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Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy appeared in the smallish back garden of the Catford townhouse with a satisfying pop. It was one of his personal best re-materialisations. That was saying something. His enjoyment, however, was stifled by thoughts of his son.

He took a look around at his surroundings and found everything was vaguely familiar. A glimpse at some rather neglected rose bushes along the fence and the shoes piled haphazardly by the back door reassured him. They were heaped next to an old Nimbus broomstick.

He surveyed the wintery weeds poking up through the cracks in the pavers and the bright yellow door.

He had been here only once, a consummate disaster by all accounts. The fallout was still sending shockwaves through wizarding society. He wasn't sure what kind of reception he would have gotten before that— he was certainly taking a gamble now.

He narrowly avoided a spiky muggle shoe (some brutal fighting equipment, he assumed), then strode to the obnoxiously yellow door. Curls of his own frozen breath floated up in little plumes.

He knocked firmly on the yellow door. There was silence. Not what he had planned for.

Unsure what to do he eyed the spiky shoe and nudged it slightly further away with the toe of his brogue.

Annoyed, he knocked again.

He was more than certain she would be home. Just yesterday he had been scouring the shelves at Flourish and Blotts, when he had overheard one of the Patil twins speaking about it loudly.

“Ginny says she’s barely left the house in a month. Not since it all… happened,” Patil's concerned tone had also betrayed an underlying satisfaction.

Draco wasn’t judging, of course, he was self-aware enough to admit that it gave him a thrill too. And fortunately for him, it had given him an idea.

That is how he found himself staring with annoyance at her door, trying to peer through the blue stained glass and to tamp down a rising nervousness.

Months ago, if you had told Draco that he would be hesitating on this threshold, he would have scoffed. But he found he could no longer kick the can down the road— action was needed.

He knocked.

There was movement inside but then all was silent again. He weighed his options, once again wondering if this might not have been better facilitated by owl post.

But he’d sent half a dozen owls in the past year about other matters, and all of them had been ignored.

At the very least, he reasoned, he should check whether anyone was home— perhaps they had a cat. He pulled his wand from the pocket of his robe and cast a quick homenum revelio— definitely home.

“Hello!” he called and then thinking to himself ‘sod it!’ (after all, what could she do? Use the muggle fighting shoes?) He tried the doorknob.

Under his fist, the door swung open revealing a sort of back entry room with a row of coats of varying sizes and colours hanging on a wall painted a lovely duck-egg blue.

“Does nobody have any basic home security in place anymore?” he muttered to himself, taking a step inside.

“Hello?” he tried again, moving through the back room and into a small galley kitchen— packed to the gills with muggle appliances, plants, cookbooks, and dirty dishes. It did not escape his notice that the neatest thing in the room was a pile of empty wine bottles stacked in a crate beside the door he had just come through.

Thoughts of Lucius forced their way in and he smiled grimly at the realisation that she might have something in common with his father.

“I know you’re home,” he called out again. This time he definitely heard human movement. Someone gasped from somewhere deeper in the house and then there was the sound of rapid footsteps on hardwood floors.

He didn’t even have a moment to cast a proper shielding spell before a bleary-eyed woman pushed open the door in front of him, wand raised, already casting a loud Expelliarmus in his direction.

Such was her passion that not only did his wand fly out of his hand and clatter onto the floor before her; he also went flying and landed rather ungracefully on his backside. His head knocked back and he only narrowly avoided a braining on a large silver muggle device that was humming ominously.

“Malfoy, what the fuck?!”

“I could say the same thing, Granger,” he grumbled, rubbing his lower back as he eased himself up. “I’ve been knocking for ages.”

(It wasn’t really true he supposed but time was a construct.)

“I might have killed you.”

“I think we both know that neither one of us has the killing instinct,” he reasoned and then pulled himself up to a sitting position and put out his hands placatingly before leaning forward to slowly pluck his wand up off the ground.

As he did so he got a solid look at her from the ground up. Her feet were encased in well-worn slippers and she wore some tight muggle trousers. Worse still, he catalogued a stained and very over-sized Chudley Cannons jumper. The orange of it all was offensive to his eyes and his sensibilities.

That wasn’t the most concerning aspect of her appearance. It wasn’t even her hair, although that was even wilder than usual and somehow perched on top of her head like a skewiff Fwooper nest. It was her face that had him sucking in a quick breath and glancing away.

He had expected the fine lines around the eyes, the slightly fuller features. She had aged. So had he.

What surprised him was the hollowness— the down-trodden, droopiness that hadn’t quite been blown away by her surprise at finding him in her kitchen.

“Merlin’s tits, Granger,” he said.

It was the wrong thing to say.

She crossed her arms protectively over her chest (he hadn’t meant to say the word tits!) and sneered back at him.

“What? Have you come to gloat or something? How the hell did you even get through my wards? You’re lucky I didn’t hex you into next week!” Her chest heaved, eyes now wide and alert.

“I did not come to gloat,” he said with unwarranted offence— because he would rather appreciate a gloat if he could find a good opportunity— “You added me to your wards last summer when I brought Scorpius here for that party of yours.”

Annoyance flashed across her face – clearly she had forgotten to remove him from the list of people authorised to apparate in and out of her yard. The look was quickly followed by something like anguish.

(Right… the party).

“I have to say, Granger,” he continued quickly, “Your concern about your wards is a little rich considering you don’t even lock your back door. I just walked right in.”

“Yes, well” she huffed, “I tend to be more relaxed about security these days.”

Of course, Draco remembered. She had a full security detail watching her home 24 hours a day just months ago. Why would she worry about something as pedestrian as locking doors?

“Why are you here, Malfoy?”

He spied a teapot from the corner of his eye that looked to be functioning and reasonably clean and then looked pointedly at it for her benefit.

“Why are you here?”

“It’s complicated Granger, I’d really prefer to sit and discuss it like civilised grown-ups if possible.”

“It’s not the kids, is it?”

“No, no. They're fine. At Hogwarts as far as I know. Shall I make the tea?”

He set about rinsing out the kettle and boiling it with a rapid-fire succession of charms.

She stared openly, mouth puckered with confusion. If Draco knew only one thing about Granger, it was that she enjoyed a good puzzle.

He wasn’t at all surprised when she offered him a resigned sigh and then brushed past and used her wand to take the kettle from him. She shovelled in a couple of heaped spoonfuls of leaves and set it to steep, taking out two cups and some milk on a small tray that had been leaning against the spashback. She picked the tray up the muggle way and beckoned for him to follow her deeper into the house.

He had noticed in their brief dealings as adults that she blended magic with muggle in a very idiosyncratic way. It wasn’t that he cared that she liked to do things the muggle way, it was that it was never one or the other. He frowned and followed.

The hallway was lined with doors and both muggle and magical pictures of her, Weasley and their two children. She led him past a staircase and into a surprisingly sun-filled sitting room.

Dust-motes circled and danced in the light as she put the tray down on a small table, she gestured for him to sit on a comfortable-looking settee that had a thick, wool blanket strewn across it. It looked like it had very recently been discarded. His fingers lingered on the handkerchief in his pocket, reassured it was there. He was quite sensitive to dust.

“I did not expect to have Draco Malfoy over for tea today,” she muttered, playing mother and pouring for them both.

“Surprise.”

She scowled. He couldn’t blame her. They were not even approximately friends.

“I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime actually,” she told him curtly, “so I’d prefer it if you would just tell me why you’re here, Malfoy.”

He inhaled deeply and let a stream out through his nose, letting it calm him. This was the moment he had been both dreading and anticipating.

“I need a favour, Granger.”

An odd expression crossed her face. It almost looked like relief.

During her tenure as Minister for Magic, he had owled her at least six times asking for favours of varying sizes. That, or he had expressed his disapproval of specific Ministry policies. Haranguing people in positions of authority was a time-honoured Mafloy tradition.

“Oh?” she said cautiously, “what could I possibly do for you these days, Malfoy?” There was an odd emphasis on ‘these days’.

She was referring, he supposed, to the fact that she had just lost the election. The supposedly ‘unlosable election’ that turned out to be not quite so unlosable.

“Come now, Granger. Surely you recognise that you still have some clout.”

She snorted derisively. “I’m a joke, Malfoy. Whatever you want, you’d be better off going to Harry.”

He looked at the person in front of him and almost couldn't see Granger. She looked small and tired. Where was the woman whose face had been on the front page of hundreds of newspapers? Over the course of their aquaintance he had seen her looking confident, he had seen her looking eager, he had even seen her furious— the person he was looking at was unrecognisable. Where had Granger gone?

It made his skin crawl.

“Don’t worry about what the rags say, Granger,” he replied after a moment, trying to be nice, because he needed something from her. 

He picked up his teacup and added a little milk from a pitcher she had placed on the tray, “You know what it’s like— social pariah one day, beloved war hero running the world again the next.”

“I’m not quite sure this is all going to just disappear that quickly.”

She took another sip of her tea, holding it up to her face for an inordinate amount of time. When it hit the saucer with a chink, he frowned at the small splash that sloshed over the side. He looked up and saw that her jaw was clenched tightly. Then, to his abject horror, she started to well up.

He hardly knew where to look or what to do as her nose scrunched up and her eyes fluttered closed. They opened again with a decidedly wet sheen.

“Oh no Granger, don’t—” he blurted, sitting bolt upright.

It was too late. There was a sad little sob and then her shoulders began to shake. He quickly leaned forward and took the teacup and saucer out of her hands before the situation could become even wetter.

“I’m not qualified to deal with crying Gryffindors,” he muttered under his breath and then half reached out a hand to console her before thinking better of it and pulling it back to his side.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed through tears, “It’s just that, I used to be so busy doing important work but now I’m so bored and alone that I’m sat here having tea with you!”

“Oh yes, don’t worry about my feelings.”

She did not stop crying. His hand dove into his pocket, retrieving his handkerchief which he proffered enthusiastically.

She took it and raised it to dab at her eyes.

“Granger, Granger— come on now. Please stop. I don’t know what to say to you when you’re crying, should I floo-call Potter? Would that help?”

“No! Sorry Malfoy,” she sobbed, “I’m so embarrassed. Don’t call Harry.”

He was beginning to regret the visit entirely. In the many ways he had imagined she might react to his request, he had never imagined she might cry.

She gave another morbid little sob and he cringed.

Hadn’t he owled her and told her that her idea to install muggle technology throughout the Ministry was inadvisable? It was like she had lost her mind in those last few months before the election. Everything had been going fine and she was a clear front-runner until that horrendous press conference where she announced what the papers had since referred to as the Granger Reforms.

At the time, Draco had wondered if she was in the grip of a fever dream. Of course, what did he care?

Then the other news had broken. The news that hadn't really shocked him as much, not after the disastrous party— the divorce.

“I got your owls by the way,” she told him, as if reading his thoughts. “Thanks for the warning. What was it you said? Oh right, yes— it turns out that I am, after all, the ‘dimmest witch of our age’ and ‘incapable of reading the room'.”

Had he said that? A bit harsh given everything he now knew.

(Was she going to cry more?)

“Sorry.” He supposed he meant it. “None of that matters now though, does it?”

“Of course, it matters!” she replied furiously, swiping a palm across her cheek to collect the fresh tears. “My life's work is in ruins! I have failed everything.”

“You haven’t failed at anything, Granger.”

She flinched.

Was he being insensitive? (Did he care?)

He pulled at a loose thread on the blanket by his knee, giving it his full attention.

“Malfoy, my life is in shambles. I am failing against every metric I can think of. I may as well be candid about it with you— why not? Crying to my former enemy,” she said with a wet laugh, “Can’t make it any worse.”

He chuckled politely. “You could interpret having a former enemy as a mark of distinction.”

“It doesn't count because you were always incompetent at being evil. I don’t think your heart was ever properly in it, to be honest.”

He pursed his lips in thought, unsure if he had just been insulted.

“I'm sorry?” She waved him off.

He narrowed his eyes at her and fought a familiar internal battle between amusement and irritation.

“You have two children who love you.”

“They blame me for the divorce,” she corrected.

“They might blame you but they also love you.”

He also knew that to be true having spent considerable time around her progeny in the past year or so.

“Also, as far as I know you haven’t hitched your wagon to a dark wizard, have you?” 

He was trying to lighten the mood. She could have been polite enough to at least crack a smile. She did not.

“Look,” he finished, “Weasley is a moron— that has never been in question. But he’s not dead. Your children still have a father.”

Perhaps it was unfair, to throw that in her face but he had never been the type to mince words. In fact, he relished any opportunity to fight dirty. The sooner she realised she was being ridiculous, the sooner she would be able to put her life back in order and move on to whatever impressive accomplishment she had in store next.

“How did you do it?” she asked him suddenly.

“What?”

“How did you pick yourself up and go on living your life after Astoria?”

He paused, taken aback. Something in her face though made him see that she did recognise that her situation was not the same as his.

No dead wife for her.

Choosing to be magnanimous, after all he still wanted something, he took a sip of tea as he mulled over what to say to her.

“Granger, I can’t give you a quick solution. The only thing to do is to take it one day at a time.”

She nodded slowly but still frowned deeply.

“You need some kind of project, I think,” he told her, “I’m not talking about the next big career move. Something small to keep you occupied. That’s what I did. It helped.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

“Of sorts,” he supplied, “I’m on a quest for something rather important, and to get it,” he chose his words carefully, “I need to travel to Australia.”

“Australia?” her brow lifted.

“Yes.”

“Say more."

“I believe what I’m looking for can be found there. The only problem is, and here is where you come in Granger, their Ministry has the most mind-boggling, bureaucratic nightmare of a system imaginable. I’ve looked into applying for a 6-week visitors pass and they told me that it might take up to a year to have it approved.”

“It’s because of Covid-19,” she told him, “the muggle restrictions have significantly affected travel to and from the country.”

He sighed, exasperated “That’s what they told me but wizards can’t even catch the blasted thing!”

“Even though it doesn’t make us sick, we can still transmit it to the muggles. Australia is an island. It has been uniquely positioned to keep Covid out for longer than most other countries. The restrictions are easing up now that vaccinations are more readily available but they are dealing with a huge backlog.”

She said it like it was all so reasonable which— it was not.

“Look Granger, Potter told me all about your history with that country. I know you know the right people to make the process a little quicker for me.”

Her mouth fell open. “I can’t believe the audacity,” she whispered to herself, “well,” she corrected, “it’s Draco Malfoy. I really shouldn’t be shocked.”

“Granger, it’s important.”

“What’s so important that you want me to risk my reputation by trying to circumvent international process?”

“Well… ” Before he decided to pay her a visit he had been vaguely aware that she would never let him out of her clutches without all of the details. Yet still, he found himself fumbling for the words.

“I’m waiting.”

“I’ve discovered, or rather, potentially discovered how to brew an elixir that would have cured Astoria of her blood curse.”

“I see,” Granger replied, although her staid reaction told him that plainly she did not.

“Obviously,” he continued, and he could even hear how serious his tone had become and what a contrast it was to how he had just been speaking with her, “It’s too late for Astoria but I have— I am— that is, there are concerns for Scorpius."

Her head snapped up and she scrutinized his face. He could practically see her thinking through the implications. Sadness washed over her.

Merlin's tits, he hoped she wasn't about to cry again.

“Oh no, Malfoy.”

He felt an irritating, hot buzz begin to stir under his skin and he fought a strong urge to stand up and pace about the room.

“I don’t know for sure. From my research, it doesn’t usually become obvious until a little later in life but I’d prefer not to take any risks.”

“Of course,” she replied simply, “I understand. But you have to consider Malfoy, I might not have the sway I used to with my counterparts overseas.”

Draco shrugged, “Worth a try, right? Besides, Potter mentioned once that you spent quite a bit of time down there after school. He didn’t go into detail but I know you have connections.”

Granger frowned, perhaps displeased by Potter’s loose lips.

“I’ll see what I can do, Malfoy. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll need more details about what exactly it is you intend to do in Australia before I ask for anything. Their Government will want to know where you will be going, and how long you intend to stay— those kinds of details.”

He nodded once, then drained his tea. Eager to escape before she either changed her mind or started crying again.

“I’ll owl you then, shall I?”

“Fine,” she nodded, “If I’m satisfied with the details, I’ll contact a friend who works in the Directorate of International Wizarding Relations in Canberra.”

Sensing the dismissal in her tone (which rankled a little even as he found his instinct was to follow her command) he realised that this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for from this conversation. He took that as his cue to stand up, nod politely, and leave with a muttered but polite: “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

As he was crossing to leave the room he registered movement from the corner of his eye and glanced over his shoulder. She was looking at him with a curious, open expression. His handkerchief was crumpled loosely in her hand.

“Couldn't you have just sent an owl in the first place?”

He gave her a hard look and then turned and took a few steps before pausing for a moment and looking back again, “I might have if you hadn't ignored every owl I ever sent you.”

She smiled. It was his final cue to leave.

“Oh and Malfoy,” he heard her call as he was making his way back through the house, “You know you’ll owe me one if I do this for you, don’t you?”

She almost sounded like her old self again— he wasn't sure if that should please him or alarm him.

Chapter Text

Hermione briefly put the letter down before picking it up once again, her eyes scanned the parchment, drawn to the last few paragraphs, as if they might transform with a second reading.

There had been the usual courtesies, laced with that particular Malfoyesque derision she remembered from their previous correspondence.

Then, the words had turned to Scorpius:

Essentially what I’m hoping, Granger, is that I can find the source that my grandfather’s vial came from. I know it came from a natural water source somewhere in Australia.

Hermione’s mind thrummed with the possibility. He was speaking of an elixir, perhaps even the elixir. The one that had the power to unshackle the world from some of its darkest afflictions. She thought of Lycanthropy and of her late, dear friend Remus. What of all the children left orphaned and outcast because of a curse no one had ever managed to break? And what about the many other bloodborne maledictions? The weight of what he was proposing pressed against her ribs with an intoxicating gravity.

Could he truly succeed in creating something that powerful?

The Malfoy she had known at school was precise and competent in Potions, but this was not simple potioneering. This was alchemy of the highest order. The kind that had evaded the greatest minds for centuries. Harry had mentioned offhandedly that Malfoy had an interest in alchemy, but she had never even spared it a thought.

She returned to the letter, her fingers gripped the parchment tightly.

I’m fairly confident it won’t take me more than a month to find the source. My grandfather's records state that it was a about a teaspoon of water from the 'Fountain of Rejuvenation'— a stupid name for what is probably just a highly magical puddle.

Of course, their incompetent Government says the visa processing time is the same no matter the duration of the visit.

I wouldn’t go telling your friend about any of this, Granger. Stick to the story. I’m interested in starting a potions supply importation business and I’m looking for suppliers of Eucalyptus oil and Yowie quills. That should explain why I’ll need to move around quite a bit.

Yes, I know it’s illegal.

No, I do not care. I am thinking only of Scorpius.

Sincerely,

Draco L. Malfoy

She was thinking about Scorpius too. But she was also thinking of the good that this elixir could do.

Malfoy was a man looking through a keyhole. It was understandable given what was at stake, but he wasn't thinking about the bigger picture. But she could— she was.

She put the letter down and rested her head in her hands.

Even if the water from the fountain ended up being a limited resource, there would surely be a way to study it and synthesize its properties. She pressed the parchment to the table, tapping her fingertips against the wood. The reality was, she already knew she would help him. What she needed now was a way to maneuver him.

How did one move a man like Malfoy? And, could she trust him to be discreet?

Hermione scoffed aloud, her lip curling.

At this point, what did it even matter? She had lost her marriage, and she had trusted the wrong people and bet on the wrong horse— she had lost an unlosable election. The world had laughed at her, and her own children had turned their faces away. Her life had already unravelled in so many predictable and unpredictable ways. Perhaps this was simply another thread being tugged loose. What did it matter when her seams had been unravelling for longer than she cared to admit.

With that cosy thought, she made her way over to her desk and pulled out some thick paper and a fountain pen. If she wrote to Canberra immediately, she could drop the letter off for an international post that afternoon, while she visited Hogsmeade.

Hogsmeade. Her mouth suddenly felt like the Atacama desert.

Only the pull of seeing her children could overcome the cold fear that was taking hold as every minute passed, propelling her closer to the moment she would have to pick up the Floo powder and be seen in public again.

They would be watching as she saw her children and came face-to-face with Ron for the first time in months. She didn't think it would be possible to feel more embarrassed. Then again, every time she thought she had hit her lowest, she somehow always found more depth.

Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the roots so hard it hurt a little. Then she got to work on her letter.

Several hours later, Hermione pulled on her thick coat and then retrieved two other winter coats, shrank them with a muttered reducio, and put them in her pocket for the kids. She eyed a third coat hanging up in the mudroom for a moment and then looked away.

“Stuff it,” she said out loud, spinning on her heel and heading back to the living room.

Before she could rethink it, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantel and lit the fire with a firm incendio. She chucked the powder in and called “The Three Broomsticks.”

Green flames enveloped her, pulling her into a dizzying spin before flinging her into the bustling pub. Somehow, the first thing she saw as she almost toppled out of the large fireplace was Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy!”

For a brief moment, she worried that maybe she had somehow summoned him with her thoughts. She blinked at him in confusion.

“Twice in two days. Lucky me,” Malfoy drawled in a way that indicated that he did not, in fact, think of himself as lucky.

Despite that, he was polite enough to slightly lean forward and put a steadying hand on her elbow, leading her out of the hearth. They exchanged a quick glance confirming that yes— it had been odd for him too.

“Minister Granger!” a younger voice with significantly more enthusiasm sounded from somewhere behind.

Hermione craned her head around Malfoy’s side. Scorpius Malfoy beamed at her.

“Oh, hi Scorpius.” She returned his smile.

Though he was a near mirror-image of his father, Hermione felt a natural and maternal affection for Scorpius. She sometimes wondered if his father might have turned out more like him in an alternate universe.

“Dad just arrived too,” Scorpius supplied as Malfoy simultaneously tugged on Hermione’s elbow, pulling her clear away from the fireplace and out of the path of an incoming Floo. The fireplace blazed green and before she even had a chance to panic, her former husband was appearing within the flames.

Hermione straightened. Her heart began to race.

Conversations hummed around her as time seemed to slow. She clasped her clammy hands together and squeezed tight, wishing she could squeeze her eyes tight too. But she kept her head up and her gaze unwavering.

There he was.

She hadn’t seen him in months but in some cruel way it felt like no time had passed at all. That was the worst part. She couldn't find a trace of sadness in his face, no hesitation in his movements. Some foolish part of her had hoped that he might look the way that she felt: as if something fundamental had cracked open and the yolk of the world was spilling out through her grasping fingers. But he just looked like Ron.

‘Divorce,’ her mind whispered cruelly. It reverberated down to the hollow spaces below her rib cage.

“Ron,” she squawked after a moment.

Malfoy's second-hand embarrassment was palpable.

Ron took a moment to dust himself off and stumble from the hearth before pulling up short, eyes narrowed. Which is when they all noticed that Malfoy still had a firm grasp on her elbow. He let it go quickly.

“Hermione,” Ron greeted a little coldly. “Malfoy.”

A flash went off in her periphery. As one, the entire group turned to see what had caused it. A small man with a giant camera that smoked slightly, grinned at them.

The press were here.

She decided to try to ignore them.

“How are you?” It came out a little more eagerly than she had wanted.

“Fine,” Ron mumbled, frowning at the photographer.

She heard Malfoy clear his throat. “Ermm, let’s grab a drink Scorpius.”

“Mr. Weasley, Minister Granger— Rose and Hugo should be here in a minute. I heard Rose say she wanted to pop into Honeydukes for a minute before they came here to meet you,” Scorpius offered helpfully as Malfoy ushered him toward a nearby table.

“Thanks, Scorpius. Please just call me Hermione though,” she called out kindly to the retreating young man, watching his face turn towards her and then flush with embarrassed horror as he realised his mistake. She offered him a small reassuring smile as his dad ushered them away from the chaos of the Granger-Weasley reunion.

“Bloody fantastic,” Ron mumbled, eyeing someone behind her. She turned and was greeted by a familiar, vicious smile.

Millicent.

“Head up, smile, don’t let them get to you,” Hermione muttered to herself.

“Leave off Hermione, I don’t want any more of your fussing thanks. We’re divorced, remember?”

Hermione contemplated whether she knew a spell that would allow her to liquidate and disappear into the cracks between the flagstones.

Instead, they both turned and faced Millicent Bullstrode-Flint who was calling out to them. “Any comments on the unfortunate breakdown of your marriage, Hermione, Ron?” she looked at them in turn.

“Still no comment, Millie. That would be our personal business.”

“And you can stop following me around Diagon Alley too. I’m not going to talk!” Ron added angrily.

Hermione sighed.

"Oh, come now, Ron," Millicent purred. "just trying to keep the public informed. Rumour has it there was an infidelity?"

Hermione’s breath caught. Hermione knew that Millicent was just up to her usual provoking habits, but her pulse hammered. Is this what had riled Ron up before coming? The Flint family owned a number of wizarding publications and had been increasingly dogged in their pursuit to destroy her reputation. Ultimately, they had done a pretty bloody good job of it too. When would it be enough?

“No infidelity. Otherwise, no comment,” Hermione barked back, taking hold of the sleeve of Ron’s jumper and tugging him in the opposite direction.

"Looked cosy with Malfoy there, didn’t you Hermione?"

There was a beat of silence.

"Are you really going to go there, Millicent?" Hermione asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

Millicent hesitated. Hermione took a step closer.

"I’d be very careful about implying I had an unprofessional relationship with someone I formerly worked with on the Wizengamot. It sounds dangerously close to libel."

For a moment, she was Hermione Granger— Minister for Magic and former Head of the DMLE— the woman who had whipped the Wizengamot into submission time and time again. Millicent’s smile faltered a fraction.

“Come on,” Ron muttered, this time being the one to lead her away.

“Should we try the Hogshead?”

Ron shook his head, “No point. They’ll just follow us wherever we go. Hermione, maybe this was a bad idea…”

It was definitely a bad idea. But it hadn’t been her idea, and she was in no place to argue. So she had dutifully turned up— against her better judgment.

“Let’s just grab a table and wait for the kids,” she replied, ushering him over to a free table in a more shadowy corner of the pub. She hurriedly unbelted her coat and sat down, glancing out the window to her left. The weather reflected her mood, bitterly cold and the kind of windy that made you feel desolate if you were caught out in it.

Predictably, it didn’t take long for Millicent and her peers to follow them.

“Any thoughts on the new Minister’s plans for repealing your efforts to introduce muggle technology to the Ministry?” another reporter asked.

“Ignore,” she told Ron. He glowered at her. Her eyes caught a moment on the silvery threads that were woven into the soft, rusty strands she had once had liberty to run her fingers through. It was a little longer than he had used to wear it. She wondered if it was a choice, or if it was because she hadn't been there to remind him to get it cut.

“What’s next for you, Hermione? Any grand career moves in the works?” Isabelle Liddlepuff asked from behind Millicent’s broad shoulders.

Hermione quite liked Isabelle. However, she did not like being ambushed at lunch.

A commanding voice sounded from behind the crowd. “Get lost, Millicent. This is a business. Keep loitering, and I’ll waste your time in my office.”

Harry.

What he lacked in height, he made up for in broad-chested bulk and the natural gravitas he had learned from a lifetime of being a real-life hero. He glared at the gathered group of reporters and primarily at Millicent, who quavered slightly under his gaze. Ginny stood beside him, looking effortlessly chic in muggle jeans and a more traditional blouse that buttoned at the neck. The kids were just behind, trying to peer around her.

“You'll arrest me on what grounds?” Millicent asked Harry in a faux calm voice.

“Public nuisance,” Harry supplied gruffly and then he shouldered through, making them move out of his way.

The messy black hair, admittedly now a little peppered with gray, and the green eyes and spectacles were the same as they had been when she had met Harry as a boy. Sometimes she still couldn't believe she got to keep him— through it all.

Harry glared until the gathered crowd dispersed. As the last reporter disappeared into the bustling crowd, it was like a dam break— every Granger-Potter-Weasley moved as one.

The Potters took seats across from Ron and Hermione, their kids slotting into seats in no order. Lily dragged over a small footrest from near the fire and perched on it next to Hugo.

It was the first she had a chance to really take note of her surroundings. The Three Broomsticks hadn't changed much over the years. It was packed full of Hogwarts students and their visiting friends and family, as it had been in her days at school. Still the same, familiar smell of woodsmoke and butterbeer. She could see the Malfoys seated some ways away, next to a merrily blazing fire in large stone fireplace they had flooed in from.

Her own children gravitated towards Ron, refusing even to look in her direction. Only Albus sidled up to her and draped an arm over her shoulder. “Hi Aunt Hermione,” he offered her a small, private smile.

“Hi Albus, thanks, darling.” She smiled up at the boy who now, in his sixth year, was starting to resemble a young man. He squeezed her shoulder and then took a seat.

“Hello Rose, hello Hugo,” Hermione said, looking at them directly.

Rose said nothing, Hugo briefly looked up at her and smiled nervously before dropping his gaze, “Hi Mum,” he mumbled.

“They aren’t talking to you,” Lily informed her bluntly.

“I figured, thanks Lily.”

She glanced from her proud, beautiful daughter— so much like Ginny in appearance and attitude, to her serious and sweet son— who she could have sworn took more after Harry than any of them, though that wasn't possible.

“Come on guys,” Ginny said impatiently, “give her a hug. She came all the way here to see you.”

“I’m not hugging her,” Rose said stubbornly, still steadfastly refusing to look in her direction.

“Rose,” Ron admonished, “Mum is not your enemy.”

She gave him a tight-lipped, grateful smile. At least on this front, they were somewhat united.

“It’s her fault you’re getting divorced, isn't it?” Rose supplied, pushing a curtain of red hair over her shoulder. Hermione was close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo as she did, it sent a wave of longing right through her. “Why should I speak to her? She knows what she did.”

Harry cleared his throat and then pulled out his wand and cast a muffliato. He shot a significant look at the next table which was packed with suspiciously quiet students.

Merlin, why hadn’t she thought of that?

“So, we’re getting right into it then.” Ginny sighed.

“Perhaps we should save this for the holidays?” Hermione suggested.

“Perhaps you should just go, Mum.”

Hermione's jaw tensed and she stared her daughter down, her courage rising in the face of Rose's mistreatment.

Rose embodied everything that Hermione would have found intimidating at the same age. She was brilliant but also good at sports with sleek and shiny hair— exactly like Ginny’s. Hermione stared at her daughter's lovely face and sighed. Currently, there was a rather ugly sneer polluting it.

“Rose, I won't be scurrying away at your command. This is something you continue to willfully misunderstand,” Hermione said, lifting her chin and looking her daughter dead in the eye.

“I understand that you broke your promises to Dad and to us,” Rose hissed back.

“I did,” Hermione replied firmly, “sometimes people will let you down. I'm not pretending to be perfect.”

“So, then the divorce is your fault!”

“Rosie, I can understand how it might look that way—” Hermione began.

“It certainly didn't help that your Mum couldn't seem to find the time to come to the damn muggle therapy sessions that she insisted on,” Ron cut in, raising a hand when Hermione began to protest. “But I've told you both already,” he looked sternly at Rose and Hugo, “even if Mum didn't run for Office again, and even if she did turn up for every session and every dinner at the Burrow, we still would have ended up divorced.”

He offered Hermione a small, sad smile which she returned in kind.

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed Ron's words. It was all too fresh and too hurtful. The children were taking the news so hard. Even Lily was looking at her like she was a traitor.

And it isn't like she could explain to them that Ron hadn't kept his promises either. To be happy for her and not stand in her way, to stop expecting her to do the same things his mother had done as a homemaker and a wife, to stop drinking so much.

“She didn't show up to the vow renewal party,” this time it was quiet, sweet Hugo who reminded them.

And there it was. The big, terrible thing said out loud— the beginning of the end. She hadn't turned up for her own vow renewal.

Just thinking about it made her insides cringe.

Of course, there had been a reason. An emergency in the Department of Mysteries. A blathering idiot named Hobbins had accidentally opened a rift in the space-time continuum that would have slowly sucked their entire universe into it. It had been all hands on deck. Harry had been there too, only it wasn't Harry’s vow renewal. It was hers. It didn't help that she absolutely could not tell her children about what exactly had happened that day in the Department.

Harry looked out from under his glasses with sympathy. Possibly remembering the same scene she was, his mouth turned down into an unhappy crease. Harry had been the one to fetch her.

At the time, they had both assumed she would come and help clean up the chaos at the Ministry and things would be delayed but the party would carry on and the vows would be exchanged regardless. Neither of them had foreseen Ron’s reaction.

He had told her later that standing there, surrounded by their loved ones but alone, had been the most painful moment of his life.

What could she do or say about that?

She had tried to stage another vow renewal, but Ron had refused. It had seemed to Hermione that after that day things had unravelled shockingly quickly.

The truth was, she hadn't missed all of their therapy sessions, but she had missed enough and from where her family stood, it didn't matter that there were thousands of other little times that she had been there— packing Ron a lunch, washing Rose’s football kit, slipping Hugo a new deck of Pokemon cards.

How could she explain to teenagers that the cracks had always been there?

Two years ago, her nephew and his best friend had triggered an alternate timeline in which she and Ron had never married in the first place. At that time, it had seemed like a tragedy. Now, it all looked different. That had been just one possible alternate universe. There were others and she had to believe that there was some kind of worthwhile life waiting for her after divorce.

“I will never be able to apologise enough or fix that,” Hermione told Hugo gently, “it will forever be the greatest regret of my life—”

“Uncle Harry told you,” Ginny cut in, “there was a really good reason your Mum had to be at work that day.”

“She always has excuses,” Rose retorted angrily, “we don't care to hear any more of them, do we?” She looked at Hugo and her father.

Ron sighed, a long weary sigh.

“Look,” he told them, “we are a family. Nothing about that has changed.”

“Can't we try to have a good time? It's Hogsmeade!” Albus piped up. Rose glared at him sulkily. “Oh, here comes Scorpius,” Albus announce with relief.

Turning, she saw the Malfoys making their way towards their table. Scorpius was still looking mortified, his eyes on her as they approached. Malfoy looked on edge too. Hermione frowned.

Scorpius walked up to Albus and punched him in the shoulder, shooting furtive glances Hermione’s way. Malfoy stopped a short distance away and Harry dropped the muffliato spell.

“Potters,” he said nodding at Harry, Ginny, and their kids, “Weasleys,” he said to Ron and the children before pausing awkwardly, “err, Granger.”

“Hullo Malfoy,” Harry greeted almost warmly.

“Scorpius tells me the boys have plans to look at some new Quidditch supplies. I thought I might go with them.”

“Albus, you don't need to go wasting money on any more Quidditch gear! You don't even play in the team,” Ginny lectured. Even Harry’s face dropped at Ginny’s lack of tact.

Malfoy smiled benignly and shrugged, “You make the rules,” he told her simply, “nothing wrong with having a look, though— is there?”

“Maybe I'll go too,” Harry offered, “keep an eye on this lot.” He gestured to Scorpius and Albus who had gone bright pink.

Ginny rolled her eyes as her husband eagerly got up and stood next to Malfoy. Hermione still sometimes had to pinch herself seeing Harry and Malfoy being friendly towards each other. Ron hadn't quite managed to be so forgiving. Malfoy and Ron were polite enough, but Malfoy never could resist the temptation to tease until Ron’s ears were quite as red as his hair.

“Apparently, we’ve been having a torrid romance for years,” Malfoy muttered in her direction, glancing at the Millicent Bullstrode-Flint's retreating back as she exited the pub.

Hermione cheeks began to heat. “I’m sorry?” she spluttered.

“Millie,” Malfoy qualified looking a little panicked himself, “She came up to me and tried to insinuate something was going on. I heard her dictating headlines on the way over here. She's going to claim that we’ve been having an affair for years,” here he looked quickly at Ron and then back to her. “I thought you should know, and I wanted to offer to do damage control.”

Ron’s knuckles tightened on the edge of the table. Hermione could feel her skin prickling under the stares of every adult and child around her.

“Alright,” she said slowly, unsure why he was being so considerate.

“Look, if Millicent wants to impugn the credibility of her husband's rag even more by suggesting some kind of entanglement she's only digging a deeper grave for herself and the state of the media. Who in their right mind would believe such tripe? I just figured none of us needed another media circus—”

“Yes, quite,” she replied quickly.

“This is all so mortifying,” Rose interjected glumly.

“Why don't you go with the boys?” Ginny suggested. “Perhaps a few small bits and pieces wouldn't hurt,” she said, eyeing Malfoy conspiratorially.

Malfoy dipped his head in agreement.

“Why don't we all go?” Scorpius suggested.

There was some murmured agreement and shuffling as the group stood from their seats. Even Ron seemed to be on board.

“Ermm,” Hermione announced, “not me thanks. I think I'll leave you all to your fun.”

She didn't think it was wise to be traipsing around Hogsmeade with her ex-husband and her soon-to-be rumoured affair partner.

“Maybe for the best,” Harry said as if reading her thoughts.

“Right,” she said lamely. Nobody else said a word. Slowly, she stood and pulled on her coat. “Bye then everyone!”

She fixated on her children rather pathetically. They had very clearly heard her. Hugo gave her a meek wave, Rose looked decidedly in another direction.

“Bye Ron,” she offered. He nodded and then stood awkwardly and lumbered forward as if he were going to give her a hug but then thought better of it and gave her a weak pat on the shoulder instead.

A tight, burning pressure began to build behind her eyes.

Harry and Ginny came forward for a quick hug and whispered encouragements. Over Ginny’s shoulder, she caught Malfoy’s eye.

“I’ll owl you later,” she told him.

She saw the impish look come over his face and knew he was about to do something that would annoy her greatly.

“To arrange another secret tryst?” He could never resist making a bad situation even worse. To his credit, he looked like he regretted it immediately, although she did clock him shooting a glance at Ron's ears which were definitively pink. She saw Scorpius wince and punch him lightly in the side. Harry laughed awkwardly. Ron said nothing but had a very grim look on his face.

"Well… bye." She pushed her chair in and turned slowly. Each step she took away from them felt like walking across a bed of glass.

She lowered her head, willing herself not to cry, and left the way she came.

Chapter Text

Draco reclined, elevating his legs to rest on top of his desk and taking a smooth swallow of the whiskey in his glass.

“Well, I never!” one of the portraits said, eyeing his languid pose. He flipped the bird at his Great Aunt Faustina Flint, followed by a non-verbal silencing spell on all the portraits.

Draco did not feel like being judged. He needed a drink and to think.

How to best deal with Millicent.

Granger's face popped into his mind; “Alright,” she had said when he had told her about Millicent's headline. Alright?

No. It was not alright. But how to quash it?

Just as he was settling on penning a note to his old schoolmate Miles Bletchley (Bletchley always seemed to know the most degenerate rumours about everyone and their dodgy uncle), a slightly ruffled-looking barn owl came hurtling through his open window, almost crash-landing on his desk.

”Pshh!” he hissed, “You almost made me spill my whiskey!”

The small, brown owl merely blinked up at him and then proffered a leg. He recognised the script that his name was written in.

“About time!” he told the owl. He opened the letter, and another piece of paper fluttered onto his large desk.

Malfoy,

Ginny called in a favour, and we managed to keep your name out of the Prophet.

Speaking of favours. I’ve been thinking about your request, and I think it’s rather short-sighted of you to only consider using the elixir for Scorpius.

While I agree that this should be our primary concern...

OUR primary concern? Since when had there been an OUR? He continued reading— blood pressure steadily rising.

While I agree that this should be our primary concern, I also think that the goodness that could come from this warrants some serious consideration.

Just think, Malfoy! Lycanthropy, vampirism, ventroposy, magical dystrophy and that’s only naming a few off the top of my head— all could be cured.

Even if we can only take a small amount of water from the source, assuming that we find it of course, I’m sure there will be a way to synthesise the ingredients. Perhaps in a muggle lab. Padma Patil could help us, I’m not sure if you remember her but—

Here again, he stopped at the us that was glaring at him from the page. His pulse continued to gallop.

Clearly Granger was up to her crusading nonsense again.

He didn't completely lack empathy for the sick and down-trodden. He simply had to think of Scorpius— Scorpius consumed him.

He wasn't a bad person (anymore), he was a loving father.

His eyes skipped down a few paragraphs, toward the end.

I really do think that you should think about it. I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves, but this could be the medical breakthrough of the century. We could even name the elixir after Scorpius, if you like.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.

This time it was the we that really got to him. Was the witch trying to steamroll herself into his business?

He whipped open his desk drawer and retrieved a quill and parchment.

Granger,

You have all the subtlety of a charging bull. You are NOT having anything to do with this expedition of mine beyond helping me to secure the right to visit that godforsaken country.

I’m going to assume that big of brain of yours has comprehended me clearly. Please do not write back.

Sincerely,

Draco L. Malfoy

Without so much as waiting for a beat, he grabbed the little barn owl and tied the missive to its leg.

“Take it back to that nightmare who feeds you,” he told it and watched it fly off with an indignant squawk.

It was only then that he noticed the smaller piece of paper that had fallen onto his desk. He bent down and turned it over.

It was a wizarding photo of him, firmly grasping Granger’s elbow. She glanced over at him in surprise and lowered her gaze to where his hand touched her.

A thousand memories from school burst into his mind like a levee breaking.

Draco teasing Granger about her hair, Draco laughing at her engorged teeth, calling her mudblood, taunting her about being the next to be attacked by the heir of Slytherin. Draco frowning as she easily solved a complex arithmancy problem that had stumped him. Draco staring as she entered the Great Hall dressed for a ball. Draco wanting to disappear as his aunt—

He downed his drink and then poured himself another.

That night, he did not sleep well.

 Over his breakfast, the expected occurred. The little owl was back. The indigestion started to set in almost as soon as he tore the envelope open.

Dear Malfoy,

Your disregard for everyone else withstanding, surely you would want your name to be associated with the glory of inventing an elixir that could cure some of the world's most debilitating magical conditions .

She was trying to appeal to the Slytherin in him now, was she?

I never said I wanted in on your quest. Although I would point out that YOU were the one who told me I needed a project.

Clearly you also need my help as you continue to be EXTREMELY vague about how you actually plan to find the source of your highly magical water in the first place.

Blah blah blah

He could imagine it all now. How she had run her Ministry— through sheer obstinacy and a refusal to hear the word no.

He narrowed his eyes at the letter. He was not going to let her win this round

(Oh ho!)

Glowering, he grabbed the letter, turned it over and violently took a quill to it, scrawling just two words:

Bugger off.

Then, he attached it to the owl without even reading what else she had to say.

He finished his breakfast secure in the knowledge that she would still help him to secure the visa. Her ‘do-gooder’ nature wouldn’t let her get in the way.

He chuckled at the thought, added another spoonful of jam to his porridge and proceeded to float through the rest of his morning, content that he had outmaneuvered her.

He returned to his study having enjoyed a leisurely fly around the grounds and an equally leisurely long lunch. There was a familiar owl perched on his desk. Briefly, he considered making a run for it.

With some trepidation, he crossed the room and took the parchment from the proffered leg. The owl stared up at him mockingly.

I’m coming over at 1pm.

HG

That was all that it said.

He checked his watch. It was five minutes to 1pm.

Springing into action he raised his wand and in a salvo of spells: began to block the floo, sealed the doors and windows, battened down the hatches, summoned the Manor’s legion of defence demons and strengthened the wards. But it was not enough, it was all too late.

Until, there was the familiar crack of Milto the house elf.

“Is the master expecting a Ms. Hermione Granger, sir?” Milto asked in his plummy drawl. “Milto is believing that Ms. is the former Minister for Magic, sir.”

Draco, who still had his wand raised and his mouth open, closed it with a snap.

How in the living fuck had she managed it?

“Bring her in then, please Milto,” Draco replied, resignedly.

Milto bowed deeply, and left the room, his little head bobbing in time with his disciplined march.

A moment later, Granger bustled in exuding a kind of impatient, busybody energy he remembered from their youth.

“Malfoy, you’re insane,” she told him in lieu of a greeting, “have you even thought any of this through?”

“Well hello to you too, Granger,” he sniped. “So pleased to have your unwanted company.”

She wasn't wearing a stained, Chudley Cannons shirt today but that was about all he could say that might be construed as complimentary. Her hair was wild, probably crackling with barely restrained bossiness.

She had on another pair of muggle trousers and a T-shirt that was at least two sizes too big with a tear (a bloody tear!) in the right sleeve. Also, she had mud caked on her boots.

“Did you waltz in from the barn you were born in?”

That was enough to stop Granger in her tracks with a huff that blew some of the frizz out of her eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

For a moment she looked at him in confusion and then he watched as a powerful furiosity broke across her features.

Panic surged as he realised who he was talking to— he hadn't meant it like that. Granger always cut right through him and made him feel like the same, bigoted little boy he had once been.

The kind of boy who laughed when, seeing a muggleborn and his muggle parents in Diagon Alley, Lucius had sneered and muttered 'animals' loud enough for then to hear.

“You gave me exactly five minutes' notice for your visit and yet I seem to be the only person here dressed for decent company,” he hastily explained, gesturing to himself in his neatly pressed robes.

Granger's eyes narrowed but she didn't curse him. “I was not born in a barn, Malfoy. I was cleaning out the garden shed.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes, unsure how to approach the elephant in the room and explain that he hadn't been trying to insult her heritage— just her dress and sense of decorum.

"Some of us have better things to do than pressing in front of the mirror for hours every morning," she eyed his perfectly coiffed (and perfect) hair.

He scowled at her.

She pointed to the whiskey on his desk, “Can I have one of those?”

“No,” he replied, snatching the decanter away from her.

“Why not?” She lurched for it and he quickly whizzed out of her grasp with a non-verbal accio.

“I don't feel like sharing,” he told her in a way that made it clear that what he meant was ‘I’m not sharing with you.’

“Is that the way you treat a guest who not only suppressed a potentially embarrassing news scandal but also managed to secure you an expedited visa?”

“I don't recall asking for your help with the photos.”

Granger rolled her eyes at him, “How about trying a ‘thanks very much Hermione.’”

“How expedited are we talking?”

He held the whiskey behind his back and stared down at her, brows raised. He noticed her eyes weren't completely brown— she had a hazel rim around each pupil.

“Paperwork will be filed in the morning with the International Wizarding Relations Division. Visa should be approved by the end of the week,” she gave him a small, self- satisfied grin. “Now can I have a drink please?”

Draco sighed and then snapped his fingers and the whiskey began to decant itself smartly into a highball that materialised beside it.

He walked over and grabbed it before offering it to Granger. “So, you came through in the end,” he told her with a small mock salute. “Well done, I suppose Granger.”

He could swear she was preening under that small bit of praise.

“Malfoy,” she stated after taking a generous sip and screwing up her face at the taste, “you know what your mythical water source likely is, don't you?"

He eyed her, caught between curiosity and an intense desire not to indulge her. Curiosity won out after a tense internal moment.

"What, Granger?"

"Obviously, it's the Fountain of Youth. There are loads of stories about it dating back thousands of years. Muggles and wizards have been claiming they've found a magic spring or fountain that will keep them eternally young in countries all over the world."

Draco shrugged, "I'm not all that interested beyond the important role the water plays in my elixir."

Hermione snorted. It was undignified but he found himself smiling.

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to be young forever?"

He caught the disbelief in her tone, as if someone like him (a vain peacock, presumably) couldn't possibly resist temptation.

And maybe if he didn't have bigger fish to fry…

His thoughts were pulled back to their standard centre of gravity— to Scorpius. "I'd prefer my son to be alive in five years."

She winced, taking another swig of whiskey as silence permeated the room.

"I'm a bit concerned about your planning, or rather— your lack of planning. Have you any idea where the Fountain might be?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead pulling a map from the pile of papers he had been organising before she arrived. He tossed it at her. It nearly whacked her in the chin but she caught it with fumbling hands.

Pity.

“I’ve narrowed it down to several regions,” he said, gesturing to some large red circles. “The explorer that sold my grandfather the vial of waters was named Ferdinand Fairweather. I managed to track down some sparse details but no, I don't know where it is exactly and before you ask, Fairweather was killed in an exploding Gobstones incident— we can't go to the eternally youthful source.”

Granger made the kind of exasperated huff that had been designed for one purpose only: to set a wizards teeth on edge. It almost made him respect Weasley for his forbearance… but not quite.

“What now?” he asked, annoyance peaking.

“It's only that you told me you needed a month to locate the fountain and yet you have no idea!” Here she paused, huffing again in a way that seemed to suggest that being around Draco was a heavy burden. “Have you any idea how big that country is?”

No.

“I’ll manage,” he replied with a sniff.

“I’m coming with you.” She had a look on her face that implied she was shocked at herself but would broker no arguments.

Draco started to chuckle.

“I’m serious!”

“Granger,” Draco said after indulging a few more hearty chuckles, “I told you to get a project, but you can't just have mine.”

“You need me, Malfoy. Honestly, I'm amazed you haven't already realised that.”

“Potter needs you,” he told her firmly. “I, on the other hand, am not an imbecile.”

She looked hopping mad.

“You’re awfully chummy with that bozo these days,” she hissed.

“So are you,” he retorted. “Sometimes individuals of superior intellect hang around with bozos.”

He could tell she was halfway mollified by the accidental compliment.

“This is a quest of historical significance!”

“While I agree that the life of my son is significant to the core of any universe I would choose to live in, I'm not entirely sure what this has to do with you?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“This is not the story of Hermione Granger and her undying quest for praise and glory,” he replied. “This is the life and legacy of my son.”

He watched as she reached for something to say and came up with nothing. Self-satisfied, he took another swig of whiskey and slammed the glass down on his desk.

This seemed to jolt her.

“Scorpius is a dear,” she told him, “and I will do absolutely everything in my power to make sure that he does not endure the same fate as your late wife, but I do not think you have considered all of the implications of—”

“Go away, Granger,” he snapped. “I understand that you are feeling rather sorry for yourself, but this is none of your business.”

He watched the red creep up her neck, over her cheeks and into her eyes like a band of soldier crabs marching across a beach. He was so sure that would have been enough. Instead, he saw the steel come into her posture and knew that he was facing a battle-hardened general.

“You have been working to create an experimental elixir without Ministry sanction or regulation,” she told him with a deathly calm. "I would never get in the way of you helping Scorpius, but I also have ways to bury you so deep in red tape you will lose all sense of direction,” she smiled at him, which was chilling. “And I will get in your way at absolutely every turn from this moment. You will be buried in paperwork, and you will rue this day. Your forms will need to fill out forms. I’ll make sure every potion ingredient you import is inspected three times over. You won’t so much as stir a cauldron without signing your name in triplicate. Do you think I don’t know how?”

He did know. He had seen her excoriate entire Ministry departments with a single memorandum.

He stared at her blazing little form. She had her hands planted on her hips in what he recognised as her signature power-stance.

She cast a long shadow on the wall behind her— her hair seemed even wilder.

“Are you threatening me?” he asked, quiet and dangerous.

“Absolutely,” she replied, but more dangerously.

There was a terrible shudder that worked its way through his body imagining what she could do to him.

“No!” It came about a bit like a whined.

(He wasn’t proud of it.)

“I’m coming,” she told him simply.

“You can’t just boss your way into an adventure!”

“Have you met me?”

“But we can’t stand each other!”

“That is immaterial,” she replied, as if it were obvious.

"Granger, why do you even want this?"

She just blazed at him some more and said nothing. He suspected she didn't really know. It wasn’t getting in the way of her digging in her heels— he could see where this was going.

“Granger, I don’t want to be ungentlemanly but if I must resort to poisoning your breakfast to get you to drop this, I probably will.”

It was a last effort and she laughed. Arms folded over her chest, she stared down her nose at him. “In my experience, your attempts at poisoning have been rather ineffective— hold on!” she took a small muggle device out of her pocket, “I know I’ve got a good packing list somewhere in here. I can share it if you’d like.”

It went on like that for some time, with Draco making increasingly violent threats and Granger insisting that he would need several pairs of bamboo socks

After some time, he found himself sitting at his desk in quiet contemplation. It had been so long since he had felt this familiar feeling. Not since Astoria had left them.

He had never been threatened with paperwork, though. This was a new low.

He took a breath and reminded himself of what really mattered here.

He had been proud once, before he wound up on (almost) the wrong side of a war. He could give up any ounce of pride he had regained— for Scorpius.

And so, it was settled: Hermione Granger would accompany Draco Malfoy to Australia to find the highly magical puddle.

“Granger, you do realise that my life insurance premiums went up the minute you announced your intentions to come along.”

“We might even have fun,” her eyes sparkled in a distinctly Grangerish way. He could see her brain whirring with activity, “You might want to update your will though, just to be safe,” she added as an afterthought.

What was this sinking sensation?

Ahh yes, doom.

Chapter Text

She hadn't known that she intended to go to Australia with him. At least, not consciously.

She had suspected that she wasn't in a particularly rational mood when she had read the letter from Rose which had informed Hermione that both children would be spending the Christmas break entirely at the Burrow.

At the time, she had been in a highly irascible mood- not just due to Rose, but also because of Malfoy's infuriating missives and his refusal to engage with her about the potential applications for the elixir.

And so, knowing that she perhaps wasn't of sound mind, Hermione had found herself hastily scribbling a note to Malfoy informing him that she was coming over to his house. She had then paced around the room until 12:54pm before giving up and practically diving into the Floo.

She had intended to just go over there and pick apart all the holes in his thinking, and somehow ended up inviting herself along.

Well, if she were being honest, insisted on going was probably more accurate.

Okay, so maybe she had blackmailed him.

Whatever the semantics, the outcome was the same. She was going to Australia. With Malfoy.

A great shudder of misgiving went through her. This was potentially the most spontaneous and ill-thought-through decision she had made in her four decades on the planet. But the idea of helping Scorpius and diving into a new challenge felt like a way to escape the gnawing emptiness she had been drowning in for months.

And now, Malfoy was coming to her house and she was taking him into a muggle shopping centre to purchase him a smartphone. Because she had insisted on it. And he had agreed.

The more she thought about it, the more strongly she considered the possibility that the idiot unspeakable Hobbins had been messing with temporal magic again, and somehow she was now caught in a parallel universe where she did and said things the real Hermione Granger would never do or say. Malfoy's behaviour was yet more proof that all was not right with the world. Parallel universe was the logical explanation.

The wizarding cuckoo clock in the hall sounded, reminding her loudly to “shower for Godrick’s sake!” It jolted her from her disturbed thoughts. Shocked, she took a good look around her. In the two days since her visit to Malfoy’s residence, she had returned to squatting in the living room like a cave-troll.

With rising horror, she realised that Malfoy himself would be arriving in half an hour and the evidence of her self-indulgent rotting on the couch was everywhere.

Here was an empty wine bottle, and there was an empty packet of crisps.

Stumbling to her feet, she grabbed a pile of dirty laundry. A pair of purple, cotton pants fell to the floor. 

It didn’t matter how many years and how many impressive titles she had accumulated since they were in school together; something about Malfoy still made her feel like the coltish young muggle she once was, struggling to make sense of a new world. She snatched the knickers up and stashed them away, as though afraid Malfoy would materialise over her shoulder to tease her about them.

She took a deep, tremulous breath.

Then rushed around the room again, picking up and tucking away until she remembered she was a witch and pulled out her wand. She cast a handy non-verbal tidying charm, and things began to whisk themselves around the darkened room putting themselves away.

Next, she moved into the hall, casting the charm repeatedly as she moved through the house.

The Weasley-Granger residence, a double-fronted Corbett home, caught just the right amount of sun and had a backyard big enough for play but small enough to manage. She and Ron had bought it when she was pregnant with Rose and they had been happy.

It had become a point of contention only after Hugo was born, when Ron had deemed it not big enough for the family.

He had argued that with her salary and the proceeds from his stake in the shop, they could afford something much larger (and much closer to Ginny and Harry). Hermione hadn’t wanted to leave. Her heart was there, in that not-too-big, not-too-small Victorian terrace house.

She spared a moment to wonder what Malfoy thought about it. Certainly, it was nothing compared to his sprawling mansion in Wiltshire.

Peering around the corner to look into the kitchen, she cast another charm to get the bin to empty and the dishes in the sink to rinse themselves. Malfoy had come in the back door when he had visited last, she suspected he would do the same again this visit.

While the kitchen got along with tidying itself, she took a quick shower and when it was over and she had cast a few drying spells on her hair, she wiped a hand across the foggy mirror and peered at her reflection.

A tired-looking, (nearly) middle-aged woman stared back at her. Glumly, she tried to soothe her hair where a clump had resisted the drying charms and was sticking up angrily, almost at a right angle. She wasn’t sure that her efforts had achieved anything spectacular. She dressed quickly, averting her eyes. What did it matter anyway? It was only Malfoy.

And just as she was contemplating nipping back into her closet to change into a slightly nicer jumper, she heard the rap of knuckles against the back door.

She hurried downstairs and through the kitchen, sternly eyeing a dishrag that was just finishing buffing the backsplash before laying itself neatly on the detachable tap at the sink.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the silhouette of a tall, slim man through the stained glass of her bright yellow back door.

Taking a deep breath, she grasped the handle, unlatched the lock, and pulled it open.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” she said cheerfully, and then immediately cringed internally with embarrassment at how exuberant she had sounded.

Malfoy stared at her, balefully.

“Granger,” he replied slowly.

Malfoy was remarkably well put-together and wearing muggle clothes. She couldn’t recall a time when she had seen him in anything that looked muggleish. But there he was, wearing neatly pressed trousers and a soft-looking vest over a crisp, white oxford. Over top, he had layered a thick black coat and a neat scarf. His hands were encased in soft-looking leather gloves.

She experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance when she realised she had just had thoughts about Malfoy looking soft twice in the span of ten seconds.

Much to her disappointment, he had cut off the ridiculous ponytail after his wife had passed away. It would have made her feel better about her general dishevelment if he was still galloping around with that swishy thing on the back of his head, like a domesticated pony.

He had a very serious look on his face but beyond that, he was inscrutable. She did note that he too had fallen prey to the same fine lines everyone in their cohort was now sporting. Even wizards couldn’t prevent the ravages of time completely.

“Do I pass muster?” he asked, obviously noting her interest in his appearance. There was something about his tone betraying that maybe he was worried he wasn’t dressed appropriately for muggle London.

“You’ll do,” she told him, grabbing her winter coat and a bright red scarf from where they hung on the wall. She ushered him in.

“Would you like a tea, or should we get going?” she asked.

“Where are we going, exactly?” 

Taking that as his answer, she led him through the house and grabbed her purse and keys from the hall table as they went.

“The Glades, in Bromley,” she told him. “They have an Apple store. I thought I’d drive. It should only take about 20 minutes. I don't fancy catching the tube into the city, do you? That was our other option.”

“What are you on about, Granger? You said I needed one of those phone things to speak with Scorpius. Why are we going to a greengrocer?” 

“Oh, Malfoy,” her reply was droll. “So amusing. Listen, it will all make sense when you see it. Just trust the process. Come on.” She gestured for him to follow her out the front door, which she promptly shut and locked once he was through the threshold.

Her small, black Golf was shining in a rare moment of wintry sunshine.

“Hop in,” she said, unlocking the doors with a clunk.

He hesitated as he clambered around to the passenger door. He shot a dubious glance at her through the window before reaching down and awkwardly pulling open the door and more gracefully situated himself inside the little vehicle. His knees were somewhat pressed up against the dash. Hermione couldn’t be bothered to explain how to push his seat back.

They sat for a moment, both looking across at the other expectantly.

“Malfoy, your seatbelt,” she said, gesturing to the strap across her chest.

“My what?” he asked, frowning like she’d suggested he wear a straitjacket.

“Just pull it down and click it in,” she even mimed it for him.

Malfoy fumbled with the strap before securing it with a loud click. “Satisfied?” he muttered, glaring at her.

“Barely,” she replied, pressing the accelerator just enough to see him grip the seat in alarm.

Malfoy white-knuckled his seatbelt and stared wide-eyed at the road in front as if doing loop-de-loops on a broom was not his a thing he did recreationally.

"You okay over there?”

“Quite fine.”

But everything was not ‘quite fine’ as it turned out. Hermione had turned onto the main road and accelerated cleanly.

“Shitting fuck, Granger. Merlin’s cock. We are going to die!” he bellowed, as she overtook a sedan that was turning left.

“Ten points from Slytherin!" she admonished. “My poor ears.”

To be frank, her ears had heard her mouth say much, much worse at work regularly (especially when she had to deal with Susan fucking Bones!), but she didn't like to waste an opportunity to scald wayward Slytherins.

“I knew you hadn't been in a car,” she accused. “I thought you had to do a compulsory Muggle immersion program after the war?”

Colour seeped into the apples of his cheeks.

“I did do it,” he insisted. “Well, most of it. Some of it was total rubbish.”

The silence that followed was cold and austere.

“That course is still running, you know. Maybe whoever designed it thought very carefully about how each component would help a reformed bigot let go of their prejudices. Perhaps they would be very displeased to hear that you didn't take it seriously.”

There was another silence for a moment before Malfoy groaned audibly.

“You designed the bloody program, didn't you?"

“Yes,” she told him through pursed mouth.

“I did do it, Granger,” he said, forgetting his fear for a moment to look over at her, “and I am reformed... mostly. I didn't need to learn how to drive one of these contraptions to learn how to be a socially conscious citizen."

Hermione sniffed, but did feel somewhat placated. Although an apology for how he had treated her back then had never materialized and would have been appreciated.

“Don’t tell me that Lucius somehow cheated his way through the course too,” she said, feeling quite upset at the thought.

“My father wasn't going to give up a lifetime of bigotry after two weeks of riding on buses and visiting public libraries, Granger.”

She supposed that was true.

“But for what it's worth,” Draco added, “he couldn't avoid it all. I have a distinct memory of Lucius being forced to attend a compulsory excursion to a muggle art gallery. He was furious and confused by the fact that there were no portraits and none of the artwork moved. It was hilarious.”

Well, that was a consoling mental image. Hermione smiled.

The rest of the drive was fairly uneventful, although Malfoy’s grip on the belt barely loosened and they disagreed on whether it was safe for Hermione to switch the radio on. “You’ll kill us both!” he snarled at her. She rolled her eyes in his general direction.

When they got to the Glades, Malfoy hooted at her in shock and accusation when she squeezed the already tiny car into a parking space that defied the laws of physics.

“Magic!” he hissed.

“Just a little!” she replied. “Parking is such a pain.”

She herded a wide-eyed Malfoy through the mall a little while later. He kept pausing to look at things. There was an elaborate display of pastries and macarons in the window of a small patisserie. Next, he gravitated towards what she supposed might have looked like an apothecary to him, but what she understood to be a store selling Khiels skincare products.

She found herself clucking impatiently, rather like a harried mother of a toddler on a grocery run.

“Come along, Malfoy," she told him, as he goggled at a display of flashy-looking Nike shoes.

Soon they were standing in front of their destination: the Apple store.

“So, not actual apples?”

Her lips turned up into an amused smile. "Not actual apples.”

She could feel the clean lines and brightness of the store calling her. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn it was magic. From the corner of her eyes, she could see that it was having a similar effect on Malfoy. He was leaning forward slightly, looking almost eager, instead of the bamboozled look he had been wearing all morning.

They took a few steps inside the store and were met quickly by a friendly-looking youth with a thick head of brown curls and a nose ring, which Malfoy immediately fixated on. Hermione tried to non-verbally let Malfoy know that he was being quite rude, but it was no use. Besides, the young man was spewing information at them at a pace and enthusiasm level that even she was struggling to keep up with. He hadn't noticed Malfoy staring at all.

“Listen, Todd,” she said, cutting through his enthusiastic comparison of three identical phones after fifteen minutes. “He’s loaded. Just give us the newest one and call it a day.”

Todd grinned over at Malfoy affably, “Okay?”

Malfoy scowled at them both, but nodded.

They walked out 45 minutes later with a new phone and Draco Malfoy added to Hermione Granger’s family account. They had been forced to confound the genial Todd when he had tried to check Malfoy’s ID, but other than that everything had gone rather smoothly. Todd had assumed they were married and happily added a scowling Malfoy to the account. Hermione was pleased to observe that Malfoy had mostly stuck to her advice and not said much at all, even though the entire process had probably embarrassed him.

“It’s hardly a big deal,” she told him as they walked out of the store, “I already have a family plan. Ron never used his so there’s no ongoing cost on my end. It was the upfront cost of the phone that’s the investment, and you’ve covered that. Where did you convert your muggle money by the way? Do you keep some on you or did you go to Gringotts specially?”

“I regularly do business in the muggle world, Granger,” he told her frostily, “I know how to use muggle currency. Honestly, you’ve been acting like I’m some ignorant twit all morning.”

“Sorry,” she crooned in a tone that she knew would annoy him, “forgive me for not expecting Draco Malfoy to be au fait with muggle culture.”

“So, how exactly am I going to use this thing to speak to Scorpius from Australia?” 

“I told you,” she explained patiently, “Rose and Hugo have phones and so does Albus. We’ll email ahead and set up a regular time for a call. We can even Facetime! Oh, muggle technology is brilliant Malfoy. You have no idea what you’ve been missing out on. Wizarding communication is so archaic. It would have been a huge inconvenience. There aren’t many fireplaces in Australia on account of the weather, so Floo connections are quite rare.”

He appeared to be rather offended by the fact that she had called wizarding culture archaic, but having just spent the better part of an hour dazed and in an Apple store, she could see that he didn’t have the appetite to argue.

So she took him to the same patisserie that had caught his eye earlier, sat him down, and ordered him a cup of tea and a selection of baked goods. This seemed to keep the worst of the whinging at bay for a while because his mouth was quite occupied with eating. Meanwhile, she gave him a tour of his new phone.

“You touch this one here to use your browser to access the internet… well, I’ll explain that one later,” she informed him, “but you press this little icon here to make a call. Hold on, I’ll pop in my number," she did so enthusiastically, “so you just go to 'H' for 'Hermione',” she said showing him quickly, “then you press the call button,” she demonstrated. “Now you try,” she pushed the phone into his hands.

He swallowed a mouthful of tea in what she considered to be an unjustifiably dramatic way.

“Granger,” he said in a warning tone, “you’ve been blathering on for ages and I can safely assure you, I’ve retained absolutely none of it.”

“Just press 'H' for 'Hermione' and hit the little call button. It’s not hard!” she snapped back.

Rolling his eyes, she saw him fumbling with the phone as she pulled hers out from the pocket of her coat. To her surprise, he had successfully found her number and had navigated to the call button. He looked apprehensive as he pressed it, as if he were worried it would somehow detonate in his hands.

“That’s it,” she encouraged as her own phone began to buzz, “just give me a sec." She took a few strides away from the table and then turned around. “I forgot to tell you, you need to hold it up to your ear,” she informed.

“I know what you have to do!” he snapped back, his cheeks suffused with colour.

She skipped around the corner and received the call.

“Malfoy,” she said into the receiver.

“Granger,” he replied, and she could hear slight amazement in his tone.

She peeked around the corner and could see that he was holding the phone about an inch from his ear, as if he were worried about the radiation, although she knew that he probably had no idea what radiation even was. It looked like he was someone’s great-uncle trying to not get completely left behind by the information age. Hermione had seen both Ron and Ginny wear the same look when she'd taken them on this exact journey a couple of years back.

“You’ll be able to speak to Scorpius, exactly like this,” she told him, “but only on Hogsmeade weekends. The magical fields around Hogwarts mess with the signals. I’ve tried loads of things but I can’t get them to work on school grounds. The enchantments are too strong.”

“Okay,” he said but she could tell he was pleased.

“I’m hanging up now,” she said, waving at him as she hit the end call button and strode back to their table.

“One more thing,” she said, holding up her phone and showing him the directory again, this time she was indicating to the name 'Draco Malfoy'. “If I press this little button I can send you a message instead of calling you,” and she did so, quickly typing in the words 'Hello Ferret' and sending it.

His phone buzzed. He looked down at it quizzically.

“Just touch the little message icon,” she encouraged.

He opened it and then let out a derisive snort as he read what she had written.

“You can send short messages any time of the day,” she said happily. “Sure beats owl post!”

“How?” he wanted to know. So again, she showed him and when her phone buzzed, he had written the words “Hello yourself, insufferable bint.”

She was very proud of him.

Somehow, they made it home in one piece. Once he had apparated safely back to the Manor, she let herself collapse comfortably onto a sofa in the living room.

Before he left, she had handed him a phone case of her own design for his new toy. It was similar to the one she had; not infallible, but it could keep a lot of the magic out without blocking the signal. She could tell he enjoyed how shiny it made his phone look. She had also given him a brief tutorial on how to access and use the Internet.

“I can look up anything?” he had asked, incredulous.

“Well yes, but keep in mind- only muggle things. Despite my best efforts, the wizarding world is still a slow adapter.”

He had been gone for only fifteen minutes when the ennui began to set back in. This is what she had feared and had also known would come to pass.

Alone again, with no one to hassle or boss around, the silence made it too easy to dwell on everything she had lost.

The owls had stopped coming some time ago. The casseroles left on her doorstep had dried up. Nobody needed her. Nobody wanted her.

It felt like just yesterday that she had been the figurehead of the entire Wizarding Britain. And now what was she? A washed-up failure with no career and no husband.

She supposed it was why she had been so receptive to Malfoy showing up on her doorstep to ask for a favour. It had made her feel important again, if only for a moment. She liked that feeling. She wanted to hold onto it. She knew it was why she was forcibly imposing herself on Malfoy’s plans. When he had told her about the Fountain, it had stirred another feeling inside of her that she hadn’t felt for years and years. A sense of adventure.

So she had latched onto it and, to her surprise, Malfoy had been remarkably good about it, despite the blackmail.

But now that she was alone again, she knew the self-loathing would start rolling in.

Oh, how the mighty Hermione Granger had fallen.

Her phone buzzed.

Malfoy: I have discovrd the Interweb.

It amused Hermione that his unfamiliarity with texting made his messages read like something her fourteen-year-old son would type.

Hermione: What have you found?

Malfoy: Muggles are perverted

Hermione: Malfoy, the internet only shows you what you search for. I think it’s more likely that YOU have a dirty mind

She chuckled to herself, picturing the unlikely image of Draco Malfoy labouring away at entering the word ‘boobs’ into his phone’s browser.

The thought was sufficiently amusing to motivate her to open up her laptop and a fresh spreadsheet. She wondered, not for the first time, how she had lived for so many years without knowing and understanding the joy of Excel.

She began work on their itinerary, humming softly to herself as she did.

Then it hit her: somehow, buying Draco Malfoy a telephone had been the best day she’d had in months.

How odd.

Chapter Text

What she didn’t realise was that he was playing the long game.

He would get rid of her by sheer force of personality. It was one of his gifts. 

So, he would play along, pretending he had accepted her presence on his voyage Down Under but he would make the trip so boring, so clinically academic that she would go ahead and-

Fuck. No, she wouldn’t, this was Granger.

Fine. If he couldn’t bore her away, perhaps danger would do the trick. Except— it was Granger.

Fuck. Again.

His head was starting to hurt. That's when his phone buzzed bringing him back to his study, where he was lounging once more with his legs propped up on his desk.

Naturally, it was her.

Granger: Portkey is booked for 3am on Friday

Draco: No.

Granger: It has to be 3am, vastly different time zones— remember? 

Draco: No.

There were jumping dots which he now recognised indicated that she was in the process of writing back to him. Astonishingly quickly, some text appeared. 

Granger: I’m picking up the portkey from the Ministry tomorrow. 

Draco: No.

Granger: It's all already sorted, Malfoy. See you tomorrow.

Draco: Fine.

Unhappily, he recognised that he had been browbeaten once again— she hadn't even had to try very hard.

Why couldn't he seem to muster the proper fortitude to stand up to this witch? It seemed to him that all Granger needed to do to get him to follow her off a cliff would be to crook her finger.

So, he got back to plotting. 

He could concede that the likelihood of finding the fountain and successfully brewing an elixir with Granger around was improved. But so were his chances of inflicting grievous bodily harm. (Not on her admittedly— he was reformed.)

He stopped that thought in its tracks. Too much brooding, and not enough problem-solving.

The fact that she was blackmailing him was actually something to respect. He could try to get some dirt on her and turn the tables, but he suspected it wouldn't be as simple as asking Bletchley if he had heard anything salacious.

Besides, what else did she have to lose?

No, Granger would be more of a long game. Clearly, she was clinging to him to give herself some sort of project. What he needed to do then was to help her to find an actual purpose again and then he would be rid of her. That thought sent his brain whizzing down familiar neural pathways that all led to the same pleasant place in the control centre— the plotting place.

In the meantime, this would call for a truce, of sorts. He would show up at her house, he would say thank you to her for organising the Portkey. He would be nice— even if it killed him. 

(And it might.)

In the meantime, he had an owl to send.

Draco touched his wand in his pocket and then clicked his fingers.

Five large suitcases floated into the room a moment later. With a muttered reducio they shrunk to the size of a matchbox and were promptly deposited in a neat canvas knapsack, which he slung over his shoulder.

“Milto!”

There was a loud crack and Milto materialised.

“It’s 8 o'clock, I’m going to leave now.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“Is everything prepared?” Draco asked, absentmindedly rolling up the sleeves of his oxford as he gazed at his reflection in the large mirror he kept in his dressing room.

“Milto has prepared things to the exact specification, Sir,” Milto assured him, coming forward and handing Draco a bundle wrapped tightly in a soft cloth.

Draco gave him a nod and nestled the bundle under one arm.

“Well then, I suppose all that’s left to say is thank you and I trust you will see to things while I’m gone,” unable to help himself he quickly followed this up, “You know, you could take a holiday— old chap.”

Milto looked highly offended at the suggestion.

“Milto has much to do tending to the gardens and someone must be here should Master Scorpius need access to the Manor for any reason!”

It was evidently still a sore point with Milto that Scorpius had elected to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. Draco had suggested it of course, but he too was a little hurt that Scorpius had acquiesced so quickly claiming that 'all the serious students stay back at Hogwarts to study.'

“Very well, Milto,” Draco finally said gently. “I’m off then. See you soon, I should think.”

He strode past the little elf who was looking uncomfortably wet around the eyes and headed for the entrance to the Manor.

Like Hogwarts and most other buildings of magical significance, one could not simply apparate within Malfoy Estate. However, being the master of the Manor did have its perks, and Draco did not have to go quite so far as the front gate before he could will himself into another location. He strode through the door and into the cold night air.

“Fuck!” (It was very fucking cold.)

He had elected not to put on his winter coat for two reasons: the first was that he wouldn’t need it in Australia and bringing it along to Granger’s seemed like a bother. The second was that he had noticed that he cut a rather dashing figure in the mirror just now and he didn’t want to spoil the effect.

He had on some sturdy leather boots, and his most form-fitting trousers belted over a white oxford. But what he had been most pleased with was the careless effect of the dark scarf he had wound around his neck. He also had a wand holster resting jauntily over his left shoulder. It made him feel like getting into a duel with some rogues.

It was with that pleasant daydream playing through his mind that he hit the boundary line and turned confidently on the spot.

He strode up to the now familiar yellow door, tensing his freezing hands a few times and hoping that his cheeks hadn’t had time to go bright red in the cold. Huffing out a frosty mist onto the stained glass, he wrapped his knuckles against the door firmly, wincing at the sharp feeling of cold bones meeting the colder door.

He was inwardly resolved to let himself in rather than freeze to death if she didn’t materialise inside a minute but as luck would have it, he heard her immediately. 

She opened the door, looking alarmed.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?”

Draco smiled genially, remembering his master plan.

“I thought I might come a bit earlier. Have you eaten?” he asked her, trying to look pleasant and not at all like his bollocks were about to freeze off.

“Come in, come in,” she ushered although her tone wasn’t exactly friendly. “Lord, you must be freezing! Where on earth is your coat?”

“Won’t need it where we’re going,” he explained with a shrug as he stepped through the threshold and past her into the blissful warmth. 

Once inside and warm enough to think again, he eyed Granger and caught her staring at him. She looked pissed off but also intrigued. 

(Mission accomplished then.) 

He pushed the wrapped bundle into her arms.

“It’s Beef Bourguignon,” he told her, politely.

They had moved through the mudroom and into the kitchen. He caught her glancing guiltily at the stove where an open can of soup sat next to a rather miserable-looking pot on the hob.

“Fucks sake, Granger, must you be such a cliche? A bit of depression soup for one?” 

She scowled at him so deeply, he could feel the heat from her gaze bringing his frozen toes back to life.

“Nobody asked you for your opinion, Malfoy.”

He thought about apologising for a moment, after all, he had shown up far earlier than he knew she would be expecting him.

Then he thought— nah.

“Get rid of that,” he said, gesturing to the stove. He strode forward into the adjoining dining room, took off his knapsack, and then returned to the kitchen, taking the bundle out of her hands as she watched on.

He noticed she was dressed casually in muggle denims and a white singlet with a blue button-down layered over the top. Her hair was plaited very neatly and peaked over her shoulder, coming to rest on her right clavicle which he could just see the outline of over her collar. She looked more like herself than he had seen her in a long time.

“You’re being rather bossy.”

“Oh apologies, I don’t mean to encroach on your territory,” he took the bundle into the dining room and depositing it on the table. “Get some bowls and cutlery please.”

She gathered things as he set about unwrapping the dishes. Milto had packed a large dish that he now laid gently on the table. He could feel that it was still piping hot. Out of the bundle he also took a smaller dish which he knew would be Gratin Dauphinois. There was some fresh bread and a nice bottle of wine too.

“Wine glasses, please!” he called over his shoulder.

Granger entered the room a moment later looking a little dazed but compliant. She had the required vessels and went about setting the table without saying much of anything. Draco guessed that she was thinking furiously and that soon those thoughts would be unleashed upon him. He hoped at least to get a good bite of the potatoes before it came— for he was hungry.

“I’m not going to ask who made this food,” she said, sitting down heavily when he politely pulled out a chair and began to serve them both.

“You mean my highly remunerated elf? The one who gets sick leave and annual leave and for whom I have a pension account open at Gringotts in compliance with the legislation I believe you are almost solely responsible for."

She gave him a fierce look. “Yes and I’m extremely proud of that work, you should know. You speak of it like it's some terrible imposition.”

“Granger, I pay Milto above the compulsory wage. I pay a generous pension into his account every month. I am not against any of this. If you will recall, I did not vote against you when it went to the Wizengamot. However, I would also have cared for him into his old age and provided for him with or without the legislation.”

He ladeled a large helping of food into their bowls. 

“Good for you. But can you blame me for being sceptical? After all, I was good friends with Dobby. I heard some things about how your family treats house elves.”

He paused and looked up at her. “I am not my father.”

She met his gaze and, after a moment, sighed and dropped her gaze to the food in front of her.

“Sorry,” she said after a beat. “I don’t want things to start out like this. I was just surprised. I didn’t expect you until later.”

He nodded a little stiffly and took a large bite of potatoes.

“Perhaps some wine will help.” She poured them both a generous glass and offered one to him, which he took gratefully. With an arched brow, she turned to him, glass raised. “To new beginnings.”

He supposed this was an olive branch. He touched his glass to hers. He caught her eye and she smiled, or tried to. They both took a long sip.

Blackberries and oak bloomed on his tongue. For a moment, he forgot whether this was a strategic part of his master plan or genuinely a new beginning.

“I received a call from Scorpius. He was in Hogsmeade with Albus Potter. I almost missed the call, I thought there was a bee trapped in the window or something. I figured out it was the Apple without a moment to spare."

Granger huffed a laugh, “It’s not called- never mind. Do I detect a new fondness for muggle technology? What was it you said about my push to introduce computers at the Ministry again?”

“A shambolic plan that would end your career,” Draco replied flatly.

There was a beat of awkward silence. 

(Might she be about to cry again?)

“Guess I should have listened to the great and wise Malfoy,” she finally said, taking a veritable gulp— she busied herself with her dinner.

“I have greater insight now,” he told her sincerely, “about how frustrating it must be for someone like you to know about the efficiency and convenience of muggle technology and yet not be able to use it.”

She shrugged, “Why do in one email what you can do over three weeks through owl post?”

She viciously tore at an innocent baguette with her fingers.

“What did you do to the case, by the way, to make it work?” Draco asked, trying to change the subject.

As expected, Granger’s face lit up.

“I had the idea a few years back. Hugo went through a stage where he was obsessed with science and geology. I took him to a science museum, and we went to a presentation on rare minerals. That's where I learned that tourmaline is incredibly conductive. In fact, when it is exposed to great quantities of energy— (and what is magic but energy?) it can generate a piezoelectric effect.  So with the help of some runes and some tricky arithmancy, I figured out how to disrupt the energy and absorb it rather than let it flow through like a current. The trickiest bit was figuring out how to use the piezo energy to charge the device, but I had some help from some very clever colleagues on that one and voila— muggle phones that block magic and actually convert it into battery life instead. My colleagues and I call the compound we make the cases from Maginullium.”

He was quite bewildered. She had said a great many words he was sure he had never heard before.

“I considered regular quartz of course, far more cost-effective and easier to find, but tourmaline has certain magical properties that make it a superior material for my purposes.” 

“Also, it’s prettier,” was his observation.

“Yes, prettier.”

“Fuck me, Granger. It’s hard enough keeping up with you in the magical world. How on earth do you find the time to master muggle nonsense as well?”

She looked at him, exasperated but also faintly amused. “The muggle world is also my world, Malfoy. I refuse to choose.”

He suddenly found himself interested in dismembering his own innocent baguette as he tried not to dwell on things between them were perhaps better left in the past.

“You raised the kids the muggle way before they started at Hogwarts, didn't you?”

He already knew the answer.

Granger shrugged, “I wanted them to understand that part of them as well. Of course, Ron found it frustrating, and Molly Weasley tried to stage several interventions.”

“Yes, I have some experience with grandparent-led interventions.”

“Lucius and Narcissa aren’t fond of the way you parent Scorpius?”

“You could say that," he told her around a mouth of stewed onions.

“Interesting— well, he's such a lovely boy,” she said thoughtfully, and then after taking a bite, “Merlin, this is excellent!” 

“Do you cook?”

“Yes, although I wouldn’t say I’m anything special. I won’t even ask you. I think I know the answer.”

“I can cook.”

She was visibly taken aback, “I’m sorry, I made an assumption.”

“Granger, I have a doctorate in alchemy. I can handle a curry, maybe even a souffle.”

“You have a—” she trailed off. “Come again? You have a doctorate?”

He took a slow, luxuriant sip and revelled in her shock.

“My god you’re biased— aren't you? Yes. I am an arch-mage in alchemical sciences with Grand-mastery in Archeomancy and Ancient Runes. Of course, this was all after I completed my initial apprenticeship in Potions as a much younger man. I decided not to pursue a Mastery in the end and switched to Alchemy. Oh, and I have a Diploma in Demonology. I was toying with the idea of training as a Charm Wright— but Scorp tells me I’m too old to keep up with the student life. I think he's worried we'll end up at Oxford together, or something.”

Granger’s mouth fell open. “I thought you were just bored at the Manor brewing moonshine and noodling around with dark artefacts!”

“I don't noodle, Granger.”

“Sorry.” She looked over her glass of wine at him earnestly, “You surprised me, that’s all. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose— you had decent enough grades at school, didn't you?”

Draco sniffed, somewhat mollified but also offended that what she had described as ‘decent’ grades were second only to her own.

He noticed the corner of her mouth was now tinged red with the wine and her eyes had a distinct sheen of curiosity. He prepared himself for the interrogation.

“Where did you study?”

“Private apprenticeship with a Potion Master in Slovenia at first before I switched to Alchemy and moved to Hungary. It took me two tries to pass the panel and be accepted for Novice level, nightmare! Once I had my Mastery I came back to England and pursued my doctorate at Oxford. At some point I did the Archeomancy, though mostly through correspondence. I did Demonology in Berlin before that though— that was my lost year before I settled down with Astoria. She had no tolerance for it, so I decided not to continue my studies in that particular field.”

“I can understand! Demonology is an extremely contentious discipline. It’s generally thought to be quite firmly one of the Dark Arts.”

Draco blew a loud raspberry.

“It only gets dark if you don’t know what you’re doing and the worst that can really happen is that you summon something nasty, and it eats your soul or curses your family tree. The Germans are much more logical about these things, you know. Demonology is focused on the banishment of malevolent spirits, not the summoning which is more in the realm of Necromancy or the Occult Arts. You might know that if you weren’t so utterly blind about anything that you perceive to be remotely Dark Arts adjacent. I had the same argument with Potter.”

She looked at him, speechless. It gave him the rare opportunity to quietly observe her. He counted the freckles on the bridge of her nose- seven.

“Okay— Alchemy I think I can understand but why Archeomancy? Why Demonology?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he told her mysteriously. 

Of course, the answer wasn't much of a mystery for anyone who knew him well. He had doggedly pursued knowledge for over a decade and a half and for only one reason.

“How long have you been trying to create a panacea?” she asked him suddenly.

He took another sip of wine, not altogether surprised she had worked it out so quickly.

“Since I found out that Astoria could not be cured by any known treatment or any reputable healer in the entire magical world.”

“So, you figured if there was no cure, you could shoot for immortality,” Granger said. He wasn’t quite sure if she sounded horrified or empathetic.

“It’s not like that, Granger,” he told her suddenly finding the need to meet her eyes and communicate something fervently. “Not like Voldemort, I mean. I only ever wanted it for her. Not for me— always for her.”

She returned his gaze for a moment and then nodded slowly, “Okay, so what did you try? Another Philosopher's Stone?”

“Tried,” he told her. “Failed.”

“The Holy Grail?”

“Well, that might explain the interest in Archeomancy, mightn’t it? No dice though.”

“But you did end up finding a sample from the Fountain of Youth.” It was a statement, not a question.

“After trying a great many other things, yes. I’m not sure we could confidently say that I have found the Fountain of Youth yet, can we? I found a few drops of highly potent magical water among my grandfather's things in the Malfoy vault, an extremely lucky coincidence, as it were. The finding of the Fountain is why I’m sitting here with you right now.”

“And when we have found it, you aren't going to brew an elixir of immortality. Just some less potent variant that can cure blood curses?”

“I’m not interested in immortality,” he replied sharply. “Not even for Scorpius. I firmly believe that wizards are not supposed to live forever.” He glanced at her, half-expecting her to argue. When she didn’t, he added, more quietly, “But they shouldn’t die in their thirties either. Not because of the deeds of a long-dead ancestor.”

He hadn’t meant to say so much. It wasn’t like her opinion mattered— not really. But as she watched him, her expression softened and he found himself wanting to talk about it.

There was a great weight bearing down on him and he had been carrying it for many years. The death of his wife had not released him of it. In fact, he found that the Albatross that had warmed his neck for so many years grew heavier with each passing day.

“Malfoy,” Granger said, her tone deadly serious, “it's very important to me that you are being entirely sincere.”

The predictability of Hermione Granger— paragon of all things earnest— questioning his sincerity was almost enough to make him roll his eyes with such enthusiasm that his sight may have been permanently damaged. He resisted only because he suspected she wasn’t just asking for the sake of it.

Granger was genuinely concerned.

It pricked at him— a long buried thorn in his side. But could he blame her? His eyes darted to her right arm and what he knew he would find there if she decided to roll up her sleeve.

"I need to know that this is not some misguided quest for glory and immortality. I don't relish the thought of being pulled into something so potentially good and then having to turn around and stop you from turning into the next dark wizard. Can you promise me that even if it was the only way to save Scorpius, you wouldn't chase immortality." 

If it had been any other witch talking about having to stop him from becoming the next Lord Voldemort (as if it would be just an annoying chore), he might have either laughed or felt offended. He had to concede that for Granger, it would probably just be another day's work. Bletchley had told him a rumour that she had saved the universe with a bit of clever wandwork just last year when that idiot Hobbins messed around with some powerful temporal magic. He was inclined to believe it.

“We could do an Unbreakable Vow if you want.”

Her nose wrinkled, “I swore off those the moment I learned what happened between Snape and your mother."

“Legilimency?”

“I never learned,” she said wistfully, “though I would dearly love to. No Malfoy— I think I'm just going to have to trust you. If things start getting a bit shady, I can always shove some veritaserum down your gob and make you divulge your darkest secrets.”

“Hurrah for contingency plans,” he said drily, also not doubting that she was being very serious.

She smiled over at him, her lips now stained a deep red.

There was quiet for a moment— just the clinking of cutlery against plates, scraping food into hungry mouths and small sips of wine on both sides. Draco was starting to feel almost companionable when she ruined it again.

“Did you get the itinerary I sent you?”

“I got it, Granger."

“And are you going to tell me your grand plan for tracking down the Fountain yet?”

Draco scowled into his glass.

In response to one of her many text messages and owls in which she had attempted to interrogate every detail of his planning out of him, he had casually implied that he had a method for tracking down the Fountain.

He did not have a method for tracking down the fountain.

She was glaring at him again with ibvious suspicion. Her large, doe eyes communicated a kind of mental evisceration that gave him tingles. It was softened though, by the smudge of dinner on her cheek.

“You’ll find out in due course, Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed. She stood up and began to grumpily clear the table. 

Draco was torn. The gentleman in him wanted to help but paradoxically, the gentleman in him was opposed to manual labour.

She was in the kitchen, rattling the crockery rather loudly when he roused himself. Exhaling, he swept from the room.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her fiddle with a wineglass. Granger was the picture of someone about to have a nervous breakdown, staring into the stained rim like it held answers. If she sighed one more time, he was going to hex something.

“Salazar’s sake, are you a witch or not?”

“Some things are best done the muggle way.”

He sidled up next to her and grabbed a dish towel from where it hung on the oven door. Coolly, he whipped it over his shoulder where it stayed before he took out his wand and began levitating dripping dishes into the air and drying them with a quick charm.

Granger stopped what she was doing and turned to stare at him, agog. “Why bother with the dishtowel if you’re just going to use magic?”

He shrugged. The dishtowel had been an experiment— he’d known it was a muggle drying tool but had no idea how to wield it effectively. So, he had tried to compromise.

She shook her head at him and returned to washing the last dish while he took the opportunity to get another look around.

The kitchen was quite appealing albeit tiny. It was a blend of modern convenience and old Victorian charm, with white subway tiles accented by little pots of herbs and spices and muggle cookbooks on some floating shelves. There was some attractive but simple wooden cabinetry above granite countertops. The many muggle appliances gleamed silver but he noticed she had the kind of old-fashioned cooker they had in the Manor. It was a cheerful red colour.

“I like your house.”

She turned to him then and unexpectedly, leaned forward, and swiftly snatched the dishtowel from his shoulder to dry her hands. He glanced around the room again. It wasn’t the kind of house he’d ever imagined for himself, but it was warm and lived in.

“I’ve seen your house, Malfoy. This must feel like a shoe-box in comparison. I highly doubt your sincerity.”

“Small can be good,” he replied, looking down at her.

He glanced around the room and then flicked his gaze back to her. She watched him, her head tilted, eyes sharp and searching. It was unnerving.

“Thanks for dinner,” she smiled at him slightly.

Maybe there really had been a warming between them.

“I was planning on getting a bit of sleep before we leave,” she continued. “You can stay in Hugo’s room if you like?”

He followed her out of the kitchen without complaint.

It wasn’t for another hour, as he tried to make himself comfortable in the smallest bed he had ever tried to sleep on, that it occurred to him that not even once had either of them asked the question of whether she could be corrupted by the allure of immortality.

He felt annoyance but also resignation. His mind strayed to the dark shadow that was permanently branded on his arm. He knew that it hadn’t permanently branded his soul. Well, he tried to believe that.

Astoria had been the one to tell him: creatures with compromised souls didn’t love the way he did.

He let his fondest memories of her usher him into sleep.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s eyes opened approximately one minute before her phone started loudly playing the Star Wars theme song on her bedside table, courtesy of Hugo.

Almost mechanically, she sat up in bed— her cortisol levels spiking— 30 minutes until the Portkey was set to leave.

She switched off the alarm and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Slowly she dressed in jeans and a serviceable button down, paired with some simple boots. There was nothing much to be done about her hair— a mass of frizzy curls, which she hastily piled on top of her head and secured with a scrunchie.

Catching her own tired eyes in the mirror, she wondered if it had even been worth catching a few hours of sleep before their departure. But if she hadn’t slept, today would blend into tomorrow thanks to the time zone difference, and that would have been an extremely long day.

The bathroom light flickered to life, revealing dark smudges beneath her eyes. She leaned heavily against the cold porcelain of the sink and pressed her palms deep into her eye sockets to try to alleviate some of the pressure.

The cold water she splashed on her face was a jolt to her system, but it didn’t wash away the lingering ache beneath her skin, which she had carried through everything for the past few months. She squared her shoulders— there were tasks to be done and a Malfoy to wrangle.

With a yawn, she headed downstairs to put the kettle on. She would need some fortification before she woke the dragon, so to speak.

On autopilot she wandlessly lit the house as she walked through the rooms. Two rucksacks were lined up neatly next to the hall table like sentries, guarding an old protractor that was waiting to be activated.

In the kitchen, Hermione boiled water the muggle way. She insisted on properly steeped tea, always had. It had driven Ron mad when they were married; he preferred the expediency of a wand. Hermione, however, swore tea tasted better this way— what was a few extra minutes in the grand scheme of things? When the tea was ready, she poured two cups, took a long swig from one, and started back upstairs with the other.

Hugo’s room was at the end of the landing. Hermione pushed the door open without wand nor words, just a soft whisper of magic. She had been able to perform a great many domestic spells like this for years now, though she still needed her wand for anything complex.

Stepping inside, she was greeted by the familiar chaos of her teenage son’s world. The walls were covered in Pokémon posters and other video game paraphernalia. In one corner there was a display case stacked to the brim with carefully arranged Warhammer figurines. Hugo— her beautiful little nerd.

It was the smell that hit her next. It was a unique blend of teenaged boy and sun-kissed child. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, but it wasn’t terrible either.

Tonight, there was something else— a new layer of scent, the unconscious knowing that there was a different energy in the house. He smelled clean; like citrus. It cut through the boyish musk, beckoning her awareness.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled in Hugo’s too-small bed. His long legs hung just slightly off the edge and he snored softly. He looked absurd— crammed into that little bed. She wished she could take a picture.

Instead she resolved to buy Hugo a bigger bed. He was growing like a weed.

“Malfoy,” she tried softly. Predictably, he didn’t stir. She tried again, louder this time— still nothing. He had a peaceful look on his face that was completely alien to her. She stopped and observed him. He looked peaceful.

With a sigh, Hermione set down the teacups on top of a stack of Pratchett novels haphazardly stacked on Hugo's desk. It wasn’t as though she wanted to touch him—desperate times and all that.

Moving closer, she raised her boot and nudged his side.

Nothing.

She kicked him a bit harder, and he groaned. He was half-asleep and already full of indignation.“Did you just kick me in the kidney?”

“The Portkey leaves in twenty minutes,” she said briskly, “Get up. I made you a cuppa.”

Eighteen and a half minutes later, Hermione stood at the foot of the stairs, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Would you hurry up?” she muttered to nobody in particular.

Finally, Malfoy emerged from Hugo’s room. He ambled down the stairs with the unhurried and maddening air of someone who had never been rushed in his life.

“Thanks for the tea,” was all he said, handing her the empty cup. Hermione narrowed her eyes and flicked her wand, sending the cup zooming to the sink. She caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth and fought the urge to hex him.

She held the Portkey in her hand, which had just begun to glow. She waved it at him impatiently. “Hurry up.”

“Alright, no need to have kittens,” he replied, drawling the words and further testing her patience.

He reached out with agonising slowness and extended a single finger to touch the protractor. Hermione glared at him and wondered, not for the first time, if he had been born with a talent for obstreperousness, or if it was a skill he had perfected over the years.

The familiar sensation of a fishhook behind her navel yanked them both into the whirlwind of the Portkey. Colours and shapes blurred into a dizzying tapestry. She felt a sturdy presence beside her and reached for it out of habit— only to remember who it was. They landed with a squelch, several meters above the ground.

Hermione dropped like a stone onto a conveniently placed crash mat. When she raised her head slowly and pushed the hair out of her face, Malfoy executed a showy somersault and landed lightly on the grass. A spiteful part of her noted that grown men in their forties looked a bit silly doing somersaults.

He looked over at her, brushing imaginary dirt from his trousers. A slow grin was spreading over his face, "Very graceful, Granger."

Hermione scowled as she hauled herself to her feet with a middle-aged groan. Her hair, already a disaster, now stuck out in every direction. She gave it a half-heated swipe and straightened her clothes.

Polite applause drew her attention. A small group of people sat nearby under a canvas shelter, applauding them.

“He gets a seven— nice tumble, mate. Sorry, Minister, I’m giving you a three,” called a man in a broad Australian accent.

Hermione sighed and glanced up at the expansive Australian sky. She inhaled the crisp, familiar scent and tilted her face up fully to feel the kiss of the sun on her cheeks. It was an odd sensation— like coming home but not really.

“A seven?!”

“It would’ve been an eight, but grown men look ridiculous doing tumbles,” a short, dark-haired woman explained.

Hermione grinned, adjusting her bag as she joined Malfoy. Together, they headed toward the group, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

The trio introduced themselves warmly. Bruce Lopeman, Director of the International Portkey Division, shook Hermione’s hand with enthusiasm.

“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Granger.”

“Lovely to meet you, Bruce,” she replied, matching his smile, "Please call me Hermione."

Cornelia Grout, Chief of Staff to the Australian Minister for Magic, stepped forward next, warm and professional. “Minister Plumb is looking forward to seeing you. She’s taking you to lunch.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. So much for staying incognito.

“This is Titus Smith,” Cornelia continued, gesturing to a tall, young man who stepped forward and offered an enthusiastic handshake. He was very handsome— like something straight out of a Witch Weekly spread.

“Goodness,” Hermione said, “you look like a Hemsworth brother.”

He laughed good-naturedly, “I get that lot.” He turned and offered Malfoy the same treatment.

“Titus is going to be your security detail for the duration of your stay,” Cornelia informed them in a tone that indicated she was absolutely delighted about everything.

As they wrapped up introductions, Hermione’s mind whirled. Why had Nell assigned them a minder? What did she suspect? And how much could Hermione afford to reveal about their purpose here?

Certainly, their plans to keep a low profile had just become significantly more complicated.

Barely half an hour later, Hermione and Malfoy were ushered out of a black Mercedes with tinted windows and through the visitor’s entrance of Parliament House.

Titus had bashfully tried to make very small talk with an unrelentingly frosty Malfoy. Meanwhile, Cornelia had caught Hermione up on the latest news in magical Canberra. With an election approaching, Nell was busy but apparently not too busy to meet an old friend. Hermione wondered if this meeting might be more of a complication than a kindness.

Malfoy had been uncommonly quiet. There had been at least a hundred opportunities for him to grumble about the heat (nearly oppressive) or the muggle mode of transport (luxurious, but still a vehicle). His hands had been tense, as though he had been fighting the urge to say something, yet he’d remained uncharacteristically silent.

He appeared at that moment, as if she had spelled him to her side. She tugged on her jacket, yanking it straight.

“What the fuck,” he hissed under his breath.

Hermione barely glanced at him. “Sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t think this would be an issue since I’m no longer in office. We’ll sort it— Nell is a friend.”

“You better,” he snapped back. His petulance carried all the venom (and none of the weight) of a schoolboy threat. It almost felt nostalgic.

They followed their guides through the impressive, sunlit halls of the building. Hermione could tell Malfoy was uncomfortable in this environment, glancing around like he was trying to map an escape route. She was both annoyed and amused. The grandeur of Parliament House was, objectively, much grander in scope than the British Ministry of Magic. She noticed him peering ahead into the Great Hall, where tourists mingled with elaborately dressed foreign dignitaries and religious leaders.

“This way, Malfoy,” she nudged him toward the cloakroom.

At the counter, Cornelia approached the attendant— offering a charming smile and a subtle flash of her wand. The woman behind the counter raised an unimpressed eyebrow before sighing and standing to lift the hinged divider.

“You’d best come back and look for your missing items,” she announced in flat, bored voice.

As they moved through the cloakroom, Hermione noticed Malfoy glancing back over his shoulder, checking for muggles. She stifled a laugh. Nobody was paying them the slightest attention. Even Titus went unnoticed and he struggled to fit his bulky physique through the narrow entry.

“There are notice-me-not charms,” she murmured. He didn’t respond, but she caught a flicker of tension easing in his expression.

They were handed visitor passes on lanyards and had their wands weighed. She noted with interest that Malfoy had a new wand: hornbeam, nine inches, with a dragon heartstring core.

Cornelia pushed aside a heavy coat and ducked, vanishing into solid wall. Hermione soon followed.

Beyond, she found herself in a wide atrium. One wall was adorned with an enormous and intricate tapestry of a tri-coloured serpent, twisting and hissing at passers by. The moving tapestry, combined with the distinctly magical crowd bustling around were a warm welcome back into the world of magic.

Malfoy followed closely behind her. She watched as he surveyed their surroundings with sharp eyes and a cautious wariness. She watched him closely, tilting her head— surprised that he seemed to be clamming up more in what should have been more familiar territory.

"This is the Department of Magic," Cornelia stated, motioning to a staircase nearby, "Please follow me. I'll guide you to the Minister's office."

She led them through a veritable maze of hallways and cubicles, all the while pointing out architectural features and explaining the history of the building.

Titus trailed behind, like a tall, bronze shadow.

Eventually they were ushered into a polished corridor and then led to a small sitting room with a chic but uncomfortable looking settee. The Minister for Magic, Nellaria Plumb, was perched on one end.

Hermione had not seen Nell for many years, but found her as striking as she had ever been. She wore magnificent, multi-coloured robes with swirling patterns on them. Her immaculate curls were more streaked with gray but her eyes were as sharp and piercing as always.

"Hermione, darling," Nell said, standing up to embrace her warmly, "I can't believe how long it's been since I saw you last."

"Nell," Hermione returned her embrace tightly and let herself relax into it for a moment.

Nell released her and gave her a long, searching look, "I know you received my letter, darling. I want to say again though that I was so sorry to hear about Ron and also about the election. What a time you have been having!"

Hermione smiled tightly, "I'm okay, Nell. Really— thank you though."

"Are you really?" Nell asked, her voice was soft but her eye contact was uncompromising. Hermione shuffled back slightly.

Before she could answer, Nell turned her attention on Malfoy. "You are Draco Malfoy I presume." Her tone was firm. Businesslike and lacking the warmth she had just directed towards Hermione.

Malfoy inclined his head slightly. “Minister.”

Nell’s expression was unreadable as she studied him. “When I headed up the Australian equivalent of the DMLE, your file came across my desk. You were much younger then, of course. We monitored the situation in Britain closely.”

Malfoy stiffened, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I regret my actions at that time,” he said quietly. “I’ve spent decades trying to lead a different kind of life.”

Nell raised an eyebrow. “The kind of life where one associates publicly with muggle-borns?”

Malfoy paused for a moment and gazed at Nell. His expression was difficult to read.

“Yes.”

“Nell, Malfoy was just a kid during the war.”

Nell’s gaze flicked to her, sharp and knowing. “And so were you.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Nell finally gestured for them to sit. “Well, let’s discuss why you’re here.”

Hermione sank into the offered seat, composing herself. “We’re here to explore business opportunities,” she began, her tone professional. “Potions manufacturing, specifically. Malfoy is my partner in this venture, and we’re scouting potential exporters for certain rare ingredients. Australian magical flora and fauna are of particular interest.”

Nell gave them a smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Hermione, the private sector is an unexpected pivot for you. I can't imagine you staying away from serving the public for too long, I know you still have unrealized aspirations. Potions is an interesting choice, though I suppose even Dumbledore spent a decade mastering potions and discovering the uses for dragon's blood when he was close to your age. You might find my colleagues in the Secretariat for International Trade could help you—"

"This is just a scoping visit," Hermione interjected brightly, "I don't want to bother anyone until we're got a firmer understanding of the suppliers here."

"Certainly. Well the offer still stands if you find yourself needing assistance. Fair warning though, the Department head is a bit of a bore."

Hermione nodded stiffly and glanced towards Malfoy, who was sitting unnaturally straight with his palms pressed firmly into his thighs.

“Nell, is the security detail really necessary? I appreciate the gesture, but you know I’m not in office anymore.”

Nell gave a performatively regretful sigh.“Hermione, protocol dictates that we offer security to former world leaders, especially those with your reputation.” Her dark eyes softened. “You’re not just a former Minister for Magic; you’re a war hero. And with tensions running high across the globe…” She trailed off, glancing at Malfoy.

Hermione’s smile tightened. “I understand. But I was hoping to keep a low profile while we’re here. Malfoy and I are interested in quality business partners, not vendors looking to capitalise on a name.”

Nell hesitated, her gaze flicking between them. “I must insist— Titus stays. I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you, or your companion.” Her tone was measured, but Hermione caught the subtle mistrust lingering in her words.

That’s when Hermione realised two things. First, Titus wasn’t just there for protection— he was their minder. Every move they made on Australian soil would be reported back to Cornelia and likely to Nell herself. Second, Nell didn't seem to outwardly question Hermione's cover-story or her intentions, but she was deeply wary of Malfoy.

“I see,” Hermione said, forcing her voice to remain neutral.

Nell didn’t reply immediately but instead shifted the tone with practiced ease. “Would you like a tour of our new offices? They’ve been updated with the magi-tech I mentioned in my last letter.”

Hermione brightened at the mention. “Oh, yes, please!”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

Less than five minutes later, Nell was guiding them through a sleek, open-plan office filled with gleaming laptops and polished monitors fitted with maginullium. The space buzzed with quiet energy as witches and wizards went about their work, some typing on keyboards while others levitated documents with their wands.

“Uptake has been very encouraging,” Nell said, gesturing to the bustling floor. “Especially among muggle-borns. It’s been transformative— just as you said it would be.”

Hermione scanned the room, her heart swelling with pride and frustration. The Australian magical community was leagues ahead of Britain in embracing muggle technology.

It was everything she’d dreamed of implementing back in Britain. Unexpectedly, it hurt quite a lot.

She paused, clenching her fists and holding them close to her side. She ducked her head, letting a curtain of hair fall around her as she tried to take a calming breath.

"What's the matter, Granger?" it was Malfoy's voice and it cut through her mental tailspin. He was standing close.

"You were right, Malfoy," her voice came out straining and tight, "My stupid magi-tech idea ended my career."

She glanced up in time to watch his face twist from cautious concern to discomfort. He glanced away quickly.

"Granger, it's not the idea that was the problem. I think it was more the sudden execution combined with some poor timing."

Hermione's eyes began to burn and she blinked furiously, caught off-guard.

"Well yes," she said gesturing around at their surroundings, "Clearly the idea has merit because it can be done." The admission was offered in a shaky voice and to her humiliation, she felt a hot tear begin to slip down her face.

She turned away sharply, scraping at her cheeks with her palms— bracing for the inevitable consumption her emotions were about to bestow. But before she could truly get going, she felt a firm arm grasp her around the wrist, pulling her hand away from her face and tugging at her arm.

"Oh Granger, why are you so clumsy?" Malfoy lied smoothly, his voice pitched loud enough for Nell to hear, "She's gone and poked herself in the eye with her wand," he explained, "Lost one of her contact lenses, too."

He made a show of peering at the floor.

“Accio contact lens,” he added, dropping her hand and brandishing his wand with an exaggerated flourish— he held out his hand as though catching the conjured object. “Could you point us to the nearest restroom, Minister?”

Nell nodded, concern flashing across her face. Hermione allowed herself to be shepherded away, biting her lip to suppress another sob.

Inside the restroom, Hermione splashed water on her face, keeping her back to Malfoy as she tried to compose herself.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said weakly.

“Relax, Granger. I figured you wouldn’t want an audience.”

Hermione turned to face him, her cheeks still damp. “It was just… a lot,” she said, her voice trembling. “Seeing it all. How far ahead they are. It’s infuriating.”

Malfoy crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Because Britain is still resistant?”

“Because Britain is stuck in the bloody Victorian era!” she snapped. “And when I tried to drag us into the modern age, it cost me everything.”

Malfoy sighed heavily, his expression softening just slightly. “Granger, for the last time, your career isn’t over. You were the youngest Minister for Magic in history. So, you tried something ambitious, and it didn’t work? That doesn’t mean you’re finished.”

“I worked for decades to build that platform. And just as I was about to make real progress, it all fell apart.”

Malfoy straightened, his gaze sharp. “You know what your problem is? You lack imagination. Get a new dream, Granger— the world is your damn oyster, you’re just too blinkered to see it.”

The words hit her like a slap. Ever since her career had crumbled, people had treated her with kid gloves.

Not Malofy.

“And by the way,” he added, his tone sharp, “stealing my dream of curing the Greengrass blood curse doesn’t count. That’s mine.”

Hermione blinked, too stunned to do speak and too irritated to want to cry again.

“Would you just give me a break? Can you let me feel my feelings without pointing out how wrong I am.”

“No,” he said flatly. Then he turned and left.

After the short tour, the group huddled under an insubstantial umbrella, sheltering from the midday sun. They were in a courtyard outside a busy cafe.

Hermione sat across from Nell, while Malfoy sat ramrod straight in the space between them. Titus had positioned himself at a nearby table, directly in the full sun and not blending into the background at all.

Nell set her fork down, her expression tight. “Hermione, there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up. Things have been complicated politically speaking.”

“Oh?”

Nell sighed. “You know what it’s like during an election year— my opponents aren’t afraid to fight dirty. Anti-muggle sentiment has been stoked in certain circles. It’s not as overt as it once was, but it’s there, lurking in the shadows.”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, whose expression was carefully blank. “Isn't it always? But you think it’s a growing threat?”

“I think,” Nell said carefully, “that it’s a reflection of something larger. I'm not sure that what happened to your campaign was an isolated incident.”

Hermione frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Nell said, her voice dropping, “that I’m considering pulling back on the roll-out of magi-tech in the Ministry. The pressure from the International Confederation of Wizards is mounting.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. Nell, the system you’ve built is revolutionary. You’ve proven how seamlessly muggle technology can integrate with magic!”

Nell nodded but her expression was weary.

"Yes, but I need to tell you Hermione— it looks like the ICW will launch an inquiry into maginullium. There is significant concern that it could be weaponised and used against magical society."

Hermione put down the cup of tea she had been sipping. "What are you talking about? Weaponised how?"

Nell leaned toward her, voice lowering, "Hermione— surely you've thought about this. If maginullium can keep magic out, surely it means that it can also keep magic in. Imagine if people could be stripped of their magic? Imagine if entire communities could be stripped of their magic."

As intended, Nell's words hit Hermione right in the solar plexus. She glanced at Malfoy who was staring at Nell, alarmed.

She had invented maginullium to be a bridge between her two worlds. It was a tool for progress— not anything bad. It could never be used to oppress and hurt people.

Could it?

"What you're describing is barbaric and illegal, Nell. I would never allow my invention to be used that way."

"I know that," Nell replied gently, reaching out a hand and resting it on Hermione's wrist on the table, "But can you understand why there's fear, darling? If the potential is real Hermione, it could become a threat the likes of which we haven't seen in many years."

Hermione was about to provide a passionate rebuttal when Malfoy cleared his throat.

"The ICW have a job to do, Granger. If they see maginullium as a threat, even if you think it isn't credible, they will suppress it if they can," he looked her in the eye, "and you know better than anyone how fear can become the real weapon. This is dangerous territory, Granger."

"It is," Nell interjected, looking at Malfoy for the first time as someone worthy of her attention, "And if the narrative about maginullium truly does shift, the same thing that happened to Hermione's campaign will happen to mine."

Hermione grasped at the tables edge, desperate to anchor herself in a world that seemed as if it were spinning.

She didn't think maginullium could be warped in that way, it was effective but still quite weak. They had tested it and any large surge of magic tended to shatter the compound.

Still— what if someone took her idea and figured out how to use it for evil?

“What should I do?"

Nell hesitated. “I don’t know yet. What I do know is that I need to tread carefully. I need to keep my party afloat, and that means choosing my battles.”

Hermione’s gaze hardened. “You’re capitulating.”

"No," Nell replied firmly, "I'm surviving. And if you were in my shoes, I would expect you to do the same."

Hermione clenched her jaw. Echoes of her own election campaign ran through her mind. Memories of smug headlines collided with difficult interviews that celebrated her mistakes.

But she had never capitulated. It had not been about surviving, not for her.

“You’re capitulating,” she said again, her tone sharper than she intended, "So why show me the offices if you're just going to wind it all back?"

Nell’s expression hardened, a flicker of something flinty and unpleasant in her eyes. “I’m doing what’s necessary to keep my party afloat. But that doesn't mean that I don't think magi-tech isn't the way of the future.”

Hermione wanted to argue, to throw the weight of her convictions onto the table but she felt Malfoy’s eyes on her, cool and appraising. When she glanced his way, his expression was unreadable, but something about his steady gaze made her pause.

Get a new dream, Granger.

The words Malfoy had said earlier lingered in her mind, unwelcome but undeniable. He had been trying to steer her even though he didn't even really like her.

"Hermione, you have been through so much in the past year. I'm just trying to look out for you. You deserve a break."

She painted a rigid smile onto her face. It wavered in its fight with gravity only for the briefest of moments. "As I said, Nell. I'm just here about a potions supply chain. Politics are behind me."

Nell's frown deepened, "Please, just try to be careful. If this erupts, you're going to be right back in the centre of it."

They had been dropped off at their hotel after what turned out to be a bitter and uncomfortable lunch— not that she had asked for it in the first place.

Hermione handed Malfoy his room key as they stepped off the lift. She watched him head down the corridor, his posture rigid with exhaustion.

“Malfoy,” she called softly.

He turned, his expression wary.

“Thank you, for earlier— at the Department.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For covering for you?”

She nodded. “Yes. It was kind.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “Don’t get used to it, Granger.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving Hermione standing in the quiet hallway— her thoughts an angry tempest.

They swirled all through dinner and a shower and kept on swirling until she was almost ready to turn in for the night. She sat at her desk, parchment spread out before her.

Her mind wandered through a tangle of what-ifs and should-haves. Should she maintained a tighter leash on maginullium? Should she have stayed in Britain to fight harder for magi-tech integration instead of gallivanting off with Malfoy?

She shook her head sharply.

She picked up her pen, then paused, tapping it against her lip as a strange little thought flitted through her mind.

She let out a breathy, barely there laugh.

Since when did Malfoy know what a contact lens was?

Chapter Text

Draco was miserable. His ears rang with the relentless cacophony of Australian birdsong— the local fauna had declared war on his senses. If that weren't enough, Granger had roused him from his perfectly decent hotel bed before 8 a.m. to hunt down what she claimed was the "best coffee in the world".

He was sceptical, to say the least.

More irritating: Granger herself was drinking tea.

Their contact, a woman about their age named Deb, sat across from them. Her arms were folded but her speech and body-language otherwise conveyed a very relaxed demeanor. She had a round, pleasant face with sandy blonde hair and large brown eyes that reminded him of Granger. Despite her warm exterior, her sharp gaze flicked between them like she was sizing them up.

Outside the cafe, the city of Canberra hummed quietly as it came to life. It was an odd city— almost too bright and clean, as though someone had smoothed out all the interesting bits. The nearby lake reflected the sun in a way that Draco might have found beautiful if he weren't a deeply cynical man.

"So," Deb queried, raising an eyebrow. "You two are looking to set up a potions supply chain, was it?"

Granger nodded eagerly. Draco tried to do the same but was quite sure he hadn't met the bar, judging from Granger's reaction. The lie felt thin and poorly stitched together.

"Potion ingredients from the Antipodes are hard to find in the UK," Granger said, her tone artificially bright. "Certain plants and minerals specific to this region are in very high demand."

"Yes, we're looking for export opportunities, we’re very enthusiastic about the projected profit margins," Draco tried to muster the required enthusiasm and fell short.

Granger glared. It was one of the patented looks he had come to know well over the course of their association, comprising 60% condescension and 40% reproach. He took a long sip of his coffee, goaded into an an amused smile, which he hid behind the lip of his coffee cup.

"I see," Deb replied, "Well if you’re after local ingredients, I could put you in touch with some suppliers I know."

Granger responded vigorously. Her hands flapping around like an injured bird. She was not good at lying. Draco resolved to try to tune her out, lest his amusement give them away.

They carried on their farce of conversation for a time.

His patience grew thinner all the while until finally, he couldn’t resist. "We should mention, we’re also after a mythological fountain that cures ailments and has the power to bless people with eternal youth, just in case you might have a map tucked in your bag somewhere?"

Granger gave him a swift and discreet kick under the table.

Deb's expression lit up with suspicious comprehension. "Oh, the bloody water hole, ay? I knew it had to be something like that," she said, tone as dry as dust. "Let me guess: you heard some old stories, and now you think it’s time for an old fashioned colonial-treasure-hunt?"

Draco tilted his head slightly. "Yes, that's the one," he replied, with less irony than usual, "So you know it's real?"

Deb sighed, shaking her head. "Oh, I'm sure it’s real enough. But I don’t have a clue where to go looking for it and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

Granger leaned forward and offered up the palms of her hands in supplication. "Deb, we’re not interested in stealing anything or using it for personal gain. I assure you."

"Pull the other one."

Granger exhaled sharply. "No, really. You don't know me well but I'm sure you know me by reputation. We don't have nefarious intentions." She gestured at Draco. "His son is the reason we're here. There’s a family curse that we're trying to lift."

Deb’s sceptical gaze shifted to Draco. He sighed in irritation. Here he was, once again having to convince someone of his good intentions.

"It’s true," he said simply, "I lost my late wife to the curse three years ago. It is carried by her bloodline and my son is at risk."

Granger quickly thrust her phone under Deb’s nose. A photo of Scorpius and Albus filled the screen, their arms slung around each other— they were so young and so happy.

Deb stared at the photo for a long moment. "No need to ask which one he is," she muttered, glancing at Draco.

Granger’s voice was quick and compulsively earnest, "He’s sixteen years old and he’s already been through so much, Deb. We don't want anything else to be stolen from him."

Deb sat in quiet contemplation for a moment, mouth down-turned as she looked at the photo of Scorpius.

"I have a little boy."

All three of them at the table had a son and for a beat nobody spoke— he imagined that all three of them were reflecting on the pain that it would be to lose a child.

"So you understand," Draco finally said.

Deb held up a hand, "Alright, alright," she said. "I get it. But I don't know anything about what you're looking for."

Draco sighed deeply. His patience was rapidly depleting. He had the distinct impression that Deb was being deliberately unhelpful. There was a panicked flush creeping up Granger's neck. Quite soon, it would reach the lobes of her ears and disappear into the commodious mass of hair atop her head. She had an aura about her that he vaguely remembered from Hogwarts around exam time, a manic kind of energy that was a shallow concealment for a deep fear of failure.

"Let’s speak hypothetically then. If you were hypothetically looking for the fountain, where would you start?"

Deb looked thoughtful for a moment as if weighing up whether answering would break some kind of rule Draco wasn't in on.

"Hypothetically, I would need to go to someone else for help. And that person would need to know the magical histories of the land."

Granger perked up. Draco felt the stirrings of deep regret. He did not want yet more people involved in his business.

Deb took a long sip of coffee and then put her cup down and straightened. "Look, if you’re serious about this you need to know that you can't just go off-piste in the bush. This land is the oldest on the planet. There are things that could hurt you."

Draco frowned, "I'm quite well-versed in ancient magics."

Deb ignored him. "If you want to do this you won't find any straightforward directions. I can consult with someone who is better places than me to help you and I highly recommend you take me up on that offer. Otherwise, you’re likely to end up wandering places you have no business and hurting yourselves."

Draco ran a hand over his face. "Wonderful," he muttered. "And who is this someone?"

Deb smirked. "I'm not going to tell you. But you should know, their services won't be cheap."

Granger nodded quickly. "We understand."

Deb’s gaze flicked toward the corner of the café. "First, you’ll need to deal with your shadow over there."

Draco followed her gaze to Titus Smith. He was sitting a little too close to the edge of his table and was too obviously pretending to read a menu. Granger had cast a muffliato though, so Draco was sure he couldn't hear them.

Granger sighed.

Deb grinned. "Yeah," she said, "you need to lose him."

Draco watched Titus with the same level of enthusiasm he usually reserved for social climbers and ministry boffins. The man was not subtle. It was infuriating.

Granger rubbed her temples. "How are we supposed to get anywhere with him loitering around?"

Draco crossed his arms thoughtfully, "I assume murdering him is out of the question?"

Granger gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, Malfoy. Murder is out of the question."

Deb set down her cup and raised an eyebrow. "There’s always the less permanent approach."

"Go on."

Deb's tone became conspiratorial. "I could get my hands on an unregistered Portkey or two."

Granger sat up straighter. "You’re suggesting we portkey him somewhere?"

Deb grinned. "Nothing dangerous— just inconvenient. I've found it to be a useful strategy for these kinds of situations."

The corners of Draco's mouth crept northward. "How inconvenient are we talking?"

Deb tapped her chin thoughtfully. "He's a local, isn't he? Let's not be too cruel, we'll send him somewhere sunny and a little remote. He’ll be perfectly fine but out of the way for a bit."

Granger’s mouth fell open. "Are you suggesting we Portkey a government employee to another country?"

She was becoming increasingly flustered, almost knocking over her tea as she flung a hand out to pull nervously on her wild ponytail.

Draco pretended to consider this, "I think it’s inspired, personally."

"It's abduction!"

Ensconced as they were within Granger's enchantment, Titus could not hear Granger. However, her body language was shrieking alarm. It attracted his attention and his head turned suspiciously in her direction.

"Now you've done it," he muttered.

Deb frowned. "I would advise you to think of it as a temporary relocation. He’ll make it back eventually, but it’ll take him a while. It should give you enough time to get started without him snooping."

Draco looked to Granger, "Come on. Even you must see the merit in this."

She groaned again, burying her face in her hands. "Surely this is illegal."

"We'll make sure he has no proof it was us. Don’t get all 'moral high ground' on me now," he drawled. "This is exactly the kind of thing you, Potter and Weasley got away with all the time at school."

She lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "That is not the defence you think it is."

Draco laughed openly as Granger visibly struggled against her better judgment.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Fine. But if this goes sideways then you’re paying for the legal team, Malfoy."

"I'm quite rich ."

Deb pushed back from the table. "Give me a few hours, okay? I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Just try not to be too obvious that you're plotting something."

Granger muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "impossible for Malfoy", but Draco ignored it. He was already imagining how satisfying it would be to watch Titus vanish into thin air.

Deb grabbed a small handbag from beside her chair and slung it over her shoulder."Look, I'm going to warn you one more time about this. If you go deep bush, there are places that are dangerous and heavily protected. There is magic woven into the land here, older than any other wizarding history. If you disrespect it you’ll be rewarded for your trouble. And if I hear you've been causing trouble, you shouldn't expect any more help from me."

"So, play nice— be respectful tourists. Got it."

His tone must have come off as flippant because Deb gave him a sharp look. "It’s not a joke, Malfoy. I’m trying to tell you that the magic you might find isn’t yours to use however you please. It’s old, and it doesn’t care about Government jurisdiction."

Granger nodded quickly. "We understand."

Deb’s eyes flicked between them, and then she visibly relented, her shoulders dropping. "As I said, I’ll make some inquiries. But if my contacts don’t like the sound of what you’re up to, that’s it. No second chances. Even for your boy."

Draco nodded, "Fine."

“You lot better get going. I’ll sort things out on my end. And for the gods sakes— try not to get eaten by a drop bear."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "That’s not a real thing."

Deb didn't respond beyond giving them a small wave on her way out.

Hours later, Draco sat by the window in his hotel room, staring out the window. The sunlight had softened into the golden haze of late afternoon. He felt the faint pulse of a headache which lingered at his temples. It had lingered since the meeting that morning.

Usually, Draco excelled in making deals and flirting with the fine line between legality and expediency, but today his thoughts were split and fraying at the edges. He pressed a thumb to his temple, a quiet dread had been building in him all day. He was familiar with the feeling, it had tagged onto the edge of every thought for many years.

The curse.

How many nights had he stayed up, running through every bit of research he could find? How many 'cures' had he foolishly attached his hopes to? And now he was here, halfway across the world, chasing a lost fountain.

But he was desperate.

His gaze dropped from the window to his hands. What he hadn’t expected was Granger. He was astutely aware that bubbling to the surface was an uncomfortable sense of gratitude for her company. It was nice to not be alone.

He shook his head, trying to brush all thoughts of Granger away. They drifted, unbidden, to Astoria.

He remembered her calm, steady presence. All the time she’d known about the blood curse, she had never let it consume her. He could still picture her brewing potions beside him, never complaining about his relentless obsession with finding a cure she hadn't even believed in. She would keep him company and speak to him quietly as he poured himself into cauldron after cauldron. Her voice remained steady even as her hands trembled.

She’d probably be laughing at the thought of him stuck with Granger and letting her call the shots. The thought made him almost smile.

The ache of loss tightened his chest. He’d lost her, and the thought of the same thing happening to Scorpius was a constant shadow.

A sharp knock came at the door, jolting him out of his thoughts.

With a scowl, he straightened, clearing his throat.

“Coming!” he called, standing up and smoothing his shirt.

He'd begged off from the relentless planning and study, citing his headache. She'd granted him a short reprieve for a nap. Apparently his time for repose was up.

Chapter Text

The morning sun reflected off the surface of Lake Burley Griffin. Its waters were a serpentine demarcation, bisecting the heart of the city. It was deceptively serene. In front of them was a vast expanse of still water, which was only occasionally disrupted by the lazy drift of a swan.

Hermione, Malfoy, and Titus stood on the dock, waiting for their boat to arrive.

Hermione watched the water and tried to ignore a flutter of nerves. To an outside observer, she might have looked serene. Inside, she was anything but. When she thought about what they were about to do, her stomach churned.

She cleared her throat and nervously drummed her fingers against her thigh.

“How on earth do they keep the muggles away?” Malfoy asked, hands in his pockets.

He looked as though he had better things to do than stand around. As always, he was beautifully turned out in crisply pressed tan trousers and a dark green button-down. His leather day pack was slung casually over his shoulder and he had a familiar look of aristocratic boredom oh his face. But his gray eyes were alert.

“More repelling charms than you can imagine,” Titus interjected.

Hermione and Malfoy both turned to look at him in unison. They had already grown accustomed to him being a silent shadow. He rarely spoke to them directly.

“Sounds efficient to maintain,” Malfoy muttered sarcastically, glancing at Hermione with raised brows.

Hermione ignored his complaint, keeping her gaze fixed on the lake.

A ripple appeared in the centre of the water— faint at first but it quickly built into a circular wave. The surface bubbled, and an eerie green glow emanated from below. Malfoy fell silent and they stood together and stared as the glow grew brighter. Then, with a loud rush of water, a large, sleek boat emerged from beneath the lake.

The vessel was black and gleaming in the morning light. Water cascaded from its sides in thick streams. It was reminiscent of the Durmstrang ship Hermione had seen during the Triwizard Tournament, though this one bore an Australian Ministry emblem on its prow and was noticeably more modern.

They pulled up to the dock in front of them and the gangway was lowered with a bang. A tall woman with a salt-and-pepper braid and deep crow’s feet around her eyes came down to greet them.

“Welcome aboard,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. “I’ll be your captain as we travel to Sydney this morning.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The logical part of her brain knew this would be perfectly safe but the water had become still with an eerie, mirror-like quality that made her stomach twist. The entire concept of underwater teleportation felt like she was throwing herself at the mercy of a spell that might be only a tendril away from snapping at any moment.

One day, when she had some time and headspace, she would invent a form of long-distance apparition that did not involve being underwater.

But she wasn’t sixteen anymore— was not about to be dragged down to the depths of the Black lake with her breath locked in her lungs.

She exchanged a glance with Malfoy, who, for once, looked interested in something other than Quidditch. He led them up to the gangway with confidence.

“After you, Granger.”

She resisted the urge to run in the opposite direction and instead focused on the theory and enchantments she knew would be in place as she stepped onto the deck. They stood together, hands resting on the grab rails, watching as the lake water lapped softly against the hull. She mentally reviewed the the enchantments in alphabetical order— like a protective mantra.

Malfoy leaned over the railing as the boat began to sink. She hadn’t been expecting it to submerge so quickly, and her fingers gripped the wood tightly.

“Hold on,” the Captain warned, her voice carrying easily over the soft gurgle of the water. “We’ll be fully submerged in less than a minute. Take a breath if you feel like you need to but it isn't necessary— the cabin and deck are quite safe and charmed for comfort.”

Hermione inhaled reflexively.

Malfoy leaned closer, an amused look in his eyes. “Didn’t you get enough practice when they shoved you under the lake as Krum’s prize back in fourth year?”

She felt him lean in slightly, the warmth of his breath against her ear sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. She scolded herself for reacting at all. It was typical Malfoy, goading her when he could tell she was vulnerable.

But for a brief, disorienting moment, she was back in the Black Lake and the crushing silence of the water surrounded her. Her body was paralysed and she was helpless under the weight of quadrillions of gallons of water. She inhaled sharply, shaking off the memory.

"Don’t pretend you weren’t wishing it had been you at the time, I saw the way you looked at Victor," she shot back, her voice steadier than she felt. An unpleasant thrill ran through her as the water rose over the bow.

The lake closed over them, and within moments, they were completely submerged. The blue-green depths of the lake surrounded the boat on all sides. Sunlight filtered down through the water, casting shifting diamonds on the deck as they glided silently beneath the surface. Hermione felt a deep and almost reverent silence settle around them.

As they descended deeper, Hermione glanced up and watched as schools of fish darted past. Their silvery bodies flashed like coins in the dim light.

“Feels like magic, doesn't it?” she murmured, half to herself.

“It is magic, Granger.”

“Oh, yes I know. You probably don't understand but for me, sometimes it still all takes me by surprise.” She smiled wryly at her own words.

But to her surprise, Malfoy nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s easy to forget, but sometimes magic can still surprise me too.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment longer, neither willing to break the quiet moment.

"Now for the teleportation," the Captain announced over sonorous charm.

The boat’s glow intensified and there was a creaking of wooden planks flexing. The boat banked left sharply, almost throwing Hermione off her feet. Malfoy reached out to steady her, one of his hands cleverly gripping the side.

Then, after a small beat, they winked out of existence.

They reappeared again a second later and almost immediately they began to rise toward the surface of another body of water. Sunlight filtered down, growing brighter as they ascended.

In a matter of moments, they broke through, water cascading from the hull as they emerged into the open air. Hermione took a deep breath, filling her lungs with fresh air as the boat settled atop the water. She turned to Malfoy, a shared understanding passing between them.

“See, Granger? Nothing to worry about.”

As they approached the gangway Sydney opened up before them in all its iconic splendor. The arches of the Harbour Bridge loomed above, casting multangular shadows across the water. Nearby the towering sails of the Opera House gleamed in the sunlight.

Hermione, eager to be on dry land again, was already moving at a brisk clip as they disembarked. Her gaze swept across the skyline, and she began to bark orders: “Come on, Malfoy, The State Library is just up the road.”

Malfoy was dragging his feet a bit, evidently trying to take in the sights as they moved through Circular Quay. Titus followed several paces behind, unhurried.

Seabirds swooped low and called to each other above the hubbub of bustling tourists. It was a vibrant atmosphere— alive, and so drenched in sunlight it was almost felt like a living postcard.

“You know, Granger, you could at least pretend we’re here to enjoy the view,” Malfoy drawled, adjusting his pace to match her.

She didn’t bother to look back, too busy scanning the streets ahead. “The view will be there tomorrow. Our research can't wait. Particularly since I know you don't actually have any secret plan for tracking down what we're looking for."

Malfoy glanced away and cleared his throat, pushing his hands into his pockets and gave every indication that he would now follow her obediently.

Yes- that's what she though.

She watched him cast a last wistful glance at the glittering harbour, rolled her eyes and kept walking.

They moved up Macquarie Street, the historic architecture of Sydney blending with looming glass skyscrapers. Finally, they reached the steps of the State Library of New South Wales. Its imposing columns and sandstone facade stood proudly against the blue sky.

“Wait.”

Hermione and Malfoy halted and turned to face Titus who towered over them both. He was dressed convincingly enough in muggle clothes but she still wondered how he could possibly think he would ever blend into the background.

“You two go on ahead. I’m going to scan the perimeter and keep watch. I’ll meet you here when it’s time to leave.”

“How will you know we’re leaving?” Malfoy asked.

Titus gave him a wry smile in return and said mysteriously: “I’ll know.”

Hermione exchanged a look with Malfoy and then shrugged, ushering him through the entry to the building.

Inside, Hermione moved with swift purpose, glancing at the placards and directories. She caught Malfoy’s gaze moving upward at the expansive, decorative ceiling as she led him through the library’s famous reading room. At the very back of the room, she spotted a subtly marked bronze plaque by a desk. It was a sign only those in the know would recognise as the librarian’s point of contact for magical visitors.

Hermione approached the desk and cleared her throat as the librarian looked up. She was a middle-aged woman with glasses perched low on her nose and a long, kind face.

“I’m looking for a first edition of Bézier’s Bestiary Compendium,” Hermione said quietly, enunciating the fictional title with significant emphasis.

The librarian's eyes flickered. She gave a slow, assessing nod. “I see. I assume you mean the 1947 edition?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“Correct, the 1947.”

The librarian’s mouth quirked upward and she reached for her pen which she rapped smartly on the counter twice. A hidden latch clicked unlocking a nearby door which slowly swung open. “Right this way.”

Hermione turned to her companion who raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed despite himself as Hermione led the way through the door into the library's hidden archives.

“Here we are, just tap twice on the door when you want to come back through and I’ll cast a quick notice-me-not,” the librarian told them quietly.

“Excuse me,” Hermione cut in before the older woman had a chance to move away, “I’m looking for early wizarding explorer records— I'm also interested in notes on coastal landmarks from the early 1800s.”

The librarian pointed in the direction of a long row of shelves lined with thick, well-worn volumes. “Oh, you might enjoy the Captain’s Chronicles collection. Early European exploration records are in that section.”

“Thank you,” Hermione replied sweetly, already moving towards the shelves and leaving Malfoy to follow at a slower pace.

"Why not just Accio the entire lot and call it a day?”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. “Because that’s not exactly fair to other people that might want to read the books, Malfoy. And besides, most of these books are likely warded against summoning charms.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Of course they are.”

Ignoring him, Hermione started down the nearest aisle, crouching low to scan the titles on the lower shelves. Malfoy trailed behind her, his hands trailing over spines. Every now and then, as if on purpose, he would remove a book from the shelf just to glance more closely at the title. He almost always put it back in the wrong place.

Eyeing him, she took out her wand and cast a muffliato on them both as a precaution before shifting her attention back to the stacks.

She stopped abruptly when her gaze fixed on a particularly over-full shelf. “Here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she pulled a thick book from the shelf. “This is a logbook maintained by one of Fairweather's contemporaries.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, “That was quick. If the cover is anything to go on, should be a riveting read.”

Hermione had already cracked open the book, her eyes scanning the lines. “If it gets us closer to the fountain, I’d read ten more of these. Don’t tell me you’re bored already?”

“Oh, not at all,” Malfoy replied with a smirk, leaning lazily against a nearby shelf. “I’m thrilled to be witnessing you in your natural habitat once again.”

Hermione ignored him, her fingers tracing words as she read. “This page mentions encounters with locals who guided them to clean drinking water in the Blue Mountains. Oh and look here!" she pointed at a specific line, her excitement building, "there’s a reference to an ‘enchanted cave’.”

He snorted, peering over her shoulder. “Sounds like a creative way of saying they got lost and then got lucky with some help from the locals.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to be uninterested?”

“No,” he replied with a lazy grin, although his eyes lingered on the page.

They set themselves up at a desk and continued in that manner, Hermione paging through one reference and then through another. She cross-referenced every mention of water sources or mythical landmarks that could potentially point to their goal. Malfoy seemed content watching her attack the pages, rather than actually making himself useful.

“What does that one say?”

Hermione read aloud, her voice soft in the quiet of the library, “There’s a line about certain landmarks being hidden by enchantments only the local people could see through.”

“Convenient,” he murmured. “An entire continent, Granger, and we’re supposed to believe that one clueless Brit stumbled upon what we’re after?”

She met his gaze, a small smile on her face. “This particular crew may not have found the fountain, but maybe they knew it existed. And if they knew, maybe others did too. That’s how research works, Malfoy.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, forgive me, Professor. I had no idea research involved blindly following vague rumors from two centuries ago.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but kept reading.

"I guess you've never spent months on the run reading a children's book, trying to figure out how to kill one of the darkest wizards who ever lived."

"Not personally. Sounds like a romp."

The library seemed to grow quieter around them as they fell into a rhythm, the sounds of the city fading to a murmur in the background. At some point, Malfoy disappeared.

Hermione’s fingers clenched around the parchment in front of her, her frustration rising in waves. She had told herself that she didn’t care what he did. But Merlin, could he not at least pretend to be helpful?

Her annoyance only grew when she heard whispers from the shelves and turned to see Malfoy leaning in towards a young woman with honey-blonde hair. They were whispering and Hermione couldn't hear what they were saying, but she did hear the witch give a throaty laugh and then saw her gesturing for Malfoy to follow her further into the stacks.

Well.

Australia was a free country. Malfoy was certainly free to go off and have his dalliances while she did all the work.

Her pen hovered over her notes, but her mind betrayed her, picturing them instead. Malfoy would look at the woman with that lazy, affected smirk of his. The blonde woman would giggle, brushing her hair over one shoulder, leaning in and…

Hermione slammed her book shut.

She was not thinking about this.

Except that she was.

Why was she thinking about this?

Her cheeks heated as she forcefully shoved the thought away.

She busied herself once more with the books and not five minutes later, Malfoy sidled out looking smug and took a seat across from her at their low, comfortable table below a beautiful stained-glass window.

She did not ask where he had been.

She absolutely, resolutely refused to ask.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the documents in front of her, ignoring the way he sprawled into the chair, looking irritatingly self-satisfied. She refused to give him the satisfaction of even a glance. She focused on her notes and only on her notes.

When he finally spoke and his smug drawl cut through the quiet, her hands curled into fists. He placed some papers in front of her, right over her book. It looked like photocopies.

“You know, Granger,” he drawled, “There are these amazing people whose job it is to find information from books. I hear they are called librarians.”

She wanted to punch him. She wouldn't because violence was never the answer, as she had repeatedly told Rose over the years. But she wanted to.

“Oh, is that what you were doing? Collecting information? Rather looked like flirting from where I’ve been sitting.”

He gave her a devilish smile, “The two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.”

“She is very pretty,” Hermione observed with a disapproving sniff.

“I suppose. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock. She felt rather offended on the poor witch’s behalf. “So, what’s this then?” she asked, thinking it better to change the subject completely.

“Beryl had a delightful Muggle contraption that could make duplicates without damaging the original. I had her copy us a map from the late 1800s. It was quite different, you see, to the maps we use nowadays. I thought we should cross-reference.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped up to him sharply. He was looking very pleased with himself, but she had to concede that it had been clever and a detail she had overlooked.

“Also, Beryl said that Fairweather’s original journal from his expedition to Australia is in the Brisbane Maritime Museum up in Queensland.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open a second time. “What?!”

Malfoy shrugged. “Beryl is Muggle-born, and she did her dissertation on early wizarding communities in colonial Australia. She cited an extract from the journal, which is how she knows where it is.”

Hermione could kiss him. She really could. Except that would be weird and also weird because he had probably been kissing a random librarian about five minutes ago.

“I can almost forgive you for seducing that young girl to get the information. She looked about 20 years younger than you!” Hermione blurted.

Malfoy’s face did a strange, drooping thing. His mouth turned down into a most serious and confused frown. It was odd; she was used to the spectrum of his facial features only ranging from amused smirk to smug smirk.

“Granger!” he hissed, “I did not do anything with that girl. I was charming, yes, but she was basically a child. Not that much older than Scorpius! I just asked her to do her job and help me find some information!”

Ohhh.

They were buoyed by the prospect of the journal itself, but Hermione also wasn’t going to let that get in the way of a good time. Hours passed as they combed through the collection, each passage feeding Hermione’s quiet enthusiasm and deepening Malfoy’s reluctant curiosity.

The sun dipped lower, projecting afternoon light through the library’s stained-glass windows and painting the magical archives in rainbow hues. She realised she’d lost track of time entirely when she glanced over to find Malfoy snoozing, uncomfortably folded into the armchair across from her.

Finally, Hermione closed the book in front of her and put it down. “We’ve got enough leads here to start forming a route. I haven’t found a primary source, but there are plenty of secondary references to Fairweather’s route up the East Coast. And we know for certain he was in the Blue Mountains.”

"What?" Malfoy stretched, cracking his neck with an audible pop. “Thank Salazar for that.”

He stretched out his arms and knocked a heavy book onto the ground with a loud thud.

Hermione winced. “Honestly, Malfoy, could you be any louder?” she whispered sharply, glancing around.

He gave her a lazy smirk, standing and still rolling his shoulders. “You’re lucky I don't snore. I think I lost the will to live somewhere around page four hundred.”

“Oh, please,” she shot back, gathering her notes. “I’d have thought all that lounging around on your family’s estate would have prepared you for a pleasant afternoon in the library.”

“Believe it or not, Granger, even I have limits to the drudgery I can tolerate.”

“Have lots of hobbies, do you? To fill your days while the plebs go out to work?” she asked sweetly.

“Isn’t that a bit rich coming from the woman who hijacked my quest because she was bored and feeling a bit directionless?”

“You needed help,” she snapped.

“I needed you to send an owl and ask for a favour on my behalf. You needed help,” he replied succinctly.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Hermione clutched her notes tighter as Malfoy leaned against the table with that insufferable smirk of his. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across his face, making her nostalgic for the days she could just deck him without setting a seriously bad example for their children.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and refused to be baited. “You wouldn’t have made it this far without me.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted with an infuriatingly casual shrug. “But I’d be enjoying the peace and quiet.”

“Peace and quiet?” she huffed, pushing past him toward the exit. “Somehow, I doubt it. From what I recall, there was nothing peaceful about you in our Hogwarts days.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, a glint of something unreadable in his expression. “Oh, I had my fair share of adventure. Not that I had people to chum about with like you did when the dark times rolled in.”

The words hung in the air, weighted with something heavier than usual. Hermione slowed her pace, glancing back at him, "Maybe you should have tried not being a bigoted arse and things might have gone differently!"

He scoffed, averting his gaze, but she caught the flicker of something genuine beneath his usual mask of indifference.

Hermione felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, and for a fleeting moment, the memories of all the adventures she’d shared with Harry and Ron flooded her mind. They were often dangerous, terrifying, and exhausting, but shared. Always shared. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, he straightened up and snapped back into his usual tone.

“Shall we go, or would you rather bask in the glow of your brilliant discoveries?”

She took the bait.

“I should like to bask for a moment, thank you,” she replied, holding out a hand to stop them in their tracks and mustering a look of lofty self-importance.

"Come on then, Savior Granger."

They reached their hotel with Titus in tow. It was a quaint building tucked on a quieter street, still within earshot of the bustling harbour.

Hermione handled the check-in with practised efficiency, trading pleasant conversation with the receptionist and double-checking their arrangements. Malfoy, meanwhile, lingered by the wall, eyeing the art with a kind of detached disdain. He perked up only slightly when she handed him his key.

“Our rooms are adjacent,” she said, flashing him a pointed look as they moved toward the lift. “Try not to snore too loudly.”

“Very funny,” he muttered, pocketing the key. “Malfoys do not snore. We are genetically incapable of snoring.”

“Must be all the inbreeding,” she quipped without missing a beat.

“Oi!”

The elevator hummed softly as it carried them upward, and the doors opened with a chime onto their floor. The comfortable silence between them lingered as they walked toward their rooms. Hermione stopped outside his door, her fingers fidgeting with her key.

“Fancy grabbing something to eat in a bit?” she asked, surprising herself with the casual invitation. “We passed a pub just down the road that looked promising.”

Malfoy gave her a curt nod, already resting a hand on his door, “Send me a text on the Apple,” he replied casually.

An hour later, Hermione sat on the edge of her hotel bed, her phone cradled in her hands. The faint, steady hum of Sydney at night filtered through the window. Occasional laughter or a car horn broke the silence of her room. She stared at her open suitcase which was half-unpacked and let out a soft sigh.

She scrolled absently through her messages, her thumb hovering over her last thread with Ron. His most recent text was days old, a quick discussion about Rose mastering some absurdly complicated Quidditch move and Hugo’s latest exam results. She couldn’t help but smile, picturing them so vividly— her son with his wild hair and boundless energy, her daughter with that fierce determination that felt like looking into a mirror.

Just a quick hello, she thought. Something to let him know she was fine. That she’d arrived safely. That she was still thinking of them all.

She tapped the keyboard, hesitating before typing:

Hey. Hope everything’s all right on your end.

No, that sounded weird. She erased it.

She tried again:

Hi, Ron. I…

And there she stopped, staring at the blinking cursor. What could she say that didn’t feel hollow?

The tug-of-war inside her felt unbearable— endlessly caught between wanting to reach out and needing the space to figure out who she was. She knew she needed this time away from everything she’d always defined herself by.

Ron. The kids. The Ministry.

It was almost laughable: Hermione Granger, the woman with all the answers, sitting in a hotel room too scared to text the person she knew best in all the world.

Her heart ached with the sheer weight of it and she knew the gulf between them was widening with each passing day. It was a strange limbo where she wasn’t his wife but still was his family. She missed him. Not in the way she once had. At least, not in a way that made her wish she could go back. It was more a longing for the simplicity of knowing where she belonged.

She deleted everything. Then she dropped the phone onto her lap with a sigh. For all her planning and intelligence, this was one problem she couldn’t logic her way out of.

She tilted her head, gazing out the window at the harbour lights. The skyline twinkled in the distance, a glittering sprawl of life and movement. Was Ron thinking of her too? Even now, with all the distance and the hurt between them? A pang of longing struck her chest, but she pushed it down. What good would it do to dwell on what she couldn’t fix?

With a shake of her head, Hermione picked up her phone again, scrolling through her contacts until she landed on the name she wanted. Her fingers danced over the keyboard.

Hello Ferret. Fancy a walk around the harbour before dinner?

She hit send without overthinking it, her lips curving into a small smile.

Standing, she crossed the room to the mirror, absentmindedly humming as she began to braid her hair back for the evening. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as she focused on the rhythm of her fingers.

Chapter Text

The pub was warm and inviting. It was the kind of place where the air smelled perpetually of grilled meat, fried chips, and spilled beer— whether that was a good combination, he wasn't sure.

They snagged a small table by the window. Draco pulled out Granger's chair in his practised way and then looked at her pointedly until she sat.

“Oh, goodness, is that how chairs work?”

“Happy to enlighten you, Granger,” he replied as he slid into the seat opposite her.

Titus, their unwelcome shadow, was still trailing their every move. He had slipped into the pub not long after they’d settled at their table. Draco had spotted him immediately. To anyone else, he might have looked like just another traveler, nursing a pint of beer near the bar. Draco knew better.

His broad-shouldered silhouette loomed in Draco’s peripheral vision, provoking irritation. Every so often, he caught the glint of the younger man's calculating gaze as it darted their way.

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Draco replied smoothly, quickly taking a sip from his glass. “Just appreciating the ambiance.”

Her lips pressed into a thin, pink line but she didn’t press the matter.

Instead, she launched into a spirited and unsolicited defence of chicken parmigiana though he hadn't even gotten around to deriding it yet.

Actually, his heart wasn't really in the bickering tonight. For the sake of peace, he acquiesced to Granger’s suggestion that he order it and as the server walked away, the silence between them settled comfortably, underscored by a chorus of clinking glasses and enthusiastic chatter.

“So, Granger,” he swirled his drink around the rim of his glass absently, “what do you think the Prophet would be reporting if they saw us now? Hermione Granger teaming up with Draco Malfoy? The Harry Potter fan club would be having kittens.”

Granger arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. “And what would the society ladies be saying, Malfoy? The heir to two of the sacred pureblood houses associating with a Muggleborn?”

“It warms the cockles of my cold heart just thinking about what they would say, Granger.”

Draco felt his mouth twisting up into a genuine smile, that is until the memory struck. It felt like being plunged suddenly into cold water as the image came unbidden and abruptly into Draco's mind of one of the only times he had seen Granger in the same room as his mother— a young Hermione Granger on his drawing room floor was screaming in his mind.

“What’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to respond. When he did, it was as though the words forced themselves out. “Just to be clear, I could care less what they say.”

Her expression softened. “I got that, Malfoy.” Their eyes held for a beat too long.

He exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders and they picked at their meals in silence. Draco thought the conversation had ended but then Granger set her fork down, her gaze steady and probing.

“How did you do it?” she asked quietly. “How did you let go of something you were raised to believe your entire life?”

He hesitated, her question landing squarely on his discomfort. She must have noticed, because she quickly added, “You don’t have to answer.”

“Oh, but if I don’t, you’ll spend the rest of the evening wondering if I'm still a closet supremacist.”

“I won’t!”

“You would, Granger.” He ran a hand through his hair, debating how much to share. “It wasn’t like I woke up after the war smoking a peace pipe. For a while, I still thought you and Potter were total twats.”

“Thought,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Thought,” he conceded, “and sometimes still think. My opinion on Weasley hasn’t budged.”

Granger gave a dry, awkward laugh. She seemed to be waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she nudged, “Go on, then.”

He sighed. “Astoria had a lot to do with it. She never bought into any of it. She was too sharp for that. By the time Scorpius was born, the whole ‘pureblood superiority’ nonsense felt like a relic. I wanted something different for him— a life that isn’t weighed down by centuries of tradition just because that was the way it had always been.” His voice softened. “She made it easy to believe we could be better.”

“She sounds wonderful, I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

“She was wonderful.”

The silence that followed was a little tense and awkward. Determinedly, Granger straightened in her chair, her tone shifting. “I asked because, obviously, I’m trying to figure it out. I’ve always known the next step, until now. Now, I'm just a mess.”

“I told you, Granger. It takes time.”

Jaw tense and brows drawn, she tilted her head to the side and probed at him with intense eye contact. Her fingers ran up and down the stem of her wine glass, “You have to understand, Malfoy— I'm not very patient.”

He laughed at her for stating the fucking obvious. But then he said, “It’s hard, Granger, but not impossible. And if I could do it, you can too.”

A sense of curiosity wove itself into her gaze. “I thought the Slytherin in you would have run a thousand miles the minute I was publicly humiliated and got ousted from the Ministry."

“You'll find my perspective on public humiliation shifted somewhat after the war,” he replied. “Besides, you’re still a mother, aren’t you? And an inventor, it turns out. Surely that’s enough to keep you busy.”

“An inventor? I developed Maginullium to modernize the wizarding world. My business partner and I don't even really have that much involvement with the manufacturing side of things these days— I hadn't really thought of myself as an inventor.”

Draco frowned, “Wait. So, you invented it and you’re just licensing it out?" he leaned forward to drive the point home, "Are you mad?”

“I didn’t have the resources to produce it myself,” she explained. “And as Minister of Magic, it would have been a huge conflict of interest if we started rolling it out in the UK.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Draco said bluntly. “You own the patent. Build it yourself. Get investors. Salazar—I’ll back you.”

“I seem to recall you telling me that introducing magi-tech to the Ministry was an idiotic idea.”

“I stand by that,” he replied sardonically, noting that her face was growing steadily redder, “but I would still back you and I'll tell you why: You aren't a businessperson, Granger. I was brought up to understand business, which is why I suspect that you've gone about this the entirely wrong way. I would never back such a short-sighted plan as rolling out magi-tech to Governments first. Producing these things for private commercialization though…” he pulled his phone from his pocket and waved it at her, “well now that's a business proposition I can see making us lots of money.”

“Smartphones?” She heard herself ask and felt her mouth pucker with confusion. “I guess… but I wanted computers for healers at St Mungo's and for Unspeakables. Gods, imagine what Unspeakables could do with some basic data analysis software!”

“And you shall only have your dream, Granger, once every witch and wizard in Britain is already addicted to their phones. Selling it to Government should have been your last priority.”

“Oh my god,” her mouth dropped open, “that's actually really clever, Malfoy!”

“Not sure about the tone of surprise there, Granger. I was second only to you in grades at Hogwarts.”

“Were you really?"

He tried very hard not to show her how much that comment offended him. 

He thought back on the years of obsession fueled competition. The way his father had bullied and bullied and bullied every time he had to concede that she had bested him in another test. 

He had believed that they had an unspoken, but full-fledged academic rivalry and it had fueled him even during some of his darkest moments. All the while, she had been oblivious.

Draco tilted his head back and let out a delighted laugh.

She scrunched up her nose and tilted her head in confusion.

“Are you going to share with the class?” 

“No,” he replied, his lips quirking up into a smile, “I don’t think I will.”

It was Granger who suggested they grab another drink.

But it was Draco who— in a stroke of inspiration as he looked out at the harbour— pointed a finger in the direction of the Opera House on its plinth, and said: "Let's go there."

Something about the outrageous shape of the building appealed to him. Perhaps it was how aesthetically appealing the clean lines were. He almost stumbled over his own feet as they climbed the many steps up to the entrance.

Where the glittering lights of the towering buildings overhead spilled into harbour, they created a mirror-like illusion. It almost appeared as if the city continued on below the surface, with the Opera House as the jewel in the crown.

“Excessive flair,” he muttered.

Granger, standing beside him, beamed as she looked out at the harbour. “Malfoy, it’s stunning.”

"It's got nothing on Paris."

When they walked through the doors she immediately went to buy them some drinks, urging him to find them a table. He took a moment to stand by a glass wall and admire the shimmering nightscape. It looked to him like the milky way had been swallowed by the sea.

He looked up in time to see Granger, two champagne flutes in hand. She was wearing a nice black dress. It was a simple construction, tapering at the waist and flaring to the knee but it fit her well. Even her hair was tamed into a sleek up-do. More than that though, he noticed the broad smile on her face.

When they were at school, he had heard people refer to her as the kind of girl who could have been 'hot' or pretty if she had put her mind to it. In his heart of hearts, his younger self had known she was attractive and deeply repressed that knowledge.

But he wasn't a confused, hateful teenaged boy anymore.

She wasn't the refined kind of polished that Astoria and his own mother were. Granger was… he didn't really know. Something else. He glanced at her sideways as she pulled up beside him with their drinks.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked as she handed him a flute.

“I was thinking about boats,” he lied.

“Boats?”

“Yes. And space.” (He panicked.) 

“Boats and space?”

“Yes,” he took a generous sip of wine.

“Remind me to show you Star Wars sometime,” Granger mused. “If you like boats and space, you'll like Star Wars."

He said nothing. Lest he say something even stupider.

Granger took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes in obvious delight. Draco caught himself staring as she hummed her approval, her features softening into something unguarded and peaceful.

“You look like you just drank some Draught of Peace.”

“I recall you botching that one,” she shot back, "you were hopping mad, if I recall."

“Me and half the class,” he replied smoothly, "But in my case it was sabotage. Goyle's cauldron melted and it got all over mine."

“Always an excuse.”

“Always a criticism,” he retorted, but there was absolutely no bite in his tone.

Their banter lulled as they both turned their gazes toward the twinkling harbour. Granger sighed wistfully, “My parents loved this city when we visited together, I remember taking them on a ferry ride. It was a beautiful afternoon, but it was windy. Dad’s hat flew straight into the water. He insisted we go back for it— it was long gone, of course.”

Draco listened, surprised at how easily her words painted the scene in his mind. He was imagining an older man with her wild, curly hair, only shorter and with more grey in it. In his mind, she looked like a younger version of her mother. Although he imagined her mother with straighter, auburn coloured hair.

For a fleeting moment, he envied the warmth in her memories. His own childhood had been warm at times, but also calculated. As he had grown older, every interaction had felt steeped in expectation.

Then, for a much longer moment, he wondered how Scorpius spoke about him to his friends

“It must have been nice, to have parents like that.”

Granger looked at him and smiled. “It was,” she admitted, “Though I didn’t always appreciate it at the time. Especially after— well, after everything with the war.”

“Potter once told me that you had to Obvliviate them.”

“It wasn’t easy,” she said, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “And it wasn't an obliviation exactly— I had to invent a rather complicated memory charm, but that's a story for another day. Actually, when I brought them back, things were just very different. My Dad was never quite the same. I think he forgave me, but he couldn’t forget.”

There was a penumbra of guilt that haunted her expression. He found himself wanting to say something comforting, but words failed him. Instead, he offered a simple truth.

“It seems reasonable,” he said, “that they’d struggle to trust magic after something like that.”

Granger blinked at him. “It does, doesn’t it? Ron never quite understood . He used to get so frustrated with them.”

“And now you’re back to Weasley. Do I need another drink for this?”

Granger laughed. “Probably. How about a cocktail, Malfoy? It feels like the place for it.”

He imagined the fruity toothaches some of his friends favoured. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

Why did witches do this? It felt like a test, and he hated tests he hadn’t prepared for. He stalked toward the bar and found himself standing directly next to Titus, who was nursing his own drink and pretending to be at one with the furniture. Draco ignored him.

The bartender was a young man with a sharp suit and an eager smile. “What can I get for you?”

“A Negroni for me,” Draco said. “And… a cocktail for my friend. Any recommendations?”

The bartender tilted his head. “Sure. What is she like?”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how would you describe her? Give me three words.”

Three words. That didn’t seem difficult. “Brilliant,” that came to mind immediately. “Empathetic,” he would have said 'bleeding heart' but felt that wouldn't have gone down as well. He hesitated on the third word, struggling to find one that truly encapsulated her. “Ruthless.”

“Ruthless?”

Titus gave up all pretenses and looked at Draco, his dark brows furrowed.

“It’s a compliment,” Draco snapped.

“Right,” the bartender was already grabbing for a bottle of rum and scooping ice into a glass, “I’ll make her a Moscow Mule— it's mellow but it has a bit of a kick to it. Where are you sitting?”

Draco handed over a stack of Muggle currency, brushing off the bartender’s offer to bring change.

He returned to find Granger happily people watching. She offered him a brief but warm smile as he sidled up to their table.

“Here,” he said, setting the drink in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked, eyeing the copper mug.

“A Moscow Mule. I didn't ask what’s in it.”

She took a sip and smiled. “It’s good."

He clinked the edge of her mug with his glass, "Cheers."

They fell into a comfortable silence after that. Enjoying their drinks and the view. He cast a look back at the bar. Titus was watching with keen interest, apparently having forgotten he was supposed to be unobtrusive.

"Don't you find," he said slyly, "That the Hogwarts curriculum has gone too far since Professor Anwar took over History of Magic."

Her reaction was a match strike and he was not disappointed. Anwar had been making waves lately for teaching the Goblin Wars with a rather more sympathetic lens than the more 'traditional' wizards appreciated.

"Malfoy! How can you possible say that? Professor Anwar is a much needed breath of fresh air!"

She continued talking, in the way that she did, a thousand miles per minute— never stopping to question why he had directed them down this path or waiting for him to offer his two cents.

Draco sipped his drink slowly and listened.

Reflections reverberated across the water like fragments of broken constellations that had been scattered, rough-shod across the surface . The crisp air was cold on their cheeks after the cosy warmth of the bar. Draco felt relaxed, despite the presence of Granger and despite the fact that she was still talking.

She walked a step ahead of him, her curls buoyed by her expressive gait.

“Are you coming, Malfoy? You know, you keep gaping at everything like a bloody tourist.”

He quickened his pace to fall in step beside her. "Malfoy's are born with an innate sense of appreciation for architecture. What are Granger's born with? Let me guess, an innate appreciation for—"

Hermione glanced back at him, waiting.

"Meddling. Excessive talking. A pathological need to be right?”

She rolled her eyes. “It's amazing really, how you grew to be even more insufferable than you were at Hogwarts. Why bother, Malfoy? You were already unendurable— the extra effort was redundant.”

“And yet you blackmailed me into spending time with you,” he shot back, “What does that say about you, Granger?”

“I never claimed to have sensible taste in companions,” she did not miss a beat.

Then they said in perfect unison: "Don't say anything about Harry!" "Like Potter!"

Granger sighed but he caught the edge of a smile teasing at her lips.

They strolled through Circular Quay, the sounds of the city echoing between their footsteps.

After a while, Granger stopped, leaning against the railing and gazed out at a ferry making its way across the harbour. Draco hesitated, then joined her, his hands resting on the cool metal.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like if you could return to the way it was?” she asked softly, her eyes fixed on the water.

“What— like go back to Wiltshire?”

“Go back to who you used to be,” she clarified. “To the person you were before the war. What if none of it had ever happened?”

Draco was quiet for a long moment, the question dragging between them.

“I think— I think that I wish none of that had ever happened with every fibre of my being. But I also think that I needed to learn that I am, at my core, a coward in order to become a better person. So I don't know, it's all a bit conflicted really.”

Granger turned to appraise him, there was an intensity in her gaze that made him wilt. “I don’t think young Draco was a coward. Misguided, maybe. Misinformed, definitely— but cowardice is choosing to take the easy road. I think you had a series of shit options and you tried very hard to not choose any of them. That's different to being a coward.”

“You’re being very generous, Granger. But in this instance, I think I may actually know more than you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Both unsure where to guide the current of conversation. “Come on,” she said, stepping back from the railing and brushing her hands on her coat. “Let's get to bed. I'm exhausted and we have an early start tomorrow.”

“Of course we do,” but he followed her without protest.

Titus Smith's footsteps called back to theirs.

As they grew nearer to their hotel, he noticed that Granger's steps were dragging and slightly uneven. When he looked at her to see what was amiss, he noticed her flushed cheeks.

“You’re drunk, Granger,” he observed, hands tucked into his pockets. “You're staggering around like a newborn foal.”

She scoffed, waving a hand. “I am not staggering, Malfoy. I am merely... acquainting myself with gravity in a more conscious manner.”

“Very anthropological of you.”

They passed a quiet alley and rounded the corner to an impressive view of the Harbour Bridge. Draco paused for a moment to admire the view again.

“You know,” she mused, “for someone who has next to no exposure to muggle culture, you’ve been very enamored with the city tonight. I expected you to sneer at all the muggle things.”

“I don’t sneer at muggle culture,” he snapped.

She snorted. “Right. As if you haven't always had a superiority complex the size of Romilda Vane's new knockers.”

Draco let out a shocked laugh. “Not very friendly or ladylike of you, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes, but did look a little ashamed of herself.

Reflexively, Draco checked behind them. There was Titus Smith. Still watching. Maybe a quarter of a block away.

Draco turned back, suppressing the unease curling at the base of his spine.

“You're either worried or intrigued,” Granger noted, tilting her head. “Are you plotting something? Or are you thinking about Romilda Vane's breasts?”

“A little of Column A, a little of Column B?”

She huffed a small laugh.

They reached the hotel, stepping into the dimly lit hallway, Granger’s hand grazing his as they both reached for the railing at the same time.

It bothered him that he could still feel her touch moments later. Had it really been so long since he last experienced human touch?

Their ride up in the lift was silent. He filled his head with thoughts of Scorpius and their task ahead, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

She reached her door first, leaning against the frame as she turned to face him. “Well, this is me.”

“They don't call you the 'brightest with of our age' for nothing, do they?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and hesitated as if considering whether to say something else, but instead, she merely sighed and reached for the doorknob. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Goodnight, Granger.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Draco lingered for a breath before turning toward his own room.

The mini-bar was austere, but he was desperate for a drink. Draco poured himself a whiskey, swirling it absently before taking a slow sip. The warmth roiled in his chest, but his mind remained lazer focused as he sifted through the events of the evening.

Titus— always there, always watching. Too casual. Too conveniently placed.

Draco had assumed Nellaria Plumb had assigned him to babysit Granger or, failing that, it was an attempt to keep an eye on him. But something about tonight sat wrong.

His conversation with Granger over dinner replayed in his mind. The way she had spoken about Maginullium. She had been strangely detached for Granger, who was usually chronically over-invested in everything. She had seemed almost dismissive of its importance beyond research. It really seemed that she hadn’t even considered that it was something worth capitalizing on— that or she was keeping secrets.

Draco had been considering its significance.

He exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with a measured clink. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became: the ICW wasn’t just concerned about Maginullium being sold to magical Governments. There was a deeper fear at play. The question remained though: Why? And why were they keeping an eye on the person who created it?

Titus wasn’t here to watch him, though it had been clever of Nellaria Plumb to set it up by mentioning his criminal past. He was most certainly charged with watching her.

He contemplated this, putting it next to the information he had received from Miles Bletchley some weeks earlier. Bletchley had some interesting things to say about the way the election had been handled. Things he had not yet shared with Granger. He got the sense that there were also things she had not yet shared with him.

Draco tapped his fingers against the glass. He would need more information before he told her the full depth of his suspicions.

He took another sip of whiskey.

It was a game now. A slow, delicate chess match and Draco wasn't sure he would be able to resist putting himself on the board.

Chapter Text

The hotel corridor was filled with the distinctive buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Titus Smith: Auror, and reluctant babysitter to two of the UKs most famous (or infamous) magical citizens, leaned against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest as he watched Hermione Granger disappear into her room. She didn’t spare him so much as a glance before closing the door with a decisive click. A moment later, Draco Malfoy did the same, tossing Titus a lazy smirk before shutting his own door.

Titus exhaled slowly and pushed off the wall as he padded towards their respective doors. He paused in front of their rooms and listened for a moment. He heard nothing.

But he didn’t trust them. In fact, he knew he couldn’t trust them.

For now, at least, they seemed content to play along with the charade. It was wearing thin though, pretending that they weren’t almost openly plotting something right in front of him.

And there was also something about the way Granger had smiled earlier… she had been very tight-lipped and almost too sweet. It had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Titus sighed again and headed for the lift. Babysitting Granger and Malfoy wasn’t exactly his dream assignment, but the boss had insisted. While he’d usually take that as a compliment, this job was starting to feel more like a drag.

The hotel gym was small and tucked into a corner of the ground floor with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbour. He had enjoyed staring out at the ferries slowly making their way across the water as he worked out.

Grabbing a pair of dumbbells, he began his usual routine, the rhythmic motion giving his mind room to wander. He thought about Granger and Malfoy and the way they bickered like an old married couple. But they were both sharp, that was undeniable. While they’d been cooperative enough on the surface, they had been nothing short of blatant about the fact that they were not here to investigate potential potion suppliers.

And Malfoy- Merlin, that smirk of his! He was practically begging for a punch to the face half the time. Granger, on the other hand, was harder to pin down. She was methodical and deliberate. If anyone was plotting, it was probably her.

Titus set the dumbbells down with a clank, running a hand through his damp hair as he moved to the pull-up bar. His grip tightened around the metal as he lifted himself up. He appreciated the burn in his arms. It grounded him.

He needed to figure out how to report his suspicions to his superiors. What could he say? That they were suspiciously good at pretending to be innocent? How could he report that he didn’t trust the way Malfoy seemed to enjoy needling him just a little too much?

He dropped back to the floor, shaking his head. “They’re already driving me insane,” he muttered to himself.

By the time Titus finished his workout, his skin was damp with sweat. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and headed for the change rooms, ready for a shower and then bed.

The water was hot and steam quickly filled the small space. He leaned against the cool tiles for a moment, appreciating the juxtaposition of temperatures as he simultaneously let the heat seep into his shoulders and cooled his forehead on the ceramic.

He turned off the water and grabbed a fresh towel, wrapping it around his hips as he stepped out into the changing area.

He reached for his bag and rummaged for another towel to dry his hair. His fingers brushed against something unfamiliar. It was a hard, flat object tucked into the corner of his bag. He frowned and pulled it out.

It was a magnet. Shaped like a kangaroo.

His brow furrowed. “What in Merlin's...?"

The magnet began to glow.

Before he could process it the air around him shimmered, and a familiar tug pulled at his navel. His surroundings blurred and the tiled walls of the gym vanished.

He landed with a thud on soft, damp ground, the scent of saltwater and humid earth filling his nose.

Titus groaned, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He blinked as his vision cleared to reveal an extremely rocky shoreline. He was surrounded by strange creatures. There were massive tortoises, colourful crabs, and huge lizards that scuttled around frenetically. All seemed entirely unfazed by his sudden arrival.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. A Portkey! That bloody kangaroo magnet.

"Fuck!"

He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his wet hair as realisation dawned.

Those sneaky, conniving bastards.

“Granger,” he muttered darkly, the name a curse on his lips. “And bloody Malfoy.”

One of the tortoises nearby let out a slow, wheezy grunt as if it were mocking him. Titus glared at it before flopping back onto the sand with a resigned groan. 

There was a soft knock on Draco's door. Three taps, as they had discussed in their text messages much earlier in the day.

"Come in."

He sat on the edge of the small table in his hotel room, trying to appear casual. He wouldn't tell her, but he had been pacing with nervous energy for the past half hour.

Granger came in, looking a peculiar cross between smug and unnerved. She perched on the edge of the bed and shrugged, her expression conveying mild discomfort. “The Portkey worked perfectly.”

Draco chuckled, a low, disbelieving sound. “I thought there’d be more commotion. Or at least some last-ditch attempt to thwart us. He was very smug about tailing us everywhere.”

“I was prepared for it to go wobbly,” Granger admitted, chewing at her thumbnail. (Yuck.) “But no, nothing. I saw him touch the Portkey right after his shower. We timed everything perfectly.”

"I knew that's why you were so determined to be the one to plant it in his things!" he crowed, "You just wanted to perve on the poor man in the shower!"

Granger coloured, "I did no such thing! I only saw him briefly in a towel and I'm practically old enough to be his mother, Malfoy!"

He looked at her sceptically. "Okay, fine. It was all above the line and completely professional. By the way - good work on acting tipsy. It was a nice touch."

She preened a little, "I thought so. You didn't have to be such an arse though."

“I couldn't just start being nice, could I? He would have known we were colluding for sure. Poor Titus. Do you think he’s pacing right now, cursing our names?”

“Probably,” her lips twitched with amusement. 

Draco snorted at the mental image but then sobered slightly. “Still… that was almost too easy. Do you think we’ll live to regret this?”

“Well. No use worrying about it now.”

They sat for a moment, their heart rates elevated with residual adrenaline.

"You don't really think Nell was telling the truth about wanting to assign him for security, do you?" she asked.

He went over to the mini bar and found another tiny bottle of whiskey, silently he held it up, gesturing that he would pour her one. She shook her head no.

"I think," he said slowly, pouring himself a measure, "that Nellaria Plumb is possibly just a piece on the chessboard. I think getting rid of Titus Smith was necessary and one of the additional perks is that I think we're about to find out exactly how concerned Nell is about our presence in this country."

Granger hummed, considering. "And what if you're right about Nell having ulterior motives?" 

He took a slow sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care.

"Then," he said, voice smooth but edged with certainty, "we're already neck deep in something much larger, that we don't fully understand yet."

Granger exhaled slowly, then nodded and stood up.

The weight of the conversation hung between them, and for a rare, unguarded moment, there was nothing but quiet understanding.

Then, with a decisive nod, Granger turned for the door. "Give me your phone. I'll wipe the messages before I sleep," she murmured, casting him one last glance. "Get some rest."

He handed it over and she left without saying another word, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Draco leaned back against the table, rolling his glass between his fingers as he stared at the empty space she’d occupied moments ago.

He gave himself a moment. Then he sighed softly and got ready for bed.

Chapter Text

Draco was in that weird, ephemeral state between sleep and wakefulness when he was suddenly jolted over the line by sharp knocking on the door. Groaning, he blinked over at the clock on the bedside table. Barely 7:30am.

“Malfoy! Get up!” it was Granger, “We’re already late!”

Draco stifled another groan deep into his pillow and then rolled over and inhaled deeply, trying to summon a superficial calm. “Go away, Granger.”

Apparently, this would not be borne. The door began to rattle violently.

“We have things to do today, and I don’t want to miss them because you decided you needed more beauty sleep! All the sleep in the world won't do anything for the perpetual scowl you walk around with.”

He scowled.

Then, being a pragmatic man who only ever bet on the winning Abraxan, he swept his legs over the side of the bed.

A deep ache bloomed in the base of his spine and travelled down into his legs. It was strange, given that all he had done the previous day was follow Granger around Sydney and hang out in a library. Then again, he was getting older.

He shuffled toward the door, yanked it open, and made sure his scowl was deeper by at least thirty percent.

“Happy? Draco Malfoy with his hair unbrushed. I ought to have put some kind of clause in our contract about waking me.”

Granger stood there, bright eyed and dressed in very practical attire. She was wearing jeans and a lightweight jacket, paired with some very sturdy looking boots. Certainly an improvement from the mud-caked wellies and the orange, soup-stained sweaters. Unlike him, her hair was brushed. Unlike him, brushing didn't seem to make much difference.

"What contract?"

"Metaphor, Granger," he waved a hand dismissively.

“Thrilled to have proof of life,” she replied crisply. “Now get dressed. I’ll be downstairs in twenty minutes. If you're late, I might even leave without you.”

“Promises, promises.”

After laughing in the face of Granger's deadline, Draco arrived downstairs forty-five minutes later. He was laden with pastry and his hair was restored to its usual glory.

The harried concierge had directed him across the street to a small park overlooking the harbour. It was cool and overcast, not at all like the sun-drenched weather they had experienced the day before.

With distaste, Draco observed some joggers in their tight muggle clothing. Otherwise, it seemed nobody else was around.

“Finally,” Granger removed a disillusionment charm and strolled up to him. “What took you so long?”

He blinked but ultimately chose to say nothing about the blatant abuse of magic in muggle spaces.

“I was making myself presentable,” he replied, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “You wouldn't want me accompanying you around Sydney under-groomed.” He eyed her hair significantly.

"We all survived seven years of you looking smug and windswept at Hogwarts; I think I could manage.”

“Smug and windswept,” Draco repeated, “How specific. Sounds appealing, actually.”

Granger looked pointedly at his hair, eyebrows raised in concern.

He touched it self-consciously and she smirked.

It was fucking perfect. 

Fifteen minutes later, they were descending the steps of a subterranean building. Granger had informed him that it was a train station. It appeared to Draco that, other than the same concept of trains, it was nothing like King's Cross. This station seemed frozen in time. It was almost unbelievably claustrophobic and smelled strongly of stale air.

The walls were covered with smooth subway tiles, gleaming faintly under warm, dim lights. Vintage posters advertised Muggle events and products Draco couldn’t begin to understand. One was about a 'World Fair' while another proclaimed the virtues of something called 'Mortein'.

Granger walked briskly ahead, her bag slung over one shoulder, as though she were supremely unconcerned. Her hand swayed lazily at her side.

Draco trailed behind her, taking in the strange environment. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but the distinct scent of metal and oil in the fetid air wasn’t exactly welcoming.

He had the disconcerting urge to take her hand and let her lead him through this underworld like Orpheus.

He shook the thought clear from his mind.

“Where are we again?”

“Museum Station,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “From here, we’ll take the train to Birrigal’s Hill. It’s a magical precinct in Sydney.”

“Is this really necessary when we're both licensed to apparate?”

She snorted. “Oh, please. You’d rather apparate blind, directly into a crowd of unsuspecting wizards and witches, I suppose? Besides, this isn’t just any train. You’ll see.”

They reached the platform, which was bustling with Muggles of all shapes and sizes. Here was a child, tugging on the end of a balloon, and there was a corpulent man with a kind smile and a thick mane of lustrous black hair. Draco wanted to goggle at them, but Granger kept walking, her pace steady and purposeful. Eventually they approached the end of the platform.

He frowned, noticing that no one else seemed to be heading in their direction. The crowd thinned the farther they walked, until they found themselves alone.

A banshee-like shriek rent the air around them, sending a violent shudder down Draco’s spine. His fingers twitched towards his wand, buried deep within his pocket. Every sinew and muscle in his body was alert and ready for an attack. Was the sky itself splitting open above them, perhaps?

No. It was just a train.

The two-storey monstrosity came barreling into the station, its wheels screeching against the rails with a sound that Draco now understood as metal being murdered.

There was the sound of metal buckling under forces both dark and best left alone. And yet, instead of scattering for the nearest exit, the Muggles down the platform shifted forward, utterly unfazed, waiting to board like commuting zombies.

He took a deliberate step back, nostrils flaring.

The doors hissed open like the maw of some unnatural creature, and downstream he watched another wave of indifferent commuters pour out.

Draco exhaled slowly and turned back to face Granger on their abandoned corner.

“If you think I’m getting on that thing,” his voice was flat and serious, “you are gravely mistaken.”

“Get on, Malfoy,” she said, then grabbed his shoulder and pushed him firmly through the open doors.

The interior of the carriage was nothing like the Muggle commuter trains he’d glimpsed back in the UK. (They had an odd name for it: the Toob.)

It was nearly empty, with the exception of a diminutive older woman who nodded at them before disappearing into a seat near the back.

He wondered if they had stepped back in time. Or into another dimension, perhaps.

Instead of rows of chairs, there were comfortable lounges and love-seats, including what appeared to be a velvet chaise lounge, strewn about- higgledy piggledy. There were portraits hung on the walls of the carriage, between small portholes that replaced windows. Underfoot was the lushest persian rug money could buy.

Fading signs were nailed haphazardly across the space, their words flickering with occasional enchantment:

• No Apparating while train is moving!

• Next Stop: Wherever We Bloody Feel Like!

Mismatched bar stools with patterned upholstery were lined up against a long wooden bar that ran along one side. A rusty ceiling fan spun idly above them. With a start, Draco realized its blades were enchanted to whisper local gossip as they turned.

In short, it looked like an interior designer had come along, vomited up their lunch, and then called it a day and gone home.

Draco wrinkled his nose and looked for a place to sit.

Granger slid into a seat by a porthole, patting the spot beside her. “Come on, Malfoy. It’s only a ten-minute ride. I promise it won’t kill you.”

Draco sighed and sat down, trying to fold himself in as gracefully as he could. His knee brushed against hers as he did.

He heard her intake of breath but didn’t comment. As the train began to move, the cityscape outside blurred into panoply of grey.

“Try to lighten up, Malfoy."

After some time of quiet watchfulness, the train began to slow. Draco caught sight of a hill rising in the distance. The street running up the hill was lined with market stalls. Birrigal’s Hill.

“We’re here, ”Granger stood and smoothed her jacket.

The hill was very stimulating.

It was a riot of colour and sound. Magical folk bustled between stalls, their arms full of street food, enchanted trinkets or rare ingredients. Children clutched over-sized lollipops that shimmered like rainbows and smelled like sugar.

Draco stood at the edge of the street, reluctant to step out into it.

“Well?” Granger asked, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. “What do you think?”

He glanced at her, noting the faint flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked happy.

“It’s… loud.”

Granger laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. “You'll survive.”

She grabbed his arm again (she was doing that a lot) and began leading him through the crowd. He let her because the noise and colour was already destabilising.

If he could let himself relax, it was a little like a farmer's market. Draco liked farmer's markets.

The further they ventured up Birrigal’s Hill, the more alive it seemed. The street twisted and climbed at unpredictable angles.

Something new was revealed every few feet. Whether it was an ancient looking shop with peeling signage that declared it was full of 'Olde Curiosities' or a potioneer selling boutique brews out of a trunk, Draco found that he suddenly wanted to see it all.

He could have done without the street performer juggling flaming mandrakes dangerously close to his hair though.

Granger stopped abruptly in front of a stall draped in deep purple fabric, nearly causing Draco to crash into her. He took a step back, scowling.

“A little warning next time, Granger.”

“Look at these,” she said, ignoring him. She leaned forward, reaching for a sleek, dappled brown and white feather. It had been lying on a small plinth, between a row of enchanted lockets and an unlabelled, tiny glass bottle containing a miniscule amount of shimmering sand. The feather glinted faintly under the market lights. A thin, leather cord was knotted around the quill.

Draco arched a brow. “It’s a feather. Congratulations.”

The vendor, a stout wizard with a thick grey beard, grinned at them. “Not just any feather, mate, that’s a Boomerang Feather. It has been enchanted to return to its owner, no matter where they are. You tie it to your bag, coat, or wand. It doesn’t matter. If it gets lost or stolen, it’ll find its way back.”

Granger turned the feather over in her fingers, “It’s from a kookaburra, isn’t it?” she traced the black markings near the tip.

“Sure is,” the vendor said proudly. “Real strong magic in them, if you know how to channel it. Bind it properly, and the minute it's lost, it’ll come whipping right back to you.”

Draco made a skeptical noise.

Granger shot him a look. “You scoff now, but when I don’t lose anything on this trip, we’ll see who’s laughing.”

She handed over some money and immediately tied the feather to her bag. Draco didn’t bother buying one. He didn’t lose things.

The shopping continued in much the same fashion. Granger flitted from vendor to vendor with a sense of chaotic purpose, her sharp questions and quick decisions kept Draco on his toes.

It made it rather hard for a man to enjoy a market, to be honest.

She bought potions, enchanted ropes, and even a small, rune-covered compass that claimed to 'point the way to your heart’s desire.'

“That thing’s a scam if I’ve ever seen one,” Draco pointed out as she tucked the compass into her pocket.

“Maybe,” she admitted, “but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Maybe it will be the thing that leads us right to the Fountain.”

“Prepared for what, exactly? Pointing me toward a hot bath with a naked, buxom witch in it?"

She ignored him.

Draco's patience had started to fray by the time they reached the summit of the hill. The crowd was thinner but he was sweaty and his ears buzzed.

“Please tell me you have everything you need,” he put the bags down with an exaggerated groan.

Granger consulted her list, then nodded. “Mmhm, I think so.”

“Thank Merlin,” He glanced around, his eyes landing on some colourful umbrellas standing guard outside of a small cafe. They looked bright and welcoming. “How about a break, Granger? My legs could use a rest.”

She followed his gaze, then nodded. “Sure.”

They settled themselves on a table on the small patio. A server appeared to take their orders and Granger took the opportunity to tell him the history of the Birrigal's Hill magical quarter in elaborate detail.

Not that he'd asked.

He felt like shoving the tea down her throat when it arrived, just to get her to stop for a moment.

But once the warm cup was in her hands she suddenly became uncharacteristically quiet. She stared out at the market below, forgetting to drink. For a moment, Draco let himself watch her. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her brow from the heat.

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” he asked, breaking the silence.

She glanced at him, startled. “What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the market. “The chaos. The noise. I thought you liked it? You seemed like you did earlier.”

She laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. “I suppose I do. I was just thinking about something else for a moment.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Not what I expected, Granger.”

“And what, exactly, did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “British Granger was more predictable. British Granger likes library catalogues, constitutional walks, and endlessly submitting far-fetched legislation to the Wizengamot.”

Her lips quirked downward but she didn’t reply. Instead, she took another sip of her tea, her gaze drifting back to the market.

Draco watched her for a moment longer, then shook his head as if to rid himself of a thought.

(The thought was that he was a little afraid he had hurt Granger's feelings. Something he was fairly certain he had never once worried about before in his life.)

For a moment, the noise of the market seemed to fade into the background. The sun shifted, casting long shadows across the patio. It occurred to Draco, perhaps belatedly, that he had entirely forgotten his plot to be rid of her.

Granger’s voice cut through this startling realisation, brisk and practical as ever. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

The moment slipped away as quickly as it had come.

“Of course. Can’t let a single second of productivity go to waste.”

She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. Draco followed her out of the café, the clinking of glasses filling the air as the server cleared their table.

Granger weaved through the colourful marquees with precision. She seemed entirely focused on something.

“What exactly are we looking for?” he raised his voice to be heard.

“A lead,” she replied vaguely, glancing back at him. “Anything that might point us closer to the Fountain. We know from our research that Fairweather was in the vicinity of Sydney.”

Granger stopped suddenly in front of a shop with a weathered wooden sign that read The Wandering Quokka in faded gold letters. The windows were cluttered with dusty books and strange artefacts.

“Here,” she said, motioning for him to follow.

“Granger,” he groaned, "Why is it always books with you?"

She pushed the door open and disappeared inside. He followed a moment after, a faint chime announced their arrival.

The shop smelled musty and slightly metallic, like old coins. There were shelves lining each of the walls and they were crammed with books of all shapes and sizes.

A wiry old wizard peered at them from behind a perfectly round spectacles perched on a crooked nose. He had the exact countenance of a startled owl. His sharp eyes flicked between them from his vantage point behind the counter.

“Hello” he rasped, “What brings you to my store today?”

“Hello,” Granger stepped up to the counter. “We're here doing research on local myths and stories. Specifically, we're looking for anything related to the a source of water with extremely magical properties.”

The wizard raised an eyebrow. “A pair of Fountainheads are you? Bit of a tall tale, that one.”

“Fountainheads?”

The wizard studied her for a moment, his gaze calculating. “Truth-seekers. People who believe in the old tales."

Granger shot him a small, hopeful look.

"And do you know anything about the old stories?"

"Depends on what you’re willing to pay.”

Draco, who had been perusing the nearest shelf with mild disinterest, turned sharply. “What exactly are you charging for a bit of information?”

“Depends on the information.”

Granger reached into her bag and pulled out a few gold coins, setting them on the counter. The wizard glanced down but didn’t move to take them.

“I’ll need more than that, love,” he said. “Especially for stories as old as the one you're asking about.”

Draco frowned and stepped forward, pulling out his own pouch. “How much?”

“For this? Fifty carracks,” the wizards grin widened.

“Fifty?” Draco scoffed. “That’s robbery.”

The wizard shrugged. “Knowledge doesn’t come cheap, mate. Especially the kind you’re after.”

“Fine,” Draco muttered, reaching into his pouch. He plucked out a handful of Muggle bills and placed them on the counter. “That should more than cover it.”

“Don't you have any wizarding currency?”

“No, Granger forgot to remind me."

Granger let out an outraged yowl.

“Do I look like, a money changer?”

Draco stared at him, incredulous. “It’s money, isn't it? You can exchange it anywhere.”

“Not without a bit of effort,” the wizard shot back. “You want information? You’ll need wizarding currency. Carracks, to be clear.”

Granger pinched the bridge of her nose, her patience visibly thinning. “Honestly, Malfoy. How did you come all the way to Australia and not think to check whether the magical community has its own currency?”

“I didn’t exactly have time to stop at Gringotts between you deciding you were coming to Australia and you booking a portkey without my knowledge or consent!”

Granger turned back to the wizard, pulling out her own pouch. “I’ll pay,” she said briskly, sliding fifty carracks across the counter.

Draco scowled but said nothing, watching as the wizard swept the coins into a pouch and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment from beneath the counter. He unrolled it carefully, revealing a rough sketch of the surrounding landscape. With a gnarled finger, he pointed to a spot near the edge of the map.

“Here,” the wizard said. “About two hundred kilometers west. A network of caves. Old magic. It might be worth a look. Folks tell all sorts of strange stories about them.”

Granger leaned in, her eyes scanning the map intently. “Who tells these stories?”

“People,” the wizard replied with a shrug. “The stories aren't all good mind you. A lot of folks that explore those caves end up getting hurt or turned around and spat back out.”

“Excellent,” Draco muttered under his breath.

The wizard chuckled, rolling up the map and handing it to Granger. “Good luck."

“You realize he probably just sent us on a wild-goose chase.”

Granger glanced at him, tucking the map into her bag. “It’s a lead. And that’s more than we had an hour ago.”

"But how did you know where to go to look for it? I just don't understand."

She shrugged.

"This isn't my first quest, Malfoy. I've developed a bit of an instinct for this kind of thing."

Draco frowned. The sun was beginning to slide lower in the sky. Time marched on.

Draco did not trust the old wizard. He wasn't even sure that he trusted Granger. He couldn't deny her confidence though. It made him hold his tongue.

“On your next quest,” she said, glancing at him with a faint smirk, “you might think to plan a little in advance. It might save you some embarrassment.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

She laughed, and despite himself, Draco felt his irritation ebb slightly.

They continued down the hill. Golden afternoon light spilled into a small, grassy clearing. It was filled with what appeared to be floating canoes. They were gleaming and sleek.

“What do we have here?”

“Sky Canoes” Granger replied shortly, glancing at him. “They’re the local mode of magical travel. They're charmed in a similar way to brooms- you use the oars to steer and generate forward momentum.”

Draco stepped closer to inspect one of the canoes, his grin widening as he ran a hand along its polished surface. “Brilliant.”

“They look unstable,” she said flatly, crossing her arms.

Draco chuckled, turning to face her. “Afraid of heights, Granger?”

“It's not the heights that concern me,” she snapped. “It's the thought of plummeting to my death.”

“Aren't you a witch? What do you think cushioning charms were invented for?”

She muttered something under her breath but followed him toward a canoe. A small, hand-painted sign next to it read: Self-Drive Rentals: 5 Carracks Per Hour.

"Well…" she said reluctantly, "I'm keen to go and check out the caves this afternoon if we can. And I suppose this might be the most efficient way to get there."

She fished a handful of carracks from her bag, dropping them into an enchanted money box with a clink. “There,” she said, “Now let’s see if we can figure this out.”

Draco climbed in first, settling into the back seat of the canoe. It wobbled slightly as he shifted his weight and gave himself a moment to adjust to it.

Granger climbed in after him, gripping the edges of the canoe tightly as it bobbed under her weight.

Instinctively, Draco understood what he needed to do to get them really flying. He picked up an oar, that was resting at the bottom of the boat by his feet. Then he lifted it and began to paddle.

As Draco dipped the oar into the air, it felt like slicing through water. The canoe responded instantly, gliding forward as though caught in an invisible current. He angled it upwards slightly. It rose several feet.

Granger shrieked. He gave her a moment.

"Are you ready? You'll need to paddle too."

“No,” she replied bluntly. “But let’s get it over with.”

He flicked his wand, deftly untethering them. The canoe gave a great lurch upward and Granger shrieked indelicately. He saw her clutch the sides of the canoe with white-knuckles as they rose higher and the ground began to fall away beneath them.

Freedom. That was the word that came to mind as the wind whipped his hair and the horizon stretched out before him. The cityscape below them began to give way to bush and green hills. All the while, he let himself feel comforted by the routine physicality of moving the oars through the air.

“This is incredible."

Granger was too busy muttering under her breath to respond.

“Come on, Granger,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “even you have to admit this is better than trudging through the wilderness on foot.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’ll admit it when we land safely.”

Draco laughed, leaning back again as the canoe glided smoothly through the air. He glanced at Granger, noting the blush rising up her neck.

“Relax, You’re in good hands.”

Granger's focus shifted to the landscape below, a look of grim pragmatism on her face.

The mountains loomed closer, their ancient, weathered peaks reached up to stroke the sky with muted energy, as though they had long since given up hope.

After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, the caves came into view.

Nestled between two cliffs, the first looked almost like part of the mountain itself. It was a gaping, dark mouth between a set of craggy, unkempt teeth. The canoe descended slowly, disturbing the grass beneath them as they touched down just outside the caves.

Granger wasted no time climbing out, her legs shaky. Draco followed, fiddling with his wand as he took in their surroundings.

The cave was massive. He stepped closer, his boots crunched against the dry grass. An odd sense of anticipatory fear crept over him. Granger adjusted her bag, her expression unreadable as she stared at the cave entrance. After a moment, she glanced at Draco, her gaze steady. “Are you ready?”

A gust of wind whispered through the cave’s entrance, carrying a scent that made the fine hairs on Draco’s arms stand on end. He looked to see if she had felt it too, but she didn’t betray a trace of fear.

(Gryffindors.)

“Ready,” he lied.

Together, they stepped toward the cave, the weight of the moment settling over him like a shroud.

Whatever lay within those crumbling walls, one thing was clear: the only way forward was through.

Chapter Text

The air in the cave pressed heavier the deeper they ventured. Hermione felt the magic vibrating her bones like a tuning fork. It wasn’t hostile. Well, maybe a little hostile.

They both had their wands out and had cast Lumos, lighting the path ahead. They hadn't spoken about it, but neither of them had cast a Maxima. There was an unspoken, creeping feeling that it would be best to avoid courting unwanted attention.

She tightened her grip on her wand, her eyes darting towards the walls which were slick with condensation. Ahead, the uneven path melted into a still and complete blackness.

Hermione counted herself among the ranks of those blessed with a powerful brain. But it was beyond her mortal comprehension how he could manage to exude such arrogance while swerving between stalactites.

After some time, the passage subtly widened and their first challenge came into view. There was a pearlescent barrier that indicated some very tricky rune-work. It was blocking their path. Hermione flicked her wand at it and a complex tapestry of magical threads revealed itself to them.

“Warding glyphs,” Malfoy muttered, standing beside her. His voice was low and thoughtful. He ran his hand just above the surface of the air where the runes shimmered faintly. “Not your garden-variety Protego derivatives, either. These are anchored in geomantic ley lines. Old. Very old. We just have to-"

“Anchored runes are tricky,” Hermione cut in, leaning over his shoulder for a closer look. “Break them in the wrong sequence, and they’ll rebound.”

He looked annoyed, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Leave it to the professional, Granger. Unlike you, I don’t rely on academic over-preparation. I have instinct on my side and experience with this kind of magic."

She bristled but stepped back. Watching him work was both frustrating and fascinating. His movements were precise and deliberate.

From his trouser pocket he pulled a small vial. Inside was a syrupy compound in shifting versions of violet and silver. Malfoy uncorked it briskly.

“Transmuting solvent,” he explained, as though she’d never seen it before. “Should destabilize the ley anchors long enough to disable the runes.”

“Draco Malfoy, Merlin's gift to the wizarding world.”

He ignored her, applying the solvent in precise lines and muttering incantations under his breath. The runes flickered, then hissed faintly as they faded. Malfoy straightened, brushing his hands off with an air of smug satisfaction.

“I suppose you’re not completely useless,” Hermione remarked, her tone tinged with regretful admiration.

“Complimentary as ever,” he retorted, slipping the empty vial back into his coat. “Shall we?”

“By all means, lead the way.”

There was an insistent buzzing that had begun to intensify. It prickled at the edges of her senses, creating coiling ropes of tension in her chest. She was fairly sure it was an ancient and oppressive magic trying to intimidate her.

If so, it was effective.

Her boots squelched against the damp cave floor. She grimaced as moisture seeped into her socks and settled into the bamboo fibers, making them heavy and damp.

The cave smelled of mud and the raw, loamy scent of minerals, which to her was both acrid and organic. It sliced through her awareness like a paper cut.

A shiver worked its way down from her shoulders to the bottom of her spine.

And because she was in possession of a feline propensity for curiosity, she reached out and touched a nearby stalagmite. She recoiled. The surface was both wet and unusually hard. The calcifications were rough under the pads on her fingertips.

“Granger, are you okay?”

Hermione withdrew her hand and turned to face her companion. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“You went quiet, I'm guessing you're silently judging my performance back there. How was it? Do I pass muster?"

"Do you often worry about women judging your performance?" she vollied and then nearly cursed out loud because she hadn't meant to flirt.

He had definitely noticed.

"Granger," he drawled slowly, the corners of his mouth twisted upward, "I thought women appreciated a man who is eager to please. Why shouldn't I aim to improve?"

She stopped moving abruptly. So, he stopped moving abruptly and then turned to look at her, smirking.

"Gahhh!" She said, frustrated with him. Or maybe with herself. Or maybe with it all, really.

He laughed at her and continued on. The low rumble of it echoed in her mind like distant brontide. The light of his Lumos cast soft shadows on the walls of the cave.

The path ahead twisted and turned, narrowing further as the air grew colder. Hermione couldn’t shake the tight dread encircling her rib-cage. Her focus drifted back to Malfoy, who walked just ahead, his wand light glinting off the walls.

“Enjoying yourself, Granger?” he asked, voice echoing loudly off the stone around them and startling her slightly.

“What could be better than a crepuscular adventure? All the more thrilling when there is threatening ancient magics tickling the back of your neck.”

“Beats being stuck behind a desk at the Ministry, though, doesn't it?” he pressed.

She hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line as she considered.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. The monotony of endless meetings and political wrangling had left her feeling restless and disconnected. But this? The problem-solving and the adrenaline was invigorating in a way she hadn’t realized she had missed.

“I’ll admit it has its moments,” she said finally. “Though I could do without the constant feeling of ominous threat that seems to be lurking.”

“Where’s your Gryffindor spirit, Granger? I thought you thrived on danger. What was it they used to call you in the Prophet? The Lioness of Gryffindor?"

“If I ever hear you call me that, I’ll hex you.”

“Noted.”

“Let’s hope Millicent Bullstrode-Flint never finds out about this. I'm in no mood to read about how Hermione Granger’s midlife crisis led her to make questionable decisions and probably break several international laws in an attempt to aid her former nemesis.”

“Two things," Malfoy said. "First: midlife crisis?” he feigned offense. “Granger, I’m in my prime!”

“If this is your prime, I’d hate to see you past it.”

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart, as though wounded and announced to the stalagmites, “She is a cruel witch.”

"Second?" she prompted.

"Former nemesis? Since when? I quite liked being your nemesis."

"It depends on the hour. No… the minute. Sometimes, when you are very, very quiet, I think to myself, 'Oh, he's not so bad. I shall allow myself to move past his many transgressions' and then you usually open your mouth and it's back to being nemesises. Nemesai?"

He shrugged. "Nemeses."

"You see," she pointed out, "that's exactly the behavior I'm talking about. Insufferable!"

"You asked."

She did not reply.

As they continued on, Hermione found herself dwelling on Malfoy's precise spell-work. It irked her but she had to admit that he was very competent. He had tricks up his sleeve she wouldn't mind stealing.

As much as she hated to admit it, she feared the faint stirrings of camaraderie really were beginning to  linger between them. Though, if anyone asked, she’d call it begrudging toleration. No, she'd deflect.

The path ahead twisted and turned, the temperature dropping. The floor was slippery with water, and their footing became precarious.

Suddenly, up ahead she could see the cave came to an abrupt taper. There was a jagged gap. A crawl space, not much larger than she was. As they got closer, she eyed it with trepidation, turning to Malfoy to appraise his physique in the wand light.

"Do you think you'll fit?" 

"That's what she-"

"Malfoy!"

He laughed and then looked at the small entrance and judged it, tilting his head to the side.

"I think I'll be okay, but you go first, in case I get stuck."

She nodded her agreement, put her wand in her mouth, and got down on her hands and knees. The cold stone bit into her hands and she hated to think what gunk might now be coating them, but she pushed onward. The space was tight as she moved through it, uncomfortably so.

Also uncomfortable was the fact that she had just heard Malfoy squeezing himself in behind her and realized that he would have a prime view of her derriere. She hoped it was too dark for him to make out much.

"Remind me again why we didn't just-" Malfoy's words cut off as the tunnel forced him to twist sideways, she heard his shoulders scraping against the rock. "Fantastic. Just fantastic."

"Less complaining, more crawling," Hermione shot back, but her voice was almost completely muffled by the wand between her teeth.

Finally, they emerged through to the other side and into a much larger cavern. She turned to see Malfoy birth himself slowly, in a most undignified manner.

"You look like a newborn foal, being born into the world."

He stood up, wobbling slightly. He had to place a hand against the cave wall to steady himself.

"Gravity is hard. You'll soon get the hang of it, little foal."

He glowered at her.

She took the opportunity to smother a smile into her sleeve and look around.

There was the rustling in the eaves, if a cave could be said to have eaves.

She pressed her fingers into the worn grooves of her twisting, vine-wood wand and scanned their surroundings, hyper-aware that the next trap could be around any corner.

It had probably just been a bat, though.

After a few minutes of tense quiet she decided to distract herself. “Malfoy, can I ask you something?”

“Even if I did say no, it wouldn't stop you, so why bother asking?” he replied, stepping over a jagged rock without looking back.

She ignored the jab. “It’s about Ron.”

That made him pause. He turned to her, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated skepticism. “Weasley again? I'd rather not…"

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” she said sharply, though her lips twitched. “I’m serious.”

Malfoy sighed deeply and paused to lean casually against the damp cave wall. His features wrinkled and he straightened immediately. “Fine, Granger. Please do talk to me about your ex-husband?”

Why had she even thought this was advisable? The words bubbled up regardless, and Malfoy watched her knowingly. It was infuriating.

“I’m not sure how to… navigate all of this,” she admitted finally, gesturing vaguely. “The divorce. Co-parenting. Trying to keep things civil for Rose and Hugo.”

Malfoy stared at her in the dim light for a long moment. “And you’re asking me for advice? Granger, I’m not one of your girlfriends. Talk to Ginevra."

Hermione threw him an incredulous look. “You think I should go to Ginny to talk about my divorce from her brother?”

Malfoy pulled a face, his mouth twisting into a reluctant frown. “Yeah, I knew it was bad advice as I was saying it.”

“So, in the absence of a girlfriend to talk to, I’m asking: What would you do, Malfoy?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes as though summoning all the patience in the world. “I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing, Granger. My wife died.”

Hermione winced at his bluntness, guilt flickering through her. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He waved off her apology, his tone even. “It is what it is. But no, divorce isn’t exactly common in my circles. Someone usually dies or… things just go on.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. “What? No one you know ever got divorced?”

Malfoy gave her a pointed look, his voice low and dry. “Why do you think they call Blaise Zabini’s mother the Black Widow?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, horrified. “I thought that was just a rumour!”

He leaned in slightly, his expression conspiratorial, “Most rumours are based on at least a little truth. For instance,” he continued, his voice dipping into a mock-serious tone, “that rumour floating around Hogwarts about the size of my-”

“Never heard that one, Malfoy,” Hermione interrupted, raising a hand before he could finish.

“Of course you didn’t,” he shot back, smirking. “You were too busy shagging Potter and Weasley in the prefects’ bathroom- another delightful rumour that did the rounds, by the way.”

“What?!” Hermione spluttered; she could feel her cheeks flaming. “That is utterly ridiculous!”

“I didn’t make up the rumour, Granger,” he said with a lazy shrug, his smirk turning a little guilty. “I did definitely spread it, though.”

Hermione huffed, turning away and muttering a colourful profanity that described exactly what she thought of his personality.

“You'll figure it out, Granger,” he told her, suddenly solemn.

She turned back to him, surprised. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m failing at all of it. Being a good parent. Moving on. Figuring out who I am outside of all the roles I’ve played for so long.”

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke. “You’re not failing. Turns out you’re just human, after all.”

It wasn’t the profound advice she might have hoped for, but it felt oddly reassuring.

“Thanks,” she said after a beat, her lips twitching into a small smile.

Just as they were relaxing back into companionable silence there was a sudden flapping of wings very near to them.

A high-pitched shriek cut through the silence. Hermione barely had time to react before something dark and fast whooshed past her face. She gasped loudly and stumbled backwards.

Straight into Malfoy’s chest.

It was not graceful. She collided with him, forcing him to take a step backwards and place a bracing hand on her waist to steady them both. There was a beat of absolute stillness. Malfoy removed his hand from her waist.

Then he let out a slow, unimpressed scoff.

"You flinched too!" she accused.

His exaggerated sigh echoed against the cave walls.

They continued, but Hermione noted with quiet satisfaction that he was now keeping a wary eye on the ceiling.

They pressed on. The path sloped downward and was suddenly littered with loose stones and little tufts of moss that further challenged their footing. Along one side of the path was a very deep, pitch-black pit.

Her imagination conjured thoughts of the many terrible things that might live down there. Or perhaps it would just go on, and on forever with no bottom but also no way back to the top.

She shuddered at the thought.

Hermione kept slipping and nervously grabbing at whatever was nearest. Twice, it was Malfoy. It was a testament to his personal growth that he merely tolerated it and didn't mock too much.

When he wasn’t serving as her personal handrail, he strode ahead of her, his boots crunching against the gravel with confidence.

“Careful, Malfoy,” she called, her voice carrying faintly through the silence. “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition, Granger,” he shot back without looking over his shoulder. “And I-”

His words cut off with a sharp gasp as his boot slid on a patch of moss. Hermione saw him flail, his arms windmilled as he pitched backwards. Toward the blackness of the pit.

“Draco!”

Every muscle in her body clenched as a jagged bolt of fear shot right through to the middle of her.

She could hear the blood rushing around her head and in her ears. Her stomach plunged as though it were her who was falling.

The fear blocked out everything around them, washing it away with white noise. Nothing else existed except the sickening certainty that Malfoy was slipping.

It felt like it happened in slow motion.

Her mind told her that surely, surely, he would  cast a spell. His wand was still in his hand after all, lighting his terrified face.

Maybe he would have, but there were no split seconds to waste finding out. Even as he was losing his balance on the edge of the pit, she was dropping her wand with a clatter and ripping her bag off her shoulder. She hurled it after him, shouting, “Catch!” in a way that so absurdly reminded her of hours of forced participation in cricket as a child. The bizarre thought made her want to laugh.

But no, this was not funny.

He was properly falling now, and she was about to lose him to the dark.

His seeker reflexes kicked in, as she had somehow known they would, and she saw a hand in the reflection of light from her wand, grabbing at the small bag tightly.

And then, as if it were a film in reverse, Draco Malfoy came flying back up out of the hole he had half fallen down and landed right on top of her.

"Oof."

She groaned.

She registered pressure. It was everywhere, all at once. It was vaguely familiar, and her mind involuntarily cast itself back in time to uncover the reason: it was like the feeling of Ron, the last time she had been with him. Many months ago. And all the many times that had come before.

This was different though. Still solid, still a mass much greater than her own. Heavier though because this body was not being held with intentionality. The shapes and planes were unfamiliar, she almost moved a hand up to feel them. Her fingers twitched. Almost.

"Fuck," Malfoy moaned.

That jolted her world back onto its axis.

He scrambled off of her awkwardly. She inhaled deeply and felt a dull ache in her ribs.

"I think you broke me."

"Fuck, I'm so sorry!"

Malfoy's sincerity was, more than anything, a sure sign that she was mad.

He must have located his wand because she was almost blinded as he cast a Lumos Maxima, lighting the cavern up. She sat up. Behind him she could see the ravine, as black as space. She looked at Malfoy.

He had nearly died!

Malfoy’s face was a mix of shock and embarrassment. He collapsed forward onto his knees, breathing heavily as Hermione stood. Her hands found her hips.

“Well,” she said, her voice tight with adrenaline, “that was exciting.”

His eyes were fully dilated and blown wide as he stared at her, unwavering. Unsure what to do, Hermione began to dust dirt and moss off her clothes.

“Merlin’s gift to the wizarding world, brought low by a patch of moss.”

He scowled, but for just a moment. Then his expression softened, and he gave a begrudging shrug. “Thank you,” he said simply and clearly.

She felt very awkward and unsure of where she should look. The unadulterated gratitude on his face was eerie and unwelcome. More and more, as every second passed, she wanted to escape his presence.

"You would have done the same thing for me, and I'm sure you would have remembered to cast a cushioning charm before you got to the bottom."

He let out a loud exhale, "If only I could be so sure."

"Turns out that boomerang feather was an excellent investment, after all. Paying dividends already, wouldn't you say?"

"Granger," he said. Again, so damn earnestly. It made her skin crawl. "You saved my life."

"Not the first time," she snapped, recalling some moments at the Battle of Hogwarts that she didn't enjoy revisiting. She felt angry because the reality of the situation had sunk in and because she didn't like it that he was looking at her like he owed her something. "I doubt it will be the last," she added.

"I'll buy you a thousand boomerang feathers."

"Seems excessive. You don't think they kill the kookaburras to get the feathers, do you?"

"Granger, if anything had happened to me… fuck. Scorpius… he already lost one parent. How can I thank you?"

"Please don't."

"Gods. Just so we are clear, if anything happens to me, he goes to Andromeda. Or maybe the Daphne if he would prefer. Not my duplicitous cousins on the continent. They would be extorting him within minutes. I adore them of course but-"

"Malfoy," she cut in, "You didn't die. Nothing is going to happen to you."

"How can I thank you?" he asked again, heart-wrenchingly serious.

"How about you just try not to fall down any more holes, hmm?" she replied and then added, "Get up, let's go."

The tunnel grew narrow once again but there was a dearth of pits, which was nice.

All the same, after they had been making their way up an incline for some time, Hermione caught sight of another telltale glimmer in the light of her wand. This one was hazy, like a heatwave. She held up a hand to Malfoy, who swore loudly.

"What do you think?"

she cast her adapted Revelio and the twining threads of magic revealed themselves. She tilted her head and surveyed them.

"These wards are strange."

He nodded his agreement, "I think this will take some time to unpick."

He stepped closer, eyes narrowed, "Clearly they didn't want just anyone waltzing in here."

"Clearly."

She flicked through her mental rolodex of counter-spells, "Any bright ideas?"

Malfoy smirked so hard it was practically audible. At least he wasn’t looking at her as if he owed her a life-debt though.

“Step aside, Granger. Time for you to critique my performance again."

She watched on as he began to carve long, curving threads of magic in the air with his wand. This soon transcended into intricate patterns that wrapped around the complex layers warding their safe passage.

There was layer upon layer of interlocking enchantment. For each, Malfoy found a vulnerability and exploited it.

He used magic in a probing, tricksy sort of way. The spell seemed to almost welcome his intrusion, unaware that it was not contending with an ally. Actually, it was rather breathtaking to watch.

Malfoy continued his elegant dance. He was a prat, but a talented one.

“You could help, you know, unless you’re too distracted by my brilliance.”

“Brilliant or not, you missed a layer,” she shot back, stepping in beside him. Her wand flared to life as she pinpointed a faint thread of magic he’d overlooked. “There. If you try to break it without isolating that strand, the whole thing will collapse.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as he studied the strand she indicated. His smirk faltered for a moment before returning with twice the arrogance. “I guess I missed one."

"Think I can handle it, Merlin's gift?”

“Let’s see if you can keep up.”

They worked in parallel to dismantle, cajole and deceive. He was more gifted at this sort of magic, she could concede. She preferred a blunt-force attack and had no patience for the lilting cadence he favoured. Together though, their magic intertwined and overwhelmed.

In fact, she got the sense that they both felt how easy and natural it was to work together.

“Okay,” he said finally, stepping back as the shimmer dissolved into nothingness. “I think that's done.”

She looked at him and he brushed dust from his coat. “You’re welcome.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t resist a retort. “Please, Malfoy, you would have botched it without me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he drawled, motioning for her to lead the way, “Witches before wizards.”

She gave him a sharp look but trudged forward regardless. Teeth gritted she braced herself but nothing happened. Her steps dragged and the weight of ancient magic bore down on her but they moved forward.

She was in front, wand drawn, and he followed closely behind. There was nothing but thick tension as they walked on for a long while.

After a few minutes, Hermione stopped abruptly, holding up a hand again. “Wait.”

Malfoy, now a few paces behind her, halted mid-step. “What now?”

“Do you hear something?”

Head tilted, he listened. There was the persistent dripping of water and their own, laboured exhalations. Faintly though there was something else there too. A low, lazy hum. It resonated through earth and air.

“Resonance magic."

Hermione lowered herself to touch a hand to the rock beneath her. There were steady, beating vibrations. A heart beneath her palm.

“I think it's a tuning ward,” she said, her expression sharpening. “The floor is designed to react to sound vibrations. Do it incorrectly, and it’ll trigger something unpleasant, probably.”

Malfoy groaned. "Credit for creativity. I've never dismantled one. Have you?"

She shook her head, no.

Hermione cast the light of her Lumos lower to the ground and listened, her mind racing through possibilities. “The tones are a pattern. We need to match them, I think. Like solving a lock with the right key.”

“Music, then,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small silver penknife. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured it into a magical chime bar. The kind that you could easily control with a wand. He levitated it in front of himself and stood ready, wand pointed at it.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “How did you think to do that?”

“I used my brain,” he said smugly, examining the chime with obvious satisfaction. “It’s big, just like my-”

“Okay!” she cut him off, waving her hand in exasperation. “Got it, thanks, Malfoy. I highly doubt that this will just be as simple as matching the tone and the ward suddenly comes down. I've read about these kinds of wards; they are usually sequenced.”

"What? So, like a musical equation?"

"Something like that," she replied, dropping to one knee. "Do you know much about music?"

He nodded, "Oh yes, almost a decade of piano lessons should be enough to ground me." He tried a harmony; it was several pitches higher than the ward.

The cave rumbled ominously under their feet.

"Oh good, the stakes are death by cave-in."

Hermione felt her pulse racing. She wasn't sure how many tries they would have to figure out the sequence, but she was guessing it wouldn't be many.

"Well, at least we know what to start with. What's the chord we heard when we encountered the ward?"

He pointed his wand at the chime and the same warm tone they had heard before echoed around the chamber.

"It's C-major," he informed.

"C-major is a basic harmony. Arithmetic runes usually always rely on common numeric patterns. Harmonics are integer multiples, and they ascend in pitch. We just have to find the right pattern," she paused for a moment and considered. "Let's consider ascending by prime numbers. Starting from C-major, let's jump one, then two, then three, then five in the series."

He did, but almost immediately struck out. The cave groaned and shifted again under their feet. Hermione swore loudly.

"Right," she said, exhaling sharply, "not prime numbers."

She thought for a moment, her mind casting back to any reference she had ever come across on this type of rune.

"I think," she reasoned, "that the next most likely sequence is Fibonacci numbers."

Malfoy nodded, "Fibonacci sequencing is popular for alchemical proportions too."

"Okay then, so assuming that C-major is 0. We need to ascend in the typical sequence: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8 and so on."

Malfoy thought for a moment, nodded his agreement and then got to work with his wand.

He struck the chime lightly, its note ringing clear and in perfect sequence. Just as he struck an F-major the hum of the ward shifted, harmonizing faintly with the chime. Slowly, the hum quieted, the vibrations dissipating into stillness and there was a flickering at the periphery of Hermione's vision as if invisible wards had now flickered out of existence.

She crossed her arms, watching him with begrudging admiration. “Okay, that was impressive.”

“I know,” he replied, his smirk widening.

She rolled her eyes and then betrayed herself by smiling.

"You weren't so bad yourself. With the arithmancy I mean."

She smiled wider.

"Let's go," she told him, stepping gingerly through the space that had very recently been heavily warded.

Their progress through the rest of the cave was steady after that, the many layers of wards growing increasingly intricate but manageable with their combined efforts. Hermione found herself slipping into an easy rhythm with Malfoy.

She knew they had reached their final challenge when they came face-to-face with an enormous stone door. On it, etched deeply into the surface, glowed crimson runes.

One did not need to be an expert to understand that the glyphs were sinister.

"Malfoy, is this what I think it is?"

“A blood seal.”

He took a step closer and flicked his wand at it, casting a diagnostic she had never seen before.

"Oh," he corrected, "Not just a seal. There’s an arithmantic array woven into it. It's runic magic layered with blood magic.”

Hermione frowned, brushing her fingers against the cold stone. “That doesn’t sound safe.”

“It’s not,” he replied, already pulling a small blade from his pocket. “But lucky for you, Granger, this kind of thing happens to be my specialty.”

Hermione watched as, without ceremony, Malfoy cut a deep gash into his palm. It welled with blood, which he smeared across the runes. It sucked it up like a sponge taking on water.

"Malfoy," she warned, "this is incredibly dangerous magic!"

He ignored her. His wand was already moving in that precise way of his. Tracing patterns, weaving threads, telling lies.

“I need you to help me to keep the focus steady,” he muttered, glancing briefly at Hermione. “If the magic fractures-”

“I know,” she interrupted, already stepping closer to stabilize the spell. “Just concentrate.”

Once more, they worked in tandem to coerce the stubborn door to open. She poured her magic into wrapping around his and reinforcing its sharp edge. She knew they could both feel it as the tension began to grow tighter and then relent, like a storm slowly receding.

She saw his hand tremble.

Finally, the runes flared brighter and then flickered out completely. She felt the magic making way as if it were a living thing conceding a lost battle. There was a fizz on her tongue, like when she licked a battery as a child.

Malfoy sent one more burst of magic forth and there was a loud click. The door swung open with a groan. The ground beneath them trembled as if frightened and a gust of stale air assaulted them.

The chamber beyond was dark as midnight. The glow from their wands was feeble and insufficient. Unease settled over her like a heavy shroud.

Then, Malfoy gasped. There was no warning. But hadn't she expected this?

He sank to the ground slowly, clutching his side as if some unseen animal had sunk its claws into him. There was a sickly squelch and then there was blood all over him.

Horrified, she dropped to her knees and tore at his shirt, buttons be damned.

Thick gashes had torn themselves open across his flesh, across his chest and down his torso. They were in the exact configuration of the blood seal.

"You fucking idiot, Malfoy!"

"Shit," he choked out, doubling over.

It was like a living nightmare, playing out right in front of her.

Hermione lunged forward just in time to catch his leaden weight. Blood soaked everything, especially the ground, which drank it up like an offering.

"You might have warned me!" she admonished but she already had her bag open and was summoning what she needed.

Healing salve in one hand, she placed her lit wand between her teeth once more and then rudely ripped his from his hand.

"Episkey," she muttered and he began to bleed at a less alarming rate. He hissed, grabbing at her with white knuckles.

"Just so you know," he ground out, "if this has all been some elaborate plot to finally kill me rather than heal me, I'm actually quite impressed you were able to play such a long game."

"Shut up, Malfoy," she replied, banishing as much of the blood as she could and then wrenching open the lid of the salve and taking large globs of it to rub onto the open wounds.

He wriggled, skin paling further, and she put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Just hold still while it works, you've lost so much blood!"

Malfoy gave a strangled chuckle, but his head lolled slightly, betraying the effort it was taking just to stay upright

After a minute, the blood looked like it had finally stopped seeping.

"Vulnera Sanentur," she traced slow deliberate circles over the wound.

Such was her distraction that she didn't realise she was using his wand for the healing incantation until she forgot to sustain her lumos, which suddenly blinked out and the outline of his arm was only visible via the faint blue light being emitted from the tip of his wand.

Embarrassed, but without missing a beat, she cast a non-verbal Lumos, and light flared from her wand again.

His eyes flicked down, his jaw tightening slightly as he watched his own wand tracing a spell over his chest. He said nothing, but the tension was palpable like she’d just crossed an unspoken boundary.

She stared down at her hand holding his familiar hawthorne wand, it was shaking.

She knew why it was embarrassing for them both. It was an incredibly intimate thing, to use another wizards wand. Usually something only reserved between partners or close family members. She felt her cheeks heat.

More pressing though was that twice now Draco Malfoy had almost died on her watch.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, finishing up the healing incantation and handing him his wand without a word.

"I'll be alright, Granger. Thanks."

Her body slumped with relief and exhaustion. They sat for a moment, looking around at their surroundings.

"We'll need to brew some blood replenishing potion when we get out of here," she told him, "Can you walk?"

"He braced a hand against the cave wall and heaved himself upright with a pained gasp.

"I'll be okay."

"I'll lecture you about your stupidity later, shall I?"

"That would be appreciated, we still have work to do."

The chamber was still so dark. With a huff, she conjured some levitating bluebell flames and sent them ahead into the room to light their way.

At the back of the room they could suddenly see a small pedestal.

Hermione froze, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She moved quickly to stand before it.

Malfoy came to stand beside her. When she looked over, she was relieved to see he was looking more alive.

“Well, that’s… anticlimactic.”

They moved towards the pedestal. Placed on top were two items. Ordinary looking conch shells, about the size of her closed fist. On closer inspection she could see they were engraved with spiraling markings but she had no idea what that meant.

“These are magical conches,” she said slowly, turning the shell over in her hands. “They were used many centuries ago for long-distance communication. You could speak into one, and the other person could hear you, no matter where they were.”

She felt like sinking to her knees with disappointment and exhaustion. All that effort, Malfoy nearly dying. And for what?

Malfoy picked up the other shell, inspecting it with a look of faint disbelief. “So… they’re wizarding walkie-talkies.”

“Essentially,” Hermione admitted, setting her shell back on the pedestal. “But they’re almost completely obsolete now that we have patronus messages."

Malfoy’s brow furrowed as he stared at the conch. “I suppose not everyone can conjure a patronus. But you know, there are these things called Apples…”

He meant phones, of course. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand as she tried to contain her amusement at Malfoy pointing out the utility of muggle technology.

Malfoy held up the conch to his mouth and spoke into it mockingly. “Hello, Granger. What’s the gossip?”

Her laugh bubbled over, echoing off the chamber walls. “This can’t seriously be the end of the line for this part of the quest,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “All that effort for something I can buy at a mall and carry around in my pocket.”

Malfoy smirked, tucking the conch under his arm. “On the bright side, we now own some rare, magical artefacts. Shame they also happens to be utterly useless.”

“Useless,” Hermione agreed, still chuckling as she pulled out her phone. “I can’t believe we risked life and limb for this. They’re beautiful though."

Draco leaned casually against the pedestal, his expression wry. “Do you think Titus is laughing at us from the Galápagos right now?”

“Not likely, he’s probably staring at a giant tortoise.”

Malfoy laughed, tossing his conch into his satchel with an air of finality.

“Let’s just get out of here before you fall into any more pits or pass out from blood loss.”

Chapter Text

Titus Smith just wanted to enjoy his young life.

A cold beer at the pub after work, a lazy Saturday watching football, and maybe, finally asking out the cute girl from the Magical Catastrophes Office.

But no, life, or more accurately Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, had other plans.

Now he stood on the sun-scorched shoreline of an unknown island, the salty breeze carrying the squawks of blue-footed boobies and the faint mockery of sea lions. His wand sat securely in its holster at his side, but it wasn’t much comfort. Apparating blind to an unknown continent was a risk even he wasn’t willing to take. 

“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” Titus muttered as he surveyed the terrain. 

Thankfully, his gym bag had been transported with him. He hastily put on his trainers and spare clothes. He swatted at a fly and glared at the unbothered wildlife around him.

A nearby lizard eyed him and then flicked its tongue out to catch a fly as if to say: 'Welcome to hell, mate'.

Titus sighed, raking a hand through his sandy-blond hair.

Step one: get off this island.

Step two: find the local magical authorities and organise a Portkey home.

Step three: track down Malfoy and Granger before they broke more international laws and made him look more incompetent.

It had taken a full day for Titus to spot a small vessel not too far from his little island. He had waved it down and what proceeded was a lengthy process of negotiation and covert magic. Finally, he found himself headed for mainland Ecuador.

The Captain, a stocky man named Luís, spoke in rapid Spanish.

“¿Realmente viniste aquí a estudiar tortugas?” Luis asked, gesturing animatedly as he steered the boat.

Titus blinked. “Er… sí. Tortugas. Muy importantes.” With his hands, he mimed a tortoise shell, earning a laugh from Luís and his crew.

The ride was bumpy but mercifully short. They reached Puerto Ayora on Santa Cruz Island by mid-afternoon, and from there, Titus used a combination of basic spanish, transfigured coins, and sheer desperation to book a seat on the next flight to Guayaquil.

As he settled into the tiny aeroplane seat, his knees practically touching the tray in front of him, Titus allowed himself a moment of grudging relief.

He still looked like a damp, sunburned tourist who’d lost a fight with a seagull, but at least he was moving. He leaned back as the engine roared to life, watching the islands shrink beneath him through the scratched aeroplane window.

The Guayaquil airport was chaos. Tourists hustled to catch connecting flights, families shouted to each other over the din, and security officers patrolled with the bored efficiency of people who had seen it all. Titus wove through the crowds, his wand was hidden but ready, just in case.

“First-class upgrade?” the ticket agent at the counter asked, eyeing him with a mix of pity and suspicion. “For the flight to Mariscal Sucre?”

“No thanks,” Titus said, handing over his temporary boarding pass. It had taken some strategic application of Confundo to avoid questions about his lack of muggle ID.

By the time he boarded his connecting flight to Quito, Titus was too tired to care about the cramped conditions or the family of toddlers in the row behind him. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about Granger and Malfoy, probably laughing at his expense while sipping overpriced coffee back home.

The ICW office in Quito was small but efficient, staffed by a handful of witches and wizards who hadn’t been expecting someone like Titus to walk in. He was promptly handed a sandwich, a cup of strong coffee, and a set of fresh robes.

“Rough trip, guapo?” one of the witches asked, her voice warm but tinged with curiosity.

“You have no idea,” Titus muttered, sinking into a chair as he bit into the sandwich. Between mouthfuls, he recounted his ordeal- carefully omitting the part where it had been Malfoy and Granger who had Portkeyed him into oblivion. 

He couldn't prove it… yet.

“Are you heading back soon?” another staff member asked, flipping through a pile of scrolls. “We can arrange for a direct Portkey if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he said, finishing his coffee with a decisive gulp. “I’ve got some urgent business to attend to.”

“I’m coming for you,” he muttered to himself, under his breath, “and when I catch up, you’d better have a bloody good excuse.”

"¿Qué?" a nearby staff member asked with a slight frown.

"Nothing."

Chapter Text

Hermione spotted it up ahead. The Telstra telephone booth perched proudly at the end of Kent Street, its fading orange paint was long past its prime. A hand-printed sign was sticky-taped on the glass door. It read: “Out of Order”.

She picked a small coin out of her purse and entered the booth. The dull metal object looked small and insignificant in her hand. It was muggle in appearance but every now and then the visage of Queen Elizabeth would give anyone who was looking a saucy wink.

Malfoy assessed the phone booth with a furrowed brow. “This is your grand plan?”

Hermione shot him a look. “It’s a Hop Portal. A phone booth that was retrofitted for magical transport decades ago. It’s efficient and inconspicuous.”

Malfoy tilted his head, scrutinising the contraption with faint intrigue. “So, it’s both Muggle and magical? A hybrid?”

Hermione nodded, holding up a small, shimmering coin. “Exactly. The Hop Token activates the enchantments, and the numbers serve as coordinates.”

He leaned closer, studying the keypad. “Clever,” he admitted. 

He hesitated, then stepped into the booth behind her. His eyes lingered over the buttons and the coin slot with reluctance. He pressed a palm to the glass briefly. Presumably testing it was structurally sound. “It seems sturdy.”

Hermione privately thought that Malfoy probably shouldn't be so sceptical about what was, in effect, a vanishing cabinet. But she thought it best not to voice that thought out loud.

She slid the Hop Token into the coin slot. The booth shuddered faintly as a soft hum of magic filled the air. The keypad suddenly lit up.

She pressed a sequence of numbers- 32676 -with practised precision.

“32676 is the code for Lennox Head,” she explained as Malfoy watched her with a mixture of curiosity and reticence. “This is faster than any kind of air travel, safer than blind apparition, and less conspicuous than either. But it costs a bloody fortune, so we've got to use our token sparingly. The department privatised the network years ago and pricing went to the dogs shortly after."

One of Granger’s arms shot out as her finger hovered over the final button. Bracing herself against the booth she said: “Hold on, Malfoy."

Malfoy barely had time to brace himself before she pressed the last button. The air inside the booth shifted violently, the glass around them blurred into a kaleidoscope of light and colour. A strange, pressurised sensation closed in on their ears as the magic took hold, compressing and stretching the space around them. It felt like they took a giant hop over untold space.

Malfoy was flung back hard against the glass of the booth. Hermione winced as his head hit the wall with a crack.

“Granger,” Draco managed through gritted teeth, gripping the wall for balance, “you could have warned me this would feel like being shoved through a particularly tight sock.”

“I thought you liked adventure,” Hermione replied, steady despite the lurching motion.

The kaleidoscopic effect slowed, the lights fading as the booth settled with a faint thud.

The pungent city smells were replaced by a familiar briny perfume. They were in the Northern Rivers. Outside the glass, a grassy knoll overlooked a beach with golden sand. It touched the edges of the vast Pacific Ocean.

Hermione stepped out first, brushing her hair back as the breeze caught it. “See? Efficient.”

Malfoy stumbled out behind her, adjusting his bag on his shoulder with a grimace. Then promptly vomited on the grass.

She patted his shoulder consolingly.

The small coastal town of Lennox Head was a sleepy juxtaposition to the bustle of downtown Sydney. There was one main street, which was lined with Norfolk pines. A chorus of sleepy cafés had just begun to open their doors.

Surfers walked barefoot along the footpath. They had longboards tucked under their arms. Hermione breathed in deeply and smiled as she registered the sound of crashing waves. Briskly, she led the way through the town. Malfoy followed a step behind, his sharp eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. He looked entirely out of place in his neat button-down and polished boots.

“So,” he said, catching up to her. “What’s the plan? Another cave? Another potentially ruinous adventure? Or are we just here for the sea-bathing?”

"Sea-bathing!" she snorted.

He looked at her askance as they strolled. She had to remind herself that he was from pureblood society and had been living full-time in the 1800s, for all intents and purposes, and therefore, was not actively trying to amuse.

“We’re staying at my parents’ house,” Hermione replied without breaking stride. “They’re in the UK at the moment, so it’s empty. We’ll use it as a base while we scout around and wait for Deb to get in touch.”

Malfoy’s expression shifted into something resembling amusement. “The Granger home. Let me guess- filled with books?”

Hermione glanced at him, curiously. “They’re dentists, not academics.”

“Sure,” he said with a smirk. “All the same, I bet the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. I’m sure your NEWTs are probably framed and hanging somewhere of prominence.”

“Try not to combust with jealousy when you see how badly I beat you,” she replied with a sly smile.

“I was second in our classes! I’m almost positive you barely scraped in ahead of me!”

“Touchy.”

The Grangers’ home was a typical, single-story weatherboard construction. It almost disappeared behind the plumage of two frangipani trees that stood like sentinels on either side of the driveway. The front porch was shaded by a large jacaranda tree and the lawn was a carpet of violet petals. Hermione unlocked the door with a flick of her hand and stepped inside.

She ushered Malfoy over the threshold and into a bright and relaxed interior. The décor was simple and typical of a coastal Australian home.

Photos of Hermione, Rose and Hugo as children smiled down at them from the walls. Perhaps predictably, as they moved into the living room, there was a wall that had been converted into a bookshelf. Despite its size, it still almost overflowed.

Malfoy hesitated in the doorway, staring at their surroundings with an inscrutable expression.

“Lovely home,” he said with a carefully neutral tone.

Even though his words had been complimentary, Hermione suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head as if trying to catch him in a lie. With a shrug, she dropped her bag onto a chair on her way past. “We won’t be here long in any case.”

Malfoy wandered over to the bookshelf, his fingers brushing the spines. “Shakespeare and muggle science books?”

“Don’t forget where they go,” Hermione warned from the kitchen, where she was putting on a pot of tea. “I mean it, Malfoy. My mother has a very precise cataloguing system and it's a nightmare. Only makes sense to her.”

He smirked but she also noticed that he obediently replaced the book he had been examining in its rightful place. He moved away from the shelf and planted himself on the sofa. “So, what’s next? Another library?”

Hermione returned with two mugs and sat one down in front of him. “We’ll start by exploring the hinterland. There’s a series of waterfalls nearby. They call this region the Northern Rivers so there's no shortage of water to test. We may as well check out a few, even if we aren’t quite sure how we’ll know when we find what we’re looking for.  And yes, there’s a bookstore I want to visit.”

“Of course there is,” he said, taking a sip of tea. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re indulging yourself?”

She made a face at him

“You can go to the beach, I’ll pick you up when I’m done.”

Malfoy leaned back, smirking over the rim of his mug. “Now you're catching on, Granger.”

“I hope Deb gets back in touch with us soon. I’ve got some ideas, of course. But I'm really not certain how we can identify the Fountain. My ideas all involve some rather complicated spell work."

Malfoy tilted his head, and a flicker of amusement crossed his features. “Between the two of us, I doubt we need to be concerned about whether we can pull off a bit of complicated spellwork.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her tea. “Even so, I think we should see what Deb can do for us. She certainly helped us out with Titus.”

He chuckled and she noticed him fixated on something through the window. A low gust was shaking the branches of the jacaranda, scattering yet more petals across the lawn.

Hermione broke the silence. “This region is one of the oldest continuously inhabited parts of the world. The Bundjalung people have lived here for tens of thousands of years. Their oral histories describe places of extraordinary power.”

Malfoy looked back at her, his curiosity piqued. “And you think this Fountain could be here?”

“I'm not sure,” Hermione admitted. “But it can't hurt to have a look around.”

The sun was higher in the sky as Hermione and Malfoy strolled along the beach. The ocean stretched out before them. It glittered invitingly but she wasn't sure how to even suggest a casual swim to Malfoy.

Waves rolled in lazily, leaving behind foamy tails in their wake. The beach was dotted with locals and tourists alike: surfers, swimmers, and picnicking families.

Hermione stepped carefully around a magnificent sandcastle that was destined to be ruined at high tide.

To Hermione’s mild surprise, Malfoy had shed his usual layers in favour of a soft-looking undershirt and rolled-up trousers. He held his boots in one hand, his toes sinking awkwardly into the warm sand as though testing the foreign sensation.

“I don’t understand why people are so obsessed,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness. “It’s so gritty.”

“It’s sand, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her own sandals dangling from her fingers. “That’s kind of the point.”

He narrowed his eyes at the beachgoers sprawled out on towels. “They look like they’ve been petrified. What’s the appeal of just lying there like a bunch of walrus?”

Hermione laughed, a genuine laugh that seemed to catch him off guard. "What is the name for a collective of walruses, I wonder? It definitely isn't a bunch."

"Surely a herd."

"The image rather reminds me of a meeting of the Wizengamot actually".

"Hey!" he rebutted, "Not all of us Lords are blessed with the kind of moustachioed corpulence you're alluding to, thank you. I'm actually quite sensitive about my shortcomings."

"Some of the ladies are too, to be fair," Hermione pointed out.

"Yes. The ladies too. Thanks. Salt in the wound."

Despite his grumbling, he seemed fixated on his surroundings.

He studied the surfers openly. Hermione thought he seemed interested in the way they balanced on their boards, riding waves with graceful precision.

Eventually, they stumbled up to a small café overlooking the beach called "Henry's". It had a shaded wooden deck and the air smelled of salt and fried food. It both invited Hermione in and made her aware of how hungry she was. Barely stopping to confer, she ordered two plates of fish and chips.

When the food arrived, Malfoy eyed the battered fish with suspicion.

“What is this?” he asked, prodding it with his fork.

“Fish,” Hermione replied, dipping a chip into a dollop of tartar sauce. “You’ve eaten fish before, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have,” he said, affronted. “But not like this. It’s… encased.”

Hermione bit back a laugh. “It’s fried, Malfoy. Just eat it. God, are you even British?”

He took a tentative bite, his expression transforming from wary to impressed. “Huh,” he said after a moment. “It’s not terrible.”

“High praise,” Hermione said dryly, sipping her lemonade, "You should try a chip butty when we get back to England. A life-changing culinary experience, but they don't seem to do them here."

Malfoy continued to people-watch as they ate. When a man jogged past with a surfboard under his arm, Draco tilted his head.

“That,” he said, pointing with his fork, “is fascinating.”

“What is?”

“Don't make me say it. It's so muggle and I'm terribly afraid I'll bungle it. Oh- alright then- surfing.” He elongated the syllables uncertainly. She nodded encouragingly and he continued bravely, “Riding waves like that. It’s reckless and ridiculous, but very compelling.”

Hermione chuckled. “I never pegged you as someone who’d appreciate ‘beach culture.’”

“I’m merely an observer of human behaviour,” he replied loftily, though the spark of intrigue in his eyes betrayed him. “It’s anthropological.”

“Right,” she said, grinning. “Well, maybe you should try it.”

Draco arched a brow. “Not sure Scorpius would be too pleased: Sorry son, we didn't find the fountain and brew your potentially life-saving elixir because I was busy riding waves on a muggle surfboard.”

“I’d pay good money to see you try.”

The sound of the waves lulled her into a rare calm. For once, her mind didn’t race ahead to logistical planning or complicated spells. It simply was.

She enjoyed the warm sun on her skin, the breeze whipping her curls into a frothy mess and the gritty sand under her toes. It was a welcome tether to the present.

Malfoy squinted against the sun, his pale hair catching the light. He both looked and acted like a fish out of water. Despite that, it didn’t seem like he hated it. It annoyed her, oddly,  the way he seemed to be able to just adapt.

As they neared the Granger residence, Hermione detected the scent of the tea trees that lined a brackish lake nearby.

Thoughts of lakes drifted to thoughts of a specific lake in the Scottish highlands. It sent a sudden wave of longing for her children through her.

Her senses drank in the landscape, but her mind travelled back home, to her family.

She wondered about them. What were they doing? Had they eaten? And yes, perhaps it was a force of habit, but she had thought of Ron too. Although, she could be reasonably assured that Ron had eaten.

But what of Rose and Hugo? When would they forgive her? Would they forgive her?

“Granger, I got the sense that we were supposed to be taking a break,” Malfoy drawled beside her. He had slipped his hands into his pockets and did indeed look relaxed.

“I wasn’t thinking about this,” she said gesturing between herself and him, “I was thinking about my kids.”

“Hmm,” he said, his tone sceptical.

Annoyed with him, she glanced away and back toward the beach. The endless blue of the ocean met the sky and for a moment it looked like a perfect mirror.

“Are you missing them right now?” The question tumbled out before she could stop herself. She hadn’t meant to ask.

“Missing who?” Malfoy seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Your family,” she clarified. “Astoria. The life you had before… all of this.”

His expression shifted but it was barely perceptible. A flicker of something raw and unguarded before his mask slid back into place. He looked away.

“I think about that life,” he admitted after a pause, his voice subdued, “with every inhale and every exhale.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at his words. Which were beautiful, and raw, and honest.

“Will it be any different for me?” she asked.

He paused and looked at the beach with a thoughtful expression on his face as they continued to walk.

"It's a kind of death, I suppose. It's really just a less final form of separation, isn't it? You, of course, have the comfort of knowing that Weasley is alive. But you also know that you can never go back. I suppose too, it's not as clean as death. Being a widow - there is a lot of forced closure."

"Oh," she said. She couldn't think of what else to say.

"But thinking about it and grieving it are two separate things, Granger. The grieving still comes in waves, but I feel great hope, more so than ever, that being frozen in grief is a stage that passes. And with enough time, there will be life again."

"And will it hurt less?"

He exhaled slowly. "The hurt will start to feel like it has a purpose and then it won't hurt so much. Probably though, it will always twinge a little."

"Like an old injury?"

"Exactly," his lips quirked. "It's a rupture. It mends. But it's never really the same. You learn to just get on with it."

They said no more. The rock pools seduced her closer and she crept carefully down to the edge of one and marvelled at it. It was a tiny universe all to itself, full of colour and life. A little fish darted between the rocks and its scales flashed as if it were sending a secret message just for her.

She crouched down, her fingers brushing the craggy edges of the volcanic rock she stood on. In front of her was a small world. Behind her, back in England, was her world.

This would be the only time the two would collide and yet, they would continue to coexist under the same sun, long after she left. That thought was strangely reassuring.

When they arrived home, Hermione led Malfoy around the side of the Granger house. A dusty SUV that had seen better days enjoyed a respite under an old tarpaulin.

The cicadas had already begun their midday chorus. Despite the shrill tone, the sound unfailingly reminded Hermione of summers spent abroad, which made her nostalgic and happy.

She pulled the keys from her pocket and approached the vehicle.

“This is our transportation?” Malfoy eyed the car with visible scepticism, crossing his arms as if bracing himself for another experience like the Hop.

She rolled her eyes, yanking the tarp free in one swift motion, and sending a small cloud of dust into the air. “It’s perfectly serviceable, and far more practical than a broomstick.”

Reluctantly, Malfoy folded himself into the passenger seat. He was too tall to sit comfortably. Hermione suppressed a smile as he fumbled with the seatbelt. “It’s not going to asphyxiate you, Malfoy.” 

“Just drive, Granger.”

With a smirk, she turned the key and the engine came to life. They rattled down the short drive and out past the frangipanis onto the road.

Before too long, they traversed winding roads through dense forest. Shadows flickered like a picture show as they passed under tall Camphor Laurels that stretched out to touch each other, forming green archways above them.

Malfoy was silent. She wondered if he really was viewing everything through a lens of detached curiosity, or if there was more going on in his head than he let on.

It was a short drive. At the end of what seemed to be a residential street, they arrived at a small car park with some signage.

The temperature noticeably dropped as they approached Killen Falls. The sound of gushing water grew louder until it filled their ears and was all they could hear. They rounded a bend, and the waterfall came into view. It was bigger than she had remembered and there was nobody else around.

The size and scale weren't as she remembered it but the beautiful wildness of it was familiar.

Malfoy stepped beside her, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. “What are the odds the first waterfall we check is the fountain?” He had to speak louder so that she could hear him above the roar.

“I wouldn't place any bets,” she replied, “Shall we test it all the same?”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small vial and a thin glass pipette.

He knelt by the edge of the pool and got to work. She watched, intrigued despite herself, as he deftly set up his alchemy kit. He had a set of delicate instruments that seemed impossibly small for his large hands. She tried not to notice the way his sleeves were rolled up, revealing a hint of forearms dusted with fine, pale hair. A jolt of something unpleasant went through her as she noticed a dark smudge poking out from below his left sleeve.

“You are staring at me, Granger,” he observed, though he didn't lift his gaze from his task.

She ducked her head and she busied herself with the vial in her hands. “I was just watching what you were doing.”

Malfoy smirked knowingly. “If you say so.”

He was clearly oblivious that her thoughts had turned to the dark mark branded into his skin.

He dipped a small pipette into the water, letting a few drops fall into a tiny glass beaker. The liquid shifted colours from a soft blue, to green, and then settling into a sparkling aqua.

“Interesting,” he murmured, holding the beaker up to the light. “There’s magic here, but not the kind we're chasing.”

Hermione leaned closer. She felt warmth radiating from his skin and got a whiff of whatever cologne he wore. The scent mingled with the damp smell of the forest. It wasn't unappealing.

“What kind of magic?” she asked, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“My guess would be fertility,” Malfoy replied, his tone almost clinical. “Not healing.”

Hermione frowned, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “So, not the Fountain.”

“Not the fountain,” he said, capping the beaker and packing away his kit.

Without warning, Malfoy stood and stripped off his shirt.

At forty-two, he carried himself with the sharp precision of someone who had learned, long ago, to let posture do half the work of appearance. He was trim, but not in the lean, taut way of youth; there was a softness to him that came with age and fatherhood. It was a slight relaxation of the rigid edges he’d once had.

His shoulders were broad and well-defined, the kind of build that suggested strength maintained through occasional broomstick flying (she guessed). His arms were strong but wiry, marked with the faint lines of veins that ran over smooth, pale skin—skin that rarely saw the sun but bore the marks of life. Her eyes trailed downward.

The Dark Mark.

It was there, an ugly stain. Faded with time, yes, but still vivid enough to draw the eye. The coiled snake and skull seemed almost alive as he moved.

And then she was somewhere else entirely.

A cold, pale face framed by a halo of wild black curls.

Lips curled into a cruel smile.

Dark eyes, alight with twisted delight.

The bite of a knife—sinking deep into muscle and bone.

A cackle.

A curse.

Her breath hitched. She tried to look away but found that she could not. He noticed her staring.

“Granger are you -”

“It’s fine, Malfoy.” she cut him off quickly, “Sorry for staring.”

“No, I should have considered,” he shrugged helplessly.

“It isn’t like I didn’t know it was there,” she replied.

“I can put my shirt back on,” he had already reached down to pick the soft-looking fabric up from where it had fallen on the smooth stones. 

She took a step forward and raised her hand, gesturing for him to stop. Then, trying to smile confidently, she started to remove her own trousers. She wriggled out of them and let her oversized shirt fall to her upper thighs. 

Malfoy was clearly trying hard not to look at her too closely.

“Let’s go for a swim,” she said, leading the way.

Hermione’s breath caught as she watched him kick off his shoes and his trousers. Finally, he stood before her in a pair of short trunks and began to wade into the pool after her.

When the water was lapping at his waist, he ducked beneath the surface. A moment later he resurfaced and shook his head, scattering droplets around them.

“Come on, Granger,” he called, his voice lighter. “I want to see what happens when you get that nest wet." He gestured to her hair.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that spread across her face as she dove beneath the surface. The water was a cleansing wave. It washed away the aches that had been plaguing her.

For a moment, at least.

The sun was beginning to drop below the trees as they made their way back to the car. Hermione wrung out her hair as they walked. Droplets fell in a steady rhythm onto the dusty path.

Malfoy followed a few paces behind, his shirt half-buttoned over damp trousers. The Dark Mark was once again concealed, but the image of it lingered in Hermione’s mind.

“You’ve gone quiet again, Granger,” Malfoy remarked, breaking the silence.

“I’m thinking,” she replied, glancing back at him. “I’ve been known to do it from time to time.”

He snorted softly, brushing a low-hanging branch out of his way. “Maybe that was a rare invitation to share your thoughts.”

Hermione huffed but felt a faint, sad smile tug at the corners of her lips. “I was thinking about Ron and the kids. Feeling guilty actually.”

“Guilty?” 

“For a little while there I forgot to think about them and the way I blew up our lives. It makes me feel guilty.”

Malfoy looked at her with clarity that belied the fact that he knew exactly what she was trying to articulate.

“I suspect, Granger - that it will happen more and more as time passes. The guilty feeling will stick around for a while, but it too should fade. You aren’t betraying your family by living your life.”

Hermione’s steps faltered slightly. She turned her neck to look at him fully. His expression was steady, his gaze fixed ahead, but there had been something raw and unguarded in what he said that made her pause.

“Good to know,” she said softly, her voice cautious and probing. "Do you feel guilty about what happened with Astoria?"

Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. He kept walking and his face was a careful mask of indifference but for the sudden tension in his jaw.

“Granger,” he began, his voice dangerously quiet, “I don’t know why I’m surprised since you never leave well enough alone, but I didn’t take you as the type to dig into other people’s sore spots.”

“That isn't my intention, Malfoy,” she replied, quick but not unkind. “You did ask, and I’ll admit, it helps to know other people get it.”

He stopped abruptly and turned to her. For a moment she thought he might grab her or yell. But then he sighed and his shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “You want to talk about it? Let’s talk about it.” Hermione hesitated, suddenly uncertain. Before she could respond, he added, “Not that you’ll let it drop until I do.”

“I’m not trying to be invasive,” she said carefully. “I guess I just… I know what it’s like to carry guilt.”

“Imagine watching the love of your life wither and die in front of you,” Malfoy interrupted, his tone was like a blade. “And no matter how many spells you cast, or how many potions you brew, it won’t make a damn bit of difference.”

She flinched.

“I find myself wondering, increasingly, how you got through it. You weren’t alone, surely?”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp and searching. “I wasn’t alone, no.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the ground. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the forest around them.

“I leaned on Scorpius,” he admitted. “Too much, probably. He’s a good kid, stronger than he should have to be. But he reminds me of her. She always knew the right thing to say, even when I didn’t want to hear it.”

Hermione felt a pang in her chest, “She sounds remarkable.”

“She was,” Malfoy said, a faint, wistful smile ghosting across his lips. “Far too good for me. She never let me get away with anything”

Hermione’s own smile was faint, tentative. “She sounds like she was a lot like you in that regard.”

His head snapped up. He looked at her incredulously. “Granger, she was nothing like me.” There was no venom in his words, only weariness. 

She didn’t know what to think about that.

“You’re here because of her,” she said gently because she felt she needed to say something. “Because you loved her. And because you want to make sure Scorpius doesn’t go through the same thing.”

Malfoy looked at her, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “Losing Astoria nearly broke me. Scorpius kept me together. If I lost him too…” His voice faltered. “I’d unravel.”

“So,” she told him firmly, “we won’t let anything happen to Scorpius.”

The drive back was quiet, Hermione eventually gave into the creeping feeling of tension and turned on the radio, flicking to Triple J and then settling on Radio National when she realised she couldn’t recognise any of the songs. Malfoy said nothing.

She cracked her window as they approached the small township. She loved to get a first taste of salty air before the ocean came into view.

When they arrived, Malfoy didn’t wait for an invitation to slip out of the car and make his way into the house. He paused at the door, glancing back at her.

“Well, Granger?” he drawled. “Are you going to stand there admiring the view, or are we going inside?”

Hermione snorted, grabbing her bag from the back seat. “I'm surprised you would invite that juicy opportunity to insult you.”

“Pfft, as if you could do that convincingly. I’m not above being appreciated,” he replied. She recognised it for what it was- his attempt to break the tension.

Inside, the house was quiet and comforting. She flicked on the lights and set about gathering some crackers and a jar of chutney she’d found earlier in the pantry. Simple food.

“Hungry, Malfoy?” she called out.

“Starving,” He had settled into the armchair by the window in the living room and was flipping through a Brian Cox book Hermione was sure her mother purchased more because of the picture on the jacket sleeve.

Hermione joined him a few minutes later, balancing two plates of crackers with cheese and chutney. She set one down on the side table near him, along with a glass of wine. “Here,” she said, taking her own plate and curling up on the couch.

Malfoy glanced at the plate, then at her. “Where’s actual dinner, though?”

“Feel free to starve.”

He picked up a slice of cheese, inspecting it with exaggerated caution. “It’ll do,” he said, taking a bite. After a moment, he nodded. “Not terrible.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the calming sound of the ocean drifted in through the open window.

Hermione retrieved her bag with a wandless Accio and then began rummaging through it and pulling out large stacks of books.

“You and your books, have you ever gone anywhere without dragging half a library?”

“Not if I can help it." 

He glanced at her over the rim of his wine glass, his expression was lighter than she’d seen it all day.

She shifted her gaze to the bookshelf, searching for something to distract herself with. Her eyes landed on a well-worn copy of Australian Native Flora and Fauna that belonged to her father. She summoned it to her.

“You’re back to research already?” Malfoy asked, his voice carrying a faint note of amusement.

“Always,” she replied, scanning a section on water-based magical plants. “There’s that bookstore in Byron Bay I want to visit tomorrow. They might have something more specific on regional myths.”

“Ahh yes,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “And I’m to be dragged along on this literary pilgrimage and let loose on the nearest beach.”

“You can stay here if you prefer.”

“Tempting. But I’d hate to not be there when you find an obscure lead and start with the I told you so, Malfoy's.”

Hermione glanced up at him, surprised by his frankly excellent impression of her.

Still, she threw her book at him. On principle.

The hours stretched on and they read in companionable silence for a time. She glanced at Malfoy again, noting the way his face was softened by the lambent light.

The peace was broken by a sharp tapping at the window.

Hermione looked up, startled. Malfoy froze, wine glass poised at his mouth. The tapping came again and was followed by a low, raspy squawk.

“What is that?” Hermione asked, setting her book aside and rising from the sofa.

“A bird,” Malfoy supplied helpfully. He stood and crossed the room in a few long strides to peer through the glass. 

Hermione joined him. A large cockatoo with a brilliant yellow crest clung to the windowsill, its sharp eyes gleamed in the dim light. In its talons, it gripped a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“It’s from Deb,” Hermione said with certainty, her heart quickening. “They’re used for deliveries here. Highly intelligent and excellent navigators.”

Malfoy unlatched the screen on the window, lifting it open just enough for the bird to hop inside with a loud squawk.

The cockatoo dropped the package onto the coffee table, fixing them both with an imperious stare before letting out another sharp cry that sounded almost like a cross between a dementor and a phoenix. Malfoy scowled, stepping back as the bird flapped its wings.

“Do you mind?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, reaching for the package. “It’s just a bird, Malfoy.” She untied the string carefully, revealing a handwritten note atop another layer of protective linen. She pulled the package fully open and revealed two slender rods.

“What does the note say?” Malfoy asked, leaning over her shoulder to peer at it.

Hermione unfolded the parchment, scanning Deb’s sloping handwriting.

Hermione,

These divining rods are enchanted to detect sites of concentrated magical energy. They’re calibrated for strong magic, but their effectiveness will depend on the kind of the magic you’re looking for. Best of luck and keep me updated.

Deb.

She glanced up at Malfoy, her fingers brushing over delicate engravings on the surface of one of the rods. “This is exactly what we needed.”

Malfoy picked up the other rod, “Divining rods,” he murmured, “Simple enough in theory, but I imagine using them is a different story.”

“They’ll point toward sources of significant magical energy,” Hermione explained, her excitement growing. “They’re sensitive, though. You have to focus your intent to really get the most of them.”

Malfoy arched a brow, twirling the rod lightly in his hand. “And what happens if you aren’t entirely sure what you’re searching for?”

“That’s where we’ll have to be precise,” Hermione admitted, slipping the note into her pocket. “But if we can narrow down area's with intense magical concentrations...”

“It’s worth a shot,” Malfoy finished, setting the rod back on the table.

"Tomorrow, we’ll take the rods with us to Byron Bay. If there’s any magical energy tied to the Fountain the rods might be able to help us pinpoint it.”

“Another day, another adventure with Hermione Granger,” Malfoy said, his tone was dry but his eyes gleamed. 

The cockatoo squawked again, swiftly stole a cracker and then hopped toward the open window. Hermione gave it a grateful smile as she moved to close the window behind it. “Thank you,” she said, watching as it flapped its wings and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to rise as Hermione made her way out of the spare room she usually stayed in when she visited. She could hear the waves crashing against the beach through the open windows.

Malfoy looked up at her from his seat on the couch when she entered the living room. His hair was mussed, and he was wearing a soft looking linen, button-down and shorts that were long enough to be skimming the tips of his knees. It was just this side of Victorian.

“Malfoy, I never pegged you as the ‘early riser’ type. Thought you’d sleep until noon, given the chance,” she rasped, her voice laden with sleep.

He smirked back at her, “And miss the joy of seeing you attempt to drink coffee before you've fully opened your eyes?”

“Speaking of which,” she said, gesturing to the cup he held in his hands. 

Much to her surprise, Malfoy responded by rising and heading to the kitchen without protest.

“I can’t make you a ‘flet whyte,'" he said, imitating the Australian accent poorly, “but I found a French press in the cupboard and some ground coffee in the muggle ice box.”

"Please never do that accent again."

“Do you want coffee or not?”

“Coffee,” she replied quickly, sitting at the small table by the window. She watched him move around in the kitchen. He was awkwardly looking through drawers and handling muggle appliances. It diminished his usual grace but in a way that made him endearingly human. 

When he finally placed a steaming mug in front of her, she muttered a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, sitting back down at the table across from her with his own cup refilled. “Truly, don’t.”

She took a moment to admire the thin wisps of steam floating up from the surface. They sipped their coffee in companionable silence, the sound of the waves faint in the background.

Hermione broke the stillness.

“We should leave for Byron Bay sooner rather than later,” she said. “We can take a walk around the headland with the rods and then I want to visit the bookstore before it gets too crowded.”

“Of course, the bookstore,” Malfoy replied, his lips turning upwards as he buried them in his coffee cup.

She guided her parent's SUV along the winding coastal road, through Suffolk Park, and toward Byron Bay.

The early morning light suffused the landscape with a peachy blush. The sea sparkled to their right as waves rolled lazily toward the shore.

Malfoy sat in the passenger seat, looking cramped and annoyed. His elbow rested on the window ledge.

“You’re uncharacteristically calm, given we are currently in a car,” Hermione said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Just thinking,” he replied vaguely, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"Of Scorpius?"

Malfoy made a noncommittal sound, but she caught the way soft expression on his face.

The sound of the ocean and the soft hum of the engine filled the silence as they made their way into the heart of Byron.

The sleepy town was just stirring and raising its heavy head from its pillow as they drove through. Trendy cafes were opening their doors for early risers. The scent of coffee hit her senses hard, cutting through the salt on the breeze. Some locals clutching surfboards gathered in the car park. Others walked the footpath at a languid pace, peering into storefronts. Hermione felt a million miles away from home.

"Why don't we go straight to the headland?" Hermione asked. "It's the easternmost spot in Australia and definitely a place of significance for the locals. I think it's a good contender to try out the rods."

"Sure," Draco acquiesced, "but can we get another coffee on the way through?"

She shot him a look. “I find you insufferable enough without added caffeine. It makes you jittery and far too cutting.”

“And I find it impossible to keep up with you without it,” he countered. “Your brain seems to produce its own form of Pepper-Up Potion. Some of us need external assistance.”

They bickered their way past several cafés (which Malfoy looked at longingly) and then all the way up the winding road. But as they rounded a bend, both fell silent.

Wategos Beach stretched out before them. It was a glorious expanse of silken sand tickled by scrubby bushland. The sight was enough to momentarily strip even Malfoy of his usual commentary.

"What the fuck? Was that a dolphin?" He asked suddenly, pointing at a spot not too far from the shore.

"Probably," Hermione replied, "they're pretty common in these parts."

Malfoy, still looking dazed, tapped his fingers rhythmically against his knee. It was a barely perceptible outlet for his tension. He gaped as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing was actually real.

"Wait until you see the lighthouse," she told him.

And not a minute later, he did.

The Cape Byron Lighthouse stood vigil at the crest of the headland. Its brilliant white facade made it look like a cloudy fortress against the deep blue of the sky. It's commanding presence gave the impression that it had weathered many storms and would weather many more. It's great, opalescent fresnel lens glinted in the sunlight.

Below, the cliffs plunged dramatically into the ocean where the shifting sapphire waters churned up great masses of frothy sea-foam. Seabirds flew overhead, gossiping loudly to each other but their voices were mostly lost to the wind.

Malfoy exhaled, staring up at it with something dangerously close to admiration.

“I suppose that is quite nice,” he admitted begrudgingly.

Hermione smiled.

They parked and cast a quick notice-me-not Charm, before taking a moment to appreciate the view from one of the many platforms. Hermione pulled out the divining rods and unwrapped them.

He arched a brow. “I assume you’ve read the instructions.”

She shot him a look. “Have you met me, Malfoy?”

"Fair point."

He squinted at her in the light reflecting off the ocean, "So, how exactly do these rods work? Do we shake them and hope for the best?"

Hermione palmed them in her hands, appreciating their delicate weight. "First of all, please do not shake these rods. They are highly sensitive. They detect concentrated magical energy," she explained, running her fingers along the carved patterns on their surface, "but they work best when you concentrate on an object. You need to give them some direction."

Malfoy gave her a sceptical look but mimicked her stance, taking a rod from her hand and holding it loosely between his fingers. "And if it points us toward a coffee shop, I say we take that as a sign."

"Fine- if it points to a café, you can have another flat white," she placated.

Taking the rod back, she held both loosely in her hands, focusing her intent.

She thought of magic, old and unbound.

She thought of Scorpius and the boundless love of his father.

She thought of the elixir and all of the good things it could do for the world if Malfoy would only…

She shook her head slightly and focused back in on the thoughts and feelings of magic.

She tightened her grip on the rods just in time. They began to swerve and twitch in her palms, tugging her forward with surprising force. She gasped out loud and her foot slipped slightly on some loose gravel.

"Careful," Malfoy said, immediately taking a step forward, his hand hovered just by her elbow but did not touch her, as if he were afraid it wouldn't be received well. "What's going on?"

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. The rods jerked to the right, leading her down a narrow, unmarked trail. The ocean was still visible in the distance, but here, among the low-hanging banksias, the air felt charged with a power they both understood intrinsically.

Malfoy’s wand was in his hand now. He gripped it tightly, though he kept it at his side as they pushed forward through the foliage. “Do you feel that?” he murmured.

Hermione nodded, swallowing. “Magic.”

The magical energy licked her skin and left a buzzing sensation, like electricity. She suspected it was old magic that had taken root in the land a long time ago. It had clearly lingered here and been absorbed into the atomic structures of the earth and the sky.

The divining rods jerked sharply downward. They came to an abrupt stop at the base of a flat, weathered rock. She scrabbled at its half buried surface, tearing away grass and bits of vegetation with her bare hands.

Its surface was etched with faint carvings that were hard to make out, but definitely deliberate. The moment her gaze landed on them, she felt a sense of elation rippling through her.

Malfoy crouched beside her, brushing some dirt away with his fingers gently. “These are pictures, I think.”

Hermione knelt beside him, running her own fingers lightly over the stone. The etchings were deep and precise but didn't appear to be any language she recognised.

She took a moment to mentally search the Rolodex of spells she carried in her mind, searching for something useful. She finally settled on a rather obscure spell she had only used once or twice in her life.

"Revelare Vestigia," she murmured.

A surge of golden light spread outward from the point of contact, seeping into the crevices of the carvings like concentrated sunlight. The spell then shifted to become runic diagnostics on the face of the rock bed.

“This is ancient,” she breathed. “Possibly thousands of years old.”

Malfoy exhaled slowly. “Looks like we found something after all.”

“There’s definitely something here,” she murmured.

Malfoy arched a brow. “But not what we're looking for?”

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know. But this place was definitely significant to someone.” She gestured to the faint shimmer in the air around them. “Residual magic lingers in places of power. And this is definitely one of them.”

Malfoy was silent for a moment, scanning their surroundings. “No protective wards,” he noted, “and no barriers. If this was an entrance to something, it has long since gone.”

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. “Or it was never meant to be an entrance. Maybe it was a marker for something hidden nearby.”

Malfoy exhaled through his nose. “Then the question is: What was it marking?”

Hermione let her fingers linger on the stone a moment longer before shaking her head. “We need more information. This is worth looking into, but without knowing more about the magical history of this land, we’re just guessing.”

Malfoy smirked. “Granger, now you're just looking for excuses to spend hours in a bookstore.”

Hermione gave him a look. “I’m not forcing you to come.”

“You may not have me at wand point,” he pointed out, “but I'm not even allowed to have a coffee without your permission, much less decide how we look for the fountain.”

This took Hermione by surprise. Was she really being so overbearing?

She supposed she had been treating Malfoy in a similar way to the dynamic she had with Ron and Harry. She had been given the feedback that she could be too focused on pushing forward relentlessly.

A pang of guilt struck her. Had she always been like this? Charging ahead, expecting everyone to keep pace?

"Come on, Malfoy," she said, standing up and dusting dirt off her knees, "let's go get you that coffee."

An hour or so later, with takeaway coffees in hand, Hermione parked the car near a small bookstore with a colourful sign that named it Eos Books & Curiosities. The shop front was cluttered and eclectic but also cool in a very Byron-Bay way.

She stepped out of the car and stretched, enjoying the way the warm sun kissed her skin.

“Is this a muggle bookstore?” Malfoy asked, stepping out of the car and surveying the shop with mild scepticism. 

“There’s a magical section out the back. The owner specialises in charms and arithmancy. It’s not going to hurt having a look to see if they might have information on the Fountain or other local magical sites.”

“Of course,” he murmured, following her to the door. 

The shop smelled like old books and incense. It was a veritable labyrinth of shelves, stuffed to the brim with treasures that Hermione would have liked to devour.

A younger woman sat at the counter. She looked up sharply when they entered but otherwise pretended that they didn't exist. She was covered in tattoos and piercings and had an air about of her of absolute unconcern.

“Morning,” Hermione said, her voice polite but suddenly uncertain. “I’m looking to access the special section.”

The woman raised a thin brow, her gaze flicking to Malfoy before returning to Hermione. “Go on through,” she said, sounding bored. She gestured them towards a small door at the back of the store.

Hermione walked up to it and cast a look around before uttering an alohamora. It clicked open and she gestured for Malfoy to follow her through into what was ostensibly an entirely new store. This time there was an older woman sitting behind a counter to their right.

“Oh hello,” Hermione greeted, “are you Electas Puddle? The Charmwright?” 

The older woman chuckled, “I’m Agnes, her grandmother. You just met Electas, she’s working on the muggle side today.”

“Oh!” Hermione squeaked in surprise. She had made an assumption.

“Can I help you, darling?” Agnes asked.

“I’m looking for information on regional magical sites or artefacts. Specifically, anything tied to ancient myths or legends.”

"Oh sure, there's a section on local history and mythology back there," she gestured to a distant corner of the store.

Hermione nodded her thanks, already making her way toward the indicated section. Malfoy followed.

The section was cramped, but packed with books on Australian magic and regional legends. Hermione began scanning the shelves, her fingers trailed over spines as she read the titles aloud, the vellichor washed over her in comforting waves.

“Mystic Waters: Magical Rivers and Lakes of Australia,” she murmured, pulling the book from the shelf. She flipped through the pages with a practised hand, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration.

Time passed.

How much? She wasn't sure.

Malfoy had taken to leaning against one of the shelves, his arms crossed and wearing a bored expression. He had given up being helpful at some point.

Possibly she had been ignoring him even when he tried.

She heard him let out a soft sigh.

“Granger, as thrilling as it is to watch you paw through a nearly endless supply of dusty books, I think I’ll pass on this particular adventure. How long do you plan on being buried in here?”

Hermione glanced up from the book, narrowing her eyes at him. “A while,” she said vaguely.

“I’m going for a walk. Do try not to get lost among the stacks while I’m gone,” he drawled.

“Fine,” Hermione replied with a dismissive wave, already turning her attention back to the shelves. “There’s a beach just down the road. Go amuse yourself.”

Malfoy pushed himself off the shelf with a languid grace. “I'll come and collect you for lunch. You won't remember to eat, otherwise."

“Fine,” she retorted without looking up, her focus locked on the books in front of her.

He seemed to linger for a moment, as if trying to shake off some anxious thought about separating from her. She was too absorbed in skimming the titles and cross-referencing passages in her notebook though, to engage with him.

He left.

The minutes slipped by unnoticed, the soft rustle of pages was the only sound in her cramped corner of the store.

It wasn’t until the shopkeeper cleared her throat nearby that Hermione realised how much time had passed. She glanced at her watch and frowned.

Malfoy had been gone far longer than she expected, even by his standards. It was well past lunch.

She packed up her selection and paid for the books she wanted to take with her, thanking the older woman with a polite nod before stepping out into the warm air.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she tapped into the location app that had been tracking Malfoy’s iPhone since London. The small blue dot blinked steadily, showing his location farther down the coast, near the edge of town.

She frowned.

“Trust him to wander off,” she muttered, shoving the phone back into her pocket as she made her way down the road. The sound of waves grew louder as she approached the shore, the salty breeze no doubt whipping her mane into a frenzy. She checked her phone again.

When she reached the beach, there was no sign of him. Just the sprawling coastline and a handful of surfers paddling out into the waves. Her frown deepened as she checked the map again. The dot was definitely inland. He was much farther than the beach she’d suggested. A red flag, even for Malfoy

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered, her irritation growing. This was just so Malfoyesque. No doubt he hadn't even spared a moments consideration for her when he wandered off.

Hermione doubled back to follow the map which led her past the main beach and through some back streets until she reached the scrubby, outskirts of town. She walked for about twenty minutes, her eyes fixed anxiously on the blinking blue dot- never veering from the most direct route towards it.

By the time she reached a gated property surrounded by tall trees, Hermione was on edge. She palmed her wand and unlocked the gate, stepping through.

The property was a strange mixture of perfectly manicured and rustic Australiana, almost like it was a staged photoshoot for social media. There were were blooming wildflowers and herbs in neat beds lining the gravel drive and the air was thick with bees going about their business. Ahead was a well-maintained house nestled between some towering gum trees. All of this was set against a backdrop of Australian scrubland.

It wasn't just beautiful though. The sun somehow seemed sunnier. The flowers were brighter, their scent was stronger and more inviting than it had a right to be.

Hermione's senses were on high alert. There was some unnatural quality at play. The atmosphere was too serene. It was almost like a dream. It made her skin prickle.

The sound of soft music and laughter carried to her on the breeze.

She rounded a corner, her boots crunching loudly on the gravel drive in a way that elevated her pulse. A large lawn opened up suddenly before her. She froze at the sight that greeted her. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.

Malfoy sat in the middle of the lawn, legs-crossed, on the ground. If that weren't disconcerting enough, he had a serene, blissed-out smile on his face that absolutely did not look remotely like Malfoy's typical expression. It was such an incongruent sight, she almost sat down with the shock.

He was stacking stones and looking idiotically happy about it. They formed small, pointless towers.

He had removed his shoes and socks and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Two pale forearms were revealed to the sun, one of which was marked. It jolted her to see it. She knew Malfoy to be protective of his mark, reluctant to have it on display.

Despite this, he looked completely at ease.

Around him, a small group of people, she assumed they were muggles, moved slowly and dreamily through the clearing.

One man knelt in the garden, gently brushing dirt from his hands. A young woman with dreadlocks and sun-kissed shoulders painted a swirling mural on the wall of a shed. They all wore the same vacant, peaceful expressions, their movements unhurried, as though they weren't fully aware of time or their surroundings.

The air was unnaturally sweet and Hermione's stomach twisted. They were undoubtedly under enchantment. Her fingers tightened around her wand as she stepped forward.

She crouched in front of Malfoy, her knees pressing into the soft earth as she waved a hand in front of his face. “Malfoy? What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

Malfoy looked up at her vacantly. His eyes were unfocused and glassy but he worked a tranquil, pleasant expression. After a moment he began stacking stones again, as if doing so would reveal the answers to the universe's greatest mysteries.

Hermione groaned. These were all signs of subtle magic she had seen many times before. Malfoy had walked headfirst into something unpleasant.

“Malfoy, snap out of it,” she said sharply, grabbing his wrist and giving it a firm shake. His skin was warm under her touch, but he didn’t react, his fingers still poised delicately over the next stone in his tower.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, straightening and scanning the clearing for the source of the magic. Her gaze landed on a strikingly beautiful woman standing beneath a sprawling gum tree at the edge of the clearing. She was watching Hermione.

She was impossibly tall and willowy with honey-blonde hair that cascaded in perfect waves down her back. Hermione hated her on sight and not because she was beautiful. She could smell a grift a mile away and this was most certainly a grift.

The woman was dressed in a bohemian, billowy dress. She leaned casually against a tree, looking like a painting. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as Hermione approached.

In Hermione’s earliest days at the Ministry, she had worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (now just the DoMC). She had her share of run-ins with creatures from all corners of the world and knew immediately what this creature was - a nymph. Close cousins to the Veela with similar powers of enchantment and charming.

She approached cautiously.

“Let me guess,” Hermione said, her wand pointed at the creature, “he wandered too close, and you decided to add him to your little collection?”

The nymph’s lips curved into a smile, her voice lilting and melodic. “He looked like he could use some peace,” she said simply. “And the others seem to enjoy his company.”

“I don’t think that is justification enough to permanently enchant a person,” Hermione snapped, her grip on her wand firm. “Release him. Now. Release them all.”

The nymph tilted her head, her expression unbothered. “They’re happy here, you know,” she said, gesturing toward the enchanted muggles. “I don’t force them to stay. They are all lost and looking for something. Sometimes it's purpose, sometimes a sense of beloning. I can always help them find what they need.”

“You enchant them,” Hermione shot back, her tone rising. “That’s not helping. That’s manipulation. You probably use them for free labour or… I don't know, Instagram likes or something. This is clearly a cult situation.”

The nymph sighed.

"Why? Because it's peaceful and beautiful here?" she took a graceful step closer to Hermione, who retreated an inch.“I think you’ll find they don’t see it that way. Look at them.” She gestured to the muggles, who continued their tasks with serene contentment. “They’re not harmed. They’re free to leave anytime they want.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not free to want anything, not while they’re under your spell.”

The nymph let out a tinkle of a laugh. Like a leaf being carried on the breeze.

"Take him, if it means that much to you. But don’t expect me to refund the peace of mind he’s tasted.”

The nymph raised a hand and clicked suddenly. A dark, ugly look briefly crossing her features. Hermione blinked and it was once again an alluring mask. She felt a slight ripple in the air. An enchantment had been lifted.

She turned to observe Malfoy who blinked rapidly, the softness draining from his features. As the sharpness returned she had the oddest thought that it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, which didn't make sense at all. Malfoy's face was creased, a perfect demonstration of blooming confusion.

“Granger?” he said, his voice hoarse and confused. “What happened?”

“You were enchanted by a nymph,” she explained briskly, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, his equilibrium  not fully recovered. “And apparently, you’re terrible at resisting creature mind-magic despite being an accomplished occlumens.”

He scowled, brushing dirt from his trousers as his cheeks flushed faintly. “I was not enchanted.”

Hermione arched a brow, holding up her phone. “Then explain why I had to track your iPhone to find you stacking rocks in the sun.”

Malfoy muttered something under his breath, shooting a glare at the nymph, who simply smiled serenely and leaned back against her tree.

As Hermione turned to leave, her hand still wrapped around Malfoy’s arm, the nymph’s melodic voice stopped her in her tracks.

“You might want to be gentler with him,” the nymph said with sharp amusement. “He carries a storm within him. I simply offered calm. My care might have done him good, in time."

Hermione tensed. She glanced at Malfoy who had gone still, his expression carefully blank. She saw a muscle in his jaw tighten.

Nymphs were known for their charms and their subtle manipulations.

“That’s none of your concern,” Hermione said sharply, her voice colder than she intended. She tightened her grip on Malfoy’s arm and began pulling him toward the gate.

Hermione didn’t look back, her strides purposeful as they left the nymph behind. Malfoy walked in silence beside her, his posture stiff and his gaze fixed ahead.

“Come on,” she said finally, her voice gentler now. “Let’s get back to town. I'll file a report with the local authorities later and get those muggles freed.”

Malfoy didn’t reply, but he followed her without protest.

That’s when she saw it. Somehow she had walked right past it on the way in.

It was a vintage camper van parked at the front of the property where it was clearly visible from the road with a large ‘For Sale’ sign stuck on the dash. It looked exactly like the van she had traveled western Europe in with her parents when she was 9 years old. The vehicle swiftly lay claim to her heart.

“Wait here!” she told Malfoy, turning and marching back the way they had come.

The nymph was still leaning against the tree when Hermione returned, her amber eyes lighting up with mild surprise as Hermione approached.

“Back so soon?” she asked, her tone lilting and teasing. “Have you come to join my cult?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione replied curtly, gesturing toward the camper van. “Is that yours?”

The nymph followed her gaze and smiled faintly. “Ah, the van. Yes, but I’ve decided to set it free on a new adventure.”

Hermione crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “How much?”

The nymph tilted her head, her honey-coloured hair spilling over one shoulder like liquid afternoon light. “Why? You don’t strike me as someone who would embrace van life.”

“I need something mobile. Practical. And that -” she pointed to the van, “looks perfect.”

The nymph’s smile widened, her amusement clear. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you? Bargaining with me after such a pointed lecture.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she held her ground. “How much?” she repeated, her tone firm.

The nymph pushed off the tree, taking a slow step toward Hermione. “Ordinarily, I’d ask for a few thousand muggle dollars. But…” She paused, her golden eyes gleaming. “Given my fondness for your friend, I suppose I could lower the price. Consider it a goodwill gesture.”

Hermione’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “Goodwill? From you?”

“Goodwill and a promise that you won’t go to the authorities about my farm,” the nymph replied smoothly. “I’ll let it go for, say… half of what it’s worth. That should cover my generosity, don’t you think?”

Hermione considered this for a moment, her gaze flicking back to the camper van.

"If the muggles really are here of their own volition, I won't need to go to the authorities," she said slowly.

"They are," the nymph said simply.

"Prove it."

"And how should I do that?" the nymph replied, her voice taking on a harsher edge.

"Lift the enchantments. Right here and now."

The nymph’s eyes flickered with something unreadable as she studied Hermione. For a long moment, she said nothing.

With a soft exhale, she lifted a hand and with a single finger, traced an intricate pattern in the air. She was like a conductor, guiding an invisible orchestra through the motions. Then she clicked her fingers once more.

Before Hermione saw the effects. There was another ripple, this time much larger. It felt like a thread being firmly tugged. Then it unravelled all at once.

There was confusion.

The muggle began to make slow, disoriented movements. The man in the garden began to blink rapidly, one hand still buried in the soil as he woke from a quasi-trance. The young woman painting the mural paused mid-stroke, a line of blue began to drop down the wall.

Hermione watched them all intently.

One by one, they all began to come back to themselves, their expressions shifted from dreamlike serenity to puzzlement or uncertainty.

It was like they were rising from a dream, but were struggling through sticky molasses. Slowly they all seemed to be firmly planted back into reality.

Hermione could see a new clarity in their awareness, it was in the way they moved, and the looks on their faces.

And yet, rather than erupting into outrage and anger, a peacefulness resumed.

"Calendula!" one of the musicians cried out to the nymph. "Come join us!"

Everyone else resumed what they had previously been doing as well.

The nymph smiled and waved and then turned to Hermione and looked at her pointedly.

"Fine," Hermione conceded, crossing her arms, "I believe you. No authorities. But why even bother with the enchantments?"

"They like it," the Nymph said with a shrug, "And i'll take cash." 

Hermione let out a slow breath, nodding. “Done,” she said. “but you’ll need to sign over the title properly. And no tricks.”

The nymph laughed softly, a sound like wind through the trees. “I don't need to stoop to trickery. It’s yours, dear. Take good care of it.”

Twenty minutes later, Hermione hauled herself into the driver’s seat, brushing dust off her hands as she adjusted the position of the clunky rear-view mirror. The seat beneath her creaked with age, the wooden beads of the old-fashioned seat cover dug uncomfortably into her back. She ignored it, running her fingers around the over-sized steering wheel and eyeing the dashboard with a mix of trepidation and determination.

The faded cream and beige interior might have looked outdated, but the van was sturdy. With the right spells, it would be their new home on wheels.

The engine spluttered loudly as she turned the key, coughing to life with a rattle that made her wince. She adjusted the cracked window lever, rolling it down with a satisfying clunk, and leaned her elbow out as she eased the camper down the dirt driveway.

Malfoy stood at the property line, looking lost and unimpressed. His arms were crossed, and his expression was sour. His platinum hair sparkled in the effulgent sunlight.

She could tell, even at great distance, that he was mortified.

“Get in, Malfoy,” Hermione called, the camper rattling to a stop beside him. She leaned out of the window, arching a brow at his incredulous expression.

Malfoy blinked, his gaze shifting from Hermione to the camper van, then back to her. “Granger,” he said, his voice laced with disbelief, “what the hell is this?”

She grinned, deliberately bright and unapologetic. “It’s our new ride.”

“Ride?” he repeated, his tone pitched somewhere between horror and offense. He gestured toward the van with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “This relic? You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Hermione replied, her grin widening. “It’s perfect. Mobile, spacious, and with the right charms, it’ll get us where we need to go. Comfortably.”

“Comfortably?” Malfoy scoffed, taking a hesitant step toward the van after a moment of visible hesitation. He peered inside through the passenger window, his expression growing more appalled by the second. “Granger, this thing looks like it’s being held together with duct tape and a prayer.”

“It’s structurally sound,” she countered, undeterred, “and it has character.”

“It has tetanus and whatever the vehicular form of gout is,” he muttered, circling to the passenger door. He opened it gingerly, as though afraid it might fall off its hinges, and climbed in with obvious reluctance.

The seat creaked under his weight, and he gave the beaded cover a dubious glance before settling stiffly into place. His knees brushed the dashboard, and he glared at a large stain on the floor mat below him.

“This is absurd,” he said flatly, shooting her a look of sheer exasperation.

“Oh, lighten up,” Hermione said, pulling the gear stick into place and coaxing the van back onto the road. “Once we get it enchanted, it’ll be good as new. Better, even.”

"I thought we could use your parent's car?"

Hermione shook her head, "They should be back from the UK next week. Besides, with this beauty we don't have to worry about finding accommodation and we can layer it with as many enchantments as we please."

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the seat with a defeated sigh. “Granger, do you know how many perfectly functional vehicles exist in this world?”

“But none of those have this kind of soul,” she replied, tapping the dashboard affectionately. “And they certainly wouldn’t come for such a reasonable price.”

Malfoy gave her a sidelong glance, his lips twitching as though he were suppressing a retort. “I’d wager there’s a reason for that,” he said with a lilt of his brow.

Hermione ignored him, focusing on the road as they bounced along the uneven path back toward the main road. The engine whined faintly as it adjusted to the incline, but Hermione found herself smiling despite the racket.

"Malfoy, are you okay?"

He turned to look at her, annoyance, anger and embarrassment waging a transparent war in his eyes and his expression.

"Just drop it, okay Granger?" he requested.

Okay.

"I once got dragged underwater by a Kelpie," she blurted. "My partner at the time had to stun it and drag me out. It was terribly embarrassing. I knew better but it happened anyway."

"I asked you to drop it."

"Dropping it," she replied earnestly.

But she did notice some of the tension had leaked from his shoulders.

By the time they rattled back into Byron Bay, the morning bustle had grown to a lively hum. Cafés spilt patrons onto sidewalks and the air was thick with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries.

Hermione parked the van in front of Eos Books & Curiosities, its paint still catching the sunlight despite its age.

“You dragged me to this bookstore once already,” Malfoy muttered, climbing out of the van. “Must we endure this again?”

Hermione ignored him, heading straight for the shop. Inside, Electas stood at the counter, sorting through a stack of what looked like new-age self-help books.

“Ah,” Electas said, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as Hermione approached. “Back so soon?”

“We need your help,” Hermione said without preamble. She gestured toward the camper van parked outside. “I want to get that enchanted.”

Electas’ brows rose as she peered past Hermione to the van. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” Hermione said. “Flying capabilities, reinforced durability, definitely some disillusionment for discretion. Can you do it?”

“Hold on,” Malfoy interjected, “isn’t this illegal?”

“Not if it’s done by a qualified Charmwright,” Granger explained, "which she is," she said gesturing at the tattooed woman.

Electas let out a low whistle, stepping out from behind the counter to get a better look. She walked slowly outside to the van, her fingers trailing lightly over its weathered surface as if appraising it. “It’s in rough shape,” she remarked. “But it’s got good bones. A solid base for what you want.”

Malfoy leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed. “If you call that heap solid, I’d hate to see what you consider fragile.”

Electas shot him a dry look. “It’s a damn sight sturdier than you look, mate.”

Hermione smirked as Malfoy bristled but wisely held his tongue. The woman had a point, he did look a bit shaky and fragile right now.

Electas turned back to Hermione, her expression thoughtful. “It’ll take a day or two, depending on what you want done. And it won’t be cheap.”

Hermione nodded, then looked directly at Malfoy “He’s paying. I assume you take muggle currency?”

Electas grinned faintly, “Good. Let’s start by taking her around the back,” she cast a wary look around to make sure nobody was listening. “We’ll start with the basics: flight, structural reinforcement, and a muggle-repelling charm. Anything else?”

“Self-cleaning wouldn’t hurt,” Hermione added. “And maybe some temperature regulation.”

Electas let out a low chuckle. “Ambitious, aren’t you? I’ll see what I can do.” She rolled up her sleeves and gestured for them to get moving.

The space behind Eos Books & Curiosities turned out to be much larger than Hermione expected.

Electas’ workspace sprawled into a converted shed behind the main shop. The air smelled faintly of singed wood or wool, Hermione wasn't sure which. It was the scent of magical experimentation. The walls were cluttered with shelves of books, jars and stacks of strange, looking tools.

The campervan sat in the middle of the workshop, already suspended a few inches off the ground by a glowing web of magic. Electas moved around it with brisk efficiency, her wand sweeping in graceful arcs as she murmured incantations under her breath. The air shimmered faintly with the residual energy of her spells.

Malfoy leaned against one of the workbenches, his arms crossed as he watched Electas work with an expression of faint disdain. “Do you think she has a permit for this?” he muttered.

Hermione, who was seated on a nearby stool with a notebook in her lap, didn’t bother looking up. “Do you?”

Malfoy scowled, but before he could retort, Electas waved her wand in a final flourish, and the van lowered gently back onto the ground. She turned to them with a satisfied grin, wiping her hands on her already stained robes.

“That’s the structural work done,” she said, her voice brisk. “It’ll fly smoothly, handle well in rough weather, and hold up against minor collisions. Next up: the cloaking charms and a bit of reinforcement on the wards.”

Hermione stood, her excitement bubbling to the surface. “It’ll fly now?”

Electas nodded. “If you want to give it a spin, go ahead. But don’t blame me if you crash into a tree- I’m still working on the stabilisation.”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who raised a pale brow. “Go on, Granger,” he said dryly. “Surely you’d love to be the first to test the flying deathtrap.”

“Later,” Hermione replied, suppressing a grin as she sat back down. “I trust Electas will finish it properly.”

“Good choice,” Electas said with a smirk, already returning to her work. She began tracing runes along the van’s exterior.

Malfoy watched her work for a long moment, his gaze flicking between the van and the intricate web of charms she was weaving. “You know…” he said finally, breaking the silence.

“What?” Hermione asked, glancing at him.

He tilted his head toward the van. “This… thing. It reminds me of a Plimpy.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the unexpected comparison. “A Plimpy?”

“Yes,” Draco said, his tone thoughtful. “Vaguely cube shaped. Definitely ugly. Doesn't it look a bit under-evolved to you?”

“So, you think we should call it the Flying Plimpy?” Hermione asked, leaning forward slightly. “Are you actually naming it?”

“Why not?” Malfoy said, his smirk growing. “It suits it.”

Hermione tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… I was thinking something more sophisticated, like The Triumphant Phoenix or something of the like.”

Draco groaned audibly. “Merlin, Granger, how very Gryffindor of you.”

“Fine,” she said, resignedly. “The Flying Plimpy it is.”

Electas, who had been listening with thinly veiled amusement, chimed in. “Flying Plimpy? I like it,” she said with a wink at Draco. “I’ll add it to the runes. Names always make the magic stick better.”

Draco gave a mock bow. 

Hermione shook her head, laughing softly as Electas continued her work. The van was taking on a new life, its tired exterior now glowing faintly with the traces of magic, and the name- absurd as it was- seemed to fit perfectly.

“Why don’t you two head home? Come back tomorrow before the shop opens and she should be ready for a test flight,” Electas told them.

Hermione was inclined to agree. It had been rather an exciting day.

“Let’s go,” she said to Malfoy, "We'll drive Mum and Dad's car home now and we can apparate back here tomorrow to pick up Plimpy and continue on our way."

And with some muttered goodbyes to the Charmwright, they did.

Chapter Text

The restaurant they had chosen for dinner was called The Sanctuary. Fittingly, the ambiance was graceful and refined. Glass walls framed moonglade views of the Pacific ocean while candlelight tickled tables of dark cherry wood.

It was an elegant space that didn’t feel the need to announce itself, a lesson some people could stand to learn.

Despite her appetite for learning, Granger was not likely to be one of those people.

Draco had eagerly anticipated that the copious amounts of bread and whipped butter would mean a reprieve from the relentless monologues he had endured all afternoon. Somehow though, she had managed to turn dinner into another platform for her personal crisis.

“The entire structure of the ICW is archaic,” she said and stabbed at her grilled fish with an alarming amount of force. “They’ve barely evolved past the witch hunting days. They think progress is just moving the same people into different chairs. And don’t even get me started on the UK. Do you know how many active magical crises the government is juggling right now? Seven. And that's juat the ones we know about! And yet the biggest concern in the Wizengamot is whether the Inter-spacial Charms Act should include more portkey regulations. Portkeys, Malfoy!”

Draco made a noncommittal noise and took a sip of his wine. He hadn't actually spoken in over ten minutes. She didn't seem to notice. She was too busy gesticulating with her fork, chasing tangents like they were rabbit holes.

At first, it had been fine and maybe even mildly entertaining. She’d started with a lengthy diatribe about the whispers Potter had passed on: whispers there would be an inquiry into her maginullium. Then she had begun to speculate wildly that the tribunal would stack the menu of witnesses with staunch traditionalists. Then she had pivoted to the incompetence of the British government, the collapse of the economy, and the rampant corruption in the Wizengamot.

Now, apparently, it was portkey regulations that were the final straw. She had bbarelyevwn touched her food.

Draco sighed, and with measured patience said, “Granger.”

She kept going.

“And meanwhile, I’m on a wild goose chase in the middle of Australia when I could be actually doing something of use if only I-”

“Granger.”

Her voice pitched higher. “And when I do go back, I’ll no doubt have a thousand letters from Susan fucking Bones because God forbid-"

“For fuck’s sake, Granger.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself?”

Granger’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” he repeated slowly and precisely, “Do you ever get tired of it? The constant complaining. And Merlin, the lectures! The entire bloody weight of civilization resting on your overburdened shoulders.”

Her mouth, which had been open as if she were on the verge of interrupting, snapped closed.

Ah. That had done it.

“I am not complaining,” she snapped, but the heat in her voice betrayed her. “I am stating facts.  Do you even have any idea how difficult it is to-”

“Oh, spare me.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, irritation finally boiling over. “You don’t have to be here, Granger. You chose this. You wanted this. And yet, here we are, listening to yet another thrilling installment of Hermione Granger vs the world.”

She bristled. “I happen to care about the world.”

“No, you think you're the only person who can fix it,” he shot back. “And you’d rather set yourself on fire than accept the fact that you can’t control everything.”

Granger’s jaw clenched, her eyes burned with anger. “Oh, I’m sorry, Malfoy, should I just sit back and do nothing? Like you?”

Draco's irritation burned bright, "Oh that's rich," he replied, "As if I even get a chance to do anything with you around! You take over everything, Granger. You're like a boulder rolling down a hill and you just run right over anything in your path. You need to control everything, and you are constantly inserting yourself into business that is not yours!"

"I'm fairly certain you benefited from me inserting myself when it came to you falling down a pit to your death or being enchanted by a magical creature for the rest of your life!"

Draco’s grip on his wine glass tightened. The cold feeling of embarrassment gripped his insides but he forced himself to breathe. “I think,” he said coolly, “that you might be the single most insufferable person I’ve ever met.”

“Likewise!” she hissed.

They stared at each other. The tension a thick current running between them, pulling them under.

Then, she abruptly pushed back her chair, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. “I think we’re done here.”

Draco didn’t argue or try to stop her as she grabbed her bag and stormed out. He simply watched as she disappeared into the night, her curls bouncing wildly with every furious step.

He reached for his wine again, taking a slow sip.

It was only then that his gaze drifted down to the table and he noticed her wand had fallen out of her bag.

Fucking hell.

Draco was good at picking his battles and this was not one of them. That’s what he told himself as he sighed, got up from the table, and followed her out into the night.

By the time he made it to the beach, he could see her in the distance, walking along the shoreline, painted in moonlight and shadows.

For a brief moment, he considered leaving her be. She’d cool off and probably return at some ungodly hour after pacing herself into exhaustion.

But then he noticed something.

There was something about the way she wasn’t walking but also wasn't standing perfectly still either. He wondered if perhaps she was muttering angrily under her breath. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her shoulders shaking.

(Shit.)

Draco approached quietly, his steps muffled by the sand. The closer he got, the clearer it became.

Hermione Granger was crying.

She must have heard him, because she stiffened, swiping hastily at her face before turning toward him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Her voice wobbled.

Draco stopped a few feet away, feeling something uncomfortably close to regret curl in his stomach. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“I-”

(What was he supposed to say?)

He’d never been good at apologies. The words always stuck somewhere in his throat, like something sharp was lodged there.

“I was an arse.”

Granger let out a wet laugh and shook her head. “No shit.”

She turned away, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. The wind tugged at the hem of her shirt, the scent of salt thick in the air.

He hesitated for a moment, feeling awkward about what to do with his limbs, which suddenly felt heavy and ungainly. Finally, he stepped close enough that he could see the way the moonlight caught the faint shimmer of tears on her skin.

He sighed, tilting his head. “You’re not actually crying over portkey regulations, are you?”

“No.”

Draco shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting.

For once, she didn’t launch into an explanation. She just stood there, staring at the waves, her breathing uneven.

“I was embarrassed and a bit shocked,” she admitted finally. Her voice was much smaller than he was accustomed to hearing.

Draco frowned. “By what?”

Granger exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “By you.”

That startled him. “Me?”

“I’ve gotten used to a different version of you, Malfoy. The one I’ve been traveling with, who bickers and grumbles but-” She broke off, pressing her lips together before shaking her head, “For a second tonight, it felt like I was back in school- the girl who was too much, who no one had patience for.”

(Oh.)

He hadn’t thought of it like that.

To him, the words had been true and what he considered a necessary, if cutting way to assert his own feelings and to bring her back down to earth. They had clearly hit deeper than he intended.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Granger let out a tired laugh, rubbing at her eyes. “Yeah, well, intent doesn’t always matter, does it?”

Draco looked away, shaking his head slowly.

The unspoken words between them grew heavier with each passing moment. Then, without entirely thinking, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.

She stiffened, startled, but she didn’t pull away.

For a moment, she just stood there, rigid. But then, slowly, cautiously, she let the tightly coiled springs unfurl and leaned into him.

Draco held her firmly, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head. The wind tugged at them, but her body was warm against his.

“I still really hate you sometimes.”

Draco smirked. “I know.”

There was a pause.

“Granger, you’ve asked me for advice a number of times since this thing began. I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice now okay, but I want you to know that it is not unkindly meant.”

He truly expected her to tell him to bugger off. Instead she gave a small sniff and nodded her head.

“You’re freshly divorced, you’re hurting, your children are hurting- there is a lot to work through and it’s going to be really tough. All of the other stuff can wait,” he took a breath and since she hadn’t started crying again, he figured he may as well finish what he started, “And when you do get back to ruling the world- you won’t change minds if you keep constantly dismissing people who don't agree with you as stupid or backwards. You would be better of trying to bend the system, Granger, not completely remake it.” 

Granger recoiled slightly.

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She stood there and the wind played with the loose strands of her hair.

“I know.”

Draco blinked and then tilted his head slightly, peering down at her. “You do?”

She nodded. “I do. I just-” She pulled back slightly, rubbing at her face. “I’m not enjoying knowing it.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “That,” he murmured, “might be the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

She let out a breathy, tired laugh in response. “Piss off.”

Then she stepped back enough to put some distance between them.

He tilted his head toward the road. “Come on, Granger. Let’s go home before I say something else that makes you cry.”

She huffed. “You really do have a way with words, Malfoy.”

He grinned.

As they made their way back across the sand their footsteps fell into an easy rhythm.

Another small, reluctant laugh. Then, finally, she shook her head. “Sometimes I even like you Malfoy- when you aren’t being an arse.”

Draco didn’t know what he’d expected her to say. For a moment he vacillated between saying thank you and deflecting with an insult. Eventually it was too late to react at all and he just stood there.

So she didn’t hate him anymore.

(Had he known he cared about her opinion of him up until this point?)

"Oh, I forgot to give you this," he said, desperate to break the silence.

He handed back her wand.

She looked down at it as he pushed it into her palm.

It struck him how symbolic it was- Draco Malfoy handing Hermione Granger a wand instead of trying to take it away.

Something for the history books.

Draco woke the next morning with the unmistakable sensation that he’d just had a very important conversation and had no idea what to do with it.

The memory of Granger and her weight against his chest pressed at the edges of his thoughts. It was a splinter, lurking just under the surface.

He wasn’t going to think about it.

(But if he did, hypothetically, think about it - what did he think about it?)

Instead, he dragged himself out of bed and followed the scent of coffee out onto the porch, where Granger was already sitting, legs curled up beneath her, hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

She glanced at him as he stepped outside.

“You’re up early.”

“So are you.”

She hummed into her coffee, taking a slow sip before answering. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Draco considered that and then sat down beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

“Sorry about last night and thanks for coming after me.”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Same. I’m sorry I mean, and glad.”

As if sensing the moment was getting too heavy, Granger set her mug down with a soft clink and stood.

“Come on,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “Let’s get ourselves ready. We can apparate to Byron in about an hour to see if our ridiculous van can actually fly.”

“Excellent. Looking forward to plummeting to my death.”

Granger grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Draco wasn’t sure what was worse: that he was willingly going along with this plan, or that a small, treacherous part of him was actually looking forward to it.

Granger apparated them into an alley just down from the bookstore. A salty breeze hit him immediately, blowing in off the ocean and reflecting off the sun-warmed road.

Draco straightened his coat, brushing away an imaginary speck of dust. Granger scanned the street with an eager sort of focus.

“Remind me again, why we entrusted our lives to a van previously owned by a morally dubious nymph?”

“Because you named it,” Granger quipped, starting toward the back of the shop, “and you’re too attached to abandon it now.”

Draco scoffed, but didn’t argue.

They found the Flying Plimpy parked where they’d left it in Electas’ workshop, looking exactly as it had before. Old, slightly rusted and entirely unimpressive.

“It doesn’t look more magical.”

“I think that’s the point.”

Electas herself appeared moments later, wiping her hands on a rag, a smudge of ink streaked across her cheek.

“You’re up early,” she greeted.

“I see it hasn’t crashed into the ocean yet, that’s promising.”

Electas chuckled, tossing the rag onto a workbench. “It’s all ready to go. Flight stabilizers, climate control, enhanced disillusionment charms, and, because I’m very generous, an automatic self-cleaning charm. I figured if you spent less time cleaning, you might write another article on Hermetic Cohesion Theory.” She looked directly at him when she said that last part. 

He felt himself stand up straighter, “You know my work?”

“Saw your name on the paperwork and put two-and-two together. Charms is my thing, but sometimes for applied charms work I have to dip into a bit of alchemical theory.”

Granger was watching the exchange, open-mouthed.

“I know who you are too, of course,” Electas said turning to her, “Hermione Granger. We’re very familiar with the stories, even Down Under. I’ve also read some of your articles in Transfiguration Today and I read a recent article about your invention. Compound that both repels and absorbs magic. I’d love to know what kind of tricky spell work you used, none of my experiments have worked.”

“She can’t tell you, of course.” Draco cut in, “It’s her intellectual property and she has a patent.”

“Of course, it was mere academic curiosity.”

“Well, obviously I sought you out because I know your work too,” Granger replied graciously, “And I have extreme confidence in your work on Plimpy. If I might though, could I extract a promise you won’t spread the word that we were here? We’re actually working on a new project together and discretion would be appreciated.”

Electas quirked a brow, clearly intrigued but not pressing the matter. “Secret, huh? A world famous, war-hero transfigurator and an alchemist with a shady past working together. Well, that does make things interesting.”

Draco could practically hear the gears turning in the woman’s mind. She was sharp, he had to give her that.

Electas wiped her hands off on her rag again before crossing her arms. “Alright. I can keep my mouth shut. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“Thank you. It’s important.”

“Of course.”

Electas tapped her fingers against the side of Plimpy, giving the vehicle an approving pat. “She’s good to go. Take her up and see how she flies. If anything feels off, bring her back, and I’ll make adjustments. Otherwise, consider her airworthy.”

Granger’s face lit up. Draco, against his better judgment, found the reaction endearing.

"Let’s test her out.”

“Yes. Let’s. And if we plummet to our deaths, I want it noted that I was against this from the beginning.”

Electas grinned, stepping back. “I’ll be sure to tell your ghost hello.”

Granger rolled her eyes and yanked the door open. “Get in, Malfoy.”

He climbed in, muttering under his breath about trusting his life to a glorified tin can.

He braced himself for the worst. A violent shudder. A dramatic nosedive. Something catastrophic that would prove this entire endeavor was the idiotic mess he suspected it to be.

Instead, Plimpy rose smoothly into the air, with all the ease and grace of a well-calibrated broom.

Draco gripped the seat out of instinct, then scowled at her when Granger shot him a smug look.

“You must be impressed.”

“I am absolutelyastounded we aren't dead.”

She grinned and nudged a dial, adjusting their course.

The Flying Plimpy responded instantly, cutting through the sky without the slightest turbulence.

Below them, Byron Bay stretched out in shades of rolling green and sandy gold. The ocean was an endless border of blue.

There was something undeniably exhilarating about it. Granger watched the landscape as well, her face alight with freedom.

“This was a good idea.”

“You say that now. Wait until we’re dodging airborne traffic violations.”

She laughed, and for some reason, the sound settled his nerves.

After twenty minutes of maneuvering and altitude tests, Granger finally turned them back toward the landing site, setting Plimpy down with practised ease.

Draco unclenched.

“Well,” she said, shutting off the engine, “I’d say that was a success.”

“My turn for a test drive.”

She shook her head, already climbing out of the van. “Come on, Malfoy. Time to head for Brisbane I think. Since we've had no luck finding out more about that stone, I've decided that the journal can't wait."

Of course she had.

By the time they touched down in Lennox to grab their remaining things, the day had already evolved into a lethargic heat.

Humidity curled around their bodies, leaving a sheen of sweat on their skin as they loaded Plimpy. Draco leaned against the van while Granger packed.

“So,” he drawled, stretching out his legs, “who exactly is this friend of yours in Brisbane?”

Granger didn’t look up. “Her name’s Sabine. We studied together. She’s tenured at the Australis Institute of Magical Studies, AIMS for short. She’s in the Spellcraft and Experimental Magic Department.”

“And she’s fine with us showing up in a flying vehicle?”

“She’s an academic, When she sees the charm work, she’ll probably want to take it apart.”

“Brilliant.”

“Alright. If we leave now, we’ll make it to West End before sundown.”

Draco sighed and opened the passenger side door and climbed in. “And once we get there?”

“We get settled at Sabine’s, then head to the university tomorrow. I want her help with some prototype magic blockers. I need to get my laptop to work within Plimpy's wards.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course. Priorities.”

Granger ignored him, adjusting the controls. “Hold on.”

The Flying Plimpy hummed and shot into the sky, carrying them toward Brisbane.

The streets of West End hummed with life as Plimpy touched down discreetly outside Sabine’s house. The van’s disillusionment charms held strong, blending it seamlessly into the quiet, leafy street.

Granger parked with ease, flipping a few switches to ensure their newest mode of transport remained inconspicuous. Draco barely waited for the engine to power down before stepping out, stretching after being cooped up inside.

"Civilisation, at last.”

Granger rolled her eyes, already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, Malfoy. I have something much more exciting to show you.”

Within moments, she had herded him down to the West End ferry terminal, where the CityCat bobbed gently in the Brisbane River, which stretched out wide and dark beneath them, reflecting the golden afternoon sun.

The hum of the catamaran’s engine reverberated through the deck as they boarded, slipping into seats near the railing.

Draco eyed the water warily. “And this is necessary?”

“Completely,” Granger said breezily, pulling her hair back against the wind. “The St. Lucia campus is on the river, and the CityCat is the best way to get there. Besides, you wanted to experience the local culture, didn’t you?”

“I draw the line at public transportation.”

“Even magical public transportation?”

“Is it?”

“No,” Granger admitted, smiling as the CityCat began to glide forward. “It’s entirely Muggle. But trust me, it’s magic.”

As they sped along the river, the view unfolded in a shifting panorama of Brisbane skyline. Despite himself, Draco found the experience tolerable. The rhythmic motion of the ferry was oddly soothing, the river breeze refreshing against his skin.

Granger pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from her bag and perched them on her nose. Her chaotic hair was even more wind-swept than usual. He watched as she grabbed the handrail and tipped her head back, twisting it slightly to each side as if contemplating the sun.

Her gaze flicked to him suddenly. She watched him for a moment with curiosity and some amusement.

“You like this,” she accused.

“It’s not bad.”

By the time they docked it was late afternoon. The sprawling campus lay ahead, a mixture of grand sandstone buildings and sleek, modern additions.

Draco followed as Granger wove effortlessly through the campus, eyes sharp and eager. She navigated them toward what looked like an unassuming courtyard tucked between faculties.

Draco studied the layout, his instincts prickling. “This isn’t on the university’s public maps, is it?”

“Don't be daft.”

He watched as she approached a vine-covered column, tapping the base twice with her wand. The air flickered and then shimmered like heat waves. The space around them bent, reformed, and twisted itself into something entirely new.

Draco blinked.

What had been an unremarkable courtyard was now something else entirely.

Carvings twisted along an archway. There were familiar and unfamiliar runes merging into something more fluid and than the rigid spell-work of European magic.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Now that’s more like it.”

Granger barely paused before stepping inside, Draco following at her heels.

The interior of the Australis Institute of Magical Studies unfurled around them like a spell.

It was grand, intricate, and layered with enchantments woven seamlessly into the architecture. Corridors twisted at improbable angles, staircases curved in interesting ways. And everywhere, bookshelves loomed, their contents shifting subtly as if adjusting to a phantom cataloguing system.

Granger navigated it all like she’d been here a hundred times before. He followed her deeper into the building until they reached a secluded wing, where she pushed open a set of heavy oak doors.

Inside, a small woman was hunched over a worktable covered in charmed apparatuses. There were delicate glass instruments pulsing faintly with magic, and pages strewn about, each marked with complex arithmancy.

She didn’t look up immediately, completely absorbed in her work.

Granger cleared her throat.

“Hermione!” she exclaimed, breaking into a warm smile. Then her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “And you must be Malfoy.”

Draco inclined his head, feeling as though he were being sized up by a predatory creature.

Sabine was compact, her dark hair twisted into a haphazard knot, her fingers stained with ink and what looked like residual magic burns. She had the look of someone who spent too much time thinking and not enough time eating. Sharp but not unattractive.

He opened his mouth to greet her politely, but instead blurted, “You’re Sabine Lavoisier.”

“You know me?”

Draco cleared his throat, resisting the urge to adjust his collar.

Sabine Lavoisier was a name in his field. Hers was the kind of name that came up in footnotes in papers he had long admired.

“I’ve read your work,” he admitted, a little too quickly. “Your paper on unstable spell matrices in high-altitude environments influenced some of my own research.”

Sabine’s lips twitched. “Ah. So you’re the Malfoy who wrote that counter-paper.”

Draco stiffened. It wasn’t a counter-paper. It had been a small clarification.

Sabine’s smirk deepened as if she could read his exact thoughts.

“You took apart half my findings.”

“You miscalculated the interference coefficient.”

Granger, standing between them, looked back and forth, her expression an irritating blend of intrigue and amusement.

Sabine let out a short laugh. “This is already my favourite meeting of the week.”

Draco fought the instinct to cross his arms. He was not flustered. Absolutely not. He was merely re-calibrating and adjusting to the fact that Sabine Lavoisier was not just a theoretical name in a footnote, but an actual person standing in front of him, watching him squirm.

Granger, mercifully, intervened. “Well, I did not expect this.”

Sabine tilted her head slightly.

"You do keep such interesting company, Hermione."

Granger blinked slowly, her mouth quirking in something halfway between annoyance and amusement.

“I had thought we might rescue you from your desk and take you to dinner.”

“Fine. I’m hungry, and you clearly have some kind of plot unfolding if you're in Australia with Draco Malfoy.”

“Why do I feel like I’m about to walk into the lions den with two hungry lioness?”

Sabine gave him a knowing look. “Because you are.”

Granger was already turning toward the door, “Don’t worry, Malfoy. We’ll try to go easy on you.”

Sabine fell into step beside Granger, tossing Draco an amused glance. “No promises now that I know that you’re that D. L. Malfoy.”

“Fantastic.”

The Brisbane sun was low as they stepped out onto the streets but the heat had settled in. Draco adjusted his sleeves, eyeing Sabine with a mix of wariness and reluctant intrigue.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“There’s a Greek place in West End,” Sabine said, glancing at Granger .“An old favourite.”

Granger smiled. “Best lamb souvlaki I ever had.”

“Fine.”

They cut across the Great Court, where towering sandstone arches cast long shadows across the immaculately kept lawns. Students milled about, some sprawled under trees with books, others rushing between lectures. The magic of AIMS felt distant already.

“So,” Sabine said as they walked, “you’re not just here for a friendly academic visit, are you?”

Granger shot her a glance. “No. Not exactly.”

Sabine hummed, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I gathered as much. Seemed a bit odd you turned up out-of-the-blue after years. Mind you, I heard about what happened. I’m sorry about the way it ended, Hermione.”

“Thanks,” Granger said to her friend softly.

“What? Does Granger only visit when she needs something?”

Sabine looked at Granger and frowned. “Basically.”

“That’s not true.”

“It's a little true,” Sabine said but her tone was carefully light.

Draco grinned at Granger's discomfort as they boarded the CityCat once again.

The breeze off the water was cool against the afternoon heat. They stood by the railing, watching the skyline shift as they approached West End.

Sabine glanced at them. “Alright. Tell me what you’re actually doing here.”

Draco exhaled, “We’re on a quest.”

Granger’s head snapped toward him. “Malfoy!”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “She asked.”

“A quest? You make it sound so exciting.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

Granger pinched the bridge of her nose. “What he means is that we’re following a lead. It involves a very particular legend, but we haven’t gotten very far yet.”

Sabine’s expression shifted, her academic curiosity sparking to life. “Ah. That kind of quest.”

Draco nodded. “We need to find a journal at the Maritime Museum. There’s reason to believe it holds more than just historical records.”

Sabine leaned against the railing, thoughtful. “And what is this legend you’re questing for?”

“The Fountain of Youth."

The ferry docked, and they stepped onto the shaded streets of West End. Sabine led the way to the restaurant, weaving through narrow streets lined with bookstores, artisan shops, and the smell of roasting coffee beans.

Inside the restaurant, the air was thick with the scent of grilled meats and warm spices. They slid into a wooden booth, menus largely ignored.

“So, you’re chasing a myth.”

Draco leaned back in his seat.“Essentially. Yes."

“And this isn’t just an intellectual pursuit.”

Granger glanced at Draco.

Draco met Sabine’s gaze, his expression even. “No.”

For a long moment, Sabine said nothing, watching them carefully.

“Alright. I’ll do some digging, and see if I can find anything useful. But you’re right, your best lead is the Maritime Museum for now.”

Sabine hesitated for a split second before casually saying, “Just be careful, Hermione. The ICW has been sniffing around you, you know. You don’t want to draw their attention to anything illegal.”

Granger nodded,“Thank you. I'm aware."

The conversation shifted as Granger filled her friend in on the ICW investigation, the tangled politics surrounding Maginullium, and their mutual colleagues spread across the world.

Sabine seemed strangely calm about it all, and unsurprised.

She glanced at Granger. “Have you heard from Carlos recently?”

“He’s still in Melbourne, working on the latest containment trials. We haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”

Draco arched a brow. “Carlos?”

“Carlos Mendoza,” Granger said. “He’s the leading researcher on Maginullium application. He and I collaborated extensively. He’s my main business partner too.”

“Some might say too extensively.”

Granger shot her a warning look, “Sabine.”

Draco leaned forward, suddenly invested. “Oh?”

“There were rumors.”

“There were no rumors,” Granger rebutted.

Sabine made a dismissive hand gesture. “Debatable.”

Draco smirked. “Granger, are you holding out on me? A secret academic romance?”

“Carlos and I are colleagues. We have always just been colleagues,” Granger huffed.

Draco raised a brow, looking to Sabine for confirmation.

Sabine shrugged. “Colleagues who spent a lot of late nights together back in the day.”

“Scandalous.”

“I was dating Ron at the time, actually. ”

“You were off and on with Ron the entire time you were studying here,” Sabine replied. “If you didn’t hook up with Carlos, I’m sorry for you!”

“Drop it, Sabine,” Granger practically growled.

She did drop it and the conversation carried on, drifting between work, politics, and old stories. By the time the food arrived, the atmosphere had settled into something almost comfortable.

Draco found himself enjoying it.

After dinner, they wandered the streets of Brisbane for a while, Granger and Sabine catching up in rapid-fire conversation while Draco trailed a few steps behind.

By the time they returned to Sabine’s house, the sky had darkened completely, and the air was more comfortable.

Inside, the house was much like Draco had expected. Books were stacked in precarious towers, half-finished research notes scattered across tables. The faint scent of potions lingered in the air.

Sabine disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a bottle of red wine and three mismatched glasses.

“We’re drinking on a work night?”

Sabine scoffed, setting the glasses down with a clink. “Malfoy, you’re in my house. That means I get to decide what constitutes a work night.”

Granger smirked as she settled onto the worn-out couch, tucking one leg beneath her. Draco took the armchair, watching as Sabine poured with the confidence of someone who had never once measured a glass in her life. He took his with mild suspicion.

Sabine sipped hers first, leaning back with a lazy sort of ease. “Alright. We’ve talked about your little adventure, but we haven’t talked about you, Malfoy.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Granger, irritatingly, seemed to find this entertaining. She didn’t intervene. She sipped her wine and watched him.

Draco swirled his glass, considering his options. He could deflect, but that would only encourage her. He could lie, but Sabine didn’t strike him as the type who tolerated bullshit.

He took a swig. “What do you want to know?”

Sabine stretched her legs out, tapping a finger against her glass. “You said my work influenced yours. How did you end up in spell theory?”

Draco hesitated, then exhaled, his fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass.

“After the war, my options were limited. Nobody was rushing work with a former Death Eater, but I was always good at understanding how magic worked. The mechanics, the structures, the layers. Alchemy came first and then spell creation and theoretical magic. I sort of just fell into it.”

Sabine nodded as if that made perfect sense. “As good motivator as any, I suppose.”

“That’s what I told my mind-healer.”

Sabine chuckled into her glass, and, Merlin help him, Granger laughed.

“I’m not actually kidding about the mind-healer,” he said, meeting her eyes.

She let out a little ‘oh’ and her brown eyes were blown wide.

Sabine tilted her head, watching them carefully. “And now? Are you still just falling into things? Like quests, for example?”

Draco glanced down at his drink, at the way the deep red swirled against the glass. “Now it’s about fixing things.”

He felt Granger's gaze shift to him, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t press.

Sabine, on the other hand, was relentless. “Fixing what?”

Draco sighed.

“My son,” he admitted, voice-controlled but careful. “Scorpius. His mother was born with a rare type of blood-curse. She died 3 years ago. The curse in her bloodline… it could very well affect him, too.”

Sabine didn’t react immediately. She didn’t offer sympathy or platitudes. She just considered him, like she was slotting that piece of information into place with everything else she already knew.

“You’re trying to save him.”

“I have to save him.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Sabine lifted her glass slightly. “Well, then. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Draco nodded, taking another sip. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the sheer exhaustion of carrying that truth for so long, but it felt good to say the words out loud again.

Granger, still quiet, set her glass down on the table. “We will find it.”

Her voice wasn’t soft or pitying. It was matter-of-fact and like she had already decided on the outcome, and the universe would simply have to comply.

Draco met her unwavering gaze and believed her.

Sabine, pushed herself up from the couch, stretching. “Well, I’m pouring another glass. If we’re solving ancient mysteries and defying fate, I’m going to need more wine.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh and relaxed deeper into his chair.

The evening carried on like that. With wine, and conversation, and also with the kind of quiet rapport that accompanied long-time friends. It was comforting to be around and didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Draco enjoyed himself. Truly.  

"So, we’ve covered life, death, and the soul burden of saving one’s offspring- tell me, Malfoy, what do you do for fun?”

Draco snorted into his wine. “Fun is a subjective concept.”

Granger, who had been reaching for a book stacked precariously on the coffee table, gave him a sidelong glance and said teasingly: “I don't believe Malfoy knows how to have fun. Unless you count sneering and counting your galleons as fun.”

“Hardly, I find immense enjoyment in watching you attempt to organize the universe into a series of colour-coded lists.”

Sabine let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, I like you.”

Granger huffed, but her lips twitched in betrayal. “It’s not a crime to care about efficiency.”

“Efficiency,” he echoed, swirling his glass. “Of course. How could I forget? The guiding principle that all Centenarians speak of on their death beds.”

Granger rolled her eyes, but didn’t fight it. The mood had settled into something comfortable- easy, even. Outside, the night had deepened. The occasional sound of a car drifted through the open windows.

Sabine eventually excused herself to check something in her home lab, leaving Draco and Granger alone with the quiet hum of the house around them.

Granger stretched, letting out a soft sigh as she leaned back against the couch. Her hair was starting to slip from its braid, a few wild curls escaping. She looked less tightly wound than usual.

“You seem happy.”

“Sabine’s good company when she lets herself be.”

He hummed in agreement. “No. I meant you like being back in this city.”

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, eyes flickering over the room as though seeing it with fresh clarity.

“I do,” she admitted, “I forgot how much. I was quite young and carefree when I lived here."

“Granger, it feels like you’re about to get sentimental.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “If I were, I certainly wouldn’t waste it on you.”

Draco chuckled, standing and rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the hallway. "Well then it must be time to go to bed. Goodnight, Granger.”

She scoffed, shaking her head, but there was something warm in the way she looked at him. As he turned toward his room, she spoke again.

“Malfoy.”

He paused, glancing back. “Hmm?”

She hesitated for half a second, then straightened her shoulders, her expression calculating. “We’re not just going to read Fairweather’s journal.”

“No?”

“No.” A slow smirk curled at the edge of her lips. “We’re taking it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he let out a slow, approving chuckle. “Well, well. And here I thought you were the moral compass of this operation.”

“I am,” she said primly, "and my moral compass says the world will survive one less dusty old book sitting in a glass case. We’ll leave behind a duplicate. A very good duplicate.”

“Granger, I think this might be the single most attractive thing you’ve ever said.”

She rolled her eyes, standing and brushing past him as she made her way toward her own room. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“You’re a very bad girl, Granger.”

She shot him one last amused look before disappearing behind her door.

Chapter Text

The break-in at the Maritime Museum was going by the book, so far.

Well… if the book had been written by Draco Malfoy, edited heavily by Hermione Granger, and then re-written by Draco Malfoy without her edits.

Case in point: Don’t dillydally on the morning of a heist. She had thought this would be common sense.

They had started the day promisingly, with a walk along the river. The West End markets had been on, twinkling with fairy lights and strung-up tinsel as vendors sold everything, from homemade candles to hand-painted ornaments. To Hermione's displeasure, Malfoy had been an absolute terror to extract from the many stalls offering different foods and knickknacks. Truly, she had never seen the like. He was flinging around muggle currency like it personally offended him to keep it in his wallet.

"Malfoy, for the love of Merlin, get moving."

He ignored her.

"Malfoy, do you really need an embroidered hand towel?" she asked him, her last nerve rapidly fraying as he tried to barter with a sweet-looking grandmotherly woman, who was having none of it.

"I'm sure Plimpy could use some sprucing!" was the only reply she got.

She was feeling more jittery by the minute, and not because Malfoy had convinced her to get another coffee. Although, that probably hadn't helped.

Hermione made a mental note to monitor Malfoy’s coffee intake. She feared it was getting out of hand.

He still had his back to her, a canvas bag filled with artisanal bread and bottles of home-brewed kombucha hanging loosely from his grasp. Annoyed beyond reason, she grabbed at his arm and attempted to pull him away. To her surprise, he jumped like a startled kitten, glaring down at where she grasped his arm.

"What are you doing?" he asked, he sounded a bit panicky.

Was the man really that obsessed with farmers' markets? She was sure he wasn't. In fact, she was ninety percent sure he was feigning his enthusiasm just to get under her skin.

"Malfoy, for Godric's sake, we have to go!"

"Fine, fine," he said, turning back to the elderly woman and casually shaking himself free of her grasp, "Well, you drive a hard bargain Barb," he was saying in that faux charismatic voice she had noticed he used on other people when he wanted to endear himself. "You win. I'll pay twenty, but only because you're saving up to visit your granddaughter in Perth."

"Twenty-five" Barb replied.

"Twenty and I'll tell all my friends about you," he retorted.

"You don't look like the type that has many friends beyond your wife here," Barb said shrewdly.

She wanted to congratulate Barb on her insightfulness, except she had called her Malfoy's wife.

"Hold on now-" Malfoy was beginning to say.

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a headache.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, grabbing twenty-five dollars from Malfoy's outstretched hand and enthusiastically shoving it in Barb's direction.

Barb wrapped the hand towel in tissue paper, which Malfoy cheerfully received without protest. He stuffed it into his bag of overpriced goods like it was the crown jewel of his collection and turned back to her with an infuriatingly smug expression.

“I was so close to getting her down,” he said, as though Hermione were the one making the morning unnecessarily complicated.

Hermione huffed. “You would flirt with a lump of wood.”

“And you,” Malfoy replied, adjusting the strap of his bag, “should be supporting small business.”

Hermione debated hexing him then and there, but decided that being arrested before they even reached the museum would be an unwelcome inconvenience.

The river, affectionately known by locals as The Brown Snake (and anyone could see why), rippled beside them as they pursued their path eastward.

The sun was already quite high in the sky and there was no sight of clouds- not even a whisper of one. Hermione could feel the sweat beading on her neck and running down into her cleavage. She remembered why she wasn't cut out for Australian summers.

Malfoy didn’t seem to be faring much better. The humidity had coaxed a few unruly waves into his otherwise sleek hair, and a single bead of sweat trailed from his temple down the sharp cut of his smooth jaw. He had unbuttoned his collar, exposing the pale column of his throat, and rolled his sleeves up, just enough to reveal the tops of his forearms. The effect should have been dishevelled, much like she was. Instead, it was attractively rumpled.

He chewed on his breadstick, completely unconcerned, his bag of goodies swinging lazily at his side. When he caught her staring, brows lifting in mild curiosity, Hermione did the only logical thing and scowled at him for his audacity. In response, he swung his bag aggressively at a circling ibis.

The man was a menace.

They soon found themselves approaching the large concrete and glass monoliths that marked the cultural centre precinct.

"Let’s cut through, past the gallery," she told him, gesturing up a narrow set of stairs. He shrugged and followed.

She led him through a busy thoroughfare that was lined with young families. Through the other side was where they met the river again.

"The Maritime Museum is just at the other end of the parkland," she explained.

Southbank Parkland was packed with tourists and locals, buying ice creams, or stopping to admire the enormous, twinkling tree near a riverside stage. A group of children shrieked in delight as a busker dressed as Santa juggled baubles before tossing them into the crowd.

This hive of activity, combined with the bougainvillea that bloomed in large bursts of purple and orange overhead, made for a dizzying, kaleidoscopic panorama of Australian Christmastime.

She caught Malfoy watching the children play with quiet patience. When a small boy sprinted past them, nearly colliding with his legs, Malfoy simply stepped aside and offered a faint smile.

She thought of Rose and Hugo, of their laughter and their easy joy when they were little. As she watched Malfoy watching the children, she wondered if he was thinking of Scorpius.

She wondered if he thought of Scorpius even half as much as she thought of Rose and Hugo. She suspected he did. After all, they were on this ridiculous, desperate quest for his son’s sake.

She cleared her throat, shaking off the odd sense of melancholy creeping in. “Let’s pick up the pace,” she said briskly. "We should be there in ten minutes."

Malfoy, as always, was unbothered. “Plenty of time. We should stop for ice cream.”

“We are breaking into a museum!”

“Yes, and I’d like to be properly fuelled for it.”

She huffed. "You're bringing half West End market on a heist with us."

"And yet, I do not have an ice cream."

Hermione picked up her pace in retaliation, ignoring his dramatic sigh behind her.

The Maritime Museum came into view ahead, its brick entrance standing in stark contrast to the modern glass structures flanking it. The large ships docked alongside it swayed slightly with the river’s current.

"Alright," she said, scanning their surroundings "The museum doesn't open until 10am so we have two hours to get in, get the journal, and get out. I doubt the staff will have clocked in yet, but all the same: No distractions. No detours. Just a clean, efficient break-in. Yes?"

Malfoy scoffed, tossing his empty breadstick wrapper into a nearby bin. "Granger, please. If I were ever caught breaking into a muggle museum, it would be because I chose to be caught."

She just gave him a look and then wordlessly, wrestled the bags from his grasp and reduced them in size, shoving them in her bag, as she said: "Mark my words, I'm going to push you into the river at some point, and I hope it washes the smugness right out of you."

He smirked. "Shall we?"

And with that, they approached the museum entrance, ready to commit some elementary crime.

The Museum’s security was laughable.

Not the muggle part, which was actually decent. Cameras, motion sensors, the usual.

But the magical security? Non-existent.

They had disillusioned themselves and cast some fairly basic magic to blind the cameras and then slipped into the dimly lit archive room, weaving past dusty maritime relics. A lone, neglected Christmas wreath hung on the staff door, its gold ribbon slightly wilted. Ancient sextants, yellowed ship logs, and a particularly ugly masthead stared down at them from the walls.

Hermione spotted it first.

“There!”

The Fairweather Journal sat untouched in a glass case, its leather cracked with age, its pages yellowed and stained. It wasn't even terribly far from the entrance. A small placard beside it read:

"Captain Ferdinand Fairweather’s Log: Recovered from the wreck of the Silver Serpent, 1823."

Malfoy tilted his head, “This is what we’re stealing?” he muttered. “It doesn't look very impressive."

“To them, it's just an old book with his travel logs,” Hermione whispered, “but not to us.”

She waved her wand. The glass disappeared.

The moment her magic touched it, the illusion dropped and the pages shimmered. Before their eyes the ink shifted and symbols began appearing and disappearing on the cover.

Malfoy let out a low whistle. “Oh. That looks more interesting.”

A thrumming pulse of magic rippled through the room. It was a warning. The journal knew it was being stolen.

“Now, Granger!” Malfoy pressed a hand to the case. “Before-”

An alarm blared but it didn't seem to be coming from the museum, it was coming from the journal itself.

"A Caterwauling charm!" Hermione cried above the din.

Malfoy, thinking on his feet, quickly cast the counter-charm but it was too late. There were heavy footsteps headed their way. Apparently, some staff had clocked in early.

There was nothing else for it. She cast a Geminio and another, identical journal appeared next to it, falling off the plinth and onto the shelf.

"Grab the real journal!" she yelled at him.

He plunged a hand in to grab it and gave a yelp. Droplets of red blood dripped onto the shelves.

"Just a hex."

"No time!" Hermione was yanking at where she knew his arm was, pulling him towards a large window that overlooked the Brisbane river.

"Through here!" she yelled, slamming her hand up and casting Intransire wandlessly and non-verbally. The glass rippled, shivered, and then turned soft, like a curtain of jelly. Without hesitation, she plunged through it, dragging Malfoy behind her.

She experienced the strangest sensation of feeling both wet and sticky and then immediately dry again all within a second.

"Granger! They are going to notice. That's a bloody window!"

"Into the river," she hissed.

And then she was pulling out her wand and casting an inverted bubble-head charm on them both. It spread over their entire bodies, creating a shimmering, translucent layer of magical air around them.

Without missing a beat, she was tugging him again, towards a platform overlooking the river.

"No!" he barked, heels digging into the platform as Hermione hauled at him like he were a stubborn mule. "I am not going in there!"

"You don’t have a choice!" she snapped.

"I will literally pay you to stop. Granger, I swear to every bloody deity-"

But Hermione would broker no more arguments. She had gravity on her side. With one vicious yank, Malfoy’s feet left the ground.

"You absolute menace, you-"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before they were tumbling over the side of the platform and landing with a splash in the Brown Snake.

"They're going to see the splash, you idiot!" Malfoy hissed at her after they bounced right back to the surface in their cosy air pockets.

They bobbed along the river’s surface, two nearly invisible spheres of shimmering air, carried along by a sluggish current. The Brisbane River stretched wide around them, its murky, brown water rolling past in lazy ripples. It never touched their skin. Their enchanted bubbles hovered them above the surface, shifting and gliding effortlessly as if they were skating.

Already, there was shouting and the sound of many feet running nearby.

"Luminus flecto!" Malfoy intoned.

And Hermione was mature enough to admit, that it was a rather ingenious little bit of spell-work. The light refracted off them and they blended seamlessly with the brown water they were submerged in.

She felt Malfoy fumble for a hold on her and she reached out her hand. Finally, he found it and grasped it firmly.

From above, they heard voices shouting.

“They jumped!”

“Did they go under?”

“There’s no sign of them, did the current take them?”

Very close to her ear, Hermione heard Malfoy say, "Granger, I swear on Salazar Slytherin's grave, I am going to-"

"Shut it," she hissed, "just let the current take us."

They floated. Well, more accurately, they bobbed. She could feel Malfoy's indignation radiating off him in furious waves. His cold hand clutched hers.

"Do you realise," they floated past a seagull, "that we are currently in polluted, muddy water. And!" he added menacingly, "if any of it touches my skin I will curse your family line!"

"I thought we were quite against generational curses?"

He didn't respond for a moment. She thought she had won.

"Your family curse will be that every time you take a bath, you will never get clean. And, it will be nothing less than you deserve for pulling me into this cesspool!"

"Would you have preferred being arrested by the Muggles?" she asked.

"I'd have preferred taking my chances with the disillusionment!"

"And what if there were magical guards?"

"I'd have done something clever."

He was very offended. She was reminded of Crookshanks on bath day. She wished she could see his face and wondered if it was similarly grumpy to her dear old Crooks. She imagined it was and the thought made her smile.

“This is bloody brilliant,” he hissed. “We're just going to float here in giant bubbles, are we?”

Hermione sighed, “Would you rather have swum?”

He made a disgusted noise.

She looked down, watching the opaque water churn beneath her. There was a suspiciously large disturbance. Hermione stiffened.

“Granger,” Malfoy said, voice sharp, “was that-”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she cut in quickly. "It's fine. There's nothing in here that could hurt us. Oh, look! A bridge," she said mock-cheerfully, and then rather hastily conjured a strong wind which pushed them towards the shore, where there was a private alcove, sheltered by bushes.

With a wave of her wand, their bubbles popped and they both plunged suddenly into knee-deep water.

Hermione somehow was dunked face-first. Malfoy, meanwhile, landed flat on his back with a squelch.

"No!" he said petulantly, flinging his arms up in objection.

Hermione coughed up a mouthful of questionable river water, dragging herself onto the shore. "Sorry!" she gasped.

"I have river scum in my ears, I know it," he ranted, staggering to his feet.

"You didn’t even put your head underwater," she snapped. "And you're welcome for saving our arses, by the way."

"I think I played my part," he told her as he came up next to her.

They both took a seat on the bank to catch their breath, their disillusionment having winked out when they made contact with the water.

"You know," she said rather maliciously, "the Brisbane River is famous for its Bull sharks.

That set him off on another round of insults.

"Let's get out of here, you giant baby."

Malfoy was still grumbling about the river as they slipped through the quiet backstreets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Hermione, still high on adrenaline, found herself oddly entertained by his outrage.

"But why is it so brown?"

“It’s the sediment,” she repeated patiently.

“You already said that,” he shot back, shaking out his damp sleeves as if they had personally offended him. “But that was not sediment, Granger. That was mud. Cursed mud.”

Hermione snorted, pushing forward. “Well, we’re almost at Sabine’s. Try not to track the cursed mud into her house.”

Malfoy huffed. “Too late. Even if you can't see it, I can still feel it all over me and it's never going to come off.”

She chose not to dignify that with a response.

They reached a narrow side street, lined with poinciana trees shedding the last of their tangerine-coloured blooms onto the pavement. Hermione guided them past Plimpy and up the side of the house to a set of steps leading up to the back veranda. They were decorated with a string of flickering fairy lights, the only concession to the season. The back door was painted a deep teal, watched over by an old brass doorstop in the shape of a winking owl. She rapped twice.

A minute later, a series of sharp metallic clicks sounded from inside and the door swung open to reveal Sabine. She was looking effortlessly composed, her dark hair pinned back in a casual twist. Her blue eyes flickered between them, taking in their dishevelled state.

"Ah," she said smoothly, stepping aside to let them in. "I take it everything went exactly as planned."

"More or less," Hermione said, as Malfoy said, "No."

Malfoy swept past her, already in the process of unbuttoning his shirt with obvious disgust. "If your plan was to almost drown me, then yes, brilliantly executed. Granger."

He disappeared into the living room with his day pack.

Sabine arched a brow. "I trust you retrieved what you needed?"

Hermione pointed in Malfoy's direction, where the Fairweather Journal was safely stowed in his bag. "Got it. And we weren’t followed."

Sabine’s lips twitched. “Well, I should hope not. If you’d been caught, I assume I’d be burning this place to the ground and changing my name.”

Hermione sighed, already trailing Malfoy into the living room. “We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

She paused as he pulled on a fresh shirt, the planes of his back shifting with the movement. She blushed and averted her eyes, but he wasn't looking in her direction.

Sabine followed, leaning casually against the doorframe as Malfoy flopped into a worn leather armchair.

“You know,” Sabine mused, “I do find it rather fascinating how quickly people leave once they get what they want.”

Hermione looked over at her, frowning slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sabine tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “Just an observation.”

Malfoy, who had been muttering under his breath, suddenly sat up straighter, glancing between the two women. His eyes narrowed.

Hermione felt too tired to analyse Sabine’s words for the subtext she knew would be steeped in one-sided history. “We’ll be gone shortly,” she said firmly. “Plimpy’s ready to take us north, and we need to be on our way.”

Sabine hummed, her fingers drumming lightly against the doorframe. Then, with a knowing smile, she turned away.

“I’ll fix you both some tea,” she murmured, disappearing into the kitchen.

"So... we should pack and go after our tea," she said to Malfoy, uncertainly.

A heavy sense of tension had settled over the room and Hermione was having trouble identifying why. Malfoy cleared his throat and looked pointedly, anywhere but at her face.

Feeling mentally exhausted and confused, Hermione decided not to take her usual preferred approach. That is to say, she did not address the elephant in the room.

"Say, Granger," Malfoy finally said, "what's the sleeping situation in Plimpy anyhow?"

"You'll soon find out," she replied, "But suffice to say, there is only so far Electas was able to push the extension charms before going from borderline illegal and into blatantly illegal."

"That sounds foreboding."

She was interrupted before she could explain more by the delicate scent of black tea and lemon balm curling into the room.

"Tea's ready!" Sabine called, already making her way to the veranda, cups in hand.

Hermione followed her and gratefully received a chipped, ceramic mug. She curled her fingers around its warmth. The heat bled the last of the river damp from her bones.

Sabine was already seated on the veranda, her own cup in hand, watching the slow stir of the trees.

Hermione took a seat across from her, Malfoy following a moment later, his fingers tapping absently against the rim of his mug. His new shirt looked crisper, but his posture was anything but relaxed.

For a long while, none of them spoke. The only sound was the occasional clink of ceramic and the distant lap of the river against the ferry dock.

Finally, Sabine exhaled, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “You look like two people who don’t quite know how to say goodbye.”

Hermione’s grip on her mug tightened slightly. “It feels too brief.”

Sabine hummed, eyes drifting lazily to the Draco's bag. “I imagine that what you've got in there might give you some trouble.”

“We’ll manage,” Hermione replied.

Sabine gave her a long, unreadable look, then shifted her attention to Malfoy. “And you? Looking forward to whatever adventure comes next?”

Malfoy met her gaze evenly. “Every day with Granger is an adventure.”

Sabine smiled tightly, “How fascinating. I wouldn't know. Sounds like quite the arrangement you two have.”

Hermione forced a small smile also. There was a strange but familiar weight to Sabine’s words. The old bitterness of the one-sided rivalry assumed a new sting for Hermione. She should have known it would rear its ugly head. It always did. She had hoped that Sabine would let bygones-be-bygones in the wake of Hermione's complete and utter public humiliation. Apparently not. 

Malfoy drained the rest of his tea, setting the mug aside with deliberate ease. “We should get moving. Thank you for your hospitality, Sabine, and your discretion.”

Sabine raised her brows, but said nothing.

Hermione finished her own tea, placing the mug down carefully before standing.

“Thank you,” she said, meeting Sabine’s gaze. “For everything. You'll let me know if you discover anything that might be helpful for Malfoy's son, won't you?”

Sabine nodded once. “Safe travels.”

Hermione hesitated, feeling something unspoken hanging between them, but Malfoy had already turned toward the back steps and was taking them two at a time. She followed him, her mind circling the odd disquiet that had settled in.

"Be careful, Hermione," Sabine called after her.

Hermione hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, Sabine’s words catching her off guard. She turned back, but Sabine was lifting her cup to her lips, her expression calm and unreadable. 

A second passed, too long to not be significant, too short to force the unspoken out into the air.

Malfoy’s hand landed lightly on Hermione’s elbow, steering her toward the driveway with an air of casual urgency. “Come on, Granger. We need to get out of here.”

Hermione let him guide her. She hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder.

They didn't linger.

Neither of them spoke as they crossed the garden and slipped into Plimpy. The old van was parked at the end of the drive, its dented exterior gleaming.

Malfoy eyed it warily. “I haven't even seen  inside the back of this thing, is it spacious?”

Hermione yanked open the driver’s side door. “You'll find out.”

She smirked, turning the key. The engine rumbled to life, smooth and steady beneath her hands. “Plimpy’s been charmed within an inch of its life. I think you'll be impressed. Let's drive on the roads for a bit while I get my bearings.”

Malfoy nodded, rolling his shoulders as the van pulled onto the street, blending into the quiet hum of Brisbane’s inner suburbs.

For a while, the drive was silent, the only sound the hum of the tyres against the bitumen. The density of the buildings grew sparse as they passed through the outer suburbs and toward the highway, the urban sprawl giving way to the dark outlines of Australian bushland.

Malfoy propped an elbow against the window, watching the scenery pass. “So. Where are we going?”

“K’gari,” Hermione said, her fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel. “Also known as Fraser Island, but that's its colonial name. It came up in some of the logs and the research I did. It's also a good place to lay low while we read this journal and figure out our next moves. Maybe we'll get lucky and stumble on the Fountain?”

Malfoy exhaled slowly. “Right. I'm not going to hold my breath though.”

The city finally faded as they reached the highway, the sky stretching wide and clear above them. The van hummed steadily beneath them, carrying them northward.

After an hour of mostly silent driving, Hermione veered off the main road onto a dirt track lined with towering ghost gums. She slowed the van to a stop, shifting it into park.

“I just need a breather and then we should take to the sky,” she murmured, stepping out and taking in the cool air.

Malfoy followed, stretching his arms. “Finally.” He cast a wary glance at the tree line. “Travelling on land in this thing is so slow!"

She rounded the side of the van and pulled open the sliding door. Malfoy peered inside, his brows lifted slightly as he took in the impossibly spacious interior.

What should have been a modest backseat area had expanded into a compact but well-organised living space. A bunk bed was tucked neatly against the far wall, covered in simple but comfortable-looking linens. Opposite it, a small library lined one side, stacked with books that ranged from advanced spell theory to light bedtime reading. A tiny workstation, complete with a roll-out desk and adjustable lamp, was nestled beside a storage cabinet filled with neatly labelled vials, parchment rolls, and an assortment of magical tools.

Further in, a small kitchenette area held a kettle, a few mismatched mugs, and what appeared to be a self-replenishing tea tin. A folding table and two chairs were positioned near the centre, currently covered in an open map and a few loose notes.

Malfoy let out a low whistle, stepping inside. “Well. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting this. When did you do this?” He ran his fingers along the smooth wood of the bookshelves, then tapped the frame of the bunk bed. “You had me much more scared about the bed situation.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping in after him. “Electas did most of it. I just took some things from my parent's place I know they won't miss. As for the beds- we can’t exactly check into hotels everywhere we go, Malfoy.”

He crossed his arms, surveying the space with a critical eye. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Granger. Tea, books, and emergency sleeping arrangements, what more could we possibly need?”

She winked and then dropped her pack on the ground, pulling from it a tissue-rapped package. She handed it to him.

"You do the honours."

He laughed brightly and then set about unwrapping his purchase, placing it in pride of place in the small kitchenette.

“Dare I ask: hot water?”

Hermione pointed to a small, curtained-off section near the back, where a discreetly placed rune glowed faintly against the wood panelling. “It’s not endless, but yes, hot water. There’s even a shower.”

Malfoy shook his head, muttering something under his breath about overachievers.

Hermione ignored him. “We’ll be flying the rest of the way, and I’d rather you not complain about my driving the entire time so you can stay back here if you want, maybe even make yourself useful and prepare us some lunch. I just need to use the loo and then we'll be off.”

Malfoy exhaled dramatically but made his way toward the lower bunk, inspecting the mattress with clear scepticism before finally sitting down.

Hermione opened the partition between the front cab of the van and the back then she disappeared into the micro-bathroom to use the facilities.

When she came back out, Malfoy was already making himself at home.

"Okay, let's get going. It should be a quick flight to K'Gari."

Malfoy nodded, already rifling through their things, presumably looking for provisions.

She got out of the van, slamming the door behind her and hopped back in the cab where she flicked a few switches on the enchanted dashboard. The soft hum of magic pulsed through the van, and she felt the familiar weightlessness as the vehicle began to rise.

She glanced back over her shoulder into the spacious room behind her. Malfoy had braced himself as they lifted off the ground, his fingers gripping the edge of the bunk.

She smirked and pushed the accelerator forward, sending him flying backwards into the bunk.

He cursed loudly.

The van surged upward, slicing cleanly through the sky, leaving the outline of the forest behind. Ahead of them, the coast stretched out in an unbroken line.

Chapter Text

Draco had many grievances about this journey, but at the top of his current list was the fact that Plimpy did not seem to be aerodynamic in the least.

The van touched down on K’gari with an ungainly lurch, sand spitting up in its wake as it rolled to a stop near the treeline. Draco braced himself against the bunk as his body pitched forward with the movement.

From the front, Granger called out a cheerful “Smooth as can be!”

He peeled himself off the mattress, straightened his shirt, and shot a look over his shoulder to see whether she had caught him going tits up. Her big brown eyes were smiling at him from the little mirror in the front.

She saw.

Annoyed, he extricated himself from the bottom bunk and took the three steps to the latch that opened the sliding door and stepped out to face row upon row of scrubby trees.

Granger soon joined him, stretching her arms overhead as she surveyed their landing spot. “Alright. Looks like we're the first ones here. Let's have a short rest before we get to work, shall we?”

He nodded and then followed her lead by stretching and inhaling deeply. The air smelled good. It was a little bit clean, like the good soap his mother kept in the guest bathrooms. He turned around and the beach stretched out beyond some dunes. Waves rolled in lazily under the watchful afternoon sun.

He exhaled through his nose. Fine. He’d concede the point—- it wasn’t the worst place they’d landed.

They made quick work of setting up camp. Granger, casting a guilty look around, waved her wand about and made short work of setting up a small marquee complete with a table and some clever canvas chairs. There was even some kind of rough-hewn rug under their feet, presumably for the sand.

Draco gave the setup an approving nod. “Not bad. It's rustic, but I expected worse.”

“I know you have fragile sensibilities,” Granger teased.

“Fragile seems like a strange word to describe someone on a dangerous quest to save his son, but it comes down to semantics, I'm sure.”

He followed this up by casting a discrete cooling charm on himself. He was worried about the state of his pits.

"Well then, if you aren't so fragile, I'm calling the bottom bunk tonight."

"Granger, I won't even fit on the top bunk!"

She just laughed and busied herself climbing into Plimpy. He could hear clattering from inside as he took a seat and surveyed their surroundings. She appeared a minute later with two steaming mugs of tea and handed him one.

"All is forgiven," he told her solemnly.

"Whatever did I do?" 

Draco took a deliberate sip of the tea before answering, relishing the warmth. “You landed Plimpy like a drunk hippogriff and then laughed at my misfortunes.”

Granger grinned behind the rim of her own mug. “That wasn’t misfortune, Malfoy. That was physics. I'm sorry about gravity if that makes you feel better. Pesky gravity, it will get you every time.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, he took another sip, feeling the tension of the journey start to unwind from his shoulders.

"And where is my apology?" 

"For what?" he asked cautiously.

"Where should I start?"

"Maybe don't start, then."

Wordlessly and wandlessly, she summoned their daypacks, which came flying out of Plimpy's open side door. Granger retrieved the journal from his pack without asking, which he noted with mild irritation.

Draco leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he watched her flip open the Fairweather journal. The leather cover was cracked with age, the pages yellowed and brittle-looking, but the spidery ink that spread across the paper like a complex root-system remained legible.

At least, at first.

As Granger gingerly tried to read the first page, he watched with mild interest.

The first few lines were perfectly legible and she read aloud:

"Captain Ferdinand Fairweather. Log entry, August 3rd, 1823. The tide is favourable, and the winds…"

Granger paused.

Draco frowned. “What?”

The ink shivered. Right before their eyes, the curling script twisted and reformed into something else entirely.

Granger leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Is that… Latin?”

Draco arched a brow. “Can you read Latin?”

She shot him a withering look. “Of course I can read Latin!”

She scanned the new text, lips moving silently before she abruptly stiffened.

Draco noticed the exact moment her face darkened.

“What?”

Granger closed the book with an audible snap. “This journal is not nice!”

Draco blinked and then, (because he was a terrible person) he grinned. “I’m sorry, what?”

She opened the journal again, flipping back to where the script had changed. “It’s just one line,” she muttered, eyes darting over the text. “The tide is favourable, the winds are strong, and the woman reading this has an insufferably high opinion of her own intellect. But she's not clever enough to read me.”

Draco let out a delighted laugh.

Granger huffed. “Oh, shut up.”

Draco was still grinning. “Fairweather pre-emptively hated you.”

She scowled. “We don't know that this is about me. Perhaps he hated anyone who tried to read his journal.”

Draco leaned closer, scanning the page. “Alright, so what, it’s cursed to insult the reader?”

“I don’t know yet,” Granger muttered a quick spell, tapping her wand to the parchment. “Let’s see if it—”

The ink quivered. This time, forming curling, unfamiliar symbols. Granger let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Ancient Persian?” .

Draco propped his chin up with an elbow on the table, watching her struggle. “Go on, then. Read it.”

She scanned the new text, cast a translation spell, and then immediately scowled.

Draco arched a brow as Granger snapped the book shut.

“Oh, no,” he said, smirking. “Now I really must know, Granger.”

“It’s not relevant.”

“Granger.”

She exhaled sharply. “It said: If you are struggling to read this, you are very dim-witted, and I regret your existence.”

Draco clutched his side as the bellicose laugh consumed him.

Granger made a strangled noise. “I hate this man.”

Draco, still laughing, reached for the book. “Let me try. It's a very old book. It might believe in all that pureblood nonsense and have cause to like me better.”

She handed it over with a glare. “It's entirely possible. This kind of spell reeks of pureblood nonsense.”

Draco opened the journal and scanned the text. The ink swam before his eyes for a moment before it settled.

It was in Greek this time.

He frowned. “What’s it saying now?”

Granger peered over. Then she blinked, and a laugh escaped before she could stop it.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What?”

She bit her lip. “It says: Ah, a man. I assume a far more competent woman handed you this book.”

Draco snapped the journal shut. It was Granger's turn to laugh at his expense.

“Right,” Draco muttered, shoving the book back at her. “It’s cursed and I hate it.”

She wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “Welcome to the club.”

Draco exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “So, how do we break the curse?”

Granger sighed, flipping back to the first page. “There has to be a way to stabilise it. Maybe if we—”

The ink rippled once more. This time, the text twisted into elegant French. Granger scanned it before groaning.

“What now?”

She glared at the book. "I don't speak French well, but I know an insult when I see it."

He peered over her shoulder again and translated for her, “It says: You are persistent, I will grant you that. But then, so are most barnacles.”

“This is humiliating.”

Draco was once again breathless with laughter. “I changed my mind— I've never loved an inanimate object more.”

“Malfoy,” she warned.

He wheezed a little before composing himself. “Alright, alright. Seriously. How do we fix it?”

Granger frowned, staring at the text. “Clearly the book is warded against prying eyes. But maybe there’s a counter?”

“Why don't we just try to sweet-talk the book? That approach usually works for me.”

Granger hesitated. “It’s possible.”

Draco leaned back, arms crossed. “Well, rhapsodising about a book sounds like it would be more your wheelhouse, Granger. Go on: say something nice.”

She stared at him, expression mutinous.

He grinned. “Come on. Just one little compliment.”

Granger exhaled slowly, turning back to the book.

Through gritted teeth, she muttered, “Captain Fairweather was… a capable navigator.”

The ink flickered.

Draco raised a brow. “I think it liked that.”

Granger scowled. “I hate that this is working.”

“Try another.”

“I suppose we could surmise that Fairweather… was innovative.”

The text settled for a moment, everything translated back into English, but only for a moment.

Draco grinned. “There it is.”

Granger shot him a dark look. “I swear to Merlin, if the world ever conspires to let me get my hands on a time turner again I'll— ”

“You’d go back and slap the stuffing out of him?”

“I would.”

But it only stayed legible for a moment before it flicked back again. This time back to insulting lines in ancient runes.

"No!"

Draco sighed, "Look, why don't we take a break and have a think about this? We can keep trying to think about nice things to say about Fairweather, but I'm sure there must be a way to break the curse for good."

"Fine," Granger replied, slamming the journal shut viciously. It seemed very uncharacteristic for her, given the age of the book. "Why don't we use the divining rods again and take a look around? We might get lucky."

"Sure."

Granger glanced up at the sky and took stock of where the sun was by holding up a hand and tracking its path with her index and her thumb. He watched her, admiring the way she approached things from such a practical angle.

“We should start now,” she said, “it's already been a long day, and we won't have that much light left. The sooner we get a reading, the sooner we’ll know if we’re wasting our time.”

Draco sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Lead the way, O dim-witted one.”

Granger's jaw tensed.

They started into the rainforest, the sand giving way to firmer earth beneath their feet as towering turpentines formed a dense canopy overhead. The divining rods twitched slightly in Granger’s grip, shifting subtly as if drawn by invisible threads.

"I've got something," she told him excitedly. "I can't say how close it is yet, but if we follow it like a compass, we should end up where we need to be."

Draco followed, glancing around as they walked. It was an odd sort of place— oddly silent and yet everything around them felt vibrantly alive. There was less birdsong than there had been in any of the places they had visited thus far, but the leaves rustled loudly with the wind, their susurrus like a whispered conversation. The forest was ancient, probably older than most wizarding settlements he’d ever known. Magic seemed to cling to it in a way that made his skin prickle.

Just ahead, Granger nearly stumbled over a root, righting herself at the last minute. She was wearing denims and hiking boots, with what he was beginning to think of as her trademark, over-sized button-down and a straw hat pinned precariously to her hair and holding on for dear life. She was not graceful, nor was her attire particularly feminine— perhaps it was the forest or the magic, but she brought to mind a dryad when he looked at her.

After a solid twenty minutes of trudging through the undergrowth, Granger slowed. “I think we're heading to Lake Boomanjin, Malfoy. I read about it. We've been heading northwest since we left the campgrounds. The lake shouldn't be too far off, it was the closest inland body of water.”

Just as she finished her sentence, there was a rustling in the bush. Granger stiffened, holding up a hand. Draco turned his head slightly, his wand slipping into his palm. A low and inquisitive chuff carried through the undergrowth.

Yellow eyes glinted from between the trees. They peered at them from out of a fox-like face. It was some kind of wild dog.

"A dingo!" Granger told him enthusiastically. "I've never seen one in the wild!"

Another appeared a moment later, circling a little closer. Draco did not feel enthusiastic about it. They looked hungry.

He raised his wand instinctively and began to cast a repulsion charm. “Repello—”

“Wait!” Granger hissed. “Magic interferes with—”

But it was too late. The spell left his wand mid-warning, shimmering blue as it struck the air between them and then seemed to be absorbed by one of the dingoes.

For a second, nothing happened. Then the dingo that had been hit sat down, cocked its head, and wagged its tail.

Draco frowned.

The second dingo, after a brief pause, took a tentative step backwards and then turned tail and disappeared skittishly into the forest.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What on earth?”

To his absolute horror, the remaining dingo stood up and trotted toward him, tail wagging properly now.

Granger made a strangled noise, suspiciously like laughter.

Draco took a step back. The dingo followed.

He turned sharply. It trotted after him.

“Granger.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“What,” Draco said slowly, “the fuck just happened?”

She barely contained her laughter. “You—-oh, Merlin—- you inverted your Repelling Charm, I think.”

Draco scowled. “Fix it.”

“Oh, no,” she said, hands on her hips. “Seems like a logical consequence for careless spell-work.”

"You interrupted me!"

The dingo sneezed and sat beside him, it stared up with an expectant expression.

Draco exhaled sharply, crossed his arms and frowned at it.

Granger chuckled and turned back to the rods. “Let’s keep moving.”

“What? With the dog?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It's just an attraction charm, it will wear off eventually. It will probably just follow you around for a while.”

“Oh, for… stay there,” he snapped, waving his hand.

The dingo cocked its head.

Draco turned on his heel and strode briskly away. The dingo trotted after him like an obedient pet.

“This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Granger chortled.

The dingo gave Draco a toothy smile, its fat pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth stupidly.

Before he could insult the beast properly, the divining rods in Granger's hands pulsed faintly, drawing his attention back to the task at hand.

They had been at it for a while now, trekking through the dense rainforest of K’gari, following the gentle pull of the rods. The further they walked, the less charitable Draco felt about its beauty. Especially when burdened with an unwanted canine admirer.

“We’re close,” Granger said, her brow furrowed as she adjusted her grip on the rods. “I think— yes, this way.”

She forged ahead, stepping over another gnarled root so imprecisely that Draco almost lunged forward to stabilise her. Yet, somehow she managed to avert disaster.

The lake appeared before them like a mirror hidden in the pocket of the forest. It was a wide, serene pool of startlingly blue water. It was just them, the whispered conversation of the leaves and the gentle lap of water against the shore of the lake.

Granger stepped closer, dipping her fingers into the shallows. “It’s got magic,” she murmured, watching as the ripples shimmered unnaturally before settling.

“The right kind of magic?”

Granger frowned. “I don't know.”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face before shaking her head. “Let’s test it, shall we?”

Draco crouched beside her, pulling out one of their enchanted vials. He felt the weight of the dingo’s stare and shot it a murderous look. It did settled itself a metre away.

“I’m naming it Longbottom,” he said bitterly.

“I’m sure Neville would be honoured.”

"I'm naming it Longbottom because it is useless and lumpish," he corrected, unkindly.

She looked disappointed in him.

Draco took a vial from her. It felt cool in his fingers as he dipped it into the shallows of the lake. The water shimmered faintly where it met the glass, almost as if it were alive, a pulse of gentle magic radiating outward.

Granger, still kneeling beside him, let her fingers trail through the ripples. “It’s… beautiful,” she murmured, tilting her head to watch the way the afternoon light reflected off the crystalline surface.

“Yes, very scenic. Now let’s see if it actually does anything useful.”

She shot him a pointed look. “Must you always be so cynical?”

He ignored that, lifting the vial and holding it up to the light. The water inside swirled unnaturally, its colour shifting subtly between deep blue and silver. Magic, but what kind?

Granger looked at the vial too, her expression thoughtful. “You know, I read about these perched lakes. They’re some of the only lakes in the world that don’t connect to underground water sources. It’s just rainwater, filtered through centuries of organic matter. It only occurs to me now that it probably couldn't be the fountain because magic like that would be connected to the earth, don't you think?”

Draco arched a brow. “So, this lake is actually just a giant puddle?”

“That was your takeaway? It’s a natural wonder, Malfoy.”

He shook the vial slightly. The liquid inside sloshed but didn’t spill. It was almost imperceptible but it seemed to move slower than water should. As if it were somehow thicker or more viscous.

Interesting.

“Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Granger said, pulling out her wand. She tapped the side of the vial and muttered a detection spell under her breath. The water inside flared with soft, silver light.

Draco squinted. “That doesn’t look like healing magic.”

“No,” Granger agreed, watching the glow dim before flickering out entirely. “It looks like stabilising magic, I think. Not restorative— balancing.”

“What use is that?”

“Hmm— Imagine a potion brewed with this, something that could steady magical core fluctuations, or reinforce spells against environmental interference. It’s powerful magic, but not in the way we need.”

Draco considered. The potioneer and scholar in him could concede the point.

The water rippled, gentle at first, then in concentric rings expanding outward. Draco straightened, the wand slipping into his palm automatically.

“Did you—”

“Shh,” Granger whispered.

A faint glow emerged beneath the surface, something deep and shifting. It looked like starlight caught in the depths of the lake. He marvelled for a moment, unsure if he should be alarmed. Then a school of tiny, luminescent creatures surfaced just in front of them. At first, Draco thought they were fish, but as they drifted into the shallows, he saw their forms and realised they couldn't be.

They were translucent, with elongated fins and long antennae that fluttered like silk. Their pale blue glow cast eerie patterns on the sand beneath the water. They looked like some kind of magical shrimp.

Granger gasped softly. “Malfoy, look.”

One of the creatures flicked its delicate tail and spiralled through the water, and as it passed over the submerged part of Draco’s hand, warmth flooded his veins.

A strange, golden light filled his vision. Not literally, but if felt as if the world had shifted into some higher, brighter state. The tension in his limbs melted, his shoulders relaxed, and the lingering weight of exhaustion from travel, stress, and endless bloody magical crises vanished.

It was euphoric.

Granger inhaled sharply, and when Draco looked over, she was staring at her own hand where another of the creatures had brushed against her skin. She blinked rapidly and then started laughing.

“What?”

Her laughter deepened. “I— oh, Merlin— I feel amazing.”

She flopped backwards into the sand, eyes wide with delight, and Draco realised with mild horror that he was grinning too. Like some kind of idiot.

His mind felt light and airy. Like he might float away if he didn’t somehow anchor himself to gravity.

“Granger.” His voice sounded strange like it was coming from a great distance. “Granger, I think the fish are drugging us.”

“No, I doubt it.”

Draco stared at the luminous creatures, their soft, rhythmic movements lulling his brain into a treacly sort of calm.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, although he was suddenly unsure why that mattered.

Granger rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “You know,” she said, her voice dreamy, “I bet this is why the lake’s magic is stabilising. Maybe the creatures secrete something into the water. Like,” she waved a hand vaguely, “a calming draft, or something.”

Draco considered that. Then, experimentally, he waved his hand through the water again.

"Maybe that's how they lure unsuspecting victims?" he said but found that even if it were true, he couldn't quite muster the desire to worry about it. Granger for her part merely shrugged.

Well if it were to be death by tiny shrimp, at least it would be unexpected.

Another of the creatures twirled through his fingers and a second wave of warmth flushed through his bloodstream. His head lolled slightly on his neck. His jaw relaxed. His worries? Gone, for now.

The fact that they had no concrete plan? Not a problem. The fact that he was stranded on a magical island with Granger of all people? Well, why not Granger?

Oh, and that there seemed to be some kind of international political plot brewing that she was at the centre of? But who cared? Not Draco! (Everything was fine.)

Granger was watching him with open amusement. “You are high.”

Draco tried to scoff, but it came out as a slow, lazy chuckle. “So are you.”

She flopped back into the sand, grinning up at the sky. “This is the best I’ve felt in years.”

Draco sighed, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his elbows. “Honestly? Same.”

A long moment passed.

Longbottom the dingo sat down beside him and licked his hand. Draco barely even minded.

Granger turned her head toward him, cheeks flushed from laughter, eyes bright. “We should bottle this.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t start. You’re going to go on some rant about making a new breakthrough in potions and then you'll start a whole ethical debate about potions regulations.”

Granger gasped, eyes widening. “Oh, my God, Malfoy— think about it though! This could do so much good. Don't you think?”

“No.”

“But think about it! What if we could safely extract whatever this is and use it for potions? We could—”

Draco flopped onto his back, exhaling loudly. “I can’t believe this is what I’m dealing with when I've never been so relaxed in my life. Hermione Granger: the literal antidote to chill.”

The creatures continued to swirl around the shallows, their glow steady and hypnotic. The bliss was starting to fade, slowly settling into something softer.

Granger rolled onto her stomach, watching the creatures move. “It’s not the Fountain, but it’s still…"

“Still magic,” Draco murmured.

She nodded, smile lingering.

The weight of the world was creeping back, but for now, the weariness had seeped from his bones and he almost felt like he could float up into the sky. Draco let out a slow breath, staring up at the clouds.

It was… nice.

He turned his head slightly and found Granger already watching him, her chin propped up in the sand. He was so used to looking at her and seeing a sharp intelligence but this time her eyes were softened by lingering delight.

She grinned lazily. “You know, Malfoy, you’re not nearly as insufferable as you used to be.”

“High praise.”

“No, really,” she said, twirling her fingers absently through the water. “You can be resourceful. And clever. And—” she hesitated, then shrugged, “—you make things fun. Even when you’re being a posh menace.”

Draco scoffed. “That sounds like a very Gryffindor way of saying: you’re tolerable, but barely.”

She rolled onto her back and hummed, considering. “No, I think I mean it.”

Draco turned his head to look at her. She was still grinning lazily, eyes half-lidded, curls splayed out in the sand. The glow from the water reflected in her irises, and for a fleeting, ridiculous second he wondered: had she always been this pretty or was he—

(He wouldn’t finish that thought. Wouldn’t even let it take shape.)

Instead, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky.

“Well,” he muttered, “I still think you’re a nightmare.”

“That’s fair.”

And that should have been the end of it.

But something about this stupid, peaceful, and nice moment had lodged itself uncomfortably beneath his ribs.

Draco exhaled, watching the wind ripple through the trees. “Okay. I guess you’re relentless but in a good way. I kind of like it. You don’t give up. You always figure things out.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “just… that's usually not what people admire about me.”

“People are stupid.”

She stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then she smiled. It was small but genuine. “Thanks.”

Draco cleared his throat, suddenly feeling exposed. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I know better than that."

For a while, they simply lay there, watching the lake shimmer under the fading light.

“You know,” Granger mused, “if we were high, it was very wholesome. I've never been high before, I thought it wouldn't be so sweet.”

“What, were you expecting to get the urge to rob a bank?”

“No, but we did break into a museum the other day.”

“So, what I’m hearing is: you’re getting a taste for crime.”

She laughed, light and easy. “Have you ever heard the story of when I did actually rob a bank?"

He was just about to ask for more details but then, from the corner of his eye he saw one of the little creatures glow a little bit brighter and something clicked in his mind. It must have shown on his face because Granger stopped and looked at him quizzically.

"Malfoy?"

"Stabilising potion," he said to her as if his meaning should be obvious.

"Stabilising potion?"

"We trick the journal into reverting back to the original text and then we douse it with a stabilising potion. We even have a core ingredient, right here," he said gesturing at the lake.

She swore loudly. It was unladylike (and glorious).

"I could kiss you, Malfoy!"

Draco suddenly found himself derailed. Time seemed to slow. His brain short-circuited. His regretful mouth, however, did not.

“Well, Granger, if you insist…”

Granger froze, eyes going wide as if she had only just realised what she had said.

Then, horrified, she whacked him on the arm. “That’s not— You know that’s not—”

Draco smirked, rubbing his arm dramatically. “I’m simply saying if you’re that overwhelmed with gratitude—”

“Shut up.”

“—it’s only polite to follow through.”

“I take it back.”

Draco leaned back on the sand, watching her with amusement. “Too late. Words have power, Granger. You can’t just say something like that and expect me to let it go.”

Granger let out a frustrated noise, burying her face in her hands.

Draco, still smirking, nudged the journal with his wand. “Although, if kisses are on offer, you might have suggested giving Fairweather's journal a big smooch earlier. That might have just done the trick, Granger.”

“I think I am mortified.”

“I think I am intrigued,” Draco replied honestly.

(Stop talking, Draco.)

As the shadows had deepened and begun a slow creep behind them, they had stumbled their way back to Plimpy, followed all the while by the cretinous Longbottom, who seemed more enamoured by the minute.

It kept bounding off and bringing him back small tokens of affection. Like a mouldering fish head and a very large, half-chewed bone. He didn't examine the latter too closely.

"Stop staring at me, Longbottom!" he snarled at the beast.

"I actually think it's quite telling that you named your admirer after Neville," Granger said amusedly. "Your flirting is quite adorable and I'm sure you relish being able to say Neville's name with such affection."

"Har har."

"Of course, it's only natural that you noticed how good-looking Neville has grown since Hogwarts. We all did. But I'm sorry to tell you, he's quite happily married, Malfoy."

Draco stopped dead in his tracks and shot her a flat look. "Have you had your fill of fun, Granger?"

Granger’s smirk was downright smug. "Of all the names you could have chosen, you chose Longbottom. I think it’s romantic."

Clearly not.

Draco eyed the dingo warily as it trotted up beside him, dropping another delightful offering at his feet. This time, it was some kind of desiccated, unidentifiable thing. Possibly a possum tail.

“Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, stepping around it.

Granger was practically glowing. “He loves you, Malfoy.”

“He is bewitched,” Draco corrected sharply.

"Exactly," Granger replied cheerfully, "he finds you quite bewitching."

“This is not love. This is a magical mistake.”

Granger hummed noncommittally, clearly enjoying his suffering far too much.

Draco glared down at the dingo, which stared up at him with unblinking devotion. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I just think it’s so sweet. Two lonely souls, finding each other through accident. It's really an adorable meet-cute when you think about it.”

Draco groaned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Granger, I swear—”

“I mean, it’s good practice, isn’t it? For when you eventually find yourself in your next, real romantic entanglement?” She tilted her head, watching him with that insufferable, knowing gleam in her eyes. “One that isn’t magically induced.”

Draco sniffed and strode forward, pointedly ignoring her.

Longbottom followed.

He didn’t need to see it to know— Granger's eyes were bright with laughter.

They made it back to camp just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. Wordlessly, Granger handed him a glass of wine and they watched the sunset from their canvas chairs both acutely aware that the clock was ticking but unable to muster the energy to tackle the potion in their current, relaxed state.

After Longbottom had tried to scramble into his lap thrice more, and been rewarded with a few choice insults for its efforts, Draco could see that the attraction charm was beginning to wear off.

He felt oddly offended as the sparkle of devotion slowly drained from Longbottom's eyes until eventually, the mangy canine slunk off into the bushes. Losing interest in him entirely.

(Typical.)

"Since there's no help, come let us kiss and depart," Granger quoted to the departing Longbottom mournfully.

"What? What’s with you and all the kissing today?"

Granger flushed bright pink.

Game. Set. Match.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy had never been a morning person.

Not to belabour the point, but after days of trekking through the bush, dodging magical insults from a dead sailor’s journal, and accidentally adopting a dingo, he was especially not a morning person.

So when, at the ungodly hour of six in the bloody morning, he was jolted awake by the sharp yank of his blankets and the too-cheerful voice of Granger, he was (understandably, he thought) furious.

“Malfoy. Wake up.”

His body curled instinctively toward the remnants of his own warmth stored in the too-thin mattress, his muscles groaning in protest. He grunted something unintelligible and batted blindly in her direction.

The response was immediate and cruel: “Rise and shine, princess.”

Draco peeled one eye open, barely making out the unrepentant shrew that was Granger standing over him, hands on her hips, back-lit by the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through Plimpy’s floral curtains.

“Granger, if you value your life, you will vacate my personal space, return my blanket, and let me—”

THWACK.

There was a responding noise of deep betrayal.

Granger was already retreating, dropping her cushion and looking far too smug for someone who had just committed a war crime. “Come on,” she said, moving toward the Plimpy’s tiny kitchenette. “I’ve got something for you.”

Draco groaned and forced himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. He felt exactly as one should feel when ripped from sleep prematurely. That is to say, miserable.

“What could you possibly have for me that’s worth interrupting my sleep?” he muttered darkly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Then he blinked. Because it was only then that he saw that Plimpy had been transformed.

The normally cramped interior was softly glowing under gleaming fairy lights, levitating gently an inch or so below the roof. Sprigs of fresh pine and eucalyptus were tucked into cramped spaces among the small shelves, filling the air with a crisp, wintry scent. An obnoxiously large red knotted stocking hung from one of the cabinets, embroidered with MALFOY in gold thread.

Draco stared. Then blinked slowly.

Granger watched him, clearly trying to suppress a smile. Her nose was a glace cherry, her clinquant eyes gleamed with festive tidings. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

He lost the power of speech for a moment before managing, “I—what—?”

She shrugged, moving toward the kitchenette where she was preparing what looked suspiciously like a strong pot of Earl Grey. The additional scent of bergamot wafted over in pleasant waves.

“I got up early. And I thought, well, maybe you could use some Christmas cheer.”

Draco was still too stunned to reply. He had expected a morning of brewing potions or perhaps trudging over sand dunes until his joints creaked with exertion. Not this.

A rare, anomalous tightness bloomed in his chest. But before he could process whatever the hell that meant, Granger waved him over.

“I want to show you something.”

Her cheeks were now rosy apples, her mien took on a bashful quality. It was all very un-Grangeresque. He had no inkling what would restore equilibrium so instead he tried a tentative: "Merry Christmas, Granger."

She relaxed. Had she thought he would curse her? Like Scrooge reincarnate?

In truth, he had barely registered the date. He had recognised the absurdity of a summer Christmas and had seen some rather limp looking decorations strewn about the place. However, it hadn't particularly felt like the festive season so he hadn't thought much about it. And so they had arrived at December 25th and neither had previously uttered a word of recognition.

And if it was Christmas, that meant they had already been in the country for a week.

"Come here," Granger ordered him.

Draco hesitated but followed, recognising that he hadn’t the power to resist the witch when she chose to compel him. He padded over to the small dining nook where her Muggle laptop was perched atop the table. It was encased in shiny maginullium. The screen was open to a video call, one that had clearly been waiting for him.

And there, on the screen—rumpled, grinning, and impatient—was Scorpius.

Draco’s breath caught.

“Dad!”

The tightness in his chest expanded into something that was both sharper and edged with relief. He stepped forward instinctively, his hand bracing against the table as if to steady himself.

“Scorpius,” he exhaled.

His son beamed. His hair was an absolute mess and he was clearly wearing pajamas under his robes. He was perfect.

Granger, to her credit, had already stepped away, giving them space. Or as much as could be afforded under cramped conditions.

“You look awful,” Scorpius informed him brightly.

Draco huffed a laugh. “Good to see you too.”

Scorpius pulled a face. Before he could fire back, the screen jostled and Harry Potter appeared beside his son.

“Malfoy,” he greeted, "Merry Christmas."

"Potter? What on earth are you doing at Hogwarts? Oh, Merry Christmas I suppose."

"Actually," Potter told him, "Hermione asked me to help with this phone call. We're down near Hogsmeade—it's the closest place we could get decent reception on my phone. I'm here so McGonagall would let Scorpius outside after curfew."

"Ahh," Draco said. "Well, thank you."

Potter shrugged, shuffling to the side as Scorpius shoved himself back into view. “Dad, you look awful,” he repeated, grinning.

Draco huffed. “You said that already. Excellent observational skills. Very proud.”

Scorpius’ grin only widened. “Well, someone had to say it. Are you sleeping in a shoe box?”

Draco blinked, glancing around the confines of Plimpy. “You're not that far off actually.”

“Hard to imagine you without your lordly comforts.” He leaned forward, the grainy quality of the video call making his features flicker slightly. But even through the screen, Draco could see the way his eyes shone.

And Merlin, the feeling was mutual.

Scorpius continued before Draco could speak. “Mum used to say you hated Christmas morning.”

Draco faltered. His throat went dry. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Scorpius must have caught the change in his expression, because his teasing grin softened into something gentler. “It's true though, isn't it? You used to get up early most days, but on Christmas morning you were impossible. Mum said that if she wanted to get you out of bed before ten, she had to threaten to cancel your season tickets for the Falcons.”

A strangled noise left Draco’s throat. “I’m a man of strong principles.”

“I only remember you mucking about with me once you were up though.”

"What she possibly failed to mention about the sleeping in was that I was always up until the early hours constructing and wrapping your toys."

Draco’s fingers curled in on themselves until his fists were tightly clenched on the table surface. He thought maybe his voice had wavered a little, but hoped Scorpius hadn't noticed.

In the background, he heard Potter clear his throat awkwardly.

Perhaps Granger had sensed it too. Without a word, she placed a steaming mug of tea next to him before stepping back. There was no commentary. Just the quiet solidarity of her presence.

Scorpius pressed on, oblivious to his father's discomfort. “You know, Hogwarts Christmas isn’t bad. Albust stayed to keep me company— isn't that nice? They did a whole thing in the Great Hall for dinner, and Albus got caught in some enchanted mistletoe, which was hilarious. It made him chase people around for an hour trying to make him kiss them.”

Potter sighed in the background. “It was not hilarious.”

“And Teddy came to Hogsmeade. Brought me the most ridiculous jumper. It was a gift from grandmother Weasley. Isn't that nice? It’s got a dragon on it. I think it might suit you better. It’s a bit big but, either way, I’m wearing it.”

Draco’s lips twitched. He could picture it, the hideous Weasley knitwear and the absurdity of his son parading around Hogwarts. But more than that, he pictured his son smiling and laughing throughout it all.

Scorpius was safe and happy, having fun with his friends.

“Sounds like you’re making the best of it.”

Scorpius nodded. Then his expression sobered slightly. “Yeah, but—” he hesitated, shifting slightly.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I do wish you weren't so far away, Dad.”

Something splintered in Draco’s chest. Across the tiny kitchenette, he felt Granger's eyes darting quickly in his direction.

“I know. I wish I could be close enough to pop around to take you and Albus into Hogsmeade.”

Scorpius’ expression shifted into something brighter. “Promise you’ll be back soon?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” Scorpius said, clearing his throat and shaking off the weight of the moment. He looked suddenly sullen. “Professor McGonagall has me on prefect duties every day watching the first-years.”

Draco snorted. “Tragic. You’ll survive.”

The conversation then wound itself into lighter topics, including, but not limited to: who Albus had a crush on (Rowan Heathcoate), who Scorpius had a crush on (Nice try, Dad!), which teachers were rumoured to be retiring (Professor Vector), whether Hagrid's cooking had improved (no), and who was likely to win the Quidditch cup (controversially it was Hufflepuff—Rose Granger-Weasley was apparently in hysterics). Potter chimed in from time to time with his own observations, or to set records straight when required.

Shortly it devolved into Scorpius’ exaggerated complaints about his friends, the food, and the general injustices of being forced to wake up early to get the best table in the library and prevent his academic rival from doing so, an obnoxious Ravenclaw he only ever referred to as "her" or "she" with an ominous gravity.

Eventually, though, Potter glanced at his watch. “Alright, Scorp. It’s past curfew. You’ve given your Dad his Christmas miracle.”

Scorpius rolled his eyes. “Fine.” But then he sobered, looking back at Draco. “Love you, Dad.”

Draco's eyes began to itch again. “I love you too.” And then, with a final grin, the screen went dark. He stared at the blank laptop for a long moment, his hands crept around the mug Granger had given him.

The silence stretched until it was pinched into a translucent thinness.

Then, softly— “Merry Christmas, Malfoy,” Granger said.

Draco turned. She stood beside him, watching on with an unreadable expression.

He cleared his throat. Then, in the gentlest voice he’d ever used around her he said: “Thank you, Granger.”

She smiled the kind of smile that could soften any sharp edges. “You’re welcome.”

"Granger," he sounded tentative. (Because he was.)

"Yes?"

"Is this the first Christmas you have spent apart from Weasley and the children?"

"Oh, well—sort of. There were some years there where I had to go into the office, but we always had Christmas dinner together. You've never spent the holidays away from Scorpius, have you?"

"No. It's harder than I thought."

"Agreed."

They said no more, but the quiet became warmer as she turned away to tidy up the breakfast things. They both let themselves dwell on an almost loneliness, which might have otherwise been unbearable, if it weren't shared.

Draco lingered, unsure what to do with himself. He still held tight to the rapidly cooling cup of tea. Granger moved around him in the background, bustling in a way that betrayed her desire to look busy.

The only sound was the soft clinking of china.

She broke the silence. “We should start on the stabilising potion.”

Draco glanced up. “Yeah. The sooner we can read that journal and figure out where we're heading, the better.”

She opened one of the lower cabinets and rooted through the cupboard that seemed to be well stocked with a comprehensive roster of potions ingredients. As she opened jars and placed a compact set of copper scales on the tiny bench, Draco breathed in the familiar earthen smells of preserved roots and herbs. It was an aroma that always put him at ease and ignited his brain.

He stood and joined her quietly.

“Did you bring the acromantula venom? I put it on your packing list,” Granger's voice was muffled as she reached deep into the cabinet.

“Naturally, it was on the list so it was packed. It’s the last vial from my private stores, so don’t waste it.” He summoned a vial of with a non-verbal command and a flick of his wand. It zoomed out of his open luggage.

Granger assembled a small gas burner carefully and then placed a compact, silver cauldron on top.

"Silver?"

"I thought, since we will need to work with rather large quantities of moonstone to draw out the magic in the lake water, it seemed like an obvious choice."

Draco acquiesced.

"So we have a base, obviously. Are the lake water and the added moonstone the only derivatives from a typical stabilising potion you were thinking of?"

"I think so," she said, already dropping moonstone in to the mortar with little clunks, "But you're the more experienced potioneer. What were you thinking?"

"I don't think we should go wild, but I have had more success with stabilising potions when I substitute chalk for charcoal."

She nodded and then subtly, so that he almost missed it, she shuffled sideways, making room for him directly in front of the cauldron. It was an unspoken license to run the show. He knew better than to let the opportunity pass. She handed him the lake water and they got to work.

He carefully measured the water and tipped it into the cauldron, setting a low blue flame underneath. Then he gave it two quick stirs with his wand and as the water swirled it transformed into a shimmering quicksilver.

For a while, they worked in sync. Dried nettles, powdered moonstone, a few drops of the venom and crushed charcoal. Each addition shifted the potion’s vibrancy and consistency. Draco was on auto-pilot, happily measuring, mixing and stirring and Granger worked in tandem effortlessly. It both calmed and distracted them.

"Granger," he said, interrupting their flow as a sudden thought came to him, "did you speak with Rose and Hugo before you woke me up?"

She frowned down at the fluxweed she was slicing into smooth, long portions.

"No. They were busy at the Burrow. Harry did pass on a message."

He knew enough not to push any further.

The stabilising potion wasn't hard. They had first learned a derivative of what they were making back in third year. But it did require some intensive periods of careful stirring and concentration. And then there was to be a long period of waiting.

When the potion had settled down to a simmer and was the correct shade of pearlescent lavender, Granger set her stirring rod down and leaned against the kitchenette.

The potion smelled floral, like a spring breeze. Her curls formed a frizzy coronet on the top of her head with the humidity from the cauldron. Draco thought it looked rather nice.

“We’ll need to let it simmer for a few hours,” she said, “the venom needs time to bind with the base.”

Draco washed and dried his hands on his embroidered hand towel and leaned against the counter alongside Granger. “We’ve got time to kill.”

There was a tight crease at the corner of Grangers mouth, as if it were desperately resisting the urge to turn down.

"We could go somewhere, couldn't we?”

Her head snapped up."Go where?"

He shrugged, "It's Christmas Granger, we could go wherever we want. I know you've got a list of all the places you want to try to squeeze in while we're down here."

He swore he could see her vibrate with energy as she launched into a full-scale Granger monologue. She was pulling out her phone and bringing up photos of a beach covered in black, volcanic rock— rambling so quickly he couldn't keep up.

"Sorry, what?"

“It’s not far from here,” she continued, still not pausing to catch her breath. “We could take Plimpy to the coast, and watch the turtle hatchlings. It’ll be hours before the potion’s ready anyway.”

“You want to… see some turtles hatching?”

Granger shrugged, but there was a vulnerability to her expression. “We could use a break. And I’ve never seen baby turtles.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up and he felt a buoyant desire to indulge her rise within him. “That's kind of adorable, Granger. I was fully expecting another expedition to a library.”

“Believe it or not, Malfoy, I am capable of enjoying life’s simpler pleasures. Besides, you love the beach, which is a bizarre fact I never thought I would know. It’ll keep you from hovering over the cauldron and fussing.”

He opened his mouth, his instinct to stay close to the potion strong— but then he saw the gleam in her eyes and the tension in his shoulders eased. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He tapped the side of the cauldron with his wand, casting a Containment Charm over it to maintain the precise temperature and environment. Then, with an ease born of their week of travel together, they moved in tandem, gathering what they needed and preparing Plimpy for takeoff.

As they buckled in, Granger glanced over at him. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes darting to his and then quickly away.

Draco didn’t respond with words. He simply flashed a quick grin before reaching out to switch on the radio, which started playing a catchy song about someone with a sweet disposition. He couldn't really relate.

While he was at it, he snagged her sunglasses from the dash, popped them on and leaned back with his hands cushioning the back of his head.

"Let's fly, Granger."

She laughed delightedly and it coaxed a reflexive grin right out of him.

They lifted into the air. The next step in their journey could wait. For now, they would go and watch the some baby turtles hatch, because it would make Granger happy and because it was Christmas.

The sky was a canvas of soft blues and candy-floss clouds as Plimpy cut smoothly through the air. Granger piloted with minimal turbulence. Draco had the window down, the wind ruffling his hair as followed the slow curving path of the coastline with his eyes.

When they landed and set Plimpy down under the shelter of a canopy of coastal trees, Granger was already bouncing with barely contained excitement. Draco found himself smiling despite the lingering weight of Scorpius experiencing Christmas without him on the other side of the world.

The walk to Mon Repos beach was short, winding through sandy trails framed by native grasses and twisted roots. The air was alive with the chirping of cicadas and the distant rush of waves. When the trees parted, the shoreline sprawled out before them, as if to say "Welcome friends, the water is warm." The beach itself was a feast of dark volcanic rocks mingling with stretches of soft, pale sand.

“There,” Granger said, pointing toward a cluster of what looked like uniformed volunteers gathered near the dunes. “They must be guiding the hatchlings!”

She tugged at his arm impatiently, as if he weren't already well-trained to follow her everywhere like a marionette on a string.

"Hello," she approached an elderly-looking lady with a kind face, "we were hoping to see some hatchlings."

Draco looked around at their surroundings. There were dozens and dozens of little roped-off circles.

"The babies don't usually hatch during the day," the woman explained patiently. "You should put your name down for a guided experience tonight and come back after dark."

She was pointing up and away from the beach at a building, presumably some kind of office.

"Thanks," Granger said with a warm smile and then turned to leave, gesturing for Draco to follow (as if he needed to be told).

"How disappointing," Granger was saying, "I should have done more research. I really wanted to see some hatchlings."

"Granger, why on earth are you sad? It's abundantly clear what we need to do."

"Oh?"

"The potion should be brewed in 10 minutes. We set up camp, we do some work on the journal and then go see your baby turtles tonight. Hopefully, we can be on our way in the morning with some clear direction."

She beamed, eyes bright and pointed right at him. He was sure he had seen Granger smile this way a hundred times, but he wasn’t sure if it had ever been directed so specifically at him. It felt a bit like a stunning spell to the chest.

He wondered what else he would do to see that smile— beyond baby turtles.

"That's a brilliant idea, Malfoy," she said happily, "you go check on the potion and I'll book us in with a guide for tonight." She was already turning to do just that and he smiled as she stumbled in her haste on the soft sand.

His eyes whipped around furtively to see if anyone had seen. It was a paranoid thought born from a quiet realisation that had been dawning on Draco. It persistently tugged on his insides.

He visualised his own hands pushing the thought down, deep into a dark well that resided in the recesses of his mind. He resealed it with a shroud of occlumency.

(Stay there.)

They sat together at the tiny table in Plimpy's kitchenette. The cauldron took up most of the table space and emitted tiny whirls of blue and mauve smoke.

"It looks ready," Granger said, her head half submerged in the small silver cauldron, the steam eliciting a lovely red sheen on the tip of her nose.

"Get your head out of it, Granger," he told her sternly, "the last thing I need is some of your errant hair corrupting my hard work!"

"Sorry," she muttered, but pulled back. "And what about my hard work?"

He extinguished the small flame with his wand. "How should we do this?"

She blinked at him. "Well, would you believe it, I have no idea!"

He picked up the journal in his non-dominant hand and stared hard at it. He could almost feel the cheeky magic it was imbued with, blowing a metaphysical raspberry in his general direction. "Let's just dunk it."

She shrugged. So they did.

The potion was surprisingly viscous for something that looked so light and airy. The journal sunk into the cauldron with a GLURP and spat a single bubble up to the surface.

"How long do you think?" Granger asked.

"Not long," he replied, eyeing the concoction thoughtfully.

She retrieved a pair of long-handled tongs from the drawer and went fishing. In moments, she had the journal and was laying it to rest in the small sink.

"Would drying charms be overkill, do you think?"

"We just dumped the thing in hot potion, I highly doubt a drying charm or two is going to hurt." Without waiting, he got to casting them.

"Careful, careful," she said buzzing around him like a gnat. He swatted her away with his other hand and accidentally made contact with the side of her left breast. Neither of them mentioned it.

(Mortifying.)

"Look now, Granger, I think it's done," he said, levitating the journal over to the table as Granger hastily banished the cauldron to the sink. He laid it down gently in front of her.

"Please do the honours."

She did, taking a hitched breath and laying one of her small hands on the cracked leather cover.

"My what a handsome book," she said in a thick, flirtatious tone.

He quirked a brow at her and she shrugged in a way that said, 'you try.'

"A very fine-looking book," he agreed loudly.

"I bet it's full of the most interesting information," she purred, turning the page.

Malfoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes and followed with a hearty "Yes, quite!"

Granger's fingers moved cautiously over the leather and parchment. Her touch was light and quick, as if she feared the book would dissolve into dust. Draco leaned in closer, their shoulders brushing.

The journal’s ink began to shift. Words began to appear in bold, neat cursive. They were eager, as if they had been waiting for someone clever enough to come along and give them their opportunity.

“Fairweather’s log,” Granger read softly. Her voice took on a more serious timbre. “December 14th, 1803. The sea bears no mercy today. The horizon boils with a storm that churns the water as though the gods themselves are angry.”

She turned the page, the journal offering no resistance. The next entry was accompanied by a sketch of twisted roots and a cavernous opening in the side of a cliff, ink lines sharp and deliberate.

“Does that look like—”

"A forest," Granger finished.

Draco leaned closer, their heads nearly touching. "What does it say?"

Granger squinted at the script. "I'm having trouble making it out. I think the journal is resisting the stabilising potion, which is just so typical, don't you think? It says something about... 'the green heart,' and there's a mention of 'storms and trees that watch from the coastline.' Oh! I bet it's referring to the Daintree!"

"The Daintree?," Draco murmured, a note of surprise in his voice. "It's a rainforest, isn't it?"

Granger nodded, her eyes bright as she stared past his shoulder. Draco recognised this as a clear sign that her brain was firing up. "Yes, and they get a lot of tropical storms up there, and I bet Fairweather would have gone there if he was tracing ley lines or ancient magic sites. It makes sense."

Draco tapped the edge of the journal, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. "Do you think it'll tell us more if we keep flirting with it?"

She shot him a look and then flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Only one way to find out." She cleared her throat, laying on the charm as if the journal were an old lover. "Oh, dear journal," she cooed, "you are the cleverest book I've ever met. Do tell us more about the ancient voices and the storms that speak."

Draco again rolled his eyes at the synthetic syrup in her voice. The journal trembled under her touch, and more ink bled across the page, forming new words. They were clearer this time.

"I actually can't believe that worked. You flirt like my great aunt Celine."

"Graceful and French?"

"Part-troll, extremely hairy."

She scowled, but the journal distracted her quickly.

"Oh!" she cried excitedly, and then read aloud:

December 17th, 1803.

We made landfall near the green edge of the great forest. The locals speak of a place where the sky is swallowed by trees and the air itself is thick with whispers. Superstition runs deep here. Stories of spirits in the mist, of the forest swallowing men whole. Nonsense, surely, but it unsettles the crew. Several refuse to go further inland.

I have marked the path along the river, where the water runs dark and still. Strange stones line with carvings appear in certain, highly magical sites. My wand reacts as if drawn by an unseen force.

We will move deeper tomorrow. The air is thick and damp. Strange birds call in the night. I keep my wand close.

A storm brews to the north.

Draco exhaled slowly. "Well, that’s not ominous at all."

"It’s a lead," Granger said, a determined light in her eyes.

"Granger, can't we just skip through to the bit where he finds the fountain?"

"Okay, I'm getting to it!"

She started flipping through the pages but page after page was blank. He groaned with frustration beside her.

"Journal, why are your pages blank?" she tried.

Nothing happened.

"Journal," Draco cut in with his much deeper voice, "tell us about when Fairweather discovered the Fountain of Youth."

There was the swirling of semi-opaque lines, as if the journal was thinking. Then the distinct word "NO" appeared. And nothing else.

"It's fucking with us!"

"I don't understand," Granger replied, "didn't you say that girl in the library had cited the journal in her research?"

"I don't know, Granger. I think it just doesn't like us."

Granger reeled back, "Why? We're delightful!"

A wide grin spread itself across Draco's face.

"We are," he concurred, and then he tried a command: "Journal, stop fucking with us!'

The semi-opaque lines formed again, swirling and morphing until they settled into a highly detailed and very lewd picture of male genitalia. As one, Draco noticed that he and Granger both automatically tilted their heads to the side to take in some of the finer details.

"It's quite talented, actually," Granger conceded.

"The wrinkles around the ball sac are startlingly realistic," he said thoughtfully, still staring.

"Oh?"

"Not that I'm personally acquainted with wrinkly ball sacs. Obviously."

"I'm going to stop you there and let you know that I'm not interested in hearing you try to backtrack out of that one with a description of your own cock, Malfoy."

Draco choked on air. His eyes shot to her face so fast he might have sprained them if he weren't so lucky. Granger didn't look embarrassed or repentant in the slightest.

"Granger, did you just say the word cock?"

She shrugged, "It seemed most appropriate."

"I'm shocked!"

"Save your moralising, isn't that shading rather clever?" She gestured to some shading on the underside of the shaft that was indeed, very clever.

With a final exhale of regret for the dignity he’d lost, he turned his attention back to the journal, where the very detailed sketch was still leering up at them.

"I don't suppose we should be surprised about some lewd doodles, Fairweather was a seaman after all. Aren't they renowned for being a bit bawdy?"

He looked over at Granger when she didn't respond, only to see that she had a hand clapped over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

"Seaman!" she finally burst out.

Draco shut his eyes and counted to ten. He refused to laugh.

"Get a grip, Granger."

Granger, still grinning, nodded. “Okay.” She cleared her throat and tried again, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Dear, clever, handsome journal. Would you pretty please share the next relevant entry about Fairweather’s journey? We would be ever so grateful.” She even pouted for good measure.

Draco mocked vomiting.

The journal hesitated. Then, as if weighing its options, the lewd drawing slowly faded away, ink bleeding into fresh words.

Draco leaned in as Granger read aloud:

December 19th, 1803.

The deeper we ventured into the green heart, the stranger the land became. We followed the river for miles. Thorned vines hung like the grasping fingers, thwarting progress at every turn and we found nothing. My spell still indicates there is peculiar energy. It is strong here.

Draco arched a brow. “Strong magical energy?”

Granger frowned, flipping to the next entry.

December 20th, 1803.

My first mate, Sutherland, swears he saw a strange figure moving between the trees, though no one else could confirm it. The men are restless, muttering of spirits and warnings they half-remember from the locals. I do not put stock in their fears, but I confess that the further we go, the harder it is to shake the feeling that we are being watched.

Draco shifted uncomfortably.

Granger’s fingers traced the inked words thoughtfully. “It sounds like something was protecting the area,” she murmured.

“Or Fairweather and his crew had heatstroke and started hallucinating jungle ghosts.”

“Maybe,” Granger permitted.

Draco studied the journal for a long moment. “So, we’re going to this place, then?”

She nodded. “We have to. If this is where Fairweather was looking for something giving off strong magic, it could be the Fountain. Besides, it doesn't look like the journal is just going to just tell us. I have a feeling it's going to make us follow in Fairweather's footsteps”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Brilliant. I’ve always wanted to get eaten in a rainforest.”

Granger patted his arm in mock sympathy. “We’ll be fine.”

“Didn't you say that about the cave a few days back?”

“Oh, cheer up, Malfoy. You only almost died. I'll be there to save you again.”

The full moon was heavy and obnoxiously bright. It cast a silvery glow over the beach, making the volcanic rock glitter like obsidian.

Granger was a cyclone as she charged out of Plimpy. Her enthusiasm was reminiscent of her approach to academia in her earlier years at Hogwarts. It was stunning to him that he could find it endearing now. She vibrated with excitement.

It was not lost on him that once he would have punished her for it. He had been taught that well-bred women always maintained their decorum, even in the face of passion. It had been many years past since he realised he didn't necessarily find decorum attractive.

"Hurry up Malfoy, you've just whined for forty-five minutes straight about my hair getting everywhere and the way I slurp my tea. This is my time to experience something beautiful and I won't let you ruin it!"

Forty-five minutes felt like a bit of a stretch. Sure, there had been some words said. This was after they had tried, yet again, to coax more useful information from the journal and been rebuffed with a skillfully rendered middle finger. They gave up soon after.

They approached the small building they had seen earlier. Draco took a moment to appreciate the view. The sea was liquid silver, rippling like a potion on the edge of completion. It was one breath away from boiling over— a vast ocean stretching out before him. It was alchemy.

"Malfoy!"

Several torch-lit muggles turned to glare at Granger, their faces cast in flickering torch-light. Draco thought they looked like a herd of angry and bewildered cows, blinking at them stupidly. He didn't say that out loud though. He took his time approaching, slow and unbothered, while she began issuing apologies at several knots per second.

"We need to approach calmly and quietly," a middle-aged muggle woman (the caretaker?) was saying. Malfoy caught Granger’s gaze, arching a pointed brow. She scowled back as if sheer defiance might rewrite history. "And hopefully," the muggle caretaker continued, "we will get some little Christmas miracles. Remember, try not to make too much noise. They won't hatch if they can sense we are around."

There was some oohing and ahhhing, a bit staid—probably due to the public shaming Granger had received for expressing excitement around little baby reptiles.

Before he knew it, someone was handing him a muggle light and he was following the group as they made slow progress over the sand and between the large rocks. Granger was beside him. She smelled faintly of the lemongrass soap she kept in Plimpy's small bathroom.

"If one of them imprints on you, will we have space in Plimpy for it? Would it live in the bathroom?"

"Malfoy, don't be ridiculous. That's not how turtles work."

A muggle man with a bald head made a shushing noise in their general direction.

“Alright, folks,” the caretaker announced in an exaggerated whisper. “The first nest of the night is starting to hatch down by the shoreline. Keep your torches off when we get close, I'll be the only one with lights on. Stay behind me, and for god’s sake, watch your step.”

Draco elbowed Granger sharply in the ribs. “That means you.”

She scowled, but followed him down to get a better viewpoint anyway.

He tripped slightly in the soft sand and when she looked at him with a cruel smile, he heard himself assure her that it was a 'tactical lunge' although for what, he wasn't sure. In the end she had the courtesy not to ask, probably due to the secondhand embarrassment.

As they approached the designated nesting area, Draco found himself unexpectedly mesmerized. They were near a small, roped-off section where the first tiny heads were beginning to emerge. The little creatures were impossibly small— barely the length of his palm and roughly palm shaped. Their slick shells gleamed under the moonlight.

The ranger was murmuring to the group about how the hatchlings used the reflection of the moon on the ocean to guide them. Draco learned that they had been buried almost two months ago. They had simply been waiting for their moment to hatch and break free from their sandy nests. He watched as the tiny turtles began their slow, determined hike toward the ocean. Their flippers kicked up the sand as they followed their instincts towards the ocean.

“They’re so small,” Granger whispered beside him, voice full of awe.

"Only about one in one thousand will make it into adulthood," the guide was explaining.

They really were small.

He picked one that was just emerging and watched its progression. It got momentarily stuck in the deep well of a footprint and when it righted itself. In the confusion, it got turned around and began to head away from the ocean.

For a moment, his heartbeat picked up and he felt the tendrils of panic creeping into his consciousness. Everything in him wanted to help that little turtle. A small spell to put it back on the right path— what could it hurt? It would cost him nothing.

As if sensing his intentions, Granger laid a steady hand on his arm, "Just watch."

He did. He watched his tiny turtle course-correct and battle its way towards the ocean. Barely five minutes into its new life, it was already fighting what must have seemed like an insurmountable challenge. It must have felt like everything was a struggle. How was it fair that something so tiny had to overcome so many challenges at such a tender age?

Why weren't its parents there, protecting it?

The thought struck a chord, deep and buried inside of him and as he watched his little turtle approach the water's edge, he felt hope—yes. But what about all of the other challenges that lay ahead?

"My god, they are just like us, aren't they?" Granger observed, "Struggling blindly through the dark to find a water source they've never seen before."

It was a pithy remark, and Draco appreciated it, but he was also unable to acknowledge the clever observation. The thing was, he was feeling strangely devastated

Draco was frozen, watching as the hatchling flailed against a small wave, its tiny flippers carving desperate patterns into the sand. It struggled, righted itself, and then, as if hearing some invisible call, pressed on. The ocean waited. The dark stretched wide and endless. The tide would take it. But then what?

A lump settled in Draco’s throat. He clenched his fists, pressing them into the sides of his thighs until it hurt. The turtle disappeared into the ocean. The vision of a young, smirking blond boy who was both lost and in trouble flooded his mind. He pushed, pushed, pushed it down the well.

"See?" Granger whispered beside him, her voice softer now, as if scenting the rawness in the air around him. "It figured it out."

The calming scent of lemongrass washed over him. Draco swallowed.

"For now."

She turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes on the water, watching as the foamy surf claimed his turtle, sweeping it out into the vast unknown.

(One in a thousand.)

How many times had he thought about those kinds of odds? About how precarious it all was? How much he had been forced to contend with before he was even out of school? How close Scorpius had come to never existing at all? How, even now, the shadow of the blood-curse loomed over him like an unseen tide, ready to pull him under at any moment?

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back.

Granger nudged him gently with her elbow. “It looks like a survivor.”

He glanced at her, and something about the way she was looking at him, knowing and steady. It made him feel unbearably seen. He tore his gaze away.

"I should've known you'd turn this into some sort of philosophical lesson," he muttered.

Granger huffed a quiet laugh, "Not everything has to be profound, Malfoy. Sometimes things are just magic."

Draco let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting back to the ocean. He watched as more hatchlings tumbled into the waves, carried away into the unknown. He had a sudden, wild urge to take her hand in his and hold it very gently. "Yeah," he murmured instead. "I suppose they are."

He looked over at her and she was looking back at him. The long and heavy history between them was written on her face, but so, too, was something hopeful. He felt his hand lifting, pulled by that invisible string.

The sealed lid on the deep, dark well began to rattle and shake.

"And sometimes," a low voice cut in, "two dip-shits send a bloke to the other side of the world and carry on without so much as a polite inquiry about his health and well-being."

They glanced at each other. Granger's eyes blazed wide.

Fuuuuuck.

Glaring across a nest of baby turtles at them in the moonlight, stood the unmistakable silhouette of Titus Smith.

Chapter Text

Titus Smith leered at her from across a roped-off nest. His young, handsome face was twisted into a smug smile.

He had them and he knew it.

He was reaching into his robes. She'd barely had time to get a handle on that thought before Malfoy was acting.

In what felt like a split second, he had grasped her firmly about the waist, retrieved his wand and cast a robust Periculum charm into the sky behind them. It erupted into a shower of red fireworks. As one, the group of turtle watchers turned to look.

Then, she was being pulled through space in an apparition that she could concede, had to be one of the quietest dematerialisations she had ever experienced first-hand. And that was saying something because she was a dab hand at apparition.

With any luck, the muggles wouldn't even notice they had disappeared.

They rematerialised just outside of Plimpy and, before she could gather her not inconsiderable wits again, Malfoy was unlocking the side of the van and pushing her towards the cab.

"Get us up in the air, Granger."

"Oh, I hope the turtles weren't confused by all the fireworks," she fretted as she retrieved her wand and neatly dismantled their marquee and camp. As one, the gear shrank itself and flew into her open bag. She then wrenched open the door to the cab and hauled herself inside.

"Granger, in the air!" she heard him shout from the back, though it was muffled.

She started the engine and steered out onto the road.

"I need a bit of flat road to get us in the air," she told him irritably.

As luck would have it, flat road became available. She felt her stomach stagger as she lurched them upwards and airborne, rising quickly with every second.

Behind her, Malfoy was a flurry of movement. She heard the distinctive clank of metal on metal, the rustling of paper and something heavy rolling back and forth across the floor with the motion of the vehicle. It sounded like a lead marble on a rampage. She flicked her wand, opening the small window between the cab and the back of the van.

"What are you doing?"

"Smith is just going to keep tracking us. He's probably only a minute behind us, if that. I need to make Plimpy unplottable."

"Malfoy, you can't do that!"

"I assure you, I can and I will. Tell me—what do you think the main components of Plimpy are made from? Metal? Wood?"

"Wood?" she asked, confused. "Malfoy, it's a Renault from the 90s! Metal. Metal!"

"Okay. How would I know?"

She heard him tinkering again. She couldn't see much in her completely non-functional rear-view mirror. All she could see were flashes of blond hair and candles. It seemed like he might be sitting on the floor.

"Are you holding a seance back there?"

"If you had even the least bit of training in Demonology you wouldn't be making jokes about seances," he snapped back, clearly under pressure. "Just be quiet, please. I've never actually done this, I've only read about it…"

Hermione rolled her eyes and then peeked at her side mirror. With dread, she realised that some ways behind them was a figure ascending into the air on what looked like a broomstick.

"We're being followed!" she called to Malfoy.

"Fucking hell. Give me a minute, witch!"

But Hermione wasn't sure if they had a minute. Titus raised his wand. A bolt of blue light shot toward them. It was fast and blinding. It sizzled out just meters from Plimpy.

She slammed her foot down on the accelerator.

Malfoy swore loudly and then suddenly, there was a sharp, acrid smell that filled the cab. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was definitely chemical. Again she tried to ascertain what Malfoy was doing, with no luck.

"What are you doing?" she asked, "You cannot make us unplottable, Malfoy. We are in a moving vehicle. It's not even theoretically possible because of the first law of spatial fixation! Even attempting it would almost certainly result in displacement distortion!"

Another spell was fired their way, this time it hit the side of Plimpy, but was rebuffed harmlessly. Electas' defensive charms obviously worked.

"Do me a favour and hit the disillusionment button, if you haven't already!" was his only response.

Oh, good point. In fact, she hadn't.

She did so. In her mirror, she could see the figure on the broom pull up slightly and wobble in mid-air. Good shout, Malfoy!

She heard him start up a chant in the back. It was fast, deep and in a language she couldn't understand. Although, it did give her a clue as to what he was doing— most likely an alchemical ritual.

Was Malfoy enchanting in Farsi? This was such a bad idea! He was going to get them killed. Or possibly very, very splinched.

All of a sudden he stopped chanting. Briefly, there was silence and then there was a loud noise, as if a page were being torn from a book right next to her ear. Then, Plimpy and everything in it wobbled violently as if made from custard. Just for a moment. In fact, she could swear the air had now smelled distinctly like Crème Brûlée.

Plimpy gave a loud, metallic groan. She clung tightly to the wheel, her stomach flip flopping.

Everything froze and then sped up again with alarming velocity, until there was once again a sharp descent into absolute stillness and silence. It were as if Plimpy had been sucked into a vacuum. Everything began to shudder violently. Hermione's stomach dropped—this was it. Their last moment.

Then, just as quickly, they were spat back out. Life slammed back into motion. Plimpy lurched, still hurtling through the air. There was a brief, heart-stopping moment when they began to plummet and the interior dashboard went dark, but that was soon rectified and they started to rise again.

Malfoy gave a great WHOOP! of success.

Hermione took one last glance at the mirror. Titus seemed to have stopped in mid-air and was quickly becoming a speck in the moonlight.

How the hell had Malfoy done it?

"How the hell did you do it, Malfoy?"

He poked his head through the window, grinning triumphantly.

"I guess you're not the only genius in town, Granger," he crowed.

"What did you do, genius?" she demanded. "That should have been impossible."

He still had an ear-splitting (shit-eating) grin on his face.

"It's a Persian ritual I came across in an old grimoire in the Malfoy private collection. It was part of a series of concealment rituals very popular with err… shall we say, the unsavoury types of the time."

"Okay," she said, "But that doesn't explain how you came to break Le Fay's First Law of Spatial Fixation. You can't just make a moving object unplottable. Those kinds of spells require a static anchor point. Without an anchor point, the spell splits across multiple perceived locations— it could be millions of locations! Gods, you could have splinched us a billion different ways, Malfoy!"

She was getting a stitch in her side from speaking so quickly.

"Slow down, Granger," Malfoy cut in, rather rudely. "I assure you, it is perfectly safe and very rational. I simply tied the anchor to Plimpy's magical core, rather than to its location in space. Doing that makes it self-referential. We could take Plimpy anywhere and nobody will be able to track us. The best part is that it just required some simple runic binding, and old spell and a few magical compounds I already had on hand."

"Surely there will be side-effects, it was your first time and this just feels so experimental to me."

"Well, that's what Alchemy is, Granger. It's experimental magic. Rest assured, it's not my first rodeo, so to speak. As for side effects, I highly doubt it. The only potential side effect I can identify is that the van may always smell a bit like singed vanilla bean."

How was it possible that someone could be so infuriatingly smug and yet so undeniably competent at the same time? It made her feel a bit wobbly in the knees.

Or perhaps that was still a residual custard-like effect from the ritual.

She sighed. Nothing for it. She wanted to put as much distance between them and Titus Smith as possible.

"Listen Malfoy, you may as well try to get some sleep. We have a lot of ground to cover between here and the Daintree. I'll drive until I get tired. Maybe you can take a turn tomorrow."

Some hours later, tired and barely able to keep her eyes open any longer, Hermione eased Plimpy down onto a stretch of unsealed country road and pulled into a sheltered alcove of trees.

This would have to do. She just needed a couple of hours of rest.

She heaved her heavy body out of the cab and, wand lit, crossed in front to open the sliding door. Upon entering she promptly froze.

Malfoy was asleep in the bottom bunk. His thin blanket had slipped off. He was twisting and turning. Clearly dreaming and clearly not at peace. Quietly closing the door behind her, she crossed the room to crouch beside him. They were illuminated by a halo of soft lumos light. As she got there, his breathing slowed again and he seemed to settle.

Up close, she was hyper aware that all he was wearing was a soft pair of shorts, slung low on his hips. His chest was on display in front of her. Of course, she had seen it before, recently even. But not quite so close.

It was spangled with fine, white lines. Scars from an incident, now firmly in the past where it belonged.

She thought about the old scars on her own chest and how they weren't dissimilar. Both of them had been permanently marked by their childhoods, which had been dictated by cruel and selfish adults who thought nothing of sacrificing children to their cause.

He twisted again, this time turning his head so that he was face to face with her. His nose just inches away from her own.

She studied at his face, trying to remember how it had changed in the years since she had first met him. She couldn't even really recall the Draco Malfoy that had been before. She knew he had been a cruel boy who took great delight in making her miserable simply because of her muggle heritage. Vaguely she recalled him being pointy and mean looking.

Now she catalogued long, pale eyelashes, high cheekbones and a Parisian nose. She supposed that at some point in the intervening decades she had pushed memories of his younger self to the back of her mind and replaced them with newer versions of Malfoy. Versions that were infuriating but not hateful and almost never mean.

Her eyes traveled lower—down his long neck, down the coruscated canvas of his broad chest—and then lower still. There was a thick stripe of fine, blonde hair beginning at the lowest point of his belly button and continuing down to disappear into his shorts. She knew it probably wasn't alright to stare, but she found she couldn't look away.

She was pleased to note that Malfoy had a lean but normal looking build. He didn't have visible muscle definition cleaving his abdomen. That did not make his form any less inviting. On the contrary, it made her feel better about her own body, which had softened significantly with time and the creation of two babies.

Her eyes travelled lower still.

Malfoy gave a low, pained grunt.

Hermione jumped what felt like a foot in the air, scrambling backwards in her fright and falling soundly on her bottom. She stayed there, one hand clasped to her chest over her racing heart. Slowly, she raised her wand and cast light over his features.

Malfoy was tossing and turning. His face looked pained and his breathing had become erratic again. He groaned.

"Malfoy," she called gently. He didn't respond.

Heart still racing, she crept forward onto her knees and scooted closer.

"Malfoy," she tried again, "it's okay. You're okay."

Tentatively she reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. He didn't wake. Trying again, this time she placed her hand over his chest, placing some firm pressure downward and trying to shake him awake.

She could feel the powerful pounding of his heart underneath her palm. Clearly he was having a vivid nightmare.

Suddenly, one of Malfoy's hands shot up to grip hers, pinning it to his chest. His gray eyes flew open.

"Don't hurt her!" he cried in alarm.

"Malfoy?"

He stared at her, unblinking for a long moment.

"Granger?"

His heart continued its wild, erratic tattoo under her hand.

"You're okay, Malfoy. You were just having a dream."

He finally blinked, "A dream?"

"Just a dream."

He sighed deeply and then seemed to relax back into his pillow. He still had her pinned to himself with a vice-like grip. Under his hand, she stroked his chest gently with her fingers.

"Go back to sleep, Malfoy. That's it. Just a dream."

She stayed there with him, in that early hour, stroking his skin and being present as the wind stirred the trees outside. All was still within and eventually his grip slacked and she was able to slip from his bedside.

She settled herself in her bunk, resting a trembling hand over her own chest, willing herself to go to sleep.

Hermione startled awake to find the sun blazing through the window. The curtains had been drawn and through the glass she could see nothing but clear, azure skies.

Panicked, she sat up and glanced down at the bottom bunk. Malfoy was gone.

Her brain caught up. Of course he was gone, he was probably the one piloting Plimpy.

Stiffly, she climbed down from her bunk and moved to the small window into the cab. She stared at it for a moment. Images of the previous night flashed in her mind. Malfoy— shirtless, twisting in bed, grasping her hand, calling out in his sleep. What if he remembered? Would he want to talk about it? Should she say something?

Suddenly she didn't want to open that window. Weren't some things better left behind an invisible barrier?

But that was no way for a Gryffindor to think.

She opened it with a tight squeak and peeped her head through.

"Good morning, sunshine," Malfoy said in a light and airy tone, shooting her a dazzling grin. It disarmed her completely.

"Err… Malfoy. Hi."

He was wearing her sunglasses again, hands resting on the wheel, radio blaring an old Paul Kelly song. She never figured Malfoy for a Paul Kelly guy.

"Now I know why you wouldn't give me a turn driving this thing, it's fun," he told her cheerfully.

She squinted through the windshield, trying to get her bearings. Everything was so blue.

"Malfoy, do you even know where we are?"

He turned his head to her and though she couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, she knew they would be either rolling or glaring at her.

"Granger, the Daintree is North. The coastline is East. I'm perfectly capable of casting a basic point me. I've been following the coast North for five hours while you snored away back there."

"Five hours!" she squeaked, choosing to ignore the snoring jab, which she knew to be categorically untrue.

"You were out of it. How long did you drive last night?"

"Maybe four hours. Malfoy, that must mean we're close to Cairns!"

Malfoy shrugged.

"No idea, we passed a pretty big town about an hour or so back but other than that, I haven't seen any major landmarks."

"Oh, Townsville! Malfoy, I think we're definitely close to Cairns. We need to stop there for supplies before we head up to the Daintree."

"You're the boss," he said and it was cool and direct and it sent a shiver down her spine to hear him admit it out loud.

"Hold on, I'm coming through," she announced, taking a step back and eyeballing the size of the opening.

"Granger, I don't think that's…"

She was already pushing herself through, arms first, followed by her head and then the rest of her body. She had to rest her arms on the dash and then sort of bend inwards and twist onto her back until her elbows were on the dash and she could pull her feet through.

"How beautiful. You looked like a newborn foal, being born into the world."

Hermione, leaning back against the dash with her knees pressed to her chest, blew an errant curl out of her face and shot him a dark look.

She settled herself into the passenger seat and fastened her seat-belt as Paul Kelly crooned to her about all the dumb things he had done.

Cairns came into view within an hour. As she saw the first buildings on the horizon she thought of a glistening oyster shell, perched on a rock, surrounded by emerald waters.

"Let's approach on road, less risky," she directed.

Malfoy nodded and started guiding Plimpy downwards. They lost altitude gently until Plimpy's wheels came down on a stretch of empty highway with a small thud. He really was quite good at all things flying. She didn't know why she had been trying to prevent him from piloting. Some muggleish notion about him not having a drivers license, probably.

Of course, now they were on the road it became a different matter.

"Salazars tits!" he swore loudly.

Hermione screamed.

He was like a toddler who had previously been running around barefoot, and who had just been forced to put on shoes for the first time. That is to say, he had lost all sense of proprioception and had promptly discovered he did not know how to drive.

There was a large truck approaching quickly on the opposite side of the road. It couldn't see Plimpy through the dissilussionment.

Malfoy, who had no sense of the rules, had been drifting close to the middle. He swerved back to the other side and corrected, but it was shaky. The truck passed within a foot of the much smaller van— not even aware of the narrowly avoided crash.

"Pull. Over," she hissed at him.

He obeyed immediately, pulling up on the side of the road.

"Switch!"

They both unbuckled and Malfoy shuffled into the middle seat, while she awkwardly half-stood and shuffled over the top of his lap. There was a long moment of rather more contact between her backside and his lap than she was comfortable thinking about or acknowledging.

As she settled herself into her seat and fastened her belt, she realised Malfoy still hadn't said a word.

She looked over and he had taken her sunglasses off and was frowning at the window, looking prickly. She could just tell that his previous good mood had been thoroughly dashed, and she was about to see the reprise of the one she mentally recorded as "Arse-hat Malfoy."

"It wasn't your fault," she tried to console, although her tone wasn't coming out as gently as it did in her head, "You haven't been taught how to drive on the road. It's much easier in the sky."

"I couldn't care less about driving this janky muggle contraption."

Hermione sighed deeply.

She deactivated the disillusionment and started the engine.

Before too long they were passing through the outskirts of town.

"This is the last major magical outpost on the East Coast," she told him, breaking a long held silence. "We should stock up on any potions supplies we might need. We used quite a bit for the stabilising potion. We should grab some food and other supplies too. Conditions will be a bit rough while we're in the forest."

Malfoy grunted. She reminded herself that he had a bad nights sleep and tried to give him some grace.

The magical quarter, which had no official name as it was less a quarter and more a corner, was tucked into a discrete part of Edge Hill, brushing up against the Botanical Gardens.

Before long, they approached and Hermione parked Plimpy near the entrance. Leaving the climate controlled environment of the van, she was hit fully in the face by the sticky humidity of Northern Queensland. She could practically feel her hair frizzing up. She wouldn't be surprised if it had gained a foot in total volume.

Malfoy followed sullenly.

The entrance to the magical quarter was at the beginning of one of the better known walking tracks and marked by a derelict old water tank, covered in graffiti. Very much decommissioned.

"I've never been here," Hermione explained to Malfoy, who was hanging back a few steps. "But I've heard it described to me. The locals call it The Edge, kind of a play on the fact that this suburb is called Edge Hill and it's on the edge of the muggle community. Anyway, I read that we have to find a rune on the water tank and tap it with our wands and then we'll gain entrance."

They stopped in front of the tank and Hermione squinted at it. It was absolutely covered in tags and graffiti. It all looked like a jumbled mess.

"There," Malfoy said suddenly, pointing at what looked like a small golden blob.

Hermione leaned in and looked closer.

"Oh!"

It was a small golden snitch. As she stared at it, she could swear one of its wings fluttered slightly.

"That must be it! Not a rune at all. Well this makes sense. Australia is sports obsessed, you know?"

"I know they haven't made a World Cup final in three years, that's what I know," he replied with a sniff.

Hermione leaned forward and tapped the snitch with the tip of her wand. Suddenly, the water tank flickered and blurred before blinking out of existence, and in its wake there was a paved road ending in a little cul-de-sac. It was a charming little hamlet, dotted with well kept cottages on stilts in the 'Queenslander' style. Many of them had signs out the front, advertising various wares.

There were a few people and various other magical folk milling about. They walked past a contingent of arguing wizards who were all severely sunburned and sporting tiny shorts under open, light robes made of linen. They were arguing about herbology loudly.

Hermione smiled to herself, thinking of Neville.

Everywhere she looked—tucked into every cramped space between buildings, in every nook and cranny, between stairs or under benches—there were plants. Tropical looking flowers grew pell-mell next to soft looking ferns. All were shaded by tall palm trees that dropped small, orange fruits onto the corrugated iron roofs of the houses with a resounding 'plonk'.

Neville would have been in heaven.

"Granger, where should we start?" Malfoy's sharp tone cut through her reverie.

"Oh," she said, "how about there?" she jabbed unceremoniously in the direction of a larger building called 'The Glider'. She could use some lunch and maybe it would improve Malfoy's mood.

He was looking distinctly uncomfortable. There was a red flush creeping into his face, betraying what appeared to be a fierce, unvoiced battle with the humid climate. Discretely she pointed her wand his way and cast a non-verbal cooling charm.

He startled and then looked at her suspiciously.

"It's a pub," she prompted, "why don't we get some food and something to drink before we hit the shops?"

He acquiesced with a quick, begrudging nod.

When they made it to the entrance, they were greeted by a squeaky but commanding voice. It came from an adorable wooden carving in the middle of the door which depicted a small sugar glider, clinging to a branch.

"Hooroo!" it squeaked, "state your business please gents."

"Err…" Hermione replied, "I'm not quite sure that I'm a gent."

"We want food," Malfoy cut in, "and with each passing second, my desire for a stiff drink grows stronger."

"Well, why dincha say?"

The door swung open with yet another squeak and Malfoy led the way through into the interior.

Hermione noted the high, arched ceilings with exposed beams as she entered. Between the beams floated golden and greenish orbs, which gave off a dappled light and contributed to a distinct impression of being in a rainforest.

There was an assortment of magical folk of all shapes and sizes. All of them stopped to look at Hermione and her companion.

The decor didn't seem to have been updated since the mid '70s. There were vinyl, upholstered bar stools of odd lengths and styles, all of them in varying shades of puke green, or the more modern: puke yellow. They guarded sturdy looking but worn wooden tables , around which small groups of creatures and large groups of empty glassware clustered together.

In the corner, an old piano was playing itself. It could have been playing Chopin but it was so out of tune that it was hard to tell and might as easily have been playing Row-Row-Row-Your-Boat.

Behind the thick, curving bar—which was made from some kind of dark, luscious rainforest wood—stood a buxom and attractive woman. Possibly a few years younger than Hermione, she had a sweet, round face and thick, dark hair that fell down past her shoulders in soft ringlets. She was like the second coming of Madame Rosmerta.

She was also giving Malfoy an appraising look and a pink cheeked smile.

Hermione frowned.

"Oh look, a barmaid," she heard herself say acerbically, "do try not to put this one under the Imperius curse, Malfoy."

Her mouth snapped shut and thick, hot shame immediately flooded her nervous system. Why had she said that?

For his part, Malfoy didn't bite back immediately. He merely looked at her. Maybe a little angry, maybe a little impressed.

"You know Granger, it's hard to believe that anyone would look at the two of us and think that you're supposed to be the nice one."

Yes, she probably deserved that.

But it didn't hurt in the way he had probably intended. Hermione didn't give a fig about being nice. Nice women did not get the corner office.

What she cared about was that she had been deliberately cruel to a person who most definitely did not deserve it and she wasn't even sure where it had come from. Worse still, she knew with certainty that he wasn't in the habit of throwing her past mistakes in her face like that. After all, he'd had his opportunities.

"Sorry, Malfoy. I'm so sor—"

He had already walked away, directly to the attractive witch at the bar.

"My partner and I are terminally grumpy," she caught Malfoy saying as she approached, "we need sustenance and quickly. Please just bring whatever you have that's hot and filling and reasonably digestible. Drinks too, please. Firewhiskey if you have it. The good stuff— top shelf."

The witch nodded with a smile and set about levitating a bottle from the highest shelf behind her.

"Been a long day?" the witch asked.

"Been a long week," Malfoy replied.

"Well you and your friend should sit yourselves down and let Roberta sort you out," she said, gesturing at a nearby table.

As one, Hermione and Malfoy turned to each other. Then they broke into laughter, also breaking the fragile tension that had been brewing between them.

"Something funny?"

"You don't have any relations in wizarding Scotland, do you?"

"Not that I know of," was the confused reply.

Chuckling they grabbed their drinks. Hermione put down a few Carracks on the bar and they seated themselves at a nearby table, by a large window.

Hermione took a sip of her drink, screwing up her face at the burn. Trying to avoid Malfoy's judgment, she instead stared out the window. It gave her a good view of the small, magical Hamlet.

"You know, I'm still banned from the Three Broomsticks, after all this time."

"Really? Seems excessive. I wonder if Roberta can hold a grudge as well as her long-lost cousin Rosmerta can."

"I'd prefer not to have cause to find out," he told her solemnly.

They were interrupted by the arrival of their lunch, which was balanced on the head of a small, frog-like creature. It was about the size of a small child and had semi-transparent, slippery looking skin. Hermione could just make out the outlines of its bones and internal organs. It would have been enough to put her off her lunch, but thankfully it was wearing a small blue vest and dark shorts. Compounding the visual, was the fact that the creature had a deeply etched scowl adorning its toady face.

It plonked their plates down in front of them with a loud clatter and then said rudely, "There— food. Meat pie and chips."

Malfoy stared openly and rudely.

"What are you looking at?" the creature bleated, it sounded like a cross between a bullfrog and a goat. "Ungrateful and rude!"

It stomped back the way it had come on webbed feet, and disappeared behind a swinging door.

Malfoy turned to her, mouth still open.She picked up a chip and had to fight a terrible urge to pop it right into his open mouth.

"A Bogwilla," she said, "Endemic to the Oceania region. They're famous for… well, the kind of behaviour you just saw. They are terribly grumpy and almost always rude but they have good reason to be. Humans have been encroaching on their lands and destroying their villages and habitats for centuries now. Actually, there was a fascinating case with one of their—"

"Later, Granger. A giant, glass frog just served me my lunch. I don't need a lecture, I need answers."

"Well aside from having generally cantankerous dispositions, they are a sentient, magical being just like you and I. Actually, their magic is weather based. They can predict large weather events and to a smaller extent, control the elements. They still tend to live apart in their own villages but from what I've read, it's more and more common to see them in wizarding settlements in certain areas, like the Pacific islands or in the top-end of Australia."

"Fascinating," Malfoy said, taking a delicate bite from his fork.

"Oh yes, I've never actually met a Bogwilla in person. I'd say this was our lucky day."

"Maybe if we get really lucky it will come out and spill our drinks over us and insult me again," Malfoy drawled.

"Oh! Do you think so?"

Malfoy looked at her blankly and shook his head.

An hour later, they were huddled together in front of a cramped stall that was more of a lean-to, having established dominion on the footpaths between a bookstore and a small grocery. It was staffed by an affable old wizard and was the closest thing to an apothecary they were likely to encounter. Malfoy had set about replenishing their stores with alarming proficiency. So much so that she realized she wasn't actually needed.

"I'll just pop into the grocery store and get us some food, shall I?"

"Fine," he waved her off, his nose buried in a small box of dried Asphodel.

She crossed the few metres to the entrance of the grocery and grabbed a basket, which levitated behind her as she made her way inside. She stopped to pick up some oranges, lifting one to her nose and drinking in the sharp, bitter scent.

It was a small grocery with a mixture of muggle and magical treats and foodstuffs. She grabbed some cauldron cakes, a favourite of hers, and a big bushel of green apples. She had a strange sense that they had been a favourite snack of Malfoy's back when they were in school.

She added to that an assortment of staples— bread, milk, and tea.

She was just reading the label on the back of a hair potion that promised to control frizz when she heard some familiar voices. They were slightly raised, indicating some kind of argument. It was very difficult not to eavesdrop.

"I'm telling you, that's the second one like it that I've seen. They are bad news! The first one I saw was down in South Australia and as soon as I touched it I felt odd and that night I got a letter saying my Uncle Joseph was dead. Then I touched the stone this time and what happens? My wand is stolen almost immediately."

Hermione's interest was piqued.

"Coincidences," the man's companion said in a dismissive way, "it's just an old rock with some carvings in it. It's like all the old tales about black cockatoos spelling your doom or if you eat mangoes after dark, your ex lovers will haunt your dreams. It's not real!"

Now Hermione was really interested. She flattened herself against the shelf of the aisle she was perusing and edged forward, trying to peer around the corner without being seen. She got a quick glimpse and recognised the group immediately. It was the Herbologists from earlier in the day.

"But my wand, Merv. My wand! What am I going to do? And I'm telling you, everyone knows those stones are cursed. Those weird engravings, if you see them you're cursed with bad luck for a year."

Hermione straightened and stepped around the corner fully.

"Excuse me," she said, interrupting the sun-burned trio who looked up at her in various states of alarm, "I couldn't help but overhear you. Did you say you saw an engraved stone nearby?"

"No love," a large, bearded man replied in a broad Australian accent, "not near here. Up in the Daintree. We've just come back from a trip into the forest. We're Herbologists—we were collecting seeds. My mate Dave here had his wand stolen by some kind of creature just after we stumbled on a huge slab of rock with some weird carvings on it. Never seen anything quite like it, actually."

"Well I have," a smaller man interjected. He had a dejected look on his face, shoulders slumped. Hermione immediately understood him to be Dave. "I saw another one when I was doing some fieldwork south of Broken Hill. They are bad news, lady. I wouldn't go near them if I were you."

"Was it a big flat slab, with carvings that looked sort of like runes but very, very old. Like a language you've never seen before?" Hermione asked, ignoring Dave's story completely.

The third man, who had a bushy red beard and who had been silent up until this point nodded his head, "Aye. That's the one." He had a thick Scottish accent. Quite shocking to the senses after weeks of listening to the more nasal locals.

"And did you say that you touched the stone?"

"Yes, we were just minding our own business but then we came across the stone and when we touched it, we heard a strange humming noise and felt a bit odd. Otherwise, nothing out of the ordinary happened," the Scot told her.

"And—" but she was interrupted by Malfoy's arrival.

He stalked up, shopping bag held casually in one hand. She watched as he quickly approached and came to stand beside her, close. He draped an arm protectively over one of her shoulders.

"Dearest, are these men bothering you?" he asked in a voice that was— laughably— an octave lower than usual. Which was a ridiculous affectation, given his voice was already deep to begin with.

"I'm fine, darling," she delivered the endearment through her teeth, "just having a chat with some fellow travellers about an interesting site they stumbled upon up in the Daintree."

"How fascinating."

Merv already had his palms up in a gesture of good will and Dave looked alarmed. The Scot didn't look much of anything.

"No harm, mate," Merv was saying, "we were just having a chat and your lovely wife asked us a few questions about something we saw on our travels."

Latently, Hermione realised that her body had gone into some kind of hyper-alert state. There was a distinct ringing in her ears and the place where Malfoy's arm rested on the top of her shoulder, his fingertips just a hair's breadth away from her collarbone, felt strangely hot. If her brain were a nuclear reactor, there would have been flashing red lights and loud alarms ringing in every corner of both hemispheres.

"Yes, she's good at asking questions," Malfoy replied, shooting her a look. He gave her shoulder a firm squeeze and she let out a small, involuntary squeak of surprise. "But unless she has any more, we really should get going. Things to do, you know how it is."

Hermione shook her head no and she was promptly steered away from the group and down an empty aisle. Malfoy kept his arm around her for the duration. It was only when they were safely ensconced among the toilet rolls that he removed it.

"Granger, you weren't blabbing about our plans to strangers, were you?"

"Malfoy! Of course not," she was stung and indignant, "they were talking about a stone they found that sounded a lot like the one we saw in Byron Bay. I think it might be some kind of clue. Do you remember how the divining rods responded to it?"

He looked thoughtful. It was an odd time to notice, among the dried beans and magical shoe polish, that Malfoy's eyes weren't fully grey. They were more like a stormy blue.

"Okay, Granger. I take your point. It's a weird coincidence, I'll grant you and one that we should follow up. Why don't we go back to Plimpy and regroup, then we can plan our trip up to the Daintree."

She could do nothing but agree with that reasonable plan.

And so she followed him to the front of the store, where he patiently waited while she paid for their supplies. Then, taking most of them from her to carry himself, he led her back out through The Edge and to their temporary home on wheels.

Without saying much, she followed him inside the cramped space and watched as he dumped their shopping on the small table within the kitchenette. They worked in tandem to put their supplies away.

It went on in this quiet way until Malfoy accidentally knocked a bag of food over and a green apple rolled out, stopping in front of one of his feet. Immediately he bent over and scooped it up, taking a large bite from the crisp, tangy flesh.

She watched a quiet smile bloom on his face as he turned to her and said, "I've always loved green apples."

She smiled back at him.

Chapter Text

If Draco were ever asked when his crush on Hermione Granger began, he wouldn’t be able to say exactly. But he knew it started with an apple.

It was fitting really; some of the very best stories featured apples.

In their case, a rolling green apple had presented itself to him. His favourite snack on the go. As he had stooped to pick it up, it had looked so inviting he hadn't been able to resist taking a bite right there and then.

When he had turned to share his appreciation for the snack with Granger, she smiled knowingly at him.

"I know you like them, Malfoy. I remembered. That's why I bought them."

Two things about this struck Draco (quite firmly) in the feelings.

The first was that she had somehow remembered a little fact about him dating back to Hogwarts. Most assuredly a time when Hermione Granger had no cause to catalogue the small pleasures of Draco Malfoy. Yes, she had a formidable memory but also, it meant she had been paying more attention to him then he had realised.

The second was that she had made the effort to purchase something she thought he liked. An ordinary kindness that betrayed the oceans of growth that had happened between them in the intervening weeks (and perhaps years) since they had let go of their former animosity for each other, forged at Hogwarts when they had been on opposite sides of a war. She had thought about him and decided to try to do something to make him happy.

Draco actually couldn't remember the last time someone had made this kind of little gesture for him. Which was possibly a bit bleak.

Regardless, it was the apple that catapulted Granger right over the line into that obsessive part of his brain that immediately began to notice everything about her. Especially everything he liked about her.

It was just a harmless little crush, he knew. Probably inevitable given their close proximity and the fact that she was now single and a really rather impressive specimen of a woman. Still, he had the good sense to try to resist because they didn't need the complications. He resolved to nip it in the bud before it became a problem.

So in those early moments, whenever she did something cute or endearing, he tried his best to stuff it down the well.

For example, on the morning that they had left Cairns to head up to the Daintree, she wore her voluminous hair in a bun on top of her head, which was normal enough. What wasn't normal was the way he fixated on a loose tendril that curled down her neck as she piloted Plimpy. As she carried the heavier load in a full conversation, he found himself staring at it, wondering what it would be like to take it and wrap it around his knuckles.

Noticing his fixation, she had glanced in the mirror self-consciously.

"My hair always does this in the humidity. It's out of control, I know."

He wanted to tell her that it looked like wild silk and that he had imagined releasing the rest of the curls and watching them tumble down her neck at least 12 times in the previous 2 hours alone.

Instead he grunted, pushed it all down the well and said: "It's fine, Granger. I don't know what you're talking about."

The lid on the well began to rattle violently again later, as he followed Granger through the dense forest. She had the divining rods in hand and they were carrying their day packs with them, having left Plimpy behind.

She explained how some local species of plant reproduced in an unusual way and he made a droll remark. Something to the effect of, "If I do drop dead from the heat and humidity, it will be a comfort to my friends and family that I died listening to Hermione Granger give a detailed lecture on tree sex."

He thought it was funny (he wouldn't have said it if he didn't) but the peel of laughter that she issued had not been anticipated and it did things to him. It wasn't fair- what chance did a wizard have? When she laughed, it felt like opening a window in the spring-time, to let the sunlight in after a long winter.

He chastised himself for some time afterwards. So caught up was he, in fact, that he did not see the beady eyes glaring at them from across a small clearing until Granger's entire body seized and she dropped into a stillness that was dreadful and alarming.

Across from them was an atrocious creature. It gave an indignant squawk.

Draco began a quick mental categorisation: impressively sized, bipedal, feathered and with a sharp looking beak. It had a large, distinctive crest that stood proudly atop its small head, as though it were the prow of a ship, designed to cut through air rather than water. That was not its most distinctive feature though, what was really noteworthy was the tahitian blue colouring of its skin, visible on its head and neck which were devoid of the dark feathers. The pronounced colour sometimes blended into purples and reds, creating an impressive yet intimidating visage.

His mind took him first to an emu, which was promptly rejected as an explanation. Next, he recalled pictures he had seen in a muggle book of feathered therapods. Surely not?

He was running out of time. The creature took a step towards them and its eyes were fixed on Granger. Alarms were going off in his body, warning him that a threat was near. Granger was still frozen. There was no more time for thought.

He stepped in front of her, shielding her from any potential oncoming attack, raised his wand and firmly announced: "STUPEFY"

It immediately keeled over with a heavy thud, scaly legs pointed heavenwards for a brief, comical moment.

"Malfoy! What did you do?"

"I bloody well stunned it, didn't I?!"

"It's a cassowary! Just a mundane creature. It probably would have left us alone," she had rounded on him and was evidently exasperated by his heroics.

"I thought it was a dinosaur or something, Granger!" he defended himself.

"Oh, Merlin!"

They both inched towards the fallen Cassowary, which was out cold. Draco nudged it slightly with the toe of his boot. It did not respond.

"I can't believe you stunned a Cassowary, I'm pretty sure they're an endangered species."

"Look, I'm sure I feel very bad about stunning the dinosaur-bird but it was looking at you like you were about to be its lunch."

She looked at him then, with big doe-like eyes which widened with realization.

"Oh my God, Malfoy. You are such a Gryffindor!" she accused, jabbing a finger hard into his chest.

Normally, he’d have been obscenely offended. But she’d said it with an impressed inflection. Also, as she had jabbed a finger deep into his pectoral (ouch) he noticed that her hand lingered, softening slightly until it was just resting there for a moment.

It was time enough for his brain to short-circuit.

As Granger made sure the giant bird was okay and they retreated to cast a rennervate from safer distance, the words "You are such a Gryffindor" repeated in his head on a loop. Half condemnation and half benediction.

The bird bolted off into the forest.

It was so bizarre, so truly un-Malfoy of him to not just suffer such slander, but secretly indulge it.

He wanted to blame his hammering heart but that brought into question why it was beating quite so loudly in the first place.

So he stuffed it down the well. Pointedly ignoring how full the well was becoming.

Perhaps he had thought the Cassowary incident was a disaster, but that was nothing compared with what came next.

Still further into the Daintree they trekked. They walked for hours at that point, right into the centre of the forest. He began to understand why Fairweather had insisted on referring to it as the "Green Heart".

There was an insistent sound of frogs croaking in nearby streams and tree hollows. This was accompanied by the regular buzzing of clouds of mosquitoes, which drifted by their heads, buffeted successfully by a rather nifty repelling charm Granger applied liberally and kept up around both of them.

Everywhere he looked was thick with verdant, untamed life. The trees towered above them, forming a luscious canopy of leaves that was so dense that it only sent down beams of dappled light in patches as thick as his Great Uncle Elagabalus' hair (that is to say, in wisps).

Vines curled around trunks and branches like coiled serpents. Their heads slept on pillows of thick, green moss. Every now and then, an unseen bird would call to its mate, disturbing what was otherwise a steady, predictable soundtrack. It was easy to understand that this forest had been growing for millennia. It was older than Hogwarts, or than England itself.

But none of that was on his mind, obviously. Because Granger was once again in front of him, leading the way with the divining rods in hand, once again quite excited about what she was doing. So much so that she had seemingly failed to notice that one of the buttons on her shirt had come loose at some point. Draco caught an uninterrupted glance at her cleavage.

It derailed him completely, sending his brain down interesting thought pathways. He could think of nothing else for many minutes.

It took all of his mental strength to stuff that image down the well with all the others. They strained at their prison, rattling the lid so loudly and so threateningly that Draco knew he was in trouble.

With concern, he tried to reinforce the lid. The stray thoughts quietened for a while, but he doubted that would last for long.

It was all going so well (pun intended) until they found what they had been looking for.

The diving rods led them right to it, as she had assured him they would.

It had been a miserable four hours of hiking in the humid forest. He had tripped over an untold number of roots and probably resembled an earthworm more than a man. Granger kept up a stream of positivity and bright chatter. Explaining what she knew about their local surroundings. Pointing out interesting plants. Hypothesising about what Fairweather had seen and experienced during his journey into the same, ancient bush land.

He kept up his end of the bargain and made polite conversation. He hadn't even complained that much and yes, he had suppressed any unwanted and errant thoughts as successfully as one could expect.

It was all spoiled when Granger led them right up to a rocky cliff, threaded with intricate roots that gave the outcropping a sort of flossy beard. It was distinctive and familiar. Granger thought so too.

"Malfoy, this is it. I can feel it through the rods, but can't you see? It's exactly like the picture we saw in the journal!" Her eyes were wide, lit up with excitement.

He could see. It didn't make him feel excited though. Instead a cold dread crept up inside of him.

It was too late to do anything about it though because Granger unceremoniously plunged them into whatever lay in wait. She cast a neat little slicing hex to hack away at some of the roots and revealed a small cavern underneath the outcrop. It was wide but quite shallow and they had to stoop to go in.

In fact, they didn't have to go far before they saw it. At their feet, half buried under mud and detritus, was a familiar looking stone slab. In it there were deep etchings in a kind of pictographic language that he knew neither of them could read.

Granger dropped to her knees at once and muttered the same spell as last time, Revelare Vestigia.

The same beautiful diagnostic spell poured out of the tip of her wand like liquid sunlight. It fed data back to Granger in quick, flashing pulses.

She sighed deeply.

"Same result," she told him and then abruptly, she took her phone from her pocket and snapped a few quick photos.

"Are you going to try to translate it?" he asked her.

"Yes, I think so."

"But not right now?"

"I don't need to now that I've got a picture," she put the device back in her pocket and turned to him with a determined look on her face.

He noticed a smudge of dirt on her left cheek and without thinking, leaned forward and wiped it away with his thumb.

There was a beat, while his thumb was still making contact with her soft cheek, where they made eye contact and he saw hers widen. Panic surged through his body and he pulled his hand away, as if electrified.

"You had a smudge!" he hurriedly explained.

Her cheeks were suffused with a gorgeous rose blush. She stared at him as he took a step backwards and faced her, palms up, as if in supplication, or perhaps surrender.

Actually, if anything- her eyes just grew wider.

"Malfoy," she warned, her voice low and cautious.

"Sorry, look I wasn't thinking. It was just an instinct!"

"No. Malfoy!"

Oh, there was warning in that tone.

"Yes?"

"Don't move."

(That did not bode well.)

"Granger," he hissed from between his teeth, his body suddenly locked into a stony stillness, "Explain!"

"There's some kind of creature, just above you," she tilted her chin slightly, gesturing upwards.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he tilted his head upward and his eyes met the creatures.

Two small, beady black eyes stared down at him. They were framed by an absurd looking face, which was comically spherical with two large ears sprouting feral tufts of white and black fur. Its face was covered in soft looking gray and white fur, meeting at a point that was crowned with an adorable button nose.

'Awww' he almost said, but the look of abject terror on Granger's face was a clue that he was not in fact face-to-face with a teddy bear.

"It's a koala, isn't it?" he asked, because it definitely looked like a koala.

That was until it opened its jaws to reveal extremely long, extremely pointy teeth and a long, forked tongue. A globule of saliva dripped from the tip and fell directly onto his forehead.

At that moment, Draco's brain began a long, panicked and entirely internal scream. His chin snapped down and his gaze flicked to Granger.

“For god’s sake, Malfoy- keep still!” she admonished. She already had her wand in her hand and was slowly raising it towards the creature. She cast a rather nasty stinging hex at it, which bounced off harmlessly.

Less harmlessly, the creature descended on Draco.

It made the most ghoulish, distinctly unpleasant noises he had ever heard. It's sharp claws pierced deep into his shoulder as it landed on his back heavily.

He did feel some pain but there were such huge quantities of adrenaline coursing through him that he didn't waste a second of thought on it. Instead, he sprang into action, slamming a hand up into the creatures face as its sharp maw tried to find a juicy spot in the side of his tender neck.

He held it off for a moment. Thankfully, that was all Granger needed.

Taking a step closer and with some of the most impressive and precise aim he had ever witnessed, she blasted the fucking thing off him and into the rocky cliff-face.

(Admittedly, yes it had been a risky move. Five degrees of miscalculation may have resulted in Draco's head being blasted off his shoulder and into the cliff-face. But damn, it was hard to be upset about it when she was so attractively capable.)

"Get your wand out, you berk!" she yelled at him, running towards the creature instead of away from it.

"Fuck!" he ripped his wand from his holster and turned to cover her.

She hurled defensive spell after defensive spell at the creature, which was shaking itself off. Most of the spells bounced off its pelt harmlessly.

"It's a Drop Bear!" she was screaming, "Incredibly dangerous. They pray on humans, mostly witless tourists."

"Like us!"

His brain was hurtling through a myriad of possibilities. The thing looked like a normal Koala, save for the sharp appendages in its mouth and serpent-like tongue. What did that mean? Was this a normal beast or something different?

Granger kept the creature distracted but it didn't last long. It rushed towards her, moving in a familiar, sinuous way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

Oh, this was bad.

"Granger, I need a jar or something similar," he called, an idea of stupid proportions striking him like a bolt from the blue.

"What?" she asked, incredulous.

"A fucking jar! Quick!" yelled

He moved to stand in front of her, taking up a defensive stance and summoning a small container from his pack, which came zooming into his hand. With magic, he lifted the lid of the small, metal canister and then he dashed the contents all over the creature.

It shrieked with pain, confirming his suspicions. He had doused it with salt. The thing was a certified Demon.

With a pulse of gratitude he realized that Granger had listened to him and was rooting around in her bag with her wand. She summoned a small, glass receptacle into her hand and proffered it in his direction shouting "Malfoy, here!"

He grabbed it out of her hand and absently noticed that it was not actually a jar. In fact, it seemed to be a hollow globe mounted on a wood plinth, with some engravings on the front.

(Was that a picture of a house-elf?)

With a wince and a prayer, he reached back with his wand and dipped it into his own blood, helpfully oozing from him in unhealthy quantities.

Then, he used his wand to draw a quick containment rune on the globe which he paired with a decisive "Contine spiritum malignum!" The rune glowed gold first and then the globe filled with bright, white light before pulsing and erupting into blue fire. It did not burn him. He was its master.

"Get in the fucking globe!" he yelled, hurling it at the thing as it squealed and writhed on the dirt floor.

It made contact.

(Thank fucking Godric!)

He said the words he needed to say: Captura Spirituum.

For a brief moment, the creature erupted into blue flames. A second later, it seemed to wink out of existence. There was a blinding flash of light and then when he could see again, the globe was falling to the earth. Free from its wooden mount, it began rolling slowly in his direction until it stopped, just a metre in front of him.

(Had it worked? It seemed like maybe it had worked.)

He trudged forward and picked it up. It was warm and humming with energy in his palm.

“Why do you even carry this around with you?” He demanded to know immediately, staring down at the crystal object with its detailed inscription and a picture of a house elf wearing a three piece suit with a cheesy grin on its face.

“I have to put them somewhere,” she informed him crossly, “It wouldn't be in good taste have them strewn around the house. Where would we put anything else?”

Draco stared at her, probably a little bug eyed, “Just how many awards do you have?”  

She shrugged, “A few. We don't all have a manor with a trophy room.”

He stalked over to her bag and before she could stop him with a very firm ‘NO!’ he leveled his wand at the opening.

“Accio awards”.

He proceeded to duck and weave as, over a protracted amount of time, a deluge poured forth. There were metal and glass objects, papers, ceremonial swords and assortment of other odds and ends all tumbling forth from the bag and littering the ground around them.

“Oh, I forgot about that one,” Granger said and toed an Order of Merlin (third class) for her role resolving a very tense British hostage situation in the middle east when she had been in the DMLE.

“You are unbelievable” he told her.

“Me? Godric, Malfoy! You used blood magic. Gosh, I don't even know where to start. Are you trying to set a new record for irresponsible, experimental magic? That could have corrupted your soul, you know! You can’t just go trapping Demons like that!

“I certainly can,” he replied, “I’m a licensed Demonologist”

“The poor thing though,” she pivoted, “You really must set it free.”

“It tried to eat me!”

She shrugged.

“Granger, I’ve been dying to try this spell out and the Demon could be useful. I got the idea from your magical compound, actually. Same principles - demons are just manifestations of errant dark magic. Shall I show you? We already faced a fearsome dinosaur today. Look, I’ll show you”

With a mumbled incantation he summoned the demon from the crystal orb. It appeared before him growling and looking generally menacing.

“What should I call you? Longbottom the second. Or really, shouldn't it be third?” Draco mused aloud as his new pet Demon looked up at him, "Or maybe I should call you Bruce? I hear that is the done thing in Australia."

He was interrupted by a sharp laugh coming from Hermione. Both the Demon and its master turned to look at her.

“Draco, I think you just caught your first Pokemon,” she informed him.

“My what?” he asked before barking “return” at his Pokemon and tapping his wand against the crystal orb. It disappeared with a slight whoosh of air. 

Hermione broke out into peals of laughter 

“What?” He demanded to know but she was too busy crouched over and holding her side in a fit of giggles.

He placed his hands on his hips and glared at her for a moment, but watching her give in to her mirth, even if he didn't understand it…

Well, he was only a wizard after all. A smile brokered its way onto his face.

Her laughter was like delicate music, drifting in through an open window.

As far as Draco was concerned, one of the best things about being a wizard was apparition.

Somehow he had expected Granger to put up a fight when he suggested simply apparating back to Plimpy, since they had a good sense of the end destinations location.

To his shock, Granger had agreed quickly and they had both promptly disapparated and rematerialised within moments of each other, in a sheltered copse of trees just beside Plimpy. They trekked the short distance through the bush and came up on Plimpy, parked in a clearing, the only vehicle around.

Granger took a moment to lean up against the van and his eyes swept over her with concern. She looked a little pallid and her hair was escaping its former restraint in bedraggled clumps. He noticed she had dark shadows under her eyes.

Magical exertion, the signs were clear. She had evidently drawn on her stores distracting the Demon.

"Granger," he said in a gentle voice, approaching slowly, "Why don't we set up camp and stay here for a bit. I think we could both use a rest."

This jolted her out of a reverie and she looked at him, horrified.

"Oh, Malfoy! Of course. We absolutely need to look after you."

She placed her bag on the ground and opened it, swishing her wand in the air and out flew their marquee and camp equipment which set about expanding and unpacking itself until their familiar, neat little camp was before them.

"You take a seat," she said gesturing to one of the canvas chairs, "I'll go get some blood replenishing potion."

Well, he wasn't going to argue. Not least because he did think that he was one stiff breeze away from kneeling right over. He slumped into the chair with vigor.

Granger reappeared a moment later, still looking wan but her eyes were fixed on his shoulder and she had a very determined look on her face. He knew better than to argue about her taking care of herself first.

She popped the top of a small vial of potion and handed it to him with a firm, "drink up", which he did.

It tasted awful but that couldn't be helped. He swallowed, closed his eyes, sighed deeply and nestled back into the chair. When he opened his eyes again, Granger was barely a foot away and her face was on his level, nose-to-nose.

He startled and tried to jerk away, almost upending himself.

"Granger, what?"

"I'm checking to make sure the pink comes back into your cheeks."

"You're one to talk. You need a pepper-up, Granger. Before you do any more magic, if you please."

She waved him off lazily, still peering at him. It was most disconcerting for obvious reasons.

(Reasons that made his heart race.)

Thankfully she took a step back but she countered the relief he felt by immediately casting a diagnostic charm on him. She surveyed the results and frowned.

"Your heart rate is rather fast, Malfoy," she said, disapprovingly, "And I need to treat the shoulder quick-smart before any infection sets in."

"Fine. But take a Pepper-Up first!"

She huffed but did as he asked. Even Granger had limits apparently.

She sat down heavily beside him and fished another vial out of her pocket. Uncorking it she wrinkled her nose, shot him a glance as if to say 'well here goes nothing!' and then downed it.

He observed her with tired amusement as steam began to pour of her ears.

When it ceased, she reached a hand up and wrested an elastic out of her wild curls. He watched, enraptured as they tumbled down over her shoulders. She rotated stiff shoulders in their sockets and he ached to offer to massage them with his own, capable hands. She caught him watching and quirked an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just starting to look better. You looked bloody exhausted."

"You are too," she said, "You've got a bit more colour in your face. So can I heal you now?"

He acquiesced with a nod and she stood up and approached him front on. Which was interesting really because, due to his considerably height advantage, his eye-line was pretty much directly level with her chest.

And that damn button was still undone.

(The lid on the well gave its greatest shudder yet, like a trapdoor in a tornado).

"Okay, hold still Malfoy- this might sting a little."

And then she was both crowding him and touching him, with gentle hands.

(On what planet was it appropriate for her to stand directly in front of him? His wound was on the back of his shoulder, dammit!)

She was pressing his head to the side with a soft palm, exposing his neck, inspecting it for any damage. Satisfied there was none, she pressed the top of her vinewood wand gently at the tip of the wound and muttered a few spells. Basically, right into his ear.

He gave a great shiver.

Then she was gently probing at the wound with her fingers. Seemingly satisfied, she pulled back slightly and looked at him with a relieved smile.

"No lasting damage, I think. How does it feel?"

He cleared his throat, finding it difficult to find his voice, "Ermm, good."

"I'm so glad. I was so scared for you Malfoy. Thank Godric you weren't seriously hurt."

(And that was the moment the lid came flying off the well with fierce velocity and crashed directly into his sternum.)

He knew, there would be no putting the lid back on. Not ever.

Long after Granger had retired inside Plimpy, Draco remained his chair staring into space.

From the outside, he was sure he probably looked like a stoic 40 something-year-old man enjoying an evening outdoors.

Internally, the fabric of his world was being torn down and remade, coppery-gold threads stitching through the centre of him. They spelled HERMIONE GRANGER in big, looping script

How the fuck had this happened?

(How had he let this happen?)

Well he knew the answer to that, of course. Granger was a force that Merlin himself would have quaked before. He had tried. He had just never had a chance. There would be no keeping a lid on his attraction to her.

(Okay no, it wasn't just an attraction now- was it? It was a full-blown crush!)

Oh Salazar, how was he going to deal with this? What a nightmare.

Thankfully, at that very moment he heard a thud. It quite interrupted his spiraling.

Jumping up from his chair, he turned to see a very unimpressed bird looking back at him, perched on top of Plimpy. He had never quite seen anything like it. It wasn't particularly large and had big, round, yellow-rimmed eyes. Clearly an owl of some sort. It's small body was entirely gray and covered in fluffy feathers. It had distinctly Mephistophelean brows that were arched at Draco in disapproval.

"What do you want?" he wondered out loud.

It fluttered down to him and perched on the back of the chair he had just vacated, proffering a leg. A small scroll was attached.

He untied it and unrolled it, shooting the grumpy bird a suspicious glance.

"Is this for me?"

The bird hooted. It was very clear that he was being insulted.

"Granger!" he called.

He unrolled the scroll, confirming that Granger was indeed the intended recipient.

Plimpy's door rolled open and a head of wild, brown curls poked out.

"What is it?"

"Mail for you."

"But how? I thought Plimpy was unplottable."

Well, she had him there. How had the bird found them? Had his spell work been off?

He realized immediately and brought a hand up to smack himself in the forehead.

"It found me. I wasn't inside Plimpy, I was sitting out here. The spell doesn't extend beyond Plimpy."

Granger seemed to have a similar reaction.

"Hold on," she told him, "I just hopped out of the shower. I'll put some clothes on."

(Was this witch trying to kill him?)

She reappeared a few minutes later, wearing some matching shorts and t-shirt that were made from a soft looking, waffle knit. The small owlish creature was sticking around, evidently waiting for a response.

"Hand it over, if you please," she said, hand outstretched imperiously.

He handed it over.

To his consternation, she began to read. To herself.

"Out loud, if you please," he said imperiously.

She briefly looked up, arched a brow and then returned to her reading.

What was he supposed to do? He moved closer, crowding her quite deliberately and began to read over her shoulder.

Hermione,

So you've ditched Titus. Well done.

Possibly the least surprising development I've ever learned of. I didn't think you would cope well with surveillance for one moment. That said, Titus really was assigned to you for your own protection as much as he was to report back to me. Your decision to ditch him mid-flight was, quite frankly, idiotic.

"Malfoy, back off. Give me space!"

He supposed he was standing rather close. Close enough for his breath to tickle her ear.

"No, I'm reading," he whispered into that ear. He felt her shiver.

He did not back off. Retaliation for her earlier infringements.

Despite your best efforts, I know that you think you are spending your days traipsing through snake infested bush looking for a magical relic. What you are actually doing is walking around witlessly, stirring up geopolitical fault lines, basically wearing a neon vest screaming "Don't trust me! I keep secrets!"

Certain parties, both domestic and international, are lately very interested in your movements. You may not be aware, but your name is popping up in the papers again. Your magitech is under increasing scrutiny, Hermione. The wizarding world is beginning to wonder why you don't seem to be around to defend it.

I fear you are being dangerously naive, gallivanting around with an ex-death eater on some kind of illicit mission when you should be at home, defending your good name and proving to the ICW that maginullium is not a risk to magical-kind.

I will not be calling Titus off.

Surely you recall how dangerous bush fires can be, Hermione. Right now, you have a lit match in your hand and you are walking through a drought-stricken forest.

Tread very carefully.

Yours always,

Nellaria Plumb

Many years ago, during a particularly dark time after the war, Draco had frittered away many, aimless galleons investing in racing Abraxans . That is to say, Draco was a betting man. Or he had been. And he was betting the sum of his many vaults that Hermione Granger was about to have a meltdown.

"Oh, FUCK OFF NELL!"

Granger tossed the letter to the ground in a display of extreme disapproval. He thought she might even stomp on it but instead she fixed her hands on her hips and glared at it for a moment before turning to him, violence written in her eyes.

(Briefly, he considered casting a disillusionment charm and slinking off into the bush, just to avoid all the hullabaloo.)

He thought better of it though, unwilling to provoke the sudden, murdery energy toward himself instead.

"Can you believe her? What's with the vague threats and even vaguer hints about some kind of global plot that's out to get me?"

He looked at her. A flush was making its way up her neck, betraying her agitation. Her hair was wet from the shower. He didn't think he had seen her looking quite so domestic while quite so furious. Honestly, it was kind of adorable.

(Oh fuck off, Draco.)

"To be fair Granger, if any person on this planet could threaten global stability with an invention they thought up on a whim one day looking at some rocks, it would be you."

That softened her up a bit. Some of the tension dissipated from her posture.

"You know what you need?" he asked.

"What?"

"Tea."

Granger sighed and nodded.

Draco waited until Granger was asleep to do what he needed to do, for two reasons:

1. He was still figuring some things out and he didn't need her overhearing anything and jumping to conclusions. He would share with her when he was sure

2. It made more sense from a time-zone perspective.

He cast a look over her shoulder at her sleeping form in the top bunk. She had one arm crooked over her face, covering her eyes. But he could see a slight frown beneath it. He longed to smooth out the downward lines of her mouth with his fingers.

(Was that creepy? Maybe it was creepy.)

He stepped outside Plimpy, closing the sliding door as quietly as possible before him. Feet bare and trousers rolled up, he paced a few metres into the clearing and looked up at the stars for a moment. They looked so different.

He pulled out his phone and opened the contacts, scrolling down to P.

He had filched the number from her phone a few hours earlier. It had been easy really. The code to get in was her birthday.

(Amateur)

Of course, it had taken him several minutes to remember how to get to the address book and then several more to find the right one and extract the digits he knew he needed. But he had done it! Old dogs could learn new tricks.

He found Potter's number, pressed the little green button and held the phone to his ear.

It rang once. Twice.

"Hello, Potter? It's Draco Malfoy."

Chapter Text

Hermione tapped her left heel on Plimpy's footbed with agitation.

She was acutely aware of Malfoy as he unwrapped his fifth lolly and sucked it between his lips, a look of divine worship crossing his face. It was borderline explicit.

She tried to avert her eyes and focus on the passing clouds as they sailed through the air, but it was hard.

Could she ask him to stop? She worried that would draw attention to the fact that his sugar habit had drawn her attention.

She frowned.

"Want one?" Malfoy asked, proffering a colourful bag.

"No!"

He pulled his head back a few inches, looking at her with wide eyes.

Still, she could see the outline of a hard candy in the hollow of his cheek, and he made a lewd sucking noise.

"You're a loud eater," she admonished grumpily.

"I'm not even chewing."

Well, that was true. She frowned again.

"Look, are you sure you should be driving? You were pretty wiped out after the incident back there."

This was the third time Malfoy had tried to convince her that she was too weak to pilot. She felt her ire rising to stomp all over his good-intentions.

"Malfoy, if this is you having the gall to suggest that you're in better shape to pilot when a demon-koala literally punctured your shoulder, I swear to Merlin I will—"

"I meant we could land and sleep!" he interjected, palms raised.

She was about to make a rebuttal when, out of nowhere, the force of a battering ram reverberated through the side of Plimpy, almost knocking the van sideways in the air.

Hermione lurched in her seat belt, feeling it constrict her body tightly and knock the wind right out of her lungs.

Panic spread like fiendfyre through her chest. She glanced beside her—Malfoy reeled. He grasped at his head as if he had hit it against the window.

"What the hell was that?"

Malfoy looked at her with confusion, but they didn't have to wait long before they got an answer.

A furious looking face appeared at Malfoy's window.

"Land the vehicle, now!" Titus Smith demanded.

He had even taken the unnecessary step of flashing his Government badge, as though they didn't know exactly who he was and who he worked for.

"No," Malfoy replied tartly.

"If you don't land, I'll be forced to use magical force against you," Titus warned, his wand was up and pointed at them, Hermione noticed a slight tremor in his arm. She presumed it was caused by the force of his indignation.

"NOW! I'm warning you."

"Oh for the love of—" Malfoy didn't get to finish before Hermione hit the accelerator.

"I'm not sure this is wise," she conceded as they lurched away from the figure on the broom.

Malfoy craned his neck to look out the window.

"He's not bluffing."

"He's going to bloody kill us, then!" Hermione squawked.

But it was too late.

"Gravitonus!" he was still close enough that she heard the spell distinctly. It was bad.

Fuck, it was bad.

As if someone had put them in reverse, Plimpy started to be sucked backwards, fighting desperately against the forward motion she urged with her foot on the accelerator.

It was like an invisible, giant hand had Plimpy in its grasp and was slowly pulling it back down to the ground.

"What did he do?" a wild-eyed Malfoy asked.

"He's increased Plimpy's gravitational pull. We're slowly being pulled back down to the ground. It's a useful spell for any Auror. Harry uses it frequently to stop the baddies from getting away on broomsticks."

And in theory, the invisible hand should have continued to gently pull them toward the earth, but Plimpy was much bigger than a broomstick, so what actually happened was quite different.

There was a loud crack from within, as if something had shifted and broken off under the hood. Suddenly, Plimpy began to plummet downwards.

She caught sight of Titus' terrified face in Plimpy's side mirror.

"Fuck, Granger!"

She registered Malfoy trying to reach for her and simultaneously search for his wand. It was like time had slowed down. Everything around her was a blur of motion. Strangely, she found a bit of peace in it. For a split second, her brain fixated on a fluffy cloud. It looked a lot like a sheep.

Her body moved on autopilot, her hand reached for her wand and withdrew it from her pocket. She said the words on instinct:

"Arresto momentum!"

Her brain took her back there, to all those years ago. To the bowels of Gringotts and a moment of panic, so much like this one. She had different companions then.

As she mouthed the words, she took note of the sleek, blond hair—so different to the bright red and mess of black she subconsciously expected to see.

The fall began to slow but it did not stop. They were still falling and it was going to hurt unless she did something.

Quickly.

"Cushinem terra!"

The scrub below came hurtling toward them with horrific speed.Her spell ripped out over it and created a sudden blast of dust that danced in the wind in concentric whirls that fanned out and looked like crop circles from above.

Plimpy careened into a tree. The scraping noise sounded like it came from within her own mind.

It wasn't enough to stop their motion though, and they continued forward, lilting and then falling the last hundred feet until Plimpy landed a metre above the cushioned ground, bouncing slightly as if they were on an enormous trampoline.

As the wheels touched solid ground Hermione registered pressure on her hand and looked down. Malfoy's larger hand was wrapped around her wrist, the tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of his palm. She stared at it for a moment. Feeling as though she were looking at someone else's hand, clenched in his.

He had nice soft skin. It was clear he had never done a day of earnest work in his life. But his fingernails were very nice and square. She wondered, blithely, if she'd ever hear him play piano.

Plimpy groaned in a distressingly sentient way and her attention was snapped away.

With one last exhausted rattle, the engine gave out fully and they descended into silence.

"Fuck."

She turned back to him, "We fell out of the sky."

"I noticed," Malfoy complained, "and we were attacked by a civil servant."

Hermione was sure that there would be a form they could fill out to complain about that.

"He's a Government agent."

"He's a Government liability, Granger."

There was no arguing against that.

There was a resounding thump as the liability in question landed on Plimpy's bonnet.

A curl of smoke was wafting up from the tail of his broom and his clothes were distinctly crispy, as if he had been caught up somehow in the spell work. He rolled off Plimpy with unsurprising agility. He was singed, angry looking, and headed in her direction.

"You absolute morons!"

"Eurghh, this guy," Malfoy groaned. "Do you want me to deal with him?"

She quirked an eyebrow.

Deal with him, how?

"Normal people would just fucking listen and land, but you two are in a class of your own!"

Malfoy was rifling in the glove box. He seemed to find what he was looking for as he unclipped himself from his seat belt and then scooted over towards her.

"Wind the window down, would you Granger?"

She was confused but also a little too dazed to really question him. She did as he asked, and Malfoy grabbed her wand out of her hand and did something with it.

Titus had made it to her door and was still mid-rant.

"Nell is going to have all of our hides!" he was yelling.

"Titus," Malfoy tried to interrupt with zero impact. "TITUS!"

That shut him up for a moment, his attention snapped to Malfoy.

"Catch," Malfoy said, tossing what looked like a worn cricket ball through the open window.

In the solemn tradition of all Australians trained in the art of backyard cricket, Titus' hands came up and formed a V, ready and waiting to catch the object that had been hurled at him.

As soon as it made contact, the red ball glowed gold and then, Titus Smith winked out of existence.

"Howzat?" Malfoy turned to her and asked.

A bird chirped. A strong breeze rustled the leaves of the trees around them.

"Did you portkey Titus across the world again?"

Malfoy didn't answer immediately—he appeared to be too busy inspecting them both for any damage.

Satisfied, he looked at her with a disarming smile.

Some time later, they found themselves camped by the side of an unsealed road.

They had expended an incredible amount of energy levitating Plimpy hundreds of metres until they had found the old road. It didn't look like it was well used. But Hermione didn't have the energy to worry about it.

"I wish he would quit it with the air chases. It's irresponsible! We all might have died."

"It feels like we're caught in a fucking time loop or something," Malfoy agreed. "We're going to run out of Portkeys at some point if he keeps chasing us down like this."

Hermione surveyed Plimpy again from her position seated in one of the canvas chairs. The poor darling was exuding the energy of a dying beetle.

Malfoy had foregone the chair she had offered him and had instead arranged himself dramatically on a large, smooth boulder. One of his arms was flung over his face, doing a poor job of protecting him from the sun.

"How did he find us, Malfoy? I thought you made Plimpy unplottable."

"I did!" he insisted. "Either he got really lucky or they had some kind of tracking charm on us that circumnavigated my ritual."

"But how…" Hermione's mind whirred. She gave a loud gasp and began to scrabble in her backpack until she pulled a scrap of paper from it. Laying it on her lap, she cast her diagnostic charm. Liquid gold appeared at the tip of her wand, followed by a line of script.

"That rat!" she crowed. "Nell put a really strong tracking charm on her letter."

"That explains it then. He wouldn’t have been able to track us precisely inside Plimpy, but he would have been able to get close enough to perceive us."

"Well that is a significant problem," she sighed. "We need to be more careful."

Malfoy hummed in agreement and went back to luxuriating on his rock. She cast a surreptitious sun screening charm on him, concerned about the pink flush on his cheeks.

"Maybe we should try to apparate back to Cairns? We're too exhausted now, but maybe in the morning?"

But Hermione's ears had perked up. She could hear an engine, she was sure of it.

"Malfoy!"

Sure enough, a small, flat-bed truck was making its dusty way down the road towards them.

"Should we hide?" Malfoy asked in high panic.

"What on earth for? Did we commit a crime?"

Instead, she pulled herself up out of her chair and raised her arms to wave the vehicle down. It approached rapidly, slowing when it was in close enough range for her hear the country music pouring through the open window.

It squeaked to a stop beside her.

"Got yourself into some trouble, didja?" a young man with a lovely, shy smile asked.

He had loose black curls fashioned into a mullet and was wearing high-visibility work wear. The back of the Ute was scattered with tools and equipment, indicating that he was in some kind of trade.

"We broke down," she said, pointing back at sad looking Plimpy, "and we're not even sure where exactly we are."

"Well," the young man said, still smiling genially, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling in lovely waves, "I'm headed to Cloncurry. Reckon that's your best bet for a mechanic and a tow, if you want a lift?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful!"

Malfoy shot her a look that promised murder.

She waved him over.

"I'm Hermione," she said, "this is Draco," gesturing to Malfoy who had sidled up next to her.

He didn't even blink at their strange names, "I'm Danzal."

"Hello Danzal, do you mind if I grab some things from the van and then we can be on our way?"

Danzal nodded, so she set off to stuff some of their supplies into her day pack.

Malfoy followed her inside Plimpy, hissing at her the entire time.

"Not safe," he aggressively whispered, "no idea who he is."

"He doesn't look like an Ivan Milat type." She swept potions ingredients into her magically extended bag.

"Ivan who?"

"Besides, aren't we magical? He's a muggle. Seriously, you can't really be worried. I thought you summoned Demons for a living."

"For the last time, Demonology is not about summoning Demons! I'm disappointed that you continue to wilfully misrepresent a delicate branch of magic."

She stopped what she was doing, straightened and looked at him, "You do summon Demons. You trapped one in my award and you can summon it at will."

Malfoy's mouth fell open and he gaped at her.

"But that's different!"

Hermione snorted and continued stuffing loaves of bread into her bag.

"Malfoy, just get in the car and don't argue with me anymore—please. I don't much want to spend the night out here and I'm not willing to try to apparate blind to the next town. We either accept the lift or we have to apparate back to Cairns, and it's too far to do in one go, so we'll have to make hops. Plus, we only flew over the terrain, so we're likely to end up stranded in a billabong or something."

She could see on his face that she had made her point well.

"Fine," he picked up his own pack and grabbed a few things.

He followed her back out, where she tossed the canvas chairs inside Plimpy and then closed and locked the van behind them.

"Thanks for waiting!" she called to Danzal as they approached the small utility truck. He gave her another shy smile and then leaned over and opened the passenger side door for her.

She tossed her bag in the back of the Ute, checking her pocket to make sure her wand was safely stowed. Malfoy was staring in horror at the seating.

"There isn't enough room."

"It's fine Malfoy, I'll sit in the middle," and then she scooted in to demonstrate the point, planting herself right next to Danzal, who smelled strongly of aerosol deodorant and cigarettes.

Malfoy gave her a hard look. She returned his look, but harder.

He got in the car, awkwardly trying to buckle and balance his bag on his knees. There was very little room between them. A problem that was emphasised when he was buckled in and she let herself relax into his side and slightly away from the kind stranger on her right. She felt Malfoy go rigid.

"Excuse him," she told Danzal, "he has long held aspirations of joining a nunnery. Weird rules about personal space—you understand. It's so sad, maybe one day he'll achieve his dream."

"Ha ha, Granger."

The Flinders Highway stretched out in front of them, a black path through terrain that was depicted entirely in different shades of brown. Danzal had said very little, preferring instead to listen, and occasionally hum along, to the music pouring through the speaker.

Malfoy was whispering complaints in her ear, but what was new there?

Her entire side was firmly pressed into him. Which apparently he found unconscionable, as if she had any other choice.

"Just bloody relax," she hissed.

He was sitting so straight, she could see the strain and tension in the muscles of his thighs and arms.

"I'm so uncomfortable," he replied glumly, "I can't feel my arm."

She huffed and then grabbed his arm, which had been pinned between them, and swept it over her head until it was draped over her shoulder.

Malfoy's eyes widened and then, like a shadow, a pained look swept across his face.

Her blood trilled in her veins, making her hyper aware of every cell of her that was making contact with every cell of him.

"Sorry," she said, "but I figured this might be more comfortable."

He nodded and then said nothing else, pointing his aquiline nose in the direction of the window. She watched his chest rise and fall from her position wedged under his shoulder.

What was his problem, anyway? This was about spatial efficiency.

"See that tree?" Danzal asked, pointing to a rather nondescript tree by the side of the highway. "That means we're about an half an hour away from town."

Hermione wasn't sure what was so distinctive about the tree that made it a landmark, but she was relieved to know that this weird tension would soon be over.

She lifted her hand in a final goodbye as Danzal pulled away, leaving them standing by the side of the road. Malfoy and the mechanic Jim were still talking animatedly, although she wasn't sure how or why. Malfoy knew nothing about mechanics.

She did notice that his voice had dropped lower, and he was being careful to make sure he stood at full height.

She smothered a smile and tuned back into what was going on.

"Mate, I mean it—I don't have time to go tomorrow. It's going to have to be in two days."

"While I appreciate that you are clearly a very busy man, I'm very happy to make it worth your while if you can move us up the queue, so to speak."

Ahh, Malfoy was trying to grease palms. That checked out.

She looked up at the peeling side above the garage that read:

Jimbo's air conditioning and automotive - we'll keep you cool and moving!

It felt like she had stepped onto another planet.

Cloncurry was a true outback town. Bisected by the highway, there was a large pub on one corner, and a small nest of heritage-style buildings painted in the same shade of butter, as if the entire town had chipped in for one giant pot of paint.

Jimbo's was tucked in next to a small petrol station.

"Alright, tomorrow then," she heard Jim say, "but it's going to cost you."

Malfoy wore a triumphant look.

She glanced over at Jim who was wearing stained overalls, and had a large tomato sauce stain on his collar and some more in the whiskers that were sprouting from his chin. He also wore a triumphant look.

"So we'll need to stay somewhere tonight," she cut in, "any recommendations, Jim?"

Jim made a show of thinking, "Love, there's only a few options in town. I think you and your friend are going to be more comfortable at the 'Four Wheels' just down yonder," he pointed down the highway in the direction they had entered town, "but it might be tricky. There's a rodeo on, lots of tourists in town."

"Okay, thanks Jim. Shall we go, Malfoy?"

He nodded and they hiked their bags back onto their shoulders.

They trudged down the highway in the baking hot sun, nothing but their packs on their backs. As they passed the pub, a couple of drunk locals hollered an invitation for a beer at them from the balcony.

"No, thank you," Hermione replied politely at the same time that Malfoy shouted a firm "No!"

They came to The Four Wheels, which was a long building with elaborate, lattice awnings. It seemed over-stretched, like an old shirt that had seen too many washing days. Malfoy did not look impressed. She led him inside, uncaring.

10 minutes later, Hermione turned a key in the lock of the only hotel room that wasn't already occupied.

She avoided Malfoy's eye, bracing for the inevitable outrage.

"Listen, I get that most Purebloods fully embrace Victorian sensibilities, but it's not a big deal."

"It is not about being Pureblood," he ground out, "it is about respectable boundaries and having a small modicum of privacy."

She pushed the door open and cringed.

It was clean, serviceable even. But it was tiny.

Malfoy groaned.

There was of course, one queen sized bed. Other than a small desk and a mini bar there was room for little else, even their bags.

"Great."

Malfoy pushed in beside her.

"I am not sleeping on that floor."

"Nobody is asking you to," she shot back, dumping her bag on the ground and perching uncomfortably on the desk.

Malfoy went straight to the bed and lay down on his stomach, burying his head in a pillow.

"I'm so exhausted."

He looked it. She was too.

Still, what were they going to do stuck in that little room? It was only 5pm. Also, she was hungry.

"Do you suppose I could transfigure this desk into a little cot?" she asked.

He turned on his side and gazed over at her sceptically.

"Your transfiguration skills aren't the problem, there isn't exactly a lot of room in here."

She mentally measured the distance between the wall and the side of the bed. Could she?

"I'm hungry," Malfoy interrupted.

It was a welcome distraction.

"Why don't we try the pub? I could go for a nice pub meal."

"You mean that place where those men invited you in for a beer?"

"That's the one."

Malfoy's mouth puckered and then settled into a frown.

Over a beer and a lacklustre burger, Hermione and Malfoy were regaled by the locals.

"It's wild to me that you don't have rodeos in England," a young man was saying earnestly. He was gesticulating wildly and spilled a little bit of beer on his shirt.

"Why on earth would we?" Draco replied, "Sounds positively brutal. We leave that sort of thing to the Spanish."

For some reason, the group of young men at the table next to theirs found that hilarious.

"Mate, you have to come. I'm telling you! Finish your beer and let's go."

To Hermione, the group of young men looked vaguely homogeneous. They were all wearing denims and button down shirts, rolled to the elbows. As one, they had tanned forearms and slightly sunburned noses. Their hair was uniformly short and some variation of 'sandy'. As they stood from their table, ready to leave for the rodeo, they all placed a hat on their head. All of them wide-brimmed with one exception, a baseball cap that said 'Ringers Western' and had a little picture of a bull on it.

She was willing to put money on the fact that their names were Baz, Haz and Wazza. For some reason, Malfoy seemed to want to impress them.

He looked over at her, a questioning eyebrow raised.

She sighed internally. She was tired, but the last time she had left Malfoy alone he had been kidnapped by a nymph and accidentally joined a cult. A nice one, but still…

"Fine."

Not five minutes later, they were rounding a corner and entering the show grounds among a large crowd of boot-clad spectators.

The lights were bright, it was dusty, it was loud. It was a bit too much of everything for Hermione, and she privately felt that Malfoy was being a bit too much, too. He was engaging in some good-natured backslapping with his new friends. She even heard him refer to someone as 'mate.'

Possibly sensing her annoyance, Malfoy dropped back a little to walk beside her, his white teeth flashing in the evening light.

"Merlin's knickers," he said as they approached a bull pen, "the muggles have made beast taming into a spectator sport!"

A large bull stared lazily back at them, back-lit by a large spotlight over the pen. It looked to be neither furious nor bucking. It was very large though.

They were ushered past and led up into the stands by Malfoy's rowdy friends. She could admit they were growing on her, one of them returned from the bar and handed her a glass of white wine in a plastic cup with a shy smile.

"You wait until they really get going," one of Malfoy's friends said—maybe it was Wazza?

And it did get going. Hermione couldn't help but find herself gasping and maybe even letting out a holler or two with the crowd as she watched a series of young men and women performing daring acts of stupidity with a range of bovine and equine specimens.

Most alarming was the young man dressed as a clown, ducking and weaving between legs and horns. He very narrowly missed being kicked in the head by a bucking bull. Without thinking Hermione reached out and grasped Malfoy's arm tightly.

He looked over at her, just as she looked at him, realising what she had done. At first a panicked look crossed his face, and then he smiled at her. It was a boyish smile, a little bit teasing. She let go of him, but found herself echoing his smile.

"How do you think you would go in there?" she asked, nodding her head in the direction of the bull ring.

"Can't be harder than a game of quidditch, right?"

"What's that?" Baz or Haz inserted himself into their conversation, beer sloshing onto the grandstand below them.

"I was just asking Draco here how long he thought he would last in the ring."

Baz (or Haz) scoffed loudly, "Not even 30 seconds. I'd be willing to bet on it."

Malfoy lifted his chin, offended.

"One minute, minimum," he asserted.

"Well you know," Baz drawled, "we could see how this bet plays out on the mechanical bull."

Hermione started to laugh.

"The what?"

Baz, Haz and Wazza were looking at each other conspiratorially. Hermione couldn't help but join them.

"It's a machine that simulates a bucking bull, Malfoy," she explained.

"Where is it?"

"Back over, behind the bar. The line should be pretty small, since everyone is busy watching the show."

"Let's go!"

The small crowd cheered loudly as Malfoy stepped into the ring. He rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. She wasn't sure if it were deliberate or the heat made a convenient excuse for his vanity. Either way, the corded muscles of his arms were on show and she knew that would have been strategic.

Then she caught a glimpse of the mark on his left forearm and realised that to the muggles around them it would look like an edgy tattoo. That somehow made it easier to see this time.

The Bull operator gestured for Malfoy to seat himself. He gave the crowd a crooked bow and then looked directly at Hermione and winked. The drunk boys hollered loudly, egging him on as he swung his leg over with what felt like preternatural grace.

One of his hands gripped the leather saddle and he confidently raised the other in the air, rolling his shoulders back. He looked at ease, smug even.

Part of her hoped he came crashing back down to the ground at the first buck. It would be a much needed balm for his ego. But another part of her was settling in to enjoy the show.

The Bull lurched forward suddenly.

Malfoy rocked forward with it, his spine rolling like a wave. It wasn't lewd, not exactly. But Malfoy's fluid movements contradicted with the mechanical jerking of the Bull in interesting ways. She felt like she couldn't take her eyes off it even if she wanted to.

His jaw was clenched and eyes fixed forward in concentration. A small furrow was appearing on his forehead. She thought she had seen this look before, many years ago—on the quidditch field.

Their muggle companions were drunkenly catcalling. Hermione didn't know who said what, she was too busy tracking the way the veins on his forearms bulged as he gripped tighter, his hips thrusting forward on the saddle.

The operator announced that he was at thirty seconds.

Malfoy threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter. It was strangely animalistic, with his blond hair falling back from his forehead and his neck straining. He looked like he was enjoying himself far too much. If she were being honest, she probably was too.

But it couldn't be helped. She had never seen him look so alive.

Beautiful.

She lost herself in it. Every cell of her conceding admiration.

Then the buzzer rang, and the Bull began to slow down.

Malfoy whooped and launched himself off with a graceful flourish, landing soundly on the mat below.

He walked to the gate and then came directly up to her, a broad grin on his features.

"How did you do that?" she demanded to know.

"Broom thighs, Granger" he gestured down.

Hermione glanced down and then away quickly. Her cheeks flushed.

It was the heat and the wine.

Maybe it was also the man in front of her. Infuriating, but undeniably attractive to her in that moment.

The triplets came up behind him, slapping his back and congratulating him. Malfoy laughed and started giving them a blow-by-blow on his strategy and technique.

She realised that Malfoy had been interacting freely with muggles all day—had been seeking their favour as he would any other peer. There was something in that. It wasn't a performance. There was no manipulation in his interactions. He was curious and open.

Some small, missing puzzle piece between them slid back into place. Loosening a tightness she hadn't realised she had been carrying around with her.

A little later, they walked back to the hotel in near silence. Both a little drunk and having enjoyed an unexpected but lovely evening.

She knew Malfoy was still riding the wave of adrenaline after his bull ride. He kept smiling to himself.

Foregoing the key, she unlocked their hotel room with her wand. Her brain sluggish, but already formulating a plan.

Before Malfoy could complain or say anything at all, she brandished her wand, shrinking the Queen bed to more of a double and then she neatly transfigured the small desk chair into a cot beside the bed.

Next, she disappeared into the bathroom.

She came out a minute later, dressed in soft sleeping clothes and ready for bed.

"Good night Malfoy," she said as he watched her with curiosity from his position, seated on the corner of the bed.

"Good night Granger," he replied.

He disappeared into the bathroom. She switched off the light and crawled into the cot and then closed her eyes and exhaled.

Visions of Malfoy on a mechanical bull swam through her wine-addled mind.

No. She couldn't afford to be distracted.

They had to refocus on the quest, they had lost precious time. She needed a plan to deal with the ICW and with Nell. Also, had they committed a felony by sending Titus away again? There was no denying that it was them this time around.

There was so much to do. So much that needed to be planned out carefully.

With this welcome return to her natural state, Hermione drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Draco woke just as the sun was beginning to stream through the one, tiny window in their hotel room. He slowly rolled to his side and glanced down at Granger's sleeping form. A trickle of sunlight was kissing her cheek. He wanted to press his lips to that spot, just to see how soft her skin was.

He stayed for a moment, lost in that small golden triangle, then reluctantly he roused himself. Quiet as a mouse, he crept out of his bed, taking great care not to jostle anything. As he pulled on his socks, Granger turned over and murmured something.

He froze, cringing.

She rolled back over and resumed her sleep. Wordlessly, he opened the door with his magic and slipped out in his socks, taking his shoes and his day pack with him.

It was already warm, as he pushed open the glass door of the hotel and into the early morning.

He didn't really have a plan. He needed somewhere private, preferably with access to coffee. He looked up the road, then down. There was one main road that bisected everything, and he had learned over the past few days that all of the muggle services and commercial buildings clustered around it. There were no obvious clues as to which direction he should take.

With a mental shrug, he turned left.

15 minutes later, he had a takeaway coffee in hand purchased from something called a "Bowls Club". Attracted to the only patch of green he could find, he wandered into a park that was littered with old farming equipment. There were only one or two muggles, loitering at the fringes of the open space. One of them was woman walking her dog on a leash. The dog stopped to sniff at every tree and object. The other was on the opposite side, smoking a cigarette and minding his own business.

When Draco was a younger (maybe not even that much younger), he would have sneered at his surroundings and made fun of the inhabitants of this small, country town. Life had humbled him in a way that had been painful, but perhaps necessary.

He finished his coffee and tossed the empty cup in a nearby rubbish bin. In the very middle of the park was a large, rusted windmill. He headed for it and took up residence underneath, discreetly pulling out his wand and casting a few muggle-repelling charms and a silencio.

Then he checked his watch, a family heirloom he had worn since he was seventeen. It pointed emphatically at a little sign that said "You're late!" Swearing, he fished his Apple out of his bag and fumbled to unlock it. He had several missed calls. He scrolled for Potter's name as his phone began to buzz.

"Hello?" he put the phone up to his ear.

There was no answer. He looked down at the screen and realised he'd forgotten to press a button.

He cleared his throat.

"Potter," it came out as a cough.

"Malfoy, are you okay? Is Hermione with you?"

The sound of Potter's voice, slightly tinny and speaking to him from a world away, sent him backwards to a time of pointed wands, hurled accusations and terrible, lonely fear. He shook himself from it. Potter was a friend.

"I'm fine, and no she's not here. Did you speak with Bletchley?"

He heard a weary sigh come from Potter's end, "Even finding him was a pain. He got picked up for a traffic violation would you believe—one of my people caught the fucker speeding over Knitesbridge in broad daylight. It was a complete coincidence but very convenient."

"Sounds like he deserved it," Draco chuckled at the vision—slippery bastard could have been pulled up on much worse. "So, did you apply the thumbscrews and find out what we need to know?"

"Malfoy, we do not torture people for traffic violations."

"Did he know anything, or not?"

"He knew some things," Potter admitted. "Dropping your name worked, as you said it would. The Flints definitely have it in for Hermione. Apparently Bletchley was the one who got his hands on the muggle divorce filing and leaked it to Flint to publish in his rag. He also had some interesting things to say about why the ICW are breathing down her neck all of a sudden."

Draco stilled. The rusted turbines above him creaked slightly as they performed a half-rotation.

"Go on."

"Bletchley says that one of Flint's holding companies commissioned some research that looks pretty damning. It hasn't been released yet, but apparently it explores all the ways the maginullium can be used for containment—," Harry paused, "—and how it can be weaponised."

Draco swore softly.

"It's the timing that's interesting," Potter continued. "Bletchley says they tried to release it the same time the divorce story was leaked to the press. Remember how Millicent did that front-cover exposé in the Prophet? Flint was setting himself up for a total character assassination, but something went wrong and the research didn't go public. It did go to the ICW though and apparently it was enough to set off some alarm bells."

"Okay, but none of this also explains why Granger is so cagey about what happened during the election. Why did she go so hard on the pro-muggle reforms?"

"Oh, that's easy," Potter replied, "she just trusted the wrong person."

"What do you mean?"

"Susan Bones," Harry supplied. "She was Hermione's chief of staff and, by all accounts, a bloody good one. When the press found out that Ron and Hermione were getting a divorce and Hermione's party started to tank in the polls, Susan and some of Hermione's inner circle advised her to fully lean into pro-muggle angle. They designed the whole thing. I don't think Hermione necessarily thought the Granger Reforms were a bad idea, she was pretty excited about the whole magi-tech aspect of it. But she told me she definitely wouldn't have pursued them the way she did if she hadn't been advised that it would sway the election for her party."

"I don't get it. Granger is smarter than that—why would she go along with such bad advice?"

Harry was silent for a moment, "You don't know Hermione that well but, has she seemed a little bit different to you since—well, you know—since Ron?"

That hit Draco in the solar plexus. Of course, Granger was different than he remembered, and this was a very timely reminder that the woman was fresh out of a long-term marriage.

And Draco had been following her around, thinking about her romantically, mooning like a teenager. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Well, I guess she has been a bit emotional at times."

"Yes," Potter confirmed, "she wasn't really in her right mind when it all happened. And then, of course, Bones just upped and left when it all started to go to shit. Took a job as assistant to the Chief Warlock."

Draco vaguely recalled seeing Bones around on his last trip to level 10.

"Well this is a fucking mess," he announced.

"How is Hermione?"

"She's fine. Well, I think she's fine..."

(Was she fine?)

"I highly doubt that, Malfoy. I know Hermione, this ICW investigation will be on her mind. Have you spoken with Nellaria Plumb?"

"Several times, unfortunately," Draco replied dryly. "She's cooperating with the ICW as far as I can tell. She even assigned us a babysitter—it's unclear who he belongs to but he's definitely supposed to be reporting on our movements. Granger is under surveillance and she knows it, but she doesn't seem to be willing to articulate how serious this is all getting."

"Which is why you called me."

"Which is why I called you," Draco confirmed. "So what do you think the big move is for the Flints? Did they just want her out of office or are they going to sweep in and buy up the patents once the ICW investigation inevitably finds that her clever little invention isn't a threat to the wizarding world?"

Even as he articulated those words, a plan was already forming in Draco's mind.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Malfoy. But while we're talking, she was rather cagey about what the two of you are up to down in Australia. No one believes she's actually helping you to start up a potions exportation business. Not for a second."

Draco kicked absently at the base of the windmill and caught his toe.

"Fuck!"

He leaned over, phone still pressed to his ear and rubbed at his foot.

"What?"

"Sorry, kicked my toe. Look Potter, we're not up to anything nefarious if that's what you're thinking. I didn't even invite Granger along. She's the one who muscled in on this thing of mine. But it is private."

"You have no idea how many red flags are waving in my mind right now. It's like figuring out what you're plotting is built into my DNA."

Draco wasn't sure what DNA was, but he got the idea and scowled.

"Isn't there enough water under the bridge? Need I remind you that you were the one that nearly killed me? I promise you, I'll look after Granger. I have her best interests at heart. Why do you think I called you?"

"Okay, okay—let's not get into who did what when we were kids. Listen Malfoy, I'm going to keep looking into this, but as far as I can tell, nobody has actually done anything illegal yet. At least nothing we can prove. You need to be careful too, the last thing we need is for her to be caught up in headlines painting a story that she's having some kind of scandalous affair with an ex-Death Eater. No offence, mate."

Draco coughed, "Yeah, I get it."

"I'll keep digging, I promise."

"All I want to know is whether or not the buck stops with the Flints and if this was just a simple political assassination," Draco replied.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to help her."

He felt a pang of guilt, he'd probably had an opportunity to help her back then and hadn't taken it. A few owls calling her sanity into question probably didn't count as help.

Harry laughed out loud, "What parallel universe am I living in? Did that idiot Hobbins manage to blow up the space-time continuum after all?"

"I guess we'll never know."

"Alright Malfoy, I'll keep digging. In the meantime, look after Hermione—okay? Eventually she's going to have to come home and face up to the investigation. When she does, it would be ideal if she was less…"

"Weepy?"

"Exactly."

20 minutes later, Draco found himself walking the now familiar path through the hotel corridors. He was thinking about breakfast and how much he wanted it.

When he got to the door of their room, he looked around and then took out his wand and whispered an alohamora. The door swung open.

It was meticulous. The desk was transformed back from a cot, their towels were folded neatly, the bed was even made and back to its usual size.

Draco's heart-rate picked up. Granger was gone.

All that was left was a faint trace of her scent: juniperus and hippophae— commonly known as juniper and sea buckthorn. He knew because he'd been bored and read the ingredients on the back of her muggle lotion.

"Fuck, where did she go?"

He had a strong instinct that she hadn't just gone looking for coffee. If she had, she would have left a note or something. Sent a patronus?

(Could muggles see patronuses?)

His mind wheeled through a series of possible locations. None of them really made sense though, she wasn't the type to just up and leave.

His heart plummeted as it occurred to him that she may have been taken. Hadn't Potter basically just given him confirmation that there was a metaphorical X painted on her back?

He left the hotel at a jog and headed straight for the garage first, to make sure she hadn't just gone ahead to try to pick up Plimpy.

They had been stuck in Cloncurry for three days, waiting on the repairs. Jimbo was a swindler and had found about a dozen things wrong with Plimpy and was charging them a fortune for it. Draco could respect that about him.

He jogged east, footsteps thudding on the hot pavement and panic rising. The main street was now full of people greeting each other and going about their lives. They stared at Draco as he ran past.

He skidded to a halt outside of the petrol station and ran up to wrap his knuckles against the garage door. Jimbo poked his head out a moment later, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"Jim, have you seen Granger?"

"Your lady friend? She took your van and left about 15 minutes ago, said you had already left. Seemed real upset about it, too."

"What?!"

He didn't stick around to chat—instead he wheeled around and started jogging back towards the main road.

"You won't catch her. Better buy flowers before you even try!" Jimbo called out unhelpfully.

So she had left. Well, he wouldn't allow it.

Which direction had she gone?

Logically, he knew she would carry on with the plan. They had spent all of the previous day trying to decode the strange carved stones and complimenting a very stubborn journal into giving them more clues. They hadn't made any headway on the stone carvings, but all clues gleaned from the journal pointed North—to Kakadu.

He turned the corner and peeled out onto the main street, narrowly avoiding an older lady who cursed at him with an impressive breadth of vocabulary. Forgetting himself, he went to step out onto the road to look for Plimpy and immediately almost got flattened by a passing truck. His quick reflexes activated just in time and he launched himself backwards.

As he took a moment to collect himself, he heard a loud siren. A white sedan pulled up beside him.

"Well, that probably wasn't your brightest idea," a familiar voice greeted.

It was one of the boys from the rodeo. Baz? No, Wazza.

(Wazza was a muggle Auror?)

"Yeah, I'm a coppa," Wazza supplied, seemingly reading the direction of Draco's thoughts.

"Sorry. You caught me in a bad moment. Hermione's disappeared on me. I think there was a misunderstanding and she left town without me."

As he said the words aloud he realised there was a visceral panic building within him. Which was ridiculous because he was a wizard—he had a wand. What was the worst that could happen to him, even if he were alone?

(But why had she left him?)

Maybe it wasn't about being left behind. Maybe it was because it was her that had left him.

"What do you mean, she left?"

"I went out to get some coffee while she was still sleeping and when I got back, she'd taken the car and left town. She told Jimbo that I'd left town first. Obviously, it was a misunderstanding."

Wazza's rough, handsome face transformed from concern to something more like excitement.

"Mate, is this like a classic miscommunication from a movie? Do we need to chase down the love of your life right now?"

"I'm not sure I'd go quite that—"

"I've always wanted to go lights and sirens in the name of love," Wazza continued, already reaching over and opening the passenger door.

"Well… love might be a bit—"

"Get in Drake. Let's see if we can catch her!"

Draco and Wazza sped down the road, lights and sirens blaring.

"Surely this is against the law?" Draco asked, trying to cross-reference against Granger's many lectures on road rules.

"Love is the fulfilment of the law," Wazza quoted. Draco wasn't sure who he was quoting. He also wasn't going to correct him about the L word in the middle of a high-speed chase situation.

(And frankly, it was ridiculous that he had been involved in three high speed chases with law enforcement since coming to Australia. It didn't reflect well upon the countries law enforcement.)

"I saw the way she was looking at you the other night. Whatever bust up you two had—she'll be right. Me and my missus go through this all the time."

"There she is!" Draco announced, leaning out the passenger window. He had spotted the van on a flat stretch of road, a few hundred metres ahead in the distance.

Wazza pumped his fist in excitement, his blue eyes shining.

"Let's go get your girl!"

He accelerated. Draco gripped the dash.

He was almost opening the door before they had fully pulled up on the side of the road. Plimpy was just ahead, its hazard lights blinking.

He got out and stood by the side of the road, spiralling for a moment. Had he thought this through? What if she was really trying to get rid of him?

Wazza looked at him through the open passenger window, "Go on, Drake. Go tell her you love her."

Well he certainly wasn't going to do that but he did make a mental note to include the sandy-haired, sweet-hearted police officer on his Christmas list from now until eternity.

Really though, wasn't it a little irresponsible to take Draco at his word that it had all been a mix-up? What if he was a criminal? He was a criminal, technically!

(Another black mark against the local law-enforcement. Best not to dwell.)

"Okay, okay— I'm going."

As he approached Plimpy his nerves increased. There seemed to be a bushel of angry butterflies lodged somewhere in his middle. He went to the passenger door and pulled at the latch. It felt like years between the pull and the opening.

"Granger," he greeted, his tongue felt thick and alien in his mouth.

Shocked—that was the only way to interpret her expression. Her mouth hung open in a wide bow and her eyes were wide and glassy.

"I think you forgot something," he continued dryly. "Me."

"Malfoy!"

"Can I come in, or was that really an attempt to get rid of me?"

"Get in. Get in! I thought you abandoned me."

He leaned back and caught Wazza's eye, putting on a faux smile and giving a big thumbs up and a cheesy grin. Cottoning on quickly, Granger rolled down her window, leaned out and did the same.

Wazza made a heart sign with his hands and then promptly pulled back onto the highway, performed a screeching u-turn, and headed back in the direction of town.

Draco climbed in and closed the door. He settled himself into the worn upholstery, took his time securing and adjusting the belt and then turned to give her a piece of his mind. Only, he couldn't because when he turned to look at her, she looked like she had been shattered into a hundred pieces and poorly reassembled.

"Granger, what were you thinking?"

"That you had gotten sick of me and taken off," she admitted.

"But I hadn't! I wouldn't just up and leave you in the middle of the Outback. Why would you assume that?

She sniffed and her eyes began to water suspiciously again, "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I'm too much?"

"Too much?"

"Of everything! Too ambitious. Too bossy. Too outspoken. Too emotional. The list goes on, Malfoy. I'm too much."

"No you aren't."

"I am. It's why Ron and I didn’t work. It's why my kids don't want me. And why would you stick around? You didn't want me to come in the first place? I literally blackmailed my way into this."

Draco sat, paralysed as her fear and self-doubt washed over him. It was ugly. Not just because he hated to see it—it was an ugly reminder that Hermione Granger was still a wounded animal, limping into the forest, trying to shield herself from predators.

He didn't know if he wanted the fierce Gryffindor from before back, or if he wanted to see her fall apart properly—in safety. He could step in and be her shield.

But maybe it would be even worse, to stay by her side and harbor the growing attraction he felt for her, while she was clearly not even thinking about anything like that.

She was still staring at him, radiating self-loathing.

"You aren't too much," he told her, firmly. "Sure, you're the kind of woman who blackmails her way onto a dangerous quest. But some people might say that's the perfect amount."

That did earn him a begrudging chuckle.

He didn't know what else to say—how to fix it.

So he reached over and grasped the back of one of her hands, still tightly clenching the steering wheel, and pulled it towards him. He lightly held it in both of his.

It was a painfully vulnerable thing to do—he hated himself a little for it. They both stared at their entwined hands, unsure where to go from there.

Somehow the power dynamics seemed to have been equalised. (Surely they both felt the shift in the dynamic.)

He cleared his throat.

"Granger, you're not alone. Maybe before I was planning to ditch you at the first opportunity—"

"I knew it!"

"But somewhere along the way— you blackmailed your way into my good graces and… I'm not unhappy that you're here with me."

She blinked. A few more tears tracking their way down her cheeks.

"Are we friends, Malfoy?"

That caught him off guard.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Not exactly. Not in those words. I'd like to hear you say it, just so there's no confusion."

"Fine. Yes. We're friends. Happy?"

Instead of smiling she looked thoughtful, "I wonder what our 'troll in the bathroom' moment was."

It took him a moment, but then he understood the reference. The troll she had fought as a first-year with Potter and Weasley. It had been the turning point for their friendship.

"Was it when we fought a demonic koala together?" she wondered aloud, "or was it when I saved you from falling to your death in a cave?"

"It was when you forced your way into my life and made me buy a muggle telephone."

Granger smiled. He gave her hand back.

By the time they stopped in Mt. Isa for some breakfast (Draco insisted), he was already fed up with travelling by road.

"We need to get Plimpy in the air," he said, lingering over something Granger had called a "sausage roll" and dodging as a thick splodge of sauce dripped off the side and onto the graffitied park bench they were sitting on.

"Well, we know some of the charms definitely snapped when Plimpy took on damage. I'm sure we can fix them ourselves, but it wouldn't exactly be legal."

"I realise that you promised to follow the law when you filled out the paperwork for your visa Granger, but I thought you realised we would be bending the rules when you agreed to hunt down an ancient magical artefact."

She scoffed, "That's not what I'm worried about—we forfeit the warranty on Electa's charms if we meddle with them."

"So? I bet I'm better at charms than she is."

"Does your arrogance know no bounds? She's a renowned and fully qualified charm wright!"

"I bet your magic is better than hers too."

That shut her up.

"Alright, Merlin's Gift," she arched a brow, "I bet you can't get us up in the air within the hour."

"You bet?" he asked intrigued. "What do you bet?"

"1 Galleon?"

He scoffed, "No deal. How about this—if I can get Plimpy up in the air, you have to say ten things you like about me. Out loud."

He was mad at himself for giving in to the self-indulgent urge to hear her flatter him. Especially directly after he had promised himself he wouldn't push her too much on that front. But he ached for a return to their usual dynamic. Of course, he also knew what the consequence would be if he didn't win.

"Fine! And if I win you have to say ten things about me."

(Oh Granger…)

Sometimes, manipulation was so easy for Draco, it couldn't be resisted. But if this was a game of his making, he was quickly losing his grasp on the rules.

"Deal," he said, standing up and taking one last neat bite of his food. "So let's get started."

He hopped into the back of the van as she took the wheel again.

He heard her turning the key and felt the engine rumble to life as he pushed the small table to the side and took a seat on the floor just by the bunks. He would need to concentrate to figure this one out.

The first step was of course to cast a quick diagnostic. He and Granger had assessed the danger while Plimpy was still in Jimbo's garage—the damage wasn't complete, but it was pretty bad. He would need to start from scratch in a few areas.

He mimicked the diagnostic spell he had seen Granger cast a half-dozen times now. Golden light leaked from the tip of his wand and diagnostic runes started to appear in the air. He marvelled at its simple efficiency. So very Granger.

He reached over to his day pack, opened it and summoned some spare parchment and a self-inking quill from it. He was going to need a plan.

40 minutes in, he was beginning to sweat. He was still scribbling long lines of arithmancy down on paper—hadn't even gotten to casting yet.

Granger was taunting him through the open compartment divider.

"Mind your own business!" he snapped, scribbling out a line.

"20 minutes left, Malfoy!" she crowed, and then added, "Oh! We're in emu territory. I just saw a sign."

That barely registered—he was nearly close to completing the final chain before he could start mending the first charms sequences. Logically, he knew he needed to imbue the base layers with stability and weightlessness charms to get Plimpy off the ground. Then he would follow those sequences with the more complicated spell-work, the magic that needed to be nested inside the mechanics, which he only had a loose grasp on to begin with.

Eager to beat the clock, he lifted his wand and began flicking his wand and muttering incantations in a precise sequence of movements and sounds. It required his full concentration, so he blocked out the rumble of the engine and the sticky feeling of sweat dripping down his back.

As if in a trance he completed the first round of enchantments and then cast the diagnostic again. It looked okay, maybe not perfect, but good enough.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced down at his parchment. The next spell was a particularly tricky bit of magic. He closed his eyes to concentrate and felt the magic within him come to the surface, ready to bend to his will.

"Malfoy." He heard the warning, but it didn't really register for a moment. He was lifting his wand, the first words on the tip of his tongue.

"Malfoy!"

"What?" he snapped in irritation, "I'm trying to concentrate."

"We have a problem."

He groaned, they were in a moving vehicle. There could only be one explanation: "Titus Smith can piss off."

"No, not Titus. Look out the window."

He hauled himself up with a hand on the bunk, and leaned over to follow her instruction.

"What the fuck is that?"

There were dark shapes visible through the wilting shrubs and scrubby trees by the side of the road. Under the baking hot, Australian sun, shadows moved at speed—weaving and dodging through the bush.

"Emus!" Granger replied.

Some of them moved closer to the road and he could see them more clearly. Prehistoric, scaly feet pounded against compact, red dirt. They seemed to be looking at Plimpy and deliberately trying to keep pace with the vehicle.

"Well speed the fuck up, Granger! I don't need more dinosaur birds traumatising us. I'm trying to do some very difficult magic back here and—"

But he was interrupted by the sound of a loud crack and Granger slamming on the brakes.

He went flying, landing under the table.

"The fuck?!"

"They're hurling things at us!" Granger explained. "They smashed the windscreen. I need to fix it. I can't see anything!"

"How? Surely they don't have opposable thumbs, Granger!" he groaned, rubbing at his sore back.

He heard her mutter a reparo.

"Oh damn," she said, "we're surrounded."

"Salazar. Why is Australia like this?"

He poked his head through the compartment and stared out the windshield. Granger had pulled over and they were indeed surrounded. There must have been a hundred or more bi-pedal birds blocking the road, staring them down aggressively. They ranged from very tall to extremely tall.

"Did you say something to offend them?"

"I was driving, minding my own business! They must be able to sense our enchantments or something. Maybe they aren't emus at all? I don't know—their dark magical cousins or something?"

Suddenly, the emus began to converge in a flurry of feathers and motion. There were a series of loud bangs as rocks and other detritus hit Plimpy's roof. Some of them ran directly at the van, wings flapping.

Hermione flung open her window and stuck her wand out, "Protego maxima!"

That seemed to hold them off.

"That won't hold forever," Draco pointed out.

"So get us in the air!" Granger told him, teeth gritted. "I'll hold them off for as long as I can."

He nodded and ducked into the back compartment, taking up his place on the ground once more. Without overthinking it he lifted his wand and began the next sequence. He had about seven more sequences to go before he thought he could confidently get them in the air again.

He rattled off a string of incantations and then launched himself into the next one, not bothering to check whether it had succeeded with a diagnostic. There was no time.

"The shield isn't holding!" he heard Granger cry from the front seat. "I'm going to have to try some offensive magic."

"Be careful!" he barked back.

He started the next sequence. Just five more to go.

Halfway through he heard a tapping on the glass above him.

He did not stop his spell, but glanced up. Beady eyes stared back at him, blank but also (somehow) furious. He tried to ignore it and continued on with the incantation, never breaking stride or stumbling over the words. The stakes seemed to be rising. Besides, he might still make it within the hour mark. The emus had lit a fire under him.

With a gargantuan tap, the window shattered, and so did the ward that had supposedly been protecting it. With a horrific squawk, a small head and long neck came flying through the window. A sharp beak was trained on him.

He ducked and weaved, rolling back under the table and finished the incantation with a final flick.

Before he could get to it, half of Granger's body appeared through the open compartment window, wand raised. She aimed at his attacker and yelled "Depulso!" The emu was blasted back out the window. Without blinking she cast another reparo and disappeared back from whence she had come.

Draco blinked, and then quickly fortified the window with another unbreakable ward, not that it seemed to be effective. He got back to work.

The next couple of sequences were fraught with heart-pounding interruptions, but he kept his head and held it together. At one point Granger had actually screamed, but then quickly followed that up with a reassurance that she was fine.

Just as he was getting to the end of the second last sequence, he thought he heard what sounded like a small explosion just outside the van.

"I'm fine. It's fine!" Granger called.

It certainly did not sound fine.

But the most helpful thing he could do was finish casting his spells, so he knuckled down and did just that.

As he began the final sequence, he heard something large make impact with the side of the van and Plimpy rocked a bit. It disrupted the precision of his wand work and he had to start again. Thankfully, the last sequence was simply to help Plimpy to be more aerodynamic so that it would have enough torque to cut through the air. He completed it quickly and without even stopping to celebrate shouted at Granger to get them in the air.

"UP! NOW!"

He closed his eyes for a moment and privately hoped that his magic was good enough.

He heard Granger swearing and muttering and then he felt Plimpy give a great lurch sideways as it also lifted slightly off the ground. First it went one way, then the other, but definitely it lifted.

Grasping for the bunk, he held tight as he stood and peeked out the window.

Yes, they were lifting. It was jerky, and probably not safe— but they were rising.

Impatient, Granger must have floored it a little because they suddenly rose quickly, dropping back so that the blunt nose of the van was pointed up at about a 60 degree angle. Draco fell backwards into his bed, swearing loudly.

"Sorry!"

She managed to straighten them out a bit, and when he was game, he looked out the window.

It looked like a tornado had blown through the scene below them. Trees were uprooted, rocks and logs littered the broken road. A group of angry emus stared up at them triumphantly.

He gave them the finger.

Relieved, he poked his head through the compartment window to check on Granger.

She looked like a mad-woman. Her hair appeared to have been attacked by several birds— it probably had been. She also had a small gash on her forehead, slowly dripping blood down the side of her neck.

"I'm okay," she looked at him wild eyed. "Are you okay?"

He glanced down at the clock on Plimpy's dash.

"I'm more than okay," he said with glee, "I won the bet!"

With one minute to spare.

Chapter Text

"It's so easy, Granger," he told her from the passenger seat as they cut through the clouds, "all you have to do is open your mouth and say some nice things. Shall I give you some examples?"

"No thank you."

"For example, what I like about Draco is: he's very tall and very handsome. If I was feeling generous, I might even count that as two of ten. But another thing about Draco Malfoy— not particularly generous."

"Malfoy, I said I'd pay out on the bet. I never said when I'd do it," she grinned slyly.

He snorted, "Look at you, you think you're so slippery."

Plimpy gave another random sideways jolt, strong enough to steal their breath for a moment.

"I'll figure it out," he interjected quickly before she could comment again. "On another note, how much do you want to bet that the journal is sending us on another wild goose chase and there's nothing in Kakadu?"

"No more bets!"

He laughed.

"You know, if it were me, I wouldn't be hesitating, and I think that says something about your character, really I do Granger. Look, I'll give you a freebie: what I like about Granger is that she's a very proud individual. Some would say too proud…"

She gave him a sharp look.

"…but not me. Just the right amount of proud, I'd say! Love to see it."

She looked over at his smug face, preparing a cutting retort. It was a mistake though, because the laughter he was trying to repress was lighting up his eyes and he had a cheeky, boyish grin on his face. Her reply died on her lips.

"Less talking, more studying," she demanded, "we still don't know what the carvings mean and we can't waste any more time."

He groaned, but pulled one of the books from the dash onto his lap.

"We should try to arrange a call with the kids later," she suggested more softly, "Scorpius will be missing you."

"No doubt Hugo and Rose are missing you too."

Hermione smiled tightly.

"Maybe."

"Can we land soon? I need the facilities."

"You could try to squeeze through the window," she said gesturing behind them.

"Absolutely not. I'll dislocate a shoulder."

"Well, there's nothing for about a five hundred kilometers in any direction, so don't expect luxury. I'll find a landmark and set us down."

About five minutes later, she spotted a lake and pulled Plimpy into a relatively smooth descent. They had been flying for hours and it was late afternoon. Hermione consulted the map on her phone—it looked like they still had hours of flying ahead of them.

"Should we just make camp? I wouldn't mind taking some time to figure out if we can smooth out your charms and get rid of the random jolting and plummeting. I could do without the stress."

He acquiesced quickly, already bolting from the passenger side and heading for a tree rather than the loo in the back. Hermione averted her eyes.

While she unbuckled, her thoughts strayed to a letter in her bag. A warning from someone she had considered a friend and a mentor. The entire time they had been stuck in Cloncurry she had been replaying the possible scenarios in her mind, trying to figure out a way forward to deal with the looming mess of maginullium.

She got out of the drivers seat, pulled her day bag out with her and went around to set up camp. With a wave of her wand, she summoned their equipment and watched as it unpacked and set itself up. Then she took a seat in her canvas chair and began rooting around in her bag, with half a mind to read the letter again. There was the clinking of glass bottles and some loud thuds. Her hand closed over something small and smooth— unexpected. Curious, she withdrew it.

It was a small, silver compass. She peered at its face, its dial spinning in lazy circles.

"What did you say that thing was supposed to do again?" Malfoy asked, coming up behind her and taking a seat in his matching chair.

"It points you in the direction of your heart's desire."

He craned his neck and appraised the little compass.

"I told you it was junk back in Sydney, but you bought it anyway."

She frowned.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's that I still don't know my own heart." She closed her eyes and tried to think of the fountain, of Scorpius, of how good it would feel to help at least one person—a boy just at the beginning of his life. Then she thought of the greater application and all of the good they could do if Malfoy would just listen. And then, she thought of all the good she had been trying to do before everything had collapsed in on her.

Her eyes snapped open. "You should try," she said, thrusting the compass into his hand.

He glanced down faithlessly and then did a double take and leaned forward so that he could see more clearly. His jaw clenched.

"Did it stop spinning at all for you?" he asked.

"No!" she replied, looking over his shoulder at the compass face. It had settled on a direction and was pointing North-West— she thought it was roughly pointing in the direction of Kakadu.

"Land ho! Malfoy, looks like it might not be junk after all. Hold on, I want to go get a map. We can triangulate it and figure out if there are any other likely places the Fountain might be. I just need to grab my phone."

She got up and crossed around to the other side of Plimpy, grabbing her phone from where it had been charging in the console. When she rounded the corner again and caught sight of Malfoy he glanced up at her and then back down at the compass. When he looked up again, he had an odd, stricken expression on his face.

"What's wrong?"

That seemed to snap him out of it and he rearranged his face into a neutral expression.

"Sorry Granger, it started spinning in circles again. Turns out it is junk after all. Mind if I take a look at the charms to rule out that it's not just broken?"

Her shoulders slumped with disappointment, "Fine. I won't hold my breath though. I probably just got lucky with the feather."

"Probably."

She knew it was irrational to have pinned her hopes to something so small and silly, but she was growing more desperate by the day. It was all starting to feel a little too close to the dark times she spent in a tent, fighting with Harry and Ron, pouring over books looking for clues— any clue. The failure of the compass was yet another whisper in her ear: failure. It lodged in her chest with all the other whispers.

"Honestly, Malfoy. I'm feeling so dejected today. I can't muster the energy to do any study because I know I won't figure out what the carvings on the stones are. I don't want to try to get more clues out of the journal because it will just keep insulting me and throwing out vague allusions to the 'Wild North,' and I don't even want to do anything useful like brewing potions or researching landmarks."

"So don't, Granger. Why don't we have a cup of tea and enjoy the countryside for a little bit. All that other stuff can wait for a few hours. You're tired. Take a little break."

Her first instinct was to accuse him of being lazy, but he was looking at her so openly and honestly—he was genuine.

"I could actually murder a cuppa."

He got up and disappeared into Plimpy without a word.

She pulled her legs up until her knees were touching her chest and wrapped an arm around them, heels tucked under her. She missed her kids. She missed her life. Not the one she would return to but the one she had before.

Malfoy reappeared with a steaming cup of tea and a small bundle of items in his other hand. He handed her the tea and then crouched down in front of her, holding up a shimmering vial.

"Pain potion, for your head," his eyes traced the gash on her forehead. She had forgotten it was there. "You're still leaking a little, by the way."

She brought her fingers up to trace the small laceration on her forehead and felt the sticky residue of drying blood. Sure enough, when she pulled her fingers away to look at them they were stained red.

Bloody emus.

"Want me to clean that up for you?"

Her instinct was to reject his offer because she could do it herself, and also because it was Malfoy, but he was looking at her with genuine concern. It would be weird—he would need to be very close to her to clean her up. Then again, she would do the same for him.

Oh, for Merlin's sake. They were adults weren't they?

"Okay, thanks."

Methodically, he began to sort through his supplies, taking a small round tin of healing balm that she knew was a mixture of his own design—it smelled of essence of dittany. He had told her that it minimised the risk of scarring. He balanced it on his knee and then un-stoppered a small bottle of magical disinfectant and poured a few drops onto a clean piece of gauze.

"Okay if I touch your face?" he asked, grey piercing eyes meeting her own. His voice was low, and he seemed uncertain—or maybe she was imagining it.

"Sure."

He took his wand in his left hand, and with his right he lightly grasped her chin and turned her face slowly to the side. He murmured a spell, a basic cleansing charm, then he swapped the wand for the gauze and began to dab at her face. It was soft and cold, she shivered. She astutely kept her eyes forward, staring out at a grove of paperbark trees.

He grasped her chin more firmly and tilted her face up. From the corner of her eye she saw him appraising his job. When he was satisfied he let go.

"Don't move," he told her.

He unscrewed the lid of the balm and then reached forward. This time he cupped her entire cheek and chin in his large hand, holding her firmly in place as he used two fingers of his left hand to rub balm into the gash. It stung. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and held it until her lungs began to ache.

"Sorry."

She felt the magic begin to work on her forehead. Her skin tingled and began to knit back together. Her skin also tingled under his palm, a sensation that had nothing to do with magic.

And then, abruptly, he was done. He pulled back quickly, dropping her face and clearing his throat as he packed up and stood. They both found ways to keep their eyes occupied, looking anywhere but at each other.

"Thanks. And also for the tea," she lifted it to her lips and slurped, to drive home the point.

"You're welcome."

He took a seat beside her and they indulged in quiet, only interrupted with stilted conversation every now and then. Her cheek continued to tingle, she rubbed at it irritably.

At some point, Hermione pulled out some books and began to page through them lazily. Draco tinkered with the charms on Plimpy, and then after a while he sat back down and pulled a small book out his bag and began scribbling what looked like long sequences of arithmancy. When she asked him what he was doing, he told her that he was trying to figure out how the magic on the compass would work it it were real. Occasionally he pulled out his wand and the compass and cast a diagnostic, but she didn't pay close attention, absorbed as she was in The Cosmology of the Dreamtime. As the sun began to dip low, finally disappearing over a small grassy hill, Draco spoke.

"Tomorrow is New Years Eve."

That shocked her out of her contemplations on ancient gods.

"How is that possible? So that must mean we've been here for three weeks."

"Yes, and I first visited your home about a month ago."

A month ago she had cried into her tea and Draco Malfoy had been almost a stranger—so much had changed in such a short amount of time. Of course, she had really just left a mess behind back home.

"I miss Scorpius."

She turned to him, smiling softly. "I know what you mean. I hear a lot about Scorpius from Rose, but I'd love to hear you talk about him some more."

"Only if you tell me about your kids."

That was a fair exchange, although it was loaded with some unavoidable, uncomfortable feelings.

"Sure."

"The day Scorpius was born was the best day of my life," Malfoy began with relish, "even though I also knew that it would shorten Astoria's life. It made the pregnancy a strange, bitter time, so I wasn't fully prepared for all of the feelings that would come when I first held him in my arms."

"Love at first sight?"

He turned his eyes on her, it felt like a sword strike. "Love isn't sufficient to describe it. It was love and obsession and devotion and like the entire axis of my universe had shifted. I was orbiting Astoria, she was my world. But Scorpius became our sun."

"That's beautiful, Malfoy."

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for him. You understand, finding this Fountain is of paramount importance. If I cannot guarantee that he isn't doomed to the same fate as his mother I just—I would—I…."

"I understand," Hermione replied, "and we're going to find the Fountain, Malfoy. But I'm curious, even if we do find it, why are you so sure your elixir will work?"

He sighed softly, "I know it will because it worked on Astoria."

Hermione leaned forward on her chair to stare at him, mouth already opening before her brain could catch up, "Sorry. What?!"

He looked extremely weary, undeservedly so for a man that had a lot of life left ahead of him. "When I came to your house all those weeks ago, I wasn't completely truthful with you. I told you that I was too late for Astoria, and that's true. I was. But I implied that I hadn't created the elixir yet. The truth is, I did create the elixir in time and it did rid her of the curse entirely. I did it the week before she died using the sample Abraxas had stored in our vaults."

"Malfoy… what on earth?"

He looked at her, his face shattering as he recounted what was clearly one of his most painful memories. A deep regret. Hermione's heart thundered in her ears.

"I was so filled with hope when I realised it had worked. She was in a coma by then, being sustained by spells. I felt for sure that she'd wake up and we would have the rest of our lives together, but it was too late. The damage was already too much. All of her organs had deteriorated to a point beyond repair, even by the best Healers in the world."

She reached for him, on instinct. Her small hand curled around his arm and squeezed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She had come to know that behind Malfoy's biting humor and sometimes cold exterior, there was the vulnerable, beating heart of a man haunted by a large grief. It was easy to forget when he was calling her bossy or teasing her about her clothes.

"Nobody does. It's not like I could tell anyone. The Healers were perplexed. I had no choice but to confound them whenever they checked her vitals, they were asking too many questions I didn't have answers for. That's why I didn't tell you in the beginning."

"The Healers would have wanted the Elixir for the same reasons I did."

"The same reasons you still do, I think."

She said nothing. Unsure if it were a true statement or not.

"But there is nothing I won't do to make sure I never go through the same thing with Scorpius, Granger. You have to know—I won't hesitate if you compromise my goals because you want to save the world. If there is anything I have learned from being recruited by a maniacal dark lord as a teenager, it's that objects of such extreme power should not just be readily available to wizards."

"What about witches?"

"Not even you. Granger, is isn't your ethics I worry about, it's your faith in humanity. It's no different to maginullium—you would go in with the purest of intentions and you would make something really noble. And then other people, bad people, would figure out how to twist it for their own ends."

That was like a slap to the face for Hermione. She had never put the two concepts in the same basket. She was ashamed to admit that she hadn't thought critically about the risks when she started producing her magitech, so overcome with excitement about making something useful that could be a bridge between her two worlds. Malfoy was probably right though, mass producing an elixir would come with serious risks she hadn't fully interrogated.

It was a startling realisation that she still wasn't immune to her own idealism. A woman in her forties who had two children and had been the top elected official in her community, only to see it all come crashing down on top of her.

Then again, would she go back and never invent maginullium if she could? Wasn't life full of risks?

"But the potential lives it could save…"

"Or it could lead to another Dark Lord and many lives could be lost," he looked at her and folded his arms. "I'm not trying to be cruel. Don't you think I've thought about it? Granger, I invented something with extraordinary power to help people. Of course I would want to give it to the world. But I can't risk it."

"I understand. It's just—"

"Don't you think there's a reason the Fountain is so hard to find? And tell me Granger, do you think we're just going to be able to waltz up and grab a flagon when we do find it?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

He laughed, and it was cutting and bitter.

"I would be willing to bet my entire fortune that all of the obstacles we have faced since we came here won't compare to whatever is waiting for us at the Fountain."

Hermione's heart rate picked up. She hadn't considered that either. What was wrong with her?

Malfoy looked at her softly, "And of course, I don't expect you to be by my side when I face whatever it is."

She laughed in his face.

"I won't say no if you want to come," he continued, ignoring her reaction, "but I'm saying that you have a choice. You needn't feel pressure to swoop in and rescue me. I'm not Harry Potter, the fate of the world is not resting on my shoulders."

"No," she replied, although it was true that the point he was making brought up complicated feelings for her, "Scorpius' fate is resting on your shoulders, and I find that I don't want to let you carry that completely alone."

They had both slept poorly, listening to the other turning over restlessly in bed. They hadn't spoken, but when the sun began to rise they wordlessly agreed to start the day.

"Breakfast and then we should hit the skies. I'd like to try flying low and using the divining rods from the air when we get to Kakadu."

"Do you think the disillusionment is strong enough?

"If any muggles see us, they'll just think we're a UFO."

"A what?"

She sighed. "Never mind."

He made them a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled egg in the tiny kitchenette, which they consumed from their canvas chairs as they watched the sun rise. She made the coffee hot and strong.

"Why do the birds here all sound like they want to murder us?"

Her ears perked up. Kookaburras were at war—their idiosyncratic warble almost drowned out the squabbling of a large group of Corellas grazing the grass.

"You sure it's just the birds?" she asked him, thinking of almost every creature they had encountered recently.

He snorted softly, "Fair point."

"Do you want to pilot or use the divining rods?" she stood and brushed crumbs off her jeans.

Malfoy scrunched up his nose, she could see that he was still wary after the last time he had been in the drivers seat.

"We won't need to drive on any busy roads, if that's what you're worried about. We just need to get her up in the air and then we'll be landing again in Kakadu National Park, a few hours from now."

"Okay," he said holding his hand out, "keys please."

She smiled at the gesture. It was just so very muggle. She summoned the keys and then tossed them to him, which he caught with grace.

And then they were dissembling the camp and making their way to the cab,belting themselves in. Hermione retrieved the divining rods from her bag.

They were heavier than they ought to be, given their slim design. They must have been made from near solid gold and their weight was comforting in her palms. Malfoy switched the radio on and the familiar strains of an old Powderfinger song drifted over her as he used the paddock as a makeshift runway and neatly pulled Plimpy back up and into the skies.

She wound her window down, closing her eyes for a moment as the wind stroked through her hair and the sun kissed her nose. She poked the very same nose out the window and surveyed the ground passing beneath them. The trees grew smaller and smaller as they gained altitude.

"Maybe don't go any higher, Malfoy. I want to start practising with the rods."

Grasping the divining rods in her hands, she poked them out through the open window, and then she closed her eyes and she listened.

Several hours later, they were struggling not to murder each other as they criss-crossed the expanse of Kakadu National Park and its surrounds.

The rods had led them to an abandoned mine shaft, which they dared not explore. The magical readings weren't high enough to register as anything close to what they would have expected of the Fountain so they were happy enough to leave it.

Next it took them to a lovely creek and specifically to a highly magical snail that ignored them completely and did nothing more interesting than nibble at a bit of limp vegetation.

Malfoy finally cracked it when the rods directed them to a large boulder that seemed to want to tell them a secret, but couldn't muster volume past a benign whisper that even her amplification spells couldn't augment enough to be intelligible. Malfoy had been so cross he'd kicked the rock and been rather sorry for it.

It wasn't enough to distract Hermione though. She had quickly climbed up an escarpment and been confronted with a truly life changing view of their surrounds. Malfoy followed reluctantly.

She had seen beauty in so many different forms—the small, bow shaped mouths of her newborn babies, the sun glinting off Ron's hair, Harry's eyes whenever he looked at Ginny. She had been to ancient cathedrals, sun-drenched beaches and even remote deserts. Kakadu was an entirely different beauty.

It felt both ancient and like magic was woven into every pebble and bud. It was clear that the country they were on had kept record of so many stories, and theirs was just a small, new addition.

From above, it was a combination of flood plains, rocky ridges, and plateaus like the one they were standing on. From the ground, twisted eucalyptus and paperbacks bent towards each other and formed dappled pathways for cranky adventurers. And everything teemed with life. There were countless birds she didn't recognise and all manner of strange and beautiful flora and fauna.

"Nature never did betray the heart that loved her," she quoted.

"Not sure what you're going on about Granger," Malfoy replied, "but do you think you could cast that handy mosquito repelling charm of yours?"

"Here, hold these," she said handing Malfoy the rods and pulling out her wand to cast the spell. As she did it, she noticed a Malfoy's face twitch and he glanced down at the rods in his hands.

"Feel something?"

"Yeah. Just a faint tingling, but it's definitely trying to pull me somewhere."

"Well, why don't you listen to it?"

The rods led them down another rocky escarpment and to a floodplain that was covered in water lilies. Water fowl prowled and danced from pad to pad, while Hermione knew that as sure as the sky was up, predators lurked below.

"These things are probably leading us directly into a crocodile's den," Malfoy said, as if he could read her mind. Given his affinity for mind-magic sometimes she wasn't entirely sure that he couldn't.

"I don't think crocodiles make dens," she corrected benignly. He sighed a long suffering sigh.

But the rods did not lead them into the water or what looked like overt crocodilian territory. Instead, they tugged Malfoy towards a small copse of pandanus palms. More specifically, it led them to a small mound of compost at the foot of a large pandanus and to a ring of golden-capped mushrooms that grew in the loam. Their caps looked like tiny thatched roofs.

"What the fuck is this?" Malfoy asked, supremely annoyed. In disgust, he pushed the rods into her hands and then he crouched low to examine their find.

"About as fucking interesting as that fucking snail!" he observed, prodding at one with the tip of his finger.

Immediately it emitted a piercing scream and expelled a puff of golden spores into their face.

"Oh god, Malfoy! Why did you touch it?"

"I didn't know it would do that!'

"I think that's Siltbane. It's incredibly rare, but I read about it. It sends out spores when threatened. Neurotoxic spores! It's a literal magic mushroom."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning our decision making, our magic our reactivity—all likely to be inhibited."

"No magic?" he asked, aghast.

She pulled out her wand and tried to conjure some birds. Nothing happened. She frowned.

"Shouldn't last more than a couple of hours."

Malfoy swore.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then, quite suddenly, she saw Malfoy's expression change. It was like a veil had been drawn over his features. His eyes lost all their sharpness, his pupils dilated and his mouth slackened along with his posture.

"Granger, you're turning into a giant flower!"

Hermione felt a moment of intense panic. Malfoy had been hit hardest due to his proximity but she knew she was probably minutes, if not seconds away from a mighty psychedelic trip, and there was nothing she could do about it. She could only follow him and hope they would be okay, and not get eaten by a crocodile or a drop bear.

It was at that point Malfoy sprouted a spiraling horn, right in the centre of his forehead—just like a unicorn. She reached out a hand in wonder and stroked his shining mane.

It wasn't the crocodiles that got them in the end, it was a ferocious tropical storm. Fast-moving and uncompromising.

She couldn't be sure how long they had been languishing in the bush. It felt like minutes and days at once. One minute she had been on her belly inspecting a majestic looking beetle and making great strides to learn its language, the next she was being pelted with gigantic pellets of cold rain.

Thankfully it had a sobering effect. She found Malfoy nearby, giggling as he stared at his own hand.

"I think we need to try to find some shelter," she said to Malfoy, only it sounded like her voice was echoing and coming from far away.

"Granger!" Malfoy greeted, "Isn't my hand funny? Do you want to hold it?"

"Err, no thanks. I really think we need to get some shelter. The beetle told me that storms up here can be bad."

Malfoy nodded seriously, and then held out his hand and insisted that she hold it again. She grabbed it and used it to pull him to his feet just as the rain picked up momentum and there was a loud crack of thunder.

She pulled him behind her, stumbling and whirling in different directions, unsure where to go or what to do. She had a vague feeling of distaste, as if she should be disappointed in herself. for not having a plan.

Rain drummed against her scalp, soaking through her collar. Her teeth chattered. She hated this feeling, of being unprepared. She hated wishing that someone would come along and save them. Hermione Granger was not somebody who was accustomed to being saved.

Then she saw it. A large upturned log that would provide them with some measure of protection— from the lightning at the very least. She pulled Malfoy over to it and wedged them under it.

They crouched together, half huddled under the fallen log, shivering and being pelted with rain for quite some time. They were largely unsuccessful at preventing the rain, which ran over the log in rivulets that dripped onto their faces. Hermione felt her self sobering by the second.

There was a flash of light so bright that it blinded her. The resounding boom that followed shook the earth and reverberated in her eardrums.

"This isn't safe!" she yelled, eyeing how quickly the water nearby was rising.

"What?!"

"IT'S NOT SAFE."

But what could they do? Even if she could muster up some magic, apparating in these conditions was a recipe for disaster—even the tiniest lapse of concentration could lead to a splinching, and they had so recently been confounded by the spores, she really didn't want to risk it.

She was mad at herself for not having a plan. She realised now that of all the sticky situations they had gotten themselves into since they arrived in Australia, mostly it had been Malfoy's skill or quicker thinking that had ultimately gotten them out safely. Had she lost her edge?

"SHOULD WE MAKE A RUN FOR IT?" he was yelling into her ear.

Should they? That didn't seem wise either. The crash of thunder rolled through the valley around them. They could cast protective spells, but that wouldn't stop a tree from falling on top of them.

Oh— protective spells. She retrieved her wand.

Impervium Sphaera she traced a large circle around them, hoping desperately that it would work.

Suddenly, it felt like they were encased in a bubble that was large enough for them as they were, huddled together. Torrential rain beat down on the roof but it no longer made contact with them.

"Brilliant," he told her, moving back a bit so that he wasn't crowding her quite so much, "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I think you're quite high, Malfoy," she observed. One of his hands was lazily stroking the wet skin at her lower back, right where her shirt had lifted a little as she leaned forward onto her knees. She didn't know if he was aware, and she found it strangely calming so made no move to stop him. She did feel guilty though, because he was definitely high.

Malfoy laughed, "I am, aren't I? Are you?"

She shrugged, "I definitely was. Not so sure about now—my magic seems to be holding up."

"Do you think you're sober enough to apparate?"

There was another crack above them, although this time it was filtered through their magical membrane. She could feel the vibrations in the earth beneath them.

"I don't think it's wise."

They huddled together like that for some time, she cast a warming charm to stop their shivering, but Malfoy did not move away. She did not ask him to, entranced as she was by the slow circles he was making on her skin with the tip of his finger.

The rain did not let up, in fact it appeared to be getting darker. She wasn't sure if it was just the storm or if it was nightfall.

Through the misty, water-logged barrier between her magic and the rain outside, she thought she saw something glowing and blue. She watched curiously as it came closer.

"Malfoy, do you see that?" she gestured at it and he squinted and then nodded.

It came within a metre of where they were huddled under the log. She began to make out its features.

Two very long feet on squat, skinny limbs. She could see the outline of its bones through its translucent, bluish skin. It was hard to see much else in the deep, dark rain but she could make an educated guess.

Suddenly, the clouds seemed to part and the rain stopped entirely. Hermione gasped.

"What is it?"

"I think it's a Bogwilla."

Perhaps foolishly, she dropped her spell.

A small Bogwilla stood before them, hands raised to the sky, carving out a patch of inky clear twilight the grey clouds circled around menacingly.

This was it, she was witnessing Bogwilla weather manipulation! It was such a rare thing for humans to witness.

"Oh, hello. Thank you!" Hermione trilled nervously when the Bogwilla turned its attention on them.

"Of course," it intoned with displeasure, "it's always the bloody tourists."

They had been dropped off back at Plimpy by the grumbling Bogwilla who introduced herself as Mana. She did not make small talk, nor did she stick around once they had been escorted to Plimpy and she was reasonably sure that the worst of the storm had passed.

They said rather sheepish goodbyes and huddled inside Plimpy with cups of steaming tea. Hermione was still reluctant to use too much magic—her limbs felt heavy, but also a bit like giant marshmallows. Malfoy seemed similarly out of it, having lapsed into one of his rare, taciturn moods.

"Well this entire leg of the trip turned out to be pointless, we didn't even see one of those weird stones," Malfoy finally said.

"I suspect they are at every place of significance. I don't mind that we didn't find it, I'm sure it's probably just more of the same."

"It's that fucking book— sending us on a wild goose chase. Why the hell won't it just tell us where the Fountain is and call it a day? It feels like it's laughing at us."

Hermione opened her bag and summoned the journal out, looking at it speculatively.

"You know Malfoy, I'm beginning to think you might be right. Is it trolling us?"

"What? Like a cave-troll?"

"No," she replied frustrated, "It's a muggle thing. It's like bullying for enjoyment. Hugo taught me. It's mostly an online thing. I think the journal is doing it to us."

As one they turned and stared hard at the open journal.

"Are you?" Hermione asked it.

Ink started to swirl across the page.

You should see your faces. Hilarious!

"Oh, fuck you!" Malfoy said. "I'm going to fucking flush you down the toilet, you useless lump of pulp!"

Hermione tried to stop him, she really did. She flung herself at him and tried to tug at his arm, "It's a priceless historical artefact, Malfoy! You're not thinking straight because of the mushrooms."

He didn't seem to care. He ripped open the door to the small bathroom and lobbed the journal in with a satisfying splash.

Then he turned to look at her defiantly. Daring her to lose it.

"That was ill-advised."

She stomped in past him, which was a tactical error because there was an extreme amount of body contact as she passed, given the relative size of the doorway. What she saw in the toilet sent a jolt through her.

"Malfoy! Look!" she shrieked.

He pushed his way in behind her, looking over her shoulder.

The journal was sitting in the bowl, covers akimbo. A page was clearly visible and very wet, but the illustration that had appeared on it was clear.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and snapped a picture, then she swiped back to compare and showed Malfoy.

"Yes, it's the same," he confirmed. It was definitely a sketch of the same odd carvings they had been seeing on the rocks. "The same carvings we don't understand?"

"Yes," she confirmed with a sigh.

"Fuuuuck," Malfoy mouthed and then he turned and threw himself down on the bottom bunk. "I feel like we're going backward," he mumbled into his bedding.

"We aren't."

Without any direction from her brain, she found herself taking the three steps over to his bed and seating herself beside him, laying a palm on his shoulder.

He turned over to look at her.

"You're just tired. Maybe you need a little rest," she echoed his earlier words.

She went to get up, but he grabbed her hand and tugged her back down. He tugged her so hard in fact that she almost collapsed into his chest.

Unexpected, a strong arm snaked its way around her waist.

Her heart stuttered. An army of butterflies were let loose in her stomach. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. She put up so little resistance it felt as though some part of her had always been waiting for this moment.

She was still high—clearly.

She let herself rest against him, her cheeks burning. She didn't dare turn to look at him. Didn't dare to move at all. Her instincts screamed at her to pull away and laugh it off. But another part of her, deeper and softer, compelled her to stay exactly where she was. Warm. Held. Wanted.

She didn't know what it meant, that she gave in to that desire.

They were quiet for some time. She reached for something to say, but found her brain was full of cotton wool. Finally, she said a thing that she had been sitting on all day. She almost felt compelled to say it.

"What I like about Malfoy is that he tries very hard to protect the people he cares about."

"I do," he sounded half curious and half pleased. "That's one. Just nine more to go."

There was a beat of silence. She shifted slightly on the bed, bringing her legs up fully so that she was lying beside him—his arm still wrapped around her, his nose now buried in her hair.

"Draco," she said, her tone careful and light, "this isn't really normal behavior for two adults who only just agreed they were friends, is it?" Even as she said it, she nuzzled back a bit into his warm chest.

He sighed, "No. It's probably not. But we don't have to talk about it just yet if you don't want to."

He did not move away. Neither did she.

"Probably best not."

"Just… don't overthink it Granger."

Absolutely no promises were made.

Chapter Text

Before he even opened his eyes, he was acutely aware of her presence.

She filled all of his senses. Her hair. Her body heat. Her scent. She smelled of sweat, earth and magic—definitely not unpleasant.

She reminded him of the rosemary bushes they had growing in neat hedges by the greenhouse at the manor. As a boy, he would run his fingers over the small, shiny leaves, and then bring his palm to his nose and take gulping breaths of the sweet, woodsy scent.

That was Granger. He wanted to take big, gulping breaths of her.

As a boy, his parents fed him stories of how the blood of two compatible people would sing to each other. Of course, it was only ever pure-blooded soul mates that found each other that way in the stories.

Well. He held a woman he had first crossed paths with more than 30 years ago. Her blood wasn't pure, and yet his blood was singing—painfully loudly, actually.

Their legs were a jumble of angles and surfaces. Ankles and knees, pressed close, one to the other.

He wanted to pull her closer and wrap both of his arms around her and revel in the feel of a real, warm woman in his arms. Kiss the back of her neck and become acquainted with all the planes of all the softest places. Proclaim himself Hermione Granger's official cartographer.

Instead, he lay against her and didn't dare to move. He couldn't even open his eyes because he knew—oh, he knew—she was going to freak out.

He was preemptively pissed about it.

There was no stuffing this down the well. The lid had well and truly been blown to smithereens. He had failed utterly at repressing his attraction to her, and all it had taken was the slightest provocation (and the influence of some psychedelic mushrooms) for him to fold like parchment.

Whatever was between them was a tiny, delicate spark. If he pushed too hard, she would extinguish it in a panic.

He was so lonely and in his arms lay a pathway out of the great yawning pit. There was possibility that he wanted to claim. The desire burned within him. But there was also something much worse than being lonely, and that was losing the person you loved.

(Would he risk it?)

(More to the point—would she?)

She stirred and sighed softly. It sent a jolt of panic through his body, and she went unnaturally still under his arm in response. They were two islands separated by a sea of confusion, still connected by a bridge—and panicking.

His instincts fought with his brain. What would she do if he doubled down and held her closer? Really, what would she do?

(Reject him.)

Excruciatingly slowly, he retracted his arm and shuffled slightly back towards the wall and waited. She rolled onto her back, brown eyes wide and staring up at the slats of the bunk bed.

"Morning," her voice was higher than usual.

"Morning," his came out in a low rasp. He cleared his throat. "Morning," he tried again.

Neither of them said anything. She stared at the grainy wood above their heads. He stared at her.

"You got the worst of those mushrooms. I don't think either of us were ourselves last night. How are you feeling?"

Ahh. There it was.

"Yes," he replied, his tone careful and light, "they were very potent. I wish I'd collected some. They'd be an interesting ingredient for a number of mind-altering potions."

He saw the relief bleed into her face. It bloomed as his heart sank.

"Oh, well I don't think we should risk going back out there though."

She rolled out of the bed and didn't once make eye contact with him.

"Mmhmm. Not worth the risk."

He rolled onto his back as she began to rummage around in the kitchenette. Hands folded back behind his head, he stared up at the grainy wood she had found so fascinating and tried hard to reassemble the lid, piece by tiny piece.

The storm of feelings within raged on.

He heard them before he saw them and craned his neck to get an unobstructed view through the top of his window. Granger had settled beside him in the cab. She kept very much to her side of the cabin and avoided eye contact, so he pretended to be consumed by piloting.

"Red-Tailed Black cockatoos," she explained. "Beautiful birds. Some Aboriginal stories say they are messengers—bringers of change."

"What is a group of them called? Surely not a flock."

"A crackle, would you believe."

He would. Bloody Australia.

"Oh Malfoy, I'm getting a really strong reading. Land Plimpy, would you? This is the strongest feedback I've had so far."

With a skeptical sigh, he began a downward trajectory.

They landed in the middle of what Granger had called the Tanami desert. As far as deserts went, it checked all the boxes. No trees. No water. Lots of sand. It was a deep, oxidized red though—uniquely Australian.

Plimpy's wheels touched down with a gentle thud and he pulled up quickly with only a small wobble. He felt he was due an impressed look from Granger, but she assiduously avoided his gaze.

A thousand sighs seemed to be trapped in his throat just waiting to escape these days. His mother would have scolded him.

Granger let herself out, rods in hand. He followed her, crossing around the front of Plimpy, but stopped in his tracks when he reached her side. She was bent over, hair hiding half her frame like a curtain. She retrieved something from her pack and when she had it in hand she suddenly straightened and began to sling it around her shoulders.

"Granger?"

She didn't answer, instead focusing on pulling what looked like a leather strap tight around her waist. It was a leather strap—part of a wand holster that buckled at the waist over her linen button down, looping over both shoulders.

His mouth was suddenly as dry as the desert that surrounded them.

"For Godric's sake." She fumbled with the buckles, which were positioned at her side, but a little towards her back. She craned her neck to try to see.

"What's with the holster?"

"I want my hands free for the rods."

"What about pockets?" he had never seen her wear a holster before—they were usually reserved for aurors and try-hards.

She did not look like a try-hard or an auror.

"These trousers don't have pockets," she was losing her patience quickly, tugging at the leather, "and I haven't got time to do the washing. I occasionally wear a holster when it's called for."

She was wearing some very, very tight and shiny muggle pants under her oversized button down. He had missed them before, focused as he was on piloting.

"Would you—" he paused for a moment. "Would you like some help, Granger?"

"No!" She was lighting-fast. It would have offended him if he wasn't so relieved.

The problem was that she continued to struggle for another excruciating minute.

(Diabolical.)

With a grunt he strode forward until he was beside her and motioned to touch the leather around her waist. Granger's eyes flew up to meet his—panicked, pupils blown wide.

"Okay?"

For a moment she said nothing, but then she gave a small nod and her hands dropped to her sides. He released the breath caught just below his Adam's apple.

His eyes lowered to the holster. He tugged again and pulled her a little closer, enjoying the way the leather caged her body under his hands. He splayed one palm over her rib-cage to hold the holster in place and deftly attacked the straps with his dominant left hand. They were secured quickly and efficiently but, because he was a lecher and a terrible man, he tugged at them once more, as if to test that they were fastened properly.

He stepped back and looked up at her. She stared at his hands, flushed, mouth slightly open. Then her gaze surveyed him more fully, as if she were furiously trying to work out a puzzle.

Baffling really, considering the fact that he had painfully and painstakingly lain all his cards on the table the previous night.

(Had he not?)

He cleared his throat. She shook her head slightly, as if coming to from a reverie.

"Err, thanks Malfoy."

"Don't mention it."

"Right. Well—" she bent down and picked up the rods, gesturing to their surroundings. He tilted his head, gesturing for her to lead the way. Her lips twitched and she ducked her head, turning and raising the rods to get a reading.

She set off, following the pull of the rods which seemed to be strong.

"We probably shouldn't stray too far from Plimpy," he gently reminded, but Granger was already in her own world. She reminded him of a hound, ears flat and nose close to the ground, caught on a scent.

After about a minute of trampling through the sand and shrubby growth, Granger straightened and held out a hand, hastening him forward. He had fallen back, nursing a thin, bleeding scratch gifted by a particularly vicious grass tree.

He ambled up to her. She raised a finger to her lips, eyes sparkling and face lit up with excitement. A tiny, corkscrew curl was sticking to her forehead, above her right eyebrow. He imagined himself brushing it behind her ear.

She gestured to something on the ground. He squinted, leaning forward slightly. It looked like a lizard. A large one—about a foot in length. It looked completely mundane and immediately brought underwhelming, magical snails to mind.

She made to take a step towards the lizard, which appeared to be sunning itself on a rock without any concern for their presence. His hand snapped out and grabbed her elbow, stopping her.

"No, Granger, it's not the fountain. Let's leave it be."

"Malfoy, I've never felt a pull this strong. I'm telling you, that lizard is incredibly magical."

She shook her arm free from his grasp and followed the lizard, peering at it as if it held the answer. He followed. She crouched in the sand and he followed again, compelled and frowning at the thought of the dark red stains that would adorn his knees.

"It's just a lizard, Granger. It's not hiding a fucking fountain under its gills."

"Lizards don't have gills."

Some did, didn't they? Newts maybe? Wasn't there some kind of magical lizard-fish?

He bent to peer at it more closely, to double check the gill situation, and at that precise moment there was an unholy crack that splintered his concentration.

They had strayed too far from Plimpy's enchantments.

Titus fucking Smith was on their tail. Of course he was. They had been reckless and stupid. Again.

Draco leapt to his feet as Titus approached with his hands offered up in supplication.

"I just want to talk!" his broad Australian accent echoed slightly in the open space around them.

Granger looked over at him, a deep frown betrayed that she was annoyed and not scared. It was the license Draco needed to act, but his brain was struggling to form a plan.

"You're going to be sum—" he began to say to Granger, taking two long strides towards them, but as his foot was about to hit the ground on his second step, she whipped out her wand.

"Liquefactio," she hissed.

A boot-clad foot came down on the red sand and Titus was sucked into the earth— right up to his waist, with an awful, visceral sucking sound.

He gave a startled cry. "Why?!"

"Not personal Titus, but the last two times we crossed paths you were firing spells at us. You'll forgive me for taking precautions."

"I don't even have my wand on me! Have you got any idea how much trouble you're going to be in for using magic against a Government official?"

"Well, technically we've never used magic on you. You're the one who touched the Portkeys and I innocently cast a spell on some dirt which you haplessly stepped right into."

Titus scoffed. Draco privately agreed. It was a tenuous defence—Granger was grasping.

"Right. That's it!"

Titus had his wand in his hand and began to cast an impressive array of offensive curses that crashed uselessly against the wordless protego he had cast, forming an iron wall around himself and Granger.

Titus stopped, lowered his wand and settled a fierce glare on them.

"Listen, this is pointless. I just wanted to t—"

Granger waved her hand, dissolving the shield and, with a flick of her wand, cast a derisive langlock that had Titus gasping and drooling within moments.

"We don't particularly want to talk, Titus. I suspect you're going to tell us some things that will be difficult to ignore and right now we have a quest to finish." She turned to Draco. "Shall we Malfoy?" She motioned at Plimpy with a jerk of her head.

Draco was fairly certain whatever Titus had to say was important and invariably about Granger's brewing problems back home. Problems he doubted they should be ignoring.

He followed her to the van anyway.

He started the ignition and piloted them into the air. Neither of them looked back, aware that the spells would wear off when Granger was far enough away. Within the confines of Plimpy's magical perimeter, they were unplottable again and Titus wouldn't be able to find them.

"Well, that was annoying," Granger huffed, and pulled a book down from the dash.

"Quite."

He looked out the window, at the sparse cotton candy clouds that interrupted the solid blue. Glancing down, the red beneath them stretched onward.

"Are you okay?"

He grunted.

There was a loud, almost prehistoric sounding cry.

"Look," he said eager to change the subject, "a crackle of cockatoos."

"Odd," Granger leaned forward to peer over the dash, "black cockatoos are rare. Two in one day. Must be a lucky sign."

He hummed and switched on the radio. Granger pulled out the rods and wound down the window, angling them so that they pointed towards the ground.

"Pity about the goanna, I'd have liked to cast a diagnostic."

"Was it a goanna? All the same Granger, I doubt it had anything to do with the fountain. In fact, it's hard to imagine a magical water source anywhere around here. Nothing but sand, rocks, and sad little bushes."

She didn't argue.

"I'm still getting a strong signal. That lizard must have been something quite special."

They continued their journey south, flying over desert landscape that was beautiful, but too consistent to be memorable. There was only the occasional dimple, a small hill or a dried up water hole. They didn't speak, letting the sappy love songs playing on the radio lull them into a lazy silence.

All of a sudden the radio dropped out. There was a brief screeching sound. Draco sat up straight and leaned forward to fiddle with the knob. Suddenly an entirely different song started playing midway through.

"That was weird, wasn't it?" he turned to Granger.

She looked at him, mouth turned down. "Maybe we crossed over to a different broadcast?"

They were interrupted by a familiar, prehistoric cry. Granger's eyes widened.

"Three times?"

They peered over the dash as one. Another crackle of black cockatoos flew past, level with Plimpy. She glanced down at the rods in her hand. He could hear them humming again.

"Another signal?"

"Yes. Just as strong as the lizard."

"Should we check it out?"

"Why don't we take Plimpy quite low to the ground. We can park when we get close and try to stay within the confines of Plimpy's enchantments."

He agreed and piloted Plimpy into a gentle drop until they were quite close to the ground. It looked as unremarkable as any stretch of land they had passed over for miles and miles.

"Okay, okay. Let's bring her down over there on that patch of sand. I'm quite sure whatever it is, it's very close."

He followed her instructions and landed Plimpy with only a slight wobble. He glanced over at Granger, but she was already busy unbuckling and getting ready to exit.

"If it's another lizard or a snail, I think we toss the rods in the loo—just like the journal."

She huffed a laugh. "That worked out well for you exactly once. The next time you throw a priceless artefact in the toilet, you might find yourself compelled to fish it out with your mouth."

He frowned at the visual.

They climbed out of the van and Draco had a strange feeling of déjà vu. But when he crossed over the front of Plimpy to Granger's side, her leather harness was still firmly on and she was surveying the red earth and cerulean sky with keen eyes, rods already pointed firmly in a specific direction.

"Just over there," she gestured at a large, flat rock by some bushes.

They slowly walked over, Draco narrowly avoided tripping over some kind of burrow and into a tall, spiky grass tree. He glared at it and then down at the cut on his arm, red and angry.

They crept closer.

"Wait," Granger said, holding up a hand for him to pause.

She crouched and crept forward.

"It's the same lizard!"

The lizard looked up at her, flicked a forked tongue in her direction and then scurried off into the undergrowth.

"Impossible, Granger."

She turned to look at him, furious confusion painted in the curve of her brow and the purse of her lips.

"It was. I'm telling you—I got a really good look at it before and it had exactly the same markings on its neck. Malfoy, it was the same lizard."

He scoffed.

"We've flown kilometers. Unless that lizard can apparate, it's not the same one."

"I'm sure of it!" she rushed off in pursuit of the blasted thing.

"Granger, for fucks sake! No! We're not supposed to—"

She wasn't listening. He chased after her. There was a loud crack that splintered the desert stillness.

Titus.

Fucking.

Smith.

(What was happening?)

Granger turned to him, mouth open in shock.

Titus raised his hands in supplication and took a few steps in their direction.

"I just want to tal—"

"Incarcerous," Granger had him tied and bound without so much as a moment of indecision. He slumped heavily to the ground with a loud groan.

Draco blinked. Merlin, she didn't even flinch.

"Minister Granger, it's highly illegal to restrain a Government offi—"

She wordlessly conjured a gag for his mouth.

She turned to Draco, chest heaving with the magical exertion. "What the fuck is going on?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing!"

"Let's get out of here. I don't like it. That was eerie."

He nodded and held out his arm to her as she wove between rocks to his side. He placed a palm on the small of her back and ushered her quickly towards the van.

When they got to the cab she paused, "I'll drive. You take the passenger side."

He didn't want to argue—he too felt like it would be good to interrupt the routine of the last few hours.

"Okay," he climbed into the passenger side.

He checked the side mirror as Granger climbed in and started the ignition. Smith lay where they had left him, struggling against his bonds on the desert floor.

"Let's get as far away from here as possible," he suggested.

"Agreed."

They had been flying for about 10 minutes when they heard it.

A loud, prehistoric cry. This time coming from above them.

"No."

"Impossible!"

Apparently not. He craned his neck forward and rotated until he could glimpse the black shadows dancing and gliding above them.

"I'm almost positive it's the same cockatoos."

"Oh, but you were so sure it wasn't the same lizard," she rebutted, eyes flaring.

"I stand corrected."

"What is going on, Malfoy?"

"I think whatever the rods were picking up on is probably doing this," he reasoned. "We must be caught in some kind of time loop."

She nodded, "Yes. I'm thinking the same thing. If time is looping back in on itself it means we probably aren't getting as far away from the lizard as we thought we were."

And if time was rewinding, they would be stuck reliving the same stretch of time until they found and disabled the catalyst.

"So what, have we been traveling back in time to the beginning of the loop?"

"Sort of," she reasoned slowly, her hands gripping Plimpy's steering wheel tightly. "It can't be like a time turner where timelines can overlap and you can be in two places at once. I think it's more like… time folds back over itself and we keep existing in the same loop until it breaks. We retain full awareness of what happened before, but we can't go any further forward or backward until the loop breaks."

"Great."

"I think it starts with the cockatoos or just before."

"So we're at the beginning of the loop?"

"Yes."

"So what if we don't go looking for the lizard? We stay up here."

"We'll keep driving through the sky perpetually."

He groaned. "Okay. So we land. But not near the lizard?"

"And the loop will keep replaying, just on the ground."

"So you think the lizard is the key and we have to go stun it or something?"

She offered him an unexpected smile. It lit up her face like a candle igniting.

"You know, I fully expected you to say we should kill the poor thing."

That nearly had him rolling his eyes.

(He would kill it, if it meant they could get out of the infernal desert.)

"Whatever, Granger. What should we do?"

"Well, why don't we use this loop to come up with a plan. I don't think I've brought any useful books with me—I didn't even think of Chronomancy when I was packing. A huge oversight in retrospect."

He pulled a face at her that she either didn't catch or chose to ignore.

The prehistoric cry of the cockatoos was their cue.

They looked at each other and Granger gave him a serious little nod. Then she began to pull Plimpy into a descent.

He used the rods to guide her as close to the lizard as possible until they pulled up close to a sinister grass tree he recognised.

They began to unbuckle.

"So you deal with Titus if he manages to show up despite our best efforts," she recited, "I abscond with the lizard."

"Yes, Granger. We've got this. Let's go."

It didn't take them long to locate the large reptile, still sunning itself on its rock. Granger transfigured some sticks into a sturdy looking cage and then set about levitating the lizard into the open cage. It barely protested. Deftly, they smuggled it into the back of Plimpy where it started at them balefully. Draco stared back.

"I'm going to cast the diagnostic." Granger placed the cage on the small table and whipped out her wand. Before long, golden light was leaking from the tip and strange glyphs were appearing in the air.

Granger hummed in thought, resting a palm on her cheek.

He watched her as she watched the spell. Her deep brown eyes scanned the diagnostic indicators, making meaning from a language that was inaccessible to him. He liked the little creases at the corners of her eyes and the tiny dimple above her left eyebrow. He counted nine freckles on her nose— some new ones had undoubtedly appeared under the influence of the Australian sun.

"But this is bizarre!"

"What is?"

"This," she gestured at the diagnostic, "This lizard is not magical."

They both looked at the lizard.

"It's just a lizard?"

"Yes. We must've had it wrong. It's not what the rods were pointing us toward."

Draco swore.

A small, pink and forked tongue poked out in their direction through the mesh of a small cage.

Poetic.

The prehistoric cry of the cockatoos was becoming tiresome.

"Okay," she schemed, "So this time, we go and have a poke around. We let Titus catch up with us, in case that's important. You dispatch him—"

"With pleasure."

"And hopefully I can find whatever is causing the temporal loop with the help of the rods."

"Got it Granger. I had it the first time you said it."

She arched a brow at him.

He was driving again. They had decided to revert back to keep as much consistent with the first loop as possible.

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Me?"

Plimpy was getting closer to the ground as Granger directed him towards the magical signature with the rods.

This time around he had a better sense of the landscape and could recognise the landmarks: here was a red rock, there another—oh and look! A third red rock. Dispersed between the rocks was the occasional garble of spinifex or a lone grass tree.

"We were definitely here," he landed Plimpy with only a slight wobble and glanced at Granger. She was fiddling absently with her wand holster and not looking at him in any way.

"Let's go." She climbed out of the van.

He completed the familiar dance and made his way around Plimpy and to her side.

She looked like a small warrior in her holster, legs splayed apart slightly and hands on her hips. He traced her shape from behind and mentally transposed an image of her younger self in the great hall, giving the Weasley twins a tongue lashing while she stood in the same, familiar pose.

(Clearly she was in one of her most Grangeresque moods.)

Well, perhaps she would find the cause of the time loop and lecture it into submission.

This time, she simply shooed the giant lizard away. It took its time hopping off the rock and gave her a look that clearly communicated it was neither impressed nor intimidated, but had decided to humour her anyway.

A loud crack would have split the silence, but he had been expecting it.

Titus Smith approached, hands up in supplication.

"I just want to—"

Draco took the crystal globe from where it rested in his pocket. With a strong arm he lobbed it directly at Titus and muttered the incantation to release the beast.

Bruce the Dropbear emerged a couple of metres away from Titus.

Draco whistled sharply. Bruce turned to gaze at him, one ear cocked. Titus had stopped moving and was staring at the fearsome creature with significantly less trepidation than was due.

"Attack."

With a chilling snarl Bruce launched into action.

"What the fuck—you psycho!"

Draco laughed as Titus, realising what he was up against, turned on his heels and began to flee. He disappeared with a twirl and a mighty crack as Bruce lunged for his calf.

"Malfoy!" Granger scolded.

"Bruce needed the exercise," he replied, a little chagrined.

"We don't actually want that poor young man to be hurt."

Draco casually summoned an agitated Bruce back into his vessel with a flash of light.

"I know. It was fine. I wouldn't have let it go too far."

She frowned, but went back to her work poking around in the bushes. He walked over to her, watching on amused as she ended up on her hands and knees crawling around in the dirt.

It occurred to him that a younger Draco would have had a thousand things to say about the imagery of a muggleborn crawling before him. He frowned, slowly crouched down, and started to follow her lead, pushing back bushes and scrambling around in the undergrowth—unsure of what exactly he was looking for and acutely aware of the unsightly state of his trousers.

"Oh my God!"

She was crouched over a rock. In fact he was pretty sure it was the rock the lizard had been sunning itself on earlier.

Her palms swept across the surface, dislodging dirt and debris and presumably unearthing something beneath. She looked up at him, her brown eyes shining. Like magic, he was compelled to her side.

She lifted her hands, now stained a deep red, to reveal a series of familiar grooves carved into the slab of rock.

"Merlin's saggy socks."

"I know, right?"

He stared at the slab. There were curved, swooping lines embracing two smaller circles. A deeper groove below looked a bit like a river. It was oddly beautiful and perplexing in the same way abstract art could be.

"Any fresh ideas?"

"None," she sighed deeply, "and, assuming this is the catalyst for the temporal loop, I also have no idea how to break it."

Overhead, there was a prehistoric cry. A goanna poked its head out from between two bushes seeking its favourite rock. It saw two large predators, sitting side-by-side on the rock in question, then turned tail and disappeared.

"Here we go again," Granger said, "Titus will be here soon."

They had been wracking their brains and trying every spell under the sun for ten minutes. Nothing had worked.

She lifted her wand. He put a hand on top of it, feeling a faint buzz on his fingers as they made contact with the intricate vinewood. He exerted some pressure and gently guided her wand down.

"I've got it."

"No demons, please."

"No demons."

They waited, side-by-side under the wide, blue sky.

"What if we're stuck here forever?" He didn't know why he voiced the thought that had been nagging at him. It certainly didn't help the situation.

"We can figure this out," she replied, determinedly.

There was a loud crack. Titus Smith emerged from the ether. The Australian sun beat down in him, casting a long shadow across hot earth.

"I just want to talk!" Titus announced, hands raised in supplication.

"Sorry," Draco replied, raising his wand and transfiguring him into a large lizard. Granger let out a sharp, startled laugh.

"Inspired."

"Are you sure you don't want to hear what he has to say? It's probably important."

She set her chin at a defiant angle, "Not yet. I'm not interested in dealing with any of…" she waved her hand in the air "…that."

"Okay." He did not think it was the right call, but it was not really his call to make.

Titus had run right up to them and was glaring with reptilian eyes.

"It won't be forever, obviously," Draco reassured, "but you really do insist on interrupting us at the worst times. We're actually stuck in a time loop right now and it's our most pressing issue to deal with—you understand."

Titus blinked. There was a rustle somewhere nearby in the undergrowth.

"Oh," Granger said, concern flooding her features, "I hope the other lizards don't try to pick on him."

He didn't even bother answering. Instead, he made a show of resuming his inspection of the carved rock.

They were growing desperate.

Three more loops had come and gone. Twice they had not strayed beyond the perimeters of Plimpy's wards, once Draco had turned the desert floor into a giant slip-n-slide, bound Titus with an incarcerous, and sent him on his merry way. Perhaps he was still sliding.

It really was concerning how easy it was to get rid of him.

The frustration of watching the same scenes play out over and over again were wearing on them though and they were both beginning to crack.

Granger was pacing backward and forward, running her hands through her hair which was growing in volume by the minute. She had shot down his last several ideas.

“Okay then, please enlighten me Granger, how do you propose we outwit and overpower time?”

"There must be a catalyst!" she snapped back, "people do not just get stuck in temporal loops."

"This land has literally been trying to kill us since we found that first stone. Haven't you noticed?"

She paused, her gaze snapping up to meet his. She had her thinking face on again. They were standing by Plimpy, having long given up on trying to make sense of the stone slab, or to find any other possible catalyst for the loop.

"Say that again," she demanded.

"This land is trying to kill us?"

She gave a little gasp, more a forceful exhale.

"You said this land. Not this country."

"So?"

"So? So, it's significant wording! Deb warned us, don't you remember? She said we were messing with magic that we didn't understand and that didn't really want us. She told us to be careful."

"And you think we've pissed the land off?"

She thought for a moment, "No. If we had done that I think we might be dead by now. I do think it might be trying to deter us."

She began to stare at him, hard. Her gaze was a leaden feather—a weighty tickle that traced its way all over his body.

"You're quite dusty, Malfoy."

"Occupational hazard of travelling through the desert on a quest for a mythical fountain, as it turns out. You're quite dusty too."

She glanced down at herself and then back at him, specifically at the red smudges on his knees.

"Salazar cock-sucking Slytherin."

He reeled back and peered at her with impressed alarm.

"It's Chrono Dust. That's what's setting off the rods. It's so exceedingly rare, I almost can't believe it. But it must be! And oh, Malfoy! We're probably covered in it."

"What? Like the sand they put in the time turners?"

"Yes. Exactly. It's naturally occurring. Nobody knows how or why and I think we're covered in it," she gestured to his soiled trousers.

A rising sense of hope began to bubble up within him, like champagne fizzing on his tongue. It did make sense. (Complete sense.)

"So what do we do?"

She beamed at him, "I think we have to wash it off."

And then she did the unthinkable and began to unbuckle her wand holster, which was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. She followed it up by slowly beginning to unbutton her shirt.

"Granger!" his voice came out strangled.

"Oh, hurry up would you? We're going to need to help each other anyway to make sure we get it all off. Don't be such a prude."

He responded to her directive, not because she was the boss (she was), but because it gave him reason to not stare at her like a hormone-addled teenager as she revealed a navy bra, trimmed with lace.

He started with his trousers, unbuckling his belt and then pulling them smoothly down his legs. He kept his gaze averted, but he was keenly aware that she was doing the same and that her shirt was already next to her on the ground.

He unbuttoned his own shirt, fumbling slightly with the buttons. She had seen him without it of course, but he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious about revealing his scarred torso to her. More than that, he didn't want her to see what was under his sleeve again. He could not muster the will to pull it from his shoulders.

"Aguamenti," he looked up and she had her wand pointed at her feet. He watched rivulets of red water run across her skin, parting at the apex before streaming down either side like the Red Sea.

His eyes travelled from her feet and up her bare legs, which were pale and soft-looking. (Womanly.) His eyes rose further. She wore a pair of utilitarian, black knickers, as thrilling as any lingerie could be because they were revealed to him in real life. His gaze rose higher over her soft, rounded stomach—a soft little pillow he would love to lay his head on. His gaze roved higher still.

"Will you help me?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "Sorry?"

She held out her wand to him, as if it were no big thing. He reached out slowly and took it, eyes wide.

"I'm going to tip my head forward and let my hair down, can you make sure it gets thoroughly washed through. I can only imagine how much Chrono Dust is hiding in there."

It took him a moment to digest her words. She needed help washing her hair.

(He could do this.)

He nodded slowly, watching carefully as she reached back to gather her masses of curls in her hands. It gave him an excruciating, perfect view of her bra-encased breasts that sent a jolt right to his middle.

She dipped her head forward and flipped her hair, which cascaded towards him like a gorgeous waterfall. The scent of her shampoo hit him in the face. Rosemary. Geranium. Cedar?

He raised the wand and wordlessly urged a steady stream of cool water from the tip and watched as it first beaded on the fine strands of hair before being absorbed. Her curls gradually expanded and unravelled as they took on the weight of the water. The skin on her shoulders had dimpled into goosebumps. No doubt from the sensation of the cold water contrasting with the baking heat.

He stared at the hair for a moment, rotating the jet of water until he had full coverage and then, because he wanted to and because he really couldn't resist, he reached out and looped two fingers around a few strands of sodden hair under the guise of thoroughness. He ran his fingers up the length, closer to the root and, with a sharp inhale, buried his hand fully in her hair, brushing against her scalp and shaking out the long, heavy kinks and waves. He directed the jet of water to infiltrate their crowded depths.

Granger visibly shivered.

He withdrew his hand and cleared his throat.

"All done, I think." He ceased the aguamenti and she snapped her head back, pushing her hair over her shoulders. Streams ran over her shoulders, soaking her bra until the navy cotton was an inky midnight. She had a small, kissable mole on the inside of her left breast. Her nipples were peaked beneath the fabric. He shook his head, averting his eyes quickly.

"Now your turn, Malfoy." She gestured at him to follow suit but he faltered, staring down at the linen fabric that lay open on his chest, still covering his arms.

She sensed his hesitation and frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"I suddenly feel shy about all of my scars," he replied, honestly—which was embarrassing and vulnerable and it made his insides cringe up painfully under his ribcage, even if it was the truth. "I don't want you to see my mark."

“Look at me Malfoy,” she gestured at the soft stomach he knew had carried two babies and which was now covered in silvery lines, “I have scars too. We all do. Scars chart our history, not our future. Sometimes you act like I’m some untouchable saint, but as you can plainly see, I’m as susceptible to time and gravity as the next person."

“Some stretch marks are not the same thing as this,” he said, raising his left arm—still covered—and presented the part where the ugly mark was concealed. “Those lines on you, they tell the story of your children. This,” he gestured down at his forearm, “tells the story of my greatest mistake and, even though I was only a child, I will never live it down.”

Granger sniffed, “Scorpius and Albus weren’t much younger when they nearly destroyed our universe and brought Voldemort back from the dead. Are they not worthy of forgiveness? Of love? Astoria certainly saw something to love in you.”

“You didn’t know Astoria.”

She rolled her eyes, "You're being defiantly stubborn about this. I feel like we've had this conversation before, and I'm rather desperate to not live through another loop. Take your clothes off, Malfoy. There's not time to be shy."

He had hoped to hear those words for the first time in a different context but it wasn't to be. He relented because Granger had demanded.

(That's how it worked, didn't it? She said jump. He jumped.)

With a scowl, he undid the buttons at his cuffs and peeled the shirt from his shoulders—completely bared to her.

She looked at him. Not lasciviously or with any other intent besides kindness. She looked at his mark and she did not flinch away from it. In this, she was brave.

"Okay Granger, let's get this done."

He cast an aguamenti and washed tiny particles of time from his pale skin, he let it wash away his shame too. At least, for a moment.

30 minutes later they were soaring through the open skies, blissfully devoid of crackles or cockatoos.

A rollicking song came over the radio with lyrics so fast he could barely keep up. The chorus caught his attention though.

"What is this music?"

Granger laughed delightedly, "Savage Garden. Do you like it?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

Granger looked thoughtful for a moment before completely disarming him. "What I like about Draco Malfoy is that he is both a Paul Kelly guy and a Savage Garden guy."

"What does that mean?"

"It's means you have my kind of taste, Malfoy. It also means I'm down to 8 compliments." She grinned at him.

The world slowed down in the reflection of her perfect, white teeth. Reflexively he showed her his.

(Tread softly for you, tread on my…)

“For a moment then I thought it would be just you and me in a campervan, in perpetuity” she interrupted.

“I can think of few worse scenarios.”

“Can you not, Malfoy? As far as temporal loops go—we could be stuck rolling the same stone up the hill or regrowing our livers only to have them pecked out again the very next day”

“Well when you put it like that…”

“Camus said that we must imagine that Sisyphus was happy,” Hermione mused out loud. “I wonder whether we would have been able to find happiness in redundancy?”

“I don’t know who Cam-moo is and I’d be happy for old Sisyphus if he was rolling his rock up a hill with a jolly smile on his face, but I can tell you that I would have torn the fabric of space and time apart to get back to Scorpius. You would have done the same for your children.”

“Yes,” she said, “I don't know if Sisyphus had any children.”

And then they were silent but for the rumbling of Plimpy’s engine.

Thoughts of their latest misadventure swirled through his mind. He debated saying something and not saying something. Inevitably, the words came blurting out anyway. “How do you think it would have turned out for us, if we never got out of that loop?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we couldn’t escape, I assume we would have killed each other eventually,” he stated frankly, “but the question is—how long would it have taken?”

“One lifetime," she replied immediately, “perhaps two.”

His pulse began to race, he shot her a nervous, hopeful glance. “I thought you were going to say three days.”

“Three days? I’ve been stuck in this campervan with you for weeks!”

There was a pause, pregnant with more thoughts he was struggling to wrangle into submission.

“Do you think… no, nevermind.”

“What?”

“Hypothetically speaking, if we had two lifetimes together…”

She gave him a dirty look, cheeks flushed. “Would we have shagged? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“I wasn’t going to say it like that!”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Malfoy.”

“I’m just saying, you know, it's like that scenario—if you were the last woman alive…”

“That wasn't the scenario and, anyhow, you’d be up for it even if I wasn’t the last woman alive,” she hissed back at him.

A burbling happiness that had been swiftly growing within him tugged the corners of his mouth up into a delighted, cheeky grin. "What makes you say that Hermione?"

Her mouth dropped open.

"Hermione," he continued when she continued to gape, "I think you were implying that I'm attracted to you. I'm not saying that you're wrong, of course. I wanted to know why you came to that conclusion."

She blinked at him, mouth still open, brain clearly going into overdrive. She looked like a woman on the back-foot. He noticed as her eyes flickered to his mouth for a brief moment.

"Err—well, the other night, when we—and I—I just—" she stopped. Her mouth snapped shut. Eyes wide. Panic, "You called me Hermione!"

Checkmate.

"Thanks for almost clarifying, that's all I needed to know. For the record, you're absolutely correct—you wouldn't need to be the last woman on Earth. In fact, I could be trapped on an island with a million Veela and only one Hermione Granger and I think we both know who I would be letting boss me around."

A diffused, rosy pink blush had spread from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing below the collar of her shirt and probably creeping onto the chest he was now quite well acquainted with.

"Malfoy!"

"Hermione!"

"Just drive."

Chapter Text

They landed Plimpy about ten minutes out of Alice Springs on a deserted patch of road.

"If you kill us, I'm going to haunt you in the afterlife," Granger eyed him skeptically as he pulled onto the deserted highway, red dust billowing out behind Plimpy and catching the sunlight in the side-mirror.

"Be my guest," he said and then ducked his head out the window, letting the wind catch his hair and buoy his spirits. He breathed it all in. The feeling of being in the middle of a wide open space had always captured him like nothing else, ever since his first solo-flight of the manor grounds as a boy.

He'd stolen Granger's glasses again because— why not? He had also mostly been on his best behavior regarding the flirting situation.

Mostly.

"What do you say about trying to find an actual hotel for the night? I could really use a sleep on a proper mattress," Granger suggested.

Thoughts of Granger on mattresses danced through his head, which he cleared with a quick shake. "Sounds great but don't forget, it's New Year's Eve—might be hard to find anything on such short notice."

"Blast!" She clearly had not remembered.

She pulled out her phone and started to flick through pages wildly—for his part he kept his eyes firmly on the road, except for the occasional wistful look in her direction that might have crept through against his will. He preferred not to acknowledge it.

"Okay," she announced, "there's good news and there's bad news."

"Go on."

"The good news," she said brightly, "is that there's still a place that's not fully booked out. The other piece of good news is that it's really close to Uluru, which I've always wanted to see."

"And the bad news?"

"It's three thousand dollars for one night."

Draco frowned, "Is that a lot?"

"M-Malfoy? Is that a lot…" Granger spluttered and then trailed off. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"No? Isn't that quite reasonable in muggle money?" He looked over. Granger was quiet for a moment, staring at the phone in her lap. She looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek, her face screwed up in thought. Her long hair was pulled back over her shoulder and a smattering of new freckles peeked over at him from their position on her bronzed shoulder.

"Granger?"

"I'm having an internal battle—part of me wants to spend your obscene wealth on something frivolous and unnecessary. The other part of me thinks it's ridiculous and that I should be ashamed of myself for even considering it."

"Would they have fluffy robes, though?"

She pursed her mouth and then looked down again, flicking through some more photographs. "Yes," she confirmed, "they look extremely fluffy."

He shrugged, "Then we're doing it. No arguments. I want a hot shower, a soft robe and an Australian steak the size of a cauldron."

Clearly Granger did too, because she perused more photos with a guilty expression on her face. She started when her phone buzzed suddenly, and a picture of Ginny Weasley popped up on the screen. Draco's eyes flicked back to the road.

"Oh!" she said, "Malfoy can you pull over? I've got some signal here and I don't want to lose it. This might be important. Ginny rarely calls."

He did as he was told, pulling up on a dusty stretch by the highway that offered little shade and little else either. Granger put the phone up to her ear and mouthed the words 'one minute', unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the door as she answered.

"Gin? Hi!"

Draco was prepared to spend the next few minutes minding his own business, hearing only the muffled sound of Granger's soft voice. (Really, he was.)

But because Plimpy was an old thing (with a young spirit), the seatbelt did not retract properly and proceeded to get caught in the door as Granger tried to close it. As a result, rather than closing with a bang, it closed with a clang, and slid open a few inches. He felt like he watched it happening in slow motion.

And that is how Draco heard everything.

"No, Ginny—it's fine. I appreciate it, really I do, but if Rose doesn't want to speak to me, it's her prerogative. Give her my love though, will you?"

There was a pause.

"Oh really? For New Year's. That's so lovely. Well, give Hugo and Lily a cuddle each for me please. How's Harry? And—" her voice faltered a little, "—how's Ron doing?"

Again, there was a long moment as Granger listened making small encouraging noises.

"Oh!" she blurted, surprised. A beat. Then, more composed, "Really? He wants to speak with me? Well, okay then—pop him on."

Draco was sure that the he in question would be Potter, so he was surprised when Granger said, "Hi Ron!" in that same, bright but brittle tone she used when she was trying to pretend everything was okay.

"No, really. It's fine. How are you doing?"

She hummed along as Weasley apparently updated her on his life. He began to idly tap his foot against the foot-well.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Sell the house? Well, I told you Ron—I'm still not sure. I thought you said there was no hurry! I thought—well, I thought maybe we might keep it until the kids are a little older. Or maybe I'll buy out your share. I'm still trying to figure things out."

Draco's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He began to jiggle his leg a little faster.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Okay. Well… thanks I guess," she gave a bitter little chuckle. "And are you staying at the Burrow with the kids to celebrate New Year's?"

This time, there was no 'ahuh' and no 'hmm' as Granger listened to her ex-husband give his reply. Draco clenched the steering wheel.

"A date?"

THUNK! His foot hit the floor. He clenched his jaw.

"Oh—well—that's great, Ron. I didn't know you were dating. But—that's… super." He wasn't sure who was more mortified—him or her? He wanted to sink into the footwell and stay there.

(Or perhaps: go curse a Weasley.)

"Well, I should be going!" she was saying, again in that too-bright voice, "Lots to do, you know. Love to everyone for me please!"

There was a pause and then a quick, "Bye."

The call had clearly ended but Granger did not move.

He shot a panicked look at the open door, unsure whether he should try to pretend he hadn't heard. A small hand curled around the frame and pulled it open. And then there was Granger, hollow eyed and ashen faced.

They stared at each other.

He ached to comfort her—to take her in his arms and tell her how Weasley didn't deserve her.

But he didn't.

Draco knew a thing or two about grief. He knew she needed him to stifle his selfishness.

"You heard," she remarked, flat and knowing. Not accusatory.

"Sorry," he replied, "I wasn't trying to listen."

She gave a cavernous sigh and then pulled herself up into her seat, looking fixedly through the windshield (and not at him).

"Granger, would you—"

"No, thank you." She twisted the seatbelt in her hands.

He felt a brief moment of frustration. Now she didn't want to talk about Weasley?

He surveyed the pink of her cheeks, her downcast expression. She was hurt and embarrassed and wholly vulnerable. He needed to let her know that it was okay. He could be gentle with her. (He would be gentle with her.)

"Right," he said. "Hotel. Let's go. We can worry about supplies later."

He pulled back out onto the highway, double checked that nobody was around, pressed a button on Plimpy's dash and launched them into the sky.

One and a half hours of strained silence later, they pulled into Latitude Resort.

It was an oasis in the middle of a sea of red dust and hot air, dripping with pools and cultivated luxury.

Their journey since Granger's phone call had been tense and quiet. But now, she wound down the window, leaning her head out to gape at their surroundings.

"Malfoy, I don't think I've ever stayed anywhere so fancy."

A smiling man in a crisp suit stepped out of a building with large glass windows. A gold sign read: 'Reception'. Briefly, the man's face registered confusion and consternation when he looked at Plimpy.

Draco patted her dash, consolingly.

"Leave this to me." Granger unbuckled.

"Money?" he reminded her, and then he reached over for his bag beside her and rifled through it for his wallet. He pulled out a thick leather pouch and handed it to her.

With a raised eyebrow, she unzipped it and peeked inside.

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy!" she cried out in alarm. "Have you just been walking around with this in your bag?"

"It has anti-theft wards," he shrugged.

"You and I are going to have a big chat about capitalism and wealth disparity, one of these days."

He cringed, "Can't wait."

She removed a small bundle of bills from the pouch and handed it back to him, before stepping out of the car and into the heat to greet the confused looking concierge.

He waited in the van as she disappeared into the building with the man.

Ten minutes later she reappeared with a keycard and a smile.

"I told him that you're British nobility and I'm your assistant." She spoke as if she had made a hilarious joke, hoisting herself into her seat and handing him a colourful map. "We're in number twelve."

"Hold up," Draco quipped raising a hand, his tone light and teasing. "Nobility? That's not even a lie, Granger—I'm technically Lord Malfoy, as you well know." He ignored her when she rolled her eyes at him.

"And why did you say you were my assistant? Didn't you want to be Lady Malfoy? You clearly have the looks for it, if not the etiquette."

(He was not doing a good job of keeping his flirting to himself.)

She scoffed, but looked flustered, which satisfied him deeply—encouraging a dangerous cycle he knew he shouldn't indulge.

Grinning to himself, he started the engine and followed her directions to their cabin.

They pulled up at a small building that was entirely panelled wood and glass, reflecting the desert sandscape around them. Their neighbors were sufficiently distant to give the illusion of privacy.

He parked Plimpy, a visual sore-thumb (her beauty was the inner-kind) and they grabbed their packs and headed for the front door.

Once inside, they were stopped in their tracks and turned to look at each other in disbelief.

"Wow."

Wow was right. They were looking at a sleek living room, decorated with modern, clean lines and a gorgeous stone fireplace. But that wasn't what had them gasping. It was what lay beyond the glass panels and private deck. It was the Rock—Uluru. A perfect view of it, from right where they were standing.

Granger glided up to the glass doors, almost as if in a daze. She slid them open and floated out onto the deck as if under a spell.

He met her there, leaning on the railing, beside a small, private pool.

"Well, that sure is something."

"Mmhm," she hummed, thoughtfully.

He was aware of Uluru in the way that he was aware of many natural wonders of the world. But he had never thought about it deeply, and certainly had never expected to see it.

(How foolish of him.)

It was a lonely, desert warden—nothing else interrupted the horizon in either direction. Even as they watched, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, it's corona brushing the edges of the rock and turning them a burnished bronze.

There was a knock at their door, stunning them out of their reverie.

"I'll get it," Hermione told him. "The Concierge was having some snacks delivered. We weren't expected, otherwise he said they would have been complimentary and here on our arrival."

He took the opportunity to explore while she had a short, murmured conversation with someone at the front door. From the living room there were two doors, each leading to a small but very richly appointed room. Both had a king bed and an en suite and not much else. Nothing else was needed, because each of them had floor to ceiling windows with that same, breathtaking view.

He dropped his bag in one and returned to the deck, where Granger was laying down a charcuterie board and a bottle of champagne.

"Drink?" she asked.

"Absolutely, yes."

She grinned at him, eyes sparkling and then went inside to retrieve some glasses from the small kitchenette.

They settled next to each other in matching loungers, looking out at the desert Cathedral—champagne in hand and snacks within reach. The world was good. The world was right.

"So," he said after a moment, "top three moments from our journey together thus far? Ranked please, in order of when I was most dashing."

She cracked a smile, sipping at her wine.

"Discounting your pathetic ploy for compliments, I'm going to indulge you with this little game. However, the criteria I'll be using will be: top three moments I thought you were going to die and had to save you."

He scowled.

"Number one," she said holding up a finger, "obviously the moment I saved you from plummeting to your death in a cave. Fast thinking on my part, I think you'll concede."

"Oh, I'll concede," Draco acquiesced, raising his glass to her.

"Number two," she continued, "when I rescued you from bleeding out in that very same cave. Your stupidity knows no bounds, and I'm only glad I have a lot of experience with stupid men doing stupid things."

"Steady on," he said, although her grin was wolfish and it made him chuckle.

"And naturally, my third, most dashing rescue was when I distracted Bruce so you could get away. You should have seen your face—you were terrified."

She laughed at him openly and he found he didn't mind.

"I was terrified Granger, I was about to be lunch-meat. You really have saved my skin in spectacular fashion and more than once. You mustn't forget the time you rescued me from a Nymph who would have kept me as her sex slave. What a miserable existence. What would I have done without you?"

"What indeed?"

"Of course," he explained, "if we aren't talking about dashing rescues, some of my favourite moments on this journey haven't included dangerous situations at all."

"No?"

"No. Seeing Sydney harbour at night. Sky canoes. Exploring Kigari. Attending a rodeo…" he trailed off and looked over at her smiling face.

"We've had some adventures."

"How many sunsets have we shared together, now?" he asked. "Just like this?"

He was a pathetic, sentimental man. He knew he was and yet, he couldn't stop himself. It was like his brain was short-circuiting, letting his mouth run away with itself.

She looked out at the Rock, the sun now hiding behind it almost completely. "Twelve," she said, catching him off-guard.

Was that it? It felt like twelve-hundred. How had so much changed over the course of a handful of shared nights? What magic had she wrought? (Was she too, a nymph?)

Perhaps the worst part was: he was reasonably sure that she was attracted to him. She deflected his flirtations, yes, but never rejected them. He knew though, that she did not care as deeply as he was beginning to, (and he was not reasonably assured of his own charms where he was profoundly confident in hers).

"It feels like longer, doesn't it?" she said.

His head snapped around. He looked for the hope in that statement, then chastised himself.

What a fucking sop.

"Chips?" he said, picking up the item that was closest to him and waving it aggressively towards her.

"Errr, thanks but no. I'll stick with the cheese."

The sun disappeared fully behind the Rock and twilight descended on them like a soft curtain, drawn across the world.

He poured them both another glass.

They had ordered dinner (he got his steak) and a couple more bottles of wine—it was New Year's Eve, after all, and why not?

Three wines deep, a walk had sounded like a very good idea. Granger wanted to get away from the cabins so she could see the stars completely without light pollution.

Draco (the sop) wanted to be wherever she was.

So he found himself walking aimlessly beside her. The moon was full and, though it was dark, the spilled silver lit their path as effective as a Lumos. Their feet pulled them in the direction of Uluru. There was nothing else but small shrubs and sand dunes for miles in every direction.

When she had deemed it far away enough from the cabins, Granger stopped abruptly on the top of a dune. She sat, letting her legs rest on the down slope. He sat beside her, wincing at the thought of the red dust that would be clinging to his trousers.

She had gone quiet again and appeared small and defensive as she sat, knees pulled up to her chin.

"Are you okay?" he asked, "about what I overhead earlier today? The chat with Weasley?"

She shrugged. "It's what divorced people do, isn't it? They go on dates."

"I suppose."

"They do, Malfoy. I knew it was going to come some day. I'm not sure why it feels like I've been left behind somehow. It—it hurts to hear that Ron is ready to move on." There were layers of emotion in her voice: hurt, grief, love, anger.

These were emotions Draco had experience with. They did not scare him—he had been keeping company with them for years.

"Because you're not ready to move on?"

"I don't know. A big part of me wants to." He thought he saw her give him an odd, sideways look, but it may have been a trick of the moonlight.

"Well Granger, I don't know that these things unfold on a timeline. What I can say is: when you're ready, there won't be a shortage of people wanting to go on dates with you."

What he didn't say was 'people like me.' But perhaps they both knew he didn't have to.

"I think, when I'm ready— I'd like that," she said, and her smile was so shy and sweet, it found the tenderest spot in his chest and nestled in to make its home there.

As they walked back to the cabin, he couldn't quite explain what kind of gravitational magic was at play. First, he noticed that they were nudging closer to each other in the darkness. Then, he noticed that they were close enough that their shoulders bumped—not once, but twice. Each time he muttered a quiet apology and stepped away to make space between them again but, sure enough, the gravitational magic ensured that they found their way back to each other.

When their fingers brushed, he almost rolled his eyes and wondered privately if he was somehow unconsciously summoning her close to him.

He snatched his hand away, feeling tense and self-conscious.

The night sky was so bright that he could see her quite clearly and, though he tried to curb them, his thoughts kept straying to how lovely she was, and how nice it would feel to run his fingers through that wild hair of hers.

When they made it back to their cabin, she led him up onto the deck, but they made no move to return inside. Instead they lingered, leaning on the railing and staring up at the stars again, now dimmed by the ambient light of the resort.

“You can’t see Draco this far south” she said.

For a moment his brain stuttered. Of course she could see Draco, he was right beside her, quite visible in the moonlight. Then he finally grasped her meaning.

“No,” he said, and his voice came out low and raspy.

“The Aboriginal people have their own myths about the stars,” she continued, “they told stories about them just like our ancestors did.”

“Do you know any?”

“Hmm… I know the dark space up there near what we know as the southern cross is meant to represent an emu. The legend goes that when the emu in the sky appeared, it was time to hunt for eggs.”

“Helpful,” he replied, thoughtfully.

“Quite." She was quiet for a moment. "I was actually thinking that you might have a different name if you could see the constellation Draco from here. Probably many different names.”

“I wonder how you would have coped with me having several names in unfamiliar languages when you struggle to pronounce the one that I've got,” he said. He meant it to be teasing, but she stopped and turned to face him.

“What do you mean?”

“I was just teasing. I meant that you don't often call me Draco. It's usually Malfoy.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I didn't realise you minded.”

He shrugged.

“Draco,” she replied simply, as if she had said it a hundred times before. Silence again. And then, casually, "I'm sure it's quite close to midnight by now.”

She cast a Tempus, which revealed that it was a quarter til.

"We should stay up to welcome in the New Year, shouldn't we?"

"I think we should."

And they did, quietly watching the stars, a thick tension between them. Perhaps it was gravity that once again pushed them closer to each other. Draco noticed that they were leaning towards each other unconsciously.

Granger dropped her hand from the railing, quite close to his. Her fingers dangled, just close enough to brush his.

He shouldn't have been surprised when he felt her smaller fingers grasp his hand in her own. After all, she was a consummate Gryffindor. But he was surprised, and also pleased (and confused). His heart stuttered. The feelings he had been trying desperately to keep out politely let themselves in through the open door. Her hand was so small and warm.

“I think it will just be easier this way, since our hands seem to keep finding each other," she whispered, and he thought she sounded a bit nervous.

“I haven't held a woman's hand in years,” he blurted, and then was immediately overcome with a wave of embarrassment. 

“Like riding a bike, I expect,” she mused. There was a pause, and then she said, “Who would have thought that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger would find themselves drunk and holding hands under the stars, nearly at the bottom of the world?”

“Bizarre. Although I should say, I don't think I'm that drunk.”

“Oh, me neither,” she replied, “but nothing else really explains this." She lifted their joined hands, as if proving a point.

“I suppose we’ve nearly died in each other's presence a few times. Saved each other despite decades of contentious history. A bit of hand holding hardly seems consequential really.”

“Oh?” she blinked a few times, as if taken aback. “Glad we cleared that up.” She made to drop his hand.

(Fuck!)

He didn't let her.

“No, no I don't mean inconsequential. I suppose I mean natural. I mean—well, look, we’ve been through a lot. It’s only natural that it would lead to a bit of a crush.”

She made a noise that he wouldn't even try to translate.

“Oh, it's natural that I might develop a crush on you, is it?” Her voice was high and quite pitchy. “Magnanimous of you to allow me physical contact in that case, Malfoy.”

(Fuck!)

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, I meant me, you absolute goose. I’m the one with the crush—obviously.”

The Tempus spell, still active in the air beside Granger, reflected that it was now one minute to midnight. He registered it somewhere in his distracted brain.

“You… obviously have a crush… on me?”

“Yes, obviously me. A crush. On you, that is.”

“Oh.”

And then, almost as if it really were gravitational magic and there were great forces at work that would not allow them to resist, they turned to face each other.

It was not lost on Draco that they were alone, under the stars, and that they did in fact have a few lubricating wines under their belt, all excellent ingredients for romance. It had been a unique few weeks. This was probably not a good idea.

(But he really didn't care.)

"It's New Year's Eve," Granger rushed out, voice hushed.

A group of strangers in one of the nearby cabins began a loud count-down.

"Ten. Nine. Eight—"

"A time for new beginnings," she continued.

"Seven. Six. Five."

"Yes," he murmured. He leaned in towards her.

"Four. Three. Two."

Their lips met.

The stars—which had been watching two idiots orbit each other all night—exhaled.

It was hard to know how long the kiss went on. Perhaps it was seconds, perhaps an hour—time seemed to fold in on itself, like he was stuck in a temporal loop. Draco lost himself in the feel of her hand on his jaw. She smelled and tasted like red wine. He put his arms around her, pulling her to him, sighing into her, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

And then, just as he was comprehending that he was kissing Granger (and that Granger was kissing him!) she was pushing him away.

"Sorry!" she was stammering, panting deeply, "Merlin, I'm stupid. That was a very bad idea!"

His chest went cold. "It was?"

She stepped away from him. "Obviously, this was my fault entirely. I'm so sorry, Malfoy. I wasn't thinking. I think—I think I'm going to go to bed now."

And then, before he could say anything, she spun on her heel and fled.

She disappeared behind her bedroom door. It latched shut with a sound that reverberated through the night.

An hour—maybe two hours—later, he placed the bottle of wine on the floor with force, sloshing half over the floorboards, and knocked on the door. His mind was a furnace, fueled by every stolen glance, every blush, every fleeting touch she thought he didn’t notice.

The door cracked, letting through a wedge of golden light before it was opened more fully, and he saw the blurry outline of a silhouette—for a moment, she was an angel. Then his eyes adjusted: Granger. She was wearing an oversized shirt that said the word 'Nirvana'. On her feet were pink, fuzzy socks. Her curls were tied up in a silk scarf. She blinked at him.

"Malfoy, are you okay?"

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting a restful night of sleep?”

She blinked again. “What?”

He threw back his head and barked out a laugh, mocking and bitter, then reached for his bottle of wine again, taking a large swig, wishing to be drunk and numb.

"Malfoy, put that down. Stop." She pushed the door open wider and grabbed at the bottle, but he swiftly dodged her and dangled it over her head.

"Is this wise?" she asked, her eyes sharp with worry—cutting.

God, they fucking burned him.

Since his pride was in tatters anyway, he would sacrifice whatever was left at her altar. Why not?

"Maybe we could talk about whatever this in the morning?" Granger tried.

"Hmm, I think not."

She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled before reluctantly taking a step backwards and opening the door wider for him to pass through. "You can come in on the condition that you don't drink any more of that." She plucked the bottle from his hands as he passed. He didn't fight her.

He crossed through the doorway and into her room. The bedcovers were rumpled and the lamp was lit, the source of the honeyed light. He crossed to the bed and sat down.

She stared at him, saying nothing. Her small chin was held at such an angle, he could tell a storm of disapproval was brewing within her.

“Relax, Granger." He sneered, whether it was at her or himself, he wasn't sure. "I'm not here to throw myself at your feet again. Merlin forbid you should acknowledge the fact that we both want each other."

"Malfoy, that's not—"

"It was a good kiss,” he spoke over her. “Great, actually. But you’re right—why ruin things by wanting more? Why risk something tremendous when it's easier to pretend it meant nothing at all?"

Her mouth thinned with each word. The fury was mounting, boiling. It would soon be unleashed on him. Good.

"And here I thought that I was supposed to be the coward."

Her eyes narrowed. The room held its breath, waiting for the dam to break.

"Coward?" her voice was low, dangerous. "I'm supposed to be the coward?" she laughed bitterly. "You sanctimonious bastard! You absolute jackarse! You come in here, half-drunk, and interrupt my sleep to whine because I kissed you and then made the perfectly rational choice to stop there?"

She advanced on him, only stopping when she was in jabbing distance.

"You think I'm taking the easy road?" she stabbed in his direction with an index finger. "What do you want, Malfoy? Why did you come here?"

"I came because—"

"To hear me say that I want you too?" she cut him off. "Well congratulations—I want you, Malfoy!" She threw her arms out like she was waiting for a downpour before tightening her hands back into fists and pointing her finger at him once more. "But you already knew that!" she jabbed again.

He stood up so that he was on her level, and so that the jabbing was a little removed from his beautiful face. She did not step back.

"What's the point? It changes nothing for me to say it. I got divorced five minutes ago. I'm a fucking mess!"

He leaned in and enunciated the words slowly, "I. Don't. Care."

"Well you should!" This time her jab actually landed, squarely on his chest. "Because this is a disaster waiting to happen!"

A part of him thrilled at her finger resting on his sternum, but he scoffed. “You think I want to feel like this? You think I planned to start falling for you? Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else. I know you're going to run a mile in the other direction. I know it! You won't let go of your pathological need to control everything for long enough to even give this a chance.”

His chest was heaving as he took big gulping breaths. Her hand was resting there now, palm pressed just next to his beating heart. Her fingers were curled, as if she meant to push him away but couldn't. "You're ruining me, Granger."

"What do you want me to say, Malfoy?" her chin was tilting up towards him, eyes burning.

"Anything, Hermione! Say anything—just… don't ignore me anymore."

His eyes dropped to the floor. Fuzzy pink socks tickled leather boots.

There was a pause. Adrenaline coursed through veins. Air filtered through lungs. Seconds ticked over.

A feather-light touch traced its way over the stubble on his cheek. His eyes snapped up and met hers—warm and brave.

His axis tilted. He could feel it beneath his feet.

He grinned at her. "Nice socks."

She smiled back and let out a tiny, breathy exhale that said so much.

A thread snapped.

He wasn’t sure who initiated it (probably him). Her face was tilted up just so. All he had to do was lean down. And then they met in a second, sweet, hesitant kiss. She pulled back and wavered for just a moment and then kissed him again. Her fingers curled around his jaw.

He reached out blindly, found her hips, pulled her in. She gasped—soft and startled—and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue still warm with wine. Her answering moan said she didn’t mind at all.

He broke away for a second, "Did I just goad you into kissing me again?"

"Shut up, Malfoy."

He was more than happy to oblige. He sealed his lips to hers once more, coaxing her open and teasing her. His hands slid from her hips and down her leg until it found smooth, bare skin. He snaked it up under her shirt, running it up over the soft cotton material of her knickers and grabbing a nice handful of arse, which he squeezed gently.

She gasped and then gave another, encouraging little moan.

Having tested the waters, he let himself register the excitement of the moment. He had a woman, warm and real and already half naked in his arms. And not just any woman—Hermione.

His lips began a trail down her chin and then over her neck until he buried his nose in the hollow above her collarbone. Lemongrass soap and red-wine. An odd combination but he liked it. He licked along her collarbone—her skin was salty; the sounds she made were anything but.

Her hand trailed from his jaw, down his neck and back to his chest to meet its partner—testing, feeling. She kissed the side of his neck, her breath warm at his ear. A jolt of heat raced down his spine—he was already thickening within his trousers, sure she could feel it, his desire quick and certain.

Suddenly, she gave him a firm push. He fell back onto the bed and stared up at her in shock, the disappointment already crashing over him. She was going to tell him to stop again.

But she didn't. Instead she reached up and began to unwind the scarf that was binding her hair. It came down in a tangle of curls. The way she looked at him—it wasn’t just desire. It was a challenge. And it confirmed everything: she was no coward.

He could not believe his luck.

"Fuck, Granger—are we doing this?"

She gave him a blazing look, "Not scared, are you, Malfoy?"

He shook his head slowly, his eagerness probably written all over his face.

She reached down, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid stroke.

Draco was not a monk—he had been with a few women since Astoria passed. Two were old acquaintances. One had been a friend of Tori’s. They’d come together in grief—in search of comfort. It had been freeing and deeply sad.

This was nothing like any of them. Now, all he felt was ache. The dizzy, cellular need to touch every part of her. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts—soft and imperfect—were everything he could've wished for and more. His gaze lingered, reverent. He’d imagined them a hundred times since she had stripped down to wash the Chronodust off and imagination sharpened now into something real.

He surged forward, circling her waist with his hands and pulling her to stand between his legs. He buried his face in her chest. Her arms came up and wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close. He laved at her nipples, bringing his hands around to squeeze and fondle her breasts. Admiring the feel of them in his palms.

Her breath hitched, followed by a string of soft little gasps, as she wound her fingers into his hair and tugged gently. She pulled his head back and he stared up at her, chin resting on her sternum. She leaned down and placed a butterfly kiss on his forehead and then stepped back.

"Take them off," she said, gesturing at his clothes.

It was well established that when Hermione Granger issued an order, he obeyed.

He divested himself of his boots and then stood and shed his button-down deftly, following it up with his trousers so that they were on a level playing field. They stood, looking at each other—only one layer standing between them and a line that, once crossed, would absolutely have repercussions.

If he was thinking about it, then certainly she would be. He didn’t want her second-guessing and putting the walls back up—so he did what any sensible man would do and kissed her again.

He turned them and then nudged her until the back of her knees met mattress and then he dipped her so that she was flat on her back, looking at him.

Now was the time for worship—the time to create a new kind of magic. He sunk to his knees and ran his hands up the outside of her shapely thighs. Her head was raised and she looked at him, sensing what he wanted to do, and he knew that she was a little keen and a little embarrassed.

"Please," he said.

She sighed and her legs parted and trembled as her head fell back onto the bed. He ran his fingers up the inside of her calf, his signet ring glinting in the warm light. He felt the exquisite, velveteen softness of her inner thigh and watched as she tensed, fighting her own instinct to close to him.

"I'll take it slowly," he whispered against the inside of her knee, and then chased the path his hand had forged with small kisses, all the way up to where her thighs met.

Her knickers were a plain, black cotton affair. He leaned down and planted a kiss on the small mound hidden beneath them. She jolted at the contact and he got his first hit of her scent: musky and redolent of sleepless nights; of need curled deep beneath warm skin; of something that was uniquely her—ink stained fingers and lemongrass soap.

"Draco, I haven't—it's just—it's been a while since…"

He knew. Well—he guessed she hadn't been with anyone for a while. Not since Weasley and, in a long-term and seemingly unhappy marriage, it possibly hadn't been something that had played a large role in her life for some time.

He was up to the task of convincing her to give it another go. With him.

"It's fine, Granger. Just try to relax and talk to me. Tell me what feels good."

He hooked his fingers under the cotton of her knickers and started to gently tease them off her. She obliged him by scooting up so that he could get them over the curve of her backside and down her legs. When they were free, he tossed them blindly.

His eyes feasted on her.

She fluttered under his gaze and brought an arm up to cover her face.

"You're beautiful, Hermione."

And then he showed her how much he meant it. He threaded his arms underneath her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the bed until his nose was buried in her cunt.

She gasped and he used the opportunity to unmoor her with a bold lick, from the bottom of her slit right to the top. And there he stayed, acquainting himself with the small bundle of nerves that elicited very interesting noises from her.

"Fuuuuck," she moaned and he concurred heartily.

She tasted like champagne, velvety and light on his tongue. He lapped at her, enjoying the way she squirmed and tensed under his ministrations, enjoying the softness of her thighs bracketing his ears.

"Is this good?" he asked against her.

"So good," she moaned.

He resumed his work in earnest, this time bringing his left hand around and to her core, which was slick and hot. He slid one finger in, right up to the knuckle and twisted, eliciting a gasp. He slid in another and repeated the motion, fucking her with his fingers.

(Salazar, he was fucking her with his fingers…)

"Just like that," she told him, breathy and distracted.

He continued to work her, feeling as her muscles contracted, grew tighter and tighter. He was relentless, tongue against her, fingers inside her, never pausing, never deviating from the pattern he had established—the one she liked.

Finally, she grew taut, her body so tense it felt like she might snap. Then, like a glorious wave cresting over them both, she came on his fingers—toes curled and moaning her pleasure. Music to his ears.

He smiled into her pussy.

He stayed where he was for a moment and listened to her catch her breath, her thighs still wearing him.

"Come up here, Draco."

He eased her thighs from his shoulders and stood. She looked at him and her eyes were full of languid desire. She scooted up the bed, arranging herself in clear invitation. He stood for a moment to enjoy the scene and divested himself of his own underwear. She was a Botticelli come to life—ripe and radiant. He crawled onto the bed and up her body, placing a gentle kiss on her soft belly, before moving up to trail his lips between her breasts, her collarbone, her chin and then finally—back to her mouth.

She devoured him. Their lips met—urgent, greedy—and weeks of tension poured out in heat and hunger. She reached between them and took his cock in her hand. He saw stars as she slowly stroked it, exploring him.

He wondered for a moment if she found it strange, touching another man, a new man. He knew it was a little strange for him. Granger was all curves and warm, olive skin. Astoria had been pale and delicate. Like porcelain he was always half-afraid to drop. Sometimes she had felt so fragile in his arms—but always lovely and always loved.

Hermione squeezed his cock, pulling him back to the present, and he groaned loudly, burying his face in her neck and hair.

"Fuck me, Granger. I'm not a teenager anymore but if you keep that up, I'll definitely cum a bit too soon."

She laughed, running her other hand across his back, mapping the distance between his shoulder blades. "We can't have that."

She wriggled and then guided him with her hand until he could feel himself, right at her entrance.

"Oh fuck," he groaned.

"Is this okay?" she asked, stroking his tip along her slit.

"Yes, gods, yes, of course it's okay. Is it okay with you?"

She didn't answer with words, and instead opened her legs wider, hooking her heel around him and urging him forward. He slid into her slowly, and it felt like a homecoming. So hot and just the right amount of yielding. He closed his eyes and nearly sighed. There was so much pleasure, it was almost painful.

"Draco?" Amber eyes met his, full of fondness. His breath hitched. He began to move in her. Pleasure spilled through him once more, chasing away vulnerable questions he might have blurted if he'd allowed himself to stay lost in her gaze.

She met his thrusts, measure for measure. He felt no concern about breaking her—she could not be broken, despite what she might believe about herself. They moved together in a rhythm that felt impossibly right—eudaemonic and blissfully bone-deep. It was a delicious push and pull that had them both moaning and panting into hot, sticky skin.

When he couldn't take the slow torture of it any longer, he pushed himself onto his knees and hitched her hips up, grabbing at her backside and holding on tight as he thrust into her harder.

"Yes," she panted, "like that. I want to feel it when you cum."

He would have those words engraved on his tombstone.

He was climbing Olympus—so close. 

He came in heated trembles, muscles spasming, heart beating wildly in his chest. He leapt off the peak, sprouted wings and flew towards the sun. Unlike Icarus, the sun only warmed him.

He gasped into her neck and then collapsed on top of her, caging her face with his hands. He planted one more, leisurely kiss on her lips, before rolling off to lay beside her. He gazed at her profile, enjoying the peace and the afterglow.

"Another thing I like about Draco," Granger sighed, her lips curving upwards, "he's very good in bed."

Chapter Text

She woke to a moment of disorientation but recognised also that she felt warm and safe. There were strong arms wrapped around her.

Ron?

No. That wasn't right. She turned her head slightly and caught a glimpse of pale hair in the dim light.

Draco.

Large hands skimmed her ribcage and palmed at her breasts. She wasn't sure if he was awake or just acting on instinct as she felt his erection pressed firmly up against her from behind. Her heart began to race.

The room was still dark. How long had they slept? An hour? More?

The marks of what they had done had already settled on her body. Indelible signs of their actions were written in the soft ache in her abdomen and the slick between her thighs.

Oh gods, she had sex with Draco Malfoy. Her childhood bully. Her ex-husband's childhood bully.

He ground his cock against her backside—definitely not asleep.

He rolled one of her nipples, shocking her from her panicked thoughts and causing her to gasp out loud. He seemed to take that as an invitation, a hand snaked down from her breast to land between her legs where he began to slowly stroke her clit. It felt so good.

And after all, in the deep of the night, in a desert on the other side of the world—did their past really exist?

Draco bit down on her shoulder lightly, eliciting another gasp from her. He planted soft little kisses up her shoulder until he found her neck, which he buried his face in, kissing and nipping. She arched into him, tilting her neck so that he had better access. His hand slipped from her clit, lower. He probed her slit and she knew he would find it slick with both his cum and new arousal.

She was so tired of fighting their obvious attraction and what harm could it possibly do, to give into it one more time? The sun hadn't even risen. Why shouldn't she?

Draco hitched her leg up and nudged her forward slightly. She felt his cock push up against her entrance.

"Granger?" he whispered in her ear. A question.

She said nothing but wriggled back to position herself better—a clear invitation. Also an answer to her own question.

He grabbed at her thigh and splayed her open a little more. Then he eased her onto his cock.

She exhaled into the feeling. Tight and full. It was such a satisfying feeling, to scratch an itch she mostly didn't even know she had in the busyness of daily life.

"You feel so perfect, Hermione. I love the feel of your cunt around my cock."

The communication was new. Ron wasn't really one for pillow talk. She found it exciting and—fuck. She was thinking about Ron again.

Draco began to move, thrusting into her very slowly. His fingers found her clit again and his other hand briefly moved from her breast to rest on her small, rounded belly.

A jolt of embarrassment raced its way through her body. She was acutely aware of the fact that she had carried two babies in her body, the softness under his hand was a daily reminder. She stiffened.

"You are so wonderfully soft," he murmured, stroking her belly again. "Your body is so fucking lush," he placed another kiss just beneath her ear, "you feel perfect."

She relaxed against him and pushed herself back into him as he thrust in. Allowing herself to actually enjoy how laid bare he was making her feel. He changed the angle slightly so that he was hitting a spot inside her that sent waves of pleasure through her when he moved. That, plus the steady rhythm he kept up on her clit was unspooling a delicious heat within her.

Thoughts of Draco raced through her mind. His hands on Plimpy's steering wheel, his signet ring glinting in the sunlight, his smiling face as he stole her sunglasses and put them on—a slightly too pointed chin and nose balanced by a strong jaw and broad shoulders. The way his hair curled slightly, just behind his ears.

The way he had kissed her under the stars. His arms around her. His arms around her right now.

She moaned as he nipped at her ear. She reached behind her and grasped his hip, pulling him in deeper. He picked up his pace.

"Fuck, Granger. You're so fucking good. So fucking good."

The tension was building within her, almost to a painful degree. She chased after it— finding that delicate thread within her and urging it tighter and tighter until—

It snapped.

She came with a breathy moan, shuddering and tightening around him.

He gave a delighted chuckle but did not relent for her. He kept up a bruising pace, fucking into her from behind, as she went boneless and felt a bit like a rag doll in his arms.

After a few more moments she felt him tense and he grunted into her ear, squeezing her thigh as he too tumbled over the edge and came hard inside of her.

They stayed together for a long minute, breathing almost in tandom. She squirmed a little on his cock, enjoying the feel of it. Soon though he softened enough to slip from her and with a quiet sigh, he pulled her back into his chest and held her tight.

"I would give up on sleep entirely if I could do that every night," he told her.

Her breath faltered as rationality fought to break back into her psyche. What did he mean by every night? What was going through his head?

A finger brushed soft strokes against her collarbone. "Go to sleep, Granger," he gently commanded.

With a sigh of her own she decided to obey. There would be time enough for thinking in the morning.

She work to the warbling cry of a magpie. The unfamiliarity of it roused her abruptly. Her eyes snapped open. The room was flooded with light.

A huff of warm breath tickled the nape of her neck. Slowly she craned her neck to peer over her shoulder. Draco was curled up against her, still breathing deeply and very much asleep.

She stilled, strategizing for a moment.

There were clearly two options for her in this scenario. She could stay in bed and try to stuff all her thinking inside a box again and hope that it didn't come spilling out any time soon because, undoubtedly, if she stayed in bed it would send a very clear signal that what they had done last night (twice!) was going to happen again.

And it would be very nice, of course, to turn over and bury herself in the strong body beside her. He might make her laugh and whisper dirty things in her ear, maybe make her cum a couple of times. Later, they might order room service and eat scrambled eggs on the deck, watching the clouds float over Uluru.

She wanted that. Very much.

Very slowly and carefully, she shuffled forward and then rolled onto her other side so she could look at him.

In his sleep, Malfoy looked so innocent. A lie. All the same, he did.

She wanted to run a finger down the bridge of his aquiline nose. To run her hands over the short, pale stubble that was cropping up on his cheeks and chin. To soothe the crease away that had made its home on his brow in sleep— what was he dreaming of?

His lips were swollen. It immediately evoked images of where exactly those lips had been, just hours previously. She shuddered.

The thoughts came crashing down on her.

What did this mean for her? She had jumped into bed with another man. She hadn't slept with anyone but Ron since well… it had been a very long time.

She imagined herself telling Ron: 'Yes Ron, I had sex with Malfoy. No, it wasn't terrible. Actually it was wonderful. But it just happened the once! Well, technically twice.'

Hot, confusing shame infiltrated her nervous system and that made her angry. Why should she feel any shame? Besides, Ron had made it a point to tell her all about how he was moving on. She hadn't done anything wrong!

Had she?

What would Rose think? She'd just had sex with the father of one of her schoolmates. Scorpius had even been a semi-regular presence in their home lately. What would Rose have to say about it? Their relationship was already so fragile. Would this completely tank any hopes of a reconciliation?

Draco's long, pale eyelashes began to flutter. Automatically, she yanked the sheet up over her chest, where it had dipped slightly, exposing her breasts.

Taking this as a sign, she watched for a moment as Malfoy seemed to settle back into sleep, and she extricated herself from the bed and slunk from the room, like she'd just broken the law.

Well, she'd certainly broken some unspoken rules.

She crossed to the small kitchen, glancing out at the landscape as she passed. Uluru was painted in golden, morning light but it felt like it was mid-morning, at least. They would need to check out before too long.

She crossed to the sink, filling the kettle with water and setting it to boil. Her phone had been charging on the bench overnight and she picked it up to see the time.

After she punched in her pin, she was surprised to see that she had missed several calls. All of them were from Carlos— her friend and business partner. As she held the phone in her hand, the magi-tech case warm against her palm, the phone began to buzz and Carlos' name popped up on her screen.

"Hi! Carlos. How are you?" she answered brightly, trying to put aside her confusing morning for a moment.

"Hermione, hi. Sorry, I've tried to call a few times. You weren't picking up," Carlos' deep voice was slow and lilting— it always made her feel calm.

"What's going on?" With one hand she placed a teabag into her mug and traced the rim with a finger as she waited for the water to boil.

"I just wanted to give you the heads up that yesterday I was detained by some ICW representatives. They were asking me a lot of questions about our magitech and the lab. They said they were taking down evidence. Then, this morning when I came into work— I noticed something odd and I checked the security footage, someone broke into the lab."

"What?!" Her fingers curled around the mug and gripped hard.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Carlos responded with what she felt was disproportionate calm.

Hermione swore, "Sorry, Carlos. Okay— yep—yes, well I might have an inkling about what this is all about. The Minister for Magic gave me a bit of a warning when I was in Canberra a couple of weeks ago. I'm confused about the break-in though. That doesn't seem to be the ICWs style."

"Canberra? Hermione, were you in Australia and you didn't even tell me?" Carlos' voice, though still the same lyrical venezuelan-australian lilt, betrayed that he was hurt.

"Actually Carlos, I'm in Australia. As in… presently. I'm in the middle of the Outback, looking at Uluru," she peered through the glass door at the rock as she simultaneously took the kettle off the boil, "And I was going to tell you. I always planned we'd go through Melbourne, our path just hadn't really taken us that far South yet."

"We? Are you here with Ron and the kids?" He was understandably confused.

"No— no. I'm here with a… friend."

There was a pause. Neither of them spoke for a moment as she refused to acknowledge or explain any more than she already had. She breathed a sigh of relief when Carlos moved on.

"I think you should come to the lab as soon as you can. I don't think they've taken anything but I want to know everything you know, Hermione. This seems pretty serious."

"Okay. We can come today. I've got a Hop Token, I think the nearest travel-point is Alice Springs. We'll go there and Hop down to Melbourne. We'll be there by dinner."

"In that case, come to my place first. I'll take you to the lab tomorrow."

They ended the call with some small exchange of anticipation at seeing each other and then Hermione was alone with her thoughts again. Now more layered than they had been on waking. She took her tea out onto the deck and sat, staring at the desert, trying to collect herself.

It did not surprise her when Draco found her, about half an hour later. She turned and watched as he pulled open the glass doors and came padding out to join her, his trousers slung low on his hips and the button-down he had discarded the night before unbuttoned and exposing his chest and abdomen completely.

It was a good metaphor for their dynamic actually— half undone within the spaces they had cultivated between them.

For a moment he wobbled. He had been headed directly for her, as if he were going to approach her and do something. What? Maybe kiss her? At the last moment he frowned and quickly switched directions and headed for the chair across from hers instead.

"Hi," he said, sitting down with a neutral face. Only a slight curl of his lips into an almost smirk alerted her to his thoughts.

"Hi," she returned with a polite smile. Her heart ached. A huge part of her longed to hold out her arms and watch him step into them.

But she couldn't. She had realised that.

"I got a call from Carlos," she rushed into explanation mode, "You remember, my business partner for maginullium— Sabine and I told you about him. Anyway, he said he was detained by the ICW and then his lab was broken into. I don't think I can ignore this ICW business any longer, Malfoy. And I know, I know— you told me that days ago but they detained Carlos! It's not just about me anymore. So I think we should go to Melbourne. Today. If that's okay?"

She took a breath. Malfoy just stared at her, leaning forward on his knees— his gray eyes narrowed.

"So that's it then," he said slowly, "You're rejecting me again?"

His words hit her consciousness like a slap. How had he read her so well? Not that she was rejecting him. Well, she also wasn't not rejecting him. She didn't really know what she was doing.

"I… don't know. I don't know what I'm doing."

He nodded sharply, his face twisting into a sneer. "Right. Of course."

"Malfoy…" she pleaded, leaning forward to try to touch his knee.

He flinched away from her.

"Silly me, Granger. Of course— let's go to Melbourne. Why not? If you proposed a trip to Antarctica, I'd probably follow you blindly, wouldn't I?"

"Don't do that," she bit back, "It's reductive. Don't pretend that you don't feel whatever this thing between us is. It's complicated, Malfoy. I'm just doing the best I can to cope while we figure it out."

His jaw clenched and he stared out at the Rock for a moment before turning to look at her with heated, unwavering eye contact. "I'll tell you what's not complicated. You moaning while I made you cum twice last night, Granger."

She leaned back, eyes widening at his blunt words. Unbidden, images of his head buried between her thighs danced through her mind.

"That's not fair. You're being cruel."

He flinched, his face screwing up with frustration and hurt.

"Malfoy, if this was just about sex, I'd be in bed with you right now."

He stilled.

"But it isn't just about sex, is it? And we're in the middle of a desert, on a quest to save your son from a fatal blood curse. For Merlin's sake, I'm being hunted down by the ICW and my kids aren't even talking to me right now. We cannot afford to lose our heads about this!"

He scoffed, "And how long do you think it's going to be before we end up back in bed? Unless you want to part ways right here and now? I could carry on without you, of course. I've got Bruce— maybe he can learn how to boss me around and order me into death caves."

A red flush was working its way across Malfoy's pale cheeks. He was angry, yes. He was also very vulnerable and she was hurting him. She was actively hurting him.

"You're being ridiculous," she told him softly, "I'm not going anywhere. I just think that we need to give ourselves time to figure this— whatever it is— out."

She watched the tension leak from his body as he leaned forward and rubbed at his temples.

"Fine," he groaned.

"Fine?"

"No. Not really but okay. I get it. I'll listen to whatever rules you've devised in your head but first I need coffee. Also, I'm going to give you fair warning that I won't just comply mindlessly. I can respect your boundaries, Hermione, but I'm not going to pretend that this thing between us doesn't exist."

He was spot on. She had devised some ground rules in her head, but she was still annoyed that he had found a way to both predict and mock her about it in the same sentence.

The rules would be as follows: 1) No more sex, 2) No more physical affection of any kind, 3) No more gratuitous flirting.

Scrap that.

3) No more flirting full stop.

And she was going to lay down the law with him, just as soon as she stopped stumbling over her thoughts and saying the wrong things. Coffee first.

Coffee helped. Sort of.

Enough to get them moving and checked out. They sliced through the blue sky in Plimpy. Red desert-scape stretched out in every direction beneath them.

Ostensibly, Malfoy wasn't talking to her. Not in any real sense. He seemed to have decided that an icy casualness was how he was going to deal with the fallout from their night together.

A night she still carried physical reminders of, every time she leaned forward or shifted in her seat— she could feel the evidence that he had been inside her not so long ago. It was at once an appealing kind of ache and also— completely panic inducing.

Any time she tried to talk to him, he avoided eye contact and either made a light remark or gave her monosyllabic responses. She wanted to shake him out of it, but honestly, he was clearly on a different page to her and she couldn't really blame him. She was almost entirely to blame for the mess they found themselves in. She had been reeling after her conversation with Ron and it had made her emotionally volatile. She had been looking for excuses to give in to their attraction.

The big question— the one she needed to answer before she could decide one way or the other whether she would pursue any feelings that might be developing for Malfoy— was whether she had done it primarily because she was angry and hurt about Ron? Or, was it because she genuinely had feelings for Malfoy?

Logically, she knew that both things could be true. But until she figured out what her bigger motivator was, she wouldn't be able to give Malfoy any clarity on her feelings.

For his part, she had to concede that he'd made himself quite clear.

She looked over at his profile. His hair was uncharacteristically imperfect and his top two buttons were casually undone. He was disheveled and delicious. Merlin, it made it hard to be rational about things. He gripped the steering wheel, drumming his fingers on the leather in time with the beat of an old song that was playing over the radio.

She slunk back into her seat and leaned her head against the glass of the window, enjoying the cooling effect it had on her hot cheeks, as she watched the terrain unfold below. She mapped small valleys and red ridges, tracing their peaks and gully's with her eyes.

As she watched, she felt a thought tugging at her sub-conscious. There was something very familiar about what she was seeing— something about the curves of the peaks and valleys. It was almost like…

"GOOD GODRIC!"

Malfoy jumped, accidentally leaning on the horn. Plimpy let out a joyful TOOT.

"What?!" he asked in alarm.

"I know what the pictographs in the stone carvings mean. Or well— I don't but I know what they are!"

He stared at her for a moment, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. "Out with it!"

She felt shaky and lightheaded. She couldn't quite decide: was she desperately stupid to have not seen it before or brilliant for recognizing it now?

"Malfoy, it's a topographic map!"

He blinked, looked out the windscreen. He let out a sudden, brash laugh and then turned back to her. His face mirrored her feelings: shock and embarrassment.

"Obviously it is," he drawled, "How did we miss that?"

"I think we were too busy looking for something a little less obvious. Christ! This entire time— literally a map of exactly where the Fountain is."

He shook his head in disbelief.

She dove into her bag, summoning the journal to the tips of her fingers, and it rose from the illegally-extended depths. She pulled the journal into her lap and flipped it open, to the page with the copy of the carvings they had seen on the stone slabs.

She stared at it, tilting her head this way and then that way. If she were being honest, when she squinted, it looked more like a woman's reproductive system than it did a map. She had no idea where it was— nor a solid plan for finding out. She pulled out her phone and accessed maps, quickly realizing that it would take days to cover every inch of Australia in the detail she would need to if she wanted to match the map.

"But we still need to figure out where this map fits in the broader topography of Australia!" Huffing, she discarded her phone beside her, feeling discouraged.

"We'll figure it out, Granger." Malfoy reassured her, "This is the bloody missing piece we've been searching for. I could kiss your beautiful brain!"

Her pulse picked up. "Rule three, Malfoy!"

She had filled him in on the rules earlier, as they had checked out and packed themselves back into Plimpy. He had given her a dead-eyed stare and just said "No."

"Rule three, Malfoy!" he mocked in a high-pitched tone she assumed was supposed to be her. She scowled.

"Maybe Carlos will be able to help us," she mused aloud.

"Speaking of this Carlos character," Malfoy replied, blatant curiosity bleeding into his body language though he was trying to play it off as casual, "I want to know more about how the two of you know each other."

"What is there to know that you haven't already been told? I met both Carlos and Sabine at AIMS and we became friends. Carlos and I were more aligned in our academic interests and that's why I went to him with the Maginullium prototype. Although, it seems Sabine might have her nose put-out by that. That's it— the story."

Malfoy's brows rose quizzically, "Ahh. I wasn't sure if it was just your thing. But tell me Granger, is it just jealous about the collaboration or, does it go deeper? I got the impression that you were fighting over Carlos and not your brilliant little invention."

"I didn't think we were fighting at all," she replied, "Sabine is sensitive. She can be like that."

"Answer my question, Granger." Malfoy said directly, looking at her quite earnestly, "Is Sabine in love with this Carlos fellow?"

Hermione sighed, "Everyone is in love with Carlos, Draco." His eyebrows rose. "But yes— if you are trying to probe about whether Carlos has created tension in my relationship with Sabine, the answer is yes. She was in love with him back when we were in school together. At the time I was with Ron, so it wasn't an issue. She started dating someone else and I thought it was fine but then…" she trailed off, her brain trying desperately to locate a sequence of words that would not elicit the kind of reaction she was pretty sure he was about to have.

"But then?" he prompted.

She crossed her arms over her chest, "Okay. Yes. Carlos and I had a very brief fling while Ron and I were broken up temporarily. Happy? Sabine didn't know but she definitely suspected and it made things really tense and ugly. But after a few months I moved back to the UK and went back to Ron. Carlos and I were barely a thing! I've never understood why she's so hung up on it."

Malfoy's eyes were blown wide and he made a kind of crowing, triumphant noise.

"You little hussy!" he accused, "This entire time you've been lying to your friend and you slept with the love of her life."

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it and then snorted."Love of her life? You don't know Sabine but I do, she just likes to hold a grudge."

"Gryffindors always pretend to be virtuous and true-of-heart but you're all just a bunch of sex-addled maniacs when it comes down to it, aren't you?"

"Malfoy!"

"And I'm your latest victim. Obviously."

"Malfoy!"

"I might buy Carlos a beer when we meet, we can commiserate together. Who else was left in the wake of Hermione Granger's sexual trail of destruction, I wonder? Poor bloke. I bet he's the lonely academic type, too. Probably still hung up on you, after all these years."

"Okay, this is getting very pointed!" she interrupted, "You're hardly a victim here, Draco. Wasn't it you who knocked on my bedroom door in the middle of the night? What did you think was going to happen?"

"Pretty much what happened this morning. I put my feelings out there, you reject them politely citing complications. I figured I'd maybe yell at you a bit, make myself feel better. I can't believe you let me in your knickers! That was definitely not something I saw coming."

This was flooring. She was floored!

"Excuse me? You're painting me as some unfeeling bitch. I slept with you because I wanted to. I'm not some robot. We've been dancing around our attraction for weeks. I have feelings, Draco. I have loads of them. Just because I'm not ready to order the marriage banns doesn't mean I'm not feeling things."

His jaw clenched and he looked out the window. She wasn't sure if he looked more like he wanted to yell at her or cry.

“Well, that’s a relief, Granger—that you have feelings in my general direction.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Here I thought you just fucked me because you were pissed that your ex—who, for the record, is a complete and utter moron—is going on dates with other women. Thought maybe I was just a convenient revenge lay.” He turned back to her, eyes sharp. “But no. You’ve got feelings about things. That changes everything.”

Her eyes prickled. The sound of the wind buffeting Plimpy roared through her ears. She burned as shame and embarrassment dropped, like lead, right through the centre of her.

It was manipulative and cruel of him to point it out but— hadn't she been asking herself the same questions?

"I've asked for time to figure myself out," she replied almost in a whisper, because she couldn't trust her voice not to wobble if she spoke any louder. She gripped her seatbelt tightly, wringing it between her hands."You're being deliberately cruel to try to provoke me into saying things I don't want to say. I'm not going to take the bait. Believe it or not, Draco— I'm very open to giving us a shot, provided the timing is right for both of us. It is not going to work if you keep rushing me or goading me into emotional traps so that you can punish me."

He was quiet, his eyes downcast and glued to a spot on the steering wheel.

She watched him inhale and exhaled.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It looked like he was trying to put some occlumency walls back in place because when he turned her again, his expression was calm and his eyes gave nothing away.

"Perhaps you're right," he conceded. "Maybe we should instate a fourth rule: no emotional warfare before lunch?"

Despite herself, she smiled.

Malfoy lurched out of the phone booth and immediately stumbled into a violent sprawl on the footpath. She braced a palm against the glass wall of the booth, took a few fortifying deep breaths, and then followed him out.

Hopping— it was never a fun way to travel. Also why was it so exorbitantly expensive?

"Why is something so vomit inducing, so expensive?" Malfoy demanded to know.

He groaned as she glanced around at their surroundings. They were on a corner just by Carlton Gardens. There must have been some very strong muggle-repelling charms because it was half-past-three and there were crowds of students and shoppers milling around but nobody was paying Malfoy even an ounce of attention.

"Well, we did just travel over two-thousand kilometres in the blink of an eye. I should think that's worth the expense and the discomfort," she stepped over to him and offered her hand.

He stared at it for a moment before taking it and she helped him to his feet.

"Do you think Plimpy is wondering why we abandoned her?" she fretted as she checked her phone for directions.

"No. Because Plimpy does not think," he responded impatiently.

They had transfigured Plimpy into a tree stump and left her on the outskirts of Alice Springs with full intention to go back to claim her once they were done in Melbourne.

"We should head straight to Carlos' lab. It's just in Parkville which is the next suburb over, so we can definitely walk, or we could catch a tram?" she gestured at a passing tram, that screeched at them on cue.

Malfoy screwed up his face, "I'll pass on the muggle death-trap thanks. Let's walk."

She led him through the streets of Carlton to a consistent soundtrack of Malfoy complaining about how hungry he was and, Malfoy complaining about how much he needed a coffee. She did not relent on letting him stop for pizza but she did relent to a takeaway coffee and brownie because they looked divine. Also, she was frankly relieved that he was leaning into their old dynamic.

She found herself attuned to every shift of his body or subtle look that floated across his face. She snuck looks at him when he wasn't looking or from her periphery. The cogs in her mind turned and turned. But she was grateful that he would let them pretend things weren't changing between them. There was comfort in that.

Finally, they crossed Swanston Street and entered the University of Melbourne, walking past a combination of gleaming new buildings and older sandstone monoliths that reminded her a little of Hogwarts.

"This way," she gestured for him to follow through a long passageway of stone arches that definitely made her feel like she was on her way to a transfiguration class. After a moment they came out at a small grass yard called The Old Quadrangle. She knew this was where she needed to be to gain access to the lab, the only problem was she now had to remember the exact brick that would be their passageway to the hidden magical college— an AIMS campus. The first and oldest campus in Australia.

She approached a familiar looking brick wall that was partly covered by ivy.

"Can you be lookout, Malfoy?" she hissed, "There are muggle repelling charms but I'm only ninety percent sure this is the right wall."

He nodded and then immediately crossed his arms and turned his back to her in a good impression of a bodyguard. She stifled her laugh and turned to the wall, discretely pulling out her wand and tapping at various bricks. Finally she hit upon a slightly darker brick and they were pulling back, revealing a dark passageway crowned by a stone arch.

"Malfoy, let's go," she gestured at the passage and stalked through it, not waiting to see if he followed.

The Melbourne AIMS campus had a very different feel to the Brisbane campus. Where Brisbane had been a blend of old meets new, the decor in Melbourne was a more traditional academia meets antiquity.

Hermione pulled them up in front of a heavy looking wooden door with a small bronze plaque that read Southern Cross Enchanted Materials (SCEM) lab. Shooting Malfoy a quick glance she went to knock on the door.

"Wait!" Malfoy said.

She turned around, frowning.

He stepped into her personal space and immediately her senses lit up. A shiver ran down her spine as the scent of him hit her nose. He reached a clever hand forward and trapped one of her curls between his fingers, running them up its length. He plucked something from her hair, a small leaf, and held it up for her to see— his face just inches from hers.

His stormy eyes trapped her in an electric hold. She exhaled sharply. "Thanks," she mumbled and then turned and knocked on the door, the rhythm of it was as confused as she was.

After a few moments, the door creaked open and she was greeted with the familiar face of Dr. Carlos Paredes.

"Hermione!" he greeted her with a wide smile, throwing his arms wide for her to step into. She squeezed him back as he slightly picked her up off the ground, making her chuckle. It was undercut though, by the awareness she had of Malfoy watching them in her periphery.

"Hello my friend," she greeted. "It's so good to see you."

"Come in. Come in," he put her down and gestured into the lab and then she watched as his dark, coffee coloured eyes landed on Malfoy. With only the barest hint of confusion, he pivoted and offered Malfoy a warm smile. "Oh, hello. You must be the friend. Welcome to my lab."

Unlike Carlos, Malfoy was not smiling. In fact he looked mildly alarmed, his eyes wide and mouth opened slightly in surprise.

Hermione frowned.

"Malfoy?"

He shook his head slightly and then leaned forward and offered his hand to Carlos. She noticed he shook it with extra vigor.

One thing Hermione hadn't mentioned, because it hardly seemed relevant, was that Carlo Paredes was what many people would consider to be conventionally attractive. And by that, she supposed she actually meant that he was stupidly fit.

"Carlos, this is my friend Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is Dr. Carlos Paredes."

Carlos looked at her quickly, a puzzled expression momentarily clouding his perfectly symmetrical face. Had the name Draco Malfoy ever come up in their conversations? Perhaps it had. And if it had, it definitely wasn't in a good way.

"It's good to meet you, Draco." Carlos said warmly, "Why don't you both come in. I'll make tea."

"Lovely to meet an old friend of Hermione's," Malfoy retorted, his voice lower and smoother than usual.

They followed Carlos into the lab. It hadn't changed much since Hermione had been there last. She had seen his personal space in dissaray before, but this was almost an art installation.

There were several long tables under large, glass windows that let large quantities of light in. Wires and tools littered all of them. There were laptops, televisions and other electrical goods piled in one corner— all of them covered in shining, maginullium cases. A 3D printer appeared to be working on a case of some kind with several runes inscribed on the front. Papers littered nearly every surface.

The pièce de résistance, though, was a modular sofa, its cushions ripped off and strewn across the rug as if someone had made a giant nest in the middle of the room.

"Merlin!" Malfoy spluttered. "It's been ransacked!"

Hermione caught Carlos' eye. He looked sheepish.

"Errr," she intervened, "No. I don't think it has."

Carlos shrugged, "I'm messy."

Malfoy said a very specific "Oh!" and then closed his mouth and said nothing but there was a twinkle in his eye.

Hermione frowned wondering exactly why Malfoy seemed to be mentally cataloguing her friends faults with such enthusiasm less than two minutes into their acquaintance.

"We don't care about the state of your lab, Carlos," she reassured.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "It's very… quaint," he offered after a beat.

Carlos scratched the back of his head, "I know I should have cleaned up a bit before you came but I got carried away working on a new prototype," he gestured over at the 3D printer.

'Behave' she mouthed at Malfoy while his back was turned. Malfoy rolled his eyes at her.

"Oh, what is it?" she said loudly.

"A maginullium disk to keep tracking charms and other magic from sticking. The Department of Magic ordered dozens of them."

Hermione offered him a tight-lipped smile, her heart sinking at the thought that the prototype might never see the light of day. "That's great Carlos but why don't you tell us all about your visit from the ICW and why you think someone has been snooping around in the lab?"

"Right," Carlos said, going over to a small kitchenette and pulling his exceedingly long wand from his sleeve.

Malfoy eyed it with raised brows.

"It was all quite strange. I gut a summons from my Dean and there was an American man in his office. He told me he was with the ICW and wanted to ask me a few questions about our patent and our manufacturing contracts. He also had questions about you Hermione."

"Do you remember the man's name?" Malfoy cut-in before Hermione even had a chance to ask.

"John Biggins," Carlos supplied calmly. He approached them with two steaming cups of milky tea although Hermione was unsure where he had procured the milk from. She took it with trepidation and sniffed at it suspiciously.

Malfoy accepted his politely and then promptly found a surface (on top of a laptop) to place it.

"Hermione, from the questions they were asking— it seems like they think maginullium could be dangerous."

Carlos looked at her with shining, worried eyes. She wanted nothing more than to allay his fears but this last move all but confirmed that the ICW were getting ready to make a move. What she was clear on was that maginullium was not a credible threat to the wizarding world. The ICWs motives however, were what she wasn't clear on.

Hermione filled Carlos in on her conversation with Nellaria Plumb. She explained her suspicions about how they were building a case against maginullium and trying to shut their operation down or, at least, seriously regulate it— which would be the same thing in practice.

Malfoy said nothing the entire time but he watched their exchange closely.

"My guess is they're going to try to accuse you of intent to produce and distribute a controlled magical substance— in this case, attempted arms dealing probably," he contributed after she and Carlos had mused openly about the charges they would try to pursue against them.

Hermione froze, her attention switched to focus entirely on Malfoy. His words echoed through her mind and while she dimly registered that her breaths were coming in an accelerated staccato, she mostly felt numb.

Attempted arms dealing. Her brain catalogued the charge against what she had known of the ICW during her time at the ministry. It checked out— since the war they had been closely monitoring any kind of potential weapons or dark magic followings in the UK. It fit with what she knew of them. She just never thought that she would be on their list.

"Sorry, what?" Carlos asked, the cut of his jaw painfully visible as he tensed it. She noticed Malfoy noticing, his eyes profiling Carlos' handsome face in detail.

"Well that's probably one of the worse case scenarios. It could be abetting prohibited magical innovation or something as simple as trafficking in unlicensed magical products or even just plain old public endangerment."

"No," Hermione said holding up a finger, "Malfoy, I used to run the DMLE. I'm a trained solicitor. There is absolutely no way that any of those bogus claims could be proved."

"Use your brain Granger," Malfoy sniped. "It doesn't matter if they can prove it. Your political opponents have been running a smear campaign against you for the better part of a year. This would be the nail in your coffin, Granger. It doesn't matter if it's true."

Carlos offered her a warm and sympathetic smile, "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

She ignored him, instead turning back to the gray eyes that cut her down like a knife. "That doesn't make sense, Malfoy. I already lost the election— why bother?"

"Just because you're not in Office doesn't mean you're not still a threat. You lost that election by a slim margin, Granger. You're still Potter's best friend and the youngest Minister for Magic in history. If you wanted to make waves, you absolutely could."

"This could ruin my career too," Carlos pointed.

"Carlos, I'm not going to let that happen," she reassured, taking a step forward and placing a hand on her friends shoulder. "It's me they're going after. We'll figure out a way to keep you out of it."

She looked over at Malfoy for reassurance but he was too busy eyeing her hand, now casually touching Carlos' bicep. Without thinking she snatched it away and then felt annoyed with herself.

They discussed the situation for several more minutes, her frustration growing with every moment. They kept covering the same ground, unsure how to shut down the inquiry without seriously hurting their business dealings.

After some time, Carlos showed them why he thought the lab had been broken into— he pulled up his security footage and showed them a poorly disillusioned figure rifling through papers and trying, without success, to turn on one of the laptops. When they couldn't figure it out, in a fit of rage they had chuckled it across the room and followed it up with a jet of red light.

Carlos showed her a fried laptop. It looked like the intruder had cast a stupefy at it.

"But did they take anything?" Malfoy asked in a clipped tone.

Carlos shrugged and looked around at the chaotic lab, "It's hard to know."

The muscles in Malfoy's jaw twitched.

"Well," Hermione finally huffed, "There's not much we can do right now." She had rescued some cushions from the ground and created enough space for her and Carlos to seat themselves on the sofa. Malfoy had pulled up an uncomfortable-looking office chair and was staring at her, arms crossed.

"You didn't actually tell me why you're even here in Australia," Carlos finally prompted.

Hermione spun an abridged version of the story with Malfoy cutting in every now and then to amend something or underscore any detail that made him seem resourceful or clever.

"And you still don't know where the fountain is, even though you have a map now?"

Hermione shook her head and pulled out her phone to show him the pictures she had taken which he looked at with interest.

"It looks a bit like peninsular, no?" he asked, tilting his head.

"That's what I think!"

Malfoy scoffed, "It does not, it looks like a pudendum."

Nobody acknowledged what Malfoy thought.

"Carlos, do you know if there's some way we can match this images to Google maps or something?"

Carlos rubbed at his dimpled chin thoughtfully, "Look, I'm sure it's possible but it would be beyond my capabilities. I still don't know much beyond the basics but I have a PhD student that can probably find your Fountain in under five minutes."

Hermione and Malfoy both perked up.

"Can we meet them now?"

"Afraid not, sorry," he told them regretfully, "They are at a music festival near Warrandyte for the weekend. They won't be back until Sunday evening."

"Okay, that's a pity. I suppose a couple of days isn't going to make a huge difference in the end but I had hoped to get information sooner."

"Well, hold on, can I have a look at that picture again?" Carlos held out his hand and Hermione passed him the phone, "Yeah. Come to think of it— it kind of looks like Wilson's Prom, don't you think?"

Hermione hadn't ever been to Wilson's Promontory but she pulled it up on Google maps and squinted at it. Maybe?

She showed her phone to Malfoy who just shrugged and shook his head.

"Well, why don't you just come and stay at my place. I can cook you some of my home-made lasagna. I know how much you love it, Hermione."

She felt herself lighting up at the thought of his lasagna.

"Oh! That would be—"

"No!" Malfoy cut in, standing an announcing himself like a coiled spring releasing its tension. He seemed to recognize his rudeness quickly, a flush rapidly creeping up his neck as they looked at him in awkward silence.

Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed Hermione's wrist, tugging her forcefully to her feet. It all happened so quickly she didn't even have time to protest.

"Err, that is to say. Thank you Carlos, but we've got our accommodation sorted and in fact, we should go and get a good nights sleep because we may as well go and check out this Wilson's Promenade place tomorrow— don't you agree Granger?"

Hermione didn't know if she agreed, she was still staring at his hand around her wrist and trying to figure out why he was acting so unbalanced.

Liar.

What accommodation? Clearly, he just didn't want to stay at Carlos' home although he hadn't had a problem staying with Sabine. She wondered if it was the mess or the fact that Carlos looked like a movie star. A movie star Hermione had slept with. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

"Maybe we could still catch up for—" she began to say.

"So nice to meet you, Carlos," Malfoy spoke over her quickly, already pulling her towards the door. "We'll send you the photo. Keep in touch with Granger here about all the ICW nonsense."

"Okay?" Carlos said, as if he too wasn't quite sure what was happening.

"Sorry, Carlos. His blood sugar must be spiking. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll—"

The door closed behind them, cutting her off.

When they were back in the Quadrangle, she pushed back on her heels and yanked her wrist from his grasp.

"You are abominably rude!"

"I couldn't bare it a moment longer. I was crawling out of my skin, Granger." There was a manic glint in his eye. She believed him.

"You're just jealous, Malfoy. And you have no reason to be, so it's extremely infuriating."

"The man lives in a hovel! How can he stand it? What a let down— such a beautiful face and he can't seem to even figure out a basic filing system."

"I assure you, he's extremely brilliant. Organisational skills just aren't his strong suit."

"As a fellow EAP I—"

"A fellow what?"

"E.A.P. Extremely attractive person."

He looked at her as if he was daring her to disagree.

She coughed. "Go on," she encouraged, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

His eyes narrowed. "As an EAP I understand that it's very tempting to just cruise through life on looks alone but it's not very character building, is it?"

Her laugh bubbled up and erupted. She estimated it took a full five minutes of Malfoy glaring at her until she could calm herself down enough to resume conversation. By this point they were walking through the front entrance of the University and back out into the streets of Carlton.

"You know Draco," she told him calmly, "One thing I like about you is your ability to go from rational adult to self-important rich toff in three seconds flat. And you can mark that down as a compliment because truly, it's inspired."

He scowled at her.

"I will not."

"So, since you're so scared of a bit of mess— where are we going to stay tonight, Merlin's gift?"

Malfoy paused and then put out a hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"Can't you just book us a hotel on your apple?"

Well, yes. She supposed she could. "And we're just going to go off to Wilson's Prom tomorrow?"

"Yes," he replied. "Do you have a better idea?"

She did not.

"Any other plans you want to fill me in on?"

"Yes," he told her earnestly, "We're having pizza for dinner."

He dropped his hand and then continued on, expecting her to follow although she was very sure he had no idea where he was going.

She didn't like it, this version of Malfoy who made decisions on their behalf and bossed her around. Or, confusingly— maybe she did like it? It felt like somewhere in the time since he had knocked on her door and their meeting with Carlos, the power dynamics had shifted and she didn't know exactly how or why.

The back of his blond head was a beacon in the confusing storm she now found herself in as she followed him through the streets of Melbourne.

Chapter Text

Titus Smith stood across from the entrance of their hotel, leaning against a streetlight.

"Aww fuck," Draco said.

Granger sighed, "I'm too tired for this. I guess the jig is up."

Titus straightened and narrowed his eyes at them. They stood still, frozen by his unblinking disapprobation.

"Oi, you two!" Titus growled, "With me."

They looked at each other and then ducked their heads, following the hulking figure like skulking teenagers.

He led them up La Trobe street and to a cafe just outside Flagstaff. There was a large sign out the front with the picture of a smiling, black cat saying 'Our Coffee is Purrfect!". He peered at the interior which was entirely cat themed— a development that had Draco scrutinizing Titus Smith closely. (Why?)

Titus said nothing, leading them inside where the barista greeted him with a friendly wave. He ordered them a round of coffees (which was nice of him) and then ushered them over to a large table.

Draco exchanged a look with Granger as Titus pulled out his wand and—

"Woah!" Granger interrupted.

Titus blinked at her. "It's a magical cafe," he explained, "I'm not a psycho." He proceeded to cast a muffliato while Draco looked around, realising that there was a teapot pouring itself two tables over (also in the shape of a cat).

"Okay, look" Titus said, bringing Draco's attention back to the table, "You two fuckers have given me a world of trouble and I'm pretty pissed off with you."

Granger flushed and offered Titus a placating smile. Draco did nothing of the sort.

"Well, you're pretty annoying Smith. What were we supposed to do?"

Titus scowled, "How about not send me to the Galapagos?"

"I hear it's lovely this time of the year," Draco retorted, "But we have no idea what you're talking about, do we Granger?"

Granger arranged her face into something that looked a little bit like a Picasso. Belatedly he realized she was trying to look innocent.

"No. No idea what you're implying."

Titus frowned, his striking blue eyes narrowed to sharp points.

"Minister Plumb is losing her patience with you. It's a testament to her respect for you Minister Granger, that she hasn't sent an entire team after you. I was supposed to be discreet personal security and you've been treating me like I'm the enemy."

"Did you get in much trouble?" Draco inquired with a smirk.

"None of your business."

"A bit embarrassing though, isn't it? How many times have we ditched you now? Three? No… Four!"

Of course it had been many, many more when they were in the time loop— but Titus Smith didn't know that.

"Stop antagonizing him, Draco. He's just doing his job." Granger said, nudging him in the side.

He closed his mouth, swallowing the next witty remark that had been on the tip of his tongue.

"Sorry, Titus," Granger said genuinely, "But you have to understand— I don't appreciate being assigned security. Malfoy and I have work to do. Work that is not possible with a government-assigned babysitter."

"About that work," Titus replied, "Let's not pretend for a moment that you're actually here trying to build a potions supply chain."

Granger shrugged, "Okay, fine. We won't."

"But you won't tell me what you're up to and you expect me to, what? Leave you alone?"

"We aren't doing anything illegal."

Titus snorted, "I've tracked you through three different states. You've done everything in your power to lose me. You even made that ridiculous flying van of yours unplottable. You can't expect me to believe that you're not up to something dodgy!"

"About the tracking," Draco cut in, "How are you managing it? Did they put a trace on us when we entered the country?"

Titus sneered at him, "I'm a highly-trained auror in the service of the Minister for Magic— I have my tricks you couldn't even dream up. I'm not telling you."

Fair enough.

"So here is what's going to happen," Titus told them patiently, "I'm going to give you a letter from the Minister for Magic and you're going to read it because, despite what you might think, she has your best interests at heart. Then, you're going to tell me exactly what it is you two have been up to on your mad quest around the country. The International Confederation of Wizards are here sniffing after you," he nodded at Granger, "Are the two related? Should Nell be worried?"

Granger opened her mouth to begin to speak but Draco cut in over the top of her, "And if we refuse to talk?"

Titus placed his wand on the table between them. It was a simple gesture that implied a threat. It was too bad he'd proven himself so ineffectual against their magic and ingenuity so many times— it ruined the effect.

So too did the tattooed barista coming over and delivering their coffees with a cheerful, "Enjoy!"

"If you talk I won't press charges against you for assault on a law enforcement officer."

"Assault?!" Draco barked, "When?"

Titus rolled his eyes, "Are you serious?"

Honestly it was all a bit of a blur given the time-loop situation. He had set Bruce on Titus at one point, hadn't he? Did that constitute assault? Did Titus remember that?

Granger cleared her throat awkwardly, "Look Titus, I speak for us both when I say we're open to being a little bit more compliant."

He shot her a look to convey that he had no intention of being more compliant, but she ignored him.

Titus nodded and then shuffled to a half stand to pull a letter from his back pocket which he handed over without ceremony.

"Read this, then we talk."

She took the letter and opened it. She didn't hold it up so that he could read with her, nor gesture for him to read over her shoulder, so he observed her instead. She read with a fixed determination he remembered from their Hogwarts days. Back then, he would have found it priggish and mocked her loudly.

Now… he was acutely aware that everything she did seemed to have a strange magnetism. Even devouring a letter had him thinking foolish thoughts.

A younger Draco would have considered him weak for the way he had completely lost control of his feelings— allowing her to dictate everything: timelines, boundaries, whether or not he could be open with her about them.

She scrunched up her face at something in the letter and he sighed internally. Yes, he was frustrated but he would need to learn to be a more patient man if he wanted to have any kind of chance of pursuing things with her. He needed to start thinking about this as a test— a chance to prove himself.

Maybe before their night together he wouldn't have risked his ego. Now— he wouldn't presume he even had a choice. What was new, really? Granger said jump, Draco said: how high, Granger?

It wasn't like she didn't have a point. He knew— of course he knew— she wasn't ready for what he wanted from her. He hadn't even been aware that he was ready.

She finished, turned the paper face down on the table and looked up at Titus.

"Message received loud and clear," she said, then she turned to Draco, "This letter just confirmed all of our suspicions. The ICW are making their move, she expects they'll call an official inquiry in the next couple of days."

Draco swore softly, "That doesn't give us much time to finish things up here."

"No. Well, it doesn't give me much time."

"Granger, I'm going back to the UK with you, when the time comes. You're going to need the support."

He wanted to roll his eyes at the way his words knocked her sideways. She gaped at him for a moment— uncharacteristically speechless.

"You need to finish things here!" she finally spluttered.

"What things, exactly?" Titus cut in.

They both turned to him.

"Things," he said, straightening to his full height.

"Things, hey?" Titus said with a leer, leaning forward, his hand pressed over his wand, "You know Draco Malfoy, I know a lot of things. Things that would make your hair curl."

Well it just so happened that Draco knew things too.

"Granger, do you remember my glorious little trick in 6th year? The one that left even you and your friends in the dark."

She looked very confused for a moment. He could see the wheels turning in her head until she finally seemed to understand, he mouth opened into a little 'oh' of comprehension. He eyed his backpack on the ground next to him with intention.

"What are you two plotting? No… seriously— I don't want any more shenanigans, Malfoy. If you pull another one over me I'm going to arrest you! I mean it this time. I'll bring in a team and I'll—"

It was too late. Draco inched his hand into his bag and wordlessly summoned the Peruvian Darkness Powder, something he had stocked begrudgingly— memories of his own clever use of it tinged by the repercussions of his teenaged actions.

The cat cafe was plunged into darkness.

"Malfoy!!!"

Draco laughed openly. He grabbed Granger and his bag and they were moving. Running through a sombre void, bumping and ricocheting. Nearby a friendly barista and a highly trained Auror with 'tricks up his sleeve' were yelling colourful obscenities at them.

He reached out and touched the wall, running his hand along it until he found glass and he knew they were at the front of the cafe. He grabbed Granger, dragging her in front of him and directing her forward with one hand on her hip. With the other hand he traced the wall until he felt the contours of a doorway and then he was pushing them through, out of the darkness and into the light.

"Brilliant!" Granger said, turning to him and blinking, but with a grin so dazzling it knocked the wind out of him. Before he could collect himself, she was tugging him by the hand and they were running down the street, headed directly for a nearby tram.

She pulled him through the concertina doors and he made it within an inch before they clicked shut loudly behind them. He pressed himself against the glass, waving maniacally as Titus Smith came barrelling out of the cafe and watched on with a hard expression as the tram pulled away with a screech. A moment later, he turned and doubled back into the cafe.

"He's going to apparate to the next stop, I'd put money on it," Granger whispered in his ear.

Draco nodded and watched as she began to survey their surroundings. After a moment, her gaze fixed on something. A small red button. Like a striking snake, she lunged forward and pressed it.

The tram came to a screeching halt.

"Hey!" a muggle yelled, "You can't do that!"

A few other passengers chimed in.

"Apologies. It really is an emergency," Granger called out placatingly, "My friend here is going to be sick."

She looked over at Draco who, cottoning on, did his best to look like he was about to vomit all over the tram. He swayed slightly on his feet and puffed out his cheeks a little.

"Ewww!" a little girl said, pointing.

"Let him off!" a young man shouted.

The tram doors opened and they bolted.

"This way!" Granger said, leading them in the opposite direction up another street entirely. They ran past pedestrians who moved out of their way, or shook their fists at them.

Granger was a whirlwind but she seemed to know exactly where she was going so he didn't question following her even for a moment. When she started to flag, he grabbed her hand and urged her forward. They kept running until suddenly they were crossing the street and standing in front of a familiar building.

"We're going to the lab?" he asked.

"We need some maginullium," she explained, bending at the waist and panting, "We need to conceal our magical signatures. He's obviously put the trace, or something like it on us."

Something twigged in Draco's memory— Carlos telling them about a new product he had developed, one that concealed magical signatures but still allowed for spell-casting.

They barrelled through the university campus, students scattering in their path. Draco's lungs were burning and he could only imagine Granger was struggling too. They couldn't stop though, they needed to get to the lab as quickly as possible.

Soon they were tearing through the Old Quadrangle and barely glancing around to see if anyone was watching when Granger tapped the brick and they were through to AIMS. Less than a minute later, they were pounding on the wooden door of the SCEM lab.

A bemused Carlos opened the door.

"Hermione, what—"

"Carlos, help! We need some of your maginullium disks. Right now!"

A wide eyed Carlos said nothing, merely opened the door wider and turned to head towards the strange contraption in the corner that seemed to create objects out of thin air— some kind of muggle magic.

Draco stopped short at the doorway, almost stumbling over himself. He hadn't thought it was possible but the lab was in even worse shape. There were small pieces of colourful paper stuck on the wall, half of them peeling off and spilling onto the floor like sad confetti.

Where was this man raised? A barn?

Carlos turned, two small, dark and shiny disks in his hand, each of them with a small rune on the front. They were about the size of a galleon.

"How do we activate them?" Granger asked, snatching them up. With a loop of her wand, they sprouted leather cords, clearly intended to be looped around their necks. She handed one to him.

"There's a charm— Claudo Signum. Flick your wand up at the end," Carlos demonstrated with his obscenely long wand.

He and Granger followed suit. Both disks glowed for a moment and then resumed their normal appearance.

"Did it work?" he asked.

Carlos nodded, "It worked. Dare I even ask why you need them?"

Hermione sighed, "Sorry Carlos, this was terribly rude of us. We had to ditch Nell's body guard. You remember I told you how she assigned us a security detail?"

"More like a spy," Draco countered.

Granger shrugged, "Either way, we can't have him tagging along on our quest to find the Fountain. It's— well, it's not the kind of thing we want the Government, any Government to know about."

Carlos looked thoughtful and damn it— even more handsome than usual. The same seething jealousy he had experienced the previous day started to boil in his stomach as he watched Granger casually touch his arm. Under her fingers, Carlos' bicep bulged.

"So Titus can't track us now, right?" he clarified, trying not to notice that Carlos appeared to be a full two inches taller than him.

(He hated Carlos Paredes).

But if he was being fair to himself (which he liked to be), he definitely thought his eyes were more striking. Also, Carlos had a noticeable sheen on his forehead— an excess of oil. The man needed to attend to his skincare potions.

"It's lucky I was here," Carlos said, "I'm actually about to go to brunch with my friend Apolina. You caught me just before I was due to head out."

"Oh!" Granger said, "Is that still going well?"

She said it in an almost teasing tone. The kind of tone one might use with a sibling or close friend to tease them about a love interest. Draco felt himself perking up a little.

Carlos smiled shyly, "It's going really well."

Granger slapped him on the shoulder, "I'm so pleased for you, she sounds lovely."

Draco perked up even more.

Carlos shrugged and smiled, "Hold on— weren't you going to check out Wilson's Prom today?"

"We are," Granger replied, "We were just going to go pick up a rental car when our Government stalker showed up."

Carlos screwed up his face and then began fishing around in his pocket. He pulled out a set of keys and chucked them at Granger, who fumbled but caught them.

"She's parked near the main entrance. You still remember the lessons I gave you?"

Hermione looked down at the keys in her hand, wide-eyed. "Y—Yes but—I'm not sure… it's been such a long time…"

"Oh come on, Hermione. There are about a thousand protective spells on it, what's the worst that could happen? Just bring it back to my house when you're done, okay?"

Granger looked up at him, her face a confusing mix of emotions. Draco's pulse quickened, what on earth were they talking about?

"I've got to go!" Carlos said, looking down at his watch again and then making for the door, "I'll see you tomorrow. Come back around noon— my student never comes in before 11 am. Spell the locks on your way out, please!"

And then he was gone in a hurry— apparently to see a love interest.

He wasn't so bad, this Carlos Paredes fellow.

Several minutes later, Draco found himself standing in a yard full of muggle automobiles and specifically in front of something he knew was called a 'motorcycle'. He knew because his mother had told him cautionary tales about her wayward cousin when he was a child. It always ended in the warning that if he ever associated with muggles and blood-traitors, he too would end up in Azkaban.

Ironic really, given where his father had ended up because of his associations.

"Granger, are you sure?"

"No!" she replied, panicked, "But it would be terribly convenient."

"Does it fly?"

She shook her head, "No. It's mundane. I know how to ride it, I just haven't done it in years. It's quite safe with all the charms Carlos has on it. We could get there and back within the day and parking won't be an issue at all."

"Well," Draco said, "No time like the present to hop back on the bike, yes?"

That earned him a chuckle.

She turned to him. "Can I transfigure your clothes?"

He looked down at himself, "Granger, this shirt is pressed linen. I really don't—"

She wasn't listening— honestly, why did she even bother to ask?

His shirt and pants were transfigured into a thick leather riding jacket and leather pants. His brogues were turned into heavy boots. Quickly, she did the same to her own outfit.

He eyed her, wondering if he looked half as attractive as she did because— holy Helga Hufflepuff— it was doing it for him. He caught Granger eyeing him and smirked. Some ruined clothes were a fair price to pay.

Next, she handed him a dark helmet and some gloves which he put on, watching as she did the same.

"Okay," she said nervously, swinging a leg over the motorcycle. "Hop on."

She gestured behind her and though he did feel a little emasculated riding piggyback, he was also pretty excited about the prospect of doing what it was they were about to do.

When he was seated she put the keys into the ignition and the engine roared into life.

They tore down the highway. Draco was the winged messenger— Hermes, the god of speed. He was an Abraxan stallion racing to the finishing line. He was a Cockatrice leaping over hurdles. He was—

"Stop whooping in my ear!" Granger bellowed.

He was whooping in Granger's ear. He grinned madly.

As soon as he got back to the UK he was buying one of these contraptions. He'd ride across the country.

No.

He'd ride across the world.

And next time, Granger could ride behind him.

Maybe he could invent a spell so they wouldn't need the helmets. Her hair would stream out behind them and she'd be wearing those nice leather trousers.

He squeezed her waist a little tighter. She shifted in front of him and then went even faster.

This was the taste of freedom. This was the sound of danger.

Draco was less enthusiastic about the hiking.

"Bushwalking," Granger corrected, "That's what they call it here."

Whatever.

They had been walking for what felt like an age, following the divining rods. They'd started at a very pretty place called Squeaky Beach and Draco had wanted to stay and enjoy it for a while— given that there was no actual fucking way the Fountain was actually going to be there. He'd only suggested they check it out to get away from Carlos. In retrospect, given that Carlos turned out to be not such a bad egg— maybe he had overreacted.

Granger had insisted that they trek all over the peninsula on another wild goose chase.

They had been following what amounted to a goat track for the past forty-five minutes without so much as a buzz through the rods when he felt it.

He looked down. There was a rustling. A brown tail whipped up, catching the side of his boot.

"Fuck."

Granger looked back at him quizzically and then noting his expression, she froze.

"Malfoy?"

"Get back!" he shouted and then without waiting he pulled his wand from his pocket and cast a strong protego between them.

He snatched his foot back and sprang backwards.

A small, brown snake reared up, baring its fangs and flicking its black, forked tongue at him before turning and slithering off into the undergrowth.

"Draco! Please tell me it didn't get you…" Granger's voice was low and calm but her eyes were as wild as her hair.

Slowly he bent down and pulled up his trouser to show her his ankle— there were two neat puncture marks.

"It happened so quickly," he said by way of an explanation.

She frowned at him.

"This is bad. Did you get a good look at the snake? It looked brown. Was it brown?"

He nodded.

She swore softly.

"Okay. Malfoy, we need to deal with this quickly. If it was a brown snake I don't think we have much time to get you to a hospital."

"Get me to a hospital?" Draco replied, his voice coming out a bit wobbly as his heart began to race, "What do you mean? Don't you know a spell?"

"No," she said, her face clouded by worry. It made him worry. "Malfoy, there aren't any spells for snake bites, only potions and…" she trailed off, her face pinching into something that looked guilty and troubled, "We left most of our potions supplies in Plimpy. I didn't even grab the bezoars. I'm so sorry!"

"So what do we do?!" his voice came out higher than usual and he started to feel the panic coursing through his body like waves and waves of oppressive force gripping his organs one by one.

Or maybe it was the venom?

"Granger!"

"I'm thinking!" she bit back, stepping up close to him.

His vision swam as he looked at her, a sick, dizzying sensation overcoming his senses. Definitely the venom.

"Fuck. I think it's already affecting me."

"We're in bloody Australia!" Granger was muttering to herself, "Why did I not bring the bezoars? Why wasn't I thinking?"

"So we apparate to the nearest hospital," he said.

"We can't Draco," Granger told him regretfully, "Apparition compresses your entire body, it will send the venom straight to your heart."

"Shit. So, what do muggles do?" Draco wanted to know, "What would a muggle do in this situation?"

She looked up, "They'd call for help."

She shrugged her bag off her shoulder and fished in it. He saw her Apple flashing in her hand and she quickly looked at the screen.

"Even when there's no phone service," she explained, "You can always get through to the emergency line."

She dialed and held the phone up to her ear. In rapid, clipped tones he heard her have an exchange with someone on the other end, explaining to them where they were and what had happened.

"Okay, yes. I can do that!" he heard her say over the rushing in his ears that was beginning to drown everything else out. He felt incredibly light headed and like he really needed to sit down, so he did.

He blinked as Granger's outline became blurry around the edges.

She smiled at him reassuringly, "Good idea, Draco," she said and then she took the peculiar step of reaching up with one hand and yanking the hair tie out of her hair. It came down in a riot of curls.

It mesmerized him. "You're so pretty," he blurted.

She scoffed but offered him a gentle smile as she approached. "I'm going to put a bandage over your ankle and it's going to be nice and tight," she told him, "Your only job is to remain calm. We're getting help."

He watched as she transfigured her hair tie into a bandage and started working on his ankle, which was aching and already beginning to swell.

Granger was murmuring to the person on the phone while the world began to spin and he leaned back and watched the Eucalypts dance above him— they dipped closer and closer, a whirligig of green and brown, picking up speed until it started to scare him, their gnarled branches turning into twisted faces that taunted him.

"Hermione," he called out, wrenching his eyes away from the canopy to rest on her face. She was looking at him, her large brown eyes were a safe harbour. He let them swallow him entire.

She reached out a hand and swiped it over his brow, running it through his hair while the light around her played tricks on his vision— the shadows were deeper, the light lighter. It painted a bright halo above her, illuminating the amber tones of the wild kinks in her hair. How he loved her hair.

"I'm here, Draco. I'm here," she told him.

His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest and he was at once cold and boiling hot. Granger scooted closer and placed his head in her lap, a gentle hand found his hair combed it with small fingers as he traced the shape of her face with blurring vision— the face that has become so familiar to him. Why did he feel so strangely light and breathless?

It occurred to him, if he was going to die, this would not be the worst way to go.

"Scorpius," he said, aching to communicate something to her but it was hard to get a handle on his thoughts which slipped out of his grasp like little fish, wriggling out of his hands and back into the stream they came from.

"It's okay, Draco. I know. Scorpius will be fine. You will be fine. I won't let anything happen to either of you," Granger reassured.

"Hermione," he heard himself say.

He was about to die. A stupid fucking snake— the irony would kill him if the venom didn't.

Oh, fuck. But was he really dying?

The blackness crept in like Peruvian Darkness Powder and she was all he could see until he couldn't see even her anymore.

Draco was in a well, staring up at a nimbus of blue light high above him and all around him was dark. He dug his fingers into the earth below. He was alone, save for the crumbling walls that circled him.

They bore down on him. Silent, dark sentinels trying to intimidate him.

"HELP!" he called.

But he was alone and the walls whispered to him— reminding him that he was alone.

"HELLLP!" he tried again. He had a life, didn't he? He had a son. A son!

He needed to help his son.

A face appeared high above him. A lovely face framed by a crown of brown curls.

"It's going to be okay, Draco. I'm here. You're not alone."

He was in a garden. His mother's rose garden.

A small figure with long, blonde hair was waiting for him by the ceramic fountain— a rather generic four tiered decoration. He walked towards the figure and around them, roses of all colours and varieties began to simultaneously bloom.

The air was thick with the heady scent.

The sun glinted off the water in the fountain, casting pretty shadows on the white of Astoria's dress. Her wedding dress.

As he approached, she turned and greeted him with a warm smile. But something was missing. Her eyes were glassy and cold. They didn't match her expression.

With a jolt, he realized that his memory had started to lose grasp of some of the details of her face. The exact colour of her eyes. The tiny freckle on her right ear-lobe. When was the last time he had thought of those details?

"My love," he greeted, "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too," she told him, reaching out to him. He grabbed her warm little hands in his.

She looked healthy. Much better than the months preceding the last time he had seen her. His eyes ran over her hungrily, trying to memorise everything because of course, unless he were dead, this was just a dream.

But what if he were dead?

"Draco!" she said again, but this time it wasn't her voice that came out when she spoke. It was someone else— someone familiar.

"Draco. I'm here. I'm here!" she said, her lips moving but the other voice leaving her throat.

Then it changed again. To something harsh and guttural.

"Save our son!" and this time it was Astoria's voice, but warped and wrong.

A creeping dread began to seep in. The scent of the roses became cloying.

Astoria reached forward and ran a hand over his cheek, a loving embrace. Then she pushed him backwards. He felt himself catch on the fountain and then fall, his back hitting the cold water.

He went under.

He was in a bed. An annoying chirp rang in his ears.

He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Granger.

She looked like she had walked through hades. Her skin was pallid and there were large, purple circles under her eyes. She looked up from where she was seated a few metres way from him in a chair, her eyes alert and her face betraying her disbelief.

She stood and rushed to his side, picking up his hand in her own. She knelt at his bedside.

"Oh, thank God," she said. Then she pressed her face into the back of his hand and erupted into uncontrolled sobs.

It took another twenty minutes for Draco to get the story. Granger's crying roused the muggle medical staff who rushed in to check on him. He was told that he was in hospital and presumably the annoying, chirping that woke him up was some kind of muggle medical device.

He was poked and prodded and asked to stare into a very small light. All the while, Granger did not let up on her death-grip on his hand. Large, fat tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

When they were finally alone, she told him the story in between sniffs.

"You passed out," she told him, looking dreadfully broken up about it (a not insignificant part of him noted this with interest and not guilt). "And I needed to get you to somewhere they could airlift you out so I cast a featherlight charm on you and I carried you on my back."

Well, this sounded even less dignified than the passing out bit. He preferred not to think of himself draped over Granger like the giant squid— even if he did have a good excuse.

"I got you to a clearing and they sent a helicopter for you. Can you believe it? Draco Malfoy in a helicopter!"

Since he didn't know what a helicopter was he agreed— he couldn't believe it.

"The paramedics and the doctor were incredible. They administered the antivenom immediately, once I described the snake. But they said the neurotoxins had taken hold very quickly— it was about twenty minutes after I called them."

Again, not super dignified to hear about how quickly he succumbed. He could make an educated guess at what neurotoxins and anti-venom were. Ingenious, these muggles.

"You started to convulse, it was dreadful."

Just when he thought things couldn't become any more undignified…

"I thought you were going to die, Draco! It was such a close call."

"This country is determined to snuff out the Malfoy line, it would seem," he rasped. His throat raw, although he wasn't sure why.

She started to well up again.

"You seem rather upset about the idea, Granger," he said, reaching up to wipe a fresh tear from her cheek.

She trapped his hand and held it to her face.

"It turns out, I was. In fact, I think I'd miss you quite a lot." Her shining eyes conveyed something that inflated him with golden hope.

"That sounds like a compliment. Careful Granger, you're not starting to catch feelings for me, are you?"

"Shut up, Draco."

Her words were cruel but the kiss she placed against his palm was soft.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke to a crick in her neck the likes of which she wasn't sure she had ever experienced before. She had fallen asleep in a small armchair, pulled up next to Draco's bedside. Suddenly she had more sympathy for Ronald who, when she'd had Rose and Hugo at St Mungo's, had complained about having nowhere comfortable to sleep.

Weak sunlight filtered in through the window of the hospital room. It was clearly still very early.

She sat up, stretched and yawned and then checked on the patient.

He was in a deep sleep and already he was looking much better than he had. He wasn't sleeping fitfully anymore, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The doctors had reassured her several times that he was out of danger and would likely make a quick recovery.

All the same— and as much as she respected muggle medical ingenuity, magic had its place.

In the early hours, she had resolved to wake early and make the trip back to Melbourne to fetch some magical fortitude— it couldn't hurt and besides— Draco would be insisting on leaving the hospital as soon as he was awake. Of this she was sure.

What she was less sure of? Where she stood after the giant, cosmic reckoning that had just smacked her in the face.

When Draco had begun to seize as they made their way to Sale hospital via helicopter, Hermione had been sure he would die and that there was nothing she could do to help him. Not with all her magic— all her supposed talent and might.

And what had been made abundantly clear to her was that suddenly, all her trepidation about opening herself to him and allowing herself to feel for him the way she suspected she wanted to— well it had seemed rather stupid, hadn't it? — holding back when life could be snuffed out so unexpectedly. This was something he seemed to understand better than her and she didn't need to guess why.

She went to stand by his bed. A lock of his silvery blonde hair had fallen in a lank clump against his forehead.

He would hate that.

Gently she smoothed it back with her palm.

When all was said and done, here was a man— a man who had made mistakes, yes— but a good man nonetheless, and he wanted to love her. All she needed to do was let him. And it would be hard and complicated but above all the noise, it was simple.

The corresponding question became equally as simple with this realization: was she brave enough?

"I'll be back soon," she whispered.

And then she left for the long ride back to Melbourne on a borrowed motorcycle with plenty of time to think.

The sun was already high in the sky when she returned to Sale Hospital in Gippsland. She had ridden Carlos' motorcycle back to the University before ducking down to Melbourne's magical enclave — a series of twisting alleyways, accessed by poking the eye of a werewolf with her wand, depicted in vivid colour but innocuous among all the other graffiti art on the city's famous Hosier Lane.

She had purchased a number of potions and some extra supplies. Mostly those that would help Malfoy get back up on his feet quickly.

By the time she apparated back to Sale, into a little copse of trees near the football oval, it was almost lunchtime. As she passed a large window on her way to Draco's room, she caught sight of her reflection— she looked tired. A combination of lack of sleep and the bone-weariness that comes after a big spike of adrenaline.

When she made it to his room, she knocked gently before opening the door to find him sitting up in bed and looking at the IV in his arm with consternation.

"Please don't just pull that out," she warned.

He looked up, catching her eye and she watched as relief washed over his face. Had he thought she'd abandoned him?

She winced.

"I woke early but you were asleep, so I took the motorcyle back to Melbourne and picked up a few potions to help you feel better."

"I feel okay," he replied, "Just exhausted. There's no pain or anything, I just feel like I've been playing Quidditch for a week straight with no breaks."

She nodded, "That's to be expected. But I also figured you probably wouldn't want to recover in a muggle hospital?"

He shrugged, "It would seem they saved my life. Maybe muggle hospitals aren't so bad."

She smiled and moved deeper into the room until she was sitting perched on the end of his bed.

"You gave me quite a scare, Malfoy."

"Who would have thought a mundane snake was the thing that almost finally did me in?"

She laughed, "That checks out— this is the land of snakes and spiders, after all."

Malfoy shuddered. "If I didn't already hate snakes, I certainly do now."

"Odd thing for a Slytherin to hate."

His face darkened, "You're forgetting that Nagini was an unwelcome houseguest at the Manor for some time when I was a boy."

"Ah," she didn't say anything else. Instead she picked up his blue, scratchy waffle blanket and started running her fingers over it, unsure how to articulate exactly what it was she felt she needed to say. There were a thousand words trapped inside her— things she had been swelling on for hours. Gratitude. Concern. Affection. Trust. Desire.

"Malfoy, I—"

"You said you brought me some potions?"

She recoiled a little. "Oh, ermm— Yeah. Yeah I did." She glanced over her shoulder to check that the door was closed and then reached for the daypack she had dropped by her feet. "Here," she handed him a small vial. He glanced at it in his palm. Invigoration Draught, she knew he would recognize its light turquoise colour.

"Excellent," his lips arced up and then he popped the cork, tipped his head back and downed it. She watched the planes of his neck as he swallowed.

"I've also got some Pepper-Up and some Wiggentree for your wound. We can side-along back to Melbourne when you're feeling up to it. Carlos' student will be back in the lab today."

"Isn't it quite far?"

She flashed a second vial of pepper-up at him and winked, "I'll manage."

An hour later they were at the door of the SCEM lab. Hermione knocked.

The door was opened by someone who was not Carlos. They stared blankly at the young person, who looked like a cross between a page boy and a pixie.

"Ermm, hello?"

"Oh, it's you." they said, waving Hermione and Draco in with affected lethargy, "You must be Carlos' friends? Right? He's got a class right now and told me to look out for you. I'm Florence."

Florence was about five foot nothing, and wore what appeared to be a kilt, under a long singlet that said in bold letters: Slip, Slop, Slap.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you Florence. Carlos said you might be able to help us decode an old map we found?"

"Yeah," Florence replied with all the energy of an uninvested cat, "I've already done it."

Hermione blinked and then looked over at Draco who was looking back at her, eyes wide, although she couldn't tell whether it was because he was likewise on tenterhooks or because he was still a bit befuddled by his recent misadventures.

"Can you tell us what the map is of?"

"It's of Kati Thanda," Florence delivered with no exuberance or tension, "I thought it was pretty obvious actually. Clearly a lake. Carlos said you thought it might be a peninsula?"

"Actually, I thought it looked like a vulva," Draco interjected.

Hermione and Florence both turned to look at him. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, "But I guess I was wrong."

"Where is Kati Thanda?" Hermione asked.

Florence heaved an enormous sigh, "The old colonial named used to be Lake Eyre."

Hermione was ashamed to admit that she knew where they needed to go immediately. She reflected that it was hard to feel like the second-coming of Rowena Ravenclaw when you were so easily humbled by someone half your age.

"Okay, thanks so much Florence. We really do appreciate it."

But the young person was already back at a worktable, tapping away at a laptop, barely paying them attention, "Don't mention it."

They were dismissed. Just as they were at the door Florence cleared their throat and said a soft "Hey!"

"What is it?"

"I know you're Carlo's partner on the whole maginullium thing," they gestured around at the lab, "I promised to do him a favour and looked at the security footage to see if I could find anything useful."

"And did you?"

"I'm looking at it now and I think… maybe come and have a look for yourselves."

They moved back through the lab to stand behind Florence.

The footage was up on her laptop screen and they seemed to have done something with a filter to make the grainy light darker. It made it easier to see a slight outline around the Disillusioned person rifling through the SCEM lab.

"Look what happens when they lose their shit and stupefy a laptop."

Florence skipped forward a bit and then, right as there was a flash of red light, they paused the footage. As they did, a more distinct outline of a person with dark hair became visible. It was hard to make them out properly but beside her, Draco gasped.

"Is it possible to get a better look at the hand?" he asked.

Florence zoomed in on the blurry hand holding the wand. It was hard to make out details except for one thing— the gleam of a large ring with a black stone in the centre.

"Why the hell is Miles Bletchley in Australia?" Draco asked the room.

"What time is it back home?" he wanted to know as they strode through the university campus.

She flashed her phone screen.

"6am."

"That's close enough to a reasonable time," he said, his eyes fixed forward. He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and then came to a complete stop so that he could enter the code with exaggerated slowness.

If she weren't so alarmed she would have found it incredibly endearing.