She could feel the wind encircling her, calming her, cooling her. It was pleasant. It filtered into her throat, into her lugs, and expelled from her mouth.

It did not help to relieve the memories, but breathing was a welcome change, and she was grateful for it. She could almost grasp the air; something inside of her ached terribly to clutch it, reign it in, master it. She knew she didn't possess the ability, yet, but Garret would have encouraged her to try.

So she did.

Erratic blasts of wind hurled into opposite directions as she attempted to manipulate it. This, maybe, could help her forget about Lucius Malfoy. It was a powerful feeling, trying to dominate the wind.

It would require a lot of work, she could tell. The wind was a free thing; it was unnatural to hold it back and lock it down. But she was capable of it. And even if she had no use for such a task, she really needed something to focus her attentions on.

She tried not to think about it, because anger was an uncontrollable and unmanageable sort of emotion, but she possessed so much anger and hatred that it pained her. And the hurt… that was openly displayed to anyone who had seen her since that summer; she simply couldn't hide that. The scars were enough of a testimony to the fact, but the panic attacks, and her lack of association with people… they entirely gave her away.

And she was a demon. She was meant to learn to control the element that had been bestowed upon her; it was grounded into her genes. And now that she had felt the beginnings of it within her, she was powerless against the strength it yielded. She needed it. And she wanted it. She could easily spend hours, days, months attempting to harness it, and she was more than willing. She wanted to misdirect her excess energy, her anger, her hurt into the effort required to manage such a task, but it was more than that.

It was biological. It was such an innate feeling that she could never accurately describe exactly how it made her feel. The wind – it wanted her. It wanted to govern her. And she felt, somehow, that she could neither control it nor could it control her. It seemed impossible.

It dawned on her that the relationship between a demon and their element wasn't meant to be tamed. It would be wild. Forceful, almost. Spontaneous and unforgiving. But incomparably powerful.

/x\

Draco's fingers itched.

It had been five minutes since West had childishly stomped his way from the Great Hall, four since his housemates began to subtly chuckle with unspoken glee, three since he'd reverted to – once again – blaming his father for everything that had caused something unpleasant in his life, two since he'd exchanged an urgent, unnamed glance with Severus, and one since Draco had stilled the nervous shaking in his leg.

He didn't need to ask what the Minister and Garret West had been arguing over; his entire house knew, by this point.

The Minister wanted a conference with Hermione Granger, wanted a review of the events from her perspective, wanted to publish her account in the Prophet in order to prevent ideas from forming concerning the Ministry's reluctance to accuse Lucius Malfoy. It was a despicable, deplorable act on their end – one that Draco would never try to understand.

Hermione was hardly in a state to handle human company at all, but for human company so selfish as Fudge… Draco didn't want to imagine that. Not that he had been much better for her mental and emotional stability, really.

But he was a Malfoy. He had been trained since birth how to behave in society, and, even further, how to properly mask any and all emotions, thoughts, and opinions when the situation necessitated it.

He internally cringed, snarled at, and looked down on the whispers circulating down the Slytherin table. Most of the gossip centered around the fact that Granger deserved what she'd gotten, that Lucius would be 'released' – or would escape – in little to no time at all, and how they simply couldn't wait to see Granger's reaction to it.

It made him sick.

They hadn't seen her, but they wouldn't have had the same disgusted reaction that he had; in fact, many of them might have joined their fathers. And the girls? They wouldn't have been brought to witness it, but the lack of sympathy and compassion was so incredibly unbelievable to Draco, because surely they could better imagine how it would feel to be robbed of their innocence, and unwillingly forced into having sex with Lucius Malfoy, of all the deranged and creative people in the world.

He shook his head.

No, he couldn't think. If he started thinking, his façade would fall. They already knew of his allegiances – or rather, the lack of his allegiance to their precious Lord. But that was no reason to fuel the fire, no reason to encourage taunts, insults, and injuries.

But he needed to see her. He needed to see her, soon.

He couldn't explain why he felt such an entrenched connection to her. Yes, he'd seen what had been done to her, but that should have been it. He should have been able to help her and be on his way, and that simply wasn't happening. He wanted to see her. In fact, he wanted to see her often.

It wasn't that he necessarily wanted to be her friend, but he wanted to know her. He wanted to know how she felt about it, how she felt about him, why she'd said nothing about the time she'd spent there. He wanted to know the history behind all of the scars, the tragic, painful history. It wasn't logical. It didn't make sense – not in general, and particularly not to him. He couldn't explain why he wanted it, or even really what he wanted, but a strong part of him yearned to be around her.

He was thinking again. It needed to stop.

/x\

"Hermione?"

She looked up, curious about the nervous tick in McGonagall's voice.

"I'm not entirely sure that they meant to tell you, but I feel it's your right to know," McGonagall started. "Fudge is presently staying in the castle. He – he wants to speak with you."

Hermione cringed. She didn't want to speak with Fudge. She knew what he wanted, knew that he didn't truly care an ounce for her mental trauma. Fudge wanted a statement, or a story, or an article that he could publish to save face for the Ministry concerning everything that had to do with Lucius Malfoy.

And she simply did not want to give that to him. But she also knew that allowing him to remain in the castle could do terrors to the school and its inhabitants.

So she decided on the lesser of two evils. "Okay," she said quietly.

McGonagall did not look astonished, as many people might have. She nodded her head in acceptance and stood, presumably to inform Dumbledore or Fudge of her decision.

She couldn't think. If she started to think, then she wouldn't be able to do what she intended to do, wouldn't be able to properly execute it. She needed to keep her mind empty, or at least keep her attentions diverted from the topic that the Minister wanted to discuss.

Grasping on to the power-hungry, urgent needs of the wind was not easy to do when one lacked the proper instruction, the proper experience to manage it correctly. And she did not fool herself long enough – even for a moment – to think that she would master it so quickly, with only a short revelation to support her acclaim. But even so, she also knew that the wind – powerful as it was – could maintain her focus at least long enough to endure an impromptu conversation with the Minister.

And hopefully she would manage it without have some severe mental or emotional breakdown.

Although it would serve him right to witness it, Hermione thought with a small amount of contempt.

Determined, now, Hermione's hands clenched the blanket around her and dispelled of it. If she were to meet Fudge, she would meet with him on her terms, in her niche. She would not lose an ounce of ground to him, not now, not when she finally felt some semblance of control over her emotions.

And that had been exactly what she'd been looking for, for the past month or more. She didn't think that – poorly trained as she was – she could manage to retreat into her Element seamlessly, and manage to maintain her emotionless front throughout the whole of the conversation, but she hoped that it would at least save her, during the worst moments, from breaking into unchecked sobs.

So she stood, and made a hasty decision to change her clothing. She was meeting the Minister of Magic – the whole five feet six inches of him, bound into an overly-portly belly, topped with grubby, money-greased palms – and despite his apparent lack of regard for human feelings, he was still a political hound, albeit a bad one. It would not due to meet him in her muggle jeans and sweater.

After she'd dressed properly, she tinkered with her hair for a moment, and then decided that she would leave it down, messy as it was. She could have thrown it up and bound it back with a hair tie, could have styled it into a smooth, elegant bun – both options would take but a small moment to execute – but she intentionally left it down.

She couldn't pin down why she felt it was better left alone, couldn't lay a finger on why she felt it was so important that Fudge be given just the right impression of her recovery – false as the impression she was giving him might have been.

Abruptly realizing that she lacked any other plans for preparation, she gnawed on her lip impatiently, worriedly, and set to make a cup of tea. She didn't think it would settle her nerves, but it would give her something to do with her hands, and right now she needed that.

The knock at her portrait startled her, and her hand shook violently as she poured the tea into a cup.

Come on, Granger, if you're going to do this, you'd best do it right! She snarled at herself, swiftly mopping up the slight mess with a towel, which she tossed back under the cupboard. As a last minute thought, she stole the energy sphere from her nightstand and tucked it carefully into her pocket. She didn't know if it would be any use in her practice as an Element, but it was worth a try.

She hurried to the portrait and opened it, careful that she didn't allow the immediate disparagement that she mentally scorned this man with to show on her countenance. When the portrait fell open at her command, she noted immediately that Fudge was flanked not only by Professor McGonagall, but by the Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and West, as well.

"Minister," she murmured bleakly, finding it a near impossible task to keep a respectful tone, or even a neutral one.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he swallowed roughly, and she wondered, very briefly, what he must have thought of her. It wasn't that his opinion really counted – because it didn't – but just once she'd like to know what an outsider thought of her scars, of her toffee-colored but utterly broken eyes. "It's a pleasure to speak with you."

He offered her his hand, which she shied away from. That part had not been faked; it was a genuine fear, now so deeply ingrained into her system that she could scarcely remember the time when she could distribute and take pleasure in a simple hug, or an affectionate pat on the shoulder. She felt so utterly starved for human contact, yet still so utterly terrified of it.

It was an awkward moment when he realized that she would not, could not take his hand, and it seemed that it had taken a sharp stab from Snape's wand in his back to make him realize it. Fudge glared at the foreboding man behind him, until Snape sneered and nudged him to the side. "Miss Granger, might we come in?" He uttered it ironically, bordering on sarcasm, but she could not bring herself to feel the usual bite, and she was sure that – for whatever reason – his tone had been meticulously softened of his own volition, and for her favor.

Hermione stood to the side and watched her teachers file into her quarters, creating a would-be comical scene, had her back and shoulders not been so tense, and the situation quite so stressful.

But despite the tension and the tight, short breaths that were quickening in pace, she could not help but feel that her most recent bout of unconsciousness had, in the long run, helped her far more than it hurt her. She was, at this point, very well accustomed to the panic attacks, but it helped to know that, when the current situation became too much for her emotional capacity to handle, she could momentarily – at the very least – lose herself to a power much greater and far more monumental than she.

"Please," she said quickly, realizing that she had lost herself to her thoughts for a moment too long, "feel free to sit."

Dumbledore did, and Fudge clearly had no problem taking the liberty of doing so. McGonagall remained steadfastly at her side, which Hermione, for once, found more comforting than nerve-wracking, while Snape and Garret had taken to hovering rather obtrusively and – dare she say it – protectively over Fudge, as if offering a silent warning.

A warning of what, Hermione couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine. And why Snape took it upon himself to take up residence as her temporary guardian, Hermione couldn't have said, but it wasn't all that unpleasant. In fact, she found herself fighting a wave of distinct gratitude for both men.

"Miss Granger – Hermione, if I may?" He ploughed forward without waiting for her say-so, not that she'd have given it anyway. She wasn't comfortable with the way he ground out her first name, and the loss of formalities momentarily threw off her already-hard-to-keep mask. "Shall we be blunt?"

She regarded him with a minute amount of distaste, tinged with a bundle of fear and nerves that she couldn't mask, no matter how hard she tried. But she gave him a small nod.

Hermione could feel McGonagall's curiosity radiating off of her in waves. She knew that she was behaving oddly – or at least, much differently than she had for the past two months or so – but she needed McGonagall and the others to play into it, otherwise it simply would not work.

"Recent… events," Fudge cleared his throat, "have made it difficult for us to have this chat a bit sooner."

"Aye, recent events and an outright dislike of your purpose here to begin with," West snarled viciously.

Clearly this was a touchy subject for all inhabitants of the room, and not simply her.

Fudge ignored him, with a great deal of apparent difficulty, and Hermione could see Snape lean forward even the minutest amount possible, as if offering a silent threat trundled together with a blatant hatred.

"Continue, please, Minister," Dumbledore urged.

Hermione could swear that he'd done it intentionally to irk Fudge, but she couldn't be entirely sure.

"I'll get right to it, then, shall I?" He sighed impatiently, glancing with pompous self-importance at the men flanking his either side. "It would be in… everyone's best interest if you felt yourself… capable of relaying this summer's past events. In order to assist our resistance efforts, of course," he hastened to add.

She didn't say anything. In fact – despite how ready she'd been for sentiments of this kind – she felt the panic hovering in a foreign corner of her mind as her breath caught and her heart raced in her ears.

Wind, she thought desperately, and attempted to take hold of the thing inside of her that seemed so determined, so dead-set on controlling the very being of the wind.

She closed her eyes briefly, not caring that she might have looked a bit strange, not caring what Fudge thought of the odd display. And on some level, she registered that he probably wasn't meant to know of her ability, and she certainly had no inclination to explain it to him.

Her fingers lightly traced patterns on the sphere in her pocket as her breathing picked up and she began to fear tremendously that her plan – as quickly decided as it was – would not work. Her throat began to close, and she tried to a dreadful extreme to hone her attentions on what was happening inside of her body, instead of what was happening to it. And a moment before she gave up, when black pricks had started to assail her eyes, she felt the smallest tinge of recognition.

She had control, however brief it was. This was nothing compared to the way that it would feel when she had worked for the power, but it would do. It would do, as long as she could push that small patch of air into her lungs, and calm her long enough to finish what she'd started.

After she'd done so, she took a small moment to gloat to herself before she lifted her eyelids again. The array of faces that she was met with startled her.

Fudge appeared stricken, McGonagall worried, Dumbledore sad, West proud (to her utmost pleasure), and Snape – well, he just looked like he understood, odd as that sounded, but there was no mistaking the curious glint in his black eyes, the tiniest ounce of compassion that nested in them.

"Forgive my impertinence, Minister," she said quietly, controlling the tremor in her voice only just, and failing to do so with the tremors in her hands, "but I must ask if that's truly relevant to… your purposes."

Stammering at the request to justify his intentions, he sputtered, "Of – of course it's relevant, girl! We must know what weapons You-Know-Who has implemented against us, and we – "

"Then ask… Malfoy yourself," she fought a gasp and a shudder after uttering his name. "What he did – the 'weapons' he used on me were… entirely orthodox," she whispered, twisting her hands together nervously, unable to still them, yet unable to look at them without falling into another bout of terror. "As far as weapons run, anyway."

"But – but – "

"I believe, Cornelius, that Miss Granger has made herself crystalline clear," Dumbledore uttered softly. Despite the fact that his words were not aimed at Hermione, an unsubtle layer of sympathy coated them, and that, she knew, was directed straight at her.

"Forgive me if I'm not overly keen on having an article printed in the Prophet, come morning," Hermione spoke in a dangerously low voice, having forced herself to regain at least some of her bearings. "Your motivations for coming her are abundantly clear, Minister, and you'll excuse me if I'm not open to forgiving the Ministry's past indiscretions. Your policy toward… well, toward everything is intolerable at its best, but you've carried your office to an unprecedented point of inconceivable corruption, and I refuse to play into that. Now, if you haven't anything else to say, Minister, get the hell out of my quarters."

It had been inappropriate to say, and she suddenly felt very drained and confused. The plan had been to steer him away from prying, certainly, but she had hoped to use coldness, indifference to achieve her goal, not impudence and a show of total disrespect.

But the latter had been much more refreshing.