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 Table of Contents

Summary
1. 1
2. 2
3. 3
4. 4
5. 5
6. 6
7. 7
8. 8
9. 9
10. 10
11. 11
12. 12
13. 13
14. 14
15. 15
16. 16
17. 17
18. 18
19. 19
20. 20

-3-
 Summary

As a Dark revival begins to rise four years after the war, Hermione Granger is
placed on the assignment of putting an end to them - and her first task is to recruit
the Ministry's best hope and last option in the form of Draco Malfoy.

-4-
 1

May 27; 7:05pm

Hermione snaps the clip shut on her briefcase and steps back, raising her arms in
line with her shoulders, the suit jacket pulling tight across her back. She flinches as
magenta flashes at her from the corner of her vision, the spell swirling circles
around her before glowing at her hip. She reaches down, pulling her wand and
raising her eyes to the guard.

"You'll have to check that," he says gruffly, grabbing a quill as he scrapes a case
across the desk.

Thick eyebrows furrow as he glances between her Ministry Identification and the
sheet of parchment, his hand moving quickly enough to suggest he has long ago
grown familiar with the specifics of logging wands. He holds out his hand without a
glance towards her, her heart giving three painful thuds before she drops her wand
into his palm. She watches as if the contact will explode his skin, and stops herself
from wiping the sweat along her hairline.

She should have taken more Calming Draught. She shouldn't be here at all.

"Miss Granger?" a woman asks beside her, and Hermione turns her eyes up to the
strong jaw and firm eyes. "Follow me, please."

Hermione pulls her briefcase from the desk, giving one last furtive glance to her
wand, and turns for the metal bars. A loud buzz sounds out, her spine pulling
straight, and she walks stiffly past the bars when they open. They slide shut behind
her as the two guards tap a pattern on the stone wall, her breath catching for a
moment before the stone gives way. Four pairs of eyes look up at them from the
stretch of a hallway, and she concentrates on the sound of her shoes clicking across
the floor.

She runs over her plan again, remembering what Kingsley had told her, and nods
to the guard at the end of the hallway. Four wands tap on the bricks as she runs her
thumb over the smooth handle of her briefcase, back and forth, keeping her breaths
even.

"We'll be escorting you to level five, Miss."

-5-
 Hermione looks up at the two faces revealed on the other side of the wall and
nods. "I have to go to level eight."

"Guards with that clearance will be waiting at level five." Right. That's something
like what Harry had told her.

The wall slides shut after she steps past it, listening to the keys jingle and clink
against metal. She can feel the air pressing against her, the oxygen growing weaker
in her lungs, and she almost jumps at the buzz of noise bouncing off the walls.

Prison cells. Hermione lifts her chin, keeping her eyes forward and her briefcase
close to her leg. They are the ones waiting for their sentences at the Wizengamot,
already branded guilty, and their impatience and restlessness is proven through the
shifts of bodies and angry calls. Hermione feels like a prisoner, too, just as trapped
as them as she reaches the bars that close off the hallway. The heckles and yells
grow louder as the buzz sounds, the bars opening to more bars, and the other guard
pulls out a ring of keys to open it.

They walk through a brightly lit room, guards chattering over a late breakfast or
rifling through folders. They twist through corridors, lines of cells, up stairs and
then down, down, down. The constant buzz, taps, buzz, taps. Hermione feels as if
she is burying herself within the walls of Azkaban, and imagines a far heavier panic
without the potion she took to calm her nerves. The closer she gets to where the
Death Eaters are kept, the harder her heart pulses. She has to fight to knock the
images from her mind, to remind herself that they are safely locked away, to keep
her hand from traveling to the end of a wand that isn't there.

A distantly familiar face nods in greeting when she catches his eyes, and another
man stares at her over a thick, scraggly beard. She meets his hard scrutiny for a
moment before he turns, both guards muttering as their wands curve and swirl in
unrecognizable spells against the wall.

Truth, carved into the wall above a line of language she doesn't know, splinters
open as the wall is pulled to either side. The two guards stand silently and still until
she steps forward, and they turn with her, flanking her as she makes her way down
a steep staircase in their wandlight. There is a faint smell of wet earth and strong
magic, the steps growing darker with dampness as she carefully makes her way
down.

For a few panicked seconds, there is paranoia. She almost convinces herself that
the guards are traitors to the Ministry, leading her down to some abandoned place,
defenseless and alone. Her heart pounds, her stomach rolls, and the handle of her
-6-
briefcase slips within a sweaty palm.

She pauses for just a second when she reaches the landing, watching the water
drip down uneven walls, and the guards pass her to lead her down the dim hallway.
Doors are firmly shut down the length of stone, but she sees one room with chains
and another that holds a single chair at the center. She wonders what level eight is
used for exactly, and remembers the carving of Truth with something hot jabbing
her in the gut.

"Have there been any changes to the meeting specifics?" a guard asks -- the one
who she is sure she must have seen somewhere.

Hermione clears her throat, wiping a palm across the leg of her trousers, and
pushes away the anxiety-ridden images of pale hands cuffed in chains to the wall.
"No."

He holds a quill out to her, the feather brushing her skin before she takes it. "Tap
this three times if you need us to enter the room."

She nods, clutching it like a lifeline as they stop in front of a door. The guards
take a spot to either side, turning to face the hall, and she looks at the knob like it's
on fire before gaining control over herself. She has been through this situation a
hundred times after she got her assignment last week. There is no possible moment
she hasn't prepared herself for. And it isn't him causing the tension along her bones
- it's this place. The way it reminds her of too many things. The sooner she got this
over with, the sooner she could get back to the Ministry and be done with the animal
of the past curling in her chest.

She clears her throat again, raising her chin. "I take it the necessary charms are
in place."

"Yes."

Hermione nods, reaching out to twist the knob, her face set in distant, cool
professionalism. She scans the room quickly, a blur of darker colors except for him,
sitting at the other side of a table. She thanks whoever put him there for not
chaining him to the wall. This might have had an even smaller chance of working
then, and she isn't sure how well she could recite her speech with that sort of vision
on the receiving end of it.

She forces her eyes not to jump to every waver of shadows from the flickering
torches, concentrating on the gleaming wetness of the ground, orange from the glow
-7-
of fire, and black within the cracks of stone. She almost trips over a piece of rock
popped up from the uneven ground, taking in a sharp breath, heavy with dankness
and mold.

Hermione lifts her eyes to the inmate when her hand curls around the back of the
metal chair, the legs scraping loudly across the floor as she pulls it back. His hands
are chained to the top of the table, one clasped over the knuckles of the other. The
black jumpsuit that marks inmates seems to suck even more of the weak light from
the room, contrasting so sharply with the paleness of his skin and hair. Hair that
now reaches broader shoulders atop a longer torso, and a beard that nearly makes
him unrecognizable. He is bigger than she remembers him to be, but the last time
she had really looked at him was…sixth-year. He had only been sixteen then. Of
course he is bigger, with years of male growth spurts, war, and Azkaban. He is
nearly twenty-two now, in the middle of the years that a man is born. She wonders
what kind of man he must have turned into, but knows she will find out soon
enough.

Setting the suitcase down on the table, she quickly surveys to see how far he can
push his arms through the metal cuffs and gain reach. She pushes the suitcase back
and to the left, keeping it from crossing the center of the table, and pulls two thin
folders, parchment, and her quill from the depths.

She meets his eyes for the first time, shadowed dark in the room and staring back
at her unblinkingly. "Draco Malfoy."

He doesn't acknowledge her greeting, the light building expressions across the
blankness of his features as she sits. She sets the warning quill down behind her
suitcase, pulling out the inkwell and uncapping it with a push of her thumb. She
hadn't expected him to say anything yet. She thinks in these types of situations,
Malfoy must be the sort of person to wait to see what's in it for him before deciding
on speech.

Hermione flips the folder open, but it's for show and something to do with her
hands. She knows the words by memory, seeing them scrawl across the eye of her
mind whenever she thinks of them. "Charged as a minor for attempted murder,
accessory to murder, and assistance in trespass. Charged as an adult for
membership in a terrorist group, use of Unforgivables, and various war crimes
including torture and assisting imprisonment. Originally sentenced to ten years,
extended for acts of violence and misconduct. You have served nearly four years of
your sentence, with a remaining eight years and one month. Do you find this
information to be correct?"

-8-
 She waits out the pause for three seconds before lifting her eyes from the
parchment. He holds her gaze for just as long, and her hand slides back to draw
closer to the place she normally keeps her wand. "That I was charged with it, yes."
His voice drags a little, rasping over vowels, and his eyes flicker to the folders.

"Once you have served another six years, you will be evaluated for early release
on your remaining two years, depending on your imprisonment record,
psychological evaluation, and interviews. You are kept at Level Four, the lowest
level a former Death Eater can be jailed within. Previously, you were kept at Level
Six, in which you had twenty-three counts of violence and misconduct, earning an
additional sentencing of two years. You have not had any blemishes on your
imprisonment record in sixteen months. Do you find this information to be correct?"

She glances up, long enough to catch the bob in his throat as he swallows, and
dips the tip of her quill into the inkwell. "Mostly."

She writes the first line of the M before her eyes snap to his. "Mostly?" Silence.
"Which part do you find to be incorrect?"

"Evaluations rely on other factors." His eyes flash to her hand before he adds,
"Granger."

"Like?"

His jaw twitches and he looks at her like stupidity is too far below him to
acknowledge. No matter how much has changed in his face, in the setting, or how
annoying it is, she appreciates the look. It's better than the blankness he had been
forcing earlier, too cold and fitting for where they are, and all she kept seeing
around her was ivory masks and shooting green. This is something familiar.
Something before the war, and she latches onto that to drown out where they are.

"Like if I don't decide to agree to whatever you're here to propose." He leans

forward, lighting away the shadows that had played across his face before, forming
hollowness and sharper angles. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To request
something."

His eyes are brighter now. Bright, sparkling, alive, but no hint of madness within
the storm of grey. She had mostly been expecting it. Few managed several years in
Azkaban without a little insanity to leave or die with, even after the Dementors were
no longer guarding the prison. But Malfoy is there, in this moment, sharp and as
observant as he's always been, intelligence shining through within the steadiness of
his gaze.
-9-
 It feels more disconcerting than the madness might have been.

"How did you arrive to that conclusion?" His conclusion is correct but she wants
to know. She rarely wins the fight against her own curiosity, though it usually
served her well.

His eyebrow raises, his look condescending. "The last time I had a meeting, they
gave me two more years in this rat-infested pit of hell. This time they bring me
underground and have Hermione fucking Granger walk through the door. It's not
difficult."

Hermione rolls the quill against her fingertips for a moment before setting it
down, sitting up straight. "I'm here to make an offer."

"Of course you are." The chains clink off one another when he goes to lean back,
and she traces the lines of them, making sure he's not about to free himself. It isn't
until then that she notices the white of his knuckles, his hand clenched around the
other now. His face is devoid of emotion again when she looks up at him, and she
wonders what it is he's angry about and trying to hide.

"According to your file, you have access to the facilities once a week. A fitness
room, book stacks, showers… How often do you read the news?"

He is evaluating her, his head dipping forward and his eyes locked on her through
his fringe. His face is so stern and tense with concentration that she can feel her
heart speed up, wondering if he somehow broke free from the spell they place on
inmates to prevent wandless magic. She holds her breath, feeling for the slightest
shift in air that will tell her she has to duck, tap the quill, attack.

"You want information."

She hesitates and his eyebrows draw down, creating lines across his forehead.
"Yes. Researched information."

Two seconds, four, and he makes a sound in his throat that could be a growl or
the start of his voice from underused vocal chords. "For fuck sake, Granger. I have
over eight years left, but I don't want to spend them staring at your face. Get to the
point."

She scowls at him, no matter how much she expected his anger. "As you might
have read, there have been a lot of former members of Voldemort's army arrested
for murder, torture, rape - honestly, the list goes on. They can't seem to control
- 10 -
themselves in society. However, the Ministry assumed that many of them were
leading normal lives after release - until we discovered that most of them have gone
missing."

Hermione grabs the second folder, flipping it open and turning it towards Malfoy,
sliding it out far enough for him to read. "These are members of Voldemort's army
who have been arrested for possession of Dark artifacts. The ones highlighted in
blue have been arrested for crimes against Muggles while possessing a Dark
artifact. The ones in blue were all sixteen or younger. Three of them were found
with the Dark Mark. The oldest would have been twelve during the war. As far as
our records show, you were the youngest to ever take the Dark Mark shortly after
you turned sixteen."

She watches him scan the names, wondering if he is searching for people he
knows. "So, you brought me down here to ask about some kids trying to be Death
Eaters?"

"No. I brought you down here because of this." She flips the parchment to reveal
another list. "All young wizarding people, pure-bloods or half-bloods, found with
their memories tampered and no idea where they had been the past several months.
Or this. The list of all known Death Eaters who could not be found after the Battle of
Hogwarts. This one, all the released Death Eaters and other members of the Dark
who are now missing. Or this man, Lomett. His last spell was a Dark one to alter
memories - he's in Mungo's permanent ward for his botched job, but we managed to
uncover a few flashes of recent memories. One of them is of Rookwood's face,
followed by one of Lomett killing a Muggle. Rookwood has been missing since
before the final battle. Lomett committed murder two months ago."

Malfoy leans back from the folder, watching his hands as he rubs at a knuckle.
"You're suggesting a revival."

Hermione slides the folder back but leaves it at the middle of the table, open and
turned towards him. They have very little information beyond what she has already
told Malfoy, but it's enough to know. There aren't coincidences in things like war
and enemies. There is luck, perhaps chance, but not coincidences. The few who have
access to the right information know it plainly enough. Even Malfoy had guessed it
correctly before she even finished.

"Yes. We know little details, but we have gathered enough to know they are
reforming, recruiting, and that some attacks are by the different groups. Some, of
course, are from kids that we don't think are seriously involved within the actual
groups. But it's only a matter of time before the groups bring them in and then forge
- 11 -
together. If they haven't forged already."

"You said researched information." He glances at the folder before looking up at

her. "I don't know anything."

"Not yet." He stares at her, his gaze heavy, and she has to stop herself from
shifting under it. She can see parts of him that are the same Malfoy she remembers
from school, but there is more to him now. Things irrevocably changed in the course
of war, prison, and age. "We're willing to offer you a shorter time on your sentence.
As you stated earlier about the evaluation - we both know it's unlikely you will get
released earlier when there is a string of murders and a revival happening. It's only
going to grow more severe by the time you are up for consideration."

If she was talking about common prisoners for petty crimes, she might have
found it unjust. But these are Death Eaters. She knows their crimes. She still sees
them in her mind, still has them stealing her sleep at night. Her mum once told her
that she could fit the world into the size of her heart and all its knowledge into the
size of her brain. Despite it giving her a complex about the size of her head for
several months, Hermione has always been proud of being that way. Of being who
she is. But she still can't bring herself to forgiveness for what the Death Eaters had
done - who and what they stole from her, her friends, and the world, without regret
or compassion.

There are only a rare few she has learned to possibly understand the motives of
during the years since the war had ended. It has taken her several years and even
more inmate interviews during her time at the Magical Law Enforcement
Department, but she knows the man in front of her is so far from the evil of most
Death Eaters that he almost appears normal. Time had brought some edge of
understanding to his choices for her - that, and several conversations with Harry
and Kingsley over the month since Kingsley had first brought her to his office,
swamping her with files, memories, and trial transcripts.

She is still on guard, though. She still doesn't trust him a single bit, or agree with
him, or feel anything close to pity for the years he has served in Azkaban. Young,
impressionable, desperate, and incapable of murder. That is who he had been. God
knows who he is sitting in front of her as. He might have felt he had been without
choice during the war and leading up to it. She had read all about what was on the
line for him. He might not be evil, might have tried to not identify them at his home,
might have only done what he had to under threat to his own life or family. But he is
more than just a coward. His cowardice and beliefs - whatever the reason for them
or if they might have changed - still damaged or took lives. He belongs here, at least
for a little while.
- 12 -
 And God only knew what he had been thinking in his years of imprisonment. It's
not like the winning side welcomed him with open arms for the things he could not
do. He was sent to trial and Azkaban for the things he could do, for what he tried to
do, with a lesser sentence than the rest. He had no doubt been angry over it. Even
angrier when he was charged again for the violence inside the prison. Voldemort
might have forced him to do things he didn't want to, had threatened him and his
family, but he had never locked Malfoy away - at least, not according to the trial
transcripts and memory-copies in the Ministry evidence rooms. For all Hermione
knows, Malfoy has been stewing the past four years. Convincing himself of
everything he had ever been taught, growing more willful towards the genocide of
the people who had put him there, and has not let go of his racism and arrogance,
even if he's the one covered with dirt now.

Kingsley had said this is the only way they could get in and get information. It's
the only one they could even come close to trusting, as long as they set up the right
guidelines, barriers, and incentives. Hermione - after going through all his files - had
agreed. She still doesn't trust it or like it, but it's their only way into the revival that
might work and do so more quickly.

Malfoy stares at her for a long while in silence. She can tell he's trying to figure it
all out without having to ask, but the agitation of not being able to is showing in the
clenching of his jaw. "What do you want from me?"

"To get involved in the revival." Blunt, simple, there exactly.

He eyes her, and he sounds disbelieving when he speaks. "You want me to

become a spy."

She nods. "Yes. We'll get information from you, locate them all in hiding, and
bring them here."

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then leans forward. "And I get?"

"The Ministry hold is taken off Malfoy Manor, and the house is turned over to
your mother. You get released, without restrictions." Weekly check-ins were more
requirements over restrictions.

"Released," he repeats dryly, and he looks angry when she nods. "And?"

"And what?" He couldn't honestly assume that he could get more than that.

"The catch, Granger. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending there isn't one."
- 13 -
He looks down at the folder, as if waiting for her to flip it again and reveal some sort
of evil plan against him.

She shifts in her chair, brushing a wrinkle from her sleeve. "You won't be
released until you complete your assignment."

His eyes narrow a fraction or the lights from the candles make it look like they
do. "And if it takes longer than my sentencing?"

"I don't see this taking over eight years. We're not expecting you to find every
Death Eater - just everyone involved, unless they flee separately." He releases a
heavy breath and leans back. She waits out the silence while his eyes burn into the
metal cuffs. "I know you had issues with Death Eaters and aren't likely to be
accepted easily. The reports of your Azkaban breakout and list of problems in prison
- including an attempt at rebuilding the Death Eaters - will help. Prison hardened
you, they'll think. It made up your mind."

He turns the fierceness of his glare up to her, her hand inching back again for her
hip before she stops herself. "Risk my life for an early release."

"Eight years early - if not more. You'll also get the proper credit for your
assistance." She is sure he'll figure out what that means without her spelling it out
for him.

The Malfoys could restore their reputation to what it was before the second war.
With Lucius still swearing he was under Imperius again, Narcissa having lied to
Voldemort about Harry's death, and then Draco assisting in bringing down a revival
effort? They would grow back into acceptable standing within society, which they
needed to hold any sort of power within it. The idea of it forces a burning into her
chest.

He opens his mouth, a sneer forming on his lips, but then hesitates. His eyes flash
across the table, as if reading whatever thought came to mind, and his jaw clenches.
A beat of silence, then four more. "I take it that knowing this is going to revoke my
access to the facilities every week and letter sending, so I can't tell anyone."

"If you decline…possibly." She was going to tell him that they would likely charm
him to be unable to speak or write about it, but if anything helps to convince him,
she isn't going to take it away. "It's also likely that you will serve the entire rest of
your sentence, though that decision would involve the board you'll face during
evaluation, and have less to do with the one you make here today."

- 14 -
 "Today," he repeats slowly.

"Within the week. I will need an official answer by Monday."

He drums his fingers against the table, scrutinizing her. "How do I do this from
Azkaban?"

"You don't. You will leave Azkaban in the early morning and return at night.
There will be a house set up for you in case the Death Eaters get curious or you have
to sleep outside of Azkaban for some reason. There will be Aurors there on those
nights, who are cleared to know that this mission is even happening."

His mouth twists into a faint sneer and he looks more like she remembers him.
"Do you think a house is all it's going to take to convince them of my loyalty? Do you
know how they work at all?"

They. She had noticed that in Malfoy's trial transcripts. He always referred to the
Death Eaters as they, them. Nearly all others said we, us. "You're an Occlumens,
correct?" He stares at her for a moment before giving the slightest nod of his head.
"We'll be planting fake memories in your mind - created by the best the Ministry
has. Undetectable for fraud or manipulation--"

"Comforting," he mutters.

"You'll know the difference. They won't. Just make sure they only see the fake
ones. We also have counter measures against Veritaserum. You'll have a 'stolen'
wand. You'll be wearing a necklace that serves as a Portkey that can be activated by
you or me. Additionally, there will be a spell--"

"Or you?"

"Yes," she says, the word tasting acidic against the back of her tongue. "Me."

"You're…what? My liaison?" The distaste when he spoke the last word was
evident, but she is surprised not to find a trace of malice in his expression.

"I'll be your guardian." His eyebrow hikes at the word and her shoulders might
have slumped a little. "I will be handling all communication, transportation--"

"Are you going to be with me while I do this?" He sounds very serious and grave,
as if her answer here will be the very thing that decides it for him.

- 15 -
 "Abstractly."

He stares at her, the fingers running along a crack in the table now pulling into a
loose fist. "You'll be tracking me. The necklace."

"There will also be a spell placed on you to make you locatable. This is for your
own protection as well as ours." He couldn't have expected them to just let him go
wander off without knowing where he was at all times. They trusted him as far as
they could reach - after that, they used magic to guard themselves. It is the only way
this could work.

He leans back in his chair, the cuffs scraping roughly against the table. His eyes
remain focused on hers unblinkingly, and where others might have searched for
some proof of truth or honor, his are steady and digging holes.

"I suppose you're a test. Make sure I don't say any"-his nostrils flare briefly, and
there's a faint twitch to the corner of his left eye-"insensitive remarks or attempt
violence."

She can't say he's wrong. They had thought she would be the most fair, but also
the most likely to break any attempt by him to play civility while he was plotting
revenge.

"They use this lighting for intimidation. You just look like a child." His eyes flicker
across her face and to her hair for a moment as her lips purse, but he doesn't say
anything.

"The losers in battles are usually those who underestimate."

"I see. So…" He leans forward, his hands slowly drawing back to the edge of the
table. Hermione's shoulders tighten until she feels the strain down her spine.
"You're overestimating for me to break from these shackles and jump over the table.
Perhaps to push my thumbs into your throat and stop your breathing. So instead, if I
just slammed into the table and forced the edge into you at this moment, breaking
your ribs, you already have a plan--"

The chair cracks against the floor as Hermione pulls out of it so sharply that she
nearly feels as if she were brought there by some other force. Regret blossoms with
rough edges as Malfoy raises his eyes to hers, his eyebrow hiked and a small lift to
the corner of his mouth. He set her up - it isn't likely he would have actually done it
unless the offer and more prison time meant nothing to him. It had been a natural
reaction, though. More unstoppable than the rush of her blood, or the way her heart
- 16 -
had sped up. Danger, reaction, survival - that system is ingrained now. She is far
less used to the mental warfare.

He'd pay for that. Somehow.

Hermione glares at him and then raises her nose, giving a casual, unseeing
once-over of his face and shackled hands. Putting her folders and items back into
her suitcase, she arranges them precisely, feeling the silence prickle at the nape of
her neck and the edge of her nerves. Buckling the case shut, she regards him with a
cool look that proves nothing of her erratic heartbeat.

"Every night until Monday, the same man will give you your dinner. There will be
beans placed on the tray. If and when you have agreed to our offer, eat them. I'll
come back later that night. If you do not eat them by Monday night, the offer is
gone."

She glares at him for a second more, his mouth firmly shut and his stare back to
digging, before she turns for the exit.

May 30; 9:18pm

It is impossible to Apparate straight into her flat without being Splinched. There
are too many wards and enchantments set up on the building, and they always take
a moment to recognize her as she moved through each line of them. The one just
after the resident Apparition point, the one at the door, the one before the next
door, and the last of the protection spells just before the staircase.

Ron always says how he's paranoid they'll turn on him and splinter his body into
pieces at any moment. Hermione calls him absurd, but then she remembers it each
time she goes through them now. Once at the door to her flat, she uses two keys to
unlock, a powerful unlocking spell, dismantles four spells, and holds her breath
while the remaining ones recognize her. Few buildings allow so many protection and
security spells, the owners afraid of it interfering with other residents or Muggle
technology. It's the reason she had chosen this one over the more spacious flat near
the Ministry.

She closes the door behind her, watching her kitten dart down the hallway before
colliding with the doorway of the living room when he turns sharply into it. That
kitten hates her. He is spastic, tears into everything, and regards her only from
distances. He's nothing like Crooks, but she had gone two years in an empty flat
before Harry showed up at her door with that little ball of nerves, and she hadn't
been able to resist. She doesn't have the heart to give Pepper away - a completely
- 17 -
unoriginal name by any standards, but Harry had insisted on it when the animal had
gone three months as the cat.

Putting her wards back up, she locks the door and checks twice to be sure it's
secure. She opens the coat closest, checks the living room, dining room, the kitchen
and pantry. She checks the coat closet again on her way to the opposite end of the
hall, then sweeps the loo, her study, the bedroom. When she's satisfied, she makes
her way to her study, and reminds herself again about needing another bookcase as
she steps around the stacks of books on the floor.

Pushing her briefcase across her desk, she fiddles with the stack of parchments
beneath her red, glass paperweight - the one that keeps together her recent memos,
notes, and letters suggesting new items to her schedule - and pulls her appointment
book from the top drawer. Uncapping a marker, she crosses the date off the
calender behind her, frowning at the Vetti Collection opening - 7pm that's scrawled
in tight script beneath her large X.

She pulls her chair out, settling down into the imprint of her bum and the curve
of her shoulders within the cushion. The unbuckling of her briefcase is like a crack
of thunder in her flat, the flutter of paper is a rain storm, and her heavy sigh is a
hurricane pushing on, and on, and on.

June 1; 9:21pm

Malfoy's jaw is locked tightly as he reads one of the pages in front of him. The
magical contract is brief - three and a half pages written up by a member of the
Wizengamot, who at this moment would no longer recall having a part in it. It's
heavy, though. There had been as much legal phrasing and loophole-covering
clauses as possible, tightly shoved between every contractual law the Minister
demanded. When Hermione had gone through all her paperwork from their
meetings, she had been sure the contract Kingsley produced would be at least two
dozen pages. She had read over the one he handed her tonight just as much,
expecting to fall into the voids and grey area, but it's perfect.

She swallows dryly, needing water, but she doesn't trust anything in this place
enough to drink it. "And so you are not allowed contact with anyone outside of
myself and the presumed members of the revival, unless granted permission by me
or the Minister. You will sleep in Level Eight during the day so as not to be seen by
fellow inmates. All memories created during your assignment, and information
gained throughout, shall be given freely upon--"

"Is the spell detectable?"

- 18 -
 She gives a brief look of agitation for the interruption, even if it does give her a
chance to build up saliva. She feels like her mouth has been open to the wind for
hours, dry as winter air with her tongue dull. Malfoy hardly seems to pay attention,
a small wrinkle deepening in his brow as his eyes reach the end of a sentence or
paragraph and then flit back to the beginning of it.

He's clean this time. She had placed a charm on the contract so the grime on his
fingers wouldn't smudge the parchment, but it has proved unnecessary. They allow
inmates one shower a week, and she guesses that he purposely waited until today. It
wouldn't do for him to appear filthy in front of her, even if he's still wearing his
Azkaban-issued jumpsuit, and his hands are shackled to the table. She hadn't
realized how dirty he must have been last time, her sight slightly compromised in
the flickering torchlight, but she can make the comparison now. His skin is more
even, hair brighter, and there's no dirt lining his fingernails. The room smells earthy
and damp, but there's a scent of soap, light and bitter, that tendrils through the air.
It's at complete odds with everything around her.

It takes her a moment to think of what spell he must be talking about - long
enough for annoyance to strain the press of his mouth, and a muscle to begin
twitching in his temple. She takes an extra second to respond, if only because he
had made her wait until Sunday to confirm a meeting. Her expression had been
much in the same state since she last saw him.

"Only by the Ministry. It can't be removed by anyone but the original caster. It
does wear off, but I'll be casting it again every night, when I bring you from here to
the house. The Portkey in the necklace can be activated by me, you, the Minister,
and the three Aurors who know about this. It's a safeguard. We will work to protect
you if need be."

"Right." He says it like it's a common lie he'd heard a hundred times and knew to
agree with anyway.

"It might seem like we wouldn't care about protecting Death Eaters, but in this
case, we're all using one another for something we want. If you don't believe we'll
protect you for any other reason, believe that we'll do all we can to protect the
mission - which you would be the biggest player in."

He seems to buy this, his look knowing before his eyes travel back to the folder
for a moment. "Will I be able to protect myself?"

This very question had been the hardest for the Ministry to reach an agreement
on. In the end, few are happy with what is necessary. "If it is needed to remain
- 19 -
undercover, you are permitted to cast magic. Use of the Killing Curse is only
permitted in self-defense - if you kill someone outside of an extreme situation of
guarding your own life, you will be put to death."

His body seems to lock up, and if he weren't so ghostly pale, she might have
expected all loss of color. "To death?"

She nods, her chin raising. "I suggest you don't kill anyone unless it's worth your
life later. We know that your…lack of willingness to commit murder is well known
among your circle. If they want to test your loyalty and commitment by demanding
you kill someone, we have taken measures to make it look authentic. I'll explain
more upon agreement."

He looks back to the contract, but his eyes are steady on a single spot, and she
knows he's only using it as a pretense now. The moment she had first handed it to
him, he had barely glanced at it before demanding his legal representative. Even
showing the contract - and so the information - with someone else, was against the
contract. For a short time that had felt much longer, she had been sure he was going
to back out. Then he had started to read before she was even deep into her
contemplation on what to say to make him.

She has been going back and forth between knowing he was going to turn down
the deal, to knowing that he was definitely going to take it. There's a lot at stake
either way, but if he can pull this off, he can achieve things it might take him
decades to do - or not ever - if he didn't. There's risk, but he has the backing of the
Ministry. Of her. And, despite everything, she honors the lives placed within her
hands.

Hermione takes a deep breath, feeling her blood pressure spike and press against
her skin. Her fingers curl in her lap, resisting the urge to wipe at the sweat along
her hairline. The knowledge of it coming down to her to protect Malfoy's life is as
nerve-inspiring and conflicting as it likely is for him. Not that they haven't been in
such positions before, but never like this.

Malfoy's chains clink as he sets the contract down, lifting his eyes to hers. His
eyebrows are slightly raised and his look is severe, with the knuckle of his index
finger turned white as he presses the tip next to a paragraph.

"Life?"

She knew he'd get to that. "If you tell any Death Eater, or anyone connected to
them, about people involved with the Ministry, or a Ministry plan to infiltrate,
- 20 -
attack, or locate them, or share any knowledge provided to you by the Ministry as
defined in the contract. Also, if you attempt to endanger any Ministry employees, or
sabotage the assignment, you will receive life in prison. If you share any information
or your assignment with anyone outside of the Ministry or Death Eater circles, or if
you attempt to escape or hide, you will receive a minimum of ten years added to
your original sentence."

She could recite every bit of the contract and terms to him in her sleep - she'd
dreamt about it just last night.

Malfoy's expression had turned blank partway through her clarification, and he
reminds her of an old, stone wall - straight, even, and solid when it should have been
leaning and beaten. "I want that altered."

Hermione feels her eyes twitch wider. "There--"

"I'm already putting my life at risk. There are situations where--"

"If you don't plan on doing any of it, then it's not a problem, is it?" She scrutinizes
him, her fingers running rapidly over a quill beneath the table.

"Unless there's a leak in the Ministry, and I get a Death Eater Polyjuiced into you
and asking for all the information. If I escape with my life, I'm then sentenced to it
without preamble--"

"The likelihood of that happening--"

"Is still a possibility, and so I want the contract altered. Or have you forgotten
things such as war tactics while celebrating your victory the past four years?"

All she does is remember war tactics. There's a tense rush at the bottom of her
throat, and a stiffness that takes over her chest. She can't decide if the pressure is
trying to force the words up or down, but she feels the need to conjure a hundred
sentences that will turn him leaning, beaten.

"In a situation like that," she begins, her voice sounding far away to her hearing,
"the case would--"

"And how am I to know that this isn't some elaborate way to give me more time in
Azkaban? To make sure I--"

"You honestly think we'd put in that much effort? If you were released and didn't
- 21 -
show any allegiance to their side, you're safer in here than out there. Why would we
bother?" She has to clamp her teeth shut to stop herself from calling him mad. It
wasn't something that would likely help the progress of this agreement, and she
can't tell if he's serious or proclaiming bigger things to get the smaller ones he
demands. If he is serious, his paranoia is ridiculous, but would work in their favor
when they needed it in him.

He's tense, his back stiff and his fingers coiled. She puts her own against the
edge of the table, her mind twisting with all the things he can do. "You expect me to
literally sign my life away, and refuse to let me verify the facts--"

"You don't need to verify the facts. The Ministry isn't run by your side any
longer." That might have been too much while she should have been trying to get
him to work for their side, but her anger is strangling her logic. "We're not
corrupt--"

He makes a sound that is a cross between a tsk and a puff of air. "It''s politics,
Granger. Either you've gone mad, or the war did nothing to rid your naivety."

Her heart is building beneath all that pressure in her chest, and she can feel and
hear it thrumming harder against her eardrums. "This isn't a political agenda. We're
doing it to prevent another war. That's a--"

"I refuse to sign the contract until a clause is added that I may change my mind
on being involved, in which case the contract would become null and void." He says
it calm and plainly. His back and shoulders are still stiff, but his expression gives
nothing away.

She stares at him for a moment, pulling in a breath through the dryness, and
tastes the bitterness of his soap on her tongue. She has the distinct feeling that she
has just been played, though she isn't sure how. She narrows her eyes at him, and
his left eyebrow twitches a space higher.

"You're not in the position to make demands," she tells him. "This is the offer--"

"I assure you"-his lips thin, and the chains drag as he flicks the contract across
the table towards her-"I am."

Hermione glares at him, and he stares back at her, undisturbed. He's unmoving,
and she knows without pushing it further that he's the same in his demand. He's
serious. It would mean they could be moments from succeeding in the mission and
he could back out. It meant he could back out if the food wasn't to his taste, if the
- 22 -
road got a little rocky, if they didn't meet whatever would be his next demand.

Damn it. "Again, this is the offer. If you don't accept it now, it doesn't come back
again, Malfoy."

He gives her a steady look for three, four heartbeats and then nods his chin
towards the door. "Then call the guards in. I'm done."

He called her bluff with a carelessness that stomped on every nerve. She feels the
need to spit words of fury, throw something at him, or act just as careless as she
walks away. There's a possibility he's lying, but if he isn't, trying another bluff could
give him too much time to cement a decision against signing at all.

Damn it.

She clenches her fists until her nails bite into her palms, taking a deep, filling
breath before releasing it slowly. Of course the beginning couldn't even be easy. Of
course.

Hermione grabs her things off the table, placing them slowly into her briefcase to
not give away her frustration. She refuses to look at him, knowing it would quickly
turn into an attempt of burning his eyes out with the force of her own. She wishes
Azkaban could have broken him. They would have had an easier time building him
up to the assignment than dealing with him like this. Draco Malfoy knows how to get
what he wants when someone wants something from him - that's one thing about
him that hasn't changed.

She doesn't say anything to him as she stands, preferring to let him wonder.
Maybe he would have a different response when she came back, but she knows
better than to give in to wishful thinking. She sniffs, sliding her briefcase from the
table, and walks to the door.

Both guards turn as she exits, and she closes the door firmly shut behind her. "I
require immediate correspondence with the Minister of Magic and Harry Potter."

- 23 -
 2

June 2; 1:18pm

Neville's face scrunches up when he sucks his tongue off the roof of his mouth,
the teacup clinking off the saucer as he set it down. "A bit sweet."

Hermione reaches out and pushes it towards the seat across from her at the
table, casting a quick Warming Charm, and pushes the empty cup towards Neville.
"Leave it for Ron."

"Ron is more about it tasting like a sweet than actual tea," Harry clarifies at the
hesitant look Neville gives his new teacup. "Hermione's always going on about
cavities."

"Which he's had plenty of," she says, defending herself. "If the wizarding means
of tooth care weren't so easy for the patients, he might consider less sugar in
everything he eats."

"Didn't your mum offer to show him the Muggle way?" Harry takes four sips of his
tea before he's satisfied enough to put the spoon down.

Hermione's lips quirk at the memory of one of the first times she had brought Ron
to her parents' home when they were dating. "My dad, actually. It wasn't until after
we broke up that he liked him at all."

"Your dad is a bit intimidating. I remember the first time I went with you for
dinner there and he just stared at me. The whole time, I heard the buzzing of a drill
going in my head."

Hermione laughs, and Harry looks up at the sound to grin at her, flipping to
another page in his menu. "He wasn't sure what to think of you." She pauses for a
moment, a heavy quiet falling into the pit of her stomach. "It was after the war, and
after I had told them everything."

It hadn't been the best time for them to meet Harry and Ron for longer than five
minutes, but they had demanded it, and she hadn't been able to refuse them
anything at that point. Ron had been nervous enough to knock over everything
around his dinner plate, and it had been the first time she had seen a feast in front
of him that he hadn't rushed to consume. Harry had been quiet, and however he

- 24 -
might have recalled it now, Hermione had known her father was far more unnerved
by Harry than the other way around. There's a static of magical energy around
Harry, only aided by the legend that precedes him. Hermione had seen him plain, at
his best and at his worst - she rarely noticed him as anything other than her best
friend. Sometimes it's impossible to grasp the world through the perspective of
someone else, because we are who we are no matter how much we change.

"...and I think I'll have the cheese this time." Neville snaps his menu shut and
hands it to the waitress with a smile.

The cheese is the only new thing to what he orders every time, but she doesn't
say anything since, "The chicken salad," is always her choice, without fail. Enough to
make her full, but light enough to not make the return to work grueling.

"I'll have the special," Harry tells the woman, pushing his menu into Hermione's
outstretched hand without looking up from his watch. Harry orders something
different nearly every time, and she's sure he won't be satisfied until he's tried
everything.

Hermione hands both menus to the waitress with a small smile, and then glances
up at the restaurant's door for a glimpse of red hair. "We'll have someone else
joining us shortly."

Ron is always late. Hermione used to tell him their lunch would be twenty
minutes earlier than it was, but once he caught on, he was back to being late again.
It used to annoy her to no end since they always took lunch in Diagon Alley, so it
made for a two minute walk for Ron to get there. She knew he had customers, but
he could have easily planned it out better.

Hermione slides her chair slightly against the corner of the wall to view the door
better around the heads of diners, and then glances at the windows lining the left
wall. The restaurant across the alley serves better food, but they have two single
windows at the front, and the tables are packed in to the point where a person was
stuck in their chair if people occupied the table next to them. It made her feel
completely trapped, and when they had tried eating there three years ago, they had
stayed as long as it took her to sit in a chair.

"I'll be right back," Neville tells them, standing.

"Don't get lost again." Harry tries to keep his smile controlled, but fails at the
sight of Neville's red cheeks.

- 25 -
 He clears his throat, tucking his chair in. From Hermione's view of the
restaurant, it doesn't appear that Neville will be getting lost again, as the reason
he'd made the weak excuse last week wasn't hurrying around to take orders today.

"The loo is just there, down that hall. First door--" Harry continues.

"Oh, all right," Neville mutters, flashing Harry a harassed look as Hermione hides
her smile in her teacup. "Thanks."

"No problem, mate." There's silence at the table for the three seconds it takes
Neville to wind his way out of hearing distance, and then Harry leans forward with a
quick whisper of a spell. "You're ready for the meeting with Bells tomorrow?"

Hermione still has no idea why they named Malfoy Bells, though she's guessing it
has something to do with Kingsley once mentioning that Malfoy would serve as their
warning bell throughout the operation. The mission was simply titled The
Assignment in all meetings she had been part of, and Kingsley had introduced her to
the Head of the Auror Department as The Liaison.

"Yes," Hermione replies quietly, setting her teacup down. "There was some talk
about the Minister delivering it himself, in case of further revisions, but it was
decided Bells needed to trust my authority."

Harry nods, glancing up at the restaurant's door. "Or else Bells would constantly
demand to go over you. You have the coin?"

"Of course. Though I'm not sure what it says about how much we can trust him
when you want me to always carry a means of contact with you."

Harry looks at her steadily for a long moment, until his lack of movement causes
her to lift her gaze to him. "I trust what you can do, but we don't know what could
happen. You might not be in wraps along with him, but you're at risk. Especially
when he gets in deep - he could double. They could come back to the house to check
him out. There's a lot of different things--"

"I know."

"So instead of sending the message to our friends, you send it to me. I'll let them
know, and I'll already be wherever you are."

Hermione nods, and Harry leans back in his chair for a moment, shoving his
fingers through his hair. She has the feeling it took longer for Kingsley to convince
- 26 -
Harry she was right for the job than it took them to convince her. Harry would have
done The Assignment himself, but he was perhaps a year or two shy from taking
over the Auror Department. There are too many cases they need him on, and putting
him fully on this would have pulled him from all others.

She works in the Department of Law, and one of her job duties had already been
interviewing inmates and checking in on former prisoners. She's trustworthy,
experienced, and had fought the war alongside Harry. She can handle herself in any
situation, and there isn't anything too pressing that she would have been forced to
leave behind - though she is still doing research on certain laws she aims to change.
Harry wouldn't have trusted anyone else with it, besides Ron, but Kingsley would
have never gone for an owner of a joke shop, war hero or not. Harry might have had
other reasons for going with her, too, but they hadn't discussed those in a very long
time.

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes shining a bright green as he looks
at her seriously. She wonders if they'd ever stop being worried for the other. Even in
her dreams she's still saving them or needs to be saved.

"I won't be there tonight, but Floo me when you get back to your flat."

"Yes, sir." She flashes him a small smile at the way he barely restrains from
rolling his eyes. He's nervous and anxious, and that has never helped her with
dealing with her own case of them. "Ron."

He glances up at the door, ending the spell around them at the same time.
Hermione clenches the handle of her teacup a little too tightly, pretending to take a
sip when she's really only taking deep breaths. It all reminds her of the war too
much, and she can't stop the jumble of her blood or the tremble along her bones.

Ron arrives panting at the edge of the table, an odd blotch of color on the
shoulder of his shirt. It's hardly the worst of states he had shown up in after some
accident at the shop. "Am I late?"

Harry snorts and Hermione glares, while Ron's grin stretches across his face.

8:57pm

"...null and void, but you must share all information and memories related to the
assignment even after the end of the contract. If it is found that you have used the
assignment for ulterior motives, and then back out of the agreement after those
motives are achieved, you will receive additional sentencing. Ulterior motives are
- 27 -
defined as contact with--"

"I am literate." Malfoy raises his eyes shortly from the contract to give her a
fierce look before reading over the passage again.

She can hardly tell given that he has been reading for fifteen minutes now. Of
course, he had decided to read the contract over again, in case they had changed
something else after his last viewing. She can tell by the clench of his jaw that he's
not particularly pleased with the new clause, but it's as little room as they were
willing to give. He would still be able to decline continuing the assignment at any
point, which is still far more than they had wanted to give him.

He pauses on the last page, his eyes trained on the line that would hold his
signature. Hermione waits at the edge of this moment, impatiently twisting her
fingers together, and knowing everything rested on the decision he made in the next
ten seconds. The revival is growing stronger every day. If they could even find a
substitute for Malfoy, it would take them weeks. They need him - and if he didn't
need them as well, she knows this would have never gone through. He hates the
world too much to save it, but he cares about his freedom, future, and reputation.
He likely knows that any revival would come after him if he was set free anyway - or
his mother. It's not as if Malfoy made choices based off heroics. It's always life or
death for him, and perhaps his only saving grace is that when it came to that last
moment, he always chose life.

Malfoy straightens up, lifting his chin as he holds out his hand until the chain is
slack. The shackle moves up his wrist slightly, and though there's a bit of redness
circling the outside of both, he's bruise free. In reading the reports of his
imprisonment, the guards had frequently noted purple bruises around his wrists for
the first year. She had assumed it was a combination of excessively rough handling
and a need to escape, but he had given into that not being a possibility for years.
Hopefully he knows it still wouldn't be.

She hands him the quill slowly, the tip wet with ink, and concentrates on every
twitch of muscle as his fingers close around the other end. She's tense in her chair,
waiting for any sign that she would have to dodge out of it as she draws her hand
back, waiting. Despite all his pausing and slow reading earlier, he brings the quill to
the contract without hesitation, signing his name in fluid swirls. The parchment
glows a faint gold before the color seeps back into the paper.

"Quill," she tells him when he sets it down beside the contract.

He looks up at her, an eyebrow raising, and she wonders if the intensity with
- 28 -
which he looks at everything is because he normally has little to take in, or if he
really sees straight through her. It would have made more sense for her to ask for
the contract back - she only hopes he knows asking for the quill first was a lack of
trust, and not a choice from fear.

He turns his wrist oddly when he grabs the quill, and she thinks he's about to
send it spinning across the table towards her until he changes his mind. He picks it
up, reaching out less than his chains would have allowed, and eyes her evenly.
There's a spark of challenge and knowing, as if he expects her to be afraid to take it
with the sharp end pointed towards her, or is waiting to see a shaking of her hand
when she does. She hates the beard on his face. Living under Voldemort and
through the war had afforded him an aloof coldness to his eyes that made him hard
to judge. She's uncomfortable with any lack of knowing.

She covers up her nerves with a glare when she quickly snatches the quill from
his hand, pretending that he's wasting her time. She nods her chin at the contract,
dragging it in front of her when it stops sliding halfway across the table. She takes a
deep breath as she signs her name, feeling the tingle of her magic in her fingertips.
The moment she dots her i, the contract glows again, brighter as the magic locks in
place. She blots the ink from the quill on her writing handkerchief, unsure if she
should feel victorious or doomed. She picks up the fake quill the guards had handed
to her, then twists the top of it once to the left. There's a brief flash of blue in the
room that eclipses her vision, and she blinks at the white circle of light it leaves
behind in her retinas.

"You'll be staying at this level from now on, in a room down the corridor. You may
request one book a week from the guards. Showers will be taken at the setup house.
You will have no access to the fitness room, owlery, or recreational room. Meals will
be delivered to you. I will be here at approximately 9pm each night, and we will
return around 5am the next morning, though that is subject to change in relation to
the current situ--"

She had been expecting it, but she still jumps anyway. One of those hard jumps
where it feels like the entire body is attempting to realign itself two inches up. She
almost coughs when she sucks in a breath, the musty air hitting hard against her
heart in her throat. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice, already out of his seat as far as
the chains would allow, his head tilted back to the ceiling. Stone dust fogs the air,
the torches clinking against their holders as the walls shake. The rumble that would
have deafened those two stories up is fading into an aftershock of silence, the chair
no longer shaking beneath her.

There's a rapt knock on the door, and Hermione stands, glancing quickly to be
- 29 -
sure she has everything in her briefcase. Pebbles that had been loosened in the
explosion now press uncomfortably into her shoes as she steps back, straightening
herself to her rather unimpressive height.

Malfoy's eyes are bright and wider than they had been, but still digging holes into
her. It's slightly infuriating that it had taken an explosion to get any real reaction out
of him, but at least it will work to their advantage during The Assignment.

"Congratulations, Malfoy," she says as the guards open the door, stepping inside
the room. "You've escaped."

One of the guards walks towards Malfoy to lead him towards his new room, while
she follows the other towards the staircase. The first guard will have claimed to
have checked level eight, while the second will claim to have been with her on their
way to level six to interview an inmate. She takes the steps hurriedly, rushing
through corridors as the guard she's with temporarily overrides the shutdown
wards.

The inmates in level seven are wild with excitement behind their stone walls,
calling out in cries of hope and laughter. Hermione's heart picks up speed, and she
feels as if she is in the woods again, listening to the animals define their lack of
humanity in the black of night. Level six gives way to employees running through
corridors and in and out of rooms. They're all yelling at one another, speaking in
codes Hermione doesn't understand, and their panic is in sharp contrast to the
emotions the prisoners had burst into the air.

Hermione's hearing zones out, and she sees the halls of Hogwarts flash through
her mind. There's the rumble of Voldemort's voice beneath her feet, the crashes and
screams as flashes of spells and her blurry-eyed panic turn the world into a
watercolor. There's the pounding of footsteps, the cries battling with the stench of
Dark magic to overwhelm her, and Fred falling into the dark.

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger. Granger."

Hermione snaps her eyes to the guard, finding her breathing whirling in and out
of her lungs like a cyclone. Her hand is digging frantically at the waist of her
trousers, searching for a wand holster that isn't there. "Yes?" It's too breathy, but he
nods at her like this is exactly how she should be.

"We need you to wait in this room until further notice. Someone will retrieve you
once the prison is secured." He opens the door, nodding at her, and she stares back
at him.
- 30 -
 She does not want to go into a tiny room with the door locked behind her, and no
wand in her hand. What if they had misjudged the explosion and inmates actually
escaped? What if--

"The room is completely secure," he reminds her.

"Right. Right." It takes all her strength of will to step past that doorway, and the
sound of it sealing shut behind her reminds her of funeral caskets and the tombs of
their heroes.

She presses her back against the door, listening and trying to remember how to
breathe.

June 3; 7:28am

Explosion at Azkaban

A magical explosion rocked Azkaban at 10:03PM yesterday evening. Though

officials have not released the names of potential escapees, or how they managed to
blow a hole into the west wall of the prison, there may now be a highly dangerous
fugitive among us.

"I was interviewing three guards when it happened," Norma Howell said. "I
thought the entire prison was about the fall on top of my head. Everyone panicked."

An official procedure for such an event was created four years ago, when the
Dementors were released from guarding the prison. However, as the Daily Prophet
reported last year, Azkaban was two practice tests beneath its yearly requirement.
The Head Guard, Irvine Blastog, refused to comment on how well the guards
reacted, or what protocol was breached for this situation to occur.

"I don't know how it happened," said a source inside the prison. "Last time
something like this occurred, they had outside help from You-Know-Who."

The last Azkaban breakout released Bellatrix Lestrange,… cont: A4

June 4; 9:08pm

The last bit of light is fading from where it rimmed the clouds, a blanket of deep
blue falling over the jagged rocks of Azkaban's shore. Leacher - the guard and Auror
with the scraggly beard, whom Harry had informed her the name of - steers the boat
into a cave. Hermione's fingers clench around her knees as he lights his wand,
- 31 -
illuminating the space in front of them. The cave walls are a dark, wet brown, and
the water in front of their boat eases from a murky blue-green, to purple, to black.

They rock gently in the water, small waves splashing against wood, and water
tinkling down the side of the cave walls. She has her wand this time, concealed
within a spelled case to prevent the Scanners from recognizing an unchecked,
unregistered wand. It's still there if she absolutely needs it, though, and there's
comfort in that.

The cave expands into a rough circle, and Leacher's wand lights a wall of
Azkaban at the far end. The boat makes a hard slant to the left as Leacher grabs the
edge and hops into the water, and she feels droplets spray the back of her hand as
she leans right. He grabs the end of the boat, and the water sloshes in bigger waves
as he tugs them backward. Wood scrapes against the stones on the small shore, and
the back of the boat tips down.

She waits until he steps to the side to stand and move to the front of the boat. He
offers her his hand, and she accepts it out of courtesy more than need, stepping
down onto the shore. She immediately pulls away from him, water soaking the back
hem of her robe, and her fingers tighten around the handle of the briefcase.

The door Leacher opens is more of a hole in the wall that hadn't been detectable
before, and she has to bend at the waist to clear it. After three steps, the ceiling
raises to a height that skims the top of her hair when she stands upright, and the
tunnel is narrow enough that she can reach out and press both hands to the walls at
either side of her.

Hermione walks quickly, the ground uneven, and sections of wall jut out in blunt
stones. She can still hear water trickling down the sides, and occasionally her foot
splashes into a puddle that wets the bottom of her trousers. Wandlight moves across
another wall and the same carving she had seen the other way here.

TRUTH; Hermione feels the strange desire to reach up and run her finger along
the engraving. She can almost feel the grime and specks of rock on her fingertips,
and has to wonder what sort of people have seen that carving before. What type of
people were led down the staircase, and what sort followed after them in pursuit of
its statement. None are likely ones she wants to know, but perhaps she already
does.

Leacher steps aside after he opens a second door, torchlight illuminating the floor
of level eight. She glances at the white gleam of his eyes as she passes him, and
feels her adrenaline spike in a tingling sensation along her shoulders. She almost
- 32 -
jumps when he speaks.

"Bells is undergoing the replacement process."

Hermione walks slowly enough for Leacher to fall into step beside her. "It wasn't
explained to me how this is possible here with the Scanners."

"It was lifted from this level tonight on order of the Minister, as Aurors are using
the place to get information from a prisoner."

Goosebumps break along her arms as they pass a room with two chairs in the
center, long chains hanging above one. "And the guards haven't asked questions?"

"The three who know about it are not paid to ask questions. They were all chosen
to watch the Scanners tonight due to their history of suspect behavior toward
prisoners."

"The Ministry doesn't feel that this will endorse that behavior?"

"Concerning yourself with it isn't your part of The Assignment." Leacher's eyes
settle pointedly on an upcoming door. "That is."

Hermione thinks she will concern herself with anything about anything if she so
chooses to do so, but now isn't the time to make that argument. They stop in front of
a large, steel door, and she can just see the inside of the room through the small
window that's nearly above her head. Malfoy is sitting on a chair, his wrists shackled
with his hands in his lap. There are two men standing to either side of him, and
silvery wisps move like tiny snakes around his head. His hair looks blue in the light
of the spell surrounding it.

"How long have they been in this process?" she asks.

"Two hours."

Her eyebrows raise. "Was he unwilling to have the memories planted?"

"They believe it was a natural defense. He was offered a sedative, which he

accepted, though the process has still been difficult."

Aurors didn't offer prisoners sedatives, they all but forced it down their throats -
and even then, if the situation called for it, that's exactly what they did. Unless they
were trying to test Malfoy's willingness by offering first.
- 33 -
 They will be running a little behind schedule now, but at least it proves Malfoy's
capability. If he truly isn't actively fighting the process, and is still mentally strong
under a sedative, his skills as an Occlumens haven't been exaggerated by his
records. An absolute positive for when he's active in the revival, and potentially
debilitating for them when he isn't.

"When will the effect of the sedative wear off?"

"There's a counter-potion, which reverses the effect immediately upon

consumption."

Hermione watches as they tilt Malfoy's head back up, and he stares at the door
without seeming to really be looking at anything at all. His eyes are glossy and
hooded, his back hunched forward, and his arms keep slipping from their resting
place on his legs. Pruit, the second Auror she had seen the day she first came, is
standing in front of the back wall, watching the procedure as closely as the men
performing it. Leacher and Pruit will Obliviate them when it's over, she knows.

"The safe house is prepared?" she asks.

"Rome has met all requirements and specifications as of last night."

"Very good."

One of the men moves in front of Malfoy as the other steps back. The vials of
memories are empty now, and it's only a matter of being sure they are secure in
Malfoy's mind. Hermione has to stop her impatience from pushing her foot into
tapping, and she presses her lips together instead.

The man finally straightens up, turning his head towards Pruit before stepping
away from Malfoy. Pruit meets her eyes through the tiny window, then gives her a
nod as the men begin gathering their things. The groove in the door is cold steel,
and she doesn't know if it's wet or just slick as she widens her stance to get her
weight behind the pull. The door slides into the wall, and her fingers come away dry.

She gives a nod to both men as they pass her, but neither even glance her way.
Setting her briefcase on the table, she pulls out a drawstring pouch and folded robe.
There had been a lot of discussion over what to make the Portkey, but they finally
decided on a pendent of the Malfoy crest. She's still worried they might try to yank
it from Malfoy due to the dishonor his family fell into, but it makes more sense that
Malfoy would protect it against them doing so. It also helps to show his loyalty in the
face of anything, no matter how low it's viewed as to the rest of the world.
- 34 -
 Malfoy is slumped back in the chair, and her breath pauses as she reaches for
him. He only flinches when she reaches around his neck, though, and she imagines
it would have been a lot worse if he wasn't sedated. The ends of the necklace draw
together like magnets, and she jerks her hand back at the zap of magic on her skin
when the ends meet.

Malfoy's eyes slowly roll up to hers, and she holds his stare as she grabs the
pendant. She jerks on it as hard as she can, and her other hand flashes out to catch
his shoulder when he's flung forward. It moves beneath her palm as she shoves him
back, and he growls lowly in his throat. Her hand falls back towards her wand when
her heart lurches, but it seems to take all his strength just to lift his head and glare
at her.

The necklace is still clasped, the chain unbroken, and the loop on top of the
pendant doesn't appear damaged in any way. She lets it go as she steps back,
drawing her wand. Calm sweeps through her for just a second of relief, and then the
emotions she had woken up with are back. The locating spell hits Malfoy in a burst
of deep blue, and it isn't until he jolts back in his chair that she even thinks to tell
him what she's doing.

Pruit steps into the line of her sight on the right of Malfoy, and her eyes drift
down to the vial in his hand before she gives a nod. She puts the pouch back into her
briefcase, and then buckles it as Malfoy gurgles over the potion behind her. She
pulls the handle into an easier angle for her to grab with her left hand, listening to
the heaves of Malfoy's breathing as she opens the robe with a flick of her wrist.

She turns when chains move and scrape, and sees Pruit stand from his squat and
drop a metal cuff to the floor. Malfoy stands fluidly, his hands held out in front of
him, and there is absolutely no sign of sedation in his posture or eyes anymore. If he
didn't need to be of capable mind, she would have preferred to keep him drugged.

Her heart begins to speed up as the last of Malfoy's shackles are removed, and he
takes the robe she's holding out with no restrictions to his movement. He holds her
eyes, but she hopes she is as unreadable as he is. It feels like a challenge, but she
thinks it might just be because she isn't used to him looking at her when he wasn't
presenting one. Then again, perhaps Malfoy is always a challenge, in some way or
another.

She keeps her hand near her wand, and grabs her briefcase with the other. Pruit
leads them from the room, and Hermione waits until Malfoy gets the point and starts
walking to begin herself. She would rather take the dark at her back than him.
Leacher is standing in front of the room the two memory modifiers are in, his gaze
- 35 -
penetrating the back of Malfoy's skull as they leave.

She wonders if Malfoy knows his feet still move as if they're shackled. He takes
small steps, and occasionally his heel scuffs against the floor. She hadn't realized
that Azkaban supplies no form of footwear to its inmates, or she would have brought
the shoes she left behind. The rocks are going to feel savage on the bottom of his
feet, but maybe they've toughened enough over the years for him not to complain
about it.

"Put the robe on, Malfoy. Make sure the hood is pulled as far over as possible."

He hesitates, and then the fabric billows out into a swinging arc. He takes longer
on the buttons than he should have to. Maybe from not having need of working them
for years, the oddness of wearing something other than the jumpsuit, or the first
showing of his nerves.

The tunnel plunges them into darkness, and Malfoy nearly disappears within it
when he pulls up the hood of the robe. If half of Pruit's back wasn't gone from the
shadow of Malfoy's body, and the streaks of skin between dirt on his feet weren't
still visible, she wouldn't know that he's still there. Her heart is pounding in the
rhythm of a migraine, but less painful and more annoying. She wants to be perfectly
collected and in control, but the darkness is deep, and Malfoy is a strong, free, able
body.

The rocks bother him. As soon as his foot touches down on the shore, he rocks
back to lift it back up again. She doesn't even have time to think he'll demand shoes
before he's moving again, jerking four times in the short walk as a jagged edge digs
into his skin. They stop along the edge of the shore, and Pruit reaches into the boat,
lighting a lantern with a flick of his wand. He hands it to her behind Malfoy's back,
and nods his chin for her to go.

Her shoes scrape over the rocks, feeling them crunch and revolve under the
rubber, and then water lap at her toes. She lifts her leg over the side of the boat, the
lantern swinging in her hand as the boat sways under her foot. She pauses for one
unsteady, hesitant moment, and then pulls the other over. Her shoes squeak over
the wood and she has to squat down a little, gripping the side of the boat with her
free hand before she embarrasses herself. She waits to get used to the rocking
motion and then moves forward, taking four steps before she reaches the bench at
the end.

She turns to sit, feeling the wetness already soaking through her trousers, and
watches the two hooded men on the shore. Her heart speeds up, adrenaline shooting
- 36 -
along her shoulders as she clamps a hand around her knee. She takes a steady
breath, reminding herself that one is an Auror and that the other can be handled.
She tries to forget the fact that Malfoy is bigger than her, the size of a man, and
concentrates on her wand. If she has to use it - even if it blows all of this apart - she
will.

Malfoy climbs in a little more steadily than she had, but she figures it must have
been all those years he had spent on a broom. His shoes squeak when he turns, and
he billows the bottom of his cloak back when he sits. If this situation wasn't so
dangerous, she might have smirked - the water is going to soak through a lot
quicker for him now.

Hermione looks up at Pruit, the turn of the blackness within the hood aimed at
her, and nods her head. He nods in turn, unwrapping the rope from the wooden
stake in the ground, and then shoves against the back of the boat. They lurch further
into the water, the bell ringing out atop the pole that came up from the side of the
boat, center between her and Malfoy.

The magic in the current steers them away, and she watches the fog close in
around the Auror and Azkaban. She holds her wand firmly in a wet grip, listening to
the plink, flink of water as it softly breaks waves against the boat, interrupted only
by the clear ding, ting of the bell as the boat moves over the water.

She stands slowly, swaying for a few seconds, before taking two unsteady steps
towards Malfoy. She slides her knuckles along the poll, her fingers wrapped around
the metal handle of the lantern and her eyes fixed on Malfoy. She finds the hook
below the bell and slides the lantern onto it, stepping backwards to get to her
bench.

Malfoy looks like death. The black robe he's wearing is made a gleaming void of
darkness by the drizzle of rain, his face hidden in the shadows within his hood. She
almost demands for him to lower it so she can make out his expression, keep track
of the movements of his eyes, to know if he gets any ideas. But she knows that's
breaking the point of wearing the hood up - to hide him, to hide the hint of his hair
and face to a world that would be far too curious to know who is under it and riding
off from Azkaban near the middle of the night. But the look of him still makes her
uncomfortable and uneasy - more than she already would have been. The water is
black around them, and she can barely see past the boat. The fog is white and grey
in front of more darkness and Malfoy's black form. They tilt over water, the bell
calling out, and she feels like she is riding towards whatever comes after death.
Whatever awaits all life in the journey beyond, crossing the water to the other world
or nothing at all.
- 37 -
 Her stomach turns over her dark thoughts, over the moistness of the air catching
in her throat and clogging up her chest as it winds with the emotions and paranoia.
Her heart picks up speed, and she has to level out her breaths, counting them to get
past the sudden claustrophobia. She feels as if the fog is closing in, threatening to
consume her as death plots across from her, watching the panic build within her.

She can't let him get the best of her or see her nerves so clearly. She knows that
her face is hidden as well, that he probably can't see it through the darkness and the
wavering light of the torch. But she feels like he can see right through her and to
the gut of her at this moment, leaving her cold and vulnerable to the eeriness of the
world around them.

Hermione glares, taking deeper, calmer breaths, and clenches her wand a little
tighter.

She doesn't know they're going to hit land until they do, and she's on her feet the
second the boat jolts, the bell clanging loudly. The boat rocks back, and her feet skid
over the wet wood, her arm flying out to spin for balance. Malfoy remains still, the
dark oval inside his hood aimed forward and not up to her, but heat burns her
cheeks anyway. That was not to plan.

She carefully steps forward, raising the lantern from the hook, and then steps
back towards the bench. There is an awkward moment in which she tries to decide
the best way to get out of the boat without turning her back to him, and turns
awkwarder still when she attempts to climb over sideways. The edge of the boat digs
painfully into her thigh, and the knee of her other leg bangs off the wood when she
raises it. For a rocky second she thinks she is about to fall straight into the shallow
water, but she lands with a hop on one leg, water splashing up to her thighs.

She quickly takes the coiled rope from the edge of the boat before transferring it
to the hand holding the lantern, and lurches herself backward to pull them closer to
shore. Her heels dig deep into the sand, and she grits her teeth against the feel of
something skimming her ankle, hoping it's seaweed. The boat moves an inch, then
scrapes the bottom before refusing to move an inch more.

"Get out, Malfoy."

She pauses, watching his black mass rise, and everything tightens within her
when he starts towards her. She had been hoping he would jump off the side where
he sat, giving her time to pull the boat in more without having him near her. She
wonders if Azkaban gave them the senses of an animal, and if he can smell her fear,
or the things that sometimes made her weak. She wants to tell him that it doesn't
- 38 -
matter - that her weaknesses have rarely been faults when it came down to the
second of choice, of life or death, of to do or do not.

She steps to the side as he puts a foot on the rim of the boat, his arms raising to
either side for balance in the swaying. Then he draws in tightly, hands on the rim,
back bent, shoulders hunched, and pushes into the water with far less splash than
she had managed. She yanks the boat forward the second he's cleared of it, and it
follows her for two steps back to the shore. Malfoy is already moving in that
direction, and she abandons pulling to follow him.

He stops on the line of sand and pebbles after the water ends, and she doesn't
swing the lantern too far away to stop him from being illuminated in the edge of its
orb of light. She finds the wooden post buried in the ground two feet away from her,
her feet sloshing inside her shoes, but the end of the rope just makes it there. She
glances at Malfoy, a curse echoing in her mind, and then back at the boat.

Setting the lantern down next to the post, she steps forward to wrap the robe
around her forearm twice. She draws her wand, holding it between her hand and the
rope, and looks at Malfoy as she shoves back. One, two, four times, her arms and
calves straining as the boat scrapes the bottom. Malfoy doesn't move, and she's
thankful for that, because she thinks she might have taken aim at him due to all the
paranoia swelling up her chest.

She unwraps the rope from her arm, barely noticing the spirals of red it left on
her skin, and then wraps it around the wooden post. She pulls hard and knots it
twice, the corner of her vision on Malfoy. She grabs the lantern, ready to be rid of
the dark and fog, and nods her head for him to start walking, not needing the
confirmation of sight to know he's watching her.

He turns towards the forest, and she follows two steps behind him, wiping her
wand against her robe. The tops of the trees block out the hint of moonlight, and
they're plunged into darkness beyond the circle of light from the lantern. Animals
move in the deep of the woods, shaking branches and shuffling over the forest floor
as they grunt, click, hoot, breathe. Hermione tries to control her own breath,
keeping it timed with her steps to count the seconds before they clear the Azkaban
wards. A memory plays inside her head; three friends flashing through trees, and
black cloaks approaching from all angles.

"Stop."

He does, and her hand hesitates before grabbing him at the elbow. His arm
moves forward on instinct or hatred, and she nearly loses grip in the middle of
- 39 -
Apparating them. She imagines the look on Kingsley's face if she arrived at his office
to tell him Malfoy was scattered in pieces through England and Wales on the first
real day of the Assignment. She'd really have to start considering the teaching
position she'd declined last month.

They land in darkness, the light of the lantern blown out, and her heart starts
beating again once she's flicked her wand to light every candle and torch in the
house. Dust and mold clog the air in her nostrils, and she drops her fingers from the
squishy, wet fabric of Malfoy's robe.

He turns his head to look at her down the line of his shoulder, his eyes glinting
hard and golden. She wonders if the tinge of green to his complexion is from the
surprise Side-Along, or just a lie from the light and its shadows. There's a set to his
mouth that makes it appear like he's physically stopping himself from speaking.

She keeps her eyes on him as she steps sideways around him to grab the clothes
from the table. He waits three seconds to take them from her, staring at the torn,
dark purple shirt that almost passed for blue.

"The loo is through that door," she tells him, pointing to the door off the kitchen.

His gaze flicks to it, her, the door, and she turns with his movements as he walks
to it. Her shoulders only relax slightly once its closed behind him, and she takes a
deep, silent breath when she hears fabric rustling. A light breeze skims the nape of
her neck, and she looks at the shattered window with a tree branch shoved through
it. Old, brown leaves are littered across the floor, and a section of wood is
completely caved into the basement in front of the window.

Little shards of glass wink at her from the floor, and she follows them to the mold
lining the bottom of two walls, paint faded, and in some places, chipped down to the
sheetrock. The other two walls are red brick, and look fine beyond a patch of
brighter red where the rain is falling through the ceiling. A layer of dust and dirt
coats every surface. Once he's gone, she'll walk through the house, and clear the
places he would have cleared after a night.

She turns her attention back to the door when it creaks open, and he's speaking
before he even steps out of the room. "How do I have clothes if I just escaped from
Azkaban?" His voice is deep and gravelly, and she wonders if their last meeting is
the last time he spoke.

"Because you stole the clothes from the same man you took the wand from." He's
still staring at her, waiting, because he knows there must be more to the story. "In
- 40 -
two days, there will be an article printed about your body being found, except it was
discovered to be under Polyjuice. Tonight, you're getting the Polyjuice from
Knockturn. You'll keep yourself absolutely hidden, no hint of your face, and only buy
Polyjuice. They'll make the connection."

His expression is blank, but he doesn't fight the plan. "How am I paying?"

She reaches into the inner pocket of her robe, pinching the chain, and holds the
pocketwatch out to him. It disappears in the palm of his hand as he inspects the gold
and gems. "It's worth more than enough for a dozen vials, and while they might
normally question it, they'll be too hesitant to do so with you." Her thumb edges
down her wand, knowing what is coming. "You have to get dirty now."

His eyes raise to look at her, and his expression doesn't change. His lips are
parted, but he doesn't speak, and she has to stop herself from fidgeting.

"You just escaped Azkaban, and you had to beat a man to get his wand. You have
to look like you've rolled about in the dirt."

"I'm not rolling about in the dirt."

"You're working for us, and you'll do what I tell you to."

He stares at her, his jaw clenching twice. "If I ignore your authority and break the
rules, I'm going back to Azkaban. Reasserting your authority is a pointless measure,
so either you don't understand that, or you wish to see me treated like an animal."
His eyes narrow, and her heart gives a thud as her fingers skate her wand holster.
"Do--"

"I don't enjoy seeing anyone treated like an animal." It is important that she let
him know who is in charge and that she isn't to be tested, but if he thinks her
abusive, he could break the deal. "The point is that you have to look dirty, and it has
to look genuine. I can't just throw dirt and mud at you and have it appear natural."
She thinks he'd oppose that option even more, which will help lean him towards
what she wants.

Malfoy glances at the front door, and then stares at her shoulder as she sighs
silently. Every detail is important. Malfoy is known to be observant and think quickly
on his feet - part of the reasons for choosing him - but if things don't look real, they
aren't going to pull it off no matter how or who he is.

"I'll give you one minute outside, and I won't watch. Just make sure you do it
- 41 -
properly. And put on the robe first."

One of the last things she wants to do is let him walk out the door without her
watching his every step, but it's only a matter of minutes before she sends him off to
another section of the world. It's still hard to force trust when she feels no tendril of
it.

He apparently feels the same way in regards to her watching or not, because he
stares at her as if he has already caught her doing it. It's the most she'll budge on it,
though, and she'd even cross her arms if it didn't mean lifting her hand from her
wand.

His expression doesn't change as he turns for the door, pulling the robe on, and
he takes slow, measured steps, as if he's remembering how to walk without the
shackles. She watches him leave from the corners of her eyes, the door closing
enough to hit the frame but not click shut. She stays sideways to keep her back from
the door, and pulls a small box off one of the warped dining chairs.

The scent of moist soil wafts up from the box when she pulls the lid back, and
then there's the bitterness of whatever animal blood they had dumped inside. She
can't hear Malfoy moving outside, and she has to restrain herself from marching to
the window, glancing out the tiny crack in the door, or pulling out the maps that will
always show her his location.

She's checking the pocket of her robe for the ring she will give him when she
catches the movement of the door, just before it squeaks loudly and the bottom
moves over dead leaves on the porch. She has prepared herself for the sight of him,
and though she stops the action, she can't prevent the desire to step back. The
tattered, mud-caked clothes, the wild, dirty hair, the dirt-stained face, and the glint
of eyes shadowed with lack of sleep are perfect - there's nothing about him that
doesn't match the story.

She holds out a pair of shoes with socks shoved into one of them, giving him a
brief nod of acceptance. He takes them, setting them on the floor in front of him,
and pulls the socks out. His hands are caked in mud, like he might have gathered it
up to rub on himself rather than getting on the ground. She wants to ask, but it
doesn't matter now.

He struggles to pull the socks over all the mud on his feet, or maybe just because
it's been years since he's had to put any on. He wobbles at first, pausing with his
ankle pressed to his leg above the knee, and then yanks, shakes, tugs up and back,
down and back, until it's all the way on. She tries to decide if a freshly-escaped
- 42 -
convict would bother with it, but it's not his job to give opinions.

"Where will the man be found?" he asks, and his voice sounds a little more
breathless than she's ever heard it.

"Outside an abandoned shop four miles from the prison."

"It's in a village?"

"No."

The shoes look like they may be too small, but he'll have to deal with them for
now. He has to grind his foot down into it, and his forehead wrinkles for a second
before he repeats the process with the other foot. His fingers seem clumsy on the
laces, and he ties them loosely.

He stands to the green rag she's holding out to him, inspecting it before looking
at her, and he doesn't move to take it. "Wipe off your hands."

He reaches and takes it without looking away from her. She wants to keep staring
back, but she isn't going to stand there and look at him all night. She raises her chin
instead, and picks the box off the chair, holding it out.

"That's good enough. Push your hands into this, and then shake them out." She
imagines clumps of it hitting her face and the floor. "Over the box."

"What's in it?"

"Dirt and animal blood. No magical properties." Now do as I say.

He still moves slowly, and she feels like she is watching a droplet of water,
waiting for it to finally fall off the curve. She understands that he doesn't trust her,
that any semblance of trust they will need for the Assignment will have to be built,
but he's going to have to put it out there as much as they are now. She almost
expects him to push the box down until her arms shake with the pressure of his
strength against hers, but he remains hesitant, and he barely submerges his hands.

He flicks them twice once he's pulled them out, and when she ducks her head, he
flicks them twice more.

"Good," she says, taking in the streaks of brown and red, the dirt shoved under
his fingernails. She takes a step back to give herself more space to move, react, and
- 43 -
puts the box back down. "Do you remember where Landarg's is?"

"Yes."

"You'll Apparate there, then walk to the back of the building to enter. After you
have the Polyjuice, walk to Linch, grab some clothes, and pay for it with this ring."
She drops it into his dirty palm, and then looks up to meet cool grey. "Linch is very
important. If anything seems more off than normal, leave. We believe a small base is
operating out of the floor above the shop - small, no one important, but it's a way
in."

"If I'm approached?"

"It's too soon. However," she says, continuing at the annoyance that flashes
across his features, "if you are, leave. You just got out and you're about to kill a man.
You trust no one, and you're looking to finish with the man before you do anything
else."

She holds out the wand with her left hand, the right at her hip, and something
shaking in her chest. Not fear, because she will not fear him. She is stronger, faster,
and her wand is better suited for her. It is only apprehension. It is the unknowing.

He doesn't rush to snatch it from her like she expects, but takes it like one might
take a roll of blank parchment or a cup of tea. It's only after it's fully in his grip that
his expression changes at all with a brief widening of his eyes, a twitch of his
eyebrow. His knuckles are white on the wand, and she knows he's feeling the thrum
of his magic after it has been suppressed for so long. His chest expands slowly
against the front of the robe, like he's taking in a deep breath, and his throat bobs
over a swallow.

Then his reaction, as small as it was, melts back into blankness. His knuckles are
still white, though his tone is bored when he speaks. "Will this work?"

"As specified." It's her voice that sounds too thin, and he blinks his gaze up to her
before she clears her throat. "Walk outside first to get the shoes properly dirty. Then
Apparate. Return here immediately after buying the clothes at Linch. Do you have
any questions?"

He doesn't answer, just turns and walks for the door. Her left fist is hanging at
her side, curled until the nails are pressing into her skin. She feels a little dizzy, and
she knows this won't get easier. That she can watch Malfoy walk out that door a
hundred times, and still never know without doubt that he will return to it. Still
- 44 -
never know if he will only do what he is meant to do, has to do, when he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him this time, and she's slapping her briefcase onto
the table the second it does. She pulls the first map out, the one she had purposely
put first, and jumps at the crack of Apparition. Shoving a palm into the edge of her
briefcase, it drags across the table and smacks into the wall at the other side. She
unfolds the map, spreading it out, and coughs on the dust that floats up from the
table, into her inhale, and down her throat.

She mutters, tapping her wand against the map, and her eyes focus on the small,
blue dot that appears in front of the square she had labeled Landarg's. She watches
it move slowly around the square, down the side alley, her hand wrapped tightly
around her wand and her shoulders tense, waiting.

- 45 -
 3

June 7; 9:41pm

Ding...ding...ding.

"The article was printed last night. They know you escaped, and that you killed a
man under your own Polyjuice to try to stop people from looking for you. That's
going to get attention itself."

Ding...ding, ding...ding.

Malfoy remains still at the front of the boat where she put him this time, his robe
black in the fog and muted moonlight, the hood pulled to shadow his face.

Ding, ding...ding.

"Tonight you'll go to Linch and ask for an Endless Robe."

Ding...

"An Endless Robe?" Dry amongst all the wetness around them, in the sea, and the
air, and her breath.

She looks out at the water, but he is still the darkness in her peripheral. "Endless
Robe is a rumor we started amongst the underground. It's an amulet that changes a
person's appearance, is undetectable and unchangeable by outside magic, and only
available at Linch."

"They have this device?"

Diiingdiiingdiiing. The boat hits the shore with a jolt, and though she had seen it
approaching, she still jumps from the bench. The lantern swings to reveal Malfoy's
harder grip on the edge of his seat, and she steadies herself as she motions for him
to move.

"No. To get it isn't the point."

She takes the lantern from the hook, and she follows after him off the edge of the
boat, the water colder than it should be for June. He heads to the shore, and she

- 46 -
curves with her steps back as she drags the boat, keeping sight of him. She hurries
so he's not watching her and moving in the dark before she arrives, but he walks too
quickly. A part of her thinks he does it on purpose, and she feels angry, but it makes
her pull harder.

"You believe they'll approach me tonight."

She barely pauses in wrapping the rope around the post, her fingers cold and
chaffed as she glances up to his bare feet. "They'll have little doubt to who you are -
especially when they'll have kept track of what you bought."

She hesitates, but changes her mind on telling him it was smart to buy a blue
robe with distinctive black lining. He must have known.

"We don't know how they'll approach you, or who will. Be prepared for anything."
She watches his form bob in the shifting light of the lantern, trees hanging like
frozen shadows reaching for them. "Are you ready for--"

"Yes."

June 8; 4:14am

Hermione checks her watch, then turns to pace back the other way, tapping her
wand against her side. All of her things except for one are packed into her bag, and
a Portkey is wrapped in a cloth inside of her pocket, just in case Malfoy comes back
with people. The map is on the table, a blue dot signaling that Malfoy is still at
Linch.

All he has to do to activate his Portkey is twist the pendant three times over the
back clasp of the necklace. Unless they chained him to something before he could.
Perhaps they grossly underestimated the group working out of Linch, and they had
cut off his fingers, or killed him in revenge. Maybe they're holding him until
someone important comes. She had told him to be back by 4am unless it's absolutely
necessary to stay - it's now 4:15, and they can't travel back to Azkaban any later
than five.

Maybe he's waiting for her to come. Maybe he's cursing her in his head right
now, and thinking how everything he ever thought is right, and that they never
really had any plan to save him. Maybe he's conspiring, telling them all the details of
the Ministry plan, and will walk through the door as a double-spy. Maybe he will
come back with people and kill her. Maybe he will hold her until the Ministry gives
him what he wants. Maybe--
- 47 -
 Hermione jumps at the sound of Apparition outside. She snatches the map from
the table, and flies around the corner of the kitchen and into the living room. The
floor bends under her foot in the section she stops in, the floorboard creaking, and
she shuts her eyes as she holds her breath.

Silence.

The creak of the door, the rustle over leaves, the click shut, footsteps over a
protesting floor. Her chest is burning for oxygen by the time he knocks twice on the
wall, signaling that it's him and they're alone. She pulls in a breath softly despite
wanting to gulp it down, and her hand tightens on her wand before she spins around
the corner.

It's only him, and her heart pounds harder as his wand automatically raises when
he finds himself staring down the point of hers. She pauses for a second after the
first spell, a hundred curses roaring over the back of her tongue before he drops his
wand, and then she continues. His whole stance is stiff, his eyebrows slightly
furrowed as he burrows holes into her head with his eyes. He should be used to this
now, though. She had done it after the first night, and after he had gone out for
supplies the second time.

There's no trace of any tracking spells or sources of magic she doesn't know
about.

"What happened?"

"It's a small group - thirteen of them, no younger than sixteen, no older than
twenty-three."

"You met them?"

"I did."

"Go in the loo, get changed." She ushers at the door, and makes more demanding
hand gestures when he scowls at her. "Were they accepting of you?"

He takes his time to start walking, as if they have all night, and she gets the urge
to shove him just to make him quicker. She steps back and around as he circles past
her, both of them looking at one another, and for a second, she feels as if they are
about to duel.

"None of them are Death Eaters."

- 48 -
 The door shuts behind him, and she shifts on her feet. She folds the map four
times, then pushes it into her pocket, listening to clothes rustle behind the door.
"That doesn't answer the question."

A pause of sound and movement. "They're kids who wish they had been Death
Eaters." The clothes start moving again. "Meeting someone who actually was is an
honor to them, regardless of anything else. The article was enough to erase doubts."
His voice drops as if he's muttering to himself, but she can still make out the words.
"If they were Death Eaters, they'd want a lot more than fucking story time."

Hermione nods, remembering to write this down when she has the chance. "Do
you believe they have any connection with a higher group or person, or any part of
the real revival?"

"I can't tell yet."

"Do they seem committed enough to be accepted into the revival if they are
found?"

"Mostly, thus far. They're all obsessed."

"Mm. Believing and doing are two different things."

She pauses a moment after the movements on the other side of the door do, and
she awkwardly realizes the implications of her sentence. She'd like to say something
like, but the doing is the important thing, but he did a little too much for the Dark,
and a little too much for the Light by not doing enough for the Dark. Malfoy believed
just enough, and did just enough to land himself in prison, no matter what changed
in his beliefs or what wasn't done that could have been. And there is no just enough
to that. There just is or isn't.

She imagines there are a lot of things he's thinking to say as well, but he says
nothing when the door opens. She's a little surprised to find him holding the wand
out this time, when he made her wait and swell with paranoia in the past, but he still
looks as reluctant to let it go.

"Come on," she says, pocketing the wand. "I'll conduct the interview at Azkaban."

9:59pm

Malfoy emerges in black trousers and a black, short-sleeved shirt. Hermione

assumes he's putting the Dark Mark on display on purpose, which is good,
- 49 -
considering what he had said this morning. It's all scarred skin and faded black, but
it still sticks out brightly on the pale expanse of his forearm.

She glances up at him, finding him watching her, and clicks her briefcase open.
"You should rise as their leader pretty quickly."

She tightens at the squeak of a floorboard, but another doesn't follow.

"The older ones will resist, but not for long."

"Will they want to test your loyalty?"

"No."

She waits, but he doesn't continue. "How will you get them to stop resisting
without making them angry towards you?"

"I will."

She blinks once, then looks over at him, turning to face him fully. "I asked how."

His gaze flickers over her face and shoulders. "If I'm meant to be good enough to
do this without you there, you're not meant to question my every decision. I--"

"Don't imagine that you can tell me what I'm meant for, Malfoy. Now tell me
how--"

He looks as if he has tried to explain this to her a dozen times, and only explains
it again in the hopes that she might remember it this time. "If I act as if I trust them
more, recommending they take the larger parts of plans, it will make them feel safer
with having me as a leader. They'll feel like they have more because they're in a
position where most of the group looks up to them, but also one of privilege for
being preferred by me."

Hermione stares at him. They're going to have to be careful in making sure this
all doesn't go to his head. They can't risk him turning on them when he's in deep. He
might have been cleared psychologically for the Assignment, but anyone could
regress when surrounded by it. How they're going to be careful is another matter.

"What's the plan?" At a glance, he appears smug with her lack of ability to say
anything against his method, but then he is blank, and she's not sure it was ever
there at all.
- 50 -
 "We planted some information with an informant--"

"An informant?"

"The Ministry is spider webbed throughout the underground circuits. Undercover

Aurors and Hit Wizards, petty criminals with a mutual beneficial relationship. We
have yet to infiltrate the higher circles, but--"

A corner of Malfoy's mouth draws up in a faint sneer, and his expression hardens.
"How is that you define a mutually beneficial relationship with petty criminals?"

Hermione sniffs. "It shouldn't surprise you that you aren't at liberty to know. All
you--"

"They inform you of things, and in return, the Ministry turns its head from--"

"All you need to know," she says more loudly, "is that it's secure, and a boy in the
group - Garson - overheard that--"

"You say it's secure, and yet nothing you've said--"

"I think you're forgetting that this isn't just your assignment. The informant
couldn't reveal anything even if he wanted to, and he works with the boy, which--"
She waves her hand. "Trust me when I tell you it's pointless to question our
approach. Your exposure will never come from us, whether it be a spy, a slip in
conversation, or a bad choice--"

"Yes," he drawls. "The Ministry is infallible."

She glares, pulling a pile of parchment from her briefcase. "Garson thinks that
certain devices are being transported to the Ministry, and that they are meant to
show how Muggles live their lives, and promote understanding in our world." She
pauses. "That would be the wizarding world, in c--"

"Despite your obvious lack of intelligence in not thinking so, I am able to process
and understand words. Or, perhaps--"

"Yes, well, words can be understood quite differently through various scopes of
perception and belief." She raises her eyebrows, and there's a short press of his
mouth before he ignores it altogether.

"What are they? The devices, in case you had trouble understanding that through
- 51 -
your--"

Or almost ignores it. "VCRs. They play films." Absolutely no recognition. "It's
another move by the Ministry to spread propaganda, and allow the Muggles and
Mudbloods to infest the wizarding world. It's rubbish, and when they tell you so,
you're going to suggest something is done about it. This is going to put you in the
leadership position, and have you know all that they know. And this…" Hermione
spreads the map out on the table, and dips her quill. "This is how you're going to do
it."

June 9; 8:13am

Shipment to Ministry Stolen, Vandalized

Early this morning, a shipment of Muggle objects bought by the Ministry were
destroyed at the London Owl Post. The vandals dismantled the building's wards,
broke the locks, and shattered hundreds of Galleons worth in objects. Was this the
crime of bored hooligans, an attack on the Ministry, or a violent protest against
Ministry attempts to promote understanding of the Muggle world?

Carl Fippersnap, a worker at the London Owl Post for sixty-six years, found the
damage when opening the Post this morning. "I've never seen anything like it. A
decade ago, someone released all our owls into the city, but this here was anger.
The door was completely off, and the floor was--

"How's the assignment going?"

She would have startled at the sudden voice, but he had had the presence of mind
to owl her that he'd be over this morning, and his footsteps had been louder than
necessary down her hallway. He moves around her kitchen as easily as if it were his
own, collecting everything he'll need for his tea.

"Better than my worst case scenario," she answers, though if she is really honest,
it's a lot better than a lot of her scenarios. So far.

"So, no one has died."

"Always a positive."

"Most of the time," Harry mutters from somewhere in the depths of her
refrigerator. "Mal-- No treacle tart? Hermione, your refrigerator is emptier than
mine was before I moved in with Ginny." Quieter, more accusingly, he says, "And
- 52 -
you always used to make me shop when you saw it."

"Perhaps you should eat an actual breakfast for breakfast. I have some
marmalade, bread, eggs--"

"You just had treacle tart in here a few days ago."

"A few days ago, which was really over a week ago. It was bad. I tossed it in the
rubbish bin." She can almost feel the look aimed at the back of her head. "Did you
want me to drop it off at your flat so you could throw it away instead?"

"Yeah, actually."

She smiles, tossing the newspaper down onto the table. "I'll do that next time,
then."

He settles for the bread, looking at it as if he has traveled to the edge of the
world for treacle tart, only to be forced into accepting something far less desirable,
no matter the injustice. "Are those the pajamas I got you for Christmas?"

"Yes, why?"

"They aren't moving."

"Because whenever the books started flying around, that…Pepper would attack
my legs… It's not funny."

"A little." He grins at her until she's forced to hide the answering twitch of her
lips, and he pushes the door of the fridge shut with his bum as he uncaps the
marmalade. "It's a little funny."

June 10; 10:02pm

Hermione glances at her watch, and Malfoy continues tapping silently on the
edge of the table. The table and chairs have been cleared of most the dust and dirt,
but she still has a feeling that her trousers are going to be smudged with it on the
backside when she stands. Malfoy will just have to leave his robe on or bother with
questions over why his bum is dirty, because she's certainly not going to cast a
Cleaning Charm on it.

"You're sure they said to meet up at midnight?"

- 53 -
 "I told them to meet up then, since half of them wanted to go to a Quidditch
event."

"And you didn't feel it was important to show some authority in telling them not
to go?"

"The match ends at eleven."

"So...you chose to appear careless, or otherwise too busy for them, by having the
meeting an hour after?"

He goes from bored to annoyed. "I'm the Death Eater - they're a bunch of
upstarts. While the plan involves them, it wouldn't do to have it seem as if they are
worthy of all my time. If they question that, they'll discover how disposable they
are." His finger starts tapping again. "While I don't doubt you're used to idiots
following you about, I have more knowledge on this than you do. This is the part you
leave to me."

If he thinks she won't question him at every turn, he's the idiot she constantly
seems to have about her. "Don't threaten any of them specifically with making them
leave the group. It's too early to be sure they'll all choose you."

He continues staring at her, and she can't tell if that had been his plan, or he's
judging her for thinking it.

She brushes her hand down the leg of her trousers. He taps.

She checks her watch. He folds his hands at the edge of the table.

She takes a deep breath. He exhales.

"Well, since we have extra time, we should do a bit of extraction. We weren't

going to collect these until tomorrow, but it's a waste of time to sit here." She pulls
her briefcase towards her, opening it as his hands drop to his lap.

"Memory extraction?"

"Yes. You'll do it yourself." She would do it herself, but she isn't capable.

A Legilimens will look through his memories in a few days to be sure he shared
everything, but he doesn't have to know that. She'd rather see if he shares it all than
warn him to.
- 54 -
 She sets up the tray at the center of the table, and drops an empty vial within
each slot. The small pile of corks is placed at the end, and she keeps the parchment
he'll sign after in her briefcase. She pulls the wand from the inside of her robe, and
her hand hesitates in the air before she holds it out to him. Her other hand drops to
her hip, fingers skating her holster.

"I will return them to the Ministry after returning you to Azkaban tonight."

He rolls the wand between his fingers, studying the empty vials before looking at
her. Sometimes she feels like he is reading her mind at the same time that he's
preventing her from doing the same to him, and it takes all her effort to maintain
eye contact.

"Which memories do you want?"

"All of them."

June 11; 10:47pm

Hermione blinks at the map, and when nothing changes, she jumps to her feet.
Her thighs slam against the edge of the table, sending her inkwell and quill to the
ground, but all she registers is the silence outside. Ink splashes across the bottom of
her trousers, and her shoes crunch in glass as she yanks a map out of her briefcase.
She shakes it out, tapping it with her wand at the same time, and stretches her arms
as far as they'll go.

Malfoy's dot is in London. Muggle London, just past the dotted line she had
drawn to show the boundaries. She doesn't feel her heart at all, and then it's
pounding in her chest, and rushing all her blood in waves of adrenaline that leave
her hands shaking.

She shoves all the maps and the apple she had brought back into her briefcase,
then clears the mess she had left with a swirl and twitch of her wrist. Rapping her
wand on the top of her head, she closes her eyes against the feeling of cold goo
crawling down her skin.

He can't be escaping. If he was, he wouldn't just go to London. He may not know

that she can see him constantly on maps, but he still wouldn't contact someone this
way. There must be a plan he didn't let her in on, or something has happened to
bring him there.

She almost goes to the Ministry, but they'll have fewer answers than her. So,
- 55 -
instead, she remembers the alley of a cafe she sometimes gets lunch at when she
doesn't want to be surrounded by wands anymore. She appears in the dark a second
later, and rushes out to the near-empty pavement.

There's a group of three men laughing at one another as they approach her, and
Hermione waves her hand frantically. Then again, just to be sure, but she has to
jump out of their way when they try to walk through her.

She takes a second to remember the direction Malfoy had been headed in, and
then she's running. The people she passes are no doubt curious as to what the
strange tapping noise is, but she'll worry about that when she finds him or them.
There is not a single good thing that can come out of them being in the Muggle
world, and she tries to stop the swirling of possibilities in her mind before she
launches into full panic.

She sees a mass moving up ahead, all black and blue with hoods drawn up over
their heads. They're moving around the other people on the pavement as much as
the Muggles are moving around them, avoiding eye contact. Hermione flies across a
street, narrowly missing a car, and doesn't slow until she's a few yards behind them.

Her breathing is ragged, burning its way into her lungs. She takes slow, deep,
even breaths in case they can hear the panting, but there's no hope in slowing down
her heartbeat yet. Two beads of sweat are racing down her cheek from her temple,
and the stray hairs that had escaped her bun throughout the day are sticking to the
wetness at her nape.

She speeds up her steps when she's positive her body isn't about to take over
control and force her to heave in oxygen. Her wand feels flimsy and small in her
hand as she counts over the robe hoods, spotting fourteen. There are three that bob
over the tops of the others, and she knows one must be Malfoy. One against fourteen
if they see her. One against fourteen. Her stomach twists, her chest feeling heavy
and clogged, and she squeezes her wand. Squeezes it until she can feel the magic
pulsing in her blood and against her skin, and it stops feeling like it's anything close
to small.

"--in it."

Hermione steps carefully, her breath slow and silent.

"--like Muggle Aurors and Hit Wizards."

"What are they going to do? Stop us from leaving? Cursing them?"
- 56 -
 A low murmur of laughter, and grins that flash white under the lampposts.

"The Ministry"-Hermione's head jerks towards the sound of Malfoy's voice-"will

know it's magic."

"So?"

"So some of you have the trace--"

"Only Scotts."

"--in the Ministry system. If they believe it was magic, the Ministry will
investigate, and they'll link it back to half of us."

Malfoy must know this is true no matter what they're planning, and she wonders
what it is he's trying to stop or change.

"Damn," one of them mutters.

"Why don't the ones of us not in the system do it, then?"

"I'm not just standing there like--"

"We have to do it, though."

"Yeah, I didn't just contaminate myself with Muggle scum to not set some of them
on fire."

Hermione's eyes widen, and her gut twists harder.

"We're not leaving this cesspool without doing it," says one of them, and
agreement swells in the voices in front of her.

"That one, right there. It's full of people. We'll just put the whole place on fire.
There's no way they'll make it out."

"How are we going to do it so they don't know it's magic?" asks someone. "I'm
having a part in it."

"Let's just--"

"We'll start a fire on an empty building, and then the side of one next to it that
- 57 -
has the filth in it," Malfoy says. "Certain fire spells will have the full one up in flames
in seconds, and not all of them are going to escape. The Muggles will think it just
started at the empty building, so no one noticed, and no one will link it to magic."

"That's good."

"That's really good."

"We'll have to leave right away. Before they see us outside, and tell the Muggle
law they saw a dozen people in robes."

"Ah. What about a Disillusionment? I want to watch."

"Watching is half the point."

"Watching isn't the point," Malfoy snaps. "It's killing them that's the point, and
until we're in control of the Ministry to make that legal, we can't get caught so we
can keep doing it."

Hermione stops, her heart thundering in her throat, and tries to swallow down
the need to vomit. She turns, walking quickly, and when they're far enough away,
she runs. She dodges around three groups of people, but only a beggar in front of a
record shop seems to notice the pounding of her shoes. She turns sharply into an
alley, darting into the dark, and then she's across the street from Harry's house with
a crack.

She can feel the tingle of his wards when she sprints for the door, passing over
her skin like a light breeze ahead of a lightning storm - barely noticeable, but alive
with energy. She has to catch herself with a palm against the door to slow the race
of her legs, and she thunks loudly against it. She glances over at the dark Muggle
houses as she draws her hand back and into a fist, banging on the door.

She feels like she is in one of those horror films where time is the killer, and no
matter how fast she runs to how slowly it walks, it will always catch up to her, take
from her, and then leave her.

She bangs harder, the door shaking under her numbing fist, and then the seventh
slam hits air. Hermione half-raises her hand towards her eyes in the light, squinting
at Harry as he glares at her head and lowers his chin to his chest. He's standing in
his shorts, his wand held firmly in his right hand, and the side of his foot against the
door like he's waiting to kick it shut again.

- 58 -
 He doesn't move, and she recognizes the expression on his face before she even
realizes that she does, because it makes her throat go dry and her hands start
shaking again. It isn't until then, when she sees the look he sometimes still gives the
dark of night or a shadow of a tree in a room, that she remembers the spell.

She raps her wand on the top of her head, and heaves out his name through the
hurricane of her breathing. He rearranges into a different shape of rigidity, and his
hand clasps her sweaty arm to tug her inside the house.

"Are you all right?" The door slams shut. "What happened? Did he--"

"Get the Guards. They're starting a fire in Muggle London."

"Now?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, flashing out of the room as Hermione's
gaze settles on Ginny.

"What's happened?"

Hermione thinks appearing at the house in the middle of the night, sweating and
out of breath, while yelling about a fire, makes it a little too late for nonchalance.
"It's Ministry work."

Ginny's eyes narrow, and Hermione might have winced had it been a different
situation. "I see."

"There's no danger. Not to us." Because she knows how it feels to be afraid of
what Harry Potter is leaving to face.

"Do you need help?"

"We've got it, Gin. Thanks." It sounds a bit hollow, but Ginny only nods as
Hermione passes her.

"Where in Muggle London?" Pruit asks, his voice faint from down the hall, but she
can still hear the urgency that reflects back from her chest.

Her feet skid in front of the doorway as she comes to a stop, and all three men
look over at her, Leacher just emerging from the fireplace. "I'll Apparate us to the
place they last were - it can't be far from there, if they've chosen a place yet."

Hermione casts the Disillusionment Charm on herself right after Harry and
Leacher disappear, and Pruit fades as he grabs a handful of Floo Powder from the
- 59 -
mantle.

"Leaky," she tells him. It's crowded, and the sound of their Apparition will be
obvious, but it's the only place she knows is still open, and that they can Apparate
from directly.

Pruit throws the powder in, and she shoves into the fireplace in a bump and press
of body parts that she can't see. Her nails dig into her palms to prevent from
shoving her hands out to get them away from her. The pressure builds in her chest
until she thinks it's close to exploding, but then she realizes that she's not breathing.
She doesn't even feel like she has room to breathe, as trapped between them all that
she is.

Someone grabs her arm as rooms flash by in a blur, and another hand lands on
her shoulder. She reaches out to find a searching hand as they stop at the Leaky
Cauldron in a flash of green that clenches her heart. They take one collective step
from the fireplace, the faces of the curious turning into the confused, and then
they're gone.

She's moving forward as soon as her feet are on steady ground, nausea burning
the bottom of her throat. It only intensifies when she sees the flames down the
street, the rotation of lights, and hears the drone of high-pressured water.

No, no, no. She hadn't been quick enough. There is no way she could have been.
They had only traveled past maybe fifteen shops before finding the one they wanted
- had Malfoy tried to stop them at all? She can see the stretchers moving across the
pavement, and wonders if they had gone against his suggestion, or he had changed
his mind himself.

"Around the back," Harry says.

She turns into an alley, then makes a right at the end, heading back towards the
fire. Rats scamper in the dark, moving in the opposite direction, and Hermione
pushes into someone when she tries to avoid stepping on the one running past her
feet.

Two buildings are in flames, and half the ceiling on the first is collapsed into the
second story. The red, purple, and blue of extinguishing spells disappear in the
bright gold of the fire, and she can see it draw back as she casts again. She only
hopes that everyone is out of both buildings, and that no one is too badly injured. It's
her responsibility, and while she can't prevent everything, this didn't have to be like
this. She doesn't know if she should blame herself or Malfoy for that, but it's him
- 60 -
she's cursing within her head.

"These aren't going out," Pruit says, his voice just high enough to be heard by
them over the yelling, hoses, and crackling.

Don't let it be Fiendfyre, don't let it be--

Hermione steps back and sways further when the heat rises even more, prickling
painfully against her skin.

"Someone put a Flame-Freezer on it."

"Then how did the flames reach the other building?" she asks, but no one
answers, because it must seem obvious.

She couldn't have taken so much time that the other fire on the first building
managed to get past the Flame-Freezing Charm and to the second. Maybe Malfoy
isn't as in control as he thinks he is. Or maybe they found him out.

Hermione moves to the back of the second building, clearing her mind, and casts
in rapid succession.

June 12; 2:08am

Malfoy steps into the room as if he fully expects the group that is waiting for him.
She is distantly pleased by this, because he understands how easily they'll know if
he steps past the line, and because they didn't fail to prove it to him.

"Do you mind explaining what you were thinking, or is the stupidity--"

The door clicks shut behind him, and he straightens to his full height. "What I was
thinking? It wasn't my plan."

"Yet you're the one in control. You're the leader, you said so your--"

"They were already on the move when I got to Linch tonight. Trying to stop them
would have only made them suspicious - I've been with them less than a week. When
I suggested we plan for something bigger, they said we could do both. Wh--"

"You could have thought of something, instead of leading them into the Muggle
world, setting a building on fire, and injuring five people!" she yells.

- 61 -
 Malfoy's eyes narrow, darker in the low-burning candles. "My contract states that
I will not take responsibility for injuries to any person - unless they die - if the
injuries were acquired due to the actions of others I was with, me proving myself, or
otherwise was incapable of stopping without a large risk of revealing the assignment
or my position as a spy."

"And--"

"I convinced them to change it to an empty building, and I cast a Flame-Freezing

Charm on my own flames. The fire that was set to the occupied building was by
someone else, and after everyone was finished, so I was incapable of Freezing the
flames. Furthermore, I Apparated here to yell the location of the fire before
immediately Apparating to Linch, which was the most I could do without risking the
assignment--"

She hadn't known he had done that.

"Malfoy--" Harry starts.

"I am well within my contract to not take responsibility for any injuries obtained
tonight, and if the Ministry--"

"Malfoy, we're not trying to sentence you here," Harry says, and the intensity of
Malfoy's gaze stops pinning her to the spot in the middle of the kitchen when he lifts
it over her head. "This is a failure of communication, and a problem we didn't
foresee--"

"We foresaw it," Leacher says. "We just thought we would be dealing with a
group that planned, like the higher circle, and we would usually know when things
like this were going to happen before the night it does."

Harry releases a long exhale through his nose, and Hermione meets his eyes.
She's still angry - it's burning at the top of her stomach and in her temples, but she's
more deflated now than she had been before Malfoy walked in and explained
himself. And she knows she is going to have to do this a lot. That he's going to walk
through the door a dozen times or more, and tell her about a person he cursed, or a
family he tortured, or whatever else the revival made him do.

Those aren't things she can control, though. It's Malfoy or it's another Death
Eater, and if it's Malfoy, it means they're a step closer to stopping all of it. She has
to accept that. But this fire, these people, could have been different. It should have
been.
- 62 -
 He could have told them he had some idea they had to work on tonight because it
was happening tomorrow. He could have told them something that gave her enough
time. Or they would have just said they had enough time tonight for both, which left
her with none, again.

Malfoy is glaring at her when she turns her head to look fully at him, and her
fingers twitch at her side as she glares back.

"Wand," Leacher says, holding his hand out.

"Malfoy, get changed. Hermione, escort him back to Azkaban, do the interview,
and get the memories." Harry checks his watch with a wince, and then pushes his
glasses up with the back of his hand. "Meeting at the Ministry in four hours."

6:22am

"There were a series of issues--"

"I'm not sending her in when there--"

"That's not your decision."

"It is my--"

"Gentlemen."

"--since the beginning. She stays in Rome--"

"Missions fail when new situations aren't adjusted--"

"I'll do it," Hermione says, hands clenched around her knees.

Silence falls for a single beat of her heart.

"You can't--"

"I formally request--"

Harry looks away from her. "H-Granger is already involved--"

"Harry, I--"

- 63 -
 "This group," Kingsley says loudly, drawing all of their attention, "is radical and
reckless. They're young, and have no concept of war or strategy. Their goal is to
attack, with no mission beyond gaining notice, destroying things, and hurting
people. They're unpredictable and willing, and so, dangerous. Bells is not in a
position to stop them without raising suspicion, and he'll always be watched too
closely for a communication device."

"It's not like he can use the toilet every time he needs to write all the information
down on a communication tablet, and then wait for orders." Pruit shakes his head.
"These attacks, from this group, are always going to be spontaneous. The smart
thing to do is get someone else in there that will be able to contact the Ministry,
aren't under as much scrutiny, might be able to prevent the worst from happening,
and can leave before the group gets the right attention from the higher circle."

"No one else is staying in when they get there," Harry says, and in a way that one
would expect him to draw his wand should they disagree.

"The higher circle wouldn't trust anyone else with anything, anyway." Pruit tilts
his head. "Which is the whole reason we need Bells in the first place - he's the only
chance we have to really infiltrate as high as we need to go. Anyone could have dealt
with these kids, but it wouldn't have been a stepping stone for anyone else. At least
the recklessness of this group will help get the attention."

"It will make the higher circle question Bells' ability to lead," Leacher says.

"He can claim it was to get the attention of other people interested in joining."
Hermione shrugs. "And then have a plan ready to show them for what he wanted to
do once he had his own army."

"We're going to have to be on them constantly, covering things up, preventing

injuries and deaths, counter-planning. Having another person with the ability to
contact us, assist our goals while there, and--"

"The fact that it would be better to have someone else there at this stage is
unquestioned. The actions and mentality of the group, along with the close
encounter of losing Muggle lives, has proved that. The question is who--"

"I've already off--" Harry starts.

"I'll do it," Hermione says again. "I'm a skilled witch who thinks quickly on her
feet, and I'm already heavily involved in the assignment. In this group, I can keep an
eye on Bells and perform my duties as easily as I could in Rome. I may not be an
- 64 -
Auror, or trained to be one, but I've had more than enough experience in duels and
fighting. I'd rather be there with the ability to do what is necessary, than be in Rome
and waiting for someone to tell me what needs to be done." She looks over at Harry
as he opens his mouth. "I'm doing it."

- 65 -
 4

9:48pm

Ding...ding...ding.

If Hermione had been more inclined to sleep - which she certainly would have
been had she not been traveling over these waters and with this man - the sound of
the bell would be driving her mad. Instead, she appreciates the way each call of it
seems to vibrate through the drifting part of her mind that refuses to concentrate on
anything but her lack of hours in bed the past two days.

Today has felt like the longest day she's had all year, and she yearns for a warm
comforter and feather pillows. Perhaps even pajamas, a cuppa, and a desk of
paperwork. Definitely not the black oval where Malfoy's face is supposed to be, the
slanting shadows of the lantern, and the darkened waters leading them from
Azkaban and into the fog.

"You're to talk about recruiting people tonight." She draws her robe tighter
around her, always colder than she has reasons for when she's tired. "Friends,
people who show interest and appear to be trustworthy. They're observant, but they
have no real skills to check truth. And, obviously, you run no actual risk of being
caught."

"They don't know that. Most of them come from some semblance of money. They
may suggest acquiring Veritaserum."

"It shouldn't be a problem."

He's quiet for a long moment, and she imagines that he already has half of it
figured out. Harry had mentioned a communication problem last night, and she
doesn't put it past Malfoy to try thinking of ways in which they might solve that.

"For?" he asks, like this place is grim, or the lantern light is dull, or anything else
that is as obvious in its being as it is obvious in earning his disapproval.

She sniffs, watching the fog move in swirls and patches of darkness. Sometimes it
looks like faces staring back at her, or frozen in horror, pity, fear, grief, regret,
death. Other times, it looks like birds.

- 66 -
 "I'll be joining the group under Polyjuice as a young man, around twenty. My
name will be Charles Witworth--"

"That's not a pure-blood name."

"--father is a Death Eater who was killed during the war--"

"Only pure-bloods were Death Eaters. Half-bloods were just part of the army,
but--"

"And yet Voldemort was a half-blood. Snape, too. Their blood was just kept as a
secret, or something people didn't talk about because they were respected enough
for it to be ignored."

He pauses for five dings of the bell.

"I'm telling you how it was."

She shifts on the bench, watching the faces again, but watches him too. "Our
family had to go into hiding after the first war ended, and our last name was
changed several times to stop the Ministry from finding us. Our true last name
cannot be revealed due to the fact that the rest of my family is still in hiding, and I
can't risk one of us in the group being caught and forced to tell."

"Half-bloods would be accepted into the group. This is excessive. Also, w--"

"It's not. Not one of the members of the group is a half-blood. While I might be
accepted, it would take more time and more tests for them to be satisfied. We don't
have that sort of time. You'll pretend you recognize the name, you'll explain the
story about having to lay low and so changing it. You'll say that you don't know the
real name, but Voldemort knew the Death Eater you knew as Whitman. That's it."

"Why are they sending you in?"

She bristles up with agitation. "You're being watched too closely to communicate
with us. I won't be. The only option was to send someone in as well. However, when
the higher circle takes notice, I'll be gone."

She can't see his face, but she can imagine the expression on it anyway. "And
they thought you capable? There-"

"I'm very capable--"

- 67 -
 "To talk about ripping apart Mudbloods, killing Muggle children, or what sound a
Mudblood makes when she's raped. Perhaps joking over the different screams made
in torture, or--"

Her heart is beating faster, but her expression never changes. "I know what's
required of me. I've gone undercover before, and--"

"How did that work out for you?"

They were found out, and he knows it. Voldemort lived in his house to tell every
story.

"This is the assignment, Malfoy. You have no choice."

Ding, ding, ding.

She can feel the anger swelling from his side of the boat.

"I'm not going to cover for you if you get found out. If you do, and they want you
tortured, I'm not going to lose everything by stop--"

"Good. You shouldn't."

And they are back to silence after that.

June 13; 1:18pm

Hermione parts the hair, combing it to one side, and studies it in the mirror.
Harry is standing over her shoulder, watching her as he scowls. She bunches her
cheek in thought, then gives a small shake of her head, combing the hair back.

"I don't want to argue with you again."

"I just don't know if you're ready, Hermione."

"I'm ready." She stops combing long enough to turn her palm up to the ceiling
and spread the fingers not holding the comb. "I look like a man, I'm going to
practice in the body, and I'll be taking the Volubilis to alter my voice. I--"

"You know what I mean."

She drops her hands to her lap, and twists fingers around one another. In the
- 68 -
mirror, she is a young man with black hair and dark blue eyes, a weak jaw, and a
curved nose. The brow is naturally brooding, and the lips are thin on a wide mouth.

"The war has been over for four years, Harry," she says quietly.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. It's supposed to."

"Hermione--"

"I know." She runs a hand over her face, but it's all wrong. "I know."

Harry shifts behind her in a rustle of fabric, and sighs lowly as his eyes track
across the wall. "I can't decide if this is going to be good for you, or make everything
worse." He looks back at her, and she doesn't bother to repeat all the things she has
said already. "If you change your mind, at any time, for any reason--"

"I--"

"You'll tell--"

"Harry, I know." She holds his gaze for many seconds, until his shoulders slump,
and then looks back at the boy in the mirror. "Mustache?"

6:54pm

She recognizes him from Malfoy's memories. He's young, maybe eighteen, and
easily impressionable. If this were serious, Malfoy had said, I wouldn't tell him a
plan until the moment it was happening. The boy was just as likely to fight against
Death Eaters if he met someone he liked or thought highly enough of who believed
in it. He's pure-blood, but while his family owns the restaurant she's currently
seated in, he doesn't come from much money, or a life of privilege to aid snobbery.
He's the perfect in.

Hermione places the menu on the table, still surprised to see the larger hands
with hairy arms despite how long she practiced moving in the body before she came
here. She clears her throat gently, though the sound is still rough, and looks up at
the boy.

"I understand that this is a reputable restaurant in circles such as ours."

- 69 -
 "It's a reputable restaurant in all circles," he says, smiling at her.

"I see." Hermione folds her hands on top of one another and raises her nose. "So
this restaurant is frequented by all circles." His eyebrows draw down, and she starts
to doubt her approach. Maybe she should be more direct. "Do you employ people
from all circles, Mister Rockford?"

His eyebrows straighten, and his head tilts back in comprehension, as if he saying
ah in his mind. "No, we do not."

Hermione smiles, and tries to make it as easy as his. "So no Mudbloods will be
preparing my meal."

"Absolutely not." He rocks forward on his feet, and a dimple appears in his left
cheek. "We keep our trash in the alley before performing Evanesco."

Hermione laughs, low and short to hide the strain of force. "Where they belong, I
say. In the trash, or just…" she pauses, giving him a knowing look, "vanished." He
hesitates, glancing around them, and she's quick to lean a little closer. "I've been
forced to…be away from England the past four years, so I'm pleased to know it
hasn't all changed."

He's fully concentrated on her now, a light in his eyes from the turn of his body
towards hers and into new lighting, or from the excitement that bows his head. "It
hasn't."

"Then there's always hope of righting it," Hermione says, looking back to the
menu as she picks it up. "Would you like to join me, Mister Rockford? Perhaps you
can recommend your best, and catch me up on things I've missed."

He licks his lips, a nervous habit Malfoy had mentioned, and looks over his
shoulder. She watches him from the corner of her eye as he looks back at her,
considering it, and then smiles.

"I'd love to," he answers, taking the seat across from her; and though her chest is
tight, her smile is genuine this time.

June 14; 10:33pm

Long strokes from his cheekbone to his jaw, his head tilted slightly to the right,
and his eyes trained on each new strip of skin that's revealed under the razor.
Malfoy had had to trim the length of the beard before shaving it, and the sink is
- 70 -
littered with hair.

There's a part of her that's happy the beard is finally going, so she can better see
the shapes of his mouth to judge his thoughts. Another part of her wonders at how it
will be to see him completely as Malfoy, and not a convict with half a face of hair.
She hasn't honestly seen him as she once did since the Battle of Hogwarts, and so a
third, more distant part wonders if his face has always had the lines he is now
revealing. Perhaps it just looks strange because it's been so long. Or maybe because
his hair is wet from the shower, and pushed back like he wore it when they were
children, but it is the face of a man under it now.

"Did you shave often at Azkaban?" She's always been curious about that, and it
helps to fill the awkward silence.

She doesn't know why it's so important she make sure he not hurt himself, or
pocket the sharp object for a weapon, since she hands him a wand and sets him
nearly free every night.

He looks down, turning on the tap, and runs the razor under the weak pressure of
water. Half his face is done now, the skin smooth and free of blemish, beyond a nick
he gave himself near his ear. The blood along it is bright red, and there's a line that
curves down his face from where it had traveled with a water droplet.

"It depends on the guard," he finally answers, just when she fully believes he
won't. He taps against the side of the sink, and then brings the razor up as he draws
his top lip over his teeth.

"So shaving isn't required, and it just depends on if the guard is feeling nice
enough."

His left eye twitches, and with one more stroke, the space between his nose and
mouth is clean. "Or if I want a razor near my throat while they're standing there."

She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, and leaves them there for a second,
inspecting a curved spot that looks close to collapse. "A guard wouldn't kill you."

"They look for any reason to attack prisoners, and the punishment,
unsurprisingly, is always more than what is justified by the crime. Accidents happen
quite often."

"They're people who are dealing with criminals - criminals who are imprisoned
because they have killed, tortured, raped, assaulted, abused. If one of them attacks
- 71 -
a guard, do you expect that guard to just try pushing him away while other guards
politely ask him to calm down?"

"No. What I expect of them is what they do - five guards tackling one man for
something as small as elbowing a guard, and then those guards beating that man
long after he starts lying still, all in an effort to restrain him, or stop him from
resisting, when there's no need for it."

"In most cases, it's likely justified." She isn't nave enough to believe it's true in all
cases - she's read enough reports. "You just don't see how it is, because you're
probably the man who elbowed the guard."

"Yes," he drawled, turning on the tap again. "Just like your lot thought it was all
unjustified because they were being attacked, but really, it was all justifiable." He
glances at her in the mirror, a shock of grey and white. "It makes sense."

"That makes no sense--"

"Then neither does your theory, but you're so blinded by your own
self-righteousness that it's not wrong, is wrong, is wrong - it's wrong, is wrong,
unless by my side, which makes it right."

"Because the man on the ground is the one who had committed crimes--"

"That he's paying with time off his life, and does not need to pay with being
beaten without reason. How do you justify sentencing a man to prison for beating a
person who didn't do anything to warrant it, and then let guards who do the same
walk free? You have people in prison for murder, as if your side didn't commit it.
There's no difference in our actions, there's only difference in the beliefs or
circumstance."

Hermione straightens, her jaw set and her gaze glaring. "My side does not torture
people--"

"Beating them without reason, making people afraid to leave their cell - that's not
a form of torture? And have you been completely ignorant to the carving above the
place in which you put me, or do you just try to pretend level eight isn't made to
torture people into revealing information?" He glares at her, hard and cold, and it's
somehow effective despite the shaving cream on his face. "There is no right or
wrong - there's only who won the ability to define it."

"That's a lie. I don't believe in beating people without reason, no matter who they
- 72 -
are, and if that's going on, it shouldn't be. But right and wrong is defined by what
betrays our own humanity. Hurting another human being, killing another human
being, and having no regard of their life when it's not to prevent them from hurting
you or another - that's wrong. No matter what side you're on, or who is defining it."

"Yet you justify me torturing people now--"

"To get in a trusted position within the higher circle, in order to destroy the
entire revival, and end the suffering of thousands more people." Her eyes travel to
the stiff line of his shoulders, and then she watches him bring the razor down his
cheek. "If there were any other way to do it, we would."

He looks like he is about to say something, his lips parted, but a shadow passes
over his eyes and it's gone.

"The difference, Malfoy, is that I have met with people of Voldemort's army,
alone, when I have my wand and they are unarmed, and I have not tried to hurt
them. If the situation was reversed, and they had the opportunity to not get caught, I
could not say the same for the vast majority of them. They would kill me over
something as unimportant to the world as my heritage, which poses no threat to any
person. That's the difference. Right and wrong. Good and evil. And there's not a
single thing you could ever say that would convince me the lines are more blurred
than that."

He pulls the towel he had used to dry off from the shower rod. The bitter, clean
scent of soap and generic shampoo breezes past her face, erasing the thick stench of
mold and dust for just two breaths. He wets a corner of the towel, and then rubs it
across his face.

"Do you believe those people should be released? Just…pardoned for the things
they've done?"

It's important she knows his answer. It's important because he's going to be in
over his head in days or weeks, and she'd rather know now if he hears their lies and
sees sense. If he can look at a man who is making an innocent person scream in
pain, and he can see a good man.

Malfoy emerges from the short, scratchy white of the towel, his face clean as he
rubs at his neck. His nose is still pointy, but his chin looks duller than it used to,
which might just be from the sudden appearance of the strong line of his jaw. He
looks like himself, but different somehow - older or more worn to the image in her
head, but younger from the absence of the beard. He still looks dangerous, but in a
- 73 -
sleek way, rather than a man who might drag you into an alley to strangle you to
death. It's all those sharp edges with the rigidity and calculation, she thinks.

"Not all of them," he answers. "No."

June 15; 12:48pm

Hermione chews slowly on a bite of her salad, trying not to look over at the figure
nearing, because she is almost positive it's Rockford, as Malfoy said he would
approach her. Malfoy had refused to tell Rockford to invite her in case Hermione
exposed herself - something he fought hard enough about that she dropped it in
favor of winning bigger arguments.

He also might have had a small point about not pushing his backing of her too far.
He believed he had already done too much by claiming to recognize the name when
no one in the higher circle would. Hermione had argued that no one would look that
closely or discuss it when they were so concentrated on him, but Malfoy was firm in
believing it was a risk they didn't have to take. She had told him it was to prevent a
whole slew of other risks, but he still didn't like it - which didn't matter. So far, it's
working in their favor.

Rockford pauses at the edge of her table, and she looks up at him with a smirk
that she hopes doesn't look more like a grimace.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he asks, smiling.

"Please, sit."

He slides into the seat across from her, his spine straight and his shoulders back,
and sends a quick look around the dining area. It's empty in a wide circle around
her, but the outskirts and other half of the room are filled with pinched faces and
muttered, polite conversation.

"I know you've been interested in the things that have changed."

"Of course."

"Well…" He leans forward, his eyes wide. "What if I were to tell you there are
some that are still very active in the old ways?"

"Then I would say I am very interested in hearing more."

- 74 -
 9:51pm

Hermione takes a step closer to the map stuck to the wall, her body turned
enough to see it and Malfoy. She circles a spot in Muggle London and looks fully at
him, her eyebrows raised expectantly. He scrutinizes the circle and the other lines
she had drawn, then swings his gaze to her like she's another part on the map.

"That's acceptable."

She frowns, capping her marker. "I wasn't asking if it was acceptable - it is
acceptable, which is why I showed it to you. I was looking at you to see if you have
any questions."

"If I had questions after your twenty minutes of explanation, one of us is clearly
an idiot."

"Right. So, do you have any?"

He glances up at her from the shine of his shoes, a wrinkle briefly appearing in
the center of his forehead. "Are you proclaiming yourself an idiot, then?"

"How would I be the idiot in this situation?"

"You took twenty minutes to explain something that could have been fully
explained in five. If you left something out within those extra fifteen minutes that
creates a question--"

"Maybe if you hadn't just stared like a blank wall, I would have known you
understood what I was saying, and would have stopped drawing it all out for you."

"Your inability to read people only further proves my--"

"I read people very well. You just happen to hate people reading you even more."

He pauses in brushing off the sleeves of his shirt, but he's back to it quickly
enough that she doubts he ever did. "I was bored, Granger." He rapidly looks at the
map, her face, her shoulder, her hands, the floor, his sleeve. "A feeling of annoyance
and restlessness brought on by repetitive, tedious, dull--"

"You must be bored with yourself all the time."

He straightens his sleeves around his wrists, an eyebrow raising. "Only when I
- 75 -
happen to be around you."

Hermione's lips purse, and she taps on the map. "This plan is what you'll suggest
the next time they get restless. Which should be soon." She checks her watch. "How
has the recruitment gone?"

"Well."

She looks over at him, a flash of annoyance hot in her stomach, and he's studying
the map. The hands in his pockets and the distance between his feet feign
casualness, but the straight, stiff lines of the rest of him are too unrelenting for her
to believe it.

"In terms of numbers," she clarifies.

"Thirteen possibilities. The number has likely changed."

If it stays close to it, she's going to be walking into a room with almost thirty
aspiring Death Eaters tonight. There's a prickle of nerves in her blood at the
thought, and she runs through all the reasons why she is prepared and capable.

"We'll have to set up something near the house in case it's not enough for them,
then. This group already nears a mob mentality, and they'll only be worse once
they're bigger." This isn't something she would normally bother sharing with him,
but she feels the need to talk to distract herself from things she can't think about.

Malfoy is silent, which must mean he either agrees or doesn't care.

"It's almost time."

He gives her a side-glance, and breaks the pose he has been holding for a half
hour to take his robe from the back of a chair. She opens her briefcase, picking up
the wand from behind four potion bottles. She'll take two of them when she leaves to
join the group in twenty minutes, and the other two will be kept in a hidden pocket
of her robe in case this somehow lasts more than the night.

She holds the wand out to Malfoy, and he's quicker to grab it this time, the wood
flashing out from between her fingers.

10:41

"...that pollute not only our world, but the entire world. We're the ones with the
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power, who are forced to…"

Hermione holds perfectly still, despite the need to shift that starts at the base of
her bones and aches. There's a bead of sweat collecting on her temple, but hopefully
they'll think it's from the warmer temperature of the room and the heaviness of her
robe and cloak.

"...would not have won had it not been for the blood traitors that..."

Where is Malfoy? His dot had been here five seconds before she left, but that
doesn't mean he hadn't taken the opportunity of knowing she was coming to do
something when he's not being watched. He would have known about this, about
them being lined up and forced to listen to an idiot ramble on about pure-blood
supremacy, and he would have known she would have been stuck here. If he's going
to leave to do something, this is the time for him to do it.

"...to take back our world, and then to take the entire world, because it belongs
to…"

If one of them so much as mentions Malfoy being somewhere else, there are
going to be serious consequences, and a very intense interrogation involving
Veritaserum and a Legilimens.

"...Veritaserum"--Hermione's eyes snap into focus on the young man pacing in

front of the row of recruits--"for the half-bloods. However, there is some trust that
must be shared between fellow pure-bloods, and you're not going to be treated like
liars and criminals. Not here!"

The girl next to Hermione is grinning so widely that Hermione has the urge to
send a jet of water straight to the back of her throat to watch her choke over it. She
wants to find a way to bring all of them into the Muggle world with an open mind,
and show them how Muggles breathe, live, love. She wants to Stun all of them and
bring them directly to the holding cells at the Ministry. But she knows all of this is
impossible, and no matter what she could do, there is no hope for most of them.

The man has quit talking, but she doesn't trust the silence when she knows he's
up to something. Another member of the group has joined him at the end of the
recruit line, but she can't see what they're doing. She sways forward gently, past the
girl's hair fanned out in the lean of her head, and makes out a sliver. There's a
strange object in the man's hand, and before she can try to inspect it fully from her
distance, one of the recruits holds their finger above it. Three drops of bright red fall
into the device, and it whirrs. There is a pause, and then the two members move
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further down the recruit line.

Hermione leans back, and forgets to be cool and composed when she reaches up
to wipe the sweat from her temple. Are they collecting blood? For what purpose?
There is no way she's going to perform blood magic or drink anything. Is it supposed
to be some twisted type of symbolism? They had paused, though. The blood had
fallen, the device did something, and then they had paused like they were waiting
for something.

She looks up at the members scattered throughout the other side of the room,
most their attention focused on the machine, and a few wands drawn. Rockford is
looking at her when her gaze reaches him, and she forces a corner of her lips up as
she gives him a nod. He smiles, and then looks over at the device as it whirrs again.

It's testing blood, she thinks. She hadn't even known there was a device that was
capable of doing that, but there's no other reason why they would all be waiting for
some sort of signal after blood falls into it.

Crap, crap, crap.

Her heart feels like it's beating in a cavity filled with syrup, and she wipes away
sweat again as a wave of dizziness hits her. She doesn't have pure blood. She almost
laughs at the thought, but it stays in her head, shrill and pressured with nerves. She
hadn't thought there would be a single event in which she would need it, hadn't even
thought about it. And even if she had, she doesn't know how she could have
managed to get it into the object anyway - the second man is cutting the finger, the
first is holding the device, and the entire room is watching.

Why hadn't Malfoy told her about this? He must have known before, and if he
hadn't, he should have shut down the idea when he got here tonight. Where is he?

"Do you pledge yourself to the cause and this group?" the first man asks the girl
next to her.

"Yes," the girl says, her grin heard in her voice.

Hermione glances over from the corner of her eye as the girl holds out her finger,
and the second man raises a dagger.

Is this Malfoy's way of getting her kicked out so he doesn't have to deal with her
there, watching and judging his every move? Does he expect her to have a vial of
pure blood in her pocket? Are they going to kick her out, or are they going to do
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more than that? Can she take on a room of twenty-six people by herself? With fire,
maybe. She'll have to Apparate right out. Anything else will screw up the
Assignment.

Maybe she should refuse, and pretend they should all know she's a pure-blood.
Make a speech about…about something. They'll get suspicious, though, and demand
it anyway. The device might be faulty. She would have heard of something like this,
and she doubts any of their capability in creating it themselves. It might just be a
test to see if they will do it.

The two men stop in front of her, and both their eyes lift to the sweat along her
forehead. Hermione takes a deep, silent breath, her right hand moving gently into
the opening of her robe, nearing her hip. The first man meets her eyes, and his are a
deep, dark brown that almost look black beyond the burst of honey around his irises.

"Do you pledge yourself to the cause and this group?"

"Yes," she says immediately, her voice coming out rough and deep.

She clears it as she holds a finger out, her blood rushing and her heartbeat
jumbled. The blade is already stained in blood, and she tries desperately to keep her
expression neutral as it jerks in a line of burning across the pad of her finger. She
holds her breath as she brings it over the device, turning her hand. She watches
four drops fall, and her right hand creeps closer to her wand as another bead of
sweat escapes down the side of her face.

Whirr.

One beat of silence, three, five, and then the two men step down the line.
Hermione has to wait another second for breath, until she is sure she is not about to
gasp out her exhale in relief. Rockford is smiling again, but his face is turned away,
his eyes on the corner of the room. Hermione looks into the shadows there, her
breath shuddering in, and she knows Malfoy is there without having to see the proof
of him. There's no one else Rockford would be looking for approval from.

Her hand stays at the edge of her wand.

June 16; 3:21am

Diing...diing...

"Where did you get the idea for the device?" she asks, her voice croaking from the
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way her chords had been pushed into something deeper and more gruff all night.

She brings her eyes from the black water and fully onto him, and she can feel the
weight of his stare.

"There was talk of the recruits proving themselves. It's a simple charm." There's a
flutter of wings somewhere above the fog, and Malfoy's hands emerge from the
sleeves of his robe to rest on his legs. "Does that conclude the interview?" he drawls.

Diing…dingdingdin…diing.

11:40pm

There's something about Malfoy that makes it hard to look away when he puts
himself in the center of attention. When he was young, it was like he used to put on
a show. The words were dramatic or meant to incite drama, the hand gestures were
as extravagant as his expression was smug, and he always appeared to believe there
was nothing in the world better to look at than whatever he was doing.

He's different now, but his presence still demands attention even when he is
being distant. She tries to pinpoint what it is, but she doesn't know. Perhaps it is the
way he is near-nonchalant when he stands there as if he has better things to do, that
makes the group so attached - as if they are all subconsciously desperate to be
worthy of his interest. Not her, though, and so she thinks it might be the calculation
when his eyes sweep a room, or how he can alternate into moments of intensity that
make the air thick. Maybe it's how unreadable he is, and the distinct impression she
sometimes gets that whatever words he's saying are only a seemingly unrelated path
to a silent end-purpose of self-interest. Maybe it is how easily he slips into the role of
a leader, without any apparent concern over the higher intelligence in the group he
faces today over the one he led at Hogwarts. Or, perhaps, the way he looks at people
and holds himself, some tinge to his person that feels dangerous.

Whatever it is, he demands attention even in his silence. Hermione had found it
unnerving when she watched him lay out the plan for the night, but the rest of the
group had seemed committed to the pull of him. Even now, they follow him like he
has a string attached to his back that draws them in any direction he moves. He
wanders closer to the other side of the street, and the entire group does. He turns
an abrupt left, and they're all hurrying to do the same. Two young women and a man
laugh about something, and Malfoy silences them with a turn of his robe hood.

It repulses her. The mindless sheep following the perceived mass-murderer as if

he is the light that will bring them to the place where all good things live. He could
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build an army of them if he wanted to, and the only reason this doesn't scare her is
because she knows her side is filled with independent minds that together form a
stronger army, and still stand separately as good and capable fighters.

Malfoy comes to a stop across the street from the house she is glad he
remembered the details of. The group falls into a deep, restless quiet, which breaks
into quick breaths, faster steps, and a rush of excited murmurs when Malfoy's hand
drops from the air.

Hermione runs forward with the rest of the group, but slow enough to keep at the
back of them. They crawl through broken windows, and half of them are through
before they blow the front door off the hinges. Inside the house, there is the dark
and darker forms flashing through it, the crash of glass, and the cracking of wood
and plastic.

She has had nightmares like these; the only one left standing from her side, and
surrounded in the night by terrible, quick shadows, and the destruction of
everything. Laughter starts, low and breathy but gaining sound, and she had already
expected it. Had the memories of nightmares seep through cracks in the boxes she
tries to shove and hide them within, reminding her that the laughter always comes.

She grabs something heavy and metal off a coffee table that she can barely see,
and sends it flying through the glass of a television. The group believes it's the home
of a pure-blood who had started a business that would distribute magically-altered
Muggle objects to the wizarding world. It's part of the bigger plan, Malfoy had said,
and they hadn't questioned it.

The room fills with a strange burning smell, and then she sees the light of a spell
darting across a wall, searing words into the paint and wood. She turns, running
through a dining room, a kitchen, and then a hallway. Feet chase after her, getting
closer, closer, until she's sprinting down the hallway just to escape them. They
figured me out kill me choke me from behind curse in the back rip out my ankles fall
to the ground stampede over me break my bones smash my skull can't die here.

She hits a wall, her heart thudding painfully, and spins around with her wand
drawn. The people are scattering past doors and into rooms, smashing things on the
ground and tearing objects from the walls. There are only two people in the hallway,
pulling down portraits and burning threats and words into the paint. She takes a
deep breath, deep enough that her body trembles in its attempt to expand her lungs
beyond capacity to take it all in, and then she releases it like a punch.

She jumps at the slam of footsteps above her head, and looks up, though she can
- 81 -
see nothing in the dark or through the ceiling. She doesn't know how sturdy the
floors will be in a house the Ministry saw fit to have them destroy, though, and so
she runs forward. She needs to getoutgetout to some form of oxygen, space, and
light. Glass breaks sharply under her trainers, and she has to dodge around people
while forcing herself against the instinct to hex the enemies. Her steps through the
kitchen sound like the beats of a drum over the metal of pans and the crunch of
ceramics, bam, bum, plinkplink, krch, bumbum, and then she almost falls onto her
back when she rolls over a table leg in the dining room. The contents of the house
are in pieces, and a pack of hooded figures are tearing out a wall in the living room
when she slows her run.

"--not get the wrong ones," Malfoy is saying when she skids into a fallen end
table. "The rest of the houses may be pure or half-bloods. Apparate back to the
house when it's done."

As soon as he finishes speaking, people thud down a staircase she hadn't noticed
before, and the ones in the living room turn back to the door as Malfoy steps away
from in front of it. She looks up at him to find him looking back at her, and there is
something like knowing there that makes her attempt to shut down her expression
as she wipes the sweat from her face. But then the mass of people block out the
weak moonlight, and he is lost to the dark.

June 17; 10:38pm

Malfoy is staring out the window and into the night, though Hermione thinks he's
watching her reflection. It feels like he is, as she stands on the other side of the
kitchen, watching him back. She glances at her watch, seeing that there's still two
more hours to go before they're scheduled to leave, and then returns to staring at
him. Her sleeves scratch against her shirt as she crosses her arms, and then it's
silent again.

June 18; 11:59pm

It's boiling hot on the second floor of Finch. The night hasn't brought a cooler
temperature, no one seems keen to cast a Cooling Charm for some reason that's not
apparent to her, and all the bodies packed into the room is only making it worse.
She can see their skin slick with liquid, and smell the heavy musk of sweat with
every breath. Her entire body feels like it is covered in a layer of sweat, her clothes
sticking to her skin, and her face must be shining like she dunked it in water. The
short strands of her hair - or, his hair - is plastered to her scalp.

Hermione can't think as clearly in the heat, which is what she blames for not
- 82 -
realizing where the duel in the corner was going to go when it started. All she had
been thinking about was miscast spells, stray curses, and the man in the corner who
keeps staring at her.

"Why are we practicing curses on one another, when we should be practicing

them on the scum?"

Hermione is too distracted with a bolt of panic and trying to cover the reaction to
be pleased when all their heads turn to Malfoy, proving each member of the group
recognizes him as the leader.

Malfoy takes his time to look up from the newspaper he's reading, as if the group
is his lowest priority of things to pay attention to. He appears infallible, which is no
doubt part of the attraction for these people.

"Do any of you honestly want to cast spells on your enemies, and be humiliated
when they fail?" He arches an eyebrow, closing the newspaper. Two fingers pinch
the edge and run down the length, flattening the crease.

"On the Muggles, then. They won't know."

"They won't have any idea."

"I know a lot of spells."

"It's better than cursing one another."

"We should put the filth to use."

Apparently, he still has to become the unquestioned leader. They probably

brought the recruits in too early, changing the dynamic before Malfoy had fully
claimed the leadership position. He'll have to prove his abilities there while he has
it, and then be threatening enough for them not to go against him.

There's little room to get out of this now. They have no backup plans for him to
shift their concentration to, and no obvious reason why they shouldn't do it - at least,
no reason to them. If he dismisses the idea, they'll only question him more. And
having the higher circle hear that a group of kids wouldn't even accept him as a
leader would destroy any possibility of that circle accepting him.

"It would be wise for all of you to learn the Cruciatus Curse." The corner of
Malfoy's mouth curls as Hermione's heart seizes, and she reaches back to the robe
- 83 -
squished between her back and the couch. "Get ready."

Her hand fumbles over fabric as the room fills with excited chatter, and she
crams her hand into the pocket when she finds it. She wiggles a finger into the
notebook to open it, shoving her other hand back to search for the sleeve. She
pushes her arm through, and grabs the quill under the notebook, dragging it
towards the page she knows will be empty. She glances around the room, watching
a flurry of robes and movement as she begins writing.

The words will appear on the notebooks connected to hers, leaving her page
blank and the Aurors in the know. She just hopes one of them is still awake to see
the bright glow the notebook will be lit with, or happen to sleep with it on their
bedside. She wouldn't doubt that Harry does.

She pulls the robe on fully, her movement clumsy with the panic in her gut and
the fabric sticking to her sweaty skin. Her legs feel leaden when she stands. No one
will die tonight if they only cast the Cruciatus, but it's still going to be terrible.
There's not much of anything that can happen right now to make her cast the spell.
She'll change wand movements, mispronounce it, because she refuses. She carries
enough guilt over her involvement in an assignment that requires she not stop
others from hurting people, so she draws the line at her own actions doing so.

They're already in Muggle London before she gets the chance to look at the
notebook, hope tangling with fear at the outskirts of an orb of light from the
lamppost. She glances quickly across the street names and the description written
on the paper, and then shoves the notebook back in her pocket before anyone can
look back at her. Okay. Okay. She walks faster, closing in on the middle of the group
as she tries to think up a way for her to tell Malfoy.

She looks around them, taking in the street, and closes her eyes for a second of
thought to be uninterrupted with the sight of bobbing hoods. She clears her throat,
glancing over at the boy next to her, his eyes wide and his hands nervous on his
buttons. "Where are we going exactly?" she asks, loud enough for Malfoy to hear
her. She just hopes he remembers the sound of this voice as being hers. "It's just
left, right, left, left. Why don't--"

"We're going wherever we can find one," a girl says.

"Yeah, there hasn't exactly been someone to curse yet."

"I don't know about you, mates, but I'm thinking we should get more than one."

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 Malfoy takes the turn, and her sigh of relief is the shaky sort that comes when
there are a dozen more obstacles to make vital choices at before reaching the end.
Weasleys, Gryffindor, love, blood…blood, blood, blood. She doesn't know if he'll
relate it to hair, though - she doesn't give that much credit to his ability to piece
things together.

She turns her head over her shoulder to look behind her, and then curves her
steps further to the left, swerving out from where two members of the group are
walking behind her. Her palm comes away soaked when she runs it across her
forehead, and then she runs the knuckle of her index above her top lip.

What's his name, what's his name, what is his name. Su…Ah…bah…cuh…duh, dah,
eh, fuh, gah…

"You know, the first time I walked into Finch, Gavin, I actually thought you were a
Weasley." She doesn't know if that will be enough, but it had better be.

"Woah," someone yells, followed by a few hushes. "We're attacking the filth here,
not one another."

"It's all right," Gavin says. "Every time I walk into Finch, I still think you're an
ugly fuck, Witworth."

"You did hear his bit about mistaking you for a Weasley, right?" Andrews asks.
"He basically already said that."

"That's the house we should burn down next."

Hermione would destroy them before they even got close to the Burrow. The Law
Enforcement Department would need to send out a squad of healers and Obliviators.

Hermione can't see over the tall men in front of her, no matter how much she
strains to when the group falls silent. She moves closer to the group, her spine stiff,
and the boy next to her lets out a wobbling breath. She should feel relieved that it's
the two redheads in green coats that the notebook had indicated, but she doesn't
feel relief at all.

The street is empty, and all the shops are closed. It's only those two by a
lamppost, and nearly thirty-five aspiring minions to the Dark. One of the redheads
gives them a dirty look before turning his attention to his companion.

"Did you see that?" comes a harsh murmur from someone in the group.
- 85 -
 "Do it," Malfoy orders, and Hermione sucks her breath in as clothes move out of
the path of wands.

The two Aurors likely took a pain relief or numbing draught before coming, but
even those can't fully block the pain of a Cruciatus Curse, let alone multiple ones.
She's desperately hoping that one isn't Harry.

There's a sizzle of failed magic from the end of someone's wand, followed by a
short flare of pink light.

"You gonna do it?" She hears the question faintly, and sees Malfoy's head turn
towards the man next to him.

"Magical trace."

"Maybe we should tie them up before they leave," someone whispers.

"You're afraid they'll catch you?" another man asks Malfoy.

The blond turns enough in the light for Hermione to see his sneer and raised
nose, and someone casts the curse well enough that a bright, red light flashes. The
two Aurors look over, confusion and surprise shifting their expressions.

"I'm not afraid of anything," Malfoy says lowly, a warning in his tone. "I just
prefer not to have the place swarming with Aurors looking for me when I can't stop
all of them yet."

"It's not like they'll catch you," someone says.

"Hey! What are you doing?" The Auror on the left takes two steps closer to them,
and a beam of dull, red light hits the Auror on the right.

Hermione holds her breath as he drops, his body convulsing as a few people
laugh, and someone congratulates. The convulsions stop after a few seconds, the
Curse weak, as the first Auror begins to yell.

"You don't think you can get away from a bunch of Mudblood-worshipers,
Malfoy?"

Malfoy draws his wand, and Hermione's eyes dart between him and the Auror
running at them, too afraid of either result to stop looking for the fallout of both.

- 86 -
 "If I had known how all of you are so fucking terrible at controlling Dark magic, I
would have let you keep practicing on one another first for your idiocy." He aims at
the redhead just four steps from reaching them. "Crucio!"

He means it.

- 87 -
 5

June 19; 4:52am

There's a man watching her in the fog. His eyes are narrowed and hooded, and
his mouth is open wide in a tunnel of sound. His nose is short, closer to two slits of
nostrils in his face than an actual nose, and it reminds her of Voldemort in the faded
glow of Hogwarts' lights through broken windows.

"There won't be any charges against you for casting the Curse tonight. It's
understood that it was required of you in that moment." The man is gone now,
somewhere behind her and lost in the fog. "In case you were concerned."

"I wasn't." She looks down to his leg in the glow of the lantern, watching the nail
of his index finger rub back and forth over the curved edge of his thumbnail. "I know
how easily the Ministry can forgive the unforgivable when it comes to someone
working for their side."

This again. She would think he would get tired of holding onto it, but she has also
learned that some things are awfully hard to let go. That we don't always have a
choice to the thoughts that surface from the bottom of the darkness we try to shove
them into. She also figures that Malfoy spent years alone in a cell, with nothing but
things he thought about over, over, over, and over again.

"If they used it for the purpose of a greater good. Just as you did it tonight to be--"

"What does it say of the greater good if that is your means of achieving it?"

"No," she snaps, too harshly for the distance she was trying to keep. "What does
it say of our enemies that we would have to resort to that form of violence."

"The only people, before tonight, that I cast the Curse on were Death Eaters and
members of the Dark--"

"Which is the only reason why you're here, and why you received as little time as
you did--"

"Little?" he murmurs, like a purr of a lion before it eats your face.

"Yes." She stares at the black void of his hood for a moment. "Do you know the

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sentence for one use of a Cruciatus Curse? It's Unforgivable, Malfoy. It's life in
Azkaban. There are many who think you deserved--"

"I only cast it on members of the Dark, and so did no more than members of the
Light who have walked free."

"You act as if it was common practice." She glares at him. "I know of one case
where an Auror cast the Curse, and it was to get information on the whereabouts of
prisoners, one of whom was only five. He was put on magical probation for six
months, and--"

"Yet it's Unforgivable. It's life in Azkaban, Granger."

"He was under extreme duress--"

"Extreme duress?" Her hand automatically pushes to her wand holster at the
anger that hardens his voice. "He wanted to know where prisoners were. It's a war -
that's common practice."

"Some would argue that the extreme duress the Wizengamot found you to be
under was also common practice during a war. The--"

"Yes," he hisses. "Being forced to live with a man who will have no hesitation to
kill you and your family because he felt like it, or you were watching when his peas
fell off his fork, or you winced when he fed someone to his snake, that's all just a
standard circumstance."

She looks back out into the shifting faces of the fog, and the bell seems to take
too long to ring and break the quiet. "I said some people."

Because she knows the fear of having Voldemort catch them well enough to
imagine living with him and fear that too. Because while Draco Malfoy isn't Harry
Potter - can never be Harry Potter - she also knows that Voldemort found Malfoy
nothing more than disposable. In fact, after reviewing the trial transcripts and
memories, she thinks the only reason Malfoy still has his life is because Voldemort
loved watching the destruction and suffering of a human being even more than he
enjoyed killing them. Like a cat with a mouse in a corner, except with human lives
and even more capability.

"It doesn't matter, Malfoy. You committed several crimes. In light of their
reasoning and the circumstances behind them, your sentence was reduced to a
decade from multiple life sentences. If the other side had won, you would be dead.
- 89 -
You've said it yourself." Somewhere, deep within the interviews and memories. "The
side that won is just. Even if you feel like you paid for your crimes before we made
you. And now they've given you this opportunity."

"Because you had no one else," he says knowingly or accusingly, but perhaps they
are the same this time. "You've given yourself the opportunity. Sometimes, the line
between good and evil aren't so clear cut. Go out and do something you don't want
to do, and put your life on the line for your freedom. That demand has no lines."

She stares at him, the lantern light swinging back and forth over the shape of his
knees as they rock closer to Azkaban. "But the result does."

"So the end justifies the means."

She shifts on the bench, taking a deep breath and holding it in her lungs, her
chest, until it burns. "Sometimes." She runs her bottom lip through the soft clench of
her teeth. "The world isn't perfect - is that your point? Are you trying to show me
how my side is not all good? I know that. We're humans, we make mistakes. Some
people fight for the greater good, and then go cheat on their wife, or lie, or spend
more time with alcohol than they do their kids. Politics are still corrupt to an extent,
and greed is as common as love. There's not a single person in the world who is all
good. But in the overall scheme of things, it matters what a person changes, what
they fight for, and what they achieve. And if that is good…"

"It's the only thing that matters?"

"It matters the most."

"Until you're the one being cheated on or lied to."

"I'm talking about the cause, my side--"

"So am I."

She shakes her head. "We're not cheating or lying to you." She wants to tell him
that he had the choice to stay in Azkaban, but she rather not remind him that it's
still a choice. "My point is that your actions were bad, and even if they were made to
serve some good purpose to yourself, choice or not, they served the Dark. There was
no greater good for you. Not until now. You have to pay for that. Like all people have
to pay for the things they've done, in some way."

Ding, ding, ding. Azkaban nearly blends into the night, and they are close enough
- 90 -
now that she can no longer see the top of it. Inside are thousands of prisoners,
hundreds of whom have run across her dreamscape, and there is no light here
either.

"The kids who cast the Cruciatus tonight - when this is over, will they be charged
for that?" He sounds like he could have been asking about how ants can carry such
large crumbs. Small, insignificant, a passing thought.

Hermione folds her hands in her lap, her forehead wrinkling as her eyebrows
push towards one another. "Do you care?"

He doesn't answer.

June 21; 1:19pm

Hermione looks up at the group of people filtering into the room for lunch, and
then scans the room again, her heart giving a hard thump as her eyes catch on a
woman with black, unruly hair.

"So you didn't hold back?" Harry whispers.

She shakes her head, dragging her eyes to her salad to spear a piece of chicken
on her fork. "Not in the defense. I was partnered up with…this kid who is like a…an
overgrown idiot. I'm not even entirely sure why he's there. He's never going on
about…things like most of them are. What was I going to do - cast that sort of magic
on a sixteen-year-old kid?"

Harry shakes his head, pushing up his glasses as he reaches for his water. "No."

"Then Mal--son tells me that I need to practice more. That I need to practice.
Then, later, Bells decided to fight with me over being suspicious from showing all
defense, and no skills in offense."

Harry's cheek twitches as he cuts into some type of fish she forgets the name of,
with even more obscure garnishes sprinkled across the top of it. She narrows her
eyes when his stay on his plate.

"You agree--"

"He has a point. Though he shouldn't be questioning your decisions." He looks up,
shrugging. "But he has a point."

- 91 -
 Hermione releases a sigh that borders on a growl in her throat, looking over at
the light exploding through the large windows to her right. "I know." Not that she
had admitted it to Malfoy, or ever will. "There was no way he could have blocked
me, though. And if I showed I was capable, I would be expected to perform them
again in…less favorable circumstances."

Harry cocks his head, and then looks across the room, as if he somehow sensed
Ron the moment the redhead walked in. "If they decide to practice again, demand a
better partner. Say something offhand about not wanting to injure a…comrade when
it was so easy. Then pick someone capable of blocking."

"The only one who even stands a chance against me is Bells. And it's not like I can
challenge the leader, that would be--"

"Tell Bells to call you out for it."

"He doesn't do anything, and there are those who performed far worse than I did.
It'll appear too strange. And favoritism at the least."

"Then you'll have to hurt some of them. Weaker spells."

"Weak spells in that sort of magic?"

"Give them extra time? Maybe--"

"All right, all right, I'm here. But I'm not late this time, since I showed before
Neville."

Hermione looks up at Ron as he slides into the chair next to her, and moves it
over a space so he's not blocking her in between him and the wall. "Neville has a
meeting and won't be here for lunch. So you're still late. As always."

"If I'm late always, then I'm actually on time." Both their eyebrows raise - his in a
way that tells her he thinks this is a solid argument, and hers in a way that tells him
the only thing that's solid is his thick head. "I'm always late, so you expect me,
what,"-he glances over at Harry-"ten or fifteen minutes after?"

"'Bout that, mate."

"And I'm always here ten or fifteen minutes after. You expect me to come then,
I'm here then. I'm on time."

- 92 -
 Hermione barely stops herself from rolling her eyes, and Harry smiles.

June 22; 4:02am

Hermione walks around the hatch in the floor so that she's facing Malfoy, and
then bends to lift it. There's a scurrying sound and a flash of a long, thick tail that
could only be a rat. She cringes, reaching down quickly for her briefcase, and
hoping it isn't chewed. She'll have to put some spells on it to guard it against
chewing next time.

"I have a meeting I have to attend in the afternoon tomorrow."

Hermione looks up in surprise, having only been distantly wondering why his legs
hadn't moved from the top of her vision and towards the loo. She tucks her uneaten
briefcase under her arm, closing the hatch, and then stands before all the dust can
be sucked in with her breath.

His eyes are disconcertingly attached to hers from the moment she looks up.

"At Azkaban?" she asks, shifting awkwardly as she wonders why he's bothering to
share this with her. "With--"

"No. Hunt requested a meeting through Khan."

Hunt. The man who runs Linch. Hermione presses her lips together, her
eyebrows drawing down. "Why would Hunt want a meeting with you?"

"If I knew, I would have said."

Hermione doubts this is true, unless he's worried about a setup or attack. "What
time?"

"Noon."

Wonderful. There's no way she's getting Malfoy out of Azkaban in the middle of
the afternoon, which leaves two options. Either he misses the meeting - potentially
problematic, and they don't find out what Hunt wants - or he stays in the house
overnight. They both stay in the house overnight. There's no reason to contact the
other Aurors since the house isn't known yet, and so none of them will have to sleep
in shifts or keep watch.

Just her and Malfoy. In a house. In the middle of the woods in Wales.
- 93 -
 She can feel a headache approaching in a knot of pressure at the center of her
head, and knows she'll get no sleep tonight. On normal nights, she concludes the
interview with Malfoy, goes home to shower and eat, and heads directly for work.
She sleeps between her shorter work shift and before she retrieves Malfoy, so it isn't
the sleep that's the problem. It's not even completely about missing work. It's the
fact that the second Malfoy steps into the boat, she's ready to send him away from
her. It's the fact that she doesn't trust the lack of security or the way she can't read
him.

"Is that what you're sleeping in, then?"

He glances down at his shirt and trousers, and pauses with his eyes on his feet.
Some change flutters across his expression, but whatever it was or words he
thought to say, it's gone when he looks up. "I'll be taking the shoes and robe off."

She nods, waits, and then raises her chin at him when he doesn't move. "Go on.
Hand me the wand."

He pulls the robe off with the speed of someone who is purposely ignoring her
impatience. She glares when he starts to fold it, and then lays it over the chair,
smoothing the wrinkles from the fabric. He pulls the wand from a pocket, and she
looks away from the gaze she had been forcing herself to hold. He doesn't stretch
his arm all the way, making her step towards him to take it, and she swears he looks
amused when it flashes out of his grip.

He moves to toe a shoe off, but then his foot slaps back against the ground when
she casts the tracking spell on him again. His left fist clenches once, and he looks up
at her, fringe falling across his eyes, and a question in the anger of his expression.
Done? She stares back blankly, and a muscle in his jaw twitches as he takes the
shoes off.

"Put the sides of your fists together," she says, and his head snaps up.

He opens his mouth, and then presses his lips together until it's only a thin line of
white. She looks away from the play of agitation across his face, watching him raise
his arms, curl his fingers, and press his fists together. They're restrained with a few
sharp twists of her wand.

"I have to sleep like this?"

"Yes. If you're tired enough, you'll manage it."

- 94 -
 "Yes," he says lowly. "I can manage a lot of things one might not immediately
think me capable of."

She raises her eyes, and he's looking back at her darkly, some form of threat or
warning hanging between them. "Perhaps I should bind your legs as well."

His jaw pauses on a clench, holding tight, and his eyes seem glazed over as he
raises his sight above her head. It's the look he usually adopted when she first
started talking to him about the Assignment, and she wonders if it's because he feels
caged or is attempting to restrain rage.

"The second door on the left in the hallway," she tells him, pressing her thumb
hard against her wand, rubbing it up, down, up.

She follows behind his steps as his bound wrists fall to his stomach. She sets up
wards around the room once they're inside, and then studies the tattered blanket
and thick pillow on the bed. She hesitates, then casts a few cleaning charms on it
before stepping out of the room. She grabs the doorknob, glancing at Malfoy's back
turned towards her, but he speaks before she closes the door all the way.

"Are you here alone?"

Her lips pinch as she shuts the door, double-locking it.

1:21pm

Hermione is tired. Some days at this time, she would be sitting down with her
friends to cram down a few bites of salad before heading to bed. Other days - and
what would have been today, had she been anywhere else - she went directly home
to sleep. The night had been long, and with checking on Malfoy's room every few
minutes, she had got little done beyond a lot of paranoid thoughts.

She had been hoping Malfoy would return, she would call in an Auror, and be
about five minutes away from crawling under the covers at this point. Life, as it
turns out, rarely works out the exact way in which you want it to, and if it does, it's
usually an accident.

"There's a package of rare potions moving through Knockturn," Malfoy tells Pruit
and Leacher, repeating what he has already told her. "A man is selling them for four
times their worth. Hunt found the address, and wants me to bring the group there to
get the potions."

- 95 -
 "You agreed?" Pruit crosses his arms.

"He allows us the use of his second floor, and he keeps quiet about our activities.
Nothing comes for free. If I didn't agree, he could have demanded we leave."

Leacher stares holes into the side of Malfoy's face, and the blond must feel it,
because he slowly raises an equally hard gaze to Leacher.

"We can't plan for that," Pruit says, looking over to Hermione.

"Polyjuice? Glamour Charms?"

Pruit's cheek bunches before he shakes his head. "This could be a setup by Hunt."

"For the higher circle?"

"Possibly," Leacher says gruffly. "Or to make sure Bells is only working for
himself. Hunt could know the person, and wants to test if he actually does it to him.
Even if it's not that, members in the group could know what the man looks like, and
we can't Polyjuice into someone we don't have a hair from."

Hermione leans back against the sloping counter. "So we'll just have to do it,
then."

"With as few victims as possible. Restrain with binds, not injuries." Pruit shrugs.
"Report back to us after."

"And if it is the higher circle, or at least a group actually connected to them?"

"Then the fun really starts," Pruit says. Hermione does not connect herself being
neck deep in Death Eaters to anything close to fun. "You should bring more
Polyjuice with you, Granger, in case it takes awhile. If things get bad, Apparate out -
they'll just assume you were too afraid."

"What about anti-Apparition wards?"

"They won't." Leacher gives an incredulous look to Pruit when he conjures a

kettle. "Surrey isn't their base, and they're all runners - the only reason we haven't
caught them yet. They wouldn't risk closing themselves in, or preventing an
immediate escape if things go bad."

Hermione nods, but she doesn't like the idea. She likes plans, solid facts, and
- 96 -
knowing exactly what she's walking into by herself.

"Go get some sleep, Granger. We'll see you at nine."

She drags her briefcase off the counter, not sure how much sleep she's going to
get at all. She glances over at Malfoy sitting stiffly in one of the chairs, staring down
the cabinets across the room.

"At nine, then."

June 23; 12:29am

A jet of blue hits Morris the moment the door opens, and Hermione knows that
the tingle she had felt a few seconds ago was not her paranoia or nerves but a ward.
Her shoulders sag forward in brief relief, but she knows there's still a possibility this
is the higher circle. Five lines of light flash into the house, one flying so closely to
Malfoy's ear that he must have felt the magic of it against his skin. A wand smacks
into Malfoy's waiting palm, and she tells herself she'll get it from him as soon as
they're back at Rome.

The group shoves into the house, stepping on shoes and tripping over one
another in their rush. A man is sprawled on the floor, and for a second that pauses
her heart, she thinks he's dead. Malfoy transfigures a corner table into a chair so
ornate that she has little doubt it comes from his memories of the Malfoy Manor,
and then gestures to two men.

"Put him on the chair. Bind his hands and feet to it."

The man's body is stiff, and the two boys grunt lowly as they have to push and
shove limbs into manageable positions. The wand she gives Malfoy each day is
tapping against his thigh, the other lost somewhere in his pockets. Hermione grows
more anxious the longer it takes, her eyes roaming across the muted blue coloring of
the house, wondering who else might be inside. If this was her team, she would have
sent someone to check it by now.

Malfoy takes the Stunner off the man as soon as his hands and feet are secured
with thick rope, and the man is immediately in action, twisting and thrusting against
his bindings. She looks over at Malfoy, half his face lit in lines of grey-blue, and
patches of navy in the shadows of his cheekbones, nose, and jaw. He looks bored. As
if he breaks into houses and does this a dozen times every night, and he's annoyed
that the victim always acts the same.

- 97 -
 He waits until the man settles in huffs of breath and awkward slumping, and then
the wand stops tapping against his thigh. "Since we want to be respectable house
guests," he drawls, a murmur of amusement rising and falling through the group,
"we're giving you a choice - simple or difficult. Where are the potions?"

The man looks up with a sneer and narrowed eyes, but he falters when he
recognizes Malfoy. There's a brief widening of his eyes, a slow fade to the pull of his
lips. The man does petty crime - she doubts he was in Voldemort's army, and if he
was, no closer than the outskirts. Legend precedes Death Eaters far more than the
truth of each member.

"If you don't make the decision now, I'll make it--"

"Fuck you," the man whispers.

"Lovely," Malfoy mutters, turning his head to face the line of his shoulder instead
of the group. "Search the house."

Hermione is nearly knocked over by the surge as the group moves forward,
splitting into the three archways off the tiny strip of an entrance room. Hermione
stays, and so do two others. The man is the only one who flinches at the crashing
noises from the other rooms.

"They'll destroy everything until they find it - and we will find it. If you make this
easier on all of us, and tell us where it is, we'll leave without touching anything
else."

"It's not here," the man says through his teeth, and Malfoy rolls his eyes up to the
shelves on the wall.

"Of course it's not." Malfoy studies him silently, and the man looks down, refusing
to meet his eyes. If Malfoy was a Legilimens, he wouldn't have bothered asking.
"Last chance - lose the potions, or lose everything."

The only sound is the breathing to her left, and the toppling of furniture and
crashes of objects deeper in the house. The man glares at Malfoy's throat, and the
blond raises his chin, looking down the line of his nose before turning on his heel.

"Very well. King, Ad--"

The man's arm flashes up, grabbing a large, metal figure from the shelf above his
head. He half-raises from the chair, his bicep clenched with the strength in which he
- 98 -
hurls it at Malfoy's head. Hermione's wand is raised before she can think to do it,
and she sends the figure flying back with a flick of her wrist. It smashes into the
shelf and then the wall as Malfoy spins back around, the collision sending chunks of
wood and broken knickknacks on top of the man's head as he falls back into his seat.
Rope shoots from the end of Hermione's wand, and she spins the tip, wrapping it
around him and the back of the chair.

She lowers her wand slowly, King laughing under his breath next to her, and she
has to restrain herself from jumping away from him when his hand claps the back of
her shoulder. The man is glaring at her now, his breathing quick, and she clutches
her wand tighter at the intent in his look. Malfoy turns his head to look at her, the
surprise still fading from his expression, and in the light of the moon, his eyes are
bright blue.

She doesn't know why it's so surprising to a man who thinks he has her side all
figured out. She's his guardian - it's her duty to protect him as much as it is to
distrust him.

He looks back at the man, and though she can't see Malfoy's face, she knows he's
glaring. Or giving him that look she has sometimes seen on him, the one that says he
is plotting murder and enjoying himself. His knuckles are white in the grip of his
wand, and Hermione licks her lips, swallowing through the dry tightness of her
throat. If he does anything stupid, they would have been better off having the metal
figure knock him out.

Malfoy's foot snaps out, snagging behind a leg of the chair, and then jerks back.
The back of the chair smacks into the wall, scrapes for a moment, and then hits the
ground with a loud thud and a rush of breath being forced out of lungs. Malfoy turns
as the man sucks in a breath and starts to cough, walking through one of the
archways with a stiff spine and swaying shoulders.

Hermione stays in the entryway under the excuse of watching the man, but she
doesn't want to be running through thin spaces in the dark with a stampede
constantly behind her. They'll leave the man on the floor, she figures, since he's
already wiggled around enough to escape the ropes in an hour or so.

Malfoy returns ten minutes later with his pockets full of potion bottles he found
under a floorboard. His look is annoyance and knowing at the surprise that twists
her face when he throws the man's wand into a corner.

June 25; 5:05pm

- 99 -
 The floor is cold and cruel beneath her split knees and wounded palms, dirt and
pebbles grinding against the open cuts as she crawls. Ron, Harry, Ron, Harry, as she
stretches her arm out, feeling through the complete darkness that is suffocating her.
She feels a chill, a tingle of something other, and she tries to rush to her feet, but
she's so. Slow. Moving.

She searches for her wand, her palms trembling against icy skin, but it's gone,
gonegone. A face emerges in the dark in front of hers, the skin so thin and pale that
it carries its own light across the tops of hollow cheeks, a dash of forehead, the
empty space of a nose. Eyes swirl and blink like two red fireflies, and the bottom of
the face opens into a black void of a grinning mouth.

Hermione screams as Voldemort raises his wand, and she stumbles back in the
dark, searching again for her wand. Green lights the end of his wand, and her feet
are locked in place, stuck to the floor, preventing her from running for a
wandhelpHarryRon. Her arm raises up on an instinct that will do nothing to save
her, but then the green light pauses on its way to her. It builds into a large circle,
spinning into different hues and silver, and she realizes it's a metal ball. It shoots
forward, but far to her right, and she whirls around. Malfoy stares back at her, his
scratched and bruised palm raised. The metal ball smacks into it, and he flies back
into the dark. She turns again, facing Voldemort, and she knows…

Hermione's eyes snap open to dull yellow out her bedroom window, and she
raises her eyes to the clock on her bedside table. She flips over onto her back, and
stares at the ceiling, counting paint lines.

June 27; 12:48am

She doesn't know how things got bad so quickly. They had been bad in the rush of
contacting the Ministry about the sudden plans, then trying to tell Malfoy what to
look for, and then having to see Aurors being tortured by people who had, mostly,
now learned how to cast the Cruciatus properly. That was bad. This…this is
horrifying.

Either the Aurors hadn't blocked the street properly or they hadn't thought they
needed to, but the Muggles got in. Three of them at first, then five more, and now
two others who had peeked from the shadows of a side street and been caught doing
so. None of them stand a chance under wands that can make them dance, freeze,
blow steam from their ears, hang them from the sky, stick them to walls, convulse in
pain, or a million other things Muggles call impossible. It is the realization of
nightmares as a dozen screams echo out in agony.

- 100 -
 Hermione can feel a burning at the back of her eyes, and her heart is alternating
between seizes and hard pounds that make her blood throb from her skull to her
knees. Every instinct within her is telling her to turn to the sides of her and stop
them, to erase the stretched grins that emerged at the taste of power without
consequence, and help the people that need her to.

"We should go before the Muggle police get here," Hermione says loudly, looking
over at Malfoy.

His eyes don't stray from the Aurors on the ground, never moving an inch
towards one of the Muggles. His skin seems paler than usual, or maybe the blur of
panic in her eyes is making colors look strange, because the red from Wilt's wand
flies back at him yellow.

"Shit," someone breathes harshly to her right, and her head snaps forward at the
stream of colors coming in and going out.

There are four people in Auror robes down the street, and three more Apparate in
by the time she blinks. A flurry of spells sound off around her as she grins, but it
only takes the jet of orange sailing at her head for the smile to drop. Oh, no, no, no.
She throws up a blocking spell, watching through the thin, purple sheen as Hit
Wizards grab the Muggles from the street and Apparate away, no doubt bringing
them to an Obliviation team on a more secure street.

The warring between being thankful or fearful that the Aurors came is won by
fearful once the Muggles are gone. She doesn't know how the Aurors found out
about it, but if they catch her or Malfoy, the Assignment is going to be in trouble.
While they can Obliviate the Aurors once she returns to her normal self, there is no
doubt the group will spread the word if Malfoy gets caught. And there's not a single
way he can escape again without the higher circle knowing he had made a deal.

The group is falling apart, filled with too many cowards to stay there for one
another and not run to save themselves. She looks over the swaying heads and
through the flashes of light, finding Malfoy with his wand trained on her. Her eyes
widen as her heart leaps into the base of her throat, her hearing buzzing out at
another rush of adrenaline. The white light hits her before she even has her wand
fully raised, and it surrounds her in a pulse of strong, static energy as her breath
catches. She knows what it is the moment she feels it, and her eyes dart forward
again, watching two spells rebound off the shield and fly back towards the Aurors.

For a moment, her mind is blank, and she stares in a still, gaping way that is done
more fittingly by idiots.
- 101 -
 The blocking spell shimmers and drops, and she dodges left to avoid the spell
Neville throws at her, too off-guard from Malfoy's protection and her own friend
casting at her to even raise her wand in defense. Her foot snags on a body, and she
stumbles over it, catching herself on the bumps of pavement that scratch her palm.

She glances back over at Neville, his face scrunched in anger as he blocks a spell,
and then Seamus behind him, rapidly casting three Stunners. Something twists in
her stomach at the fact that she is on this side, and though she knows it doesn't
mean anything, not really, a wave of nausea swells to her throat.

"--information, so bring them back with you!" Malfoy is yelling, but it's too late to
hope the Aurors aren't going to capture some of the group.

Hermione shoves a girl out of her way, and then a man that stumbles out of a
blocking spell and into the path of a Stunner. She grabs Malfoy by the elbow,
turning sharply, but there isn't more than a tingle of magic along her spine. They've
put up anti-Apparition wards, then.

"Let's go," Hermione barks out when he doesn't budge under the yank of her
hand.

He throws up another blocking spell, and then turns with her, jerking his elbow
from her grasp as they run. She glances over her shoulder, three Aurors taking off
after them, and she blocks their spells. Malfoy's legs are still longer than hers, and
despite the years in Azkaban, he's still fit enough to run like the only chance at
continued life is a mile away and fading from a possibility. She doesn't know if he's
trying to be helpful, but she thinks it's more about distrust that he turns randomly to
cast blocking spells against the constant onslaught.

He tries to Apparate when they sprint down another street, but it doesn't work,
and she manages to gain some ground on him. If she hadn't been under Polyjuice,
she thinks she might have lost him somewhere at the last turn. She runs as quickly
as possible while blocking them from the spells, her thighs burning as the sweat
streams down her face, but he's faster. The bottles of Polyjuice Potion and the vial of
anti-truth serum are clanking together in the robe of her pocket, and she fears they
will break, soak through her robe, and tell anyone who smells it who she is.

"Don't go to Rome," she yells through blocks.

She nearly twists into a topple when it's not Malfoy who answers her. "Why the
hell would I go to Rome, Witworth?"

- 102 -
 "No names!" she yells back at Rockford as he flies towards her from an alleyway.

Rockford doesn't cast blocking spells, but a distant voice that always stays calm
in the face of overwhelming panic tells her that he's not casting Dark spells either.
His hex hits one of the Aurors, wobbling his legs out from under him, and Hermione
turns sharply into a street that Malfoy has disappeared from.

She waits for five smacks of her feet before she closes her eyes and Apparates.
She immediately hits the ground, her eyes snapping open to candlelit walls and a
moving mass of confusion and alarm. She tries to scramble to her feet, but her body
is too massive, her limbs too long, her chest too heavy. Someone slams a hand into
her shoulder when she falls against them, and her eyes land on Malfoy a few steps
away, his skin shining with sweat. His jaw is clenched, muscles twitching as he
scans the room, and his gaze grows harder when it lands on her.

Leave, she mouths, but there's no recognition to tell her he understood.

"Fuck, is this all of us?"

"Some were still running."

"There were at least five on the ground when I left."

"All of you need to leave." Malfoy doesn't yell, but his voice still cuts through the
harsh whispers and raised voices. "They could have tracked us, and if they didn't,
someone left behind could tell them where we are. Go home, don't say anything."

"Should we meet tomorrow?"

Malfoy straightens his robe, as if the disarray of his hair or the sweat on his skin
doesn't ruin appearances anyway. "I'll send word if we're able."

He Apparates the moment he finishes speaking, and Hermione is quick to follow.

She's pulling the notebook out of her pocket before she even opens her eyes, and
she twists around to look for Malfoy. It is in the moment that she realizes he's not
there that the door slams against the wall, and she jumps, turning her head to face it
while taking a step back.

Malfoy is furious, or perhaps it's just the exertion that's colored his face that
brightly. His entire body is rigid, though, his jaw tight, and there's a vein showing in
his temple. When he opens his mouth, she's expecting a scream, but it's a low tone
instead, rough over the vowels and pronounced slowly.
- 103 -
 "What the fuck was that?"

"I don't know." Which is why she should be writing the Aurors right now, and not
clutching her wand as she waits for Malfoy to spring at her.

"You don't know," he repeats slowly, and when he speaks again, it's closer to the
yell she expects. "What is your entire purpose of being there if you--"

"I proved what my purpose is earlier tonight when I had to contact the Ministry--"

"And they just forgot to notify--"

"If they knew! The Assignment is a secret. They can't just block an attack
response without causing a lot of suspicion and talk."

"How did they know?"

"They obviously didn't know they were coming, since I didn't receive--"

"The Aurors, Granger! How did they know we were--"

"I don't kn--"

"You don't know. Of course you don't know. You're fucking useless!"

Anger swells beyond the tremble of her leaving adrenaline and panic, and her
fingers wrap more tightly around her wand. "What?"

"You have one job the entire time you're there, and it's to communicate with--"

"If they had notified me, things would have been a lot different! I wasn't notified!
Furthermore, we shouldn't have even been there that long, just torturing every
Muggle that came into sight!"

He takes a step towards her, and she goes no further than a sway back. "You're
saying that like it's my fault--"

"I'm saying--"

"We both know where the night was going to go, and what they were practicing
for in the first place. They weren't going to be satisfied with two undercover Aurors.
That's the fault of your Ministry for providing--"
- 104 -
 "It's not just--"

"--and not blocking the streets properly. I accept no responsibility--"

"Obviously! You never accept responsibility for anything you do!" she yells.

"Do you enjoy making yourself look like an idiot, or are you just ignoring the time
you spent studying my case enough to know I plead guilty on all charges brought
against--"

"And still complain and hate the Ministry because you think you didn't deserve
Azka--"

"Because I paid for them enough,"-she snorts as he takes another step towards
her-"while others who did the same or worse never paid at all! And now you have me
on this assignment, risking my life against the Dark and the Ministry! You--"

"We're not going to let anyone kill you, Malfoy, there have been things put in
place--"

"You've been put in place-"

"And do you honestly think I would let you be killed while I just watch and do
nothing? There are other Aurors as well, and--"

"It doesn't matter who it is! What it all comes down to is that protecting me is
really just protecting the mission - as you've said. And in those situations where it's
so dangerous it could be deadly, but will still give the Ministry what they want if
whatever thing is achieved, there is a risk to be taken. And every time that risk is
taken, it will be to my life, and not the life of the mission!"

Hermione's mouth hangs open in the air, words packed with breath in her throat,
but they fall uselessly to the turning of her stomach. She takes a deep breath and
then clears her throat. "If I had known the Aurors were coming, I would have found
a way to end it early. I value human life above any assignment--"

"And what is mine," he says, his voice lowered now but still rough with anger, "to
all the others you will save when the revival is dead."

"If we cared so little for your life, you wouldn't have that Portkey around your
neck, and they wouldn't have asked me to do this. If you walk into a room that
exposes every secret and location of each member in the higher circle, but it is a
- 105 -
definite that you will die, I would never ask you to step inside of it. I'd find a
different way, even if it's the more difficult way. I don't ask for people to die for me,
Malfoy. Neither does Harry."

"So you don't think it's a possibility that as soon as this higher circle sees me,
they'll kill me, or make an example out of me to all their recruits?"

She shrugs. "It is a possibility, but it's very unlikely." She crosses her arms as he
raises an eyebrow and lowers his chin, as if waiting for her to see the way her
argument is burning to the floor between them. "This is a dangerous situation. You
knew that when you agreed. You're going to have to play yourself exactly right at all
times. I'm not saying you'll live to see the end of this, Malfoy. I'm saying I'll work to
protect you as much as I would with anyone in the Ministry or Order."

He stares at her a moment more, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and then holds
out the wand. "Fine."

"You should, uh…" She takes the wand, stepping back from him, and waves her
hand. "You should keep the socks. Take them back with you, I mean." She rolls the
wands in her palm, glancing up too quickly to read any hints of his thoughts in his
expression. She ignores him in favor of her briefcase, and the dryness in her throat,
and the slamming of her heart, and the burn at the back of her eyeballs from panic
and memories.

- 106 -
 6

4:32am

The raw, strong energy of magic. She has lived in recognition of it for more than
half her life, has felt it pounding through her body like electricity, or wrapped
around her in warmth, coldness, or pain. It's as much a part of her as the beat of her
heart, and when it's as calm as it should be, she barely notices that it's there. So she
doesn't understand why one burst of it pressing to her skin is being so difficult to
erase the feel of.

He could have let it hit her. Who knows what the spells were, but it wouldn't have
been his problem. Unless he had thought it would be. That must have been it. He
must have thought it would have some sort of negative impact on him if he didn't do
it.

Or something. Or something.

Hermione's fingers drum across the closed folder, and she glances down at her
watch. Her eyes stray to her briefcase again, and she bites the inside of her cheek as
she reaches for it. She stands, opening it on her desk, and digs through a fold of
papers. Three, five, six, and she pulls it out, unfolding it as she walks around her
desk. She puts the paper against the wall, casting a quick Sticking Charm, and then
walks back.

She slides into the curved indent of her bum in the cushion, and her shoulder
blades hit the back of the chair. Her teeth run over her bottom lip, again, again, and
she watches the tiny dot move around a small room on the map marked Level Eight.

10:00pm

Hermione feels the material of her trousers under her fingertips, the tiny bumps
and the stitching, the heat of her skin rising through. Malfoy has finally moved his
stare from her and to the floor, and he stands as still as a statue. The only sound in
the room is a summer breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees outside.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

- 107 -
 She gives a nod, and turns her attention to the flicker of candles around the
room. She wanted to leave him in Azkaban tonight, but he has to be out in case
something happens that they need him for. There's nothing to do in the house except
stand there. No books, magazines, or anything entertaining. She should have
brought the article for him to read, like she had thought of doing, so at least she
could have the pretense of reading the rest of the paper again.

"The positive of this situation is that there is little chance the higher circle
doesn't know what you're up to now. I know it's preferable for them to have heard
about it from the underground - which they might have - but this might give them a
push to contact--"

"They'll doubt my abilities to lead, my choice in recruits, and think I'm too sloppy
and unlearned for any real position among them. They're more likely to contact me
out of curiosity, revenge, or because we're putting the Ministry onto the revival
we're not truly a part of."

"Then you will prove them wrong." She crosses her arms, tracking a drop of wax
as it slips from the column of a candle and falls to the floor. "They'll think you had
enough ambition and dedication to the cause to start something, and will know you
weren't afraid to torture Muggles and curse Aurors. The fact that the Aurors found
out who you are…you can say you didn't care, because you knew you would get
away."

"Carelessness works in no one's favor."

"The fact that you didn't know the Aurors would show is good, too. It gives a
higher unlikelihood that you're working for the Ministry, because they came after
the group, and you couldn't have known that they scan for high, concentrated use of
Dark magic in the Muggle world. As far as some of the group getting caught…"

"They were expendable, low rank, and would have had to be dealt with before any
serious plan took shape."

Hermione tilts her head, watching him pluck a piece of lint from his chest. "They
would accept that?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "Disloyalty does not earn loyalty."

She hums, turning the candle on the counter so the light shines through the hole
where the wax has melted. "I wonder what will become of Mills."

- 108 -
 "Does it matter that he was part of a group where the leader, working for the
Ministry, encouraged his actions?"

"I don't know," she says honestly. "I hope so, to some extent. He's a good kid. He
just got in with the wrong crowd." She would have no trouble telling Kingsley
exactly that.

"They all got in with the wrong crowd," Malfoy says quietly, his eyes on the
window. "And to their side, they're doing things that would make them a hero on
this side. Fighting for what they believe is right in a time of great oppression."

"But it's wrong." She means for this to come out sharply, but it nears a question
in her suspicion.

"I didn't say it wasn't." Yes, that is the tone she had been trying for.

She clears her throat. "I just hope they figure it out soon. I know kids can't help
what they learn, or what their parents teach them. I know some kids will do
something just because it's against the world, or because they know it's bad. That
they don't fully understand the consequences of that. But somewhere along the way,
something will happen that either reveals the truth or cements their ideals no
matter the later truths that come along."

"Truth doesn't just reveal itself - it's something a person learns. It's an event that
occurs that brings forth positive emotion over negative, or was seen as right until it
opposed a greater personal truth. Truth is a set of beliefs that only that person can
claim are true. And if others happen to believe them, it's truth for them as well. It
doesn't mean it's truth for anyone else. Or that it can't change."

"Some things are universally true." She ushers a hand to the side of the kitchen.
"That's a table. Th--"

"A blind man would call it nothing."

"Because he can't see."

He lifts an eyebrow, raises a shoulder. "Exactly. And you can. Two different
truths."

"But the blind man knows something is there--"

"How?"
- 109 -
 "He's told."

"Yes."

She pinches her lips. "He feels it."

"He feels something. A surface. That could be anything he believes it to be.

Maybe he believes it's a table. Maybe he believes it's something else entirely."

"Fine. It's a truth that we're standing here."

"Are we? Perhaps this moment is a--"

"We both know we're standing here."

"That's not universal, Granger. If you were to ask the nearest person to us where
you were standing five minutes ago, they wouldn't know, and they wouldn't know
you."

"Then by that belief, it's not a truth that I even exist."

"If you believe you do, you do."

"All right. What if I didn't believe you existed?"

"You do."

"But if I didn't?"

"Like I said, Granger - truths change."

June 28; 9:43pm

She brings books this time, and after a moment of hesitation, she carefully sits
down across from him to read. Her eyes are on the page, but her gaze is also on
him, and it's thirteen breaths later that he slides a book off the top of the stack and
starts reading too.

June 29; 11:28pm

"Jesus Christ," Hermione chokes out, muffled behind the sleeve of her robe.

- 110 -
 Malfoy is staring at her from the side of the room, his face set in hard lines. His
left eye twitches with the force of his stare, but there are no answers written on the
inside of her skull. Dixon straightens from the wall, something wild and mad in his
eyes as he looks at her, swiping the sweat from his face. Lloyd only stares at the
body, and his detachment is more nerve-inspiring than Dixon's look.

Hermione swallows hard, pushing back the desire to vomit, scream, cry out. Her
gaze drags helplessly back to the body slumped against the wall, naturally drawn to
the horrifying despite the protests of her mind and the tension in her chest. Only
one foot has on a trainer, the other dirty and pale. The trousers and shirt are
tattered, shredded, and blood stains the fabric in dashes and stars. The knuckles of
bruised, bloody hands are resting on top of his leg and against the inside of his
thigh, fingers slightly curled and palms to the ceiling.

There are rips in his chest, the skin gaping or puckered open, but nothing flowing
from the wounds anymore. His face is black in some areas, others purple, green, or
blistered red, and so swollen in rises and falls that it's impossible to make out the
real structure of his face. His nose is crooked, too far to the left, and his jaw is
hanging to the right. She can only make out a glimpse of white-coated, dull eyes
through the inflated mounds of his cheekbones, eyelids, and brow. Short, light
brown hair is tangled in clumps of blood.

Heat prickles behind her eyes, in the turn of her stomach, and then boils through
her blood in anger. Her hand is trembling, and she wants to cry, she wants to shake
apart, she wants to save a man she can't, and she wants to cursehurtdamage the two
who did this.

"We need to get rid of the body," Dixon says.

Hermione turns on her heel, walking stiffly out of the room and into the hallway,
drops of sweat running from her hairline and down her face. The bigger body of her
Polyjuice form is heavy in the heat, and her shoes thump loudly across the floor. She
almost turns back again when Lloyd suggests they make a statement with the
corpse, but instead, she walks faster. These are the sort of people they're putting
away, out of society and away from the ones they will hurt. This is the reason she
has to stay on course and not risk the Assignment.

She releases the breath she had been holding as she shuts the door behind her,
gasping in another. The loo still smells like rotting, heat-baked death. The stench
has touched everything, soaking into the walls, the floor, her clothes. She rips off
her robe in clumsy, sharp movements, peeling the fabric from her damp skin, and
throws it into the corner. Her potion bottles clang inside the pocket, but she doesn't
- 111 -
care.

Her breath is coming in short, quick inhales, and they sound rugged. She
wonders if the man sounded like that. If he made the same noises when they
propped his beaten, broken body against the wall, or when he crashed into it and
down to the floor, and he faced death while wrapped in pain and fear.

Calm down, Hermione. Calm, calm, calm.

Her forehead slips against the door as she pulls in a deep, slow breath, and
releases it just as slowly. Again. Again. Again, as she tells herself not to think about
it right now. She can wait for later. Later, when she's alone in her flat, when no one
is there to see the way it digs in, pulls open, buries itself.

There's a creak from the hallway, and she spins, her vision still twirling a short
distance after she stops, and she lurches to the side. She catches herself on the edge
of the sink counter, and reaches to snap the toilet seat up. The tips of her ears pull
up at another squeak, and she quickly works the button and zip of her trousers. She
spreads her legs a little wider, a brief memory of her first, disastrous attempt
flashing through her mind, and pulls the penis from her shorts, too distracted to
silently apologize this time. She aims, and then shuts her eyes, willing herself to
relax. Lloyd and Dixon are too paranoid for her to seem like she's up to something,
and…

Her eyes snap open a moment after the rumble of urine hitting water begins, and
she looks over her shoulder, to her robe in the corner. Not that there's much they
can do at this point, but they can still come and arrest the two men under the
pretense that one of the captured group members finally gave up the location for
where they meet. It isn't much, but if it keeps two people who are capable of this
away from the possibility of doing it again, it's better than waiting until they would
have to arrest more of the group and risk the Assignment.

Hermione blows out a breath, looking up at the wall as the footsteps stop halfway
down the hall. She swipes the sweat away from getting any closer to her eyes, then
wiggles and shakes before yanking her shorts and trousers up. She flushes the
toilet, twists the tap on, and quickly washes her hands. She can't hear any noises
above the rush of water, but she swears she can feel someone standing there outside
the door, waiting for her. Waiting for her with a wand, paranoia, and a capability
that sends her heart into her throat.

She dries her hands on her trousers as she takes the three steps to the corner,
holding her breath as she digs into her robe. She pulls out the notebook and quill,
- 112 -
flipping it open with a glance to the doorknob behind her. Muggle, dead, Finch. 2
responsible - Lloyd, Dixon. IWitworth, Bells leaving to drop body, L & D only present
in 5m.

The letters glow golden before fading, and she flips the notebook shut, pushing it
and the quill back into the pocket. She forces the robe back on, doubling the heat in
her body, and then twists the taps off. She'd like to dunk her entire head into ice
cold water, but they might think it's her nerves since she's never done it before, no
matter how hot it is here.

There's no one in the hallway, though she squints into the shadowed places to be
sure, and walks more quickly than she needs to in case someone appears at her
back. She takes the side of the robe and runs it over her face, drying the wetness,
and then the back of her neck. She emerges into the room with a deep breath, and
immediately begins to cough it back out again, a putrid heaviness in her throat and
settling sourly at the back of her tongue.

"--shouldn't waste it," Lloyd is saying when her coughing fit breaks.

"I'm not saying it again." Malfoy's voice is low and smooth, the pace slow, like the
threat of a snake winding around the column of your throat.

Hermione takes in a very small breath, widening her eyes and raising her
eyebrows when Malfoy looks over at her. Nothing seems to register, so she glances
over at the two men to be sure they're distracted, and then looks back to Malfoy.
She widens her eyes again, dropping them to his chest, then to hers, the body, and
then the door.

Nothing. She's seconds away from throwing her hands up and yelling it at him,
halfway through with her eye movements again, when he speaks.

"Clean the blood up. If the Ministry shows, we don't need them charging part of
our group with murder as well. Witworth, grab its legs."

Its. Its legs. Distantly, she thinks it might appear as if she is trying to conjure
flames with her glare, but he sweeps his own past her as if she's no more
threatening than a spring breeze.

"Where--" Dixon starts, but cuts himself off when Malfoy's eyes snap from the
body and to him.

"How are we going to get rid of all the filthy blood?" Lloyd asks. "I'm not--"
- 113 -
 "Figure it out," Malfoy snaps, but his fingers are in contrast to the harsh tone,
barely skimming over the shirt sleeve of the dead man.

Hermione's knees feel robotic as she walks across the room, creaking and
reluctant in their rock within metal. She crouches, her breath held, and her eyes on
the stretch of torn denim, the safest place to look. Her hands shake, and so she
quickly grabs the back of the knees before Malfoy can notice it as he turns the man
from the wall. In her mind, it's the Great Hall, and the broken sobs over a line of
bodies, and the death of a lot of things too.

She's not even fully upright when Malfoy Apparates them, and her fingers dig
into denim and bloated tissue. Few times has she been the passenger in a
Side-Along, and she recalls every reason as to why that is when she opens her eyes
to blackness. She pulls in a breath at the twist of nausea in her stomach, but the
smell of corpse chokes her, and she gags three times before she can control herself.

Malfoy, surprisingly, says nothing, and she bends to lower the man to the ground
when she feels Malfoy's side slant.

"You don't Apparate me," she says thickly. "I Apparate you."

"Then you shouldn't have stood there like all you'd been wanting was to hold the
legs of a dead Muggle."

"A dead man. Is it necessary to add the classification of his--"

"Is it necessary to add that he's a man and not just a person?" he snaps,
floorboards creaking as he steps…somewhere.

Hermione lights her wand, and finds Malfoy at the edge of the orb of light, his
face shadowed and his eyes dark. "I was busy lifting him, or I would ha-- Don't do it
again."

She narrows her eyes as his left eyebrow arches, and she pretends he doesn't
look sinister enough for her to want to take several paces backwards. She's in an
unknown location with Malfoy and a dead body, it's dark, and he has a wand. His
face is more darkness than it is light, and he doesn't move to change it. She wonders
if he can somehow hear her heartbeat, or if he's just hoping it disturbs her.

"Where are we?"

The other eyebrow raises to join the left now, but the expression is too dull to be
- 114 -
surprise. "You don't recognize it?"

Malfoy Manor, parlor, room under the floor where--

No. It's the house they set up for the group to destroy what feels like months ago.
She shoots him a look, then concentrates on the notebook she pulls from her pocket.

"Are we going back to Linch?"

She ignores him, and doesn't have to look up to see his annoyance.

June 30; 4:57am

Sometimes she thinks the Dementors sunk coldness into the very structure of
Azkaban, and that's how it's always colder the closer they get to it. Or maybe it's
just the dread that robs the warmth from her blood.

"Dixon and Lloyd were arrested tonight." She waits, but he doesn't respond.
"They did it while they were in Knockturn, so Linch can still be used since the
Ministy, or at least they don't think the Ministry, knows about it."

"Arrested for…?"

"Said they were wanted for questioning due to their connections to people who
had recently committed a crime. But they saw the blood on them, under the robes.
They'll discover the body of the man tomorrow and connect it to them."

Malfoy turns his head towards the side of the boat, the passing fog and the roll of
black water. It's the first time she can remember him doing so. She wonders if he's
always preparing for an attack as well.

"Nothing to say?" she asks quietly.

"If I had something to say, I would have said it." Ding…ding. "You'd find the
answer easily enough if you didn't waste the time asking useless questions."

"No question is useless."

"Yes," he mutters. "I've learned you're of that opinion."

Ding…ding…ding.

- 115 -
 Dingding, ding…ding.

"I thought you might have some thought on that matter since you're of the
opinion that the majority of them are innocent."

"Not those two, for obvious reasons. You also waste time on useless assumptions,
Granger."

She frowns, rubbing her fingers over large, dull knuckles. Her own are rigid and
curved, and she misses the comfort of knowing her own hands beneath her touch.

"Did you believe in pure-blood supremacy when you were a child - five, six?"
Ding…ding… "Some of them - the ones in the group - they make me wonder about
that. About the innocence of children, who don't know about the world or the hatred
of others. They believe in simple happiness, like running barefoot in grass, warm
biscuits, or finding worms under rocks. They don't know hate. So I've wondered
when that changes."

"They know what they're taught. If you put a child and his mother into a room
filled with a person of every race, blood heritage, religion, country and culture - that
child will be as accepting of one as they are of another. If that child was told not to
go near anyone wearing orange, that people wearing that color were evil, filthy,
would do bad things, and take from you until you have nothing…he's not going near
anyone wearing orange."

"He fears, but he doesn't hate. Truly--"

"All fear turns to hatred." His head turns back to her, and behind him, Azkaban
emerges from the fog. "All."

"Not until later, though. Their innocence isn't ruined by hatred because--"

"When I was six, my friends and I found an injured squirrel on the ground. We
took knives from the kitchen and cut it from the throat to the bottom of the stomach.
We dissected it, and then we buried it. It didn't matter, because we were curious,
and it was just an animal. Just like a Mudblood. It wasn't like us."

Her hands curve around her knees as the boat rounds into the cave. "Why did you
bury it?"

She might imagine the small sway of his shoulders going back, or maybe her
question has really surprised him. It would be the first time.
- 116 -
 "What?"

"The squirrel. Why did you bury it?"

The lantern jostles when they scrape against the side of the cave, and Hermione
reaches out, pushing them back to the center. She can only make out the center of
the boat and each patch of rock wall they pass, and their voices echo hollowly.

"It bleeds red… Like everything."

"But it was still just an animal."

Ding…ding.

"When you're covered with warm, red blood up to your wrists, it doesn't matter
anymore what it is. It's still blood."

July 1; 12:02am

Crack!

Hermione's whole body jumps, the sound loud enough to feel like it shot through
her skin and rattled her head as dozens of black figures appear around the room in
front of her. There is a single beat of shock, and then a flurry of movement and
yelling. One of them leaps behind Cox in front of her, a hood pulled low enough that
she can only make out a wide chin, and they snag a black band around Cox's eyes.
Hermione raises her wand, sending the person flying back just before a hard mass
collides into the side of her.

She hits the floor with a grunt, wheezing in a breath as she sends an elbow back
into the weight on top of her, and throws herself into a spin with all her strength.
She's dizzy with the sudden speed of her heart as she pushes to her feet and away,
back from the person reaching for her on the floor.

"Stupe"-her head jerks back at the pull of cloth over her eyes-"fy!"

She turns her wand over her shoulder, yelling out another spell as she yanks
herself forward, but her hair only pulls as something tightens at the back of her
skull. She reaches for the band around her eyes as a tug starts at her navel, ripping
the band forward, but it doesn't budge. Her breath sucks in as someone grips her
wand, and she yanks back, kicking out a foot that connects with only air as the
screaming cuts to silence.
- 117 -
 One, two, yelling rushing back in, and bam. Pain shoots up her hip, ribs, and
shoulder, and her teeth clink together at the impact of hitting the floor again. She's
rolling onto her feet before she can control the jumble of her limbs, someone
bumping into her and sending her back a step. She turns quickly, but there's only a
tingle of magic at the base of her spine, the Apparition failing. She moves to point
her wand at herself to cast an Unsticking Charm, but a strong hand wraps around
the top of her arm, and she casts to send them flying back. A hand closes around her
wand the second the spell flashes red through the black band, and their grip stays
strong enough to take it with them when her spell hits.

She yells, the sound getting choked in her throat, and her heart leaping in her
chest. She charges forward, crashing into someone who grabs her shoulders, and
another pair of hands grab her wrists when she raises her hands to shove them
away. She lunges, kicking out as she tries to spin from the holds, but they jerk her
back again. There's a shock of magic across her wrists, and she knows before she
even tries to bring her hands forward. Something stiff and scratchy digs against her
skin, her hands bound behind her back.

Her breathing is nearing hyperventilation with panic, her foot connecting with
something hard that gives under the bottom of her trainer. The hands are back
around her elbows and shoulders, and she's whipped sideways, thrown to the
ground. Her right cheek and the side of her jaw smash against the floor, sending
sparks of pain up the side of her face and around her skull. A foot presses to the
middle of her back, and the breath she tries to draw in just rushes back out as a
heavy weight crushes her. They land on the floor to the other side of her with a
thump as she curls her hands into fists.

Crack.

She tugs her legs up until she's on her knees, lifting her face from the floor, and
staggers to her feet. A breath, the beginning of a name, pushes past her lips before
she squeezes her lips shut. It had felt natural to call out for him at that moment, to
make sure he was okay, but Harry and Ron aren't here. This isn't the war anymore.
She rams her shoulder into whoever brushes her arm, holding her breath to listen to
the sounds around her.

They're gone. Or there, watching.

"Who has a wand?" Hermione asks, her altered voice cracking.

Silence beyond the shuffling and scraping of feet.

- 118 -
 "No one?" someone else asks.

"Did they leave?" another male voice - Fisher, she thinks.

"Perhaps if"-her breath catches at the sound of Malfoy's drawl-"you removed your
blindfold, you could find out for yourself."

"Oh," Fisher mutters.

"It came off?" Hermione asks, knowing Malfoy's acidity knows no boundaries
between truth or lie.

Her head reels back at a touch to her forehead, and then blunt nails scratch down
her skin, curling into the blindfold. It folds her ears as the fabric is yanked down to
her neck, and she blinks in the dull light, Malfoy's face in front of hers, tight with
anger. He's too focused on her for it not to be directed at her, and she wonders if he
actually thinks the Ministry is behind this. She gives a small shake of her head, but
it doesn't seem to convince him.

She tries to give him a look to show how absurd she thinks the thought is, and
then takes four steps away from him to gain enough distance. She looks around the
room, finding Fisher leaning against a wall, and Morgan pinching a bloody nose a
few steps from her. She turns her back towards the wall, glancing between the other
three occupants, and then scanning the contents of the room.

It's completely empty beyond the eight candles spread out along the walls. The
yellow light dances in smooth bows and quick flicks on the brown stone that makes
up the floor and walls. The ceiling appears to be cement, and there's no sign of a
vent. The only opening in the room is a drain in one of the corners, but it's only big
enough to fit her arm if she were at all inclined to putting it down there. There's not
even a locked door to try and break through.

Hermione takes a deep breath that shudders in her throat. No, this definitely isn't
the Ministry - she's fairly certain the higher circle has finally found them.

Hermione watches Morgan approach the corner opposite from her, stopping in
front of the drain. She quickly turns her head when his hands start unbuckling his
belt, and feels a flash of warmth in her cheeks. She slants herself away, wincing
when the rope moves and pulls against the raw feel of her wrists. She had tried to
get the binds off for at least an hour, and only gave up because she thinks she'll
- 119 -
have enough room to pull her hands out when she changes back to her own form.

"You think it's the Ministry?" Fisher asks, moving his finger back and forth
through the candle flame.

"No," Hermione answers gruffly, starting around the room again, inspecting
every inch of wall for anything that might help her leave.

"You think it's some other group trying to stop us? Mudbloods and
blood-traitors?"

"Probably not." She narrows her eyes at a tiny hole in the wall, smaller than the
tip of her littlest finger, but the stones around it are sealed together too well for it to
be a point of weakness. "They aren't doing anything the Ministry wouldn't do, so
there's no reason for them right now."

"Unless they want to kill us," Morgan mutters.

"They would have done it at Linch."

"Unless they can be traced by the Ministry if the bodies are found. It has to be
that. It can't be a group like us, or they wouldn't be keeping us in a room like we're
the Mudbloods." Fisher lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face,
the bottom of his stomach covered in dark hair. "Unless it's a test."

"There's no way out, Witworth, stop fucking pacing," Morgan snaps, and her hand
drops to a wand that isn't there.

"Why would they just put us in a room?" Fisher asks. "Where's the rest of us? And
if it's a test, why are they testing Malfoy?"

Hermione licks her lips, tasting salt, and looks over at the blond. He's wiping
something from the mound beneath his thumb, and looks even calmer than he acts
at Linch. "If you think they brought you here for a test, Fisher, perhaps the better
question is what that test is."

Hermione watches Fisher stare wide-eyed at Malfoy for a moment, and then
retreats back to her corner in the room. There's no way out. Not until they show up
again and bring them out, and as Malfoy had suggested, what for? They'll want to
bring the group into their fold, but only if they appear loyal to the cause and willing
to follow orders. They seem too organized to not be the higher circle, or at least
working for the higher circle, so proving loyalties will be a process.
- 120 -
 Her involvement with this part of the assignment ends here. She has a vial of
anti-truth serum, but Malfoy will need it more. She refuses to kill anyone, and she'll
fake a lack of knowledge in casting anything more pain-inducing than a boil hex.
They'll let her go, kill her, or put her into an absolute bottom position which she'll
stay at for as long as it takes her to find a place to Apparate away.

She has to get out of here with her wand, but if they find out who she is, it'll
never happen. They'll string her up from the ceiling and torture her for months, and
when they kill her, they'll owl her in pieces to Harry. Or they'll use her against him
to draw him here, and try to do the one thing Voldemort died trying to do.

Hermione yanks on the neck of her shirt, her breathing uneven, and presses her
back to the wall. Her skills with wandless magic are unreliable at best, but when her
adrenaline pumps high enough, she might be able to steal a wand. She has to get
out. Shehastogetoutshehastogetoutgetout.

She shuts her eyes as the panic blurs her vision, and rolls her eyes back, around,
forcing a deeper breath. When she opens them again, she turns them towards
Malfoy and the chain that disappears under his shirt. She can't take it from him, and
using the Portkey with him would blow the Assignment. Maybe they can do it now,
and Malfoy can tell them they just had the Portkey, and they didn't know who the
group was. Except this might be the last chance Malfoy has.

She looks up to his eyelids, and he seems to sense it, three quick beats of her
heart passing before he meets her gaze. He looks at her like he's expecting her to
blow this whole thing up in their faces in the next few seconds, but there's a
warning there, too. Perhaps it's not the best time to remind him that there will be
tests and he can fail them just as easily.

Morgan is snoring, and Fisher is moments away from falling asleep, his chin
dropping to his chest before his head snaps up, then dropping back again.

"This is a tactic, you know," she says lowly, her voice as close to her own as it's
going to get without having water for hours. "I've read about it. They lock people
away in rooms, give them no food or water, sometimes deprive them of sleep. Then
they interrogate them, break them down. It's to brainwash them."

"There's nothing to brainwash them with," Malfoy whispers, turning his attention
to Fisher and Morgan.

- 121 -
 "Absolute, unquestionable loyalty? They make themselves the providers. You're
hungry to the point of stomach pain, and then they feed you. You're completely
dehydrated, they give you water. They give you a shower, a soft bed. You're a
prisoner, but they give you everything you need. They believe what you believe.
They build you up. They offer you power. And then you're theirs for life."

He raises an eyebrow, and his gaze slowly climbs the far wall. "Worried they'll
trick you into it?" he drawls.

"No." She shifts until her hands are directly in the empty space of the corner, the
tops of her arms burning from the constant strain of being pulled back. "I'm telling
you what to expect."

His lips press together, and he turns his head to glare at her. His hair is slicked
back from the sweat, and the candlelight flickers to light most his face. For just a
second, they are fourteen again and meeting eyes across a classroom, before they
ever truly understood what evil is or what it will do to them. Then the flame flicks
back, casting him in shadows, and he is once again a man she can't decipher.

"I know far more about what to expect than you can imagine and prepare yourself
for."

She thinks to say that she's always prepared, but it's not the best response when
she's bound, wandless, and captured by the enemy. She swallows dryly, glancing
over at Morgan and Fisher. "There's no reason for them not to accept you. And if
they happen to find one, I'm sure you'll prove them wrong, or at least…defend
yourself." She eyes the area of his chest, and then looks back up at him.

"If they find reason, there will be no current one emerging from myself." He looks
at her as if she's already exposed him. "I'm sure you have means to defend yourself
as well, should you need to." She is guessing he wants her to Portkey out before she
even encounters their kidnappers. She would have hours ago.

"No. I'm just going to be who I currently am, and hope that's good enough for
them. Just be myself." There's a slight widening to his eyes, and he might have paled
or it was the turns of candlelight. She glances over at the two sleeping men, and
then leans a little closer to Malfoy. "No matter what happens, I'm not giving you up."

"Until they torture you, or--"

"I am more than capable of lying under torture." She gives him a significant look,
and he stares at her for a moment before looking away.
- 122 -
 "Veritaserum?"

She looks down at her legs, and freezes at the strand of hair that just reaches the
top of her vision. Withworth's hair is short enough that it's not even a requirement
to brush it.

"Pull my hood down," she rushes out on a breath, in case her face turns back
before her hands and she doesn't get to it fast enough.

"What?"

"My hood, pull it down. Quick."

He moves towards her, his eyes lit with something she can't understand but that
makes her breath come faster. He smells of sweat and dirt as he reaches around to
her back, yanking the hood up and over her head, and then pulls it down, down,
down. She can't see him now, and something trembles in her chest as she realizes
she won't be able to see around her until the moment they come.

"You're out?"

"No. Preservation." She'll take another vial of Polyjuice the second she hears the
sound of Apparition, but she's not wasting it before then - she only has three, and
she doesn't know how long she'll last here. "Good?"

He pauses, and she's seconds away from twisting and jerking until the hood falls
back when he speaks. "Yes."

She hesitates, angling her head to see as much of the floor as she can, but she
can't find the tips of his shoes. "Thanks."

She slides very slowly down the wall, and doesn't hear him move or breathe. Her
fists clench as the Polyjuice's magic begins to unwind itself from the shape of her,
and she waits for anything that might come now.

There's a banging overhead, and occasionally a loud zipping noise will spear
through the crashing. Hermione imagines axes, hatchets, hammers, and blunt,
heavy objects. She imagines body parts in black bags, and a line of corpses on a
conveyer belt, zipping across nylon before being tossed into flames. She imagines
people fighting for their lives, and others dropping from chains on the wall. She
- 123 -
imagines a half-giant with broken teeth and bloodstained, gnarled fingers.

She dips her head to her arm, sweat soaking through the fabric of her sleeve, and
is careful to keep her balled fists out of sight. She breathes humidity, earth, and
sourness, the hot air almost painful in the dryness of her mouth and throat.

"What do you think they're doing?" Fisher asks, and she can hear the fear
through the wonder.

"The test," Morgan says, somehow sure.

Hermione and Malfoy don't answer.

She thinks she can feel it before she hears the quick taps of feet from Malfoy's
direction, but she's always so sure that she feels something, she can't ever really
know if it's there anymore. Something skims the top of her shoulder, and then
there's a smack of skin, a grunt, and the shuffling scrape of feet.

"Don't touch him."

"I was just checking to see if he was dead," Morgan snaps.

"I don't give a shit."

Hermione releases the breath she had been holding. If Malfoy hadn't stopped him
and Morgan turned her, there's no way she would have made it out of here. She had
been sitting buried in her robe for who knows how long, facing the corner, and
fading in and out in her exhaustion. She had made little more conversation other
than grunting in response to something, and had only moved when they were all
sleeping. She's more surprised Malfoy stopped him than she is that they've started
to suspect something.

She had made two terrible trips to the drain at the other corner of the room, but
beyond that, never left her spot. There's nothing to do anyway, but sit, wait, and
contemplate survival while her stomach twists itself into harder knots of anxiety and
hunger.

"Is there something wrong with him?" Fisher whispers, as if she can't hear him
when he's so close behind her.

- 124 -
 "I don't know," Malfoy says. There's a pause, and then his shoes tapping back to
the spot he had claimed as his. "So don't touch him."

Hermione lifts her head as Morgan's snores begin on the other side of the room,
and carefully turns towards where she knows Malfoy is sitting. She reaches up
carefully, pulling the side of the hood more to obscure her face from where Moran
and Fisher are. She shoves wet curls back from her eyes with her other hand, and
gets a good look at Malfoy for the first time since he pulled her hood down. She
doesn't know how long they have been here, but by the growth on his face, she is
guessing at least three days now.

She makes a light hissing noise, and his eyes move until he's looking at the floor
halfway across the room. She makes the sound again, and his right eye twitches
before he turns his head to look at her. She tilts her head towards Morgan and
Fisher, and she doesn't think his moment of contemplation has anything to do with
wondering what she means. Her eyes narrow at the possibilities for why he doesn't
want to answer her.

"You're safe," he murmurs.

Hermione gives a nod as she pulls the notebook halfway out of her pocket, and
then glances at it quickly. Still nothing. She pulls it into her lap, shuts it, and then
opens it again. Blank. Either the Ministry hasn't received her note, or they don't feel
it's safe to communicate with her. Either way, she can't hold onto it any longer.

Destroying the notebook, she writes. Same details apply as last message. The quill
tip hovers over the paper, and her wrist flexes forward before she draws her hand
back. There's nothing else to say that doesn't sound like giving up, and Hermione is
not the sort of person who gives up.

Malfoy's lack of faith in the Ministry doesn't allow for any sort of expectation in
his expression as he looks at her, and she doesn't bother confirming or denying his
assumptions. He must know anyway.

She rips large sections of the small notebook, folds them, and rips them again.
She does it slowly to keep it as quiet as possible, and Malfoy turns his attention back
to the other side of the room.

"You know, no one is ever safe," she whispers, watching the strip break into
rectangles. "People get into car accidents, are randomly attacked, struck by
- 125 -
lightning. Some freak accident - some series of events that no one would even think
possible, and it happens in just such a way, the only way out of a million others, to
kill a person. Disease, murder, an incorrectly brewed potion, an overdose. Cold, wet
conditions, heat stroke. Heart attacks, aneurisms. Staircases. Large swallows. Stray
spells and bullets. War. Always war, somewhere."

She rips the cover, heavier and louder, folds it, tears it apart. Her skin feels like
it's covered in a layer of grime from days worth of sweating on stone floors. She had
embraced the heat, the liquid covering her and the harder push of her blood in it,
but she feels gross and slow.

"Thousands of people woke up this morning never expecting to die. They

expected to do what they do every day. But then they're falling down a staircase, or
their husband turns and stabs them through their chest, their mother shakes them, a
stranger demands their money, gets a Galleon, and leaves them to die in an alley.
They get hit by a train. Their building starts on fire. Kids who want to be Death
Eaters take them from the street, beat them until they're a bloody mass, and then
kill them without reason or regret. We didn't expect to be here - here we are."

The rectangles turn into squares, and she folds up the bottom of her shirt,
trapping them in the cloth. Her legs are shaky and her knees crack when she tries to
stand, and it takes her a bit of wobbling that burns the tips of her ears. She hasn't
eaten or moved in too long to be coordinated now, and she presses her palm to the
wall before she can embarrass herself further in front of Malfoy.

"Safety is just something we tell ourselves. We lock our doors, we carry our
weapons, we drive and fly safe, we walk with someone at night. We learn how to
defend. We read stories about rapists and serial killers, and think we can spot them,
even when someone always says, 'Oh, he was so normal'. But it's a lie. Nothing we
do will protect us forever unless it's by chance, and no one ever knows it's coming.
We expect it tomorrow, or in fifty years, or one hundred. But then it's today, and you
don't know until it's there. No one's safe."

The little pieces of paper fall into the hole like snow, and she has to pick some
from the damp cloth of her shirt. She looks over at Malfoy, and his eyes raise from
the tiny blizzard. He scrutinizes her, the nail of his thumb rubbing back and forth
over the fingertip of his index.

"I didn't say I disagreed."

"You didn't say you agreed either."

- 126 -
 "That's a problem for you, isn't it, Gh…" He almost says her name, but it turns
into a heavy breath.

"Safety? It's--"

"Someone not agreeing with you."

She shrugs, clutching the quill in her pocket. It would be better to get rid of it in
case they test it for a spell, but it's her only weapon source, and perhaps the risk is
worth it. No happy end is reached without at least one risk being taken before it.
None.

"N-- Yes," she says, and his eyebrow raises. "In some cases. Other--"

"Almost."

Her forehead wrinkles, and she glances over at Fisher and Morgan as she moves
back to her corner. "Almost what?"

"You were almost honest with yourself about that infuriating habit you have of
always believing yourself to be right, no matter who is disagreeing or on what
subject."

"All people think they're right about any of their beliefs, Malfoy. If they didn't,
they wouldn't believe it."

"Not in all cases. There are plenty of people who do things they don't believe in
every day of their lives, or pretend to believe in them. You, however, believe
everything you think is correct, and have no regard to the opinions of--"

"That's not true. I almost always listen to the opinions of others."

"Out of respect, and with no intention to consider it. Or to find the weaknesses in
it that you could exploit in order to make the other person believe you are right."

She snorts, and Malfoy raises his eyebrows at the sound. "You would know
something about those methods, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he says, easily, simply.

She blinks at him, and sharply turns away at the twitch to the corner of his
mouth.
- 127 -
 7

Crack.

Hermione's eyes snap open with the sound, the tips of her ears pulling back, up,
or whatever direction might explain the pull she feels there. The vial of Polyjuice is
already in her hand, and the cork tumbles down her chest before she throws it back.

She underestimated the difficulty of pulling her changing arms from the sleeves
of her robes. For a blurry second, she's sure she'll never get it off, and it'll forever
stay stuck about her elbows and the expanding width of her back. She hunches
forward, shoving the robe back, and reaches into an inside pocket as soon as she
clears an arm. It's too late, however, and there's a span of two pounding heartbeats
where she almost pulls out the vial anyway. It slips from her hot palm as someone
hauls her to her feet, and she wrenches her hand out of the pocket to fling off the
rest of the robe.

She throws it towards Malfoy, giving him a significant look as she stumbles back
a step. He looks conflicted or frantic as he stands with the robe in his hands, but he
must know what she's looking at him for because she can see his shoulder push
forward as he searches within the fabric.

There's not enough time. There's a hooded figure a step from Malfoy, and no way
he'll be able to take the serum before they bind him or keep him under watch.
Hermione shoves herself forward at the start of a spin from the person with a grip
on her, breaking from their hold. They're reaching for her when she whirls to face
them, and she shoves them hard enough for them to stagger. There are some
situations where a person is afraid, and they think I can't, I can't. But Hermione
knows war, and so she knows the feeling of terror, and she is brave. There is no I
can't, there is only I must, I must.

Someone grabs her from behind, and she throws an elbow back twice, a hrgh of
air colliding with the back of her ear. The figure in front of her moves forward as she
does, and she stomps on their foot, slamming palms into their chest. The candlelight
illuminates clenched teeth in the darkness of the hood as someone grabs her arms,
and she kicks out, her foot connecting with the kneecap of the person in front of her.

They cry out, a male voice, as their leg buckles and they fall in an ungraceful

- 128 -
flying of limbs and body jerks. Hermione throws herself forward, but the grip on her
arms yanks back. Her sense of gravity is lost somewhere in the rocking, and when
the person behind her lets go, she has to whirl her arms for balance. The man in
front of her stands with a heave of breath, and she takes a step back, only to be
shoved forward.

The man grabs a fistful of her shirt, twisting it as he pulls her forward, and
though she can see the fist flying at her, she doesn't comprehend it. Spells, balls of
parchment, stray Bludgers, enchanted notes, sailing objects - these are things she
knows and can prevent from hitting her. A fist is certainly not something she's
encountered like this before, and there's a burst of shocked stillness in her
unknowing that makes her do nothing more than freeze in place.

The knuckles collide with her cheekbone, and her head whips back and to the
left. Numbness splinters out to consume her face, followed quickly by a shock of
pain, and then burning skin. Her vision blinks out at the ceiling, coldness engulfs
her, and then it's another ceiling altogether.

She releases a hiss of air, her mouth snapping shut at the teeth still bared in front
of her. She's shoved back, and then turned in a hard jerk. The back of her leg hits
something that scrapes, and she wraps her hand around the man's wrist, pushing it
away from her, but his fingers are clenched. She stumbles back another step at the
palm shoved into her chest, the back of her knees hitting a ledge, and then she falls
with a pull at the back of her shirt.

Her bum hits hard against a chair, the grips releasing her, and she's immediately
back on her feet. There's a part of her that wants to stay in the chair, calm and
composed, but there's a larger part of her that can't stop the instinctive need to
fight, escape, fightfight. She whips an arm out into the man's chest when he steps
back towards her, and she ducks the first punch, punching out her own fist and
hitting something that shocks her knuckles. She doesn't miss his second. It clips her
jaw, reeling her back as red bursts in her vision, and she falls into the chair again. It
tips on its legs, and she jerks the other way, the side of her face pounding in a
burning ache.

She moves to stand again, but she's shoved down by the shoulders, and more
hands grab her wrists, snapping her arms forward. She pushes her feet into the
ground, all her weight and leg strength behind the push back, but coldness clamps
down around her skin and she knows it's over.

She doesn't even have the time to give a panicked sweep around the room,
something hitting into the back of her head and smashing her face off the table in
- 129 -
front of her. Her nose crunches, and her whole face goes hot as pain shoots from her
nose and to the back of her skull. A strange grugh strangles up from her throat as
someone growls, and a cold feeling sparks behind her eyes before heat leaks down
her face.

She picks her head up with a gasp of an exhale, and then sucks oxygen in, blood
running down over her mouth as her eyes settle on a man sitting across the table.
He's glaring at her, and when she rips her arms back, her raw, bruised wrists only
shove into metal cuffs. She blinks, her vision distorted with the burn of pain in her
entire face, and the cuffs rattle as she tries to wiggle her hands out.

The man watches her. His dark blond hair is combed to the left, his eyes are
brown, and his face is clean. He doesn't look any older than mid-thirties, and if his
eyes weren't lit with some sort of manic glee, he might have appeared approachable
anywhere else.

She just hopes Malfoy had enough time to take the serum. She hopes for a lot of
things, but whatever is about to happen, it had better not be for nothing.

Her breath trembles, and her chest aches from the twist of heavy emotions and
her heart beating wildly through them.

"Who are you?" the man asks, short and clipped.

"Charles Witworth," she answers, pushing her voice into something as deep and
gruff as it can be without sounding too forced. It comes out stranger than she
thought it would, but it might be from the blood running down the back of her
throat, and the fact that it's the most liquid she's had doing so for days.

"Blood status?"

She hesitates, but it's barely a second, and she hopes they aren't too skilled with
interrogations. She doesn't meet his eyes just in case. "Half-blood."

The others might have said Withworth was a pure-blood, but the lie wouldn't hold
up now with these people.

"How long have you been in the group?"

"About three weeks."

She glances up in habit, and sees the man glance over her head. It's not long
- 130 -
enough to be trusted by anyone when none of them have heard of her…him before.
Especially when she had fought them.

She swallows hard, tasting metallic, and stares at her blood on the faded,
chipped, white table. Red dashes out in streaks and splotches, and she hopes he got
some on his hand. She hopes it sinks into his skin and never comes out again.

"Why are you angry, Witworth?"

"I thought you were the Ministry." She glances up at the wall behind the man's
head, chains hanging from the ceiling, and a torch battering flames in both corners.

"And now?"

"I don't know." Petulance doesn't work as well in her forced timber, and she has
to swallow twice to keep from coughing blood all over herself. "I'm a half-blood, and
you've treated us like Mudbloods."

"You're a half-blood who attacked pure-bloods and ha-"

Her face feels like it's broken open, and sweat is starting to burn the wounds
harder as it drips from her hairline. The blood isn't slowing, either. "I didn't know
who you were. You should have identified yourself."

The man's eyes narrow, and his body sways forward. "You have a problem with
authority, huh?"

Crap. "Not usually." She doesn't know what they want - someone who appears
completely submissive, or someone who hates authority enough to hate the Ministry
but not them.

It's a thin line to play this game, and she knows she's falling all over it when the
man sneers at her and looks to someone behind her. Fingers try to find a grip in her
hair, fail, and then smack into her forehead. Her head is shoved back, and another
hand grabs her jaw, fingers pressing hard into the bone. Her mouth pops open on a
whine of pain as the fingers clench against the spot she was punched in, and a vial
tips over her lips. She automatically swallows the liquid the moment it touches the
start of her throat, and the hands pull away from her as she bends her head to
cough and hack over it.

She pulls her arms again, but they stay trapped. Sucking in a breath, the hitch of
a cough sticks in her throat, and she swallows it back, watching the blood drip from
- 131 -
her nose and onto the legs of her trousers.

Okay. Okay, she tells herself, closing her eyes long enough to take another breath.

If they find her out, she'll try to break the table. It's old, and even if she can't do it
physically, she might be able to conjure enough wandless magic. It doesn't take
control to break through wood. Getting a wand or getting out will be the hardest
part.

Okay. Okay.

"Let's try again," the man says, his tone light and mildly amused.

She curls her fingers into her palms, licking salt and metal from her lips.

"Do you have a problem with authority?"

Their authority. "Yes."

"That's better." He smiles, and it's white, thin, and makes her stomach turn.
"What's your name?"

Sees Witworth as you, your name is, "Witworth."

"Are you committed to the cause?"

Bring down the revival. "Yes."

"Are you willing to sacrifice anything that might be required of you for the
mission?"

Bring down the revival. "Yes."

She takes a deep breath, and then does her best to appear less panicked and
angry and more annoyed. She's the one who sits on the other side of the table - she
knows what to watch for, because she watches for it herself. Now she's on this side,
but at least she has the benefit of a lesser interrogator than her. No matter how the
oddity makes her feel jumbled up inside.

"Do you like me?" he asks through a smirk.

"No."
- 132 -
 He grins. "Are you willing to kill Mudbloods for the mission?"

Mudblood is a word, kill a wor-- "No."

Oh no.

The man's grin drops in a blink, and her nails bite into her palm.

"Are you willing to use any Unforgivables against a Mudblood?"

Unforgivable to them, so to-- "No."

No, no, no. Her breath hitches, and her heart is pounding at the base of her throat
until she can feel her whole head thumping with it. The man's face is a picture of
ill-intent, and her adrenaline races even faster than the rush of her blood.

"If a Death Eater's life was at risk, would you kill the person attacking them?"

Other person is a Death Eater, victim is-- "No." The word is forced up her throat
and across her tongue before she can pick apart the statement enough to change
the truth.

The man sits back in the chair, studying her, and she can't seem to swallow as
she stares at his forehead. Her fingers are trembling from nerves or the strength in
which she has tightened them, her body tense in wait. A drop of sweat slips down
from her temple, over her cheek, and into the pain of her jaw. He shifts, and she
glances down long enough to see him looking behind her before her cuffs click open.

Her arms snap back and she's on her feet before they grab her, her movements
feeling clumsy and stiff as she stumbles over her fallen chair. They yank her forward
and she hauls herself back, shoving out at them before they kick the back of her
legs. She hits the ground on her knees, and grabs the first pair of ankles she sees,
pulling them towards her with all the strength she can manage. The man hits the
ground with a heavy, loud grunt, and she dives for a wand before her vision is
eclipsed by white.

Scr, scr, cuh…cuhcuh.

A breath. It fills her with cool air and a foul sweetness. Her face feels stiff and
painful, and then there's the feel of rigid bumps under her palms and cheek.
- 133 -
Hermione's eyebrows draw together, and the headache at the center of her forehead
knots harder in response.

Scr, cuhcuh…scruh, cr, creh.

She opens her eyes to a blue-tinted light, grey pavement, and plastic bag rolling
across the… She jerks up, her arms wobbling under her weight, and coughs over the
harsh inhale. Her eyes water with it and the wind, focusing on a woman walking
past the far end of the alley who doesn't spare her a glance.

Hermione leans her head back, looking at the tops of the two buildings to either
side of her, the birds walking along the edge of a nearby dumpster, and then down
at her hands. The knuckles of one are bruised, and they're both dotted in blood, just
like the pavement where her face had been.

She pushes to her knees, her heartbeat speeding up, and her hand flies to her
wand holster. She finds a patch of skin instead, the sagging waist of a pair of
trousers, and an aching jaw when it presses to her shoulder as she tries to get a look
at herself.

Oh, God.

These aren't her clothes. She…she had Polyjuice only time wear these things
switch clothes, I was in my flat, adding notes, report on Lloyd and Dixon killing,
meeting with group tomorrow, met with group, definitely met with group,
Obliviation, memory charm, where's Malfoy.

It takes her three tries to stand, and she has to lean against the wall the get her
balance together. She holds the edge of her trousers with one hand and searches
her body with the other, finding her wand in her back pocket. She stares at it like
one might after finding a stick shoved in their trousers after a night of partying.

She rolls it in her palm, wondering how she feels like she's dead if she had this
with her. Surprise? Why wouldn't they take her wand? Why would they leave her
alive? Was it Malfoy? Did he do something he wants her to forget?

She sucks in a breath, holds it until her chest hurts, and then releases it in a loud
huff. Her hand tightens around her wand, and she Apparates to the first place she
thinks to go, her mind spinning. She feels filthy and exhausted as she runs for the
door, and she can smell herself through the oversized shirt, making her fear just
how long it's been since she's showered.

- 134 -
 Ginny stares at her pale and wide-eyed, and Hermione's words just crack into a
whine through her dry throat.

"Hermione, what the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know. Where's Harry?"

"Looking for you." Ginny grabs her arm and pulls her inside. "I'll Floo him now.
He's probably still at the Ministry. I just--"

Kingsley gave her direct access to his office at the beginning of this, but she
hasn't used it enough to know where it'll put her exactly. "I'll go there. Do you have
a robe?"

"You need to go to Mungo's, your face--"

"I don't need to go to Mungo's!" Hermione yells, and she's too frantic to feel
guilty for it, but Ginny doesn't seem to care.

"I can't Glamour that," she says, flinging open a closet door, and pulling a robe
out hard enough for three others to fall to the floor. "Keep the hood low. He should
be in Kingsley's office. Ron is probably there, too."

That will be slightly problematic, but there are bigger things to worry about now.
"How long have I been gone?"

"Five days."

"Jesus," Hermione hisses, aches creeping through her arms and back as she pulls
the robe on. Five days. Five. Days. Anything could have happened in five days.
Malfoy could be dead or in complete hiding by now.

Ginny pulls the hood over her head as Hermione's fingers struggle numbly with
the buttons. "I'm better at healing spells than any of them, so if you can't go to
hospital, come--"

"I will." Hermione hitches the trousers up as she walks quickly for the fireplace,
Ginny close behind her.

"I mean it, Hermione. They never work as well when you do them yourself, so it
would be stupid of you to try."

- 135 -
 "Yes, okay." She grabs the powder from the mantle, throwing it into the flames
before following it. "Kingsley Shacklebolt's office!"

Rooms zoom past her line of sight as she tries to hold on to any bit of composure,
but she feels like everything inside of her is shaking. She formulates check lists in
her mind, but there's nothing she can do until she speaks to the Minister. They'll
know more than her. She hopes.

The rooms stop at a strip of desk and the back of a woman with short, blonde
hair. She turns in a routine spin of boredom, but her entire face seems to go lax the
moment she realizes someone is stepping out of the flames and not trying to talk
through them.

Hermione gives her a nod as she sweeps her gaze over the room, recognizing it
as the reception area outside of the Minister's office. She turns sharply to the left,
moving around the receptionist, which seems to piece the woman's mind back
together.

"Excuse-- How-- What are you doing?"

"I'm here to see the Minister."

"You can't just--"

"The riders have jumped the fence," Hermione mutters, skirting around the desk
and walking faster at the clicks of high heels behind her. Hermione's trainers are
too large, and they thump off her heel and to the floor with every step.

"I will summon security if you don't--"

Hermione turns back around, and snaps, "I said, the riders have jumped the
fence!"

By the look on the woman's face, she wonders if she even remembered that right,
or if the woman is declaring her mad and about to dive for the security alert.
Hermione doesn't care what she does, as long as she reaches Kingsley's office first,
and so she runs.

It's locked when she twists the knob, and she forgets all rules of conduct as she
bangs against the heavy wood. For three seconds, she is the same as the rest of the
world when confronted by the wandpoints of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley - a flash
of fear, an immediate reaction. But she only feels the sear of guilt when they have
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lowered their wands and hers is still half-raised, instinct screaming survival in her
blood before her thoughts can catch up.

"Merlin, Hermione, what--"

"I'm fine," she rushes out, pushing Ron's chest to get enough room to shove
herself inside.

She kicks the door shut behind her as Kingsley moves from around his desk, and
Ron's arm pushes over her shoulder, his hand clenching into the fabric of her robe
to keep her in place or validate her presence. Harry yanks her hood back and keeps
his hand there, his eyes widening as his face pales.

"Wh--"

"Ginny said five days. I don't remember them. Where's Bells?"

Harry's expression doesn't change, but he also stops blinking. Kingsley stops his
approach, and Ron's eyes are narrowing.

"Who in the bloody hell is Bells?"

July 7; 7:05pm

Hermione circles back, checking every room and closet on the way to her office,
but she only finds the glint of Pepper's eyes in the shadows of her hallway. She
pauses in front of her office door, looking down the stretch of darkness and to the
globe of light shining from the dining room and into the hallway. She didn't check
behind the drapes or in the cabinets, and someone could have taken down her
wards, taken their Animagus form, and then hid. But if the higher circle wanted her,
they would have kept her - and if Malfoy had told them everything, he still doesn't
know where she lives.

The doorknob to her office is turned halfway in her palm before she releases it
with a click, striding quickly back down the hallway. She checks the rooms again,
making sure to pull back drapes and open drawers and cabinets, but she finds
nothing but emptiness, a few organized papers, and a handful of dishes.

There's a bottle of wine in the second to last cabinet she opens, and she goes
back to it, tapping her fingers on the edge of the wooden door as she stares at it.
She closes the cabinet, turning for the fridge, and inspects the drawer of apples,
near-empty milk carton, and two takeaway containers. She bites her lip, pulling
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back, and sends a side-glance to Pepper.

"I think we'll go with the wine, what do you think?"

Pepper sits next to the stove, tail flicking to curve around her body, and her eyes
squinted. Hermione shuts the fridge with a press of her sock-clad toes, and opens
the cabinet again, pulling out the wine.

"Don't judge me, Pepper. Sometimes I'm a bit inclined to have a glass of wine."
Hermione points the top of the bottle at the cat as she pulls out a glass. "There's
nothing wrong with that. I'm not getting drunk. I won't forget to feed you. And Harry
and Ron fed you while I was gone, didn't they? That wasn't my fault, you know."

If Crookshanks was here, she wouldn't have to worry about checking for people,
Animagus form or not. He would have let her know the moment she opened the
door. Pepper was more likely to run away from her. Cowardly cat.

Pepper only proves Hermione right when she reaches for her, and the cat leaps
into a spin before darting out the room. Hermione frowns at the empty space, taking
a gulp of her wine, and then sucking her tongue from the roof of her mouth at the
taste.

She'll leave for Rome in a few hours to make sure Malfoy isn't there. She had
considered staying at the safe house, but it could be dangerous if he showed up with
anyone. If he showed up at all.

She can't remember anything that happened, much like those kids they had
started finding a half year ago, who would show up in a street with no memory of
the months they had been gone. She's sure it's the same people who took her, or at
least connected to them - she doesn't believe in coincidences that much.

Harry and the Aurors had received messages from her through the notebook, but
said they hadn't replied in case the notebook had been found after she wrote them.
All they had known was that she was trapped in a room with Malfoy and two others,
and by the time they looked to track Malfoy, his dot wasn't on any maps. She hadn't
had the notebook or any potion vials on her when she woke up in the street, but it
may have been the reason they got rid of her. If they had found out it was her, they
would have killed her or used her. If they had found out the Assignment…

There are four possibilities that have been spinning in her head since she left
Kingsley's office yesterday, and all four are valid enough that she has no order for
their likelihood. Malfoy had run at first opportunity, and has no plan on returning.
- 138 -
He's in with the group, or at least is still passing whatever tests they've laid out for
him, and has had no need for the Portkey. He was caught by surprise before he
could use the Portkey, or while he had been bound, and is now dead. Or he had sold
out the Assignment at first opportunity, and is now exactly where he intended to be,
plotting with the Dark to take down the Ministry and take over the wizarding world.

She does, however, know the order of her preferences for them, and wonders why
Malfoy's death is at the very bottom of it. Malfoy has always been capable.
Intelligent, skilled, logical, connected, observant, stealthy, manipulative, driven, and
with the ability to categorize, compartmentalize, and appear completely neutral
within seconds. But his emotions derail him. His emotions are what have made him
capable but unable to fight for the Dark. If he has become able, he'll be a far greater
threat to them than he ever was a weapon. Logically, his death should be more
preferable to her than him on the side of the Dark. But, she supposes, her emotions
derail her as well, and few times in her life has any person's death been the
preferred choice.

The Aurors are already looking at any places Malfoy could have gone, but their
only real option right now is to wait.

Hermione sinks into her office chair, taking a sip of her wine as she studies the
folders on her desk. Sometimes she notices the silence as a buzz in her ears, and it
fills up her entire head until it's all she can pay attention to. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
.

She sets her glass down, and taps her fingers on the edge of her desk, reaching
for the first file.

July 9; 1:34am

She's running down a long corridor, and there is a small ball of light in the
distance, growing smaller the closer she gets to it. She has to reach it before it
diminishes, but she turns away, the same turn she always takes, the one she knows
she must. For a second, like every time, she awaits a wall, but it's empty space and
more darkness, and she keeps running. The pound of feet behind her doubles,
triples, a group growing into an army, and her knees hit something soft.

She falls forward and bounces, her face full of soft fabric, and she flips over. The
room is golden, and Malfoy stands next to the bed, staring down at her, dozens of
silver and ivory masks gleaming behind him. She scrambles back, back, and her
wand falls from her grip, falling under the bed as Malfoy watches her patiently, as if
he knows she can't escape. She rolls off the bed, hitting the ground on her side, and
- 139 -
dives under, reaching for…

Hermione's eyes snap open to the dark red glow of her alarm clock lighting the
ceiling, and flies up to a sitting position, expecting Malfoy somewhere in her room.
There's only the glow of Pepper's eyes as the cat moves across the top of her
dresser.

Hermione releases the breath she had been holding, glancing over at her
nightstand. The candle she had set up yesterday isn't lit, so no one is inside Rome.
She reaches up, wiping at the cool sweat along her forehead, and flings her blankets
off as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

July 11; 9:39pm

Hermione shoots up to her feet, her office chair flying back as she jumps in that
direction, her wand pulled and aimed at the floor. Pepper is away from her legs and
already at the door, flashing through it before bounding down the hallway.

She feels a curl of guilt at scaring the cat away, but she's used to it running
toward her before attacking, not silently creeping before pushing itself against her.
Hermione rubs her palm over her face, bending to pick up her dropped quill and
retrieve her chair.

She sighs loudly as she sits, scooting herself closer to her desk, and picks up the
fallen letter. The handwriting is sloppy and slanted, and if she hadn't read it so often
in the past, she doubts she would be able to so easily now. She skims, searching for
where she was.

…in a few weeks and I think we should do something for it. If you can't find time
out of your busy schedule, then I don't want to hear you complaining about what I
plan. That's if you feel like talking at all, or maybe you already have plans and
they're a big secret I can't know about. Do I have to end my break from the Ministry
work or do I get invited anyway? Will we talk in code all night, or will Harry and you
just… She skims a little more. …or have the party be on a time schedule, or at a
library. He'll want to get pissed on his birthday, eat cake, and be out of the public.
So don't plan without me. I'm serious, Hermione.

Ron.

And if you decide to tell me what in the bloody hell is going on, you

know whe can owl me and I might respond.

- 140 -
 She drops the letter back on the desk, rolling her eyes, and then grabs a blank
sheet of parchment.

July 13; 2:04am

It takes her a few seconds to realize why everything feels wrong while her mind
tries to drag her back into sleep, but the rush of her blood is validated as soon as
she recognizes the ruuurruuurruuur drifting faintly into her bedroom. Her mind
clicks onto it, and finally darts the signals down that her body has been waiting for,
and she's falling out of the bed in her rush to movegorun as she swipes her wand
from the nightstand.

Her bare feet slap sharply down the wood of her hallway, and she flings her office
door open hard enough for it to crack off the wall before swinging back to her. The
orb she had been using as a paperweight is glowing a bright blue, and she squints
through the temporary blindness as her eyes adjust.

Bells has activated the Portkey, is written in black letters within a swirling fog,
and her heart jumps as her mind stumbles over the possibilities. She taps the orb
with her wand, the room falling into silence, and the letters replaced by a blue,
shimmering liquid as the light fades.

She races back to her bedroom, trading her business attire for jeans and a t-shirt
as she wiggles and hops around her bedroom. She forgoes socks as she yanks her
trainers on, and rubs the sleep from her eyes as she runs towards the fireplace.

The Atrium is empty when she arrives, and if she wasn't used to it normally being
that way by the time she left work, she might have found it eerie. At any point
between five in the morning to five at night, it's filled with rushing people and busy
chatter. Now, her footsteps echo against the walls, and there are only four guards
who watch her blankly as she tries to stop herself from breaking into a run to the
lifts.

She jabs at the button, pressing it harder and longer than necessary, and it
beeps, the doors opening. She's reaching for the panel of buttons with the first step
inside, and taps at the button for level two until the doors finally shut. She clasps
her hands in front of her, her right foot tapping loudly, and stares at her distorted
image in the shine of the walls. She would normally take the stairs, hating to be
trapped inside a box, but she'll get there faster this way than climbing six flights.

She should have brought her briefcase. She'll be escorting Malfoy back to
Azkaban at some point tonight, no matter what happens, and she'll have to do an
- 141 -
interview. She can find some parchment, ink, and quills, and she might still have
that briefcase in her office that Ron had got her. It isn't enough for her workload
and organization most days, but she keeps it for him to think she's using it when he
visits her at work. She's fairly sure Harry does the same thing with the one she got
him.

"Come on, come on," she mutters, checking her wrist to find skin. Wonderful.

Malfoy activated the Portkey. Activated the Portkey. Something went terrible,
then. They caught on to him, found him out, imprisoned him. Maybe they tortured
him, or were about to kill him. Maybe he did something to make them suspicious,
and scared, he ran. Maybe--

The lift beeps as it shudders to a stop, and her heart pauses in the moment
between stillness and the doors opening. She turns sideways to get out of them
before they open more, and she moves past the row of lifts, turning left into a
corridor. She glances over at the large room of desks, chairs pushed in all directions
and lengths of space from where they belong. There's a man in the far back, and a
woman frowning at a stack of files, but neither one of them look up at her.

Left, right, right, right, left. The guard straightens up when she rounds the
corner, watching her pace stay steady and fast, and his hand rises to his hip. He
curves his hand around it, but she knows better, the end of a wand in the reach of
stretching fingers.

She shoves a hand into her pocket, pulling out her Ministry identification, and
then holds it up to him. She's forced to stop when flashing it isn't enough, and she
lets out a heavy breath of aggravation as he narrows his eyes at it. He looks from the
card to her face, the card, her face, the card, and her lips press tightly and tighter
with each passing second that's wasted and scratching on her nerves.

"What's your purpose for being here?"

Did they not inform the guards she was coming? "I have a meeting with Pruit and
Leacher."

He gives a nod, finally, and turns as he pulls his wand. He holds the tip to the
door, and she can see a deep blue glowing directly under the point before he taps
out a pattern. The door clicks, and with a left drag of his wand, opens.

Despite her rush, she waits until he's put his wand away before sliding past him
and into the room. There's a low hum of conversation, and she watches from the
- 142 -
corners of her eyes as Aurors glance up and then take a second look, the room
falling silent. There's a board near the front of the room that a woman reaches up to
spin out of sight, but the rest of them are still.

She reaches the wide door on the other side of the room and pushes it open. Cells
line the path in front of her, and two guards stand on the other end, shoulders
pressed together and backs straight. She swallows hard as she shuts the door
behind her, lifting her chin, and walks forward. She doesn't bother to check the cells
for prisoners, though she swears she can feel them staring at her, waiting for the
second when she edges too close.

Her jeans tighten on her legs with every step, pressing her wand tighter to her
body, and she takes comfort in the hard reminder of it.

She doesn't have to lift her identification card before the two guards step to
either side of a door, and her hand feels clammy on the knob. The hallway is well-lit,
a few office doors and meeting rooms dotted down the length. She hears the guards
follow her in, their footsteps speeding up to match hers, and her blood starts
rushing a little faster.

"Excuse me, Miss Granger."

She steps back to let the man pass, and bumps into the woman trying to slide
behind her. The woman makes a sound that might have been oops if letters had been
part of it, and Hermione stiffens at the hand on her arm as the woman steps around.

Hermione pulls the wand from her pocket as the guards tap at the stone wall in
front of them, and she spins it in her palm, trying to prepare herself. She doesn't
know how this is about to go, but whatever it is, she doesn't think it's going to be
good.

A heavy, stone door appears in the wall, and the man takes a key from his pocket,
sliding it into one of the locks. It opens with a click as the woman pulls out another
key, twisting it in the lock below the first. They both turn back to face the way they
had come, their gazes on the far wall. The door opens with a vibrating, grinding
noise, and reveals Harry, Leacher, and Pruit in front of a large cell. The metal bars
along the front and one side make it appear more like a cage than any cell she's
seen before.

She meets Malfoy's eyes, something strange passing along his expression. He
reaches out a darkened hand, and she doesn't miss the way he uses it against the
wall to pull himself fully upright, or the way his legs and arm shakes when he does
- 143 -
so.

She steps forward, reaching behind her blindly to push the door shut, and Malfoy
watches her like she's the one in the cage.

"He's not talking," Leacher says gruffly.

"Threatening to put him in Azkaban for life didn't exactly help matters." Harry's
voice is strained, and though he appears calm, she can see his anger as easily as the
shine in the lenses of his glasses.

Pruit holds a wand up, and Hermione's foot hesitates so briefly in her step that
she can hope they didn't catch it without telling herself they must have. It's black
with a slight curve near the middle, and the handle is thin with a delicate bottom
ridge and a thick top loop. She doesn't recall ever seeing it before, though Pruit
looks expectant.

"This is the only wand we found on him."

"It's against the contract for him to have a different wand, and not the one
approved by us." Leacher is glaring at Malfoy as he speaks, and the blond looks
completely unaffected.

"Threatening or assuming won't get you anywhere with him," she says lowly. She
does plenty of both in regards to Malfoy, but she's learning to keep it in her head
until it's a must that she share it - sometimes voicing it makes him angry enough to
keep talking, but other times, it shuts him down and there's no getting anywhere.

Apparently, this might also relate to talking about him like he's not there,
because his boredom is replaced by a glare on her. Normally he stares straight
ahead in some sort of prisoner mentality that forced him to stop getting furious over
it a long time ago, or at least settle for silent, vicious plans. Perhaps it's from his
taste of freedom, or for some reason she can't know, because his annoyance is
transparent this time.

She takes the wand from Pruit, frowning at the buzz against her fingers as her
magic pushes against it and then retreats. She looks at it, turning it between her
fingers.

"How did you get the wand?" She looks over at Leacher in the pause, and his
eyebrows flash up in a brief flare of surprise.

- 144 -
 He looks between her and Malfoy, and she notices a scar at the edge of his right
eye that zags off to his temple. "He had it on him. We did a search when we arrived."

"Where on him?"

"Left inside pocket of his robe."

"Were the wards or locks of the cell tampered with?" She looks up again in the
silence.

"No," Pruit answers.

"Then he didn't try to escape, and he didn't try to hide the wand. If he was trying
to hide it, it makes more sense that he would Apparate to Rome, store it somewhere,
and then Portkey back. We didn't choose him for idiocy."

Leacher is looking at her in a way that might be suspicious, and she feels
indignation swell in her blood until the wand is caught in a fist. "Unless he thought
you would assume the best of him if he showed up with the wand in an obvious
place--"

"If you think that, you obviously know very little about the sort of relationship or
past between me and Malfoy." She looks over at the blond, and is unsurprised to
find him already looking at her. He's back to studying her, like a bug on trousers
that he's caught between learning about or smacking off of him before it bites.
"Where did you get it?"

She's sure he'll answer, and in the next second, she thinks he never will. He
probably thinks it's a trick on her part, but she was honest when she said it - she
doesn't underestimate him, and if she thought he was stupid enough to carry back a
wand he wanted to keep, she would have never agreed to the Assignment.

"They gave it to me," he says finally, and there's an odd hitch and drag in the
words that makes her drop her eyes to the tremble of his hand as he straightens up
again.

"The healer is on their way," Harry says softly, and Hermione nods, opening her
hand on the pretense of looking at the wand again as she looks at the blood on
Malfoy's shoes.

His robe is torn, and there's a slash of red on his neck that could be a cut or
streak of blood. His eyes are tracking up her person when she settles on his face,
- 145 -
and she's more aware of her Muggle, casual clothes and sleep-styled hair than she
had been walking through the Auror room.

He's in pain, and his eyelids are drooping and dark enough to prove exhaustion.
There are a hundred questions whipping through her mind, but she'll wait until he's
as healed as possible before asking them. His eyes meet hers with a strange look,
and she stares back as they watch one another. Sleep will have to wait for both of
them.

5:00am

Hermione is slightly relieved when they enter the cave, knowing they've just
missed the beginning of sunrise, and that she'll soon be able to ask all the questions
she's been wanting to for days now. She had barely contained the words on the way
here, and even though she thinks she would have remembered his answers, it's
important she remembers them exactly.

"Are you okay?"

She feels that she needs to ask this, though there is nothing different in his
silence, but a slight shift in the line of his shoulders that fakes ease or gives away
pain. It's her job to be concerned for his safety, and since she knows there were a
few healing spells and pain draughts given to him by the healer, she finds she can't
ignore it.

"I'm fine."

She clutches the bench she's sitting on as the boat - dingdinguh - lurches to a
halt. "All right."

She stands, and he's slower to get to his feet than normal. She waves a hand
forward, and he turns, catching himself on the edge of the boat when his foot hits
the side of the bench instead of clearing it. He breathes a curse, climbing out and
onto the stone shore as she grabs the lantern, following behind him.

She waits until he's back far enough, and then jumps, landing hard as her foot
slips in the stones. Water laps coldly at her heel, and she moves to set the lantern
down, leaving a hand open for the possible jump to her wand. Malfoy doesn't move
an inch as she ties the rope around the post, but his hood has slipped back far
enough for her to see his face in the golden glow of firelight.

There's sweat at his hairline, though he's hardly moved, and his eyes are hooded
- 146 -
and lit brightly as he stares at the flame. She can see little red veins in his eyelids,
his lips are light pink in their dryness, and his face is scruffier than she's seen it
since the first time he shaved after joining them. She wonders if she should leave
him to sleep and then interview in a few hours, but she dismisses it in nearly the
same moment in which she first thought it.

He doesn't move as she approaches, though his eyes follow her, and she knows
she'll have to stand with her back to him. She glares at him, betting he's done it on
purpose, and then listens very closely for any sound from him. She can feel him
hovering behind her, watching her, thinking.

Her wand vibrates when she puts the tip of it to the cave wall, and she whispers
spells as quickly as she can without the words hissing together.

"I assure you that I won't attempt breaking in to Azkaban at any point."

She turns, narrowing her eyes, and holds the lantern out a bit more so it doesn't
seem like she's staring into two circles of coal. He blinks at the sudden light, his
head pulling back slightly and to the right as his forehead wrinkles. His tiredness
has made him look different, adding something undefined to the way he looks at her,
and what was once becoming familiar is now making her feel uncomfortable.

"You can't assure me that you won't be breaking out?"

His eyebrow arches, and he looks at her like she's a child who said something
vaguely amusing. "Does it matter?"

She opens her mouth, hesitates. "I suppose not."

She looks at him for a second, but his expression doesn't change, and she nods
her head towards the tunnel. His feet crunch loudly over the rocks, and she realizes
he hasn't taken his shoes off yet. She thinks to ask him for them, but changes her
mind. The floors on the bottom level must be cold, no matter the season, and it won't
do for him to catch a cold or--

Her exhale stills in her throat when his arm brushes across her breasts, her eyes
flying to his face. He doesn't seem to notice, or at least doesn't care, no recognition
on his face or even a sideways look as she pushes further back. She releases the
breath when he ducks into the tunnel, and pulls in another, clearing her throat
before following him into the dark.

She holds the lantern up to cast a larger circle of light, and Malfoy pushes his
- 147 -
hood back, exposing limp hair. She remembers the dirt and grime on her when she
returned from wherever they had brought them, and is curious if they allowed
Malfoy a shower. She mentally adds it to her list of questions, concentrating on that
list to stop herself from concentrating on the darkness.

They emerge into level eight, and goosebumps raise along her arms the way they
always do when she walks into this place. It reminds her of how she felt when she
was sent to catalog Dark objects at Malfoy Manor after the war - the eerie sense of
knowing something very bad had happened there, without knowing all the details,
but still feeling the echo of terror in the walls. She hates this place.

Malfoy automatically walks to the room they had taken to using for the
interviews, and sits in the chair furthest from the door. It's not until she's sitting
herself that she realizes that she has yet to bind him in any way, and she might not
have if he hadn't put his hands right by the means to do so. She looks from the cuffs
on the table and to his wrists, gleaming red and raw like she had found hers when
she returned.

His look is a challenge, and she thinks he's waiting for her to do exactly what he
expects her to do, and doubting she has the nerve to surprise him. She clears her
throat, straightening her briefcase in front of her. She has her wand. If she can't
trust him to some degree in here, while he's defenseless, she has no right to set him
free each night while he has a wand. If he gets too daring, she'll have him in those
binds quicker than he can lunge.

"What happened?" she asks, smoothing the parchment in front of her before
uncapping her inkwell.

"After they took us out of the room?" She looks up at him too quickly, maybe,
because his head tilts in curiosity. "I put the Polyjuice down the drain while you
were distracting them, and took what I thought to be anti-truth serum."

There must be something on her face that gives her away, because the curiosity is
replaced with comprehension as he stares at her for several long seconds.

"They interrogated me. After awhile, they gave me Veritaserum, but as I said, I
had the serum. It went fine."

"Fine? Did they bring in Legi--"

"They did. I showed them the planted memories and my time with the group. As I
said, it went fine."
- 148 -
 She taps the feather of her quill against the parchment, her eyes tracking over
the hints of exhaustion in his face before stopping at the blank paper. "I need more
details, Malfoy." She can hear him swallow, and thinks of nervous liars and the light
pink of dry lips at once. "Would you care for some water?"

She expects a short, one-worded answer, annoyance or indifference, but certainly

not the lift to one corner of his mouth. The half-lidded eyes look completely different
when they're sparked in amusement, and she darts her gaze to the parchment,
frowning.

"Are you trying to brainwash me?"

She looks back up, eyebrows furrowing as she tilts her head. Malfoy's expression
shifts, and she's sorry she missed the joke without knowing why.

"Yes, Granger."

- 149 -
 8

9:12pm

Hermione holds the wand up, black and gleaming. Malfoy stares at it for three
beats, and then flicks his gaze to her as he reaches to take it. He keeps staring at
her, his elbow bent, and the wand at his hip as he turns it between his fingertips.
She stares back, her eyebrows raising slowly as she rubs a finger against the
material of her trousers along her outside thigh.

He makes an annoyed sound in his throat, rolling the wand to his palm.
"Alterations?"

"The same as before."

He glares. "I thought you were determined to continuously prove your

intelligence and not the lack of it."

She looks at him in confusion for a few seconds, which is not something she
wants to look like after a comment like that. "It wasn't the spell that failed, Malfoy -
you did." There's a spark in his eyes and a pull of a scowl to his mouth that marks
the beginning of his anger. "You have to practice it. I think the wall would suffice for
now."

He arches an eyebrow, and she raises both of hers in response.

"I'll fix the wall after," she tells him, ushering to the wall made of brick. "It's
important that you know how this works for next time. The whole reason they gave
you that wand was because the Killing Curse failed when you did it, and they
recognized it as a wand malfunction - they now know this one works fairly normal
for you. Failing again would be your own fault to them."

"I'm aware of that. Howev--"

"Would you rather murder someone?" She asks it plainly, no hint of accusation or
smugness from a proven point, and it's effective enough for him to glare and not
comment. "Here…"

She takes a step forward, reaching out towards the wand, and stiffens when he
does. Her hand freezes in the reach, hovering awkwardly in front of the side of his

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chest, and she would change her mind if she wasn't already almost there. Stepping
away now would just make it seem like she was afraid to touch him, and though she
doesn't want to, not doing so now would feel like he won. Won something in this
game they play with no rules and no definable end goals.

His skin is cool as two fingertips skate over the ridge of bone and then around,
stopping at the soft underside to feel his or her heart beating in her fingers. She
presses her thumb to the other side, and feels like she's moving a branch embedded
in steel as she points the wand away from her.

"The motion is like this," she says, attempting to guide his hand in a loop. "Relax
your wrist - you can't get the right flow if your wrist is locked. This will negate-- No,
more relaxed."

She hears him take a deeper breath, and thinks she might somehow feel it as well
as it makes her aware of how close her arm is to his rising chest. His index finger
twitches, and she stares at his wrist as if willing it to relax so they can get this over
with. She tries again, her thumb sliding up to a groove between two bones at the
side of his hand, and it moves easier this time.

"There. Then you bring it down like this, a hard flick to the right, around, a large
circle, half-circle, slope, and then flick. Oh - sorry." She pulls her hand away at the
tiny crack in his wrist, looking up at him at the same time, and she quickly takes a
step back at the proximity of his jaw and cheek.

He clears his throat, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, and then takes
aim at the wall. He pauses until she's on the brink of telling him to get on with it,
and then she watches the movements of his wrist as he casts. She shakes her head
at the short jet of light green that collides into the brick and carves a ridge in the
wall.

"A small loop, and then a larger one, and your flick should be straight forward at
the end, not slanted. Also, the Unspeakables were very clear with pronunciation - it's
made to sound like the Killing Curse, and mirror the effects. Any small thing that's
off will completely ruin it--"

"I've he--"

Ehvairdra

- 151 -
 "Sounds nothing like Avada."

"Close enough that when you pronounce it quickly, and it looks like it, seems to
act like it, they won't question it. You know, if it quacks likes a duck."

His chin tilts towards his chest, eyebrows coming together just enough for a
wrinkle to appear at the top of his nose. "If what quacks like a duck?"

"It's a saying." She spins her hand in the air. "If it walks like a duck, quacks like a
duck, it's a duck."

His mouth opens enough for her to see the pink of his tongue edging over white
teeth, and he lifts his chin. "Right."

Her eyes make it as far as the top of his white-blond head before she stops from
rolling her eyes. "It's a perfectly good expression."

"Hardly. A lot of things act like something else - it doesn't mean they are. If I walk
and act like a murderer, that doesn't mean I am one. Or this spell, that--"

"It doesn't matter. It's what people believe it is that counts."

Something changes in how he's looking at her, but it's so small that she doesn't
know what it is or even how it changed. It looks a bit like resignation, but she
doesn't understand that. "I see. So a man who has gone mad and is quacking and
walking like a duck, he's a duck."

"No, he's a man."

"But he's acting like a duck--"

"But I don't believe he is. Unless he also looks like a duck, which this spell will
also--"

"Yet he's still a man."

"What?"

"He sounds, acts, and looks like a duck, but he's still a man."

She shakes her head. "How am I supposed to know? That's the point. You believe
what it shows and proves itself to be."
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 "You haven't given him a chance to prove differently. You look, you assume, and
you move on. Not--"

She turns her palms to the ceiling, making a frustrated sound. "If the duck comes
up to me and starts acting oddly for a duck, I might think something was different
about it. But unless it acts differently, I wouldn't think so, no. Just as I wouldn't think
a tree wasn't a tree, or a table wasn't a table, or whatever. There has to be
something other about it to make one think it's different."

"So you would just think it was a strange duck. It's like…" He glances at the wall,
his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. "It's like a Death Eater or pure-blood
elitist meeting a few Muggle-borns who were in awe of magic and wore Muggle
clothes, and turned out to be stupid, rude, poorly-mannered, and lacking in magical
ability. Then every time they see someone in awe of magic and wearing Muggle
clothes, they assume it's a Muggle-born who is stupid, rude, and lacking in magical
ability. But I suppose if it quacks like a duck…"

"No, that is--"

"And you would be…the strange Muggle-born? Is that it? Have I--"

"I am a Muggle-born, but not all of us, or even the majority of us, are--"

"Every group of anything in the world comes with a set of beliefs of who they
should be. I suppose you're going to argue that people should be judged individually,
and not pushed into stereotypes or a set of beliefs just because they look and act like
they belong in that group. Which, I also suppose, would mean that if it quacks like a
duck, it might not actually be a duck, and it's ridiculous to assume such a thing."

"No, actually, because I'm still a Muggle-born - it's not the assessment that's
wrong, it's the beliefs attached to it. Just because I'm smart and skilled at magic
doesn't mean I'm not a Muggle-born. I am who I am. I'm just different than what
they assumed I would be like."

He gives her a look that says yes, exactly, and she narrows her eyes at the way it
makes her feel like she somehow just lost. "And they don't find that out until they
assess you on more than the fact that you 'quack like a duck'. I guess it's a good
thing not everyone is nave or stupid enough to believe what something shows itself
to be is actually what it is."

She stares at him for long enough that when she realizes she's just staring
silently, she feels awkward. She shifts on her feet at the way he just keeps staring
- 153 -
back, her mind trying to process everything to come up with some sort of argument,
but she's a bit cornered and he knows it. She expects a hint of smugness, but he just
seems to be watching it sink in. Or maybe it just appears like that, and he's actually
singing show tunes in his head.

"The point is that, when said quickly, it sounds like the Curse. The light of the
spell looks like it, and when cast properly, it mirrors death for a few hours before
the person is back to normal. The spell isn't known. No one will assume differently,
because they haven't been shown anything to make them believe there could be a
difference. Until they are, they'll believe it's the Killing Curse - so don't make them
question it."

She thinks he'll try to counter the point she made again, but he just keeps looking
at her. She almost wants to poke him in the eye just to get him to stop making her
feel so uncomfortable in her own skin. She puts her hands on her hips for something
to do with them, and turns her head in the direction of the wall, though she's still
tracking him in her peripheral.

"Try again."

July 15; 10:31am

Hermione reads over her interview notes marked 7c, and then searches for the
same number and letter in the Legilimens report before reading that as well. She
hums to herself, turning to the other table and the vials of whispy, milky memories,
and pulling 7c from its slot.

She had wanted to review these first, but knew it would have only been because
of her own presence in memories erased from her, and there were more urgent
things to review first. She had been nearly as curious about seeing Malfoy in
situations with people much higher in the revival than the group he had been
running, but he did well.

His arrogance and air of superiority reminded her of Hogwarts, but more blatant
in the way he carries and exhibits himself rather than talking about it. He managed
it so well that it had felt like the binds they placed him in were something he only
allowed to happen for their peace of mind, and that could easily be changed if he felt
the desire to do so. He had seemed pleased when he found out who they were, but
dangerous when they had questioned his right to be there. There is something very
natural in the way he presents himself that makes lesser, weaker people inclined to
follow, and it has been that way since she has first known him. He's quick on his
feet, resourceful, collected, and aloof without being too mysterious. His eyes light up
- 154 -
with some sort of fire when he speaks of Mudbloods, righting the wrongs of his
youth, and taking back their world - to the point where she distrusts him more.

He plays his part well.

Hermione watches the back of the person sitting on the floor, facing the corner.
She suspects it to be herself, watching the way the shoulders and arms move, but
she doesn't recognize it. She thinks she should, that any movements of her person
should be completely known from an outside perspective when she is so used to
feeling them on a daily basis, but it looks foreign. So when she moves against the
wall enough to see the tendrils of curls sticking to a sweaty cheek, she's entranced
with her own image like one might be with a contortionist in the middle of juggling
clowns.

Memories like this aren't altered by perception, so she knows this is not the way
Malfoy sees her, but how the world does. She doesn't remember looking so pale
before, though she doesn't know the last time she looked in a mirror without the
quick glance over of her hair and face being in order. She wonders if the anxiety is
truly as clear as it looks when her memory-self sends a furtive glance towards
Malfoy, and her hands lock together in her lap.

Hermione feels the urge to reach out and run a hand over her own head, like it
could serve as an echo from the future that everything will be all right. She stops
herself, though, because she has already beat her way past that battle, and there are
others she needs to concentrate on instead.

Not that anyone is here to notice if she does it. Sometimes being in memories too
long bothers her because it makes her feel like a ghost, and other times it's exactly
what she needs. Her occasional desire to be forgotten is always at war with her
intrinsic need to always be remembered for some mark left upon the world.
Sometimes she knows as much about what she wants as what she'll have for dinner
in a month - she'll be having something, but she isn't likely to know until shortly
before she gets it.

She takes to studying Malfoy, though, unhindered by his awareness or anyone

else's. She watches for the little tells that betray nerves, fear, a lie, or anything.
Sometimes she's sure she has it figured out, but then he does something to throw
her off until she's convinced he did it on purpose, knowing she would be looking
through his memories for it.

She's also now aware of the way he looks at her when she isn't looking, and it's
not the murderous gaze she usually thinks it must be when she feels it prickling
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along the back of her neck. Instead, he looks at her like a puzzle in which he has yet
to put together, and while knowing what it should look like, he's trying to determine
where the blobs of painted pieces must go. She recognizes it because she knows she
looks at him in much the same way sometimes. Except all his pieces are white and
grey, and she usually has to rely more on putting it together, taking it apart, putting
it together until she finds the circle that fits exactly in each piece.

A banging starts above the room, and she looks up, reminding herself that she's
in no danger before looking back at Malfoy. He drops his gaze to the far wall, his
expression blank, but his forearms slide down from his raised knees and closer to his
lap. His right hand is clenched in a fist, his thumb pressing against it but not curved
around the fingers. Like he's holding a wand.

Fear, she thinks. That one is fear.

July 16; 1:26pm

"All right?"

"All right?"

Hermione pulls away from Harry's cheek, rubbing her mouth from the tingle of
his facial hair. He frequently forgets to shave in the morning, though she believes
it's more to do with the fact that he can't be bothered when leaving the house before
sunrise.

"How's it going with that apprentice?" Harry asks as she pulls back from Neville
with a smile.

"Fine. He's surly but efficient, and it's going as smoothly as possible. The biggest
argument we've had lately was over ducks. Which, belatedly, I realized, I mean, I
think was because he does not think he's a duck, while I'm fairly keen on quacking
equaling ducks."

Harry looks completely puzzled.

"Really - just about ducks," she says, trying to clarify that it isn't in code.

"Is this a Muggle thing?" Neville asks cautiously, pushing his back against the
restaurant door and stepping back, ushering Hermione and Harry inside.

"Have you ever heard that expression, if it quacks like a duck? You know, if it
- 156 -
walks like a duck, quacks like a duck--"

"It must be a duck," Neville says with a nod, holding his hand out like the answer
was right in front of them.

"Right. Well, my assistant-- uh, apprentice, thinks that not everything acts like
what it is."

"True." He glances at her. "Er…to a point."

"To a point, yes. Some things are obviously what they are. But you can't know
differently until they prove they are different than what they look to be."

"Your assis--"

"Apprentice."

"Apprentice," Harry corrects himself, "is obviously a wanker."

"He is. A very, very big wanker."

"Who is this apprentice?" Neville asks, leading them through the room as he
follows the woman with their menus.

"He's just a new employee I have to look after for awhile. Barmey."

"Barmey? Tough luck on the last name. Though…well," Neville says lowly, and
Hermione pinches the back of Harry's arm to keep his snickering from becoming any
louder.

July 17; 3:20am

Malfoy yawns in a way that makes her think he might just be pulling in a heavy,
dragging breath until it lasts too long. It's the first time she can remember him
yawning, and then he coughs at the end or in the middle of it, and it's the first time
for that, too. It doesn't matter, but it's different, and she automatically latches onto
things she doesn't know.

She wonders if he's getting a cold, but she doesn't bother to ask.

"Did you meet any of the higher circle tonight?"

- 157 -
 "Not that I'm aware of."

"You still believe this group is following their orders?"

"I know they are."

"How?"

"Beyond mentioning a few of the names on your list, their decisions with other
members are quick and decisive, but with me, they're rarely sure. If one of them
forgets the exact wording, they look to another to finish the order. It's rehearsed. It
wouldn't be if they were coming up with it."

The air is heavy tonight. It even sounds like the bell is having trouble moving
through the thickness. Ddiinngg… Ddiinngg. There's something about humidity that
makes everything feel like it's going in slow motion.

"You'll have to do something to prove yourself that leaves little doubt."

"Yes," he answers quickly, already knowing.

She doesn't understand how the water can be so black with half of a moon in the
sky and their lantern light rocking over it. It's ink, and she imagines it staining her
skin if she puts a finger into it.

"They'll want to come soon."

"Where?" she asks, looking up at him, but she realizes the answer as soon as the
question leaves her.

"The house."

"All right."

July 18; 9:12pm

"I'd like to make it clear before it happens that I'm not pulling you out of the
water when you fall in. Though you might want to give me the wand first." She
thinks she can see his eyes move down her form, but it's too dark to be sure. "You
seem to be a slow swimmer, and I'm not waiting."

"You've never seen me swim," she says, but edges away from the side of the boat
- 158 -
anyway. "I was looking at something."

He's silent for five dings before his paranoia wins out. "Looking at what?"

"The fog."

"That required you leaning over the side when it also happens to be surrounding
us?" There's a hint of disbelief in his tone, but her calmness has likely assured him
it's not a giant sea creature, and so he mostly doesn't care anymore.

"It was…a shape. It looked like little soldiers fighting." Exactly like little soldiers
fighting, including swords or sticks, and thin streaks that could pass as magic.

She wipes her palms against her knees, and reaches to the space of bench next to
her, pulling her briefcase closer.

"Do you see war everywhere you look?"

She hates the question, but she hates the way he asks it too - like he already
knows the answer. There's a tingle of heat in her cheeks that forces her chin down,
though he can't possibly see it in the weak light.

"You don't?" Accusatory, too harsh to not be telling.

There's a rustle of fabric, and she spots his shrug when his shoulder is already on
its way back down. "I was in prison and then released into a revival. It hasn't exactly
ended."

"No," she mutters, "it hasn't." She squints her eyes at distant trees or black
shadows. "I don't think war ever does."

"It does for a person or a people."

"Maybe. But look at how countries have standing armies even during peacetime.
No matter who is in power anywhere, there's always a group of people who want
something different. Or money, revenge, whatever. When that group isn't being
heard, or they aren't getting what they want, they turn to violence - because
violence, fear…that's how you get someone to listen. People love differently, and
love different things. But we all fear the same."

"Personal peace still remains. When a person feels peace, they feel free, and
there's not anything that's going to take that away from them. Freedom makes you
- 159 -
feel untouchable."

"But you aren't."

"Not when the war reaches you, but when your own fight is over, yes. There's a
hundred wars going on right now, but the majority of wizarding England is at peace
because it's not their war."

"Only because they don't know about the revival."

"It's not their war yet."

It won't be, she thinks, breathing deep. "You think you'll be at peace, then, when
this is over?" She regrets asking, but it's already out there, filling up the space
between them.

Diing…diing…diing…diing…diing…

"War ends at different times for everyone, Granger. Even if it's the same war."

She turns her head back to look at him, but there's just the glow of the lantern
over his knees, and for the first time, she feels alone in the fog.

July 19; 2:03am

The dot disappears from Russia, and she hears the sound of Apparition in the next
second. She sends the maps, files, quills, and ink into her briefcase with a wave of
her wand, yanking the Portkey box from her pocket. She holds the briefcase shut
under her arm as she sprints around the corner of the kitchen, her heart thudding as
she holds her breath.

The back door creaks open, a floorboard groans, and then there's a sharp knock
against wood. She releases the breath, dropping the Portkey back in her pocket, and
gets a better grip on her wand as she turns the corner.

She pulls up short, her mouth moving silently over the beginning of a spell before
hanging open. She snaps it shut, her teeth clicking when her eyes finally make it up
Malfoy's torn, filthy robe and the blood running down his cheek. His face is strained,
his jaw locked tight enough to show ridges on either end, and there's an ill glow to
his eyes that reminds her of the Battle of Hogwarts.

"What happened?" It comes out too breathy when she should be more than
- 160 -
prepared for this situation, and so she clears her throat in a hard, rough growl that
does little more than make her sound like an animal.

"They took us into the Muggle world."

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then casts the spells to see if they put
anything traceable on him. He doesn't even flinch, so he's either getting used to it,
or his mind is too preoccupied with something terrible for him to care.

"They fought back?" She feels something like pride at the idea of this, despite
that she's moving closer with the intention to undo their effort. But it's not the first
time she has been at odds with what she believes and what she must do.

"Yes."

His shoulders are slanted, one up far higher than it needs to be, and the fabric
looks darker…wet. "How?"

"Kipp's curse got too close, and one of the Muggles stabbed me when Fenheart
threw him at me."

She can smell the Dark magic on him, rotten and bitter, and she's not sure if the
look he gives her is from her held breath or invasion of personal space. She narrows
her eyes at his cheek, clearing the blood with a muttered spell. The cut is thin and
shallow, and the spell she casts will have it little more than a scratch in a few hours.

"Why did he throw a Muggle at you?" she asks, trying not to picture it in her
head, but she hears it echo. The screaming, crying, begging. The fear.

She glances up at his face when he doesn't respond, but his eyes are on
something over her head. She looks back down at his shoulder, hesitant until she
lifts her chin and presses her lips together.

"You take turns. I hadn't known he was coming, though."

"I see," she says tightly, staring harder at the rip of fabric she is parting
delicately to keep her mind from picturing things she doesn't want to see,
remember, think about.

It's still hard to make out the severity of the wound when she clears the blood,
her head blocking the light behind her to illuminate it. She tries to move to the side,
but it doesn't help.
- 161 -
 "Here, turn," she mutters, keeping hold of the split sides and shuffling around,
her pinky and ring finger pressing her wand more tightly to her palm.

He follows her stiffly, a breath hitching in his throat and chest at the movement,
and the candles along the wall light up his wound. She clears the blood from it
again, baring her teeth at the skin that's pulled back a little around it, revealing a
glimpse of red tissue. It could have been a lot worse, but she now understands the
way she can hear his breath rattling in from this close.

"Don't heal it perfectly," he says tightly. "They think I'll be doing it myself."

"If you healed it perfectly? That's--"

"No."

She waits, but that's all he says. She bites her bottom lip as she yanks on the rip
in his robe, tearing it wider. Okay, she tells herself. All right. She squeezes her
fingers into fists and then stretches them out before reaching for the gash.

Malfoy's loud hiss turns into a groan as she pushes the sides of the wound closer
together. She steps back when he sways forward, his palm hitting the wall near her
shoulder. Her eyes widen, and she looks up as he turns his face away from her, jaw
twitching in its clench, neck taut and red, and his lips pressed into a thin line. His
eyes are shut, and his skin is gleaming with a layer of sweat she can smell. His body
heat is radiating out against her, doubling her own, and a tremble starts in her chest
at the way he's trapping her in. If someone bursts in, she has no room to move, and
turn, and raise her wand, and cast properly. He'll trip her up, he'll be in the way,
he'll make her not fast enough.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, until she finally does, tasting sweat and Dark magic in
her throat and the back of her tongue.

"Hurry up," he says, but at first it sounds like nothing more than a rise and fall of
groaning.

She clenches her teeth, her arm sliding against the heated, damp fabric over his
chest as she pinches the wound with one hand and aims her wand with the other.
His blood is hot as it wets her fingers in bright crimson, and she stares harder to see
the line of the split as she mends the skin back together. Malfoy is holding his
breaths and then releasing them in gasps of air that heave against her arm, and she
can see the tremble in his body as he fights to keep control of the pain.

- 162 -
 "Almost," she whispers, stitching in uneven, sloppy lines. "I don't have a pain
draught. I'll bring one from now on."

She finishes, clearing the blood from their skin, and surveys the red, lumpy line
that is sure to scar. Malfoy slowly relaxes until he's slumped forward, drawing in
deep breaths that rasp as she presses herself fully against the wall. There's still less
than an inch of space between them, and a drop of sweat slides down the back of
her ear. There's a tension in her arms that wants nothing more than to shove him
away from her, but she waits it out, staring at the small space between his wounded
shoulder and the wall. The second it widens, she'll push her way out.

"I used the fake Killing Curse. Four times."

Her eyes flash back up to his reddened, glossy cheek.

"I cast it exactly right."

"Good," she murmurs, and then louder, "good."

He steps back and to the left, and she slides away from him before he takes
another step away from her. "It should have worked right. It looked like it did. I did
it perfectly."

He's staring at the bricks, his eyes distant.

"If you did everything right, then it worked," she says, and he nods after a pause
of silence. "You should, uh…take a shower. Then we'll head back."

He nods again, and she waits, watching him come back to himself enough to
move, and then the stiffness of his shoulders as his feet clunk towards the loo.

8:54am

The dot moves to the left, right, left, a seamless back-and-forth that Hermione
watches over the need to study case files and fill out paperwork.

She can't seem to get the look on Malfoy's face out of her mind. The way he
seemed to still be in the middle of a battle somewhere inside his head; distant, a
little wild, the hunted or the hunter - she can't decide which, and sometimes they
look the same.

It had seemed like his mind was somewhere else at some points during the
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interview, and his calmness looked forced, where usually she can't tell the difference
between natural and facade. She wonders if it's because of the people he cursed that
night, or the way it must have looked like he killed four people. Or maybe he's
worried that he actually did, but that's not something either one of them will find out
until she reviews his memories and they get the death reports.

She doesn't think he's just worried about the consequences of murdering people,
though. He would have been focused and defensive throughout the interview, and he
hadn't said anything about it beyond how he cast the spells. He hadn't even
bothered defending his use of the Cruciatus to prove it was something he had to do,
and, instead, had only watched her reaction.

Whatever changes Azkaban has made in him, she doesn't think it's for the worst.
And if she's wrong and he's really in with the higher circle, she thinks he's at least
having doubts now.

And pacing. He's been at it for two hours in his cell, and maybe even before she
checked the map. Left, right, left, right.

July 21; 10:09pm

A muscle in Malfoy's cheek is twitching, and she thinks he knows she's staring at
him. She has been for the past ten minutes, and she's a bit surprised he hasn't
snapped yet.

"They told you--"

"No plans, no hints, and yes, midnight."

She sucks her cheek between her teeth, turning her wrist at her hip to try
nonchalantly checking her watch. Malfoy doesn't look away from the hallway.

"Would you like some tea?"

"No."

"We should cut your hair." She hadn't meant to blurt it out, but she's been
thinking about it for weeks now, and she doesn't know what else to do until he
leaves. She does know that the idea of standing in silence for another two hours will
drive her out of her skin.

He blinks, and blinks, and then turns his head to look at her like he can't decide if
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she's being serious.

"It's too long. It looks messy, and you'd look more put together if it was shorter.
Which I think this group would appreciate. Appearances."

"My father's hair was long, and it was never messy."

He doesn't mention his own hair. Perhaps because there's still a part of him that
still appreciates his father, and is ignoring how he couldn't meet his eyes at the trial,
or how his father's hair is sure to be messy now. Or maybe because the only mirror
he has is the one half-stained and cracked here, and he can't know the order of his
own hair very well. There's only a few patches of reflection in it, and sometimes she
stares at the pieces of herself she can see and pretends to be someone else.

Malfoy's eyes narrow as he studies her. "Or perhaps that's the reason for your
suggestion."

Sometimes Malfoy turns a corner or enters the doorway, and her heart stops as
she waits for Lucius to fully face her, curse her, try to kill her. She supposes it might
make people more afraid of the son, the resemblance, but it works in an opposite
turn for her.

"You look like you've been in prison with hair like that. Cutting it makes your
appearance more controlled. Also…yes, the differentiation will work in our favor.
What they view as mistakes are trouble enough, but as it's common knowledge your
father is claiming the Imperius again…"

His eyes dart away from her, and his jaw clenches.

"You're Draco Malfoy. A different man."

She watches him think as she pops her briefcase open, pulling out her least
favorite quill. He looks like there's something unpleasant in front of him that he's
become used to seeing, and she figures he'll agree once he's worn out her patience.

"I suppose you'll cut it."

"Yes." It's not like she's going to bring in a team of hairdressers to make him
pretty. He's an 'escaped' Death Eater, shoulder-deep in spying on a revival, and the
only home to his name is this house that had seen the last of its better days fifty
years ago. He gets scissors and guesswork.

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 "Have you cut someone's hair before?"

"Basically."

He raises an eyebrow, turning to look at her again. "It's a yes or no, Granger -
that's not a question that's answered with basically."

"I've seen it done." She shrugs. "And I've read about it."

"Of course," he mutters, eying her, and finds the quill in her hand.

"It's not a difficult feat."

"I'm not surprised the person cutting believes so."

She rolls her eyes, transfiguring the quill into scissors. "It's not like I'm going to
stab you with them."

He doesn't look suspicious until she says it, and he watches her test the
sharpness on a blank sheet of parchment. She raises her eyebrows in question when
he looks back up, but no answer appears in his expression. With Malfoy, she figures
that's as much of an agreement as she's likely to get.

He stiffens more when she steps behind him, but she gives no thought to his
paranoia when he hadn't bothered to care about trapping her against a wall the
other day. She's not the sort of person to attack from behind, and he'll just have to
learn that.

She frowns at his hair, the scissors open and poised to the side of the space
between them. It's so straight that she might doubt it being natural had she not
known his father. His is tinted a little more yellow than the pure white of his
father's, but that might just be because she is only used to seeing Malfoy in the glow
of golden fire. She knows it is white away from flames and in shadows, but she'll
have to see the sun on it to decide.

"I have until midnight, Granger, not--"

"I know. You have the patience of a snake." She has no room to talk about
patience, but since he likes to use her own against her, she figures she can point out
his.

"A snake?" he drawls after a pause, trying to figure out the metaphor or because
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of the sensation of her gathering his hair.

"Mm-hm. It appears bored and nonchalant, but then it just snaps and sinks its
fangs into you. Then poisons you with…"

"Venom?"

"Yes. Venom filled with a lot of bad things that make a person go crazy. And
sweat. A lot."

His hair is softer than she would think after years in prison, but she supposes it's
the shampoo and conditioner she stocked in the bath. It slides across her fingers
silkily, and it is the first time she's ever been jealous of Draco Malfoy.

She brings the scissors up and squeezes them three times to get across the
thickness of the ponytail she gathered the hair into. Her eyes widen when she's left
with a fist of long hair and short locks falling back to his head. She probably should
have started off a little lower before trying to make the hair even.

"I make you sweat?"

"What?"

"My impatience makes you sweat a lot?"

"No." It takes her a moment to connect the question to why he's asking, and she
shakes the quizzical look from her face. "It's… I don't know. Have you ever seen
someone poisoned by a snake? They sweat buckets. So, you know…other people.
Other people might swe-- You don't make me sweat. There is nothing you can do
that will make me sweat in any way, physically or emotionally."

"I see."

She glares at the back of his head, and cuts a lock of hair a little, far too, very
much, short.

- 167 -
 9

July 23; 11:25am

Hermione moves down the table, unfolding the large map enough to show the
entire street. She steps back, frowning, and looks over at the other maps spread
across the long table, and then up at Harry, Pruit, and Leacher.

"This might be a test to see if anything happens, and even if it isn't, if they find
out the Ministry knew about it, it'll come back on Bells. We have to be careful."

Pruit shakes his head. "There's no way we can pull it off without a few lives being
taken. We can't show up as Aurors or even wizards, and magic will have to be used
in hidden ways or the Assignment can be blown. It's in the Muggle world - they'll
know they have a spy."

"What about construction work on the streets leading in?" Harry asks, stepping
closer to the table to get a better look at the map in front of him. "It won't block
everyone out, but it's Muggle enough to probably pass them, and it'll keep most
people away."

"We don't know what street it's on, and setting up construction blockades in the
entire radius will be suspicious."

"Projecting a vision through a gem could work, but it would have to be heavily
orchestrated to change when they do something that would change it." Pruit looks
up at the clock at one end of the room. "Time isn't partial to that."

"Neither am I," Leacher says gruffly. "We can transfigure objects to look like
people standing along the street, but they can't be animate. It won't protect all the
Muggles, but when they start casting at the objects, most of them will be scared
enough to run."

Hermione sighs silently. She had been hoping one of them had an idea that she
couldn't think up to protect everyone, but they seem just as lost as her on how. She
hates that it feels like the Dark is winning, but their cowardice of doing things in the
Muggle world is working in their favor. If this was the wizarding world they were
coming into, Hermione wouldn't have a question about what they would do.

"It will have to be stone," she says. "Light enough to fall back when they hit it

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with the Killing Curse, but heavy enough that the Curse doesn't blow out chunks of
stone. If they use something else, a different spell, it'll be a problem."

Harry scowls at the maps, pushing the end of a pen against the outline of a
building. "Hermione, do you know what these businesses are?"

"Some of them are flats. A bookshop, record shop, two cafes, four restaurants, a
takeaway place, supermarket…" She passes down the map that labels each building.
"Three empty buildings, or at least closed businesses. There's also a school, post
office, furniture store, two jewelry shops, shoe shop, petrol station… There's the
park they mentioned taking a Portkey to."

"You don't know what they're after?" Leacher asks, likely as incredulous as he
gets for a man that shows little emotion.

"Bells doesn't know, I don't know." She reaches up to rub her temple. "I told you
everything we know."

If Malfoy did know, they might at least find a way to stop them from getting it.
They don't have a choice, though, and they'll just have to see what Malfoy finds out
after. It's not her fault he hasn't become trusted by the higher circle yet.

"All right," Harry mutters, eyes flicking over the maps. "Let's figure out where
they're likely to go and the path they'll take."

July 24; 4:51am

Hermione jumps at the loud bang of the bag dropping on the table, though Malfoy
is staring at her too intensely for surprise to have been the point.

"What is that?" Because all she can see in her mind is a magically-altered bag
with a rotting human head.

"Galleons."

Her eyes stay wide as they drop back to the bag. "Wh…"

"A gift from the Nobles - the higher circle."

"A gift for what?" By the sound of it hitting the table, she's guessing the contents
are equivalent to what she's spent the past year. Granted, a life alone and filled with
work doesn't have many purchases, but she eats takeaway often enough.
- 169 -
 "Joining. Proving myself." He shrugs a shoulder. "One of the commanders gave it
to me before I left."

"Just…like that. Just gave it to you."

"It was suggested that once a friend in Gringotts is completely secured, I'll be
expected to pay it back many times over."

He looks down at the bag, reaching up to work the first button of his robe
through its slot. She squints at the intricate pattern on the button, the dark blue,
silky lining when he unbuttons the third, and the black wool glistening with
raindrops. That's certainly not the mediocre robe he left wearing.

"Most of what people say isn't exactly said, Granger." He pulls the robe off, and
the trousers and shirt under it are new as well. He folds the robe once, and drapes it
over the back of a chair.

"Were those a gift as well?"

"Yeah. They believed my other clothes were more befitting of a dead Mudblood."
His index finger bumps over the first button of his shirt, and then pauses there as he
turns for the loo. "Though a Muggle sufficed," he mutters.

She opens her mouth, but closes it right after. She thinks she already knows
exactly what he meant by that, or can guess easily enough, and she doesn't want to
know. She'll have to regardless, later, back at Azkaban. They have to leave now
anyway; it's nearly past the time that serves as possible.

The loo door creaks open fully, and she rushes out, "How many?"

She could have meant anything. How many Muggles they made put the clothes
on, how many Galleons, how many gifts, how many things they retrieved on the
mission tonight, how many friends in Gringotts, how many anything. But, somehow,
he knows she means the body count, and stranger still, he knows exactly.

"Eleven."

July 26; 3:14pm

Kingsley looks up from her proposal, and then his gaze scans her face like he
might be asked questions about it later. She feels the puffiness around her tired
eyes, the weakness of energy circulating lazily in her body, the slight rocking in her
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chair that comes with exhaustion that began last week or five years ago. She raises
her chin, and pulls back the slouch that had overcome her shoulders while he was
busy reading.

Kingsley hums, then nods slowly as he puts down the paper. "It's good research,
Hermione."

"Thank you."

"And the real reason?"

She smiles tiredly. "There are several reasons why it's good for the Ministry to
check Gringotts security after that breach yesterday, and I stand by all those listed
in the proposal. With the--"

"Even if Harry didn't tell me yesterday that he was staging a breach of Gringotts
under Polyjuice due to a reason you'd more thoroughly explain, I would still wonder
why you brought this to me directly and hadn't sent it through the normal channels."

"Harry told you or asked?"

Kingsley mirrors her amusement, but only for a moment. "A little of both. He's
still learning."

Hermione nods, picturing Harry's face set in a determination that would tell the
person he was going to do what he thought needed to be done even if he was asking
first. He can answer to people, but he still has to master asking people as well.

"We believe the higher circle is trying to secure allies within the bank, which
would give them access to millions, if not billions, of Galleons through the collective
vaults of themselves, Bells, and other followers. Vaults, as you know, they would not
otherwise have access to. Passion from a Dark organization is bad enough - funding
would be very detrimental."

"More funding, yes. From what Bells has supplied so far about the houses in
Russia and their operations, they're already working with a generous amount of
money."

"They are. Increasing that dramatically will only give them more power, and
potentially the ability to expand not only by means but by people and places. It's
crucial that we stop that from happening. Also, an investigation into the bank might
cause a hesitant employee to decline. If they're considering it out of fear, it could
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cause them to come forward, or even inadvertently expose themselves."

Kingsley nods, pushing aside a folder at a time in the stack to the side of his desk
before pulling one out. "We'll go forward with the investigation. I'll speak to the
Head of the Law Department tonight. Do you have an opinion of when this should be
carried out?"

"Harry's attempted robbery gave us an excuse to the Ministry and public, but also
the higher circle. Red tape would take some time, though, so I suggest a week. Any
longer would be risking agreement from the employee."

He looks at the proposal, tapping his finger on it twice before closing it within the
folder. "We'll announce the investigation in four days. I'll inform you and the rest of
the Assignment on anything relevant."

"Good. Thank you."

She moves to stand, but falters at the edge of her chair when Kingsley leans
forward.

"Have they found out where Rome is?"

"Not yet."

"When they do, I want you to see how often they arrive there unexpectedly. If it's
more than a few times, and Bells is not there, we'll have to consider moving him into
Rome until the Assignment is finished."

Her shoulders slump again, and she rubs her thumbs over the arms of the chair.
It's not something she hasn't considered, but it usually only survives a few seconds
in her thoughts before she buries it somewhere else.

"I suppose I would be doing so as well."

"Yes. We'll have one of the other members come in during your sleep schedule,
but you'll have to take a holiday from work. It won't deduct from your saved holiday
time. Your friends and family will also believe you're on holiday."

"I have a cat." It had sounded far less ridiculous in her head, and there's an
unease that makes her feel very tired. She has a cat. A cat.

"Perhaps Harry can look after it for you."

- 172 -
 "No, yes. Of course."

"We'll sort the details if it comes to that."

Hermione stands, smiling tightly as she nods. Maybe she will take a holiday after
this. Somewhere obscure with perfect weather, little civilization, and no Malfoys.
Maybe she won't come back. Maybe she'll bring Pepper.

July 27; 4:26am

"I know they were packages. I know they varied in size from a small envelope to a
box higher than my waist. I know it couldn't be done any other way. As far as what's
inside of them, no."

Hermione watches his hand as it raises towards his hood, maybe to rake through
his hair, but it drops back to his lap. She doesn't miss the way it trembles, though
it's so barely noticeable that she would have had it not journeyed all the way to the
line of his hood before he changed his mind.

"Why couldn't it be done any other way?"

"The amount. Or they found out about the shipment and it wasn't going to them.
They're careful with not exposing the revival yet. They're focused on infiltration now
- weaken the center, add pressure from the inside and out, and the structure
crumbles. The Dark Lord made it work, and now they want to."

Hermione crosses her arms, focusing on the black water ebbing towards their
boat. She knew when Malfoy mentioned Gringotts that the higher circle is trying to
get their pieces set up before they move for the king, but having it laid out in a
bored, aristocratic drawl feels colder and more real. She remembers very well how
efficiently Voldemort took over, though she suspects she knows it less than at least
half of wizarding England.

She just hopes Malfoy infiltrates fully first, or this battle is going to be harder
than her worst case scenario.

"How do they normally get mail? Do they? Owls?"

"No, owls are too risky. They pass it through levels. Mail that is fairly insignificant
is given to one of the grunts, and it passes along a line until it's given to a
commander, who then gives it to the Nobles. More important things are retrieved
directly by the commanders. No one opens the packages, no one asks questions."
- 173 -
 "Control," she mutters, crossing her arms. "What do you think were in the
packages from the post office?"

"I told you, I--"

"What do you think? You must have a guess, even if there's no proof to it yet."

"I thought it wasn't my job to have opinions."

Diingdiing, ding… She glares at his inky black figure in the night, and then the
shine of his shoes. Several arguments race through her mind, but all of them are
ones they've had before.

"I asked for it, didn't I?"

She thinks he might still argue, but perhaps he knows that she's thinking she'll
never ask his opinion again if he doesn't give it to her this time.

"Dark objects. From a friend who doesn't want to be involved, or who had them in
hiding and doesn't want to reveal where that is, and can't store it at their home.
Someone who was afraid and so made it part of the deal they wouldn't go to the
house to retrieve them, someone who stole them. Someone who was sending them
to someone else and they found out, or someone who was covering tracks. Whatever
it is or who it's from, they couldn't go somewhere safer to get it."

She nods as he turns his head to look out at the water, and she thinks of checking
records for large, recent shipments in both worlds. Putting her hands down on the
bench to either side of her, she runs her fingers across the ridges in the wood and
stares at Malfoy, dissecting the strain and shake of his voice.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks gently, too gently, and she raises her voice
when she starts speaking again. "You were pale at the house, and you seem like
you're in pain."

Ding…diding…ding…ding…ding…

"They have someone in Azkaban. It was…problematic."

Her eyebrows lower and push together, and her hands tighten on the curve of
wood. "Someone they're communicating with?"

"Someone they have. A guard. A file-keeper. Both. Several. At least one."

- 174 -
 "How do you know?"

"They found out I was put in the lowest level for a Death Eater due to my lack of
security risk - something that doesn't fit my record, and that I hadn't informed them
about."

Hermione hisses a sound that is almost a curse, rubbing a hand across her face.
He probably tried to play it off that he just became more stealthy when he learned
how the prison worked, but it still must have inspired some doubt. And punishment,
which explains his shaking. They likely cast a Cruciatus on him in the interest of
promoting full disclosure and teaching him not to hide anything again. She'll have to
find out the details when she has a quill in front of her.

"I'll get a pain draught and bring it back. You should have told me at Rome. I
put--"

"I don't want it."

"It's not a prob--"

"I said, I don't want it," he says harshly, his tone demanding she not argue.

She bristles, glaring at him.

Ding, ding…ding, ding.

July 29; 5:17am

Hermione pauses in her writing to reach for another piece of parchment in her
briefcase. "You--"

"I only stood in the entrance way. I didn't see any other parts of the house."

She drops the parchment and extra quill back. "What did it look like?" She looks
up at the pause, and he raises an eyebrow. "The house. The basic--"

"Small, three floors, potentially a cellar."

She twists towards a different group of parchments, leafing through them until
she finds her note with the address and time for when he disappeared off the map of
Russia. "Hungary, 2:12am, for thirteen minutes, right?"

- 175 -
 "I didn't clock myself."

"But Hun--"

"Yeah."

"You picked up mail from this man and then left?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't open it?"

"It was more important not to, than to see what was inside." He looks ready to
argue this point if she disagrees, but she doesn't. For now.

"Who did you give it to?"

"A commander. West."

"He checked--"

"It for tampering, then left."

"You said they've brought in new recruits who are going through the same
process your old group did. It's possible they'll need more commanders."

"Possible."

"Is there any way to position yourself for that? You have the blood and family
history for it."

He leans back in the chair, eying her. "Not the personal history."

"But you're changing that."

"…Yes."

She scribbles on her parchment, and then draws a line beside four paragraphs,
marking them section three. "It's important you rise in the ranks--"

"I'm not an idiot, so it's not important that you state the obvious."

- 176 -
 She's too tired to be annoyed with his annoyance, and so she ignores it. "Do you
have any ideas for how you might accomplish that? Have they given you any further
missions to do on your own?"

"They've asked me to speak to Blaise Zabini, though I suspect that has more to do
with past history, and so an opportunity for them more than me."

"But you can turn it in your favor. You're close with Zabini, or were?" She
remembers them spending some time together at Hogwarts, faint images of
corridors and House tables flashing blurred through her mind.

Malfoy looks up from rubbing the knuckle of his thumb. "About as close as anyone
gets to Blaise Zabini."

"I see. Do you think he'll join?" She marks off section three, and begins section
four, drawing half of a thick, dark box around the first question so she can find it
easier later.

"I know he won't."

"That will be viewed as your failure," she says, looking up at him.

They'll think Malfoy doesn't have enough charisma or ambition to sway the right
people, especially when he already has a good history with the person. It will make
them more hesitant to put him in a leadership position, which will no doubt stall the
Assignment.

She breaks their silent staring to glance at her paper, awkward with the way he
doesn't blink. "Maybe he's changed?"

"No."

She looks up, giving him an incredulous look for how quickly he answered. "You
haven't spoken to him i--"

"Blaise believed in class, not blood. He respected anyone on his level, pure-blood,
Muggle-born, or Muggle. He's a fence-sitter, when he'd have to be an extremist to
agree. Blaise also knows when it's a dying game with unlikely odds." Malfoy scans
the wall to his left, looking for something or nothing at all. "He wouldn't get involved
now even if he believed in the cause."

"Monetary contributions?" Something they can aim for that might appease the
- 177 -
higher circle.

There's no real amusement in the twist of his mouth, and it can be bitter, angry,
or a product of ill-intentions. She hasn't seen it before. "If he's cornered."

She's hesitant to ask exactly what he plans on doing to get Zabini there. "Will that
be good enough? If--"

"It's never good enough." His eyes come back to her, and he exhales through his
nose just loudly enough for her to hear it. "Though, any Galleons and information he
gives might be worth a little respect rather than the loss of it. It should be well
known by the Nobles that the Zabinis don't call sides. It's a long-running joke that
they'd bet most their money on themselves, with the rest split in bets on their
enemies in any race."

"All right." She nods, her hand cramping. "We'll figure on a meeting time, and
then plan--"

"They want results by the end of the week."

"Okay."

July 31; 11:42pm

Weasleys and a mash of friends from Hogwarts and the Ministry talk in tight
circles within the smaller space of the Burrow. Arthur is telling a group of Aurors
about his latest Muggle discovery, Molly is sweating and laughing with Ginny as
they bustle out snacks from the kitchen, and George looks highly suspicious as he
follows Neville, who is trying to lead a detached Luna through the tight crowd.

Hermione stands in the corner that affords her a look at the entire room, near a
window that leads into the overgrown garden, trying to hear anything over
Lavender's screech and Seamus' drunken loudness as they argue over music
selection. The Butterbeer is warmer than it should be from the heat of her palm, and
the fact that she has been sipping it in case her complete sobriety is required at any
point. Leacher is handling Malfoy tonight, and she suspects it hasn't been going well
since the Auror first stepped in front of Malfoy's cell a few hours ago.

Her gaze darts to the mop of red hair closing in to her left, and she looks at the
side of Ron's face as he turns beside her to face the room. His arm falls around her
shoulders, his skin warm and sticky on the back of her neck. She guesses he's not
angry anymore, though she'll wait until he starts talking to fully decide.
- 178 -
 He gives her a sideways look over the rim of his glass, and his eyebrows raise, a
hint of knowing and annoyance in his expression. He's smiling when the glass
lowers, though, and his arm tightens around her, shuffling her against his side.

"We've brought some games from the shop."

"Oh, God," she whispers.

"You'll be playing."

"I don't--"

"You'll be playing."

She jumps when another arm presses to her shoulder blades. She relaxes when
she finds Harry on her other side, grinning sloppily at them. She and Ron laugh, and
she reaches out to straighten his glasses.

"Games?" Ron asks.

"Yes," Harry answers, and then looks at her, widening his eyes as he nods. "Yes."

She clicks her tongue off the roof of her mouth, but can't stop the curving of her
lips. "Oh, fine."

August 1; 9:14pm

Ding…ding…ding…

Malfoy must still be glaring at her, as he has been since she arrived at level eight
to find him bound and in disarray.

Ding…ding…ding…

She can feel it tingling at the center of her forehead and forming a knot of tension
at the center of her back.

Ding…ding…ding…

"Has the job become too much for you to handle?"

The knot of tension spreads out into her shoulders as she pulls them back in
- 179 -
annoyance. There's anger in the hard edges of his tone, but it's casual and mocking,
and that never fails to get her ire up.

"Not to any degree. I wasn't here last night because I happen to have a life
outside of this."

"One night in two months. You lead a full life, Granger."

"As opposed to yours?" she snaps.

"I haven't been a free man for five years. I'm a prisoner, who is working as spy to
end a revival. You, on the other hand…" He shifts forward, a slight bowing of his
head, and his voice drops to something silky that still grates like puckered holes in
metal. "Tell me, Granger - how many cats do you own now?"

Her fingers tighten around one another, aching at the knuckles as she glares at
his form. "My life happens to be on hold until this is over as well, Malfoy. A revival of
Death Eaters who want to kill half the world and control the rest is higher priority
than a full life."

In her mind, there's only the silence of her flat, echoing out into a buzz in her
ears and a dull, heavy weight on her bones.

"But not as important as cake, alcohol, and Gryffindors telling tales about the
glory days of Potter?"

He knows it was Harry's birthday, then. She should have expected him to. The
entire wizarding world had known it was Harry's birthday, and even if Malfoy didn't
remember it from school or Death Eaters retelling the prophecy, someone reminded
him.

"I was celebrating a life. If that wasn't something important to me in general, I

wouldn't have taken this job. Furthermore, the other Aurors are perfectly capable of
stepping in should I need to see to another appointment. If they weren't, I would
have been here. Don't question my commitment, Malfoy."

"I'll question whatever I feel the need to question. If your commitment seems
lacking, it's my obligation to verify that, as you're my…what was it Leacher called
you? Yes, my guardian. I honor life as well, Granger. My own."

"I'm aware of that, but I guarantee you that there will never be a reason for my
commitment to this mission to waver."
- 180 -
 "I guarantee you that there will never be any reason for my commitment to this
mission to waver." He pauses, and she suspects he can sense the raise and push of
her eyebrows as he leans forward. "Saying it makes it all believable, doesn't it?" he
murmurs, and she rolls her eyes up to the navy blue sky.

She's a bit surprised he's not thankful to have a night away from her after too
many in a row with her in his presence. Leacher isn't the best replacement, though.
He's had different views on how they should handle Malfoy since he first joined the
Assignment. Malfoy barely trusts her not to curse him, never mind an Auror who
seems willing to do so at every moment. Judging by Malfoy's attitude, she's guessing
it was a long night for him.

She almost tells him that it's different, that it's more believable from her, but she
realizes how little that matters. He believes it from her just saying it as little as she
does from him. They're both on the same level, if nowhere else, than here. Only until
the actions prove it will they ever take one another at their word. He hasn't done
anything to betray his declaration, but he hasn't done enough yet. She doesn't know
if there will every be enough. For either of them.

August 2; 2:10am

Malfoy is silent as he takes off his robe, folding it once, and then laying it over the
back of the chair. She walks slowly from the beginning of the hall and to the
counters, checking her watch before looking back up at him. He looks blank. No,
that's not right. Hermione lowers her head and wipes imaginary things from her
shirt as she studies him from the top of her eyes. It's not anger in any form, or
arrogance or fear. He looks like he's deep in thought, but there's something else.
Sadness? No. He doesn't look like he's plotting, but…

Hermione drops her eyes when Malfoy turns, and finally stills her hand. She
coughs lightly into the side of a fist, and glances over at the cabinets. "Are you
hungry?"

She had seen his untouched tray in the cell at the beginning of the night. She had
thought it was because of yesterday with Leacher, but she had thought after he left
that it might be because of the meeting he was going to have tonight. Not only
having to meet up with someone who was once a friend, but then having to report a
lack of success to the revival. And whatever the look on his face is, she thinks it
might be a lot more than common emotions. She doesn't know how long it's been
since he's eaten.

Malfoy pauses in front of the loo, his back to her.

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 "I'll make pasta."

The house was purposely stocked with food that would take awhile to expire, but
it had been long enough since she checked that she isn't sure what they have. She
does remember putting pasta down on the list for the Aurors, though, and she hopes
they remembered the pots and pans. Somewhere.

He makes a noncommittal sound before walking into the loo, the door clicking
shut behind him. She listens to the shuffle of feet and rustle of clothing for a few
seconds before turning around, opening all the cabinets until she finds everything
she needs.

She turns on the tap, filling up the pot. She's hungry as well, the apple this
afternoon no longer satisfying for several hours now, but the idea of eating with him
feels too strange. She had seen him eat across the Great Hall before, or some sweet
moving around his mouth as he sauntered down corridors. But to sit with him and
eat feels intimate and too close.

There's silence from the loo. She sets the pot on the stove, watching the coil flare
red before deciding to open the jar of sauce for something to busy herself with.

"How did the meeting go?" she calls out. Her curiosity only seems to increase
after she's asked it, hanging in that second before he answers.

"Is this the interview?"

She spins the jar cap on the counter, looking at the sauce that's stuck to the
inside. "Basics, then."

"Yo-- As expected."

As expected? She had expected a lot of things, so that is hardly sufficient as an

answer. Zabini must have refused to join and the revival isn't happy about it. There's
at least a dozen smaller details his answer doesn't cover, and she knows this
because she's been thinking about it constantly for days.

She looks over her shoulder when she hears the door open, holding his gaze
before he starts for the table. She'll get the rest out of him during the interview, so
she'll have to wait until then. Malfoy hates repeating himself anyway, and really, she
doesn't like it when he has to either. He hates having to tell her once, and she hates
the way he manages to make her feel like an idiot when he has to tell her twice.

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 Water really does take too long to boil when it's being watched. By the time the
noodles are cooked and the sauce is mixed in, it feels like an hour that she's been
standing in their silence. Knowing his eyes are on her the whole time makes it
worse.

She's too lost in her thoughts on the meeting to think she should have made him
serve himself. It's not until she's setting the plate and fork down in front of him,
meeting his eyes, that she realizes why she shouldn't have. His shoulders are turned
slightly towards her, and she twists her hips, moving her wand further from a quick
grasp if he gets any ideas.

"Glasses are in the third cabinet, and the tap works if you're thirsty."

She opens her briefcase, pulling out a folder, two sheets of parchment, and digs
for a pen. Pulling the chair back enough to leave a large gap between her knees and
the edge of the table, she sits, balancing the papers in her lap.

She's halfway through the third paragraph before she hears the fork scrape
against the table.

August 4; 2:40pm

Hermione's eyes dart open wide as she flings the blanket back, her other hand
flying out and slamming into the wall. Her whole palm tingles as she shoves and
scrambles to her feet, grabbing the book from her nightstand.

She narrows her eyes, rocking as she slowly turns on the mattress, her feet
sinking down against the springs. She scans every shelf of her bookcase, the wall
with a picture of her, Harry, and Ron, and another of her and her parents within a
frame proclaiming her the world's best daughter. She turns again, a shelf filled with
knickknacks from Hogwarts and holidays, and her framed N.E.W.T.s scores. Again,
to a blank wall where a small, black fly takes off the second her eyes land on it.

Bzz, bzza, bzzzzz, as it dives towards her and she swings her book at it. Bz, bz,
bzzzz, constantly as she tries to sleep. She'll be right there, right on the edge when
dreams float in shaded, foggy images on her eyelids, and then, bzzzz, and she's
jerked right out of it.

She doesn't know if she manages to hit it, but it wasn't effective if she did,
because she hears it buzzing again. Her eyes dart to the corner, around the walls
again, the ceiling, the floor, but it's gone.

- 183 -
 She waits a few more seconds, until her eyes are back to feeling heavy, and then
collapses into her bed with a bend of her knees. Sliding the book back onto the
nightstand, she yanks her blanket up to her ears and flips onto her side. She
breathes out slowly, shoving away all the thoughts that like to choose these
moments to crawl darkly to the front of her mind.

There's a room, she tells herself. It's dark, but the candles light one, by one, by
one. She pictures them in her mind, a flame springing to life against the wall,
another a foot from it, another, until a white room is lit golden. In the middle of the
room is a chair, red, and you sit on it. It feels soft, it's the softest thing you've ever
felt, and you sink down into it, down, down, it keeps falling, and then the softness is
all around and you're floating in the sky nothing there but you and it's summer and
bright warm--

Bzzuh, bzz, bzzzzerrr, bzzz, and it's back to the dark red of light shining on her
eyelids, the drifting feeling now weighted.

She grabs the pillow beside her without opening her eyes, and pushes it over her
head.

August 5; 9:56pm

Hermione digs the bend of her fingers into the curve at the back of the chair,
yanking it across the kitchen in hard scrapes and clunks. She settles it near the wall,
and then moves very slowly, careful to not disturb the air as she steps onto the
chair. She brings the emptied folder up carefully, holding her breath as the fly stops
moving.

She swears it followed her. It did it all around her flat - waiting to buzz until the
moment she's about to fall asleep, zipping at her face when her hands are full,
making a constant hum of noise when she's in the shower, or eating, or working on
something important. Of course it followed her here. It's spending its entire life
driving her mad.

She thinks she has it until her eyes flash to the escaping fly just a second before
her folder cracks sharply against the wall. Anger spikes, and if the fly wasn't already
too far away, she would be swinging her folder in the air like she was trying to beat
the life from every dust particle around her.

She glares at the fly, clenching her teeth as she steps off the chair as delicately as
she can manage. The fly gives a short burst of buzzing before settling back on the
wall, and she creeps silently closer, holding the folder over her shoulder. She brings
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it down in a quick, hard jerk, missing the fly by a hair as it takes off over her
shoulder, buzzing loudly in her ear.

"Da--" She cuts off on a growl, spinning around to follow the fly.

She jerks to a halt with a jump when she spots Malfoy in front of the loo,
watching her. Color burns her cheeks; she hadn't even heard the creak of the loo
door opening, or the familiar whine of the floorboards. Malfoy is dressed sharply in
all black, his clothes pressed and not a wrinkle or fuzz in sight. His short hair is
slicked back, and though it's not plastered to his head like in his youth, there's not a
hair out of place. His hands are loosely in his pockets, his shoulders pulled back and
his stance straight. He looks expensive and dangerous.

She eyes him in distrust without realizing it, until his left eyebrow arches.

"You look…older."

"Older?" His eyes are chips of ice in all that darkness on his body, and they skate
down her face, chest, and to the hand holding the folder at her hip. "And you look
like a nutter."

"There was a fly-- There is a fly." She looks over at the wall to her right, her eyes
narrowing. "Somewhere."

He looks incredulous. "Paranoia can make you safer, but when it's actually seeing
things that--"

"Are there. He's just…hiding."

"Hiding," he repeats dryly.

"Yes." She nods for good measure, and decides not to tell him her theory about it
following her, or having a life purpose of messing with her.

"Perhaps the Ministry should hire house-elves. This house will be spotless and
fly-free in a day."

Hermione turns her head back to glare at him, opening her mouth with a rant she
had memorized long ago on her tongue, when she catches it. Barely there, but
unmistakable - the slightest curve to his mouth, the wider, brighter eyes, the tilt that
lets her know he's waiting for something.

- 185 -
"You said that purposely to rile me." It comes out more accusing than necessary.

He raises an eyebrow. "What would be the point in that? You talk enough as it is."

She huffs. "Any talking is too much talking for you. But--"

"So you do it purposely to rile me?" he asks.

"Yes. I live for making you angry."

"I've gathered that."

- 186 -
 10

August 6; 3:12pm

There's a glint of light that the twist in her stomach recognizes as wrong before
she takes a second glance and her mind catches up.

She looks at the bedside clock, her watch, turns for the door, and then turns back
around. She runs through a mental checklist, making sure there is no trace of her to
be found, from smaller footprints in dust, to a tendril of her scent, to a strand of her
hair.

Seventeen minutes.

August 7; 9:24pm

"Seventeen minutes. At least." Hermione shakes her head once, glancing at the
fog that curves into the space between them. "I don't know when the candle first lit -
and it would have the second anyone crossed the barrier around the house - but they
were there for at least seventeen minutes. Suggesting they had a good look around."

"You're sure it was a person?"

"The barrier only reacts for people or magic. So only animals in animagus form
would activate it. Or Patronus, of course."

"I haven't said anything. They've hinted, but never asked."

She shakes her head, shrugs. "You wouldn't have to. We created old articles
about it, and a record under Narcissa Black. They--"

"Where is my mother?" It comes out rushed and stern, and there's something else
there that tells her if she doesn't answer right, he might be jumping out of the boat
to go find his mum himself.

Had he done something to put his mother's life at risk, or does he just not trust
the revival not to harm her because of how she turned the war?

"Uh…safe. Not under record. She can tell people where she is, but as far as I
know, she hasn't. We have released the manor, but she's still living in Ministry

- 187 -
housing as her own choice. I do know she's safe."

She doesn't think he buys this, though it's the truth. His face is covered in the
dark of night, and his posture is almost always as rigid as it is now, but there's a
feeling. A tension between them that could spark and then explode, and she knows
by knowing him, at least a little, that he's only accepting that because he has no
choice.

"The revival did their research. Rome is lived in enough to know someone is
there, and we should expect them again, even if they don't mention it tonight."

Ding, ding, ding…

"Where was I?"

"Buying clothes. There's no one to verify that in the wizarding world, but I believe
they trust you enough at this point to not check. Especially since you said they are
concentrating more on this unknown mission coming up. But I have the clothes at
Rome. You'll wear them tonight."

Ding…ding…diding…

"…You picked them out?" He asks it like he already knows the answer and isn't
pleased about it.

"Yes," she says, glaring.

"It doesn't happen to be anything Weasley's mother has made, is it?"

"Yes. It has a giant M on the front, and she knitted prat into the back. Don't worry
- it's black to always match your mood. I'm quite excited to see you in it, actually."

"I bet. I'll make sure my intelligence isn't reduced to matching my impoverished
clothing, lest you start falling in love with me."

Her eyes narrow. "Was that an insult about Ron?"

"Was it that obvious?" he drawls.

"I once…had…more than friendly feelings for Ron because of his character, and
so there is absolutely, positively no concern over ever feeling so--…a…anything even
close to that with you. And clothing, or vault size, does not make the man, and the
- 188 -
Weas--"

"Clothing does make the man." He sounds annoyed, and she wonders over which
part caused it. "If I--"

"It does not. That's the--"

"If I walked into that building dressed--"

Hermione huffs. "Some people are so ridiculously--"

"--pauper and would--"

"Up until recently, you were always dressed in a prison jumpsuit. Did that--"

"I was a prisoner, I was dressed as a prisoner."

"And that's all you were? That's who you are?"

…Ding…diding…ding, ding…ding…

Hermione raises her chin and looks back out at the fog.

August 8; 10:00am

Hermione shifts in the chair, pulling out the small, thin box from the pocket of her
skirt. She'd purposely bought this skirt because of its pocket, despite the way it
hugged her legs too much.

She pushes it onto the table, and wiggles the lid off to reveal the earring inside.
"It takes me to my office here. I've carried it since after the revival took us at Linch."

"I set it up for her," Harry adds.

Kingsley nods. "You won't be able to bring any personal items. Not even bath
products. Any hint of someone else being there, they could catch it."

"Especially a female's things," Pruit says.

"I know that."

"There will have to be schedules set up. A time when you sleep, and an Auror will
- 189 -
come in to watch Bells and Rome. Before they leave, you can return to your flat for
whatever you need, and then go directly back to Rome."

"You can shop in the nearest Muggle village under a disguise, but all other
places, Muggle or wizarding, will be off-limits." Harry gives her an apologetic look.
"One of us can get whatever you need."

"What about my work? I have cases--"

"They'll be handed over. You can't interview ex-prisoners when you're supposed
to be on holiday."

"I understand that, but I still have law proposals, a meeting with the Wizengamot
in a month to present the report on moderated house-elf law, and--"

Harry and Kingsley shake their heads, and Kingsley speaks. "You can work on
anything that doesn't require needing anything from the department, investigations,
or meetings. So unless you have the facts gathered for a proposal you have yet to
write, the Assignment will be your only case."

"It's probably for the best, Hermione," Harry says, and doesn't seem to falter
under her mutinous look. "The majority of your time is taken up with the
Assignment--"

"As it should be," Leacher mutters.

"And it's better if you don't wear yourself thin. Unless you want to just go back to
your usual work, and I'll step in--"

"No."

Harry has been trying to convince her to back out of the Assignment at the
possibility she'll have to stay in Rome on a permanent basis. He thought her best for
the job a few months ago, but as soon as she's required to go deeper, he wants to
pull her out. It's not that she's looking forward to possibly living in a constant state
of awareness that something can go terribly wrong at any second, but she never
leaves a job unfinished.

She can handle this. And she tells herself that Harry doesn't want her to, and not
that he doesn't think she can, even though she suspects it's a bit of both.

"Fine. I'll put my other work on hold."

- 190 -
 "If you have to." Harry inspects the paper in front of him. "They've been by three
times, so they might just be waiting to catch M-Bells there or something. As long as
it doesn't happen more often, or they don't get suspicious, it's all right. If he does
move in, and they stop visiting, we'll go back to what we do now. It's still an if."

She's hoping it remains that way. She'd rather live with a dozen Peppers than one
Malfoy.

August 9; 9:21pm

Malfoy's cell is a stone room where the cold takes home, and the corners are
always darker with water that seeps through the depths of earth surrounding it.
There are no windows, save the one in the door that looks out to the room with a
chair at the center.

There's one torch against the far wall, protected from touch by an invisible shield,
that automatically goes out at ten o'clock each night and comes on at six each
morning. Nearly every time she drops him off, he sits in complete darkness for at
least a half hour.

There's a stained toilet in the far right corner that looks filthy but stays clean.
Next to it is a sink that trickles water and is never stocked with soap. Against the
left wall is a bed short enough that she suspects his feet hang over, with a pillow as
thin as her ring finger, and a torn, white blanket as thin as her summer robe.
There's a book on the bed now, the one she had shoved into his hands last week
before closing the cell door with a mutter that he should finish it after starting it at
Rome.

Malfoy stands in the center of the room in his Azkaban-issued jumpsuit, numbers
0501-00621 in white, bold coloring across his shoulder blades. He's staring at the
wall with the toilet and sink against it, watching something. She has to angle, push,
tilt until she sees the bug crawling across the wall.

His attention is snagged as soon as she pushes the key into the lock, metal
clicking over metal as he turns his head an inch in her direction, no doubt watching
from the corner of his eye. Normally the cells are reinforced with spells, wards, and
a lock-and-key, but she still can't use magic down here to get him out. She thought
he might escape because of it, their boat always tethered inside the cave, but he
hasn't tried. Or, at least, never succeeded or happened to leave evidence of the
attempt.

She slides the door open with a digging of her heels and a strain of her arm. He
- 191 -
moves to put his hands into pockets - she thinks that what he means to do, anyway -
but there are none on his jumpsuit.

"I'm late, I know."

He turns his head towards her, lips parted, but his response dies as his gaze
slides down to her feet. She shifts her weight to her other foot, pursing her lips as
heat burns the tips of her ears. She's in casual clothes and not her typical business
attire, and her knees and patches of her shirt are dirty with clumped dust and
smeared dirt. She also knows that her skin is shining with a layer of sweat, and
there's no helping her hair when she's sweating in humidity, no matter how tightly
she pulls it back.

His eyes linger on the bursts of wispy frizz sticking out around her temples, and
then flick across her face and throat as he turns to face her. "Did you get stuck in a
Floo, Granger?"

"I--"

"Have to battle for the last copy of a book at the bookshop?"

"I--"

"Crawled to the ends of the earth only to realize they were fresh out of Sleekeazy
everywhere?"

"Actually--"

"You had to save a kitten from a fire, and now have no ideas on how to save it
from inside the jungle of your hair? Put on a--"

"Finished?"

He tilts his head, his lips twitching. "Not quite."

"I'm actually the Muggle you Imperio'd to scrub your house."

"I see." She can hear the amusement as plainly as she would if he gave into the
smile threatening his mouth.

Her expectant look turns into a glare as he starts towards her. "Were you not
taught any semblance of manners? A thank you would be--"
- 192 -
 "It's not my house." He takes the robe she holds out, and immediately reaches for
the other hanging over her arm, draping the first back over before looking up at her.
"It's yours."

"It's not mine." She takes three steps back as he steps out of the cell. "And I still
could have had you clean it."

The amusement leaves no trace when it's gone. "Since it's not directly related to
the Assignment, no, you couldn't have."

"It is directly related to the Assignment," she says, stepping back before he starts
down the hall. "They specifically mentioned you living in filth the last meeting, and
you told them you planned to force a Muggle to clean it when you had the desire to
stand the stench of one, because you're above cleaning."

His steps might have hesitated, but the pause is so short that she can't be sure.
"You're the one that goes through my memories."

"What?"

"To stand the stench of one. I didn't say that in my interview."

She pauses behind him as he stops in front of the wall, and her vision glazes over
in thought before she moves around him. "No, you said you told them you'd do it
when you had the time. I assumed you forgot the exact wording, but I guess not."

She taps on the stone quickly, feeling him hover over her shoulder.

"Did you do it on purpose? To see if I'd mention a few small inconsistencies, and
then you would know who checks your memories?"

He brushes past her when the wall opens, the fabric of his jumpsuit cold against
her sweaty arm. She pushes her briefcase under her arm and grabs the lantern from
a hook on the wall, yanking the matches from her pocket. Her shoes click noisily
down the dark tunnel as she follows him, striking the match until it lights. His back
is lighted farther away than she thought it was, and she speeds up her steps, the
torch jostling in every direction but towards the flame.

"Does that bother you? That I'm the one who sees them?" He always walks fast,
but she's nearing having to jog just to keep up with him now.

"I don't like anyone seeing my memories."

- 193 -
 "They're moments of time you happened to be in. They're not even from your
perspective."

She half-turns, swinging the lantern back at a heavy clunk and raising her wand
as her heart leaps to her throat. There's no one or thing behind her, though, and her
eyes travel up from a large wet spot on the ground, to a gathering ball of water on
the domed ceiling.

"If someone happened to be watching you constantly, and you found out about it,
you wouldn't mind?"

She cringes as she starts forward again. There are times throughout the day,
every day, that she feels a prickle along her skin, a sensation of something at the
back of her head. It's worse at night, when there's only darkness outside the
windows and no way to notice a face on the other side, watching and waiting.
Sometimes she convinces herself that someone is there, and her heart threatens to
beat out of her chest until she can hardly breathe.

"I don't watch you," she answers quietly, but it still echoes down the walls.

She does watch him. Sometimes she watches twice just to watch him.

He's stopped at the end of the tunnel, and she gets near enough for the lantern to
start lighting his feet, and she likes that. Knowing where he is, centering herself in
the dark, stopping her imagination from picturing a hundred feet circling her.

"You've always studied more than you needed to, Granger."

She doesn't know how to answer that, and so she doesn't, moving around him to
tap on the wall. His sock-clad feet scrape against the floor as he takes a step away,
and she shoots a look to the side, wondering if he can smell her sweat as clearly as
she does.

She ducks through the hole when it appears, taking a step forward and then to
the right, and he emerges a second later. His foot snaps out of a step when it meets
a sharp rock, but he picks his way across the short distance as easily as he did the
first time he came here.

"Does it bother you more that it's me than if it was one of the Aurors?" There's no
reason for her to ask beyond the nag of her curiosity, and she doesn't even expect
him to answer.

- 194 -
 "No."

Maybe it bothers him less or the same, but she doesn't ask this time. It doesn't
matter anyway - she'll go through them whether he likes it or not, and she thinks he
knows that.

She settles the lantern on the shore, and stretches to slide her briefcase into the
boat. Her arms, tired from cleaning, strain when she shoves against the wood.
There's a second of crunching as the boat moves forward, and then her effort isn't
enough. She pulls in a breath, but it stops in her throat when the crunching starts
behind her this time.

Malfoy's hands plant themselves next to hers on the wood, and she steps back,
her right arm swinging down to her hip. Malfoy flashes her a look, a spark of grey in
the moonlight, and she clears her throat.

"Your inhumanly long fingers startled me," she lies. His fingers are long, even
longer than Ron's, but they aren't exactly inhuman or worth being startled over.

It was the sudden proximity. It was him doing something he's never done before,
and that she never would have expected him to do. Bending down to untie the rope
from the post, she wonders why she didn't just tell him that. He doesn't have to help
push the boat out - she thinks he usually enjoys watching her grunt over the labor of
it while trying to keep track of him behind her. Maybe it's Malfoy's way of saying
thank you for scrubbing Rome for hours. He doesn't seem the type to allow a favor
without doing something to pay it back - he doesn't like anything dangling over his
head.

"I've never had complaints," he mutters, and then shoves the boat forward. It
scrapes loudly into the sea.

"Well, I'm filing one." She dusts off her hands, then picks up the lantern.

She approaches him, glancing at his raised eyebrow before she tosses the rope
and her robe into the boat. She'll put her robe on when they leave the cave, because
it's too hot to not spend every second she can outside of it.

"Thank you," she says, giving him a significant look. His other eyebrow joins the
first, and she sniffs. "Just get in the boat, Malfoy."

August 11; 11:53pm

- 195 -
 The door flies open - Hermione can tell by the way it smashes against something
before feet clunk twice into the kitchen.

"You need to leave, Granger."

Malfoy speaks quickly, and there's a push of quickness that reminds her of
walking alone and hearing something other in the dark. Her mouth drops when she
turns the corner, feet stuttering to a stop in the rhythm of her heart. His face is
smeared in blood, and there are large wet spots on his robe that she knows would be
red if she could see a color. His hand is a fist around his wand, splattered in blood.

"Go."

"But--"

"They're coming,"-her heart slams against her ribs, sending out a pulse of blood
that seems to make her whole body throb-"and I swear--"

"Is that your--" She yanks the box from her pocket, nearly dropping her briefcase
and the crinkled maps under her arms as she digs her nails under the ridge of the
lid.

"I said to fucking go!" he yells, and she disappears to his head snapping towards
the back window.

August 12; 7:47am

Hermione's eyes dart to the map of the Ministry, and finding it empty, she jumps
to her feet. She passes three street maps before reaching Russia, spotting the blue
dot, and then takes one more step to know he's at the revival headquarters.

She shoves wisps of curls back from her face, but can't ease the anxiety enough
to sit down again. She's paced the length of her home office seven times before
remembering to mark down his traveling in her notes. 7:48 - (8h) - Rome to Russia;
RH. Eight hours. Eight hours. It's felt like an entire day since she left Rome.

She knows he's wearing his Portkey. If the revival was coming after him to kill
him, he would have come with her or used his Portkey at some point. Which makes
her think he hoped the situation was salvageable and turned out to be correct, so
far, or it's a completely different situation. Maybe someone found him out, they
followed him, and he had to kill them. Then the last eight hours were spent hiding
the mess, or trying to come up with a reason for the higher circle. Or it was a
- 196 -
mission gone badly, but why would he bring them to Rome?

Hermione stops in front of the map, checking it again. He had been covered in
blood. If it was all his, he would have needed to be healed by now, or he would have
bled out from whatever injuries were bad enough to cause that much blood. She had
imagined him lying on the floor for hours, bound to something, waiting for her to
come back, while she never did in time. It has been driving her near madness for
hours, and she's barely stopped herself from taking the chance and Apparating back.

Every scenario has played again and again through her mind. She doesn't think
her heart can be this frantic for so long without causing extensive damage. She feels
that she must do something, while warring with the knowledge that she can't. His
life is her responsibility, and she's just standing here.

But he's moved now. At least he's moved.

2:38pm

Hermione steps over the fallen branch, onto a pointed rock that the rubber of her
trainers molds around. Birds are chirping around the woods, and occasionally
something rustles in the leaves or scrapes bark, causing her to whirl around with
her wand extended every time. She doubts anyone would be out here, but she can't
be sure, and her paranoia spikes higher the closer she gets to Rome.

Malfoy's dot had disappeared from Russia a few hours ago. She had searched
every map, panic rising like a steel fist in her chest, before she realized the tracking
spell had worn off. She had paced between the maps and the notebook on her desk,
and would have contacted the Aurors had they been able to do anything at all. It
wasn't until the candle flickered to life an hour ago, telling her someone was in
Rome, that she made up her mind. If the house is filled with the revival and Malfoy
looks to be in danger, then she'll bring the Aurors in.

Hermione ducks under entwined branches, careful not to let any part of her brush
the leaves. Her ankle hits against a branch across the ground, but she catches
herself before she can bash her face off anything. Her heart thumps at the base of
her throat, and she swallows dryly, closing her eyes for a moment. Memories play in
broken flashes, and behind her eyelids there's Harry, Ron, and herself flashing
through the trees, the heavy weight of a Horcrux, being shoved to the ground on her
knees, and Harry limp in Hagrid's arm. This is why she doesn't go in forests
anymore. This is why she sometimes shakes at a cropping of trees.

She opens her eyes, somehow sure she'll feel Harry or Ron grip her arm to pull
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her to her feet, or take one of their hands to ease the fear she'll see carved into their
features. She straightens up, rubbing the dirt off her palm and onto her trousers,
her breath catching in her throat. She looks behind her, her hand trembling around
her wand, almost expecting an outstretched hand and the gaping grin of a Snatcher.

When there's no one there, she searches around her, and then scans the tops of
the trees until she's sure. She starts moving forward again, working her way over
roots and around brush, moving as quickly as she can without making a sound. She
circles around a large, thick trunk, and spots a glimmer of water between the trees.
She's at the pond, then, and Rome would be right after it.

She grips her wand tighter, skirting between two trees just enough to spot Rome
without anyone being able to spot her. A gleam of white against the overgrown grass
catches her attention first, though, and she finds Malfoy sitting at the edge of the
water on the other side of the pond.

For a moment, there's relief. It drops to her stomach and her shoulders sag with
it, the tension of the past fourteen hours sliding from her bones. She can see him
well enough to know he's clean, no hint of blood on his skin, and the way he's sitting
there does not suggest a position of death.

He's so pale that he nearly glows in the sun. Azkaban does not even let their
prisoners near a window, and she thinks this is probably the first time he's been in
the sunlight for five years. If the night hadn't gone so terribly, she might stay here
for awhile longer and let him have it.

Instead, the tension ebbs back into her chest, and she scans the area around the
pond and house for any sign of someone else. She doesn't think Malfoy would be
sitting at the pond if someone else is here, but she can't ever be sure.

She moves back a few steps, finding a rock that isn't big enough to cause a lot of
sound, but will still be more noticeable than a pebble. She picks it up, turning it in
her fist, and moves to the left until she finds a gap between trees where the
branches are high enough for the rock not to sail through leaves first.

It goes further than she thought it would, and she thinks Malfoy's eyes snap to it
before it even hits the water, though she's not positive from this distance. Old
Seeker habits or just his constant awareness of everything around him, but he's on
his feet the second the rock splashes, and his eyes are settled on the trees next to
where she's standing.

She scans the area again, then steps out slowly, meeting his eyes when they dart
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to her. They stand silently for three beats of her heart, and then she nods her chin
towards the house, shaking her head in question.

His left eye squints in the sun, and the wind has picked up strands of his hair to
blow them sideways on his head.

"N--"

She shakes her head quickly, and her hand waves in the air in front of her in case
he doesn't understand the head shaking. She gestured towards the house and nods
her chin again. She hasn't picked her way through the woods for the last twenty
minutes just for him to blow her location. Even if he thinks the house is clear, it
doesn't mean it is - they know his home now.

He stands there for a few seconds, and when she starts to wonder if he's dense
today or just pretending to be, he turns for Rome. It's only then that she sees the
shine of blond in all that bright white of his hair, and the blue bruise at the corner of
his jaw.

He's in the house for five minutes, or five hours, or five days. She's too busy
checking around the woods behind her to notice when he does emerge, and when
she turns back, he's at the pond again, looking for her.

"It's empty," he says, his voice deep and raspy, carrying over the water.

She steps back out again, but her hand doesn't loosen on her wand. "What
happened?"

He licks his lips, a flash of his tongue, and looks at the water shimmering green,
blue, and gold. "A few of the recruits were reckless. I went to meet up with them in
a supply run for the commanders, and they were in a fight with a group of
Muggle-borns. Apparently, they told them they were part of a new group of Death
Eaters, then proceeded to torture and kill them. One was alive. They brought her
here."

"Why here?"

"Where else?"

She moves forward, out of the trees and around the pond, her eyes catching the
flight of every bird and every wind-swayed branch. "That's not--"

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 "There was nowhere else to go. Two of them had already been here, and I knew
they would be coming even without my consent. I could have bound them and left
them for the Ministry, but it's not exactly loyalty, is it?"

No, it isn't. With his past, they would have held it against him as a sign he hadn't
changed. "Why not Russia?"

"They buggered it. They didn't want the commanders to know."

She nods, navigating around a patch of yellow flowers while trying not to step in
the water to do so. "Why did they take the girl?"

He's silent, and when she glances up, he's looking at her like he's shown her
something evil and she thought it was a toy. Agitation bubbles in her chest, but it's
replaced with knowledge, and her stomach twists into a knot of nausea. She pauses,
and whatever steals her expression makes his jaw clench before he looks away from
her.

"I didn't do anything," he snaps, like she's already accused him of it. "I don't rape
women, despite what you--"

"I didn't say you did."

His eyes sweep back to her, hard and glaring. "You didn't have to. You--"

"I was thinking of that poor woman, and not--" she begins to yell, and clenches
her fist at the burn behind her eyes as her imagination structures images in her
mind.

"She was dead before anyone touched her." He looks at her like he's waiting for
something, every line of him set into defense.

She feels only small relief at the knowledge that the woman didn't suffer even
more before her death. That she wasn't passed around, broken and screaming for
help, while Hermione sat in her office and watched a dot move across a map.

Her inhale stutters in, too loud to not be telling, and she angles herself away from
Malfoy's glare. She reaches out to the flowers in front of her, fingering them as if it's
the entire point of her not moving towards him anymore. She tries to even her
breaths, to swallow past the clog of her throat, to shove down the guilt and then the
helplessness that makes her unsteady on her feet.

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 I could have saved her, I could have saved her, I could have saved her.

She makes a sound that could have been words, but it's all grunted and
emotion-heavy, and it sounds like she's choking.

"What next?" she manages, and drops her hand from rubbing her forehead when
she feels it shaking against her skin.

"They buried her at the side of the house, cleaned everything up, and came up
with a plan," he says, his tone less sharp. "I went along with it until we reached
Russia. I told the commanders everything, and that I was disturbed with the
recruits' lack of loyalty and intelligence in keeping everything hidden for now. I said
I felt obligated to inform them."

That's it, she tells herself, her breathing evening out. She can think about the rest
later, when there's nothing there to stop it. There's work to do now.

"What did they do?"

She rounds the corner of the pond and into the last stretch towards him. His
hands are loose at his sides, his eyes trained on the water, and he's silent. She
stares hard, taking in the details of his form, clothing, the curve of his jaw and the
point of his nose to burn away the images lingering in her mind.

"Well?"

"They took it as a strengthening of trust and rewarded me."

That's good. That's good, solid progress, because the further he gets in, the more
they'll be able to tear the revival apart when they make to do so. Which is the whole
point of all of this. The reason she was in her office and not blowing through the
doors of Rome - so that, soon, they'd never hurt another person again. Blowing the
mission would have made sure that they did, and would have destroyed their only
chance to get them before it becomes another war.

She's doing the right thing. She's doing the right thing.

"With what?" A pause. "What did they reward you with?"

His hands move into his pockets, and his lips thin for a moment. "A dinner."

"With who?"
- 201 -
 "I don't know."

She crosses her arms, following his eyes to the pond. There's a frog in the shallow
water, staring up at them from the bottom, his chest puffing. "Why were you
hesitant to tell me that?"

"I'm tired, Granger." He sounds it, too. His voice drags, and it's low, like it
crawled up from his throat.

She shakes her head once. "There's something else." He had paused too much,
like he was holding something back. He's always reluctant to share, even when he
knows he'll have to, but it sounds different this time.

His face tightens - locked jaw, press of his mouth, his eyebrows raising - and his
shoulders pull back. "They gave me a whore, and I since I didn't want to fuck her or
raise suspicion, I let her suck m--"

"Okay."

"She--"

"Okay," she says again, cheeks flaming.

"I have the memory for review if--"

"What time is the dinner?" she bites out, glaring at him, and hopes he thinks the
blush is all from her anger when his gaze flicks across her face.

She does not want those mental images to replace the others, even if they weren't
as hard to swallow as-- Jesus, she thinks, her eyes widening as the heat increases in
her face. It's a lot easier to never think of Malfoy and anything sexual together, and
she has to force her mind not to go there, as it likes to go everywhere when a thread
of thought enters it.

She honestly, truly hopes he does not give her that memory as some sort of
revenge for her pushing him to tell her. If she had known it was something like that,
she would have let him keep it to himself.

"Are you sure you don't want details? I was a bit too distracted to take notes,
but--"

"Malfoy, I do not want to hear about you and…sex of any sort with anyone, or
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anything involving your sex life, unless it…unless something terrible happened that
directly relates to the Assignment. Or…someone tries to rape you or something.
Which would also be very terrible, and would fit into the…the aforementioned
category. Which is terrible things. But only if it's terrible things, okay? And
not…enjoyable terrible things, but I mean, honestly terrible."

She expects to still see his anger when she looks up from the water, but instead
there's a small curve at either side of his mouth, and there's a wrinkle at the top of
his nose from the way his eyebrows are drawing together. It's curiosity and
bemusement, strange and new on his face, and she huffs at the sight of it.

"Enjoyable, terrible things?" he asks slowly.

She shifts on her feet, a pebble rolling from her right foot and down into the
water as she looks away from him. "I… There was a man a few years ago who told
me he enjoyed terrible, wonderful things in sexual situations, and then listed
certain… He had a list. A long…long list." She and Seamus still ignore that
conversation ever happened.

She looks up, completely startled at the sound of Malfoy's laughter. It fills the
quiet of the woods, and forms lines around his mouth, squinting his eyes. She
studies the way it changes his face, and feels the roll of it against her skin, filling up
her eardrums. She doesn't think she's ever seen him really laugh.

He's human. Sometimes - a lot of times - she forgets that. Malfoy is like a walking
memory to her. There, unchangeable, and something she revisits again, again, and
again. She knows him in events. It's easy to forget that he is a human who changes,
feels, responds, and is someone. A character, a personality, a soul she does not
know.

"Was it Weasley?" he asks, the grin slow to fade. "Actually, maybe I don't want to
know."

"It wasn't Ron. Or Harry. And I'm not telling you who."

"So I know them?"

She shrugs, looking at the way the light brightens his eyes. "Distantly. By name."

He hums lowly, looking back out at the water, and she thinks they'll stay in the
sun for just a little while longer.

- 203 -
 7:03pm

Hermione checks the notebook in her pocket, making sure nothing has changed
and that Rome is still clear. The page is blank, and she flips the book shut with a
flick of her wrist, cramming it into her pocket. She turns with a crack, and opens her
eyes to the backdoor of Rome, reaching out to open it.

Empty, beyond the candles dancing in light and shadows across the kitchen.

Her heart speeds up, and she licks dry lips, reaching out with the hand holding
her wand to knock three times on the frame of the door. Clunk, clunk, clunk,
someone knocks back, an action that's never been mentioned as something they
should do. She steps back at the shadow that moves across the wall in the hallway,
and drops her wand, letting out a breath when Pruit emerges.

He nods at her, and she nods back, crossing the room. He stands in front of the
hallway, watching her as she slides her briefcase onto the table. It's weird to see
anyone but Malfoy in the house, and she doesn't like the way it makes her feel
anxious.

"How did it go?"

She had left at half past three to sleep and shower, and had got little more than
two hours of rest. Even with how little of sleep she normally gets, she's not used to
running this low on energy. She feels like she can fall asleep standing against a wall
- any place will do.

"All right, so far. He's in Italy."

"Italy?"

Pruit tosses a map in the air, and she flinches when he flicks his wand at it,
guiding the map to the table as it unfurls. Hermione looks down at it for two beats of
her heart, and then blinks her gaze to Pruit.

"It's empty."

He sticks out his bottom lip, nostrils flaring as he gives a short hum, stepping up
to look at it himself. "He was near Rome."

Pruit's mouth twists in a half-smile as he glances at her, but she just looks back
expectantly. He sets a pile of maps to the side of the table, and begins to rifle
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through them.

"What's the address?"

"Not sure. We'll have to ask Bells when he gets back."

"You didn't check?"

Pruit looks up at her, surprise flashing across his face at her accusing tone. "He'll
tell us. He's told us everything before."

"If he knows. They probably took a Portkey or Apparated him there. He might not
know."

He pauses in unfolding the map of Russia, blinking at the far wall. "That's true,
but if Bells is any sort of spy, he'll check for the street names or landmarks."

Hermione tries not to snap. Never trust anyone to do a job you can do yourself.

Malfoy's dot is at the Russian headquarters now, but it's the other address that's
important. He could have just had dinner with the commanders, but if he met the
Nobles, that address is essential.

"Well…want some coffee?"

She sighs heavily, shaking her head. Grabbing the back of the chair across from
Pruit, she pulls it back and around so it's against the wall. She sits with a tired
hunch in her spine, and watches the dot move.

August 13; 5:01am

"Do you know where in Italy you went?"

Malfoy pauses on the way to the loo. "Not exactly."

"I knew it," she mutters harshly, opening her file to all three notes Pruit had
made. "Can't trust someone else to do it, they never do it right. Honestly, just look
for the map, write it down. You were probably there for at least an hour - not that I'd
know, since he didn't write that down either."

She glances up at Malfoy, and takes a second look when she sees him standing
there and staring at her.
- 205 -
 "Are you feeling more unstable than usual, Granger?"

Well, she's not going to tell him that a Ministry worker didn't do a job right. "I'm
never unstable. I either have the facts, or I'm trying to find them. And the latter can
make me appear…"

"Unstable."

"Preoccupied."

"Ah." His fingers catch on the first button of his robe, and he slides it out from the
slot with a push of his fingers. They drop to the second, undoing it just as easily, and
then the third.

"How did the dinner go?"

"Well," he answers, walking into the loo.

"How"-the loo door bangs shut with a backwards push of his shoe-"well?"

She listens to the sound of clothing being removed for a moment, and then
glances at her watch before quickly packing up. She wishes she could do the
interview on their way back to Azkaban, but it's always too dark and rocky to keep
proper notes on the boat.

She's excited to sleep. Excited to sleep for the first time that she can remember.
She's so exhausted that the thought of a soft bed and softer blanket makes her feel
peaceful.

"I met two Nobles."

Her hand collides with the side of an inkwell, sending it onto its side and rolling
for the edge of the table. She snatches it before it can drop, thankful the cap was on.
"What?" she asks, her voice coming out quick and a little high.

"My reward was a chance to impress them."

"Did you?" He might only be silent for two seconds, but it feels like an entire
minute. "Well?"

"They want me to lead a mission."

- 206 -
 Lead a mission. This is good. This is wonderful, even. Depending on the mission.
"What?"

He says something that's too low for her to make out anything more than the rise
and fall of a voice.

"What?"

"Fucking hell, Granger, you sound like a bloody--" He cuts off.

She straightens up, pulling her wand as she eyes the door. "All right?"

There's a quick rustle of clothes, and she steps around the table before the door
opens. Malfoy steps out in a shirt and shorts, and she drops her eyes back to the
table.

"Where's the jumpsuit?"

"It's in there."

"It isn't."

"It's right over the towel--"

"It's not in there, Granger. Where did you move it to?"

"I didn't move it." She narrows her eyes at her quill. "He must have put it
somewhere."

She looks up at Malfoy's silence, forgetting that he's not wearing any trousers.
She keeps her eyes firmly on his face, clearing her throat as he raises an eyebrow.

"Just, uh…just put on clothes." The eyebrow raises higher. "Just wear the normal
clothes, Malfoy. And tell me about the mission."

"At the interview," he says, disappearing into the loo, though he leaves the door
open this time.

She sighs low enough for it to sound like a growl, and glares at the door of the
loo, knowing he's smirking.

10:11am
- 207 -
 What are you doing, Malfoy asks, covered in blood and panic.

I'm bringing her out, there's tunnels under the house, she tells him.

The girl is blood-soaked, and when Hermione wraps her arms around her chest
and pulls her back, the screaming stops. Figures are moving like black ribbons of
people in the other room, laughing loudly and naked, and Malfoy steps back from
her.

There aren't any tunnels, he tells her.

Yes, they're under the house, I dug them. You're talking too loud, they'll hear me,
we'll blow everything.

You shouldn't have come, he says, she'll find you.

The girl goes limp and heavy, sodamnheavy, in Hermione's arms, and she looks
down to find the eyes white and milky, the battered face covered in tears, snot, and
blood. Who will find me, she asks, looking at Malfoy, and he's smaller and thinner,
more fear than bones.

Bellatrix, he answers.

What? She's dead.

She's never dead.

Hermione's eyes peel open to a pale ceiling, a racing heart, and sweaty skin.

August 14; 1:42pm

Hermione sets two plates on her table, silverware, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice
before helping Harry open the takeaway containers.

"One of them is rumored to be an object that, when activated, releases a pulse of

magic that blinds everyone around it. They could use that to make everyone around
defenseless, which would give the revival the ability to do whatever they wanted,
and just dodge spells that aren't aimed properly anyway."

Harry pushes one of the containers to the middle of the table, and then opens
another. "That's the only one you heard about it?"

- 208 -
 "Yeah. It's a rumor - it didn't come from the higher circle."

Harry picks a fallen shrimp off the table and pops it into his mouth, rubbing his
fingers against a napkin. "So, basically…Bells has to go somewhere that he has to
steal the objects from, right? Either storage, abandoned, the people aren't
willing…but stealing them."

"Yes. The layout they explained to him sounds a lot bigger than a house, but…it
could just be a very, very big house. And they told him he might run into problems."

"And they didn't tell him what it was, just Dark devices, and he'll have to
know…what they are?" Harry's forehead wrinkles, one eyebrow rising higher than
the other.

Hermone shrugs, pouring both of them a drink. "It's a test to see how well he
does leading. He can't plan everything out, so he's got to be quick, efficient, and
direct a team in the middle of who knows what."

Harry empties half the box of rice onto his plate before passing it to her. "We
have to let him get it."

"But if that Dark object is real, if they really find that…"

"We'll get it when we take them down - and know from Bells when they plan to
use it."

Hermione sighs, filling her plate with more food than she'll eat, and takes her
seat across from him. "If he finds it alone, he can destroy it in a way that won't come
back on him."

Harry nods, spinning his fork in a heap of noodles. "If he can pull it off.
Sometimes it's not as simple as just breaking it--"

"Well, I know that."

"Know-it-all." He smiles at her when she glares with no heat. "I don't want them
to get it, to get anything, but Bells has to do it, and he can't fail. The sooner he
does…"

"The sooner we finish it."

He nods, swallowing, and leans his head forward. "For good."

- 209 -
 She nods, watching the sauce drip from the little packet and onto her chicken.
Finished. Finished. She can't even imagine a life like that.

- 210 -
 11

August 15; 10:18pm

Hermione checks her watch, but all she can see in the lantern light is the top
three numbers.

"I was a bit late." She says it lowly enough that she wouldn't be surprised if
Malfoy didn't hear her over the bell.

"It's not the first time."

She rolls her eyes up, spotting the moon through the fog and dark clouds. Specks
of rain touch coolly to her cheeks.

"You act like I'm late every time."

"I wouldn't notice."

Her hand drops back to her lap from wiping the water from her face. That's right,
he wouldn't. "Oh." Diing…ding. "Does it go slower or faster when you don't know?"

He turns his head, and his hood is pulled back enough that she can see the line of
his nose and damp locks of hair. "It doesn't exist. Fifteen minutes is an hour, or day,
or five seconds. It's all the same when you're doing the same thing. Time becomes
unimportant until you're looking back at it. Living it feels slow. Looking back, it's
always too fast."

"I can't imagine that. Time being unimportant." She lives by it. Her alarm clock,
her watch, her work hours, when she picks up Malfoy, when she brings him back,
what time to eat, time to sleep, deadlines, birthdays, anniversaries.

"You mark it with events. Something different that happens. It's how you separate
days." He shrugs. "It's the same for everyone, prisoner or not."

"Oh, no, I always go by time." Except in the forest, the search for the Horcruxes.
Time moved differently then.

"You live by the exact time every day, but hours and days don't matter after
years. A person does the same thing for five years, and looking back, it went fast.

- 211 -
They do something different and memorable every week, and the five years were
full, slow. People naturally fall into dull patterns, and it's dullness that eats time, not
events."

She stares unseeingly at the light gleaming off the wet fabric over his kneecaps.
"Sometimes I feel like the war ended a decade ago, and sometimes it's like it was
last week. Some things I barely remember, and others, I can't stop remembering. I
think that's why they feel so recent."

Ding.

She cringes, not knowing what she was thinking to admit that out loud. She
shouldn't have. She really shouldn't have. She wants to pull it back from the air
where it's floating around their heads, turn back the last thirty seconds, erase it
from his mind.

Her face is hot, and Malfoy doesn't speak.

August 17; 4:58am

Crack, as loud as thunder and directly in the kitchen.

Hermione flies to her feet without a thought. It feels like her stomach and heart
are still sailing upwards, until she spots Malfoy, and they drop back, colliding at the
bottom of her gut. He's covered in dirt, and there's blood on him again, seeping from
his forehead, jaw, and coating his hands. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are wide
with a feeling that echoes back at him from her chest.

"What--"

She jumps back when he raises his wand, almost stumbling over her chair as she
yanks her wand out, then aims it at him. He turns his head towards the left, his eyes
staying on hers, and she turns hers as well, a mutual question. Hers is along the
lines of whatareyoudoing, and she has no idea what he's asking.

"Do you think I'm not me, or are you stupid enough to think you can take me?"
she asks breathlessly, her heart pounding painfully in her chest, adrenaline pulsing
through her limbs.

"I can kill you in less than two seconds," he says, his voice silky low, the tone
sounding as much like a threat as the words. "From this distance, there's no dodging
that."
- 212 -
 Her mouth goes dry, because he's right, and she's about to tear from her skin.

"What are you doing in my house?"

What? What? Polyjuice, someone else, Malfoy never Apparates right into the
kitchen, lost his mind, drove him insane, Imperius.

"I've come to bring you to Azkaban." Is this the right answer? If he's gone mad,
she should probably sound a little less threatening. But if he's gone mad and still
remembers Rome, he should know what she's doing here.

He tilts his head. "W--"

"What's my job at the Ministry?"

"How would I know that?"

She narrows her eyes, her whole head throbbing with each beat of her heart. "
Stupefy!"

He deflects it, and she blocks when it comes darting back at her. She blocks
again at the jet of yellow from his wand, just until she's moved around the table
enough to release the block without the spell hitting her. It flies through the space
where she was as she yells out to disarm him, but something cold wraps around her
ankles and yanks them out from under her.

Her spell hits the ceiling, chips of wood bursting out as she hits the ground on
her back. Her oxygen escapes her in a wheeze, and she rolls, the jet of purple
coming close enough to burn a tear through the arm of her blouse. She casts blindly,
but hits her target when she hears him crash into the far wall, grunting loudly.

Her feet are a jumbled mess, but she climbs to them without pause. "Accio
wand!"

He keeps his grip, his teeth clenched as it drags him two feet across the kitchen.
The spell breaks when she casts a Stunner, and he's quick enough to block it -
quicker than she thought Malfoy would be. She's mid-cast to knock his wand out of
his hand when he does it to her, silence overtaking her mind until the next burst of
her heart brings panic.

She dives for her wand as it bounces off the wall, the floor, and then rolls away
from her. Her elbows and knees hit hard off the ground, splintering pain up her
- 213 -
limbs as she grabs the legs of the table. He yells a Stunner, followed rapidly by a
summoning spell, and she heaves back, yanking the table over. His spells hit hard
enough for her to hear the wood splinter before the bottom of the table slams into
her, knocking her onto her side.

Her vision eclipses with foggy red, and the skin on the side of her face and her
arm tingle with the smack. She blinks hard, scrambling for her wand against the
wall, and sucks in a breath when her skin meets vine. The top of his shoe lands on
top of the edge of the table, snapping it down to reveal a tight expression and anger
radiating from every rigid line of him. She's already shoving herself out of the way
before he finishes casting a Stunner, sending him to his knees as she rolls to hers.

Both of their Stunners meet in a burst of bright, red light that fills the entire
room, making him look more sinister in its glow. His magic is strong enough that it
takes all her strength to keep her arm locked and wand trained on him.

"Why are you only"-she jerks her wand to break the spell contact, and flings her
left side back to avoid his spell as he does the same to miss hers-"casting Stunners?"

Their spells crack into the walls, and in that second of hesitation from him, his
wand flies from his hand with a jet of light from her wand. She summons it, and he
almost catches it, moving quickly enough for his fingertips to send it spinning into a
wall. She's only seen a Seeker move that fast.

She summons it again as he dives for it, and it smacks into her palm, the exact
wand that she hands Malfoy at the beginning of each night.

Warmth floods her chest, but she knows it's not over yet, and she stumbles to her
feet as she pants for air. The adrenaline is slowly fading, making her bones tremble,
and Malfoy watches her like he's still holding a wand.

"Why would you take--"

"I'm the one asking questions now!" she snaps.

"Why were you--"

"Shut--"

"Why were you--"

"Answer--"
- 214 -
 "--take me to Azkaban?" he yells.

"To interview you!" she yells back. "Now why were you…" She trails off at the
way his shoulders slump forward, the harder edges of the fight leaving him.

He reaches up, rubbing a hand over his face, and she can see that his knuckles
are bruised through the blood. Getting to his feet seems like a lot of effort, and
suddenly he looks very tired.

"Malfoy?" she asks carefully. She had been sure it was someone else, but when he
had only cast Stunners and weak hexes…

"I thought you were a setup again," he says quietly, looking at the fallen table.

She shakes her head, her wand wavering. "Again?"

"Tonight…" He pauses, leaning his head to the side and turning it, a loud, sharp
crack that sounds like Apparition filling the room. "The mission tonight was a setup.
I didn't know, the team didn't, but the commanders and Nobles did. They put you,
Potter, and Weasley in as Aurors who showed up."

She drops her wand slowly, scanning his face and clothes. It's only when she
spots the chain of the necklace around his neck that her grip loosens. Of course. Of
course. She should have checked that first. Though it was a bit hard to do when he
was casting spells at her, and he still could have been under Imperius or went crazy.

"I…I wasn't sure. I bound you three, told them I figured the Nobles would want
you untouched. I'm not sure if they bought it. They…I…to…I used the Cruciatus on
you. Once you started screaming for Potter, and you… I knew you wouldn't have,
and something about you was off. I figured it out."

He knows she wouldn't have. She wonders if he remembers, if he plays it out like
she does, over and over, remembering. Or if he just thinks that's something in her
character, to take the fall and not have her friends go down with her.

"It…" He hesitates - she can see his lips moving over words he won't choose,
fighting with something, before he seems to accept whatever it is. "I had to pretend
you were someone else for it to work, and the curses were hardly effective. I figured
it out and so made it effective before they told me it was all fake, but if I hadn't, it
might have been problematic."

Fake. Why would they-- Had they been suspicious that he was working for the
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Ministry? Or that he would fail when it was a familiar face and not a stranger, a
Muggle? Perhaps they just wanted to manipulate it to test him exactly how they
wanted to test him. She doesn't think these are people who will accept a loss of
control.

"The Muggles in the setup were under Imperius. Most of the ones I used the fake
Killing Curse on had left by the time the bodies were inspected. There were two left
who came out of it during that, but I said some of the recruits must have cast wrong,
or put a different curse on them."

Malfoy almost rips the fourth button on his robe, and the fifth pops off, skittering
across the floor. He whips the robe off, revealing the tear across his chest and the
blood in his shirt. He bundles the robe into a ball, then tosses it to the only chair still
standing. It lands for a moment, then slips to the floor.

"It didn't go well, but well enough."

It doesn't sound or look like it went anywhere near well, but she holds back on
saying so, approaching him slowly. He's thrumming with energy, with anger, and
she thinks she can feel it against her skin when she stops in front of him. Awareness,
like a brush of a fingertip just over her skin, the tips of fine hair, without touching
her.

"Was it us exactly? Like Polyjuice?"

"Seemingly."

Someone who had access to their hair. That could be…that could be a lot of
people. More than she even wanted to count, because they were all enemies now,
and had them surrounded. They would have to be on alert. Interviews, keeping
watch, wand always at hand until they found the person. Maybe Malfoy could find it
out.

He flinches away from her hand, and it pauses between them. "Lower your head."

"I'm fine."

"Malfoy," she says sharply, and she's surprised it works, even if his jaw is
clenching.

She heals the cut along his jaw, and then the gash across his forehead. She clears
her throat as she steps to the front of him, pressing her lips together as she glances
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up at his face. He's staring straight, over her head, his expression unreadable. She
reaches out, stretching her thumb and index to widen the flap of fabric, and then
clears the blood from the patch of his skin.

His chest is bleeding more than the cut is worth, and while it's a good depth, it's
not the gaping wound she expected. He hisses when she runs her wand across it, the
skin stretching to mend. She's momentarily distracted by the hint of raised, white
skin that runs diagonally through the wound, her spell pausing halfway as she
inspects the scar.

Malfoy grunts low in his throat, and her gaze darts up, finding his eyes on her.
"Sorry," she mutters, bringing her wand over, the skin a bit more clumped together
than was needed at the point where she paused.

There's another tear in his shirt at the shoulder, and she glances up at him as she
rips the fabric wider to look at what's underneath. Malfoy's eyebrows raise, his lips
parting for a second before he shuts them again. She winces as she eyes the burn,
the skin red, pink, and raw.

She looks back up, finding him still watching her, and then turns for the loo. She
makes it to the hallway before he speaks.

"Why aren't you threatening me yet?"

She glances at the fragmented reflection of herself in the mirror before quickly
opening the cabinet. The glass pieces scratch off one another, and she pauses to
make sure they aren't about to crash to the floor before she grabs the jar of burn
salve from the shelf. She closes it gently.

"Given the circumstances, it was understandable. I doubted you as well." She

shrugs, walking back to him as she unscrews the lid of the jar. "I'm glad you had the
mind to check in case it was them." She holds the salve out to him, and he takes it
after four beats of silence. "If you used a curse, it would be a different
conversation."

I had to pretend you were someone else.

He turns the jar in his hand, then looks at her for a moment as she stares back,
looking for words to say and not finding anything that sounds right. He gives her
one, solid nod before moving around her, his shoes crunching over debris from the
ceiling and wall.

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 Maybe, today, she won't bind him.

12:05pm

She balances the bowl in the palm of her hand, stabbing the tiny noodles as she
leans back against the counter. Malfoy eats at the table that's leaning to the left, a
large, splintered dent near the center. He looks like he still hasn't decided if the
food is any good.

"I let you get my wand."

She bites back a smile, but it still escapes. "Sure."

August 20; 9:40pm

Dingdindingdindingdinding.

"It's getting closer," Malfoy says, and the confirmation makes her pull her wand
out the rest of the way.

"I know."

The bell had started sounding behind them shortly after they left the cave, a
tinkling of sound that grew louder the longer they went. They'll be at the shore soon,
and she just hopes it's soon enough. If it's a visitor boat, she and Malfoy will be
nothing more to them than passing strangers in the fog, cloaked in black. A guard,
though…they'll ask questions.

"We'll have to be quick," she says. "It's not any of the Aurors, and if they spot
you…"

She twists to look behind her, seeing nothing but grey. By the loudness of the
other bell, that boat must be moving faster than theirs. The magical current that
guides them is weak, so they always move slowly. If the other boat is moving faster,
it means someone is making it faster, and only guards can use magic here.

Malfoy is standing before they even hit the shore, and she follows him, tucking
her briefcase under her arm. His foot slips along the slick edge of the boat, making
his jump crooked, but she doesn't hear a loud enough splash to suggest he landed
face first. Grabbing the lantern from the hook, she crosses the boat quickly,
stepping over his bench. She pauses with one shoe on the end of the boat, taking a
breath as she throws the rope over, and then propels herself forward. Her shoe
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squeaks loudly off the wood, and she lands with a splash that splatters her
shoulders.

Water seeps through her trousers at the knees and down, and she pushes
forward, trying not to think of any creatures circling around her legs. The water line
is approaching her ankles before she realizes that Malfoy isn't in front of her, and
she glances over her shoulder, finding him by the boat with the rope in his hands.
He leans backward, shoulders shifting as the boat moves with him, and she speeds
up her steps to the shore.

She drops her briefcase and the lantern on the nearest patch of dry land, and
then runs back out, her feet squelching in her shoes and the water splashing up
under her footfalls. The bell from the other boat sounds like it's about to break
through the fog at any second, and she imagines four guards with pointed wands
and unanswerable questions.

She touches Malfoy's shoulder without thought, a subconscious reassurance of

just me, and feels it shift under her fingers before his back is pressing against her
chest when he hauls the boat forward again. She snatches the line of rope hanging
beneath his hands as her foot slips forward between his, her balance threatened for
the second before she finds it again. Her other hand skims across the back of his
robe, and as she follows the line of the rope back to shore, she wonders at his
reaction if she pulled him into the water from attempting to keep herself out of it.

By the time she reaches the post, he's pulled the boat close enough to give her
enough rope. "Good," she calls as quietly as she can while making sure he can hear
her.

She wraps it twice around the post, then knots it, stepping on the line back to the
boat while yanking on the end. The light from the lantern shifts, and she looks up at
Malfoy, already heading for the trees. She runs to catch up with him, her legs heavy
with water. He holds her briefcase out without turning to look at her, but keeps the
lantern.

August 21; 10:31pm

Hermione moves to turn the page in her book, and looks up at Malfoy sitting
across from her. His face is set in lines of concentration as his eyes scan across
sentences, faint wrinkles in his forehead. There's a lock of hair that's fallen from
order, hanging over his forehead and ending at the brow. Another is sticking up and
pointing left at the top of his head. Maybe she cut them differently, or they're
stubborn pieces, like the lock of curls at her temple that always turns to complete
- 219 -
frizz.

She looks back down at her page, smoothing it beneath her palm. "What do you
think you'll do after Azkaban?"

She has been wondering this since before he accepted the Ministry's offer.

"You're no longer assuming I'll be there for life?" Nonchalant, uncaring. As if her
assumption is common furniture in someone else's house - barely noticeable.
However, with Malfoy, she knows that tone can also mean he thinks it's the ugliest
furniture he's ever seen, or even that he's intent on burning it to ash.

"I never did," she answers, glancing up to the same look he gave her twenty
minutes ago, when she had said she hadn't read all the books she brought with her.
She had been lying then, too. "I considered it a possibility."

"And now you don't?"

"I consider it less of a possibility." Probably less of a possibility than she should,
but she likes facts, and sometimes those add up to an answer that surprises her.

He looks back down at the book, and continues reading as if nothing was ever
said between them. She runs her finger along the thin line of pages she has left to
read, and crosses her ankles under the table.

"You didn't answer my question. I answered yours."

He blinks his gaze back up to her, and she raises her eyebrows expectantly. He
doesn't speak.

Just stares.

And stares.

And stares until she's fighting not to look away, and then keeps staring until she's
too uncomfortable not to look down.

10:48pm

Malfoy's jaw clenches twice as he turns a page, and his eyes scan down, up,
down, apparently not really reading what he's looking at. He reaches up to shove
back that lock of hair over his forehead, and then continues back, raking his fingers
- 220 -
through his hair. He misses the one sticking up to the left, and she doesn't bother
telling him, following the sight of it down to the wrinkles in his forehead, the arch of
his eyebrows, the grey that lightens and darkens but is usually slate and glaring at
her. A long nose that ends with a point, and lips she would normally appreciate on a
man's face if they weren't his, or normally part of some look she didn't appreciate at
all. There are faint lines around his mouth that she knows deepen when he laughs,
but she hadn't ever noticed them until she saw him do so.

Malfoy lets out a sigh or a growl, and his fingers tap twice on the back of the
book he's reading. Or trying to read, before she felt like she lost and decided to
make him as uncomfortable as he had made her feel.

His eyes are on hers then, and she's been staring at him so long without him
looking, that she almost looks back down on instinct. He slowly lifts his head and
lowers the book to the table, and she sits up straighter in her chair.

His eyes never waver from her own. That's half of what makes his staring so
uncomfortable. He blinks, but he never strays even to her nose. She reaches up to
scratch her chin, and his eyes still don't move from digging into her own.

The only sound in the room is the light rain on the roof, and she knows it's
forming little moving rivers down the window near the back door, but she doesn't
look to the movement. The candle flames are flicking around the room, and his eyes
are stormy, then light, then charcoal, fire, dirty water, steel, wet rocks.

"Is your book so boring you're reduced to playing games?"

"What game?"

He exhales through his nose, pushing the book onto the table, and leans back in
his chair. Despite that she's given him no reason to feel relaxed, he looks more
relaxed than she's ever seen him. He's angled back, his shoulders slumped, the left
blade pressed to the back of the chair and the fingers of his right hand doing
something on the table. She can just make out the rise and fall of his knuckles at the
far bottom of her vision, and she's sure it's a ploy to make her look.

"What do you want to do after the Assignment is over?" she asks, distracting
herself, getting back to what she wants to know.

"Why do you always stand with your back to a wall?"

Her eyes widen, and blood rushes to her face in a pulse of heat. "I don't."
- 221 -
 "That's the third time you've lied to me in a half hour. You don't give what you
expect, do you?" He tilts his head, and the fingers stop whatever they're doing. "Is
that why you're alone, or is it that you prefer a relationship with your briefcase? Or
are you still in love with Weasley?"

"I am not alone," she says hotly. "I--"

"No?" He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What does your boyfriend think of
you spending every night with me?" His eyes leave hers to flick to the tight press of
her lips, and the color of anger rushing in to replace the red of embarrassment - she
almost doesn't realize he broke first. "They wouldn't pick someone for this job who
had attachments, even if you made sense every other way."

"Just because I'm not in relationship with someone--"

"You seem angry. Have I hit a nerve? Got too personal?" He leans forward, his
forearms coming up to rest on the edge of the table. "Have I crossed a line,
Granger?"

She pulls the book off the table, glaring at him. "No, I did, by forgetting you're
anything more than an asshole who I shouldn't bother talking to more than I have to,
because all you can do is attack people when they ask you something that wasn't
even offensive. My mistake, and not one I'll make again."

She thinks of several different things to say to him in the tense silence that drops
when she looks back at her book. I'm not alone - you are, or asking him if he's so
defensive because the fact that the world hates him will likely kill any chance at a
real future. To ask him why he never puts his back to a door or window, or if he
thinks his father hates him.

Mean things. Very mean things that she likes to think she'd never really say aloud
because she's a Good Person. The Good Person that's read about in lists of
accomplishments that fought for a people or a world, and where it never had to be
about themselves. The Good Person that only does Bad Things when it concerns a
Bad Person. And Malfoy isn't bad. Not really. Not like she would have thought. He
just says the things she won't, had to learn what she's always known, and he tries or
tried to do the things she knows they both wouldn't be able to.

"I don't know."

Her head snaps up, but his attention doesn't leave the book back in his hands.
"What?"
- 222 -
 "After the Assignment - I don't know what I'll do."

She stares at him for minutes and minutes, and he doesn't look up this time.

August 23; 12:27pm

Hermione looks at the square of a peach throw blanket on her coffee table again,
and then over at the back of the couch where she thought she had left it. She
wouldn't put a blanket on the table, and it's not likely that Pepper managed to drag
it perfectly there.

She should Floo Harry and Ron.

She can't Floo Harry and Ron.

She had checked her flat four times, but nothing else seems to be out of place.
Her small collection of shoes were knocked over and unevenly lined, but the cat
likes sleeping in her closet. That makes sense. This…

She probably just moved it yesterday and forgot about it. That's all.

Yes, that's all.

Hermione walks over to the two large windows, checking the locks at the top, and
then draws the curtains shut. She grabs the throw blanket, placing it over the back
of the couch, and picks up a stray fuzz from the table.

Yes, that's all.

August 24; 5:02am

The rain feels like tiny pellets cracking off her skin, and dull thuds where it hits
her over her sopping wet clothes. She feels like she's drowning above water, and
coupled with the cooler night, she's shaking in the cold she's not used to after a hot
summer.

"Mal-- Hey!" The pounding rain hitting off the water, boat, and bell has made a
cacophony of sound around them, a constant chchchchch layered with plunks, tuds,
dings, and clinks. She has to yell just to make sure he's heard her.

"Not right now," she hears him say lowly, though his voice is strained enough that
she knows he raised it.
- 223 -
 She would glare at his response, but that would require her eyes being beaten in
their sockets if she raised her head.

"Do they ever talk about us?"

Her feet slosh through the water in the bottom of the boat, and she readjusts the
briefcase under her robe and arm.

"What?" She can make out his irritation.

"The revival," she yells, knowing from the lack of clanging outside of their own
bell that no one is near, and the storm is too loud to be heard far out. "Do they talk
about us? About trying to find where we live?"

"Granger…"

He either pauses in speech, or his words are lost under the roll of thunder that
she can feel rumble against her bones. She squints her eyes, scrunches her face,
and tries to look at him. The lantern light is dull from its constant swinging, or the
permeating darkness, or, she suspects, the water that's got inside of it.

"…course," he says.

"What?" She's pretty sure he's turned away from her, looking over his shoulder,
but she doesn't think he can see anything if he's trying to.

"Are…"

She shakes her head. "I can't hear--"

He leans forward so quickly that she leans back in a fight-or-flight reaction, her
hand flying for her wand. "Are we off course?"

She shakes her head in confusion that only lasts the length of the thunder roll,
and leans back again when he raises off his bench, his feet splashing towards her.
His long arms stretch until he's grabbing either side of the small boat for balance as
he squats in the space between them.

"The fucking boat, Granger, are--"

"We…I don't--"

- 224 -
 "Are we--"

"I heard you!" she yells, holding her hand like a salute to her forehead as she
looks up, as if it will help at all to shield the rain attacking her from all angles. "It's
magically drawn, so we shouldn't be."

"How strong is the magic?" he yells.

Not very. It can't be or it would be detected by the scanners. It's possible they
were thrown off if a wave knocked them from the magical pull of water in their set
course, but she can't remember a shift.

"Shit!" Malfoy shouts at the same time her heart jumps when the fire in the
lantern goes out, sending them into darkness.

It's then that she can see Azkaban, a slightly darker form against the near
blackness of the night. She might not have seen it at all if she didn't know the shape
of it so well. She drops her head, closing her eyes against the stinging as her heart
starts pounding. She hates the darkness. Even when she sleeps, there's sunlight
through the windows and on her eyelids. There is nothing else a person normally
encounters in their everyday life that makes them more vulnerable than darkness.

"Malfoy… Malfoy, I think you're right."

"What?"

No one has probably told him that in his life, so it's a shame he hadn't heard it,
because she won't be repeating it. "We're off course!"

She hears harsh sounds that she thinks is cursing, and then the howl of wind, the
pounding rain, all that sound closing off another sense that's meant to protect her.
She holds her wand as tightly as she can in her slick grip, but if something comes
sailing at her in the dark, she won't know. She won't know until it has got its hands
on her, shoving her under water until it fills her lungs, or tossing her into the air, or
the curse hits her and does whatever terrible thing it's meant to do.

She has matches in her briefcase, but she'll never get a flame in this weather, and
her documents aren't water-resistant.

"Where are you?" she asks, and there's a shake of fear in her voice that she hopes
he thinks is the wind.

- 225 -
 "I'm right here, Granger." She scoots back at how very close here sounds. "But
any moment I'm going to jump into the black sea filled with Merlin knows what and
swim for the furthest coast."

Darkness. Darkness and noise, and her heart is bursting, and her clothes are too
heavy to move properly. They can't swim, not in the dark, and who knows what's in
the water. They're getting closer to Azkaban, and she needs to get out of here, to
light and land, to somewhere she can stand a chance if she needs to. Her breath is
tunneling down in quick, hot inhales, and she doesn't know how her throat can be so
dry in all this water.

She presses a foot down against the bottom of the boat, tilting sideways, and her
other foot pushes out and into something hard. She yanks the Portkey box from her
pocket, pulling the lid off, and then shifts her briefcase higher between her arm and
body.

"Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"Just give it to me," she snaps, everything sharp around her, clanging against her
ears and need.

She holds out her hand, her muscles tense with holding back the desire to reach
out and grab until she finds his fingers. Three, four breaths, and then his hand
smacks into her arm. She reaches, her fingers slipping numbly along cool, slick skin,
and she follows it up to a wrist, pushing it over.

"Palm out."

He does it before she finishes the last word, and she reaches out, tipping the box
over his palm. She grabs his hand, feeling bumps, and knows he automatically
clasped the Portkey when it hit his skin. It's her only one, and something flares hotly
in her stomach before he pries his fingers open under her hand. Her palm presses to
the earring, her fingers wrapping around his hand as the pull starts at her navel.

She squeezes her eyelids shut, the jumble of noise whirring out before she hits
the ground on her bum, her teeth clinking. She opens her eyes as the candles along
the wall flash into life at her presence, finding Malfoy on his bum across from her.
His hood has slipped halfway back on his head, locks of hair plastered to his head
and forehead, and his skin gleaming wetly as water droplets make paths down his
face. His lips are parted and eyebrows raised, head tilted back as his eyes scan
- 226 -
something behind her, surprised and displaced.

Hermione looks over at the door to make sure it's closed, and when the tenseness
in her body relaxes, she realizes they're still clasping one another's hand. She slides
her fingers from around and into his palm, pulling the earring into her own. She
looks up, meeting grey, and drops her hand into her lap as he drops his to the carpet
beside him, pushing himself to his feet.

She follows, water leaking out of her shoes. She frowns at the puddles they're
forming, and then scans the room.

"Where are we?"

She takes a deep breath. "The Ministry."

"What?" It almost sounds like a growl. "You brought us to the Ministry, when I'm
an escaped prisoner who has wanted posters put up from here to--"

"It's where the Portkey goes, I had no choice! We'll just…" She waves her hand
between them, looking at his soaked clothes. "I'll Glamour you."

He gives her a look that could be a lot of things, and she casts a Drying Charm on
him and then herself. She scowls at the floor again, drying it next, and pulls her
briefcase from under her robe. There will be no helping the files if the water soaked
through, but its durability had been part of the appeal when she bought it.

"We'll have to go before everyone shows up." She checks her watch, shakes it,
checks again, and then shakes her arm harder. "Crap."

She glances up at Malfoy as she steps around her desk, and he's distracted by her
office as she opens her briefcase. "What?" He looks curious and contemplative, but
not in his typical way of suspicious and plotting. It still makes her feel
self-conscious.

"I expected something else."

"Like what?"

She looks at the wall behind her desk and the framed certificate she received for
all Outstanding N.E.W.T.s scores, the Order of Merlin, and her calendar with black
X's through each day. Her desk has a paperweight with memos under it, a quill box,
and a large inkwell. There are filing cabinets against the corner, a tall bookcase, and
- 227 -
her desk and chairs. It's a standard office. What else could he have expected?

"What would you expect?" she asks again.

He scratches his temple, glancing at her from the quill set, and then turns for the
door. "Let's go."

"Hold… I just…"

She shuts the lid of her briefcase on her - thankfully dry - files, and then pulls
open a drawer in her desk. Vials of Invigoration Draught and Pepper-Up roll to the
front, and she digs past those, pushing around letters she still has to respond to. The
earliest one is from three days ago, which makes her three days late, and she
reminds herself to grab them before Rome tomorrow.

"You received perfect scores on your N.E.W.Ts. I'm not surprised - you were
always such a swot, Granger."

She finds the watch crammed into the back of the drawer, and takes off her
water-logged one, tossing it in. It's… She narrows her eyes at the still hands, and
makes an annoyed sound. It's broken, too. She must have forgotten to fix it.

"I bet you did well. You always did well, even if I hardly saw you in the library."
She closes the drawer with a pop of her hip, grabbing her briefcase as she steps
around the desk.

"I never took them."

Her head pulls back, and his gaze leaves her wall at the odd gurgle of sound in
her throat. "Why didn't you take them?" He raises an eyebrow, and she matches it.
"Well?"

"There wasn't any point." The way he says it reminds her of Ron. The this is the
obvious reason why there isn't any reason for you to be angry right now. Malfoy
would likely have a fit if she compared them out loud.

"No point? It's your future! Because you had money? You thought you could just
go on without a career because you would--"

He's annoyed now, and she hadn't noticed the near-casualness between them
until his expression is tight. "I figured I would be dead or in Azkaban after
Hogwarts. There was no point." She blinks at him, at a loss for words, and he looks
- 228 -
away. "It's time to leave."

Her mouth is moving silently over words until she notices and presses it shut. She
has the distinct feeling that she just shoved her foot in her mouth, and one doesn't
balance that well on only one. She thinks to apologize, but it sounds lame and odd in
her head, so she just keeps her mouth shut.

She steps towards him, charming his hair and eyes brown, and darkens his skin.
"That's the most I can do with a Glamour. Just…hold your lips in. And don't glare."
His eyebrow arches, and she almost laughs at the fact that she missed charming
them, and how ridiculous he looks with different coloring. "Or that," she adds,
waving her wand again. "There."

She moves around him, opening her office door enough to peek down the
corridor.

"Or that," Malfoy says. "Just go out. Checking corridors is going to make them
know you're--"

"I'm aware of that, I was just checking the initial entry." She looks at him over his
shoulder, and presses closer to the door at how near he's standing. "I said, stop
doing that."

"What?"

She raises her left eyebrow as high as she can make it go, and he gives a
long-suffering look to the corridor over her head, pushing on her elbow.

"Go."

August 25; 11:53am

Pruit slides two boxes across her desk, both small, one square and the other
circular. Hermione puts a fingertip on each, sliding them closer to her. "Portkeys?"

"One to your office, one to Rome," he confirms. "Bells is not to be brought to the
Ministry for any reason, unless he Portkeys himself into the allowed cell during an
emergency."

"It was an emergency. If it hadn't been, I wouldn't have done it." The square box
contains the earring she's been using, and the other is a large, metal ring.

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 "Office, Rome," Pruit says, motioning to them. "Azkaban believes the boat was
knocked loose in the storm, and no one reported seeing Bells within the Ministry.
But--"

"I know," she says, her tone clipped. "I made sure no one saw him. I'm not a
novice at this, and you don't have to speak to me like I don't know what I'm doing."

Pruit looks at her for a moment, and then turns the palm of his right hand up. "It's
the rules, Granger. You broke them--"

"Sometimes rules have to be broken for the circumstances."

His eyebrows furrow as he lowers his chin to his chest. "You believe that?" As if
she's now dangerous and a complete liability.

"Yes," she says hotly. "I'm still alive for it, actually. Won a war believing it, even."

"We're not attacking you here. There are good reasons why he isn't allowed
within the Ministry--"

"There was no choice."

"You could have used his Portkey. You could have swam for the shore--"

"It was pouring rain and ink black. There--"

"It was still possible. It would have been a better idea than bringing him--"

"I disagree."

"The Minister doesn't. If it happens again--"

"He'll take me off the Assignment?"

Pruit's eyebrows raise as he nods. "Maybe."

Hermione presses her lips together. Sometimes she thinks her life would be
better off if she can just go back to her normal work schedule, and concentrate on
what she's been focused on for years now. Other times, she can't even imagine the
possibility of walking away. She finishes things. She'll finish this. She'll finish them.

"I have the Portkey to Rome now, so it's unlikely I'll have to do it again."
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 Pruit nods again. "Bells will be deep until the morning?"

"He has to transport new recruits. Same method as they brought us in. One of the
pick-ups will be at eight in the morning, so he shouldn't be back until half past that.
Maybe nine."

"I'll be there at noon."

"Fine."

Hermione watches his back until her office door shuts behind him, and then
brings the book on her lap up to the top of the desk. She sighs, shaking her head,
and flips through the law book until she finds the section on N.E.W.T.s.

August 26; 11:21am

"You can learn to cook, you know," Hermione says, putting her plate in the sink.

"I don't cook."

"It's like potions."

"It's nothing like potions," Malfoy mutters, picking up his plate as he stands. He
had learned when she left his bowl out for two days that she is not going to clean up
after him.

"It's exactly--"

"Then why are you shit at cooking?"

She glares at him as his plate clinks against hers in the sink, drawing her wand.
"I didn't have the opportunity to learn how to cook--"

"You know how to brew potions."

"But these are different ingredients. Everything combines in different ways, and
you still have to learn what works and what's a disaster. But it's still chopping,
picking, mixing, timing, cooking, experimenting."

Malfoy looks over at the pot on the stove. "I've had it before. Same ingredients, a
much different taste."

- 231 -
 "Because I cooked it too long. Or not long enough. Or didn't add them in the right
order. It's like relationships with people, except you can control it."

"Now it's like relationships?"

She picks up the pot, flipping it over and shaking the food out into the rubbish
bin. "Two people meet, and they bring their own ingredients. You know, what makes
them who they are, and there can be double amounts of some things, and small,
singular amounts of other things. And it's never as simple as just putting two puzzle
pieces together to make them fit. It's intricate, all the little pieces that need to meet
in just such a way that it works, in the time it takes for each part to be together,
bringing out the best, before everything combines."

"Did you come up with this when you realized your relationships were on par with
your cooking?"

"No, my-- You can't just mix it into a cauldron or pot and experiment. If you mix
powdered bicorn horn and Boomslang skin together, pow, it erupts in your face. But
Boomslang skin and Fluxweed? Combines wonderfully, even if you wouldn't think so
at first. Then you add leeches, and though the relationships change, it's for the
better. Then bicorn horn - and it doesn't explode. In fact, it works perfectly. A few
more things, and you end up with a potion--"

"Polyjuice."

"A combination where some things you knew would work, and others you thought
would never work, but it turns into this wonderful, useful potion. But with
relationships - you don't get to choose the order or the timing. You don't always get
to go back and add the Fluxweed instead. Or the ingredients just don't change into
what they have to be."

Malfoy takes a last sip of his water, and then places the cup into the sink. "I
would think you would enjoy and master cooking then."

"Why?"

"Your obnoxious need to control everything, and so your pull towards anything
that would allow you to."

She keeps a step of space between them, stretching out to slide the pot into the
sink. "I do not need to control everything."

- 232 -
 "What is it that you do in your job normally?"

"I interview prisoners before release, and monitor them after. I also introduce
new laws into…" She trails off at his smirk. "That's bettering the world, Malfoy, not
controlling it."

"You could better the world in a potion research facility, or cleaning rubbish from
the street, or teaching at Hogwarts. Instead, you work--"

"On bettering the world on a larger scale."

He hums, surveying her in a way that makes her want to leave the room to get
away from him reading her. "You should try giving up control some time, Granger,"
he murmurs. "It--"

"I do, since I don't try to control everything." She sniffs, and gives up searching
for an example when he holds his hands out, fists together.

His expression is blank now, as he always forces it into when she binds him. She
tightens her grip on her wand, looking back down at his hands, and purses her lips
at the winding of heat in her stomach. She knows what it is - she had felt it last time
she bound him, and it's only grown stronger since.

Guilt.

This is the moment where everything starts running on repeat through her mind.
The feel of his magic when he blocked a spell aimed at her, the tired drag of his feet
at five in the morning, the gashes of wounds in his skin, I had to pretend you were
someone else.

There's really little point in binding him. He's behind a locked door, after all, and
if anyone shows up, it will be easier for him to activate the Portkey with his hands
completely free. It's not like she's sleeping here. There will be an Auror who is
awake while Malfoy is in the room, and she's not sure anymore if it's something that
needs to be done. She used to be sure. She used to be positive about it.

"Just head for the room," she says before she knows her mind is fully made up.

He doesn't look as surprised as she thought he would be, and she wonders if he's
covering it so she doesn't change her mind, or if he meant for his little speech about
control to sway her to this. She knows how manipulative he can be, even if she still
sometimes doesn't realize it until the end of his game.
- 233 -
 "Are you proving a point now?"

"No, I…" She trails off at the twitch of his eyebrows. "Do you want me to bind
you? Because I can, if that's what you prefer. It's better--"

A muscle in his cheek moves as he drops his hands and moves around her, and
she follows him through the kitchen and down the hall. She debates with herself on
her choice even after he's in the room, and he seems to know this, expectation on
his face as he looks at her. It might be the only reason why she sticks with her
decision.

"Well. See you later."

"Are you here alone?" he asks, and she stops closing the door, pulling it back
open.

"I'm with you."

He doesn't seem to move for a few seconds - there's not even a rise and fall of
breath - and then he looks over at her from the window. "I meant if you're the only
one from the Ministry who will be here."

"Oh. Uh…for now, and then I'll leave when he gets here. Why?"

"Who?"

"Pruit." He nods, and she nods back, tapping her wand against her leg in the
silence that follows. "Well…good night, then."

He doesn't answer, and she closes the door with a click, casting the locking
spells.

- 234 -
 12

August 28; 10:13pm

Hermione frowns at the report, scanning again for the last date her co-worker
had checked the Barkley residence. "The meeting will have at least one person from
the higher circle. No one will be safe."

The shuffling of clothes stops briefly inside the loo. "I meant, in terms of not
having done anything to anger them, I'm safe. I'm fully aware that their intentions
can shift without reason, and I don't need you to ramble on again about the
consistency of unexpected death."

"I did not ramble," she mutters, and then raises her voice. "I was simply stating
that no matter what we do, or how safe we tell ourselves that we are, absolutely
anything can happen at any moment that will kill us. That it's not always someone
else or other people that it happens to. That everyone should be aware of that."

"It doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Normally, in everyday life, it doesn't matter."

"That you can be killed at any second? I certainly think that--"

"If death comes as a surprise even when you expect it, if it can come at any time,
then it doesn't matter. Living your life waiting for it isn't going to do anything but
waste your life as much as death will. When there's no immediate, obvious danger,
and you hide behind wards and fear for the rest of your life, it's just as well that you
be dead."

Hermione stares at the door, her quill slipping through her lax fingers to stab her
parchment with a blob of ink. She opens her mouth for the fact that she should say
something, argue against his point, but she has nothing to say. She lifts her quill
from the parchment, tapping her wand in an attempt to clear the spot without lifting
the original words.

"You should still protect yourself."

- 235 -
 "I didn't say people should walk through Knockturn at night without a wand."

Any response is lost when he steps out from the loo, his trousers charcoal grey
and his shirt a steel blue that's changed his eyes the same color. He looks sleek, but
brighter than she's seen him in years, and more attractive than a man with so many
strict lines and points should have the right to be.

"You look good." She flushes, pulling in a deep breath at the rise of his eyebrows,
and smells the bitter-clean of soap. "Acceptable. You look…very acceptable. For the
meeting."

He looks at her for too long - nine beats of her heart - where she can't read him,
and then glances down at himself. "Since I've met your approval, I might have to
consider changing."

"Why?"

He looks back, his gaze sweeping down to her shoes and then back up again.
"How old are you, Granger? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? You dress like you're
forty-five and a librarian. I've never seen so many clothes in beige and brown in one
person's wardrobe."

She narrows her eyes. "I wear sensible clothing for work. And this blouse is
white--"

"Risk-taker."

"As opposed to your constant blackness! Black, midnight blue, black, forest
green, black. Black. More black. You dress like a funeral director!"

"I dress in--"

"What is it you think would be appropriate? A neon pink--"

"--appropriate for what I do on--"

"--plunging neckline? I'm sure the Wizengamot would be--"

"--blend into the darkness, rather than--"

"--matter of professionalism that I uphold, where you're all sinister, and--"

- 236 -
 "--you blend into a bookcase or a paper…"

August 30; 2:02pm

Hermione's fingers come down gently into soft, short fur, and a back that does
not arch under her touch like Crook's used to. Pepper eyes her as she strokes down
the cat's back again, careful to not move too fast. Raising her hand, she just skims
the top of the cat's head when it jumps away from her, meowing loudly before
bounding down the hallway.

Hermione straightens up, watching Pepper skid into the wall before pouncing
into the dining room.

Well, fine.

She leaves the door to her office open just in case, and slides her briefcase to the
middle of her desk. She marks off the date on the wall behind her, then sits down in
her chair, moving the paperweight to grab the pile of notes beneath it. She reads
through them, wrinkling them more than she has to to try erasing the buzz of silence
in her ears. It persists, though, growing louder until it seems to be filling up her
head, and it's all she can hear.

September 1; 12:00pm

The man arches off the floor until just the heels of his feet and back of his skull
are pressed against it, and then he screams. Hermione's eyes squeeze shut, but the
sound rams into her like a Bludger, an earthquake that shakes up her insides. It cuts
off into sobbing and heaves of air that gurgle, before the man rolls his head and
coughs up phlegm and blood.

Malfoy casts again, and the man jerks the other way, a thick, red line of snot
sticking to his cheek as his face crinkles. He screams again, and his body convulses
this time, hands reaching out on some instinct to find a salvation that won't come.
Hermione catches herself walking towards him, her heart pounding in her chest and
her eyes burning.

Plink, a commander marked by his maroon robes, grins at Malfoy. "I'd say to rip
him open, but this room doesn't have a drain."

Malfoy swallows hard, his throat bobbing. He's paler than usual, and there's a
bead of sweat running from behind his ear. His expression, however, shows nothing
but concentration.
- 237 -
 "It's unfortunate," he says, and his voice is dull, cold.

Plink walks over to the man gagging on the floor, and grabs under his jaw with a
glove-covered hand. He lifts the man with his grip there, and Plink's other arm
comes back before his hand cracks off the man's cheek. The man opens his eyes,
bloodshot a bright red, before Plink shoves him back to the ground.

"His mind is as defenseless as water now. Job well done, Malfoy." Plink looks at
two men standing against the wall, and jerks his chin to the man on the floor.
"Shackle him to the wall. I want his feet off the ground."

Hermione runs her hand over her forehead and tries to swallow down the burning
in her throat, but it's part of her body outside of the Pensieve, and there's nothing
she can do in here. She tries to keep her eyes on the wall, away from the man,
because she can't deal with the sight of him. With the fact that she is as helpless as
him to heal him, to save him, to stop what she knows will happen, what has already
happened.

She knows what it's like to face death and think that no matter what you've done,
no matter how hard you fought, it wasn't good enough. She knows what it's like to
look up into a fire of madness as you feel fire coursing through your entire body, and
think it is the last thing you will ever know. She knows that moment as well as she
knows anything, and even after five years, it still follows her like a phantom pressed
to her back.

Hermione misses whatever Plink told Malfoy, and she has to run in the memory to
catch up to Malfoy's quick, long strides. The hallway is wide and weakly-lit, and it
echoes with screams from behind closed doors. There's a patch of streaked blood
along the floor that she navigates around, but Malfoy doesn't seem to notice it,
walking right over it in a stiff, arrogant stride.

Malfoy turns into another hallway, and her exhale stutters out in short relief, but
she can still hear the screaming, and smell the rotten, sulfuric stench of Dark magic.
He pulls open a door, and his hand flashes back out to catch it, the strength with
which he opened it almost crashing it into the wall. She follows in after him,
catching sight of a toilet before Malfoy spins around.

His hand goes through her shoulder as he puts both hands on the door, stepping
forward to slam it shut as she steps back. Her breath pauses in her hot, dry throat
as Malfoy drops his head next to her face, and his own breath shutters in, out, in,
out, inout, inoutinoutinoutinout. She doesn't blink, and her fingers stretch out to…to
do nothing. A drop of sweat runs down his forehead and his eyelids shut, and then
- 238 -
the memory ends, pulling her out of the Pensieve.

September 2; 6:44am

Hermione pulls her wand as she spins around, her eyes wide and her tongue
poised for the start of a spell. There's nothing there but the pale yellow of her
kitchen wall, and she turns in a slow circle, and then a quicker one, adrenaline
racing.

September 4; 4:13am

The fog is low to the water tonight, and the sky looks like the ripped and holey
blanket she would pull over her head in her youth, staring at the way the light
filtered in onto her skin. She looks back down at Malfoy, finding the glint of his eyes
watching her.

"Have you ever thought about aliens? Other beings from another planet?"

"I know what aliens are, Granger."

"I think it's silly to believe that out of all this universe and the next, there's not at
least one other planet with life like us. It makes you feel small."

"As opposed to you feeling large on just our planet?"

She doesn't know if that was supposed to be an insult or not. "Our world is big,
but you can still leave a mark in it. You can still have your life mean something on a
wider scale. But it'll never mean anything out there."

"Hermione Granger," he mutters, "intent on universal domination."

She snorts. "I don't even want world domination. I just want to do the good things
that I'm able to do, because someone has to. Because if we all did what we could,
the world would be a lot better for it."

"You wore your prefects badge like it was large enough to shove your nose in the
air, and you waved your hand like a victory flag at every professor's question. You
get off on recognition."

She drags her eyes from the sky to glare at him. "I appreciate recognition for
hard work, but I don't require it. I don't prance about talking about my wealth,
status, or how I'm better than everyone, like you did."
- 239 -
 "Prance?"

"Swagger, whatever."

Ding…ding…

"That was a long time ago."

Decades ago. A lifetime, maybe.

"What would you do?"

Malfoy's eyes flick to hers from over her head, and he raises a pale eyebrow.
"You'll have to be more specific."

"If aliens came. If they just…flew down in their spaceship, landed on the shore,
and came out."

She hears his feet scrape against the floor of the boat, but a quick glance down
shows the top of his head in the same place she had last seen it. She stares at a line
of three bright stars, and tries to remember what it's part of.

"I'd continue on with my life, and occasionally read the reports of the Ministry's
experiments and explorations. The protest groups who want them sent back to their
own planet fighting with the protest groups who want them to stay. Then, in a few
years, I'd read about your organization with a terrible acronym that is bent on
saving them from prejudice."

She looks down from the sky, and doesn't really notice that she's smiling at him
until his eyes travel to her mouth. "You're probably right. Though I've learned my
lesson with S.P.E.W. As much as I'd like to believe the world will do the right thing,
they probably won't. Not all of them, at least."

"Not by half."

"It's… You know, a lot of people talk about how amazing it would be, and how
much we could learn from them, and the interesting things they could bring - just as
long as they don't harm anyone. But then you look at the world, a world in which we
hate entire groups of people because they have different blood, or a religion, or
race, or sexual orientation. And these things, most of them, they don't harm anyone.
Not on a whole, not any more than radicals of any group hurt someone."

- 240 -
 "There are groups invented with the purpose to harm or rid the world of other
people. They--"

"Yes, because we hate - it's not who we are. I'm talking about the people who
aren't harmful to others, but are just a different race, culture, whatever. We hate
them, and we take from them, and we alienate them. Instead of realizing how
amazing it can be, or learning from them, or celebrating the good things they bring
to us as a world. As a whole people. If we can't respect and love the people around
us because they aren't what we are, we'll kill off aliens in a matter of days."

Malfoy clears his throat, and Azkaban takes shape in the night behind him. "The
world will never be a place that makes you happy."

She shrugs, watching the moon shift in the sky as the boat curves. "Tolerance,
peace. I'd be happy then."

"So you'll never be happy."

She shrugs again, crossing her arms as she meets his eyes. "Maybe not in the
world. But I can live my life in the way I wish the world lived, and I can be happy
with that." She shakes her head at his contemplative look. "What?"

"I'm trying to decide if your good will to the world speech is making me nauseous
or if it's the boat rocking."

"I will push you into the water."

"I'll take you with me."

September 6; 9:14am

Kingsley drops the biggest file she's ever seen onto the table, and she feels the
rumble of it beneath her palms. She knows it's important to get to the bottom of this,
as they all remember very well what can happen if the revival infiltrates the
Ministry, but she hadn't expected that.

"Bells said that a few of the recruits applied to the Ministry lately, and that they
might have been hired. We still haven't got to the bottom of the Polyjuice incident
with Bells setup mission. I took lately to be the last three months. That's…" She
cocks her head, pointing at the file. "That's everyone who has been hired lately?"

"All applied, and all that were hired. Including their resumes and documents.
- 241 -
Hermione, you have the list of all known names for those working in the revival?"

She looks away from the giant stack, and glances at Harry and Leacher, both of
whom look to be dreading this more than her. "I do, yes, but few aliases. Or real
names, whatever the case may be."

"Great. Put them on the board, and we'll get started."

10:04pm

Malfoy looks like a statue, as straight and unmoving as the wall; every bone and
muscles locked, stiff, tense. She wonders what he's looking at out the window, the
night dark with just a sliver of moon in the sky, but he keeps staring. Perhaps he's
not really looking at anything at all. Or he's been watching her watch him for the
last ten minutes, which would be embarrassing but less worrying.

Her voice comes out gentle and careful, like it's trying to reassure a bear she
wants nothing to do with the cubs. "Are you ready?"

He was supposed to leave five minutes ago, but she thought he might need a little
more time for…something. Because if, maybe, he looks out into the dark and
remembers the sort of things that she does, there's no snapping right out of it. You
have to claw your way out of memories like that.

She remembers his head bent near her cheek, and the rapid rise-fall of his chest
and shoulders as he gasped for breath. When he turns, though, he is still composed,
frozen, barren. He reaches out his palm, and she slips the wand into it.

September 7; 10:17pm

Hermione leans forward, inspecting the floor plan, and skims over Malfoy's glare.
"What?"

"You're hovering."

"I'm at least two steps away from you."

She has to stop from rolling her eyes at his raised eyebrows, walking back to her
chair, and sitting with a plop that's she too tired to be graceful with. He's probably
paranoid that she'll take his mission plan to the Ministry, they'll decide to intervene,
and it'll go to flames. He doesn't trust much of anything that has a mind that can
think for itself.
- 242 -
 "I need the list of ingredients you need to get."

"Now?"

"Tonight. That way if you don't find one, you can stop here quickly to get it."

They need this to be perfect. Malfoy is leading a team of recruits again, and
considering that she knows the research lab he'll be breaking into, she doesn't think
this one is a setup again. If Malfoy succeeds, it's going to bring them a step closer.
He needs to be promoted to a commander before they can do anything.

Once I have their trust, it's done, Malfoy had said. Every time she remembers that,
she watches his every move like it'll reveal his secret ones.

"We also want to know what they plan on using it for, so look out for any signs."

"Obviously," he whispers, distracted as he draws symbols she can only guess the
meaning of.

"Do you have any idea now?"

He shakes his head, marking something at the corner of the paper. "I only know
that they're stocked well on Veritaserum. I saw a box of vials before I did the recruit
interviews."

She sits up straighter in her chair. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did." His lips twitch, and he draws a line down a corridor. "You were distracted
by my mention of a three-floor library. Honestly, Granger, your obsession with--"

"I was not." She pauses to think, and he doesn't seem to mind the silence. "No,
you said something about a stone latch in the fireplace, so I was thinking of what
they were trying to-- Do not give me that look."

"Look?"

"Yes, like you just…turned water to stone, and you're watching the fish try to flop
towards water." His eyebrows draw together, and she stops flopping her hand,
sniffing. "Smug, Malfoy. Arrogant, and…wicked, and…and smug."

September 9; 8:05am

- 243 -
 Hermione flips the notebook shut, scowling. Harry, Pruit, and Leacher have all
been gone since four in the morning due to some emergency, and the only one
available is Kingsley. Except Kingsley is never really available, as it's far safer for
her to be the only one here than for the Minister to be there at all.

She sighs heavily as the toilet in the loo flushes, looking regretfully at her
briefcase. She had taken her only Invigoration Draught at two, knowing it was going
to be a long night, and fully expecting someone would be available. There's tea and
coffee in the cabinets, but she won't last long on those.

Hermione picks up the list of acquired potions Malfoy had given her, and lays it
on top of the parchment detailing the mission before closing the file. There's no way
she'll fall asleep here. If she does, because she is too exhausted to keep her eyes
open, it will be one of those light sleeps that lasts fifteen minutes at a time. She
definitely won't be able to make it through until tonight, and if one of the Aurors still
aren't available, they're going to have a serious problem.

She has to sleep today.

Hermione looks up at Malfoy as he exits the loo wearing black trousers and a
thin, white t-shirt that clings to his shoulders and the top of his chest. All that white,
pale, blond almost hurts her eyes.

He must be able to read her far too well, because he pulls up short, and then
looks at her like her next move could be deadly if he doesn't react exactly on time.

"Are you ready?"

"For?"

She nods to the hall. "Sleep."

He looks over her shoulder and to the windows, the door, and then back to her.
"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

He raises his nose, and she recognizes the look well enough to feel her agitation
spike before he speaks. "I'm not being locked in a room when you look like that."

"Like what?" She sounds exasperated, which isn't good. She shouldn't have even
asked him. She should be pulling her wand and ordering him to get in there, not
- 244 -
allowing him questions or the illusion that he has a choice.

"Like the fish looking for water, Granger." He looks to the windows again. "Who's
coming?"

"No one. Now put your hands out in front of you--"

"No one?"

"Yet. Which is the reason for my look - it's impatience. I want to go home, and
you're blinding me with all your whiteness, and asking questions." She turns for the
table when she follows his gaze to the notebook, picking everything up before
putting it in her briefcase. "Which you shouldn't even be asking, because it's none of
your concern. I told you to put your hands in front of you, fist--"

"The Auror isn't coming." He says it like a fact, completely decided. "So…you're
back to binding me in fear that I'll…what? Sneak into your bedroom and do evil, bad
things?"

He looks far too amused - there's nothing about this situation that's funny.
Hermione snaps her briefcase shut, then drags it off the table as she glares at him.

"I won't be sleeping - I don't like anyone near me when I sleep."

"Neither do I. You get used to it."

She stares at him, tapping her wand on her thigh. It's not like he'll get out of the
room, and if she falls asleep, she'll wake at any squeak of sound. If Malfoy intended
to harm her, he would have tried it by now. He would have cast more than Stunners
at her when they did fight, and if he has changed his mind since then, she can take
him.

Hermione waves her wand, casting the tracking spell on him again, just in case.
Malfoy tenses, his jaw clenching as the light of the spell seeps into his skin. She can
take calculated risks, but she doesn't like to take ones that aren't necessary.

"Come on, then," she mutters, brushing past him, his arm smooth and cool
against hers.

His feet follow hers in slow steps, and she looks back over her shoulder at the
rock of his shoulders and his eyes digging into her head. He looks like a predator
taking its time with closing in on the trapped prey, and she almost changes her mind
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with the burst of adrenaline.

"Don't make me regret this, Malfoy," she whispers when he moves into the room,
meeting his eyes when he twists to look at her before she shuts the door on him.

5:20pm

Hermione stares at the empty bedroom, and then looks back to the end of the
hall. She steps forward slowly, carefully, the back of her shirt skimming the wall as
she holds her wand out. She smells eggs and smoke. She had, for a short time,
thought it was just an imagination of her mind after so little sleep today, but when it
persisted, she knew something was happening.

Malfoy's room is empty, but the door is open. Which means something had
happened where a member of the revival opened it before Malfoy escaped or went
with him, or Malfoy had got out himself. She would have heard the first, her sleep
too light, but the latter…

She stares at Malfoy in surprise, despite it being the most likely situation she
could find in the kitchen. There are no voices, but she still moves to the other side of
the hall before daring to exit, getting a fuller view of the room. There's a pan and
pot on the stove, a knife on the counter, and a tin with a jagged line of bent metal
below a smoother cut. There's no one else in the kitchen, and her heart just starts to
slow.

She looks over at Malfoy sitting straight in his chair, a bowl in front of him as he
chews and watches her. "How did you get out?" she asks angrily, dropping her wand
to her hip.

He glares, and drops his eyes as he raises a spoon to his mouth. Her mouth falls
open when she spots the black wand at the center of the table, and she shuts it hard
enough for her teeth to clink together.

"Why didn't you give that to me?"

"You didn't ask."

"It's obvious that I-"

"Then you should have asked. I was starving. I wasn't going to stay in there for
your false sense of security."

- 246 -
 "You were supposed to stay in the room!"

He takes a sip from his glass, his throat bobbing over the swallow as he looks at
her in annoyance. "You're a bit uptight, Granger. Perhaps you would benefit from
someone creeping into your bedroom."

She'll hex him. She'll hex him pink, or to sing love songs, or have spastic
movements, or not be able to sleep for a week.

"It wasn't you…you going into the room that I was worried about!"

"Then--"

"You made me regret it," she says quietly. "I told you not to make me regret it."

It's not until then that his calmness grinds into anger, pink dashes forming along
his cheekbones. "I didn't do anything to give you any valid reason on regretting it.
What's the problem? If you weren't concerned that I would go into the room, I
couldn't have attacked you, and you had the tracker on me. Th--"

"The problem is that you're a prisoner, and you can't just…roam about when
there's no one there to watch--"

"Because I'll go out and kill someone? Sneak into the Ministry and control the
Minister like my puppet? Tell me, Granger, what is it that you expect me to do?"

"You're a prisoner for a reason--"

"Reasons that aren't valid enough to stop you from sending me out every night
with a wand--"

"And a tracking spell!"

"That I could navigate around! I've done nothing but prove myself to the Ministry
in a job none of you could do, but you still lock me up like an animal because
protecting the lives of my family and torturing Death Eaters is--"

"Use of Unforgivables, which normally carry a life sentence, assisting Death

Eaters in the murder of--"

"To save my family and myself! What the fuck is so different from what I did then,
to what you ask me to do now to save yours and--"
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 "You know exactly what the difference is! And that's not the only--"

"Right, because the choices my father made just stripped us of the right to
protect ourselves because we aren't good people, de--"

She throws up her hands. "The things you do now are for the end goal of the
good, not the bad! I…I understand the choices you made, even if I don't agree with
them. I don't blame you for not being the person you could have been anymore. But
the way you did things, those choices, aided evil, and you have to pay for that. I…I
don't know what I'd do. If I had to kill someone to stop my parents and myself from
being killed, I don't know. Maybe I would. But I would know it would be something
I'd have to pay for, and live with for the rest of my--"

"I do live with it," he says lowly, his voice rougher from his earlier yelling, and his
eyes digging holes into her sockets. "I am paying for it, and they didn't have to drag
me to my cell, I walked there myself. But the things I've done do not make me evil.
I've done worse now for your assignment. Yet you panic when I'm out from behind a
locked door, because I might--"

"I don't think you're evil." She takes a step back, noticing the short space
between them. "I never thought you were evil."

"Then what. Do you expect. I'd do?"

Killmestranglestabcursebindcutoffmylimbsclogmythroatbeatmyskull. "It's just part

of your sentence. This still counts as your sentence, Malfoy." And I can't even sleep
near shadows.

"That's it?"

He doesn't look like he believes her, and when her silence ticks on, he doesn't
believe her at all. He brushes past her in the narrow space, managing to not touch
her at all, and she's left still trying to form a response to the empty room.

September 13; 9:16pm

Silence. The fifth day of silence. Not full silence, of course. There are still the
interviews at the end of every night, but getting information out of him is now back
to their beginning days, where she feels yanking her own fingernails off would be
easier. There's also the occasional grunt or mutter when she demands an answer
more than a nod, but that's the extent of it. She thinks he's just angry, or maybe
contemplating leaving the Assignment, or just keeping to the distance he's most
- 248 -
comfortable with.

Silence. Her flat, her office, the boat, Rome. A big, overpowering void of silence
consuming her entire life. She thinks it must have been like this for awhile, but it's
as noticeable as her hands now. Always moving and working around her, solid, and
easy to control if she wills herself to.

And twenty-two minutes into the fifth day, she wills herself to.

"I know what you're doing." Malfoy doesn't even have the courtesy to look at her.
Well, she won't look at him either, then. "You're trying to make me feel guilty. It's
not going to work. I don't feel bad about anything I said. It was true."

Their boat moves directly through a spot of fog that looks like a woman dancing,
and it tears her in half.

"I do put you in the cell or lock the door because this time still counts as part of
your sentence. It's the rules, Malfoy. Despite my record, I do care about the rules.
And if you're okay with paying for what you've done, then you should understand
and respect that part of it."

Half of the woman joins with another swirl of fog, and she's back to dancing
again, though bent oddly.

"I'm sorry for the things you have to do in the revival. I wish it didn't have to be
that way in order to destroy them. I wish there was never a Death Eater, or hate
over things that don't matter, or that people weren't forced to do bad things to end
bad people. We could make it another war. But more would die, and more would
have to kill."

She remembers Malfoy's head bent again, the heaving for breath. Sometimes she
swears she can remember the feel of his gasps on her skin, but they had never been
there.

"Sometimes, I don't trust you. Sometimes I wonder if you've joined up with them
and meant it. Sometimes I wonder if you're going to take off and disappear - I
wonder that the most. Sometimes I wonder what it is, exactly, that you're capable
of."

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now," he says, finally, finally. "I've
never killed anyone."

- 249 -
 "I know you haven't. But sometimes… I don't trust anyone. Even the people I trust
with my life, sometimes I just…get this feeling, and… It doesn't always make sense.
But I meant what I said. I thought about it, when we started this, about you being a
bad person. Things have changed, though. I don't think you're evil, Malfoy. I don't
think you're going to kill someone. But I'm going to keep locking you in the cell or
room. Just like you're going to keep wondering if we'll uphold our end of the
contract, or if we'll choose your death over ending the Assignment, or any other
thing you don't trust us with. I think we have to respect that. Our mutual…distrust.
Even when it doesn't always make sense. As long as that distrust isn't…detrimental."

He looks at her for eleven dings of the bell before his hand wraps around her
outstretched one, swallowing it in a cool grasp before shaking it two, three, four
times.

September 14; 12:49pm

Hermione jumps at the knock on the door, her quill bending in the grip of her
fingers. She moves just enough to see through the window of the door, and then the
white bag being held up in front of it. It drops, revealing the mess of Harry's hair
and the gleam of his glasses.

"I thought I would make you eat before starvation and all that time in Malfoy's
head messes up yours," he says as soon as she opens the door.

"You're so thoughtful, Harry."

"I know."

"Humble, too."

"People always tell me that after telling me how fantastic I am," he says, nodding.
She laughs at him, and his eyebrows lower as he cocks his head in confusion. "How
is that funny?"

"You sound like Seamus right after the war."

"God, that was annoying," Harry mutters, taking a seat on an empty table. "At
least he calmed down after he became an Auror."

"Sort of," they say in unison, and Hermione pulls herself up on the table next to
him, accepting the cup of tea he holds out.

- 250 -
 "What do you want to do for your birthday?" he asks, opening the bag on his lap.

"Nothing."

"You have to tell me something. I've barely stopped Ron from a kidnapping plot to
foreign countries."

She shrugs. "I don't want anything."

"All right. Ron and I will plan some--"

"Nothing with a lot--"

"I know." He looks at her for a moment, then nods to the sandwich. "Eat. I made
it myself."

"Oh." He gives her a hard look, opening his mouth, and she holds up a hand. "I
swear, if I have to hear one more comment about my mushrooms…"

"Not a word," he says, grinning into his cup.

September 16; 5:15am

Hermione presses her fingers harder to the ridge in the door. "Do you want the
lantern?" Malfoy raises his head, and she twists the lantern in her grip. "You aren't
going to hurt yourself with it, are you?"

There's a wrinkle in his forehead as he glares at her. "Are the lengths I'm willing
to go to to protect my life somehow not evident to you?"

It's not like she thought he really would, but it's not something that's always
obvious. She holds out the lantern, the light forming an orb in the darkness of his
cell. He looks at it until she feels the slight push in her muscles that precedes the
burning of strain, and then his finger brushes hers at the loop as he takes it.

"Just put it under your bed or something when the Auror comes with your food
tray."

He balances it on the edge of the sink, but with a glance to his shadowed bed, he
puts it on the floor at the center of the room. "I thought you didn't break the rules."

She shrugs, her finger finding a groove in the metal. "It's just a light."
- 251 -
 "Is this your guilt?"

"Why would I feel guilty?"

She might have before. Like she had… She doesn't know why. They were just
on…a non-hostile level, and then things had gone glacier. And maybe she thinks
about how alone Malfoy is when she watches his dot move, or the line of his back
when he stands in front of the window, or the wild look when he comes back some
nights. Maybe she thinks about what it's like to sit there in the dark after a night
with a revival, by himself and defenseless, and imagines what she would do if it was
her.

So, yes, maybe, oddly, guilty. If she can bring light into dark places, she doesn't
know why she shouldn't.

"I don't know, Granger. Why would you?"

She backs away, pulling the pack of matches from her pockets. "I don't," she says,
striking the match hard and quick.

She pauses, barely glimpsing grey, and then shuts the door with a bang and click.

September 18; 9:52pm

Malfoy buttons the first button of his robe, exactly center on his chest.

"I won't be here tomorrow."

His fingers stop mid-push, but he doesn't look up. "Who will be?"

"Pruit or Leacher."

"You're doing something with Potter?"

"Yes." She doesn't know why that matters. Maybe Malfoy and Harry formed some
sort of common ground when Harry delivers the food trays, and Malfoy thinks he'll
be easier to deal with.

"You two are together?"

She especially doesn't know why that matters. "Wh-- No. He and Ginny have been
together for ages, and even if they weren't, I, we… No."
- 252 -
 Malfoy makes a weird sound that could have been a breath of laughter, moving to
the next button on his robe.

"It's my birthday."

"Oh." The button slowly pushes through the slot. "Today?"

"Tomorrow."

There is a long stretch of awkwardness in which she stops herself from shifting
uncomfortably no less than seven times. Malfoy finishes buttoning his robe, and then
moves to take the wand from her.

"Just remember a hangover potion. I can't imagine dealing with you as a more
annoying being."

"Well, if I don't feel well enough, I'll just get Leacher to cover for me."

Malfoy shoots her a glare before the door snaps shut behind him.

September 19; 7:32pm

"…to you," the Weasleys, Harry, Neville, and Luna finish singing, George hitting a
near inhuman squeak.

Hermione bounces Teddy on her lap, silence falling over the room. She leans
toward the dancing flames, holding her breath as she makes the same wish she
made last year, and then blows out the candles.

Teddy sprays spit all over the cake, and Hermione buries her laughter in his hair.

September 21; 10:06pm

Malfoy takes a bite of an apple, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he stares at her
paper. "You're hovering," she tells him.

"I'm across the room. If it was meant to be private, you would be shielding it with
your briefcase as usual, instead of writing it like an advertisement."

"It's so I can put it up on the wall and have a clear, ordered look at everything.
It's not an invitation."

- 253 -
 "You're including ones they'd never use. They're not going to steal ingredients for
a bloody glee potion."

"Maybe it's how they torture members of their group when they mess up -
happiness." It sounds ridiculous, but knowing that lot, slightly possible.

Malfoy looks at her intensely, as if trying to see if she actually believes that or is
potentially under a Befuddlement Charm, and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm writing down all the possibilities of the ingredients themselves, then
ordering them in likelihood."

"It sounds like a wonderful waste of time." His teeth bite off another chunk of
apple with a loud, crisp snap.

"You're saying that you don't consider all possibilities of a situation with these
people before you enter it?"

He chews, the fruit making his cheek stick out, and his lips wet with the juice.
She looks back down at her paper, waiting for him to swallow. "If it's likely to begin
with. I haven't considered entering headquarters to a Muggle-born celebration
party, or them calling a meeting for equal rights for all, or even equal distribution of
power among the group. I don't prepare myself for things that won't happen, when
there's enough that will."

"That's different. Those situations are completely ridiculous and improbable--"

"And a bulging potion isn't? Or--"

"They could be trying to appear tougher - you can't tell me that's something they
don't try to do. Only a few of them are confident enough in their own abilities to act
any way in which they choose, because they'll draw faster and cast better."

"Is that why you walked like your arms were four times their size when you were
Witworth, and yet still swayed your hips?" His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he
tosses the apple core to the rubbish bin.

She had tried to walk stiffly, but it always appeared too stiff, and she sometimes
forgot. "It didn't matter - no one caught on. A lot of pure-bloods have feminine
mannerisms."

He glares at her, snatching the marker from her weak grip quickly enough that
- 254 -
her hand clenches only against her fingers. He leans forward next to her, the side of
her arm pressed against his ribs, moving as he breathes. Locks of his hair flop
forward over his forehead as his eyes scan the paper, and he smells of soap, and the
lavender-mint of the shampoo she had bought.

He brings the marker down in fast, black streaks, pulling her attention from the
slow, warm push of his expanding breaths. Some of her attention. Half of her mind
stays focused on that point of contact like it's the only thing she's felt in weeks, and
she wonders if he's noticed or just doesn't care.

"Uh, no--"

"Yes."

"That's--"

"No, it isn't," he murmurs, then writes a list of potions beneath the ones of hers
he didn't cross out.

Her head pulls back on her neck when he turns his to look at her, his face the
closest it's ever been. He straightens up, though not as quickly as she'd expect, and
the warmth of his body leaves her arm. He holds out the marker, and she takes it,
clearing her throat.

- 255 -
 13

September 23; 1:51pm

Hermione drops her hand from the lock on top of the window, and twists to look
back across the living room as she shuts the drapes.

Malfoy had a point about hiding behind wards. About letting a need for security
rule you too much to not live as normal a life as possible. About fear destroying a life
as surely as death.

She doesn't have to check the flat again. She checked it thoroughly, as she does
every time, and there isn't a spot she could have missed. Except the very back of
cabinets and drawers, but that would only matter if it was an Animagus. Had she
secured the door completely? If not, they could have swept in while she was at the
other side of the flat, and they could be inside now. They could be waiting for her,
and if she just went to her office, they would be able to--

Hermione moves to the hall, checking again. Just in case. Just to be sure.

September 25; 9:26pm

Dididing…di-dingding…ding…

"Why is it Bells?"

She looks over from the fog, so thick tonight that part of her can't help but
wonder if they'll ever find the way out of it. Malfoy's head is turned toward the post
rising from the side of the boat, where the lantern rocks and the bell tolls.

"Your name?" He doesn't answer, and she hooks her fingers around one another
as she looks back out at the fog again. "There's a legend about a man named Faust
who makes a deal with the devil. He's given knowledge and great magical powers
for twenty-four years, and when it's over, the devil claims his soul for eternal
damnation. In some versions, he's saved, others, he's carried to hell." She glances
over at him. "I guess Faust had been considered."

"I asked you why it was Bells, not--"

"It's part of one of the legends. Faust goes to the Vatican, and he lives there,

- 256 -
invisible, pulling tricks on the Pope. After some time, the Pope orders all the bells of
Rome to be rung to drive out the evil magic. So they went with Bells. Or, Kingsley
did."

He's silent, but keeps watching the bell toll.

…di-ding, ding…ding…

September 29; 4:21am

Hermione cups her hands and pushes them to the bottom of the boat, then yanks
up, water arching into the air before flying over the side. The front of the boat hits a
roll of wave, rising into the air, and Hermione's shoes slip, sending her to her knees.
The water filling the bottom of the boat doesn't soak her more than the driving rain
has already managed, so she stays that way, splashing out more water.

"Granger, if you tip us, I'll drown you."

"We'll sink if we don't get the water out!" she yells back, her voice faint over the
storm and clanging bell.

She shoves back the curls plastered to her face and swinging into her eyes, and
cups her hands again, splashing more water out. She feels for every splash she gets
out, there's an equal amount of water coming back in from the rain, but as long as
she keeps it--

The boat rocks hard to the right, and as she scrambles to get her weight to the
left, Malfoy flashes toward her, his hand wrapping around her arm. There's only a
second of time where she thinks they might rock back, but Malfoy's weight is too
much, and the boat tips. She gets in half a gasp of air before she's under water,
yanking out her wand as she gives two hard kicks of her feet.

Her head smacks off wood, and she opens her eyes to blackness, her inhale
sounding all around her before Malfoy's joins hers. Something skims her leg, and
she throws herself back, kicking out her foot. Malfoy grunts, and it echoes off the
wood, nearly lost in the pounding thrum of rain.

"You idiot!"

"You're the one who tipped the bloody boat, and yet--"

"You did! You got up--"

- 257 -
 "To move you before you--"

"If you hadn't, we wouldn't be in the water right now! I was leaning left! Left! You
stood right! In the direction the boat was tipping, as if that was a good idea!"

Water splashes against her chin, and Malfoy's breath stops sounding like a tiny
hurricane around her head. She feels out into the water until her hand collides with
something hard that moves away. She grabs her briefcase, and feels along the wood
above her as she and the boat rise over a wave. She shoves her briefcase under a
bench until it hits the back wall of the compartment, where she initially had it before
everything was flooded.

She can barely see Malfoy when she emerges from the water on the other side,
but he can see her enough to start laughing, which is not the reaction she expected
at all.

"Wha--"

"You look like a drowned animal, Granger."

She shoves the hair back from her face, glaring at the white of his eyes as best
she can in the whip of rain. "You look like a drowned ferret."

Something comes in with a wave, touching her elbow, and she kicks back to get
away from it. She can't see anything in the weak moonlight except for black water
surrounding them, and her heart starts beating a little faster.

"We need to get out of the water. I don't know what lives in it."

That seems to get his mind back in the problem, and he moves further from her
before planting a hand against the curve of the boat. "Where's the Portkey?"

"We're not using it."

"I've already been to the Ministry, and--"

"They put up tighter security around the boathouse after the last storm, because
they thought our boat was knocked loose. There's no way they'll explain away
another boat without getting suspicious, which means they'll check prisoners and
visitors, and it'll make the papers. Questioning Azkaban security will make them up
security, probably by watching the seas to be sure no one-- Just flip the boat."

- 258 -
 "You flip the boat. I'm not your fucking house-elf."

She tries to send him a look, but the wind beats rain against her face like a slash,
and she's forced to duck her head again. "We'll flip the boat. I doubt you can do it by
yourself. Ju-- What are you doing?"

Whatever he's struggling against gives, and he washes back before a wave
pushes him forward again. "I cracked the pole off."

"The…the bell pole?"

"Were you hoping to save the lantern, or do you just prefer a brain-splitting
clanging as we go?"

It'll be easier to flip the boat with it off, anyway, so she'll let it go, as long as
Kingsley doesn't take it out of her already meager pay. "You need to climb onto it."

"What?"

"You need to climb onto it!" she yells. "You weigh more. Just go off the other side
and I'll push up. It'll rock it over!"

If he says anything, she can't hear it, shivering as the wind seems to tunnel in and
blow across her bones. It's a few seconds before he moves, turning for the boat. She
turns her head up enough to watch him through squinted eyes as he tries three
times to haul himself up. She positions herself at the side of the boat, pressing her
palms to the edge under the water, and silently wills him to hurry up. There's no
clanging around them, so it's unlikely anyone is out there, but she hasn't ruled out
the anything, and she'd rather not find out.

Malfoy moves in jerks that cause her to raise her wand, and then something
darker than the night flies back. She can see the white 0501-00621 across his back,
and knows he just threw his robe to the sea. If anyone sees him, they are beyond
trouble.

He's up this time, sliding over the top, and the boat tips up over the height of her
head. She pushes it up more with a hard shove, sinking to her eyes into the water.
The edge leaves her hands, and there's two beats of her heart before she's splashed
in the face. She sputters, spitting out water, and spits three more times for good
measure. As soon as she gets back to her flat, she's brushing her teeth. Twice.

"Shit"-she jolts into a spin, his voice right beside her instead of the other
- 259 -
side-"plan, Granger."

"It almost worked."

"…edge."

"What?"

"…grab…ridge."

"What?" she yells, wiggling her earlobe to knock the water loose.

"…grab the ridge!"

She has no idea what he's talking about. "Yeah."

"…do it…"

"What?"

"…Grange…" And then he's close enough for the kicks of his legs to skim the side
of hers, and she can hear his anger over the beating of noise. "I said, you need to do
it as well! Both our weight will turn it."

"Maybe. It didn't go up all the way--"

"I can't hear you. Just grab the ridge and pull towards you."

Ridge? "The what?"

"The ridge! It's right there at the center! You'll feel it when you climb up!"

"If it doesn't work, we'll both just go over--"

"We're not going to see someone, just get your arse--"

He cuts himself off, which is good, because they aren't in the position where he's
the one who gives orders. It takes him two tries to get himself up over the curve of
the boat, which means he misses only one of the seven tries it takes her. The wood is
slick as silk under her hands, and she's thankful the rain would blind him if he tries
to look back at her. Her arms are shorter, and she can't reach whatever place he's
grabbing for hold, and she has to scramble and shove in quick order.
- 260 -
 Her fingers tremble in their clasp of the small ridge, and that tremble works its
way down her arms, chest, stomach, and hips as she pulls herself up. The higher she
pulls, the more the boat tips up. Malfoy pushes up on his arms, and then with a fling
backwards, they're both sent back into the sea.

She bangs her head on the boat, and reels back, coughing up the water she
sucked in with her breath. She forces her eyes open at the loud clunks in front of
her, curving an arm over the side of her face and forehead, and sees Malfoy inside
the boat. The relief that they flipped it back only lives for as long as it takes her to
try pulling herself inside.

Years of office work have not given her much upper body strength, though her
fingers might have the ability to tear off limbs. She has an elbow and hand on the
edge of the boat when warm hands grab her under her arms. They tighten painfully
as she's pulled up and over, the edge of the boat scraping along her stomach and
knees before she lands on top of Malfoy.

His chest and stomach are heaving against her as she gasps for air, and she's
momentarily startled at the feel of him moving beneath her.

"…Goyle."

"What?" she asks raggedly, planting a palm on his chest as she pushes up, his
clothes stuck to his skin and squishing water under her pressure. "Did you just
compare me to Goyle?"

"You pull yourself soaking wet out of water," he breathes as she reaches under
the bench, feeling to make sure her briefcase is still there. "I think I just found the
purpose of your hair - I don't feel the rain on my fa--"

"It's not my fault you're weak," she tells him, pulling her legs up to get off of him.

Her only warning is a shift of his expression, like a shadow passing over it, which
is just enough for her to clench her wand. Then his hands grab her hips, his own
twist and buck beneath her, and then she's on her back. She sucks in a breath, his
fingers clenching once on her hips before a palm smacks into the wood beside her
head. Rain hits her forehead like pellets as he gives her a hard look.

"You're welcome," he says, lifting himself up to his feet.

She takes three breaths, gathering herself back together, before she snorts. The
absence of warmth radiating from his body sends shivers along her spine, and she's
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jumbled as she gets to her feet. The boat rocks, and she holds her breath and her
stance in stillness before they settle.

She sits down on her bench, feeling for her briefcase even though she found it
there a few seconds ago. She pushes her hair back and glances up at Malfoy, his
head bent and eyes shut. She follows his example, saving her eyeballs from the rain.

"I still say you're not that strong to have to compare me to a mass of a person."
She sniffs, and it sends water to the back of her throat, making her cough. "But
thank you."

"What was that?"

"I said, thank you!"

"What?"

"Thank you!"

"I can't hear-"

"Thank-- Oh, shut up."

October 2; 5:33am

Two long lines, and two diagonal dashes off the left line, both separated by an
inch. In small print, Hermione notes the first dash as unknown, and the second as
room, unknown size, purpose. She draws another dash off the right line, and pauses,
angling her quill so it takes longer to drip.

"How big was it?"

"Large. At least five times the size of the entry."

"Where was the door in relation to the room?"

"Left. Maybe a meter between the door and wall to that side."

Hermione looks down at the box marked entry, her teeth skimming over her
bottom lip, and then draws a larger box starting slightly left to the diagonal dash.
"What was in the room?"

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 "Six tables," Malfoy answers. "Four of them had two cauldrons, one had one, one
had three." Hermione looks up in surprise. "There were eleven cupboards, five along
the wall to the left upon entering, three on the right, three on the nearest. There
were shelves along the farthest wall--"

"This was a…potions room?"

Malfoy nods once, staring at her hands. "There were three men and one woman
inside, all wearing safety goggles and stained potion robes."

"What was in the cauldrons?"

"Nothing I recognized, but there were far more ingredients on the tables and
shelves, and probably in the cupboards, than what I had brought them." His eyes lift
to meet hers. "There were scorch marks on the floor, ceiling, and walls."

"They've been experimenting," she says lowly, and his expression doesn't change.
She exhales in a hiss, looking down at the floor plan. "You need to find out what
they're trying to make. If it's deadly or destructive, we'll need the Ministry
potioneers to work on a counter-potion."

"They won't tell me that."

"The commanders won't, but someone has to know. They overheard it, the
researchers slipped. Whatever you have to do to figure it out, just cover your tracks.
Right now we can find out from conversation, but later, we'll have to wait until they
make it, which…is unacceptable."

Malfoy sits up in the chair, his arms sliding over the table, and his left hand
clasps over the fist of his right. It reminds her of when she used to put the shackles
on him, and she wonders if it's his subconscious mentality.

He separates his hands when he notices her look, and she quickly looks down to
her paper.

"What, exactly, are you asking me to do?"

"Get the information. Don't…you know, don't hurt anyone, but if you have to
threaten before Obliviating, do it. Get samples if you can. Every cauldron. If we take
it apart, we might figure out what the objective is. A Dark object, we likely have the
cure, and most of them are simple enough to destroy. But a potion…"

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 Malfoy's jaw clenches and he lifts his chin. "I'll get it."

October 4; 12:22pm

Hermione moves out of the bedroom and back into the hall, her wand aimed at
the end of it. Her breathing sounds like wind against a tin wall in her ears, and her
heart is beating at the bottom of her throat, narrowing the airway. She has checked
the whole house, and the only thing left is the door to Malfoy's bedroom. She knows
someone is inside, as the door is shut and it never is when it's empty, but she
doesn't know if it's Malfoy or if he's with the man he Apparated here with over six
hours ago.

She holds her breath, waiting for any hint of sound, but nothing comes. She
moves to the right side of the door, lining herself with the frame so she'll only be in
view of the bed and the small area near the door. She clasps the doorknob solidly so
it doesn't jingle, takes a deep breath as she aims her wand, and then shoves the door
open.

Something clunkgs, but no spell lights flash through the entrance. She catches a
glimpse of clothes and blond hair sprawled on the bed, Malfoy, and twists herself to
the other side of the door, wand aimed into the room.

No one.

She scans it more slowly, across the nightstand, dresser, and crooked picture of
an empty coat rack. It looks the same as the last time she saw it, and even the bed is
still made beneath Malfoy. He's dressed, though his shoes are side-by-side at the
bottom of the bed. His shirt has twisted up, pulled tight to his chest, and his
stomach is exposed. Pale skin, a trail of golden hair; she counts his breaths, and her
gaze takes the inevitable journey to the band of his trousers before flashing up. She
swallows, looking at the dull tinge of blue on his eyelids, and the wayward strands of
his hair. There's intimacy in that path, in the casual sprawl of his body. In the fact
that she would never normally see it. So she looks again.

There's a slash of red on the left side of his shirt, blurry on the edges from where
the blood bloomed into the light blue fabric, but it's dry and crusted along the main
line. A bottle of amber liquid sits on the nightstand, half-empty, with the label turned
away.

She can faintly smell a nutty alcohol when she approaches the bed, and her lips
purse as she reaches down. Her fingers skim the fabric of his shirt, and she gently
prods her fingers at the line of blood, searching for a tear to check the wound.
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 "Now"-she jumps, hand flying back-"who's creeping into bedrooms and--"

"Jesus, Malfoy! I thought you were sleeping."

"Waiting until I was vulnerable?" he asks, his voice raspy and his eyes still shut.

"Wh--"

"I would have had to be deaf and stupid to not hear you stomping in here."

"I did not stomp." She looks at the other side of the room, noticing the glass
sitting sideways on the floor, and remembering the sound when she opened the
door. "You set up the glass to hear if someone came in." Malfoy rubs his eyes, and
she narrows hers. "Have you been drinking?"

"Yes."

"The man you came back here with…he brought it?"

"Does it matter? Lock the door, Granger. I've had a long night."

They've both had long nights - at least he had caught a nap. "Are you drunk?"

"…Yes."

She shakes her head. "Why would you do that? Do you know how dangerous--"

"I'm more aware of that than you."

"Then why-- You don't sound drunk."

He groans lowly, opening his eyes, and she moves back a step as he sits up and
swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "Let's do the interview, then."

"I don't want to do it if you're drunk."

He pushes his hair back, looking at her in exasperation. She has a feeling he only
told her he was so he wouldn't have to get up for the interview. She's not sure,
though, and she prefers he has a clear mind.

"What happened to your chest?"

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 "I said it was a long night. I had to Obliviate a researcher. No one caught on."

He bends back, grabbing the ball of his robe on the edge of the bed against the
wall. His shirt rides up again, and she glances at the stretch of skin, the trail of hair,
the line of his pelvis, before darting her gaze to his robe. He sits back up, holding
out a fist, and drops six vials into her hand.

"You're sure--"

"Yes."

"You didn't even know what I was going to ask."

He glances a hard look at her before twisting to toss his robe back. "If I was sure
no one noticed the fight, which I am. Or if I was sure these are samples of potions
they're experimenting with, which I am. Or if I'm sure I Obliviated him fully, which I
am."

She sniffs, inspecting the various colors of potions in her hand. "Wand?" She
accepts it when he holds it out to her, and she looks back down at the dried blood.
"You're all right?"

"I'm fine."

She nods, turning for the door. "I'll wake you at six for the interview."

"Are you alone?"

"Why do you always ask me that?"

He stands, pulling the blanket back on the bed. "Would you?"

She would. She couldn't stand knowing someone was going to come and not
knowing who. Especially if one of them happened to be Leacher, who was creepy
and a prat on his best day.

"I'm alone," she says, shutting the door.

October 6; 9:51pm

Hermione blows a breath up into her face, cooling the prickly heat along her
forehead. The cabinets had been too filthy to allow rats to eat out of, but now they're
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sparkling and filled with clean things.

She steps off the chair, squeaking under the sway of her weight, and grabs a red
square of fabric from the counter. She looks over at Malfoy, unsurprised to see him
watching her from his chair. She had felt his eyes burning into her skin as she was
stocking the cabinet.

"Every time I have to leave because someone comes here, you need to put this
flag up at the outside of the house, by the front or back door, when they leave." She
waves it in front of her. "This is the cleared signal, and only goes up when the house
is clear. I also got more tin food, since you don't make anything else for yourself,
though there are other things that are very simple. I know we were running low on--
Why do you keep staring at my hair and throat?"

"I'm considering the possibility of you strangling yourself with all the head
movements."

She had thought it was the newness of having her hair down, but when her throat
got involved, she couldn't ignore it anymore. Staring at anyone's throat that
intensely can never be a good thing, and her danger, danger warning system started
blaring.

Malfoy's eyes flicker to the top of her chest, and she reaches up, feeling a droplet
of sweat on her skin. She wipes it off, then skims the back of her hand up, feeling
the wet trail the drop had left on her throat, neck, and behind her ear.

"Less possible than me strangling you."

"The closest you'll get to strangling me is with your food."

"As opposed to yours, which just explodes in the pot before making it to anyone's
mouth?"

"At least I'm upfront about it. You're a silent killer."

"I am not a mime," she says, holding up a finger.

"You'd die before staying silent. And no, I do not want to hear your theory on
mime serial killers again, or argue the value of words over actions or vice versa."

She sniffs, turning back to the cans of food. "They're terrifying."

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 October 10; 10:03pm

"That's true, but I also think Muggle-borns would be forced into slavery and
death. They would be like house-elves. There's no need for them to keep prisons of
Muggle-borns when they could put them to use or be done with them."

"To use," Malfoy says. "They aren't going to kill off all the Muggle-borns and
Muggles. They'll have Muggle-borns at the bottom. Factory work, servants, farmers.
Half-bloods - who weren't in the revival - would do things pure-bloods deem more
honorable. Tailoring clothes for pure-bloods, furniture, head of servants, maybe
teachers. Pure-bloods would be in all leadership positions - business heads, director
boards, the Ministry, law enforcement, and dictate every market. It's not just about
killing, Granger. It's about power."

"If that were to happen - and it won't - then surely people would rebel. There
might be hundreds or even thousands of Dark wizards and witches, but there will be
millions of abused people to fight them."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, and she startles when she feels his foot brush the side
of her leg under the table. "And yet governments that abuse and alienate some or all
of their people stay in power for centuries. Not everyone's a hero. A little knowledge
and fear is all it takes to be a leader."

Hermione shakes her head, looking at the potion ingredients report without
seeing it. "Someone just needs to be there to rally them. To bring them together.
Though, I suppose if the Dark somehow won, I'd have died trying to stop them. Or
they would kill me immediately after."

"I doubt that," he says lowly, distracted for a moment by something in his book.
"If you survived, they'd use you. Muggle-born or not, your intelligence could be
useful to them--"

"I'd never help them," she says hotly.

Malfoy looks up at her, perhaps a bit surprised by her sudden vehemence, and he
might have been smiling before she blinked. "They would still try. Use you against
Potter, torture you until you broke, make you an example. And when they were
done, and you were stripped of everything, then they would kill you."

"Sounds lovely." Her voice is more strained than she tried to let it be, but her
heart is racing, and her mind is spinning through things that keep her awake long
after exhaustion.
- 268 -
 "We all know what we're fighting for," Malfoy mutters, flipping a page in his
book.

Hermione swallows dryly, nodding her head, and skims for where she left off in
the report. She stops on the sentence, resting her finger at the end of it, and looks
back up at Malfoy.

"What is it you're fighting for?"

His eyes lift from the bottom of the page and to the table, and he blinks once
before looking at her from the top of his eyes. She waits impatiently, watching his
indecision, because he's not the sort of man to admit anything.

"The same things that you are, Granger."

October 11; 9:50pm

Malfoy's steps are even, sure, confident. The back of his robe billows up along the
ground as he moves into the fog. Grey slowly eclipses black until he's disappeared
within the swirls, and she jumps at the crack of his Apparition.

October 13; 4:58am

Malfoy walks quickly across the kitchen, yanking his robe off, and tosses it in a
bundle onto a chair. Hermione keeps waving her hand for him to hurry up, though
he can't see her anymore, but her impatience is harder to deal with when she's still.

She doesn't know why he can't just push to come back by four every morning.
Whenever they leave after five, it's usually brighter than they should risk by the time
their boat reaches the cave. The moon is half-full tonight already, and Azkaban
guards switch shifts at 5:30 every morning.

Hermione walks over to the window, putting her hand against the glass and the
side of her face to block the glare of candlelight from her vision. It's a dark blue
outside, but-- Hermione squints, pressing her forehead harder against the glass,
making out a dark object near the house. It looks like a…box.

She steps back and turns, pressing her back to the wall next to the window as she
pulls out her wand. She hadn't heard any sound of Apparition beyond Malfoy's, and
there's a very small chance they managed to Apparate at the exact same time.

Hermione slides and twists enough to look out of the edge of the window.
- 269 -
"Malfoy!"

There's only a second of silence before the loo door flies open, cracking off the
wall. "What?"

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"The box! Did you bring a box?"

"The one outside? It was there when I came in. I figured you knew about it."

So whoever had left it there did it while she was alone. She hadn't heard any
Apparition, unless they came through the woods.

She looks over at him when she hears his footsteps, hard and quick, and her gaze
gets stuck on skin, a trail of hair, ridges, scars, skin, lines, skin, flat nipples, a
pendant, and skin. She darts her eyes to his when she realizes that she's staring like
she's never seen a naked torso before, and she finds him with an odd expression she
doesn't want to read.

She releases half a breath before she starts speaking, ignoring the burn in her
ears. "It could be something dangerous. It wasn't there before, or, at least, I didn't
see it when we got here. Someone must have dropped it off while you were gone,
but if they saw me, they didn't attack. I didn't hear Apparition, but-- Did anyone say
anything to you about leaving something here?"

"No."

"Did they say anything to you about me, or anything that seemed weird--"

"No."

"Maybe they wanted to surprise you." She keeps her eyes very focused on not
leaving his.

"Not with anything good. Something like that would have been presented as a
gift, not a box in the garden."

"And there's been no indication that they know about the Assign--"

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 "They would have killed me, Granger."

He looks to the window, moving closer, and she might look at his chest again. Just
for a moment, a glimpse, because it's not a particularly unattractive chest, and it's
surprising. Like if a tree crashes through a person's window, they're going to stare
at it for awhile.

"It could be one of the recruits. I'm with the commanders more than them, and
there's envy. Some of them aren't reckless enough to approach you alone, but if they
saw you, I'll know by tomorrow. Or they'll come today."

He walks towards the door, and she moves more quickly, pressing her hand to hot
skin that sinks under her palm in an inhale. She snatches her hand away, but his
warmth is still coating her palm.

"Stay here," she tells him, moving for the door.

She's careful across the grass and dead leaves, adrenaline tingling along her
shoulders as she waits for a jet of light to come through the dark. Malfoy follows her
out despite the many hand gestures behind her back for him to go inside.

The box does nothing under her multitude of revealing spells, and she stands a
few feet from it when she opens it, Malfoy several steps behind her. There's no
explosion, pulse of magic, or any other destructive thing. She still approaches it
slowly, every step measured, and her body prepared to leap back and cast.

She can't stop her thoughts of what's inside. Body parts, death, a curse,
blackmail, bloodintestinesseveredfingersherhomeaddress. Her blood is pounding at
her temples, but when she peeks over the edge of the box, it is only coldness that
drops into her stomach and not horror.

"Jesus," she breathes.

"What is it?"

She laughs, low and disbelieving, and pulls back a package of soap to reveal food.
She had told Harry that Rome needed supplies, but that had been days ago, and
she'd already picked everything up.

Malfoy steps up beside her, less paranoid with her apparent ease at digging into
the contents. "Food?" he drawls.

- 271 -
 "Ministry drop-off."

"Why didn't they bring it inside?"

She shakes her head. "It must have been Leacher." Now she'll have to hear about
her lack of security with how he managed to get close to the house without her
noticing.

Malfoy whispers something in a hard breath that she thinks must be a curse, then
walks toward Rome. She levitates the box, then watches the movements in his back
as she follows him.

October 17; 9:30pm

"No, I know I can't control everything. If I could, the world would be a lot
different."

"It doesn't stop you from trying."

She shrugs, pulling back on the rope. "It's like…there are these people who take
in animals for pets that…you know, lions, chimpanzees. They try to keep these
animals, then the animals attack them while they're shampooing their hair or
something. It goes to its animal instincts, and it tears a person's face off, or just
starts eating them."

She checks the rope, making sure it's secure, and then looks out at the boat
bobbing in the water. Malfoy holds out her briefcase, and she takes it, letting him
keep the lantern as they head for the trees.

"People try to control the wild, but they fail. There's always things in this world
that will be beyond our control. No matter how hard we try, how little it makes
sense, or how much it hurts. Like evil. Or love! You try, but it just…" She raises her
hand in a claw, flexing her fingers. "It just eats your face off."

"You dated Weasley - what did you expect?"

"Ron is a good man."

They weave around a cluster of trees. She's careful not to trip over the large roots
she sometimes forgets about, because Malfoy is the sort to let her slip and then
snicker about it, or catch her while muttering insults. She glances over at him; he's
either raising his eyebrow because of the memories or her statement.
- 272 -
 "He's just not a good man for me. But I thought I was in love with him for awhile.
I was as a kid. That's what I mean. You can't control things like that. They just sort
of explode into your life, and then explode out of it or stay. You should know. Didn't
you date Parkinson?"

"Pansy is a good person. At least, she was. Just in her own way, or the way
upper-class, pure-blood girls are meant to be."

She takes his arm when they reach the small clearing at the center of towering
trees, his elbow already extended, and they Apparate to the back door of Rome.
There's the pause that always comes at this part, where he waits for her to go first
before remembering that it's always him who does, and then she follows him inside.

"Have you talked to her?"

"I haven't talked to anyone - it's against the contract."

"I mean, before."

He stares at her, the first button of his robe stopping mid-push through the hole,
and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "Azkaban records and copies every letter sent
and received. Don't pretend you don't know that answer."

His voice is cold, she thinks. A sound that's hard and crisp, and sweeps a chill
under your skin, threatening to freeze you out.

"It's been months since I've read your file, Malfoy," she says, the awkwardness
making her voice softer. "I don't remember every bit of it. I just know that I haven't
kept in touch with just about anyone… I shouldn't have asked."

He watches the buttons slide out, and doesn't speak until he's finished with the
last one. "She wrote once. I didn't respond."

He pulls the robe off, laying it over the back of a chair, and walks to the loo. She
stares at him until the door shuts, and then she stares at that, wondering how long
it's been since Malfoy talked to anyone outside of her, the Aurors, and the revival.
She wonders how long he went in prison before he spoke at all.

"If you, uh…" She clears her throat, stepping closer to the door. "I can't have her
do it without giving the information, which I can't. But if you'd like to write a letter
to your mum, we can say that it was left before you escaped."

- 273 -
 There's not even the usual sound of clothing being moved and tossed as he
changes, and if she didn't know his hearing was excellent, she'd think he had missed
the offer.

"She knows I escaped?"

Hermione winces. "It's possible she gets a newspaper."

Clothes start moving, but only for a moment. "Why is my mother kept from the
public? She was only charged a year of probation directly after the war."

"It's her choice. She might go out into the public and such, but I don't know about
it if she does. I know from Harry that she's asked for her address to not be made
public, but I believe that's more from a possible danger than any real encounters
with it. The house itself isn't a secret, but it's not in public record, and there's
Ministry wards around it…"

Despite Narcissa's past and the things she allowed without regard, Harry will
never forget that she saved his life that night in the forest. Hermione had heard that
the Ministry housing for Narcissa was always paid for by someone outside of the
Malfoys, and a rumor that it was Harry who had taken care of it. Hermione couldn't
blame him for that. Even Ron had responded to the rumor with a grim line of his
mouth and a demand to pass the salt.

"You obviously can't mention the Assignment, or even let on that the letter was
written later than May. And I won't read it. I'll give it directly to Harry, and Harry
will honor that it's private." Even if it tempts them both. "I won't look at it at all, I
can promise that."

She knows what it's like to be disconnected from her parents and facing
something so much larger than herself. His mother hasn't forgotten, and Malfoy's
earned the right to communicate with her in the only way they can offer. The last
time she had seen her parents before the Horcrux search was with her wand aimed
at the back of their heads - she figures a courtroom isn't much better. If it's
something that he needs, and that she can do, she'll do it.

There's silence from the loo, and she walks across the kitchen, taking her usual
seat.

October 18; 4:34pm

The mermaids pull her deeper into the water, and Hermione kicks out, scales
- 274 -
slicing into the skin of her legs. Long fingers twist around her arms and head, and
she thrashes harder, trying to break free. The light of the sun on top of the water
begins to fade, and then all is dark.

She screams, nails sinking into her skin, to the bone, through the bone. There's a
fleck of green in the blackness that turns into a glow. It's the bottom, she knows,
and it's glowing burnt green, reaching up for her. Her hands cut open on scales and
teeth, red unfurling around her. She's dragged through the mist, into the green, and
hundreds of dead bodies line the sea floor. They stare up at her with dark, absent
eyes and blue faces, and she can't breathe, shecan'tbreatheshecan'tbreathe…

October 22; 11:11am

Hermione pulls on her robe, looking at the colored leaves that crinkle and scrape
the outside of the window. "I'll be back before you leave."

"You're going now?" He doesn't sound like he cares either way.

"When Leacher gets out of the shower. He's been on a mission all night, so he
won't be up long. I'll be back in a--"

Hermione pulls her wand out at the yell from the loo, followed by three thuds as
she aims at the door. She glances at Malfoy to motion for him to stay there and
silent, and sees him grinning. Her foot swings back from its step, and she shakes her
head at him.

"What?" she whispers.

"The water goes cold after ten minutes."

Her arms swings back to her side, and she slumps a little from the stiff readiness
to fight. "Oh. Oh."

Leacher yells out a string of curses, followed by more thumping, and Hermione's
amusement bubbles up her stomach. Malfoy laughs outright, and it's contagious,
shoving her own out despite her best efforts to not laugh at a co-worker. She looks
over, catching the curve of Malfoy's grin and the brightness of his eyes, and she
laughs harder.

October 26; 4:44am

The boat bounces off the rocky shore before pushing back, and Hermione jumps,
- 275 -
expecting it but not being able to see it like she normally could. Malfoy stands, and
she grabs her briefcase from under the bench before standing as well. She prefers
the other bench, which always allows her to see what they're moving toward, and
makes Malfoy get out before her. She had been distracted at the other shore,
though, and she blames him.

He moves forward after a pause of her awkwardness, grabbing the lantern. She
starts to turn to jump to shore, but then he's there beside her. He turns to slide past
her as her briefcase smacks against the side of her leg, and she looks up, his face
inches from hers as he looks down at her. There's uneven locks of hair - her own
doing - across his forehead, and his eyes look like dark smoke inside the shadows of
his hood.

He stills, just stops there, and her heart thumps as she freezes. She can feel a
tickling numbness along her bones as she tries to keep herself completely in place,
but the boat is swaying, or she is, or he is. His gaze drops down her face, and her
own follows, finding his lips just barely parted. Maybe he's going to say something.
Maybe…maybe he's very, very close.

She looks back to his eyes to find him watching her, and her stomach twists in a
way that's only vaguely familiar. She feels his exhale, warm and soft over the bridge
of her nose, and then his shoulders sway and he's stepping over the bench. She
turns her head to watch him turn to the shore, grabbing the rim of the boat with his
left hand while stepping on it with his right foot. He jumps over the side, and she
hears the splash of his feet, the lantern light swinging against the rock walls as her
heart hammers.

October 29; 3:08pm

Hermione looks out the window to an empty garden, then the map of Russia
spread out on the table that will no longer show his dot even if he's still there. She
folds the map up with a flick of her wand, directing it to her briefcase, and checks
the time.

She pulls Malfoy's chair around, angling it so that her back will be to the wall
while still allowing her easy viewing of the window. She sits down, crossing her
arms, and taps the seconds out with her foot.

- 276 -
 14

11:31pm

Harry's been spoiled by Ginny's Molly-taught cooking, Hermione thinks, because

the tin of soup does not deserve a face with that much disgust. Or several spits into
the rubbish bin.

"God, that's disgusting," Harry says gravely.

Hermione rolls her eyes, muttering, "It's not that bad, Harry."

Pruit intercepts Harry's bowl before the contents hit the rubbish, and Harry
raises his eyebrows. "Good luck with that, mate."

"There's no indication he left by choice, but I doubt he would have left evidence of
that," Leacher says, emerging from the hallway.

"He went as normal. He didn't leave with the intention to stay gone - something
happened there."

"He would have used the Portkey if something got out of control," Harry says,
watching with a disgusted fascination as Pruit shovels more soup into his mouth.

"He's probably on one of their missions."

"For an entire night and day?" Hermione asks.

"They could have asked him to stay until the mission. There's bedrooms, right?"

"At several places," Leacher answers, and she wonders how often he reads
through the file.

"He's always been told beforehand about a mission, giving him time to plan it."

"Something could have gone wrong," Pruit says.

"Obviously," she mutters, rubbing the hard ache at the center of her forehead.

"But, like Potter said, if it was too bad, he would have used the Portkey. I say we

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wrap up here, head home for the night. Granger has a ward intrusion notification set
up, so just notify us if you are." Pruit drops the bowl into the sink, and then
straightens his robes as Leacher walks to the door.

"I will."

Pruit catches the door before it shuts behind Leacher, and pauses, looking back
and forth between her and Harry. "All right, then. Potter, I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry nods, his face aimed towards the door, but she can't see where he's looking
from the glare of candlelight in his glasses. She looks down at her wrist, spinning
the thin chain of a bracelet, and watching the grey gem disappear, reappear,
disappear.

"Not yet, Hermione. If you activate the Portkey while he's right in the middle of
something, it'll ruin everything. It's too soon."

"What if he's in trouble and can't reach the Portkey? They could have him bound.
I… He thinks we'll always act like his life is less important than the Assignment, and
it isn't. What if he needs to be out right now, and after all I've said about protecting
him, I'm just sitting here in case it's too soon and would ruin the Assignment?"

Harry scratches his ear, straightening from his lean against the counter. "There's
a risk, Hermione. There's always a risk, and he knows that. They had him for days
when they first took him. If he's gone for days now, a week, and can't manage to get
away once at this point, then we Portkey him back. Then something is obviously
wrong. Nothing is obviously wrong right now. We just have to wait."

She drops her forehead into her palm, rubbing hard, and then stands. If Malfoy
comes back and declares he was busy drinking brandy with a commander again, he
might never leave ferret form.

October 30; 7:55am

She slides the pins into the tight bun of hair, staring at her forehead before
checking her head from all angles. Releasing a heavy breath, she moves for her
bedroom, the only sound in her flat being the soft padding of her feet. She grabs her
shoes from the closet, and braces a hand against the frame as she pulls them on.

She presses her fists against her hips, looking to her nightstand and the unlit
candle. Part of the reason she's going to work earlier than her now-normal schedule
is so she stops staring at the thing, but she can't help herself when she crosses the
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room, intent on taking it with her.

9:29pm

Silence. She'd even taken the Muffling Charms off her office so she could hear
outside noise, but the most sound was when a memo came in. It's not that she minds
the quiet, usually - it lets her think. But as she does not want to think right now, she
can't stand it. She never noticed how devoid of sound her life is.

Maybe Malfoy is wrong. Maybe she is a mime, silently going through the motions
of her life. A person caught between the tide and the opposite roll of waves above,
spinning endlessly and silent, even when she's screaming.

It's 9:30. She should be on a boat right now, listening to Malfoy's voice as he
debates, or insults, or tells her to shut up. She should be listening to water lapping
against the wood, and the bell tolling into the night.

Hermione looks over at the candle, still unlit.

October 31; 6:17am

The ceiling in her bedroom is bumpy and white. Sometimes it looks like a field of
popcorn, or a miniature desert filled with mountains of sand. Now, in the twilight of
morning, it looks like a sea, waves rolling, and creatures breaking the surface or
splashing back down again.

She watches it for hours or days, lying so still that she feels heavy, wooden,
unmovable.

November 1; 7:18am

She runs for her door before turning around to throw things in her briefcase.
She's three tossed files in when she decides to just leave it, sprinting back for the
door, and then thinks the Portkey will be quicker.

She stumbles, her back hitting a tree as she opens her eyes to the forest
surrounding Rome. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the metal circle to the bottom
of her pocket, and spots the wink of sunlight hitting water through the trees.

She doesn't know how long the candle had been lit for, but it was no more than
fifteen minutes that she had been in the loo for, so he couldn't have been back that
long. If it's him. It's just as likely that it's one of the members of the revival, and so
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she takes the long way around the lake, moving slowly through the woods. Vestiges
of autumn crinkle under her shoes, but she doesn't want to cast anything in case the
intruder is scanning for magic.

She tries to convince herself that she's not hoping for it to be Malfoy, and that it
can be anyone. It's better to be fully on guard, and she won't be if she thinks it's
Malfoy, or is disappointed when it isn't. There's no sound around the house or from
inside, and she can't see anything through the kitchen window from her angle
between the trees.

A twig cracks beneath her foot, and she winces, looking up at the door. She's
distracted from the possibility of it flying open when she spots a patch of red in the
window that had never been there before, and knows it's the red flag to signal the
house is cleared.

She forgets logical thinking as she breaks from the line of the trees, running for
Rome, but her mind catches up when she grabs the handle. Malfoy has been gone
for days, and if something happened to him, they might have managed to pry into
his mind enough to find out about the flag.

She moves to press her shoulder to the side of the door, and then twists the knob,
shoving it open with her foot as she takes aim at the corner of the kitchen. Her heart
seems to have broken apart, and pieces of it are beating in her chest, her throat, and
both her eardrums. She turns quickly, knees bent to jump to the side if she has to,
but the kitchen is empty.

There are mud-lined bootprints leading to the cabinets, door, and then the loo,
but nowhere else. The loo door is shut, and she can't tell if there's a light on in the
crack underneath, but she can hear water. A member of the revival would have
bothered searching the house before trying to make her think it was just Malfoy
there with the flag, and they weren't likely to have come alone.

She licks her lips, stepping slowly inside. "Malfoy?"

"Yeah."

Momentarily relief, too fleeting to be really felt at all, but she knows it feels good
to hear his voice, to know he's alive. "What happened?" Only the sound of water
answers her. "Malfoy?"

The water turns off, the tap squeaking. There's a pause that does nothing for her
nerves as she walks closer to the door, and then the rattle of the doorknob before it
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opens. Malfoy's hand wraps around the frame of the door as he steps out, his hair
wet and his face a mask of indifference. She could almost smile.

"No, I--" he starts to say, raising his hand when she aims her wand.

She hesitates only a second, and then casts her revealing spells, making sure they
didn't attach anything to him, like tracking… She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes
at his face just before he turns for the hallway.

"I'm going to bed. We'll do the interview--"

She grabs his arm, and when he pulls it away, she grabs it again, side-stepping
around him. She's quick to cast another revealing spell, and there it is. A shimmer in
front of his face, like plastic wrap wavering over the skin.

"Grang--" he says harshly.

Two spells and the illusion drops, and she covers her mouth, taking a step back in
shock. His left eye is swollen, the lid puffy, and the skin purple and red around it.
His right eye is bruised blue under and around the nose, and rising up to the curve
of his eyebrow. His left cheekbone is blue-purple with a gash in the swollen skin.
There's a split that runs through both lips to the right of his mouth, and another on
the upper lip, which is at least twice the size she normally sees it. With the size of
the knot on his jaw, she's surprised it's not broken.

A gurgle of sound rises in her throat as she shakes her head, waving her hand at
his face like he doesn't know what it is she's gaping at. "What happened?" She looks
over his shoulder and into the kitchen, and then focuses on that swollen mess of his
left eye. "Do we need to leave? Are they--"

He knocks her wand away when she raises it. "No, we don't. And no healing--"

"Your face is--"

"It doesn't matter."

She makes harsh sounds, a string of word beginnings. "It does matter! You
can't--"

"If it's healed," he growls, "they'll think--"

"--no sense when I could just--"

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 "No, shut up, and I'll--"

"--stupid to not let me, and I don't--"

"Granger."

"--heal your face, and then you can tell me. I'm n--"

His hand clamps over her mouth as he glares at her, cutting off her words. She
breathes in sharply in surprise, his palm smelling of dirt, and then narrows her eyes
at him.

"Listen--"

She pulls away, and his other hand flashes up to grab the back of her head,
keeping the hand over her mouth. Trapped, can't breathe, can't move, the thoughts
that don't always make sense, and then she grabs his wrist, glaring at him in
warning. It's the pounding of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips that stops her
digging them into his bony wrist and hexing him.

"Go on, then," she says, her words muffled behind his hand, and which he could
have made sense as anything else.

He seems to understand, though, because he drops his hand, and it's not until she
feels the weight of his arm in her grasp that she releases her own hold. The hand at
the back of head catches in a curl, making her wince.

"Sorry," he mutters, probably more knee-jerk than thought over, and then his
palm skims her hair as he extracts it.

He takes a deep breath, and it rattles in his chest. "I met with the Nobles. For the
wrongs of my past, I willingly submitted to their punishment as payment. Healing
myself would be as if I was then rejecting what they feel I deserve. It has to heal on
its own."

Hermione throws her hands up, staring at him a moment more to be absolutely
sure he's serious. She scrunches her face, a combination of outrage, accusation, and
bewilderment. "What? That is the stupidest thing--"

"It's how it works!"

"Honestly, to make you pay for your wrongs? This is how they treat people on
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their own side? Great group of men to give your allegiance to! Let's not just--"

He's glaring at her again. "I didn't join them by choice

"I know! But I have to yell at someone!"

He stares at her until her expression falters in its open hostility, and he releases a
hissed breath as he looks at the wall.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "It's just… Jesus, Malfoy, your face. If I heal you, they
won't--"

"They will. Allowing them to do this proved that I felt guilty enough for my
inaction in the past to not protest, and it's how they'll trust me now. They had a
grudge to settle with the Malfoys, and now I've paid that debt."

"You paid enough! They think you killed people, you tortured people, you led
missions for them and succeeded. It should be enough--"

"It wasn't. Not to people who remember, who were there. Now it is, but not if you
heal me, so leave. It. Alone."

She scowls, studying the mess of his face. This had been what was happening to
him. She had known something was wrong. She had felt it, an unease constantly
swirling and hardening at the pit of her stomach. And she had just been in her
office, or trying to sleep, or drinking tea. She lowers her eyes when there's a prickle
at the back of them, and lets out an aggravated, growling sigh. "Unbelievable." She
looks up at the split in his mouth. "Maybe we could--"

"No."

"Just an illusion after--"

"No."

"You know, prison was your punishment, and there's no need to allow yourself to
deal with this like--"

"I have to. I'm not risking them finding out, and so going through it for nothing.
Or never making commander, and being stuck in this assignment for my entire

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sentence, and still fail." He sounds winded at the end of it, his chest rising and
falling in quicker breaths.

"Some balm will speed up--"

"No."

"They'll just think you heal--"

"Too quickly."

"We--"

"Fucking shit, Granger, I said drop it!"

"Fine! But I am not happy about it!" She glares at him until she sees past her own
anger enough to spot the red on his cheeks and neck, and hear the rasp and rattle of
louder, faster breaths. She bites her lip at the crash of guilt, but her voice is still too
sharp when she asks, "Where else are you hurt?"

His hand lifts to his stomach, but he seems to change his mind, his palm just
skimming the fabric before dropping back to his side. He lifts his nose, staring down
it at her. He doesn't even attempt to answer her.

"All right. Come on."

He doesn't seem willing to move, so she goes first, and his footsteps follow her.
Clunk, shuh, clunk, clunk, shuh. She pushes the bedroom door open wider, and
steps to the side for him to enter. He doesn't look at her, but he turns back towards
her when he reaches the center of the room.

"Do you need any help?"

"No."

"Anything?"

He looks then, his jaw clenching once before he flinches at the movement. "No,"
he answers, less harsh this time.

"Okay. We, uh… Do you have to go back tonight?"

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 "Yes."

She doesn't like that either. What do they do, torture those they think are their
own, then watch them suffer until they heal? God, she can't wait to end them. She
can't wait until they're all sitting in cells, and maybe she will walk through the lane
between them with her chin up, and she won't ever look back again.

"Sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to get ready. I have to contact the Ministry,
but I'll be here."

He nods once, not moving from the center of the room, and she nods back,
closing the door. She bends her head, letting out a shaky breath, and doesn't lock
the door.

6:04pm

"You look exhausted, Hermione. You should go home."

She shakes her head. "I told him I'd be here."

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "So?"

She scratches the back of her head, shifting under his stare. "So, I told him I
would be."

Harry stares at her, and despite how well she knows him, she can't read his
expression. Maybe because he hasn't made a decision on what he's analyzing yet.

"I'm not going to make him run around the house with injuries."

"I know that. I just told him I'd do something, so I'm going to do it."

"All right," Harry says quietly.

Hermione crosses her arms, watching the leaves of October blow in November's
wind outside the window. "It's my job to look after him."

"Yeah." Harry lifts his eyes from the table, and there's a knowing there that
makes her gaze fly back to the window.

"Let's go over how to keep the notes."

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 November 2; 5:13am

Hermione nods her chin at the vial rolling across the table, before it stops at the
splintered dent in the middle. Malfoy takes a step, reaching to pick it up. His fingers
could make it, but he takes another step instead of bending more, and she misses
whatever wince he might have made when she looks up at his face.

"We'll be staying at the house for awhile. The boat trip is unnecessary strain."
She just holds back on telling him that the injuries are as well, and only because
they aren't - no matter how much she doesn't like it.

He raises an eyebrow, uncorking the vial, and bends his head to smell the
contents. "The Ministry thought so?"

"I did. Now take the draught."

He smells it again - just to irritate her, she's sure - and then throws it back, his
throat bobbing over the swallow. His eyes are hooded when he lowers his head,
though the left is without much choice, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips.
There's a twist in her stomach that she releases a breath on, ignoring. Absolutely
ignoring.

"All right. Let's go to the bedroom-- Er, you'll go to…sleep, and we'll talk
tomorrow."

His tongue skims the bottom row of his teeth as he looks at her, which she's only
seen enough in his memories to know it's when he's thinking. He sets the vial back
onto the table, and it rolls for the dent as he walks towards her. He brushes against
her as he passes, and she thinks it's probably just in her head that he's closer than
he needs to be. Or his tiredness is making him walk crooked.

She moves to the table, positioning her chair so the back is to the wall. She looks
down the hall when Malfoy's footsteps stop, and moves her gaze from his back to his
eyes as he looks over his shoulder at her.

"You're not locking it." She wonders if he makes those statements because he's
giving her a reason for his staring, to prove that he knows how her mind is working
at that moment, or because he thinks so but wants to be sure without actually
asking.

"No."

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 "It took me being beaten and tortured for you to leave the door unlocked?" He
sounds vaguely amused, but she can't see it in his expression. "Do you feel like you
can take me now?"

"I can always take you, Malfoy."

He hums, and she glimpses a smirk before he turns into the room.

November 3; 7:52am

Vincent Crabbe had looked a lot like his father, if the man standing in front of her
now is any indication. His name hasn't been said, but Hermione saw it plainly since
she first entered the memory. She's curious if Crabbe ever found out what happened
to his son - if Malfoy or Goyle ever told him. She thinks if he does know, he can do a
lot more than physical damage to Malfoy now. Perhaps the worst sort of damage.

Crabbe grins, flicking and spinning his wand in extravagant movements, and
sending a jet of blue across the room. Hermione follows its path like one might a
Quidditch player speeding at the ground, horrified but too morbidly enthralled to
look away and hear about it later.

The spell hits Malfoy in the shoulder, and his hands tighten to white-knuckle the
chains rising from the cuffs around his wrists. His body shakes, muscles contracting
under bruised and dirty skin that shines with blood and sweat. His head is lowered,
and his hair is falling wet and limp over the path of her sight to his eyes, but she
imagines that they are screwed tightly shut.

Crabbe casts again, a spell she's never heard, and it whizzes past her, slamming
into Malfoy's chest. He bucks against the chains, and the tight line of his mouth
gives, pulling back over his teeth as he screams. His head whips up and falls back,
tendons and veins rising up in his neck as his body shakes.

Hermione spins away, panting for breath, and tries to pull herself out, but she
can't. Not until the memory is over, and whenisitgoingtoendnowendnow. She closes
her eyes, trembling, and there's a hard burn at the back of her eyes that brims liquid
across the clenched seam of her eyelids. Malfoy starts screaming again, and the
sound fills her up with a rattling coldness she can't shake, burning into her
memories.

November 4; 4:31pm

Hermione stirs her soup, glancing to Malfoy at the counter next to her as he
- 287 -
dumps the contents of a tin into a pot. The only difference in their choices is the
meatballs, but he'd been adamant enough about having them that he opted to make
it himself. Though he covered it with a lame insult about her cooking, to which she
reminded him of filling the house with smoke when he attempted rice.

She turns her head when he moves around her, and then shifts over half a step,
turning her head to where he moves to. He puts the pot on the burner next to hers,
bending to find the right temperature on the dial. His impatience always used to
crank it to high, until his distaste of burnt food moved him nearer to medium.

"What part of your body do you value the most?"

His spoon hovers over the pot, and his mouth turns up in a slow smile before he
stirs. She can feel the warmth radiating off him from this close, the house filled with
the warning chill of upcoming winter. She stares at his smile until it fades.

"My brain."

"Why?"

"You should know. I'm sure your answer is the same."

"Even if it is, the reasons can be different."

He frowns at her steaming soup, and raises a hand to twist his dial up more.
"Intelligence. And nothing would work without it." He moves to the cabinet next to
the stove, pulling out two bowls, and she decides to return the gesture by grabbing
two spoons. "Yours?"

"Well, I would say the heart."

He steps back when she moves to put a spoon in each bowl, but not enough for
her to avoid pushing against him to do so. He waits to speak until she's moved back.
"As in feelings?"

"Wow, Malfoy - could you even say that with more distaste?"

"I could try."

She breathes a laugh, shaking her head. "Yes, feelings. Gut instinct. The thing
that separates us from machines and mass murderers."

- 288 -
 "Bad, evil feelings are still feelings. And those aren't part of the heart, it's part of
the brain. Unless you're speaking of intangible things, like what they call the heart,
or a soul."

"It's not that intangible. You can put pieces of a soul into something - if it's
moveable and capable of action, or moving, it can very well be considered part of
the body. Love is moveable and moving--"

"Not by choice."

"Unspeakables have bottled love - real love, not ingredients that just imitate."

"Rumored to have."

She waves her hand. "It--"

"And that's love. It's not all feelings. So if that's your choice, it's the brain."

She taps her spoon on the side of the pot, knocking off the noodles sticking to it.
"It's not just… Things aren't just mechanical like that. It's not all about science, you
know. It all can't be explained by this mass and that. You value your brain only for
your intelligence and that it keeps you alive?"

"You don't?"

"What about feelings? If I were to agree that they're just part of the brain, but I'll
ask it since you believe so."

"They're messy."

"Yes, but they can also guide you in the right direction, ma--"

"Or the wrong one. Feelings are never good or evil, Granger - they combine for all
people. No one has felt love who hasn't felt hate, pride who hasn't felt envy."

She stirs her soup, bubbling now. "You would prefer that you didn't feel at all?"

He turns down his burner as his soup starts bubbling, stirring it quickly. "No."

Well, at least he doesn't want to become a machine, despite what it sometimes

seems like. "So you believe the soul is part of the brain as well? Who we are?"

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 "No. But who we are is part of the brain, the memories."

She nods, turning her burner off. "You don't think that part is important? Y--"

"You didn't give that answer either, Granger."

They stare at one another for four beats of her heart before she grabs the handle
of her pot, moving around him. "Do you think the soul is part of the body, or just
something that sort of--"

"I don't know."

"I can't decide either. If it is, it would have to detach by itself somehow."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, switching his burner off. "Detach by itself?"

"For…" She pushes the pot back on the counter. "Well, do you believe in an
afterlife?"

"In spirits and portraits."

"No, I mean…not just energy or mimicking life, but…some world beyond where
the dead live."

He shrugs, sitting down at the table, and she takes the seat across from him
before she can think about it. "I'll deal with it if I get there. I'm already handling two
lives, I'd rather not hassle myself with a third."

November 5; 12:10pm

Keep moving. Head up. The apothecary is just up here, you get everything for
Malfoy, Apparate home, then Apparate to Rome. Just people shopping. Getting
cauldrons, and robes, sweets, and Quidditch gear. Books there. Jewelry. Parchment,
quills, scroll ribbons. It's just a shopper. A child. A mother. A criminal. A recruit. A
Noble.

Hermione spins around, her hand curled around the end of her wand. The group
of boys behind her avert their eyes, changing their steps to walk around her, and
reveal a large, bearded man staring at her. Hermione stands still, her eyes not
leaving his as he draws nearer, and she pulls her wand halfway from the holster. His
hands are buried in his pockets, and he can be carrying anything. Wand, knife,
weapon, experimental potion that will shrivel lungs, curse the blood, boil--
- 290 -
 Hermione jerks forward at the collision to the back of her shoulder, and she
spins, shoving back against the mass as she draws her wand. The woman stumbles
away from her, shooting her a glare before continuing on her way. Hermione spins
back, trying to reach and feel along her robe, making sure nothing is there to sink
through the fabric. The man is closer now as her heart hammers, adrenaline rushing
with the frantic pace of her blood.

Wu-uh, huh, wu-hu-huh, heh, wuhhuhwuhhuhwuhu, her breath cutting off as the
man passes her close enough to brush arms, his head turned with hers to hold eye
contact. There's darkness in him, something foreboding and malicious, and it bursts
into her irises, dropping like a cold weight to the pit of her stomach. She turns to
face him as he walks by her, nails biting into her palm with the grip on her wand.

More footsteps behind her, getting nearer, and someone running toward her from
the left. A woman is winding through the people, walking in the opposite direction
as the group, and her eyes meet and hold the bearded man's before she looks at
Hermione.

Hermione moves to the side, and someone touches her shoulder. She whips
towards them, finding a man stepping around her, and then a group watching her,
coming closer, three people with their hoods pulled up. Snatchers, and her body
slamming into floorboards, and ivory and silver masks in green light. She turns her
head quickly, the woman getting closer, and all she can hear is the wind of her
breathing with the steady, hard and quick thrumming of her heart.

Hermione runs, cutting a path between the press of bodies, and shoves away the
hand reaching for her. She throws open the door of the nearest shop, glancing over
her shoulder at the mass of black robes and glinting eyes, and slams the door shut
behind her. She dodges around a display, running down an aisle of things she
doesn't see, through racks of clothes, another aisle, and to the back of the shop.

She turns, pressing her back to the wall, gasping for air that burns her throat.
Her hand shakes as she presses it to her side, still clutching her wand, and she
blinks, and blinks, and blinks back the fog of tears as she watches the aisle, waiting.

6:26pm

Hermione exits the loo, scratching the back of her head before clasping her hands
in front of her, behind her, then on her hips as Malfoy looks up at her. His eyes
flicker across her face, and he lowers the book, looking resigned to face whatever
terrible thing she's about to throw at him.

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 He waits, and she breaks before he does.

"I… You should take a bath," she says, and his eyebrows raise. "It's already filled,
and there's… It's steaming hot, which will be good for tense muscles. Also, I…"
Don't, do, don't, do. "I put some things in there that will help ease aches, but it won't
make you healed."

He'll still have the brunt of it, so it's not really healed. It's just some herbal and a
little magical help.

"You ran me a bath?" he asks, every word slow and rolled off the tongue.

"Yes. I figured you would be an idiot and not do it, or not use the muscle
relaxers"-and such-"if I just gave them to you." She crosses her arms as he shoots
her a glare, tapping his fingers on the table edge. "It's getting cold."

He looks at the door to the loo, back to her, and pushes his chair back before he
hesitates. Pushing his palm under the spine of the book, he bends his middle finger
over, then pushes the book shut with his thumb. He stands, the book dangling in his
grip as he crosses the kitchen.

She moves away from the door as he passes by her, the rich aromas from the bath
fading out into the dusty, faint mold smell of the house. Malfoy pauses in the
doorway, hand clenching the frame once before he steps back and looks at her.

"Thank you."

She grins. "You're welcome."

It had taken him long enough.

November 7; 3:51am

She springs forward when Malfoy stumbles through the doorway, reaching out to
grab him when he stops her with a look that flashes her hand back on instinct. His
hand rises to press to his left side, and he's slow to straighten, though his nose still
lifts into the air.

"Are you okay?" she asks, before she can decide if it's something she should keep
her mouth shut about.

"Fine," he answers, as she knew he would.

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 He looks paler than normal, and there's a strain in his expression and the set of
his body. His walk to the loo is stiffer than normal, no sway in his shoulders, and his
right arm is pressed to his side, the shoulder raised more.

"What's wrong?"

He keeps walking, and she reaches out to grab his arm. He jerks away from her
with a loud sound that drags and rumbles from his chest, and she snaps her hand
back to her shoulder.

"Fuck, Granger."

"Sorry, sorry," she mutters, moving around him. "What's--"

"Just--"

"Let me--"

"I want--"

"Let me see it! Is it--"

He tries to undo the first button of his robe, and when he can't seem to get it out
of the hole, he rips it right off. It skitters across the floor, and he moves to do the
same to the second when she shoves his hand away. She pauses after the button has
slipped through the slot, realizing who she happens to be undressing-unbuttoning.
Just unbuttoning. His hand is suspended in the air between them, fingers still poised
in destruction mode, and she moves faster with the third, fourth, his hand falling on
the fifth.

His exhale puffs against the top of her head before he takes a quick breath in, his
chest moving against the backs of her fingers. She finishes the buttons, and moves
to grab the edges of the robe at the top, standing on the tips of her shoes to push it
carefully over his shoulders. His head moves to the side of hers, dropping forward as
he revolves his left shoulder, trying to shrug the robe down.

His right arm is the one that's injured, judging by the way it's still unmoving at
his side, and she winces at the fact that it had been the one she grabbed. She pulls
the fabric slowly down his arms, and his exhale on her neck sends goosebumps
across her skin.

He moves his left arm up through the sleeve, and she waits, holding the robe still.
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She turns her head to judge his pain level, finding his face angled towards her as
she looks at his jaw, cheek, half of his mouth, too close. He shifts as he shakes his
arm free, and she lifts her eyes from his mouth as his gaze moves over her face
before meeting her own.

Her heart thumps in a spastic beat, and she fists the robe at his side, waiting for
him to look away, to step away. His lips are hovering at the corner of hers, and he
looks down at her mouth before she can even begin to decipher the look on his face.
He sways forward, just a little, just enough for her to notice at this proximity.

"No," she whispers, swallowing hard as his eyes fly back to hers. "We can't."

"We can't what?" he whispers back, his voice rough.

Her stomach folds in on itself before flipping over in that stupid way it sometimes
likes to do around him. Her breath stutters out, and she brings in a new one, taking
in as much air as she can handle in the hopes it'll clear her mind.

"I've decided."

She can see the bits of blue in his eyes this close, and the darker rim of grey
around the outside of his iris. She looks back at his mouth with no permission from
herself, and quickly looks back up, though he couldn't have missed it.

"You've thought about it."

Apparently, so has he. Or he is, at least, right now. Maybe before, too. "Thought
about what?"

His eyes are digging into hers like he's reading answers at the back of her skull,
but it's not until she drops the hold on his robe that he straightens up. She takes a
step back, her heartbeat still out of control and her cheeks burning. He seems to be
trying to decide the shade of red.

"I think it's broken. A new recruit went mad before the interrogation."

She nods, swallowing as he pulls the robe slowly down his right arm. "Let's find
the break."

3:02pm

Hermione presses her head deeper into her pillows, two fingers pressed to her
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lips as she stares at the ceiling.

November 8; 6:12pm

Malfoy stares at her as she enters Rome, leaning back against his chair, his
expression blank. She clears her throat, hoping the redness from the cold outside
covers up the heat in her ears and face.

"Where's Harry?"

Harry steps out from the hall, buttoning his Auror robes. "I'm very happy to see
you, Hermione."

She smiles. "Enjoyed your time with Malfoy that much?"

"I've been too tired to prove I have better comebacks."

Malfoy clicks his tongue. "Even fully rested, I've seen more wit in grass. Stick to
the staring thing, Potter."

Hermione holds back her laugh, but Harry still looks at her for the weird clicking
in her throat and near-snort. "What staring thing?" he asks.

"Nothing." She shakes her head, but he keeps looking at her. "You do this… You
have a very penetrating stare, Harry. It's not a bad thing. You just…do it a lot, like
now. Food? I brought food."

Harry flashes her a glare with no heat, drawing his wand. "I've got to get some
sleep. I have a meeting in a few hours."

"Why didn't you tell me? I would have come back earl--"

"So you could get less sleep? No." Harry gives her a quick hug, squeezing her to
him in warmth, before stepping back and nodding at Malfoy. "Malfoy."

"Potter."

She watches Harry leave, and then stares at the door until she's pulled back her
shoulders and lifted her chin. She clears her throat, swinging her eyes to Malfoy.
He's watching her closely as the awkwardness threatens her forced confidence, and
if her heart starts beating a little faster, she won't admit it.

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She holds up the bag. "Real food."

- 296 -
 15

November 9; 3:33pm

Hermione sucks in a breath, shooting up on the bed as she yanks her wand from
her pocket, aiming it at the door. It wavers, then her hand falls to the bed beside
her. Malfoy's expression doesn't change.

"Jesus!"

"Not quite."

She pushes her hair back with one hand, rubbing her eyes with the other, and
nearly stabs herself with her wand. Malfoy's shoulder is propped against the door
frame, the elbow of his left arm resting against his side as his thumbnail runs back
and forth over the tip of his index. He looks relaxed and bored, but there's
something else there.

Maybe the knowledge that she's about to hex him. Private territory. Private.
Territory.

"You cannot enter this room! It's a…"

She looks down after he does, and shakes her head when he looks back up
expectantly. "I'm not past the frame, Granger. I haven't entered the room."

"J-- S-- That doesn't matter! You're close enough, and that's after opening the
door! If you weren't such a spider, I--"

"A spider?"

"Yes! Long limbs, creeping all about, likely poisonous, and having a creepy,
dangerous vibe that woke me up!"

The corner of his mouth turns up before he fights it back, picking a thread off his
loose shirt. "Actually, I said your name."

"I don't remember hearing that, so it was more likely the creepy vibe! I told you
that I--"

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 "Your briefcase has been glowing for ten minutes."

"Ten--" She scrambles out of the bed. She had thought she brought her briefcase
in, but she must have been too exhausted to think properly - it could have been a
very big mistake. "Did you look at it?"

"My desire to open a magically glowing container was eclipsed by

self-preservation."

He moves to the side, and she slides by him, jogging down the hall. How long was
it before Malfoy decided to tell her? Or had he been watching her for the last ten
minutes? One mention of her name would have woken her - though she's surprised
the door opening hadn't done it - so had he let it go for nine minutes, or just been…
staring at her? She was getting too comfortable. No, she was barely comfortable,
she was just too tired. She wasn't waking up when she needed to. If it had been
someone else…

She pulls the paperweight out of her briefcase, reading the message in the swirl
of white. Potter's office. She blinks at it, then turns it in the light to see if some part
of the message is behind it or in smaller lettering. Nothing. She ends the spell,
running her thumb across the smooth surface.

"What is that?"

"It's--"

Crack! Loud and far too close. She shoves her hand in her pocket for the Portkey
as she grabs her briefcase, making to turn, when Malfoy grabs her arm and spins
her towards him. The door slams off the wall, and her hand tightens around the
Portkey box until the edges dig into palm, though she barely feels it. Adrenaline
pumps numbingly down her arms as she stares at Malfoy's chest, her eyes wide and
unblinking.

His hand loosens on her arm but doesn't fall away, and she slowly draws her
wand, holding her breath.

"Malfoy?"

Her exhale escapes her like a punch to the gut, and she makes to turn to face
Harry when Malfoy's death grip stops her. "Surprised, Potter?"

She hadn't realized that, too caught up in her relief to hear Harry's voice and not
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someone else. Why is he surprised?

"Yes. Yes, actually, just a bit." Harry's voice mutters a string of things she can't
make out before stopping abruptly. "Hermione?"

She looks up at Malfoy's throat, pushing her index and thumb along her wand for
even aim.

"Her-- Uh…you, uh… The smell of jasmine makes you feel peaceful because it's…a
good memory? Oh, your mum. Grandma? All right, you hate potatoes because they
look like the droppings of some obscure magical creature you probably know all
about."

It takes four attempts at turning around before Malfoy finally lets go of her arm.
Harry looks frazzled, his hair even messier than usual, and his robes crooked. He
studies her, and then drags his fingers through his hair, looking back up at Malfoy.

"I'm surprised because Malfoy was caught by Aurors cursing people in wizarding
Surrey three hours ago."

"What?"

"I haven't left, Potter, a--"

"We have Malfoy in an interrogation room." Harry pushes up his glasses, pinching
the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. "Asking him things like why he
buggered the Assignment by not caring if he got caught"-Hermione groans-"and
checking his mental stability. He hasn't talked since we brought up the Assignment,
except to ask when he can send out his last owl before he's put in a cell."

"Obliviate him," Malfoy says.

"We will," Harry says quietly, absently, giving Malfoy a hard look, his eyes
glittering. "Tell me something about Hermione."

She looks over at Malfoy before taking a step away, and he shoots her a glare.
She's almost positive he's Malfoy, but almost is not fully. "What makes you think I
know anything about Hermione?"

"Just tell me," Harry snaps.

She doubts anyone could mirror that exact expression of annoyance that Malfoy
- 299 -
does. "She doesn't like plucking or receiving flowers, because it's like sentencing
them to a slow death, and so has a heart attack whenever anyone happens to step on
one."

"I do not," she mutters, then adds at Harry's sharp look, "The first part was true."

"All of it," Malfoy mutters back.

Harry sighs heavily, putting his wand away. "Who would set you up?"

"You want the list?" Malfoy drawls.

"Yes."

"I don't think this would be a setup," Hermione says. "It's not Malfoy with the
Aurors right now. If they wanted it to be, they would have owled his location, or sent
him on a mission that would get him caught."

Harry nods. "And this person wanted to get caught. Middle of the day, busy area,
wizarding world, and they didn't even attempt escape."

Malfoy is looking at the floor, his jaw clenching as he thinks. Hermione crosses
her arms, meeting Harry's eyes. "They didn't say anything?"

"Nothing about the revival. Asked for his father a few times, threatened us, told
us his father was going to make us pay." Harry shrugs, and Malfoy looks up from the
top of his eyes, his face set in hard lines.

"They want to get to Lucius?" she suggests.

"They have someone in Azkaban," Malfoy says. "They could have done it without
having someone locked away, or having to plan or do a breakout."

"It's a mad person who saw the wanted poster and decided to do it? Maybe only
knew enough about Malfoy from when he was a kid to do the father bit. It's unlikely,
but a possibility."

"No." Malfoy raises his head. "It's the Nobles. They're putting someone in as me
to take the Ministry off me, giving me more freedom without all of the wizarding
world watching out for me. And to get another person inside Azkaban for whatever
reason they have, and who knows what else they're planning. Using me to do it was
an easy in for whatever plan they have."
- 300 -
 Harry shakes his head. "They wouldn't stay that way. The Polyjuice--"

"I told you, they have someone in Azkaban. I'd be put in high security - no access
to the facilities, never leaving my cell, food tray someone magics into my cell
without actually being there. The most I'd be seen is if someone looks through the
window, and that can be any blond man they see--"

"Showers and searches," Hermione interrupts.

"The revival's in," Malfoy answers. "Whatever guard escorts the fake me to
showers and does the cell searches, that's who they have. Especially the searches.
They'll keep the Polyjuice right in the cell."

"Why would someone offer to do that? Or agree to it? An escape adds years to the
sentence, and then cursing people…"

"They told him the revival will take over soon, and he'll be set free and rewarded.
You wouldn't for the benefit of your cause?"

She would. "We can wait until the Polyjuice wears off? Veritaserum?"

"He won't know anything beyond staying in character. The revival wouldn't risk
telling him the plan until he has to do it--"

"You didn't know anything about this?" Harry asks.

"No. But it makes the most sense for why it's happened."

Harry nods slowly. "We'll let this play out. Find out who the guard is, and keep an
eye on what the plan could be. See if it involves Lucius, or some massive plan to
overtake Azkaban and free the prisoners for the Dark."

"You better get your best Obliviators and memory planters," Hermione says. "One
slip…"

"I know." Harry looks at both of them for a long moment and then nods. "I'm
going to go take care of this. Hermione, I'll talk to you later."

She nods, watching him leave, and then focuses on Malfoy. He drags his eyes
from the door, and she raises her eyebrows. "Two Draco Malfoys. Will horrors never
cease?"

- 301 -
 "I wonder the same every time you open your mouth."

November 10; 11:44am

"Granger, what the hell are you doing in there?"

She had been wondering when his mumbling would get loud enough for her to
know what he's angry about or trying to figure out. "My… I'm getting dressed."

She takes the band out of her hair, twisting it again. Her shower had been
steaming hot, and it's an inferno in the loo, making her overheated and sweaty.

"I need the loo."

"Go outside or something." Honestly, it's not like it's difficult for men, or that
anyone is around to see it.

A pause, and then a squeak of floorboards. "You're not serious," he says, his voice
closer.

One more pin, and… Okay. Precarious, but okay. She glances her left eye in the
broken mirror, and grabs the towel she had used, wiping her face.

"Granger, just--"

"I'm in the middle of something," she huffs out, stepping into her trousers.

"For forty-five minutes?"

"It hasn't been that long."

"No, it's been forty-eight."

She rolls her eyes as she buttons her trousers, then reaches out to unlock the
door. She smooths a hand over her shirt, inspecting for wrinkles in the terrible,
orange lighting of the room, and then opens the door.

"Beige is back, I see." He scans her like she's dressed in an array of colors he's
forgotten the name of.

She smooths her shirt again, and then wrings her hands as his gaze settles at the
base of her throat. "You had to pee?"
- 302 -
 "No," he drawls, meeting her eyes as he steps back with his left foot to give her
enough space to slide out. "I'm in desperate need to look at myself."

She snorts, and he gives her a warning look before the door shuts behind him.

November 11; 5:34am

She takes her seat as Malfoy unbuttons his robe, pulling out a bottle of
firewhisky. She looks at it wearily as he sets it down on the table, then tosses his
robe to the back of his chair. He undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, then his
sleeves, folding them to his elbows.

Muscles and tendons flex and shift under pale skin, a dusting of golden hair. She
looks at the faded Dark Mark, as a part of his skin as the scars on his chest. Tokens
of war. His incites a different sort of anger, and unrelentingly, the sound of his
scream explodes across her mind.

Malfoy turns, walking to the counter, and pulls two glasses from the cabinet.

"We're not drinking," she tells him in the sternest voice she has.

He sets the glasses on the table in front of his chair, then takes a seat, opening
the bottle of firewhisky. "We're having a drink."

"Malfoy--"

"Perhaps it's just as important to celebrate the small victories as the end goal,
Granger."

Her eyebrows knit together as she watches him fill the glasses halfway. "This is to
celebrate?" He hums, pushing a glass towards her as a swell of excitement quickens
her heart. "You made commander?"

"I made commander."

His lips twitch before giving in to a smile as he spots her growing grin, and she
reaches out, taking the glass. "That is very good."

"Very."

"Of course, we can't be distracted by small victories, since it's the end goal that
matters."
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 "So do the small victories, or we never reach the end goal."

"But the end goal--"

"Granger." He raises his eyebrows when she looks up at him. "I was in Slytherin
House. My ambition only knows the end goal, but you don't keep the will to carry on
unless you know you're getting there. This isn't a distraction - we all know it's not
over until it's over. Now we're closer."

She nods, running her thumb down the side of the glass. He raises his halfway
across the table, and she lifts her own. "Good job, Malfoy," she says softly, before
clinking her glass off his.

November 14; 4:28am

Hermione taps the end of her quill against the parchment, and then looks up at
Malfoy as he takes a gulp of water. "Mind control."

He swallows, setting the glass back down. "Basically. It's the Imperius in liquid
form, except ideas last. After extended use, there would hardly be a thought the
person had that didn't come from the ones planted there."

"As if fear wasn't bad enough."

"It's not good enough. How do you get a powerful wizard on the Light to join the
Dark? There is no way. How do you stop people from forming pockets of resistance,
or a group bent on revolution? You don't. But you slip a potion into the food supply,
and every night you broadcast on the Wireless and Muggle televisions, through
speakers in the streets. A message you want them to believe, thoughts you want
them to have, actions they should do…"

"Brainwashing. No resistance."

"Exactly."

"That's terrifying."

Malfoy looks at her intensely, then sits back in his chair. "They haven't found out
how to make it work yet. But the researchers they have are all Potion Masters, and if
it's a possibility, they'll figure it out."

She breathes out shakily, underlining the section on her parchment. "I need you
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to try and figure out what ingredients they're using. The ones we got before looked
like Polyjuice, Veritaserum, and a mix of things where the possibilities are still too
numerous. So--"

"They are working to extend the length of time Polyjuice holds. I don't know of
anything else, but I'm sure there's more."

She nods, writing down his comment about the Polyjuice. "See what you can find
out." She draws a line, then marks a new section on the parchment. "Did you find
anything else?"

"Dark objects. I don't know what they are or what they do, but they're planning to
set them up in public places. Well-hidden - parts of lampposts, rubbish bins,
shopfronts - and that they'll put into use when they need to. They might have
already started doing it."

She rubs the headache at the center of her forehead. "You don't know where?"

"Not yet."

"Part of an ultimate plan?"

"Obviously, but I don't know what that is."

Hermione makes a note on her parchment, feeling a thrum in her blood. A need
to break down every door she knows belongs to the revival and bring them down
tonight, now, this second. She feels that they were being setup on a giant
chessboard, and while they were sleeping, the Dark was busy placing themselves in
all the right positions to bring the Light down in short order. It's helpful to know
what pieces are on the board, but without knowing where they'll be moving to or
where they're starting from, it's near useless.

"They won't reveal that right away," she says lowly. "But try to find out more
locations. Where the Nobles stay, how they get around, where they frequent, what
connections they have that are helping them. That's what's going to destroy
everything they have planned, and more quickly than going at it one by one."

Malfoy turns his glass in slow rotations on the table. The water threatens to spill
over the side each time, but it never does. "What is it you plan to do, Granger?
Storm through the gates and arrest them all? They are eight Nobles, eighteen
commanders, and over two hundred recruits, and it's growing every day. How many
Aurors and Hit Wizards are in the Ministry?"
- 305 -
 "Numbers don't matter. It's heart, and skill, and the willingness to fight no matter
what you blow the door down to reveal. It's how we won the war."

"There's no guarantee of a winning method in war. What works in one battle will
fail in another." The cup stops spinning. "You're better off locking the doors and
setting their headquarters on fire, and concentrating on the other posts."

"No." He raises an eyebrow, and she shakes her head. "It's our value and respect
of human life that makes us fight to begin with. I can sacrifice a lot, Malfoy. I can
sacrifice my life. But I won't ever sacrifice what I believe in. None of us will. Or," she
says, holding up her hand, "not most of us."

There's a strange expression on Malfoy's face as he studies her, and it makes her
more uncomfortable than the looks she sometimes spots him giving her from the
corner of her eye. "You're all light, and goodness, and naivety and truth sometimes.
It almost makes me forget how screwed up the war made you."

She bristles. "The war did not make me screwed up."

He smirks. "There goes truth." He sits up straighter in his chair when she
continues to glare at him. "Relax, Granger. The war screwed up everyone. There's
no shame in that."

The prickling behind her eyes is not the reaction she expects to have, and she
looks down, swallowing against the knot in her throat. Shame. To have been so
brave, then so afraid of every day. To have fought so hard, then not appreciated the
result like she should. To not be able to fix herself. To be the reminder.

"I know." Her voice comes out tight.

"No, you don't."

"Neither do you," she says, looking up at him.

There's a tense pause, a pulse of knowing in the air that they're both not
comfortable with. Then he spins the cup again, and they look away.

November 15; 5:16pm

Hermione jumps, summoning her briefcase to her, and misses catching it when
Malfoy casts a spell at her face. Her briefcase smacks off the cabinets before
landing on the counter, a cool tingle of magic covering her skin as a short, plump
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man enters the kitchen staring at her. Hermione holds her breath, fighting against
all instinct to whip out the wand in her pocket, and hoping the spell Malfoy cast
changed her face. She recognizes the man from Malfoy's memories, and remembers
that no matter how badly he was torturing a person, it was always as nonchalant as
reading a book to him.

The man grins, baring white, small and even teeth, and looks over at Malfoy.
Hermione slowly pushes the Portkey box into her pocket, and tightens her grip on
her wand - she'll be playing this off, or fighting her way out of it. Malfoy looks calm
to the point of boredom, and he steps forward, almost blocking her view with his
back.

"What are you doing here, Green?" If that's Malfoy's greeting, then his spell must
have worked enough for him to hope she isn't recognized, at least.

"I didn't know you had a guest."

"There are times when you have certain uses for them," Malfoy drawls, and the
coldness in his tone adds to the weight in her gut.

"Indeed." Green steps forward, the candlelight and fading sun through the
window shining off his short, perfectly combed hair that is either wet or using too
much product. "Though the cleanup is messy. You are a commander now, Malfoy.
You don't have to bother finding them yourself."

Green looks back to her, and she widens her eyes to ease her malicious look. It's
better to look terrified than murderous if she's just a Muggle girl, and if he gets
suspicious, she doesn't know how hard he'll have to look to recognize her.

"Obliviation suffices," Malfoy says, and Green hums as his eyes roam down her
body. Hermione trembles with the urge to move, hex him blind, curse him, and then
scrub her body clean.

Scared Muggle, scared Muggle. She'll leave. A Muggle would be frightened - a

man suddenly appearing in the hallway, a conversation with terms she doesn't
understand, the leer on Green's face.

"Killing her could be problematic," Green murmurs. "Drawing attention."

Hermione's heart thumps as she takes two sidesteps towards the door. Malfoy's
hand snaps out, grabbing her arm far quicker than she would have expected from
him, and he yanks her towards him. She swings an accusing glare to him, but his
- 307 -
expression doesn't change.

"Seems we scared her," Green says, amused. "Always more fun that way, isn't it?"

"I prefer a slower build-up." His hand squeezes harder as she pulls back again,
and a warning look flashes before his calm exterior is firmly back in place.

"Watch the fear unravel. Lamur does the same, if I recall--"

Hermione tears her arm from his grip, leaving streaks of heat across her skin, but
she only makes it a step before he's dragging her back again. She digs her heels in,
letting go of her wand in her pocket to shove a hand into his chest, trying to
communicate for him to let her go through eye contact. It's apparent that Green
wants to join in on whatever sick thing Malfoy would have planned for her, and she
is not playing that out. A Muggle would run - the lie will still work.

Malfoy's jaw tightens, and he grabs her other arm, pulling her toward him as he
turns. He shoves her, her back banging into a wall as his calmness falters and his
eyes dig into hers. She lets her hostility show then, ramming the heel of her palm
into his chest, but his hold doesn't let up.

"Why are you here, Green?"

"We're being called. Ten minutes."

Hermione grits her teeth as she yanks to the side, and Malfoy lets go of one arm
to grab her shoulder, turning her around in a shove-pull. She sucks in a breath, fear
coiling around her heart as it skips a beat, flutters, and then pounds. She does not
want her back to Green, and-- Malfoy's chest presses against her, the cradle of his
hips, an arm wrapping around her stomach. She slams her palms into the wall,
shoving back as she gasps in a breath, trappedtrapped between the wall and the
strength wrapping around her. His body is heat and hard plains, shifting muscles
and tendons, and quickened breathing at her temple.

His hand presses against her stomach, right above the hard, cold knot of emotion,
and then moves back and forth in quick movements she doesn't know the meaning
for. His hand moves, his hips pulling back, and she chokes out sound at the clink of
his belt as his hand brushes the top of her bum. His other hand pulses on her arm
before he's pressing harder into her as she slams back to dislodge him. She shuts
her eyes, her heart hammering so hard that her vision is blurry, and she tries to
breathe. He won't do anything. She knows he won't do anything. If she doubted that,
she would have punched, kicked, elbowed her way out, and if she failed, she had her
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wand.

His breath moves from her temple, and he shifts against her body. "This isn't a
free show, Green, and I don't have all day. I'll be there in ten minutes." He sounds a
little breathless and rough.

His hand wraps around her hip, but it's gentle, soft, barely there. All she can hear
in the kitchen is the sound of her and Malfoy's breathing. Three, five, seven, and
then Apparition. There's a tense pause in which neither of them move, and then she
lets out a shaky breath, pushing back.

"Sh," he whispers into her hair, and she might have thought it was just a breath if
he didn't push her back again.

She slows her breathing, listening for anything. There's no crack of Apparition for
as far as she can hear outside. She stays still, waiting for the creak of a door or a
squeaking floorboard, but neither comes. Malfoy's hands pull slowly from her arm
and hip before he steps back, and she turns in a jumble as he steps back again. She
presses her back to the wall, staring back at him and the careful, intense look on his
face, as if he's entered a duel and is waiting for her to cast.

"Don't ever do that to me again."

"I had no choice. He would have wanted to follow you if you took off, and it was
the only thing I could do to get him to leave without raising suspicion."

"You could have just told him to leave!"

"Perhaps, if you hadn't started trying to run out the door," he growls at her.

"Because a scared Muggle is just going to stand there!"

"Fine, Granger, next time I'll just Obliviate you and send you into the woods - is
that preferable?"

"There's not going to be a next time! There shouldn't have even been a this time!
I told you to tell them that if they come for a visit, to Apparate outside of the house!"

"There's no way to bring that up in a nonchalant manner, Granger--"

"So you didn't even tell them!"

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 "I just made commander--"

"Then act angry that they aren't respecting your privacy now, and tell them to do
it!"

"I planned to!"

"Good!" She takes a deep breath, glaring at him. "And don't ever put my back to
an enemy again. You're--"

"I had you completely covered. He wouldn't have been able to curse you without
hitting me instead."

"Just don't. Do it."

They glare at one another before she walks stiffly to the loo.

November 16; 2:20pm

What are you doing, she asks, as his hands smooth up her arms, to her hands,
threading fingers against the wall.

What do you think I'm doing, Granger, he asks against the skin of her neck, and
then kisses her there, her ear, her cheek, rocking his hips against her bum.

November 17; 4:18am

Malfoy scrutinizes the parchment in front of him, and then draws a large room, a
line in the center. Small boxes are drawn along the sides of the room, and then a
circle exactly center. He writes DR in the top of the square.

"Mark that four-cee when you're done."

"Four-cee?" He glances up at her parchment. "Why don't you just put the
address?"

"Because that's not how I do things." How had they got from the place where she
would just have to glare at him before he eventually did what she said?

"Isn't it easier?"

"No. The section tells me the address, the people, and more information about the
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house."

"You can't put that on the floor plan?" He sounds incredulous, or amused, or
something that attempts and fails at making her feel like an idiot.

"No."

"You complicate things, Granger."

She looks up from her file, lifting her quill. "No, I don't."

"You overthink it, then take the more difficult way because the insignificant or
unrealistic reasons for doing so are more numerous than the significant reasons for
why you should do it simply."

"That's a lie. I think logically. My decisions are logical." Usually.

"It's logical in the way you want to see it, and you ignore how it's logical in the
opposite way. There's no logical reason why you shouldn't put the main information
on the floor plan, with the reference number in the off-chance you'll need to look up
more later."

She shrugs. "Why repeat the information?"

"Why waste your time not doing it, when it could all be right there for you to
take?"

She looks at him for two breaths, and then flips another parchment in her folder.
"It's how I've always done it. It works best for me."

"You can't know if it works best since you haven't done it the other way. There's
nothing wrong with change when it's for the better."

"It might not be for the better."

He shrugs a shoulder, holding eye contact as he marks something on the floor

plan and then pushes it towards her. "Or it is."

9:20am

Hermione gingerly picks up the envelope, Malfoy's tight, looping scrawl across
the front.
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 Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione turns it to see the wax seal at the back, and despite the adamant need
to break it, she turns it back over again. Malfoy must have slipped it into her
briefcase while she had been in the loo or something.

She runs a finger over the edge of the paper, feeling the fragile, sharp line of
trust or desperation. She sets it down in the briefcase, and then leans back in her
chair, staring, and staring, and staring.

November 19; 4:36pm

Hermione picks up a bottle of shampoo and a package of razors, then pushes

aside toilet paper to reveal several cans of soup.

"Ministry drop-off?"

"Yeah." She places the items back inside. "There's more of your meatball soup in
here."

She looks over at Malfoy, white hair, pale skin, white shirt as tiny snowflakes
flurry down around him. The snow isn't sticking to anything enough to even leave a
dusting of white, but everything is cold and wet. She grins, a comment about Jack
Frost sailing through her mind before she decides he wouldn't get the reference.
She pulls her mittens back up her hands when a tiny snowflake lands on the heel of
her palm, but it's just something to distract her from Malfoy's proximity when he
bends down next to her.

"There's none of that Weasley shit in here, is there?"

She rolls her eyes as he reaches into the box, his arm sliding against hers. She
can feel his warmth through her jumper, the fabric pulling up on her skin when he
pulls a jar of something from the box.

"Harry put those in last time because he thought they might be useful. It's not his
or the Weasleys fault that you immediately tossed it into the rubbish bin and
activated it."

He smells like soap, and it's the only thing in the air around her with a scent.
She's sure there's something there from her shampoo, or the ink on her fingers, or
her perfume, but she can't go beyond that bitter-clean. It means he's far too close,
but when her shoes start to slide back in the mud, she steps right into the spot she
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was, her shoulder bumping his.

He looks over at her at the soft impact, and yes, far too close with the pink at the
tip of his nose from the cold, which only leads her to the pink of his mouth in a
subconscious game of match the color. Because she wouldn't normally look there,
not for any purpose she would actively, admittedly think about. So she darts her
gaze back up to the specks of icy coloring in his eyes, finding that he isn't meeting
hers but looking down now too.

She launches upright, clearing her throat as his eyes track her, and yanks down
on her knitted hat in an attempt to hide the heat she can feel in her ears. A little too
far though as it covers most her eyes, and her damp gloves press wetly to her skin
as she pushes the hat back up again, heating up more.

"Well," she says, turning when he stands fully, "you get the--"

Her heart stutters and then slams when he grabs her wrist, before setting a
rhythm that knows despite the refusal of her mind. Her shoes slip in the mud as he
slides her back, stepping toward her, his eyes on her mouth again. His hand is dry
and warmer than her frozen cheek, his fingertips curling behind her ear as he pulls
her forward and bends his head. His lips are cold, dry, and just as soft as she has
imagined they would be. She pulls back, eyes wide on his, and she's not sure if it's
determination or anger in his expression when he pulls her forward again. Softer
now, as if the demand had been what she pulled away from at all, and his fingertips
dig into the bones of her wrist despite the way he's barely grasping her ear.

Four, five slams of her heart before she shuts her eyes, squeezing them shit. Her
lips open under his, and their mouths warm as her stomach flips, knots. No, no, as
her lips close over his and her hands clench into the t-shirt at his hips. The kiss is
slow, exploratory, but it's his hands that match the rush of her blood, that makes her
want to kiss him fasterharderdeeper. They move over her hat, into her hair, her
cheeks, the side of her neck, along her shoulders.

He kisses her deeper, slow drags and little sucks, and something in her chest
starts shaking as his hands tighten over her shoulders. She presses a hand into him,
and then pushes harder, but he still doesn't move. It's her that turns her head away,
his exhale hot on her cheek and down to her neck, creating goosebumps along her
skin.

Oh, God.

She tries to think, but all she can think about is the tingling of her lips, and his
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heat radiating, and the weight of the hands still on her shoulders. Her chest hurts,
and her blood feels jumbled, like it doesn't know what direction to race in. Then she
feels the different pulse under her palm, the one that doesn't match the rhythm at
the base of her throat, and in her ribs, and fogging her eardrums. But it's fast too,
fast and hard, pounding out from his chest.

She needs to get away from him. Just for a little while, just long enough to calm
herself down, to get her thoughts in order, to remind herself why she should be
moving away from him a lot quicker than this. Why she should not be remembering
the feel of his mouth against hers, scrutinizing it, until she's sure she'll have it
memorized by the end of the day. Because this is wrong. This is the thing she told
herself, absolutely, that she would not do. No matter how close he got, or how hard
he might try, or how much she might catch herself thinking about it when she didn't
force something else into her mind.

But she had just reacted, letting him and returning it, because he was suddenly
there and there was no pulling away. There was only a giving in, a crumbling in her
chest that must have been the stone of her resolve before she could shove it back
together again. Because she wants to. She knows she should shove him away, and
sometimes, when she's weak in the grasp of her self-control, she wants to follow
after him when she does.

"Okay," she says, and it comes out more breath than voice.

She steps to the side, their hands slipping off one another. She presses her left to
the flurry in her stomach, swearing she can still feel his heartbeat against her skin,
less strong but ingrained now. She aims her wand at the box, levitating it, and it
wobbles in the air, items shaking together.

"I'll, uh…bring this in…then." The entire box almost tips when she has to swing it
around quickly to avoid hitting him. He's still standing there, his fingers curling into
his palms, but she doesn't look up to see his expression before turning back around
for the house. "Okay."

November 21; 4:06am

Hermione steps aside as Malfoy walks into the cell. It's cold enough on level eight
that she's a little surprised her exhales aren't turning to vapor, and her eyes settle
on the thin blanket on his cot. She clears her throat, her ears heating up.

Neither one of them have acknowledged what happened. While she had walked
into the house intent on telling him exactly…part of what she thought about it, she
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had ended up not saying anything at all. That moment in the snow almost feels like a
dream she might have had, and it's been easier to accept her…acceptance because
of it. But as much as she prefers to ignore it ever happened while constantly
remembering that it had, she has to say something now. She'd rather take this head
on than have him think wrong.

"This isn't… You're healed enough for the boat trip now, and the Aurors decided it
was better to go back to this again. It wasn't my choice, or…due to…anything
specific."

He stares at her. She doesn't even see him blink, unless they all happened to be
exactly in time with hers. This isn't a punishment. It's not because I don't trust you
or myself. Sort of myself. But that's not something she can say.

She moves stiffly to set the lantern down inside the cell, and feels like there's a
lot of things she should be doing or saying without knowing what those are. He's
still standing and unmoving when she straightens up, and she has trouble meeting
his eyes.

"Good night, Malfoy," she says, and tightens her jaw as she shuts the door.

November 23; 2:13pm

Pruit tilts his head to the side, his eyes widening as he flips another page.
"Impeccable."

"Yeah, I mean - his record is spotless, but if he's the sort to side with the revival,
it must be because he's good at covering his tracks."

"He could have been targeted for that, then put under Imperius."

"Or threatened." Harry shrugs. "If he's under Imperius, they would have more
who are."

"Still a possibility," Leacher says.

"As far as we know, the guard hasn't had any interaction with Lucius Malfoy, but
he's at least done searches on Nott and the fake Draco Malfoy." Pruit closes the
folder. "Should we block him? Reassign him to a different level?"

"It could make the revival act too soon," Hermione says. "In order to take
advantage before his transfer, or try and salvage a plan."
- 315 -
 "And we still might find out what they're doing if we wait and watch a little
longer."

"How's Bells with the ingredients and Dark objects locations?" Kingsley asks,
looking at her over a scroll he's unrolling.

"Nothing yet."

"Push him to try harder. He's--"

"He is trying--"

"He needs to do," Leacher says. "We all know what will happen if we don't get
ahead of them."

"He's doing what he can without blowing the Assignment. It's a process."

"One he needs to speed up." Pruit leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "He
needs to get the information and then Obliviate. And we all know that some of them
keep memories out of their head and in Pensieves in case they get caught--"

Hermione shakes her head. "With the Pensieves hidden and guarded. And it's
possible they have Scanners out for certain spells, especially ones like Obliviation.
They most likely check for foul play, meaning he would have to implant memories on
top of Obvliation, and good ones, too. This isn't a simple task - it needs to be the
right time, the right place, the right person, and the right method, and even then,
it's still extremely risky. He's not going to be sloppy and blow his cover, but he'll get
it."

"All right," Harry says, pushing folders towards the side of the long table. "Let's
see the floor plans."

"Which ones?" She unbuckles her briefcase, reaching into the top compartment.

"All of them."

"Locations and people are listed on the back," she tells them, spreading the
parchments out along the table.

November 24; 9:17pm

He's immaculate, and it makes him appear as cold as the winter freezing up the
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world outside the window he's staring out from. Fog and frosted ice on the glass
blur the image of light snow and barren trees, but she can still make the reflection
of his face pretty well.

"Winter always lasts so long. Spring and summer go by like they were only there
for a few weeks, and winter feels like it's there for a year."

It's like sadness, and the brief glimpses of happiness that stay with us and that we
look forward to, but are so quick to leave. It's freer in the warmth and light, but
even when the winter is bright, it's still freezing, stark, and littered with the dead or
dying.

She thinks to say that too, but he might be thinking about it already. He seems to
always keep up with her thoughts. Or just think they're ridiculous.

"People who prefer winter feel the opposite."

Her gaze refocuses from the shadows of trees and to his eyes, near lost in the
frost beyond the black of his pupils. "Do you?"

"No, it lasts too long."

"You look like you belong in winter. All white and grey." Solid like the trees, but
lacking fullness. He can be cold, and sometimes brutal, and the weak had a habit of
bowing down, while the strong stood resolutely against.

"Where you look like you belong, or think you might, isn't always where you do."

She hums lowly, and wonders again what he's thinking about. She raises her chin,
running her hands down the front of her clothes as she remembers what he told her
a half hour ago. "So I don't really belong in a library just because I look like this,
right?"

She thinks his eyes might move to hers in the reflection, and that the patch of
pink might curve into a smirk.

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 16

November 25; 5:22am

Hermione shoves the bag against his chest, squishing it between him and her
hands until he reaches up to grab it. He looks like she just handed him a puzzle and
gave him a minute to solve it. She clears her throat, holding the lantern out as she
avoids his eyes, pushing back loose tendrils of hair from her face. His hand comes
up slowly, two fingers hooking around the metal loop of the lantern before she pulls
her own away.

"What's in the bag, Granger?"

He must have guessed. She didn't really have much reason to hand him a big bag
of clothes or stuffed animals, and there were only so many things that squished that
much. "Things. Good--"

The bag drops as his hand snaps out, catching the door before it slides shut. He
stares at her, and she stares back wide-eyed, swaying when he steps forward.

"Just things." A thick blanket, shoes, and another, better pillow. Unless he liked
the hard, thin pillows that were more like resting your head on a-

His fingers curl behind one of her ears, and the lantern light swings as he bends
his head to press his mouth to hers. His lips are warm and soft, but there's nothing
light in the way he kisses her, as if he's very sure that it's what he should be doing at
that moment. And there should be nothing about this that he's sure about.

Well, maybe a few things. Maybe some things like if his heart is pounding as hard
as hers, he can be sure about that. And if he's clenching his free hand as tightly as
she is hers, the metal of the lantern might be digging into his palm as much as the
key is into hers. He's also probably sure about the way her breath stutters in, and
maybe the fuller feel of her mouth when she opens her lips under his, claims his
bottom lip, presses back.

She sways back, her hand raising towards his chest as she pulls in a breath, but it
meets air as he steps back. She meets his eyes for three quick heartbeats before he
slants to the side and the cell door shuts. She gapes at the door, his face still at the
front of her mind with an expression she can't understand. But she knows the tingle
of emotion that starts taking over the surprise.

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 "You- Don't just close the door!"

She can't see anything through the window except for the barely lit edge of the
bed and a strip of floor, and she wonders where he's standing. Maybe that's why he
shut the door, so she couldn't see him. Or maybe because he knew what was
coming, and wanted to put a barrier between them.

"I told you not to do that! I told you that I decided, and that it was not to be done!
For very obvious reasons! For reasons so obvious that you're an idiot for not
knowing they are valid enough to not do it!"

She's too loud, and it's the only thing that stops her from continuing to yell at
him. It doesn't matter that she's attracted to him. It doesn't matter that she's
somehow grown attached to the sound of him, because that's what prolonged
exposure to anything does to a person. It doesn't matter if she doesn't have to be the
reminder of war with him, because they're both afraid of the sounds in the dark. It
doesn't matter that she likes the look of his smile and his scowl, arguing with him,
the way he infuriates her, and a hundred other things. Or that she's found him to be
so much more than she had ever thought he was. None of it matters.

There were lines, and- "Lines! Crossing them, like an idiot!"

She moves back for the tunnel, digging for the matches in her pocket as she
glares at the floor, when a banging starts from behind her. The matches smack into
the floor as she grabs the end of her wand, spinning back to look at the cell door.
Malfoy is glaring at her through the window, and she glares back, despite the
warmth growing in her cheeks.

She half-turns to walk away again, but she knows he'd never let it go if she did so.
She frowns at the door while walking back, preparing herself for the argument as
she turns the key around in her fingers. She glances long enough to know he's still
glaring at her when she pushes the key into the lock, twisting it. She braces her feet
as she pulls the key out, opening the door a few inches, just enough to hear him
through. Malfoy, apparently, finds the space insufficient, because his hand moves
through the gap and shoves against the door.

It flies toward the wall, but he's kissing her before it even slams, a palm cradling
the back of her head to keep her there. She pulls back, but he follows her, and then
she's pressing into him, and his arm is around her waist, and his tongue is meeting
hers for the first time. Something inside her clenches and flips, a tingle of sensation
moving through her mouth, and her heartbeat in her ears.

- 319 -
 Her fingers clench his shirt, and he pulls her closer, her feet clumsy over his. Her
chest presses against his, and he feels bigger, stronger, more than he's ever looked
to her. His arm flexes around her, shirt pulling up from her skin in his fist, and the
heat of his body sinking through her clothes. His tongue rubs against hers in the
retreat, and then their mouths are dragging, sucking, tugging before he moves to
exhale hotly along her cheek.

She huffs for air, keeping her eyes shut for just awhile longer, and concentrates
on each point of contact. On the loosening and clenching of his fist that moves the
muscles and tendons of his arm around her, the quick rise-falls of his chest, and the
scruff on his face on her cheek as his breath moves to her jaw, neck, shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, breathless, and wonders if he managed to
find the words in it.

"I don't know," he says, and he's breathless too.

She expects a clean escape, but he moves in fractions - releasing her shirt, sliding
his hand along her back, stubble scratching up to her temple, a sway forward before
a rock back. She drops her hands away from him, watching his feet retreat three
steps and back into the cell before she lifts her chin to face him.

"But if I'm an idiot, we both are." He looks at her, maybe waiting for it to sink in,
but she already knows that. She knew it the first time he kissed her and she didn't
push him away. Really, she knew the first time she thought about kissing him, but
she hadn't known he was an idiot then too.

"Good night, Granger."

The door shuts with a click this time.

November 25; 9:17pm

Ding…di-ing…ding…

Hermione shifts on the bench, folding her hands on her lap, and looks out at the
fog. Neither of them has said anything since she opened the cell, her heart jumping
around like it was preparing for him to kiss her again. It had happened twice now,
and she learned from the first that it wasn't something she could ignore. She might
be able to carry on fairly normal, but it's always there, constantly somewhere
replaying itself in her mind. Which means she thinks far too much about it, and
there's only very bad things that she considers worse than herself acting like an
- 320 -
idiot.

Being attracted to Malfoy, having…being drawn to him over the past few months
is not necessarily bad. Acting on it is a different matter.

"Malfoy--"

"I'm going to suggest having a drink with a few of the commanders that are closer
to the Nobles. If anyone outside of the Nobles know where the Dark objects are, it's
them."

"Okay."

"I don't know if they'll prefer it at Rome." She thinks that might be the first time
she's heard him call it that. "We'll Apparate outside, but it's a possibility."

All right. Business, then. This is good.

"You have recruit interrogations tonight?"

There's a rustle of fabric, like he might have shook his head, but she can hardly
see tonight. "Training, then a commander meaning."

"So if you come back for drinks, it should be…no earlier than midnight." She
doesn't know why she's bothering to check. She'll be even more on edge for the
entire night, from the second he leaves.

"No earlier."

She nods, looking back out into the fog.

November 26; 3:39am

"…and those in London, but that's the only one they mentioned specifically. They
didn't give exact locations."

"Nowhere Muggle?"

Malfoy shook his head, his gaze unnervingly on her as she concentrated on the
shapes her quill point made. "Not yet. They'll want to secure the wizarding world
before they start on the Muggle one."

- 321 -
 She was going to make sure neither one happened. "What about the sort of
magical devices?"

She looks up as the wind throws the rain harder into the window, her hand falling
to her wand until she's sure it's just the rain. She had been hoping it would ease up
before they made the trip back to Azkaban, but it didn't look like it had any plans to.
She was almost done with the interview, and staying wasn't an option.

Malfoy shrugs a shoulder. "They weren't specific. There's at least two that start a
fire, one that burns skin, one that Stuns, another that causes some sort of excessive
bleeding - they didn't say how. I expressed interest in putting some in place."

That's the only good news she's heard since they started tonight. "Good." She
finishes writing, and looks up at the window again before glancing at him. "That's all
for tonight, then."

He doesn't stand to signal he's ready to go, and just keeps watching her, waiting
for her to make the decision. She knows the weather is prime conditions for
hypothermia, but there's no guarantee it'll improve in an hour. But she's pretty sure
there's a guarantee the awkwardness in the room will remain the same.

"We'll wait a half hour to see if the storm eases. Do you have anything to read? I
have three books here, so you can start on one and take it back with you. I've
already finished this one yesterday, so see-- It's about the development of spells
throughout the centuries, and theories on how they could have turned out
differently if-- Not that I always like theories, but some of them are really
interesting. Especially… Well, you'll read it. If you want. You should."

Hermione waved the book at him across the table, her gaze focused on the cover
of one in her briefcase. It wasn't until her arm was straining to keep it held up and
out before the book finally slid from her grip.

November 27; 2:06am

His bicep tightens under her fingers, and she runs the point of her wand slowly
over the shallow cut. He's still scowling, but she doesn't know if it's because
multiple recruits cast at him at once and he didn't block it all, or because they cast
the spells so poorly.

"If they cast them properly, you would be a lot worse off right now. It's a good
thing you're a terrible teacher." She clears the blood from his arm, and keeps his
warmth in her fingertips when she pulls away. "Do you want cold water or tea for
- 322 -
your throat?"

"If I wanted to teach them to use Dark magic correctly, they would be. Even if
they are like Longbottom in Potions, or Weasley at a dining table."

She rolls her eyes, choosing the tea, and fills the kettle enough for two cups.
"Insulting two of my friends in one breath."

"I'm rusty."

"And a prat."

"I'm honest, and that makes me a prat. If I lie, I'm a liar and still a prat."

"Which means I always win," she says, pulling two cups from the cabinet.
"Actually, no - I'm around you constantly, so it really means I'm always miserable."

"Clearly," he drawls. "Which means I always win."

November 28; 12:01pm

"Fish and chips." Hermione takes the menu from Harry's hand, taps the pile
against the table to straighten them, and hands it to the waitress.

"Oh, branching out," Ron says. "You're getting daring, Hermione. Maybe next
week you'll try the-- Ow."

"Oh, sorry, was that your arm?"

He shoots her a look, his spoon clinking noisily off the sides of his cup as he stirs
his coffee. "We've got a lot of new products to test, you know."

She narrows her eyes at him, and Neville leans to the side as he starts inspecting
Ron's person.

"Are you going back to your office after?" Harry asks, and she looks over to find
him looking back at her.

She nods. "They are some interviews I have to read through and organize."

Work as usual. Despite two…certain incidents, the Assignment hasn't been

thrown off at all, and things are continuing on as normal. She hadn't thought they
- 323 -
would be able to, because anything like that between the two of them is not normal.
But maybe in this situation they both know what's truly important right now, and
can concentrate on that despite any distractions. Those things haven't really
interfered at all, and it isn't like they did them while they were supposed to be doing
something else. The Assignment comes first. As long as the Assignment is never put
at risk or made secondary, logically, there's no reason…

Hermione shakes her head, stirring her tea faster.

November 30; 4:13am

Hermione inspects the amber liquid in the vial, and then moves to the dark pink
where swirls of black streak through. "Really good job," she says again, placing each
of the thirteen vials carefully into her briefcase. "I need to know what tables you got
them from, what else was on there, and what cauldron types."

His forehead wrinkles, and his eyes are too tired for his look to appear serious.
"You're better off in the Pensieve for that, Granger."

She frowns at the contents of her briefcase. "I don't have memory vials with me."

"Then you'll have to wait."

"No, I'll go get the vials now, and--"

His voice sounds lighter when he says, "Unless you want me to guess."

"Absolutely not." She thinks he knew that would have been her answer. "Guesses
are like May flies. Unavoidable, annoying, and serving little to no purpose."

"Like the things that usually come out of your mouth, then."

She gives him a sharp look. "Guesses rarely have any facts in them. It's fine to
guess, then--"

"Your instinct is a guess, and you rely on it consistently. You value it."

"It's not a guess. It's a…intrinsic knowing." She nods slowly when his eyebrows
shoot up. "It's something a different part of your mind or muscle memory knows is
right, because it's worked before. It's not a thought of what you should do, it's just
immediate action."

- 324 -
 "I'm referring to how you blew a dozen holes into the garden in an attempt to
Stun a squirrel, because your gut was telling you it had evil inten--"

"It clearly looked like it had rab--"

"Or the guesses that were risks you took during the war. Or the way you guess a
shadow is your enemy and reach for your wand, though it's--"

"These are still…" She waves a hand, like it can beckon the words onto her
tongue, and he slowly lowers his chin to his chest. "Those are dangerous - or
perceived dangerous - situations, and require immediate action. Where you can't
check facts, or have a way to learn the facts. In that case, it's fine. If you guess and
then immediately research to validate, fine. But not stupid guesses. Like you
guessing locations or cauldrons. It's pointless and destructive."

"Then I'll go to sleep."

"Yes." She stands. "No, wait - I wanted to go get--"

"You've already agreed."

She tilts her head as she gives him a hard look, studying him. Had this been why
he suggested the guessing? Throw her off track enough to end the night without
making him wait until she returned?

"I'm not sure of my capability in extracting the right memories right now. I might
have to guess."

She lets out a heavy sigh, clipping her briefcase shut, and he smirks.

December 2; 6:17am

Hermione moves the chair over a few inches, then stands back up on it, opening
the cabinet. She peers over the boxes of pasta, then presses her hand against the
front of each line, squishing shut any spaces.

"What are you doing?"

She pauses, not feeling awkward about it until he asked. "Just stop looking at
me."

It's impolite to stare as much as he does. She feels like he's constantly watching
- 325 -
her, and though she's gotten used to it, it still throws her off. The only time he
doesn't seem to be looking at her is when she's watching him. But it's her job to
watch him, and so it doesn't count as being impolite. Usually. Sometimes she
watches him in ways that might not be entirely appropriate, but it's not like he
knows that.

"You searched the house twice."

"Because something creaked like a floorboard, and--"

"It must have been the wind, or just some shift in an old house. You lived at
Hogwarts for seven-six years, you should know that strange--"

"You thought it was weird enough to give me the go look look," she huffs.

"I didn't give you any look--"

"Lie! You very--" She turns her head over her shoulder, ducks her chin and
widens her eyes, but she doesn't think he can see it properly at this angle anyway.
"Li--"

"I was giving you that look because you kept telling me to crawl under the table--"

"I knew you knew what I meant! You didn't even--"

"And that still doesn't explain why you're checking cabinets."

"I told you to stop watching me."

Three more and she'll be done. She doubts he'll stop staring at her before then,
but as long as he stops asking questions he has no bus--

Hermione jerks back as the cabinet slams shut before it's even halfway open,
risking her balance. She stares at the larger hand pressed against the wood,
knuckles white, and turns her gaze to Malfoy. His look approaches a glare as it digs
into her, and she stares stupidly back - she hadn't heard him approach.

"There's nothing in the cabinets, Granger."

She tightens her grip on the metal handle. "Everything has to be checked--"

"You checked the house."

- 326 -
 "I didn't check-"

"What's going to be in the cabinets? Someone put in a Dark object while I was
sitting at the table? An Animagus?"

She blushes because of the way he looks incredulous at the possibilities she finds
serious. "Let go," she tells him, yanking on the handle, then yanks harder when it
doesn't budge. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move his hand either. "If I
didn't check them, checking the house is useless! They can use any method to catch
you unaware, and--"

"So they're hiding in the cabinet?"

"Pettigrew was Ron's pet rat for years! There's--"

"Nothing is in the cabinets."

"You can't know that until--"

"I do know. If they attack, it'll be straight out, quick and simple. They aren't
breaking in to hide in your fucking cabinets."

"To catch you unaware, they'll--"

He's glaring at her now. "No one in the revival would think it's necessary - you
have Muggle blood, you can't defeat them, and--"

"I can and ha

"To them," he snaps. "And anyone who is a coward wouldn't come alone in the
first place. The cabinets are empty."

His gaze is unwavering, and it's her that sways under the determination. Her
inhale trembles, and her arm feels heavy when she drops it, palm smacking into her
thigh. It's nothing she hadn't contemplated before, but it sounds more logical
hearing it out loud, more of a definite with how sure he is. But she still feels like the
job is unfinished, even if she knows it's more illogical to think so.

She grabs his shoulder to guide herself away from his feet on the step down,
strong and steady under her palm. He turns to the side to give her more space, but

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doesn't move away from her hand. His eyes follow hers, and she pulls in a breath as
she raises her chin.

"Fine."

December 3; 11:14am

Hermione nods, handing the file to Harry. "The business will start selling Muggle
objects that have been altered to work in magical environments. Bells doesn't know
if every object will be cursed, or just specific ones that are going to certain people.
The products go on sale in February."

"And if he's part of the revival, it must mean this is part of a bigger plan. Like the
Dark objects in public places."

"Right." Hermione heaves a sigh. "It's still impossible to know when they're going
to make a move. They could intend to sell these for a year before they do anything,
or they could start trying to take over come March."

"It probably depends on how everything else works out. They'll definitely want a
few people higher up in the Ministry, some Aurors--"

"If they don't have that already. Bells hasn't heard anything beyond two Ministry
employees and guards at Azkaban, but--"

"The Ministry employees are low-level. File keepers, maybe a secretary. Right?"

She shrugs. "It seems. Are you watching them?"

Harry nods. "I'll give this to Kingsley after lunch. I'll be ready at noon if you want
to leave here to--"

"I have to go home and sleep. I've got Bells tonight and the day tomorrow." She
tries not to let her anxiousness over this show on her face, because it's due to an
entirely different reason than Harry would expect.

"He's at the revival during the day tomorrow?"

"A meeting. I think it's about setting up the Dark objects, so he might not be back
until late tomorrow night."

Harry frowns, leaning back in his chair. "When are you going to sleep?"
- 328 -
 "Pruit's coming from four to eight."

Harry starts rummaging around on his desk, littered with parchment, files,
sweets, photographs, potion vials, and whatever else might be hiding under the
piles. Hermione huffs a laugh, and decides to take a seat. Just for a little while.

10:00pm

Hermione bends at the waist, pushing her hair up to fall in her vision, and works
her fingers from root to tip. She hasn't managed time for a shower since yesterday
morning, and knew she wouldn't take one when Malfoy was gone or sleeping and
the house was left open. She had tried to be quick in case anyone showed up,
though no one had since Malfoy made commander and told them not to.

She still doesn't trust them not to.

She had kept the shower curtain open to prevent more muffling, and counted on
Malfoy to signal anything she couldn't hear. He'd got them out of a bad situation
before; even if she didn't agree with the method, he had turned out to be right in
using it.

Hermione pauses, feeling awareness creep up her back. She grabs the end of her
wand tucked into the waist of her skirt, and straightens up too quickly, dizziness
swooping in on her. There's a section of blond hair, a jaw, and a shoulder reflecting
in the pieces of cracked mirror. She looks over her shoulder at Malfoy, and her heart
gives a thump with his expression.

"What are you angry about? You could have just told me you needed the loo, and I
would have got out."

"I'm not angry," he says slowly, his voice low.

Rubbish. He looks like a predator, his head lowered, eyes burning into hers, and
his body tense with his hand clamped around the frame of the door.

"Right." She narrows her eyes at him before looking back into the room, grabbing
her bag while smoothing a hand over her hair.

He doesn't move when she skirts around him, and she's almost out when his hand
raises toward her arm. It hovers in the air as she gives him a questioning look,
moving out into the kitchen.

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 "Do you want anything to eat? You should make it n--"

He hums, the door closing loudly behind him. It's his own fault for not saying
anything. Git.

December 4; 11:44am

"I don't understand what it is," Hermione says, giving up on trying to speak and
read at the same time. "Why do people enjoy being scared? They go see scary films,
read horror stories… I thought it might be preparation at first. To be ready and
know what to do and what not to if the situation ever became a reality for them.
That would make sense."

"Like I said, some people enjoy embracing darker emotions in a comfortable

setting where they know they can't really be harmed."

On the other side of the loo door, she hears the sound she has decided is the
towel rubbing against his head. She wonders if he's one of those people who get
half-dressed before drying their hair, or if he's really been standing naked for the
five minutes since the shower went off. And talking to her. Which shouldn't seem
like a big deal, since he's always naked under his clothes and the shut door serves
the purpose well enough. But it feels like a big deal, largely due to the image in her
head of skin under the dirty yellow lighting of the loo.

He sounds casual. Like it's perfectly normal to be naked and speaking to her at
the same time, and making her picture things she should not be picturing.

"It's the adrenaline, the reaction they don't want to explore in any real
circumstances, while wondering how they would. Aggression in violence can be
sexual in nature, and fear can be exciting. It's…"

What? Why is he bringing up sex? Is it because he's naked? Is he thinking about

how she's thinking about how he's naked? Hermione shakes her head, but it doesn't
knock out the images and thoughts. She straightens up, lifting her head, and shakes
it again.

"Sexual?" Her voice comes out a little tight, and she clears her throat. "I fail to
see how violence is sexual. Except in those cases where the people are insane, and
they stab people as a substitute for intercourse, or find sexual--"

"I said aggression in violence. The loss of control to desire and impulse.
Aggression can manifest itself into violence or sex. Or both."
- 330 -
 "I don't believe that. If you see someone going after a person in an aggressive
manner, the first thing you're going to think of is violence. People aren't going to…"

Her gaze darts up at the sound of the loo door opening, and she stares blankly at
Malfoy as he crosses the room. The first and last few buttons of his shirt are still
undone, and his hair is in disarray, but there's a determination in his stride that
sends her to her feet.

"Wha--"

He grabs her arm, yanking her toward him hard enough for her to stumble over
her feet, a grunt in her throat. He steps into her space, the table's edge digging into
the back of her thighs.

"Don't just--"

He grabs her hips, pushing her onto the table, and knocks her knees open wide
enough to fit himself between them. Her heart pounds as she shoves her hands into
his shoulders, but he doesn't sway. He grabs her wrists as he presses into her and
down, forcing her back to the table and pressing her wrists to the wood at either
side of her head.

Her breath escapes her in a raspy huff as she shoves back against his grip, trying
to find the floor somewhere too far under her feet. She wiggles back, but she's only
squirming against him and the push of his body for air, and the movements in his
chest as he pins her there. He's strong, too strong, and smells of bitter soap,
lavender, and mint.

"I will honestly--" She tries to glare at him, but his head dips, and then his mouth
is on her neck.

Her vision of the ceiling fogs as her mind hones in on that point of contact with
the press of his lips, the graze of his teeth, the swipe of his tongue. She releases a
punch of air, her heart hammering in her ears as he does it again, and she wonders
if he can feel how hard he's got it beating.

She pushes up against him again, but it's less determined than it was, and he
pushes back against her in a way that's a lot less about forcing her to stay there. She
presses her lips together as he bites down gently and then sucks, her fingers curling
into fists. He breathes hotly against her skin, the air meeting the wetness from his
mouth and sending goosebumps down her arms.

- 331 -
 His hair is damp on her neck, jaw, cheek as he raises his head. "See now?"

She turns her head, clearing her throat. There's something she feels the need to
argue about, but she can't remember what it is right now. "Yes, so if you'd--"

He releases a wrist to grip her jaw, pulling her face back toward him. She takes
half of a breath before he kisses her, hard, and with his grip angling her where he
wants her. She pushes her hand into his shoulder and fists the fabric when his
tongue meets hers. His hands move to her legs, sliding along skin before pushing
her skirt up. Her noise of protest is lost against his lips, and she forgets about it with
the rock of his body. It feels good above her now, hot, and moving, and firm against
the curves of her.

He rubs his palms against the outside of her thighs, and she automatically clamps
her legs against his hips. He presses against her, grinding in a circle that mimics
her tongue around his. She tries to stifle the moan and fails, his touch climbing her
sides.

He hesitates, the first she remembers him doing so with her, and then cups her
breasts, the hesitation gone in his touch. Her hips raise, and a jolt goes through her
at the hardness pressed against her, and the groan that vibrates from his chest. She
pushes her hands up that chest, learning the shape, an odd sound in her throat
when his thumbs rub across her nipples. He hums or growls, and she lifts her face
back, gasping for breath.

"Wait."

He breathes hot and hard across her cheek before raising up, his expression the
same as the one she had thought was anger yesterday. He takes his time sliding his
hands down to her legs and moving himself back. It's not until he's pulling her skirt
back down that she realizes she's still clinging to him, and she drops her legs from
his hips and her hands from his shoulders.

She licks her lips, and he watches the movement. "You, uh…you have the
meeting."

He meets her eyes again, and there's a question there she doesn't know the
words of.

That got very quickly out of hand. The kissing may not have been disruptive
before, but this is… Her heart is still racing, and her face is hot. Her whole body is
hot.
- 332 -
 "I'll get ready, then."

"Good plan." She nods, pushing up to sit when he steps back.

He stares at her a few seconds longer, as if completely unaware of the way it's
adding to the awkwardness. Maybe she's the only one feeling awkward, and part of
it may be due to the force behind her attempt to not look down. Despite the avid
demand of her curiosity and the little voice chanting in her mind, there's no way to
look without him seeing very clearly where she was looking.

"It's likely I won't return until early tomorrow morning. Is anyone coming?"

She blinks at him, her mind taking some time to switch over to a more logical,
normal state. "Uh…uh, yeah. Pruit will be here to eight, but I'll be back then."

"Good."

Good? Why good? Good, let's continue later, or good, it's not Leacher, or good, I
don't want to deal with Aurors? He probably gave an ambiguous answer with the
purpose to mess with her.

She glares at him as he walks back to the loo.

December 5; 3:56am

Malfoy still keeps his hands clasped where the shackles are on the table, and
Hermione wonders if he'll ever stop doing it. If a few years after this is all over, he'll
be visiting his father at Azkaban or at an interview, and he'll do it like his muscles
remember the motion - automatic and without thought.

"They're disguised as the top of the lampposts. You'll see a groove near the top -
everything above that is the Dark object. When activated, it meets the spell from the
object directly across from it in the other lamppost, on the other side of the square."

"It stuns magical ability, unless the counter-spell has already been cast on you.
I'm not sure how long it lasts."

"And you said they have Dark objects set up around Gringotts, and are attempting
it with the Ministry and Azkaban?"

"At least."

- 333 -
 "Then I'm assuming the plan is to get people on the inside, activate the Dark
objects, and hold takeovers. They'll use the Dark objects in public places as a
distraction for Aurors and Hit Wizards, and as a way to make the people fear them,
and so control the people. The Dark objects can also be used for any future battles
of resistance, or any earlier plans they might have before the main one."

He doesn't say anything, his expression blank, and it does nothing for the panic
creeping up her bones. She takes a deep breath, but the images of war still flash
through her mind, and there's no helping the rush of her blood. She's even happier
now that Harry had Pruit show up shortly after noon so she could get more sleep -
it'll be harder to come by than normal today.

"They're looking for one or more people in the Ministry and Azkaban who watch
over the magical use outside the buildings. If they can Imperius people to prevent
others from noticing, they can set up the devices."

Hermione nods, taking note of it, and outlines the note in a thick, black line.
She'll go to the Ministry directly after this and wait for Kingsley and Harry to come
in. They'll go through the employee lists, maybe set up a sort of guard…

"I had to log the devices and locations for the Nobles."

The words blur together on the parchment, and it only takes a second for her
mind to snap to the right conclusion. She looks up at him in surprise, and he looks
expectant, already knowing what she's going to ask of him. It's a bright thing, the
hope that uncurls in her chest, but it's also countered by the dark of battle strategy
and any means necessary.

"They probably have logs of all of them, then. You have to find them."

"If they haven't destroyed them."

She shakes her head. "If they wanted a log in the first place, they must be
keeping them. A measure to make sure they remember exactly what is where.
They'll be protected, likely at a Noble's home…but you have to get them, Malfoy."

"Yeah." He leans back in his chair, and for a second before he shudders back into
stone, he looks tired. "I know."

- 334 -
 17

December 6; 6:53am

Staircase, staircase, staircase.

Hermione's breaths come shallow and quick as she remembers exactly why she's
usually sure to show up before the rush of employees arriving at the Ministry.
Someone knocks into her shoulder, and the handle of her briefcase slips in her
sweaty palm as she navigates the crowd. She does her best not to touch anyone, her
fingers straining with their clench around her wand.

There are colored robes, some she knows are from different departments, but
others are wearing black with the hoods pulled up to protect their heads from the
snow. She knows this logically. Logically, there's no reason for her heartbeat to be
closing in on a speed not fit for working function, and from the corners of her vision
to see only Death Eaters. Logically, she's safe.

Or maybe, logically, she's not safe. Maybe she's the only one thinking logically in
this whole mess of people. Just like she, Harry, and Ron had been before the war
was declared a war. When it was still just the three of them fighting. Maybe it's
perfectly logical to be panicked over the moving wave of black around her, because
there can be a Death Eater. Because maybe there definitely is, and he's moments
from pulling a wand at the back of her head, and what's happened before can
happen again, not like they're all locked up and it's impossible, and there will be a
hit like lightening and flash of green and then she'll be on the ground and
deaddeaddead--

She slams into the doors leading to the staircase, and her hands on the metal
might be the only thing that stops her from taking aim when she looks back over her
shoulder. She stumbles onto the small landing, slamming the door shut behind her,
and looks down the stairs at the tapping of feet approaching.

Her nails dig into her palms, her thumb pushing up for better control and aim of
her wand. She turns, running up the stairs as she stares over the banister, waiting
for the top of a hood and an ivory mask. She just needs to get to her office, and she'll
lock the door, close the blinds, turn on all the lights. Her breathing is a hurricane in
the hollow space and her ears, and her feet pound out the rhythm of her blood,
bambangbambangbambang.

- 335 -
 10:12pm

Hermione stirs her raviolis as Malfoy puts down the package of chicken for the
fifth time. She thinks he's been looking for directions he won't find, but until he asks
her how to cook it properly, she has no intentions on telling him. He's already cut a
piece into squares and put them in the frying pan, but they're burning on one side
while the majority remains uncooked.

He moves around her to grab a spatula, his chest brushing across her back, and
she may or may not hold her breath. He moves back, scowling at the chicken as he
flips the pieces over. She busies herself with getting out a jar of sauce and another
pot, heating it on low on a back burner. She feels him watching her the entire time.

"Misplace a book? Did your cat die? W--"

"Hm?" She looks over at him, spoon pausing in the air. "Crookshanks? Yeah."

The space around them turns uncomfortable, but it might be her imagination or
the way he seems to tense up. She watches a ravioli rise from the bottom of the pot
to the top of the water, and wonders why he asked her about the book first. He must
have noticed that she's off today, the morning at the Ministry still replaying in her
head. No matter how many times she tries to forget about things like that, or to
make sure they don't happen again, it never works. She doesn't know how.

Did he care that something was bothering her? Did he think it had something to
do with the Assignment and got worried? Did he care because he thought it might
negatively impact the Assignment if she wasn't in top form?

He turns when she reaches for the cabinet in front of him, but not enough that
she can avoid touching him in the reach. She grabs a plate for him from the second
shelf, and she's just pushing up onto her tiptoes when he reaches for the third. She
drops her hand to the edge of the counter to stop herself from falling forward at the
imbalance of her stance and the push of his body behind her, and smiles at him
when she takes the bowl.

"Thanks."

"These pans are shit," he says, closing the cabinet when she shuffles back to her
side of the stove.

"Don't blame your terrible cooking on the pans."

- 336 -
 "No matter what I do, it's burning and raw at the same time. That's not--"

"Get the oil. That cabinet." She gestures to one of the bottom ones near his feet,
and tries to snatch the spatula from him when he moves it from her reach.

"I'm trying for edible food, Granger. Edible."

"And failing." She goes to grab for it again when he raises it above his head, and
she looks down from the height to glare at him. "I couldn't do a worse job of it."

"This is the face of doubt."

"That's the face of an arrogant prat who is going to be stuck eating raw and burnt
chicken if he doesn't hand me the spatula in--"

"Why do you need the spatula? Are you so uptight with control that you can't
even--"

"This is the face of annoyance."

"I'm fairly sure that's just your typical expression."

"That's because you only see my face when I'm around you."

"It's always. I can tell by the start of your McGonagall wrinkles."

"I do not have wrinkles, I'm twenty-three--"

"Are you sure, Granger? When's the last time you looked at yourself?"

"We can't all be as narcissistic as you. Thank God."

"That's because not everyone has a reason to be…"

"I'm not laughing at you. Oh, sorry - I guess this is the face of a liar now."

December 7; 5:24am

Hermione relaxes her face and scrutinizes it again, tilting her head slowly in the
bright lights above the mirror. She hadn't really intended to do this, but after
ignoring the cabinets in her search of the flat, she needed something distracting.
There are faint lines to either side of her forehead, but there's no sight of wrinkles
- 337 -
on the rest of her face.

"Liar," she mutters. "Draco Malfoy is a liar, Pepper."

The cat looks completely careless before finding his paw more interesting.
Hermione reaches down, running her palm along his back twice. He doesn't run this
time, but walks away, tail snapping.

December 8; 3:40am

His hands burn paths across her back, bum, shoulders, hips, legs as her tongue
rubs against his. Her own hands have grown restless on his neck, and so she learns
his chest, back, arms, and shoulders. It's when she slides along the right that she
recoils, his breath catching and his fingers too hard at the small of her back.

"Your shoulder."

"Frr," he says against her lips.

"What?"

"Fine." He moves his mouth to her neck.

"Fine like…" Her exhale rushes out when he sucks. "Uh…"

What is it? Fine, fine…fine what? Teeth skim her neck, and she grabs the tops of
his arms when he slides her skirt higher up her thighs. Oh, wait, that's… No. Yes. No
. Maybe. He rocks forward, sucking hard on a spot beneath her jaw, and the back of her h

"Fine," she breathes, to him or herself, or no one at all. Fine…there's something

about fine… "Fine as in it's fine, or fine as in stop--"

He kisses her again as he bunches her skirt around her waist, and slides his
fingers under the band of her knickers until he's cupping her bum. His hands flex
and he pushes her against him, hard against her stomach. She feels overheated,
dizzy, and want, want, want as he pulls her knickers down, her blood and thoughts
all jumbled up too much to not be trembling with it a little. There's no doubt now
where this is going, and even though she's second, third, fourth-guessing herself,
her hands are on the buckle of his belt.

She pulls her head back, pulling in a breath until her lungs are full. "I didn't finish
healing your shoulder, so we should--"
- 338 -
 He lifts her, and her legs wrap around his waist as her back hits the wall. "I said,
it's fine," he says, his voice rougher as he yanks up on her shirt, pulling it from her
skirt.

He kisses her shortly, before his mouth follows the trail of skin he's revealing
with each button coming undone. She opens her eyes, resting her head against the
wall as she pants for breath, and looks across the kitchen. The door is shut, and the
curtains are drawn enough on the windows that no one should be able to see them
from the outside at their positioning. Her wand is still in her holster, angled more
towards her back from his hands, but reachable-- Oh.

Her back arches as he drops a hand from one of her breasts, his mouth closing
over the nipple. She buries her fingers in his hair, her face growing hotter from the
exposure and his mouth. He reaches down, wiggling as fabric starts to fall, and she
tugs on his hair.

He lifts his head, his gaze hot and hooded on hers, and it forces her to kiss him
before she's even ready to stop looking at him like that. A drag of lips, warmth and
the push of his tongue. Her spine straightens as he positions himself, her legs
clamping tighter around him, and then he's thrusting forward. She doesn't know if
he groans, or her, or if both of them cause the vibration of sound.

She turns her mouth away, but he follows, grabbing her hips as he pulls his back,
then jerks forward as he pulls her down. He fills her up, makes her breath stop, until
there's just the feel of her oxygen pressuring her chest, and the hot prickling along
her skin, and him, so much him.

He wraps an arm around her waist, putting a hand against the wall next to her.
She curls her fingers around his ears, a breathy sound forced from her throat when
he grinds against her, and she kisses him. His mouth is pliant and opens under hers
as he finds the rhythm he wants, and their tongues circle, flick, rub, chase.

She reaches to pull up his shirt, wanting, needing the feel of his skin against hers.
She gets it to bunch under his arms as her fingertips skim over the chain of his
necklace, but he doesn't move to let her pull it off the rest of the way. Maybe
because he's too reluctant to let go of his grip on her, or because his shoulder is
worse than he's acting like it is and he doesn't want her to know. If it's--

She moans when he changes his angle, and some distant part of her mind
wonders if he sensed her distraction, but he's forced most coherent thought from
her mind now. Each thrust of his hips sends a jolt aching through her, tiny noises
attempting to break through the press of her mouth. He moves his hands to curve
- 339 -
around the back of her shoulders, gathering a fistful of her shirt at the left to reveal
enough skin to press his mouth to.

She runs her hands over the plains and dips of his chest, traces a scar, circles
around and rubs her fingertips across his nipples. He lifts his head on a groan, his
jaw skimming her cheek, and she bends to press a kiss to it without thought. She
leaves a trail to his ear, tugging on the lobe, and sucks the skin at the edge of his
jaw. His hands tighten on her, and she repeats the action before pushing kisses
down his neck. She finds his heartbeat hammering wildly, and she stays there
awhile, something attaching her to the beat reflected back from her own chest.

She bites gently and sucks hard, and his hips slam up, making her moan loudly.
And so he does it again, again, again, until she can't do anything but drop her head
back and feel. Him, moving against her and within her, muscles contracting, and the
angles of his body meeting her own, and the warmth of his huffs for air. He angles
back enough to fit a hand between them, his fingers clumsy as he presses them
against her, circles, rubs.

She moans, arching back with her heels digging into his bum, and he mutters
something that sounds like a curse. She's only distantly aware that he might be
watching her at this moment, because she's too gone to care about the way she
might look right now, or the sounds she's making. All her focus is on each sink
forward and push of his fingertips that pushes her closer, closer, almost…there.

Her head smacks off the wall as she flies off the edge, shaking apart and aware of
nothing but the feeling exploding inside of her. Then there's the pull of gravity, the
return, as she finds herself slumped against Malfoy still burying himself inside of
her. She shudders in a breath, not sure if her head is throbbing from the hit or her
lack of oxygen, but it fades quickly. His arm tightens around her at the sound, and
she straightens from the languid slanting of her body to find his eyes.

He looks softer in the after haze or maybe just at this moment, his lips swollen
from hers, his eyes darker, and his cheeks red. He looks beautiful to her then, and
she wonders if he knows it when he moves to press his cheek against hers.

"Spell," he groans out when her legs tighten around him and her nails scrape the
back of his neck.

"Don't need."

She tightens her grip on his shoulder as his thrusts quicken, slamming himself
into her, and she counts to the seventh before his body locks against her. Only his
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hips continue moving, shallow, almost desperate jerks as he groans deeply into her
shoulder. She holds her breath, sliding an arm around his shoulders, and grasping
strands of hair between the fingers at his neck.

She breathes when he does, both of them gasping in air as his weight pins her to
the wall, chests rising and falling together. They wobble, and she drops her legs
from around him, wincing as he loosens his grip around her until she slides to her
feet. His forehead moves to the wall, but his arm doesn't fall away, and she resists
the urge to rest her head against his chest for a second. To feel the pants for air and
the thunder of his heartbeat.

She looks at the slant of his shoulders, and untangles her hands from his shirt.
She pushes her skirt down, his arm slipping off her. "Your--" She clears her throat,
her face reddening at the deepness in her voice. "Let me see your shoulder."

His belt buckle clinks as he pulls his trousers up, then grabs the bottom of his
shirt still halfway up his torso, peeling it off himself. She forgets her awkwardness at
the sight of the red and pink skin, the burn looking inflamed and raw. A gurgle
sounds from her throat, too many words combining before one could be decided
upon.

"That is bad, you idiot! I should have put the salve on that right away! Here,
just--" She casts a quick Cooling Charm on the burn, and he doesn't flinch this time.
"Go clean up, and then put the salve on it. The green jar. And a thick coating! I'll just
have you take it back with you, because you're going to need more before tonight.
Do you want to shower? We have time, but… What?"

His stunned expression has changed into a grin now, and she doesn't know what
to do with it. Especially when his shoulder looks like that, and her guilt is calling up
the recent memories of every time she grabbed it.

"I'll get it," she mutters, shuffling out from between him and the wall.

She's pulled up short by his hand around hers, and he pulls her back a step. "Do
you want to shower?" She glances at her watch, and he drops her hand as he steps
past her. "I'll be out in five minutes. There's clothes in the last drawer of the closet
you can shrink."

"Okay."

She watches him go, unblinking until the door shuts behind him. He doesn't close
it all the way, the wood bouncing off the frame and leaving a crack of light shining
- 341 -
through. His shadow moves across it, and she tries not to let her body give into any
spastic movement in case he's looking at her. It's just that she feels too many things
bubbling up that she feels the need to flap around a little.

Okay. Okay. She takes a deep breath. Oh. Releases it. Kay.

5:32am

Ding, ding…ding…

They're running behind, but winter mornings are always darker, so as long as
they make it before the changing of the guard, they're fine.

Even in the cold, Hermione can feel her face heat up every time her thoughts
wander when she looks over at him. Then her face heats up more at the idea that he
might still somehow be able to see it even in the dark. It's ridiculous. She still has an
interview to do, and she's not going to get anywhere with her mind constantly
straying off to things she should not be thinking about right now.

But she doesn't know how to act, or what to say, or what to do. So she goes back
to what she knows, because she's comfortable there.

"You have a meeting tomorrow?"

Business, please. Please let her not have made a huge mistake that undermines
the Assignment or her authority within it, and--

"A dinner with Wyatt, one of the Nobles."

She straightens up. "A dinner?"

"Late - at eleven."

"Oh." For a moment, she had thought she botched it already. "Do you know what
it's about?"

"No."

No, short and abrupt. But he always gives short answers. So, this is normal.
Yes…normal.

December 9; 2:22am
- 342 -
 Malfoy always looks solemn when he's extracting memories. It's not like he's
losing them, but it seems like he feels that way. Maybe it's because he doesn't like
sharing any part of himself that much, or because she's the one who watches them.

"There wasn't a basement?" she asks, looking at the floor plan he had drawn, and
flipping to the next page that showed the second floor.

"If there was, he didn't take me there on the tour."

"So there probably is."

He shrugs a shoulder, capping another vial, and holds it out to her. "Recruit
interrogations from last week."

"Oh." She takes it, uncapping her marker, and flips through her other file to find
the proper label.

She didn't know what to expect today. Part of her had prepared for him to push
her against a wall again, and most of her expected awkwardness. But the strange
tension only lasted the length of the boat trip and ten minutes in the house before
she realized there was nothing abnormal about their interactions. When he had
returned from the revival, he had just taken off his robe, handed her the wand, and
sat down with a casualness she almost found annoying.

It makes her wonder if that had been it for him, when it certainly didn't signal the
end for her. It had been more giving in to the inevitable of how he made her feel
than serving as the last event. But she doesn't think about it, because wherever this
is going to lead that's not destructive toward the Assignment, she'll follow it. Good
or bad. If she hadn't been willing to do that before, she never would have…

Her gaze strays to the wall at the side of the kitchen, and the vial clinks noisily
into its slot. She glances at Malfoy, expecting that he'll just be lifting his head, only
to find him already looking at her in a way that suggests he knows exactly where she
was looking. She drops her eyes to the floor plans.

9:24pm

"I'd be surprised if they didn't already have some sort of plan to take over the
Muggle world," Hermione says, watching the water roll around the boat. "Even if it's
just a loose plan for the moment. There's no way they won't try to claim it."

"They will, but they're not overly concerned with it right now. The wizarding
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world is the biggest trouble. The Muggles have their ways, but without the
blood-traitors and Mudbloods running to help, they won't be too much to handle.
Potentially difficult, but not impossible."

Something buzzes in her ears, and her mind plays his voice on repeat;
blood-traitors and Mudbloods, blood-traitors and Mudbloods running to help, they won't
.

She looks up, easily making out the shape of him. The moon is bright tonight, and
the fog is thin and close to the water. His eyes are shadowed from the pull of his
hood, but she sees his mouth open before pressing shut and tightening, and she
knows he realized.

"You sound just like them," she says lowly, but the accusation is loud, roaring.
"Have they brainwashed you into thinking like the--"

"I ha--"

"Haven't they controlled you enough? Now--"

"Fuck you."

It feels like a slap to her forehead with the way her head pushes back, and the
anger that flares brighter now. She's too angry. A few months ago, at worst she
would have thought he was going to switch sides. Now it feels personal. Now there's
an anger just from hearing him say the words so casually, and it's more anger than
she ever felt about it at Hogwarts. Because it's personal, when it shouldn't be.

"What is it? Are you starting to agree with them, or--"

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Granger?" he snaps.

"You said it like you're talking about the weather! Like I'm one of--"

"Did you not expect it to become a habit? It's a necessary one. Would you prefer I
call them Muggle-borns in front of Death Eaters who need absolute trust in my
commitment to killing people with Muggle blood? If you think I'm switching sides,
that's your fucking problem."

"It's the fact that it's become casual! If you're forcing it every time in front of
them, there shouldn't be a reason why you would slip into it in front of me

- 344 -
 "It's become casual because I've been talking about it for hours, every day, for
seven months! It has to be a default at this point, or I would have never made it this
far. It doesn't mean I believe it, because if I did, I wouldn't be here. I could have
figured out how to remove this Portkey months ago, and that's all it would have
taken."

"I know that, but there's a line, Malfoy. It's right at the door every night. And
when you cross back into it, you're not a commander anymore. I understand you
have to act the part. I understand you have to constantly be on guard, that you have
to be everything they expect you to be. But you have to be what I expect you to be
too, the second you cross into the house, and that is nothing more or less than who
you are. Not what they try to make you. That's the difference, do you understand?
Don't make me hex you every time you walk in, because I'll do--"

"Lives don't fit into neat little boxes where things don't bleed into other areas.
You should know that well enough, Granger, or do you always reach for your wand
when I walk up behind you because you're actually scared of me? Or now, is it that
you actually believe I'm going to turn?"

"I don't think you're going to turn," she bites out, turning her head to look out
across the water. Because it's hard to look at him when he puts things in perspective
like that.

She didn't think he noticed how she went for her wand. It isn't because she's
scared of what he might do anymore. It's just that she does it with everyone. She got
so used to having to do it for the protection of her life, that it's like second nature
now. The thought makes her face turn hot for different reasons.

"I'm not scared of you, or scared you'll turn, Malfoy. I just… I think about it
sometimes, when I go through the memories or just remember myself. With how
casual it all is for them when they talk about murder and torture, when I've seen
those things happen, felt them. I didn't think I'd hear it from you here, outside of the
revival. So I guess it just sort of… Sorry. I overreacted, and I shouldn't have said
some of that."

She still doesn't think he should have said it either, but she understands how he
slipped. She was just angry at how easily he said it to her, like there isn't a million
bad memories those words can conjure. Like she's still not trying to feel her way out
into a life where she can be okay. He's said that word to her before a dozen times
with petty threats, but this situation is different. They're different, too. Her
immediate reaction was to lash out, and being one of the few who know the entire
situation, he probably deserved a bit more from her than that.
- 345 -
 He doesn't answer, but she hadn't expected him to.

December 10; 3:01am

Ding…ding…di-ding…

There's tiny Death Eaters running across a cloud of fog that slopes upward into
fuzzy grey. Or maybe they're Smurfs, tinted blue under the moonlight, and the
hoods flopping forward at the tip.

…ding…ding…

"What part shouldn't you have said?"

She looks up from the shine of the moon across the briefcase in her lap, her eyes
wide. He hasn't spoken to her since their boat trip from Azkaban. She had thought
he wouldn't until the interview, and that it would be like the beginning - having to
dig the answers out.

"What?"

"You said that you shouldn't have said some of it. What part?"

She doesn't know why that's important, but she knows the answer anyway. She'd
been replaying the conversation since he left for the revival. "The part about
brainwashing, and controlling, and agreeing. I didn't mean them, I was just… Well, I
sort of meant them since I was angry at the time, but I don't think you're actually
brainwashed. At least not normally." She winces. "By that I mean that you're sort of
brainwashed. But just in the way that you're doing a job that can actually create
situations like earlier, where things slip out like that. And you don't necessarily
believe them, it's just a way you have to act so often that it comes out naturally,
which is…sort of brainwashing. But not total brainwashing, since you don't--"

"I get it, Granger."

"Good." She had been digging a hole, and every time she tried to dig back up, she
only sunk deeper.

Ding…dinding…ding…

She crosses her arms over the top of her briefcase, and looks up at the moon as it
slowly moves across the range of her sight.
- 346 -
 …ding…ding…

"You know how you said about me reaching for my wand? I thought about how it's
second nature to me after the war, but how I wouldn't really cast without
confirming. But to be honest, I'm scared I will sometimes. That I'll see it differently,
or just act first. That I'll get so panicked, I won't wait." Her fingers clamp into her
arms. "Do you get like that? Are you scared you'll fall too far into it?"

"No." He says it so quickly, like he didn't have to think about it, or like he might
have already. "It's easier to believe a sound is an enemy, than it is to believe a
proven enemy to be a friend."

She looks over at him, his face aimed toward the side of the boat. She can see his
jaw through the shadows, and his hands on his knees. "I was once your proven
enemy."

"No, I just thought you were. Though Merlin knows you're capable of pissing me
off enough for it."

She frowns. "I find you insufferable at times as well." She straightens up. "Though
I don't think of you as my enemy either."

"I've somehow managed to figure that out."

She blushes. "Yes, well…"

Ding…ding…

December 11; 9:31pm

Malfoy can sometimes have a sort of gracefulness that mimics a cat, but when his
feet slip out further on the ice than he can control, he's flying and landing on his
back like a log. Hermione gets out the starting breath of a laugh before she smacks
her hand over her mouth, taking a slow step toward him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her voice pressured from holding back.

He rushes to stand, shoving up with his hands and kicking his feet under him. He
almost makes it, arms flailing out as he wobbles and slips, but then he's sailing to
the ground again. The laughter breaks through her fingers this time as she looks
down at his stunned expression, his fall replaying itself in her mind.

- 347 -
 He glares at her, rolling over to his stomach as he pushes himself up more
carefully. She steps back at the dark look he's giving her, and again when he steps
toward her. She anticipates his lurch as he reaches for her, but it does nothing to
stop her laughter as she spins around, running for the front door. He must be
intending to knock her into the snow or something, but she'll be faster.

She yells out when she skids across ice, bending at the knees to ride it out, and
then leaps onto snow-covered ground. Something skims her back, and she pushes
harder, their feet crunching quickly through the snow as she starts laughing again.

December 13; 9:51pm

Hermione opens her briefcase, then stacks the books on the other side as she
reads over their titles again, making sure she grabbed all the ones she needs
tonight.

"How many new recruits are you bringing in tonight?" she asks, glancing at
Malfoy's back as he digs through the fridge.

She knows he's looking for that bag of sweets he felt the need to hide from her
yesterday - she asks for one piece, and it's like asking for all the gold in his vault.
She hasn't bothered telling him that she doesn't really care for sweets that much
anyway, and she has no intention to.

"Thirteen, if they pass. Which will bring the recruit number to two hundred
forty-seven. I'm already dismissing as many as I can, but if I start doing it without
reason, it's going to be suspicious."

"I know." She pulls out the wand he uses, and smooths a fingertip down the
length of it. "We need the floor plans for three more commanders, four Nobles, and
that place they've mentioned meeting up in. Then it's just a matter of taking down
the Dark devices they've set up, finding out if they have a plan in case of attack, and
going in. Though I doubt they would an expect an attack on this scale, but you--"

"You're going to attack all at once?"

She shrugs, but she knows it's as close to a definite as it can be at this point.
"We're still working things out. But we're more than halfway done in terms of
information we need. How long it's going to take to get it is a different matter. It can
happen in a week, it can take a year."

"A year," he says dryly, pulling the wand from her loose grip.
- 348 -
 She doesn't think it'll take that long. Maybe if they were waiting to know all the
plans, or for Malfoy to try and make Noble. But the revival isn't strong enough to
need that yet, and the Ministry isn't going to waste time with things that aren't vital
when the revival is gaining power. If Malfoy continues in a trustworthy position, she
doesn't expect to see this house again come summer.

But she doesn't like to plan with time. She's learned by now that things had a way
of never being what you expected when you did that.

December 14; 4:48am

Hermione pulls her robe more tightly around her, shivering with her yawn.
Tonight is the sort of cold that clings to bones and shakes deep, and it's a struggle to
keep herself from being a loud, shivering mess. The moon is full and bright, and she
can make out every twitch of Malfoy's face that tells her he's having the same
troubles.

"Yeah, like how people raise or deepen their voice when they're talking to
strangers sometimes. Or the people who act very professional, but get the craziest
in friendly settings. There's an act for all different situations. I think a lot of people
have certain barriers to how they act around friends, too. Most people are only
really, truly themselves when they're alone."

"Most people act more like themselves than they realize around other people. And
some put on acts around themselves as much as they do around other people."

"That's true," she says, sniffing as she looks up at the silhouette of Azkaban
taking shape in front of her. "But people acting stranger when they're by
themselves, and do things they'd never do in public, or are even too embarrassed to
do in front of good friends. They talk to themselves, they make faces, do weird dance
moves, strange sounds, puppets, sing into their hairbrush. Those sorts of things."

"…Puppets?"

"Not puppets, but-- Well, some people probably do puppets, but I mean the
shadow things. You know, when you're lying in bed, waiting to sleep or something.
And you make the shapes with your hands, or the feet. It's like, Mister Fiddlemore,
who talks with a French accent though he's not French, who meets Missus Grouser,
a…"

There's a wrinkle between his furrowed eyebrows as he looks at her feet, which
she's aimed at one another without noticing. His lips are pressed together, but she
- 349 -
can see the raise of them at the corners.

"The point is that people--"

"Oh, no, Granger - continue with the demonstration. W--"

"People feel like they can--"

"Mister Fuddlemore, was it?"

"That's off the subject! I--"

"No, it is the exact--"

"It was an example of what people - some random people - might--"

"Fairly detailed for someone--"

"I saw it once," she says, staring over his head.

"Oh?"

"A friend."

"Ah." He raises an eyebrow, and she glares at him. "Does Mister Fiddle--"

"Shut up."

- 350 -
 18

December 15; 10:03pm

She's nervous today. She's a little nervous every day, but it's grown the closer she
has to Malfoy. It's not fear, exactly, but worry. She keeps herself from the what ifs,
because she knows that road doesn't lead to a place she likes to travel to. She would
feel better if she was there too. She would feel worse, but she would feel better at
the same time, for different reasons. Malfoy's alone inside the revival. It only takes a
slip of one second for them to catch on to him, and they aren't the sort that lets a
person go home. Tonight will be more dangerous than normal, and if he doesn't get
it right…

She looks up from spinning the bracelet on her wrist, the gem that connects her
to the Portkey around his neck, as he comes down the hallway. He looks more
careless than normal, and she's learned by now that it means he's more nervous
than usual. If she looks away from him, she'll look back to find his eyes glazed over
as he stares into space.

"Are you ready?"

He nods, checking his cufflinks, and then pulls his robe from over the chair.

"The logs are in the safe. You're sure you have the right combination?"

"Unless he changes it every day, yes."

"If he finds you, Petrify him and bring him here. We'll bring in professional
Obliviators and plant memories in his mind."

"I know." He pulls the robe on, then works on the buttons. "I'm not going to copy
the information. I'll look at the documents, then you can retrieve it from the
memory. It might not be all of the logs. It could just be the ones that are delivered to
him."

"As long as it's something, we'll work with this for now. We'll see by the number
of logs if it's likely all of them, and you can dig around to see if people have
delivered them elsewhere. If we find the objects in these logs that the commanders
have mentioned before - the one that burns, the one that blinds and such - it's
probable that we got all of them."

- 351 -
 He nods, smoothing his hands over his robe to ease out the wrinkles, and picks a
fuzz from the arm. She stands, pulling out the wand from her briefcase, then holds it
out to him. She doesn't know what else to say, and there are a few things she wants
to do, but none she will.

His head tilts after a moment of looking at her, and she schools her expression,
straightening up. "If it's too much, activate the Portkey. If you can't, do what you can
to pace. If I see you go back and forth a few times, I'll pull you out. Be quick, and be
safe."

The wand spins between his fingers, and he doesn't respond as he turns, walking
for the door. She watches him from the window until he disappears.

December 17; 7:20am

Her bra drops to the floor, and his hands leave her breasts for her waist as she
kicks her knickers off. His teeth skim her bottom lip, and then his tongue dips over
the curve. She slides her hands down his sides, the bumps of his hips, and to the
band of his shorts. Her touch is more sure this time, but she's still overwhelmed with
him, and the rush of her blood, and the way he makes her feel.

After the last time, she had thought it might be the end of it like this. But that
time when she had ran from him in the snow and he caught her, he had been smiling
when he kissed her, and she thought it wasn't the end to anything at all. There's
something about that that excites and scares her at the same time, but she's
somehow always sure under the touch of his hands. She had been the one to kiss
him now, and he hadn't left her time to rethink it.

Malfoy steps forward, making her step back, her legs meeting the edge of the
bed. He presses her further, arm anchoring around her.

"Wha." She turns her head. "Wait, I…" She looks over at the door, licking the
tingle in her lips, and then down at the bed. "I, uh…"

She looks back at the door again, blushing as she thinks of the words to say that
might not embarrass her about it anymore than this. But he'll think she's ridiculous
no matter what, because it's going to sound strange with whatever words she uses.
It's just that she can't see the door if she's lying down like that. Her wand is on the
nightstand, but if she can't--

She looks down as his shorts move over her hands as he pushes the fabric down.
Her gaze attaches to the stiff, reddened length of him that bobs from the release of
- 352 -
its restraints. She wants to reach out and touch him, study until she knows from
memory, but then he steps around her. He picks up her wand from the nightstand
before moving back, his hand sinking into her hair as he kisses her. She returns it
with the same force, and he pulls her with him two steps.

He lowers back, and her feet stumble as she plants a hand on his chest, the other
flailing in the air until she finds the mattress. She lands on top of him, teeth
clinking, and pushes herself up as he crawls back. She follows until he stops her
with a squeeze of his fingers at her nape, and pulls his legs up, turning on the bed.

His eyes move down her face, chest, stomach as she slides forward on her knees,
self-conscious now as she moves to straddle his lap. He drops her wand to the side
of the bed, and she looks up at the door. She can see it perfectly well, along with the
square of hallway on the left that anyone would have to walk down if they came
through one of the doors and not a window. She looks down at him, worrying her lip
- he had known without her having to say anything at all.

He lifts up on his elbows, and reaches a hand out between her legs, pressing a
finger against her and slipping down. She blushes, and he looks down as he slides
the finger inside of her, his lips parting. He thrusts it forward, slides it back, and
adds another. She moves against the push of his fingers before she stops herself,
and she huffs out a breath as he raises his eyes to hers. She thinks even if she'd
never been attracted to Malfoy before this, it would be impossible not to want him in
this moment. He thrusts faster, his thumb climbing until her hips buck, drawing a
moan from her.

He raises up on his palm, forming a trail of suckling kisses across her chest
before dragging his tongue across a nipple. She no longer feels vulnerable, but
strong, and powerful, and so good. Reaching down, she wraps her hand around him.
He's hot and rigid in her grip, and she gives him a firm jerk, wanting to know the
feel of him and the way he reacts. His hips raise, fingers stuttering, and his moan
adds to the sensation of his mouth on her.

She shifts back, pulling in a breath as he pulls his fingers and lips away from her.
She pushes the tip of him inside of her, and watches him stick two wet fingers into
his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. She waits like he might hate it, her
ears heating up, but his tongue swirls as he licks off every bit, and she's entranced
by the sight of it until his fingers pop out of his mouth.

She grabs his shoulder, spreading her knees out more, and sinks down. He hums,
deep and raspy, and swirls his wet fingers on her skin. She lifts, sinks, lifts, building
speed as her fingers memorize the lines of his shoulders, the side of his neck, the
- 353 -
shape of his ears. His palm pushes up her back as she clasps his hair, tugging his
head back, but he's still kissing her before she can bend to kiss him. He lifts his hips,
hard and angled, and there's a strangled sound in her throat that he makes a noise
of agreement to. The rhythm is thrown off, clumsy for a few seconds, but then they
find it, perfect as they move together.

December 18; 3:37am

Hermione shivers as she lifts her legs up, trying to bring any body heat in just a
little closer. She closes her eyes and winces when the wind hits her, sinking through
her clothes and blowing away warmth. She had contemplated sitting next to Malfoy,
but she doesn't know what his reaction will be, and she'll have to face away from the
shore to do it.

He's probably warm himself. His robe is at least twice as thick as hers, and he
seems to do better in the cold than any normal person did. When she casts Warming
Charms on the house, she still has a chill while he's quick to strip off his robe. He
shou--

"G-Granger, if you keep looking at me li-ke that, I'm going to throw you over the
edge of the boat as a matter of self-preservation." His voice is weird, like he might
be shivering too. There goes her plan for a forceful swap of winter robes.

"I'm not looking at you in any cer-tain way, i-i-git."

"Murder."

"N-no. Stealing your body…heat." She didn't think she was going to going to get
that last word out quickly enough after the shiver passed through her.

Ding…diing…ding…

She wonders if the bell can get cold enough to crack with it being hit constantly.
Maybe when it gets a bit colder, but she'd rather not find out because of it. If it gets
any colder, she'll probably freeze before they reach the shore. The guards will find
her in the morning, iced over and attached to her bench.

"Well?" Malfoy asks, his tone harsh from the cold or something else.

"Well w-what?" She tries to sound angry back, but her voice just shakes with her
body, and it makes her sound scared.

- 354 -
 The boat sways when he stands, and she tenses, grabbing the side of the boat as
if the grip will help her if it all tips over. Just thinking of plunging into that water
makes her colder.

Malfoy plops down next to her, hissing at the cold patch of the bench he takes his
seat on. She blinks at the other side of the boat, and for a moment fears tipping over
with too much weight on one end. The other side looks strange in its emptiness, but
it's odd to be sitting next to Malfoy like this too. They've been a lot closer, but she
doesn't think they've ever just sat next to one another. They were always looking at
one another from opposite sides.

Ding…dingding…ding…

She feels the tiny shakes of his body brushing her arm, and pushes into him,
drawn to the faint warmth. He presses back harder as she turns her face toward
him, and the heat grows.

December 20; 1:04pm

The bell above the door tinkles as Hermione steps into the shop, immediately hit
with a heady combination of scents that reminds her of Snape's classroom and failed
potions. She takes a deep breath anyway, calming the race of her heart and the
dizziness. She gives a hard look to the floor, waiting for her vision to clear from the
tears the wind put in them, and the fog of anxiety.

Her shopping trip alternates between shopping and stops to gather herself, but
she hasn't given up for home yet. She's been out for five hours, and it's the longest
amount of time she's spent surrounded by strangers since the end of the war. She's
proud of herself, but in a way that she'd never admit it to anyone else. Not for
something like this. But there's progress here, even if she's the only one who knows
it. There has to be when you keep fighting for it.

She raises her head, scanning the shop again. She can hear someone moving
around beyond the rows of shelving, but it just sounds like they're opening boxes.
Pulling a parchment from her pocket, she unfolds the dampened paper, and scans
down until she find Luna's name. She's still not sure what she's going to buy her, but
she's pretty sure she's in the right spot. Even if Hermione finds some of the items
here more of a joke than useful, she knows Luna will appreciate them. She's learned
to stop questioning Luna's beliefs over the years - they didn't change no matter what
she said.

Sometimes she likes that about Luna. Her unmovable belief in something so few
- 355 -
thought more than laughable. She never…

Hermione narrows her eyes, bending closer to read the label on the small jar. She
grins before she's finished, picking it up from the shelf. As much as she denied it to
herself, there was a name constantly floating through the back of her mind today
that she didn't know what to do about. But this…this might work.

December 22; 11:11am

Harry studies the parchment she handed him, then flips to the second story, then
the third. "Did Bells draw these?"

He never asked her that before, and she leans forward to see if there's some error
she missed. "Yes…"

"He always draws the doors as squares, and puts an arrow as one of the sides for
which way they open. You put the diagonal line."

"Oh." So Harry has already known Malfoy sometimes draws them. He doesn't look
angry about it.

"Is this a copy?" he asks, holding it up.

"Yeah."

He turns to the spot between two bookcases, drawing his wand. She stands from
her seat, already knowing before he taps the pattern. Gold lines glow along the wall
before fading into black, and Harry grabs the knob of the door that has appeared,
pushing it open.

"This is the fifth, right? So we have three more in the higher circle, and three
more second-levels."

"Right," she mutters, following him into the room.

Floor plans of the Nobles and the headquarters are attached to the wall on the
left, with the floor plans for the commanders along the right. There's a long table in
the center of the room with map scrolls and parchments of information. White
boards are scattered throughout the room with clipped sentences, names, and
locations written on them.

"Jesus, Harry."
- 356 -
 He uses a Sticking Charm to place the floor plan of the first floor next to another
one, then places the second floor above that, followed by the third. He grabs a pen
from the table, writing something down on a notecard below the first floor's layout.

"No cellar?"

"Unknown." She gestures around herself. "Is this…"

"All about the Assignment." He looks over at her. "It's time to start planning."

December 24; 9:02pm

He stares at her through the window as she turns the key, then braces herself
before sliding the door open. His gaze drops down to her feet, then back up to her
face as she pulls the key out.

"I was cold."

"You look like a bloody burnt marshmallow."

"It's important to keep warm! If I get sick at a time like this, it's going to be
terrible."

She might have overdone it with her layers, piling on enough jumpers that her
arms lay out to the sides like she has bulging biceps. It's made it more difficult to
move, but she checked over a dozen times before leaving to make sure she can pull
her wand just as fast.

"You're just jealous that I'm going to be cozy on the boat."

"Or you'll fall over the edge and sink like an anchor."

"There will be no sinking. There will be me, on my bench, comfortably padded

from the cold. While you shiver." She tosses his robe at him, sniffing when her
comfortable padding causes her to throw it like one might expect from a
two-year-old.

He catches it anyway, but instead of giving her a smug look, he's staring at her
arm. She had got so used to holding it like this that she'd forgotten.

He nods his chin, and looks up at her like he knows the truth and is fully
expecting her not to tell it. "What's that?"
- 357 -
 "My arm drapery."

His eyebrows push together and raise, the corners of his mouth twitching up.
"You have drapery for your arm?"

"Yes."

"It looks like a jumper."

"It's tricky. It has tricky looks."

"And a bit too large for you."

"It's a perfect size for arm draping." She raises her chin. "Do you want it? Is that
why you keep going on about it?"

"I'm positive that it's mine anyway."

She looks down at the grey jumper folded over her arm. "Or maybe I just bought
one that--"

"I'm also near positive that you're wearing one of mine." He stares at the bottom
of her neck where the top of his blue jumper is visible. She was going to hide it, but
buttoning the top of her robe felt too close to suffocation.

"It's not yours. You said you'd never wear it because it looks like I made it myself.
Which I actually take as a compliment, because I think it's-- And I had to wear it. I
kept…puffing up, and needed a bigger size."

"And of the thirty you're wearing, you brought one for me?"

"I'm wearing seven, and two of them are very thin." She reluctantly holds her arm
out to him. "I brought two. I know your robe is thick, and you're cold-blooded, so I
didn't think you'd wear more than that."

He gives a look she doesn't really understand, and takes the two jumpers from
her. She rubs her arm against her side to wipe off the sweat that had built there
under all the layers, and watches him pull on the clothes. He looks a bit ridiculous
wearing two expensive jumpers with the bottom of his Azkaban jumpsuit, but she
doesn't point it out.

His hair sticks up from the static, though, and she smiles at that when he pulls on
- 358 -
his robe. He shoots her a look, smoothing the locks down as he buttons his robe with
the other hand.

"I didn't think you were coming today."

"Why not?" He doesn't say anything as he buttons the last of his robe, but she
realizes anyway. "I'll be leaving in the morning."

He looks up then. "Before I get back?"

"No, not tonight. Well, counting early this morning as tonight. I'll leave around
eight or so, and then I'll be back tomorrow night. About six."

He glances up at the room behind them, which makes her paranoid enough to
look too, and takes the lantern from her hand. "I'm staying at the house tonight?"

"Yeah. You have the dinner with the revival tomorrow, right?"

"Not until ten."

"It's easier to stay at the house tonight."

She waits for him to start walking first, and she falls a half-step behind him.

"Who will be there tomorrow?"

"Leacher is coming at eight until noon, and then Harry until three, and Pruit until
six. Then I'll be back."

She waits for him to say something about how it's a lot more complicated that
way than just bringing him back to his cell. But he doesn't say it, because maybe he
knows her answer, and it's too bothersome for him to have to confirm that they were
all doing it to keep him out of a cell on Christmas. Though Pruit didn't agree until
she claimed it was for his mental stability. Leacher went from refusal to reluctance
when she lied about the revival expecting Malfoy to be there, and how they might
stop in. Harry was the only one who came easy, despite Ginny's annoyance with him
for working on Christmas.

Even if she had had to stay at the house all day herself, she would have done it.

December 25; 7:28am

- 359 -
 Malfoy's white shirt is wrinkled from his sleep, the strings of his pajamas in a
knot halfway down their length. She spends too long staring at the knot she can't
figure out the purpose for, because he thinks she's staring at something else entirely
judging from the arch of his eyebrow and flash of amusement.

He sits down across from her, his eyes sleepy and his hair tousled. He would have
slept longer, she thinks, but he probably heard her come in a few minutes ago. She
had thought she would be leaving before he woke up, and if she's honest with
herself, she wanted to give it to him without her actually being there.

She didn't know what to do today. She had contemplated a small tree to make it
feel more like the holiday, or home, or the things people remember when they see
one. But she doesn't know how much the Malfoys celebrated Christmas, or if Malfoy
would appreciate it at all. She hadn't even been sure on a gift until it found her, and
when she realized it was a bit insulting, she added sweets. Bags of sweets, and
expensive ones, and all that he had mentioned liking at some point. But still just
sweets, and nothing to make an event out of.

She never would have thought he'd wake up to find them and come out here. She
thought it would have been as awkward for him as it was for her.

He holds up the jar, raising his eyebrows, and then turns the label toward him.
There's a clink in his mouth, and she watches his tongue push into his cheek before
he starts to speak - he already started in on one of the bags, then. "The cure for
Wallybliars - the pests that cause irrational thinking, meanness, arrogance, vanity,
cold behavior, short tempers, poor hearing, and toe warts."

She smiles. "To be taken twice daily - one dose in the morning, one in the
afternoon."

"Are you trying to poison me? Though, by some of the symptoms, I thought you
might have given it to me on accident instead of Weasley."

"…The poor hearing?" She grins when he doesn't seem sure if she's being serious
or not. "I actually don't know what's in it, but it can't be anything deadly. So if you'd
like to try it…"

"I'll have you go first. After all, there's irrational thinking, arrogance, vanity,
short tempers, and poor hearing…" He cocks his head at her. "Toe warts?"

"No! And I'm not arrogant or--"

- 360 -
 "Ah, this is the irrational thinking. You better be quick, go on." He holds it out to
her, and she shoots him a glare with no heat.

"I'll wait awhile longer to see how you react. I put it in the sweets."

He pushes up in his chair as he slides the bottle into his pocket. She's surprised
he's not just throwing it away. "I might believe that if I hadn't thoroughly checked
the packaging."

Her smile is strange, because she doesn't know if she should give in more to the
disbelief or amusement. "Really?"

His tongue curls around the sweet in his mouth, and his cheeks dent in when he
sucks and shakes his head. "No, but your reaction tells me you didn't do it anyway."

She opens her mouth, searching for something clever to say, when he sets a black
box in front of her. It looks like metal, and there's a line that serves as an opening
that wraps around the device. There's no symbols or markings, or anything to tell
her what its purpose is.

"It's not Dark. It works like a secondary ward when it's activated, and effects
whatever area is also inside the wards it's placed within. As soon as someone enters
that space, they have twenty seconds to deactivate the device. If they don't, it Stuns
anyone who is inside the space. It's useless to have it activated when you're home
since it'll Stun you as well, but I think you likely have wards that tell you when
someone dismantles or breaks them when you're there."

"I do." She reaches out slowly, running her finger along the edge of cold metal.
"This is for me?" Just to be absolutely sure.

He shrugs. "It was in a shipment I picked up with the recruits, and I thought you
might find it useful. Especially if you check your house the way you check this one
when we get here every night."

The warmth in her cheeks turns into a burn, though he doesn't say it with
anything like judgment in his voice. "Thank you. Really."

"It's fine. I didn't buy it, I j-"

"You didn't have to." She glances up at him as she picks up the device, and his
gaze drops to it.

- 361 -
 "Perhaps I should have wrapped it. How much tape did you use on mine,
Granger? It took me five minutes to get one bag unwrapped."

She grins widely - too widely, because it hurts her cheeks, but she means it.
"Three rolls."

3:28pm

Hermione is covered in flour, spices, and some sort of sauce that goes to one of
the too-many things cooking in the Burrow's kitchen. There's also a large splotch of
pudding smeared onto the front of her apron from when Fluer sneaked up behind
her, but it's better than the bruise on the blonde's face from when Hermione had
spun around too quickly with her hand fisted.

"Oh, dear," Molly says gently, glancing over at the cream she had assigned
Hermione to whip. "Faster now, and stop when it starts to peak."

Molly has also been busy sending worried looks to whatever Hermione was
working on, and muttering promises to a husband and children she didn't have yet.
It's made Hermione more determined for perfection, which has only seemed to make
Molly more worried.

"Harry, if that finger gets any closer to this bowl…"

He leans toward her, pushing his glasses up as he squints. "Molly? I think--"

"Do you know how many sharp objects are around me at this moment?"

He laughs, looking over his shoulder and then over her head. "Bells is fine. He
slept the whole time Leacher was there, I think."

"How did it go last night? The recruits who were awarded a night off, and that
Bells thought would go out into the Muggle world?"

"They didn't disobey orders - they lit some trees on fire, wrecked some things,
messed with people. But the higher circle told them not to kill or draw too much
attention, so it was mostly kid stuff."

"Good. I didn't know how we were going to"-Harry's eyes snap up to the other
side of the kitchen-"get all this stuff done on time, but it looks like Molly really
knows how to organize a meal like this."

- 362 -
 "Mum's used to it by-"

"Ron!" she yells, watching him escape with a scoop of cream on his finger.

"I didn't even get close."

"Swoop and spin away, Harry. It's taken me years to perfect."

6:04pm

Malfoy looks over at her from the stove, and his gaze stays on her hair longer
than she'd like. She knocks twice on the wall, looking at the hallway as Pruit rounds
into it from the living room.

"Tha--"

"No problem, but I've got to go," Pruit rushes out, pulling on his robe. He pauses
to smile at her, giving her a nod. "Merry Christmas, Granger…Bells."

She flinches at the loud crack of Apparition, and looks over at Malfoy as she nears
the table. "Did you scare him away with your cooking?"

"More my complete disinterest in the lives of his children, whom he talks about
constantly. Without pause."

"It's Christmas, it happens." She walks over to the counter, nudging him out of
the way as she opens a cabinet. "Are you eating that?" She pulls down two plates
just in case.

"I was going to feed the rats in the cellar, but they might be scared away by your
hair. It looks like a predator."

"You look like a predator." She turns for the table, unbuttoning her robe. "I was
running around all day, and I had to cook for eighty hours, and if you can remember
the Gryffindor stands after a victory in Quidditch, that's sort of like Christmas at the
Weasleys'."

He's too quiet after that, and she looks over at him as she drapes her robe over
the back of her chair, finding his eyes on her. She's then aware of the dress she's
wearing, modest but different, and she runs her hands down it self-consciously.

"Well, I have things. Ham, vegetables, potatoes, and pies, pudding, treacle tart,
- 363 -
cake, biscuits… I know you're going to be eating in a few hours, and eating dinner
with me isn't really normal, but--"

"I eat dinner with you every night, Granger - what exactly is your definition of
normal?" He turns the dials for the burners slowly, clicking them off, and nods to the
bags she's set on the table. "You made all that today?"

"Some of it." She clears her throat, fiddling with the bag straps. "I didn't eat
much, so I don't know how everything tastes, but it should be good. I figured we
could have Christmas dinner together, but if you want to eat something else, I'll
just--"

"I'll eat it."

"Okay…good."

He takes the plates from the counter to set them on the table, his side brushing
hers. She's pulling a plate of cake from the top of a bag when she feels his fingers
skim along her hair, and she looks up at him as he takes out the clip pinning her hair
up. His jaw clenches as he looks from the tumble of curls to her shoulders to meet
her eyes. Her grip tightens on the plate when he leans down, and she closes her
eyes. His fingers skate down her hair, and his palm presses warmly to the side of
her neck the moment his lips touch hers. His thumb moves to under her jaw, tilting
her head back a little further as he kisses her more firmly. She's barely responded
when he pulls back, and her inhale stutters at his expression.

"I'll get the silverware. You, uh…you start putting the food on the counter."

"All right."

"Okay."

December 26; 4:20am

Malfoy picks up one of her quills, and uses the end to slide the inkwell closer to
him while taking parchment from the pile in front of her. He sits down, uncapping
the inkwell with a push of his thumb, and draws a large rectangle with a smaller one
coming out vertically from the center of the first.

A floor plan, then.

"Is that one of the Nobles'?"

- 364 -
 "It's the other location."

"What?"

"The other location where they meet."

She leans forward to hear him better, though he's done speaking. "Honestly?"

"No, Granger," he mutters tiredly, "I was just testing your stupidity in not
believing me."

"That's excellent!" If they weren't separated by a table, she might have hugged
him in her excitement. "I thought it would be the hardest to get, and back us up on
time for months, if not more!"

She catches his amusement before he lowers his head again. "If it weren't for the
occasion and the details of it, it could have taken months."

She feels like telling Harry right now, but he's sleeping, and there's still more to
do. Just because they have this doesn't mean it won't still take a long time to get the
rest.

"Christmas?"

"No. They promoted Lewitt, Balm, and Hugh to commanders, and they're starting
divisions. Seven Nobles in seven sections of England with two commanders under
him, and one Noble with two commanders remaining at the recruit warehouse. This
location we met at tonight will be the headquarters for the higher circle - all joint
meetings and gatherings will be there."

"Divisions?"

"To make for an easier takeover while each grouping is assigned certain tasks in
each designated area. A certain number of recruits will be present in each section
for fighting, and later guarding, patrol, enforcing new laws and so on."

God, they really have their plan all put together for their attack. It's more
controlled than Voldemort even managed, which means it'll be even more difficult to
destroy if they're able to get it there. Even if one of the Nobles dies, they have seven
others, and then sixteen commanders ready to take their place. Dark objects set up
around England meant to aid them in the war they're planning, people infiltrated
into government and businesses, potions the Ministry still hasn't sorted out the
- 365 -
purpose for, and hundreds of trained wizards and witches ready to fight for their
cause.

If they had caught this any later… If they didn't move soon enough…

"We'll expand once the majority of our divisions are under control, spreading out
into the rest of the United Kingdom. We don't have enough recruits to take it all on
at once, and though they'll be expecting us, I'm sure the Nobles haven't created a
plan to lose."

"They're splitting it into divisions now? They're--"

"They've assigned us our divisions, but we aren't assigned our recruits until
summer - they didn't give a month. I'm assuming certain things have to fall into
place first, and they want more recruits. Balm is moving in with Green, and Hugh
and Lewitt will be staying at the recruit warehouse until everyone is moved to their
division. So there aren't any more locations to add."

Her hand is cramping from the writing, and she's not entirely sure she's getting it
all right when her mind is spinning through different situations, and outcomes she
shouldn't think about yet. "If it's summer, we have to move before then. Obviously,
the sooner, the better in terms of recruits, Dark objects, and their infiltration plans,
but…definitely before June. Which gives us…"

"We don't need five months, Granger." He slides the parchment he drew on
toward her, and takes another blank one. "I'll have it done in two."

December 27; 1:18pm

Ron shakes his head as he stands up from her living room floor, and then shakes
it again. "I hate that bloody feeling."

"It's terrible, but thanks for doing it, Ron."

"You looked like a murderer when you found me. I actually got a little scared for a
second."

She laughs at him, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the paper with the
incantation on it. "I'm just happy it worked. I didn't know if it would, and I was
doubting it could Stun you in the living room when the device is near the door."

She had set it up to look like a base of a zen garden Neville had got her three
- 366 -
years ago. There's nothing about it that makes it look like a magical object, and
certainly not within twenty seconds of entering her flat.

"Where'd you get it?" Ron asks, rubbing the back of his head.

"It was a gift. From a friend…" -like person. Something she has tried enough
times to define it to know it's impossible to right now. Maybe later. After.

"A friend."

"What?"

"You said it like that. A friend."

"I did not! I clearly--"

"Are you dating someone?" She pauses long enough for him to start shaking his
head. "Maybe I'll find out when I rejoin the Aurors."

The words take a little while to sink through her thoughts of Ron's face the
second she were to say something like, sort of, but not really, and it's Draco Malfoy.
"Wait, what?"

"I'm rejoining."

"Why? The shop--"

"I can do both, and Ginny wants to help out for now. I figure I've got another few
years as an Auror before I just work at the joke shop. I already talked to Harry about
it, and they said I can start when I pass the physical exam again."

She doesn't like it. She had been happy when he quit, because she knew he would
be safer that way. Aurors put themselves into dangerous situations even when there
isn't a revival happening. She just wants them all to have normal lives, but she
knows that's not who they are. Not Harry, and without the joke shop and his
brother, not Ron either.

"Why?"

"You know why." He flops down into her couch. "Harry's got that look. You've had
it for years, but now Harry's got it back." Ron raises a finger and widens his eyes. "I
know what that look means, Hermione."
- 367 -
 She sits down next to him, slanting toward the dent of his weight in the cushions.
"Yeah."

- 368 -
 19

December 28; 10:06pm

She stifles a yawn when the loo door creaks open, and blinks three times to try
getting the words in front of her to stop blending together. She checks her watch
when it doesn't work, and pulls a vial from her briefcase. It's more difficult than it
should be to pull the stopper out, and she downs the bitter liquid in a gulp.

"What is that?"

She pulls her tongue from the roof of her mouth, cringing before she washes the
taste down with her water. It's still there, at the back of her tongue.

"Rejuvenation Potion."

He studies her until she's shifting under the weight of it. "Does it work more for
the feeling than it seems to for the look?"

She glares at him, pulling her book closer. It's bad enough she has to hear it from
Harry and Neville during the day. "Sometimes there's not enough time for the
amount of work."

He props his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. "If you can't handle it,
perhaps I shouldn't tell you anything else for awhile."

She rolls her eyes, sitting up from her slump as the potion starts working through
her body. "It has nothing to do with not being able to handle it. I just have to figure
out these Dark objects from the logs, then how to dismantle them. And I have a
presentation to the Wizengamot next week for a law about the tax cuts to
organizations that promote history of the wizarding world, which are just really
fronts for pure-blood-- A lot of things, is my point."

She thinks his comment was just a way to get her angry enough to tell him things
she wouldn't normally consider telling him. He has a way of doing that to her, and
she has a way of falling for it despite knowing this. This is why she expected him to
lose interest in her to-do list when it's nothing really concerning or problematic to
him. But he seemed to be listening as closely as he had in the beginning, which
made her more aware of her rambling than his disinterest tended to do.

- 369 -
 "Were you the one who started the investigation into the Fillmore company?" he
asks, and she clears her throat, rearranging her books, quills, and parchment.

"The Wizengamot launched the investigation. I only presented a list of companies

who might have been in violation of disclosing house-elves as employees, and a few
reasons why that might be. With house-elves usually working in grunt jobs like
cleaning and shipping, I imagine it's only a matter of time before one discusses the
shipments of Muggle objects they're not allowed to talk about. With the company
shut down for inspection, they should find the prototypes with Dark magic soon
enough."

He smirks at her, and the wickedness makes her torn between feeling a little
more pride or a little dirty. "You're well-suited for politics and business, Granger."

"As long as it serves the greater good."

"I take that back."

She throws the cap of her highlighter at him.

December 30; 1:24pm

Blurry images of hands, dark grey eyes, and damp skin. Kisses, and fingers,
and…lazy touches. Lazy, rubbing, circling touches, and warmth, and…

Hermione's body feels heavy and sore as the images float in the darkness of her
mind, like a faraway memory that's too new to have been so. She opens her eyes, the
left more reluctant, and they try to shut again. It's the stretch of skin under her that
keeps her from drifting off, and she stares blankly at a flat nipple and the even rises
and falls of breathing. Not a dream either, then.

It's like she's recalling things after a drunken night, where it's flashes of events in
a head that hurts. She's surprised she even managed this when she had been so
tired that her recollection is as fuzzy as a dream. Had they even had sex, or had-oh,
no. No, they certainly had. She must have just fallen--

Hermione jerks up, looking at the door that keeps moving for a moment in her
vision, and then down at Malfoy. He's awake, raising his eyes from her chest to meet
hers. He looks a different sort of tired through the sleepy hood of his eyes, like she's
about to say something to reignite an argument they had been having for an hour.

"I fell asleep!"

- 370 -
 "You napped. Two hours doesn't--"

"T…two hours?"

"Yes, and I've been awake the whole time to witness how the world ended, and
some Hogwarts upstart took your spot as number one swot."

He's been awake. It makes her feel better and worse at once. At least he could
have woken her if something sounded suspicious, though she should have never
fallen asleep in the first place. But it makes her feel worse in the unimportant ways
that have nothing to do with their safety. Like if she snored, or talked, passed gas,
made weird noises, drooled on his chest, acted out things in her memory-dreams,
or…

She stares down at the bob of his throat, very aware of his nakedness stretched
out under her, and his arm around her waist. She'd fallen asleep on him, and he
hadn't moved her, and they had… Had she been wrong that he's the sort who
doesn't appreciate post-coital, hazy…things? Like their legs tangled, and her head
on his chest, and his arm around her, and the soft touching… Had he been trying to
put her to sleep? What tired person, after using the last of their energy, can deny
the lull of sleep when he had been shoving her into it. Gently, but no less effectively!

It's still her own fault.

"Sorry." She rubs her eyes, her other hand slipping along his chest. "Are you
tired?"

"No." He sounds it, though, his voice rough.

"You have to go in eight hours, so you should sleep now. I shouldn't have fallen
asleep. Sorry. I--"

"If it was a problem, I would have woken you."

"Okay," she says groggily, climbing off him. She grabs the blanket that's half on
the floor, wrapping it around herself before standing up, and pushes her hair back.
"Oh…you need this. Just…"

He smiles lazily at her, reaching up. "Hand it over then."

She shoots him a look, stumbling back, and finds his shirt when it catches on her
feet. She hunches over to keep the blanket draped over her as she pulls on the shirt,
- 371 -
breathing in the scent of him. She straightens as she yanks on the bottom of the
fabric, and then tosses the blanket onto him. Squatting down carefully, she grabs
her knickers and skirt from the floor, scanning for the rest of her clothes. He must
have taken them off before they reached the bedroom.

She glances back at him, the blanket still laying over his lap where she had
thrown it, and his gaze climbs her legs. She blushes, pulling on the end of the shirt
again as she walks for the door. "I--"

"Granger." She pauses, hand on the frame. "I think you need to take tomorrow
off."

"I don't need it. I'll sleep tomorrow, be--"

"Call an Auror," he says, making her stop again. "You can go sleep now."

"In a rush to get rid of me, Malfoy?" she asks, her tone light. Maybe he's just
paranoid she'll fall asleep while he's sleeping, and then someone coming. "I'm fine. I
had--"

"Granger."

She turns around this time, his tone too serious for her to ignore. He looks at her
for several seconds, and then raises his hand. She recognizes her wand immediately.
Her heart leaps into her throat, and breathes nonsensical sounds before rushing
back. She can't believe she didn't notice she wasn't holding her wand. She carries it
with her everywhere but to sleep and shower, and she never just forgets.

"I, uh, was distr--"

"You were tired. It's made you incompetent."

She snatches her wand out of his hand - he's lucky she can't curse him. "I am
never incompetent."

"Think about it when you get some sleep."

He's unfazed when she glares at him, spinning for the hallway, and slams his door
shut. She doesn't run out of steam until she's in the kitchen, the clothes she
collected shoved under her arm. If she's in a state where she's tired enough to
forget something as absolutely vital as her wand, then he has a point. She doesn't
doubt her competence if someone were to cast at her right now, but she's not as
- 372 -
clear-headed as she should be when in this situation. He has a right to call her out
on that as his guardian. It's her job to protect him, and if she's not doing the best of
it, she should get rid of whatever is causing that.

Sleep. She just needs some sleep.

December 31; 9:32pm

Ding…didingdiding…din…

Hermione pulls hard, the rope shoving her gloves up and scratching the skin of
her palm. She tests to make sure it's secure, and then follows the circle of light to
where Malfoy is standing with the lantern. She sniffs, glancing around for her
briefcase before she sees it in his hand, and then rushes toward him. The sooner
they Apparate to the house, the sooner she can cast drying spells on their feet. The
ice water has soaked into her shoes and socks, and the coldness is painful.

He starts for the trees when she gets a few steps away from him, and she curves
to follow. There's only the fading sound of the occasional bell ringing, and the
crunch of their footsteps. The woods are too quiet for her to not keep her hand on
the end of her wand, watching the shadows as her heartbeat speeds up. If a lot of
people came out now, too many for her to take, she won't be able to run properly
with the numbing in her feet. She'll have too--

"I didn't think it would be you tonight."

"I slept." She says it a little too snippy for the first words they've exchanged since
yesterday afternoon.

"I don't mean that."

Oh. "I don't like New Year's Eve." Her hand smacks into a thin tree to stop herself
from slipping down the small hill any more. "I don't like all the talking about things
no one will do. Or the promises to yourself you're going to break. It's the difference
of a day - if you meant to do it, you would have committed to it yesterday too."

"Some people need a starting point. It's the end of a year, so it's fitting to end
some things and begin others. It's the same as a moment of revelation, or some
event that makes them rethink their priorities and choices. Things don't start in the
middle."

"It's the fact that nearly all of these new beginnings just turn into a year of the
- 373 -
same old ends. Some people do commit properly, and good for them. But the same
things I heard people wanted to do three years ago, they're saying, well, this year to
tonight."

"I thought you would appreciate eternal optimism despite a gloomy outlook. Or
were you thinking in first-year that you were just kids and bound to lose the war?"

She can barely feel the root under her shoe, and her forehead almost meets a tree
when she trips over the next. "It wasn't a war then. It was a lot more than we
understood, but everything hadn't gathered into what it would." She grabs the back
of his robe when he slips, the lantern jostling. "I do appreciate optimism. It's my
outlook that's gloomy, and it's just them who know it's possible but still don't do it,
even if it'll make them happy."

"So you're unhappy with their lack of willingness to seize the things that will
make them happy?"

"…Yes. I suppose you can put it like that." Did he just laugh? "I don't like to drink
either, and I can't, in case something happens here. Everyone is just piled into a
huge crowd that gets very rowdy, and you can't hear anything. And I don't like
fireworks, or firecrackers, or fire anything." They remind her of exploding spells,
and the crack of Apparition and broken buildings. "And they're all going to a pub
this year, which means a bunch of strangers, and people spilling their drinks on me,
and some drunk bloke trying to kiss me at midnight. Then seeing all my pissed
friends home and to their beds, with a likely stop at the toilet or rubbish bin first."

He's quiet as he twists through a cropping of trees, and they break into the small
clearing. Her fingers are numb in the crease of his elbow, and she has to
concentrate a little longer before she Apparates them to the house. She releases a
breath, white vapor clouding out into the air, and casts drying and warming spells
on his feet before doing it to hers.

"I have to leave at ten."

"I know," she says, waiting for him to walk for the door.

He shifts on his feet, the lantern spinning slowly in his hand. "You'd rather spend
tonight by yourself?"

"You'd rather bring in the new year with the revival?" She shrugs. "Priorities
don't start tomorrow. And I'd rather spend it alone than where you're spending it,
so…"
- 374 -
 She smiles at him, and walks first this time.

January 2; 4:31am

He looks like a statue, frozen there at the edge of the lake with a stone head
under the blue of the moon. She had heard his Apparition, but it had been distant,
and she had been sure it was someone else. When no one entered the house and the
map showed his dot near Rome, here she had found him. He never Apparated this
far out, or took this much time to come inside. She knows the only reason why he
must have is to be alone, and though there's something in the loneliness of his
shadow surrounded by a blank field of white that demands she doesn't, she trudges
back to the house in silence.

And paces.

He had been leading recruits into a business tonight to collect all documents from
a man's office, and retrieve two women who he thought the Nobles wanted for their
skills in potion research. It had been a wizarding business, so maybe something
went wrong. Maybe there had been more employees than he thought there would be
this late, and they had fought back. Maybe some had died, or maybe a recruit he
saw himself in had. Maybe it was the kidnapping, and remembering the people who
came through the door of his home and into the room under the parlor. Maybe it's
because his actions reflect the same as the people he hates, and sometimes he hates
himself for that.

Sometimes she catches him with a look on his face that scares her. At times, it's
anger. A sort of deep, livid fire that crackles off from every line of him until she's
sure he's about to do something stupid like rush the revival for himself. Other times,
there's a malicious satisfaction that reminds her of the way Harry used to get, where
there's revenge in their thoughts that pushes them toward darkness. But the most
worrying is the one she sees at the window, or when she enters a room, or in his
memories when he thought he was alone. It was something like regret and blame,
and all the things actions can bring when they haunt people.

"Are you okay?" she asks at the squeaking of the door, before he steps in to look
at her, carefully blank but with a strain at his mouth.

"Yes."

"Are you hungry?"

"No."
- 375 -
 He shrugs out of his robe, dropping it over the back of his chair, and toes off the
boots that have left wet footprints and snow across the kitchen. She doesn't see any
blood or burn, and he moves a bit more stiffly than usual, but she expects to see
that.

"Did everything go well tonight?"

"No one died. The task was completed." He pulls the end of his shirt from his
trousers, then pulls off his gloves. "I have to go back in three hours."

Her hand pauses in the reach for her robe, and she sits back down from her start
to stand. "Why?"

"One of the recruits ran when we attacked some people who were in our way. The
Nobles want him found and taken care of."

He unbuttons his shirt, but she's too distracted with what he said to even notice
he's undressing in front of her. "What do you mean by taken care of?"

He looks up at her then, but only for a moment before he turns for the loo. "He'll
be brought back to the warehouse. If he only ran and didn't tell anyone of the
revival, he'll just be Obliviated and dropped off somewhere."

She doesn't ask what happens if the recruit did tell someone. She can guess well
enough. Fear just makes you incompetent enough to have to leave, but betrayal
creates monsters of even the best people.

"Perhaps he just realized it wasn't the life he wanted. Though I don't know why
anyone would want that life. K--"

"Because they believe in it." He doesn't close the loo door all the way, and she
can easily hear the drop of his trousers and the clink of his belt on the floor. "Or for
the power."

"Then he probably didn't believe in it enough. He was just a recruit, so there was
only the power of being part of an army that might win. And I think most people who
are willing to join a group that talks about murdering innocent human beings, are
also the sort who thrive on power. If he thought he could get a lot of it, he wouldn't
have walked away as easily."

"If you don't believe in it, the power means little. I could be a commander of
South England in a year, but under the orders of people I hate, and doing things I
- 376 -
don't want to do. That's not having power, it's being powerless; they control me. And
I'm not a person who can tolerate being controlled much longer."

He'll have that face on then, if she moves to look around the wall. The one of
anger. They all make her think he might break before they break them, but the
anger is the one she doesn't know if he'll come back alive from.

January 5; 4:44am

To her left is the shape of a monkey hanging from a branch, but he's missing one
leg. Then the wind blows through the fog, the branch bows, and the monkey is lost
in a curtain of white-grey. Malfoy presses more tightly to her at the icy force, her
eyes watering, and the flame in the lantern tempting darkness.

She blinks back the wind-tears, sniffing loudly, and waits to breathe until the
flame has stopped sending shadows around the boat. The trip home will be a long
one, especially without his warmth at her side, and she reminds herself to bring
several layers with her next time.

She looks down at their legs pressed together. She studies the contrast of his last
two fingers, clad in a black, leather glove, against the flap of her blue, knitted
mitten. Her other hand has the top flapped back and buttoned to keep her fingers
open, though she's not sure how well she'll handle her wand anyway, her fingers
numb.

His shoulder and arm shift against her, and she turns her head to look up at him
as he turns his to look at her. The tip of his nose and his cheekbones are pink, his
eyes narrowed against the breeze passing through them that shifts his hair across
his forehead. The eye turned toward the shadows is black, and the other closer to
the lantern is a grey-gold that reminds her of a cat.

"Kissing is such a strange thing when you stop to think about it." His eyebrows
raise, but it's not like the thought came out of nowhere with his face this close to
hers. "You just rub your lips together, and sort of clasp, retreat, and then pulling,
and suck, and some bite, and then the tongue gets involved. And it really makes me
wonder if it's just a natural instinct to do that, or if we've been trained since youth
as that being this big sign of…a lot of different things. Who first did something like
that? Who first thought, I'm just going to rub this part of my face on you."

"You really think about everything, don't you, Granger?"

"I don't think it's natural. I mean, it feels natural to us to want to do it, to desire
- 377 -
it, but I think that's learned. Not like…you know, sex, where the body automatically
prepares for it. And it's like how hips will move in that natural way for people when
you're doing…things, even if you've never had sex before. It's instinctual--" His eyes
have lit up with a sort of light that makes her quickly retreat from that topic. "But
kissing--"

"Go ba--"

"It's a desire, we know it feels good, we feel the need to do it at times, to respond.
It intensifies emotions. But I don't think a person--"

"What was--"

"A person who never knew or was shown a kiss would feel the desire to do it. But
at the same time, it's sort of like how babies will move their mouths like they're
sucking when they're hungry. Maybe people were having sex, and there was a sort
of…"

"Hunger."

"Right, and it was a shoulder, or a mouth, or a neck, or whatever. There was the
natural feeling to want to get as close as possible, to express, to feel. And
then…kissing." She shrugs. "But it's still strange. You know, what if that was like
elbow rubbing or something. You express want, or need, or affection, or love…by
rubbing your elbow against someone else's. Weird. But kissing has become so--"

"Is this the shit you think about when you're kissing someone?" He's frowning at
her. "Do you ever stop overthinking everything, or is that impossible for you?"

She glares at him, lifting her chin, which must have appeared too much like an
invitation, because his eyes drop to look at her mouth. "Sometimes I stop thinking. I
mean, normally, I hardly think at all during it." If she did, she wouldn't have kissed
him back the first time. "You can't tell me you don't think at all."

"It's more of a feeling than thinking. Knowing what I want to do next, and not a
process. If I begin to think about things like the origin of kissing, I wouldn't bother
kissing that person in the first place."

"Well, it's not like I thought about it while I was kissing you, I just thought about
it while…thinking about it."

His scowl makes little lines appear at the edge of his lips, and she imagines him
- 378 -
with the face of an old man that clearly spent too much of his life being angry and
annoyed. She wonders if she'll get to see it. The leather of his glove is cold as it
pushes along her cheek and jaw, and she shrugs up her shoulders in response, a
shiver trembling through her. He slides it to the nape of her neck, and when she
pushes forward on an instinct to escape the icy feel of it, he kisses her.

His lips are cold too, but his mouth is warm, and that warmth spreads through
her. To her lips, and her tongue, and her blood, until her skin is warm too, and her
heart is racing with it, and her body is sinking into his.

He pulls back just a little, but there's space and wind there, and so it's too far.
"What are you thinking now?" She shakes her head, her mitten-clad hand warm in
the crook of his elbow, and her bare fingers hooked under his robe and shirt,
heating her skin as it chills his. "Tell me."

"Nothing, though if you were thi--" she begins to say, but then he's kissing her
again.

January 7; 11:28pm

"See? No, look at the wall. Look, it's…wait." She rearranges her fingers. "There,
see?"

"No."

"You're saying that doesn't look like a shape of something you've ever seen?" She
scissors her fingers.

He gives a long-suffering sigh. "A wolf."

"A dog! Or a wolf! That's interesting, actually. I'm going to make shapes, and
you--"

"If you're trying to get me to participate in something with the purpose of you
analyzing me, you'd have to be a lot more sly than that, Granger."

"I'm not trying to analyze you. I'm just wondering if this"-she nods to the figure on
the wall-"looks more like a ferret or rat to you." She narrows her eyes at the shadow.
"Can't really get the body right for either, though," she mutters.

He looks more annoyed than angry. "I'm not the one who does this for
entertainment. If anyone should have their mind analyzed--"
- 379 -
 "Children like it. You put on a little show. Like…" She makes her rat-ferret move
in a way that makes it look more snake than anything else. "Then someone comes
along, and…" She gives him an encouraging look, and he raises an eyebrow in
response. "Are you too incapable of making something as simple as--"

"That might work on the idiots you're used to in your social and Ministry circles,
but I stopped falling for it when I was five."

She scowls. "Chuh. Fine. Then see, two bunnies, and they hop to one another like
this, and… 'How do I make sense of this rune?' 'Well, it has the bottom loop curving
to the left, but besides that, it mirrors'…"

She looks over at him when his short, huffy sounds build to laughter, and she
grins.

"See? Entertaining. I told you, it has--"

His laugh stutters like he might talk, then continues for a few seconds before he
manages speech. "Is that how you got perfect marks? Everyone was using the
library walls for snogging, but you were working out problems with hand--"

"I never worked out problems with shadow puppets!" Maybe twice, but it had
been when she was stuck and grew bored with glaring at her paper. "You're the one
who asked me to demonstrate what they are--"

"And you agreed with the purpose to prove they aren't as ridiculous as they
sound. Perhaps you can use Mister Fiddle and Miss Wolf to work out why that didn't
happen."

"I told you that they're for children, and--"

"And for you when you're bored in your room, or, apparently, att--"

"That was not about me! I am never bored, and so it couldn't have possibly
been--"

"Did the puppets tell you to lie about--"

"I don't know, but the puppets are going to attack you if--"

"Oddly, I'm not that worried about it."

- 380 -
 January 8; 8:30am

Hermione pauses in the doorway, and Ron looks up at her from the file, his hair a
mess and his hand still in it.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He taps his fingers against the back of the file, looking down at the parchment
again, and she wonders when Harry caught him up on everything. She's glad she
hadn't been there for it, because Harry can calm Ron down a lot better than she can.
She heads for the commander wall, pulling two parchments from under her arm.

"Is it Malfoy?"

She lines the parchment up on the wall until it's even with the one next to it. "Is
what?"

"The friend."

It takes a few seconds for her brain to figure that out, and then she holds her
breath, staring at the floor plan. She hasn't planned on telling anyone until after,
until she knew if there was anything to tell after. So she doesn't say anything, but
that's always been enough.

"All right."

The scrape of a chair, steady footsteps that pass her, and the shut of a door. She
steadies herself to deal with whatever is coming, expecting to see him standing
there and red in the face. But when she looks over, he's gone.

9:27pm

Ding…di-ing…diding…

It's all she had been thinking about all day. She had thought she would ask the
moment she slid the door open on his cell, but then his eyes had met hers, and her
speech had been lost. She thinks he's picked up on her strangeness, because he kept
staring at her in level eight like he was on to something and she wasn't going to stop
him finding out.

- 381 -
 She'll ask now, though. She'll ask now because she can't see his eyes, and
sometimes she's a coward - but she's still doing it, after all. And if she doesn't ask
now, it's going to be like a little itch on her skin that she picks at, and picks at, and
picks until it's a wound, worse than it should be. She knows herself well enough.

…ding…ding…

"Are we normal?" That's not right. "The two of us, I mean." No, that's still not
right.

He shifts on the bench, and her ears turn hot. "There's nothing about us that's
normal, Granger."

Normal was the wrong word choice. Or does he know what she means?

"Since we've started…things, have you been with anyone else?"

Ding…di-ing…

"Jealous?"

So he either doesn't know what she means, or he's avoiding the answer. "Would I
have the right to be?" Yes, that's closer now.

He's staring at her. She can't see his eyes, but she can feel it. Or maybe she's just
imagining the pressure of it on her face, but where else would he be looking at a
time like this? He always stares when she's at her most uncomfortable. But at least
he must have figured it out now.

Di--

"I just want to clarify before I start…dealing with certain things that I would end
now if it's not a…if it's not something with any intentions to be continued."

Which tells him she has intentions to do so since she bothered having to ask him
instead of telling Ron he had it wrong before this. Now she's out there more than
she wanted to be, and he's still not saying anything. Sometimes the silence is
deafening, but now, it's almost too much to deal with.

Ding…ding…

"Just tell me what you're thinking, Malfoy," she snaps. "I know you have no
- 382 -
trouble being blunt with the truth."

She can take whatever he's going to say. She's twenty-three, a strong person who
has gone through war, and torture, and--

"If I thought you were the sort of woman who didn't expect me to take things
seriously, I would have tried to shag you sooner. And if I'd preferred it as a one-off, I
wouldn't have slept with you twice."

Oh. The tension she's been carrying with her all day slips, but it's replaced by a
new tension. The sort that comes with possibilities and unknowing. The feeling she
always gets when she tries to think of a future she can't understand yet. She can
plan her career, and her meals, and her schedule, but this…she can't know where
this is going.

But it's going somewhere, and it makes her nervous, but she's committed to going
with it. There's something about Malfoy that draws her in. It's far more than the
attraction, or the way she recognizes the distrust of shadows, their common goal,
the conversations, or how he can make her laugh sometimes. It's more than the
fights she enjoys more than she should, the enigma she likes to unravel, the way he
kisses her, how she doesn't mind the small tunnel to level eight as much anymore
because she knows it leads to him. It's all of it combined. It's the spaces he fills up,
and the way he makes her feel like she's found something she's been missing for a
long time.

And he's there with her. He's just as committed to going with it, or he--

"Potter slipped to Weasley?"

What? "What? Pot-- Harry knows?"

"You're not very observant, are you, Granger?"

"I, that… I'm observant, not godly, how could I have known that? How did you?"

He turns his head to look out over the side of the boat, and she leans forward a
little more, unblinking. "Potter's not the sort to catch onto anything and let it go."

She shakes her head. "He talked to you?" He's silent, but that's enough. "He
didn't say anything to me." Why hadn't he? When he caught on? How? And how
much?

- 383 -
 "Jealous?"

She glares, but it reminds her of something that makes the bottom of her stomach
turn hot. "Have you been with oth--"

"No."

Good. Really good. She hadn't thought so given what he said earlier, but she had
to be sure since he had never answered her properly when she first asked. "You're
not asking me?"

"I need to?" His tone sounds darker, and she's pleased with it. At the way she
recognizes it with the feeling in her gut before he responded.

"No."

…ding…di-ding…

January 10; 12:01pm

Hermione puts the original floor plan back in her folder, and looks up at the
marker that rolls toward her. Leacher nods to the giant map on the far wall as he
studies her, his mouth firm and his eyes hard. She doesn't know if he's questioning
her presence here, or if it's just the face he always wears when the topic is the
revival. It's the first expression she's ever seen on him, the first time at the doorway
to level eight.

She uncaps the marker as she walks to the map, standing her open folder in the
groove that runs down the metal shelf attached to the bottom of the board. She
colors a small circle at the end of a street, marking it 1-A; Keiler Device.

"Are we doing it the same night we attack?" Pruit asks.

"We don't have the resources," Leacher says.

"We use workers who specialize in dismantling and destroying, like the Dark
Artifacts office, Cursebreakers, Unspeakables."

"Doing it at once runs the risk of the revival enabling the devices mid-attack."

"They're not going anywhere - each location will be surrounded and have
Anti-Apparition wards up. At worse, we'll get a handful of higher-ups that know
- 384 -
where the Dark objects are, and aren't at the locations when we get there. They can
attack, but with teams shutting down the devices, it'll be a fairer fight. And that's if
they gather when they escape us. They're going to scatter."

"The teams will have to know it might happen and agree to do it," Harry says.
"I'm not going to order them to do it since they normally have Aurors there when
they're called into a dangerous situation."

"We can have them start earlier than us…" Pruit shakes his head. "But they might
have the devices set up to notify the higher circle when they're tampered with."

"It's still a question if we have enough people for the battle." Leacher flips a
parchment in front of him to the next in the stack, but he doesn't look at it. "We have
a recruit headquarters with over two hundred fifty people. Sixteen commanders and
eight of these Nobles--"

"Fifteen commanders that will be fighting against us," Hermione corrects him.
"But twelve locations, with nine for the Nobles, and then the warehouse."

"Bells needs to find out when the higher circle all meet together at the location in
Germany. Having them all in one place is going to be easier, especially when we
know they'll all be there, and we have them surrounded." Pruit nods his chin at
Harry. "What about the governments? Are we cleared to--"

"Kingsley is working on that - I don't get involved in politics," Harry says, the
distaste evident in his tone. "It would be easier to fight the higher circle when
they're alone, but if Bells finds out a meeting date and time, we'll move then. That
way we know they're home. We'll still send teams to each location, with certain
Aurors on backup call just in case."

"We have a hundred and twenty-one Hit Wizards, sixty-seven Aurors. That's
one-eighty-eight, so I think we have enough. We save forty Aurors for the higher
circle, ten Aurors leading Hit Wizard teams on the recruit place, and the rest on the
commanders."

"It's too soon to go over numbers," Leacher says. "We need schedules."

"I'll see what Bells can find out. He led a mission last night to secure more Dark
objects, so this list is going to grow." She steps back, checking the locations to be
sure she got them all. "They got eighteen new recruits two days ago. Also, whoever
they have in the Ministry is up for promotion."

- 385 -
 "We need to find out who it is, the--"

"Carefully," she says. "If they keep getting blocked from the Ministry, they're
going to think they have a spy, if they don't think it already."

"And letting a revival member run around the Ministry ends in Imperius and--"

Harry cuts off Pruit. "We'll do it carefully. Reassign them to something that looks
like a promotion. If they think there's a spy, the whole Assignment could be over."

"And we're too close to being done." Hermione pulls out the copies of information
on each Dark object, and sends one to each Auror with a flick of her wand.

"Let's talk timetable."

10:16pm

There's one lock of hair at the back of Malfoy's head that swoops across instead
of being combed neatly down with the rest. She wants to reach out and straighten it
with her fingers, so she pushes her hands to the bottoms of her pockets, and
watches the flurry of snow outside the window like he is.

"I have to ask you something very important," she says softly, her voice the only
sound in the room. "You don't have to give me your answer now, but I need it soon…
Do you want to participate in the end mission? It's not part of your contract to do so,
but we want to give you the choice."

She remembers him pale in the corridors of a battered Hogwarts, and bright red
with a weight far heavier than Goyle on his chest. She remembers him scared,
broken, and at the edge of a cliff that no one knew the bottom to.

It's been years since then, and while he's still in the Dark, he's with the Light
most of all. She doesn't think it's because he's stronger than he used to be - though
he might be - but that he's no longer stuck in an impossible place. He's both given
into it and fought through it now. He'll always live with the wrongs of his past, but
he can live with the rights of his present too. He's made up for the things he's done,
though she doesn't know if it feels that way to him at all.

She knows he's not a hero. He's not the sort of man to run off into a battle for the
sake of the world. He's the sort who will fight for himself, the people he cares for,
and the things he wants, no matter the method he uses to be the safest with
everything rushing to attack. She no longer thinks that makes him a coward. He's
- 386 -
been braver than anyone has the right to ask of another person. So if he decides this
is the moment he finally walks away, she won't judge him for it. He's done enough.

"We can keep you in the Ministry or a safe house until the battle is over. W--"

"What if it doesn't end the way you expect it?"

Her heart thumps, uncomfortable hard against the wall of her chest. "They won't
be prepared enough. At most, some will scatter, some will escape. They won't take
over. But I will leave you a wand wherever we place you."

"What happens to me then?"

"The battle is the end of the Assignment. You're free."

He shakes his head, the gesture so small that she might have imagined it from a
dancing of snowflakes near his head through the window. "If they scatter, they'll
re-gather later. Having it publicized that I was the spy, they'll come after me. My
family."

Her bones ache in the tense set of her body, and she stares deep into the tunnel
of black outside, beyond the reach of the candlelight from the kitchen window. "I'd
like to say there's no way they'll gather again. That if they escape, we'll hunt them
down. But I don't know. If you'd rather go somewhere, maybe out of England,
pretend you're hiding from the Ministry too… I'll make it happen. If you don't want
that, we'll figure out how to keep you safe. We can--"

"I'll fight."

"What?"

He turns his head to shoot her a look, but she can't help the surprise. She had
considered the possibility that he would want to see it to the end, to help it get
there, but she had prepared for him not to.

"It'll work better with someone on the inside, right? I'm done with hiding. I won't
reveal myself unless I'm sure I can keep them restrained, and if the Nobles run and I
go with them…they won't be running long."

Is it because he doesn't trust them to do the job themselves, or because he knows

they could do a better job with him there? Maybe he wouldn't forgive himself if they
failed, and he could have been the solution. In a battle, it's every step that counts. A
- 387 -
single step can define the moment between you living or dying. A second of time.

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't."

Maybe he needs to end it the way she does. To have it finished and know it's
finally time to accept the things that have happened, and the person you are, and
the life you can lead now. Maybe he's still trying to prove to himself what sort of
human being he is.

She doesn't think it's just a matter of wanting to, but need. And she can
understand how impossible it is to deny that, no matter the possibilities that are
waiting.

She feels a sort of defeat now that she recognizes. It was in the moments when
she knew Harry was the only one who could do it, when she was pulled to her knees
in the parlor of Malfoy Manor, when the portrait opened to reveal Neville's face
bruised and bloody in the tunnel to Hogwarts and the end of the war. Just a moment
of defeat in the recognition that there are no real choices here; the moment before
strength hits, and she will do the things that need to be done.

She knows that Malfoy is different now. She just hopes that in a battle, he won't
be the boy shaking in the dark, but a man who owns bravery with his determination.
If something happens to him, she won't forgive herself for what she's about to say,
and the choices that will follow.

"I'll tell the Aurors."

- 388 -
 20

January 11; 2:03pm

The box doesn't blink to signal that it has been activated, but Hermione searches
her flat anyway, wand held tight in her hand. She still checks the closet, but she
leaves the cabinets shut, and doesn't bend to look under the furniture. She just
scans the floor for a Stunned body in every room, and when she reaches the living
room, she doesn't turn to check a second time. Sometimes there's a desire to check
again, again, again until her body is too tired to drag her feet across the floor any
longer. But she's used to restraining herself after the second time, so now she'll
restrain herself after the first.

She uses Pepper for a distraction, the fur soft along her fingers, then her palm
when the cat stays seated at the bottom of the couch. Hermione smiles as she
scratches behind his ears, and his head tilts, eyes squinting.

Maybe she'll buy a radio for sound, and toys for him to play with when she's gone.
He's probably lonely in such a lonely flat.

January 13; 5:12pm

Hermione opens her eyes to the explanation of what a Silter magical device is,
the horrific picture of bubbled skin doing little to ruin her contentment. Maybe it's
the chocolate raising up the chemicals in her brain, or the taste is just too amazing
to think properly beyond it. She doesn't usually care for chocolate that much, but
with the flavor combinations in this, she sometimes feels the need to have it.

"I'm beginning to understand why your cooking is so terrible when you look that
pleased by fish-flavored ice cream."

Malfoy looks like he doesn't know if he should be more disgusted or intrigued,

and she grins a little too widely at him, because it all turns to suspicion now. "The
only fishy thing about it is the name and the small fudge fishes."

The suspicion is still there as he lowers his gaze to the pint of ice cream, and she
pauses in collecting a giant spoonful. Her first inclination is to hoard it away
somewhere and not waste a bit of it with sharing, but it passes at the idea that she'll
have to hear about her fish-flavored ice cream for months on end. She still only
gathers half a spoonful before holding the handle out toward him.

- 389 -
 "Try it. It's chocolate, caramel, marshmallow, and delicious."

It takes him a few seconds to be convinced by the decidedly non-fishy look of

things, but he takes his time on inspecting it once the spoon is in his hand. He looks
sure that he won't like it, and his expression remains the same the entire time he's
testing the taste of it in his mouth. Then he takes the rest off the spoon.

"Hm?" she asks, her smile knowing as he reaches out for the pint, turning the
label toward him. "Caramel swirls, and--"

He takes the pint and brings it to his chest, flipping to the next page in the book
in front of him before digging out a giant spoonful of her ice cream. She snaps her
mouth shut, narrowing her eyes.

"You just stole my ice cream."

"I'm borrowing it." The entire spoonful disappears in his mouth, and he's the one
who looks pleased now.

"I was kind enough to share a-- You're devouring it now! Y--"

"I'm hardly devouring it - I've taken--"

"Devouring! Like a shark. A cold, slimy shark, eating all of my fishes!"

She should have never shared something this good with someone who can eat
sweets like he can. He has an addiction. She's feeding his addiction, and the only
right thing to do is take back her ice cream before he eats all of it.

She huffs, standing up to make her way around the table. His hand jerks out of
the path of her grab, but he's too used to raising it above his head to keep
something away from her. She snatches it at the other side, inadvertently pressing
her chest to the side of his head to reach it. He matches her glare before she turns,
stalking over to the cabinets.

"Unfair use of your--"

"I didn't mean to!" she rushes out, the bowl clinking loudly against the counter.
"And you say it like I broke a rule - there are no rules."

"Is that so?" he drawls, and she immediately regrets saying it.

- 390 -
 "There are certain rules. The first rule is that you aren't to take anything from
me, and if that rule is broken, I am allowed to do whatever is necessary to take it
back. However, you are not."

"I refuse to follow that. And that means you did purposely--"

"I did not! I wouldn't. From now on, I will make sure that my chest doesn't come
anywhere near your head again. All right? We'll make it a rule. But if it happens on
accident, it does not count as--"

"In the event of retrieving an object from me to which you think you're entitled."

"What?"

"Without that addendum, I refuse that rule as well."

She clears her throat, ignoring that last part, and holds the bowl out to him. He
raises an eyebrow as he looks at it, and when he lifts his gaze, she's sure he knows
she chose a smaller bowl to make the portion look bigger.

"So, this is the infamous Granger generosity."

"Oh, you don't want it?" she asks, turning back for her chair. "I could--"

She smirks when he snatches the bowl from her, and she plops happily back into
her chair, her pint secured at her edge of the table. He looks annoyed, but then he's
back to eating the ice cream and content again, leaning back in his chair. She pops a
spoonful into her mouth, concentrating on her book as she hears him turn a page.
His legs stretch out under the table, feet stopping at either side of hers, and she
thinks she can get used to this.

January 15; 11:58am

There are broken links on the three chains that hang from the ceiling, in the place
where there used to be a grand chandelier. A layer of dust covers everything in the
room, soot black and thin at the bottom of a fireplace that hasn't burned for years.
There are a few scorch marks across the walls she can only guess at the reasons for,
and the air is cold because of winter, or the lack of magic, or the memories.

Hermione feels like she can watch them move through the room like phantoms.
The bound circle, and Malfoy's face an inch from hers, set in strict lines that were
far closer to fear than they could ever be to anger. The excited pitch in Lucius'
- 391 -
voice, and Harry and Ron like stone walls at either side of her back.

Her feet found the spot without her thinking about it, like her mind has replayed
the memory too often for the path to not be natural. Hermione tilts her head, looking
up at the ceiling, and recognizes that too. She knows that spot from a lower place,
from her back on the floor and her body seized up. From around her was the yelling,
the hunch of a back, and bright, mad eyes, and the circling of her feet as Bellatrix
stalked around her. Hermione had seen flashes of her through that agony that shook
her bones apart and bent at every nerve, that made her feel in those moments like
dying would always be the easier, better choice.

Her breathing is sharp and loud, but dulled by the pulsing of blood in her ears.
She takes a deeper breath, releases it slowly, and takes another. Because she isn't
shaking now, just trembling. And the pain is just a knot in her chest. And Bellatrix is
dead.

"Hermione?"

Neville stands in the doorway, his face screwed up and his wand drawn. Her
breathing is softer, slower, and her heartbeat is fast but no longer threatening to
destroy itself.

This isn't her life anymore. It's over.

"All right?"

Maybe when the revival is gone, she'll go to Diagon Alley just to walk around.
Maybe she'll even come to this room with Malfoy. She'll go to Hogwarts, and the
place where Harry nearly didn't come back and see the Forbidden Forest, and
where they lined the bodies of their friends, members of the Light, and see the Great
Hall. One day she'll see a black robe as just a robe, and green as just a color, and
the darkness as a space of time before the light. One day she'll see her life as what
belongs to her future, and not the things from the past that stalk around her with a
hunched back and mad eyes.

"The place is cleared from anything. Why did Harry want it checked out? That
Malfoy woman is coming here?"

Neville takes her arm to lead her toward the doorway, and she pulls it away from
him to squeeze his elbow. "Maybe she's moving back in soon and he wants to be
sure it's safe and there's nothing suspicious."

- 392 -
 "Huh."

January 17; 3:38am

Hermione's bark of laughter is far too loud, and she presses her mouth shut as
Malfoy's dazed look turns into anger. His blame goes to the floor before he lifts a
deadly look to her, climbing up from the ground. His feet slip forward and back, his
body wobbling as his arms flash out, finding balance.

It's not her fault. It's not like she had wanted to clean the house today in case of
another commander drop-in, but if Riley keeps pushing for Malfoy to move due to
his abysmal living conditions, the Assignment is going to get a lot more difficult.

"I just waxed the floor. If you want to run after me in revenge, maybe you can
tip-toe and put your hands up like claws. I'm sure it'll look really threatening. I'll
even pretend--"

He hums, and her wand flies from her hand with a flick of his wrist before she can
even think to deflect the spell or clench her fingers. Her jaw drops, her hand still
positioned around a wand that isn't there.

"Obvious violation of the terms of your contract!"

He ducks his head forward. "Are you going to break the contract? What's the
punishment for disarming you? Are you going to bind me?"

"Yes," she bites out, glaring at his smirk. "Right before locking you in the cell."

He arches an eyebrow as he spins her wand between his fingers, inspecting it.
"You'll need this then, correct? Come on." He waggles his fingers, glancing down at
her feet. "Perhaps you should tip-toe over, your poking fingers out. I'm sure it'll be--"

She snorts at him, starting over, and her feigned confidence turns into the
wide-eyed attempt at balance as she slips. She hits the ground on her bum, a grunt
forced out of her, and his smile is slow and evil. Her face is hot as she gets up
slowly, and she takes three steps before slipping again. He catches her arm this
time, and her feet slide across the floor as he hauls her closer.

"I'm amazed at your skill to navigate slick surfaces."

"The only reason you made me navigate it is because you couldn't navigate it
yourself, Malfoy."
- 393 -
 Her finger jab to his chest pokes against something that crunches. She gives him
a questioning look, and when he reaches for the top of his robe, she grabs her wand.
She yanks it back, but his grip is solid on the other end, his look challenging.

"I am not against biting you," she tells him.

"I'm aware." He leers at her, and she narrows her eyes.

"I'll--"

"--give it back if you'll take the wax off the floor."

"This is not a negotiation! You'll give it back anyway, or I'll take it back."

He starts to raise his arm, and she knows he'll pull it out of her grip and it'll be
too high to grab for, so she pushes him. He loses his footing, and his hand smacks
into the small of her back as he slants, both of them falling. She lands on top of him
with a heavy exhale, her knee banging off the floor between his legs. She doesn't
fully register the brief pain, if only because her wand is now fully back in her hand,
and he's shuddering in a breath that caves in his stomach beneath her.

She grins smugly, pushing up with a forearm on his chest. "That was really
intelligent, Malfoy. Did you plan to hit harder because of my weight, or is that just
your natural stealthiness coming--"

Her grin fades as he touches her chin and jaw, staring at a spot that's stinging
along the curve. He pulls down a little on the skin, and his eyes swing back to hers
as a corner of his mouth twitches. "Hit yourself in the face, Granger?"

"No. It was an evil spirit."

"Oh?" He has no right to be this amused.

"Yes. It might have also been a fly carrying a toothpick or something. It was very
quick."

"I bet."

He grips her chin, slanting up as he pulls her face down, kissing her in a warm
press of his mouth before she pulls back.

"And if you think-mm-that you can just take my wand--" He kisses her a third
- 394 -
time, his lips soft but firm, and his grip tightening, but she still manages to pull back
again. "There's business and personal, and right now--"

He kisses her again, and when his hand leaves for the back of her head and better
control, she gives in. She can make her point some time later, when she has his full
attention in a less specific way. And when he's so persistent, and his mouth is
moving against hers in a way that makes her stomach clench up and her blood rush,
it's okay to let things go a little.

For a little while at least, because when her arm shifts on his chest for her hand
to better reach the side of his neck, she hears the crunching sound again.

"What is that?" she murmurs, and he hums under the press of her mouth before
letting his back hit the floor again.

His tongue flashes out to lick his lips, and he reaches into the top of his robe,
pulling out a scroll. "It's the last floor plan."

January 18; 1:04pm

Ron takes two steps, and then bends to look at the floor plan for one of the
commander's locations. Leacher is doing the same along the Nobles wall, but his
back is stiff. Pruit is revolving a whiteboard, turning a system of lines and dots
toward the wall, and scrawling Green on the top of the cleared side. Harry watches
Pruit draw a large rectangle, and nods at something Kingsley commented about on
the paper in front of him.

"We can't shut down their entire system of fireplaces, and we can't do something
like…have Bells replace all their Floo Powder, because they'll realize before we go
in." Pruit wheels the board down the line of floor plans, stopping at one of them to
inspect something.

"If their wards signal them when they go down, they'll try to Apparate. When they
see they can't, the fireplaces are going to be the first thing they go for."

"No," Hermione says, turning her head toward Leacher but not looking up from
the list in front of her. "The fireplaces connect them to each other. As far as Bells
has heard from commanders and Nobles, none of the fireplaces are connected to
ones outside of the revival, just in case someone tries to attack them by going
through them. We can't rule it out all the way, in case they do have an emergency
connection, but it would only be for the Nobles. Probably to a safe house."

- 395 -
 "Might be the joint location, even."

"If they didn't change it because they let the commanders know where that house
is."

"How's Bells with getting a meeting time for the higher circle?" Kingsley asks.

"It's near impossible without them informing the commanders because they plan
to invite them, and that's only likely if a situation arises." Hermione shakes her
head. "I don't think we're going to get it."

"Can we create one?" Leacher turns from the floor plans, focusing on Kingsley.

"We know the three working in the Ministry, so we can use them," Ron says.

"If they don't panic because of it." Harry shrugs. "We'll be removing the Dark
devices, and there might be something set up on them to notify them when we start
dismantling. That, on top of something with the three Ministry employees, they'll
run. We're only hoping they don't when they start getting the first one or two
notifications before we get there."

"They'll think we were just scanning and found a few. They won't be sure it's time
to run until we're there."

"We're guessing."

"We'll give Bells a few more days to see if he finds out anything," Kingsley says.
"For now, we'll plan to attack them separately, with a backup for if they're
together."

"How do we want to split the teams?" Pruit asks. "I've--"

Hermione clears her throat. "They've been training the recruits in Dark magic,
curses, and defense. So I think Bells should suggest putting the recruits in a
situation where they have to use wandless magic to protect themselves. They can
start teaching them small things now - summoning, transfiguring, hexes, small
spells. In a few days, they collect all the recruits' wands and stash them somewhere
so they can't be easily retrieved, and make the recruits 'escape'. Th--"

"I'm opposed to giving them the opportunity to learn wandless magic," Leacher
says.

- 396 -
 "Small spells," she repeats. "They won't be any match for us. In a few days, they
might have a good grasp on one or two spells, but not with the power behind even
our binding spells. The night they go into the situational training is the night we go
in. Some will probably even think we're just part of the game. We prepare for them
getting the wands, or even not doing it that night. We still have to infiltrate, contain,
bind, and bring them to holding cells, but if it works…"

Harry grins, and Pruit has been smiling since before Leacher interrupted her.
"That's a good plan."

"That's our Hermione," Ron mutters, and she can't tell if he's still angry or just
distracted. She decides it's probably a bit of both.

"Let's go with that." Kingsley nods. "Give Bells the order, and we'll see if the
higher circle agrees."

"I've got a plan for the teams." Harry grabs a marker from the table, heading for
a whiteboard, and Hermione pulls out a blank parchment.

January 19; 9:47pm

She sees nothing in the fog tonight, just swirls and spots that don't make sense as
something more than itself. The water laps gently against the sides of the boat, and
the bell rings out with every sway as they rock toward the shore.

She doesn't know if she'll ever hear a bell after this without thinking of Malfoy.
It's too ingrained within her mind now to hear it and see him, or hear someone say it
and think of him. She read a story before Kingsley told her why they named him
Bells, when she was still trying to figure out what it meant. It was about these men
who traveled across countries, facing grief, and pain, and truth, and themselves in
the trial set before them. And when they finally made it to Rome, all the bells in the
city began to toll by themselves, as if signaling them that they weren't alone, their
journey was done, and they had found the things they set out to find. That they were
in a place they could call home, and begin a life that could be easy, and maybe
wonderful too.

She had disregarded it as the reason. But that works in her mind, fitting up with
all the memories of that bell tolling and him being with her; it's her own reason now.
The one she keeps behind the walls of her skull and chest.

"And you?"

- 397 -
 She looks over at his kneecap, the clench of his hand that tells her he's afraid of
the things the conversation has brought up in his mind, or the chill is getting
through his gloves.

"I'll be there. I don't know if I'll be at the same place as you. Harry and Kingsley
make final decision on the team, and I know Harry will put me with him. So I don't
know. But I'll be at one of the locations."

Ding…ding…

"You're not an Auror."

"I'm still part of the Assignment, and I've had a lot of experience battling before."
She sniffs, hoping her runny nose is more from the night than a cold coming on.
"Not going has never been a question."

"Not even for Potter?"

She straightens from her hunch against his side, swallowing audibly as she looks
out, above the fog, where the stars string across the sky like little holes to where the
light always is. She knows what he's really asking, and she knows if she doesn't
answer it now, he'll just get blunt and inescapable anyway.

"You know, I was okay at first. I thought I was okay. But then it was the small
things, and I didn't notice until...until other people noticed. And I'd hear these
sounds at night when I was alone in my flat. I think that's really...when I was alone.
Sometimes just with Harry and Ron, and we went...you know, in the garden at the
Burrow or something. And just like that, it was all back again. I've tried to make it
go away. But it's not just something I can switch off, like a little light, and have it all
be okay."

She's tried to switch it off like that. She's tried to use every logical approach she
can think of, and the illogical ones too. It never works; it just sometimes gets better
over time, and more time, and she doesn't know who or what to blame for that
anymore.

"I think it should be okay. I think, okay, it's been long enough, what's wrong with
you. But it's still there. When I wake up, when I walk down the street, when I eat in
a restaurant, when I sleep. When I dream. I can't even remember a time
when...when I felt safe, I guess."

"And you thought joining an assignment where people are starting a revival was
- 398 -
the smart thing to do?"

"I...I think maybe if I battle my way out of it, you know? I put it to rest. I put it to
rest like I put their plans to rest, and I know, without a doubt, it's all over now.
Maybe then, after awhile, I can get some sleep. Maybe I can stop fighting. Because
I'm fighting every day anyway. It's the only way I know how to do things. Fight until
I've won."

"What if you don't win?"

"That's the thing, Malfoy. I keep fighting."

January 20; 4:50am

Malfoy unbuttons his shirt and tosses his robe on the table as she glances at her
watch, wondering if she should just tell him to wear these clothes back to Azkaban
tonight with the time running out.

"I didn't find out anything about a Noble meeting, but they agreed to the
wandless magic idea and we started today." She looks up in surprise, thinking they
would have waited at least a few more days to begin. "They ordered to do the
situational training on the twenty-third."

Her briefcase smacks to the tabletop from her weak grip, her throat drying up,
shutting too tight to work down the swallow. Her breath comes in too loud and
pushes out louder, and she curls her fingers into her palm when she feels them
trembling. Three days - the voice in her mind rushes faster on each repeat of their
limit of time, and her heart races it.

She needs to calm down - she cannot do this in front of Malfoy. This is meant for
when she is alone, behind wards and locked doors, and she can work out the panic
before hitting the bravery.

"That's fantastic." She sounds choked, and when he raises his eyes, she turns her
back to him. "I need the loo before you change, b--"

Her shirt pulls tight against the front of her, her shoe scuffing across the floor as
she stops. The floor creaks when he steps closer, and she turns, kissing him before
he can see her face and know more than he already does. She misses half his lips,
and he's perfectly still, his hand still a fist in her shirt and twisting the fabric tight
against her side from when she turned. She pushes to the tip of her toes, kissing him
properly, and it only takes a heartbeat for his mouth to open under hers.
- 399 -
 She had thought it might be something comforting, because there had to be
knowledge in the grab of her shirt as she left for composure. She had thought
gentleness, softness, warmth, and slow. She had thought she might not be able to
take it, that it would twist her heart up until it hurt. Instead, it's demanding, and
hot, and overwhelming, and her chest feels like it's vibrating under the slam of her
heart.

The fist in her shirt pulls up and up, and his other hand raises to yank the fabric
over her head and off her arms. When his hand meets the skin on her back, the
touch is barely there, as she knew it would be. He can kiss her like he owns the right
to do so, but every time he first touches her, it's like he expects her to pull away
from him. She doesn't know if the firmness that follows, the determination to feel
each curve and angle of her body, is his decision to not let her, or him knowing she
won't.

She finds the edge of his shirt, pushing her hands under and then up the heated
skin of his stomach and chest, rolling over the chain of his necklace as she brings
the fabric with her. It stops under his arms, and she grabs it as he reaches over his
shoulders to do the same, both of them tugging it off. He gets one arm through the
sleeve before his hand is skimming her face, fingertips pressing behind her head to
pull her back to his mouth.

They jostle as he shakes the shirt off his other arm, and she tips when he steps
into her and moves them back. She wraps her arms around his neck for balance, and
he gives it to her, arm circling her waist as they step back again.

He leads her down the hallway in a fumble of footsteps, fast touches, and tossed
clothing. She can barely breathe when her back hits the mattress, and he pulls away
from her enough to drop her wand on the nightstand without his other hand having
to leave her leg. She pulls in a ragged breath, looking over at the doorway before it's
blocked by his shoulder as he climbs onto the bed in front of her.

She throws him a look of accusation, but he ignores it, his hands smoothing up
her calves to where her knees are pressed together. She takes a deep breath, hoping
the oxygen might push down the anxiety that's swelling up from her stomach and
burning in her chest. He presses his palms to her kneecaps and slides his thumbs up
between the crease, spreading her legs as his hands journey up her skin and to her
thighs. She pushes her head back against the pillows as his eyes settle between her
legs, and he squeezes her thighs before grabbing her hips, yanking her down the
bed.

She's contemplating the angles she'll have to move and twist into in order to see
- 400 -
the doorway, and how well her hearing is under the pulse in her ears, when he
starts guiding himself into her. Her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes snap
back to him, watching him as he watches himself. His expression is soft, his lips
parted and his eyes bright in the candlelight that turns him golden.

She reaches out, gripping the wrist of the hand that's tightening on her left hip.
She tugs it when he looks up at her, and her legs wrap around his hips as he bends
toward her. His hands move up the bed, and the Portkey on his necklace drags up
the valley between her breasts. She can't see the door, but maybe this is okay for
right now. It's late, and she knows from when he hears her muttered insults across
the house that his hearing his impeccable. Her wand is just a shove away, and
maybe she's safe this way. As safe as any person could be right now.

Maybe that's why he pushed her down in this direction. Maybe he wants her to
feel like it's okay because he's there too. Or seeing the door, seeing how it's going to
happen, doesn't mean she's any less protected - because she'll hear the sound of
them first, she'll know they're there and she'll be ready.

She arches up when his hips snap forward, her hands moving from his shoulders
to his hair, to ruin all that controlled perfection and make him messy under her
hands. His forearms drop to either side of her head, and his thrusts gain a speed it's
hard to keep up with. She pulls on his hair, and his lips skim across her cheek before
his mouth finds hers. For now, she shuts her eyes and just concentrates on him, and
the race to be blown out over the edge. It's later that they'll put the pieces of
themselves back together, and maybe get confused over what belongs to who until
there's parts of them that become parts of the other. And maybe that's okay too.

January 23; 9:07pm

Hermione emerges from the tunnel, her vision foggy with the sudden light of the
torches and her heartbeat pushing trepidation through her blood. Harry and Ron
step up to walk to either side of her as she navigates them through level eight,
pulling the key from her pocket.

"What is this place bloody used for, Harry?" Ron whispers.

"I don't think it's used anymore. No one even tried to get in the eight months
Malfoy has been down here."

She stops in front of the cell, and Ron presses against her side as he cranes to
look into the small window. She pushes back against him as she moves to slide the
door open, and he pulls her hand out of the way, doing it himself. The steel slams
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hard enough that she thinks the door might fall as it shakes, and the loudness does
nothing to ease her nerves.

Malfoy is looking at them in surprise, but anger hardens his expression when his
eyes travel to Ron. She doesn't understand why, but the two of them haven't had the
chance to quiet the animal of the past either. He was even angrier the first time she
sat down across from him with his hands in chains.

"Looked a lot harder than it was."

She's glad Ron's not taking the opportunity to say something Malfoy doesn't have
the self-control to ignore. "That's because you were in my way."

"Did you get all your personal stuff?" Harry asks, nodding at Malfoy. "You won't
be back."

Hermione does her best to ignore the twist in her gut, and looks down at the
black bag Malfoy picks up. She notices that he's taken the blanket and pillow she
had given him, and there's no books in sight. The toothbrush and soap are left on the
sink, and there are a few pairs of socks on the unmade bed, the bottoms black from
the stone floor.

"We'll be altering your Portkey once we get to shore so you'll go to a safe house
instead of the cell." Harry and Hermione step back as Malfoy steps out, but Ron
holds his ground, both of them staring at one another. "When you get there, there's
another Portkey to Saint Mungo's if you need it. It's--"

"Granger already informed me."

He looks over at her, and she reaches to take the bag from him, holding out his
robe. "We're taking you to Harry's office before Rome."

"Hermione showed you how you'll be notified, but we want to show you the floor
plans for each place you might be called to, and go over the plans--"

"They were just finalized a few hours ago, which is why I didn't show them to you
before," Hermione says. Ron rolls his eyes at her, and it's the only thing that stops
her from again making her point that they should have been finalized before last
night. "We only have three hours, so…"

Malfoy's scrutiny is disconcerting enough, but when all three of them stare at
her, she feels like crawling out of her skin by way of nails and teeth to escape. She
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shoves the bag into Malfoy's chest instead, raising her chin.

"Let's go then. You're sure you have everything?"

Harry leads the way, and Ron and Malfoy stare at one another before she pushes
Ron's shoulder to go - out of the two, Ron's more likely to keep his back to Malfoy
than the other way around.

"Yeah," Malfoy says, waiting three steps before following Ron.

"There's been a change of plans," she tells him. "You're going to Green's at about
a quarter to twelve. His wards are the hardest to break through of the commanders,
and he'll definitely have enough time to leave before the Aurors get in. You'll have to
get him alone, and then restrain him well enough to keep him that way until they get
inside."

"Am I still going to the meeting?"

"Yes. You'll leave Green before the Aurors start taking down the wards, so you'll
have to bind him, silence him, and hide him. The attacks will be simultaneous at ten
minutes past midnight."

They emerge onto the small, rocky shore, and Harry hands Malfoy the lantern
before looking at her and tilting his head to the boat. "After you take care of Green,
you'll Apparate to Vaisey's. There's seven commanders there for the meeting, and
you'll have to keep them there when the wards start dropping."

"How?"

"Any means necessary. Can you move faster, Malfoy, or did you turn a century old
recently? Move like that tonight and you'll be dead."

"Ron," Hermione snaps. "D--"

"We'll talk about how when we get to the Ministry," Harry says, the only strain in
his voice from pushing the boat off the shore. "If they use the Floo, they'll just go to
a house we're already in. But it's better to keep them all in one spot to make sure we
have them."

Ron clamors into the boat as Malfoy hangs the lantern from the hook, and he
plops down next to her, cursing at the ice water that's soaked through his shoes.
She catches a glimpse of grey in the light before Malfoy turns for the bench across
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from her, the boat tilting right under Harry's weight.

"Does the room you meet in have a fireplace?" Harry asks, and then casts drying
spells at all of their feet. She doesn't know what Malfoy's expression is, the turn of
his head making his hood block it from her, but it causes Harry to say, "They know
I'm here tonight."

"It's not an official meeting, and we'll likely go to the parlor - so, yes."

"Parlor…" Harry mutters.

Hermione clears her throat as Harry leans back, stretching an arm with his wand
over the side of the boat to speed them up. "It has a door. One on the right that
leads to the entry. The staircase is a few feet back. There are…two or three windows
inside the parlor that lead to the front garden."

"You'll have to destroy the fireplace - blow it up. Then you can use the Instant
Darkness Powder as you leave the room, then ward the door. They'll break through
it, but by the time they do, the Aurors and Hit Wizards should be inside. Then you
fight--"

"No Unforgivables," Ron adds.

Hermione tries to ease her fingers from their attempt at cutting off blood supply
to one another. "There will be about thirty seconds between the time the wards start
dropping and before the anti-Apparition wards are up. You'll have to stop them from
leaving."

"Why don't I put it up myself before the wards drop?"

"The wards block anyone from entering at the gate. The Aurors will have to
Apparate up to the house to get there more quickly." Harry glances over at
Hermione and Ron. "You could put them up, but they'll take longer to get inside, and
you'll be on your own. Unless you're skilled enough at ward perimeters to get it
right in seconds."

Emotions are twisting up inside her gut and chest for too many reasons to list
without feeling worse. Tonight she'll be with Harry and Ron, but she checked the
team going into Vaisey's herself to make sure they would treat Malfoy as they
should. She made it very clear to every Auror and Hit Wizard called in this morning
that the only reason they have made it this far is because of him. She knows some
still won't trust him, but if something happens because they didn't give him the
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proper backup…

"Think about it. We'll figure it out when we get to my office."

Dingdidingdingdiding…

It's her last trip on the boat with Malfoy, and part of her wishes they had been
alone. Even if they didn't speak, even if they couldn't see one another in the dark.
But just to sit across from him awhile with the ringing bell, in this tiny world within
the fog they had made.

Tomorrow, she has no idea where any of them will be, but she refuses to think
beyond tonight. The revival doesn't know they're coming, and the Ministry knows
everything to stop them. The recruits are inexperienced, and the Ministry
outnumbers the commanders and Nobles even if the skills might be matched. The
higher circle will try to run, just as they did before, but they'll be surrounded, and
the Light will stay to fight until they can't anymore.

Knowing this still doesn't stop the rattling inside of her.

January 24; 12:12am

Hermione Apparates to the bottom of the porch, and only manages to pull in a
breath when the two doors are blown apart. Splinters of wood and dust fly into the
air, and she pushes her forearm over her eyes before a chunk smacks into her
shoulder. The impact isn't significant, but it still causes her heart to leap into her
throat as if it was a curse, and she takes aim at nothing.

Harry moves to the right, and she follows, Ron at her other side as they run up
the porch and through the jagged door. Aurors move along both sides of the room
and into the archways, their wands drawn, as the group Hermione's in head to the
doors directly ahead of them. She's not used to anything as organized as this; their
plans were usually the best they could make them at the last minute, and the only
formation was to try and not lose one another. Parts of her body feel numb with the
adrenaline, and there's an illogical thought that skitters through her mind, telling
her the numbness will spread, will take over her hand, will make her slow and
incapable. She twists around to glance behind her, met with a half dozen tense
expressions as the oxygen burns down her throat.

She catches the faint glow at her wrist before she feels the heat of the gem on
her bracelet, almost tripping over her feet in their run when she reads AV. Ron
moves to check his own wrist, but she can tell by the wild look he gives her that he
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won't be coming. The wobbling inside of her, the threat to shake all apart, grows
stronger, and doesn't stop no matter how much she tenses the lines of her bones.

She has no time to think about it, to fear leaving the space between her best
friends' shoulders, because backup is only called when they're needed right then
right now. She tears the Portkey from her pocket, stopping in her tracks as the
Aurors behind her run around. Harry and Ron stop two steps after her, and she
gives them a look that she hopes is more luck than fear as the hook at her navel
pulls her from the house.

She staggers when her feet touch black, wet pavement, a hand grabbing her
before her eyes are open. She pulls away on instinct, even though part of her is
reminding herself that it's just a transporter. They must be used to the reaction in a
battle, because his hand is a vice even after they crack back into existence, and he
only grunts at the arm she finishes slamming into his stomach. He's gone before she
can catch sight of more than his dark purple robes, and in front of her, the bottom
left of the house is on fire.

Her hand is shaking, but she tightens it around her wand, and her legs feel less
heavy the harder she runs. A tingle moves along her skin, signaling the start of the
anti-Apparition wards, and the sounds from the house grow louder. There's panic
boiling up in her blood, making her dizzy, but it doesn't slow her down, it doesn't
stop her. She had feared it would. She had thought all that fear for so long would
make her less than what she had been, and not enough to ever win again. But she
was wrong, because this has been what she's been ready for this whole time. This is
what she knew would happen each time she checked her flat, and jumped at
shadows, and stayed away from the dark.

She knew they would come back. Now she has to make sure they never will
again, and she only gets one chance at it.

There's a woman in a brown robe standing from her tumble out the window, and
Hermione deflects the yellow bolt the woman sent at her. It whips back to the house,
crashing into the side of it and sending out a cloud of stone dust. Hermione has to
cast three times at the running woman before the wand spins into the air, and then
golden rope winds around the brown robe. The woman hits the ground, and
Hermione's knees wobble a little before she sails past the busted doorway.

Her feet crunch over glass and wood, and a Hit Wizard on the stairs takes aim at
her, his eyes wide before swinging his wand away. "There's Nobles everywhere."

Her foot trips over a stair, and she catches herself against another before running
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back up the staircase. "Watch the door!" she yells back, trying to decide if she
should go left when she reaches the top, or right to where the screaming is coming
from.

She doesn't have the time to decide as the run of footsteps from the left grow as
loud as her own, and a Noble she recognizes from Malfoy's memories darts out from
a hallway. Her gasp is hot down the dryness of her throat, and hard enough to have
to choke back a cough when he takes aim at her. She ducks before the curse is fully
out of his mouth, and green glows against her skin as the spell flashes over her
head. Her heart stops as if she'd been hit with it, and then bangs forth in a way that
sends out a little crackle-burst of pain deep in her chest.

Not the staircase. How many times has she imagined this as she climbed up the
stairs of the Ministry and to her office? How many times has she been sure this
would happen?

The Hit Wizard screams out a disarming spell when Avery casts at him, and
Hermione hears a sickening thud behind her as she sends Avery crashing into the
wall. "Expelliarmus!" she yells the second his head cracks off the stone. "Petrif-"

Hermione cuts off into a scream as a dark blue light blasts into her hand like fire,
spraying bright red in a mist of blood as a bone cracks and jolts pain up to her
temple. Hermione clenches her lips together, smacking her fist into her chest as she
screams inside her mouth, pulling her wand from her hand with the other. It's her
wand hand, her wand hand, her wand hand, and it feels like it's being eaten by
flames.

Blue jets in front of her face, and she tilts back, almost losing her footing on the
step as she takes aim at the top. Avery is against the wall, his body frozen and
wrapped in binds, and the Auror next to him raises her hands at the end of
Hermione's wand. Hermione ducks instead, a hard breath escaping through her
teeth as a spell blows the spindles from the banister. She aims through the hole at
the chest of a man in a business suit, choking out a Stunner as she backs down the
stairs.

He deflects hers and the spell the Auror cast, then sends a bright pink bolt of
light at the top of the stairs. Hermione stands quickly, her vision spinning, and casts
a disarming spell before immediately wiping his feet out from under him. His spell
darts by close enough to heat her ear, but it's nothing compared to the burning
throbbing of her hand. She throws up a block as his spells slam into the shield,
running down the steps before she Petrifies him. He hits the ground face-first, and
she binds him through gritted teeth, sure she would have got him sooner if her wand
- 407 -
hand hadn't been hit.

She's halfway down the stairs, her heart beating hard enough to make her vision
throb, when a quiet comes over the house, sending goosebumps up her spine. She
tries to hold her breath, to listen for any distant sounds, but it pushes out of her. The
pain is too deep in her hand for her not to try to breathe through it before she gives
in to the urge to cry.

She aims her wand at a shadow across the floor, but it's only two Aurors who
emerge from a doorway. "Clear," one tells her, his eyes dropping to the hand she
hasn't dared to look at yet.

Clear. There's no way the Nobles and their guests could have silenced the amount
of Aurors and Hit Wizards who came in, so the silence can only mean they've caught
all of them here. Here, which doesn't at all mean it's over anywhere else where
backup hadn't flooded into. The rush of her blood doesn't calm as she reaches for
her pocket, intent on going back to where Harry and Ron are to--

"Granger."

She can't help the way that name pulses through her in the voice of someone else,
looking at the Auror at the top of the stairs. Something that shines in the rotations of
light spins through the air toward her, and she thinks it's a key as she reaches up to
grab it, wondering if the Auror wants her to bring in Avery. Then a tug begins
behind her bellybutton, and her gaze flies to the woman.

"Potter's orders."

1:23am

The Healers at St. Mungo's are far too possessive of their patients, and had
Hermione not been well-trained in sneaking about, she would have never got past
them and to the staircase. She had barely held onto her wand when they ushered
her into a room at her arrival, casting spells on her hand, dripping Dittany onto the
hole that went through her palm, and making her gag on a blood replenishing
potion.

They have every intention to make her stay, and she has every intention of taking
aim at them if they try to stop her again. She has heard from enough Aurors and Hit
Wizards who arrived to know that the battles at twelve of the locations were
successful, but that still leaves eleven more, and her friends, and an unknown
number of the revival captured.
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 When the gem on her bracelet glowed with TM, she knew there could be nothing
that stopped her from getting there.

Hermione emerges into the cold of the night, not bothering to look at the man
yelling after her. She Apparates from the darkness outside St. Mungo's and into the
dirty yellow of streetlights, immediately bumping into an Auror beside her. The
space is too small for the amount of people Apparating into it, but everyone seems to
be too caught up in a flood of chatter to notice. She only catches a few names and
snippets of information through the rumbling as she twists through the crowd,
running when she can, her fingers digging into her left palm from their squeeze
around her wand.

She sees white hair first, either from the brightness of it in the dark, or the way
half the attention is focused on it. Malfoy is tense, the black wand still in his hand as
he glares at the people staring at him, and something warm pulses out with her next
heartbeat, pushing back the coldness inside of her. There's a bit of blood on his
cheek and his robes are torn, but he's fine. So is Ron, who is talking to Leacher and
nodding continuously, and Harry is staring at her. Her heart starts rising up from
the thickness of emotions, of panic, fear, and dread at the bottom of her stomach.
Because he's grinning. And that tells her all she needs to know.

January 25; 9:10am

There's Silencing Charms placed on the cells, and she's glad she can't hear them
with the way they look at her. She knows those looks, has dreamt about them, and
has seen them in her mind every time she wondered at the possibility of her death
under someone's wand.

The aisle that runs between the cells is wide. Even if they were capable of
sticking their hands out through the thin spaces between the bars and past the
wards, they can't reach her. She still stands directly in the center of the aisle with
adrenaline tingling along her limbs and her throat dry. Harry walks beside her, no
doubt evident in his level of safety.

She's still waiting for it to hit her that it's over now.

"Seven recruits escaped?"

Harry nods. "A big group rushed the back corner of the perimeter, and seven got
out. We got them on memory, though, so Malfoy might remember their names, and
the revival kept records on everyone." Harry pauses to watch Wyatt mouth
something to him. "They were really young, and even if they keep believing
- 409 -
everything, they aren't really a threat."

"We still need to find them, though. I'm sure some people only thought Tom
Riddle was a bit messed up as a kid, and--"

"I know." Harry tilts his head to a cell with eleven people crammed into it, and
then another next to it that looks even more full. "Those are the ones we aren't
transferring to Azkaban today."

"That's the people they had in the Ministry, Azkaban--"

"Businesses, funding…yeah. One of the Dark objects the teams took down was
dismantled wrong and set that bloke's building on fire." Harry stares down a man
glaring at him. "No one was inside, so we're not worried about it."

"Where's Bells?"

Harry nods at the guards who turn to open the door, and Hermione checks her
watch to make sure they aren't running late for the meeting. She clears her throat
when she looks up to find him smiling at her. "Why?"

"Shut up," she mutters.

"He left for his mother's this morning. Didn't say when he'd be back. I don't know
if he'll stay out of sight for awhile, or come back to soak up all the attention. The
story is printing in tonight's edition of the Prophet. It's going to be all over the place
tomorrow."

"I think it'll be some time before he bothers with the public much." She opens the
door to the meeting room, waiting for Harry to go in first. "I don't know what he'll
do now."

January 30; 11:39am

He doesn't put his hands up on her desk like she'll be binding his wrists. Maybe
it's because of the change in environment, or the things that would block his way if
he tried. Or maybe the past has finally left him alone, when she's still pushing
through it. But she had expected that. She hadn't even hoped to come out the other
side that night and be cured of the things that scare her. But she sleeps better now,
and she takes the lifts when they aren't too full, and she walked through Diagon
Alley for a half hour without seeing an ivory mask. And those are starts.

- 410 -
 "All of them?"

"Fifteen commanders, eight Nobles. We need you at all of their trials to testify. I'll
be there as well. Of course, it's not part of your contract, but it will assist us in
making sure they are properly sentenced for their crimes. Both during the revival,
and the second war. The recruits are going to be a long process, but I'll be sorting
out the memories, interviews and such for that, then submitting them to the
Wizengamot. It's the higher circle they want you present for."

"And?"

She shakes her head when he looks up from the parchments in front of him
detailing the trials. "And what?"

He leans back, raising his eyebrows. "What do I get, Granger?"

She scowls at him, dropping a large file into her briefcase. "Were you not
listening, or are you just in the mood to be attacked by a few canaries?"

He's the one scowling now. "It's bad enough I've been bombarded by your fucking
owls the past week."

"I told you in the first letter to respond, and that we can meet up to discuss it, but
you never did. I thought you must not have got it. After all, taking the N.E.W.Ts is a
serious--"

"Yes, so you said last night."

"Actually, I didn't get a chance to say much last night, did I?" she snaps, and her
annoyance rises at his smirk. "If you're too scared to take them right now, I can help
you study. I'll set up a later testing--"

"You'll help me study?" She nods, confused over his amusement. "Will I have to
endure your shadow puppets again?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I never did that to help myself during
studying?" Maybe four or five times, that was it.

"Until I believe you."

She huffs, checking her watch, and stands as she buckles her briefcase. "Once
you've agreed"-she shoots him a hard look-"to be a witness, I'll go over everything
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with you."

"Do I have to eat beans again?"

"Yes, and I hope they give you a worse stomachache than they did the first time."
He's slow to stand as she moves around her desk, catching her wrist before she can
reach the door. "I'm going to be late," she tells him, because she knows the look on
his face before he even steps toward her.

"You can't be late. I'm the one who invited you."

"That does not mean that I can't be late, especially when there was a very specific
ti--"

She glares at him, and the squint of amusement in his eyes, but she's helpless
against the demand of his mouth. She shuts her eyes when his fingertips press
behind her ears, but opens one a second later to be sure his are shut too.

Her hands find his shoulders, and his arm wraps around her to pull her against
him when she pushes up on her toes. He kisses her until she's forgotten what she
wanted to say to him, but she thinks he may have forgotten the point when she feels
his heart thrumming at the pulse point in his neck.

She drops back down to her feet when she feels the fabric of her shirt start to
bunch under his hand, the rush for a breath tangled in the sound of his. "You are,
right? The trials, I mean." She narrows her eyes. "Because if I have to, I will put you
in binds, and not let you out until you've agreed." His eyebrows raise, and she
pushes up on his chin the second his mouth opens. "No."

"I--"

"Well, I have a Portkey, so we'll take that, shall we?" She pulls the box from her
pocket, and casts a locking spell on her office door. "I know you don't like walking
through the Ministry since everyone stares at you, though I don't know what else
you would have expected. The whole Auror and Hit Wizard departments know, and
they gossip like the rest of them. Then the papers…"

"Yes," he drawls. "Malfoy Heir Imperiused by Ministry? Though my favorite would

be War Hero Granger Ordered to Seduce Draco Malfoy Into Spy Assignment."

She rolls her eyes, muttering to herself as she tosses the lid of the box onto the
top of her desk. "I preferred The Heroes Who Stopped a Third War, though the title
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made me think it was going to be very-- Oh, and Draco Malfoy, Truly a Gryffindor?
by Lavender. Especially with that photo of you frowning and glaring at the camera."

She snickers as he glares at her now, and she holds up the other end of the
Portkey. She starts to think he won't take it before he does, and they both stagger
into balance in front of the restaurant. His hand leaves the Portkey for her wrist as
she stares back at a woman walking past them, and he tugs her behind him toward
the door.

They'll stop staring after awhile, she knows. Time will pass, and things will
become more of a normal than any of them understand of normal. Where the good is
really great, and the bad isn't so bad after all. That's the life she wants, and for him
too. With him too.

She looks up at the jingle of a bell above the door, and shoots Malfoy a look to
find his eyes on her too. His lips curve, and she snorts, grinning as the door swings
shut behind them.

…diding…dingding…ding…

fin.

- 413 -