Unthinkable

Lucius Malfoy halted, breathing quickly. He had been chasing the children through the corridors and rooms of the Department of Mysteries for the past half-hour, and in spite of his growing concern about the prophecy, he was enjoying himself. He only regretted that Potter was hiding elsewhere.

It would have been entertaining to see Dumbledore's golden boy darting for cover to escape the Death Eaters, like in that graveyard. Nevertheless, the two Weasley children provided sufficient entertainment, terrified as they were. Didn't they realise they could never hide successfully, with hair that colour?

His eyes were gleaming with amusement, which dimmed to be replaced by worry as he thought about the prophecy. Unlike the Weasley spawn, Potter was... inexplicably lucky and hard to catch, as slippery as a snake. If one of his idiotic fellow Death Eaters hit the boy with a spell, or if the boy tripped...

The thing was fragile; it could easily be smashed, and he dreaded to think about how the Dark Lord would react if that were to happen. He would be beyond angry. He had been planning this mission for almost a year. If the plan failed, he would face the brunt of the Dark Lord's wrath.

He felt a tug on his sleeve, and whirled around to face the person behind him.

It was Potter's Mudblood sidekick, the girl who beat Draco in every exam. He sneered. She hardly had time to blink before he had shoved her against a wall, the tip of his wand pressed against her throat.

She gasped. "Wait!" she said desperately, raising her hands, neither of which held a wand, in surrender. "I don't want to fight you, sir. Please, hear me out."

"Potter was a fool to send you to bargain in his place, Hermione Granger," he drawled, glancing briefly at the Hogwarts prefect's badge pinned on her robes above a Ministry visitor's badge with her name and the words Rescue Mission. How droll. "Your reputation precedes you, but if you were as intelligent as some claim, you would have known nothing would stop me from using you as a hostage to trade with Potter against the prophecy."

Her hands were trembling. Her obvious fear delighted him.

"I would agree to that, if Harry still had the prophecy." She took a deep breath, her face revealing a combination of fear and typical Gryffindor bravery. "Harry didn't send me, and I'm not here to bargain. Harry, he..." Was that guilt in her voice? "He has no idea what I'm doing. I - I lied to him. I got him to give me the prophecy, so you should call off the others before more people get hurt."

"Oh, should I?" he mocked. She had the prophecy? Then Potter was even more of a fool than he had thought, as was she for revealing this to him.

He put away his wand, because if the prophecy was truly on her person, casting any spell against her could result in breaking it. Instead, he curled his hand around her throat.

Instead of struggling as he expected, she became utterly still, so he did not squeeze. Yet. He would give her a chance to comply, in case she was more intelligent than she was a Gryffindor.

"Give me the prophecy," he hissed, leaning in until their faces were inches apart, "now."

He was not choking her, but he felt her stop breathing all the same. Under his fingers, her heartbeat fluttered wildly. He smirked. He had always enjoyed causing terror. This, in addition to power, had been his motivation for joining the Dark Lord.

Never before had he touched a Muggle-born with his bare hand. Strange that her skin felt no different from that of any real witch.

"Yes," she said hoarsely. Her throat moved as she swallowed; the skin of her neck was pleasantly smooth. Her cheeks had gained a tinge of pink, a most unusual manifestation of fear. "That's why I'm here. I don't need any," she placed her hand over his around her throat, "persuasion."

She made no attempt to free her neck from his menacing grasp, not that she would have been successful if she had. Her touch was light as a feather, as if she could not quite believe he was touching her and meant to check if his hand was truly there.

With her other hand she reached into a pocket of her robes, and pulled out a dusty glass sphere. She held it out in offering. "I took it from Harry to bring it to you."

Suddenly wary, he did not reach for the prophecy that rested on her palm. He released the girl's throat and gazed at her with narrowed eyes. "What sort of game are you playing? What do you ask in return?"

"Nothing. It isn't a game. I just want to help you."

This had to be a trap, one of Dumbledore's schemes. No doubt some curse had been placed on the prophecy, if it was the real prophecy. The girl couldn't have taken a random prophecy from the shelves without being cursed into insanity like Bode, so it had to be a skilfully Transfigured imitation, likely meant to provoke the Dark Lord into a murderous rage when he would discover he had been thwarted again.

"I haven't cursed it," the girl said, cleverly guessing his thoughts. So even she could see how suspicious this situation was. "It's not a trap, I promise."

He scoffed. Did she expect to believed at her word, as though saying "I promise" was equivalent to a magical vow of truthfulness? Silly Gryffindor.

He gazed at the prophecy in her hand eagerly, but did not allow himself to touch it.

"If what you say is true, why are you doing this? Why would you betray your friend for no purpose or benefit to yourself?"

"I..." she sighed, avoiding his gaze. "I overheard Rookwood and Avery talking. I Disillusioned myself; they didn't notice me," she said, reluctant to continue. "They were talking about what You-Know-Who will do to you if you come back without it."

"I see," he said slowly. "Avery and Rookwood... well, that is no surprise. They have always lacked, shall we say, team spirit. And as I can see, Potter isn't the only one with a weakness for heroics."

Only he hadn't imagined Gryffindor heroics extended as far as to deceive one's friends to protect an enemy. Would she feel responsible for his fate, if he were to die at the hand of the Dark Lord? Would she blame herself, because she could have possibly prevented it? Oh, the extent of Gryffindor foolishness...

"Heroic as Harry is, he would be glad to see you die," she said quietly.

"But you would not be?"

"No!" she exclaimed with a peculiar vehemence in her dark eyes.

Incredulous and intrigued, he had his wand aimed at her forehead before she could move. In her face he read alarm and despair. It was time to solve this enigma.

"Legilimens!"

Her mind opened at the faintest touch of his, like a picture book for him to peruse. He did so at leisure.

He watched her running and hiding from his fellow Death Eaters, propelled by fear and - anger at Potter? Interesting.

He watched her cast a flawless Disillusionment Charm on herself, a feat not all Aurors, nor most Death Eaters, were capable of.

He watched her eavesdrop on Rookwood and Avery, who would pay for setting him up to fail the Dark Lord. He saw the distress on her face, followed by hesitation, ending in resolve. The anger as she cursed them with a mild Dark spell. The surprisingly well-concealed (for a Gryffindor) guilt as she found Potter and talked him into surrendering the prophecy into her care. The foresight and care as she cast an Unbreakable Charm on the prophecy to remove all risk of its accidental destruction. The determination as she went in search of him. But why?

He delved deeper, into her earlier memories. She did not stop him, which was unsurprising for a girl untrained in the Mind Arts. She did not even desire to stop him from going further, which was surprising. He could feel her resigned embarrassment, her alternating hope and dread. What secrets did she have that she both wanted and feared him knowing?

It was no easy task to find a specific answer in a stranger's mind when one did not know precisely what one was searching for. It was akin to searching in a book with no index. For this reason, Legilimency was hardly among his preferred types of magic. He browsed through her past, looking for clues.

He watched her telling clever, quickly thought up lies to professors, to her friends, to her Muggle parents. Playing the voice of reason in Potter's little group and in the entire Gryffindor House.

He watched her discuss Bode's death with her friends, effortlessly unravelling his plan and explaining it to Potter.

He watched her use Dark magic to curse the member list of Potter's secret club, making the mistake of aiming only to expose and punish instead of preventing. No doubt the oversight could be blamed on her limited access to knowledge of such magic. The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library was pathetically tame, as he recalled from his school days.

With increasing disbelief, he watched her develop a discreet communication system for their club, conjuring flawless imitations of Galleons and teaching herself the Protean Charm, which was far beyond N.E.W.T. level, to use it in a manner clearly inspired by the Dark Lord's mark. How unexpectedly pragmatic for a Gryffindor. Another would have discarded the idea for the sake of principle because of who had invented it.

Most of all, he watched her read. A life driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and a desperate need to prove herself an equal of her pure-blooded classmates. Yet even as her grades surpassed theirs, a secret sorrow because it wasn't enough, because she would never be good enough -

Good enough for what? Frankly he was reminded of Draco's eagerness to impress him, to prove himself worthy of the Malfoy name. What did she so desperately seek to be worthy of?

He dug deeper into the recesses of her mind, to the core of her identity. Still she offered no resistance.

He saw her inside what was unmistakably the home of an old, Dark pure-blooded family (the Blacks?), cautiously examining Dark artefacts, her eyes aflame with curiosity and a hunger to know the theory behind them. The same fire in her eyes as she read about the Malfoy family in one of the nowadays too rare genealogy books that paid proper respect to purity of blood...

He followed that particular thread, though it wouldn't lead to the answer he sought, or would it? He could feel her discomfort at the direction of his scrutiny, her trepidation about his reaction to what he would discover.

He saw her point of view of their every encounter, the research she had done in secret on him and his family while making her friends believe she was doing schoolwork, the intense nonverbal exchange between her and the Weasley girl earlier today while his entire attention had been focused on Potter...

The Blacks' ancestral home fallen into disrepair and concealed under a Fidelius Charm (so that was what the filthy elf had tried to tell Narcissa)... A poorly lit room, Granger and the Weasley girl talking, mere teenage gossip, of no interest to him -

Ah.

Well, well, well, wasn't this interesting?

So, her actions were motivated not by simple Gryffindor heroics, but by something else entirely. How... unexpected. And amusing. What would her dear friend Potter think of this little secret?

Amusing indeed.

He should have guessed, yet... she was a Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter. Of all the unlikeliest possibilities, this one had to be the most farfetched.

It was no trap. There was no danger in accepting her offer of the prophecy. Her desire to help him was quite sincere. Rescue mission indeed. He hadn't felt this amused in a long time.

Now simply curious and wishing to know more about this foolish, yet intriguing girl, he did not end the Legilimency spell. He continued examining her memories.

He saw her lead the creation of Potter's defence group from the shadow beside the boy, using him as a figurehead. Not very Gryffindor behaviour, that.

The more he saw, the more difficult he found it to understand why a girl like her would choose to spend her time in the company of fools like Potter and the youngest Weasley boy.

He saw her teaching Potter the spells he would use to escape from the Dark Lord in the graveyard. Blackmailing Rita Skeeter into a year of unemployment as personal retribution for articles portraying her and her friends in an unfavourable light.

Attending the Hogwarts Yule Ball on the arm of the champion of Durmstrang, and good Lord, Draco hadn't mentioned how beautiful she looked when properly groomed and attired!

Watching Draco provoke that Hippogriff like a reckless fool. He almost trembled at the image. His son could have been killed by the beast! Had he no idea how much his parents worried about him? How losing him would break Narcissa's heart?

Hitting Draco's face - he hadn't written home about it, surprisingly. Too ashamed, no doubt.

Travelling through time to learn more magic. Even the most ardent traditionalists would be forced to commend this girl's reverence for magic and passion for learning it.

Meeting the deadly eyes of a Basilisk in a handheld mirror - clever girl; her intelligence and caution had saved her life. Her agony and terror as she was turned to stone, and it was not guilt he felt, no, it certainly wasn't...

Brewing Polyjuice, one of the most complicated potions ever invented, in secret with no assistance or training. Narrowly escaping having her skull crushed by the club of a troll, saved only by the intervention of Potter and Weasley.

Ah, that explained why she was friends with those idiots far below her intelligence level. Life debts were powerful old magic that could alter a wizard's emotions and behaviour in subtle and profound ways.

He would possibly owe such a debt to her, if magic judged it unlikely for him to have obtained the prophecy without her intervention. As distasteful as the idea of owing his life to her was, it was preferable to losing it to the Dark Lord's rage.

He saw her with the Sorting Hat on her head. It was saying she was too brave for Ravenclaw, and cunning enough, but too loyal for Slytherin...

He finally withdrew from her mind. He had no interest whatsoever in her life as a Muggle prior to entering the wizarding world.

She stood before him, holding her breath and looking utterly nervous. He took the prophecy from her hand without speaking a single word.

It was warm to his touch, and he took a moment to gaze at it triumphantly.

As he slipped it into a pocket inside his cloak, he felt the tension lift away from him.

He had it. He had succeeded in this mission. He would not face the Dark Lord's wrath. Instead, he would be rewarded. He would regain the favour he had held before the Dark Lord's defeat. He would be the highest ranking, most trusted of his followers once more.

All thanks to this girl. This daughter of Muggles, friend of Potter and Weasleys. The unlikeliest of allies.

He pulled the mask off his face and simply stared at her. As at the World Cup, she reddened, but did not look away.

This was the girl his son constantly ranted about. By the sound of it, she irked Draco as much as Potter did, which had puzzled him from the beginning. How could a girl of no wizard family possess such magical power and intellect?

He had seen her solve countless mysteries armed with nothing but her mental acumen, and master spells meant for wizards far beyond her age. Worse, she had done so with an ease that made the entire population of the wizarding world look like brainless Squibs. It was mind-boggling.

Perhaps he had been too harsh to scold Draco for being surpassed by her in classes. It was too much to expect his son to beat a girl who possessed so much magical power and ability as to master most spells on the first attempt. Most pure-blooded, adult wizards could not do the same. In fact, the only wizard he knew who had a similar combination of magical aptitude and mental acumen was none other than the Dark Lord.

He could not fail to see the humour in the fact that he was the one both she and Draco sought to impress. It was almost akin to a sibling rivalry, one that - against all sense - she was winning.

There was no way this girl could be the child of mere Muggles. It contradicted every truth about blood purity. What would the great Salazar Slytherin say about a case such as her? It was an impossibility. No doubt she had wizard ancestry that she was unaware of. There could be no other explanation.

*

Harry and Neville had, by now, found Ron and Ginny in the Brain Room. Ron was trying to free himself of the brain tentacles, while Ginny was sitting on the floor clutching her ankle, her back against the wall, her eyes closed.

Ginny looked up suddenly, her bright brown eyes travelling around the room and stopping on Harry. "Where's Hermione?" she asked shakily.

"She went to protect the prophecy," explained Harry.

Ginny stared at him as though he had grown horns. "She what?"

"Yeah, I don't know what she was thinking, but she was very, er, bossy. She took the prophecy and ran off."

Ginny's gaped at him. "She wouldn't." She shook her head wildly, her ashen face going from shocked to furious. "No. I can't believe it! You really gave it to her?" she said, horror in her voice.

"Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Everything," said Ginny. She tried to stand up, then winced and slid back down the wall. "Harry, you have to find Hermione," she said weakly, "before it's too late."

Ginny was wrong. It was already too late.

*

She was almost squirming under his thoughtful gaze, until a distant crashing sound diverted her attention, making her throw an anxious glance at door. Ah, yes, her friends could be dying out there at this very moment, couldn't they?

Her eyes returned to him in trepidation. It was apparent she feared he would use her little secret against her, and of course, this fear was justified. She knew better than most that knowledge was power; her secret was now a power he held over her.

Did she fear he would laugh at her, as Draco would? In her memories he had seen his son's uncouth behaviour, his disappointing lack of subtlety for a Slytherin and a heir to a most noble and ancient family.

He invested much time and money into preserving the reputation and influence of the Malfoy name in the eyes of the wizarding community, so that when those like Dumbledore and Harry Potter accused him of being a Death Eater, the majority of wizards would not believe them. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Draco's temper and lack of restraint undermined his efforts and ensured that to the next generation, the Malfoy name would be synonymous of Dark wizards.

He grimaced. Could the damage be repaired? And why hadn't Severus informed him of Draco's reckless antics?

Clearly, as a half-blood, Severus had no understanding of what it meant to be an upstanding member of pure-blood society, of the delicate considerations of political power and public image. Severus knew nothing of how to walk on the fine line between being a Dark wizard and a respectable one, the line that Draco would have to walk as the heir to the Malfoy name. And as he had witnessed in the girl's recollections, Severus himself had difficulty controlling his temper at the school. Perhaps he had served as a negative example. Would it have been in Draco's and the family's best interests to disregard Narcissa's sensibilities and send Draco to Durmstrang?

At the very least, he would have a long and unpleasant conversation with his son.

"Well, I had heard much about you," he said slowly to the girl, "none of which could have prepared me for this. I was told you were an intelligent and prudent girl... but not this intelligent."

He had looked deep enough into her mind to know the words she most craved to hear, and he had just received a demonstration of how advantageous it could be to keep this girl on his side.

There was nothing special about Harry Potter; his survival of the Dark Lord's Killing Curse had surely been a mere accident, never to be replicated. He refused to consider the idea that the boy's mother had somehow protected her son; no Mudblood could have defeated the Dark Lord. No doubt the boy would die imminently. But it would not hurt to have one of Potter's closest friends on his side, in the extremely improbable event of the boy's luck causing a repeat of his defeat of the Dark Lord in the future.

"You are a witch," he said intently, "of great skill and potential."

A vivid blush had risen on her cheeks. Her dark eyes sparkled. Beyond the unkempt hair and unflattering school robes, he could see the beauty that had stunned her schoolmates at the Yule Ball.

"You have my gratitude," he continued softly, concealing his amusement, "and my apology for the... Basilisk incident that occurred in your second year at Hogwarts."

She blinked in surprise, and gave him a piercing look, trying to measure the sincerity of his words. No fool, was she? "I didn't really blame you," she confessed. "The others did, but... I figured you didn't know what the diary was going to do. The Basilisk put your son in as much danger as everyone else. You couldn't have wanted that."

He tilted his head. "You are too intelligent to be friends with the likes of Potter and Weasley."

"You are too intelligent to follow V-Voldemort," she shot back. "Why do you do it? It doesn't make any sense."

He raised an brow indulgently. "Doesn't it? Why would you think so?"

"Because I'm sure what Harry said is true: Voldemort is not a pure-blood. His birth name, the name under which he attended Hogwarts, was Tom Riddle, and you must know better than I do that the surname Riddle isn't in wizarding genealogy books. He's a half-blood. If you really believe in pure-blood supremacy, why would you want to follow him?"

Oddly, the name Granger was in the genealogy book: a wizard family that had died out centuries ago. The last family member had been Hector Dagworth-Granger, a potions developer who had hyphenated his parents' surnames (something wizards almost never did) to save his mother's family name from extinction. But he had had no children, according to the family tree in the book.

The book didn't mention Squibs or wizards and witches who had married non-pure-bloods, but Hermione still didn't think she could be related to any of the magical Grangers. If she was, then why had nobody else in her family as far as she knew ever shown any sign of magic?

"I was aware of the Dark Lord's blood status," he admitted. "He attended Hogwarts in the same class as my late father. Some called him a Mudblood before it was discovered that he was the great Slytherin's heir. Why did I join him? Because he is the most powerful wizard of our time, and the greatest champion of the old ways. That is reason enough to overlook the taint in his blood."

"Are you saying blood purity is not the most important factor by which you judge a person?"

"It is the most important factor, but it is not the only one." He did not have to explain himself to this girl. So why am I doing so? Her intense interest was flattering, and it was a rare pleasure to converse with a witch whose mind was so keen, though not nearly on par with his, of course. "Blood purity is paramount, but so are power and usefulness. What the Dark Lord is matters less than what he does. His use to the pure-blood cause is immeasurable."

"How is it the pure-blood cause if the leader is a half-blood?"

Sharp-minded, this one is, he thought wryly. "He is our best chance of victory. His abilities are unique; he has accomplished feats of magic unmatched by any other wizard. He has returned from death..."

"Harry has survived the Killing Curse too."

"Harry Potter is but a mediocre child with an unnatural amount of luck. No doubt the prophecy you have given me will reveal the secret of his good fortune."

She flinched, her eyes filling with guilt and self-blame.

"Perhaps he was born with luck potion in his bloodstream," he jested to lighten the mood.

"Is it true that you tried to curse him right outside the Headmaster's office?"

His eyes flashed, and the skin of his face gained a faint pink hue, noticeable only because of how pale his natural complexion was.

"I'm afraid I lost the reins of my temper. The boy is simply infuriating; it is a special talent of his."

Curiosity overwhelmed her yet again. "Which curse were you going to use?"

She was taken aback by his sudden, knife-sharp smile.

Hadn't she heard the adage about curiosity and cats? "The same one the Dark Lord unsuccessfully attempted."

Her hands flew up to cover her mouth in horror. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am."

"But - but -" She was too worked up to speak. She shook her head, giving up that track of conversation as hopeless. He had made his opinion of Harry very clear and she wasn't naive enough to think anything she said could change it. Instead she tried another approach. "What were you thinking? If even Voldemort failed... and if it had worked, how did you think you were going to get away with it?"

"I was too angry to consider consequences at that precise moment. Perhaps the treacherous house-elf did me a favour by interfering. Any further questions, girl?"

She stared into his icy grey eyes. When not glinting with amusement or malice, such as right now, they let no emotion show, making them appear like cold, colourless stone. Lifeless. It both scared her and made her feel sorry for him. As a Death Eater, as Voldemort's friend, what terrible things had he seen? What terrible things had he done, besides the ones she knew about? What she knew of his crimes was probably only the tip of the iceberg.

She had searched in old issues of the Daily Prophet for information about his trial after Voldemort's defeat by baby Harry. The charges had been appalling: murder, use of the Killing Curse, use of the Imperius Curse, cruelty to Muggles, financing the Death Eaters. He had been acquitted of everything because he had supposedly been under Voldemort's Imperius Curse the entire time. The Imperius left no trace on its victims; the only evidence had been his testimony, but the Wizengamot jury had believed him easily. As the Prophet court reporter wrote, surely such a respectable and generous wizard from such a prominent family would never have done those disgusting things willingly.

At least he hadn't been charged with torture like many other Death Eaters. But that only meant torture of wizards and witches. Crimes against Muggles were a separate charge that carried a much lesser sentence: "cruelty to Muggles", like "cruelty to animals" in Muggle law. Outrageously, wizarding law considered the life of a Muggle or magical creature as worth less than that of a wizard or witch.

"I just want to understand," she tried. The last thing she wanted was to offend or irritate him with her curiosity, but would she ever get another opportunity to talk to him privately like this, to ask all the questions that had been churning in her brain? "I'm sorry if it's too personal. You don't have to tell me, but I've been wondering, do you ever regret joining Voldemort?"

His mirthless smile sent a chill through her. "Such questions are moot. Surely you are aware of the fate reserved for those who join the Dark Lord only to reconsider their decision."

That overwhelming fear struck her again, just like when she had heard Rookwood and Avery. Fear for his life. "I'm sorry," she said in alarmed realisation. "I shouldn't have asked."

His smile became one of heartfelt malice. How convenient that he didn't even need to tell the lie, merely to let her make the assumptions she wished. She desperately wanted to believe the best of him, because the other option was unbearable in its implications about the sort of person she was. Good little Muggle-bred Gryffindors did not aid and abet unrepentant Death Eaters. She would deceive herself for him, to preserve her own self-image.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. A fleeting touch, gone before she could truly feel it. Reassuring, forgiving. This game was one he played perfectly.