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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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             A week after Hermione’s epiphany at Number Twelve, Hannah Abbot was gone.

             And Dumbledore was being even more close-mouthed than normal. Hermione had taken Hannah’s
departure as a confirmation of her suspicions, but Dumbledore looked mildly alarmed at the words,
“wavering caretaker”—a phrase Hermione was getting heartily sick of for the multitude of details it
omitted—and resolved to deal with the problem.

             Meaning, in Hermione’s mind, that Hannah had not been the problem.

             It left her furrowing her brow in the midst of several sleepless nights. If not Hannah, then who?

One of two puzzles she had yet to solve, and puzzles had a way of picking at the back of her mind
whenever it wasn’t otherwise occupied. The other puzzle obviously being the puzzle of her informant. Spy.
Former nemesis. Well, more Harry’s nemesis than hers, Hermione having been more of an incidental casualty
in their cold war.

Though after three weeks of silence from Draco, she was wondering if she had offended him enough
that he would avoid her in spite of whatever information he had. No. Whatever else he was, Draco would
never let personal feelings get in the way of his goal.

Hermione kicked at a snowdrift as she walked back to her flat, rather enjoying the brisk air in her
face. Enjoying the polite nodding of strangers and even the appreciative, if mildly insulting, whistle from one
of the carpenters at a nearby construction site.

In spite of worry, in spite of guilt and a burning desire to get an apology to Draco sometime before
she died of old age, there was the kiss.

It preyed on her in a way that was both pleasant and unpleasant; for it was a very good kiss, if she
were going to be fair about it. The fact that it came from Malfoy still shook her considerably–but no, it came
from Draco, she thought.

Unwillingly, she smiled at the memory, momentarily forgetting the nasty scene that had preceded
it.

Typing the combination into the cipher lock of her building, she jogged up the steps rather than
taking the lift, lighthearted despite her worry, and let herself into her apartment.

From the hallway, she had heard nothing. As soon as the door closed behind her, noise assaulted her,
the shrieking, whooping, beeping din of her Dark Detectors. In the Foe-Glass across the room, masked
figures moved, lurked, shadowed forbiddingly, though their eyes glinted through the eye sockets of the dark
coverings they wore.

Training, bless the days she had spent under the harsh voices and critical eyes of her instructors,
instantly took over.

Her wand in her hand, Hermione hexed the door and barred the windows, adding an Anti-Apparation
barrier to the whole building. The amount of energy that took staggered her, but she recovered quickly,
temples pulsing with the effort. Crossed to the Foe-Glass and kept the wall at her back, hearing through it
the failed blast of a Displodo Charm. Her heart leapt to her throat at the sound.

It was impossible to identify any of them through their masks, and Hermione cursed, snatching
another mirror off the wall. Any Muggle entering the room would have thought her impossibly vain, but the
only mirror that actually reflected her face was in her bathroom, and was usually used to make sure she
wouldn’t disgrace the Ministry on any given day.

“Dumbledore,” she said clearly, and shuddered as another explosion rocked the apartment beside
hers. She wondered what they had done to the Mrs. Bourne, the aged, motherly Muggle that lived there.

It seemed an eternity before Dumbledore’s crooked-nosed visage appeared in the glass.

“Miss Granger.”

“Death Eaters.” She said crisply, overriding any other greeting. “Next door. I’ve warded my
apartment, but I don’t know what they’ve done to the Muggle that lives there. They probably killed her.”

It was worse to say it out loud. She had liked Mrs. Bourne, as far as she had known the woman;
deprived of her own grandparents at an early age, Hermione had rather enjoyed the weekly offerings of
oatmeal raisin cookies and unsolicited admonishments.

“Stay there. I’ll send some members of the Order to you, and alert Moody. Do not,” Dumbledore
added swiftly, reading her distaste for the instructions, “attempt to fight them yourself, Miss Granger. How
many do you see in your Foe-Glass?”

“Half a dozen,” she admitted, and snapped around as something heavy thudded into the wall next
door. “What–?”

With another flick of her wand, she silenced her Dark Detectors and listened.

“Did someone already get here?” She demanded, whirling back to Dumbledore. Who looked as
startled as she.

“No, Moody just now received my message. Are you certain...”

A yell, and a curse, as someone else struck heavily, and the thud as they hit the ground.

“Tell Moody to send Obliviators as well,” she said hastily. “I have to go, Professor. If someone’s
here, I can’t let them die because of me.”

As Mrs. Bourne likely already had, Hermione thought bitterly, cutting Dumbledore off mid-word.
Bad form, but he would understand.

Dispelling the wards, Hermione Apparated into the apartment next door and ducked a curse
immediately, taking cover behind the sofa and firing back.

“Stupid! Stupid!” A voice shouted furiously behind her, and hauled her out of the way as the couch
exploded.

There wasn’t time for further remonstrance, and Hermione shrugged out of his grip and sent an
Impediment Jinx into the midst of the writhing shadows across the room, catching a Death Eater in the
middle of his barrel chest. The man keeled over, and two more Death Eaters sprang up to take his place.
Cooly, Hermione aimed and fired again.

“Stupefy!”

“Protego! Immobulus!”

Cursing internally, Hermione lunged to one side as the blue light of the Freezing Charm flew at her,
rolling ahead of a flurry of curses.

“Eversum!” She shouted, and the dining table flipped up to shield her long enough to regroup.

The man who had snatched her away from the sofa lunged over the top of the overturned table and
stared at her, grey eyes glinting through the holes in his mask. Not a Death Eater’s mask, but a costume mask.
Sequins glittered.

“Are you done staring?” He asked sarcastically, and she recognized the dulcet tones of an angry
Malfoy.

“Quite,” she retorted. She could laugh at the sequins later. By unspoken agreement, Draco lunged
around one side of the table and Hermione took the other, aiming a Displodo Charm at the Death Eaters’ feet.
Turnabout was fair play, and confident in their superior numbers, the Death Eaters had not sought shelter.

Mrs. Bourne’s hardwood floors buckled and blew out, sending splinters in all directions. One of the
Death Eaters bore the brunt of the explosion, and Hermione flinched involuntarily when she saw the ruin of
the man’s legs. Cursing and screaming, he disApparated before she thought to stop him. An arm caught
around her waist and pulled her effortlessly behind the table.

“Go low,” Draco hissed in her ear, and shoved her back to the corner.

Without time to question or try to guess his plan, Hermione obeyed, scooting hastily around the table
to the buffet and firing a volley of Impediment Jinxes. The table exploded a second later, and she flung her
arms up over her face, splinters driving painfully into her forearms. That explosion also caught the draperies,
and the overly flowery velvet burst into flame.

“Fuck!” came clearly from her left, but Hermione had no time to look as she scooted away. The
flames were already starting to lick at the runner across the top of heavy buffet. Smoke rapidly filled the
small flat, obscuring Death Eaters who were already nearly invisible in the lengthening shadows.

Through the smoke and the growing roar of the fire, Hermione heard the cracks as the Death Eaters
disApparated. Standing, she doused the flames swiftly and mentally cursed herself into oblivion for not
thinking to add an Anti-disApparation barrier to her building. They had attacked her in her home. There was
something unacceptably personal about that.

“Flaborum,” she said, and coughed. The window snapped open and a short burst of wind blasted
through the flat, taking the smoke with it. As the room cleared, she saw Draco half-bent over the still form
of Mrs. Bourne.

“The Muggle isn’t dead. Just Stupefied, not that it did her any good. What–goddammit!”

Mrs. Bourne’s Jack Russell terrier bounded out of the hallway, where he had wisely been cowering.
He caught the hem of Draco’s trousers and yanked furiously, growling. Half-amused, Hermione watched
Draco struggle with the beast for a second before she bent and picked Herbert up, soothing him into silence.

“Damn dog.” Waving his wand, Draco warded the apartment and ripped off his mask, wiping
perspiration from his forehead.

“I hate this thing,” he muttered, and surveyed her forbiddingly with his pale eyes. “It’s not because
of me,” he said flatly. “They didn’t know it was me; they didn’t hear me speak until you popped in.”

“If you think I’m going to apologize for that–”

“No,” he said, and grinned wolfishly. “You could no more stay out of trouble than you could hang
yourself. You’re an Auror, and a member of the Order. A Death Eater that catches you could have any reward
for the asking.”

“How much do they know about the Order?”

He sobered abruptly. “Enough. They know most of the members. Most of which are only alive
through ‘constant vigilance,’ but you’ll be seeing a shift in that, soon.”

             “How soon?”

He shrugged, and bent beside Mrs. Bourne, placing his hand on the middle of her chest and listening
intently, eyes closed. Herbert growled warningly.

“She has a weak heart,” he said softly. “Best call the Muggle whatchamacallits.”

“Doctors?”

“Yes, those. Just tell them she fainted; I’ll make her sleep.”

“How did you know?” Hermione asked. “How did you know they were coming? Did you overhear
something?”

“I see through your eyes,” he said gently. “Not all the time, but I am watching. If you’re in trouble,
I will know it.”

And I’ll come. The unspoken promise hung in the air.

“You’re bleeding,” Hermione said awkwardly, bending down beside him and releasing Herbert with
a stern order to behave himself.

“So are you.”

“Just a flesh wound,” she said, trying to make light of it. “Monty Python,” she added, as he stared
at her blankly, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re British, for Merlin’s sake, you aristocratic creature.
Hold still.”

He obeyed, but the sounds that rumbled through his chest as she plucked the splinters from his cheek
sounded remarkably like Herbert’s growling.

             The scars at his left eyebrow and temple were easier to see, now that she was closer; not claw marks,
she thought absently, as she worked at the splinters. Fingernails? She remembered the brief glimpse in his
memory, weeks ago; Draco’s memory of seeing his face reflected in the mirror of a hotel bathroom, when
the marks were still raw and bloody. Did she really want to know?

             No. No, not really. Draco hissed a breath as she pulled the last and largest splinter from his jaw, and
Hermione stood too quickly and spoke too rapidly.

             “Essence of murtlap will relieve the pain and stinging,” she said, scooping Herbert back up under
the pretense of protecting Draco from the wily beast. Dogs were so convenient for that, she thought, hiding
her face in the back of his neck. Crookshanks would have hissed and squirmed away.

             Though Herbert was not making a convincing show of threat. His eyes were on Mrs. Bourne, resting
peacefully now that Draco had made her sleep, and the little dog was whimpering softy. Draco took
advantage of the dog’s dismay to catch Hermione’s arm and examine the slivers just above her elbow.

             “I’ll take care of it,” She said, and pulled away from his intriguing touch. “I’m fine. Moody and the
others will be coming any minute now.”

“So I’d better go,” he said coldly, turning away from her and easily picking Mrs. Bourne up from
the floor, his face utterly closed as he gently put the old woman in a somewhat battered, but still whole,
armchair.

“Draco, why are you doing this?” It was a Herculean effort to keep her voice low and level, but
Hermione managed it. “Why do you care if this Muggle dies? Why do you care if Voldemort wins?” Why
do you care so terribly much about me?

“When I could just leave her to die? Or leave all of you to die?” He asked. That same white rage was
in his face as he straightened, though something other than anger bled through when he looked at her. “Good
questions, Granger. I’ll ponder them. You can tidy up on your own, I think.”

“Draco...”

He was already gone.

“I hate it when he does that,” she informed Herbert, and stared at the shambles of the flat. ‘Tidy up,’
indeed. “That went…badly,” she said aloud, and was startled to find herself near tears. Why? Why did it
mean so much to her that she hurt him?

She had hurt him. With her suspicion, and with her refusal to let the past go. Was she such a small
person that she would hold a childish grudge against this man? Merlin, Hermione thought, she hoped not.

Hermione glanced again at Mrs. Bourne, and noticed that Draco had carefully replaced the old
woman’s spectacles before he left.

That was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The pixie that killed the giant, and all other
appropriate adages. Malfoy, the pale, cruel boy who had never missed an opportunity to throw Hermione’s
Muggle parents in her face, crumpled up and vanished, left to the past, where he belonged.

             Closing her eyes, Hermione followed Draco where he had gone, marking the place in her memory.
A difficult, but fundamental skill for an Auror, was to track their prey. Death Eaters were forever Apparating
the instant they started to lose. No progress would ever have been made if Aurors couldn’t follow them.

             No progress would be made here, Hermione thought, as the other Aurors finally arrived and banged
furiously on the warded door, if she didn’t follow Draco.

             Though the idea of progress was still a frightening, frightening thing.

Author’s Notes

Less nervous about this chapter, but it is also new. Same questions, then, as to whether it matched the tone
of the other chapters. Hopefully I fixed the repetition issue in the last chapter, Kazfeist, and thanks for
pointing it out. There’s a difference between emphasis and repetitive.

I have yet to find anything that really narrows down the difference between Apparation and disApparation
(or any consistent way of spelling the latter, so forgive me if I occasionally capitalize the ‘d’.) I figure
Apparation is when you get to a place, and disApparation is when you leave that same place. Dunno. JK
Rowling made a distinction, but as far as I know, hasn’t clarified. I’m treating them as mildly different spells,
and thus the counter-spells would be different.

Thanks very much for your reviews; I love reading what others think of my writing, Please keep reviewing,
especially as I make changes; I really want to know whether the changes were necessary in your opinion,
and if they’re effective. And as importantly, if I accidentally pull information from the older chapters and
repeat them in the new ones. If you haven’t read this story before, just let me know if I’m telling you the same
thing, over and over. That gets tedious real quick, I know.
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Bad Faith