Work Text:
Corridors of the Ministry are always shrouded in semi-darkness. No matter how hard Hermione tried to get used to the oppressive lack of light that seems to drain all life, after five years working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Artefact group, she still hadn’t managed it. But her eyes, trained in twilight, still catch the details of her surroundings, which have somewhat faded from memory after nine months on assignment at Durmstrang.
The dark walls steal the dim light from the single groove running along the centre of the ceiling throughout the corridor. The stone flooring, worn by the boots of Aurors and Unspeakables alike. Narrow, uncomfortable benches – one for every two department doors.
Her team’s office is at the very end, just around the corner, where barely any light reaches. Maybe that makes her nearly gasp, clutching her hand to her chest, when she turns the corner.
There, opposite the door, a hunched silhouette awaits Hermione, and for a moment, she can't believe her eyes: Lucius Malfoy himself, sitting on the bench. The very same snobbish Lucius Malfoy she had escorted to the gates of his ancestral manor just a few days ago, lifted the remaining surveillance charms and offered hollow wishes for a peaceful post-war life.
To be honest, Hermione had hoped she wouldn’t see him again until the anniversary of the war in May. Now it is only the New Year approaching.
Her moment of confusion is interrupted by a slight movement of his head – as if Mr Malfoy wanted to see who had disturbed his solitude but settled for just a sidelong glance. The awkward silence pierces her ears.
“Ahem,” Hermione clears her throat nervously, pulling out her wand from the holster on her hip and summoning a ball of light. It obediently hovers above her head, finally allowing her to see her visitor properly.
“You are remarkably eloquent today, Miss Granger,” Malfoy drawls, without even lifting his head. Only a few strands of hair shift from his shoulder onto his clasped hands.
“What brings you here?”
Straight to the point – it’s only natural when the gnawing feeling in her stomach warns her something is wrong. Hermione had seen terrified Draco in their sixth year before he brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts, she’s seen the fear in his mother’s eyes as she stood before the ruins of the school, tormented by worries for her only child, and she had seen, as if it was real, Lucius’s fears in the broken Pensieve during their time at Durmstrang. But never has she seen a Malfoy look so utterly defeated in all those times.
“I wrote to you several times.”
“But I haven’t received anything,” Hermione replies, genuinely confused, a trace of unease creeping up her spine as though ready to sink sharp teeth into her vulnerable spot.
“Well, it seems my correspondence is being censored again.”
Hermione recalls hearing something about this before her assignment: if Malfoy performed well in the tasks involving artefacts collected across Europe, all post-war restrictions on his family would be lifted. Back then, the restrictions had been suffocating: isolation of the manor, with access only granted to Aurors, a ban on international correspondence, strict censorship of owl post within the country, and the confiscation of nearly all the family’s house-elves. It wasn’t surprising that, when Lucius was offered the opportunity to go to Durmstrang in exchange for leniency and the lifting of what was effectively house arrest, he seized the chance with both hands.
“Have the other restrictions been reinstated as well?”
Lucius gestures vaguely to his left. On the wooden bench sits a letter, sealed with the crimson wax of the Wizengamot.
“May I read it?”
“If I recall correctly, you didn’t use to ask idiotic questions, Miss Granger,” Malfoy sneers, clearly on edge.
Only now does Hermione notice that he is gripping one hand with the other, as though trying to conceal a tremor. But his long, pale fingers still shake – subtly, barely perceptibly. In the dim light, the onyx of the family ring glimmers, betraying him entirely.
She sighs shortly and sits beside him, picking up the – what is this? – notice from the bench. For some reason, the seal is still intact, and Hermione breaks it before pulling out the parchment.
To Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,
From Chief Auror Gawain Robards,
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
This letter informs you of a violation of the conditions of your probationary period abroad, established by the Auror Office as an alternative to the sentence issued in Case No. 137 on 20th April 1999.
You are charged with a series of unauthorised movements within the European Union between February and December of the current year, the use of banned spells and potions during your work, as well as the unlawful acquisition and use of a wand against an escorting member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
A hearing for a case review will take place at noon on 29th December 2003 in Room 1A20 on the first floor of the Ministry of Magic.
15th December 2003
A glance at her wrist confirms her worries — the little window shows the number “27.”
“Have you read this?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come earlier?”
“Christmas, Miss Granger. Most likely, my last.”
Hermione gasps in outrage.
“If only you… I… Ugh!”
For the first time in their brief conversation, there’s something in Lucius’s voice beyond his usual air of resignation:
“I recognise your eagerness to help everyone and anyone, regardless of whether it’s deserved or not.”
He smiles, turning slightly towards Hermione — his lips curve upwards by mere fractions of an inch. The thumb of his left hand idly rolls the ring on his right middle finger.
Anxiety shifts within her, replaced by anger. It bubbles up, pressing against her throat with harsh, accusatory words, but she manages to hold it back with all her might.
“You’re a grown man, for heaven’s sake — how the hell did you let this drag on for so long?!”
“What do you mean, ‘Last Christmas’?!” her thoughts flare up in response. “You’ve barely shed the burden and are already giving up?”
She recalls the warmth upon returning home: her palm, clutching the ribbon of the Portkey, resting securely in Lucius' large, warm hand, the thumb, caressing her chilled skin, gently, but firmly. Hermione doesn’t wear gloves, and Lucius has forgotten about them at that moment, too. That is her last memory of Durmstrang, intertwined with an implied farewell and gratitude.
Hermione hears her furious huffing as she breathes heavily through her nose, compressing her lips into a thin line, and frantically thinks. The last time she saw Mr Malfoy in this mood was after watching quite entertaining memories from the Pensieve. Then Lucius suddenly exhibited a complete lack of self-preservation instinct while handling cursed objects. But now it’s worse, much worse, now that they’re talking about “last Christmas.” What the hell is his wife doing?! She did vow "for better or for worse," but it seems the worst didn’t end with Voldemort’s defeat.
Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, Hermione reaches out and covers his trembling palm with her own. It’s like touching an icy sculpture — instantly cold, but she doesn’t want to pull away.
“I’ve documented everything in my reports,” Granger finally breaks the silence. “I wrote about the pathetic half-dead hazel wand you were given as a temporary—” she emphasises, unintentionally raising her voice, “—measure, and about Warsaw, for which I secured permission retroactively. And I attached extracts from my notes for each artefact.”
Unconsciously, she tightens her grip on his fingers because hers start to tremble as well. Not from the cold (though it is bloody freezing on the underground levels), but from nerves.
“If those idiots need to be told twice, I’ll come and repeat it.”
After Lucius’ bitter chuckle, following her tirade, a nasty knot seems to twist in Hermione’s solar plexus, making it hard to breathe. With her eyes wide open in shock, she watches as Lucius removes the ring and places it into her palm. He lifts her hand to his lips, gently brushing them against her closed fingers, and then against the dark scar tissue on her forearm.
“I didn’t come here for help, Hermione. If our valiant enforcers of the law have convinced themselves that I haven’t paid enough for my mistakes, then the trial will become a spectacle. The people demand bread and circuses, a public execution to make an example.”
The ring burns her palm. Heated by the warmth of his hand, the stone threatens to bore a hole between her knuckles, and Hermione has to exert effort not to hurl his trinket back at him. It’s bloody ridiculous, not a spectacle, she wants to retort.
But Lucius continues:
“I won’t survive a second conviction. Don’t argue,” he cuts off Hermione, who’s opened her mouth to protest. “You weren’t there; you don’t know what it’s like.”
“But I know that this whole Azkaban business is utter nonsense,” she replies inwardly, but in reality, she feels like her tongue is frozen, preventing her from saying a single word while Lucius rocks her palm, tightly holding the ring.
“Thank you for the journey. It was…” he struggles to find the word, “unexpected to learn something new about myself at this age. Give the ring to Draco. He knows what to do next.”
“What the… hell, Lucius? What the bloody hell?!” Hermione can’t hold back any longer, springing to her feet and pulling her hand away. “I can’t believe this farce! Nine months working for the bloody Ministry and the Eastern European Commonwealth, just to have what would've been yours in three years anyway, and now you are acting like this review is some kind of a tragedy? Robards’ argument will crumble the moment you open your mouth. Should I write to Durmstrang? Why the hell didn’t you come sooner?”
She breathes heavily, looking down into Lucius’ eyes, and only now realises what a remarkable scene they must present to the entire DMLE: a former Death Eater, now hunched under the weight of a new charge, once the Dark Lord’s right hand, and an enraged Auror-artefactologist, a member of the new Order of the Phoenix and a local celebrity. Rita Skeeter would be drooling.
“I’m tired of not belonging to myself. Making mistakes at every turn, thinking I’m doing the right thing. It’s hard to change your view of the world and adapt after forty, Hermione. If hope for a peaceful life after the war hasn’t materialised, I’d like to ensure they at least won’t come after Narcissa and Draco.”
He doesn’t specify who “they” are, but that isn’t necessary — it’s clear that once they’ve got their hooks into him, the law enforcement representatives won’t let go until they’ve drained him dry.
Hermione belatedly casts Muffliato over the alcove in front of the office and peeks around the corner, but thankfully, there’s no one there.
“And where’s your wand?”
“I suspect it’s somewhere in the bowels of the Auror Office.”
“You have no idea how I want to hit someone right now. You simply have no idea,” she mutters to herself, squeezing her free hand’s fingers over the bridge of her nose and squinting her eyes, trying to imagine herself anywhere but here, at least for a minute. The ring digs painfully into her palm, naturally stifling any attempt to detach herself from the moment. “And you, Lucius, for these inappropriate tearful farewells, that bloody Robards, and the genius who reported you. And that damned Skeeter with her article about Warsaw.”
She takes several deep breaths. For three counts, although those seconds seem nothing like enough to quell the tangled ball of emotions. Malfoy wisely remains silent.
“Alright, enough. Take your bauble and come back on the twenty-ninth. You’ll have your peaceful life.”
The ring returns to its owner. The imprint of the letter “M” remains on her skin, and Hermione involuntarily curls her lips in distaste. She feels just as bitter, nausea creeping in.
Lucius rises from his seat, finally looking down at her for the first time since the conversation began.
Hermione meets his gaze in silence. What else is there for her to say? Wish him a safe return to his wife after those tender kisses on the palm, before which she had truly believed she could balance on the edge of a transparent romantic interest and a friendship that forged from shared dangers? She definitely has a tendency towards self-harm if she keeps choosing unavailable men. And a hopelessly married pure-blood aristocrat twice her age is the epitome of everything forbidden she could find in the opposite domain.
Damn Durmstrang, damn Robards, damn ambitions.
“Shall we meet at the trial, Hermione?”
She nods.
Merlin is her witness: if it has to be a spectacle, then Hermione will play her part from beginning to end.