could hex you in my sleep with that pitiful Shield Charm you put up." He took the phial off the bureau and sniffed the contents. "Dreamless Sleep?" he asked with surprise. "That's what you were making?"

Draco tried to shrug as if making the potion was no big deal. "I know what you mean about the nightmares. I used to nick this stuff from Pomfrey last year. It helped. Not a lot, mind you, but enough."

"You sure it's safe?"

"Of course it's safe. I made it."

"That's my main concern." Nott held the phial out. "You drink half, I drink half. That way we both get poisoned."

Rolling his eyes, Draco took the potion and drank a little less than half. "Satisfied?"

"I will be tomorrow, when I see you've actually woken up from it."

"You scheming little snake!"

Nott raised his hands and snickered as he backed away. "I promise I'll take it tomorrow night if it turns out to be safe."

"You really don't trust me," Draco stated with a hint of hurt in his voice.

"I've watched you make several potions over the last four months and they're always almost right, but not quite. You can't blame me for being cautious."

Draco glared at his roommate but gave a grudging nod. "Tomorrow night, then. I expect you to be fully alert by Friday. I suspect this wand and I will be much better friends by then."

Nott set the potion back on the bureau and led Draco to the door. "I look forward to it. And Malfoy?" Nott gave a genuine, if tired, smile. "Thank you."

10. Chapter 10

Hermione

Parvati, Padma, and Hannah watched as three owls landed in front of Hermione at breakfast, nearly knocking over her pumpkin juice. The bushy-haired Gryffindor tucked five Knuts into the leather pouch attached to the foot of the Daily Prophet delivery owl before she turned her attention to the other two.

"Is that Hermes?" Ginny asked as she yawned and slid onto the bench next to Hermione. "Why's Percy writing to you?"

Hannah gave a thoroughly conspiratorial grin. "Didn't you know that Hermione and Percy have been writing all year?"

"We're expecting him to declare his intentions any day now," Parvati added. Her Ravenclaw twin giggled and nodded.

Hermione tried to fight the flush rising in her cheeks, but felt her skin burn anyway. "It's not like that. He just needs someone to talk to." She untied the letter from Hermes' leg and moved on to the third owl.

"Does Ron know?" Ginny asked.

A feeling of unease chased away the burning. Hermione shrugged. "It hasn't really come up..."

"Hermione," Ginny admonished. "You and Ron have been dancing around defining your relationship for six months, but it's obvious you want to be together." She gestured to the thick letter on the table. "Unless you don't?"

The other three women watched the conversation with uninhibited fascination. They so rarely had a chance to feel normal, and what was more normal than an impending love triangle? And one involving two brothers, at that.

"What if I just—what if I don't want anyone?" Hermione demanded. "What if I'm not ready for that? I still have school and...other things that I have to deal with before I can even consider a real relationship."

"If that's the case, I'd appreciate you not leading on two of my brothers." Ginny reached for a piece of toast, but her hand stopped halfway across the table. She changed course and picked up the second letter. "Is that George's handwriting?"

Parvati, Padma, and Hannah leaned forward, trying to see the front of the envelope as Ginny ripped it open without Hermione's consent. The redhead scanned the letter quickly and growled. "You know the last time we heard from him was when Charlie told us he showed up in Romania? Of course he'd be writing to you. All you need now is Charlie and Bill, and you'll have all of the Weasley boys wrapped around your finger."

Hermione snatched the letter from Ginny. "I swear this is the first time he's written me." She read through the messy handwriting reminiscent of Ron's scrawl. She scowled at Ginny. "You made me think this was something bad! It's just a thank you note for helping with the Duplication Parchments!" Hermione smacked the younger woman with George's letter.

Ginny smirked. "I know. But your reaction was hilarious."

"You utter—"

"Good morning, ladies," Neville said, seating himself next to Hannah. He glanced at the entertained looks on their faces and quirked an eyebrow. "What did I miss?"

"Hermione's dating three of the Weasley brothers," Padma summed up.

"Though we expect Percy will be the first to propose," Parvati added.

"It's not like that!" Hermione protested again.

Neville examined the heavy envelope from the elder Weasley brother. "Does Percy know that?"

"Seriously, Hermione, one night with Percy and—" Ginny started, riling the other woman up even more.

"One night?" Hannah asked, her eyes glittering with delight at the insinuation of something scandalous.

Hermione snarled, annoyed and distressed by the topic. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I seem to remember walking in on you and Percy on a bed all snuggled up…." Ginny trailed off as she looked at Hermione's murderous glare.

"Now you're just being cruel. You know what that was about." Hermione snatched the letters from the Weasley men and the Daily Prophet and stuffed them into her book bag. "I need to go to the library. DON'T follow."

Once in the library, Hermione slammed her bag down on a table and winced at how loud the sound was in the silent room. With more self-control, she pulled out her Arithmancy text and a pitifully short roll of parchment.

How dare Ginny make light of what happened with Percy? He had been in pain and she had been able to comfort him. That was all their relationship consisted of—sharing pain and comfort, only via letters now that she had returned to Hogwarts. He'd been instrumental in helping her hunt down the book about Memory Charms, even if he thought she was only interested in them for a school project. And he'd asked her advice on where to go next with his career. He was hesitant to return to the Ministry, but his father needed assistance in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office.

Sure, their correspondence had grown increasingly lighter over the months. He'd begun joking that she would probably become the second youngest person to ever receive an Order of Merlin (the youngest, of course, would likely be Harry). There was nothing remotely romantic going on between the two, and she didn't appreciate the suggestion that there was.

"Hermione?" a soft voice came from above her.

She snapped her head up, prepared to make a snide comment at Ginny, only to find a pale young woman with brown hair tied back with an emerald green ribbon, wearing a green-and-silver striped tie. "What?" she said. It came out harsher than she meant, but Daphne Greengrass was a Slytherin. She could take it.

"Can I sit here? Everywhere else is..." Daphne flushed, a broken anger flashing in her eyes.

The rest of the tables had been claimed by one or two students from other houses, but the Slytherins were sequestered into crowded corners of their own. The other students still looked at them with suspicion or open hostility. In spite of McGonagall's efforts, inter-house relations among the older students had not improved.

Hermione set her bag on a chair and freed up the other side of the table for the displaced Slytherin. "Sure."

"Thank you." Daphne sat down and pulled out her own books. The women worked in tense silence, both aware of the stares they were getting from the other students.

"I hate this," Daphne mumbled after several minutes.

"Pardon?"

Daphne looked up and furrowed her eyebrows. "I hate this. I didn't do anything wrong. It's not my fault that I was Sorted into a House that everyone hates. My sister's a Ravenclaw, you know. When she's with her friends, she pretends she doesn't know me." She looked down at her hands. "I didn't do anything wrong. The Death Eaters were as bad to us as they were to the other students. They treated us—Tracey and me—like we were blood-traitors because we wouldn't hurt people. And nobody cares."

Hermione felt some small piece of her heart break as she watched Daphne fight to stay composed. "I didn't know."

"That's the point, isn't it? Nobody knows because nobody asks. They just look at us and see blood-purists and people who tortured other people for fun."

"Why tell me? I didn't ask," Hermione said, hoping her voice didn't sound unkind. It wasn't odd for people to come up to her and start confessing their feelings since they'd started doing their 'therapy' meetings, but a Slytherin? That was uncharted waters.

"They look up to you. If you accept that there are some of us who are innocent, they might. And it goes beyond Hogwarts. The Wizarding world doesn't want anything to do with Slytherins. They call all of us Death Eaters." Daphne looked pained and pleading as she met Hermione's eyes again. "But mostly I just want my sister to talk to me again."

"Your sister's Astoria, right?" Hermione asked. Daphne nodded, surprise clear on her face. Hermione made a snap decision. She hoped she wouldn't regret it. "There's a group of us meeting tonight at seven in the old Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. If you're serious about wanting to be accepted, you should come. You and Davis. Just be prepared to bare your soul. You're going to have to trust them before they trust you."

"Who?"

"Just come and you'll see."

Neville put his hands on Hermione's shoulders to stop her from pacing. Most of their expected crowd had arrived, but Daphne and Davis were late. Had she done the right thing? How would everyone react to having Slytherins in their midst? Daphne was right—most students viewed all of them as dangerous, even if proven otherwise.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Five after. What's going on with you?"

Three shadows appeared in the doorway and the gentle hum of the students' conversations stilled to an eerie silence.

Daphne, Tracey Davis, and Blaise Zabini edged into the room, staying close to the wall. The first looked terrified while the other two looked annoyed at having been brought along. Hermione was secretly relieved that Parkinson hadn't joined them. Even her compassion didn't reach that far.

A blonde Ravenclaw scooted closer to her friends, the look on her face extremely similar to Daphne's. The older sister watched the movement with hurt and confusion. "Astoria?"

The younger girl shook her head. "You shouldn't be here."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I asked her to come."

The assortment of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs looked at Hermione with obvious disbelief.

"We'd heard you sat with her in the library," Ernie said with clear distaste, "but this is too far. This is supposed to be a safe space. They're traitors."

A small wave of relief washed over Hermione as students shifted uncomfortably. They might all be thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to agree with the likes of Ernie Macmillan.

"They shouldn't be here," Zacharias Smith echoed.

Okay, most people didn't want to agree with the likes of Ernie Macmillan. Hermione envisioned a Stunning Spell striking Zacharias between the eyes and causing him to fall into a vat of bubotuber pus. The image made her smile.

Ginny, never one to keep a biting remark from crossing her lips, jumped to her feet. "You trampled first-years to get out of the Great Hall instead of staying and fighting. You're a disgrace to Dumbledore's Army. If anyone doesn't have a right to be here, it's you."

A tense silence overtook the room as Ginny and Zacharias glared at each other.

"It doesn't change the fact that they're Slytherins," Ernie said, drawing the attention back to himself. "They're the ones who caused all of this."

"We didn't, though!" Daphne burst out. She waved her hands erratically, searching for words. "It wasn't us. We never claimed loyalty to You-Know-Who, and we were punished, same as you!"

"The Carrows never raised a single hand to the Slytherins," Zacharias snarled.

"Not outside of the common room," Davis said quietly, speaking for the first time.

"Prove it." A fifth-year Gryffindor pulled back a sleeve of his robes to reveal a long, dark scar. "We've all got scars. Show us yours."

"The Cruciatus doesn't leave scars," Davis answered.

"Convenient," Ernie said, none too quietly.

"Ernest Oscar Macmillan, if you don't shut your mouth, you'll be scratching some very inconvenient itches from now until Christmas," snapped an extremely put-out Hannah Abbott. Hermione's jaw dropped at the threat from the normally mild-mannered young woman. Neville puffed out his chest and beamed at his girlfriend.

"The Cruciatus might not scar, but the Diverberas does." Daphne pulled down the neck of her shirt and robes. Hermione saw a series of neat scars crossing the young woman's collarbone and continuing down to the top of her breast as if created by a four-pronged fork. "I refused to bring a Muggle-born down to Filch's office for 'detention'. Amycus let Crabbe practise some of the 'less harmful' curses on me. Didn't want to spill too much 'pure-blood', he said."

Astoria looked like she wanted to be sick. A friend held her across the shoulders to keep her steady. "But you were helping them," the sixth-year Ravenclaw said. Her words sounded hollow, as if she no longer believed a well-known truth.

"We weren't. None of us—Daphne, Blaise, and I—we didn't." Davis's eyes were dark as she challenged the students to contradict her.

"You didn't stop it from happening," Zacharias said.

"Actually," Neville cut in, "they did."

Two dozen heads turned to face the tall Gryffindor next to Hermione. "Them?" Ernie asked with disbelief.

Ginny and Hannah raised their wands in tandem. Hermione heard a jumble of words, and watched as Ernie's ears began to grow at an alarming rate. He was distracted from that problem, however, by the previously promised 'inconvenient' itching. Hermione was pleasantly reminded of the animated movie Dumbo and restrained herself from casting a jinx to make Ernie's ears flap like wings.

"Oi!" Zacharias protested as he reached for his wand. A second round of the same spells hit him, with an additional Hair-Lengthening Jinx tossed in by Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Chaos briefly broke out among the students nearest the hexed Hufflepuffs. As a Ravenclaw and Gryffindor helped lead them from the room, Justin stood. The room quieted again as he hobbled his way to the door. The exiting party paused in confusion at the shift in atmosphere. Ernie's ears were nearing the size of dustbin lids; Zacharias's were not far behind, although they were obscured by his shoulder-length hair.

"You ran," Justin said when he reached Zacharias. "When loyalty demanded that you stay and fight, you ran." He turned to face the Slytherins. "My brother and I escaped thanks to you and Nott. After what happened to Colin...I probably owe you my brother's life." He extended his right hand to Daphne.

She shook it, looking bewildered. "I don't understand. How did you—"

"I told him," Neville said. "He asked me who helped. It was pretty obvious that Hannah and I couldn't have gotten all of them out alone." Neville turned back to the students and waved a hand in Daphne's direction. "Daphne Greengrass and Theo Nott are the reason we were able to get the Muggle-borns out of the castle last year. Snape was meeting with the Heads of Houses, so Daph and Theo distracted the Carrows. Ginny and Luna took care of Filch. All of which allowed Hannah and I to get the Muggle-borns up to the Room of Requirement and out to the Hog's Head."

Surprise registered on Zabini's and Davis's faces while Daphne burned red. "It wasn't that big of a—"

"You saved lives," Justin said firmly. "We Hufflepuffs don't forget something like that." He held out an open hand and nodded to the row where he was sitting. "You deserve to be here."

Hermione watched in awe as the students moved to clear three additional seats around Justin's. The Slytherins cautiously followed the limping Hufflepuff into the crowd. The glares of distrust softened to mild apprehension until Astoria stood. She pushed through the chairs and stood in front of her sister. "Can I?" she asked Davis.

Davis nodded and moved to the younger Greengrass's abandoned seat. Astoria sat down next to her sister. Daphne looked overwhelmed as she was flanked by two unexpected allies.

Something like pride rose in Hermione's chest. She shared a secret smile with the brave Slytherin before opening the floor to anyone else who wanted to speak. It would still be a long time before the houses were fully integrated, but this was a hell of a start.

11. Chapter 11

Draco

"D'you think it's too late to try for a N.E.W.T. in Divination?" Nott asked as he tossed down his quill. "At this point, I don't particularly care how the Chaldean method indicated the absence of significance of the number nine in magical Hebrew culture." When silence greeted his rant, he balled up a scrap piece of parchment and pelted it across the table. "Malfoy!"

The blond man looked up from a book opened next to his Arithmancy text. "What?"

"What are you reading? Why aren't you working on Arithmancy?"

"You're the one who bothered me for weeks to research wandlore. I'm researching wandlore."

"You can't get a N.E.W.T. in wandlore. Help me with Arithmancy. How did the Chaldean method show the relationship between the number nine and Hebrew-based spells?"

"I don't care."

Nott sighed and closed his book. "Neither do I. What's next on the list? Have you decided what you're going to go for?"

Draco shook his head. "It all depends on if I can get this wand to work with me consistently or not. Astronomy, of course. My mother will have a fit if she comes back and I didn't get an Outstanding in Astronomy. Transfiguration and Charms if I can. Arithmancy and History of Magic if I can't."

"What about Ancient Runes?"

"Yeah, probably that too."

"Herbology?"

"I'll leave growing my Potions ingredients to Sprout," Draco said. "What about you?"

"Transfiguration, Charms, and Ancient Runes. I'll sit for Arithmancy, too, but just as a back-up. And maybe Herbology. I'll grow your Potions ingredients and you'll make my potions." Nott had caved to taking the Dreamless Sleep potions twice a week, and he looked a world better for it.

Draco grunted. "That's a fair trade, I s'pose." He waved at the book on wandlore. "What do you make of this? 'Veela hair is a rare core found in mid-European wands that leans towards mischief, stubbornness, and flamboyance. It most commonly prefers a female touch, but may become loyal to males who have a natural talent with Charms.' That could describe Weasley's wand, right? All of that joke stuff the Weasley twins did fifth year was mostly Charm-work."

Nott shook his head. "Ollivander doesn't use Veela hair, and there's no way the Weasleys went anywhere else for their wands."

"I'm surprised they had enough money to go to Ollivander," Draco muttered. "Maybe it's a knockoff."

"Vermiculus," Nott said, pointing his wand at Draco's quill. It immediately transformed into worms.

Draco screamed in a range slightly higher than he would ever admit to and jumped back from the table. "What was that for?"

"Jinx me," Nott answered.

"What?"

"Jinx me. You know you want to."

"I'll hex you into next Tuesday."

Nott gave him a look. "I didn't say 'hex'. I said 'jinx'."

Draco squinted at his friend. "I don't know what game you're playing—"

"Oppugno." The worms began flying at Draco's head.

Draco toppled backward out of the chair and swore loudly. "You're going to get it, Nott!"

Nott sprung lightly to his feet and skipped out of the library. "You'll have to catch me first!"

Draco chased his roommate out to the back garden. "Locomotor wibbly!" he shouted. The spell hit its target and Nott fell over, hanging onto the birdbath for support.

"Tarantallegra!" Draco's feet began dancing a wild jig. He cursed again as he had a flashback to being twelve years old, up against bloody Potter in the joke of a Duelling Club.

"Finite incantatem," he said, pointing his wand to his legs.

Nott had also countered his impediment and stood facing Draco with a wild grin. "Ready?"

The men threw a dozen jinxes at each other, ducking and laughing as the spells hit their intended targets. Within ten minutes, Draco had lost all his hair while Nott was sprouting petunias from his ears.

A flash of light headed for Draco and, fearing something worse than losing his precious locks, he threw up a Shield Charm. The spell ricocheted and the birdbath was again blown to pieces.

Nott clapped and laughed, the flowers on the side of his head quivering. "Brilliant!"

"You look ridiculous," Draco said.

Nott plucked a flower from his ear and tucked it into his hair. "You're one to talk. I can see why the Malfoy men keep their hair long. Your head looks deformed."

"I swear to God, I'll get you again. Another Jelly-Legs Jinx? Or maybe I'll transfigure those petunias into cacti."

"Malfoy. How does the wand feel?"

The bald man looked down at his hand with surprise. "Natural," he answered. "How did—"

"You reading about the Veela hair gave me an idea. Weasley was a mischievous fellow, so I thought maybe his wand likes mischief." Nott removed the flower from his hair and held it out to Draco. "It appears I was right."

"I don't want your earwax-covered flora," Draco said, swatting the flower to the ground without malice. "You know, I haven't played like that since I was eleven. Not really. Not without intending to do some permanent damage."

"Maybe you'll be good for each other, then."

"You talk about it like it's supposed to be my friend or something. It's not a sentient being."

"And here I thought you were maybe starting to understand." Nott sighed and disappeared the petunias from his ears. "Someday, Malfoy, you might finally understand the bond between a wizard and his wand. It appears today is not that day."

"I thoroughly understand the bond between a wizard and his wand," Draco cackled.

"I see you've also rediscovered your eleven-year-old self's sense of humour." Nott muttered the Hair-Lengthening Jinx and Draco felt the uncomfortable sensation of his platinum hair bursting from his skin. "You're going to look remarkably like your mother in about ninety seconds."

"Finite incantatem," Draco said. The spell shot from the wand but did nothing. His hair passed his shoulders. "Why didn't it work? We were getting along two minutes ago!"

Nott grinned. "Ah, yes. You see, finite incantatem doesn't work on this particular variation of the jinx."

"You—"

"Delightful ray of sunshine?"

"You bring shame upon the Noble House of Hufflepuff!" And Draco charmed Nott's robes back to the brilliant yellow they had been before Zabini left for school.

"Well, your impressive understanding of wandlore is clearly a credit to the Noble House of Ravenclaw." Draco's robes faded to a deep blue. "Not."

A furious battle of Charms later, the Zabini garden looked like a multi-colored hailstorm had destroyed the entire thing. A Levitation Charm gone awry lifted an entire row of potted lilies and deposited them onto the gabled roof, where they slid off and crashed to the ground. Another Charm suggested the scattered remains of the poor birdbath had been painted an alarming shade of orange.

A few of the Charms hit their intended victims. Nott's hair now stood as if pulled up by invisible balloons. Draco couldn't stop smiling, and every attempt to pull his face into a scowl caused his lips to widen.

"I hate you," Draco said.

"I'm your best friend and you know it."

The arrival of a large eagle owl interrupted their banter. Lancelot had been gone for nearly a week, probably enjoying the familiarity of Hogwarts while he awaited Zabini's next letter.

Draco brushed his waist-length hair behind his shoulders, opened the letter and immediately snickered before handing it to his roommate. Nott groaned at the opening line.

THEODORE ATTICUS NOTT, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME ABOUT THE MUGGLE-BORNS? I HAD TO HEAR ABOUT IT FROM NEVILLE 'I-KILLED-THE-GIANT-BLOODY-SNAKE' LONGBOTTOM OF ALL PEOPLE.

It might interest you to know that because of your and DAPHNE'S (yes, I know about her too) little foray into Gryffindor-like tendencies, your ex-girlfriend is now dating a Hufflepuff. A Muggle-born Hufflepuff with a lamed leg. I'm pretty sure he's one of them that was Petrified during second year.

I will put all of this aside for now, but I expect a full explanation when I see you next.

As for your classwork, I've managed to enlist some unexpected help. Thanks to Daphne, the Slytherins are now on speaking terms with the rest of the school. I've been able to pass off your essays to Granger, of all people, under the guise of needing guidance for my own studies. Thankfully neither of you are completely daft, and she's had to make very few corrections to your work.

I've sent a list of your next assignments. Complete them by Thursday and send them back with Lancelot. He seems to prefer the Owlery over the cottage.

Sincerely, Blaise

"A HUFFLEPUFF?" Nott demanded.

"At least she's consistent," Draco replied, gesturing to Nott's yellow robes.

"Which Hufflepuff got Petrified?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You can't expect me to remember the name of every idiot we went to school with."

"Getting Petrified was kind of a big deal. Was he the one with the ridiculous name? Farkley-French or something?"

"Finch-Fletchley," Draco corrected.

Nott smirked. "I knew you remembered."

"You're intolerable." An uncomfortable feeling rose in Draco's chest, but he pushed it down until it settled into a sense of unease in his stomach. "Speaking of intolerable, why the hell would he get Granger involved? She'll figure it out when she realizes Zabini is passing off essays with three different handwritings."

"We'll have to trust Blaise." Nott began shooting Mending Charms every which way around the garden, until it began looking respectable again. Draco noted with dry amusement that the birdbath remained orange.

They were sitting down at their table in the library when Draco made a decision he'd been dreading. "We need to go into Muggle France," he said without ceremony.

Nott's quill paused mid-scratch as he gave Draco an astonished look. "What? Where did that come from?"

"I know you want to trust Zabini, but Granger... If she figures out he's been harbouring us, we're going to need to run. We need a plan for when that day comes."

"And you think going into Muggle France is going to help? How?"

"Integrating myself into the Muggle world was my contingency plan. Well, if I'm going to do that, we need to know how to navigate said Muggle world."

"What do you mean 'we'?"

"Granger, Nott. He's showing our work to Hermione-bloody-Granger." Draco rubbed his head with an open palm. "We've gotten too complacent here anyway. One hint in the Daily Prophet that we're hiding out in France and that'll be it. How long before they realize one of our classmates has a house here?"

"Malfoy, you're overreacting. Blaise isn't going to get us caught."

"You don't know that. Read between the lines, Nott. This is just another way of letting us know that our lives rest in his hands. One 'accidental' slip up to Granger and suddenly Wonder Boy and Spattergroit show up at our doorstep with arrest warrants."

Nott frowned. "If he 'slips up,' that'll implicate him, though."

"Not if he says we Imperius'd him. And who would you believe? The man who went back to Hogwarts with a clean reputation or two second-generation Death Eaters? One of whom managed to Imperius someone for nearly ten months." Draco stared at the Ancient Runes textbook on the desk with unseeing eyes. "We'll have to hide in Muggle France. Paris?"

"Are you kidding?" Nott snorted. "We'd be safer in London. Paris is teeming with magic. The French wizarding community is centralized there, and it's at least ten times the size of Britain's. If—if—you weren't just being paranoid and the people of Wizarding France knew to look for us, we'd be recognized instantly."

"Fine, fine, not Paris. Versailles?"

Nott's annoyed look deepened. "No. No Paris. No Versailles. No Bordeaux. No Lyon. No Toulouse—"

"You're naming every major metropolitan in the country. Name places we can go, you prat."

"I don't know where we can go!" Nott yelled. For the second time in a month, Draco saw his friend's carefree exterior crack. "And I don't really want to go into the Muggle world. I'm just the same as you. I don't know where we'll be safe. I don't know where to hide. This—trusting Blaise—is the best I've got. I don't know everything, Malfoy. You need to start figuring some of this out yourself."

"I'm not asking you to—"

"When you showed up here in June, the closest you'd ever come to a stove was your cauldron. You couldn't untransfigure that damn trunk of yours for three weeks. You'd never been shopping for necessities. You had Blaise arrange your affairs with Gringotts and that Swiss bank. You've never done a damn thing for yourself."

Resentment and offence overcame Draco. "Is that really what you think? That I'm just this spoiled, rich prat who's entirely incapable of succeeding?"

"Every time a new challenge comes up, your first instinct is to let someone else handle it. Not even 'let'. You make someone else handle it. Blaise, with your money and your housing. Me, with the shopping and the cleaning and the cooking. We're not your goddamn house-elves, Malfoy."

"I'm well aware you're not house-elves!" Draco sneered. "House-elves don't talk back—"

"Really? That's your answer? Not 'I'm sorry I've made you feel this way for five months and I promise to do better'? 'House-elves don't talk back.' You're just—"

"What got into you?" Draco demanded. "We were just fine three minutes ago!"

Nott shut his mouth and took several deep breaths through his nose before speaking again. His voice was strong and clear, so unlike the lofty tones he normally used. "You've been like this ever since we were kids. Expecting people to do things for you." Draco began to protest and Nott gave an exhausted wave of his wand. "Silencio." The blond glared at him but knew better than to attempt the counter-charm. There was a ninety-five percent chance that Weasley's wand would side with Nott.

"You are not an easy person to be around, Draco Malfoy. You're not an easy person to like, either, but I do. I think there's something redeemable behind that pampered, bigoted, generally foul armour you have. So does Blaise, even if he'd never admit it. And I can't blame you for being paranoid about all of this, because I am too. But when you start casting doubt on the one person who's gone above and beyond to help you, you've gone too far.

"You have no one to run home to anymore. Your mother and father aren't around to protect you, and that was your choice. Not theirs. It was your choice to be alone, and if you ever cast doubt on Blaise's intentions again, you will be entirely alone. Are we understood?" He removed the Silencing Charm.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "That entire outburst was because I insinuated that Zabini has ulterior motives? He's a Slytherin! If I were in his shoes, I'd be doing the exact same thing."

"No, you wouldn't." Nott's golden eyes met Draco's silver in a battle of ill-kept tempers. "I'm not saying that as a credit to your character, because I believe you are entirely capable of betraying the people who trust you. You couldn't do what Blaise is doing because Granger would never help you. Silencio. You're missing something fundamental in your soul, Malfoy.

"You need to work on your trust and loyalty. And don't give me that look, like I'm some bloody daft Hufflepuff for saying the word loyalty. Being Sorted into Slytherin doesn't make you devoid of the characteristics of the other Houses. You would hardly be a person if all you had were Slytherin traits.

"I think you've put so much stock, so much pride, into being a Slytherin that you've done yourself a great disservice. Now you're considering running off into the Muggle world—which makes me think you've literally gone mad—, and do you know what the Muggles don't care about? What bloody House you were in at your magic school."

Through the entire lecture, Draco fought back from launching himself straight across the table to fight Nott. He might have been mute, but there were other ways to fight than with words.

"Incarcerous." Ropes flew from the end of Nott's wand and bound Draco to the chair before he could make a move. Nott spoke a series of other incantations Draco didn't recognize before standing up and packing away his books. "Beyond hiding behind your House, you also hide behind the name of Malfoy. Your name means nothing anymore. There is no pride in being a Malfoy, what with your entire family on the run, just like there is no pride in being a Nott. Our fathers screwed us out of a future, Draco, and I don't want to be associated with it anymore. From here on out, you're Draco and I'm Theo and fuck the men that took our familial pride away from us.

"I don't want to go into the Muggle world, Draco, but I will go with you because that's the kind of friend I am. However, you will do all of the research necessary to make sure we can fit in. In addition, the names of the Hogwarts Houses are now Taboo. If you speak any of them, you will wake up flat on your back with a blinding headache."

He made it to the door of the library, leaving Draco still magically gagged, bound, and fuming. "Oh, and the enchantments on you will break once you decide to agree to my terms. And I like waffles for breakfast."

How dare that man accuse the Malfoy name of weakness. Even if his father's actions had been a dark stain on the Malfoy legacy, Draco would do his best to rebuild it once this was all over. If it was ever over. He ignored the tug in his chest that begged him to acknowledge the truth in Nott's—Theo's—words.

Draco (futilely) channelled his energy into trying non-verbal, wandless magic, but the desperate need to attend the toilet finally broke his resolve several hours later. As he began to decide how to attack this latest problem (including how the hell he was supposed to make waffles), his thoughts kept wandering back to Theo's casual, unpredictable use of jinxes and hexes. Perhaps Zabini wasn't the one he needed to worry about after all.

12. Chapter 12

Hermione

While casting of rudimentary Memory Charms can be done through relatively simple incantations, removal of even the simplest Charms requires delicate work. Hastily applied Memory Charms can modify the Charmed person's memory in unpredictable ways, including unintentional blocking of commonly accessed memories, weak barriers which may be accidentally broken by the Charmed person, or complete (and therefore permanent) obliteration of the targeted memories.

Complex Memory Charms require the caster to be an experienced Legilimens so as to properly block and modify only the targeted memories. Implantation of false memories should only be attempted by such a person as it is nearly impossible to create memories which will be seamlessly assimilated into the Charmed person's existing memories without intimate knowledge of the Charmed person. By this same logic, the caster removing a memory block or false memory must use Legilimency so as to not remove or damage true memories or leave partial imprints of the removed block or memory.

When a Memory Charm has been applied correctly—

An earth-shaking crash broke through Hermione's concentration and she whipped around to see a cackling apparition in a jester's hat throwing rocks at the walls of the newly repaired Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. "PEEVES!" she screamed as a crack appeared in one corner.

"Hoity-toity Granger thinks she might be in danger!" Peeves shouted and zoomed out of the room, only to return with what looked like a box from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. "Leave now or forever hold your peas!" And he ripped open the box to reveal a collection of fireworks.

"Peeves, if you set a single one of those off, I will get the Bloody Baron in here."

The poltergeist blew a raspberry in her ear and she shrieked. "I only need to set one off!"

"Now run!" a disembodied voice said from somewhere else in the room.

"Who's there?" Hermione demanded.

"Just run!"

Peeves held up one of the fireworks and a lighter. Hermione jammed the book on Memory Charms into her bag and ran—straight into Blaise Zabini. The Slytherin raised an eyebrow as she stumbled backward but his face was devoid of emotion.

"Granger," he greeted.

"Sorry," she said. "Peeves—mayhem. You know. Oh! I have those essays you asked me to look over. The History of Magic essay is a bit long and overcomplicated and you know Binns doesn't read the whole thing."

Zabini smirked and held out his hand for the scrolls. "Lord knows if you're saying the essay is overcomplicated, it must be a disaster. I'll revise it before Monday."

"Okay, good. The Arithmancy work is decent, although I added some notes about Hebrew-based divination techniques and how they led to the development of new curses, and the Ancient Runes translations were perfect. The Potions essay on advanced uses of boomslang skin is definitely your stronger option, but if you'd prefer to turn in the one about experimental improvements to the Wolfsbane Potion, there's a book in the library called—"

He took the parchments from Hermione's grasp with an amused shake of his head. "You're something else, Granger. How do you have time to do it all?"

"I have a lot more time without having prefect duties this year. And I spent a considerable amount of time helping Harry and Ron. It's a bit of a relief to review someone else's work, to be honest."

Zabini let out a genuine laugh, which seemed to surprise him as much as it did Hermione. "Nice to see something higher quality this year?"

Hermione flushed lightly, realizing the accidental insult about her best friends. "That's not what I meant."

The chuckling man winked and turned away. "If you say so, Granger."

"It wouldn't hurt to say thank you, you know," she called after him as he headed down the hall.

He waved the parchments in the air. "Thank you," he said without turning around.

An almighty BANG sounded from the classroom she had just left and a sparkling pink dragon rocketed into the corridor. Hermione did an about-face and ran. She remembered the Vanishing debacle of fifth-year when their travesty of a "headmistress" attempted to clear the school of the Weasleys' mayhem-causing fireworks, which only caused them to multiply or explode. Hermione didn't fancy being chased by ten dragons, real or charmed.

"There you are!" a voice shouted when she reached the Entrance Hall. Neville, Hannah, and Ginny waved her over to where they stood in front of a broom closet.

"Are you okay?" Hannah asked as Hermione caught her breath.

"Peeves—fireworks—Weasleys," was all she managed to say.

"How did Peeves get a-hold of Whiz-Bangs?" Ginny asked, flawlessly translating Hermione's gibberish.

"Fred and George must have stashed some somewhere. I wouldn't put it past them," Neville said, though there was something shifty about the way he looked away from Hermione and Hannah when he spoke.

"Neville..." Hermione said.

The man held up his hands. "I swear I didn't do it."

Hannah folded her arms. "But you know who did."

"Seamus," Hermione said. "Who else would provide pyrotechnics to a psychotic poltergeist?"

Neville kept his face impassive. "I can neither confirm nor deny—"

"I can tell Professor McGonagall that I'm concerned your independent study under Professor Sprout is interfering with your other classes," Hannah threatened.

"I thought you Hufflepuffs were supposed to be loyal!"

His girlfriend gave a sugar-sweet smile. "I am. To Hermione." All three women giggled at Neville's outraged face. "What'll it be?"

Neville caved with a good-natured shake of his head. "All I can tell you is it was a group effort that may or may not have been headed by a certain Muggle-born Hufflepuff."

The bushy-haired Gryffindor was not amused. "Why would Justin give Peeves fireworks? Doesn't that seem a little irresponsible? What if he sets them off in the library?"

Ginny chuckled. "Of course your first concern would be the library."

Hermione harrumphed and looked at Neville. "Why?"

"You've been miserable for two weeks. Do you know what happened two weeks ago?" She shook her head. "They repaired the classroom. You used to stare at the rubble like it was a lifeline. You said it yourself: seeing the evidence of the Battle kept you grounded."

"So you blew it up?" she yelled. "That's vandalism! It's—"

"Hermione, stop. We'll put it right at the end of the school year."

"It's still vandalism."

"If it makes you feel any better, it wasn't our idea. We don't even know whose it was. Justin heard this voice one day after a meeting..."

Ginny's entire body tightened, nearly shaking with anger. "Oh, no. You didn't."

"You listened to an anonymous VOICE?" Hermione demanded, her fists clenched at her sides. She ignored the fact that she had also just listened to a faceless voice, but in all fairness, it only told her to run. Not blow up a classroom. "Do you even realize how dangerous that is?"

Hannah was watching Ginny with her eyes narrowed. "Ginny? Do you know who it is?"

"No," the youngest Weasley said curtly. "But I know better than to listen to disembodied voices. Where the hell is Justin? I need to hex something." She stomped toward the Great Hall, where dinner was wrapping up. She whirled around with her wand pointed straight at Neville. "NEVER listen to anything if you don't know where it keeps its brain. A first-year would know that." She resumed her hunt for the lamed eighth-year, who wouldn't stand a chance against her unless he managed to conjure a Shield Charm worthy of Albus Dumbledore.

In the Entrance Hall, Neville's face turned ashen and guilty. "But...we thought it would help."

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing her resolve to stay angry, but it was Neville. And she could never stay mad at Neville. She growled, annoyed at herself for forgiving him so easily, and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you for thinking of me." She glanced into the next room. "I'll thank the other idiot after we get him to Madam Pomfrey."

Neville choked out a short laugh. "Thank you for not hexing me."

"I could never hex you." Hermione stepped toward the grand doors into the Great Hall. "Now. Who does the strongest Body-Bind Curse, or are we going to have to call in Aurors to stop Miss Weasley?"

Two hours and one trip to the Hospital Wing later (Justin had boils on his face while Ginny gashed her forehead on the edge of the Slytherin table when Neville put her in a Body-Bind; Madam Pomfrey was livid), Hermione sat in the newly-destroyed classroom with the book on Memory Charms open once again. No matter how much she didn't want it to be true, the theme through the entire chapter on removing the charms was the same: Legilimency. Memory Charms were never to be removed by anyone other than an experienced Legilimens. Granted, they weren't supposed to be cast by anyone but a Legilimens, but it was too late for that now.

She sorted through the short stack of books she could find on Legilimency, only to discover that all of them were about theory. The sections on technique were scarce and vague. Useless. The books were useless.

Hermione dropped her head to the table. It was useless.

"Hermione," the disembodied voice whispered.

The sound sent a chill down her spine, but a sense of familiarity chased it away. She knew that voice. Now that she wasn't fuming at Peeves, she knew she knew that voice.

"Hermione, work on the Tracking Parchments."

She spun in her chair and looked frantically for where the voice might be coming from. "Fred?"

"Maybe. I might be Forge."

"Where are you?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why can't I see you?"

The disembodied voice laughed. "I've been practicing throwing my voice. It's surprisingly easy as a ghost. I can project anywhere."

"If you're throwing your voice, how do you know where I am? And how are you hearing me?"

"Ghosts have clothes, right?"

Hermione nodded at the empty room. "Right..."

"Well, turns out whatever you die with, you keep, therefore I have an after-lifetime supply of Tracking Parchments and Extendable Ears." She could almost hear his frown. "Although, wands seem to be an exception to that rule. Ginny told me they never found mine."

"Ginny knows about you?"

"So do the Slytherins, but they don't know it's me exactly. George and I learned early in life how to mimic the family ghoul. Don't tell Ron."

Hermione straightened up in her chair and tried not to be disconcerted by the fact she was talking to something she couldn't see. "Have you been to see George?"

There was a pause before the voice answered. "I can't bring myself to do it yet. Ginny said he ran away."

"He's with Charlie, if you want to consider that 'running away'. It might be easier on him if he knew you were still around. You could still help with the store, although it would probably have to be an advisory role."

"But that's just it. I can't. I can't...watch George grow old while I'm stuck looking like a twenty-year-old with a bad haircut."

"If you're not still here for George, then why are you still here?"

"Because I can't leave without him. But if he knows that's why I'm here, it'll drive him mad."

Hermione held back the emotion rising in her chest. "He'll find out eventually."

"I can play Ghoul for the next eighty-plus years. I can terrorize generations of Slytherins. Parkinson's already moved into the boys' dormitory so Zabini can protect her."

"Fred. You'll get bored."

The disembodied voice laughed again. "That's why I have Peeves."

"Wouldn't you rather be developing pranks with your brother?"

"Hermione, I can't. I've already said that."

"George is stronger than you're giving him credit for. Tell him. Besides, the Weasley twins I know would be thrilled by the opportunity to have their store run by a ghost." This was met with silence. "Fred?"

Something icy passed through Hermione's leg and she looked down in time to see a thin, see-through snake whipping through the far wall. An Extendable Ear, she realized. The conversation was over. Once again, Fred was gone.

13. Chapter 13

Draco

"I can't believe Granger gave you full marks on Ancient Runes. Again." Theo glowered at the self-satisfied bighead across the dining table.

Draco pointed at Theo with his fork, which had a floppy piece of bacon on the tines. "Four times. In a row." He bit off part of the bacon and grinned. "And I made a fantastic breakfast."

"It's passable." Theo's plate was already clean, as he'd practically inhaled his meal. He was now looking over the latest batch of 'graded' homework from Zabini. Lancelot was perched on the back of a dining chair with his head tucked under his wing. Draco had the feeling Zabini was using the eagle owl for more than their direct correspondence.

"Oh God," Theo groaned. He narrowed his eyes at Draco, entirely unamused. "She gave you kudos. I'm going to be sick."

"Do I hear the sounds of jealousy falling from your tongue?" Draco put down his fork and snatched a scroll. "Ooh, an 'Acceptable' on Arithmancy? That's painful." He looked down at the actual essay. "Oh."

Theo cackled. "My Arithmancy assignment is sitting right here. An 'Acceptable', hmmm? That's painful," he echoed. Draco threw the parchment at him.

"Why is she grading us in green ink? Just because we—well, Zabini—are in Sly—" Draco stopped before the Taboo Stunned him and sent him falling into his plate. "Isn't green ink a little cliché?"

"Or maybe that's just what she had on hand," Theo reasoned. "Nice catch, by the way, though I was looking forward to seeing you with egg on your face. Then again..."

Draco managed to cast a silent Shield Charm a split second before Theo blew up his plate and sent the eggs and bacon flying. After almost six months, he'd finally learned Theo's tell—a minute twitch of his left eyebrow meant nothing good was about to come out of his mouth. As the destroyed breakfast dripped to the floor, Draco growled. "That was my food, you git. I made that! And I'm still hungry!"

"So go make more," was Theo's disinterested answer.

"You're paying for lunch."

"As long as you count out the money, I'll be happy to flirt with the waitress."

Draco glared at his roommate. "I hope we get the ugliest male Muggle this side of the Channel."

Theo shrugged. "Either way. I'm an equal-opportunity flirt. So where are we going?" he asked before Draco could retort.

The room suddenly felt a bit too small, but Draco hid his discomfort behind a careful mask. "There's a Muggle town a few miles from here. I scouted it a few times—had to Obliviate a woman who started shrieking when I Apparated once—but it was pretty clear there's not any magic in the area."

Theo sighed. "You Obliviated a Muggle?"

"I couldn't let her go around telling people I appeared out of thin air."

"You performed magic in a strictly Muggle area. You broke the International Statute of Secrecy. What if the government tracks magic usage in Muggle areas? There are some countries that do that."

Draco let a smirk slip across his face. "Theo, my friend, I'm a Malfoy. The International Statute of Secrecy is child's play to a family like mine."

"You cast charms to make your magic undetectable, didn't you?" Theo groaned at Draco's smug expression. "Those are illegal."

"We're on the run from the Ministry of Magic for performing far more dangerous and illegal magic than a couple of innocent charms," the blond pointed out.

"I'm not conceding to your point. You Obliviated a Muggle, which the Ministry will not take kindly to. We should not be getting ourselves into more trouble than we're already in. You're just asking for the French government to discover us. After we leave the house today, no magic. We're Muggles. Understood?"

The devoutly pure-blood part of Draco's mind protested the notion that he would have to give up the basis of his identity. The self-preservation part of his mind shut down the pure-blood instincts. This was for the best.

"Fine. But that means you can't hex or jinx me at random."

Theo's lips twitched into a chilling grin. "I'll manage."

Transfiguring their clothes into something acceptable for their voyage into the Muggle world was the least daunting task of the day, even if Draco's wand decided to take up the hem of his trousers a bit too far. Theo laughed for six minutes at Draco's exposed shins before he helped the frustrated blond achieve a respectable length. Fred Weasley's wand got a stern talking-to before Draco attempted his next feat: charming his hair colour.

Fifteen minutes passed as Draco sat against the wall of the bathroom, staring at the floor. The door was closed and locked, keeping Theo and his questions far away while Draco worked up the nerve to do something he hadn't done in almost eight months. It didn't help that the room kept getting warmer the longer he stayed still, making it harder to breathe. It was becoming warmer, right?

A knock rapped at the door. "Draco? Are you done yet? Flitwick's going to have kittens if he ever finds out it took you twenty minutes to cast a colour-changing charm. Alohomora."

Theo walked into the room and evaluated Draco with curious golden eyes. "Why are you staring at the tile?"

"I can't do it."

"What? Weasley's wand isn't cooperating again?"

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed. Keeping his left arm wrapped around his stomach, he raised his right hand and pointed at the mirror. "I can't."

Understanding dawned on Theo's face. "When's the last time you looked in the mirror, Draco?" Draco shook his head, not responding. "It's not as bad as you think."

"It's not as bad?" Draco snarled, glaring at Theo. "I barely look like myself anymore! Any time I feel them, I remember—I failed. I failed and I failed and I failed and some part of me wanted to fail because I knew it was wrong, but I didn't deserve this! I didn't deserve—" He looked past Theo and glimpsed the mirror and the disfigured face he was afraid to see. The left side of his face was covered in a web of puckered scars, too thick for the injuries that created them.

"Just do the charm, Draco. Do the charm and you can pretend you're someone else. You can act like the scars belong to someone else."

Draco closed his eyes and whispered the incantation. When he looked at the mirror again, his disgust at his own face was rapidly chased away by a new problem.

"Why does it look like this?" he whined as he tried to smooth down his now light brown hair with frantic pats. Because he kept it rather long after the Hair-Lengthening Jinx, his hair wasn't sticking straight up, but it did have a noticeable disregard for gravity. "It's frizzy! Why is it frizzy?"

Theo couldn't hide his glee at Draco's new dilemma. "Maybe Parkinson will let you borrow some Sleekeazy's."

"This isn't funny! I look like Granger!"

"Nah, I think her hair's tamer."

Draco sent a hex at Theo, which the troublemaker easily dodged. A blue porcelain vase twenty feet away blew to pieces.

"Oooh, Blaise's mum is going to kill you."

"Shut up." Draco cast a silent Mending Charm and returned the repaired vase to its perch. "Help me with my hair."

Theo conjured a stretchy fabric circle. "Here you go. Muggle hair tie."

"How do you know what a Muggle hair tie looks like?" Draco took the unfamiliar object and tried to stick his hair through it from the bottom up.

"Tracey uses 'em. Good God, you're hopeless. Turn around." Theo snatched the hair tie from Draco, pulled the bushy brown hair together at the nape of his neck, and looped the band around the ponytail twice. "There. You still look ridiculous, but less ridiculous. At least no one will recognize you as one of the infamous Malfoys."

Draco looked in the mirror, carefully focusing on his hair and nothing else. "It's still a disaster. It looks like I have hair growing out of my ears."

"It does not. Now, are we leaving sometime today, or are you going to sit in here for another ten hours?"

"I hate you." Draco grabbed his travelling cloak and fastened it around his neck. "Let's go."

"That is definitely not Muggle attire."

"It's winter. It's cold and I'm not wearing some godawful jumper."

"The point of this is to NOT stand out." Theo frowned and pulled at his own jumper. He had transfigured it from the robes Draco kept charming a blinding shade of yellow.

Draco raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Out of the two of us, you're the one people are going to notice."

As they left the cottage, the sun peeked through heavy clouds promising snow. Draco turned to his friend and shaded his eyes from the jumper. "God, that's bright."

"It's your fault."

"I don't know if I can be seen in public with you."

"If you can be seen in public with that hair, you can survive my jumper."

Draco stopped walking and looked longingly at the house. "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

"I will levitate you to the outskirts of the town by your ankle if you decide to chicken out."

"What about the Statute of Secrecy?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "I said 'the outskirts'. Unlike you, I'm not daft enough to perform magic in front of the Muggles. Now let's go."

The pair Apparated to a wooded area just north of the town and walked the rest of the way. Upon first glance, the snow-dusted town looked quiet and calm, and not so different from Wizarding communities of a similar size. The differences were subtle in the beginning: the heavily-bundled children weren't playing with tiny brooms, nothing floated in mid-air, and the smoke escaping the chimneys were white.

As the men neared the heart of the town where the residents bustled around busy shops, the differences became more noticeable. There was no apothecary selling potions ingredients; instead, a hand painted window advertised 'lotions, potions et produits de beauté' ('lotions, potions, and beauty products') beneath a sign reading Belle Peau. Grocers stood outside storefronts with carts of produce and salted meats. The scent of fresh bread wafted from a bakery.

Draco's stomach growled, reminding him of the breakfast Theo had destroyed.

"Food," Draco said, and marched for the bakery.

"But I'm not hungry," Theo protested.

"Too bad." As they stepped into the warm bakery, Draco took a deep breath and felt the tension over their trip disappear. Fresh bread was one of the things he smelled when he arrived in the room filled with Amortentia during sixth year, though he'd never confide that to Theo.

A smiling woman in her early forties greeted the men. Her curly brown hair was held back from her face by cheap jewelled combs, and her hands were tucked into the pockets of a black apron. Draco's nerves returned as he stumbled over his words. How was he supposed to talk to a Muggle? How did one order food at a Muggle bakery? Was it the same as in a Wizarding bakery or were there different customs?

The woman's smile faltered as she waited. "Puis-je vous aider à decider de quelque chose?" May I help you decide on something?

Something about the way she formed the words made Draco examine the woman while Theo remained oblivious to everything but the display of cupcakes.

"Es-tu anglais?" he asked the Muggle cautiously. Are you English?

Her eyes lit up, crinkling the light wrinkles in the corner. "Yes! Oh, it's so good to hear another native English speaker. It's been such a long time since my husband and I have been able to speak with anyone who didn't sound like they were perpetually sneezing. Don't get me wrong, we love France, otherwise we wouldn't be here, but good lord, it's nice to hear your voice."

Draco raised both eyebrows in surprise. Were all Muggles this friendly?

"I'm surprised you could tell my accent from three words," he responded. "My French is normally better than that."

The woman shook her head with a tiny smile playing on her lips. "You speak like you were taught by a governness. It's a subtle difference, but there, all the same."

Theo broke away from the cupcakes and ran a hand through his short brown hair. "English? Thank God, all of this French is enough to drive a man to drink. Maybe that's why they drink so much wine here. They can't stand their own language."

The Muggle laughed as Theo continued talking, making good on his oath to flirt with anything with a pulse. Unnerved at being discovered so quickly, Draco moved his attention to the food. He settled on a sandwich (what kind of bakery sold sandwiches?) and a muffin before snapping at Theo. "Are you going to get something?"

Theo rolled his eyes and asked for a cupcake with obscenely pink frosting. At the shopkeeper's request, they paid in British pounds since she was annoyed with the 'impending disaster' that was the franc to euro conversion (whatever that meant).

The woman's husband came in just as they were leaving. "I hope to see you again, Mister...?"

Draco's heart started beating faster and he tried to keep the panic from his face. He didn't have an alias prepared. He needed a thoroughly Muggle name. What kind of surnames did Muggles have?

"Granger," he choked out. Theo's eyes widened but he quickly hid his surprise.

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Granger and Mister...?"

"Granger," Theo said without missing a beat. "We're brothers."

"It's like you stepped out of a fairy tale; two handsome brothers in a small French village, one with golden eyes and one with silver." The Muggle smiled and glanced at her husband, who was stacking baguettes in a dangerously tall cross-hatch formation. "Honestly, husband," she chided with a chuckle. She turned back to the visitors. "I'm Monica, and my husband Wendell. I hope you gentlemen will come back and visit us soon."

Stepped out of a fairy-tale? Somehow, Draco felt he should have been disconcerted by the compliment, but he felt warm instead. Wanted, in a good way.

The men made vague promises as they left, though Draco's partially-made up mind was fully made up as soon as he finished the muffin. "I'm eating there every day for the rest of my life. This is amazing. What was it called?"

Theo squinted in the direction of the store. "Looks like 'Wilkins Family Bakery'. That's generic. Can't imagine a name like that brings in a lot of customers."

Draco shrugged. "More for me." He relaxed in his chair and looked around at the town. "Are all Muggles as nice as the Wilkinses?" The thought disturbed him on a deeply psychological level. Muggles were supposed to be vapid, unintelligent, and sub-human. His singular experience already challenged that long-held belief. He wanted to go back to see the Muggles again, and the realization chilled the warmth he'd felt.

Theo dusted the last crumbs from his cupcake onto the ground. "Only one way to find out." And they headed off to Belle Peau to see what exactly a Muggle potion was.

A/N: Raise of hands who saw that coming? No, seriously, I'm curious if that was the most obvious plot twist in the history of plot twists.

Thank you to everyone who has favorited and followed this story. I haven't had so much fun writing in ages and I'm actively working on the second story in the series as well as a few one-shots from the perspective of our non-POV characters.

See you all soon... :)

14. Chapter 14

Hermione

On Christmas morning, Arthur and Molly Weasley presented the family, Hermione, Harry, Andromeda Tonks, and Teddy Lupin with a spectacular gift: the Burrow. Charlie Weasley presented them with an additional unexpected gift: George.

Needless to say, most of Christmas morning was spent crying tears of joy as the Weasleys reunited. Hermione and Harry were drawn into the fray by Mrs. Weasley while Mrs. Tonks kept Teddy entertained in the Weasleys' new drawing room, which had been added to provide proper ground floor support to the rest of the towering house.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry finally managed to flee the chaos and take in Ron's refurbished room. It was oddly impersonal, with a desk, a wardrobe, and a bed taking up most of the space. The walls were bare, but Ron's lurid orange Chudley Cannons bedclothes were folded at the foot of his mattress.

"They wanted to give me the option to redecorate, since I'd had most of the Cannons stuff since I was eight," Ron explained. "I'll probably put it all back up, except for the posters Ginny burned."

"Ginny burned your posters?" Hermione asked. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. Ginny was turning into a force to be reckoned with.

"Just the ones that showed Mackenzie. He was a Chaser and married the Harpies' Keeper. I guess they got divorced or something, and Ginny's started talking to the Harpies about trying out for their reserve team next season, so she took the Keeper's side of course, and now I don't have any more posters of Mackenzie." Ron didn't sound nearly as bitter about the loss of his posters as Hermione expected, but with everything they had lost and gained in the last year, they all looked at the world through a new perspective.

"Are you going to replace them with anything?" Harry asked.

Ron got a shifty look in his eye that made Hermione distinctly uncomfortable, as it was her eyes that he wouldn't meet. "Probably not for awhile." Still not meeting her eyes, Ron directed his next question to Hermione. "So, have you thought about where you're going to live after you leave Hogwarts?"

"That was not nearly as subtle as you thought it was," Ginny proclaimed as she walked through the door. Ron flushed a deep red, Harry looked pointedly away from his two best friends, and Hermione felt the need to get out of the room. "Hermione, Mum and Mrs. Tonks wanted you to come downstairs to help with dinner."

Hermione sprung up from her chair and forced herself not to appear eager to run out the door. Ginny walked ahead of her with an affected air of indifference that made Hermione stop dead halfway down the stairs.

"You lied," she accused the younger woman. "Your mum and Mrs. Tonks didn't ask for me, did they?"

Ginny shrugged. "No, it was Percy, but I wasn't about to say that in front of Ron. You know how he gets when it comes to you. And especially right after he hinted you should move in here next summer? I wasn't going to say it was Percy."

"That's why he asked where I plan to live after Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Ginny narrowed her eyes and examined Hermione for a long minute. "You aren't planning to move to Australia, are you?"

Hermione couldn't answer, because in all honesty, the thought was crossing her mind more and more often as she read up on Memory Charms. There was a chance that her parents would go through some form of shock when their charms were removed, which meant they should be kept in an environment where they were comfortable. She wouldn't know if that environment would be Britain or Australia until she actually completed her task.

"I don't know," she said finally. "It depends on my parents and what they'll need from me after I break the Memory Charm."

"Well, you know Mum and Dad would love for you to live here, especially since we have so many empty rooms now. They wouldn't let you move into Ron's room anyway. They're too old fashioned for that."

Hermione's cheeks flushed at the suggestion she would move in with Ron. "I wouldn't—I can't—"

"Come on. Percy's waiting."

"But why?" Hermione muttered to herself as she finished descending the stairs.

Percy greeted her in the kitchen and motioned for her to follow him outside. She appreciated for a moment that he forwent the Weasley tradition of wearing some shade of red, orange, or pink that clashed with his ginger hair. His smart blue jumper complemented his pale skin and made his eyes look a deeper shade of blue than normal.

Wait. Why was she noticing Percy's eyes?

With an internal groan, Hermione switched off the emotional part of her brain and focused on being logical. Reasonable. She could do this.

Being an hormonal teenager sucked.

"How's your project coming?" Percy asked as they paced the edge of the garden.

Hermione kept her hands in her pockets, even though Percy held his right arm just far enough from his torso that she could easily slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets.

"It's frustrating, if I'm honest," she answered. "Everything keeps coming back to Legilimency, but when I research Legilimency, I'm left with nothing but dead ends. I can't find any practical information, just theory. And contradicting theories at that. Some researchers believe Legilimens must be born with the talent, while others believe it can be taught. And then there's the problem of how each researcher chooses to describe the mind itself. They're all completely contradictory. I feel like I need to become a Legilimens myself to understand what they're saying."

"But there's no information on how to do it," Percy mused. "It makes sense. Legilimency is a closely guarded branch of magic. Obliviators do between one and three years of training in the Department of Mysteries to study Legilimency—or that's the rumour, at least—, followed by a year of guided practice at St. Mungo's before they are licenced and allowed into the field. It's nearly as difficult as becoming an Auror even though the job is so specialized."

"Is there any other way to learn it?"

"Safely? Not unless you're a natural. But there are a handful of people out there who know the practice and train others; generally family members. Up until about World War I, the Blacks were known in certain circles to be Legilimens. Whether they were naturals or taught has never been confirmed, and after the war they mostly withdrew from public life. Everything we know now is unsubstantiated speculation."

Hermione imagined the shrieking portrait of Mrs. Black at Grimmauld Place. That was one woman she didn't want peering inside her mind.

The only accomplished Legilimens Hermione knew of was Voldemort. Given the evidence of evil incarnate and a family of questionable sanity, Hermione wondered if being a Legilimens eventually caused a person to lose his or her mind. It seemed like a real possibility, especially if one spent time searching the minds of people suffering from insanity.

"You're thinking too hard," Percy said with a half-grin. "You're on holiday. Leave the schoolwork for school."

Hermione feigned shock. "Percy Weasley, are you suggesting I'm taking something too seriously? You, purveyor of cauldron-bottom thicknesses and heaven knows what else, dare to accuse me of what? Turning in to you?"

"Yes," he said with a smile. "And I daresay such obsessions are unhealthy, especially for one so intelligent as yourself. You have too much to learn and too much to experience before you get lost in something that might take the rest of your life to understand." Percy held out his hand and gave Hermione a pointed look. "Live a little before you start pouring over decades of analyses of cauldron-bottom thicknesses."

Hermione's heart raced as she stared at Percy's hand waiting patiently to take her own. "I—Percy—Ron—"

"Is not your boyfriend. And I think if you wanted him to be, you would have made it official by now."

"We're still—I'm still in school and he's doing his Auror training. The timing just isn't right."

Percy dropped his hand, but the smile never left his eyes. "Hermione. The timing will never be right. You, especially, will always have something you're working toward that will distract you from having a personal life."

"But—"

"Can I ask a question?" She hesitated, but nodded after a pause. "This thing with the Memory Charms goes farther than a school assignment. I can tell that it's something you're passionate about and something you're going to pursue after you leave Hogwarts. So answer this: how well is Ron able to keep up with you when you talk about it?"

Hermione's heart twisted. "It hasn't really come up."

A look of true surprise crossed Percy's face. "In every letter you write to me, you're able to tie everything back to Memory Charms. I talked about the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts job and you mentioned how wizards combined experimental charms with electro-shock therapy in the late 1960s. You talked about your meetings with the other students and how you wished there was some sort of charm you could do to block their pain. It's an obsession and you're telling me you've never talked to Ron about it?"

"It just hasn't come up," she said again. "We don't talk about any of that kind of stuff."

"Hermione, this 'kind of stuff' is who you are. And when you do decide it's the right time to be with someone, you should be with someone who can keep up with you." Ron can't, was the hard truth Percy left unsaid. "I do stand by my earlier statement, that it will never be the right time to start something personal, especially for someone as smart and driven and passionate as you."

The mental box where Hermione had locked away her emotions began to crack open. She stared at the hedges to organize her thoughts before she turned back to the man in front of her. "I can't believe how much you've changed over the last two years. You're not..."

"As full of myself?" he offered. "Being a patsy—three times, mind you—in the middle of a war tends to open one's eyes to reality. First with Crouch, then Fudge, then Scrimgeour... By the time Thicknesse arrived, I knew how much trouble I was in and I could tell you every mistake that brought me to that point." Hermione stayed silent and watched him as he gathered his own thoughts. "I'm struggling against my own nature sometimes, staying here. I still have ambitions and I don't think working for Dad is going to get me anywhere, but I can't let down my family again."

"Taking a different job isn't letting down your family. Your parents raised you to be smart and successful, and if you feel like the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts job isn't your key to success, don't take it. As long as you don't turn back into a pompous git, they won't begrudge you following your instincts."

Delight broke across Percy's face. "Did you just call me a pompous git?"

Hermione bit her lip to hold back a grin. "I called your former incarnation a pompous git."

Percy shook his head and gave her an almost serious look. "Friend to friend?"

She furrowed her brows. "Yeah?"

"Don't bite your lip like that if you don't want a man to think about kissing you."

In an instant, Hermione felt her face go red and she released her lip to bite the inside of her cheek. "I didn't realize that would happen."

"Truth be told, it weakens the strongest of us. It's the innocence. We can't help it." Percy held out his arm. "Now, Miss Granger, may I please escort you to a Christmas dinner with my family? I promise not to ask for a second date until you feel the time is right."

Her jaw dropped but she took his arm. "That was the most ridiculous way anyone has ever asked me on a date. And you used an event I was already attending!"

"We grew up poor. I learned to be resourceful."

The chatter in the kitchen stilled as Percy and Hermione walked in with her hand hooked through his elbow. Mrs. Weasley gave them an odd look. Mrs. Tonks cut through the awkwardness to ask Fleur and Bill if they had returned to working at Gringotts yet.

When Ron and Harry came down several minutes later, Hermione and Percy were deep into a discussion about his aspirations within the Ministry, which somehow kept coming back to a discussion about how to get Hermione an internship with the Department of Mysteries. They had their heads together in order to hear each other over the din of the Weasley kitchen, so Hermione didn't see Ron stomping out of the room until he turned to go back up the stairs.

"Oh, crap." She excused herself and chased after her best friend. "Ron!"

Harry stopped her at the foot of the stairs. "I'm not sure you want to go up there."

"This...whatever this is—has gone on long enough. And I owe it to myself and Ron and Percy to figure it out."

The green eyes blinked several times. "So there is a you and Percy, then?"

"No? Yes? I don't know. We're friends. We've been writing each other since I got back to school, and it's more than the three-sentence updates I get from Ron once a month."

"You know that Ron's not the type to write long letters. Or at all, if he can help it."

"I know." Hermione rubbed her forehead. "I need to talk to him."

"Hermione, it's Christmas. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I have to."

Harry took a deep breath and moved out of the way. Hermione was three steps up when she heard the front door open and the booming voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Minister!" Percy said and jumped to his feet. He caught sight of Hermione, who rolled her eyes. "Old habits," he said, and shrugged. "At least he's a good one."

She grinned and caught herself biting her lip again. "Dammit," she muttered and turned her head sharply away from the Weasley hurrying to greet the Minister for Magic.

"Molly, Arthur," Kingsley said as he broke away from Percy, "I hate to intrude just before you're serving dinner, but I have an announcement I would like the entire family to hear." Mrs. Tonks stood and began moving back to the drawing room with Teddy. "No, Andromeda. You too. Who are we missing?"

"Just Ron," Mrs. Weasley said. "Hermione, dear, can you go get him?"

"I'll get him." Harry pushed past Hermione rather gracelessly. She looked at a loss before Percy gestured for her to join him next to Kingsley. As Ron descended the stairs, Hermione stepped closer to Kingsley than to Percy. The last thing the Weasleys needed on Christmas day was for her and Ron to row in front of the Minister for Magic.

"Perfect. Thank you, everyone, for allowing me to briefly interrupt your evening. I wanted to share with you personally that on December thirty-first, the Ministry of Magic will be holding a ceremony to present numerous awards to people who served the Wizarding world over the past few years."

Mrs. Weasley's hand flew to her mouth. Hermione had a feeling she knew what was coming next.

Kingsley gave a sad smile to Mrs. Weasley as her eyes watered. "In regards to the members of this household, the following awards will be presented:

"Remus John Lupin, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix.

"Nymphadora Lilium Tonks Lupin, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix."

Mrs. Tonks had tears streaming down her face as she pulled Teddy close to her chest. Hermione struggled to hold back tears of her own. As she looked around, she saw that the only dry eyes belonged to Ron, Bill, and Charlie.

"Fred Fabian Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix."

Mrs. Weasley choked on a sob and fell into her husband. Charlie and Bill put strong hands on George's shoulders as he took shaky breaths. Ron's eyes were no longer dry.

"Sirius Orion Black, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix." Kingsley paused and looked at each of them before he began the next part of his list. Harry was clutching Ginny's hand so tightly his knuckles were white. If his girlfriend was in pain, she didn't show it.

"Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix and the destruction of a Horcrux.

"Hermione Jean Granger, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix and the destruction of a Horcrux."

Percy gave Hermione a brilliant smile. Ron glowered from the other side of the room.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class for services rendered to the Order of the Phoenix and the destruction of a Horcrux."

Ron kept glowering.

"George Gideon Weasley, Order of Merlin, Second Class for services rendered to the Ministry of Magic.

"Fred Fabian Weasley, Order of Merlin, Second Class for services rendered to the Ministry of Magic."

Kingsley finished and took in the room of quietly sobbing adults. At the second Order of Merlin for Fred, Mrs. Weasley pulled George away from his brothers by the arm of his jumper and cried into his shoulder.

"The Ministry of Magic also wishes to thank each and every person in this room for their contributions and sacrifices in the Second Wizarding War. I hope to see all of you at the ceremony on New Year's Eve so that we may all ring in a new year with a much brighter future."

Mrs. Weasley forced Kingsley to take some of the Christmas dinner with him since he insisted he had to leave to visit other families (the next of which was the Longbottoms; Neville would also receive an Order of Merlin, First Class for killing Nagini).

At the end of the evening, long after George and Charlie spiked the hot apple cider, Hermione wandered out the garden with Percy once again.

"That was an interesting first date," he chuckled. "Normally having my date run off after my brother would be a bad sign, but then having her awarded an Order of Merlin—"

"First Class," she interrupted with an alcohol-induced giggle.

"Order of Merlin, First Class," he echoed. "That seemed like a good sign. The issue now is that I am very confused by the advent of both a bad sign and a good sign." His arm dropped to her waist and Hermione froze.

There was still Ron to think about. And her parents (which she hadn't told Percy about), and school.

But maybe he was right. Maybe there never would be a right time, or a right circumstance.

Still tense, Hermione tried to smile at her 'date'. "Hogsmeade," she conceded.

"Hogsmeade?"

She nodded. "Next Hogsmeade weekend, you should join me. I can't guarantee I'll be alone, but it's a start."

Percy grinned. "I will be there."

Through the window to the kitchen, Hermione spied Ron watching her out of the corner of his eye. Sometime between now and Hogsmeade, she had to make a decision. Would pursuing whatever this was with Percy be worth losing everything she had built with Ron?

With a murmured apology, she walked away from Percy and brushed past Ron to beeline her way to George and Charlie.

The solo twin looked up at her with surprise. "And what can we do for you, Miss Order of Merlin, First Class?"

"Do you have anything stronger than the cider?"

Charlie got a devilish smile on his face and reached into his dragonskin jacket. "Don't blame me if you don't know where you wake up tomorrow." He handed her a flask, and the brothers watched intently as she took a long swig. The bitter alcohol burned in the pit of her stomach, but left her immediately feeling lighter.

She eyed the flask, the men, and with a smile to match Charlie's, she drank again before handing it back.

"How do you feel, femeie frumoasă?"

She had no idea what 'femeie frumoasă' meant, but for some reason, she didn't care. "Light. What is it?"

George winked at her. "Let me know how you feel tomorrow and maybe I'll tell you."

Hermione tried to feel annoyed but the required tension wouldn't come. She shrugged and waved the men off. "Tomorrow."

A/N: 'Femeie frumoasă' means 'beautiful woman' in Romanian (according to Google Translate, so grain of salt and all that)

15. Chapter 15

Draco

After a depressing Christmas during which Draco and Theo treated themselves to the Zabinis' finer alcohols, New Year's Day began with Draco taking a newspaper straight to the eggs and bacon. As he threatened the delivery owl with non-payment, Lancelot also flew in through the open window and knocked over his water. The damn bird didn't even have the grace to look apologetic.

Nothing like starting out the new year as a fugitive with a ruined breakfast.

Theo still hadn't woken up by the time Draco finally paid the delivery owl and set to reading the paper. A curse escaped his lips as he looked over the front page. He shouldn't have paid the owl. He should have just sent the whole thing back.

British Minister for Magic Awards Order of Merlin, First, Second Class to 28 War Heroes

"Nope," he said, folded the paper and tossed it in the pooled water. "I don't need the news today."

An outrageous yawn sounded in his ear. "Is that a picture of Potter?" Theo asked, picking up the paper and drying it. Twenty-nine blotchy hands waved a thank you for getting rid of the water. Theo squinted. "It kind of looks like Potter. The water stain makes it rather hard to really see..."

"Don't you think that might have been the point?" Draco growled.

"Order of Merlin, hmm? I'm surprised it took them this long. Fudge would have handed these out two days after the war."

"Shacklebolt's by-the-book. No one's buying themselves an award this time around."

Theo Summoned his plate from where Draco set it up in the kitchen. "Potter, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley—wait is that a misprint? Your wand's previous owner was awarded both a First and Second Class."

Draco pulled out his wand and gave a half-hearted wave. Celebratory red and gold sparks shot out of the end. "Bloody Gryffindors," he muttered, and then face-planted in exactly the same place where the newspaper landed as the Taboo Stunned him.

When he came to, Theo was chortling at the vision of bushy-haired, brunette Draco Malfoy glaring across the table from behind a mask of scrambled eggs. "I detest you," Draco spat.

"Hey, you broke the rules. Not my fault."

"I'm not the one who placed the bloody Taboo on the names of the Hogwarts Houses."

Theo ignored him and waved the paper. "Granger, Longbottom, and Snape were all awarded First Classes as well."

"Snape?" Draco said, his frustration pushed out by overwhelming confusion. "Snape was a Death Eater."

"And a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and according to this he killed Dumbledore at Dumbledore's request."

"Bollocks. It's all bollocks. Snape was a Death Eater."

"Snape was in love with Potter's mum when they were in school. He turned coat after the Dark Lord killed her."

Draco frowned. "How do you know that?"

"There's an article on page four about it."

"Wasn't she a Muggle-born?"

"When did you ever hear Snape say a negative thing about Muggle-borns?"

"I—"

"You didn't. He maybe didn't say anything in defence of them, but he never spoke out against them."

Draco was still confused. "But he was a Death Eater. The Dark Lord's inner circle."

Theo rolled his eyes. "Don't you think it's a little convenient that Daphne, Longbottom, and the rest of the bleeding hearts knew exactly when Snape was calling a meeting with the Heads of Houses when we went to smuggle out the Muggle-borns?"

"He tipped you off?"

Theo nodded. "I'm not saying Snape was a good person—I'd never name my son after him—, but he was brave enough to work against the Dark Lord. And he didn't like seeing us hurt. Any of us. He did the best he could under the circumstances, but the Carrows and their merry band of Sly—Death Eaters-in-training were too far out of control."

"Someday you're going to slip up and get Stunned. I will commit that day to memory."

They dismissed the topic of Snape's posthumous Order of Merlin, though Draco kept running over the details in his mind. He had watched the man murder Dumbledore without the faintest flicker of regret. Even if he were to entertain the notion that Dumbledore had requested Snape kill him, wouldn't the Potions Master have shown some remorse? Some semblance of humanity? Was Snape so broken that he could euthanize an old man without hesitation?

Draco remembered staring at Dumbledore's wilting form at the top of the Astronomy Tower, his wand shaking. He could still feel the chills brought on by doubt and the clamminess of his hands. He remembered their last conversation word-perfect and how he had scoffed when Dumbledore had asked him not to say 'Mudblood'. The old man's composure in the face of death broke something in Draco. He'd expected more of a fight. In those final moments before he lowered his wand, he realized that he had depended on Dumbledore's reaction to fuel the hatred that would allow him to kill the man. When Dumbledore offered protection to the Malfoys before Snape arrived, Draco was stunned to discover he believed the headmaster would actually help them.

Dumbledore, broken as he was, remained calm and showed Draco he was broken, too.

"Hello?" Theo said, waving the paper in front of Draco's face and nearly hitting him on the nose. "Earth to Draco."

The conflicted young man pushed back from the table. "I need to go for a walk."

He disregarded his hair other than pulling it into a ponytail so it would stay out of his face. How women tolerated it, he would never know. His decision to keep charming it into the tangled disaster stemmed more from his desire to stay anonymous—and it seemed appropriate when using 'Granger' as an alias. Not that he hadn't done everything he could think of to calm the mess, but the frizz and slight curls were resistant to every charm and every potion. If he didn't despise the damned Muggle-born so much, he might have empathized with the struggle she'd surely dealt with for the last nineteen years.

With his cloak firmly around his shoulders, he left the house and plodded through the snow. The green hedges and bright flowers around the Zabini residence defied the winter, but the blatant use of magic did more to shake Draco's nerves than calm them. If only his father could see him now.

The miles-long trek did little to quell the storm blowing in his mind. Visions of Dumbledore falling from the tower were chased by the memory of the Muggle Studies teacher being swallowed by Nagini, which were usurped by the never-ending list of people his Aunt Bella tortured on the floor of the drawing room. But none of them held a candle to the vision that introduced and ended his nightmares: the moment when Vincent Crabbe fell into his own Fiendfyre. Draco's screams of fear and grief still echoed in his ears, even if his friend had turned on him, even if they hadn't been close for two years. It wasn't easy to lose someone with whom you spent every moment of every day with for five of your formative years.

The wind was picking up by the time Draco reached the little Muggle town. After his second venture into the Muggle world with Theo, he had become somewhat fascinated by the town. They didn't use candles or torches or suspended balls of light to illuminate their buildings and streets. They used glass orbs with tiny snakes of fire, which the owner of the clothing store caught him examining one afternoon. He made up some weak excuse about getting easily distracted before he ran out of the store. He'd made Theo go in and buy their Muggle wardrobes after that.

The one place that drew him back most often was the bakery. While he decided it looked odd to frequent places like the lotions and potions store, the bakery was open to him every day since people had to eat every day. He went back to the store for two weeks straight after they first discovered it. He told Theo he was just exploring the Muggle world in greater depth. He told himself that it was just nice to have someone else to talk to besides his roommate. None of the other shopkeepers spoke anything beyond broken English, and he detested French.

He was pleased to see the window shades of the bakery pulled up. The Wilkinses had taken a week and a half off for the Christmas holidays. Theo teased him about going into withdrawal when Draco attempted to make a hot ham and Swiss cheese sandwich two days into the Wilkinses' holiday. The experiment hadn't gone well, Theo was a prat about the entire thing, and a very testy Draco ended the discussion by threatening to withhold Dreamless Sleep potions for a week before stomping off to his room. It wasn't his finest moment, but it had gotten Theo to stop talking. The unintended consequence of his tantrum was Theo also stopped making dinner.

The chime above the door rang as Draco walked into the bakery. Mrs. Wilkins peeked around the corner from the back room with a, "Je serais juste avec toi!" I'll be right with you! before she caught sight of the young man.

"Mon ami!" she greeted him, and dusted her hands on her apron. She waved at something in the back, presumably her husband, and walked to the counter. "How are you, Mr. Granger? Did you enjoy your holidays? You look rather dashing! A grey suit certainly brings out those hypnotizing eyes."

He put on an embarrassed smile and tugged at the sleeve of the suit jacket. Traditional Muggle clothes appeared to be little more than undergarments, and the suit jacket alleviated some of the awkwardness. It still felt odd not to wear anything over his trousers. "Thank you. How was London?"

"Busy. The days leading up to Christmas were a shopper's nightmare, but Wendell always leaves everything to the last minute no matter how often I tell him holiday shopping should always be completed by Halloween."

Draco gave a genuine chuckle, remembering similar arguments between his parents that usually resulted in his father making a last-minute donation to St. Mungo's or the Ministry 'in the name of' whoever's gift he forgot to purchase. A wave of nostalgia, sadness, and pain rolled over Draco as his mother's exasperated but affectionate chidings rang in his mind. In two days, it would be eight months since he chose not to follow his parents to America. He didn't even know if they were still alive.

Mrs. Wilkins cocked her head to the side and frowned. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Hmm? Yes. I'm fine."

A motherly smile twitched at the side of her mouth. "You have that same look Wendell gets when he's remembering something he doesn't want to think about."

Was he really that easy to read, or was Mrs. Wilkins just extraordinarily intuitive? "I'm fine, I promise. Are you missing Australia yet?" he asked, changing the subject and gesturing to the snow outside the window. The Wilkinses had spent just over a year in Australia before they moved to France in September. They were adamant that they would never spend another summer getting sunburned and finding spiders the size of doorknobs in the kitchen.

"Heavens, no. It was over thirty-five degrees for three months, and it was never cold enough for snow. No, a year was enough for us. Here you can bundle up, but there's only so many layers of clothes you can remove before you're peeling off your own skin."

He almost made a comment about using a Cooling Charm before he caught himself. "I imagine that would be rather uncomfortable," he drawled instead.

The baker tutted. "It was nice to be somewhere different from England—have a break from all the rain, you know—but we were homesick after awhile. Did you know Perth has over two hundred days of sunshine?"

"If you were homesick for Britain, why did you move to France?"

She smiled a thoughtful-type smile that went all the way to her eyes. Mr. Wilkins walked out of the back and greeted Draco before he began examining the displays.

"We've always rather adored France, and there was something in us that said going back home wasn't a good idea no matter how much we missed it. And there's just something magical about this place."

Draco's heart stopped, but he took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his face. "Magical?" he choked.

"Yes. Did you know this is possibly the only town in Aquitaine or Midi-Pyrenees that has consistent snowfall in the winter? It's too warm elsewhere and just rains. We used to bring our daughter here—" And then she stopped. Her eyes glazed over for a minute before she frowned and shook her head.

Mr. Wilkins reached out and put an arm around her shoulder. "I think you should go lie down for a bit." She nodded and headed for the back of the store, still looking a bit dazed. Mr. Wilkins turned back to Draco. "I'm sorry about that. We don't have daughter," he explained. "Sometimes my wife gets confused when she's feeling overworked. We had a bit of an issue with the oven this morning."

"That's fine," Draco heard himself say. "It happens to everyone." A strange feeling sat in his chest. Was that pity? Muggles, Draco, he chided himself. They are Muggles. Muggles do not deserve any emotion, much less pity.

"She's fine most of the time. I guess I need to stop putting so much on her, but she's so determined. Have you ever met a woman who just won't stop pushing forward, even at her own detriment?"

Memories of a hand being thrust into the air over and over during Potions, even though the student knew Snape would never call on her, floated through Draco's mind. A bag of heavy books, dark circles, and shoulders hunched over a table in the library when he arrived and remaining when he left. "I've met a woman like that," he said.

"Aren't they a little terrifying?" Mr. Wilkins asked with a tiny grin.

Another memory of an open hand flying out of nowhere and landing with impossible strength against his jaw caused Draco to unconsciously rub the skin where Granger slapped him. "Sometimes they're more than a little."

Draco Malfoy, did you just tell a Muggle you're intimidated by a Muggle-born? Are you out of your bleeding mind?

Mr. Wilkins nodded in agreement. "Amen. Now, Mr. Granger, I assume you came in for a sandwich rather than a discussion on the mysteries of women?"

"That was my intention," Draco admitted.

Mr. Wilkins wrapped up the usual ham-and-swiss sandwich in brown paper and handed it off. "We're thinking about putting in some tables next to the windows," he said. "We thought that might add something to the atmosphere if we encouraged people to stay."

Draco nodded, and agreed before he could stop himself. "I would. I would stay."

He felt heat rise in his cheeks, but the shopkeeper didn't seem to notice. 'I would stay'? What kind of statement is that? You're getting soft, Malfoy, he thought. He rushed out of the bakery with barely a goodbye and headed for the woods.

As he began his trek back to the house, Draco practiced raising his Occlumency walls, and then extended the practice to his heart. He'd meant to hide among the Muggles, not become attached to them. Certainly not confide in them. Without magic, they were still lower beings, like pets. Although, the Wilkinses were considerably more intelligent than his father's peacocks, and less brutish than the Muggles in his mother's stories.

He knew about Muggle wars; he knew what they did to each other and the inventive cruelties they were able to create without magic. But try as he might, he couldn't imagine the Wilkinses binding the hands of their enemies, using projectiles to tear through the flesh of those they hated, and watching the lifeless bodies bleed out on the ground. Each time he tried to force the scenario into his mind, their faces were replaced by something darker. A cold laugh, a flash of red eyes. He saw the Wilkinses bound as metal rent their clothes, their skin, their hearts; not at the hands of fellow Muggles, but at the hands of his own people.

He shook his head, violently clearing the vision. He couldn't get attached to Muggles. He was a Malfoy and a pure-blood. He was not a Muggle-loving blood-traitor.

The sandwich weighed in his hand and for a moment, he considered throwing it into the snow to show himself just how much he didn't care about the Muggles. The detachment wouldn't come; his hand wouldn't open.

House-elves make food, he decided. I'm not attached to the Muggles. They're basically house-elves.

A nagging part of his brain argued that one did not have conversations with his house-elves. One did not imagine the demise Muggles at the hands of wizards with a whelming feeling of dread. Draco fought to create another wall, blocking those thoughts. Occlumency wasn't supposed to be used that way, but it helped. Or at least that's what he told himself.

16. Chapter 16

Hermione

Ice cut through Hermione's chest and startled her from the daze she'd slipped into while staring at her Ancient Runes extra reading. She looked at the table to see a transparent grey-white something floating above her book, held in place by an equally transparent hand sticking through her chest.

She whirled around to see a smirking ghost floating two inches off the ground. The icy sensation cut her again, then disappeared as Fred pulled his hand back.

"I've always wanted to do that," he said.

"Scare the living daylights out of someone?" Hermione snapped.

"Oh, no. I do that to the Slytherins every day. No, put my hand through someone. Well, someone who's awake. I like to mess with Parkinson's brain every now and again when she's sleeping."

Even though she disliked the girl, Hermione felt annoyed with Fred's antics. "That's cruel."

"The girl screamed 'Get him!' at Harry when the Chief Death Eater did that announcement. If anyone deserves an icy hand through the brain, it's Parkinson."

Hermione growled. "So what's your excuse for me, then?"

Fred gave a lopsided grin. "It's two-fold. First, you're supposed to be helping George and Verity with that Tracking Parchment charm. Second, Ginny tells me you're going on a date with Percy."

Hermione's cheeks burned and she turned back to her Ancient Runes book, suddenly very interested in the contents. "It's not a date."

"It is a date. Perce asked you out on a second date, mind you, and you said yes. You're off your rocker, Granger."

"What's it to you?"

"I'd like to chaperone."

If Hermione had been carrying anything, she would have dropped it. "You what? No one even knows you're—well, alive isn't exactly the right word—but you want to chaperone my date with your brother?"

"See? I knew it was a date."

"You're infuriating, even from beyond the grave."

"Now that you've admitted you're dating my brother—not the brother I would have picked for you, by the way—"

"And which one would have you picked? Since everyone seems to think I should be with Ronald."

Fred's smile widened. "Unfortunately, the brother I would have picked for you is indisposed. Unless you fancy a more unconventional relationship."

Hermione gaped and dropped her head in her hands. She replayed the conversation with Ginny where the redhead accused her of having all of the Weasley men wrapped around her finger. "You?"

"Well, there were only four more to choose from, and Bill's married, Charlie's not into girls exactly, and George has always been a little more invested in the business than his personal life."

On a verge of a headache, Hermione grasped for anything that made sense. "Are you saying Charlie's gay?"

"Ah, you would get caught on that. We're not sure, to be honest. He might just not like people." Fred waved a transparent hand. "But enough about that. Relationship stuff is for the living, and I don't have to deal with it anymore. Although, there is this ghost on the third floor—"

"Fred!"

He flourished the paper in his right hand. "Why haven't you been working on this?"

"I said I might be able to figure it out, not that I would." She paused. "And I only promised Verity. Now that George is back, why doesn't he just manufacture them?"

Fred rubbed his silvery chin. "See, there's the problem. We didn't charm them in the first place. Remus did. Now, given that our pal Moony found the charm as a fifth year," he paused and winced after about ten seconds. "Anyway, we figured it shouldn't be too hard. Alas, the ignorance of youth."

Hermione snorted in spite of herself. "You're still only twenty, Fred Weasley, ghost or not." She pulled out her own copy of the Tracking Parchment and tapped it with her wand, incanting a self-chosen password. The entirety of Hogwarts spread across the parchment, looking just like the Marauder's Map, though without the secret tunnels.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Hermione hummed her agreement. "It's a remarkable bit of magic, especially for fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds to accomplish. Granted, Lupin and his friends were rather bright for their age, and they had access to numerous similarly intelligent people we do not."

"Such as?"

"Lily Potter. Harry told me once that Ollivander said his mother's wand was particularly useful for Charm work."

Fred mulled this over. "I also seem to remember something about the future Mrs. Potter hating James Potter. I believe she called him a 'toe-rag', correct?"

"How do you—" Hermione glanced at the ghost, who held out a silver string with a smug grin. "Never mind. I don't even want to know how much you know that you're not supposed to." She returned her eyes to the map. "No, I don't think Harry's mum would have willingly helped his dad, but Lupin was a prefect. Chances are she would have thought this a brilliant idea for tracking students out of bed."

"Ah, the irony." Fred's grin transformed into a slight frown. "That doesn't really help much, though. We're in the same predicament with Lily Potter that we are with Remus. She's not exactly in a position to help us."

An insane idea crossed Hermione's mind. "She's not, but her best friend might be." Fred raised a quizzical eyebrow. "How much knowledge do portraits retain?"

"I've never personally badgered a portrait. Well, not for that purpose. Sir Cadogan was an exception, but George and I pretty much determined he had the intelligence of a Pygmy Puff." The ghost eyed her with suspicion. "Exactly whose portrait are you planning to assault?"

Hermione smirked. "You don't know who Lily Potter's best friend was? Even with that Extendable Ear?" The smirk slid from her face as she remembered exactly when Harry had learned that secret. "Oh."

"Oh what?"

She shook her bushy head. "We didn't find out until—" She stopped and chewed the inside of her lip. After you were gone, she almost said. "Anyway, I have it on good authority that his portrait is hanging in the Headmistress's office," she recovered.

Fred's eyes widened in horror. "Snape?" He floated backward a few inches. "First, that's disturbing. Second, there's literally no reason he'd agree to help us. How—?"

"They were neighbours when they were children, I guess."

"But—she was a Muggle-born," Fred sputtered.

"Her death was the reason Snape joined the Order. That's the reason Dumbledore trusted him so completely."

"Huh." Fred seemed to be out of things to say.

Hermione sighed and looked over the parchment, absently tracing some of the students' movements with her fingers. "It was an insane idea anyway. And a portrait is probably only has a shadow of the inhabitant's knowledge."

Fred shook his head. "It is insane, but Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes wouldn't exist if George and I were sane." He wrinkled his nose. "I suppose it's time I come clean to old McGonagall, anyhow."

"She still doesn't know about you?"

"Nah. I was afraid she'd have the Bloody Baron banish me from the dungeons."

"Is he really that intimidating?"

Fred grimaced. "You might see us as non-corporeal beings, but we can see each other pretty similar to how you see the living. Peeves can, too. I sincerely hope you never see the Bloody Baron in full colour."

"Me too," Hermione agreed, and then flushed. "I'm sorry. I hope you didn't take any offence—"

"Hermione. I know I'm dead."

She felt a heavy weight on her chest and she twisted her bottom lip between her thumb and index finger. "It still doesn't feel real." Hermione cursed the tears that started to pool in her eyes. How stupid was it to cry about someone's death in front of his ghost?

"Talking to me probably isn't helping that much."

A sad chuckle escaped her throat. "No. It probably isn't." She swiped at her eyes. "I can see why you don't want to go to George. But you have to know he'll kill Ginny and me for not telling him if he ever finds out."

"No, he won't. He'll get it, just like I would if the roles were reversed."

"I'm not convinced of that."

Fred's expression shut down and he glided for the nearest wall. "I should go see McGonagall."

"Fred, I'm sorry—." But he was already gone.

The next Hogsmeade weekend found Ginny and Hermione waiting at the Three Broomsticks for Harry and Percy to show up. Ron had chosen to stay behind so he could "study" for his next Auror exam. Hermione didn't have the heart to call him on his lie when she knew exactly why he wasn't coming.

It had been two weeks since she last talked to Fred, which bothered her more than she wanted to admit. Logically, Hermione knew that nothing could really hurt him, but she was worried all the same. She looked at the surrounding tables before she leant toward Ginny. "Have you talked to Fred recently?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

The redhead did not have the reaction Hermione expected. She backed away and paled, her eyes wide. "How do you know about Fred?"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "He came to see me when I was studying in the meeting room." Hadn't he told his sister that they were talking?

"Why are you studying there instead of the library?"

"Too many people in the library on Thursday nights, and don't change the subject. Have you talked to him or not?"

Ginny nodded. "He's been quieter than normal, though. I think being away from George is taking its toll. Have you noticed that he stops talking halfway through his sentences?" Hermione had noticed, but hadn't thought much of it. Ginny frowned, her eyes focusing on a far wall. "He still waits for George to finish his thoughts. It's painful to listen to sometimes. Reminds me that things won't ever be the same, even if he's not completely gone."

"I tried talking him into seeing George," Hermione confessed. "I think he might be upset with me for it."

"I did the same thing the first time I saw him. He didn't talk to me for a month after that, so I haven't brought it up since." Ginny grinned, an expression so reminiscent of her ghostly brother that Hermione almost couldn't look at her. "He's really proud of his Orders of Merlin, though. Said it was a shame they didn't make those in ghost form." She snorted. "At least he's making jokes about it." Her face suddenly straightened as she looked to the door, and Hermione turned to see their respective dates walk in. "Not a word of this to Harry or Percy," the youngest Weasley muttered. "I haven't told anyone and neither will you."

Hermione nodded her understanding and stood to greet the men. She noticed a considerable change when she pulled Harry in for a hug. "Are those muscles?" she demanded.

Her best friend gave a sheepish grin. "We've been doing a lot of physical training," he mumbled.

"I can tell, even through the jumper."

Ginny swatted at Hermione's hands with a playful grin. "Hands off my boyfriend or else I'll hex you. You have your own date."

Hermione blushed and gave Percy a semi-awkward hug. "Hi."

"Miss Granger," he said cordially, causing her to blush deeper.

"And I don't need to be here for this." Ginny pulled Harry toward the door. "If you two want to join in, we're going to do a scrimmage with the Hufflepuff team around three up at the Quidditch pitch. Harry's playing Seeker for the enemy. Traitor."

"You said you wanted to train against the best," he laughed.

"That's why I asked Hermione to write to Krum," Ginny shot back.

Hermione giggled as Harry dropped his jaw in indignation. She straightened her face as much as possible. "Yes, Viktor said he was too busy this weekend. Something about a match against Brazil."

Harry glared at her, but she saw he was holding back a grin. "They don't even play South American teams until summer."

Hermione smirked. "It was worth a shot."

"Remind me never to call on Hermione to bluff," Ginny grumbled, and successfully pulled her boyfriend out the door.

Once they left, Percy turned to Hermione with a pensive look on his face that reminded her of Ron. "Do you actually still talk to Krum?"

She gave a non-committal shrug. "We exchange letters every now and again." He let out a hmph and Hermione felt her shoulders tense. She could deal with one jealous Weasley brother, but she did not need two—and she prayed to every higher power that Fred would not become a third. "We struck up a friendship, but nothing more than that," Hermione said. Not that I need to justify it to you, she thought, but kept the comment to herself. Too many arguments with Ron had begun with statements like that.

"Okay," Percy said, and his face morphed back to the grin he had when he and Harry walked in.

"Okay?" she asked in surprise. Ron would have never let something go that fast.

Her date nodded. "Okay." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Where you would like to go?"

"Well, Tomes and Scrolls is having a sale..." She pinked, realizing that a bookstore wasn't necessarily the ideal location to start a date.

"I have been meaning to get a few books on the history of magical transportation," Percy mused. He gestured for the door. "Shall we?"

They wandered the shop for nearly an hour before Hermione handed an armload of books to the shopkeeper. The plain woman, clad in threadbare blush-coloured robes, raised an eyebrow when Hermione spied a copy of Hogwarts, A History locked behind the counter. "Is that a first edition?" she asked, trying not to sound too excited by the prospect.

"Yes it is, and in fine condition, too. Only ever had one owner."

"How much do you want for it?"

The woman's face went carefully blank. "One-hundred Galleons."

"I'll take—"

"One-hundred Galleons?" Percy cut in. "You're going to charge Hermione Granger one-hundred Galleons for a book that's been sitting on that shelf since I was a third-year?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and flexed the fingers of her left hand. "Eighty Galleons," she said.

"Fifty, and that covers everything she's got."

Hermione burned bright red. "Percy!"

"Sixty-five for the lot," the shopkeeper countered.

"She'll take it."

Hermione was fuming by the time they made it out of the shop. "How dare you embarrass me like that! I'll never be able to show my face in there again!"

Percy was impervious to her anger. "Hermione, you need to realize something and realize it quickly. Now that you've been awarded an Order of Merlin, you will encounter two types of people. The first will look at you as a war hero and give you anything you want just because you want it. The second will look at you as a recipient of an Order of Merlin, and therefore the owner of a not insubstantial Gringotts vault." He nodded toward the store. "She was the second type."

"And which do you see me as?" she snapped, and immediately regretted the words.

He rolled his eyes. "I see you as Hermione Granger, dangerously clever, and quite possibly the only reason Ron and Harry are still alive. Would you like me to carry your books?"

She looked at the ground, still processing his words. "You have your own books," she mumbled.

"It is possible to carry books belonging to more than one person at the same time." He held out his free hand until Hermione passed the bag to him. "Thank you. Where would you like to go next?"

Hours later, they ended up at the Quidditch pitch and discussing Charms rather than paying attention to the scrimmage. A good number of students and Hogsmeade residents had turned out for the game despite it being unofficial. Hermione supposed the Hufflepuff Seeker's celebrity status had something to do with the high attendance.

"Transportation Charms are really very interesting," Percy said, oblivious to the fact Harry was in a fifty-foot dive with his right arm outstretched. "The Ministry has a Trace on each registered vehicle, as well as methods for sensing unregistered vehicles. There was an incident a few years ago when Ali Bashir started illegally trafficking flying carpets—" there was a collective groan in the stadium and Harry returned to circling the pitch "—which is when Dad started working with the Department of Magical Transportation on a way to track them. He even brought Lupin in to consult on it, which was a rather unpopular move as you can guess."

This jerked Hermione to attention. "Lupin?"

"Dad swears they wouldn't have been able to create the charm without him."

Hermione's mind went into overdrive. "I'd be interested in learning more about the mechanics of that charm," she said. She withheld telling him why she was interested, or even asking if it could be adapted to track humans. She knew it could, especially if Lupin was the one to develop it. Percy hadn't been on the best of terms with his family before the Battle of Hogwarts, so she was sure he didn't know anything about the restricted products the twins had developed.

"Come for breakfast at the Burrow tomorrow. I'm sure Dad would love to talk to you about it."

"Tomorrow? But it's not a Hogsmeade—"

Percy grinned. "You're nineteen years old. I think McGonagall will let you spend a Sunday with family."

Hermione stopped breathing at the word 'family'. Sure, she had started considering the Weasleys her family sometime around fourth year, but the word brought back memories of her parents. She took a deep breath and cleared her head. She couldn't think about them right now. "Not tomorrow," she said. Percy looked visibly disappointed. "McGonagall's far too busy at the moment for me to ask," she explained. "Next week. Next Sunday."

A flicker beneath the stands caught Hermione's eye. She stood abruptly, forgetting to listen to whatever Percy was saying. "I'll be right back." She ran halfway down the steps and stopped, looking through the wooden supports. "Fred?"

"Behind you," came a forcibly jaunty voice.

Hermione turned around and cocked her head at the ghost, who floated just out of sight from the stands above. His tired face didn't match the tone of his words. "Are you okay?"

"You're going to the Burrow?"

"Maybe. Did you actually stalk my date?"

"I was watching the match. You just happened to come along."

That explained the look on his face. It wasn't tiredness so much as it was longing. "Is it hard to watch them play?"

"It's all hard." He changed the subject. "I heard you talking about the tracking charms with Percy. I hope Dad can give you more insight than Snape gave me. Utterly useless, that portrait. When he finally stopped sneering at me, he told me Lily never confided anything about her Charm-work with him."

"We'll just have to keep trying. I'm sure something will turn up."

He nodded. "I know." Fred did what Hermione supposed was a sigh, which hit her strange since as a ghost, he didn't technically need to breathe. "When you go to the Burrow next week, can you keep an eye on George for me? Let me know how he is?"

Hermione wished she could reach out and squeeze his hand the way she did with Ron and Harry when they got that certain sadness in their eyes. She stuck her hands under her arms to suppress the feeling. "Absolutely."

"Thanks, Minnie."

She raised an eyebrow with a half-smile. "Minnie?"

"'Hermione's a mouthful. And now that you can't hex me, I figured I'd try something easier." Fred got a devilish grin on his face.

She bit her lip, trying to suppress her own grin. "Fine. But only you can call me that. No one else. If I hear any other Weasleys—or Slytherins—calling me that, I will find a Basilisk and Petrify you."

"I forgot about that," he chuckled. "Fair. I accept your terms. Now go finish your date with my git of a brother."

Hermione feigned offense. "He's been quite the gentleman, for your information."

"He may have come around, but he will always be Percy. If any Weasley ever stood a chance of getting into Slytherin, he would be it." What appeared to be genuine concern looked unnatural on Fred's pale face. "I believe he regrets what he did to our family. But he's still ambitious, and you're a war hero with an Order of Merlin."

This time, she didn't have to fake her offence. "That's an extraordinarily unfair thing to say! He's been a good friend to me for months now, since before this whole Order of Merlin business started."

"Being friends is one thing. Actually dating—"

"How did my life turn into this?" she muttered into her hands as she rubbed her face. Three Weasleys. Three jealous Weasleys. It was like Molly Weasley gave birth to a plethora of suitors designed specifically for Hermione.

She turned on her heel and headed back up the stairs. "I'm not talking about this, Fred. I'll see you next week." And for the first time, she was the one who left.

17. Chapter 17

Draco

"WHAT THE RUDDY HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM?" Theo yelled from down the hall.

Draco casually turned the page of the French Wizarding newspaper as he waited for his housemate to join him in the dining room. "Three, two, one," he said to himself. He dipped a piece of toast in runny egg yolk and took a bite.

An unnaturally black-haired man in canary yellow pyjamas with black cuffs marched into the room with fury in his gold eyes. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, I am going to kill you."

"Whatever for?" Draco turned another page and sipped his warm cup of Earl Grey tea.

"I look like a bumblebee!"

Draco smirked but still didn't look at Theo. "You obviously haven't seen the back of your shirt, then."

"I have seen EVERYTHING. There is a PORTRAIT of a BADGER on my WALL."

Fortunately for Draco, Theo was a creature of habit and being that the previous night was Thursday, he took his semi-weekly dose of Dreamless Sleep. Unfortunately for Theo, Draco had learned quite a bit about pestering one's roommate. Unlike Theo, who chose to pester Draco by sending hexes, jinxes and curses across the dining room table (or garden, or library, or hall), Draco was more of an artist. And a patient one at that.

Even after three months, Draco was still peeved about the Taboo which prevented him from saying the names of the Hogwarts Houses, so he chose to make his feelings toward Theo a bit more...demonstrative.

"You'll notice that the buttons of your pyjamas are also badgers," Draco said dryly.

That bit of transfiguration was surprisingly easier than Draco had anticipated considering his track record with Weasley's wand. In fact, the entire operation took less than an hour. Theo's room now sported two yellow walls, two black walls, a yellow bedspread, black sheets, black curtains, black carpet, yellow upholstery, and a six-by-four-foot portrait of a badger in a field of daffodils painted by Draco himself.

Theo stomped into the kitchen, retrieved his breakfast, and stomped to the dining table. "I hate you."

"You're not a morning person, are you?" Draco kept his face impassive as Theo glowered at him. "Don't worry. The best part is yet to come."

As Theo stabbed his traditional waffle with a fork, Draco legitimately gave his attention to the newspaper. The only article on the last remaining Death Eaters was a two-paragraph blurb on page three that said next to nothing. The Aurors hadn't made progress on their cases in over two months, and the French public was losing interest in Britain's problems. Draco knew better than to get complacent, but some small part of him hoped that he might actually have a chance at disappearing for good.

The sound of chattering animals followed by Theo jumping in his chair brought the smirk back to Draco's face. "DRACO MALFOY!"

"Yes, Theodore Nott?"

"My BUTTONS are making BADGER NOISES."

"Ah, yes. They'll be doing that at certain intervals."

"I am going to get you back for this, you know."

Draco gave a dramatic sigh. "I know you will. And then I'll get you back for that and we'll end up in an endless cycle of revenge."

Theo narrowed his eyes for several moments before his face relaxed into its normal good-natured grin. "I've taught you well."

"I'm a good student."

"I take it you had no issues with Weasley's wand?"

Draco spun the wand through his fingers, leaving a trail of periwinkle and silver sparks. "I think it may have finally accepted me as its new owner."

"I can see that. Congratulations." Theo returned to wolfing down his breakfast and Draco to sipping his tea and reading the newspaper. An ad calling for experienced potioneers caught his eye a split second before his hair fell in his face.

"Hey!" He looked across the table to see Theo setting down his wand. Draco reached behind his neck to search for the snapped hair tie, only to feel nothing of the sort. "You Vanished it?" Draco tried to keep the awe from his voice. Vanishing an object one couldn't see was McGonagall-level impressive.

"I've been dedicating more time to Transfiguration."

Draco conjured a new band and tied to around his sleek blond hair. He would charm it light brown again before they left the house, as had become habit, but he preferred it blond. For some reason, the colouring charm still made his hair into a tangled mess. He had a feeling Weasley's wand's sense of humour was to blame. In spite of his complaints, the minor change to his appearance made him feel more comfortable in public.

"So," Theo said, and set down his knife and fork atop his clean plate. "What are we doing today? Before you abandon me to go to the bakery."

The new tables at the Wilkinses' bakery became a favourite place for Draco to spend an hour reading under the guise of slowly eating lunch. Theo teased him endlessly about assimilating into Muggle culture for the sandwiches, but joined him on occasion to indulge in the cupcakes. Draco scoffed at the idea he was 'assimilating' and pointed out that he spent his time in the Muggle town in two places: the bakery and the bookstore. He largely refused to go anywhere else, and only talked to the Muggles when necessary.

"I wouldn't abandon you if you would come with me." In truth, Draco enjoyed his solitude, but recognized that Theo tended to go stir-crazy if left alone too long.

"Nah, I have plans."

"Plans? With?"

Theo gave a cagey grin. "Plans."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Plans with plans?" He evaluated his friend's too-smug expression. "Are you fraternizing with the Muggles?"

"Don't go all judgmental on me. You've found the Wilkinses, which is great for you. I've found someone else," Theo reasoned.

"Does this 'someone else' happen to be female and around our age?"

"Perhaps."

The narrowed eyes turned into a full glare. "Perhaps? Can you be more vague?"

"Possibly."

Draco let go of the paper and groaned into one hand. "You're infuriating. And you look like a banana. You're an infuriating banana with talking buttons."

"Yes I am. So what are we doing today?"

In the end, they ventured into Wizarding Toulouse, looking for a proper apothecary. The shop in Bordeaux had been disappointing, with only enough variety to supply an amateur potioneer. During the lengthy hours Draco had spent perusing the Zabini library, he found a book of curious potions that required a more diverse selection of ingredients. Theo told Draco in no uncertain terms that if they exhausted all other options, he would not go to Paris. Even disguised, the risk of getting caught was too high in the capital. Thankfully, the apothecary in Toulouse had most of what Draco looked for, and the shopkeeper suggested a couple of non-Parisian locations where he might find the rest of his items.

They went into the Muggle town near midday. Theo waved goodbye before he trudged through the melting snow toward the residential area. He was still tight-lipped about whoever he was planning to meet.

Draco opened the door to the bakery and breathed in the scent of fresh baked bread. He let his eyes close for a fleeting second, remembering the way the Manor used to smell in the morning. Vanilla and fresh bread. Those were the scents of home, before the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters arrived.

If only he could go back to before it all went sideways. He would give anything to be fifteen again.

"Bonjour mon ami!" Mrs. Wilkins called, pulling him out of his reverie. "How are you, my dear?"

Draco gave her a false smile, only to discover it turned into a real smile when he met the older woman's eyes. "Fine, and yourself?"

"It's been a bit warm today for my taste, and Wendell's fighting with the oven again. Stubborn man won't let me come near it, even though I am just as qualified to tinker with it as he is." She grinned and peered through the window. "I thought I saw your brother a moment ago?"

"Chrys is previously engaged. It's just me today."

Nearly a month after their first visit to the town, the men decided on their aliases—thanks, in part, to Mrs. Wilkins' comment about their gold and silver eyes. From there, they chose the names Chrysos and Argyros, which meant 'gold' and 'silver' in Greek. Theo preferred to go by Chrys, since he shortened his real name. Draco preferred 'Argyros' in full as it sounded more appropriate for a pure-blood; even a pure-blood in hiding. To his chagrin, the Wilkinses refused to call either man by their 'given' names, and Draco was subjected to being called 'Mr. Granger' more often than he liked. If only he could go back to that day and come up with some other surname. Anything but bloody Granger.

If only, if only, if only.

"Oh, that makes sense. Lydia Poirier mentioned seeing one of the 'handsome visitors', which could only mean either you or the other Mr. Granger."

"Seeing? As in courting?"

"I take it he has not shared this with you?"

Draco suppressed the annoyance that rose in his chest with a good dose of reasoning. "It's his decision, of course, but no. He did not mention Mademoiselle Poirier."

Mrs. Wilkins nodded, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Between you and me, I hope he has the good sense to not let things go far enough that he needs to mention her. Miss Poirier is not the most intelligent of young ladies, and neither of you strike me as particularly dull-witted." She wiped her hands on her apron and moved in front of the display case. "But that's enough gossip for the moment. What are you feeling like today?"

"Bread and cheese would be good enough today if you have it," he answered. "I've some reading to do."

"I know just the thing. Wendell just ordered this new cheese to bake on top of the apple muffins—don't ask me why, but I think it has to do with some American thing he saw over the holidays—but I'll melt it down and you can use it for dipping. I'll give you one of the muffins, too. Maybe you can convince my husband that he's finally lost his sense. Honestly," she tutted and headed for the back.

Several minutes later, Draco flipped the page of An Anthology of Potions of the 17th Century (which he previously charmed to look like a Muggle history book he'd seen at the bookstore) and dipped slices of sourdough bread into a bowl of a sharp Irish cheddar. The bell above the door chimed, causing him to snap to attention. Once he scanned the newcomer for any signs of magic (she had none), he let out a held breath and returned Weasley's wand to the sleeve of his blazer.

Moments like that were the only downside of spending time at the bakery. Every time the tiny bell tinkled to announce a customer's arrival or departure, Draco found himself clutching Weasley's wand under the table, waiting for a hex to be thrown his way by an Auror. He hated praying to see Muggles instead of wizards. It felt intrinsically wrong. His whole life was thrown out of proportion and he wondered if the fear would ever leave.

The longer he and Theo stayed at the Zabini residence, the deeper the war raged within himself. He knew it was stupid to stay in one place too long, but he had lived at the Manor for eighteen years. The Malfoys had lived there for nigh on a millennium. It was in his blood to put down roots, and he had become attached to this little corner of France. But the practical side of his mind warned him that he might have to run at a moment's notice, and he hated the entire idea.

"Good afternoon Mr. Granger," Mr. Wilkins greeted Draco as he walked to the table farthest away from the windows, where Draco always sat cast in shadow.

"Good afternoon," Draco echoed, and closed the book. Mr. Wilkins had a look on his face that Draco remembered from many conversations with his father: the "we need to talk" look. The last time Lucius Malfoy gave his son that look, he announced he and Draco's mother were going to ground in Wizarding America. Needless to say, the look infused Draco with a certain sense of dread.

Mr. Wilkins gestured to the chair opposite Draco. "May I?" The young man nodded and the baker seated himself. "Now, Mr. Granger, I'm not sure how to approach this without scaring you off." An uneasy feeling settled in Draco's chest. Whatever Mr. Wilkins had to say, he wasn't going to like it.

"It's the only way we can be safe, and you know it isn't just Aurors that will be pursuing us," Draco remembered his father saying. "England is not going to be kind to us this time. We have to leave, Draco. Draco, why are you being so infuriatingly stubborn? Don't you see your mother and I have your best interests at heart? You need to leave with us, young man. It's the only way we'll survive."

"I'll find another way," Draco had snarled at his father. "Run off to your friends. Hide from the consequences of losing the war. Be the coward you raised me to be." The words had been harsh, unforgiveable and he regretted them. He regretted not saying goodbye to his mother, whose eyes betrayed the broken heart her set jaw would never reveal. He regretted so much, and he did everything to drive those thoughts from his mind before they caused him to go mad.

"Son, are you still with me?" the gentle voice of Mr. Wilkins broke into his memories. Draco returned his eyes to the older man and nodded once without a word. "You're awfully tense for such a young man." The look on Mr. Wilkins' face morphed into concern, which made Draco feel even more awkward. Why was this Muggle concerned? "Is everything alright with you?"

Draco nodded again, numb at the idea that someone was even asking that question. He was a wanted criminal, and someone he was raised to hate on principal was asking after his well-being. How had this confusing, conflicting mess become his life? Why couldn't he go back to the days of riding his broom above the Manor or relaxing in the common room, before it all began? Before he began to question everything he had been taught from birth? Why was this disaster of an uncertain future his lot in life?

"You're running from something," Mr. Wilkins accused. Not accused. Said. Mr. Wilkins wasn't accusing Draco of anything, but he still felt his core wind tight in case he needed to spring free and run. When it came down to fight or flight, he would choose flight every time.

"You spend a lot of time staring at the table. You jump every time the bell rings and you look out the window. I'm not sure you realize it, but you often look over your shoulder." Draco noted the careful tone in the man's voice. Nothing good ever came from a cautious tone. "You look like you're preparing to defend yourself and run, and I have a feeling it has to do with that."

Draco cursed as Mr. Wilkins pointed to the wand he had subconsciously dropped to his hand, and jumped to his feet. Mr. Wilkins grabbed his left forearm, where the Dark Mark was hidden beneath layers of clothes. Draco recoiled, but Mr. Wilkins was stronger than he looked. "Argyros," he said with conviction, holding Draco's arm hostage. "You don't need to run. You and your brother are the only magic users we've ever seen in here."

18. Chapter 18

Hermione

Professor McGonagall allowed Hermione to visit the Burrow on Sunday morning, just as Percy predicted. When she arrived at the end of the lane leading to the Weasleys' towering home, she felt a mixture of nostalgia and apprehension. She hadn't seen most of the Weasleys for over two months, including Ron. How could it be that seeing her best friend filled her with dread? How had she let her life turn into such a tangled mess when all she wanted to do was finish her N.E.W.T.s and find her parents?

"Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley squeaked when the bushy-haired Gryffindor walked into the kitchen. She rinsed her hands in the sink and towelled them off before she wrapped Hermione in a crushing hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Percy didn't tell you I was coming?"

Something flickered in Mrs. Weasley's eyes but it was gone before Hermione could identify the emotion. "No, I suppose he wanted you to be a surprise. How did you get here? You're supposed to be at Hogwarts!"

Hermione shrugged. "Professor McGonagall gave me permission to leave for the day as long as I'm back before dark."

"We can manage that." Mrs. Weasley bustled over to the stove, where something that looked like a white sauce was stirring itself. "Since you're here, do you mind shelling the eggs?"

"What are you making?"

"The usual, plus potato salad and something called 'biscuits and gravy'. Ron and Harry had it on their last trip to the States. Ron's been asking me to make it ever since, but I was only able to track down a decent recipe this week."

Hermione almost dropped the hard-boiled egg she was peeling. Who put gravy on biscuits? But more importantly— "Ron and Harry went to America? When?"

Mrs. Weasley frowned at Hermione. "They came back two weeks ago. They didn't tell you?" Hermione shook her head. "Hmm. I wasn't under the impression it was a secret. They'll be here in about an hour if you want to ask about it."

The young men walked in about an hour and a half later, which earned them a solid scolding for being late. "I have been slaving away over the breakfast YOU asked for!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked at Ron.

Harry managed to duck around the bickering Weasleys to join Hermione, Percy, George, Bill, Fleur, and Mr. Weasley at the dining table. "Good morning," he said with raised eyebrows and a sigh. He wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders in a half-hug. "We didn't know you were coming."

Hermione flamed red. "Apparently, someone kept it a surprise." She glared at Percy, who smirked.

"It's probably better, to be honest," Harry muttered as he dropped into the free seat to Hermione's right. "Ron probably wouldn't have—you know."

"I know." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't really blame him."

"Of course you can. He's being an idiot."

Those were Harry's final words on the matter as Mrs. Weasley and Ron joined them at the table. Ron immediately dug into what looked like scones and the grey-white sauce. "What on earth is that?" Hermione asked Harry.

"Biscuits and gravy. It's an American thing. Ron's been obsessed with it for weeks."

"Ever since you came back from the States," Hermione said, not bothering to hide the accusation in her tone. "Were you planning on telling me?"

Harry looked down at his plate rather than meet Hermione's scowl. "I'll explain after. Okay?"

"You'd better, otherwise 'The Boy-Who-Lived' will be past tense." She paused. "More past tense than it already is, anyway."

Said 'Boy-Who-Lived' chuckled. "I promise we'll tell you everything."

Hermione was barely placated, but turned her attention to the food. "Those are not biscuits. And that is not gravy."

Her best friend took her plate and put the not-biscuits and not-gravy on it. "Just try it."

She took a bite and wrinkled her brows. "This is bizarre."

"Says the girl who's eaten French food."

"Touché."

When brunch was over and Ron had tucked away the last of the American food, Hermione followed the Aurors-in-training to the front side of the Burrow after a brief explanation to Percy.

"Not as good as Waffle House," Hermione heard Ron whisper to Harry on their way out the door.

"At least she made it for you," Harry said back with exaggerated annoyance.

"Yeah, but—"

"If you wanted a proper version of whatever that was, why don't you just run back to the Yanks and have them make it?" Hermione snapped.

Ron's ears turned red and Harry held up his hands. "I swear we were going to tell you," the bespectacled man said.

"When, exactly? Because it seems it slipped your mind when you saw me in Hogsmeade last weekend."

"You know Ginny and I were busy with the Quidditch match—"

"You could have told me after! Or before! It wouldn't have killed you to spend some time with me."

Harry's eyes darted between Hermione and Ron. "But you were...busy." He mumbled the last word and stared resolutely at the ground.

"You could have joined us! I'm not going to apologize for spending time with someone who is able to carry on an intelligent conversation about the things that matter to me!"

"Are you saying we can't carry on intelligent conversations?" Ron demanded.

"Not about Memory Charms," Hermione said.

Ron roared. "You told Percy about your parents?"

"No! I'm not an idiot," she said quietly. "Percy is still Percy, and I know what the Ministry would say if they found out. You guys and Ginny are the only ones who know."

Harry kicked at the ground. "So you don't trust him?"

"With admitting I did something illegal? No. He realized my interest is deeper than academic, but he hasn't pushed to find out what's going on."

"You shouldn't be talking to him about anything," Ron snapped. "He betrayed our family."

Harry continued to look distinctly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Guys..."

"Which he admitted and he apologized for and has been working to make up ever since the battle!" Hermione stomped and folded her arms. "Just because you can't forgive someone doesn't mean they aren't worth forgiving."

"You—"

"We have a trace on Lucius Malfoy," Harry said over the arguing.

Hermione and Ron stopped. "You what?" Hermione asked. She couldn't have heard right.

"That's what Ron and I have been doing in America. We've been doing recon on the Malfoys, and we were right. It's just Lucius and Narcissa. We haven't see any sign of Draco."

"How did you find them?"

"Lucius has known associates in Washington. One of them recently started renting a rather expensive hotel room, and we confirmed that an Englishman and his wife were staying in it."

"Vanity strikes again," Ron muttered. "You'd think the Malfoys would try to keep their heads down. Maybe go somewhere a little less conspicuous."

"They're staying in a Muggle hotel," Harry reasoned. "They're probably counting on us ignoring the Muggle world since they were so outspoken against it."

"Do you have a plan to bring them in?"

Harry gave Hermione an apologetic look. "It's classified."

"It's technically all classified," Ron said. "You're lucky we're telling you anything."

Hermione felt a flare of annoyance but chose not to retort. She turned her back to Ron and addressed Harry. "What about the others? Nott supposedly went to America as well."

"He's disappeared. Best we can figure is he's got associates we don't know about or he's just better at blending in. He was never as well off as the Malfoys, so it's less likely we'll pick up a money trail."

"But we also think it's less likely that he entered the Muggle world. Remember the Quidditch World Cup? By all accounts, Nott enjoyed that even more than the Malfoys," Ron added darkly.

"If he has entered the Muggle world, we're likely looking for someone under the Imperius Curse. He wouldn't be able to stand them any other way." Harry shrugged. "That's what our profilers are telling us, anyway."

Hermione nodded. "It makes sense. What about the kids? Malfoy, Nott, Goyle?"

"Malfoy and Theodore Nott disappeared off the radar completely. Again, we're looking at known associates. Nott's best friend was Zabini, so we've looked into his mother's properties, but there's no activity at the villa in Italy and the house in France was destroyed when the Zabinis didn't pick a side during the war. Our next guess was Parkinson, but she's as clueless as anyone else. We have traces on both of them and Daphne Greengrass, though, just in case."

"Bulstrode managed to disappear, too, but Goyle turned up in Bulgaria with a cousin. He'll be standing trial in the next month or so." Ron looked pleased with this progress.

"That hasn't been in the papers," Hermione said, frowning.

"We're trying not to spook the ones we've found. Once we bring all of them in, we'll make an announcement and see if anyone else makes a rash move."

"How many have you found?"

"Total? We're tracking about nine of the thirty-two that are still missing." Harry frowned and shook his head. "We haven't made as much progress as we hoped we would by this point."

"You can't blame yourselves. You're still in training. They shouldn't even be sending you off on reconnaissance yet."

Ron scoffed and folded his arms. "What? You think we can't handle it? We spent all of last year hunting bloody Horcruxes. We can handle a few Death Eaters."

"You're still in training," Hermione said again through gritted teeth. How could someone take offence to everything she said and make it sound like her fault? "I have every faith that you and Harry can handle it, but they shouldn't be sending you off yet."

"We shouldn't have been sent off to find the Horcruxes, either," Ron countered.

Privately, Hermione agreed with Ron about the Horcruxes. They were too young and ill-prepared to be entrusted a mission like that, but they had survived. She woke up to nightmares of howling wind blowing against a tent and maniacal cackling and shooting pain in her left arm, but they had survived. "But we were," was all she said.

"And we are again," Harry said. "Too many Aurors died last year, Hermione. They need us to take on these responsibilities now."

"That's just asking for you to be killed! How can you protect yourself if you don't have everything you need?"

"We've never had everything we need. We fought Voldemort when we were first-years. Besides, they aren't sending us into life-threatening situations. Just recon. That's all."

Hermione threw her arms around Harry. "Just promise me that you'll always come home."

Harry patted her on the back. "I promise."

She pulled away and hugged Ron around the middle. "You too."

Ron wrapped his arms around her and put his lips in her hair. "I promise as long as you promise me that you won't tell Percy anything that'll get you in trouble."

Hermione pulled back and glowered at her friend. "I'm not an idiot," she said again.

"I know. That doesn't mean I'm not worried."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine."

Harry nodded. "And so will we."

After talking awhile longer about lighter subjects, Hermione wandered off to find the person who instigated her arrival in the first place.

"I cannot believe you didn't tell your mother I was coming," she said accusingly.

Percy looked up from his conversation with George and grinned. "Finally finished arguing with my brother, then?"

"For now."

George smirked and Hermione's breath caught. It was bizarre, seeing Fred's form in the flesh. Bizarre and uncomfortable. "He'll be right as rain soon enough. And if he's not, I have some products that can ease the transition along."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Okay, maybe they won't so much 'ease' the transition as much as they'll suggest he not piss you off."

Percy laughed at that. "I'm pretty sure Hermione can convince him of that without any of your jokes, Georgy."

"Which reminds me. How is that project I gave you going?" George asked. Percy looked politely interested, but didn't press for details.

"I haven't made much progress if I'm honest, but I have a lead." Hermione made a mental note that she needed to talk to Mr. Weasley before she got too distracted with anything else.

George gave frustrated sigh. "I was hoping this would be easier."

"Me too, but we'll figure it out."

"Just the attitude anyone would expect from the recipient of an Order of Merlin," Percy said with a hint of smugness.

Something about his tone made Hermione uncomfortable. No, it was just Fred getting into her head. There was nothing suspicious about Percy or the fact that he mentioned her Order of Merlin. Or the fact that he always mentioned her Order of Merlin. Or that he'd teased her about it before Kingsley made the announcement. More than a month before, if she recalled correctly.

"Have you seen your dad?" Hermione asked, trying to shake the feeling. "I'd like to have that chat about the tracking charm."

"Absolutely. He's in the drawing room, last I saw," Percy answered.

George gave a face-splitting grin. "Dad knows something about a tracking charm? That's brilliant. That might be useful for catching the light-fingered snot-rags that seem to come in." George gave a conspiratorial wink to Hermione and headed into the house.

"Will you walk with me after?" Percy asked, catching Hermione's elbow as she made to follow George.

She cursed the heat rising in her cheeks. "Of course." He let her go, but her feet wouldn't move. The gnawing in her stomach was becoming too much. "Percy," she said with a poorly hidden tremor. "When did you find out I would be getting an Order of Merlin?"

The man furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, it's been rumoured ever since the Ministry got back on its feet. You're a war heroine, Hermione. It was to be expected."

It was to be expected, her mind echoed. "Did you know Kingsley was announcing them at Christmas?"

Percy nodded, the look of confusion deepening. "A friend from the Ministry told me. I still have connections there, seeing as I was the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. What is this about?"

'He's still ambitious and you're a war hero with an Order of Merlin,' Fred's voice whispered.

And he already knew you were being awarded when he approached you during the holidays, her mind added.

The seeds of doubt were planted, and as much as she wanted to deny it, the damage was done. She had known Percy for nearly eight years, and Fred had known him for a lifetime before that. Aligning himself with someone who had a glamorous reputation was exactly something Percy would do.

"I don't think the American food is settling well," she lied, and clutched at her stomach, willing away the very real nausea. "I think I need to get back to the castle."

He stepped behind her and put his hands gently on her elbows as if guarding her from an unseen attack. "You shouldn't Apparate if you aren't feeling well."

Hermione felt cold at his touch and fought her instinct to shake him off. "I'll be fine, I just...please tell your mother thank you for me. I'll see you later." And without waiting for another word, she walked to the edge of the Weasleys' property, turned on the ball of her foot, and disappeared with a pop.

19. Chapter 19

Draco

Draco panted as he fell against the wall of his room, which had become a veritable realm of destruction in the two weeks since the catastrophic conversation with the Muggle, as he was now referring to Mr. Wilkins. A broken chair was splayed beneath the window. The drapes were hanging in shreds. His four-poster bed had three-and-a-half posts. Feathers that once cushioned silk pillows flew in spirals as he threw yet another shoe at the wall. Pain shot through his back, his arms, his legs, his veins, as he violated his oath not to harm the house.

His attempts to replenish the stock of Dreamless Sleep were failing as he became overzealous in his preparation of the ingredients. Books written in English made less sense than books written in Ancient Runes as the characters danced across the page. Granger's last review of his Potions assignment—Potions, the one thing he knew he could do—was Acceptable. The only thing going right for him was his connection with Weasley's wand, and he had no clue why it chose now to cooperate.

For the first three days after the revelation from the Muggle, Theo braved confrontations with Draco that normally ended in one of them being hexed for a good six hours. Draco never revealed what caused his change in attitude or why he refused to leave his bedroom. He never told Theo that the Muggles knew. As far as Draco was concerned, if Theo was daft enough to trust Zabini, he didn't deserve to know they'd been found out.

And yet for all his fear, his paranoia, Draco stayed at the cottage. He couldn't bring himself to run, to find another place to hide, and that angered him more than anything else. Theo had been right all those weeks ago when he said that Draco couldn't live without relying on the assistance of others. Theo was also right that if Draco lost Theo and Zabini, he would have no one else.

The morning's newspaper flew at the wall next, before Draco stomped over to the offending paper. He slammed one foot on the front page, bent over, and ripped the page in half. As he stood, he shredded the article into confetti. Disjointed French words floated to the ground alongside the feathers, but even though Draco could no longer read them, their message was burned in his mind.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were in Auror custody, awaiting extradition to Britain. In just over a week, they would be put on trial for their services to the Dark Lord. After ten months, their running was over and he was still free. He was still free, but in a prison, all the same. His cellmate offered condolences through a locked door until Draco put a silencing charm on the room. He didn't want to listen to empty words while rage burned through his veins. Theo couldn't help. No one could help.

It took another week before Draco left the room for reasons other than filching food at two o'clock in the morning or abusing his cauldron with concoctions that may or may not resemble a real potion. As he passed through the dining room, Theo stared resolutely at the table. The congenial relationship they built up after eight months of constant contact was shattered, and Draco was determined not to feel its loss. He made a plate of toast and carried it into the library. Away from Theo. Away from facing truths he couldn't accept.

"You're a right bastard, you know that?" a soft voice came from the direction of the door. Draco didn't turn around to face his roommate. "Do you feel better now that you've destroyed Blaise's house?"

Draco bent over his book and stared at a page. He still couldn't see the words. Why wouldn't the damn words stop dancing?

"You look like hell, Draco." Theo waited a beat, but Draco continued his silence. "When you're ready to act like an adult, I'll be in the drawing room." He paused. "I've made my own Dreamless Sleep, by the way. It's not as potent as yours, but at least it's something. And you look like you could use some."

Footsteps faded away from the library entrance and Draco dropped his head to the table. He couldn't continue like this. It was like being stuck in a loop, replaying the age of sixteen over and over. His father going to Azkaban. Spending months alone, not sleeping, worried out of his mind for his life and his family and his future. Did it ever stop?

Would it ever stop?

Draco stepped into the drawing room the following Sunday afternoon. Behind an ornate iron and oak desk, Theo was hunched over a long parchment, quill dashing across the page.

"I'm ready to talk," Draco said, struggling to keep the self-loathing from his voice.

Theo said nothing, but leaned over a book to his left for a moment before he returned to his writing.

"Did you hear me?" Draco snapped. "I said I'm ready to talk."

"Come back in an hour," Theo responded without looking up.

"You said to come in here when I was ready."

Theo set the quill on the desk and met Draco's eyes. There was coldness in Theo's expression that Draco hadn't seen since they attended Hogwarts. "I told you to come in here when you're ready to act like an adult. I'm not interested in listening to someone who's going to act like a spoilt child. Be an adult and give me an hour to finish this project."

Draco turned on his heel and didn't return to the drawing room for two days.

"I'm sorry."

The words felt foreign on Draco's tongue as he stood before the desk and the man sitting behind it. He could count on two hands the number of times he'd said the words to anyone outside of his parents. One of the many lessons he learned in his childhood was the importance of those two words. An apology must be honest with true humility and repentance behind it. His parents tolerated nothing less. It was rare that Draco put aside his pride to humble himself, but after nearly a month without real human contact, his pride was broken.

Theo folded his hands and examined Draco, exuding confidence and power as he sat straight in a high-backed black chair with a stern set to his jaw. His golden eyes were dulled with exhaustion, emphasized by dark circles that told Draco the amateur Dreamless Sleep potion wasn't working.

"Explain yourself."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, which he'd trimmed to shoulder-length during his time alone. "The Muggles realized what we are and so I ran. I hid. And then the news came about my parents and I realized that you were right." He choked on the last phrase. Humility and Malfoys did not mix well. He took another breath as Theo waited patiently for him to continue. "When you said that if I didn't trust you and Zabini, I would have no one. And I won't survive on my own. And as—" he coughed, "—scared as I am to be discovered, I don't want to leave here. It's been nearly a month since the Muggles figured it out and Aurors haven't found us yet, so I don't want to press my luck—our luck—by running headlong into unknown dangers."

He cast his eyes to the ground and waited for Theo to respond.

"Why didn't you Obliviate Mr. Wilkins?" the other man said after a long pause.

Draco blanched as he kept firm eye contact with the scarlet carpet. "I didn't think." Another pause settled over them before Draco ran the question through his mind again. He lifted his head to look at Theo. "How did you know it was Mr. Wilkins?"

"Because the man has asked about you half a dozen times. He knows he scared you off."

"Did he tell you what he said that scared me?" Draco cringed as his tone elevated into a near demand. He needed to keep a level head if Theo was going to let the conversation continue.

The golden eyes narrowed. "Yes, he did," Theo said shortly. "And for the price of one of those apple-cheddar muffins, I let him explain why he thought it was a good idea to say anything in the first place."

Draco snorted in spite of himself. Trusty Theo, bought off with an experimental muffin.

"You should hear him out."

"You don't believe whatever he told you, do you?" Draco asked. Theo said nothing. "He's a Muggle."

"And you're a wizard. And we all live on the same planet and breathe the same air and argue and fight amongst ourselves and fall in love and do everything else that humans do."

Draco growled. "You're starting to sound like a Weasley."

"Better a Weasley than an intolerant supremacist who was taught nothing but loathing based on false truths." Theo held up a hand as Draco made to interrupt. "You know the things we were raised to believe are rot. Inaccurate. You've known it since the day you took the Mark. Since the day the Dark Lord gave you an impossible task you were meant to fail, and threatened you with the lives of your family. Your father believed every word that fell off that demon's lips, and yet Lucius was disposable in the end. Every one of us who was brainwashed into believing the Dark Lord's words as Law were strictly a means to an end for him, and you know that, Draco. You may not be ready to believe it, but you know it's true." Theo took a deep breath and the impassioned pink in his cheeks receded.

Draco mulled over his next words, choosing them carefully. "The Dark Lord was—." He stopped. His thoughts were blasphemous and he felt the weight of the Mark on his arm. Eighteen years. He spent eighteen years in service to pure-blood ideology and the vision of the Dark Lord. He knew nothing else. He had never believed anything else, and had never found a reason to doubt his upbringing until he was set to kill Dumbledore. And then with Hogwarts and the Ministry under Death Eater control, he suppressed those doubts. How could he doubt the winning side?

But his true conviction had been demolished—not lost, or shattered, but truly and thoroughly destroyed—in the Astronomy Tower as he faced down an old man who offered him grace in the face of death. Not out of fear, but genuine kindness for someone undeserving of such a thing. His true conviction fell off that tower with that same man's lifeless body as it fell, broken, to the ground. Within moments of realizing his doubts, the Dark Lord won and he forced his doubts from his mind. If he wanted to survive, he had to pick the winning side regardless of whatever he felt. So he stopped feeling and became numb.

Sixteen years of blind faith. One year of terror. One year of necessary detachment, lest he lose his mind and his life.

And now, ten months of whatever new hell this was.

"The Dark Lord was—." He stopped and swallowed as he gathered the courage to speak the thoughts he had kept hidden for so long. "Wrong," he whispered.

He took a breath as Theo kept examining him. "But that doesn't mean I believe Muggles and wizards belong in the same world. I'm not going to change into some Muggle-loving fool because it's the antithesis of the rhetoric of a cruel man who believed he was a god. I can't explain how it happens, but I don't believe Muggle-borns 'stole' our magic, and if I'm honest, I'm quite confused how to think of them anymore. But the rest of my beliefs have not changed and I cannot tolerate Muggles any longer. I have no wish to kill them any more than I could wish death on my own kind. I'm not demented. I understand that they're human, but they don't belong with us. We don't belong among them."

Theo was quiet for a long time. Draco could hear his own heart in the silence, and he counted the beats as he worked to focus his emotions.

"There is one flaw in your argument," Theo said after Draco counted seventy-three heartbeats. Another pause. Another forty heartbeats. "The Wilkinses."

"What about them?" Draco asked slowly.

"They're descended from magic. That's how Mr. Wilkins recognized us."

"How can Muggles be descended from magic?"

"What happens when a Squib marries a Muggle? Muggle children. But that means those Muggle children have magical grandparents; thus, Muggles can be descended from magic." Theo allowed Draco to think over this new information until the silence became uncomfortable. "So where do the Wilkinses fit in to your beliefs?"

"They're Muggles," Draco said obstinately, though his heart wasn't in the statement.

"With magical ancestry, which means somewhere along the way, they're likely descended from the same lines as you and I."

Draco felt uncomfortable as Theo watched his internal struggle to reconcile the Wilkinses' origins with his already unstable belief system. "I can't...not right now. I can't."

And with his thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of his nose, tired silver eyes closed, he walked away.

As his feet crushed the dry pine needles at the edge of the Muggle town, Draco marvelled that he didn't Splinch himself. His feet, upon leaving the drawing room, had led him straight to the edge of the Zabinis' property and Disapparated with hardly a conscious thought. Now he faced the town, cast in the soft glow of an impending sunset. The shops were starting to close for the evening, but the lights were still on in the Wilkinses' bakery.

Instinct and logic warred in his chest. He stepped backward and forward a dozen times as logic demanded he go back to the cottage while instinct drove him to the bakery. With a resolute sigh, he tapped his head with Weasley's wand and felt his hair burst into the tell-tale frizz of his brunette façade.

The bell tinkled above his head as Mrs. Wilkins made for the door with a key in hand. Her impassive expression burst into a smile as she saw the visitor. He barely made it a foot in the door before she wrapped him in a hug. He was sure his eyes were bulging out of his head with the sudden and unwelcome contact.

Mrs. Wilkins let go quickly and stepped back, clearly realizing he was uncomfortable. "Welcome back, Mr. Granger. How are you feeling? Your brother said you've been a bit under the weather."

Draco glanced at the floor, at the ceiling, at the empty displays, and finally at the Muggle. "I've been better," he said with a sincerity that made him feel vulnerable. "Is your husband around? I'd—I'd like to speak with him."

Mrs. Wilkins looked puzzled but nodded. "We live just upstairs." She reached behind Draco and locked the door, before she waved for him to follow her into the back.

A dozen silver contraptions unlike anything Draco had ever seen lined the walls of the backroom of the bakery. Shelves and a stove were recognizable enough, but everything else were large metal cubes he couldn't begin to put names to. The lights were different from the glass-housed snake lights out front and in the clothing store. These were elongated and firmly glowing from the ceiling. An odd-looking cauldron held even odder-looking things that may have been utensils, though they looked like nothing the Zabinis owned.

"Mr. Granger?"

Draco flushed a deep red and pulled his eyes away from what he was certain was a Muggle kitchen. "Following," he muttered, and walked to the stairs.

The room at the top of the stairs was notably smaller than any sitting room Draco had ever seen. Four or five of these rooms could have fit in the Zabinis' sitting room, which was dwarfed by the sitting room at the Manor. In this thimble-sized area, the Wilkinses had stuffed a long blue sofa set perpendicular to a matching armchair with an end table at the elbow. A coffee table on a plush blue rug sat in the middle, and next to the wall was a low shelf stacked with another metal contraption with a glass front. He imagined this contraption was likely not involved in the Muggle baking process.

Straight behind the sitting room was a dining room of equal proportion, and to the left was a kitchen divided from the dining room not by a wall, but by a four-foot high counter. Through a hallway directly behind Draco, he saw three doors, likely leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The hallway was lit by more of the glass lights, but instead of spheres, these seemed to emulate the shape of a candle flame.

"Husband!" Mrs. Wilkins called. She patted Draco's arm. "He'll be out in a moment, my dear. Make yourself comfortable." She gestured to the sitting room, which already had him feeling claustrophobic. "Do you want any tea?"

"I'm fine." With a stabilizing breath, he walked past the short table and settled into the armchair. No one could sit next to him and no one could touch him. It was the safest place in the entire home.

"Wife!" came the voice of Mr. Wilkins behind one of the closed doors.

"We have a guest, so you'd best be decent," Mrs. Wilkins warned the man.

A chuckle could be heard through the door. Draco marvelled that anyone would have doors so thin that something like a chuckle could be heard.

"Who dares spoil my plan to seduce my prey?" Mr. Wilkins asked, and Draco's eyes flew open in awkward disbelief. He did not need to hear that.

Mrs. Wilkins laughed loudly from her spot in the kitchen. "Husband, Mr. Argyros Granger does not need to be made more uncomfortable than he already is."

"Granger, you say? I suppose I'll put on a shirt, then."

Draco wasn't sure how red his face was at this specific point in time compared to other embarrassing moments of his life, but he imagined it compared closely with the ferret incident.

Mr. Wilkins entered the sitting room after a few minutes and gave a beaming smile to Draco. Draco felt lucky that he didn't have to see the man half-naked, even if Muggle clothing felt oddly naked anyway.

"Mr. Granger, it is good to see you again. I've was concerned that after our last conversation, I may have seen the last of you." Mr. Wilkins seemed perfectly earnest and honestly abashed at his handling of their last interaction.

Draco shifted in the armchair as Mr. Wilkins settled himself on the sofa. "Theo—my brother mentioned he spoke to you," he said in a low tone, and cursed himself for slipping up and saying Theo's name.

Mr. Wilkins nodded, unaffected by the error. "He did. And I appreciate that he waited for me to explain, although it's slightly concerning that with the weight of the secret you boys carry, he was seduced by a muffin. And one that three people total have purchased, at that."

"That's Chrys," Draco muttered, silently agreeing with the Muggle.

Mr. Wilkins shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "Are you ready to hear me through?"

Draco paused before he nodded. His apprehension was at an all-time high (excluding the fear of Aurors bursting in at any given moment), but he forced himself to listen to the Muggle Theo trusted so much.

"My family has known about magic for generations, even if it's mostly legend now. My father always thought it was ridiculous, but my grandfather believed in it. I did too, until about twenty years ago. I honestly don't know why I stopped." Mr. Wilkins paused. "According to my grandfather, we were descended from a great line of witches and wizards particularly focused in the field of Potions. Somewhere around my great-great-grandfather, we lost our magic and descended into the world of science. Okay, maybe 'descended' isn't the right word. We evolved, as most would say. But the stories remained in our family, and I was foolish enough to believe them, or so my father would accuse. He was a man of definite science. 'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction', he reminded my sister and I every day. 'In magic, no such thing exists, therefore magic is in the realm of fantasy and you live in the world of reality.' I detested those words," Mr. Wilkins said with vehemence. "I hated believing in something my father had no faith in, but then in my twenties...well, I fell into his way of thinking, so to speak."

Mr. Wilkins stared at Draco with an intrusive glance that made him want to jump out of the chair, run down the steps, and Apparate straight into the Wizengamot courtroom. He clenched his fists and took calming breaths, willing his heart to slow down. "I saw you, every day with your wand and I knew I had given up a belief in something real. You were my proof that my grandfather wasn't lying. Those legends I abandoned twenty years ago were truths I wasn't ready to accept in a world so hellbent on science and absolutes." Mr. Wilkins gave Draco such an intense look that the younger man thought he might melt into the fabric of his armchair. "Your brother listened to this and told me that neither my grandfather nor I were insane."

Draco chewed the inside of his lip while he ran through his options. On one hand, he could Obliviate the Muggle and the entire concept of the Wizarding world would disappear from his consciousness—although to do so would require restructuring a significant amount of his childhood from the sound of it, and Draco was not a skilled enough Legilimens to do so in a convincing manner. On the other hand, he could choose Theo's route and affirm the Muggle that he was correct in his beliefs: the Wizarding world did exist, and he was in fact, the descendant of such a person.

Later, in private, Draco would curse the fact that he harboured any inner-Gryffindor tendencies. In front of Mr. Wilkins, and by extension his wife, who was listening eagerly from the kitchen, Draco lifted his wand and whispered, "Wingardium leviosa," and raised a candle sitting on the poor excuse of a coffee table several inches in the air before lowering it back to its regular resting place.

"You're not crazy," Draco said after a few minutes. Mr. Wilkins accepted this with a straight face; Mrs. Wilkins, on the other hand, seemed to be nearing a heart attack.

"Magic," she said as she gasped for breath near the counter. "That was actual—that was magic."

Draco's face stayed impassive while Mr. Wilkins reassured his wife. "Yes. That was magic. And it was real. Mr. Granger did not perform an illusion."

Mrs. Wilkins edged her way into the too-small sitting room and searched Draco with curious brown eyes. "Did you have—do you have a—?" She blushed and hid her face in her husband's sleeve. "Did you use a magic wand?"

Draco furrowed his eyebrows at the Muggle's question. What else did she expect him to use? He twisted his right hand and showed her the artefact. Her jaw dropped and she reached out to touch it. Draco pulled the wand back out of impulse. "Wands are extremely personal items," he said.

Mrs. Wilkins dropped her hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Granger."

He gave a heavy sigh at the sound of that Muggle name again and again. "Please, please, call me Argyros. I can only take so much of 'Mr. Granger' before I start losing my mind," he said with a certain amount of exasperation.

The couple looked at him with astonishment before they nodded. "Fine," Mrs. Wilkins said, not unkindly. "But I expect you to call me Monica from now on."

"And I, Wendell," Mr. Wilkins said.

Draco stared at the couple and tried to come up with a compromise, but in all of his pure-blood etiquette training, nothing of the sort had ever arisen. He was, for all intents and purposes, stuck.

He nodded his agreement, however begrudgingly. "Monica. Wendell," he said, trying out the names. They felt foreign and strange on his tongue, but if this was the price of survival without having to defect to some unknown corner of the world, it was a small cost.

"Much better," Mrs. Wilkins—Monica—stated.

Wendell rubbed his short, untamed brown hair with his right palm. "So, Mr.-Argyros." The name was as strange for the Muggle as it was for Draco. He felt no small satisfaction at that. "May I be so indelicate as to ask why you and your brother are in hiding?"

Draco's jaw nearly dropped at the statement. "Pardon?" he said in the quietest voice possible.

The Muggle man clasped his wife's hand and seemed to draw some sort of strength from her silence. "When we spoke last, I said I suspected you were in hiding, at which point you ran." He paused, as if giving Draco some chance to jump to his feet, run down the steps, and Apparate to some unknown place in the Sahara Desert. When Draco did none of these things (however badly he wanted to, as his Slytherin instincts were screaming to GET OUT NOW), Wendell pressed on. "Son, what are you running from?"

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. That was a loaded question, and one that came sorely near to the philosophical standoff he had reached with Theo not two hours earlier. "What makes you think I'm running?" he challenged. The two grown adults looked at him with identical raised eyebrows that told Draco his bluff was not working on these far too-intuitive Muggles.

So this is what it came down to: a truth, or a full-blown lie.

"My world was at war for three years," his mouth said without his brain's approval. He stopped talking, but the Wilkinses were raptly listening. If it all goes to hell, I can Obliviate them at the end of the night, his desperate ego reasoned.

Draco swallowed and began, for the first time in his life, telling the whole truth. To Muggles. To people he didn't understand, but for some reason trusted. "In truth, we were at the precipice of war for two years, and then two years ago it came to a head," he clarified. "And my family were on the losing side. Now we're in hiding—or we were. My mother and father went off to America without me to hide, and now they've been caught." He looked at the dour brown carpet, and then at the equally uninspiring coffee table. "Two days ago, my father was sentenced to ten years in prison for war crimes. My mother has been put on house arrest for three years. I found out this morning," he spat bitterly. "It was in the newspaper."

Monica looked stiff and uncertain at the implication that there was a war and the young man in her living room had been on the wrong side, therefore implying she had a war criminal in her midst. For a reason he didn't want to examine, her reaction tugged at Draco's heart. Wendell, on the other hand, looked merely intrigued by the whole situation. "My condolences for your parents," he said.

Draco shook his head. His belief system might have still been in shambles, but he knew a true criminal when he saw one. As much as he loved his father, Lucius Malfoy was at one time the Dark Lord's right hand. Lucius Malfoy, by current moral and legal standards, deserved ten years in Azkaban. "They—it was well earned," he said after a moment's contemplation.

"You said you were on the 'losing' side," Wendell said with an air of caution. "Not the 'wrong' side?"

Draco contemplated his words for several long moments before he answered the inquisitive Muggle. "'Right' and 'wrong' are concepts. You're well aware of the adjoining concept that 'history is written by the victorious'. 'Right' and 'wrong' are just words the victorious use to make themselves comfortable with the sins they committed, as if they weren't as cruel and twisted as the rest of us. They killed just as many people. Tortured and interrogated just as many people. As far as I'm concerned, no one won this war," Draco said, and in a moment of unexpected clarity, he realized his words were true. Too many people had been killed and tortured by both sides of the war for anyone to reign truly triumphant. The only reason those twenty-eight war heroes were given anything was because they were on the opposite side of the Dark Lord. That was the defining aspect, and it was pathetic.

Mr.-Wendell nodded with a clear look of understanding and empathy. "How old are you, Argyros?"

"Eighteen," Draco answered automatically.

"So this war began...?"

"I was less than a month past fifteen when the Dark—the commander—of my allegiance rose to power." The name 'Dark Lord' implied Draco had been very much on the wrong side of the war.

Monica reached out to touch his hand, but seemed to remember his reaction to her earlier hug, and rested her hand on Wendell's arm. "You were a child soldier."

He looked away from the pity in her eyes. Draco bit the inside of his lip as he thought of taking the Dark Mark at sixteen, and Theo at seventeen; Crabbe losing his life just after his eighteenth birthday. Barely adults. Even goddamned Potter and his insufferable shadows were underage when they fought their first battle. "We all were," he said.

"Argyros," Wendell said with a tone that suggested he planned to change the subject. "What's your specialty? Charms? Transfiguration? Divination?"

Draco held back an unexpected and involuntary smile. "Potions," he answered, relieved to talk about something other than the years of his life he wanted to forget.

"Potions," Wendell mused. "I imagine you have to be precise with everything you do?" Draco nodded, frowning in suspicion at the line of questioning. Wendell raised an eyebrow and gave Draco a half-grin. "Have you ever given a thought to baking?"

20. Chapter 20

A/N: Hello! So there have been a couple of concerns raised about this story going in the Percy/Hermione direction. Never fear, my Dramione-loving friends, that story arc ended with the last Hermione chapter. I would like to point out that I did not mark this story as a Dramione in any way-the genre is listed as friendship & hurt/comfort, and I did not use a Draco M., Hermione G. relationship tag. Before you start throwing rotten fruit my way, let me assure you that this story IS heading that direction, but will pick up in the sequel, The Breaking of Hermione Granger. I'm about 22k words into that one and it makes my Dramione-loving heart happy. For this first installation, I felt it was more important to focus on Draco & Hermione's development as people after the war-specifically, creating a relationship between Draco & the Wilkinses, and getting Hermione on good terms with the Slytherins while getting over any 'what-ifs' she might have about the Weasley boys. I despise love triangles, so my apologies if you were looking forward to seeing Hermione struggle between feelings for Ron and Draco. That's not my style.

This installation only has 24 chapters, so we are nearing the end of what is essentially Act I. I will be posting the first two chapters of the next installation on the same day I finish this story, so hopefully you won't feel I've teased you too much. Just remember the dear old adage, good things come to those who wait.

Hermione

A stack of books hovered three feet above the ground while Hermione manipulated another stack in a vertical figure-eight pattern. Her wand laid on a table next to her beaded bag.

The moving books began to tilt to the right and she cursed as the top one slid off and hit the floor. She lowered the rest of the books to the stone and sank onto her chair. She and George had finally figured out the charm Lupin used to create the Marauder's Map and the subsequent Tracking Parchments a month before Easter, which left her more time to practice wandless magic. After hitting brick wall after brick wall with the Memory Charms and cutting off communication with Percy, she allowed the new challenge to consume her when she wasn't studying for N.E.W.T.s or going over other peoples' work.

Her studying became fanatic as Easter approached and she advanced to doing the simple spells non-verbally within two weeks. The trickiest part of the endeavour was coming to terms with the limitations of wandless magic. Most of the spells taught at Hogwarts were created for use with a wand; a swish-and-flick! of the hand did not a wandless Levitation Charm make. Wandless magic was older, and required the caster to focus her energy, whereas a wand usually did that piece. The learning process was frustrating, but the payoff was worthwhile.

Hermione ran through the spells she could do perfectly: a basic Levitation Charm, which differed slightly from the traditional Wingardium Leviosa; a Shield Charm, which she found was easier to perform without a wand; conjuring her favourite little bluebell flames, which again she found easier without a wand; in fact, Hermione found that a considerable amount of Transfiguration and defensive magic were simpler without her wand. The wand required specific and complex movements. The focused mind did not.

"I thought I'd find you here," came Ginny's voice from the doorway of the empty classroom. The young woman perched herself on a desk and watched as Hermione extinguished the bluebell flames.

"Duel me," Hermione said.

Ginny's feet kicked against the legs of the desk. "Duel? Here?"

"Unless you want to go to the Room of Requirement."

The other woman jumped down and pulled out her wand. "Here's fine. Why do you want to duel?"

Hermione sighed and opened the cover of Wandless, the book she'd seen at Flourish and Blotts at the beginning of the year. The action was more out of habit than to serve a purpose. "I need to practice offensive magic. I can throw up shields, but I can't seem to do anything else."

Ginny nodded. "Fair. But if you set me on fire with your little blue flames, I reserve the right to use that weird hex that sent Terry to the Hospital Wing on Thursday."

Hermione grinned at the challenge. "You'd better use your shields, then."

The women faced off and bowed. Hermione flexed her hands, prepared for Ginny's first attack. A yellow light flew at Hermione's face and she raised both hands, creating a shield that caused the light to ricochet back down the same trajectory it came from. Ginny's eyes grew wide before she ducked to the side to avoid her own spell. It hit the wall with a crack and a fissure opened in the stone.

"How did you do that?" she asked.

"The normal Shield Charm is concave around the caster, which causes the spells to ricochet in unpredictable directions. A wandless shield can be shaped, so I made mine slightly convex and sent the spell back to you."

"That's impressive," Ginny breathed. "Harry would kill to be able to do that."

Hermione shook her head. "A wand is still better in battle, and casting a shield like that would leave you open in the event of multiple attackers."

"Still, your left hand isn't doing anything when you're using a wand."

"My shield required both hands. I can't do any offensive magic and sustain a convex shield."

"I'm sure you'll find out a way. You're Hermione Granger, and your badass level just got a little higher." Ginny raised her wand again. "Ready?"

Blue light shot from the end of Ginny's wand while Hermione held up a simpler shield with her left hand and sent a jinx at her opponent. The magic flowed from the tips of her fingers in a transparent form that tapered into a rope-like entity. It stayed connected to her hand as it hit Ginny's shield.

Hermione released the spell after a couple of seconds and took a deep breath. "That was exhausting."

"You need to figure out a way to cut it off so your energy isn't sustaining it," Ginny said. "I mean, it was cool. Bloody brilliant, really. But it's inefficient if it's going to wipe you out."

"I never realized how much we rely on wand cores to give our spells power. I mean, I knew it on a theoretical level, but doing this drives the point home." Hermione looked longingly at her wand before she took another stabilizing breath. Her resolve doubled and she rolled her shoulders back. "Again."

It took three tries before Hermione was able to send a jinx that sustained itself after she cut if off from her own energy. As she celebrated in her success, her opponent landed a jinx that caused her arms to wobble uncontrollably. Ginny whooped. After gloating rather noisily, she lifted the jinx and assumed a true battle stance. "Ready? First one to need the Hospital Wing loses."

Hermione couldn't resist. After shaking the last of the jinx from her arms, she conjured her little bluebell flames in both hands and raised her eyebrows with a wry smile. "Agreed."

At first, Hermione needed both hands to block the flurry of spells from Ginny's wand. As her determination grew, she threw her concentration into creating a one-way shield that surrounded her entire person using only one hand. The challenge came when she had to divide her mind in two, allowing her to focus the shield and simultaneously return fire from inside the barrier.

She took a breath and prayed that the shield was truly one-way and would allow spells to pass from inside.

She threw the first jinx that came to mind, which Ginny easily deflected. She threw a second jinx, again deflected, before she conjured a ball of flame nearly the size of a Bludger. Ginny's jaw dropped as the fireball flew across the room. She managed to block it, but her shield shattered. Hermione threw a second fireball, just larger than the first, and caught Ginny's leg.

As the younger woman howled, more from surprise than pain, Hermione dropped her shield, picked up her wand and raced to her friend. "Aguamenti," she muttered, and put out the flames.

"Holy hell, are you okay?" a new voice said, and the women looked up to see Justin, Daphne, and Neville walking toward them.

Ginny peeled back the leg of her Muggle trousers and hissed as she looked at the burn. "Round one to Hermione," she said with a quiet chuckle. "Next time we duel, I'm wearing robes."

"Let's get to Madam Pomfrey. Can you walk?" Hermione offered her arm to Ginny.

The redhead gingerly put weight on the leg and winced. "I'll be fine."

"Liar." Hermione threw Ginny's arm over her shoulders and the party of five hobbled from the classroom.

"That was wicked," Neville said with a half-contained grin.

Justin nodded. "Bloody amazing, more like. You fight dirty, Granger." Daphne, Neville, and Ginny hummed their agreement.

"When did you start learning wandless magic?"

Hermione flushed at the compliments. "I started practicing in August, but only really started focusing on it a few weeks ago."

"Leave it to you to be able to duel a N.E.W.T.-level student after a few weeks." Neville shook his head in awe. "You're going to be a legend, Hermione."

"What kind of stuff can you do?" Justin asked eagerly. "Other than throw fireballs at Weasleys from behind a goddamn shield?"

"I—well," she stumbled, her face burning brighter. "Just, you know, the basic stuff. I can levitate things and conjure a couple of things. I was able to transfigure a mouse into a snuffbox like we did in first year—"

"You did actual transfiguration?" Justin marvelled.

"Of course she did," Ginny scoffed before wincing again. "She's Hermione."

"It was just a first-year spell," Hermione mumbled. She wondered if her cheeks would ever go back to their natural colour.

"Promise me that once the Aurors catch Malfoy, you'll transfigure him back into a ferret for old times' sake."

Everyone but Daphne laughed at the memory. The Slytherin glared at Ginny and shook her head. "Don't you dare. That was horrible."

"He deserved it," Ginny shot back.

"He deserved being thrown in the air twenty feet and then slammed to the floor in a form that naturally would have been killed by such a thing? He was fourteen and stupid. He deserved detention, not death."

"He didn't die."

"He broke two ribs and had a hairline fracture in his right femur. He was lucky."

Hermione, ever a stickler for the rules, had been horrified when the fake-Moody used transfiguration on Malfoy after the initial humour wore off. She hadn't known about his injuries, and learning about them now made her slightly nauseous. "We didn't know," she said to Daphne.

"That's because he was too embarrassed by the situation to even tell his father, and you know Hogwarts. If an injury isn't bad enough for a student to die, they don't notify the parents." Daphne glowered at the ground.

Justin pulled his girlfriend's hand into his own. "We really didn't know. We won't bring it up again." He gave significant look to Ginny, who rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I won't make fun of Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret."

Daphne growled and snatched her hand back from Justin. "I think I'll be taking my leave. I hope that burn scars, Weasley." The woman turned on her heel and marched away from the group, leaving Hermione, Neville, and Justin in well-chastened silence. Ginny was mimicking Daphne's departing words.

"I should go after her," Justin said with an apologetic look to Hermione.

She jutted her chin in the direction of Daphne. "Go."

Justin's cane clicked against the floor as he walked away. The remaining three were quiet the rest of the way to the Hospital Wing. Hermione's brain was in overdrive as she thought about Malfoy, Barty Crouch Jr., the rise of Voldemort, the death of Dumbledore, the hunt for the Horcruxes, her torture in Malfoy Manor, and the end of the war. Daphne's words rang in her mind through it all. "He was fourteen and stupid. He deserved detention, not death."

Malfoy was fourteen when a Death Eater turned him into a ferret and punished him. His transgressions didn't warrant the punishment, but Crouch had a vendetta against Lucius Malfoy. "I know your father of old, boy. You tell him Moody's keeping a close eye on his son..."

Her breath caught as her mind puzzled through the last four years. Malfoy paid for his father's sins at the hand of Crouch and then Voldemort and who knew who else. He still wasn't innocent, but suddenly she had a hard time finding him guilty.

"Hermione?" Neville's voice vaguely registered at the edge of her consciousness.

"'The sins of the father,'" she said absently.

Ginny elbowed her in the ribs. "Do you need to see Pomfrey, too? The wandless magic took a lot out of you."

Hermione frowned at her companions as Ginny sat down on the nearest bed. "I was just thinking about Malfoy. Everything that happened to him was because they were upset with his father." The other two looked at her with blank surprise. "He still should have gone to Dumbledore or Snape for protection instead of letting Death Eaters into the school, but he was only given the task to kill Dumbledore to atone for his father's weakness."

"He's still a prejudiced git who tormented you and Harry and Ron and Neville every time he got a chance."

"I'm not saying he's innocent, but...the Ministry needs to try him as a minor." She nodded, lost in her own thoughts again. "The Ministry has to try him as a minor. It wasn't his fault."

Neville looked concerned as he reached out to Hermione and rubbed her shoulder. "He's on the run, Hermione. It makes him look guilty."

"It makes him look scared." She brushed back her hair and caught her fingers in the curls. "Of course he's scared. He's always been a bit of a coward, but now he's being hunted."

Ginny examined Hermione's torn expression. "Do you actually feel bad for him?"

"I don't know. Maybe? I mean, if I saw him, I'd still notify the Aurors to bring him in. He's still a Death Eater. He still fought for Voldemort, and he still has horrendous views on blood purity. But I'd petition the Wizengamot to try him as a minor even though he's over seventeen now."

Ginny laid back on the bed, grinding her teeth as she lifted her injured leg. "You're a more forgiving person than me, Hermione."

"Let's get Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, changing the subject.

As the matron fussed over Ginny's leg, Hermione sank into a nearby chair. Her thoughts swirled, but one stayed clear, forming the eye of her mental storm: 'The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.' And Draco Malfoy was just a child.

A/N: "I know your father" quote from Goblet of Fire. "Sins of the father" quote from The Merchant of Venice, by Wm. Shakespeare

21. Chapter 21

Draco

Theo nearly laughed his ass off the first time he saw Draco in the black apron the Wilkinses, and now Draco, wore as employees of the bakery. The reaction was nearly enough for Draco to hang up the apron and go back to sulking in the Zabinis' cottage. Before he could melt into the floor from embarrassment, Monica came out to the front of the store and chastened "Chrys" for shaming "Argyros" in his attempt to learn about Muggle culture. Theo hung his head until Monica gave him a free cupcake with a final scolding.

"Your brother is doing the right thing, and if you want to blend in, you should consider doing the same." Monica handed over the cupcake, which Theo took with a humble thank you and I'm sorry. But the glint in his eye as he walked out of the store told Draco that this wasn't over.

"He's a bit of a prat, now, isn't he?" Monica said once the door closed.

Draco snorted. "That's putting it lightly. If he was allowed to use magic here, my apron would probably be blue and bronze, or red and gold, or some horrifying shade of pink." An idea crept into the back of his mind and he made a mental note to implement his own Taboo within the bakery. If Theo wouldn't say the names of the Hogwarts houses at home, he could certainly be tricked into saying them in the company of the Wilkinses.

"You can't use magic here?"

"We can, but technically it's a violation of the International Statute of Secrecy to use magic in Muggle areas."

Monica furrowed her eyebrows. "But what about—what did you call them? Muggle-borns? Are they not allowed to use magic around their families?"

"I've never really given it much thought," Draco said. And why should have he? His interactions with Muggle-borns were generally short and confrontational if he paid them any attention at all. Even Granger only warranted his attention for ten minutes at a time unless she was topping him in marks or sneaking around with Potter and Weasley. He hardly gave Brown, Thomas, Finch-Fletchley, and the others in his year a conscious thought. "My family doesn't associate with Muggle-borns."

"Because you're pure-bloods."

"Yes."

Draco still hadn't gotten over how bizarre it was to talk openly about magic with the Muggles. Even more so, he had a hard time understanding how they weren't judgmental about his situation or his beliefs. They just nodded and accepted him as he was. He knew for certain that most Muggles weren't like the Wilkinses: Theo had confessed being a wizard to Lydia Poirier and subsequently Stunned her and had Draco Obliviate her when she reacted badly. Much to Draco's chagrin, Theo continued seeing the Muggle girl after that fiasco, but he never brought up magic again.

Monica nodded absently and glanced at the register. "Alright, Argyros. Do you have your notebook?"

He pulled the Muggle notebook out of the right pocket of his apron. Pages upon pages were covered in black ink as he took meticulous notes, including notes about the notebook itself.

The cover of the notebook was a thick, stiff paper three times the thickness of parchment. The internal paper was thin and white with blue lines and was much smoother than parchment. He didn't like the way the texture felt beneath his hand.

To write in the notebook, the Wilkinses gave him something called a 'ballpoint pen', which housed a tube of black ink and was made of something called 'plastic', with a tiny metal nib at the bottom that looked nothing like the nib of a proper quill. Using the Muggle writing materials made him ache for his parchment and quill. The paper felt wrong and unnatural, and the pen was too light. He found his penmanship suffered without the weight of the feather angling his hand.

His first lesson was turning on and off the lights of the bakery. The 'light switch', which was also made from plastic (but a different kind of plastic than the pen), managed these. Wendell patiently explained to Draco the concept of electricity, wiring, and the electric lightbulb for close to an hour after showing him the light switch. That conversation led to discussing drywall and insulation for another two hours before Draco's head hurt so badly that he called it a night.

The introduction to the kitchen 'appliances' took three days. He learned about acrylic sheets, another kind of plastic sometimes used in place of glass to create windows. Wendell showed him how the electric coils in the oven baked the breads and how to turn on the gas stove. The refrigerator was another marvel and Draco spent thirty minutes opening and closing it to see how the light turned off before Monica caught him with an amused twinkle in her eyes.

The odd utensils on the counter turned out to be made of yet another type of plastic that was more similarly related to the pen than the light switch or the acrylic windows. He breathed in relief when Wendell pulled out an iron skillet. That was something he knew how to use.

When Wendell showed Draco wax paper, cling film, and plastic bags in rapid succession, he nearly ripped the notebook in half. How on earth did Muggles have so many types of plastic? And what the hell was plastic made of, anyway? Metal, paper, and glass had served the wizarding world just fine for millennia. This—whatever this was—was absurd.

At the end of two weeks, Draco had a grudging appreciation for the ingenuity of Muggles. He still didn't feel comfortable using more than the light switch, but he understood the basic concepts of Muggle life. The two things that still bewildered him (and thus he didn't go near them), were the television and the telephone. The Wilkinses only used their telephone once or twice a month to call friends in Perth, but Monica told him that when they lived in the same country as their friends, she used the thing daily. As for the television, Draco didn't like anything that appeared to think for itself. That generally meant Dark Magic was involved, and he'd had enough of Dark Magic.

In the present, Monica pointed to the register. "You'll use this to charge the customers for their food. When you type in the cost, it adds the numbers automatically. Hit this button," she pointed to something green, "to finalize the sale and print the receipt. The drawer will open automatically for you to put the money in. If they give you more money than you need, you'll have to make change."

Draco's heart raced at the thought of having to interact with Muggles and their money. When Wendell asked if he wanted to bake, he expected to remain in the back of the store. This was a new form of torture.

"Can I just help Wendell?" he asked weakly. He already discovered he liked the process of preparing ingredients and watching the dough come together. It was blessedly similar to Potions, just as Wendell promised, only he was able to eat it at the end of the day.

"You'll get back there in a couple of days, but we need you to be able to handle the front if we're indisposed."

The door chimed and an elderly woman approached the counter to order. Draco punched in the cost of her muffin and banana bread, and cursed as his hands shook when he took her money. Monica stood behind him and whispered the correct change. As the woman tottered out of the store with her goods in hand, Monica grinned at Draco. "Well done. You didn't even faint."

He growled even though he knew she was teasing. "That was one of the worst experiences of my life."

"So dramatic. Honestly, Argyros, a few more and you'll be fine."

"I don't know why I ever agreed to this."

"Because you're brave and intelligent," Monica answered.

Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "You're the first person to ever call me brave. You make me sound like a Gryffindor."

Monica cocked her head and shrugged. "I have no idea what a Gryffindor is, but you are brave. You're learning about a culture you've never experienced. I don't know why you're doing it, but I know it takes bravery to do so." She nodded to the window, where a group of three were standing outside the door. "Alright, Argyros. Are you ready?"

He took a steadying breath and rested his hands on the register. "Okay."

Three weeks later, the Wilkinses finally relented and allowed Draco to spend all of his time in the back. He only worked six-hour shifts three times a week, but it was as mentally exhausting as his Arithmancy studies. He watched the oven constantly to make sure nothing was burning. Wendell showed him how to make the sandwiches he liked so much. Overall, he started to understand the workings of the store and the appliances and even the Muggle currency. He refused when the Wilkinses attempted to pay him a salary, instead taking left-over goods back to the house for himself and Theo. While Theo still tormented him for getting a Muggle job, the pastries went over well.

"I thought you said that Muggles and wizards didn't belong in the same world," Theo said one night over a chocolate-filled croissant.

A hot temper flared in Draco's chest before he took a deep breath to still it. The contradiction between his beliefs and his actions bothered him incessantly and he tried to put it out of mind. Something drew him to the Wilkinses, like he'd been fed a platonic love potion. If he didn't know they were Muggles, he would have suspected they laced their goods with something of the sort.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, shutting down the conversation.

"But it's fascinating and I do want to talk about it."

Draco snarled. "Well, what about you? He who resented the idea of going into Muggle territory at all and now spends all his time in the company of a Muggle girl."

Theo took another bite of the croissant and shrugged. "She's pretty."

"She doesn't have magic."

"Neither do the Wilkinses."

"That's different!" Draco snapped. "They can at least handle knowing what we are without prejudice."

"Not that your bigoted arse would have learned that if I didn't listen to them long enough to find out."

"So good for you, then. Saint Theo, trusting the Muggles you didn't want anything to do with in the first place."

Theo rolled his eyes and raised his wand to point at Draco across the table. "Are you quite done taking out your internal conflict on me? If not, I learned a handy new curse yesterday I've been aching to try out."

"Why do you do it? Spend time with the Muggle girl?"

"Because otherwise my only human interaction would be with you, and while you're quite pretty, I'd prefer her to fulfil certain needs."

Draco blinked slowly at Theo before he set his mouth in a firm line. "You're using her for sex?"

"I'm not using her for her brain, that's for sure. I'm not convinced there's much more than wool between her ears." Theo set his wand down and picked up another croissant. "These are the best you've brought home, by the way. Mrs. Wilkins's work?"

Though he was still frustrated and somewhat disgusted by Theo's casual address of using the Muggle to quench immoral desires, a smug smile settled on Draco's face. "Mine."

The other man's croissant-holding hand dropped to the table. "You're joking."

Draco shook his head and the smug smile was joined by a cocky eyebrow. "Not in the slightest."

"You utter bastard. It's not fair that you're already next to top of our class, you had to be a natural at baking, too?"

"There's very little I can't do."

Theo gestured to the pile of parchments at the edge of the table. "Granger's assessments of your Arithmancy work still beg to differ."

"I'm starting to think Granger isn't as good at Arithmancy as she believes," Draco sniped, the self-satisfaction disappearing from his face.

"My Outstandings contradict your point."

"Then you're both delusional." Draco snatched a croissant for himself and bit into it with a vicious chomp. When the chocolate exploded in his mouth, he moaned. "Goddammit, these are good."

"So when you reclaim the Manor and get your house-elves back, who's going to do the baking?"

The thought stopped Draco mid-chew. He hadn't thought about the Manor since learning of his mother's house arrest, and he'd dismissed the idea of house-elves longer ago. He'd been in France for nearly eleven months, and in the company of Muggles for nearly five. His childhood, the Manor, the war...they all seemed to belong to a different person. A person whose beliefs were still steady, whose faith in his family name and his own righteousness was still unshaken. It all still haunted him in the middle of the night when he woke up tangled in sheets as he tried to run from his nightmares, but in the day he felt different.

He swallowed the pastry and frowned at his companion. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about any of it."

Theo finally took the hint and nodded. "Okay." After a long pause, he finished his final bite and folded his hands. "So, is Mr. Wilkins going to make any more of those apple-cheddar muffins?"

Draco rolled his eyes and stood to head for the library. "I have studying to do."

"Are you going to try for a N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies?" Theo asked, jumping to his feet with a wicked grin.

The blond pointed his wand at his tormenter and chanted under his breath. Theo's fingernails began growing out into spirals, preventing him from reaching his own wand.

"That's not fair!"

Draco conjured a nail file. "Good luck."

"Ruddy git."

The back of the store was hot as both ovens and the stove were engaged. Draco tugged at the neck of the long-sleeved periwinkle t-shirt the Wilkinses had finally convinced him to wear. On one hand, he was grateful for the light clothing in the warm environment. On the other hand, he still felt like he was parading around in his underwear.

The timer on the upper oven went off. Draco pulled on quilted flower-patterned oven mitts and retrieved the pie—Dutch apple, his new favourite—to set on the cooling rack. He let an amused grin cross his face as he considered casting a Cooling Charm on the pastry. Baking would certainly be faster if he used magic, but there was something about doing it the Muggle way that just felt right. Letting things take their natural course, like letting the pie cool on its own, felt right.

When did the Muggle way start to feel more natural than magic? He blamed the heat of the kitchen for making him delusional.

Noting the time left on the second oven, he removed the mitts and reached over to the stove to stir a chocolate-evaporated milk concoction. Wendell walked into the kitchen with a grin and a box of milk. "That smells delicious. If I'd known you'd be this good, Monica and I would've offered you a job months ago." He opened the refrigerator and Draco heard him shuffle an array of dairy products to make room for the milk. "We really need to invest in a walk-in. Having to source this stuff every day is for the birds."

Draco had no idea what a walk-in was, so he pulled out his notebook and wrote the term down to ask about later. The second oven went off with a persistent high-pitched beep. He set the wooden spoon aside and reached for the flowered oven mitts again.

With the baked goods cooling on the counter, Draco sent another round of pastries into the oven and turned to Wendell. "Can you hand me the dough for the croissants?" He held out his left arm while he looked over the recipe sheet in his right hand.

The dough stopped a few inches from Draco's hand and Wendell let out a low whistle. "That's quite the statement on your arm."

The recipe sheet fell to the counter as Draco jerked his left arm back and pulled the sleeve of the t-shirt down. He hadn't meant to push it up, but it was so hot. It must have been subconscious. He tucked his arm against his stomach and refused to meet Wendell's eyes.

"Can I ask what it means?"

His tone was curious, not judgmental or disdainful or fearful. After spending his life in a world where the Dark Mark inspired either maniacal pride or bone-chilling terror, Draco found it disconcerting that this man, this Muggle, thought it was simply interesting.

"You don't have to. I know tattoos can be extremely personal—"

"Death," Draco answered tonelessly. "It means Death."

Something rustled behind him, and Monica brushed by his shoulder with a sad smile on her face. "You teenagers can be so existential. If you have Death on one arm, you should at least mirror it with Life on the other."

The heat in the kitchen became oppressive and Draco started gasping for breath. "I need to take a walk," he mumbled, and stumbled past the couple, out the back entrance, and into the tree-line.

He heard footsteps approach an hour later, invading the space where he sat with his back against a tree. He kept his eyes closed and held his left arm tightly to his chest. He clutched the edge of his sleeve in an iron grip, ensuring it could not possibly fall down and reveal his past a second time.

"Your second pie is done," Monica said as she sat on the ground next to him. He didn't answer, but opened his eyes and stared at the dense canopy. "It's a remnant of the war, isn't it?" He still didn't answer. If he didn't answer, would she stop talking? "You know, they have a name for what you're going through." No, of course she wouldn't stop talking. Monica and Wendell were the type of people who liked to talk things through, like just talking about something would make it go away or heal it or something.

"It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," Monica said. She picked up a pine needle and twisted it until it snapped. "It's not commonly addressed outside of certain circles. People who have survived wars tend to have nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks. Sometimes they'll be aggressive or despondent for no reason other than reacting to some sort of stimuli reminiscent of what they survived. When you draw out your wand when the bell rings, that's part of your PTSD. And based on what I saw earlier, you get panic attacks, too. Don't you?"

He closed his eyes and breathed out, waiting for her to go away. But she didn't move. Why wouldn't this woman leave him alone? Why did she care?

After several painful minutes of silence, Draco clenched his right fist around the edge of his sleeve and opened his eyes. "What are panic attacks?" he asked quietly.

Monica seemed to think over her words before speaking. "Sometimes, they feel like the world is closing in on you and you can't breathe. You can't get a grasp on anything. Even your thoughts are beyond your control. You might feel completely numb or you might feel like everything is on fire. You might become catatonic or you might have to over-exert yourself until it passes. It's common to cry." She paused as he tensed. "There's no shame in that. There's no shame in any of it." She tugged his right hand away from where it rested against his left and held it firmly in her own. "I don't know what you've gone through, but I will listen if you ever choose to share."

They sat in silence for a long time, Monica's hands holding Draco's as he regained control of his mind. Panic attacks. So there was a name for it. It was odd how calming it was to give it a name.

"I was raised to hate you," he whispered. "Pure-bloods, we're—we're taught that everyone is below us, especially Muggles. But since the war ended, since coming here, I don't—I don't know what to believe anymore." He sniffed and cursed the tears pricking his eyes. "You've accepted me even though I was taught you would fear me. That I would have power over you and it was my place—my birthright—to have that power." He flexed the fingers of his right hand, pulling away from Monica. "I believed it all for eighteen years and now I'm just...I'm just confused."

"That's okay. I would be more concerned if you went from one dogma to another without any conscious thought as to why. It is going to take time—it might take a long time—but it's good that you're working to figure it out for yourself." Monica fumbled for the pine needles again. As Draco turned to watch her, he realized she was the type of person who constantly had to do something with her hands. It was why she took his hands when trying to comfort him; it comforted her.

Without overthinking it, he reached out and tangled his fingers with hers and the needles fell to the ground. "You remind me of my mother." He took a breath and hoped he could speak without becoming emotional. It was the first time he'd talked about his family in nearly a year other than referencing their flight and incarceration. Monica's hands stopped fidgeting as she held onto Draco. "She always has to be doing something. She likes to garden and organize society events, and when she's not doing those, she's reading. I've rarely met another person who reads as much as she does. She likes historical fiction set in the time just before the International Statute of Secrecy was instated. It's—it doesn't portray Muggles in the best light." He frowned as he thought over the plots of some of her books before he changed course. "She's kind. Everything she says is deliberate. Everything she says or does has some sort of meaning. She's cunning and wickedly intelligent. She doesn't fall for empty promises, nor does she make them. She's able to keep my father and I in check most of the time. In pure-blood culture, the husband is the public face of the family, but the wife is who makes the family strong. She's strong." He stopped again.

Monica gently pulled on his hand. "There's a saying in Muggle culture: 'Behind every great man is a great woman'. I think our cultures might have more in common than you realize."

"Maybe," he acquiesced. "Maybe."

22. Chapter 22

Hermione

Hermione -

We need to talk. Saturday, my place.

- Harry

Hermione re-read those nine words until she couldn't see anything else. She held the parchment in her hand, crumpled and sweat-stained, for two full days. Since becoming an Auror, Harry had never sent something like this, and it terrified her. She couldn't imagine what discussion needed to be had, since Ginny would know if anything had happened to Ron. Maybe something had happened to Harry himself? But, then, Ginny would likely know that as well, and Ginny wasn't acting strangely at all.

We need to talk.

It struck fear in her heart.

Dawn had barely broken when Hermione threw on her shoes and cloak to walk into Hogsmeade. It wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend, but Professor McGonagall had long since allowed the students over seventeen to travel into town during the weekends as they pleased. Hermione's final destination wasn't Hogsmeade, though. As soon as she was past the castle's wards, she Disapparated.

The front steps of number twelve Grimmauld Place looked the same as ever. She hated it. The last time she'd seen Grimmauld Place, Death Eaters were literally on top of them. Seeing the front door gave Hermione the feeling she needed to run.

Instead, she carefully opened the door so as to not waken Mrs. Black. Once inside, she walked straight for the kitchen to make a cup of tea and settle her nerves.

"It's barely eight a.m., Hermione," came her best friend's voice, followed by a significant yawn. Harry rubbed the back of his head as if daring his hair to stick up in new directions.

"I didn't mean to wake you. But I would have been here earlier, I just didn't want to walk the castle grounds in the dark."

Harry nodded and stifled another yawn before helping himself to the tea kettle. "Smart."

"What did you need to talk to me about, Harry?" Hermione twisted her teacup nervously, running the fingers of one hand along the gold painted rim.

From next to the counter, the black-haired man shook his head. "Not before breakfast."

"Harry—"

"Hermione, trust me on this. Now, give me ten minutes to put on proper clothes and we'll walk to the breakfast place down the street."

Breakfast was tense as Hermione kept trying to draw Harry back to the purpose of their meeting and Harry kept deflecting with questions about schoolwork or students or teachers. Yes, Professor Wainwright was a good teacher. No, Seamus had not set anything on fire recently. Yes, Daphne Greengrass was turning out to be a good friend. No, she never talked about her ex-boyfriend.

By the time Harry and Hermione made it back to Grimmauld Place, she was resigned to waiting for Harry to bring up whatever it was he so urgently needed to tell her before subjecting her to two hours of anything but. They took their places again in the kitchen with a fresh pot of a tea before Harry pulled out a thick folder and set it on the table.

"This goes no further than this room," he said ominously, with one hand splayed on the folder.

"What is it?"

"Hermione..."

She frowned. "Of course I'm not going to tell anyone, Harry. What it is?"

"No one—including Ron—knows I'm telling you this." Harry opened the folder and shuffled through the pages for a moment before settling somewhere about a third of the way through the stack. "On March thirtieth, the Australian Ministry received a tip that a small community near Melbourne was gutted by 'magical means'. Upon investigation, it appears four British wizards with certain radical ideals regarding wizard-Muggle relations moved into the area. They've begun recruiting."

Hermione's heart thundered in her chest. No. No. "Death Eaters are in Australia?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"And they're gaining strength." Harry watched Hermione with a careful expression. "I'm going to ask McDermott to send me."

"What? Harry, no—"

"I need to know—Hermione, I need to know, where do I need McDermott to send me?"

"Where?" Hermione asked. Her thoughts were still reeling and she nearly missed the meaning behind Harry's words.

"We might discover pockets of Death Eaters throughout the country. What I need to know is where I should spend my time looking."

After far too long, Hermione caught on to the double-talk. "Oh! Perth. You need to look in Perth."

"Perth. I'll let McDermott know." Harry dropped a hand to cover Hermione's. "We'll find them and they'll be okay. I promise."

"Just let me know as soon as you can." Hermione twisted the hem of her shirt as she watched Harry. "And please be safe. I can't lose all of you."

"You won't and I will." He pushed the folder closer to her. "Now, do you have any interest in helping us catch these bastards? Because I could use some help going over all of this."

Hermione stood up and began fanning out the pages. "Just tell me what we're looking for."

Breakfast became torturous as Hermione waited and waited to see Harry's new snowy owl, Reg (short for Regulus), arrive with a message about her parents. It was almost two weeks before Reg landed in front of her with a hoot Hermione could only identify as apologetic. She ripped off the letter while Ginny fed the owl a piece of bacon.

At your earliest convenience. - Harry

Hermione launched to her feet, grabbed her bag, and ran out of the Great Hall before anyone had time to register what she was doing. She ignored the fact it was a Friday and that she had class in twenty minutes. She pelted across the grounds, not stopping even as her legs burned and her back ached from the awkward weight of her bouncing bag.

"Hermione!"

She spared one glance to see Ginny chasing after her before she passed into Hogsmeade and Disapparated.

"That was faster than I'd expected. Did you run out in the middle of breakfast?" Harry asked as Hermione rushed into the kitchen. He frowned as he took in her school uniform and her heavy breathing. "Blimey, you really did run out in the middle of breakfast."

"You said to come at my earliest convenience. I'm here."

"Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Shouldn't you be at work?" she shot back. "Do you have news about my parents or not?"

"We got in around two this morning, so McDermott's giving us the day off."

"Harry!"

He sighed and motioned for her to sit down. Hermione dropped her bag to the floor and sat ramrod straight in the chair with her hands fisted in her robes. Upon inspection, Harry looked worn out and old. Far older than his eighteen years. The last time he'd looked like this tired, they were hunting Horcruxes.

"Harry?"

"The Australian Ministry has four of our citizens in custody, thanks in no small part to the pieces you put together that suggested where their next target might be. They're currently working to shut down the rest of the uprising. The good news is, it was all centralized near Melbourne."

The look in his eyes and his tone suggested there was more. "If there's good news, it stands to reason there's also bad news," she said quietly.

"There are no records of a Dr. Wilkins anywhere in Perth," Harry said gently. Hermione's heart clenched with a mixture of confusion, terror, and grief. "Are you sure that's where they would have gone?"

She nodded. "Absolutely. That's where they would have gone. What do you mean there's no—Harry, they had to have made it. They must have made it to Perth. I would have known otherwise."

"We were on the run, Hermione. You had no way of keeping track or knowing."

"But they moved before we left! I knew they arrived in Perth—I called the airline to make sure they'd landed, so I know they got there." She buried her head in her hands. "Where did they go, Harry?"

"The only thing I could find was a Wilkins Family Bakery, but it closed in August. Currently, there's only two families named Wilkins in Perth, and neither of them include Wendell and Monica."

The world felt like it slowed to a halt, and Hermione swerved to the side, unsteady in her chair. Harry sprung up and caught her before she hit the ground. "What if they got to them?" she whispered. "What if they've been dead since August and I didn't know because I've been so focused on finishing school? I should have gone to them this summer. I should have protected them. Harry, what if I made a mistake?"

Harry knelt to the floor and gave Hermione a stern but calm look that he must have learned during his Auror training. "There is no evidence that they're dead. We don't even know where they lived. Once we figure that out, we can work from there. Don't jump to the worst conclusions, Hermione. You did what you thought was best, and there's still a chance it was the right choice."

"You're going to find out where they lived?"

"There has to be rental agreements or something somewhere. We'll find them."

Hermione took several deep breaths and fought to let Harry's logic take root in her mind. He was right, of course he was right. She was jumping to conclusions because she was stressed out over finishing her N.E.W.T.s. If they had been discovered by the Death Eaters, there would be evidence and there was no evidence. She was, after all, Hermione Granger, and if someone killed her parents, they would make sure she knew.

They're alive, she repeated to herself. They're alive, and we'll find them. We'll find them.

"Hermione, what the hell? Where did you disappear to?" Ginny demanded when she walked into the common room and found Hermione curled up in an armchair.

Hermione looked at her friend and wiped the evidence of tears from her face. "My parents are missing. Har—I've been trying to find them and they're not where they're supposed to be."

Ginny sat down in front of the armchair with her legs crossed and frowned. Her red-and-gold tie was loose around her neck and her robes were completely unbuttoned to reveal Muggle clothes beneath. "I thought you were going to wait until you were done with school to find them."

"I got impatient," Hermione lied. "Now I don't know if I wish I'd waited or if I feel like it's time for me to go and find them."

"You don't know that anything's wrong, Hermione. Maybe you're just looking in the wrong place."

Hermione gave a bitter snort. Ginny sounded exactly like her boyfriend. "I know that, but...it's not in my nature to sit and do nothing. I have to find them, Gin."

"And you will, after you sit your N.E.W.T.s. You didn't choose to come back just to leave before you finish the game. Besides, you have two options: one, your parents are dead and there's nothing you can do about it—" Hermione whimpered at the thought, but Ginny continued, "—and they wouldn't want their daughter to sacrifice everything she's worked for over the last eight years to run off and find them. Option two: your parents are perfectly happy in their own little world and they would still be upset to find out you threw away the last eight years because you panicked."

Ginny scooted closer to the armchair and gave Hermione an imperious look worthy of Molly Weasley. "Either way, your parents want what's best for you, and that is finishing your education. I know you, and I know you can throw yourself into your schoolwork until nothing else exists. That's what you need to do. You can run off to Australia in June, and I promise you, they'll be fine." She grinned deviously. "D'you think Fred can travel overseas?"

This time, Hermione gave an honest giggle at the thought of Fred floating through the streets of Perth, scaring Muggles into telling him where her parents went. "Ghosts can't travel all that quickly, and it would be hard to keep from getting spotted."

"Bah, the Muggles will just think they're seeing things." Ginny's face turned suddenly serious and she whipped out her wand. "Come any closer and I'll hex you until your own mother can't tell who you are," she snapped. Hermione gingerly turned her head to see a third-year scurrying off to the other side of the room.

"You didn't have to do that."

"If people see you crying, they'll ask why and that's how rumours get started. Now he just thinks I'm scary, and let's be honest, that's completely true." Ginny returned her wand to her pocket. "Come on. Chin up. You have revising to do and Zabini handed off another round of parchments for you to look over. What's with that, anyway?"

"He decided to use me as his own personal tutor. The man's such a perfectionist that he's almost psychotic. He gives me two different versions of almost every assignment so I can assess which ones he should turn in. I honestly don't know how he manages to function." Hermione sighed and sat upright in the chair. "He's clearly brilliant, although he did slip for awhile. I admit, it's nice reading someone's completed work rather than helping write it, especially during our N.E.W.T. year." A tiny smile slipped over her features. "He's an absolute genius at Potions, which I should have figured since Slughorn has him doing special assignments, but he makes connections I would have never considered. I almost feel like I learn more from him than I do reading actual textbooks."

Ginny smirked. "Well, well, Miss Granger. You almost sound as if you admire him. Do my brothers have competition?"

A hot blush took over Hermione's face. "No! He's just—intellectually intriguing."

"I see. Well, Neville has your next intellectually intriguing assignments. Do yourself a favour and bury yourself in those for a bit. It'll clear your mind." The ginger stood and held out her hands. "Up, up, up."

After clearing the last signs of distress from her face, Hermione did exactly as Ginny recommended and lost herself in her studies. In the back of her mind, she knew Ginny was right: regardless of what the truth of their whereabouts turned out to be, her parents would never forgive her if she gave up now. With that in mind, she unrolled Zabini's latest, probably perfect, Ancient Runes translations with a half-grin. It really was nice to review homework that someone took seriously.

23. Chapter 23

A/N: Trigger warning: panic attack self-harm; I'll put a summary of this chapter at the beginning of the next chapter for those who need to skip this one.

Draco

The Wilkinses invited Draco and Theo to supper Saturday evening after the store closed for the day. Theo's reaction to the small home above the store was less subtle than Draco's initial surprise.

"This is the entire house?" he whispered in Draco's ear with a puzzled expression. "Lydia's house is three times this size."

"I learned months ago that the Wilkinses are not normal Muggles," Draco replied.

"Boys?" Monica gestured to the dining table that was a third of the size of the one at the Zabini cottage. Draco and Theo took seats opposite each other, while the Wilkinses joined them at either end of the six-person table. A spread of roast, potatoes, brussel sprouts, and an unidentifiable vegetable sat on the table, adorned by four glasses of a deep red wine.

"Thank you for inviting us," Theo said as he reached for the potatoes. The three others at the table rolled their eyes as the man dug into the food without ceremony. Draco often wondered how the Notts managed to conduct themselves in pure-blood circles when their manners were more reminiscent of Weasleys.

"Chrys," Draco growled. "Were you raised by wolves?" He tried to hide his embarrassment from their hosts, but he felt the heat rise in his cheeks anyway.

Theo grinned. "You have enough etiquette for the both of us."

"You're lucky I can't hex you right now."

Wendell waved his hand. "Have at it. We won't tell." The glimmer in his eye told Draco that he secretly hoped to see another demonstration of magic. Draco seriously considered it and dropped his wand from his sleeve of his suit jacket into his right hand before he sighed and cursed the conscience he'd unwittingly grown.

"I'd love to, but I can't." He glared at Theo, who was putting on an exaggerated show of delicately cutting his roast and taking prim bites. "Trust me, there is nothing I'd like to do more right now. You look like Pansy."

"Classmate," Theo explained to the Wilkinses. "Why can't we do magic here?" he asked Draco. "They know. It's not like we can break the Statute of Secrecy any more than we've already done." He raised an eyebrow. "Besides, aren't you the one who said you can make your magic undetectable? And you did cast that—"

"The—Chrysos Granger, shut up." Draco ground his teeth together.

Monica deposited the odd-looking vegetables on her plate and made a tsk sound. "That's bad for your teeth, love."

"What?" Draco asked, surprised at her choice of criticism. Just like normal, neither baker commented on the discussion of magic or obvious secrets, and it unsettled him. They hadn't pried about anything since the day they saw the Dark Mark. He didn't know if it was a sign of respect for his privacy or if there was something else going on.

"Grinding your teeth. It's going to wear them down and cause problems with your jaw. There are varied long-term ramifications that are rather unpleasant."

Draco looked from wife to husband, utterly puzzled. Wendell nodded his agreement. "We were dentists when we lived in Britain."

"What's a dentist?" Theo asked.

Both Wilkinses looked surprised. "You've never been to a dentist?" Monica asked. Theo shrugged. "We're doctors that specialize in teeth."

"Doctors," Theo mused. "Those are like Healers, right? Lydia said something about going to a doctor when she broke her arm." Draco was completely out of his depth with the conversation, not having heard the term before. "Healers that specialize in teeth. I don't think St. Mungo's has anything like that. What kind of things can happen to teeth, other than knocking them out?"

"Well, you can get cavities from eating too many sweets."

Theo and Draco both raised their eyebrows. "Really?" Theo ran his tongue over his teeth, as if trying to detect an anomaly from all the chocolate he'd managed to eat lately. "That's gotta be a Muggle thing."

"Lucky," Wendell said with faux-bitterness. "I had three fillings by the time I was ten. That's what you put into teeth to prevent the cavities from growing."

Something about the conversation bothered Draco, though he couldn't quite figure out why. "You said you were Healers—doctors—in Britain? Why aren't you practicing anymore?" A flash of pain crossed Monica's face and Draco knew he'd hit on something sensitive.

Monica set down her fork and looked so forcefully at her husband that she seemed to be anchoring herself to his presence. "When we moved to Perth, we fully intended to set up a practice there after a brief holiday. We had to take written and practical examinations to get licenced to practise dentistry there and, well..." Her face coloured and Draco recognized an expression of deep shame. "We failed the written examinations." A fierce look overcame the shame and her brown eyes flashed. "I don't know how it happened. We were dentists for almost twenty years and we could do most procedures in our sleep, but it's like we woke up one day and forgot everything we'd ever learned."

"Monica remembered more than I did," Wendell confessed. "It was the oddest thing. I could remember the most obscure details from conditions I'd only seen once or twice, but I couldn't remember the steps for excavating a cavity. I did perfectly fine on the practical, like my muscle memory was there but my brain had stayed on holiday."

"We had to recalibrate after that, and returned to another passion of ours that we hadn't explored since the early days of our marriage. After a few weeks we invested in a bakery, and the rest is history." Monica gave the young men a weak smile. "So now you know our history, warts and all."

Wendell turned the dinner to lighter subjects and asked what 'magic school' was like. Carefully avoiding the names of the Hogwarts houses (Theo had predicted Draco's retaliatory Taboo), Theo regaled the couple with anecdotes of their various Defence Against the Dark Arts professors and Divination classes while Draco's mind kept working. Something was off about their story. Something was terribly, terribly wrong and he felt like he was overlooking an obvious conclusion.

The sound of a giggle broke into Draco's thoughts and he came back to the current conversation.

"That sounds like quite the sight. Wendell, could you imagine a poltergeist chasing Dr. Matheson out of the university? Blasted man caused us so much stress, I thought our daughter would be born naturally predisposed to pulling her hair out."

Draco and Wendell shared a grim look as Monica realized what she said. The vague expression crossed her face again and she sat back in her chair. "I did it again, didn't I?" she whispered.

Theo looked puzzled and gave Draco a questioning look. Draco shook his head. Later, he mouthed.

Wendell stood and walked to his wife, pulling her from the chair and walking her back to their bedroom. As he came back to the table, he frowned and sat down in Monica's vacant seat. "It's happening more frequently," he said to Draco with a definite air of defeat. "We've got an appointment with a neurologist—brain doctor—in Bordeaux next week. They're going to examine her for Alzheimer's and dementia." He didn't explain either of the diseases, but Draco knew from his expression that either diagnosis would be devastating. "She's too young for this."

"At what age does it normally occur?"

"Mid- to late-sixties. Maybe older, sometimes younger, but very rarely this young. She should still have another twenty years."

A mind-deteriorating disease twenty years too early, memories of a child she never had, an expression like a fog clearing, and waking up one day without knowing something she'd known for another twenty years.

But, she wasn't the only one, Draco realized. If their experience in Australia was anything to go by, Wendell had lost his memories too. The difference was he hadn't created the memories of a daughter. But he had lost his faith in magic nearly twenty years ago. It was all too coincidental, the repetition of twenty years.

What if Wendell hadn't lost his faith in magic twenty years ago? The Wilkinses accepted it too easily for it to be such a long-dormant belief.

"May I ask a sensitive question?" Draco asked with a careful tone he mimicked from Wendell's initial confrontation about Draco's magic.

Wendell gave him a hesitant look. "You may."

"The daughter. When does Monica believe she was born? She mentioned being pregnant during school." An idea began to form in the back of Draco's mind, but it was absurd. Who would have performed a Memory Charm on a random pair of Muggles?

Wendell cringed at the question but answered. "We had that class with Dr. Matheson twenty years ago exactly."

"Around the same time you lost your belief in magic?"

Now the man looked suspicious in addition to uncomfortable. "Whereabouts. What are you getting at?"

Draco chose his words carefully. He didn't believe in fate, but if his suspicions were correct, it could explain why the Wilkinses intrigued him so much that he kept coming back. Maybe his subconscious knew there was something more to the couple.

"May I perform a—diagnostic spell—on Monica?"

Curiosity mixed with caution and something else—fear?—showed on Wendell's face. He looked at Theo, who looked just as puzzled as he had from the beginning of the conversation. "I don't know. What would it do?"

"Her symptoms match something else I've seen."

"Something in your world?" Draco nodded. Wendell bit the inside of his cheek. "But we're not...but we're Muggles. How can we be affected by something from your world?"

Images from the war flashed through Draco's mind, images of Death Eaters Obliviating Muggles in the midst of torturing them. Their minds weren't strong enough to take extended torture, or so he was told. Obliviating them extended their ability to stay cognizant of their pain. 'Playing with our food before we eat,' Aunt Bellatrix had cackled.

"It can affect Muggles, too," he said. His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He knew what his nightmares would be tonight.

Wendell nodded in deep thought for a long moment before he turned back to Draco. "Whatever you want to do—it's not going to hurt her?"

"No. It's perfectly safe." If I remember how to do it.

Wendell stood. "Okay. Does Chrys need to be there?"

Draco shook his head. "No, he can wait out here."

"Please?" Wendell asked Theo. The bewildered wizard agreed and sat at the table with his hands folded in his lap.

They walked to the Wilkinses' bedroom, where Monica laid atop a queen-sized bed covered in red and gold bedclothes. Gryffindor, Draco thought. He looked around the rest of the room. The hints of red and gold were everywhere. Were they wizards and their memories of magic had been wiped? No, that wouldn't make sense, because it seemed only the last twenty years had been affected. They would have remembered attending Hogwarts or Beauxbatons.

Draco knelt by the bed as Monica sat up in confusion. "Why are you—?" she started before words failed.

"May I try something on you?"

She gave a questioning look to her husband. He nodded to her and she swallowed thickly. Draco noticed a slight sheen of tears in her eyes. "Okay." She moved to sit at the edge of the bed with her feet flat on the floor. Her hands twisted in her lap and Draco took them in his own to still her.

With took a breath, he focused on her eyes. He hadn't done this in over a year, since Aunt Bellatrix had stopped teaching him mind magicks.

Wordlessly, he entered her mind and waded through memories of the bakery and France, nights with friends in Perth, a large sign that read 'London Heathrow Airport', and quickly encountered exactly what he expected. A white fog seemed to be encircling something, and older memories appeared off to the sides: a blue-trimmed two-storey home, a sterile room with someone outstretched on an odd-looking chair, and watching the rain with a cup of tea warming her hand. An innocuous giggle ran through the last memory, clearly not belonging to the woman or her husband. It sounded like a little girl.

Like a daughter.

The fog swayed and drifted. In some locations, it was weaker than in others. He could almost see something through it, something vaguely red that seemed to be adding to the fog on its own, but that fog was different. Like steam. Shadows assaulted the red object, dashing to and from it in rapid, inconsistent succession.

The fog cleared just a mite more and he saw the clear outline of a carriage. The red object was a train, and one he would know anywhere.

"Hogwarts," he breathed.

"What?" Monica asked.

Draco pulled himself out of her mind as realization sunk in. She wasn't crazy and she wasn't ill, but if he wasn't careful she could become both. Proceeding from here would have to be done with the utmost caution.

Monica pulled her hands from Draco's and wrung them in her skirt. "What did you see? Am I crazy?"

He shook his head. "No. But if it happened to you, that means..." Draco let out a harsh breath and he turned to examine Wendell. "She's not the only one who forgot, and if I'm right, you should be having—" He cut off as a shadow of guilt fell over Wendell's face. Something Draco couldn't name—anger? protectiveness? disappointment?—filled his chest. "You see her too. There's no way you wouldn't. Whoever did this was an amateur. You remember her too."

The guilt grew deeper on Wendell's face and Draco identified his own feeling as anger. How could this Muggle let his wife feel like she was sick when he had the same problem? Did he think just because he could hide it, he wasn't as damaged?

"What is he talking about, husband?" Monica's eyes were bright with barely contained tears as confusion coloured her cheeks.

"You're not crazy," Draco said, not giving the Muggle a chance to answer. He clenched a fist around his wand, fighting the desire to hex Wendell. "You're not crazy. Your memories are real."

A tear trailed down Monica's face. "If they're real, why can't I remember them except sometimes?" If anything, she sounded more panicked than before.

"Someone, a wizard or witch, tampered with your memory. Whoever it was did a thorough job, but not well enough to prevent some of your memories from escaping from time to time." He sat back on his heels and spun the wand out of nervous habit. Periwinkle sparks glittered mockingly in the air. "When I look at your mind, I see a fog. It's thin in some places, which is where the memories are coming from. I expect that the fog starts to clear when you're under stress, because your mind is trying to clear out anything that doesn't belong. It's a defence mechanism. Tell me what else you remember."

Monica shook her head, the tears falling more freely now. "When you were just—I saw a train. Didn't I? Did I see a train?"

Draco set his wand on the ground and held out his hands to take hers again. "You saw a train. It was red, right? With steam coming out?" She nodded and sniffed. "That's the train I took to school after every holiday. You've been on the platform, which means I can assume your daughter is a witch."

"I have a daughter? She's a...Muggle-born?"

"That's what I believe."

Monica shot a watery look at Wendell before looking at Draco with terrified hope. "Can you fix me?"

His heart fell and he clenched his hands tighter around hers. "It's difficult, and it's delicate. Healers undergo years of training to learn to remove Memory Charms." Her face lost the glimmer of hopefulness and Draco cursed as words exited his mouth without permission. "But my family is different. We're naturals. I might—I might be able to do it, but I need to research and find out how."

"How long will that take?"

Draco grimaced. "The books I need are in my cousin's home in London."

"Which would mean risking arrest." Monica gave him a weak smile. "I understand."

"I would risk it," he said, realizing it was true. For her, he would, just as he would for his own mother. "I would risk it, except that the person who inherited the house when my cousin died is an Auror."

"He's your police, you mean?" Draco nodded. Monica pulled her hands from Draco's and laid them over the top of his. "Thank you. At least now I have a reason for this."

"It might break down on its own," he said, trying to give her one last strand of hope. "Like I said, it was done by an amateur. So there's still a chance."

Monica rested her right hand on the side of his face and tried another smile. "You're sweet, Argyros." He saw that she didn't believe for a minute the Memory Charm would naturally disappear. She gave a long sigh and sniffed again. "I think I should try to sleep now."

Draco nodded and stood, motioning for Wendell to follow him back to the dining room. As soon as they were as far out of earshot as they could get, Draco turned on the man and clenched his jaw. "You let her believe she was crazy," he hissed with a venom he hadn't felt since learning his parents had been captured. Wendell's expression changed from guilty to defensive, but Draco didn't give him an opportunity to speak. "How could you do that to her? She deserves better from someone who claims to love her, but you were too concerned with trying to appear sane that you let her—" Draco stumbled over his words as words raged in his mind.

"What's going on?" Theo asked as he stood to join the conversation.

"They're under a Memory Charm. I realized it when they said their daughter was born twenty years ago, because his—" Draco used his wand to point at Wendell and quietly enjoyed the look of fear on the Muggle's face, "—belief in magic disappeared twenty years ago."

"And that led you to think Memory Charm because...?"

"They believed us too easily, like it was something they believed inherently. It went deeper than conscious thought. Monica's barriers are breaking down, which is why she can remember their daughter, and he—he remembers her too, but he let Monica believe she was the only one. He let her believe she was crazy," Draco spat. He turned on the Muggle again. "I have seen crazy. I have lived with crazy. I have been tortured by crazy, and Monica does not deserve to be put in the same category as them. It's cruel. What you did was manipulative and cruel." He closed his eyes and took a calming breath before addressing Theo. "Everything hinges on something from twenty years ago. Monica remembers being pregnant twenty years ago, and...I saw the Hogwarts Express in her memories."

Theo's eyes widened. "The daughter is a Muggle-born?"

"That's my conclusion, and if she's in fact nearly twenty years old, she'll have been in our year or the year above us." Draco nodded, falling back into his thoughts. "And it appears someone tried to wipe her from their memories. That would explain the extent of the charm. They tried to wipe all traces of magic, but didn't realize that the Wilkinses knew about magic before their daughter was born."

"Why would someone wipe a Muggle-born from her parents' memories?"

"If I could figure out when it happened, that might tell—Perth." Draco looked at Wendell and examined his face. The man looked completely befuddled by the theorizing happening in his dining room. "Her recent memories were clear until just before they moved to Perth. Wendell, when exactly did you move?"

Wendell furrowed his eyebrows. "End of July, two years ago."

"The Ministry fell on August first," Draco said. "Someone modified the memories of a Muggle-born's parents just after the war started." Horror drained the blood from Draco's face. "Theo," he said, and cursed the waver in his voice, "which Muggle-born girl would have enemies willing to take her parents permanently out of her life, and yet keep them alive to taunt her?"

An identical expression spread across Theo's face. "Granger."

Without asking for permission and without caution, Draco delved into Wendell's mind. Again, he found the fog and sought out a weak spot. Theoretically, he could cross the barrier and have access to all of the memories behind it. As long as he didn't get pulled out of the man's mind from inside the barrier, the exercise wouldn't cause any real damage. For the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care if he inflicted damage or not.

After a long minute's search, he found a point weak enough to cross. The memories here were concentrated, and nearly all of them contained a little girl. He heard the same giggle from Monica's memories. The memories became clearer as he moved through the man's painstakingly organized mind. A tiny baby swaddled in pink; a little girl in pink satin shoes with ribbons tied around her ankles; a six- or seven-year-old girl with outrageously frizzy hair screaming and dishes flying through the air to shatter on the walls; goblins staring down across a high counter as Muggle money was swapped for Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts; an eleven-year-old in Muggle clothes running onto the red train while waving goodbye with a brilliant, buck-toothed smile; the same girl three years older laughing as she spun on a dais at Madam Malkins' in periwinkle dress robes; a letter in careful script inviting her to an August first wedding at a place called The Burrow; and then he hit the wall.

Satisfied but unnerved, Draco moved carefully back through the memories to the thinnest point in the fog. He paused as another scene came to the forefront: a tall blond man with a decorative snake-headed cane trailed by an equally blond, scrawny boy with identical sneers on their faces, walking through bookshelves toward the girl, a black-haired boy, and a mess of gingers. Harsh words were exchanged, between both the children and the adults, until the red-haired father leapt at the blond man, knocking over shelves and landing punches.

Draco sped to the way out and pulled himself out of Wendell's mind, his own eyes wide and breath short. He continued looking at the man, trying to place him in Flourish and Blotts the day of the fight between Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley.

"Dra—Argyros? Are you okay?" Theo asked. Draco shook his head and continued staring at Wendell.

"You were right," he whispered. "You were right." The weight of the situation began to fall and Draco found it harder and harder to breathe. Of all the Muggles, of all the places, of all the worst possible coincidences, this was one of the most devastating. He tried to bury the hurt and the disappointment and the fear, but they kept bubbling in his chest. How could he be so stupid? The resemblance was there the whole time if he'd only looked—Monica and Granger shared the same eyes; Wendell and Granger had the same absurd curly and frizzed hair. They over-explained everything, were utterly fascinated by his studies, and approached baking with the fervour of perfectionists.

He tried to regulate his breathing so he didn't begin to hyperventilate. If Granger's parents were here, it meant she wouldn't be far behind. How long would it take her to find them after she finished her N.E.W.T.s?

But, his mind reasoned, does she even know they're alive? If someone wiped their memories and sent them off to Australia, they could have faked their deaths. Another argument rose in his mind that contradicted his reasoning. Why keep them alive if Granger wasn't meant to find them eventually, if only to torture her with the fact they can't remember her?

"We have to leave," Draco said, not looking at Theo or Wendell. "We have to leave. It's not safe here."

"They're really Granger's parents?"

Draco nodded and rolled his neck to the side, trying to keep the despair off his face. Of all the Muggles to get attached to, he had to find Hermione Granger's parents. He had to care about Hermione Granger's parents, and make promises to Hermione Granger's parents.

"Tell Monica..." Draco struggled for words as Wendell fought to find words of his own. Coherency became hard as he tried to breathe. "Tell Monica I'm sorry. Chrys." Draco nodded to the door that led to the stairs. He stumbled as they reached the top step. Why couldn't he breathe?

"So you won't help us—her—because of what? Because you know our daughter?"

Draco spun on the balls of his feet and faced the Muggle. "Because Hermione Granger is Harry Potter's best friend," he panted. "Your daughter is one of the people hunting us, and when she realizes you're here, she's going to come and we'll go to prison."

"Then find a way to break the charm so we can leave and find her first," Wendell said. "And then you'll be safe here."

"I don't want to be here if you're not!" Draco snapped, finally admitting something he'd been afraid to even think, much less say aloud. He leaned against the wall and tried to suck in more air. After a long moment, he was calm enough to speak. "I've been without my family for a year. You and Monica and Theo are all I've got."

Wendell looked at Theo and understanding lit in his eyes. "You said 'Granger'. You took her last name because it was the first Muggle surname you could think of, didn't you?"

Draco cursed the Muggle's intellectual capacity—another thing that should have tipped him off that Wendell and Monica were related to the blasted know-it-all. His silence was more than enough for Wendell to learn the truth.

"Then you're Theo," Wendell addressed the naturally brunet wizard.

"Theodore Nott," Theo affirmed. Draco elbowed him in the side. For a Slytherin, the man lacked basic self-preservation instincts.

"And you're...?" Wendell waited for Draco to fill in the blank.

Instead, he snarled at the Muggle. "My name is none of your concern. Neither is my next destination or the rest of my life." The world began to go black at the edges and numbness crept into his fingers. He pulled at his hair as he gasped. "I should have known better than to stay here. I knew something was off, and it's just my luck that—GODDAMMIT!" he yelled. "This—this—" He recklessly pulled up the sleeves of the blazer and button-down shirt on his left arm and began to claw at the Dark Mark, as if he could rip it off with his fingernails. "Ever since this—it's—I never—why did they—" He let out another yell of frustration and crumpled to the floor, his nails digging into the open jaw of the fading black skull. Drops of blood pooled around his fingers, but the Mark still watched him with its dead eyes.

"Draco—" Theo started but his voice only caused Draco to dig his nails deeper into his skin.

Get it off, get it off, get it off.

A pair of arms pulled him forcefully against a body. They didn't try to pull his right hand away from his left arm, just circled his upper arms and chest with unforgiving strength. As he started to hyperventilate, the arms became stronger, compressing his ribs and pushing against his sternum. He became vaguely aware of someone chanting in his ear. The world swum by in waves and he tried to focus on the pain in his arm, but he just felt numb. He pressed harder, wanting to feel the pain, but it wouldn't come. Why wouldn't it come? He clawed at it again, searching for something, anything, that would make the numbness go away. Shallow channels of red crisscrossed the skin around the Dark Mark. They weren't enough. They weren't doing anything. It wasn't moving.

GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF.

Draco, you're okay. Draco. Draco, you're okay. Draco. Draco, you're okay.

The chant became clearer as he stopped clawing and held his nails in place, pressing with all his strength. Centuries passed before he could breathe without choking. His hands unclenched until he no longer dug into his arm. The hands on his chest moved down to his wrists and pulled his arms up until they were crossed beneath the other pair. The strength returned to compressing him, but the chant never stopped and eventually he realized he was crying.

"Draco, you're okay. Draco. Draco, you're okay," Monica's voice murmured in his ear.

His vision cleared and he saw the pale faces of Theo and Wendell staring. His cheeks started to burn red as he realized what happened. He had never fully lost control in front of anyone else before. He swallowed what he could of his tears and started to pull away from Monica, but she pulled back.

"Not yet," she whispered. She stopped chanting but breathed deeper, and he gradually followed her deliberate rhythm until he calmed down.

When she released him, Draco curled into himself and buried his head in his hands. The anger was gone; all he had left was embarrassment and despair.

"What happened?" he heard Monica ask the others.

"He looked in my mind, same as he did you, and saw our daughter," Wendell said in a low tone.

"And that caused...?"

"She's one of them," Theo answered. "She got a medal for her service in the war and everything." Draco felt Monica move closer and he realized she was sitting on the floor with one leg folded under her body while the other was outstretched against his right side. She had created a cocoon to shelter him, and it made his shame and guilt and fear all the worse. She was Granger's mother. He didn't deserve her protection.

"She was on the winning side?" Wendell asked, echoing Draco's earlier sentiments about winning and losing sides, versus right and wrong.

Draco gave a bitter chuckle that stopped their conversation. "The winning side." He lifted his head and met Wendell's eyes. "Granger—Hermione—was on the right side." Separating himself from Monica, he rested his head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. She crossed her legs but otherwise stayed in place. "My aunt tortured her. Your daughter. Granger and bloody Potter," he spat the name, "had stolen something—a sword, I think—from my aunt's Gringotts vault, so she tortured her. My parents and I stood in the room and watched. Aunt Bellatrix's favourite curse was the Cruciatus. As the name implies, it causes excruciating pain that feels like you're being ripped limb from limb, set on fire, and cut open with knives all at once."

He closed his eyes and choked out a breath, unable to stop the truth from pouring out of his mouth. The panic attack seemed to have acted as some morbid Veritaserum. He could imagine their expressions of horror. Even if they didn't remember Granger, he still described someone being tortured. He imagined Theo standing there with a grim set to his mouth, understanding full well the feeling of watching that. Of enduring it. Of committing it.

"Aunt Bellatrix used the curse on Granger three or four times, but she never gave up. She denied again and again that she'd stolen the sword. Aunt Bellatrix changed methods and took out this cursed knife and pinned Granger to the floor. She carved the word 'Mudblood' into her arm. It's a slur for Muggle-borns that means 'dirty blood'." Breathe in. Breathe out. "Her blood looked exactly like mine. Dirty blood, pure blood, it all looks the same." Another breath.

"After that, Aunt Bellatrix went back to the Cruciatus. Granger passed out, and then Potter and Weasley came into the room, veritable knights in shining armour. It was chaos after that. Mother and I were fighting Potter and Weasley as they tried to rescue her. Aunt Bellatrix held her hostage with that same knife at her throat. The chandelier collapsed and fell on her—on Granger—and I didn't see what happened after that. Mother and I had shards of glass in our faces from the chandelier. Potter and Weasley somehow got Granger out from under the mess and Disapparated." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, not wanting to see the looks on Wendell and Theo's faces. He was grateful Monica was sitting just out of his peripheral. Seeing her look at him with disgust would tear him apart. "Next time I saw her, it was a month later and she was fighting at Hogwarts. We fought again in the Room of Hidden Things and then Crabbe used Fiendfyre to try to kill Potter, but he couldn't control it." Draco choked as he saw the image of his friend falling into the flames. "Everything was on fire, everything was burning, and then Crabbe—" He stopped.

After a long pause, Theo cut in. "Crabbe is dead?"

"Fell on his own sword," Draco coughed with a humourless laugh. "Goyle was unconscious and I was panicking and somehow bloody Potter managed to get two broomsticks to fly out. He came back for me. Weasley and Granger went back for Goyle and we made it out. They literally saved our lives when we would have left them to burn if the roles were reversed." He shook his head, rolling it against the wall. "They saved my life after being held prisoner in my home. That's where your daughter was tortured. My home. My drawing room. In front of me, by my own blood."

As another silence fell, Draco felt calmer than he expected after making such a confession.

"I think you should leave now," Wendell said, breaking the silence with a brittle voice.

The corners of Draco's mouth curled up as he settled into his familiar sneer. "I told you I fought in a war. What did you expect? That I spent my time planting gardens and trying to make nice with the other side? At some point, we all stopped fighting for what we believed in and started fighting for our lives. We did what we had to in order to survive, damn the cost. The price of my survival was threatening my classmates with death and watching my crazy aunt torture people and staring at bodies bound and gagged, dangling over my table waiting to be eaten by that fucking snake. And that's not a metaphor." He clenched his jaw, the sneer never wavering. "I didn't want any of this, but I wouldn't have survived on the other side. My family were targets. Nothing could have kept us safe if we defected."

Wendell seemed to be fighting himself while Monica shifted and watched Draco with an expression that was neither forgiveness nor condemnation. Theo's face was impassive, the default countenance of a Slytherin whose thoughts were whirring at an impossible speed. The wizard had never heard about the horrors at Malfoy Manor and clearly thought Crabbe had merely disappeared.

"The scars on your face are from the chandelier," Monica said finally. Draco nodded, too emotionally exhausted to say much more. "Why didn't you magically heal them? I imagine glass doesn't normally scar."

"Oh, but we did use magic." Draco's laugh was a harsh, hollow sound he barely recognized as his own. "A healing potion of the Dark Lord's own design. He made my father apply it." An absent finger ran over the puckered web of scars on the left side of his face. "It burned as the skin swelled closed. My skin stitched together but the swelling never receded. He said it was there to remind me how I'd failed yet again." He closed his eyes again, willing the memories to recede. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Our daughter," Wendell said, and Draco groaned. He didn't want to talk about Granger. He didn't want to talk about anything. He wanted to take a triple dose of Dreamless Sleep and wake up in a week to find out the entire evening was just a nightmare.

"Did she survive the war?" Monica asked.

Draco opened his eyes and anchored himself to the Muggle woman. She was the calm in the storm that clouded his mind and it bothered him. He shouldn't need her, and even more, he shouldn't want her. But he couldn't stop. She filled the space his mother had left hollow and he was clinging to her like a drowning man held a rope.

"Granger survived. She's finishing up her final year at Hogwarts and she'll sit her N.E.W.T.s in about a month and a half. After that, who knows what she's going to do? But I'm sure her first order of business is going to be finding you."

"She's top of our class," Theo added. "She's utterly brilliant and brave to a fault. You should be proud of her."

Monica put a hand over her mouth and fought the brightness in her eyes. Granger's eyes. "She's real." Relief, disbelief, and careful hope warred on her face. She looked back at Draco. "I'm not imagining this, am I? I'm not hallucinating?"

"She's real," Draco said. He stretched out his legs before pulling them back and stacking his arms and chin on his knees. "She's an obnoxious know-it-all who reads every textbook before term starts and campaigns for the rights of house-elves and censures anyone out past curfew. She's got hair that—well, it looks like what I've got right now—and her front teeth are too big for her mouth. Her best friends are an orphan who was literally prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord, and a ginger who can barely tie his own hand-me-down shoes. She has a bloody menace of a cat, from what I've heard, which matches her perfectly since she's a menace to anyone she deems lesser than herself, which is ironic for a Muggle-born." He stopped, realizing that such a harsh assessment of their phantom daughter was the last thing they needed to hear. "But Theo's right. She's brilliant and brave, and I'd wager a good number of Galleons that she is the reason Potter's side won the war."

"And what does our daughter think of you?"

The question from Wendell was sharp and designed to hurt. Draco considered not answering it and walking out, or giving some self-gratifying explanation of his own brilliance as compared to hers. But while Wendell deserved both of those, Monica deserved the ugly truth. "It's safe to say your daughter hates me." Monica nodded, as if it was the answer she expected. "I tormented her from the moment she was Sorted into the House opposite mine. Then she was a know-it-all who sneered at anyone who didn't have an encyclopaedia for a brain. Then she was a Muggle-born who somehow achieved higher marks than I did even though my family name and my blood meant I was magically superior. Finally, she was Potter's best friend, and Potter was the enemy. To say we loathed one another is putting it gently."

"Do you still hate her?"

Draco rested his forehead on his arms and sighed before he looked up again. "The last three years of my life have been purely driven by the need to survive. It's hard to hate someone who managed to go through hell and not only survive, but ensure the survival of others. So, no. I don't hate your daughter. I don't like her, but my reasons to hate her disappeared during the war."

To his right, Monica moved fully into view, her legs kicked to the side as she leaned on her right hand. "If she—what's her name?"

"Hermione," he whispered.

"Hermione." A faint smile twisted on Monica's lips. "If Hermione finds us, she'll turn you in. Won't she?" He nodded. "Is there anything I can do that will convince you to stay?"

Astounded silence filled the room as the three men gaped at Monica. "You—after all that—you want me to stay? Are you out of your mind?"

She gave a bitter smile. "Until an hour ago, I thought I was." She sat up and his disbelieving eyes tracked her. "In everything you said, I heard a cold recollection of facts. You have never displayed any malicious intent toward Wendell or myself. If anything, you've been kind." She watched Draco earnestly, as if trying to pour her conviction into his soul. "We already knew you were raised to hate us, and that's not your fault. You were fifteen when your side was picked for you. It's not your fault. You were a child. Now you're an adult. It's the choices you make now, by your own volition, that define who you are. And from what I've seen over the last five months, I believe you can become someone you're proud of. Whatever that means for you."

Draco nodded, the numbness returning to his body as he felt Monica's faith overwhelm his senses. After everything he confessed, how could she still believe in him? How could she still want to stand by him? She was Granger's mother, for God's sake.

"I think we need to go home," Theo said, and took hold of Draco's upper arm to pull him to his feet. "Draco and I need to decide what happens from here."

"Understood. We'll be here if you decide to stay. Do you need me to let you out?"

Theo shook his head. "We can Disapparate from the kitchen."

Once the two wizards stumbled down the stairs, Theo gripped Draco's arm. "You're in no condition to Apparate alone. Hang tight."

They arrived at the beginning of the path to the Zabinis' cottage. Draco dropped to the balls of his feet and put his head between his knees. "Tell me that was a nightmare. Tell me it's time to wake up. Tell me they aren't Granger's parents. Tell me I did not just confess to two people how their daughter was tortured in my house." He raised his head to the light of the waning moon. "This can't be real. This is just a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare."

Theo stood at his side, shuffling his feet awkwardly on the gravel. "We knew from the time we got up it was going to be a shite day, Draco."

The distressed man bounced on his toes twice before standing to full height. "Happy Second of May."

24. Chapter 24

A/N: It has come to my attention that emails were on the fritz today. If you haven't read Chapter 23 yet, please do so.

For those who passed over Chapter 23 due to the trigger warning, a brief summary:

Draco and Theo attend dinner at the Wilkinses' on the second of May, where they talk about a number of things, including the fact the Wilkinses' failed their exams when they applied to be dentists in Perth. A discussion about Peeves chasing Umbridge from the school during fifth year triggers Monica to remember being pregnant. After Wendell puts her to bed, he explains Monica is exhibiting signs of early onset Alzheimer's or dementia, which causes Draco to realize Monica's symptoms resemble a crumbling Memory Charm. He uses Legilimency to view Monica's memories and learns that the couple does in fact have a daughter who appears to be a Muggle-born. Within minutes, he and Theo realize that daughter is Granger.

After invading Wendell's mind to confirm the theory, Draco has a panic attack as he grapples with the horrifying truth that his new home is no longer safe, since Granger will likely come looking for her parents after she sits her N.E.W.T.s. Monica hears Draco start shouting and comes back into the sitting room and calms Draco down until he's able to think and speak coherently again. Once collected, Draco confesses the darker side of the war to the Wilkinses, including the fact that he witnessed their daughter's torture at the hand of his aunt. Wendell asks Draco to leave while Monica asks him to stay and continue working for them.

The chapter ends with Theo and Draco Apparating back to the cottage, unsure of what they're going to do next.

Hermione

The Great Hall was decorated in shades of black, silver, and white. Small round tables were scattered throughout, adorned by light grey tablecloths. White candles and silver wax roses sat in the centre of each table. The place settings were silver plates stacked with black napkins. Satin in each shade billowed from the centre of the ceiling and dropped down to the floor, creating an indoor marquee. Hermione could glimpse the starry sky between the fabrics. After eight years, the ceiling of the Great Hall remained her favourite aspect of Hogwarts.

As everyone milled around the room before dinner, Hermione passed by Harry with a questioning look. He nodded to the Entrance Hall, where they quickly set off to the side for a private conversation.

"Anything?" she asked.

Reaching inside his jacket, Harry pulled out a folded parchment. "We were able to track down the ownership records from the bakery. It appears to have been operated by a Wendell and Monica Wilkins from October 1997 to August 1998. The address of the bakery and the address of their personal residence is on that paper. Legally, the trail goes cold after the bakery closed. I can't push any farther without going back to Perth and interviewing known associates, and that doesn't fit with any active investigations. I'm sorry."

Hands shaking from either fear or excitement, she wasn't sure which, Hermione took the parchment. "It's okay. It gives me a place to start."

"You're not going to do that now, are you?" Harry eyed her with a serious stare that indicated she needed to stay right where she was.

She shook her head. "No. You and Ginny talked me into finishing out my schooling since we're so close to the end."

"Good. Now, let's grab our seats before Ron eats all the food."

They joined Ron and Ginny at one of the tables with Neville, Hannah, Justin, and Daphne. In spite of the forcibly cheery mood, Hermione felt a mix of hope for finding her parents and awkwardness as the couples sat together while she and Ron avoided looking at each other. Things hadn't been the same since Percy, and a sinking feeling told her things would never be the way they once were.

By the time dinner ended, George was the most inebriated person in the hall, though Pansy Parkinson gave him a run for his money. Why she had even shown up to the memorial celebration baffled Hermione, but there she was in pink dress robes, stumbling through the crowd with manic giggles. Some people ignored her; others stared with decisive hatred. The Slytherins and Ravenclaws took turns sequestering her in corners until she broke free and began her rampage again.

"This is bloody weird," Ron said, watching Parkinson slip through the arms of Padma Patil. "I keep expecting Malfoy and his goons to walk in and start sneering at us."

"Never again," Ginny said. "It'll be Azkaban for that one."

"Goyle only got house arrest," Harry pointed out. "Malfoy will probably get off pretty light if we ever find him."

"When we find him," Ron corrected. He raised his glass in a toast. "To catching the bastard who made our lives hell for six years."

Harry and Ginny clinked their glasses to his, then looked confused when the rest of their friends kept their glasses firmly on the table. "You guys can't be serious. Malfoy needs to go to trial."

Hermione bit her lip and looked at her hands. "It's not that..."

"Then what is it?" Ron asked. "Don't tell me you've forgotten everything he's said to us. Done to us."

"Of course I haven't! But childish immaturity doesn't make him a candidate for Azkaban."

"You've seen him twice in two years—"

"Stop it," Daphne snapped. "Tonight is about honouring the people who died in the fight against You-Know-Who. It is not about arguing over Draco's fate."

The others nodded. "I agree," Hannah said. "Malfoy doesn't belong here, physically or spiritually. Let's talk about something else."

Ron glowered at the eighth-years. "This whole inter-house unity thing has made you lot soft." He downed the rest of his drink in one swallow and stood. "Crabtree's always up for a good Death Eater bashing, so I'll be over there if anyone needs me." He made it three steps before he stopped cold. "Fred?"

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a look before jumping to their feet. "I can't believe he came," Hermione breathed, but there he was, just beyond the satin wall. The light from inside the marquee cast a shadow over him, which just made him glow eerily in the dark. Hesitance marked his face as he watched the attendees from his hiding place.

"D'you think he'll talk to George?" Ginny asked.

"Hang on." Harry pushed his glasses up and squinted at the women. "Fred? Is a ghost?"

"We need to find George," Hermione said. "Fred can't assault him in the middle of everyone. This needs to be private."

"Er—Hermione? How long have you known about this?" Neville asked.

She twisted the fabric of her grey robes between her fingers. "Awhile."

"That's not an answer," Harry said.

"It doesn't matter. The point is, if George sees him in the middle of all these people, all hell's going to break loose." She tugged Ginny's arm and they began hunting through the crowd. Neville and Harry followed close behind while Ron stayed rooted to the spot.

"Over there," Ginny said. The four Gryffindors converged on George and stole him away from the middle-aged witch who was currently humouring his drunkenness.

The elder Weasley did not take kindly to their interference and smacked Neville on the back in an effort to flail his way out of their grasp. "Oy! Lemme go! She wanted to know about the new line of love potions." When no one responded, George dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "I'll tell you a secret. They're not really love potions. They just help in the love department, if you know what I mean."

"No one knows what you mean, George." Ginny removed the half-empty tumbler of Firewhisky from her brother's hand and passed it off to Hermione.

"Give it back!" George protested. "That's not for you. It's for me. I need it because I don' wanna be here." He slurred his last words.

Hermione pursed her lips and shook her head. "None of us want to be here."

"Fine. If you don' wanna be here, then you drink it. And then we can both be sloshed." A terrifying glint lit George's eyes. "Like on Christmas. You remember that. You made a snow angel and fell asleep next to the broomshed." He cackled. "At least you didn' fall asleep elsewhere. Charlie and I had bets on if you'd end up in Ron's room or Percy's. Harry bet that you'd come out of the night with your virginity intact." The man eyed her from top to bottom. "You did, right? Otherwise, Harry's gonna owe me some Galleons."

Burying her disgust with George, Hermione whirled on her best friend, unsure if she should feel offended, violated, or happy that he trusted her moral character. "How dare you get involved in a bet like that!" she screeched.

Harry flinched and glared at George. "YOU weren't supposed to tell her about that. And at least I won," the bespectacled man said.

"You won half," Ginny interjected. "Don't forget that I said she'd pass out in the snow."

"Et tu, Brute?" Hermione asked, exasperated with her friends. In some part of her mind, she knew that she should have expected something of the sort, especially where the Weasley brothers were involved. "Honestly, you lot are the worst friends sometimes."

"Don't lie to yourself. You know we're amazing," Ginny retorted.

"How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways," Hermione muttered under her breath as they reached the edge of the marquee. She took a bracing breath and met Ginny's eyes. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" George asked, and stopped as the satin drifted to the side. "No."

The world stood still as the Weasley twins saw each other for the first time in exactly a year. The fabric of the marquee fell against Hermione's head, but she didn't notice as she watched the men with apprehension. Both fought for composure in an odd mirror-like demonstration; Fred looked like a silver reflection of his struggling brother. Tension rippled in the air as they waited to see which twin would speak first.

"Am I dreaming?" George whispered. No one responded, just looked between the pair. Tears filled George's eyes and his pale skin became blotchy with panic and grief. "Am I dreaming? Ginny, am I dreaming?" he demanded, his voice getting louder with each question.

"You're not dreaming," Fred answered. He hovered several feet away as if unsure if he could approach the small group. "Gin, Minnie. Tell him he's not dreaming."

"You're not dreaming," Hermione said gently.

"Where's my whisky?" George asked. He caught sight of the glass still in Hermione's hand. "Hermione, give me the whisky."

"George..."

"Just give me the goddamn whisky!"

She looked at Fred with a silent plea. His face contorted into pure grief as he watched George swipe for the alcohol. "I knew this was a bad idea," he said in his distant voice.

"He just needs to get used to you—"

"He's not going to. This was a bad—"

"Fred?"

Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Harry turned around to see the stout form of Mrs. Weasley staring at her ghostly son. Not far behind, Ron, Percy, Bill, and Mr. Weasley trailed over with expressions ranging from dazed to disbelieving.

"Fred?" Mrs. Weasley whispered again. Her hands reached behind her, searching for something to hang on to. Bill lent a hand to steady his mother. "You're a—are you really here?"

"I am." Fred looked at Hermione with a pained expression. "Can you...?"

She nodded and turned to the gathered group. "Let's all back up. I know all of you want to talk to him, but he needs time with George first. Let's give them that."

"No. I need to see my son," Mrs. Weasley said, and tried to push past Hermione. Bill and Harry caught her and pulled her back.

"Give them a minute, Mum. There will be plenty of time to talk to him later."

If he doesn't run away again, Hermione thought. As she led the Weasleys to a nearby table, she realized she was still holding George's Firewhisky. With a grimace, she knocked back the remaining contents of the tumbler.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" Harry asked.

She shook her head and set the empty glass on the table. "There's something I need to do. Can you make sure they don't go overwhelm Fred? He's still adjusting and he's been a bit fragile."

"How long have you known?"

"Since November. He...he did something for me, to try to help me heal. And now I need to go finish what he started."

"You're being cryptic, Hermione."

"I know." She pulled Harry into a bone-crushing hug and tucked her face against his neck. "I love you, you know. I'll be back." With that, she grabbed Neville by the hand and walked over to the table where Justin, Daphne, and Hannah talked among themselves. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherin quieted and looked at the pair curiously. "I have something I need to do. I hoped Neville and Justin might help me."

Wand set to the side, Hermione levitated a repaired chunk of stone and rotated it until it nestled like a puzzle piece into the crevice it used to occupy before Peeves and the fireworks. As Neville and Daphne incanted, the stone melded together until it was whole again. Justin and Hannah, joined by Astoria and her Ravenclaw friends, a third-year Muggle-born Slytherin and his friends, and a handful of Gryffindors sorted through the rubble to find pieces and identify where they might fit in the destroyed walls.

The process took hours, but as the classroom came back together, Hermione felt her own heart and mind mend with the stone. The tension of anxiety, fear, brokenness, and grief began to relax away. She actually laughed when one of the younger students poured a handful of dust down the back of Justin's robes. He and Hannah quickly transfigured what remained of the destruction into snow.

On the Second of May, one year after Justin lost the use of his leg and Fred lost his life and everything changed in so many good and bad ways, the old Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom saw healing in the form of a snowball fight. Even more important, all four houses were healing together.

End of Book One

A/N: 'Et tu, Brute?' is a quote from Julius Caesar by Wm. Shakespeare; 'How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways,' is a play on the poem 'How Do I Love Thee?' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Thank you all for reading. I have posted the first two chapters of the sequel, The Breaking of Hermione Granger. Those who came looking for Dramione, the next installation is for you.