The Initiate by phlox

Written for the Deflowering Draco fest on LJ, August 2011.

Warnings: Contains mention of abuse of a child and psychological trauma

I was assisted throughout every step of the writing process by my brilliant beta, eucalyptus. I am, as always, indebted to her for her insight and support.

* Nominated for two HP Fanfic Fan Poll Awards, Spring 2012 Round: Best Drama-Angst Story, and Best Heterosexual Romance. *

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"Wha..."

As the whoosh of the Floo sizzled and faded, Hermione sat frozen with come sliding down her fingers. Staring dumbfounded at the bum-shaped indentation in the worn cushion of the chair before her, it took her a moment to process that he had fled the scene, and even longer to mutter a Scourgify and push herself up from her knees. The recrimination followed swiftly thereafter.

She'd been taken in, hook, line, and sinker.

It didn't matter how cautious she'd been, how she'd only gradually begun to trust him over the course of months, by necessity as the only eighth-years who could adequately partner each other in Potions and Arithmancy. They'd never been friends, but she could now count him as an acquaintance instead of an adversary. It'd taken her by surprise, but she'd ultimately been lulled by his simple, quiet demeanor. She'd thought it was so poignant in contrast to the way he would fill a room with his bombast and barbs when he had an audience. It had seemed like when they were alone, she'd been seeing the real him.

But clearly Draco Malfoy was a faker. An opportunist with a mask for every occasion.

Hermione's stomach burned with humiliation as she stumbled from the small sitting room of her suite at Hogwarts to the loo. The circumstances of the evening only excused so much.

Sure, there had been the nostalgia of the Leaving Feast, where it had seemed all of Hogwarts was full of true joy and hopefulness for the first time since the final battle a year before. There had been alcohol involved, which had given Malfoy such a languid, relaxed manner that she'd been enchanted by the lighthearted, heavy-lidded boy chatting her up by the punchbowl.

"All the way over here amongst the vipers," he'd said, eyeing her group of friends on the other side of the Great Hall with a raised brow. "Gryffindor courage or Gryffindor foolhardiness... matter of opinion, I suppose?"

"Neither. I don't need any kind of bravery to get some punch."

"You haven't tried this batch." He'd smirked, holding up a fifth of Ogden's Old, about half the bottle gone. "And, you clearly haven't spent enough time with Slytherins. If people only knew what went on in our minds..."

He'd overdone the darkness for comic effect, but the glint in his eyes sent a thrill through her. His smile had been slow and inviting, and suddenly it had seemed like anything could happen; to miss this opportunity would be like failing to go for the brass ring. She'd tossed her hair then, hands on her hips, and strained to reach for it.

"Takes more than you lot to scare me, Malfoy."

That glint had softened to something unnameable. He'd dipped his head close to her, his voice low. "Yes. So I've gathered."

She'd stayed over in the snake pit, glass after glass of punch aiding their conversation. He'd started taking swigs directly from the bottle, and though the liquor was dwindling, you wouldn't have known it to look at him.

He'd seemed as upright as ever, his usual self, and looking back, that's what had given her pause. There had just been something distant about him, like he was observing their interaction from afar, but Hermione had ignored any suspicions that something was off.

On the breathless journey back to her room, he hadn't really reciprocated the fierceness of her kissing, choosing to nuzzle up against her neck instead. She'd had to take the lead, as he hadn't really done anything to move things along, so all of her two-blokes-worth experience had landed her with her hands in his trousers.

But right after Malfoy got off, he'd been all business. There had been a moment where he'd looked at her with confusion, and she could have sworn he was going to say something, but instead he'd beat a hasty retreat.

"Thanks, Granger," was all he'd given in farewell, and that had been mumbled over his shoulder on the way to the Floo.

Had he purposely set out to use and humiliate her, or had her aggression turned him off? It wouldn't have been the first time that had happened. Hermione's cheeks burned at the notion, and she replayed the evening moment by moment in her gradually sobering mind. Furiously brushing her teeth, she forced herself to meet her own eyes in the mirror. She should have known better. How could she have been so stupid?

By the time she crawled into bed though, the criticisms and castigations had swirled around in her head long enough. She'd had her fill of it.

She would square her shoulders and move on. Tomorrow her adult life would begin; she would ride the Hogwarts Express to a world where she would see Malfoy as merely a speck in the distance... if she ever took the time to look back over her shoulder to where he lived, firmly in her past.

Her fractured heart cheered her on, but her wounded pride stewed in silence.

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"Samson!" she hissed, straining to make out his figure in the dark. At his low whistle, she joined him where he crouched in the alleyway across from the club. "Finkley and Martin are in place. Anti-Disapparation wards are up. We come in from the front and sweep toward the back."

It was only Hermione's second time as team leader, but she knew it was important to assert her authority early in the raid in order to keep it. She was going to get the bastard tonight. Frederic Bole had been eluding Magical Law Enforcement for over a year – nearly as long as she'd been with the department – and they'd all run out of patience.

For her, though, it was personal. The arrogant sod wasn't going to get away with peddling Dark artifacts dangerous to Muggles right under the Ministry's nose. The last two raids had proven unsuccessful, but this time they had firm intelligence. This time, Hermione thought smugly, she was in charge.

As her wand vibrated in three short bursts, she stiffened. "Alright, he's connected with the buyer. Let's move."

After the hours of waiting and watching, she and Samson crossed the street and came through the doors on a shot of adrenaline that blotted out all but their objective. Indignant bouncers and hostesses stepped swiftly aside at the flash of their MLE badges, and they swept easily through to the inner dance floor.

People were all alike, Hermione thought, be they wizard or Muggle: no one ever wanted to get involved in anyone else's problems. Those who noted them on their way through the club averted their eyes and went about their business.

Heading toward the private room at the back, she saw Finkley coming toward her out of the corner of her eye. This was most decidedly not where he was supposed to be. Scanning the room quickly, she saw Martin darting down a hallway to the right.

A feeling of dread flooded her just before she felt one long pulse vibrate from her wand. It was the sign for: 'Perp fleeing the scene,' and surely meant that there had been a tip-off. Samson swore harshly as Hermione took off toward the hallway.

"You cover the front and sweep upstairs. Don't let anyone leave," she shouted over her shoulder, gesturing to Martin as she sped past.

It was an upscale club, but that didn't prevent the toilets from being crowded by sloshed young adults who couldn't hold their alcohol. Hermione pushed through the queue of weeping, retching twenty-somethings and made for the door at the back. She knew from the floor plans they'd studied that it emptied onto an alley; it was the only back way out of the building.

She could see Martin at the door, shooting revealing and unlocking spells at it. They must have been hastily erected, because he got through them and out before she reached him. The door was just swinging back closed when she barreled into it at full speed and burst out to the alley.

There was a lone light hanging from the building which left the majority of the space shrouded in darkness. She hastily cast Lumos and swept her arm to the shadows on the right. Automatically turning to the left to do the same, she did a double-take over her shoulder. As her arm swung back right for another look, she froze.

She could just make out, a few meters away, a pale figure in the darkness up against the wall. In the light from her wand, and in contrast to the inky blackness surrounding him, his skin and hair fairly shone. He looked eerie, standing there so still and silent. She found her feet, without her permission, walking a few paces for a closer look as she doused the light.

His eyes were closed, head tipped back against the wall exposing his neck. White-blond hair spilled across his eyes and against the bricks. The dark cloak he wore left the rest of him blending into the darkness, and it was only the movement against it that revealed the other figure in the alley.

Hermione's breath caught as she stepped sideways to get a better angle. A dark haired young woman knelt at his feet, her hands moving feverishly against him. She could see now that Malfoy's breath was coming fast, and his hips were moving, thrusting his cock into the girl's eager hands. He was close, she could tell.

At that, Hermione's stomach twisted with over a year's worth of suppressed humiliation. Seeing herself mirrored in the girl servicing him so thoroughly, shame shot through her as he arched against the wall and came in the girl's hands. It was the only sign that he'd climaxed other than a faint grunt. The girl held herself still then, looking up at him for a sign.

"He and the buyer seem to have gone through an upstairs passage that wasn't on—"

"One of the ladies in the hall said they saw a bloke go through and cast—"

"Back-up is here doing crowd-control—"

Martin, Finkley, and Samson all burst into the alley at that moment from three separate directions. Hermione spun to face them, her wand arm down, looking for all the world as though she'd just been standing around waiting for them to arrive with updates. Her self-disgust tripled as her reverie broke with the realization of where she was and what she was supposed to be doing.

Whirling back to the show she'd been watching, Hermione saw the girl had gotten to her feet. But then, she wasn't a girl at all, Hermione noted. She was a woman in her thirties, by the looks of her, and by her mode of dress... well, her line of work was obvious. The woman affected a terribly bored demeanor toward the new arrivals as she vanished the mess on her hands with the practiced skill of a professional.

Malfoy was coming to, his head lolling forward from the wall, reaching to tuck his flaccid member back into his open robes. He looked at the woman who had serviced him, his expression clearing as he saw her attention focused elsewhere. Following her line of sight, he languidly turned toward the rest of them.

Chuckles and comments such as, "Up to the usual tricks eh, Malfoy?" and "Letting the Malfoy jewels out of the family vault again..." rang forth from her team members, and the disgust bubbling in Hermione's belly transformed into molten rage.

It was rare, but she didn't think before she acted when her vision turned red.

"Sir, ma'am," Hermione said, flashing her badge. "You're potential witnesses standing in the middle of an official MLE crime scene."

The woman sighed, completely at ease in the situation. "Listen, lady, I was just talking to my friend..." She gestured without conviction at Malfoy.

"You've got an awful lot of friends, Olivine... you're gonna have to be more specific," said Martin, inspiring a chorus of snorts from his mates. "Come along then, love, you know the drill." He gestured for her, while she rolled her eyes and fairly stomped to follow him.

"Hang on, Martin, Mr Malfoy will be coming back to the Ministry too," she said in her Official Voice. It was the tone she'd been working on, and it never wavered.

"Granger," Samson began, incredulous, "I don't think we need to bother—"

Hermione whipped around to look at him, the accusation of double-standard written clearly on her face.

Samson cleared his throat and said lowly, "Look, he dabbles a bit here and there. He's been talked-to about it, and he's kept it out of the open lately, so I don't see what's the big deal." He shrugged.

"Dabbles...?" Hermione said softly. Looking to the other two agents, their manner was as careless and unconcerned.

She looked to Malfoy then as the full implication tried to take root in her brain. He merely stared back, his expression unchanging and shut-down, but for a twitch that flicked in his left eye. It made her nervous. When she was nervous, she talked incessantly, a nervous habit that had its roots in her childhood when she'd had trouble making friends.

"According to Wizengamot Decree 5392, any witch or wizard found at the scene of or subsequent to the commission of a crime may be held for questioning by any agent of Ministry Law Enforcement. According to section twelve of the parole agreement entered into in June of 1998, Mr Malfoy shall be compelled to answer any questions arising from or regarding the commission of a crime or the suspicion of conspiracy to commit same. Refusal to do so will result in the revocation of his parole and further disciplinary action as appropriate.

"According to the same agreement, any unlawful act found to have been perpetrated by said parolee, be it mere infraction or misdemeanor, carries a higher punitive consequence than normally levied and shall result in the revocation of his parole and detention in Azkaban.

"Now," she said, turning to face her coworkers, her expression as frosty as the ice sliding down her spine, "someone placed the wards on that door as a decoy to aid escape. I'm betting that they were cast from the outside, and the mystery of who hasn't been solved. Finkley, confiscate Mr. Malfoy's wand and escort him to the department. I want him in an interrogation room when I return from reporting to HQ."

Hermione turned tightly and willed her legs to stop shaking – in anger, or from the unsteadiness she always felt when she didn't believe wholeheartedly in what she was doing – as she walked briskly past the wards to Disapparate back to the Ministry.

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It wasn't like being an Auror, working in Magical Law Enforcement. The Aurors were warriors; young or old, male or female, it was about little more than the skill and power behind their wand. They were a close-knit group because they were like war buddies, relying on each other through thick and thin, admiring the skill of the brother or sister fighting beside them.

MLE, on the other hand, was about politics: about research and surveillance and paperwork. It's not that there wasn't a bit of that in the Auror squad, but here it was the way of things, the method for getting anything accomplished. Seniority got you everywhere, and MLE was, as the cliché went, an old boys' club. Hermione had gritted her teeth and pushed through training and her first year, knowing that it was the closest she could get right now to what she wanted to accomplish with her life.

It didn't help much that she was the youngest woman to come through training in the history of the department. Also to her detriment, her fame and reputation had preceded her, and the notoriety that fell upon the MLE since she had arrived frequently (and as often, mistakenly) cast the spotlight on her. Many things had Hermione pushing hard for every opportunity.

Tonight had been a chance to really establish herself, though failing wasn't as bad as it might have been. That old boys' club protected its own, and since a few of its members had already buggered attempts at catching Boles, the head of MLE wasn't itching to rake her over the coals for it. Especially since she'd convinced him she still had a few avenues left to investigate.

To that end, her heels were clicking down the hallway toward Interrogation Room Three when the door opened abruptly and Samson walked out. He received her most pursed-lipped look of censure as raucous laughter followed him through the gap in the door. Pushing it open wide, she saw a few others from the department visiting with a grinning, relaxed Malfoy.

She'd never figured out how he did it. Somehow he'd maintained a good reputation within the Ministry, even with a conviction (tried as a minor, sentence suspended, but still) for his role during the war. Was she honestly the only one who recalled that he'd been a Death Eater?

But then, her conscience unhelpfully supplied, she'd been able to look past that once too. There was something very ingratiating about Malfoy when he tried, and it seemed like he was always trying. He was 'on' when in a crowd, and it was merely a different performance when he was one on one. What she'd thought of as a sweet, shy manner during that last year at Hogwarts had just been another persona he'd used to get what he wanted from whoever was right in front of him at any given moment.

There couldn't be any other explanation for such different sides to a person, and this bloke – the drinking, partying, slag-chaser – was not the person she'd thought she knew. Hermione did her best to hush the part of her that was childishly taking this personally, but the truth was, she felt more than disappointment in his behavior. She felt betrayed.

As Hermione walked through the door, a hush fell over those inside, though it would have been delusional for her to imagine it was out of respect. It was more like everyone's mum had arrived with disapproving looks and threats of extra chores, and the lot of them slunked out the door with only a few pats on the back and farewells to their host. The vibration of cheer quickly dissipated without company though, the room unable to support it.

The light flickered in here, randomly but insistently, and after an hour or so it became a sort of Chinese water torture; feeling as though a hole was being slowly tapped through one's eyelids. A fair few Aurors and Agents couldn't stand to use this space, but it never bothered Hermione, and she had a tendency to favor this interrogation room because of it. She found it effective, especially if the suspect was left in there long enough. Malfoy silently watched Hermione settle in opposite where he sat, at a heavy, metal table that ran nearly the length of the room. She noted that his eyes were already beginning to squint from the strain.

Purposely keeping him waiting, she made a big show of opening his file and perusing it as though it was all news to her. It wasn't; everyone in the wizarding world knew of Malfoy's comings and goings in the past year and a half. It read rather dryly though, as he never missed a check-in, never failed to meet with representatives from the Ministry for questioning or routine evaluations, and was reported by all to be 'progressing nicely,' and 'sincere in his efforts for rehabilitation.'

Hermione had heard him spoken of by people as disparate as a high member of the Wizengamot, a couple of giggling secretaries from Magical Games and Sports, and Madame Rosemerta. All seemed to agree that the actions of the boy did not amount to the measure of the man.

The one blemish on his record, which certainly didn't count in any way that really mattered other than in the whispers behind his back, was the abrupt ending of his engagement to Astoria Greengrass. It had been announced, feted, and dissolved, all in less than six months. That there was talk of a settlement paid to the Greengrass family at the dissolution was cause for speculation; it was one thing if both had wanted out of the arrangement, but quite another if one party had withdrawn with cause.

But then Hermione didn't pay any attention to gossip. She'd only barely registered the relationship when seeing it reported in the pages of Witch Weekly (which, really, she only read when having her hair done), and was affected not at all by hearing of its end.

There were rumors of his heavy drinking, but no one had ever reported actually seeing him drunk. He was conducting the Malfoy family business admirably, keeping the name alive on the social register, and succeeding in getting people to associate the family far more with his mum and her celebrated heroic act than with his father and the mistakes that had chased the man into an unavoidable stay in Azkaban.

"Fascinating reading, is it, Granger?" Malfoy said lowly, only a slight twinge of impatience in his tone.

She was delighted to hear it.

"That's Agent Granger, Mr Malfoy." She dragged her eyes slowly up to meet his, only to see his expression slide more purposefully into boredom. "I was finding it predictable, actually. It's virtually textbook for 'How to Get Back into Good Graces by the Skin of One's Teeth.' I'm sure the Malfoy family owns the first edition of the manual."

Something in his eyes went from wry to wary in a second. He suddenly took on the look of one involved in a hunt, as though furiously calculating how to cast himself as the hunter, rather than whatever was to be served up on a platter. Hermione wanted him to know that she wasn't toying with him. She wanted him on his game.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a glass phial, placing it on the table directly in front of him. Malfoy stared at it blankly before lazily looking back up. He held her gaze. That made her nervous.

"According to Wizengamot Decree 72407, any witch or wizard being questioned by law enforcement may be required, provided there is just cause, to drink a sobering potion to facilitate the interview process. Section eight of your parole agreement, Mr Malfoy, states that you shall be compelled to ingest any potion deemed—"

"I want my advocate."

"You've not been charged with anything, Mr Malfoy."

He was far too good at this sort of thing to blink in the middle of a contest, but at that, Hermione felt a physical shift of power in the room. The implication was clear: you'll cooperate and you'll do it without a safety net, or the consequences will be dire.

He reached forward swiftly and decisively, uncorking and downing the potion in one sure movement. The effect was only seconds in coming, and as his expression sharpened, an indescribable change came over him. He shifted, he slumped, he looked uncomfortable – as though there was so much less of Malfoy all of a sudden.

The hand that still held the phial began fidgeting; a small habit that Hermione recalled from when he was reading something intently, involved in an engaging discussion, or when he was nervous. The tip of his pointer finger would worry back and forth along the pad of his thumb rapidly and unceasingly. She pulled herself away from the sight and the memory it conjured.

Clearing her throat, she set her Quick-Quotes Quill to transcribing, giving the date and the time to begin the record. She met his eyes as she began, "You were in attendance tonight at 'The Lair' in Diagon Alley, were you not, Mr Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"And, when did you arrive?"

"Around nine pm."

"Did anybody accompany you?"

His eyes narrowed at that, but he answered easily. "No."

"So, you had arranged to meet Ms Thruston there?"

His mouth opened on a quick inhale that he held as he appeared frozen for a moment on the very edge of answering.

"Olivine. Did you plan to meet Olivine Thruston there?"

He expelled that breath as subtly as possible. "No. I met her tonight. We'd not... been introduced before then."

"Ah, kismet?" she asked lightly. Malfoy's manner was now rather self-consciously rigid and expressionless, and he refrained from answering. "Did you meet anyone else at the club this evening?"

"No."

She raised her eyebrows and paused before prodding, "Let me rephrase the question: was there anyone else at the club tonight you knew?"

"No."

"You saw no one else of your acquaintance there?" He shook his head. "Was there anyone else at the club to whom you were introduced?"

"No."

"Then why was it you chose to remain on the premises when clearly you and Ms Thruston were in need of privacy?"

Malfoy again appeared as if he was preparing an answer, but the words didn't come; his brow furrowed slightly and he shook his head, questioning.

"I'm just curious, Mr Malfoy, why it was that you would have been in that alley, at that particular moment, when a target of Magical Law Enforcement was making a getaway and in need of a decoy in the very place you were meeting with Ms Thruston." His silence and bewilderment was setting her on edge. She continued, "It would seem a man such as yourself would have the wherewithal to take his personal business elsewhere. It's curious that you would choose to engage in such activities in that manner, and I question why you, with your record, would choose to do something reckless when other avenues were available to you.

"So, I wonder what motive could have led you to be in that alley at precisely that point in time, because if you're not involved with Boles' business, I cannot imagine what would induce you to behave in such a manner, unless you've suffered a complete loss of self-respect and possibly an inability to respect others."

She spoke lightly, a hint of skepticism in her tone, but her heart was beating much too fast, and she could no longer meet his eyes. She glanced instead at the transcript, where the quill hovered for a long moment, indecisive, before resuming its scratching across the parchment.

"What is this about?" he asked softly. "Are you— Granger... is that what this—"

She produced another phial from her pocket, placing it on the table. Malfoy's composure broke, finally; a subtle change, but for one who had studied him, the breakdown of his walls was clear. His eyes widened a fraction, his breath came faster, and the slump of his shoulders spelled defeat. Hermione ignored the look of his unschooled expression, which reflected both fear and what her conscience knew as betrayal.

Veritaserum could not get a witch or wizard to say anything that they didn't actually know, but it could produce an answer from the recesses of the mind, something of which they were not consciously aware. It was helpful in working with witnesses when they could have some piece of information which had escaped full notice but would be crucial to the investigation if it could be mined from the far reaches of their brain. If it was possible for him to give Hermione an answer, the Veritaserum would produce it; regardless of whether it was something he was capable of articulating otherwise.

Malfoy was very good at Potions and understood their powers and subtleties. He knew that he would be answering every question directly with any and all answers his mind could provide. She could have sworn his eyes implored her for a brief moment, but they were blank by the time he reached forward, scraping the glass phial against the metal of the table and dispatching the potion with the same efficiency as before.

It took nearly thirty seconds for the potion to take effect, and Hermione spent those short moments looking down at his file, cooling the blood in her veins, and organizing her plan of attack. When she looked back up, the bald fact of 'truth serum' was written all over his painfully honest expression. Malfoy was drenched in dread, resigned to what was about to happen.

Hermione knew the way to get the subject's mind to cooperate fully was to start simply, as it was possible for one to answer merely the question asked and nothing else if their mind was strong enough. She would have to be precise here; she knew the intellect she was challenging to be an impressive one. If she could unlock his psyche to the point where his unconscious began to flow and contribute, then it would open a floodgate.

She was well enough acquainted with rationalization to justify using whatever means necessary to get to the information she was seeking. If Malfoy was involved with tonight's business with Boles, then she would get to the bottom of it. If he wasn't, and she found he was indeed engaging repeatedly in illegal acts with a prostitute… then she wasn't about to just look the other way for a parolee, no matter how little anyone else cared about the infraction.

"Mr Malfoy, are you acquainted with Frederic Boles?"

"Yes."

"Do you have business dealings with Mr Boles?"

"Yes."

"For how long have you had this business relationship?"

"For about fourteen months," Malfoy replied, shifting slightly in the metal chair, his squinting eyes trained on the wall above her head.

"What is the nature of this business?"

"He serves on the Board of Directors at Malfoy Enterprises."

Hermione sighed. She knew that. "Have you any business with him that does not pertain to anything regarding or related to Malfoy Enterprises?"

"No."

She was surprised to find a dead end, but she changed tacks. "Did you see him at 'The Lair' this evening?"

"No."

"Did you see anyone you knew at the club this evening?"

"No."

Hermione's eyebrows shot upward. "No one of your acquaintance was at 'The Lair' this evening?"

Malfoy's body leaned forward ever so slightly, and his eyes moved just a fraction downward toward where they would eventually meet her own. She nearly held her breath, recognizing the sign that the potion had slipped all the way through the barriers of his ego to engage him fully.

"No one of my acquaintance would ever be at 'The Lair,'" he said emphatically, with a slight tinge of horror at the thought. "I couldn't do it if there was anyone I knew there. It only works when no one knows."

Hermione's stomach dropped. It was clearly the worse of the two suspicions that had brought them here. "What only works when no one knows, Malfoy?" she asked tightly.

Malfoy's expression showed how little he wanted to admit to anything, and how much he was trying to fight going where this was leading. He attempted to take a deep breath, but it was interrupted by the force that pushed his reply from his chest. "The ritual."

This was going to be positively sordid, Hermione thought, her stomach roiling in disgust. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but she couldn't have stopped herself asking the next question if she tried. "What is the ritual, Malfoy?"

His unconscious in charge now, his tone was nearly conversational; the potion didn't flatten his affect, but made it so he could calmly convey everything his brain supplied to answer the questions. Sitting easily in his chair, now looking Hermione straight in the eye, his manner was almost eerily casual at first.

"The ritual gets me off. It's the way I get off. The ritual is the only way I get off. It's only when they do it right, like her, when I can get her to do what I need that it works, and then no one can know. That's the only way it works. It was how I was initiated, and it's how it's done. Girls don't understand, only girls I meet and girls I buy where no one knows can get me off, and others don't understand. Astoria—"

Malfoy's throat convulsed then, he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, trying to stem the tide. It was no use. His expression was pained as he continued, "It hurts their feelings, but I can't help it because it's a curse. Bella worked a spell and I can't fix it, and I'm sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. But I can't fix it and the ritual is the only way it works."

Breathing hard, sweat trickled down from his hairline. A look of exhaustion overwhelmed the dread for a moment and he slumped, palms flat on the table, looking as though he'd run a great distance to find himself in hell. The look he gave her was again beseeching, but Hermione's blood was buzzing, the nerves trying to burst out of her skin, and she couldn't stop herself. She pressed on as though no longer in control of her own actions.

"What..." she said, her voice hushed, "what did Bella do?"

Though the accusation was clear in the grey eyes that reached for her own, the potion did not disappoint.

"My initiation. The night I got the Mark was the night of my ritual of manhood. She worked both spells, as blood, it's stronger with blood of blood. It was her hands, and her hands got me off and that's how she cursed me. She said, 'you will never be anything but mine,' and she's right. It's the only way. It's when I find someone who will do it that she's there, Bella's there, always there with me and it's when I imagine that it's her that I get off and that's the only way I can. The heir has to continue the line, and I have to be able to, but I can't, I can't do it, and I haven't ever, because Bella always wins. If I could have been stronger I wouldn't be hers but I'm hers and it's the only way—"

Hermione had climbed half atop the table to reach him. Pushing the phial with the antidote into his hand, she pulled the stopper off with trembling fingers. Malfoy jerked his arm up, tipping his head back, and poured it into his mouth. Half of it dribbled down his chin to his neck, but it was enough. The effect of this potion was far more immediate than that of its opposite.

His hand slammed down on the table while both legs pushed and propelled him backward as he stood. His chair skidded and hit the wall, falling to the floor on its side with a crash. The phial went spinning, rolling off the far end of the table and clinking as it broke on the tile floor. Malfoy stood panting, staring down at the tabletop where the words 'The Ministry isn't real' had been crudely carved into the metal years before. Hermione eyed him as she would a wild animal and backed slowly off the table to stand, barely blinking, keeping him in her sight.

She'd been within the parameters of her position in law enforcement. The rules governing interview and interrogation were clear, and Hermione had followed them; she'd had just cause for the line of questioning and had followed a logical progression through it to investigate what were definite signs of illegal activity by a parolee. Professionally, she'd been within the bounds of acceptability.

The rationalizations whipping through her head were no match for the feelings warring in her chest, however. Hermione was sickened by what she'd heard. Being honest with herself though, she was disgusted most with her own feelings of pride that had pushed her past her duty to force it from him.

"I'm... Draco, I'm sorry," she said softly, trying desperately to keep her voice steady.

Malfoy started at that and his head shot up, his gaze toward the wall to her right. "Get all you were after, Agent Granger?" His voice was rough and low, but there was no hint of challenge in it.

Hermione was taken aback. She'd expected rage; she would have welcomed it. "No, I... Yes. I think that's... I've got all I need from you for now, Mr Malfoy. Thank you for your—"

He'd pulled his cloak from the rack and walked the far side around the table and to the door before she could stumble through any more of a reply.

:

:

As usual, Hermione took comfort in research.

Survivors of sexual abuse frequently face issues and problems. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Compulsive or risky sexual activity. Substance abuse. Control issues. Dissociation. As a coping mechanism, victims learn to 'check-out' of situations, and create other personalities to mask what goes on inside: "When I was on, I was on. When I wasn't, I disappeared into the surroundings."

Different factors influence the effects of the abuse: the age when it occurred, the frequency, the relationship to the child... whether the abuse deliberately involved shaming the child. Whether the child had loving, supportive family members or felt that someone cared about him.

Many survivors regain a sense of power by gaining control over the abuse's aftereffects. Don't minimize what they tell you. Don't maximize. Don't push or probe, be patient, be supportive, but not controlling or enabling. Know when to point them toward professional help. Educate yourself as much as possible. Get the survivor into the habit of being in control of what they do and what happens to them.

These things seemed to fit with what Hermione knew of and had experienced with Malfoy. As it had been over four years since, it wasn't surprising that his behavior was becoming more extreme. She hadn't been easily sold; there were times when it seemed impossible that the person who held himself with such confidence and who had accomplished so much could be suffering from any such affliction as what she'd read.

But then, they were all children of the war, and there was more than just what Bellatrix had done to him that would haunt Malfoy. Hermione could identify with a lot of things – at least in theory – having survived a harrowing couple of years herself. They both had scars, literally and figuratively, and Bellatrix's hand had been in both.

Hermione was good at constructing and wearing her masks too. From the outside, a generation of them were remarkably healthy and happy, marrying and multiplying, rebuilding the wizarding world for their bright and shiny futures. The difference for some of them was in the outlets provided, and in how much people could empathize with what they'd suffered. There were as many ways of dealing with it, though, as there were survivors. Harry and Ginny had clung to each other in the aftermath and through the storms that raged still, while Hermione and Ron had each pushed the other away immediately following the triumphant end. No one had all of the answers.

But she could feel the call of her conscience now, and knew that she would not be able to keep herself from trying to help. She recognized her own issues at play; she wasn't stupid. Hearing her mum's voice in her head, shrill and accusing, Hermione knew it was another situation where she would be making an unsolicited, unilateral decision. Trying to help in the past, she'd caused a lot of pain, but there had never been a moment since that she regretted anything she'd done to protect her family or friends.

When there was something she could do, it was in her nature to step in. It wasn't that there wasn't another solution, but it was the same as during the war. She felt responsible.

:

:

Malfoy appeared unsurprised when she walked in the room and took the seat next to Samson. The latter finished his questioning and left within minutes, leaving the two of them alone. She'd called him in for further questioning in the Boles case and scheduled this meeting in Interrogation Room Two, knowing that the atmosphere was far less intimidating. The table was wood, the chairs were cushioned, and the lighting was bright and warm. They frequently referred to it as 'the Interview Room,' such was its difference from the others.

Malfoy was far from comfortable though, sitting rigidly upright, arms crossed on his chest. His face revealed no emotion and had been schooled into one of polite engagement. His gaze was just to the left of her eyes.

Hermione took a moment to look over the transcript of his interview with Samson before beginning. "You saw no one who fit the description of the suspect's buyer, Fenwicke Pilkington on the night in question?"

He took a moment before answering, as though there was some sort of trick question hiding therein. "No."

"Did you see anyone in the alleyway at all prior to MLE making their presence known?"

"No."

"Thank you." Toward the Quick-Quotes Quill she said, "Statement from Draco Malfoy, witness for Case number 50219G, concluded." She waved her wand to terminate it. Seeing him start to get up out of the corner of her eye, she blurted, "Malfoy, wait. I wanted to tell you about the department's transcribing procedure."

He froze, his eyes snapping to hers, surprised at her reason for stopping him. His face was more unguarded than she'd seen it since Hogwarts, and she taken aback at the sight of it. As the moment dragged on for more than a few seconds, she watched one blond eyebrow slowly rise.

Hermione envied that; she'd never been able to raise just one eyebrow.

"Yes?" he said, confusion in his tone.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, shaking herself out of it. "I wanted to let you know that when an interview with a subject moves into areas not directly pertinent to the case for which it's being conducted, the extraneous material may be redacted from the transcript with official approval."

Malfoy's face flushed, and he suddenly found that the wood grain of the table called for close study. "I see. And how does one get approval to—"

"It's already been done. You can request to read the transcript in order to see what's been excised from the record, and should you not agree with the portions cut, you can appeal for review and request any additional material be struck."

He nodded. "And... when you say 'an official' reviewed it?"

"Worthington Nelson." Head of Magical Law Enforcement. He was fair, pleasant, and well respected.

Malfoy glanced up for a moment and nodded curtly. Pushing back his chair, he stood and reached for his cloak, flinching when she spoke again.

"I wanted to say..." She watched his back as he busied himself getting ready to leave. "Draco."

At that his shoulders slumped in surrender. Heaving a great sigh, he turned to face her.

"Draco," she said gently, "I wanted to talk to you about your counseling sessions. I read your file—"

"Of course you did," he snapped, tossing his cloak over the back of a chair.

"I didn't see anything about... what happened to you. You haven't mentioned anything about Bellatrix, and I thought that it—"

"It isn't any of the Ministry's business. It's none of your business, but don't let that stop you, Agent Granger." His posture was again rigid, arms crossing his chest like a shield.

Hermione did her best to soften her approach. "I just think that a necessary part of your progress is going to require that you address—"

"It's been addressed, again and again. I don't see why I should have to get into specifics," he said tightly. The rest he recited as if by rote. "I have taken responsibility for my actions and my choices. I was a willing participant, and just because I didn't like where it landed me or what happened after doesn't change the fact that I wanted it at the time."

Hermione's blood ran cold at his words. They were her words.

Two years before, they had been a pair of shell-shocked kids trying to make their way in a post-war world. There had been growing pains for months, with aggression to be spent and apologies made. Hermione wasn't a pushover, and she hadn't been about to just accept that he'd had a miraculous epiphany that had changed all of his views. The long process of working their way toward understanding and forgiveness had all exploded one afternoon over the brewing of Everlasting Elixir in Advanced Potions.

"You seem to have forgotten, Granger, that I didn't kill any Muu— Muggle-borns or Muggles," he'd hissed, keeping his voice as low as possible while Slughorn made rounds on the other side of the room. "I didn't fight with the Dark Lord."

"You didn't fight against him," she'd whispered equally harshly, her eyes flashing in anger.

Eyes wide, he'd abandoned his mortar and pestle and the pretense of grinding the crocodile tooth to lean in close. "You know that my family was in jeopardy—"

She'd rolled her eyes at that. "Yes, yes, I've heard all about the poor Malfoys, just carried away by Voldemort and his evil plans without any say in the matter. You act as though you made no choices—"

"We didn't have choices!"

"You fell from grace, and you didn't like where you landed!" Her voice had risen, the attention of half the class was on them, and Slughorn was getting nearer. She'd lowered her voice and continued, "Realizing that Voldemort was a dangerous psychopath only when he'd turned his ire on you isn't terribly clever or noble. You were more than happy to be a Death Eater when the power and the thrill of it all seemed within your reach. You sought it out, you yearned for it, and you let him have you. It was only after it turned sour that you changed your mind about what it was he was trying to accomplish."

He'd shaken his head weakly, whispering, "I didn't want— I didn't know..."

She'd reached for his left arm, lying on the table between them, but he'd recoiled quickly before she could grasp it, stepping back from the table, arms crossed as though she would come after him. It was futile trying to hide it though; she knew it was there.

Pointing at his arm instead, she'd said, "When you asked for that, you set things in motion. You wanted to belong, you wanted all that came with it. Want to impress upon people that you've changed, Malfoy? Take responsibility for your actions and your choices. Not liking where you ended up, not wanting what came after doesn't change the fact that you wanted it at the time. You were a willing participant. Changing your mind can't erase any of that."

Malfoy had, surprisingly, taken in her words, nodded mechanically, and gone back to grinding the tooth to dust. Hermione's blood had sung in her veins for an hour afterward, and she'd been giddy with the triumph of having given the smug bully of her childhood the what-for he deserved.

It had not been intentional, certainly, and it wasn't her fault, but clearly he viewed everything that happened the night he was made a Death Eater as part of one big mistake for which he was culpable. He wasn't alone in holding himself fully responsible.

But what Hermione had grown to understand in the time since was that it was the long process of learning about other people, cultures, and other points of view, coupled with an arduous eye-opening through death and hardship rivaling her own that had forged a change in Malfoy.

Even though a teenager had saved the world, it didn't mean just any kid could be expected to bear the weight of it. There was a reason Dumbledore had believed Malfoy should be given a shot at redemption; he'd recognized a work-in-progress and the potential to grow and change.

"Draco." She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. "You weren't... you didn't ask for that. For any of it, really. You were too young to understand. It wasn't your fault, and you didn't choose it." Suddenly recalling something from her research, she changed her tack. "It doesn't matter if you enjoyed it."

He wouldn't meet her gaze, and he was holding very still, but she knew she had his attention.

"You couldn't have chosen anything; you couldn't be responsible for anything that happened with Bella, because she had all the power. You had none, and she abused her position and the authority she had over you."

At that, his eyes snapped to hers and the anger there was palpable. "Oh, is that a fact? Would you know something about abuse of power and position, then, Agent Granger?"

Hermione flinched. It was a fair accusation. She'd learned not to put herself squarely on the side of victim by ignoring her capacity to wound, or the ability inherent in everyone to hurt others. No longer that sometimes self-righteous girl, she recognized that circumstances didn't always bring out the best in people. She was disgusted by her place on the continuum that, to her shame, included Bellatrix Lestrange.

But she'd forgiven him once before and for worse, she reminded herself. She knew such miracles were possible.

"Draco," she began, and he looked at her seriously, as though he'd just heard his name from her lips, reaching him through some thick fog. "I just wanted to offer to help you. I think I can help you with your... problem."

"My problem?" he said lowly, brow furrowed.

She held his gaze steadily. "Bella didn't cast a spell, Draco. There's no curse on you, there was no magic. This problem, your behavior is normal for someone who— You're experiencing understandable aftereffects of immense stress and abuse."

His cheeks had pinked again, and he stood there shaking his head, processing what she'd just said. "How would you— You'd help with it?"

Hermione was still a young woman and very susceptible to mortification herself, so she became incredibly interested in her quill as she explained, "Obviously, you should talk to your counselor about this, and that's definitely a big part of it, but I was thinking that I could— Well, that we would try to get you to a place where you could be comfortable with it, and we could try things that would accomplish that."

"I don't need your pity, Granger."

"It isn't pity, Draco. You should know – you should remember – that I, well... I would be happy to. I would be interested in..." She shook her head and summoned her courage, looking him in the eye, saying, "I would be interested."

His face flushed scarlet. "I'm not a bloody cause. Stick to Hippogriffs and house-elves," he said tiredly, grabbing his cloak with finality and rounding the table toward the door. It brought him nearer to her, the door to her back.

The quip reminded her suddenly of a heated debate they'd had their final week at Hogwarts, and she was transported to another time. It wasn't an easier time, that's for sure, nothing was easy for them in those first months when they were staggering and stumbling on new legs in a new world. But looking back on it, Hermione remembered what it had felt like to have forgiven Malfoy. How fresh and sweet the air had smelled once it had cleared between them, and she longed for it now. She rocketed back in time to that night when anything had seemed possible, and she reached again.

"The offer will stand, Draco. Alright?"

She stood, now directly in front of him, as he reached for the door. He stopped and looked at her like she was a particularly long and involved Potion; but Hermione reminded herself that Potions was his favorite subject. He nodded once and turned to leave. Accepting that this might be the end of it all between the two of them, forever, she seized her last chance.

"So, Malfoy," she said over her shoulder as she gathered up her things from the table, "I was wondering. Why me that night?" Every muscle and sinew in her body was put into service of keeping her voice light. "I was removed enough from your social circle, I guess, that no one would know?" Enough of a slag, her pride appended silently, but she was too strong to let that read through her eyes. He'd never hear her say it.

He was quiet for long enough that she glanced back at him. Malfoy's look was regretful, and he opened and closed his mouth twice, trying to answer. Hermione felt the sting of rejection again and prepared to shrug it off.

"You..." he began softly. "At the Manor, Bella tried and tried, but she couldn't break you. I thought—" He shook his head, his expression sincere. "I never saw anyone stronger than a curse from Bella."

At the close of the door, Hermione's pride swelled, and her mended heart beat on.

:

:

Clenching her jaw against the pulsing of the music, she cursed herself for formulating a plan that involved bass lines that made her head vibrate. She'd yet to figure out how any of the people who frequented these clubs were able to connect with each other at all, much less with any sort of meaning. But then, she was probably ascribing far more depth to these interactions than anyone was looking for; she should have known better, given the reason why she was here.

It was her seventh such foray into the nightlife of the wizarding world, and Hermione had begun to doubt that she was going to have any success in getting Malfoy to bite. The first two tries had landed her at clubs he clearly didn't frequent, but she'd seen him these last several times, and more importantly, he'd seen her. She'd kept her distance, merely drinking and watching, tossing her 'bugger-off vibes' (as Ron had termed them) at anyone who approached, but giving hopeful, inviting glances in the direction of one elusive blond.

It hadn't worked. The first time, he'd left almost immediately after sighting her, and she'd felt bad that she might be interfering with something that gave him some sort of comfort. He'd seemed to accept her presence after that, but each time she saw him leaving with someone else, she believed less and less in this approach.

She largely ignored the voice in her head that questioned why she was doing this at all, much less putting forth such effort. It was more than just her voice, though; Harry spoke too, rather loudly. He'd run into her at one of the clubs early on, and when he'd asked what she was doing there, her nervous glance toward Malfoy was an amateurish giveaway that Hermione should have been able to suppress. He'd given her a pointed look, but he and Ginny had left immediately.

Being Harry, he'd followed up with her. And, being the Harry Potter who had fought a war, and in so doing had seen every one of his preconceived notions disintegrate to dust, he'd listened. She didn't tell him all that had happened to Malfoy, but she told him enough. She'd imagined it was something Harry would understand more easily having been raised with Muggles; they didn't really speak of such things or the psyche in the wizarding world.

She also told him of the Malfoy she'd come to know in her eighth year, and she'd admitted for the first time, not only aloud but truly to herself, that she'd come to care for him. The incident after the Leaving Feast had hurt her, but time and understanding had helped to heal. There was something deep she felt she could exorcise in helping him now, though; more than the feelings of guilt and responsibility and her usual desire to be of use, Hermione believed she could defeat Bellatrix in this way. If she and Malfoy could transcend the work of that madwoman, it could mean an end to the war once and for all, for both of them.

He'd listened to all of it, and being Harry, he'd taken a deep breath and told her to be careful with her heart. But he'd amended that with: "But not too careful, Hermione, yeah? If you see some way you could be happy..." He'd shrugged. Ginny heard it all from him, and though having support from the two of them wasn't the same as having approval, it was comforting nonetheless.

Hermione was watching the stirrer as she swirled it around the half-melted ice of the lone firewhisky and soda she allowed herself on these occasions when she realized she'd lost sight of Malfoy. Looking around the area where she'd last seen him, she didn't notice someone sliding onto the stool next to her.

"This has got to be the least festive attire I've ever seen. Do you even change from your work clothes before going out on a Friday night, Granger?"

She'd jumped when she heard his voice. As MLE, she rarely left herself vulnerable from the back, and being actually surprised from behind was an absolute scandal. Hermione was scowling as she turned around.

"I find dressing in any more obvious fashion gets me more attention than I would like." She fiddled with the collar of her perfectly respectable work robes. They were black. Black was supposed to be elegant and good anywhere, right? The look he was giving her was appraising, and she fidgeted more under his frank regard, but it made her bold. Leaning in, she lowered her voice. "I'm not interested in attracting just anybody, Malfoy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Clearly. You seem interested in attracting clerics recruiting for a new convent."

Hermione knew this Malfoy – she remembered him well. This bloke made her heart beat a little faster and made her stretch and work underused muscles to match his wits. The light in his eyes when they were in the middle of a tussle made the synapses in her brain pop like popcorn. She was quicker and funnier with him; he made her better.

She shrugged carelessly and tossed her hair. "Well, you know I've always fancied a man in black."

He smiled, fixing her with a pensive stare that made her nervous. So much so, her anxiety was about to launch her into an entire speech about Johnny Cash when he spoke.

"You know, most species adapt to their surroundings. While it's almost admirable to be so resolute in the face of fashion—"

"Well, I wasn't going to go so far as to call the native females here another species, but you would know better than I," she said wryly.

Malfoy's mood turned serious as though she'd flipped a switch. She was disappointed that playtime was over, and as he nodded, brow furrowed, fingers fidgeting, she held her breath.

"Yeah, you don't really belong here, Granger," he muttered lowly. He looked around the club as though checking to see that no one was watching, then turning back, he leaned in. "So. Hypothetically speaking, where would you propose we..." He tried to gesture, but there was really nothing appropriate.

She knew what he was getting at and didn't leave him hanging. "Wherever you're comfortable. My flat, or at your—"

"Not at the manor," he said emphatically.

"That's fine. My flat, or somewhere neutral if you prefer."

He nodded, but he wasn't finished. "No one would be able to know. Not because—" He looked apologetic, and Hermione nodded, shrugging as though she cared nothing for his reasons. "It's just... not how it's done."

"That's fine, Draco." She'd just make herself fine with it. She could live with that.

At that moment, the bartender brought him another drink, and Hermione realized that he must run quite a tab and be rather well known around town, because he only nodded at the man before downing the drink and turning back to her.

"Alright. But you can't touch me," he blurted. Realizing its absurdity, his face twisted with embarrassment, and had it not been so dark, surely the color of his cheeks would have shown it. He looked around like he was surrounded on all sides and got up as though to leave.

Hermione touched his arm lightly, stilling his movement. "What if I ask nicely?"

Letting out a long breath, looking exhausted, he shook his head. He turned away from her and out to the dance floor, and she was mesmerized for a moment by the colored lights flashing on his face; he looked at turns ominous and childlike. While Hermione was trying to hold a shield around her heart, it was threatening to beat right out of her grasp. She wasn't sure she knew what she was doing, but she was ready to jump. She was good with Malfoy; better, in a way, than she was with anyone else. They made good partners, and they were good at working together at difficult problems. She tightened her hand to squeeze his arm.

"It takes a lot to scare me, Malfoy."

Something like a smile curved his mouth and softened his eyes as he looked into her own. "So I've gathered."