Unspoken

The hour was nearing midnight. Hermione only just put down her quill thirty minutes ago, her tired eyes swimming with the ghosts of budgets past. She wanted to go to bed, but a short-eared owl blinked expectantly at her from the back of her couch. 

Hermione,

Ginny mentioned that you gave your promise to be at Christmas this year, so I plan on holding you to that. We missed you at Sunday dinner this evening at the Burrow. Neville and Hannah joined us but Molly still left your seat open for you. Everyone still feels your absence, so hurry up and make some time for Molly, Arthur, and the others.

Neville mentioned in passing that he saw you in Hogsmeade yesterday. He noted that you had not just one, but two wizards in your company. Another time I would have loved to have visited Hogwarts with you. I assume you were considering McGonagall’s professorship offer?

Love, Harry

With such obvious intent behind the letter’s questioning, Hermione wondered if the auror training program needed to be reviewed. It appeared that the investigatory skills course had neglected necessary subtleties. It was clear that Neville had shared who her companions had been. Harry would not have penned such an untidy letter as soon as he had gotten home from dinner otherwise.

“Is he expecting a reply at this hour?” she asked incredulously. 

The owl, whose name was Hostanes, ruffled his feathers and hunkered down.

Hermione sighed. “Alright. I’ll write to Harry. Just rest for a while.”

Hostanes gave a short hop over to the sleeping Crookshanks and nestled up against the cat, who curled around his new nap partner.

Smiling fondly at the pair, Hermione settled herself down at the desk and dug out her parchment and quills. She reached for one of her new bottles of ink, purchased during her outing with Ginny, but paused with her hand on a vial of a forest green liquid. Tapping it a few times with the tips of her fingers, she sighed heavily and chose the bottle next to it, a deep, chocolatey brown. 

It was so much work to manage Harry’s feelings; Rowena aid Ginny as his wife.

- - - - - - -

*knockknock*

Hermione looked up from her work desk to find Draco standing in the doorway of her office, a warm smile on his face.

“Magical maintenance still miffed?” he asked with bemusement.

She grimaced, glancing around at the piles of snow that refused to melt. The magical windows had been fixed with some obscure charm so they stayed open despite her every effort. If she had spent some more time on the issue, she knew she would have eventually found a solution, but Hermione didn’t want to waste time on trivial vendettas. 

With a swish, she dusted one of her chairs of snowflakes. Draco carefully wound his way between piles of parchment and books to pass the chair. Instead, he brushed off a corner of her desk to balance just next to her, careful not to jostle her work. Her heart fluttered wildly at the close proximity. 

“Where is your assistant?”

“The inventory was taking up too much of my time, so - not a word - I had to delegate. I charmed the entryway to the hall to alert me if anyone approaches to bother Elizabeth.” Hermione’s primary concern was Painswick, but researchers were curious by nature. Best to leave the intimidation tactics to herself and not her secretary.

Draco stifled a grin, then smoothed his expression to inquire, “Do you have plans for Friday?”

Her joyful heart performed a flop of disappointment. 

She gave him an apologetic smile. “Harry claimed me first, I’m afraid. They’ve taken out one of the private rooms at the Leaky Cauldron for drinks with the crew before the wedding.”

“Damn. And here I was, complacent because it’s only Tuesday. I suppose I’ll have to share.”

His words quickened her pulse, but before she could muster up any further reaction, he was already talking again.

“Theo will be joining me this weekend.”

“At the Manor?” she asked, caught off guard by the change of topic.

Draco nodded, glanced at the door of her office, and threw up a quick muffling charm. They were both becoming quite adept at them. “I have the protocols set up. Everything is ready, and I see no further need for delays.”

“I’d like to be there as well.” she inserted quickly, almost standing up from her chair as though they were going to leave for the Manor this very moment.

A shadow passed over the wizard’s face as he looked down at her from his perch on her desk. It was clear he was hesitant, still, to have her at his estate.

“Why do you keep insisting on coming to the Manor?” he sighed.

“Because I want to contribute. I know I’m neither a Healer nor a Legilimins. But it’s frustrating to be sitting at a desk, just researching!” she bemoaned.

Her confession stunned Draco momentarily into silence before he laughed, holding sides.

“Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger, witch?” he joked while shaking his head. “Your insights are what have gotten us this far. Anthony is writing the report on the new breakthroughs now, and that diagram will be essential for this endeavor as well, you know.”

“That was just a passing thought. You and Anthony did all the work up to and after that.”

Draco blinked down at her. “Hermione, you discount your cleverness too much.”

“So may I join you at the Manor?” she pressed.

“No.”

Hermione bit her lips together in resentment of his answer, angry but disinclined to take up further arguments. She simply cold-shouldered Draco as she turned her quill back to the scrolls in front of her in an effort to refocus on her work.

But then Draco leaned over her, hovering at her shoulder to glance at the contents of the desk. In such close proximity in such a cold office, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her hair. Her hand trembled and she grabbed the quill too firmly. The nib split, leaving behind a blotches of ink on her hands and desk.

Cursing inwardly, she reached for her bottle of Ink Evaporator. 

“Are you still working on the budget for the Hall?” inquired Draco, watching her dab the splotch of indigo ink. “Wait, why are you looking all the way back to 2000?”

“I have all the budgets, invoices, and reconciliations from 1997 to now.” she admitted sullenly.

Draco stilled.

“Have you found something?” he asked in a raspish tone. “You think this all goes all the way back to…” 

“Maybe. Too many things aren’t adding up. Literally. The budget for the Department of Mysteries has been drained of funds a little more each subsequent year since Voldemort ran wizarding Britain. I am having difficulties tracking the funding due to Gringotts, but there are blatant discrepancies.”

“Hermione, that implies…”

“Painswick is likely involved.”

Unfortunately for Hermione and, in her opinion, the department, Painswick had served as Secretary before the coup and somehow managed to remain in that position under the shadow government. Worse, he wasn’t replaced after. 

“He is the reason your office looks like a supply closet?” inquired Draco, shifting his body to examine the mess that had accumulated over the last week. 

The piles of scrolls that had been meticulously arranged by Granger were now mountains of parchment, teetering haphazardly at the slightly bit of motion. Her pile of research proposals had spilled over onto the reference shelves. Hermione had been required to pass all the purchase approvals over to Elizabeth just so she could actually see the door from her desk. 

“He’s been dropping by daily,” admitted Hermione, t’sking at the thought of her horrible boss. “It feels as though he is trying to drown me in distractions to keep me from finalizing any details about the Hall of Prophecies.”

Draco slid off her desk with a glance over his shoulder. “Do you think we’ve been noticed?”

“It’s unclear. Most of DOM thinks we’re engaged in a secret tryst. Perhaps this is just another attempt by Painswick to ice me out of the department by exhausting me to death.” She flexed the fingers of her main hand as it cramped up again.

In a flash, Draco grabbed her right wrist before she even registered his movement. Her quill fell from her fingers in surprise, drops of ink splattering again on her documents.

“Draco!”

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

His tone was sharp, eyes flashing as he pulled up his magical diagnostic screen.

“Six hours is a perfectly reasonable amount of sleep for an adult,” she snapped, yanking her wrist back.

“And the night before?” he insisted, eyes darting between his screen and Hermione.

“Five. Five hours. And if you have complaints, take them upstairs to Harry. He came through the Floo around midnight.”

Irritation flickered in those grey eyes and he growled, “And why was Potter in your flat so late at night?”

“Because Neville mentioned seeing us in Hogsmeade and he got his knickers in a twist about it.” 

Her penned response about research interests had done nothing to quell the suspicions of her best friend. No sooner than she had tucked herself and Crookshanks into bed, warming charm at the perfect level of coziness, than Harry had shot out of the Floo, completely uninvited and Firewhiskey on his breath. Blessedly, he was nowhere near the level of inebriation that had followed his bachelor party, but the Boy-Who-Lived still made a nuisance of himself.

Thirty minutes of Harry berating her for her choice of companionship and a Sober Up Potion later, Hermione had sat the wizard down on her couch and announced that, despite what his opinions were, she enjoyed Draco in her life. She was grateful for his friendship, and if Harry was grateful for theirs, he would wisely cease with the lectures.

Hermione set her gaze on the face of the man she had so diligently defended on her Sunday night.

Her heart thrummed painfully with a swell of emotions. Draco obviously cared about her. He had probably saved her life, which she had hinted to Harry, and he was clearly continuing to look out for her. But as a friend? Something more? 

Flushing with frustration, the witch told her companion, “I cleared up the misunderstandings.” 

“What misunderstandings?” growled Draco, still seemingly incensed. 

“That it was not a threesome with Theo, it was not even a date, and that we are not a couple.” she stated succinctly, “And we should consider keeping some distance if we don’t want others to find out what we are up to. Neville wasn't the only one to see us at the Three Broomsticks.”

Behind her, the window frames rattled violently as a shower of snowflakes poured into her office. Draco shivered visibly, ruffling his hair to shake the new snow out.

“Hermione, I don’t think you should-”

“What, Draco? What don’t you think I should be doing right now, hmm? We have missing prophecies, attempted kidnappings, tampered memories. Oh, and shall we add in my boss and best friend both up my ass?” she asked icily, huge gusts of hail and snow swirling into her office.

“Hermione, calm down!” he cried.

“I DON’T WANT TO.” she shouted, losing control of her feelings.

An avalanche of ice and snow poured in through the windows, pushing parchment and boxes and vials all up against the shelves and walls. The temperature of the room easily shifted a few degrees colder. Snow glittered all around the office as Draco stared at the witch who was slumping forward in her chair.

Her whole body felt drained, wiped of energy. All the anger, disappointment, and concern were mere embers of what they had been moments ago. 

Accidental magic. At this age.

Utter mortification.

She wanted to hide under her desk, but the snow had pushed its way down there as well, so Hermione opted to bury her reddening face in her arms.

“Hermione…”

“I know.”

“You are still recovering from your concussion.”

“I know, Draco.”

“Please look at me.”

Inhaling shakily, Hermione brushed away tendrils of her hair that were sticking to her face and sat back up in her office chair. Draco, to her embarrassment, was kneeling in the snow next to her, grey eyes searching her face.

“Can’t you tell me…” he whispered, but trailed off.

She sniffed and rubbed at her cold cheeks. “I’m fine, really.”

There was a knot in her throat that she attempted to swallow down. She knew that words were never going to convince him. She had to prove it, show him that she had the magic under control. Hermione pushed her shoulders back and met his silver gaze head-on, determined to-

It hurt.

Everything hurt. Pain radiated in her shins. She could taste copper in the air and the tang of it permeated her mouth. The world was a dark, glistening blackness that scraped at the insides of her eyes and-

Hermione retched, her body dry heaving as she came back into herself.

A strong arm was holding her steady. Draco had her half out of her chair, almost in his lap as her body shook against its will. He implored her to count, breathing with her until feeling came back into her limbs. 

“I’ll go home.” she whispered before he could say anything.

Silence passed between them for a few seconds. Hermione could see nothing of his face, too weak to lift her head from where it was resting on his chest, but she felt his fingers brush tenderly through her hair.

Draco finally spoke, voice tired, “I think that’s best. I’ll go ask Goldstein-”

“No, I’ll manage it.”

“Do you not trust me?” asked the voice above her. Hermione could feel him stiffen with worry.

She was too tired to do anything but pat his arm clumsily. 

“I promise to rest, and I won’t ask about the Manor again.”

“Hermione, that’s not-”

She lifted herself to her feet, heels slipping a little against the now-slippery tile flooring. Draco steadied her and she gave him a smile that he attempted to return. 

“Probably best if you go now, before someone comes and asks questions. I think I can convince Elizabeth that this is just a faulty weather spell at work.” said Hermione, grabbing up her planner and pulling out her buried bag, shaking the snowflakes off. 

“....” 

The brunette looked up at the quiet blonde who was standing in the middle of snow and wet parchment, looking at a loss as to what to say or do. The lost look had Hermione feeling a trifle off. She argued with herself she didn’t need anything from him, squashing down the feelings of inadequacy in light of her accidental magical outburst. It wasn’t as though she could ask Draco for a hug.

Hermione turned away from him, casting about to see if there was anything else she needed to do before she went home. Everything was wet or frozen, but Elizabeth would be able to take care of it, surely.

“I’ll trust you.”

Draco was looking over at the door when she glanced over. His demeanor was off. 

“I did promise I’d go home,” she reminded him.

“Yes, you did.” he acknowledged with a huge sigh. 

“Owl me if you get a breakthrough?”

“Mmm. I need to go check in with Goldstein.”

“I’ll let you know about the budget paperwork. You know, if I find something tangible.”

“You won’t-”

“No, I won’t come to the Manor.” promised Hermione, feeling that lump in her throat again.

“Right. Then. Be seeing you.”

She watched as Draco stalked off in the direction of the research rooms, white lab robes swaying behind him. He didn’t turn to look back at her but Hermione kept her eyes on him until he turned the corner. Alone, a trifle uneasy, she scribbled a note to her assistant and set off to home.

- - - - - - -

To You,

I realized while sitting down to write this letter that I have no way of knowing whether you’ll read this letter first or not, with respect to Vial #13. The one labeled Bellatrix. The one of her torturing me and carving that word into my arm in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

As I have been honest with you thus far, I feel it important to share that I barely got this memory into a vial. I actively avoid this memory as much as possible. I am not even sure if this memory is accurate, as it so often comes to me in my nightmares. As soon as I had bottled it up, I was sick over the toilet for several hours. 

I wonder what it would be like to witness it all without the memory of the fear and the pain.

I often envy you these days as I plan for you, you who has no experience with death. But then I wonder… What will haunt you?

Hermione let go of the scroll and let the parchment roll back up into itself without finishing the rest of Granger’s letter. She tossed it into the suitcase with the other scrolls and then looked at the little vial of silvery mist in her left hand. 

She had yet to look at this memory. Even if she wanted to right now, Draco still had the Pensieve at the manor. But there was no Gryffindor in Hermione regarding this memory. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to see it happen, to see if Draco was there. 

Crookshanks pawed at the remaining vials in the second suitcase, the glass tinkling like a wind chime. Hermione slipped Vial #13 into its little velvet pouch and ran her fingers along the other vials, reading the elegant script on all the little tags and noting which ones she had viewed and which she still had yet to review.

#4 Third Prophecy … seen

#9 1994 Quidditch World Cup … unseen

#12 Obliviation of Mom & Dad … seen

She gently pushed away the kneazle’s fluffy paws and closed the suitcase, thinking back to the letter from Granger. It was the fifth time Hermione had read that particular one, but today that particular line was plaguing her.

But then I wonder… What will haunt you?