The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man

Title: The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Suspense, romance, angst
Warnings: Character Death, graphic violence, madness, non-consensual sexual acts, abuse, oral, M/F, and overall darkness. Dark!Harry included.
Summary: DH-EWE: Ten years after the fall of the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger leads of life of self-imposed obscurity, that is, until the day Headmistress Minerva McGonagall is murdered and a certain 'hero' is responsible.
Author's Notes: This fic is in 1st person POV, so take heed. It will eventually be a DM/HG, but there is a squicky scene that might make you think otherwise. There is some non-con in this fic, so if it squicks you, don't read it for Merlin's sake! Comments and ConCrit is welcomed!


The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man

Part 26





I went home.

I had slept in Severus’ quarters, alone, finding that Draco had left while I bathed. A piece of my heart died when I could not longer see him. I blamed myself, knowing that my reluctance to acknowledge that he was the man I knew and love had forced him away.

I slipped out the castle, and walked. I found that my old coat was folded across the nearest wingback chair in the parlour, and I donned it. Remembering what Albus had said, I found Vonnegut’s ‘Slaughter-house Five’ and slipped into my pocket, I would read it later when my mind was not reeling.

When I came out of the tunnel, I considered resizing my borrowed broom, but decided to walk instead. I had found an old pair of my boots and old clothes waiting for me when I woke, things I had left behind in the Severus’ chambers.

My feet were still sore, and I walked slower through the trees. I did not feel the eyes of the Forest upon me, and I wondered if Magorian had received the news that Harry was dead. In fact, the ambience of the Forest seemed different, brighter, safer.

After an hour, I finally came to the clearing, finding that the weak wards were still in place. I gazed upon my home wearily and slowly entered, drawing my wands and automatically began casting simple household charms, the layer of dust disappearing off my meager belongings.

The first thing I noticed was that the bedroom had been changed. Standing in the doorway, I found that the brown bloodstains had been removed and the bedding was fresh and new. A heavy pale green comforter rested atop the cradled bed, along with an envelope, with my name on the front.

With a sigh, I snatched up the letter and fell into the bed, charming the window open. Leaning back into fluffy, new pillows, I kicked off my boots and opened the letter. I smirked, realizing that the parchment was taken from my writing desk, and that the ink was of a particular shade that I used, the ink from the well off my desk as well.

The letter was more a note, short, and in a hand that I remembered.

‘H-

Changed the bedding, cleaned the flue, I will leave other charms to you.

I will now say that I find the changes you have made to my cottage suitable, although I built it remembering the cottage from 2008.

Must work for now. I think I might still have my position as DCI, maybe…

Call upon you when I can.

-D.’

I smiled, even though I felt a strange knot of dread in my stomach.

Time had changed something inside me, something I could not identify, something I did not like.

Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, I dropped it on the bed and rose, padding into the main room, barefoot. Kneeling upon the hearthstones, I drew my wand again, lighting it. Sticking my head into the flue, I could see the Greek inscription, and the date. I stared at it for a long while, noting that Draco must have used his wand to burn into the stone centuries before.

I sat back on the hearth and canceled the charm, slipping the Elder Wand back into my holster. I stared blankly at the floor.

Draco had spent nine years outside ‘our’ time. In the fifteenth century and the eighteenth century, and the twenty-third century. Besides having a tale to tell, I could only imagine how lonely he must have been, and how frightened.

One mistake made out of desperation had cost him nine years.

Grief, it was the only thing I could think to feel. I would never know exactly how much time I had spent wandering at the end of the world, but I did not think it was nine years—hours, a day at best, but not years.

I rose, and glanced into the kitchen, and just where I left it, the lead box rested on the island counter. With a whimper, I dug through the pockets of my coat, and drew the broken Time-Turner, replacing it, and the disc, into the goblin-warded box. Draco still had the brother—one he had finally learned how to master after so many mistakes.

I shut the box and the latches locked magically. Moving back to the fireplace, I tapped the mantle with the end of my wand, and a secret niche I had made years before when I first moved into the cottage opened. Sliding the box inside, I tapped the stone again, and seamlessly, the stone melted back into place. Draco would have to give me the other Time-Turner—it was too dangerous to keep.

I wanted to believe that when both devices were safely hidden in the warded box, the nightmare of the past months would end. It was a naïve thought, I knew, but it was all I could manage to wish for…

Looking about my home, the home that Draco had built for himself, I found the only thing missing was my familiar. Perhaps even with my familiar, the cottage would seem foreign to me. No matter how many of my books were on the shelves, the clothes in the wardrobe, all of it was foreign. The mystique of how and when my cottage had been made was gone. I had spent years making the little place a home, and after months of longing for its solitude, it really did not feel like home.

Something was missing, something was not right.

Draco had built it with me in his thoughts, an infinite loop—of paradox.




Two weeks passed, and only when the Floo of my cottage activated did I realize how much time had passed and that it was nearly the end of May. For two weeks I had been reading over my notes, staring at the goblin-warded box, staring at the weave of the Invisibility Cloak draped over the chair of my writing desk, staring at the strange red glow of the cracked Resurrection Stone and the Peverell family crest incised on the surface.

“Hermione?”

I shifted on the couch, craning my head to look back at the fireplace. I had been staring into the kitchen all afternoon.

It was Ron, and I was quickly informed that it was May 26th. I was so appear at the Ministry the next day, at the request of Alastor Gumboil.

“It is just questioning really, nothing that you would need representation for…not that you’d need it anyway…”

“Since I have apparently done nothing illegal?” I asked softly, wishing I could manage a snarl ala Severus.

“Not really. You were working with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in an unofficial capacity, and anything that could be construed as ‘illegal’ has not been enacted by…”

“Nullum crimen, nulla peona sine lege,” I murmured, eliciting a quizzical glance from Ron’s greenish Floo lit face. “Never mind…”

The laws governing the use of the Time-Turners was quite clear, however, there was no laws for Time-Turners that could move back and forth in time by yearly increments. We had not altered the timeline, no ‘grandfather paradox’ had occurred, as far as I could discern. Draco had covered himself, or so it seemed.

“I hate to say it, love, but you look like hell,” Ron said softly, snatching me from my thoughts.

I smirked. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Are you feeling better?”

I sighed. I felt rested, the minor aches and pains nearly gone. The worst of the damage to my body had been dealt with the night Draco and I returned to Hogwarts. However, the emptiness I felt in my chest had only grown.

“Physically,” I answered.

I knew I was in shock, and by closeting myself away in my little—correction, Draco’s little cottage, I was not doing myself any good. The ‘old’ me had always hid herself, Jane had always retreated into her shell and never really grew up. I was not Jane anymore. And slowly, the emptiness filled with anger.

“When do you need me at the Ministry?”

“Nine in the morning…” Ron answered, his voice suddenly tainted with uncertainty as he watched me move from the fainting couch to kneel before the fireplace.

“And why are you the one calling me?”

Ron’s face turned a strange shade of green due to the firelight.

“Charlie is with Malfoy, sifting through a Pensieve.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Ron cleared his throat before answering. “Just after you and Malfoy disappeared from the graveyard, the current Malfoy extracted Harry’s memories before brain death set in. Everything from his childhood to the moment you…you…stabbed him.”

Just before ‘brain death.’ I bit my lower lip. I wanted to see the memories pertinent to Harry’s decline; I wanted to know why—was it simply his overwhelming regret that forced him to tear my world apart?

“Listen, love, I know haven’t been around when you needed me, and Merlin knows that I wish now that I had been… Things…us…it was just too complicated for far too long. And now with Harry…gone, I know it is the worst time to try and make up for things…”

I raised a hand to stop Ron. The past was the past, especially when it came to our relationship, and its many failings. It also seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Your dad, Merlin, the funeral!” I balked.

Ron smiled sadly. “It’s alright, love. We didn’t say anything because…well, we did not think you would be up for it…hell, we were not really up for it either.”

I bit my lip harder. I had been so selfish for far too long.

“Mum had been ill even before Harry escaped from St. Mungo’s…”

In my selfishness, I had not even known that Molly had been ill; I had not seen her for years. It made me think of my own parents, whom I had not written or called in months. Anger melted away to guilt.

“You need to get out, Hermione. Staying in that cottage is not doing you any good.

Tomorrow, after the questioning, you should consider going away for a while—a vacation…”

I smirked. “And where would I go?”

Ron shrugged. “Australia, to you Mum and Dad’s? Or the States? I know someone you could stay with if you’d want to do that.”

“Who?”

He grinned. “I will tell you only if you promise you will take some time away, love.”

Ron’s tone changed, and I realized the same man whom I lectured when we were younger was lecturing me. It made me feel awkward, and silly. I had been so self-righteous during out schooldays. It made me sick.

I was only half listening to Ron as he continued lecturing me about how closed my life had been, and how I should seriously consider a lifestyle change, but every word was something I had considered. The past months had been filled with Harry’s looming shadow, his actions, his pain. I had immersed myself in Harry Potter, and I was drowning still.

I needed a change, a change of scenery, a change of mindset, a change of career…

Ron and I exchanged a few more words before the call terminated. I stared at the empty fireplace for a long while, my eyes moving up in the only Greek character I could see inscribed in the flue—the delta of Draco.





The Anti-Apparition wards, as well as the goblin enchantments protecting Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest, had been lifted a week after I returned to Hogwarts, Harry Potter’s blood staining me. From outside the wards of the cottage, I was able to Apparate to Hogsmeade the evening after speaking with Ron. I walked along High Street, seeing that the rebuilding of Hogsmeade was nearly completed. I had lost count of the weeks since Draco and Harry had nearly razed the village to the ground.

I wandered aimlessly, cloaked even though the evening air was too warm for such heavy costume. No one seemed to notice me, however, and after so many months of fear, it seemed as if all the residents of the village were out for fresh air. The curfew notices had been taken down, and every shop seemed to be having a sale, as if in celebration of Harry’s demise. The shadow had been lifted. I remembered the ambience had been similar after Voldemort’s defeat.

It was this ambience that disturbed me.

I still had not bothered to read anything about Harry in the press, but as I passed an outdoor rubbish been outside Scrivenshafts,’ I found a wadded up Daily Prophet, only the headline visible. ‘Harry Potter’s Link to Terrorists! The New Dark Lord Defeated!’

I wrinkled my nose and continued along High Street, the gas lamps lighting as the light failed. I considered stopping in at the Three Broomsticks, but thought better of it. I did not want to be noticed. The Hog’s Head was closed, and had been ever since Aberforth had been murdered, so I walked on.

By the time I stood on the lane above the Shrieking Shack, the late spring sunlight was gone and only the sky was painted a brilliant orange and blue overhead, the sun having set over the mountains. I buried my hands into the pockets of my Transfigured Cloak, and in the left, bottomless pocket, I felt two of the Hallows. The Elder Wand was still strapped in the holster on my inner right forearm, with its dark walnut sister. In fact, I still wore the dragon hide armor, the only thing missing were the boots, which I replaced with an old pair of black hiking boots I had found in the bottom of my wardrobe at the cottage. I had only plaited my hair, and besides not carrying the Time-Turners, I was outfitted much as I had been the night Draco and I had went back in time.

When my fingers found the shrunken Firebolt, I withdrew it. After resizing the broom, I stared at it as it hovered before me on the lane. With a sigh, I mounted and kicked off the ground to hover fifty feet from the lane below, able to see the wooden shingles of the Shrieking Shack to my right.

As I held to the handle, I wondered if I, hypothetically, could still fly as well as I had when Severus’ spell was still active. With a determined huff, I tilted the handle forward, and I was suddenly off.

Exhilaration rippled through me as I flew over the mountains, over Hogwarts, over the Black Lake, and over Hogsmeade. I rolled, I dove, I imitated Quidditch manoeuvres, and most importantly, I did not fall off. It seemed I could still fly. Whatever skill sets I learned by way of Severus still remained.

I flew toward the mountains again, slower, enjoying the sight of the dusky sky and the lights of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade like a carpet of twinkling lights below me. When I landed, my boots skidding across pebble strewn rock face, I found myself just at the crack of the cave Sirius had lived in during 1995, and as I propped the Firebolt near the entrance, drawing my wand to light my way, I remembered Hagrid had also used the cave with Grawp over ten years before.

The interior was just as I remembered it from the visit Harry, Ron, and I had made in Fourth Year, small, dark, dry, and the ground littered with bones of small animals. Moving the lit tip of my wand about the chamber, I found a small pit in the corner near another crack, and realized it was a fire pit. With a flick of my wand, I lit a magical, heatless, and smokeless fire, bathing the cave in yellow light.

On the far, back wall, to which I glided, my finger moved over the stony surface. There were several names carved into the rock.

S. Black 1995. R. Hagrid, Grawp, and Fang 1998.

I stepped back to stare at the crudely carved letters, able to see the very hands that carved the words. Sirius’ scrawl was far finer than Hagrid’s, and slowly my eyes clouded with half formed tears. I wondered to myself, was there any justice in this world?

The Fates, upon literally meeting them, had imparted no profound truths.

All this has happened before and all this will happen again—or something of the like, had not been some mysterious or enlightening phrase.

This fool, I, had travelled far, and learned almost nothing.

I sat down before the magical fire, digging through my pocket again. Thinking of ‘enlightenment,’ I drew out Kurt Vonnegut’s ‘Slaughterhouse-Five.’ Just as ‘Behold the Man,’ it was a paperback, slightly worn about the edges, and a coffee stain darkening the lower corner of the pages. Opening the cover, Severus’ familiar signature adorned the book, but as I flipped along the pages, I realized that in the middle the pages were devoid of the usual print and that Severus’ severe handwriting covered the yellowed paper. Flipping back to the first handwritten page, I found my name, and the date.

‘7 April 1998. Hermione, by now Albus is dead, and you, and Potter are preparing to leave the protection of the Order. I cannot stress the folly of your actions, but by the time you read this, I assume the deed has been done. The Dark Lord, I hope, is dead, and I will have gone from this world.

The night of June 24, 1995, when you and Draco Malfoy appeared in my chambers, and my delivery of you both to Little Hangleton, seems to have worked—to result in what you achieved to do—the Dark Lord left the graveyard after my words, and now I should impart what happened after you travelled back to your time.

After I revealed my Mark to Fudge and Potter in the Hospital Wing, Albus sent me off to placate the Dark Lord, as it was my job as a spy to gather information. Needless to say, I endured quite a bit of pain in explaining why I sent a Patronus to the graveyard, or how I knew to do so. The timing of Potter’s return to the graveyard and my Patronus had been perfect, but still the Dark Lord had doubts. After much Cursing, and mental poking and prodding, I was again in the Dark Lord’s “magnanimous” grace…’

I paused; able to detect Severus’ trademark sarcasm even in his written words, and the memory of his wit, warmed me.

‘From that point on, I am sure you know what happened. The Half-Blood Prince has been revealed. You know that I have become Headmaster, and you know more than I will about how this story will end.

The one part of the story you may not know is what I did to you the night you and your friends went to the Ministry. Here, I must add how stupid it was for you to go there, simply because Potter had a “vision” of Black. But I digress, you were grievously injured by Antonin Dolohov. The night when you returned, I cast a spell upon you.

For months, I had tortured myself over the encounter I had with your future self. Seeing you and Draco, obviously, was a shock, but seeing you together, working together, nearly shocked me into an early grave. I knew I could not ask much about your future, or my future, lest I create a paradox, but I knew just by looking at your older faces, that I did not make it through this trial. Not that I ever expected to live, but to know, for certain, that either I died in service to one master or the other was unsettling.

Then I remembered to write down the information you mentioned, the times, the dates, the keywords. All the while, I wished to speak with you more, not about your future, but of the things you had learned about me. It was a vain thought, a selfish wish, to be able to speak to someone who knew enough about me to talk about my past. No one besides Albus truly knew about Lily or my childhood. Potter got only a glimpse, and misinterpreted it.

The more I thought about the words I was writing in Moorcock’s book, the more I began to think of the how and why—how you knew to contact me, why you sought me out. It was not simply to get to the Dark Lord, was it? No, I will never truly know.

However, I began planning. You told me the Dark Lord would fall. And I, in my self imposed posture of servitude to the ‘greater good,’ consulted with the one person I could trust at Hogwarts.

Your old Head of House.

It might surprise you, and possibly the whole world, that Minerva and I were always quite close. She had always been kind to me when I was student, despite me being in Slytherin. When I began teaching, she was the first to welcome me. It had nothing to do with her role in the Order, what small a role it was, or because Albus pushed her to be friendly; it had to do with the fact that we both had questions about Albus’ judgment. Do not mistake me, Albus is, or was, a brilliant wizard, but at times very short sighted. He was not “Slytherin” enough, and Minerva was more “Slytherin” than she would like to admit.

Together, Minerva and I gave your younger self gentle nudges, advice, and on my part, tough mentoring. You are a bright witch, far too talented for the likes of Weasley or Potter. You are an amalgamation of all the qualities of the four Houses, and due to that, Minerva and I had no reservations as to what we did to you the night you survived the confrontation at the Ministry.

The spell is a variation of the spell used to create a Horcrux, however, it differs from a Horcrux in the sense that a piece of my consciousness is transferred to you. A part of my magic, my soul, my mind, and my personality was transferred to you. In return, my life was shortened since it is not just my soul being transferred. But, not everything of me is transferred, of course. Magic still has its limitations, and this explanation is simple, at best.

A spectral consciousness now exists in you, lying dormant until needed. You will hear me, see me, and at times, I will be able to use your body to protect you. My skills and abilities will be your skills and abilities…

This spell is called “syneidesis phantasma,” which I am sure you know is literally “conscience ghost” in Greek. Of course, the spell’s name is nearly nonsense, but if you are reading this, after the fact, I am sure you understand its relevance.

There are also conditions as how long the spell will last, and in this case, when Potter is dead and the timeline maintained, the spell will end. The spell cannot last forever, though it is powerful. The spell will protect you, guide you, and impel you to save yourself and aid you in accomplishing your goal. If all goes well, then this book, these words still exist, and you are reading them now. Potter will have been stopped, you, and hopefully Draco, will have survived, and somehow you managed to return to the time in which you came to me that June night.

As for the details of the spell “syneidesis phantasma,” consider it an original creation by the Half-Blood Prince.

I wish you well, Hermione. By speaking to you, I am assuming that you consider me something more than a sour, ugly, taciturn Potions Professor. I only hope that when the time comes and the spell is enacted, that my life, imparted to you, will not hinder your regard for me. In some ways, you remind me of the woman I loved long ago, but in some ways you are so much more than she could have ever been—true to your heart, sharp in your mind, and extraordinary in spirit.

Warmest regards, Severus T. Snape, aka the Half-blood Prince.

P.S. When the first half-blood Malfoy is born, be sure to name it something proper—normal. SS.’

At the postscript, I laughed aloud. Severus was presuming a little too much, but still, a tiny part of me wished his sentiments to be a reality. As it was, I was not sure how to feel about Draco Malfoy.

I closed the book, and staring into the fire, stuffed it back into my pocket. I sat for a long while musing over my old Professor’s words. The note had been brief, but to the point.

‘Syneidesis phantasma,’ eh? A Half-blood Prince original. It would be an interesting bit of research to learn the specifics of the spell. Moreover, if Minerva had been privy, I knew the spell was surely complicated. It was not until my adult years that I learned that despite the subjects both Severus and Minerva taught, both were on a Masters level in Charms, Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Potions, and Theory. They were exceptional mentors. I only had a Masters proficiency in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Theory, and Transfiguration…my mentors had levels in all of those plus a few more.

I was young still, and I had my health.

I smirked into the fire. Yes, I had more years left to live. I had lived through Voldemort, and I had lived through Harry Potter. Another battle, another war was in me yet, but as my eyelids drooped slightly, I knew I would need a bit more time to rest before fighting another day.

I dozed, sitting on the cold stone floor of the cave, surrounded by dry bone carcasses, the magical fire flickering near the toes of my boots.

I did not dream as the fire glowed through my eyelashes, but my mind went to places beyond my own body and the cave. I could see vague outlines of faces, familiar faces of people I had known and loved. I saw Remus’ face first, his crooked smile and the premature age lines in his face. I then saw Tonks’ face, heart-shaped and pretty. I saw Sirius’ face, dark and brooding, but before my eyes lightened with a handsome smile. I saw Cedric Diggory’s handsome face and stony grey eyes, and the slight mischievous glimmer that I remembered so well. I saw Severus’ face, just as I remembered it the night Draco and I had gone back to 1995, and the smirk, almost smile on his thin lips. And lastly, I saw Harry’s face, a mental photograph of him just after he learned that Sirius had offered to take him from the Dursleys, that face was one of pure joy, the expression, the feeling Harry had used to save Sirius from the Dementors.

That Harry, the joyous, innocent Harry, was the boy I wanted to remember—the boy I had loved with such devotion that I followed him everywhere. It pained me to think that somewhere along the course of time, Harry had evolved into some twisted, mad thing.

When the image of Harry hanging from the yew tree drifted into my mind’s eye, I shivered. He was indeed The Hanged Man, a sacrifice that Fates demanded in order to let my timeline persist. I wondered if, perhaps, Harry had not been so wrong after all…

No. If Voldemort had not been reborn, if all those I had loved had not died, I would never have learned what it was to grow, or love, or learn to truly find myself strong.

I opened my eyes, pulling myself from my doze.

I was strong, just as I was sly, loyal, and intelligent—the best of all the four Houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry just as Severus had written. As I stood, brushing crushed bone dust from my Transfigured cloak, I set my face. I was stronger than I gave myself credit, and then, as I extinguished the fire, standing in the deep dark of the cave, I knew all I needed to do was grasp what I wanted, and what I wanted was justice and truth.





Alastor Gumboil was a large man, not exactly fat, but large and wide through the bones of his shoulders and chest. He had the most piercing green eyes bar Harry Potter’s, and his thin fiery orange hair was neatly combed back into a long ponytail. All in all, he reminded me in some ways of an elderly Bill Weasley—just the hair and wide shoulders, but not much else. Gumboil was not handsome like Bill, but he was just as scarred. Obviously, as I sat across a table in a drab interrogation room, pretending that the gaze I held with the man was some sort of sad attempt at a staring contest; Gumboil was a man who had had a rough, if not violent, career in law enforcement.

It was nearly five in the evening. I had given my statement, answered questions, from the complicated to the borderline inane, since nine that morning. For some reason, I felt as if Gumboil was testing my mental stamina, or trying to coerce some admission of a buried guilt from me. I, knowing myself quite well, did not crack under the mental pressure. I had done nothing wrong. I did what the Ministry believed to be the correct course of action; I had killed Harry Potter, my best friend, in order to save our world from eventual decimation.

It seemed to me that I was being treated as a criminal combatant. I was annoyed, to say the least.

All day, the only person I had seen was Alastor Gumboil, and I had counted the number of wild orange hairs on his pale pate at least six times.

We had sat silently for nearly twenty minutes.

“Would you like to work for me, Miss Granger?”

Flabbergasted. I was utterly flabbergasted, and my mouth dropped open of its own accord.

“Pardon?”

“I’m offering you a job, Miss Granger. With all the restructuring in my department, we could really use an intermediate officer to liaise between the Police Service and the recalled Aurors. You have connections with highly important international agencies, the Dragonriders, the Aurors, and my officers in the Police Service. You can handle sensitive information, and you know how to handle Malfoy…”

My mouth worked, but nothing came out all the while Gumboil was speaking, until he said ‘Malfoy.’

“DCI Malfoy and I…” I began, but Gumboil interrupted.

“That is no longer his official title, Miss Granger. In fact, between the various branches of the MLE, we are not really sure how to address him. He will be promoted to Detective Superintendent in a matter of days, but he is also an Auror, and a Dragonrider—a unique position that only someone as tenacious as Malfoy could handle.

As for you, you have proven yourself to work well with him, which is why we want you in our department. Between the two of you, the Ministry can stop worrying about the instability outside these walls and begin to change what is inside these walls…”

I closed my mouth and rested my elbows on the tabletop; my chin perched atop my hands, staring at Gumboil coolly.

When Gumboil finished, I spoke, softly, calmly.

“So, the statement I just gave you, Dra-Malfoy’s role in the attacks involving Harry Potter and W.A.T.C.H., all of that—after all of that—and you are offering me a job?”

Gumboil nodded, crossing his arms before his thick chest, obscuring the ID badge on his chest.

“I am not going to be prosecuted by the Ministry for any infraction, nor is Malfoy?”

Gumboil nodded again, his chin wobbling.

I began laughing, moving my hands to bury my face into my palms. It was ridiculous, utterly… There was so much else to resolve, my feelings for Draco Malfoy being first on my list. There was also the question of the job I did have in the Department of Mysteries…

When my laughter died away, I raised my face to Gumboil.

“I’ll have to get back to you about that…”

Gumboil, again, nodded.

“Are we done here?”

“Yes, Miss Granger. You are free to go. However, if we need you to supply any more information, at an inquest, perhaps, please make yourself available.”

I frowned. “Inquest?”

“If the Ministry deems it necessary. So far, the Wizengamot is pleased with your and Malfoy’s statement, corroborating the story as to Harry Potter’s criminal actions and intentions. Malfoy managed to extract Potter’s memory strands before his ‘brain death’ and our Forensic teams are preparing those images for the Wizengamot to view…”

I began to tune out. I wanted to see those memories for myself.

Eventually, I was allowed to leave, saying that I would honestly think upon Gumboil’s offer. I found myself moving around beyond the turnstile in the Ministry Atrium, having collected my walnut wand. The Elder Wand was concealed in the bottomless pocket of my Transfigured coat, which in late May was not a cloak, but a light jacket that fell just to my hips over the dragon hide pants I had worn the day before…

The hall between the Floos had been repaired and had it not been for a strange dark stain high in the ceiling where the cleaning crews had not noticed the blood, I would have never known that Draco and I had battled Harry Potter in the Ministry. I paused in walking, ignoring the stares by the other Ministry employees Floo-ing home for the day. I stared at the stain.

I had not bothered to hide myself from curious eyes when I came that morning to the Ministry, and with the lack of press, I believed that perhaps my name had not been mentioned in the newspapers…

My eyes moved back down to the floor, unmarked except for scuff marks. This had been the spot where I had Conjured Fiendfyre, and I believed Draco to be dead. It seemed like a dream or something that had happened in another life.

“They repaired it the day after,” a voice said near my ear, and I jumped, my walnut wand slipping from my holster to my hand. I turned quickly, my wand tip digging into the underside of a pale, sharp jaw.

Draco Malfoy stood just behind me, his chin raised so the walnut did not dig sharply into his skin. Some Ministry employees paused to take in our interaction, but as I lowered my wand, they walked on, shaking their heads in confusion.

“I see that I should never startle you again, Hermione,” he said softly. “However, you should have felt me, or heard me near…”

His tone was condescending, as if scolding me like one of his officers.

I almost wanted to take Gumboil up on his offer just to prove to Draco Malfoy how ferocious I could be, if needed.

He stared down his nose at me, his mismatched eyes studying my face, my clothing, his face emotionless.

“We should talk.”

I agreed.

“Can you come with me to…home?” he fumbled.

I blinked. His voice changed slightly when he said ‘home,’ but I knew what he meant. The groom’s quarters—it had been home to me for the time I had spent there. Draco had not meant the cottage. In my mind, that place was not a ‘home,’ but merely a shelter we both had used when we had need of it. It was a stopping place, a respite of sorts, but I knew as I walked next to Draco toward a Floo, that the cottage he had built was never meant to be a home.