Title: The Paths to Perdition
Author/Artist:
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the song, "Ocean of Noise" by Arcade Fire
Warnings: Graphic images of violence, language, dark themes, sexual situations, tragedy.

Summary: After the war, Hermione attempts to mend what was broken without shattering herself in the process. Rather AU, despite efforts to make it canon-compliant.

Author's Notes: For Shine a Light on Draco and Hermione exchange! I've been wrestling around with the story to make it fit the request, and I think I succeeded for the most part, but probably not in the way that would have been expected. Much love and thanks to my beta Sin - she stayed with me for countless hours while I wrote and re-wrote the draft. All further mistakes are mine, not hers.

The Paths to Perdition
By Callisto Callispi

When the world is turned upside down by change, it's difficult to press forward. At times it's difficult to even move, as if everything is stuck together by sticky spider webs, let alone advance. Perhaps it was a personal thing, but Hermione at times wondered whether she was truly as progressive as she made herself out to be, or whether she was trapped within the web of her own ambitions, playing god to her own world while ignorant of what happened beyond her self-spun domain.

The island had been abandoned long before, and the air was always cold and wet. Hardly any forms of life visited the chunk of rocky land except for the seagulls and the prisoners in the fortress. Hermione had arrived by boat a few days ago, and she couldn't help but feel apprehensive in such an isolated place, especially considering her company and her lodging.

The fortress was relatively small, encompassing only five floors. Her bedroom and office were on the first floor, protected from the convict by a few guards. Though Hermione was fully capable of caring for her own well-being, she couldn't help but feel a bit more at ease, knowing that she could sleep a bit more easily with the guards on vigil. Of course, this wasn't the case when she conducted her interrogations. There, she faced him by herself.

The cell was cold and damp, and Hermione could hardly see anything, least of all the metal bars toward the back that caged the prisoner. Hermione could not imagine how Draco Malfoy, who lived a posh lifestyle even during the war, could have ever survived in such a place without losing his sanity. Perhaps she had underestimated the ferret. She reserved that thought in her mind but did not bother exploring such a possibility. Not that she needed to, considering the situation.

Drops of sweat were trickling down her forehead already. She was hot but her face was cold - she could hardly feel her fingertips. Why did she feel so anxious every single time? The door squeaked open. Hermione entered, drawing her wand. The wood felt soggy. Shadows soaked the cell into darkness, and she lit the tip of her wand to chase away the dark.

"Draco Malfoy," she read, approaching the metal bars. Her voice was almost shrill in the silence. "Do you understand why you are here?"

Somewhere, deep within the shadows of the corner, came his raspy voice that never ceased to tremble her spine. "I'm reminded of it everyday, Granger." A shift. "Reminded by you, actually."

Hermione stood her ground and continued, not skipping a beat. "You are here under allegations of multiple cases of homicide, of robbery, of treason against the state, of -"

His hand, as white as the moon lined with blue ivy-like veins, slid past the metal bars and against her chin. Hermione jerked back, eyes open wide.

"You know what your problem is, Granger?" he asked, his breath hot against her ear. Hermione jumped and turned for the door, but Draco was too quick. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against the metal bars that trapped him in, and grazed his lips against the smooth flesh of her neck. "You have no idea just of what I am capable."

He released her as abruptly as he grabbed her and stalked back into the corner of his cell, fading into the darkness cast by fallen shadows.

Hermione's hands quivered slightly, but with firm determination, she clenched her teeth and continued the interrogation, just like she had done every day of the past two weeks. Just like those days before, she did not get any response. When Draco Malfoy maintained his silence, Hermione turned on her heel walked out.

The cell door slammed shut with a discordant, metallic screech, though the case was far from being closed.

...

two months before, Hermione had been walking furiously along Cara Alley, her head buzzing with lack of sleep and too much frustration. In one hand, she gripped a thermos of tea and with the other carried an attaché case full of files from last year's Wizengamot archives of court rulings. She had been wrestling for months over the logistics of her case, and Hermione trudged through, muttering to herself about the Wizengamot, when the bell jingled. In one flurrying instant, Hermione heard a familiar voice saying good-bye to the storeowner, a small gasp, and a shriek before she collided into a body and lurched backward, forgoing everything she had in her hands. After a dizzying moment, Hermione balanced herself on her wobbling legs and looked down on the ground, finding the lid of her thermos cracked and her Earl Grey covering the leather of her attaché.

Her first reaction was disappointment, for Harry had gotten that case for her in Italy two years ago, right after they had parted without words from Ron's funeral. It was his last present to her before he retreated from the limelight and her life. But Hermione quickly shook herself out of the thought and began apologizing profusely as she helped up the woman she ran into. She too was a mess. A mass of beige curls covered the woman's face, and a nasty scrape ran along the side of her left leg. Her stilettos were strewn along the sidewalk.

"It's all right, it's all right, get off for a minute, will you?" the woman said, voice muffled and irritated as she shook off Hermione's arm.

Hermione withdrew, though not without feeling a bit goaded. She picked up the shoes, raising her eyebrows. They were nice shoes. Hermione grazed her fingers over the material of the heels - real leather - but returned them quickly as she saw the other woman stand up.

"I'm so sorry - I just wasn't looking where I was going, and -"

The woman ran her long, manicured fingers through her tangled hair and replied stiffly, "No, no, it's quite all right. Things like this happen." She took the shoes and flipped her hair backwards, revealing her face. Not the best leather in the world could widen Hermione's eyes more than the person who greeted her. Neither could the other party repress her surprise. Hermione was the first to close her mouth. Setting her face to stone, she bent down and gathered the papers that slid out of her attaché.

"Parkinson." Her voice was hard, though hardly cold.

Pansy did not respond until Hermione stood up to her full height. "Granger," she replied in the same tone.

Hermione replied with a reluctant nod of recognition.

The two women stood on the sidewalk facing each other with unsolicited, unwanted familiarity. Complete opposites, the two of them: one dressed in a crisp, gray business suit with her bushy brown hair tied back unceremoniously in a tight ponytail; the other in a nicely-fitted skirt and a lacy white shirt dipping at the hemline, hair immaculately styled and highlighted with this year's latest hues of light blond and ashy brown.

For a minute, Hermione's feminine jealousy awakened and she momentarily wished she had taken the shoes. But then she remembered with whom she was dealing.

Hermione felt her heart grow heavy and could easily understand Pansy's discomfort. It seemed too wrong to just walk away with that exchange. After all it had been a year since they had last seen each other, and they had parted with many loose ends between them.

"How are you doing?" Hermione asked finally.

Pansy stared at her quietly, her light eyes staring into Hermione's dark ones. It's what made her look so classy - the contrast of her darkish hair with her misty blue eyes. Though Pansy may not have seen Hermione as much during their absence, Hermione had seen plenty of her counter part in magazine advertisements, particularly perfume adverts for expensive French brands.

"Just trying to make a living in this shit society," replied Pansy with a little smirk. Hermione could immediately tell that she wasn't living as affluently as she dressed. "Everything is different. You know; I know."

"We would know more than anyone," Hermione agreed quietly.

Was inviting Pansy for coffee being too friendly? Was leaving her like this without just a good-bye too cowardly? They both had skeletons in their closets, and some were too frightening or putrid to handle, but it didn't mean Hermione was going to throw her arms around the one girl she had hated all her life because of a twisted, completely unexpected turn of events that should have never ever happened.

"After Daddy...left, I started going into modeling, and it turned out my mother had a few connections inside the cosmetics business. After she passed away, she transferred a bit of her shares to my name." Pansy paused and stared at her nails. "I invested luckily and my modeling job was going up, so I managed to get into partnership with a cosmetologist who's planning to open up his own line of perfumes."

The possibilities of success for cosmetics this day and age were slim. People were too busy claiming their monetary and judicial rights for their lost properties and family members. Hermione and a few others who noticed this shift were quick to capitalize. Others who could not or would not accept the results of the war kept to their own businesses, many meeting with failure or a significant decrease in prosperity.

No matter how much Hermione had hated Pansy, in and out of Hogwarts, she could not bring herself to laugh at how low the Parkinson family had fallen. Pansy wasn't stupid, but she had neither the mind nor the tact of a lawyer or politician. She was from a family of businessmen who depended on the spending power of a capitalist society by accurately deducing the ups and downs of a free-floating economy. That economy right now did not exist; it had withered like a dry leave in a great razing forest fire during the war and Voldemort's reign. Politicians and propagandists determined where the money collected, and Pansy with both of her parents denounced as war criminals lacked whatever political trust and power her name had manifested over the centuries.

The wind picked up, and Hermione hadn't known it was raining until the glass of the boutique began to fog. She looked up at the once-clear sky, now stuffed with clouds. "It's beginning to rain, and I'm late for work."

Pansy eyed her. "What are you doing these days?"

Hermione shuffled her attaché from one arm to the other. "Ministry investigations and handling lawsuits."

"Same as before, I see. At least it's profitable."

"Mm," Hermione agreed.

"Looks like you've achieved the goody-goody Gryffindor dream at least. You know, executor of justice, defender of the weak," Pansy replied, eyes half-lidded.

Hermione, for a brief moment, looked down uncomfortably. "Yes, isn't it the Gryffindor dream? Look, I'm really late, and I need to go." With a crooked smile, she added, "The head of the department is an utter bitch. Could have taken you out on a leash at Hogwarts."

Pansy sniffed "I highly doubt that" and stepped aside on the sidewalk in a gesture of "go on, " and Hermione accepted the offer.

She had walked hardly a block when she heard the clacking of Pansy's heels behind her. Hermione turned around as the hand landed on her shoulder.

"Here," breathed out Pansy, handing Hermione a small slip of paper.

Hermione took it and upon closer inspection, she saw that it was a business card.

Pansy Parkinson

Cosmetic Specialist

enchantée

Hermione turned the card around and on the back was a line of numbers.

Pansy easily caught Hermione's expression. "It's my telephone number. We do many sales with muggles," was her explanation, though there was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice.

Hermione carefully placed the card inside her coat pocket. "I'll look into it one of these days."

Pansy walked away without a response, and Hermione as well went to her own work.

...

present. Hermione pored over the ministry files that her assistants had somehow managed to dig up in the archives. Files of court hearings of well-known Death Eaters, the financial maneuverings of powerful families during the war, and the bankruptcy and collapse of those same families were all within Hermione's reach. For hours Hermione searched again and again through the never-ending mass of documents, trying to find something that she could use to convince the Wizengamot that the judicial provisions granted to muggle-borns and half-born wizards and witches were too few and ultimately prejudiced. These systems, Hermione argued a few days before in front of the chief members of the Wizengamot, are those established thirty years ago, during the time of the Dark Lord's first uprising, by powerful families whose members, with pride, burned the hideous mark of the Dark Lord onto their forearms.

But they refused to budge. Too soon, said the Chief Warlock. It was too soon in the process to start implementing such policies. The post-war society was finally starting to become reality, and they did not want to disturb its tentative budding with radical changes in the infrastructure of the judiciary. People, especially those not muggle-born, might interpret it incorrectly and could possibly spark another rebellion.

Though frustrated, all Hermione could do was wait, but she knew that she could not wait idly. She would build up her case, and when the time was right, she would present it flawlessly to the Wizengamot. Hermione sighed into her coffee cup and leaned back into her chair. She knew, of course, that this research was going to end up nowhere unless she could get some information out of Draco, one of the very few high-ranking Death Eaters that were neither mad nor incapacitated. Hermione knew that Draco remembered many, many details of the war, and she would give anything to pick apart every one of his memories for information about the upper-level dealings of Voldemort's army. Draco's brain was an abundant reserve from which Hermione could extract names, locations, and plots - all tremendous bits of information that she could use as evidence to build up her case.

Hermione sipped on her coffee and closed her eyes. The world left over by Voldemort's failed ambitions was a mess, no denying that, especially with Harry Potter incapable and unwilling to reclaim order. Lives were destroyed, families were shattered, and societies were smashed to the ground. In the aftermath of Voldemort's downfall, Western Europe's magical community (if one could even refer to the anarchic gathering of frightened, angry, desperate, destructive wizards and witches as a "community") was overthrown by chaos and hate, and peace remained a distant dream for many.

At least, it remained a dream until, amidst the rubble and smoke, ambitious mavericks emerged, calling for order. Hermione was one of them.

Hermione was proud of her accomplishments. Hermione knew that if not for people like her, looting and murdering would be as widespread as it was during Voldemort's reign. It was her determination and her desire to set things right again that drove her restore the wizarding community to what it had been before. Of course, things weren't perfect just yet. Rulers needed to confirm their power, money needed to circulate, and laws needed to establish the boundaries between the right and wrong in light of a post-society. The most latter provision was what Hermione had chosen. She knew that if not for her contributions to the reconstruction of the judiciary and her fervent prosecution of war criminals, Death Eaters would still be wreaking havoc in the wizarding community, sparking riots and raids against people who just wanted to live peacefully.

What Pansy said to Hermione that day about achieving the dream of goody-goody Gryffindors wasn't too far off from the truth.

Enough of the chaos.

Hermione opened her eyes and set her mug down. Despite the horrendous crimes and murders committed on all sides, wizards and witches were sentient beings, not mindless, anarchic animals. Those who survived such destructive times deserved some peace. Hermione opened the manila folders and started scrutinizing the files for evidence to build up her case. For peace and order, for her society and for herself, she would drive herself to her limit.

"I see that you're busy at work. That's a good sign."

Hermione, though familiar with the department head's tendency to unexpectedly apparate in and out of her personal space, jumped slightly out of her chair, scattering massive towers of folders onto the floor. Hermione winced. Damn, reorganizing that was going to be a bitch.

"You're a mess, Hermione," the department head sniffed, a moderately young, sharp-looking woman with dark hair tied tightly in a ponytail. Hermione suddenly felt self-conscious in her sweater and jeans. The department head stood in the middle of Hermione's small office, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the sight of Hermione's desk, which, at the moment, was covered in papers and folders. She produced a small attaché case and handed it to Hermione. "These, the Chief Warlock insisted that I deliver to you personally, as if I were some carrier pigeon. He refused to let me call for you, either, to retrieve these papers. Inside are extremely confidential files from the 3rd of August Massacre."

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she accepted the attaché case.

The department head caught her look. "I told the Head Minister that you were probably not the best person to investigate this, considering your history and the great possibility of bias in your assessment, but he has been intrigued by your work."

The rare instance of begrudging praise from the department head failed to brighten Hermione's mood. She settled the attaché case on the desk.

"I trust you'll look over those files carefully."

Hermione nodded. "Of course."

"Good. Now, since I am already here and since you've been industriously ignoring my owls, I'll ask you directly: Have you started writing your report on Malfoy's confessions?"

Hermione made her way to the front of her desk and propped herself against the edge. "I would have, but he's not as cooperative as I thought he would be," Hermione replied calmly, though mentally preparing herself for an angry barrage of words from the department head.

"So he does refuse to talk. I knew this would happen." The department head stared at Hermione accusingly. "Do you know how much it cost to transfer Malfoy from Azkaban to this godforsaken place? How much it costs to sustain him here?"

"Just give me more time," Hermione grit out. "I'll get him to talk."

"How much longer now, Hermione? I've been waiting for nearly a month for a report. The secretary to the Chief Warlock has been all over my ass -"

"It's not as simple as you make it out to be," Hermione retorted, angry at being scolded by someone hardly older than her. "He isn't cooperating for some reason, and you and I both understood that he could possibly do that. I told him how we could award him for his testimony. The guards and I have treated him with decency. But he still doesn't budge. I need more time to figure out his motives, his goals. When I know what he wants, I'll give you the information you want," Hermione said. She knew she was nearly begging, but she needed Draco to talk. Her case to the Wizengamot depended on his testimonies.

The department head peered at Hermione inquisitively, as if trying to read her mind. "Why are you doing this for him? You arrange his transportation, his cell, his board, for god's sake! You've never treated other Death Eaters like this."

"He's the most high-ranking Death Eater we've gotten so far. If we get what he knows down on paper and show it to the Wizengamot, we can pluck out the hiding Death Eaters and bring them to justice. We can strengthen the judiciary. We can -"

"Cut the idealistic bullshit, Hermione," the department head snapped. "In the past five years, we have sent over twenty-five high-ranking Death Eaters to Azkaban. The rest aren't so urgent, especially when we have bigger cases to handle right now, and for all I care, Draco Malfoy can be given the Kiss."

Hermione bit her lip and her hands fisted against the wood of the table. "Just a few more weeks. That's all I need."

The department head regarded Hermione with a tilted head, as if she couldn't trust her intentions. "Two more weeks," she said finally.

Hermione expelled the breath she was holding. "Okay."

"But, let me make this clear: if you don't get a single confession out of Malfoy by the end of two weeks, he's moving up in the line to get the Kiss."

Hermione shifted her gaze downward and narrowed her eyes. The Kiss? Two weeks was all she had. Criminals sent to get the Kiss were isolated from the rest of the population, and Hermione would have no chance to delay the ultimate punishment.

"I understand," Hermione said at last.

The department head nodded, but before she had a chance to apparate back to her office, Hermione suddenly stood to her full height.

"But I have one request. In order to extract what I want from Draco Malfoy in such a short amount of time, I'll have to take some liberties."

"You know Veritaserum is illegal right now?" the head department replied. "You cannot torture him. We are representatives of the judiciary."

Hermione nodded. "I understand. I just may need to strike some bargains with him so that he talks."

The department head considered this for a moment. "Owl me with your ideas, and I'll send them to get approved." Then, the department head turned around and disapparated.

Hermione sighed and sank into her chair, her hand to her forehead. The Kiss? Oh Merlin, it was one thing for Draco to be locked up in Azkaban for life, but in line for the Kiss? Hermione grimaced. How would it feel, to be in line for the Kiss? To know that your soul was a mere dessert, a candy, for those wretched creatures? That to satisfy their appetite, you'd spend the rest of your life in a cell, lifeless and dull, and when the sands of time finally ran down, you'd finally die the physical death deprived to you for so long a time? Would he go mad, finally?

Draco had shown impressive resilience against the dementors during his one-year stay in Azkaban. The dementors had weakened him, to be sure, and Hermione knew that even the simplest magic strained him greatly. No longer was he capable of the Cruciatus Curse, the curse that he used on pregnant women to extract confessions and later kicked both the fetus and the mother to death. But despite the dementors, Draco still had his mind, and he damn well used it against her every day. Perhaps it would be easier to just be rid of him...

Hermione opened her eyes and sat up in her chair. The black attaché case gleamed a curious metallic color against her desk lamp. Files from the 3rd of August Massacre?

Hermione remembered the day - remembered very clearly, in fact. She remembered the screams of hysterical blonde woman next to her, crying for her husband and her child. She remembered the people clawing at the prison doors until their nails broke and their fingers were raw. She remembered the clamor of chains that bound them together around their limbs and waist, as if they were cattle ready for slaughtering.

And above it all, she remembered Draco's voice, like a bell, calling her name, ringing from beyond the masses of prisoners.

Could she just stand by, seeing Draco Malfoy, silent and somber, waiting in line for the Kiss? Could she stomach seeing Draco Malfoy, the proud and insufferable Draco Malfoy, slumped against the wall like a broken marionette, knowing that his debasement was mostly her doing?

Undoubtedly, the right thing to do was to spare him such a fate, Hermione decided, and the only way she could do that was to get him to talk. Though Hermione did not hold an extremely high-level job within the Ministry, she curried enough influence to get Draco, if he talked, some sort of parole on the basis that he had helped establish the legitimacy of the judicial process.

Yes, Hermione thought, this was beneficial to the both of them. She only had to make Draco realize that. Except...what if he didn't care what happened to him?

...

Hermione returned to the cell next day, breathing deeply and going over what she would say. Hermione had spent all night thinking and rethinking what she could offer him, but it was more difficult that she thought. She had already offered him parole, and honestly, she couldn't think of anything else.

The cell seemed darker than usual; she could hardly make out the lanky form in the back of the cell. Hermione lit the tip of her wand brighter than yesterday, announcing the arrival of light to counter this suffocating darkness.

"I'm going to do something different this time, Malfoy," Hermione said as soon as she closed the door behind her. She waited, listening to his breathing. Normal pace, same as always. "I'm going to strike a deal with you. For every three questions you answer honestly, I will bring you one thing from the outside world, be it Ministry approved."

A harsh laugh. Hermione's heart skipped. A response!

"What could you bring me, Granger, if I never get out of this cell for the rest of my life?"

Hermione squinted, though it didn't help her vision in any way. "You know you could be pardoned, Draco." She honeyed the tone of her voice, softening the harshness of his name. "Ever since you came here, we've said that we had arrangements for war criminal exiles."

Draco snorted. "Living alone in a squeaky, abandoned castle on some fog-choked island with nothing but the fish a few kilometers out in sea? Some arrangement. How will that be any different from what I have now?"

"I had to pull some strings to even manage that," Hermione replied, her voice still very tranquil but now with a undercurrent of anger. "The Ministry thought that you should have been executed or given the Kiss."

"It would have been a more dashing finish than this."

Hermione could not control herself. Reason insisted that he get the Kiss and her guilt posited that she save him, and she hated him for straining her morals. "Oh yes," Hermione sneered. "How so very dashing, your corpse dangling from a rope like a piece of ham for the crows. Or on the other hand, drooling like a mindless idiot while spectators look on as they whisper to each other, 'Oh my, it's the Malfoy boy. Shame; he used to be so sharp! Now look at him, poor thing.' You should consider yourself lucky that you're not going to be sucking face with a dementor."

"Fuck you," came his response, voice sleek and powerful.

Hermione's hands fisted. "What is your answer, then?"

He insisted on playing dumb. "To what?"

"Will you cooperate for once?"

He did not need for her to tell him what cooperation she was expecting. "How would you know whether I'm telling the truth or not?"

"You may be a good liar, but I'm a better interrogator," Hermione replied confidently. "You can't be on your toes all the time. And truthfully, Malfoy, you're thirty years old and imprisoned for life with no chance of parole otherwise. "

Draco Malfoy remained silent. He was contemplating, and Hermione was nervous. She needed him to cooperate, and Hermione could find no reason as to why he wouldn't speak with her. What was keeping him from opening up?

"I've seen that expression on your face before, Granger," he whispered from the shadows. "Could it be desperation?"

Hermione stiffened and stepped back, brows unconsciously gathering in a frown. The clicking of her heels was even more pronounced in this gloaming silence. "You're miscalculating what you say to me, Draco. Think about my offer because, in the end, you'll face me or the dementor who'll suck your soul right out your body."

"Hah!" Draco cried as Hermione began to turn away from him. "I see no difference in my two adversaries then, as both of you will destroy what vestige of a soul I have left."

Hermione grit her teeth. "Think about it."

And before Draco could respond, Hermione turned and closed the cell door behind her, bile rising to her throat. So, he wouldn't give in. Fine. She wasn't going to give up that easily.

Hermione went to her office and dug around her desk drawers. She had placed Pansy's business card in the drawer somewhere...

When she found it, Hermione took out a small cell phone from her pocket and brushed off the dust. It had been a while since Hermione last used this, especially since most of her work was concentrated in the wizarding world.

Hermione breathed in deeply, her phone in one hand and the card in the other. She had no wish to talk to Pansy about anything, least of all Draco, but no way would she lose Draco Malfoy to the dementors.

After all, Pansy knew Draco the best out of anyone alive, and if anyone could make him talk, it was she.

Hermione dialed.

...

The cafe in which Hermione and Pansy decided to meet was right near one of the magical boundaries separating the muggle world from the wizarding world. Usually occupied by muggles stopping by for refreshments after shopping in the boutiques nearby, Hermione felt oddly at ease in such a setting: electric lights, not lanterns glowing with fairies, lit the small cafe; muggle music hummed in the background, nicely balancing with the chatter of its customers; and most importantly, Hermione saw no sign of wands. She was safe here, for no former Death Eater in a nostalgic fit of rage would waste his time terrorizing such a little place.

Hermione sat down at a small table by the corner, twirling the straw around in her untouched drink. Pansy called and told her that she would be late in closing down her small cosmetics shop. The shop was only a few blocks east of the cafe. In fact, it was Pansy who suggested that they meet at this little place.

It surprised Hermione how well and how thoroughly Pansy adjusted to muggle standards of living.

The bell on the door rung as Pansy walked in, looking immaculate and fashionable as always. Hermione stood up from her chair, waving Pansy toward her. Pansy obliged and, after the two exchanged greetings, sat down. Hermione watched Pansy, looking so natural yet so curiously out-of-place in her muggle clothing, flip through the menu and order a fruit drink. When the waitress brought it, Hermione began to speak.

"I've put a silencing charm and a few others around us, so that people will avoid this corner," Hermione said.

Pansy sipped her drink and looked up at Hermione in question. "You know, I was quite surprised that you called me," Pansy said. "Honestly, I didn't think you would ever want to ever associate with me, now that I am pushed aside to a little corner of some insignificant district in muggle London." She stared pointedly at Hermione. "And I'm sure that your two little friends, the Weasel and Potter, would hardly approve of you seeing someone like me."

"Ron died a few years ago in a riot he'd been trying to contain. Harry took Ron's death very personally, especially after fighting against Voldemort. He'd suffered massive damages, both physical and spiritual. Harry's away right now, with people who can help him recover." Hermione supplied quietly. It happened a few years ago, but Hermione did not want to approach the loss of her friends. For years, she hid those memories deep within her heart. She had no intention of bringing them into the light ever again.

Pansy stared at her evenly. "Well, I'm sorry for bringing it up."

Hermione smiled sardonically. "No need." Hermione drank from her cup. "I'm actually surprised at how well you handle yourself in the muggle world."

Pansy smirked and sat back, running her long fingers through her hair. "I'm a Slytherin, you know. And Slytherins don't die - we just bide time."

Hermione returned Pansy's roguish smile. "Really? If I didn't know better, it seems that all you could ever gain or achieve is in the muggle world, seeing as how they snapped your wand in half. Though on the bright side, you seem to enjoy yourself here, keeping yourself busy with your clients."

Pansy narrowed her eyes slightly, her gaze never leaving Hermione's. "I hate living in this place, you know," she remarked.

Hermione took a sip of her drink for the first time, keeping her face tranquil.

"To tell you the truth, I still can't see what your lot, like those despicable Weaselys, ever saw in muggles. Everything, even the simplest chores, is such a hassle and so very complicated." Pansy set her drink down on the table. "When I need to get somewhere, I can't apparate and must take the bloody omnibus. I've resorted to selling chemicals that hide flaws, not beautify faces, like our magical spells and ointments. I find this world very barbaric, and muggles are so ignorant to everything around them. They have no restraint. Do they not realize that their careless consumption of their resources is what is causing this choking fog around London?" Pansy spread her arms to indicate to Hermione the grey sky outside. "When I first came here, Granger, I vomited for days and spent my time ill in bed merely because of the air, with not even my nursemaid to care for me. I had left the door to my flat unlocked because I didn't know how to use a key. When I came back, everything was stolen, and no one ever lifted a finger to help me."

Hermione shifted in her seat. "No one said that living was going to be so easy."

Pansy's face remained expressionless. Her gaze was blank, as if she had never considered living alone and locking doors. Though considering Pansy's family back in the day, she really did have little need to worry about such things.

But Hermione would not give in that easily. She had done the right thing, moving Pansy into muggle England. Look how far a spoiled pureblooded heiress had gotten in a world completely unfamiliar to her. It showed character.

"Yes, well, as you said, living is not easy, and after all, I am a Slytherin. And it is because of you that I still live on, right?" Her smile was steely.

Hermione curtly nodded. "I didn't come here to lecture you on muggles or values."

Pansy snorted. "A least you got off one high horse."

"But I needed to ask you a few things about someone else."

Pansy's dark brow arched. "I've probably betrayed everyone that I knew very well, if they weren't already dead by the end of the war."

"Parkinson," Hermione continued, unfazed by the bitterness on her face, "I need to ask you about Draco Malfoy."

Pansy's eyes widened fractionally.

"Tell me about him, as a person. What are his desires? What were his motives for joining the Dark Lord... back then?" Hermione pressed.

"Wouldn't you know better than anyone else?" Pansy sneered. "I mean, at school he was always bullying you and calling you 'mudblood'. Aren't his motives clear to you by now?"

"You know that's not it," Hermione replied quietly. "At least not all of it."

Pansy sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. Her pale eyes misted, as if remembering something that happened long ago - or, perhaps in her case, something very recent. "He wasn't that good of a friend, considering the great amount of time we've known each other. Our families were good friends, so I always was with him since childhood. He was a complete bore, honestly, and I didn't like him very much until he was a bit older. No imagination, that boy. He was never the one for ideals and causes, and it surprised me that he pursued taunting you so seriously."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Didn't he hate muggle-born people?"

Pansy shook her head slowly. "Of course, he did dislike them. Who doesn't, at least a little bit, except for muggle-borns? Some half-bloods feel it too, that certain enmity or distrust toward muggle-borns." Catching the expression on Hermione's face, Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Oh please, Granger, you know I'm telling the truth. You lot come from a different crowd, a crowd that wizards find strange and hostile. Those Weaselys were anomalies, you know."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to ten. This was no time for things to get out of hand, clashing over ideals on blood and heritage. She still needed information on Draco. "All right, fine, go on. I just thought Malfoy, being the prat he was, would be more susceptible to that sort of propaganda."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Propaganda? It's not as if we plastered posters against muggles. At least, we didn't during peaceful times. Anyway, while his father and mother may hate muggle-borns, Draco never really fervently supported the Dark Lord's campaigns, at least when he was with me. He seemed very apathetic to many things, but then again, he could have been masking his true feelings because he didn't trust me as much. Who knows? But when he was around you all and even Crabbe and Goyle, it was as if he settled this mask into place by hating mudbloods with a fanatic passion. At first, I thought he was jealous of you and Potter, and perhaps he was. But was it enough to push him to those lengths? After a while, I came to the conclusion that I never knew who Draco truly was."

"What are you trying to imply? That he just...he just didn't care about what was going on?" Hermione demanded. She remembered her seventh year, when she was the voice among her peers that spoke out against the Dark Lord's campaigns. Draco tormented her, day and night, for her beliefs and went to great lengths to torture her psychologically. Who could ever forget when he anonymously sent her a package fuming with ill potions that made her break out in cold sores all over her body? How was it possible that perhaps he actually just didn't care? He was a Death Eater, for god's sake!

"He was never really involved in the war, I would think. He probably joined in with the Death Eaters because he had no great incentive not to, and all of his friends were joining anyway. Most of them joined because of their family's beliefs - not for themselves. If I wanted to pursue my passion, I would have gone traveling during the war, visiting the world's greatest spas and partying in the flashiest of places. It's a hell of a better view than torture chambers and corpses. I mean, at least that's how I felt." Pansy eyed Hermione and smirked. "Do you truly think I wanted such an ugly mark on my forearm and serve someone else when I was in my prime?"

Hermione bit back a catty response. "You sure did give a very good impression that you did."

Pansy barked out a laugh. "You're a fool if you think that most of our schoolmates, especially the younger ones, truly wanted to fight the war. We're not incarnations of Bellatrix Lestrange, and while we wanted to maintain pureblood primacy... well, most of us in the younger generation thought that joining the Dark Lord wasn't the answer."

"And what did Malfoy say?" Hermione asked.

Pansy shrugged, finishing her fruit juice. "He just went along in the beginning, but I'm not quite sure what he wanted or expected to gain though I'm sure there was some coercion. As I've told you, we were friends but we were never so close. However, I think it would be a mistake to assume that he was a devoted follower of the Dark Lord."

Hermione, of course, long suspected this - she wasn't prejudiced enough to consider the fact that not everyone within the Death Eater ranks were fervent supporters of such a mad war.

Pansy sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, a gesture, Hermione noted, that signaled either her curiosity or her disillusionment. "Why do you ask me about him, though? Are you working on something for him? You probably wouldn't know, since you've never been there, but Azkaban is a...horrible place."

Hermione bit her lip. "I know that. I was there four months ago, visiting Malfoy."

Pansy's eyes widened and she suddenly leaned in closer. "Why?"

Hermione hesitated before speaking again. "I'm working on something - some revisions of the judiciary constitution. I thought that Malfoy's confessions would...aid me in my attempts."

Pansy's eyes widened and her jaw grew slack. She stared at Hermione, initial surprise darkening to anger. "You're using him, and you want me to help you use him!"

Hermione kept her gaze steady on Pansy. "You know how deep he was in with the Death Eaters. I don't think that he was as impassive and you say that he is."

Pansy slapped the table with her hand and turned her blazing glare on Hermione. "How would you know? All you did was hide under Potter's cloak during the war, not doing anything but tagging along like some diseased muddy tail! Did you ever consider us as people, that we may have emotions? The Dark Lord, may worms feed slowly on his corpse, threatened his family, his mother. What was he to do? Fly around the world on his new broomstick, in search of women and pleasure?"

"You said you would," Hermione shot back.

"Well, he was a better person than me," Pansy replied, voice low. She stared directly in Hermione's eyes. "And come to think of it, he was a better person than you too."

Hermione threw her drink on the ground, glass shattering around her feet. "Don't you dare say that, Parkinson. Who is restoring the wizarding society now, cleaning up the rubble and death that Voldemort and his followers left behind? Who got you out of Azkaban, when no one would even glance at you? Who spared your life, Malfoy's life, when everyone was cheering for you to get the Kiss? Who gave you your life right now? Yes, you may be wandless, but at least you have a second chance - the chance for repentance!"

Pansy sneered, her once clam face maliciously twisted. It was the old face of the Death Eater that Hermione had faced in battle, the one driven by hate for the world. "You came to me, during the lowest point of my life, when I was pushed to the corner, when the light touched nothing, nothing! You opened the door and pointed your wand at me, and I couldn't even stare at you in such a degraded state. You offered me the devil's deal, of betraying everyone that I once knew, for my own stupid freedom from Azkaban. You knew how the dementors, after the Dark Lord's fall, treated us, bitter once again about their subordinate position. You know how they barely fed us, how they rattled the chains and scraped metal against metal until I felt as if my ears would bleed, how they raped our minds with their terrible fury. You knew I wouldn't say no, that I was not as strong as the others. You used me, and I went along with it."

"I chose you because I knew that you were forced into the war. I knew how they broke into your home and forced you to take the Dark Mark," Hermione lashed out, feeling only a slight twinge of regret when she saw Pansy wince. "You think that I don't know what they did to your family? What they did to your home? I knew, Parkinson, and I wanted to do something to set things right again, beginning with you. I want to set this whole shite society right again, and to do that, I need to start with Draco Malfoy again."

Pansy laughed shrilly, her knife-like voice cutting through the dull clamor of the cafe. "Oh, this is so rich, Granger! So you're fancying yourself as the Gryffindor angel sent down from Dumbledore in heaven to salvage all of us poor, misguided ex-Death Eaters. Let me tell you something, Granger, for you to nibble on, once you start spewing off your holier-than-thou bigotry. I honestly fucking hate living here, in this muggle society. I hate every single moment of it, and when you first asked me to testify against my companions, I almost spit in your face. But I did it because I hated being in Azkaban. I regret it, you know. Yes, I live in a moderately nice flat, tiny when compared with my former home on the Parkinson estate, but at least I don't have some dementor violating my mind with visions of how they stabbed my mother to death. But honestly, Granger, who needs all of that when I can violate my mind by myself with memories of how I sent people like Draco Malfoy to Azkaban to save my own hide? He was just getting back his life, his estates, and reestablishing himself in the wizarding world when you bound him in chains and threw him in his cell."

"Don't give me your sob stories, Parkinson," Hermione snapped. "For someone suffering so nobly, you sure do seem to be very capitalistic, investing in muggle companies, selling your products to muggles, and profiting off muggle vanity."

"Because I understand what it means to repent, unlike you. I betrayed my companions, and now I have to live with the guilt my whole life. But you know what the difference is between you and me, Granger? I understand what sins I have committed, and I am willing to repent. However you, so blinded by your righteousness, can't even begin to start understanding what you did to me and to hundreds of others."

"Oh, how much you suffer," Hermione sneered. She knew she was taunting Pansy, but she didn't care. Something that Pansy said hit upon a sore spot, and Hermione felt defensive. "How difficult it must be to repent while living in a stable society, where you live comfortably in your home, albeit wandless, while getting a monthly pension from the Ministry of Magic."

Pansy stared down at the table, her eyes misty and defeated. "Yes, it is difficult, Granger - and if I could have it the easy way, I would go back to Azkaban, to those I betrayed, and suffer those dementors with them." Pansy looked up at Hermione, straightening her posture, voice impervious. "But things are never so easy, are they, Granger? Strange how remembering is the greatest punishment of all, and the bright morning sun can still cast shadows across your heart."

"You're no saint, Parkinson," Hermione gritted out accusingly. "You were there during the 3rd of August Massacre. You saw us, saw me, chained together in tiny compartments, waiting for our deaths at the hands of your crowd with not even a proper funeral to send us off. I saw people like me, muggle-borns, decapitated right in front of me. I saw women being taken into tents and heard their screams. I heard children cry for their mothers behind me, and I closed my eyes, unable to face anymore. I lost faith in the world, Parkinson, and yet I helped you in the aftermath. You dare suggest that I don't understand what it means to repent? What do I have to repent? What sins have I committed? I claimed justice for those people who suffered, for those whose families were butchered right in front of them! I sent those monsters to Azkaban, where they rightly deserve to be!"

Pansy remained silent, her eyes glimmering. Hermione tried to calm her breathing, unable to speak lest her voice shake from anger. She couldn't believe Pansy, how she thought only of herself and her crowd.

"The 3rd of August was unfortunate, Granger," Pansy said slowly. "But don't think that you're so untainted. You escaped by yourself and left everyone behind. You, too, fled for your life, sacrificing others for your own survival, so don't give me anymore of your twisted interpretation of justice."

"Well, if you want to put it that way, I did what was necessary, just as you did when you sent all your friends to Azkaban," Hermione sneered.

Pansy, however, stared at Hermione coolly. "Yes, I did. And you're no better than they, the people whom we sent to Azkaban, are."

...

Hermione visited Draco two days after her confrontation with Pansy. Hermione couldn't sleep at night. For some reason, the look in Pansy's eyes before she stood up to leave reminded her of how Draco Malfoy looked at her with that same rage and disillusion a year ago when she testified against him.

It was at night that she walked along the corridors that led to his little cell. The fortress was an old one, leaky in certain places, dry and windy in others. Hermione had not taken Draco's comfort much into consideration when she first assigned him the cell. She entered, this time in jeans and flats, unable to face him haughtily in her crisp business suit when she felt so empty inside.

For the first time, upon entering his cell, she thought, He must be freezing.

It took a bit of time for Draco to acknowledge her presence. She heard him stir from the depths of the shadows. He must have been sleeping.

"Starting a bit early today, Granger?" he sneered, his voice raspy from sleep and the cold.

He would get sick in these conditions, Hermione thought, resolving to bring him a blanket and warmer clothing next time.

"It's a little past midnight, Draco," Hermione replied, still intoning his name softly along her tongue. She wanted him to trust her - or at least not distrust her so fervently - and she hoped that perhaps he would soften if she used his given name.

"Well, Granger, after being hidden away like a rat for the past year or so, I seem to have lost my sense of time."

"You're very talkative today. What has gotten into you?"

He laughed, though the sound was so harsh that Hermione wondered if he were coughing.

"I suppose I need some practice in talking with you."

Hermione widened her eyes. "You're...you're going to talk?" Hope fluttered in her chest. Good Merlin, he would talk. He wouldn't have to get the Kiss. Everything was going to be all right, and Pansy could say nothing against her about Draco now.

"Only on certain conditions," he replied slowly, though Hermione could easily catch the dark amusement in his voice.

Immediately, Hermione guard went up. "What conditions?"

"I'll agree to tell the truth, Granger. The whole truth and nothing but the truth," he replied, his voice mocking. "But I want you to apply that to yourself as well."

"What?" Hermione was caught off-guard. She did not expect this from him.

"I'll answer all of your questions, Granger. Even the dirtiest question that you ask of me, I'll do it. But in return, I get to ask you a question by the end of all this, and you must answer truthfully."

Hermione's posture tightened. "I can't give you any Ministry secrets, Draco."

He laughed again, though this time, the hard booming of his voice in the darkness reminded Hermione more of a rock slamming down on someone's head than a hacking cough. "Who said anything about Ministry secrets? I could care less about those, just as I give a flying fuck about getting something from the outside world. Those sorts of things have no meaning to me now. What I want is to pick your mind, Granger - to uncover your true thoughts."

Hermione involuntarily shivered at his words, so reminiscent of what she so desired to do to him.

"What do you say, Master Interrogator?" he mocked. "Will you play or send my soul into the limbo of a dementor's digestive tract?"

"How will you know if I'm telling the truth of not, Malfoy?" Hermione demanded, realizing her slip with his name only too late into the sentence. But she couldn't take it back now. It didn't matter anymore, Hermione thought. Enough with the pretenses. It was finally time for the truth.

"I'll know, Granger," Draco replied, and Hermione could hear the grin in his voice. "Trust me, I'll know."

...

about a week later, Hermione found herself in the cafe where she met Pansy before, looking over her files on Draco's testimonials.

She didn't know why she chose to review her files in such a place, though Hermione was grateful for the brightly lit atmosphere when she was going over some of his more disturbing testimonials about Voldemort's plans for muggle-borns. Surprisingly, however, she got nothing about Voldemort's supposed plans for the invasion of other parts of Europe. Voldemort, Hermione fully realized, was not the strategist that she gave him credit for. Rather than a Napoleonesque conqueror, he acted more like a tyrant-monarch leading witch-hunts to kill off his enemies and inciting terror-based coup d'etats to gain control of the country. His ambitions, at least during the time Draco was at his side, lay mostly in Great Britain, not in other countries of Europe.

Whatever the case, Hermione sent off her reports to the Wizengamot with a smirk, knowing that she had just uncovered enough information in a matter of a week than what her colleagues were able to achieve in a lifetime. To her surprise, however, the information did nothing to comfort her heart about Draco Malfoy.

The committee that dealt with paroles had so far sent her no owl about the potential dates for Draco Malfoy's parole hearing. This greatly disturbed Hermione. Not only did she promise Draco an extended release from captivity but also her department head, no matter how great of a bitch she was, never went back on her promises. And she had promised Hermione that Draco would be released if he talked.

Was it more information that they wanted?

Hermione's eyes glazed as she thought about Draco. What could she do if they did not grant him parole? She did not want to deal with him anymore. He could see too much in her.

Hermione tapped her wand on the little box that recorded Draco's testimonials when he finished speaking.

"That will be it for today," she said quietly. It always seemed so quiet whenever he finished speaking, the world so deprived of noise except for the sound of water. She peered into the shadowed corner of the cell where she knew from the outline of his form that he was sitting against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He always stayed in the back when she arrived, hidden in the shadows. Perhaps it was so that she wouldn't see his face. Hermione tapped out the light on the end of her wand and straightened herself to leave. Her feet hurt from standing for almost two hours, and she couldn't wait to go back into her apartment and take a nice, long bath.

"Where do you think you are going, Granger?" his cold, silky voice sliding from the darkness. His voice, once raspy from a year of disuse, had gained its smoothness back after hours of speaking every day. There was something different about it, though - shades of nightmares seemed to have darkened the quality of his speech.

"Going back," Hermione responded. "Or do you have something more to say?"

He laughed and the outline of his form shifted slightly. Hermione couldn't tell. She had extinguished the light on the tip of her wand, and everything was darker than before. She heard him more than saw him move toward the bars of his cell.

"Lumo -"

"Shh," he whispered. "Let's speak in the dark, shall we? You do so hate having the truth out in the light. Perhaps the truth will be easier in the dark."

Hermione stood still, not knowing how she should respond. What did he mean?

"We struck a deal, Granger," he whispered, his voice closer to her than when she was interrogating him before. "You ask me your questions, and I ask you mine."

"Fine," Hermione said, though the pit of her stomach churned.

"And remember: you must tell the truth because if I find that you lie, Granger, then I won't speak anymore, and there goes your whole testimonial."

"Just ask," Hermione gritted out, "and get this over with. I have things to do at home."

Draco chuckled. "Oh, Granger, why not take our sweet time to work this out. After all, isn't that all we have left between us? Time?"

"We have nothing between us," Hermione spat. "Nothing! Not even time. There is nothing that we need to work out. Even if there was, time would never work anything out."

Hermione heard something clamp the bars of his cell. He must have grasped them in his hands, as if trying to bend them apart to get to her. Hermione forced herself to not back down, though the heat of his breaths reached her bare arms.

"Then let's get to the point," he said breathily, as if relishing the words forming on his tongue.

"How did it feel when I saved you from Voldemort during the 3rd of August Massacre?"

Hermione sat up at the sound of a familiar woman's voice and checked to make sure the spells cast around her were still up. Her gaze darted around the cafe to the source of the voice.

Ah, Pansy Parkinson.

From her corner seat, Hermione watched Pansy as she greeted the cashier. She smiled, she laughed, and she made animated gestures with her hand. Hermione had heard that within her social circle, Pansy was quite the social butterfly, favored by matrons and admired by her peers. Pansy put on a good act, especially around those who did not know her.

But she could not fool Hermione.

Behind that pretty smile and sociable conversation, Hermione sensed an undercurrent of anger and despair. Perhaps it was in her laugh, which was sharper and edgier than it was before. Or perhaps it was in the way she carried herself, shoulders slightly stooped and strides unsure. Or perhaps it was the way her eyes shifted right and left, as if she expected someone to follow and watch her every movement.

Hermione swallowed down the lump forming in her throat, unable to watch Pansy smile at those whom she, before, would never have even looked at. For some reason, Hermione could not stand that Pansy tried so hard to live the life she never wanted - a life that Hermione, her greatest enemy a long time ago who saw her at her most humiliated and degraded state of existence, had forced upon her.

Why was she living so diligently, forcing smiles and politeness on those she used to hate and suffering the hardships of an unfamiliar world in which no one understood her predicament?

Most importantly, why was Hermione so ashamed at seeing what she had created for that young woman? She had done the right thing. Pansy would be rotting in Azkaban otherwise.

At least she would be rotting with her pride and integrity intact, the nasty voice in Hermione's mind whispered. But no, you took that from her and coerced her into betraying her companions.

They were criminals. They murdered parents, husbands, wives, and children.

What difference does it make if she's rotting away from the inside out now than when she was rotting in Azkaban? Except this time, you're the culpable one, and there's nothing you can do about it.

After purchasing a bag of chocolates, Pansy smiled, waved at the cashier, and turned to leave. But as soon as she started walking away, she froze and turned slightly in the direction of Hermione's table. Hermione held her breath as they met eye-to-eye. For a brief moment, Hermione saw Pansy, stripped of all masks and kind pretenses. Within those pale eyes, Hermione saw the confusion, the grief, the hate that Pansy could not let go, that Hermione had made impossible for her to let go. Something in Hermione wrenched and her heart started to ache.

The moment of connection was fleeting. Pansy suddenly shook her head, clearing herself of whatever thoughts she had. Pansy drew her mask back up and made her way out of the cafe, smiling slightly as she looked into the bag of chocolates.

Hermione turned back to reviewing her files, pretending as if nothing had happened. But no matter what she did, she could not stop her hands from shaking.

...

When Hermione got back to her apartment, she thought that something felt funny. Perhaps it was the way the door to her flat opened so easily despite that she was sure she had locked it with five different intricate spells before she left.

Whatever it was, as soon as she stepped into her flat, Hermione felt a sudden sinking motion, as if something were pulling her through a whirlwind. A portkey. It must has been installed in the carpet or something, which was bad news since Hermione had placed more intricate protection spells on mostly every piece of furniture.

When Hermione regained her footing, she pulled out her wand and stood in a duelist position, or at least the best one she could manage while the world spun around her.

"Miss Granger, you may put down your wand. We will not harm you," a familiar voice said.

Hermione shook her head and found herself in a lowly lit room with grey walls. The only furniture there was a small table and two chairs placed across from each other. Hermione's heart jumped to her throat. It was an interrogation room.

Hermione spun around to face the source of the voice. The Chief Warlock was standing next to a grizzled old man that Hermione recognized as one of the head Aurors of the Auror Office. Off to the side stood the department head.

"What is going on here?" Hermione sputtered.

"Hermione," said the department head, her voice solemn, "there is some cause for concern in regards to confidentiality. It seems that important information has leaked out to some rogue Death Eater groups, who are as we speak planning a revolt against Ministry rule."

Hermione was bewildered. "What has that to do with me? Surely you don't suspect me of handing off information to those Death Eaters!"

"This is just a precautionary measure," intervened the Chief Warlock. "However, they have made some very interesting claims."

"Like what?" Hermione demanded. She had never directly spoken to the Chief Warlock except for the time he shot down her proposition to grant more rights to muggle-borns, and Hermione could tell that he was not about to let her go easily.

"There were some protests in the regions where Death Eater sympathizers are prominent, and they are lending support for the old Death Eaters by sheltering them and protecting them. Many were doubting the legitimacy of muggle-born accounts of the 3rd of August incident."

"It was not merely an incident," Hermione exploded. "It was a massacre!"

The Chief Warlock held up his hand. "Nevertheless, as we know that you have personal knowledge of the incident, we want to confirm that this knowledge was not affected by personal trauma. We wish to get a true, unbiased account of what had actually happened, for we of the Wizengamot must maintain our impartiality. Those who cannot maintain that level of impartiality, unfortunately, must be dismissed from the Wizengamot. That is, after all, what makes us invaluable to upholding the justice of the magical community."

Hermione gaped, trying to convince herself that the Chief Warlock could not be this corruptible. "I cannot believe what I am hearing, sir," Hermione spat out. "Is this not what Voldemort's second rise to power was trying to defend, this prejudice and propaganda against members of our own community?"

"Now, Miss Granger," started the Chief Warlock, wincing when Hermione said Voldemort's name out loud, "that incident was completely unrelated to what is happening now. These are mere precautionary measures -"

"Sir, Voldemort's second uprising was not an "incident" - it was hell on earth - and it is completely related to what is happening now," Hermione replied, her voice low and angry. "Was he not trying to destroy us from the inside, pulling us apart so that we would submit to his will? Was it not this bigotry and prejudice that drove great men like Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter to fight and defeat this evil? To oblige a small minority's interests and their sudden protests, must we truly tear apart our own judiciary? Sir, with all due respect, this is tomfoolery and exactly what the Death Eaters hope that we do, that we destabilize what the new community looks to for justice. Without justice, sir, what do the people of this new community have left?"

The Chief Warlock looked toward the department head who looked torn between performing her duties and helping Hermione. She did drive people hard, but she was a thinking woman who could tell right from wrong.

"Chief Warlock, if you wish, I will oversee the interrogation of Hermione Granger," she replied shortly.

The Chief Warlock, looking relieved, nodded. "Do not worry to much, Miss Granger. I am assured that your impartiality will suffer very little critique, as long as you tell the truth. I have faith in our current system. Until next time, Miss Granger." He then disapparated from the room.

Hermione's breaths came in pants. She could not believe this was happening. She had served the Wizengamot so faithfully in hopes of creating a better, purer society for all those living within it. Now, Death Eater sympathizers who supported the prejudices that Voldemort professed - usually the wealthiest of families in the magical community - were starting to influence the Ministry and even the Wizengamot again!

"Let us proceed with the interrogation," the department head started, gesturing to both the Auror and Hermione to sit in the chairs at the table. When they did, she left, though Hermione was sure that she was somewhere, listening.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Miss Granger. And as you yourself know as a seasoned interrogator, the hard way is very difficult for both parties."

Hermione held her head up to face the interrogator directly in the eye. "I have nothing to hide. Ask what you wish."

For almost three hours, the Auror kept Hermione at the desk, drilling her with questions that touched upon some of the cruelest moments of her life. The 3rd of August Massacre.

It was one of the greatest roundups of muggle-born wizards and witches, both in muggle London and the magical community. The Death Eaters had taken control of London for almost two months at the pinnacle of their power and had enchanted the city so none could escape. They rooted out all muggle-borns hiding in their houses, dragging them and their families out, sometimes killing them on the spot if they were too rowdy. Hermione herself was hit with the Cruciatus Curse for almost twenty minutes.

"Where did they take you?" the Auror asked.

Hermione chewed on her lip. "I don't remember. They caged us in the compartments and draped us in thick, heavy chains. It was suffocating. I thought I wouldn't last. Some of the elderly and younger children died - the conditions of the compartment and the chains were too brutal."

Indeed it was one of the worst experiences of Hermione's life. They took away her wand, leaving her feeling so vulnerable. She could not believe just how cruel humans were, magical or not.

"What were the barracks like?"

The barracks.

"They were drafty, inhospitable...not fit for humans at all. The region was cold for the summer. We must have gone somewhere up north."

The wind, the cold.

"What did the Death Eaters do with the prisoners?"

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself. "They tortured most of us. Some were executed right away. I don't know why they didn't kill us all off at once at the time, so I was hopeful that they would make some of us perform manual labor. Then, I had thought, I could find a chance to escape and warn Harry of what the Death Eaters were doing to muggle-borns, to alert the resistance groups, to alert the Prophet. However, most of us were forced to undergo many experimental spells..."

"What spells?"

Hermione had witnessed the spell performed on a woman in front of her in line. The Death Eaters, frustrated at their previous failures, had been particularly rough with her, performing various spells carelessly and too quickly for her body to handle. While trying to gather her magical energy, they had caused it to overflow through her pores, ripping and disintegrating her skin. It was her screams that attracted the attention of some of the other Death Eater regulators. Hermione had never seen someone being ripped apart so completely, as if something had exploded within every cell of her body. She melted to the ground in a steaming mess of blood and gore.

Hermione had vomited right after. The stench of death was putrid to her nose, and Hermione thought she could never ever smell blood ever again without going into shock. Screams, moans, and hysteria shattered the world around her. Hermione fell to the ground, tears running down her face.

Then, she heard him cry her name.

After three hours of questioning and reviving unwanted memories, Hermione sat back in her chair, exhausted. Her brain thudded and her jaw ached from speaking so much.

"One last question, and we'll be finished."

Hermione looked up blearily. "I have told you everything I know. I have told you things that I didn't think I even remembered. What else do you want?"

"Over two thousand people died at that one site. That's 99% of those who were captured, according to our statistics. Yet, how did you escape?"

Hermione's eyes widened slightly but she quickly fixed her face in a mask of impartiality.

When she thought she had lost to a world of blood, noise, and fear, he pulled her back with just three words.

"Granger, it's me!"

"Miss Granger?" the Auror started.

"You'll have to travel along the river to the north. There are areas that the Death Eaters don't control. Before dawn you must leave."

"Sir, it was luck," Hermione finally said.

"But why are you doing this for me?" Hermione demanded.

"How so?"

"There is always a catch," he replied. "Something that does not go according to plan, something that may or may not be worth it."

"They were careless with their posts and their enchantments of the land. As I traveled along the river that cuts across the northern border, I found myself in a thick forest that they had not enchanted. There was no way for them to locate me under such conditions."

"What catch?"

The Auror looked at Hermione suspiciously. Hermione kept her gaze steady, though her heart pounded like mad.

"Take me with you, Granger," Draco replied, grabbing her arm and refusing to let go.

"Thank you, Miss Granger, for your cooperation," said the Auror at last in a voice that Hermione could not decipher. Did he believe her? "You may go."

"Okay," Hermione said, looking into his eyes, knowing that she would go alone. "Let's go together."

Hermione rose and left.

...

Hermione crumpled the piece of parchment in her hands. Anger and misery tormented her mind and heart. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't fucking believe it.

They had bugged her. They had fucking bugged her all this time! And what was more insulting was that they had used electronic bugs! No wonder - she had swept the entire cell multiple times, and found no hint of magic. Electronic, muggle bugs. Oh, the irony.

The letter came from her department head with instructions to burn it as soon as she read it.

Hermione,

I recently got news that the Wizengamot is taking steps to get a warrant to arrest you. They heard everything, every single exchange between you and Draco Malfoy. They know about how you escaped during the 3rd of August Massacre, and they will use any excuse to appease the pureblooded crowd. I will have to write a formal letter of dismissal for you and owl the guards to instruct them to keep you within the fortress. I will write those two letters in exactly one hour.

You were a good worker - passionate, diligent, and smart. I trust that you will not allow my warning to go unheeded.

Farewell, and good luck.

Hermione did burn them, watching the parchment go up un flames. She stared around her small office, littered with papers and pages and pages of notes - evidence of her hours invested into fighting corruption, improving society.

And what had this all come to?

Hermione walked over to the safety deposit box hidden behind a curtain. She opened it and took out the modest sum she had saved in case of emergencies. She then owled Gringotts and instructed them immediately to transfer whatever funds were not already frozen to her personal safety box in Switzerland. Hermione then grabbed two coats and making sure her wand was in her pocket walked briskly out of her office and dismissed the guards from Draco's prison.

When they protested, Hermione stunned them and put a binding spell around them. She was going to get arrested anyway, and what she needed was a quick escape route.

She ran down to Draco's cell, but stopped herself from unlocking the inner door to Draco's cell. "Malfoy," she whispered. When she got no response, she kicked the metal bars. "Malfoy!"

The figure against the wall stirred. "Granger?"

"Stand away from the walls. Right now. Stand away."

Perhaps it was the urgency in her voice, but Draco did as he was told. Hermione took out her wand and sent a shock of electricity into the prison room. At once, little black electronic machines rained down on them.

"What - what was -"

"A piece of muggle technology. A very effective piece of muggle technology," Hermione responded with a grimace.

Draco did not respond but moved closer to Hermione. Hermione then realized that she had never truly seen his face ever since she testified against him.

"Malfoy, I need to ask you a few things," Hermione whispered. "Take this, though. You must be cold."

She held out the coat, and after some hesitation, Draco extended his arm through the bars.

"I felt like you were the greatest, most powerful person in the world," Hermione started. "When you pulled me out of that line that day. When you saved me."

"Why are you -"

"But that was only for that one moment. Afterward, I was scared out of my mind. I didn't trust you. I never trusted you. What were you going to do with me? Taking me to your barracks did not ease my fears one bit. I hated you immediately for saving me. I hated being indebted to you. I hated that the person whom I despised, whom I hoped I would never see again, would be my savior," Hermione continued, as if she had not heard him.

Silence lingered. Draco coughed, though it soon turned into a laugh. "Well, how bloody fantastic. Is this your way of telling me that I'm not getting parole?"

"Why did you ask me to take you, Malfoy?" Hermione demanded. "If you don't tell me the truth about anything else, just let me know this one thing."

Draco laughed again, though this time, his voice was sharper and clearer. He almost sounded like the old Draco Malfoy again. "Why do I get the feeling that these aren't the typical interrogations you've handled so far in your life?"

"Malfoy, we have no time."

He came up to the bars. "Granger, all we have now is time."

"Just tell me!" Hermione shrieked, grabbing Draco by the front of his shirt. She was shocked at how gaunt he had gotten. "Just please, tell me now."

Draco Malfoy remained still. Hermione felt her hands shake, but she never released her grip.

"Why did I ask you to take me?" Draco said lowly. "Why the hell do you think, Granger? I wanted to defect. I wanted to leave that hellhole. I wanted to defect."

Hermione took in a sharp breath. "What?"

"You heard me," Draco snarled. "I wanted to defect. I never wanted to serve the Dark Lord. But how would I leave when there was no one who would accept me? It's not like I can walk out of the camp and offer my allegiance to the Ministry. They would have put me in a strait jacket and tossed me into St. Mungo's, where the Dark Lord would have gotten to me. But when you stumbled onto the campsite, I knew immediately that I needed to go with you, that I had a chance of defecting successfully and that the Order would protect me if you spoke for me."

Hermione's hands fell to her side, her jaw slack and her knees weak. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You hated me, and you didn't trust me. You still don't," Draco said dryly. "Otherwise, why would you keep me in this cell, playing these silly mind games?"

Hermione was so frustrated that she wanted to scream. Instead, she opted for clawing at her skull with her nails. He was going to defect, and she left without him. If she had taken him with her, she wouldn't be here, forcing atrocities out of Draco's mouth with a magical recorder spinning in the background. He wouldn't have to be behind bars, gaunt and filthy, expressing his bitterness with every syllable he spoke.

How could Hermione have wondered why Draco revealed nothing to her in the beginning? He must have hated her. She was, ironically, his one chance for freedom from the Dark Lord, and she had fled after assuring that she would take him, after she had raised his hopes and allowed him to dream of life without the Dark Lord breathing down his back with a Cruciatus Curse on the tip of his tongue. Then, after Voldemort fell and the war was over, Draco had narrowly escaped Azkaban and was going about settling his life in order. But then along came a spider named Hermione, and in her quest for justice, she demoralized Pansy and made her betray her companions. Draco was one of them.

Merlin, how did it get to this?

Hermione opened the door to the cell. It seemed so surreal, after days of seeing it locked, that the door swung freely in the darkness.

"You're releasing me?" Draco asked, his voice hollow.

"I could have saved you once, Malfoy," Hermione replied. She reached forward and grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the cell. "I'm not missing that opportunity again. Come on."

...

Almost twenty-four hours had passed, and Hermione was still awake, albeit weak with fatigue and hunger. They, as in Hermione and Draco, had been on the run ever since she released Draco from the prison cell. Luckily, Hermione had invested in a small, inflatable motorboat that she had stored on the side of the island, just in case she had to evacuate the place and apparating would be unachievable.

She wasn't sure how long it took the guards to realize her betrayal and enchant the whole place, but Hermione wasn't too confident that she would be able to apparate both herself and Draco so far a distance. So, like muggles did they travel, first by boat, which Hermione burned promptly after they reached the shore, then by foot until they reached the nearest gateway between the magical and non-magical world. Most of these gateways were outdated, created for muggle-borns to escape through after the second rise of the Dark Lord. Thankfully, Hermione and Draco passed through without any problems, but just in case, as soon as they got out, Hermione sealed the gateway.

By that time, almost two hours had passed since she received the first letter from the department head. She must have waited a bit more to deliver the letter, or else the gateway by the shore of the island might have already been heavily guarded.

With what little money Hermione had, she rented a small car, and for almost two hours, they drove northward, in the direction of York. She had thought about getting out of the country, perhaps to France, but then realized that there was no way she could smuggle Draco in. She didn't have a passport, and Draco had nothing, not even proper clothing. Hermione was loath to perform spells, especially to create a fake passport. If the Ministry tracked her spells, they would catch her before she even set foot in customs.

So they traveled northward. Hermione had a little cottage that she had claimed under her mother's maiden name last year summer near Carlisle. It was actually her parents' estate, but after they passed away, they returned the property to the hamlet. Only recently did Hermione reclaim ownership, though that ownership was more of a mutual understanding, for she was short on money at the time, that while the cottage belonged to the hamlet, she would hold the rights to live in it.

For now, though, they needed rest. Hermione checked out the key to the room in the small hostel that she and Draco found in the countryside, far outside of London. There, she sat on her bed and stared out the window, up at the night sky. The lights were off, but Hermione lit a few candles. She was exhausted, to be sure, and the adrenaline that kept her going had long ago thinned out and disappeared. She was running on pure willpower now, though strangely, when she tried to sleep, she couldn't.

Her gaze trailed to the bathroom door, where inside, Draco was taking a shower. For the past hour. It understandable, seeing as how it was probably his first shower in a very long time. Hermione looked out the window again, her heart wrenching and her head throbbing.

Merlin, how did everything turn out like this?

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face into her arms. It scared her, the prospect of living. Completely and utterly scared her. She was a wanted woman in the magical world. She could never live there anymore, the only home that she knew. But could she even live in Muggle England? She had no university degree. Hell, she didn't even have anything to prove that she even graduated from high school. Who would ever hire her? She could not depend on anyone. Ron was dead, Harry was vacant, and her parents were long gone. Every single memory she had hidden away threatened to resurface, and Hermione staggered against wave after wave of bitter memories. Hermione lifted her head and swallowed down the tears that framed her eyes. She would not cry. She could not cry. Because if she started crying, she didn't know when she would stop.

Only Draco was left. Only Draco was left to her. Hermione bit her bottom lip. She had to stay with him. She wanted to stay with him. Somehow, for all those lives she had unknowingly altered forever, she had to live on, and she found herself hoping that Draco would also be with her.

Hermione couldn't go it herself. She didn't know how she could manage ever feel so alone and so displaced.

Finally, the bathroom door open, and Hermione looked over to see Draco emerging clean, shaven, and in fresh, newly bought clothes. The darkness of the room served him best, she thought, his profile fuzzy when he stepped in to the shadows. He seemed so hesitant to emerge in light, as if he weren't used to it yet. Light or no light, however, one thing was certain: the transformation from his previously filthy, wild state to this was quite amazing.

Hermione stared at him as he toweled off his hair. Azkaban had taken quite a toll on him. His eyes were more rheumy, and the dark circles under them did nothing to improve his disposition. His blond hair lost a lot of the luster it had when he was younger, and his skin was ghastly pale. His face was more gaunt and skeletal-looking than before. But still, Hermione didn't think he suffered very badly in physical terms, especially considering some of the degeneration she had seen in prisoners who'd succumbed completely to the dementors.

"I have a cottage up near Carlisle," Hermione said quietly, catching Draco's attention. "It's a very pretty little thing, built near a flower garden in a small hamlet. There is a river nearby that I used to play in when I was a child. I think you'd like it."

Draco tossed his towel on a chair near a small desk and crossed his arms casually. "It...sounds pleasant," he replied. Draco smirked slightly. "I've always wanted to live in a place like that - one of those small, cozy little places. It's strange - when I was in Azkaban, to keep myself sane, I would not think of the manor but rather of those little places."

Hermione's eyes brightened for the first time in over a week. "I'm relieved, then. Malfoy, you'll be comfortable there, and once we get things settled down, we can start thinking about what we can do."

"We?" Draco seemed startled.

"Malfoy, stay with me. You have no where else to go, nothing else to do,"

Draco stared at her pointedly. "Neither do you."

Hermione sat up and lowered her legs from her chest. "Exactly. Malfoy, we need to work together. We're both wanted people in a muggle world with barely any resources. I'll help you. You don't need to help me, Malfoy, but I'll help you." Hermione insisted. How could she explain to him that this was her way of making amends? That she wanted to do something right for once, instead of messing peoples' lives up.

Draco regarded her coolly, his lips set in a straight line. "Do you think that your...'helping' me will makes things all right?"

Hermione furrowed her brows. What could she say to that? She wanted to scream, yes! It'll make things better! Just tell me it will make things better. She wanted Draco to agree. Then, perhaps, she wouldn't have to despise herself as much. But something in her heart told her that this offer to help would not be enough, that perhaps nothing would ever be enough.

"It could be a start," Hermione answered quietly.

Draco did not answer her. Instead he pulled on the sleeve of his shirt. Cotton, most likely, and decent-looking, but far from the silk he used to wear. Hermione winced. Now, running from the Ministry, he would never get any chance to reclaim what was left of his wealth.

"Malfoy," Hermione said.

He looked up at her.

"What...what do you think would have happened if I...if we made it back to the Order together?" she asked.

Draco stared at Hermione evenly. He still wasn't used to expressing emotions...or maybe he felt none. "I think things would be different."

"Better?" Hermione asked.

Draco grimaced. "Hardly worse than what we have right now, that's for sure."

Hermione felt tears well up in the back of her eyes. "If I could...if I could take it back, Malfoy, I - I -"

"It's no use crying over spilt milk, Granger," Draco interrupted. "It won't do you any good. It sure as hell doesn't make me feel better about this whole thing."

Hermione got up from the bed and walked over to where he was. She felt as if she were punched in the heart. "Will you be...could you ever..."

Draco peered down at her, tensing. She had never been this close to him in her life, and Hermione, someone who had lost everything inside and out, felt a rush of exhilaration.

"Do you mean: will I ever forgive you?" he said, voice low. He tentatively reached out and grazed his fingers across Hermione's cheek, perhaps trying to affirm that she was there, seeking some sort of forgiveness from him. She recoiled slightly from his touch, but Draco did not pull back. "Yes, will I ever forgive you for breaking your promise? Honestly, Granger, is there anything to forgive?"

Hermione looked up at him, eyes wide. "What?"

"You did what you thought was right. You never stopped to consider what was happening. Or perhaps you didn't want to," Draco whispered, his voice cold.

Hermione shook her head, clenching her fist. "No, I knew... I had a feeling...that you never wanted to be there... that there was something you wanted..."

Draco chuckled wryly. "I see. So you valued yourself more than anything else."

Hermione clenched her teeth and looked down, her heart burning so hotly that she thought it might scorch her inside out.

Suddenly, Draco grabbed Hermione's chin and tilted her head upward so that she looked directly into his eyes. "But you see, Granger, there is nothing to forgive, for I learned as well - after years in the Dark Lord's army and while wasting away in Azkaban - that the one thing I should value more than anything, anyone else is me."

Hermione's eyes widened as he lowered his face. The tips of their noses touched.

"I think the appropriate question is, Granger," his whispered, his breath hot against her lips, "can you ever forgive yourself?"

It must have been his eyes, accusing and taunting. Or the way his voice lingered in the air. In that moment, the despair that Hermione felt overcame her, crashing into her almost like a physical wave, and left her crippled and desperately wanting something, someone to touch.

"Will you let me?" she whispered, pressing her lips against his.

Tears finally flowed down her cheeks. She felt Draco's hand immediately curl in her hair, pulling her face against his, ravishing her lips with his. Within minutes, he pushed her back into the bed and nearly forced off her shirt and her pants in their clumsy, animalistic scuffle. There was nothing gentle or subtle about him. He dug his fingers into her skin, kissed her so hard that her teeth cut into her lips. Nothing was implied; everything was physical. And that's how Hermione wanted it.

Hermione breathed heavily, moaning with every flick of his rough tongue against her bare skin. His bony hands pinned her with surprising strength, disabling her ability to move away. Hermione wanted to feel everything: how Draco's weight pushed her into the soft mattress of the bed; his wiry, bony body between her plumper, softer legs; the sharp pain that Draco inflicted every time he touched her, digging into her flesh with his bony hands and elbows.

He pulled away to look at her, and Hermione stared back unflinchingly, noting how brightly Draco's eyes glimmered in the moonlight. His eyes, narrowed with confusion and conflicting passions, rendered Hermione breathless. Hunger - that was what Hermione felt from Draco. Hunger for her, hunger for sex, hunger to feel once more.

"You can take me," Hermione whispered to him. She felt none of the inhibitions she usually felt with lovers, none of the shyness, none of the tenderness. Everything was now, and Hermione just wanted the physical to enrapture her, make her think only about the now, so the emotional would not have any sway with her.

"This won't change anything," Draco whispered above her.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Nothing can change anything right now."

...

Hermione could not sleep for the entire night, even after Draco placed sound-barrier spells all around his compartments. Nothing could erase from her mind the cruelty, the gore, and the blood from the day. Never before in her life did she want to die and escape such horror. Never before in her life did she fear people as much as she did now. Never before had she wished for the demise human beings, magical or not.

She felt like she walked alone in the world, despite the young man sleeping next to her in the cot. She felt him against her back, and though he warmed her throughout the night, Hermione felt as if she were numb. It was strange. The day's events played out in her mind over and over again, like a broken movie reel playing disjointed clips, and they ended when he called to her.

Somehow, she had heard his voice above the chaos. Somehow, he grabbed her arm from the line and pulled her into his tent. She had been too surprised to scream. Perhaps she should have - it would have been more convincing to the other Death Eaters who looked curiously on. But perhaps Draco put on a better act than she thought, for no one had bothered them. But more importantly, Draco did not touch her at all. He was decent in that respect, even then.

Draco did not sleep easily, Hermione could tell. For most of the night, his breathing was uneven, and he mumbled often. She could catch a few words but nothing that told her what his dreams were about. All Hermione knew was that his dreams were unpleasant.

The first hint of dawn greeted Hermione in subtle hints of blue. It was starting to get light, and she and Draco had to leave before the sun began to peak out from under the eastern hills.

He had asked her to take him. He seemed so desperate.

Hermione shifted out of the cot as quietly as she could, trying not to wake him. When she was safely out, she tiptoed toward his cloak where he had hidden his wand. Hermione touched the wand, recoiling slightly at the feel of such unfamiliar wood, and pointed the wand at Draco's sleeping form.

She couldn't leave with him.

Hermione's arm trembled slightly. She had promised him, no doubt. But her mind had been numb with shock. He could have asked her anything, and she would have agreed. The fact was that he was one of them, and quite frankly she did not want to play the part of his deliverer. She had suffered. Let him suffer too.

She wouldn't leave with him.

"Somnio," Hermione whispered, entrapping him in sleep.

Then she left, not looking back to see that Draco had opened his eyes, staring after Hermione's retreating shadow.

...

When Hermione woke, she was in the dark. She sat up, heart thudding against her chest.

"Malfoy?" she whispered desperately, voice thick with sleep. The other half of the bed was cold. When she heard no answer, Hermione stumbled out of bed, pulling on random articles of clothing, feeling bile rise to her throat.

He left her, didn't he? He left her!

Hermione trembled like a fragile leaf in the face of an autumn wind. Where was he? Why did he leave her? Her heart plunged, and Hermione suddenly felt dizzy. She stumbled back, gripping the edge of the mattress. Why did he leave?

"Granger?"

Hermione looked up and whipped around. "Malfoy," Hermione whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He was sitting in a chair by the window, staring out into the night, eyes misty. It was almost dawn, and the moon was slowly fading with the arrival of the sun.

"Malfoy," Hermione breathed, feeling a sudden rush of relief. "You're here."

Draco slowly looked away from the window. He stared at her for a few seconds before answering. "So I am."

He was still here. He was still here! He hadn't left her. Hermione wanted to cry; she had never felt so grateful.

"Malfoy, I'm so glad you're here...that you didn't leave," Hermione whispered. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Draco looked away from her and faced the window, the dark blue dusk of the morning shadowing his skin.

...

They left the hostel as soon as they could. By the time Hermione started driving, the night had barely broken in the face of dawn. They had made an early start, but for some reason, Hermione felt nervous. Her nerves were a frayed mess, and she physically felt as if she were on a roller coaster: disoriented, uneasy, and tense.

Why she was in such a rush to get to the station to board the train for Carlisle, Hermione had no idea. But she drove more quickly that she ever had in her life.

Draco was quiet next to her, wrapping himself in the coat, staring blankly at the highway.

By the time Hermione arrived at the train station, it was a little after seven in the morning - rush hour. She got out of the car and magically dismantled it so that the Ministry members tracking her would be thrown off for a bit. Hermione swung her bag over one shoulder and grabbed Draco's hand.

"It will be hectic in there," Hermione said as they walked into the station. Already, men and women commuting to work filled the station. "We must not get separated!"

She did not know whether or not Draco heard her, but he tightened his grip on her hand.

Hermione could hardly see where she was going in this sea of humanity. The chatter in the train station started to get deafening, and Hermione couldn't even make out the announcements blaring out from the intercom. She needed to find the platform that led to Carlisle, but Hermione could hardly even move, let alone advance. Trains blew their screeching whistles to announce their arrival. Those departing scrambled to catch the appropriate train. Bodies upon bodies rushing past bumped into her again and again. She could barely hear Draco speak behind her.

"What?" Hermione yelled, trying to communicate with him above this commotion, but she could hardly hear herself.

Draco said something again, but Hermione could barely hear him.

Hermione tried turning around to face him, but suddenly, she felt someone collide into her and fell back. Draco's hand slipped from hers.

"Malfoy!" Hermione screamed, scrambling to get up from the floor. "Malfoy!"

Hermione whipped around, but all she could see were people rushing past her, bumping against her shoulders as she tried to find Draco.

"Malfoy!" Hermione called again, voice raw with despair. "Please, Malfoy!"

"Yes, it is difficult, Granger - and if I could have it the easy way, I would go back to Azkaban, to those I betrayed, and suffer those dementors with them."

"Malfoy, please, please don't leave!" Hermione screamed, pushing against the bodies of people. "Don't leave me alone through this!"

"But things are never so easy, are they, Granger? Strange how remembering is the greatest punishment of all, and the bright morning sun can still cast shadows across your heart."

Hermione searched for him for over an hour, calling his name until her throat was so hoarse she could barely utter a sound. The trains had left with people on them. Those who lingered were few, and they waited leisurely for the next train to come, with plenty of time to spare.

The silence was disquieting. Hermione sat alone on a bench, her eyes dull.

No matter how loudly she called, she couldn't hear him.

Perhaps he never meant to answer.

He had saved her once by calling for her, when Hermione thought she would lose her mind and soul to the insanity of the world. His voice, ringing above the chaos, woke her from the hopelessness and brought her back into the world of the living.

Was this how Pansy felt when she realized that for the first time in her life, she was truly alone?

Was this how Draco felt when he woke up that morning in an empty cot?

Was this how it felt to lose everything?

"Granger, it's me!"

Hermione sat up immediately and looked around, hoping against hope that he was there, smirking at her, and asking her to take him with her. He would be standing in front of her, holding out his hand, and she would place her hand in his, knowing that she still had the chance to save him, that she had not squandered away the chance to repent for her sins and for him to repent for his.

But no matter how hard she looked and hoped, she saw no one.

"Hello?" Hermione whispered.

And not even the wind answered back.

finis

"Ocean of Noise" by Arcade Fire

Ocean of noise
I first heard your voice
Ring like a bell
As if I had a choice, oh well!

Left in the morning
While you were fast asleep
To an ocean of violence
A world of empty streets

You've got your reasons
And me, I've got mine
But all the reasons I gave
Were just lies
To buy myself some time

An ocean of noise
I first heard your voice
Now who here among us
Still believes in choice?
Not I!

No way of knowing
What any man will do
An ocean of violence
Between me and you

You've got your reasons
And me, I've got mine
But all the reasons I gave
Were just lies
To buy myself some time

I'm gonna work it out
Cause time wont work it out
I'm gonna work it out
Cause time wont work it out for you
I'm gonna work it on out

End Notes: It's pretty safe to say that I tried to base most of my storyline on the lyrics. It ended up being quite depressing. Sorry for not incorporating humor, but I tried, and it turned out disastrous. All in all, I'm not completely satisfied with this fic, quite possibly because the storyline diverged a lot from what I had originally planned. I've tried to incorporate some elements of existentialism, but I get the feeling that I didn't achieve quite as much as I would have liked. Above all, I tried very hard to write something that was interesting and complete, and despite all of its flaws, I hope that you enjoyed reading your fic request!