12

Chapter Twelve

Sunday 23 February 2003: PM

The White Wyvern hasn't altered one whit since he last darkened its doors, Draco thinks with a grimace as he heeds the placement of his feet on the rickety steps leading up to the Knockturn Alley pub. The last time he came here was… with Lucius, back in Sixth Year. 'The Year Everything Went to Shit', Draco amends bitterly.

Pausing at the top of the stairwell for a moment, Draco surveys the rusty signboard depicting a white dragon with an arrow-tipped tail, fire pluming from its mouth. Like everything in this insalubrious backstreet, it could benefit from a good scrub – but would likely disintegrate at first contact with soap and water.

You're not sixteen anymore. And you once counted these men your friends. Draco gulps a final calming breath before he pushes open the creaking heavy door and enters the taproom.

He keeps his eyes slitted for a few moments, letting them adjust naturally to the pervasive gloom. The weak drone of desultory conversation falters at his entrance. Draco quickly scans the murky interior, soon spying his invitees; he swiftly strolls to the secluded compartment in which the two men sit.

"Hello, Malfoy." Blaise Zabini uncoils his long, lean form to stand beside the booth; Theo Nott merely tips his head in idle acknowledgement of Draco's arrival. "Have a seat… mate," Blaise adds in a cynical drawl.

"Gentlemen." Draco slides onto the cracked leather bench alongside Blaise, resisting the urge to twitch at his pristine wizard's robes. He meets Blaise's piercing coal gaze with perfect composure. Theo seems content to analyze the serving of firewhiskey held loosely in his thin hand.

"Thank you for meeting me," Draco begins. "I've asked you here for –"

"Skipping the small talk, eh?" Blaise interrupts. The bone dry humour that Draco remembers from their time at Hogwarts is still thriving, judging by Zabini's puckish grin and glittering eyes.

"Shame. I was highly anticipating hearing the potted history of your apparent withdrawal from the realm of magic… let's hear it anyway, shall we? I've nothing better to do," Blaise prompts. He whistles a sharp note.

"Barkeep! A bottle of your finest… Well, whatever is best," Blaise revises his order. The perpetually morose barman grunts dolefully as he reaches for a bottle on the top shelf, beady eyes shifting as he stealthily blows a gobbet of dust off its cap. Sticking his grimy fingers into three more tumblers, he trudges to their booth to sullenly deposit the lot on the pocked table.

"Put it on my tab," Blaise flicks the saturnine man a couple of Knuts, which the bartender snatches from mid-air with surprisingly alacrity. He snorts once before lumbering back to his station behind the bar.

Pulling a snowy handkerchief from the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored navy suit, Blaise carefully wipes off the delineated grubby fingerprints on the inside of each glass.

"Probably best if we don't order food," he laconically recommends, sliding a tumbler in front of each of them.

"Seconded," Draco concurs. He has no desire to test the menu of gelatinous pork pies and grease-sodden chips, in any case.

Pouring a generous measure of liquor into each tumbler, Blaise chinks the glasses together and toasts, "To renewing old friendships!", his full lips quirking at the dig. Theo remains silent but tips back his beverage and swallows in one hit.

Draco's dram stays untouched. "It's just gone noon, Zabini. I'll pass."

"Practising temperance now, Draco? Never mind – you can instead use your mouth to tell us where you've been skulking for the last four years." Blaise's tone has sharpened from droll to biting.

"Leave him be, Blaise," Theo directs with quiet authority, his shamrock green eyes peering up from beneath his ruffled otter-brown fringe. "I'm more interested in knowing why we've been suddenly summoned to meet in this pisshole."

Here goes nothing. And I have shamefully neglected my old friendships – there's no denying that, Draco admits.

"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch before now," Draco apologizes haltingly. "I had to… I chose to make a clean break from my prior associations, for personal reasons." He'll be damned if he spills his guts any further; this admission is difficult enough as it stands.

His companions stare at him speculatively; Draco fights the compulsion to fidget, instead meeting their scrutiny with a steady impassivity.

"What, that's it? That's the sum total of your excuse for being a weak prick who dropped us like hot bricks?" Blaise huffs in disgust. He slams down his emptied tumbler onto the pitted tabletop; it threatens to topple but eventually stabilizes.

"My rationale is personal," Draco evenly rephrases, struggling to keep his temper placid.

You promised Granger that you would investigate – don't cock it up now, he sternly coaches himself.

Zabini shoots Nott a look that Draco cannot interpret. The atmosphere in the booth is fraught with negative emotion as the silence swells. His companions finally reach an unspoken consensus of some sort: Theo shrugs carelessly as Blaise leans forward, his ebony face set in uncompromising lines of disfavour and affront.

"We'll grant you a temporary reprieve on that score," Blaise clips out the concession. "Go on, then – why are we graced with your Lordship's presence?".

Refusing to take the acrimonious bait, Draco keeps his eyes levelled on Blaise as he calmly replies, "I need your help."

"Of course you do," Theo murmurs wryly. He abandons his drink, straightening against the shabby back of the booth to regard Draco with unnerving perception. "It's not Galleons you're after; nor sanctuary. Someone close to you is in trouble," he guesses shrewdly.

Draco concentrates furiously on projecting non-reactive detachment at Theo's canny insight. He covers his unease with a circumspect admission.

"Not exactly. I've recently become embroiled in a disturbing situation that warrants further research… Have either of you heard any rumours or reports of a wizard (or wizards) targeting and drugging witches? With a modified lust potion?" Draco closely tracks their expressions for any variance of reaction to his enquiry.

Blaise frowns immediately, hunching over the table in an attitude of stiff condemnation; Theo is less easy to read, but his eyes and mouth tighten infinitesimally.

"A 'rape club'?" Blaise's disgust is plain; his brawny hands violently crimp into ready fists. "What the hell is going on, Malfoy?".

"Draco – is your mother in danger?" Theo butts in, his voice sharp with urgency and worry. Draco is unsurprised by Nott's anxiety: ever since they were little kids, Theo has worshipped the ground Narcissa floated over. And their affection is mutual; Narcissa's steadfast kindnesses towards the thin, quiet, motherless boy had sparked Draco's petty childish jealousy on more than one occasion.

"No – Mother is safe and well," Draco hastens to assure Theo. "She rarely leaves the Manor, these days."

He turns to a seething Zabini. "I believe that a couple of rogue wizards are currently trying to incapacitate and abduct witches for undoubtedly fell purposes, Zabini. And they're using a combination of lust and forgetfulness potions – as well as a Muggle tranquilizing additive – to do so."

Draco's volcanic rage flares as he recalls Hermione's woefully impaired state when he'd discovered her limp form on his frigid doorstep. What if I hadn't awoken? What if the scum had doubled back and found her there before I had? Draco pretends a fascination with tracing the graffiti crudely carved into the tabletop to mask his gnawing unrest.

"How does this concern you?" Blaise grills him. "Are you married now? Surely we would have heard of your illustrious nuptials if you were," he comments scathingly.

Exasperated, Draco rolls his eyes and counts to five before he retorts, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Zabini. Rest assured: in the extremely unlikely event of my future wedding, you will receive a hand-delivered invitation. No, I'm not bloody married, or engaged, or involved in any love affair."

My amatory agreement with Granger definitely doesn't apply. We both agreed on the parameters, and the less these two know about that, the better, Draco judges.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge more details, at this stage," Draco concedes. "But I would greatly appreciate any and all intelligence you can gather on the subject. Please."

He has done his homework; Blaise is a noted mover-and-shaker in the Ministry, putting his easy charm and diplomatic skills to work in the import/export subdivision on the International Magical Training Standards Body. And although Draco hadn't found out much about how Theo fills his days, Nott's long-standing proficiency with potions should generate a few leads. Not to mention his family's chequered association with the Dark Arts – but Draco isn't stupid enough to open that can of worms today.

"What's in it for us?" Zabini yawns, affecting disinterest… though his twinkling, shrewd eyes belie his curiosity.

"My eternal gratitude?" Draco deadpans. Pre-empting Blaise's rebuff, he holds up his left hand in a placatory gesture. "Sorry. I'll owe you both a great favour, to be called in whenever you like."

Theo is the first to accept, wordlessly holding out his hand; Draco shakes it before Nott can change his mind. Blaise shrugs, grinning widely as he copies Theo's gesture.

"Consider yourself warned, Draco – I'm only doing this on the condition that you tell us everything before this is all played out. Agreed?" Blaise applies more pressure than necessary and doesn't release Draco's hand until the blond nods reluctantly.

"Agreed."

Theo muses, "Have you considered that this scenario may be the work of some still-at-large Death Eaters? There are a few unaccounted for yet, yes?"

"Or Neo-Death Eaters," Blaise interposes. He soberly elucidates, "Word at the Ministry is that Potter and a crack team of Aurors have been hunting a pack of the wannabe whoresons through France and Belgium for weeks."

Harry Potter. Maybe Hermione should take this to Potter, despite her obstinate refusal to involve the Ministry. Draco is startled to realize that his concern for the brunette witch has him actually considering approaching Potter himself.

Memories of overheard conversations between the loathsome Death Eaters who'd infiltrated Malfoy Manor upon Voldemort's return slither unpleasantly through Draco's consciousness. Rowle, Yaxley, Dolohov and Greyback had relished detailing their revolting schemes for the Order of the Phoenix's female members once The Dark Lord reigned supreme once more. Hermione and Ginny Weasley had played starring roles in the quartet's sick fantasies of debasement, torture, rape… and worse.

Striving to cleanse his mind of the sickening images, Draco is relieved as Theo advises, "I'll send out a few feelers regarding the lust potion, but it may take some time before I hear anything back."

"That reminds me." Draco pulls out a sheaf of parchment, and slides it across to Theo. "I analyzed a sample - this is the list of known ingredients, including the flunitrazepam – that's the Muggle sedative."

Scanning the vellum intently, Theo frowns as he assesses Draco's inclusion of known effects. "Was this woman hospitalized after ingestion?" he probes.

"No," Draco is forced to admit. "She refused - just before she ejected her stomach contents all over me. Hence cleansing her system of most of the potion. I did monitor her throughout the night in case she took a turn for the worse." He ignores Blaise's braying guffaws.

"May you live in interesting times, mate!" Zabini crows gleefully. "What I wouldn't give to witness the dynastic Lord Malfoy drenched in vomit!".

"I've given you that one for free, Zabini. Don't ride it until the wheels fall off," Draco warns disdainfully. "Can you put your powers of persuasion to good use for once and track down more information from your Ministry contacts, Blaise?".

Blaise nods, reflectively rubbing his clean-shaven chin. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"Excellent." Draco rises, holding out his hand again to his fellows. "Owl me when you have something to report, yes?".

Theo and Blaise stand up to complete the farewell ritual.

"Draco - give my regards to Lady Malfoy, please," Theo bids.

"You know you can call her Narcissa, Theo – she gave you permission ages ago," Draco observes. "You should visit; Mother is starved for company, and I know she misses you."

Theo runs his slim hand across his face and chooses not to respond.

Blaise claps Draco on the back (a tad forcefully, as is Blaise's wont) as he slides past him to exit the booth.

"Don't be a stranger, you snooty bastard," Blaise admonishes.

"It was good to see you again," Draco tells his old friend, sincerity evident in his voice. "Thank you for hearing me out."

Heading for the door, Draco pulls up the hood of his robes to cover his distinctive milk-white hair and hustles to exit Knockturn Alley as quickly as possible.

Thank Paracelsus that's over.

Sunday 23 February 2003: PM

"Door's unlocked, Hermione love - on'y got ter give 'er a push," Hagrid's booming bass voice easily penetrates the door of his hut. Hermione follows his instructions (the push Hagrid spoke off is more of an effortful shove – the door is sticking on an uneven floorboard, she guesses) and eventually is admitted into the welcome warmth of Hagrid's home. The big man himself is sliding a tatty tea cosy over a giant pobby teapot; once it is lopsidedly covering the china, Hagrid bustles over to envelop Hermione in an affectionate bear hug.

"Yeh're a sight fer sore eyes, Hermione!" Hagrid beams joyfully, ruffling his huge mitt-like hand through her curly brown mop as though she is still eleven years old. Hermione's arms don't meet around Hagrid's broad back, of course; but she fondly returns the embrace as best she can.

"It's always good to see you too, Hagrid – I'm sorry it's been a while." Hermione gives him a final affable squeeze before gently extricating herself. "How have you been?"

"Ah, yeh know – can' complain, no one ter listen," Hagrid jokes. Hermione steps back a little, the better to scrutinize his familiar features. Besides a few more lines on his rubicund face, and extra strands of grey laced through his flowing jet-black hair, Hermione is relieved that her dear old friend looks much as he did when they first met.

Her gaze travels to the lit fireplace; on the hearth, a gigantic basket holds Fang the boarhound and Hermione's half-Kneazle cat Crookshanks. Poor Fang wears a long-suffering expression on his lugubrious head as Crooky lies atop the lengthy ridge of Fang's spine, busily kneading the sable fur with his front paws. And occasionally extending his sharp claws into Fang's pelt, Hermione perceives disapprovingly.

"Crooky, stop that –" Hermione moves to the fireside, kneeling to pet both creatures before gingerly prising Crookshanks's orange murder mittens off the massive dog. Crookshanks allows her to cuddle him in her arms, his butterscotch yellow eyes twinkling with refracted firelight and self-satisfied devilry.

"Don' worry 'bout them, Hermione – they're best o' friends, an' Fang knows Crooky don' mean nothin' by it, it's jus' a game he plays," Hagrid reassures her.

"You shouldn't treat your friends unkindly, Crooky," Hermione lightly scolds, lovingly chucking his marmalade-coloured chin as the substantial feline purrs appreciatively. She carries him to the table and carefully sets him on her lap after clambering onto a tall chair.

It's difficult not to regress to childhood when all the furniture makes me feel like Lemuel Gulliver stranded in Brobdingnag, Hermione smiles to herself. Apropos of nothing, she wonders if Draco has ever read Jonathan Swift's iconic masterpiece. Shaking her head, she focuses on the conversation at hand.

"Will Luna be joining us, Hagrid?". After the war, Luna Lovegood had surprised many by pursuing her aptitude for Magizoology: she'd completed her training overseas before returning to teach at Hogwarts. First as Hagrid's apprentice, then recently as his co-Professor for the Care of Magical Creatures classes. Hermione isn't shocked at all by Hagrid and Luna getting along like a house on fire – their unique (often under-appreciated) personalities harmonize easily, with only the occasional blip on a difference of opinion.

"Luna tol' me she'll be comin' once she finishes givin' the Thestral herd their treats," Hagrid reveals, carefully pouring strong black tea into the teacup in front of Hermione.

I hope she washes her hands first - the thought flashes through Hermione's mind involuntarily. Harry told her once that Luna gifted the Thestrals lumps of raw meat, after they rejected apples. Ugh.

Reaching into her little charmed bag, Hermione retrieves the packet of McVitie's Chocolate Digestives she'd stashed in there earlier, adding them to the array of Hagrid's infamous raisin-studded rock cakes sprawled on a platter on the table. Ordinarily Hermione would have baked and brought some scones or muffins, but today's visit had been a spur-of-the-moment idea borne on a sudden wave of nostalgia and longing for fellowship. The choccy biscuits will serve as an alternative to the tooth-cracking rock cakes for today.

Adding milk and sugar to her steaming tea, Hermione sighs happily. Fang has unfolded his bulk from the basket and yawns hugely as his head leans against Hagrid's thick leg.

"How're yeh goin', Hermione love? Migh' be jus' me imagination, but yeh got a righ' glow to yeh today." Hagrid looks her over keenly, his benevolent gaze lingering on her neck. Hermione uneasily worries that she hasn't thoroughly covered Malfoy's fading love bites on her delicate throat with enough glamour charms; she furtively pushes her new navy scarf higher.

"Must be the warmth of the fire, Hagrid," she ad-libs. "Was it a harsh winter here at Hogwarts?"

Unfortunately, Hagrid won't be dissuaded from following his notional conversation thread.

"Yeh got a new sweetheart, Hermione? Or have yeh taken pity on Ron an' given him another chance?" Hagrid persists. Even Fang has perked up his ears, and the traitorous Crookshanks stabs her upper thigh slyly through her dark denims.

"Ow! No, I'm not gifting Ronald another chance – the opposite, in fact. I did give him a piece of my mind on Friday night," Hermione confides. The overweening impulse to confide in someone swamps her better judgement as she gabbles, "But there is – I mean, I'm seeing – well, not dating – a new man…" she trails off uncertainly, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut as Hagrid's puzzled expression transmogrifies to approval.

"Yeh're bein' courted by a new fella? Well an' if it's not past time, an' all," Hagrid excitedly professes.

"No – we're not courting… um, it's more of a… a physical relationship," Hermione awkwardly stresses. It is a battle of blushes as Hagrid's stunned comprehension reflects in his florid complexion and Hermione flushes bright crimson.

"Well – yeh know – jus' as long as yeh're happy, Hermione… an' – an' safe," Hagrid near chokes on the final word.

Oh Merlin, why didn't I keep my daffy trap shut? Hermione miserably berates her reckless desire to over-share. This is almost as bad as the humiliation she'd suffered at the age of eleven, when she'd attended the sex and relationship education classes with her dad at the local community college; Dr Granger had enthusiastically stuck his hand up ad nauseum to answer questions (Hermione sinking lower in her seat every time, until she was in danger of tipping onto the floor).

Hermione rushes to reassure her surrogate father figure, "Yes, yes, don't worry, Hagrid. We're both consenting adults and we're quite – quite safe. He's been very good to me, actually."

She crumples her jumpy fingers into Crooky's dense tangerine coat, wishing she had the courage to confess the identity of her mystery 'lover'. But Hagrid is unlikely to take it well (Draco did actively try to get him sacked and Buckbeak executed, after all); and he has a patchy track record of not being able to keep a secret, no matter how well-meaning his attempts.

On cue, Hagrid avidly enquires, "Yeh goin' ter tell me his name, love? Go on, then, don' keep me hangin'!". Fang copies Hagrid's earnest grin, panting cheerfully around his prodigious yellowed teeth.

"Oh, well, we're… we're keeping it very quiet and private, Hagrid," Hermione hedges apologetically. "There are some people who would cast judgement and censure us both, so… it's best if I don't say. It's not serious, or permanent, so it doesn't really matter, you see." She forces herself to stop her rambling justifications.

Hagrid is quiet for a long time.

His amiable face is unusually sober as he rumbles, "Yeh're one o' the smartest people I ever knew, Hermione – 'smatter of fact, yeh prob'ly got brains leakin' inter yer hair… but sometimes, love, yer heart don' listen ter yer head, and that's when trouble begins, like as no'."

"Now I'm no' sayin' yeh're makin' a mistake, or that I don' support yeh – never think so, love – but I reckon keepin' secrets don' work out real well, no matter yeh start wi' the best of intentions. Tha's all I'm gonna say about it, an' yeh know I'm always here for yeh, Hermione."

Hagrid breathes deeply after his uncustomarily lengthy speech; his bright pitch-black eyes are sorrowful as they traverse Hermione's young face. Poignant tears sting at Hermione's eyes as she unceremoniously bundles Crookshanks onto the floor before fiercely hugging her dear friend, tucking her head sideways into his hulking shoulder.

"Thank you, Hagrid – that means the world to me, as do you," Hermione warmheartedly avers.

Hagrid tenderly returns her embrace, gruffly mumbling, "Yeh're alright, love, don' worry."

Sniffing away her silly tears, Hermione lets herself be comforted a little while longer. Her exasperatingly strident inner voice tries to goad her into admitting that Hagrid may have a valid point; she willfully ignores it and produces a watery smile.

"Let's enjoy some afternoon tea, shall we?". They sip the robust hot brew and chatter desultorily about everything and nothing, occasionally patting Fang or Crookshanks as the two animals compete for their attentions.

Hermione lets contentment wash over her like the pale winter sunlight receding across the grounds of her treasured alma mater.

I've mistaken loneliness for independence for too long, she realizes. Too scared of failure to take chances and live my dreams.

And all it took was a terrifying threat to life and limb to shake her out of her dreary, insipid reality, she mocks.

No more cowardice; I will live the life I choose. And deal with the consequences, come what may.