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Chapter Text

1st November 2007

Out of all the departments in the Ministry of Magic, the Department of Mysteries was the most, well, mysterious. Very few people, even within the Ministry, knew of the inner workings of the different chambers, let alone who did what and where. The general consensus among Ministry employees was that while the Unspeakables working there tended to be friendly (if not a bit odd and prone to sudden unwanted rambles on obscure topics), the Department as a whole was an unwelcoming, unnerving place, best avoided if possible. As far as most people from other levels were concerned, the last Interesting Thing to happen to the Department of Mysteries (despite the whole debacle some years ago with Death Eaters breaking in, fighting some teenagers and destroying a bunch of Ministry property) was their Quidditch team winning the interdepartmental tournament in 1773 and promptly never participating again.

While it wasn’t the busiest Ministry department, it definitely wasn’t quiet. The Unspeakables there tended to work their own hours, and often, while the rest of the Ministry closed for the night, lights could still be seen under office doors as the researchers took advantage of the lack of disturbances to run their experiments. At nearly 3 am tonight, however, the Ministry Samhain party in the Atrium on Level Eight was winding down, and the Department of Mysteries was empty.

It wasn’t quiet; the constant hum of the rotating planets in the Space chamber, the ticking of clocks in the Time Room and the occasional murmuring from the few surviving crystal balls in the Hall of Prophecies created a backdrop of constant ambient noise that no amount of Silencing Charms could suppress. However, there certainly weren’t any eyewitnesses around to see glimmering greenish-black tendrils of magic suddenly creeping along the black-tiled floors of the Entrance Chamber or the gentle tremors that shook the walls and left the blue-flamed torches spluttering and skew in their sconces.

In the Death Room, the Veil stood proudly, as it had for so many years; the shimmery gauze curtain separating the mortal world from the next swaying gently despite the lack of breeze in the room, and faint whispering noises emanating seemingly from the archway itself. The almost tranquil scene was shattered when, on the hour exactly, the air was split by the sound of the numerous clocks in the Time Room chiming away, and the glowing golden runes carved into the stone arch of the Veil began to flicker. The gossamer curtain was no longer blowing softly but thrashing side to side, and the gentle whispers turned into shill screams as the light of the runes pulsed, then died.

There was a sudden awful silence in the chamber as if the room itself was holding a breath, and then a body slipped out from the Veil, thumping gently onto the cold stone below.

And there Sirius Black remained for hours until the terrified screams of the morning cleaning staff roused half of the (still slightly drunk) Auror department, one Minister of Magic, and an almost-but-not-quite Death Eater, and from then on, the interdepartmental Quidditch tournament began to look terribly boring in comparison.

Chapter Text

A few weeks earlier…

Draco Malfoy was many things, but he liked to think a coward was not one of them. If, as a seventeen-year-old, he could face both Greyback and that awful snake over breakfast for weeks at a time, sipping cold Lady Grey and passing around croissants, then ten years later, he could certainly stand up to his boss and her infamous ‘Eyebrows of Doom’.

His abovementioned boss took a sip of her Shaah and stared coldly at him over the vast expanse of her desk, one perfectly shaped dark eyebrow rising higher and higher. Professor Warsame was an intimidating witch, and what she lacked in stature, she more than made up for in sheer presence and raw power- essential skills needed to oversee the Ministry Curse-breaking Division and the highly skilled, often temperamental Curse-breakers that came along with it.

Her nonverbal magic was gently stirring the second cup meant for Draco. He winced internally with every scrape of the metal spoon against the glass and watched as it floated over in front of him, slamming down on the table with sudden aggression that contradicted her (uncharacteristically and dangerously placid) expression.

“If I thought you weren’t ready to return to the field, Malfoy, I wouldn’t have suggested it.” Professor Warsame finally snapped. “I’m hardly asking you to go to Peru again- it’s the Isle of Skye, for Merlin’s sake. The scariest thing you’ll see out there is some sheep. Maybe a seal or two.”

“Or Scottish people,” Draco said gloomily and took an experimental sip of his tea. The flavour was quite lovely, and the gentle warmth of the brew in his hands did wonders for grounding him after this morning’s ambush. The next owl arriving at his desk with a letter marked ‘urgent’ would get chucked right out the window like a Quaffle.

“From what I’ve heard from McCallum,” his boss continued, “some remote hermit out on the island sounded the alarm after his Muggle neighbour woke up to some of his sheep slaughtered.”

“Wolves?” Draco asked hopefully, wanting to conclude this discussion quickly. “Kelpies? A Muggle serial killer, maybe?”

Professor Warsame rolled her eyes. “No wolves in Scotland for hundreds of years-”

“Werewolves?” He interjected, crossing his fingers, but was promptly ignored with another eye roll.

“Too far from any water to be kelpies, and according to the wizard who sounded the alarm, he felt a big pulse of magic late last night, so whatever did it wasn’t Muggle. The Aurors have gone out already, taken a statement from the wizard and his neighbour, and sealed off the scene, but they reckon it’s something curse-related. They want one of our lot to come out and look it over.”

She paused for a second and looked apologetically at Draco. “You’ll have to take one of the interns with you, too. They have required minimum hours of fieldwork, and I don’t want any to stay longer than they have to.”

Draco slouched in his chair and threw his head back, groaning in despair.

“Gods forbid the one time the DMLE actually decides to do a thorough investigation, and it’s the first day I’m back in the office and have paperwork I need to catch up on.”

He glanced at Professor Warsame beseechingly. “Is there no one else in the department you can send?”

He was met with a steady, unmoving gaze. “Hammond is out investigating that cursed fire in Tenby, Meyers is still on honeymoon, Fawlks and Midgeon are both in St Mungo’s after those Inferi attacked them, and the interns are still too inexperienced to send out alone.”

She sighed. “Honest to Merlin, it’s a miracle that the DMLE is asking for our help so quickly. You know how they normally sweep up all the evidence, wait two weeks, and then expect us to work wonders with no magical signature to look at, but we actually might be able to help out here. I know you’re not a permanent staff member- but you’re one of the best we’ve got, and I would appreciate your thoughts on this case.”

Draco tried not to let himself preen at the compliment. “With all due respect, Professor, I really would prefer to take a supporting role on this case and let another ‘Breaker take the lead. I’ve just come back from paternity leave, I have admin a mile high to catch up on, and some twat from MACUSA keeps sending me nonstop owls about dead trolls, of all things.”

He sighed, put his head in his hands, and peeked through his fingers to see if his supervisor was sympathetic to his plight. Her face remained unswayed. Damn.

“Can’t you give this case to Gibson?” A pleading tone entered his voice. “If he sits at his desk any longer, he’s going to start growing algae.”

Draco saw his boss’s gaze slide over his shoulder to stare down Gibson, all but napping in his assigned cubicle, the remains of yesterday’s doughnuts still sprinkling his trousers. Unfortunately, despite the rather compelling evidence, she still looked unconvinced.

A final burst of inspiration hit him “And, as you said, I’m not a full-time member of staff. It’s not my job to babysit some underqualified intern who’s likely to faint at their first mummy. I really must decline.”

To finish off his rather compelling argument, Draco threw his boss a winning smile, one he knew from years of experience could make witches of all ages melt like Bicorn butter and smugly settled back down in his chair, satisfied with the conclusion of their meeting.

Draco landed with a nauseating swirl on the marshy soil of the Isle of Skye, fuming. Much to his horror, his Hebridean Black dragonhide boots (mid-calf with an elegant pointed toe, as seen on page 3 of Wizarding Wear) were already ankle-deep in mud and came free from the soil with a repulsive squelch. Fuck, he missed London already. He peered around, looking for the intern, only to suddenly dart out of the way as she materialised almost on top of him. The intern (Clara?? Karen??) squeaked out an apology, face flushing in embarrassment, clutching the equipment bag cum portkey with tight knuckles. In the distance, past the Portkey Clearance Zone, he could see two figures waiting for him to arrive.

Both wore the standard Auror uniforms (scarlet red cape with gold fringing, overlaying tight black pants and high boots), making the Aurors stand out clearly, even in the late-September drizzle starting to nip Draco’s cheeks. He didn’t recognise the older man, but from the sneer he received, it was clear that the Auror knew exactly who Draco was. The younger woman, however, did look vaguely familiar.

“Officer Fay Dunbar,” she introduced herself, nodding to her companion, “and Officer Henry Cunningham.”

Officer Cunningham grunted, trailed his eyes over Draco and spat, rather impressively, on the marshy soil next to them.

“Draco Malfoy, Curse-breaker.” He introduced himself for posterity’s sake and gestured to the student behind him (Claire?? Cara??). “I’m bringing one of our interns along today for more field training. This is Intern….”

He let the question hang until the girl finally took the initiative and put him out of his misery.

“Intern Sarah Mullins.” She peeped, still unable to look Draco in the eye. Officer Cunningham gave some grunt of acknowledgement, and Officer Dunbar, sensing the rising tension in the air, took the lead and started walking them towards the sealed-off crime scene.

Draco considered himself a city lover through and through, but couldn’t deny the raw ancient beauty of the Scottish wilderness as he strode towards the magical bubble ahead. They had apparated to the south of Skye, near the peak of Sgurr na Stri, and the sight of the island stretching beneath them was stunning. The magnificent Cuilin mountains were faintly visible far in the distance despite the clouds; the heather swayed gently in the breeze, his steps cushioned by the delicate peat moss squishing underfoot, and somewhere nearby, a stream meandered happily away. He saw the flicker of a hare darting off through the bushes, and in the crisp air, he could hear the call of a plover.

Draco rather uncharitably thought it would have been perfect- if the scenery hadn’t been somewhat ruined by the intern wheezing away behind him like a French bulldog as they climbed the hill’s steep slope. He made a mental note to incorporate endurance training into their programme- it would give the interns some practice before their upcoming Auror stealth exam (or hopefully have the added benefit of making some less-committed ones drop out).

The stony ground started to level off as they reached the magical seal of the crime scene, and the figures of two men waiting in hastily conjured armchairs became clearer. Draco assumed the first man was the Muggle farmer, given his Wellington boots and tartan overcoat, which matched his battered flat cap. His eyes were vacant and glazed over, likely still under the influence of the Aurors’ security charms.

The second man was undoubtedly a wizard- almost painfully so. He had a long beard that nearly reached his knees, an indecently short, vibrant purple robe, and lurid knee-high socks tucked into ugly leather shoes. Birkenstocks, perhaps? (Draco knew about the evils of those; he had far too many lectures on Muggle fashion from a drunken Pansy still seared into his brain.

The wizard’s eyes lit up as he spotted Draco approaching, and he leapt up out of his chair to shake his hand. It was flummoxing. He couldn’t remember the last time he was approached with such eagerness. His distinctive Malfoy features had made him quite recognisable within the British wizarding community, and his somewhat notorious reputation (despite ten years of trying to build it back up) tended to follow him wherever he went like an unshakable dark cloud.

This wizard had either not gotten the memo or had been a hermit for so long that he had missed some of the most significant magical events in the past century. Must be nice.

“This is Elijah Plume. He was meditating early this morning when he first felt the magical release,” Officer Dunbar explained. “Mr Plume, this is Curse-breaker Malfoy. He’s been brought out to assist the DMLE with this case.”

The wizard took an imperceptible step back. Ah, there it was. Not quite a hermit then, after all.

“And this is Mr Munro, a local sheep farmer. He keeps a croft down in the valley,” Dunbar said, vaguely gesturing towards one of the nearby peaks. “Mr Munro requested Mr Plume’s help finding his flock just after dawn this morning when he came to feed his sheep and noticed some were missing.”

The farmer made no sign of acknowledgement, still deep in his magical trance. Draco was pretty sure he saw a fly settle on the man’s eyeball.

He turned to Officer Dunbar, eyes narrowing. “What’s been done to him?”

She grimaced, “There was a hasty Obliviation cast before we confirmed we were calling you out. Bit of a strong one, but the side effects should wear off soon.”

“So he’s useless then,” Draco looked at her flatly. “You understand any possible information I could’ve extracted for you will now be long gone?”

The other three Ministry employees (and Mr Plume) turned to watch as Mr Munro blinked, each eyelid moving separately like a frog. The fly buzzed off; Officer Dunbar had the grace to look a bit abashed.

“The poor man looks like he doesn’t know his own name!” Draco added, irked.

“We got all we needed from the Muggle,” Officer Cunningham sneered. It wasn’t hard to guess the culprit of the Obliviation. “Anything you need to know, we’ve already seen.”

“It’s not been too long since his memories were wiped,” Dunbar told him hesitantly. “You could still try Legilimency, if you know it, and see if there’s anything left.”

“I’ll do it,” Cunningham bristled, obviously unhappy with Draco taking control of the scene so quickly.

“Out of the question.” Draco’s frigid voice was carried gently by the breeze picking up in the field. “The chance of finding anything useful after Obliviation is practically non-existent, and you run the risk of doing some permanent damage, especially after the spell you’ve just done.”

Cunningham shot him a furious glare, “You don’t get to tell me how to interrogate my witness, Malfoy; there could be something useful still there.”

“As you’ve already said,” he told the wizard coldly, “anything I need to know you’ve got for me already. Now leave him be.”

Officer Dunbar made the sensible decision to step in. It looked like Cunningham was close to pulling out his wand and shooting something nasty at Draco. Let him try —after so long on paternity leave, he was hellishly bored.

“Mr Plume here can tell you everything he told us. He’s been invaluable this morning.”

She smiled reassuringly at the wizard, and his shoulders straightened in pride. His very short outfit hoisted up even higher, and Draco felt his risk of being flashed by an octogenarian increase substantially.

“I was doing a shamanic drum session for peace and clarity when I felt the magic run through me.” Mr Plume told Draco self-importantly, “At first, I thought it was just my own. My mindfulness has been especially strong during this last lunar cycle, but when I helped Kenny here a few hours later, I knew something was wrong right away.”

“I know you’ve probably told the Aurors all of this already, but would you mind my asking some questions so there’s no confusion?”

The wizard waved his hand in assent, his initial panic at hearing Draco’s name quickly overtaken by macabre glee at the story he now got to share. Draco shot a meaningful look at the intern, nodding towards the equipment bag. She froze, an uncertain look flashing across her face, and hesitantly lifted it towards him.

Fine, he would do everything himself around here. He leaned over, ignoring Sarah’s squeak as he intruded into her personal space, popped the bag open, felt around for a notebook and self-inking quill and pushed the bag back towards her.

With a dramatic flourish that had all eyes focused delightfully on him, he wrote the date at the top of the page and nodded at the wizard to continue.

“When was this exactly?”

“Quite late at night, I don’t know for sure. I’m avoiding clocks; they constrain oneself to the temporal dimension, you see.”

Draco did his best to keep his face impassive. He nodded along to the story, scribbling down some notes as the man spoke. He had already noted a bag of some plant matter stuffed in the wizard’s robe behind his beard (Salvia divinorum, if he had to guess) and was feeling somewhat sceptical about the accuracy of Mr Plume’s so-called mindfulness. The two Aurors, however, seemed to have missed it. (The Ministry’s brightest and best, they were).

“Knowing where you were in the temporal dimension could be useful today.” He said mildly. “Any chance you could make a guess?”

“Maybe just before midnight,” the wizard snapped back, rather aggressively, in his opinion. That old inner peace might need a tad recalibrating.

“And can you describe what you felt?”

Mr Plume showed the first sign of discomfort yet.

“It felt…horrible- like someone was walking on my grave.”

Grave-like, Draco noted down seriously in his book. Salazar, this was a waste of his time.

“And how did you find the sheep in the end?”

“We came up this way to check if the sheep were hiding in the ruins; sometimes, if it storms, they like to do that, and I noticed the stones up on the top of the hill. I told Kenny how odd; he’s lived here his whole life and never mentioned anything like them to me. Well, he said, he’d never seen them before either, as if they sprouted up overnight! So we went up to investigate, and that was when we found them in the circle.”

He shivered and dropped his eyes to rake over the ground below. “I’ll never forget that sight. I grabbed Kenny’s arm and pulled him right back; we didn’t get close to the stones; that’s how awful I felt. I’m very sensitive to these sorts of things, you see. The energy put out was the strongest I’ve ever felt.”

“What did it feel like?” Draco asked him curiously

The wizard looked up, meeting Draco’s eyes, and for the first time, he was struck by the solemn fear deep in them.

“It felt… hungry.”

Mr Plume and Mr Munroe were given a portkey, and the remaining trio watched as they were sucked away to the Inverness office for further questioning by the Aurors there. Hopefully, some more skilled members of the team would be able to make some subtle changes to Cunningham’s bludger of a memory charm and soothe Mr Plume’s frazzled nerves with a spot of tea.

Draco, Dunbar, and Cunningham continued to the rest of the scene. The wards for weather protection, temperature control, Muggle repulsion, and decontamination passed over them as they pushed through, and the slight change in pressure made Draco’s ears want to pop.

“We don’t know how either of them saw the stones in the first place.” Dunbar began to explain. “Or how the sheep even ended up here. This field was marked as a High Risk for Magical Disturbance and made Unplottable in the 1840s. The standing stones have been here for over 1300 years. Pictish, according to our history of the area, but we can’t figure out how Mr Munroe was even able to find the area now or what the hell happened to his flock.”

The sight ahead on the rocky field was not a pretty one. Several sheep carcasses lay scattered inside an ancient stone circle, empty eye sockets gazing blankly ahead, and greenish organs pulled out of abdomens, littering the sticky grass. What was even more ominous were the deep, bloody scratches carved into the wide stones on the inside face of the circle, as if something had done its best to claw its way out. The smell of copper and wet fleece was ripe in the air, and Draco could see the intern pale a bit out of the corner of his eye, but to her credit, she didn’t look away.

He sighed; he should have listened to Blaise and taken another week of leave. This could’ve been Gibson’s problem. Now his boots were soggy, he had a bunch of dead ruminants to sift through, and his primary witness was still undoubtedly recovering from some post-Mabon Seer’s Sage trip.

“Sarah, I’m going to examine the circle. I want you to take a sketching quill and charm it to copy the markings on the stones.” He called over his shoulder, pulling his wand from its holster. “There’s also a camera somewhere in the bag. Set it up to take photos of the scene from as many angles as possible, please.”

The Aurors had shown a surprising level of self-preservation, and it looked like none had ventured past the stones…yet. He paused, feeling a reminder may still be necessary.

“Please, for the love of Merlin, nobody step a foot in the circle.”

Eyeing the Aurors first, then turning a gimlet gaze onto Sarah, who bobbed her head in acknowledgement as she set up the tripod, he proceeded with his investigation.

Seven basalt pictographic stones had been arranged in a wobbly circle, with a largish, flat stone about the size of a sofa in the middle. The stones, menhirs to be precise, were evenly sized, about as tall as Draco, but broadly rectangular, and had an assortment of swirling detail carved into the inside and outside faces.

Warily, he circled the stones, first widdershins, then deosil, seeing if another perspective could give him any insights. Unfortunately, it didn’t. He then cast his first round of exploratory spells, trying to sense any possible magical traps or curses that could’ve been laid on the stones awaiting any unsuspecting pedestrians (none evident), then moved on to check for any recent magical activity in the field. The broken strands of the old Unplottable charm were obvious and tickled the back of his senses, but as he pushed deeper, he eventually hit a deep well of strange magic, sending vibrations through him like a tuning fork.

It was shockingly powerful, as if he had stepped into what he thought was a shallow stream, only to find out it was actually a deep crevasse with a strong, icy current trying to pull him away. The magic was tied to the standing stones, he realised suddenly, running between the menhirs, connecting them like posts in a fence. As he examined the one nearest to him a bit closer, he recognised some carved ideograms from a recent edition of his favourite monthly journal (Runic reading- Magical University of Trondheim, February Issue).

Draco’s brows furrowed as he read the signs for protection…and death. Now that he had isolated the source of the magic, he dragged his wand along the next standing stone, muttering powerful revealing spells under his breath to see the magic in its visible form, but nothing worked. Not Revelio omnia, none of his decloaking spells, nor any de-camouflaging spells- he even tried pushing through the barrier magic with force, but that seemed to make it stronger as if it was feeding off the power he threw at it.

Stumped, he took a breather and tried a different tactic. Digging into his (admittedly small) knowledge of Celtic spellwork, he desperately tried a basic revealing spell, this time in Scots Gaelic only, withholding any Latin words from the incantation. To his delight, the hidden magic suddenly became visible, albeit somewhat grudgingly. Golden interconnected threads linking each menhir twined around themselves into a Celtic knot encircling the stones as the original spell circle made itself known. At the same time, the symbols themselves began to glow with a gorgeous, warm light.

Draco took a step back and examined the scene. The carved sigils on the menhir were channelling ambient magic and feeding the protection spells cloaking the circle, allowing the spell to continue indefinitely without needing to be recast regularly—an impressive feat of magical engineering.

The protection spell was powerful—a huge net-like dome of interlinked magical strands reaching into the sky and around the stone circle, shimmering and catching the weak late-summer Scottish light. But why was the spell here? He couldn’t figure it out. This was hardly a site of significant magical importance, unlike Waun Mawn or Stonehenge. Why on earth would the circle need protection so badly?

He waved Dunbar over. “You mentioned the field was made Unplottable in the 1840s. Do you have any idea why? I can feel that spell remnant, and I’m also getting a wave of active protective magic, but nothing to suggest why these stones would deserve two such powerful spells.”

Dunbar checked the case notes. “So there used to be some Muggles living just downhill from the stones….” She said, pointing out crumbling stone ruins, partially buried under heather and soil, that Draco had vaguely brushed off as he approached the crime scene.

“But according to our records, in 1841, all the villagers were killed,” she continued. “Some Dark wizard used blood magic to perform an unknown ritual in the stone circle but was stopped by Aurors before he could complete it. The unfinished spell rebounded and killed him before he could be arrested.”

She flipped over another page in the file.

“Under advisement from the Minister at the time, the lead Auror decided to make the land Unplottable to prevent any Muggles from coming to investigate and to give the circle time to release the magic brewing inside. After the case was filed, the circle was forgotten about, and the Unplottable spell never lifted.”

She paused. “Nothing about when the protection spells were put in place, though; we don’t have any record of that on file.”

“You wouldn’t,” Draco said softly, still staring at the shimmering strands of magic. “Those spells are ancient, probably cast by the same Picts who placed the stones.”

“But why did they cast them in the first place?” Dunbar sounded perplexed. “Why was this circle significant to the Picts? Why would they want to keep people out?”

“I don’t think it was to keep people out.” Draco looked at the bloody scratch marks and felt a deepening sense of unease. “I think it was to keep something in.”

Draco gestured for Officer Dunbar to step back and continued with the next step of his investigation. Very gently, he took his wand and, as he walked, ran it along the perfect sides of the protection spell, feeling the powerful magic flare and pulse under his inspection.

Not quite perfect, he realised, as he came across what felt like a weak spot- a slight give in the fabric of the spell, opposite to where he had started. He paused and examined the spot again, stretching out his magic like prodding fingers, and suddenly stepped backwards as what felt like a wave of pure malice and hatred rolled over him like a cold tide. The back of his neck prickled, and all his primal instincts screamed at him to run, to not turn his back on the stones.

“What the actual fuck?” Draco breathed but was quickly distracted by Cunningham shouting.

He looked up quickly. The intern, Sarah, had changed positions with the camera- no longer taking photos of the circle, she had angled it outwards and herself behind it to take pictures of the surrounding scenery. Utterly unaware of her position, leaning over the camera, her back heel wobbled precariously close to the circle’s edge.

Cunningham shot red sparks up in warning and raced to pull her away, but it did the opposite. Pulling sharply back in fright, Sarah lost her balance, arms waving as she desperately tried to catch herself. The slippery mud, however, offered her no mercy. With a squeal, she fell backwards, beyond the rim of the stone circle through the golden protective spell, palms scraping roughly on one of the menhirs as she unsuccessfully tried to catch herself, the camera clattering on the ground next to her.

Dunbar watched, frozen in horror, but Draco was already moving. He launched himself around the circle, coming to stand opposite Sarah before she could even pull herself upright.

“Listen to me very carefully, Sarah,” Draco instructed, trying to keep his voice calm and collected, disguising the panic starting to coil in his veins. “Step towards me and come out of the circle, nice and quickly. But don’t run.”

Sarah nodded, eyes blown wide in fear and did just that, the noose of tension around Draco’s lungs easing with her first step forward.

“It’s alright, Curse-breaker Malfoy.” She chirped, her face full of relief as she approached him. “Look, I’m fine; nothing happened.”

Draco could only watch on, as if through slow-motion omniocular lenses, as a dribble of blood from her scraped palm rolled off the skin of her wrist and onto the ground below.

And then chaos erupted.

Sarah’s eyes rolled into the back of her skull, and she levitated several feet off the ground while her body thrashed mid-air. The quiet air was shattered by her screams; the sound echoed and amplified to a horrible chorus by the stark mountains around them.

Cunningham (stupid tosser) attempted to run in after her, but the protection wards around the circle had tightened after the first breach and sent him bouncing back, the once gentle twining motions turning sharp and lashing like an angry snake. Draco pulled him away firmly, gripping his wand and feeling for any of those weak spots from earlier, any hole in the fabric of the spell he could push himself through. There was nothing.

And then the screaming stopped. Sarah floated gently to the ground, her face smiling at the sky, breathing in a deep inhale of the crisp mountain air. Draco, Dunbar, and Cunningham watched her worriedly, taking a unanimous step back when her large eyes snapped open to look at them, her muddy brown irises completely overtaken by black.

Draco groaned. Demonic possession. At 9 am on a Monday morning. Morgana’s saggy left tit.

The Demon-Sarah looked at them and then began to laugh with a voice like crashing metal and grinding glass. The sound ran horribly down Draco’s spine, its unnatural nature causing reflexive goosebumps to erupt all over his arms, and his magic to lash tighter around him in protection.

It grinned at them and their obvious discomfort, opened its mouth widely—almost too widely to be human—and began to speak.

The monologue it gave was undoubtedly menacing, likely full of death threats and promises of imminent slaughter and retribution. Unfortunately for the demon, it was also in a language that had been extinct for the last thousand-plus years. Draco, Dunbar, and Cunningham exchanged anxious glances as the demon rattled on, Draco surreptitiously casting translation charms with no success.

“How’s your Pictish?” Dunbar asked Draco worriedly.

“Non-existent. I’m a Curse-breaker, not a linguist.” Draco snapped back. “How’s yours?”

The demon had come to a pause in its speech and was looking at the trio expectantly. Draco watched on, moderately impressed, as Cunningham stepped towards the circle.

“We. Don’t. Understand. You!” He shouted at the demon. Any goodwill Draco felt toward the man evaporated instantly, and the urge to roll his eyes was almost painful.

The demon paused, confused, then repeated something in its booming voice again, stomping one of Sarah’s booted feet in exasperation.

Officer Cunningham, in the time-honoured tradition of an Englishman encountering a language barrier, simply spoke his words slower and louder, adding in some hand gestures for extra oomph.

Draco quickly ran a diagnostic while the demon was distracted, arguing pointlessly with Cunningham. The protection spell around the circle was still holding fast; in fact, he was pretty sure it would confine the demon inside, with little input required from them. Excellent. That gave him time to devise a plan.

“Officer Dunbar.” He hissed. “Can you summon a Patronus?”

She nodded, blonde plait bobbing quickly.

“Good. Send one to the closest DLME headquarters for reinforcements. We need a team of Aurors out here, stat. I also want my supervisor called out, and I need an archivist to pull the full file on that Muggle village and have it sent along. We’re also going to need a translator.”

Officer Dunbar gaped at him. “Who the hell can we ask to translate Pictish for us?” She asked incredulously. “The Ministry can’t even fully staff the Communications and HR department, and they only need to know English.”

Draco gave a deep sigh. “I think I might know of someone.”

The rain had started to pick up, the demon was still shouting, and Draco’s boots were almost certainly ruined.

Bloody Scotland.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was already having an awful day, and it was only just after 11 am.

A series of frustrating events had thrown her carefully planned morning completely off-kilter- she missed the lift en route to her 8.30 am meeting on Mermaid territory legislation (making her twelve minutes early instead of her preferred sixteen), her usual takeaway double-shot caffe latte from the Muggle cafe around the corner had her name misspelt, and the wrong amount of sugar, so it lay discarded in the rubbish bin, the ‘Harmony Genger’ sticker facing sadly upwards, and to top it all off, some magical moron from the Ministry Curse-breakers division managed to get an intern demonically possessed, and now it was her problem to sort out.

She took a deep breath and faced her final obstacle of the morning —her colleague, Theodore Nott, qualified Unspeakable and professional nuisance.

Theo dimpled at her from behind his desk. His wavy shoulder-length dark-brown hair was pulled up into an artfully casual bun, a wand casually shoved through it, and tendrils framing his face in a manner that Hermione refused to admit she found attractive. He picked a Rubik’s cube off his desk (Christmas present, 2004) and absentmindedly twisted the faces, refusing even to consider the extremely fair proposal she’d just suggested.

“Why should I consider switching offices with you?” He queried, blue eyes gleaming devilishly. “The location of mine is so much better. I can see right down the hallway, so I can greet the visitors-”

“Spy on the visitors,” Hermione interrupted, trying to ignore how his heavy boots rested on the table, stressfully close to this morning’s owl correspondences from Murray, as he leaned back further in his chair.

“The acoustics are tops, so I hear all the good gossip,” he doggedly continued, “and Greta, the tea lady, stops by this room every Friday to give me an Eccles cake.”

Hermione sighed, knowing that after years of friendship with Theo, an attitude of any sort would only be reciprocated with extreme enthusiasm.

“You’d still get your cake, Theo,” she moaned, “we’re on the same bloody corridor! I just want an office closer to the lifts!”

“So you want to swap your poky end-corridor room for my prime real estate.” Theo shook his head gravely, “Hardly seems like a fair trade. What’s in it for me?”

“My office isn’t poky,” she bristled. “And walking to the lift takes me an extra eight seconds. By the time I call it from my office, it’s often left without me. That means I’m waiting for four extra minutes at least three times a week. That’s twelve minutes a week, which comes to…”

She did some quick mental maths. “Nearly ten hours a year! Theo, that’s one whole working day I’m kept waiting for a lift!”

“Tragic.” Theo gasped, hand clutched to his chest in mock anguish. “However will the Ministry cope with that loss of productivity?”

Hermione tried to sweeten the deal. “Besides,” she coaxed, “You know my window overlooks the indoor training yard. You could see the Fiendyfire fighters run their practice drills every morning from now on.”

Theo’s eyes brightened in interest, and she knew she nearly had him.

“But what would I do about my clock?” He gestured to the enormous clock stuck to the wall behind him with a powerful Permanent Sticking Charm, surrounded by multiple small clocks all ticking away as if Hermione had never seen it before.

Bugger. She’d lose him for good with that point.

Theo was absurdly proud of his clock. He had made it himself from parts of an antique Muggle cuckoo clock (where he had got it from Hermione could hardly imagine). In addition to a delicate clockface telling the time, Hermione’s favourite part was the beautiful model solar system rotating along the clock’s circumference, keeping track of celestial movements and whatever planet was in retrograde.

Her least favourite bit, however, was how he had modified it so that instead of a cuckoo popping out and cooing prettily on the hour, a miniature lifelike Augery would come shrieking out of a hidden side panel, scaring the living hell out of any unsuspecting visitors. This, coincidentally, was Theo’s favourite part of his beloved creation.

“Ask Construction to reroute the whole lift system closer to you,” he suggested, lips twitching.

“I tried that.” Hermione scowled. “They laughed me out their office.”

Theo cackled at the indignation on her face and, with an overdramatic flourish, lined up the last completed face on the Rubik’s cube and triumphantly placed it back on his desk next to a browning potplant, leaning further backwards in his chair in satisfaction. Hermione’s wand arm twitched with the intense urge to flip his chair back ever so slightly and watch him topple backwards on the floor, but she knew the only thing worse than smug Theo was pouty Theo, and she honestly couldn’t deal with that, too, today, on top of everything else.

“Don’t you have a portkey to catch soon?” Theo asked as Hermione settled back deeper into the visitor’s chair, pulling out her enchanted Filofax. It hadn’t stopped screaming in protest after her schedule had been so disrupted; she opened it gingerly to double-check.

“Yes, and how do you know about that?” Her planner shrieked in fury as soon as she touched it. She hurriedly shoved it back in a pocket, unopened.

Theo smiled secretively. “I’m telling you, love, I hear everything that happens in this department. Scotland, isn’t it?”

Hermione rolled her eyes—nosy git.

Theo looked at her expectantly, his dislike of feeling left out of anything making him more persistent than a terrier with a rat.

“I’m Apparating to one of the Ministry offices at Inverness first,” Hermione sighed, knowing she might as well fill him in. He’d find out somewhere else anyway. “One of the Curse-breakers asked me to pick up some paperwork and bring it along while I’m there. Their Department of Magical Transport is busy making me a portkey to the Isle of Skye; it should be ready by 12. From there, I’ll meet the Auror team on Skye and figure out what’s happening.”

“Have you got a full debrief from Murray and Warsame yet? Did they explain why you’re being called out? Has it got something to do with-” Theo dropped his voice and leaned over, “your research?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not that I can tell; the owl message was pretty illegible. The letter was damp, so the ink ran, but it said an intern had been possessed and something about stones.”

“Demonic possession? Wicked.” Theo breathed out. “Can I come too?”

There was a knock on Theo’s office door, and they both turned to look.

“Unspeakable Granger, Unspeakable Nott, I’m sorry to disturb you.” Allen Turpin, their boss’s secretary, stood awkwardly in the doorway. “The portkey in Inverness is ready; Murray wants to know if you can head over early.”

“Thank you, Allen,” Hermione smiled gently at the man, “I’ll leave now.”

Allen nodded and left.

“Enjoy the demon; I’ll just be here dealing with boring paperwork.” Theo looked at her, his blue eyes mournful. “All by my lonesome.”

“Maybe Greta can cheer you up,” Hermione told him unsympathetically and stood to leave.

Theo stood as well, ready to escort her out of his office- she thanked him with a fond smile. In the years she’d known him, he might’ve traded his formal robes for (definitely not Ministry-approved) Muggle rock band shirts, but he’d never been able to drop his proper manners, drilled into him as a child by years of Pureblood etiquette classes.

“Got a little something for you,” he said, and with a cheeky wink, pulled a replacement takeaway coffee from behind the potplant, the magically charmed drink still steaming hot.

Hermione laughed in delight, her morning looking exponentially better. “Thanks! How did you know?”

“Acoustics love, don’t underestimate them. Won’t you give this to Draco for me?” And with the gravitas of a Muggle street magician, he pulled a second takeaway cup out of thin air.

Hermione made a face. “Why would Malfoy be there? Isn’t he still on leave?”

“Nope.” Theo popped his lips. “Came back this morning. It would be just his luck to get this case; bet he’s really grumpy about it. The tea should help, though.”

“You need to go, Granger!” Murray’s voice echoed down the corridor, “Look at the time on one of those bloody clocks.”

“Right. Fantastic.” Still unpleasantly surprised, Hermione reached over and grabbed the second cup. She successfully squirmed away before Theo could press a cheeky parting peck on her knuckles and slipped out of his office, ignoring the chuckles behind her.

“Give your plant some water!” She shouted over her shoulder; Theo gave her a sharp salute in response.

She passed by her own office to quickly grab her tartan briefcase, the bronze plaque glinting prettily at her next to the sealed door leading to her labs- ‘Theoretical and Experimental Magic Office. Supervisor: Unspeakable Granger.’

The hand on the round sign, blue-tacked to her lab door, swung from ‘in office’ to ‘away’ as Hermione summoned the lift and made a sharp dash back down the corridor, shouting out a quick “bye” in the vague direction of Theo’s office. He blew an exuberant kiss back at her.

She grabbed the lift just in time before the doors quickly closed, sent a nod of farewell to her boss, who had stopped talking with Allen to watch her leave, and set off for Scotland.

Apparating outside the Inverness office after the climate-controlled London building was a shock. An unexpected gust of wind slammed into her, making the hot drinks nearly spill over, and her cloak flew up over her head, much to her mortification - thank goodness for her jeans underneath. A porter in the building held the front door open for her and gestured for her to run inside. She darted in quickly, still gripping the cups, fully aware that her hair had escaped the morning’s neat chignon and was in a chaotic cloud around her face.

“Good morning, Unspeakable Granger.” A gentle brogue greeted her as she desperately tried to smooth down any flyaways. “Thank you for coming all this way to help out.”

Hermione peered through her wayward curls, trying to find its source. Walking towards her, the massive wizard to whom it belonged grinned at her dishevelled appearance.

“Lovely weather we’re having today.”

Auror McCallum was head of the Inverness Auror office, whose jurisdiction included the Highland mainland and inner Hebrides. A gentle giant of a man with flaming red hair, he had recently made news by being one of the first wizards with lycanthropy to be made Head of a district Auror office. Hermione was familiar with the wizard; he’d been heavily involved with the Werewolves’ Reconciliation Act, which had been passed during her (brief) time in the Beast Division.

She put the cups down, straightened her robes, and tried to look professional and collected, nearly wincing as her hand was enthusiastically shaken in a very tight grip.

“Auror McCallum, lovely to see you again. Please, call me Hermione.” She discreetly tried to flex her aching knuckles. “Thank you for arranging a portkey for me so quickly; my letter said there was some paperwork I should collect from you?”

The Auror nodded briskly. “Yes- the Clachbhàn case.” Leaning past Hermione, he grabbed a thin file waiting on the reception desk, the parchment discoloured and delicate with age.

“Quite sad this one; there was a Muggle hamlet close to where we’re sending you that was destroyed by Dark magic in 1841, all of the inhabitants slaughtered in a presumed Blood Magic ritual. The wizard was killed before he could be captured and never identified. The ritual remains unknown, too. The whole area was sealed off and made Unplottable, but it has never given us any problems since then. But for some reason, last night, it became Plottable again.”

Hermione nodded, flicking through the file as quickly as she could. Much was in Scots Gaelic, but some details of the case jumped out at her: blood runes, ritualistic sacrifice, no survivors. She snapped it shut with a shiver.

“Did you send members of your team out to investigate?”

“Yes, we got an emergency owl from a local wizard doing a spiritual retreat on the island.” He paused, looking as if the words ‘spiritual retreat’ were painful for him to say. “He felt a massive release of magic last night and sent us a message this morning after he helped his Muggle neighbour look for some missing sheep… well, you’ll soon see what they found.”

Hermione didn’t like his ominous tone or how stress had tightened his eyes and the lines around his mouth.

“I’ll be following you shortly as well. I’ve two Aurors out there and want to check in, but I need to finish speaking with our primary witnesses first. I’ve heard the on-site Curesbreaker has also requested backup; the Edinburgh department will send more people over; we’re already stretched thin here.”

Hermione nodded, carefully tucking the fragile file away in her leather briefcase, still feeling rather befuddled. She had to ask, she told herself. She had a right to know why her perfectly scheduled day was so interrupted. At this rate, she wouldn’t make it back in time for her scheduled Floo-call with that Unspeakable based out in Oregon.

“Can I be honest with you?” She questioned, “I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’m not an Auror and don’t have any formal Curse-breaking training. I work in the Department of Mysteries. So far, I don’t see any need for an Unspeakable here. Why did the Curse-breaker on-site request me, of all people?”

Auror McCallum nodded understandingly. “My apologies, Hermione; I thought the letter would’ve made things clear. Just ask one of my Aurors to give you a full debrief when you arrive.”

He sighed, running a hand through his fiery mohawk. “To keep it brief, we’ve got a suspect Grade 4 demon possessing a Ministry intern at the scene that no one can communicate with; the hope was that you might have enough of a grasp of Pictish to be able to figure out what the hell we’re dealing with.”

Hermione remained as confused as ever. A low humming filled the air, and he reached into his pocket to pull out a gently vibrating paperclip—her awaiting portkey.

“I’m just tying up some loose ends here, but I will join you in a bit.”

Hermione gripped her briefcase tightly, tucked the cups under her arm to her chest, nodded to Auror McCallum and placed the paperclip in the palm of her hand. The familiar hook and pull of magic tugged at her belly button, and the world swirled away into a nauseating spin of brown, grey and green.

Hermione landed with significant force, flat on her bum on peaty, saturated ground. Her cup of coffee went flying, splashing steaming liquid everywhere, and she quickly adjusted the other before it, too, could spill.

The world still reeled around her as she wobbled to her feet, trying to regain her centre of balance without falling back down, failing dismally. Resigning herself to hitting the soft, wet earth again, she was shocked to be quickly stabilised by strong arms pulling her against a firm, warm body. Looking up, a pair of curt grey eyes and shockingly pale hair brought everything into focus. The world almost started spinning again.

“Goodness, Granger,” a deep voice said smoothly. “What an entrance.”

Waiting for her stood Curse-breaker Draco Malfoy and his boss, Professor Halima Warsame. Belatedly, she realised she was still clutching firmly onto Malfoy’s arm for dear life.

She pushed away from him, trying not to sink deeper into the thick mud. Malfoy silently extended the size of his charmed umbrella, shielding himself and his boss from the rain, allowing it to cover Hermione, too, as she stepped back. She looked around, doing a quick recon of her surroundings and tucked the paperclip into her pocket. A little walk away, she could see the magical pulsing of the crime scene wards where a group of people stood huddled together. Behind her, further downhill, she could see some stone ruins, presumably the Muggle town of Clachbhàn. She had landed precisely in the middle of the marked Portkey zone (excellent work from the team in Inverness; she should let Auror McCallum know).

She inclined her head respectfully to Malfoy’s boss. “Professor Warsame.” Then, with her best non-Duchenne smile pasted onto her lips, she turned. “Curse-breaker Malfoy.”

“Unspeakable Granger,” he nodded at her, impassively as ever.

She saw Professor Warsame nod back to her, looking miserable in the pouring rain. The height difference between the two Curse-breakers was almost comical; even with her thick-heeled boots on, Malfoy still towered over his boss by over a foot. Hermione had very little to do with the formidable witch, knowing her more by reputation than anything else; however, she had recently attended a lecture of hers on curses and assassinations during the Ottoman Empire. Fascinating stuff; Hermione was eager to pick her brain a bit more before the day was done, maybe over a coffee.

Her brain jolted into action, and she quickly passed the intact cup of tea over to Malfoy, accidentally smacking him sharply on the arm with the corner of her briefcase in the process, which had him hissing in pain and pulling back like an offended cat.

“Here, this is for you.”

“Oh?” A dark eyebrow quirked up.

“It’s from Theo- he asked me to bring it along.”

“Oh.”

She wriggled the tea impatiently at him. “Hurry up and take the damn thing!”

With an ungrateful huff, Malfoy did just that. Twat.

He looked down his pointy nose at her with a dubious expression and took a deep sip of the tea, the drink steaming sharply in the cool air.

“Are you sure you’re dressed properly for this weather?”

Hermione looked down at her outfit. Her thick Muggle jeans were already damp with mud and stained with coffee, so she quickly cast a spot of nonverbal cleaning and drying spells on them. Granted, her neon pink hiking boots from Mountain Warehouse and oversized puffer jacket underneath her flapping cloak did stand out quite a bit, but they did the job sufficiently, and she bristled in defence of her Muggle clothing.

“They’re more than adequate, thank you. Not all of us have a field uniform we can pull out.”

She raked her eyes over Malfoy’s outfit. The Curse-breakers looked quite ominous in the gloomy rain, dressed all in dark tones. Pointed leather boots overlayed fitted black trousers, both shimmering with shielding, fireproofing, and thermoregulation spells. Both wore dove-grey sleeved undershirts, but their torsos were protected by a thick dragonhide leather gilet that had gleaming silver runes of protection embossed in, and a matching leather wand holster was slung over their non-dominant shoulder. Protective leather vambraces completed the look.

Hermione noted with amusement that Malfoy’s standard-issue cloak had been loaned to his boss, who had given up on their niceties and was striding back towards the crime scene, the sheer size of it covering up most of her identical uniform. The long, pleated cloak had been charmed significantly shorter so it didn’t drag on the muddy ground; the hood flipped up, giving her hijab even more protection from the rain.

“I happen to think I look quite dashing in my gear,” Malfoy said self-importantly.

“You’d look like a bat in that cloak.” Hermione lied and strode towards the waiting group of people, leaving Malfoy behind in the mud.

As she approached the edge of the crime scene wards, Malfoy’s long legs allowing him to catch up with her easily, she was surprised to see a familiar face in the crowd - Fay Dunbar. A fellow Gryffindor during Hermione’s time at Hogwarts, she had heard from Harry that Fay was a qualified Auror but hadn’t given much thought to the woman she had seen so often in school.

Fay squealed in delight as she caught sight of Hermione, wrapping her arms around her in a warm, unexpected embrace that had Hermione smiling in surprise.

“So nice to see you! I didn’t know they were calling you out.” She raked a dubious eye over Hermione’s outfit. (Was everyone going to critique her Muggle clothes?) “Do you work with the Curse-breakers too?’

Hermione shook her head and extracted herself from Fay’s tight grip. “I’m an Unspeakable; I work in the Department of Mysteries at the London office.”

Fay gave an interested gasp. Seeing an Unspeakable out in the wild was a rare sight. “Oh really? That’s so interesting! What do you do there?”

Hermione’s smile was a tad uncomfortable, leaning her briefcase on her knee to click the buckles open. “I’m not really allowed to say; I’m mostly just in research. But it’s all very interesting!”

Fay nodded in understanding. “Workplace confidentiality, I completely understand.”

Hermione quickly changed the topic. “Auror McCallum suggested someone could debrief me on this case; I don’t know much about it.”

She fished in her briefcase and pulled out the old case file, passing it over to Fay. Then, carefully, she shrank the briefcase down and popped it in a pocket. Fay’s voice became professional, and Officer Dunbar suddenly stood before Hermione instead of the shy, acne-prone girl she remembered.

“A Muggle farmer had a flock of sheep slaughtered this morning by what looks like a demon trapped in a stone circle, and one of the Ministry interns, Sarah Mullins, fell in and got possessed by it.” She explained. “We don’t have much information about the demon, and definitely not enough on the circle and how it’s managing to keep the demon in. We’re hoping you can interpret the spells carved into the stones-”

A cheeky smile crossed her face. “And, if you’re up to it, help us figure out how to rescue Sarah and sort out the demon.”

Oohh, an exorcism. How exciting. Unfortunately, demonology was not her forté, but she’d never say no to some hands-on experience. Even if it meant she had to work with Malfoy. Her initial assessment of the day drastically improved.

“On top of that,” Fay sighed, any amusement vanishing quickly, “we still haven’t figured out how the demon became active in the first place or how a Muggle was able to stumble into a heavily warded area. But we’ll work that out once Sarah is safely back.”

Hermione nodded understandingly. Fay gestured at them all to follow her, and they passed underneath the crime scene wards, the world hushing for a split second as if the earth’s volume was quickly muffled, then normalising as they came through the other side.

She looked on in morbid interest. As Fay had described, the scowling figure of a short girl stood waiting inside the stone circle next to some sheep that had been horrifically butchered, and the entire ring was covered in a beautiful dome of woven magic, presumably keeping the demon locked in. She did her best not to look awed by the powerful spellwork made visible.

“I exposed the protective magic being held in place by the menhirs,” Malfoy explained, “It’s ancient; we’re talking Pictish and likely cast into the stones when they were placed. You can’t see the remains of the Unplottable charm; it was shredded so thoroughly this morning that there’s not much left.”

“That’s a clever trick,” Hermione hoped she didn’t sound too complimentary.

“I am a very clever person.” Malfoy’s voice was smug as he took another sip of tea. His eyes closed in pleasure at the taste, and she briefly mourned the loss of her second drink of the day.

She approached the circle and examined the glowing symbols carved on the menhirs, noting immediately that each of the seven stones had different markings. Her ever-curious mind couldn’t stop racing; they were beautiful. How many others had even seen these ancient relics? What had the people who put them up been like? She ran a gentle hand over the closest, feeling the cold, damp stone and lichen rough underneath her fingertips.

The demon growled like an angry dog as she touched the stones, black eyes flaring and baring Sarah’s blunt teeth. It wasn’t that intimidating- working in government meant Hermione had dealt with far more aggressive customers, but she ran a reassuring palm over the bump of her wand tucked down her left sleeve, just in case. It was uncanny, though, to be staring at the innocuous form of a twenty-year-old, but knowing if she were to come any closer, it would tear her throat out without hesitation.

“Poor Sarah,” she whispered to Fay. “This must be terrifying.”

Malfoy said nothing to that, but Hermione saw his jaw tighten. Pulling her attention away from the demon, she refocused on the delicate curling lines, mumbling in fascination.

“So interesting, look at those carvings, remarkable…”

“How so?” Malfoy drawled, looking utterly unbothered by the demon now stalking the circle’s circumference but still moving to place himself between the edge of the wards and her.

“Pictish stones are very unusual in this part of Scotland,” She dusted some lichen off her palms and moved over to the next stone. “They’re mostly found along the eastern coast. I only know of one other on Skye- Clach Ard. I think it’s up near Portree. Also got Pictish carvings on it.”

“There’s quite a close-knit Wizarding community there,” Fay said thoughtfully. “I wonder if we should send an Auror up to see if anyone knows anything.”

At seeing the two of them—once schoolmates, now accomplished professionals in their respective fields—Hermione felt a peculiar sense of nostalgic maturity.

Malfoy snorted. “The only thing Portree is known for is its mediocre Quidditch team. Can’t imagine it’ll be the well of information you hope for.”

The demon’s grumbles grew louder and more insistent as Hermione examined the next menhir, seemingly irritated that she wasn’t paying attention to it. Malfoy hadn’t relaxed once, she noticed. His fingers tightened on his wand whenever the demon moved, eyes never leaving its sullen figure as its growls shook the ground underneath them ever so slightly.

Terribly rude- she was trying to work.

“Shhh!” She snapped at the demon, who took a startled step back and surprisingly shut up, instantly recognising her universal tone. It continued pacing around the circle before shooting Hermione a glower and throwing itself dramatically over the altar-like stone in the centre. Malfoy shot her a begrudgingly impressed look. The blessed silence allowed her to focus, and she examined the third stone, running her fingers gently over an elegantly carved triple disk.

“It looks like the carvings might be giving information about someone,” she mused. “Maybe one of the clan members.”

“A runic biography?” Malfoy asked, intrigued. She hummed.

“Could be. Interestingly, the markings on all the stones are different. Seeing a lot of patterns though, but-”

She squinted opposite the circle, trying to make out the details of the carvings on the inside of the stones. The weather-proof wards protecting the scene were sparing them from the rain but couldn’t entirely block out the mist creeping up from the cooling ground around them.

“-I can’t quite make out what the inner faces say.”

Malfoy passed her a sheath of papers with neatly drawn copies of the various markings on the labelled menhirs. “Here are some sketches we took earlier. See if this helps.”

“Can you speak Pictish?” Fay’s tone was curious but impressed as she stared at Hermione mouthing out the meaning of the first symbol.

“No one can speak it,” Hermione told her kindly. “The spoken language went extinct after the Pictish culture vanished over a thousand years ago, and we only have some knowledge about their writing system to go off on. I can read a fair bit, though.”

She stepped over to examine the next menhir and continued her rambling. “They were an interesting society- Magical and Muggle members lived in complete integration. Unlike the Celts, we don’t think they used wands and channelled much of their magic through rituals or glyphs. We still know loads more about them than Muggle archaeologists do- they’re still trying to figure out what many of the basic symbols mean, but without the magical history we keep on record, they’re not likely to get as far as us.”

“Will you be able to understand what the stones say?” Fay didn’t sound nearly as excited as Hermione felt, huddling under her red cape to escape the dropping temperature.

“I should be able to,” she replied absently, eyes scanning the paper. “It might take me a few days, though.”

“We don’t have a few days,” Malfoy’s voice was strained. Worried. “There’s one of our interns in there; we need to get her out now.”

“I’ll just reconstruct an ancient language before supper, shall I?” Hermione turned to him sharply. “Here, let me piece together years of linguistic theory, no problem.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “We don’t have the luxury of time, Granger. The longer we take to get Sarah out, the less of Sarah we might be able to save.”

Fay paled. “What do you mean by that?”

“The longer someone is demonically possessed, the harder it is to free them fully,” Malfoy explained, casually gesturing to demon-Sarah, who was now sniffing one of the sheep carcasses.

Fay turned to face Hermione, her face grim. “Whatever it is you need, let us know. We’ll send a message to your head of department, asking for your office’s assistance with this case-”

“Professor Warsame has already sent Unspeakable Murray an owl,” Malfoy interjected, now moodily scraping some thick mud off the bottom of his leather boots onto one of the menhirs. Hermione shot him a vicious glare, and he reluctantly stopped.

At the sound of her name, Professor Warsame ambled over from where she was intently examining one of the other stones and turned her dark eyes onto Hermione.

“Had any luck interpreting the symbols?”

“Something’s missing,” Hermione’s eyes raked over the sketch of the first stone, rapping the paper over the back of her hand thoughtfully. “I feel like I’m trying to read a book with some pages torn out.”

“Practically a war crime in your eyes,” Malfoy interjected snarkily. Hermione gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore him.

“How were you able to reveal the spellwork, Malfoy? I imagine not many common spells could’ve revealed such old magic.”

“I tried the standard ones at first,” Malfoy admitted, voice turning slightly more professional, “but they didn’t do anything.”

“Were they all Latin-based?” She asked, intrigued.

Malfoy nodded, confirming her suspicions. “It was only when I tried some Scottish Gaelic that anything happened, but even then, it wasn’t smooth. It felt like there was some resistance- like I had to force the magic to cooperate.”

She hummed deep in thought.“You might’ve had more luck with Welsh-”

“We’re in Scotland,” Malfoy pointed out unhelpfully, grandly gesturing around them, still clutching the takeaway cup. “Wales would be south.”

She stared back at him, unimpressed.

“I’m aware of that,” her reply was testy. “Scottish Gaelic is one of the Goidelic languages. Pictish was a Brittonic language- same as Welsh. Cornish and Breton, too. But both language families are related- branches of the Insular Celtic language group, so I’m not surprised there was some compliance with Q-Celtic spellwork…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught the glazed look on Fay’s face. Familiar insecurity prickled over her skin—she’d slipped into Professor Granger mode again, the same overeager studiousness Harry and Ron had teased her for back at school. Great. So much for showing Fay she was a proper grown-up now.

“So Pictish would be more similar to Welsh than to Scots Gaelic, then?” Malfoy seamlessly continued her train of thought, eyes locked on the swirling carvings with interest. “No wonder my Latin did bugger all.”

“Theoretically, yes.” Hermione refocused. “I mean, it is a dead language, but Welsh, Cornish and Breton are still extant…”

The pieces of a Plan (with a capital P) were starting to fall into place. From the look on Malfoy’s face, he was thinking along the same lines as her, too.

“Welsh spell work is also incredibly powerful,” he mused, “Can’t speak for the other two, as I don’t know much about them, but maybe if we recast the revealing spells in Welsh-”

“We could potentially reveal them all,” Hermione smoothly concluded.

“You wouldn’t happen to speak any, do you?” Malfoy asked, drumming his fingers on the nearest menhir. “Or does your linguistic knowledge only cover useless languages?”

The demon had started picking up small rocks and lobbing them at him, watching in almost human-like amusement as they bounced off the protective barrier back towards the circle’s centre. She felt quite like joining it.

Her eyes narrowed. “How many demons have you exorcised exactly? Wasn’t the last possession in the UK in the 1890s?”

Malfoy sniffed in affront. “I helped with one in Yamoussoukro, if you must know.”

“Weren’t you still a student then?”

“I was just about to graduate, thank you very much. And besides, I was top of my class-”

“So you think you could do one today? After watching one once?”

His grey eyes gleamed with confidence. “Oh, I know I could.”

Hermione turned to look at Professor Warsame for assistance but was met with a speculative gaze pinned on Malfoy.

“Couldn’t we call out some demonology experts to help?”

Professor Warsame shook her head slowly. “There is a specialist team out in Côte d’Ivoire, but it would take a while for an international portkey permit to be approved. We might be looking at a few days’ wait.”

“Surely, if we tell them it’s an emergency, we’ll get one quicker?”

The short witch shrugged her elegant shoulders. “No guarantee the Magical Transport team will even look at our application this week-”

“That’s working in government for you-” Malfoy interrupted sullenly.

“- and right now, Draco’s our best bet at getting the intern back.” His boss continued. “He’s more than powerful enough and has the focus to manage the spell alone.”

Malfoy nodded appreciatively at her. “But, bit of a moot point planning an exorcism if I don’t know which class of demon I’m dealing with.” His eyes cut to Hermione. “That’s where you come in.”

He saw the look of incomprehension on her face and sighed. “I’ll explain more once McCallum’s here, so I don’t have to go over things twice. In short, we’re dealing with a demon we’ve got no information on, which is rare-”

“Exceptionally rare,” Professor Warsame interrupted.

“Which makes it dangerous,” Malfoy said grimly. “The goal is to get any information we can about the demon, or its binding spellwork, that I could use to pull it out of Sarah. If I know more about it, I can exorcise it.”

He must’ve seen the follow-up question on Hermione’s face and answered her before she could even breathe to ask. “Demons fall into a few categories, and the method of exorcising them differs for each one. If I get it wrong and try to extract it from Sarah, well, then she’s fucked.”

“Where would it go?” Fay interrupted, giving demon Sarah a calculating look-over.

He shrugged. “Ideally, I’d contain it in an object—pure gold or humanoid would be best. I have a relic in my office we could use—and then hide it very well, somewhere remote, so that it can’t be found for the next few thousand years.”

“How am I supposed to help you with the demon?” Hermione pressed. “Again, I can’t speak Pictish; I can only read it, and there’s so many gaps in the inscriptions…”

She raised a challenging brow at Malfoy. The look he shot back at her made it clear he didn’t think that was his problem.

“I’d hoped the stones would be more illuminating,” he muttered. “Maybe if we find the missing bits…”

She shook her head, feeling somewhat bad for crushing his hopes. “Well, I’m pretty sure the first one’s just describing a person. There might be information about the demon on the others, but again, it’ll take me a while to translate them all. Sorry, but if you want to get Sarah out today, you’ll have to think of another way to classify it.”

Malfoy raked a frustrated hand through his (normally meticulously) combed hair, sending the white strands into disarray.

“Can’t we just ask the demon what class it is?” Fay suggested. There was a brief, considering silence. Malfoy looked stumped, as if that was a solution he’d never considered before.

“There’s no way for us to speak Pictish to it,” he reminded her. “I tried translation spells earlier, but they couldn’t work on a dead language.”

“Communicate another way besides Pictish, then,” Fay continued persistently, “and see if it gives us any information about itself that you could use. Could that not work?”

Malfoy and Professor Warsame exchanged loaded, unreadable looks.

“It might,” Professor Warsame finally said thoughtfully. “Completely experimental idea, though.”

“I’m keen to try,” Malfoy said, eyes gleaming. He looked thrilled by the challenge. Damn, he’d probably end up publishing this as some fascinating case study. Maybe if Hermione played her cards right, she could be listed as a co-author.

“We could try to communicate with it through Ogham,” She offered, desperate to suggest anything useful. “That might be more accurate anyway; these pictographs are more symbolic than anything. With Ogham, there would be less room for mistranslation.” She winced. “Of course, the demon would then need to be able to read and write.”

There was silence as the group mused on the possible literacy levels of a demon.

“Or…” Another brilliant burst of inspiration hit her. “If we can’t speak to the demon in Pictish, what about the next closest thing?”

“You think it could understand Welsh?” Malfoy asked slowly, guessing the implication immediately.

Hermione chewed her lip. “It’s possible- the similarities between spoken Pictish and Welsh are theoretical; they might be like Latin and Italian, but Welsh might also have evolved so much that it might be incomprehensible.”

“But you think it’s worth a try,” Malfoy said, eyes narrowing. Hermione nodded.

“Alright then,” he said decisively. “I’ll ask McCallum to send out a Welsh-speaking Auror from the Cardiff office.”

Professor Warsame looked very glum. “This is already a bureaucratic nightmare,” she said unhappily. “And now we’re getting another jurisdiction involved?”

“Told you you should’ve sent Gibson,” Malfoy told her sardonically. “He would’ve said it was kelpies and called it a day.”

The petite witch looked close to smacking him, so Fay decided to step in. “We’ve not got any Welsh staff,” she said to Professor Warsame, “so unless Hermione knows of any, Cardiff it is.”

Hermione started shaking her head, but at the last minute, a face flashed through her mind, and she found herself nodding eagerly.

“We could call Remus Lupin out,” she said eagerly. “He’s Welsh-speaking and occasionally consults for the DMLE, so he’ll have clearance for things like this.”

She’d half-expected some immediate push-back from Malfoy, some complaints at having to call out someone else for his assigned case, but he looked surprisingly agreeable.

He nodded, “That might work. Granger, if you and Lupin can get any information I can use to classify the demon, I can try to extract it from Sarah. Once I’ve trapped it in something, with Professor’s help, Auror McCallum can enter the circle and carry Sarah out. Auror Dunbar can watch his back.”

“Why McCallum?” Fay’s voice was protective, tinged with suspicion. “Why can’t you go in?”

“Werewolves can’t be possessed,” Malfoy told her. “Theoretically, that is. The human host is already…erm..sharing.”

“At the very least, he can repeat your spells,” Hermione suggested. “See if any of my missing sections appear. We’ll have Ogham as a backup if Welsh doesn’t work.”

Malfoy nodded in agreement, and Hermione tried not to feel too disoriented. It was almost unsettling how smoothly they were working together- by this point, most of the previous conversations over the last few years had evolved into shouting matches. However, today, he was almost…tolerable.

Professor Warsame’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this Remus Lupin?”

“Our old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts,” Hermione explained (neglecting to elaborate that he only taught them for a year). “I’d trust him more than any untried Auror.”

Professor Warsame looked over at Malfoy. “Do you trust him?”

Malfoy hesitated; his eyes flickered briefly over Hermione, and he gave his supervisor a short nod. “I trust Granger’s opinion of him,” he said carefully. She tried not to start in surprise.

A bolt of sudden academic delight hit her; she gasped, and all eyes looked at her in alarm. “Do you realise I might get to listen to the first Pictish spoken in over a thousand years!” Hermione’s eyes lit up. “I should record this for a Pensieve!”

No one else seemed to share her enthusiasm. Theo would be over the moon if he were here, Hermione thought wistfully; people outside of academia could be so uninspired sometimes.

“Don’t get too excited, Granger,” Malfoy told her smugly. “I heard some first this morning.”

And just like that, her little bubble of tolerability abruptly popped, and she felt the familiar antagonism return—insufferable wizard.

She chanced a glance at the other two witches, who were all occupied watching Sarah scuttle on all fours in the circle- Fay horrified, Professor Warsame resigned. Sensing she was in the clear, she delicately flipped two fingers up at Malfoy; he returned the gesture cheerfully.

“The Minister will need a full report on this case.” Professor Warsame’s attention turned back to them, voice bored, obviously not wanting it to be her job. Hermione and Malfoy dropped their hands quickly. “If someone can take the initiative, I would appreciate it.”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione and Malfoy said simultaneously. She shot him a challenging look. No, this opportunity was far too valuable- she needed to redeem herself after the last time Kingsley had listened to her speak. That had been an absolute disaster.

Professor Warsame eyed them appraisingly. “Given your respective level of involvement, it’s not a bad idea to write it together, but someone needs to report it to Kingsley. Sort it out between the two of you.”

She swirled away, Malfoy’s cloak catching the wind prettily, and strode off out through the wards of the crime scene. Hermione turned to face Malfoy, feeling like she was squaring up in a duel like those cowboy movies Ron liked to watch on her telly.

“This is my case, Granger.” Malfoy started the argument with an (admittedly) good point. “I should have first dibs on telling the Minister.”

“A case you didn’t get assigned to from the beginning either,” she shot back, watching in satisfaction as he bristled at the reminder. “A case you can’t handle without my assistance.”

“I found out about the mehir supporting the spell,” Malfoy hissed. “I’ll be the one exorcising Sarah.”

“Well, I figured out some chunks of the symbols are missing,” she counter-argued. “Why else could we justify calling another civilian out? And I’ll be the one translating everything those stones say.”

Malfoy looked righteously vexed now, blotches of colour high on his cheekbones. “It’s my turn to present a report to Kingsley. You got him last on that panel you spoke to in March!”

Hermione noted with delight that indignation had pitched his voice to a satisfyingly squeaky tone.

“Oh, you mean the one where you hid in the crowd and asked all those horrible questions at the end? You made me look so disorganised!”

“It’s not my fault you were unprepared! You should’ve included more sources to back up your findings.”

“You lied to the panel! You said you were a wandmaker from France!”

Malfoy looked like he was biting back a smile at the memory. “I forgot about that. I did do a brilliant accent.”

Hermione’s hair had started to spit off little sparks in irritation, like a driftwood fire. Malfoy looked wholly satisfied at the visible evidence of her frustration.

“Maybe you could present it together?” Fay suggested.

Hermione and Malfoy swung around simultaneously to stare her down. Fay suddenly decided to leave, mumbling something about sending a team out to Portree.

“Why don’t we toss for it?” Hermione suggested; Malfoy reared back as if she had proposed presenting the report to Kingsley naked and performing a Highland dance.

“That makes it fair, and we should agree not to downplay the other person’s contribution to the case.” She coaxed.

Malfoy consideringly paused for an annoyingly long time, then nodded. There was an awkward silence as they stared at each other expectantly. Hermione arched a brow.

“Are you going to toss a coin or not?”

“Me? I must toss?”

“Well, why must I?”

Malfoy scoffed and gestured down his body towards his extremely tight-fitting outfit. “Does it look like I have any pockets on me?” He shot a derisive look at her jacket. “Surely, you’ve got a sickle or two floating around in that massive coat?”

Hermione quickly transfigured a rock next to her into a smart marble side table and rummaged around in her deep pockets, emptying what she could find. Hmm, her Oyster card, the receipt from her coffee this morning, a pen (which was actually quite useful, so she stuck it behind her ear for later), some lemon sherbet sweets from her desk drawer, her miniature shrunken briefcase, flat keys and a new collar for Crookshanks. Malfoy gradually looked more nonplussed with every item she revealed. Knowing him, he probably kept his things neatly in some fancy leather satchel that would cost her a few months’ salary.

Ha! Jangling at the bottom of one of the inside pockets was some change from the cafe. Hermione felt for a two-pound coin and showed it triumphantly to Malfoy, who made the same face she did when Crookshanks brought her a dead bird.

“Heads or tails?”

Malfoy looked at her like she was speaking in tongues. “What? No, it’s dragons or wizards.”

“Not on the Muggle ones, it’s not. Look, I call heads.” She turned it over to show Malfoy, who looked superbly unimpressed at the sight of Queen Elizabeth’s face.

“If you get to pick, I want to toss.” His tone had turned baiting. Sensing the start of a massive fight brewing, Hermione chose the path of least resistance and passed the coin over with a tight smile.

With deft skill, Malfoy flipped the coin elegantly in the air. However, unused to the weight of Muggle coins, he miscalculated and sent the coin spinning away. He and Hermione watched silently as it bounced off a rock and rolled away down the hill, quickly gathering momentum in its bid for freedom.

“Would you like to try again?” Hermione did her best not to laugh, which she knew from experience would go down poorly (Malfoy hated being ridiculed), but her voice came out more warbly than she intended.

He summoned the coin with a wave of his hand and snatched it mid-air as it shot back towards him. His Seeker skills hadn’t deteriorated since graduation, Hermione noted; Harry would’ve been impressed.

“I’ve never seen a Muggle coin before,” he told her sulkily, “I only flip with galleons.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

His second attempt was vastly better; the coin went humming through the air, deftly caught, and smacked on the back of his hand. The pair of them peered down at the abstract design facing up. Not heads, dammit.

“Tails, you win,” Hermione informed him. Bugger, she wanted this case.

Malfoy tilted the coin appraisingly, confused by the absence of an animal, but decided not to argue against his good luck. Double bugger, she should’ve lied; he’d obviously never seen much Muggle currency before.

“I’ll write up the report once we’ve got Sarah out,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure to include your proposal of Ogham, even if we don’t need to use it.”

That was generous. Hermione blinked in shock.

“You should also add in your bit about making the spellwork visible,” she suggested awkwardly, feeling as if she should contribute to the unspoken truce too. “That was also rather good.”

Malfoy nodded shortly; Hermione wanted to add something but couldn’t find the words. They both watched Demon-Sarah in silence; she had now started to lick one of the sheep.

She eyed Malfoy curiously. “Do you really think we can get her out alive?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted grimly. “It’s going to be difficult. Dangerous.” A line furrowed between his dark brows. “I asked her to come out with me,” he said shortly. “This was supposed to be her last day of fieldwork.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably.- They were now crossing out of their familiar territory and into something almost amiable.

“It’s not your fault,” she finally said softly. “You didn’t know what you were bringing her into. I’m sure you tried to keep her as safe as possible.”

That didn’t seem to provide Malfoy much reassurance; Hermione didn’t like the tense lines on his face and quickly changed the topic.

“When do you want to perform the exorcism?”

“Tonight.” Malfoy hissed in frustration. “Shit. It’s nearly the full moon- that’ll make it a bit harder.”

He must’ve seen the unasked question on Hermione’s face and elaborated unprompted. “Any spellwork involving demons is best done in the dark. They can be strengthened by the light, ironically, sunlight or moonlight.”

She shrugged. “Oh well, it’s not like we could wait for the moon to change. And I think it’ll be overcast.”

Malfoy gave a terse nod in agreement. “If you can contact Lupin, I’ll start setting up everything I need to confine the demon. Have you received a portkey back to London yet?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I’ll swing past my office then, grab some stuff I need.” He paused.“Is there anything you might want that I can get?”

“I have a European iconography and interpretation textbook somewhere in my office,” she told him awkwardly, “Theo can find it for you; I’ll start translating the first of the stones, so long.”

Malfoy gave a brisk nod. A sudden curiosity struck her, and she turned to face him properly.

“How did you know I understood a bit of Pictish?” She tried not to sound too suspicious. Malfoy could be the most guarded person she knew sometimes- a whiff of criticism could have him coiling up and lashing out like an injured snake.

He looked slightly taken aback. “It wasn’t a huge leap,” he replied defensively. “You had your bushy head buried in a book on Celtic history for most of our eighth year, you relentless autodidact.”

Hermione was too stunned to retort. Holy shit. Were they going to talk about it? Was he finally going to say something, anything, about the year that they never ever spoke about? How ironic- she’d been waiting eight years for the right time to say something, but now the moment was here; for the first time in her life, her bravery failed her. Maybe he could do what she could not.

But Malfoy remained quiet, and the moment stretched and passed.

Fine. She was used to his silence by now.

There was another stilted pause. Malfoy gave another nod, some semblance of a farewell bow (weird, weird wizard), and strode off back out through the wards, stopping briefly to fill Professor Warsame in.

Now that Hermione was alone by the circle, without his annoyingly reassuring presence, it was starting to feel much creepier than before. She could feel the demon’s eyes pinned on her, sending an instinctive cold trickle down her back. The menhirs, which initially felt like steady protective sentinels, were starting to look menacing, standing out of the ground like old gravestones. With a shudder, she left, turning to give the scene one last look-over.

She blinked and froze, hand reaching for her wand, heart racing. Opposite her, on the other side of the circle, stood a faint outline of a woman. She was short, leaning on a wooden staff, her hair hidden under a pointed hood, and wearing a rough-spun wool dress. Her face was painted, and thick grey swirled down her cheeks and neck. Her lips, which were painted black as well, pulled back as she snarled at Hermione, mouthing something from across the vast expanse of the circle. Hermione blinked, the heavier rain catching in her eyes, and when she opened them again, the woman was gone, swallowed up by the creeping mist.

Chapter Text

By the time Hermione had hastily scribbled a letter to Remus and sent it off with a Ministry owl, Malfoy had already returned from London, bringing the requested tome tucked under an arm and the horrid weather with him. A new intern followed, her eyes widening at the sight of the demon-Sarah sticking its tongue out at the lot of them.

“Watch the rain, watch the rain!” Hermione squeaked, snatching it from him. “This is a library book.”

“Alright, sorry,” Malfoy said nonplussed. “Don’t get your wand in a knot.”

Hermione, already flicking through the section on Pictish iconography, dutifully ignored him. She cast some protective charms over its cover and sent him a well-practised, withering look, just for good measure.

“Theo says he misses you already,” he said, returning her look with a sulky one of his own. “He’s never this nice to me.”

She ignored him again, just to see him scowl at the lack of response, and watched out of the corner of her eye as he turned to the new intern, traced some glowing sketches in the air with his wand while explaining the layered components of Unplottable Charms in some unenthusiastic and totally unexpected attempt at mentorship (the theory of which seemed to fly right over the poor girl’s head) before giving up with a sigh and telling her to try and have a feel herself.

The new intern, obviously feeling Hermione was the more approachable of the two, sidled closer.

“Is Sarah going to be okay?” She whispered, her voice tiny, clumsily fumbling her way through identifying the layered charm work with no discernible skill.

Hermione paused, floundering. Personally, she felt the chances of getting Sarah out intact were slim indeed, but she could hardly say that to the other girl. She saw Malfoy pause his spellwork, surreptitiously listening in.

She weighed her words carefully and tried to sound reassuring. “Sarah is in a lot of danger,” she said slowly. “But if anyone can get her out, Malfoy can.”

She saw the blond wizard still. It was a begrudging compliment, she knew. But a compliment nonetheless. Probably the nicest thing he’d heard from her in years. But it was obviously the right thing to say- the intern smiled in relief and focused on examining the wards with renewed vigour.

But giving Malfoy wayward, reluctant flattery wasn’t an exercise she was keen to repeat, and it was pulling her attention away from the fascinating world of Celtic symbolism, so she tucked the conversation into the back of her mind, ignoring how she felt slightly more optimistic, too.

When she resurfaced sometime later, she noticed that Malfoy was still lurking about and reinforcing the wards around the scene, adding to the layers the Aurors had placed already. His focus on the shimmering magic was laser sharp, quietly mouthing some spells of his own that Hermione didn’t recognise. Now that their eighth year had finally been mentioned, the urge to speak of it was overwhelming. It was like a dam had broken—all of her carefully repressed memories came flooding back, bringing with them a sense of nostalgic fondness.

Perhaps a gentle push could get them talking about the unmentionable year once more. She would try a subtle approach.

“I’m glad I could come out today,” she said with a faux-wistful sigh. “How long has it been since we worked together?”

Malfoy made no comment, still poking through the Aurors’ wards with razor-sharp concentration.

“I nearly didn’t come- got the most illegible letter this morning and almost threw it right in the bin.”

“That was mine,” he finally said, somewhat prickly.

Alright, forget a gentle push; maybe a shove was needed.

“I had forgotten how bad your handwriting is. Sometimes, I could barely read your essays.”

There was a tense silence. Fine, still not speaking about it, then. She would give herself points for trying. Hermione allowed herself to throw one last barb.

“Of course, I’m sure you remember what my handwriting looks like quite well.”

She bared her teeth at him; Malfoy looked supremely uncomfortable. Excellent. The intern looked as if she wished she were anywhere else but there.

“I’m going to find Professor Warsame,” she squeaked, edging away, mumbling something about getting attendance paperwork signed.

Malfoy shot Hermione a challenging look, abandoning his efforts to bolster the wards. “How’s your plan of writing Ogham going?”

“Fine,” she told him confidently. “A bit fiddly. I can’t believe none of your colleagues have any skill in it. I know there’s a Ministry Runes and Symbols Department, but your boss said they mostly focus on Elder Furthak.”

“One of my co-workers, Midgeon, is Irish,” he said noncommittally. “She could probably write some.”

That was fortuitous and uncharacteristically helpful; Hermione looked at him suspiciously.

“Do you think she’d be free to assist me?”

“She’s in St Mungos,” he informed her, “nearly got drowned by a bunch of Inferi. Don’t know when she’ll be back.”

He sighed as if his colleague’s near-death experience was of great personal inconvenience.

“That’s a really useful suggestion, then; thank you so much.”

Absolute prick. Any nostalgic fondness vanished like smoke.

Much to Hermione’s delight, she discovered the new intern was Muggle-born, so she sent her to the stationery shop in Portree with specific instructions to buy two whiteboards and marker pens. The confusion on Malfoy’s face as he attempted to figure out what she was up to but stubbornly refused to ask only added to her improving mood.

She spent the rest of her day interpreting the first of the seven standing stones, deciding to leave the middle, altar-like one for last. She conjured up a comfy armchair and coffee table under a big shielding umbrella outside the warded-off scene, not entirely comfortable with staying close to the demon, and spent some happy hours stretching her knowledge of Pictish culture.

Remus joined the bustle late afternoon and greeted Hermione with a warm hug, smelling faintly of tea and parchment. She put her work aside and quickly conjured up a matching chair for him. Much to her shock, she realised the sun was relatively low on the horizon- Merlin, she had been working for nearly seven hours without stopping for a break again. At some point in the afternoon, someone, probably Fay, had very kindly placed a sandwich and a cup of now-cold tea on her coffee table, which she had missed.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Remus said cheerily. “I thought I was imagining things when I saw your letter. Not quite your usual scene, is it?”

He eyed the spread of drawings. “The Auror team filled me in. Are those the symbols you’re trying to interpret? How’s it going?”

“Slowly,” Hermione said unhappily. “I think there’s more to be revealed. I’m hoping we get some more answers later.”

Remus triumphantly slapped down a sheaf of papers in front of her. She grabbed them excitedly and ran her eyes over the newly discovered symbols missing from the previous sketches.

“Malfoy asked me to give these to you. He taught me the spells he used, and I repeated them in Welsh- I don’t know where he learnt them; they’re very complicated. You were right, by the way; bits were missing.”

Hermione paged through them, looking at detailed drawings of the new pictograms Remus’s spellwork had revealed. “Did you just do this now? I was so busy reading, I must’ve missed it.”

She looked up, fully taking in the lanky wizard, and a smile tugged at her lips. An orange streak of sauce ran down his collarbone, and what looked like a bit of parsley was lodged in the tips of his grey hair. She pointed it out to him with deep amusement.

“Made spaghetti for supper, did you? How’s Teddy?”

Remus gave a deep sigh. “He gave himself gills over the dinner table and then couldn’t breathe and passed out. Absolute chaos, I had to do the fastest Aguamenti of my life.”

He cleaned up any remains of the disastrous meal pasted to his head with a quick flick of his wand. “He’s going to Harry’s for a sleepover on the weekend, and I’ve been planning which book I want to catch up on for weeks. Harry needs to watch out, though; Teddy’s desperate for a wand of his own. I caught him practising with Andy’s the other day; she nearly skinned him alive.”

Hermione nodded sagely, “Two more years before he can get his own. Must feel like an eternity to him.”

Loud chatter from the assembling group caught their ears, and they both looked up to watch.

“I heard from Kingsley you’re getting ready to present your dissertation to a panel of international magical theorists,” Remus said mildly. “He’s quite impressed by your work, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Hermione refused to acknowledge the thrill of nervous apprehension that thrummed through her.

“I’m planning to present at the end of the year, so I still have a little time left, but I know it’ll go so quickly.” She sighed. “Years of research boiled down to a two-hour presentation. I can’t believe it.”

“Rumour is, after your work is published, we might see your name on the list of MAME nominees for next year.”

The thrill greatly increased in strength, and Hermione turned to eye up Malfoy, now barking instructions at a flustered Auror in the distance. “I might not be the only one,” she said darkly.

“Ah, yes, I did hear about your…rivalry with Malfoy-”

“He started it,” Hermione snapped. Remus looked like he was trying to phrase his following sentence as tactfully as possible.

“Do you think he’ll be presenting his Mastery soon, too?”

Hermione couldn’t fight the impressive scowl that formed on her face at the thought of that platinum-haired prat.

“Almost certainly,” she said gloomily. “Any time I put new work out, he’s one step behind me with his own- it’s maddening!”

“I think he might say the same of you,” Remus said, lips twitching. She shot him a betrayed look, and he quashed any brewing amusement quickly.

“For some reason, people find his work much more interesting than mine,” she moaned. “It’s a nightmare trying to get grants approved as it is.”

Remus nodded sympathetically, but she knew he didn’t quite understand. No one did. Ever since Malfoy started his job at the Ministry of Magic over three years ago, nearly six months after she did, it seemed he had made it his life’s mission to challenge her career at every step.

And Hermione seemed to be the only one to see it.

To her absolute annoyance, he had proven himself an exceptionally competent Curse-breaker, with a reputation as a maverick for developing new techniques to crack the most difficult of cases. Not ideal, as since the war, so much of the Ministry budget and donations had gone towards repairs and reparations; Hermione had to scrap for any possible interest she could. Any competition was a real threat to the future of her work.

It was a real struggle- her surname and Order of Merlin prize money had only gone so far. Her career wasn’t as flashy as Malfoy’s; she didn’t have mummies trying to strangle her with their own bandages or cursed Tibetan monks turning into spiders and attacking villages that would get people interested. All she had were pages and pages of theorems and equations that everyone else just found boring, ignoring the fact that they were building blocks of their entire magical society. And besides, as an Unspeakable, so much of her work was top secret; there was very little she could freely make public knowledge in the first place.

But let it not be said that Hermione Granger wouldn’t give as good as she got. And, within weeks of his start at the Ministry, the battle lines were drawn.

Malfoy would draft a paper on curse dissection, so she’d quickly obtain a copy and make edits in bright red ink- suggestions, criticisms and the occasional snide remark- before sending it back to the publisher for ‘revision’. She’d present a workshop on charm composition, and he’d sneak into the audience, armed with the most annoyingly detailed questions, throwing off her carefully planned speech and leaving her a fumbling mess in front of the guests. And when he’d need a rare tome from the Bodleian, she’d make sure to swoop in early and reserve it first, just to watch his expression curdle at the checkout desk.

Hermione would spend ages developing the theory for a new spell, but any publicity she could get when she released it would be overshadowed by Malfoy discovering some new priceless tomb or other or saving the life of some nosy tourist who touched something they shouldn’t have. It was infuriating.

(Personally, she felt her career was much more challenging. She would love to see Malfoy delve into the intricacies of theoretical spellwork. Over the summer, she even managed to remove a notorious curse on a Roman torque held in the magical section of the British Museum by herself. According to Theo, Malfoy had sulked about that for weeks.)

“Well,” Remus said optimistically, flicking through the sketches himself, “if you do end up winning a M.A.M.E, I imagine you’ll have your professional reputation cemented for life. You can probably forget about things like fighting for funding.”

And there it was, the reason Malfoy remained the biggest thorn in her side- whenever she was nominated for an academic award or any form of recognition, his name would inevitably pop up, too, like some ill-timed pimple. And all of the paltry nominations, prizes, and certificates she had won before paled in comparison to the Merlin Award for Magical Excellence- the crown jewel of academic achievements.

It was an annual global award ceremony that showcased the most impressive Magical accomplishments and discoveries. Hermione had her heart set on winning one ever since she first read her copy of ‘Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century’ as a ten-year-old.

She tilted her head back and gazed at the darkening sky. “It’s not just the funding,” she muttered. “I mean, that would help. But it’s more than that…There’s never been a Muggle-born winner in British history. If Malfoy fucks that up for me…”

Remus looked at her gently. “You’ve not stopped working since you left Hogwarts,” he said, voice soft. “Since you started Hogwarts. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.”

“I’m the most famous Muggle-born wizarding Britain has ever seen,” she mumbled, feeling a familiar noose of pressure tighten around her chest. “I’ve got eyes on me every single day. People looking at me to succeed, people waiting for me to fail…”

Remus kept quiet. Out of anyone she knew, Hermione knew he could relate the most.

“I’ve got everything to prove,” she finished softly. Remus had nothing to counter that.

And a M.A.M.E would do that and more- if Malfoy even dared think he could steal it from her, she’d turn him into a spider herself. Feed him to Crookshanks, maybe.

“Well, from what I hear, he’s greatly improved since Hogwarts.” He pulled her attention away from daydreams of turning Malfoy into assorted arachnids. “But I must admit, I haven’t interacted with him since then. All I know about him is what I’ve heard from you and Harry.”

Hermione could feel the heat of a full-blown rant start to form deep in her chest.

“I don’t know how you taught him in third year. He was an absolute pain in your classes.”

“He was a bigoted prat then,” Remus looked uncomfortable, “but now I feel somewhat sorry for him.”

With a flash, Hermione realised the similarities between the two men for the first time. Both widows, both having to raise young sons alone, both constantly under relentless scrutiny. Her swirling irritation with Malfoy began to subside somewhat in unwilling sympathy. Remus, knowing from experience that any further mention of Malfoy might set her off like a match in a dry woodshed, deftly steered the conversation to other (unfortunately equally inflammatory) topics.

“Didn’t you have a landmark meeting this morning? The one on establishing a new Mer colony in the Peak District? How did it go?”

“Not well,” Hermione said bitterly. He shot her a commiserating look. He, of all people, knew the red tape and prejudice that weighed down any progress in the Wizengamot.

“Half of the members arrived late, two fell asleep during my speech, and the Mermish translator got stage fright and hardly spoke.” Her voice was scathing. “The motion didn’t come close to passing.”

“There will always be the next session.” Remus’s voice was artificially light, but she knew they were both thinking the same thing: while their society had become significantly more welcoming over the last ten years, it was nowhere near enough. People like Hermione, who were at the forefront of fighting against the most archaic and oppressive pro-Pureblood legislation, didn’t have the right names or the kind of influence slowly accumulated over generations to bring about the changes they envisioned. So many seats at the table were still held by people who had no desire to see any power shifting away from them any time soon.

Remus could easily see her thoughts moving down a negative spiral and quickly pulled her attention to the task ahead.

“I got a thorough debrief from Malfoy on why you suggested calling me out. Do you truly think I’ll be able to understand the demon?”

Hermione drummed her fingers along the arm of the chair, thinking, “It’s worth a shot. We do have the Ogham script as a backup if not.”

“I hope this works. It’s amazing we get to hear some of the first Pictish in ages,” Remus sighed, “and to think, so much speculation about the similarities to Welsh about to be proven… We should try to record some!”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Hermione felt a warm glow of satisfaction. She genuinely enjoyed spending time with her old professor; as adults, their relationship had shifted to a gentle friendship, strengthened by her adoration of Teddy, whom she spoiled at every opportunity.

(She would never ever admit to the brief crush she may have had on him as a fourteen-year-old, though, that she would take to her grave.)

“And if anyone can speak enough Welsh to the demon, I’m sure it will be you.”

Remus shot her a boyish grin.

“Absolutely, I’m as Welsh as Bara birth and rugby.” He purposefully thickened his already strong Valley accent so it almost trilled off the tip of his tongue. “We’ll get that intern back, don’t you worry.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Come, looks like they’re nearly ready for a debrief.”

He pulled Hermione up from the depths of her armchair, bumped her shoulders with his, and grabbed her work, carefully placing it back in her briefcase.

The pair walked over to the hive of activity buzzing near the entrance to the wards. The Ministry had certainly been busy; many Aurors from various offices had arrived during the day, patches sewn onto their shoulders identifying their respective base districts. A few of Kingsley’s secretaries were fluttering around; Hermione even spotted a representative from the Spirit Division on Level 4 pressing his nose against the translucent wards, trying to get a good look in. Malfoy and Fay were holding some sort of debrief to the circle of Aurors, grim expressions all around as Malfoy spoke.

Auror McCallum had arrived, she noticed and was chatting warmly with Professor Warsame. She veered towards them, tugging Remus’s jumper to get him to follow.

“Remus, may I introduce Professor Halima Warsame from the Ministry Curse-breakers division and Head Auror Peter McCallum from the Inverness Auror office. Auror McCallum and Professor Warsame, this is Remus Lupin, my old Defense Professor.”

Professor Warsame nodded at Remus, her eyes tracking the deep scars down his face and neck. Remus and Auror McCallum exchanged a long, silent look, eyes briefly flashing gold at each other as their wolves jostled to establish a hierarchy. Much to Hermione’s surprise, McCallum was the first to drop his gaze.

Professor Warsame gestured to an anxious-looking mousey student standing hesitantly behind her, a different trainee from the other Hermione had already met earlier.

“Lawrence Connel, another one of our interns getting some more field experience today.”

He looked awed, staring at Hermione like she was some A-list celebrity, and his gaze flickered between Remus and Auror McCallum, squirming a little. Hermione felt a little indignant at his blatant discomfort on both of their behalves, but both wizards looked entirely unphased.

“Been quite a start to your training.” Hermione’s smile at Lawrence was a little sharp. Remus shot her a warning look, but she could see the ghost of a smile on his lips, too.

“We’ll try not to let something happen to you, too, lad.” Auror McCallum kindly told him, possibly in an attempt to make him more comfortable. It had the opposite effect; he looked nearly ready to bolt at the sight of such a large wizard (with lycanthropy to boot) speaking to him.

“How long are you stationed with the Curse-breakers?” Hermione decided to be the bigger person. If Remus wasn’t offended, then she could cut the boy some slack.

“This is my first day here,” he told her nervously, “We spend one month on each level. I’ve spent the last three weeks at some of the DLME offices, and then we get to apply to any three offices in the Ministry that we liked the most for an extra month there.”

“Which ones are you thinking of?” Remus asked kindly, possibly in an attempt to settle the boy, who still looked as twitchy as an anxious horse.

Lawrence looked hesitant, as if worried not mentioning the Curse-breakers office would result in him growing extra limbs.

“Um, I liked the Muggle Liaison office. I’ve never worked much with Muggles before, so I found it interesting. The Broom Regulation Office and the Office of Misinformation were cool, too, but I’ll have to see if I can get placed there.”

Hermione thought somewhat sympathetically that the poor boy couldn’t be working in a less similar environment to any of those nice, safe desk jobs. It was going to be a very long week for him.

Professor Warsame was watching the exchange intently.

“Is your level not part of the rotating internship scheme? Did you not start at the Ministry as an intern yourself?”

“Oh, we don’t have interns in the Department of Mysteries,” Hermione told her cheerfully. “The last one we had disappeared, so the previous HoD took our level off the roster.”

Lawrence blanched. Professor Warsame eyed him silently as if wondering what she could do to stop getting another cohort next year. Hermione privately thought getting an intern possessed during working hours was a good start.

“I started in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures after Hogwarts but not in the internship programme.” She explained to Lawrence, who was still staring at her as if she were a particularly exotic insect. “I was there for six months but met my future boss, Unspeakable Murray, at a Ministry function. They felt my talents were wasted in the Beast Division, gave me a tour of the Department of Mysteries, and at the end of the night offered me a full bursary to study at the Faculty of Experimental Magic in Oxford.”

She tried to look as encouraging as possible.

“I found working in regulation and control very challenging. I had so many ideas and plans I wanted to see through, but I struggled with how slowly anything moved. I found I just wasn’t compatible with the team in the department.”

She left it that. Her time spent on Level Four was best not thought about. She’d done an excellent job of it over the last six years since leaving.

“So now I get to volunteer with external organisations in my free time instead. It’s great- I use my legislative knowledge from my time there to represent them in front of the Wizengamot.”

She neglected to mention that trying to get the Wizengamot’s approval was like trying to wrestle an Erumpent. She didn’t want to put the intern off a career in government before he had even begun.

There was a sense of nervous anticipation in the air, restless and ready for something to happen; Hermione looked to check on Malfoy. Thankfully, he and Fay looked nearly finished speaking to the gathered Aurors. She checked her watch. It was almost seven p.m., the sun would set soon, and darkness would quickly descend on the island. Surely they would start soon?

A low whistle caught her ears, and she looked up sharply. Malfoy and Fay were gesturing to them to come over. The nervous anticipation coursing through Hermione increased- time to finalise their plan.

“Have you had any luck figuring out what more of those stones say?” Fay immediately asked as Hermione came to stand next to her.

She shook her head, thrilled by the challenge. “I’ve worked out a few on the first stone but still have much more to do. Now that I’ve got the rest of the missing symbols, the rest should go a bit quicker…”

Fay nodded appreciatively at Remus, standing on her other side. The female intern trotted over, handing Hermione a large plastic bag in exchange for her briefcase, her face alight with a triumphant smile.

My boss has given me the green light to prioritise the translation over the department’s research,” Hermione finished, “so I hope to have everything figured out by the end of the week. ”

“Alright, listen up,” Malfoy commanded, swivelling away from the two interns. “We’ve only got a few minutes of light left before we need to start...”

Everyone inched closer. It was interesting to watch Malfoy, the youngest of the group, take control with unquestionable authority while the older, far more experienced members deferred to him without comment.

“Only my team will be crossing through the crime scene wards,” he instructed. “All interns and other Ministry staff will be waiting for us on this side.”

There were many relieved faces in the crowd, and Hermione noticed the two interns slip away deeper in it as if worried Malfoy would change his mind and pull them close to the action.

He turned to her, brows drawn. “I’ve been reconsidering. I’m…hesitant about having to pull in a civilian. As useful as you’ve been already, it’s probably better we call out a proper Auror from Cardiff instead. They’ll probably also have a team skilled in Ogham, too, in case we need to implement your Plan B.”

Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. Was Malfoy seriously trying to push her off the case after specifically calling her out? Godric, did he have that much of an issue with sharing credit in front of Kingsley?

Malfoy easily read the outrage on her face. “You’ve not had any combat training,” he added coldly. “If things go south, you’ll be a liability.”

A liability?? She gestured at Remus indignantly. “And what about him? He’s not an Auror, either!”

“Lupin’s got years of field experience,” Malfoy told her patronisingly, “most of that in Dark Creature handling. You do not.”

Hermione fumed. “It’s gone seven, the offices will have closed,” she rebutted. “And you said the longer Sarah was possessed, the more danger she would be in.”

“We could call out the night shift,” Malfoy argued. Hermione saw Remus shift next to her as if wanting to jump in, but she held up a hand warningly. She could more than fight her own battles.

“Would they be able to get here before sunrise?” She crossed her arms challengingly. “You’d have to wait until tomorrow night to do the exorcism, you realise that?”

Malfoy chewed his cheek. “It’s not likely, no.”

“Well then, as you said, we can’t afford to wait any longer if we want to get Sarah out intact. It has to be Remus and I.”

“Well, maybe you should wait on this side of the wards, then, and we can pull you in if Lupin fails,” Malfoy suggested dispassionately. A bolt of anger shot through Hermione.

“No! You can’t expect me to stay behind-”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed right back at her, and he cut right over her. “I can and do. This is far beyond your knowledge of Dark magic-”

“I am more than able to keep up with anything you do,” she spat back. “I want to help-”

“I’m not saying you’re not capable-”

“Then why not let me stay?”

“Because you could get hurt!” He boomed back. There was a loaded silence in the group.

“He’s right,” Auror McCallum spoke for the first time, eyeing Remus and Hermione. “This is an exceptionally dangerous mission and way beyond both your scopes of training. Now you know the risks; if either of you wishes to back out, we can call out an Auror from Cardiff to assist tomorrow and risk with the delay, no judgment.”

Hermione stared resolutely back and shook her head. Remus didn’t say a word, but his firm gaze spoke volumes. Malfoy gave a huff somewhere, but she refused to look his way.

“They’ve made their decision, lad,” Auror McCallum said to him softly. “You have to respect it.”

A muscle ticked in Malfoy’s jaw, and he gave a terse nod.

Fay clapped a hand on her arm approvingly. “You haven’t changed a bit since Hogwarts. You were always getting caught up in the wildest things.”

“Thanks.” It came out a little flatter than Hermione had aimed for, so she tried to lighten her tone. “I appreciate the lunch; I’m sorry I didn’t see you put it out.”

Fay shot her a look of pure confusion, but the group’s attention was caught by the last of the setting sun catching the circle, which had the quartz in the stones sparkling faintly. The demon almost looked lethargic, slowly ambling around the circle, moving out of the long shadows cast by the stones to soak up the last bit of weak sunlight.

“It’s time.”

Malfoy’s voice was cool and firm. Hermione felt the first flutter of nerves in her belly. The team of Aurors and the two interns watched in silence as the group passed through the wards of the scene once more. Hermione took a deep breath and pulled on all of her Gryffindor courage. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Chapter Text

Draco eyed the demon slumped by the edge of the stone circle appraisingly, straining to see under the quickly darkening sky. Besides the golden symbols carved into the stones and the magical dome emitting a warm, golden glow that lit up the inside of the circle, there was very little light to go by. Granger had been right—it was overcast, and luckily for them, the heavy cloud cover helped a lot by obscuring the nearly full moon and preventing the moonlight from strengthening the demon any further.

“It’s a bit hard to see,” Dunbar hissed. “Is there any way of getting better visuals before we start?”

Granger’s face scrunched in concentration, and with a swish of her wand, she conjured up a string of twinkling firey orbs. The flames were a handsome ultraviolet, dark enough not to strengthen the demon but still markedly improved the visibility around them. Damn, that was a good solution- Draco wished he’d thought of it himself.

Gesturing for the rest of the team to stand back, he decided to make a start on his banishing circle that would (hopefully) confine the demon into the gold relic he had swiped from his office. Walking around the circle deosil, he stopped at the small weak spot he had felt earlier and made his first mark using pure chalk he had collected on a holiday once in the Chilterns.

(That holiday had been a far cry from his preferred summers in the south of Italy, he would admit. Astoria had heard rumours of a Golden Snidget sighting near Henley-on-Thames, so, much to his abject misery, they had spent three weeks trudging through damp woods unsuccessfully looking for the blasted thing. He had immediately insisted on Venice the following year.)

With a flick of his wand, the chalk passed quickly through the wards of the stone circle, accepted without fuss by the stones as the non-living organic material it was. He traced his wand in the air, and the chalk followed his movements, scraping on the ground. He started outlining a septogram, using each of the seven menhirs to make the points of the star. It wasn’t perfect- the menhirs weren’t equidistant, so the star would turn out slightly wonky, but Draco was confident it would do just fine.

He could feel Granger almost vibrating behind him, her desire to know precisely what he was doing nearly palpable. Tough luck, he wasn’t going to tell her. Knowing her, though, he would soon get multiple letters full of demanding questions and (highly insightful, annoyingly correct) theories. Theo had once told him about a quite exciting-sounding Muggle invention called a ‘paper shredder.’ He might have to invest in one of those. Given the current interest washing off her in waves, he anticipated a barrage of owls when they were both back in their respective offices.

He heard Granger give a huff of frustration, still not figuring out his plan even as he levitated the golden statue through the wards similarly to the chalk. Lupin, who had also been cautiously circling the stones, came to stand next to Draco, looking over his tracings with curiosity written all over his face.

“I’m just making the marks for where I want the boundaries of my binding spell to be,” he explained, feeling slightly strange that he was teaching his former Professor. “Once I’ve got the outline of the star formed and I’m happy with it, I’ll begin the spell properly. I need to make sure everything is right before then, as once I start, I can’t stop or make any changes.”

The werewolf nodded understandingly; Draco felt himself relax a bit. It felt odd, almost as if he was about to receive a grade from the wizard, and even though he hadn’t been a student for a decade, he still felt the urge to show off his work for an Outstanding.

He raised his arm higher, and the relic mimicked his movements, bobbing en route to the circle’s centre. The small statue was a stunning bust of a Nubian princess that he had excavated from a tomb in the Pyramids of Meroë and was already imbued with several powerful protection spells. He was pretty fond of it and was disappointed it would be lost to history after being used to trap a demon. A necessary sacrifice, unfortunately, for this type of spellwork, but a loss for the magi-archaeology community nonetheless.

“Where did you get that?” Lupin asked curiously, jutting his head towards the statue.

“Sudan, 2001,” Draco said vaguely. “Blackmarket dealer selling cursed anklets that turned people into scarab beetles.”

“First case we ever worked on,” his boss said, slinking around his other side. Was that a tone of fondness in her voice? “I saw Draco perform some very tricky animal-to-human transmogrification-”

“And she realised my dashing good looks were only outmatched by my Curse-breaking abilities,” Draco interrupted smugly. His boss gave an impressive eye roll.

“I realised he was slightly more competent than the rest of his useless class,” she said haughtily. Draco swallowed a smile. “I hope you got permission to use that,” she added sternly.

“Followed all the proper channels and all,” Draco said seriously. “I’ll send the dean a thank-you present when we’re back.”

His boss looked satisfied- the last thing they wanted to do was cause trouble with the University of Khartoum, the number one institute for Curse-breaking in the world and Draco’s alma mater.

“It was an absolute nightmare getting hold of them in the first place,” he added, knowing his tone had turned whiney. “We need to get a better system.”

From behind him, he was pretty sure he heard Granger huff in agreement.

“I’ve been saying that for years,” she complained. “It’s so much slower than anything Muggle.”

Draco couldn’t help but agree- in last year at Hogwarts, he’d learnt about the rapid forms of communication Muggles had created, which the magical world had no equivalent yet, and he sometimes despaired at the Wizarding world’s limited communication options that were really noticeable when working on such a time-sensitive case as this. Besides two-way mirrors (exorbitantly expensive and required difficult spellwork to maintain), Floo calling was still the fastest way to communicate from long distances but required the recipient to be present, which could mean a bit of waiting if they weren’t in.

To get hold of Curse-breakers on the other side of the world, he’d been forced to go to one of the Department of International Magical Co-operation’s branches on the Ministry’s Fifth floor- effective but almost unbearably slow. Fortunately, there was little time difference between London and the University in Khartoum, so his wait was minimal as he waited for the staff to return from lunch. Unfortunately, the woman behind the desk in the Floo office had spent an agonising twenty minutes trying to explain how something called a ‘fex machine’ worked to him, making the wait seem eternal. He still had no idea how it worked and honestly didn’t want to know; her explanations of ‘bitmaps’ and “CDs’ had triggered the dull throb of a migraine to form at the base of his temples.

But he had persevered and now had an excellent vessel to confine the demon for his efforts. The statue gently bumped on the ground, and he angled it slightly so the princess’s face turned towards him, her regal mouth tilting downwards as if in disapproval.

The demon cracked one of Sarah’s eyes lazily open, like a cat eying up a robin through a window, and watched the statue settle on top of the stone slab in the middle of the circle. The chalk had finished the last markings, and the septogram was complete.

A bird’s-eye view of the scene would show the chalk outline of a seven-pointed star branching outwards in the stone circle, with each menhir at the tip of each point. Straight lines ran between the menhirs, forming the long paths of the star, and each arm of the star was full of swirling, interconnected Latin, reinforcing his binding spell. Each of the seven tips was connected by a perfect chalk circle that, in some sections, ran just slightly outside of the Pictish magic’s protective dome.

The demon was still lying close to the golden edges of the ward around the menhir, still doing its best to look like it wasn’t watching them all intently.

McCallum ambled over to Draco and pointed towards the writing. “Why Latin? Aren’t we supposed to be sticking to Welsh?”

“We’ll just be using Welsh to communicate with the demon,” Draco explained, “Latin is the best language for exorcising and binding them.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he heard Granger summon a notebook and jot something down in it. Finishing up the last bit of the diagram, Draco lowered his wand.

“The outline is finished, and I’m happy with it…” he shot Professor Warsame a questioning look and relaxed a little when she nodded in agreement. His supervisor was incredibly meticulous, and he could trust her to catch any mistakes he might have made.

“So, here’s a run-down of the plan.” He said firmly. “I will begin the exorcism by activating the septogram; right now, it’s still a useless chalk outline. You two need to get the demon to walk into the star, as close to the centre as possible, and get any information I could use to draw it out of Sarah and confine it to the statue. As soon as the demon crosses the chalk boundary, it will be confined in the star and unable to leave unless I let it out.”

“Don’t you usually use a pentogram?” Dunbar craned her head to look at Draco’s work. “That doesn’t look like the normal drawings of any ritual circle I’ve ever seen. Why did you include all of the stones?”

“Seven is an important number for Celtic spellwork,” Granger interrupted; with a flash of annoyance, Draco was reminded that she beat him in Arithmancy by zero point three per cent at the end of their eighth year. “Three and five are also magical numbers, but seven features a lot in many pre-Norman rituals.”

He wrestled to regain control of the conversation. This was his star, thank you very much. Granger could go get her own.

“Yes, it was associated with protection, more so than your typical pentagram,” he interjected, “and it represents other dimensions besides the cardinal directions.”

“What would those be?” Dunbar was fascinated, her eyes tracing over the white lines of the star.

“North, South, East and West,” he pointed to each direction individually, “and then Above, Below and Within. The Within is where we want to focus today as we exorcise Sarah and pull the demon from the Within to the Above.”

The witch nodded in understanding. Granger scribbled something else in her notebook furiously.

“Septograms are also known as Fairy Stars and are associated with Fey activity.” Draco looked at McCallum for confirmation, figuring the Scottish man would know the local folklore best. “As we’re also in a stone circle, do we need to be worried about Faeries on top of demons today?”

The burly man shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so- the Daoine Sìth hasn’t been seen for generations. Some of the wizarding families up here might have a little Fey blood, but they’re assumed to be extinct on Skye.”

That wasn’t entirely reassuring- Draco would prefer a hard no and put the Fae on his list of possible complications.

He turned to face Granger and Lupin. “Demon classification,” he started. Granger flipped to a new page in her notebook enthusiastically.

“-isn’t that straightforward.” He continued. “The concept of demons has been around since the beginning of humanity, and each culture, magical and Muggle, has had its own interpretation and definition of what a demon is.”

Granger (and Lupin) were eagerly following along. Taking more notes, Granger was more than able to keep pace, probably using that shorthand of hers, so Draco continued without slowing.

“It’s been a matter of hot debate within the magical community for a long time if our concept of demons are malevolent spiritual entities or physical manifestations of turbulent, sentient Dark Magic. I’ve heard Unspeakables at the Ministry have been researching that for as long as the Department of Mysteries has existed, but we still don’t have an answer. No one does.”

Granger looked incredibly surprised by that revelation. Interesting- so that wasn’t her field, then, and not Theo’s either, if that was how shocked she looked. The Department of Mysteries was bizarrely so close-lipped about their research. Hells, at an international level, all Unspeakables had a reputation for being extremely reticent, even among themselves. He couldn’t imagine not knowing what his colleagues were working on.

He took a breath and continued.

“The Wizards’ Council set up a classification system for demons in the UK a long time ago for easier identification, and through it, demons can be categorised from Grades 1 to 4. Grade 1 demons are the most benign, more likely to cause trouble than actual harm, mischievous rather than malicious. Poltergeists fall in this category- minor forms of chaotic magic rather than trapped echoes of once-living people, unlike ghosts.”

“Auror McCallum told me this demon was a Grade 4,” Granger interrupted again. “What does that mean?”

He nodded her appreciatively for bringing the point up.

“That’s the most dangerous class of all. Grade 4 demons have innate power paired with high degrees of malignancy. We don’t know if that’s where our one falls, but it’s a likely guess.”

His eyes darted to the demon still slumped in the corner of the stone circle, still trapped by the defensive magic keeping it confined.

“In the file on the Clachbhàn attacks, the ritual performed by the Dark Wizard was never ascertained, but it would be a fair guess that the murders of the Muggle villagers were some sacrifice in exchange for powering a very dangerous spell. According to the British classification, that’s a classic ability of a Grade 4 demon.”

McCallum looked intrigued at the prospect of getting more information on a long-closed case. Draco elaborated further.

“They can act as reservoirs of magic and pass that magic on to others, but accessing it comes at a price. Whatever spell that dark wizard wanted to cast, he obviously couldn’t do it alone, and so he needed to pay in blood to tap into the demon’s magic for his spell to work.”

“Any idea what ritual he wanted to perform?” McCallum asked him eagerly.

“No, and it’s likely we’ll never find out.” Draco’s blunt tone quickly quashed his burgeoning enthusiasm.

“The demon might have some idea, though.” Professor Warsame interjected. Draco nodded but didn’t mention that he felt it rather unlikely.

“What spells do you know that need to be supplemented by demonic power?” Granger asked curiously, gaze fixed towards the stone ruins littering the landscape outside the wards.

“Very few exist,” Professor Warsame told her, “and all are forbidden. I only know the basics of one such spell myself. Many were ancient rituals that have long been wiped from history to prevent this exact thing from happening. Merlin knows where that wizard even found information on the one he tried to do.”

“But we have to be sure it’s a Grade 4 before continuing,” Draco added. “All my spellwork hinges on a correct classification.” He glanced at Lupin. “So anything you can get it to say might be useful.”

The other wizard nodded.

“You’ll try speaking Welsh first. Let’s see if we can communicate directly with it. If that doesn’t work, Granger-”

“I’ll try some Ogham,” she interjected, waving towards the large white thing she had sent the intern off to purchase. “I’ve been doing some reading up-”

Of course you have, he thought.

“- and there was a case in the 1400s where a witch in Kildare managed to use Ogham to banish a demon from her hamlet. It might work this time, too.”

“Excellent,” Draco said, satisfied. “Then, Auror McCallum and Lupin, once I’ve pulled the demon from Sarah and trapped it in the statue, your job will be to go into the circle and pull her out.”

The two wizards nodded stoically.

“The protective magic the Picts placed is extremely powerful.” he elaborated. “Sarah could only get in because the demon had gone dormant after feeding, and when one of the other Aurors tried to run in after her this morning, he bounced right off. But you might just be able to walk in.”

“And why would that be?” McCallum asked him suspiciously. Draco did his best not to fidget.

“When I analysed the ward earlier, I could tell it had been set up to prevent any witches or wizards from crossing over, with some strong anti-Muggle repulsion woven in too. What wasn’t included, however, was any restrictions on, erm, animals.”

Lupin and McCallum now both looked vaguely insulted.

“My theory is the wards won’t recognise you as human,” he finally said, looking a bit apologetic. “And we already have a precedent for non-human entry…”

At Lupin’s challenging look, he gestured vaguely towards the circle. “Because, well, the sheep were able to cross in fine…”

Lupin and McCallum now both looked very insulted.

“That’s not to say we see you as animals in any way.” Professor Warsame did her best to soothe any ruffled feathers. “But Draco has an excellent point; this is a blind spot we can take full advantage of.”

“Ah,” Lupin’s voice was dry as he stared Draco down. “Another benefit to my presence here over a Swansea Auror, then, I assume?”

Draco gave him a short nod, not even pretending that hadn’t been a deciding factor. “The wards seem to absorb and gain strength from any spellwork we hit it with, so we can’t just use an Accio to drag her towards us.” He explained. “So removing her physically seems to be the only way.”

“And if we can’t just walk in and out?” McCallum queried, obviously trying to iron out any pitfalls with military-like precision.

“Then things get complicated,” he admitted. “I’ll have to make a hole to let you in, using the weak spot I made earlier, but that’s not without risk, so worst-case scenario only.”

“And does Remus need to enter the circle, too?” McCallum looked apologetic. “I’m more than able to carry the lass by myself. I don’t want anyone else putting themselves in unnecessary danger.” He slapped Lupin on the shoulder companionably. “As brave as that would be.”

“You might need the backup,” Lupin told McCallum calmly. “I’m going in there with you.”

“He’s right- having another wizard in the circle with you would greatly increase your chances of getting out,” Draco told him bluntly. “Should the wards try to lock you in, you might not have enough magic to blast your way out alone-”

Lupin’s expression was unchanged, even as he added, “-if at all. Just be aware that while you might be able to get in, I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to get out. That was what the wards were designed for in the first place- to keep things in.”

“And the demon won’t be a threat to them?” Granger double-checked. Draco shook his head.

“My spellwork will keep it bound in the relic the whole time they’re inside the circle, and even so, they can’t be possessed, so we don’t risk it jumping host,” he explained confidently and turned to the two other witches.

“Officer Dunbar and Prof, you both will be helping me maintain the wards while I pull the demon from Sarah and confine it into our relic.”

Professor Warsame nodded expressionlessly; Fay looked resolute, albeit somewhat nervous.

He swivelled to Granger. “You know a bit of field healing, correct?”

She nodded confidently. Malfoy’s face throbbed with phantom pain, and a memory of her patching up his broken nose once after a particularly brutal Quidditch game crossed his mind. He quashed it quickly.

“As soon as Sarah is free from the circle, Granger, make sure she’s stable, then take her back through the wards and to St Mungo’s.”’

He immediately saw a wave of indignation wash over Granger’s face as she realised she would miss the closing of the binding circle, arguably the most challenging part of an exorcism. But getting Sarah to medical care was more important than observing an exceptionally rare piece of magic; they both knew that. He stared at her challengingly, daring her to argue. Somewhat surprisingly, she backed down.

“What medical complications could I expect?” She asked through gritted teeth. He shrugged.

“Post-exorcism patients are often temporarily disoriented, and there’s a high chance of seizures, delirium, permanent brain damage.” He paused and turned to look through the wards. Demon-Sarah had started munching on one of the sheep.

“Sarah told me she was a vegetarian.” Professor Warsame said gloomily. Draco could only imagine the nightmare of paperwork from HR that was about to land on her desk shortly.

“No one tells her about that bit then,” he ordered, somewhat sympathetically. “Granger, Creature-Induced Injuries on the first floor would be the best place to take her. Take the stairs by Admissions-”

“I know-” Granger interrupted hastily, “I know St Mungo’s well.”

He faltered slightly at the stricken look that flashed across her face (right, shit, of course she did), then nodded, turning his attention rest to the group.

“Then, as soon as Granger’s left with Sarah, I’m going to finish cementing the binding and pulling the demon,” he finished. “This is technically the most dangerous part of the whole mission. If we- I’ve- made any mistakes in my spellwork, then the demon could just break out of the relic as soon as it’s left the circle…”

“What’s the plan if that happens?” Granger asked, looking morbidly curious.

Draco gave her a bit of a dark smile. “Should that happen, the Aurors outside the scene have instructions to activate the emergency wards I placed earlier, which will seal off the crime scene.”

He knew his tone was grim but needed his team to understand how Very Bad that would be. “That would trap us in with an ancient demon who hasn’t had much to do in the last thousand years. It would likely kill us all.”

He looked over at the assembled people, wondering if any of them were close to backing out now that the reality of the situation was less theoretical. They weren’t. Granger looked even more determined- as if the threat of disembowelment or dismemberment was a regular occurrence on a Monday evening.

“The Côte d’Ivoire team will have to come out and rebind it.” He finished. “Unfortunately, we won’t be around to see that attempt, though.”

He eyed Hermione and Lupin, morbidly amused. “Still up to helping out?”

Granger stared back unflinchingly. “Of course.”

“No question about it,” Lupin added impassively. Bloody Gryffindors. No shred of self-preservation at all.

There was silence in the group as everyone digested their roles and responsibilities. Draco gave them a moment.

“Can anyone think of anything to suggest?” He finally asked, relieved when they all shook their heads.

“I’ve not got any suggestions, Draco,” Professor Warsame added, giving him a rare warm look. “Well done.”

“Sounds like a thorough plan,” Lupin, ever the teacher, added, looking impressed.

Draco tried not to look too satisfied- it wasn’t a secret that the werewolf had been the Order’s chief strategist, so the fact he had no criticism to offer did make him feel rather smug.

“My only question is how you will activate the septogram,” Lupin continued. Next to him, Granger nodded eagerly.

Ah. Never mind. Criticism likely incoming.

Anxiously, Draco made eye contact with Professor Warsame, who nodded at him, pulled a sharp silver knife out of her pocket and passed it over.

“The ritual to remove the demon from Sarah is ancient and requires steps that many may see as…taboo.” She informed the rest of the group.

Everyone watched agog as Draco made a deep cut into the meat of his right palm, sticky blood oozing to the ground below.

“You’re using Blood Magic to activate the ritual?” Granger’s voice was shrill, and he could see her eyeing his hand anxiously, hot blood now running down his fingers and dripping off the tips.

“Yes,” Draco said stiffly. He didn’t care for the trepidation he could see poorly concealed on her face.

Lupin’s eyes narrowed onto Draco. “The Black family had a reputation for being quite good with Blood Magic; I remember Sirius-” he cut off, “You’re Narcissa Black’s son, if I’m not mistaken?”

Draco gave the wizard a curt nod.

“Bellatrix had a well-known interest in that particular branch of magic,” Lupin said in a mild voice, but Draco could see suspicion narrowing the corners of his eyes.

“My aunt had many interests.” Draco tried not to sound too defensive. He knew that would hardly help his cause. “She didn’t teach me any of her spells- if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He neglected to inform the group that his mother was exceptionally talented at Blood Magic, and all his knowledge came from her.

“Blood Magic is highly controversial, lad.” McCallum’s tone was as calm as ever, but a warning thread ran through it. “It’s not illegal, technically, but be aware that if you choose to perform it, this entire investigation, and you, will come under serious review by the Higher-Ups.”

“I have nothing to hide.” Draco kept his tone cool and even, disguising the discomfort pricking his skin.

This could be an unwanted complication. While he wasn’t lying (he truly did have nothing to hide from the Ministry), the idea of officials poking around the Manor once more, around his family, sent cold tendrils of apprehension down his back. It didn’t matter, though; he had spoken through all possible scenarios with Professor Warsame, and neither of them could think of a binding spell powerful enough without Blood Magic.

“I was under the impression that the Ministry had forbidden you to use any Dark Magic after your trial,” Lupin’s voice was disapproving. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but any infraction after your acquittal could send you back to Azkaban.”

He chanced a look upwards to see the grey-haired werewolf eying the blood oozing from his palm with mild disgust. Standing next to him, however, Granger was staring at him in silent contemplation, her face unreadable.

“You were in Azkaban?” Dunbar and McCallum’s incredulous voices perfectly overlapped, and both swivelled to eye Draco up closer. He didn’t miss the way their wand hands twitched towards the holsters on their arms.

“Blood Magic isn’t Dark Magic,” he snapped back, with a little more venom in his voice than intended; the reminder of his time in Azkaban had his heart pounding.

“It’s certainly not Light Magic!” Lupin shot back.

“Enough.” Professor Warsame’s commanding voice cut through the bickering that had tension rising in the group. “Blood Magic is so old it defies classification. It is believed such magic is about intent, and Draco plans to use it today for good.”

There was an uncertain silence in the group.

Draco felt a wave of affection for Professor Warsame as she pushed on determinedly. “Curse-breaker Malfoy and I are convinced there is no other way to continue the exorcism without such spells. This ritual is ancient but highly effective. Draco and I have seen it performed before, making it a safer option than trying something new.”

McCallum and Dunbar were unconvinced, but Draco could see Lupin looking at him consideringly. He refused to look at Granger again, as he had no interest in seeing the distaste likely written all over her face at the suggestion he was proposing.

“Professor Warsame, can’t you perform the spell?” Granger’s voice was earnest, “You won’t come under the same scrutiny as Malfoy will, and you have more field experience than he does.”

He glanced over quickly at his supervisor, her lips pressed into an irritated line, ruby-red lipstick not budging despite the moisture in the air. She didn’t look like she was even considering giving a reply.

“No,” his reply to Granger was slightly curt. Merlin, his hand ached. “I’ll be doing the ritual today. I’ll deal with the consequences should anyone from the Ministry take issue with my plan.”

“Don’t be stupid, Malfoy!” She hissed at him. “You should take every opportunity to avoid causing trouble with the Ministry. Do you want to be sent back to Azkaban?”

He fought to control the fear that instinctively wracked his body at the reminder of that hellhole.

“Enough.” Professor Warsame’s voice was cold and commanding. “Draco and I have discussed this ritual in-depth. He knows I will not be able to do it, and even knowing the scrutiny it will draw, he has kindly agreed to perform it himself.”

McCallum decided it was his turn to attack. “Why can Curse-breaker Malfoy perform the ritual, but you can’t? If we need to know something about this exorcism, Professor, now is the time to inform the rest of us. I won’t have any Dark Magic performed under my watch.”

“It’s not Dark Magic,” Granger murmured but went unheard by most of the group. He finally dared to glance at her in surprise, but her expression was hidden behind her wild hair, her gaze fixed on his blood splattering the ground.

Draco felt his teeth grind, “Contrary to popular belief, Auror McCallum, I do not practice Dark Magic. I would also like to remind everyone that I am currently bleeding, so if we can please wrap this up and make a start.”

The wizard crossed his burly arms. “There should be a reasonable explanation as to why it must be you then, Malfoy, and not the more experienced Curse-breaker, performing the spell. I, for one, would like to hear it.”

“I cannot perform Blood Magic because I am pregnant, Auror McCallum.” Professor Warsame snapped, and an awkward silence descended on the group. “Such spellwork could draw a dangerous amount of magic from my core. That is why Draco will be powering the spell today.”

The large wizard looked supremely uncomfortable. Good. Draco thought viciously. Go on. Assume another thing about me again.

“My apologies, Professor.” he bowed his head quickly at her, “I wasn’t told.”

“No one outside my team knows,” she frostily told him, “And I will keep it that way for now.”

There was a subdued murmured assent from the group. The large Auror turned to Draco and nodded to him, too. “I owe you an apology, too, Curse-breaker Malfoy. It was wrong of me to make such assumptions.”

Draco tried not to let the surprise flash across his face at the genuine remorse the respected wizard showed him and did his best to stare at the Auror in haughty silence instead.

“Now, if no one has any more questions, I believe we should make a start on the ritual.” Professor Warsame’s voice was still frosty.

Without comment, the group fanned out towards the circle and gazed at the demon still slouched outside the chalk lines of the star. Professor Warsame shot Draco an encouraging look, and he ran a careful finger over the knife’s spine, feeling the cool silver almost hum under his nails.

He crouched to the ground and placed his palm on the chalk closest to him, whispering the start of the required Latin incantations under his breath. Almost immediately, the chalk started to hungrily draw the blood from his palm, a thin river of red leaving his body and running down his chalk lines. It was a strange feeling, a stinging sucking sensation, and the tips of his fingers started to tingle quite uncomfortably.

His blood replaced the lines of the chalk; at first, nothing seemed to happen, but then the chalk lines lit up in a sudden flash of magic, which faded to a red glow. The once-white lines hummed and pulsed brighter with the beating of Draco’s heart, and he felt the strain of the spell tug on his magical core as the septogram activated.

He rose to stand and rinsed the cut with a strong Agumanti, which started the stinging throb anew. Draco winced. He hated using healing charms on himself, as they were never as effective, and the energy to heal one’s own injuries always cost more than it did to heal others.

Without a word, Granger summoned the medikit, marched over and snatched his hand towards her chest. Draco attempted to tug it back but was halted by the fierce glare she threw his way.

“I can fix my hand myself!”

“Not as well as I can.”

“I don’t need your help, Granger- Ow!”

With a sharp flick of Granger’s wand, thick orange antiseptic paste smeared over his palm. The stinging subsided to a mild ache.

“Stop whining,” she snapped back. “You brought me here for my healing skills, too, remember?”

“A decision I am heavily regretting.” He tried to pull his hand back again, but Granger kept it almost painfully tight in her clutches.

“Slicing your own hand open,” he thought he heard her mutter. “Fool.”

“Your bedside manner is atrocious,” Draco whined. “Thank Merlin you never went into the profession.”

Granger waved the paste away and shoved the tip of her wand precariously close to the edges of his cut. Draco decided the best course of action was to shut up.

“Episkey,” she murmured, and Draco felt the edges of his cut seal together. The deep gash shrank until all that was left was a thin silver scar.

“Put some scar-removal cream on when you get home,” she told him curtly. “It should help.”

She shoved a small glass vial his way, popping the cork open for him. Its thick red contents sloshed along the rim, and the faint smell of copper identified it as a Blood-Replenishing Potion. It had the texture of clotted blood, and he swallowed it down with a grimace.

“Thank you.” He muttered. A curt bob of bushy hair was his only reply.

There was a silence, and then Lupin seemed to make some internal decision. He stood up straighter and strode towards the stones. He carefully walked around the circle until he was directly on the opposite side of the circle from the demon, the group watching on in tense anticipation.

“Noswaith dda,” Lupin started, moving slightly closer to the edges of the barrier but still keeping a healthy distance from the marks of Draco’s drawings.

The response was instantaneous. The demon Sarah’s head snapped to look at him with bulging eyes, and it took a few tentative steps in his direction.

“Wait, Pro—Lupin,” Draco hissed at him suddenly, a flash of half-remembered lore coming out of nowhere. “Don’t tell him your name.”

Lupin nodded, not taking his eyes off the slowly approaching demon.

“Moony ydw i.”

The demon paused, opened its mouth and started talking once more. Now that Draco had more understanding of the origins of Pictish, he could hear how similar it was to Welsh, but instead of the almost liquid language that poured from Lupin’s lips, when the demon spoke, it was guttural, and the air shook as if multiple voices were talking all at once.

“Can you make any sense of it, Remus?” Granger asked him curiously.

“I’m understanding a fair bit. It just said something about about blood, I think.”

She tried to hide a frown, but Draco felt slightly encouraged at the small success.

The lanky wizard made a second attempt, keeping his voice soothing as if talking to a nervous horse. The demon made another garbled reply but still lay irritatingly far from the septogram.

“Siaradwch yn arafach, os gwelwch yn dda.”

“What are you asking it, Lupin?” Dunbar hissed at the wizard. Draco bit back a sharp command to let the man try before interrogating him.

“I’ve introduced myself and asked it to speak more slowly.” Lupin whispered, “I’m now going to see if it can tell me anything about itself.”

“Beth ydy eich enw chi?”

There was no reply. Now that they actually needed the demon to speak, it stayed stubbornly silent. Eventually, it sulkily muttered something back. Lupin made a big show of cupping a hand to his ear and leaning over towards the circle.

“Dod yn agosach yma, dw i ddim yn deall.”

The glowing lines of the star pulsed a dark red as the demon crossed over to stand in one of the westward-facing arms, repeating its previous sentence. Now that it had started talking again, it promptly decided not to shut up. A verbal torrent of Pictish poured from its mouth as it walked towards Lupin, gesticulating wildly, while Lupin nodded back commiseratingly.

Lupin kept his voice slow and calm as he called back to Draco. “It asks if we are here for a bargain as well. It asks whose blood it will be given and what it must give back in return.”

Draco and Professor Warsame exchanged a sharp look—a Grade Four, without a doubt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Granger fuss slightly, that large whiteboard of hers tucked under an arm as if to step forward and confront the demon too. He shot her a pointed look. It looked like they didn’t need Plan B after all, and the last thing he wanted was to overwhelm the demon. He shook his head, and Granger, understanding his train of thought, looked disappointed but dropped the board to the side.

Lupin was asking the demon something else now, his voice lilting more than it did when he spoke English, but something he asked caught the demon’s attention. It delivered another lengthy monologue and wandered closer. The group tried to hide their excitement as it approached, and Draco could see them tensing in suspense. He shot them all a warning look; the last thing they needed was the demon spooking and refusing to come near the statue at all.

It felt like an eternity before the demon placed one of Sarah’s feet over the first lines of the star. The rush of anticipation had Draco’s focus sharpen like a razor, and his fingers gripped his wand’s comforting, familiar grooves. The incantation to bind the demon to the statue rested on the tip of his tongue.

There! The demon passed so close to the statue that Sarah’s robe brushed against the stone it rested on. Draco sprung into action.

“Dimitte puellam, daemonium, revertere ad terram unde venisti.” He chanted, feeling the pull of magic tug his core. A blinding white line funnelled from the demon to the golden statue, whose golden eyelids glowed as if lit from within. “Ab hoc corpore, ad aliud vas moveo.”

He nodded to Professor Warsame, and she repeated his phrases while he moved on to the second verse of the spell. 

“Numquam redire ad formam corporis, praecipio tibi ut exeas et numquam revertaris.”

Sarah let loose a silent cry of horror. The demon was slowly draining from her body, in a black mist pouring out of her open mouth, and the statue’s lips opened in turn to receive it.

The strain on Draco’s magical core was immense, and sweat beaded his brow as he pushed to maintain the spell.

He was so so close. He could hear the others behind him picking up and continuing with his chanting, and bit by bit, he forced the demon back into the statue, watching the normal colour return to Sarah’s eyes.

And then, all of a sudden, everything started to go horribly terribly wrong.

He and the others reared back in horror as the ground shook below their feet. Malignant-looking whisps of magic had started to crawl up from the soil, creeping into the knots of the Pictish spellwork, tainting the golden strands as they weaved their way through.

The golden statue in the circle’s centre rattled on the ground before shattering into several small pieces, and the demon exploded into a seething formless mass. The bloody lines of the septogram forming the star smeared, and the demon rushed past, filling the space of the stone circle and bouncing off the golden wards circling the menhir. Draco was physically flung to the ground as this spellwork shattered, the force of it snapping back to him like a physical blow. He quickly recovered, lithely rolling to the side and flipping back onto his feet, a powerful shielding spell thrown up around the group on reflex before he could barely even blink.

The magical dome shook and shuddered, hairline cracks starting to run down the sides. The golden web of magic was turning a sickly grey, and the demon inside was now making a noise like a hurricane. It had turned into swirling black mist beating against the walls, which were beginning to shudder beneath the force of its fury.

“What’s happening, Malfoy?” McCallum shouted, looking at the demon in horror.

“I don’t know,” he yelled back, “the Pictish magic…it seems to be failing somehow.”

“The wards keeping the demon in look like they’re dying.” Professor Warsame pointed at the paling spellwork, “What do we do now, Draco?”

He thought through their options quickly. Unfortunately, very few were available.

“We need to abandon the mission!” Draco yelled at the others. “We need to leave before the demon breaks through. We can help the other Aurors seal the scene and lock it in.”

“And leave Sarah behind?” Granger hadn’t given up throwing protective shields between their group and the demon. It seemed useless, any protective bubbles turning to smoke as soon as they hit the dying dome. “That’s not happening.”

She ran towards the circle, gently running her fingers over the greying wards. They pulsed ever so faintly under her fingertips as she wandlessly tried to push some of her own magic into them, but the darkness continued to spread slowly up to the top of the dome.

The demon hit the wards again, close to her, and a horrible cracking noise echoed around the circle, like lake ice breaking under pressure.

“Have you lost your mind, Granger?” Draco heard himself bellowing, “The wards aren’t holding. Get out of here now!”

The demon let loose a triumphant screech and eyed the lot of them up maliciously. It was now next to Granger, on the opposite side of the wards. She paid it no mind and recast another flurry of powerful spells, which, unfortunately, did nothing.

“I’m not leaving Sarah here to die!” Came the stubborn reply. Draco felt quite like screeching himself.

She turned to face him, eyes blazing. “We need to get her out!”

Draco started to reply something; he wasn’t quite sure what, but he felt his heart stop as the demon punched a shadowy fist through the wards, as if through tissue paper and grabbed a handful of Granger’s hair. Her scream lanced through him like a knife.

“Malfoy!”

He watched in horror as she was slowly dragged back, arms reaching for him. His feet felt frozen to the ground. Her desperate brown eyes met his, fear blowing her pupils wide.

She shrieked his name once more, and he felt his magic well up in response to the sheer terror in her voice. Another ominous crack sounded again, and the magical dome started splintering, hairline fractures running through it from the site where the demon’s arm was pulling Granger away from him.

“Malfoy...Help!”

Chapter Text

Draco took a deep breath, cleared his mind and reached for his magic again, this time tapping into the Malfoy family magic constantly twining through his core. He felt it thrumming deep inside in eager response, crackling like lightning through his veins as he summoned whatever stores he had left.

His wand responded eagerly, almost burning his fingertips as he flung out another magical shield, a tsunami of power in a brilliant emerald bubble that crashed and rolled into the Pictish spellwork, temporarily reinforcing the protection and confinement spells imbued within it. Where his spell and the unnatural wisps of whatever the hells had just materialised met, the magic boiled and smouldered, audible hisses heard even over the demon’s screeching.

It washed over Granger and sizzled onto the demon’s hand; with a shriek, it let her go and pulled its arm back through the shield. She staggered forward, and Draco pulled her towards him by her elbow, running a quick look over her- she seemed shaken but fortunately uninjured. He pushed her behind him and refocused on strengthening his spells.

Maintaining his shields, even with the reservoir of the Malfoy magic to tap into, took immense concentration and exertion, and Draco felt the burden heavy on his shoulders. His head pounded, and the migraine brewing earlier returned with a vengeance, like a red-hot poker pressed behind his eyeballs. He gritted his teeth, fighting the black spots that danced in and out of his vision. The next burst of resistance had him falling to his knees, with what felt suspiciously like blood trickling out his ears as the muscles of his back and arms screamed in distress.

Salvation came unexpectedly in a flash of brown and lurid pink, and he staggered to his feet. Granger had stepped forward, putting herself between him and the demon again, and while Draco couldn’t hear what she was saying as she ran her wand over him, mouth moving quickly, it was effective. The agony splitting his head open died to a manageable level, and his next breath was so pain-free that the relief of it felt like he had been drowning underwater, only to be pulled to the surface for a breath of life-giving air.

She waved her wand again, murmuring another inaudible spell, and her magic reached out to Draco, twining around him and supporting his spellwork. The feeling was oddly intimate, and he repressed a shudder - it felt like warm hands carding through his hair, but whatever she did made a difference. Draco felt the burden of his spell ease markedly, and the alleviating drop in intensity quickly allowed him to refocus and push back against the forces battering him. Her magic, a delicate silver, danced with his own, and together, their shield was able to clamp down over the stone circle and form an armoured shell over the original floundering spellwork.

Behind him, he could feel Professor Warsame, Lupin, and the Aurors stepping forward, their own spells streaming around him to fortify the incantation. Bit by bit, the strange rotten magic was pushed back and back until it seemed to seep away into the ground, and gradually, the strands of the Pictish magic began to shine brightly again.

The demon remained free, though, an incorporeal shadow of rage confined by the boundaries of the now-healthy-looking shield. The star was now useless- its bloody outlines destroyed and congealed on the cooling soil. Draco forced himself to take a deep breath and refocus on a long exhale- not ideal for their first attempt, but likely not the last broom block of the night. On the positive side, the demon was out of Sarah, who lay (hopefully not dead) crumpled by the centre stone; the downside was that the demon had worked itself up into a furious tempest at being so tricked and showed no signs of weakening any time soon, despite the lack of light.

“What’s the plan now, Malfoy?” Dunbar shouted, and the others all turned to face him anxiously.

“We need to figure out what the fuck just happened,” Draco yelled back, trying his best to be heard over the demon’s muffled shrieking coming from inside the circle. “I don’t know what that was, but we came so close to having the demon break out. We need to be sure it won’t happen again!”

“Could it be linked to the missing symbols?” McCallum asked the question on Draco’s mind, and they all swung to look at Granger.

“I really don’t think so,” Granger stared around the stones as if they would suddenly give her new information, “I’ve not had a chance to interpret any of them, but nothing I’ve translated so far has had anything to do with demons...”

She froze, and her eyes flickered to the other side of the circle; Draco followed her gaze to see what she was looking at but couldn’t see anything through the thick mist.

“The woman might have done something.” Granger mused, and the other group members eyeballed her in confusion.

“What woman?” Draco demanded, eyes flitting around. Besides their group, there were no other people in sight. Had one of the witches from the Ministry team waiting for them crossed back through scene wards?

“A woman was standing over there. I saw her after we spoke, Malfoy.” Granger pointed to opposite the circle. “I saw her just as I was leaving out of the corner of my eye, and when I looked over properly, she was gone. She was dressed strangely-”

Granger looked uncharacteristically hesitant, “In some strange garb- I think she might’ve been Pictish.”

“You saw a ghost and didn’t think to mention it earlier?” Draco shouted at her incredulously. He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but the absolute indignation coursing through him made it come out louder than intended.

“I forgot,” Granger said sheepishly. “I was going to tell you after you returned from London, but then you gave me that textbook, and I just got completely distracted.”

“You forgot,” Draco stated calmly, trying to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. “You forgot that you had seen a ghost from a long-dead civilisation because I gave you some dusty old book.”

Granger rolled her eyes like a toddler.

“It wasn’t a ghost,” she told him in a voice so condescending it made him want to tear his hair out. (Or hers, he wasn’t picky.) “Whatever she was, she wasn’t that.”

“A vision then,” he kept his voice purposefully saccharine, “I didn’t know you were a Seer, Granger.”

Her eyes flashed with fury, and Draco felt immense satisfaction at the sight. Granger’s absolute disdain for any form of Divination (despite being a reputable and age-old branch of magic) was well-known to anyone who attended school with her. It hadn’t been a long shot to assume it had carried over well into adulthood- served her right for neglecting to inform him about such a crucial bit of information.

“It wasn’t a vision either, Malfoy,” she gritted out to him with jaws so tense he half-feared she might crack a molar. “She was standing over there.” Again, Granger gestured to the far side of the circle, where those stones were almost cloaked in thick mist. “As corporeal as you or I.”

Auror McCallum, with all the astute observational skills the Auror Department was known for, chimed in. “It’s been what, nearly a thousand years-”

“Over a thousand years.” Lupin and Granger corrected him together, like creepy swotty twins.

“Over a thousand years, then.” McCallum took the interruption far better than Draco would’ve. “So there’s no way that was a living Pict- they’ve been dead for ages.”

Professor Warsame shot Draco a look of such pure exasperation that he would’ve smiled if it wasn’t for the immense danger they were in.

He swung to face Granger fully. “What do you mean you saw a woman? Did she look Magical or Muggle?”

“She looked like a Pict,” Granger told him again, which was quite possibly the most unhelpful thing she could’ve said to him. “Her clothing matched the descriptions I’d read about, and at first, I thought her face was painted, but I think it might’ve been tattooed. ”

She pointed over to the centre stone in the centre of the circle.

“From what I remember, Malfoy, Pictish witches were very well regarded in society. The markings I can recall on her cheeks could indicate high status, and I’m fairly sure they might match the carvings on that stone. I wonder if she wasn’t some druidess involved with making the original spellwork of this circle.”

Professor Warsame looked deep in thought, manicured brows pulled tightly together. “That could very well be possible. I’ve seen a few trapped demons before, and two of them, one in Mekassar and one near Zadar, had graves of prominent leaders buried at the time of the demons’ confinement. We thought they had been sacrificed to the demon and left as a warning for their successors to take better care of their people, but maybe-”

“Maybe it was for protection.” Granger concluded, “A guardian of sorts for the circle, to prevent others from accidentally releasing the demon they worked hard to trap.”

“Well, why didn’t she try to stop us earlier?” Dunbar and McCallum looked equally confused.

“Maybe she was affected by whatever magic interrupted our work,” Draco suggested, uneasy at the prospect of some long-dead guardian interfering with his careful planning. The Fey, at least, he knew how to deal with. No one had ever handed him an SOP on managing a sacrificed spirit priestess who likely also couldn’t speak English.

“Or maybe, as technically we weren’t freeing the demon,” Lupin suggested, “but simply removing it from Sarah, she didn’t see us as a threat.”

Draco felt that was an unlikely scenario. Personally, if he were guarding the remains of an immensely powerful spell circle containing an extremely malevolent entity within, he would deal with any approaching strangers with extreme prejudice. From the look on Granger’s face, she was thinking along the same lines as him.

From now on, he would like all his supernatural encounters to come from the Tudor period or later, things he might have a hope in hells of understanding. Nothing older than Early Modern English, if you please. Maybe a French demon next time—one that would give Sarah back for a cigarette and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“But again, and forgive me if I’m confused about this part,” McCallum rolled the thick muscles of his neck, “What was she, if not alive, but also not a ghost?”

Draco noted with interest that Granger’s face went carefully blank. So she had some idea then but wouldn’t share it with the rest of the class. Her younger self would be horrified.

“Something to think about once we’ve rescued Sarah.” The pitch of Granger’s voice was ever-so-slightly higher than usual.

It was the worst deflection he had ever seen, but he would allow it without comment. He wouldn’t get any answers in front of the others, and pushing Granger might make her clam up even further. He would need a bit of tact, and by the Professor Warsame’s eyes flickered over the other witch’s face and back to him, she hadn’t missed it either.

Her comment did seem to invigorate the other group members, and they all turned to look back at Sarah (still unconscious), riled and ready for a second attempt. If Draco hadn’t started to feel moderately sceptical about their chances of success, it would’ve been almost endearing seeing the gung-ho Gryffindors jump back into the fray, like a group of noble heroes in a disgustingly sentimental children’s book.

“You might get what you wished for, Auror McCallum.” Draco waved his wand lazily over the toes of his boots. The cut in his hand had splattered blood right onto the leather, and the stain had already started to take.

The large wizard looked at Draco for elaboration. He waited until his left boot was satisfactorily clean and passed inspection before continuing, pointedly ignoring the tense set of the waiting wizard’s jaw.

“You wondered if the demon could give any information on the Clachbhàn case. That’s not looking too likely. But I bet you she could. Whatever she was.”

The werewolf’s eyes brightened, and he turned to Granger.

“Do you think you could get her to come back?”

“I don’t know what I did the first time to make her appear- or if I even did anything,” Granger said dubiously. “But I could try again. Maybe after we’ve rescued Sarah, though.”

Both Aurors looked appeased at the thought of potentially getting a lead, but Draco didn’t want to burst their bubble with the obvious. Suppose the druidess had been charged by her community with defending the stone circle and preventing anyone from attempting to release the demon, then why hadn’t she intervened before those Muggles were butchered?

Granger’s words reminded him to check on the intern, just in case she had done them a favour and gotten herself out of the circle without them noticing.

He chanced a glance. No luck- Sarah was still slumped in the centre. The demon had also stopped shrieking sometime during their discussion and calmed down, taking on more of a solid form. It still moved like liquid shadows but had condensed into a humanoid shape, with a height and build oddly similar to his own.

“How are we going to rescue Sarah now?” McCallum asked the question likely on everyone’s minds. “Suppose you’re wrong, Hermione-”

“I’m not,” Granger informed him confidently.

McCallum continued doggedly on. “If we do need to translate all the stones for a successful exorcism, it’ll take you days to do it. What would that mean for Sarah?”

All eyes swung to Draco. Excellent, no pressure.

“We’re going to try Plan B and assume we don’t,” he said, much more confidently than he felt. “Professor Lupin and Auror McCallum are going to try to push into the circle, through the wards, and pull Sarah out while the rest of us distract the demon and reinforce the wards as much as possible.”

There was silence. Plan B was not as eagerly received as Plan A then.

“That’s it? That’s your plan?” Granger sounded incredulous.

“It is indeed Granger. What do you think of it?” Draco tried not to sound too smug- not too shabby for someone off work for a year.

“I think it’s shit.” Granger didn’t mince her words, and Draco stared wordlessly at her, too offended to comment. She waved her arms to push her point even more. “Your entire plan is just… winging it? That’s the least Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard.”

Draco bristled at the insult. “Would you like to come up with a better one? Oh wait, you can’t- you don’t have any field experience, do you?”

“Give me twenty minutes, and I can come up with something better than that!”

“We don’t have twenty minutes, you intolerable-”

Granger raised her voice and shouted over him. “We need something more detailed, Malfoy, something with more concrete steps we can adjust if things go wrong.”

“I don’t know if you missed it, Granger,” Draco all but snarled, “but things have already gone wrong.”

Granger looked exceptionally close to hurling a curse at him. McCallum and Dunbar both looked uncomfortable, Professor Warsame looked incredibly entertained, and Draco mentally begged her to step in. Lupin, bless the man, was eyeing Granger nervously, too, and looked to be thinking the same as Draco. He stepped between them, turning to meet his gaze.

“We don’t really have any choice, do we?” He asked. McCallum ran a hand over his dishevelled mohawk anxiously.

“Not if we want to get Sarah back,” Draco admitted. “We could call it quits. No one could say after our first attempt that we didn’t give it a good try, but that would mean giving up on any chance of getting her out.”

“That’s not an option.” Granger looked resolute. “We have to try again.”

Draco sighed. “Professor Lupin, Auror McCallum, it’s your call. You’ll be the ones in the most danger.”

Lupin didn’t hesitate. “We should give it another go.”

McCallum was silent, then nodded sharply. “We owe it to the lass to try. I won’t have it said we didn’t do everything possible.”

It wouldn’t be accurate to say he liked either wizard—he didn’t know them well enough for that—but he appreciated Lupin’s calm nature and McCallum’s evident experience. They both made him feel slightly better about their chances of success.

Dunbar murmured in agreement. Professor Warsame caught Draco’s eye and gave a silent, sharp nod.

“Right.” Draco tried to organise his whirling thoughts, several strategies already playing out in his mind. “You two can enter the circle from over there.” He pointed in the direction where he had felt that hole in the magic earlier. “We’ll stand opposite you, pull the demon’s attention away, and, if needed, push magic into the wards to strengthen them should the demon try to escape again, just as we did last time. At my signal, Professor Lupin and Auror McCallum try to enter and grab Sarah. If you can’t push in, I’ll think of a way to force that weak spot open and make you a door.”

He hoped the demon wouldn’t try to escape through it. His magical core felt close to empty, so drained after the immense power needed earlier, he wasn’t sure if he had enough left for round two of demon fighting.

“After Sarah is out, we carry on as planned. Granger, be ready with the Medikit.”

He looked around the circle. Everyone was starting to look tired. Granger’s hair had blown out of its (previously messy) bun to hang in a frizzy mess, some strands dampened with sweat and mist sticking to her face.

“If everyone is ready, let’s try again then.”

Lupin and McCallum, without preamble, turned their back on the group and started walking over to the spot Draco had indicated. They spoke to each other, but their deep voices didn’t carry in the air, so Draco couldn’t quite hear what they were saying.

The demon watched them walk, turning its head nearly a full circle like an owl (poor Sarah’s neck would be sore tomorrow), but it couldn’t seem to choose who to watch—the werewolves or his group staying behind. He instructed the others to follow him and led them to the other side of the stones. The demon quickly decided Draco was the biggest threat and locked its gaze on him, making him feel like a mouse placed in front of a python.

“Now we need to get the demon to focus on us,” he whispered to the others, shooting a thumbs up at Lupin, who returned it calmly.

It was only thanks to years of training in high-pressure environments that he didn’t have a heart attack as Dunbar’s voice split the air.

“Oi, you shadowy fuck,” she bellowed at the demon. “Give us our intern back!”

Granger wasn’t as stoic. She nearly jumped out of her skin like a startled cat. Draco winced; he was hoping to try something a little more subtle than that.

But unsubtle as it was, the demon was as surprised as Granger. It was almost gawping at Auror Dunbar from the circle, who had now switched to shouting insults that any hag from Knockturn Alley would be proud to think of. It floated closer to get a look at the short blonde woman hurling such vitriol with increasing enthusiasm.

“Good job Fay. Keep its eyes on you.” Professor Warsame murmured out of the corner of her mouth, looking at Draco to see if she could assist.

“Remember Barbados?” he hissed at her, and a wicked grin split her face. When he nodded, she pulled out her wand and shot a flurry of sparks into the air. Magically conjured fireworks exploded around them, whizzing and screaming through the air, adding to the chaos and filling the air with acrid smoke.

Lupin and McCallum had their eyes pinned on Draco. He lifted his hand in the air, and when he let it drop, there was a flurry of action. One heartbeat, two, three, and then everything happened at once.

Both wizards darted towards the walls of the wards. Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe, but the relief that washed over him when they passed through easily was indescribable. Granger had joined Auror Dunbar in gesticulating at the demon, her shrill voice nearly drowning out that of the Scottish witch. She had also enchanted the Medikit to prance behind her and perform somersaults. The demon almost looked overwhelmed at the ruckus, unsure where to look. Excellent.

McCallum and Lupin had reached Sarah. The larger wizard quickly picked her up and slung her over his shoulders while Lupin thoughtfully summoned the camera that had fallen with Sarah in the circle with a silent flick of his wand. It whizzed over behind the demon, and the two werewolves bolted back the way they came.

Realising it was missing something, the demon snapped its head to check on them and screeched in outrage at the sight of them legging it back through the circle. It dematerialised into a shadowy form again and hurled itself towards the two men. McCallum and Sarah had crossed back through the circle without issue, but just as Lupin was partway through the wards, the demon latched onto the back of his shirt and started reeling him back.

“Remus!” Granger shrieked, “Expecto patronum!”

A blinding light lit up the circle. Something was swirling in the air near Granger, so bright Draco couldn’t look at it without squinting. With a swish of her wand, Granger directed her patronus through the circle; he felt a whisper of heat lick his cheek as it shot past him and towards the demon. There, it burned even brighter, so bright he had to squint, and he heard, rather than saw, the demon release Lupin’s shirt with a pained squeal. It shrank back from the Patronus and fled to the other side of the circle, hiding behind the middle menhir.

Lupin crashed to the ground beside the still-motionless Sarah, wheezing; Draco and the others raced towards them. Granger was already fumbling for the medikit, muttering healing charms under her breath as she flung herself to her knees next to the werewolf.

“Sarah,” he gasped at her, “Check on Sarah first.”

Granger nodded and stumbled to the intern. She ran her wand quickly over Sarah’s body, her eyes rapidly reading the vital signs that appeared in the air next to her. Her lips moved as she analysed them, then snapped to action, reaching into the medikit and pouring vial after vial of healing potion down Sarah’s throat, charming her to swallow.

Everyone held their breath. Sarah remained motionless, but a little colour returned to her pallid skin.

Draco checked on the demon- Granger’s Patronus, a snapping, swirling otter, was still active and patrolled up and down the circle, blocking the way for the demon to get nearer, but it was still hiding behind the large stone, showing no interest in moving away. He noted with curiosity that the Patronus light didn’t seem to strengthen it at all.

Sarah sat up with a gasp, so violently and unexpectedly that Draco nearly pulled his wand on her in surprise. She took one look at the group, her eyes darted over to the circle as she remembered where they were, and then she burst into hysterical sobs.

Granger reran her diagnostic spells and looked pleased at whatever had changed.

“It’s alright now, Sarah,” she told the intern kindly. “You’re going to be okay.”

She pulled the still-crying witch into her arms, rubbing her back as the girl cried into her thick hair, crooning soothing words Draco couldn’t make out. Auror Dunbar came to join the hug as Granger detangled herself and went over to check on Lupin again.

He looked much recovered, except for a massive tear in the back of his shirt, and proudly beamed at Granger.

“A Patronus? Brilliant idea!”

Granger blushed. “I saw Malfoy passing the chalk through and wondered if it couldn’t cross, too. I mean, it’s not technically living…” She continued chatting as she ran her wand over Lupin, smiling in relief as it became clear he hadn’t been harmed by his close escape either.

Professor Warsame patted Draco on the arm. He stiffened up in surprise, not hearing her coming up behind him. Granger had started re-packing the medikit near them and was doing her best to pretend she wasn’t listening in.

“Well done.” Professor Warsame told him simply.

He tried not to smile; his boss didn’t hand out praise easily.

“Stop looking so cheerful,” She told him sternly. “Kingsley will expect a full report soon. And you’ll need to justify why you used Blood Magic in it.” She brushed off some grass flecks from her vambraces. “Try not to get arrested, won’t you? My best Curse-breaker or not, I won’t be bailing you out.”

This time, Draco couldn’t help the genuine grin that stretched across his face. Granger, for some reason, fumbled a bit with the last vial and turned back to Lupin, asking him a hurried question, abandoning her attempts at eavesdropping.

Their ex-Professsor was patting the back of the loudly weeping intern, murmuring soothing words that didn’t seem to calm her down. He conjured up a large white handkerchief that the intern noisily blew into, a horrible wet sound that made Draco nearly step away in disgust. Much to his relief, Sarah mostly looked intact- the workplace incident report form was already going to be a bitch already to fill in; at least he wouldn’t need to go fill out the ‘physical injuries’ section.

He ushered everyone over. Fuck binding the demon. That could be a problem for another day once they figured out what in the hells had happened to the wards before trying again. For now, everything seemed stable. The wards looked as healthy as when he first saw them, and any cracks were seamlessly repaired. Whatever had affected the Pictish magic seemed to have left with no permanent effects or sign it had been there at all.

Now that the demon had been removed from its host, it reverted to its wispy, spectral form, vaguely human-shaped and tentatively emerging from behind the menhir. When it saw Draco looking over, it stuck two fingers up at him in a very nasty gesture it could only have learned from Granger. He was happy to bet it wouldn’t be going anywhere for now.

“Is everyone ready to return to the others?” He hoarsely asked the others.

There were mutters of agreement, the exhaustion on everyone’s faces starting to show now that the action of the evening was beginning to settle down. Lupin hoisted Sarah to her feet and gently helped her walk back to the crime scene, the wards glowing faintly under the night sky. Draco made sure everyone could head back unassisted before extinguishing Granger’s lights with a flick of his wand and caught up with the rest of the group to lead them out.

The wave of noise that washed over him as he passed through the crime scene wards was disorienting. He was temporarily blinded by the flashes of camera bulbs and loud chatter that shot up in volume as the rest of the group joined him, as the waiting members of the Ministry noticed them.

“Curese-breaker Malfoy!”

“Unspeakable Granger!”

“Miss Mullins, over here! We have a portkey to take you to St Mungo’s”

Everything faded into an overwhelming blur as the demands on his magical core and body began to take their toll. His headache returned quickly, and bone-deep fatigue crashed over him as he focused on just putting one foot in front of the other.

He could barely focus on the smiling faces crowding around him, hands patting his back, some ruffling his hair. It was the most affection shown to him by the general public he could ever remember.

The volley of questions was unending. What happened to the demon? Was Sarah going to be alright? Why had it taken the group so long? Had they felt that earthquake, too?

“Listen up, Malfoy,” McCallum was suddenly in front of him; he blinked slowly at the large wizard. “We’re meeting Kingsley at St Mungo’s in five minutes to debrief him and get checked over by some Healers. One of my Inspectors will take you there by portkey.”

He barely had the energy to nod. McCallum looked over at him, and his stern face softened.

“You did well, son.” He clasped a warm hand on Draco’s arm. “You did very well.”

McCallum vanished. Draco decided to wait here for his designated Auror. Trying to look around for one seemed like a tremendous amount of work.

The world was spinning again, he noted absently.

“Malfoy?”

Ah, no, it had stopped. And then, a pair of warm brown eyes came into focus. Granger stood before him, nervously twisting the corner of her sleeve. He hadn’t seen her do that since the night before her Runes exam so many years ago.

“I wanted to say thank you. For saving me.”

Her voice was quiet, but the world behind them seemed to have faded away, and he could hear her perfectly clearly.

“Curse-breaker Malfoy?”

Another voice came from behind him, and the spell was broken. The noise of his surroundings rushed over him like a flood, sending the world spinning again. He twisted around; one of McCallum’s Aurors stood waiting for him, an old bottle in hand.

“Head-Auror McCallum tasked me with taking you to St Mungo’s, sir.” the wizard explained. “Are you ready to go?”

He turned back to Granger, but she was gone.

The Auror gripped the bottle and allowed Draco to grab its neck. It buzzed warm in his palms, and the world spun faster as his feet left the soil. Those dancing black spots returned as the world became blessedly quiet again.

This time, he welcomed the darkness. Instead of fighting it, he allowed himself to sink even deeper and let it slowly pull him under.

Chapter Text

The next evening, Hermione made her way to number 12 Grimmauld Place to join the Potters for Tuesday night dinner. It was a long-standing arrangement that initially saw her, Ron, and Harry catching up over drinks in various London bars, but had become significantly more domestic since the arrival of the Potter offspring. They had tried to meet weekly, but as their lives became busier, the time between meals stretched longer and longer. She was shocked to realise it had been over three months since their last meal together —a quick brunch in June, just before she set off to France to conduct some research.

She landed with a crack in the park opposite the road and watched as the dark-brick house with its newly painted cherry-red door materialised into place. Shaking the last raindrops off her coat, Hermione marched up the rickety steps and knocked firmly on the front door. The silver snake doorknocker (which, despite many attempts to remove it, kept slithering back and reattaching itself to the door) blinked beady metal eyes lazily at her, gave a metallic hiss, and the front door swung open with a resigned groan.

“Harry?” She called out, cautiously making her way down the entrance hall.

The stuffed troll’s leg was long gone (thank goodness), and the house’s interior had been mostly transformed. The dark and gloomy wallpapers and furnishings, themed in black and silver with serpent motifs, had been replaced by warm tones and light wooden floors. Photos of various Order members hung up on the walls replaced the House elf heads, and Quidditch gear was dumped in messy piles near the mudroom.

But even after the years of effort Harry and Ginny had invested in turning the building into a home, an ominous atmosphere remained impossible to shake. Things never stayed clean for long, doors often jammed closed, trapping unsuspecting visitors for ages and despite the numerous heating charms Harry and Ginny kept recasting (and the Muggle gas heater Harry had purchased, much to Ginny’s mistrust), the house always had a bone-deep chill, as if it had been left standing empty for months.

Grimmauld Place remained a confusing maze for Hermione. She was sure that with each visit, the layout would change ever so slightly, with passages appearing where there had only been dead ends before, doors popping up to dingy, unused sitting rooms, and cold bathrooms with rusty plumbing and cracked tiles occasionally making a guest appearance. Ron swore that he had once stumbled into an abandoned sex dungeon on the way to the loo when Harry first moved in. Copious amounts of firewhisky had been consumed before his ‘discovery’, and it hadn’t been seen since, so Hermione was a bit sceptical about that.

The entrance hall opened into a grand foyer, with a magnificent marble staircase curling upwards to the higher floors as the focal point. Someone (probably Ginny) had optimistically placed some dying pot plants in the late-evening sunlight streaming through the enormous window on the landing that overlooked out onto one of the courtyard gardens. The foyer was a large hexagonal room with passageways snaking off each angled wall, all leading to different parts of the house- Hermione focused on the corridor to the kitchen, hidden away in the basement, and made her way down it.

She heard faint 70s synth coming from the kitchen and followed it. The kitchen door was slightly open, flooding the hallway with warm light, and she peeked through with a smile.

Harry Potter stood in the kitchen, a delicious-smelling pot of Kadai Paneer bubbling away, singing to a laughing James using a wooden spoon as a mock microphone. Three-year-old James was at an age where everything was hilarious, and was laughing hysterically at his father’s antics with some chunks of gnawed cheese on a plate next to him.

“Confusion!” Harry sang in a high falsetto, much to James’s utter joy, “I don’t know what I should do…”

Harry started a rather impressive shimmy, pointing the wooden spoon towards James, who did his best to mimic his father’s movements.

“Confusion! Something, something all up to you…”

Hermione decided now was the time for her grand entrance. Both Potters turned to look at her when they heard the kitchen door open, and identical grins appeared on their already eerily similar faces. James ran over to Hermione, burying his face in her trousers, leaving little cheese crumbs down her legs. She swung him up into her arms and gave her godson a big, wet kiss on the top of his scruffy hair.

“Jamie, my darling,” she cooed, “How’s my best boy?”

“I thought I was your best boy,” Harry grumbled good-naturedly, coming over to give her a quick peck on her cheek.

“You’ve been outbid by your sons,” she told him seriously, accepting his warm hug, “but you’re in my top five for sure.”

Snorting, Harry leaned past her to turn the gramophone off and very carefully draped its protective dust cover over the top. Andromeda had recently gifted Harry some of Sirius’s old records, which he had eagerly shown to James and Albus. Hermione hadn’t said a word about how emotional Harry had become at the gesture and focused instead on getting the Muggle device to work despite the strong Black family wards making anything non-magical glitch. Sirius had done most of the impressive modification spells already, so it hadn’t taken her too long.

Given that Harry’s general knowledge of Muggle pop culture was shockingly poor and Hermione couldn’t imagine Petunia and Vernon Dursley had been big fans of rock music either, this was likely his first introduction to Muggle music. In a bittersweet way, it was all thanks to his godfather, just as it should always have been.

“Dinner won’t be long,” Harry informed her.

She gave the pot a quick sniff. The air was fragrant and warm, making her mouth water. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten much after returning from St Mungo’s in the early hours of the morning and just crashing on the couch to relax most of the day away.

“Can I give you a hand?”

She didn’t think Harry would say yes- he was very particular about his kitchen and disliked other people working there. (Another remnant from his time with his aunt and uncle, she suspected). Harry also hadn’t entirely managed to shake off his habit of being meticulously tidy, even after years of living in his own house. While he had become more relaxed with clutter, he remained very particular in the kitchen, even after the arrival of the two boys (and Ginny, who made more mess than all six of her brothers combined). Hermione knew that after stressful cases at work, Harry could often be found cleaning until he had time to decompress.

He shook his head and turned to add what looked like coriander to the pot.

“You can go get Albus if you want. He’s still down after his nap.”

Hermione left the kitchen, slipping James another slice of cheese, and went to the upstairs nursery. She climbed the staircase, passing the library and assorted studies on the first floor (nearly taking the wrong passage that led to the conservatory and the sunroom) before finally reaching the family rooms on the third floor.

She opened Albus’s nursery door and gently lit the room with wandlight; the owls on the mobile hanging above his cot (a gift from Fred and George) flapped their wings merrily at her. Albus was still fast asleep; his little brows scrunched in concentration as he dreamed, and Hermione gently ran a hand over his hair, as unruly as his father’s, smoothing it down somewhat.

He cracked his vivid green eyes wide open, and a toothy grin split his face at the sight of Hermione smiling down at him.

“Mi-mi.” He babbled, waving pudgy arms towards her, and she hoisted him onto her hip, taking him downstairs and listening to Albus’s rare babble as they walked through the maze of passages. At almost nineteen months, Albus had a growing vocabulary of words to choose from, but unlike his incredibly verbose older brother, he was more selective about when and where to speak. Where James was outgoing and impulsive, Albus was already solemn and empathetic (much like his namesake), and his large green eyes often seemed far too serious for such a small face.

Albus beamed again at the sight of his father and brother as they entered the kitchen, and he wriggled furiously on her hip, wanting to be set down.

“No Ginny tonight?” She asked Harry, placing Albus down on the kitchen floor. He toddled off to join his James, who very generously shared the last of his paneer.

“Not tonight- she’s got a late-night practice. The Harpies are pushing for the cup this year.” Harry replied, setting the dining table. Like Hermione, it was still more natural for him to do it by hand. “It’s Ron’s turn to get Teddy; they’ll be here soon. He was supposed to come and stay for the weekend, but I heard from Andy he’s been driving Remus spare, so I said he could come to stay a few days early.”

Hermione fiddled around with the cutlery, feeling at a loose end without something to do.

“How’s Ginny feeling about this season?”

Years of friendship with serious Quidditch enthusiasts had made Hermione a pro at asking all the right questions. She happily listened as Harry rambled about statistics and pool matches, pretending not to notice leftover bits of cheese being swiped by small hands off the kitchen counter.

The thunder of footsteps down the basement stairs was Hermione’s only warning before she was tackled to the side by a streak of pink hair. It very quickly changed to match her chestnut curls, and Hermione looked down at the beaming face of Teddy Lupin.

She noticed he’d lost some more teeth, and when she pointed them out, he grew his new adult teeth to walrus tusks, much to Harry and Ron’s roaring amusement, and then ran over to James and Albus to show them, too.

Ron followed him in and helped himself to a butterbeer from the charmed ice box, cracking one open for Hermione and passing it over with a warm smile.

“You alright, Mione? We heard about what happened yesterday, with the demon and all. A proper job that.”

“I can’t believe it’s workplace gossip already,” she groaned, taking a long swig of her drink. “That didn’t take long.”

“It’s not so much workplace gossip as Malfoy filling us in.” Harry sympathetically told her, now placing a round of plates out, “The Auror department had a debrief with Professor Warsame and Malfoy after they returned from St Mungo’s this morning.”

“Malfoy looked like shit,” Ron told her cheerfully, staring at the food laid out on the table hungrily.

Teddy (who had slunk up behind them without anyone noticing) gasped in glee. “I’m going to tell Granny. You said a naughty word!”

Ron turned to Teddy and gave him a triumphant look. “You tell your Granny all you want. I know you said a worse one last week when you played Quidditch with Aunt Ginny.”

“Did you really?” Harry arched a stern brow at Teddy. “Where did you learn it, hmm?”

“Ginny.” Hermione and Ron said together. Teddy nodded eagerly.

“I’m going to be a Chaser, just like her.” Teddy boasted, “She said she’s going to teach me all the tricks to take you down, Uncle Ron.”

“Is that right?” Ron whooped and threw Teddy over a broad shoulder, the boy nearly hitting his head on one of the copper pans hanging from the rafters.

Hermione threw up a rapid Cushioning Charm with a squawk of alarm that had Ron and Harry chuckling at her overcautiousness; Teddy giggled and did his best to squirm away from Ron’s tickling fingers in his armpit.

Ron grabbed his wand and levitated Teddy upside-down until he begged for mercy. Hermione dodged his flailing arms and decided to check on James and Albus, who had been suspiciously quiet up to this point, huddled in the corner.

James slammed one of the kitchen cupboards shut as she approached and did his best to look at her with innocent, wide brown eyes. It was entirely unsuccessful, and she made a mental note to tell Harry to check the cupboard before she left.

“Dinner’s ready, boys; go with Teddy and wash your hands.” She told them sternly.

Teddy (finally righted on the ground) grabbed James and Albus, and the three scuttled out of the kitchen.

“With soap!” Hermione shouted after them, returning to grab her drink from the table.

Now that the boys were out of sight, Harry and Ron instantly became more serious, looking at her intently.

“You’d tell us if you weren’t all right, Mione?” Ron asked her, Harry nodding beside him.

“The debrief was kept pretty short; Kings kept a lot of things classified, but what we heard…didn’t sound good.”

“A right fucking nightmare is the phrase McCallum used,” Ron added. “What the bloody hell was Malfoy thinking, calling you out to help? You haven’t had any sort of field training.”

Hermione felt a flash of indignation course through her.

“I managed perfectly fine yesterday, Ronald, thank you very much.” She snapped at them. Ron quailed away slightly, but Harry remained firm.

“Ron’s right. You might’ve managed fine, but you still were in a huge amount of danger. You’re so lucky you didn’t get hurt, or killed, from what we hear.” He told her sharply. Hermione abruptly felt somewhat chastened; Harry had perfected his ‘disappointed father’ voice to devastating effect.

“Why didn’t you send us an owl?” Ron looked hurt. “If we knew you were out on a scene, we would’ve asked Robards to send us out, too.”

“And if he said no, we would’ve come anyway,” Harry added.

Hermione felt the hot sting of tears prick her eyes as her lack of good sleep and residual stress caught up to her once more.

Ron, seeing that she was about to start crying, cracked first and pulled her into a warm hug.

“We were so worried about you this morning, Mione, after reading Kings’s report.”

“It’s not the full report,” Hermione sniffled into his chest.

“What?”

“It’s not the full report- Malfoy and I are meeting later in the week once I’m finished with the rest of my translations to finalise it before he presents it to Kingsley.”

Ron looked aghast. “There’s more we didn’t read about?”

Harry awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “We know you did a brilliant job, and we’re glad you’re okay. But next time, please let us know. It sounds like you got very lucky.”

Ron let her slip out of the hug, gently knuckling the top of her head (which he knew she hated).

“It sounds like they had more than luck.” He said grimly and made a face like a cat that had smelled something nasty. “I heard from Robards, who heard from Warsame, that Malfoy did very well in stopping the demon from breaking out.”

Hermione tried not to smile at the unwilling appreciative look on his face. One of the biggest surprises of her adulthood had been seeing Malfoy, Harry and Ron working together often on cases, as the Auror department frequently called Curse-breakers out for anything requiring a specialist look-over. Their childhood animosity wasn’t easily forgotten; she knew that a few months into their collaboration, they had a massive brawl in one of the Ministry lifts and had to be pulled apart by some off-duty Fiendyfire fighters. (Given the lack of bragging about the incident from Ron and Harry, she suspected they hadn’t come out on the winning side.) But ever since then, despite their history, while the three of them weren’t friends, they weren’t precisely foes either.

Harry and Ron now treated Malfoy like the disliked pet of a close family member, one they couldn’t get rid of, so they just had to put up with. An uncertain neutrality with occasional bouts of appreciation whenever he could assist on a case.

Ron continued in a rare spate of goodwill. “I suppose that makes sense. I remember your letters in eighth year-”

He cut off sharply at Harry’s not-so-subtle ‘shut up’ hand wave that Hermione pretended not to see and coughed, topping up his drink; Harry mouthed something at Ron that had Hermione nearly rolling her eyes. How they had passed the stealth examination of their training, she had no idea.

“I’m going to check on the boys,” Hermione mumbled and hurried out of the kitchen. Ron and Harry started up some sort of hissed argument behind her as soon as they thought she was out of earshot.

James was chattering away to Teddy (who carried Albus on his hip) and lit up when he saw Hermione hurrying towards them as they walked out of one of the passages in the foyer.

“Look, Auntie Mione, my hands are all clean!” He very proudly showed off the evidence. To Hermione’s relief, they were indeed, but all of their trousers had suspicious damp spots on the legs where she guessed they had been wiped. She ignored it- one battle at a time.

“Good job, boys,” she praised them, “I’ll be back soon. Teddy, won’t you say to start without me?”

The three boys continued down to the kitchen, and she could hear James starting to chat again.

Hermione pushed her way into the nearest guest bathroom. If the water (at least she hoped it was water) on the floor was any indication, this was probably where Teddy, James, and Albus had washed their hands.

She looked in the mirror and tried to hide a grimace- she looked a real fright. Her hair, typically her pride and joy, was dull and lifeless, hanging limply around her face instead of falling in its usually glossy, rich curls. Even though she had recently spent six weeks in the south of France, working in a laboratory in Carcassonne under the generous French sun, her olive skin hadn’t kept the deep tan she’d bronzed to, and somehow, despite being far from naturally pale, she now looked pallid.

It was her eyes that were the worst, though. After the butchered exorcism, despite having the day off to rest up, she hadn’t got much sleep. That, on top of months of stress about her dissertation, made ugly purple bags form under her eyelids, and her usually bright brown eyes looked flat and tired.

She threw up some quick glamour charms that Lavender had taught her in fifth year - not quite perfect, but they would do for now.

“Watch yourself, witch,” the bathroom mirror droned, “For vanity is only second to hubris.”

Hermione scowled at her reflection and shot the mirror a vulgar gesture. It gasped in shock, and she slammed the bathroom door on her way out, feeling slightly better. That she had learnt from Ron in fifth year, too.

Dinner was a roaring success. James ate (most) of his plate, Albus was cautiously introduced to butter naan and became a huge fan, and Teddy refrained from turning himself into any more aquatic creatures.

Ron volunteered to clean up, and after casting some thorough charms on the crockery, he made the plates dance around the dining room, much to James and Albus’s delight. Harry was laughing too, seemingly unbothered, but Hermione knew he would wash them by hand with Fairy Liquid and hot water once they left for the night. She snuggled Albus closer on her lap as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. He desperately tried to watch the dancing dishes, but his little eyelids kept closing without his permission.

“I can’t wait to get a wand,” Teddy sighed wistfully. Hermione noticed he was very carefully watching where Ron had put his wand out of reach.

“Won’t be long soon,” she told him, “this time in two years, you’ll be off to Hogwarts!”

Teddy pouted, “Two years is forever!” he swiped a piece of naan off Harry’s plate, deftly avoiding his godfather’s swatting hands.

Hermione grinned, “Two years feels like nothing! Where were we all two years ago?”

She looked around the room and pointed at Harry and Ron. “You two had just had your promotion to lieutenants and wore those ridiculous badges for weeks.”

Harry and Ron scowled as she laughed at the memory.

“Two years ago, I was busy working on a research project in Ethiopia.” She waggled her glass at Harry and Ron. “Top secret, so don’t ask me any questions- I know you want to.”

Harry and Ron both snorted.

“Two years ago, I was one,” James proudly told her. Hermione beamed at him across the table.

“One and a half, my love, just as old as Albus is now!”

Teddy looked close to rolling his eyes, but joined in anyway. “Two years ago, I was with my dad and Granny on holiday in…” He racked his brain, “Bangor.”

“And in two years’ time, you’ll have just started Hogwarts.” Ron waved his hand with a flourish. “Sleeping in the Gryffindor tower, having breakfast in the Great Hall, tea in Hagrid’s hut…”

Teddy hung onto Ron’s every word, stars in his eyes.

“But tonight, you’ll have to settle for sleeping here.” Harry interrupted, checking the time on his dented wristwatch. “Bedtime, boys.”

Ron and Teddy both booed. James initially looked confused, but then joined in. Hermione let Harry gently scoop Albus up and into his arms.

“Say your goodnights, then jammies and teeth. Teddy, I’ve made your room up for you, and I’ll bring you some water now.”

Teddy and James dutifully came to give Hermione a goodnight kiss; Ron grabbed Teddy in a headlock, which had them writhing around like scrapping puppies until a sharp Stinging Hex from Harry had Ron pulling back with a swear.

“I didn’t know what one!” Teddy crowed and darted out of the kitchen before Harry could say anything.

“You’re going to have to explain that to Andy.” Harry shot Ron a glare and walked out to put Albus to bed, ushering James with him.

Ron looked appropriately terrified. The immediate silence in the kitchen was almost overwhelming. After the constant chatter of children, she nearly didn’t know how to fill it.

“Want another drink?” Ron asked her, reaching for one of the kitchen cupboards.

“Not if you’re looking up there,” Hermione told him plainly, watching as he quickly ran his hands over the top of the cabinets close to the ceiling. “That’s where Kreacher kept all the weird tinned stuff.”

Ron shot her a boyish grin, “Well, now it’s where Ginny keeps the good firewhisky and thinks I don’t know about it.”

He gave an excited aha and pulled down a sloshing bottle. Hermione’s eyebrows lifted as she read the brand…and year.

“Alright then, pour me a little.”

Ron hunted around the kitchen for glasses but couldn’t pry the correct cabinet door open. It was annoyingly sealed shut, and nothing, not even Hermione’s vicious Alohamora or Ron’s fist, could seem to open it.

“We’ll have to make do,” Ron told her decisively and strode to the sink to pick his way through the washing-up from earlier. “Here’s some stuff from lunch. Would you like a mug? It does say ‘World’s best dad’, though, or a plastic cup with some weird purple creature on it?”

Hermione elected for the mug, leaving Ron to splash a healthy amount of firewisky into one of James’s cups for himself. She was too tired to Transfigure it into a simple tumbler and sipped like a cup of coffee.

“How’s work going?” she asked Ron, leaning back in her chair. Technically, while Ron and Harry were supposed to keep cases confidential, Hermione had assisted them with enough that their boss didn’t mind Ron and Harry sharing some details with her every now and again. Another benefit of being part of the so-called ‘Golden Trio’- people automatically assumed they came as a package deal.

“Very busy,” he told her, and for the first time, she noticed the strain around his eyes and the new faint lines on his forehead that weren’t there at the previous dinner. “Robards has put Harry and me on quite a tricky case, and we can’t get to the bottom of it. Bunch of unicorns are dropping dead. Whole herds of them all around the country.”

“Why isn’t Robards doing it himself?” Hermione asked curiously. The no-nonsense head of the DMLE had a well-known passion for magical creatures; she had had a fair few encounters with him during her six months’ stint in the Beasts’ division.

“He’s too busy,” Ron said pessimistically. “We heard rumours Greyback’s old pack is thinking about causing trouble again. He’s leading a team on that- was quite chuffed to meet your Auror McCallum, by the way.”

He himself looked very impressed at meeting the Scottish werewolf, too- it wasn’t often that Ron met many others taller than him, Hermione supposed.

“Besides,” he added, “Harry was asked to look into it by the Magi-Veterinary University personally; none of the Healers there can figure out what’s happening to the unicorns; they think it’s Dark Magic. But our investigation is turning up,” he popped his lips, “diddly-squat.”

He reached for his drink, running a thoughtful finger around the cup’s rim. “We’re waiting on some post-mortem results; maybe we’ll get some answers then.”

“Hopefully,” Hermione murmured.

Harry and Ron had been paired together as partners since their first day at the Auror Academy. There had never been any thought to split them up- they had one of the highest case-solving rates the department had seen for decades, and Ron’s skills as a strategist, paired with Harry’s superb offensive magic, made them a formidable duo.

“Robards is putting pressure on us to present some theories, but we keep hitting blanks. It’s frustrating!”

“I know the feeling,” Hermione sighed. “Yesterday, so many things didn’t add up. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Seems to be a lot of unknowns floating around,” Ron muttered, leaning over to top her up. “Hope we both get some answers soon.”

“What’s this about answers?” Harry enquired, striding back into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of the firewhisky bottle on the table. “Oi, where did you get that?”

“Swiped it from my sister,” Ron told him, “hurry up before we finish the lot.” He shook his cup enticingly at Harry, “We’ve taken the good glasses, though; don’t know what you’ll drink out of.”

“Classy,” Harry snorted, noticing the purple dinosaur pattern, “I do have actual glasses, you know.”

“Feel free to grab one then,” Hermione told him lazily, watching in amusement as he, too, struggled to open the cabinet door. Harry swore viciously under his breath as he fought with the handle but eventually managed to stick his hand in enough to pull one out. He had to pull his hand out quickly; the cabinet door slammed shut with a sudden creak as soon as the glass was out, scraping against his knuckles.

“This bloody house, I swear,” Harry muttered, pouring himself a drink and dragging a chair over to sit between Ron and Hermione. “What were you talking about?”

“I was saying there’s a lot I don’t have answers for.” She bit her lip, “And I hate that. Yesterday, on Skye, there were so many things that didn’t make sense… so many things I think we’re missing.”

“Do you think Malfoy knows things you don’t?”

Just as he had in school, Harry still took every opportunity to treat Malfoy with the utmost suspicion, almost an ingrained habit, despite years of amiable association.

Hermione sighed, “No, I don’t think so. In fact, there are a few thoughts I haven’t shared with him —can’t share —that I think will be quite important. But there’s no way he knows about those.” She groaned, “Our meeting is going to be awful.”

Ron patted Hermione on the shoulder. “Send us a memo if you want an emergency extraction.”

“At least Malfoy is intelligent,” she admitted, “I imagine his problem-solving skills are good if he’s a Curse-breaker. Maybe we can brainstorm some theories to present to Kingsley.”

“Well, this should be easy for you,” Harry pointed out. Hermione frowned back at him; he sighed at her, looking entirely unsympathetic.

“Hermione, can you remember how many cases you’ve helped us solve over the years? How many small details and patterns do you pick up long before anyone else can? If anyone can find answers, it’ll be you.”

“You can do your-” Ron waved his hands vaguely, “flowcharts and things.”

“Mind maps,” Harry added; Ron pointed a triumphant finger at him.

“Those things you make for Harry and me when we get stuck on a case.”

She didn’t know if it was the firewhisky or the company of her two best friends, but Hermione already felt more cheerful. “You’re right. I just need to work through it logically.”

“Did you hear that, Ron? Hermione said we were right!”

“Blimey!” Ron looked astounded. “Someone call the Daily Prophet!”

She dutifully ignored them both, deep in thought. “I think I’ll pull out my whiteboard and highlighters and plot it methodically.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harry told her sleepily.

“You should teach Malfoy about mind maps,” Ron told her seriously, “I don’t think he knows about them yet.”

Hermione sniffed at them in mock reprimand. “You tease, but mindmaps are the only thing keeping my research going. Show them some respect, please.”

Ron and Harry huffed a laugh.

“Oh yeah. How is your Mastery going?” Harry asked her, leaning back in his chair and taking a deep sip of his drink. 

Hermione tapped her nails anxiously on her mug. “I made a huge breakthrough in France. Published a nice paper while I was there in one of the Swiss journals.” She bit her lip, “As I said to Remus- I can’t believe I’m presenting my dissertation in December. Mad.”

“Remus said something about you maybe being nominated for an award.” Ron looked impressed. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“Which award now?” Harry asked, slouching in his chair, nearly half-asleep. Two young boys (technically three, counting Teddy) tended to have that effect on him after eight p.m.

“She does have quite a few,” Ron told him playfully. “Getting hard to keep track.”

Harry snorted. Hermione ignored them both with well-practised patience.

“The Merlin Award for Magical Excellence.” She spread her hands in a grand gesture. “It’s an annual award celebration celebrating the biggest global magical achievements- it’s like the Nobel prize but for the Wizarding World.” She told Harry, who nodded understandingly.

“Very fancy,” Ron said approvingly, the comparison flying right over his head, but still understanding the grandiosity.

“I haven’t been nominated yet,” she informed them. “Remus is being very optimistic, but I’m hopeful I might be next year, especially once my dissertation’s published.”

“You’ll win it for sure.” Harry said firmly, “We know you can’t tell us what your research is about yet, but there’s no way anyone else will have something better.”

Ron nodded enthusiastically, and Hermione’s heart warmed at their unswavering loyalty. The three of them sat in companionable silence for a while.

“I’m thinking of taking a sabbatical at the end of the year and taking Ginny and the boys to India.” Harry blurted out suddenly.

“I think that’s a great idea, mate,” Ron told him sincerely. Hermione could see the relief evident in Harry’s green eyes. It wasn’t hard to guess he’d had been a little nervous telling his Auror partner he would be working solo during one of the department’s busiest seasons.

“The boys are going to love it, Harry,” she told him gently.

Harry smiled broadly, “I hope so; I’m so excited they’re now big enough to make the journey. I can’t wait for them to meet, well, everyone.”

Shortly before his wedding to Ginny almost six years ago, Harry came across paperwork concerning property and vaults in the north of India while looking for a suitable ring in the Potter vault in Gringotts. Much to his shock, he discovered living (albeit distant) relations when he investigated further. This was earth-shattering for a boy who grew up so hungry for familial connections. Harry had locked himself up in his study for two days, and it had taken Ginny, Ron, and Hermione even longer to convince him to send an owl to see if anyone would be interested in making contact. For a week, he had heard nothing back and had worked himself up into a state of pure melancholy until a handsome Crested Serpent Eagle had returned, carrying a letter in an imperious beak.

The letter, smelling faintly of rose water, was from the younger sister of Harry’s grandmother, Euphemia, and Harry handled it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He read the letter to Ron and Hermione repeatedly; did they know his great-aunt Jasleen also liked treacle tart? Had he told them that his great-aunt Jasleen also played on her school Quidditch team, or her Patronus was a cobra?

Hermione and Ron did some surreptitious digging, without Harry knowing, to ensure he wouldn’t have his heart broken by some international fraudster. They were beyond relieved to find out everything was legitimate. Hermione hastily helped Ginny arrange a honeymoon around the Northern Indian states, with a memorable stopover in Jaisalmer to meet his newfound relatives.

Harry was thrilled and returned from his honeymoon determined to learn more about his roots —and he started by learning how to make the dish he had eaten the first time he met his grandmother’s family.

“I’m excited to go back,” Harry told them, grinning. “Aunt Jasleen says she has an old photo album she wants to show me with some pictures from my grandparents’ wedding. I’ve never seen family wedding photos before.”

“That’s great, Harry,” Hermione said warmly. Ron echoed her sentiments, thumping Harry on the back.

Another contented silence fell. Hermione felt the most at peace that she had in a long time.

“How’s things with Susan, Ron?”

Ron looked the shyest she had ever seen, ears turning a delicate red. He rubbed the back of his head.

“Things are… things are great.” He grinned bashfully, “I do have something I want to run past you both, though.”

He reached into his pocket, and Hermione’s gasp at seeing a delicate ring box echoed around the stone kitchen.

“Oh, Ron!”

“Blimey, Ron.” Harry looked gobsmacked. “Congratulations.”

“I haven’t asked her yet,” Ron looked incredibly nervous, “but I think I will when we visit her parents next month.”

He opened the box to show them the delicate gold band adorned with a glimmering yellow stone.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” She cooed. “Susan was a Hufflepuff, wasn’t she?”

Harry grabbed the box to tilt the ring under the kitchen light. “I didn’t realise you were thinking about it.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Ron admitted. “I know we’ve only been dating a year. But it feels right, you know.”

Hermione had introduced Ron to his current girlfriend, Susan Bones, at the Ministry’s Beltane gala the previous year. Susan worked as a family attorney in the Ministry’s Muggle Liaison Office on Level Three, preparing Muggle-born families to send their children to Hogwarts. She was an outgoing witch with wicked humour and zero tolerance for nonsense; not knowing her well in Hogwarts, Hermione had liked her from the instant they worked together on a Muggle-born integration project and was not too surprised when she asked Ron out at the end of the gala.

“I’m so happy for you, Ron,” she said, looking at him to make sure he could see the genuine delight on her face. Ron smiled back softly.

“To Ron and Susan.” Harry tilted his glass in the air.

“To your trip to India.” Ron toasted back

They both turned to Hermione expectantly.

“Well, here’s to me winning the MAME.” She did her best to join in enthusiastically. “And becoming the youngest nominee in history.”

Harry and Ron cheered and clinked all their drinks together enthusiastically.

The rest of the evening passed in a warm, blurry haze marked by the slowly emptying firewhisky bottle. Deep in a lecture on the Ottomans and their use of poisons, Hermione cast a quick Tempus sometime later and was shocked to see the time- 23:19.

“I need to go,” she announced.

Ron was already snoring in his chair, head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle. Harry (who had been doing his best to stay awake and listen) nodded vaguely at her.

“Don’t worry about Ron; he can crash here.”

She struggled to her feet, and Harry took the opportunity to stick out his hand so she could haul him up.

“Harry, when you get the post-mortem report, won’t you send me a copy?” she turned to him, yawning. “Might be interesting to see what they find.”

“Sure thing, Mione.” Harry cast a levitation charm on Ron, and they watched as he floated out of the kitchen and down the passage (both wincing as Ron clipped his head on the doorway on his way out of the kitchen), and towards the guest bedrooms on the second floor.

“Before I go,” Hermione added, “check the cupboard under the sink before bed. Saw James looking all shifty there earlier.”

Harry groaned, “Would it make me a bad husband if I sealed the whole thing shut and asked Ginny to look at it tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” she told him firmly. He groaned again.

She gave him a goodbye peck. “Let’s try and do this more often,” she pleaded, “I missed this.”

“Me too,” Harry told her seriously. “Same time next week? Ginny should be able to join then.”

Hermione nodded. “Deal.”

She hugged him goodbye, then set off to locate the Floo Network in the front parlour (which she was sure used to be by the front door) and whooshed her way back to her flat.

She landed back into her flat in London, a few boroughs over from Grimmauld Place, and stumbled as the whirring flames and the firewhisky suddenly made for a poor combination. It had been lovely catching up with Ron and Harry, but her eyes suddenly started burning as soon as she returned to her familiar space. Sniffing, she made her way to her kitchen, trying to figure out where the tears came from. Her Long-eared Owl, Icarus, who had been roosting on top of the fridge, clacked his beak at her in greeting.

She hated to admit it, but was she… jealous of Ron and Harry?

She certainly wasn’t jealous of Ron’s imminent engagement- on the contrary, she was thrilled that Ron had found such a perfect match. She couldn’t be happier that both of her best friends had found such amazing witches to spend the rest of their lives with.

Once upon a time, she thought she and Ron were meant to be, but after a few months together, they soon realised their sharp edges never seemed to fit, and instead of rubbing together and creating sparks, it just seemed to make them both burn out. After a while of forcing a relationship (that everyone seemed to expect them to have), Hermione was relieved when Ron sat her down and explained (in a show of surprising maturity) that he wasn’t happy and didn’t think she was either.

One tearful discussion later, they decided they made better friends than lovers and had a very amiable breakup, much to Rita Skeeters’s vicious glee.

Headlines like “Golden Girl leaves the Trio shattered- moving on to the Chosen One?’, and ‘War hero Ronald Weasley in pieces after shocking breakup’ dominated the Daily Prophet. Harry and Ron were outraged and swore to Hermione they would march down to the newsroom and sort it out. Hermione waved them off and decided to do it herself.

She gave Icarus an anonymous letter for Skeeter - no words, just a simple pencil drawing of a beetle in a jar - the headlines stopped the next day. (Given the blood that speckled Icarus’s brown breast when he returned, she suspected he may also have gotten a good peck in.)

So no, she wasn’t upset about Ron and Susan. Nor was she upset about Harry and his exciting plans to travel across the world while she remained in her lab, analysing her data.

A few hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she forced herself to acknowledge the true source of her emotions- the milestones everyone else around her seemed to be having (but somehow kept passing her by.)

Getting engaged, having babies, going on family holidays- Hermione was incredibly proud of her work and wouldn’t change her decisions after Hogwarts for anything. But it did feel that she had looked up from her work recently, and everyone else had… left her behind.

And it wasn’t just Harry and Ron who made her feel that way; the events on Skye yesterday had done a remarkable job at bringing up memories Hermione had spent the better part of eight years ignoring- Draco Malfoy.

If sixth-year Hermione had known Malfoy would become her biggest obstacle in getting nominated for the prestigious MAME award, she probably would’ve shoved Malfoy off the Astronomy tower herself. Eighth-year Hermione, however, would have been devastated. It was incredibly daunting returning to Hogwarts for her eighth year, especially without Ron and Harry by her side. She felt too old to have homework, giggle about boys, and be stressed about exams; finishing her education felt like a farce. But she was somehow too young to be taken seriously by the witches and wizards passing new reform, too inexperienced to advocate for Muggle-born and Magical Beings’ rights and too disconnected from the upper echelons of Pureblood society to pull strings behind the scenes- not with her Muggle surname from her Muggle parents. Instead, she had to walk to her classes, past the blood from people she knew (or people she killed) still staining the stone floors, and pretend like it wasn’t there.

She was very close to leaving. Hogwarts or the United Kingdom, she wasn’t sure. But then, it had happened—her unexpected, inexplicable friendship with one Draco Malfoy…

Hermione shook her head, fussing over her houseplants, trying to get her mind off it. Off him. But she couldn’t help it- almost instinctively, her thoughts drifted back to Malfoy, as they so often used to do.

After being assigned a Transfiguration project together, despite a rocky start, she was surprised to find that her childhood nemesis was the one person who understood her the most in the world. And one day, after months of quiet companionship and shared confidence, Hermione looked up and realised how incredibly dear to her he was. And he, quite amazingly, felt the same.

But then he had vanished on the last day of term, after Slughorn’s end-of-year party. Fucked off to parts unknown without even so much as a goodbye. She had sent owl after owl, but they all returned undelivered, and she had never heard a single word back. She might’ve thought she imagined the whole thing if it wasn’t for the letters, still tucked away in a shoebox under her bed.

It was like Malfoy had just vanished off the face of the earth- until four-and-a-half years later when he strutted back into the Ministry, not only engaged, but the Ministry’s newest-employed Curse-breaker to boot. And a damned good one, too, if half of what she heard was true. And, if her boss Murray was correct, Malfoy was also publishing some unreleased research soon that, just like hers, would be a shoo-in for a MAME nomination.

It was infuriating—and terrible timing. Since that fateful January in 2004 when he started at the Ministry, she had tried her absolute best to avoid him. It hadn’t been easy—her friendships with both Theo, Ron, and Harry meant that they ran in the same circles- nonetheless, she had done a phenomenal job at keeping on the periphery and keeping her interactions with him as minimal as possible.

Until yesterday. And now, not only had she spoken to Malfoy more in one day than in the past three years combined, he’d gone ahead and saved her bloody life. How the hell was she supposed to return to their mutual prickly distance from that?

There were only two people on this earth who could truly advise her, Hermione thought, and they were all but lost to her forever. The deep, inconsolable ache constantly winding through her heart tightened further- she rubbed her chest with a grimace, as if she could physically soothe it away.

God, she missed them so much- missed her mother’s no-nonsense forthrightness and her father’s quiet gentleness. Missed the menial, everyday family time that seemed so unimportant then, but was now her most cherished memory. Memories, thanks to her own actions, would be all she’d ever have.

And what else did she have? Her books and plants? Her research? Christ, that was depressing.

A tapping noise interrupted her maudlin thoughts. A handsome barn owl had its round face pressed against her kitchen window, standing in her mint. Icarus hissed at it in fury. It politely knocked once more, and when Hermione (slowly processing that it was there, in her Firewhisky-induced haze) didn’t rush to let it in, it gave a pleading coo and pointedly shook the letter in its beak.

She fumbled to open her window and gently took the letter from the owl. She offered it some of Icarus’s treats, which it ignored with familiar disgust and flew off before she could even see if she needed to reply.

She skimmed the letter.

Granger,

Please find below my draft of the report for Kingsley. Write in any changes or additions you wish to include—Merlin knows you’ve enough experience with that.

She glanced through it. Malfoy had done a decent job summarising the events on Skye. She would’ve focused more on the academic side of things- she still couldn’t believe they’d gotten to hear actual Pictish, but reading their rescue of Sarah was heartwarming, she supposed. (Very daring and noble, etc., of them).

The last few paragraphs blurred a bit as she read through, the lack of sleep and large volumes of alcohol now hitting quite hard, but one thing at the bottom of the page did catch her eye.

One singular name, to be more precise.

Attending consultant: Curse-breaker Malfoy.

Sneaky little snake! She knew she couldn’t trust him to give her joint credit. Very well, if Malfoy were keen for her feedback, then she’d give it to him in person. Tomorrow. Once she’d had a chance to go to bed.

Bed seemed like a brilliant idea (she really was very clever), and Heriome slowly made her way there and crashed into it, drunkenly bypassing her (still unpacked) suitcase from her recent trip to Europe. She reached over Crooks’s usual spot on the quilt and gave him a fumbling pet- hearing him eep out a stretch in reply as she drifted off to sleep.

And very briefly, as the first tendrails of dreams overtook her mind, she was back in her childhood kitchen, listening to her parents quibble about their patients, hearing her mother laugh as her father swooped her up in a clumsy waltz, siting at the dining table in the golden late-afternoon sun doing her homework, Demis Roussos crooning through the CD player. For a moment, she was ten years old again, and nothing bad had ever happened.

Chapter Text

The week was a busy one for Draco. He made significant headway in catching up on the massive piles of paperwork waiting for him after coming back from leave, which was satisfying at first, but by Wednesday afternoon, his hand was cramping horribly, and he was regretting ever accepting a job that required so much correspondence with people of questionable literacy. When Theo sent him an interdepartmental memo asking if he wanted a practice duel in the Auror training wing just before lunchtime, Draco wrote back an enthusiastic yes. All he could muster up was a bit of a scribble, but he knew Theo would understand.

When Draco met him just before 1 p.m., he elected to wear his field uniform, changing quickly in his office. The events on Skye had reminded him how long it had been since he’d seen any action in it, and he didn’t want the range of motion and movement of the fabrics to become unfamiliar before the next time he was forced to fight for his life.

Theo chose to wear a standard duelling outfit, ditching the ornamental cape and was busy pulling his messy hair up into a short ponytail when Draco walked into the duelling room. It was a large oval room with high ceilings and heavily warded bare walls. Observers could sit in a viewing gallery and look down on the duellists through a thick glass panel, but Draco and Theo had the place to themselves with everybody off on lunch.

“What do you reckon, best of five?”

Draco nodded in agreement, pulling his wand out of his shoulder holster, and without preamble, the two wizards paced ten steps apart and bowed politely at the other.

Theo struck first, shooting a basic disarming at Draco, who batted it away easily with the flick of a wrist.

“How’s my godson doing.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t know which child you’re talking about, but Blaise’s godson is fine, thank you.” He countered Theo’s spell with a powerful Incarcerous, sending a net of ropes spinning towards Theo. Theo threw up a rapid Protego, but in a rush to dodge the ropes, he missed Draco’s light Stunner, which sent him crashing to the ground, wheezing.

“Point,” Draco called out. The enchanted scorekeeper on the wall made a tally under his name.

“Has he said any words yet?”

Theo looked hopeful- Draco’s friends had all been furiously fighting to get Scorpius to say their names as his first word, as part of some bet or other. The prize would be an absurd pot of galleons and insufferable bragging rights.

“None yet,” Draco concentrated and sent a whip of flame lashing Theo’s way, but he rolled under it deftly, and the magic sizzled against the enchanted walls and flickered out. “But he’s become very good at standing up. It’s hard enough to keep track of Scorp without him walking- and he should start quite soon.”

Theo adopted a look of polite interest on his face, the sort that adults without babies quickly learnt to wear whenever their friends started talking about their own and nodded sympathetically.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Pansy’s face when he says my name first.” Theo bragged, nimbly dodging a Body-Bind with frustrating ease.

He faked Draco out, shooting a misleading hex at Draco’s right shoulder that had him quickly pulling to the side before being hit with the rapid follow-up on his left cheek. He felt a hot trickle of blood run down the side of his neck as his skin split open.

“Point to me,” Theo told him lazily. The chalk on the wall scribbled again.

Draco felt he had enough of playing nice, and from the gleam he could see in Theo’s eyes, it was clear the other man agreed.

The room was lit with jewel-like flashes as spells were thrown with abandon. Both wizards started with the primary offensive spells they had learnt in school, and the basic Stunners, Jelly-Legs Jinxes and Leg-Locker Curses were volleyed at each other before they both gradually evolved to using spells not exactly school-sanctioned. Maybe not even Ministry-sanctioned, in all honesty. Nothing technically illegal (in England, that was), but just enough to keep the other on their toes.

The two wizards were evenly matched, both notably skilled duelists in their own right, but where Theo was faster, darting around the room as agile as a cat, Draco was stronger, throwing spells with a force Theo couldn’t hope to match.

Theo gave a bark of laughter as Draco’s Cephalopod Curse hit him, and all of his limbs collapsed into a puddle of tentacles. Draco got slightly cocky, though, and Theo’s Asphyxiation Jinx shot from the floor managed to land a hit on his neck above the protective leather of his gilet. While Draco wheezed and did his best to reverse the spell (nonverbally mind), Theo managed to quickly undo the effects of his curse and climb his way back to his feet, wobbling around slightly.

The score was two-two, and Draco knew he needed to push for an advantage.

He increased the fury at which he flung spells at Theo and could see the slightly shorter man flailing to keep up. From the sweat that beaded his brow, Theo knew it too.

“So you didn’t have any problems then,” Theo’s voice had turned slightly taunting.

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Problems with what?”

“Working with Hermione.”

Draco’s reflexes were slightly delayed, and he fumbled his next spell. Theo, the absolute sneak, took advantage of Draco’s momentary hesitation and shot a nasty Stinging Curse at the wall behind Draco, banking on it ricocheting off the wards and hitting him in the back.

Draco dodged it (narrowly), and Theo looked supremely disappointed.

He gritted his teeth, “Yes, there were some problems, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, after we submit this consultants’ report, it’s not likely we’ll ever be working together again- thank Merlin.”

“Well, I find her a perfectly tolerable co-worker.” Theo told him loftily, “Can’t say the same about you, so maybe you’re the problem.”

“She’s infuriating”, Draco spat and shot a rapid Blinding Curse back at Theo, who looked delighted at the outburst he had elicited.

“She blatantly ignored my instructions on the field, questioned my authority in front of my boss, and had the absolute gall to criticise what was a perfect extraction plan.”

“You’re just bitter she solved that curse in the London museum that had you stumped for ages.” Theo pointed out.

“I most absolutely am not,” Draco said (quite bitterly).

Theo, Salazar damm him, was dancing around Draco’s barrage of spells with casual ease, obviously waiting for Draco to tire himself out. He needed to train with more people besides Aurors, Draco thought with a shudder- he was fighting like Potter, ugh. If Theo won this match, he would be unbearable for days. It simply wouldn’t do.

“You’ve lost your edge after all that paternity leave,” Theo’s voice was mocking, knowing full well that criticism of any sort was highly effective at riling Draco up.

An idea hit Draco, and he grinned. “Lumen parvulus.”

The spell hit Theo dead in the chest, and the wizard looked down in panic, which quickly turned to glee as nothing seemed to happen.

“Don’t be too upset if your wand can’t perform,” he told Draco sympathetically, “I’ve heard it can happen after you have a baby.”

“Nox maxima!” Draco shouted, aiming his wand up at the sky. The training room plunged into complete darkness; the only light source was Theo’s body glimmering faintly in the pitch-black room like a firefly.

Theo gave a loud swear, and Draco saw his wand splutter in an attempt to conjure a Lumos. Nothing worked, of course; Draco’s spell was far too powerful to let that happen. Sensing imminent danger, Theo streaked towards the door and tried to pull it open to flood the room with light from the hall for better visibility, but Draco was already moving. He tackled Theo, pulling the leaner man to the ground, and their wands clattered to the floor. Theo retaliated with an attempted knee to the groin, dirty filthy cheat, and managed to get Draco in some form of headlock before Draco aimed a sharp punch at his ribs, which had Theo pull away gasping.

Draco rammed his shoulders into Theo’s, using his broader bulk to knock the other wizard off balance, and grabbed his ponytail to hold him down better as he tried to stand up properly.

“Pull harder,” Theo hissed back up at him; Draco could almost feel the suggestive wink being sent his way.

Draco automatically let the other wizard go, a shocked laugh bubbling up, and Theo took full advantage, nimbly flipping himself to his knees and grabbing Draco behind his calves to use his momentum to pull the other wizard down to the ground, too. Draco gave a loud swear as his nose hit the ground with a horrible crunch- he threw an elbow into Theo’s stomach in retaliation. The rest of the duel erupted in a flail on the floor, both wizards wrestling for the upper hand.

“Truce?” Theo called a few minutes later, gasping.

Draco nodded back, forgetting that Theo still couldn’t see him in the still-dark room. His lip had split at some point, and his chest still ached from Theo’s attempted strangulation curse from earlier. He could only hope Theo was in a worse state.

He fumbled for his wand, tiredly waved the counter-spell, and light flooded the room. Theo did look pretty rough, Draco noted with satisfaction- a bloody nose and a suspected cracked rib on top of his earlier curses. Not too shabby for a short training session after months of little sleep.

He pulled himself up to his feet and offered a hand to Theo, hauling the other wizard up with a groan. Draco flicked his wand quickly over Theo’s face, watching as the small cuts closed up and any blood cleanly siphoned away. He then pointed his wand down, golden light twining around the other wizard’s torso, as Theo’s rib healed with an audible click that had Daco grimacing in sympathy. He stood still and allowed Theo to do the same for him, feeling his nose burn uncomfortably as the break healed.

“Same time next week?”

“Sure,” Theo groaned, “I’m going to change in the loo and head to lunch. Do you want to join me?”

Draco checked the time with a quick Tempus: 13:38.

“I can’t,” he told Theo apologetically. “I’m meeting Mother and Scorpius for a bite to eat at two.”

They walked companionably to the door. Theo paused and looked uncharacteristically solemn. “I imagine you might want to be alone tomorrow night, but if you change your mind, Pansy, Blaise, and I are meeting at Daphne’s for drinks. Daff wanted to do something nice for Astoria by the lake. She said something about scattering roses.”

Draco felt his throat tighten up.

“That sounds nice. I haven’t thought about it yet.” He admitted to Theo, “One year without Astoria- it doesn’t feel real.”

“I know, mate.” Theo sighed, “We miss her too.”

Draco felt a flash of guilt, “How’s Daff doing?”

Theo grimaced, and Draco’s heart sank. Not well, then.

“She had a bit of an episode yesterday.” He admitted, “Pansy went over to help. Sounds like she blew most of the windows in the library out.”

Draco grimaced. He had neglected his sister-in-law recently- and he knew it.

“I should go check on her soon.”

“Yes, you should.” Theo watched him carefully. “You didn’t just lose your wife.” He pointed out. “She lost her sister too.”

Draco tried not to wince at the harsh reminder. Theo paused again.

“And how are you doing?” He asked bluntly, his clever blue eyes boring deep into Draco’s grey ones. “Blaise said you shouldn’t have come back to work so soon- you could’ve waited another week. Hells, you could’ve waited another year if you wanted to. We all know you hardly need the salary.”

“This week has been hard, but I couldn’t bear to be rattling around my flat alone, just thinking of her,” Draco admitted, straightening out the creases in his uniform with a flick of his wand. “and counting down the days until Thursday. I needed to keep myself busy. I’m not up to coming in tomorrow though.”

“If you’re feeling lonely, why don’t you and Scorp come and stay with me.” Theo offered valiantly as if he were making some great personal sacrifice. (Which, knowing Theo and his love of personal space, he probably was).

Draco tried not to smile at the very genuine but tepid offer.

“I think we’ll manage, " he said, watching Theo deflate in relief. “But thank you. Besides, a widower and a baby—we would cramp your style.”

“I think you’ll find,” Theo told him, grinning widely, “that I could get any witch or wizard I wanted despite you both.”

Their cheerful banter had temporarily lifted Draco’s spirits, but he paused as he came to stand in the corridor outside the training room.

Theo spoke again softly, “If you want any of us, you can owl us at any time; we’ll come over.”

He placed a warm hand on Draco’s forearm.

Draco’s throat thickened briefly at the display of physical affection he knew sometimes didn’t come easily to Theo.

“Thank you.” His voice was raspy, and he quickly cleared his throat, pushing all his damnable emotions aside. “I appreciate it.”

Theo looked at him assessingly, a penetrating once-over that made Draco feel strangely exposed and nodded. The two wizards walked silently to the lift, and Draco turned to call it back to his office. Without a word, Theo threw his arms around Draco in a rare embrace, slapping the back of Draco’s shoulders and pulling away.

“I mean it, Drake. A single word from you, and I’ll be there.”

Draco nodded. His throat felt thick again.

“She would’ve loved it on Skye”, he abruptly told Theo. “I couldn’t help but think of her when I heard all the birdsong.”

“From what I heard from Hermione, you were all lucky to walk out of there alive,” Theo told him solemnly. “Maybe, in some way, Tori was with you after all.”

Draco landed with a crack outside Tilda’s Toadstools, an elegant bistro a street down from Diagon Alley that his mother was particularly fond of, and nodded at the hostess waiting by the front door.

“Welcome, Mr Malfoy; your mother is already seated. Please follow me.”

That mother of his was infuriatingly punctual- Draco had yet to beat her to a reservation.

The hostess wound her way through the tables scattered inside the dining area. The buzzing chatter dropped slightly, and the air was full of the clink of silver on china as the patrons stopped what they were eating to eye up Draco walking past them, some more subtlely than others. One would think that after ten years of Draco being out in society, people would be more used to his presence in public, it was hardly the first time he had met his mother here, but many still liked to stare. He did his best to ignore them, raising his shoulders and staring past them as if they were nothing more than bugs on a wall, far beyond his notice.

Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy was sitting primly at a table tucked in a private corner, pouring a steaming cup of tea into a delicate cup. Scorpius had been placed into a delicately carved wooden high chair and was busy mashing a banana and something orange with deep concentration, using only his hands. He gave a gummy smile at the sight of Draco, sticky fingers grabbing forward and smearing what Draco only hoped was pumpkin on his nice white shirt.

“Hello, my star.” Draco planted a noisy kiss on Scorpius’s head, which had him squealing with laughter, “Hullo Mother.”

He quickly pecked her cheek, and Narcissa patted his face fondly.

“Hello darling, so nice you could join us for a bite.”

“I hardly had a choice,” he told her wryly, sitting at the table and pouring himself a glass of water from a crystal decanter, “not after you intimidated the floor secretary into clearing my schedule.”

His mother sniffed and artfully rearranged her blonde hair so it fell better over her shoulders. “There are much more intimidating things out there than me. She should have more backbone if she works with the Curse-breaker office.”

Draco huffed a laugh, “Now, Mother, don’t be so modest- I can’t imagine she’s met many things scarier than you.”

Narcissa looked inordinately pleased.

“Have you ordered anything yet?” Draco changed the topic, looking over at Scorpius and wiping his face clean with a damp serviette. He also threw a quick cleaning spell at his shirt, wincing slightly at the dampness of it still sticking to his stomach. After a year of having a baby, he had quickly learnt that if anything felt clean enough, it was probably too good to be true, and it certainly wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“No darling, I just had them heat a little portion of lunch for Scorpius. Taffy made it earlier.”

A menu floated over to Draco, and he quickly scanned it. “I think I’ll have the bavette. Are you interested in the salmon again?”

A nod from Draco had a server rushing over; he quickly took their orders and offered Draco an excellent red wine to go with his steak.

Draco noted with affection that Scorpius had started to nod off in the chair, little neck craning at an uncomfortable angle as his full belly lulled him to sleep. He very gently pulled Scorpius out of the chair into a waiting bassinet, and watched as his son settled back to sleep, tiny fingers tightly dripping Draco’s thumb before he could carefully extract it. He trailed his fingertips over Scorpius’s delicate eyelids, returning to his place at the table.

Narcissa watched the exchange silently. Draco poured her a glass of water, which she gracefully accepted. She quickly took control of the conversation as Draco sipped his wine.

“I must tell you what Augusta Longbottom said to Róisín O’Shea after our last committee meeting…”

Draco let her speak on trivial matters. He knew she was leading up to something big, which had him slightly on edge, too, but her chatter about the latest gossip from her last charity event was as soothing as always, and his mother had the good manners to wait until all their food was gone and their plates cleared.

She twirled the large emerald ring around her middle finger in a rare sign of nerves.

“Your father wants to know if you will join us for dinner tomorrow night.”

He shook his head firmly. “I don’t think so, Mother.”

“You’ve hardly visited since-”

“Since Astoria died. And you think tomorrow the perfect time to invite me over?” His tone was cold, and he felt a pang of regret as Narcissa reared back hurt.

“We worry about you, love, alone in your cold flat. Won’t you consider moving back home?” She begged, “Your father is worried, I’m worried. I know things have been hard without Astoria, but the Manor is your birthright, and when you’re ready, your father would like to hand the wards over to you.”

“I am trying, Mother,” he brought up his eyes to meet hers and let her see a rare flash of vulnerability on his face. “I miss the Manor so much; you know, after the war, I swore I could never live there again, not after everything that happened-” he took a deep shuddering breath. “And Astoria managed to change that.”

“And Scorpius,” his mother quietly interjected, “I know the Manor has been a cause of so much pain for you, son, but it’s still your home.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted, facing his mother fully. “I don’t know if I can move back without her.”

“Think about it,” Narcissa told him firmly, “Scorpius can grow up surrounded by the Malfoy wards, as he should be. Let your parents and your family magic be there for you. You’re not alone, mon coeur.”

When his mother was really distressed, she slipped back into the native tongue of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His parents must be more worried about him than he thought if they were that insistent he visit for dinner tomorrow night, of all nights.

He ducked his head and focused on the crisp cotton napkin on his lap. He desperately reached for the protective shields around his mind and flung them up. His emotions dulled, the clarity of Occlumency compartmentalising his thoughts, and he allowed his face to fall back into cold neutrality once more.

“I will think about it, Mother. Thank you.”

Narcissa looked inexplicably sad.

“Let us know what you decide, my love.”

With subtle efficiency, she steered the conversation onto lighter topics- Aurora Zabini and her new wealthy (but unsurprisingly frail) lover, remodelling plans for the Manor greenhouse, and her upcoming fundraiser for war orphans afflicted with lycanthropy.

“I’m taking Scorpius with me shopping after lunch”, she informed Draco. “Lucius wants me to look at a new broomstick for children that Nimbus releases soon.”

Here, his mother seemed close to rolling her eyes if she didn’t consider herself so well-bred.

“The poor boy can hardly walk, and your father is off planning his future as a Quidditch star.”

“Father just doesn’t want to admit how adorable he found Scorpius in that Chaser outfit Blaise gave him.” Draco pointed out, “he’s worried it will ruin his image.”

“Can I bring him to your office for the afternoon?” His mother asked him. “I have a dress fitting at Brunhilde’s Boutique, and I’m afraid he’ll fuss during that.”

Draco waved over for the bill. “Of course, I don’t have any appointments for the afternoon. I’m supposed to be catching up with my paperwork.”

He chucked Scorpius (still fast asleep) gently under the chin.

“You can come to work with your father,” he whispered. “Spend the afternoon with me.”

His mother looked relieved. “Thank you, dear; I’ll drop him off en route to the dressmaker.”

He took his mother’s arm, Scorpius tucked securely in a pram, and walked them out, once more ignoring the flurry of whispers that spread through the shop like a flutter of bird wings. He escorted her down to Diagon Alley to Quality Quidditch Supplies, stopping in front of a group of children with their noses pressed to the shop window. At the sight of Draco approaching, their parents hurriedly pulled them away; Draco and Narcissa pretended not to notice.

“I will see you shortly,” his mother reminded him, straightening his tie. “Think about what I said.”

He gave her a curt nod and returned to his office.

Upon his arrival, Draco grabbed his leather bag of notes from the week and sat at his desk. The bag (a birthday gift from Pansy) was made from Ironbelly dragonhide, the leather shimmering iridescently under his office lamplights. It oozed elegance and quality—Pansy really had spectacular taste.

His office was starting to get a little warm, so he shed his robes and rolled the sleeves of his Oxford button-up to his elbows before pulling out his files and organising them alphabetically on the desk. He pulled over the old file from the Clachbhàn case to go through once more. Something about the case was striking a chord with him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it, though; it was maddening.

The sharp rapping of heels on the wooden floors outside his office was Draco’s only warning before his door burst open with a bang. Draco jumped to his feet (partly in surprise) as Granger strode into his office, face like a thundercloud. He very hurriedly pulled his sleeves back down again.

“Good afternoon, Granger.” He said cautiously, “Have you had a chance to read through the draft I sent you?”

His only reply was a furious scowl, and he barely had enough time to throw up a quick Protego as a neon orange Scorching Hex flew his way and ricocheted off. He watched silently as it flew out his open office door and hit the corridor wall, causing the wallpaper to smoke and bubble angrily.

He turned to gape at her. “What was that for you, you barmy witch?”

She glowered, “That was for leaving my name off the report, you twat.”

He lunged for his wand and disarmed her, sending her wand careening towards him. He quickly snatched it out of the air.

“Give. Me. My. Wand. Back. Now. Malfoy.” Granger gritted out.

“No.” He stared at her, “I’m not going to do that. Have you gone mad?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter and Weasely rush down his corridor, wands out, probably to investigate the still-smoking wall. He was almost touched by their concern.

When they saw Gramger fuming in his office, however, they came to a screaming halt, pivoted, and slunk back the way they had come. Cowards.

“You left my name out of the report, Malfoy!” she shrilled. “We had a deal; we agreed to share credit with Kingsley, not to write the other person out entirely.”

Granger’s fury peaked after working herself up even more, and she (wandlessly and nonverbally) threw a wave of bluebell-coloured flames at him. The fire singed the bottom of his trouser legs, and they began to smoke. He hurriedly patted them out.

“What the fuck, Granger! This is Acromantula silk!”

He dodged another ring of fire- it was a remarkable show of power, and had it not been aimed at him, he would’ve been terribly impressed.

“I didn’t leave your name out of it!” Righteous indignation at his outfit being arbitrarily destroyed made Draco’s voice come out a little higher than he liked. “What are you talking about? There was a note at the end for you to write your contributions in, and I would combine everything before I presented to Kingsley.”

“Ah,” Granger said eloquently, and the flames fizzled out.

She looked somewhat confused but covered it up as best she could. Draco thanked any deities listening that she at least had stopped trying to flambé his chinos.

“Your handwriting was awful.” She told him mulishly. “I must have missed it.”

A realisation dawned on Draco, but he scarcely believed it possible

“Wait a second, you didn’t read my draft, did you?”

Granger scowled. So that was a no, then.

“The one time in your life you don’t actually read something properly,” Draco couldn’t help the mocking tone in his voice- he was quite upset about his trousers, “and you end up missing something important.”

Granger glowered, but her temper cooled off as quickly as it came. She primly sat down in the guest chair and made herself comfortable.

“Please, do take a seat,” Draco offered mildly.

She pointedly ignored him and dumped the ugliest briefcase he had ever seen (a horrible orange tartan) beside his desk. He noticed he had left some of his research findings out, easily visible; he Banished them away with a covert wave of his wand. Looking up, he noticed that Granger didn’t look too good. She had heavy bags under her eyes, her hair was in disarray, and she looked tired—more so than before leaving for France.

“While I’m here,” she sniffed, “we might as well finalise the report then.”

“Sorry, Granger,” Draco told her with faux remorse. “I can’t. I have a very important meeting to attend soon.”

Granger narrowed her eyes at him. “No, you don’t, you liar. I spoke with the secretary when I came in. She said your schedule this afternoon was clear.”

Bugger.

Poor Audrey. Between encountering his mother and Granger both in one day, he wondered how much longer she would work in his department. Unfortunately, he could think of no other excuse to give Granger, so he sat at his side of the desk with a scowl.

“Fine. I’m supposed to present our report to Kingsley on Monday. We might as well get over and done with.”

He reached behind his desk and grabbed a crystal tumbler and an elegant decanter of firewhiskey. He poured himself a finger to prepare for what would surely be an uncomfortable few hours and tilted a glass at Granger. She went slightly green at the sight, so he poured it back.

“Spot of tea?” He asked and watched as she deflated again. “Merlin, Granger, you look awful.”

“Tea would be nice. Ta.” She mumbled and unsuccessfully attempted to fix her messy hair into something more professional.

Draco sent a quick memo whizzing off to Audrey, asking for a pot of Earl Grey and settled back deep in his leather chair. “Alright, let’s start. Give me my draft back, and we can walk through it and add your contributions and observations.”

Granger now looked very uncomfortable, fidgeting a bit in her seat.

“I don’t have it here.”

“You didn’t really prepare for this meeting, did you?” Granger bristled a bit at his tone but oddly kept quiet. “Not a problem. Have a chat with Audrey, and we can reschedule it for another time.” The silence persisted; Draco smiled benevolently across his desk at her like an elderly nun and gestured to the door. “Off you pop.”

(He made a mental note to tell Audrey to book the meeting for a day when he wouldn’t actually be in office. Prof would have to sort it out for him.)

“I burnt it.” She told him plainly.

He gawked at her, any schemes to avoid their future meetings forgotten.

“You burnt it?” He asked, shocked. “Granger, that was a draft. You were supposed to add your contributions in, too, you manic-”

He stood up, trailing off and strode in circles around his office.

Said maniac was now looking very guilty but still stuck her nose in the air as if he was the one to have done something wrong. Merlin’s sake, he wasn’t the arsonist here.

“How was I supposed to know that?” She asked him moodily. “For all I know, you were trying to muscle me out of the report.”

“We made a deal, remember?” Draco pointed out, trying to keep his cool and not let his voice go embarrassingly squeaky again. “We both agreed to let the other person equally contribute.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what you’re so cross about,” she told him grumpily. I’ll just add my bits to your other copies.”

“I sent you my only one,” he told her aggrievedly, “and you set it on fire. We’ll have to start from scratch now.”

Audrey tiptoed into Draco’s office with a tea tray, shot Granger a nervous look, and tiptoed back out.

He sat back in his chair again, threw Granger another scowl for good measure, and stared to pour her a cup. He swirled in her two sugars, plenty of milk and shoved it across the desk ungraciously. She had a queer look on her face watching him do so but wiped it clean when she saw Draco looking at her and sipped her tea without comment.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Draco nodded curtly. “Let’s make a start then. Besides the general summary, is there anything particular you want to include?” He paused. “I don’t know about you, but I have many questions after our time on Skye.”

“I feel the same,” Granger told him quietly, staring deep into her cup of tea as if she could fish them out from there.

“I think we should list them then,” Draco carried on determinedly, ignoring her sudden, unusual reticence, “and go through the methodically. See if we can think of some answers.”

For some reason, Granger looked exponentially more cheerful at his suggestion.

“You’re right.”

“I am?” He asked suspiciously and darted his eyes out the corridor to ensure he’d not missed one of Professor Warsame’s vigilance tests- and that it was actually a Polyjuiced stranger before him. He couldn’t remember the last time Granger had said he was right about anything.

“We don’t have to start from the beginning; I made my own version this morning,” Granger informed him, reaching into her ghastly bag and pulling out what looked to be a short novel.

He rolled his eyes. “I see that. Thank you, Emily Bronte.”

She looked surprised. “How do you know who that is?”

Ah, shit.

“I could hardly forget you reading that book of hers for a week during dinner.” He told her stiffly. “Between that and those dull history books, it’s a wonder you had any free time at all.”

He knew instantly that he had dug himself into a hole.

“I’m sure you remember my free time well, Malfoy,” Granger gave him a particularly vicious smile, “considering how much of it we spent together.”

He didn’t have a rebuttal to throw at her, and from the way her grin maliciously widened, like a circling shark scenting blood, she knew it, too.

He was saved by a cautious knock on his door; his and Granger’s heads snapped away to look at the interruption.

His mother stood there, Scorpius on her hip, arching a pale brow at the smoking wall and his charred trousers. Scorpius babbled with excitement at the sight of him, chubby hands reaching forward; Draco got up from his desk to pull his son back into his arms.

“Am I disturbing something, Draco?” His mother asked pointedly. “Is now a bad time?”

Granger looked incredibly uncomfortable, and he realised that the last time the two witches would’ve been this physically close to each other was when Granger testified on his behalf at his trial. She and his mother eyed each other carefully like alley cats squaring up for a spat.

“No, not at all, Mother. Granger’ll behave herself.” He shot Granger a baleful look, and she glared back at him in response. His mother eyed them both curiously, gaze flicking between them.

“Miss Granger, how delightful to see you again,” she lied effortlessly, “I came to drop off my grandson. If you could refrain from setting him on fire, too, it would be much appreciated.”

Hermione looked both affronted and a bit guilty but decided not to backchat his mother- likely realising it was a battle royale she wouldn’t win. Narcissa Malfoy tended to have that effect on people.

“Let me know what you decide about dinner, Draco,” his mother reminded him. “We’ll speak later.”

She politely nodded at Granger, kissed Scorp on the cheek, and swept out of his office in a waft of French perfume.

Draco sat Scorpius on his lap and returned his attention to the pile of notes Granger had dumped on his desk. Some of the sentences were overlaid with a strange, lurid orange ink, and he ran his finger over them curiously.

“Let’s return to the things that stuck out on Skye.” He rustled around for his favourite peacock feather quill, holding it carefully in his hand so he wouldn’t catch his sleeve on the ink.

Granger was uncharacteristically quiet. Her eyes flicked over him and then down to Scorpius (still busy trying to give her a winning smile), and she reached to pull her papers back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you really were busy this afternoon,” she muttered and turned to go. “We can sort this out tomorrow.”

“No, wait. You can stay. I won’t be in for the rest of the week.” He awkwardly adjusted Scorpius’s weight and caught Granger’s eyes straying curiously to the child on his lap again. “This is my son, Scorpius.”

Scorpius, the angel he was, had fallen asleep without preamble- if Draco could only get him to go down this easily at night, his sleep patterns would look much healthier. He did his best to focus and not waste time staring at his son. Hopefully, they could sort this report out quickly, and then his engagement with Granger would come to a prompt but satisfactory end.

“So, I think we need to make a separate list of the things that didn’t make sense. I know we both walked off Skye with some major questions.”

“I did, and there’s a lot I can’t figure out,” Granger said abruptly, making eye contact with him for the first time this afternoon. “And I don’t like it. Neither, I think, do you.”

Draco agreed and carefully scrawled a rough list on a blank piece of paper, muttering under his breath, Granger butting in when she felt he wasn’t thinking fast enough.

DM and HG’s magical mystery list:

Who was the dark wizard who killed the Muggle villagers? Why?

What spell was he trying to do before it killed him?

How did the stones suddenly become Unplottable? What damaged the spellwork so thoroughly?

“Who was the woman I saw?” Granger suggested; Draco added it in.

And finally, their most important question:

What happened to the Pictish magic, and why did it stop working?

“The title is a work in progress,” he hurriedly told Granger, who annoying, had stopped paying attention to the list.

“You’re left-handed,” She informed him absently as if in his twenty-seven years of life, he’d never once noticed before. “I forgot about that. Explains why your handwriting is always so hard to read.”

“It’s not my fault,” Draco told her sulkily. “The ink always smudges.”

He looked over the list. It seemed to cover the questions he felt most pertinent to their investigation. Now, onto something he’d been waiting patiently to ask her for days.

“Alright, Granger, you want to get some answers? Let’s begin with the information I know you’re keeping from me.” He fixed a firm gaze on her. “You know what that Pictish witch was, don’t you?”

“No.” She told him defiantly, unable to meet his eyes. Merlin above, she was an awful liar. Blaise and Pansy would eat her alive, should they ever play poker.

“I wasn’t asking if you know, Granger; I know you do.” Draco waved his hand carelessly. “So we can run around in circles pretending you don’t, or you can come clean about what you do - and then we can go home early and have the rest of the afternoon off.”

Granger failed to see the benefits in his undeniable logic and attempted another dismal lie. “I don’t have any ideas about the Pict.” She fibbed, eyes fixed firmly beyond his ear on one of the small statues on his bookcase. Ironically, it was one Apate, the Greek goddess of deceit, and the statue jumped up and down, pointing at Granger accusingly.

“Very well, Granger,” Draco told her magnanimously, deciding to let her believe she’d convinced him of her innocence, and shelved that question for another day, one where he might get more answers.

Granger was evidently relieved at the escape.

“Have you had a chance to read the file on the Clachbhàn case?” She asked, “We might get some answers to our first question there.”

“I’m working my way through it,” Draco told her, “It’s a bit tricky; some of the report is in Scots-Gaelic, so running Translation charms on it is taking some time. Something about this case feels… familiar, but I can’t figure out what.”

“When you’ve fully translated the case file, won’t you send it to me?” Granger asked. “I’d like to read through it properly myself and see if I can pick up on anything.”

He hummed in agreement and turned his attention to question number three- what could’ve damaged the Unplottable spell around the circle to the extent that very few remnants were left?

“What about a powerful Severing charm?” Granger suggested, sipping her tea.

He shot her a withering look. “One that didn’t do any damage to the stones? Not likely.”

He tapped the nib of his quill thoughtfully on the parchment. “Maybe it just weakened enough over time that it snapped unassisted?”

“I thought of that too,” Granger mused, “but some Unplottable castles in Ireland have been hidden for over five hundred years with no problem. The lifespan on them is generally so good that if it was cast properly, it should’ve lasted another few hundred years.”

"Maybe a faulty caster then?” Draco proposed. “Not everyone who casts them has enough skill to do it properly.”

Granger rolled her eyes, “I expect you think you could’ve done it better.”

Draco tried not to sound too smug. “Of course I could’ve.”

“I suppose you thought that at the London Museum,” Granger said airly, now crunching obnoxiously on a ginger biscuit.

He tried not to scowl at the reminder. “You read my proposal on breaking the curse, didn’t you? I was very close to solving it myself before you swooped in.”

“I did read your proposal,” Granger said, now grabbing a custard cream, “but disagreed with almost everything.”

He almost huffed a laugh. “Somehow, I don’t find that surprising.”

Granger almost smiled; Draco couldn’t help himself. “Go on then,” he said, bouncing Scorpius absently on his knee. “Tell me how you think I should’ve done it better.”

Report forgotten, the rest of the conversation devolved into petty squabbling about how Draco should’ve managed the cursed dagger case. Draco, busy making an excellent point about how the dagger had tried to stab him when he approached it (I’d like to see you handle that, Granger), noticed she was no longer listening to him.

Granger seemed distracted, gaze fixed to his chest—he glanced down. Scorpius was now awake and practising standing again, bouncing on Draco’s lap, little feet digging into the muscle of Draco’s thigh, and small fat hands tugging at the straps of his braces. Being a Malfoy, he was doing his best to show off to the room and tried to catch Hermione’s eye with every attempt at pulling himself up.

Scorpius shot her a beaming hippo smile. His first top and bottom teeth had come in recently, and while his screaming discomfort kept Draco up at night during the day, it was shamelessly adorable.

She gave a small smile back, which dramatically warmed the stern planes of her face, and conjured up some canaries to flutter in the air around Scorpius’s face, singing sweetly. He shrieked in delight, hands flailing in the air, trying to grab one.

Draco couldn’t hide the look of surprise, but unfortunately, Granger picked it up very quickly.

“Surprised at seeing me be so nice to a Malfoy?” She jeered.

He cleared his throat. “No, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting you to be so good with children.”

He quickly realised he’d really put his foot in it.

Granger looked incredibly indignant and slightly hurt. “And why not? I might not have my own children, but James is my godson- he and Albus are practically my nephews. I also helped raise Remus’s son, thank you very much.”

James and Albus, he recognised those names- those were Potter’s kids with the Weaslette. He’d never met them, but Potter had numerous photos of messy-haired grubby children, looking vaguely like Victorian chimney sweeps, scattered around his office.

His stomach swooped a little bit. He had heard from his mother that Remus Lupin had married his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, sometime during the war. He had never met her, hadn’t even met his Aunt Andromeda- Narcissa hadn’t spoken to her sister in over thirty years, and last he heard, Nymphadora had been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. The rumour persistently floating around society was that their own Aunt Bellatrix did it. Fuck, his family was a messy bunch. But that would make Remus’s son his… first cousin once removed? Something like that.

And Draco didn’t even know his name.

He did his best to hide his curiosity, but Granger annoyingly could read some of it on his face. Her curt expression softened a little bit.

“Teddy,” she abruptly told him, “Tonks’s son is called Teddy. Edward, actually, after Andy’s late husband, but everyone calls him Teddy.”

“Teddy.” He tasted the shape of it on his tongue. “He would be how old now?”

“Nine,” Granger replied. “But enough trouble for ten teenagers.”

Draco burned with curiosity but didn’t feel brave enough to ask questions about his unknown family member. Granger looked like she was having some internal argument but bravely forged ahead with small talk.

“How old is Scorpius?”

“He’s just turned one," he replied, “last month.”

He paused. “Potters youngest-”

“Albus,” she informed him.

(Albus. Merlin, what an unfortunate name.)

“He can’t be much older than Scorp.”

Granger’s severe face softened dramatically at the sound of Potter’s boy. “Albus was born last May, so he’s only a few months older than him.”

She looked at Scorpius and softened even more. “They’ll be in the same year at Hogwarts- wouldn’t it be funny if they became friends.”

Draco gave a bitter laugh. At Granger’s look of confusion, he elaborated: “It’s just the thought of history repeating itself. Another Malfoy asking a Potter to be friends? Let's hope he has more success than I did.”

Lulled by their quiet conversation, Scorpius had fallen asleep in Draco’s arms again, drooling onto his chest. An urgent memo flew into his office, the paper plane veering towards Granger. She snatched it out of the air and flicked through it.

“I need to return to my office,” she abruptly told him, scowling at the letter as if she could set it on fire with her gaze alone. “One of my undergrads knocked over a vat of acid.” She gave their report a gloomy look. “We didn’t get much done at all.”

“Leave me your draft,” Draco instructed her, “and I’ll combine it with the bits of mine I can remember.”

“What about our list of questions,” Granger asked him, packing up the rest of her stuff. “Are we presenting that to Kingsley too?”

Draco pondered the possible benefits of not looking extremely incompetent in front of the Minister vs how angry Kingsley might be should he discover they left vital information out of the report just because they had no answers yet.

“We should fill him in,” he told her decisively, “before someone else does. We’ll say we’re busy coming up with some possible theories. So if you think of any, do let me know.”

“Can I come by tomorrow to finish the report?” Granger hung in the doorway. “I would like to read it once it’s finished before you present it to the Minister.”

“Why?” Draco joked. “To make sure I don’t ‘muscle’ you out again?”

His joke fell flat, and Granger looked at him with unimpressed eyes.

“Oh, I see.”

“It’s got my name on Malfoy; I want to see the final piece before you present it.”

“You can’t come by tomorrow,” Draco reminded her. “I won’t be in—I’m taking leave.”

Granger sounded surprised. “You’re taking leave in the middle of an important case? Do you think that’s wise?”

Draco chewed his cheek, unsure whether to tell her, but gave in. Granger had the tenacity of a bloodhound.

“It’s the anniversary of Astoria’s passing tomorrow. I’m only formally back in-office from Monday. I only came in this week to catch up on my paperwork.”

Granger looked shocked and then annoyingly sympathetic. The pity on her face grated Draco, and he did his best not to throw her a sneer.

“I’m… sorry, Malfoy. I understand completely.”

She paused, and a sheepish look crossed her face. “If I had known-”

“Then you wouldn’t have come in here, wands blazing, accusing me of poaching your work?”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she looked appropriately abashed

“Probably not.” She admitted, “Sorry about that.”

He waved a hand. “It’s fine. If it means so much to you, you can join the meeting with Kingsley on Monday and read through the report before I present it to him. See if it meets your impossible standards.”

Granger, recognising the temporary truce for what it was, nodded in thanks and marched out of his office- presumably to terrorise some poor students and make them regret ever working in a laboratory.

He pulled her report toward her and read through it. It was well written, he admitted. Personally, he would make it sound less clinical—fighting off a demon and rescuing a Ministry intern did make him sound incredibly dashing and would do wonders for his reputation in polite society. Between his draft and hers, he could quickly compile a thorough report for the Minister before Monday, but his eyes kept straying to the sheet of questions, now amply full of scribbled thoughts and ideas from their brief discussion.

With a pang of frustration, he admitted that his meeting with Granger had not provided much clarity. He was glad to see he wasn’t the only one alarmed by so many inexplicable findings on Skye—if someone as clever as Granger was stumped, then it undoubtedly was concerning indeed.

Oh well, he’d have to make his peace with never getting answers. Once he handed this report over to Kingsley (after Granger looked over it with a gimlet gaze), it would no longer be his problem, and these uncomfortable few days working with her could come to an end. His role as a consultant would finish with the report, he would lose his clearance to work on it, and it would return to the attending Aurors on the case. Kingsley would likely re-assign the case to someone high-up in the DLME for further investigation, and if he were lucky, then the next time he would see Granger would be at Scorpius’s and Albus’s Hogwarts graduation. It was a pity- he was almost invested in solving those questions that had them baffled.

Maybe in a few weeks, once the DLME had worked it up further, he would corner Robbards by the water fountain and bully some of the answers out of him.

Scorpius began to rustle around on his lap, likely getting hungry again. Draco kissed the top of his downy head.

“Ready to go home, my star?” He murmured to his son, Scorp’s brilliant-white hair tickling the tip of his nose. Half-asleep still, Scorpius’s hand creased Draco’s shirt tightly, mouth pursing as he dreamt. He left Granger’s compilation of scribbles on his desk (Merlin, her handwriting was worse than his- and she didn’t even have an excuse) and collected his things.

He’d send his mother an owl later. For now, he had a sister-in-law to visit.

Chapter Text

Draco and Scorpius arrived in Daphne Greengrass’s living room in the early evening, stumbling out of her fireplace. The almost-autumn sun was deep in the sky, flooding the room with warm golden light which caught the tips of Draco and Scorpius’s hair, making them both look gilded. The Greengrass family was very active in magical society, which was predominantly London-based, owning a large mansion in Mayfair. Since Astoria’s death, Daphne, however, had sequestered herself away in the Peak District, not too far away from a tiny Wizarding community near Mam Tor, leaving the glitz and glamour of the Wizarding elite far behind her.

Her stone cottage, with its sweeping views of the valley, was small and had been part of her dowry from her maternal grandmother- Camille Rosier, who’d had a penchant for hiking and the great outdoors that she’d passed on to her granddaughters. It was also, annoyingly, suspiciously quiet. Draco stuck his head into the tiny kitchen with its faded yellow cabinets and plants drying from the rafters- it was empty.

“Daff?” He called out. No answer. There was no sign of her in the cushy living room either. Continuing the search for his increasingly elusive sister-in-law, he carefully trekked up the steep staircase, but her bedroom with its thickly rugged floors and painting-laden walls- was also unoccupied. Draco cast a quick Homenum Revelio, but the spell didn’t pick up any trace of Daphne near the house or surrounding gardens; he huffed a silent breath through his nose.

“Where could she have gone?” he asked, bouncing Scorpius in his arms as they returned downstairs. Scorpius looked around curiously; it had been such a long time since they had visited, he realised, with a pang of guilt, that the sight of his aunt’s house was foreign to Scorp.

Draco stuck his head outside over the top of the Dutch door in the kitchen and peered out into the valley. Far in the distance, he could see a small figure clambering over a stone wall into a pen, with goats trailing happily behind it. He sighed and made his way there. If he’d known he would be off tramping through yet another soggy field, he wouldn’t have worn his very nice Italian brogues and chosen something a little more…pastoral.

“Daff?” He called again, striding to where he had last seen the figure. Much to his chagrin, he, too, had to climb over the wall and duck under the low beam doorway of the sheep shed, feeling the warm musk of farm animals wash over him as he entered. He could barely stand up straight in it and angled his body uncomfortably to prevent banging into one of the hay nets hanging from the ceiling. Finally, tucked into the corner was the slender silhouette of his sister-in-law.

The goats approached Draco curiously, barging into his personal space to check him out. Scorpius was initially fascinated, but when one of the goats took an exploratory nibble of his bootees, he decided it was a step too far and let his displeasure be known with an ear-splitting wail that echoed down the valley. The other goats watched on, transfixed.

“What are you doing here, Draco?” Daphne asked apathetically, pouring a jug of pellets into an empty trough, not even bothering to turn around to look at him.

“I came to check on you- fuck off!”

Draco turned quickly to shoo away one of the goats who had decided his pure linen shirt (imported from India!) was a delicacy begging to be sampled. He instinctively reached to push her away by the horns, but thinking of the smell that might leave on his hands, he shoved her away using a burst of non-verbal magic instead. The goat, unfortunately, just looked thrilled at the challenge and reared up on her back legs to go at him again. He swore at her once more. The rest of the herd now had their unnerving eyes fixed on him in thrilled fascination, Gods, he couldn’t wait to be back in London.

“Excuse me?” Daphne asked, taken aback. She had finally deigned to turn around and, taking merciful pity on him, muscled the rampaging goat away from him.

“Not you- the goat,” Draco told her, starting to feel a bit desperate. “Are you alright, Daff?”

“I’m doing fine,” Daphne said stiffly. She gestured at Draco, who was grimacing in despair at the feeling of straw on his hair and shit on his Milanese shoes. “Are you alright?”

Draco (between the nosy goats and Scorpius, who was loudly explaining he was more of a city boy- good lad) felt like he was rapidly losing control of the situation.

“I came to visit.” He stated unnecessarily, “Why don’t we have a cup of tea?”

Daphe regarded him coolly. The goats crept closer.

“Alright,” she conceded, with little enthusiasm. “Why don’t you put the kettle on, and I’ll come to join in a bit?”

“Capital idea,” Draco said with aplomb and fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen

He spent an agonising few minutes fumbling around the kitchen in search of her china before admitting it didn’t look like she owned any and then moved on to his second part of the mission: figuring out how her Muggle stove worked. He had never used one before, and the vast array of buttons, knobs, and dials had him stumped. He optimistically fiddled with one and heard the stove give a click, click, click in response- but nothing happened. He tried again, once more with verve, and this time, a ring of flame shot up on top of the stove and ran in a circle before dying out. Draco jumped back with a yelp.

“Melin’s sake, Draco. It’s not a grenade.” Daphne snapped, bustling into the kitchen. Draco (not knowing what that was) wisely kept his mouth shut and decided it was best not to make a third attempt.

“Just leave it,” Daphne ordered him and pointed at her rickety dining chairs squeezed in the corner. “Sit. I’ll make us a pot.”

Draco sat, wondering if being surrounded by irritable witches was his life’s curse.

Daphe slammed an ugly ceramic mug down on the table before him (‘You’ve Goat This’, the mug cheerily informed him) and tossed a box of digestives at him as an afterthought. Draco watched as she fussed around preparing a teapot (obviously handmade, with a wonky spout and too-small handle), slightly concerned that she might slip some of the dried hemlock into his ghastly cup in revenge for shoving one of her beloved, outfit-munching animals. Back to his usual cheery self now that he had survived the terrifying goat encounter, Scorpius was engrossed in the action before him, smiling at Daphe whenever he thought she was looking his way. Without a word, Daphne plopped into the chair opposite Draco and snatched Scorp off his lap and onto her own. Scorp, a little confused at being so abruptly taken from his father, eyed her carefully, but when Draco didn’t react, he chose not to either and settled for fiddling with Daphne’s long blonde hair falling over her shoulder.

“Gods, he’s getting big,” Daphne noted, eying Scorpius up. “Last time I saw him, he was what? Eight months old?”

She shot Draco an awkward look. “I’m sorry I missed his birthday party. I did mean to go, but-”

She trailed off and sipped her tea instead.

“I understand,” Draco told her quietly and sipped his own.

A subdued silence fell in the kitchen, and Scorpius, sensing the tension, began to fuss slightly.

“How have you been?” Draco tried again. Daphne clenched her fingers around the handle of her mug. “I heard from Theo you had another…incident.”

“I’m fine.” Daphne snapped, not meeting his eyes.

Draco eyed her, feeling a pang of pity, which he tried not to let show. Before Astoria died, Daphne had been a rising star in St Mungo’s Healer training programme, placed in a specialist position on the third floor: Plant and Potion Poisonings. But when Astoria was diagnosed with blood malediction, Daphne transferred to the Janus Thickey ward to focus her talents on blood curses and permanent spell damage.

She had poured months of her life into finding a cure for her little sister, wading through years of magical research for similar cases and desperately inventing treatment trials to try- with no success. After Astoria died, Daphne had simply…lost control of her magic. Magical Regression, her colleagues whispered, a rare condition where grief or other strong emotions could trigger a witch or wizard to lose the ability to wield their magic- as if they were a child again. Draco had only heard of one other recent case - his own Great-Aunt Walburga after she lost her son.

Draco suspected it was more than grief. Daphne had taken her lack of success in finding a cure for her sister very badly- and quite personally. Draco wondered if, on some level, she didn’t resent her own magic for being unable to achieve what she wanted the most. And now, except for the occasional uncontrollable outburst of magic whenever she was particularly emotional, Daphne was for all intents and purposes a Squib. Her parents (the esteemed Albert and Cressida Greengrass) had been so ashamed of their daughter that they had all but cut contact and were traipsing around London society, doing their best to pretend their only surviving child didn’t exist. Draco hated them- he had other reasons, but their treatment of Daphne was undoubtedly in the top three.

Daphne, unfortunately, hadn’t lost the Greengrass ability to be preternaturally perceptive and scowled at him, easily guessing his train of thought.

“Stop bloody pitying me, Draco.” She hissed, “I’m doing just fine up here. In fact, I’m thinking of getting some ducks.”

“That’s…great, Daff.” Draco changed the topic in relief. “How are, erm, the goats doing?”

Draco listened on as Daphne avidly explained the dietary habits of her goats in excruciating detail for the next twenty-five minutes, feigning interest every time she (rightfully) suspected he was bored.

“Now Bertha, she’s very fussy about her lucerne…” Daphne’s monologue finally trailed off, and she gazed at something past his shoulder. Draco turned to look, too.

Scorpius, who had been placed on a rug on the kitchen floor and happily playing with some Babbling Blocks, was trying to stand again, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tried to heave himself up, using the chair as support. Draco leaned over, grabbed him, blowing loud kisses onto his fat toddler tummy, and passed him back over to Daphne.

“He looks so much like Tori,” Daphne suddenly said, looking down into Scorp’s face. Draco, who firmly believed his son was a spitting image of himself as a young child, didn’t say anything to refute her statement and just hummed into his tea.

“He reminds me so much of her,” Draco admitted. “Sometimes he’ll find something funny or look confused, and for a split-second, it’s like I can see her again.”

His gaze softened at Scorp. “I introduced him to mushrooms a few weeks ago. He wouldn’t touch them. You would’ve thought I offered him human heads.”

Daphne gave a bit of a watery smile. “Just like Tori.”

There was a reflective silence in the kitchen before Daphne broke it.

“Do you remember when we were children, she fell out of that tree trying to get my cat down and broke her arm in three places?”

Draco gave a sudden smile at the memory. “I had forgotten about that. Do you remember when we were at your mother’s Beltane party, we must’ve been…eight? So Tori was six… and she got upset with us because we wouldn’t let her sit with us under the table, so she set the curtains on fire?”

Daphe gave a bit of a juddery laugh. “I do remember that. There’s still scorch marks on the ceiling.”

There was a pause.

“She would’ve loved it up here,” Daphne told Draco, staring into her tea. “She loved the outdoors; I wish I had brought her here before…”

She trailed off. The mugs in one of the small cabinets began to rattle ominously.

“Yes. She did.” Draco said, realising he needed to lighten the mood quickly. “Did you ever hear about when we were in the woods near Henley, and she slipped and fell in the Thames? I laughed so hard I fell in next to her.”

Daphne gave a surprised cackle, and her crockery stopped shaking.

“No, you didn’t.” She said slowly. “Maybe…maybe you could tell me now?”

Draco launched into his story of their disastrous holiday, and much to his relief, the rest of the evening passed quickly, with no further incidents of magical outbursts as they reminisced about their shared childhood and favourite memories of Astoria. Scorp gradually dozed off in Daphne’s arms, so they all migrated to the living room, where Draco could let him nap on a couch. Draco filled Daphne in on his most recent case, following the secrecy protocol and keeping it as vague as possible.

(“Working with Granger, really?” Daphne exclaimed, “Tori would’ve laughed herself sick!”)

Sometime later, he looked up; it was close to ten p.m. Luckily, he and Scorp had had their dinner before coming over, but it was way past time to tuck him in.

“I should take Scorp home.” He said regretfully.

Daphne chewed her lip. “Do you remember that Astoria and I had a tradition before important days like birthdays and festivals where we would stay up all night and watch the sunrise?” She told him abruptly. “Would you like to do that with me tonight? We can put Scorp in my bed. I always fell asleep, but Tori would always stick it out.”

“That sounds nice,” Draco told her softly. “Why don’t I take Scorp home and ask my mother to babysit for the night instead?”

Daphne gave a nod.

“Alright. I’ll be back shortly.”

He flooed away with Scorpius and returned thirty minutes later, wearing less formal attire. By the time he returned, Daphne had set up a picnic blanket and cushions (how delightfully plebeian) in her garden, so they had an excellent view to watch the sunrise over the dales below them. He sat down next to Daphne, and she passed over a heavy metal jug that somehow kept some strong coffee nice and steaming hot inside, and another equally ugly mug.

“I’m glad we could do this,” she told him suddenly. “I know I haven’t been around much since Tori died…”

“It’s not your fault,” Draco muttered, sipping his coffee. “I could’ve come up more, too. I’m sorry.”

He chanced a glance at Daphne. “I know your sister and I didn’t exactly have a fairytale romance,” he said softly. “We might not have had the kind of marriage I know she dreamt of as a child, but we did love each other….eventually.” He stared blankly into the night sky, watching the faintly appearing stars. “Tori was my best friend. Our marriage might’ve been arranged, but we made it work and were happy. I miss her so much, Daff.”

Daphne leaned over and squeezed his hand, her palm small and cold in his.

“Sometimes, I think I can use my magic again,” she told him abruptly, “but then I think of Tori, and it all slips away.”

She leaned over for the coffee, detangling their fingers.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get it back, Draco. And I don’t know if I want to either,” she admitted. “The world just seems much less magical without my sister in it.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept quiet and watched in silence with Daphne as the full moon rose around them.

The last dregs of Wednesday night and the early hours of Thursday passed quickly. They started by testing each other’s knowledge of constellations (which he beat her at by miles), and then Daphne smoked him at a Muggle game called Go Fish for an hour or two in return. She dozed off at some time past three, so he cast a Warming Charm over her and then, when he figured she might prefer it, summoned a blanket out from the living room and draped it over her sleeping body. He spent the next two hours watching the faint stars above him, eyes returning to trace over the familiar constellation of his son’s namesake.

As it was the first few days of autumn, the sunrise was still around seven a.m., and as the sky gradually lightened, he prepared to wake Daphne before the greying light shifted any further. It was incredibly tranquil. The air was crisp and quiet; all Draco could hear was the faint bleat of goats as they started moving around and the dawn chorus of birds greeting the new day.

One bird song stuck above the rest, a haunting piping melody that echoed in the air, one he’d certainly never heard before; Draco did his best to locate it.

“Daff, wake up,” He said, shaking her arm; Daphne sat up with a start. “Look!”

Down below them, a bird was landing in an ancient yew tree. It sang again, looking directly at them- its brilliant golden feathers flashing in the dawn light.

“A Golden Snidget.” Daphne breathed.

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face, surprised to have it wet with silent tears as the birdsong drifted on the wind, goosebumps rising on his arms. The Snidget finished its long chorus, its sweet voice carrying easily down the mountainside, and flitted off, whizzing past an open-mouthed Draco and Daphne like a shooting star as it vanished into the dawn light.

After he returned to his flat, Draco spent the rest of the day hiding away with Scorpius, only really leaving his nursery to make them both food. His mother, still waiting on a confirmation for dinner, sent her owl Euridyce several times for an answer. Initially, she started by pecking his bay window politely, but after he ignored her for the eighth time, Euridyce, offended on her mistress’s behalf, decided to take matters into her own wings. She made her way down his chimney (Draco had no idea how she managed to bypass his very strong security charms), popped out of the fireplace (scaring the hells out of Scorpius), and held Draco’s ear in a sharp beak until he scribbled out a response. His barn owl, Sigmund, hid his head under a wing and pretended to be asleep.

Mother.

Tell your owl to stop bullying me. I’ll be there for dinner at 6.

Euridyce triumphantly brought back an equally short note a bit later.

My darling girl did nothing of the sort. Thank you for letting me know, dear. Be nice to Euridyce.

Draco’s reply was sulky- his ear still really hurt.

She’s not a darling girl- she’s a demon.

Euridyce bit his fingers when she came to take that letter away. He tossed her out of the window, re-warded his chimney, lit a fire for good measure, and went back to bed to cuddle Scorpius until 17.45. Later that evening, as he trudged towards his Floo at four minutes to six (his mother abhorred lateness), he wondered how awkward dinner would be.

He got his answer very quickly- exceptionally so.

“How has work been, darling?” His mother asked him during their second starter, elegantly spearing asparagus with a silver fork.

“Busy,” he replied, pushing his food around his plate, “I’ve hit the ground running coming back.”

“That’s good.”  Said his father, the previously esteemed (now highly notorious) Lucius Malfoy. “You’ve been quiet in society recently; another interesting case would be good for the Malfoy image. Any I can expect to read about in the papers soon?”

Draco threw his fork down and glowered at his father. “I apologise,” he said, tone dangerous, “that the death of my wife has made our family so inconspicuous. I’ll try to get us in next week’s Prophet, shall I?”

His mother sighed and neatly sat her knife and fork on the table.

“Draco, darling, he didn’t mean it like that.”

(Draco could see that was exactly how his father meant it, but he didn’t have the nerve to argue with her.)

His mother shot his father a venomous look, and Lucius quickly muttered a brief apology. Another awkward silence reigned as they moved on to their main courses. Draco desperately wished to check on his son. Scorpius had gleefully flipped his bowl of risotto onto himself as dinner started, so a distraught house-elf had ushered him upstairs for a wash-up.

“It’s good that you’re so busy,” his mother continued, determined to have some semblance of a family dinner. “But then, you’re always working hard.”

“I wonder why that is.” Draco shot a snotty look towards his father, who shot an eyebrow haughtily back, well-used to his son’s melodramatics- Draco was making his displeasure at being dragged to dinner, tonight of all nights, very clear.

The demand for Curse-breaking and Dark artefact destruction was sky-high during and after the war. This was primarily thanks to curses placed by Death Eaters on the resisting Wizarding population, black market items peddled as protection amulets to paranoid citizens, or cursed objects being used to target Muggle-borns or Blood-Traitors during the rise in Pureblood sentiments. Post-war, this was a problem, as no universities offered an undergraduate Curse-breaking degree in the UK, so any students who wanted to study it had to go overseas- just as Draco had done. This meant many graduates settled outside the country, accepting placements in countries like Egypt or Belize, where they could find stable, exciting work. Overwhelmed by demand, the Ministry was forced to appeal to any international Curse-breakers post-war, and Draco realised a career opportunity. A well-paying job desperate enough to overlook the fact he was a Malfoy? And with enough physical action, intellectual complexity and accidental dismemberment to spice things up? He didn’t take much convincing.

“Is any progress being made with your new department?” his father asked sometime later after some strenuous silence, passing a plate of panna cotta over in apology.

“A little,” Draco told him stiffly. “We’re due to move into our new offices in the new year. It’s about time; they’ve been building it long enough.”

“Wouldn’t it be marvellous to have your own level?” his mother asked with forced enthusiasm. “You could end up being Head one day.”

“Given the fact the Ministry won’t even employ me on a full-time basis, Mother,” Draco told her dryly, “I find that quite unlikely.”

The Ministry was in the final stages of building a new floor- Level 11, Curse-breaking and Dark Artefacts division. After their lease on another temporary building off Diagon Alley expired, Draco and his team were shunted to spare rooms on the same floor as the DMLE on Level 2 while the construction was finishing up.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to get away from those awful Aurors,” His mother continued, shuddering. Lucius scowled in agreement.

She wasn’t wrong. The DLME had made its opinions on sharing their space with a convicted Death Eater quite well known. For the first few months, Draco had to dodge some nasty hexes that had ‘accidentally’ been thrown his way in the corridors and carefully check his mail for any sneaky Skin Sloughing powder hidden in his letters. (Or, on one memorable occasion, quickly pop to St Mungo’s after a Bloodroot Brew had been slipped into his tea.) He’d attempted to file some complaints with HR but quickly realised that after the third incident with no consequences, no one up there gave a shit. It was only until Potter The Great (and Weasley- albeit grudgingly) had hotly defended Draco in the staff tearoom that the heckling stopped.

“Very glad,” Draco murmured. “I’ll be happy to have a proper office, not just shoved into a broom cupboard with an Extension Charm on.”

Another awkward silence fell.

“Was it a meeting you were having with Miss Granger?” His mother did her best to be disinterested, but Draco could see the curious gleam in her eye. “I do apologise for interrupting.”

(Draco knew without a shadow of a doubt that she did not feel bad about it at all.)

“Of a sort,” Draco said hesitantly, deciding to omit it was less of a meeting and more an immolation attempt. “We were trying to finalise a report.”

His father looked up sharply in interest.

“You’re working with the Granger girl?” He asked. Draco could almost see the headlines in his eyes- ‘Former Death Eater, Heir Malfoy working alongside Golden Granger.’

“Briefly. I called her out to consult on a case,” he told them uncomfortably. “But after I present our report to the Minister on Monday, that will be the end of our collaboration.”

“Pity.” His father lamented, “A case with such a high-profile war hero would be-”

“Very good for our family image,” Draco finished for him dutifully. He no longer felt hungry. “Yes, I am aware. But given how quickly all of our conversations seem to devolve into murder attempts, I can’t imagine any good headline coming out of that.”

His mother didn’t have anything to say at that point, but when she looked at Draco thoughtfully, it felt uncomfortably as if she could see right down into his bones. He shifted the topic to something less invasive.

“Scorp is doing well learning to walk.” He abruptly told them as the next course floated into the room. “He hasn’t taken any proper steps yet, but he’s getting there.”

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance. “Has there been any sign of Scorpius’s magic coming in?” His mother asked delicately.

He shot her a tight smile. “Not yet. But at the last check, the Healers said it wasn’t anything to worry about. They reckon he’s just a late bloomer.”

His parents did an excellent job hiding their concerns, and his mother gave him a motherly smile.

“That might be from Astoria’s line,” Lucius said gruffly, eating his dessert with careful bites. “Your magic came in at three months old. Daphne Greengrass still doesn’t have hers back, does she?”

Draco gripped his knife tightly. “Scorp’s magic will be nothing like Daphne’s.”

The rest of the meal passed in absolute silence. Draco thought it might actually rank as low as some of the dinners when their villainous dictator was previously en résidence.

“If you have a free minute after dinner,” Lucius asked Draco politely, as if this were some board meeting, “would you be able to join me for a walk around the Manor and examine the wards?”

Draco couldn’t see a way out, so gave an unhappy grunt. After pudding was finished, Narcissa left to give Scorpius’s dinner another attempt (the two wizards standing up as she stood to go), and they made their way to the manor grounds via the library.

“Mr Abernathy told me that Granger gave quite an interesting speech to the Wizengamot this morning on integrating Mud-…Muggle-born families.”

Draco looked at him curiously. Abernathy was his father’s solicitor, representing the Malfoy family seat on Lucius’s behalf. His father had been released from Azkaban only after a shocking four and a half years into his twenty-year sentence- but on parole and mandated house arrest for the rest. It had caused a massive public outcry, but as Lucius had also made a deal with the DMLE to assist with the identification and capture of any remaining escaped Death Eaters who had started to get bold and wreak havoc across parts of England in retaliation, there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“I wouldn’t think you would be interested in anything Granger had to say.” He told his father boldly, arching him a pointed look.

“I have come to find,” Lucius said mildly. “That Miss Granger is starting to have many ideas worth listening to.”

Draco pushed the library’s double doors open, and the familiar smell of wood polish, beeswax and parchment washed over him. The Malfoy library was his favourite room in the house, with its high domed ceilings, tall bookcases laden with thousands of volumes, and plush leather couches waiting for eager readers to flop into for an afternoon.

“She’s exceptionally clever, I’ll give her that.” He muttered grudgingly. “Always has been. Right now, I don’t know anything about what she’s researching in that lab of hers, but whatever it is, it’s got Unspeakable Murrary excited. And they gossip with Warsame every Tuesday morning before the HoD meeting- they don’t give away details, but Warsame reckons it’s something massive.”

He sighed. “I need this nomination for the MAME next year, and once again, Granger might be the only thing in my way.”

The two of them exited the library’s back door to the gardens. They walked in silence past Narcissa’s rosebeds until Lucius spoke again.

“Do you think you stand a chance against her?” His father asked him plainly. “Do you think there’s a world where your Malfoy name would be chosen over hers? No matter how exceptional your research may be.”

And his research was exceptional, Draco knew that- just as he knew any committee had more than enough right to take issue with his name. Was it fair? Probably not. Were many of the things he’d done in his past fair either? Definitely not. He couldn’t really blame them.

“The MAME applications are kept confidential and anonymous until the winner is decided,” Draco explained to his father, sounding more optimistic than he felt. “So unless my involvement got leaked, then yes- I think I’ve got a chance at winning. And winning the MAME on my Mastery topic would be…amazing.”

Lucius made a humming, thoughtful noise at that. Like Narcissa, his father had been heavily involved in Draco’s research from the beginning, going through his muddled, incoherent early write-ups with a gimlet eye generally reserved for business takeovers. Draco had started his Mastery shortly after marrying Astoria in summer of 2004, it had been something he’d wanted to do for a while (and definitely not because Granger had started hers three months earlier.) A year later, after Astoria became sick, he switched topics but didn’t manage to finish it before she died. He’d worked on it here and there during his leave and maybe had six months to go before he was prepared enough to finish.

“If I can get my dissertation presented and approved by next June,” he mused, “my research can be part of next year’s nominations in December.”

His father pondered that fact. Unsurprisingly he had another angle in mind; academic achievement be damned. His father’s favourite angle, in fact.

“And you think this award would help your public image?” Lucius pressed. “Our public image?”

“It’s the most celebrated magical award internationally.” Draco pointed out. “If I were to win the research category, the Malfoy name would be remembered for my work rather than for the things we’ve done…I’ve done.”

He quietly paced forward a few steps, and couldn’t help but add, “Scorpius could grow up in a society where his name won’t be vilified. I could leave a better legacy for his sons than the one you left me. ”

He saw his father rapidly try to hide a flash of regret- and sorrow.

“You know most of what my research is about,” Draco said quietly, “and you know it’s…incredible, Father. The breakthroughs I had when I was on paternity leave, the bits Warsame wants us to keep quiet for now… my work could change the lives of so many people. I’m so close to figuring it all out.”

There was a contemplative pause; Draco felt the weight of the task he’d assigned himself feel heavy once more.

“I want my son to be proud of me,” he finally croaked out. “I want to be proud of myself.”

“Not many Malfoys have gone down in history in a positive light,” Lucius finally said, placing a warm hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I look forward to seeing that happen.”

They spent the rest of the walk in silence until they arrived at the beating heart of the Malfoy estate—the grave of Armand Malfoy, his first ancestor to cross the Channel and establish the Malfoy dynasty in England.

It was in the original centre of the Manor gardens, and Lucius nicked the tip of his thumb on the top-most spear on the family crest on the headstone and allowed a drop of blood to fall onto the tablet flat on the ground above their ancestor’s name. At first, nothing seemed to happen, then a low humming filled the air, and then handsome, glossy emerald-green whisps of the Malfoy family magic revealed themselves, encircling and crossing the Manor grounds and house like a spiderweb. Draco felt them briefly caress his face, and from his vantage point in the gardens, he could see a faint ghoulish gleam emanating from Scorpius’s window as his family magic checked on his mother and son.

The glow of the Malfoy wards lit his father’s eyes eerily up, and Lucius trailed his hands in the air, fingers tuning over the magic as he felt the delicate intricacies of the complex protective layers as dexterously as an expert pianist. Lucius and Draco had been more paranoid than usual- checking on the family wards several times weekly. Not only was the Malfoy family still infamous in Wizarding society, and a lot of residual anger from the public would boil over any time any of the still-escaped former Death Eaters would attempt another public attack (which was still happening with annoying frequency, given Robards had half the bloody Auror team hunting them down), but the Manor also had the occasional breach attempts from Death Eaters on the run.

The information Lucius had provided the DMLE as part of his plea bargain had proven highly successful in the capture and conviction of many notorious ex-associates- much to the bitter fury of any trying to evade incarceration. His father’s deal hadn’t surprised Draco at all- if anything could override his father’s blood purity sentiments, it was self-preservation. It had meant, however, that the Malfoys needed to keep their wits about them and watch out for attacks on two fronts. Making their family seat the base for the entire war effort had resulted in the inevitable (and highly undesirable) fact that everyone knew where the Malfoy family could be found and, so, exactly where to go to get revenge. And many people on both sides wanted revenge.

His father had finished a thorough examination of the wards and looked satisfied— nothing to be concerned about for this week, then.

“Any issues?” Draco cautiously asked.

“There’s a remnant of someone trying to enter the grounds through the northeastern gate on Tuesday.” His father looked suspiciously nonchalant. “Avery, I think, from the magical signature. It looks like he barely made an arm in before the wards cut it off. He won’t be trying that again soon.”

Draco tried not to grimace.

“Great. Can we go back inside now?”

“Wait…” His father caught his arm as he turned to go back inside. “I want you to try this time.”

He sighed, “Must I?”

“Yes.” His father said firmly. “You need to get used to it before-”

“Not this again…” Draco groaned and tried to swivel away, but Lucius pulled him tighter.

“Yes, again. You need the practice. When you take over the lordship-”

“Father, we’ve had this discussion-”

Lucius continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken. “I know you’ve been putting it off, but every Malfoy Lord has taken the family seat at thirty-three. I did, my father did, his father before him. And so will you.” He waved a hand at the family magic still glimmering around them. “The more familiar you are with it, the easier the transition will be.”

Draco abandoned his escape attempts with a huff, seeing no way out. “Fine.”

He lifted his wand and dragged it through the air, twining around the strands of magic. They reached out to him, almost in curiosity, and he allowed them to wind around and through his fingers. His hands warmed as if sticking them into a hot bath on a winter’s day, and any leftover aches and pains from the week’s activities eased away. He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, he felt better than he had in months, his mind and magic at ease. His heart rate slowed, and with every beat, he could feel connected to the magic running through the Manor- everything from the floating books in the library, the talking paintings lining the corridors, the faint sparks of his family’s assorted familiars, the scorching presence of his parents and son, to the deep subterranean pulsing of the protective wards encircling the Manor grounds, primed to protect its inhabitants from any harm.

The magic seemed to whisper in his ear, almost sentinently: Come. You and your blood belong here. Here, you will be safe. Here, you will be loved.

He pulled his back sharply, and the connection was gone.

“One day, you will take my place,” his father looked at him seriously, “and your magic will join the hundreds of Malfoys before you in the protection of our home, of our family. That will be the legacy you leave for Scorpius.”

Draco’s voice was as cool as the autumn chill in the evening air.

“My legacy will be whatever I want it to be.”

He swirled away, back to the Manor, and left his father standing silently, surrounded by the ghosts of their ancestors and their magic.

Draco wasn’t brave enough to head back to his flat, with only Scorpius for company, so he elected to stay at the Manor for the night—this time in the eastern guest wing, far away from his former family suite.

It was close to midnight, and he still couldn’t sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up and stood to stare at the rolling gardens of the Manor through the guest window. A slight movement pulled his attention away, and he looked down at Scorpius, tucked up into a cot next to his bed, fussing a bit. Moonlight had caught the strands of fine pale hair, making them glow like spun silver, his chubby face scrunched up in formless dreams. He truly was the best thing Draco had ever done, living proof of some intangible goodness left in him.

He trailed a finger over Scorpius’s small hand, marvelling at each perfectly tiny fingernail, and Scorp quietened down, soothed by his father’s touch. Draco knew sleep wouldn’t come quickly, not until he did something he’d put off doing for a year. He left Scorpius sleeping, not before casting a range of thorough monitoring charms, and crept through the Manor, taking the various twists and turns with little thought, familiarity making the trip pass in a blur until he reached the double doors of the South Wing. He slunk up a staircase spiralling higher and higher until he came to a small, nondescript door- he pushed it open, and the familiar earthy smell of oil paint washed over him.

Astoria’s studio looked like it hadn’t been touched since the day she died. The only evidence it hadn’t been forgotten about completely was the lack of dust coating the easels or the empty fruit bowl, whose previous occupants had been removed before they rotted. Draco walked around, still feeling like an intruder, even though Astoria hadn’t been in the room for over a year. The space was so obviously hers- a shawl left draped over the back of a chair, paintbrushes set up in anticipation for her next project, a half-finished sketch waiting on a table- it was almost like she was about to walk back in again, ready to start her next project. He closed his eyes, but when he re-opened them, the room was just as cold and empty as before.

He turned towards the biggest easel in the centre of the room and dragged a chair over to it. The easel was head-height and covered with a heavy white cloth- Draco pulled it off carefully. Astoria’s nearly finished self-portrait stood proudly underneath it, and Draco gazed at it in awe. She hadn’t let him see it before she died- wanting it to be a surprise but hadn’t managed to complete it. His eyes tracked over it hungrily- she had done a phenomenal job, as always. She had carefully painted herself in immaculate detail, from the tiny birthmark under her eye to the subtle dimples Scorp had inherited. Her heart-shaped face gazed up at him, eyelids fluttering open as the enchantments activated, and the portrait shot him a wave, flicking her dark pin-straight hair elegantly over her shoulders.

“Hi, Tori,” Draco whispered.

The portrait said nothing back. Astoria, supremely proud of her perfect cupid’s bow, had been fussing about her lips the week before she died- and never finished them, leaving the centre of the painting blank. Her portrait stared mutely up at Draco, gazing at him fondly but unable to let him listen to the one voice he would give anything to hear once more.

“I miss you,” he told her, “Scorp does too; he’s getting so big.”

Silent tears tracked down the painting, and Draco leaned forward, instinctively reaching to wipe them away, but caught his hand at the last second. He turned around and moved his chair next to the easel.

“I saw Daff today,” he began conversationally, “she misses you too. You won’t believe what she’s up to now, talking about getting ducks. I thought the goats were bad enough…”

Astoria’s portrait closed his eyes in contentment as he began talking. He leaned back- he couldn’t leave Scorpius alone for much longer, but he allowed himself a little time with the last faint shadow of his best friend after months of not having the courage.

“Do you remember when you fell in that river? That was a six hundred galleon suit I was wearing, you know.”

For now, he could pretend, and so, for the first time in a year, with his eyes closed and his head resting against the cool canvas, Draco finally let himself feel at peace.

Chapter Text

Hermione got to work bright and early Monday morning, ready to start the week. She was there so early, in fact, that she had to weave past the cleaning staff sweeping the empty Ministry corridors and dusting the glossy handrails. Clutching her takeaway coffee protectively to her chest, she went down the lift and to her office.

It was her favourite place in the world; every time she walked in, it felt like coming home. It was a decent size, nice and square, with lovely high ceilings framed by intricate crown moulding. Her walls groaned with books, shelves running from the wooden floorboards to the wonky chandelier- tomes on everything from magical medicine, astronomy, and carnivorous plants to obscure Mongolian charmwork. Her own research took up a wall of its own, where Muggle textbooks mingled freely with magical, while some of her calculations were scribbled in felt-tip pen on her opened office bay window. The only wall without shelves was hardly empty; her collection of carefully framed degrees, certificates and awards were arranged in an artful puzzle around each other, perfectly catching the eye of any visitors and reminding them who they were about to deal with. 

Her floor was thickly covered in warm Persian rugs, and potted plants dotted the floor (all gifts from Neville) while some hung from the ceiling or shelves, fronds trailing gently in the breeze. Her desk was large and eye-catching- a handsome cherry wood with carved runes down its legs, and instead of visitor chairs, a large, endearingly ugly, squishy, pink velvet couch had been shoved against the wall opposite it, underneath her collection of assorted frames. Hermione had spent many nights asleep on it after working way beyond closing time, too tired to Floo herself home. Next to it stood a sturdy matching side table hosting a kettle, some mugs, a fern overfilling out of its pot and a beaker with something yellow in it. 

She quickly headed into her lab to check that everything was in order. Murray had sent her an owl late the night before confirming that they would be popping by for a quick chat sometime in the morning, and while Hermione’s office favoured organised chaos, her lab was obsessively tidy. She hadn’t had a chance to see it after her undergrads left on Friday and, after the acid incident, was a little more cautious than usual. 

She was greeted with the hum of equipment (all cleverly enchanted to override the Ministry’s anti-Muggle charms), perfectly straight rows of shining test tubes and meticulously organised notes from the previous day from her favourite student ready for her to go through on the middle workbench. 

Unspeakable Robin Murray’s visit was a massive inconvenience; she hated the sudden schedule change. She had a daily planner, a monthly planner, Godric, even a five-year planner. Robin knew that if they wanted to see her, they needed to send a quick memo at least 24 hours in advance so that she could update her daily diary (with its neatly organised coloured tabs) accordingly. It didn’t help that her entire schedule last week had been turned upside-down after her impromptu trip to Skye, and she was still playing catch-up after the extra workload allocation. 

After her lab inspection, she set up in her office and paged through her student’s notes absent-mindedly. Interesting results… she was very chuffed with them. 

Half an hour later, a firm knock pulled her away. Her boss strode into her office, threw a disdainful look at her couch, Transfigured a potplant into a firm Queen Anne chair with floral cushions and settled down in it.

At first glance, Unspeakable Murray seemed unremarkable- with mousey hair, average build, and broad, almost frog-like, hands. But where their appearance would be quickly forgotten should you see them on the street, they were otherwise exceptionally, almost unforgettably, intelligent. Hermione wasn’t one for false modesty; she knew she was incredibly clever. Her whole adolescence, she had been lauded as the brightest witch of her age, had the best NEWT scores in six hundred years, and a graduating mark of 132% from her university to prove it. Not only did her boss more than match her brains, however, but they also had an ability she did not- to break down complex data and information and translate them to someone who might not find it as simple to understand, with gentle patience and good humour. Hermione was honest enough to admit that was not a skill she was ever likely to have.

“Are those the results from Emma?” Her boss asked, pulling them over to flick through. “Ah. Very interesting. Look, you predicted those increases exactly. You should-”

“Cross-reference them with the stats from the census, I know.” Hermione finished and pulled the notes back to her. “I’m on it already. I asked Theo to pop by Level 2 and get copies on his way in.”

“You don’t fancy heading over there yourself?” Robin asked mildly, settling down in their chair. “Or are you still adamant you won’t step foot inside the admin office?”

Hermione curled her lip. “The day they apologise for setting up that disgusting Muggle-born Registration Commission is the day I’ll visit.”

Her boss watched her thoughtfully, dark eyes unreadable. Hermione hadn’t asked but had heard plenty of rumours around the office soon after starting. According to Theo (who was a font of all knowledge when it came to other people’s business), Robin had been a high-ranking Unspeakable during the war but had been sent to Azkaban after publically condemning the so-called ‘research’ put out by the Department of Mysteries on the Ministry’s behalf claiming Muggle-borns hadn’t been born with innate magic, but instead had stolen it from ‘proper’ witches and wizards. 

Her boss had never confirmed it to Hermione, but once or twice, she had seen the telltale glimmer of a Glamour Charm behind their right ear- highly suspicious for an Azkaban inmate number tattoo.

“Fair enough.” Her boss finally said and quickly changed the topic. “I’m considering offering Emma a position here once she graduates next year. Thoughts?”

She chatted happily with them for a few minutes (“Of course, I’d have Emma placed with me in the Love Chamber to start with. I could hardly subject her to Theo full-time straight away; she’d leave after a week!”) until Robin sat back, and suddenly looked solemn.

“I want you to go to the Samhain ball this year,” they told her firmly. “It’s one of the big Ministry fundraisers- so it’ll be full of potential donors for you. It’s a brilliant chance to show your face, talk about your research, and get some interest in it. Keep it interesting and light, mind. No more lectures on theoretical transmogrification. Lucille Fawley has been avoiding you since Christmas 2005 after you cornered her at the appetisers.”

They could see the protest forming on Hermione’s face and quickly shut her down.

“I’m not suggesting you go—I’m telling you to. This is an invaluable opportunity to get more funding—you need to take advantage of it.” The look on her boss’s face told Hermione how serious they were. “We face the real possibility your research funds could be significantly lower next year, maybe even terminated- unless we can source some alternative financing.”

“Is it really that bad? What about the other Unspeakables?” Hermione felt a flash of worry. She knew funding was always a problem, even more so now that Malfoy had drawn more and more interest away from her work, but Theo hadn’t said anything to her about the possibility of his research being affected.

Robin sighed. “Listen, Hermione, the budget assessment will start soon; the third financial quarter’s just finished up. And to be honest with you, I’m pretty sure our department budget will be slashed next year. I’ve heard building the new Curse-breaking offices is costing much more than expected, so the Ministry is scrambling to pull funding from anywhere to finish it.”

Hermione held back a scowl—bloody Curse-breakers. Yet again, the department had found a new way to vex her.

Her boss paused and delicately steepled their fingers. 

“I know your work is important. I do, and I am proud of everything you’ve done so far.”

Hermione beamed the unexpected compliment, but Robin continued.

“I know that funding has always been an issue for our department. With only the Minister knowing what we do in detail, getting private sponsors has always been tricky. But you must admit, Hermione, your research, your Mastery topic that you’ll soon be presenting, is beyond contentious.”

There was a pause; her boss looked at her sternly. “Many in our society will do anything to stop it from coming to light- that’s why we’ve kept it top-secret, even more than usual. And presenting your dissertation will be one of your only opportunities as an Unspeakable to talk about your research publically- you need to get as many people interested in attending as possible.”

Hermione digested that. She knew her boss was right. She would defend the fuck out of her work. It was highly objective, well researched and expertly sourced. She was confident she (and it) would stand up well to the intense scrutiny soon to be sent their way. But she knew she would soon drop a bombshell into Wizarding society. She had chosen not to think about how badly she knew some of the Pureblood families would receive it, which might’ve been a bit of a mistake in hindsight. 

“I think your research is the best to have come from this Department.” Her boss stated plainly, much to Hermione’s shocked delight. “And I think you would be a serious contender for the MAME, should you be nominated. You could very well win. What you’ve discovered will change the foundations of our beliefs about magic. But we both know, unfortunately, that many won’t be ready to hear it. You need to create an alliance of families in society who won’t deny it when it’s released to the public; otherwise, you risk it being smothered by some of those old Pureblood families and quickly forgotten about when more interesting, more conforming work comes out-Malfoy’s for example.”

They waved a hand at the stack of notes on her desk. “And if I’m right and you want to continue with research once your Mastery is presented, you won’t have a chance in hell if you don’t have reliable donors established soon. And the pool of those right now is unsustainably small.”

“Fine. I see your point.” Hermione let loose a deep sigh.

She knew she had no other option. What her boss was saying was harsh but true. It was time to face what she’d been avoiding since she started her research over two years ago- she could no longer afford to finance most of it herself. And even if she did win the MAME, while she might get enough funding to finance whatever she wanted for life without needing any private sponsors, there was almost no point if her name was ostracised in society by the eminent Purebloods still running it. She would never be taken seriously, and none of her research would be considered credible. 

“Kingsley sent me a memo,” her boss told her. “He heard you’re sitting in on Malfoy’s report and wants to chat with you after. Wonder if Malfoy will stay behind, too.”

And maybe getting confirmation about a MAME nomination was the unspoken rest of the sentence, but Hermione knew her boss was also thinking about it. 

“I don’t know what Malfoy’s working on, but Remus said it’s got Kingsley excited.” She told them bitterly. “He said Kingsley is considering putting Malfoy’s name forward as a potential MAME nominee too.”

“Well, if Malfoy’s research is really that good, I can see why Kings would do that.” Her boss replied, and Hermione tried to ignore the sting of betrayal. “It would be a great achievement to have a British winner, but do you think that without the Minster of Magic’s name attached, any of Malfoy’s works would even reach the panel for consideration?”

Hermione pondered that. Unfortunately for Malfoy, she had to admit that was probably true. While the MAME nominees were kept anonymous to the panel of international judges, they still had to be referred to the committee for consideration by either a previous winner or a notable member of society. Kingsley would definitely be progressive (and ambitious) enough to support Malfoy’s idea, should he think it merited it.

“Get a nice outfit and someone to do your hair.” Her boss instructed Hermione, standing up to leave. “Make an evening of it. You never know; it might be fun.”

Hermione sincerely doubted that but appreciated her boss’s optimism.

“I want my potplant back!” She shouted as Robin walked out of her office. There was a chuckle, and her plant returned to its normal form with a rustle, its leaves slightly bent.

Hermione spent another hour catching up with the lab paperwork from the week before and then another recalibrating one of her recording devices when another knock at the door had her looking up.

“What?” She snapped. 

Theo stood at her doorway, happily waving a packet of papers in her direction.

“Hullo sweetness,” he crooned. “Busy morning?”

“Interruption!” Her enchanted planner squeaked; Hermione closed it with a snap.

Theo strolled into her office and plonked himself on the corner of her desk. Hermione tried to pull her equipment away quickly, but Theo snatched it up before she could get to it.

“Oooh, what’s this?” 

He looked at the dials and gauges with interest and fiddled with one of the golden wires spiralling from the top. Hermione flicked the top of his hand with a nail firmly.

“Ow!”

“Don’t meddle! You might break it; it’s still a prototype.” She smiled excitedly at Theo’s look of intrigue. “This is my newest invention for a research idea I had. It’s a device to measure magical activity; I based it off an ammeter.”

Seeing Theo’s look of confusion, she elaborated further. 

“An ammeter is a Muggle device that measures electrical current. I wondered if it was possible to do the same for magic.”

“Ah, yes.” Theo said wisely, “ekleticity. I’ve heard about that.”

“I’m sure you have,” Hermione said fondly. “Not too sure what the practical applications could be yet, but I’m going to set it up in my office and hook it into the wards to see if it picks up anything interesting over the next few weeks.”

Theo nodded in understanding and triumphantly smacked down Hermione’s requested paperwork, making himself more comfortable on her desk, still fiddling with her invention.

“Here’s the stats from the census you asked for. I took a quick look myself-” He grinned. “Shocking stuff! I can’t wait for you to present your Mastery. It's going to send all the House Heads in the Wizengamot into an absolute tizzy.”

Hermione smiled at him as sharply as a cat. “That is the general idea. As head of your House, do I have your continued support, Lord Nott?”

“You have it and more,” Theo said grandly. “In fact, sweetness, why don’t you marry me and take over running House Nott yourself? You’d do a much better job of it than my advisor could.”

He shot her a wink, and Hermione couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Theo looked quite affronted.

“Thanks for the offer, Theo, but I’ve never been good at sharing.”

Theo shook his head. “Typical only child- there would be plenty of love to go around.”

He wriggled his eyebrows at her, and Hermione laughed again.

“I’d set you on fire within a week.”

“Probably true,” Theo said cheerfully, “but death by Hermione Granger, what a way to go.”

He jumped off her desk and flopped onto her couch, still absent-mindedly running his fingers over her device.

“Did Murray instruct you to go to the Samhain Ball too?” He asked, studiously looking at Hermione’s wall of certificates.

“Yes.” Hermione snapped, “I can’t believe they’re making me go; Samhain would be a fantastic time to get baseline readings. Instead, I have to share crudités with a bunch of people who tried to kill me a decade ago.”

Theo flinched, and she felt a sting of guilt. His father, Thoros Nott, had been a notoriously high-ranking Death Eater and had proudly boasted about his torture and killing of a Muggle-born commune on his way to receiving the Kiss. Theo, however, had been a different story. She didn’t know him in Hogwarts, just as a lanky, timid boy skulking behind Malfoy and his cronies. He’d never stopped them from calling her a Mudblood, but she had noticed he’d never laughed either. It was only after they both started at Oxford in September 2000 that they became friends, and she mourned the time and circumstances that had prevented them from becoming so earlier.

She knew he’d undergone a trial in front of the Wizengamot- being the son of such a notorious Death Eater had made his involvement in the war almost guaranteed, but she had been so busy prepping for Malfoy’s that she hadn’t attended. She’d read the transcripts, though (she’d asked Ron to swipe them from their archive when in university, it became clear Theo had attached himself to her like a handsome barnacle), and what she read about the testimonies about how badly his father had treated Theo, how he’d been all but tortured while in his care for years after Theo’s mother died, and how he’d spend most of her seventh gear under his fathers Imperius Curse had made her more confident that appealing for leniency during her classmates’ trials was the right decision to so. They had been children, for fuck’s sake- a thought that was becoming more haunting with every passing year. 

Theo looked shifty again, which did wonders for pulling her thoughts away from the dark spiral they sometimes tended to scurry down.

“They are quite tedious, aren’t they?” Theo said, leaning back in his seat nonchalantly. “These Ministry events.”

With an elegant wave of his wand, he set some hot water steaming away in her whistle kettle, and a pair of mugs floated over to them both. 

Hermione eyed him with great suspicion. Theo wasn’t usually this well-mannered. The last time she’d seen him like this, he’d accidentally spilt his attempts at recreating Time Turner dust in her office en route to showing her, reverting all her potplants to seedlings, and was trying to charm himself out of trouble.

“Yes,” she said cautiously. “Very tedious.”

“Wouldn’t you think then,” Theo said, picking at a nail and studiously refusing to make eye contact, “that going with someone might make it more enjoyable?”

“I suppose so,” Hermione said nonplussed, “having a friendly face with me might make it less dreadfully dull.”

Theo looked cheered. 

“Right then, so do you want to go?”

Hermione stared at him. “Together? You and I?”

Theo deflated slightly. “Well, yes. I was hardly suggesting you go with Kevin in accounting. Why not with me?”

She thought about it for a second. Theo was charming and handsome enough to woo many potential donors and, unlike her, would know who the top dogs at the party were, if not personally, then by name. People easily liked him, in a way they often struggled to do with her. The more she thought about it, the better of an idea it sounded.

“I think that’s a great idea!” She declared.

“Really?” Theo asked, incredulously delighted, but quickly changed his expression to something more neutral. “Ah, good. Excellent.”

He grinned at her, and Hermione felt her opinion of the event rise dramatically. 

“You’re right, Theo; going with a friend will make the evening much more fun. And we can network together; Robin will be thrilled.”

Theo’s face froze slightly, but he smoothly floated a business card over to her. 

“I’ve already designed my outfit, so I’ll send you an owl with the specs. If we’re going together, we’ll need to match. It’ll be a formal event, so dress robes and house colours will be expected.”

Hermione stared at him. “House colours? What do you mean by that?”

“Sorry,” Theo said hurriedly. I thought you would know. For these traditional festivals, it’s still customary for the Old Houses to dress in their House colours.”

At Hermione’s blank look, he expounded further. 

“Black and silver for the Black family, gold for the Shacklebolts, green for the Malfoys, and the Potters are bronze, I believe... Anyway, the Nott House colour is blue.”

“Why didn’t I know about this earlier?” Hermione demanded. “Ron never said anything- I wore pink to the last one! Would everyone think I belonged to the Weasley house or something?”

“No, Weasleys are orange,” Theo told her in amusement. “Ghastly colour. Blue is so much better. Besides-” He paused and looked slightly apologetic, “people wouldn’t expect you to be wearing house colours because, well…”

“I’m not a Pureblood,” Hermione stated for him. “And I wasn’t born into some fancy house.”

The kettle whistled through her office. Theo summoned the kettle over and poured them a cup of black tea.

“Well, technically,” Theo said sheepishly, “most Purebloods aren’t born into Noble Houses—the same for your Muggles, I believe.”

Hermione had to admit that was true.

“And it’s not just members of the family that belong to a house,” Theo continued, “any wards or vassals who have sworn loyalty to that house can wear the colours, too.” He cackled a bit. “You did cause a bit of flurry when you were still dating Weasley and went to the Midsummer ball in Rosier crimson. But we all put that down to you not knowing the culture rather than having some sordid affair.”

Hermione felt her head was spinning. How had she missed these social cues before?

“Sworn to a house? What do you mean sworn to a house?” She demanded.

“If you aren’t lucky enough to be born into a Noble house or invited to be a ward,” Theo told her patiently, “you can swear fealty to one and bind your magic to it. It’s a quid pro quo- your magic strengthens the family magic, and the family gets a skilled member with talents they can use to their advantage. You benefit by having access to the family grimoires, massive magic reserves, and title benefits, and historically, your rank was slightly elevated. You’re not on the same level as anyone born into the family or a ward who was asked to join, but with the backing of your chosen family, you would command more respect and power than if you were houseless. Downside is you can’t turn against the House- the spell demands complete fidelity. You try to backstab it, and the magic would turn on you and kill you.”

Here, Theo paused and looked slightly miserable. “And you’re also supposed to obey your Head of House should they command it.”

Now, he looked terribly uncomfortable. 

“You-Know-Who took advantage of that during the war, making heads of Houses force their vassals into doing things they might not’ve done otherwise unless really pushed.”

“So being a vassal takes away your free will?” Hermione was aghast. “How is that legal?”

“No,” Theo rushed to reassure her. “You aren’t forced; the magic just encourages you to follow your Head’s direction. You can refuse—it just takes a lot from you. It’s notoriously hard, but it can be done.”

He looked pensive. Hermione was willing to bet he’d had plenty of experience with that before his year-long Imperius.

Theo seemed to redirect his musings forcefully and shot Hermione a too-fake smile. “But I’m not the expert on this kind of thing. It’s not done much nowadays, anyway. If you want to know more, Pan- one of my friends knows loads about it.”

Hermione felt she had vastly underestimated Robin’s instructions and now regretted not putting up more of a fight.

“How formal is formal?” She asked nervously.

“Samhain is a big event for us. So that’ll mean we need to look our best.” He shot Hermione a dubious look. “And you are a public figure anyway. Do you have any sapphires?”

She gawked at him and gave a bit of a startled laugh. “Sapphires?”

“Little blue stones,” Theo told her patronisingly. “Often in jewellery.”

He finished meddling around with her recording device, placed it on her side table, and stared at her assessingly. “Tanzanite, maybe?”

“Of course, I don’t own sapphires, Theo,” Hermione snapped. “I’m not Diana bloody Spencer.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Theo whined back. “Really? Nothing at all?”

“I’ve got a nice gold necklace with a small diamond that my parents got me; take it or leave it.”

He made a face like Hermione was considering wearing clogs to the event and sighed deeply with disappointment. “Oh well. It would’ve been a good show if you were all decked up. That would’ve made Skeeter apoplectic. Diamonds will have to do; at least gold will match the blue.”

“A diamond,” Hermione corrected him. “Singular.”

“Anyway,” Theo continued, ignoring her with elegant seamlessness. “Should I send my robe design to you, or do you have a preferred modiste it can go to so we can match?”

“A modiste?” Hermione asked him faintly, feeling like this conversation was heading down another confusing spiral.

“Dressmaker,” Theo pointed sternly at her. “I won’t have you wearing something off the rack. This is a big event. Custom made only.”

He paused, and began to look a little stressed. “We are a bit short on time, Samhain is coming up soon. Normally making these things takes ages, but we’ll make a plan. Parks- I’ll arrange for something to be made on special order.”

Hermione was starting to feel out of her depth; Theo looked at her benignly. “I see this is a bit overwhelming for you. Never mind. I’ll get a good recommendation for a modiste from a friend and owl you with the details.”

Custom-made robes. Those sounded expensive. Too expensive. Christ, if she were going to blow money on something, she’d rather it be for her lab, not something frivolous that would barely make page three of the Daily Prophet. 

“I’m not paying for some custom robes I’ll only wear to one event, Theo,” she argued. “Absolutely not.” 

“Well, of course not,” Theo looked shocked, “as an invitee of House Nott, I’ll supply your outfit.”

“That’s even worse!” Hermione cried, “I can’t accept that!”

“That wasn’t an offer,” Theo told her seriously. “As my guest, it would be expected of me; I would be seen as terribly stingy if I didn’t.”

Seeing the indecision on her face, a pleading tone entered his voice. “Please, please come with me,” he begged, “It’ll be ghastly going alone.” He shot her a winning smile. “I’ll buy you a new microscope for your lab.”

Hermione paused. She really could do with a new one. One of the undergrads had smeared oil on the 40x lens last week and fucked the whole thing up.

“Fine.” She conceded, ungraciously.

Theo pumped a fist in the air as if he had won some great victory; Hermione vaguely felt like she had just been managed like a fussy child. A sudden idea hit her.

“Can’t I just borrow some of the Nott family jewellery?”

Theo, who was busy sipping his tea, choked and spat bits of tea on her desk.

“What?” He asked hoarsely.

“When I broke into the Lestrange vault-”

“You broke into the Lestrange vault?” Theo squeaked in horror, but Hermione waved him away.

“It was full of fancy bits and bobs. Necklaces, earrings, a tiara or two. Presumably, the Nott vault is much the same.”

Theo looked at her like she’d asked him to compute an advanced mathematical equation. Hermione saw him mouth bits and bobs under his breath.

“You broke- no, wait.” He seemed uncharacteristically flustered. “Yes, we do have family jewellery. Traditionally kept in a separate vault, but...”

He paused, and Hermione could’ve sworn the hint of a blush stained his olive skin.

“But you can’t wear any of that.”

“Why not?” Hermione demanded. It seemed perfectly reasonable to her. If Theo was expected to provide her robes, then surely asking for accessories wasn’t too much to ask.

“Well, borrowing House jewellery when you don’t belong to it wouldn’t be proper.” 

Theo looked the most scandalised she’d ever seen him, and she’d once bumped into him mid-hookup at her birthday party last year. He’d laughed that off just fine, much to the other wizard’s mortification. 

“The only way it would be acceptable for you to wear the House jewellery was if you were Lady Nott.”

A definite flush dusted Theo’s cheeks, and Hermione felt her ears burn too.

“Right. Never mind, then. I’ll wear my own.” She said hurriedly and took a sip of her tea.

“Meeting with Malfoy!” Her calendar chimed, slightly muffled under the paperwork, and Theo looked relieved at the interruption. 

He sprung off her couch. “I should head off. Are you meeting with Draco again? I thought your collaboration ended last week?”

“I’m meeting him at Kingsley’s office before lunch. He’s presenting our report from Skye; I want to sit in, too.” She scowled. “Make sure he doesn’t short-change my contribution.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Theo soothed her. “Draco might be a moody, fussy, overdramatic git. But he is honest.” He paused. “Annoyingly so actually- terribly un-Slytherin-like.”

“Kingsley wants to speak with me after,” Hermione fiddled with the handle of her mug. “I wonder if Malfoy will be staying too.”

She didn’t have to explain why; a sharp look of interest crossed Theo’s face. “Well, go easy on Draco if he’s nominated too,” he told her. “Poor sod’s still recovering from last week.”

“I can’t be rude to Malfoy- not just after the anniversary of his wife’s death,” Hermione pointed out moodily. “But if he gets nominated instead of me, I might actually kill him.”

A grimace crossed Theo’s face, and Hermione quickly remembered that Astoria had been his friend, too. Oops.

“Let me know what happens,” He told her sympathetically. “I won’t bail you out, but it’ll give me a good story for the press.” With that charming promise, he danced out of her office, shouting promises of sending her an owl shortly.

Hermione had a few blissful minutes to herself, getting ready to leave, when another knock on her door had her looking up in annoyance. Harry’s familiar messy hair and bright grin greeted her, and her irritation abated slightly.

“Heya Mione.” He strolled in and stood before her desk. “Sorry to pop in, I know you’ve got your...” he waved a hand vaguely, “system.”

Hermione did her best not to be annoyed by the fact that everyone around her knew she had a protocol for appointments but chose to ignore it.

“Ron reminded me you wanted this.” Harry finished. He tossed a small file on her desk, presumably the post-mortem reports of their unicorn case.

“Anything interesting?” She asked, grabbing it and quickly flicking through it. 

“Nothing.” Harry looked gloomy. “Robards isn’t too happy, but the deaths seem to have stopped for now, so we’re putting the case on back-burner. There’s been a spike in Inferi attacks recently. I heard some Curse-breakers got badly hurt, too, so he wants all hands on deck there.”

Hermione reached the end of the report, but nothing stood out, so she carefully placed it in her pigeonhole to read more thoroughly after meeting with Malfoy.

“I wonder,” she mused, “if you shouldn’t get a second opinion from a Muggle veterinary pathologist. These tests so far all look magical. I know unicorns don’t normally get sick like normal horses, but what if some Muggle tests can pick up on something our lot missed?”

She rummaged around in her draw for a scrap of paper and a quill, scribbled a name and handed it over to Harry.

“One of the Muggle-born secretaries I used to work with in the Beasts department has a husband who’s an equine vet at the Royal Veterinary College here in London. Maybe they could repeat a post-mortem there. Won’t break the Statue of Secrecy if he does it; one of the Magi-vets could assist him.”

Harry looked relieved. “That’s a great suggestion; thanks, Mione. Robards will be chuffed we’re trying something more.”

He paused a little, his smile fading, and he looked oddly troubled. Hermione gazed at him sharply.

“Everything ok?”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione’s calendar chimed at her and, in a slightly stressed voice, reminded her that she was running late for her upcoming meeting.

“No, everything’s fine,” Harry said quickly. “Cheers, Mione. See you for dinner Wednesday.”

He hurried out, and she gazed after him, feeling slightly unsettled. Something was wrong, she knew it- but if Harry didn’t want to tell her, then she’d see if she could bully it out of Ron.

Hermione raced to the elevator and headed to Level One- the Minister’s office- to meet Malfoy and Kingsley. Much to her fury, Malfoy beat her there and was already waiting; he greeted her with a polite nod. At the sight of his face, any previous internal decision not to be rude to him vanished like smoke and the habitual urge to flash him her middle finger kicked in. She admirably resisted.

“Granger.” He said coldly.

“Malfoy,” she replied, equally as passionately, and then promptly ignored him for a quarter of an hour. Malfoy eventually couldn’t take the silence any longer. 

“Does Kingsley want to speak with you after my presentation?”

“Our presentation.” She told him primly. “Yes. He does.”

They each side-eyed the other. Were they finally going to get confirmation about their much-rumored MAME nominations?

Another silence fell, and Hermione felt no inclination to break it. Their appointment time came and went, and after ten minutes, Hermione couldn’t help but tap her fingers against her thigh in irritation.

“Can you stop that?” Malfoy demanded, looking very put out. “It’s very annoying.”

“Oh, am I bothering you?” Hermione asked him sweetly. “I’m sorry that checking you’re not going to screw me over is a bit of an inconvenience.”

“I’m not going to do that, Granger.” Malfoy hissed and gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Besides, if anyone here is likely to screw-”

“Oh please, Malfoy. You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get one over me for ages-”

“-we made a promise. Why can’t you trust me to keep it?”

Hermione felt a bolt of fury. “Oh yes, because historically, you’ve always kept every promise you made me. Isn’t that right?”

A dark flush tinged Malfoy’s cheekbones, and he had nothing to say to that. She smiled vindictively at him, and his flush spread in anger. They simmered in silence before Malfoy decided on a highly effective redirection for her anger.

“Wonder what the Minister wants to speak to us about.” He mused in faux-thoughtfulness; he looked almost pleased by the flicker of fury that crossed her face at the confirmation that Kinglsey also wanted a word with him too.

“Whatever could it be for?” Hermione mused sarcastically, “Nothing to do with our respective research, I imagine.”

Malfoy smiled smugly at her. “I’ll be sure to thank you when I do win.” He told her graciously, “Your research has done wonders for mine—makes it look much more interesting by comparison.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. Unfortunately, that was likely very true.

“No way your work will win over mine.” She told him confidently. “I’d bet on it.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows raised. “Would you really?”

Hermione suddenly felt like she was teetering towards danger but refused to back out now. “Yes,” she stated again. “What I’ve discovered is groundbreaking. Even Theo thinks it’s quite spectacular.”

Malfoy looked a bit sulky at the reminder that his best friend was so involved in her work, while he himself knew nothing but quickly made his face unreadable. “And if I told you I’d read some of your work left around in Theo’s office?”

“Then I’d say you were bluffing,” Hermione told him calmly, “considering I’ve charmed all my papers to temporarily blind anyone who tried to read them if they’re not part of my team.”

Malfoy now looked both slightly horrified and miffed that she’d caught him in his lie and scowled back at her in reply.

“If you two want to stop squabbling,” Kingsley’s deep voice rumbled through the air, and Hermione and Malfoy jumped apart on instinct, like guilty children. “I’m ready to see you now.”

They traipsed after Kingsley into his office, and Hermione carefully sat in one of his large leather chairs while Kingsley sat behind his desk and gestured for Malfoy to begin.

“Have you finished with the translations, Hermione?” Kingsley asked her.

She handed over her pages of work; it had taken the whole weekend, but she had finally finished the night before. Annoyingly, there wasn’t any helpful information about the demon on it. Professor Warsame had been right- a druidess was buried in the centre, and most of the writings spoke about her achievements, old age, and extraordinary magical ability. But nothing that could shed light on the weird events on Skye, unfortunately. Kingsley had a quick flick through, Malfoy peering over his shoulder, then gestured for them to begin.

She had to admit that Malfoy spoke well. He succinctly broke down their time on Skye and raised the issues they both identified without making them look like clueless idiots. She thought a PowerPoint presentation would’ve made the whole thing much better, but Malfoy provided some very nice visuals using photos taken by his intern. Kingsley didn’t say a word during the report; he just fixed his dark eyes thoughtfully on Malfoy and took the occasional note.

To his credit, Malfoy shared the credit equally between them, highlighting her contributions as much as his own. He commended her on her defence of Lupin when the demon tried to pull him back while simultaneously praising his skill at reinforcing the shield work in a way so subtle it, unfortunately, couldn’t be called arrogant.

“So lots of raised issues then,” Kingsley finally said, tapping the nib of his quill. “I will not lie to you both; I am...alarmed by what I’ve heard this morning.”

“We are too, Minister,” Hermione said; still standing, Malfoy nodded in support.

“There’s a lot of things here that neither of us could explain despite plenty of experience in our respective fields.” He added.

Kingsley paused. “I have stationed a team of Aurors on Skye to keep an eye on things, and so far, no changes have been reported.” He said thoughtfully. “I also have Professor Warsame monitoring the wards keeping the demon in, and she’s confirmed that the wards have held strong since you left, and the demon has gone dormant once more.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “If I’m being honest, I’m not exactly sure how to proceed. For now, the situation seems stable. I’m happy to continue monitoring for a while, but it can’t continue indefinitely, especially with how busy the Auror office has been recently.”

Hermione and Malfoy listened with equally bated breath.

Kingsley sighed. “I plan to task Unspeakable Murray and Professor Warsame with investigating this further. Malfoy, your report of the wards failing sounds like it should be followed up by a Curse-breaker, and Hermione, your record of seeing this Pictish woman sounds like just the job for an Unspeakable. Thank you both for your remarkable efforts last week; my commendations will be sent to your offices.”

“With all due respect, Minister,” Malfoy’s voice was calm and neutral, but Hermione could see the frustration in his eyes. “As the primary Curse-breaker on the case, shouldn’t I be involved further?”

Hermione refused to let him investigate such an exciting case alone. Absolutely not. Once it was declassified, the public interest in it would be huge. This was too good an opportunity to let pass by.

“And me, Minister?” She chipped in, “I do run the Theoretical Magic office; whatever strange magic we both saw wasn’t normal. Out of anyone in the Ministry, I have the most experience dealing with unknown magics. I should remain involved, too.”

Kingsley eyed them both long-sufferingly. “The reason I’ve decided not to keep you on further is part of why I want to speak with you both today.”

Hermione saw Malfoy tense up, and she leaned further out of her chair in anticipation. 

“It’s not a secret,” Kingsley said slowly, “that the pair of you are remarkable academics.”

He shot them both a stern look, and Hermione felt her smugness at being called remarkable abate slightly. 

“It’s also well known that you two despise each other and have been the biggest thorns in my side since I took this office.”

He crossed his arms and motioned for Malfoy to sit in the chair next to Hermione. Malfoy did so with extreme reluctance. 

“And I am taking the four assassination attempts from rogue Death Eaters into account.” He looked at the sternly. “The owls I’ve received from various committee members asking to ban the pair of you from attending this year’s Alchemy congress took one of my secretaries an afternoon to sort through. You’ve got them worried the next public argument will turn into a duel- again.”

(Hermione had fond memories of turning Malfoy into a marble statue at the 2004 congress but thought now might not be the best time to gloat about it.)

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fortunately, your-” here, Kingsley waved a careless hand, “rivalry has, I suspect, pushed you both to work harder than you might’ve done otherwise and as a result, I am the first Minister to be faced with the possibility of a British MAME winner in nearly fifty years.” He eyed them both sharply. “This would be of great significance to our people at a time when we are still struggling with unity. It would restore some faith in the Ministry-”

“And make you look good, too, I’m sure.” Hermione interrupted him, bold as brass. She could see Malfoy looking slightly aghast at her lack of respect from the corner of her eye, but she ignored him.

Kingsley looked slightly amused by her irreverence and didn’t reprimand her. “There is that too,” he admitted. “I won’t pretend otherwise. Regardless, it is to everyone’s benefit if the pair of you focus on finishing your Mastery- Hermione, you are due to present in December, I believe, and Mr Malfoy, sometime next June, if I’m not mistaken.”

Hermione saw Malfoy give a terse nod.

“So while you both would be an asset to the team out on Skye, I feel it is in your best interests to finish up with your Mastery dissertations, so come next July, I have two excellent nominations I can put forward to the panel, and hopefully welcome our winner at the ceremony that December.”

A bolt of indignation hit Hermione, and she gasped. “You’re hedging your bets! That’s why you’re nominating Malfoy and I for the same year, and suggested I finish after the deadline for this year’s nominees.”

Kingsley didn’t deny it.

“You think Malfoy’s research might have just as good a shot as mine,” Hermione concluded, pieces falling into place. “You want to double your chances of winning.”

She could about see Malfoys face- incredulity warring with admiration at Kingsley’s schemes.

“This time next year, should things go according to plan, I shall nominate you both to the MAME committee for an award in Magical research.” Kingsley told her them, (smoothly ignoring her shocking revelation). “I am confident in you both and cannot imagine a stronger set of candidates.”

Hermione was torn between delight at the confirmation she was so close to something she’d dreamt about for fifteen years and outrage that Malfoy, yet again, stood in her way.

Kingsley looked between the two of them. “There can only be one winner, and I am sure you’ll both have plenty to say about that. But I don’t care, so if you’re going to argue again, take it outside.” He paused. “And don’t get any blood on the carpet- they’re antiques.”

He waved one giant hand at them. “That’s all from me. Thank you both for coming in. Should you wish to discuss anything further, please make an appointment with my secretary—but know that my earliest availability will be in November.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but with a wave of his hand, Kingsley’s chair shot out of his office and dumped her on the abovementioned antique carpets.

From the office, she could faintly hear Malfoy query, “If I may ask, Sir, were you a Slytherin in Hogwarts?”

“Ravenclaw,” Kingsley told him. “Now get out.”

Malfoy slunk out next to her and, with an expression indicating it was a massive inconvenience, offered her a hand to pull herself off the floor. She smacked it away with a sharp slap.

She stood next to him, and an uncomfortable silence fell. However, hearing Malfoy recount Hermione’s work to Kingsley fairly and positively made her feel an unexpected rush of nostalgic affection. Working together again hadn’t been too bad at all, and it flooded her mind with the memories of eighth year and their first assigned project that had kick-started their friendship. 

Hermione wondered if it was time to extend an olive branch. She and Malfoy were adults now, not the emotional teenagers they’d been the last time they’d worked together. Maybe it was finally time to bury the hatchet and change their relationship to cordial professionals. 

“Congratulations on your nomination,” she told Malfoy, who looked surprised and then suspicious at her sudden friendliness. 

“You too.” He slowly replied. Hermione tried for a second attempt.

“Do you fancy grabbing a drink to celebrate?” She suggested tentatively.

“No thanks,” Malfoy said, wholly indifferently. 

Hermione couldn’t help the wave of embarrassment and hurt that hit her, and she almost thought Malfoy saw it too, as the corners of his eyes tightened, and his mouth opened slightly as if to say something.

She got there first, however. “You know what- forget it, Malfoy. Fuck you, and fuck your research too. I’ll enjoy thanking you in my acceptance speech.”

Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. “The only thing you’ll have to accept is that for once in your life, someone will do something better than the great Golden Girl.”

“I don’t think for a second your work would beat mine,” she spat back. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her.

“Alright then, seeing as we’re both so confident. What about a bet?”

He cocked a brow, and despite her better instincts, Hermione was intrigued. “What were you thinking?” 

“If both of us are nominated for a MAME award, but one of us wins,” Malfoy offered, “then the other agrees to stop publishing through the Ministry. Forever. No more articles, journals- nothing.”

“And the work we do at the Ministry?” Hermione queried.

Malfoy shrugged, “We still work as normal, but all our work gets archived internally and not released elsewhere. Anything we want to research, we agree to do so as independent scholars, not affiliated with any institution.”

It was a massive gamble, and Hermione felt the first stirrings of doubt. If she lost the MAME to Malfoy, then not only would she lose out on all of the prize money from the award, but this bet would mean she wouldn’t be able to use any Ministry funding for any future research at all, even the tiny amounts her boss was worried it might be slashed to. Her only option would be to publish independently, but she didn’t have a hope in hell of affording that unless she was entirely dependent on private donors- and she didn’t even have those yet.

(And honestly, unless she suddenly discovered an unknown facet of her personality, getting people interested in her work at Samhain would be very hard. She’d been avoiding thinking about what the future of her work might look like if she didn’t get a MAME win and failed to impress any donors.)

But the benefits were quite appealing. Malfoy was her greatest competition in academia. If she won, he would be out of the way, allowing her career to flourish unfettered. Another idea hit her, one that could be exceptionally advantageous for her current project.

“I’ll agree to the bet,” she said slowly, “but I want to add a suggestion.”

Malfoy looked at her expectantly. 

“Whoever loses must agree not to criticise the winner, or their work, publically, ever again.”

She could see Malfoy suspiciously looking for ways this addendum could disadvantage him but coming up short.

“What if I don’t agree with your research?” He asked slowly.

Hermione shrugged, “Then you come to me privately and complain about it. And I’ll do the same for you.” And to coax him further, she continued. “If we’re going to disagree, it won’t be because each other’s research is bad. I’ll give you credit-” Here, she had to force out a compliment, “While I might’ve disagreed with your methodologies in the past, the quality of your work has always been excellent. And I know mine has, too.”

Malfoy paused for a long while, then nodded.

She allowed herself a private smile. Malfoy knew that having their main opposition not publically finding fault with the other’s work would benefit them both, but he didn’t know that the deal would favour her significantly more. She anticipated a heavy pushback from the Pureblood families after her research was made public, but House Malfoy was one of the most influential. If Malfoy couldn’t protest her work, other Houses might follow suit and wouldn’t cause trouble either.

Malfoy stuck out his hand to shake, and Hermione gingerly took it. It was warmer than expected, except for his cool rings, which burned slightly against her skin. Malfoy had a small one on the pinky finger of his right hand (the Malfoy signet ring, she presumed), a thick gold band with a dark stone on his middle finger, and a thin band on his left index finger bearing some inscription she couldn’t quite make out. No wedding ring, she noted with detached interest.

“Deal, Granger.” He said and shook hers firmly. 

A thin gold string of magic twined around their clasped hands, cool like a snake, and dissipated into the mist. Hermione pulled her hand back with a start.

Malfoy gave a nasty smile at her obvious discomfort. She tried to ignore how his hand flexed as he pulled it away as if trying to shake off any last remnants of her touch.

“Not expecting that, were you.” He smirked. “No backing out now, Granger.”

Hermione stared at where the whisps of magic had vanished as another thought occurred to her. 

“What if neither of us wins?”

“Nothing happens.” Malfoy shoved his hands in his pocket. “The terms of the bet aren’t met, so the whole thing dissolves, and we carry on as usual.”

That sounded fair enough to Hermione, and she nodded. “I look forward to seeing your face when I win.” She told him breezily, “I’ll keep an eye out for your work in the Ministry bathroom magazines.”

Malfoy scowled at her, and she swivelled around and marched back to the lift, ready to head to her office, making sure he got whacked in the face by her thick braid.

“Next December, we’ll finally have an answer, Granger,” Malfoy shouted down the corridor at her as she departed. “You or me- whose work is better?”

She pretended not to hear him and grabbed her lift. She caught his eye just as the doors closed and shot him a much-awaited middle finger. He looked appropriately insulted, and the satisfaction it gave her lasted to her office.

It was only when she was sat behind her desk, however, that her wager with Malfoy sunk in. As much as she tried to tell herself it was a sure bet, some deep part of her wouldn’t stop worrying. She was certainly going to win- without a doubt. But some part of her keep down did wonder if she’d started a dance with the devil, but wasn’t entirely sure of her next steps.

Making a deal with Malfoy, what could go wrong?

Chapter Text

The first half of October passed in a flurry of meetings, dull cases, and doing his utmost best to avoid Granger every time he visited Theo. It hadn’t been easy- Theo’s birthday had been on the 3rd, and Draco accidentally walked into a surprise party in his office when coming down to see him (full of Unspeakables- guess they did know how to have fun), but he quickly ducked into some weird room full of brains in jars before anyone saw him.

Nothing more happened in the stone circle on Skye. Teams of Aurors stationed there kept a close eye for any odd magical activity, but none at all occurred. The Pictish wards stayed as firm and healthy as ever; the demon remained dormant, occasionally skulking around whenever visitors visited the stones and then vanishing into smoke again when they left, and the remnants of Draco’s revealing spellwork gradually wore off, leaving the Pictish magic to fade out of sight, as it was when they arrived. After much discussion, Professor Warsame and Draco elected not to reattempt binding the demon- deciding the risk of it breaking out of the wards wasn’t worth any benefit entrapping it might’ve been now that Sarah was free. All seemed to be quiet on the Scottish front.

After two weeks, however, multiple complaints from the very bored Aurors stationed on the island and their extremely understaffed colleagues in London, (who were seemingly overwhelmed by the new counter-terrorism cases coming in thanks to some rampaging Death Eaters), pushed Kingsley to remove all extra staff from Skye, keeping a skeleton crew to watch for anything suspicious- just in case. Draco pitied whatever Auror had drawn the short stick to camp out there until commanded otherwise- he suspected it had probably been palmed off on some young, new trainee.

Unspeakable Murray and Professor Warsame, who Kinglsey had tasked to investigate the list of questions raised by him and Granger, had made almost no progress- much to their absolute frustration. His boss even took a trip Croatia to revisit the site of the last demon exorcism she’d attended to see if there were any similarities to Skye but hadn’t found anything significant. Draco had heard from her that Murray had made an equal lack of progress in identifying what strange magic they had seen (despite their formidable intelligence)- they had also hit a massive dead end. He had seen them both multiple times conferring in Warsame’s office, tense lines of stress around Murray’s eyes, and even his boss (who was very proud of her appearance) started to look slightly less put-together as the regular late nights and lack of answers wore at her.

Wednesday the 17th had him walking into Professor Warsame’s office to find his boss fumbling for her wastepaper basket, her shoulders shuddering violently as she gagged. It was a sight so familiar to Draco that it had him instinctively pacing across the room to hold her hair back, but he caught himself last minute before he touched the cloth of her hijab, hands twitching uselessly at his sides. He had to shake his head a little to rid his mind of the image of another pregnant witch crouching before him with her head in a toilet bowl, heaving away as well.

“Pass me some water, won’t you?” Professor Warsame asked him raspily.

Mindlessly, he obeyed, summoning a chilled glass, digging in his pocket for a spare handkerchief, and passing them both over.

“Thanks.” she muttered, “thought this bit was supposed to be over once I finished my first trimester.”

“Astoria-” His throat felt thick, the words catching on their way out, “Astoria, she had terrible morning sickness too.”

Professor Warsame was delicately quiet, letting him finish a rare comment about his wife.

“It never went away; the only thing she would swear by were these ginger sherbets from Sullivan’s Sweets Diagon Alley.”

“I’ll try those out, thank you,” she muttered. She pulled herself to her feet, waved away his assisting arm and sat back at her desk.

“Only fourteen weeks in, and already I’m tired of being pregnant,” she moaned. “My daughter didn’t make me feel nearly this bad.”

“Well, you’re over a third of the way.” Draco pointed out. He felt this was a huge milestone, but from the flat look his boss levelled at him, it was clear she didn’t find that comforting at all.

“No more trips overseas for me until the baby comes.” She told him, “Healers’ orders. Also, I don’t want to go. I'm going to ask Gibson to take any that might come up; heard from Kings, we’ve got to-”

Professor Warsame lifted her hands to finish the rest of her sentence in air quotes. “Give Malfoy all the support he needs to finish his Mastery.” She scowled at him and shuffled some papers on her desk. “What are you doing here? What do you want- shouldn’t you be off writing this fabulous paper of yours?”

“Oh, I am feeling supported right now,” Draco told her graciously. “You asked me to come in, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Professor Warsame muttered and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, wandlessly summoned a jewelled travel mirror and reapplied her smudged lipstick.

(Chanel Rouge Coco, 446. Even though it was Muggle, Draco knew it very well. His boss had it delivered via owl to his desk; after Pansy met his boss, she’d turned green with envy at the colour, and Draco had been subjected to an intense debate on the superiority of Muggle makeup compared to Magical brands.)

“Give me a sec. I want you to do something for me,” she muttered.

He looked at his boss affectionately and Vanished the bin- there was very little he wouldn’t do for her. If it weren’t for Professor Warsame’s willingness to take a chance on him, he likely wouldn’t be standing in the Ministry or holding his qualifications at all. After leaving Hogwarts in July 1999 (and spending most of the autumn sulking around the Italian peninsula in a fit of melancholy he preferred not to remember), he applied to the University of Magical Studies in Khartoum, got accepted and started the next January under her tutelage. He then spent the next three years doing a triple-major Bachelor in Curse-breaking, Runes, and Magical Archeology and graduated in December 2002 (with honours, if you please). He spent a good year jollying around the world- breaking a good many curses, healing the odd patient and generally dragging the Malfoy name out of the mud.

But then, in November of 2003, while he was working a case in Bogotá alongside his former Professor, they heard about the Ministry’s plans to start a UK-based team of Curse-breakers- hoping to break their dependence on contracted overseas ones, or those already employed by Gringotts who tended to be quite partis pris towards anything benefitting the bank. As this coincided with his father’s release from prison and the very beneficial engagement with Lord Greengrass that his mother had carefully arranged for him, he took it as a sign that it was time to return home and finally resume his responsibilities to his family. He wasn’t exactly greeted with a warm welcome by the British public, and it was only thanks to Professor Warsame’s insistence on him joining the team that the Ministry offered him a place, but even then, under the stipulation he wasn’t a full-time employee, and taken on as a ‘consultant’.

So yes, he would be happy to do whatever she wanted.

Professor Warsame settled herself summoned over her glass of water. “I’m sending you a case file on a patient at St Mungo’s.” She informed him. “Healer Abbott wants your advice on it. Eight-year-old girl with symptoms of a blood-boiler”

“I’ll make it a priority,” He promised, reaching for a notebook. Interesting, it had been a while since he’d seen a blood boiler; he should pull up the patient charts from the last one and see if he could mimic the treatment plan again.

“I’ll let Abbott know I’ve spoken to you,” his boss said, sipping her drink. “She’s been bugging me for weeks to ask if you could come to St Mungo’s and give some talks to the residents on post-curse stabilisation now that you’re back from leave. Speak to her about that, won’t you?”

“Will do.” He made another note, trying to ignore the unbidden glow of pleasure at Hannah’s idea. Not only was it a pretty good one, but, as his father would say, it would be good press- very few people could do what he could, after all.

Shortly after starting his post-graduate studies, he quickly found a niche in which he excelled, much to everyone’s surprise. He started a rather vague Mastery in Magical Mummification in September 2004 through the Faculty of Magical Studies at the University of St Andrews three months after his wedding to Astoria, but after she’d been diagnosed a year later, he changed to a Mastery in Blood Maledictions with a Minor in Cerebral Curses. By then, his surname had been diluted enough by his noteworthy exploits only to require an exorbitant bribe to allow the change in his speciality rather than a flat-out refusal.

His new Mastery specialism (in addition to the research Draco had done with Daphne privately after Astoria was first diagnosed), somewhat ironically meant that Draco was soon the UK’s leading expert on blood curses. Much to his surprise, he had quickly been approached by several Healers at St Mungo’s to consult on patients—as their broad spectrum training often didn’t cover such rare cases in sufficient detail.

Draco had found he enjoyed working with the Healers- they didn’t care that he’d been an ex-convict Death Eater who participated (albeit eventually unwillingly) on the wrong side of the war. All that mattered now was what he could do for their patients, and as a result, they were by far the most cordial people at his job.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” his boss sighed. “And I know Abbott will, too. The girl’s Muggle-born and doesn’t understand what’s happening- they’ve had to keep her unconscious for the past week for her own benefit.”

He grimaced- poor thing.

“I’ll send Abbott an owl later.” He said, “Was there anything else?”

His supervisor now looked slightly apologetic. “Yes. Can you do me a favour today, too?”

He started at her assesingly. “Depends on what it is?”

“Can you go out to Wales for me and follow up on an owl I got from the coach for the Holyhead Harpies?” Professor Warsame looked at him with brown eyes widened in appeal; she looked somewhat like a sad labrador puppy. “I was meant to go this morning, but I’m not feeling up to it at all.”

“Wales?” He gave a long groan. “Merlin, boss, is there a reason you’re sending me on a Grand Tour around the British Isles?”

“Haven’t sent you everywhere yet.” His boss pointed out, dropping the plaintive look very quickly. “But there’s a conference in Dublin next week, so don’t give me any ideas.”

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh. “What do they want?”

“Got an owl from Jenny Dumfries- she’s the coach if you didn’t know. Last night, one of the players went for extra practice, but her broom wouldn’t get off the ground. She thinks it’s interference from a rival team- they’re only a few weeks away from a major match.”

Draco flopped on a guest chair opposite his boss and prepared to argue with her for his own amusement, knowing full well he would end up going and that this was just more for formalities’ sake.

“I’ve heard of Dumfries; she’s got a flair for the dramatics, apparently. Turned one of the Magpie Beaters into a salamander after he elbowed one of her players at the last match.”

“That’s the one,” Professor Warsame looked impressed, which was rare indeed. “Excellent bit of Transfiguration.”

“But I have an appointment with my tailor at lunch,” Draco whined. “It’s for my robes for my mother’s fundraiser. Custom-made takes time, you know. I need to get measured.”

His boss, not understanding the gravity of appearing underdressed at his mother’s function, looked unsympathetic. It would be all her fault if his robes didn’t fit properly. But, maybe if he visited St Mungo’s now, he could probably finish meeting with Abbott and still make his fitting; he forged ahead with trying that angle.

“I would think,” he attempted optimistically, “that a cursed child would take priority over an overreacting coach.”

“I would not,” his boss said firmly, “considering the child’s condition is stable, and the Harpies are prepared to pay enough to make the girl’s case pro bono.” She glowered at him and raised a sharp brow at him ominously. “You leave in two hours.”

“I was going to do it for free anyway,” Draco said sulkily and slunk out of the office.

He spent an hour pettily ignoring assorted missives piling up on his office desk and flicked through the letter sent by Dumfries, getting a read on the case. The coach was convinced her player’s broom had been cursed. Draco had to admit, it wasn’t unheard of- professional Quidditch could be cutthroat, and he’d heard of far worse things than turning opposing players into amphibians.

Before he readied to leave and get the trip to Wales over with, Potter and Weasely poked their heads around his office door, grinning like hyenas, he looked at them cautiously.

“What do you two want?” He asked, instantly suspicious.

Working with Scarhead and Weasel had turned out to be… surprisingly not awful. They did have a bit of a rocky start; Draco had broken both their noses in a bit of a spat in the elevator after they’d cornered him about his short-lived friendship with Granger- the phrase ‘Death Eater bastard’ had been volleyed his way. One of them (Weasel, he suspected) had pulled a massive chunk of hair out the crown of his head, leaving a bit of a bald spot that had him devastated and rushing to Pansy for a hair-growth mask. She had sorted it out quickly, but not before howling with laughter and saving the memory for her Pensive.

He was just glad that he hadn’t been fired after fighting two of Britain’s Best. In a disgusting display of righteousness and honour, Potter had taken the blame. Later, under the Minister’s stern gaze, the three of them choked out tepid apologies and agreed to work together with professional cordiality, which had (mostly) been achieved.

(He was sure, however, that Granger hadn’t told them everything about their eighth year together. Had she done so, he suspected he might’ve walked away from the encounter missing his balls rather than just some hair.)

“Have you seen this month’s edition of Witch Weekly?” Potter asked him innocently, while Weasley stifled a snort

Oh no.

“Funnily enough, I haven’t, Potter.” He trailed his eyes over Potter’s rat’s nest of messy dark locks. “But I’ve heard they have a great section on haircare advice. You might find it interesting.”

Potter ran a careless hand through his disaster of a hairstyle; Weasley looked like he wanted to laugh but settled for scuffing Potter’s hair even further.

“You were featured on Witch Weekly’s list of most eligible bachelors for 2008,” Potter told him gravely. “Congratulations.”

“It must’ve been your pomade that did it,” Weasely told him seriously, gesturing at Draco’s perfectly combed coif.

Draco raised a brow at them both. “You came in here for that? I topped the 2004 issue, too- even though I’d just married Astoria. You two didn’t make a fuss then.”

“Well,” Weasley said, slapping a copy of the lurid pink magazine onto his desk. “This year, you weren’t quite the people’s choice.”

Draco grabbed the issue and flicked through it, scoping out some of the competition: Victor Krum-solid choice, Oliver Wood, Blaise made a feature, Felix Rosier, Darragh Aherne, Alastir Bones, and then up next- Draco Malfoy.

And then, with horrified realisation, he noticed his ranking above a very candid photo of him shopping for potion supplies in Slug and Jiggers- number 3.

He roughly paged back to the extract on Blaise- number nine. Thank Merlin.

With remarkable memory that Draco wished Potter had previously used to take more detail on cases, Potter recited: “Mr Malfoy, Heir to the Malfoy and Black titles (and vaults), is awarded position number three this year. Famous for his daring exploits as a Curse-breaker, our favourite bad boy can often be seen shopping for potion ingredients while volunteering to help cursed patients in his off-time at St Mungo’s.”

Potter and the Weasel now both looked gleeful.

“Our condolences for your drop in position,” Weasley told him in faux sympathy. Potter muffled a snigger.

“Jealous, are you Chosen One? At least I made the cut this year,” Draco shot them a haughty look. “Aren’t you single, Weasel?”

“The only reason Harry isn’t on there, even though he’s married, is because the writer knows Ginny will hunt her down,” Weasley said cheerfully, nudging Potter companionably.

(Draco had to admit that wasn’t unlikely, many a witch had publically found herself on the business end of the Weaslette’s wand post-Hogwarts. Now, not many dared express anything more than friendly sentiment towards the Chosen One).

“As for me…well, maybe you missed it on leave,” Weasley added, “but I’m seeing Susan Bones- remember her from school?”

“Just proposed to her, too,” Potter said proudly, clapping the ginger on the back. “Last weekend!”

The Weasel had an insipid smile on his face, one that Draco wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. “I’m a lucky bloke,” he told Draco. “Susie is…an amazing witch.”

With a cold flash, Draco suddenly knew precisely who Wealsey was talking about. Susan Bones had been part of the underground resistance in his seventh year and, on one memorable occasion, been caught and ‘questioned’ by the Carrows about where some Hufflepuff Muggle-borns had vanished to. She hadn’t said a word- Draco had vague memories of her screaming under a nasty Cruciatus after telling Alecto Carrow to go fuck herself.

He did his best to refocus and pretend that his hands hadn’t started shaking slightly.

“I didn’t know that,” he did his best to throw Weasely a dismissive sneer. “Found someone who could tolerate that lurid hair of yours, did you Weaselbee?”

Weasley took the jab well, but Potter narrowed those vivid green eyes at Draco as if he could see exactly how disconcerted he was.

“Speaking of your charming wife, Potter,” he drawled, desperate to change the subject and escape Potter’s rather exposing gaze, “I’ll be seeing her soon. I’m off to the Harpies to check their brooms out. I’ll give her a hello kiss from you, shall I?”

Potter cackled, any attempts at scrutinising Draco forgotten. “You can try, Malfoy. Actually, please do- I’d like to see if Healer Abbott could patch you up after that.”

“Sure she will,” Weasley added, “We can’t have our favourite bad boy not up to snuff, can we?”

They both snickered.

“Don’t you two have actual work to do instead of loitering in my office? Is there no murder for you to solve?” he snapped, picking up the magazine and tossing it back, watching in satisfaction as it clipped off Potter’s head.

“We’re on missing persons today,” Potter informed him, now fiddling with the papers on his desk, ignoring Draco’s pointed glower. “A ministry worker from Level 3 vanished on the way to work yesterday morning, and his wife reported it last night when he didn’t come home. Waiting on her to take a statement.”

“Off you fuck then,” Draco told them dismissively. “Cheerio.”

He pointed a quill at his door, and Potter and Weasley reluctantly sloped out.

“I’ll leave the magazine for you to read through,” Potter shot a parting quip, resting a hand on Draco’s doorway. He sharply pulled it back as a Stinging Hex missed his knuckles by inches. “Just in case you’d like to start preparing for next year.”

Draco’s next Stinging Hex hit him straight on the nose, and Potter’s pained yelp cheered Draco up right until he had to leave for Wales.

It was a surprisingly balmy day in Angelsey when Draco landed at the Brynglas apparition point, only a short walk from the Holyhead Harpies training grounds. The large pitch, outbuildings and gym right next to the beach had been cleverly disguised to look like a derelict castle, and Draco watched with muted interest as the disguise flickered and faded as he walked past the sign marked ‘Visitors Only’ and into the main reception.

The sleek, modern interiors were all glossy chrome and muted browns. Draco had heard rumours that the team manager had recently spent an exorbitant amount of galleons to build a new agility course. The Harpies were strong contenders for this year’s Quidditch League cup, and the money funnelled into improving their facilities and training was a testament to that. The Harpies had been tipped to win but faced intense competition. Draco wasn’t too surprised they took any possible sabotage very seriously.

His footsteps echoed down the bare hall as he made his way to the reception, eyes flicking over photos of cheering ex-players hoisting assorted trophies and cheerily waving at him as he passed. He was met with a very bored-looking receptionist sitting guard behind a desk in the empty foyer, feet up on the counter and paging loudly through a magazine. Upon his entrance, she dragged her eyes over him once, promptly dismissed him with an apathy that would’ve made McGonagall proud, and turned her attention back to her presumably riveting article. With a flash of alarm, Draco recognised the lurid pink double W symbol of Witch Weekly glittering up at him. The witch on the cover (some rising Potioneer Draco didn’t recognise) winked and blew him a kiss. The receptionist looked vastly unimpressed at the display and did her best to ignore Draco as he approached the counter, keeping a healthy distance away from her dirty shoes.

He waited a healthy minute, the receptionist doing her best to ignore his very existence before he couldn’t take the silence any longer and cleared his throat with a very pointed sound.

The receptionist huffed a long sigh out of both nostrils and grudgingly looked up.

“Can I help you?” She asked unenthusiastically.

“I’m Curse-breaker Malfoy, here for the inspection? Coach Dumfries called me out.”

The receptionist eyed him sceptically. “She wouldn’t have called you out. You’re a wizard,” she stated- as if Draco hadn’t yet been aware of that fact.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Is that a problem?”

The receptionist jutted a thumb at a rather crude drawing on the wall behind the desk of what Draco thought might be some phallic symbol crossed out in thick red lines.

“No males allowed,” the receptionist told him indifferently. “Unless you’ve got an escort.”

Draco briefly considered taking this as a sign to have a morning off, heading off for a spot of tea and returning later to tell Professor Warsame the bad news that he hadn’t been allowed to start his investigation. He dismissed it quickly—his boss would not be impressed at having to go to Wales himself and might curse his office chair in retaliation (again).

He gave a deep sigh. “Could I please request one then? Coach Dumfries is aware I am coming.”

The receptionist looked as if she had been given the most strenuous task of her carer and unhappily reached for a quill and a memo sheet.

“Can I get some ID?” She asked, as if concerned Draco was part of some nefarious scheme to compromise the security of the Harpies, and only she could prevent it. Given that Draco was currently investigating a possible cursed sabotage attempt, it was indeed a potential scenario. He made a note to advise Dumfries on getting actual security for the front desk- not some receptionist who could easily be taken out with a quick Stunner.

The receptionist (Shelly, her name tag informed him) tapped her long, red, vulture-like fingernails on the desk impatiently at him.

“ID, please.”

Without a word, he passed over his Ministry ID lanyard; Shelly examined it with utmost suspicion.

“That’s expired,” she slid it back over the desk counter. “I can’t use it to verify you. Sorry.”

“What? My ID’s not expired.” He did his best not to sound too aggrieved and gave her a tight smile. “I only got it last year.”

He flipped it over, ready to prove his point, but much to his dismay, it had indeed expired… in August.

“I can’t let you in, sorry.” The receptionist said, not looking one bit apologetic but as if she was finally starting to enjoy her morning. “Security reasons. How do I know that’s actually you?”

“I look like the photo,” Draco did his best not to sound petulant. He wouldn’t make his afternoon appointment for his robe fitting at this rate.

“You could’ve faked the ID,” Shelly told him wisely, now obviously finding that preventing him from joining his job was much more enjoyable than scoping through her trashy magazine. “How do I know it’s real?”

He closed his eyes as an idea hit him. He hoped to Merlin that Potter and Weasel would never find out about it. Ever.

“Check your magazine. Page nine. Look, that’s me there- Draco Malfoy.”

Shelly dubiously reached for her copy of Witch Weekly and pointedly paged through it. She paused, presumably at his page, and her eyes flicked up and down between him and her paper.

“That does look a bit like you,” she finally conceded.

“That’s because it is me,” Draco snapped. “Look, it even mentions I’m a Curse-breaker. Coach Dumfries called me out because she was worried a broom was cursed yesterday and asked our department for help.”

The receptionist looked slightly more convinced but held the magazine close to his face, squinting slightly.

“I don’t know how else to convince you.” A sudden flash of inspiration hit Draco, and he grinned—there was no point in fighting a losing battle. If he left now, he could still make his tailor’s appointment.

“Tell you what, if you wouldn’t mind writing a quick letter saying you couldn’t verify me, then I can pass that on to my boss, and she can come herself.”

Professor Warsame could hardly argue that he hadn’t tried after that. Maybe she could send one of his female colleagues instead. He leaned over the counter and did his best to elicit some sympathy.

“She might be cross if I go back not without it,” he crooned. “You know how it is with these people. You’re just trying to do your job.”

Shelly now did look slightly sympathetic. He layered on the charm even further.

“Of course, she won’t be able to argue with your call,” he added. Shelly nodded enthusiastically, now trailing her eyes over his face in interest.

“Ferret?” A sharp voice cut through his attempts at getting an afternoon off, and he turned with a groan.

She-Weasley stood in the lobby, broom in hand, eying him suspiciously. Salazar, was mistrusting him an employee requirement for this bloody place?

“Mrs Potter,” he did his best to be civil. This was the wife of a respected colleague, after all.

She scowled back at him. “I still go by Weasley here, ferret. What are you doing? Stop flirting with Shelly.”

Fine, forget civility. No one could say he didn’t try.

“I’m here, Weasley,” he told her aggrievedly, “because your coach thinks someone tried to sabotage you lot last night. Bit of a priority for her to sort out right before you play an important match, is it not?”

Weaslette looked slightly appeased. “But why did she call you out?” She asked. “You’re a wizard.”

Draco wondered how many more times today that basic fact about his anatomy would be pointed out.

“My boss isn’t feeling well, so I came instead,” he told her with blatant exasperation. “Unfortunately.”

She-Weasel had a look on her face that suggested she didn’t care for his presence in her workplace. She could join the club- Draco wasn’t too thrilled about it either.

He jerked a thumb at the exit corridor. “She won’t be able to come until tomorrow. Maybe not even then. Look, if you don’t want me here, tell me. I can still do something useful with my afternoon.”

She-Weasel was silent. “Fine,” she said grudgingly. “Follow me. Shelly, I’ll escort him.”

Draco said a sad farewell to his afternoon plans, pocketed his ID and joined her. “Thank you for your assistance, Shelly.” He shot the receptionist a fake smile.

Shelly waved a hand goodbye. She was already engrossed in her perusal of Felix Rosier (who, Draco noted with slight bitterness, had been crowned Bachelor No. 1), her eyes raking over the article hungrily.

He followed Weasley down one of the corridors, winding to the pitch. “I want the team grounded until I’ve investigated properly.” He told her as they walked. “It’s too dangerous to fly if any brooms have been tampered with.”

Weaslette rolled her eyes. “I’m not thick, Malfoy. I told the players to bring spare brooms from home to practice with.” She paused. “We did take a quick lap before you arrived, and everything seemed to fly fine.”

“That was quite risky.” Draco pointed out the obvious. A slight flush tinged her ears; Weasley obviously knew that but sneered back in reply.

They finally reached the pitch, crossing through the tunnel that ran under the stadium for home games. The smell of wood polish, cut grass, and leather washed over Draco, who sniffed the air in appreciation.

The witches were huddled in groups by the left goals, chatting away. There were nearly twenty players, so probably the main team and reserves all out to practice, and Draco felt very interested eyes on him as he and Weasley approached.

“Oi, quiet!” Weasley shouted. All the witches shut up and paid her their full attention. “I want you lot to start running laps around the pitch.” Weasley nodded at one of the players. “Hattie, stay behind, please.”

“Yes, Captain.” The players chanted and raced off to start their drills.

The player that Weasley had nodded at slunk over to him. She was a tall woman with thickly muscled shoulders and arms but moved with a deceptive grace that made Draco think she was a Beater. She eyed him up impassively.

This is our vice-captain, Harriet Morgan.” Weasley said, gesturing at the witch.

“Hattie.” The woman said, nodding briefly at Draco.

“This is Curse-breaker,” here Weasley’s voice caught slightly on a sneer, “Malfoy. Dumfries called him out to look at your broom.” She pointed at her colleague. “Hattie was out training last night; she was doing some groundwork, then went to practise her aerials, but her broom wouldn’t get off the ground.”

Hattie nodded in agreement. She was tall, Draco noted, only an inch or so shorter than him, and he stood at a healthy six-four. He eyed her curiously, it wasnt just her height and her confident presence that made her stand out- she was strikingly beautiful too, with high cheekbones and deep brown eyes. The afternoon light caught the gold clasps in her braids and a ring in her nose, prettily complimenting her dark skin. She arched a brow at him, noticing him looking, and he did his best not to look caught out; his mother would be mortified at his unusual lack of subtlety.

“I didn’t have any problems yesterday, but I left my locker unlocked during the day by mistake. Coach is worried someone managed to get hold of my broom during the afternoon and put something on it.”

Her accent was Welsh, but he couldn’t place exactly where. She seemed quite unbothered by her scuppered training plans, eyes flicking back to the team now running on the opposite side of the pitch.

He reached into his pocket for his notebook and quill to take notes.

“Could anyone have had access to the locker rooms throughout the day? What normal security measures are in place?”

“I don’t know the specifics, Coach would, but yesterday we had a press event here, so a lot of the wards were altered.” she sighed. “We had loads of people walking around, too, poking their noses into everything.”

Draco wasn’t happy to hear that. It sounded like the perfect opportunity for someone with bad intentions to slip past the normally tight security if they so wished.

“Would there be a list of people attending?” he asked.

Hattie shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. Again, ask Coach. The PR team organised the whole thing; we just needed to show up.”

“And what happened when you tried to fly?”

“Nothing,” Hattie finally looked perturbed. “My broom wouldn’t listen to me- it was like I was talking to a piece of firewood. I thought the others were playing a joke on me, but Coach got worried. When I returned to the pitch to show her, it was working again.”

She passed over her broom- a handsome Cloudsinger 2000. Draco ran a critical eye over it; it was in excellent condition, not a twig out of place and any stray twigs expertly trimmed. He started his first regime of diagnostic spells to pick up any residual magic that might’ve been left behind.

Hattie had stopped watching him work and was now supervising the Chasers, practising throw patterns on the ground far in the distance with her arms folded.

Draco thought that making small talk would probably be the right thing to do. After all, he was supposed to be changing his public reputation—maybe he could sow some seeds of being friendly and affable with the team.

“Why did you choose to fly for the Harpies?” He briefly made a note of the diagnostic numbers flashing in the air. No abnormalities detected so far- how unhelpful. “Were you a fan of the team growing up?”

“No, my parents are Muggle plumbers. I’m from Newport and don’t like working with men.” She told him bluntly. “It was this or professional rugby.”

Draco didn’t know what that or a ‘plummer’ was, and decided no further small talk was necessary.

Weasley had stopped examining her team’s drills with a gimlet gaze and strode over to them both.

“Find anything?”

“Not yet,” Draco told her, slowly running his hands down the broomstick shaft, “but I still have more tests to run.”

“Great.” Weasley clapped her hands. “We’re going to start with aerials then. Shout if you do.”

“Again, risky.” Draco warned here, “If there is something I don’t know about, you really want to be up there when I do?”

He pointed the finger at the top of the stadium, where the enchanted rings for the agility training floated high above them.

Weasley narrowed her eyes. “How long will your spells take?”

“Most of the day,” he admitted; Hattie snorted in displeasure beside him.

“It’s a risk we need to take,” Weasley retorted. “We’re playing the Wiltshire Wyverns next week; we need to be in top shape if we want to beat them.”

Weasley and Morgan both gave identical hisses of frustration

“Those assholes have done better than we expected. Can’t believe they’re shooting for the Cup this year- they come out of nowhere.”

Weasely looked ready to spit fire at the thought of their newest rivals

“They’re overconfident and less experienced,” Morgan told her calmly. “They’ll soon see how we play.”

“No offence, Hattie-” Draco began. From how Weasley immediately bristled, he could tell she was already starting to get offended on her teammate’s behalf without him even finishing a sentence. “But surely, if anyone were going to be cursed, surely it would be someone higher up in command, not just a random player.” He turned to look at the witches. “You’re sure no one else was affected?”

They shook their heads. “Only me,” Hattie told him.

“Definitely sabotage,” Weaslette said ominously. “Maybe they thought Hattie was Gwenog.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “That’s for me to work out, thank you.”

He wouldn’t give Weasley the satisfaction of knowing her theory was actually quite plausible. The two witches did have some physical similarities, and Gwenog Jones, the Harpies’ previous captain and their current strategist, would be a more important member of the team to target rather than some Beater who could be easily subbed out.

Draco’s next diagnostic spells finished, spitting out lines of information glowing in the air above the broom- he read through them carefully.

Nothing significant. Just the routine anti-gravity charms, spells for stabilisation, and acceleration. One did catch his eye, though, a nasty ramming reinforcement intended to help the flier knock opponents off their broom more easily. He pointed it out to Weasley in a stern voice.

“Just a precaution.” Weasely cheerfully told him. “Not illegal, Malfoy.”

“Pretty unsportsmanlike,” he pointed out.

Weasley looked utterly unphased. “Good thing we’re not men, then.”

Hattie said nothing, but the glint in her eye suggested prized memories of knocking off opposing players and sending them screaming to the ground.

“So, we’re good to go?” Weasley asked him eagerly. “We’ve got our spare brooms, remember.”

Draco raised his hands. “I have only just stared. But I can’t stop you if you insist on going up. Just don’t blame me if you fall to your deaths.”

Weasley rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, ferret,” she huffed, “even when we do fall off, the safety wards catch us and bring us down.”

“We knock each other off a lot,” Hattie added; Draco didn’t doubt that for a second.

“Hey, Rowel!” Weasley bellowed, “Get up to the posts. We’re gonna practice Keeper offensives.”

“Sure, Captain!” a stocky witch called back, summoned her broom and floated up to the closest goalposts.

Weaslette turned to Draco. “We’ll leave you then. Hopefully, you’ll find something. Coach says you can walk around if you need to; don’t worry about an escort.”

She paused. “Thanks for coming out, Malfoy,” she said grudgingly.

“Pleasure, Weasley.” He fibbed. “In exchange, you can tell your teammates what a handsome delight I was to work with.”

Weaslette cackled. “Not likely, number three,” she said, zooming off before Draco could defend himself.

The bulk of Draco’s investigation passed without issue. He left the spells running over Hattie’s broom and explored the grounds and buildings. They were extensive, but he managed to locate the origin of the Harpies’ wards— the site where all the spells that protected the staff and enchanted the equipment and buildings began and supported each other in a lattice of spellwork.

The origin point was in the middle of some relatively sparse gardens, in what he guessed must’ve been the old pitch, but to his annoyance, he couldn’t find any evidence anything had been tampered with. He couldn’t see anything wrong with the changing room or Hattie’s locker either. In fact, there was no evidence that anyone had cast any spells on any buildings, equipment, or interior decor since everything had been upgraded the year before.

It was aggravating; Draco didn’t like it.

He made his way back to the pitch. Weasley was soaring high above the rest of the team, observing their flight patterns from above, her firey hair catching the light and streaming behind her like a comet. She had cast an Amplifying Charm, and he could faintly hear her barking instructions at various members, even from his position on the ground. He watched as most of them started to descend until the closest hovered only a few feet above him, Weasley gesturing vaguely towards the goalposts.

She flew exceptionally well, Draco had to admit. Probably better than Potter ever had in school- and watching him fly had been like watching a falcon on the wing. He sat on one of the benches and observed the training session (just to gather more background information, of course) as his diagnostics still had a while to run. Weasley was now trying to demonstrate some Quaffle manoeuvre that involved scoring a goal from high above the goalposts, upside-down, at an impossibly steep angle. It looked terribly tricky but highly effective.

Draco’s thoughts on the Wyvern’s chance of success if the Harpies pulled that out quickly came to a screaming halt.

With a shriek of surprise, one of the witches flying close to him, her toes skimming the grass, suddenly dropped like a stone and hit the grass with a squeal. He jumped over to help. Luckily, she seemed unhurt, just very surprised.

“Did you see that?” She gasped, “Did a Bludger knock me off?”

They both knew one hadn’t, but still, he scanned the sky to be sure.

Another cry split the air and made him look up. One of the Chaser’s brooms seemed to have gone rogue. It was almost bucking her off like a horse, dropping out of the sky, then catching itself, shaking her from side to side.

Draco cast a quick Sonorus on his throat. “Descend, now!” He boomed.

The team listened to him without question, but it was too late. One by one, they started falling from the sky like hunted pheasants, beginning with the player closest to the ground and ascending upwards.

There was a thump, thump, thump as they all started to hit the ground around him. Draco quickly looked up to make sure he wasn’t about to be flattened by some falling witch or her broom, but when the next player hit the ground and landed badly on her leg, which broke with a horrible crack, he rushed over at her shrieks of pain.

Hattie fell near him but obviously had more experience at crash-landing as she lithely kept the momentum and rolled herself over her shoulder and up back onto her feet, seemingly uninjured. She came over to help, too, and Draco’s stomach turned at the sight of a femur shard sticking through the screaming player’s thigh.

“It hurts Hattie,” she sobbed.

“Shhh,” the other witch soothed her. “We’re just going to splint your leg, Milly. It’ll stop soon.”

Another witch with a trainee field Healer logo on her sleeve came rushing over to help. “Why didn’t the safety net catch us?”

Draco let her cast a stabilisation and pain-removal charm- but much to their surprise, Milly screamed once more when they next tried to move her.

“Do the spell, Olivia!” Hattie snapped.

“I did do it!” The other witch said desperately, “I’ll try again.”

Hattie looked around at the other witches around them. Some seemed fine, some were groaning in pain, and a few were concerningly still.

“Send an emergency Patronus to St Mungo’s,” Draco told her, getting up to check on the witch beside him, hoping she had just been knocked out cold. “Get them to send Healers out now.”

“My wand’s in my locker.” Hattie told him hurriedly, “Can you send one.”

Draco paused, “I can’t summon a Patronus.” He snapped out. “Ask your friend.”

“Expecto Patronum.” The other witch chanted, but nothing happened. She tried again- not even a wisp of hers appeared.

“Do you have a Floo point?” Draco asked, wracking his brain for possible ways to get help. He hated to admit it, but their options were pretty limited.

“St Mungo’s has a Muggle landline,” the trainee healer suddenly remembered. “Do we have a phone?”

“There’s a one in reception,” Hattie jumped up, “I’ll call.”

Hattie raced away. Olivia looked over at Milly once more, helped Draco examine the (luckily unconscious witch next to them), and then looked up and froze.

“Ginny!” She shrieked. Draco felt his heart drop, and he followed her gaze.

Weasley’s broom had fallen out of the sky, too, but somehow, in a remarkable display of athleticism, she must have grabbed onto the goalpost ring as she dropped past it and hung there, suspended fifty feet off the ground, holding on for dear life.

Draco grabbed a broom closest to him. “Up.” He commanded.

The broom lay loose in his hand, completely unresponsive. He felt no magic thrumming through it; it felt as lifeless as a Muggle mop.

“Get up, you fucking thing.” he snapped at it again. When that didn’t work, he discarded it and tried another, then a third—all the same.

Draco checked on Weasley. She was still hanging on, but he could see her arms quivering slightly, and her face scrunched in effort as impressively she pulled herself up, tucking the ring in her armpits to take some strain off her arms. But Draco knew from experience how thin the ring was, how little support or balance it would offer her- they didn’t have much time before she fell, too. He also knew the odds of surviving a fall from that height… were not great.

He quickly thought through their options. But he could only think of one possible way to get Weasley down. Something Draco had sworn never to use again.

He closed his eyes and mentally reached deep inside for his magical core—the source of his innate power—but much to his shock, it felt like hitting an empty void. Instead of warmly enveloping him, his magic almost seemed sluggish—sickly and weak—slipping away from his grasp with every attempt to harness it.

But he forced it to comply and, with great effort, wrestled it back, force-feeding it his intentions. Without opening his eyes, he could hear the shocked gasps of the witches below him as he rose four feet, six feet, then twenty feet above the ground.

Unassisted flight was an exceptionally rare skill, and Draco was only one of three others to have been taught by… him. Snape and his aunt had learnt, too, but Aunt Bellatrix had never been successful—much to her fury. He soared off to grab Weasley before she lost her grip on the ring, his form flickering between corporeal and black, swirling clouds of smoke.

But he was too slow. Her fingers slipped out of his, and with an ear-piercing scream, she plummeted down.

Draco knew he only had milliseconds, so he dived after her, grabbing her robes to pull her up and slow her fall. He wrapped one arm around her stomach, pulled her close and braced for impact, tilting his body underneath hers as they crashed into the ground together- cushioning her fall.

A bolt of pain ran down his spine as they hit the ground, and the world spun around him in a flash of blue, green and scarlet as they rolled a few times, Weasley’s hair coming to cover his face in strands of copper. The scarlet he had seen looked like like alarm sparks from what he guessed was the arriving Healers. Good- at least someone had listened to him.

He detangled himself from her with a groan and pulled himself up slightly; he could hear the alarmed shouts of some players and Healers as they raced over.

“You alright, Weasley?”

She moaned something unintelligible but slowly sat up, too, hair still in disarray.

“I told you,” he wheezed, “I told you it was risky.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she snapped back, then quietly added, “Thank you.”

He let himself flop back onto the ground, too stunned to sit upright. To his surprise, Weasley let her head fall back onto his chest again, also likely too dazed to sit herself up. It was the closest he had ever been to a Weasley without imminent violence, he thought in faint amusement. But he had no desire to move her- the sky had started spinning just a little again, and he was beginning to feel quite sick.

A shadow fell over his face, and he looked up, squinting.

“Hiya Draco.”

Hannah Abbott looked down at him in concern- she waved a wand over his torso quickly, but her worry turned to relief as Draco let her pull him up.

“I don’t suppose now is a good time to ask you about a patient of mine,” she joked, turning her wand to Weasley. She paused. “Alright, Ginny, It’s Hannah here. We’re taking you and your team to St Mungo’s to get checked over.”

Weasley groaned a reply as she was levitated up and slowly floated away. Draco caught Hannah’s arm as she turned to follow her.

“Did you get here fine?”

She looked at him in confusion. “Apparated in through the evacuation point, no problem. Why?”

Draco hummed. “No reason.” He scanned an eye over the field. “Any fatalities?”

“None.” Hannah confirmed, “They got lucky. No way they’re playing the next match, though.” She caught his arm. “I want to check you over, too. Don’t slip away, please. You can wait in my office if you don’t want to go via the main reception.”

Draco nodded in agreement, still tracing his eyes over the pitch.

“What happened?” Hannah asked, following his gaze and looking at the absolute nightmare that had descended on the pitch. “Apparently everything was going fine.”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I have no idea.”

And that was the scary thing- he honestly didn’t. He’d never heard of a curse so powerful or broad it could knock out multiple brooms, plus safety wards. And, if his suspicions were correct, block healing spells and Patronuses, too.

This was unlike anything he’d ever seen or felt before, and he hated to admit it, but he was terrified. For a second, it had almost felt like… he had no magic. Something so unthinkable he’d never once even imagined it before.

He reached for his wand, which had fallen on the grass next to him, and gripped it desperately to check. The familiar warm rush of magic that rushed over him as if filling him up with liquid sunlight was beyond relieving.

“Draco?” Hannah’s voice called him over. “We’re leaving.”

He followed them out, slowly turning his back on the wrecked Quidditch pitch. But, try as he might, Draco couldn’t leave the first stirrings of deep dread behind as easily. He instinctively knew that whatever had just happened was an unknown so dangerous he’d never come close to it before. Something that Greyback, his Aunt Bellatrix, and even Volde-him couldn’t compare to…

Chapter Text

October 31st was always a sombre day in the Potter household, and this year was no different. Hermione had come to hate Halloween—her fond childhood memories of dressing up like Elizabeth Bennet, walking around the neighbourhood and getting sweets were quickly overshadowed by troll attacks, petrified cats, and attacks from (technically innocent) convicts. But more than that, Hermione had come to hate the dark cloud of grief that hung over her best friend, how his bright green eyes were always dull, and how he kept his friends and family close to him in slight paranoia as he mourned the parents he barely remembered. Now, as an adult, Halloween was the most dreaded day on Hermione’s calendar.

She, Harry, and Ron were to attend the Ministry ball later, her two best friends with their respective partners, and her with Theo. Hermione had thought Harry might decide to miss it as usual, but this year the fundraiser was for children and babies intentionally infected with lycanthropy during the war (one of Greybacks’s many war crimes) and was a foundation that Harry publically championed. Hermione thought it fitting to honour James and Lily by attending an event they too would’ve been proud to support, but wasn’t too surprised when Harry mentioned he and Ginny might head home early.

That morning, she, Ron, Ginny, and Harry had made their annual pilgrimage to Godric’s Hollow to place some flowers over James and Lily’s grave—adding them to the pile of offerings left by the still grateful public, a pile Hermione had noticed was slowly becoming smaller and smaller with every passing year. After all, it had been twenty-six years to the day of their deaths—Lily and James Potter were starting to be left in the past.

She popped into work before noon to grab some files from her office to review at home; Samhain was a public holiday anyway, so the Ministry was dead quiet, and in the late afternoon, she headed to Grimmauld Place to prepare for the fundraiser.

She, Ginny, and Susan were dressing in the main bedroom. She had reverently introduced Ginny to the Spice Girls (to great success), and the sound of ‘Wannabe’ blasting from Harry’s gramophone was the backing track to their frantic preparations.

“Where’s my mascara?” Ginny screeched, dashing out of the bathroom, robes unbuttoned, acres of pale skin on show; Hermione was pretty sure she saw a flash of a nipple.

“By the sink!” Susan yelled, meticulously curling her pin-straight hair with her wand so it fell gently down her back.

“Who’s taken my hairbrush?” Hermione frantically dug through her toiletry bag. “Nevermind! Got it!”

Despite the pandemonium, somehow, they finally finished dressing and sorted their make-up with a bit of time to spare- the only challenge left for the evening was Hermione’s hairstyle. Ginny and Susan shoved her in front of the large antique mirror and stared down at her hair, which had become increasingly more unruly and uncooperative throughout the evening.

“Can’t have it down,” Susan pointed out to Ginny as if Hermione wasn’t even in the room. “It won’t work with the neckline.”

Hermione’s robes (courtesy of Theo) were a beautiful midnight blue with gold embroidered runes running along the seams and hems and a short train that swept the floor beneath her. The neckline (shown off nicely by her pendant) was quite daring, plunging mid-sternum, with the reddish-purple scarring from Dolohov’s curse that ran diagonally from collarbone to bellybutton quite visible. On one of her fittings, the modiste offered to make the neckline higher to cover them, but Hermione decided to leave it. She wasn’t ashamed of her scars- let everyone in attendance be reminded of what she’d gone through to be standing there before them all.

However, in her opinion, the best part of her robes was her oversized bell sleeves, which flared prettily along her arms, with a little finger loop discretely sewn in to stop the sleeve from slipping down. This also allowed her easy access to her wand, tucked in a hidden holster down her sleeve should she need it. Old habits died hard, and Hermione was still a little jumpy without her wand easily on hand.

“What about a braid down her back?” Ginny suggested, running a ticklish finger down Hermione’s spine.

Susan shook her head decisively. “No, maybe…” she paused, trailing a nail over Hermione’s temple. “What about putting it up? That'll look nice.”

Ginny enthusiastically agreed, and between them, they managed to wrangle her hair into an elegant twisted updo that gathered her heavy curls up off her neck, with tendrils prettily framing her face using some complex spellwork Hermione was unfamiliar with.

(“I can’t believe it took two of us,” Susan complained to her, “your hair is almost fighting back.”)

Finally, the three of them were ready to go and stood in front of the mirror for a final check. Ginny looked resplendent in a stunning bronze gown that oxidised to a gorgeous green down from her waist. Susan was dressed in robes of House Bones pink that complimented her blonde hair and generous curves. Hermione felt quite beautiful in her midnight robes and was starting to feel unusually excited about the night ahead.

Harry, Ron, and Theo were all waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and when the trio came down, Theo gave a wolf whistle that echoed through the foyer. Hermione found it beyond sweet that, even after seven years of marriage, Harry still looked gobsmacked at seeing Ginny dressed up, and Ron was grinning goofily as Susan descended the stairs towards him. She caught Theo’s eye, and he made a big performance of swooning against the wall (nearly knocking over the bust of some old Black ancestor permanently stuck to the floor).

“Hermione darling, you look ravishing.” He proclaimed as he approached and offered her an arm for the rest of the steps down. “A veritable vision.”

He quickly saw an opportunity to show off. “Like the embroidery? It was my idea to add it in. I thought it fitting after your trip to Skye.”

Hermione laughed. “You look quite dapper, too, Theo.”

Her favourite wizards all looked great. Ron and Theo wore formal robes similar to Muggle suits but with very magical-looking capes; Hermione noted with fondness that Theo had little gold cufflinks in the shape of Time-Turners and that his blue robes were also embroidered- matching Runes ran over the cuffs of his sleeve, complimenting hers well. Harry had consulted with his great-aunt Jasleeen and had been sent a sherwani of stunning bronze silk subtly embroidered with prancing stags and flowers (by his aunt’s hands, Hermione suspected). She felt tears prick her eyes at the gentle homage to his parents.

Theo (annoyingly perceptive as ever) saw the look on her face and swooped in with a gentle diversion.

“Recognise these symbols?” He ran his thumb down the lines of gold runes over her neckline; she could feel the faintest heat of his finger on the delicate skin of her collarbone. “I knew it would look good- swiped one of the copies of your translations off your desk and sent it with my designs.”

She looked at him seriously. “It’s actually an old Pictish curse. Impotence, I believe.”

Theo blanched but relaxed again when she laughed.

“Not funny,” he grumbled.

“Was a bit,” Hermione smiled. “I almost didn’t recognise them; the modiste did a great job.”

“I told her to take the boring-looking ones out,” Theo dodged her sharp elbow. “Ow! Merlin, witch!”

“Hermione?” Harry beckoned her over, “Can I have a quick word?” He smiled apologetically at Theo. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Theo waved a casual hand. “No problem, Potter. Do you have a loo I can use before we leave?”

Harry pointed down one of the snaking corridors. “Third door on your left.” He grimaced. “Usually.”

Theo strode off, and Harry pulled her over to a little alcove that seemed to have sprouted from nowhere, and Ginny followed, grinning broadly.

“Mione,” Harry began; Ginny elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Hermione Granger,” he tried again. “House Potter would like to lend you a token tonight in honour of our enduring friendship.”

Besides Harry, Ginny was mouthing the words along as he recited his pompous speech. It wasn’t hard to guess who had helped organise this surprise then. Hermione gasped as Harry pulled a gorgeous shimmering bracelet and matching dangly earrings from a deep pocket. She immediately knew they were real sapphires from their weight in her palm.

Ginny squealed with delight. “I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate for Theo to lend you jewellery, but Harry and I can!”

Hermione was almost speechless as Harry gently fastened the bracelet around her wrist and passed her the earrings to put on herself.

“Is it because Harry is married?” She asked.

“Yes, a bit,” Ginny said, smoothing Hermione’s sleeves so the bracelet sat nicely, “but mostly because of your famous friendship; no one could argue it would be improper.”

Ginny squealed again as Hermione hooked the earrings in, the tips tickling her neck- some charms prevented the weight from pulling at her lobes.

“Beautiful! I wanted Harry to give you hair clips, but Mum said that would be too intimate. So she helped choose these instead.”

Hermione felt a rush of affection for the Weasley matriarch.

“Beautiful,” Harry agreed warmly. He dropped a kiss on his wife’s head and beamed at her.

“There’s another surprise we have,” Ginny said, a smile splitting her face, but Hermione noted the faint lines of tension around the corners of Harry’s mouth with concern.

“We’re having another baby!”

Ginny couldn’t take the suspense any longer; Hermione felt her jaw drop.

“Oh, wow!” She chanced a look at Harry again. He did seem genuinely happy, but nothing close to Ginny’s exuberance.

“Congratulations!”

Ginny laughed as Hermione pulled her into a hug.

“What will this mean for your job?” She tentatively asked. Since the incident at the Harpies’ pitch (which Hermione didn’t know much about), Ginny had mostly been in a terrible, melancholic, guilt-ridden mood. Harry confided in her that she took full responsibility after ignoring Malfoy’s advice and pushing her players to fly. She even offered to resign from her captaincy, which the rest of her team had vehemently rejected. Quidditch was a dangerous sport, and Hermione thought they might’ve gotten a bit nonchalant about the risks recently- this pregnancy announcement was a harsh reminder of what every player (and their families) stood to lose every time a Quidditch player left the ground.

Next to her, Harry pulled a ‘don't-go-there face’, and Ginny looked very sour. After the many injuries the almost entire team had received, they weren’t cleared to fly before their upcoming match with the Wiltshire Wyverns and were forced to forfeit. Given the severity of the suspected sabotage (and the outrage from Harpies’ fans), the organising committee had decided to put the Cup on hold until they had some answers.

“We’re on pause anyway until it’s safe to fly again. No other teams have had issues, so hopefully, we’ll resume before I go on maternity leave.” Ginny shrugged. “Even if we don’t, I’ll still play. It’s not ideal, but I did it with James, so I can do it again. But no more.”

Hermione laughed. “I have memories of you saying that in the delivery room with Albus,” she teased. “Remember that?”

Ginny laughed again. “I want to tell Ron and Susie,” she sang and darted out of the alcove.

“Wait for me.” Harry shouted after her and grabbed Hermione’s elbow, “Just a sec, Mione.”

Once Ginny was out of earshot, Hermione turned to look at Harry furtively.

“You alright?” She asked cautiously, “Are you…happy about this?”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, nearly pushing his glasses off his nose. “I am.” He caught Hermione’s eye. “No, really, I am. It is a bit of a surprise, but-” A lopsided grin crossed his face, “A good one.”

“Then what’s bothering you,” Hermione asked him softly.

“We didn’t know,” Harry blurted out. “We didn’t know that she was pregnant- the Healer who checked her out after she fell picked it up.” He carefully pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “If it wasn’t for Malfoy; if he wasn’t there-” his sentence trailed off as his voice cracked, but Hermione could see precisely where his thoughts were heading.

“But Malfoy was there, Harry.” She soothed and ran a gentle hand over his messy hair that was already trying to escape its combing. “Try not to think of it. Ginny and the baby are fine; everything is okay.”

Poor Harry, this was terrible timing. He was jumpy enough in October already, let alone before discovering his wife and unborn child had only survived a fifty-foot fall thanks to his childhood nemesis. Harry nodded, but Hermione could still see the tension in his wirey shoulders. He opened his mouth but paused and closed it again.

“Anything else?” Hermione asked him carefully. Harry shook his head.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He gave her a half-hearted smile. “Really.”

Hermione hummed, completely unconvinced. “If you say so.”

“Hurry up, Harry.” Ginny’s voice echoed down the corridor. “I want to tell Ron.”

“Tell me what?” Ron shouted back, his voice suspiciously fainter as if shouting from the kitchen.

Ginny’s pale, freckled arm appeared around the corner, grabbed Harry’s and pulled him away. Hermione sighed. Something was bothering Harry; she knew it, which meant it bothered her too. But until he was brave enough to be honest with her, she guessed she would be left in nervous suspense.

The Ministry had been splendidly decorated; Hermione felt her jaw drop as she walked out of the corridor from the Floo Points and looked into the Atrium proper.

She knew many parts of it had been remodelled since the war- amongst other much-needed changes, the awful fountain built there during Voldemort’s reign was long gone. Still, despite seeing the Atrium every day as she arrived at work, it was now wholly unrecognisable, feeling more like the Forbidden Forest rather than a government building. The vast tiled space had been drastically transformed into a realistic woodland that seemed to extend forever, complete with massive trees—birch, ash, and alder—sprouting from the ground and all heavy with reddish-gold autumn leaves. The tiles had changed into a thick, earthy forest floor that was only distinguishable from a real one by the ease with which the guests wearing heels were walking- a consideration she greatly appreciated.

Far across, in the middle of the room, a massive ten-foot high bonfire was roaring away, with several smaller fires scattered around the room, groups of people huddled around the flames. Hermione also saw a large table near the big one, laden with full plates of food no one was eating. As she watched, an elderly witch placed one full plate on top of it, knelt by the table for a bit, and then walked off, leaving the untouched plate behind.

Red, gold, and brown seemed to be the colour schemes of the night and were visible everywhere. Clouds of live bats soared above them the high rafters, darting around the tree canopies; under delicate lace cloth, the tables were groaning under giant pumpkins, pomegranate seeds in bowls glinting like rubies, shiny apples, and hazelnuts. Autumn leaves were everywhere, swirling downwards from the ceiling, littering the realistic forest floor, and Hermione noticed many attendees were wearing handmade crowns from the golden leaves braided and knotted together, jauntily placed on their heads. Servers, dressed in breezy brown fabrics with skin Glamoured to look like tree bark and hair like vines, were swirling around, offering glasses of wine. Hermione thought they wouldn’t have looked out of place on a set of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.

But the part of the room that drew the most attention was the large dancefloor off to the side under a massive oak, with numerous candles encircling it (everything from a thick pillar one taller than Ron to tiny thin flames flickering in the air) that did a fantastic job of making the dancefloor look encircled in a wall ring of fire.

Underneath the oak tree, a band was already playing some jaunty tune, even though the dancefloor was empty. From how the candlelight caught the musicians’ almost inhumane beauty, and Hermione found her feet instinctively pulling towards them with the compulsion to dance, she was sure they were Veela.

The six of them made quite an entrance, walking in together. Hermione could see the flash of camera bulbs and the buzzing chatter raised in volume as they stood in the doorway leading from the entrance corridor facing ahead into the Atrium, most guests craning their necks to watch them arrive.

“Bit intense, this,” Theo said through clenched teeth, and with a flash, Hermione was suddenly reminded of the shy boy skulking in the wings, unaccompanied at the Yule ball.

“You are coming in with the Golden Trio, mate,” Ron pointed out; Susan gave a gentle wave to a reporter from the Daily Prophet.

“You get used to it, Theo,” she told him kindly. “Just be confident, remember? Fake it till you make it.”

The change that came over Theo was remarkable; his shoulders straightened, he tossed his artful curls back, and he flashed a blinding smile at the crowd. The flashes of bulbs increased exponentially.

“Very nice,” Ginny said approvingly. “Oooh, look, Ron, appetisers.”

“Kingsley will want us to make an appearance with him later,” Harry said, his eyes shifting around the room to locate the Minister.

“Did he ask you to make a speech?” Hermione asked, gripping Theo’s arm tightly as they descended the large stone staircase into the Atrium. The last thing she needed was to end up on some sordid newspaper after tripping and flashing most of society’s elite.

“No, thank God,” Harry said fervently, “Half-past ten, and we leave Gin.”

“Sure,” Ginny said, hungrily eyeing up a plate levitating past, “Hey Hermione, do you think that’s soft cheese?”

The six of them mingled politely for the first half-hour after their arrival, bits of conversation ebbing and flowing around Hermione as she scouted out the Atrium, trying to identify potential donors for her and Theo to chat to later. A few people came over to say hello: Neville (who would not stop gushing about the Transfigured forest), the Patil twins, who both looked resplendent in stunning lehengas, one in deep purple, one in maroon (“the Patil colours,” Theo whispered to her), Dean and Seamus, and rather surprisingly, Blaise Zambini, who politely nodded to Hermione, then spent the next ten minutes nodding along to Theo, while he yapped away. She even thought she saw a flash of Malfoy’s white hair across the room, but when she looked harder to check (just so she could send him a spiteful glare, of course), he had already disappeared.

About an hour after they arrived, Hermione, who had been chatting with Theo about her shared research with Murray, looked up to see that the rest of the group had slowly drifted away.

“Guess we’re on our own now.” She paused. “How do you normally survive these things?”

“Easy,” Theo said solemnly, “You grab an opportune spot close to the catering entrance so you can grab the best food right as it comes out…”

He steered her over to park them under a birch tree tucked away from the main group of attendees.

“Just like here. Then you stand back, keep your mouth shut, and watch.”

“You watch people?” she asked him dubiously.

“Pretty much,” Theo shrugged. “it’s amazing how much you can pick when people don’t think you’re looking at them. Look, see over there?”

He pointed over a very well-dressed couple.

“That’s Lord Travers and Claudia Crabbe. He’s engaged to her cousin, but I’m fairly sure they’re having an affair- look!”

The couple shot each other a heated look that, even from far away, made Hermione feel quite flushed and wished she’d brought one of the fans many of the other guests had hanging from their wrists to cool her burning cheeks.

Much to Hermione’s amusement, Theo kept up a running commentary on all the guests. His knowledge of other people’s business seemed inexhaustible; she felt quite relieved that he was one of her friends and that their research was completely unrelated—he would make a formidable rival.

“Want a drink?” Theo asked her. “I’m parched. Think they were passing around some champagne earlier. Want a glass?”

He left to get them both a flute, and Hermione did her best not to feel exposed without him by her side.

She heard a throat clear behind her and spun around. A short wizard with round spectacles and a very formal suit embellished with silver serpentine-like patterns stood behind her, smiling at her with an oily smile that put her in mind of a used-car salesman.

“Miss Granger?” he shook her hand in a firm, cold grip. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

The wizard did look vaguely familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place him.

“I’m sorry,” she said politely, “you’ll have to remind me where I know you from.”

“Liam Abernathy- family solicitor,” he introduced himself. “You’ll have seen me in the Wizengamot sessions; I’ve sat in almost every one of your speeches on behalf of my client.”

“Thanks for your interest,” Hermione said cautiously, wishing Theo wasn’t taking so long to get drinks. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure many other people have done that.”

The wizard’s grin widened. “You’ve raised some interesting points about the future of Muggle technology- it’s got my client re-evaluating many plans for his family assets.”

“Your client?” She asked him curiously.

“Afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose,” he told her delicately, “but suffice to say he was very interested in your last presentation on Muggle power. Nuclear energy, wasn’t it? And your one on Muggle surveillance- CCTV and things? Fascinating, we don’t have anything close to that.”

Hermione felt her usual pride for Muggle techology wash over her. “You should hear how quickly the Muggle medical field is advancing,” she bragged. “It’s more than caught up to magical healing, but few of our Healers know anything about it.”

“I’ve heard you were involved in some major work with Muggle scientists,” Mr Abernathy asked shrewdly. “As a student.”

Hermione’s pride at her achievements overrode any lingering suspicion she felt towards the strange wizard.

“That’s right.” She eagerly told him, “When I did my undergrad in Oxford, I also studied a Muggle degree in Cambridge. I helped on one of the big projects there—mapping the human genome.”

“Oxford and Cambridge,” Mr Abernathy told her silkily, “remarkable.”

Hermione didn’t tell him that was only achievable thanks to the (ethically dubious) use of a Time Turner or that she had only got permission because Theo was approved to research the effects of extended exposure to Time Magic, and no one else was brave enough to volunteer as a test subject. If she’d done it before as a thirteen-year-old to take extra classes with no issues, then she could easily do it again to get involved with the biggest scientific research of the twenty-first century.

She saw a potential opportunity- if this wizard’s client was so interested in her extracurricular work, maybe he might find her current research worth investing in, too.

“I’m due to present my research dissertation to a panel of international Unspeakables in December.” She told him politely, “It’s a public event, so if you or your client are interested in attending, send me an owl, and I’ll reserve you a seat.”

Mr Abernathy’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a very kind offer, Miss Granger. Thank you.” His gaze flickered over her shoulder. “It was a pleasure to meet you; I will extend your offer to my client.”

He vanished quickly in a swirl of expensive robes, and Hermione felt Theo coming up behind her, drinks in hand.

“Sorry I took so long,” Theo apologised. “Got cornered by Lord Rosier by the bonfire- he spoke for ages on some deal about dragon products he’s trying to push. Who were you talking to?”

“One of the House solicitors- a Mr Abernathy. I’ve seen him on the Wizengamot. He was asking me about my undergrad work,” she said, sipping her drink. “He said his client was interested in the speeches I’ve been giving. It’s so nice to know someone out there is actually listening to me.”

“Which family does he work for?” Theo asked curiously, “Don’t recognise the name.”

“Don’t know.” She shrugged, “he couldn’t tell me.”

“Did you look at his robes?” Theo asked. “If he was associated with a family, he should’ve had their symbols out somewhere.”

Hermione had noted something but now couldn’t remember. “He seemed quite nice,” she told Theo, tossing down the rest of her drink. “Maybe his family would be interested in funding my research.”

Theo sighed. “Won’t you consider my offer?” He begged, “Mione, I’m more than happy to fund your work. It won’t even make a dent in the Nott vault. Hells, Potter would love to, as well. Have you even told your friends about what Murray’s said to you?”

Hermione paused—she most certainly had not. She knew, without a doubt, that Harry would rush to offer to fund everything she could ever possibly want, but as vain as it was, she didn’t want to have to ask her friends to bail her future out. She wanted her work to continue because the world was interested in what she was doing, not just because they liked her.

“You’re being silly,” Theo told her unusually sternly. “Your work is more important than your ego. Stop caring where your funding comes from, and just take it.”

Abruptly chastened, she kept quiet and considered that. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said. “I’ll give myself until the end of December. If I don’t have enough interested donors after my presentation, then I’ll speak with you and Harry.”

She grabbed Theo’s arm. “Thanks, Theo.” She said softly. “It means a lot.”

Theo looked down at her kindly, the fire lighting up his brown curls, making them match the auburn leaves floating around them in the air. The moment stretched between them, Hermione could’ve sworn she felt Theo almost inch closer.

“We should start looking around for potential donors to talk to,” she told him, throat suddenly dry.

“Probably,” Theo licked his lips and dragged his eyes off hers. “Let’s start by the main bonfire.”

They walked together around it, feeling the heat lick their cheeks. Theo kept up an easy conversation, pointing out notable members of society Hermione only knew by name and making the occasional introduction. He was the perfect person to go with, Hermione thought, well-connected enough to have very famous names coming over to say hello, friendly enough without being obsequious, and witty enough to make Hermione’s work sound incredibly gripping and somehow also easily understandable.

As the evening passed, Hermione felt more optimistic, and by the time the fifth Head of House had promised to attend her presentation in December, she felt as light as air.

“Thanks, Theo,” she beamed. “Murray’s going to be so chuffed.”

She looked curiously at the large table near the bonfire, heaving with uneaten food.

“What’s this about?” She jerked a finger at it, looking curiously at Theo.

“Ah. Those are the offerings.”

“Offerings?”

“Yes, look.” He pointed at an ancient wizard who had approached the table, loaded plate in hand. “It’s quite an old practice; not many of us do it anymore, but they’re leaving out offerings for any spirits or ancestors who might be watching.”

Theo shifted uncomfortably as if the thought of any of his ancestors watching made him nervous.

“In Muggle history, the Gaels used to believe that tonight, the veil between the mortal world and the Otherworld was the thinnest.” Hermione breathed, “and that the dead could cross over into our world and walk among us.”

Theo nodded.

“That’s what some of us were raised to believe, too. I read that some Muggles also still practice the Old Ways; I wonder if they’ll do something similar tonight.” He pointed at the massive bonfire. “Some of the Seers will be divinating into the flames later; tonight’s supposed to be good for things like that.”

Hermione didn’t know if it was just her imagination if Theo’s talk of spirits and the dead had her seeing things, but she could’ve sworn the room was ever-so-slightly fuller than earlier; what she hoped was the smoke making some of the guests shimmer slightly, and while many figured danced cheerily around the bonfire, others whirled around the flames with almost slightly preternatural grace. She shivered and started to wish she was safely back home, leaving all this talk of the dead behind her.

They walked past the band, who had taken a quick pause in the set, when suddenly Theo swore and darted to the side, hiding in the shadows of the oak tree.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione snapped, fingers instinctively curling around the tip of her wand down her sleeve, heart racing. Her other hand slipped into her pocket, where the weight of her purple beaded handbag with its Undetectable Extension Charm lay reassuringly heavy. If anything were to happen, she was prepared.

“The vultures are circling,” Theo said grimly, leaning around the tree to point at the opposite side of the Atrium, where she finally spotted Malfoy, who looked a bit harried, surrounded by a gaggle of older women fluttering eyelashes and giggling coquettishly.

“The vultures?” Hermione asked, nonplussed, stowing her wand away, forcing her thumping pulse to settle.

“Look, see their daughters?” Theo pointed at some younger women in the crowd that Hermione hadn’t noticed, “Draco’s mourning period is up, so technically, he’s free to marry again. They’re scouting him out as a possible match for their families.”

Hermione felt her mouth drop open. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yep,” Theo popped the ‘p’. “A year and a day for mourning- them’s the rules. After that, he’s fair game.”

Hermione pondered a scenario in which someone as formidable as Malfoy could be compared to a prey animal; she just couldn’t see it. Then she caught a better look at the carnivorous looks in the women’s eyes and quickly changed her mind.

“Oh no. Oh shit, they’re coming my way!” Theo hissed.

She looked over his shoulder. Some witches had indeed noticed Theo, gaily waving their fingers at him and starting to make their way over like a flock of colourful parakeets.

Theo pulled Hermione over to him with a forceful tug that had her squawking with indignation and clutching his arm tightly to stop herself from toppling over, worries about any lingering spirits forgotten.

“Theo!”

“Shhh!” He hissed at her. “Look at me lovingly.”

He shot her an adoring smile.

“Theo!” Hermione wrenched herself free. “Did you just invite me as a human shield to fend off marriage prospects!”

"No!" Theo exclaimed, “Of course not!”

He faltered at the glower she shot him. “Only a little bit.” He admitted but softened when he saw the genuine upset in Hermione’s face. “I promise, Mione, that I invited you because…”

A light blush dusted his cheeks.

“Because it would be fun to come with a…friend, and there are very few people in the world I would rather spend this much time with. You scaring off any society mothers is just an incidental benefit.”

Hermione paused, mollified.

“Would they really find me scary?” She asked, hopefully.

“Terrifying,” Theo told her solemnly. “Everyone’s still talking about when you turned Simon Mulciber into a cockroach at that Yule gala after he felt you up.”

Hermione cheered up drastically at that memory. The flock of women arrived, and Theo did a phenomenal job at juggling introductions (the witches, shockingly, had very little interest in speaking to her), politely ensuring everyone had a full drink, and avoiding engaging in many of the witches’ flirtatious and pointed comments about their daughters with remarkable finesse.

“Hermione, darling,” he turned to her desperately after ten minutes of excruciating conversation. “Didn’t you say you fancied another champagne?”

“But Lord Nott,” one of the mothers cried, “I haven’t yet told you about my Clarisse’s remarkable talent for animal Transfiguration! Headmistress McGonagall is suggesting she consider becoming an Animagus!”

“You could tell me while Theo gets me a drink,” Hermione told her daringly. “I would love to hear about such an impressive academic accomplishment.”

The witch, torn between annoyance that she now had to turn her attention away from Theo and concern she would look rude in front of such a promising son-in-law, hesitated. Theo shot her a grateful look and fled.

The following five minutes were almost unendurable. The assorted witches spent some time happily throwing backhanded compliments at each other with abandon. Hermione found herself catching some stray insults, her palms itching to slap the supercilious looks off their faces. Nothing was safe from criticism- the previous edition of Witch Weekly (jejune), the newest Head of the Curse-breakers (accomplished, but unfortunately foreign), rumours of possible imminent visitors from MACSUA (intolerable Americans), the cancelled Quidditch cup (shocking), and the decor of the evening (acceptable).

Kingsley caught her eye as she gazed around the room in desperation and strode over. Behind him walked the one witch Hermione had been hoping to avoid seeing all evening-Narcissa Malfoy.

“Good evening, Hermione,” Kinglsey rumbled, “Ladies.”

He nodded at the gathered group, who all twittered replies in response.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa turned to face Hermione, “how delightful to see you again.”

She shot Hermione’s outfit a judging look, one that any Parisian would be proud to produce, and leaned over, kissing the air two inches above each of Hermione’s cheeks. Hermione took the approach she had when she’d met a half-giant and stood stock still, half in shock and half in worry she might move and Narcissa might accidentally smooch her on the lips.

“Lady Malfoy is the main organiser for tonight’s event,” Kingsley told Hermione. He had a warm smile on his lips, but his eyes told another story—don’t cause any trouble.

The huddled witches all gave assorted murmurs of astonishment and praise, and Hermione saw Narcissa give the lot of them a benign, insincere smile that made her think of a duchess greeting her peasants.

“Congratulations, Lady Malfoy, this is spectacular.” Hermione kept her voice light and friendly. “I wasn’t aware of your interest in...these kinds of charities.”

Narcissa Malfoy gave her a decidedly dagger-like smile.

“I have time for many interests, Miss Granger,” she replied sweetly. “I hear you do, too. Mer territories are your current…pet project, are they not?”

Hermione tried not to grit her teeth at the reminder of her most recent failure- and the implications that Mer rights were a casual passing interest of hers of little importance.

“Of course, you must have plenty of free time to plan these things at the Manor; I heard from Theo you’ve been redecorating recently?”

She reached for a floating canapé and let the big sweeping sleeves of her dress gape open—the scarred ‘Mudblood’ carved up her arm easily visible. Hermione saw Narcissa give an almost imperceptible flinch and felt a wave of savage delight.

“You have such taste, Lady Malfoy,” one of the other witches in attendance gushed. Hermione did her best not to roll her eyes. The witch might as well have transformed herself into a puppy, ready to roll around at Narcissa’s feet.

“The decor is beautiful.” another one added. Hermione hummed along in agreement as if she actually gave a shit- as if the word ‘prosaic’ hadn’t just been used to describe it earlier. She saw Narcissa flash her a very sharp look and go on the counter-attack.

“I hear you’re also in the running for a MAME award, Miss Granger.” Narcissa smiled. “What an achievement! Lucius and I couldn’t be prouder of Draco.”

The huddled group of assorted witches made coos of admiration like a flock of reverent pigeons.

“Did you know that will make him the youngest-ever nominee?” Narcissa continued. The coos increased in volume and insincerity.

“Is your husband not in attendance tonight?” Hermione asked innocently, knowing full well that Lucius Malfoy was still on house arrest for the next ten years—getting out early after making some slimy, shady, self-preserving deal with the justice department to assist with the capture of his ex-colleagues in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. She tried to disguise a flash of fury. She had forgotten that Malfoy was slightly younger than her. Narcissa was right- if Kingsley did follow through with Draco’s nomination, she would miss out on the title of youngest-ever nominee.

Fucking. Twat.

Maybe if she strangled him before he presented and got away with it, she would technically still be the youngest?

Annoyingly, instead of getting insulted, Narcissa was starting to look inexplicably increasingly delighted by Hermione’s disrespect and, presumably, the murderous look on her face. Behind her, Kingsley was giving Hermione a glower so strong that she’d once seen the Nigerian ambassador resign after receiving it. She smiled back at him, and the glower increased in intensity.

Narcissa decided it was time to change strategy and called in the big guns.

“Draco, darling,” she suddenly crooned, “don’t you think Miss Granger looks well tonight?”

Malfoy materialised by Hermione’s side so quickly, as if he’d Apparated. He gave her a flat look over, eyes catching on the jewellery Harry and Ginny had lent her for the night.

“Remarkably so,” He agreed. “You brushed your hair.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you could pull the Nott blue off with your complexion.” Narcissa simpered. “But here I stand corrected.”

Malfoy’s eyes sharpened, and he gave her outfit another look over, lingering on the dusky blue of her robes and the sapphires dangling from her ears. Then, he darted his gaze to the other end of the Atrium, where Theo stood, presumably chatting to another rich Lord.

“You came with Theo?” He asked her. Hermione almost scowled at his fingers whitening ever-so-slightly around the stem of his champagne glass as he put it on the table next to them. Selfish brat. Honestly, he needed to get over the fact that Theo was her friend, too.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I did. Surprised?”

“I just can’t recall you attending many of these events recently,” Malfoy said smoothly.

“You made quite a striking pair, coming in together,” Narcissa smiled politely at Hermione. “Are those earrings from him too?- Careful Draco!”

Malfoy’s champagne glass bumped the table with a loud clang, and he quickly rushed to right it as it wobbled.

Hermione ignored him. “No,” she almost made it sound like a question. “Harry and Ginny lent them to me for tonight.”

There was interested humming from the group of witches, and Hermione saw them all looking at her speculatively, with previously unshown interest.

“A favour from House Potter,” Narcissa murmured, “how lovely.”

She made a point to look around the Atrium.

“And where is Theodore? He should know better than to leave his date alone. Terrible manners; the dancing will be starting soon.”

Hermione eyed the witch with great suspicion. She didn’t trust her as far as she could throw her, and she was starting to feel like there was a layer to the conversation she was missing out on.

“I’ve seen you dance at these events,” Narcissa told her seriously. “You dance beautifully; I was quite surprised.”

“Because I’m a Muggle-born?” Hermione challenged her

“Because you didn’t grow up learning them.” Narcissa corrected swiftly; beside them, Malfoy shifted uncomfortably.

“My parents made me take ballroom dancing as a child,” Hermione finally said. “My mother used to dance competitively when she was younger.”

“Does she still dance?” Narcissa asked, taking a delicate sip of champagne.

“No,” Hermione said bitterly. “Not anymore.”

An awkward silence fell, and the society mothers prowled closer and closer, now turning their attentions to Malfoy like a pack of hungry lionesses eyeing up a buffalo calf. Malfoy now looked near-ready to flee, half turned away as if he could slink behind the decor with no one watching. Behind them, the band changed a tune, and the first stirrings of a new song began to play. It was a beautiful cello piece, haunting and steady, with delicate piano and violin lilting through.

Narcissa clapped her hands.

“Ah, the Veela Valse!” She said in delight. “My favourite.”

She turned to face Kingsley pointedly; he took the hint.

“Would you be so kind to join me, Lady Malfoy?” He asked politely. To her credit, Narcissa looked like she was serious about refusing.

“I couldn’t leave Miss Granger here alone while she waits for Theodore,” she mused, “terribly bad-mannered.”

She shot Hermione a concerned look. Hermione didn’t really want to suggest that she wasn’t technically alone and that she could push through another ten minutes of catty conversation with the assorted society mothers until Theo returned.

“I’ll survive, I’m sure,” Hermione told her dryly.

Narcissa shook her head. “No, it would be far too rude! Unless-”

Beside her, Malfoy heaved out a loud, resigned breath.

“Miss Granger,” he turned to her formally and bowed. "Can I have this dance?”

Hermione thought about it for a second.

“No, thanks.” She said- as flatly as he did when he rejected her offer for drinks.

The gaggle of ladies around them burst into a mix of shocked titters and surprised whispers.

“You need to dance with Malfoy,” Kingsley whispered in her ear. “Narcissa is one of the Ministry’s biggest donors. We can’t afford to offend her.”

“She’s never had any problem offending me,” she spat back under her breath.

“Now, Hermione,” Kingsley muttered, shot her a commanding look, and offered his arm to Narcissa with a fake smile pasted on his lips. “That’s an order from your Minister.”

Historically, Hermione had a very lax policy on listening to Ministers, but she decided this fight was probably too public to be worth it. With an audible huff that had Malfoy scowling too at her obvious reluctance, Hermione grudgingly took his offered arm.

“Stop stomping,” he hissed at her as they made their way to the line of dancers, “you’re not an Erumpent.”

Hermione made sure to step extra hard with her next step, this time on the tips of his toes, and his muffled swear had her lips curving into a pleased little smile. Seeing her happier face (but thankfully not the root cause), Kingsley discretely gave her a thumbs-up from where he was escorting Narcissa to their position on the dance floor.

Hermione and Draco took their place, too. She was well-versed in what to expect, thanks to the numerous fundraisers, galas, and memorial events she had been forced to attend after the war. (Public show of unity for morale and all that). Dancing these dances wasn’t her forte, but she was leagues better than Ron and Harry, whose partners now flat-out refused to go near the dancefloor with them for fear of bruised toes.

She had quickly learned that magical dancing was slightly different from Muggle ballroom dancing. Instead of the expected sambas, foxtrots, or tangos (which had started to make an appearance now that more Muggle-borns were attending formal events and the routines were now in fashion with their Pureblood contemporaries), the more traditional magical dancing put Hermione in mind of the old English country dances she had read about, but mixed slightly with more conventional waltzes.

Graceful, flowing steps, light touches, quick turns, and alternating between partners and the group were the distinguishing characteristics, and luckily, Hermione had been able to pick up on most of the common routines quickly. She didn’t recognise this one, though; she would have to be dependent on Malfoy’s experience to lead her- bugger.

She let Malfoy gently guide her, and they took their place in the line of dancers facing each other. She could feel Theo’s gaze burning her forehead as he stood far from the dancefloor, behind Malfoy’s back. He raised his eyebrows curiously as he caught her gaze, two drinks in hand.

The music started as a melodic, gentle duet of cello and piano. Both lines of dancers gave a formal nod to each other, and then the dancing began. Malfoy’s line moved first. He took a step towards her, and Hermione followed the motions of her group, placing her hand on his outstretched one and allowing him to guide her anticlockwise around him until she stood on his right, her left hand gently touching his right in midair.

“Have you enjoyed the evening so far, Granger?” Malfoy’s voice was carefully polite, not betraying any hint of emotion, as they took a few flowing steps forward and raised their hands to allow the set of dancers in front (Neville and Hannah Abbott) to duck underneath.

He put gentle pressure on her left elbow, and she reluctantly followed, letting him lead her one, two, three, swaying steps forward, turn and then three steps back again.

“Suddenly less than earlier,” she told him sweetly, allowing him to spin her backwards, and gracefully rejoined the line of dancers, moving in a figure-of-eight motion around her neighbours, in a move Malfoy mirrored with his own. He snorted, never breaking eye contact with her as they wound their way around the other dancers, to the top of their line, for their turn to skip down the centre of the line again, ducking under everyone’s raised hands. Malfoy was so tall that he almost had to bend in half to get under some of them, and he seemed more concerned about making sure his hair didn’t get ruffled up than keeping pace with her.

“Your robes are lovely,” Malfoy tried again, “Theo’s design, I presume?”

She remained silent, focused on circling him so closely that the hem of her robes brushed over his shoes, and the fingers of her other hand grazed along the small of his back. Malfoy stiffened up as his personal space was invaded entirely.

“You’re really not going to say anything nice about my outfit?” Malfoy sounded almost indignant on his robes’s behalf, hand unconsciously smoothing down the front of his suit. Hermione didn’t want to admit it was very nice-looking, a handsome grey that picked up his eyes and complimented his pale skin and hair without washing him out to look like a corpse.

“Not really,” she shrugged, “it’s a suit, isn’t it? There’s like three hundred being worn here tonight.”

Malfoy’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he gaped at her, and Hermione hoped her utter disregard for his piece of clothing that probably cost more than her mortgage was enough to stop him from attempting any further small talk.

They both came to step forward again, almost back at their starting places. Hermione’s eyes darted to the side to check what the others were doing, and she realised, with great relief, that she recognised the next few steps—thank goodness. Malfoy wouldn’t need to show her what to do now.

She and Malfoy raised their palms to face each other and pressed them together lightly; they started the section of the dance most similar to a waltz, and Malfoy let her lead without comment.

The music and the other dancers’ chatter filled the air with a low hum; Hermione focused on the careful timing and swaying steps as they made their way around the edge of the dance floor. Malfoy was an annoyingly good dancer (far better than she was), spinning her around with deft ease and leading her with quick, lightfooted steps and elegant grace; the distance between them now narrowed as they adopted a closed position for the remainder of the dance.

“You have no interest in making polite conversation while dancing?” Malfoy asked her casually as they gracefully stepped in time together. Hermione did notice they were the only couple dancing who weren’t having some murmured conversation.

“Given your recent lack of interest in talking to me,” Hermione all but bared her teeth at him, “why should I bother?”

Over on the side of the dancefloor, Kingsley and Malfoy’s mother were dancing together beautifully. Hermione thought there was even a faint smile on the witch’s lips as she elegantly spun around the large man. Without responding to her barb, Malfoy took control of the dance, swung her in an impressive series of continuous pivots, and Hermione felt her feet leave the floor as he very gently picked her and placed her back down, mid-spin.

“You spoke to many people tonight- people you didn’t even want to speak to,” he told her sulkily. “Why not speak to me now?”

“Very well,” she told him dully, “what do you want me to say?”

Malfoy scowled at her complete lack of enthusiasm as if taking it very personally. “Well, now I’d even settle for an insult,” he snapped. “Merlin Granger, I might as well be dancing with the Giant Squid.”

Hermione refused to admit to her greatest competition that he was a big part of why she needed to walk around at the party and fish for interest- like a child trying to raise money in their neighbourhood for a museum visit. Malfoy seemed annoyed by her lack of defensiveness, and his tone almost seemed baiting, as if looking for the sort of satisfaction received from pressing a bruise.

“So you came with Theo tonight,” he pushed, guiding her as she danced backwards, a slight pull on her side enough to tell her they were coming to the edge and that she needed to follow his turn before one of the candles accidentally set her dress aflame. “Strange choice, that. You’ve always chosen to come alone, if not at all.”

“You’ve certainly paid close attention to my ballroom habits,” Hermione arched a brow at him, and annoyingly, Malfoy didn’t look caught out at all.

“Easy, when you end up on the front page of my morning newspaper,” Malfoy bit back with great dignity. “it’s hard to forget your bushy face glowering at me over coffee, Granger.”

“I don’t glower,” she snapped back, glowering at him furiously.

Malfoy was annoyingly persistent. “So why the change in routine? What made you decide to come this year?”

She was quiet for a bit; maybe sensing this wasn’t a time to push, Malfoy gave her some space to think.

“I thought it was time to get more involved in society,” she finally said. “With my increasing speeches to the Wizengamot, I thought it about time people got used to seeing my face. Maybe they’ll be more supportive of my proposals.”

None of those things was a lie, exactly, and Malfoy seemed appeased.

“And you thought Theo the best person to introduce you?” He paused, “Actually, seeing as Potter has the social graces of a Niffler, and the Weasleys haven’t been involved in society for two hundred years, he’s probably actually not a bad choice.”

Hermione didn’t want to mention that he’d also been the only person to ask her.

“Theo’s lucky,” she finally snapped at him. “Unlike him, I don’t have the skill to talk to strangers easily.”

Malfoy gave a harsh bark of laughter, “Oh yes, Theo is lucky indeed.”

The tempo of the waltz increased, and Hermione and Malfoy were forced to pick up pace accordingly. They now swirled around the dancefloor, too out of breath to talk. Hermione was now feeling rather quite angry, and from the heated press of Malfoy’s lips and the tense set of his shoulders under her hand, he wasn’t enjoying it particularly much either. Around them, in their fury, the rest of the dancers seemed to have faded away, as if they were dancing in an empty Atrium together and no one else in the world existed. It was only when the dancing stopped and the other pairs clapped for the band that the spell was broken.

Hermione and Malfoy broke apart. He, too, was also panting slightly in annoyance and exertion, and they started at each other in stony silence. Hermione, still resting her hand on his radius, felt the muscles of his forearm flex under her palm, and his silver eyes felt scorching as they burned into hers.

“Granger,” he finally bit out and dropped into a sharp bow, pulling his arm sharply away from her. Hermione returned it with a nod of her own, but by the time she looked up, Malfoy was striding away, vanishing like smoke through the chattering crowds and flickering flames.

Hermione was mostly able to shake off the aggravation that had formed after her dance with Malfoy and spent a fun few more hours at the gala. Theo had taken her for a few spins on the dancefloor, dancing quite a few Magical-style line dances with her that had them skipping and hopping everywhere, flushing with laughter, making her feel like an extra from a Regency movie. She was never left wanting for partners: she, Ginny and Susan had joined in a group dance, spinning each other around until the whole Atrium blurred, and they were shrieking with laughter, Ron and Harry (before he and Ginny left to rescue Remus from their offspring) attempted to take her for a dance each too, but both ended up being complete disasters, Neville had spun her around the floor with unexpected poise, then Kingsley- with mock solemnity, some wizards she vaguely recognised from her Wizengamot presentations (Felix Rosier included, much to Ginny and Susan’s hoots of excitement) and finally both Weasley twins tried to teach her to cha-cha (not knowing how to either)- and so the rest of the night showed a remarkable improvement, and passed quickly by.

Shortly after midnight, some rowdy Muggle-borns (led by Dean, she suspected) had commandeered the dancefloor with very enchanted-looking speakers and were busy teaching some unsuspecting Purebloods the wonders of modern Muggle dancing- consisting of the Macarena, the YMCA dance, and what looked suspiciously like a Conga line- and so Hermione decided to take this as a sign to head home.

“I’m off,” she tapped Theo on the shoulder as he chatted away with a witch she vaguely recognised as one of the undergrads based in his lab. Theo turned to her, student forgotten.

“Let me walk you back to the Floo,” he offered.

Hermione waved it away, “No, don’t worry, I don’t want to interrupt.” She caught Theo’s sleeve. “Thanks for asking me, Theo. Really, I had a great time.” Theo held her gaze.

“Course,” he said quietly, “I wish we’d gone together earlier.”

Hermione tried to lighten the suddenly gloomier atmosphere, “Well, there’s always next year.”

Theo gave her a rueful smile, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He spun her around and pushed her in the direction of the Floo. “Don’t worry about me, I have…”

“Maggie,” the student supplied unhelpfully, looking irritated at Hermione’s interruption.

“Maggie,” Theo continued, “to keep me company.” He quickly shooed her away, laughing off her apologies and offers to stay a little longer.

Hermione waved goodbyes at a few faces she recognised and headed out of the Atrium. She took one last look over her shoulder at the sight of the party in full swing before her. It was a heart-warming sight- magical users of all backgrounds mingled around the massive bonfire with no evident prejudice, and it gave Hermione a burst of hope for their future. Her eyes traced over the groups still chatting peacefully together, the dancers by the smaller fires (some now looking suspiciously nude) while others seated before the large one, staring into the flames.

Her gaze caught on one of the witches in front of the main bonfire and immediately stopped. In front of it, making direct eye contact with her from across the Atrium, was that witch again- the Pictish one. Against the more modern formal dress robes, she stood out even more, her roughspun wool dress, hood and staff making her appear almost surreal in the flickering firelight.

She froze, and the woman smiled at her enticingly and beckoned her over with a thin finger. Fuck! Why wasn’t Malfoy around when she needed him?

Did she dare take her eyes off the Pict, look for him, and appeal for help but risk the woman’s disappearance again? She swayed on the spot indecisively. Sensing her hesitation, the witch waved her over again, pulling her black-tattooed lips up into an entertained smile.

Hermione knew she had no choice and strode back the way she came. She wound her way carefully through the crowds of drunk people, using the main bonfire as a beacon to guide her way over, never once breaking eye contact with the witch, not even allowing herself to blink.

“Hermione?” Theo’s lean shape blocked her path, and she nearly hissed in frustration. “What are you doing back here? I thought you left.”

“I need to speak with the witch,” Hermine told him, not even stopping to look his way,

“What witch?” Theo asked cautiously.

“The Pict! The one from Skye- she’s here tonight, she wants to talk to me.”

Theo let her pass but kept pace as she got closer to the bonfire.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Mione,” he said slowly. “What Pict?”

“That one there!” She pointed a finger right in the direction of the druidess. “The one dressed in old clothes looking right at me!”

Theo paused, “There’s no one there, Hermione.” He said cautiously.

The Pictish witch looked at Hermione in amusement, and her smile broadened even further.

“She’s right there. See her, Theo,” she told him desperately. “Look!”

Theo tried again, “There’s no one at the bonfire any more- I promise!” Hermione could easily hear the undercurrent of worry that ran through his tone.

Hermione finally allowed herself to blink, the smoke from the bonfire smarting her eyes terribly. Much to her utmost frustration, when she opened her eyes, the woman, once again, was gone.

“Fuck!” She shrieked. “Not again!”

Theo was starting to look at her like she’d gone off the rails- she’d forgotten he hadn’t been cleared to read the full report about everything on Skye.

“Maybe I should get Draco,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“No,” Hermione suddenly felt exhausted. “Don’t worry; there’s no point. There are too many people here- he won’t have any luck picking up her magical signature.”

This (really quite logical fact) did nothing to placate Theo, who was now looking very concerned. She tried again.

“Thank you, Theo, but don’t worry.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I think I should head to bed; it’s been a long night.”

“Yeah, sure.” Theo said uncertainly, “I’ll walk you back this time, though.”

He held a hand up to wave away her protests, “I insist- I’ll worry about you otherwise. Just let me get you home safe, please.”

Hermione allowed it begrudgingly, and after saying goodnight to Theo (again), she soon found herself in bed, tossing and turning, as her mind wouldn’t stop racing.

Who was this woman? Why could nobody else see her? And maybe the most important question- what did she want to say to her? More questions to add to the seemingly endless pile- she kicked her mattress in frustration, and Crookshanks jumped off the end of her bed with a huff.

However, there was one thing she did know as she finally drifted off (well past three in the morning)- how grateful she was that Halloween was over. Nothing terrible had happened this time around, thank goodness. The Samhain ball had been a marked success, and she wouldn’t have to worry about this blasted day for another year.

Chapter Text

Draco made his way early to the Ministry, wanting to quickly check in with Theo before starting work. He told himself it was to ask if Murray had made any progress identifying the odd magic they’d been investigating, but deep down, he knew it was to sate his curiosity of why Theo escorted Granger, of all the witches he could have asked, to the Ministry ball.

It was an early morning for him, hours earlier than when he usually came into work (not being a permanent staff member did have some benefits), but he’d struggled to fall asleep. The ball last night had been a raging success (apart from his disastrous dance with Granger) much to his mother’s delight, enough funds raised to fully cover the Hogwarts education for the whole cohort of infected children, and the glowing reviews written about it in the Daily Prophet had put even his father in an amiable mood, thrilled with the excellent coverage the Malfoy family was receiving.

It was a success all around, and now it was time to focus on more pressing issues like finishing up his dissertation, but Draco couldn't shake the way his forearm still burned, as if being held by a phantom hand.

The cleaning staff had a massive job this morning, he thought absently as he exited the Floo. Amazingly, all the enchantments on the Atrium had already been reversed—the only sign that a party of such size had been held there the night before was the occasional leaf crunching underfoot and the smell of smoke still lingering in the air. He made his way to the elevators, noting with amusement some Ministry staff still fast asleep in the corridors or draped over visitor chairs snoring away. Many would take the rest of the week off as a little holiday, and the Ministry was noticeably emptier than usual as he strode through the corridors and down to Level Nine.

The Department of Mysteries had an incredibly annoying rule: no visitor could walk around unescorted. Draco supposed that was fair, given their history of people vanishing into thin air and their rumoured confusion charms designed to disorientate non-Unspeakables. Still, it was very inconvenient when your escort (Theo) was consistently terrible at being on time.

He walked into the Department of Mysteries’s main entrance from the corridor leading to the lift and was greeted with the dullest room in the whole Ministry- the Room of Doors. It was a barren, circular room with a waiting area off to one side and twelve identical doors stationed in the round walls leading off to assorted areas of the floor. His knowledge of the Department of Mysteries was pretty sparse (still better than most), but he was pretty sure one of the twelve doors led to the wing of offices that belonged to the assorted Unspeakables and the others to their different areas of study within the level.

Draco had visited this department countless times but still had no idea how to get anywhere. He'd heard the entrance room had an irritating habit of randomly spinning around to confuse any possible uninvited guests. With all doors and passages looking purposefully identical (and he suspected, constantly changing their order), he didn’t dare find Theo’s office alone, so he had to sit in the only constant room- their horrid version of reception and wait.

He hated this floor. The interior design was ghastly—horribly cold black tiles so dark and glossy that they reflected the blue-flamed torches, lighting the room almost too well, making the whole space feel almost underwater. Draco tried his best not to feel seasick and decided that as soon as his office was built, all further meetings with Theo would only happen there. Annoyingly, he had no choice but to sit on the only wobbly metal chair (that he was sure had been swiped from the holding cells on Level Ten) and wait for Theo to arrive and put him out of his misery. Much to his dismay, the chair stubbornly refused any of his attempts to Transfigure it into something more comfortable- he’d heard rumours that one’s magic could act up a bit in the Department of Mysteries but had put that down to people getting spooked and letting off some accidental magic- maybe he should’ve taken it a bit more seriously.

Theo kept him waiting a long time, and Draco was bored out of his mind after nearly thirty minutes. He had briefly spotted Granger coming into work (also early, typical) when she walked down the corridor to her office past the doorway to reception; she paused and gave him a curt nod before continuing on. Draco tried to ignore the flash of relief he felt when it was clear Theo hadn’t arrived with her and refused to think why the thought bothered him.

He kept himself busy by going over his spare copy of the Clachbhàn report that he quite sneakily hadn’t given back to his boss when she was re-assigned the case. Something about the file was nagging at him but he still couldn’t figure it out, which was terribly frustrating. When Theo finally arrived, he was clutching a cup of takeaway coffee (a second one floating along behind him) and looked very surprised to see Draco waiting in reception.

“Sorry, mate. Are you here to see me?”

“No, Theo, I thought it was time for my daily emasculation, so I came to see Granger.” Draco snapped, “Yes! Course I’m here to see you.”

Theo grinned and reached behind the desk at a reception for a bright yellow pin marked ‘visitor’, fastening it to Draco’s robes with less regard for his clothes than Draco preferred. He tried not to grimace as he felt the weight of the pin pull on the fibres of his merino cloak- that would leave some damage.

With some instinct he didn’t possess, Theo knew precisely where to go and led Draco through one of the doorways to his office, one of the first doors on the right after entering the corridor. Theo threw himself behind his desk and waved at Draco to take a seat, which he ignored.

“Morning,” Theo said pointedly. “What are you doing here, at…”

He craned his neck to check the time on his cluttered display of clocks hung up on the wall behind him.

“Seven nineteen a.m,” Theo concluded. “Don’t you usually only wake up now?”

Draco shrugged in a manner which he hoped was both elegant and casual. Theo arched a brow at the display, so likely not.

“Wanted to see if your boss had any update for Warsame about their work-up on Skye.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re doing her a favour and coming down to ask, are you? How helpful. And thoughtful. That’s not like you.”

Draco did his best to look hurt by the entirely accurate assessment.

“I have done my best,” he told Theo gravely, “to show the world I am a changed wizard-”

“Oh, Merlin. You’re monologuing,” Theo groaned and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

Draco continued undeterred. “And in my efforts to do so, I may, once or twice, have put myself first. Am I not a product of my environment? Are we all not shaped into the wizards we are by those around us?”

“Probably our dads,” Theo interrupted gloomily; Draco knew that observation was spot-on. Theo, thankfully, had inherited all but his name from his now-deceased mother, who, according to Narcissa, had been gentle, beautiful, and kind. Completely undeserving to be married to such a monster as Thoros Nott.

“Had a good time at the ball last night?” Draco queried, giving up on his speech and finally flopping in the spare chair. “Saw you getting cornered by the gang of mamas. Managed to escape unbetrothed, did you? Or should I expect upcoming nuptials in the Prophet this week.”

“It was close,” Theo said seriously as if he’d managed to survive an encounter with a manticore rather than society’s resident pack of marriage hunters. “One of the witches was trying to talk up her daughter- who was in Hogwarts still, Draco! Thank Salazar Hermione was there to give me an out.”

Draco ignored how his forearm warmed at the sound of Granger’s name and pulled a face. “A schoolgirl? Ugh, they’re getting desperate.”

Theo looked at him seriously. “If I ever send a Letter of Interest to anyone younger than twenty, I give you and Blaise full permission now to beat the shit out of me.”

Draco huffed a laugh and swiped Theo’s coffee. Theo sent the second cup floating out of his office and down the corridor- Draco could chance a guess who it was intended for.

Theo leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk, and stared intently at Draco in unusual seriousness. There was a tense feeling in the air, a feeling Draco had never experienced around his always-amiable friend.

“Saw you and Hermione share the first dance,” he said mildly, “if you weren’t my best friend, I would’ve duelled you for the insult of stealing my date. You know, traditionally, we should’ve danced it together.”

“Was it?” Draco arched a brow at him, “a date?”

Theo paused, and Draco could see he was putting much thought into deciding what to say next. But he didn’t get the chance; a blood-curdling shriek split the air, and both Draco and Theo jumped to their feet, wands in hand.

“What the fuck was that?” Draco snapped, making his way to the door.

“No, Drake, stay in here,” Theo said, pushing past him. “I’ll go check.”

Draco barely waited for Theo to round the corner and vanish before he raced down to Granger’s office, easily marked with her details on a golden plaque, with long, desperate strides. He flung open her door. Nothing- it was completely empty. Another scream split the air again, but with it echoing over the stark tiles, he couldn’t track where it was coming from. The corridor made a suspicious rumble, and before he could even blink, he was rolling around midair, the whole room spinning around him in a sickening flash of black, blue and gold. During his (required) Muggle studies classes in his eighth year, their Professor had once demonstrated something called a ‘washing machine’; Draco suspected this was what it probably felt like from the inside.

It abruptly stopped, and Draco was dumped back onto the hard, tiled ground, now wholly disorientated. Now, much to his annoyance, all of the plaques had vanished from all of the doors, leaving everything unmarked. He wasn’t even sure if this was now Granger’s door behind him- he was utterly lost. He could either only go left or right down the passage, so he chose left and strode down it towards a door far at the end of the corridor.

Somehow, quite frustratingly, it led him back to Room of Doors, and the twelve identical doors leading off to each corridor glinted impassively at him, giving no information as to where they led. Using an old Curse-breakers trick he often used for exploring pyramids, he marked the door he’d just exited from with a quick identification charm, a shimmering red (‘O’, for offices) appearing on the front of it, so he had some way of navigating around, and to make sure he didn’t check any doors twice.

He chanced his luck and tried the one before him, fully expecting everything to be locked, but it opened immediately. Unsurprisingly, it took him to another empty corridor- without even thinking, Draco pushed open the closest door near him, and he stepped in. Before he could even blink, he was sucked forward immediately, floating weightlessly mid-air, unsuccessfully trying to orientate himself as his brain tried to process what he was seeing.

He was drifting around in what almost felt like the Milky Way. Whatever room he was in seemed massive, infinite, and scattered with tiny, twinkling stars that burned slightly as they brushed against his skin, and to his bemusement, what he could’ve sworn was a model of Neptune floated past him. He had no sense of direction, couldn’t even tell which way was up, but could identify a shrunken-down (but still massive) solar system model all around him. It was surreal; he felt like a god looking down at the universe, and as Pluto rolled past him (only the size of a Quaffle), he was seized with the urge to toss it up and push it around. The room was quiet, almost painfully so. The only thing he could hear was the prominent sound of his heartbeat, which soon quickly became intolerably loud, thudding in his brain as he searched desperately for anything else to focus on as panic clawed at his chest. Close to the model of Earth, he saw the familiar glimmering lights of the Scorpius constellation shining away, and tracing the outline of it was enough to get his mind cleared and concentrating again.

He looked around for any clues about how to get out. Far in the distance, he could see a faint bluish line, light seeping through a cracked open door that he presumed would take him out the way he had come.

But getting there was a problem. Trying to walk forward did nothing, and the only effect swimming mid-air had just made him relieved that no one was around to see that mortifying attempt at moving. He looked around at the planets for inspiration. They silently bobbed around the room, occasionally bumping into each other and weightlessly drifting away as their momentum changed.

He waited until the model of Jupiter (the size of a small shed) hovered over to him and, using it as a springboard, pushed forward with his feet. He shot through the air, slightly at a wrong angle, but somehow managed to redirect his path by pushing off Venus as he floated past it until he approached the crack of light from the door. He reached out to push the door open, but much to his shock, he couldn’t feel anything- his hand just passed through where the door should’ve been, no solid wood, handle…nothing. The room seemed to extend behind the doorway, carrying on in a fathomless expanse of space. The first stirrings of panic gripped him, creeping thoughts that the door might close, he would lose his way out and be doomed to float around this galaxy for eternity. With renewed determination, he pushed his fingers into the cracks of light and saw his fingertips vanish. He felt them curl over the smooth wood of a door edge and sighed in relief.

With all his might, he leaned back, and somehow, the light followed him, flooding his face with its aquatic blue. There was another loud heartbeat, and then he was sucked back out of the room and spat back onto the cold tiles of the corridor. He scrambled back the way he came and ended up back in the Room of Doors, much to his intense relief (a feeling he’d never thought he’d associate with the blasted room).

There was no way he wanted to go near that room again. He marked it off with a star symbol, standing a careful distance away, and looked at the remaining ten doors, feeling defeated.

Now, how to find Theo in this deadly maze of a floor? How the hells he was going to do that, he wasn’t quite sure.

An idea hit him. “Appare Vestigium”, he whispered, and brilliant gold footprints appeared on the floor, leading him toward Theo.

Annoyingly, much to Draco’s dismay, the floor spun again in response to Draco’s tracking spell, doors flashing all around him as his stomach churned uncomfortably. It didn’t last long, and he wasn’t tossed around in the air (thank Merlin), but it was sufficient enough to be utterly disorientating by the time it stopped. Unfortunately, the enchanted footprints seemed equally confused, circling a few times as if unsure which way to go, heading towards one of the doors before correcting themselves and moving away indecisively. Draco gritted his teeth. Bloody, mistrustful Unspeakables, why did they have to make everything so complicated?

Luckily, his charm marking the doors had also held fast, and Draco knew which ones not to open. He had also learned his lesson, and instead of touching the door in the next corridor he explored, he used his wand to push it open and stuck his head in tentatively.

The next room was also a bust, empty and as weird as the first. Draco recognised it- it was the one full of brains in jars, and he snapped the door closed with a shudder and crossed it off with a big ‘B’. He didn’t even bother walking through the next door- it led to what looked like a vast greenhouse, the humid smell of decaying plants filling the air around him before he closed the door and marked it off, too.

The fifth corridor seemed a bit more promising. Draco thought Granger might recently have passed this way—he was sure he could smell the faintest scent of the perfume she had worn the night before on the air, so he cautiously stepped in and opened the nearest door. It was also empty (Merlin’s sake, where had all of these Unspeakables gone off to?) and seemed pretty innocuous, just a large storage room filled from floor to ceiling with glowing pink bottles. He really didn’t think this place could get any odder.

He took another sniff of the air and returned to the Room of Doors, marked that one off, and eyed his options up. Five doors down, seven to go. Fucking Morgana- he wasn’t even halfway. Theo and Granger better appreciate his effort to find them.

Wearily, he opened door number six, and a wave of cool, musty air washed over him as he pushed the entrance door open. To his delighted surprise, the golden footprints almost seemed to jump up in excitement and darted down the corridor—Draco ran after them immediately.

He could tell he was at least in the right part of the floor; Theo’s tracks were becoming more confident, and he took a sharp right, veering through a large door with a skull on the surface- the first marked door he had seen since he arrived.

Draco chased after them, passing door after door to assorted labs and offices. He had realised a few minutes into his desperate game of hide-and-seek that he had completely underestimated the size of the Department of Mysteries. Unless he was running in circles (which he doubted given his reliable markings), it was massive, so much bigger than he had been made to believe. Had he not had a guide steering him in Theo’s exact direction, he would’ve been irreparably lost- the requirement for an escort suddenly started to seem more than sensible. In fact, he was beginning to think visitors shouldn’t even be allowed at all.

The footprints came to pause outside a nondescript door. Draco didn't even have to touch it; it swung open as soon as he approached. He cautiously made his way through it, entering another empty room. The door slammed shut as he jogged down a flight of stone stairs, but through an open archway, he could finally hear the low chatter of voices from the room it led to.

He stopped short when he slipped into it. It was a large round room with a big stone arch on a raised platform. A group of people, Theo among them, was crowded around the arch, all talking in panicked mutters. Much to his surprise, he noticed Kingsley standing there, too, looking exceptionally grim.

The back of his neck pricked. Under the growing worried noises from the Unspeakables, he was sure he could hear the faint… whispering? His blood ran cold, and he gripped his wand involuntarily. He could have sworn his Aunt's familiar cackle echoed softly around him, a sound he hadn’t heard in nearly ten years- and one that still chilled him to the bone.

He quickly made eye contact with Theo, who looked annoyed but resigned at the sight of him and jogged over to where Draco stood.

“What happened?” Draco asked, keeping his wand close to hand.

“We aren’t too sure yet,” Theo muttered, “how the fuck did you get here? You need to leave.”

Kingsley looked over, made eye contact with Draco, and gestured him over.

“Never mind,” Theo sighed, “guess you get a look too.” He paused. “For the love of Merlin, don’t go near the arch.”

Draco nodded seriously and followed Theo to the crowd of people gathering around; he could faintly hear what sounded like Robards barking orders from another room. He pushed his way through the throng until he came to the base of the dias and then stopped short.

A body lay facedown on the stone floor—a man Draco didn’t recognise. He had shoulder-length, thick, black wavy hair, slightly out-of-date clothes and tattoos running down his arms and over his knuckles. As one of the Unspeakables knelt and moved the man’s hair to the side, Draco saw a flash of black behind the man's ear. His blood chilled—an Azkaban tattoo.

Before he could even blink, Draco had his wand out and a protective magical shield on the tip of his tongue. In response to his sudden action, all the wands in the room were raised and pointed at the still-unmoving man, the tension in the room so heavy it was almost palpable.

“Drake?” Theo's low voice cautioned behind him; Draco instinctively relaxed slightly as he felt the heat of the leaner wizard, his trusted friend, behind him, covering his back.

Draco started to murmur something to him; he wasn't quite sure what, but stopped short when the man began to move and sat up, opening his eyes with a groan.

He felt frozen to the floor as he held the man's gaze, locked onto a familiar pair of silver eyes. His mother's eyes, his eyes… It couldn't be… the man looked like Aunt Bellatrix reborn, but that was impossible…surely?

The man was on his feet before he could even blink, and before the rest of the group could react, he flung up a massive shield around the two of them in an incredible display of wandless power. Draco recognised that spell- a powerful protection charm from the Black family grimoire, had seen his mother use it countless times during the war. It easily repelled the charms the group outside flung at it (some spells ricocheting off and hitting some of the Unspeakables who cast them) and was so thick he could barely see anyone else around him- their reflections distorted as if looking at him through a waterfall.

“Malfoy,” the wizard snarled, “where's my godson?”

“I don't know your godson,” he said as calmly as possible, trying to disguise the panic coursing through his veins as the not-Bellatrix stepped towards him.

The wizard laughed, and Draco flinched as his oh-so-familiar cackle echoed around them. His wand felt like lead in his palms. His mind was blank, and any knowledge of spells he could use to protect himself had completely slipped away.

“Come now, Malfoy,” the wizard sang mockingly, “we're all friends here.”

He shot a wandless whip of flame at Draco, who, only thanks to his reflexes honed after years in his field, ducked out of the way before it sliced his face off. He wasn't so quick to dodge the next one, and it slashed along the top of his wrist, burning hot blood running down his fingers as his wand clattered to the floor; the firey whip coiled back to hang loosely in the wizard’s grasp as he laughed again, raising his hand, a silver ball of magic poised to be thrown his way.

Draco hated how terrified he felt, like the helpless, useless teenager he hadn't been for a decade.

The wizard looked at him assessingly when he didn't fight back, eyes running over his face again. He faltered when he caught Draco's gaze, peering at him more intently. Draco didn't dare reach to grab his wand back; he worried that at the slightest movement, the erratic wizard might get him across the neck with his next attempt.

“I don't know you,” Draco soothed as if talking to a cornered wild animal. “My name is Draco. You appeared in the Ministry this morning. Can you tell me who you are?”

The wizard paused, “Cissa’s boy?” He rasped and lowered his hands slightly.

“Yes,” Draco cautiously agreed, unsure why that was relevant.

“Impossible,” the wizard breathed, starting at Draco like he was some enigma.

Distracted by their conversation, they both jumped out of their skin when the strange wizards' wards came crumbling down like a thousand pieces of paper being torn in half.

Draco only had a split-second to notice a flash of curly brown hair before a purple light enveloped the strange wizard and he dropped to the floor like a doll, unconscious or dead Draco wasn't quite sure, his silver magic flickering out like a snuffed candle.

Granger stood beside him, wand outstretched, the smouldering remains of the shielding charm steaming around her. Seeing as she wasn’t part of House Black, taking them down alone was an impressive show of skill, and if Draco's thoughts weren't swirling in his mind like a hurricane, he might have commended her for it.

Her face paled when she saw the wizard on the floor, and she knelt by him, sticking two fingers under his jaw to check on his pulse. Her shoulders sagged in relief, but Draco couldn't tell if that meant the wizard was alive or not—that spell of Granger’s looked pretty nasty; alive might not have been the end goal.

“You know this wizard?” he asked, reaching to pick up his bloody wand and charming some minor healing spell over his injured hand.

“I knew him,” Granger said slowly, looking stunned. “That's Sirius Black. He's been dead for over ten years.”

And Draco realised he’d been wrong- the Department of Mysteries could get a lot odder after all.

Twenty minutes later, Draco found himself pacing in anxious circles around Granger’s office, mind whirring. Sirius Black had been taken away, still unconscious and under magical restraint, to St Mungo’s for examination, and Kingsley had called an emergency council meeting. Draco, like everyone else present, had been required to take a magical oath not to breathe a word of what he’d just seen to anyone while the Unspeakables figured out what was happening. Granger had strong-armed Draco into her office, muttering something about healing his wrist up before he bled to death while she waited for Murray to arrive and give her further instructions on what to do.

“What you mean he was dead?” Draco snapped, Vanishing the last blood specks off his robe sleeves. “Dead people don’t just come back to life.”

“Well, technically, he was declared dead,” Granger very unhelpfully pointed out, “it was only ever presumed he was.”

“Yes, but what do you mean by that,” he snarled. “That seems like a pretty definitive assumption to me.”

(Dead people don’t just come back to life, he mentally repeated, trying to force himself to stay calm, but outwardly, he was panicking. The kind of desperate, crushing panic he hadn’t felt for a very long time, mixed in with a wild, warring hope. If Black had come back to life, could… anyone else?)

Granger sighed. “He fell through the Veil,” she explained, “in our fifth year during our fight with Death Eaters in this Department.”

With a flash, Draco knew exactly what she was talking about. He’d heard Aunt Bellatrix bragging that she’d managed to kill her cousin, but given that his mother had spent the evening screaming under a nasty Cruciatus Curse after his father’s failure to retrieve Potter’s prophecy, he hadn’t given it much thought. His mouth felt like copper, and he thought he might actually vomit.

“We were sure he was dead,” Granger continued, “Loads of people have gone through the Veil before, and none have ever come back. We’ve known that’s what the Veil was- a barrier between the living world and the next; we’ve just always assumed it was a one-way trip.”

Granger was silent for a while. Sitting on one of the ugliest couches he had ever seen, Draco could feel her concerned eyes on him, but he was too focused on regulating his breathing to care.

“He’s not coming back, Malfoy,” she softly said; Draco pretended not to hear her. Pretended he wasn’t imagining how bad it would be if his Aunt suddenly walked back into the room and saw what had become of her sister and nephew. That might be worse, he thought with a flash of morbid humour, than if the Dark Lord were suddenly resurrected, suddenly popping up in the Ministry too.

“Voldemort,” Granger clarified completely unnecessarily, Draco viscerally flinched. “He’s dead for good. His curse rebounded; he didn’t come close to the Veil.”

“But Bellatrix said she killed him,” he finally croaked out. “Black.”

Granger paused. “Only Harry ever saw what she hit him with. We assumed it was the Killing Curse, but Harry always remembered it as red.” She tapped her nails on her desk thoughtfully. “Looks like he was right. That’s the only way I can think of how Sirius is still alive- he wasn’t dead when he fell in.”

That did make Draco feel slightly better; Granger’s logic (as usual) was solid and sensible. He watched, reassured somewhat, as she fussed around with some of the weird instruments on her desk, face scrunched in thought as if looking for something to do with her hands.

“You alright?”

Granger hummed in reply. “Just picking up some weird readings. I’ll reset the parameters and try again.”

She trailed off into a thoughtful silence, and he watched as she picked up some Muggle thing (he was pretty sure it was called a screwdriver) and fiddled with her little metal box with an ease that suggested plenty of experience.

There was a knock on Granger's door, and an unfamiliar, junior Unspeakable traipsed in, followed by a few Aurors- three wizards and one witch.

“The Minister wants to see you and Malfoy urgently, Mione,” her colleague informed her; Draco didn't like the surprising familiarity. Granger surely outranked the wizard ten times over in experience, skill, and competence; at the very least, she should've been addressed by her title.

He arched an eyebrow at the entourage of Aurors.

“Needed a few other people to remember the message, did you?”

The Unspeakable bristled and darted a quick look at Granger. Draco quickly noticed how the three Aurors had fanned out to block the exit from her office door.

“We're just taking precautions,” one of the Aurors (presumably the one who thought himself in charge) said smoothly.

“Precautions?” Granger asked, eyes tracing over the Aurors, too. “On whose orders?”

One of the other male Aurors gave her a slimy smile. “Just some security concerns we’ve got about the Veil; going to raise them with the Minister now.”

His gaze flickered to Draco. “Especially as certain non-authorised people could bypass the security measures and access it this morning, Ma'am.”

The female Auror nodded. “We're worried about more people coming back,” she said, pointedly looking at Draco. “Criminals and such?”

“Criminals?” Draco whispered to Granger.

“The Veil was used for capital punishment,” she hissed back, “a while ago before the Kiss was legal.”

Draco pondered the implications of hundreds of years’ worth of criminals coming back to life, returning through the Veil. It was a horrifying thought.

“Ah, I see,” Granger said primly, turning back to the others. “And you thought my office would be their first point of call?’

The Auror ringleader flushed.

“We’re just being cautious,” the third male Auror snapped. “Black was supposed to be dead. Who’s to say more people can’t come back? ”

“We also don’t know how he came back,” the Unspeakable said, avoiding eye contact with Draco.

“That’s right,” the leading Auror agreed triumphantly. He gestured around the room for support from his colleagues. “We all know those attacks are still happening. What if that lot wanted to bring one of their friends back.”

He smiled at Draco maliciously. “You’re the Ministry’s pet Death Eater, aren’t you? Maybe you have some idea what’s going on.”

Draco recoiled. He knew he had no way of sticking up for himself. The Aurors were begging for any excuse to take him down; any sign of aggressiveness would be poorly received. He knew he was a very good duellist, but four to one were quite tricky odds, even for him. The desire, however, to beat those odds, to make the Aurors remember why the Malfoy name was still only whispered in the back streets of Knockturn Alley, was almost overwhelming.

Granger, annoyingly, read the look on his face right away.

“Everybody but Malfoy, out of my office!” She snapped. The Unspeakable tried to say something, but Granger cut right over him.

“I said get out, Jackson!”

“We can't leave you alone with him, Miss Granger.” The female Auror spat. “We’ve already had one criminal back through the Veil today. Who’s to say this one didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“That would be ‘Unspeakable’ Granger to you,” Draco drawled, and the pack of Aurors glared at him furiously.

“Sirius was declared innocent by the Minister,” Granger snarled, “false imprisonment, remember?”

Draco could see the Aurors didn’t really care. They were too high on their moral crusade to bother about trivial things like facts.

“I saw him loitering in the entrance this morning,” the Unspeakables offered. The group murmured anxiously; Draco saw the suspicion in their eyes, fingers tight on their wands.

“He was waiting for Unspeakable Nott,” Granger snapped at him. “I saw him when I arrived, too; he hadn't moved past reception.”

The ringleader Auror's face twisted as he looked at Draco. “Fucking Death Eater scum-”

He abruptly stopped, with Granger’s wand pressing into the crook of his neck right above his jugular.

“I would suggest,” She told him in a voice so soft it could've been mistaken as kind, “that you should watch the next words coming out of your mouth very carefully.”

There was a careful silence in the room. The Aurors now eying Granger up as cautiously as they did him.

Good. They were fools to think her harmless. Had they forgotten that not only was Granger a prominent member of the Order but had fought in (and survived) the Battle for Hogwarts when they’d likely just been taking bribes or snitching on their Muggle-born neighbours? He knew she'd even taken Dolohov down during it (and he had been almost as psychotic as his Aunt). Her kill count was likely higher than all of theirs.

He felt an unexpected flash of pride as the Auror's throat bobbed in fear, and he caught Granger’s eyes and shot her a bit of a warning look, shaking his head slightly. She pulled her wand back but kept scorching eyes pinned to the Auror.

“We will be there in five minutes.” She hissed. “Now. Get. Out.”

The group leader glared at her, then backed away, gesturing for all his colleagues to follow, and they slunk out of her office.

As impressive as it was, he couldn’t help the flash of humiliation at needing Granger to jump in.

"I don't need you defending me,” he snapped at her. Granger, irritatingly, looked completely unphased by his temper now directed at her, and coolly rearranged some pens on her desk.

“You obviously do if you're stupid enough to want to attack an Auror, Malfoy,” she rebuked. “They'd have you back in Azkaban before you could blink.”

He knew she was right and scowled, throwing himself back on the couch in annoyance.

“Wonder why Kingsley wants to see us?” He wondered bitterly, spinning the heavy band on his middle finger absent-mindedly around.

“No clue,” Granger said, eyes tracking the movement of his fingers almost unconsciously. “Maybe he wants to speak to us about our nominations.”

Draco snorted. “I imagine he's got more pressing concerns.”

Granger hummed in agreement. “Harry’s going to go mental,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Draco didn’t care about Potter’s emotional state but did his best to look somewhat sympathetic.

A thought occurred to him while he ran his fingers over the ring’s cold grooves, and he froze. If Sirius Black was alive after his trip back from the Veil (Merlin, imagine surviving that, only to be taken out by Granger three minutes after waking up), then what would that mean for the future of House Black?

More importantly, what would that mean for him? He who had been named Heir de jure of House Black as the only living descendent from the female line years ago. (His Aunt Bellatrix never had any children, thank Merlin, and he knew mother's sister Andromeda had been pruned from the family tree after Hogwarts, making her or her children ineligible.) Would the family magic recognise Sirus's return? Would he automatically supplant Draco’s claim on the title?

He had no idea. His mother needed to get down here stat.

He strode over to Granger’s desk, ignored her squawk of protest as he rummaged around for an interdepartmental memo and quill, scribbled a note for his mother and sent it off to his office; Sigmund would know what to do with it.

He passed the time, running a curious eye over her office. He’d never had the opportunity to be in it before and felt one could tell a lot about a person by their workspace. Granger’s office was large and very…botanical, cosy where his was clinical, with thriving potplants scattered around and a copper cauldron shoved by the window steaming away, some odd brown mixture bubbling inside. With glee, he noticed that it violated three by-laws for cauldron ventilation, enough to give her a write-up from the admin department; he couldn’t wait to point those out. Unsurprisingly, she had a Granger-appropriate amount of books, all arranged in some order that he couldn’t understand but presumably made sense to her, the range of topics exceptionally diverse. He lounged on some ghastly pink couch, under which was an ornate Persian carpet- both looking like they had been pulled from the estate sale of some elderly eccentric witch who lived with seven cats- likely Granger’s future self, he imagined. Her desk was grand and large but piled up with paperwork and files, all having bright, colourful tabs that shone out at him, indicating some level of organisation, with assorted bits of odd metal devices laying around, some humming softly, wires gently vibrating. The only organised thing in her office was an impressive wall of assorted degrees, certificates, and awards, reminding him, once again, that he was dealing with the Swot Queen extraordinaire and he should take her Very Seriously.

He eyed them up with great interest. He had done his best to ignore Granger’s accomplishments since leaving Hogwarts (a bit of a losing battle, as every newspaper after the war reported on the ‘Golden Trio’ activities with military-like precision). Still, he knew the basics- an undergrad degree in Experimental Magic from the University of Oxford (same as Theo), a Specialism in Spell Creation, and a minor diploma in Magical History (both from Oxford, too; the latter seemed weirdly unrelated to the others- guess Granger couldn’t even have other interests without turning them into something formal.) An empty gold frame caught his attention, already hanging and awaiting its occupant- her Mastery degree, he assumed, for her unreleased topic.

Several other framed certificates stood out as well: minor academic prizes, awards from assorted journals, something titled ‘Adoption Certificate- Crookshanks Granger’, and the largest, a framed award bearing the Hogwarts crest and ‘Best Charms Tutor- 2006/2007’ written in very shaky, childish calligraphy.

It wasn’t just magical ones she had up- he saw she was (unsurprisingly) very well educated in the Muggle world. He hadn’t heard about her other non-magical achievements before, which may have been a bit of an oversight considering she was now his biggest academic opponent. His father would be so disappointed- know thine enemy and all that. None of the titles or qualifications hung up on the wall he recognised: Bachelor’s in Molecular Biology (Cambridge), Master’s in Genetics (Cambridge again), a joint PhD in something called Epigenetics and Cytogenetics (this time from the University of Glasgow to spice things up). Even though he had no point of reference for Muggle qualifications, Granger seemed to have whizzed through completing hers with remarkable alacrity- Draco suddenly felt a lot more motivated to finish his dissertation as soon as possible. How on Earth she'd found the time to receive such a…varied education in the last ten years, he wasn’t quite sure. He guessed Granger wasn't the brightest witch of the age for nothing.

After his thorough assessment of Granger’s absurd edification was complete, he looked around for anything else interesting. She had left a pile of papers on a side table next to the couch, and he did his best to snoop, non-verbally rotating the pages for better espionage. Annoyingly, he didn’t understand much of what he was reading. Words like nucleotide sequencing, aporepressors, alleles, and genomic imprinting jumped out. Just reading them made him feel like an illiterate troll, so he stopped trying for the sake of his remaining dignity.

There was an impatient knock at the door. Granger stood up to leave, but Draco lazily waved her down.

“It's not been five minutes yet; let them wait a bit longer.”

Granger gawked at him, “Kingsley’s wanting to see us. You want to keep the Minister waiting?”

“Of course I do.” He told her arrogantly. “You told them five minutes; they will give us those five minutes.”

Granger reluctantly sat in her office chair and, a quiet minute later, gave a snort of laughter. “This is mental. You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a Malfoy,” he reminded her again. “And we don’t rush to see other people.”

“You’re awfully petty,” Granger said, and if Draco didn’t know better, he would’ve thought she almost sounded fond. Draco waited for another three, just to prove his point, then escorted Granger out of her office.

“Terribly irresponsible of you,” he chided the Aurors, “leaving such an eminent employee alone with the pet Death Eater. Who knows what I could've done?”

“Malfoy!” Granger snapped, and he had to dodge a pointy elbow quickly. “He's joking.” She quickly reassured the Aurors, who looked very close to throwing Stunners his way. They didn't look comforted at all, even less so by the nasty smile he shot at them.

“Let's head to Kingsley,” Granger suggested hurridly, sensing a possible altercation in her near future, and strode down the corridor towards the exit, the Aurors scrambling to catch up.

The walk to the Minister’s office was long and in frigid silence. It felt somewhat like walking to a head teacher's office if said head teacher had authority over the entire nation and the ability to imprison anyone should it seem indicated.

Kingsley looked as impassive as ever; Draco had yet to see him anywhere close to upset. Not even a resurrected mass murderer (albeit framed) could seemingly ruffle his feathers. He gestured at the large leather chairs opposite his desk, cleverly designed to make any visitors slide deep in and look up at his imposing figure, gesturing their accompanying escort to wait outside.

He eyed them both in silence. Draco tried not to fidget and was successful, but Granger was not.

“How funny.” he finally said, deep voice rolling through the leather seat, “just when I thought I wouldn't see the pair of you together until next Christmas, here you are in my office again.”

Draco resisted the urge to point out Kingsley was the one requesting them. He certainly wasn’t here for funsies. In fact, he didn't want to be here at all.

“At least this time, it’s not because someone’s complained about you two,” Kingsley sighed. “It seems like Fate’s in a funny mood this morning- Black back, of all things!”

Granger squirmed in her seat. “Any update from St Mungo’s?”

“Alive and stable,” Kingsley told her; Draco saw how her shoulders relaxed in relief. “But placed in a magical coma until the Healers can finish a full assessment.”

Granger nodded. Another silence fell in the room.

“Was there a reason you requested us both here, Minister?” Draco asked politely. “I would hardly think it’s got anything to do with our research.”

“That is yet to be seen,” Kingsley said, annoyingly vaguely, and waved his hand; a thin file pulled itself off a bookshelf and floated over.

“Busy morning for the Department of Mysteries,” he told them slowly. “Not only did I receive a memo from the Death Chamber, something that none of my predecessors can claim, but I also got an urgent message from one of our Seers in the Hall of Prophecies.”

Draco saw Granger bristle a little and flick her hair back in irritation at the reminder that such an office existed near her workspace.

“One of the witches there was divining into the bonfire last night,” Kingsley told him, “and apparently had a bit of a vision. Given this morning's events, I’m inclined to take it more seriously than I would’ve otherwise.”

“What was in the vision?” Draco asked, mildly intrigued. He couldn’t think of any living person (besides Potter) to have been significant enough to have any Seer concerned. It was quite a brag-worthy achievement.

“She can’t remember all of it,” Kingsley told him, and Granger gave a derisive scoff. “But what she could recall is quite concerning.”

He flipped through the file, stopped at a page, and swivelled it around to face them; Draco flicked through them in interest, angling the file so Granger could see it, too. The Seer had drawn several sketched scenes in charcoal with remarkable, unexpected talent. The first Draco recognised right away: it was a detailed depiction of the stone circle on Skye, but instead of the empty field Draco remembered, it was filled with dark curling smoke, a vague silhouette of a person in the middle, arms raised as if conducting an orchestra. The second drawing was equally alarming: the Veil in the Death Chamber, with many arms reaching through it, out into the room. The third sent a cold jolt through Draco, and he heard Granger hiss in surprise next to him: it was a very accurate sketch of her surrounded by a ring of billowing flames, the shading drawn so well that even in black and white, the light of them lit her up from below and emphasised the fiercely determined look on her face.

The following few pictures were more ominous- the oh-so-familiar walkways, roofs, cobbles and streets of Diagon Alley. But instead of the cheery scene Draco knew, it was in ruins- unidentifiable figures picking over the rubble of shops while other buildings collapsed in the background. Another sketch showed a crowd of people, no, not people, he realised, examining it in more detail, Inferi, rising from a field in their hundreds. The next showed a massive woodland, similar to the Forbidden Forest, but instead of being leafy, vibrant, and teeming with life, all the plants lay withered and dying, the bodies of little Bowtruckles like snapped twigs littering the floor and a unicorn’s rotting carcass under a bare tree. The seventh picture was also familiar, a Quidditch pitch with bodies falling like rain from the sky, incredibly accurately rendered, down to the very detail of the Holyhead Harpies’ banners.

Draco felt his skin prickle at the last page, sitting innocently before them—it was a portrait of him. At least, he thought it was him. The man mirrored his features; the point of the chin was there, as were the high cheekbones and nose, but the look of serenity that the man possessed, the casual power and arrogant elegance that emanated from the drawing, almost made him unrecognisable as he gazed at something beyond the frame.

“That’s me,” he pointed out unnecessarily, the tone of his voice questioning.

Granger looked at him like he was thick. “Of course, that’s you, Malfoy.” She turned to Kingsley. “What does this mean?” She demanded.

“We don’t know yet,” Kingsley admitted. “The Seer is refusing to talk to anyone besides the people in her drawings, and we’re pretty sure she doesn’t know who either of you are. Rare, considering you both so…famous.”

He spread the drawings out so they lay in a line on his desk. “I am not in the habit of putting much faith in visions,” he said, and Granger huffed in agreement softly. “But these are concerning indeed. I also worry about the list of questions you raised, which we don’t have any answers to yet.”

Kingsley’s gaze darted between the two of them. “You two have been involved in one of the strangest cases the Ministry has ever seen from the very beginning,” he said delicately, “And now we can assume some level of involvement in the future if these drawings are to be believed. Not to mention, you both are on the cusp of the greatest magical discoveries our society has seen in generations- I do not think that a coincidence.”

He and Granger were silent while they contemplated that possibility.

“Posessed interns, dead unicorns, missing Ministry staff, targeted Quidditch players,” Kingsley listed, lifting his fingers to count them off. “In the past six months in office, I’ve seen more crises than in the past six years combined. My gut feeling is something big is happening, and we’re not catching on quickly enough.”

He nodded decisively. “I’m taking Murray and Warsame off their assignment and tasking you two to investigate further, starting with everything that happened on Skye. See if you can find any connections or answers that we haven’t got yet.”

He raised a large hand to cut off Draco’s and Granger’s identical noises of protest.

“Your supervisors have a whole department to manage; they won’t be able to give this mission the level of detail it requires. Besides, they’ve tried for nearly a month and haven’t gotten anywhere. You two are the best minds I can think of for such a case, and your experience in your respective fields makes you two the perfect candidates to approach this from different angles.”

Draco could see how that could be true. Granger was a leading expert in theoretical spellwork, and his assorted Curse-breaker experience had exposed him to all sorts of strange magics that most other witches or wizards likely couldn’t image. He suspected it was only because of their poor relationship that Kingsley hadn’t tasked them to work together earlier instead of their bosses. From the tense set of Granger’s shoulders, she didn’t have as much faith in them as the Minister did.

“But we don’t have any investigative training,” Granger pointed out desperately.

“You are scientists,” Kingsley snapped, “your whole career has been asking and solving questions. You have been training for this since the day you left Hogwarts.”

“And if we refuse?” Draco asked.

“Should you think Azkaban an appealing alternative,” Kingsley told them coldly, “you can certainly refuse. That goes for you, too, Hermione.”

Draco held back a shudder. Granger looked a mix of betrayed and furious.

“It is an extreme option,” Kingsley admitted, somewhat apologetically. “I do not care how much you two despise each other; we need you to put your petty grievances aside and work together to benefit us all.” He looked at them seriously. “I am making your mission a top priority. As such, I am giving you Level Ten clearance.”

There was a dramatic silence. Draco didn’t know the significance of that, nor did Granger, given the tense set of her brow. Kingsley looked somewhat disappointed at their lack of reaction and continued.

“That means you have full permission to act as you see fit, on the condition every action can be justifiable to me afterwards. All Ministry departments will be required to give you full cooperation, and you’ll have the authority to apprehend any possible suspects you fear may be involved and refer them to the DMLE for questioning.”

He paused. “This, of course, includes blanket approval to use any magic you deem warranted for your investigation.”

Draco was flabbergasted, and Granger now looked contemplative.

“Are you giving us the green light to use Unspeakables Minister?” She asked shrewdly.

“I’m giving you the green light to use whatever force you think necessary, Hermione.” Here, Kingsley looked at them sternly. “This mission is now of critical importance. I have enough faith in the pair of you to feel my trust won’t be abused.”

Draco unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You’re giving me that level of authority?” He asked incredulously. “Minister, I don’t know if you missed it, but I’m not exactly popular. If anyone else finds out you gave an old Death Eater this level of power, you’ll-”

“I’ll have an outraged public, lose my job as Minister, and likely won’t be welcomed into the political circle ever again,” Kinglsey finished, looking unperturbed. “Fortunately, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“And what about us?” Granger challenged, surprising Draco with her sudden boldness. “We’re taking risks too. You’re asking Malfoy and me to put our very important research on hold and investigate things that your leading heads of department have been stumped by.”

She pointed at the array of sketches. “This investigation will likely put in great danger for the benefit of the public. Again. And our cooperation is only granted under threat of imprisonment. What’s in it for us?”

If Draco hadn’t been so struck by her actual audacity to bargain with her head of state just after being threatened with incarceration, he would’ve been very impressed by her negotiation tactics. Kingsley, however, just looked amused.

“Should your investigation bear fruit, in exchange, I will persuade the MAME committee to open up a category for joint winners for next year's awards.” Kingsley offered. Draco sucked in a breath; that was an exceptionally rare event requiring extenuating circumstances. In the six-hundred year hstory of the competition, duel-winners had only occured twice, the last pair was seventy years ago, after the discovery of Time Turner dust.

“I do not ignore my instincts easily,” Kingsley told them, “and right now, my they tell me that our society faces a disaster like none we’ve seen before. On top of these worrying events over the past few weeks, we may face more in the future.”

He slammed a large finger down on the drawing of Diagon Alley, the most alarming of the lot. “This suggests possible imminent devastation in Wizarding Britain. I am sure any couple who could prevent that, in addition to discovering how someone could return from the Veil, would be easily considered for a joint win."

Kingsley paused for dramatic effect. "That’s in addition to your individual nominations.”

Draco made a show of debating it, even though, ultimately, he knew they didn’t have a choice- he would do anything to avoid going back to Azkaban. From the way Granger was glowering at Kingsley, whose faint amusement was increasing with every dark look she volleyed his way, she knew it too.

“I am aware of your…history,” Kingsley continued, “And I predict that your unique experiences and training will complement each other. I can also only hope that should your current research be at all helpful for the investigation, you will trust each other enough to share it for the benefit of the case.”

Draco didn’t think that likely; his research was Top Secret. He didn’t even trust his supervisor with all the details, let alone the one witch in Wizarding Britain with the brains (and ambition) to adapt it and make it her own. (He ignored the nagging voice suggesting Granger would never do something so unscrupulous- it was still a risk.) His work held the fate of House Malfoy; he wouldn’t trust it in anyone else’s hands but his own.

From how Granger looked like she’d rather French kiss a dementor than spill all the fine details of her work to him, she felt the same. Kingsley saw the looks on both their faces and sighed.

“You’re both dismissed,” he told them wearily. “I hope you understand the responsibility I entrust to you now. I expect regular updates on anything you find, and it goes without saying that this mission is top secret. I want to keep everything quiet for as long as possible. Your cover will be that you are taking time off work to finish your dissertations. No one will ever suspect you two working together.”

Kinglsey stood up and pointed to his office door. “You’ll start by talking to the Seer later today and see if you can get more information from her. Your next steps forward will be at your own discretion.”

Draco and Granger sat in stunned silence. Kingsley waited for a response, which never came, and then waved his hands. They were catapulted out of his office with a jolt, flying in the air and landing on the cushioned corridor outside. His office door slammed shut with a decisive bang, and a sign flipped over, happily telling them Kingsley was out of office.

“I hate those bloody chairs,” Granger snapped, smacking away Draco’s offer to help her up. He rolled his eyes at her stubbornness and patted his robes down so that nothing was creased or out of place.

“Shall we meet in your reception before we go visit the Seer?” He asked. “As thrilled as I am to head back to your department.”

“You’re not suggesting we actually work together, are you?” Granger looked horrified. “Kingsley’s bluffing, I’m sure of it.”

“I will not be heading to Azkaban, Granger,” Draco told her very gently, “so yes, even if it means I have to Imperio you to cooperate, I will.”

Granger blanched and reached for her wand as if realising who she was left alone with for the first time.

“I would rather be dead,” Draco continued, advancing towards her, watching as Granger took a few uncertain steps back, “than go back to that gods-damned place ever again.”

He stopped as the tip of Granger’s wand hit his chest, burning slightly over his heart.

“But I think you see the potential here,” he murmured persuasively, “joint MAME winners. We could walk away from that happy. Both our careers would benefit.”

Granger looked indecisive, ambition warring with suspicion on her face, and finally lowered her wand. She was backed into a corner, and she knew it.

“Fine,” she spat, stowing it away up some billowing sleeve. “I’ll work with you- for now.” She pointed sternly at him, “But if I think, Malfoy, that you are doing anything to sabotage my research, I’ll make you regret the day you met me on the Hogwarts Express.”

Draco didn’t doubt it; he could already see her plans for getting away with his murder in her eyes. “Likewise,” he bit out and stuck a hand out for their second handshake of the year.

Granger took it, and they stared at each other in contemplative silence.

“I’ll meet you in reception in an hour.” She instructed, turning away to one of the fireplaces stationed in the Minister’s office.

“Where are you off to?”

Granger paused, “Before we head to the Hall of Prophecies, there’s someone I need to talk to.” She finally said, “Someone who needs to know Sirius is back.”

“Will they have clearance to know?” He asked pointedly, suspecting the answer was likely no. “Granger, if this becomes public knowledge, it’ll cause an absolute shit-storm. There’s a reason we signed an NDA.”

“I didn’t,” Granger pointed out smugly. Draco thought back on it and realised she was right. When the Minister passed the paperwork around, Granger had been ‘checking over’ one of the other Unspeakables who’d been knocked cold by a rebounded spell; the NDA must’ve missed her by. He mentally re-evaluated his initial assessment of her level of sneakiness.

“I’ll meet you there,” Granger said hurriedly before he could argue further and darted away into the Floo, swallowed up by the flames.

Draco returned to his office in a daze and sat behind his desk silently for a long while, head spinning, deep in thought. It was a lot to take in just after one morning: Sirius Black alive from the dead, dodging another trip to Azkaban, possibly losing any claim to House Black. And on top of all that, before he could allow himself to imagine winning a MAME award for two separate projects, he now had to survive working with Granger again. A task he suspected might just be his most challenging yet.

Chapter Text

Hermione Apparated next to a field full of inquisitive sheep, took a deep, calming breath of country air and turned to face the house in front of her. It was a picturesque cottage with honey-coloured stone walls and sage-green shutters overlooking a garden exploding with wildflowers, tucked between the tiny wizarding hamlet of Eastkit and rolling green farmland. The air was fresh and cool, and the melodic birdsong still chirped away over the low bleats of the sheep; Hermione felt like she was a walking Bombarda about to shatter the serenity of the morning. Remus had bought this house deep in the Cotswolds close to the Muggle town of Cirencester just after Teddy was born, using money awarded to him by his Order of Merlin Third Class, and Hermione knew it as well she did her own flat.

She pushed open the front gate, feeling the warm trickle of Remus’s wards wash over her, recognising and allowing her onto the property and knocked hesitantly on the painted front door. There was a thunder of footsteps down a staircase, and the front door was thrown open; Teddy’s curious face (complete with stripy green and purple hair) greeted her.

“Hi Mione, what are you doing here?” Magenta eyes narrowed at her suspiciously. “If you wanted to come for breakfast, we’ve just had it.”

“Actually, I want to speak to your dad,” she craned over Teddy, trying to peer into the cosy living room, “is he around?”

“Da!” Teddy bellowed and turned to shout down the passage. “It’s Hermione. She wants to speak with you.”

“I heard her fine myself,” Remus said drily, walking out of the kitchen and drying his hands on a dishtowel. “Maybe you could let her inside the house, hmmm?”

He looked up at Hermione in apology, and a flash of fear at whatever expression she was trying to hide crossed his face, and his hazel eyes widened.

“Teddy, go and play in your room,” Remus commanded, tone not brokering any dissension. Teddy curiously eyed them but uncharacteristically didn’t argue, scampering up the staircase and closing his bedroom door with a quiet click that echoed through the suddenly still house.

“Is it Harry? Andy? What’s wrong?” Remus’s voice was frantic.

Hermione laid a comforting hand on his, “Everyone is fine; nobody’s hurt, but something has just happened at the Ministry you need to know about.”

She walked into the small sitting room and sank into one of the soft couches by the fireplace. Remus followed her and sat in an armchair opposite her, eyes glued anxiously to her face. Mind racing, she took a deep breath. She honestly had no idea how to explain anything to him.

“I’ve just come from work. I wanted to tell you about something quite bizarre that happened there this morning.”

“What do you mean by bizarre?” Remus’s voice was low, and his now golden eyes were fixed on hers. She realised with a shiver that the full moon had only been the week before; his wolf would still be very active. She would need to tread carefully with the next bit of her explanation.

She swallowed, “I’m sure you have some idea about what happens in the Department of Mysteries- after the Order spent all that time guarding the prophecy. And our years of friendship.”

Remus nodded slowly, not even pretending he hadn’t pieced together bits of information the Ministry might not want him to know.

“I can’t give you much more information,” Hermione warned him, “but you already know we study the Death Chamber.”

Remus flinched at the sound of that specific room, and Hermione had to force herself to carry on.

She took another steadying breath, “There’s no easy way to say this- but this morning, there was a glitch with the magic of the Veil, and it allowed Sirius to return from the Beyond, back through the Veil and into the Chamber.”

There was a long, horrible silence as Remus digested her words.

“Well,” his raspy voice trailed off, and he licked his lips and tried again. “Well, at least this means we can give him a proper burial.”

“No, Remus,” Hermione told him gently, “He’s alive; he survived his time in the Veil somehow. He’s been hospitalised in St Mungo’s.”

Remus made a deep, wounded noise, like an injured dog, and stared at Hermione in shock. She tried to answer his obvious, unspoken question.

“Remember when Harry kept saying that whatever Bellatrix hit Sirius with wasn’t the Killing Curse-he swore it was red? I believe that because Sirius was alive when he fell through the Veil, he could return in that state. Harry remembered correctly, after all.”

Remus shuddered, the weight of her words sinking in and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook silently, and Hermione saw tears trickling down his scarred arms, mopped up by the wool of his jumper.

Hermione felt the hot sting of tears prick her own eyes. “He is still unconscious, but the Healers think he should fully recover.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through anyway. “Right now, he doesn’t seem affected by his time in the Veil, but we don’t know if he remembers anything from while he was in. We’ll have to see when he wakes up. And the Healers are sure that is a when, not an if.”

Hermione neglected to tell him Sirius had been fully compos mentis right before her (pretty nasty) curse had hit him and knocked him out. She felt terrible about that- she’d been so focused on the threat aimed at Malfoy that she hadn’t stopped to think who it might be before she struck. Thank goodness his prognosis was good- Harry would never have forgiven her if she had killed Sirius by mistake. What a shitty best friend she would be if she had killed his godfather only twenty seconds after he miraculously came back to life. Actually, Harry would forgive her; he was loving to a fault, but she probably wouldn’t forgive herself.

Remus was now making desperate sobbing noises into the palm of his hands; Hermione crossed the room and knelt in front of him, wrapping both arms around his narrow shoulders and pressing her curls to his sandy hair. There was a creak from the other side of the room, and Hermione looked up to see Teddy peering around the doorway, face uncertain as he watched his father cry.

“Go back to your room, Teddy.” She told him firmly but not unkindly, “I’ll be up now to speak to you too.”

“Is Dad OK?” Teddy mumbled, eyes fixed on Remus, feet toeing the old floorboards underneath him.

“He’s fine, sweetheart; he just got some news- it’s good news, don’t worry,” Hermione said soothingly, rubbing a hand over Remus’s arm as his sobs died. “Off you pop now, I’ll come up to you soon.”

“It doesn’t look like good news,” Teddy said dubiously, but listened to Hermione and clambered back upstairs again. Hermione listened for the click of his bedroom door closing and turned back to face Remus; this time, she made sure a strong soundproofing charm was up before continuing.

“No one else knows yet. Kingsley’s probably off to tell Harry, so I came straight here. I wish I could be there with him, but I have so much at work to get under control.”

She waved her hands vaguely, grateful for the plausible excuse; Remus nodded understandingly. She sat with him silently for nearly twenty minutes while Remus processed the news, but couldn’t delay sharing her anxious planning for much longer.

“How? Why?” Remus rasped, looking at her, hopefully like she held all the secrets of the universe.

Hermione hesitated, “I have some idea,” she said slowly, “but I can’t tell you, Remus. Sorry. I would if I could, but it’s Unspeakable business.”

Remus nodded understandingly, luckily knowing the strict secrecy requirements the Department of Mysteries maintained. “Thank you for coming to tell me,” he muttered. “I—thanks.”

“Kingsley will have to tell Harry,” Hermione continued her earlier train of thought, “because he’s next of kin, and I think Sirius being back might mess up the wards of Grimmauld Palace. I don’t know what this might mean for Gringotts- if the Black vault will automatically transfer back to Sirius,”

She shot a look at Remus and felt a flash of guilt at his still-stunned silence while her mind raced ahead. “Kingsley doesn’t want this public knowledge yet. I think he will make Harry swear a Confidentiality Oath so he won’t be able to say anything to you. He’ll say it’s for Sirius’s benefit.”

Remus was looking slightly better. “Bit of a shock for the public,” he said, clearing his throat and trying again. “I guess he’ll want to keep it under wraps for as long as possible.”

“I can’t tell you much more,” she told him apologetically. “I’ve already said far more than I was supposed to, but I can say that if you were to head to St Mungo’s this morning, you might find something interesting in the Janus Thickey Ward.”

Under his still-present shock, Remus looked slightly amused by her suggestion. Another thought struck Hermione.

“It’s a bit premature,” she told him apologetically, “but you and Harry should chat about where he can stay once he’s out. I think things might move quite quickly now he’s stable. Grimmauld Place will be the most familiar to Sirius, even if it’s changed so much.”

“No, not Grimmauld!” Remus snapped at her, suddenly looking up. Hermione looked at him in slight shock at the unexpected outburst from the usually placid wizard.

He looked a bit abashed at her surprise. “It’s just… I promised Sirius that he’d never have to go back there after the war ended.” Remus croaked slowly; Hermione nodded understandingly. Living there while on the run had been awful after just a few days; she couldn’t imagine growing up in that mausoleum of blood purity and hate.

“Teddy,” Remus muttered, looking at Hermione. His expression was dazed, still gazing uncomprehendingly at her. “I don’t think Sirius can stay here. We don’t have much room, and Teddy might be a surprise.”

Hermione privately thought that Teddy would be a massive shock for Sirius- finding out his best friend had married his own (much younger) cousin and had a child with her. Fuck, Sirius wasn’t aware yet that Tonks had been killed- not yet aware that Voldemort had been killed. He was in for a massive debrief when he finally woke up.

A sudden idea hit her.

“Why don’t you suggest to Harry that Sirius stay with me until things are more figured out? I have loads of space, and your Floos are already connected.”

Remus looked at her consideringly. It was a good suggestion, Hermione was chuffed she thought of it. She also had the basic Healing skills on hand should Sirius go downhill after being discharged.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said slowly. “Are you sure that won’t be an inconvenience?”

“I’m happy to have him. And I don’t think Crookshanks will mind either- he can keep an eye on us.” Her teasing fell a little flat. Remus still looked like he had just watched his world crumble around him and then rebuild itself.

Hermione chose her following words as tactfully as possible.

“Does Teddy know who Sirius is? Will he understand why this is so important to you?”

Remus nodded, “I’ve shown him lots of photos of Sirius and James, and me from Hogwarts. He knows that Sirius was to Harry what Harry is to him,” he paused, “and that he was also related to his Mum. Think Andy has also told Teddy some stories from when they were young.”

His face crumpled. “He found an old photo of Sirius with that stupid motorbike last week and wanted to dress up like him for Halloween. I told him no, and he threw a massive tantrum last night. I think he’s starting to question his Mum’s side of the family.”

She patted Remus’s shoulder. The poor man still looked very shell-shocked, maybe giving him some time alone to process wasn’t a bad thing. At least Teddy had some point of reference for who Sirius was.

“Should I go up quickly to speak to Teddy and fill him in? After that, would you like to go to St Mungo’s?”

He nodded, still blankly gazing at her. “Teddy was supposed to go to school, but he's got a cold- he’ll have to wait at the hospital. Andy’s off to France this week.”

“I can take him to work with me, and Ron can watch him,” Hermione offered. It wasn’t ideal; she’d have to park Teddy in Ron’s office (under one of the secretaries’ stern supervision) and give him a book or something to keep him busy. It was far better, however, than letting Teddy run around a magical hospital unchaperoned—truly a terrifying thought.

Remus clasped her arm in a too-warm hand. “Thank you, Hermione.” He told her seriously, golden eyes pinned onto her, flicking back into hazel. “You’re a good friend.”

She nodded. It was her turn now to choke on the morning’s emotions that she’d done an excellent job ignoring so far: guilt, apprehension, and nervous excitement all swirling around. “Pleasure, Remus.” She mumbled, “I wanted you to know right away.”

Remus pulled her into a thankful, brief hug. After detangling herself, she left him to speak with his son.

Teddy wasn’t too thrilled at abandoning his plans of playing video games to ‘spend the day at the Ministry while your dad visits a sick friend’ but readily agreed on the condition that Ron take him out for ice cream at lunch. That was a condition Ron would more than eagerly meet, so Hermione allowed it. She ignored his complaints that his Gameboy wouldn’t work in the Ministry wards and soothed him with promises of raspberry chocolate cones and future efforts to get it working.

Remus looked more composed when she and Teddy came downstairs; the only evidence of their earlier conversation was his slightly swollen eyes and still-shaking hands. Hermione pressed her lips to stop tears welling up, too, when at the sight of his Dad, Teddy strode over and gave him a big, silent hug.

“I imagine you’ll be at St Mungo’s for most of the day,” she told Remus, “so why don’t we find you there after work?”

Remus nodded vaguely, still not really listening as he clung to his son.

Hermione suddenly remembered a crucial bit of information. “Remus, you can’t let anyone know I told you about Sirius,” she told him sheepishly, “The words ‘top secret’ might’ve been thrown about.”

He eyed her up in concern. “You haven’t broken some Secrecy Vow, have you?” he asked worriedly. “Do I need to be worried about you getting arrested today on top of everything else?”

“Technically, there was an NDA passed around.” She smiled smugly. “Somehow, it skipped me, so I’m under no legal obligation to keep this quiet.”

Remus sighed, but she could see the smile lurking around his mouth. “I’ll keep quiet when I’m at St Mungo’s then. Good thing I’m only heading there to check on my stock of Wolfsbane,” he told her drily. “I wonder what else I might find.”

He turned to his fireplace, “St Mungo’s!” He shouted and stepped into the Floo. Before leaving, he looked over his shoulder at Hermione and Teddy in farewell.

“Behave.” He told Teddy sternly, one foot sucking away into the flames. “Listen to Hermione, no naughtiness today, understand?”

Teddy obviously realised this was no time to be cheeky and nodded meekly at his father. Remus paused, pulled away from the Floo, and strode over to plant a kiss on Teddy’s head before returning to the green flames.

“I’ll see you later, my boy.” He told Teddy softly. “Love you lots.”

“Bye, Dad,” Teddy said quietly, watching his father vanish. He eyed the fireplace up thoughtfully in unusual silence.

Hermione clapped her hands. “Ready to go?”

Teddy nodded, still subdued. Hermione eyed him in concern; Teddy had inherited Remus’s empathy and kindness but not his calm nature. He was so similar to how Tonks had been- fireworks of personality that seeing him this quiet and obedient was slightly concerning.

“All good?” She asked, ruffling his (now pink) hair, watching it turn into chestnut curls to match hers. He hummed in reply and went to grab his backpack.

“I’ve got a really nice book for you on Welsh charmwork,” she told him eagerly, “it’s very exciting. Maybe you can read that before lunch, hmm?”

“Yay!” Teddy said unenthusiastically, then perked up. “Dad said you work with a Curse-breaker. Is it true they all have skull collections? Do you think I can see them?”

Stumped at the image of Malfoy with a potential horde of human remains, Hermione floundered, instructing Teddy to grab his console just in case she could get it working. It was only a temporary fix; Teddy returned clutching a children’s book, part 3 in a series entitled ‘Alaric Abaranthy and the Emperor’s Curse.’ Hermione resigned herself to a long trip to work, and with Teddy nattering on about curses and skeletons (and cursed skeletons), they left for the Ministry.

Much to Hermione’s frustration, Ron wasn’t in the office, having been suddenly called out to investigate a missing person’s case. However, the Auror secretary cheerfully told her he would be back shortly, and she’d send him down to Hermione’s level to collect Teddy as soon as he got in.

So, for now, Teddy got to spend the morning in the Department of Mysteries, a horrific prospect that had her sweating and making a mental list of the strong warding spells she needed to place on her office to stop him from wandering about and either A) getting involved with something so dangerous Remus wouldn’t speak to her again or B) entirely vanishing off the face of the Earth which would also result in Remus never speaking to her again- an outcome she was keen to avoid.

She strode to the elevator and down to Level Nine, Teddy trotting along behind her, and, with unsurprising annoyance, found Malfoy already waiting for her in reception.

He did a double-take at the sight of the child behind her, looking so much like her identical younger twin. She could almost see him mentally calculating the possibility of her having a son he didn’t know about, and almost felt like implying it, just to see how he’d react.

“Granger,” he greeted her slowly, eyes darting behind her robes where Teddy was partially hidden; she could almost feel him gawking at Malfoy without needing to check. Malfoy looked as imposing and impassive as ever in his office uniform- it wasn’t as heavy as his field uniform, and instead of the protective leather gilet and vambraces, it was more similar to a formal Muggle suit but complete with a dramatic cloak- the black and silver ensemble very different to the other Ministry staff and their assorted jewel-toned uniforms, easily identifying him as a Curse-breaker.

“Where are your skulls?” Teddy chirped from behind her, moving forward to stand before Hermione.

“What?” Malfoy said inelegantly, staring at Teddy as if he’d never seen a nine-year-old before.

“Skulls,” Teddy said slowly, as if worried Malfoy was some dim-witted child. “Do you have them?”

Malfoy’s eyes darted to Hermione’s, begging for clarification. She refused to give him any, immensely enjoying watching someone experience the walking hurricane that was Teddy Lupin for the very first time.

“I have one,” he said slowly, “in my office. But she doesn’t like children.”

Teddy’s eyes brightened, and he looked at Malfoy as if re-evaluating the initial assessment of his level of coolness.

“Wicked.” He breathed. “Can I go see?”

“Um,” Malfoy floundered, now looking at Hermione quite desperately. “Maybe if your mum or dad says yes.”

“My mum’s dead,” Teddy told him plainly. Malfoy now looked almost ready to run away, and Hermione revelled in his silent discomfort.

“Maybe if Granger says you can,” Malfoy conceded, realising he would receive no help from her front. Teddy beamed.

Evidently deeming Malfoy a suitable acquaintance, he changed his hair to match Malfoy’s silvery-white while still keeping her curls. Hermione saw Malfoy start noticeably and decided now was the time to intervene before Teddy appointed himself the mascot of the entire Curse-breaker department.

“Malfoy, this is Teddy. Teddy, this is my colleague, Malfoy.”

Teddy’s nose wrinkled. “Malfoy’s a funny name,” he informed them, as if the wizard had any say in choosing it. Hermione noticed with satisfaction that Malfoy bristled a bit.

“It is rather,” she agreed, shooting Teddy a conspiratorial look, ignoring the glower Malfoy sent her.

“That’s my surname,” Malfoy told him grumpily, “my first name’s Draco.”

“Like the constellation!” Teddy said eagerly, Malfoy looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, like the stars. Very good, I didn’t think you would know that.”

“My Granny is also named after a constellation,” Teddy informed him. Hermione saw the pieces click together in Malfoy’s mind, likely remembering their conversation from weeks ago. He gazed at Teddy with new eyes- curiously, in a soft way she wasn’t expecting.

“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy,” he said gently, putting his hand out for Teddy to shake. Teddy, thrilled with the grown-up treatment, eagerly took it and gave Malfoy a very enthusiastic handshake.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow when she indicated that he should follow her. She opened the correct door to the wing of the offices and strode down the corridor to hers.

“Joining us today, are you?” He asked Teddy as they walked.

“I’ve got a cold,” Teddy replied morosely. Hermione noted how Malfoy stepped slightly away at that revelation. “Couldn’t go to school, and cause Dad's at St Mungo’s, I’m coming in with Mione. My Dad’s not sick too,” he rushed to clarify, just in case Malfoy was concerned, “he’s seeing his friend.”

Malfoy held Hermione’s office door open and let them both file past him. She refused to give him a nod of thanks.

“Uncle Ron isn’t in this morning, so I have to come here,” Teddy explained further. “The woman at the desk said he was looking for someone and he’d come get me later.” He turned to Hermione accusingly. “I’ve never been in your office before!”

Malfoy was now looking a bit overwhelmed at the torrent of unsolicited information.

“There’s a reason for that,” she said to Teddy pointedly, “Hopefully, Ron will get you soon- don’t touch that!”

She caught Teddy’s hand just in time before he could fiddle with any of the instruments on her desk and pushed him towards her couch. “Sit.”

He huffed a sigh and flopped on her couch; Malfoy stood to lean against her desk behind her.

“Ground rules,” she said sternly, putting her hands on her hips. “Malfoy and I need to talk about work things, so you’ve got something to keep yourself busy?”

Teddy dutifully waved his book at her.

“Good,” Hermione said, but floated another think hardback over just in case. “Here’s that book on Charmwork I told you about. If you get bored, why don’t you read this?”

“Thanks,” Teddy said indifferently; Hermione thought she could hear a stifled, amused sound behind her. “Can you try to get my Gameboy working?”

He passed it over to her, and Hermione examined it intently. People always assumed that because she was Muggle-born, she would be good with Muggle technology. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case at all. She struggled for a few minutes just to find the on switch, much to Teddy’s visible dismay. When she managed to turn it on, however, and the start-up noise filled the air, the sight of Malfoy’s poorly hidden impressed look made her feel very smug, even though it crashed and shut down almost immediately.

She drew her wand over it in a manner she hoped looked confident and professional and ran one of the Healer diagnostic charms Madam Pomfrey had taught her. It spat out a line of nonsensical data, and she made a show of reading through it thoughtfully. Her next spell wasn’t even a proper one, just a mock wand wave, but apparently, it was convincing enough to have both Teddy and Malfoy leaning forward in anticipation.

“Sorry, Teddy,” she told him earnestly. “It can’t bypass the Ministry wards.” She hummed in mock thought. “I could try to force it, but I’m worried you’ll lose all your data.”

“No!” Teddy snatched the Gameboy back. “I’ve been trying to beat the high score for ages!” He stowed it away safely in his backpack, sighing disappointedly.

“Can I go explore?” He asked hopefully.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione snapped, but softened slightly at the sight of Teddy’s slightly hurt face. “Sorry, love, but this department is dangerous. There’s all sorts of nasty magic we study here. You could walk into the wrong room and never come back.”

Teddy looked aghast. “So I can’t leave your office? At all?”

Hermione shook her head. “Malfoy and I will have to work here until Ron arrives, and you can’t go anywhere without me. I’m sorry, Teddy.”

“What if I need the loo?” he asked slowly. From behind her, Hermione could swear she heard Malfoy muffle another snort.

“Then you let me know, and we’ll go to the loo together,” she told him. Teddy huffed a groan from the couch. She felt for the poor boy; he was usually much more easy-going. She guessed he wasn’t feeling one hundred per cent and now had to spend the day bored out of his mind, being passed around by assorted adults.

She strode over to squat by the couch. “I know it’s not a fun morning, but Ron will take you out for a nice lunch, I promise.” She soothed, gently untangling his curls so they fell better on his forehead. “I know you’re bored, but you’re doing your Dad a big favour today by being well-behaved. Thank you, my love.”

Teddy perked up at that and nodded. She ruffled his hair, passed him his book, and watched as he quickly became engrossed in it, all thoughts of his Gameboy forgotten.

She took a seat behind her desk. Malfoy pulled over one of her pot plants and Transfigured it into a plush, green, velvet settee. (Why did people keep bothering her plants??) There was a tense silence. Remembering that their mission was supposed to be somewhat on the down low, Hermione threw up a subtle Muffalatio.

“Got a memo from the Minister,” Malfoy told her abruptly. “None of the Seers are free yet; they’ll send a message when they’re ready for us. So we could talk about where we wanted to start while we wait.”

Behind them, Teddy started humming some pop song Hermione didn’t recognise; she did her best to tune him out. Malfoy quickly looked at Teddy, and she saw him reinforce her privacy charm. The humming dampened slightly.

“So it was Lupin you told them?” Malfoy asked her, trying hard not to look interested. “Here, I thought you were running off to tell Potter.”

“Harry’s his next of kin, so legally, St Mungo’s should inform him straight away,” Hermione told him carefully, pulling some files off her desk. “I suspect Kingsley will tell them all to keep it quiet for now. Harry will listen if he thinks it’s for Sirius’s safety- but Remus needed to know.”

“Isn’t that a direct violation of our eminent Minister’s orders?” Malfoy said mildly, running a lazy thumb over one of his rings.

“Go ahead.” She looked at him unimpressed. “Snitch on me to Kingsley.”

There was a pause.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Malfoy told her carefully, now almost cheerful.

She eyed the mercurial wizard up cautiously- it was so easy to forget he had threatened her with an Imperius Curse less than two hours before, when he was acting almost chipper now.

“You’ve got a chance to get me in deep trouble with the Minister,” Hermione reminded him in deep suspicion. “Why aren’t you taking it?”

“Consider it a prize for impressing me,” Malfoy told her airily. “I had forgotten you were so sneaky.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence, eyeing each other up across the desk as if fully realising, for the first time, the weight of the assignment Kinglsey had tasked them with.

“I think,” Malfoy said slowly, “that we need to call a truce and decide to work together properly. There’s too much at stake here for us to make it harder than it needs to be.”

He paused. “It’s not a secret that… historically we haven’t gotten along,” he told her smoothly, making their past sound like minor disagreements over favourite bands, not school rivals turned enemies on the opposite sides of a war. “But maybe it’s time to put that aside for now. Temporarily. Until we’ve finished our investigation and won that MAME.”

Hermione blinked at him, “I agree.” She told him coldly. “It’s in our best interest. If we can cooperate and get this over with, then Kingsley will be happy, the public will be happy, and our careers will benefit.”

It was an absolute lie; she hadn’t thought anything of the sort but refused to let Malfoy think this was his sole idea and take the credit for it if it impressed Kingsley.

“So, truce then?” Malfoy offered her a hand once more. The third time in ten years, she noted absently.

Hermione gritted her teeth; if Malfoy could pretend to be cordial, she could play along. If this mission collapsed because they tried to kill each other, and Kinglsey had no choice but to send them to Azkaban, then it wouldn’t be because of her.

“Truce.” She agreed, shaking his hand. His rings burned against her fingers again. She could only hope they weren’t assigned cellmates together.

“So, where do you want to start?” Hermione challenged him, trying to keep her tone as friendly as possible. “I’m thinking from Skye and working up to today.”

She did her best to smile at him, but bared her teeth more than anything.

“Agreed,” Malfoy said stiffly. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a collection of thin files.

“Here’s Warsame’s collection of notes,” he spread them out on her desk. Hermione could see a copy of her translations, pictures of the scene from all angles, and a report entitled ‘Zagreb, 1997’ among the documents before her. “Murray’s notes have been integrated, too.”

“Kingsley sent me copies of that Seer’s drawings,” Hermione added those to the pile. “Anything else we should include?”

“I brought my copies of the incident at the Harpies’ pitch.”

Another file was included. Hermione flicked through it curiously- she winced at the sight of the Quidditch players littering the ground, some screaming in pain, others concerningly still and closed it with a shudder. Shit, Ginny and her team had got lucky indeed.

“I was thinking we should request the recent investigative cases from the DMLE and go through them ourselves,” she suggested, “your lot and the Aurors- so we don’t miss anything. Kingsley mentioned a few things he was concerned about- like those missing Ministry employees. I already have a copy of Harry and Ron’s unicorn case; I’ll add it in.”

Malfoy nodded in agreement. “We should broaden that,” he suggested, “let’s include the recent ones from the other levels, just in case we see any patterns.”

Hermione paused. That was a good idea. While the Auror and Curse-breaker departments covered the bulk of investigations performed at the Ministry, it would be careless to ignore the cases from the other smaller departments.

“I was also thinking of sending the Magizoologist who supervises the British Unicorn herds an owl.” She looked over at Malfoy. “See if they’ve got any theories for us.”

Malfoy looked as though he was fighting it, but eventually gave her a nod of approval. She scribbled a memo to the archive office, asking for copies of all cases from September 2007 to Samhain, and sent it zooming off, following it with a note for Murray’s secretary to find her a contact within the Beasts division.

“So I suggest we start at the beginning, and look for any patterns,” Malfoy suggested, pulling an empty leather-bound workbook and a beautifully ornate quill out of his bag.. She reached over to grab her Moleskine and biro too.

“Before we do,” Hermione told him absently, dating the top of her brand-new notebook with satisfaction, “I wanted to let you know that I’ve figured out how Black came back.”

There was a stunned silence, and then Malfoy barked a disbelieving laugh.

“What do you mean you’ve figured it out?”

“I mean,” Hermione said smugly, relishing the flare of fury in his eyes as she spoke to him like one would a rather stupid dog, “I think I know how Sirius came back through the Veil.”

“You’re lying,” Malfoy said, eyes narrowing at her; Hermione shook her head. “You can’t possibly have figured it out in the-”

He checked a handsome leather wristwatch with glinting gold numbers.

“-three hours since our meeting with Kingsley.” He finished.

“Actually,” she told him, her smugness increasing, “I figured it out twenty minutes after we found him—when we were back in my office; I just wanted to be sure about it before I told anyone.”

There was another silence as Malfoy eyed her up, realising she wasn’t joking.

“Alright then,” Malfoy said, crossing his arms. “Tell me now.”

Hermione pointed to the measuring devices on her desk. “Do you remember the thing of mine I said was giving me funny readings?”

“Yes,” Malfoy looked at her suspiciously. “What about it?”

“It’s a device to measure surrounding magical activity,” Hermione explained. Malfoy made an incredulous noise.

“No such thing,” he told her arrogantly. She cut him off.

“There never used to be. I invented it.”

Malfoy was silent for a while, eyes tracing the humming device on her desk. “Go on.”

“Well,” Hermione continued, “early this morning, for a split-second, the reading dropped to zero before returning to normal again.”

Malfoy ran a tongue over the tops of his canines. “What does that mean?”

She handed him a drawn depiction of the readings. It looked like a Muggle ECG to her, but she knew that comparison would only confuse Malfoy.

“See, look here. This line is the graphic measurement of the magical activity I’ve recorded for the past few weeks. See the minor fluctuations, higher during the day when people are around doing spells, but lower at night when the Ministry is quieter. It has been pretty consistent since I started measuring. Last night, it started to spike up again-”

“Maybe picking up on the presence of so many magical beings at the gala,” Malfoy suggested. Hermione nodded, eyes tracing over the graph.

“I thought that, too. Anyway, look! Three a.m. exactly, it stopped recording any magical activity, only for a minute or two, then it went back to normal.”

“Could it have stopped working?” Malfoy asked, but Hermione could see he knew where her train of thought was heading.

“No, it still recorded data- but just didn’t pick any readable values up,” Hermione explained. “I think there was a temporary absence of magic and that the stream of magic that feeds the Veil was gone, so the barrier between the two worlds couldn’t be sustained.”

There was silence. Malfoy looked exceptionally grave. Hermione knew it was a far-fetched theory, but it was the only plausible one she had right now.

“Have you ever heard of anything like this before?”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, never.” He traced a finger over the graphed measurements. “Tell me more about this magic you say supports the Veil.”

Hermione paused. “That’s top-secret Unspeakable research,” she said stubbornly. “Not for you to know.”

“Nuh huh uh,” Malfoy waved a reprimanding finger at her in utmost condescension and almost smirked at the look in her eyes, as if he knew she was very close to biting it off. “Kingsley said all departments had to give us full cooperation, remember?”

She scowled at the reminder. Fuck.

“So go on then, Granger,” Malfoy taunted, “cooperate.”

Gritting her teeth, she knew she had no choice. Thanks to Kingsley, she was now the first Unspeakable to share their secrets in eight hundred years. Fantastic, what a legacy.

“Have you ever heard of Ancient Magic before?” She eyed him closely, curious to see what his answer would be. “Or anything about the different branches of it?”

Malfoy paused. “I know a bit about it,” he conceded. “More than most, but still not a lot.”

Hermione felt her jaw drop open. “How?” She all but squeaked. “I only learned about it when I became an Unspeakable. And not right away. Murray only told me after eight months!”

Malfoy shrugged, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Pureblood families used to know loads about Ancient Magic, but honestly, we’ve forgotten most of it. We know it makes up the pillars of all modern magic, but now we only really use it to maintain our family magic and wards.”

He paused; it seemed he was heavily debating whether to share more. “And You-Know-Who,” here, Malfoy really choked his words out, “had an interest in it. Professor Snape was researching it on his behalf before he died.”

Hermione hummed, “Yes, we suspected he did. That’s how Voldemort returned— he sacrificed Cedric using Blood Magic and made his Horcruxes with Soul Magic.”

“It scared him, I think,” Malfoy admitted. “Ancient Magic. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t grow up with it.”

He fell silent again, and Hermione didn’t have the heart to push. Malfoy hardly ever spoke about Voldemort or the war. Even during their eighth-year friendship, he had barely ever brought up his memories as a Death Eater; Hermione would respect that.

Malfoy changed the topic slightly. “My family library is pretty extensive, and some books are pre-Norman. It was more common back then, right?” He shrugged, “Also, three of my ancestors were Unspeakables. Professor Snape found some of their journals in the library, and I had a look, too, so I know you study them here.”

Hermione had to quash the wave of indignation and fury that, once again, her being Muggle-born had given her another massive disadvantage. Had she been born into a family where Ancient Magic was part of her legacy growing up, her research and understanding of the fundamentals of their magical theory would have been much easier. It was beyond unfair that Malfoy had been exposed to something that had taken Hermione nearly twenty years to be told about, from the very day he was born.

“But I don’t know more than that.” Malfoy admitted, “I’ve used Blood Magic quite a bit, that’s really the only branch that’s survived- you’ve seen me do some.”

Hermione had indeed, and it had been fascinating. She sighed. If Malfoy knew the basics, then she might as well fill him in on the rest.

“OK, so we’re not starting from scratch. You’re right. We study the various types of Ancient Magic in this department, among other things; the Ministry is built on a bedrock of it. It’s a bit of a lost art- unfortunately, there aren’t many books left to teach us about it. There was a big push in the early eleventh century to make a lot of information inaccessible; Murray reckons it was as the number of Muggle-borns started increasing, the blood fanatics wanted to keep it a secret, and it died out.”

She scowled. Pureblood families guarded their resources like dragons. Some of the most significant findings in the Department of Mysteries had only happened recently after lots of the Pureblood family grimoires had been confiscated after the war, and Unspeakables had rediscovered previously lost information that had been forgotten over time.

“Anyway, I’ve gone off-track. So, one of the branches of Ancient Magic we study is Death, in the Chamber. We suspect that the Veil is a physical manifestation of Death Magic. My theory is that the magic maintaining the Veil failed this morning.”

Malfoy hummed in response to her explanation and pointed at the timeline on the graph. “Happened at the Witching hour.”

She nodded, she’d noticed that too. “I just don’t know why that happened. I also don’t think it was a coincidence that it happened when the Veil was thinnest, either.”

“That’s not,” Malfoy said slowly, “a bad theory. A worrying one, but a sound one.”

There was a pause. He looked at her over the desk, his gaze more curious than confrontational. Hermione felt a flash of self-consciousness.

“What?”

“It’s just- I wasn’t expecting you to study something so fundamental,” Malfoy admitted. “I imagined your research would be all about developing new spells. I always thought of you as a… trailblazer.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow at him. “Is that a compliment, Malfoy?”

He snorted. “An observation. Don’t get used to it, Granger.”

She wasn’t quite sure why she felt comfortable sharing, but suddenly, she wanted Malfoy to know—to try to understand.

“I started there,” she explained. “Developed some new charms, got the patents and the money for them. But I never really lost my interest in Ancient Magic. Then, when it came to deciding what I wanted to do for my Mastery, I went to Murray and asked to change speciality.”

She shrugged. “I won’t lie, Potions, Alchemy, Herbology, Transfiguration- all these classes of modern magic we’ve developed over the years are fascinating. But they wouldn’t exist without the Ancient Magics they’re built on. We wouldn’t be anywhere without them.”

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully, and the silence that fell over them both was the most genial it had been in ten years. His deep silver eyes bored into hers, and the air in the room suddenly seemed much thicker.

“So our mission,” Hermione said softly, “involves Ancient Magic in some way, do you agree?”

Malfoy nodded, still not taking his eyes off her.

“You need to give your mission a name,” Teddy advised, lurking behind Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy all but jumped out of his skin, and Hermione luckily was able to Disarm him before he pressed his wand to Teddy’s throat.

“Merlin wept!” Malfoy snapped in shock.

“Teddy!” Hermione cried, heart racing too, “You can’t sneak up on people like that!”

She looked at the blurry shielding of her Muffalatio which was still humming around her desk. “How did you hear us?”

Teddy rolled his eyes. “Dad’s been using that spell for ages,” he said, almost pityingly. “I learned how to get past it years ago.”

Remus wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that, Hermione mused.

“This is top secret information,” Malfoy told him crossly.

“You should’ve done a better charm then,” Teddy suggested cheekily, dodging Hermione’s swatting arm and bounded back onto the couch.

“Hey, Teddy,” Hermione called, trying not to laugh at the sight of Malfoy’s fuming face. “How much of that did you hear, hmm?”

“Not much,” Teddy reassured her, “only the bit about unicorns and Sirius and Ancient Magic.” He paused. “Did you know Sirius is my cousin?” He bragged.

Hermione knew Remus wouldn’t be happy if she pointed out that, technically, Malfoy was too, so she kept that fact to herself.

“Salazar’s sake, Granger.” Malfoy hissed at her, “Do I need to explain what confidential means? What are we going to do about this?”

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well, we have to tell Remus too now,” she sighed. “Sorry. It’s not on to ask Teddy to keep a secret from his Dad. I’ll smooth it over with Kings. We can trust Remus to keep quiet.”

“We could Obliviate him,” Malfoy offered, looking at Teddy assessingly. Hermione felt a bolt of hot fury.

“Raise a wand near Teddy,” she all but snarled, any amiability towards Malfoy forgotten, “and I’ll feed you my carnivorous plants in the greenhouse.”

Malfoy eyed her cautiously, but must’ve read the sincerity in her eyes as he quickly backed down.

“It was just a suggestion,” he sulked.

“You need to name your mission,” Teddy, who thankfully hadn’t heard them, insisted wisely and waved his book at them. “All the best Curse-breakers name theirs.”

He looked at Malfoy accusingly as if he were short-changing Hermione on the etiquette of Curse-breaking.

“Why don’t we think about that later?” Hermione said hurriedly, sensing they were starting to head off track. She also wasn’t entirely convinced that Malfoy wouldn’t Obliviate Teddy when her back was turned. Her office door bumped open, and a large cardboard box bobbed levitated inside; she sighed in relief at the distraction.

“Excellent,” She said happily. “That must be the box of files from admin. That was quick.”

She waved it over and pulled the top off, beaming in delight at the organised files contained within. “Shouldn’t take us too long,” she cheerfully told Malfoy, “we might be done reading through by dinner.”

“I wouldn’t be sure about that,” Malfoy said ominously, nodding towards her door. She watched in horror as more boxes floated in and started piling up in her office, neatly stacking themselves away. Eventually, the final box (number sixteen) arrived, and her office door finally closed behind it. There was a pause while she and Malfoy contemplated the mammoth task awaiting them.

Malfoy looked aghast. “How in Merlin’s name are we going to filter through all that before Yule?” He moaned. Hermione was hit with a bolt of inspiration and walked to one of her walls of books. With a screech, she wheeled out her secret weapon- a portable whiteboard, summoning some markers from a cup on her desk.

“What in the hells is that?” Malfoy asked, looking at her like she’d pulled out a hand grenade instead. Hermione was about to give him a brief rundown on the different ways Muggles visually organised data, but was stopped by a knock on her door; she, Teddy and Malfoy turned to look. Ron was sticking his head around the door, looking at the stacks of boxes in befuddlement.

“Hello, mate.” He greeted Teddy, “You ready to go?”

He nodded at Hermione and Malfoy, the latter of whom still had his feet on her desk. “Mione. Ferret.”

“Weasel,” Malfoy said impassively. Hermione walked over to hug Ron.

“Thanks for taking Teddy,” she whispered. “Poor thing’s really bored.”

“No problem,” Ron reassured her. “Do I have clearance to know why you’ve got him today?”

She grimaced. “No. Sorry. Take it up with Kings.”

“No thanks.” He looked around her office with interest. “I don’t even want to know what you’re up to. Teddy, feel up to some ice cream?”

Teddy gave a cheer of delight and shoved all his belongings in the backpack, racing out of the office, swerving past Hermione to hug her. Ron followed him out, nodding at them in goodbye.

“Sorry for the interruption.” She said hurriedly. “Where were we?”

Malfoy waved a casual hand at the boxes. “Forget those. I want to learn more about Ancient Magic. What are the branches you study here? There’s what, five?”

“Seven,” Hermione confirmed, reaching for her marker. This would be a fantastic opportunity to demonstrate the usefulness of a mind map; Malfoy was in for a treat. But she never got the chance; a memo whizzed through her door and parked itself on her desk. It unfurled itself, and a woman’s voice dreamily told Hermione that the Seers were ready for their visit at their earliest convenience.

“Tell me later,” Malfoy instructed; Hermione tried not to bristle at being told what to do.

“Read up on it yourself, Malfoy.” She snapped. “Do I look like your Professor?”

“Cooperation, Granger,” Malfoy crooned at her, and very impulsively, she threw her marker at him, watching in satisfaction as he had to duck with a swear to avoid it hitting his forehead.

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” she snapped. “Come on! We need to go.”

While Malfoy packed his ridiculously expensive-looking dragonhide bag, Hermione duplicated all the notes and cast a quick Protean Charm over the lot of them so that any notes or addendums one of them made at home, the other could see. She chucked Malfoy’s stack over at him, watching impatiently as he slowly packed them away, fighting the urge to knock them to the floor so he had to get down and pick them up again.

“Let’s go, Malfoy!”

“Wait, Granger.” Malfoy paused, lounging against her desk. He wasn’t one for arriving late, so whatever he was stalling for, he obviously thought it important. “Can I ask you something?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What is it?”

Malfoy had on an air of unaffected nonchalance that had her immediately cautious. “What branch of Ancient Magic do you study?”

She paused momentarily but decided there was no harm in telling him. “Love,” she said grudgingly, “I study Love Magic.”

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Love Magic? Didn’t know that was a thing.”

“The most powerful of all,” she said softly, unable to meet his eyes. The air felt thick again.

“Why did you-” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Why did you want to study that?”

Hermione paused. “When I was fourteen,” she explained hesitantly. “I was told about a witch who unknowingly performed Love Magic, and it was so strong it changed the course of our history.” She looked at Malfoy, his gaze so firm and unmoving on hers that her throat suddenly felt dry. “It stuck with me, you know,” she quietly said, “this idea of a magic so powerful it could survive even death. She was an ordinary witch, a Muggle-born, but her magic, her love, changed the world. That’s why I wanted to study it.”

Malfoy digested that; Hermione would give anything to know his thoughts.

“What was her name?” He finally asked curiously. “The witch who changed the world?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Lily.” She said. “Lily Potter.”

The memo buzzed in her hand, and the witch’s voice reminded them they were expected in the Hall of Prophecies. She led the way through the winding corridors of her department, Malfoy following behind her in contemplative silence.

Chapter Text

The last time Hermione had been in the Hall of Prophecies, it had been a vast, grand space, shelves full of labelled prophecy records reaching up to the four-storey high ceiling, all whispering away. However, over eleven years later, it wasn’t nearly as impressive.

She had heard that out of the thousands of prophecies that had once been stored in this room, less than a hundred survived the battle with Death Eaters in her fifth year. The loss was visible; rows and rows of empty shelves greeted the pair as they walked to the offices at the end of the main corridor, their boots echoing loudly down the marble hall, giving the place a haunted, abandoned feel.

“I didn’t know there was a Seer department,” Malfoy said curiously, eyes tracing the room. “I don’t know how we got here- we walked miles from your office.”

“They function mostly independently,” Hermione admitted. “Wizarding Britain has had a court of Seers for ages- a practice brought over by the Romans; they just became less...significant.”

Malfoy hummed in thought. “I still want that lesson on the seven types of Ancient Magic,” he reminded her. “I guess the staff here also study a branch.”

Hermione nodded, “Yes, Time Magic.” She tried not to sneer. “Notoriously unpredictable and unreliable.”

“I’m assuming Theo is based in this wing then, given his propensity for clocks?” Malfoy ran a lazy finger over an empty shelf as they walked, watching uncaringly as it quickly gathered a thick layer of dust.

She nodded stiffly. “Yes. But his focus is Time Turners, not Precognition. Much more empirical.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her derisive tone. “Surely you think there is some validity to Divination? Just because it’s the only branch of magic you don’t excel in doesn’t mean it’s nonsense.”

Hermione tried not to bridle at the direct criticism; Malfoy’s tone turned chiding, “I thought you might take it a bit more seriously, given we may be involved in a prophecy now.”

“I don’t think it’s nonsense,” Hermione snapped back at him, but seeing his unconvinced expression, tried again.

“I am aware the Sight is a known ability; I would be stupid to doubt its validity, given Harry's involvement in a prophecy.” she sniffed, “I just think it an exact branch of magic- you either have the skill or don't. Besides,” here she looked at him pointedly, “how many frauds does the Auror department bring in each week, pretending to be Seers and trying to scam scared people out of money.”

Malfoy had to admit that was true and gave her a reluctant nod.

“I’ll admit to having no born talent.” Hermione said grudgingly, “But so few people do, so keeping an office of full-time Seers is a massive waste of Ministry resources. Everyone knows prophecies are extremely unpredictable, and many Seers only have one their whole lives! They’re hardly popping out a monthly quota.”

She finished her rant with a deep inhale. Malfoy looked slightly stunned at her unexpected vehemence, but she still wasn’t quite done. The Seer department had been bugging her for years.

“However, you can't deny prophecies can be extremely misleading, easy to misinterpret, and often self-fulfilling. I mean, look at Oedipus-”

“Who?”

Her enthusiastic explanation of Oedipus and his unfortunate brush with prophecies took up most of the walk down the corridor. On arrival at the door, Malfoy looked highly disturbed and very disappointed to exit the corridor, only to find a reception with a desk and a silver bell to call for attention—no one else around to divert the topic of conversation. The oval room was empty, with several nondescript black doors (all closed) arranged regularly around the circumference; Hermione assumed they led to the different quarters for the assorted Seers.

Hermione saw an excellent chance to prove her point.

“You would think,” she said with a sneer, “that out of all the departments in the Ministry, the one filled with people who can see the future shouldn’t need a bell.”

Malfoy pressed it desperately. There was no reply, and it echoed down the empty corridors. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he pressed it again. A flash of relief crossed his face at the sound of hurried footsteps growing increasingly louder.

“I’m sorry, dearies, I didn't see you there!”

A middle-aged witch floated down the corridor in luminescent purple robes. Her thick glasses magnified her eyes to an alarming degree and, paired with the robes, made her look somewhat like a butterfly.

Draco, seeing Hermione had a tart comment ready on the tip of her tongue, kicked her sharply right on her ankle bone with a pointed boot and shot the employee a winning smile. Git.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he said formally. “I'm Cursebreaker Malfoy, and this is my,” he side-eyed Hermione, “colleague- Unspeakable Granger.”

Hermione nodded in greeting and put on a bland smile she typically reserved for forced interactions with Malfoy.

“Welcome, children, “ the witch said dreamily, “to our floor. Where what had been and what will be is but a look away.”

After her dramatic introduction, slightly reminding Hermione of a roadside advertisement, the witch spread her arms out grandly as if welcoming them to a magnificent country house.

“Unspeakable Cassandra, Keeper of the Hall.”

Hermione had to bite back a snort. Cassandra, really?

Unfortunately, the Seer must've read the look on her face and gave her a chilly look.

“We are quite aware of who you are, Unspeakable Granger.”

Malfoy, quickly realising that Hermione might not be popular in an office where she had been (mostly) indirectly responsible for destroying thousands of years of artefacts in twenty minutes, promptly changed strategies.

“Lovely to meet you,” he crooned. Hermione saw the witch blush slightly and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“How can I assist, Curse-breaker Malfoy?” She simpered, disregarding Hermione as if she wasn't even present.

Malfoy passed the memo to the Seer, who examined it intently as if she were being introduced to the concept for the first time.

“We have an appointment with one of your staff,’ Malfoy explained smoothly. “At the Minister's request.”

The sound of Kingsley’s name had the witch stilling. “The Minister?” She asked slowly. “Minister Shacklebolt hasn’t shown much attention to our office since he started. He’s always found our work….unorthodox.”

“The poor man isn’t blessed with the Sight,” Malfoy murmured to her, “you can hardly blame him for being close-minded.”

The witch looked at Malfoy closely, ignoring his attempts at flattery, and passed Kingsley's letter back.

“I’m afraid we can’t help you, child.” She told him carefully. “We don’t share our insights with the non-clairvoyant.”

“You invited us down,” Hermione said, now feeling rather cross. Cassandra looked unphased by this piece of unshakable reasoning.

“Rachel is the newest Seer to join the Court; she is still...young. Inexperienced when it comes to our ways.”

“When you read the memo,” Malfoy told her, voice still amiable, “you might’ve seen the Minister requires this office to give us full cooperation. And right now, we require it.”

“You haven't been to this floor before,” Cassandra told him; her tone had turned arctic, a sharp difference from the dreamy timbre of earlier. “So let me educate you. My brethren do not answer to any higher power, nor are we obligated to… cooperate with others. We channel magic the likes of which you cannot comprehend and do not share it with outsiders.”

“Time Magic,” Hermione cut in. “We are aware. You forget others study the ways of Ancient Magic too.”

She thought she could see Malfoy bite back a tiny smirk at her dismissive interruption.

“Your branch of it is powerful,” Hermione admitted, making eye contact with the witch, who looked furious at her impudence. “But not unique.”

“The appointment is already arranged,” Malfoy reminded Cassandra, tone no longer friendly. “One of your staff sent Shaklebolt these-”

He pulled copies of the eerie sketches from his bag and passed them over to Cassandra, who examined them unwillingly.

“See this drawing here? That's Granger. And this one here is me. So, as you can imagine, we're keen to get more information about them.”

“We owe you nothing.” Cassandra hissed back at them. “Our visions are our own; Rachel should never have shared them. Should never have invited you down here.”

“Why not?” Hermione challenged. “What's with all the secrecy?” She couldn't help the disdain that seeped into her tone. “Worried your visions might be wrong?”

“Our visions are valid, Unspeakable Granger. They’re not mere party tricks done by Muggle magicians at a child’s birthday party.” Cassandra told her coldly. “Our Court has been predicting the history of this community for over a thousand years. We don't answer to the Minister and certainly don’t owe you anything.”

Hermione and Malfoy stared her down, unimpressed.

“What we see here is not for others to know.” Cassandra continued. “The future is as changeable as a running river, and we are blessed with the skill to look downstream. We don’t guide the river; we map its course. It is not our way to share with those without the Sight unless our Council thinks it necessary.”

Hermione felt a flash of disgust. “So you sit with knowledge of future, horrible things you could prevent- but do nothing? Not even share it?”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “It is not up to us to change the future,” she told her stiffly, “we only record it and watch it unfurl.”

“You contributed then,” Hermione said boldly, “to every atrocity committed in the war. If what you say is true, you saw it beforehand and did nothing.” She stared Cassandra down. “To know what was to come but remain inactive makes you just as bad as Voldemort.”

She thought she could hear Malfoy make a stifled noise beside her.

“Insolent girl,” Cassandra hissed and took an angry step towards her; before Hermione could blink, Malfoy had thrown a Protego between them, blocking the witch from coming any closer.

He then stepped forward, the edge of his cloak brushing her arm as he stood in front of her, now looking down his pointy nose at the Seer.

“Do you know that the Malfoy Trust donates four million galleons to the Department of Mysteries annually?” He told her calmly. “Courtesy of one of my great-grandmothers who was an Unspeakable. How much of that do you think goes to your office? How would you like to explain why that funding has been stopped at the next departmental meeting?”

Cassandra blanched and glared at Malfoy furiously.

“You might not answer to the Minister,” he breathed at her, “but you will answer to me.”

The Seer turned to Malofy and began to look at him properly—not the lingering flirty once-over, but a proper examination, eyes narrowing on his platinum hair. Hermione realised that the Seers might not be too fond of Malfoy either. It was well-known that after the war, Malfoy Senior had been charged with attempting to steal a prophecy and had been linked to the destruction in the Department of Mysteries —a crime Hermione assumed was not easily forgiven nor forgotten here.

She glowered at them in silence. “Fine.” She eventually snapped. “Wait here. I will summon the Council. We will listen to your petition and debate whether to assist you further.”

She swirled away in a flash of angry purple. Hermione was moderately impressed with Malfoy’s tactics but refused to let him see any form of appreciation on her face.

“You’re not going to give me a Do-Gooder lecture on the evils of blackmail, are you?” Malfoy drawled, not looking at her.

“Coercion,” Hermione replied absently, still pondering the ethics of having the ability to see the future but actively choosing not to change it—very different from her own trip back in time to save Buckbeak and Sirius.

“What?”

“You didn’t blackmail Cassandra; you coerced her; there’s a difference. Very efficiently, too- well done.”

Malfoy looked quite taken aback at the compliment. “Thanks,” he finally said, and they lapsed into silence, Malfoy shooting her contemplative looks when he thought she wasn’t noticing.

“Granger?” He hissed after a long while

“What?”

“Why would Muggle children want proprophecies for their birthdays?”

Hermione sighed and attempted to explain Muggle magicians in a way that wouldn’t seem outrageous and unbelievable to Malfoy, who, from what she remembered from school, had little more than the barest whisp of knowledge of Muggle culture. However, she was interrupted by angry footsteps stomping back, and Cassandra reappeared through one of the closed doors.

“The Council is gathering to see you.” She snapped. “You will have to wait a few minutes.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Malfoy said bitingly; Cassandra sniffed at him. Then, at some invisible signal Hermione couldn’t detect, she waved them forward and marched through a different door, Malfoy following and Hermione trailing behind him.

The corridor was long and echoey- but the walls struck Hermione’s interest. They were mirrored, but instead of showing a reflection of the three of them, she almost seemed to be gazing into a dark abyss confined in the glass. Much to her discomfort, as they walked down the (oddly endless) passage, the mirrors quickly filled with shadowy figures, flickering in and out, their hands beating against the glass as if trapped inside. It was enough to give her the creeps, and she walked slightly faster to catch up with Malfoy, who was already exiting the corridor into yet another unremarkable passage with assorted doors leading off it. Cassandra pushed open the one closest to them and ushered Hermione and Malfoy in.

They entered a large room with a heptagonal table in the middle, where five Seers sat, chatting away. They quieted at the sight of everyone arriving, and Cassandra gestured for them to sit in hastily summoned chairs crammed in.

“Seer Rachel will be with us shortly,” she informed the group and took her own seat. “She is busy with a reading.”

Hermione took a seat, internally wincing at the horrible sound the chair made scraping against the stone floor as she pulled it away from the table. Malfoy quietly sat down in his, with infuriating effortless elegance- prick.

“Unspeakable Granger and Curse-breaker Malfoy request a meeting with the Council,” Cassandra said sullenly. There was a hum of interest from the group when she added, “At the Minister's request.”

All eyes turned to look at the two of them. Some of the Seers looked curious, some resigned. A few looked like they wouldn't care if Grindlewald himself were to appear in front of them suddenly.

“We don’t allow outsiders to know our secrets,” one of the oldest Seers, a witch with snow-white hair and deep wrinkles, croaked.

“These aren’t normal visitors, Ethel,” Cassandra murmured. “She studies Ancient Magic, too, up in the Love office.” She jerked a thumb at Hermione, and all eyes swivelled to examine her closely. She felt like a bug examined under a magnifying glass.

“It’s not just Love Magic they are familiar with,” one of the other Seers said, closing their eyes; Hermione felt a wave of magic wash down her. Unlike the other Seers, who wore more traditional robes, they were dressed more suited to a high-end Muggle law firm, and when their eyes re-opened, the cornea was wholly taken over by white. “Look how it sticks to them both.”

Some of the other Seers hummed in agreement.

“What sticks to us?” Malfoy whispered to her; she shrugged, unsure as to what the Seer could be referring to.

“It follows you, you know.” The Seer closest to Malfoy said apathetically to him; Malfoy cocked a curious brow back.

This Seer was overweight, with balding brown hair in dull grey robes, who looked more like someone Hermione would see working at Aldi than a high-ranking wizard in one of the most niche offices in the world.

“What does?” Malfoy asked. She would've thought him indifferent if she hadn’t known better, but she could see the sparked interest on his face.

“Death.”

Malfoy stilled; Hermione rolled her eyes.

“It follows us all,” she told the wizard scathingly. “Death- we’re mortal; it’s hardly targeting Malfoy.”

The Seer eyed her up placidly, unconcerned with her belligerence. “And you’ve certainly made sure it came for others- willingly, even.”

He turned to look at Malfoy. “Not like you; your hand was always forced. But the girl,” he looked back at Hermione, “you know Death well. It knows you too.”

She did her best to pretend like a shiver hadn’t run through her and looked at the panel of Seer’s expressionlessly. Now was not the time to reflect on the blood that stained her hands, the blood she had spilt in the pursuit of a better world. There was a pause in the room. Hermione could feel Malfoy’s eyes pinned on her back, the intensity of his stare almost physically burning.

“You do not deny it?’ Cassandra asked disapprovingly. She met the Seer’s gaze and shook her head. The table of Seers hissed like a nest of disturbed snakes.

The door creaked open, and Hermione’s eyes darted to look-presumably the arrival of the mysterious Seer Rachel. She froze. The little girl trotting in couldn't be more than seven; the six other seated Seers stood as she entered. The girl took a seat on the last remaining chair in the middle of the group, the others only sitting down when she did. Hermione examined the dynamic curiously; it was almost as if the group of much older Seers were deferring to her. Sitting on the chair her young age was almost comically obvious, her feet didn’t come close to touchng the ground as she stared back at them, shiny Mary Janes swinging mid-air.

“Hello,” the little girl chirped, “I’m Rachel.”

Hermione was starting to feel quite spooked out, and when one of the doors opened and a large pile of what looked like offal floated in, coming to rest on the table in front of Rachel, she started to feel even more so. Malfoy shifted next to her uncomfortably, and she was suddenly immeasurably grateful for his presence there, too.

“Yes,” she told the girl cautiously, “I’m Hermione, and this is Malfoy.”

“Draco,” came the interruption from next to her, and she carried on as if it hadn’t happened.

“We’re in some of the drawings you sent to the Minister this morning,” she added, watching Rachel for a reaction; there was none—the girl continued to smile placidly.

“We wanted to ask you some questions about those,” Malfoy said, tone friendly. Rachel nodded enthusiastically.

“I saw lots of things in the fires last night,” her tone turned solemn, “none of them nice.”

She took out a small silver knife and, before Hermione could even react, sliced through the pile of organs on the table, starting with what she thought was a rumen; the smell of coppery blood and fermenting grass filled the air as the organs leaked- blood and other bodily fluids dripping off the table onto the floor below.

“The omens don’t look good either,” Rachel cheerfully told the room, as if checking the weather forecast. “they speak of destruction…”

She pulled out what looked like a liver lobe and examined it like a fine jeweller might a ruby. “This one speaks of death.”

Hermione knew she hated Divination for a reason; she wouldn’t get any of this nightmare-inducing shit in Charms. She also noticed Malfoy pulling his shoes up higher and higher away as the steaming pile of ruminal fluid spread further across the floor, dangerously close to his loafers. She was slightly happy to see he looked as discomfited as she felt.

Rachel was now busy sorting through a pile of slippery intestinal loops, like an old lady rummaging through her handbag, muttering quietly to herself. The other Seers looked entirely unphased as if this was a normal occurrence for a Thursday meeting, but as the minutes ticked by, some started to look impatient. Hermione was grateful that the most annoying events on her floor’s agenda were donations for colleagues’ birthdays.

“Not good, not good,” Rachel mumbled. She slammed what Hermione thought was a uterus before them and looked at her imploringly.

“See where the necrosis started?”

Hermione didn’t really want to look but chanced a glance at the piece of pinkish tissue and nodded supportively at Rachel. She tried to ignore the feeling that Something Else was staring at her through the young girl's eyes.

“What do you think it means?” She asked gently. Rachel shook her head.

“It’s already started,” she said gravely, “started long ago from a place of light but now with false ideals on a rotten foundation. The believers do not realise it will never work. The crow will pluck out its own eyes, after all.”

“What’s started?” Hermione questioned quickly; simultaneously, Malfoy snapped, “What believers?”

Rachel eyed them both placidly and waved over a quill and paper. For a few minutes, the room was silent, save for the scratching of the nib on parchment as she drew something, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

She eagerly presented Hermione with her work—a sheet of paper with an assortment of perfectly straight lines running in no discernable pattern, with an assortment of dots at various points along them. One of the dots, in the bottom left of the corner, was circled enthusiastically, but what it indicated, Hermione had no idea.

“This will help. I can assist you no further. For more answers, you will need to visit the Source.”

At her statement, the panel of Seers erupted into an argumentative conversation, showing the most interest in the proceedings since the meeting began.

“We can’t let them near the Source,” the boring-looking one howled, “they don’t have the Sight!”

“Do you question the authority of our Mother-Seer?” The suited Seer shouted back, “For shame, Humphry.”

“They already know of the Ancient Ways,” another Seer pointed out. “We are hardly revealing hidden secrets. But we could make them take a Secrecy Vow?”

The room exploded into arguments, and Hermione and Malfoy’s attempts to be heard over the commotion went unnoticed. There was a sudden, painful pressure in her ears, and then Hermione found herself standing outside the room, faintly hearing the furious debate through the walls, Malfoy swaying in disorientation beside her. Unspeakable Cassandra, looking at them blandly, pointed at the nearest door. Hermione tried to guess how the one witch, who hadn’t shown any form of remarkable Magical ability so far at all, had teleported them both outside in the blink of an eye.

“Wait in there.” She all but shoved Hermione and Malfoy through it. “I will fetch you once the Council has made our decision.”

It was a storeroom of sorts, filled to the brim with assorted stock required for Divination, and Malfoy swore violently as his head clipped the ceiling and grabbed a shelf to stabilise himself; a box of what looked like crystal balls clinked ominously. Hermione wound her way around what looked like boxes of tea leaves, dried hare’s feet hanging from the ceiling tickling the top of her bun and came to stand in a bit of a clearing. The storeroom was unexpectedly large, a winding labyrinth of clutter that reminded Hermione of the Room of Requirement, and she assessed a row of what looked like animal pens with absent curiosity.

“What do you think they keep in here?”

Malfoy picked his way over to her to look, but his question was already answered by a shrill bleat and a goat’s head popping up over one of the walls.

“A goat!” Hermione exclaimed and leaned over to give it a scratch between the horns. As she looked around, she saw more signs of captive animals- she could hear the faint rustle of feathers from the rafters, several other pens stood empty and clean, and a large glass cage full of squeaking rats sat, shoved away in a dingy corner. The pen next to Hermione was still full of dirty hay but empty- Hermione could take a likely guess at the fate of its previous occupant.

“I can’t believe it’s kept in here,” Malfoy murmured, a look of distaste on his face, pulling his cloak away hastily. For some annoying reason, the goat looked much happier to see him than it did her and danced on its back legs, piteously bleating to get his attention for scratches from him, too.

“I’d heard that one of the Seers here practices haruspicy,” she mused, now feeling very sorry for the poor thing, “I didn’t really believe it, though.” Malfoy looked outraged.

“It’s archaic!”

“It is rather,” she agreed, “but unfortunately, the Seer office has always been slow to change its ways.”

Malfoy gestured around the room as if Hermione wasn’t in it too. “Look, they’ve got such little space and no sunlight. How was this approved by the Beasts Department?”

Hermione nodded, “I’ve petitioned the Wizengamot four times to ban the practice, but my appeal keeps getting dismissed.” She eyed Malfoy up curiously. “I wasn’t expecting you to get so heated about farm animal welfare-”

“I don’t mind goats,” Malfoy interrupted belligerently; he bristled at Hermione’s frank surprise. “Oh, does that surprise you? Did you think I’ve been hosting Minotaur-fighting rings at the Manor? Maybe some Manticore wrestling?”

He sneered at her, and Hermione couldn’t help the vicious barb that shot out at the familiar sight of it.

“Tell that to those birds you shoved through the Vanishing Cabinet.”

Malfoy reared back as if struck, and Hermione realised she’d gone way too far- Malfoy had told her about the guilt he still felt about that, of all his many wrongdoings, during their eight year in strict confidence, over one of their many cups of tea.

“I don’t hurt animals any more.” He said quietly and strode away. She did her best to ignore the unexpected pang of guilt and focused on petting the goat some more.

Unspeakable Cassandra and the Council kept them waiting a long time, and after what she guessed was twenty minutes, Hermione was thoroughly bored.

“I can’t believe they're keeping us waiting again,” she ground out, pacing around the small space. Malfoy watched her with a lazy interest, like a cat watching a swishing feather on a string.

“I imagine you've given them lots to think about,” he said snippily, still rather sulky about her sharp remark, “given that you compared the whole floor to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

He eyed the parchment in her clenched fist. “Give that to me. I want to see it again.”

“Wait your turn,” she told him sulkily, “I'm still looking.”

Malfoy waited for her next rotation past him, then snatched the odd drawing from her grasp.

“Malfoy!”

He ignored her attempts to steal it back, even holding it high above her head, standing up on tiptoes while he examined it. With a flash of inspiration, Hermione aimed a sharp knee at his groin, watching in satisfaction as he danced away reflexively, her attack missing by miles as he dropped the drawing.

“Fuck, Granger!”

She scooped it up victoriously and examined the odd lines once more. For an abstract collection of lines and dots, it didn't look unfamiliar; something about it was ringing a bell. She angled the page around and to the side, even turning it upside down to see if any ideas hit her, but the drawing remained annoyingly indecipherable.

“Any suggestions?” Truce re-established, Malfoy peered over her shoulder, and she pulled the paper further away lest he try to steal it again.

“None. You?”

He shook his head. “At first, I thought it was some kind of runic sentence, but I've never seen anything like this before. And my knowledge of Runes is pretty good.”

Hermione nodded her head. “Didn't think so either. What do you think about any links to Astronomy? But it doesn't look like any star chart I know of. Too chaotic. Too many lines. Can't see any constellations hidden away.”

Malfoy traced a thoughtful finger over the lines. “I wouldn’t think so,” he agreed. “Even including non-European ones, I can't think of any so linear.”

They perused it in thoughtful silence, interrupted by Unspeakable Cassandra’s voice after a few minutes as she re-entered the storeroom, waving them over to the door.

“We have made our decision,” she informed them. “Please follow me back inside.”

“Distract her,” Malfoy ordered in her ear. Hermione grudgingly acquiesced and stepped out the storeroom door, pulling Cassandra’s attention away from Malfoy, who was slipping back deeper into the storeroom and onto her.

“Is Rachel in charge here?” She asked the one question that had been nagging at her since the young Seer had walked into the room. Unspeakable Cassandra stared at her silently.

“Rachel possesses a talent for scrying the likes of which have not been seen in this department for generations,” she finally said. “She has more of the Sight than the rest of us combined. The Sight chose her, lives in her. Because of that, she will lead our Court until her death.”

Hermione stared at her. “Rachel is a child,” she pointed out, even though it seemed unnecessary. “Where are her parents? Why is she being allowed to sort through animal remains as if that’s a perfectly normal thing for a little girl to do?”

“Rachel was handed into the care of this office by her parents,” Cassandra told her stiffly, bristling at Hermione’s criticism. “They are Muggles and found her talents…disturbing. She is better off here, in an environment that can nurture her.”

“Nurture her talents, you mean,” Hermione said, now feeling the first waves of righteousness for a Good Cause wash over her, watching in delight as Cassandra looked furious in response. “I fail to see how this environment is the best place for her. She’s what, seven? She needs to be studying maths and basic Runes. Not sacrificing goats.”

Malfoy’s return from the depths of the storeroom brought the start of the massive argument brewing to a brief and unfruitful end. A pity, Hermione thought absently, but she would certainly be bringing this up with Kingsley- at the very least, it violated probably three child labour laws. She smiled victoriously at Cassandra, who shot her a look of almost pure hate.

“If you are ready, Rachel is ready to speak with you.”

It was impossible to decipher her tone. As they walked back inside, Hermione couldn't tell if this meant they would agree to help, to allow them to visit this Source- whatever that was. The room on return was empty; besides Unspeakable Cassandra and Rachel, the other Seers had vanished.

“We have agreed to let you visit the Source,” Rachel told them sweetly. “But only if you agree never to reveal its location or what you see there.”

Malfoy arched a look at Unspeakable Cassandra. “What is the Source?”

“It’s where all our Time Magic originates from,” Rachel explained happily, “But you’ll have to go down far to find it and face the trials it shows you.”

“Go down where?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Unspeakable Cassandra waved a hand, and with a grumble, the floor shifted, stone slabs pulling away, until a perfect stone ramp was revealed, leading down into a pitch-black tunnel. The tunnel seemed endless, heading so far down that the warm lights from the meeting room only penetrated a few meters into it.

“The Source may give you the answers you seek,” Rachel told them, fidgeting with her knife. “But you’ll have to face your past, present, and future in search of them.”

Hermione walked over and knelt in front of the girl while Malfoy made cordial small talk with Unspeakable Cassandra.

“Thank you for your help,” she whispered. “Whatever is coming, we can handle it, but we appreciate the warning.”

Rachel’s grin widened. With a sharp jolt, Hermione noticed that, just like Teddy, she was also missing some baby teeth. She caught Hermione’s arm as she went to stand up, and her eyes briefly flipped to pure white.

“The life of the father will be given for the son,” she whispered suddenly. “The dragon will blaze after blood and glass, consuming all.”

Hermione staggered back to her feet, spooked once more, and returned to Malfoy. He arched a brow at her sudden discomfort, but she shook her head and nodded at the passage. She lit her wand up in a bright Lumos, Malfoy following suit, and with one last murmured farewell to Cassandra and Rachel, she approached the start of the tunnel, Malfoy at her side.

They followed the passage as it sloped gently down, the air becoming cooler and earthier with every step; they walked downwards for so long that Hermione felt they must’ve left the Ministry far behind. The passage finally flattened out, and after another minute of walking, Hermione eventually stepped into a large cavern, Malfoy still beside her. It had unexpectedly high ceilings, like a subterranean cathedral, but made of walls of crudely hewn granite, with damp moss and ferns trailing down them. Tall stalagmites and stalactites, some like little candles, some taller than herself, stood like silent observers, the water glistening off Hermione’s Lumos like fire. But by far, the most eye-catching part, however, was the massive statue that dominated the room. It was the upper half of a human figure carved out of swirling stone- arms resting on the floor supporting shoulders and a head, almost looking like it was clawing itself up through the ground, under which a large stone basin stood on a dias- a Pensive.

The expression on the statue’s face was serene as it gazed down to the Pensive below it, arms encircling the stone basin protectively, but its features kept changing with every blink. At first, it looked like an older woman, then a handsome man, then a child, then an old man; then turned to faces Hermione recognised: Ron, Harry, Ginny, Dumbledore, her primary school English teacher, and with a pang for a split-second she thought she saw the face of her grandmother who had passed away many years ago. The faces on the statue kept shifting with hazy impermanence; looking at it made Hermione feel slightly disorientated, as if in a dream.

They approached it cautiously, wands out; it was empty. It seemed harmless, a smooth stone basin with runes Hermione didn't recognise carved around the side.

Hermione attempted to stick a probing wand inside the Pensive, but Malfoy smacked her hand away before she came close.

“Are you mad?” He hissed. “Don't do that.”

“I'm just seeing what would happen,” she whispered back.

“Sticking your wand into an unknown vessel is never a good idea, Granger,” Malfoy said pompously. “What if it's cursed? You may as well touch it with your bare hands.”

Hermione stowed her wand away and did just that, ignoring Malfoys’ squawk of alarm and shrugging him off when he tried to pull her back.

“Merlin’s sake, Granger. Stop it.”

“Great- now we've established it's not cursed. Maybe you can have a look too?”

Malfoy inched closer to the basin and examined it dubiously.

“Seems fairly standard,” Hermione muttered. “Did you also see the faces change?”

Malfoy gave a curt nod. “I've tried to run diagnostics already, but I can't recognise the magic in this room. It's not close to anything I've felt before. Except...”

He paused, and Hermione looked at him curiously.

“Except for what?”

“Except for the magic I felt on Skye,” Malfoy said slowly.

“What magic was that?”

“When I was running my first diagnostics just after I got to Skye, I hit a well of deep, powerful magic,” Malfoy explained, now circling the Pensive to see if a better angle gave more information. “That turned out to be the Pictish spellwork- that warded dome trapping the demon in. This magic feels similar to that.”

“What does it feel like?” Hermione queried, mind racing, the inkling of an explanation forming in her mind.

Malfoy paused. “Remember when Professor Watson brought in that Muggle device to power their carriages? With the wires attached?”

“A car battery?” Hermione asked flatly. ‘Yes, I remember.”

“Well, do you remember how that fool Finnegan tried to do a spell on it, and it shocked the whole front row? Like little lightning. Well, it feels like that.”

Hermione pondered that. “I think you're feeling Ancient Magic,” she told him slowly. “Remarkable.”

“Is that…is that normal?” Malfoy asked a bit uncertainly, still eyeing up the Pensive like he was worried it might explode.

She reached out with her own magic to see if she could feel it, too. Closing her eyes, she imagined that her Magical core, the source of all her power, was bubbling over, running through her fingertips and filling the room like an exploring mist. There! She could faintly feel the tiniest thread of magic current running around them. It didn't feel like a live wire to her, not like it did for Malfoy, just a gentle buzzing under her skin like a weak static shock, but it was a pool of Ancient Magic for sure. Malfoy looked greatly interested in her confirmation, closing his eyes to try to feel it again.

“It's not common,” she told him frankly. “Given that you've never had training on working with Ancient Magic before, you still know hardly anything about it. Murray thinks-”

She bit off. As much as she hated to admit it, Malfoy likely had more of a natural ability for this branch of Ancient Magic than she did. How galling. But unfortunately, not surprising given her lack of talent with Divination.

“Murray thinks that some people are more sensitive to feeling it than others. They are exceptionally good at detecting Death Magic near the Veil. I've only managed to feel it once or twice, but I've learned to detect Love Magic very quickly. It's as easy as breathing for me. But in all the years my boss has been there, they've never once felt it.”

Malfoy cocked an interested brow at her explanation but luckily didn't gloat at the implication that he had greater innate talent at something related to her job. Smart move, she likely would've cursed his hair off.

“So, this is what Ancient Magic feels like, then? And there's a well of it on Skye.” He stated.

“Likely so," Hermione agreed, “I think our next trip after this should be back there to check the circle out.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “I wonder which of the seven types I was feeling there,” he said slowly. “Maybe let's have a debrief before we leave; you can fill me in on the others. I can't believe I've gone so long without knowing about it.”

Hermione peered down into the empty basin, seeing nothing but her own distorted reflection as she gazed back.

“I have an idea,” she said grimly, “given the druidess buried there- or those poor Muggles who were sacrificed, I wouldn't be too surprised if it was Death Magic you felt.”

Malfoy looked intrigued. “Our first link to Black’s return.”

Hermione nodded; she had thought of that too.

“Will I…” Malfoy's sentence trailed off, but he attempted his question again. “Do you think I could try to harness this magic?”

Hermione shrugged. “You can try, but I really wouldn’t think so. Wielding any one of the strains of Ancient Magic is exceptionally difficult. Impossible for some Unspeakable even after years of studying it.”

She paused. “There are records of a few magical users born with an ability to harness all branches of Ancient Magic without any training. This innate ability presented after puberty despite the absence of any previous magical ability, but there haven’t been any on record for over a hundred years. This talent seems to have been lost, along with most of our knowledge about it.”

Malfoy looked like he was itching to write this new information down.

“The closest things left really are Seers,’ she clarified further. “The last branch of Ancient Magic to have any people born with an innate ability to harness it. But it's such a rare gift, only a few per generation. It's amazing it's survived at all. But that's a whole other conversation.”

Malfoy was silent. “You and I are having a long talk when we're out of here,” he warned. “I'm starting to feel out of my depth.”

Hermione could understand that her knowledge of Ancient Magic had taken her months to learn, let alone comprehend, and Malfoy would have to process it via a ten-minute crash course. As an undergrad, it had been a massive shock to find these hidden fundamentals of magic that were so poorly understood yet crucial to the very functioning of their world. She imagined it must be how a Muggle archaeologist felt finding ancient ruins built underneath a modern skyscraper.

She reached for the faint whisp of Time Magic and tried to summon it to her, to bend it to her will, but it stubbornly resisted.

“See if you can try to harness it,” she suggested to Malfoy. “I'm not having any luck.”

With a determined look, Malfoy closed his eyes and reached his hands forward, long fingers trailing soundlessly through the air.

“Nothing.” He said, slightly grumpily, obviously put out that he hadn't had more luck than she did. “How do I… am I doing it properly?”

The mere fact that he had to ask her help obviously irritated Malfoy; Hermione did her best not to flash him a superior smile.

“Reach forward with your magic,” she advised, “and gently pull it towards you. Don't force it; try to coax it to cooperate, but if it's not working, you can up the pressure.”

Malfoy did that, brows scrunched in concentration, and very faintly, the tip of his wand began to glow a darkish blue.

"Very good," she told him. "You've started summoning it, now try to wield it."

But almost immediately Hermione could tell Malfoy had lost it, his next further attempt had his wand spluttering out, and he dropping his focus with a swear.

"Still a good attempt,"  she said consolingly, Malfoy looked exceptionally sour at the reminder that it was an attempt and not a success, and came to stand next to her, resting his hand on the stone rim of the Pensive too. In unison, when the Pensive buzzed beneath their palms, they both snatched their hands away.

A rumble shook the ground, and Hermione’s gaze darted around to look, Malfoys eyes snapping open, too. The statue's face (now a benign elderly woman) began to glow. She watched in fascination as a glowing tear formed in the corner of her eye and dropped silently into the Pensive below, filling the previously empty basin up in glimmering blue.

She and Malfoy stood closer and peered down at it. Deep in the basin, she could see flashes of…something—swirling images of faces and places she couldn’t identify.

“What do you think?” She asked uneasily, “We look in it?”

Malfoy nodded, “I don’t think we have a choice.” He said grimly. “What did that creepy Seer say? We would face three trials?”

“Our future, present.” Hermione reiterated and darted a quick look at Malfoy. “And our…past. Whatever that means.”

The present and the future- those she could handle. But the past? That she wasn’t so keen to relive for many, many reasons (the wizard next to her chief among them). So, before she could think twice, she took a deep breath and plunged her head into the icy magic in the basin, feeling Malfoy follow behind her a heartbeat later. She was instantly sucked forward into the Pensive's shimmering depths, leaving the chamber behind, the world around her swirling away into black mist.

Chapter Text

Hermione had never used a Pensive before, but from how Harry had described his experience with it years ago to her, it had been a series of images observed from a third-person point of view, with the magic of the memories guiding you where to go. While a part of her was buzzing with nervous anticipation, the other (more scientific part) was thrilled to experience it first-hand, noting that there seemed to be a few differences. Instead of the surroundings being hazy and dream-like, as Harry described, Hermione’s surroundings, when opening her eyes, seemed as vivid as real life, the breeze tickling her hair, the scratch of her clothes, and the beat of her heart, all felt as tangible as the cavern they had just been in. Less of a relived memory than Harry’s had been apparently, more a tangible reality.

She and Malfoy had landed in what looked to be a shady part of Knockturn Alley- if Knockturn Alley was crossed with London during the Blitz. Half-torn-down shops and rubble littered the ground. The few standing buildings were dilapidated, and any windows not boarded up were smashed in. Bags of rubbish littered the pavements, and the sickly sweet smell of rotting plants and animal-based potion ingredients filled the air as Hermione tried not to gag. Much to her horror, she saw what looked like a body slumped in the gutter far down the road, discarded as carelessly as old recycling. A few people darted quickly through the remains, not staying out in the open for long, running back to the safety of the side streets like nervous rats. Hermione could hear a woman screaming far in the distance, but her feet wouldn’t let her run to help- involuntarily stepping to walk her further away.

“Where the hells are we?” Malfoy hissed at her, “I haven’t been to Knockturn Alley in ages, but I don’t remember anything like this.”

“I don’t think it’s just where,” Hermione said grimly, “but when.”

She looked around for any clues that could identify their location, and her heart sank as she saw a dirty, familiar purple and orange store sign, the battered ‘-ard Wheezes’ the only legible letters left.

“Look! I think we’re in Diagon Alley,” she said to Malfoy, pointing out what she guessed were the remains of Fred and George’s store. “That’s the twins’ joke shop.”

She looked around them aghast. What had happened to their famous high street? When had it happened? This was the future, presumably, but certainly not one Hermione ever expected to see—not even in the depths of the war had this much destruction been sewn. A low boom interrupted her musings, and on instinct, she darted to a side street, crouching behind a rubbish heap, wand at the ready, Malfoy quick to follow her.

Her breath caught at the sight of a pack of unidentifiable people, maybe ten in all, walking towards them down the middle of the Alley as if they were taking a stroll down Saville Row instead of the rubble of Wizarding Britain’s most famous street. The sight of their masked faces had her heart racing, but instead of the metal skull-like coverings the Death Eaters had worn, these reminded her of medieval plague doctor masks. Black, with a long pointy beak over the nose, making the heavily robed figures look like predatory birds.

Even though she knew they couldn’t see or hurt her, Hermione couldn’t fight the overwhelming instinct to hide in the shadows and kept herself as still as feasibly possible as the group passed them.

“Death Eaters?” She hissed at Malfoy, who had slunk behind a pile of bricks and was appraisingly eyeing the retreating figures.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy murmured back, “but I don’t think so.”

“Something new then?”

Malfoy nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the group. Unable to fight it, Hermione felt the compulsion to step out from her hideyhole and continue the other way down Diagon Alley. The devastation was almost unimaginable, almost worse with every step. Gringotts was nothing but white marble ruins; walking past Magical Menagerie made her catch a whiff of a stench so awful she didn’t even want to contemplate the fate of the animals inside, and she was nearly brought to tears at the sight of the burnt wreckage of Flourish and Blotts, her favourite shop in the world all but destroyed. The walls had caved in, crushing the store below into a mix of stone and parchment; torn pages littered the street like fallen leaves. She knelt and ran a gentle finger over one of the few surviving books, so irreparably damaged it was unidentifiable.

“Granger,” Malfoy said slowly, “I think you’d better read this.”

He handed over some pages from a somewhat intact newspaper he must’ve found littered between the books. Given its somewhat undamaged appearance, Hermione had to assume it was likely recent and read through it quickly. She felt her blood run cold at the first headline and read it out loud again to ensure she was seeing correctly.

‘Wizarding World marks nine years since the Scourge.”

She and Malfoy lapsed in horrified silence. Her eyes scanned furiously for a date, and she quickly pointed it out to Malfoy.

1st September 2017.

While the headings were clear, the rest of the article was too water-damaged to read properly, much to her frustration. The paper was so wet that the ink had long smudged and run, leaving any other information illegible.

“Look,” Malfoy nudged her, “the pictures aren’t moving.”

That was true. Hermione, who read a fair amount of Muggle newspapers, hadn’t noticed right away, and she rubbed the newspaper pages thoughtfully between her fingers.

“It’s been printed on a Muggle press, too,” she muttered. “See, that’s not parchment.”

Malfoy looked exceptionally pallid, a remarkable achievement considering his already pale skin.

“Where are we?” He breathed. Hermione shook her head, not even wanting to suggest it.

“This is the future,” a little voice said. Hermione and Malfoy jumped around, wands at the ready. A little girl sat behind them, perched atop a pile of burned books. Hermione eyed her curiously; she was maybe eleven, thirteen at a push, and had long, curly platinum hair loose over her shoulders. She watched them quietly with clever, brown eyes. Once more, Hermione felt she was staring into a magical abyss so ancient and powerful it defied all comprehension.

“Well,” the girl amended. “It’s not the future. It’s a future.”

Malfoy pointed his wand at her within a second; Hermione lowered hers.

“Our future?” She asked, already knowing the answer. The little girl nodded.

“Yours if you don’t figure it out,” she told Hermione calmly.

“Figure what out?” Malfoy snarled, looking close to cursing the girl, “Tell us!”

Hermione recognised that desperate, maniacal gleam in his grey eyes. She hadn’t seen it for years and was sharply reminded of his relation to Bellatrix.

The little girl swung her legs and hopped down. “That’s not very polite,” she said disapprovingly, turning to Hermione. “I don’t think he knows who I am yet,” she said conversationally. “You’d better fill him in.”

Hermione met Malfoy’s panicked gaze and gently pushed his wand down.

“You can’t hurt her—she’s not a real person. She's just taken the form of one.” She lowered her voice. “I think she’s a physical manifestation of Time Magic. Remember the trials Rachel told us about?”

The girl looked deeply amused. “You’re correct. Mostly. Isn’t Rachel remarkable? Nothing like her has been born for four hundred years. No one like her will be born again.”

“So you’re showing us our future then?” Hermione asked her plainly, stowing her wand away.

The girl rolled her eyes in a move that was both incredibly scathing and oddly familiar.

“I said,” she told Hermione, tone snotty, “that it’s a future. Not a good one either.”

“And we need to do something to prevent it?” Hermione said uncertainly, hoping the girl (or whatever she was) would take the hint and give them more helpful information. Good Lord, she hadn't expected this when she’d planned a visit to the Seers’ offices. This eldritch being was all that came before her, and all that was ever to come.

The girl sighed. “Yes. Merlin. If you want your future to look like this-”

Here, she waved a demonstrative hand at the destruction around them.

“-then you don’t need to do anything. You’re on track for it already.”

She sighed at Hermione’s and Malfoy’s blank looks.

“Think of the future as a many-forked road journeying into the time to come. Ever changing. Some choices you make will take you further away from where you were once headed, some closer, some veer away completely, and set you off on a new path.”

“And this is the path we’re currently on?” Hermione queried, waving her hand to the destruction around them; the girl nodded.

“Yes, right now, all the paths of time ahead lead to this. All but one.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said determinedly. “Alright. What do we need to do to prevent it? What even is this?”

The girl shrugged. “Nothing much. Just the end of the magical world as you know it.”

There was a stunned silence.

“What?” Hermione finally croaked.

“The end of the-”, the girl repeated; Hermione waved her off.

“No, I heard that bit. What do you mean?”

The girl looked close to rolling her eyes again, in a manner so condescending and dismissive it was only achievable by tweenage girls.

“Kinglsey was right, you know. Something big is going on. And you two are running out of time to prevent it.”

“This isn’t some unavoidable future we’re doomed to live in?” Hermione reiterated, wanting confirmation that this living hell wasn’t her inevitable reality in a decade. This was not a world she would ever want to live in, she’d sooner survive the war again. “You said it's changeable?”

“It might be,” the girl agreed, starting to look utterly exasperated by the conversation. “If you’re lucky. And clever enough to figure out how to. That’s quite a list you made, by the way. You started off so well.” She looked at them dubiously. “I’m starting to be less confident in you now, though.”

She looked at Hermione knowingly, obviously seeing her still unconvinced. “You’ve never believed in Fate. Why would you start now?”

“What about prophecies?” Hermione argued, almost not believing she was trying to debate the validity of Divination with the physical embodiment of Time Magic.

“Granger,” Malfoy muttered to her, “Shut up. For once in your life, can you not try to be right?”

But the girl looked delighted at her tenacity. “Prophecies show the most likely future ahead should no interference happen, but that future is never guaranteed.”

She looked at Hermione almost in amusement. “You’ve always been sceptical of this branch of magic—now you decide to believe its worth?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes; Malfoy made a muffled warning noise at the sight and jabbed a sharp elbow into her ribs, so she decided it wasn’t worth the risk of arguing further.

“Time is a fickle thing- all it takes is one small decision to change the course of the future.” The girl explained, tone bored, as if she was explaining basic colours and shapes to them, as Ron had once tried to do with Teddy. “Your decisions, others’ decisions- they both equally matter. You exist in a world shaped by the choices of all those around you. That, and how you react to those choices, changes your path- and so your future.”

She reached forward and took each of their hands, “there’s more.” She warned.

Diagon Alley disappeared away in a swirl of black mist, and Hermione pulled short at sight before them, the same as Rachel’s drawings. A massive forest stood before them, devoid of any life, as the wind whistled in the bare branches and through the brown, dry plants. A whomping willow stood at a river’s edge, lifeless and still, while flies buzzed around the bodies of a unicorn herd, fallen gracefully to the ground if asleep-skin writhing with maggots.

Darkness overtook them once more, and when Hermione’s vision cleared, she jumped back, reaching for her wand immediately. She felt Malfoy start next to her, too. Malfoy Manor stood sprawled before her in crumbling ruins, too, malignant-looking greenish magic draped over it like spreading mould. Dying roses crept through shattered windows; the roof had long since collapsed- the once stately home rotting away into the earth. Malfoy dashed over to a grave standing in the middle of a dead rosebed and ran his hands reverently over the crumbling headstone, face tense in anguish as he stared at the wreckage of his family home. Hermione did her best to bite back the instinctive fear that rose through her at the sight of the Manor, not having been back since their fateful escape from the dungeons and forced herself to move to join him, half-wanting to put a companionable hand on his shoulder, her scar burning on her arm like a brand.

But before she could get to him, all visions faded away once more as they were swallowed up by dark mist. It pressed on them heavily from either side, pulling them away from each other like a giant whirlpool, the force on them ever increasing. Hermione was struck with the awful feeling that if she were to lose Malfoy, they would never resurface again, sucked away forever into the wormholes of time.

It was the closest she had ever felt to drowning- the mist felt airless and her lungs burned in her chest as she gasped futility, spinning over and over through the air, losing all sense of direction and orientation. She felt around desperately for Malfoy, could feel the silky fabric of his robes just under her fingertips ever-so out of reach and stretched over as far as she could for him. She was flooded with relief when his warm hand grasped hers, just having to trust they wouldn’t separate, that he would hold onto her and wouldn’t let her go.

At his touch, her lungs filled with sweet, life-saving air with a woosh. For an almost infinite amount of time, they were swirling together hand in hand through the vast expanse of time, until, with great effort, Malfoy pulled her closer. She grabbed his forearm as he reeled her towards him, feeling the strain in the muscles of his arm as he tucked her securely into his side.

The whirling mist steadied, still impenetrable. Nothing was visible, but through the blackness that surrounded them, she could hear flickers of conversation.

With a jolt, she recognised her own voice, older and weary. “We can’t maintain the Statue of Secrecy for much longer! We’ve known this was coming for a while. We need to push for full integration…”

The voices faded out, like a muted radio, then focused back in again.

“Over a year since a magical birth, Kingsley-” That voice sounded like Robard’s. “The Wizengamot is calling a vote of no confidence tomorrow.”

Kingsley’s deep rumbled through the air. “So I‘ve heard. But I’ve got more pressing matters, Robards. There have been rumours of a witch using magic near Pembroke; I want it investigated today. Who’s left in the Auror team that you can send out?”

Another voice cut in. (Ron’s??) “Any sign of the Crows?”

“None, Captain.” Someone else answered, and the rest of the background noise muffled again.

The next conversation was between Remus and Sirius. Hermione strained to listen:

“-collapse of a magical village near Hannover, Moony, the European Magical Council is requesting an emergency summit tomorrow.”

Remus’s voice was grim. “Not much they can do now if the Scourge has spread that far out. I heard the Algerian and Egyptian Ministers are pushing for a hard North African border- no movement of any Beasts or Beings south. Didn’t work for France, though.”

Sirius sounded the most sombre Hermione had ever heard. “At least the wards are holding- for now. Hermione says it won’t be long before those fail too. Heard from Andy and Cissa that it’s fucking mayhem out there.”

“Wish your mother had gotten to see this, hey Pads?” Remus’s voice sounded falsely jovial, with a twinge of sarcasm. “All the Great Houses relying on Muggle-borns and Half-bloods to survive.”

Sirius snorted. “She would’ve burned the lot down to the ground before letting a Muggle-born lead House Black. Spiteful old hag. Best decision I’ve ever made, though.”

“You’ve not made many to compare it to,” Remus said fondly, “but I agree with you there.”

That scene also vanished into black smoke, and the next one was haunting. Hogwarts- covered in the same sickly-green tendrils of magic clinging to the stone and creeping ever higher. Standing on a small island on the lake facing the castle, Hermione and Malfoy watched rigidly in shock as the turrets leaned and buckled, windows shattered, and walls fell- their beloved school eventually swallowed up by the rotten-looking magic, collapsing into piles of stone. The force of the impact shook the ground beneath them and sent small waves lapping the island's shore.

The scene vanished, and again, Hermione found herself in the wreckage of Diagon Alley, mind reeling.

“You can’t give us any answers?” She begged, and the girl smiled.

“You don’t need me- you have the answers you need to figure it out,” she paused, “well, most of them.”

‘And how can we get the rest?” Malfoy asked, watching the girl carefully as if expecting to see them on her face.

The girl shrugged. “You need to make the right choices, I guess.”

“That’s very unhelpful,” Hermione told her. Malfoy looked like he agreed but (as usual) kept his mouth shut.

The girl laughed quietly, “The rest is up to you now.”

She dropped their hands and started walking away. “Good luck!” She called over her shoulder. “You'll need it!”

A stray thought struck Hermione

“Wait,” she called, and the girl turned around. “What didn’t I get right?”

The girl looked at her inquisitively.

“You said I was mostly correct,” Hermione explained. “What was I wrong about?”

“Well, you weren’t technically wrong about anything,” the girl admitted. “My form doesn't exist. But it could one day.”

A grin split her face. “That’s still to be determined, though.”

She looked at them, now suddenly serious.“You have seen the future. Now, you must confront your present and past. You cannot face what's to come without making peace with who you are and what already has been.”

With that vague comment, she vanished in a swirl of black mist. Darkness enveloped Hermione again, and the wreckage of their future faded away into smoke.

When she next opened her eyes, the scene was less destructive. She stood in the centre of the stone circle on Skye, Malfoy at her side, in a massive empty field full of heather. The demon was nowhere to be seen- nothing around them was to be seen. The air was quiet, no birdsong, no wind rustling the heather- it was as if the island was holding its breath.

“Where do you think we are now?” Hermione asked Malfoy uneasily. “The past? Maybe we're getting information about the Pictish witch?”

“I don't know,” Malfoy said, looking equally tense, wand out as if his magic would do anything here. “Can't see how this is the present.”

She jumped out of her skin as a shrill scream echoed around them, but her reaction was nothing close to Malfoy's. The sound of the scream (listening to it, Hermione was sure it belonged to a young child) had him turning pale, and he bolted to the edge of the circle, moving so quickly Hermione could barely keep up.

“Scorpius!” He bellowed, trying to leave the circle, but bounced off an invisible barrier keeping them in, much like the demon had with the Pictish magic.

“Scorp!”

The screams increased in intensity, and Hermione had goosebumps on her arms. The very human urge to run and help a child, not even hers, who sounded in such obvious distress was almost debilitating. She couldn't imagine how it sounded to Malfoy, hearing his son's terror rip through them but unable to leave and find him.

Malfoy beat against the edge of the barrier desperately. “No!” He shouted. “Let me out! Scorp!”

Hermione heard an awful crack as something in his hand broke- some knuckles perhaps, and his skin split, dark blood trickling off his long fingers and wrist, but still they remained trapped in. Malfoy looked almost feral now, teeth bared, hair dishevelled as he cast spell after spell at wards, even turning his wand onto the stones in a bid to get out, but nothing happened; none of his magic responded. The sound of Scorpius’s screams continued, Malfoy becoming more distraught with each one.

Hermione raced over. “Malfoy,” she soothed. “Malfoy, stop. It's not real.”

She was utterly ignored. Malfoy raced around the circumference of the ring, unsuccessfully finding an exit. She pulled him to a stop when he tried to pass her.

“Listen to me. Draco!”

She grabbed either side of his face, forcing him to a stop. He stared desperately at her.

“Scorpius isn't here. This isn't real. He's with your mum in the Manor.”

The frantic look on his face faded slightly as her logic sunk in.

“Your mother would die before she let anything hurt Scorpius.” She soothed. “You're with me in the Source; this is the second trial. Remember?”

Malfoy took a deep breath and refocused. When his gaze met her again, he looked calmer and more focused.

“Right.” He rasped. “This isn't real.”

“No.” She said softly. “Focus on me. Don't listen to it. Just…look at me.”

The screams around them continued; he flinched with each one, but at least he wasn't overtaken by parental panic any more as he gazed down at her, grey eyes locked on brown.

“That’s it,” she told him. “Ignore them. There’s no one here but you and I.”

Malfoy nodded, and bit by bit, the screams faded off. The dead-quiet air was both a blessed relief and somehow more ominous in its silence.

“What the fuck kind of trial is this,” he said, still looking exceptionally shaken.

“Isn't it obvious?” A cold voice said from behind them. Hermione and Malfoy spun around to face it.

A figure stood outside the circle—Malfoy—but not the Draco Malfoy she knew. This version looked cold and cruel, sleeves rolled up with the Dark Mark on display. His lip lifted in a sneer as he stared down the wizard next to her, not even sparing a glance at Hermione.

“Who are you?” She asked him uneasily. The wizard beside her was still a statue as he took in his doppelganger, barely breathing.

“Once more, you stand by,” his mirror told Malfoy, almost crooning the words. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? You didn’t stop it then either.”

“Stop it,” Malfoy said faintly, looking ashen, almost ready to vomit. Hermione felt the scars on her arm throb in time with her heartbeat.

“You’ve let your son down. You’ll always let him down,” the apparition told the real Malfoy. “You heard him screaming, and you didn’t help him? What kind of father are you?”

“Ignore him, Malfoy,” Hermione warned, reaching for his arm. He shrugged her away. “He’s not real. Some part of the trial, I think.”

“Don’t listen to her,” the apparition said smoothly. “You know I speak the truth.”

“Stop it,” her Malfoy snarled and shot a futile spell at the apparition, who smiled nastily. “Who are you?”

“I told you- I’m you,” the fake Malfoy said, pacing around the circle with an effortless, menacing grace that reminded Hermione of a caged tiger, still completely disregarding her.

“You’re nothing like me,” the real Malfoy spat; his mirror smiled coldly.

“Come now, let’s be honest.” He waved his arms around wildly, now sounding almost kind and crueller for it. “You think you’ve changed? Do you think you’re seen any differently than you were ten years ago? You’re not—you know why?”

Malfoy shook his head, looking like each word was lancing through him. His mirror leant forward as if imparting some great secret.

“You know deep down that this is all you’ll ever be. I am all you’ll ever be.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Just a scared, useless little boy who stood aside and let terrible things happen.” For the first time, the apparition’s gaze cut to Hermione. “Who did terrible things.”

“You’re wrong.” Malfoy croaked, “I’m not that person anymore.”

“No, you’re not.” Hermione stepped forward, and Malfoy looked desperately at her, seeking reassurance.

“I think we need to overcome ourselves to progress to the past,” Hermione said shakily. “What did the girl say? We need to make peace with our present and past selves?”

“How very introspective,” the not-Malfoy purred.

“How am I supposed to do that, Granger?” Malfoy snapped, “I’ve only been trying for ten years. Evidently, I didn’t do a good enough job.”

She felt a flare of heat lick through her. “Listen up, Malfoy!” She barked; he looked slightly taken aback by her vehemence but shut up anyway. “You may be an infuriating, attention-hogging, melodramatic prat, but you’re not the prejudiced arsehole you were ten years ago. Do you really think I would work with you now if you were? Do you really think I would’ve stood in front of the Wizengamot all those years ago and asked them for leniency if I thought you unredeemable? You aren’t that boy any more, I promise.”

Malfoy faltered. “I cannot begin to apologise-”

“Shut up!” She cut him off. “You have already, remember? You were young—we were all so young—and in situations no child should ever have been in. I forgave you long ago; you need to forgive yourself now.”

Malfoy looked like he was starting to listen to her, but another scream tore through the air around them before she could encourage him more. This one wasn’t a child’s- Hermione felt her blood run cold at the sound of her voice shrieking away in fear and pain. Malfoy looked like it had physically hurt him, too.

Another figure materialised out of thin air and stepped towards them- this time a mirror of herself. But again, she could see some differences. Instead of warm brown eyes staring back at them, this version of her was cold and cruel, staring at the two of them haughtily.

“Suprised to see me?” She taunted Hermione. “Did you think he was the only one with demons?”

"You're not real," Hermione said calmly, listening with relief as the sound of her voice screaming slowly faded away. She tried to ignore how the skin of her forearm felt like it was splitting open at the memory, the taste of copper on the tip her tongue.

The fake-her looked incenced at her lack of reaction, and tried another approach. It reminded Hermione somewhat of the visions spat out by Riddle's Horcruxes just before they were destroyed- the deepest, darkest parts of her soul that she had been ignoring for far longer than she should've.

“You’ve seen the future? Do you think you can stop it?” It laughed. “What do you think this world looks like for Muggle-borns? All your work changing society was for nothing, after all.”

“Go. Away,” Hermione said with gritted teeth, composure slipping slightly. When she saw the ruins of Diagon Alley, she had immediately wondered the same thing- what had happened to the many Muggle-borns without society left, without the alliances, finances, or power of the Pureblood families to protect them? She couldn’t even stomach the thought.

Her twin smiled coldly. “You will never be enough for this world. You'll never matter here.” She told Hermione softly. “The brightest witch of the age, and you still couldn’t save them. You failed everyone.”

Hermione tried not to flinch as the spectre identified all her greatest insecurities with almost surgical-like precision. Even after so many years her greatest fear was impossible to shake- the ever-persisting worry that despite her intelligence, her research, her deeds- her achievements meant nothing. She meant nothing. A warm hand grasped her arm and pulled her attention off the vision spewing such poison in her ear as her confidence faltered.

“She’s wrong,” Malfoy rasped. “Don’t listen. Your place here matters. You matter.”

“You saw the future, too,” Hermione whispered, quashing the waves of doubt that threatened to swallow her whole.

“We can still change it,” Malfoy said firmly. “And we will change it.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because I’ve known you for sixteen years,” Malfoy said; it was now his turn to look at her intently. “And I’ve often felt that you weren’t just made for this world, Granger—but it was made for you. We'll figure this out. Together.”

The visions gave identical hisses of frustration as Hermione listened to him.

“You arrived into a society that was intent on keeping you out,” Malfoy continued, “treating you as lesser. Hunted you like vermin-”

She saw his throat bob as he swallowed tightly. “You know I hated you,” he continued, “for how easily everything came to you- despite not growing up here like I did.”

He waved his hands helplessly in the air. “You arrived as this blazing comet shooting past us all, forging your own path ahead and contraindicating everything I was taught about my own superiority. The way you picked up magic as easy as breathing, your cleverness, your unending drive to stand up for what’s right-”

He paused for a long while. “You’ve always been enough,” he finally said.

The spectre gave an animal-like snarl of fury as Hermione nodded, mind finally calming. She nodded at Draco, hoping he could see the gratefulness in her eyes, and turned back to face her doppelganger.

“Go away,” she said, this time more firmly; the vision flickered like Malfoy’s had— like an old-style TV losing signal as it lost the power she had let it have over her. The spectre changed tactics, finding another bruise to press.

“Doesn’t it bother you—the things you did?” She asked Hermione, her voice sweet with false sympathy. Hermione did her best to ignore her, knowing precisely where it was leading to.

“I did what I had to do to stay alive—to keep my friends alive.” She boldly told the vision, trying to ignore her shaking hands. “Winning the war required sacrifices. I had to make some.”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Her mirror said mockingly. “You wonder if your sacrifices were worth it, don’t you? Your parents no longer know you. What about your soul? Killing fractures it, you know. What do yours look like now, I wonder?”

She waved a hand, and Hermione and Malfoy both sucked in a breath as a ring of people suddenly surrounded the circle- some faces Hermione recognised with a cold flash. The two Snatchers she had accidentally killed while running away in the woods, their throats slit by her Severing charm she had meant to use to trip them up; her opponents during the Battle of Hogwarts: Antonin Dolohov, the four unknown Death Eaters she had brought a wall down on, a witch she had Stunned and knocked off the top of the Quad battlements who had fallen to her death. A few of the other faces only triggered slight recognition- at the end of the battle, when all she cared about was survival, she hadn't really noticed, really cared, what she'd cast or who it hit, as long as they weren’t on her side.

And it wasn’t just people she had killed there standing there; the ruined form of Lavender Brown stared mournfully back at her, pretty face scarred almost beyond recognition after Greyback’s assault, the two fourth-years who had snuck back to help during the Battle and hadn't survived the Acromantula, the Muggle women she had found in the basement of Lestrange Manor with Bill after the war, after volunteering to sweep it for survivors - the ones who’d killed themselves after a week in hospital, minds unable to process everything they'd seen, everything been done to them. All the people she’d failed to save, their blood still staining her hands.

She had no recollection of the rest, but seeing Malfoy frozen next to her, she guessed those were his ghosts who tormented him, too.

“What a pair the two of you make", the woman said mockingly; Malfoy’s mirror image reappeared next to her and laughed too. “You who are haunted by things you did,” she turned to Malfoy, “and you by the things you didn’t do.”

The bodies encircling them began to beat on the stones, mouths open in silent screams, but Hermione suddenly knew what they needed to do. It was terrifying, acknowledging the bits of herself she liked to pretend didn’t exist, but she knew she had no other choice. It was time to let them go- she’d carried the weight of them now for long enough.

“I forgive you,” Hermione told her other double. "I...regret some of the things I had to do, even though I would do them again if it meant we won." She paused, more confident in her next words. "I'm not sorry though, for who I had to become to survive. To win."

Her double looked stunned, then slowly dissolved into mist, before she could even fight back further.

She turned to face the figures around them. “I am sorry for what I did to some of you,” she told them quietly, gaze flickering to Lavender. “And I’m sorry that I couldn't save some of you either. Be at peace.”

She looked encouragingly at Malfoy, who licked his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he told his doppelganger, who slowly faded away only to be replaced by a much younger-looking version, identical to the eleven-year-old Hermione had met on the Hogwarts Express so many years ago. Malfoy’s expression looked pained.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated to his younger self. “You didn’t deserve any of that. You maybe should’ve known better-”

“Malfoy,” she cut him off. “Child. Remember?”

He closed his eyes and continued, “I can’t fully forgive myself yet,” he admitted, “but maybe I can start.”

“Maybe all you need to do is start,” Hermione said softly, watching quietly as the fake Malfoy disappeared into the mist, too. One by one, all the bodies surrounding them vanished until only Lavander remained.

She looked at Hermione affectionately, her injuries fading away as if they never existed, until the bubbly, ultimately brave witch Hermione had been girls with remained, untouched by the horrors she had endured. She shared one last mischevous smile with her, for a split-second it felt like Hermione was seventeen again and about to get cornered for an unwanted dorm-room chat, then dissolved away, expression blissful, finally at peace.

Malfoy reopened his eyes and looked relieved to see they were alone. Hermione tried her best not to look as shaken up as she felt. She felt…oddly hollow but lighter, the heavy burden on her heart easing slightly. It wasn’t entirely gone; there was maybe a reckoning she still had to have with herself, but for now, as horrible as the experience had been, perhaps it was a wound long due to be lanced. What a way to make peace with herself- maybe she’d take Harry’s suggestion of finding a therapist next time. Malfoy could probably use one, too, the more she thought about it.

“So…the past.” Her throat felt a little thick, so she cleared it and tried again. “Are you ready for that?”

“Not at all,” Malfoy said grimly, “You?”

“Nope.”

But they had no choice- she and Malfoy watched as the fields around them slowly disappeared into black mist, the stones dissolving quickly too, as the darkness spread closer towards them. She felt, rather than saw, Malfoy’s hand reach for her, and fingers entwined, they were swallowed once more into the depths of time.

Chapter Text

Rewinding through time was a bizarre experience; Daco saw bits of his life playing out before him, like the time in eighth year when Granger had made him watch a ‘moovee’ for a Muggle Studies project (some story about royal lions, which had him inconsolable for days.) From the way she stood frozen next to him, gaze fixed on something beyond his shoulder, she was likely experiencing her own memories, too. He was glad she wasn’t going to see his past; he barely wanted to see it; living through it once had been bad enough.

Flashes of early childhood flickered around him: his nursery with its constellation ceilings, learning to fly a broom, getting chased by his father’s horrible peacocks and running away on fat toddler legs, forced playtime with a sullen, tiny Theo. As he grew older, the memories became more tangible, until they no longer felt like a half-remembered dream, but as if he was living them once more: getting his Hogwarts letter, his disastrous meeting with Potter in Madam Malkin’s, the rush of warmth like meeting an old friend as his wand chose him, and his excitement at boarding the Hogwarts Express.

He blinked his eyes, and once again, he sat in the same compartment he would choose for the next six years, clutching his bookbag in small hands and waiting for the new friends Father said would meet him there. He was forced to watch as the compartment door was pulled open, and a tiny girl with a cloud of brown bushy hair stared sternly at him, a slightly taller silhouette skulking behind her, hidden by the frosted glass.

“Have you seen a toad?” Her bossy voice asked, “Neville’s lost his. The prefect won't help us look.”

Draco wasn’t sure if these were the two children ‘of respectable backgrounds’ his father advised him to befriend (probably as part of some business deal or other), so he eyed her somewhat skeptically.

“He told me Trevor was probably dead,” a familiar voice said sadly. “Are you really going to tell the Headmaster about him? He looked a bit cross when you said that.”

Behind the girl stood baby Longbottom (fortunately for them both never a victim of his mother's social networking playdates due to their messy family history); he shot Malfoy a cautious look. The girl’s eyes brightened at the book tucked under his arm.

“Is that Hogwarts- a History?”

“Yes,” he said, words instinctively coming from his throat, like performing lines from a well-rehearsed play. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“Mine too,” the girl shot him a hesitant smile; Draco felt the sudden need to show off. He couldn't fight it, forced to relive every sentence, every action, by the inescapable power of Time Magic.

“Look, it’s a first edition.”

The girl gasped and entered the compartment, closing the door in Neville’s face, toad hunt forgotten.

“That’s amazing,” she told him reverently; he tilted it towards her so she could run a careful finger over the spine.

“I’m reading up on the different Houses,” he told her, puffing up with self-importance, “so I know what to expect for the sorting. I don’t think it’s fair we only find out right before.”

The girl nodded. “How are we supposed to know what to do?”

He shot her a pleased smile, “Exactly.”

“What classes are you most excited about?” The girl asked him rapidly, now flipping to the section of his book on school courses. “I've read through the whole curriculum twice, and Charms sounds interesting. Transfiguration, too—apparently, it's supposed to be very hard.”

Here, the girl looked thrilled, as if the promise of a challenging subject was just what she had been dreaming about for her first year.

“I like Potions,” Draco said after a thoughtful pause, “and Flying. Father says I'll make the Quidditch team for sure next year. It's so unfair we can have brooms until then.”

The girl shuddered. “I'm really scared of heights,” she said hesitantly. “I don't want to learn to fly.”

“You don't know how to?” Draco gaped at her and felt a wave of pity. How unfortunate that she'd never experienced one of the most amazing things in the world, had never tasted the freedom of soaring over the woods, through the trees of Malfoy Manor as he had. It was almost unbelievable, like she was missing a limb and didn't even know it.

He brightened. “You can fly with me,” he suggested excitedly. “I can teach you.”

The girl still looked dubious.

“I won't let you fall,’ he promised.

Seeing she was still unconvinced about the wonders of broom travel, Draco launched into a grand speech about how it was the best thing ever. This poor witch was missing out on the best part of being magical. Never mind; he'd have her flying over the estate of the Manor before she knew it.

However, until he could allow himself to daydream about that possibility, he had to ask the one question of supreme importance, the deciding factor in their future friendship.

“What House do you think you’ll be in?”

The girl furrowed her brown, worrying her bottom lip with over-large teeth. “I don’t know, I like them all…but maybe Slytherin.”

She looked at him slightly nervously as if expecting a bad reaction, likely already having spotted the quite obvious anti-Slytherin attitudes from the other lesser, stupid Houses; Draco had already seen two second-years with snakes for hair, and the train had barely left London.

“Slytherin’s the best—I’m going there too, for certain.” He told her in delight, the possibility of having a companion going in tremendously exciting, and shot her a large beaming grin. “Malfoys always are in Slytherin, and my Mum’s from House Black—she said there’s never been a Black who wasn’t one either.”

He shot her a peek to see if the sound of his name triggered any response. He was from very good stock, after all, so it would be understandable if she were a little awestruck. She didn’t react—clever move. His mother said there was nothing more desperate than a Lesser House trying to curry favour with their betters.

“It sounds the most like me,” she said thoughtfully, “ambition, cunning-”

“Resourcefulness,” Draco added triumphantly; the girl nodded.

“Much more useful values than some of the others.” She paused. “Gryffindor doesn’t sound too bad, though, but don’t really think I'm very brave.”

Draco tried not to wrinkle his nose. “Not too bad if you like impulsive hotheads,” he told her. Much to his surprise, the girl laughed —no one had ever really found him funny before. Theo (sullen and never prone to smiling) and Pansy (too prone to whining and didn’t like boys) were the only other children he'd spent much time with; he was overtaken by the urge to make her smile at him more.

“You have already threatened a prefect,” he pointed out. “That sounds pretty brave to me.”

The toothy beam he received made him feel like he was floating. His father really had done a good job finding him such a suitable first friend. Pity about Longbottom- even though he came from such a respectable family, he seemed a bit of a wet blanket, still waiting outside the closed door for Hermione like a lost puppy.

“I'm Draco,” he told her. The girl looked very surprised. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Like the constellation?”

He couldn't help but grin back. “Yes, that's right!”

The girl stuck out her hand, “Hermione Granger,” she informed him.

He quickly tried to remember where he’d read that name.

“Like the princess?”

It was Hermione’s turn to look taken aback. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Not many people know that.”

Draco took her hand and, just like he’d seen his father do it many times, placed a polite kiss on the top of it; Hermione flushed a pretty pink.

“I’ve never met anyone called Hermione before,” he told her; she looked very pleased.

“It’s Greek,” she informed him, tone turning formal, slightly like she was reading from a textbook. “My Mum’s from Crete. That’s an island near Greece.”

“I know where Crete is,” Draco interrupted her, trying not to roll his eyes. Everyone knew where Crete was—it was only where Europe’s oldest Magical parliament was based. He eyed Hermione up curiously; he didn’t recognise her surname, and it certainly didn’t sound very Greek. Granted, while his knowledge of British and French Great Houses was very good, he didn’t really know the Mediterranean ones- but if her mother’s House was from Crete, she must be well-connected indeed.

“Which House is your mother from?” he asked, trying to work out the dynamic. If Granger was her father’s surname, why had she taken that instead of her mother’s? Unless her father’s House outranked her mother's? But surely, if that were the case, he would know of an English House Granger.

Hermione looked confused,

“What do you mean? What House?”

“What Great House does your mum come from?” He repeated slowly, not quite sure why she wasn't following. It was quite a basic question; he'd had to learn all the major Houses and their mottos years ago.

“My mum’s from Heraklion,” Hermione said slowly, “but my Yaya and Papou's house isn't very big.”

Draco felt the first stirrings of unease. Was this girl… low-born? Surely not; Father wouldn't consider her an appropriate companion otherwise. Unless… maybe he could sense they would be such good friends that he was willing to overlook her birth? He brightened—that must be it.

“And your father?”

“My dad's from Croydon,” she said, still looking uncertain.

Draco still couldn't think of any connection she might’ve had to his father, so he determinedly pushed on.

“What business did your parents have with mine?’ He asked curiously.

“None, I think.” Hermione looked, now looking very confused. “They're Muggles, you see.”

Draco felt his heart stop.

“Muggles?” He gawked at at her. “Your parents are Muggles?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, a little crossly. “What does it matter?”

He stared at her in silence. His mother and father had always said that the Muggles were too stupid, insignificant, and common to be worth his attention- spoiling the beauty of the magical world with their impurity and filth. He considered that. Hermione didn't seem dirty: even though her hair was wildly curly, it wasn’t unruly, and she was already neatly dressed in carefully pressed robes; she certainly wasn't stupid- he'd hardly met many adults who knew about his constellation, let alone anyone their age, and finally, she looked just as human as he did, hardly like the beastly creatures Father had described them as, unworthy of wielding the gift of magic as they were.

“Are you sure?” He asked dubiously, trying to reconcile the perfectly normal girl before him with the description he’d always had in his head. Hermione’s eyes flared.

“I’d think I’d notice if they had magic,” she told him coldly, obviously realising something was wrong. “It doesn’t matter though, does it?”

“Well, it’s just…” Draco fumbled, uncertain of his next words. “Muggles are just so much lesser than us, are they? Father says they’re little more than animals.”

“What?” Hermione snapped.

He didn’t know how to explain further or make her understand how superior the Pureblood community was. How to tell her about their thousands of years and generations of traditions, culture, and connection to the magic that surrounded them all as easily as breathing. Traditions and culture, his father kept complaining, were being lost the more Muggle-bloods contaminated their society. He, who had his family magic still humming under his skin from his parent’s Blood Blessing this morning, where her menial, mundane parents would’ve just sent her off with nothing more than a useless kiss.

He’d never come close to meeting a Muggle-born before; didn’t even think he’d met many Half-bloods. He did remember that at his mother’s last Imbolc ball, he’d spoken to a wizard whose husband had been something called an engineer, but his parents had quickly whisked him away before he could ask what that was.

Hermione arched a brow at him. “Have you even met a Muggle?” She asked condescendingly, likely guessing his answer already would be no. He shook his head.

“Muggles might not have magic, but they’re doing fine without it,” Hermione told him. “They’re creative, clever, determined. Do you know they’ve been to the moon? No witch or wizard has done that.”

That didn’t sound true to Draco, and his look of doubt seemed to irate Hermione even more.

“I’m going to prove you wrong at Hogwarts,” she hissed. “You’ll see. There’s nothing…lesser about my parents. And I'm certainly not going to be friends with anyone who thinks that!”

“Well, I can’t be friends with a Muggle-born at all—I'm a Malfoy. Not a Blood traitor Weasley.” He looked at her pityingly. “Everyone knows Muggle-born magic isn't as powerful as ours—so I don’t think you’ll be able to prove anything.”

Hermione flushed like she’d been slapped; Draco tried to be slightly comforting and mask his disappointment—he had really thought they could be such great friends.

“You can’t help it, though; it’s just who you are.”

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Hermione snapped, whipping her wand out, and Draco felt the air around him spin.

He swung upside down in the air as if a great hook was tugging at his ankle, and with a flash of pain, he felt his back hit the cold glass of the compartment window, falling to the floor, gasping when the spell burnt out. He looked up at Hermione, glaring down at him, wand out. Tears of pain and humiliation burned his eyes as he scrambled to his feet. That was a first-term spell; it wasn’t fair she’d done it!

“I’m going to tell Father about that,” he threatened. Hermione sniffed, stowing her wand in a pocket.

“Tell him then. Make sure you mention I’m a…” she paused as if tasting the words for the first time, “a Muggle-born.”

“You filthy, Mud—” Draco started but cut off. Only his mother’s lecture to his father about how unseemly such language was prevented that word from coming out, but Hermione could tell the rest of his sentence wasn’t nice at all.

“I’m going to prove you wrong, Malfoy, if it’s the last thing I do,” Hermione swore determinedly. She stepped towards him and watched as he flinched away slightly. Satisfied, she sent him one last glare, turned sharply away, and flounced out of the compartment.

The sharp click of the door closing had the memory dissolving into spoke, and Draco was suddenly pulled back into his adult self, watching again as he raced ahead in time.

His next years flickered past with dizzying speed, several memories sticking around long enough for a quick glimpse: Seeing Granger sorted into Gryffindor, staring at the Golden Trio with a baby dragon through Hagrid’s window, spitting out the word ‘Mudblood’ for the first ever time, feeling it’s poison burn his tongue, stopping by the hospital wing to check on Pansy after she spilt a hot potion on herself, seeing Granger petrified and feeling a hot coil of regret in his stomach. Granger descending down the Great Hall staircase in flowing periwinkle robes for the Yule Ball- that memory dragged on for a very long time.

After that, his memories became a lot bleaker: his role on the Inquisitorial Squad, his endless attempts at fixing the cabinet, so sure he was doing the right thing, so sure that he was contributing to a better world, a purer world. Knowing if he failed, his mother would pay with her life. Staring Dumbledore down a shaky wand, flooded with relief as Professor Snape did what he couldn't. Then, Hogwarts under the Carrow's rule, watching as his fellow students screamed and bled on the floors of the place that should've been their sanctuary, their home.

The memories of…him taking up residence in the Manor, the horde of Death Eaters sullying his family home with their cruelty. It only took a few weeks of dodging that horrible snake, pretending not to hear the screams from the dungeons and the stench of bodies burning on the pyres in the Manor gardens to make him realise he had been so, so wrong. Enough blood soon stained his floorboards to make him sure it wasn't any different to his.

Whispered conversations with his conversations with his parents- they couldn’t leave, where would they go? And besides, how could they ever make amends for everything they'd done so far? The resistance would fall soon, and with it would come a new world order; better to play it safe and have a place in that world than face annihilation, too. The memories of Granger under Aunt Bellatrix's knife had his screwing his eyes shut and covering his ears, as if that would do anything to stop the screams that still echoed in his dreams.

And finally, the battle- realising he’d unintentionally been the master of the most powerful wand in the world, but not caring at all, would give it all up if it meant his family would be safe.

Flashes of his three months in Azkaban before his trial- biting, consuming cold, as if he’d never be warm again. Forced to remember everything he’d done in the war, every regret he’d ever had every time one of the dementors floated closer. And then standing on the dias in front of the Wizardegemot, feeling the judgement and disdain from those on the benches, knowing he’d be locked away to rot in that hellhole for life until she stood up to defend him, eyes fierce and determined, Potter at her shoulder.

Towards the end, it was almost nauseating how quickly the rapid images churned around him, nearly an indiscernible hurricane of colours and sounds, flicking in and out before he could even identify them. However, they soon came to a screeching halt in a swirl of brown, and once more, he was sucked back into his past self, fingers gripping the firm edges of the Slytherin House table in the Great Hall, gaze locked on Granger’s. Her eyes met his as she coolly stared at him from opposite the room; as much as he wanted to then (and now), he couldn’t look away, knowing one of the last times he’d seen her, she was being carved apart, trying to find the courage even to mouth an apology over. But she just broke his gaze and looked away, turning her focus back to Headmistress McGonagall, who was wrapping up the welcoming speech for the start of their eighth year.

It was the same feeling as before- trapped in his own body, forced to re-experience his memories, knowing what he would do and say next but unable to stop it. Draco resigned himself to a dreadful few minutes. (Hours? Years? He had no idea how much time had passed here in this ancient, indescribable place.)

Headmistress McGonagall finished the rest of her speech by making eye contact with Granger and Longbottom (Head Girl and Head Boy, of course), giving a pretty finale about forgiveness, setting examples, and children made to burden the hatred of others, which was promptly ignored by the entirety of the student body. Draco was forced to relive the first few awful weeks at Hogwarts, floating around the castle like a ghost, shunned by the rest of the students, wallowing in misery and loneliness, desperately waiting for the memories to end and he could return to his corporeal form. (Would he have to relive every second of his past until he stepped foot in this godsforsaken department?)

Like many older Slytherins, Pansy hadn’t come back for their eighth year; she was finishing her last year at Beauxbatons. Blaise’s mother had made him return to Italy right after Dumbledore died- they had been riding the war out from the safety of one of their villas in Taranto, waiting to see which way it would swing, secure in their future either way. Theo, who was still recovering from spending most of the past year under his father’s Imperio, had chosen to finish his education via private tutors, and Goyle was still in prison, his sentence extended after trying to attack one of the visiting Aurors after a nasty insult had been thrown his way. If it hadn’t been for the Ministry mandate requiring him to finish his education (under strict instruction that if he put one toe out of line, he would be sent straight back to Azkaban, with no chance of ever getting out), he too would never have returned- to Hogwarts or England, Draco wasn't quite sure.

Most of the other students had all been forced to grow up quickly during the war, but many still carried the fear from the previous year embedded into them by the Carrows- that pain and anger were not easily forgotten nor forgiven. A few weeks into the term, once things settled, it soon started to boil over. Draco (experiencing it again) had to suffer through the hexes and curses thrown his way in the corridors, quickly becoming nastier and nastier (but still only a light atonement for some of the things he’d done). It wasn’t until a cruel tripping jinx, carefully aimed at the top of one of the moving staircases, had him tumbling down three flights of stairs and waking up four days later that the academic staff decided to do anything about it.

And in a surprisingly Slytherin manner, McGonagall decided to implement a ‘Keep Draco Malfoy Alive Plan’, probably thinking that another dead student at Hogwarts (albeit an ex-Death Eater) may cast a long shadow on her first term as Headmistress. And so, trapped in his younger body once again, Draco found himself reliving the conversation that started everything- finding himself back in McGonagall’s office with a younger Granger sitting by his side. Forced to experience his body going through its previous performed motions, knowing already the next words he would be made to repeat.

“I’m assigning you two to work together on a year-long Transfiguration assignment.” Headmistress McGonagall told them firmly, peering down at Draco through her square glasses. He could hear Granger shifting uncomfortably on the chair beside him, already knowing what she would say.

“But Prof- Headmistress, we don’t have a Transfiguration assignment planned in the schedule,” Granger told her imploringly as if McGonagall hadn’t been involved in setting it. “I’ve gone through the syllabus already-”

Of course, you have, Draco thought.

“And there was nothing there about a paired assignment.” Granger continued.

McGonagall started at her firmly. “I’ve decided to create it. It will run for the rest of the year, and the subject and pairing will be up to the students' discretion. I’ll announce it at the end of Wednesday’s class—and I want you, Granger, to stand up and ask Malfoy to be your partner.”

Draco heard Granger give a subtle scoff and agreed with her. No one would ever believe that she would voluntarily work with him; McGonagall glowered at the pair of them.

“You will do this for me, Hermione,” she said firmly. “I haven’t missed the sentiments rising amongst the student body—I fear if I don’t step in sooner, someone will be seriously hurt.” She paused. “Or killed. Would you not wish to try and prevent that?”

Draco felt the urge to point out that he already had been seriously hurt, but from the way Granger side-eyed him as if evaluating if his getting killed would be of a major inconvenience to her or not, he decided to keep quiet for now.

“I can’t see how me working with Malfoy would be any use,” Granger grumbled; McGonagall’s quickly turned frosty.

“Much of the student body looks up to you, Hermione. You are one of the most famous faces of the war. And if people can see you publically amiably working with Malfoy, any-”

Here, she paused delicately, as if choosing her next words very carefully: “History put aside—well, it would be a great display of unity and forgiveness. Many others may follow suit. And right now, we could do with more of that.”

Draco didn’t doubt it. According to the Daily Prophet, the Minister had his hands full with the general adult population in squabbling splinters- many of the Pureblood families on the Wizengamot had formed some sort of background alliance to try to subtlety reduce his decision-making power- despite many of them incarcerated, their seats still belonged to them under magical law, never able to be taken away despite their roles in the war. There were hushed stirrings swirling on the back streets of Knockturn Alley that Greyback's pack was starting to re-form. The few surviving adult Muggle-born families who rejoined society after squirrelling themselves away were raising a storm talking about reparations. The Auror force was in tatters, many members killed in the war (or others shamefully already in prison for things they had done under the Pureblood regime when their power had gone unchecked)- all three of them knew how close their society was to another civil war. Post-war, the Wizarding World felt dangerously close to a tinderbox about to explore with a carefully placed Incendio.

“The next generation of the Magical population is under this castle roof,” McGonagall explained, “and I do not underestimate my power in shaping their thoughts and views for the future. Not to mention how my students' parents may follow their children’s lead in our new world. Right now, so many eyes are on you individually; a show of unity from the two of you could do wonders in smoothing the course of the future.”

Draco had to admit it was an excellent plan; Granger was practically adored by the Wizarding World (quickly dubbed ‘the Golden Girl’, of all sycophantic monikers). He couldn’t read any newspaper without her name having some feature. He knew public approval could change quickly, and good press was fickle. Granger certainly had experienced the ill winds of it in their fourth year, but for now, McGonagall was right- there was an opportunity to take advantage of it. And that might mean one of the only chances to improve the Malfoy family name he might ever get- it would be stupid not to consider it. From the way Granger was chewing on her lip, she could see the logic in McGonagall’s suggestion, too.

But would Granger be willing to work with the one person she likely hated most on Earth for the benefit of others? He briefly considered that but knew the answer right away—of course she would. Her drive for any Good Cause was well-known, no matter how disgusting or insignificant it was. He wouldn’t be surprised if his next feature in Magical Times featured a photo of him in a knitted bobble hat.

Granger gritted his teeth. “Fine,” she snapped ungraciously. “I’ll do it.” She stomped out of the Headmistress’s office, slamming the door behind her without looking at Draco. Off to a brilliant start, then.

“Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall said sharply, turning her full (intimidating) attention onto him. “I expect full cooperation from you. I know your opinion of Miss Granger has always been…negative.”

You don’t know anything, Draco viciously thought.

“but this is a unique opportunity here, and I don’t intend to squander it. You will accept Miss Granger’s proposal with grace. I want to see the two of you working amiably, no less, in public, as much as you can over the course of this year.”

He nodded—he had no other choice. He could only hope Granger wouldn’t turn him into a cockroach or some other sort of bug and squish him under those ugly Muggle boots she insisted on wearing. Or that the enraged public, defensive on Granger’s behalf at working with a Death Eater, might decide to do her a favour and take him out for good.

The reactions when Granger grudgingly followed McGonagall’s instructions on Wednesday didn’t disappoint- hisses of shock echoed around the classroom at Granger’s march over to him (as enthusiastically as if walking to an actual dragon) were only superseded by the horrified gasps when he accepted her ‘idea’ as if he was plotting some nefarious scheme to assassinate her. Their first session working together (sitting three chairs apart in stony silence) was observed by the few hundred students who came to the library to ‘study’ too, gawking at the sight of them, like feuding Fwoopers in a Magizoo exhibit. The bulk of their first attempt at ‘public unity’ went much as follows:

“Pass me that textbook on Tongan Transfiguration, won’t you, Granger?”

“Get it yourself. Do I look like your House-elf, Malfoy?”

“No, my House-elves tended to have had better manners. Did your Muggle parents raise you in a barn?”

“Bring up my parents again, and I’ll turn your tongue into a sea slug.”

Still, they persevered- mostly thanks to Granger. Using unsurprising tenacity, during the rest of the other meetings, she would grit out small sentences to him, which he would favour with the occasional nod or suggestion of his own, or more often than not, outright disagreement.

“What about using Riccardi’s theory on limits of Transmogrification?”

“I think that’s a great idea- if we want to include such a terrible source as part of our findings. We might as well co-reference Timmy the Troll’s work on basic spell theory-”

“Speak troll, do you? Doesn’t surprise me much-”

“Speak to me again, and I swear I will Silencio you.”

For weeks, much of their minimal conversation remained sullen and unenthusiastic, ending quickly once their quota of forced civility was exceeded and their public charade could finish for the day.

October and most of November passed with very little change in the public’s opinion, except that Draco was finally allowed back onto the Slytherin Quidditch team after much debate- the desire to win the House Cup finally overrode the concern that his presence on the team might make the rest of them look bad. He elected to return as a Chaser, having lost his slight Seeker’s build very quickly after his last impressive growth spurt, despite his skeletal sixteen-year-old frame and watched in satisfaction as his nine goals during their first match against Hufflepuff earned him grudging praise in the Daily Prophet. (He suspected his mother had sent them a very generous ‘donation’ even to warrant such a mention.) However, his and Granger’s slight progress with their joint project had stalled after yet another explosive argument in the library that had resulted in them being banned for four days- much to Granger’s simmering fury.

“Are you thick, Malfoy? Robert’s translation on goblin rebellion very clearly states that legislation passed prevented goblins from bearing arms, any form of weapons-”

“That’s a Gobbledygook mistranslation, Granger. Everyone knows he was really referring to wands-”

He ducked as a large tome on the medieval goblin uprising was launched towards his head; Madam Pince’s alarmed shrieks echoed behind them. A wild laugh bubbled up, which he quickly squashed; Gods, he hadn’t felt this alive in ages.

“Out! Out!” Madam Pince shrieked at them. “Detention Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy. Never in my life have I seen such behaviour. Using textbooks as weapons!”

Draco shook his head disapprovingly at Granger, who looked as if she might actually fling herself at him and tackle him to the floor. Detention (cleaning out used cauldrons under Slughorn's ‘supervision’) went equally as smoothly- he gleefully managed to dump half a pint of botched Shrinking Solution on her, watching in delight as she shrunk to the size of a kitten and squeaked at him in fury, waving a minute fist at him for twenty minutes before it finally wore off.

Granger got him back quickly, though- he was pretty sure she was the culprit behind the Delusion Dram slipped into his morning pot of tea, which had him spending a miserable weekend vomiting his guts out and imagining a massive anaconda waiting in his room about to swallow him up. Given that the Daily Prophet had recently reported a bust on a Canadian Potioneer smuggling crates of them into the country, captured by none other than Perfect Potter and Weaselbee, Aurors-extraordinaire, it wasn’t hard to guess where she had sourced it from.

The next time he saw her walking out of the library, carrying a careful stack of ancient-looking textbooks (why she didn’t levitate them beside her, he really didn’t know), Draco’s carefully aimed Trip Jinx had her toppling to the floor, books flying through the air, loose pages fluttering to the ground like leaves. More than anything, the destruction of library books seemed to enrage Granger the most, and Draco barely had enough time to seek shelter under a stone alcove before he was attacked by a flock of rabid budgies- tearing into his lovely Thai silk robes until they hung over his shoulders in tatters. Despicable.

It wasn’t long before, at the sight of them arguing in public together, any other students around them would quickly clear out, knowing the risks of getting caught up in any cross-fire and they both became regular visitors to the Hospital Wing, much to Madam Pomfrey’s disapproval, as gradually their insults turned to nastier and nastier spellwork. If such vehemence wasn’t aimed at him, he would’ve been almost impressed at the variety of hexes and curses Granger knew- surprising for a prissy, swotty witch. Some well on the nastier side that he couldn’t come close to matching in retaliation. Granger taking full advantage of his inability to shoot anything more dangerous than a Stunner or risk violating his release rules and returning to Azkaban was rather unsportsmanlike, and oddly Slytherin for the Gryffindor Goddess.

Their rising animosity hadn’t gone unnoticed, and mid-November, McGonagall called them into her office for an ‘intervention’. She grimly stared at them from over her desk in silence for eight minutes before repeating the importance of their task and dismissing them with instructions to try harder. To her credit, Granger did, and he grudgingly followed suit, not allowing himself to be one-upped by the Golden Girl herself.

While it was a struggle at first- so used to their instinctive antagonism, the reminder of what they both stood to benefit meant they really did try, and soon their conversations became a little more genial, their research flowed faster, their suggestions complimenting each other rather than criticising. The eyes of the other students remained just as fixed on them both, waiting for the next outburst, but slowly, as time passed and the hostility between them both settled, the periods between fierce outbursts became longer and longer until they stopped altogether, and the vivid attention on them waned.

He did notice a gradual improvement in his public reception; Longbottom, MacMillan and the other assorted ex-DA members went from coldly ignoring him in the corridors to granting him equally cold nods every time he passed (on Granger’s instruction, he suspected), and by early December, he was no longer treated to a flurry of whispers whenever he went to speak to her. Bit by bit, the stares abated, people didn’t move away when he sat down for dinner, and Granger was volunteering more and more to be his partner in other subjects when it was obvious no other people were willing to do so.

As Yuletide approached, having someone to work with was…nice. And as their prescribed project slowly started to come together (nifty research on the metaphysical restrictions of animate-to-inanimate Transfiguration), their relationship also slowly shifted from bristling animosity to something less poisonous, less…jagged.

Something that, in his softest dreams, Draco imagined one day becoming a friendship—something he felt might’ve been long overdue and something he’d already let slip away once before. He knew he wasn’t worthy of a second chance, but as long as Granger was happy to play along, in shocking unSlytherin-like fashion, he’d take every scrap of forced cordiality he could get.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, just as she was during the first time living his memories, Granger made for an excellent study partner: she was immaculately organised, so far ahead in her studies that he suspected she could easily pass the first few years in any Magical degree of her choice, was also able to counter any of his opinions with well-thought-out rebuttals of her own and was unexpectedly funny, with a sharp wit that could have him snorting with surprised laughter.

Best of all, had the same hunger for knowledge as he did- the consuming, burning desire to find out how the world worked and their place in it. It wasn’t long into winter before Draco realised that their rapid-fire debates had slowly shifted from aggressive and argumentative to something slightly more… playful.

“Of course, I wish Hogwarts offered Alchemy. Magical metallurgy classes have been taught at Durmstrang for years-”

“Can you imagine how much easier the transition would’ve been if there was some introductory class to magical culture? I mean, I must’ve embarrassed myself on my first trip to Diagon Alley five times alone!”

“It’ll be interesting to see if they overturn the ban on flying carpets. The Minister has been talking about it for years. Look at Jordan; they’ve had no incidents with Muggles there-”

But by Christmas Eve, he knew the only thing that prevented their easy neutrality from progressing to an actual abiding friendship was the one thing he had been dreading- an apology. Something he’d been wanting to do for months, long before Granger had been writhing and bleeding on the floor of his family home. But he was a coward, too scared to face the possibility that the reminder of everything he’d done would prompt Granger to remember who he really was. And he knew she would be right to run away, to abandon him, and he would finally lose the one bright spot in his life that his time with her had become.

But he knew it couldn’t wait any longer unless he wanted to watch the possibility of a friendship with her sail on by, knowing deep down he was unlikely to get a third chance. So come Christmas Eve in the library after another study session, he watched her pack up her books, chattering away about her plans, knowing that once she left for the Burrow for the holidays, the window of friendship would be closed forever- knowing full well that she’d graciously kept it open for him long enough.

He followed her out of the library, escorting her back to the Gryffindor common room as he usually did, confidence slowly faltering. It was only when he caught the sight of the Fat Lady that reality hit him, and he pulled her aside into an alcove tucked away from the singing portrait’s curious gaze—it was now or never.

Granger’s smile dropped at the look of grim determination likely plastered all over his face, probably guessing exactly where he was going as he stared at her in frozen silence for a few minutes, unsure even where to begin. It was like standing on a massive cliff, knowing he needed to take the jump but too scared to move his feet to move forward. The only thing that prevented him from turning his tail and running away was the tiny flicker of hope in his heart, hope that maybe he could be given the slightest chance at forgiveness. If she could see that he was starting to change, perhaps everyone else could, too.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered after minutes of awful silence. “I’m so sorry, Granger.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back on the cool stone walls, not even needing him to elaborate.

“I know.” She finally murmured. “I know you are.”

“Do you think-” Draco felt his voice crack slightly, took a breath and tried again.“Do you forgive me?”

Granger paused. “No.” She finally said. Draco felt his heart sink.

“Not yet,” she added, softening at whatever expression was on his face, and that damnable flare of hope hit him again. “But maybe one day I could.”

Draco nodded; he couldn’t ask for more than that. He took another deep breath, his next question burning his lips. A question he’d maybe been waiting for eight years to ask.

“Do you think we could be friends?” He blurted out, all his plans to be calm and collected forgotten as the full weight of his request hit him.

Granger was quiet for a very long time. Mortified by her silence, he turned away to leave. He knew this was a bad idea. Maybe Blaise would help him flee the country. Surely he had a small mansion in Tuscany he could spare.

“Wait!” Granger’s voice cracked, too, and he paused, still keeping his back to her as the urge to scurry back to the dungeons like a humiliated rodent almost overpowered him.

“I could try being your friend, I think?” Her uncertain voice didn't inspire much confidence.

“You’ll try being friends with someone you don’t forgive?” Draco asked her dubiously; Hermione nodded.

“I can't promise anything,” she hesitated, chewing her lip slightly. “God knows we've got enough history to write a textbook, but I want to try. I thought we would’ve made good friends once- when we first met. I'd…like to try.”

Draco nodded. He'd take her trying with gratitude. “Thank you, Granger.”

She nodded briskly, tone softening slightly.

“Forgiveness aside, if we’re going to give being friends a go, you probably should call me Hermione.”

He froze and swung around. Grang- Hermione had a slight smile on her face.

“I'd like that,” he said softly. “Another chance at a friendship with you. Hopefully, I don’t fuck this one up, too.” He tried not to look grim. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

She gave a sudden smile and stuck out her hand.

“Hermione Granger. A pleasure to meet you.”

He felt his lips quirk in a faint smile in reply.

“Like the princess?” He asked gently and placed a soft kiss on the back, just as he had done so many years before. Again, Hermione flushed a delicate pink; he felt the tips of his own cheeks burn slightly in response.

“Draco,” he told her seriously, “Draco Malfoy.”

“Draco,” Hermione said thoughtfully; he felt his own blush burn hotter as she addressed him by his name for the very first time. “Like the constellation?”

“The very one,” he told her seriously, and for the second time ever, couldn’t help but give her a beaming smile.

“Very well, Draco Malfoy,” Hermione sniffed primly, “I look forward to a great friendship come 1999, then.”

“There’s still seven days to change your mind,” Draco warned her, still grinning widely.

“You’d better get me a good Christmas present then,” Hermione suggested, darting through her common room entrance before he could respond. His chuckles echoed down the empty corridor as relief and hope flooded his body. If the one person he'd wronged the most in the world could forgive him, then maybe he wasn’t irredeemable after all.

He hid in the Slytherin common room until the New Year, unable to face going home to the Manor, which Aurors were still combing over like safari ants. On Hermione’s return in early January, she gifted him an emerald green hat with a slightly wonky bobble at the top, much to his well-disguised horror. His present of a signed first edition of ‘Hogwarts, a History’ had her in tears, much to his alarmed dismay.

And after that exchange of presents throughout the year, they slowly, in mutual agreement, became friends. Maybe it was cemented when Draco first pulled out a chair for her in the library and sent some seventh-years scrambling away from their favourite table. Maybe when she started bringing him slices of apple crumble wrapped in a napkin to their study sessions on days when the vicious whispers hit their target, or maybe when he showed tentative, genuine interest in Muggle achievements during an essay for his compulsory Muggle Studies class, quietly asking her questions about her childhood, her parents, and how an aeroplane was able to stay up in the sky.

The rest of winter saw them spend many snowy evenings in the library, heatedly debating the most obscure topics, pulling books off library shelves to back up their perspectives, tearing each other’s arguments into shreds, and later grudgingly conceding the other may have a point over warm pints of butterbeer.

As February passed, he decided to do something long overdue, and quill in hand, he penned several letters to people he felt deserved it: Potter, Weasley, and Lovegood, among many others. Crumpled-up drafted letters of overdue apologies and thankfulness littered his bedroom floor before he felt confident enough to send any.

March had him gingerly accompanied Hermione to a much-anticipated book signing at Blackwell’s in Muggle Oxford, nearly jumping out of his skin the first time a Muggle bus roared past him, much to Granger’s amusement. April saw them having a massive argument about the interpretation of Nordic runes, which had them both flouncing off and not talking for three days, only brought back to speaking after Hermione and the Weasel's breakup. (Weasley apparently displaying a hitherto unseen depth of emotional maturity and freeing them both from a relationship they didn't seem happy to be in.) Draco came the closest he'd been thus far to imprisonment after reading Skweters post-breakup headlines in the Daily Prophet, but Hermione successfully talked him out of minor war crimes, saying she was ‘handling it.’ Draco had to give her credit; whatever she did worked- Skeeter’s sensationalist pieces stopped as quickly as they started.

May was a rough month. On the one hand, while it saw the grim first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts (Draco celebrated it by hiding out deep in the Restricted Section, reading up on Pureblood genealogy in an attempt to keep his mind distracted while Hermione was forced to attend assorted galas, memorials and honour parades), the month also brought about the start of the (heavily competitive, exceptionally violent) Quidditch quarter-finals against Hufflepuff, to which he dragged a reluctant Hermione, fastening a green scarf around her neck with a Temporary Sticking Charm, ignoring her horrified protests. To the Weaselette’s fury, he scored the winning point difference, pushing Slytherin to the top of the leaderboard, much to his smug, bragging delight.

“I might not know much about Quidditch,” Hermione said to him stiffly afterwards, waving a wand over his face to siphon up the dried blood from his broken nose, “but I would think hitting the ground would be an undesirable outcome.”

Draco grinned. They were in the Quidditch changing rooms, and the rest of his team was long gone to the post-match party in the common room. Hermione had waylaid him on his way to the Hospital Wing, tugging him back inside the communal bathroom to fix himself up, citing her ‘decent’ healing skills learned mid-war.

“I didn’t hit the ground,” he pointed out smugly. “Steyn did. That’ll certainly knock her out of playing in the next match.”

He hopped up onto the counter, allowing Granger to step between his legs and felt her run a warm towel over his face, wiping away any blood her spell might’ve missed.

“Episkey.” She muttered, pointing her wand at his face. She grimaced as his broken nose healed with a horrible crunch. “Sorry.”

She pressed closer, and Draco tried to ignore the heat of her arm resting on his thigh or how the ends of her curly hair tickled his shoulders as she dragged a wand down his chest, checking for any damaged ribs.

“Still,” she said disapprovingly. “Promise me you’ll play safer in the next one.”

“I can’t promise that,” he told her seriously, fighting back a smile at how her eyebrows were scrunched in concern. “If we want to win, we need to fight hard; Ravenclaw’s been surprisingly good this year. What’s it your Muggles say? Go big or go home?”

Hermione snorted. “No way you’ll win the Cup, sorry. Ginny’s been planning her strategy for months. Harry’s helped, too. It’s brilliant, she says.”

“Anything you feel like sharing?” Draco asked her coyly; she shot him a flat look.

“Nice try.” She ran her wand over Draco’s hand, cocking a brow at something abnormal she felt over his fingers- his broken pinky, he suspected. “I won't be responsible for you ruining Gin’s infallible plan.”

Draco paused, the start of an idea flickering in his mind.

“Well then," he said, voice sly. “If you really think your brilliant Gryffindor team will win the Cup, maybe you’d like to put your money where your mouth is?”

Hermione froze, and a very Gryffindor-like spark of interest flared in her eyes at the taunt.

“What are you thinking?”

Draco pretended to be deep in thought for a while, mind racing for the best way to twist this opportunity to his advantage. “How about this, Granger? If Slytherin wins the House Cup, then I get to take you to old Sluggy’s graduation ball next month.”

He heard her take a sharp breath and hesitated, momentarily worried he’d gone too far.

“Alright then,” she breathed, the heat of her exhale hitting his neck, sending a shudder threatening to roll down his spine. “We’ve got a deal, Malfoy.”

She paused, and a cunning light entered her eyes; Draco bit back another shiver at the sight.

“What do I get if you lose?”

“Then you get to take me,” he suggested; Hermione huffed a laugh in response. “And I’ll wear something red.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “You better start practising then; I hear red robes aren’t fashionable now. What would your mother say about that?”

Draco ignored her unspoken question—let alone the robes, what would his mother have to say about who he would be going with?

“I don’t need to practice,” he told her smugly. “I know we’ll win. Besides-" He stopped, then bravely forged ahead, "I don't really care for other peoples' opinions on...fashion. Not...anymore"

He watched in relief as the tension in Hermione’s shoulders melted at the sincerity in his voice. She cleared her throat and ducked her head, he did his best to catch her eyes but a delicate curl fell in front of her face, obscuring her gaze. Draco tried to ignore how his fingers itched to tug it away.

“You sound awfully confident,” She said cockily but Draco couldn’t help but see how her hands were shaking slightly. “I’ll bring you a corsage for the ball when you lose.”

“Crimson camellias,” he suggested, dodging her swatting hand, “they’ll go with the decor.”

The bark of laugther he got from that nearly made him dizzy with glee. Another idea hit him, and he reached a casual hand over Hermione’s face unable to bear it any longer, and tucked the tendril of curls behind her ear, feeling smug when her breath caught again.

“Another amendment,” he murmured. “If your brilliant, infallible team loses after all, then you have to wear green.”

Hermione froze, and he smiled triumphantly. “Scared, Granger? Not so sure of them now, are you?”

She rose to the bait (predictable Gryffindors) and glowered at him heatedly. “You’re on, Malfoy.” She snapped, and he tried not to grin in delight. Perfect. Not that he’d needed the motivation earlier, but there was no way he was losing now.

The rest of the school year flicked by in a flash of rapid memories, good and bad: Hermione getting offered a junior position in the Beasts and Being’s department at the Ministry of Magic. Draco learned his father had been sentenced to twenty years in prison. Hermione (nearly successfully) taught him how to cast a patronus, then held his hand and offered sincere comfort when he received a letter from the Goyle solicitor telling him Greg had been killed in Azkaban after a dementor went rogue. Simple summer afternoons sitting on a conjured blanket by the lake, Hermione reading yet another Brontë book, him napping in the sun, finally content. A sad Thursday in early June when Hermione broke down in tears only to tell him it was her mother's birthday and confessed her tragic, still irreversible, Obliviation spell. 

Exam season came in the last few days of the term, and most nights after they wrote their N.E.W.T.S, they had whispered conversations about everything and anything over steaming cups of tea, often about the future. In hopeful tones, Hermione spoke about her dream of spearheading massive legislative changes at the Ministry. Draco marvelled at her endless curiosity about the magical world and suggested a career involving research where she could try to get some answers to her many questions or maybe discover or create new spells that could change the lives of all wizards for the better.

He quietly spoke of his desire to have the Malfoy name finally represent something good. He didn’t think a career in law enforcement would be possible with his reputation, but maybe a job in Healing or something like Curse-breaking- where he could help destroy some of the dark magic brought into the world. He didn’t think any magical universities in Europe would accept him, but he had received a favourable letter back from a Professor at the Institute of Curses and Artefacts in Khartoum that had him feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about his future, Headmistress McGonagall might have sent a letter of recommendation he suspected, with a warm flash of appreciation.

Hermione once caught him flicking through her brochure for human rights law from the University of Oxford ‘accidentally’ slipping it into his stack of library books when he thought she wasn’t looking. He briefly considered it but ultimately didn’t think it would be possible. The Muggle world was too foreign, too intimidating; he couldn’t see any future where he navigated it alone. (Of course, having someone by his side who knew it well would be a different story…but whenever those thoughts crossed his mind, he cut them off sharply. It wouldn’t do to imagine possibilities that couldn’t ever happen.)

And so reliving as his nineteen-year-old self, he watched their friendship flourish up to the last week of term. Hermione won dux scholar of the year (of course), setting the highest N.E.W.T scores for four hundred years- he tried to look miffed by her achievements but was sure she could see the pride in his eyes as she crossed the dias in the Great Hall to get her certificate. She cheered the loudest when he won second place; he flipped her off for that. Their research project won an honourable award of excellence (to no one’s surprise), and Draco tried his best to look impressed by the measly five-hundred galleon prize.

Oddly content with reliving some of his best days at Hogwarts, Draco was sharply reminded of the harsh reality that he had faced post-school, right before the House Cup, the day before term finished at the end of June, and their last year at Hogwarts was concluded with the Graduation Ball. Pity; he’d done so well in blocking the memory that it was almost as painful to relive it again as it was to experience it the first time.

Standing outside the changing rooms, broom in hand, focusing his mind on the upcoming match, he was forced to turn around at the sound of his name being called, despite knowing full well what was about to happen but having no way of avoiding it.

“Oi, Malfoy!” A voice shouted, but the anticipated spell hit him square in the back before he could reply, knocking him to the ground in a flash of painful light.

He couldn’t see who it was; their silhouette ringed with a halo of light that, paired with the throbbing in his head, made him sure he’d got a concussion from hitting the hard, stone floor. (Again.) The voice was familiar, but in his concussed daze, he couldn't recognise it enough to identify his assailant, even after hearing it a second time, which was massively unhelpful- all he could do was feel around for his wand, trying not to cry out when a heavy boot stomped on his fumbling fingers.

“You think you’ve got everyone fooled,” a sharp kick to his side had him curling in on himself, ribs screaming in agony. “You’ve got Granger fooled for sure. But not me.”

The figure, definitely male, circled him maliciously.

“Do you really think they’ll be a place for you once you leave Hogwarts?” He sneered. “Everyone might’ve forgotten what you did, but I haven’t. Crucio!”

The agonising lance of pain tore through Draco, but he’d had enough practice with the spell under Aunt Bellatrix’s tutelage to keep his mouth shut, not wanting to give his attacker the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

“Crucio,” the wizard snarled, almost disappointed at his lack of reaction. “Fucking Death Eater.”

He paused, and the terrible pain swallowing Draco up eased as the spell wore out.

“You’ll never be anything more than a worthless, murderous coward.” The wizard whispered. “And Granger’ll see that soon. And if she doesn’t, then society will make her see sense. Whatever spell you’ve got over her now will wear off, and if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll leave you be.”

The figure stopped, turning to leave, and then spat a big glob of saliva, which landed on Draco’s head with a disgusting splat. Then vanished, footsteps muffled quickly by the roar of the gathering crowd.

Draco pulled himself to his feet and cast several healing spells on himself, gasping in relief as the pain mostly eased. But he couldn’t shake off his attacker’s words as easily, even as he furiously reminded himself he couldn't dwell on them. He had a match to win, after all.

Despite the ache of his ribs, throbbing in his head, and the cramping of his fingers, he somehow played one of the best games he had ever flown, shooting goal after goal in grim determination and scoring the winning goal with a dramatic Wronski feint, that had Hermione gripping the railings in terror. And afterwards, faking a rogue bludger to Madam Pomfrey and hearing the sound of Hermione’s feet rush over the stark Hospital Wing floors towards him, he did his best to ignore the wizard’s words, pretend like they weren’t echoing in his skull, worming their way deeper and deeper.

But the attack did help him decide one thing—that there was one last act of purgation he wanted to perform. And so, the final day of his eighth year started with a bang. Over breakfast, with everyone twittering about Slughorn's upcoming graduation do, the Daily Prophet arrived, bearing Draco’s final and last apology.

Hermione found him hiding in the Astronomy tower three hours later, face unreadable.

“Ah,” he eyed the newspaper in her hands, tense in anticipation. There was no way to hide now, not after he’d bared his soul to the world. Did she know it was mostly for her? Because of her?

“My Time as a Death Eater,” she read the title of his article out. “A Letter of Apology to the Wizarding World.”

“Did you read it?” He asked nervously; Hermione nodded. “What did you think?”

“I thought you wrote well,” Hermione ran a careful finger down the text of his op-ed. He watched her in slight nervousness, relaxing when she gave him a brief smile. “Your use of the Oxford comma was quite liberal, though.”

“I should’ve asked you to proofread it,” he said jokingly, trying to disguise the tenseness in his voice; Hermione’s face grew serious.

“Yes, you should’ve.”

Draco felt a stray, rare flash of self-doubt.

“What does everyone else think?” He tried to look like he cared about the opinions of his menial, insipid classmates as if the only person whose opinion he cared for wasn’t standing in front of him.

“Everyone's a bit divided,” she told him, a faint smile curving her lips. “The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs think it was very brave to put it out there for everyone to read.”

“Great,” Draco said dully. “My ideal demographics.” Hermione bit back a snicker.

“Most of the Ravenclaws and Slytherins think it was foolish to publish it. You were doing quite well flying under the radar, and people were starting to forget about you.”

“They’ll remember me soon enough once I leave Hogwarts,” he pointed out. “I won’t have the castle to hide behind for much longer.”

Hermione made a thoughtful humming noise when she considered that point.

“Do you- do you think I made a mistake publishing it?” Draco's voice was anxious. He’d written the lengthy article in his first week out of prison, kept it hidden away since then in a copy ‘Shirley’ Hermione had leant him long ago, too scared to let it see the light of day. There was something so intimate about sharing his deepest thoughts and regrets with the general public; it was an exposing feeling, sharing so much of his soul for anyone to read, but oddly liberating. He felt the freest he’d ever been for years, more so than when he’d left the despairing gates of Azkaban far behind.

“I might not have done it,” Hermione said carefully, suddenly amused. “But then again, I wouldn’t have been in your shoes in the first place.”

He appreciated her attempt at light-heartedness and shot her a wry look.

“You wouldn't have served a fanatic megalomaniac?” He asked seriously; Hermione laughed.

“No. I would've been a terrible Death Eater.”

“Wouldn’t have met the entry requirement,” he agreed, smiling slightly, hearing Hermione snort in amusement.

The waves of relief that she wasn’t running away screaming after re-reading all his sins wash over him felt indescribable; Hermione laid a comforting palm on his forearm.

“Are you done with dropping metaphorical bombs in the Wizarding population, or can I go get ready for the ball?”

“As long as you’re still happy to go with a Death Eater,” he whispered. Hermione’s face grew firm.

“As long as you’re happy to go with a Mudblood.” She cut over his squawk of protest. “No, Draco. I cannot change my origins more than you can change your past. What we are, who we are, are things we’ll need to make peace with for good now.”

She looked at him fiercely. “I am proud of where I come from, just as I am proud of how far you’ve come.”

His eyes burned, again feeling completely undeserving of the absolution she so easily showed him.

“You asked me once if I could ever forgive you,” she said, her voice choking. “Well, I have, Draco. I’ve learned how to over this year. I’ve seen the man you’ve grown into- a wizard I am proud to call my friend. Everyone here at Hogwarts has seen you've changed; don't think they haven’t.”

She paused and looked unusually hesitant about her following sentence.

“And I’ll be there by your side as we leave Hogwarts. So will Harry and Ron.”

The image of Scarhead and Weasel being forced by Hermione to stand up for him in public almost had him smiling- but he didn’t doubt for a second she wouldn’t be able to bully them into compliance.

He blinked away hot tears and made a show of checking his watch.

“You’ve got four hours left before the ball,” he pointed out. Hermione very kindly didn’t say anything about how choked his voice was.

“You’d better start getting ready.” A smug tone entered his voice. “Don’t you have some robes you need to cast a Colour Change Charm on?”

Hermione scowled. “I bought a backup set,” she grumbled; Draco somehow wasn’t surprised by that at all.

He bowed at her with a dramatic flourish, which had the intended effect of making the worried lines cut deep across her forehead ease slightly.

“I will see you then, Lady Granger.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “I’ll be the one in green, Lord Malfoy,” she said solemnly, almost like a threat, and vanished down the stairs, leaving Draco to contemplate exactly what he’d just done, what he could still do with the precious time left in the sanctuary of their school before he would be forced to leave the next day and face the real world for good.

That evening, Hermione floated down the stairs to the Great Hall once more, dressed in flowing emerald green robes and a borrowed silver necklace of opals wrapped tightly around her throat, (the Malfoy and Black House colours, some part of Draco’s brain helpfully hissed). She shot him a beaming smile, and Draco felt like his breath had been punched from his lungs.

The whispers that spread through their classmates assembled in the Great Hall made it sound like the space was full of hissing snakes, and Draco could feel the weight of everybody’s eyes heavily on him as he strode through the main door, Hermione proudly by his side. He did his best to pretend he couldn’t hear the muttered conversations around them, internally wincing as they echoed the thoughts he’d done so well in ignoring.

“They came together?”

“Going with a Death Eater?”

“Can’t believe she’s friends with him now. Has she forgotten what he did?”

“Didn’t think I’d see Malfoy going with a Muggle-born!”

“Surprised? They’ve spent most of the year together.”

“Can’t believe he’s asked her. Filthy Mudblood.”

“Ignore them,” Hermione said from the corner of her mouth. “Focus on me.”

She shone under the candlelight in the Great Hall, and he looked at her transfixed. Instead of the winter wonderland, it had been turned into for the Yule Ball; it was now resplendent in Rococo swirling golds and marble, like a grand ballroom in the palace of Versailles, and under the golden, glimmering light catching on her untamed curls and bronzed skin, she looked like a goddess come to life.

And focus on her, he did. He led her on one, two, three turns about the dancefloor, twirling her around the ballroom as light and gracefully as a feather, their history, his worries about the future quickly forgotten by the sound of the beautiful music and the feel of Hermione in his arms. He couldn’t keep her for himself for long- was forced to share with other attendees every third dance, much to his annoyance. He was a Malfoy, for gods’ sake, and Malfoys weren’t exactly known for being very generous.

After the first few formal opening dances were complete, Finnegan stole Hermione for a rowdier one, and Draco allowed himself to be marched around the room by the Weaslette, who gave him begrudging congratulations on winning the Cup and wincing as she (intentionally, he suspected,) stood on his toes with every spin. To his shock, in an act of surprising tolerance, many of the senior students acted like he had no…unsavoury history. For the first time in years, Draco got to feel what it felt like to be a careless, reckless nineteen-year-old.

After an hour or so, things became decidedly less formal, the hired band alternating between more modern Muggle music and traditional orchestral Magical pieces. Dean Thomas (the only other tolerable Gryffindor besides Granger) swung him around the room in something called a jive. Pavarti Patil demonstrated an elegant routine her sister explained was called a kathak dance to cheers from the crowd, and he shared what he would generously describe as a ‘modern interpretation’ with Luna, which involved lots of ducking and furious arm waving while Hermione beamed at him from across the room. So amused was she at the sight that even during their next turn about the room, Draco could feel Hermione’s giggles shaking his shoulders and making his chest warm in response.

After that, much to Draco’s annoyance, Hermione was next hoisted about by one of the senior Weasley brothers, not the stuffy prefect one- an older, rugged, undeniably hot one who was lined up to take over Care of Magical Creatures for the next academic year for not one but three dances, while Draco kept himself busy being led through the motions by Longbottom, who was surprisingly light on his feet- years of dancing lessons befitting the Heir to his House he suspected, and then had to make forced conversation with a few senior Ravenclaws while waiting for Hermione to return to his side. He politely wrote his name on Daphne Greengrass and her younger sister’s dance cards for a waltz-like routine later in the evening and watched in deep amusement as finally finished with the least repulsive Weasley, Ernie MacMillan pulled Hermione into some very stuffy-looking traditional dance, involving lots of bowing like a pigeon and treading on other dancers’ toes, much to Hermione’s mortification.

At some point towards the end of the night, as the evening wound down, Draco looked up to see most of the Great Hall had emptied, Hermione still swaying gently in his arms.

“I should walk you back,” he said quietly. Hermione made a quiet noise of protest, and he looked down at her in confusion. She seemed pretty flushed; maybe the dancing had been too strenuous.

“I think we made a mistake in the research project,” she said hurriedly. “That first-hand account from Leslie Cannavan might’ve been incorrectly dated. We should go double-check it quickly.”

He gaped at her. “Now?”

She bit her lip, not quite able to make eye contact, and nodded.

Draco looked at her in pure confusion. “I don’t think we made a mistake. We checked our sources four times before we submitted them.”

Hermione looked oddly insistent, a subtle blush creeping up the sides of her neck.

“I’d still like to go to the library to make sure,” she said firmly. “The party’s almost over. Why don’t we go now?”

“Everything will be closed up,” Draco said dumbly, but he allowed Hermione to lead him out of the ballroom, hand in hand, through the winding corridors to the Central Hall. Draco watched, mildly impressed, as Hermione cast a series of unlocking charms, bypassing the library wards with minimal fuss.

“Head girl privilege,” she reminded him smugly, catching his surprised look and tugging him to follow her into the massive library. “I get unrestricted access whenever I want.”

Draco arched a brow, “an unbeatable perk for you, I imagine.” Hermione nodded happily.

“I’m going to miss this next year.”

The familiar smell of parchment and ink washed over him as they entered the large Main Chamber on the library’s ground floor, the moonlight that shone through the massive windows efficiently illuminating the rows of desks and bookcases in the large communal study section that stood waiting for the next cohort of eager students to arrive when the next new year started; Hermione strode past them with no comment. Nor did she show any interest in the spiralling staircase that led to the rows of shelves in the mezzanine on the first floor above, running a hand over the cold metal railing as they left it behind quickly.

Instead, she led Draco deeper and deeper, silently passing row after row of bookshelves snaking away into the library's depths, past the doors for the assorted study rooms, rare edition chambers, and Madam Pince’s quarters, casting a silent Lumos when the moonlight stopped penetrating that far into the shelves.

She stopped when they finally came to the dark, dingy entrance to the Restricted section. She placed her wand on the roped-off barrier, which slithered aside at recognising her magical signature, and, still not saying a word, she pulled him down the staircase to the levels below, their footsteps echoing on the empty stone.

Hermione led him deeper and deeper into the Restricted section. He followed silently behind her, still slightly puzzled when she came to a stop at their favourite table—a dark, round rosewood desk with plenty of space for piles of reference books and a nice porthole window looking out into the black lake that lapped around this part of the castle’s foundations.

She cast her usual lighting spell, and jar after jar of bluebell flames appeared on the floor, shelves and desk, warming the whole space in bluish-purple light that, paired with the window, made their section of the library appear slightly underwater. He watched as she flittered around the closest bookshelf, still unsure why she was looking there. Cannavan’s edition on theoretical transmutation would've been three rows over- had she forgotten that despite all their hours of studying there?

“Erm, Hermione?” He asked in bemusement, breaking the long silence and watching as she jolted out of her skin as if forgetting he was behind her. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine!” She squeaked, “Yes! All fine!”

She leaned against the bookshelf behind her in the worst show of nonchalance he had ever seen, eying him up with an unreadable gaze.

“So, did you want to check it?” He said pointedly. He hadn’t planned on spending his last night at Hogwarts like this- tucked away in the library like they hadn’t even written their exams. No, he’d been thinking of maybe stargazing on a Conjured sofa in the Astromonoy tower and watching the sun slowly rise while he savoured his last few hours as a Hogwarts student.

“Hmmm?" Was her unhelpful, vague reply.

He eyed Hermione up dubiously. “You wanted to check the references, remember? Cannavan’s article will be over there,” he pointed out, summoning it over to her with a wave of his wand. The desired book floated over to her; she grabbed it mid-air without even looking at it, still staring at him like he’d never seen her before, and made no attempts to open the chapter they'd used as a reference, despite their arduous trek down to check.

He felt a rare flash of insecurity and darted a glance at his outfit to ensure his robes weren’t improperly buttoned all night or something else equally embarrassing, but all seemed good.

“Hermione?” He asked curiously. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said vaguely. “It was a good ball, wasn’t it? I saw you speaking with quite a few people there at the end.”

Draco nodded, trying to ignore the flash of irritation at the reminder that a Weasley, of all people, had poached his date for a decent chunk of time.

“Yes.” He said, more acidly than intended, “You were rather…occupied, entertaining one of the Weasley spawn at the time. Chester, was it?”

Hermione looked disgustingly sentimental at the reminder of the sun-speckled, gorilla-shaped muppet who had tossed her about the dance floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Ron’s thrilled Charlie’s back from Romania,” she told him happily as if he gave two fucks about Weaselbee’s current or future happiness. “How he’s going to manage teaching and setting up that new sanctuary in Conwy, I don’t know.”

Gods, he had forgotten the wizard wrestled dragons. A fact that was unfortunately unsurpassably and undeniably cool. His reluctant admiration faded at her following sentence, however:

“I should make time to pop by and go over his lesson plan. I’m sure he’d appreciate the insight. I mean, we’ve just written N.E.W.T.S. Our perspective on course content would be rather useful, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” Draco sniffed. “But I imagine that such a busy schedule and constantly smelling like dragon shit might make it hard for one to have time for socialisation. Or relationships, the more I think about it. Plenty on his plate already, poor Chester.”

Hermione looked privately amused. “I don’t think that bothers Charlie,” she informed him. “Relationships aren’t his thing; he’s more a lone wolf.”

Now that the maintenance Ventilation Charms had been paused for the holiday, it was getting quite hot in the stuffy Restricted Section. Suddenly feeling quite breathless, Draco loosened his tie and tossed it to the side on top of the desk, wishing he could roll up his sleeves more without putting his Dark Mark on display.

He glanced back up at Hermione and froze. She had a new look on her face, one he’d never seen before, as she watched him toy with the edges of his cuffs. A mix of hunger and interest sent an answering flash of heat coil deep in his belly.

He froze- half in uncertain surprise, half in dawning hope that he hadn’t misread, that maybe she, too, felt the sparks that had started to crackle between the two of them at some point in the year, smouldering so slowly he couldn’t place when they first caught. He pushed himself off the desk and took a tentative step towards her. However, when her expression didn’t change, she still looked at him, brown eyes still unfathomably, unreadably dark through darkly-lashed lips; he took two more confident ones until he stood right in front of her, caging her between the width of his body, and the bookshelves at her back.

“Hermione?” He breathed, feeling a faint stirring of smug delight when she seemed to shiver slightly beneath him. “What’re you doing?”

He started to say something else, not quite sure what, but froze completely when she leant over and caught his lips with his in a tentative, gentle kiss that sent all thoughts blanking from his mind.

He was almost stunned with a surprise for a few agonising heartbeats, running on instinct as his lips moved against hers. His left hand traced her neck to cup her chin and pull her closer towards him while his right trailed through her hair and rubbed a soft circle over her ear. But then his body caught up to his mind in a flash, and suddenly, he was matching the movement of her lips with enthusiastic delight, pushing her backwards until the full line of her back hit the bookshelves as he pressed her up against them. Her lips opened to let him gain entry, and the taste of her on his tongue was ambrosia.

“Draco!” Hermione mewled a few minutes later; a groan wrenched its way out of his chest at the sound of pure need in her voice as he removed his lips from hers and trailed them down the long, elegant expanse of her neck, gently stopping to mouth on any flesh he felt deserved his attention. The smell of her soap, honey, and lavender, mixed in with the warm smell of leather and parchment from the library, tickled his nose, and he inhaled it greedily as he breathed her name against her skin.

He hissed, half in pain, half in pleasure, as the sharp pin pinks of her nails at the base of his skull dragged his eyes back to hers. He noticed, with smug satisfaction, the wild look in her eyes, her hair falling wild over her shoulders, and the purplish marks already starting to form down the column of her neck. She almost glared at his obvious pleasure, then a wicked grin crossed her face, and she tugged sharply on the roots of his hair, pulling a wild moan from his throat. He couldn’t help it; he surged forward to kiss her again, crushing her even more against the books, and for a few more blissful minutes, all he was focused on was their muffled panting breathing, the warmth of her body quivering under his and the way her lips seemed to seamlessly meld around his as if that was all they had ever been created to do.

Soon, it wasn’t enough. Hermione’s gasp of surprise when he spun them around and hoisted her up onto the desk was slightly muffled as she breathed his name under his jaw, but from the way she pulled him closer, wrapping her legs around his waist to press him right up to her warm body, she didn’t disapprove. Draco bit back a rumbling moan when her clever tongue darted out to trace the outline of the Azkaban tattoo that ran up his neck to behind his ear, couldn’t help the way his hips jerked forward when she sharply nipped the end of it.

His fingers scrambled for the buttons on the back of her robes before he could even think, but he caught himself before he could pop the next few open.

“No, please…” Hermione muttered against his lips. “Off.”

“Are you…” He fumbled around for the next one. “Are you sure?”

A hissed yes was her only verbal response, and from the way her hands snaked down the lines of his robes, frantically unfastening whatever she could, she had more pressing matters on her mind. Some distant part of his brain, now focusing on how to get the most delectable sounds out of Hermione, noted he seemed to have found the one way to keep the Golden Girl quiet. Well, he thought, as her sighs echoes off the books around them, mostly quiet.

Somehow, in a manner that was probably desperate and inelegant, he managed to slip out of his over-robes, assisted by Hermoine’s tugging, leaving him still in his myrtle green waistcoat embroidered with serpents, white undershirt and formal trousers. Good Merlin, he still had a lot of layers on. Hermione wasn’t much better- her robes were fastened down the back with a line of tiny buttons- some mocking test for patience, he assumed; he was very close to simply Vanishing them all away. He heard his silver cufflinks (snakes, of course) hit the stone floor with a clink as his sleeves went under assault, too- and on instinct, he pulled his arms back away.

“Wait,” he called out frantically; Hermione stopped at once.

“I don’t want you to see-” He fumbled for his words, “I still have-”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “I don’t care about your Dark Mark, Draco.”

“Well, I do!” He snapped back, pulling slightly away. “I don’t want- I don’t want it anywhere near you.”

Hermione’s eyes flared. “Well, I’d quite like you near me. I’d quite like you in me at some point this evening.” She ignored his squawk of scandalised surprise.

“I don’t care, Draco. I don’t- we both have scars-” A devilish glint entered her eyes. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

If he weren’t so nervous, he might’ve laughed. The idea, however, of Hermione seeing the Dark Mark still branded on his forearm, as dark and prominent as it had been the day it was placed there, nearly made him want to be sick.

Hermione, accurately reading the uncertain disgust on his face, paused, and her mischievous look increased exponentially. She flicked her wand silently, and he heard the buttons on her robes pop off. Fabric slithered down her body to pool on the floor, and Draco vaguely heard himself make a sound like he’d just fallen fifty feet and landed flat on the ground.

She was…stunning. Indescribable, as she stared at him with fierce eyes. Her wild curls rolled down her shoulders and back, framing her delicate shoulders and collarbones; his breath caught at the sight of her bare breasts swaying as she breathed, her faint blush dropping almost mid-navel, almost masked by the bluish light that flickered around them. He couldn’t stop staring at the acres of skin on display, the pinch of her waist, the rolling dips of her hips, the expanse of her thighs, down to the delicate curve of her ankle. Dressed only in the opal necklace, she looked like one of the statues he’d seen exploring the ruins of a Greek temple as an undergrad come to life. Had he seen her then, he might’ve dropped to his knees and offered himself in oblation without a second thought.

She shifted around more with every second he was motionless, and it suddenly hit him- was she feeling self-conscious? Merlin, he was an idiot. He had been so busy gaping at her like a gormless second-year who’d never seen a pair of breasts before he hadn’t even been able to express how hypnotised he was at her image.

“Beautiful,” he managed to croak out. It was not the effusive praise he had hoped for, but it soothed Hermione somewhat. Her confidence returned slightly, and her blush spread further down.

“Even with my scars?” She whispered. “Why do you think yours would be any different?”

At first, Draco didn’t know what she was talking about but froze with a jolt at the second scan of her body and the marks that littered her skin he had somehow missed during his first perusal. He pressed a shaking hand to the purplish one that ran from the jut of her hip, across her stomach, between her breasts to her collarbone. He recognised those scars but didn’t want to name their source; he didn’t even want to imagine Hermione close to such a monster.

“Dolohov,” Hermione confirmed his worst suspicions. “Battle in the Department of Mysteries. Fifth Year.”

She took his hand and guided it over her shoulder. Very faintly, he felt a slight rough texture of skin as her shoulder turned to the depth of her back. “Snatchers- in the forest of Dean.”

She motioned for him to run his hand down her ribcage, squirming slightly as he did so.

“Ticklish,” she explained, catching his curious look. “But feel those small burns from the Battle of Hogwarts? Bloody Finnegan and his flaming projectiles.”

Draco almost huffed a laugh at that but still stood frozen, trying to ignore the faint ember of hope burning in his chest.

Hermione ran his hand down her left forearm now, and he froze, knowing where this was going, any feeling of hope snuffing out instantly. The awful letters of that horrible word his aunt had carved into his skin were easily palpable. Despite not even looking at them, Draco could spell it out, the flesh feeling as red and rough as it was the day they were placed. She moved his hand to her throat, curling his fingers around it gently in an astonishing display of trust; he could feel another scar there, right over her left jugular.

“Bellatrix,” Hermione whispered, eyes not leaving him; he flinched at the name.

Her gaze turned slightly softer, and she placed her right hand into his left one, turning her thumb upwards.

“Tinned can of peaches, April 1986,” she told him seriously; Draco could see the faintest silver line on the meat of her thumb and snorted wetly.

Hermione looked pleased by the little reaction and coyly lifted a leg towards him, poking him in the side with her big toe. She reached for his hand and ran it up from her knee until he felt tiny marks of scarring over her right thigh.

“My grandparent’s dog bit me in our third year. A Yorkie, ” she told him solemnly. “My fiercest opponent yet.”

“Terrifying,” Draco said gravely, running a thumb over the soft skin there (the softest skin he had ever felt), watching pleased as she bit back a sigh at the feeling. “How did you ever recover.”

Hermione’s eyes had flickered closed during his exploration of her upper thigh, but she forced them back open at the silence that followed.

“You see, Draco,” she whispered. “These don’t matter anymore. What matters is that we survived. Despite everything we’ve been through, we’re here now when so many people aren’t. How lucky are we?”

She gazed at him fervently; Draco felt like he was burning up from the heat in her eyes. “We can’t change the past. We can’t undo what we went through, or the things we did. All we can do now is remember the lessons our scars teach us—good and bad.”

“As if your scars have taught you bad lessons,” Draco breathed quietly; Hermione pulled a face.

“I know not to lift a can lid with a fork. And not to trust small dogs.”

“Somehow, I think milder lessons than mine.” He chuckled darkly. “You don’t get it, Hermione- my scars aren’t just reminders of things done to me; they are also reminders of the things I’ve done.”

“Don’t let them be then,” Hermione said simply; he stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“Whenever you look at your scars,” she continued, “don’t let yourself think of the things you did, but remember how much you’ve changed, you’ve grown. Remember the man you are today, knowing he would’ve fought to prevent any of those marks now.”

“What if-” Draco could barely voice one of his deepest fears. “What if when you see them… you don’t want me anymore?”

Hermione snorted- a terribly unattractive sound that would’ve had him mocking her in any other situation.

“Do you think I’m any less perfect with mine?” She demanded, a familiar, challenging tone entering her question. Draco shook his head.

“No,” his voice cracked slightly. “You’re beautiful.” He paused again. “You’ve always been beautiful.”

“Why do you think then,” Hermione said steadily, gazing at him with increasing heat. “that I would feel any different?”

She didn’t try to disguise the look of pure want on her face as she trailed her eyes down his face; Draco swallowed heavily.

“Well, as loathe as I am to admit it, you’re probably cleverer than me.”

Hermione gave a peal of delighted laughter. “Seven years of trying to beat you in classes, and this is how you admit it?”

She saw the deep seriousness in his eyes and sobered quickly.

“I might not have wanted the boy you were when you received your scars, but I do want the man who bears them now. I know you, Draco. And I like the wizard I see now. I want the wizard I see now.”

“Okay,” he finally muttered, now feeling slightly better.

“Great. Glad we’re on the same page.” Hermione huffed with laughter. “If you’re going to kiss me again, please do it soon because my tits are getting cold, and you’re really overdressed. Your waistcoat is ridiculous, by the way.”

He might’ve made some indignant noise of protest, but it was quickly swallowed up in her mouth. His body leaned instinctively towards her like the tide being pulled by the moon; for the next while, all he could focus on was the heat of her underneath him and the increasingly desperate sound of his name on her lips.

The rest of his clothes were somehow shed. Draco paused again when he, too, stood bare before her. Hermione lay back on the desk, resting on her elbows, and stared at him appraisingly.

“My turn,” his voice was rough again, but this time with want, not worry. He picked her hand up, twining her fingers with his, and led them to gently trace the deep, puckered scarring that ran across his chest, oddly similar to her own.

“Potter’s Sectumsempra in sixth year,” he murmured, shivering as her nails ran across the thickest rope of tissue, then twisted slightly to let her see the wings of his shoulder blades, smirking slightly as the movement caused the muscles of his abdomen and back to flex, hearing Hermione’s sharp breath in at the sight. It was his turn to freeze when she placed a warm hand on the spiderweb of fine silver scars that ran there like cracked ice.

“Bellatrix’s Crucio,” he ran a gentle finger over her right breast as if he could feel the matching scar that would undoubtedly be on her back, too, knowing almost in dark amusement that both of them had received it not only from the same witch but also on the same floorboards of the Manor.

His breath caught in his chest as Hermione tugged his left arm over and placed a gentle kiss right over the skull of his Dark Mark.

“You’re very familiar with this one,” he rasped; Hermione nodded.

“But not this one.” She gently traced a series of tiny pockmarks over his left hipbone, and he jutted a sigh at the sensation of her fingers creeping lower.

“My..um..father’s peacock,” he said, now quite desperate. “They- um, fuck Hermione- attacked me. June 1984.”

“Didn’t realise they could be so vicious,” Hermione said sweetly, ignoring his groan of delight as she pulled him closer to her and nestled him against the heat of her core.

“The avian version of Yorkies, apparently,” he managed to force out, brain now frying short at the sensation of Hermione’s legs wrapped around him, her tongue mouthing the scars on his chest, and the taste of her skin sweet on his tongue.

And then he wasn’t thinking of much at all for a while. Too far gone in satisfaction to notice much except for the feeling of Hermione writhing on the desk below him, watching as he made her fall apart, first on his fingers, then under his mouth for good measure, the taste of her on his tongue tart like cherry wine. And then it was his turn to be swallowed up by scorching pleasure- she was so impossibly hot and tight as he moved inside her. When he shattered apart, his release hit him so hard it felt like a cosmic explosion, making him feel like he was made of the same starlight as his very namesake.

It wasn’t until much later, after Draco heaved himself up off the desk he had collapsed on top of (he had tried to move after, worried he was squishing her, but any attempts were met with disgruntled negative noises, and it felt too good to stay enveloped in Hermione that he didn’t want to sooner), that he noticed the trace amounts of clotting crimson that streaked their thighs. The smell of copper filled his nostrils, and his heart thumped heavily in his chest. The scent of her blood was so, so familiar, the sight of her splayed out below him still so haunting; he felt his veins turn to ice, and the room swayed slightly in streaks of black.

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice softly hit him, “Is everything alright?”

She caught his horrified gaze and blushed slightly, too. “Sorry. I probably should’ve warned you I might bleed.” Her voice turned determined. “But Ginny said virginity isn’t as big here as it is for Muggles, that it wouldn’t really matter.”

She blushed again, “Of course, I think she was thinking I was asking about Ron…I mean, there’s no way she thinks you and I-”

Her babbling cut off at the sight of his still-spooked face, and her look of concern grew stronger.

“Are you okay, Draco?”

“I’m fine,” he forced his cracking voice out, trying to pretend his hands weren’t shaking and that he wasn’t very close to vomiting at the smell of blood he could swear was clogging his nostrils.

Hermione shot him a dubious look and cleaned the evidence of the coupling away with a wave of her wand. She also transformed her dress into something easier to slip in and watched without a word as Draco meticulously redressed himself in his robes, offering her an arm out of the Restricted Section.

They left the library behind them and, arm-in-arm, walked back slowly to the Gryffindor common room.

“Are we…alright?” Hermione asked him quietly, breaking the twenty minutes of silence as they climbed the last few stairs to the tower, still pressed against his side. He nodded; the school was dead quiet. It was long gone midnight, likely closer to dawn, and the empty passages and great expanse of night outside the window made it feel like they were the only people in the world.

“We need to get some sleep,” she said decisively, still looking at him, uncertainty painted all over his face. “But maybe we should talk about…this before we leave for the train. Do you want to meet before breakfast? Back at the library?”

She cut herself off, and the first anxiousness strained her voice. “Did I ruin anything? Did I mess…this-” she waved between the two of them, “up?”

“No!” He grasped her chin to look her in the eyes, wanting her to understand how serious he was. “No, you didn’t ruin anything at all.”

He paused. “I had such a good time; thank you, Hermione.” He hoped she could read deeper into it and see that he wasn’t just talking about the night they’d just shared.

He hesitated, unsure whether he should share it, but he wanted her to know, needed her to know. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

A beaming smile lit her face at the truth in his words, the beauty of it almost making him speechless again. He couldn’t help it- he grabbed her arms and pulled her in for another deep, desperate kiss, doing his best to try to memorise the taste of her mouth and the shape of her in his arms. When he let her go, he almost laughed at her unsteadiness and gently pushed her toward the Fat Lady.

“Tomorrow, um- later today, I guess. How about at seven?” she called out, turning to look back at him. “Meet me at our table!”

He watched her vanish through the portrait entrance, backlit by the golden light from the flaming torches and turned to make the long trip back down to the dungeons, thoughts whirling.

What the hells had he been thinking, allowing himself to taste the possibility of a chance with Hermione? Merlin, not even her friends thought they could ever be together. And not to mention their society- enough blood purists still lurked out there that a Muggle-born with a Sacred Twenty-Eight Heir would make her a massive target, let alone Britain’s most famous Muggle-born who was directly involved in getting rid of the Dark Lord. And what would her side of society say should she choose him? The youngest-ever Death Eater falling for the Golden Girl. Pitiful and wholly unbelievable. To be by his side was suicide, idealistic foolishness. For both their sakes, he couldn’t let it happen.

And so, before the sun had barely even tinged the tips of the Astronomy Tower, Draco Malfoy was long gone from Hogwarts, Scotland far behind him. First Italy, with Blaise’s stoic company as he mourned the life he could’ve had- couldn’t dare to let himself have. Then Khartoum, with its spiced heat, shouting vendors, and sandalwood breeze wafting over the White Nile, felt like a different planet. A chance to reinvent himself and pretend to be the man Hermione was convinced he truly was.

The dust of Sudan swirled into a sandstorm of Time Magic that pulled Draco back into his body deep underground by the Source, gasping as he wrenched his head up out of the ancient stone basin. Flashes of everything he’d just seen danced in front of his eyes by the thousands; his body felt sluggish and syrupy, like the time he’d been foolish enough to smoke some suspicious Magical plant at a temple deep in Jakarta. He leant over the stone basin with a hiss, eyes fluttering, as his brain tried to process everything he’d just re-experienced, relived in exquisite detail.

Everything felt so recent—the despair of Azkaban, the peace of the Hogwarts library, the agonising sweetness of Hermione enveloping him, the sound of her voice crying out his name. As much as he tried to tell himself it was nearly a decade ago, his mind hummed with disorienting memories that made it feel like it had all just happened. His body instinctively turned to Granger as she woke up beside him with a startled shout.

“What the fuck was that!” Her face was pale, but her eyes, unable to meet his, made him think she’d re-lived similar memories from her own point of view, too; all he could do was shake his head.

“I don’t know why it would show us…all of that.”

A deep, booming laugh shook the room, shaking the floor, and Draco had his wand out instantly. The great statue above them now looked alive, its eyes illuminated by shining blue magic, its face flicking through thousands of visages as it spoke in a genderless voice.

“You have now seen what was and is, Magic Ones. But can you make peace with it all to face what may be?”

“What do you mean?” Draco shouted; the statue didn’t reply.

In a fit of fury, he cast a vicious Blasting Curse at the statue’s face, but it simply bounced right off; the booming laughter shook the air around them again.

“What do you mean!”

Behind him, Granger remained silent, watching him cast futile curse after curse on the stone. A few minutes later, she stepped in to tug his wand down.

“Leave it, Malfoy.” She snapped, “We’re not getting any more answers. Let’s go fill Kingsley in.”

She pointed to the stone passage they had entered from, and Draco prepared himself to do the whole trip- again. Granger didn’t say a single word to him on the long slog back, but from the way a deep blush tinged her ears, the not-so-covert glances she shot at him when she didn’t think he was watching, and the furious set to her lips, she would have plenty to say when they were back to her office, leaving whatever the hells this place was long behind them.

He walked behind her until they eventually popped back into the now-empty Seer’s office, mentally rehearsing his arguments against the Hurricane Granger, which was surely heading his way as he tried to ignore the creeping doom about their world’s possible future. There was a reckoning coming- for him and the magical world both, he knew, and it was about time he faced it.

Chapter Text

The trip out of the Seers’ Department was conducted in long, frosty silence. Malfoy, displaying an excellent level of Slytherin self-preservation, noted her fuming expression and tense shoulders and wisely didn’t say a word, likely knowing any peep from him would’ve resulted in being whacked by some creatively nasty jinx. He looked mightly relieved when they exited the Hall of Time and arrived back into the Room of Doors, but his respite was short-lived when, without a word, Hermione pulled him through the door closest to her (the Brain Room corridor) and into the broom cupboard she knew was by the entrance, slamming the door behind her and throwing up a quick privacy charm.

Malfoy stared at her disbelievingly as they crammed into the small space, the top of his platinum white hair brushing the dusty ceiling as Hermione turned to face him, trying not to trip over a mop. With the broom cupboard door closed, they were plunged into almost complete darkness. Hermione lit the space with a string of bluebell flames that tinged his pale skin, making him seem nearly ethereal.

“What is it, Granger?” he asked in a terrible show of unaffected nonchalance. Hermione saw through it immediately- she knew he knew exactly what was coming. Good—they were way overdue to talk about it- to talk about that year that still haunted her like a ghost. How insufferable that Malfoy didn’t seem bothered by it at all. How easily he had left it all behind him- had left her behind.

“You left me.” She hissed, trying to disguise the crack that ran through her voice. “You left.”

She didn’t need to continue further; a flash of guilt flickered over Malfoy’s face before his expression turned resolute.

“I didn’t plan on it- I had no other choice!” He shot back; she bristled indignantly.

“Well, what did you plan, then?” She couldn’t help the very Malfoy-esque sneer in her voice. “Pretended to be my friend for the year, make yourself more… palatable for the public. And then leave at the end of it without a word. Cooked that up in Azkaban, did you? Shameless- even for a Malfoy.”

“No!” Malfoy’s exclamation sounded punched out. “No.” He repeated in a calmer tone. “Granger, I never pretended anything…I really was your friend. I…honestly did like you. But-”

She gave an almost maniacal cackle of laughter. “But what? Go on. I am dying to hear this.”

The flames lighting the cupboard burned hotter and hotter as her fury rose, matching the flare in Malfoy’s eyes and making them look like quicksilver.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he pleaded; she gave a disbelieving scoff. “I didn’t! It’s just… I panicked, alright. In the library, after the ball.”

The memory of their shared night had the breath catch in her lungs and her hands burning to touch his skin- to strangle him or caress him, she couldn’t quite tell. No matter how much she reminded her body that it had been years since their time in the library, years since the passionate culmination of their year-long friendship with its slowly smouldering sparks, she couldn’t stop the way she was almost instinctively curving towards him, even as scalding anger tore through her. The Source had brought all of those carefully repressed memories back- the feeling of his body against hers in exquisite detail, the sound of her name on his lips, the look on his face when he came. Malfoy almost seemed to be leaning closer, too, but then his grey eyes flickered hard, and he sharply pulled himself away.

“What. About. That. Night?” She ground out, and Malfoy looked at her despairingly.

“You, um, bled. And I couldn’t…” He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the last time I’d seen your blood.”

A heavy silence fell over them both in the cupboard; Hermione’s arm throbbed.

“And?” She asked coldly.

“And it made me remember who you wanted to be with.” Malfoy finally muttered. “And I realised…”

“What?” Her tone was closer to a snarl now. “What did you realise?”

“I realised,” he spat back, tone still tense, “that there was no place for me by your side. And that there never could be. So I thought it might be easier- a quick break. Less painful. For us both.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hermione all but shrieked, feeling the bluebell flames grew bigger in response to her fury. “What was your logic behind that decision?”

“I would’ve damned you!” Malfoy shouted suddenly, almost shocking her into silence. “There could never have been anything between us, not friendship, and certainly not-” He made a choking noise but forced himself to finish. “-anything more than that. You would’ve been ruined by any association with me!”

He broke off panting, and she stared at him frostily, silently daring him to continue.

“Remember you would always speak about your dreams of changing our society?” He finally said almost sardonically. “All those grand plans of yours? Well, you wouldn’t have been welcome anywhere with me by your side. The Golden Girl and the Death Eater? Be realistic.”

A lightning bolt of fury and hurt seared through her.

“That wasn’t your call to make!” She screamed back. “Who the fuck do you think you are to make decisions for me? Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way, Malfoy?”

The tension thrumming in the air intensified in the heavy silence that followed her outburst.

“I didn’t say anything because one word from you would’ve convinced me to stay. And I couldn’t do that to you.” Malfoy looked at her despairingly, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “I would’ve dragged you down with me.”

She immediately knew from the look in his eyes that he was telling the truth. Years’ worth of seething anxiety and hurt- nasty, toxic thoughts whispering that he had manipulated her for an entire year, had made her a fool for a year slowly started to ease, but she still couldn’t help the way her cheeks flushed in mortification.

“That was my…first time, and you ruined it. Do you know how humiliating it was to realise you had run away? How might that make me feel about myself? I spent days looking for you. I thought you had been hurt, Malfoy. I thought one of the many people gunning after you had caught you- had killed you! I only knew you weren’t dead because some Auror from immigration did a favour for Harry and found a record of you Flooing the country and your arrival in Italy! And then the next time I saw you, you were engaged!”

Malfoy cringed at that.

“I hope I didn’t ruin any… erm, intimacy for you long-term,” Malfoy muttered apologetically. She gave an unladylike snort, still seething.

“Don’t give yourself that much credit. I’ve had better since.”

He looked indignantly irked now, all melancholy forgotten. “What?”

Hermione felt a flash of malicious delight at the look of insulted male pride on his face. “It’s not important.” She put her hands on her hips and nodded decisively. “Right. I want you to apologise to me now.”

He gawked at her. “What?”

She rather enjoyed seeing him so on the spot- Malfoy was usually much more eloquent than this; she seemed to have thrown his normally sharp mind off kilter.

“I want you to apologise.” She told him firmly. “It’s the least you can do. You might’ve been coming from a more… positive place than I’d thought, but it was still a terrible decision. You owe me an apology.”

Malfoy had a stubborn look on his face that instantly made her wary. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you forgive me anyway, Granger?” He continued warily, eying the bluebell flames that had started to rage around them menacingly, now looking more like beacon flares than little tealights.

“Of course not!” She snarled, and Malfoy nodded.

“And as far as I’m concerned, I made the right call by leaving; even with hindsight, I wouldn’t have done it differently. You and I could never have happened; one of us needed to be honest enough to admit that. And we've not even touched on the apology you owe me...”

The look of shock on Malfoy’s face as her balled fist collided with his nose was delightful, and the loud thunk his head made as the force of her punch sent the back of his skull colliding with the cupboard wall behind him was equally satisfying.

“You presumptuous…infuriating….unconscionable…arse!” Hermione screamed, hitting his arm with each word. Stunned at such a display of venomous fury, Malfoy had little defence and shrunk back, gaping at her like a gormless frog.

She shoved a hand down her sleeves for her wand. Eyes widening in panic, Malfoy rushed to stop her, and they scuffled in the cupboard for a few heartbeats, knocking all sorts of cleaning equipment over with rattles and crashes. Hermione tried to summon her wand into her grasp, and Malfoy (understanding how bad it might be for him should she succeed) did his best to stop her, muffled swears falling from his lips as easily as the blood that dripped onto the floor around them. Eventually, his considerably greater strength (damn the Curse-breaking profession for requiring such physicality) outweighed her feral determination, and grabbing a handful of her robes, he wrenched her away from him, grabbed a broom, and pointed it at her like a sword.

“I think you broke my nose!” He howled, one hand flying up to pinch the bridge. She scrutinised his face- it did look it. The bridge ran slightly skew, and the start of a thin blood trail was dribbling out.

She gave him a vicious grin of satisfaction. “Good. It’s the least you deserve.”

Malfoy made some incoherent noise of fury noise, muffled by his hand still covering his nose. “Heal it, Granger. Merlin’s sake-”

“Heal it yourself,” she told him unsympathetically, knowing he likely couldn’t set it straight without a mirror. A risk the vain wizard might not be willing to take; she remembered him being absurdly proud of his pointy nose, after all.

“Fix my nose, Granger.” he spat at her, glowering. “It frames my face, and you know I can’t heal it properly!”

The tip of Hermione’s wand was in the hollow of his throat in a split second; she watched his Adam’s apple bob nervously.

“Ask. Me. Nicely.” She hissed out through gritted teeth.

Malfoy’s voice changed sickly-sweet. “Won’t you please fix my nose you broke- again, Granger? You fucking lunatic.”

She gave him an insincere smile, pointed her wand right between his eyes, a thrill running through her as he took an involuntary step backwards, and gave a sharp “Episkey.”

Malfoy’s nose set itself with an audible crunch that might’ve made her grimace in sympathy if she weren’t so furious. Without a word, he sent her a woebegone look and ran a careful hand over it, feeling the exact shape she had fixed it to. They stood in fuming silence for two minutes before he finally relented and broke it.

“So what does this mean going forward?” He asked, wiping away some of the blood crusting his chin.

“What do you mean?” Hermione snapped, stowing her wand away; Malfoy shot her a pointed look, following the movement of her wand back down her sleeve very cautiously.

“Do you think you can continue to work with me, Granger?” He asked plainly. “Be honest. You heard what the Source said- to face the future, we must make peace with what was and is. I think it’s not just about making peace with ourselves, but each other, too.”

Hermione sighed. Malfoy was right, and she knew it. Fuck! She hated it when he did that.

“But if you can’t do that,” Malfoy continued, “I can’t see how we can work together properly and successfully change the future we face. In that case, I’d rather we be honest, go to Kingsley, fill him in on everything we’ve learned and ask for Warsame and Murray to take over the assignment together. Let them try again.” He grimaced. “And we just hope to Salazar that Kingsley is reasonable and understanding enough not to chuck us back in Azkaban.”

They both knew that was pretty unlikely- Kingsley didn’t have the reputation as the toughest Minister of Wizarding Britain in living memory because he was innately mellow and forgiving.

“Are you saying we should just pretend our past didn't happen?” Hermione asked viciously. 

Malfoy looked like he was choosing his next words very carefully, with a diplomatic grace Hermione was sure he had learned from his mother.

“Look, I don’t think we should ignore our past." He muttered. "For what it’s worth, I regret hurting you- I really do. But maybe it’s time-” he broke off and tried again, “maybe it’s time putting it aside, for now.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Hermione hissed, stepping closer to him. “You left me, remember?” She scowled. “And, unlike you, apparently, pretending nothing happened isn’t as easy for me.” A lance of hurt shot through her, and she shot Malfoy a nasty look. “Was leaving just as easy for you, too?”

He jerked straight and shot her a furious glower. “You have no idea how hard leaving you was,” he hissed.

Hermione didn’t know how to respond to that. “I can’t take you seriously with blood on your face,” she finally said sulkily. “And your nose didn’t heal straight.”

Malfoy ran a panicked finger over his face. “You still smell like goat,” he shot back, “Terego.” The last of the crusted blood siphoned away.

Hermione gazed back at him in stony silence, and he grimaced.

“I’m…tired of carrying so much weight around with me. And making peace with myself is something I want to do- and for the first time, I’m starting to think I can do it." Malfoy muttered sullenly, almost looking desperate for her to punch him again, to show any sign she was an active participant in this conversation. "I’m not saying we pretend our past didn’t happen, but maybe we can put it aside, for now, until we’ve figured out how to prevent the future. And then, once everything's a little more...under control, we can have a proper chat. I’m sure we both have things we want to get off our chests.”

Hermione mulled on that, and Malfoy looked significantly more relieved that she didn’t look as close to hexing him as earlier.

“So we leave it for another day?” She asked suspiciously. “And you think we could still successfully continue to work together?”

Malfoy looked at her, grey eyes deadly serious. “I mean it when I say I think you and I could figure this out—in fact, we might be the only ones who could.” Hermione again chose not to respond, just gazed at him wordlessly. He tried again.

“I mean it.” He swallowed, finally relenting. “And...I am sorry, by the way.”

“For what?” She asked coldly. “For what this time?”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” he finally muttered. “I still think my leaving was a sensible decision, but I’m so sorry it caused you pain. I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved since Hogwarts, how our careers have pitted us against each other-”

He cut off and tried again: “You heard the Source. All paths but one lead to the future we just saw—I’d like to try and change it with you. You saw what it looked like, what we face, what my son faces. Forget Azkaban; for Scorp’s sake, I want to try to help stop it. I understand, however, if you don’t think you can work with me further.”

Hermione looked at him assessingly, face stony. Since the war Malfoy had never come close to the chatty child he’d once been, this was the most she’d heard him speak in one go for a very long time. And he was good, she had to admit- his pretty speech oozed with the eloquent persuasion of someone who’d grown up in the upper echelons of political society. And it worked- her firey temper was dulled somewhat by his logic and his reasonable tone. Damn.

Seeing the unreadable look on her face, Malfoy sighed. “I’ll wait outside in the corridor. Think about if you want to continue working with me, or if you wish to speak to Kingsley about reassignment. I’ll support you either way. And if you choose not to, you’re welcome to head back to your office, we can pretend this whole conversation never happened and I’ll deal with the Minister- my family probably still has enough political leverage to stop him from following through on his threat if we play our cards right, or at least has the skills to hide us somewhere safe until this all blows over. And then after that you can choose never to see me again if you don’t want to.”

Malfoy’s silver eyes caught her solemnly. “But that would mean giving up on this investigation. And if there’s one thing I’ve always admired about you- it’s that you’ve never once given up on anything.”

He slipped from the broom cupboard, the door clicking shut quietly behind him, and Hermione’s blue lights blinked out, leaving her in complete darkness, in steaming silence. She took a deep breath, shot up a quick Silencing Charm and released it all in a scream that seemed to shake the walls but made her feel oddly lighter.

She met Malfoy in the hall outside a few minutes later, and as much as he tried to disguise it, she could easily read the anxious curiosity splashed over his face.

“I haven’t made my mind up yet” Hermione warned him, “I want to figure out exactly what’s happening before I make that call.” She shot him a bit of a sneer. “Still planning on that Imperius?”

Malfoy had the grace to look a terribly ashamed, but didn’t say a word, and just followed her out of the Brain Room corridor in silence. they returned to the Room of Doors. Much to Hermione’s annoyed surprise when they, she noticed someone had gone and marked the doors with identifying symbols, completely ignoring their stringent security requirements. Some hopeless undergrad, she reckoned, fed up with being lost in the winding mazes of the Department of Mysteries.

Irritated, she tried to remove them with a powerful Erasing Charm, but much to her displeasure, they didn’t budge; she tried again, her hair nearly sparking in frustration when nothing happened- what the fuck had the students done? In an irritating show of consideration, Malfoy had to step in and very graciously undid the charm, using some Amharic spellwork she wasn’t quite familiar with. The glowing symbols faded, turning almost chalk-like, and she smudged the one next to her away quite easily.

“Thanks.” Her muttered appreciation was rather ungracious. “Bloody interns. They know the rules.”

“It’s quite all right, Granger,” he said long-sufferingly, “it was painful watching you struggle.”

She gritted her teeth and ignored him; Malfoy reared to a stop as she reached for the door leading to the wing of offices.

“No, forget it.” He hissed. “I’m not going back to your office. I’ve spent enough time here today on this horrible level.” He nodded decisively. “Let’s order lunch and brainstorm on my floor for a change.”

“But-” Hermione tried to protest, but Malfoy scowled at her immediately.

“You’ve got all the papers you need in your briefcase, and you can also check on Teddy.” He sniffed. “Assuming the Weasel has resurfaced from Fortescue’s.”

Hermione, ignoring his jab at Ron, couldn’t argue with his logic and grudgingly nodded. She spat out a sharp “Accio!” and summoned her tartan briefcase. It shot from her office and burst through the door; she grabbed it mid-air and slung it under her arm.

“Shall we?” Malfoy gestured towards the wrought-iron lifts, and Hermione nodded. Absent-mindedly, he ran a hand over one of the closest doors marked off with a fading leaf-like symbol.

“No!” She snatched his hand away. “Don’t touch-”

Irritatingly, Malfoy adopted a baiting look of petulance on his face, which made him strongly resemble Teddy, and rapped sharply on the door three times.

“You idiot-”

She sent a Shocking Hex his way, satisfied when it hit its target and fizzled over the back of his hand.

“Ouch! Granger-” Malfoys indignant protest was abruptly interrupted by a slithery rumbling noise coming from the other side of the door, and Hermione darted to the side as a mass of writhing vines burst from the door. They enveloped Malfoy, who flailed wildly, wand clattering to the floor, and dragged him slowly by his ankles through the open doorway to the greenhouses. She thought she could faintly hear Malfoy making some noises of protest, but they were muffled against the weight of plants. She saw faint flashes of wandless magic, impressive but ineffective- very few spells could penetrate the plants’ thick bark.

She sighed- he should’ve listened to her. She thought the plants might be a bit jumpy with Sirius’s return. They were very sensitive to any changes in the Department, and right now, like her, all the Unspeakables were probably on high alert, giving off all sorts of stress signals the greenhouse residents were probably picking up.

Malfoy’s garbled cries were becoming annoying, and she figured he’d probably learnt his lesson, so with a custom-made Release Charm, she forced the lianas to untangle themselves off Malfoy and dump him back on the tiled floors.

“Get back,” she told them sharply. “Go on, go back home.” She kicked away one tendril that had started sneakily creeping towards her, and the plants pulled back sulkily and retreated.

She looked down at Malfoy and grimaced. He looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards, with hair in disarray and bits of leaves littering his clothing.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Those are the hybrid Tentaculas. They’re going through a teenage phase at the moment. Neville’s propagating them- don’t even think about it!”

The vines, trying to creep forward again, slunk away like scolded puppies; Malfoy swatted Hermione’s helping hand and caught his breath, still slumped on the floor.

“When we get out of here,” He wheezed, “I’m reporting your whole damn Department to Health and Safety.”

“I warned you,” she reminded him, tone lofty, and laughed at how dishevelled he looked, much to his increasing outrage. “My Department isn’t one you want to go snooping around in.”

Malfoy had nothing to say and shot the doors one more disdainful look, then swept away towards the lifts.

They took it up to the higher levels in awkward silence, Hermione squirming as Malfoy loomed beside her in the small space, his closeness sharply bringing up the memories the Source had slyly shown her. She replayed their recent conversation in her head in a futile attempt to quash the awareness that hummed through her body at his involuntary closeness in the lift— trying to remind herself that there was nothing she hated more than a man making a decision for her.

She imagined the Time Magic had probably shown Malfoy similar memories, too, if his flushed cheeks were any indication; the sheer presence of his bulk next to her had her body remembering everything about their last night together. An unwilling coil of heat curled in her belly. Damn him for that seventh-year growth spurt; he had been a lot less appealing as a skinny, scrawny teenager who’d spent most of his time plotting to kill her and her friends. Murder (generally) tended to put a damper on any sense of attraction she might've felt.

“Ants in your pants, Granger?” He snapped at her as she tapped her fingers impatiently on her thigh. “Can you not fidget? It’s terribly uncouth.”

“Forgive me for not attending posh prat classes,” she hissed back. “Are you not bothered by anything we were shown?”

At the reminder of their peculiar morning, the tips of Malfoy’s cheeks burned hotter, but he kept his face as impassive as ever. She scowled back at him, annoyed by his indifference.

“Those images of our possible future are disturbing indeed,” he finally muttered. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“That’s not what I’m talking about- and you know it.”

Malfoy’s cheeks were now cherry red.

“Well, I think it’s of more pressing concern,” he said loftily. “Maybe we should focus on the things we can change.”

The lift ride to Level Two seemed to take forever. Hermione darted gratefully out of the doors when they sprung open and marched to Ron’s office to check on Teddy, bursting through the office with a bang. Deep in his book, Teddy jumped out of his skin and gazed at her curiously over the pages, his hair still a riot of silvery curls.

“Hi, Mione.” He said cautiously. “Uncle Ron’s just gone to the toilet.” He leaned forward and made a face. “Why do you smell like a farm?”

“How was the ice cream?” Hermione checked him over and waved a quick Refreshing Charm over herself, grimacing slightly. Teddy seemed to be in one piece, so far, so good; maybe taking him to work wasn’t the nightmare she had anticipated. Teddy’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“We haven’t left yet, we just got up here.”

Hermione paused. “What?”

The office door swung open behind her. Ron and Malfoy stood stuck on the other side, locked in some weird stalemate about who entered the room last, gesturing at each other with increasingly annoyed waves.

She swung to face them, and they both took identical steps back at whatever the look on her face was.

“How long ago did you leave us?” She demanded. Ron looked terrified at the question as if it were too suspiciously easy.

“Um, I dunno… maybe, what, fifteen minutes?”

She cast a quick Tempus- 13:26, November 1st 2007. Christ, Ron was right; hardly any time had passed since they’d left her office to visit the Seers. She’d heard things could work a little differently down in the Hall of Time but hadn’t expected that- how unnerving.

Malfoy noticed the displayed spell and started slightly, too. The after-effects of the Time Magic probably also made him feel like they had spent years together. What a long Thursday already! It was bizarre to think Samhain had only been yesterday, that their forced dance had only been a few hours ago.

She cleared her mind and refocused. “Are you still okay with watching Teddy for the rest of the day? Malfoy and I need to speak to Kinglsey.”

“Sure,” Ron said, eyes darting between them. “Dunno if he’s available now; Robards was talking about meeting with him about the missing persons’ cases.”

“Still not solved any?” Malfoy cut in.

“Nah,” Ron said, finally giving in and sidling past Malfoy, like one would an unpredictable feral cat, back into his office. “And four more missing persons reported this morning after leaving for work. That’s twenty-two so far.”

Hermione made a mental note to request those case files and add them to the other eighteen likely already boxed up in her office. Twenty-two people didn’t go missing without some pattern; there had to be a loose thread she could pull somewhere.

Ron eyed her uncertainly. “I’ll leave you two to do-” he waved his hands wildly between her and Malfoy, “-whatever this is. I’ll drop Teddy by your office at five?”

Hermione nodded. Malfoy made some weird farewell gesture to Ron and Teddy, and she followed him as he marched out of Ron’s office, turning right at the Auror bullpen and down the corridor to the temporary Curse-breakers’ wing. He stopped outside a hastily conjured desk where a young witch was sitting, going through some schedule for the week.

“Good afternoon, Audrey,” Malfoy said smoothly.

“Afternoon, Mr Malfoy,” the witch murmured, nervously darting her eyes to Hermione. She recognised her as the witch who had brought them tea once; Malfoy made no effort to introduce them.

“Do you mind rescheduling my afternoon meetings? Date to be confirmed. I’ve got some urgent business to attend today that takes priority.”

The secretary, Audrey, nodded and scratched something on a waiting notepad.

“Midgeon and Fawlks are scheduled to be released from St Mungo’s later today,” she reminded Malfoy. “I thought we could do something nice to celebrate their return. A card and flowers.”

Malfoy nodded. “Good idea. Sign it on my behalf, won’t you?”

Hermione tried not to roll her eyes at his lack of workplace camaraderie. Unfortunately, Malfoy saw the disdain on her face and shot her a sneer.

“And the big boss?” he asked, returning his attention to the secretary. He peered around her desk to the office closest to the left, Professor Warsame’s, she assumed.

“On a Floo call with some Breakers in Kuala Lumpur. Unavailable until four.”

Malfoy passed a little folded memo over to her. “Can you contact the Minister’s PA and request a meeting at his earliest convenience? He’ll know it’s important.”

The witch nodded, still scratching some notes down.

“Thanks, Audrey.”

Malfoy turned to look at her, looking as unenthusiastic to have her in his workspace as she did whenever she found one of Crookshanks’ hairballs in the living room.

“I suppose you’ll want something to eat,” he said as if she was the only living witch on earth with nutritional requirements.

“No thanks.” She told him coolly but was betrayed by the loud grumble of her empty stomach at the mention of food. She flushed slightly, but luckily, Malfoy didn’t call her out on the lie.

Without a word, he turned back to the receptionist. “We’ll send an order to some restaurants in Diagon Alley. Would you mind sending our food to my office when it arrives?”

Audry bobbed her head, shooting Hermione a subtle look of interest. Her eyes lingered over Hermione’s midnight-blue Unspeakable robes, but she said nothing more.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said magnanimously and strode to his office, leaving Hermione standing awkwardly in the corridor. She nodded to Audrey (who gave no response, still making her feel like she was being criminally profiled) and followed, trying not to look like she was running after him like a lost duckling.

They put in their lunch orders in resentful silence. Malfoy ordered a ridiculous sushi platter from a (very exclusive) Japanese restaurant off Diagon Alley. Hermione didn’t fancy fish, so she settled for a Caesar salad from the Leaky Cauldron. They ate their respective meals with sullen, forced conversation that trailed off after Malfoy inhaled some wasabi and had a coughing fit. She made no attempt to help him.

“Alright, Granger,” Malfoy steepled his fingers and looked intently at her over his desk. “It’s time to fill me in about Ancient Magic.”

She nodded; no point being coy about it now. Malfoy already knew way too much: in for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. And if the visions of the future were any indication, they needed to be on the same page from now on to prevent those awful possibilities that faced them.

“Fine.” She agreed. Malfoy grabbed a quill and notebook, delicately dipped the nib in some waiting ink, and looked at her expectantly.

“You know that Ancient Magic exists- that it is the foundations that all branches of modern magic are built on,” she started, Malfoy’s quill already scribbling furiously. “And that we study the different branches on my level.”

Malfoy made a face at the mention of the Department of Mysteries but wisely chose not to say a word.

“You mentioned the Ministry pushed to keep it secret a while ago,” he added, “and said that some people could be born with a natural ability to wield it- I’ll be asking you questions about that later. But we got interrupted before you could explain what the different branches were. Understanding that is a priority, I think.”

She nodded. God, it would be great if she could have her whiteboard now. She would kill to make a flowchart for this.

“Throughout history, Ancient Magic has been the primitive, primaeval forms of magic, whose use gradually got replaced as new forms were created or discovered.” She started off, feeling slightly like she was presenting some remedial Charms work to her sixth-year tutoring sessions at Hogwarts. Malfoy, however, showed more interest in what she was saying than any student ever had.

“And over time, much of our knowledge of it has been lost- deemed outdated or boring.” She continued, “and the ancient magical users probably thought it would be around forever, so we have very few surviving accounts from history to guide us on how to use it. It was everyday magic for them- unthinkable that it would be lost so quickly. And it was- so much fundamental knowledge just vanished from the world within a few generations.”

“Just like Punt,” Malfoy murmured, still writing things down.

“Sorry?” She said, puzzled. “Who’s Punt?”

“The lost city of Punt,” he explained, finally looking up. “one of ancient Egypt’s biggest trading partners. We know so much about them- just not where they were, probably because their location was common knowledge at the time. If any detailed descriptions were ever written, none survived, so we don’t know something that would’ve been such basic information for them now.”

Hermione paused; she had forgotten he had studied in Khartoum and had spent plenty of time in Egypt as a student. Malfoy saw the look of surprise on her face and grinned cockily.

“Forgot I spent years studying under the African sun, did you?” He said goadingly. “It feels quite good knowing something you don’t.”

“You don’t look like you spent years under any sun.” She retorted, eying his almost blindingly pale skin pointedly. “More like Svalbard than Sudan.”

He scowled, mildly insulted. “Insufferable witch.”

“Pasty prat,” she muttered vehemently. Malfoy waved his quill at her to continue.

“Continue, Granger.” At her scowl, he quickly added. “Please?”

She sighed and continued with her lecture.

“There are seven branches-” she informed him, watching as he scribbled notes in avid interest.

“A powerful number,” he added, and she hummed in agreement.

“The first is my branch- Love Magic. I like to think it’s the most powerful; it’s definitely the least understood. My research…pertains to this field.”

Malfoy arched a brow. “And your research would be?”

She snorted. “Nice try. I’m very sure it isn’t relevant to the investigation. Therefore, I’m not telling.”

Malfoy’s expression turned taunting, matching her very childish words. “But Kingsley said co-operation, remember? I think I should know.”

“Alright then.” She leaned over to look at Malfoy, who had stopped writing in shock and slight suspicion at her easy agreement. “But I could say the same for yours?” She looked at him challengingly. “Who’s to say your research won’t pertain to the investigation? I might decide it is.” She grinned at him, as sharp as a cat. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

They both knew it was a bluff, but seeing no way out, Malfoy eventually shook his head.

“Never mind,” he finally muttered; Hermione shot him a sickly sweet smile.

“I guess we’ll have to trust each other to be honest if it seems relevant,” she added, “like Kings suggested.”

Malfoy knew he had no other argument and grudgingly nodded. She rather liked holding his own research hostage; it would be much more enjoyable in December after she presented and he was still busy finishing up his work- he would be forced to tell her then.

“Right. Love Magic.” She cleared her throat and summoned a glass of water. “We know so little about it still- besides Love Potions, which are a vague offshoot, but most of what we do know is about Sacrificial Magic.”

“Sacrificial Magic?” Malfoy repeated, looking curious.

“To be given the option to live but to choose death in order to protect others bestows a powerful protection on them,” Hermione explained, fidgeting slightly. “We’ve got two recent…sources to reference to. Sacrificial Magic was only a theory before.”

“Sources?” Malfoy flipped to a new blank page.

“Erm…Lily Potter. The witch I mentioned. Harry’s mum. Voldemort gave her the option of standing aside when he came to Godric’s Hollow, but she refused. So when he killed her, the Sacrificial Magic her death invoked was so powerful it was able to protect Harry from the most powerful of magics- even against the Killing Curse. That’s how he could survive it- and how Voldemort was defeated the first time around- his curse on Harry rebounded.”

“And the second,” Malfoy’s voice was neutral.

“Harry himself. When he met Voldemort in the forest on the night of the battle, he allowed Voldemort to hit him with another killing curse in exchange for protecting everyone in Hogwarts. He thought that would destroy the Horcrux Voldemort accidentally transferred to him when he died trying to kill Harry. Harry was right- it did, but we didn’t know at the time it would also grant minor protection to the people Harry was trying to protect- the DA and all the students in the castle; that’s why some of Voldemort’s spells wouldn’t hold for long at the end.”

Malfoy was silent for a long while; Hermione noticed he’d stopped writing things down.

“Horcrux?” He finally croaked. “He made a Horcrux? Potter had it in him?”

“He made seven,” Hermione told him; Malfoy turned slightly green. “Oh, so you do know about them then.”

“Only a little”, Malfoy admitted, still looking disgusted. Hermione smiled, pleased. That made things much easier.

“Of course, not many people know that,” she rushed to add. “Harry gave out some details at your mum’s trial, but I think he’d like to keep most of it quiet- if you don’t mind. Besides, let's keep all our theories to ourselves until we figure out what’s happening.”

Malfoy nodded weakly, and Hermione continued on.

“And that brings us to the next branch- Soul Magic.”

The wizard across her perked up at the nugget of new information and reached for his notes again.

“Soul Magic is the study of the anima magia- our innate magic of being. These branches of magic are more…cerebral. Slightly more understood than my field. Some Unspeakables study dementors; our general consensus is that they are physical manifestations of Soul Magic—patronuses, too- that’s why they are effective against them. Ghosts fall under the umbrella of Soul Magic. Horcruxes as well, but research into those was banned almost right after they were created by Herpo the Foul.”

She peeked over at Malfoy to see if he was following. He looked like he was, which was good. Hermione wasn’t a fan of Soul Magic, personally. It was too vague for her liking, and all the Unspeakables she’d met who specialised in it were just plain weird.

“Occlumency and Legilimency are thought to be traced from Soul Magic. We study those in the Brain Room in the Department.”

Malfoy nodded, and she paused.

“You asked me about that Pictish woman-”

“Ah yes,” he drawled. “The one you pretend not to have any theories about.”

She gritted her teeth and continued; he wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve been thinking. I don’t think she was a ghost.”

“Yes, you did mention that.” Malfoy’s reply was tart.

“I think she might’ve been…a remnant.”

Malfoy started at her, one eyebrow raised. “A remnant of a soul? Is that a thing?”

She hummed, unsure. “I think so. When Harry was in the forest the night of the battle, he used the Resurrection Stone to speak to his parents.

“The Resurrection Stone?” Malfoy squawked, looking up from his notes in shock; she ignored him.

“Except from what he described, it wasn’t them- not fully. They were there but not quite living. And in the tale of the Three Brothers-”

Malfoy’s face turned thoughtful as he started to see where she was going.

“The second brother bought back his dead love but killed himself after she faded in the mortal world.” He finished for her. “So you think the witch might’ve been a remnant too?”

Hermione nodded. “I think the Resurrection Stone allowed the user to wield Soul Magic. It’s the only relic I’ve read about that could do that, so I don’t have anything else to compare it to, but it’s the best theory I’ve got.”

Hermione let him sit in silence for a bit. Thanks to their year together she knew it had taken Malfoy time to process that not only did the Deathly Hallows exist, but he’d also been the Master of one for a short time (albeit unknowingly). But besides Ron and Harry, no one knew of the Stone or Cloak’s presence in the war.

Malfoy huffed a long sigh out of both nostrils. “Breezing over the fact that Potter used one of the most well-known magical objects in our folklore- or that I didn’t even know it really existed, that does make sense. So does your theory about the Pictish witch. Doesn’t explain why she appeared, though, just what she was.” He paused for a long while.

Hermione nodded. “It’s a start. And maybe something we can explore further on Skye.”

Malfoy eyed her carefully. “What happened to the stone?”

She stared back, face impassive. In her opinion, the Resurrection Stone was the most dangerous artefacts she’d ever seen; it wouldn’t do to fall into any more hands, as interesting as it might be for a Curse-breaker. Let alone a widowed one.

“Harry hid it away for good.” She said finally, not even wanting to mention it was in the Forbidden Forest. “But he never said where. I don’t think the Pictish witch was summoned from it, though. Harry made sure no one could ever find it.”

Technically, that wasn’t a lie. Harry hadn’t said where exactly he’d put it, just that he’d tossed it aside before speaking with Voldemort. But based on his recounts of the evening, Hermione was sure she could figure it out if she ever needed to. But that she would keep to herself. It wouldn’t do to mention the possibility of looking for it and have Malfoy worry that someone might’ve already found it and could bring back Voldemort. If it had been found, they would know by now- there were more important people to resurrect than some random Pictish druidess.

Malfoy looked slightly disappointed but covered it up well.

“So- Love Magic and Soul Magic. What next?”

Hermione ran through her mental list. “Death Magic. We’ve briefly touched on that. The Death Chamber and the Veil is Murray’s baby. I’m sure you can guess which Unforgivable developed from this branch. I know that creating Inferi uses some fundamentals of Death Magic, but I haven’t been able to find anything on how actually to do it- for educational purposes, of course. But besides that, I don’t know much about it-”

Malfoy arched a sceptical brow.

“- and the secrecy spells placed on the Unspeakables who study it are beyond intense. Even with Kingsley’s order for co-operation, I don’t think we will get any information from Murray about Death Magic, even if they wanted to share. ”

Malfoy ran a careful finger down the feathers of his quill.

“And you think it was Death Magic I felt on Skye- you said something like that earlier.”

She shrugged. “It could be; we should go back to check again. See if I can feel it and compare it to the magic around the Veil. But given the history of the circle, I wouldn’t be surprised. Could also be Blood Magic.”

“Assuming that's another branch?” Malfoy interjected; she nodded.

“Yes. You know a bit about it already. It’s the branch that has survived the most out of the lot.”

“I only know a little.” Malfoy admitted. “Family wards and the like. Features a lot in our inheritance laws.” He swallowed slightly. “Am I right to think blood curses and maledictions could’ve originated with this magic?”

She nodded. “Yes. Both are big reasons why Blood Magic hasn't died out yet. It’s still so broadly practised even though most people don’t know the history of what they’re doing.”

She paused. “I’ve never…been a fan of Blood Magic. I find it unpredictable. Volatile. Voldemort used Blood Magic to return to his human form after taking some of Harry's blood in fourth year-”

She saw a flash of recognition in Malfoys eyes.

“It’s the branch I’m least comfortable with.” She finally admitted. “It…scares me a little.”

Malfoy leaned forward. “Please don’t hex me for this,” he said slowly. “but maybe if you had grown up with it, you would feel differently. My family magic is…incredible. To be connected to the magic of my ancestors, to have that pool of magic to tap into and access to that unconditional support and protection is indescribable.”

Hermione felt a hot flash of jealousy. She’d never experienced feeling family magic properly; the closest was the strong ocean of magic that enveloped Hogwarts. But, according to her Pureblood friends, the nurturing and revitalising energy it filled her up with didn’t come close to that of their family magic. Maybe Malfoy had a point, as loathe as she was to admit it.

Ron had once described it as sinking into a hot bath on an arctic day. She’d once tried to tap into the Weasley family magic on a visit to the Burrow when they were still dating but hadn’t been able to feel anything. Bill had quite tactfully explained that meant her magic wasn’t compatible with it- she sometimes wondered if this hadn’t contributed to Ron breaking up with her.

She brushed that recollection aside and moved on to her next explanation.

“So, we’ve had a nice little demonstration of the next branch- Time Magic” She waved a hand at Malfoys rumen-stained shoes. “The area encompassing all forms of clairvoyance and divination. And previously, when it existed, time travel.”

“The technical difference between the first two being?”

She sighed, hating how much she knew about this topic. “The Seers skilled in clairvoyance have visions, like Rachel.” She informed him grumpily. “Divination is less mental pictures and more interpretation of signs- things like tasseography or palmistry. I’ve heard there’s even one who practices osteomancy.”

“And you said Theo’s based there, but studying Time Magic?”

“Yes.” She nearly rolled her eyes. “He’s been dying to tell you for ages. He’s trying to recreate Time Turner dust- the UK was hosting the global collection of Time-Turners when we fought with Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries; it changed country every few months for security reasons, and nearly all of them were destroyed. There’s a big international race to recreate them going on.”

“Considering Theo is a full-time motormouth,” Malfoy said dryly, “this is the longest he’s kept quiet about anything. It must have been agony for him.”

Hermione almost laughed but remembered she was supposed to be angry with the wizard across from her, so she scowled instead.

“Right. That’s what…five? Alright, the sixth branch is Space Magic- vastly underrated, in my opinion, especially as it gave rise to fields like Charms and Transfiguration. It has so many practical applications- out of the seven branches, Space Magic is the backbone for most of the modern fields of spellwork. I came very close to specialising in it.”

Malfoy looked slightly surprised at that admission.

“This branch of magic is about changing the form of things and also led to the development of magical transportation- Floo, Apparition, and even broomsticks.” She continued. “All those things are built on bending the fundamentals of space and form.”

At the mention of flying, Malfoy leant forward in interest. “What about Astronomy? I would assume that the field of study is linked to that, too.”

“Yes- Astronomy emerged from Space Magic, probably one of the oldest fields to do so.” It was a good question; Hermione tried not to look excited to answer it. “But we don’t know the exact timeline- much of our Astronomy knowledge was taken from centaurs. And they know loads more than we do but don’t want to share with wizardkind, which is fair enough. But now that some Astronomers are incorporating Muggle astrophysics, we’ve had some groundbreaking breakthroughs on the Space Floor, but that’s a whole other conversation.”

Malfoy made some notes on the paper. “Alright then. What’s the last branch?”

She took another sip of water. “Terrestrial Magic. Thought to be the oldest, the most primitive. The branch that birthed all our magical plants and beasts. As a Potions lover, you’ve unknowingly used it for years. It didn’t really give rise to many fields- Herbology, of course. And Wandlore, I think.”

A flash of interest lit Malfoy’s eyes, and he started scribbling faster, the hem of his left sleeve catching a bit in the ink as he wrote.

“Your greenhouses.” He muttered. “You said Neville. Is Longbottom an Unspeakable, too? I thought he had just finished up some fancy Botany programme in the Amazon rainforest.”

“Didn’t expect you to be up to date on Neville’s life.” She arched a curious brow at him- Malfoy wasn’t in the habit of showing any interest in, well… anyone who didn’t have his surname.

“Augusta Longbottom was a good friend of my grandmother Black,” Malfoy said stiffly, “before…everything happened with Bellatrix. I’ve been subjected to unwanted updates on Neville for years—they occasionally still get together for tea and trade insults.”

She led it slide; she knew Malfoy hated mentioning his aunt. “Yes. He’s just finished his undergrad. But occasionally…moonlights for us here. He’s had the strongest affinity for Terrestrial Magic the Longbottom family has seen for generations.”

“You mentioned Ancient Magic affinity before,” Malfoy made another furious note. “What did you mean by that?”

She leaned back in her seat, throat now getting a little sore from all the talking. “While the ability to harness Ancient Magic has mostly been lost, besides the rare witches or wizards born with an innate talent for all branches of magic,” she explained, “the only remnants that seem to have survived are the aptitudes for fields that arose from particular branches that seem to run in most magical families- the Longbottoms’ historic skill with plant work, for example.”

Malfoy’s sleeve was now drenched in ink. “Could someone have a talent for more than one branch?”

Had she been as demanding for knowledge when Murrary filled her in on Ancient Magic? Probably so, how embarassing.

Hermione sighed, watching tiredly as Mafloy scribbled yet another sentence. “Maybe? We don’t know. Anyone can be trained to feel for it and identify Ancient Magic if they are powerful enough, but wielding it is very tricky. It takes years of studying it, and even then, it’s not a guarantee you ever will. And it’s generally accepted that you might only have a knack for one or two. And at the very least, all you would be able to do would be to harness the deep pool of it to fortify your own spellwork- “

“Another possible link to the ritual performed on Skye,” Malfoy interrupted; she nodded.

“Any original spells or rituals that existed when it was the predominant form of magic have been lost to time- if they ever existed. Despite all our research into Ancient Magic, there’s very little we can actually do with it right now. Besides Blood Magic, which obviously has much more surviving information.”

“Why couldn’t one harness multiple types? Where did these rare users who can summon all branches come from? Is it a heritable trait?” Malfoy looked thrilled at the possibility of some hitherto untapped magical potential and Hermione almost smiled. She would enjoy busting his bubble.

She shrugged. “We don’t know.”

He looked indignantly frustrated with her reply and made another sulky note as if she was solely responsible for his lack of ability to wield Ancient Magic.

“I once met a witch in Manila who could tap into and use, only slightly, mind, Terrestrial Magic, Soul Magic and Blood Magic,” she continued, “but when she tried to use the other branches, it very nearly killed her. She never tried again.”

Malfoy looked fascinated. “We’ve always known some families were more talented at certain fields of magic than others.” He mused, “It makes sense it would be connected to a deeper, ancient source. How could the different branches present themselves, though?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Potter family had an innate talent for Soul Magic,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Harry was able to learn how to summon a Patronus at thirteen-”

Malfoy made a disbelieving noise at that.

“- and from what I’ve heard from Remus, James was the youngest person he’s ever heard of to successfully become an Animagus, and on his first attempt, too. Both of those skills are rooted in Soul Magic.”

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully. Given his lack of surprise at that fact about James Potter, she reckoned Pettigrew had let their transformations slip.

“The Black Family has always had a reputation for Blood Magic. The only reason Malfoy Manor is as strongly warded as it is now is because my mother married into the family. Now it’s one of the most secure residences in England.”

Hermione nodded. That was a known fact in her Department. “Walburga Black might’ve been a repulsive cow-” (Malfoy kept tactfully quiet at her scathing depiction of his Great Aunt) “but the Blood Magic she placed on Grimmauld Place made the most impenetrable magical dwelling in England, likely Europe. When Sirius was in Azkaban, no one in the Ministry hired could break the wards she had put up, even after her death.”

She paused; she was getting off track.

“Anyway. That’s the basics, I’m sure you’ll have loads more questions so-” she grabbed her briefcase and reached down in it. Malfoy arched an eyebrow at the sight of her arm reaching mid-humerus, impossibly deep into the small bag.

“Undetectable Extension Charm,” she explained at his inquisitive look. “Connects to the library in my office. I can pull out any book or file I keep there.”

Malfoy looked terribly impressed. “That’s a handy spell.”

“I invented it,” she told him smugly, passing him a thick assortment of hand-written files. “Here- my personal notes I made after Murrary gave me this talk. I did some research on my own-”

Malfoy made a noise of faux surprise, but she ignored him.

“If you read through them all, you should get a pretty good understanding of the fundamentals of Ancient Magic. Once you’ve done that, I have some more advanced texts if you want to dig deeper.”

Malfoy nodded appreciatively. “Thanks,” he muttered, flicking through them.

She left him to his perusal and reached into her bag to pull out her collection of case files, spreading them out on Malfoy’s desk so he could browse them while she read over the missing persons’ cases. Time passed in contemplative silence for a while until Malfoy sat up straight in his chair as if electrocuted.

“Granger,” He said uneasily. “What if it’s not just Death Magic?”

She looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy looked the palest she had ever seen, even more disturbed than when Voldemort had called him to his side during the battle of Hogwarts- she felt a flicker of dread.

“Well, you said Black came back because the Death Magic feeding the Veil faltered,” Malfoy swallowed. “But what if it’s not just one branch of Ancient Magic failing? What if it’s all of them?”

She froze and processed his words. And then, like icy water being poured down her back, the last few pieces clicked into place.

“Oh my God,” she breathed and lunged for the case notes. “That’s what the girl meant- we do have most of the answers.”

She grabbed the closest file, heart thumping. “The unicorns,” she breathed, showing it to Malfoy; he blanched.

“And those scenes from the future, not just the unicorns, the dying plants and bowtruckles,” he whispered.“Could failing Terrestrial magic be causing them all to drop dead?”

She nodded. “Unicorns are the most magic-sensitive beasts- they would go first.” She closed her eyes. “And on Skye- that’s why the Pictish Magic failed when we tried to trap the demon. Because it’s likely built on Blood or Death Magic- and it was starting to give in too.”

Malfoy started at her stricken. “Any other links we can connect? What else did we see in the future? How could we explain the collapsed buildings in Diagon Allery, though? Or Hogwarts crumbling down? The Manor?”

She stared at him blankly. “Space Magic- it’s the basis for all magical building construction. It’s why they can become so deceptively big and sentient. If it failed…”

“-then the spellwork developed from it would, too,” Malfoy said dumbly, reading her thoughts. Hermione gasped.

“The missing people!”

“What?” Malfoy snapped; she dug through the assorted papers littering the desk.

“The only common thread to the missing persons cases is that all the victims, Ministry workers or not, vanished on their way somewhere. To work, the shops…”

Malfoy stared at her uncomprehendingly and Hermione elaborated.

“They were taking magical means of transport- Apparition or the Floo, all of them, look!” She spread the papers out towards him. He grabbed the closest few and flicked through.

“Floo and Apparition are both about bending the fundamentals of Space Magic. If they were to fail mid-journey…”

“Where would they have gone to then?” Malfoy interrupted; she shrugged nervously.

“I don’t know. Mid-dimension maybe? Again, we don’t know enough about Space Magic to know what happens in that split-second between disappearing and popping back up. My personal theory is that Space Magic creates a wormhole effect-”

She cut off at Malfoy’s confused look. God, what she wouldn’t give to have a Muggle astrophysicist to debate this with. “Doesn’t matter,” she amended. “But it could definitely explain what happened to them all.”

“Also why the Harpies’ brooms stopped working that day I was called out,” Malfoy mused. She gasped loudly, realising he was right.

“They weren’t cursed after all,” she breathed. “They just…lost their magic.”

“Not just the brooms,” Malfoy said grimly. “We did too- remember I said none of our spells worked? I thought a magical blocker had been put up.”

She and Malfoy sank into a deep, horrified silence.

“So this is what the Scourge is, then?” Malfoy said faintly. “A slow failure of all Ancient Magic? That’s why the future looks the way it does?”

She bit her lip and shook her head; Malfoy winced at the look on her face.

“What?”

“Well,” she said hesitantly. “Um, it’s just a theory. But without the foundations of Ancient Magic to act as a support for all modern forms, I can’t see how any could function at all. They’re all so intertwined and dependent on the seven foundations they developed from.”

Malfoy started at her in horrified silence. “What do you mean?”

“In the future we face,” She muttered. “I don’t think it’s just Ancient Magic we lose- I think it’s all magic.”

He stared at her for a long while in horrified silence; she didn’t know what to say either.

“So what?” Malfoy said, tone distant. “Without magic, we would what? All die out? Like the unicorns?”

She grimaced. “I wouldn’t think so- there were still people in the future. And Squibs exist without having magic ability, remember? Even though they’re of magical blood like us.” A sudden memory hit her. “God, that explains the newspaper. And the conversation about no magical births.”

“Are you suggesting?” Malfoy asked tonelessly, “that in the future we basically… become Muggles?”

The look on her face confirmed it for him, and he gaped at her, pale as a ghost.

“The end of the magical world- that’s what the girl told us,” Hermione said quietly.

They sat in horrified silence for a heartbeat.

“We need to speak to Kingsley,” she said determinedly. “Now.”

Malfoy nodded weakly.

“And then,” she continued, “we need to return to Skye. See if we can find any evidence of the failing magic there to support the readings I got this morning. No one will believe us otherwise.”

“Why would they,” Malfoy murmured. “What we’re suggesting is impossible.”

“Evidently not,” Hermione said grimly, turning to look at Malfoy, eyes widening as a thought struck her. “But something must’ve triggered this. But what? Why now, after thousands upon thousands of years, would magic start to fail?”

Malfoy’s eyes sharpened. “Maybe if we can find out what caused it, we could prevent it from spreading further. Or undo it completely?”

Hermione contemplated that possibility, her mind replaying all the scenes they’d been shown by that odd little girl.

“For what it’s worth,” she muttered. “I don’t think all is lost. Remember what the Source said? That all paths of time lead to this future- but one. That means there’s a future where we do something about it. We just need to make the right choices.”

Her mind raced as she contemplated the future that lay before them- but her heart knew what the first right choice she had to make to get them on that path was. She inhaled sharply- damn her infallible reasoning.

“You’re right- damn, you’re right. I think we are the only ones who can prevent it. We were in Rachel’s visions for a reason.” She paused, and pondered her next words carefully.

“And I agree. The only way I can see us preventing this…disaster is if we work together this time. Properly.”

At her words, Malfoy looked wildly hopeful.

“And we can’t do that unless we let go of the past and start to trust each other,” Hermione continued hesitantly. “So I want to try- something so much bigger than us is happening. There’s too much at stake to fail. You might be doing this for your son, but I can’t... I won’t lose my magic.”

She stuck out her hand, and Malfoy took it, almost disbelieving.

“I’m still very cross with you,” she warned him, “but I’ll wait until we’ve figured out how to stop Judgement Day to shout at you.”

“As long as you promise not to punch me again,” Malfoy said gravely; she snorted.

“No promises. You owe me that talk, after all.”

“Does this make us friends?” he asked quietly, holding her hand in a gentle grip and shaking it ever so slightly. “Because despite… everything that’s happened between us, some part of me does miss being your friend.”

Hermione scowled back but with less vitriol than usual, pushing back the sudden hot flare of aching emotion. “No, it doesn’t,” she told him firmly. “It just makes us…not not-friends.”

But a spark of hope lit in her chest, and from the light in Malfoy’s eyes, he felt it too.

“Well then, my not-not-friend,” he told her seriously. “I think our investigation has just got a whole lot more complicated. We should’ve bargained with the Minister for a lot more.”

She almost laughed, “I would argue that preventing the collapse of the entire magical world would grant us as many MAME awards as we could want.”

“I like the way you think, Granger.”

She eyed Malfoy up, half in exasperation, half in unexpected amusement. “We’ve just theorised Doomsday. Why are you so cheerful?”

He gave a wild smile, “Imagine what it would mean for the Malfoy name if I could help prevent it all. Take that, Father.”

She bit back a burble of hysterical laughter. “Your priorities are way out of order, Malfoy.”

The genuine (albeit quiet) laugh she got in reply nearly made her breath catch in her lungs.

“Alright, Mr Positive,” she said firmly, trying to disguise her twitching lips and focused on packing up her sprawled paperwork. “Let’s speak with the Minister, then we can brainstorm preventing the magical apocalypse.”

“Maybe it’s time for a mind map,” Malfoy suggested seriously. He dodged her mild Stinging Hex, sent her a glimmer of a smile (the first she’d received in eight whole years) and slipped out of his office.

Hermione followed hesitantly, pretending that the sight of his crinkled eyes and genuine amusement hadn’t hit her like a bolt of lightning. It wasn’t much- they still had one more conversation to go before the air between them could finally be cleared, but it was a start. She almost grimly smiled as she caught up with Malfoy, still striding out of the DMLE office on his mission to interrupt Kingsley and ruin his day too- who would’ve thought that all it would take to get them amiable again would be the end of the fucking world?

Chapter Text

Their trip up to Kingsley’s offices on Level One was useless- not only was Kinsley unavailable to speak to them- but he also wasn’t even in the country, having popped over to Dublin for a meeting with the Magical Oireachtas and their Taoiseach. Draco and Granger decided, after a brief discussion, to briefly part ways, prepare to return to Skye the following day, await further information on the Minister’s expected return and then plan their next steps forward in Draco’s office accordingly.

Draco pulled out and folded his field uniform and prepped a field bag, filling it with his magical camera, case notes, a spare pair of durable field boots, his favourite nine-piece standard Curse-breaking kit, some assorted magical munitions courtesy of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, and a box of iron filings, (the last two items just in case of any trouble in Faerie country). Sitting at his desk, figuring out the best to fit everything in, Draco heard his office door bang open and swivelled his chair to see his dear friend and frequent annoyance, one Miss Pansy Parkinson, standing impatiently in the doorway, freshly returned from her three-month Singapore work trip. She was wearing vicious-looking six-inch Muggle heels with handsome red bottoms and an expression that suggested she was considering putting them through his throat.

“Are you alright, Parks?” he asked, somewhat nervously. He’d known the short witch since the day he was born (thanks to unfruitful, enthusiastic match-making attempts from her conniving, arriviste mother), and anything that could put such a look on her face was generally not good news.

“I’m supposed to be in court in forty fucking minutes,” she hissed, swaying towards him with leonine grace, “tell me why I overheard rumours that you resurrected Sirius Black from the grave and are plotting to overthrow the Ministry with an army of undead Death Eaters.”

Draco sighed. Shit. That hadn’t taken long to get out at all.

“Welcome back, Pansy. How was your trip?” He asked her drily. “I’m doing very well, thank you for asking.”

The vicious look she shot him made him cower slightly.

“Not true at all. Sorry to disappoint,” he admitted; she shot him a reading look. “How was Singapore? How’s your dad’s family?”

“Humid and fine,” Pansy snapped back. “But don’t change the question. Something did happen?” She surmised slowly, reading the look on his face with lethal accuracy—she wasn’t the highest-paid divorce lawyer in England’s top magical firm for nothing. “The rumours are true- Black is back? Don’t even try to lie to me, Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

He sighed. “I can’t tell you anything, sorry. If I could, I would.”

That was confirmation enough; they both knew it. Pansy blanched and tottered over to sit on his guest chair; he rushed to clasp her shoulder.

“Listen to me, Pansy- I know how Black’s back. I promise he can’t come back, either. It’s the first thing I checked.”

“Says who?” Pansy said faintly. Draco summoned her a glass of water. She batted it away, summoned the bottle of Firewhisky he kept hidden in his bookcase and his prized pair of crystal tumblers, and took a large swig, the amber liquid in it sloshing slightly. She very ungraciously poured him a drink and slid it over to him.

“Says Granger,” he told her firmly; Pansy snorted.

“Well, if Granger says so, it must be right.”

But she did look more appeased, and her hands holding her glass stopped shaking.

“What else do the rumours say?” He asked, pointedly not mentioning it and returning to his seat. She shrugged.

“Just that Sirius Black somehow popped back up in the Department of Mysteries and that you were somehow there. Despite, and this is a crucial bit of information, not being an Unspeakable.” She narrowed her eyes at him worriedly. “What were you up to? Do you need an alibi? Where was Theo?”

“Theo was there,” he sighed. “Please, Parks, don’t worry; I had nothing to do with it. I can’t say much, but we’re…looking into it. The Minister knows.”

Pansy nodded, appeased. Draco wracked his brain for a conversation topic that wouldn’t have her freaking out about the return of a certain blood-obsessed psychopath (in a manner somewhat similar to his own reaction).

“Working on any interesting cases?”

She scoffed and took another sip. “Millie Bulstrode is divorcing that cretin Crabbe husband of hers,” she said smugly. “I’m going to get her the biggest settlement.”

She put her drink down and ran a lazy finger over the rim, making the glass sing.

“I saw your mother in the foyer,” she told him, in a tone one might use to warn of an imminent tornado. “Think she might’ve heard the rumours too- she looked…rather upset.”

They both grimaced. In true English fashion, there was nothing Narcissa Malfoy despised more than any show of public emotion.

“Yes, I owled her earlier.” Draco sighed and slumped back into his chair, “I wanted her thoughts on my…inheritance, all things considered.”

Pansy’s eyes gleamed with fascinated realisation, and she took another sip of her drink. “I didn’t even think of that. Sirius Black back would pose some…interesting legal implications.”

“Any thoughts you could provide would be much appreciated,” he told her drily. “If you’re not too busy fleecing Samuel Crabbe of his worldly goods.”

“I’ll have a look,” Pansy sniffed. “But my hourly rates are rather steep, you know?”

“Add it to my tab,” Draco told her lazily and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a split second. What a day- Merlin, he wanted to go home and kiss his son.

He froze in his chair. Fuck! Scorpius’s nanny was due to drop him off at his office any time now- he shot Pansy a begging look. Whatever his and Granger’s plan for the rest of the day would come to, he couldn’t imagine any part of it would be child-friendly.

“Is there any way you could take Scorp to court?” He asked, knowing it was a long shot. “I’m…investigating something quite urgently and won’t be home until very late. Minister’s orders. His nanny hands him back over at four.”

Pansy shook her head firmly. “Sorry, Drake. No way I can take a baby in. More than anything, Crabbe is a security risk. He’s taken the divorce very badly.”

Draco grimaced- he knew it was too big a favour. Daphne might be great at taking care of baby goats, but she panicked anytime she was alone with a human child; Theo would still be in the emergency Unspeakable meeting Murray called this morning that hadn’t shown any sign of finishing, and Blaise would’ve already left for Lucca to woo some Potions business he wanted to buy out. Shit. His parents might be able to step in, but seeing as they had their monthly check-ins with his father’s parole officer later, he wouldn’t hold his breath.

“Don’t worry” he muttered. “I’ll make a plan. What’s the time? Shouldn’t you be starting in court soon?”

“I can stay a little longer,” Pansy said, finishing the last of her drink; Draco took his first sip of his. A few minutes of delicious gossip passed, and then she and Draco looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching his office. Fully expecting his mother, he was surprised to see Granger back already, out of her sapphire Unspeakable robes and dressed in yet another dreadful Muggle outfit, with her usual horrid briefcase tucked against her side. She froze upon seeing Pansy curled in his guest chair.

“Parkinson,” she said stiffly. Draco shot Pansy a warning look demanding complete cordiality- she ignored him. He shot Granger a warning look too, this one half-beseeching and asking for no trouble from her quarter either, but she didn’t even bother looking at him- her brown eyes never leaving the petite witch.

“Granger,” Pansy said slowly, trailing her eyes over the other witch’s clothing. “Haven’t seen you in ages. How are things? Are your clothes always this frumpy?”

Granger shot Pansy a sickly-sweet smile that made Draco fidget nervously; for good measure, he threw up a silent Protego in front of him.

“Funny you should mention my clothes, Parkinson,” she told Pansy, her tone saccharine. “Did you know I bought so many of my outfits after the war ended using reparation money? And didn’t the Parkinson Vault have to contribute quite a lot? So, really, I should be thanking you for them—or your daddy.”

Pansy went scarlet with fury; Draco reinforced his protective barrier.

Salvation came in the utterly unexpected form of Weasley, sticking his crimson head around Draco’s office door, face brightening when he saw Hermione; Draco had never been so happy to see the wizard in all his life.

“Hi Mione, are you still on track to head to St Mungo’s? Teddy’s packing up in my office.”

Granger shook her head. “No, sorry, Ron- I’ve just been pulled into something…complicated.”

A massive understatement, Draco thought privately.

“Any chance he can go to Harry’s for the night?” Granger continued; Weasely nodded.

“Sure it won’t be a problem. I’ll send Gin an owl.” His eyes darted between Draco and Granger curiously.

“Malfoy and I are just debating whose article gets to be published in the next issue of Transfiguration Times,” Granger lied smoothly. Draco saw Weasley (who had been caught in the crossfire of many of their ‘debates’ before) pull the office door towards him slightly, like a shield.

“Right,” he said hastily. “I won’t interrupt then.” His gaze darted to Pansy, still coiled up like a snake in her chair. “Parkinson.”

“Weasley,” she replied smoothly; Draco arched a brow at their shockingly cordial interaction.

“Susie and Parkinson go way back apparently,” Weasely said to him, obviously catching Granger’s matching look of surprise, tone resigned. “They went law school together-”

“We’ve known each other since our childhood etiquette classes, thank you very much,” Pansy said primly, and Weasley tried not to scowl.

“And Susie wants her in the wedding party, so she said I need to be nice and let,” he stuck his freckly fingers up in the air to make quotes and repeated in a passable imitation of his fiancée high-pitched voice, “bygones be bygones, Ronald. We’ve been out of school for ten years.”

“Ah yes,” Pansy had a look on her face as if she’d just discovered a piece of dog poo sticking to the bottom of her expensive-looking heels. “I did hear about your proposal. Congratulations and all that. Surprised you’re letting me come to the wedding.”

“Thank you, Parkinson,” Weasely said, tone mild. “But seeing as you tried to sell out my best friend to Voldemort, I will be putting you by the loos.”

Pansy scowled and flushed a deeper dark red at that reminder, and Draco hid a wince. Pansy still felt terrible about that. However, he also knew that in her unyielding pride, she was still too embarrassed to apologise.

“I want you to know,” she informed Weasly coldly, “that I advised her against asking you out. If it were up to me, she’d be engaged to that tycoon cousin of mine in Katong I was planning on setting her up with.”

“Cheers, Parkinson,” Weasely looked completely unphased. “I’ll remember that when we have kids and talk about godmothers.”

Pansy glowered at him furiously, and Draco hid a smile in his glass. It wouldn’t have done to have Weasely think Draco found him (occasionally and only slightly) funny.

“I’m off to court,” she told Draco, pointedly ignoring the other two occupants in the room. “Are we still on for drinks at the Wyvern for Wednesday? Blaise will be back by then; I’ll drag Daff out by her hair if I have to.”

“The Wickerd Wyvern?” Weasley asked, tone impressed. “Isn’t that hard to get into? I’ve been trying to get a dinner reservation for months?”

“Seeing as I own it, it’s not hard at all,” Pansy said to him, tone smug. She caught the Weasel’s pitiful gaze. “Fine,” she huffed, “I’ll invite Susie.”

“And me?” Weasley asked hopefully; Pansy snorted.

“Not fucking likely.”

She left the room with a clack of sharp heels and a swish of her short black bob; a second later, another knock on his office door had the three of them turning in unison to see who it was.

Gabriel (Scorpius’s very competent, very French nanny Lucius had imported from Alsace) stood in the doorway, Scorp bundled up in his arms.

“Salut, Monsieur Malfoy,” he said, eyes flickering to Granger and Weasley but ignoring them with seamless French dismissiveness. “Scorpius n’a pas mangé son dîner.”

“À-t-il parle aujourd'hui?” Draco asked hopefully, Gabriel shook his head.

“Pas encore.” He hesitated. “Ta mère est dans le foyer- elle a l’air un peau irritée.”

“Oui,” Draco let out a deep sigh. “Pansy m'a déjà averti, merci.”

Gabriel nodded and handed Scorp back to Draco, who quickly kissed his son’s downy white hair and settled him on his seated thighs.

“Au revoir, Monsieur,” Gabriel murmered, backing out of the door, “je vais arriver à votre appartement à sept heures demain.” He swiped a quick finger under Scorp’s chin. “À bientôt mon chéri.”

He slipped away. Granger and Weasley had started up some quiet, murmured conversation in the background. Draco heard the words ‘Remus’ and ‘my flat’ thrown about; Scorp stared at the newcomers in fascination.

Weasley nodded at Draco, his face softening ever so slightly at the sight of the small child. “I’ll leave with Teddy in a bit. Harry’s just popped into the office to grab his files,” he looked at Granger curiously. “He says he’s got permission from Kings to fill me in on something. Sent me to ask if you can join quickly, too.”

She nodded, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Weasely nodded farewell at Draco, it was the most amicable encounter he had had with the wizard thus far (his engagement to a Hufflepuff seemed to be making him slightly more tolerable), and departed his office.

Granger turned to face him. Draco reached for his abandoned glass of firewhisky on the table and tilted the bottle to her, bouncing Scorpius absent-mindedly on his lap.

“Fancy a glass? By the way, Black’s return has already leaked out.”

“Yes, I did hear something about that. It looks like it’s not the specific details, though, luckily.” She looked terribly indignant at the pointed look he gave her. “I didn’t say anything!”

He made a scoffing noise of disbelief. “Lupin, small-Lupin, me!”

She raised her hands in a show of innocence. “I didn’t say anything important, that is!”

He made another suspicious noise, and Granger shot him with a supercilious look.

“I wasn’t the only person to skip the NDA, as it turns out.” She informed him, tone haughty, “The Unspeakable I was treating was more conscious than I thought- she ran right to her sister at the Daily Prophet. She managed to tell her sister a bit about Black returning before the Confidentiality Oaths she took when she started the job kicked in. Murray is firing her now.”

“Won’t that be a security risk?” He looked at her in concern. “Shouldn’t we keep any leaks to a minimum? What if any more information gets out? What’ll happen to her?”

“They’ll probably Obliviate her,” Granger told them both cheerfully. “She knows the punishment for snitching. Besides, I’d be more worried about the Confidentiality Oaths that might melt her brain down, though, personally. That’ll put off anyone else thinking of letting slip things they shouldn’t.”

She looked wholly unsympathetic at her colleague’s fate. A horrified realisation hit him, and he looked at her agog. “You let things slip—again, to multiple people,” he hissed. “And you told me all about Ancient Magic. What about your brain?”

Granger looked wholly unconcerned. “Do you think I wouldn’t know the restrictions of any confidentiality agreements in great detail before I took them?” She seemed incredibly nonchalant at toeing the line of permanent brain damage. “I didn’t tell Lupin enough detail to trigger anything- he worked the rest out himself.”

“That’s semantics,” Draco warned her; Grager shrugged.

“I know I was careful enough. Besides, if my brain were going to melt out of my ears, it would’ve done so already,” she told him calmly. Draco gawked at her again, eyes flicking to the sides of her neck, just in case.

“And before I went to him, I spoke with Murray and filled them in on the task Kinglsey just assigned us.” Granger continued. “As HoD, they were able to waive the confidentiality magic I agreed to and granted me permission to disclose any information I have about the Department if it felt relevant to the investigation.”

She looked at him smugly. “And luckily for you, I felt it was important for you to know about Ancient Magic.”

Draco was moderately impressed; (unsurprisingly) she had been thorough. Another thought hit him, though.

“What stops me from talking about the Department of Mysteries’ secrets? I’ve not taken any oaths of confidentiality. Isn’t that a huge risk for your boss?”

Granger looked at him steadily. “I promised Murray you wouldn’t.”

Draco couldn’t identify the flash of warmth that flushed through him at that simple statement, and he sharply turned away, packing his field bag in an effort to look busy. It wasn’t very effective.

“Fancy a drink while we wait for our Minister’s return?” he drawled out, waving the (now-cleaned) second glass towards her; she shook her head.

“No thanks, I wanted you to see this.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a book titled ‘The Ministry of Magic—From the Medievals to Today’. “Look here.”

Granger flipped the book to a specific chapter. Two folded pieces of paper slipped out as well, and she unfurled the first one, revealing an intricate sketch- no, blueprints. Draco craned his head. It appeared to be the original layout of the Ministry. The second piece of paper seemed to be a map of the UK, with strange symbols, like a whisp of swirling smoke dotted around the country.

“So-” She pointed to a series of strange markings on the map. “these are hotspots of Ancient Magic- areas where Ancient Magic seems to be the most concentrated, and even those without the innate ability to wield it can feel it to some degree or other if they go looking for it and if they’re powerful enough.”

Granger dragged her finger down to the south of the map, towards the home counties. “You can see the Ministry is built right on top of one- the biggest one in the UK, actually.” She continued. “That’s why the Unspeakables are based here- I mean techically we predated the current Ministry of Magic, that’s how we’ve got some measure of independance…”

Her voice trailed off as she tugged the Ministry blueprints towards her. “The oldest records show some Catuvellauni ruins right where the Ministry would later be built, and I’ve told you about the Romans bringing a Seer’s court here already. And then, when the Wizards’ Council started post-Norman invasion, they chose this as the obvious seat for magical rule- can’t dispute anyone’s power if they’re sitting on a nuclear arsenal of magic. Most of our sites of magical importance are built on one, in fact- Hogwarts, for example.”

Draco didn’t know what a ‘nu-clear arsenal’ was, but from the serious tone in her voice, he could tell it was powerful indeed. He flicked his eyes over the blueprints. Essential information aside, it was fascinating seeing how the Ministry expanded deeper underground as time went on and new departments were formed.

“When the Department of Mysteries was founded in the 1200s, research into Ancient Magic wasn’t a big thing yet,” Granger continued. “Mostly because of the suppressive attitudes I told you about from Pureblooded families not wanting to share their knowledge of it with us Muggle-borns. That was also around the time when Ancient Magic use was starting to be overshadowed by the newer forms of magic being invented, and it started slowly dying out-”

Her voice wasn’t its usual bossy tone; her cadence was smooth, academic and engaging. Draco suddenly understood why she’d won an award for best Charms tutor.

A slightly sour look crossed Granger’s face. “-research into it only began just after the Statue of Secrecy was implemented in 1692, and the Wizards’ Council was disbanded to form the Ministry of Magic just over a decade later. The Unspeakables looked up and realised most of our knowledge of the different branches was gone, and thanks to the assorted politics, sharing fundamental knowledge became really tricky. And since then, we’ve been studying it amongst other fields in my department. But we’ve only really made great strides in the last few years.”

Draco shifted in his seat. “Can I have a quick peek?”

Granger came across to his side of the desk, “Yes, sure.” She pulled it back sharply to save the fragile paper from Scorp’s grabbing hands. “Um… how do you want to do this?”

“Here,” Draco thrust Scorpius at her, whose chubby face lit up at a new possible friend. He gave her a gummy smile and stretched his arms forward to her. “Can you hold him while I have a look?”

“Oh…erm..sure.”

Granger fumbled around with Scorpius, holding him quite awkwardly as he beamed at her, but eventually got him settled on her hip. She passed the ageing pieces of parchment on him, returning to her chair, and he peered at it in interest. The map was cleverly enchanted to zoom in and out when touched, and despite its age, the charmwork had held up incredibly well.

“Amazing,” he breathed. “Who made this? Were they one of those Ancient Magic users?”

He looked up. Standing comfortably in Granger’s lap as if he’d been there for years, Scorpius was engrossed in examining her curls with intense interest. He held a thick chunk in his hand, watching as the deep mahogany colour caught the light in auburn streaks of amber and honey. Granger quickly detangled a few strands from his mouth.

“The blueprints are from the Ministry archives; I found the map in an abandoned Professors quarters in Hogwarts,” Granger explained. “Along with some other notes and letters from a witch called Miriam Fig- I think she drew it. She seems to have been privately studying Ancient Magic over one hundred years ago- it’s been the most comprehensive study I’ve seen outside the Department of Mysteries. I don’t think she could wield it- her notes write like she was a researcher, not a user, but I don’t know for sure.”

Draco scanned it carefully. “Look,” he hissed, putting his finger down. “See- a hotspot on Skye. I guess that explains how I was able to feel some Ancient Magic for the first time…” He looked up in excitement at Granger. “I went looking for any recent magical activity and must’ve hit it by chance. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Granger nodded. “Yep, I checked that earlier. Quite a big one, too- explains how you could feel it without any training.”

“It could be because I’m just obscenely talented,” Draco told her smugly.

Granger rolled her eyes. “I’m inclined to think just lucky.”

Draco felt his ego deflate somewhat.

“Now we just need to figure out what type you felt.” Granger mused, looking at him thoughtfully, her eyes narrowed.

Draco hummed in agreement and shuffled the pages so that they lay a bit tidier. “I’m going to add these to our collection of notes if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Granger waved a hand. “I’ll bring in the rest of her notes, and we can go through them together and see if she’s written anything else that might be useful.”

Draco spent a few minutes looking through the map and examining the magic hotspots- the majority seemingly distributed around Wales. Not too surprising, given it’s extensive magical history, but incredible nonetheless. A few minutes later, he chanced a look up and felt his breath catch in his chest- Granger was looking down at Scorpius, making all sorts of funny faces as she puffed out her cheeks- much to Scorp’s absolute delight. It was the most carefree he had seen the usually quite uptight witch for a long time.

Granger caught him staring and blushed slightly. “Sorry.” She said quickly. “Albus loves it when I do that.”

“No… it’s…I think he likes it,” he said dumbly. A flash of white light splitting up the room and a majestic stag prancing through the walls saved him from his mortifying inarticulacy.

“Mione, mind popping into my office for a bit?” Potter’s voice boomed around the room. The sudden appearance of the Patronus and the unexpected voice surrounding them gave Scorpius a huge fright—he startled out of his skin and gave a great wail. Granger passed him quickly back to Draco when none of her attempts at soothing him bore any fruit.

“Scuse me,” she muttered and quickly vanished, leaving the map on Draco’s desk for him to page further. He managed to get Scorpius back to his usual cheerful self and had enough time to scour Devon for its sites of Ancient Magic, taking a few more sips of his drink before yet another knock on his door- and he looked up to see the coldly impassive face of his mother.

Ah, shit.

“Draco, darling.” Narcissa Malfoy swept into his room with the grace and entitlement of a Russian aristocrat and sat on his now-vacated guest chair. “I got your owl. What did you want to discuss so urgently? Your father and I have a meeting with his solicitor in a bit.”

Her sharp silver eyes, a mirror of his, were pinned onto him firmly. Draco tried to make his face as inscrutable as hers but knew deep down she’d definitely heard something- the seam of the robes on her shoulders hung ever so slightly at an angle; she must’ve walked to his office with more of a frantic pace than usual. Definitely abnormal for a witch who refused to run anywhere in public; she might as well have stamped her emotions on her forehead. His mother summoned Scorp from his lap, who floated over to her, turning upside down mid-air, much to his complacent acceptance.

“I wanted to ask you about inheritance laws,” he said smoothly. His mother’s eyes flared as she grabbed her grandson and coddled him tight.

“Interesting topic. What prompted it, dear heart?”

“Just curiosity.” Draco’s face didn’t give anything away as he swirled his glass around slowly. “What would happen, say, if someone were to place a claim above mine to the Black title? Theoretically, of course.”

“Well, I would say that it would be impossible, with all the previous heirs since Orion Black- Sirius, Regulus, Bellatrix, all long dead.” His mother said slowly. “I myself lost my direct claim to the title when I swore to House Malfoy when I married your father, as you know. And after my sister… Andromeda-” her voice trailed off a bit, “was pruned from the family tree; the family magic would no longer recognise her magical core to claim the title, nor that of any of her descendants. Thanks to that, you are the heir de jure. There are no others.”

Draco arched a brow at her. “Any should the… status… of any previous heirs were to change?”

His mother shifted in her seat in a rare show of uneasiness. “Well, should any of the previous heirs make a… reappearance, that would be a tricky situation indeed. I imagine their claim would automatically supplant yours- theoretically, of course. Family magic wouldn’t care about any…pauses in heirship, but it would recognise absolute primogeniture.”

She eyed him closely, carefully removing Scorpius’s fingers from her blonde braid.

“Maybe it would be wise,” Draco suggested carefully, “to speak with Abernathy about the protocol for such an event. As a precaution, of course- we wouldn’t want to be underprepared for any scenario before I take over the family seat from Father.”

His mother nodded decisively. “I will speak with him later this evening. You are right- it is a good idea to prepare for any…unexpected circumstances. Whatever they may be. We can’t have any threat posed to your inheritance- not after coming so close to the extinction of both Houses Malfoy and Black.”

She settled deeper in her seat. Draco poured her a generous helping of Firewhisky, which she accepted with a delicate wave of her hand. She also Conjured up some delicate silver butterflies to flutter around Scorpius while they chatted, pulling his attention quickly away from exploring her emerald earrings.

“I must congratulate you on your display last night,” she said, delicately sipping the drink like it was rosewater.

“I would’ve thought you would be due congratulations,” Draco told her suspiciously. “You organised the ball, after all. Raging success, it looks like. Father was very chuffed with the Malfoy name mentioned in the Daily Prophet’s article this morning. He sent me an owl earlier- even used an exclamation mark.”

“It wasn’t just the article that caught my notice,” his mother said smugly, sliding a newspaper cutout over at him. He examined it closely. It was a magical photograph taken at some point during his dance with Granger, the photographer capturing the moment he picked her up and spun her mid-air precisely. Granger’s genuine look of surprise as her feet left the ground made her look much more genial than she actually had been.

“That warranted a whole paragraph,” his mother said in delight. “Excellent press- you made a striking pair; it was all anyone could talk about—and Granger’s jewellery. House Potter might not have the influence it had under Fleamont and Euphemia’s rule, but a favour from them is nothing to be sniffed at. She also accompanied Theo- don’t think I missed him formally introducing her to a lot of upper society.”

She looked a mix of cautious and impressed. “The Granger girl has done very well in establishing societal connections- especially as she entered our world with none. Such a pity she’s never had any formal etiquette training- had she been a Slytherin, she would’ve been formidable indeed.”

“I find her quite formidable now,” Draco pointed out; his mother gave him a cutting look.

“It is quite a pity your…disagreements with her are such public knowledge,” she sighed. “Any connections to her could be quite valuable in the future. Should she wish it, she could easily be Minister one day. She has the friends, the ambition, the brains- pity about the hair, but that’s always styleable.”

Draco bit back an amused snort. “If you would stop playing king-maker for a few minutes, I might want to ask you about your grandson. Any chance you could care for him until tomorrow morning?”

Narcissa looked genuinely regretful. “Sorry darling, but your father’s parole meeting this evening will be held in…” she bit back a swallow, “the admin offices in Azkaban this month. We’re only expected back very late tonight.”

Draco felt an icy chill shoot through him. “Why is it in Azkaban?” He asked harshly. Startled by his father’s tone, Scorpius looked at him quickly, mouth wobbling. Narcissa rushed to comfort him.

“Not only did Avery manage to slither away from Auror custody somehow, but they’re doubling down their efforts to find Lestrange,” she said softly, soothing Scorpius’s nerves. “I heard from my sources at the DMLE that he’s being linked to a string of Muggle murders in Carmarthen that’s even got the Muggle Aurors worked up. Robards is convinced your father might know where he could’ve hidden himself away, given our family’s… connections. Wants to intimidate us a bit.” She sneered- Draco knew she had absolutely loathed having Rodolphus as a brother-in-law. The first bit of her comment hit him quickly, however.

“What do you mean Avery slithered away?” He asked suspiciously; his mother hissed a furious breath.

“Well, after your father advised the DMLE on Avery’s attempted break-in,” she explained, tone icy with fury, “the Aurors managed to locate him at some back-alley hospital in Glasgow after casting a reverse Locator spell on his amputated arm.” She sniffed primly. “The horrible thing was still in my rosebushes where the wards cut it off. It’s a pity he didn’t try to break in near the Flesh-eating Foxgloves.”

“And he escaped custody how?” Draco asked grimly. “Fucking useless Aurors.”

“Robards is looking into it,” his mother said sourly. “Surprised he hasn’t tried to place it on your father yet. He’s happy to take any credit whenever your father’s assistance benefits him but is quick to feed him to the thestrals whenever the DLME inevitably mucks it up.”

Draco took a deep breath and topped up his glass of Firewhisky. The idea of any vengeful Death Eater escaping from custody after already trying to break into the Manor was infuriating- thank goodness for the powerful family wards keeping them all safe. He froze in his chair with horrified realisation- the wards were built on Blood Magic…Fuck! If they were compromised in any way and Avery tried to return...He shuddered in his chair. He needed to visit the Manor as soon as possible, check them out, and make sure they were all still stable.

“Will you ask Father to examine the wards as soon as he can?” he asked, the strain in his voice making his mother look up sharply.

“Why?” She demanded.

A rapid pounding of footsteps outside his office corridor made him and his mother look up, conversation set aside. When the door was flung open with such enthusiasm that it ricocheted off the wall and nearly slammed back close, Draco saw the faintest flash of riotous white hair. His mother inhaled a sharp breath opposite him.

Teddy Lupin marched into his office and stood next to Draco, almost too uncomfortably close as if they were bosom-buddies, instead of barely acquainted that very morning.

“I’m going to St Mungo’s,” he informed Draco seriously. “But I wanted to say goodbye.”

His eyes eagerly traced Draco’s shelves, likely looking for the greatly-anticipated skull, face falling when all he saw were books.

“I’ll…um… show you the skull next time,” Draco said uncomfortably, not used to entertaining children this old. All he needed to do for Scorpius was make fart noises- that was a surefire way to make him laugh like his father was the funniest person in the world. But his promise did the trick, the boy beamed like Draco had just offered him a pet unicorn foal.

“Teddy!” a deep voice bellowed. Potter stuck his vivid green eyes around Draco’s door, his glasses sitting askew on his nose, and gave a deep exhale at the sight of the child close to sitting in Draco’s lap.

Draco peevishly thought that his office was starting to feel like King’s Cross Station.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” he said wearily. “I turned my back for one second. You- out.”

Teddy huffed out a deep sigh, similar to the exasperated one Potter had just given, and slunk away from Draco, scowling.

“And the wand, too. Thank you.” Potter said sternly, pulling out a wand from the depths of the boy’s sleeves. Draco sat up with a jolt- that was his. And he hadn’t even realised it was missing.

“Apologise to Mr Malfoy,” Potter said, hands on his hips. Draco eyed him curiously—it was a level of authority and disapproval he usually ascribed to Granger, not her unruly friends.

“Sorry,” Teddy mumbled. Draco, uncertain about the etiquette after being pickpocketed by a nine-year-old, simply nodded and took his wand back. Teddy fled.

On his way to leave, Potter looked curiously at the child in Narcissa’s lap; Draco realised it was the first time anyone from work besides his friends had properly seen his son.

“Mrs Malfoy.” He said politely, if somewhat awkwardly.

“Mr Potter,” his mother said smoothly. “How delightful to see you again.”

“This is Scorpius,” Draco said, miserably lacking his mother’s graces and sounding equally awkward as the other wizard. “From what I hear from Granger, he’s only a little younger than your Albus.”

Potter’s face warmed like the sun at the mention of his child. “He’s the spitting image of you, Malfoy,” he observed, Narcissa beamed with pride.

Potter shifted awkwardly on the spot. “Hermione mentioned that you urgently need someone to look after him tonight for a bit. While you…decide on your article.” His tone suggested he knew it was a massive fib but wasn’t about to call them out on it. “I’m happy to if you’re still stuck. I can put him down with Albus.”

Draco was flabbergasted but tried not to let it show. From the sharp kick to the ankles his mother gave, however, he was likely unsuccessful.

“Thank you, Potter. That’s… a kind offer,” he said hesitantly. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an ask, that would be great.”

Potter nodded, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Not a problem, mate.” (Draco couldn’t ever remember Potter calling him that. From the grimace on Potter’s face, he wasn’t sure of the taste of it either.)

“Dinner will be soon, too. Is there anything he can’t have?” Potter asked him slowly, and Draco shook his head.

“Whatever you can get him to eat is great, thanks. He’s rather picky, fair warning.”

Talking about his son’s dietary habits with his childhood arch-nemesis? This was absurd.

Potter nodded once more. Draco was dying for anything to break the awkward tension in the room. “Whenever you or Pansy or—” his eyes darted to Narcissa, still in the chair across from Draco, “your mum or whoever wants to come pick him up, they can pop through the Floo any time.”

Draco tried to let his extreme gratitude for Potter’s assistance show on his face. It was exceptional that he let people with such… complicated histories into his home—near his children—so generously. For the first time in a long while, Draco felt slightly humbled.

“Thank you, Potter,” he said quietly, scooping Scorpius up from his mother to pass him to the waiting wizard.

They made a striking sight- Scorpius sitting calmly in Potter’s arms, his pale, almost luminous skin contrasting sharply against Potter’s rich brown. Potter held himself very still as Scorp raised a small hand to touch the twice-cursed red scar that split Potter’s forehead in two with its many forked branches. Neither Draco nor his mother said a word as Potter tolerated it in gentle silence.

“I’m heading home now; Mione is just finishing up with something too.” Potter eventually said to Draco, turning to leave. “Mrs Malfoy, a pleasure.”

“Farewell, Mr Potter,” his mother said softly. They both watched as Potter slipped away down the Curse-breakers’ corridor, Draco’s son securely tucked to his side.

Draco took a big sip of his Firewhisky to try and displace the emptiness in his arms that his son’s absence had created. His mother turned in her chair to face him, Potter’s interruption brushed aside, her grey eyes flashing.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. Please tell me that boy I just saw wasn’t some secret child you had with Granger?”

His sip of Firewhisky went up his nose as he choked, the heat agonising as he gasped and spluttered, doing his best to try to breathe while splatters of his drink splashed on the table, sizzling the wood. His mother looked on impassively.

“Merlin’s balls- Mother!” He finally wheezed, “No!”

His mother sniffed at his language, and he caught sight of her disbelieving face. “I promise, Mum!” He managed to squeak out, voice embarrassingly high. His throat still burned like fuck. “Absolutely not!”

“Then how do you explain—” his mother looked up at the door as if worried Potter or Teddy would somehow suddenly pop back up. “That child?”

It was rather incriminating evidence, he had to admit. Even he hadn’t known what to think when he first saw the mini-metamorphmagus. A hidden love-child between him and Granger was not it, though.

“I’ve certainly had my…suspicions… about your ‘relationship’ with the Granger girl over the years,” his mother continued; Draco nearly choked again.

“There is no relationship,” he rasped, cutting her right off. That wasn’t an avenue he even wanted to get close to. “There’s never been a relationship, Mum.”

He caught his mother’s dubious look and sighed.

“I promise you, there is an explanation for the child- I just don’t know if you want to hear it.”

His mother’s eyes flashed sharply. “Tell me,” she said demandingly; Draco suddenly fumbled to find the right words.

“That child you saw… he’s a metamorphmagus.”

His mother’s eyes lit up in interest. “A rare skill indeed. Of course, plenty of Blacks used to have it—” she cut herself off, and Draco saw the realisation dawning in her eyes.

“Yes, erm.. that’s Nymphadora’s child. The one she had with the werewolf Lupin.”

“Andy’s grandson?” His mother whispered faintly; Draco saw any colour she had blanch out of her already pale cheeks.

“Yes.” He said quietly, knowing this was a no-go topic. “I only met him today, too.”

His mother pulled out a delicately embroidered handkerchief and held it to her face for a second. When she removed it, however, she was as composed as always.

“I must go,” she said quietly. “The meeting with the officer is at five. I shan’t be late- you know I despise that.”

She hurried out of the room, leaving before Draco could even peck her cheek goodbye. In silence, he awaited Granger’s return and pondered the next steps of their investigation—the full weight of the task Kingsley had assigned them bearing heavily on his shoulders. His office felt much colder without his family around.

The words of the creepy little girl in the visions the Source had shown them kept ringing through his head—and her talk of right and wrong choices. Draco couldn’t stop replaying her words or every scene she had shown repeatedly.

He groaned and pressed his hands against his eyes; speaking of choices, what the fuck had he been thinking instigating that bet with Granger in September- gambling away his whole career, and for what? A minute of gloating? He knew going in that he might lose to her work (as much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it)- and no matter how he paid them, no reputable academic institution would ever accept any of his research without the Ministry of Magic’s name attached. And how easily would he be able to maintain a good reputation as a Curse-breaker if he didn’t stay involved in the academic field? He might as well kiss goodbye to his whole career. And without his career, what hopes did he have in changing the Malfoy name?

He would have to send Pansy an owl and see if she could think of some way to wriggle out of it. Of course, it was a bit of a moot point if he and Granger failed to stop whatever was happening with the magical world- he couldn’t be a Curse-breaker if there weren’t any curses around to solve…

Draco’s brain ached. Did he and Granger really stand between their society and the loss of all their magical abilities? He had so many questions and few answers, but the one thing he knew was that there wasn’t any room for any more mistakes this time. Gods know he’d made more than his fair share.

His future would always be bleak and lonely- he’d known that for longer than he cared to admit. Astoria had been an unexpected, transient bright spot- streaking through his life like a comet, but in her absence, everything seemed darker than before. But his son’s future was another matter- there wasn’t anything Draco wouldn’t do to see him grow up and be happy and healthy. Magical ability wasn’t even a requirement- but there was little happiness to be seen in the path they were on. The newspaper Draco had picked up was dated the 1st of September 2017, the exact date that Scorpius would one day leave for Hogwarts… what kind of future would his son have if Draco failed?

And so he knew what the first choice he needed to make was—that this unnecessary animosity with Granger had to end, that the feelings about himself he’d carried around for so long needed to be put aside for good. Changing the future, making sure his son had the life Draco had once dreamt of having—that was all that really mattered.

It was time to accept that he would need both hands to change the future, and he couldn’t do that if he were still clinging to the past—no matter how scary letting go felt.

Morgana’s tits, personal growth was fucking terrifying. But for Scorpius’s sake, he needed to try.

Chapter Text

Granger returned shortly after (presumably) filling in yet another person on their ‘top secret’ case that seemed to be becoming more public knowledge with every hour that passed. He assumed Potter (and now Weasely) had been filled in on Black’s short-lived vacation in the Veil but nothing about their Minister-mandated collaboration. For now, it was just between himself, Granger and Kingsley. Good.

“Bad news,” she pessimistically announced, marching back into his office as if she co-habited it too. “I’ve heard from Percy Weasley, who heard from Kingsley’s P.A., that the Ministry team won’t be back until after breakfast tomorrow. Some filibuster is happening at their congress—we won’t have any way of speaking with him until then.”

“Bugger,” Draco said sourly, looking at the feast of information spread out on his desk. “We could rather do with him now.”

“Oh well,” Granger threw herself down in his chair. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the world will end quite that soon. This gives us a bit of time to talk through our plan. Where do we want to start? Skye?”

“I think so many signs are pointing us there,” Draco mused; Granger nodded along.

“Confirming if it is Death Magic or not would be very useful-”

“Maybe you could try to summon the Pictish witch,” Draco interrupted, “the remnant thing, whatever she was.”

Granger looked thrilled at the challenge. “The next question is how we’re going to get back to Skye without Apparation or the Floo,” she mused slowly. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy being accidentally trapped in an unknown dimension for all eternity. Magical transport might be off the cards for a while.”

Draco groaned in despair. A packet of thin files whacked down on his desk, and he looked at them curiously.

“I also asked Murray for information on that Source we went to,” Granger explained. “I’ve never heard of anything like it before- granted, the Seers’ offices have always been very stingy about sharing their information. But I wondered if maybe there were others.”

Draco sat up straight in his chair. “Other Sources? Is that a thing?”

Granger shrugged. “It makes sense- Ancient Magic has to come from somewhere, right? Murray didn’t know anything about any Sources. But think about it- if one for Time Magic exists, surely others do too?”

“And you managed to find some information?” Draco ran a thumbnail over the neatly labelled files.

“Murray pulled some strings,” Granger shrugged. “This got sent over from their colleagues at the Unspeakable team in Addis Ababa—one of the oldest institutions studying Ancient Magic is based there. If there’s any more information on Sources, they’ll have it.”

“Going to be honest with you, Granger,” Draco flung his head over the back of his chair. “I’m too fucking exhausted to learn anything more about Ancient Magic today. Can learning more about the vast mysteries of your field wait another twelve hours.”

“I guess it can,” Granger said, looking slightly disappointed- as if he was letting the team down by not wanting to break his brain with further abstract information. “We do need to talk about the next steps going forward, though.”

“Right,” Draco said resignedly. “What were you thinking?”

“I went over the missing persons cases,” she informed him, “and none of them happened to people travelling closer than twenty miles. So I think short-distance travel around London is safe. Getting further away from that then the disappearances increase exponentially, so that means-”

“No Apparation or Flooing to Skye,” Draco finished for her unhappily. “Portkeys?”

Granger shook her head. “I don’t think so—the travel time is just a bit longer. I feel there’s more time to get lost in the… in-between.”

“But no cases linked there?”

“No,” she told him stubbornly, “but I don’t intend to be the first.”

Draco couldn’t argue with that; Granger leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She looked exhausted, her olive skin unusually pallid, and her curly hair escaping her (rather mechanically-strained) hairclip and clustering over her shoulders lacked its usual life and lustre. He summoned her a cup of tea from the staff kitchens with a discrete memo that slipped out his door.

“Today has been the longest day ever,” she yawned. “Can’t wait for it to finish. This weird time-warp from the Source has really messed my internal clock up.”

Draco agreed. The day felt as if it had dragged on for years, and he supposed in some ways it had—while his body was the same age as it was this morning, his mind had been forced to relive, to experience, so much of his past. He felt a very different wizard from the one he had been walking into Theo’s office.

“Well done looking into all that,” he told her tiredly. “Good start.”

“Right,” Granger tried again, looking like she was half-asleep in his guest chair, “Skye.”

“I’d like to spend the night at the Manor after I pick Scorp up from Potter’s place,” Draco said hesitantly. “If we plan to return to Scotland, I’ll need to ask my parents to care for him for a few days. I don’t think it’ll be safe to bring him with us. I can settle him there tonight.”

He filled Granger in about Avery’s botched break-in attempt and his concerns about his family’s safety. He could see he wasn’t wrong to be worried from the way Granger’s brow furrowed as he voiced his concerns about the wards around the Manor possibly becoming compromised and what that could mean for any more potential attacks.

“And you don’t think your flat in London would be safer?” She asked seriously; Draco pondered that.

“No. My flat wards won’t come close to being as strong as the generational family magic wards,” he mused. “I did think of that, but I would rather he was home with my parents- my father still can’t leave the Manor, too, of course.”

Granger scowled at the mention of his father, so he decided no further conversation about either parent was a good idea.

“I’ll take the risk of Apparating there and return tomorrow morning. I want to ensure they’re all healthy before we go to Skye- for my own peace of mind.”

Granger looked at him thoughtfully. “I think Apparition is too dangerous, Malfoy. Would you be happy to risk it with your son?” She said quietly. “If you were to vanish like the others- as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t see myself solving this investigation alone.”

Draco almost reared back in shock, but Granger continued doggedly on.

“What about the Knight Bus?”

“No good,” Draco reminded her gloomily. “Read in the newspapers it hit a troll outside Birmingham. Their licence to operate has been suspended for a few months. Besides, isn’t that heavily dependent on Extension and Teleportation charms… Space Magic stuff?”

Granger scowled at that bit of news but relented. “I do understand your…concerns. So, I have a compromise. Why don’t I meet you at the Manor tomorrow?” She sighed grudgingly. “Brooms seem to be the safest form of travel- unless you have a tame Thestral you could whip out?”

She looked somewhat hopeful; he shook his head. “I don’t do flying mammals,” he informed her. “Not since that Hippogriff attacked me.”

He dutifully ignored her long-suffering look. “It was traumatic!” He protested.

“You hamming it up was traumatic,” Granger shot back; he ignored her again.

“When I checked the cases, none of the missing persons vanished mid-flight.” She looked at him assessingly. “And I guess you’re a skilled enough flyer to bring your broom down if it starts to act funny like you saw with the Harpies-”

“I am an excellent flier,” Draco reminded her gravely.

She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “I could leave London early after filling Kingsley in and meet you by the Manor. We can head to Skye from here. Will your parents be able to look after Scorpius until we get back? I would imagine that would be late next week.”

Draco nodded and pondered their updated schedule. It sounded like a decent plan, albeit a long one. Gods, he would miss his son—he had never been more than a Floo call away from him.

“This investigation is going to take much longer than we thought, isn’t it?” He groaned. “How will you get to the Manor? You wouldn’t be up to flying that far alone- would you?”

Granger made a tired noise of hummed agreement. “Give me a minute to figure that out. We’ll also need to come up with some sort of cover so people don’t look too much into our absences.”

He nodded; he’d also been thinking that. Granger groaned.

“I’m so tired- my brain hurts. I haven’t felt like this since before N.E.W.T.s.”

“Are you sure it’s not the Confidentiality Oaths kicking in now,” he asked, half-serious, and checked to see if she had any cerebral bleeding from any facial orifices just for good measure. Granger scoffed.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and they’ll get you too.”

“Merlin, let’s hope not.” Draco stretched in his chair. “Right. Alibis?”

“I’ve already told a few people that I’m going to be looking at a new source for my dissertation in the Bodleian,” Granger continued, “that’ll buy my abscence for a bit, I just need to find someone to cat-sit until I return. Luckily, Sirius is only scheduled to be discharged from St Mungo’s in early December-”

Her voice trailed off, and Draco got the impression she was speaking to herself more than to him.

“Good cover,” he told her approvingly. “I’ll need to think of an excuse too. Aren’t you and I supposed to be presenting at that Alchemy conference in two weeks? Maybe I’ll make something up for that.”

Granger groaned, “I don’t know why we have to pretend we’re not working together; it’s such hard work.” She huffed a breath. “Harry definitely knows something’s up. Ron, not so much, but he’s never been the most observant. But give it a bit more time, and they’ll figure it out soon.”

Draco knew his friends would quickly figure out their collaboration, too, and their indignant fury at being left out of the loop would be interminable.

“I can see why the Minister wants it kept a secret for now- you and I working together would raise many eyebrows, even outside academia.” He pointed out. “If someone’s behind causing all this magic to fail, we’ll need to be as subtle as possible. Such a public change to our relationship might be very noticeable from the outside- set off some alarms.”

“And whose fault might that be?” Granger asked sourly; Draco bit back an indignant flinch.

She wasn’t wrong- so much of their now rotten relationship was his fault. She knew it, he knew it. But she was hardly blameless- and he was starting to tire of them pretending like the toxic remnants of the good friendship they’d once had hadn’t been poisoned by some of her decisions post-Hogwarts, too.

Granger looked at him intently as the last bit of his sentence hit her. “You think someone could be behind this?”

“You don’t?” Draco challenged her. “You said it earlier- why now, after thousands of years, would magic begin to fail?

They thought about that idea in (if not companionable, then neutral) silence, interrupted only by Granger’s yawn.

“It’s been a massive day for us,” she said slowly, “and it’s only- Tempus- Christ, five-thirty. Let’s finish for today; we can start investigating things properly tomorrow. Do we have that list of questions we gave Kings?”

Draco passed a copy over. “You’re right- we should revisit these.” He agreed. “At least we have somewhat of an answer to number four.”

“Brilliant,” Granger said unenthusiastically, staring at his ceiling. “I love getting twenty-five per cent.”

She sat up with a start as her cup of tea bobbed in the room and shot Draco a grateful look.

“You do realise,” she pointed out, taking a sip, “that if you leave for Wiltshire tonight, you’ll miss out on the meeting with Kings.”

Draco had briefly considered that but quickly decided that getting his son to the safety of his family magic and (overprotective and lethally competent grandparents) took far greater priority than anything else.

“I know,” he said slowly. “You’ll have to speak to him on both of our behalves if you don’t mind.”

Granger arched a curious brow at him. “You trust me that much now, do you? To present such important information- probably the most important meeting Kingsley will ever have in his career, alone? You aren’t worried I might try and wrangle it to my benefit?”

Draco pondered that. This morning, he probably would’ve felt that way- but it hadn’t even crossed his mind after the events of the longest day in his life. However, the slight flush of shame he felt at ever feeling like that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Not anymore,” he said honestly. Granger gave him a small smile, but her eyes were brittle.

They sat in silence for a while, thinking over the missing holes in their plan. Draco nursed his drink unenthusiastically, and Granger sipped her tea.

“We could fly my Skysweeper together to Skye,” Draco suggested half-heartedly, “I promise I won’t let us fall.” He wasn’t too surprised when Granger gave a repulsed snort.

“Not a chance. You know how scared of heights I am, Malfoy. You wouldn’t catch me flying even if there was no risk our brooms wouldn’t stop working mid-flight. Absolutely not. No, we’ll have to travel like Muggles.”

Draco reared back in horror and wracked his brain, trying to remember his Muggle studies’ classes on transportation- it had been years since he’d needed to know this stuff.

“Using…carriages?” He asked tentatively.

“No, you twit.” Granger’s eye-roll was beyond scathing. “We could drive- I do have a car.” She paused. “But that’ll be like a half-day trip- and we’d have to take a ferry.”

Draco didn’t like the sound of that. “Won’t that upset the Fey?” He asked nervously, slightly relieved he’d packed those iron filings. Granger rolled her eyes again.

“A ferry,” she enunciated clearly like he was stupid. “Not a fairy- it’s a type of boat.”

Draco tried not to look petulant at the look of patronising pity she shot him—forgive him for not knowing the minute details of Muggle life in expert detail.

“I think a car is the best choice,” Granger said decisively, “It’ll be much slower, but then again, all types of Muggle transport are so much slower compared to magical ones, unfortunately, but it’s the safest. We could fly in a Muggle plane, but I don’t think you’d be up for that yet.”

Draco recalled their eager conversation years ago about how air-o-planes stayed aloft in the sky and their subsequent argument about broom aerodynamics and agreed with her gratefully.

“We don’t have any other way of travelling together, do we?” He asked desperately. Granger shook her head.

“You don’t have any House Elves we could pay to teleport us, do you?” She asked, incredibly unenthusiastically.

Draco shook his head, and Granger looked greatly relieved. “We do employ some-”

Her expression dropped very quickly, and she glowered at him furiously.

“But since they’re still tied to my father’s magic, and as he is bound to the Manor-”

“They can’t leave either,” Granger sighed, concluding for him; he nodded.

“Just so you know,” he said awkwardly, “that the few House Elves we have left work under the Domestic Magic Working Conditions Act you passed when you were still in the Beasts division. Those who wanted to stay get salaries, benefits, and time off. Everything you suggested, not just the bits that were enforced.”

Draco tried not to sound bitter. Granger’s time on Level Four was a very sore spot for him- another part of their murky past they hadn’t yet discussed. And personally, for that little chapter of their history, he felt she owed him a massive fucking apology. But he was patient- he could wait until she gave it unprompted. Merlin knew she’d offered him enough grace for his.

Granger looked terribly surprised.

“Are they really? I wouldn’t have thought…” Her voice trailed off. Draco looked at her to reassure her he wasn’t insulted by her assumption.

“I wouldn’t have thought that would’ve been a… priority for the Malfoy House.” She finished slowly.

“No…um… I agree with them,” he said awkwardly. “The working conditions you proposed.”

Granger now looked very shocked, dark brown brows high on her forehead. “I assumed… well, I remember how your father treated Dobby. I didn’t think you cared much about elves,” she muttered. Draco felt another suffocating wash of shame.

“I didn’t,” he admitted, eyes downcast. “But…then the House Elves came to fight at the battle for us…and Dobby saved you from Bellatrix- saved us all. If he hadn’t gotten Harry out…”

He shuddered, and his words trailed off. “In Azkaban, I realised very quickly there were lots of things I was wrong about,” he finally said quietly. “House Elves were one of them.”

Granger didn’t know what to say to that and steered the conversation away quickly.

“So..um..travel plans. Any ideas?”

“What about those hot-air things?” He seized the subject change desperately. “We saw those in Muggle studies, and I remember being terribly impressed by them. Could we not just hire one of those?”

“Blimps? You’re about a hundred years too late, sorry.” Granger told him, rather unsympathetically, “And we’re going for subtlety, remember?” She snorted. “I think you and I landing on a Scottish island with a blimp would be a bit noticeable.”

She eyed him apprasingly. “I don’t think you’re comfortable enough around Muggles to take a bus- and it’ll be a bloody long trip if we went by one.” She hummed thoughtfully. “There is the train too, that’s the fastest, but again lots of Muggles. There’s a tube station near one of the Ministry lifts. We could check on a map, I’m sure there would be a connection to-” She froze suddenly.

“Oh my fucking God.”

Draco’s heart raced in his chest. “What?” he snapped. “What- Granger?”

Without a word, the bushy-haired whirlwind leapt from her chair and raced out of his office; Draco was hot on her heels in a split second. He had enough presence of mind to grab his leather satchel before she vanished from sight around a corner- Gods, who would’ve thought the bookworm would be so athletic?

“Why are you running.” He snapped as she came to a furious stop by the closest lift. “Where are you going? Granger, answer me!”

She ignored him and jumped into the next lift that whizzed their way. Draco swore loudly and passionately and sprung in after her.

He grabbed her arm firmly. “You need to tell me what you’re thinking now, Granger.” He said sternly. “We’re a team now, remember?”

The excited haze cleared from her eyes. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “The drawing. Where’s Rachel’s drawing? I think I know what it is.”

As the lift stopped in a fellytone booth on the ground floor with a Muggle street surrounding them, he dug around his files for the odd drawing the creepy child-Seer had given them and thrust it over to Granger. She pulled them out of the telephone booth, and he watched as the lift sunk back into the Ministry below, and the Magical disguise replaced it. Granger pulled him to the side and started marching through the heavy crowds of people away from the Thames; Draco did his best to scramble after her.

Even though it was a drizzly autumn evening, London was heaving. Draco let the missioning witch lead him through the throng of people, some marching quickly on, others stopping wherever they wanted to take photos of themselves and the scenery. It was an unfamiliar chaos that quickly became almost overwhelming- the noise of the many Muggles chatting away, the honks of the loud, strange machinery that had him tensing instinctively, overlaid with nonstop music pulsing in the air- pouring faintly from restaurants, people busking on every corner, songs blaring from large metal boxes speeding past- it was almost intolerable.

Some rowdy drunk men, one wearing a tiara of all things, staggered close to them. Draco eyed them up assessingly. They didn’t seem a threat, but he closed the gap between himself and Granger, just in case.

It had been long since Draco had been out in Muggle London- and Granger made a very poor guide. He had forgotten how many Muggles there were- even on its busiest days, Diagon Alley wasn’t so crowded. But Granger was able to navigate them both up the road as easily as a minnow slipping through a river; annoyingly, she still hadn’t explained where they were going. She stopped in front of an ominous-looking staircase leading down into the ground; Draco hesitated slightly.

Without pause, she strode down the steps- refusing to let her go in alone without any backup, he followed unwillingly behind- the hot wave of stagnant air that washed over him as he descended deeper made it feel like he was entering the mouth of some great beast. The walls were starkly tiled, the sound of their footsteps echoing on the cold floor and joining the din of many others was overlaid by some growly rumbles from the corridor’s depths. Granger veered right as they entered a busy open room and pulled Draco away from the crowds of people clustered around them; a sign next to them informed Draco they were deep in the ‘Charing Cross Tube Station.’

“What the fuck are we doing here, Granger,” he hissed at her, trying to quash any sense of uneasiness he felt in such a foreign place. Merlin and Morgana, he was made of sterner stuff than this- he’d had a mummified crocodile-human hybrid try to garotte him with its linen bindings before. He could handle navigating whatever attempt at creating the underworld these Muggles had made.

“Look!” Granger breathed, pointing to some scribbly framed poster on the wall between bits of disgusting-looking pre-chewed gum. “I knew it looked familiar.”

She pulled out Rachel’s indecipherable drawing and held it up to compare. “Look, Malfoy! It’s a map!” She told him, her voice high-pitched in excitement. “It’s the national rail map!”

Draco peered at the piece of parchment, and as Granger rotated it slightly, he could see exactly what she meant.

“So all these dots are-”

“Train stations!” Granger concluded excitedly. “The lines connecting them are the tracks. It’s a drawing of the main Muggle train system throughout the U.K.”

Draco leaned forward in fascination. She was right; the markings lined up exactly. He watched with bated breath as she curiously traced her fingers over the map, focusing on the highlighted one in the corner.

“Look, this bit follows the Great Western Main Line, and the circle Rachel focused on would be….Swindon?”

Draco jolted in surprise and took the map from her to check himself.

She shot him a curious look. “Swindon isn’t too far from the Manor, is it?”

“Fifteen minutes or so by broom,” Draco agreed, brow furrowed in consternation. He wanted nothing linked to this investigation anywhere near his home. “But it’s mostly a Muggle city, though; I don’t think there are many registered Magical dwellings there. The closest proper Magical community would be the one in Burford.”

“How odd,’ Granger murmured. “Maybe we should flick through the case files and see if there’s any link to Swindon.”

Draco nodded and was much relieved when Hermione led him out of the eerie ‘toob’ station and back to the disguised Ministry lift, stopping briefly at Customer Services to buy a paper copy of the poster. They returned to his office, where Granger pulled out all sixteen shrunk boxes of case files she had packed in her briefcase earlier (“just in case I need any of them”) and, working together like a well-oiled machine, they unpacked them all out on Draco’s desk and over his floor.

“Can you pass me the-” Granger cut off as he passed Rachel’s map without needing to clarify. “Thanks.”

“How are we going to filter through all of these?” Draco asked despairingly, “there must be hundreds of cases to go through.”

“There’s a spell Madam Pince taught me in third year when I was spending loads of time in the library,” Granger said hesitantly. “It’s to filter books by specific keyword. I’ve used it a lot since then on loose papers. Do you have any chalk?”

Draco rummaged around in his pyramid set and pulled out a box he used to mark trapdoors; Granger crushed it to powder with a flick of her wand, dumped the pile on his desk, made some runic symbol in the centre of the pile, and, with a big huff, blew the chalk all over the piles of papers.

For a second, nothing happened, and then some of the many files began to glow a ruby red. Granger eagerly summoned them over to her.

“Fourteen files with the keyword ‘Swindon’,” she counted, “that’s not too bad.”

“Very nice spell,” Draco was thoroughly impressed. “Can you teach me that one sometime?”

“And give you another advantage in research?” Granger told him dryly. “I think not. Figure it out yourself.” She passed him half of them and started flipping through her stack.

“We only requested the most recent cases from the beginning of September to now,” he pointed out. “I say if there’s nothing in any of these, we should go down to the archives and repeat the spell. There will definitely be older ones that might be important.”

Granger nodded absent-mindedly. “Nothing in this one- just a Muggle who spotted a half-giant in the high street.”

Draco grabbed his files and returned to his desk chair. They spent a few silent minutes reviewing their respective cases, interspersed with occasional comments.

“Nose-biting teacup incident in this one-”

“Possible inferi sighting near the M4, don’t think that’s related, though.”

“Muggle-born six-year-old who had some accidental magic. Listen to this- on a rollercoaster! Don’t know what that is, but it sounds like they had to Obliviate nearly thirty people, though-”

“Ooh..maybe.. no, never mind. Just a werewolf attack in a park.”

As Draco reached the bottom of his pile, he felt rather despondent at their lack of success, but then Granger sat up very quickly.

“When date did you get called out to Skye?”

He looked up at her sharply. “Monday the 24th of September. Why? Have you found something?”

“Are you sure about that date?” She double-checked; he nodded.

“Yes. It was my first day back from paternity leave- I had to reply to about a hundred letters that day. Dated them all.”

Granger crouched beside him and slammed her final file on his desk. “Look. Here’s an incident report from the Friday before.”

She read the summary. “Aggravated assault. Involving the Cruciatus Curse used on a Muggle female jogger and potential attempted kidnapping. A Muggle-born saw it happen and called the D.M.L.E.” She glowered at the case file as if she could physically set the culprits on fire.

“I don’t think that bit’s relevant, though, poor woman. But get this, the area they were arrested in has ties to…a cult!”

Draco felt his interest peak and abandoned the rest of his last few reports. Granger pulled the rest of the case file open and spread the pages out in front of him; he took half, and she took the rest. His sections seemed more post-arrest admin than active reporting, but he still carefully reviewed every word.

“Not much information about the cult in here,” Granger mused after reading her first page. “This is just an incident report for the attack. But there should be a proper case file on it somewhere- look this note here says the Ministry has been keeping tabs on their presence in Wiltshire for nearly one hundred and fifty years!”

Draco felt his eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a well-established group if it’s been around for that long. The archive doesn’t close till later; we could probably still ask them to pull anything they might have on it. What’s the case number?”

Granger paged her way to the front and read it out to him while he jotted it down; he then sent a memo to the archive team to put aside any relevant documents connected to the case.

Draco listened as she read aloud a brief summary of the offenders—a Mr McTavish and Mr Henderson. He didn’t recognise either their names or faces from the mugshots included in the file.

“What happened to them?” He asked, flicking to his next page to see if he could find out; Granger had already read ahead in her pages and snorted in disgust.

“They were spotted by a patrolling Auror team and identified from the Squib’s description,” she flipped to the next section and scoffed. “They got busted after wearing some very un-Muggle capes in the local Tesco, subtle, and got brought in unconscious. Looks like they got physical with the officers- needed to be Stunned.”

“Classy.” Draco’s tone was dry; he was still busy trying to figure out what a ‘Tesco’ could be.

“The date of their arrest is listed as…” Granger flipped over some mugshots to check. “that Wednesday, the 26th of September. Hey! That’s the day we met in your office.”

(Draco remembered that day very well- it was burned into his memory. In much the same way that Granger’s magic was still burned into his very nice Italian suit).

“They were kept in custody in the Oxford D.M.L.E. holding cells but managed to escape a few hours later when…” Her voice pitched excitedly: “An unidentifiable group broke in to jailbreak one Darren Avery.”

She looked at him sharply, certainly recalling their recent conversation about the wizard. “Ex-Death Eaters, maybe? Rescuing their buddy?”

“Interesting,” Draco said softly, mind racing. “Wonder how they slipped away from the Aurors. Very incompetent. Someone should let Robards know.”

Granger flicked to the next page.

“The investigating Auror says here she didn’t think their escape was related, though; they just got lucky and took advantage of the chaos when someone let off a Bombarda.” She summarised for him. “But they weren’t under close observation; everyone thought they were both still unconscious. They didn’t get to question the men before they escaped, but they didn’t have any Dark Marks.” She eyed him tentatively. “At least the Aurors checked that. Do you, erm, recognise them?”

“No.” He said stiffly; she didn’t ask him any more questions

They flicked through the allocated papers independently. Granger, annoyingly, had a slightly faster reading speed than him, so when she reached the end of her bits and gasped again as dramatically as a regency debutante, he immediately dropped his pages and looked at her in alarm.

“This last bit is about the cult!” She said, words almost tripping over themselves in excitement. “Listen to this- so not only has the cult been linked to a few murders in the area for over one hundred years- but never with enough evidence to convict them of anything, unfortunately. But their practices also revolve around death- that’s what they worship!”

“What?” Draco snatched the paper from her and raced to catch up to her bit.

“Not just ordinary murders, it seems,” he pointed out to her after a minute of reading and flipped to a paragraph that had jumped out towards the end of his documents. “My section here includes suspicious ties to some Muggles who were ritually sacrificed in the 60s, too.”

“We need to find the file on the cult tonight, too,” Granger said determinedly, “and add it to our evidence pile.”

He nodded absently in agreement, still paging through the rest of the assault file, and paused to scribble another request memo for the archive.

“Any information in your bits about what happened to the Muggle woman? It might be worth finding out.”

“I agree. Listen to this,” Granger said hurriedly, “Mr McTavish said to his arresting Auror they- and I quote ‘worship a power you fools will never comprehend.’ I’m assuming this was before he was knocked out. Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

“I know a fair bit about cults,” Draco said, still flicking through the last few pages. “In theory, that is. As a general rule, cults and curses often go hand-in-hand. I’ve never heard of one obsessed with death before.”

“What if it’s not just death?” Granger said uneasily. He looked at her sharply; she looked a little pale. “What if it’s Death Magic?” she added.

Draco felt a flicker of alarm- and knew instinctively they were on to something.

“That could well be possible,” he said slowly. “And it would make sense for a cult who worships Death Magic to be based at the site of a large pool of Ancient Magic.”

“But they’re not, though,” Granger looked confused and pulled out Miriam’s map to check. “There doesn’t seem to be any Ancient Magic hotspots marked on this map in Swindon.”

Draco dragged a slow finger south on the map and heard Granger’s breath catch in realisation.

“I think Swindon’s just where they’re sourcing their victims- look, there’s a huge pool of Ancient Magic very close by,” he said grimly, “see this hotspot. It’s huge- and sits right underneath our oldest, magical burial site in Wizarding Britain.”

Granger pulled the map from his grasp and stared at it with collected concentration- Draco could see the dots connecting in her eyes.

He looked at her meaningfully. “What better location for a Death Magic cult to perform sacrifices than a Neolithic magical graveyard built over such a big site of Ancient Magic?”

“Stonehenge,” Granger breathed, tapping the label on the map thoughtfully. “What do you think this means?”

“I think we’ve got a lead,” Draco told her, the first stirrings of hope hitting him. “For the first time in this case, we’ve got a string to follow.”

He couldn’t help the way his shoulders dropped in relief. Finally, they had something.

“I say we have a quick stop-over at Stonehenge tomorrow before we head to Skye,” he suggested. “Just to see if there’s anything we can find. It’s worth a visit there first before we head north- it’s so close to the Manor anyway.”

Draco also hated the thought of an established cult so close to his family; he wanted to fly over right now and scorch the whole thing off the face of the earth.

“Do you think it’s worth requesting an Auror team to come out with us for extra security?” Granger asked worriedly. Draco thought about it.

“I don’t think so,” he finally decided. “We’re only investigating, you and I. If we bring a whole Auror squad, we can say goodbye to any discretion we will undoubtedly need. We might spook the cult and risk losing any leads or evidence we might find.”

He looked at Granger assessingly. “Besides, it’s not like I think we can’t handle ourselves. I know Mad-eye Moody taught you lot to duel in fifth year, and my combative magic is pretty decent after my time in the field. We’re not formally trained- but we’re not defenceless.”

Granger considered that. “I think it’s a good idea nonetheless,” she finally suggested seriously, “for me to fill Kinglsey in on our plan, and if he doesn’t hear from us by, say, the next morning, then Auror team can come in, wands blazing.”

That sounded like an acceptable compromise to Draco, and he nodded.

“I really hope it doesn’t come to that- Potter and Weasely might actually just murder me for putting you in that much danger.”

Grange put her hands on her hips and looked at him firmly. “I’m putting myself in danger, thank you very much,” she told him sharply. “If Harry and Ron think otherwise, I’ll deal with them myself.”

“Do you promise? Honestly, I’m more worried about the She-Weasel, personally.”

Granger made an amused scoff. “Sounds like we’ve got a pretty good plan,” she said quietly. “It might be a small string, but at least it’s something.”

She jumped to her feet. “I’m off to St Mungo’s- would like to see Sirius before I leave.”

She grimaced; Draco could tell she was still feeling horrible about dropping him to the ground like a sack of Doxies.

“Then I’ll head home and get everything I might need ready.”

“And some sleep,” Draco said, still looking at her washed-out appearance. He didn’t feel in a position to criticise, though; he imagined he probably looked much the same.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the Manor,” Granger continued. “I can look at the wards too if you want. See what they look like, or if there’s any areas you need to be worried about.”

“Great,” he said; having some plan in place was bloody relieving. “I’ll head to the archives quickly tonight to pull any case files on record about that cult—we can read through them tomorrow on the trip down there. Then I’ll pop by Potter’s and grab Scorp. I’ll meet you outside the Manor gates tomorrow.”

She tapped her nails thoughtfully on her arm. “Send me a paper map, won’t you? I don’t think I’ll be able to find the Manor with my G.P.S.”

He nodded and made a note to charm a map to find her once she hit the Manor wards—that would easily lead her to the entrance gates. The last part of her sentence registered with a jolt—like a fool, he hadn’t once stopped to think what returning to the Manor might feel like for her.

“Wait, Granger,” Draco stopped her before she could leave his office altogether. “I…understand going back…there…will be difficult for you. Thank you for being willing to do this- I didn’t expect it at all.”

The full realisation of what it might mean for Granger to return to his family seat hit him, and he floundered, trying to express his overwhelming gratitude—once again, he felt overwhelmingly humbled.

“Having the resident expert on Ancient Magic check over my family wards- to help ensure the safety of my family… Well, I…greatly appreciate it. More than I can express. Thank you.”

Granger’s curly hair bobbing as she curtly nodded was his only reply.

“I won’t lie and say I am happy to return…there,” she said harshly, any excitement gone. “Know I’m not doing this for you- it’s for Scorpius’s sake more than anything. I…I’d feel terrible if anything happened to him.”

She didn’t bother with any further pleasantries and slipped out of his office, back to her own, before Draco could even blink. Now, with his office almost ominously silent after the barrage of visitors, he finally could contemplate the dangers that faced them while packing the rest of his bag. Forget the Fey, the demon—this was something new…something uncharted.

Ancient Magic and death cults? Draco was almost excited- this would make a hell of an article later.

Chapter Text

Hermione returned to her flat and spent an hour or so methodically packing up her battered travel trunk for anything she might need for a trek across Wiltshire, then to Scotland and back. Her list of items seemed endless- a field medic kit, her yet-unnamed magical activity readers, numerous books, all the relevant files pertaining to her and Malfoy’s investigation, a full stationery set plus numerous notebooks, and several changes of outfits. However, by the time she was folding her ninth pair of knickers, it dawned on her that she might be overpacking. But, she reasoned, one never knew what to expect breaking into a death cult, so for good measure, she packed a tenth. She also made sure she had enough cat food, kitty litter and Crooks’s heart meds before leaving- a very nice Squib girl would be housesitting for the next week or so just to earn a little money and Crookshanks’s large size (and annoying habit of walking himself through her flat walls) would be hard for even the most oblivious of Muggle catsitters to ignore.

A loud meow cut into her musings, and she turned to see Crookshanks making himself comfortable on top of her open trunk, eyeing all of her scattered belongings shoved into it with great disdain as if he could’ve packed better, bushy tail flicking in extreme irritation.

“Off Crooksie,” she crooned, reaching down to rub his ginormous orange head; he flicked one large tufted ear at her dismissively and opened his mouth for a vehement hiss when she went in for a second attempt. He hated it when she went away for work trips and would treat her with frigid silence and minimal affection on her return- in fact, he had only just defrosted after her trip to France, despite it being three months since she came back. Another trip away was evidently pushing him past his breaking point of feline tolerance.

“I can’t take you with me, darling boy,” she murmured, running her nails under his chin to get to his favourite scratchy spot. “It might be dangerous. Besides, Malf-”

Before she could finish the word, Crookshankis retched and deposited a nice pile of his dinner on her hastily folded clothes without breaking eye contact. He shot it an almost impressed glance, then sauntered off through her bedroom wall, fluffy tail held high to sulk in her kitchen cabinets for the rest of the night, a favourite pastime of his whenever he felt slightly miffed. Hermione bit back a groan of disgust and reached for her wand to clean it- there went knickers number three. She replaced it- just in case.

Twenty minutes later, she left her flat, giving her potplants one last water and murmured words of encouragement to continue growing well in her absence. Thank God Neville was happy to keep an eye on them for her- the last time Theo had cheerfully agreed to plant-sit during her visit to Ethiopia, she had returned to a mass-extinction event upon her return.

Deciding not to risk magical transport, Hermione took a taxi to Grimmauld Place. She’d been meaning to pop in to check on Ginny anyway (suffering from atrocious morning sickness, according to Harry). She wanted someone in her friendship circle (ideally the one with the biggest penchant for gossip) to spread the word about where she would be for the next week. The Muggle taxi driver looked a bit bewildered as he deposited her in front of Number 11, but a ten-pound tip had him distracted, a hastily ‘G’night love’ barely audible as she closed the car door shut and watched as Number 12 appeared in front of her, with its usual crunch of bricks and faint screech of twisting metal.

Grimmauld Place was as cold and draughty as always, the November winds whistling under the front door and down the passage. Hermione dodged to the side as a framed photo of Remus and Tonks crashed to the floor, missing her head by centimeters; the walls gave an almost disappointed rumble that the picture hadn’t hit her. She fixed the shattered glass and hung it back up with a sigh- this bloody house, she didn’t remember it being this problematic when they lived here in fifth year. The house was quiet, almost suspiciously so, and residual stress had Hermione’s heart racing and fingers tight around her wand as she walked into the foyer, tripping over the entrance carpet that spontaneously writhed under her feet and nearly dumped her flat on her face.

A quick Homenum revelio found Ginny in the kitchen, moodily trimming her spare racing broom, an empty mixing bowl strategically placed within arms’ reach. Ginny barely looked up when she slipped into the kitchen as if mere motion might trigger some nausea, and Hermione gave her a look of pure sympathy that went promptly unseen.

“Alright, Gin?” She asked kindly. “Can I make you a cuppa?”

“Please,” Ginny groaned, waving a hand weakly. “Help yourself. I just boiled the kettle. Don’t want to get up.”

Hermione glanced at her, noting how sharply Ginny’s freckles stood against her paler-than-normal skin. “How are you feeling?” She murmured, placing a hand on Ginny’s arm. Her friend leant into the touch gratefully.

“This pregnancy is kicking my arse,” Ginny muttered. “I’ve only just finished my first trimester- I’m sick of being pregnant already.”

While their tea was steeping, Hermione grabbed a tea towel and dampened it with a little stream of icy water from her wand. Ginny’s sigh of relief as she pressed it to her forehead then the back of her neck had Hermione smiling slightly. She charmed it to remain in place while she fixed the tea, grabbing a packet of Jammie Dodgers for good measure.

“How did your last check go?” She placed a steaming cup of Rooibos with a bit of honey mixed in the way Gin liked it down on the table and grabbed her own cup of Earl Grey. “Any…updates?”

“Fine. We didn’t want to find out the gender.” Ginny shot her a pointed look, knowing exactly what Hermione had just been about to ask.

“Your choice or Harry’s?” Hermione took a deep sip of her tea and grabbed a sticky biscuit, passing one over to Ginny. Ginny’s nose wrinkled as if Hermione had passed over a bag of dirty kitty litter, so she pulled it back quickly.

“Harry’s,” Ginny confirmed. “He wants to leave this one a surprise. He hasn’t said anything- keeps on saying he’s happy just to have a healthy child, but I know he’s desperate to have a daughter.”

Hermione shot her a knowing look. “What do you think? You were dead-on for the last two.”

A little smile crossed Ginny’s face. “I think it’s a girl.” She looked slightly despairing. “And if she’s as much trouble in the future as she’s causing me now, then we’re in for a handful and a half.”

Hermione couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face at the idea of a girl-Potter- finally. Between Harry and the Weasleys, she would be spoiled rotten.

“Have you been thinking names?” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. Ginny’s face lit up, turning nearly unbearably lovely in her happiness, and she opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by a little shuffling noise from outside the kitchen.

“Mummy?” A little voice peeped from the corridor; Hermione and Ginny both turned to look. “Mummy, I can’t sleep!”

James stood in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the gentle light, blinking up at them with large brown eyes and clutching his stuffed lynx, his inseparable sleeping buddy. That had been a birthday gift from Victor Krum, who had remained close friends with Hermione (and Ron and Harry by extension) and would occasionally pop to the UK bearing presents for the assorted Potter-Weasley children like a muscular Slavic Father Christmas.

“I’m not tired,” he whined plaintively. Hermione saw Ginny heave herself up, promptly gag the sudden movement, so put a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder, pushing her back in her chair.

“I’ll get him to bed,” she told her quietly. “Finish your tea.”

Her friend shot her a grateful look. “Fair warning, Teddy’s in his usual room, too. He’s not feeling so well, so I put him to bed early.” Ginny looked despairing. “The boys have been letting magic off all evening- they’ve been driving me mental! Teddy exploded his bottle of cough syrup; James didn’t like his dinner, so he stuck it to the ceiling-”

Ginny looked terribly unamused at Hermione’s muffled snort of laughter.

“And Albus won’t stay in his crib. Every time I tried to put him down, he somehow moved himself back to baby Malfoy’s cot. I made Harry deal with them all before he left.”

“Scorpius is still here?” Hermione hissed in surprise. It was now close to 9 pm- she would’ve thought Malfoy would’ve fetched his son by now. “Where’s Harry?”

Ginny nodded. “Yeah. It’s a full house. You just missed Remus as well- he came to check on Teddy. Harry wanted to visit Sirius after the Healers’ evening rounds; he said he’d be back soon. They left together.” She scowled. “I’m assuming you know all about Sirius coming back-”

“Top secret, sorry.” Hermione interrupted.

“The mini-ferret was a surprise,” Ginny finished and shot a glower upstairs as if it would land on Malfoy by proxy of his son. “But Harry offered, and I’m not going to turn away such a little child- I’m not a complete monster. He’s up in nursery in a spare cot- Albus with him, I assume.”

“Mummy!” James wailed pathetically again, still waiting alone. Hermione winced- whoops. She hadn’t intended to forget about him.

“Come, love.” She murmured to James, walking over to pick him up; his face brightened at seeing his godmother. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” James repeated stubbornly but settled his head against her shoulder and let her carry him upstairs without further complaint. By the time Hermione had reached the nursery, James was fast asleep, drooling against her neck.

She settled him down in his little bed without issue and stuck her head through the connecting door to check on Teddy. He was fast asleep, mouth wide open, and hair cycling through the rainbow as he dreamed, but the skin of his forehead finally felt nice and cool, at least.

Albus’s nursery was the room on the end, and when Hermione looked in there quickly, she was struck at the sight of Albus and Scorpius curled up together in the cot, like little kittens. Albus had a tight fist gripping Scorpius’s blanket as if not letting him get too far away, and Scorpius was asleep facing him, like a flower turning to the sun. It was beyond endearing. At the sound of the door creaking open, Albus shifted a little, and Hermione crept closer to soothe him, getting his heavy lids to close before he woke up properly. Scorpius fussed a bit too, wriggling and twitching, which came close to settling Albus off again (the only light sleeper in the family- the rest passed out like piglets), and only settled after Hermione (very hesitantly- this wasn’t her child after all,) stroked a gentle hand over his head, internally marvelling at his soft fluffy white hair, like spun silk.

The murmur of soft voices from the first floor caught her attention, and she slipped out of the nursery, quietly making her way down the staircase. The familiar raspy pitch of Ginny’s voice was unmistakable, but it was the deeper voice rumbling through the air, so quiet she couldn’t quite make out what was being said, that gripped her attention immediately. Malfoy was finally here for Scorpius.

For some reason (she couldn’t quite explain why), she didn’t want Malfoy to know she was there…. She wanted to see him, observe him, in some odd voyeuristic way, without the reciprocation of being watched back.

Tucking herself behind the ornate archway entrance to the second floor, hidden in the black depths of the unlit corridor, Hermione watched as Malfoy strode from the front passage, broom in hand, escorted by Ginny. They had a minute of inaudible conversation, Ginny’s face slightly unfriendly, Malfoy’s warmer than she thought he’d even looked at a Weasley before- looking almost…grateful; then he nodded sharply and started heading upstairs. Much to Hermione’s surprise, Ginny didn’t accompany him; eyes fixed on Malfoy, she caught a flash of copper as Ginny slipped past the staircase, presumably back to the kitchen.

She pressed deeper into the shadows obscuring her and watched silently as Malfoy strode up the first flight of steps, approaching the second-floor landing, now only meters away from where she stood hidden. Her breath caught in her lungs as he froze mid-step, close enough for her to reach out and touch the seams of his cloak should she want. He gazed unseeingly into the depths of the dark corridor- even though she knew there was no way he could see her, she still held her breath and kept, then watched as he vanished upstairs, jaw tight, brows furrowed with an unreadable look on his face.

She silently left, too, grimacing as the stairs down seemed to creak even louder than usual, and made her out of the front door, summoning down another taxi and (half-heartedly participating in conversation with the driver) her way to the hospital. Harry wasn’t the only one worried about Sirius. And besides, she had other matters to attend to there as well- she might as well get it over and done with.

The trip to St Mungo’s took quite a while with the (still busy) London traffic, and Hermione gratefully leapt out of the taxi door and tossed quick thanks behind her to the driver. She watched as the facade of a run-down department store, Purge and Dowse Ltd., which disguised the entrance to the hospital, flickered away as she passed through the concealment wards and strode in through the familiar front door and made her way past the reception to the stairs leading up to the floors above.

“Wait!” A trainee witch called out. “Sorry, Ma’am, you need to sign into reception and get a visitor’s badge!”

Matilda Thatcher, the oldest receptionist there (and the unofficial manager of the whole hospital), elbowed the teenager and clucked her tongue. She shot Hermione an apologetic look.

“Miss Granger comes here more often than some of the Healers,” she snapped at the young witch, “no registration needed for her.”

The young witch gave her a meek look, which Hermione returned with a smile to show there were no hard feelings. Then, she made her way upstairs to the Janus Thickey ward on the fourth floor.

St Mungo’s didn’t have the dull, dated and depressing ambience it had been when they’d visited Arthur Weasley- since she left Hogwarts, the entire hospital had been redone in warm tones, wooden panelling, state-of-the-art equipment, and enough Renaissance-type paintings to fill the National Gallery. (At the expense of some nineteen million galleons, some gossipy admin staff once told her gleefully). Where St Mungo’s had pulled the funding from, she couldn’t imagine- if only her work were as easy to source money for, but given the number of patients the hospital dealt with, many still long-term residents from the war, almost every single Magical family had some connection to the hospital. And so, some motivation to keep it well-funded, presumably.

She made her way to the fourth floor (Spell Damage)- now the biggest floor in the hospital by far (thanks to the still-reaching effects of the war and the casual violence that had been so easily committed on the general resisting population and unfortunate Muggles caught in the cross-hairs), and turned right at the corridor leading to Ward 49- the Janus Thickey Ward for triage and long-term patients. This was where she’d been told Sirius had been admitted- where she’d find him with Harry and Remus.

She’d been friends with Harry for so long it felt like she could find him on instinct, like a pigeon returning home without guidance, so she let her feet take her down the corridor, past all tidily numbered patient rooms, until she came to a stop out a non-descript door, hearing the rumble of familiar voices coming through it- Remus and Harry. She cracked the door and slipped through, eying up the scene and nodding at the two wizards who turned to greet her. Harry looked tired but nowhere close to Remus- the older wizard looked exhausted, deep lines of stress carved into his forehead and a faint stubble shadowing his jaw. She noticed he’d pulled his cane out at some point in the day, too- he’d been hit by a very nasty curse in the Battle for Hogwarts, which had shattered his pelvis so badly that repairing it fully, even with healing charms and Skele-Gro, wasn’t possible. That, combined with his monthly transformations (which, she’d heard from Andromeda, were putting more and more strain on his body with every passing month), meant that even walking short distances was often very painful.

“How’s Teddy?” Remus muttered immediately at the sight of her, looking like a weight had been taken off his chest at her more positive update. He almost smiled at Hermione’s description of James’s tantrum- they all knew Teddy had been ten times worse. Harry looked less amused at the reminder of his son’s antics.

Hermione’s attention was drawn to the unmoving, bared-chested wizard tucked in the bed, diagnostic charms still running above him- who, much to her surprise, not only looked stable but… remarkably… better?

Sirius had received evident medical care throughout the day. However, it was more than that- even though he was still underweight (never entirely losing his post-Azkaban gauntness), he looked healthier… somehow less skeletal. The dark bags under his eyes, which had plagued him in the time she’d known him, were gone, his hair glossier, gentle curls trailing over his high cheekbones and straight nose. His skin was more luminous, his tattoos now standing proudly against his pearly-white skin. Most of his body covered by a sheet, Hermione lost count after eight, but suspected there were many more. The most obvious ones she could see were the runes over his knuckles (Anglo-Frisian?), a familiar Azkaban tattoo running behind his ear and down the side of his neck, a delicate phoenix over his sternum (which rearranged its feathers and flittered over his shoulder under Hemione’s gaze), something written in what she was sure was Hindi over his left breast, encircled by what she thought were antlers, and what looked like the Leo constellation below his ribs, almost hidden away.

He didn’t have quite the same haughty, regal beauty he’d once possessed in the photos she’d seen of him before the first war, but he looked vastly different to the almost-feral wizard who’d fallen into the Veil.

A pointed cough from Remus pulled her attention away from her intense scrutiny (she had moved on to examine what looked like thin purple scars on the inside of his left arm, mostly obscured by the sheet), and she almost blushed at the rather defensive look the older wizard was sending her.

“He looks…better than I expected,” Hermione said, her surprise obvious. Harry nodded in agreement; Remus confirmed her suspicions.

“The Healers managed to rectify some of his older injuries,” he muttered. “Nutritional deficits, too.”

Hermione nodded. They hadn’t had a qualified Healer as part of the Order during the war. Hestia Jones and her field medic training were the next best thing, but she didn’t have close to the skills required to correct that much magical and physical depletion as a consequence of such a long Azkaban stay. No wonder Sirius was looking much better already- now that he’d finally gotten the medical care he’d needed after thirteen years of hell.

“And his recovery?” She asked; Remus exhaled in slight relief.

“Almost guaranteed.” He told her, “He’s still in a magical coma but keeps fighting it—the Healers warned he might even wake up briefly tonight.”

“As stubborn as ever,” Harry muttered, and Hermione noticed he pulled his glasses off quickly to wipe over his eyes. He sighed as she went over to give a hug, and plopped himself down on the Conjured couch pressed against the wall, closing his eyes as his head rested on the back- Hermione joined him and after a few silent minutes she was pretty sure he had dozed off.

“Does Andy know yet?” She muttered to Remus- she knew the Tonks matriarch and her cousin had been very close once as children. Much to Andromeda’s grief, they hadn’t had much time together before Sirius’s death. Absence?? Hermione didn’t know how to describe it now.

“Not yet,” Remus replied. “I don’t quite know how to tell her.” He grimaced. “I’m a bit worried about her heart- it’s been acting up a bit. Some of her favourite spells are quite a strain for her now. But, she’ll be pissed if she finds out later and we didn’t tell her.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh and stretched out on the couch, making sure not to disturb Harry. “Rather you than me,” she muttered. “Glad she’s not my mother-in-law.”

Remus shot her a wry look. Andy’s initial opposition to his and her daughter’s relationship was well-known, but she had mellowed (as much as a Black family member could) in the years since then. Teddy was probably the deciding factor.

“You’re still happy for Sirius to stay with you?” Remus finally asked; she nodded firmly

“Not a problem. I just won’t be in London this week- but I don’t think there’s a chance he’ll be out before then.” She paused and gave Remus a brief summary of her cover story. She knew he knew she was likely lying- but figured it was best to stick to the secrecy plan for now. Kinglsey would call him in soon to debrief him on everything- it was only a matter of time before Teddy ran his mouth.

“Any more clarification on when he’ll be discharged?” She pressed.

Remus shook his head. “Just that it won’t be soon; of course, it all depends on how he is when he wakes up.” He grimaced. “Also, depending if there’s any….damage, mentally, from his time in the Veil.”

Hermione gazed at the unconscious wizard half in wonder. “What an extraordinary case this is,” she whispered. “This could change everything we think we know about the Veil or the Otherworld. ”

For the first time ever, Remus looked like he didn’t quite share her enthusiasm for exploring the unknown, and she felt a flash of guilt at her lack of tact. But it quickly vanished as Sirius shifted on the bed; she and Remus froze. Harry was still fast asleep, glasses askew and mouth open; she didn’t have the heart to wake him.

Sirius moved again, rolling over to face Harry. Ever so slowly, thickly lashed grey eyes (a very familiar shade) fluttered open. Hermione and Remus held their breath.

“Ja…mie…” Sirius slurred, trying to reach forward. The effort, apparently, was too much, and he fell deep into unconsciousness again, his hand still stretched towards Harry. Remus looked pained.

“I’m going to grab a nurse,” he muttered. Hermione nodded.

“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on him.”

Sirius didn’t move or speak again, in fact she was sure he had slipped back into his deep coma. But her visit made her feel much more optimistic about his chances of recovery- she now fully believed he could pull through this. It had always been easy to forget that under his charismatic facade and genial casualness, he was a wizard of remarkable magical ability, dangerously clever mind, and (thanks to his childhood growing up in a notoriously powerful Dark family) rather varied knowledge. If anyone was a fighter- it was Sirius Black.

Remus returned with a cohort of nurses and Healers, and Hermione decided it was time to give them some space to work. Harry woke up (scolded them both briefly for letting him fall asleep) and rushed off to get back to Ginny. After giving Remus an affectionate parting hug, she followed suit.

She left the Janus Thickey Ward behind her, paused briefly at the stairs down to reception, but made up her mind and turned right instead, heading to Ward 50- the Lethe Ward. She hadn’t managed to visit since her return from Europe (Christ, over two months already), but knew she couldn’t put it off any longer.

Entering the Lethe Ward (Magical Memory Modification Management, the sign on the door somewhat inarticulately informed her), she turned right and walked past almost endless rooms to room number 4-362. She peeked carefully through a crack in the door.

She gazed upon a small but meticulously maintained apartment- like many London studios, it was mostly all open plan, with a bedroom and bathroom hidden away, but unlike many flats in England, it had one wall enchanted to show a tropical seascape in the distance (complete with lapping waves and the occasional seagull cry) with a small lounge set overlooking it, the flat’s occupants not yet in bed. The man inside was snoozing on a couch already, but the woman was knitting by the window overlooking the beach, gazing vacantly through it. Hermione’s breath caught.

“Hi, Mum. Hi Dad,” she breathed.

She watched her parents in silence for a few minutes, eyes raking over the new grey hairs in her father’s thick chestnut curls (so similar to her own) and the way her mother’s hands shook ever so slightly as she unrolled her wool, utterly unaware of her presence, lost in her little world as she sometimes did. Only when Hermione accidentally leant too far forward, and the door slightly creaked open, did her mother look up.

Her eyes landed on Hermione, and she bit back the familiar pinch of disappointment and instinctive hurt when her mother showed no signs of recollection at the sight of her daughter in the doorway. It didn’t matter that it had been over ten years since their Oblivion; her parents’ looking at her with no sense of recognition was as painful as it was the first time.

“Hello dear,” her mother said, beaming at her. “Are you looking for someone?” She looked around the room, eyes furrowed in bemusement but lit up at the sight of her sleeping husband.

“Look, Wendell!” She nudged him awake. “We have company.” She gazed around them again, eyes growing a bit more frantic.

“Where are we, Wendell? Do you know?” A tinge of panic entered her voice. “Wendell!”

Hermione’s father sat up quickly and grabbed his wife’s hand. She saw him look at her curiously and fumble for his glasses before getting to his feet. He, too, looked very alarmed at her presence in their doorway, and his eyes raked over the living room as if seeing it for the first time.

“I just came…” Hermione said, thoughts racing as she fumbled for an excuse, anything to stop the distress crossing her parents’ faces. “I came to…ask you about your knitting,” she rushed out, exhaling in relief as her mother’s attention was successfully diverted, and she beamed as she proudly showed off her meticulously tidy work.

“I’m making hats,” she told Hermione happily. “For my daughter.”

“She said her friends at school needed them,” her father cut in from behind them. Hermione tried not to jolt as he pulled out a cardboard box filled with many more—twenty at least—and showed them off to her.

“How lovely,” she said quietly. “I’m sure your daughter will appreciate it very much.”

Her throat burned something terribly, and she tried not to let her bitter grief show. Unfortunately, her mother, possessing some deep maternal instinct not even the strongest of Memory Charms could erase, quickly picked up on it.

“It’ll be alright, duck,” she crooned warmly, placing a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Wendell, won’t you make her a cup of tea?”

Her father nodded enthusiastically. “Earl Grey with two sugars. That should do it,” he told her firmly. It perks our daughter right up.” He paused, and another look of uncertain confusion flashed over him again.

“I know your face,” he breathed and reached a hand out to gently touch one of the curls (so similar to his own) hanging down by her cheeks. “I know you.” He pulled back and looked at her sharply, all paternal warmth now gone. “But I don’t know you. Who are you?”

Her father’s eyes widened again as he looked around them at their fake apartment. “Monica, where are we?”

Her mother pulled back from Hermione as if burned and turned to face her husband. “That’s not… That’s not my name!” She wailed. “My name…” she paused, and heavy grief tore her face as she struggled to recall, fighting furiously for her memories.

“I don’t know what my name is,” she cried and burst into loud sobs. Hermione’s father looked equally disturbed next to her, face wracked in thought, reaching for memories slipping out of reach like fish.

Hermione knew they were past the point of no return now and surreptitiously reached into her sleeves to summon the Healing staff. This proved a mistake, as at the sight of a wand, her mother let loose a loud shriek that echoed down the corridor.

“No! Get away!” she screamed. Hermione backed away instantly. Her father jumped up, bellowing in anger.

“Get out! Leave us alone!”

She backed away quickly, half-formed apologies and explanations tumbling from her lips, but nothing she said made a difference. Her mother continued screaming, her father’s booming voice shouting over, too. It was only when the Healing team came rushing in and managed to cast some strong sedation spells (her parents’ distress increasing at the sight of the magic being performed) that they finally stopped their panic, slipping gently into a magical-induced sleep.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, feeling rather shaken, and turned to the Healing staff. Her eyes burned, and her throat ached. She shrugged it off and tried not to look close to crying in front of the lot of them. “I didn’t realise they would be so bad tonight.”

“It’s alright, Hermione,” one of the older Mediwitches said comfortingly and gave her a brief hug. “They haven’t had an upset like this in a while. I guess we all thought…”

She left the rest unsaid—the ludicrously hopeful idea that Brian and Helen Granger might, even after ten years of minimal improvement, spontaneously start to recall their prior lives before their daughter purged everything they loved from their brains.

“Yeah,” Hermione said dully. “I thought so, too.”

“Look on the bright side, love,” one of the Mediwizards pointed out, soundlessly closing the door behind them as they traipsed out of the apartment. “At least they remember they have a daughter. They didn’t know that in January.”

Hermione appreciated their forced optimism and nodded.

“Besides,” the first Mediwitch added, “Healer Travers has been talking about some new treatment trial she wants to add to your parents’ care plan. She sounded quite positive about this one.”

They all gave her comforting looks, but Hermione could see their thoughts all but plastered on her face—like her, they’d stopped feeling excited about any experimental attempts to reverse her Obliviation Spell. Christ knew they’d tried enough already.

Hermione gave the team a half-hearted smile. “Fifth time’s the charm, right? I’ll send her an owl, thanks.”

“She’s still in her office,” one of the Healers piped up. “On night shift tonight. Said she wanted to speak with you sometime this week. Maybe pop in and see if she’s free?”

Hermione gave the Healer a slightly more genuine smile at the suggestion, shot her parents’ door (now magically sealed closed) one last longing glance, and marched sharply to see the Head Healer for Ward 50 in her office at the far end of the corridor.

Healer Moira Travers oversaw the entire fourth floor and had been Hermione’s parents’ primary Healer for their duration of treatment in St Mungo’s- even after being promoted to Chief for Spell Damage some years back. She was also exactly who Hermione had once hoped to be when she grew up: clever, respected, no-nonsense, and a phenomenally talented witch. Hermione knocked on her door quietly, and a curt “come in” had her slipping into the office and shooting a wan smile at the witch behind the desk.

“Ah. Hermione. Excellent.” Healer Travers shuffled some papers on her desk and gestured to the stiff leather visitor’s chair opposite her. “Good timing. I’ve been wanting to touch base with you for a while.”

“Me too.” Hermione slumped in the chair, “I’ve been meaning to visit for a while; I just popped in to see my parents.”

Healer Travers's usually stern gaze didn’t falter, darting up to examine Hermione’s expression. “How did that go?”

“Badly.” Hermione didn’t even try to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “But I got careless and pulled out my wand- so that’s on me.”

The Healer opposite her cocked her head and pushed back a strand of cropped grey hair back behind her ear. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She sighed, “I’m unsurprised, though- as we’ve discussed, your parents’ improvement has…stalled somewhat over the past year.”

Hermione nodded. “What little improvement we had in the first place,” she murmured, trying not to sound bleak. “One of your trainees said you wanted to send me an owl. Is there something specific in their treatment plan you’re thinking of changing?”

Healer Travers nodded. “Yes. I want you to take a look at these.” She dug in a drawer and pulled out a sheath of papers.

“These are your parents’ most recent MMRIs,” she explained, pulling out the bottom pages. From the timestamp, Hermione could see they were copies of the first scans Healer Travers had performed shortly before her trip to Europe; she took them curiously.

Hermione didn’t just admire Healer Travers for the dedicated care her parents had received- the Healer before her had won a MAME award for medicine in the late 90s, and Hermione had been starstruck from the moment they met. The Canadian witch had performed one of the first (and few) successful integrations of Muggle technology and Magical charmwork to create a Magical Magnetic Resonance Imaging machine, and Hermione’s parents had been part of the neuroimaging trial for patients post-Obliviation.

She looked at the different MMRI scans and held them up side by side to compare. There was some improvement, which she felt optimistic about, but she tried not to feel nauseous as she looked at the familiar sight of her bright silver spellwork still twining through her parents’ brains.

“Look, the spell seems to have weakened here…and here,” Healer Travers pointed out. “And if we look at the coronal view, it seems to have regressed slightly over here too.”

“But it looks like there been an increase in hippocampal atrophy,” Hermione said grimly, eyes flicking between her father’s two scans. Healer Travers sighed.

“Yes. There has been. Your mother’s looks much the same.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “What does this mean…going forward.”

Healer Travers steepled her fingers and looked calmly at Hermione. “I still maintain my suspicions that the reason your parents have been so…usually adversely affected by the Oblivation-”

“My Oblivation,” Hermione cut in moodily; the other witch ignored her.

“Is because of your extensive family history of Alzheimer’s within your Muggle family members,” She continued. “With the completely unexpected consequence of the spell damage being unusually severe. And stubbornly resistant to our normal treatment protocols.”

“But despite some minor improvements,” Hermione pointed out, “my parents are much the same as before I left for France- mentally. But, based on these most recent MMRIs, I guess we expect that to change. So, and please excuse my bluntness, Healer, I’ve had a long day, do you want to speak with me because you have a new treatment idea you’d like to try, or is it because…”

She couldn’t even finish the sentence, mind jumping to the worst-case scenarios of stopping treatment altogether; luckily, Healer Travers jumped in immediately.

“I want to chat with you about attempting an extraction procedure,” she soothed, her stern face unusually soft. “A new technique. It’ll be quite experimental- I have two other patients I’m trialling it on, with Healer Abbott and her internal medicine team consulting, and they’ve shown marked success.”

She paused. “For full transparency, they aren’t patients of Memory Modification- they’re permanent residents in the JT Ward. But there are enough similarities in their scans that make me think it could benefit your parents, too. The goal would be to remove the remnants of the Obliviation or loosen them, at the very least. If we can do that, we could quite easily correct their brain deterioration… ”

Hermione froze. “Are you telling me that you think this might be curative?” She asked heart in her mouth.

“I’m telling you there is a small chance—one we didn’t have this time last year,” Healer Travers warned her gently. "But I want to manage your expectations—we’ve tried spell removal before on your parents, with no success. And there’s also the chance it could not go as planned and negatively affect your parents’ brain function. But I wanted you to know about this option and see if you would be interested.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “If you think it a good option,” she said quietly, “then go for it.”

Healer Travers nodded. “I do think it’s worth a shot,” she said firmly. “And if it does, then the hope that promises for my other patients would be incredible…and if it doesn’t do anything, well then at least we tried.”

Hermione nodded, now feeling exhausted. Healer Travers caught the look on her face and pointed to the door.

“Go home now,” she said sternly. “I thought you might come to visit Black. You, Potter, and that Weasley boy are thick as thieves. I want you all out of my ward- go to bed.”

“Ron’s here?” Hermione asked, perking up a bit; Healer Travers snorted.

“He was here, then knocked over one of the crash carts and walked into the wrong room when a patient was getting a wand bath.” She scowled. “I sent him away.”

Hermione laughed for the first time in what felt like days. “Thanks Healer Travers. I appreciate your time.”

“I’ll send you what I can on the extraction protocol,” the other witch promised her. “Take some time to think about it, and let me know. In return, you need to get some rest. Go home, Hermione.”

She nodded at the Healer and left. Feet feeling heavy with exhaustion, she struggled upright and made her way out of the office and through the winding corridors of Ward 50. It was almost uncomprehendingly massive- one of the biggest wards in the hospital with close to a hundred patients (many being permanent residents) and a whole army of staff to care for them. During the war, so many memory charms (well-intentioned or decidedly not) had been cast on assorted Muggles and magical individuals, and the extent and many lasting side-effects of memory charms’ overuse quickly became a matter of hot public debate post-war as St Mungo’s started to fill up, and Ward 50 had to be created.

With Healer Travers at her back, Hermione advocated tougher laws about the use of memory charms, using her parents as a case study. She knew that if all it took to get magical society (and their money) involved in the issue was more salacious gossip about the Golden Girl, then it would all be worth it. The public interest in her parents had been massive, but at least it had resulted in people talking.

Finally, after a few years of campaigning (and wheedling Kingsley until he relented), the Wizengamot passed strict regulation on the use of the Obliviaton Spell, moving it to a Schedule 9 spell (only topped by Schedule 10 spells- the Unforgivables). This classification also, technically, meant that the Obliviation spell was re-categorised from a charm to a curse, with subsequent restrictions on making the spell teachable- a decision Hermione privately thought had been a long time coming. And while many witches or wizards might feel differently, Hermione felt it was a vast improvement that the previously nonchalant Obliviation of Muggles was strictly regulated (the Skye incident notwithstanding) and only performed by professionals who could do it as delicately and atraumatically as possible. They had a while to go before it was banned completely, but change was change, no matter how small.

She made her way out of St Mungo’s, watched as the hospital faded away into its derelict disguise and took a taxi back to her flat in Westminster. Based on her calculations, if she met with Kings after breakfast and took the M4 west out of London to Malfoy’s, she could be at the Manor around lunchtime. Just in case her GPS didn’t work, she dug up one of her father’s old OS maps and marked the trip, noting in amusement how it looked like she would be ending up in the middle of nowhere.

Feeling aimless and unsettled in her skin, she fussed around her flat a bit before heading to bed, repacked her trunk twice just because she didn’t like the order in which she’d packed her books, threw in some more socks for good measure, and then fell into a fitful sleep, her monther’s terrified shrieks still echoing in her dreams.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s meeting with the Minister was surprisingly straightforward. Kingsley paced dramatically across his office while she explained their suspicions, only pausing to pepper her monologue with curt questions. He then gazed into his fireplace in silence for eight whole minutes while Hermione shifted anxiously in her chair before telling her he’d be in communication shortly after he had processed their findings, scribbling a letter to Remus (accidentally using purple ink, of all things) asking him to come by with Teddy. It was the most stressed she’d ever seen him. Hermione hastily left for Wiltshire before her usually unflappable Minister showed another bout of unnerving public emotion.

She’d left a little later than intended, and some roadworks on the M4 had slowed her down by nearly two hours, but it was still early afternoon when her journey to Wiltshire was finally over. Double-checking Malfoy’s rather vague map, she pulled her car off the road and drove into what looked like a solid hedge (nervously trusting his instructions) and watched in relief as the heavy plant matter melted away and at the last little stretch of her journey was visible. Malfoy Manor, oddly enough, had a driveway- Hermione assumed it had been created for the occasional passage of Thestral carriages, which mainly had since fallen out of practice as the skeletal horses gradually became more endangered, certainty not intended for her very Muggle car. But even so, seeing the imposing iron gates (with their welded serpentine design) swing forward to allow her 1970s Morris to pass through was beyond surreal. She tootled down the (obnoxiously long) driveway lined by elder trees (seriously, no normal family needed such a drawn-out arrival to their house; it was simply just to show off), but, as she rounded the last corner out of the woods, and saw the Manor house sitting before her, surrounded by an acre of perfectly manicured gardens, it would be a lie to say her breath didn't catch a little bit, even as her arm burned furiously.

Her rather…unfortunate experience inside Malfoy Manor aside, she’d never actually seen the exterior in person. She had seen plenty of photos the Order took during the war as part of their counter-intelligence work, but it was surprisingly spectacular in person. The morning light glinted off the silver-grey stone, the numerous delicate windows, the intricately carved spandrels, and the meticulously tended gardens, which were beautiful and lush despite the early winter bleakness.

Despite all the atrocities committed under its roof (and throughout its vast estate, if the Order reports were to be believed), it managed to maintain a stately, timeless air. The Manor was large and U-shaped, and far on the closet tower, Hermione could see a delicate silver weathervane (in the shape of a dragon rather than a cockerel) sway slightly in the gentle breeze.

She circled up to the front of the house, passing an ornate marble fountain, and came to a stop outside the entryway door, where Malfoy stood waiting for her. She watched in amusement as he hesitated, obviously unsure how she would exit such a foreign contraption and promptly moved himself right in front of the driver's door, annoyingly blocking her passage out.

“Move!” She enunciated clearly, waving her hands. Malfoy blinked at her in confusion.

“What?” His voice was muffled by the glass car windows, and Hermione pointed to the side.

“Get out of the way!”

“What, Granger?”

She rolled down the window, and Malfoy took an involuntary step back at the sight of the glass screeching downwards. “I need to open the door!”

A puzzled blank stare was her only reply; she felt she'd given him enough warning, so she swung the car door open. There was a soft thud as it collided with the wizard’s ribs, and he was knocked to the side with a grunt.

“Ow, Granger. The hells?”

His good manners kicked in, and he grudgingly offered her an escorting arm as she climbed out of the front seat. She swatted it away, marched to the tiny car boot, and rummaged around for her travel trunk. Malfoy eyed the incredibly full back of her car sceptically.

“Why did you bring a plant?” He asked curiously, eyeing up the delicate orchid perched on her spare tyre. “Is that a Vanda Vipertooth?”

“Gift from Neville,” Hermione said absently. “For my flat. Couldn't leave it behind; it's not feeling very well.”

The delicate flower made a convincing coughing noise and drooped sadly in its pot. Draco took it out carefully as if handling medical waste and held it far away from his body. Hermione snatched it away and put it back where it came from.

“Can I take your trunk?” Malfoy offered politely, reaching his hand out.

“Nope,” Hermione said and slammed the boot closed, swinging around to face the Manor. The scars carved into her arm throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

Draco must’ve easily read the look on her face as she saw him stiffen up in her periphery.

“I thought we could walk through the gardens to get to the ward locus,” he said tentatively. “It’s too nice a day to cut through the house.”

Hermione eyed the bleak, grey November skies dubiously but didn’t argue. Malfoy gestured ahead, and she followed; he adjusted his pace slightly so she walked alongside him.

“How was the meeting with the Minster?” he asked after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence; Hermione gave him a full recap.

“Wonder who else he’ll include in the privacy charms,” Malfoy mused after she was finished. “Guess Kingsley wants to keep it as quiet as possible.”

Hermione nodded; the more people included in secrecy charms, the weaker they became. Kingsley had been very adamant that this not leak to the public- mass hysteria would be unavoidable and uncontrollable.

“You, me, our bosses, the Lupins, and Sirius,” she listed. “That’ll probably be the extent of it.”

Malfoy arched a brow. “Not your two sidekicks? Didn’t Kingsley fill them in on Black’s return?”

“Ron and Harry couldn’t keep lunch plans a secret from their partners,” Hermione snorted. “Let alone the end of the world. And Ginny and Susie, bless them, would spill the beans in minutes. I agree with Kingsley- no one else should know all the details…for now. Even Harry and Ron.”

“There’s still the Unspeakables and the Aurors who know a little bit,” Malfoy pointed out. “The teams from Skye and everyone present in the Death Chamber yesterday. Kingsley isn’t worried about them?”

They turned left into a little rose maze, the waist-high bushes still blooming despite the late autumn air; Hermione suspected they wouldn’t still be doing so in a Muggle garden. Malfoy led them through the twisting and turning path with practised ease.

She shrugged. “He didn’t look it- I guess the case confidentiality will stop the Aurors from running their mouths about what little they saw….as for the Unspeakables,” she gave a bit of a grim smile, “we know not to fuck around with the Secrecy charms.” She paused for a second. “Besides… only you, me, and Kings know how everything is linked- all the small details. Without the information we got from the Source, there’s no way anyone could even guess what’s happening. It all seems so…unbelievable.”

“It does,” Malfoy said quietly. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself…If we hadn’t been so involved in all of this from the beginning, there’s no way I would ever have thought…” He cut himself off. “At least we’ll be able to keep it quiet,” he finally finished. “If we can figure out what’s happening, how we can stop it… Well, no one ever needs to know. Don’t think our society should know. Not with…the way things are now.”

Hermione hummed in agreement; even though it had been a decade since the war ended, Wizarding Britain was far from stable- Rouge Death Eaters and Greyback’s pack aside.

“Except they will if we do get that MAME nomination,” She snorted. “Wonder how Kingsley’s going to handle it now. He didn’t know we’d be trying to prevent the collapse of our society when he promised us that.”

Malfoy looked contemplative. Hermione knew the feeling; she’d spent much of her drive over thinking about how Kinglsey could honour his side of their agreement without suffering the blowback of keeping the collapse of magical society a secret from his government.

“It didn’t take too long to leak that Black was back from the dead,” he pointed out. “Kingsley will have to handle that without people panicking.”

“He did mention that,” Hermione murmured. “The public doesn’t really know how it happened- and his death wasn’t general knowledge until after the war. Kings will spread rumours that he went missing in the Department of Mysteries and presumed dead. And now just reappeared. The public should believe that- stranger things have happened on my level, people tend not to ask too many questions.”

Malfoy side-eyed her disbelievingly.

“Of course, he’s going to announce that the Quidditch Cup is going to be cancelled,” Hermione said nonchalantly. “That’ll pull any lingering attention away.”

“He’s what?” Malfoy squawked; Hermione looked at him in confusion.

“Well, we can’t exactly continue it as planned, not with the risks of Space Magic failing,” she pointed out. “He was going to ask Murray to help him think of some publically acceptable excuse. What did you think would happen?”

From the indignant look on his face, like a child having a favourite toy taken away, Malfoy hadn’t thought that far ahead and didn’t say anything more.

They turned left out of the maze, and after another minute of walking through beautifully manicured lawns, they stepped through an iron gate and into a walled-off courtyard. The plants here were wilder and more overgrown, with ivy creeping up the crumbling walls and browning leaves collecting against glimmering marble tombstones scattered around the space- Hermione felt quite like Mary Lennox, stumbling into the secret garden at Misselthwaite Manor.

Malfoy stopped next to one of the tombstones; Hermione looked curiously at the ledger stone by their feet- the name ‘Armand Malfoy’ was carved in with delicate scrollwork. Even though it was evidently ancient, the white stone was as untarnished as the day it was placed.

“This is the centre point for the family wards,” He pointed out awkwardly. “This is where they all branch from and will be the easiest to identify and examine.”

Hermione nodded, mind racing. Despite her apprehension at being back at the Manor, she felt flickers of excitement, her scientific mind thrilled at the opportunity ahead- was she finally going to experience feeling family magic for the first time? She tried not to get her hopes up, feeling the Weasley magic had been a complete bust and her relationship with that family was significantly better.

“Right,” she said uncertainly. “How do you want to do this.”

“I was planning on summoning the wards, using a little blood,” Malfoy explained, tone almost questioning as if she had any better ideas on how to proceed. “Once they’ve revealed themselves, if you wouldn’t mind examining their integrity, see if you can find any faults.”

Hermione nodded and squared her shoulders. “Fair warning, I’ve never felt family magic before,” she informed him. “The only magical family I’m that close to would be the Weasleys. And I didn’t have any luck with theirs.”

Examining family magic was a very intimate affair, generally only reserved for family members or the occasional professional who needed to assess the ward's strength. Hermione hadn’t even felt the Lupins’ family magic despite being as close to Remus and Teddy as she was.

Malfoy cocked a curious brow. “You’ve never felt Potter’s?”

“Harry doesn’t…” Hermione fumbled her words a bit in surprise, “Harry doesn’t have any family magic. Lost it all when his parents died.”

“No, he didn’t?” Surprise coloured Malfoy’s voice and pitched it up a little. “The Potter family magic would’ve passed to him as a child. You don’t just…lose it. Not unless every Heir is dead and the family dies out.” He paused. “The only thing I could think of is if the family magic considered him dead when those Avardas hit him- either the first or second time. Maybe it wouldn’t pass on to him and fade away- I don’t know. There’s not been anyone like Potter before.”

He paused for a moment, tone incredulous. “So, he’s never tried to claim it?”

“How would-” Hermione stumbled, “how would he check? How would he do that?”

“He’d need to go to the ward point in Potter Manor,” Malfoy explained slowly, as if this was quite basic knowledge, “and summon it him to using some blood. It should appear for him- he’s the only living Potter, as far as I’m aware.”

Hermione froze, “Potter Manor? What are you talking about?”

“The seat of House Potter,” Malfoy explained, tone equally puzzled. “The Potter family was- is- a Noble House. They have a Manor, too. Somewhere up in Derby.” He gazed at her, confused. “Did you- did you know this? Does Potter not know this?”

Hermione gaped at him. “What Manor? What- How do you know so much about the Potters?”

Malfoy shifted, suddenly very uncomfortable. “Pettigrew,” he finally muttered. “Heard some stuff from him. He liked to brag to me.” He paused but made some sort of decision and soldiered on ahead. “Potter Manor was the seat of the Order in the first war, apparently. Kept under a heavy Fidelius Charm towards the end, only a few senior Order members were included under it. Dumbledore, McKinnon, Prewett- the ones who didn’t survive.”

Hermione was stunned into silence.

“Pettigrew tried to find it this time before we figured out the Order was using Grimmauld,” Malfoy muttered. Hermione noticed he looked very pale- he hated recalling anything about his time as a Death Eater. “But we couldn’t- the spell was still standing; Wormtail could barely remember it existed even though he’d been there a lot while in Hogwarts.”

“I wonder why Remus or Sirius never said anything,” Hermione said in a daze; Malfoy shrugged.

“Dumbledore was known for powerful Fidelius charms; it was probably wiped from their existence if they weren’t part of the circle it was shared with.”

Hermione scrambled for some semblance of logical thought. "But the Secret Keeper would be long dead,” she finally pointed out. “Why is the Fidelius still active? Surely it would’ve broken, and they would’ve remembered?”

If she’d thought Malfoy had looked uncomfortable earlier, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. “The Secret Keepers aren’t exactly dead,” he quietly murmured. “It was…um… Alice and Frank Longbottom. That’s also why my- um, Bellatrix went after them.”

Hermione was still in shock for a little while. Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville’s mum and dad. The ones still in St Mungo’s with irreparable brain damage after being tortured out of their minds, quite literally. Any chance at finding the location of Potter Manor vanished like smoke- they didn’t even know their own son, let alone where some abandoned building might be hidden.

Malfoy paused for a while. “I thought Potter knew,” he eventually said slowly. “I assumed…we all assumed Dumbledore told him. We had scouts up in Derby for ages in case the Order went back to the Manor, but we never saw unusual magical activity- then we figured out Grimmauld Place was being used instead.”

“Guess they couldn’t risk using it again in the second war,” Hermione muttered. “Not if Pettigrew had been there before. Too high a chance it could be compromised.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “Makes sense. Would like to know why Potter wasn’t told about it, though.”

“Oh, believe me,” Hermione said grimly. “There’s lots I want to know from Dumbledore too. Poor Harry, going this long without knowing. Who else did Dumbledore think was supposed to tell him?”

“I would’ve,” Malfoy said quietly. “If I’d known Potter didn’t know any of this, I would’ve told him years ago. I will later if you think it best.”

Hermione eyed him curiously out of the corner of her eye but instinctively knew he was telling the truth; she stood for a second, mind racing. Malfoy, obviously understanding she needed a little space, stepped away and went to fiddle with one of the graves, sweeping away some dead leaves collecting around it. After a minute, she cleared her throat, and he obediently returned, trailing a hand over the cold metal of his family’s crest.

“I still have lots more questions for you,” she warned him. “About family magic and stuff.”

Malfoy almost looked amused. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” he told her. “I’ll do my best to answer. But…um…a lot of the information is… not really public knowledge. Especially outside the Noble Head of Houses-”

“Are you saying it’s top secret information and not meant for my ears,” Hermione interrupted him challangely.

“No! I’m not saying that at all!” Malfoy said hurriedly. “Just that I might not have all the answers… but…um, if there’s anything I don’t know, I could…um, ask my…dad.”

It was the most harried she’d seen him look, words tumbling out as he continued. “A lot of this stuff isn’t really common knowledge. Besides the Noble houses, most magical families don’t even maintain their family magic any more. And the more powerful the House, the more complicated the wards- I only know the basics…Not because you’re Muggl-”

She cut him off with a raised hand, and he immediately stopped his verbal barrage, looking relieved she hadn’t taken offence.

“Alright,” she said firmly. “I get it. Enough chitchat, let’s do this. I’ll give it my best shot.”

“You helped assess and repair the Hogwarts wards after the Battle,” Malfoy pointed out. “Family magic shouldn’t be that different.”

Hermione hummed in uncertain agreement and watched in fascination as Malfoy pricked the tip of his thumb on the spiked family crest and allowed a drop of blood to fall on the ledger stone at their feet. The spot of blood stood out harshly against the pale stone for a brief second, then was quickly sucked into the rock, and a deep humming split the air. Then, like tree roots erupting from the ground, tendrils of vibrant green magic wove around them; her breath caught in her lungs.

The wisps of magic fanned out like a spiderweb, crisscrossing the expanse of the gardens and flowing into the Manor- it seemed almost alive, curling gently in the air. It seemed healthy, and if the pleased expression Malfoy had on his face as he examined it was any indication, there wasn’t anything obviously wrong.

She gazed at the visible magic in fascination- it was Ancient Magic, without a doubt. The powerful strands had an ethereal depth, almost calling to her magical core in a way no modern magic would. She reached a hand out tentatively, ignoring Malfoy’s surprised noise, and let the magic twine around her wrist, feeling it gently warm her skin as if curling her fingers around a nice hot cup of tea.

It seemed to have the same quasi-sentience commonly seen in other strong pools of Ancient Magic- Hogwarts, for example; she pointed that out to Malfoy curiously.

He shrugged uncertainly. “That would make sense, I guess. Family magic is an accumulation of every previous members’ magic- the older and bigger the House, the stronger the pool. It would make sense that over time it would….evolve.”

Hermione was instantly fascinated. “What do you mean by that?”

“Anyone who’s ever joined my family,” Malfoy explained hesitantly, doing something with his fingers as if he was picking the strands of magic apart, “either being born in, married in, or sworn in as a ward or a vassal- their magic is bound to the family. And then, when they die, their magic returns to it. Makes the family magic stronger. Eventually, over time, you’re left with a reserve of magic that strengthens with each generation- a reserve that family members can tap into to power spells, heal themselves, maintain the protective wards- you get the idea. That’s what makes the Noble Houses so powerful.”

“Theo mentioned something about that,” Hermione interrupted, “Wards and Vassals. I get the ward bit, but why would someone swear as a vassal? That seems quite…archaic.”

“Oh, it is,” Malfoy assured her. “The magical community around a House used to swear fealty to the Noble House closest to them, mostly for protection, but my House hasn’t had a vassal swear-in for ages. Some Houses did during both wars, though.”

“Protection?”

Malfoy looked a little uncomfortable. “Initially against all kinds of Dark Creatures,” he muttered. “Werewolves, Inferi-”

Hermione held back a retort that people with lycanthropy weren’t categorised as Dark Creatures anymore and let him finish, examining the magical threads still glimmering away.

“Also against feuding enemy houses,” Malfoy continued. “Many magical families have a lot of history- especially the Noble ones. There’s generations of backstabbing, conflict, curses- it could get really nasty. Still can, actually. My mother’s the best to ask about House dynamics, though- she’s been navigating them her whole life.”

That was absolutely not happening, but Hermoine didn’t have the heart to bust his helpful bubble.

“And then it became more for protection against Muggles,” Malfoy concluded, looking uneasy. “In exchange for binding their magic to the House and paying tithes, the vassals would have their House to protect them from anything that might hurt them- it became very popular during the witch hunts in the 1600s.”

Hermione bit back a snort- it sounded terribly mafia-like.

“Tithes? You made your vassals pay you? Even after amalgamating their magic and using it to boost up yours?”

Malfoy shifted. “Historically…um. Yes?”

“Ignoring the fact your family has essentially run a protection racket for nearly a thousand years-”

“Longer than that,” Malfoy interjected apprehensively. “We were doing it in France, too, before my family moved here. But, in fairness, that’s how all the Noble families worked.”

Hermione tried not to roll her eyes, still gently stroking the strands of magic- they were almost humming in pleasure under her hand at the attention, like a happy cat.

“Wouldn’t you have a record of any magical residences near the Manor? I mean, surely there would be records of who was paying tithes? Would your family’s range have covered down to Stonehenge?”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up. “Are you thinking about the cult? That’s a good idea- any magical residents that close us should’ve been sworn vassals, especially if they were around in the 1800s. We can go through our books. The whole tithes and vassals thing mostly died out at the turn of the 20th century, so there might be some record of them.”

Hermione nodded- it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“How do you think the wards look?” Malfoy changed the topic suddenly, “I think they look alright. Can’t see any sign they’re weakening.”

Hermione nodded. The strands of magic had a healthy gleam, the same vibrant protectiveness that the Pictish wards did, she realised with a flash.

“Do you-” Malfoy’s voice was unusually uncertain. “Do you want to try to feel?”

Hermione bit her lip and tried not to get her hopes up. “How do I- How do I do this?”

“You just sort of…” Malfoy explained inelegantly, “Try to reach forward with your own magic. Like when you cast without your wand.”

Hermione closed her eyes and did as instructed, reaching internally for the magic that ran through her very soul. Her fingers tingled with warmth as she summoned it forward, sending it to greet the glimmering green family magic still wreathed around her.

The reaction was immediate.

Hermione gave a half-hearted cry of surprise as she was suddenly enveloped by green, the family magic rushing towards her and swallowing her up in glowing light; her magical core felt like she’d stuck a fork into an outlet as the two magics combined. As power radiated from her skin, she instinctively knew she was glowing with the same ghoulish light- she felt more like a supernova than a person as the family magic coursed through her veins.

The depth of power seemed endless, and over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, she could swear she heard it murmuring to her in a multitude of different voices.

“Welcome,” it seemed to whisper. “We greet you, we see you, Hermione Granger. Welcome!”

She couldn’t see anything beyond the emerald light surrounding her; it seemed to be burrowing into her very cells, lighting each one up with a tiny spark of power. And then, as quickly as it came, it vanished, withdrawing from her body. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as darkness overtook her, the difference between being inundated with such power and its sudden absence too much for her conscious mind to process.

The last thing Hermione was aware of before the green light faded was someone catching her falling body before it hit the ground, her head gently cradled in large, warm hands as it was placed on the soft, damp grass. Then, all she knew was darkness.

The next time Hermione tried to open her eyes, her senses seemed all over the place, and, immediately overwhelmed, she promptly closed them again. Despite her vision being black, she was sure she could feel three burning presences near her, glowing green like wildfire behind her eyelids. A smaller (but no less bright) being was glowing from high above her as if tugging her consciousness by a string, and a few scattered sparks dimly flickered in her awareness (lacking the scorching hot spirit of the others)- even without knowing the layout of the Manor, Hermione was sure she could find them all blind.

A lovely smell also hit her nostrils as she breathed in; it reminded her of her favourite study spot in the Restricted section- the scent of earthy paper of old books, leather, and tea. She took a deep breath and tried again, opening her eyes again. The glowing presences vanished from her senses, and the walls of a very impressive library with large bay windows and high-vaulted ceilings greeted her. The sun was deeper in the sky than before, lighting up the room with golden light, and long shadows from the trees outside were cast onto the bookshelves lining the walls. Still trying to process the sight, the thud of hurried footsteps and the vague hush of low, panicked whispers drew her attention.

“Oh dear,” a deep voice drawled. “Is she dead?”

“Lucius!” A woman’s voice snapped. Then, “Draco, what happened?!”

Before Malfoy could even splutter an explanation, Hermione lifted her head to look around; three sets of eyes (two sets of grey, one icy blue) were instantly pinned on her.

“Oh good,” Lucius Malfoy said from somewhere beyond her field of vision. “Not dead.”

Sitting on the floor next to her, Malfoy looked terrible, Hermione noted, face tense with stress, hair unusually dishevelled as if he’d been running his hands through it. When her eyes met his, he exhaled and deflated, looking significantly more relieved.

“What happened?” she asked weakly and tried to prop herself on her arms. She’d been placed on a very handsome leather couch that, in any other circumstances, she would’ve loved to curl up on, with a good book and Crookshanks at her feet.

“You encountered the wards,” Malfoy told her slowly. “And, um, had a bit of a strong reaction to them.”

“Is that a common occurrence?” She asked, her voice weak. Malfoy summoned her a glass of chilled water, and she sipped it gratefully.

“It happens now and again”, a low female voice said, and Hermione turned her head carefully. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting on an armchair next to her, with a strange speculative look on her face; her husband had already vanished and was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s very rare,” the witch continued, silver eyes still fixed on her. “Just your magical core and our family magic interacting. The reaction can sometimes be…explosive. But you’ll suffer no lasting effects."

“I was seeing…colours.” Hermione offered somewhat lamely. “Bright ones. The family members, I think. And other little smaller ones.”

Malfoy made a little startled noise, like Crookshanks, whenever she accidentally trod on his tail. Narcissa’s face was unreadably blank.

“The House Elves and our familiars,” she explained. “But nothing to worry about, Miss Granger. How are you feeling now?”

Hermione sat up properly- the room was no longer swimming. In fact, she felt…great. For the first time in months, years, she felt rested- as if she’d had a good nine hours of sleep with no interruptions. She rolled her shoulders experimentally; the permanent ache that lingered in her neck due to her hunching over her desk was gone, and her magical core felt…revitalised as if she’d poured three cups of coffee and two energy drinks into it. But her body felt strangely weak, limbs as heavy as if she’d run a marathon.

“I feel…good,” she told them, tone surprised. “Better than I have in years. Just…tired.”

Malfoy and his mum exchanged an indecipherable look.

“I told you,” Narcissa said firmly. “If the family magic was going to hurt her, she’d be dead already.”

That didn’t sound particularly comforting to Hermione, nor to Malfoy, if the way the lines in his forehead stubbornly refused to ease was any indication. Narcissa, inexplicably, was starting to look somewhat gleeful.

“I’ll leave you to rest, dear,” she said smoothly, getting out of the chair. Malfoy jumped to his feet and offered his mother an arm. “Do let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Struck by the unexpected display of cordiality, Hermione could only nod and watched as Narcissa floated soundlessly out of the library, her robes fluttering prettily as she left. Malfoy turned back to her, mostly looking back to his imperturbable self.

“Are you really feeling alright?” He questioned, looking ever so slightly relieved when Hermione nodded. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if we head to Stonehenge today. There’s not much daylight left; maybe we should wait until tomorrow morning. Give you a chance to rest up.”

Hermione nodded; that sounded rather sensible. There was no way now she was up for any offensive or defensive magic.

“How long was I out for?” She croaked; Malfoy shrugged.

“Only an hour or so,” he paused and squared his shoulders. “I will arrange for you to stay in Burford tonight if you don’t mind me flying you there. My mother will surely know of an inn or some other accommodation…I hardly think you’d want to stay here.”

Hermione thought about it- staying overnight in the Manor, the one place in Wizarding Britain that still occasionally haunted her dreams, or enduring a (rather long and high up) flight with Malfoy on a broom that very well may stop working mid-journey and take them further away from where they needed to be next. Decisions, decisions.

“I’d rather stay here tonight,” she decided. Malfoy, understandably, looked very shocked, then quickly covered his surprise up, his expression turning blank once more.

“Of course, if you’d prefer,” he said smoothly, then paused. “The, um, drawing room is long gone. I…want you to know that.”

Hermione nodded back to him, her arm burning as the weight of her decision hit her. Malfoy eyed her cautiously.

“Are you sure?” He said, tone slightly softer. “I’m sure staying here won’t be easy at all. Finding you somewhere else to stay won’t be a problem. I don’t want you to feel…uncomfortable.”

Scared shitless was more like it, but Hermione pulled on all of her Gryffindor courage and nodded firmly. Maybe facing the last few ghosts of the war would be good for her.

“Alright,” Malfoy said, still sounding somewhat uncertain. “It’s... Tempus… four thirty-seven. Dinner is normally served at six. If you don’t mind waiting here for a bit, I’ll arrange a room in the guest wing for you. Then I can have some supper sent up? I can…erm…join you if you want?” He seemed unusually flustered. “Don’t want to presume… just thought it would be rude if you ate by yourself…”

Watching Malfoy work himself up in a guilt-ridden tizzy (almost) made up for the fact Hermione had actively chosen to stay in the place she had recurring nightmares about. She shook her head- go big or go home. She might as well get used to talking to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy- with the amount of time she and Malfoy were sure to spend together over the next few months, getting used to interacting with them almost seemed inevitable. Besides, she needed to get as much practice as possible schmoozing the Noble houses with the imminent release of her dissertation. Urgh.

“I’m up to joining the family for dinner,” she said determinedly. “As long as you think I’d be welcome.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said instantly. “Of course, you would be. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

He, however, looked incredibly uncertain about her decisions and looked at her like she was going to bolt out of the door screaming at any given second.

“Right,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll, erm, sort out a room for you. Can I get you anything so long?”

This was the politest she’d ever seen him, even during their brief friendship. Hermione was starting to feel like a visiting dignitary. She had the feeling she could ask for anything, and Malfoy would rush to get it- a sudden idea hit her.

“You once told me some of your relatives were Unspeakables,” she told him eagerly, “and that you had some of their journals. Is there any chance I could look at them?”

Malfoy paused, then nodded. “I’ll grab them for you now. And I’ll ask our solicitor to look in the archives for records on vassals near Stonehenge. Maybe we’ll find something before we head down there.”

Hermione nodded; the more prepared they were before investigating a cult, the better. She summoned her briefcase over (it had been hastily tossed under the couch) and rummaged around for a notebook and pen. Malfoy eyed the tattered Moleskin she retrieved with evident surprise. As she sat up, it clattered to the floor, pages spilling everywhere, and Malfoy leaned down to pick it up.

“Is that…is that the same one you had in our eighth year?” He asked as he grabbed it; Hermione couldn’t quite make out his tone.

“Yes,” she said cautiously. “I’m surprised you recognised it. I went through a few.”

“I remember,” Malfoy said, tone impassive. “I remember them all.”

He hissed slightly under his breath as some more loose pages fluttered free and fell to the floor like dead leaves. Hermione felt a jolt of mortification at the sight of the familiar handwriting littering the floor- not just hers, plenty of his messy scrawl was there too.

She knew keeping it had been foolishly sentimental, and her face warmed slightly as Malfoy picked up the assorted notes, essay drafts, and motley musings of his she had kept- their handwriting mingling on the various pages as they had communicated back and forth during their various classes. One piece of paper had a doodle of a manticore Malfoy had drawn during a particularly dull Beasts class (with a level of accuracy and artistic talent that had surprised her), one page was simply a list of items she needed to pick up from Hogsmede, his additions scrawled in the margin. One collection of pages was their musings on the rising werewolf attacks and the threat of another imminent war between Greyback’s old pack and the Ministry's Auror department- Malfoy’s clever remarks on pack dynamics (very accurate, after his experience with Greyback living in the Manor for an extended time) and his astute observations on the social structure of the Noble Houses on the Wizengamot and how to twist it best into a peaceful resolution flowed freely into Hermione’s ideas on potential legislative changes.

But the last page made her blush the most- a simple letter written right before Slughorn’s ball.

‘I’m not so sure about my dress…” she had written. ‘What are the chances I’ll get hexed coming down in anything green?’

‘Small,’ Malfoy had written back, ‘considering you’re Hermione Granger. No one would dare send anything nasty your way.’

‘And if they do?’

‘Then I’d offer to hex them on your behalf, but I’m pretty sure you’ll have it covered.’

‘You can’t hex a student, Draco. The DMLE is looking for any excuse to put you back in prison.

‘For you, Granger? It’ll be worth it.’

Malfoy seemed almost frozen as he held the collection of loose pages; Hermione pointedly cleared her throat and snatched them back.

“Journal?” She asked, throat suddenly dry. Malfoy nodded jerkily.

“I’ll fetch them now.”

He fled and returned with some delicate, leather-bound notebooks a few minutes later. Hermione cast a thorough range of preservation charms Madam Pince had taught her for good measure on them, then happily started going through the first one. Sometime later (barely even making a dent in Malfoy’s great-grandmother’s suspicions that her boss was having an affair), a throat being cleared rather pointedly made her look up, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Lucius Malfoy stood before her and bowed courteously when she caught his gaze.

“Miss Granger,” he said politely. “Lovely to see you again. Welcome to the Manor.”

Hermione stood frozen in the chair. The wizard before her looked vastly different to the skeletal, haunted man she’d seen being dragged off to Azkaban- his sleek blonde hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, his robes were understated but evidently exorbitantly expensive, his face unlined and as starkly handsome as his son’s. Hermione felt a vicious wave of almost murderous anger that he looked so normal, so good, despite all the things he’d done. An overwhelming bitter spite nearly swallowed her up at the fact that he had survived, had thrived, when so many others hadn’t.

“I wonder if I may speak with you,” Lucius said politely. “If you would feel comfortable with that- that is. It concerns our…mutual interests.”

“I can hardly think that you and I have much in common to speak of,” Hermione told him coldly. Lucius grinned, as sharp as a snake.

“I think you’d be surprised at what I have to discuss with you.”

Despite herself, Hermione couldn’t help but be intrigued. From the glint that lit Lucius’s eyes, he knew it too.

“How do I know you aren’t planning on luring me to some far-flung study and murdering me.” Hermione pointed out.

Lucius laughed as if she’d told him some great joke. “Firstly, doing that would drag the whole DMLE down here. Forget Azkaban; we’d all face the Kiss before we could blink. Potter and Weasley would more than ensure that. Secondly, I’d like to have a somewhat amiable relationship with my son for the rest of my, albeit short, life.”

Hermione shot Lucius a challenging look. “Does Draco know you want to speak to me? Does he even know you’re here?”

“Oh, definitely not,” Lucius said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t even let me out of my study when he brought you inside. But I thought it was time I raise his blood pressure a bit- he does need the practice.”

She eyed him cautiously. “What practice?”

Lucius gave her a small smile- one that made Hermione feel like she was missing out on some private joke. “Why, getting used to your being here. If my wife is to be believed. And she quite often is.”

Hermione felt like there was a whole other conversation she’d missed out on and gazed at the wizard blankly. This seemed to amuse Lucius even more, somehow.

“Are you always this ominously vague,” she grumbled. Lucius huffed what might’ve been a laugh.

“Mostly with my family,” he said, his tone almost wry. “But I do wish to speak with you, should you feel comfortable. I understand if not….but I do feel our conversation could be….mutually beneficial.”

Hermione eyed him up sceptically. He was right- there was no way he’d get away with hurting her. Harry, Ron, Kingsley- they would all come down on the Manor like a rampaging Graphorn. Still, some sensible part of her (likely remembering Lucius Malfoy’s notoriety within the Order) held back.

Lucius, no doubt, could easily read the apprehension on her face. With a casualness that floored her, he lifted his wand in the air and, in a tone as bored as if he was reading the morning news, recited, “I, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, do swear on my House to not intentionally harm you, Hermione Jean Granger. Either with my magic or my person. For as long as I live. So mote it be.”

Hermione watched, stunned, as a thin wisp of emerald-green magic coiled around Malfoy’s wand arm, burning brighter before it faded away.

“That was an Unbreakable Vow,” she said dumbly. “You just made an Unbreakable Vow not to hurt me.”

“I did,” Lucius said, tone dry as if questioning her intelligence. “Well spotted.”

Had it been any other scenario (or any other wizard), Hermione might’ve laughed at his deadpan response.

“Why did you do that?" Another thought hit her. "How did you know my middle name?"

Lucius huffed a long sigh out through his nose, something Hermione tried not to gawk at- she’d seen his son do that countless times before. “Because I certainly don’t intend to hurt you, Miss Granger. I would, however, like your attention. I have wanted to speak with you for a while- I’ve just never had the…occasion present itself.”

Hermione was still shocked at Lucius’s casual gamble with his life but hesitated.

“I see you are still uncertain,” he said, tone low. “Please know that I do not benefit from your being hurt here. But still, if it would make you more comfortable, please take this-”

He held out his wand, and Hermione took it numbly. She was not unaware of the significance of holding someone’s wand, second only to using it. A wand was a physical extension of one’s magical core, and she watched as a nearly imperceptible shudder ran over Lucius as she picked it up. Besides Neville using hers as an emergency skewer to poke Macnair in the eye during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Harry had also used it for a bit when they’d been hunting Horcruxes, and even though he was as close to brother to her (and it was a testament to their close friendship that their magic was so compatible), both occasions had been almost unendurably intimate. Since getting her wand back post-war (returned anonymously to the Ministry after it had been confiscated by the Snatchers, also at the Manor, ironically enough), Hermione had never let anyone else (not even Ron) pick up her wand- and from the look on Lucius’s face, having someone with such obvious negative feelings handle his wand was physically uncomfortable. Hermione was both delighted and comforted by the thought.

“Alright,” she finally said uncertainly. “What would you like to talk to me about?”

“Would you mind speaking in my office? It's only somewhat far-flung.” Lucius said, raising his hands innocently when she looked a bit panicked. “Vow, remember? No harm will come to you under this roof, I promise.”

Despite her better instincts, Hermione believed him. She certainly didn’t trust him but knew he was right- if she got so much as a papercut and blamed it on him, he wouldn’t live to see the next morning.

“Why your office?” She questioned. Lucius’s brow twitched as if unused to being so thoroughly cross-examined.

“Because I have my papers and reports there,” he explained patiently. “All the things that pertain to our…mutual interests. I assure you, it won’t take long. We have dinner after all, and my wife despises tardiness.” He looked suddenly gloomy. “And it’s bouillabaisse tonight- her grandfather’s recipe. Don’t tell Narcissa, but I loathe seafood.”

Hermione eyed him up but could find no other reason to object. Her uncontrollable curiosity (once again her worst enemy) couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Lucius Malfoy wanted to discuss with her. Clutching his wand in a tight grip (and pulling hers out, too, for good measure), she accompanied him out of the library and down one of the elegantly decorated corridors into the depths of the Manor.

Hermione followed Lucius down one of the sprawling corridors, trying to look as calm and composed as possible while her heart was hammering away. Lucius eventually paused by a large mahogany door and swung it open, politely gesturing at her to head in first. He lazily sat in the imposing chair behind a massive oak desk; she marched forward and threw herself in the one opposite it, making sure to sprawl in it as irreverently as possible.

“Would you like a drink?” Lucius asked politely. “I’ve just opened a bottle of Firewhiskey. Pre-War of Independence. American, that is. Not Irish.”

Hermione side-eyed him but eventually shook her head. She wanted to be as sober as possible for this discussion. And she still didn’t entirely trust his vow not to hurt her- it had never said anything about Narcissa, after all. Who’s to say she didn’t poison the alcohol in anticipation of their discussion? It was a level of paranoia Hermione felt Mad-Eye Moody would’ve been proud of.

“Very well,” Lucius said, popping open a fancy-looking decanter and pouring himself a healthy glug. “You’re a suspicious thing, aren’t you.” He looked somewhat pleased by that fact.

Hermione gazed at him impassively; Lucius sighed.

“I won’t dance around the doxies then, Miss Granger. I’ve been keeping a very close eye on your… talks… given to the Wizengamot, and what you have to say both interests and concerns me.”

“You don’t attend the Wizengamot sessions,” she said distrustfully. “You’re on house arrest, remember.” For extra effect, she threw in a disrespectful eyebrow raise.

“But my solicitor does,” Lucius continued as if she’d never interrupted. “And it’s prompted much discussion on the…future of my family assets."

Hermione wracked her brain, trying to remember where she’d recently heard that phrase. Then it hit her- the wizard at the Samhain gala.

“Mr Abernethy,” she stated slowly. “That’s your solicitor. He came to talk to me at the ball.”

Lucius took another swig of his drink, looking very chuffed at her deduction.

“That’s right,” he said calmly. “He and I have long felt the same way- that right now, the biggest threat facing our society is the expansion of Muggle culture and the loss of magical tradition."

Hermione bristled in her chair, a retort on the tip of her tongue; Lucius held up a pacifying hand.

“We are losing so much of our practices, our rituals,” he continued. “You have seen in your research that magic is so much more nuanced than the simple ‘light’ vs ‘dark’ they teach at schools. Magic exists in multiple shades of grey, and to pretend otherwise is not only wrong but extremely limiting.”

Hermione hated to admit it, but she knew he was right. Lucius didn’t even give her the chance to interject.

“So many subjects once taught at Hogwarts: Alchemy, Elemental magic, Ritualistic Spellcasting- have vanished. Big pillars of our magical education are being lost to the newest generations, and soon they will be lost to time and magic as a whole will become inherently weaker.”

Hermione couldn’t hold back any longer. “And whose fault is that?” She snapped, bristling in her chair. “We’re told we have magic at eleven, enter a completely alien world without guidance, and have to figure out all the customs as we go. For a world that mourns the loss of culture and tradition, little is being done to pass on the knowledge. Did you know I was once turned away from a potions shop in my fourth year- wasn’t even let through the doors because I didn’t have the right surname?”

Lucius couldn’t argue with that and nodded in grudging acquiescence.

“The gatekeeping of magical knowledge, resources and space is weakening the magical world. Not the introduction of Muggle-borns!” Hermione defended hotly.

“You're right,” Lucius said, to her utter shock. “I once thought that keeping those sorts of magics secreted away would be the only way to protect them, But I will admit I was wrong- I was wrong ever to believe you had no place in our world, and I was wrong to believe Muggles were inherently inferior. It was shallow-minded, foolish and deeply incorrect, and I will spend the rest of my life regretting it and trying to repent for my actions.”

Hermione, once again, was stunned into silence- seemingly a regular event at the Manor. She tossed her hair back and tried to go on the attack again.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re comfortable with Muggles now?” She sneered, letting loose a bitter laugh. “That you’ve lost all your prejudices. A changed man? How…. convenient for the Malfoy family.”

Lucius shook his head, not rising to her baiting tone. “I will not lie- I still hold many beliefs that I am slowly changing. But one belief has not, nor ever will- the Muggle world terrifies me.”

She was acutely taken aback by the genuine fear in his voice.

“What are our numbers compared to Muggles? What are our technologies compared to theirs?” Lucius continued. “Their society continues to advance at such a rapid rate- I compare it to my grandfather’s time, and the worlds are almost incomparable. Many aspects are already superior to ours.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thickly stuffed notebook. “While my wife manages magical society, I have spent my time on house arrest learning about the Muggle one. Their military, politics, and sciences- in all these, they have already surpassed our knowledge and show no stopping. Our reliance on magic has limited the Wizarding world in many ways.”

Hermione was torn between emotions. This was a favourite topic of hers- she was a little bitter that the only person who wanted to debate it with her was Lucius Malfoy, of all people.

“We have been stagnating,” he continued, “complacent in our magic, while the Muggle world has had to adapt and overcome problems with their own skill and hands.”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that and, on some level, felt a massive flash of vindication- she’d been trying to explain this to the magical community for years.

Lucius looked at her firmly. “You gave a rather interesting speech to the Wizengamot in August,” he said slowly. “At the end of it you, rather controversially, stated-”

“That I believed there was no other future for Wizarding society but one with full integration with the Muggle world,” Hermione finished for him. “Yes, I believe that- I have for a very long time.”

She kept quiet about the other possibility of a future with absolutely no magical society at all.

“I’ve made it clear that the Statue of Secrecy won’t be able to keep going for much longer,” she elaborated, watching as Lucius’s face settled back into an unreadable mask his son so often wore. “The rate at which Muggle surveillance and communication is developing will soon outpace our privacy and secrecy charms.”

Lucius hummed in thought, and Hermione continued to drive her point in deeper.

“There was a recording taken of a little girl letting off uncontrollable magic in Trafalgar Square last month,” she said quietly. “Some Muggle captured the incident on his camera and uploaded a video to a Muggle thing called ‘Youtube’. Seven million people saw it before some Muggle-born hacked the website and took it down. You can’t Obliviate seven million people.”

Lucius flinched- she could tell he knew he hadn’t grasped the severity of that incident. Didn’t know enough of the Muggle world to comprehend what a ‘website’ was.

“The way we manage magical and Muggle interactions won’t be possible for much longer,” she said quietly and watched as he nodded in agreement. “I’ve said this to Kingsley before- we should be planning for a future in which the International Stature is universally breached and how our two worlds could possibly co-exist.”

Lucius let her finish, then stared thoughtfully at her from over his desk for a long while. “I agree,” he finally said. Hermione tried not to gape at him in surprise.

“You do?” She said, somewhat doubtfully. “I…wasn’t expecting that.”

Lucius nodded. “I have also started to see the benefits of overlapping worlds- the success of combining Muggle chemistry and potions, for example. And that, I believe, will be the saving grace for our magical society.”

Hermione felt her jaw drop. “The most recent MAME award for Astronomy was for introducing space-based telescopes to re-graph our star charts,” she said dazedly. “It’s made astromancy and astrometry ten times more accurate- and powerful.”

What the fuck was happening? How was she having the most interesting intellectual debate of the year with the shady father of her sworn rival?

Another thought hit her- why was Lucius so interested in the Muggle world- unusual, unexpected foresight notwithstanding. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What prompted all of this…sudden interest in the future.”

For the first time in the conversation, Lucius shifted in his seat.

“Scorpius is nearly one and a half and has yet to show any sign of magic. “ He finally said, running an artfully careless finger around the rim of his glass. “Every single previous Malfoy child has shown some expression of ability much earlier than him. Draco blew out all the windows on the third floor when he was six months old after Theodore Nott took his stuffed dragon.”

He looked at her steadily. “I would be remiss not to consider he may not have any magical talent at all and prepare for such a future accordingly.”

Hermione felt her mouth drop open in shock. “You would be alright with a Squib in the family?”

“He is my grandson,” Lucius interrupted, “Draco’s boy. To my shame, I admit that this wouldn’t have been acceptable to me once, but I like to think I have changed. While I would prefer he had magic, not because I think he is inferior without it, but because the rest of our society will. Thanks to the Malfoy name, he will be spared much of the judgement and pity that I’m sure many Squibs experience, but it will not be enough to spare him from the cruelties of our society completely.”

He looked at her steadily. “One of my grandsires disowned his child for being a Squib,” he said, suddenly sombre. “Pruned them and his wife off the family tree, cast them out and let them both vanish into the world. He found a ward to act as Heir, the first ever in my House’s history until he married a much younger witch and got the magical offspring he so desired.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow challengingly. “And you’re not like him?” She asked, tone somewhat scathing.

Lucius rose to his feet, opened a sleek drawer and pulled out a stack of files, passing them expectantly over to Hermione. She flicked through them- portfolios of investments in shipping, pharmaceutical, and agricultural companies all neatly listed. Her eyes widened as she recognised the names of some of the biggest Muggle technological corporations and the stocks Lucius had carefully cultivated in a neat column next to them.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not like him. I’m trying not to be like my father, either.”

She was astounded. “You’ve expanded Malfoy enterprises into the Muggle world?” she asked Lucius disbelievingly. “Wha-When?”

He raised a single dark eyebrow back at her, almost amused at her flummoxed expression. “For nearly a thousand years, the Malfoy name has been synonymous with influence and prestige in England, and even longer than that in mainland Europe. My ancestors created a dynasty, and I, thanks to my narrow-mindedness and fear, nearly destroyed it.”

Hermione looked challenging at him, daring him to disagree. “Don’t pretend that your ancestors had different views or that your dynasty was built on honest work and altruism.”

“But it still was one,” Lucius told her plainly, “you’ve seen how our world works- power and influence are the currency at which anything happens. Money is just a benefit.”

Hermione, having very little of any, snorted.

“I look back at our history.” Lucius’s tone now turned airy- Hermione sensed she was in for a long lecture. “Where are those families who preached supreme superiority and didn't allow their views to shift and evolve? The Gaunts, Mannocks, Lestranges? All gone, and so many other families- Blacks, Nott, Rosier, so close to extinction. I am the steward of over a thousand years of Malfoy history, and I do not intend to follow the same path as those families any more and let this family that I'm so incredibly proud of die out on my watch.”

“Hence the Muggle investments,” Hermione said blandly, making sure she looked unimpressed by his rather grandiose speech.

“I would be foolish not to pursue business outside the Magical world if I want to see the Malfoy name live on for another millenium,” Lucius said long-sufferingly. “The world is changing, and my only option is to change with it if I want my family to survive.”

With a flash, Hermione suddenly understood the principle cores of the wizard before her like never before- self-preservation and survival above all.

“So you brought me here because you want to hear me tell you you’re right?” She drawled, doing her best to look terribly unimpressed by his revelations. If only the Wizengamot had a tenth of his self-awareness and foresight.

“Not quite,” Lucius said placidly, icy-blue eyes boring into hers. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

She froze, “What?”

“I’d like to offer you a job,” Lucius repeated, now definitely looking amused at whatever expression was on her face. “As advisor to the Malfoy family. To help me navigate whatever future the Malfoy family may face as our world inevitably merges with the Muggle one.”

Hermione was speechless. Lucius looked satisfied at her reaction and pushed a thin folder towards her. Acting on instinct, she picked it up and paged through it.

“Is this a contract?” She asked weakly when the contents sunk in.

“It is indeed,” Lucius said, now sounding remarkably cheerful. “I know you have your responsibilities at the Ministry and your eminent, upcoming dissertation that my son is so curious about; I would never presume to draw your attention away from those.” He held his hands up in mock solemnity. “But should you agree to…moonlight for Malfoy industries, well, you would find you would be well compensated indeed.”

Hermione flipped to the next page, and her eyes nearly bugged open at the remuneration amount stated- that was a lot of zeros.

“I am a Malfoy,” Lucius reminded her- as if she had forgotten that fact despite his blindingly white hair and regal good looks. “And Malfoys only get the best. And right now, I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead my family into our uncertain future and guarantee our legacy.”

He waved a dismissive hand at the contents of the file. “This, I believe, would be enough for you to privately fund any research you could ever wish to explore for the rest of your career. And, naturally, you would have the backing of House Malfoy to endorse any findings you may publish.” He smiled at her, showing rows of straight, white teeth. “Based on my…understanding of the financial situation at the Ministry- given the funding required to build Level 11 and the perilous future of any possible research grants I hear may plague your department, well, I don’t think I am wrong to assume such an offer would be…unwelcome. Think about it, Miss Granger, and let me know what you decide.”

“No.” Hermione’s voice was quiet but steady. Lucius blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No,” she repeated, voice growing stronger. “I won’t work for you. I won’t do it.”

Lucius gazed at her unblinkingly, any traces of geniality on his face gone.

“I would rather,” Hermione continued steadily, watching as a deep pink flush crept up the wizard’s neck and ears, “watch my research rot into the ground and take your legacy with it than ever accept a single knut from you.”

The temperature in the office seemed to drop by about twenty degrees, and Hermione’s heart started pounding again. She was suddenly vehemently grateful for the Vow Lucius had taken earlier.

“Very well, Miss Granger,” Lucius said after a minute of stony silence, voice silky. “I thank you for your time.” His voice turned softer despite his burning blue eyes. “And your…rather candid…refusal aside, I would still urge you to think on it- I will leave the file in your hands for…reconsideration.”

Hermione stared back at him unyieldingly. The tension in the air stretched once more. It was only broken when a ghostly peacock floated through a wall; it opened its mouth, and Narcissa Malfoy’s voice poured out, sounding as unflappable as always.

“Darling, you haven’t secreted Miss Granger off anywhere, have you? Our son is practically tearing the Manor apart, looking for her. Dinner is in ten. Won’t you escort our guest to the rose dining hall?’

Lucius rose to his feet, smiling genially at Hermione as if she hadn’t just, in effect, told him to get fucked.

“Shall we?” He asked pleasantly. “Cissa does love to have guests over. Indulge her, won’t you?”

Hermione nodded blankly, almost whiplashed by the sudden change in tone and topic of conversation.

“While we walk, won’t you tell me more about this Astronomy discovery,” Lucius continued politely, offering his arm to walk her out of his office. “I would love to hear more of it…Won a MAME, you say?”

Mind reeling, Hermione obediently followed him, mouth running instinctively as they walked to join the others for dinner, even as her mind reeled from the day's events. Whatever she’d been expecting to speak to Lucius about, it certainly hadn’t been that. Christ, the wizard was as capricious as his son. And while the obvious shock on Malfoy’s face as she walked into the dining room on his father’s arm made her feel somewhat better, the absolutely delighted smile little Scorpius Malfoy gave at the sight of her cheered her up almost completely.

She’d survived Bellatrix in this place, Hermione reminded herself. She’d survived Malfoy and his odd family magic, not to mention Lucius Malfoy and his weird, vaguely threatening job offer- all she needed to do now was survive Narcissa Malfoy and the rest of the upcoming dinner then that would be the whole family vanquished. And after that, she could leave for Stonehenge. The Malfoys, she thought, might be the only family in Wizarding Britain whose company might be less preferable than a death cult.

Surviving dinner- that she could do—piece of cake.

Chapter Text

Dinner was not, in fact, a piece of cake. To their credit, Narcissa and Lucius were on their best behaviour. Malfoy, however, was obviously worried they might say or do something to make her uncomfortable, so spent the beginning of the meal glowering at them from across the table. The look on his face reminded Hermione of the one she would give Crookshanks whenever she had company over, and he looked like he was planning to wee in their shoes.

But he was worrying unnecessarily; his parents were either too were too well-mannered to pry about her presence in the Manor and their decidedly not secret venture the following day, or Malfoy had given some satisfactory explanation with what little information he could- and so they didn’t ask Hermione any probing questions, just made the smallest of small talk from across the obnoxiously long dining room table. Scorpius was also there but had already eaten and lay fast asleep in a little bassinet tucked near the fireplace, his soft snores interspersing the gentle conversation.

But that didn’t mean the small talk was easy. Much to Hermione’s annoyance (and grudging interest), Lucius maintained a scintillating discussion, drawing her in multiple times in avid debate while Malfoy and his mother murmured away in the background. Hermione tried to ignore how she was having some of the most interesting academic discourse of the year with the same person whose face Harry and Ron had stuck up on a dart board in their office whenever the cases became a little tricky, and they needed some amusement. But after twenty minutes of easy repartee, she had to admit that she was starting to enjoy herself. For the first half of the dinner, Hermione let Lucius take the lead while she listened in on Malfoy's discussion with his mother throughout the whole evening, and assorted snippets of conversation flowed easily around the room between the four of them.

“I’ve heard from Pansy that Daphne is volunteering in a Muggle hospital. Reading to patients and things. How…altruistic. Did you hear about that, Draco dear?”

“Abernathy was mentioning a Muggle company called Microsoft. Apparently, they’ve been a successful business model for a while. Do you know anything of them?”

“I’ll need to let Theo know I’m postponing drinks. Again. Pansy’s going to kill me-”

“I mean, if you look ratio-wise, the number of Muggle-borns to Purebloods at Hogwarts enrollment is shifting vastly… I’ve said to Headmistress McGonagall before-”

“I’m considering hosting the Yule ball this year at the Manor. What do you think about that, Miss Granger? We’ve not hosted since the war. And Yule is the most traditional-”

“It’s absurd, Father- the Wyverns have been teed to top the rankings this year. Their scoring stats alone-”

But when pudding was served, Narcissa’s gentle conversation turned more…prodding. With very deft skill that took Hermione about twenty minutes to notice, she wrangled control of the table, despite Lucius wanting to interrogate Hermione more on the fine details of Muggle stock markets (which she was slightly relieved about- she couldn’t regurgitate much more information she’d skim-read from the Times), and took it from impersonal chatter… to very much the opposite.

“So, Miss Granger,” Narcissa beamed at her warmly and sipped her wine. “How have things in your Department been? I heard from Draco that you should be presenting your dissertation soon.”

Hermione shot Malfoy a bemused look; the idea of him discussing her career with his mother was beyond baffling. He stubbornly refused to make eye contact with her and focused on sectioning his crème brûlée into little quarters with voracious interest.

“I am,” she said slowly. “In the last week of December. Hopefully.”

“A Mastery,” Narcissa cooed as if she’d never met any witch with the achievement before. “Congratulations. And in such a niche field too- there hasn’t been an Unspeakable presenting a Mastery for….well, a very long time now!”

Hermione gave her a polite smile. “Yes. My boss, Unspeakable Murrary, would’ve been the last one.”

“Your department has formed quite a reputable team,” Narcissa added. “I heard from Augusta Longbottom that you and Neville were in Europe recently doing some research. Top secret, she said. Anything we can expect to hear about soon?”

“My office has rather strict confidentiality rules,” Hermione said half-apologetically. “A lot of what we publish has to stay internally. Besides my dissertation, I don't have many opportunities to talk publically about my work.”

Narcissa got the hint and let it slide.

“That must be difficult to source external funding,” she said sweetly. “Or interest. If you can't talk freely about your work, how can you expect the general public to be invested in it?”

Hermione gave a grimacing nod and refused to make eye contact with Malfoy lest she let her apprehension about the stupid bet they'd made show on her face. That was a whole other mess they’d need to sort out another day. What the fuck had she been thinking about making any sort of gamble with her career? No matter how certain she was that she’d absolutely obliterate Malfoy at the MAME awards, in hindsight, it was beyond childish. Bugger- she’d have to spend some time (of which she didn’t have much to spare) to try and wriggle herself out of that now. Especially since Malfoy was starting to grow on her (again) like a flesh-eating fungus.

“It is a lot of pressure,” Hermione said slowly, “to have so few chances to get public interest in my work. Especially when it now looks like I’ll be so dependent on external funding…”

From near her, Lucius made some deeply interested noise, likely realising that by turning down his (very strange) job offer, she’d essentially chosen her morals over the security of her future career. Hermione imagined that might be a foreign concept for the wizard.

“It’s…hard, keeping what I do a secret from my friends, many of my colleagues. Sometimes I think my Department could be doing things differently,” she finished.

“Would you change that?” Narcissa asked curiously. “If it were up to you.”

Hermione thought about that. “There’s a reason what we do is highly secret,” she said after deep thought. “We work with and study the most dangerous of magics, the type that if they were to be used by the wrong people, the results could be catastrophic. But making our work more accessible and more transparent really would be of benefit to us.”

She paused and swirled the drink in her glass. “And not just because funding would be easier,” she added hurriedly. “But God knows that would help. But because our progress could be vastly accelerated through shared research- my field could do with more interdisciplinary approaches and taking greater advantage of our collective intelligence as a community.”

She looked up, noticing how all the (adult) Malfoys were hanging on her every word and felt a flash of self-consciousness at the undivided attention. She didn’t get many opportunities to ramble on about how Wizarding Britain was sometimes its own worst enemy when it came to advancing society- by now, most other people would’ve zoned out.

“I’ve never believed that restricting access to information is the way to go,” Hermione finished, darting a look at Lucius. He looked like he was recalling their conversation in his study and was gazing at her pensively.

“This is starting to feel quite like an interrogation, Mother,” Malfoy drawled suddenly, breaking the tension building in the dining room, his dessert now carefully split into eighths. Hermione wondered if he had been worrying about their bet, too.

“Not at all,” his mother reassured him. “It’s just a delight to have such company over.”

“It's been a vast improvement on my last visit,” Hermione stated, then promptly cringed. Maybe not the best joke to make, all things considered. God, she hated small talk.

A phenomenally awkward silence descended on the table, and while she was grateful for the respite, the silence was almost suffocating. It didn’t last too long, however.

Narcissa valiantly rallied herself and tried again. “Such dedication to your academic pursuits is notable, Miss Granger,” she said sweetly. “But it couldn’t have been easy; I imagine working so hard for such a long time must take its toll.”

Hermione felt her shoulders relax a little at the sympathy. “Oh, it wasn’t,” she assured the other witch. “I’m very lucky to have Murray as such a great supervisor- but it has been a lot of work. I’m sure your son will agree. I’m very excited to have it over with.”

The idea of finally being done with her Mastery was almost incomprehensible. Hermione was beyond excited- but once again, the little tendrils of doubt and worry crept into the back of her mind. She’d been doing her Mastery for so long now; what would she do with herself once she finished? Would this be the peak of her career? What if her Mastery was actually terrible and bombed, and this was all she got? Who would she be without her work? A slight residual panic started clawing at her chest; she took a bit sip of her wine to cover it up.

“And what will your plans be for after you present?”

Hermione did her best to look confident and indisputably sure in the path that lay after the greatest feat of her career. In short, the complete opposite of how she really felt. Her five-year plan (a staple in her life since she was given her first diary at age six) remained as elusive as ever, no matter how she stubbornly tried to chart it. Finishing her Mastery was starting to feel like she was sailing off the end of the world, and all that lay ahead of her was, ‘here be monsters.’

“All tremendously exciting but still to be confirmed,” she lied smoothly. “But all based on how my research might be…received, of course.”

Malfoy looked up sharply in interest at the mention of her work, but she refused to satisfy his curiosity any further. He could suck it up and wait until December to find out like the rest of the Wizarding population.

“And do you not have any other commitments?” Narcissa asked slyly. “I shouldn’t think so- especially given how much coverage you get in the Prophet. I’m sure I should know by now.”

There was a faint shifting from the other end of the table. Hermione narrowed her eyes, confused.

“Commitments?”

Narcissa gave her a benign smile. “No partner? No children? I know our world does tend to do these things much younger than your Muggles. But you would be twenty-eight now, I believe? Surely common for even Muggle women of your age to start thinking of those things.”

Hermione hoped the smile on her face wasn’t as artificial as it felt. “Nope. None. And none imminent, either.”

Finishing her glass, she dismissed Narcissa’s innocent comment, pretending it hadn’t hit her deepest, most hidden insecurities: the creeping, unignorable fear that in spending so much of her mid-twenties pursuing her career, she was being left behind by the people she loved. The insidious worry that, despite her efforts not to compare her life to her friends’ milestones and happiness, she was falling short. That she was stagnating.

She reined in her spiralling worries firmly and hoped like hell that her usually expressive face hadn’t given any of her thoughts away.

“And Theo?” Narcissa asked delicately. There was a horrible scraping noise from the table as Malfoy caught his knife on his plate, mid-pudding dissection. “You certainly seemed…close at the ball.”

“Just friends.” Hermione clarified hurridly. “Dear friends. Theo and I’ve been close for years now.”

Narcissa hummed in thought. “Such laudable devotion to your job might make those hard to balance, I imagine. Unless you had the right partner, of course.”

“Won't you pass me the sherry, Father?” Malfoy burst out.

“Don’t interrupt your mother,” Lucius chided and raised a laconic eyebrow. “Surely you could summon it over yourself, Draco?”

With a huff, Malfoy did that.

“Of course,” Narcissa continued. “Your career advancement has been….meteoric. I believe you were offered an Unspeakable position before you even had an undergraduate degree. I can’t recall another such occasion. Remarkable, don't you agree, Lucius?”

“Very much so,” Lucius droned and refilled his glass at her, waving his hand to top up her own wandlessly.

Hermione tried to smile warmly but feared her teeth were bared more than anything. Narcissa was right- Unspeakable positions were offered very infrequently. Even getting considered for a temporary internship was highly competitive- Hermione’s entrance into the Department, despite having no relevant experience (and coming from such a different field), had caused quite a storm within the Ministry.

“I met my boss at a work event while at the Beasts division,” Hermione explained, cheeks aching with how forced her smile was becoming. “I got chatting with them, and somehow, at the end of the night, I was offered a position in their Department and a scholarship for an appropriate undergrad. I quit my job there that night and never looked back.”

“You started on Level Four?” Surprise coloured Lucius’s voice. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“You would’ve been in prison at the time,” she pointed out blandly, sipping her now-refreshed drink. Opposite her, Malfoy choked.

Lucius shot her an aloof look, but Hermione was sure she could see amusement glimmering faintly in his eyes.

“I was in a junior position for six months in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” she informed him before he could fire back, “before I transferred over to the Department of Mysteries.”

Narcissa clapped her hands. “That’s right! Your office spearheaded the Werewolf Reconciliation Act when you were there. I remember now- it was all over the news.”

If anyone noticed how Hermione’s smile dropped at the mention of her previous office, they had the grace not to say anything.

“Another remarkable achievement. That I did hear about.” Lucius said, tone impressed. “Even though I was in prison.” He pointedly added.

“It would’ve been hard to miss,” Malfoy interrupted the conversation for the first time; Hermione could feel his gaze bore a hole into the side of her head. “Considering what an impact it had. Crisis averted- as it were.”

Hermione swallowed a bite of crème brûlée, ignoring how it tasted like ash. Post-war, the Wizarding community had been teetering on the brink of another civil war, this time the flames mostly fanned by the remaining members of Greyback’s pack, led by some surviving Death Eaters. It was only thanks to the Reconciliation Act promising vastly improved werewolf rights and full assimilation into magical society that triggered most of the hostilities to cease, and Hermione had been part of the division that had been the driving force of the legislation- some of the only work that had been passed in her time there. Defeating Voldemort had been Harry’s legacy- but formalising peace between the magical community and werewolves (something the Wizengemot had been trying to do for nearly a thousand years) had been the start of hers.

Malfoy put down his sherry glass onto the table with a loud clink.

“How… unsurprising then,” he said, tone unreadable, “that you were offered a position as an Unspeakable given the…auspicious start to your career.”

He picked up his drink and tilted his glass to her in a toast. “On track to be one of the greatest magical theorists of our time. A MAME candidate. Published, what, forty-three journal articles?”

“Fourty-four,” she corrected him swiftly.

“Three magical degrees-”

“And three Muggle ones. Pass me the sherry, won’t you?”

“It was a gamble for any Head of Department to take,” Malfoy continued like she hadn’t interrupted him. “But evidently an opportune on. And how beneficial it turned out for you.”

The glass decanter filled with amber liquid floated over to her, bobbing like a buoy in a rough sea.

Hermione met his gaze coolly. “Murray never revealed their rationale to me.” She rearranged her cutlery tidily on her now-empty plate. “I guess they saw something in me that made them think I’d be an asset to the team. I’m eternally grateful for their foresight.”

“I’m sure they saw something in you indeed,” Malfoy said quietly. Hermione could feel the other eyes in the room bouncing between them.

“I couldn't imagine myself in a different career now,” she told him sweetly, noting how tense the sharp planes of his cheek were. “I’m sure you feel the same.”

“I wasn’t aware you were considering my feelings at all,” Malfoy bit back, finally raising his gaze to meet hers. Hermione felt almost electrified as his grey eyes burned into hers. The glass decanter wobbled in the air, then fell, hitting the table with a loud smash; Hermione all but jumped out of her skin as the tension between them broke.

Scorpius woke with a loud burble, and Malfoy silently rose to his feet, scooped him up, and returned to the table, planting him firmly on his lap. The toddler beamed at Hermione from across the table and reached forward, waving his arms at her. Hermione couldn’t help but smile and gently waved her wand, allowing a thin stream of green smoke to dance out and trail around Scorpius’s face tantalisingly. He shrieked with laughter.

“I hear from Draco that Scorp was quite taken with Potter’s boy,” Narcissa said abruptly. Hermione tried not to jump again; she’d forgotten the other witch and Lucius were still in the room.

“Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, absurdly grateful for the change in conversation. “Ginny told me they were inseparable.” A soft smile crossed her face at the memory. “She could barely keep them apart.”

“Kind of Potter to care for our grandson for the night,” Lucius murmured. Hermione eyed him cautiously- he seemed to be genuine. “He’s got two sons, is that right?”

“Potter’s youngest will be in the same year as Scorp,” Malfoy informed them. Narcissa and Lucius exchanged some indecipherable looks. “He’s only a few months older.”

Hermione felt that discussing Harry’s boys in Malfoy Manor with Lord and Lady Malfoy was one of the most bizarre things she’d ever done. Maybe it was all the sherry she’d been gulping down (and her residual exhaustion) that gave the conversation a dreamlike haze.

“Two sons,” Narcissa beamed, but there was a tinge of inexplicable sadness on her face. “How blessed. Many magical families struggle to have more than one child now.”

“Ginny’s actually pregnant again,” Hermione informed them. “Harry thinks it’ll be a girl this time.”

She took another sip of her drink- this whole conversation was starting to feel somewhat surreal. How much longer would this dinner take? Dessert was long gone; surely she could retreat to her room? Or were they about to whip out yet another tiny portion of food on some bone china plates? If this was how Malfoy had grown up, no wonder he had been an insufferable prat of an elven-year-old. Like some poorly undersocialised dog, he’d never seen how normal people had a family dinner.

“A daughter!” Narcissa marvelled. “How wonderful. House Potter hasn’t had a girl born in for ages!”

Hermione felt her interest peak at the reminder that Narcissa knew so much about magical society. Malfoy, likely seeing the interest on her face, made an amused-sounding huff across the table as he cuddled his son.

“You’ve done it now, Mother,” he remarked, but his tone was gentler than Hermione expected. “Prepare yourself. Miss Granger here has questions.”

His earlier animosity seemed to have vanished, maybe soothed by Scorpius’s presence, and he was more focused on planting a kiss on Scorp’s downy hair than continuing their earlier spat.

Narcissa shot Hermione an inquisitive look. “Questions about what, dear?”

“Your son told me you know a fair bit about inter-House dynamics,” Hermione said eagerly, pushing aside any reticence to ask Narcissa anything- she’d been pondering what Sirius’s return meant for Harry’s occupation of Grimmauld Place meant for hours. “I was just wondering if you knew much about inheritance laws.”

Everyone in the dining room seemed to freeze. Scorpius, still playing with the dancing smoke, laughed.

“I know a bit,” Narcissa said sikily. “In what context?”

Hermione arched a brow at her. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know your cousin is back. I’m sure you can imagine the context I would be interested in. ”

For a second, there was silence, and she stopped, worried she’d terribly miscalculated, but then Narcisaa’s face smoothed out slightly, and she reached to pour herself a cup of tea.

“I imagine you wonder how my son’s inheritance of the Black family magic and vaults might be affected, given Sirius’s likelihood of superseding his claim.”

Hermione paused. She’d not even considered that- hadn’t even known Malfoy was in line to inherit the Black dynasty. The other witch, annoyingly, saw right through her in a second.

“Oh, so you didn’t know,” Narcissa said softly. “Never mind then. I assumed…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “What context were you interested in, then?”

Hermione gawked at her and swivelled to face Malfoy, mind still reeling that he was in line to inherit yet another Pureblood House. At this point, he was starting to sound like some minor member of the Spencer family.

“How did I not know that about you?” She demanded. “I assumed House Black had just…” she waved her hands vaguely. “You know…died out. With Sirius.”

At the end of the table, Narcissa looked a little nettled at Hermione’s casual attitude towards the end of her birth House.

“Well, it was in the recent edition of Witch Weekly,” Malfoy pointed out, tone slightly aggrieved, as if miffed she’d missed his most recent newspaper exposé. “I featured on their 2007 Bachelor list. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Oh yes, the hard-hitting investigative journalism that Witch Weekly is known for,” Hermione scoffed. “My ideal reading material. Did they cover you sourcing your loafers from little French orphans, or would that be too sensationalistic?”

“They're Italian,” Malfoy snapped back, looking aghast.

“The shoes or the orphans?” Hermione asked sweetly, sensing the opportunity to bait him further.

“My shoes,” he hissed back, looking remarkably insulted. “And besides, they were a present from Pansy.”

“Definitely not ethically sourced then,” Hermione interrupted him, delighted at how flushed the tips of his ears were getting. “I’m sure Pansy Parkinson would make shoes from orphans themselves if she thought they’d look good.”

Malfoy now looked wholly indignant, but Narcissa, sensing an argument of epic proportions was about to form (and likely remembering Malfoy’s smoking robes from the last time they’d properly bickered), hastily changed the conversation.

“My apologies…” she said hurriedly. “Miss Granger, I’m sure you could borrow my copy of Witch Weekly should you wish to read it. What were asking about Sirius and inheritance?”

(“I wouldn’t bother,” Malfoy said hurriedly in the background. “Last month’s paper wasn't all that interesting, really.”)

“I was wondering if Grimmauld Place would kick Harry and his family out,” she said dumbly, as another thought hit her at Narcissa’s assumption.“Especially as Harry has Potter Manor and the family magic to claim.” Her eyes shot to Malfoy. “I was under the impression Harry inherited Grimmauld Place from Sirius after he di-….fell into the Veil.”

Malfoy made a scoffing noise, soothing Scorpius as he started fussing, quickly becoming bored with Hermione’s distraction. “Potter couldn’t inherit Grimmauld Place. He never actually did. I mean, technically-” he cut off, and his jaws clicked closed.

“Technically, what?” Hermione queried, eyes narrowing. But Malfoy showed no signs of elaborating further.

“Technically, after my wife’s cousin was recognised as dead by the Black family magic,” Lucius drawled, speaking up for the first time in ages, “my son was considered the Heir. But with Mr Potter being Sirius Black’s godson and being willed a magical property- well, that complicates things. Had our society been functioning, erm, normally, it would’ve been a rather interesting legal battle between the two of them as to who Grimmauld Place would’ve belonged to. My money would be on Draco- his claim to the Black family magic through his mother’s bloodline should be stronger than Potter’s bequest.”

Hermione sat for a minute in silence as her thoughts swam. “Is that why Grimmauld Place acts up a bit?” She asked tentatively. “Because its allegiance is…torn?”

Scorpius’s fussing increased, and Malfoy, with a polite nod to his mother and herself, quietly slipped out of the dining room, murmuring nonsense to his squalling son. Narcissa and Lucius stayed put, obviously still happy to satisfy her curiosity.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully. “Oh, definitely. A magical house like that, well, I'm sure you know they do tend to become…sentient after time. It's allegiance hasn't been confirmed yet. I'm not surprised it's testing the waters. It’ll probably only settle down once the Black family magic is formally claimed.”

Hermione stared at Narcissa, agog, thoughts still whirling.

“You said Sirius’s claim would supersede your son’s? But I thought Sirius was disowned. How could he still be a candidate for the Black family magic after that?”

Narcissa shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Well,” she said delicately, “my cousin wasn’t formally disowned- not…technically.”

“Walburga blasted him off your family tapestry,” Hermione pointed out. “That seems rather decisive to me.”

“Yes,” Narcissa murmured. “My aunt did have a flair for the dramatics. But she never formally pruned him.”

The way the other witch emphasised the word suggested there was some context Hermione was missing.

“Pruned? What do you mean pruned?” Her eyes swivelled to Malfoy’s father. “You mentioned that earlier. In your office.”

“I did indeed,” Lucius chimed in. “Séverine Malfoy and her son- I believe you had her journals in the library earlier. She was one of my…cleverer… predecessors.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “And she was pruned? By her husband? Because their child was a Squib?”

At Lucius’s nod, she stared at them blankly, hoping they’d get the hint that she desperately needed more information.

“And that would mean…” She started for them suggestively.

“Family magic is incredibly complicated,” Lucius seemed happy to continue leading the conversation. “And the family trees you surely saw in Grimmauld Place are physical manifestations of them- Malfoy Manor has our one deep in the library. Blasting someone off is more…symbolic than anything. An expression of severe disapproval and rejection. Not necessarily formal legal and magical disownment.”

“But pruning is?” Hermione inferred, thoughts already racing to suss the logic out. What little logic existed within the Pureblood culture- a bunch of melodramatic divas, the lot of them.

“That’s right,” Narcissa said. “Pruning is the complete severing of one’s own magic to that of the family you belong to. It’s one of Pureblood society’s worst punishments.”

Here, she looked strained. “Only the Head of the family can do it- it’s a very rare occurrence. The last would’ve been…”

“Andromeda.” Hermione finished for her, making an educated guess. “Your sister.”

Narcissa didn’t show any obvious signs of emotion, but her lips were ever-so tighter, and her shoulders stood stiff and high.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Uncle Orion pruned her off after she ran away with Edward Tonks. Being pruned is being expunged from your family’s magic, their history and archives, and your connection to all who came before you. Permanently. And the loss of such magic…” Here, her composure couldn’t hold any longer, and she physically shuddered. “Awful, from what I hear. You need to understand, Miss Granger, that growing up with family magic, having access to its reserves and unconditional support- and then having it stripped from you? It’s an unimaginable loss- closer to rendering your soul than losing a limb.”

Hermione was silent as she digested that; the horrified distaste on both Narcissa and Lucius’s faces made it clear this was no trivial matter. And, as much as she hated to admit it, as a Muggle-born, it was a fear she knew she would never truly intuit.

“Unlike if you leave your family magic to marry and bind to another House,” Lucius added, “pruning is irrevocable. The family magic will never take you or your bloodline back. Andromeda’s grandson, for example, will never be able to claim the Black family magic as it simply won’t acknowledge his existence.”

“Damnatio memoriae,” Hermione murmured; Narcissa nodded.

“Close to that. But you would still be alive- with the feeling of never having your family’s magic again. Knowing that you’re dead to it.”

“But Sirius wasn’t pruned?” She clarified.

“No,” Narcissa’s tone had turned thoughtful. “I never knew why not. My mother once said Uncle Orion once intended on doing so, but…”

“But?” Hermione was fascinated. Spending the night in the Manor aside, this was a much more enjoyable evening than ordering Chinese takeaways and binge-watching Planet Earth. Dare she say it- more informative. (Sorry, Sir Attenborough).

“But Aunt Walburga stopped him,” Narcissa finished, looking deep in thought. “Whether or not that’s true- I can’t be certain. But for some reason, Sirius remained Orion’s Heir until he fell into the Veil.”

“That’s why the Order could use Grimmauld in the war,” Hermione mused. “I did wonder how it still belonged to Sirius and hadn’t gone to you or Bellatrix.”

Narcissa nodded. “And then a few years into my cousin’s….incarceration,” she carefully phrased, “Draco became Sirius’s Heir. Because my Aunt Walburga, the family's matriarch, used the last of her fading magic to title him so before she died. It was highly unusual- normally, once you marry out of a House, you forsake your family’s magic for theirs. But there were no other living Blacks to claim it- Bellatrix was too unstable, and I… was judged too loyal to House Malfoy to put the best interests of my former House above all.”

Here, Narcissa’s gaze darted to her husband, who had soft eyes fixed on her, the warmest Hermione had ever seen him look.

“They why,” Hermione queried, “hasn’t Draco claimed the Black family magic already? Why not during the war after Sirius died? I imagine that would’ve been a great asset for your side?”

“Cissa and I debated this,” Lucius said slowly, “but we decided the risks were too great. We couldn’t risk losing him… not for the mere chance of some power- no matter how much it may benefit our cause..”

“Risks?” Hermione was fascinated- this was beyond what she thought she’d learn about such a secretive branch of magic.

“Claiming family magic isn’t a simple process,” the blond wizard murmured. “There is a chance, albeit a small one, that the family magic may reject you. It’s rare, and the rationale behind rejections is unknown to us, but when it does…”

“Many don’t survive such rejection,” Narcissa finished. “And the Black family magic has always been known for its…unpredictability.”

“Much like its members,” Hermione added; Narcissa laughed.

“We decided that it was too high a risk for Draco to take, especially at such a young age.” She explained. “But when Voldemort insisted…” A devious look crossed her face, and Hermione was almost struck into silence at the unexpected resemblance she bore to her cousin, “we staged a claiming attempt and subsequent rejection. The three of us. The Malfoy Magic helped, too.”

Lucius leant back in his seat, looking inordinately smug at pulling off that feat- Hermione supposed it was well-deserved; Riddle had been many things, but stupid certainly wasn’t one of them.

“Bellatrix was enraged, of course, but we reassured her that Draco would simply try again when he was older and his magical core was stronger,” he added. “And then the war was over and the Ministry…”

“The Ministry wouldn’t have tolerated Draco claiming the Black Heirship,” Narcissa interjected. “Not with it making our family even more powerful. They would’ve found any acceptable excuse and thrown him back in Azkaban. Right next to Lucius.”

Hermione pondered that- it wasn’t an unlikely scenario. Kingsley had faced a vote of no confidence when Lucius entered his bargain plea- the idea of Lucius’s son becoming an even more formidable wizard would be unacceptable to most of the Wizengamot.

“And then Astoria got sick, then we lost her,” Lucius continued, “and Draco decided that the prospect of leaving Scorpius an orphan made ever claiming the Black family magic not an option. No matter the benefits it may provide.”

Hermione nodded, deep in thought.

“And now, with Sirius’s return, I imagine the Heirship will return to him,” Narcissa mused. “And somehow, I am relieved Draco never claimed it earlier. I’ve been trying to imagine how that would’ve played out, and my only conclusion is that Draco would be stripped of the family magic as it transferred back to my cousin- in a manner to being pruned. And that is not a feeling I would ever wish on anyone.”

It all sounded terribly complicated to Hermione, and once again, she despaired at the Wizarding world, making things far more complex than they ever needed to be.

“Does that sate your curiosity, Miss Granger?” Narcissa asked

“For now,” Hermione said bluntly, she heard both her companions huffing a deeply amused laugh. “But I’m sure I’ll have others.”

“Without a doubt,” Narcissa said gravely. “But when you do, simply owl me. I- we- will be happy to provide any help we can.”

A wave of exhaustion hit Hermione, and she yawned widely, spluttering apologies afterwards.

“Bed, I think,” Lucius said, standing smoothly when his wife did. “You have much to process.”

That was undoubtedly true, and as Hermione made her way to the guest wing, escorted by Narcissa, her thoughts were racing- Sirius’s return had been far more complicated than she had ever anticipated. But all she had learnt provided a suitable distraction, and it was only much later, as she ensconced herself in the plush depths of her poster bed, that it dawned on her where she was, where she had chosen to stay for the night. Automatically, her breathing picked up, and ever increasingly, the scars on her forearm began to burn once more.

But her rising terror was quickly quashed by streaks of green that started to swirl in the air around her, and almost on reflex, her panic began to subside, and her aching arm eased in blissful relief.

She closed her eyes and recalled how it felt to feel the presence of the Malfoy magic- and ever so slightly, the faintest of sparks tugged on her consciousness, almost as if burnt on her retinas. And, as she fell into an easy sleep, the depths of the Manor suddenly felt a lot less daunting with the green light to keep her company.

Hermione was many things, but an early riser was not one of them- forcing herself to get up at five-thirty in the morning was almost painful. While pulling on her jeans and jumper, she sent a mental curse at Malfoy for being so eager to get going first thing in the morning, and then another one a few minutes later when she remembered he wouldn’t be suffering alongside her- like Harry, Malfoy’s years of early-morning Quidditch practice had trained him into some sort of freak who believed that starting the day with exercise and watching the sun come up was good for one’s physical, spiritual and emotional being and all that brain-washed rubbish. Adding to her bad mood, her hair was also in fine form- somehow overnight, it had morphed into a curly, uncooperative cloud around her head that she couldn’t seem to coax into its usual thick braid no matter how hard she tried.

When Malfoy knocked at her door thirty minutes later, she was already in a simmering bad mood and arched an eyebrow at the sight of him all dressed up in his full Curse-breaker field regalia, looking rather striking in the intimidating get-up.

“I know my hair looks bad,” she snapped. “The magic in this House seems to be messing with it somehow. I’m fixing it.”

“What?” Malfoy gazed at her blankly. “No. Your hair looks nice.”

She tried to ignore the way her face flushed, and seeing the chance to cover it up, she shoved her trunk at his chest (knocking all the air out of his lungs with an audible ooof), zipped her parka up and marched down to the main foyer, leaving him scrambling to catch up behind her.

Much to her surprise, Narcissa and Lucius stood in the entrance foyer, waiting to see them off. Narcissa descended on Malfoy like a flutter of cooing doves, pressing multiple kisses to his cheeks (much to his mortification and Hermione’s malicious delight) while Lucius stood to the side, bouncing a manically awake Scorpius in his arms.

“Do try to prevent my son from being killed on whatever harebrained mission this is, won’t you?” He drawled at her. “Scorp does need to grow up somewhat well adjusted.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hermione told him seriously, not quite believing she and Lucius had crossed from antagonistic to cordial so quickly. “But I can’t promise he’ll survive me.”

“Well, I’m sure Scorp will be fine either way,” Lucius said hurriedly. “He’s a Malfoy- much more sensible than Narcissa’s lot.”

Hermione, well used to the flair for dramatics that both Draco and Sirius had shown with careless, enthusiastic abandon, internally agreed. Scorpius beamed at her with a gummy smile (showing off a few more teeth than last time) and reached his hands towards her, babbling away; Hermione darted a cautious gaze at Malfoy, seeking permission and was slightly shocked when he nodded almost right away.

She let Lucius pass her the hefty toddler, marking internally how much he’d grown since she’d last had him in her arms and couldn’t help the warm smile that crossed her face as she instinctively settled hip on her hips, her body gently swaying side to side before she was even aware of it.

Scorpius looked up at her and grabbed a thick chunk of her loose hair, pulling very sharply. Hermione’s smile dropped in an instant.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry,” Malfoy rushed, quickly coming over to detangle his son’s fingers. “He likes to do that. I should’ve warned you.”

His breath huffed hot on the back of her neck as he did her best to free her from his son’s claws; Hermione tried not to squirm away at his sudden proximity.

“Don’t worry,” she said hastily, “Albus does that too.”

Malfoy didn’t quite smile, but gentle lines formed in the corners of his eyes. Hermione tried not to gawk- those certainly hadn’t been there the last time she’d been up close to him, all those years ago. They were…not unappealing.

“There you go,” he said lowly, managing to detangle the last bit of hair. “All free.”

Hermione tried to ignore how her breath caught as his grey eyes met hers. Malfoy seemed equally uncertain about what to say. The silence, however, wasn’t broken by them.

“Owbus!” A little voice peeped; Hermione and Malfoy both looked down, astonished. “Owbus!” Scorpius repeated, still perched on her hip waving fat little fists; Hermione felt her jaw drop.

“Did he-” she turned to stare at Malfoy. “Did he just say ‘Albus’?”

Malfoy looked equally taken aback. “I think he did.” He said slowly. “That’s his…that was his first word.”

They gazed at each other, flummoxed; she noticed Narcissa and Lucius looking equally shocked behind her. Scorpius smiled at her again, reaching for her curls once more, but Malfoy intercepted him before more of her hair could become another victim.

“Here,” Hermione told him, “why don’t you take him back.” She gave Scorpius an affectionate chuck under the chin (which had him squealing with laughter) and passed him back to Malfoy, noting the tense set of his jaw and shoulders as he accepted Scorpius, holding the baby as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Malfoy was scared, she realised with a jolt as she watched him hold Scorpius gently to his chest, dipping his lips to graze the tips of the baby’s fluffy white hair- scared to leave his son behind. Scared to start the venture that lay before him, knowing the future his son would face should they fail. A hot flash of pity seared through her, and she realised this wasn’t her pain to witness. Let Malfoy say farewell to his family privately- he would surely do the same for her if their situations were reversed.

“I’m going to get the car ready,” she muttered, nodding goodbye to Narcissa and Lucius, who both gave half-hearted responses back, eyes fixed on their son in worry as he hugged his boy. Hermione slipped out the Manor front door into the dark morning, casting once glace back behind her. Malfoy and Scorpius were backlit by the candlelight illuminating the Manor foyer, the golden light in a halo around them, making the father and son look like a Renaissance hagiographic painting come to life. It was almost painfully intimate. Averting her eyes, she trod deeper into the night towards where she’d left her car.

Malfoy joined her twenty minutes later; Hermione didn’t say anything about his slightly red-rimmed eyes and instead focused on watching as he clambered into her car with unexpected deftness. Damn, she’d been hoping to see him baffled by the mechanics of her car for her own personal amusement.

“Ready to go?” She asked, reaching back for her OS map; Malfoy nodded.

“You can follow the driveway out the way you came, then turn right when we pass through the hedges…” He froze, and his gaze darted down to the footwell, face turning blank as the rest of his sentence slipped away.

“What,” he said, as if in great pain, “in the hells are those?”

Hermione followed his gaze down to her feet. “My new hiking boots?” She asked curiously. Granted, they did contrast somewhat sharply with Malfoy’s expensive-looking dragonhide boots, probably also imbued with a plethora of spells, but seeing as their final destination was the Isle of Skye, quite famously known for its outdoor activities, she saw no evident problem.

The look on Malfoy’s, however, suggested another story. Granted, they were quite bulky and heavy and not the most attractive, but the saleswoman in Mountain Warehouse had been very confident in their abilities to keep her feet dry and blister-free.

“Not all of us need to look like we’ve stepped out of Wizarding Wear,” she snapped. Malfoy scoffed.

“That’s evident.”

“Hey!” She cried out, voice squeaky in indignation. “They’re orthopaedic,”

“They’re atrocious. That’s what they are.” Malfoy shot back and eyed the rest of her outfit extensively as if the idea of being seen with her in public would be an embarrassment. “Why are you wearing Muggle clothes? You do realise they won’t offer any protection if we’re cast at?”

“Once again,” Hermione bristled, “I don’t have a field uniform. My Department doesn’t deal with the same shit yours does.” She shot him a sneer. “Besides, I’ve cast some thorough Protegos on my jacket; I’ll be fine.”

“I had more near-death experiences on your Level in one day than in my field in a month,” Malfoy pointed out long-sufferingly. “Your clothes are no way near protection enough. Wait here.”

He swung the car door open and strode back inside the Manor. Hermione didn’t have to wait too long before he returned, a heavy puddle of fabric draped over his arm.

“My spare field cloak,” he said, shoving it towards her. “At least wear this. I’ve charmed it smaller.”

Hermione took it slowly. Bloody wizard- he was right, and she knew it. How aggravating.

“Thanks,” she finally muttered. Malfoy didn’t say anything further; just twitched an eyebrow as she shoved it into the back seat and turned on the engine. He, annoyingly, did not react to the roar of her engine as it turned on.

“Blaise has a car called an Alfa Romeo.” He elaborated somewhat defensively, at Hermione’s obvious look of surprise, “at his House in Salento. He’s taken us for a few drives around the coast.”

Hermione did her best to make small talk. The tension inside the car as she started pulling away was stifling- the weight of what they were about to do, needed to do, fully sinking in as the Manor disappeared into the dark behind them.

“Funny to think of Blaise Zambini behind the wheel. I wouldn’t have thought it in school.”

The ghost of an almost smile crossed Malfoy’s lips.

“Blasie tried to teach us all how to drive it one year but put a stop to it after Theo accidentally forgot to put the break-thing up. His car rolled halfway down a hill before we noticed. Nearly went into the sea. Theo had to run after the car to stop it.”

Hermione couldn’t help it. The image of Theo racing after an Italian sports car made her laugh out loud, and for a split-second, it looked like Malfoy might join in. But then his face went artfully blank. He hunched his shoulders and turned to gaze outside the window at the fields rolling past.

After a while, he finally broke the slightly awkward silence.

“Were you….were you alright last night?” He asked cautiously. Hermione shot him a puzzled look.

“What? Yes, I was. Why?”

“I thought-” Malfoy paused and looked oddly hesitant. “I thought I felt….Never mind.”

She froze. Shit. Had he somehow felt her tugging on his family's magic? She would be mortified if that was the case. Luckily, Malfoy missed the blush rising on her cheeks as her SatNav spoke up for the first time, quickly pulling his attention away.

“Make a U-turn!”

“What in the hells was that?” Malfoy’s wand was immediately brandished towards her windscreen. Without taking her eyes off the driveway ahead, Hermoine leaned over and smacked it right out of his hand, hearing it clatter down into the footwell next to Malfoy’s leather boots.

“That’s my TomTom, you twat. It’s a Muggle device that tells me where I need to go. It’s brand new, so don’t touch it.”

“Make a U-turn.” Her SatNav dutifully told her again. Malfoy looked at it as if he expected it to implode at any second.

“I’m surprised you could get any Muggle device working around here. The range of the Muggle-repelling ward around the Manor extends quite far.”

The map screen flickered and glitched, the woman's voice garbled through in a distorted mumble.

“It has been doing that for a while. I wondered if the Manor wards weren’t interfering with the satellite communication.”

Seeing Malfoy’s blank look, she took a deep breath and elaborated. “A satellite is a Muggle device in the atmosphere that takes pictures of Earth and sends them back to us. They also use them for communication.”

Malfoy looked up at the sky as if he could see the satellites mentioned through the car roof. “That doesn’t sound correct,” he said suspiciously as if Hermione was feeding him some grand conspiracy theory and reached forward to flick the wiper stalk next to her steering wheel up; her windscreen wipers started whipping furiously across her dashboard with a loud screech.

Hermione squeezed her hands tight on her steering wheel, begging anyone who might be listening for a shred of patience and smacked his hands away from the dials on her centre console. Her heater blasted a wave of hot air into her face, and the next button Malfoy pressed sent her hazard lights flicking on.

“Stop fiddling! So help me Merlin; I will give you flippers if you don’t keep your fingers to yourself.”

They reached the end of the ridiculous driveway, and Hermione drove her car right into the thick hedges bordering the Malfoy estate, watching in silence as they jumped out of the way to let her through. She briefly checked the route on the map, then turned right as Malfoy instructed, heading in what she hoped was a southeast direction.

Malfoy (ignoring her dire warning and now busy going through her glove compartment) picked up her CD case and started flicking through her collection, a disdainful look on his face as if he knew anything about the albums he was passing judgment on.

“That’s a CD.” Hermione informed him, “Muggles use it to play transportable forms of music.”

“I know what a CD is.” Malfoy snapped back at her sulkily. “I remember from class.”

“And yet a satellite has you stumped,” Hermione snapped back, double-checking her map.

Malfoy had no retort to that- too busy examining her CDs with great misgiving. Despite his unexpected level of comfort in her car, he obviously couldn’t figure out where it went though, eyes furiously scanning the dashboard of her car for some sort of clue. She had the vaguest memory of only touching on Walkmans in Muggle Studies before they graduated, so was very interested to see where Malfoy thought the CD might belong.

He tried the aircon vent (unsuccessful) and slid it hopefully between the sunvisor and car roof- it was only when Hermione was concerned he might jam it down into the windows that her patience snapped.

“Give it here!”

Leaning over, she snatched the CD from Malfoy’s hands and shoved it into the CD slot. Malfoy couldn't hide the interest in his eyes as the player sucked it in and visibly leaned in closer at the whirring noise as the CD player started reading his chosen selection.

The blaring chorus of 'The Wheels on the Bus' nearly had Hermione wrapping her car around a streetlamp in surprise.

Malfoy clapped his hands over his ears and stared at Hermione balefully. "This is Muggle music? Salazar, it’s awful! This is what Theo keeps saying is better than ours?”

Hermione contemplated turning the car around and heading to the Manor and accepting their inevitable fate in a world without magic but then decided she owed it to Scorpius to try a bit harder.

“God’s sake!” She fumbled for the power buttons. “Did you have to turn the volume all the way up? No! This isn’t normal Muggle music; I keep this CD for when I drive James and Albus around.”

She slammed the eject button so forcefully that the CD nearly got spat into the backseat. “You read the titles to me,” she instructed. “And I’ll pick one.”

Malfoy rattled off a series of CDs (many belonging to Theo), which she dismissed with vicious efficacy. She paused, however, at the second to last one.

“The Kinks? Yeah, that’s a good one.”

She stuck her palm up for the disk but was sharply ignored.

“I want to put it in,” Malfoy said sulkily, waving her hand away. With a sigh, Hermione allowed it.

The familiar riffs of ‘All Day and All of the Night’ were a cheery accompaniment as they swerved down the slowly-brightening country lanes.

“Right,” Hermione said a few minutes later, once Malfoy had gotten a chance to redevelop his views on Muggle music, “let’s talk about our game plan here.”

Malfoy perked up instantly; Hermione had forgotten how years of planning Quidditch matches made him love a good strategy.

“Did you find anything in the family archives?” She asked. “About the cult paying tithes to your family in the eighteen hundreds.”

Malfoy’s mood instantly soured. “No, I didn’t,” he said, sounding rather cross. “And I don’t understand why. Any magical families within a thirty-three-mile radius from the Manor should’ve sworn fealty- there should be some record of their presence in Wiltshire."

“Maybe the records weren’t preserved?” Hermione suggested, “Or they were able to evade your family’s notice?” Malfoy looked unconvinced.

“Maybe…”

“What do we know about the cult?” She queried. “You grabbed some files from the archive on them. Anything interesting?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Again, very little. It seems they were first brought to the Ministry’s attention in the 1860s after some Muggles spotted some members doing some ritual around a bonfire, and the newspapers ran a piece about a coven. The Muggle Liason Office went out and got a description from the eyewitnesses…”

He reached into his leather bag, pulled out a thin file and read sections of the chapter verbatim. “Thirty members dressed in long robes…runes drawn in blood- doesn’t say what runes though…evidence of some sacrifice performed…suspected links to a missing child in Chiseldon.”

“Sounds like it’s got to do with Ancient Magic to me,” Hermione said grimly; Malfoy nodded.

“So do all the other incidents the Ministry sent a team out for. Not many, mind. The cult seems to be exceptionally good at keeping a low profile.”

“Recent kidnapping aside,” Hermione interjected.

“Indeed,” Malfoy agreed. “This file is all the Ministry has on them.”

Hermione eyed the thin file sceptically- it seemed to contain very little content for a hundred-year-old murder club. “How?” She demanded. “Why don’t we have more information?”

“That’s the odd thing,” Malfoy continued, flicking through the file. “The DMLE knows next to nothing about the cult- no definite numbers, no idea of the leadership. No defecting members. Nothing. And any of the links to about twenty local murders were tentative at best.”

He met her gaze and shrugged. “Any time they sent a team of Aurors out to Swindon to investigate, they never found anything- no residual magical signatures, no witnesses to testify, no potion or spell remnants. Nothing.”

“So either someone wasn’t doing their job well enough,” Hermione pondered, “or maybe because if the cult was operating at Stonehenge, all the evidence would be there?”

“Maybe…” Malfoy hummed, looking slightly put out by the cult’s criminological expertise. “I’ll run some diagnostics when we get to Stonehenge. See what I can pick up.”

“I brought my magical-activity readers,” she added. “I’m fascinated to see what the levels will be at Stonehenge- it’s almost worth a trip out just for that.”

“Magical murders aside,” Malfoy said, lip twitching.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Hermione couldn’t hold back on the one thought bugging her.

“How could they get away with twenty murders?” she mused out loud, tone incredulous. “I mean, even if it’s over a hundred and fifty-odd years, surely the Aurors could pin something to them?”

“Well, the cult members, whoever they are, seem incredibly skilled,” Malfoy added. “If they’ve kept this much a secret- can go completely underground anytime they’re investigated- that suggests some level of extreme organisation and talent.”

“I would also hazard a guess,” she suggested, “that if a cult is worshipping Ancient Magic, we might need to consider the possibility they’ve found a way to harness it too. We might be dealing with preternaturally skilled magical users. That could maybe be why they’re avoiding the Ministry with such ease?”

She gusted a groan and threw her skull back onto the headrest. “And a cult that big? I can’t see how that many people went undetected.” An approaching road sign informed her she was about three miles outside of Swindon, and she adjusted her speed accordingly.

“What about the two wizards that were captured?” She asked, grimacing as she shot past a speed trap she only prayed wasn’t on yet. “The ones who got busted torturing the Muggle woman. Anything on them?”

Malfoy pulled out another depressingly thin file and waved it at her triumphantly. “Got this from the archives, too. Haven’t had a chance to read through it yet- I’ll do it next while you drive.”

She nodded and drove down the motorway in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on everything Malfoy had just told her.

“Thanks for lending me your grandmother’s journals- or whatever she was.” She told him, mind wandering elsewhere. He nodded placidly.

“Find anything interesting?”

Hermione bit back a snort. “Not yet- I’m still at the bit in the beginning where she’s talking about how she thinks her boss is having an affair with the Junior Undersecretary. Not got to any Unspeakable work yet- just vague references to Ancient Magic.”

It was now Malfoy’s turn to look amused. “Spoiler alert- he was. She walks into it. You’re in for some very graphic descriptions of her co-workers for the next twenty-odd pages. Brace yourself. I stopped there, to be honest. Didn’t read much further. She used the word bosoms a lot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Hermione told him drily, turning off the A419 and into the outer streets of Swindon. “But I do feel that ‘bosoms’ is vastly underutilised, actually.”

“You’re in for a treat then,” Malfoy assured her. “And you haven’t even got to the bit about throbbing manhoods yet.”

Hermione’s peal of laughter was genuine, and Malfoy looked vastly chuffed to have been responsible for it.

Her amusement died off quickly, though, as they wound their way deeper into the city streets, and Hermione spotted the sign warning them of the road ahead.

“Oh shit,”

"Granger,” Malfoy asked nervously, “What the fuck is a magic roundabout? I thought you said this was a Muggle city.”

“Shhhh,” Hermione snapped, trying to merge as the road suddenly became a chaotic tangle of impatient cars trying to find their chosen turn-off. “I’m trying to focus.”

No one let her merge, so she took the initiative and swung left into the outer lane. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the cacophony of angry shouts from the car behind her that she heard in sharp reprimand as she wove back into the only moving lane.

“Why is it magic? Is it cursed? It feels cursed.” Malfoy grabbed the assist handle tightly as another car pulled in front of Hermione. “What in Salazar’s name is happening? This is anarchy!”

“Fuck!” Hermione swore again as they shot past their desired exit. With very little grace, she swerved into the next lane, trying to loop back around again. The furious hoots from the other cars made Malfoy grip the handlebar even tighter.

“Merlin’s saggy left ballsack.” He hissed, tugging on his seatbelt for reassurance.

With truly remarkable motoring skill, Hermione successfully exited the roundabout in relief, only to have her heart sink as she was pulled into yet another circle. It was mid-morning, peak rush hour, and the traffic was brutal. But Hermione was London-born and raised- and was happy to let all the other drivers know it.

"I'm not feeling any Confounding Curses,” Malfoy informed her, wand held out, tracing the air in front of them. "My best guess is maybe some berserker runes on the circumference of the spell circle; I think I see some glowing red over there.”

“Those are traffic lights.” Hermione snapped at him and, seeing an opportunity to escape the bedlam ahead, tailgated the car in front of them until they squeezed through a gap in traffic and out of the circle.

Finally, the roundabout released them. Hermione noted they were driving in the opposite direction than she had intended, but she would rather be cursed than have to attempt to face it again, so she adjusted her routing on the OS map and prepared Malfoy for an additional twenty-minute delay.

“What monstrosity was that?” Malfoy asked in horror. “Why didn’t we learn about it in school?”

"It's not magical." Hermione’s sigh nearly misted her windscreen, “It was all built by Muggles in the 70s to manage traffic through Swindon.”

“But the sign said it was a magic roundabout,” he told her indignantly. “Why would they call it that if it wasn’t enchanted?”

“Seeing as I was seven when the Swindon municipality built it,” her reply was scathing, “they didn’t bother to consult me.”

The rest of the hour-long drive to Stonehenge was spent in relatively comfortable silence. Malfoy watched her put petrol in her car with the avid fascination of a chimp in a zoo seeing a magic trick, she introduced him to Queen and he read through the rest of the (meagre) case file on the cult. It was a companionable and relatively unproductive journey south.

They reached Stonehenge mid-morning, and Hermione decided it would be best for them to leave her Morris in a municipal parking lot and walk the rest of the way. It was a pretty miserable, drizzly November morning, and she was acutely glad for Malfoy’s cloak that enveloped her head to toe in several layers of warming and drying charms.

Getting out of the car without trapping his cloak in it was something Malfoy found tricky, and Hermione got her much-desired amusement and watched with gleeful satisfaction as he struggled unsuccessfully for five minutes before assisting him in a charitable act of mercy.

“Right, so we’re prepared as we can be,” Malfoy said suddenly, closing his eyes; Hermione side-eyed him, feeling like she was about to be on the receiving end of one of his (infamous) Quidditch pep talks.

“No, we’re not,” she pointed out. “We barely know anything.”

Malfoy didn’t let that factually accurate statement drag him down. “You and I are both highly skilled,” he added firmly; Hermione said she agreed with him on that one. The subsequent look Malfoy gave her suggested she wasn’t demonstrating the required gravitas and that he expected her attitude to change.

“Our vastly different skill sets and knowledge bases should ensure we are prepared enough for whatever may come our way.” He said gravely, now mostly speaking to the empty air beside him. Hermione had spotted a Costa Coffee on the street corner and was slowly slinking over- if she was risking her life breaking into a death cult operating out of a magical graveyard, she would do so with a caffe latte in hand. “And right now, all we must do is focus and trust one another to watch the other’s back- hey!”

He had noticed her escape attempt and marched towards her, vexed. “I’m trying to rally our spirits,” he said, tone aggrieved.

“Can you not do that over a nice cup of tea?” Hermione pleaded, pointing out the shop. “I’ll buy you one, and you can rally my spirits in any way your heart desires.”

Malfoy, swayed by the promise of Darjeeling, conceded.

“Besides,” Hermione said optimistically, pushing the shop door open and basking in the smell of roasting coffee beans that rolled over them. “I think our plan will be pretty straightforward. There’s only three big things we need to do, after all.”

“And what would those be?” Malfoy asked suspiciously.

“We go in, find any evidence we can on the cult, and get out,” Hermione said simply. “It’s as straightforward as that.”

“You missed the part where we try not to get killed,” Malfoy warned her. “We have no idea what we’re about to stumble into, Granger.”

“Alright, that’s four things then,” Hermione said, unphased. “Get in, get what we need, try not to die, and get out. Sounds pretty managable to me.”

She marched up to the counter, placed their order and paid. By the time she returned, Malfoy was still processing her rationale.

He stared at her for a long while. “Merlin, you’re such a Gryffindor,” he finally groaned. “How are you not worrying about this more?”

Hermione stared at him steadily. “Because, as you said- you and I are very skilled. And, despite our…history, if I were to pick anyone to have my back here…. well, after Harry and Ron, it’ll probably be you. I cannot believe I’m saying this, Malfoy- it’s been a hell of a week. But I trust you. I trust you to have my back, and I trust you to get me out of there safely. Just as I hope you do me.”

Malfoy stared at her in stunned silence for a minute. “You trust me?” He eventually asked; Hermione ignored how his voice cracked ever so slightly.

“Yes, I do,” she repeated quietly. “Do you trust me?”

He nodded slowly. “Of course. Of course, I do.”

Hermione pretended the warmth coursing through her was from their newly provided takeaway drinks, and she led the way out of the shop, following the signs marked ‘Stonehenge’. Malfoy was quiet at her side.

“And,” he added on quietly, a little while later when they were tramping through the endless expanse of the muddy fields Stonehenge was encircled by, and the tips of the massive standing stones were faintly visible in the distance, “for the record, if I could choose who to break into a Neolithic tomb with, investigate a death cult and explore a pool of Ancient Magic, then break out- I’d still want to do it with you, too.”

Hermione tried not to smile. “You forgot point number three,” she pointed out. “And try not to die.”

“I didn't forget,” Malfoy told her quietly. “Because I know if anyone's going to get me out safely and back to my son, it'll be you, Granger.”

She did smile at that. “I am quite good at not dying,” she pointed out wryly. “And I certainly don’t intend to do it here.”

She and Malfoy looked out in silence at the stones before them, proudly jutting up from the cold winter ground. The massive, weathered sarsen stones oozed with power; even standing more than one hundred meters away, Hermione could feel it resonating through her, her own magical core thrumming in response. It was completely deserted, not too surprising given the miserable weather, which meant there were no Muggles around to watch Hermione and Malfoy clamber over the cordon and approach the stones.

“Do you know much about the layout of Stonehenge?” Malfoy murmured to her as she placed a gloved hand on one of the stones forming the inner bluestone circle.

“I know a fair bit,” she hissed back; Malfoy’s lip twitched in amusement. “I know there’s a massive underground component that Muggle archaeologists don’t know about. All old crypts where ancient magical burials happened.”

“That’s right,” Malfoy pointed to the large altar stone in the centre of the inner circle. “The entrance to the catacombs is hidden there; there’s some ancient warding on the stone to stop anyone without magical blood from going down by mistake. I’ve seen a map of the layout but never gone in. Getting permission from the Ministry to access the catacombs is nearly impossible.”

He looked somewhat nervous at that last fact. “I hope we don’t get into any trouble for going in now. Did we ask anyone for permission?”

“Clearance Level Ten, remember?” Hermione hissed at him. “I’m more interested in how an entire cult has been operating out of here for years without setting off any alarms.”

“Maybe, again, it’s because no one knew to look for them here,” Malfoy dubiously said. “Or maybe they’re not. We could be wrong- what are you doing?”

“I just want to examine the stones quickly,” Hermione explained, moving away from him slightly. “Before we go underground. See if there are any similarities to Skye. And set up my device. Mind helping?”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the shrunken magical reader; it was already humming energetically in the palm of her hand. “Where do you think would be the best place to set it up?” She asked, brow furrowed.

“Centre of the circle, I’d imagine,” Malfoy said, grabbing the device from her and placing it on top of the two-meter-high stone, his marked height making the job easily doable. “Want to see the horseshoe formation before we go down?”

Hermione nodded in enthusiastic agreement; Malfoy trailed behind her as she darted over, gently running her hands over the ancient stones.

“Isn’t the architecture amazing?” She breathed. “How each bit of the layout lines up with a celestial body or a seasonal event. Look!”

She pointed out each section of the construction carefully. “The summer solstice lines up with the entrance and that stone over there, the equinoxes line up with this circle’s east-to-west axis, and this horseshoe bit lines up with the winter solstice. Isn’t it incredible?”

“That was an old way to power spells, right?” Malfoy interrupted. “Stellar magic. Even though it’s a bit…unpredictable; I guess a place like this would’ve been perfect for complicated spellwork they couldn’t manage alone. Especially if it sits on a pool of Ancient Magic.”

Hermione turned to him, brimming with academic delight. “I was actually talking to your father about this yesterday,” she gushed. “We’ve been invoking celestial energy to power our spells for thousands of years, but only recently has it become pretty reliable. Did you hear about the MAME winner last year-”

Her enthusiastic ramblings were cut off suddenly as Malfoy tackled her to the side, pulling them both behind a large bluestone and clamping a large hand over her mouth.

“Shhhh,” he breathed in her ear. “Look over there. Keep very quiet.”

Hermione followed his gaze to where it was pinned across the stone circle, and her heart dropped in her chest. Walking towards them (but luckily slowly enough that she was sure they hadn’t been spotted) were two unidentifiable figures cloaked in black robes. But the beaked masks that obscured their faces drew her attention the most- an identical match for the ones the Source had shown them.

From the way Malfoy’s hand clenched on her arm, he’d realised it too. Quickly, he cast a wandless Disillusionment Charm on them both- Hermione felt it slide horribly down the back of her neck like a block of ice.

The figures approached closer, and Malfoy smoothly slid his wand out from his right sleeve; Hermione followed suit, but too focused on their conversation, the strangers walked right past them and towards the centre altar.

“…meeting here tonight to talk about the plans.” the first voice, a female, said. “Wonder if Corbeau will be speaking-”

“- would be a fine chance, but at least the loose end has been tied up.” The other figure, their gender not easily identifiable, snorted. “Literally.”

“Let’s hurry up then,” the woman moaned, “I want to get going soon. I need to feed my cat.”

Their voices trailed off as they approached the altar stone, and Hermione and Malfoy watched in silence as they walked into it, the stone rippling like water as they entered the passage below the Earth.

“What the fuck.” Malfoy breathed. Hermione was equally stunned.

“Did you see their masks?”

“Yes. It looks like the ones-”

“Yeah. Exactly the same.”

“Looks like some carnivorous bird,” Malfoy started; Hermione shook her head.

“Not just any bird,” she said grimly. “They look like…they look like crows.”

“Crows.” Malfoy breathed. “Like we heard in the Source. They must be the cult.” He froze. “The first one said ‘Corbeau’- didn’t she?”

Hermione nodded.

“That’s French for crow,” Malfoy explained. “Their leader, perhaps?”

Hermione and Malfoy sat in silence for a minute; she was very aware she was all but perched on his lap.

“So we have a cult, worshipping Ancient Magic, who call themselves the Crows,” Hermione listed. “And they’ve got something to do with all the branches starting to fail.”

“And they’re meeting here later,” Malfoy added. She gazed at him quietly.

“How do you feel about abduction and identity theft?”

“I could get on board with it,” Malfoy said smoothly. “If it meant figuring out what the hells is going on.”

“The pair that walked in looked quite similar to us,” Hermione pointed out; Malfoy nodded in mock-thoughtfulness

“It’s a pity about the cat’s breakfast, but sacrifices must be made.”

“When they come back out, I Stun the woman, and you get the other,” she suggested; Malfoy hummed in agreement.

“I’m amending our plan.”

“To what?”

“I’m adding in step two and a half,” Malfoy said solemnly. “Join a cult meeting.”

“I’d like to keep steps three and four the same if you don’t mind,” Hermione interjected. “You know, when we get back to the office, I’m finally going to show you what a mind map looks like.”

“It’s a date,” Malfoy said, then froze. “Not like…an actual date. I mean-”

He was rescued by the altar stone shimmering once more and the faint sound of voices carrying out from it as the two figures returned to the surface. He and Hermione jumped seamlessly into action, Stunning both individuals before they could even react.

“What do we do with them now?” Malfoy asked, staring down his pointy nose at the crumbled bodies. He and Hermione exchanged a look as they simultaneously realised that they had no idea what time the cult was meeting or what the plan was further.

“We…erm.. tie them up and put them in the boot of my car,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. “After we take their disguises off, of course. And then I guess we snoop around the catacombs until the meeting and see what else we can find. I’ll set some alert wards up on the edge of the fields to let us know when others start to arrive.”

Malfoy eyed her suspiciously. “Kidnapped someone before, have you? How are you so comfortable with this?”

“Only once,” Hermione said breezily. Malfoy’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “But I was much younger then, so it was a bit scarier.”

“Right,” Malfoy said, sounding uncertain. “You take the lead on this bit, then. If you don’t mind, I’ll take over when we enter the catacombs. I’ve heard there’s all sorts of nasty things down there.”

“Hopefully, no cursed daggers,” Hermione told him seriously, levitating the woman so she floated at waist height behind her and turned to make the trek back to her car. “Otherwise, you’re stuffed.”

Malfoy eyed her, unamused, but decided her level of expertise with kidnapping was high enough not to risk any backtalk, so followed behind her in silence, the bodies of the two cult members bobbing along behind them like weird balloons. It wasn’t quite how Hermione had thought the day would go, but she was learning that the longer she spent with Malfoy, the more she had to expect the unexpected. And it didn’t get more unexpected than this. At least they had a plan. It might only have four and a half steps, but it was more than they’d ever had before. Hermione intended to stick to it.

Failure wasn’t an option—she needed to get Malfoy back to Scorpius, after all.

Chapter Text

Their (scarily flawless) kidnapping plan started off well- with Granger behind him providing exceptionally unhelpful and unsolicited advice on how he could do it better (while simultaneously not making any attempts to assist) Draco unmasked the cult members and levitated their unconscious bodies into the back of her car, extended the duration of their Stunning Charms, and long-sufferingly listened to her scolding him when he ‘accidentally’ closed the boot on a few fingers. He watched as she charmed her (borrowed) robes to look like the ones the cult members were wearing, shrunk her mask, and put it in some unfathomably deep pocket to join the mountains of knick-knacks she undoubtedly had stashed away. He followed suit with his own.

“Ready to go?” Granger asked calmly; he eyed her with apprehension. The witch was acting like this was any old Saturday, and they weren’t about to break into a massively cursed burial chamber (generally not advisable) and then sneak into a cult meeting wearing pretty shoddy disguises. (Even less so).

“As I’ll ever be,” he said slowly and followed along behind her as she strode the way they came, back towards the stones.

As they walked, he couldn’t help but have his gaze drawn to his companion ahead, marching towards Stonehenge and the danger that lay before them, unwaveringly steadfast as she was in all things. He internally marvelled at her fearlessness- not once since this hare-brained mission had been assigned to them had she shown any sign of nerves, any indication she doubted their chance of success. He wondered how it must feel to be so self-assured- wondered if it was a Gryffindor thing, but, after a few seconds of debate, decided it wasn’t- more likely just a her thing.  

Granger’s breath puffed little clouds in the cold air, her eyebrows furrowed as she walked (likely deep in thought, as she so often was), her thick hair was pulled into some semblance of a plait, but most of the curls already escaping, slightly quashed by the damp air. It was November in the south of England, so naturally, it was drizzling- Draco was absurdly grateful for the weatherproofing spells imbued in his cloak. Granger undoubtedly was, too, even though she very rudely hadn’t thanked him for the loan.

“What?” she snapped, catching him off guard as he mused her lack of societal graces- she must’ve noticed his (maybe not so subtle) staring. He coughed and tried to quash his slight embarrassment at being caught out.

“Nothing,” he lied and raced desperately to change the conversation, settling on a question that had struck him the second she raised it. “Erm…What other families do you know with potential inherited ancient magic affinity? You mentioned the Potters and the Longbottoms. Are there any more?”

He could see Granger’s mind scrambling to recall their earlier conversation and the subsequent look of recollection that flashed across her face. She glanced at him with evident scepticism, no doubt wondering if he was fishing for information on the other Noble houses (he definitely was doing that too) but must’ve recognised the look on his face for what it was – genuine academic curiosity and relented.

“The Bones family has always had a talent for Soul Magic; from what I’ve been told,” she told him slowly, “Amelia Bones was a natural Legilimens. That was why she was such an effective prosecutor.”

Draco suppressed a shudder as he recalled the previous Head of the DMLE- she had been killed the week after he received his Dark Mark during his first-ever meeting. You-Know-Who had killed her himself. Viciously. Mainly because the first time he tried to have her brought to the Manor, she’d somehow managed to make the three low-ranking Death Eaters sent to kidnap her go mad and kill each other. And she paid for that. Draco had always wondered how she’d done it- he guessed he now had an answer. Legilimency was fucking scary.

“The Lestranges were always acclaimed necromancers,” Granger continued, “which suggests an affinity for Death Magic and, erm… the Gaunt family…”

She shot him a cautious look, and Draco kept his face impassive at the mention of You-Know-Who’s ancestors.

“Well, I personally think they must’ve had an affinity for Soul Magic, too. To create that many Horcruxes as he did- it’s unheard of.” Granger rambled. “Voldemort was the first-”

“Please don’t say his name,” Draco rasped.

“-person to ever create more than one.” She doggedly continued, ignoring his distress. “The only way I can think why that didn’t destroy him outright was if his magical ancestors had an innate talent for that branch. And then the ability to speak to snakes- a language that transcends species… I wonder…”

Granger's voice trailed off in thoughtful silence; Draco regretted asking his question-  the mention of…him disturbing enough to have his confidence faltering as they approached the altar stone and the entrance to the catacombs that lay underneath, and in a bid to distract himself turned his mind to the dangers that might lay ahead. Stonehenge was full of booby-traps; that much was common knowledge within his profession- magical grave robbing was a serious business, and there were fewer famous graves in the whole of Great Britain. From a personal perspective, he was slightly stressed about their safety; from a professional point of view, he was tremendously excited about their upcoming adventure.

“Can you feel any magical signatures here?” Granger asked him abruptly. “If this is where the cult is meeting, I would expect you to be able to pick up something with a group this size. Can you check?”

He nodded, grateful for the distraction, and closed his eyes, reaching forward with his wand. 

“Signatura Revelio,” he murmured, feeling for the expected swirl of colours to appear before him, unique to each magic wielder and demonstrative of their magical movements; Granger looked on with avid interest.

“How does that spell work,” she murmured. “Is it like Prior Incantato?”

“Similar,” Draco grunted, annoyed that he wasn’t visualising much. “It picks up on and reveals any past magical activity over a certain amount of time- the efficacy all depends on the caster’s ability and strength of their magical core.”

“How long is the timeframe for which you can detect magic?” Granger asked, enthralled, watching Draco sweep his wand in big looping circles, trying to hone in on any faint remnants.

“About three weeks.” He hissed under his breath. “But nothing here though- maybe one very faint one. All I can detect…”

He reached forward with his magical core and immediately felt another massively powerful well of magic (identical to the one he’d felt on Skye, and then again in the depths of the Ministry) that was so strong it almost overwhelmed his senses as if sticking his hands in a bubbling cauldron.

“Is what I think is Ancient Magic,” he said, opening his eyes to look at Granger. “It’s so strong that it’s pretty much masking anything else that may be present. Can you have a feel to confirm?”

Granger closed her eyes and nodded almost immediately. “Yes, Ancient Magic, for sure. You say this is what you felt on Skye?”

Draco nodded.

“Remarkable,” the witch beside him breathed. “You’ve got a knack for feeling it, it seems.”

“You didn’t have a chance to feel the Pictish magic, did you?” Draco asked curiously. “You were too busy translating the symbols. A pity- if we’d known it was Ancient Magic from the beginning, then maybe the start of the investigation might’ve gone a bit faster. And we were too busy stopping the demon from breaking out to analyse that odd, greenish magic that appeared when the wards started failing. A mistake, in hindsight.”

 Granger looked unconvinced. “I don’t think it delayed us by much- I assumed from the beginning it was likely a type of Ancient Magic if the Picts cast it. I just couldn’t tell you- this was long before you had clearance to know. Also, we didn’t know then that it was relevant to the investigation.”

Draco internally raged once more at the Department of Mysteries’ absurd secrecy requirements. That might’ve been quite useful information to know going in, thank you very much.

Granger, missing the outrage on his face, shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess we’ll see what I can pick up when we return to Skye. I am interested in feeling that nasty-looking magic- if it’s still there. It looked the same as the one we saw in the vision of the Manor and Hogwarts falling, do you remember?”

Draco did and was impressed she’d put that together. 

Another thought hit Draco. “Murray and Warsame’s investigation into that strange magic we saw didn’t turn up much at all, but surely if it were some type of Ancient Magic, Murray would’ve realised when they felt it themselves?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Granger chewed her lip. “I actually asked about that- they said they felt the lingering strands but couldn’t identify it- it didn’t feel like anything they’ve ever encountered before. They did say it felt…”

“It felt what?”

“Sickly.” She continued, brows now pulled together in thought. “Guess we’ll feel for ourselves when we head up there.”

They reached the altar stone in the middle of the circle, and Draco looked at the concealed entrance leading into the vaults below. He ran a gentle hand over the frost-laced surface, watching as the wards picked up on his magical blood and allowed his fingers to dip briefly through the cold stone. He pulled his hand away again to rummage in his pocket; while he was busy, Granger set up some enchantments, muttering away furiously.

“Right,” he finally said, extracting some blueprints of the massive underground burial chambers below them. “I pulled a copy of the map we have in the Curse-breakers’ archives- figured it could be useful.”

Granger peered at the map curiously then snatched it from his hands when she felt she didn’t have a good enough view. 

“Hey!”

“How old is this?” Granger muttered, ignoring him. Draco sent her a scowl, which was disregarded, too.

“Pretty up to date,” he said sullenly. “1990s. If I had the map, I could show you where the newest additions were added after the last exploration.”

Granger shoved it back, and he took great pleasure in carefully smoothing every last wrinkle and pointing out the most recent amendments.

“See, look, here, here and here— those were all the new chambers discovered on that expedition,”

“In the 90s, you say?”

“Yes, ‘94,” Draco shifted uncomfortably. “The Ministry sent some Curse-breakers to explore more in 2001, but none of them ever came back out.”

Granger hummed at that, seemingly uncaring that they were about to follow in the footsteps of that ill-fated team.

“Are all the rooms ossuaries?” she asked, fascinated.

Draco shrugged. “We think so- see on the map here,” he pointed at the centre of the parchment. “We’ll start by accessing a large central chamber- where most of the rituals were performed, apparently. And then, encircling that are seven crypts making up the catacombs, each built for some specific purpose. They all run in a big circle underneath us that lines up with the outermost bank and ditch earthworks that encircle the stones.”

 “Seems quite straightforward,” Granger mused, staring at the map. “It’s clever how it all flows together.”

“Not so straightforward,” Draco said grimly. “All seven chambers are connected by heavily protected passages full of nasty enchantments. We’ll need to be very careful as we proceed.”

Granger nodded in agreement. “Seven crypts and seven branches of Ancient Magic,” she mused, running a finger over the map. “I wonder…”

“If each crypt isn’t linked to each branch of Ancient Magic,” Draco concluded for her, seeing where Granger’s thoughts were headed. “That’s an interesting theory… would fit with some of the remarks noted about the chambers. We don’t know much about them- that’s what the team in 2001 were sent to investigate, but apparently, the magic in each one is quite…unusual.”

“I can’t believe how much we lost when the Ministry decided to restrict the knowledge of Ancient Magic,” Granger mused, “Think about it- if any of the Curse-breakers going in had an idea it existed…well, imagine how much better they would’ve understood what they were seeing.”

Draco nodded in agreement; the more he learned of Ancient Magic, the more he mourned what a loss it was to Wizarding society that it had fallen out of practice. And all thanks to so much fear and bigotry towards Muggle-borns learning about what was owed to them by magical birthright.

Granger scanned the map once more, then nodded decisively. 

“Alright, I’ve put up the wards to alert me if anyone crosses into the circle. Muggles aren’t allowed to come this close to the stones, so if it flags up anyone, it’ll likely be the cult. Should we go in so long?”

“It’s not like we have another option,” Draco said gloomily, starting to miss his son with an ache so sharp it was like he was being stabbed.

Granger seemed to make some internal decision, then nodded sharply (her damp curls bouncing half-heartedly in the equally damp air) and slipped through the alter stone, the wards rippling slightly as she crossed the boundary into the chambers below, leaving him behind in the bleak drizzle before he could even object her going in first.

Draco swore passionately and viciously and once more followed her into the depths of the earth.

Had he not been a Curse-breaker and used to scenes like these, Draco might’ve been very creeped out. Instead of blank stone walls, skulls lined the straight passage before him, similar to some of the catacombs in Paris he’d explored as an undergrad. He heard Granger give a sharp inhale next to him, but when he glanced over, her expression was impressively neutral.

“Stop,” Draco all but snarled at her, “missioning off ahead. I’m leading this bit, remember?”

She bridled at his chastisement; he drove the point even further.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” He added. “Or worse, me.”

Knowing full well they were stepping into his area of expertise, Granger nodded grudgingly and gestured ahead for him to lead the way.

“Sorry,” she muttered, not sounding apologetic at all.

Draco eyed the dark depths of chambers cautiously and pulled out his wand, muttering a quiet Lumos to illuminate the way forward better. From behind him, he heard Granger do the same.

The bone-lined passage sloped down gently, and they followed it. Draco started with his comprehensive range of curse detection spells but didn’t pick up on anything, much to his interest. That was….suspicious. He didn’t trust this place one bit. 

It eventually came to a dead-end, and Draco came to a screaming halt, feeling Granger bump into his back as she missed the movement, too preoccupied with studying the skulls lining the walls with clinical interest. 

“What is it?” She asked, peering around his shoulder. “Oh!”

The wall ahead blocking their way was different- although it had also been plastered with human remains, a seven-pointed star was inlaid into it, using the same bluestone that made up some of the outer circle stones on the ground above, Draco suspected. But the inside of the star caught his attention the most, a circular swirling collection of writing that matched the carvings visible on Stonehenge. Some message (or warning) for the way ahead, no doubt. He was certain the entrance to the central chamber was hidden in there. There was, of course, no other way forward.

“Any translations on the map?” Granger asked hopefully. “Or should I try figuring out what it says?”

Draco pulled the map out and briefly scanned it. Nothing on the map itself, but there was a note on the back of it, which he pointed out in relief. Thank goodness for some previous clever Curse-breaker who had done the work for them.

“Don’t read it out just yet,” Granger advised, now standing next to him and peering at the inscriptions curiously. “I want to translate it myself. Can you check if I’m right?”

Draco was moderately impressed. “Didn’t know you could read Proto-Celtic too, Granger.”

She scoffed, but he could see a small smile tug the corners of her mouth. “I’m cheating- it’s very similar to Pictish. And since our trip to Skye, I’ve put in a little effort learning some more; I’m now much better at it.”

Draco didn’t doubt that and wondered when she’d put the time aside to do that. Granger’s drive to learn was insatiable.

“You translate,” he suggested. “I’m just going to run some safety checks on the wall. Don’t touch it until I’m done, please.”

Granger nodded, and he started with the first lot of his diagnostic spells, listening to her talk away. There was nothing evidently wrong charmed into the wall. No hidden touch-activated curses, no hemiamputation hexes, no enchanted projectiles. Again, annoyingly and weirdly defenceless. 

“It starts off by saying… um… Beware anyone who ventures forward…untold dangers lie ahead….be ready to face death…Oh, this is interesting... Something about channelling the might of the stars- not too surprising when you consider Stonehenge’s layout, though. This word here could be translated to ‘sources’- but the next bit has faded away, so I can’t see what else it says...”

“All vague and sinister,” Draco said mildly. “Brilliant. Thanks, Granger.”

“You’re vague and sinister,” Granger shot back, engrossed in the wall. Draco huffed a laugh.

He listened to her as she finished the rest. She was mainly correct in her translations, differing in a few words, but if he had to choose between the other unknown Curse-breaker’s interpretations or hers, he knew which one he’d trust more. When she finished, Granger looked slightly disappointed; Draco arched a brow at her.

“Alright?”

“Would’ve been nice if it had rhymed,” she grumbled. “All the ominous warnings in the movies always rhyme. Teddy would be so disappointed.”

Draco couldn’t help it and chuckled. “Let’s pretend it does in Proto-Celtic. The wall is fine, by the way. Besides…”

He paused and trailed a hand over the icy-cold stones. 

“I’ve only ever seen one rhyming inscription,” he told her. “And it was awful. Some shady little mausoleum in Bath. Whoever wrote it fancied themselves as Shakespeare. Wrote it in iambic pentameter. And tried to rhyme dismemberment with torment.”

Granger smiled softly at that and watched as he applied generous pressure to the star's centre. They both listened as a grinding noise filled the air and then soundlessly, the wall swung open, revealing a large empty room ahead, accessible via a short passage. Draco tried not to feel smug at the faint, impressed noise the witch beside him made.

“Not too bad, Malfoy,” she said cheerily, stepping forward. “So this is the- aaaaargghh!”

A stone slab under her feet gave way with a silent hiss, and Granger plunged down into the chasm that had opened beneath her. It was only thanks to years of Quidditch practice that Draco was agile enough to lunge forward, flattening himself on the floor and grabbing a handful of her robes before she fell out of his grasp and into the dark depths of the tomb. 

The only sound he could hear was her harsh, terrified pants; the whites of her eyes burned up at him as the fabric seams started to rip ever so slightly as the cloak suspended her dead weight.

“Malfoy!” Her voice was tremulous.

“I’ve got you, Granger,” he did his best to soothe. “Give me your hand.”

At first, he thought she was frozen in terror, but then a look of determination crossed her face, and a delicate hand reached up towards him.

Draco grunted in exertion as he used his other hand to brace himself against the edge of the hole so he didn’t slide in too (some analytical part of his mind hoping that none of the other slabs were trick steps) and felt Granger’s thin fingers wrap around his arm. He had to loosen his grasp on her robes to clasp her hand to pull her up, hearing her whimper as she swayed in the air again.

“I’m not going to let you fall,” he promised, tightening his grip securely around her wrist.

 Then, before he could overthink it, he pulled her sharply up, and when her torso appeared over the edge of the floor, he grabbed her with his other arm under her shoulders and rolled over away from the edge, pulling her safely onto his chest. He could feel her cold nose pressing into his cheek and her desperate breathing tickling down his spine in a manner that….wasn’t unpleasant. 

“Jesus Christ,” she moaned against his skin; Draco bit back a shudder.

“I said,” he told her weakly, “we need to be careful. No rushing off ahead.”

Granger nodded weakly, and he pulled them up to a sit. 

“Right. A non-magical floor trap.” He shot the room an impressed look. “Didn’t expect that. Very clever.”

He leaned over the gaping hole in the floor, lit his wand further to see down to the bottom, and promptly pulled back with a grimace of disgust.

“What is it?” Granger asked, leaning over, too. Draco kept a chunk of her robes tight in his fists…just in case.

“Snakes!” She exclaimed. “No, wait..is that a beithir? Or just lots of adders?”

Draco hissed and stepped back from the hole. “I don’t care what it is,” he snapped, heart pounding, “that was too close for comfort.”

“I think I’ve found one of those missing Curse-breakers,” Granger said absently, still staring into the black pit below them. “There’s a skeleton down there, and its robes look like yours.”

Draco bit back a wave of revulsion and was very glad when Granger stood a safe distance away from the edge of the pit. They watched silently as the missing tile seamlessly slid back in place with a grinding noise, the floor looking as innocently sturdy as before. Granger caught the look on his face and stared at him inquisitively, looking almost amused.

“Snakes? You’re scared of…snakes?”

“You try living with that man-eating monster for a year,” Draco snapped, “see how you feel about them then.”

Granger’s look of amusement dropped, and the look she gave him was gratingly sympathetic.

“How are we going to get past the first trap?” She asked, blessedly changing the subject, eyeing the floor ahead with great trepidation. 

 “Using an old Curse-breakers’ trick,” Draco advised, “Navigatus Salum.”

His murmured spell crept over the floor ahead like a wisp of green smoke, highlighting the stone slabs safe to tread on with a steady glow. 

“Step where I step,” Draco advised Granger; she seemed fully recovered from her near-death and tossed a thick section of hair back over her shoulder, face set in determination. 

He carefully led the way, hopping from slab to slab; Granger wasn’t as light on her feet as he was. He could hear every time she landed on the stone floor, but thankfully, his spell proved true, and they were able to cross the short passage without any further incidents. Granger did wobble on landing once (and Draco ignored how his heart clenched in fear) but was able to right herself in time, the unsafe tile she brushed against plummeting away too, an eerie hissing noise audible in the passage until the stone floor replaced itself.

Draco watched as she navigated the last few jumps, holding out an arm to assist her and pull her safely into the main chamber; Granger nodded sharply in thanks.

They turned to face the central chamber and almost simultaneously had their wands out within seconds.

In the centre of the asymmetrically circular room stood a large flat stone, a copy of the altar stone above on the ground. And on that stone, artfully slumped over, was, unmistakably, a body.

Draco immediately slammed an arm in front of Granger before she could take a step forward and cast a series of very thorough inspection charms on the floor, walls, ceiling, hells, even the body itself, before he gave a nod, signifying the all clear. It seemed the notes he’d received on the catacombs had been correct so far- the dangerous traps seemed confined to the passages, not the rooms, but still, he was cautious. Something had put the body there, after all.

They approached the naked figure hesitantly. It was unidentifiable, looking partially mummified- with dry withered skin sticking to bone, the barest remnants of dark hair clinging to a peeling scalp not indicating gender. It had been, Draco noted with a shiver, bound at some point- thin strands of Goblin-strength rope wound around the bony ankles. He reached a careful hand out to turn it over.

“Who did this?” Granger whispered, horrified. “Who is this?”

Draco successfully flipped the desiccated corpse over, noting how light it seemed now that it had dried out like a husk. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of the corpse’s right arm- severed at the distal humerus just above the elbow joint.

“I think…” he said slowly, “this might be Avery.”

Granger’s faint gasp echoed around the chamber.

“But I thought Avery was broken out of jail?” She stammered. “By an unidentifiable group. The cult, then? But why would they break him out of jail and then kill him? And only do it nearly a month later?"

Draco was silent for a while. “Well…” he finally said slowly, “the only reason I can think of is if he knew something he wasn’t supposed to and then tried to tell someone else…Someone powerful. And they needed him to be quiet.”

“A loose end,” Granger breathed. “The person you Stunned said something about a loose end being literally tied up…”

They both eyed the Goblin rope uneasily.

“Maybe,” Draco mused, “Avery wasn’t broken out of jail…maybe he was abducted from it. By the cult. And then killed. But I don’t know why they waited so long.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “You think Avery might’ve been trying-“

“To warn my father. Yes.” Draco said softly. “I assumed…we both assumed…well, that his intentions were more… malicious. But maybe they were not. I can’t imagine that snitching to my dad would’ve made him very popular- not to a cult who’s been murdering people for a hundred and fifty years.”

“What was he trying to warn your father about, though?” Granger said despairingly. “Surely he wouldn’t care about them trying to kidnap some Muggle woman?”

Draco circled the altar stone and raised his brows excitedly at the remnants of the ritual left behind—melted-down silver candles, a dirty, viciously sharp knife and (more helpfully) a leather-bound book.

“This might be useful,” he said optimistically, picking it up and flicking through it. 

It had very little writing, just pages and pages of theorems- he traced a delicate ‘S.L’ embossed into the corner thoughtfully before shoving it in a pocket. 

Granger was still examining the skeleton methodically, uncaring of her bare hands tracing the cuts that seemed to have been carved into assorted areas by the residing knife.

“Can you tell when he was killed?” She murmured. “Or how?”

Draco turned his wand onto Avery’s corpse and ran a series of forensic charms; while they started running, he took a deep breath and muttered a Death Vision Charm, skin crawling in disgust- he hated this spell.

“Mortus Visio,” he breathed, and the chamber around him erupted into swirling black smoke, faint scenes flashing around him as he relived Avery’s last few moments.  

It wasn’t pretty- the visions showed Avery roped to the stone while a dark-robed figure whisked around him, setting up the candles in a seven-pointed star and muttering incantations Draco didn’t recognise. He was alive, barely (his abduction from the Auror cells and month-long captivity with the cult looked pretty violent), but conscious enough to be begging for mercy as the wiry figure took the thin silver knife and slashed at his jugulars, carotids, femoral arteries, with pinpoint accuracy. His blood poured down his body onto the floor below, gulped down by the stone like drought-starved earth receiving the first rains. Draco twitched in alarm as, in the vision, the air around Avery filled with writhing greenish-black magic (the same he’d seen on Skye and in the Source), and it became clear that his blood wasn’t the only thing Avery was losing- the wizards own magic looked like it was being pulled from every incision, crawling out from his body in rather unattractive wisps of orange (a colour that reminded Draco of a poisonous caterpillar).

But that wasn’t all. The loss of his magic seemed agonising to Avery, conscious enough to scream in evident pain, the sight of it distressing enough for Draco to have him cringing away. It (thankfully) didn’t last long.

Avery was dead in less than two minutes, and the visions abruptly flickered away.

Draco fell to his knees, acutely drained by the spell and disturbed by what he’d seen. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he thought he might vomit. He could feel Granger behind him, fluttering in concern, eventually placing her hands on his wide shoulders, murmuring unintelligible words while he caught his breath. It was enough of a distraction to centre himself, nausea subsiding as his mind raced with the images of Avery’s last moments. He felt an unbidden twinge of pity for the man- what a way to die.

“Did you see any of that?” He rasped.

Granger shook her head; he filled her in, watching as she blanched.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “What spell- When do you think that happened?”

“Within the last few days,” Draco muttered quietly. “A Death Vision Charm can only be performed in a short window post-mortem. And as to what that was…honestly, I have no idea. I’ve never even heard of a ritual like that….severing one’s magic- it’s unheard of. And it seemed excruciatingly painful. The closest thing I could think of would be pruning someone…”

He glanced at Granger. “That’s when-”

“I know what that is,” she interrupted. “Your parents told me.”

Draco couldn’t even imagine what context that would’ve been brought up but nodded.

“But even then,” he continued, “pruning splits you from your family magic. Your own remains intact. That looked like…” His voice trailed off, but he pressed ahead. “That looked like Avery had his magical core…extracted.”

He and Granger exchanged grim looks.

“You’ve never heard of something like this?” He checked; she shook her head.

“Never.”

“You’ve not read about it in your incalculable plethora of books?”

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “No. Not even then.”

Bugger. If Granger hadn’t heard of this ritual then they were in trouble indeed. 

“The more I hear about this cult,” she said slowly, “the more convinced I am they’re the masterminds behind…well…everything.”

Draco perked up. He loved a good theory. 

“Everything being?” He pressed.

Granger chewed her lip. “From the earliest incident we have on record- the Clachbhàn murders, right up until Sirius’s return. The ritualistic sacrifices….the links to Ancient Magic…the strange, unidentifiable magic appearing… there are too many connections to ignore.”

“The cult was only first active in the 1860s,” Draco pointed out. “And the Muggle village was slaughtered in 1841- I think. Why would they stop, only to suddenly start killing again twenty years later?”

Granger shrugged. “Maybe it took the Ministry that long to detect them? Maybe they disbanded for a while after the ritual on Skye went wrong?”

She looked unconvinced, however; another thought hit Draco. He didn’t disagree with her- so far, the cult was the most likely culprit, but something obvious didn’t make sense.

“But why,” he muffled a moan into the palm of his hands, knowing full well his tone had turned a bit whiney, “would a cult that worships Death Magic, or Ancient Magic in general, intentionally do anything to harm it? If they’re behind whatever the fuck is happening- that means they’re responsible for magic ultimately starting to fail- for us to lose it all. That doesn’t sound very… pious of them.”

Granger shrugged, also looking mildly confused. “I don’t know- maybe something’s not gone right? Maybe they’ve…made a mistake somewhere?” She paused, her tone now dry. “And besides, I don’t think cults are generally known for having good critical thinking skills.”

Draco huffed in agreement. “As Avery found out the hard way. What the hells kind of ritual are they trying to do?”

They both eyed the mummified remains dubiously.

“You’ll know more about this than me,” Granger said tentatively, “but if they’re continuing with the sacrifices, maybe that suggests the ritual isn’t finished just yet- maybe there are still more steps to go. That might give us-“

“A window of time to prevent them from completing it,” Draco finished for her. “And maybe undo what damage they’ve done so far. Get magic back to normal.”

Granger looked pensive. “It’s funny,” she said slowly, “that the episodes of magical failure haven’t been consistent. Or permanent. That supports our theory that the spellwork is still unfinished- if our theory about the end goal is right. I’m sure there will be a pattern we can pick up…maybe use to predict if and when they’ll perform another sacrifice again. Statistically speaking, there’s always some pattern when it comes to murder. Even if these kinds of cases aren’t that common.”

“Rituals involving multiple sacrificial events are exceptionally rare,” Draco advised. “Often requiring alternative sources of magic to power the massively draining spell work-“

“Like demonic power?” Granger interrupted; Draco saw where she was leading and hummed in contemplation.

“But nobody had been sacrificed to the demon in the circle before our investigation on Skye,” he said thoughtfully. “And accessing demonic power always comes with a price. A blood price.”

Granger arched a brow. “No people might’ve been sacrificed,” she pointed out. “But the sheep were.”

Draco jolted a bit in realisation. With everything going wrong on his visit to Skye, it had been easy to forget he’d been called out for another genuine reason- the missing sheep and the suddenly reappearing stones.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we need to listen for any clues the cult meeting later might give, and once we’re safely away before we visit Skye, we should sit down and go through all our evidence and try to put everything together. Hopefully, we will learn some more useful things tonight. We’re on the right track, I think, but there’s plenty more we need to figure out.”  

Granger jutted a thumb at a door built into the eastern wall Draco had ignored so far. It looked similar to the chamber’s entrance door but had a beaming sun pattern etched in, standing in contrast to the only other door in the chamber proudly bearing a full moon that stood next to it. Draco assumed they were the entrance and exit doors, respectively, of the seven unknown chambers.

“Maybe we’ll learn something useful in there?’ She murmured. “Are we all done here? Is there anything else you can glean from Avery?”

Draco checked his forensic tests and somewhat unsurprisingly found them unhelpfully negative. At this point, it was safe to assume that if something could make their job harder, it would. Toxicology screens, Decomposition Levels, Magical Mortis Assays, and Blood Gas Analysis- all inconclusive. Great.

“I’m all done here,” he said indifferently, staring at the unrecognisable corpse of the Death Eater he had known somewhat well. “Shall we head into the chambers?”

“Can I dispose of his body?” Granger queried; Draco felt his brows twitch in surprise.

“Do you want to?” He asked incredulously. “That seems like a kindness he doesn’t deserve. Leave him here to turn to dust, I say.”

Granger didn’t reply to him but strode over to the entrance of the passage they’d just navigated through; Draco watched her cautiously, fingers tight on his wand should she come close to falling in again. His forehead creased in confusion as she stomped on one of the unsafe slabs with her heavy, ugly shoes, watching as the slab dropped away and the horrible sound of hissing filled the air again.

“Did you know,” she told him conversationally, levitating Avery’s body over to her, “that Bill Weasley and I were tasked to clear out Lestrange Manor after the war?”

(Draco hadn’t known that but did know of William Weasley- very famous within the Curse-breaking community. For both his remarkable skills and looks. How the Weasel had so many hot brothers while looking like a children’s puppet, he would never understand.)

“And guess what we found in there?” Granger continued. He eyed her cautiously- she had a placid, unassuming air that instantly made him cautious like a snake pretending to be dead.

“Nearly twenty Muggle women,” she informed him, and he abruptly felt nauseous again. He knew where this was going- Rodolphus Lestrange had an interest in experimental Dark Magic that was beyond psychopathic. And a taste for trying it out on women who looked like his mother. (Who was now long-deceased, under suspicious circumstances). He and Avery had been thick as thieves.

“And the few that could talk, despite everything that had been done to them,” Granger continued, “could only remember how to say a few words. Avery’s name was one of them.”

Draco watched as the corpse floated in the air like a discarded doll and then dropped through the hole in the floor. The hissing was promptly replaced with the sound of cracking bones. 

Granger looked vastly satisfied and brushed her hands together as if emptying out her recycling; Draco stared at her agog. The crunching noises continued.

“Shall we?” She said sweetly, pointing to the sun-decorated door; he nodded ashenly.

They approached the entrance door, and once more, Draco pressed on the centre, right in the heart of the sun, watching as it silently swung open, revealing a short passage leading to chamber number one.

“I’ll go first; you follow.” He murmured to Granger. “And remember- step where I step. And if anything takes me out, promise you’ll turn around and head right back to the Manor. If anyone can help you solve this in my place, it’ll be my parents. Kingsley’s orders be damned.”

Granger had a mulish look on her face, which Draco knew very well- he expected likely disobedience should she need to leave him behind.

Insubordination was not happening on his watch- stopping whatever the cult was up to was the most important thing of all. He gently grabbed her chin in his first three fingers and tilted her head up so she was forced to stare into his intense grey eyes- made to see how serious he was.

“This is Curse-breaker work, Granger. And I’m a damned good one. You need to listen to everything I say if you want me to get us out of here alive. Promise me you will- I want to hear it.”

Granger looked at him defiantly but, seeing that the severe look on his face brokered no argument, grudgingly nodded.

“I promise.”

“Good witch,” he breathed, his gaze still burning into hers, and forced his hand to release her face. It took more effort than he expected. 

Satisfied, Draco cast one more round of assorted shielding, fire-proofing and curse-repelling spells on her, them himself, and, taking a deep breath, took his first step further into the depths of the catacombs, where unnameable magics and innumerable curses awaited them.

Chapter Text

The first passage ahead looked suspiciously benign- smooth stone walls (dotted with little holes) and yet another stone floor leading to an arched doorway where a large round room could faintly be seen, lying in wait ahead. But despite his brief assessment, Draco still had no idea what they were about to encounter; Granger vibrated like a tuning fork behind him, desperate to start moving. The sun-marked door they’d just come through swung shut with a decisive grinding noise, and he watched in silence as the seams melted away, turning the wall behind them to unblemished stone and leaving them trapped inside. Fuck, there went their option of backing out.

But he was too cautious (and knew better than to stride ahead) and ran his first series of investigative charmwork. And it didn’t disappoint- the walls were imbued with a series of increasingly nasty curses- some basic decapitation hexes (which he counteracted by transfiguring one of his buttons into a stone golem, watching as it stumbled ahead and triggered the volley of those to go off, taking them out of the equation), a few more pit-traps (honestly, getting repetitive at this point) and a Castration Curse which Draco found terribly unsporting.

However, he wasn’t convinced that was the end of them and was proven correct when, on his first step into the passage (Granger pressed into the small of his back as if glued), Draco trod on a tile which gave an ominous click.

“What was that?” Granger asked worriedly. He tried not to sound too mean when he hissed back that he didn’t know yet and to give him a chance to figure it out.

But her question was soon answered when, very disgustingly, a thin river of what Draco was sure was blood dribbled out of the tiny holes in the wall, rapidly increasing in volume. Annoyingly, even though the passage had an open archway, it didn’t drain into there- confined to the passage by some invisible shield. An earthy, coppery scent filled the air, and Draco bit back a gag. He hated the smell of blood.

It wasn’t long before the pooled blood (which didn’t seem to want to clot) had reached ankle-depth; Draco decided to say ‘fuck it’. At the rate the level was rising, they wouldn’t make it to the end of the passage before it completely filled up.

He marched on ahead, reaching behind for Granger’s hand and pulling her along with him, the effort needed to wade through the filling passage increasing with each step. Very soon, the level was knee-high, and, much to Draco’s dismay, the Conjured blood seemed to bypass his waterproofing spells on his outfit, soaking through his robes and trousers, leaving them clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Trying to Vanish it away did nothing.

The faster they tried to move, the thicker the liquid surrounding them felt until wading through felt impossible. Draco despaired at getting to the end of the passage before the level rose to the ceiling and drowned them both.

His wand hummed in his hand as he frantically scanned the floor for any drainage chutes or charms that were no doubt built in. There had to be some way of resetting the passage for the next intruder, after all, but he couldn’t find anything.

“What are you looking for?” Granger hissed; Draco filled her in and could feel her wild curls brushing the back of his neck as her sweeping gaze started examining the walls, just in case.

The blood was now lapping against his thighs (waist-level for Granger), and he knew they had to hurry. He paused, wand vibrating gently in his hands as it picked up a subtle channel running up through the rock and grinned in relief. There, running through the stone underneath him, was some sort of locking charmwork overlaying a tunnel-like void that descended through the walls- unmistakably a draining point.

Draco stopped and ran some investigative spellwork. The drain was closed off with six pins, but it seemed the pins needed to be pressed in a specific order to open; he hurriedly explained his findings to Granger.

“That's a lot of possible combinations,” she hissed.

“Six factorial. A permutation, actually, not a combination,” Draco muttered back. “That'll be 720 different patterns to try.”

Granger made a cross noise behind him at the correction; despite the rising danger (literally), Draco grinned.

“I always enjoy it when you’re reminded other people are also clever,” he told her smugly. “I did beat your mark in Arithmancy, remember?”

“By two per cent,” she snapped back, predictably bristling at his taunt.

He patiently ignored her and ran some rapid Sequencing Spells, and underneath him, the floor gave an audible click, click, click as the pins were rapidly pressed in by the spell, too fast to count. The blood, however, rose higher, pinning them down like quicksand.

“Malfoy?” Granger squeaked, now gripping his upper arm tightly, any hostility long gone. The pool of blood had now reached her shoulders, soaking the tips of her curls, and she was struggling to keep afloat.

“Give it time, Granger,” he muttered, trying not to get buffeted off his feet either. “It shouldn’t take long. Maybe five minutes to run through them all.”

“I don’t think we have five minutes,” the witch pointed out. She was trying to stay calm, but Draco could hear the strain in her voice.

But luckily, less than three minutes in, the proper sequence was hit, and Draco heard a dull grinding noise from the floor below them, and the blood (which had risen to above Granger’s raised chin) slowly started to subside. It filtered away much faster than it had arrived, and a minute later, it was only ankle-deep, and Draco heaved a sigh of relief.

He turned to Granger and almost bit back a snort- she looked like she’d stepped out of a mass murder crime scene. Her hair was plastered to her neck, crimson rivulets draining down her collar, and her drenched robes were clinging to her body. He suspected he didn’t look any better- but at least the blood hadn’t gotten into his hair.

He cast a quick Tergeo on them both, watching as Granger cast some charm on her curls, likely in an attempt to clean them more thoroughly (all it did was make her hair fluff up like a spooked cat), and promptly turned his attention to the chamber at the end of the passage. He took a tentative step forward and, when nothing else happened, marched more confidently towards it, Granger hurrying behind him. And so, they passed into the first chamber without further issue.

Given that they’d nearly been drowned in a deluge of it, Draco assumed if there were any links to Ancient Magic as theorised, the chamber ahead was connected to Blood Magic. Upon entering the room, his suspicions deepened when he and Granger stopped short at sight before them. It was like they were standing within the Aurora Borealis- the chamber was full of flickering twining lights, too many to count- in their hundreds of thousands, millions maybe, curling and coiling in the air like innumerable living organisms. There were so many he could barely see the witch next to him, let alone which way to walk through the chamber- if it weren’t for gravity, he wouldn’t have known which way was up.

“What is this?” Granger breathed, staring upwards. The strange lights caught in the dark brown depths of her eyes, making it look like a nebula was trapped inside them.

“I think,” Draco said quietly, “this is a collection of the family magics that currently exist. From all the living magical families.”

Granger closed her otherworldly eyes, and a look of pure concentration crossed her face. “I think you're right,” she murmured. “It feels like it did when I felt yours.”

“Guess your theory about each chamber being linked to a branch of Ancient Magic is right,” he whispered back as he felt the assorted tendrils of magic envelop him in warm waves, like passing through the wards of the Manor. The sensation was remarkable and very strong. It did not, however, feel like the well of magic he’d felt on Skye; he pointed both of those facts out to Granger.

She looked at him pensively. “I don't know if you’re finding Blood Magic easy to pick it up on because of your links to House Black or if because we’re at such a large pool of Ancient Magic that picking up on the branches is easier than normal. As for Skye, I mean theoretically, it could’ve been any of the other branches-”

But she paused, the rest of her sentence trailing off, and gave a sharp inhale of surprise; Draco watched as a familiar emerald strand of magic detached itself away from many other indistinguishable green wisps and floated over to them. Granger smiled prettily and held out her hand, the magic twining through her fingers like an affectionate snake.

Draco felt a bit miffed that the Malfoy magic had gone to check on her first- he was the Heir, after all, but was distracted when the magic looped around his waist and tugged, physically dragging him forward. He didn’t protest, and very carefully and gently, his family magic led him through the vast, fathomless expanse of the Blood Magic room, stopping short when, after what felt like a minute of walking, another stone archway appeared ahead of them with yet another innocuous passage to traverse through beyond it. He sighed in relief- one of seven down.

The second passage’s protection was much more evident- a hazy fog shimmered along it like some sickly purple mist; Draco wasn’t sure of its purpose yet. Granger was silent as he cast a series of investigative spells trying to identify it.

“This might be a type of Confounding Cloud,” he whispered to her. “Or a Madness Mist- there’s definitely some component that targets the brain after breathing it in.”

His next round of spells crackled through the air, zeroing in on the mist’s constituents, and his shoulders relaxed as he finally identified its general function.

“It's some kind of Forgetfulness Fog, but a very powerful one,” he confirmed. “Would probably make us forget why we were even in the catacombs if we inhaled it. Bubble-Head Charms should protect us going through, though.” He turned to the witch next to him; it was annoying to ask but a sensible thing to do.

“Would you mind casting them?” He said, slightly sullenly. “Yours have always been better than mine. They always pop after a few seconds.”

Granger’s brows shot up in incredulity, and she gave him a bit of a supercilious smile, but thankfully, she didn’t say anything; she just muttered the required incantation. Draco watched as the translucent bubble formed around their faces, distorting their appearances somewhat, and stepped forward into the passage, ignoring Granger's squawk of surprise, fully trusting her spellwork to keep him safe.

“I'll go first,” he instructed, twisting around to face her. “If I reach the other end without incident, I'll wave for you to come over, too.”

Granger nodded quietly, looking slightly nervous (for what, he couldn't imagine), and before he could second guess himself, Draco sharply turned back and strode down the passage, the fog before him parting like water as he moved through it.

And he had been right to put faith in her spellwork- the rotting purple mist battered against his face as he strode down the corridor but was easily repelled by the bubble protecting his face, and he strode through unaffected. He reached the end of the second passage and waved at Granger, barely visible through the thick mist. She darted over quickly to retake her place by his side, and together, they turned to face the second crypt.

It seemed pretty innocuous, a large, slightly oval stone chamber, but it too thrummed with energy- Draco recognised the magic running through it with a jolt. He also gazed in amazement at the numerous tiny specks of golden light swirling around the room, this time making it look like they stood in the middle of a snow globe that had just been shaken.

“This feels like what I felt under the Hall of Prophecies,” he hissed. “So this room is for Time Magic, I guess.”

“I can feel it faintly, too- not as well as you can, it seems,” Granger murmured. “My ability to sense Time Magic has always been…poor, but it is slightly easier now.” She trailed her hand through the golden flecks of dust swirling in the air around them. “I think this is Time Dust. Theo's been trying to re-formulate it for ages.”

“He’d kill to be here with us,” Draco mused, looking at the glittery particles of light twirling in the air.

Granger nodded. “Do we just…go in?”

“I think we can,” he hissed back, gazing around them dubiously. “The chambers themselves aren't supposed to be cursed- we think they were originally meant as sites of worship.”

“Dangerous pilgrimage,” his companion murmured.

“The votaries would likely have known how to navigate the passages without harm,” he replied, checking for any nasty spellwork, just in case. “Or maybe the protective curses would've been put up after to protect against grave robbing. Either way, we should be safe inside the chambers.”

Granger looked slightly relieved (Draco didn't want to point out that they still had five more highly treacherous passages to go) and led the way inside; confident in her safety, he let her go ahead, scanning the walls with muted interest.

“Woah,” she breathed; Draco had his gaze instantly pinned on her in concern, then nearly jumped back in shock.

Granger had…shrunk? With her back to him, she stood barely three feet off the ground; her bushy hair barely reached his waist. Draco was hit with a flood of horrified amazement when, as she turned around, he realised that Granger wasn’t shorter- she was younger. In fact, she was very young- hardly looking older than a five-year-old.

“The fuck-” he began, stepping forward. “Merlin wept!”

The ground rushed up to meet him, and when the vertigo cleared, he realised he wasn’t much taller than she was, and the hands gripping his (now ridiculously oversized wand) were pudgy and childish. He was also missing the thin scar that ran down the inside of his thumb after crashing his training broom at age eight.

“Holy shit,” Granger snapped, staring at him, voice much higher pitched. The foul language from such a tiny body was borderline hilarious, and Draco couldn’t help cackling in response, his own soprano echoing around the stark room.

“We’re children,” she hissed, stomping one tiny foot- Draco was beyond relieved to see their robes had magically shrunk with them.

“We are,” he agreed, “Time Magic for sure. Gods, this is weird.”

“Do we continue,” Granger queried slowly; Draco shrugged at her.

“Guess we have to. Unless you’d like to find a way to go back?”

They both eyed the path they’d come from dubiously; Ganger shook her head.

“I feel fine,” she mused. “I don’t think we’re cursed.”

Draco prayed to any gods who might be listening that this transformation wasn’t permanent- Theo, Blaise and Pansy would never let him live this down. And all of them would make terrible care-givers.

“I think we should continue,” Granger finished, interrupting his panicked musings about who would take care of him and Scorp (who he was barely a few years older than now) should he be stuck like this. (He was on the verge of seriously worrying before remembering his parents existed.)

“Agreed,” he added, his high-pitched voice carrying in the chamber. “I can see the other door over…there. Look. Let’s make our way over.”

He took a few tentative steps forward and then walked with more confidence when nothing more happened. Annoyingly, the door, which seemed like a short stroll across an empty room, barely seemed any closer after a few seconds of walking.

“Erm…Malfoy,” Granger asked quietly; he spun to face her, noting her rather prominent buck teeth had reappeared.

She looked older- no longer a very young child but closer to the age he’d met her on the train, maybe a year or two off. He looked down and noted his hands were bigger, and the scar had reappeared. A thought hit him, and he froze like ice had been poured down his back.

Almost unsuccessful in his rapid fumbling, he pushed his left sleeve up and, for the first time in eleven years, started at his unblemished, Dark-Mark-free forearm. The sight was so foreign (despite wishing so often to have it gone) that he stood stunned, staring at the inches of unspoiled, creamy, unruined skin uncomprehendingly. If it weren’t for the mole mid-ulna (he’d forgotten had that), he would’ve believed it was some stranger’s arm forced up his sleeve. Very vaguely (his brain still trying to process how to breathe), he distantly observed Hermione doing the same thing to her arm- and her subsequent intake of breath at her unravaged skin- he couldn’t bear to look at it.

“Let’s-” his childish voice was shaky, unable to hide the thickness in his throat. “Let’s continue.”

He looked up; Granger was staring at her own skin, transfixed. He kept quiet and gave her more time.

Eventually, she raised her gaze to meet his; Draco politely ignored her red-rimmed eyes, feeling his own were likely the same.

“Yeah, we…probably should,” she agreed, clearing her throat and marching forward- bit by bit, the exit door inched closer, far slower than it should’ve normally.

And Draco noticed how they gradually aged with every step they took, at first getting ever-so-slightly taller (at one point Granger was a good head taller than him, as she had been in second year before his third-year growth spurt kicked in, the first and last time she ever would be), and it was fucking uncomfortable. His joints and long bones ached as his adult body was forced to reform in minutes, the flush of hormones racing through his blood had him feeling slightly nauseous (among other things), and his mood viciously cycled through euphoria at the loss of his Mark, despair at seeing it again, and hope their transformation stopped before he turned seventeen. Merlin, he’d forgotten how melodramatic being a teenager was.

“I think we’re getting there,” he informed Granger, then winced. He didn’t remember his voice ever sounding so squeaky. Thank the gods for puberty.

She nodded and pressed forward again, still leading the way. Draco noted her teeth had returned to their shrunk-down size, the shape of her face more young woman than girl. They were maybe about a fifth of the way across- Draco tried not to look at how much more they still had to go or think about how old they would be at the end.

A few steps (and what felt like twenty minutes later), Draco knew his Mark had returned; even without checking, some deep part of him instinctively felt it creep back over his skin- taint his soul like it had tainted his flesh. He kept quiet and soldiered on. Given that his marking was a prelude for the (second) worst year of his life, he wasn’t too surprised as his frame gradually became more skeletal, his appearance likely drawn and haggard. He looked at Granger, noting she looked rough too- much like when he’d seen her that fateful day in March 1998, exhausted and emaciated from her year of desperation and starvation. Still walking ahead of him, she froze at some point, then flinched acutely. Her scars were undoubtedly reforming- following her lead, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say- as much as he wanted to nearly ten years later, he still couldn’t seem to find the words.

And gradually, their battle-worn teenage years passed- Draco re-lived his rapid growth spurt that had happened during his time in Azkaban, despite the rather meagre meals (his bones cracked and sprouted so quickly, even Granger turned around at the noise) and at about the halfway mark through the room, they were back to their pre-Samhain selves.

“This is taking forever,” Draco groaned sometime later; Granger turned around and shot him an unimpressed look. The full effect markedly lessened now that she again stood mid-sternum, her height advantage lost a long time ago.

“Getting bored?”

“I am a bit,” Draco sighed, taking yet another step forward. “I’d actually rather have the nasty curses than this. Seeing what we look like middle-aged? Weird.”

She couldn’t argue with him and huffed in agreement- they were probably now in their mid-forties from how gentle lines formed around her eyes.

“At least I’m still roguishly handsome,” he said optimistically, pulling out a hand mirror and double-checking his reflection; Granger scoffed.

“Did you already have that on you? Jesus, I forgot how vain you can be.”

“Hey!” He cried out indignantly, angling the mirror to check the back of his hair before putting it back in his pocket, “No, I’m not!”

“Your hairline is receding a bit- at the side there,” Granger remarked; he pulled the mirror back out quickly. She cackled in delight, and Draco wheezed like an indignant pigeon.

“You’re starting to go grey,” he pointed out sulkily, noting the strands of silver threading through her glossy curls. Annoyingly, the look wasn’t…terrible. In fact, she looked slightly like his Charms tutor he’d had a fleeting boyhood crush on at age twelve. A mere coincidence, he was sure.

It was now Granger’s turn to look slightly panicked, and he passed her the mirror to check very graciously.

“Oh yes, I am.” She confirmed, pulling her hair out of its braid to shake it out a little and isolate the grey strands. “How odd.”

Draco couldn’t help the tiny lurch in his stomach at the sight- hair was important to Wizardkind. Seeing someone sift through theirs so casually felt a little too intimate. Granger caught the look on his face and rolled her eyes.

“I forgot how odd you lot can be about hair,” she said derisively. “It’s just keratin, you know.”

“It’s more than that, Granger.” Draco pointed out, trying to ignore how her fingers were carding through her chestnut waves, her hair springing back with every pass of her fingers through. His fingers twitched with the phantom memory of doing the same once upon a time. “Hair is an extension of our magic. There’s a reason we use it in potion work and tracing charms…and before using human parts as wand cores became illegal, it was quite fashionable. Very…”

One of Granger’s curls stretched like a spring, then sprang sharply back. The rest of Draco’s sentence drifted away.

“Ahem,” she coughed pointedly, now looking almost viciously smug at his obvious distraction. Draco rallied himself and tried again.

“Anyway,” he continued, “us Malfoys have always been proud of our hair—”

(“Shocker,” Granger muttered in the background)

“- it is a bit of our trademark. Same for the Blacks- with their dark curls and regal looks.”

He shot a look at Granger’s (now loose) curls that bobbed around her back. “You’d almost fit in there.”

If he thought Granger had looked darkly satisfied earlier, it was nothing compared to how she looked now.

“You think I look regal?”

Draco panicked. “As regal as a troll wearing a wig,” he retorted. Granger’s hex flew at him before he could even blink, and he almost instantly found himself flat on the ground, staring up at her (now sixty-year-old) face. Her (infamous) hair was now wholly silver but no less eye-catching.

He heaved himself up painfully; Gods, when had standing up become so difficult, sent her a scowl and marched forward- hobbled forward, technically. Time wouldn’t be kind to his knees, obviously; maybe he should stop leaping to the ground off his broom after playing Quidditch.

The next few minutes passed in silence- Granger stomped along ahead of him (still simmering about the troll comment) before letting out a drained sigh.

“I'm bored too,” she admitted, turning back around.“This is like the world's worst hike. And it’s as if I'm doing it with your dad.”

Draco almost smiled. “I do look a lot like him,” he admitted. “Malfoys tend to look like their fathers.”

“Even the girls?” Granger asked cuttingly; Draco smiled at that.

“There are no girl Malfoys,” he explained patiently, almost amused as she listened with avid fascination. “There haven't been any born since about the 1400s- the only female Malfoys are the ones who marry in.”

Granger narrowed her eyes. “That's almost statistically impossible.”

“Not if you had a Blood Curse placed on your line ages ago,” he said drily, tone almost unconsciously turning much more animated as if reading a picture book to Scorp. “Have you heard about that? It’s become a bit of a well-known bedtime story in our world- not for the Malfoys, it’s rather embarrassing, but the other Houses find it terribly amusing.”

She shook her head, curls swinging wildly.

“So the story goes,” Draco started, “the last Malfoy daughter fell in love with a witch and her father, the Head of House, heavily disapproved-”

“Because it was another woman?” Granger asked, fascinated.

He shook a dismissive hand. “No, our society’s never cared about things like that. Not even then, all those years ago. He disapproved because the other witch was a Muggle-born.”

She scoffed. “So that's where he drew the line. Nice.”

Draco dutifully ignored her and carried on with his story. “And the Malfoy Head forbade his daughter from seeing her lover ever again and betrothed her to some Crabbe heiress. But guess who interrupted the wedding?”

He paused for dramatic effect, watching as Granger stopped walking and stared at him with avid fascination.

“The Muggle-born lover?” She guessed; he nodded.

“Exactly. She Apparated in mid-ceremony, breaking through the security wards, mind, and tried to convince the Malfoy bride to run away with her. It didn't work, of course- the Crabbe family has always had a reputation for being…viciously jealous, and the Muggle-born lover took a nasty Severing Curse to the chest. And with her dying breath, she used all her blood that had been spilt…”

Draco paused again, feeling how Granger was hanging on his every word.

“To curse the Malfoy family never to have the privilege of another biological daughter- thanks to their unyielding prejudice. An act that would make us much less stable- much to the other Houses’ glee.”

He saw the intrigue on Granger’s face and elaborated further. “The Malfoy witches had a reputation for being formidably powerful, more so than their brothers, so losing them made my House much weaker. And put us at risk of extinction with our succession less certain.”

He saw the curiosity in her now heavily wrinkled eyes wasn’t quite sated and offered more of an explanation. “We’ve had quite a few scares with struggles to conceive Heirs, too. There's barely any second sons born either- it’s mostly been a string of lone boys since then.”

Granger looked rather impressed. “The Muggle-born witch did all that? With one curse.”

“Yes,” Draco said, somewhat moodily. “And we don't know what the hells it was- or how to break it. So we're stuck with it now.”

“What happened to the Malfoy bride?” She asked, fascinated; Draco shrugged.

“The story goes- in retaliation, she poisoned her new wife on their wedding night, herself too. Both dead. The end.”

At the rather abrupt conclusion to his tale, Granger stared at him aghast. She was now looking quite elderly- her face was creased and soft like old parchment, somehow slightly even shorter, and her hands knobbly and thin. She was, still recognisably, her. Draco wondered what he looked like- unfortunately, roguishly handsome probably didn’t apply any longer. Walking was getting harder and harder- they both needed to stop every few steps to catch their breath.

“That’s an awful story,” she finally said accusingly. “You got told that as a child? You're going to tell Scorpius it?”

“It’s my family history,” he pointed out indignantly.

“It’s a nice little snapshot into your family's psyche,” Granger shot back. “Jesus.”

“Anyway,” Draco continued, pushing them back on track. “That's why everyone’s a bit protective of Scorpius- he was a bit of a…surprise, given my family's…lack of fecundity.”

Granger made a face at his choice of words, her face puckering up even more.

“And on top of that,” he continued, “Tori was…diagnosed with her Blood Curse only a few months before her pregnancy. We never thought she…”

His voice trailed off; Granger, likely seeing he was getting a bit upset, didn't push.

“But no one was surprised Scorp was a boy,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Except Theo. But we all told him he was mad to think otherwise. He and Blaise ended up betting on it- the winner got to be the child’s godsfather.”

Sensing the start of another story and his lighter tone, Granger shot him an encouraging look and mumbled something unintelligible. Draco had to admit, it was a nice way to pass the time.

“Speak up, won’t you?” He commanded. “I think I’m going a bit deaf.”

“Why did Theo think you’d have a girl?” She asked loudly. “Especially after your family history- I assume it’s public knowledge.”

Draco nodded, an involuntary smile crossing his lips when he thought of his chaotic, exceptional, dear friend.

“We found out Tori was pregnant around Yule,” he began, “and shortly after, Theo claimed to have some ‘vision’-”

He made sure to enunciate the word as sceptically as possible, rolling his eyes for extra effect.

“Where he saw me holding a young girl, undoubtedly mine- he wouldn’t hear any opinion otherwise. And after that, he wouldn’t be swayed- kept insisting he was right even while waiting with Blaise and the others in our library while Astoria was in labour. Despite, in true Theo fashion, having never shown any talent for divination before or since.”

Granger paused, “I might have something to add to your story,” she said, looking deeply amused. “Around that time, 2005 was it? Theo had some breakthroughs in his research- he developed some prototype of Time Dust but tripped and dropped the vat in my office while trying to show me. Absolute nightmare. Anyway, he swore he saw all sorts of weird things reflected on my windows. I didn’t listen, though- I was far too upset about my plants. He nearly killed the lot- turned them all into seedlings. It took months for them to regrow.”

A slightly unkind smile crossed her face. “I fused his toes together in revenge- he had to go to St Mungo’s to get them separated. Clumsy wanker.”

Draco roared with laughter at the addendum- his voice no longer deep and silky but frailer and warbly. “Theo never told us anything about that.”

“I did wonder,” Granger said, still looking amused, “why it was Blaise chosen, not Theo. My understanding is you've been friends since infants.”

They were now very close to the end of the room, only maybe twenty feet away. And Draco despaired at their age. He knew Muggles didn’t get to the ripe old age of 120 as they commonly did, but if he had to guess, they were close to the hundred mark. Not much longer to go, hopefully.

He nodded. “Blaise was Pansy’s friend first- but we all got close in first year. And Parks and I go way back, obviously.”

“The wannabe Mrs Malfoy,” Granger said slyly; Draco shuddered.

“Don't joke. I've had recurring nightmares about that for years. Besides…I’m not exactly her type-”

Granger scoffed. “High standards then.”

“Female standards,” Draco corrected, watching as she started slightly in surprise. “Besides, Parks has made it clear she’s got no interest in marrying another wizard ever again-”

“Pansy was married,” Granger squawked. “To a man? Is he dead?”

At Draco’s nod, she stared at him, eyes wide. “Did she bite his head off after mating?”

He patiently ignored that. “And I’m only telling you this because you’ll inevitably find out and make some tactless remark or other in front of her. Then she’ll turn you into some deep sea creature, and I’ll never prevent the apocalypse.”

Granger bristled at the implication Pansy could take her out. Honestly, Draco wasn’t one hundred per cent sure who would come out on top if the pair of them ever duelled (he was leaning more towards Granger, though) but did know he wanted to be nowhere the fuck close when it happened.

She stared at him slowly, running a (now milky) gaze over his face as if noting how much they’d aged in the last stretch for the first time.

“You look ancient,” she finally rasped. Her voice had also slowly changed from a melodious, youthful tone to a dry wheeze, like pages in an old book.

“You look like the crone,” Draco remarked; at Granger’s clumsy reach for her wand, he ducked away (or tried to- sprightly movements didn’t seem possible any longer). “Hey! Not a crone- the crone.”

“Who is the crone,” she grumbled, narrowing her almost-unseeing eyes at him.

“The crone from the Triple Goddess trifecta,” Draco explained hurriedly, lest she try to hex him again. Centigenarian or not, he still wouldn’t want to be hit by any of her magic. “Some of the old Houses still worship them, especially in Ireland. She represents wisdom and winter and all that- you look like how I’ve always imagined she would.”

Granger gave an ah of understanding and stashed her wand away, appeased. “I’ll take that,” she haughtily sniffed. “You look like the Crypt Keeper, though.”

“Cheers,” Draco said, pride stung, unsure what that was but knowing it likely wasn’t a compliment. He was now feeling awfully, terribly exhausted; all his body wanted to do was to sit down for a rest- but some deeper part of him knew if he did that, he would never get back up again.

They were within arms reach of the door, the witch ahead veering off slightly; Draco caught up to her and guided her towards it. He reached a hand to press it open (marvelling at the way his thin skin was moulded over frail bones with purple veins and age spots covering his shaky hands) and, with all his might, with what little life flickered in his body, heaved it open. It slowly swung wide, and Draco fell, more than stepped through it, dragging Granger along with him.

The change was immediate- as soon as their feet stepped on the stone slabs of the next passage, Draco felt life pour back through his body. It was almost intoxicating- his hunching back straightened up, his skin melted to the creamy suppleness of youth, his ears rang, and his eyes swam as his senses sharpened. By the time his vision cleared, Granger was beside him, looking like she did before they entered the Time Magic chamber- thank the gods. He fumbled for his mirror just to check.

“Mirror again?” She said snarkily. “And here you said you weren’t vain.”

“Not all of us are satisfied with looking mediocre,” Draco drawled, happy with his appearance. He turned his gaze to the witch next to him, making sure to bug his eyes out in shock as he dragged them down her body. “Oh my gods…”

“What?!” Granger snapped, fumbling for his mirror. “What is it, Malfoy?”

She successfully wrestled it away from him, ignoring his chortling, and after a very brief examination of her reflection, didn’t bother with a spell this time, just jabbed a very pointy elbow into his solar plexus and looked very happy when he wheezed an apology in response.

Too distracted by the euphoria of not looking like something pulled from a sarcophagus, they both froze as a rustly, slithery noise filled the air and swung around, wands out. Something filled the passage ahead, something leafy and….moving. The stone walls couldn’t be seen, too heavily covered by thick loops of spiky branches bearing velvet-looking flowers, the floor carpeted by creeping, stoloniferous lianas guarded by sharp, poisonous-looking red thorns. The vast organism moved ever slightly- the occasional vine coiling and uncoiling, the leaves fluttering and the trunks twitching, like some deeply sleeping, dormant creature.

“A botanical guardian,” Draco breathed, failing to identify it. “Do you know what kind it is?”

Granger shook her head. “Neville would, though.”

It was probably the first time ever that Draco had wished for Longbottom’s presence (or his previously undemonstrated insight), and he gritted his teeth, annoyed.

Suddenly, Granger hissed in shock. “Look!”

Draco followed her gaze and felt his gut clench at a flash of fabric barely visible in a gap in the slowly writhing vines- a dark robe embroidered with silver runes. The standard-issue Curse-breaker field cloak- another clue to what happened to the missing Ministry team. The plants moved even further, and the grim sight of a sharp broom-sized barb penetrating through the cloak, impaling the body inside, was clear. Ouch.

“Well, that’s a nice little reminder to tread with caution,” he said, eyeing the vicious thorns and deceptively benign-looking flowers suspiciously. “I don't think we should even touch any part of it. I don't want it to know we're here.”

Granger nodded in agreement and gestured for him to lead ahead.

“Oh, so I see you’re happy for me to go first again,” Draco said loftily. “Thanks.”

He took a careful step over the first coil of plant matter; luckily, his legs made the high step relatively easy. Granger didn’t find it as straightforward; the seam of her robes nearly caught on the scary-looking thorns as she delicately manoeuvred over it, and she wobbled a bit, catching her balance as she placed her foot back down.

“Careful,” Draco hissed. “You alright?”

She nodded nervously; he cast shielding spells over their faces- just in case. Their robes should protect them from any sharp thorns, but Draco didn't trust the thick clusters of pollen hanging from the flowers- every part of the plant screamed toxic.

The next few steps were very slow-going, interspersed with tense, anxious breaths and carefully placed limbs. Draco found his height a bit of a disadvantage, always needing to make sure the top of his head didn't accidentally brush any of the thick vines trailing from the ceiling, while Granger, not quite as agile as him, didn't find it as easy to navigate around the twining limbs on the floor. At one point, after she had to crane her head uncomfortably to duck underneath a looping twisted trunk, one of her sleeves gently brushed against the thick, scaly bark. The plant shifted with an ominous rustle- they both held their breath, but it gradually stilled and settled. They continued on warily, their slow progress interspersed with harried whispers and frequent pauses.

“Watch out, Malfoy, on your left-”

“Stop moving, Granger. Now! Hold nice and still-”

“Ow, shit! Yeah, no, I'm fine. Nicked myself on a thorn. Didn't break skin, though-”

“Merlin’s fucking left test…teeth….That was close.”

“This is almost impossible, Malfoy,” Granger hissed a few minutes later after some of her loose ringlets got caught in some spiky offshoots. Putting his sensibilities aside, Draco had to volunteer to free her after a minute of watching her entrap herself further like a hooked fish. Her mahogany tresses were as soft as he remembered.

“How are we supposed to get through this without looking like that?” She jabbed a finger at the Draco’s harpooned colleague.

He scanned the passage ahead grimly. They hadn’t made much progress at all, and given that this was the first skeleton they’d seen since the one in the central chamber, it was likely the most dangerous so far. Some of the older cursed tombs tended to become more dangerous the deeper you went in. Draco was starting to wonder if that wasn’t the case here.

“We’ll need to work together to navigate through,” he eventually concluded, eying up the small gaps between the thorned branches, the way the plant matter shifted and flowed almost as if choreographed. He observed it for a few more heartbeats, noting the plant seemed to move in a relatively regular pattern; a sudden idea hit him.

“It’s all about rhythm- we need to guide each other and steer through it together.’ He suggested. “You instruct me where I need to move, and I’ll do the same for you.”

“You’re making it sound almost like a dance,” Granger said dubiously. Draco nodded and gestured for her to stand beside him.

“It is, in some ways. And we’ve danced together before. Quite well, I must say.”

She arched a brow at that but didn’t disagree; she just looked nervously down the rest of the passage.

“Let’s wait for the plant to settle again, then wait for that space ahead to open to its widest,” he commanded. “I’ll lead, you follow.”

Granger nodded, looking marginally more confident, and Draco waited until the plant’s movements had settled again and the path ahead of them was clearer. Then, with a gentle tug on the witch’s arm, he set off down it, holding her forearm as he went- a quiet mimicry to the waltz they had shared not too long ago. Instead of focusing on the plant, he was focusing on her and could feel her eyes pinned on him, raking over and behind his body to ensure no part of him touched the dangerous plant they were traversing past.

And although it took a lot of effort, their going was much easier: a gentle press on Draco’s shoulder had him ducking slightly to avoid a hanging tendril; Granger let herself be tugged towards him to side-step a heavily thorned branch; he raised a hand over her head to protect her hair from catching amongst the leaves, and she gently pulled on his robes, catching them before they could brush against the thick scrub and give them both away.

Slowly, seamlessly, they moved through the passage, winding and weaving together around the plant that waited hungrily to ensnare them, the thread of anxiety that wound tight around Draco’s chest loosening with each successful step. And when they finally reached the end of the passage (Draco lifting his partner very carefully over a perilous razor-sharp bough she wouldn’t have been able to scale alone), they conquered the plant without further incident. And, Draco realised, much like their earlier dance, in silence- albeit less hostile, more amiable.

He cautiously led the way into the next chamber, leaving the treacherous plant (and the unfortunate skeleton) behind them, and a rush of air left his lungs at the sight of the room ahead; he heard Granger give a gasp of similar surprise from behind him.

The next chamber was…stunning. Draco didn’t even need to cast a Lumos to light the way ahead- the almost grotto-like space was linked with numerous twinkling lights fixed on the cave walls, looking much like a night sky trapped deep underground.

“Glow worms,” Granger breathed, lighting up her wand. Immediately, the light from the insects faded a bit as the rest of the chamber was illuminated.

The room looked more like the Peak Cavern Draco had once explored in Derbyshire after investigating reports of a rouge hobgoblin hiding in the cave system and stealing children- but far more beautiful. The walls twinkled with embedded quartz, delicate stalagmites and stalactites sprouted from the floor and ceiling, respectively, and the occasional table-like stone littered the floor- seemingly purposefully placed as if waiting on an overdue offering. The entire place seemed to throb with a deep ancient power that seemed to pound in time with Draco’s heartbeat, and he turned to Granger, a bit unsteady.

“Terrestrial magic,” she said hoarsely, looking a bit stunned, too, overtaking him to lead the way. “I’ve always found it…rather intense.”

Intense was one way to describe it- Draco felt the chamber grow warmer the deeper they walked in, his skin prickling almost uncomfortably in response to the magic within the room and his heartbeat almost thudding in his ears as his gaze zeroed in on the witch in front of him. He felt hypervigilant- too aware of everything around him, how the cloth of his undershirt shifted against his arms, how his robes grazed against his fingertips, how a drop of sweat trailed down the back of his neck, descending down his spine.

He couldn’t help it either how his gaze was pinned to the sway of Granger’s hips as she walked ahead, the bounce of her curls under the twinkling insect-lit light, the way her fingers gripped the delicate vine patterns creeping up her wand, always prepared, always cautious as she ever was.

(He knew that wand very well- had recognised it the instant that repulsive cretin Scabior had triumphantly brandished it in the Manor drawing room after dragging in Granger and her moronic friends who’d allowed her to be captured. He’d managed to…convince Scabior to give it to him after Granger had escaped, her screams still ringing in his ears (threatening to feed him to Nagini had done the trick). Even then, he couldn’t quite say why he wanted it- maybe it was the simmering, acidic guilt threatening to choke him or the memories of it being held in an eleven-year-old hand as he once spoke about classes. But whatever it was, it resulted in that specific wand being kept safely in a heavily warded secret compartment in his bedside table for a few months until he was able to discreetly bribe some Ministry employee to slip it under the newly re-instated Head Auror Robard’s door. Oh yes, he knew it well. Just as he knew the hands that gripped it tightly, too.)

It was now almost stifling in the cavern, and Draco suddenly needed to loosen the high gorget around his neck (he’d learnt his lesson leaving it unprotected after sparring with Theo), and his fingers fumbled for the strings to loosen it at the crown of his neck.

Mission successful (and feeling like he could breathe much better), he looked back up and nearly froze at the sight of a now-unmoving Granger, with her eyes pinned to his hands, now holding the undone gorget, dark pupils encircled by a thin ring of honey-brown irises.

“Hot,” he explained very inarticulately, trying to move his feet, but they seemed frozen to the ground. He watched, mouth drying as Granger nodded vehemently, pulled a hair tie off a wrist, and, strand by strand, started to rebraid her hair so it stuck to her face a little less, her chestnut curls resisting most attempts to be tamed. It was almost hypnotic, watching her hands deftly weave through her hair, following some pattern Draco’s mind was too occupied to note.

“Don’t,” he rasped, “do that. Please.”

She didn’t listen, and Draco’s throat felt drier as he watched her curls sway gently in the still air, only partially restrained by the ineffective braid.

“You feel it, too?” Granger asked dazedly; he didn’t need her to clarify and nodded.

The magic in the room thrummed harder as his pulse picked up, as if he was unconsciously tapping into the raw power that flowed around them. The urge to stride over and replace her hands with his, maybe place his mouth on hers (or other body parts) and hoist her up on one of the (conveniently high) loose flat stones was overwhelming.

“Terrestrial magic is considered to be the most… atavistic of the lot,” Granger launched into one of her rambling explanations, which Draco usually enjoyed listening to; unfortunately for her, this time, he wasn’t really paying attention, more focused on the shape her lips made on her vowels.

“And…erm.. sex magic…” she whispered the next bit, “is definitely a component. I think that’s probably what we’re…um..experiencing. It should pass once we’re out of here.”

Draco mainly had stopped listening to her logic and instead was now thinking about all the ways he could make that voice echo on the walls around them, but the reminder they had a chamber to cross was the push he needed to get back on track.

“Right,” he said roughly, realising he’d matched her unconscious step towards him, so they stood heatedly close. “We need to get out of here quickly, then. Before we do something we’ll…regret.”

“Yeah,” Granger breathed, eyes now trailing over his shoulders; Draco felt the instinctive male pride to throw his arms back and posture out ever so slightly wash over him, but he admirably resisted and flexed his hands in gritted determination instead. It didn’t help- the small bones in his fingers cracked, which pulled Granger’s attention onto them instead, and she started at them, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as if she’d never seen another pair of hands before.

Draco knew they were treading into dangerous waters, and, ignoring the instinctive pull of the Terrestrial Magic thrumming through his veins, calling out to his magical core, strode ahead, bypassing Granger and marching towards what looked like the exit door of the chamber, far ahead, deep in the winding cavern system.

“There was an old witch from Omdurman,” he chanted, starting up an old marching song he’d heard some of the Curse-breakers in Khartoum sing, “She broke in a tomb without clothes on…”

He heard Granger finally realise he’d left her behind and the clomping sounds of her footsteps on the cold stone floor loud as she scrambled to keep up with him.

“What are you doing?” She snapped, finally caught up to him. “Oi!”

“Ignoring you,” he snapped back, refusing to look back her way, knowing once he did, that was it- he’d never be able to look away. “I’d appreciate it if you did me the same courtesy and reciprocated.”

He could almost feel the belligerent look she no doubt had aimed at his back and focused on muttering the next rhyming verse, each beat matching his pace towards the rapidly closening exit. Granger seemed to preoccupy her mind by reciting odd facts about assorted magical algae species (weird, weird witch- some part of him thought those kinds of facts might work her up further), but without further issue, they finally neared the end of the third chamber, the urge to look back increasing with each step.

Draco finally crossed the threshold of the next passage, Granger following only a few seconds later; as soon as he exited, he sighed in relief. The simmering desire slowly died down, like an overboiling pot turned off the heat. He was beyond grateful to have finished going through that- no matter if it meant getting ready to risk his life (again) to get to the next chamber.

And, in actual fact, the sight of the seven massive skeletons armed with swords, maces and other assorted nasty archaic weapons, dormant and resting against the wall, was actually a pleasant surprise. (Based on some missing gaps, it looked like there had initially been nine, once upon a time). Physically fighting something? Excellent- Draco had a lot of restless energy coursing through his veins he needed to burn off somehow. The sight of another sadly crumpled up Unspeakable robe in the opposite corner buried under some piles of rubble didn’t dissuade him at all.

As he stepped forward, Granger close behind him, the skeleton’s eye-sockets flared blue as they activated, and, one by one, they jumped off the walls onto the floor and turned to face them both.

“What do you think,” Draco said lazily, now judging it safe enough to turn to the witch behind him. “Four for me, three for you?”

Granger cackled. “Not likely, Malfoy,” she said, unusually cheerily (possibly also excited by the imminent fight- Draco often forgot how violent she could be), and before he could even blink, she had sent a nasty Blasting Curse towards the closest one, reducing it to mere grains of dust in seconds. The other six skeletons paused, looking as surprised as inanimated bones could.

“Merlin wept,” Draco said, partly in shock but mostly somewhat impressed. “I say- good shot!”

Granger blew the smoking tip of her wand casually, and he pretended like it wasn’t one of the most attractive things he’d seen in a long while (damn the Terrestrial Magic for affecting him still) and looked very smug at his evident surprise.

“You’d better close your mouth and have a go,” she said triumphantly, “unless you’d like it to be seven-zero.”

Draco could never resist a good challenge, and when the other six skeletons recovered from their shock and advanced again, quickly gaining ground, he had a go and shot a volley of equally nasty curses their way, Granger’s voice overlapping with his as they shouted their assortment of preferred spells.

They both quickly learnt the hard way that unless the skulls were blasted off or the skeleton turned to dust straight away, it would promptly reform, and so by the time the first of the skeletons had reached them, they had each taken another one down, leaving four murderously angry guardians to contend with- two for him, and two for Granger.

“This is actually rather straightforward,” Draco shouted a few minutes later, lithely ducking under a sword swung right at his head, casting a quick Glacius on the floor and watching in amusement as the offending skeleton lost its balance and toppled over, with a clinking sound like a bag of stones being shaken. He waited until it had regained its balance somewhat (trying to be a good sport and all that) before blasting its skull off with an effective Bombarda. That move also had the added benefit of shooting the skull right across the room and straight into the knees of the other oncoming skeleton, dropping it to the floor like a sack of Hippogriff dung.

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Granger said dryly, casting a protective Protego over herself in a firm silver bubble; Draco watched as a spiked club came crashing down onto it. Unlike him, she didn’t even flinch; her spellwork didn’t even ripple at the impact, and before the skeleton could raise to swing it again, she had charmed the club out of its bony hands, levitated it in mid-air and charmed it to beat its owners face like a demented pinata until eventually its head popped off. She promptly turned her attention to the next one coming up behind her.

Draco decided to put his third skeleton out of its misery (it was now crawling on its hands towards him in a manner that was both disturbing and pathetic) and flipped it back with a powerful Flipendo, and then before it could respond to that, used a powerful Severing Charm to separate the head from the body. He then took a seat on the ground to catch his breath (running and dodging four troll-sized skeletons had been a surprisingly good work-out) and to watch Granger battle the last one (four-three to her, damn), amusing himself by shouting out unsolicited bits of duelling advice, watching in delight as Granger got visibly crosser and crosser with each one.

“Step three paces to the side,” he called out, watching her evade a nasty axe swing, “watch your left. WATCH YOUR LEFT! YOUR OTHER LEFT!”

He watched as she somewhat rudely didn’t watch her left at all and had to throw up some very clever defensive charms to avoid getting sliced in half.

“Try to go in its blind spots….No! So close, maybe try to disarm it… Oooh, you nearly had it there…”

“Stop,” Granger hissed venomously, a minute later, obviously reaching her breaking point on tolerating his running commentary, “telling me what do.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Draco said, as patient as a martyr, delighted at how her curls seemed to spark in irritation at his long-suffering tone. “If it were me, that fight would’ve been over three minutes ago.”

More than anything that seemed to set Granger off, and Draco had to duck to the side with a loud swear as she sent a horrid curse his way, moving just in time and hearing it sizzle on the wall right behind where he’d been sitting.

“Oi!”

“My mistake,” Granger shouted, not looking apologetic at all. “I thought I sent it more to the left.”

Draco sulkily ignored her and spent the next few minutes meticulously brushing any clinging bits of bones off his robe, keeping a half-cautious eye on the fight in front of him, just in case Granger needed any help. She was starting to flag a little, not used to such extensive offensive magic as he was, but he was hesitant to step in, knowing if he did, she’d likely show her thankfulness in much the same way she’d treated her first skeleton.

Eventually, she managed to hit it with some modified Shrinking Charm, and Draco watched thoroughly impressed as it shrank to the size of a rat, and then stomped on it, her horrendous Muggle shoes finally good for something, ending the fight with a decisive crunch.

He let her catch her breath for a minute and strolled over to investigate the dead Unspeakable, rummaging around for any tags or formally issued badges he could use to ID it. Alas, there was nothing.

“The Ministry needs to keep much better tabs on who’s accessing a place like this.” Granger finally wheezed from somewhere behind him. “I’m going to draft a strongly worded letter.”

“Jolly good,” Draco called back absently. “That’ll show them.”

He left the corpse be and returned to her side, vaguely noting how the unexpected exercise had brightened Granger’s already-gripping dark eyes.

“What do you think is in the chamber ahead?” He asked curiously; she grimaced.

“It’s a bit on the nose, but if I had to guess, I’d say Death Magic,” she said rather unhappily. “I’m…the most nervous about this one.”

Draco agreed- they hadn’t walked out unaffected by any of the chambers; he dreaded to think what lay ahead. But they had come too far to falter now, so without preamble, he led the way to chamber number four- the hair on the back of Draco’s neck raised as they entered it, only to find it full of swirly grey fog that obscured the path ahead.

He could’ve sworn the air around them was full of faint whispering voices, much like the Death Chamber in which he’d spent a brief (unforgettable) time. It was awfully spooky.

“Hold on to me,” he advised Granger grimly. “I don’t want us to separate here.”

He didn’t see her nod from behind him but felt a hand grip the back of his robes as they advanced through the pressing mist, gradually enveloping them both. They walked in silence for what felt like an hour (it was probably eight minutes at most)- some part of Draco was sure they were walking in circles before he heard Granger give a sharp inhale of surprise and felt her pull him to a stop, pointing at something far on their right.

“Look!” She breathed. “Over there. Through the mist.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, and somewhat helpfully, the fog cleared a bit, allowing him to visualise better. He bit back a hiss of his own when the unmistakable ominous curves of a Veil became visible, looming over them as they approached.

He kept a healthy distance away from it, watching it cautiously. It looked identical to the one on Level Nine- he heard Granger mutter furiously behind him as she traced her wand in the air, feeling for any magic in the room.

“The fact that I’m not feeling much at all makes me sure this is the Death Magic chamber,” she advised, “if that,” she waved a hand at the Veil, “didn’t give it away. Do you want to feel?”

Draco closed his eyes to give it a go, but another gasp from Granger had him opening them very quickly and checking in on her- she was very pale and staring at something over his shoulder. Stomach clenching in apprehension, he turned to look, too.

And there before him, looking terribly amused at whatever looks were on their faces, was a short woman, bearing strange swirling markings down her face and neck, dressed in a formless grey robe and leaning heavily on a staff. The Pict. Draco had his wand out instantly.

“Who are you?” He demanded. “What do you want with us?”

The woman stretched her black-painted lips in a smile but didn’t reply; she just turned her gaze to the witch behind him almost expectantly.

“I saw you on Skye,” Granger murmured, coming to stand by his side. “Are you the druidess buried in the centre?” She turned to Draco quickly. “I wonder if she can even understand us. Maybe not.”

The unidentifiable woman now looked even more amused. “She can understand you quite well,” she said, her voice deeper than Draco had expected, rasping in the cool air. “And no, I’m not her. However, I have been waiting for you both- Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.”

Draco froze and felt Granger do the same next to him.

“How do you know our names?” He asked suspiciously; the Pict let loose a faint chuckle as if he’d told her a hilarious joke.

“I know you both,” she said, eyes dancing in amusement. “Very well, in fact. And you know me just as well, too.”

Draco was sure he’d never seen such a person in his life, and from the look on Granger’s face, she agreed with him. However, something was familiar about her, as if recalling her face from some half-forgotten dream or some hazy childhood memory. The longer he stared at her face, the more he felt he could nearly put a finger on it.

“If you’re not the druidess,” Granger finally queried apprehensively, “then who the hell are you?”

There was a long pause in the room; Draco subtly gripped his wand tighter.

“I’m no Pict at all…” the woman finally said, now looking at them both with almost maternal gentleness, as if they were her somewhat naive children, “Nor mortal, even. I…am Death…”

Chapter Text

Draco was in front of Granger, pressing her behind him, with his wand pointed right at the stranger’s throat (surely not Death; how could that be possible?) before he could even blink. He absently noted that the whispering noises in the room had abruptly hushed like songbirds seeing a bird of prey, and the air in the room seemed to swirl with an arctic breeze as if all the warmth, the life, was sucked out of it.

“Impossible!” He spat, his grip on his wand unwavering. “Who are you? I demand you tell us.”

The stranger took an aborted step towards him but stopped instantly as Draco sent an exceptionally powerful spell her way (a very nasty, definitely illegal Electrocution Curse that should’ve had her writhing on the floor), but he watched in shock as it simply rolled over her harmlessly. He tried a different spell, then a few more, each curse becoming darker and more unscrupulous, but to no avail.

The stranger chortled. “You dare try to command me? You truly are a Malfoy, no mistake about it.”

Draco decided to say ‘fuck it’ and, for the first time in nearly ten years, cast a harried Avarda, his voice only cracking ever so slightly, but watched in muted horror as it simply passed through the woman, lighting her skin and eyes an ethereal green. The woman looked taken aback at his vicious hostility, but Granger didn’t make a sound from behind him. When Draco glanced back to check on her, he found her staring at the stranger, brow furrowed in contemplation. His heart sank at the sight- uh oh, he knew that look.

“Wait, Malfoy, I think she’s telling us the truth,” Granger said slowly. “Does she…does she feel familiar to you?”

And the funny thing was, the stranger did. And a sliver of Draco’s conversation with the Seer on the council flickered through his memory- Death following him, Death knowing him, had him bite back a shudder. He instinctively knew this was something way beyond his ken of limited mortal understanding. The only other thing he could compare it to was the little girl they’d seen in the Source- like her, the power exuding from this visitor (and the fact that his spells did diddly squat against her) made it clear she was no mere human. Maybe the cult was on to something, after all. If he were more devout (and not from a family who tended to think themselves among the highest of powers), he might’ve dropped to his knees in worship and joined those who venerated such a being.

“So you’re the wizard who was a master of my Elder wand,” the woman said, eyeing him with the cold precision of a snake eyeing a live mouse. “Hmmm. You’re not what I expected.”

A sudden smile crossed her face, and the change was remarkable. She looked as kind and harmless as a summer breeze. “What a delightful surprise. Fighting me is fruitless- but I commend you for trying. You’ve become braver, Draco Malfoy.”

Blood running cold, Draco lowered his wand. If this was Death itself, he could do nothing to her- a thought that sent a shudder of discomfort down his spine. His look of horrified acceptance must’ve been evident; the smile on Death’s face deepened, but her eyes flicked to look beyond his shoulder at his companion still tucked behind him.

“You don’t look too upset to see me,” she said to Granger. “I’ve met many who’ve already run screaming by now when I’ve come to collect them. Their attempts are futile, yet many still try.”

“Have you come to collect us?” Granger asked, not sounding bothered at the prospect but more irritated as if their untimely demises would throw a wrench in their careful planning.

Still busy processing meeting the physical embodiment of Death (something he’d only ever read about in fairytales), Draco probably would’ve chosen a more respectful tone. He jabbed a warning elbow in her side. Merlin, this witch was going to get them both killed.

Granger swept past him, moving out from behind him, the heat of her body the only warmth he could feel in this tomb-like chamber. On reflex, his fingers twitched to grab her closer and pull her into his side before she could march any closer (quite literally) to death. She stared their visitor down, her amber eyes fixed on the figure before them, fierce and unblinking.

“Not today.” Death told them comfortingly, still smiling ever so faintly. “It’s not quite your time yet, on this path, that is. That might change, of course- all choices do have consequences. My schedule does need to be quite…flexible, as a result.”

Draco (not feeling comforted at all) despaired at more talks of paths, alternative futures, and vague mystical mumbo jumbo and pulled the conversation onto something more concrete.

“Then why are you here?” He asked, tone controlled, not letting an ounce of the fear coursing through his veins show. His mother had taught him far too well for that. “And why did you appear on Skye?”

“And on Samhain at the ball,” Granger butted in; he looked at her in shock.

“Sorry!” She hissed. “I completely forgot to tell you I saw her by the fire after we danced. And then things got so…complicated. It just slipped my mind.”

“I wanted to see you both,” Death said, tone sounding as if that should be rather obvious. “I have a vested interest if you two succeed, after all.”

Draco felt Granger start behind him at that implication- that, yet again, not only did Ancient Magic show some measure of sentience (or divinity, depending on one’s perspective about those sorts of things), but was taking an active interest in their task and rooting for them not to fail. He supposed it made sense- magic wouldn’t want to die out any more than they wanted to lose it.

“Are there others like you,” he asked craftily, pondering the implications of other mystical manifestations of the foundations of their magical world. “We saw a little girl…. under the Ministry, in a place that the Seers called a Source. She showed us the future. Are there others? What are you?”

Death almost looked amused at his rapid-fire questioning, and Draco felt like he was verging into Granger-like territory.

“I am the beginning and end of all,” she murmured. “Neither one nor many- seven parts of the same whole. You should know this by now.”

She turned a rather stern gaze onto Granger, who finally showed some measure of self-preservation and quailed slightly.

“You should know better by now. That is where you are going wrong- but how you humans love dividing things.”

That made absolutely no sense to Draco, but from how Granger nodded slightly, her dark brows furrowed in thought, she found it helpful. He made a note to interrogate her about it later. Now might not be the time, but it was a long drive up to Scotland, and they could add it to the heap of things they needed to discuss.

“Are you saying you and the girl are the…same person?” He queried cautiously; he got an absent smile in return which was as unhelpful as fuck.

“Is a symphony not a whole in itself?” Death said vaguely. “Do you hear the instruments, or do you hear the song?”

Draco was starting to find the conversation similar to a few he’d had with Luna Lovegood- frustratingly vague and migraine-inducingly abstract, and he resigned himself to never understanding the deepest mysteries of this most ancient power. Granger (oblivious to the fact he was currently experiencing a spiritual crisis) barreled ahead with her usual subtle-as-a-bludger conversational skills.

“What is the Source,” she interrupted again. “And why do you look like that?” She waved an elaborate hand at the rather unusual garb Death wore.

Draco felt his eyelid twitch. Did the witch not understand the concept of showing respect to powerful beings who were pretty much deities and could smite them with one wave of a hand? He very much did not want to be smited. Smote? Smoted?

“The Source you visited is merely one of the many wells of Ancient Magic that pour into the mortal world,” Death said, looking unphased by the critique of her clothing. “That particular one was named and claimed by the Roman Court as a source of magic to aid their clairvoyance. Their successors use it still.”

Granger had a contemplative look on her face, and Draco knew she was thinking of the spooky chasms deep under the Ministry and the odd Seers they'd met there.

“Time Magic is stronger there, overshadowing the others- but all wells are different.” Death continued and shook her head, almost chastisingly at them. “Just as this one leads to a realm you cannot return from… So much basic knowledge of the Old Ways has been lost. If the ancient ones could see you now…”

“It’s hardly our fault,” Granger said indignantly; Draco all but closed his eyes as he prepared for them both to be struck down as punishment for their impudence. Luckily, however, Death seemed to find Granger more amusing than anything else and cocked her head to stare at the curly-haired witch.

“And your appearance?” Granger continued, interrupting his spiralling thoughts about being turned into a pile of ash. “In The Tale of the Three Brothers, you appeared to them as a cloaked figure, so why do you look like the druidess buried in the centre now?”

Death now looked almost fond. “Modwenna was a powerful witch-”

“Modwenna,” Granger breathed from behind him. “That must be her name.”

Draco despaired at the innate Gryffindor talent at pointing out the obvious at the most inopportune times- she, Potter and the Weasel really were three tactless peas in a pod.

“-and one of the last of her kind.” Death continued, undeterred. “And using all her power, she protected her people from a monstrous creature hunting any children born to her beloved tribe. She was a remarkable witch- possessing a skill with the magic of Death unlike most I’ve ever seen despite her youth.”

Draco felt Granger freeze next to him.

“In the translations I did,” she muttered, “I thought they said she died when she was old- the carving for the word was there, so I interpreted it for her age. Was I wrong? Was it saying she was an Ancient Magic user? That would fit with the timeline when it started fading away.”

Death shot Granger an impressed look at her rapid-fire deductions. “She was- and quite a renowned one, too. But channelling that amount of magic came with a price and took its toll on her body. And when I came to fetch her, she didn’t fight, beg, or argue- she knew the cost of keeping her people safe.”

“She sacrificed herself for the protection spellwork?” Granger asked, looking a mix of impressed and disturbed.

“Modwenna was…special.” Death said slowly. “I…admired her, which I don’t often do for mortals. I see so many, you see, so few tend to stick out. But she did- so borrowing her form on lands that once were hers felt right.”

Granger nodded as if this was a wholly normal conversation for a Saturday afternoon. Draco despaired slightly at his choice of companion- if he’d had another Slytherin here with him (Pansy, for example), they might have even bargained for immortality by now.

“Has speaking with us sated your curiosity?” He asked Death guardedly, more than ready to leave the chamber and this being far behind them. “Will you permit us to pass?”

The look of seriousness on Death’s face increased.

“You have come far since your time in the Source,” she told him solemnly, “and done well finding peace within yourselves. But your hearts are not yet fully unburdened, and you will need to ease them soon if you ever want to leave these crypts. I fear for the future of the world should you never resurface.”

Draco’s stomach clenched at the idea that there was something that even Death itself was apprehensive of. And, of course, it was his problem to solve. Gods, he never should’ve come back from paternity leave. If Blaise ever found out that ignoring his advice had taken Draco down this domino effect of preventing the apocalypse, he would never shut up about it.

“What are we dealing with?” He said desperately, begging for more information, any information they could use to solve the ever-increasing list of problems he and Granger faced. “Who are we dealing with?”

A rare begging tone crept into his voice. “Help us, please!”

“The matters of the mortal world are not my dominion. Even if I knew, I could not tell you.” Death told him gently but somewhat sympathetically. “Your path is only ever yours to change; I cannot instruct you, nor can I guide you.”

She lifted her gaze off Granger and turned to look at Draco. He instinctively dropped his eyes and felt Death’s gaze burn into his forehead.

“Your choices must be your own- such is your blessing, and your curse, for being human. I would be going against all the laws of nature should I interfere.”

“That’s rather unhelpful,” Granger said crossly. “You’re Death. You’re…” she waved her hands vaguely, “you’re the most powerful thing in the world. Can’t you tell us anything?”

Draco had had enough of her rudeness and shoved a pointy elbow into her ribs. But luckily, Death didn't seem bothered and laughed loudly.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, young witch. I cannot give you the answers you seek.” Her tone quickly turned solemn.“All I can say is that should you fail, without magic, this world will be a much dimmer place.”

“If we fail,” Granger said softly, almost to herself, looking for the first time like the full weight of their task was heavy on her. “We will lose everything.”

That got another soft laugh from Death, which had both Draco and Granger looking up at her, startled.

“Don’t be silly,” she chided as if Granger was some overdramatic child throwing a tantrum she had no time for. “If you fail, you will lose your magic, yes. But you will not lose everything.”

Granger scoffed. “What life is worth living without it?” She said harshly. “Mine only started the day I got my letter- I’d rather die than lose my magic.”

There was a horrible silence in the chamber as the weight of her words sunk in; Death looked at them and sighed in almost a maternal way.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry I cannot help you more,” she said, face pained. “And while you both cannot linger here for much longer, there is a gift I can give you…”

Draco felt Granger tense up behind him, feeling an equal mix of cautiousness and intrigue, her melancholy set aside by the prospect of new information.

“I wish to give you my blessing- something I haven’t done for a very long time.” Death told them quietly. “You two carry a great burden- allow me to lift that briefly. It might help ease those restless hearts of yours- but know it is up to you both to close the distance that has formed between you. Once and for all.” A crooked smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “Bridge the gap…if you will.”

Draco exchanged another glance with Granger, unsure where Death was getting at.

“There are some souls who have crossed into my realm who wish to see you.” Death continued. “And I'm sure there is much you might want to say to them…”

Here, she paused and rolled her eyes, a human mannerism that seemed so starkly odd on her face. “People always have something they want to say to those they love who have died. But I’ve always said - you had the time to say it when they were alive. Here, however, I will make an exception.”

The breath caught in Draco’s lungs, and his vision tunnelled out; next to him, Granger froze. Death waved her hand, and the Veil (which he had mostly forgotten about) lit up with glowing purple-blue light. Draco watched, horrified, as many hands, all different sizes and skin tones, reached through it desperately, and the temperature in the room (already as chilly as a meat locker) seemed to drop a few more degrees.

It was an identical scene to one of the drawings Rachel had done for them. From how Granger shifted anxiously next to him, she hadn’t missed it either.

“I cannot give you much,” Death informed them, “but here in this place, where the Veil is thin, I can grant you a few moments with one who loves you. Treasure it- for if you succeed, it will be long before you see them again. Let them give you strength for your task ahead.”

A soft look crossed her face, and she swivelled to speak to Granger.

“Someone’s been very excited to see you since she heard you were here- she said she’s been waiting for you for ages. Since the day I took her.”

The Veil gave a burst of light, and Draco watched in stunned silence as a fluffy, black and white dog came bounding from the Veil, tail wagging furiously. It swerved straight past Draco on a single-minded mission and ran straight for Granger, who, without preamble, made some wet, tearful noise and dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around its neck and sobbing something inaudible into its dense fur.

The dog’s snow-white muzzle made Draco think it should move stiffly and with joints that creaked like old doors, but it wriggled in joy, unburdened by the pain of old age and as exuberant as a puppy, little nails tippy-tapping on the stone floor and high-pitched whines bursting from its throat in excitement as it focused on enthusiastically licking as many tears off Granger’s face and neck as possible.

Death looked at the sight before, her face tender and kind. “It always amazes me,” she said, turning to Draco, “how the littlest of hearts can have the deepest of love.”

Half-distracted by watching Granger cry, feet automatically pulling forward with the urge to comfort her (the other half of his brain still lagging at Death’s mention of a visitor), Draco missed how the Veil flared again, only looking up when Death cleared her throat to draw his attention back to her. She gestured him to step towards her, which he did, the mist in the room becoming thicker and thicker with each passing second until Granger’s silhouette a few meters away was completely obscured.

“She cannot stay,” Death warned him, and Draco felt his heart simultaneously drop and clench, “as Cadmus Peverell learnt the hard way. This world is not for her. Not any longer.”

She turned to go but paused when Draco half-reached forward in a halted attempt to catch her shoulder, but luckily, he remembered himself and dropped his hand before he could make contact, some of his brain screaming out that if he did touch Death, he would never leave the chamber.

“Did it hurt her?” He asked, wondering if he looked as wild as he felt. “Dying? She was in so much pain…before… For so long. Did she suffer right till the end?”

Death needed no clarification.

“No,” she said softly, and Draco finally felt brave enough to look into Death’s pitch-black eyes and see the sincerity shining up at him. A massive weight he didn’t even realise he was carrying fell from his shoulders.

“I swear to you,” Death vowed, “that when I came for her, I took her hand and slipped her away. As gentle as closing her eyes, as easy as breathing. No pain…no grief.”

Draco stared at her solidly, ignoring how his eyelids burned with unshed tears of relief. “There never would’ve been enough time to tell her how much I loved her.” He told Death quietly. “Even if I had a hundred lifetimes.”

Death looked at him unblinkingly, then nodded, face solemn. “All I can do, Draco Malfoy,” she told him kindly, “is give you one last opportunity in this one.”

Draco finally closed his eyes, the stinging becoming almost too much to bear and when he opened them again, the back of his neck prickled with awareness, and his magic buzzed underneath his skin. A feather-light touch on his elbow by an oh-so-familiar hand had him freezing as if hit by lightning, and he turned, guided chiefly by instinct, to look around and gaze into the soft eyes of his dead wife.

“Astoria,” Draco breathed, staring at the woman before him half in disbelief, half in amazement, reaching a hand up to gently trace over her cheekbones and down her jaw. Astoria smiled prettily (oh yes, she had a little freckle by her eye; Draco had forgotten about that) and reached forward for him, too. Draco started in surprise when their hands connected, the faintest warmth palpable under his fingertips the only sign he wasn’t imagining her presence.

“Draco,” Astoria murmured, her voice ringing in the heavy air around them. “I’m so proud of you- you’ve done so well.”

The mist around them turned thicker, and the air seemed damp and muffled like a forest in the early morning before the rain. Draco was absurdly grateful for it- he had the privacy he needed as his throat flashed with pain and tears burnt his eyes again.

“No, I haven’t,” he croaked in despair. “I failed you… I’m so sorry, Tori. I tried so hard…”

“Shhh,” Astoria interrupted, raising a hand to cup his cheek; he leaned into her touch desperately. “You didn't fail me, Draco. Never think that. There was nothing more you could've done…nothing anyone could've done.”

Draco was no stranger to pain and regret. After losing Astoria, grief had felt like an endless void through which he would never escape, and it was only a year of sessions with a Mind Healer and learning to see the flickering lights of the ones he loved- his parents, his friends, his son- that had guided him out. But seeing the face he still sometimes saw burned in his dreams brought most of the darkness creeping back up again; he gazed at her in silence.

“There was nothing you could’ve done, Draco,” Astoria repeated, seeing him unconvinced. He nodded desperately, heart wanting to reject her words, even as his mind knew them to be true.

“Still, I wish…” Draco rasped, then tried again. “I wish things could’ve been different. Maybe if we’d seen other Healers, maybe if we’d known which spell triggered the curse. We came so close to finding a cure for you, Tori. If we’d had a few more months, we might’ve saved you…”

Astoria shrugged. “Maybe this, maybe that.” She said calmly. “There are no maybes in death. There’s only what was. But you need to focus only on what is. And what can be.” She shot him a knowing look. “Something it seems you’ve recently figured out for yourself.”

“I’m trying, Tori…” Draco told her hesitantly. “Recently, I’ve started trying to make peace with…well, everything. Got a bit of a wake-up call and figured it was about time...” He inhaled sharply. “And I’m getting there- coming to terms with who I was.. who I am….”

Astoria beamed with pride at his admission while Draco struggled to verbalise his experience in the Source, which had prompted so much internal reflection in such a short amount of time. Merlin, his Mind Healer was going to have a field day at their next session.

“But no matter how hard I try,” he continued, voice strained with regret, “I can’t make peace with-”

“With me,” she finished softly, eyes filled with understanding.

Astoria had always read him like a book, and from how her right eyebrow quirked at him accusingly, she knew exactly about the silent guilt that went unspoken. Draco braced himself for a Speech. Astoria used to enjoy giving her opinion (loudly and often unsolicited), and it had been a long time since he was on the receiving end of it. And yet, despite his resignation, a part of him longed for her words, even if it meant a lecture. But the prospect of a difficult conversation and facing emotions he’d very pointedly ignored for the better part of a year seemed too painful to face and had him rushing to change the subject like the true Slytherin he was.

“I’m sorry you can’t see our son,” he said softly, even as one half of him screamed in alarm at the idea of Scorpius down with them in the depths of the earth, while the other half treasured the idea of Scorp getting one last glimpse of his mother.

Astoria’s eyes lit up, and a beaming smile crossed her face. “Our son,” she breathed, and for a second, she seemed almost alive in the joyous maternal beauty radiating from her. “Scorpius. My boy. My baby.”

“He’s perfect,” Draco rushed to tell her, feeling that explaining how incredible Scorpius was was the most important thing he'd ever had to say. “Already such a personality- he’s going to grow up to be a spectacular man. I’ll make sure of it, Tori. I promise you. And I speak of you to him every day.”

A look of almost ravenous hunger lit Astoria's face at the mention of the child she'd only spent a week with before her death. Draco wondered if she remembered how she had clutched him to her chest her last few days, barely even letting him take their child from her sight as she drifted away.

“I'm so sorry,” he choked, “that you got such little time with him. But he’s so much like you, Tori. So gentle…so kind. Even though he’s still so little.”

He rambled on for a few more minutes, passing on menial, insignificant details about their child. The way his face scrunched when he sneezed, the foods he wouldn’t eat, his attempts at walking, and Astoria hung on his every word like a desperate pilgrim hearing a long-awaited prayer. Draco couldn’t stop himself from absent-mindedly running a hand over her features, memorising the curve of her lips (it looked like Scorp would inherit those; maybe they weren’t lost after all), her dimples, trying to commit to memory the sound of her tinkling laugh when he recounted Scorp’s first word. Something was slightly different about her in death than it had been in life, but he struggled to put a finger on it.

But Astoria’s eyes quickly turned serious when his voice finally trailed off (even though feeling he could have a century to talk about how incredible his son was, and it’d still never be enough).

“And should he never be the wizard your family hoped for?” She asked somewhat sternly. “If no powers ever reveal themselves? What will you have to say then?”

Draco almost felt hurt that she had any doubts but supposed the instinctive protectiveness of a mother, surviving even beyond death, would override spousal affection.

“Why would I care if Scorpius is a Squib?” He told her seriously. “He's already the most magical thing I've ever seen.”

Astoria’s face eased in relief as her eyes tracked over his face with the same astute shrewdness as her sister, hearing the sincerity in his words.

“I couldn’t care if he was a… was a Dungbomb,” Draco continued, “as long as he’s happy. That’s the only thing that matters.”

“And what about you,” Astoria asked archly; Draco almost felt a little thrown by the rapid shift in conversation.

“What about me?” He asked, tone cautious.

“Are you happy?” she asked apprasingly, running her eyes down his face as if a numerical value of happiness could be seen. Draco made some indignant scoffing noise.

“What kind of question is that?” He said defensively, ignoring the pointed look Astoria was giving him. “How can I not be? I have the world’s best son-” he allowed an easy bragging tone to slide automatically in his voice, as it so often did when speaking about Scorp, “-a job I love, only slightly deranged friends, research which could change so many lives-”

“But are you happy?” Astoria pushed again; Draco took a while to think about it.

“I’m…as happy as I can be,” he finally admitted. “Could I be happier? Probably. But, Tori, you know I never thought I’d get any of this, anyway. What more could I want?”

The look on Astoria’s face was almost pitying. “So much of your life still stretches before you,” she told him softly. “And it would be a much happier path should you have someone to walk it with.”

Draco gaped at her and felt a flash of betrayal on her behalf sear through him. “What?” He said incredulously. “Tori, you’re my wife-”

“I’m your dead wife,” Astoria cheekily pointed out as if Draco had forgotten that fact. Seeing the unimpressed look he shot her, she sobered up quickly and focused on straightening the wrinkles that had formed in his robes thanks to the strenuous journey through the crypts. “And as your wife,” she continued, her face was solemn, but the faintest of smiles still twitched her lips at the flabbergasted look still on his face. “I know you, Draco, I know your heart…”

She rested a small hand over his left chest, feeling the thump deep under his ribs in a way hers did not. “A lonely heart is a heavy burden, and yours is laden indeed.”

Draco struggled to contradict that but tried, anyway. “But I loved, love, you, Tori,” he told her desperately, feeling like he was rapidly losing control of the conversation. “How could I…I could never… I would be insulting you if I-”

Astoria shushed Draco’s garbled interruptions and cut over him. “My greatest wish is for you to be happy, Draco. To be loved. Even if- especially as it cannot come from me.” She told him softly.

“But I don’t want anyone else,” Draco snapped, knowing his tone was unreasonably whiney. He adjusted it and tried again. “ I want you.”

“Well, my love,” Astoria said, eyes dancing. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that’s not possible. And, I think, not quite true.”

A flash of an idea hit Draco, as absurd and improbable as it may be.

“I could do it,” he said desperately, glossing over the end of her statement. “I can get Potter to tell me what he did with the Resurrection Stone; I can find it and give your life back, Astoria. You could come home- you could see Scorp again.”

Another look of desperate hunger crossed Astoria’s face, but she calmly shook her head, rushing to speak when she noticed him open his mouth to argue.

“I'm at peace, Draco,” she breathed, and he finally realised what was different about her- the lines of tension that had been cut into her skin over her brow and around her eyes were gone, and she stood up straighter, her body unpained by the curse that had burrowed through her in her last years of life. “My time on earth is done, love. There’s no pain here. My soul is free.”

Draco bowed his head in defeat but felt sharp fingers tilt his chin back up, forcing his gaze onto hers.

“You can’t bring me back,” she murmured. “You can never go back. You can only move on. Promise me.”

Her blue eyes burned furiously into his. “Promise me you’ll stop making me haunt you, Draco,” she whispered hotly. “Let yourself finally believe my death was not because you didn’t try hard enough.”

Draco pulled Astoria into his arms, buried his head in the crook of her neck, and allowed himself to be held by his wife one last time. How long he spent there, he couldn’t tell, but gradually, the weight perpetually resting on his shoulders finally started to ease, like Atlas putting the sky to the side.

“But what if I have nothing more left of my heart to give anyone?” He whispered into her lukewarm skin. “What if that’s all anyone ever gets?”

Astoria tucked a strand of stray, pale hair behind his ear and tugged on his lobe fondly. “Your heart isn’t something you cut up and give away, never to get the pieces back,” she said simply as if sharing a basic fact of life. “With each person you share it with, there’s just… more of it. Love always finds a way to make room.”

While Astoria let him mull over in silence, Draco’s heart thumped in his chest in the safety of her arms as if reminding him of those he loved with every beat.

But eventually, she pulled herself away. “Let the memories you have of me bring you peace, not pain,” she told him firmly. “And how can I not want you to receive any love you so deserve, especially in a world that offers you so little of it?”

As Draco nodded mutely, it was her turn to run a hand down his face as if memorising his features for herself. “I want you to promise me something,” she told him quietly.

“Anything,” Draco said, throat hoarse.

Astoria’s voice turned commanding. “The next time you see me, and I hope it won’t be for a great many years, I want you to be able to look me in the eyes and tell me you lived Draco. For what a gift it is.”

He stared at Astoria while she spoke, trying not to shiver in his charmed robes. The chamber had become even colder, and his breath (unlike Astoria’s) was puffing white clouds in the arctic air.

“Live your life unburdened by sorrows that have weighed your heart down for far too long,” she continued. “And love freely, whenever you can. For it is by loving we live.”

“I can’t you promise I will,” Draco finally vowed, finding his voice and grabbing her hand to press his lips to the top of it. “But I promise I’ll try my best.”

Astoria nodded, evidentially satisfied with his concession, but a morbid thought had already crossed his mind.

“However,” he added, tone turning darkly amused, “I might see you a lot sooner than you hope if Granger and I don’t figure things out soon.”

A look of mischievous delight crossed Astoria's face, and Draco bit back another groan. He knew that look, too.

“Hermione Granger,” she cooed. “Who would've thought? Preventing the end of all things with her, hmmm? What would nineteen-year-old you have thought about all this?”

“I imagine he'd be rather pleased, despite the circumstances,” Draco said stiffly, feeling rather uncomfortable discussing his ill-fated affections with his deceased wife.

A few months into their marriage (after their friendship had been firmly cemented but before the flickers of romance had blossomed), Astoria had pried the details of their eighth-year relationship out of him with the tenacity of a fox digging out a rabbit. She'd been happily scandalised, then endearingly giggly, and then when Draco recounted how he’d fled and left Hermione after the ball, he'd been subject to a nasty Boil Hex and made to sleep in the fourth guest room for two days while Astoria (who considered herself a witch’s witch above all) bemoaned the stupidly of the male species.

“He’d probably be disappointed you haven’t shagged her yet,” Astoria told him wisely; Draco let loose a horrified squawk.

“Tori! Keep your voice down!”

His hands flailed arbitrarily in the air as he gaped at her. “You can’t say things like that,” he finally said primly, floundering somewhat. “You're my wife!”