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Hermione’s world had turned to shades of grey.
It wasn’t just the war that had done so, though anyone who had been a soldier in intense battles, desperate searches for snatches of souls in inanimate objects (or in two cases, very much living beings…until they weren’t), and felt the loss of friends and family – some by her own hand - over the course of nearly five grueling years likely would.
PTSD, a muggle therapist would call it. Or they would have if she'd ever bothered to go to one. An erratic change in the way she viewed life through through her scars both mental and physical once the war was over and done with, the bad guys locked away. Her once optimistic attitude of a bright and shiny future as a witch she believed in as a child sounded like a fairytale now, the magical world dulled by her experience in it.
(A pity, that when there was near limitless potential with a wand in her hand.)
Not that she regretted her friendship with Harry, but sometimes she wonders if she could move on had she not been as close to him. Or had any desire to drink and fuck the feelings away when she felt a bit melancholy, which is how Ron coped to this day much to the annoyance of his wife (Incidentally how he had a wife in the first place, what with Molly insisting on a shotgun wedding and all).
Instead, true to form, Hermione coped with her outlook on life by being useful; Even if it was to be the bearer of bad news, but, well, someone had to do it.
Her bright red heels – the only color she’s wearing today paired with black robes with a grey dress underneath – clack rhythmically on the concrete floor, nodding at the guard a the door who waves his wand on the wards to let her in the interrogation room behind him. Though she hates herself for it, her stomach twists at the sight of the familiar head of platinum hair, rather duller than she pictures in her head that aligns with his current circumstances. His back is turned to her in the seat she knows he’s chained to, the grey uniform loose on his one impressive form.
Though he still sits up straight, as if his etiquette lessons from long ago are ingrained in him. Through the dreariness, that at least marginally makes her smile a fraction before it disappears as she skirts the desk, her eyes locking with the most intense grey she’s seen.
The only grey, really, that she wishes mattered in her life.
“Mr. Malfoy.” She clears her throat, sitting down across from him and scraping her chair into the table, brushing a hand over the files that she brought.
“Granger.”
She hates how even though she’s not looking up, the tone of his voice does something to her. She hates how he can still affect her, even now.
Even years later.
Hermione closes her eyes as her fingers blindly brush the file open, feigning control until she has it. Something accomplished by her occlumency shield, as paltry as it was.
“Pathetic, Granger.” He scoffs in her head, though the voice is more teasing than anything as he mentally kicks down her wall with apparently little effort. “Have I taught you nothing?”
“You’ve taught me plenty.” She sniffs internally, her mental form watching him toss bits of the wall aside as he steps into her memory beyond, dragging her along with him. When he realizes where they are, he gags and exits her mind to her laughing, watching him sputter as she smirks at him. “Which is how I know to distract instead.”
At this, those intense silver eyes glint at her as she sways closer with the promise of no good.
“Distract, huh?”
She was always better at directing the memories than blocking legillimency, something that unfortunately doesn’t help her much with controlling her emotions like he was when he had his occlumency. Which is perhaps why as soon as she looks up, he has a look on his face he can't hide;
Resigned.
“Who died?”
Her mouth opens and then closes, hating that she has to do her job now.
“Mr. Malfoy, it has come to our attention that-”
“Who. Died.”
His sharp eyes hold hers like a void, sucking her into their depths.
Duller than usual, though perhaps the light is doing something. Or the place in general, more likely. Not the silver in her dreams that practically glittered when they were focused on her.
Her mouth goes into a thin line, not wanting to say it. Sensing her hesitation, he huffs lowly.
“Gra-”
“Your father.” Hermione cuts him off, not wanting to hear her name again. It was too much.
(It wasn't enough.)
“I’m sorry, but your father passed away sometime this morning.”
Frankly, she wasn’t that sorry about Lucius Malfoy passing but that wasn’t exactly the point. In an effort to redeem himself to his master after botching the prophecy at the end of her fifth year and going to Azkaban until Voldemort released him, he had made himself a terror at the Battle of Hogwarts (the first one), snatching a wand from a dead student and showed just how much he excelled at dueling when he didn’t hold back.
Arthur Weasley found out the hard way that he was both immensely skilled at the imperius curse and depraved enough to utilize it to turn him against his own son.
(George was never the same without Fred, and Arthur wasn’t either, at least until his own demise about six months later. Even to this day Molly proclaimed it was an accident he fell off his broom a hundred feet up, though everyone knew that was a kind way of saying he meant to.)
Malfoy blinks slowly at the news. Once. Twice.
And then nods.
“I see.” His manacled wrists, chained to the table distract her as his fingers tap rhythmically on the cold metal surface. “Anything else?”
This time, it’s her turn to blink at him.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
“That’s it?” Thrump, thrump. “You have nothing else to say about your father dying?”
His fingers finally stop, dull eyes meeting hers. After a bit of scrutiny, she realizes it’s not from occlusion as she had initially guessed, not wanting to show his true emotions at the news.
No, it’s the dullness of his situation, a prisoner in this monotonous hell he calls home. The dark undereye circles, the thinness to his face, his body that’s almost frighteningly frail, the unnatural tinge to his skin all indicate what she already knew was happening to him.
The true reason she was here in this place, working this project.
“Not particularly, no.”
Her mouth goes into a thin line as she sighs through her nose, not knowing what else to say about it. And yet, she sits there, not truly wanting to leave.
Not yet.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
Hermione bites her lip as her gaze goes to the hypnotic beat from his fingers on the table, thinking of those long pale fingers and what they can do.
Dangerous fingers.
She can’t help but moan as she closes her eyes, one hand scrunched into silken hair while the other covers her mouth as his fingers curl just so.
“Oh no, Granger.” His voice goes husky with amusement. She can practically see the smirk on his face before the flat of his tongue joins his beautiful hands, driving her to this panting mess.
Her name breaks her out of her memory, feeling herself blush as the ghost of a smirk appears on his face. As if he knew exactly what he was doing just then.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
Hermione takes a deep breath while attempting to pretend she’s not (for whom she doesn’t’ know; perhaps her own dignity) before pushing the file towards him to read.
Instead of doing so, he ignores it and looks to her for the information it holds.
“How?”
“Heart attack.” Hermione says quickly, gaze drifting to his pale uncovered forearms. “He…I don’t believe he suffered, he would have been asleep at that time as far as the examiner could tell.”
She can’t help a slight gulp as she catches sight of his own mark as he shifts, faded but no less volatile than it was when Voldemort was alive.
In many ways, it was even more so now; His own twisted form of allegiance that his most loyal would follow him, even into death.
Lucius Malfoy was certainly not the first to succumb to the evil magic in that brand, and he most certainly wouldn’t be the last. Somehow she knew that, even as the potioneers on this project worked tirelessly for ways to abstain the effects while they researched a cure.
Hermione knew deep down there wasn’t one, though it didn’t stop that little bit of hope that some kind of miracle would happen if she was here, doing all she could. As if she could make any difference in the world for those witches and wizards that lost the war and were losing so much more.
Or well, one in particular.
To her consternation, a laugh broke the silence between them.
“Oh, Granger.” He tuts, shaking his head ruefully. “My father today, Goyle last week. Yaxley a few weeks before that.”
Her heart rate spikes in alarm, wondering how he knew all this since the deaths were mostly kept to next of kin if they had one, then the papers no prisoner here saw for the rest of the population. Did another healer tell him anyway? A guard?
“Surely you don’t believe it was the mark doing this, do you?”
At her clear confusion, he awkwardly twists his arm in the manacles so the mark is face up in all it’s ugly glory to be on full display.
“What are you talking about?”
With a heavy sigh, he looks at her almost…pitifully.
“Wake up that big, beautiful brain of yours, won’t you?” He huffs, clearly frustrated as he clenches his jaw. “Open your eyes.”
“Open your eyes, I want to see you when you come.”
“I…I can’t.” She groans as she feels herself pulsing, a gasp when he adds another finger while simultaneously sucking on her clit.
“You can.” A kiss to her stomach makes her suck in before it goes back down to where she wants his mouth most. “Open your eyes, Granger.”
“My eyes are wide open, and all I see is someone who is looking for…for some kind of other explanation over his father’s death, for that of his friends, for his own…” Hermione’s breath catches, tongue heavy in her mouth as she attempts to say the words she doesn’t even want to bring into existence.
He closes his eyes and groans, head leaned back and facing the ceiling as if that has the answers he seeks. After a few moments, he sits back up in his chair in the proper posture he was practically born to, thrumping his fingers again.
Once. Twice.
“Are they listening?” Thrump. “Do they have extendable ears or something?”
Hermione knows what he’s really asking, though she hardly thinks it matters anymore if someone knew.
“No, we’re alone.”
He nods, waiting for only a fraction of a beat as if she would throw a but in there somewhere before he chuckles lowly.
“Not that it would even matter if they heard at this point.”
She hums in agreement, heart pounding as they share a heavy burden of the truth.
Their truth.
Because it truly doesn’t matter, not anymore.
Not when the clock was ticking anyway on the unbreakable vow that still coursed through her veins, and her extracurricular activities during the war could finally be spoken about if she ever cared to bear the truth to another soul.
She wasn’t sure she ever would be, but only time would tell.
“It’s not the mark that’s doing this.” He heaves a sigh, fingers brushing over where his signet ring used to be on his right pointer finger.
A ring now hidden in a drawer in her flat unbeknownst to anyone else for…reasons, duplicated by a simple spell and the decoy left with the rest of his valuables retained by Azkaban before he was locked away after a speedy war trial.
One she couldn't speak for him at thanks to a certain vow, even if there was something redeeming enough to save him she could say.
“It’s the potions they give us, I think.” Thrump. "I always feel worse whenever I have to take them, not better."
At this wild accusation (and certainly not the topic he thought he’d bring up after that lead in), Hermione can’t help but scoff.
“Now who needs to open up their eyes and mind?”
It’s not meant to be funny; rather it’s tragic that he’s still in denial of his own future. Or really, lack thereof.
“The potions are to suppress your symptoms, not augment them. I understand that you are…processing your father’s death and grief shows itself in strange ways, but you know it’s the mark. It all started with Theodore Nott when he-”
“Nott was different, he didn’t take the mark willingly.” Malfoy snapped, face flashing just briefly with something akin to pain as an odd noise comes out of his throat.
“Neither did Shunpike or Thicknesse, which is why they suffered as they did; The Dark Lord’s fucked up paranoia got the last laugh on them for it.” A humourless chuckle. “And I suppose on all of us too with how it was twisted against those of us that were honored by it.”
Hermione nearly rolls her eyes, but relies on the knowledge she knows. What she’s seen.
“Even if they didn’t they still died because of the mark which everyone here bears. It’s still killing-”
“It’s the potions for the rest of us, Granger.” He cuts her off, practically begging her to believe him. “I know it is. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it?” Her voice goes an octave higher. Disbelieving someone clearly grasping at straws.
(She knows the feeling well, but it's not enough to disillusion this horrible situation.)
“I know it! I am-was a potions master, even better than you.” The frustration seems to seep out of him, permeating the room. “Surely you remember that, can admit it now can’t you?”
“That’s not what the books say.” She shakes her head, even as her fascination with his demonstration sucks her in like an intellectual fly trap. “Nowhere in there does it say to add in-”
“I’m an inventor, Granger.” Malfoy smirks as he replaces the silver rod for a glass one and circles the ingredients in the cauldron in a delicate pattern. Hermione can’t help but be almost mesmerized as he adds the ingredient in question to the potion, at the finesse at which he goes about his work. “An innovator. Do you think the Dark Lord would have let me live this long with all my limbs and important bits if I didn’t excel at what I do?”
Hermione makes a face, though she can’t say he’s wrong about that. Frankly, it was both disturbing and a turn on (a twisted mix of emotions, she knew) that Malfoy was so good at potions. Admittedly better than her, as it appeared to come so naturally to him rather than from hard work.
Intuition was his weapon instead.
It frustrated her to no end in school that he was right on her heels for the best potions grade, especially since he didn’t appear to study much on the subject at all. It was even worse when he was on the other side of the war, using his talents and effort for their benefit. The things she had seen in the infirmary that she knew he must have had a hand in…
“But…” She’s momentarily distracted by the silver plumbs of smoke that rise in spirals before he waves them away, turning the flames to nearly embers before setting his wand down on the work surface she’s sitting on. “What’s the dragon blood for then? What’s it do?”
His hands come to her thighs, brushing slowly towards her knees to separate them without answering. His fingers brush over her already damp knickers from their combined releases that she hadn’t bothered to clean up after, knowing he liked using it as lubrication for the inevitable round two. He keeps going until she’s almost there before snatching them back with a wicked grin. Edging her.
“It delays.”
The reminder shuts her up, at least enough to listen. This appears to please him, something she sees in how his shoulders relax just a bit.
“The potion tastes like blueberries.” Malfoy finally gives her solid information, licking his chapped lips. “Which I happen to know covers up the taste of ashwinder venom.”
He snorts softly, as if amused at the irony of it slowly killing him rather than the serpent branded on his skin.
“I’ve seen the ingredient list.” Hermione deflates, not knowing if she hoped he was right so she could stop it or saddened by his delusion that the mark he ‘chose’ was the wrong one. “There’s no ashwinder anything in the potions they give you. Or blueberries for that matter.”
It wasn’t what was making him sick, she knew that. He knew that. But he was apparently going to be stubborn to the bitter end.
Blaming someone else for his woes, per usual.
“Well of course they're not going to write it down for evidence.” He drawls with a pointed look, willing her to recall that he only wrote his tweaks to potions down in a single place; much like Snape with his potions book in school that Harry managed to discover (something she was glad she had gone back for before the whole room burned alongside Crabbe and nearly the rest of them all those years ago), a book she knew that he had burned himself for fear of it being used against him shortly before the final battle. Now only alive in his brilliant mind and what tricks Hermione could remember herself.
“I am telling you that the potion tastes like blueberries and what it typically entails in the potions world. Anyone potions master worth their salt would know that and I assume St. James is not a charlatan, or else she wouldn't have been appointed by the Minister himself.”
She huffs, unable to believe him at his word even if she wants to.
“Malfoy-”
“Hermione, please.” Her name startles her, one he so rarely used. His voice warbles enough that she wants to cry at the desperation she senses there, the grasping at straws. “Please say you’ll at least entertain the idea. Look into it yourself, even if it means breaking into the potion stores.”
“I-”
A pause, thinking of how many rules it would break. If she was willing to risk her job, her reputation on a whim of his.
“Look, it’s probably too late for me.” Malfoy’s mouth quirks up into a humorless smile. “I know that, the damage already done is likely irreversible. I know I’m getting sicker by the day.”
He coughs as if perfect timing to prove his point, though hacking up a lung to the point she’s alarmed she’ll find blood on his shoulder once he does is profound.
As it is, there is a bit, her breath hitching at the sight of bright red blood puncturing their grey world.
“I just want to know before I go.”
She shakes her head, eyes watering with emotion.
“Please?”
She sighs, and with a barely perceptible nod agrees to his plea. Perhaps one of his last requests if the look of his diagnostic chart she snuck a peak at this morning was any indication.
If the answer brought him peace, even if it was simply a last-ditch effort to rectify his situation then so be it.
“Thank you.”
Sniffing at his sincerity, Hermione wipes any evidence of tears from her eyes and calms her breathing before picking up the file, leaving him without so much as a goodbye.
Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she doesn’t know how.
“How’s Zabini doing?”
Hermione holds her breath as she feels his heart thud on her cheek though his ministrations up and down her bare spine as they lie on the crumpled sheets continue.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His chest rumbles beneath her, calling her out for lying; it was something of an open secret that the Zabini’s had defected to the Order’s side a few years ago, though they were both largely kept behind wards for their own safety. As she sits up a to shift so she can see him, her hand replaces her cheek on his chest.
“He’s fine as far as I can tell. Good, even.” Hermione’s lips twitch slightly, wondering if she should really tell him this. It only takes a few seconds for her to decide, dying to tell someone.
Besides, it’s not like he can tell anyone anything they do or talk about when they’re together. That was one benefit to the vow.
“Ginny really likes him.” Her eyes go down to his pale skin, punctuated by a thin silver line from sixth year. “I’m pretty sure they’re snogging behind locked doors, though she hasn’t admitted it yet."
“Really?” He arches a brow, clearly interested in that particular piece of gossip. As she knew he would be. “Isn't she with Potter though?”
“Briefly, but no. Not for a while.” She admits with a sigh, knowing her best friend will not take the news well when he finds out. “Harry thinks being with her would put her in more danger so he’s waiting until after the war.”
“We’re all in danger.” He snorts, pushing his lips to her temple as the hand on her back travels to her ribcage. “I don’t blame her for getting tired of waiting. You never know what war will bring you or when it will end. Might as well get something good out of it while you can.”
As if to prove his point his fingers brush over her breast to tweak her nipple, drawing her as their lips meet and effectively ending the conversation.
“Tea?” Ginny offers as the cleaning charms surrounding them do their job, appearing weary but satisfied as the party has dwindled down to just a few friends and her in-laws.
“That would be lovely.” She smiles genuinely, halfway up from her place on the couch with an offer on her tongue to get it herself when the door is blocked by a familiar face.
“Did I hear someone mention tea?” The Minister enters the room with a sleepy looking two-year-old clinging to him, sucking his thumb in a bad habit Ginny has tried relentlessly to break in the last several months. Given the way she sighs but does nothing, apparently she has decided it’s a fight for another day.
“Yes, I did.” She smiles warmly, taking the birthday boy into her arms. He settles easily against her, propped up on her extended belly holding his litle sister. “Does someone need a nap after their big day? The sugar crash getting to you, lovey?”
“Mhm.” He nods into her chest, eyes drooping as all the adults take in the sweetness.
“Why don’t you take him up and I’ll get the tea, darling?” Blaise brushes a hand over his son’s head and presses a kiss to his hair, nodding at his stepfather as the little family exits the room together.
As she has so many times before, Hermione finds herself left alone with the Minister who sits himself down on the sofa across from her with a content sigh, smiling at her warmly.
It’s never left her so cold before, though she does her best to smile back as if everything is perfectly normal. As if she’s not screaming on the inside, the questions that she’s been asking herself for the last week gnawing her patience raw.
The lists of potions given to the patients (prisoners) were the usual suspects since she came onto this project nearly a year ago now; magical suppressant, and a nutrition potion in case someone had the bright idea of starving themselves to get out of their sentence which was standard for all Azkaban prisoners no matter where they resided, a smattering of mild pain potions for those who had phantom limb syndrome or some obscure recurring curse from a blade or whatnot that kept them alive, and a dose twice daily of the Dark Mark Suppressant potion that was invented by St. Mungo’s best researcher, Healer Natalia St. James.
Everything appeared above board, but as Malfoy had pointed out something on paper didn’t necessarily mean that’s what happened in actuality. She had come up with a valid excuse to enter the potions lab at the facility rather than his ridiculous suggestion of breaking in (well, ridiculous now, she had promised herself to leave the sneaking around days behind as soon as the war was over in favor of a (mostly) honest life) and allowed the healer to take her on a tour of her pride and joy, not even feigning her own curiosity.
It was for the best of course, as it had merit as being both true and true to character for her. Swotty Hermione Granger, always wanting to know everything.
This little tour made it easy to swipe one of each of the basic potions all prisoners were given, waiting until the woman’s back was turned to replace the vials with one filled with water, glamoured to be the same color as the rest as they weighed down the pocket of her robes until she could examine them in the privacy of her own home, if only to prove a point to herself that everything was above board.
Everything, it turned out, was not above board as the cauldron spit out ingredients that were not on the published list, including (damn him) ashwinder venom which when mixed with lionfish spine she knew had the strange effect of tasting like berries.
“Tired?” Hermione asks needlessly, all the while screaming internally did you know, did you know, did you know?
Kingsley chuckles, leaning back into the cushions.
“Oh, don’t get old Hermione.” He puts a hand on his chest. “Toddlers will take it out of you and you’ll wonder where all your energy went.”
She laughs lowly and applauds herself for finding it sounds genuine, shaking her head.
“Kingsley, you’re only what - 45? 46?”
“Semantics.” He waves it off good-naturedly as his wife comes to join him. “I only feel it in my bones when I work too hard.”
“Which is always, dear.” Ayana kisses his cheek as her long toned legs cross. “You work too hard and trying to keep up with our grandson on top of it is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Well a Minister’s work is never done.” He pats her knee, a weary but knowing grin on his face before he pauses and turns to her. “Speaking of work, how is your project going Hermione?”
She blinks, surprised he brought it up himself. She had been racking her brain on how to broach this very subject in an inconspicuous way for days.
“Oh you know, it’s…” Hermione hesitates, as if carefully choosing her words before slumping back in her chair. “Challenging.”
“Oh?” Kingsley sits up straighter, alarmed. “Are the prisoners giving you trouble? Do I need to talk to someone?”
“No, no! Nothing like that.” She talks him down from his ‘dad’ talk (even though he has no children of his own blood and Blaise has only been a stepson to him for five or six years, he took on the role quite well with all of them). “It’s…well, I don’t know how much I’m even helping them, being on this project.”
The couple both give her a look of pity, as if they know exactly what she means. It’s tough for her to be in a place she doesn’t feel useful, they both saw that during the war. Which, incidentally as she was given the come to Jesus talk that perhaps she would be better utilized for the effort off the battlefield than on it is how she ended up with many of the secrets she still carried to this day.
“Do you want to quit, then?” Kingsley is the one that asks first. “You know you always have a place on my counsel at the Ministry, or St. Mungos if you want to go back into healing. Just say the word and it’s yours.”
She shakes her head quickly.
“No, I’ll see it through to the end.” She gulps, looking down at her jean clad legs helplessly. “I just wish…well, I don’t know, there was something I could do to help them.”
“Hermione,” Ayana pauses as Blaise comes into the room with the tea service. “You know they made their own choices. It’s the mark killing them, and there’s nothing that you could do to stop that. The most anyone can do is ease their pain, which Natalia is assuredly doing.”
She nods in agreement as Kingsley takes his wife’s hand to kiss her knuckles, and suddenly Hermione wonders if she has the wrong culprit in mind.
“I don’t understand.” Hermione frowns at the list before glancing up to the Order’s potions mistress and Hermione’s unofficial sponsor for her own mastery. She could hardly go to the potion’s guild to apply in the middle of a war, much less without even taking a single N.E.W.T. but as she was already a healer in training (something in dire need) and a good hand at the task she had asked and Ayana delivered. “Dittany root? I’ve never heard of a potion using anything but the leaves before, perhaps the stems if you’re hard pressed about it. Are we meant to grow it here?”
“No, the roots in a pinch can replace a few other ingredients, such as gurdyroot. Especially helpful when it’s not in season as it isn’t now.”
“Fascinating.” Hermione mutters, scanning the list again and wondering what else the creative mind can utilize. Though she still preferred to go by the book, she had a deep appreciation for those who could reinvent now.
(It was hard not to after she had personally witnessed Harry wipe the floor with her and everyone else using Snape’s potions book sixth year.)
“It is indeed.” Ayana pauses her step on polyjuice potion, flashing her a bright smile. “Now off you go, I expect you back by noon to help me with the next step here.”
She nods and eagerly steps away to go find a place to apparate outside of the fidelius charm, telling herself it was for academia alone and nothing to do with a certain someone she had recently found to help gather ingredients for both their potions amongst…other things.
Ayana was a potions mistress. An excellent one. Why wasn’t she the one doing this project, or at least helping out? Why allow Healer St. James to do it instead if Kingsley wanted to keep this one close to the chest, as he told her when he offered the job?
The tea in her hand is hot - too hot - but Hermione stomach feels tight with anxiety as she pretends everything is just fine, eying her former mentor and her husband anew.
“I know.” She sighs, tapping her cup in her hand as she waits for it to cool. “And I fully intend to stick around until…well until it’s done.”
She glances up with a weak smile.
“But after that I think what I want-no need to do is finally go to Australia.”
“Your parents?” Blaise raises a brow, to which she nods. Ginny had told him long ago she knew, but out of respect for what she did - all insisting it was brave and necessary action to save their lives - they never brought it up.
Something she deeply appreciated, though she never told them that either.
“Yes.” She goes quiet, not able to look anyone in the eyes. “I need to see if I can even fix this. And I think a change of scenery will be good for a while.”
“I completely understand.” Kingsley’s voice rings with sympathy. “I imagine it won’t be more than a few months now from this week’s report, so I’ll make sure to get a portkey ready for you.”
“Really?” She perks up, thinking this was going to go over worse than it did. She knew he relied heavily on her as junior undersecretary and was looking forward to her coming back. He brought it up many times in the last year.
“Of course. Why don’t you come by my office next week and I’ll have it ready for you. Let's say, Friday afternoon?”
“That sounds perfect.” A relief truly. “Thank you.”
More relieving than he could ever know.
Hermione carefully lights her wand in the dead of night down a familiar hallway, still grey as ever and she’s still in black as ever. Though she’d never been to the prisoner rooms before, she wasn’t all that concerned about someone seeing her;
Not anymore.
The year mark since they had been transferred from Azkaban to this facility had quietly passed last week, what was once 56 confused and scared prisoners marked with what was once (and perhaps still) a thing of pride and hierarchy now the very weapon that was slowly killing them. One by one they fell victim to it, though there appeared to be no pattern - not age of the mark or prisoner, not rank in the war, not even their own health before they came in here.
It was taking them all, in a vicious sort of karma.
Now, there were only seven left. Seven prisoners inevitably set to die, no matter what potions or research had been done. No one knew who would be next, but it would happen.
It was inevitable.
“Natalia, you’re early. Welcome.” Hermione - hidden in the corner of his office under the invisibility cloak she had inherited from Harry - hears Kingsley call from his desk as the head healer steps in the room, robed in stark white as a testament to her muggle roots.
“Sorry for barging in, but I got a late start on this batch of potions and I need to return by six for the final steps.” Healer St. James says by way of explanation, sitting herself down across from him.
Frankly she was glad for the disruption; Hermione hadn’t intended to stick around, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity when she found the meeting on Kingsley’s calendar when she came to pick up her portkey two hours prior, leaving the Ministry only to pick up the cloak before quietly returning and slipping back in when his secretary had opened the door.
She watched the healer settle into her chair as Kingsley lazily flicked his wand to lock the door and cast a silencing charm on the room, all the while holding her breath as she listened to their conversation.
And as soon as it came, Hermione didn’t know if the burning inside her was rage, devastation, or bitterness though she wagered it was all three. She had wanted to be the Gryffindor she was sorted into at the age of eleven, the one that got her through years of school and the beginning of war. To fling off the cloak, announce her presence and her disdain, to make a scene in a heroic way.
Instead, she did what she had become - what he would have wanted her to do - and stayed utterly still, absorbing it all in like the Slytherin that she might have been had blood politics not been a thing.
Planning.
A nonverbal unlocking charm gets her in the room as easy as child’s play, slipping in quietly. The small sliver of moonlight that came through the tiny window above wasn’t enough for her so she lit one of the floating candles that she brought with her, bringing it closer to his face.
He shivered even in his sleep, but looked so much younger. Unhealthy as expected, even worse than the last time she saw him in person about a month ago now but still here.
Still alive.
He still managed to take her breath away, even now. Even as weary, as sick, as dejected as he was. Accepting the fate he was handed because there was nothing he could do, no one that could save him.
A little whimper comes out at the very thought, a shaky hand going to brush his once silky hair turned coarse and brittle with the hard water and the infrequent bathing granted to the prisoners, ignoring the greasiness as she does so.
Tears well at the thought of him leaving her, enough that she presses her lips to his for the first time in nearly four years.
Chapped, gnawed with worry, but still warm even in his sleep and it invokes something in her that reminds her why she’s here;
To say goodbye.
Like a coward she couldn’t bear to do it when he was cognizant, so she chose the timing deliberately because this is the only way she’ll ever do so.
She was running out of time.
Still, the words don’t leave her lips, even as her hands grasp his and clasp them together on his chest, fiddling around so they’re where she wants them. A tear falls onto him and then another as the handkerchief in her hand goes to hide the sniffles. Eventually she mutters to herself and exits into the dark hallway alone, leaving the room behind her for good.
After slipping out of the building as quietly as she can, Hermione goes home to attempt to sleep before coming back to work the next day to reenter in the lighted grey rooms, the grey floors, the drab robes of her coworkers. Waiting for the inevitable.
Still, even when she expected the news, it takes all she has to not be shaken to her core when she comes back from her lunch break to the news they lost another prisoner today and the Malfoy line had officially ended.
“Shh, hush my darling girl.” Ginny scrapes back her chair as her infant daughter continues to scream, drawing both sympathetic and slightly annoyed looks from the muggles surrounding them at the muggle beer garden, bouncing her up and down for a few minutes until the screams turn to hiccupping cries. “We wouldn’t want to miss all of Aunt Hermione’s going away party, now would we?”
“No, we wouldn’t.” She smiles at her friend, the ache in her chest very real from the idea that she’ll be leaving here tonight for Australia. This little group understood why, though unbeknownst to them, Hermione found it unlikely she would ever return to England.
To be honest, she found little reason to and had declined the Minister’s generous offer for a new job a few weeks ago once the project she was on was no longer needed, the last marked Death Eater - Antonin Dolohov, as it happened who met a shockingly violent end as he appeared to foam at the mouth while seizing before he went limp in favor of her original plan to finally attempt to reconcile with her parents nearly ten years after she placed a memory charm on them and sent them away, hoping it wasn’t too late or there was a way to even save them.
There was simply very little left to come back for, and not even Ginny and her children whom she loved fiercely could make her stay.
A glance around the table has her noting while the chips and other appetizers she ordered were all relatively full, the drinks appeared to need another round. She offered to get it, battling away the protests of the largely pureblood group surrounding her that she was most comfortable with muggles and the way things worked and went to order for all of them.
Choosing the next drink was easy and she chatted idly with the bartender as he filled her cups of beer, watching the foam on top disparate as he gathered them all onto a tray for her.
It was heavy and she likely would have needed assistance had she not been a witch, a subtle bit of magic here or there making it simple to bring back and pass around to her companions, handing off to the person to her right last.
“Oh thank you dear.” Ayana smiles gratefully at her as she takes the glass from her, “Mm, fruity. What is this called?”
“It’s a special kind of beer called a sour.” Hermione smiles at her, mesmerized by the four blueberries bouncing up and down in her cup as the carbonation fizzes around them. “I found them to be quite enjoyable when I first came to this garden last summer.
“How lovely.” She glances to her husband who appears to be enjoying it as well. “Kings, we should definitely come back here more often.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He raises a glass to Hermione in thanks, who clinks her glass with his own before taking a satisfying sip.
She chats, holds the baby and toddler in attendance, eats and drinks more until the clock tells her it’s time to leave and she does her teary goodbyes, hugging each and every one of them easily with the promise of writing soon with updates before she exits the beer garden alone and hails a taxi, giving the driver instructions where to go.
“Do you think we’d be doing this if there was no war?” Hermione asks as she plucks leaves off the bush in front of her, feeling his eyes on him as he prepares the fluxweed he had already gathered for both of them. Ever since they had met up so long ago by accident foraging and discovered they had no desire to harm each other and a duel or two showing they were somewhat evenly matched, they had divided and conquered to save time so they could do what they wanted together before either were expected back.
The guilt that the potion ingredients she gathered for him were more than likely going to be actively used against the Order in some way later on still weighed her down, though the relief of having someone to talk to about things that didn’t involve the war and their strange little relationship (if one could call it that) usually made her feel it was more of a small indulgence instead.
Besides, they had completed an unbreakable vow early on that they couldn’t say anything about what happened between them for the duration of the war to anyone else, so it’s not as if she would be able to explain it to her side, her friends.
Harry and Ron in particular would not be happy with her, so she thought it was rather the right move to keep ignorant to the fact that she actually liked being around Malfoy, or at least when he wasn’t being a git. They were friends even, if she had to put a name to it.
It wasn't the label she ever expected (or if she was honest with herself, wanted), but there it was.
“Doing what, gathering potion ingredients?” His voice calls from behind her, pausing as if waiting for her to respond or turn around. When it’s clear she’ll do neither, he continues. “Probably not, though I can only speak for myself. You always kept swotty habits from what I can recall.”
“Haha.” She says sardonically, deciding to answer her own question. “You’d probably be married to some Sacred 28 girl by now with a mini Malfoy following you around, posturing with an air of superiority around your Manor.”
“Hilarious.” He snorts. “And probably true. My father did mention one of the Greengrass girls every now and then before it all went to shit.”
She smiles down at the bush, feeling pleased she called it. Not that it would take knowing him very well at all to have predicted that future.
These posh purebloods reminded her of old muggle royalty, always so obsessed with their own bloodlines.
“I think I would have liked that, though.”
“Liked what?” Hermione asks without thinking, beginning to carefully cut out the roots of the dittany bush for Ayana. It was an annoying task, but she had learned the benefits of the ingredient in her tutorship amongst other things.
“Marriage. Children.” A pause. “Though perhaps not with a Greengrass girl.”
“Oh,” Her stomach feels weird at the thought that his comment makes her feel…something. “Pansy then?”
A laugh.
“God no.”
“Some French girl?”
“Mm, definitely English.” The root finally shows itself and she gives it a tug but it doesn’t give. With a mutter to herself she puts the knife to the roots, finding a way to dig it out. “Maybe if I was even feeling a bit daring I might even look outside my parents approved list of witches.”
She keeps digging, clenching her teeth as she tries again on the root.
“Oh? Felt daring about a half-blood to introduce them to?” She did recall Cho, for example always had all sorts of boys admiring her, Slytherins included. A seeker like him. Attempting to keep it casual and not at all jealous at the unnamed half-blood, she continues her task to keep her hands busy.
“Anyone in particular catch your fancy?”
“No half-blood in particular.” She grunts, pressing the knife just so since she hit a rock or something and pulled, using it for leverage. “A muggle-born though…”
“Ouch!”
Hermione hisses as she snatches her hand up a clean deep line going across her finger and dripping red.
“Granger, are you okay?” She senses him rush over to her, kneeling down next to her. She winces as she bends the finger, searching for something to stop the bleeding.
“I’m fine.” She sucks at the finger that now throbs with pain, looking around for her wand to heal it as she takes her finger out of her mouth and presses it to her shirt. It’ll stain and ruin it for sure, but it’s better than free bleeding. “I just need to-”
“Let me.” His hand gently tugs at hers and she dares to meet his eyes for the first time, momentarily distracting her from her own pain. All she can do with parted lips and a bit dazed is watch him gently take his hand in hers, her blood seeping onto his pale hand before he mutters a healing spell before cleaning it up, seemingly good as new on the outside.
“Thanks.” She nearly whispers as he continues to hold it, her hand on fire in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering pain. “I’m sorry, I know my blood is mug-”
“It’s no matter.” He says simply, brushing her cheek with his clean hand. “It doesn’t matter to me at all. It’s just blood.”
Her eyes lock with his, mesmerized by both the statement and the beautiful silver there streaked with blue she hadn’t noticed before, dropping to his lips for just a fraction of a section. Hermione swears he does the same as their breaths match in a rhythm before he slowly leans in, his lips meeting hers for the first time.
It had to only be a second or two, but she swears before she even kisses him back she knew she was in terrible, terrible danger of one of the worst things you can do in war;
Fall in love with someone on the wrong side.
“Hey folks, please fasten your seatbelts, we’ll be landing in Brisbane in about…oh, twenty minutes or so.” The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, disturbing Hermione’s zoning out. “The local time is 11:18 in the morning and the weather today is looking like sunshine all around with a chance of rain this afternoon.”
Hermione listens idly to the rest of the announcements about customs and whatnot as she stares out the window, taking in the scene as the plane descends silently. She gives a wane smile to the flight attendant as she clutches her new leather satchel to her chest filled with all her belongings thanks to an extension charm, standing in queue to go through the long lines before finally being able to exit the airport.
Rather than hail a taxi she finds a safe spot to apparate, having thoroughly studied a map and the website at the nearest public library to her old flat in London and landing shortly in an alleyway a block from Wilkins Dental, her anxiety through the roof on the way there.
Even though this was the entire point of coming here, Hermione still pauses at the door, hand on the doorknob for longer than she should.
Stalling.
That is until someone on the other side gives her a fright as they try to exit, and she stands aside to let them through before entering the clean and bright waiting room that smells of antiseptic and cinnamon.
The exact same as it did at Granger Dental, bringing back so many memories that make her want to both run towards her parents that no longer know her and far, far, away.
“Thank you Gordon, you can just go see Janet to check out.” A familiar voice she hasn’t heard in nearly ten years doesn’t help her cause, eyes immediately snapping to the doorway where her mother - older, now with a short bob that suits her well - props it open with one hand, instructing her patient with the other.
And then they lock eyes and she smiles at her warmly.
“Oh Hermione!” She seems startled by her appearance and visibly concerned as she checks her watch. “We didn’t have a lunch scheduled today I forgot about did we?”
She freezes as her mother - her mother, who is somehow acting like her mother and not Monica Wilkins, childless British expat.
Apparently she stares long enough, heart thumping in her chest at how this is even remotely possible that her mum comes over and places a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it soothingly.
“Darling, what’s wrong? You’re father’s in surgery but if it’s important I can ask someone to fill in.”
She clears her throat and shakes her head, laughing a bit wearily.
“It’s nothing really, I just had a terrible thought about work.” Hermione smiles wanly, utterly confused. She pats her mum's hand as if to make sure this is real and not some strange trippy dream. (It is.) As much as she wants to talk to both her parents, to pull them into hugs and ask a million questions her emotions are not quite stable now, ranging from why did they never come back for her if they remembered and how did they even remember her?
This was not what she expected at all, and Hermione feels the need to flee.
“And it’s not that important, we didn’t have anything scheduled but I wanted to see if you were free.” What if they were under polyjuice or something and this was all just some cruel trick? “But you’re not, so it can wait.”
Her mother scrutinizes her and purses her lips in a way that makes Hermione want to cry with how she remembers what that face means before relenting.
Practicality as she notes the patients waiting in the room with them for their appointments.
“Alright, if you’re sure honey.” Rubbing her shoulder again. “Why don’t you come over for supper tonight? Seven? I can pick up that lasagna you like from-oh, Draco!”
At the name, Hermione whips her head around, unable to help the small gasp that comes out of her even if he’s not looking at her.
“Hello, Monica.” He comes over, casually resting his arm over her shoulders as if this is completely normal, as if they do this all the time.
Which they most certainly do not.
She can’t help but drink him in, warring with looking at her mother or him more in this moment.
In the end she goes with the less overwhelming option, looking him up and down.
His color is back to normal since she last saw him months ago, the dark circles have all but disappeared. He’s even gained a bit of weight. He looked healthy (Some bezoars and potion kit must have had a hand in this). Not at all how he did when she sent him off with the portkey meant for her in the dead of night, that’s for sure.
It was a relief.
“Wait…” Her mother’s tone draws her back to her attention, eyes squinting as she checks her hand first and when she finds it lacking the ring she was so obviously checking for, to her belly. “You’re not-”
“No!” She laughs incredulously as someone else seems to find it amusing so she smacks him on the chest.
“Ow!”
“Goodness, mum! I told you it wasn’t important and I think either of those would qualify!”
“Alright.” She looks at the two of them as if she doesn’t believe them but is willing to play along for now, clucking at her clipboard. “I’ll get back to work then shall I? See you both for supper.”
“Of course.” They both promise as she goes off to her job, Hermione’s mouth slightly parted in awe. She barely feels a hand slipping into hers and leading her out the door back to where she apparated in, nor the crack of it as she’s side-alonged away.
Once they snap back into existence however, she wastes no time pulling him down by the neck to her level and snogging the life out of him, which he eagerly meets her with a matching desperation.
“Draco.” She stops them eventually, breathless as a hand presses to his chest.
Heart beat strong. Healthy.
Here. With her.
Free.
“What is going on? My parents? You? How are you? Did you get around alright after I-”
He shuts her up with a kiss quite effectively, though she won’t relent on all her questions.
“Let’s sit.” He insists, pulling out of their embrace in favor of a hand on the small of her back to the leather couch in the flat that’s obviously his, pulling her onto his lap.
“Explain.” She commands, promising herself to shut up until he gets to the bottom of this.
(Maybe.)
“I’m fine, mostly.” He promises, muttering a simple diagnostic she taught him during the war so she can assess the floating numbers and levels herself, reviewing them as he talks. “After I woke up here with nothing but my wits and a used port-”
“Hey, I gave you a fair bit more than that.” Hermione protests, flashing him a knowing look before swiping at the numbers with a murmured wandless spell to go deeper into the blood portion.
“Yes, fine your little beaded bag was filled with galleons, money and goodies that did admittedly come in handy, though I’m certain I looked rather silly carrying it around before I found proper clothing.” He relents with a little smirk as she hums to herself at the diagnostic before he waves something in front of it.
“By the way, however did you get this? I thought it was lost forever after the Manor all those years ago.”
Hermione finally pulls her eyes away from the diagnostic to the hawthorn wand, tight with emotion.
“Harry used it until the end.” She says quietly, her fingers brushing over the scar on her neck that his deranged aunt left her as a souvenir from that little excursion. “He was going to be buried with it but I convinced the others to do so with his original wand, pretending I would bring it to the new Wizarding War museum to be memorialized that was being built.”
“So they got a copy, then?”
She nods. Hermione never regretted keeping it herself, though she felt terribly guilty even now for choosing to do so for sentimentality reasons that had little to do with her dead best friend and everything to do with the man with her now.
For better or worse, she had chosen Draco over the memorial of Harry and covered her tracks well.
After a beat he presses his lips against her temple.
“Thank you.”
She hums, taking in the diagnostic again.
“Your levels are good. Strong.” She glances at him, studying how his eyes are no longer shot with red. “How are you feeling?”
He sighs, flicking away the diagnostic.
“Well I get short of breath far too easily for someone my age and I have some joint pain I’ve been making potions for, but I suppose that’s the best I can hope for considering I was being consistently poisoned for over a year.” Now it’s his turn to study her. “You figured it out then?”
She nods, renewed anger flashing through her.
“You were right, it was ashwinder venom mixed with lionfish spine which attributed to the berry taste you spoke of.” Her tone turns bitter, biting her lip. “It wasn’t enough to kill you, just to keep you sick until a concentrated dose was administered.”
“Hm.” He hums. She can practically hear all the questions he has, but she still has an important one that needs answering. One she is beginning to suspect he had much to do with.
(And also, she’s not quite sure she wants to talk about what she did. Not yet, in any case. But soon.)
“What did you do to my parents?”
Draco takes her hand in his and presses a kiss to her palm before placing it on his cheek, smiling at her.
“As soon as I found out where I was I knew they had to be around, so I searched for the Wilkins. I figured you intended to come here yourself to fix them, or I don’t know sent me to do so as payment for saving my life.” He shrugs, cutting off her protest that she would have saved him anyway. “So I did. Sort of.”
“How?” She furrows a brow. “I mean I know I told you the memory charm I used but it’s had years to cement itself in their brains! And my mum obviously knows who I am somehow but I just…how?”
“You know my family has an aptitude for mind magic.” He smirks at her with a sense of pride before it falls to a pensive state. “And I’m good, but not perfect and certainly not an expert mind healer. You’re right, I think it had too much time to settle in their memories but using legillimency and a handful of memory spells I know I was able to bring back at least the knowledge of you being their daughter, though for some reason I couldn’t bring back you being a witch or their real names.”
His eyes flash with both guilt and frustration, clearly at himself here.
“I’m sorry, I really tried but I was scared to do more damage by digging further. The mind is already such a delicate thing and it took weeks to get them to where they are now.”
“Okay, it’s okay. That’s fine. Good, even.” She gestures for him to continue. It was alright that they didn’t know about her magic, at least for now. Frankly, them knowing her again, getting her parents back in any capacity is more than she hoped for. “And why exactly do they think I live here?”
“My own little addition.” He bounces her on his lap with a glint in his eyes. “Apologies for more memory charms, but I needed some excuse to be at their home near daily once I got myself situated here and looking less like a corpse so I…they think I’m your boyfriend and they see you every month or so, but we’re too busy to do much more than that.”
“My boyfriend, huh?” She teases, liking the word more and more as it makes her flutter with need. They had never labeled themselves, there was really no reason to during the war when one or both of them could die at any moment.
“I assumed you wouldn’t mind that much.” He leans in, kissing her once, twice. “Do you?”
“Not at all.” She insists, moving to straddle him to continue on. She has so much more she needs to talk about, but none of it seems quite so important in this moment as doing this here and now.
Hermione leans away from their kiss, panting as Malfoy’s silver eyes meet hers nearly black with desire, licking his lips.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” She presses a hand to her own mouth, feeling swollen just like his looked. Even though she hates the words, she knows it’s the right thing to do. “You…we…it would never work. You know it won’t.”
He sighs heavily as she takes a step back and then two as if distance will make the charged atmosphere between them disappear (it doesn’t). And then gives her a look.
A look that he knows, and wants it anyway.
The sentiment is decidedly mutual.
“We’re at war, Malfoy.”
“And?” He steps closer, just by half a step as if to close the needless distance between them. Hermione stands her ground even though not a small part of her wants to flee, all thoughts of the pain in her finger forgotten. “Did you forget we have a vow? Neither of us can talk about what happens between us, so it’s not like it will be hard to keep it a secret.”
His eyes plea with hers as he takes a careful half step again, slowly reaching for her.
“You can feel it too, I know you can. We can be together in whatever way we can.”
She sighs, but doesn't disagree with him because to be honest she wants that too. Hermione doesn’t know when exactly her feelings for him went from tentative friendship to thinking he was actually quite beautiful, the ridiculous attraction she assumed was unrequited consuming her thoughts an embarrassing amount of the time. But to have the option, no matter how it looked.
It was so tempting.
“During the war, yes we…we could get away with it. Technically.” She relents, and now it’s her taking a careful half step forward. Close enough she has to look up at him. “But even if we do both somehow survive, this war will end someday. If we win you will likely end up in Azkaban-”
He huffs out a bitter laugh.
“Oh there’s no doubt about that.”
“And if your side wins…” Fear courses through her at all the terrible possibilities as Malfoy’s eyes flash with something that might match it. “I think the best I could hope for is a swift death.”
He doesn't respond, but the tightening of his jaw is all she needs to know her assumption is correct.
“But maybe if you defected…came to our side…”
“Impossible even if I wanted to.” He smiles sadly, holding up his left arm where she knows the dark mark has branded him. “He’ll find me, kill me, my parents. Everyone I care for.”
Hermione sours at the thought, but she knew it never would have come to that anyway. She didn’t like him because he was redeemable, at least in that way. The mark would never leave him fully. Hermione liked him in spite of it, something she was still wrapping her head around.
Which would be easier if they just let it go now, before she got in too deep.
“So you agree we shouldn’t.”
“No, I don’t agree.” He takes her hand in his and laces their fingers together, and then the other. “I think we should take pleasure where we can.”
“Even with no real future?” She has to ask, even as she feels herself being drawn into her desire to be with him. “Let’s say the impossible happens and regardless of who wins, we’re free to pursue each other after the war and go public.”
Her lips twitch into a wry grin.
“Who on either side is going to allow that? You and me?”
“No one.” He admits with little snort. “It might take another war to get to that point.”
“Oh god.” Hermione groans, leaning her head against his chest. “You’re probably right.”
His chest hums against her as he brings her into a tight embrace, comfortably silent for a few moments.
“It would be worth it though.”
“Another war?”
A hand tugs playfully on the bottom of her plait, his smirk profound.
“Jus ad bellum, Granger. Who do we fight for if not for the people we care about?”
Hermione’s days had filled with color again.
In the roughly six weeks since she had come to visit (move) to Brisbane, her life was idyllic in a way that at times felt like a dream. The first face she saw when she woke up and the last before she went to bed was of the man she loved. No one knew them here, and they basked in the freedom anonymity gave them.
Going to restaurants in the muggle world, the food as colorful as the people who embraced the coastal town vibes. Holding hands as they walked along the beach, watching children chasing seagulls and muggles playing volleyball with a multicolored ball, swimsuits in all shades of the rainbow. Shopping in the small wizarding village close to where Draco had procured a flat with the money she sent him, having (ironically) pulled all her reparation money from the war of which much had come from vaults such as his own where the streets were yellow and the buildings all as vibrant as the workers there.
The bright blue of the sapphire engagement ring hidden in Draco’s socks drawer she found on accident, undoubtedly just waiting for the right time to give it to her. Or he was waiting to ask her father for permission on one of their cricket rounds on Saturday mornings, adorably matching in pink polos as if to scream they were a team to the rest of the players.
Linking arms with her mother as they went to a nearby park to feed the ducks, strolling through the green grass there. They chose that park because Hermione and Draco were thinking of purchasing a home close to it since she had started looking for a job in the area (in actuality she had one in Sydney at the magical hospital there, which she was excited to start next month).
It was easy to forget where she came from when she just focused on the here and now except when the Daily Prophet arrived at their window every few days. There was about a week delay on news from how far away they were from England, but she and Draco both thought it imperative to keep up to date anyway on where they were from.
And for her, anticipating some very specific news.
As she watches Draco give the owl a treat as she makes her tea, he takes his own from her with a murmured thank you and settles into his chair, opening up the paper as he always does.
And pauses. Puts his nose closer to the paper, squinting as his mouth parts at what it says.
And then stares at her, turning the paper so she can see the front page with a glaring headline.
Minister Suffers Fatal Heart Attack In His Sleep At Age 45!
Wife Held For Questioning After Eighth Husband Mysteriously Dies
“Granger.”
“Hm?” She hums innocently, taking a sip of her tea.
“You never did tell me exactly how you managed to get me out of that hellhole without anyone questioning my supposed death.”
She sets down her tea in it’s saucer as he sets down the paper, scrutinizing her.
“I think it’s time.”
Hermione looks at him, and then the Daily Prophet as she recalls what happened several months ago.
“I did what I had to do.”
“So, I hear we lost Carrow this week.” Kingsley clucks, leaning back in his chair with a casual smile. “Pity. Though I doubt anyone in particular will miss her since her brother is already gone.”
“Yes, a real tragedy.” Natalia drawls, Hermione moving carefully so she can see both their faces. “She didn’t go quietly either.”
“Mm.” Kingsley responds uninterestedly, studying the parchment in front of him. “Not much in the way of benefit here, though we knew there wouldn’t be.”
“No, there are some duds here but we have some potential left.” She gestures to another parchment that is in front of him which the Minister dutifully picks up. “I was thinking Malfoy next. Surely his vaults will be enough to do a whole lot of good when the goblins hand it over to the Ministry, what with him being the last of the line and all.”
Hermione spotted two men lying under an awning after nearly thirty minutes of searching for the right ones, clearly homeless. She flicks her wand under her disillusionment to quietly assess their minds. Her legillimency was shoddy at best, but muggles have no barriers and think nothing of it but a sudden headache.
The younger one appears to have a history of sexual assault before he lost it all, drawing girls into corners of dirty clubs to pump in and out of them as they were too drunk or drugged to protest.
His friend next to him apparently just liked to watch.
“Hm, you do make a good point but I believe we can wait a bit on that one. Let him suffer. For Dumbledore, you know?”
“Ah, I did hear he attempted to kill him back then. Attempted being the key word there.” She snorts sardonically. “Guess he got over that eventually, what with Voldemort letting him live as long as he did.”
“Undoubtedly. Da, da, da, who else do we have…ah, Rookwood’s next of kin is Daniel Abbott.” Kingsley looks up from the paper. “His daughter is getting married next month so I’m sure he would appreciate the sudden influx of galleons to pay for the wedding. I hear it’s in Greece.”
“Sounds lovely.” Natalia clucks, pulling out a notebook calendar and drawing her finger on the days on the bookmarked page. “So Rookwood for the 16th and I’ll schedule Malfoy for the 22nd then?”
Hermione goes up to the men, stupefying the older one before quietly joining them out of the rain on the darkening street, cancelling her disillusion which predictably frightens the other muggle.
“Imperius.”
“Make it later in the month.” Kingsley insists after a sip of water. “We should stagger them, especially this close to the end.”
“I agree.” Natalia hums, checking again. “Well, I have a conference the beginning of the next week but I could do Thursday the 28th. Will that work for you?”
She feels a strange sort of sentimentality towards her beaded bag that got her through years of fear and war, and while it admittedly looks silly in Draco’s limp hand she knows he will appreciate how prepared she was to give him help even if he was on his own. In the other she slips the marble that was to serve as her portkey to her parents thanks to Kingsley, watching it glow blue as Draco disappears from the room.
“Perfect. It will work out well for the anniversary celebration coming up since the Ministry is footing the bill for it.”
Tucking the handkerchief that now holds her tears into her pocket, she takes out the special vial of polyjuice potion and adds a few hairs to it, waiting for it to settle before turning to the man she brought with her in the corner.
“Drink.” Hermione commands, watching the dirty horrid homeless man do as she says, the pull of the curse she placed on him thrumming in her mind like a sixth sense. She quietly observes him become the wizard she loves in his tragically sick form, one he will stay in for the next twenty-four hours thanks to her batch of potion.
And also incidentally, for the rest of his miserable life, short as it may be.
“Sounds good.”
The Minister hums, tucking the papers together again. “Have you thought about what you’ll do once this is finished up in a few months?”
Relying on the knowledge that she gained during the war, Hermione hums to herself as she carefully recreates the potion she reversed months ago. Smiling to herself at her own little addition.
“I’ll miss you so much.” Ayana gives her a big hug, squeezing her tight before tapping her cheek. “Be sure to write.”
“I’ll miss you too.” Hermione replies (mostly) sincerely as Kingsley takes his turn, setting down his almost gone sour where five blueberries are still idly floating.
“I hope you figure out your parents, Hermione.” He pats her shoulder. “Just know there’s always a place for you whenever you’re ready to come back. You belong here, and I certainly will miss you around the office, even if it’s just for a visit.”
“I hope I figure it out too.” Hermione says solemnly, moving on to hug Ginny and the kids as Kingsley brings the drink back up to his lips to finish the remainder.
As the muggle now under her spell sits there silently as instructed, Hermione wakes the other.
“Imperius.”
“I don’t know, actually.” Natalia hums, finger to her chin as she thinks on it. “This work is truly fascinating. I must admit, your wife has such a way with inventive potions even if she doesn’t know it. Maybe I’ll follow her lead and open up a new research facility. There are so many other prisoners that are just wasting away up there in Azkaban that we can utilize, find the limits of our magical and human abilities.”
“You will go about your business for the next 384 days as you usually would.” Hermione commands the man, smirking internally at the specific day count.
Placing a piece of paper in his hands, she tells him to memorize the address before burning the paper with her wand and replacing it in his hand with a picture before he memorizes that and she burns it too.
“On that day you will go to the address you memorized and kill the woman in this picture when she walks out.”
“How?” The man drones his question, to which Hermione tightens the leash in her mind.
“Get creative.” She leaves it up to him, not particularly wanting to know the details.
As long as it was done, she’d be satisfied.
“Oh, and make sure to do the same to yourself too. And forget about this conversation and your task until that morning.” She presses a muggle bill into his hand. "Now go get yourself something to eat."
“Well, I wish you luck on that venture, but you know that you always have my ear if you have any trouble with red lines. Anything for those of us who fought on the right side of the war.”
“I didn’t fight the war though.” Natalia frowns. “You know I fled abroad for fear of the registration and only returned when it was over.”
“Still.” Kingsley brushes it off with a genuine smile. “You’re a muggle-born witch. You belong here no matter what all the others say and soon there will be no one to question that, what with all the Death Eaters gone.”
Hermione blinks at Draco’s waiting gaze, brow raised. Her eyes drop from his mesmerizing silver to the grey of the papers, the world she purposefully left behind.
“And this? How?”
She’s not surprised he’s suspicious, though she didn't imagined him catching on quite this quickly.
Still, she won’t say a word. Though she trusts him with her life, Hermione isn’t stupid enough to admit anything.
Not when the memory could potentially be used against her somehow.
“How could I've had anything to do with the tragic death of a dear friend?” She puts a hand innocently to her chest, eyes wide. “I’ve been in Australia for over a month, haven’t I?”
“Quite right.” He hums out his puzzlement before frowning at his tea. Declaring it unsatisfactory, suggesting they go to the nice coffee shop down the road for some lattes and scones, perhaps even go purchase a computer (He had become obsessed with the internet at her parent’s house and learned how to type in an impressively short time period).
Hermione wholeheartedly agrees as she puts on a colorful outfit and looks at the smile she can’t seem to hide in the mirror, deciding that life is much better when it’s not simply shades of grey.