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Bad Faith	By : angharad1143 Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 7649 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Crouched outside the Nott Mansion, Draco’s muscles were screaming at him, but he dared not move;
hardly dared breathe.

Perspiration beaded and ran freely, down his forehead, the back of his neck, soaking the shirt
Hermione had given him underneath his Invisibility Cloak. It was not a night any different from many of his
nights the past few years, but his knees were starting to give him fits.

More than the pain in his knees, though, was the effort expended, through Occlumency, to hide his
presence. There were few wizards outside the Dark Lord who could sense others nearby, but Dolohov was
one of those, and Draco risked nothing, if he could avoid it.

The flesh-colored string of an Extendible Ear sat on the windowsill, charmed to be invisible, and not
for the first time, Draco pondered the irony of using so frequently something created by a Weasley. He’d
never had much use for that particular clan.

It had been only a few months since the Death Eaters had first discovered him, and by then, the
damage was done. He knew where they lived; he knew what charms protected their homes, when and where
they were likely to meet. With the exception of Voldemort and the dispossessed Death Eaters, his father
included, all of the Death Eaters would have had to pack up and move to hide from Draco. The wealthy ones,
secure in their ancestral homes, had refused to do that. And however safe they thought the charms made
them, there were ways and ways, as he’d told Hermione. Almost every charm could be countered.

The improved version of the Ear had some problems with reception, but it was unaffected by solid
objects and Imperturbable Charms, and Draco adjusted it in his ear, struggling to catch snatches of the
conversation within.

“...the Lestranges?” Nott was finishing, and Dolohov nodded, a gaunt pale figure in the dimly lit
room, still wearing the marks of Azkaban.

“...yesterday,” Dolohov replied quietly. “...Mulciber to follow...Dark Lord...sent...”

Swearing internally, Draco fiddled again with the Ear and thought he might spend a little time later
improving it further. Trying to get the Ear in just the right position was like trying to get the rabbit ears on
his television to pick up a channel clearly. It almost took an act of God.

“...summoned...dealt with?” Nott asked, and Dolohov nodded again.

“...trouble. The Order discovered...”

Draco permitted himself a grim smile at that. Apparently, the “wavering caretaker” had been dealt
with.

“...sending Aurors and members of the Order...Muggle-born...”

Muggle-born bitch? Was that what he said? There were quite a few working at the Ministry that fit
that description, but his thought immediately went to Hermione. His lips quirked. Except for the “bitch” part.

“...Malfoy...deal with...”

Which Malfoy? Deal with what?

“Avery later. Dark Lord’s instructions.”

Draco closed his eyes. On the off chance that Dolohov had different instructions, different
information for Avery, he would have to go there, too. By habit, Death Eaters made the rounds at night, in
an antiquated “calling” ritual that was a pretension of the old English nobility. Dolohov would be at Avery’s
by dawn, a dilapidated house in Essex. And Merlin, did Draco ever just want to crawl into a bed and sleep.
His temples pulsed in the effort of Occlumency.

“Filthy Mudbloods, Muggles taking...”

They’d moved on to ranting now, and Draco’s breath was rattling in his chest as he tried to figure
out what had been said, adding it to other bits of information he’d picked up along the way. Which Malfoy?
As willing as he was to take the Death Eaters down, he was not eager to face his father. Either they were
hunting Draco–old news–or his father was...what?

Draco swore again, rising silently on knees that popped, and reached for the Portkey in his pocket.
He didn’t dare Apparate from here; the crack as he vanished was sure to give him away. More than that, Nott
was head of one of Voldemort’s cells tasked with hunting Dark Wizard catchers. Not only would he hear an
Apparation, he would follow it.

He reappeared on the edge of the trees near his hotel, careful, as always, to be seen coming and going
from his room. If it seemed he never left, some employee might take it upon themselves to investigate. That
could be bad.

The hotel manager, a greasy hulk of man, barely glanced away from the television as Draco slapped
almost all of his remaining Muggle cash on the counter and informed him that he was checking out. Over a
week had passed since he checked in, and he didn’t dare stay in any place too long. He usually moved every
week; sooner if he thought he was being followed.

With mutual indifference, he and the manager parted, and Draco went down to his room to pack, his
brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle together what he’d heard.

At least he and the Mystery Cricket would be parting ways, he thought, as the little beast chirped
from the corner of his room. They had been roommates for over a week now, and despite the fact that Draco
had torn the room apart looking for it two nights in a row, he’d never found it.

Picking up a threadbare duffel bag, Draco hastily assembled his meager pile of possessions. Two
extra shirts, cloak and Invisibility Cloak. A battered bag of his potions ingredients, as well as the dregs of
a Pepperup potion, several antidotes, and a vial of Veritaserum...he remembered wistfully the privileged first
fifteen years of his life as he packed the clinking vials carefully between his clothes. The money had never
been his, though, and the cost of that privilege, more than he was willing to pay.

The little leather bag that held the last of his Wizard money went into the bottom of the bag: a few
knuts, a couple sickles, and three galleons. He would have to go get some more Muggle money tonight,
before he found another hotel, and Draco closed his eyes. He was already exhausted, and getting Muggle
money took a lot out of him.

He replaced his last ten pounds in a battered wallet and paused in passing to examine a photo of
Hermione, torn out of Hogwarts yearbook he’d stumbled across in a garbage bin in Diagon Alley. She had
been in sixth year in that yearbook. Longer brown hair that had finally been pulled straight, brown eyes that
looked down almost coyly, then back up with a smile that he couldn’t help returning. Occasionally, she read
a book, thoughtfully twining a lock of hair in her fingers. A fresh-faced sixteen, no idea that soon Draco
would be gone, McGonagall would be dead, Longbottom in what looked like an irreversible coma...hell, she
was still fresh-faced, despite all that had happened. It was one of the reasons he loved her.

Shaving kit, socks and an extra pair of boots, and that was it. The sum of his worldly wealth. Draco
slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and paused just outside the hotel, glancing back at the buzzing neon
sign that proclaimed Vac ncy. The second a had gone out.

Down the road a bit was a convenience store, and he bought some cheap watches there, ignoring the
curious eyes of the girl at the counter, who hid a cigarette behind her back as she handed him his change.
Three watches with Muggle cartoon characters on them, a show he’d watched once on telly and never really
seen the point of. Ed, Edd, and Eddy? Were there no other names to pick from?

It took time to transfigure the watches. He sat in the alley behind the convenience store, slowly
shaping them into Rolexes, pausing occasionally to listen, making sure he wasn’t watched. Never mind
wizards, Muggles might raise an unholy din if they saw the glow as he reworked the cheap children’s
watches. Trafficking with magically created or changed goods was strictly against the law, of course, but it
beat purse-snatching.

He’d seen a commercial on television about Rolexes, and for whatever reason, pawn shops paid a
great deal of money for them.

Despite the cold and snow, he was perspiring again when he finished, and Draco leaned back against
the wall when he was done, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Between the Occlumency and the
Transfiguring, he was about finished. He’d wait to contact Hermione until later, after he’d had a few hours
of sleep.

~o~oOo~o~

A burning on her back woke her, and Hermione sat up in bed with a start, reaching for her wand and
staring wildly around the room until she remembered what it meant. Draco.

The little dragon woke as well, but there was no urgency in him this time; he yawned and curled up
on her back, scratching lightly with tiny claws. Still halfway dreaming, Hermione staggered out of bed and
rubbed her eyes, casting about for clothes that vaguely matched.

“Lumos,” she muttered, chagrined. Light would definitely aid in the search.

Swiftly, she plaited her hair, tying it off with a mumbled, “comptus,” and stomped into trainers,
Summoning her cloak from the closet down the hall. It was cold tonight, and the snow would be deep in the
glade. The portkey was halfway unwrapped before she remembered the food she’d put aside for Draco, and
she fetched it quickly, vanishing from her flat.

Darker tonight, for the moon had waned, and laden clouds overhead promised more snow, even as
a few flurries darted past her rapidly numbing nose. Hermione dug her hands into her pockets and shivered,
brushing snow off the tree stump and sitting down.

Draco was not long in coming, and she could see lines of weariness etched in his face as he
approached, his eyes red, his chin stubbled with the beginnings of a beard two shades darker than his hair.

“Mmm.” He bent, pressed his lips to hers, and picked her up effortlessly, taking her place on the tree
stump and resting her easily on his lap. “I don’t have long,” he said quietly. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Today,” she replied. “In a few hours.”

He tilted her chin up with a long finger and kissed her again. “Be careful, love. The Lestranges and
Mulciber will be there. My father–” His voice hitched over the word– “might be there. I’m not sure.”

“I’ve warned Harry and Ron, and Dumbledore. I told them everything,” she said quietly, watching
his face for approval. He nodded wearily.

“I thought you would,” he said. “And Moody, and Shacklebolt?”

“They figured it out.”

“Thought so, but I was watching, anyway.” Draco smothered a yawn and reached for the bag of food
at their feet, working through a sandwich more out of habit than desire. He supposed he needed to eat, but
he needed sleep more, and that wasn’t going to happen yet. “Moody, of course,” he said, “is trustworthy.
Shacklebolt’s the Head, isn’t he?” Hermione nodded, and Draco grimaced. “Then he’d better be
trustworthy.”

“He’s a member of the Order,” Hermione reminded him.

“That’s helpful, but the Order’s had traitors before. Dumbledore just flushed one out.”

“How do you know so much?” She asked curiously.

“Someone has to watch the watchers,” he said, smiling crookedly. “It’s no use to ferret out spies if
you don’t know what they’ve told the Death Eaters, is it?”

A smile touched her lips at the mention of ferret, and Draco caught her amusement and hugged her.

“The day that will live in infamy,” he murmured. “I’m glad you’re leaving. The hunt starts soon.”

That jolted her; with him, here, it was almost too easy to forget the danger. The hunt. For the Order
and for Aurors. An escalation of the war. The Death Eaters must be close to finding the artifact, and due to
the piles of bureaucratic red tape at the Ministry, she hadn’t even started the search.

“Do you know anything more about the Eye? Where they’re looking, where it might be?”

Draco shook his head. “I’d have to go to Romania myself for that, love. And I’ve got enough to do
here.”

“So you won’t be there.” Hermione touched his face, reading the answer. “Go ahead and eat,” she
added, feeling his stomach growl.

The Lestranges and Mulciber. She remembered the Lestranges from the Battle in the Department of
Mysteries. Bellatrix, cousin to Sirius, who had been the first casualty of the second war. A cold woman, and
cruel. And Draco’s aunt, for that matter, Hermione realized. She’d seen the Black family tree in Grimmauld
Place, and as far as she knew, the golden lines connecting Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy were
still there, along with the name of their blood traitor son.

Mulciber, who had hexed Neville into a coma that he had yet to awaken from. It was Antonin
Dolohov, though, that had killed Professor McGonagall. One of the deadliest of the Death Eaters.

She would be facing them, when she went to Romania, but her concern was more for Draco, and for
Susan, Justin, Tonks...Charlie...Ginny...Harry and Ron...

When she really thought about it, the odds were not good, statistically speaking, that they would all
make it through this war alive.

“Draco,” she said suddenly, “please, be careful.”

“Do my best,” he replied, but it wasn’t a promise, and that was what she needed to hear.

“Just...” She trailed off. “Don’t die, Draco. Call for help if you need it. I’ll come.”

Dropping the sandwich into the snow, Draco crushed her against him.

“I know you will. I’ll try.” His lips against her hair, the smell of him, and there was a bittersweet
desperation in the next kiss, that was both farewell and, love you. And even if Hermione couldn’t say it yet,
even if she couldn’t bring his face close to hers and whisper the words she knew he was waiting for, she
could tell him this way.

“The Mark,” he said hoarsely. “It was a marriage mark, a long, long time ago.” His teeth flashed as
she nodded, and he ran his fingers through her hair. “You looked it up,” he said approvingly. “That’s how
I meant it, love.”

With a crack, he was gone. Hermione thumped down onto the tree stump, mouth open, and no idea
what to say.

For a moment, she thought of following him. No. He had things to do, and so did she. It was only
a few hours until dawn, and there was work ahead.
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Bad Faith