All I Wanted

All I Wanted

by Keelie

Chapter Four.

Draco Malfoy. Draco Sodding Malfoy. Draco "My Daddy is a Death Eater So You Have to Listen to Me or Else" Malfoy. Draco the Amazing Bouncing Ferret Malfoy.

It was embarrassing, but Hermione's right hand automatically went to her hair.

Of course it would, stupid, she rationalized to herself. He's the three time winner of Modern Witch's "Hottest Wizard Bachelor," rivaling Harry and Witch Weekly.

Not that she read Modern Witch or anything. Padma had just, er, been bragging about it. Yes, that was it.

So it was completely and totally natural that her hand went to her frizzy, sweaty mass of curls. She hurried grabbed the rubber band off her wrist and swept it back into a ponytail, cursing her mother's family, the Hepworths, for giving her this curly mane.

Dumbledore and Pratboy (or Malfoy, take your pick) were smiling at something. Shit! What's wrong? Hermione panicked. She looked down. Oh yeah. The dozen copies of Precarious Passion were still scattered around her feet. She bend down and--

"Owww!" she wailed as her head collided with Malfoy's sleek blonde one, whacking that tender spot all over again. He swore softly as Hermione mentally cursed him for deciding, for once, to be semi-courteous and help her pick up the books.

"Well then!" Dumbledore began brightly as Hermione clawed frantically for all the books, not wanting to let Malfoy help her one bit. "I'm back a bit sooner than I thought I would be-- I have some news-- oh do you think I could get a-- what do you call it? Espresso?"

Why the hell is he thinking about coffee at a time like this? Hermione screamed mentally. But that was Dumbledore for ya. It usually wasn't the most annoying thing in the world-- it was just the circumstances.

"Well, okay, sure," Hermione stammered. "But--"

"Ah! You're wondering why I'm here," Dumbledore cut in. He sounded delighted. Malfoy was back to leaning against the counter, cool slate-grey eyes sizing her-- and Java Du Jour-- up. She returned the favor.

Malfoy wasn't that much different that he had been during their last year at Hogwarts-- sure, eight years older, but he still had the "lean-yet-muscled physique" (Parvati Patil's words, not hers), sleek, short blond hair, and slight tan (apparently he'd started vacationing in Egypt after fourth year, according to an overly loud, gushy Pansy Parkinson) he'd had then. If Hermione was being brutally honest with herself (which she avoided as much as possible; the conclusions she came to where always rather annoying), there was a reason he had won Modern Witch's "Hottest Wizard Bachelor" three times running.

He was dressed Muggle, which surprised her a bit, but she could picture him thinking that the only good things Muggles ever invented were shopping malls. He wore casual jeans, combat boots, a tight black T-shirt, and black sunglasses hooked onto the neck of the shirt.

"Granger," he acknowledged her coolly. Malfoy had abruptly stopped using the word "Mudblood" when his father was killed. However, from the way he said her last name, he apparently thought it was synonymous with the M-word.

"Malfoy," she returned, trying hard to keep her voice neutral. How does he bloody do it? He's only said one word and already he has me pissed off at him!

"So you remember each other!" Dumbledore was waaaay too cheerful. Was it possible he was oblivious to the blue-black lightning bolt of tension and unvoiced anger between them? No. He couldn't be. Ron could have sensed it, and that was saying something.

"Yes," Hermione forced herself to reply. Malfoy jerked his head in a sort of irritated nod.

Dumbledore smiled like a child on Christmas morning. "Wonderful! Ah, Hermione, is there somewhere we could go to talk-- privately?"

"Su-sure," stuttered Hermione. "I'll take you into my office." She raised her voice and gestured to Chantall. "Tally? Will you take over? I have some-- business to attend to." At Chantall's nod, she motioned to Dumbledore and led him, plus his evil hanger-on (a.k.a Malfoy, take your pick) into her small office. After closing the soundproofed door and stacking the copies of Precarious Passion on the oak conference table, she plopped down into a burgundy swivel chair and waited (rather impatiently, she had to admit) as Dumbledore took his seat and Malfoy lounged down into his.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore began. Apparently we're back to last names, she thought wryly. "I apologize. I realize I didn't say when I'd be back, so I'm terribly sorry if I surprised you. But we must talk."

"It's okay," she assured him, running her hands through her curls.

"Now, down to business," Dumbledore went on. "I know this might seem a bit strange, but have either of you ever heard of a people known as los diablos?"

Malfoy muttered something that sounded like, "Devils."

"Ah. ¿Tu hables español, Sr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore smiled.

"Si. Por diez años. ¿Y usted?" Malfoy's words were just as fluent and melodious as his former Headmaster's, but they were laced with poison.

"Por veinte. ¿Es bonita, no?"

"Si. Me encanta hablar español."

"What?" Hermione hated being out of the loop.

"Spanish," Dumbledore explained. Hermione narrowed her eyes. She knew French and German, but had never taken-- or hardly ever heard-- Spanish. [A/N: If she would have, she would have known that Dumbledore and Malfoy were speaking at a Spanish-1-taught-at-an-American-high-school. Terribly basic.]

Hermione made a sound of acknowledgment. She could positively feel Malfoy smirking in the chair next to her.

"As Mr. Malfoy said," continued Dumbledore. "Los diablos means 'the devils.' I gather neither of you have heard of them?" Silence. "Perhaps you have heard of Seers?"

Hermione nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy jerk his head.

"The people known as los diablos are a form of Seer. Diablos are extremely rare. Only once every eighty years is one born. Today, only one is alive-- I know her simply as Alecia. This breed of Seer is known by a Spanish name because the very first one was known to have been from Spain, around the 1300s. Diablos are always magic. They are called 'devils' because their gift is actually sometimes regarded as a curse-- Dark magic. In truth, no one really knows why a diablo is one-- just that they begin to develop the ability around their twenty-first birthday."

"What ability?" demanded Malfoy. Hermione forced herself to clench her hands into fists and not slap him a lá third year. Jesus, he's still as big of a prat as ever!

"Los diablos can sense power," replied Dumbledore pleasantly, obviously not offended by Malfoy's tone. "Whenever a Child of Power-- the name given to someone who is born with immense powers and special gifts-- is born, the living diablo or diablos is instantly connected to them. This does not happen very often, but I have known three Children of Power-- Tom Riddle, myself, and Aurora."

Hermione let out a small gasp. Dumbledore resumed speaking. "The connection is very intense, and stays with the diablo as long as they live. Alecia is an-- ally of mine, if you will, and she is connected to Aurora. Children of Power have the ability to do great things. It is up to them whether they use that ability for good or evil-- for example, Tom Riddle."

"How does it relate to 'locking' Aurora?" inquired Hermione, her mind whirring. In the past ten minutes she'd been exposed to a race of Seers she'd never knew existed, taken a crash course in "Spanish Words Used to Describe Cursed People," and learned something crazy about Vol-- You-Know-- damn, Herm, he's bloody dead-- Voldemort.

"Locking originated after several Children of Power-- all born in quick succession, which is extremely unusual-- caused harm to either themselves or others. When a Child of Power is young, they have no control over their powers. Tom Riddle, as a child, blew up a ar outside his Muggle orphanage when he got spanked for something he didn't do.

"Unfortunately, no one knew Riddle was a Child of Power until about six years ago-- which was after his defeat, when I came into contact with Alecia. Alecia was not connected to Riddle-- her powers began only twenty years ago-- but she had been in acquaintance with someone who was. Diablos live extraordinarily long and have a sort of protecting against the Killing Curse, as though they have a bit of immortality. When the diablo, who was Alecia's mentor, was on her deathbed, she confessed to her that Riddle had been a Child of Power, which explains his ability to do what he did.

"To prevent this loss of control from happening, Children of Power are locked-- if their parents know they are a Child of Power. I, as a child, was locked. But that was many years ago. When Alecia reported to me that born to Inga and Elgin was a Child of Power, I immediately contacted them. We arranged for a locking ceremony, to be held when Aurora was six months old. Myself, Headmaster McGonagall, Alecia, Professor Saradon-- she was at school with Inga and Elgin-- Deputy Headmaster Snape, and Inga's old family friend Zachariah McCabe all participated.

"After it took place, they went back to living a normal life, for two years. Then, they were shot by that Muggle. Aurora's bedroom was protected by all sorts of charms. The Muggle robber-- at least that's what we assume he or she was-- couldn't have gotten into it if they wanted to, which I doubt they did. They probably panicked when they realized Inga and Elgin were dead, and then fled.

"As I said, locking originated when parental death was frequent. Since unlocking a Child of Power takes the six lockers plus the parents, a-- backup plan, if you will, was needed. Even wizarding medicine wasn't brilliant then. So, interwoven into the words of the smell was a sort of clause-- that if a parent was to die, upon their body the name of their best possible successor was burned in flaming color.

"As you can imagine, this posed quite some problems. Successors can be living in different villages, countries, continents. And if one parent was to die, did the other have to marry the successor? Besides the name being flamed on a body, the diablo connected to the child would see the successor or successors in a vision, or painful dream. Going about tracking them down, if you did not know them, was hard but not impossible. Many successors did not get married to the parents that were alive-- and many successors that replaced both parents did not get married-- they became simply friends and help raised the Child of Power."

Dumbledore stopped his monologue for a second. Hermione exhaled sharply and leaned forward in her chair. Malfoy, as usual, showed no trace of emotion or even recognition that Dumbledore had ceased speaking.

"Hermione Granger. Draco Malfoy," Dumbledore took up softy. "Your names were flamed upon the bodies of Inga and Elgin. You are their successors, Aurora's new parents. If you agree to this." His words hung in the air. "If--"

"I agree." Malfoy's words came so low and quickly that at first Hermione wasn't sure he had spoken.

He agrees, she realized. Draco bloody Malfoy. Malfoy, wearer of figurative "My Dad Went to Avada Kedavra Some Innocent Muggleborns and All He Brought Me Back Was This Lousy T-shirt" shirts. Poser for Modern Witch magazine. Bona fide Slytherin.

Draco Malfoy agreed to this-- this-- confusing, preposterous, unheard-of offer.

Dumbledore nodded briefly and favored Malfoy with a smile. Malfoy did nothing but shift slightly towards Hermione. His icy eyes held a veiled challenge-- Are you scared, Muddy? Gonna step up?

And it was that unspoken challenge that pushed the words she so didn't want to speak out of her mouth:

"And so do I."