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How To Train Your Auror 2: Family Ties	By : Alcoholic_Rootbeer Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 7990 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I will not make a profit from this story

Chapter List
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He wakes up early today
Throws on a mask that will alter his face
Nobody knows his real name
But now he just uses one he saw on a grave
He pretends that he's OK,
But you should see
Him in bed late at night,
He's petrified
"Trap Door" by Twenty One Pilots
With a flick of her wand, Hermione lit to life the hundreds of candles running atop the high shelves circling the perimeter. The room illuminated at once, revealing a large, stone walled infrastructure scattered with bits and pieces of Diggle's life: piles of books (muggle and magic alike), awards for various good deeds for the Ministry, and every bit of the music he collected over the years. There were also a variety of magical objects, though none of them were deemed cursed or illegal, so the Ministry had no reason to confiscate them. Diggle's eyes lit up the second his eyes came upon a tiny, wooden box next to a crate of older records.
"I thought I'd never see this again," he muttered, more to himself than to Hermione, though when he picked it up he did offer it out between them for her to look. "My mother's," he pried open the top, and a tiny ballerina popped up as a tinkling rendition of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. "She had a love for The Nutcracker."
There was something so… human about him, in that moment, watching the tiny, plastic dancer spin on her ballet slipper. Greg Diggle didn't appear as if he were debating on how best to con someone out of a situation, nor did he wear that smug smirk he so often did. His green eyes glistened only with longing.
"She passed away, didn't she?" Hermione heard herself ask, and instantly reprimanded herself for it. This was not the time to suddenly have a heart for the man who killed her husband.
Diggle nodded. "Two years after… my father." He appeared captivated by spinning toy. "Have you heard of stress-induced cardiomyopathy?"
"Broken heart syndrome? You're suggesting it was stress that killed her."
"Precisely." He snapped the music box shut and set it on top of the table where he found it. "It was… a rough go of it. If my father had died in a car wreck or a heart attack -some muggle way to go, I don't think she would have thought much of it. Yes, it would have hurt, but… I had an obligation to her, didn't I, Hermione? To tell her the truth?"
Blast it all for moral compasses, because despite all Hermione knew of him, she still couldn't bring herself to give him the cold shoulder on this matter, like she so desperately wanted to. She walked past him, towards the music box, and pried it back open to listen to the tinkling melody again. Somehow, it made the words come easier. "You couldn't hide the War from her. To do that would be to diminish your father's death."
Diggle looked over his shoulder, back at her, and smiled genuinely. Then he cleared his throat. "Shall we press on?"
Hermione nodded, shutting the music box. "Are you ready for the next task, Diggle?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Great." She approached small door on the opposite side of the vault that looked little more than a cupboard. "Open the door."
"Why? What's going to come popping out?"
"Trial two."
Diggle raised an eyebrow but said nothing else as he walked up to the door, hand poised at the knob. He tilted his head, listening to his magical instincts. No sounds came from the other side. "I wonder…" With careful measure, he turned the handle.
The cart finally halted for Harry, Draco, and Tonklin deep in the bowels of Gringotts. So deep, in fact, Draco wondered what key Potter presented to the goblin. His upper lip begged to be scratched, but he remained stoic in the back seat of the cart, doing his best not to draw attention to himself. This fake goatee was really working his last nerve. He watched Tonklin snap his fingers, opening the door, and Potter climbed out first, followed by Draco.
"You're not coming?" Potter asked, his black eyebrows drawing together in concern to their tour guide.
"I'll be waiting here in the cart," the goblin assured him.
"Never thought I'd see the day when a goblin doesn't feel the need to stick his nose in wizard affairs…" sneered Draco under his breath, but Tonklin heard.
His eyes narrowed. "I thought wizards were more evolved in recent years, but that thought seems to have bypassed you, somehow." Tonklin slammed the cart door shut. "Of course, what do we expect when wizards throw war around like it's an afternoon tea party?"
A flare of anger shifted inside of Draco, but Potter grabbed him by the arm with commanding authority. "You were out of line. Apologize."
"Apologize?" Draco scoffed. "To this ingrate?"
Potter got right up in his face. "This is not the time to show your bigotry."
His words cut deep, opening up an old wound Draco didn't know he had until then. Somewhere, deep in the crevices of his soul, he still harbored his old, pureblood roots of prejudices. He thought he'd moved past this after twelve bloody years, but obviously, he hadn't. A chill scattered down his spine as he turned to the goblin, who stared at him expectedly, and muttered, "I… I'm sorry."
Tonklin bowed his head slowly in approval, shifting himself comfortably in his seat. "Do hurry along. I haven't all day."
"Neither do we," said Potter, dragging Draco away from the scene of his xenophobia and up to the large, stone door before them. In an effort to rid himself of his embarrassment, Draco thrust his hand out expectedly and glanced at the key. Potter rolled his eyes, but gave it over in any case, and Draco smirked as he slipped the key into the brass lock in front of them and turned it.
"Whose vault is this?" he asked in a hushed tone as the doors drew open, towards the inside.
Potter did not answer him, simply opting to step inside the swung open doors, expecting Draco to follow (which he did). When the door behind them shut tight, Draco allowed himself to speak in a comfortable volume. "Why are you being so ominous?"
Potter removed his glasses as if he teared up for a moment, but then gave a small cough, placed them back on the bridge of his nose, and replied, "We're following a lead Hermione gave me in whereabouts of the Resurrection Stone." His eyes clashed with Draco's. "This vault. It belonged to Ron."
Cold. Cold and frightened and diminished. If someone asked Greg Diggle how he felt the moment after the door opened, that was how he would have described it. Because no one was prepared for their greatest fear, especially when it sprang up on them so quiet and peaceful.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Someone stepped out from inside the closet in lengthy, billowing robes the color of midnight. Someone with a form that changed height or build every few seconds with a flicker. The face was a blur, though momentarily it would shift between various Death Eaters, including Lucius Malfoy.
Panic flooded his system, and Greg stumbled back, instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn't there. He knew the incantation to use -just didn't have the means to do so. Even with wandless magic…
"Hermione!" he shouted, his heart pounding, "Hermione, do something!"
He cast his eyes in her direction, and she gave a measured pause, no doubt studying his incredulous glare. Why wasn't she helping him? Surely she didn't get some sick sense of enjoyment out of watching him stare down his greatest horror? But maybe she did.
"So this is your greatest fear," she said mildly as the robed figure took another step in his direction. "Your father's murderer."
"Analyze me later," he snapped, his eyebrows furrowing together as he attempted to think of something, anything that would rid the foul beast before him. No matter how hard he tried, the seizure in his chest wouldn't cease, and he couldn't concentrate long enough on a happy thought. "P-Please." He choked back a small sob. "Hermione, have mercy."
Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, and she suddenly tossed the wand at his feet. "You have to be the one to do it," she told him, and he nodded in thanks as he scooped up the magical strip of wood and wielded it at the creature before him.
Something silly, he thought to himself and shouted, "Riddikulus!"
The boggart shifted immediately, bending and twining. Its frame grew slender, and its face was no longer a blur, but sharp features, platinum blond hair, and ridiculously purple eyeshadow. Soon, the image of Draco Malfoy, dressed in a school girl's uniform (the tight, midrift shirt, knee highs with mary-janes, and short, pleated skirt all included) with a copy of gay porn tucked under his arm and a lolly-pop dangling between his lips stood before them.
Greg smirked, thoroughly satisfied.
"Oh, really now." Hermione thrust her hand out for her wand, and Greg gleefully handed it back over to her. The pair traded considerate glances, and then, with a whirl of magic, Hermione accio'd a trunk from across the room and slammed the boggart inside.
Draco's hands turned cold and clammy as he struggled to focus his eyes. Nothing, it seemed, could force him to concentrate on the task at hand while he knew he stood inside of Ron Weasley's personal vault.
"You really think the stone is here?" he asked, glancing about at the sparse room. Weasley, obviously, was not a materialistic man. The objects in here were sentimental: an older model broomstick from their days at Hogwarts, a chocolate frog collection tucked inside a binder, riddled with dust, and a replica of Godric Gryffindor's sword were just some of the listed items.
"Hermione seems to think so," Harry replied, rummaging through his pockets. He revealed a folded bit of paper Draco recognized immediately as Diggle's letter, still stained in Draco's own blood. "Diggle said he left her clues to obtain the stone. Hermione believes something in Ron's vault will lead us to it. Look for anything out of character."
"I didn't know him well, you know," Draco pointed out, shuffling his feet as he walked over to a bookshelf filled with Quidditch statistics and framed, autographed pictures of world famous Quidditch players.
"You know him enough. After all, you're marrying Hermione."
"The two couldn't have made a more awkward pair."
"You're one to talk."
Draco cast his eyes in Potter's direction and glared furiously. "I make her happy. Perhaps, if you would pull your head out of your arse long enough, you could see it."
"I never said you weren't good for her," Potter noted, his back turned as he observed the broom. "Only that I think you're awkward."
"More like you feel awkward seeing us together."
"You think I'd eventually get used to it." He shook his head. "I haven't."
"Yes, well… I love her. And she loves me. And we're getting married."
"You say it as if you have something to prove."
Draco, looking for something to keep himself busy, walked over and observed the sword. The jewels glistened in the hilt, refracting colorful streaks against the wall. He didn't want to think about Potter's words and how they rang true, somehow. So many things hung in the balance. His life sat at the top of the priority list, making his crumbling relationship trivial in comparison. One day soon, should he survive this mission and his grandfather's assault, he and Hermione would need to sit down and discuss their issues, which all stemmed from one deceased Ron Weasley.
"This is a shoddy replica," he muttered.
"What?" Potter turned around.
"This sword," Draco replied, pointing to the hilt, "The real sword of Godric Gryffindor has red stones set in all three places. This one here," he nudged to one of the two smaller stones set at the crossing point, "It's black. And discolored."
"Malfoy, you're brilliant."
Draco smirked. "Yeah, I know. -Why?"
Potter stepped up beside him, grabbed the sword by the hilt, and drew the imperfect stone up to his eye level. "Because this isn't a replica. This is the actual sword."
"You mean to tell me the sword of Godric Gryffindor is just lying around in some dead man's vault like some two-bit piece of trash? Have you Gryffindors no respect for history?"
Potter smirked. "I'm beginning to see why Hermione enjoys your company now."
"Shut it." Draco leaned in closer, observing the black stone. "This is it, isn't it? The stone?"
"Yes."
"And you're sure?"
There was a thoughtful look in Potter's eye. One of forlorn and longing. "Yes. I'm quite sure."
Hermione pointed into the closet once she was sure the boggart was secure. "See that mirror there?" She extended her arm, where a framed, full body mirror covered in a black drape rested inside the closet. "That's your third task."
Diggle smirked. "A mirror?" He tucked his arms behind his back. For being scared silly only moments ago, he seemed rather calm about it all. "Forgive me for being so blunt, but I'm not Draco Malfoy; I don't enjoy looking at myself at all hours of the day. -Even if I am devilishly handsome."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Go to the mirror. Remove the cloth."
"Why? What's going to happen?" he asked, extremely interested. Where any normal person would have been apprehensive, Diggle only looked towards the mirror in excitement. He stepped to the mirror, and as he approached, he grinned wider. "I can feel it." He turned back around to her. "Can you?"
She stared curiously at him, stepping forward. For the longest time, she thought it was only her. "I guess anyone who comes in contact with the Gray can sense it."
"Perhaps." Diggle nodded, turning back to look at the cloaked mirror. "What will I see when I remove this cloth?"
"Well… that depends on you." She tucked her hands behind her back and shifted on her toes. "You love myths, Diggle. Figure this one out for yourself."
"Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser…" He extended his hand, wrapped his fingers tightly through the cloth, and dragged it down. The sheet billowed to the floor, revealing their reflections. Well, almost. Diggle appeared much more robust – he was a few shades more muscular, like his golden days at the Auror Division, while he wore a fresh haircut and no stubble upon his chin. Hermione's hair was slightly shorter, and her face glowed with a fresher, gentler tone. "Some sort of filter spell," Diggle concluded, rubbing his chin, "But for what?"
"See for yourself. Touch it."
As instructed, Diggle raised his hand and extended his fingertips towards the glass. He paused, half a moment, weighing the magical energy coming from it. "Not cursed…" His fingers slid across the glass -and then pushed through. The mirror gave way like metallic goo, encompassing his fingers and showing them inside the glass. "So, an adventure through the looking glass." He grinned wildly. "Fascinating."
Stepping through the mirror was like stepping into an Alice in Wonderland caricature. Or, at least, Greg saw it that way as he and Hermione pushed through the metallic film of the mirror and into the reflection. Knowing she would fight against it, but also knowing it was for their safety, he reached over and clasped her hand in his, earning a gasp, a swat to the arm, and then a frightened grasp of her fingers around his as they both broke entirely through and fell into a blanket of darkness.
"So… what exactly is supposed to happen now?"
Their surroundings suddenly lit to life like the lights for a stage on opening night. They stood, interestingly enough, in the one place Greg Diggle thought he'd never see again; The Minister of Magic's office. It was entirely too quiet, aside from the sounds of their own breathing, until Hermione gave a hefty huff and jerked her hand out of his. Greg thought to comment on it until the sound of the door unlocking behind them caught his attention, distracting him as Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside.
Greg tensed, preparing for some sort of alarm to sound and alert the Aurors in the building, but instead, Minister Shacklebolt grinned warmly at the two in his office and said, "Ahh, Auror Diggle. You received my invitation, I take it?" His eyes turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger. Did I miss a memo?"
Hermione didn't miss a beat, tucking a lock of her -now shorter- hair behind her ear. Greg noticed her robes were gone, and she wore a black pencil skirt, white button-down blouse, and pumps instead. "Forgive me, Minister." There were papers tucked underneath an arm, and she scanned her eyes quickly over the headline before continuing, "I… believe I need your signatures on some of these articles."
"Ah. A law-woman's work is never done, is it?" Shacklebolt laughed, moving past the two over to his desk. He plucked a thick, plumed quill from an ink bottle and signed the top of Hermione's forms. "How goes the S.P.E.W.?"
Hermione glanced over to Greg with a sad gleam in her eye, cleared her throat, and said, "Wonderful, Minister. Thank you for asking." She nudged over in Shacklebolt's direction with her head discretely, cueing Greg to speak. He hadn't realized how dry his mouth became until he attempted to speak again.
"Thank you… for inviting me here, Minister. To what do I owe the privilege?"
Shacklebolt gave an incredulous look. "Why - your promotion, of course. To Head Auror."
Greg couldn't help it -he immediately turned to Hermione and offered out his arm. "Pinch me. Please."
She shook her head, shooting him a warning with her eyes. "No. Thank you, Auror Diggle. I believe I'll pass." Under her breath, she muttered, "Play your part."
"My part?" Greg turned his eyes back to Shacklebolt, who looked at him expectedly for a response. "I…" He thought about it. "Sir, it's a privilege -and an honor. Would you mind if I have a moment alone with my colleague? For only a moment?" He wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulder and guided her out the door, throwing up a finger to the Minister in a 'just a moment' manner before shutting the door behind them. When they were out in the hall, Diggle put an arm on both of Hermione's shoulders and looked her square in the face. "What the Hell is going on? Where are we?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but a voice -so familiar, and yet so foreign, pierced Greg Diggle's eardrum, rendering him speechless.
"Seriously, Diggs? Would you mind keeping your mitts off my wife for five bloody minutes? I swear to Merlin, you're worse than a Veela during mating."
Greg didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind him. All he needed to do was stare into the bewildered, pain-filled expression in Hermione's eyes to know.
He swallowed a bitter lump in his throat, removed his hands from her shoulders, and turned to face a set of sky blue eyes and a head full of bright red hair. Ron Weasley gave a lopsided grin, crossing his arms. "That's better. -Hey, Mione. Ready for lunch?"
Hope everyone loved it! What's going on with the mirror? Find out soon.
~A.
P.S. -A review is always welcome, if you have the time. :)
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How To Train Your Auror 2: Family Ties