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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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He’d kissed her.

             Hermione Apparated back to her flat and rummaged twenty minutes for a cup before she forced
herself to breathe, stop, think. There. In the same place they always were. Momentarily, as she gulped her
milk, she wished she had a few butterbeers. A curious knot of dread...and excitement...was twisting in her
belly.

             For perhaps the fiftieth time, she swiped at her lips with the back of her hand. It didn’t help. She
could still feel his lips there as if she’d been branded.

             “Ugh.”

             She said it aloud, just for emphasis. Had Malfoy just kissed her? Yes. After she had screamed
horrible things in his face.

             It was bad, all bad. Hopeless. The world should have crashed and burned the instant he bent over her.
Draco Malfoy had kissed Hermione Granger. Perhaps Voldemort would appear next, and announce that his
new life’s ambition was salsa dancing, rather than world domination.

             Hermione glared at her cup, as if it was at fault.

             Truth to tell, more than the utter shock, she felt guilty. He had let her read his mind. She had seen
nothing of deceit there. And having thoroughly researched Occlumency, she knew there was no way he could
have shown her false memories. Occlumency could be used to block the reading of memories and nothing
more, or less. He had been telling her the truth, and she had burned his ears with a childish grudge.

             And then he’d kissed her.

             Well, well.

             Hermione abruptly felt the need to sit down and did so, turning on her stereo with a flick of her wand,
just to fill the silence. Glenda Chittock’s throaty voice murmured nonsense, followed by the newest hit by the
Dark Hags, thrumming moodily, which suited her perfectly.

             Rather than continue flagellating herself with her abominable behaviour, Hermione instead tried to
piece together the bits of information Draco was feeding her, which was no easy task. As one of the top
intelligence officers at the mystery, she was cleared further than Minister Bowles himself for a great deal of
information, but who was this caretaker? And what hold would the Death Eaters have on him or her? So far
as she knew, Molly Weasley chiefly maintained the Headquarters of the Order. Molly had lost two brothers,
long ago, to the Death Eaters. Molly was one of the least wavering people Hermione knew.

             Not her, then. Who?

             Hannah Abbot?

             New to the Order, and she did spend a great deal of time at Headquarters. But the Hufflepuff girl had
been good friends with Neville Longbottom, who still lay in his coma at St. Mungo’s, neither better nor worse
than the day Harry and Ron had staggered into the hospital with him.

             The song by the Black Hags ended, and the Weird Sisters came on. Played out, she thought absently,
flipping stations.

             On the other hand, hadn’t Peter Pettigrew been lifelong friends with James Potter and Sirius Black,
and nevertheless betrayed James, Lily, and Harry himself to their deaths? That Harry had survived was a
minor point; and more miracle than anything else.

             It might be Hannah, Hermione admitted grudgingly. Point of fact, there were many new members in
the Order, and for all that Dumbledore had looked into their minds, Hermione could not completely trust all
of them. For that same Peter Pettigrew had evaded detection by Dumbledore long enough to seriously damage
the first Order.

             If only Draco had just told her who the caretaker was, Hermione groused. Didn’t he trust her?

             And that was a rather unfair question, given her mistrust of him.

             Leaving that puzzle for the moment–or that part of the puzzle, at any rate–Hermione wondered what
it was that Draco was protecting her from. The Death Eaters, obviously; that was why he had given her the
Mark. But why the secrecy? And what went on in the Order that she didn’t know about? Having joined
promptly on reaching her majority, Hermione was more a veteran than almost any other new member.

             There was probably quite a lot that went on that she wasn’t privy to, Hermione admitted, though it
galled her at some control-freak level.

             And the protection was likely to keep any Death Eater spies or operatives within the Order from
uncovering her–and by extension, Draco. Reporting directly to Dumbledore and giving her a minimum of
information to tell him likely kept her from effectively nosing around.

             Hermione smiled unwillingly. Draco knew her well enough to know that nosing around was a bad
habit going back to her first year at Hogwarts.

             Again, her fingers touched her lips, more thoughtful than repulsed.

~o~oOo~o

             Snow fell lightly as Hermione approached the creaking gate and let herself into the shadowy front
gardens that splayed beautifully before the wide stone stoop. But she had no eye for beauty just now; her body
was tense and her wand held at the ready as she made her way up the icy garden path. Her eyes flicked toward
the shadows as she watched, alert for the slightest indication that something was wrong.

             In the weeks that had passed since she had received the Confatalis Mark, Hermione had learned there
was more to fear than merely the man who peered through her eyes, listened through her ears. The Mark had
rendered the phoenix mark of the Order little more than a pretty tattoo, and she would have to knock on the
heavy door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place to be let in...

             And hope desperately that the twins had yet to settle on any particular plan of attack. Her inability
to enter Headquarters had opened wide new vistas of entertainment for them. Though she had no doubt her
newfound paranoia was entertaining enough in the meantime.

             Steeling herself, Hermione climbed the steps with the air of a sheep going voluntarily to the slaughter,
and lifted the brass doorknocker. She let it fall twice before she retreated, ignoring dignity entirely.

             The door opened abruptly and Molly Weasley stood, framed by the flickering light of the gas lamps
within. It took her a moment to spot Hermione in the semi-gloom.

“They’re not here, Hermione.” Molly snorted and stood back, allowing Hermione into the foyer. “And
you know I wouldn’t let them play any of their ridiculous pranks on you.”

Mrs. Weasley’s success on that score had historically been mixed, Hermione thought dryly, discarding
coat and boots and shaking melting snowflakes from her hair.

After a hurried kiss on the cheek and a murmured something about stew boiling over, Mrs. Weasley
hurried back toward the kitchen, leaving Hermione to her own devices. From the foyer, the central room
opened on ells and spiral staircases, a wider staircase curving from a long line of balconies on the second
floor. As was their custom, however, the members of the Order present had gathered before the hearth . The
chairs arcing around the wide fireplace were comfortingly reminiscent of the seating in Gryffindor Tower,
at Hogwarts.

“I told you,” Ginny said scathingly to the top of a dark head as she moved to embrace Hermione.
“She’s been busy, not dead.”

Dean Thomas turned in his chair to catch Hermione and plant a kiss on her lips in passing, grinning
at his wife as he did so.

“My wife,” he said, with all the pride and pomposity of a newlywed, “has absolutely no sense of
humour.”

Finding no safe reply, Hermione grinned and sat down near the fire, wiggling her fingers over the
blaze to thaw them, and gazing appreciatively, as was her habit, at the renovation of what had once been a
thoroughly disreputable home. It had taken a long time to talk Harry into maintaining it as Headquarters,
rather than burning it to the ground and sowing the ashes with salt, but the results were worth it.

Nodding greetings to those gathered, Hermione paused at the somewhat cooler welcome from Hannah
Abbot, measuring the blonde’s pale blue eyes sharply. Something of deceit, of secrecy? It was difficult to tell.
Hannah was a skilled Occlumens.

There would be time, Hermione thought, returning Hannah’s stare, equally expressionless.
Dumbledore would know of the ‘wavering caretaker’ in short order, and would know her suspicions. Of
course, Hermione admitted, Hannah had never been particularly overzealous in welcoming anyone.

And truth be told, assessing Hannah was only part of her reason for braving the dangers of Fred and
George’s notorious pranks. With no better company in her own flat than an aging and crochety Crookshanks,
and less than comforting thoughts–fine, guilty thoughts, Hermione snapped internally–the small flat had
become downright clausterphobic.

She had yet to reconcile Draco with Malfoy.

“Zees Eenglish wintairs,” Fleur Weasley, née Delacour, was saying airily. “I ’ope one day to take Bill
with me ’ome, but ’e will not come.”

Fleur’s English had improved; her accent had not.

Bill grinned appreciatively at his wife, and cuffed her affectionately.

“Because the French wintairs,” he remarked, “are lacking entirely in good English food, m’dear. As
a matter of fact, I understand there is a shortage for most of the year.”

“And ’e must have the Eenglish food,” Fleur retorted, rolling her eyes.

For a wild moment of utter insanity, Hermione pictured herself in Fleur’s place, with Draco beside
her. Her mind boggled at the thought.

“C’est un homme,” Hermione said, winking at Bill by way of distracting herself. “Il pense avec le
ventre.”

“Like any true man,” He said sagely. “And the belly says that the stew will be ready very soon. The
nose agrees.”

“Imbécile,” said Fleur fondly, and rewarded him for it with a kiss.

Another moment of wild insanity seized Hermione, and she stared at the carpet, willing everyone to
ignore any telltale colour in her cheeks. It was the heat from the fire, and nothing at all to do with some sudden
downward spiral into lunacy.

This was Malfoy, she reminded herself brutally, loading the name with all the contempt she could
muster. Her sworn enemy for most of her academic career. The thorn in her side. The pain in her ass. The
pebble in her shoe. The bit of gristle in her teeth.

The Amazing Bouncing Ferret, she added, bringing out the big guns. The back half of her mind still
wasn’t convinced.

“Hermione, Ginny, Fleur? Would you mind helping me with the last bits?” Molly called from the
kitchen, and Hermione stood with alacrity, more than eager to think of something else.

Ducking a flying potato peeler as she entered, Hermione flicked her wand at the sauce simmering on
the stove and sent plates, cups, and utensils flying to the table, guessing that a baker’s dozen of people would
eventually turn up for dinner. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she noted that the hands for Harry and Ron
were marked firmly on carousing. Hermione turned away with a snort of laughter. Yes, Moody was certainly
keeping them busy.

On that thought, Hermione added a few more place settings to the table. Many of the Old Guard had
taken to dining at Headquarters, especially now that the dark objects had been taken away, and mostly
destroyed.

Or, she added somberly, because many of them faced empty homes, and a long line of ghostly faces
in their memories.

Across the kitchen, between the door to the pantry and the steps to the cellar, pictures of the first
Order and the current Order hung on the wall. It was no less chilling for Hermione than it had been for Harry
to stare at the happy faces of those who had no idea what fate held...faces long dead, long buried, their
memories carried in the hearts of every witch and wizard that bore the mark of the phoenix. On the left, the
smiling faces of Frank and Alice Longbottom; the cooler faces of Gideon and Adrian Prewett, Molly’s
brothers; so many others that had fought Voldemort and paid with their lives. And the newer picture: the
Weasley twins making faces at the back of Percy’s head; Harry and Ron, swelling with pride, their arms over
Hermione’s shoulders. And some already lost. Neville, Professor McGonagall, Broderick Bode. Even shady
Mundungus Fletcher had died a hero. But dead was dead, and posthumous hero-status meant nothing to those
who lay in the grave.

Thoughts of Draco were making her morbid. Nonetheless, Hermione felt a premonitory shiver as she
looked at the pictures. A glimpse of mortality, not only her own, but of every member of the Order, every
Auror. Anyone who resisted the twisted doctrine of Voldemort, really. Though innocence was no claim to
safety, either.

The memories Draco had shown her were proof of that.

And that was where the line between Draco and Malfoy was drawn, wasn’t it? Between her memories
of him and his own. He’d shown her glimpses of what had made him the man he was. Why did she cling so
hard to her own memories, when she knew better?

Because she was afraid.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief and wandered over to give the stew a stir. There. She had said it. Or
thought it, at any rate. She was afraid of the man he had become, and afraid of the feelings he stirred in her.

Which was so trite, she poked the stew viciously.

Trite, but true.

“Now, dear,” Molly said, swooping by Hermione with a quick kiss for her cheek, “I think I know why
you’ve stayed away.”

“Why I’ve–what?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled knowingly, and took the spoon from Hermione’s less-than-helpful fingers. “You
have a young man,” she said, taking care that Ginny and Fleur couldn’t hear.

Hermione said the first thing that popped into her head, which was likely not the most intelligent thing
to do.

“Do you read minds?” she demanded, and felt colour rising clear to her hairline.

“I read faces, and yours had thoughts flying over it.” Mrs. Weasley laughed affectionately at
Hermione’s chagrin. “Treat him well, my dear. Try not to think him to death.”

“You could put Trelawney out of business.”

Molly, in the midst of sampling the stew, wrinkled her nose at Hermione and flicked a dusting of salt
over the richly bubbling soup.

“I just know you.”

“No, I’m just too honest for my own good,” Hermione groused, and stole the soup spoon back. “Any
halfway intelligent person would have denied it.”

Mrs. Weasley stifled her laughter.

“I’ll be silent as the grave,” she said, and unwillingly, Hermione’s eyes went back to the pictures on
the walls.

And thought, again, of Draco. And what his warnings might mean.

Author’s Notes:Nervous about this chapter. This was added after the entire story was finished, in the interest of “sewing
up a plot hole.” Of course, the more I rewrite, the more plot holes and opportunities for expansion I see,
dammit. I would really, really appreciate reviews on this chapter. Specifically, does the tone match
previous chapters? If you’ve read this story before, can you tell this chapter was added later, or does it
seem to fit?

And one of my reviewers asked me if I speak Latin or if I have a translator. No, sadly, I don’t. I use the
translation site from the University of Notre Dame and just sort of wing it. A latin major would probably
tear their hair out if they read this. But then, JK Rowling makes up her latin, so I’m following in
distinguished footsteps.

Oh, and my bad French, in case you couldn’t figure it out in context, was “He’s a man. He thinks with the
belly.” Haven’t taken French since high school, so I’m shifty on the grammar. Forgive me, native
speakers. I never make fun of anyone’s English. (So long as it’s not their first language.)
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Bad Faith