Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros Entertainment Inc. This story is not written for profit and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: A special thank you to itsraa for betaing this chapter. I continue to be grateful to her for her help with this story.

Part I: A Lonely Heart Cannot Atone

Chapter 11

Thursday evening found Ginny and Hermione in the Library. They were not alone—several dozen other students had had the same idea—but they were tucked away, cloistered in Hermione's secret spot between the Herbology section and the room Madam Pince used to repair and restore library books.

The patter of rain against the high, dark windows mingled with the low hum of murmuring and the occasional flutter of the loudly turned page of a book. Were it not for these tiny noises, Ginny and Hermione could have easily forgotten that there was anyone else in the Library. Students hardly ever ventured into this particular corner of the Library, and even Madam Pince was busy prowling the better-trafficked shelves during these peak study hours, her beady eyes alert to the slightest mistreatment of her precious books.

Their activities relatively hidden from prying eyes and straining ears, the two girls took advantage of the rare privacy, but not to tackle their daunting piles of homework in peace.

In fact, for nearly thirty minutes, Ginny and Hermione had been arguing in hushed tones on a wide variety of topics. Mostly, though, they were whispering themselves hoarse over Ron.

"Just because he didn't send a proper reply doesn't mean he's not taking you seriously, Hermione!" Ginny said. "He's busy! But how can you expect him to think Malfoy—"

"Because I told him, and I didn't just—I'm not making this up!"

"Really? Because Beedle himself couldn't have written something so farfetch—"

"Even Luna thinks that—"

"And she's a reliable source of—"

"Ever since he apologized—"

"Hermione, you don't even know—"

"Gurdyroot tea!"

"Death Eater!"

The tiny noises of the Library seemed to hold their breath at the sound of these words. They'd allowed the volume of their voices to get away from them, and Hermione worried that Madam Pince would arrive and tell them off or else that curious students would wander into her hiding place while looking for the source of the argument. Ginny, on the other hand, stared boldly at Hermione as if daring her to speak. For several moments, they waited, listening for the murmuring and the rustling to resume.

Hermione could feel her face going hot with frustration. Ginny was always like this, so cynical, so quick to point the finger. Had she, Hermione, ever been that way? She hoped not.

"Look," Hermione said in a whisper, "I can just tell he's different."

"That doesn't even mean anything!"

"I can just tell, Ginny. If you were paying attention, you'd—"

"Why are you paying attention to Malfoy in the first place?" Ginny retorted, not bothering to hide her disapproval in hushed tones. "Who cares?!"

Brought up short, Hermione pursed her lips and tried to think of some reply other than "I do!" That wasn't a good enough answer, and she knew it. She sighed. "He's a Death Eater, right?" Ginny nodded, the expression on her face clearly indicating her skepticism. "And he's here, in the castle, all the time. It would be idiotic not to pay attention to him!"

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"What? Ginny, no! I didn't say that!" Hermione's chest felt tight. Her hands buzzed with the urge to move. She held them fast on either side of her legs, pressed against the bench so hard that her wrists were beginning to ache.

"You don't know Malfoy at all."

"I know that," Hermione said woodenly.

"It hasn't even been a month."

"I know."

"Then stop it. If you were even close to in your right mind, you'd stop obsess—" Something in Ginny's eyes shifted. Her gaze flitted over Hermione face as if searching for cracks in a dam.

But Hermione wasn't paying much attention anymore. She stared at Ginny blankly, without thought, without emotion, as if from far away. And there was a ringing, distant at first but getting louder. It both filled the silence and somehow amplified it.

When Ginny spoke again, her voice was like metal on glass. "Hermione? Hermione, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Hermione said. Banished by the sound of her voice, the high ringing cut short, and the great distance between her and Ginny snapped back to only a few inches. Hermione blinked rapidly and smoothed her hair away from her face. She swept the butt of her palm under each of her eyes very quickly. Her hand came away wet with tears. She sniffed. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, Hermione." Ginny tried to put her arms around her friend, but Hermione held out a shaky hand to stop her. She scooted a little distance away. "It's just—"

Hermione nodded a little more forcefully than was necessary. "It's stupid, I know." Her smile, meant as reassurance, was slightly manic.

"Ron's just upset. We're all upset and worried for—" At the sight of Hermione's glare, Ginny cut her sentence short and a moment later, someone rounded the corner with an armful of books. Both Hermione and Ginny hurried to appear busy in case it was Madam Pince.

It wasn't. Instead, the tall, tousled-haired boy who Hermione had last encountered during her visit to the Prefects' Bathroom stopped at the end of the Herbology section and tried to readjust his hold on several large tomes. Preoccupied with his books, he seemed only to have vaguely registered their presence and not their identities.

"Have you seen a free study table?" Eli asked. "There doesn't seem to be an empty seat in the house tonight." He pulled a dusty leather-bound book from the center of the stack in his arms and plopped it on top of his pile. That seemed to fix things somehow.

Neither Ginny nor Hermione answered him, and when he looked up at them properly, he noticed Hermione sitting there blushing at him. "Oh, hello, Hermione," he said, smiling as he approached their table. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hi, Eli," Hermione said, picturing him with eyes closed and brandishing the "Occupied" doorknob sign at her as she watched from behind a mountain of bubbles. Her frustration with Ginny and the manic, buzzing numbness in her chest melted away. Suddenly, she had to resist the urge to laugh.

"What are you working on?" he asked. His tone was casual, but his eyes were bright with interest; they caught her up when she glanced at him, and she had to order herself to look away.

"Ancient Runes." She tilted up the book in her hands so he could see the title on the spine: Advanced Rune Translation.

"Ouch," Eli said, and pivoted to the side so he could show her the spines of the books in his arms. "Charms."

There was a little pause, and Ginny glanced up from pretending to do her homework to look from Eli to Hermione to Eli again. She raised her eyebrows. "Potions," she said very firmly, which seemed to sever the tightening cord of silence between Hermione and Eli.

Eli looked down at Ginny as though he'd just realized she was there. His brow furrowed, and he set his stack of books down on their table as he squinted over at Ginny's half-finished Potions essay. "What Potions homework is that? Slughorn didn't assign that yesterday, did he?"

Hermione almost laughed. "It's from Monday. Ginny here got an extension."

"You're lucky Slughorn likes you," Eli said, straightening up and stretching after carrying those books around for so long. "No way would he give me an extension on my homework."

Ginny's scowl was not particularly friendly. "Well, you Ravenclaws have an example to set the rest of us ignorant sods, don't you?"

Hermione shot Ginny a look, which Ginny pointedly ignored. "I think Slughorn is a bit scared of Ginny, actually," Hermione said in an effort to smooth over Ginny's jibe.

"As he should be," Ginny said. No one gave any reply to this. Hermione and Eli continued to take it in turns to stare at each other and look embarrassedly away. It was an awkward moment made even more awkward by the fact that Ginny didn't know why it was awkward.

Finally, Ginny shut her book. "Well," she said in obvious annoyance, "I think I'm nearly done here. I've got patrols in a few minutes." She stood up and began cramming books, parchment, and quills into her bag. "See you later, Hermione. Eli."

"Oh," Hermione said, startled. "I'll come with you."

"No. It's okay," Ginny said, already walking away, "I wouldn't want to tear you away from this riveting conversation."

"Ginny—" But Ginny was halfway to the library entrance and pretending not to hear.

"Was it something I said?" Eli asked as they watched her wretch open the door and disappear.

Hermione sighed, turning back to Eli. "Ron is her brother."

"I don't get it. Is that supposed to make sense?"

"No. In fact, it makes no sense."

"Ah." There was a slight pause before he added, "You didn't tell her about—"

"No!"

"I haven't told anyone either." Eli leaned against the table. "So, you're just not allowed to talk to other boys at all, or…?"

"I'm not sure what the rules are, actually."

"I'll let you know if anyone tells me."

"I'd appreciate it."

Eli laughed and flashed her an easy smile, and Hermione wondered how anyone who had lost as much as he had could smile in quite the way he did. He was all bright eyes and wit and laughter, and there was a sort of simple sweetness about him… Hermione was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was staring at him again.

"So," Eli said, "may I join you?"

"Sure! Yeah!" Hermione shoved her books and parchments out of the way. In her haste, her essay for Herbology went rolling off of the table and unfurled itself on the floor. She only just managed to prevent her Arithmancy essay knocking over her ink pot and spilling ink over all of the pristine library books.

"I've got it," Eli said, dropping his bookbag on the table and ducking down to retrieve her Herbology essay even as Hermione jumped up to do it herself.

"No, please—"

"Here." He rolled up the parchment and handed it to her. She was careful to avoid touching his fingers as she took it from him.

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

They both sat down.

"You wrote a lot," Eli said. "For Herbology, I mean. That's the longest Herbology essay I've ever seen."

"Healing herbs are a fascinating subject."

"I agree. Everyone says Herbology is for the Hufflepuffs, but I want to study to be a Healer when I graduate, and Herbology is one of the main courses St. Mungo's requires."

"Not interested in a Ministry job then?" Hermione asked, thinking of Eli's father and how high up he'd been at the Ministry. With his father's legacy and the public opinion on his side, Eli could have practically any Ministry job short of Minister for Magic. She respected that he wanted to make his own way.

"Nah. I want to travel as well. A month of vacation time in a year isn't enough for me."

"How's a job at St. Mungo's going to get you that?"

"Oh, I don't want to work at St. Mungo's, at least not forever. I'd want a job with a charity group like the Global Healers Initiative or RegenerNation. Those Healers travel all over the place. They see the world."

"See the world," Hermione repeated. To her, this phrase meant more than just traveling, it meant opening one's eyes to the pandemic of suffering looming just outside the protective bubble of Hogwarts. Eli, though, didn't seem to notice her dolorous tone.

"Yeah," he said, carrying on excitedly, "I've never been anywhere outside of Great Britain except for France once when I was five."

"Really?" said Hermione eagerly. "I went there over summer break before third year! Where did you go? Paris? Lyon? What about Nice? Or—"

Eli laughed and held up a hand. "Whoa, hey. Slow down! Honestly, Hermione, I have no idea. I barely remember it. I'd love to go back, though."

"Me, too."

Just then, Madam Pince's hawk-like nose preceded her around the corner of a bookshelf, and she told them both off for talking too loudly. After that, they did their homework in relative silence. Hermione was glad, at least, to be able to talk to Eli without blushing now.

When Madam Pince paid them a visit again, it was to shoo them from the library. "It's past eight o'clock, you two. Out! And mind you leave those books in the return bin. It's too late now for you to put them back in their proper place."

"Yes, Madam Pince," chorused Hermione and Eli, grinning at each other.

They packed up and deposited their stacks of books in the appropriate bins, Madam Pince looming behind them all the way to the library doors.

"Have a great night!" Eli said cheerfully to Madam Pince, and she closed the doors in his face. There was a heavy thunk! as she slid the bolt lock into place, and Hermione could hear the librarian's heels clunking dully on the stone floors as she walked away.

Eli went right on smiling. He seemed just as used to Madam Pince as Hermione was by now, and though she hadn't seem him in the library as often as would warrant such an intimate understanding of the Hogwarts librarian's poignard personality, she supposed she hadn't really looked for him there until recently. Even so, it was he who had found her. And not, she suspected, completely by accident.

"So, what do you think of Ancient Runes?" Eli asked, leaning against the carved stone doorframe. "I didn't have room for it in my schedule. Is Professor Babbling any good?"

"She's great! And it's a fascinating subject. We're on to Blood Runes now."

"That sounds ominous," Eli said. He gestured down the corridor, and Hermione nodded. They started toward the staircase together at a leisurely pace.

"It is," Hermione said. "We're just studying the theory, mind you. Actually using a Blood Rune is illegal."

"What are they, exactly?"

"It's a rune carved into your skin. All the way to the bone sometimes." Eli flinched, and Hermione hesitated. "Yeah, it's gross. I'm sorry."

"No, no! I can take it!" Eli said, laughing. "Go on then."

"Well, you use them to empower spells—old magic mostly. It's like a boost. They don't do much on their own when they're just cut into the skin, but when spoken aloud or combined with certain metals and things… They can be extremely powerful."

"I didn't even know that existed."

"It's archaic. Professor Babbling says that Blood Runes haven't been used by wizards in Great Britain for a long time. Too tricky. Too much room for error."

"I see."

"But a long time ago, people used to specialize in these things. They'd spend their whole lives perfecting their technique, covering themselves in scars."

"Sounds like dark magic to me."

"Not always," Hermione said, but Eli raised his eyebrows in surprise, pausing in their stroll to look at her. "But most of the time."

He nodded once, and they began walking again. "So, what do you plan to do with this theoretical knowledge of Blood Runes, Miss Granger?"

"I plan to try never to think about it again, actually. It's pretty unpleasant."

Eli laughed again.

"What?"

"'Unpleasant,'" he repeated. "You have quite a way with words."

Hermione wasn't sure whether or not he was complimenting her or teasing her. She decided it was a bit of both.

They'd reached the staircase, and Hermione stopped on the landing, gazing down the steps toward the lower floors. It had just occurred to her that now was the perfect time to put her plan into action. She'd been working it all out in her head for days, trying to find the courage and the opportunity to give it a go. This seemed to be the moment she'd been waiting for.

She was alone, or would be very soon. She could slip down and try out her plan and get back to Gryffindor Tower before anyone began to wonder where she was. It was a golden opportunity, even if the whole thing was ultimately sort of ridiculous. She might not get another such moment to herself for weeks and weeks. She couldn't wait that long. She wanted answers now.

Her curiosity tied knots in her stomach, strengthening her resolve. Now was the time.

Eli had taken a few steps up the staircase before he'd realized that Hermione wasn't with him and had looked around to see where she'd gotten to. "Aren't you coming?"

"No," Hermione replied distractedly. She'd almost forgotten he was there. "No, I have something I need to do. I'll see you later, Eli." She started down the stairs.

"Oi!" Eli called, and Hermione turned to look up at him. "Are you alright on your own? I can come with—"

"I'll be fine. Thank you, though, and thank you for…" She wasn't sure how to thank him, or what she was thanking him for, exactly. For keeping her secrets? For his company? His kindness?

Eli smiled warmly, and Hermione felt the anxiety of her unfinished sentence ebb away. "You're welcome, Miss Granger," he said. "Good night."

He inclined his head to her, shrugged his bookbag more firmly onto his shoulder, and started up the stairs again. Hermione watched him until he was gone, then hurried down the steps to the second floor girls' bathroom.

She trusted that this sudden rush of determination had come at an opportune moment, for neither classes nor homework nor her irritation at Ron and Ginny nor even her pleasant evening with Eli could make Hermione forget her conversation with Myrtle in the Prefects' Bathroom. It was this determination to learn whatever Myrtle would tell her about Draco Malfoy that had driven Hermione to the second floor corridor outside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom with only thirty minutes left before curfew. And it was this very same determination that had quickly deteriorated into pacing as Hermione struggled over whether or not to attempt to interrogate a ghost.

It was true that she had a plan. Maybe not an incredibly subtle plan, but a plan nonetheless. She would have to convince Myrtle that she was trying to help Draco in preparation for his trial. While it wasn't the truth, it wasn't exactly a lie either. Whatever Hermione found out about Draco would certainly affect her opinion of him, which might, in turn, affect his trial. In some way. Maybe.

But probably not.

She continued pacing.

This is stupid.

She passed by the door to the girls' bathroom again, staring at the brass doorknob.

Go open it, you scaredy cat!

She kept walking, turned on her heel about halfway down the corridor, and made the return trip past the door again.

Open it!

Hermione knew Myrtle was in there. She could hear the ghost moaning and sobbing noisily over the sound of running taps. She should probably go in if only to prevent Myrtle flooding the place.

She didn't go in. She pivoted halfway down the corridor in the opposite direction, and turned back again.

Oh, for goodness' sake, she's just a ghost! Nothing to be afraid of!

This time, she stopped. She turned the doorknob to the girls' bathroom and was momentarily deafened by the rush of water and Myrtle's wails. It wasn't just the faucets that Myrtle had set to running. The toilets had just begun to overflow, and water was making its way from the stalls to where Hermione stood in the doorway.

"Myrtle?" Hermione called. She took out her wand and pointed it at one of the stalls. The door of the stall banged open, and, with a wave of her wand, Hermione forced the toilet to stop bubbling water up over its seat.

She'd gotten three stalls in when Myrtle rose up from the final stall on the right. "Stop that!" Myrtle cried. "I'm using those!"

"Myrtle, what happened? Why are you flooding the bathroom?"

Myrtle had started hiccuping between sobs and was therefore briefly unintelligible. The most Hermione got out of her was that some Slytherin girls had come in earlier in the day and made fun of her. "And… I just… asked… them… if it was… true… about… Draco…" Myrtle said through her ghostly tears.

Hermione couldn't have asked for a better situation. "And what did they say, Myrtle?"

"They said… that he… was in Hufflepuff… And then… they called… me all sorts of… names."

"I told you, didn't I?" Hermione said. "He's a Hufflepuff now."

"I bet… he hates it," Myrtle replied with a characteristically spiteful grin.

"I don't think he does actually." Hermione aimed another spell at the next stall with an overflowing toilet. This time, Myrtle made no protest.

"But… he's a Slytherin!"

Hermione smiled, pleased to note Myrtle's intrigue, and put a stop to another gushing toilet. "Not anymore."

There was a long pause, and Hermione finished off the toilets and busied herself with clearing up the water on the floor. After all, no House Elf deserved to clean up after Myrtle.

Finally, Myrtle said, "What do you want, anyway?"

"What I want," Hermione said slowly, "is for you to tell me what you know about Draco Malfoy."

Myrtle narrowed her eyes. "This again."

"Yes. This again."

"You're very keen, aren't you? You must like him." Then she began to sing, her voice nigh and nasal and jeering: "Hermy and Draco sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

"This isn't a joke, Myrtle! I… I'm trying to help him!" She was definitely to the lying part now, and Hermione could tell that Myrtle was even more suspicious than she had been in the Prefects' Bathroom.

"Help him how?"

"He's going to be on trial for everything that happened. Did you know that? There's going to be a trial." Hermione took a step back toward the running taps as Myrtle drifted forward, and Hermione could tell that Myrtle was really listening for the first time. "He's got to answer f-for trying to kill Dumbledore and for being a Death Eater. Do you know anything about that? Anything at all? He won't talk about it, and I need to know so… so I can help him."

Myrtle looked to be on the verge of tears again. She floated right up to Hermione, and her glasses caught the light to form two milk-white circles where she should have had eyes. The effect was spooky.

"On trial?" Myrtle asked.

"Yes," Hermione said firmly, though she took another step away from Myrtle. She ran into one of the sinks and felt water splash over the back of her robes. Reaching behind her, she turned the faucet until the water stopped flowing and began to drain.

"I promised I would never tell," she said with less resolve, picking at a zit on her forehead to no effect.

"Will you help me help him, Myrtle? He could go to Azkaban for a long time otherwise. And we want to stop that from happening, don't we?"

The gurgling of the drain was louder than the sound of running water. It belched and echoed around the bathroom until all the water had gone from the sink. Myrtle pressed her ghostly palms into her teary eyes and bit her lip. Slowly, she nodded.

"Great!" Hermione said exuberantly before hurrying to appear somber. "That's great, Myrtle. Thank you." Myrtle jerked her hands away from her face and started picking at her nails. Hermione took this as a sign she was ready to be questioned.

"So… how were you alike?"

"He was lonely," began Myrtle, not looking at Hermione. "People bullied him, made him to do things he didn't think were right. He was under a lot of pressure to succeed. And he was vulnerable—sensitive, you know?"

Hermione didn't know, but she nodded encouragingly anyway. Myrtle turned away to glide down the row of stalls, and Hermione took her opportunity to turn off the three remaining faucets.

After a moment, Myrtle continued, "You-Know-Who threatened his family. He said that they were going to kill his parents if he didn't—" she whipped her head around dramatically, "—do Professor Dumbledore in."

Hermione had to raise her voice over the sound of three gargling drains. "Voldemort said he would kill his parents?"

"Well, yes!" said Myrtle aggressively, approaching Hermione again. She hadn't appeared to notice the loud noises or the slowly-disappearing water or anything apart from Hermione's bemused expression. The ghost's unkempt eyebrows knit together in anger.

"He's just a boy!" she cried. "I mean, he didn't want to kill anyone. Who goes around wanting to kill people? But he couldn't see any other way out. He had a plan to fix something—"

"The Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement," offered Hermione, eager to hear more.

"Yes, that. He had to fix it and he was having so much trouble and he kept trying to… to finish the job, you know? But he couldn't do it fast enough, but he had to do it, and he couldn't trust anyone to help him. Except me. He trusted me." Myrtle looked proud then, defiantly delighted that the lonely, depressed boy who mistrusted everyone had vouchsafed her with his secrets.

"He told me everything," she went on. "He told me how trapped he felt and how lost and lonely he was and how the world was against him. He just wanted to be safe. He wanted You-Know-Who to leave him alone, but that awful tattoo on his arm was always hurting him, and he said that was his Master 'reminding him of the consequences of failure.' It was so hard for him. Sometimes he'd visit me in my bathroom and just cry."

Myrtle seemed far away, deep in fond memories of Malfoy crying in this very bathroom. Her transparent eyes streamed with tears and her chin trembled. Hermione could almost see Malfoy raked with desperate sobs, pouring out his heart to the ghost of a…

Hang on! Moaning Myrtle was a Muggle-born! That's why the schoolboy Riddle had no qualms about making the Basilisk kill her! Hermione felt sure that Malfoy would have known this. He must have! Myrtle's blood status had been common knowledge by the end of their second year.

And wasn't it Draco who had been so keen for the Heir of Slytherin to return so that the monster could rid the school of Mudbloods and blood traitors once and for all, so it could finish the job it had started fifty years ago?

Yet he'd ended up confiding in a Muggle-born. What a change a year of desperation makes. Hermione could certainly sympathize with that. She would have done anything, anything to save the people she loved. But last year was just… unbearable. She knew how Malfoy felt. Like he was tied to the tracks with a train barreling toward him impossibly fast and no one to save him. Because that was how she'd felt, how she still felt.

Hermione's gaze travelled back up to Moaning Myrtle's face, now lined with gray tears. She didn't know what to think, how to feel.

"Thank you, Myrtle. Thank you for telling me all of this."

"Will it help him?"

Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat before she replied. "Yes." Myrtle gave Hermione a watery smile which Hermione returned.

"Good," said Myrtle. There was a long silence. Hermione looked down at her hands and was surprised to find they were shaking.

"Now," Myrtle continued matter-of-factly, "if you don't mind leaving…?"

"Right," Hermione said, thinking that she was out past curfew now anyway. "Definitely. Bye, Myrtle."

The ghost didn't respond, and as Hermione closed the bathroom door, she heard all of the toilets and faucets explode into life again as Myrtle picked up right where she'd left off.

Draco had put off Wednesday's Arithmancy homework too long. Now, unable to do any real research with the library closed, he struggled to explain the absence of the number nine in the Chaldean method with only his textbook for help. Professor Vector would know that he hadn't given her essay his best effort, but it was late and his hand was cramped from writing. He just wanted to finish and go to bed.

From where he sat at his usual table, surrounded by flutterby bushes and bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Draco could still see and hear the usual distractions of the Hufflepuff common room. He was used to them by now; sudden peals of laughter—usually from wherever James happened to be sitting, bewitched paper aeroplanes zooming overhead, music blaring from the wireless at the opposite end of the room. It was all part of the ambiance of Hufflepuff that was so entirely different from Slytherin's common room with its ornate decorations and hushed conversation. Draco hardly felt like he was in the same castle.

When he finally did finish his homework, Draco knew that it was an Acceptable at best, but after writing two rolls of parchment for Defense comparing the five curses they'd studied that week and a worksheet for Muggle Studies, he'd had enough. He packed his books and parchment into his bag and started for the rounded doorway which led to the dormitories.

James caught his eye as he crossed the room and waved him over.

Draco gestured at the dormitory hall and slumped forward in an exaggerated pantomime of weariness.

James nodded and gave him the thumbs up.

Turning toward the dormitories again, Draco found his way blocked by Rory. "Hey," she said. "You look tired."

"I am tired."

She regarded him with a conciliatory expression. "Lots of homework?"

Draco laughed by way of confirmation. "I think they're trying to kill me."

"They seem especially vicious this year, yes. Well, not as…" He could tell that she was thinking exactly what he was thinking. Not as vicious as last year. Neither one of them said it.

"I think I'm going to head to bed, so—"

"Draco," Rory said suddenly as if Draco had not spoken, "do you remember that Teen Witch article from a few days ago? The one with the Greengrass sisters on the front?"

Draco sighed. "Unfortunately."

"I think you should read that article about the Greengrasses."

"Why?"

"Just read it." Rory pressed an advance reader's copy of Teen Witch into his hand.

"How do you guys get these anyway? These advance reader's copies? I've been seeing them everywhere."

"Oh, everyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts can write in and get a subscription to the advance copies. It's some promotional thing, I guess. This is Susan Bones' copy," she said, tapping the magazine in his hand.

"Where's yours?"

"I don't subscribe to Teen Witch, Draco," Rory said, chuckling. "I mean, are you kidding me? Total trash."

"Trash that I have to read, apparently."

"Yes. And you can just give that copy back to Susan if—"

"Great."

"Great." Rory took a step back. "You should read it. Really."

She left, and Draco stared down at the Teen Witch in his hand. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass stared back, both looking ethereal and serene. He wondered where their brother was in all of this.

"Exclusive!" the headline read. "Heiress Daphne Greengrass Gives First Interview Since Being Injured in the Battle of Hogwarts." The subheader told him that Patience Bright travelled all the way to Switzerland to get her interview, though he knew that she needn't have. The Greengrasses probably wanted to appear as beautiful and grand as the Alps behind them. They were not old money. They had never been in the inner circle of British Wizarding society. And they were the only family not left in disgrace by the war.

Maybe they had a bit of the Alps in them after all.

Flipping open to page 12, Draco flopped back onto one of the couches in front of the fire to read.

Outside autumn is turning to winter, but in their sumptuous Swiss chalet where the Greengrasses invited me, Teen Witch's Patience Bright, for an interview earlier this week, the atmosphere is warm and welcoming.

We sit in the parlor with its large, picturesque windows with their spectacular view of the mountains as Daphne explains why they chose this site to build their chalet. "The house overlooks a Graphorn reserve," she tells me. "The Fawleys—that's my mother's side of the family—worked to protect the Graphorn from over-hunting during the 1930's. This reserve is one of many the Fawley estate created to protect this majestic creature."

Feeling slightly queasy, Draco rolled his eyes. If Daphne Greengrass gave two hairy hag worts about the "majestic" Graphorn, then he was a Muggle accountant. That girl really would say anything for a smile from a reporter. He exhaled sharply, and then continued reading.

The Greengrasses and the Fawleys, both pure-blood families who have devoted generations of time and several Gringott's vaults-worth of Galleons to protect Wizarding resources and history around the world, joined their houses with the marriage of Levena Fawley and Edric Greengrass in 1972. Now Edric and Levena's children continue the legacy of charity and fair business—both in the Muggle and Wizarding communities.

Camden, the eldest Greengrass child at age 25, is perhaps the most mysterious member of the Greengrass household. As a Squib, he did not attend Hogwarts School or apprentice in a wizard trade. Instead, Camden attended Eton College, a prestigious Muggle public school founded in 1440, and went on to Muggle university at Cambridge where he studied Business and Management Studies. He has since joined his father in managing the several high-end restaurants and boutique hotels owned by the family.

The middle child at age 18, Daphne has spent the summer recovering from her injuries and making plans to lend her considerable talents to her mother's thriving charity work. "I want to help where I can," she says as tea arrives. No House Elves for the Greengrasses though. When she catches me watching their maid, Daphne smiles. "I don't know what we'd do without Léna here," she says. "As you probably know, we freed our House Elf, Reedy, when I was still a little girl. My parents believe very strongly that no witch or wizard can 'own' another being, and that includes House Elves."

Léna pours the tea and leaves us to it. Daphne takes the lead at once, introducing me to her younger sister, Astoria, age 16, who delayed her return to Hogwarts for her sixth year to be with Daphne during her recovery. As part of the wave of reinforcements that came to the aid of Harry Potter and many others near the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, Daphne fought the Death Eaters and their accomplices, she says, to keep her sister safe. "I just kept thinking, 'I have to keep Astoria safe.' I think that need to protect her got me through it." Astoria and Daphne clasp hands and exchange an affectionate smile.

"It's wonderful to see you two get on so well. So many sisters don't."

"Astoria is my best friend," Daphne replies, and Astoria nods in agreement. "We have always been close."

"That's why I couldn't bear to be away from her this summer," Astoria says. "She kept me safe, and now it's my job to help her get well."

Draco paused here to scoff. Best friends! The Greengrasses, though a family loyal only to each other, were so highly ambitious that a relationship as selfless as friendship seemed utterly, laughably beyond them. And even through Teen Witch's soppy narration, their fawning over each other, so obviously staged, came over as sour to Draco, cheap even. A family like Greengrasses should not resort to pandering. It was unbecoming. It set a bad example.

And anyone who, like Draco, had only a passing acquaintance with them would never be fooled. Then again, Draco knew Teen Witch's readership was likely to believe every word Patience Bright wrote.

Sneering in disgust, Draco read on.

Werewolf bites, however, are not an easy thing to heal. Daphne closes her eyes to recount the savage attack at the hands of Grendel Redfang, cousin and packmate of Fenrir Greyback. Astoria's fingers tighten around her sister's hand.

"It wasn't a full moon. That's what saved me, I think. He knocked me over and dragged me behind some rubble just outside of the Entrance Hall. What he did… Even if the scars would fully heal, I don't think I could ever forget."

Cursed wounds of this nature are exactly the kinds of injuries that RegenerNation, a charitable organization started by the Greengrass estate after the First Wizarding War, specializes in. "The Healers working with RegenerNation are the best in their field," Daphne explains. "We send them around the world to treat so-called hopeless cases and learn the latest in the foreign healing arts.

"Still," Daphne says, "there are limits to all magic, and I hate to steal the focus away from patients who need these experts' care. I carry my scars with pride. They are a symbol of the freedom and justice that I fought to protect."

We pause here as I fish my handkerchief from my pocket to dab away tears.

"Daphne is my hero," Astoria says. "She is such an inspiration."

I couldn't agree more.

Draco turned the page and was greeted with another picture of the Greengrass sisters, this time younger and in lavish ball gowns. The caption read, "Astoria (12) and Daphne (14) attend their family's annual Christmas Gala, a tradition they plan to restore this year after having cancelled the event for the past three years."

As Draco had stayed at Hogwarts over winter break to attend the Yule Ball, he had not been to this particular event. Besides, his mother threw away their invitation to the Greengrass Christmas Gala every year. It was almost as much of a tradition as the Gala itself.

The article continued under the photograph, and someone—probably Rory—had drawn several red arrows pointing toward the text a few paragraphs down. Draco skipped ahead to the part Rory had emphasised.

Though there is a two year difference between Daphne and Astoria, the similarity is striking. Aside from their black hair and blue eyes, both sisters share a love of animals, an obsession with American band Good Luck Charms, and, of course, a certain fondness for boys.

Is Daphne seeing anyone at the moment? When asked, she just smiles. "I'm trying to focus on recovering and raising awareness for victims like me right now," she says, "but I know Astoria has secretly fancied the same boy for years now!"

"Really?" I ask, quill at the ready.

Astoria hides her blushing cheeks behind her hand and giggles. When I press her for a name, she tells me, "I'm too embarrassed to say it!"

"You can tell Patience," Daphne says. "He's going to find out anyway when you get back to school. Everyone knows you're terrible at keeping secrets."

Finally, Astoria blurts out a name—"Draco Malfoy!"—and an apology—"I'm so sorry, Pansy!"—before she covers her mouth and burst into nervous giggles again.

She is, of course, referring to Pansy Parkinson, who had been linked romantically to Draco before moving to the United States with her family earlier this year.

Now it all makes sense. Draco, platinum blond sole heir of the tarnished Malfoy family name, is repeating his seventh year despite his upcoming trial. Astoria must look forward to seeing him at Hogwarts School when she returns.

"I can tell you're skeptical," Astoria continues, "but he's really quite a charmer. I am confident that the Wizengamot will see him and his family for what they are: victims of circumstance."

I compliment the youngest Greengrass on her openness of mind, but express concerns about his reputation as a bully and a Death Eater. "Doesn't his Dark Mark put you off?"

Here, Daphne steps in. "Draco and I were in the same year at Hogwarts, and I like to think I knew him well. If he is anything like how I remember him, then that brand on his arm is just like my own ugly scars. Sometimes, evil gets its claws in you, and you just have to bear the marks it leaves behind."

Astoria's smile is bittersweet as she nods. "He has a bit of a reputation as a bad boy, but there's more to him than what the press prints."

Leading reminders to the press aside, both Greengrass girls are excited for what the future holds, and I must add that this enchanted reporter can hardly wait to find out herself. With Daphne's many plans for charitable projects and Astoria's return to Hogwarts, it should be an eventful year for these charming socialite sisters. And, as always, Teen Witch's "The Dish" will be there to keep its darling readers in the know on the go.

Draco looked up from the magazine in his hands to see Prescott and James had joined him by the fire.

"This is bad," he said to no one in particular, slowly closing the Teen Witch.

"Yeah, I'd say so," said James, glancing at the cover. "Those girls look like complete snobs. Who are they?"

"Daphne and Astoria Greengrass."

"I think I recognize them," Prescott said.

"That doesn't surprise me," Draco replied. "Astoria will be a sixth year—whenever she decides to make her appearance, that is—and Daphne only graduated last year."

James squinted at Draco. "So, what's the problem, exactly?"

"Astoria fancies me."

Breaking into his trademark grin, James leaned over to clap Draco on the shoulder. "Cheers, mate!"

"No, it's not a good thing," Draco said, a bit annoyed. "I mean that people like me… We don't accidentally let the names of people we fancy just slip. We don't giggle behind our hands."

"Let me see that." Draco handed the magazine to Prescott, who skimmed the article with a frown. "So, what do you think is going on?"

"I think she wants something from me. I don't know what yet, but I already owe her."

Prescott raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"

"This is the first positive mention of my name in the press for years. She made that happen, and it looks like she didn't even have to try."

"Is that supposed to be impressive?" asked James with an exaggerated yawn.

"It is impressive," Draco said. "Could you make that happen?"

Neither James nor Prescott had any reply for that.

"Gimme that thing." James snatched the Teen Witch out of Prescott's hand and plopped down beside Draco on the sofa, turning to the correct page with a scrutinous expression. After a moment's silence, he said, "Look, Prescott! It says here that the Greengrasses own RegenerNation! Maybe they can do something about your face!"

"Har dee har har," said Prescott, his slight American accent making one of its rare appearances. He leaned against the brick hearth of the fireplace and watched Draco with a look of concern.

"Or maybe you're her latest charitable project," James said to Draco.

"Merlin, I hope not. The last thing I need is Greengrass charity."

James' mouth fell open in scandalized indignation. "But, Draco, just think of what they've done for Ghouls and mental people and whatever else."

"Yeah, they're saints all right." Draco took the Teen Witch back from James and folded it in half to hide the cover. "Listen, you don't know them like I do. The public perception of the Greengrasses is a very carefully crafted facade. Trust me, if Astoria Greengrass is mentioning me in a Teen Witch article, it's not for my benefit."

"Well, I guess we'll have to wait until she gets here to find out her dastardly plans for you."

"Yeah," Draco said, rubbing the back of his neck where thin lines of slightly raised skin still spelled F-I-N-K, "I can hardly wait."

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter of Jury of Hearts, why not review it or even share it with a friend? Thank you so much for your continued support!

—Abbs