Gold

                                    

                                          
AN: First of all, I want to take the time to say I really hope you are doing well, wherever you are, whatever has happened in these past few months. It's a crazy time. Please look after yourself and those you love, and stay safe. 
                          
I'm sorry this chapter took so long. My uni term was moved online so I've been really busy with online classes, essays and reading. Then, lockdown was a stress in and of itself. I don't blame you if you thought this fic was finished or abandoned! But it's not!! This fic will get the ending both it and you deserve. One more thing: very random but it was something that struck me – I watched The Man from U.N.C.L.E recently (I LOVED IT) and the relationship between Gaby and Illya reminded me of the Dramione dynamic!!! Although I should NOT be starting any new fanfics, I might log it for a later idea... Harry and Draco as the spies, with Hermione as Gaby... It's my favourite trope ~ going from strangers to enemies to grudging acquaintances to intrigue to crush to cannot-live-without-one-another. Perfect. We love a slow burn.
                          
One final thing: despite the books not specifying it, I'm going to go with film canon that Hermione's scar spells out 'MUDBLOOD', just because it adds high quality angst. 
                          
Chapter Thirty Five – Gold
                          
The Ministry atrium was decked in gold. Silken banners hung from the beams, cascading down the walls in a victorious river of liquid gold, golden statues of man and wizard in harmony stood on pedestals, and gold framed portraits of those among the honoured lined the walls. There were people everywhere, in robes of every colour under the rainbow, dresses that swirled along the tile; both Ministry workers and former members of the Order of the Phoenix had congregated to celebrate the key figures of the war. Hagrid shuffled bashfully in a corner, in his moleskin suit and frilly pink shirt, standing beside the surviving Weasley twin, whose hair had grown slightly to become uneven tufts of vibrant orange. He wasn't smiling, but the ghost of his old grin flickered across his face as he murmured to Hagrid about the men and women who passed them by. Hagrid twisted his hands, but occasionally, his booming laugh would echo around the atrium, and heads would turn his way; his cheeks blushed red, and George hid his triumph behind his drink. Molly and Arthur flitted about, chattering away, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that their son was among the honoured, pointing out his portrait and sharing stories from his childhood. Ron had not regained his normal colour since arriving, his cheeks and ears as bright as the pink champagne, and Ginny took great glee in reminding him just what shade he remained every time she glided past. Bill and Fleur were a vision, like something of a Renaissance painting, the scars on Bill's face disappearing into the creases of his smile. Hermione awkwardly drifted from one group to the next, gently coerced into a conversation with anyone who caught sight of her, each wanting their moment with the brains of the Golden Trio. 
                          
Draco watched the scene from his place near the first Floo entrance, drink in hand. It was his fourth in under an hour.
                          
"Is this so you can make a quick getaway?" 
                          
Raising an eyebrow, Draco turned and saw Harry. He wore an easy grin, one hand in his robe pocket, but Draco noticed the tension in his shoulders, the strain by the corners of his eyes. "Seems like you have a similar idea," he replied, sipping his drink and grimacing as it burned his throat.
                          
Harry's smile faltered. "Large crowds still make me nervous," he said quietly. "This place, too... Nothing good happened here." 
                          
Draco's eyes flicked around the hall, remembering the old emerald tiles, the 'WANTED' posters that had littered every surface, the statues of ongoing oppression; those had been the first to come crumbling down when hatred and fear were defeated. Somehow, though, he could still see their outlines, as though they had been scorched into the earth as a reminder of the blood on their hands. Just because it had dried didn't mean it wasn't there. Draco clenched his fist shut when he thought he felt something drip between his fingers. He took another sip of his drink.