Chapter Text
At the first ray of daylight, the dark golden wolf shrunk into its form. Limbs and snout shortening, course fur disappearing, and gradually the nude body of a young man covered in bruises and abrasions emerged.
They averted their eyes. One of the Aurors went inside to put a robe around Logan.
Despite Hermione’s protest that they leave him to rest for at least a day, the Aurors were impatient to get the interrogation started. Harry decided to stay behind to make sure Ginny was alright.
“Fine, I’ll go with you then.” Hermione insisted, “he needs an advocate, and I don’t see he has a solicitor on file for him.”
“He can’t afford one.” Ron said.
“This is absurd. Muggles appoint a public defender for someone if they don’t have money to hire a lawyer. There’s so much we should learn from their judicial system.” She muttered, but took his arm and apparated to the undisclosed location where they held the boy.
An Aurors was taking down his contact information. But Logan was so nervous that most of his words were intelligible.
It was all quite heartbreaking. Especially when he asked why he was detained, and the Auror told him what happened last night.
“I… attacked Harry and Ginny? I— I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me! Are they okay? Please let them be okay!” He bawled, wiping snot and tears on his dirty arm.
“So you have no recollection of the incident from last night?”
Logan shook his head and cried some more.
The Auror came out of the cell, and threw his hands up, “well, there’s nothing else for me to go off of.”
Hermione suggested, “mind if I try?”
He gave her a strange look, as if asking what business she had there. But with Ron’s vouching, he cocked his head toward the door, “knock yourself out.”
She slipped in, and sat across the table from the long-limbed young man. Producing a wad of napkins, she let him gather himself.
His eyes widened when he catch a glimpse at the exposed scar on her arm.
It zapped her. She quickly rearranged her robe sleeve to cover it back up. “Logan, do you know who I am?”
“Her—Hermione Granger.” He said with a hiccup.
“Yes, I’m Hermione. I work for the Department of Magical Creature Protection and Welfare, and I am here to see how I can help you. Now, could you answer a few of my questions?”
Logan nodded, a bit star struck by her presence.
“Great, so, tell me about yourself. Anything for me to get to know you.”
So she learned that Logan Lisle was a pureblood wizard, from a long line of Hufflepuffs. Like Ron, his family was on the more frugal end of the scale. And they had never associated with fanatics or supremacists. However, frictions in the family arose when he was turned into a werewolf. While his mother wanted to keep supporting him with his lycanthropy treatment, the bills had stacked up too quickly. His father, a less understanding man, cut him off so that he would be “more motivated” to find a stable job.
“I’m so sorry to hear that your family can’t support you financially. What have you been doing for the full moons?”
“I… I signed up for this free wolfsbane potion list. A potion mistress brews me a batch each month.”
“But, that’s not working as intended?”
“I guess so…? I don’t know, the first few months on it had been great. I felt more lucid, and would turn back to my human body with fewer injuries. But then… something changed, and it all… went downhill.”
She jotted down his confession. “Do you know who the potioneer is?”
He blanched a little. “…I’m not s’posed to tell anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone, Logan. You can trust me.”
He deliberated in his own head for a long minute, and Hermione let him. Eventually, touched by her compassion, he murmured his secret. “It’s Madame Black.”
“Madame Black?”
“Yes, Narcissa Black.”
Incredible rage rose in her chest. Why was Narcissa supplying impotent wolfsbane potion to a young man in desperate needs? “You mean Narcissa Malfoy.”
“Um, the package owled to me each month says Black in the signature.”
“Never mind that. Thanks for telling me, Logan. I’ll see to it that they don’t detain you illegally. Now, I've got to check on something.” Hermione stood abruptly, and bursted out of the interrogation cell. Her robes trailed after her, its flapping in the wind rivaling one hurrying Severus Snape. Ron knew when to duck out of her warpath when he saw it.
“Where’s the exit of this compound?” She demanded the guard.
“Not so fast, Miss Granger.”
She whipped around, to see the trademark blue robes of the Minister. His expression was severe, but not enraged as she expected him to be.
“Minister Shacklebolt, sir, there’s something you should know. Narcissa Malfoy—”
“I was aware of Mistress Black’s activities. It was me who sanctioned it.”
“What!?”
“She showed an aptitude for brewing particularly difficult potions using volatile ingredients since her school days. So after the trial, I recruited her to be a Ministry appointed potioneer.” Kingsley gestured to have her follow him into a meeting room.
Inside, Harry, Ron and the three Aurors on duty were already waiting.
Kingsley closed the door once they were all in, and casted a silencing charm. “I think you all heard Mister Lisle’s confession about his sourcing of the wolfsbane draught. Narcissa Black was appointed by me as a wolfsbane potioneer, which is not made public knowledge for several reasons.
“One, I’m sure you understand, people have their misgivings due to her history of liaison with dark wizards and witches. It might be dangerous for her to be treating werewolves--let me finish.” He put his hand up when Hermione opened her mouth to add her two cents on exactly how dangerous it could be.
“But I can assure you, all of Mistress Black’s potions are quality-controlled, and delivered to the recipient via Ministry courier. Each with a signed magical declaration of ingredient sourcing, brewing method, and intention.” From one of the million pockets in his robes, he pulled out a scrap of parchment paper that contained the official ministry order slip, and Narcissa's contract information.
The meeting attendees passed it amongst themselves.
“And two, her work is strictly charitable for youths and disadvantaged individuals. She refused payment or compensation for the ingredients. And since it is time consuming, skill-intensive and highly expensive to produce the wolfsbane draught, there is already a waitlist.”
“How many werewolves are on her current list?” Harry asked.
“A dozen.”
“Are you certain no one else is showing regression during full moons? All the sightings in the past few months, they had all been Logan?”
This made the Minister hesitate. “That is inconclusive as of now. But any deficiency is not on Narcissa Black’s end. Like I said, every batch is tested before distribution.”
Ron raised his hand, “so what do we do now?”
“We place Logan Lisle under surveillance, and before the next full moon, take him into custody.”
“You can’t just detain someone without probable cause.” Hermione pointed out.
“This is probable cause.” Kingsley’s voice darkened, leaving no room for negotiation. “And in the meantime, try not to play investigator, Ms Granger, let the Auror’s office handle things. Dismissed.” And with that, he strode into the nearest fireplace and disappeared in a woosh of green flames. The other three Aurors followed suit.
The trio looked at each other in the ensuing silence.
“Well…” Ron started, “I guess it’s out of our hands now.”
That earned him a glare, “you can’t be serious! There is something suspicious going on and we need to figure it out for Logan’s sake.” She said with determination.
“The Minister has made his position clear, Hermione. I don’t think it's a good idea for us to go against his wishes.” Harry reasoned.
“He also said let the Aurors handle it. Well, aren’t you two Aurors?”
“You know what he meant by that!”
“No, Ronald, do enlighten me.”
Ron rubbed his brow in a more mature manner than she’d ever seen him. “He meant, drop the line of inquiry until he gives the next order on how to proceed. Hermione, the Auror’s office is under his direct supervision, he’s vouched for Malfoy so we shouldn’t interfere further.”
“I don’t care about your office politics,” Hermione disregarded his heeding, “I’m getting to the bottom of this.”
Harry looked torn, “I… Ginny--”
“Oh no, I’m not asking you to come with me. Go home to your wife. Just, if I’m not at the Leaky Cauldron tonight, report me missing and it’s Narcissa Malfoy.” With that, she grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and shouted, “Diagon Alley!”
******
After getting spat out by the hearth, it was one apparition away from Malfoy Manor. She found herself spinning to a stop at the rusted iron gate. The main estate loomed in the short distance, and even under the crisp blue sky (she ignored how it was the perfect shade of cerulean for the eyes of the witch she was trying to find), the building appeared conceited and gloomy.
It was in the sitting room of this house, where she often found herself in a loop of nightmares. Bellatrix’s cruel curse, blade parting flesh, her name echoing from the cellar, Narcissa’s disdainful look, passing out in pain, waking up to endure it all over again.
The burning sensation started anew on her skin. So with practiced mindfulness, she took a few deep breaths and shifted her thoughts to focus on the questions surrounding Logan’s mysterious condition.
Hermione stepped close to the gate, and pushed against the iron bar. It didn’t budge. Of course, why would it just admit anyone who sought entrance? She banged on it for another few seconds, but there was no movement.
As she debated whether to wait till later in the evening to intercept its Mistress in Diagon Alley-a more public setting, a screeching noise like metal scraping on metal startled her out of her contemplation. Looking up to find its source, she stared with her mouth agape as one of the iron snake-head gargoyles stretched its wings and uncurled its body from the sitting position.
It blinked, and Hermione could hear the shutter of its eyelids. “Sssstate your name and purposssse,” said the gargoyle.
Amazed and disturbed by this magical feature, she had to roll her eyes at the dramatics. “My name is Hermione Granger, I’m here to see the Mistress of the estate, Narcissa Malfoy.”
“EEEEKHSSSSS!” it shrieked and hissed, and slithered down the iron bar headfirst, and in a furious raspy voice, it spat, “Narssss-cisssssa Black, traitor to the Malfoy family! No longer livesss here! Cursssse her!”
“I don’t… understand?”
“Divorcssse. Broke ssssacred bond. Betrayed Masssster Malfoy… betrayed family!”
So that was why Narcissa had been going by her maiden name, it dawned on Hermione. The witch had discarded her snake-head of a husband and broken their fabled pureblood marriage bond. Good riddance, she thought to herself, for once in approval of the older witch’s decision.
“So where is she now?” She asked, though her hope for the gargoyle to disclose was not particularly high.
To her surprise, it gave her a straight answer, “Ssssseventeen Grimmauld Placssse, where traitorssss belong.”
17 Grimmauld Place? The Grimmauld Place block she knew of ended at number 16, but it figured that Black Holdings would invest in multiple invisible buildings in close proximity to each other. Typical purebloods, hoarding their wealth in unseen corners of the world. She wished Harry was more careful keeping an eye on the goings on around his inherited estate.
“Leave now, and don’t ever come back…” It hissed once more, and spun onto its perch, turning back into a solid statue at last.
“Gladly.” Hermione muttered under her breath, and apparated again with a better idea of where she was going.
******
Narcissa woke at the first unreasonably loud horn on the street, signaling the start of London traffic. It was something she’d probably never get used to, the bustles of city life. Compared to the last few places she’d lived in, the Black estate, the Malfoy manor, the summer homes in the French Alps, and the winter holiday cottage in Greece, 17 Grimmauld Place was decidedly the humblest.
It was purchased by Aunt Walburga as a babyshower gift to Bellatrix, which Bella subsequently abandoned when she miscarried, its ownership transferred to her as the closest living relative of both Bella and Walburga--not blasted off a damn tapestry, that is. It was also the only Black estate that didn’t contain painfully sweet memories of her childhood, tainted by Bellatrix’s descent into madness and her own betrayal to Andromeda.
The House Elf who took care of the place found employment at a magical preparatory school. So she moved in by herself, and redecorated the whole of it.
For a week, she worked hard, merging small bedrooms into one big office, tearing out the square windows and installing French doors to allow in natural lights, moving the awful kitchen from the basement to the ground floor, and remodelling the empty space into a well-equipped potions laboratory. Not to mention the magical family tree tapestry with mirroring charred holes as the one in 12 Grimmauld Place that Walburga painstakingly kept up-to-date, it had to go too. A layer of fresh cream colored paint, the space really lit up. What gave her a bit of twisted satisfaction was when she stowed away all the family portraits, Blacks and their spouses alike, in the attic. So Walburga and Druella, those two dreadful women, could scorn at each other, portrait to portrait, all day.
It wasn’t much, but she delighted in the comfort of not being alone in a giant empty compound that her footsteps echoed. She could instead be alone in this small, cozy house, invisible to muggles while she could watch them go about their interesting little lives.
The morning found her in a distracted mood. Narcissa went through the motions of bathing, making a cup of tea, whipping up some french toast, and sitting down at the sun-lit nook with some potion experiment notes in hand. Her mind was unquiet despite the utter silence.
Last night was… unexpected, she thought back to the crowded pub. Being friendly with the young couple was definitely refreshing, for she had not been out with people in years, at least people who were kind and funny and open-minded.
And although Miss Granger did not speak to her much, Narcissa was still glad that her presence did not bring up traumatic memories for the younger witch. And her thoughts, well, Narcissa would be lying if she didn’t find them quite thrilling. She cupped her hot tea between her palms and imagined the heat radiating off of the brunette. At one point she couldn’t help but play into her sensuality a bit, and the way Hermione got flustered was simply delectable. It had been so long since she’d felt an attraction towards herself that was not contaminated with malice or lewdness or intent to possess.
A sudden tug on her perimeter ward jolted her out of the leisurely, inconsequential (had she been better at divination, she'd know it was not inconsequential in the least), mental stroll, her tea sloshed in the cup with a jerky movement. It was followed by a series of rapping on her door.
This was highly irregular - no one except for Draco knew where she lived, but he would usually owl or use the Floo. And she certainly had not invited visitors as there weren’t any that she felt comfortable to have over. Narcissa wrapped herself tighter into her silk house robe.
“Who is it?” She asked, inching gingerly to the entryway.