Chapter 2: Cracked China and Burning Truths
The kitchen in Godric’s Hollow was never truly silent. Even at dawn, it held the echoes of a lively household: a stray toy broomstick propped in the corner, a bright crayon drawing stuck to the refrigerator with a charmed magnet, the deep, permanent scent of baked goods and wood smoke. Harry Potter watched the steam curl from his mug, his fingers tracing a chip in the handle. He’d been up for hours, the taut wire of vigilance humming inside him, a familiar companion.
Ginny placed a plate of toast in front of him with a soft clatter. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you stare into the middle distance like you’re trying to divine the future in your tea leaves. It’s depressing before sunrise.” She slid into the chair opposite, her red hair a vibrant contrast to the soft grey light.
“Just thinking about the press conference today. Hermione’s.”
“She’ll be brilliant. She always is.” Ginny’s voice was light, but it held an edge, a carefully polished neutrality they’d both learned to use around certain topics.
Harry took a breath. “Malfoy’s on her protective detail. Full-time, starting last night.”
The silence that followed was different. It was the quiet of a vacuum, all the warmth sucked out. Ginny’s hand, reaching for the marmalade, stopped. She looked at him, her expression shifting from mild concern to something hardened and fierce. “You assigned Draco Malfoy. To protect Hermione.”
“He’s the best I’ve got for this.”
“The best?” The word was a spark. Ginny set her teacup down with deliberate care, then pushed it away. It hit the saucer with a sharp clink. “After what his family called her? After what they did? The things he said to her? To all of us?” Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Harry, have you lost your mind?”
He didn’t flinch. He’d expected this. He reached into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, lying slung over the back of his chair, and pulled out a small, charred object. It was the remains of the howler, now just a brittle, blackened curl of parchment, still emitting a faint, acrid wisp of smoke. He placed it on the oak table between them.
“This came through my personal wards last night. To our home. While you and the kids were asleep.” His voice was flat. “It said the same thing hers did. ‘Drop out, Mudblood, or burn with it.’“
Ginny stared at the burnt paper, her anger freezing into something colder, more potent. Her eyes flicked to the doorway, as if the threat might materialize there.
“Exactly why he’s the best,” Harry continued, his gaze fixed on the evidence. “He knows how they think. He knows the cadence of that hatred. He can spot the old patterns, the pure-blood rhetoric dressed up as political dissent. And he has more to prove than anyone. He won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Because you ordered him to? Or because he actually cares?” Ginny’s question was a direct hit.
“Does it matter, if the result is the same?” Harry finally looked at her, his green eyes tired. “This isn’t schoolyard bullying, Gin. This is coordinated. They hit her at the heart of the Ministry, and they hit me here, at our home. They’re not afraid of us. That makes them dangerous, and it makes them stupid. Malfoy understands that brand of stupidity intimately.”
Ginny leaned back, crossing her arms. The fight hadn’t left her, but it was morphing into a simmering, uneasy calculation. “And how does Hermione feel about her new shadow?”
“She hates it. She told me she doesn’t need a detail.” A faint, weary smile touched Harry’s lips. “She also has a burn on her hand from the letter. Didn’t want to see a Healer. Just wanted to get back to her briefing books.”
“Stubborn idiot.”
“Yeah. Both of them are.” Harry picked up the howler remnant, the ash crumbling slightly between his fingers. “I need you to be okay with this, Gin. Or at least, not to hex him on sight. He’s there to do a job.”
Ginny was quiet for a long minute, watching the first proper rays of sun streak across their garden. “I don’t have to like it. I just have to not commit assault.” She met his gaze. “But if he so much as looks at her sideways, Minister or no Minister, he’s getting a Bat-Bogey Hex from the bargain bin.”
A genuine, rough laugh escaped Harry. “Noted.”
The back door opened, letting in a gust of cool morning air. Hermione stepped inside, followed closely by Draco. He paused on the threshold, as if unsure of his welcome, his Auror robes looking distinctly out of place in the messy, sunlit kitchen.
“Morning,” Hermione said, her voice bright with a false, public-ready cheer. She had glamoured the burn on her hand, Harry noted. “Hope we’re not too early. Debrief before the circus begins.”
Ginny’s eyes locked on Draco. The air tightened. Draco gave a single, shallow nod. “Ginny.”
“Malfoy.” Her reply was a neutral acknowledgment, a treaty in one word. She got up, fetching two more mugs from the cupboard. The domestic action was a peace offering, however brittle.
“Anything from the ashes?” Harry asked, gesturing for them to sit.
Draco remained standing, leaning against the doorframe, a conscious choice to stay on the perimeter. “Preliminary analysis shows a twin to the hex on your howler. Same signature. Professional, but not overly clever. They wanted the fear, not the subtlety.” He glanced at Hermione. “The method of delivery to your office is more concerning. It implies either a serious breach in the Department’s internal security, or someone who can walk through those wards like they’re not there.”
“Which is a short list,” Hermione finished, accepting a mug from Ginny. Her hand was perfectly steady. “People with that level of access.”
“Or people who helped design them,” Draco said, his tone devoid of inflection.
The implication landed heavily. Hermione’s own security protocols, possibly turned against her. She took a sip of tea, her composure a visible, rigid construct.
“The press conference is in two hours,” she said, changing the subject. “We stick to the prepared statement on the werewolf legislation. No mention of this. Absolutely none.”
“They’ll ask,” Harry warned.
“And I’ll smile and tell them my campaign is focused on the future, not on the pathetic scare tactics of those who live in the past.” She delivered the line as if reciting it, which she likely had been doing in front of a mirror. “We cannot look rattled.”
Draco pushed off the doorframe. “Then we should go. I want to sweep the venue again before the crowds arrive. And you,” he looked at Hermione, “need to not be late for your own hair-and-makeup call, or whatever it is they do to you.”
“They try to make me look less tired,” she said, standing up. “It’s a lost cause.”
As she moved to the door, Ginny reached out, brushing her arm. “Kick their arses, Hermione.”
Hermione’s smiled, for a second, was real. “That’s the plan.”
Harry watched them go, Malfoy a half-step behind and to her left, his eyes already scanning the garden path, the lane beyond. A practiced, protective formation.
Ginny came to stand beside him, her shoulder touching his. She was still watching them, her expression unreadable. “He looks at her like she’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve,” she murmured.
“Maybe she is,” Harry said, gathering the burnt remnants of the night’s threats. The kitchen felt empty again, but the quiet was now filled with the sharp, distinct shape of the day ahead, and all the dangers it held.