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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.

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It took three days of searching to find a book that even mentioned the Confatalis Mark, and
Hermione was less than pleased when she finally found it in Archaic Spells of the Western World. The spell
traced all the way back to hunter-gatherer wizards, who used it to protect their wives while they were away,
presumably hunting and/or gathering.

That was back when humans were just beginning to access that part of their brains that let them
perform magic, thus beginning the separation between Muggles and Wizards. Those who couldn’t perform
that spell, or any spell, died sooner, so whole tribes were eventually wizards, while humans were still trying
to figure out another way to adapt.

Not that that interesting bit of trivia was particularly disturbing.

The fact that the spell could also be used to track emotions and thoughts, as well as peer through the
wearer’s eyes, was disturbing.

This was Draco Malfoy. Whatever he was doing now, whatever self-sacrificing hero he’d turned
himself into, she didn’t want anyone tracking her emotions or peering through her eyes.

Summoning spell. Bollocks.

Hermione shoved the book away from her, cursing under her breath and wishing Harry and Ron were
there. She didn’t now precisely where they were or what they were doing, which was not anything new. Dark
Wizard Catchers were hard to pin down.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered that Malfoy said the Death Eaters were actively
hunting Dark Wizard Catchers. And known members of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry and Ron were both.

Why it taken her so long to put that bit of information together, she didn’t know, and there was
nothing she could do about it in any case. A headache was beginning to pulse at her temples as she picked
up another book–Distinguishing Marks, Distinguished Wizards, by Thelonius Bagby–and began to scan its
pages.

Actually, the spell in its present form wasn’t that old. The Confatalis Mark regained popularity
during the height of the Roman Empire, as the Emperor’s priests tried to tie the fate of the Empire to
themselves and to their Emperor. Hmm. Historically speaking, that explained a bit. Thus, the original spell
gained the power to negate all past and future marks...

That was good and bad. Hermione scowled at the page. Marriage marks weren’t a necessity anymore,
but she’d always thought vaguely that she would get one when the time came.

Her hand went abruptly to the small of her back and she swore, loud and long.

The Mark of the Phoenix was there, but it wasn’t anything more than a regular–albeit moving and
shiny–tattoo, now. She’d have to knock to get into Headquarters, and be let in by another member. The door
wasn’t open to her anymore.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” she growled, reading on. At least if someone tried to curse her with an Everlasting
Athlete’s Foot Mark, she was protected.

The wizard is essentially pouring their strength, their essence, into the recipient; the mark takes the
form of its maker, and is an adjunct to that wizard. A piece of their body marked indelibly on the recipient.

Indelibly. Like gum on the bottom of a shoe. She had a piece of Malfoy stuck to her, forever.

The incantation itself is simple; however, the effort expended to create the Mark weakens the wizard
considerably.

That was why he’d stumbled, then, when the spell was complete. Mister Infernally Graceful had
never stumbled before in her presence.

“The spell requires every bit of the caster’s attention, and the casting itself takes two day’s
preparation. The caster must anoint themselves with a potion consisting of...”

Gross.

Meditating solely on the recipient for a period of twenty-four hours...

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

And other than historical anecdotes about the use of the Confatalis Mark through the ages, there
wasn’t much else to learn. With a flick of her wand, Hermione sent the books back to their shelves and buried
her face in her hands.

~o~oOo~o~

Her second meeting with Moody had come and gone, and Hermione had yet to be summoned.

It was driving her insane.

It was also something she didn’t dare dwell too deeply on, or she would be biting her nails on the
incessant thoughts, Is he hurt? Would I know? Has he been caught? It’s been (fill in the blank) days!

Except for the mark on her back, the tiny dragon occasionally belching a fireball or squirming
ticklishly between her shoulder blades, she would have thought she’d dreamed the whole thing. That and her
three jaunts to Headquarters had dealt a great deal in explanation of why, exactly, she could no longer enter
on her own. And Hermione was so bad at lying.

Her work was suffering. Not badly, but suffering. The ability to absorb herself completely into her
homework had translated nicely into an ability to absorb herself completely in the endless rounds of
paperwork, but that gift had left her lately. She kept seeing Draco’s face in the glade, seeing how cold he
looked, seeing how his ribs jutted, even through that thin shirt he’d been wearing.

On that thought, she went out and bought materials for a cloak and shirt, being fairly sure she could
make those without too many horrendous mistakes. Trousers would have been trickier, and she didn’t dare
buy ready-made men’s clothes. A small bit of information it would be, but interested and knowledgeable ears
could make something of it.

Twelve endless days passed before the mark began to burn in her back, predictably at the worst
possible time.

Susan Bones glanced over at her, concerned, as Hermione suddenly jerked upright with a gasp.

“Are you all right, Hermione?” Everyone else at the table–Lavender, Blaise, Ernie–were staring
curiously.

“Oh, yes. Ow. My back fell asleep,” Hermione said, trying to smile. “Have to go, see you later–” and
retreated hastily from the room, berating herself for the sorry excuse. My back fell asleep? How about, “I
pulled a muscle exercising?” Or, “I’ve got a bruise back there,” wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Merlin’s beard.

She Apparated back to her flat first, grabbing the shirt and cloak she’d made for Malfoy, as well as
a bagful of food that she’d kept ready for the past five days. The little dragon on her back hissed, and it felt
as if her skin was trying to crawl off and apparate ahead of her.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Hermione snapped at the dragon, who subsided with a puff of flame that
singed the baby hairs on the back of her neck. She dug the badge out of her pocket and unwrapped it hastily,
letting it fall into the palm of her hand.

Instantly, she was jerked forward into rushing darkness, and staggered as she landed back into the
glade. It looked quite different by day, even on a grey and soon-to-be snowy day.

“I have never met such a miserable liar in my life,” said Malfoy from behind her. “Christ, Granger.”

“Christ?” She echoed. “Exactly how much time have you been spending in the Muggle world,
Draco?”

“Too much. Though they’ve got a colorful way of expressing themselves.” His eyes went to the
clothes in her arms, and the bag at her back. It was interesting to watch him struggle with his pride. A grunt
was all the thanks she got, but it was more than she had expected.

Draco stripped off his shirt immediately when he saw the thick woolen one she had brought him, and
Hermione tried–and failed–to avert her eyes, disturbed at how interesting his upper body was to her. She
would never have predicted those shoulders, even in sixth year.

Draco was apparently oblivious, riveted first on warmth, then on food, tearing into a chicken leg.

“What is it you’re doing, Malfoy?” She asked, sitting down next to him at the base of an ancient oak.
“I thought you might be playing both sides, but without the Dark Mark...and I’d think you’d be doing better
if you were still friendly with Death Eaters.”

“Never friendly,” he said with his mouth full. “Just let me eat before you start interrogating me. I
haven’t had a decent meal in...”

He actually seemed to be considering the question, and apparently decided it wasn’t worth answering
as he worked his way through a half dozen sandwiches.

Hermione let him eat in silence, studying him as if there should be some outward sign that he was
so changed. The same platinum hair, paler than ever by day, though it was wild and straying along his collar,
not the careful coif she had once known so well. The same eyes that fluxuated between grey and blue,
depending on what he wore, and whether or not he was angry. When he was angry, they flashed silver.

Other than his size–which she supposed was inevitable–there was nothing, and she sat uneasily.

Wiping his mouth finally, he continued. “...And I can’t tell you what I’m doing. You should already
know that.”

“How about why, then?” She replied softly. “We thought you were a Death Eater in training all the
way up through sixth year, and assumed you’d gone off to join them when your father escaped from
Azkaban.”

“Escaped, nothing,” Draco grunted. “The bloody Dementors were only too happy to bugger off with
them.”

“Then tell me. I can’t trust you until I know.”

However much he had changed, Hermione knew him well enough to see the tension flow into his
body, the anger boil up in his face.

“I let you read my mind,” he nearly snarled. “I gave you the Mark–”

His mouth clamped shut and he stood, a motion that was animal-like in its grace and rapidity.

“And why did you?”

His eyes flashed back at her again, shuttered. She doubted she could have read his mind even if she
tried.

“Ask me again later,” he said finally. “Thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome.”

That was an impasse, and predictably, Draco went back to business. It was the same thing Hermione
did when she was at a loss: stick with the task at hand.

“The artifact is called the Eye of the Moon, or Diana’s Pearl,” he said, sitting on the same tree stump
Hermione had inhabited during their last tête á tête. “It magnifies power. Tremendously. The last place it was
seen was in Greece, just as they were falling to Macedonia. Legend says that it was smuggled north, and then
lost.”

“So how do they expect to find it?”

Draco shrugged, the shirt tight across his shoulders and chest. Too small, but better than nothing,
she supposed, so long as it didn’t rip. “Research. Hard work and dedication,” he said sarcastically. “How else
would they find it?”

Touché.

“More to the point, then,” Hermione snapped, irritated, “how do you expect us to stop them?”

“How the fuck should I know?” He snapped back. “Do you want me to go fetch it for you? Plan out
your next strike against Death Eater Headquarters? Tell you where the Amazon Girdle is?”

“You’re not being terribly helpful,” she groused. Unfairly, she admitted. The new Malfoy scared her,
and intrigued her, which frightened her even more. It was hard to go from abject hatred to collaboration.

As before, Malfoy simply swallowed up his anger, forced it away from his eyes and face.

“I’m doing the best I can,” He said finally. Which was a more thorough rebuke than if he’d insulted
her.

“I know.”

“They’re planning a strike against the Aurors. Soon. And you might want to consider changing
guards at the Headquarters of the Order. Tell Dumbledore the caretaker is wavering.”

“You know about the Order?”

The look he gave her was vintage Malfoy, the one that said, and you’ve managed to breathe and walk
with that teeny, tiny little brain? Hermione hastily moved on. “What caretaker?”

“If Dumbledore wanted you to know, he would have told you, sweeting.”

“Does Dumbledore know about you?” Hermione demanded, shocked.

He shrugged again. “Not that I know of, but there are ways and ways.”

The whole conversation made her want to hide her face and stop her ears, because she was only
getting half the information on any given subject. It was maddening.

“What you need to understand,” he said, suddenly harsh, “is that the Death Eaters don’t only operate
by violence. They bribe, they trick, they blackmail. So everyone you think is so right, so committed, just
might be hiding something. Everyone has secrets. Sometimes it’s not hard to find out what they are.”

“Does the new Draco speak only in riddles, or is he capable of just saying what he knows, and why
he decided to find out in the first place?” Hermione retorted. “Your guessing games are getting old, Malfoy.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he spat, “and as far out of trouble as possible. Read between the lines.
If you can figure it out, then you should have been told in the first place. If you can’t, you don’t need to
know.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione nearly shrieked, fists clenched at her sides to keep from trying
to shake the information out of him. “You’re Draco Malfoy! You’re a Slytherin! What epiphany have you
had? Or did someone switch bodies with you?”

“Don’t,” Draco growled. “Hermione–”

The fact that he’d called her by her first name didn’t register. She was too busy shouting at him,
terrible things that would make her cringe, years later, to remember. All the humiliation and insults he’d
heaped on her at Hogwarts were making the blood bubble in her veins–that, and a very real fear of and for
him. It wasn’t a game they were playing, it was war, and he was taking it all so cavalierly–sweeting?

The old Draco would have lashed out at her, maybe even hit her, and she could see him almost
vibrating with rage. But he stood and did nothing, said nothing, stared down at her with flashing eyes until
she almost hit him herself, just to make him react.

At last, he spun on his heel and began to stalk away toward the edge of the trees.

“What are you doing?” She demanded.

“Leaving.” He said coldly.

“You–Malfoy...” Eat your crow, Hermione, jeered the little voice in the back of her head. Every last
bite. “Draco, I’m sorry.”

He was not mollified.

He turned, and his approach was predatory, his face tight with anger. Around the flashing eyes, she
could see the marks of who knew what battles–a line bisecting one pale eyebrow, four smaller marks on his
left temple that looked almost like claw marks. Apparently they were only obvious when he was in a temper.
As he was now.

“You want to know?” He asked, his voice deceptively mild. “You want to know why I marked you,
why I’m spying on them, why I’m willing to have my father killed to end this? Why I gave up all my money,
my birthright, why I left in the middle of sixth year?”

“Draco–”

“Calling me Draco is not going to save your...precious...little...hide.” One large hand rose, caught
her shoulder, as the other thumbed along her throat. She was paralyzed, staring at him like a rabbit before
the fox. Or just about any small, helpless animal before the wolf. Might as well be apropos in her analogies.
“You wanted to know why–?”

He bent abruptly and kissed her. She could not have been more shocked than if he’d stabbed her.
Actually, she almost expected him to stab her.

A bruising kiss, harsh and enraged, that ground her lips against her teeth, forced her mouth open.
Hermione made a small sound in her throat and tottered on suddenly unsteady legs.

He caught her with something very close to a growl, pressing her up against him, bending over her
until she felt her spine would snap. Her arms wanted, very naturally, to reach up and wind around his neck,
but hung uselessly at her sides.

“That,” he said against her mouth, “is why. Make sure you tell Dumbledore yourself. Don’t trust
anyone else with a message.”

With a crack, he was gone.
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Bad Faith