Title: A Killing Grace
Author: Savage Midnight
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.
Summary: In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.
Author Notes: Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

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So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we? -- Placebo, Running Up That Hill

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Part I

A knife pressed against her throat and her wrists locked above her head was how morning found Hermione Granger.

Five a.m. on Good Friday, backed into the corner of an empty art gallery with Draco Malfoy looming over her, was not how she had planned to spend her Easter Weekend. There was meant to be chocolate and church and maybe a glass of wine or two, not knives and piercing grey eyes. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

"Malfoy," she whispered, and felt the pinch of the knife against her throat. No, not a knife. A dagger. A beautiful, sleek dagger with a sleeping dragon carved into the hilt. Malfoy's elegant fingers were curved around it almost lovingly and she lifted her gaze from it to look at him.

He was staring at her with hooded eyes and a lazy smile curving his lips.

"Granger," he drawled. "How have you been?"

"Better," she choked, and turned her face away from him. Her eyes fell closed and she took a deep breath, forcing her brain out of panic mode and into thinking mode. Her wand was a no-go, lost in the confines of her coat pocket, which was draped over one of the low benches at the far side of the room. There was no way she would reach it in time, even if she could somehow persuade Malfoy to let up a little.

She could Accio it, but he would no doubt slit her throat before she had time to cast a curse.

Damn him. He had thought of everything. He had even positioned himself in such a way that Hermione couldn't fall back on the age-old contingency plan of kicking him in the bollocks. The boy was good, if nothing else.

"So Malfoy," she rasped, realising her only option was to stall until Harry or Ron or someone noticed she was gone. It would take a while -- she hadn't told any of them of her last minute decision to go skulking around art galleries in the middle of the night -- but she had hope. "Is this how you always approach the ladies? No wonder you never get laid."

Hermione expected him to sneer at her barb -- hell, she was preparing herself for a jolly good beating -- but Draco just laughed, a low, dark sound in the back of his throat. His eyes sharp with mirth, he smiled slowly and pressed the dagger deeper. Hermione winced.

"Now, now, Granger. We're not here to discuss my sex life."

"But we're here to discuss my well-being?" she scoffed, glaring at him. "I doubt it."

"Actually," Malfoy said, tilting his head and drawing the dagger down slowly over her collarbone. "That's exactly what I've come to discuss. Although a 'discussion' would suggest that you have some say in the matter." The dagger brushed against the curve of her breast and rose back up. His gaze followed and dark, solemn eyes met grey as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "You don't."

She swallowed heavily and blinked back stinging tears. No point in crying about it. So Malfoy wanted her dead. It was nothing new.

"How does it feel, Malfoy?" she questioned quietly, voice thick with barely-contained loathing. She hated him. God, she hated him so much. "Being his lackey? Being told what to do, how to do it, when to do it. I bet it kills you that you couldn't do this sooner, that you had to wait for his word before you killed me. Tell me, I really want to know. I want to know what it feels like to be his puppet." She sneered the last word at him, mindless of her predicament and the fact that she was mere seconds from death. It was a bad idea. He was the one with the weapon.

The hand that held her wrists captive tightened and he leaned in closer. His silver eyes flashed with a quiet fury and Hermione thought that maybe she had pushed him too far this time.

"You're a fool, Granger," he said coldly. "You think because I wear the Dark Mark that I belong to him? I don't. I have my reasons. Some of them you can't even begin to comprehend. I am not my father's son. I work alone. I take orders when I choose to, and even then, at a price. Someone ordered you dead, and unluckily for you, the price was right."

She stared at him in disbelief, her breathing harsh and panicked. "Someone hired you to kill me?"

Draco nodded once, never releasing his grip on her wrists. The dagger hovered over the hollow of her throat.

"Yes," he said. "It seems you've been snooping around, Granger. Talking to people you shouldn't. Digging up secrets that should have stayed buried. A few of the big-wigs are starting to worry."

She shook her head. "But I haven't--"

Realisation hit. She let out a harsh breath and rested her head back against her raised arms, letting her eyes slip closed. "The Ministry Vaults," she said softly. "There's something in the Vaults."

How many nights had she spent searching the numerous chambers within in the Ministry? As an Auror-in-training and a missionary in the war raging between Voldemort and the Order, information was vital. It was the difference between the downfall of the Dark Lord and the downfall of the Order itself, so Hermione had taken it upon herself to exhaust every possible resource, including the Vaults.

But the locked doors, the restricted sections, the missing volumes and artifacts; she had not given them a second thought. The Vaults held secrets, ones she now knew would have unraveled an intricate web of deceit, betrayal and corruption within the Ministry. And now she was going to die because she had almost stumbled upon them by accident. How unfair. How cruel.

"Do you know what the funny thing is?" Draco said, sliding the dagger back up to rest against her throat. "You never even knew. There it was, everything you were searching for, and you had no idea." He laughed, and in one smooth motion he spun her, sending her crashing to her knees. She cried out as her arms, still anchored above her head with his hand, protested against the strain.

He knelt down facing her and slid the dagger back in place. "Tell me, Granger," he said in a hushed tone, face solemn except for the slight curve of his lips. "How does it feel to be my puppet?"

"Just do it, Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth. She tilted her head upwards and stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to let him see how afraid she truly was. Why couldn't it have been quick? Why this way when an Avada Kedavra would have been quicker, more painless?

Because he doesn't want it to be quick, she thought, or painless.

It seemed in the few years since she had last seen the Slytherin Prince, he had grown ever more sadistic. The dagger alone was an attribute to his growing ruthlessness, a human tool that could inflict pain or silence it. It allowed for a much more creative death than a simple curse.

"Now why would I do that?" he said, and released her arms. Her body sagged and she fell sideways, a small sob escaping her. Draco moved to straddle her, and with one hand holding the dagger to her throat, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with the other and whispered, "You're more useful to me alive."

He leant back and slid the dagger downwards and beneath the hem of her shirt. Hermione flinched when she felt cool metal against her skin.

"Then why take the job," she inquired, as she silently contemplated her escape. Her arms were free now, but her wand was still too far away. She doubted she could cause Malfoy much damage with her hands alone, so for now she was forced to keep him talking while she waited for an opportunity to present itself.

"If I hadn't, someone else would have," he reasoned. "Better me than anyone else. You know my weaknesses."

Hermione's brow furrowed and she looked at him in bewilderment. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it's the truth," he said, and his honesty puzzled her even more. Why wasn't he killing her? Why was he being so quick to point out that she had some of the power here?

She shook her head in confusion. "I don't know any of your weaknesses, Malfoy."

"Sure you do." His lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I talk too much, and I have a bad habit of taunting mudbloods when I should be killing them."

"Then why don't you just do it!" she snarled. She was past scared now; every muscle was tense with anxiety and her nerves were shot to hell. She didn't know what to do or think or say. His words offered a tendril of hope that she clung to fiercely, but the dagger against the bare skin of her stomach told a different story.

"Is that what you want?" he said, and moved the dagger up until the point rested just above her heart. Hermione caught a quick glimpse of the Dark Mark curled around his forearm before she lifted her gaze to his.

He was looming over her, shocks of pure white hair falling into his eyes. He looked thoughtful, almost curious, as if he was truly interested in her answer.

"Do you want it to end, Hermione?" Her name rolled off his tongue with ease, as if he had been speaking it for years. No one would ever think that this was probably the first time he had ever used it.

The room fell silent and Hermione looked at him, really looked. Her killer was just a boy, not even twenty years old, with features that did not belong to a soul so corrupt. But his face was young and free from the scars of war, his sharp eyes so bright they looked almost innocent. He wore only black -- black t-shirt, black jeans, black combat boots – except for a silver watch on his right wrist. Everywhere she looked, death shone back at her like a beacon, from the dancing light of the dagger that hovered over her heart, to the liquid mercury of his eyes. If ever the name Angel of Death was fitting, it was now.

She felt tears prick her eyes, and suddenly feeling tired beyond her years, she whispered, "Yes."

Yes, I want it to end. But I don't want to die. I just want it to stop. I want to stop running, I want to stop hurting, I want my friends to stop dying.

She closed her eyes and memories, faces, snapped across the darkness. Ginny, beautiful Ginny, with her dead eyes and her shining hair the colour of blood. So much blood. She had drowned in it, as so many others had. Her parents. Neville and Pansy and George. Others were missing, had been gone for months; Mr. Weasley, Professor Lupin and Tonks. They were disappearing left, right and centre and Hermione was quietly waiting for the day that she never came back. Maybe today was that day.

But then Draco moved, slid backwards and rose to his feet. Hermione stared up at him, at the dagger he still held at his side, and wondered what had changed.

He was not the Draco she remembered; the spoilt child who lived in a world where blood meant power and privilege and prestige; the child who had sneered and whined and manipulated his way to the top in Hogwarts; the child who had idolised his father, who had been so eager to follow in his footsteps that he had taken the Dark Mark on his sixteenth birthday.

Draco was right. He was something else now. Darker, maybe. He was everything she had expected him to become -- dangerous and deadly -- except she hadn't expected this. He had grown into something she had not foreseen. This was not Lucius Malfoy's son, the Death Eater, the pureblood heir to the Malfoy throne. This was a man who cared nothing for the Dark Lord, who wielded his servitude as a weapon, who killed for nothing more than self-gratification and personal gain.

She didn't know which was worse. A boy who killed to serve another, or a man who killed to serve himself. The latter was unlikely to care what happened to a lone war missionary such as herself, unless she was somehow able to cater to his selfish whims and offer him something valuable in exchange for her life.

But what?

She obviously possessed something -- information maybe? -- which Draco was directly or indirectly interested in, otherwise she would have been dead already. She highly doubted that good old-fashioned sentimentality would have stopped him from killing her had the price been right.

So that meant she was important somehow. Draco needed her. But did she need him?

I need him to stay sane, she thought wryly. A sane Malfoy is better than an I'm-going-to-chop-you-into-little-pieces Malfoy.

"What do you want?" she said, rising unsteadily to her feet and moving cautiously towards one of the benches, all the while watching him warily out of the corner of her eye. She felt the smooth stone seat hit the back of her knees and sagged down on to it. She suddenly had a deep desire to be at home, wrapped up warm and safe in her cosy little bed.

Draco stared at her for a long moment, slate-grey eyes thoughtful. Hermione couldn't read the expression on his face, but it was an alien look.

And then, "I need your help."

That was all he said. No apology for trying to kill her. Nothing. Just four words she never thought would pass Draco Malfoy's lips.

"Why?" was her suspicious reply. Why would someone like Malfoy need her help? She didn't understand. Hell, she was struggling to understand a lot of things tonight. Like why the death threats? Why not just ask her straight out?

Because he wanted me to know, she thought. He wanted me to know that he could have killed me tonight. That he can still kill me if he chooses. And now he thinks I have a death wish. Great.

"Why?" she repeated when he didn't answer.

Draco shook his head and turned away from her, moving towards the far left corner of the gallery and settling himself down. Hermione could just make out his profile in the dull morning light, but the shadows hid his face. He was silent and still for a long moment, and then he spoke.

"I've seen... things," he said huskily. "Things that haven't happened yet. My mother dead. My father beyond caring." She heard him swallow heavily. "I've seen armies lining the streets, filling the cities, from one end of the earth to the other. Muggles dead and dying. Half-bloods chained and gagged. And nothing's changed." He laughed and the sound made her shiver.

"Draco--"

"Nothing's changed at all," he repeated in a whisper and Hermione fell silent. "We're still his slaves. Purifying the races served no purpose but his own. Except now he owns us. We can't sleep or eat or fuck without him knowing about it." She saw him turn his head towards her, but she couldn't see his face or his eyes. There was just darkness. "I won't live that way. I spent seventeen years living under someone else's rule. I won't do it again."

And in the end it came down to this: a boy fighting for his freedom. His freedom to kill and maim and hate as freely as he wished.

Draco Malfoy hadn't changed. He had evolved.

She rose from the bench and moved towards him slowly. Yes, she definitely had a death wish, approaching her sworn enemy with nary a wand nor a weapon in sight. But she was past caring. She was angry.

She knelt down in front of him and in tight voice said, "Do you even care? Knowing your mother will die? That thousands will die because he demands it?"

He hit her. She didn't even see it coming. One moment she was kneeling in front of him, the next she was on her back. She scrambled up and away, nursing her wounded cheek with her hand as she stared at him in shock.

It was worse than having a dagger held to her throat. Why, she didn't know. He had threatened to kill her, had spent years tormenting her, but never once had he laid a hand on her. Until now. Hermione was reeling.

She watched him move. He slinked out of the shadows and stared down at her with hateful grey eyes. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing perfect white teeth, and he hissed, "You're fortunate. I've killed people for less. Now get up."

She didn't move. She couldn't. Fear held her still as she stared up at the boy before her. She had never seen him look so angry, so fierce. The look on his face was pure predatory and it froze the blood in her veins.

"Get. Up."

This time she forced herself to move. She knew what he was capable of now. Before today his threats had amounted to very little and she had foolishly believed that Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a petulant little boy with a chip on his shoulder. How wrong she had been.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, knowing if she didn't he would force her upright himself.

She stood up straight and eyed him warily. She tried to feign nonchalance, to pretend that she wasn't afraid of him, but she knew it wasn't working. Draco knew she was afraid and there was no doubt in her mind that he would use it to his advantage.

"Now that I have your undivided attention," he said, taking a step towards her. "Lets get a few things clear." He paused in front of her. "Firstly, you're right. I don't give a damn about the people who are going to die. I haven't changed, Hermione. I didn't suddenly discover my inner humanitarian over night, nor will I ever. I refuse to waste my time worrying about those who matter very little to me."

He took another step towards her and casually swept her hair away from her face and over her shoulder. His hand drifted back to brush against her wounded cheek, fingers trailing a path along her skin as he moved down to cup her chin. He lifted her face until she was staring into his eyes. "Secondly," he said in a soft tone that belied the venom beneath, "if you mention my mother again, I will kill you. Just because I don't care about the many, doesn't mean I don't care about the few. Remember that."

He dropped her chin and turned away from her, heading towards the door. She stared after him, confused beyond words. For years she had always thought she had Draco Malfoy worked out. Tonight he had proven her wrong.

So did she help him, even though she hated him? He was no different to her, after all, though she was loathe to admit it. He only wished to save the ones he loved, to retain his freedom. So he cared little about the others that would die. Was she any better? Did she really spend her days worrying about them? No. Her main concerns were her family and her friends, Harry and Ron and the Order. And her freedom. Yes, she wanted to walk down the street knowing that death wasn't waiting around every corner. She wanted to live in a world where she wasn't persecuted because of who she was.

Maybe Draco wanted different things, but who she was to decide whether he deserved his freedom or not? That was not her choice to make. But if she could prevent hundreds, maybe thousands, from dying, so be it, she would help him.

Mind made up, she grabbed her coat, slipped it on, and slid out of the building. She muttered a quick incantation to re-lock the gallery doors and turned to see Draco waiting for her at the bottom of the stone steps.

She moved to stand beside him. He didn't look at her.

"So?" he said

Hermione took a deep breath and wondered fleetingly what she was getting herself into.

"What do you need?"