Message Received

Author's Notes: The challenge has now ended, and I am continuing this as a regular story. I hope that you enjoy.

Hardwicke worried him. Granted, the wizard had only seemed to want to extend a helping hand, but Draco couldn't fathom why. The motives behind the generosity perplexed him, and he wondered if it was some cruel joke. Pondering his lot, he walked along the corridor towards his room. In the distance, he could hear the dull roar of the Quidditch match, and he quashed the rising envy. So much had been so important to him, and it was now laughable, but it had represented a normal life, and he ached for that. Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled wryly. Maybe Hardwicke was right; maybe it was just a question of having better directions.

Lost in thought, he couldn't react to the pale hand darting from the shadows to latch onto his arm. Gasping and trying to pull away, Draco tried to prise the tight fingers from his bicep, but the grip was excessively determined. Struggling, the hand tightened, and its partner emerged to grab his collar. He caught someone's groan over the rush of blood in his ears, and then, he was hauled into the gloom. His face smacked into the wall, and he felt his front teeth grind against the cool stone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

A girl! his mind supplied quickly, part of it fluttering with excitement...when was the last time he'd been dragged into a secluded alcove by a girl?...but another part, the greater part, recognised the voice and trembled. Granger!

But she had apologised.

The hands let go, and he turned slowly to his possible aggressor. Her wand flared to illuminate the small space, and he saw her pale and tired face. What on earth did she want?

"Granger," he said sanguinely, as if they were colleagues merely meeting up in the local.

"Dra... Malfoy," she replied unsteadily.

"Did you want to have a word with me about something?" he asked softly while feeling the edge of his tooth for damage.

Her sheepish grin was quite cute, and Draco felt the world tilt slightly more towards insanity. Could things become any more surreal?

"In a way," she said carefully.

He was intrigued by her apparent wariness; her eyes kept darting towards the empty corridor.

"I need to give you something," she finally confessed; her voice was breathy and fast.

"Oh," he replied with a smile which exploded into a grin at her shocked gasp.

"Nothing like that," she retorted indignantly.

"I didn't think so, but you're worth a try."

Teasing Granger was fun! It rekindled something deep inside: mischief, humour, life! At each comment, her blush intensified, and he revelled in the way she didn't know whether to smile or sneer. But he wasn't a fool, so he knew that Granger was after something noble or righteous; the Gryffindors just couldn't help themselves. But something that required him? Interesting!

"I have something from your father."

The smile evaporated from his face, and he leant closer to her. Something from his father? The image of an owl on a sill sprang to mind, and he recalled the letter declaring that his father had found someone to help him. But Granger?

"What is it?"

Her hand slipped into the deep pocket of her school robe, and he tensed, but she only pulled out a harmless, cream envelope.

"A letter," she said simply.

Plucking it from her fingers, Draco fought the urge to rip it open and tear out its innards.

"How did you get it?"

"I'd rather not say," Hermione said sharply. "The letter should explain everything."

He grabbed her arm as she tried to slip past him into the corridor. "What do you mean by 'everything'?" he demanded almost desperately. "You've seen him?"

"Read the letter, Draco," she suggested firmly while tugging her arm free. "Lucius said that you'd understand."

'Lucius' had been wrong. Even after reading the letter for the third time, he was as puzzled as ever. His father wanted him to work with Granger on some project? Was he delusional? The witch had been partly responsible for putting him in Azkaban, and his father wanted him to help her? An inspiration struck him, and he lifted the letter up to the light, looking for the hidden message that just had to be there! Nothing! His father must be losing the plot in that hovel.

However, his father had seemed sure that the letter would be understood, so maybe there was something in the text itself, some secret message hidden in plain sight.

Dear Draco,

Father

The cheap paper trembled in his fingers as his eyes devoured the lines once more. Even after the fourth time, his heart stuttered at his father's written desire to give him something so valuable as a choice...he'd never realised how precious it was. Aside from the word usage suggesting that his father was under some obligation to remain silent, it was fairly straightforward...help Hermione.

Sighing, he fell back onto the duvet. He knew that he would help Hermione. The thought of his godfather lying in that hospital had not really affected at first...he had had his own problems to contemplate...but as time had passed, he had grown to see it has the ultimate sign of dispassion towards the man. Snape had given his existence to keeping them safe, and in return, they were leaving him to rot. Something stirred. Something that he hadn't felt since Voldemort had made his mother drink that disgusting potion...oh yes; he knew about that!

He had come across his mother weeping in the summer house, clutching at her belly, her face red and swollen. Words had tumbled from her lips, and he had gathered them up, piecing the fractured woes together until he had formed the framework for her grief. A blade through his chest couldn't have hurt more... It had hurt almost as much as Potter's sectumsempra had when the brat had found him crying over the murder of his sister.

Draco felt anger. Not the petty kind that flares after a frustration, but the steady and long-lived anger that will warm the belly for years. Oddly, with that emotion that usually so readily snatches sense, his mind cleared, and he lifted the letter once more.

Pie-crust promise...

Sitting up and frowning, he looked at the words; his father had said something about pie-crust promises when they had been frog-marched to their cells. What was it now?

The Ministry make pie-crust promises... just like the Order!

oooXooo

Hermione gently brushed her fingers over her forearm. Draco's grip had been painful, but despite the warm throb, she felt good about completing the task for Lucius. Her lips twitched; it hadn't felt that bad to have been complimented by Draco either. Hysterical laughter bullied her, and she let a few giggles escape. Giggles! How childish she scolded, but she didn't really care. Why shouldn't she be young and foolish for a few moments in the privacy of her own room? For seven years she'd been the mother and the balance. For seven years she'd been mature and strong...why should she have to carry that mantle now? The war was over, and granted, many people had perished, but she had survived, so why shouldn't she live?

With that thought, she realised that she was lonely. Ron had slipped from her life like fog under the sun, and Harry cast her pained glances during the few lessons they shared. When had they parted? Her sudden gaiety ebbed away, and she felt terribly empty. Even the thought of curing Snape failed to warm her.

Standing by her desk, her gaze drifted over to the small book that she had borrowed from the library: Visions in another mind. The book had changed her life. It had somehow...incredulously...brought her closer to a man that she should despise, and through that strange union, she had found an outlet for her distress. It also represented the hardest thing that she'd ever done, and it was made harder for the fact that for the first time in quite some time, it was something that she had to do for herself.

Lucius had been quite reticent on divulging the content of the letter to her, and she had not read it, despite the urge fluttering in her belly, but she had faith that the wizard would not conspire against her or those who were dear to her. It was odd, but she firmly believed his declaration that he had stopped following Voldemort years before Harry had fulfilled his destiny. This faith extended towards him helping Snape. What would happen afterwards was out of her hands, but she knew without doubt that Lucius would give his all to help her. Goosebumps teased her skin. The smallest flicker of despair made her wince...the thought of losing Lucius stung.

Focusing on the task, she sat at her desk and pulled out some parchment from the top drawer. After seven years, she had never quite mastered the quill, and so, she slid out a Biro from her breast pocket. Reading the method, Hermione planned out the brewing process, her mood lifting with every step.

The ingredients were still with Lucius, and they'd probably stay with him for another few days at least; she needed to find a better place than the girls' toilet to work. The house-elves being on high alert increased the difficulty, and she doubted that she could work anywhere within the school, but where could she brew? The Room of Requirement had sprung to mind, but she had been unsure about the potion's stability in an environment prone to change; also, she would need access to the potion at regular intervals, so being denied access for any reason was not an option. Nibbling her lower lip, she tapped the Biro against the desk and pondered. Where and when could she brew the damned thing?

oooXooo

"Where shall I hide you?"

The elderly voice wavered as the words tumbled past dry and cracked lips.

"Somewhere safe, but somewhere close," whispered the voice almost lovingly. "I can't risk losing you or being too far from you, my sweets."

Arthritic and wrinkled hands lined up ten short and brittle stumps on a cotton pillow case. Hunched over the table, Bella used Meadowes' wand to cut the cloth into strips which she used to carefully wrap up the fingers. Something niggled at the back of her mind, and she grinned.

"I can feel you squirming, Meadowes," she trilled. "It won't do you any good, you know. I have no intention of leaving just yet." Humming a senseless tune, she bound the last finger and sat back. "All done," she said with a satisfied smile. Laughing, she picked up a thumb and forefinger and sang, "Two little fingers met in a lane; thumb bowed to finger and bowed once again." She laughed again. "It's strange to think that these shrivelled things were once mine. They're certainly better than these ugly things that you have, Meadowes. How did you cope with them?"

Something nagged at her mind, and she paused to study the gnarled and liver-spotted hands. "The blood?" she queried. "Oh, yes. You weren't in your right mind at the time, were you?" she asked snidely. "In case you've quite forgotten, you went berserk and gutted a Healer." The irritating niggle on the edge of her awareness intensified. "I assure you," she affirmed sulkily, "that in your sudden delirium you killed a Healer! It was quite gruesome. The others never knew that you had it in you."

It was quite pleasing to have him writhing and ranting as she enveloped him. It was like watching a spider struggle to climb out of a bath. And just as that spider would eventually either curl up and die or slip down the drain, she knew that staying in Meadowes' mind would cause it to wither or slip away. That couldn't be allowed to happen at the moment; she needed what was trapped in his skull. She needed to know who his accomplices were and what they were up to. It was no longer a matter of her survival, but it involved Snape, and she saw him as a personal demon to slay. Until he was dead and gone, she would never be able to wear her crown comfortably.

Placing the thumb and forefinger on the table, she folded her arms across her chest and peered out the window. Almost at the same time that her eyes latched onto something interesting, she felt that part of Meadowes that still fought turn to ice. It seemed that they shared some level of consciousness, and as an idea bloomed in her mind, so it slithered into his.

It was almost possible to hear his repeated mental cries as her eyes followed the young woman pegging out washing.

"What else could you do that they thought was beyond you, Meadowes?" she hissed out menacingly. "What would be worse for you than breaking your silence?" she added, making it impossible for him to miss the underlying message.

The fraction of mind shuddered at the horrors that she was conjuring for it to witness: terrible images of what would be committed if it remained reluctant to answer her questions. Deep inside, Meadowes screamed and wept.