Blood of Mud, Wing of Bat

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Chapter 29: The Million Galleon Question

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"I told you, I refuse to accept your bribes!" hissed Hermione.

The clerk raised his eyes to her briefly, then went back to counting gold, pretending he hadn't heard.

"Think of it as a loan," drawled Malfoy. "However, if you jump bail -"

"I won't," she said firmly.

"- that really wouldn't be a loan then, would it?" he continued smoothly. "More of a -"

"I don't intend to jump bail," said Hermione through her teeth. "Why have you even come? I didn't ask anyone to owl you about this!"

There was a short pause.

"You may find this difficult to believe," said Malfoy, "but it wasn't much of a leap to deduce on my own that you'd require my assistance."

"But I don't require your -"

"Well, it's not as if you have the funds, is it?"

"No, but-"

"And your brothers-in-law - what are their names again? - well, you might not be aware of this, but their business is profoundly in debt to Batwing Alchemical & Pharmaceutical. They're certainly in no position to be putting their holiday season earnings into bailing you out of a Domestic Disturbances fix."

Hermione seethed. "I know perfectly well what Fred and George's financial situation is, Malfoy, and you had better not be using their debt to you to bully them!"

She would have thought he'd be enjoying her frustration - that would be just like Malfoy, wouldn't it? - but when she glanced back in his direction, his expression was humorless and scowling. The blue pre-dawn light coming in the Department of Domestic Disturbances' grimy front windows did not flatter his too-pale complexion, and he looked haggard and ill-groomed besides, as if he'd had a rough night. In fact, he looked so bad she'd almost doubted his identity when they'd first brought her out to meet him.

Not that she herself must look much better. Nesbitt had kept her awake through the wee hours of the morning, trying to get every bit of information out of her he could (and, quite frankly, trying to pump her as full of his own theories and point-of-view as he could). She'd managed scarcely an hour of sleep on the hard bunk in her cell before the guards had rousted her to inform her someone was paying her bail. There had been no opportunity to clean herself up or change clothing since her capture the night before, and she was sure she looked more than a mess.

"Here is your receipt, Mr. Malfoy," said the clerk. "And Mrs. Weasley, if you would sign here for your possessions?"

Malfoy plucked the receipt out of the clerk's hand and neatly interposed himself between Hermione and the counter, presenting the receipt to her.

"You should keep this," he said.

"How many times do I have to say no?" demanded Hermione. "I won't take your money."

"Simply hold the receipt until after your trial. Somebody must collect the bail when it is returned, and I certainly don't plan on attending your trial myself. You can give the money back to me afterward... at your convenience. Assuming you didn't need it for anything, that is."

Of course he expected her to keep the money, and then she'd be obligated to him in ways she did not want to be obligated. Malfoy and his damned bribe attempts! It was enough to make her want to gouge out her own eyes with her fingernails. Or his eyes for that matter.

Hermione's teeth ground together harder. After a bit of strict self-control, she managed to say "No, thank you. You took it upon yourself to pay it, so you'll just have to get it back afterward yourself. Now if you don't mind?"

She pushed ahead to sign for her possessions, and Malfoy narrowed his eyes and backed away. He stood there watching her closely, still fingering the receipt, as she filled out the paperwork. Hermione wanted to snap at him to please piss off, but reminded herself that antagonizing him unnecessarily was hardly going to help her already difficult assignment. And he had gotten her out of jail, after all. Much as it pained her to admit it, she'd probably needed the rescue. She'd used her one legally permitted owling to send an update on her situation to Ron, but had never heard anything back. And where was Arthur? Surely Arthur could have gotten her released by now, if he'd really tried?

The clerk pushed a cardboard box with her things in it across the counter. It was immediately apparent that the box wasn't large enough to contain everything the Aurors had grabbed when they arrested her. Hermione groaned internally when she realized Trelawney's papers had been confiscated. Trelawney was going to have an absolute fit when she found out Hermione had lost them, even if it was to Aurors. Maybe especially if it was to Aurors.

Malfoy seemed to be trying to peer inside the box without her noticing.

"Do you want to see?" asked Hermione in irritation. She pushed the box down the counter in his direction.

Malfoy stepped forward just far enough to be able to give the contents a cursory glance.

"It isn't much, is it?" he said disdainfully. He threw the receipt into the box. "I'll expect you at Batwing on Monday at 6AM." He turned and stalked out of the building, letting the front door slap shut behind him.

Hermione felt a headache coming on.

"Pleasant fellow," offered the clerk.

"Not really," muttered Hermione. Well, at least he was gone. She began to retrieve her wand, spare change, and so forth from the box. It was soon back in her pockets once again.

All except for the receipt.

She looked at it lying there at the bottom of the box. It was worth a great deal of money. It wasn't as much money to Malfoy as it would be to Ron and her, but she couldn't in good conscience walk away and just leave it there. She sighed and picked it up, vowing to make Malfoy take it back at the earliest possible opportunity.

---

Outside, the sun had come up over the horizon and burned through the mist to bathe the street in gold-edged light. The air was cool, and dew still clung to the cobblestones and sidewalks in the long shadows.

The Department of Domestic Disturbances headquarters was located on a mostly Wizarding block of Bigglescroft Lane in London. The street itself was not closed to Muggles by any means, so during business hours Muggle passersby would stroll obliviously past Wizarding storefronts like Madam Moochevsky's Charm School and Furheart & Clawhold's Living Hairpieces for Him. There were even Muggle cars parked bumper to bumper along both sides of the street.

Directly across from the Triple-D HQ was an establishment that Hermione knew very well - or once had, anyway. This was Ernie's, a café famous for being frequented by witches and wizards of a more liberal-minded bent. It had a colorfully painted mural of plants and butterflies on its brick façade, the windowsills inside the glass were stuffed with potted flowers, and the windows themselves were filled with radical political posters that said things like Hug a Muggle and You-Know-Who can kiss my You-Know-What!

There'd been a time when Hermione had been extremely active in politics and in lobbying for causes. For many years she'd attended meetings and met friends at Ernie's several times a week. It had been almost like a home to her. The twins and Christopher had grown up playing on the floor of Ernie's, among the feet of Muggle sympathizers and elf-rights enthusiasts.

But then, things had gotten ugly. A series of events best forgotten had led to Hermione's ousting from S.P.E.W., an organization she herself had founded and had poured her heart into. Angry, confused, and embittered, she'd come to shun the "active community" as a quagmire of too-young, too-inexperienced hotheads who were not worth spending time around and didn't know anything about how the world really worked. She told herself she had better things to spend her time on - like work, like raising her family, like being with her husband.

But it was only a year later that little Christopher opened the fateful piece of fanmail containing the nude picture of a witch who in retrospect was probably Sheila Lasherton.

---

Someone's foot scuffed on pavement, clear and audible from behind her and to her right.

She had believed herself to be alone with her thoughts, and spun startled to discover Draco Malfoy lurking in the shadows alongside the building. The Muggle-repellant wards on Triple-D must have fooled her peripheral vision; because she was Muggle-born, that did sometimes happen, especially if what was hidden didn't move. However now that she'd heard him and was looking head-on, she could see him perfectly easily.

"What are you still doing here?" she asked.

He drew himself up from where he'd been leaning against the wall. His expression was guarded. "Not that it is any of your business, but I'm waiting for a Portkey."

"A Portkey?" she repeated. Yes, there was a Public Portkey hanging on the nearest Muggle telephone pole. It resembled a huge iron bolt running through the pole, from which was suspended a large iron ring that three or four people would be able to get their hands on at once. Muggles who came by would simply think people were waiting for the Muggle bus that also stopped there. But why would Malfoy of all people....

Suddenly it dawned on her. Malfoy was entirely wandless! When she'd left his Manor the night before she'd been carrying the evidence bags containing his primary wand and his spare, and she'd also taken Gina White's wand that he had been using. Now all three of them were in the hands of Auror Special Operations.

That was why he was looking even worse than usual today, she realized. He had no wand, so he could not perform the simplest of vanity charms. From what the Aurors had said as they cast Priori Incantatum on his wand before, Malfoy was accustomed to using a lot of them.

Now that she knew what she was looking at, the details made it obvious. His hair was longer than the glamors had allowed it to seem before, curling about his jawline and getting into his eyes. His coloration was even more washed-out than it usually appeared, his hair an uninspiring off-white, his skin unhealthily pale and his eyes cold and lifeless. And there were scars, dozens of them, marring the elegance of his throat and hands. They'd been magically healed and would have been nearly invisible on anyone else, but his skin was less forgiving than most.

He shifted his weight irritably, and Hermione realized she was staring.

"Oh!" she said hastily. "I'm terribly sorry. I hadn't realized you were wandless... but I suppose I should have."

"Yes, you should have," he agreed unpleasantly. "Well? Haven't you anything better to be doing?"

She glanced again at Ernie's café.

Malfoy followed her gaze. His expression hardened.

"Just breakfast," she said. "I hadn't decided beyond that."

"Well, then you had best be off to do that, hadn't you?" he sneered. He rudely turned his back on her, moved away from the building to the curb and telephone pole. There he gripped the Portkey ring and proceeded to pretend as if she were no longer there.

Git, she thought. Well, that was one thing that hadn't changed over the last decade or two.

She reached into her pocket and got out the receipt for her bail, took a step toward his back.

"I'm not keeping this," she said.

He didn't react for a long time. She thought about simply dropping it and leaving it up to him to decide whether to pick it up or not, just as he had done to her.

"I'm not taking that back," he said finally, without looking at her.

"Fine," she said, and did let it fall. It fluttered down, blown by a light breeze, and fell into the gutter. After a moment, it flipped over and blew a few meters farther down, edging away between the curb and the cars.

Malfoy scowled, trying to pretend he didn't know what she'd done, but the white outlines of his knuckles under the skin attested to how hard he was gripping the ring. He looked furious and frustrated.

Well, he should be glad I won't be bought, thought Hermione defiantly. He should be glad!

But the whole thing left a bad taste in her mouth.

---

The inside of Ernie's Café was warm and filled with a cheerful light. The floors and furniture were of polished oak, the walls decorated with colorful weavings, paintings, and sculptures. All celebrated diversity, freedom and peace - there had clearly been no change in the nature of the place since Hermione had last been there.

However, there was no one at all Hermione recognized. She hadn't really expected to see everybody she'd known, but she'd thought there would be at least someone. Most of the witches and wizards clustered in the booths seemed awfully young until she recalled that she herself had been just out of Hogwarts when she started coming here.

Feeling a bit sad and nostalgic, Hermione allowed the hostess to seat her in a empty booth along the front windows. She used her wand and a pocket mirror to try to clean herself up a bit, but her mind was anywhere but her face.

She had a lot to think about, not the least of it Ron's failure to respond to her owl and Arthur's failure to intervene when Auror Special Operations went too far with his own family. Just wondering about his possible motives and reasoning was enough to make her budding headache come on in earnest.

And then there was her own reaction to being incarcerated. It wasn't just the idea of it, though that was bad enough. There had been something powerfully disturbing about having actually been arrested and subjected to interrogation all night. Throughout the entire experience she hadn't known whether to laugh or cry, but had felt like doing both. Knowing intellectually that she wasn't in any real danger had done nothing to save her from the primitive gut-level feelings of entrapment and humiliation. It was going to be a long time before she forgot that. But would it be so long before it happened again?

---

She shifted her eyes to look out the window, and saw Malfoy still waiting for the Portkey. If the schedules hadn't changed much in the last several years, he could be waiting as long as an hour and a half.

He'd abandoned the Portkey ring itself, however. The sun had peeked around another building, flooding the sidewalk with strengthening light. He'd retreated from that and was leaning against the wall of the Department of Domestic Disturbances building in the protection of one of the remaining strips of shadow. She wondered what he was thinking. About his son? About Batwing? About Nesbitt's Million Galleon Question?

Hermione turned away from the window and made herself look through the menu instead. She recognized a few of the "house specialties" from years before, like the "Vol... You Know" Sandwich (breaded vole on toast with red onions and hollandaise sauce) and Ernie's Blue Plate Special (an ordinary greasy-spoon style breakfast, only bright blue). She tried to decide what to order, but found her eyes wandering to the rest of the café instead. The other patrons looked mostly to be Wizarding University students, perhaps from the Muggle Relations or Political Magic programs at the Cornice Stone Knowledge Place school which was only two Portkey stops or an easy Apparition away. That is, if those programs still existed at that school. Her knowledge of its course catalog was about ten years out of date.

None of the students gave any sign of recognizing her.

---

The more she thought about it, the more surreal her situation seemed. It was as if she'd been asleep for ten years and was only now waking up and getting a good look around her.

Here she was - she, Hermione Granger - sitting in Ernie's and not one single person knew who she was. Meanwhile, she'd just spent the night in jail, her husband was a cheat, her boss was a flake, and Draco for God's sake Malfoy was more active in S.P.E.W. than she was. If that wasn't pathetic, she didn't know what was.

Something had gone horribly wrong with her life, something that had crept up on her so subtly that she couldn't even think back to when it might have begun. Sure, she had stopped being politically active when she'd been kicked out of S.P.E.W., but it had to have started before that. Some deep unhappiness, some fundamental dissatisfaction, had been dragging her down and making her efforts less than half-hearted well before that.

But try as she might, she could not put a finger on when and what it was.

---

Now there were two more people at the bus stop, a witch and a wizard dressed - ridiculously, of course - in Muggle clothing. They were standing near the telephone pole with their hands curled around the Portkey ring, waiting. They kept glancing over their shoulders at Malfoy leaning against the wall behind them. First one looked, and then the other. Then they whispered to each other.

Malfoy was far too famous to get away with standing about on a street corner without being recognized by every passerby and Portkey patron who wasn't a Muggle, and of course on this block many people wouldn't be. She imagined he wouldn't be too pleased by being recognized in that setting, particularly alone and unarmed.

As Hermione watched, the man turned and spoke to Malfoy. They seemed to have some sort of argument, and then Malfoy abruptly left the strip of shadow and moved to another one farther from the bus stop. This one was was much narrower and offered scarcely any protection from the sun at all.

Muggles were starting to put in an appearance, probably people on their way to work at early-opening shops and such. Two or three of them walked past as Hermione watched, and each time Malfoy went absolutely still, giving the Muggle-repellant wards on the buildings the best possible chance of preventing one of them from seeing him. Not that it was really necessary, but it couldn't hurt.

Hermione wouldn't have thought he had much experience with close-range Muggle wards, since he seemed the type to avoid Muggles and their places at every opportunity. Then again, he might not have learned this freezing technique on the street. He might have learned it with the Death Eaters, under combat shielding.

---

The next time Hermione looked up, she was startled to see Malfoy stalking purposefully across the street toward Ernie's Café.

She bit her lip. What on earth was he doing? For him, almost universally suspected to be a Death Eater, to waltz into a place like Ernie's was tantamount to a suicide attempt. Yes, pro-Muggle types were usually a good deal less violent than their anti-Muggle counterparts, but Malfoy's big mouth and intensely irritating attitude could probably change that in a matter of seconds.

He disappeared out of her range of view. She was certain he'd be stopped at the door, but after a short time he reappeared inside of Ernie's, sauntering towards her unintercepted.

His pale eyes straked the room and its occupants boldly, almost a challenge. No, it was a challenge - but most of those who saw him were too shocked to react before his attention had moved on. They goggled, then leaned to get their companions' attentions behind his back.

When he reached Hermione's booth, he slid into it as if she'd been waiting for him all along.

"What on earth are you doing in here?" she hissed. "You'll be lynched!"

"I'd like to see them try," said Malfoy.

"They look like they very well might," said Hermione.

He followed her glance over to a group of students clustered in the corner, who were now whispering to one another and sending dirty looks his way.

Hermione could just imagine what they were saying:

"Hey wait a minute... isn't that Draco Malfoy?"
"Where?"
"Over there... by that girl."
"That's no girl, that's Hermione Granger."
"Who?"
"That woman, talking to that Malfoy-looking fellow? It's Hermione Granger."
"Merlin, you're right. I thought she died or something."
"No, no, she's been around. She's got five kids at Hogwarts."
"No kidding! Well what's she been doing?"
"Beats me. Nothing, I think."

"They're harmless," said Malfoy dismissively. Hermione wondered if he knew Nesbitt would say the same about him in his current wandless state.

"Look," she said, leaning forward so she could speak quietly. "I don't think you should be here."

"I don't think I should be here either," he said, "but I'm not going to stand around out there with all of those Muggles."

Hermione glanced out the window and saw there were even more people at the bus stop - six Muggles, and the couple on the Portkey ring had been joined by an additional wizard.

Malfoy withdrew a flask from an inner pocket and took a quick gulp from it. Hermione caught a whiff of the increasingly familiar scent of Ogden's whiskey. She wondered if that's what he'd been doing out there the whole time - drinking and trying to get up the courage to brave Ernie's and thereby avoid more contact with Muggles.

"You know, you'd have a lot more energy if you'd take better care of your liver," she said.

His expression froze in momentary confusion. "My liver?" he repeated.

"Yes, the liver is responsible for many important elements of the chemical makeup of the blood, as well as converting sugar to glycogen and other critical functions," Hermione began. "Excessive alcohol consumption can damage the liver, and cause -"

"This is one of those ridiculous Muggle superstitions, isn't it?" he interrupted suspiciously.

"It's called science," said Hermione primly, "and you'd do well to pay more attention to it if you want to keep your health and live a long -"

"Listen Weasley," said Malfoy, annoyed. "I'm going to overlook that in the interests of getting through this Batwing process with as little pain as possible. But if you want me to stay off the subject of your husband then you'd damn well better stay off the subject of my health. And don't you ever repeat that Muggle science to me again. It doesn't reflect well on you, and I really couldn't give a damn what the latest fashion in Muggle beliefs is."

"It's just that excessive drinking can damage your liver," Hermione attempted to explain.

"Yes, and Ron Weasley is a -"

"All right, all right," said Hermione quickly. "I won't mention it again."

Malfoy smiled thinly and returned the flask to its pocket.

Hermione saw a waiter that had been talking to some of the students was now coming towards her and Malfoy, a determined expression on his face.

"Don't look now," she said, "but I think they're coming to throw you out."

"They can't throw me out," he said. "They're all for equal rights, aren't they?"

She glanced again at the waiter - he was young, a kid just out of school. Malfoy would walk all over him.

"Maybe they wouldn't literally throw you out, but I think it'd be better if you just -"

Too late. The kid planted himself in front of the table.

"Aren't you Draco Malfoy?" he demanded.

Hermione's heart started pounding hard. Here it was. The moment of confrontation.

Malfoy pretended not to notice him for a moment. He appeared to be engrossed in massaging his left forearm with the fingers of his right hand. After a long pause, he looked up at the kid looming over him.

"And if I am?" he said, his insulting drawl identifying him instantly for anyone who had ever heard him quoted on the news.

"You are him!" gasped the waiter.

"And you are the waiter," said Malfoy. "I hope. If not, what does it take to get served around here? I'm half-starved."

Pure Malfoy. The kid didn't know how to handle it. As Malfoy sat looking up at him, fingertips delicately probing along his forearm, the kid remained speechless for a long moment.

And then he gritted his teeth and turned away, going back to the doors of the kitchen into which he disappeared.

"Malfoy," said Hermione quietly, "did you have to antagonize him?"

"No," he said. "I could have stayed outside on the curb."

"Look what you're doing. You're rubbing... it," she said. "You don't have to draw attention to it!"

"What on earth are you babbling about now, Weasley?" he asked, lazily. But he smoothed the expensive fabric of his robe sleeve and removed his hand from the vicinity of where a Dark Mark would be on his arm.

"Now he's gone into the kitchen… he's probably going to get the owner to tell you to leave."

"And you'll tell them I'm with you."

"I'm not sure that will do any -"

The double-doors to the kitchen slapped open again and a bulky older witch wearing colorful robes and a greasy apron barged out of them. She was holding a flowery painted stick that looked suspiciously like an old combat stave in disguise. Hermione recognized her as Emelda Figueroa, who was indeed one of the owners.

There was no matching burst of recognition in the other's face, however. In fact Emelda didn't even notice Hermione. She scanned the room for Malfoy, found him, and charged toward him brandishing her stick.

"You!" said Emelda, her dark eyes burning with hatred. "You're not wanted here."

"How tedious," Malfoy said, lounging in his half of the booth with absolutely no evidence of fear. "Do you treat all your customers like this, or only those with the money and connections to have your restaurant license revoked permanently?" His wand hand toyed with Hermione's forgotten menu.

Emelda's fists met her hips. "I'd like to see you try, you slimy Death Eater," she said loudly. Heads turned all over the café as the few who hadn't already been following the proceedings became very interested indeed.

"Er," said Hermione in a much lower voice. "Malfoy, maybe you'd better let me handle this."

"I can handle myself," said Malfoy, eyes never leaving Emelda's.

"This is exactly what it looks like and I'm not afraid to use it," said Emelda, lifting the combat stave again. "This is your last warning."

"I see. Illegal possession of military grade weaponry," said Malfoy. "Well, that should make for a nice clean takedown."

Hermione suspected he meant a legal takedown of Ernie's, not a literal takedown of himself.

"Er, look," she said diffidently. "Emelda. I realize this is a bit of a shock, but believe me, he didn't come here to cause trouble. He's just waiting for the Portkey."

Emelda swung around to look at Hermione.

"Do I know you?" the older witch demanded. Then recognition finally dawned. "Hermione Granger!" she exclaimed in shock. "What on earth...." her eyes darted to Malfoy, then back to Hermione. "Why, it's been years and years!"

"Probably close to ten," Hermione admitted.

"But what have you been doing this whole time? You haven't -" the eyes flicked toward Malfoy again. "…joined…."

"Ha," said Malfoy.

"Oh, no," said Hermione. "I've been working for a consultancy, business mostly. My youngest is off to Hogwarts this year, though, so -" she voiced an idea that had only just occurred to her and wasn't really fully formed yet "- I hope I will have more time for activism now."

"What are you doing with…." Emelda jabbed the combat stave in Malfoy's direction; apparently he didn't even rate a pronoun in her book.

"Nothing," said Hermione. Oh, that's brilliant. "Just breakfast," she amended. "The company I work for has his company Batwing Alchemical & Pharmaceutical as a client."

"Bringing this..." (Emelda glanced pointedly at Malfoy) "...here was in extremely poor taste," she said.

"Believe me," said Hermione, "it wasn't at all my idea."

"Bailing you out of jail at the crack of dawn wasn't exactly what I had planned on doing this morning either," interjected Malfoy, "but we can't always have what we want, can we?"

Hermione felt her face instantly grow red hot. What little reputation she had left was going to be in absolute shreds by the time she managed to escape from this situation.

"And now," continued Malfoy, this time addressing Emelda, "since this is still a restaurant - at least for the time being - perhaps you should simply serve us breakfast, which is what we're here for, and leave the histrionics and posturing for another time? The Blue Plate Special for me, and whatever Weasley's usual is for her."

"Jail?" repeated Emelda. "At Triple-D? What for?"

Malfoy cast Hermione a sly look and she could swear he was enjoying this.

"It's a long story," she said, as her headache stabbed harder. The last thing she wanted was to get embroiled in a long discussion of why she'd been in a domestic dispute, why the Aurors would want to question her and why she had to be bailed out of jail by a suspected Death Eater. Good grief. If she hadn't been aware that her life was in a shambles already, she certainly would have come to realize it now. "Look…." She lowered her voice. "I promise Malfoy won't cause any trouble, all right? If he does, I'll take responsibility for getting him out of here before anyone gets hurt."

"I thought I knew you," said Emelda, doubt and distrust all over her face. "But now I'm sure I don't. The Hermione Granger I knew would never have associated with a Death Eater at all. Much less brought one here."

With a final unfriendly glare, she turned and marched back into the kitchen.

All around the restaurant, students and other diners huddled whispering frantically.

"I'll never be able to show my face here again," said Hermione.

"Now you know how I feel about working with you at all," said Malfoy. His voice was mild enough, but the hint of amusement was gone from his eyes.

After that, there was only uncomfortable silence.

That, and the thudding of Hermione's headache, which had just increased tenfold.

---

When Emelda returned some fifteen minutes later, she brought with her a Blue Plate Special and a cinnamon bun. The cinnamon bun had indeed been Hermione's usual for breakfast oh so many years ago; she felt guilty that Emelda had remembered.

After placing the bun in front of Hermione, Emelda all but threw the Blue Plate Special at Malfoy. It clattered onto the table in front of him, spilling brilliant blue toast everywhere. He picked up a piece of toast by its corner, took in its appearance, then shot Emelda an incredulous look.

"It's supposed to look like that," said Hermione.

"I see," said Malfoy in disgust. He then proceeded to ignore Emelda completely in favor of taking a bite out of the toast. It left a blue stain on his mouth.

She'll poison him, thought Hermione suddenly. It would be so easy.

But as she watched, he began to drink the blue tea and devour the blue buttered toast and eggs and sausages with no evidence of concern. She realized that he had as little fear of Emelda as he had of the students. He must honestly think the witch couldn't, or wouldn't, try to actually do anything to him, combat stave or no. And he was probably right.

Yet, there was a lot of hatred of him here. Hatred born not of definite knowledge, but of suspicion - a suspicion that he was, indeed, a Death Eater, perhaps one who had slaughtered hundreds of Muggles. All it would take was one restaurant employee who was convinced, who was sure that he was that dangerous, and suddenly a bit of poison would seem a small matter to attend to.

Emelda Figueroa stood watching him for a bit longer, an expression of purest loathing all over her face. Then, almost reluctantly, she turned and disappeared back into the kitchen again.

"You know, you really ought to be more careful," said Hermione, keeping her voice down. "They hate you here."

Malfoy gave no sign of having heard her words.

"Last night," said Hermione, "Nesbitt showed me this list of hundreds of Muggle names and said you were responsible for all their deaths. Either by murdering them yourself, or by giving the order. It's hard to ignore something like that, even not knowing if it's true."

Malfoy grimaced and set down his tea cup. "A poor choice in table conversation, Weasley."

"Well it's true, people think you did all of that," she said.

Malfoy glanced at the tables full of students, all of whom were now arguing among each other and sending death glares his way.

"This isn't the time or place for that sort of talk," he said.

"Only if you have anything to hide," she pointed out.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Of course I have something to hide," he hissed. "Why else do you think I have the Aurors after me? Use the brain you were given, woman! Even a Mudblood ought to have been able to figure that out."

---

Hermione was so taken aback by this response that she could think of nothing immediate to say.

When even Malfoy castigated her for her denial, what choice did she have but to believe? Of course he was a Death Eater. She'd seen the Dark Mark on his arm in the photos. Of course he'd committed murder. Maybe not all the Muggles on that list of Nesbitt's, but over the years he had to have killed at least once. Or more than once. Many times, maybe. She'd seen him in combat, or something near enough to it. That kind of skill and confidence didn't come out of nowhere. It would have taken years to develop.

She watched as Malfoy continued scarfing down his breakfast and drinking some more tea. She didn't understand how he could eat food given him by his enemies without fear. She didn't understand how he could stomach anything at all when she was talking about hundreds of people dead.

"Nesbitt's list, then," she said quietly. "Is it true? All of those Muggles?"

There was a pause, and then he looked up at her. She forced herself to meet his eyes, and found herself riveted by his face. It should have been beautiful, with his pureblood genes and proud carriage. But it was thin and cruel instead, and the eyes were utterly soulless.

"You shouldn't believe everything Nesbitt tells you," he said.

"I know," she replied automatically. But those eyes told her there was no hope that he was innocent. Emelda was right. He was a monster. She dropped her gaze.

"Nesbitt's just trying to use you to get to me," said Malfoy. It had the sound of an often-repeated line. "The things he tells you could be all lies - he wouldn't care. You saw how he used those SPCMA people to attack me. The warrant wasn't even for owl fighting. And still they went through with that preposterous seizure because they're too afraid of Nesbitt to do anything else."

But you are the kind of person who would set an owl to attack another owl, aren't you? she thought.

"He's obsessed," continued Malfoy. "He has been for years - he'll trample anybody he has to if he thinks it will produce the results he wants. Even Arthur Weasley's daughter-in-law."

And you wouldn't? thought Hermione.

"It all goes back to my father. Nesbitt spent the first half of his life trying to take my father down and keep him down, and failed miserably. When it finally did happen it was Potter, not him, who succeeded. Nesbitt hated that. He didn't rest until he'd made Potter pay, and he's been making me pay ever since."

Was that really true? Had Nesbitt made Harry Potter pay? Hermione knew that Harry had ceased being an Auror and retreated from public life around ten years ago. Nesbitt might have had something to do with that, but she had no way of knowing either way. She and Ron had drifted away from Harry long before the events Malfoy described had taken place.

"Nesbitt's ruthless," said Malfoy. "There isn't anything he won't do. Even the other Special Ops are afraid of him. Your father-in-law is the only one who will stand up to him and the only reason he has gotten away with it so far is that Nesbitt really doesn't want his job. In fact, if Nesbitt had his way there would be no Auror Affairs at all. No ickle-Aurors, no subdepartments. Only Aurors. One kind of Aurors."

I know, Hermione thought.

Nesbitt was an old-line Auror. For him, the world had been torn apart when the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been dismantled after a victorious war.

Staring past her untouched cinnamon bun, she watched Malfoy's fork delicately, unerringly, peck up the last of the bits of blue sausage.

"You know, much of what I've done in recent years is because I had no choice," Malfoy said. "That list doesn't tell the whole story."

And Hermione remembered Arthur describing the Death Eaters' ever-increasing demands for proof of Malfoy's loyalty after Pansy went over to the other side. Not that it mattered if he was really loyal or not. According to Arthur, the Death Eaters used that Memoralias Charm to check up on what Malfoy did and said. That would prevent him from doing or saying anything that could be construed as traitorous, becuse the charm would remember everything perfectly. That was why they still had him in their grip even after all these years. What as that he'd said, back at his manor? There's no easy right or wrong where family and survival are concerned. And if you don't fall into line, they'll simply keep pushing you harder and harder until you reach that point where family and survival become more important than anything else. Malfoy's parents were still alive, and with children of his own he now had even more to lose than he'd had as a teenager.

He's not denying about the list, she thought. But yet, how could anyone fight both Nesbitt and the Death Eaters at once? It sounds as if even Harry couldn't do it.

Suddenly she was exhausted. Her headache had become a pounding migraine, her stomach queasy and her right eye watering. She didn't dare draw her wand to cast a pain-killing charm, though, for fear the other diners might think she was drawing it to defend herself.

How much of what Malfoy said was truth? How much was lies, or half-truths? How true, for that matter, was anything anyone said to her anymore? Because Nesbitt,and Arthur and even Trelawney had as many reasons as Malfoy did to lie to her, lead her along, make her see things the way they really weren't.

Malfoy eyed her critically, his pale gaze cynical. He looked as tired as she felt.

"Well, never mind that," he said. He dug in a robe pocket and produced a gold Galleon, which he tossed onto the table. It was too much for the food, but probably nowhere near enough for the trouble.

"Apparate me to St. Mungo's," he said.

"What, now?" said Hermione, trying to clear her muddled head.

"You wanted me to leave, didn't you? It's another forty minutes for the Portkey. If you take me, I'll be out of here all the sooner. You do have your license, don't you?"

"Of course," said Hermione, straightening. "And I've been to St. Mungo's many times, for Ron."

"Come on, then," said Malfoy. "This place reeks of Muggle-loving scum."

---

Outside, the sun made Hermione's eyeballs pulsate blindness and her head pound. She knew she'd have to go lie down somewhere and sleep to get rid of the headache now. Spells would not be able to do anything for her this far into it.

Or she could turn into her fly form. That would get rid of it as well, and far more quickly.

As she drew her wand, Malfoy's right hand closed onto her left wrist through the cloth of her robes, and she winced at the cruel strength of his grip. There was certainly nothing wrong with that hand.

"Go now," he said.

"You don't have to cling for dear life," said Hermione. "I'm perfectly capable of Apparating safely with a passenger."

Even with the mother of all headaches, she added mentally.

"That remains to be seen," he said stiffly, and she wondered how long it had been since he had been the passenger rather than the driver in an Apparition. "Go, before we're spotted."

By Muggles, she assumed he meant.

"Fine," she muttered under her breath. Well. She'd be rid of him once they reached St. Mungo's, rid of him until Monday at 6AM when he would expect her at Batwing. That would give her forty-eight hours to think, to decide what to do. To figure out what choices she really even had.

But in the meantime? Where would she go after she dropped Malfoy off?

Home to another confrontation with Ron? Would he even be there, or would he have gone back to his team? What about Arthur? Would she find him at Aur Central, plotting against Malfoy, or would he be at home with Molly planning the Quidditch Barbecue from Hell? And then there was Trelawney, the seeming author of this entire mess. Was Hermione insane to trust her?

And how could all of this end in anything but disaster?

---