Hope Overture

Hope Overture

© Caiden Pace

Chapter Two

Our lives are changing lanes

You ran me off the road.

You're no longer laughing

I'm not drowning fast enough.

-- Reptilia, The Strokes

"Too tight! Agh!"

"Oh, sorry Ron," Harry Potter mumbled and he hurriedly loosened his best friend, Ronald Weasley's, black bowtie.

"That's alright. I bet you're as nervous as I am," Ron winked as he ran his hands over his cummerbund.

Harry turned around and examined Ron's reflection in the full-length mirror. "What do I have to be nervous about?" he asked softly.

Ron looked slightly discomfited. "Well... being best man, of course," he smiled. "Huge responsibility, that one is."

"I can handle it," Harry said, and then he smiled as well. "Hermione looks beautiful. I snuck a peek in her dressing room on the way back in here."

"Harry!" Ron laughed, but he too had a mischievous glint in his eyes. "God, I can't believe I'm-we're-that this is actually happening," he said, smoothing his hand over his hair.

"Ron, Harry," Dean Thomas called from the now open door. "Get in your places! It's time!" His voice was bright and he grinned widely before shutting the door again.

"Harry," Ron looked at him desperately, his throat suddenly dry. "I'm not sure I can do this."

Harry just shook his head.

~*~

"Don't you go and get cold feet on me now," Ginny Weasley said, pulling gently on Hermione Granger's arm.

"I-I'm not."

"No, no, you've just been frozen in place. Now, where did I put my wand? Let's see if we can't reverse that nasty spell, shall we?" Ginny smirked, not making any effort at actually trying to find her wand. In fact, she didn't move at all. She kept her gentle hold of Hermione's arm and sighed, her face softening. "You'll be wonderful, Hermione. You look beautiful, everything looks beautiful, and even Ron looks dashing."

"How do you know?" Hermione broke out of her trance and narrowed her eyes at Ginny. "You didn't... Ginny! You did at least knock first, didn't you? What if they'd been changing?"

"Well then, I would've stayed a bit longer." Both girls giggled, though Hermione's was more of a nervous reaction. "I think Harry saw me, though. He's so thin these days."

"I know," Hermione said sympathetically, fingering the fray of her white veil. "War does have that effect on people. Look at Seamus." Seamus Finnegan had lost his right leg during the last battle and now had to walk with a crutch.

"The war ended a year ago," Ginny said, picking up Hermione's bouquet of white roses and baby's breath. "It's been too long."

And as the wedding march began, Hermione didn't disagree.

~*~

The wedding was beautiful; no one could deny that. And except for the final kiss (Ron and Hermione bumped noses, which caused the decorated good luck horseshoe on her right arm to fall off and land on her foot) everything went perfectly. The church was a masterpiece in and of itself; the entire building was constructed out of glass and cherry wood. The floor was practically invisible underneath a carpet of orange rose petals. Ginny was right when she said that everything was beautiful. The sun shone through the glass ceiling of the cathedral, sending rainbow prisms dancing merrily around the attendees. A string quartet was playing lively music and someone had transfigured the pews into hundreds of miniature bottles of white wine.

"Congratulations, Hermione," Neville Longbottom said, kissing her cheek softly and blushing.

"Thank you, Neville." She smiled.

"So, why the orange petals?" he asked. He was holding a small handful in his left hand, and in his right hand was a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper.

"Family tradition," Hermione said, glancing over to where her parents sat talking to Mr Weasley. "It's supposed to bring good luck in the home; never ending love, healthy children, all that."

Neville nodded. "Well, if Ron's anything like his father the children part should be no problem," he said with a smirk. Hermione laughed and then grimaced. Mrs Weasley had given her a very long talk on the pains of childbirth. She wasn't looking forward to it.

Neville let the petals drop to the floor and said, "Are you excited about your new job?"

"Oh yes," Hermione smiled, her eyes brightening, "Ron's excited too. I think being able to work-albeit undercover-with Muggles is going to be so beneficial to the Ministry. Think of all the advances we could help the Wizarding world make! That's why we decided to do the wedding the Muggle way, see. I mean, it's not every day the Ministry offers brand new job positions to two people barely out of Hogwarts-"

"It's been a bit longer than that, Hermione."

"Yes well, time has passed us by, hasn't it?" she asked. Neville nodded, but said nothing.

He cleared his throat. "It has." A small pause, and then, "I'd better go find Harry. I have... something to give him."

"I suppose he's off with Ron somewhere. He gave a lovely speech, didn't he?"

"Mmhm," he nodded shyly and Hermione was reminded of a younger, less war torn Neville. "Would you like to come with me, Hermione?" he asked, offering his arm to her with a smile. "It's your wedding day, and you should be with your groom."

"I'd love to," she said and took his arm.

~*~

"And no one's seen him since. I personally think he turned tail and-oh, hello Hermione!" Ron said with a laugh. He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her jaw line. Seamus snickered and whispered something to Dean, who smirked and passed the message on to Harry, who just rolled his eyes and smiled.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt your joke?" she asked.

"No, it's alright, we were just talking about," Ron looked around in what he probably thought was a very dramatic way. "Draco Malfoy."

"Oh honestly!" Hermione scoffed and gave her new husband a playful shove, "why would you want to ruin your day by talking about him? Neville agrees with me, don't you?" she asked, turning herself slightly and looking over her shoulder. Neville was standing a bit away from the small group; far enough not to be included in the conversation, but definitely not out of earshot. This was nothing new, and so he smiled and nodded.

"Well then perhaps you should've married Neville," Ron said with a leer as everyone laughed.

Hermione took a large sip of Ron's drink, "Perhaps I will!"

"That really isn't necessary," Neville piped up and everyone stopped laughing. "I actually just wanted to talk to Harry. Do you mind?" he asked, looking at Harry, who had an unreadable expression on his face. If Neville had to identify it, he'd say it was... false. Yes, that was it.

As Harry left the group and followed him over to a lesser populated part of the room Neville was still thinking about that look. It wasn't genuine. But then, not much Harry did these days was. As the war ended Neville discovered that Harry was excellent at pretending.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Harry asked, sitting down at one of the round tables, which had now been abandoned by the wedding guests. Neville sat down on his right.

"Actually, I just wanted to give you something." He put the small, wrapped parcel in Harry's lap and then, without waiting for a response, he stood up and walked away.

~*~

The line was moving slowly. Everywhere around him people were staring, their eyes wide and their mouths slightly agape. Small children pointed; teenage boys spat at their feet (the crowds were kept too far away to hit their faces).

"You'd think they'd never seen a Death Eater before," the man behind Draco muttered.

"They haven't," he responded. "At least, not unmasked."

The other man grunted. "You think we'll make it out of here alive?"

"Doubt it." Draco shrugged. The man grunted again, and then went into a coughing spell. Draco cringed. The Aurors had them walking so close together he'd probably have the older man's phlegm on the back of his cloak.

They stopped in front of a large pair of wooden doors. The crowds lining the halls of the Ministry of Magic were silent. The captured Death Eaters were silent. Now came the wait. After being paraded through the Ministry in chains, they were being forced to stand here and wait for those doors to open and their trial to begin. The whole process was pointless, really. Everyone knew they were going to get the Kiss. They'd had their kicks, and now they were going to pay the price.

Eventually the doors did open, and when they did Draco caught a quick glance of his father. His normally proud head was hanging slightly from exhaustion. While the rest of the Death Eaters had been imprisoned until the trial, Lucius Malfoy had been put in solitary confinement. That didn't make much difference, though; he only spent two or three hours a day in there. The rest of the time he could be found in the torture chamber, and his screams bled into the other cells relentlessly.

Just as he was about to enter the courtroom, Draco was pulled from behind. Startled, he tried to spin around, but his chained hands and shackled feet prevented much movement and he fell clumsily into the body behind him.

"Mr Malfoy, quickly," his captor whispered. Draco recognised the voice, but he couldn't place it just yet. It was old, but not from age. Weariness was a nasty side effect of a gruesome war, however, and Draco reasoned it could be anyone. The man guided Draco from behind, making sure to stay out of his peripheral vision. He led them down three different hallways and then finally into a small office; there was no name on the door.

The man shut the door behind them and lit one of the lamps, which was almost out of oil. The resulting light painted the room a dim yellow and black. For a moment Draco was reminded of Hufflepuff and Quidditch and how wonderful he felt when he killed Zacharias Smith.

The man turned Draco around quickly and he almost fell again. His eyes widened; it was Cornelius Fudge; he was still wearing that awful pinstriped cloak.

"What-"

"Listen to me, Malfoy." Fudge cut him off, "take this." He placed a white envelope into Draco's hand and continued talking as he withdrew a key from his pocket and unchained Draco's hands and feet. "I want you to run, Draco. You're the only one we can't place any blame on. We know you did things, we know you're a Death Eater, but we don't have any proof. And without proof we have nothing. I don't know how you did it, but you seem to be more like your father than we thought."

"My father was caught, he's getting the Kiss," Draco said, rubbing his wrists. He was confused.

"You father is on trial for crimes in the first war. We finally found evidence of his guilt a month ago. It was one of the final confessions of Peter Pettigrew before his death; what a wealth of information he turned out to be." Fudge paused for a moment, his brows furrowing. But then, just as suddenly, he snapped back into attention and pointed a finger at Draco's face. "I thought your father was a great man, and I trusted him. Back when you were in school I would've put my life on the line for him if he said it was best. So consider this a favour, Draco. Your father, he told me he wanted you to live, and as much as I hate-and I mean that, don't think I don't-you and all your family has done, I can't forget what Lucius and I had before things went mad."

"You're letting me go?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"No, I'm exiling you. What you hold in your hand is a Muggle airplane ticket. It's for New York City, which is a large metropolis in America. I want you to go there and I don't ever want to hear of you again. Both of our heads are on the line here, Malfoy. You mess up once, just once, and I'll have so many Aurors on your back that it'll break. Understand?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You slept with him, didn't you?"

"What?" Fudge moved out of Draco's face and gasped.

"Well?" Draco asked, opening the envelope and looking the tickets over. A generous amount of American Muggle money was included as well. "Nothing to be ashamed of; he slept with quite a few people. You certainly don't think we made our family fortune by working hard and making wise investments, do you?" Draco said, a sneer on his face.

"I-I have to be getting back to the trial. They can't start without me," Fudge stuttered, walking backwards, his eyes wide and watery.

"You're not the Minister anymore-"

"LEAVE!" Fudge bellowed and stormed out of the room. Draco smiled and pulled the hood of his cloak low over his head. Ducking even further out of sight, he quickly made his way out of the Ministry.

Just as he climbed out of the abandoned telephone booth he saw the horseless, wrought iron carriages (invisible to Muggle eye) taking the first batch of prisoners to Azkaban. It was only a flash, and if he'd chose that moment to blink he would've missed it, but he didn't and he saw it: a flash of blond hair.

"Thank you, Father."

"Hello? Draco, anyone home?" Christine asked, waving her hand in front of his face.

"What?" he jumped slightly.

"I said, you hate The Simpsons, why are you watching it?" She sat down next to him and placed a hand on his knee, rubbing it gently.

"I must've zoned out," Draco said, running a hand through his hair.

"Must've," Christine muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"My dad called while you were off in your own little world. He wants to speak with you tomorrow."

"So?"

"He didn't sound happy," she said. She pulled an afghan off of the back of the couch and wrapped it around herself. It was something she did when she was nervous, sort of like having a security blanket.

"I see." He pulled her close to him, "I'm sure everything will work out for the better. Maybe he talked to your mum and convinced her to change her mind about us."

"You think?"

"No, but it's a nice thought," he said and kissed the top of her head.

She smiled. "I love you."

He paused before saying, "Yes."

~*~

"Well, what do you think?" Hermione asked, motioning to the townhouse in front of her.

"It's nice," Harry said, and indeed, it was nice. Upon entering there was a small hallway and a kitchen on your left, a bedroom and full bathroom on your right. If you kept on walking straight upon entering the townhouse you'd walk right into the large great room, which was already furnished with a writing desk, two couches, two chairs, a stereo system, and a nice-sized television set. On the very right side of the great room was a staircase leading to a loft that sat directly on top of the bedroom and bathroom. The dining room was connected to the right of the kitchen. The windows were large and let in significant amounts of light; Harry was already planning on buying heavy curtains to solve that problem.

"I know it's a bit small," Ron said, setting a large box on the island in the kitchen, "but Hermione and I thought that since we're going to be away so much for work, and you've not found anyone to settle down with, that you'd feel more comfortable living somewhere with less space and a cheaper rent. Not that money has ever been an issue for you, though."

Harry forced a smile and went into the bedroom. He turned on the light, which flickered a bit, before setting his luggage down on the bed. There was a large brownish red spot on the wall that looked as though someone had tried to bleach it out.

"Hermione?" Harry called, leaning out of the bedroom.

"I'm unpacking your bathroom things," she returned. His breath hitched and he hurried into the next room.

When he entered she was poking through his toiletry bag, her fairly thick brows furrowed. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The one bag I'd hoped she wouldn't go through, he thought.

"What is all this, Harry?" she asked, putting several bottles of pills into the medicine cabinet. "Acetazolamine, Clonidine, Griseofulvin, Methoserpidine, Phenacetin, Triamcinolone," she read the labels of each one as she put them away.

"They're-they're pain killers," Harry said, grabbing the bag from her. "You know, for war injuries and such."

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice sympathetic and suspicious at the same time. "The war ended a year ago. You're fine. Even the doctors have said so. You do remember going to the doctors, don't you?" she asked, her head cocked.

"Of course I do, how could I forget?" he said, a little harsher than he'd meant to. "Look, I need them, alright?"

"I don't think-"

"You're right, you don't think," Harry snapped. Hermione looked at him, shocked. "I'm fine, just fine!" He dumped the rest of the pill bottles into the sink and turned on the water. Harry knew he was acting ridiculous, and that what he just did was absolutely pointless, but he didn't care.

"Harry-"

"No... no!"

"What's going on in there?" Ron called from the kitchen, where he was busy putting groceries away. They both ignored him.

"Why are you still here?" Harry asked, his voice shaking. He sat down on top of the closed toilet bowl lid. When Hermione didn't answer he raised his tone, "Why are you still here, huh? Don't you and Ron have a honeymoon to go on? Better places to go, and better people to see?"

"You know it's not like that, Harry. I thought we would stay the night with you," Hermione said, her voice threatening to crack, "to make sure you were okay here."

"I don't need you to 'make sure I'm okay'," Harry seethed. "I'm not eleven anymore; I didn't need your help then and I don't need it now!"

"Brilliant!" Hermione yelled, reaching her breaking point, "We'll leave then! You just-just sit there on your toilet and sulk for all I care!"

And, as the water spilled from the sink, he did.