Last Will and Testament

Chapter Eight: Look Out Upon the World

The day was cold. It was the first thing that registered in Hermione's mind when she woke up the morning after her promotion. She shivered, burrowing deeper into the incredibly soft covers; she could not think of anything to compare them to, they were so soft. Who cared about work when it was so cold, and one had such a wonderfully warm bed to stay in? She knew she would have to go in to work--she had just been hired at the International Magical Office of Law.

Sighing as she shifted in the bed, attempting to find an even warmer spot--if that were possible--Hermione wondered what had awoken her. A glance out the large window across the room showed her that the sun had barely risen; she rarely, if ever, awoke quite this early. Only once, during her honeymoon, had she seen the sky with its purple and pink hue: Draco had rolled off the couch before he had woken up, waking her in the process. He had not known he'd woken her, and she didn't make any attempt to bring the fact to his attention. There was no point in his knowing, after all.

Hermione giggled, remembering his look of utter astonishment at falling off the couch. It had been all she could do to keep her giggles to herself when it had happened, but definitely worth it. She felt better this morning than she had in quite a long while. The honeymoon had been wonderful,a break from the ordinary, but yesterday's talk with Ron... That had been the ordinary she had missed, the ordinary that had taken a hike after their second break-up. She could not stand to be around him after that, and ignored all his attempts at consoling her, all of his attempts to make amends and be the friends they had always been.

She had not realized just how much she'd missed one of her best friends until she'd gotten him back. It had been wonderful to spill everything to him, to explain about Jeff, and the will, and Draco, to someone other than herself. Doing so helped her to make sense of it, as well as getting it off her chest. She almost literally felt five pounds lighter, as though Jeff's betrayal had been a weight that refused to leave. She knew now she would not have been able to tell anyone except one of her best friends, but Harry was in Greece on his honeymoon, and Ginny had enough to deal with on her own, what with the pregnancy and attempting to provide for the baby when it came.

Having Ron come along had nearly been a miracle, and she had thoroughly enjoyed their lunch together. They were planning on another lunch today, as they still were not as caught up as they would have liked to be. Ron had not asked any more questions about her abrupt marriage to their worst enemy after her tearful confession, choosing instead to entertain her with anecdotes gleaned from his teammates. She learned all about Everett Smith's watermelon fetish, Winnie Carmichael's flirting with anything that moved (male or female), and Tim Randall's utter lack of originality when it came to pick-up lines.

After lunch, Hermione had returned to her office in Diagon Alley and proceeded to pack everything up. She knew it was abrupt to pack up four years in less than one day, but she'd always kept everything organized. It was going to be a change, working for someone else. She didn't even need the money anymore.

Hermione had returned to the Ministry afterwards, glad to find a woman waiting in her office to show her around the rest of department. It turned out she was in fact a former schoolmate of Hermione's--Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw from her year at Hogwarts. It had been a pleasant surprise to find that one of her old study-mates was still around, and that they would be working together. She and Mandy had both had Arithmancy, and often met in the library the day before any homework was due, checking the other's work for mistakes (however infrequent those were). Most of the time they had fun discussing the in's and out's of the subject, however.

Still, they hadn't kept touch after Hogwarts. Mandy had been a friend, the type you said 'hi' to in the corridors and always hoped you would be paired with for class projects. She had never been as close to the girl as she was to Ginny, Harry, or Ron, but she had been, in a way, a break from the ordinary. She and Mandy had caught up quite well about what had happened in the six years since they had graduated. Mandy, a Muggleborn herself, had actually started out at the Daily Prophet as a correspondent in France before she became acquainted with Bob Mason the year before, and he had offered her a job in his department. At the time, she'd still been finishing up at Lagarida, a law school in Paris.

The other legal advisor was a man who was younger than both of them, and had only been in the position for a little longer than Mandy; his name was Stewart Ackerley. He had been at Hogwarts three years after them, in Ravenclaw, and when Hermione had mentioned that she could not remember him, he'd blushingly said that not very many people did. Mandy had then grinned and said, "But his girlfriend sure doesn't."

"Oh?" Hermione had answered.

Mandy nodded to one of the pictures on Stewart's desk, depicting a young woman with a very hard face, though her eyes seemed kind and she was smiling and waving. "That's Orla Quirke; she was in his year as well. They were both in my house." She smiled. "I'm afraid I didn't remember him very well when I first got here either. He doesn't seem to mind."

"Just like I don't mind when you talk about me like I'm not here," Stewart said, raising a brow.

"Yes, there is that," Mandy said, grinning at him.

Hermione smiled, remembering their banter. If they hadn't both professed to having a lover (though Stewart hadn't said any such thing, Mandy had certainly alluded to as much), she would have thought them to be married, or at least dating. Mandy was rather seriously involved with Dean Thomas, one of Hermione's fellow Gryffindors. She was amazed at how much she had missed in five years by not keeping up with the news. Parvati Patil and Colin Creevey had eloped almost directly after his graduation, and were now the proud parents of identical twin girls.

Hyacinth Roberts and Graham Pritchard, a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin, respectively, had started the Albus Dumbledore Magical Orphanage, for children who had lost their parents during the Second War. Graham and Hyacinth were married and had three children, two of which they had adopted from the ADMO. Hermione had met both of them during the war, Graham trailing after Hyacinth, and she being nearly completely oblivious. Graham had been one of the only Slytherins Hermione could say she truly liked, and she was glad to learn that he was doing well, while at the same time upset that she hadn't thought to check after him.

Hermione glanced at the clock again, noting it was still before six. She never got up until a bit after seven; she could afford to stay in bed at least a little longer.

***

Draco sat at his desk at the Ministry building, staring at the blank wall. He supposed he could be staring out at the false scenery outside the window behind him, but he wasn't thinking quite that coherently yet. He had arrived at the office in a relatively good mood, mostly due to his aunt. Alicia was very much unlike his father, though he really had no idea why that was. Alicia and his father had attended the same school--though Alicia had been a year ahead of her younger brother--they had both become Death Eaters, and they had been raised by the same man.

He often wondered whether he was really more like his aunt than like his father. Not because of their views of Voldemort, but because of their ambition. His aunt was ambitious, of course; all Malfoys were. However, Lucius was more ambitious, he had more drive--and Draco had a feeling that was why Lucius had wanted power so much. Alicia hadn't wanted power, at least not very much. Well, everyone wanted power, of course. But some people went to some lengths to get it, and others...didn't.

Now that he reflected on it, he was rather surprised he had never noticed the similarities between Professor Snape and his aunt. They had both become spies after becoming Death Eaters, they had both been born to Pureblood families, and they were both still single after more than twenty years out of school.

But he didn't need to think about a possible affair between his favorite professor and his only aunt right now.

Where had he been? Oh, yes. He had arrived at the office in a fairly good mood, early as usual. After he had pulled out the folders he would need to complete the morning's work, he had sat down at his desk and begun to thumb through them, the closest thing anyone had ever seen to a smile on his lips. About half-past nine, he pulled out a croissant he had taken from the breakfast table at the Manor and eaten it, sipping some coffee Bruce had brought him earlier.

All was well. Bruce dropped in periodically, placing new folders on his desk and taking the ones Draco had finished. By lunchtime, Draco had finished all the work needed done by the end of the day, and already started on some not due until the next. Just when he had started contemplating going out for lunch, Bruce had stepped back into his office.

"Mr. Malfoy, there's woman here to see you."

"Is it my wife?" Draco asked, not looking up from his desk, where he was looking through some notes he had taken a few months back on the Iraq case.

"No, sir," Bruce said, taking a step inside the office and closing the door. "She says she's from the Daily Prophet," he added.

"Well?" Draco said, looking at his secretary with one brow raised. "Is there a reason you haven't shown her in yet?"

Bruce looked troubled. "She says her name is Eleanor Branstone."

Draco's hands froze in their places. Eleanor Branstone had graduated from Hogwarts only two years before, and taken an internship at the Daily Prophet immediately. She had risen quickly, her success at ferreting out truth better than the famous Rita Skeeter's. It didn't help that he suspected all she did was tell the truth; she was best at finding people's deepest, darkest secrets, the ones they kept hidden but she was always able to ferret out. It was not a good thing if she went knocking on your door. "Show her in, Bruce."

The young man nodded, glancing at his boss one more time before closing the door. Draco heard voices speaking outside of his office, and steeled himself. He knew it wouldn't have done any good to send her away. She would have been back within an hour--if she had consented to leave at all. And if she hadn't consented...well, then she would have put up quite the fuss. If nothing else, she was a good journalist. She didn't give up, and she didn't let anything or anyone get in her way.

"Draco," she said, stepping inside his office with a smile. Bruce walked ahead of her and pulled out a seat for Eleanor, waiting until she was settled before leaving and closing the door.

"Eleanor," he said, nodding his head. "How have you been lately?"

"Quite good," she said airily. "I've been seeing one of your old school chums lately, Blaise Zabini."

Draco gave her a tight smile. "Having fun, I hope. He's reputed to be quite the acrobat."

Eleanor's eyes flashed briefly before returning to their pale state. "Like you weren't?"

"I never earned quite the reputation he did, you know."

"Only because you made sure to keep it quiet," Eleanor shot back. She took a deep breath, continuing with almost no pause. "But that's not why I'm here." She returned his earlier smile, though hers seemed more genuine. Reaching into the bag Draco hadn't even noticed when she'd come in, she pulled out a sheet of parchment and what he could only assume was a Quick-Notes Quill. He hoped it wasn't the same type Rita Skeeter had been known to use.

"No, I never assumed it was," Draco murmured, sitting back in his chair and twirling his quill in his right hand.

"Now then," Eleanor began, all business now. "I would like to ask you a few questions pertaining to the scene in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor yesterday."

"Wait," Draco said, holding up his left hand, his right still twirling the quill. "I wasn't at Fortescue's yesterday. I haven't been there in more than three years."

Eleanor's polite smile suddenly vanished, an almost eery grin taking its place. "So you have no idea of the display your wife and her former boyfriend put on yesterday?"

Draco's quill dropped to the floor. He didn't notice as it began to stain the carpeted floor beneath him. "Excuse me?"

"Yesterday," Eleanor said, looking at notes she had pulled out of her bag immediately after her last pronunciation, "at about one o'clock in the afternoon, Hermione Granger-Malfoy and Ronald Weasley were seen together at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor by at least fifteen patrons of the shop."

"Well that's hardly a crime," Draco interrupted her, hoping that was all she had--because if something else had happened, if Weasley and Hermione had done anything suspicious...

Eleanor's grin widened. "No, it isn't. But about halfway through their meal, Miss Granger-Malfoy burst into tears and sobbed on the shoulder of Mister Weasley as he was holding her in his arms."

"So what?" Draco demanded.

"Mr. Malfoy," Eleanor said, "almost three years ago, Mister Weasley and the then-Miss-Granger were one of the most highly-publicized relationships in the Wizarding world. Their break-up was my first piece for the Daily Prophet, and I said in that piece, after quoting from many of their fellow students--including Mister Weasley's sister, also Miss Granger's best friend--that it was only a matter of time before the two made up. The fact is that they never made up--until now. And right now, Miss Granger is no longer Miss Granger--she is Miss Granger-Malfoy, and she is married to you."

The interview had gone downhill after that. Not that it hadn't been bad before--but at least it had been bearable. After that, he'd refused to answer any of Eleanor's questions. He had a feeling that she was more satisfied with that response than she would have been with any other. She'd left, that grin on her face and a twinkle in her eye that could only spell trouble. He couldn't believe she had been a Hufflepuff; she seemed much too devious to have escaped Slytherin.

So now Draco was staring at the empty wall across from his desk, trying to get his thoughts under control. And his fists. They kept balling up, wanting something to punch--or rather, someone. Who that someone was, Draco wasn't certain. It could have been Hermione, which was very possible considering the fact that she was risking exposing his father's will (because why else would they have gotten married if they didn't love each other?); it could be Weasley, since it really was his stupid fault Eleanor Branstone had come knocking on his door. However, he had a feeling he knew exactly who it was that he was itching to knock out.

The bad thing was that person was dead. Lucius Malfoy was dead, and unless he wanted to dig the old man out of his cold grave, he would have to forget about it and let the hate go.

Of course, there was always the very pleasurable alternative of punching Weasley.

Why had Lucius trapped him into a marriage with a Mudblood? Why had he cared enough to want to make his son's life miserable? Was he just that much of a sick bastard?

Draco's face screwed up in a nearly ferocious growl as he picked up his coffee mug and threw it against the far wall. The shattering sound it elicited gave him at least a partial satisfaction, feeling that at least he could still do something, he wasn't inept or stupid or any of the things his father had accused him of, thoughts his father had no doubt brought to the grave with him.

He sometimes felt that he was in turmoil, a horrendous turmoil for which there was no end, no hope, and no escape.

And as the coffee trickled down the wall, leaving a brown stain behind it for Bruce to clean later, Draco laid his head in his arms, barely noticing when a single tear made its solitary way down his cheek.