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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Auror Detail

Hermione stood outside the office, the toe of her ministry heels tapping uncontrollably on the reflective floor. She had been waiting for nearly an hour of the off chance he decided to leave early. She had to talk to him—it was her last chance before the weekend devoured all hopes of escaping the inevitable. 

Her hair, curly and unruly and now down past the soft slope of her waist, fell over her face as she looked down to check the time for the seventeenth time. She was on the verge of giving up when the door flew open beside her and Harry stormed from the office. 

“ROOOOON!” he bellowed, not noticing Hermione until she was grasping his shoulder and shoving him back into his stately office. 

“’Mione, now is not the time,” he began scolding. “Ron half-arsed his bloody paperwork again. Now I’ve got—” 

“Call off the Auror, Harry,” she demanded simply. 

After the second wizarding war and the final defeat of Voldemort, Harry and Ron, along with several other seventh year students who had fought with the Order, were fast tracked through the Auror program. Harry had not only excelled but became the youngest department head in ministry history thanks to Minister Shacklebolt’s trust and the excellent publicity stemming from the Chosen One and his defeat of the Dark Lord. 

Harry stared at her blankly, his striking green eyes giving nothing away. “What?” 

“You bloody know what !” she shrieked. “The Auror duty that I’ve been notified of! I will not work with him! I do not need an Auror, Harry—let alone him !” 

“Hermione don’t be ridiculous,” he sighed patiently, rubbing his fingers under his glasses. He had had similar arguments with her before. “I’ve seen the threats they’ve sent you. They don’t like the progress you’ve made.” 

“Ridiculous?! RIDICULOUS!?! UGGGHH, I cannot believe—I am bloody well capable of taking care of myself!” 

“I am well aware, ‘Mione, but you know as well as I do that when you’re focused, you aren’t exactly aware of your surroundings. Remember the basilisk?” 

“That was one bloody time! And I was twelve! And clever enough to think to check my surroundings with a mirror, thank-you-very-much!” 

“It was one example . There are plenty others. Your lab was literally on fire, and you only noticed when Ron got there and pulled you out of your notes!” 

“Then I’ll be careful! I’m already at the ministry half the week as it is. I can set up stronger wards on the lab and my apartment—” 

“No,” he said definitively. 

“But—” 

“No! You’re my bloody sister, Hermione. I’m not going to let some death-eater sympathizer murder you over a memory potion!” 

“But why does it have to be him?!” 

“Our Aurors are stretched thin as it is. He took the threats more seriously than any of the others and volunteered. So, it’s either him, or I can ask Ron, and since you two can’t be alone for more than five minutes without arguing then not speaking for a month, I figured Malfoy would be the best option.” 

Hermione had no words. She searched for another possible argument, sifting through the years since Hogwarts. 

Draco Malfoy had spent the entire year after Voldemort's defeat on house arrest with his mother, his father having been shipped back to Azkaban without trial. When Draco’s own trial finally arrived, Hermione, Harry and Ron had all testified on his and his mother’s behalf, not only saving them from their own prison sentences but giving Draco his own opportunity to join the Auror program. Usually taking a grueling three years to complete, Draco finished in two, astounding his future peers as he graduated with Harry and Ron. He was quickly partnered off with The Boy Who Lived, and they took the field by storm, demolishing ongoing death-eater factions until those who remained went deep into hiding. 

“I thought you had gotten past everything,” Harry continued more sympathetically. “Your testimony at his trial is what kept him from Azkaban. You never believed he was a death-eater to begin with. And you’ve forgiven the other Slytherins! Ginny says Pansy has been coming to your monthly girls' nights since she returned from Paris, and you are with Theo so much he’s practically taken my place as your best friend.” 

“Now who’s being ridiculous,” she scoffed. 

“I’m just trying to sort it out. Is it because of the bullying? Because he’s been my partner for years, Hermione— years, Hermione —and he is nothing like the prat we went to school with.” 

“Of course I realize that!” she snapped. She knew Draco had grown into a well-respected wizard but now was not the time to admit why she avoided Harry’s partner at every party, every bar outing, and every accidental run-in around the office. She certainly couldn’t afford the distraction of his constant presence. “He’s made amends for his own behavior and his family at least twice over, I just don’t think I need—” 

“You say you know but you haven’t had more than one conversation with him since he started his training! Just give him a chance to show you,” he insisted. 

“You really won’t let this go?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Uggghhh, fine. But what about Boot or MacMillan?” 

“Hermione, this is volunteer only because of our caseloads. Malfoy is the only Auror that volunteered. Quite forcefully, might I add. But I know Ron would if I talked to him.” 

“No, not Ron. You’re right, I won’t get any work done if I’m having to explain every step of my experiment. And he’s broken up with Daphne again, so it’s only a matter of time before he asks me out to dinner for old time’s sake .” 

“Yeah . . .” Harry suddenly felt uncomfortable. Though they had been broken up for over five years, Ron still felt the occasional urge to ask Hermione to bed. Harry always ended up as a mediator for their friendship. “So, Malfoy then?” 

Hermione resumed her foot tapping. “Fine. I’ll agree to Auror watch at the lab, but not during my ministry days and he will certainly not be accompanying me home!” 

“’Mione,” he started to argue. 

“No! Absolutely not. For starters, the wards around my flat are impeccable. No one but those I’ve allowed can enter as if anyone tries, I’m immediately notified. I have it tied only to the floos I require. And . . .” she felt her cheeks flush suddenly and pressed her cool fingers against them. “And I’ve started seeing someone. I certainly don’t want Malfoy or any other Auror for that matter watching us come and go.” 

Harry giggled, earning him a firm slap against the shoulder and a rather shriek-y “Harry!” 

“What?” he laughed innocently. “I simply hope for your sake he just come and go!” 

“Oh my God! HARRY!” She slapped him three more times as he giggled. “I am not having this conversation with you!” 

“Good,” he conceded. “So, first thing Monday we’ll get the Auror contracts signed with Malfoy’s arrangement. He’ll meet you at the lab and go over procedure.” 

“Fine. But I’m not happy about this!” 

“Noted.” 

“And I’m using your floo!” she declared, stomping over to his office fireplace before he could answer. 

“Fine! But you know the department doesn’t cover floo powder! You need to stop using mine!” 

“Yours in the only one in the department linked to my house! I’ll buy you more powder if you’re that worried about it.” 

*     *     *

Hermione stepped through her floo in a flash, dusting off the remaining soot from her shoulders before giving Crookshanks, the gigantic ball of orange fluff, a quick scratch on the very top of his head between his two elf-sized ears. 

“Hello, Crooks,” she cooed, kicking off her heels and trudging toward the kitchen to feed him. 

She walked through the dark flat, lazily pulling off pieces of her clothing as went until she stood at her kitchen island in only the practical bra that hugged her full chest comfortably and the high arched panties made for the almost too-tight pencil skirt she sometimes wore to the office when she needed a confidence boost. After pouring some fresh kibble into Crookshanks’ porcelain dish, Hermione sauntered off into the bedroom, finally swishing on some lights and finding her lounge set waiting for her on her perfectly made bed. 

“What do you think, Crooks,” she began asking her half-kneazle companion after her undergarments were safely lying in the corner hamper. “Book or telly tonight?” 

Crookshanks stared at her, blinking slowly as he waited for her to continue. 

“Right. The house is far too quiet without the telly. Both it is, then.” 

Changed into the soft cream sweatpants and matching thin sweater, she made her way to the kitchen to scrounge up dinner.  

“Empty . . .” She stared into the open fridge. “And only soup in the pantry. When did I do my shopping last?” she asked the cat, who continued his silent blinking. “Hm. Soup it is.” 

With a flick of her wand Hermione’s discarded clothing floated to the hamper to join her undergarments as her soup slowly heated on the stove. Finally realizing how dark the room had grown, she turned on the table lamp near the couch and the television, turning the volume down and flipping through channels before reporting back to her now steaming soup. 

Hermione’s flat was modest in size and utterly lonely. The open space encompassing the quaint living room and spacious kitchen was divided only by an island lined with unused stools. The floo stretched to the ceiling across from her cream sofa and the sofa. Her simple t.v. stand sat next to it in the corner of her living room, half blocking one of the large bay windows that never seemed to let in enough light. Bookshelves lined the wall behind the couch, magically built the moment she had purchased the space, and have since overflowed into her guest bedroom-turned-office. 

Her bedroom had become her sanctuary when she first moved in. The only room in the flat she designed solely for relaxation. Her spacious bed was always made. The sheets, comforter and several fuzzy throws folded and tucked just right before her thirty throw pillows were arranged atop. If she found herself asleep in her bed more often, it may have been more difficult to keep tidy, but as it was, it remained the pinnacle of aesthetic comfort. 

She had tried to keep no bookshelves in this room. She had thought that if they existed, then they would be filled and then overfilled and then her bedroom would no longer hold the organized oasis feel she strove for. But as life went on, and as books crowded the other rooms, she had found novels and research journals migrating into crooked stacks at the foot of her bed and she broke down, adding a tall wardrobe with decorative doors, magically extended to hold all of the tomes that no longer fit on the shelves elsewhere.  

Plants of various sizes, colors and shapes spread across the matching bay windows in her bedroom, overlooking the quiet streets. She had added a master bathroom to the opposing wall, large enough for a massive claw foot tub and separate shower. Across the hall sat another full bathroom and a guest room that had never held a guest. She had once decorated the extra room with lush extravagance, hoping for the surrounding laughter and occasional overnight friend one expects as a young adult, but as time waned and crept forward, the room slowly fell to disarray. A bed converted to a storage table cluttered with paperwork, a dresser long exchanged for a desk, and all the casefiles and encrypted research notes she could need for those days she brought work home with her—which was more often than not, if she were honest. 

Yes, Hermione loved her little flat. She had remodeled and adjusted and tweaked it to her liking. But without family, and too much time spent working, the laughter she had hoped would fill its walls lingered hollow, a distant dream that gnawed at her would each night she returned to its dark, quiet solitude. Much like tonight, as she nibbled on a small grain of barley from her soup, her television the only light and sound in the desolate living room as she stared blankly at what was once her favorite novel.  

*     *     *

The next morning Hermione awoke to a pounding at the front door. She had fallen asleep on the couch, leaving nearly a full bowl of cold soup uneaten on the coffee table, the t.v. on, and her book draped over the back cushion. As she approached the entry, she noticed the mail sitting on the floor near the door, a familiar letter sitting on top. She discretely kicked it away before opening the door to find Ron dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and muggle jeans. 

“Ron?” she asked sleepily. 

“Bloody hell ‘Mione, are you just waking up? It’s nearly Noon!” 

“Is it really?” she asked, astonished, before instinctually crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s been a long week. I must have had to catch up.” She stepped away from the door, giving Ron an opening. “Come in, Ron. You can tell me why you’re here while I make some tea.” 

Ron stepped through, taking his sneakers off at the door before leaning against the island. “Harry told me you accepted the Auror watch.” 

“He didn’t give me much of a choice,” she admitted, starting the kettle. 

Ron’s eyes moved appreciatively down to her chest, and suddenly Hermione became self-aware of the chill in her apartment—and the gentle fall of her thin sweater between her otherwise bare breasts.  

“I’m a bit offended you’d rather have Malfoy watch you than me,” he said as she re-crossed her arms, diverting his gaze back to her face. 

“Malfoy won’t be watching me, Ronald,” she said pointedly, causing a blush to creep up to his ears. “And Harry insisted—” 

“Of course he did!” Ron interrupted. “They’re partners ! But it’s me , Hermione! I could have stayed here with you. You wouldn’t have to come home alone. You wouldn’t even have to sleep alone, if you didn’t want to,” he suggested. 

“Ron, we’ve tried living together before and it didn’t work out. All we do it argue.” 

“You like to argue.” 

“No, I like to debate! And discuss and describe opposing viewpoints—there's a difference! And besides,” she added with a contented smile, “I like coming home alone. And you and I sleeping together is not going to happen again, Ron. That’s what you have Daphne, and Lavender, and Padma—if I’m not mistaken—for.” She poured him a mug of his favorite tea. “I’m going to go shower and get ready real quick. Maybe after we can go grab lunch?” 

“I’m actually having lunch at the Burrow. Mum wanted to know if you could come. Harry and Ginny will be there, so you don’t have to worry about her asking you to forgive me or wait for me or whatever she likes to bug you about when she thinks I’m not in the room.” 

“That sounds nice, Ron.” 

*     *     *

The Burrow held the same familiar sounds and smells as it did when Hermione was a teenager and remained one of the sole pieces of her and Ron’s short-lived romance she actually missed. The laughter that filled each room as the aroma of bacon and fried potatoes filtered between each guest tugged at Hermione’s heart more with each visit, offering her the peace she had fought so hard for her own home to hold, only for it to remain dark and quiet each night. As Molly gathered them each into a warm embrace and seated them at the table with eager hands, she became truly envious of the full family Ron had waiting for him each day. 

“Hermione, dear,” Molly cooed, setting the table, “Ron’s told me you’ve had a bit of trouble at the lab?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Weasley. Harry assigned his partner until it all blows over.” 

“His part—that Malfoy boy?” She looked to Harry for confirmation, no nodded sheepishly. “After everything he used to say to you back at Hogwarts, you let Harry assign him to protect you?! No. Absolutely not. Harry! Reassign Ron to the case first thing Monday morning! Hermione dear, you can stay at Ron’s flat. There’s plenty of space and you know how much he misses you living there.” 

“Mum!” Ron bellowed. “You can’t just invite women to live with me!” 

“Oh hush!” Molly scolded. “She’s not ‘ women’, it’s your Hermione!” 

“Bloody Hell, Mum,” George declared as he walked into the kitchen, followed closely by Fred and Angelina. “She hasn’t been Ron’s Hermione in half a decade!” 

“Seriously woman, give our Hermione a break. She hasn’t dated that slug-brained brother of ours in half a decade,” Fred added cheekily before greeting Hermione with a kiss to the cheek. 

“Oh, I know,” Molly said tersely. “But I wouldn’t be a very good mother if I didn’t try. He’s more than capable of fulfilling Hermione’s needs, so I thought I’d suggest the partnership.”  

Hermione choked on a drink of water at the discussion of her needs, but listened politely as Molly went on.  

“Besides,” she continued, “think of Ginny.” 

“Me?!” Ginny mumbled in surprise through a mouthful of pastry. 

“Well, you’ve always wanted a sister, dear! Who better than one you’re already so close with?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe someone who gets along with Ron for more than five minutes? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how they would go at it over absolutely everything! Better off as friends, I’ve told them since the beginning.” 

“Sometimes the fire in those fights can lead to some truly beautiful things in the bedroo—” 

“MUM!” All of the Weasleys shouted in unison. 

“Alright, alright,” she conceded, piling everyone’s plates with more food than any of them could hope to eat. “Just know, Hermione, that this will always be your home, too. Even if you and Ron never find your ways back to each other. 

Hermione thanked her, but shared an exasperated look with Ron, who seemed perfectly content in his current lifestyle. 

“Speaking of family,” Molly continued, “how are your parents?” 

Hermione knew this question would arise—it always did during these visits—but it didn’t stop the immediate ache.  

“They’re fine,” she answered shortly, letting herself feel the familiar wave of sorrow. Harry reached out under the table and took her hand, squeezing gently. She felt Ron’s hand from her other side wrap discretely around the back of her chair. “They’re healthy. The bookstore is running smoothly and they’re even thinking of opening a second location.” 

“That’s wonderful!” she replied kindly, her eyes full of heartfelt understanding. “And the potion?” 

“Mum,” Ron warned in a hushed tone just as Hermione began speaking. 

“It’s making progress. I’m hoping to go into trials by winter and, if all goes according to plan, begin administrations by spring. So far we’ve had excellent success in our rudimentary potion increasing the niffler’s short-term memory, so once we can stabilize that and unlock the long-term components . . . Maybe I’ll be able to bring home more than just my parents. 

Harry squeezed her hand once more before releasing. “We hope to incorporate it into the Auror department as well. Malfoy has some great ideas to use it on those whose memories were altered by death eaters. We may be able to find those that escaped. He’s hit some dead ends lately with the dark arts groups popping up and he has a lot of faith that Hermione’s potion will be the key to opening up his cases.” 

Hermione nodded along, suddenly irritated. “Is that why he insisted on volunteering?” she snapped. 

“No!” he sputtered. “No, Hermione! He’s really worried about—” 

“Enough work talk,” Arthur declared, finally joining the family at the table. “Let’s eat!” 

Ron apparated her home after lunch, leaving her alone on her doorstep. The moment he left she locked the door, checked her wards, and found the envelope she had shoved aside earlier that day. Her name was scribbled in blood-red handwriting above her address and mailed through the muggle post just as the rest of them had been. Making a copy to send to Harry—and, apparently, Malfoy—she opened the letter and began reading. 

Potter’s filthy Mudblood Whore, 

I can’t wait to tear into that pretty little cunt of yours. I can still hear your screams in my dreams. I wonder which blood traitor is going to protect you this time? Will it be that Weasley filth? Or the same puny runt that guarded you from me last time? 

Pray you finish your potion before I reach you. It's the only way they’ll find me.  

And if I find you first—no one will find you again. 

Hermione’s hand shook as she folded the letter back up. As she tucked it back into the aged envelope it came in, she caught a glimpse of the scars carved across her forearm, peeking out under the sheer blouse she had changed into for lunch. 

“Well,” she said breathily to Crookshanks, “I suppose I’ll head to the lab again tonight.” 

With a deep breath she recast the glimmer over her arm, concealing the word that had burrowed down deeper into her flesh and changed into a simple t-shirt, her crisp white lab coat, and a pair of work sneakers good for long hours on her feet. She twisted her wand into her voluptuous curls, then headed for the floo, ready to escape into the one place she felt safe and useful. 

Work. 

Chapter Text

Monday morning came all too soon after the weekend Draco had suffered. After his Friday meeting with Harry, who had informed him that Granger had finally accepted auror protection, he spent the evening reviewing the rancid letters she had been sent over the previous weeks. With a crude combination of violent threats, sexual harassment and slurs, each radiated a hate that churned his stomach to think he had ever been remotely associated with such a group. 

Theo had then convinced him to spend Saturday away from his desk by setting up a Quidditch scrimmage against the departments. Harry, who he still lovingly called “The Boy Wonder”, and Ron “The Weasel” showed up late to the field, arriving just in time to lose them the game and ruin the remainder of his Saturday. 

It wasn’t that Draco hated Ron these days. On the contrary, he had grown to respect and even occasionally enjoy Ron. He may even go as far as to say they had grown quite chummy over the years. No, it was simply that he disliked that Ron had treated Hermione nearly as badly as he himself did—sometimes arguably worse, considering they were friends—and yet she had not only forgiven the bastard each time, but remained close friends with him.  

And dated him. 

And snogged . . . 

And shared a bed . . . 

And . . . where was he going with this? 

Oh, yes—it was that though he didn’t hate Ron Weasley these days, he still couldn’t fathom how the red-haired twit ever deserved to be linked to Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger who was, of course, not at the scrimmage like she had been two weeks prior when Theo dragged him to the same Quidditch pitch. Nor did she meet up with her friends for drinks after. And, come to think of it (which Draco, of course, didn’t think of this often), Hermione rarely made appearances outside of work. He had barely had two conversations with the witch since their years at Hogwarts—not that he hadn’t tried .  

Of course he had tried!  

He seen her around the office quite often, wearing the most sinfully tight skirts with just the right number of buttons undone on her blouses to drag his mind through the gutter the moment she surprised him around a corner, in the break room, or—Merlin forbid—that one agonizing time she had run straight into his chest leaving Potter’s office. She would acknowledge his existence, nod or duck her head before darting away, or begin a conversation with someone else altogether. On the rare occasion she would grace him with a delicate smile that would make his heart do something funny and he would have half a mind to go see a healer. 

So yes. He had tried to speak to her. To apologize. To ask her out and confess all he could give her. But the timing, and his nerves, had never quite been on his side. 

Thank Merlin she didn’t pick the Weasel, he thought as his foot tapped eagerly on the too-shiny ministry tiles. Not only had he waited years for her to comfortable enough around him for the long overdue apology, but also, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have (or could have, for that matter) let this case go to someone else. 

“Malfoy,” Harry greeted the blonde wizard casually as he approached his office from his morning coffee run. “I could have brought the paperwork to you, you know.” 

“I know, Potter. But I want to get over to the lab and get Granger officially signed on before she has a chance to change her mind.” 

“She’s actually at the office today. Said she spent the weekend at the lab and wanted to catch up on some of her work here before heading back later this week.” 

A pencil skirt flashed through his mind. “Does she ever take a day off?” 

“I don’t think so,” Harry sighed. “But she’s trying to switch up her routine, I think.” 

“Clever witch,” Draco mumbled, thinking the words brightest witch of her age quietly. 

“Come in. Sit down. She was sent something over the weekend. Lock the door behind you.” 

Draco did as he was told, taking a seat in one of the plush leather seats across his desk. “Another letter?” 

Harry confirmed with a look, handing the letter over for him to read. “It came Saturday.” 

“Salazar . . .” Draco's stomach churned as he swallowed down his disgust. “How does he bloody know it was going to be me or Weasley assigned to her?” 

“I don't know. It could have been a lucky guess. Or, Godric, we could have a mole.” 

 “Fuck.”  

 “Make sure not a soul aside from you and I know the details of this case.” 

 “Like I would say anything. You know what this case means to me,” he confessed, remembering with a slight cringe the feelings he had admitted to as poison coursed through him three years prior.  

 “I mean it, Malfoy. Not even Ron. Or Theo or Pansy! Hell, not even Hermione. The less she knows about this case the better. I don't want to give the psychopath even one more reason to hunt her.” 

 “You don't have to tell me, Potter. You know I insisted on this case because I don't trust anyone else in the bloody department. But, out of curiosity, why not Ron?” 

 “I trust him with my life, just not my secrets. The only woman he’s ever been able to lie to is Hermione. Anyone else, all they have to do is bat their eyes and show him their tits and he doesn't even remember saying them.” 

“Granger doesn't seem like the bat her eyes to get her way type.” 

“No, she’s more of a scary, curse you in ways nobody can fix sort.”  

Draco chuckled. “What she seen in your best friend I’ll never know.” 

“Yeah, well, they had to get it out of their systems, I guess.” 

 Draco made a noncommittal hum. “And yet you two never felt the need.” He let his eyes rove over the other documents Harry had presented him. 

“Nah, Ron's not quite my type. Pretty close though, considering I'm shagging his sister.” 

Draco threw his pen, barely missing his forehead as Harry snickered. “Not who I meant.” 

“I know, I know. No, ‘Mione's always been like a sister to me. The only time I've ever seen her as anything other than my swotty best friend was at the yule ball in year four.” 

Another noncommittal hum escaped Draco's throat. He remembered the yule ball well—and the periwinkle dress that had shown Hogwarts and all of his friends that Granger was more than frizzy hair sticking out of a dusty library book. 

“So, did you look through the paperwork?” 

“Mhm, but what's this part about not being allowed at her house?” 

“Oh. That. She's, uh . . . she's started seeing someone, apparently. And she's afraid you may witness something . . . personal.” 

“Oh,” Draco said, furrowing his brow before what Harry insinuated clicked. His eyes widened in surprise. “Oh!” 

“Yeah, sorry, mate. I kept telling you to just ask her out.” 

“Yeah? And how the bloody hell would that have worked out? ‘Hey Granger, remember me? I liked to bully you, then you punched me in the face, then my family tried to kill you, then you kept me from rotting my life away in a cell, wanna go snog in that corner office?’ Because I'm sure she would have been all for that.” 

“No, but you could have apologized like a normal human and asked to make it up to her with dinner.” 

“Ah, fuck off.” Draco stood from his seat, piling up copies of the case documents. 

Harry laughed. “It doesn't matter. It's only a matter of time before this one breaks her heart too. According to Ginny there's a bit of a pattern. Not that she talks to any of us about it anymore.” 

This made Draco pause at the door. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, you know how she is. She's a bit much. I love her, obviously, but all she bloody does is work and argue. Even about things that aren't really arguments, somehow she just sounds like she's arguing. It won't take long before this one tells her off like the rest and we don't see her for a few months.” 

“Is that why she never makes it to pub night?” Draco tried masking his irritation.  

“That or she's working,” he shrugged. “She cancels so much that it's hard to keep up with the why.” 

Draco opened the office door. Something about what Harry said didn't sit right with him. For someone who never shied away from emotion and her friends during school, he found it unsettling she grew up to be so secluded. “I'm going to find her and go over procedure.” 

“Good luck.” 

*     *     *      

Hermione transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement nearly a year ago, having started in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. After revolutionizing House Elf rights with her S.P.E.W. committee, she was promoted to the DMLE as the face of change for pro-pureblood laws, adding another target to her back. Luckily for Draco, her section of the DMLE was stationed merely a floor above the Auror department and even shared meeting spaces and a break room. 

Draco knew the floor well and walked by her office nearly every day, usually catching glimpses of her hard at work, her spiral curls floating around her head and springing to life with every slight motion. More than once he's caught men with their mouths hanging open as they openly stared at her legs in the damned pencil skirts—one of which was currently plastered against her hips as she scurried ahead, her sensible heels clicking against the tile while her arse swayed with ease. She had been beautiful during her years at Hogwarts, but now that her body had filled out, further shaping her perfect curves to an almost unfair degree, it was hard to describe her with any word other than sexy. 

“Granger,” he called after her, his voice deep and gruff from where his mind had wanted to wander. 

Hermione stopped mid-step. Her back noticeably expanded as she took one long, deep breath before turning. It was nearly September and though normally her skin would have taken on a freckly bronze with the summer sun, it remained pale. Purple marred the soft skin under her eyes and even with the distance Draco could see the same deep chocolate and onyx hues that would engulf her irises during the weeks leading to exams. 

“Malfoy,” she greeted in return with enough ice in her tone to chill a glass of firewhiskey. 

Tread careful, it seemed to warn. 

“I spoke to Potter earlier. Do you have a moment to go over procedure?” 

“No,” she admitted flatly, before sighing and conceding. “But if you give me a few minutes to drop this file off to Archer I can push my next meeting a few minutes.” 

She sped off before he could answer, leaving Draco in front of her office door.  

“Well, no harm in checking her wards while I wait,” he mumbled to himself before pulling his wand from his holster. 

*     *     *      

Hermione’s office was bigger than his, and though he didn't want it to bother him that where he had a chintzy veneer desk, hers was a beautifully crafted solid red maple. Even her chairs were a soft brown leather over what had to be memory foam. Strewn across her desk, in typical Granger fashion, were case files with copious amounts of notes, reminders, quills and muggle pens, and unopened letters - one of which sat atop with the same blood red, sloppily written letters as the copies now housed in Draco's mediocre office.  

Making a quick copy, he grabbed the original and began scanning for charms or curses, signatures, fingerprints—anything to tie a witch or wizard to the threats. When nothing appeared, he sealed the envelope magically so he could touch it without corrupting the evidence and sat down in Hermione's desk chair. 

“Merlin,” he moaned, sinking into the comfort. The windows behind the desk glowed with the early morning sun, lighting up the floor to ceiling bookshelves and scattered plants vining and twisting out of crocheted holders.  

It was a good thing he had been assigned to the case, because he quickly decided he would definitely be taking over Hermione’s office. She had plenty of room to share—after he helped her with some basic organization, of course. 

Just as he started planning where he could fit his own workload within the cheery space, Hermione cracked open her office door, muttering some nonsense of how impatient he was to not even be able to wait for her to drop a file off. She wasn't looking up as she stepped in, making it nearly to the desk before realizing she wasn't alone. 

“Hello, Granger,” Draco said, startling Hermione so much she threw the files she had been holding into the air as a small yelp escaped her lips.  

Draco couldn't help the wolfish grin that spread across his face. A grin that only spread wider as Hermione's face flushed and her features scrunched in clear annoyance. 

“How did you get in?” she bit hastily, pulling her wand to reorganize the thrown papers. 

“I broke your wards.” 

“What?!” 

“Rather easily, might I add. You weren't notified?”  

Hermione just stared at him, her brow furrowed as she tried to work it out.  

“I disarmed the notification first,” he explained when she didn't respond. “Are all your wards this rudimentary?” 

Draco wasn't sure why he had started taunting her until he watched a fire spark to life behind her eyes, igniting the golden flecks he enjoyed watching crackle as she fought.  

There she is, he thought with a smile. 

“Rudimentary?!” she shrieked. “I'll have you know, my wards kept Voldemort off our trail when I was only seventeen! They've only gotten better!” 

Draco winced slightly at the name, an involuntary reaction he hadn’t yet been able to kick.  

“And yet, it only took me five minutes.” 

 “How.”  

Draco noticed she didn't quite ask it like a question, and he found himself rather unwilling to answer. “Are all your wards this basic?” he asked instead, reigniting the embers. 

“No.”  

For a moment Draco thought it was an answer . . .  

Then she turned back toward the door, muttering, “No, no, no. This will never work. I've changed my mind!” 

Panic flitted through Draco’s chest as he realized she was saying no to working with him.  

“Wait!” he called after her, losing the cocky facade but still chuckling lightly. When she reached for the door handle, he rushed an apology. “I'm sorry! The wards were quite good,” he admitted gleefully when her hand stopped on the handle. 

“How.” she said/asked again. 

“Ward breaking was one of my specialties. Please, sit so we can talk about procedure.” 

She glared at him a moment longer. “No.” 

His grin finally faltered. “W-why?” 

“You're in my seat. At my desk. In my office.” Her hands had found her hips. The golden embers remained. “Up,” she ordered. 

Draco cleared his throat as he stood, bowing dramatically as he presented the luxurious desk chair to Hermione. As he felt the heat in his cheeks, he realized with no little amount of satisfaction that he would be perfectly content being ordered around by Hermione Granger in a sinfully tight pencil skirt. Add in a bit more cleavage and it would be like she stepped straight out from his teenage fantasies. 

As Hermione took her rightful seat at her desk, gesturing for him to sit across, she began piling the strewn about files into seemingly random piles along the edges of the desk, clearing a space for him to open their case folder.  

“Where should we begin?”  

Her tone still felt clipped—strained, almost—and he held a new determination to soften it. 

“As much as I would like to start with this new letter I found on your desk—” he waved the envelope in the air. “We should probably start with signatures. Harry said you’ve agreed to auror detail at the lab and throughout the day, but refused ministry accompaniment, home detail, and any services for when you go out at night.” 

“Yes.” 

Draco didn't hide his disapproval well, but knew she was too stubborn to argue with and planned to extend protection after he’s had a chance to gain her trust.  

“Fine. But then I insist on checking and strengthening all wards and request that if you go out while I’m not on watch, not to do so alone.” 

Hermione thought for a moment. “Fine.” 

“Great. Please sign these documents then, showing that you agree to the arrangement thus far.” 

She did, giving Draco a surge of amusement as she went for her muggle pen rather than one of the numerous quills. With a curious glance his gaze followed her hand to her wrist, her wrist to her arm where only smooth skin stretched delicately.  

“Next we should talk about the lab,” Draco insisted, removing his eyes from her. “How secure is it? Who’s allowed in?” 

“I have to stop by later today, you’re welcome to join me to see-” 

“Oh, I plan on it,” he interrupted. “Once these are signed, I'm officially your Auror and I take my job rather seriously.” 

“Great. You can see the lab later. I'll go over my assistants and security measures then.” 

“Great,” he repeated, feeling the simmering tension. “Now about the letters-” 

“You’ve read them,” she interrupted tersely, the golden flecks fading away to onyx. “I think they're written rather clearly.” 

“Mhmm,” he agreed, noticing the slight quiver in her fingers before she lowered her hands below the desk. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about them, if you don't mind.” 

Hermione swallowed. “Fine.” 

“As far as I'm aware, they've all been sent by muggle post. Have there been any sent by owl?” 

“No.” 

“The first one was sent three days before news of your potion was leaked to the Prophet, correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you have no clue who leaked the progress to the Prophet?” 

 “No.” 

“In the third letter, they state that they ‘owe you for the pain you caused them.’” Draco paused for a moment, reading her reaction. “Who all do you know that would think you personally hurt them? Your memory potion may have been the catalyst threatening their current way of living, but whoever this is has made it personal, too.” 

“I assisted The Chosen One in defeating The Dark Lord,” she stated clearly. “The list of dark wizards I hurt or perceive me as being the one who hurt them is literally endless. Maybe try narrowing it down by which year at Hogwarts they may be referring to.” 

“Alright, we'll circle back to that. Last thing I'd like to do is get your permission to read this and all other letters you may receive.” 

“Of course. But do it fast, I do have other work to do here.” 

Draco nodded, wasting no time in breaking the seal. Two sentences in he felt his face Grow clammy, quickly folding it back up and tucking it away in the case folder before summoning the other from its pile on Hermione’s desk.      

“What are you—” she began asking, before getting promptly cut off by his own clipped voice.  

“No reason for you to worry yourself over that, Granger. Come find me before you head to the lab.”  

Before Hermione could argue, Draco fled the office, rushing back to his own on the Auror floor. He fell into his chair, wincing as the stiff frame squeaked beneath him, and glanced around his own perfectly orderly office as he settled his breathing. The letter had been vulgar, intricately describing the sick details of Hermione's body as he fucked her. He had seen how she trembled with the discussion of past letters. This was by far the worst and he didn't even want to finish it himself, let alone have Hermione read it.  

But he knew he had to finish it. It was his job now to shoulder the burden of the threats. 

Then maybe he would go home and take a scalding shower to wash the grime of it off, drink a glass of firewhiskey, and come back to escort her everywhere for eternity or until the bastard was caught—whichever came first. 

“Right . . .” 

Draco steadied himself before reopening the letter. 

I can't wait to taste that filthy cunt. I wonder how much of me you can take before you're squealing like a dirty pig? How many of us you can take before your filthy blood wets you enough for more? If you're good for us, maybe we can keep you as a pet after we've ripped you open from each end… 

Maybe the Malfoy brat would like to watch.  

If he's good, maybe he'd even like a turn. 

Know your place. Stop your research and maybe, when your tight little cunt is ripped apart and bleeding, when we've all had you to our fill and you're begging us for mercy, maybe I'll grant you an easy death. Or you can stay with us until that frail, scrawny little body finally gives out. 

Your choice. 

Draco sat at his desk staring blankly at the letter, unable to bring himself to move. The images had forced their way into his brain as he read, and now he felt that they were burned there forever. Saliva pooled in his mouth from the overwhelming nausea. Finally, with a flick of his wrist, the letter closed itself and floated to the case file where it grouped with the others. 

Yes, he was definitely going to need that drink before meeting up with Hermione. 

Chapter Text

Draco had exactly three expectations for Hermione's research lab: a dungeon similar to the potions classroom at Hogwarts, cauldrons bubbling every few feet, and grumpy old men taking notes. His expectations were not met. 

Like the cozy study she called her office, her research lab had been magically transfigured into a naturally lit, welcoming space consisting of one very spacious room with a glass ceiling (Hermione had verified that it was indeed magic and not an actual glass ceiling, for safety purposes). While one wall joined the lab with the rest of the university, holding bookshelves filled with binders and cabinets of glass vials and various liquids and herbs, the others were more unique. The left wall and the wall nearest the laboratory entrance had floor to ceiling windows overlooking the most serene forest Draco had ever seen, letting in just as much sunlight as the glass ceiling.  

Across from the university entry stretched a greenhouse filled with every magical plant Draco could name, and then some. He briefly wondered if Longbottom, who had recently accepted an offer to become Hogwarts’ new Herbology professor, had helped her stock it. Then to the right, beyond the rows and rows of not only magical cauldrons but muggle-inspired ventilation hoods, there was another door with the words Dark Room engraved. Hermione quickly explained this was where the dark phases of their experiments took place, as if he couldn't piece that together himself.  

The last unexpected sight was rather than grumpy old men which Draco had come to expect from various visits to labs, there were instead a dozen or so college aged students busily stocking, pruning and stirring throughout the lab. One in particular, a petit blonde with pin straight hair and bright blue eyes looking not much younger than Hermione herself, bounced up towards her. 

“Ms. Granger!” she called. “We did it! The . . . you know what, is ready!” 

Hermione barely blinked at the news. So, Draco asked, “The potion?” 

“Merlin, no,” she exclaimed, marching toward the greenhouse. “We crossbred Rosmarinus officialis with a plant called Silphium, thought to have been used to extinction by emperor Nero. It took us ages to find enough Silphium seeds to regrow, then another few months to splice them together with the Rosemary. But if Sarah's correct, then we finally have enough mature plants to harvest! Then of course we'll have to dry the roots and boil the leaves, all of which takes time, but by the time the next batch of potion is ready, it should be in the correct lunar phase to add them in! We'll only have a fifteen-minute window, so make sure we set our clocks.” 

Draco wasn't sure when she had stopped talking to him but followed behind her anyway as she instructed the various interns on their jobs for the next two weeks. After she had them sorted, she led Draco back to her office through a door about halfway down the wall of magical windows, its own forested face blending near seamlessly with the artificial backdrop.  

While her office at the ministry was bright, warm and cozy, the laboratory office was clinical. The one window had the blinds drawn tight. Her small desk was more plastic than wood and the computer sitting on top of it was the newest item in the room. The only personal item Draco could see was a small glass sculpture of what looked like an orange fur ball. Even the one bookshelf seemed stuffed with university textbooks, references and more binders.  

“Sit.” She directed toward a flimsy plastic chair she must have stolen from one of the lecture halls.  

“I'm alright,” he declined. 

“Fine.” Hermione took her own seat in a thin desk chair, giving him the feeling of looming over her. Thankfully the hair that had only managed to frizz more as the day wore on helped make up the height difference.  

“I checked and reinforced the wards while you were talking to the students—” 

“Interns,” she corrected. 

“Yes, but aren't they also students here?” 

“Yes, but they aren't my students,” she clarified.  

 “Ah. Anyways, I'll need a list of the interns. We'll need to systematically add them to the warding, along with any other professors or faculty who use this lab.” 

“Fine.” 

“And the potion itself—what sort of warding do you have around it ?” 

“How did you know I had a separate charm on the potion?” 

“As if the brightest witch of her age wouldn't have separate shields on her prized potion that she's being hunted for.” 

She smirked—the first somewhat smile he'd gotten from her all day.  

“You're right. It's keyed to only me to remain at a stasis until my magic and my wand adjust it.” 

“And what if someone steals your wand?” 

“They still wouldn't have my magical signature.” 

“And if they use the Imperious?” 

“I'll add a second signature to the potion,” she conceded without a thought, already making a list of who she trusted most in the lab to collaborate. 

“So, all the interns are about our age,” he stated instead of asking. 

“Yes. Mostly. Some are older, but most are a few years younger—just finished with their N.E.W.T.S. Sarah is closer to our age because she spent a gap year—or three—abroad studying music.” 

“And if they're students, how are you in this position without attending yourself?” 

“I dual enrolled and started my internship during eighth year. I did attend for a year and a half right after graduation, but it was mostly spent as a research assistant. When I proposed my memory potion theory, the department head pushed for funding and set up this lab. It took another year or so to stock it properly and find interns I trusted.” 

And she did it all while getting promoted at the ministry.  

“When the bloody hell do you have time to keep friends?” 

“I mostly don’t,” she admitted rather sadly.  

“I didn't mean—” 

“It's okay. We share friends now, so I'm sure they've mentioned it. I see Pansy and Ginny once a month for girls' night. It's obligatory. If I don't show up, they come and drag me out—it's a nightmare, really. Harry and Ron I rarely see outside of work. Though I did have lunch with them and Ron's family over weekend. And—Sarah it is!” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Sarah. She'll be my second key. Honestly, I don't know why I had to put so much effort into that. She's always been the most reliable.” 

“Add me, too,” he requested.  

“Why?” 

“I'm in charge of protecting the potion, too. Not just you.” 

“Fine.” Hermione wasted no time updating her interns and adjusting the potion wards, further securing her work. “Any other qualms about my wards?” she asked haughtily. 

“You said your house wards are the same?” 

“No. My floo has selective access. The Ministry isn’t even connected directly.” 

He thought a moment. “Alright. I’d like to be sent notifications if anyone steps too close to the warding around your home or places of work. It will tag them and I can be there quickly.” 

“No,” she declared firmly. “There are too many witches and wizards coming and going. You would be under constant alert, and everyone would turn into a suspect.” 

“Fine. Your home, then.” 

“Alright.” She glanced at her watch. “Let's run and do that quickly then I can come finish up here before the interns head home.” 

 *     *     *

Outside of Hermione's flat, Draco watched as she keyed his signature into the wards, officially granting him full access of her property. He wouldn't be able to apparate in, but he could enter. He made a mental note to ask who all had been keyed into her wards, then started on his own additional warding. Since he wasn't allowed to act as bodyguard at her residence, he sufficed with his own special wards designed around potential threats, making sure to begrudgingly leave wiggle room for special guests. 

He briefly toured Hermione's flat, searching for weaknesses and assessing structural integrity—not that the warmth wafting in from the closed window (which must be quite chilly come December), or the way the lights flickered when she washed her hands had any impact on her warding. However, the completely empty refrigerator bothered him the most, as did the lack of any other edible food throughout the flat.  

Maybe she eats out a lot . . .   

He knew it was wishful thinking, but didn't think it was his place to pester.  

Yet.  

When he was satisfied with the safety of her flat, they apparated back to her lab—or as near to it as they could with the wards. Hermione was mysteriously out of floo powder—he noted to make a list of who had access to that network as well. It was close to the end of the day, so Draco busied himself with paperwork while Hermione helped the interns harvest their new plants. By nearly five o'clock the interns began thinning out, and by six it was only Hermione and Draco left. 

“I'm just finishing up some notes if you're ready to leave,” she said without looking up.  

Draco had been sitting quietly in the stiff plastic chair leafing through a plant identification textbook. The office had grown dim and quiet, now only lit by a small table lamp shining just enough light for Hermione to write her notes. He hadn’t even noticed the awkward angle he had been sitting in to have even a little of the light shine on the foliage illustrations.  

“That's not how this works, Granger,” he replied in a bored tone without looking up from a very interesting subspecies of Mandrake. 

Her muggle pen tapped swiftly against the desk. “Fine.” 

“If I'm distracting you, I can wait out in the lab. Maybe leaf through your greenery, see if I can find a four-leaf clover.” 

“What? We don't have any—nevermind. No, I'll just take the notes home with me.” 

“Granger, this is my job. I'll stay here as long as you need me to.” 

“No. It's late. I'm sure you have Astoria or someone waiting for you.” She slammed her notebook shut.  “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Ron had mentioned you two have been negotiating contracts and it sort of slipped.” 

“Negotiating . . .” He thought for a moment on how it was relevant. “No, we discuss negotiations on Thursday, but—” 

“I don't need the details, please. I'm so sorry to have brought it up.” She stuffed her remaining notes into a small, beaded bag hanging off her shoulder. “Alright, let's go.” 

Draco glanced down at the witch as they headed out of her lab. Her hair bounced freely around her, springing in lively waves in striking contrast to the sullen shadows that had converged across her face. Her hair was usually up these days, tied into twisted knots held in place by her vinewood wand, but he preferred it down. 

Preferred it wild as the day he met her outside Platform 9¾.  

He apparated with her to the front gate of her converted flat and watched as she pulled her mouth into a facsimile of a smile, one that had probably fooled people numerous times before but didn't quite reach the midnight hues of her eyes. 

“Thank you for seeing me home, Malfoy.” 

A smirk inched its way across his own face as he thought of how difficult it must have been for her to thank him.  

“It's part of the job, Granger.”  

He could have sworn a flash of hurt crossed over her face.  

No, he realized. It was probably annoyance.   

“What is your plan for tomorrow? Ministry or lab?” 

“Ministry this week. There's a rubbish law that basically converts wives to property if three little words are exchanged during the vows and even though most purebloods have abandoned this atrocious method of slavery, I intend to abolish it permanently. There's a fairly decent record of all the vows taken which include the incantation, so after the Wizengamot takes it to a vote, I'll have to compile a list for the auror department to follow up on. Those ties will have to be severed without destroying whichever form of bonding they've done. They'll probably need the Unspeakable’s help, so I should give Theo a quick heads-up, and—” 

“I'm meeting him and Blaise for dinner, I can warn him then,” he said, softly interrupting her rambling. He wasn't entirely sure she was even still talking to him. 

“Oh . . . Okay great. That's one less thing for me to do. Thank you.” 

“So, Ministry this week. Owl me if your plans change.” 

“Will do.” 

“Goodnight, Granger.” 

“Goodnight, Malfoy.” 

 *     *     *

The dark pub welcomed Draco with the pungent odor of stale grease, booze, and too many cleaning charms with the faintest hints of sweet butterbeer and cinnamon. It was exactly what he needed.  

Theo and Blaise sat waiting for him in a small booth near the corner, a tall firewhiskey already waiting for him.  

“Must've been a long day if even Blaise here beat you to snakes night!” Theo greeted, his permanent grin showing nearly every single straight, white tooth in his mouth. 

“Granger's case started today,” he explained. 

“We going to have to cancel our weekly pub night?” Blaise joked. “We all know what a bloody workaholic that one is.” 

Theo chimed in, “That's all Weasley would bloody talk about during his auror training. You'd think you'd be a little more discreet if the woman you were shagging was your best friend for damn near a decade.” 

Draco took a long drink from his firewhiskey, not entirely finding the humor. “The Weasel's never been one for discreet .” 

“Cheers to that! But at least it gets Daphne to cry on my shoulder every couple of months. A couple here-here’s, a couple there-there's, and before I know it, I have one of her perky little tits in my hand and her mouth around my—” 

“Theo!” Blaise and Draco chided simultaneously.  

“Oh, don't be such prudes,” he retorted fiendishly. “Speaking of prudes, how is our favorite little muggleborn witch? Pansy's been in a fit saying Hermione's completely ousted her from friendship. I haven't even been able to get her to leave the bloody office in weeks. Pansy said she's lost so much weight simply because she isn’t finding time to eat! Imagine being so focused on saving others you bloody starve yourself on accident.”  

“Such bloody dramatics,” Blaise sighed. “Pansy said the same rubbish about me when I started healer training.” 

Draco thought about Theo’s comments on Hermione's weight, remembering ruefully the uncomfortable lack of food around her flat.  

“Granger wanted me to warn you about her upcoming case,” he said, changing the subject. “She'll need your help with pureblood marriages that have vowed servitude. She'll have the Vow of Subjugation obliterated by the weekend.” 

“Oh, fantastic. I love breaking up marriages.” Somehow, Draco didn't think he was kidding. “Really though. She hasn't owled me in a few weeks and is conveniently missing whenever I stop by her office. How's our Golden Girl?”         

“Hard to tell. Has she shown you any of those letters?” 

“No,” Theo answered. “She's kept copies though. They're in her desk. I found a couple last week when I was looking for a quill. I only got through one before I wanted to hurl my lunch.” 

“They're getting worse. If you see her with one, it might be best not to let her read it.” 

“How about you?” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, how's the ol’ chest feeling after finally being able to have a conversation with your Golden Girl?” Theo rubbed his hand over his heart teasingly. 

“Not my anything,” Draco stated calmly.  

“Merlin, Draco, don't play the ‘I'm not in love with her’ card with me. You made me spend the entire bloody summer before second year at the bookstore and in our libraries researching basilisks! All because of some rumor you heard our parents discussing.” 

“If you recall, it wasn't just a rumor. Granger ended up petrified for most of the year. She could have been dead if we hadn't led her to the right bloody book!” 

“Just in time, too. I sure do like having that witch around. It would have been a shame for her to have died so soon after her teeth got fixed.” 

“Ohhhhh,” Blaise chimed in, a thought suddenly clicking. “That's why you kept going to the infirmary with those bloody noses! I swear it was nearly every week!” 

“Yes, well, I'm not twelve anymore, gentlemen. Any . . .” he chose his words carefully, “interest I may have felt when I was younger is not reflected as an adult. I am a professional. Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to order us up another round and place a couple orders for food.” 

They sat and drank for another hour, laughing and joking about their week before Blaise left, followed closely by Theo who claimed to have a lovely lady (or two) waiting for him, leaving Draco and a stack of take-out containers. He headed straight to the apparition point and within a few minutes found himself back outside of Hermione's gate, quietly walking through the wards he knew would alert her to company and carefully set the food down on the porch before turning and leaving. He waited only moment outside of the gate until the door cracked open and he vanished, content in knowing she would have more than just the can of chicken broth he had seen sitting on her counter earlier that day. 

Chapter Text

Hermione sat at the small desk in her guest room, Crookshanks purring as loudly as her own stomach growled. She ignored them both, instead focusing on double and triple checking her arithmancy, ensuring the calculations for their new ingredients were perfect before the next phase of the potion. She had just cracked open her Guide to the Magical Properties of Herbs and Ferns when the dull pain of half-kneazle fangs sank gently into her ankle, the soft fabric of tonight's loungewear keeping her skin in one piece. 

“Crookshanks!” she scolded, checking her ankle for broken skin and becoming aware of the soft vibrations coming from the wand woven into her hair.  

Hermione yanked the carved vinewood from her curls, letting them tumble down her back, and poised it ahead of her. With her dueling stance ready she tiptoed to the front door. It had been hours since Malfoy dropped her off and dusk had since swallowed London. 

With a wave of annoyance, she realized Harry had been right—maybe she was a tad distracted while she worked. If it hadn't been for Crookshanks, she wasn't sure she would have ever realized her wards had gone off. Hermione’s mind snapped to Draco as she reached for the doorhandle. With his new wards, he would get notified, too, and if she wasn't more careful, he could very well tell Harry she needed more protection the next time her wards were breached.  

Hermione glanced around the front porch, realizing whoever had set off her wards had left nearly as quickly. A rumble ran through her stomach again, bringing her attention down to the small stack of containers wafting a lovely aroma up to her. A small note sat on top, written in an elegantly sharp cursive that simply read, 

               Eat.  -DM 

A smile crept over her lips, one which she allowed only in the seclusion of her own home. To think, Draco-Bloody-Malfoy had brought her dinner. Was he teasing her for her lonely can of chicken broth? 

Maybe . . .   

But the deep-fried potatoes tucked carefully into the paper containers called to her and once the ache in her belly had been soothed, she was too content to argue with herself about it. Instead, she brewed herself a mug of chamomile, added the extra dash of dreamless sleep she'd grown accustomed to, grabbed the novel she had been reading in her down time and made her way to her bedroom.  

For the first time in several days, she did not fall asleep on the couch. 

The following days ran together in lengthy court meetings, Wizengamot discussions and sloppily written memos to the auror department. By Friday, Hermione had slept no more than sixteen hours, had lived off five-minute snacks and whatever the ministry cafe was serving, and had abolished the wife-rule. Her lab assistant Sarah owled her each day with progress reports, informing her that the lab was indeed still in one piece, her potion remained in perfect stasis and the interns were behaving accordingly. She was so exhausted each evening that she let the post pile up on the counter, including one letter addressed to her in blood red ink, forgetting entirely about its existence and the auror assigned to protect her. 

That is, until light tapping on her bedroom window from a nearly all black owl disrupted her.  

                Checking on plans for the weekend   -DM 

Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment and found her nearest writing utensil—a ballpoint pen that seemed to make her handwriting sloppier than usual. 

                No plans. Continue as usual.   -H 

After sending the bird away with a few soft pats to the head, she climbed back into bed feeling only slightly bad for lying. She wasn't planning on staying at the lab for long, and by the time Draco arrived and set up whichever book he planned to read through, she would be leaving. Besides, she was meeting Pansy for lunch for the first time in ages, and what did he expect her to do, drag him all around muggle London while she ran her errands? Absolutely not. "Fine” had always been a word on the brink of untruth as it was, so to her she had made him no promises and if she had , such agreements were not specifically outlined in the signed agreement.  

She had checked. 

So, when Hermione woke up that Saturday to a mild September morning, she quickly showered and changed into a rather loose fitting (much looser than she remembered) pair of muggle jeans and a flowy blouse. Letting the late summer air dry her hair, she stepped through the floo into her laboratory office, checking the wards with efficiency before hustling to check on the brewing potion. 

The lab was quiet on the weekends. Sarah met her by the potion still clad in cotton pajamas and stayed only long enough to supply her signature before leaving again. Hermione couldn't decide if she loved or hated it. It seemed as if her whole life was lived in solitude; a solo ship passing between islands of boisterous friendships, never fully breaching the surrounding currents. Sometimes she thrived in the peace, working endlessly on project after project until the whole day had passed in a blink. Other times, much like today, it reminded her that she could simply disappear and there would be few to truly miss her. Few lives she felt truly irreplaceable in.  

Harry would surely miss her, but all in all they spent so little time together anymore his life wouldn't so much be affected. Ron would easily find solace in the bosom of one of his women. Ginny, once, would have been devastated, but since the war their relationship had shriveled, primarily due to Hermione's hyperfixation with work. One can only cancel and push away so much before people stop returning.  

Hermione enjoyed the lab during the week. The interns and assistants laughing, comparing notes and gossiping about romance reminded Hermione of what Hogwarts could have been. If she hadn't been born a mudblood fighting for her place in the magical world, to prove that she belonged. If she hadn't been friends with Harry and Ron and forfeit the last decade of carefree childhood to war. If she hadn't had to delete her very existence from the two people who were supposed to love her endlessly the rest of their lives.  

The interns brought that joy, that light however briefly, back to her. The weekends usually just felt dim without them.  

Lighting the small lamp at her desk, Hermione pulled a book from her shelf, opening to a bookmarked page on Salem, Massachusetts. A second book was already propped open to a page on pumpkin varieties. After reading until her eyes burned from the dark office, she made her way to the greenhouse. Even with the fully open walls, the light seemed to have been swallowed up by the clouds, leaving only a blue-grey glow over the greenery.  

Hermione found the leaves and roots drying appropriately. With a quick check at the lunar cycle, she decided now would be an okay time to begin boiling the leaves so she pulled a large beaker from a cabinet, filled it with water and several drops of sage oil and began heating it over a muggle Bunsen burner, finding its targeted heat preferable for boiling short term. At the first sign of bubbles, she dumped exactly 29.8 grams of the rosemary-like leaves into the water and watched the thermometer until the water climbed back to 100 degrees. She counted eleven bubbles as they burst at the surface before putting out the flame to let them cool to room temp. 

Hermione glanced at the clock above the university-wall door, realizing she was already ten minutes late to her lunch date.  

“I don't think I'm making it, Pans . . .” she said ruefully to the empty lab before penning out a brief apology to owl to her later. 

When the leaves finally cooled, Hermione skimmed them from the water and laid them in a single sheet over a wide aluminum tray on a small pedestal in the greenhouse. They needed to soak in direct moonlight over several nights, so she transfigured the greenhouse roof to act as a magnifying skylight. Satisfied with the day's work, Hermione trudged back to the office to floo to Diagon Alley in the hopes of catching the end of lunch with Pansy.     

The small café in muggle London just outside the Leaky Cauldron smelled of fresh muffins, hot coffee, and the simmering rage radiating off Pansy Parkinson as she glared at Hermione across the narrow table. 

“You're late,” she snapped. 

Hermione plastered on her deepest look if apologies and said, “Yes, I am so sorry Pans. I got caught up with work and—” 

“Of course you did,” she replied, her features not budging. “It's always work. You're an hour and fifteen minutes late, Hermione!” 

“I know, and I honestly did not think you would have waited for me - not that I'm not so glad you did, I've missed you so much. But here—” Hermione dug through her beaded bag until she found the letter she had written at the lab. “It was the apology I was going to owl . . .” 

Pansy's anger bubbled down to worry as she read the quickly scribbled note.  

“You don't have to apologize,” she said softly, tucking a chunk if her sleek black hair behind her ear, giving her sharp features focus against the now asymmetrical bob. “I had a feeling you were going to be late. Or not show up at all. So, I brought Ginny.” 

“Ginny's here?” 

“Yes. She ran to freshen up. We were just about head out to do a bit of shopping. She needs some new dress robes for the year’s Quidditch Galas, and I hear the Malfoys will be hosting something truly spectacular around Christmas. I intend to force her into something a bit sluttier than her usual. Would you like to join us?” 

“I would love to Pans, but—” 

“No buts. You're coming. And we can even stop at that dusty old bookshop while we're out.”  

“No, really. I really need—” 

“Hermione,” the softly rasped voice of her favorite ginger said suddenly from beside her. “I honestly didn't think you'd make it! I owe Pansy five Galleons.” 

Hearing of her best girlfriends betting on her arrival certainly wasn't the highlight of her day. Brushing off the sting and deciding she was overdue for her girl's day, she said, “Alright, where are we starting?” 

Pansy grabbed both of Hermione's hands and pulled her from the narrow café chair. Before she knew it, they were on the street and heading to Diagon Alley. 

“So, how's your new babysitter?” Ginny asked with a sly grin. 

“Who? Malfoy?” Hermione thought about the few interactions they had had. “Fine, really. It's a bit awkward, given our history. But all in all, I haven't seen him much. I've been at the ministry all week, and my office is above his, if anything happened there . . . Well, it would be ridiculous to think anything would happen there.” 

“He's awfully fit, now that he's not such a prat,” Ginny goaded. “If I were you, I would have had him signed on for watch twenty-four seven and made sure to walk about in nothing but my dressing robe.” 

“Ginny!” Hermione giggled, definitely not thinking about Draco in the crisp white shirt and brown leather wand holsters strapped to the chest that looked remarkably more chiseled than it did at Hogwarts. Nor was she thinking about the black slacks that hinted ever so slightly to the bulge hidden beneath. “You're married to Harry, I can't believe you're having this conversation right now.” 

“Well, she has a point, Granger. If he had looked like that when I dated him, I may have totally overlooked the fact that he was completely uninterested in me.” 

“Uninterested in you?” Hermione asked as they passed through the Leaky Cauldron and entered through the magical brick barricade. The ancient magic still amazed Hermione, regardless of how many times she had used it. “I don't think we've talked much about that time in our lives, Pansy.” 

“Well, there's not much to tell. He was completely infatuated with another witch all throughout school. Properly obsessed. And we weren't the nicest bunch of Slytherins in those halls, especially to you, so forgive me if I don't like bringing it up.” 

“You know I've forgiven you, Pans.” 

“Oh, after many drunken nights I believe you! But I don't think Draco knows how to properly—” 

“That's enough about how the Slytherins were arseholes to our beautiful, kind Golden Girl. We've been over the apologies. She's forgiven you all. Now please, let's find that bloody dress shop!” Ginny said emphatically, looping her arms through the other two girls’ and marching them through the wizards and witches loitering about the street. 

Hermione sifted through racks of blouses as Pansy helped find sultry gowns for Ginny. With a few work-casual pieces and a new pajama set draped over her arm, her fingers flitted over the soft silk of a gown hanging in the formal section. The strikingly deep emerald green shifted like liquid gemstones under the boutique's enchanted lighting. Before she realized what was happening, another pair of hands was pulling it away. 

“Come on, Granger. I see the gleam in your eye. You're not leaving this shop without at least trying this on.”  

“Pans, I have nowhere to wear something like this. It’s far too much for any ministry event I have slated for the rest of the year. Besides, I—” Hermione stopped short, noticing two faces pressed against the boutique’s front window.  

Pansy turned to look. “What in the world are those two idiots doing?” 

The two wizards realized they had been spotted too late. Hermione had already begun storming to the front door, forgetting entirely about the unpaid items draped over her arms. Theo and Blaise scrambled apart and raced for the front door, nearly running into the two witches as they stomped to confront them. 

“Parkinson!” Blaise called nonchalantly as he caught her at the door. “We thought that was you!” 

“Don’t play dumb, Zabini. You were with Draco,” she hissed. “Where is the bloody snake?” 

“I assure you, Pans, we have no clue what you are talking about,” Theo claimed, glancing nervously at Hermione, whose fingers now wrapped dangerously around her wand. “My love, you must believe me! We were merely walking through Diagon and happened upon the three most beautiful witches in all of London as they browsed these beautiful gowns.” 

Hermione smiled sweetly, and the boys visibly relaxed. “The three most beautiful witches, eh?” she asked. 

“Yes, My Love. Astounding. Brilliant. Utterly breathtaking!” 

Blaise fervently nodded in agreement. 

“How long have you been waiting for us?” 

“We only just arrived,” Theo promised. 

“Yes, no more than a moment!” Blaise added. 

Hermione snapped her wand, casting two powerful hexes at the wizards. In a matter of seconds, they were scrambling out of the boutique and releasing their lunch across the cobblestone street. 

“Ginny’s been in the bloody dressing rooms for nearly twenty!” she scolded. “Go run and tell Malfoy I don’t need to be bloody babysat every time I leave my bloody flat!” 

Theo and Blaise continued to vomit, eventually settling into uncomfortable dry heaves before they apparated away. 

“Excuse me,” a sharp voice called from the shop. “You have to pay for those!” 

“Come on, Granger. You’re trying on that bloody dress.” Pansy pulled her towards the dressing area without complaint, where Ginny stood in a mirrored alcove twirling in a midnight blue gown that shimmered like the starry night sky. “Do not take that gown off without coming out to show us,” she insisted before grabbing the clothes from Hermione's arms and shoving her into a room. 

“I can't believe you're dragging Hermione into this too,” Ginny giggled. 

Pansy, with her hands firmly on her hips and a smirk across her face, simply gave her a wink before Hermione was opening the door. 

The emerald dress hung gracefully over Hermione's frame. The slouched neckline showing the perfect amount of cleavage from her full breasts and a slit reaching far enough up her leg she would need to purchase a new pair of panties—or wear none whatsoever—if she were to wear the masterpiece in public.  

“It's a bit loose,” Hermione debated, walking barefoot over to the mirror to join Ginny.  

“Maybe if you remembered to actually eat lunch once in a while, it wouldn't be,” Ginny chided. 

“It's absolutely your color though,” Pansy added, pushing Hermione's hair around to reflect the accentuated red lowlights. “And with a few little charms it will hug your curves so well even Longbottom would be drooling.” 

Hermione laughed. “From what I heard during eighth year, that's not too hard to do. Neville . . . well let's say he's searching for the right woman.” 

Ginny chimed in from the dressing room, “Sometimes two or three women at a time!” 

“No!” Pansy shrieked. “Plant boy?!” 

“Oh, yes. He is enjoying the aftermath of puberty quite well.” 

“And the chiseled jaw and abs that came with it!” Ginny shouted. 

“Some say no witch has been interesting—” Hermione started. 

“Or challenging,” Ginny added. 

“—enough for him,” Hermione finished. 

“Well, I never would have expected.” 

“How are you ladies coming along?” A perky blonde witch poked her head in and asked. “Anything I can get boxed up for you?” 

“Yes, the items in room one and this beautiful gown, as well as the gowns in room four. We'll charge them to the Parkinson account.” 

“Pansy, no! I can pay—” 

“Nonsense,” she said, brushing off her friend. “I have more money than I can handle. Besides, think of it as payment. I have a bit of a request.” 

“Pans, you don't have to pay me to help you.” 

“Then think of it as a bribe. I've heard Hogwarts hasn't had much luck finding a new Transfiguration professor since McGonagall, and I know the terms already begun but I would like the position.”  

“Why?” 

“Interior Design is beginning to bore me, but I can make nearly anything you could dream of with a blade of grass, so I figured maybe I'd try my hand at teaching. Maybe I'll even come across a certain plant boy and try my hand at him, too.” 

Hermione playfully shoved her as she stepped down from the podium to change. “I would love to owl Minerva, Pansy. You are brilliant at Transfiguration. Of course! Of course I'll help you. I am a bit sad that I won't see you as often, though.” 

“Hermione, I never see you now”, she said. “Besides, the professors get personal floo access and aren't required to stay on castle grounds unless they're head of house. So really, my personal life won't be too affected. If anything, I can pester you more because I'll have set hours and won't have to spend my own free time building a tainted business or polishing a tarnished name!” 

Redressed in street clothes, Ginny and Hermione stepped from their dressing rooms.  

“Malfoy was just voted most eligible Wizard,” Ginny claimed. “If he could rebrand his name, I don't think Parkinson is too far behind. If anything, everyone loves a good redemption story. You death eater children are basically the wizarding world's private soap opera.” 

“Eloquently put, Gin. How the hell do you know what a Soap Opera is, anyway?” Hermione asked. 

“Harry made us put a telly into Grimmauld.” 

“You'd know that if you ever visited, Granger,” Pansy accused. “We've all been properly introduced to muggle ways over the years.” 

“Our very own at-home Muggle Studies!” 

“Rehab for the formerly prejudiced, a certain swotty little muggleborn could say. Harry's forced us all to assimilate. It was part of his program. De-brainwash us all from using the word mudblood before you ran into any former Slytherins after eighth year—not that a single one of us had any interest in it after the war. Draco would have Avada'd us personally if he ever even heard a rumor, we were still using that word.” 

“Why?” 

“You don't know?” Ginny asked, astounded. They were back out in the alley, their new items packed away nicely into Pansy’s bottomless dragon leather handbag.  

Hermione shook her head, confused, but Pansy elbowed the redhead before she could answer.  

“No reason in particular. Something about mind healing and changing perspectives and Brightest Witch of our Age and whatnot. Maybe he'll explain it all during your excessive time together,” she offered suggestively, her eyebrows quirking in only a way Pansy Parkinson could pull off. 

Ginny giggled before steering them down a side street. “I should really stop in and see Fred and George. Ron's been helping on the weekends, too, ever since Angelina found out she was pregnant.” 

“Oh great! I need to see what sorts of rubbish the students will have picked up before Hermione lands me the professor position!” 

Hermione pulled back, staying close to the main street and the other two paused to look expectantly toward her. “I've had a great time, but I need to run into the bookstore and do some shopping. Girls' night soon?” 

“I'll hold you to it,” Pansy said. 

“Dinner with Harry and I at Grimmauld this week. I insist!” Ginny urged. 

“Alright, alright. Wednesday?” 

“I'll drag you by the ankle if I have to.” 

All three giggled. “Oh, and Pans, it's de-program.” 

“What?” 

“Not de-brainwash,” she corrected, turning back towards her favorite used bookstore a few streets over. “De-program. You've all been de-programmed.” 

“You couldn't just let that one go, could you?” 

“Never.” She smiled. 

“Swot!” Pansy yelled, her sharp smile cutting across her beautiful face. 

“Always!” 

Chapter Text

Draco woke at the crack of dawn Saturday morning with a growing headache from the night before. He had met Harry and Theo at the pub for Friday night drinks and had taken one too many shots of whiskey—the muggle stuff tended to pull him under much quicker. He shifted in bed trying to reposition, not quite ready to start his day, when something warm brushed against him. 

“What the—” he mumbled, sitting up to see what had landed in his bed to come face to face with long blonde hair attached to the soft, feminine face of their waitress from the pub. “Fuck.” 

The woman— why couldn't he remember her name?!— stirred lightly as he rolled the opposite way out of bed.  

“Draco? Where are you going so early?” she purred from the covers.  

“I—uh—have to work today, unfortunately.” Draco plastered his best disappointed face on before pulling up a pair of grey joggers that had been discarded two nights previously. “Ferret!” he called. 

A sleek black owl nearly half the size of himself flew into his bedroom from her cage on the first floor. Draco scribbled his question to Hermione before tying it to her ankle and sending her off.  

“Right, I'm off to shower. Help yourself to some tea before you head out. My house elf will make you some.” 

Draco's adjoining bathroom had a double wide stone walk-in shower and a vanity large enough for Pansy Parkinson's makeup collection. The opposing shower heads, though built for two, quickly turned the stone space into a stream room. As the heat swirled around his bathed body, he lathered the soap and washed away the overly sweet smell of processed vanilla leftover from his rumble with the blonde witch. 

Veronica?  

Sarah—no that's Hermione's assistant's name .  .  .  

April?  

He kept thinking as the details of the night trickled back to him. He had asked the young woman out after Theo's insistence and many overly forward attempts at flirting on her part. It had taken him two smirks and only one slightly backhanded compliment reminiscent of his old self before she asked a coworker to cover the rest of her shift— 

Sharaya?  

Fuck!  

She had eagerly climbed into bed, and he remembered being at least a partial gentleman, ensuring she came once before he did. However, he was near certain the sex itself was subpar.  

Sasha!  

He was certain her name was Sasha.  

With a towel wrapped around his waist, he cast a quick drying charm over his hair, carefully swooping It into the perfectly imperfect, disheveled, “I'm not trying too hard, I just naturally look this good” style he ordered his hair in each morning. A slight variation on the sleek look he had grown up sporting. It was a rather lengthy shower, and he was certain Sasha would have been gone already, so he stepped back into his bedroom, nearly dropping the towel the moment his feet touched the warm plush carpet. 

“Round two?” an overly sweet voice asked from a pile of bedding. “I should probably brush my teeth first.” Her giggle, though not inherently abrasive, grated down his spine and he suddenly felt quite regretful Theo had convinced him to take the witch home. 

“I'm so sorry, Sasha, I thought you would have already ducked out. I really do have to work, I'm afraid.” He plastered on his smirk before adding, “But maybe if you're a good girl, we can—” 

“I'm sorry, did you say Sasha?” she interrupted, the humor in her voice evaporated. “It's Celeste, you prick!” 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as she leapt from the mattress and began angrily dressing. Celeste was gone before he could say hippogriff.    

After the rather exciting morning, Draco dressed quickly before racing down to find Mippy busying herself with tea. “Master Draco!” she squealed. “Mippy is so glad you is awake.” 

“Good morning, Mippy. You should be sleeping in and letting Tilly handle tea. It’s your day off,” he scolded gently. 

“Oh, Mippy knows, Master Draco, but Tilly is not feeling so well, and Tilly remembers the last time she worked sick! Master Draco was not happy—not happy at all! Then Master Draco took care of us, and we was not happy! Mippy will not let that happen again, sir! So Tilly is taking Mippy’s day off, sir.” 

“Very well, Mippy. But I expect you to make up for your time off when Tilly is feeling well again.” 

“Thank you, Master Draco.” Mippy sat a dainty cup of tea and small dish of honey on the large dining table in front of Draco as he sat. A silver platter of breakfast appeared next, along with a small reply from Hermione. “Ferret brought this while you were in the shower, Master Draco.” 

“Thank you, Mippy.” 

Draco opened the letter from Hermione, a subtle pang of disappointment flitted through his chest at the response, but he figured he could fill the day with long-overdue errands. After eating quickly he ran up to the first floor sitting room where the large marble fireplace sat at its heart, it's white reflecting back the deep teal lounge furniture spaced around the center, matching the half teal walls above bright white wainscoting. Though all of his townhouse had been modernly renovated by Pansy during her interior design phase, this room was his favorite, second only to his bedroom and adjoining bathroom. 

The pull of the floo left Draco momentarily destabilized as he stepped into the parlor of Malfoy Manor. A small elf dressed in the frilliest doll's dress he had ever seen and a bow twice the size of her head greeted him. 

“Oh! Master Draco! It is so early for a visit from the young master! Mistress was not expecting you today.” 

“Good morning, Dolly. I apologize for the surprise visit. I found some extra time this morning and wished to spend it with Mother. Would you please let her know I'm in the library when she wakes?” 

“Mistress is already having breakfast and tea in the conservatory! Dolly will let mistress know of Master Draco's arrival.” 

Dolly disapparated with a crack, leaving Draco to dust the remaining soot from his otherwise pristine jacket and saunter to the far corner of the house to greet his mother. He let his eyes rove over the changes throughout the manor that Pansy had taken into her own hands as a distraction after the war. Where the walls had once been dark and broody, she had turned them light and free, incorporating the colors of clouds and cliffsides, of seascapes and floral pastures. The only room that refused to release the foul memories Voldemort and the death eaters had dragged through the halls was the drawing room, and each time Draco visited his once beloved home, he couldn't help but linger in front of the doors and listen to the memories as they echoed and haunted him.  

Though the floors were now warm toned oak and every inch had been gutted and redecorated, Draco still stood outside the heavy double doors, staring at the center of the room as if Hermione's motionless body still lay there limp and bleeding. A new chandelier had never been put up, instead finishing off the ceiling with beautifully carved wood, and the walls, which were once a deep eggplant, were now a soft periwinkle—another quiet haunting for only him. 

Draco shook off the dark reverie and reminded himself she had survived. She had survived, and in spite of all the sadistic characters that had lived in his home at the time, she hadn’t been passed around like a toy. He had frozen that day when he realized Penelope Clearwater was actually Hermione Granger, and to this day he wasn’t sure what he would have done had the likes of Greyback had their way with her. In the end, all he had been able to do for her while suffering her aching, tormented screams, had been to occlude. He hid her secrets against his aunt’s ripping magic; he occluded her thoughts and dreams and family and prayed to Merlin she would hold out.  

Then, when at last all was quiet, when his wand had been spelled from his hand and the room shook with flying spells, when the chandelier fell from the sky at the pinnacle of destruction, he was able to use his body as a shield against the collapsing glass and brass. It had taken him a full week of constant healing to walk again after his spine had been crushed—but Hermione had walked away. She had walked away to free dragons and destroy horcruxes and save the entire wizarding world. 

He hadn't been able to help her enough back then . . .  

But he sure as hell wasn't going to let one of them get to her again.  

With a swish of his hand the drawing room doors closed and he was marching toward the conservatory. 

Narcissa looked as beautiful as always, though the creases across her brow had deepened and frown lines seemed happier on her mouth than a smile. For the early hour she was already dressed in exquisite navy-blue robes, her dual toned hair twisted elegantly into a classic chignon and even her eyes had been painted lightly with casual makeup.  

The only thing out of place was the faraway look that took over her eyes whenever she was alone. For all of Lucius's crimes, they had been utterly in love. Draco knew his mother missed him deeply and counted down the days until his next trial. 

She sat on a small loveseat overlooking the lush gardens. Her flowers had been charmed to last well into autumn and though the temperatures had begun to decline, from the conservatory it still felt like the height of summer. Breakfast sat untouched on a short table before her. Draco crept around her mountains of vining indoor plants that had overtaken the one wall not made of glass to join the seating area across from her.  

“Hello, my dragon,” Narcissa cooed as he sat down, her droopy features lighting immediately. Dolly had a second plate and tea already waiting. 

“Hello, Mother. I apologize for the spontaneity. I expected to be on assignment this morning and was surprised to find I had the day off. I wanted to visit before the day got away from me.” 

“Never apologize for returning home, Draco dear. You know you need never call ahead to visit. This is always your home.” 

Draco nodded. “How have you been, mum?”  

Draco rarely dropped the formalities when he was younger, preferring the pompous visage his family had honed over centuries. The powerful delusion cracked shortly after beginning Hogwarts, when his interests in witches developed and he was told in no kind words that the one he had become infatuated with, who had impressed him in every class and had to be from an outstanding family, was of dirty blood and he would be tainted if he so much as thought of her as an equal. The fissure in those beliefs only spread wider as the years pressed on and as the mudblood continued to outrank him, outsmart him, and prove beyond a doubt that she belonged in their world more than anyone. 

“I'm alright. I miss your father, but that's nothing new. He sends his love in his last letter and wonders how negotiations with the Greengrass girl were going.”      

“They're coming along fine. We should have things settled up by November.” 

“That long? Really?” 

“Yes. She's a bit high maintenance. Quite a few demands and expectations that frankly I'm not sure I’m capable of fulfilling.” 

“Contracts like these can be difficult. When your father and I were courting, I used to negotiate him through the roof.” She let out a nostalgic giggle. “You two will have to learn to work together if you're going to make it work. She's just testing your limits. I'm sure she'll settle and you can come to a happy agreement.” 

“I'm sure you're right mother. But you forget, you and father were in love during those negotiations.” 

“Very true, darling.” Narcissa took a long sip of her tea, warming it briefly with magic. “So, should I hold off on mentioning marriage in my next reply, then?” 

“Mother, nagging isn't going to speed up the rate in which I start a family.” 

“I know. I simply worry. You're London's most eligible bachelor. You should be negotiating more than just a contract with the Greengrasses.” 

“I have too much to worry about as it is, Mother. Speaking of which, I'm in need of some of your contacts in Nocturne. Hermione Granger's gotten caught up in a bit of trouble with the resurgence for her work with a new potion.” 

“Granger . . .” Narcissa's eyes flitted briefly towards the house, where he knew she was picturing the drawing room floor and a shattering chandelier. She continued softly, “I've heard she's started something truly remarkable. From the moment you wrote home about the clever witch who seemed to know exactly how the world worked, I knew she would do great things. I wish your father and I had had our . . . awakening, sooner. Of course, my dragon. I'll get you anything you need. Is that the mysterious case you've been consumed with?” 

“It is. She finally agreed to Auror detail, even though it's me.” Draco chuckled to himself. “She even chose me over her bloody Weasel.” 

“Watch your mouth, Draco!” she scolded as he picked apart a croissant. “I would like you to bring her to tea one of these days.” 

“Mother, I don't think that's a great idea. Her last visit wasn't . . .” 

“I know exactly what her last visit was like! And I know exactly what it did to you, too! Which is why I would like to have tea!” She took a deep breath, steadying her voice. “This manor needs to be a home again. It will be a home again, and the only way for that to happen is to make amends. Harry has been here many times over the years. Even Ron has accompanied him once or twice to our events. Miss Granger has not, and I would like her to be aware that this is no longer a place she needs to fear. Please, Draco. It doesn't have to be this week, or even this month. But if you two are beginning to work through your . . . complications, then I would like the invitation extended to her.” 

“Fine. But I will not force her into a nightmare.” 

“I would never expect you to, dear.” 

“What about tea outside the manor?” 

“Darling, you know I rarely leave the manor these days.” 

“Precisely. If you want Granger to suffer discomfort by sharing tea with us, we should be equally uncomfortable. Merlin knows I will be, regardless of where we go.” 

“And you say Astoria is a ruthless negotiator.” She smirked. “Fine. Tea outside of the house to start, but I will extend her an invitation to each of our parties henceforth.” 

The remainder of tea remained pleasant and as Draco strode back towards the floo parlor, he thought of how much better his mother looked towards the end.  

Next on his Saturday tour was Nott manor. Unlike Malfoy Manor, most of Theo's abode remained untouched due to the curses that had been scattered throughout - that, and his overall nonchalance on the matter. Though his father was a piece of work and his mother fled while he was young, choosing instead to live a life in her personal vineyard far away from her son and abusive husband, the manor rarely housed the horrors of Voldemort's reign of terror, carrying solely the personal hauntings of Theo's childhood. 

Draco emerged from the drawing room floo to find the manor stagnant.  

“Theodore!” he bellowed into the ancient space. The dark, aristocratic walls and rich wood furnishing across every space gave him the tingly sensation of stepping back in time. “Theodore! I know you're home—” 

A crack sounded beside him before an elderly elf appeared. “Master Nott is not prepared for visitors at the moment,” Grits, the grumpy house Elf that refused to leave informed him. 

“Is he in his bedroom?” 

“Yes. But Master has asked not to be disturbed.” 

“You may warn him but I'm afraid that's too bad, because I'm heading up regardless.” 

The elf disapparated and Draco headed toward the looming staircase winding up toward the upper floors. With a sinister smirk he paused at a nearby rolling desk. The third drawer down had a continuous stock of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes gags, everything from five-minute lust chocolates to wart-inducing lozenges. However, Draco found himself more interested in the stock of pocket sized no-fire fireworks. 

With a handful tucked away, he crept up to the new master bedroom—one of the few rooms in the house to have been remodeled. And by remodeled, it had been gutted, burned, torn down to the studs of the manor, reshaped and extended over a series of visits from an ill-tempered Pansy until, finally, Theo decided to open the whole room up into a two-room guest suite and convert a completely different one into the master bedroom. 

Draco wasn't sure, but he would bet money that Theo's adventure in redesign had been the end of Pansy's interior design dream. 

“Theodore!” he grumbled at the top of the staircase. Finding the new master bedroom unlocked and the door cracked open, Draco snuck one hand in and released the fireless Firework. Then he sat back and listened to the pops! and bangs! exploding into the open space.  

Two sets of screams erupted. 

The door flew open. Instead of an angry Theo, a livid Daphne Greengrass clad in a single bedsheet wrapped around her torso stood in the doorway. Her blonde hair frizzed around her head unattractively. 

“DRACO!!” she shrieked as Theo rushed to join her, not bothering with covering himself.  

“You’re a bloody wanker, mate,” he grumbled.  

“Had to get you out of bed. You’re coming with me to get Blaise from his shift.” 

Theo groaned aggressively. “Why are you so bloody social today?! Where's my Draco? The Draco that broods and cooks himself lunch and forces us to go to him?” 

“He's taking a break right now. Someone convinced him to bring a witch home last night and now Mippy has to burn my bedsheets.” 

“Oh, the dramatics! You needed to get laid, mate. And see? One good shag and you're out and about socializing with the general public instead of working.” Theo fiendishly cocked a brow at his friend. “Maybe that's what Granger needs! An orgasm! Someone to rough her up a bit, sexually. You'd be awfully good at that.” He added the last sentence under his breath as Daphne skittered out of the bedroom and towards the floo. 

“Salazar, just get dressed,” he ordered, suddenly annoyed.  

“Fine, but you're buying me a pint.” 

Ten minutes later Theo emerged in his classically casual suit and black undershirt with just enough buttons undone to show off the chest hair he had spent years growing perfectly. His hair sat atop his head in pristine curls that coiled smoothly into a slight poof, accentuating the boyish grin he constantly had spread across his face. 

“How does my hair look?” he asked. “Sometimes my charm doesn't work if I've skipped a wash.” 

“Fine. We're just grabbing a bite with Blaise. You've already said your goodbyes to Daph, what does it matter?” 

“I hear Loony Lovegood is quite the healer—and quite the freak. I'm hoping to run into her down one of St. Mungo’s deserted hallways and see if she'll show me what kooky little things that brain can come up with.” 

“Do you ever stop? I mean, ever?” 

“Absolutely not,” Theo said with a grin.  

*     *     *

After the war, many of the death eater children went into fields to make amends for the crimes of their parents. Theo became an Unspeakable, working to eradicate curses and bonds forged through dark arts. Draco became an Auror, hunting down those that had maimed, tortured, and escaped their own punishment. Blaise became a healer.  

Draco had never told them, but he felt immense pride to see how his friends had grown and thrived over the years. He hoped he had become someone they felt similarly about; someone who deserved to still have their lives after their countless peers had lost theirs fighting for the right side of the war. 

The two men meandered through St. Mungo's in search of Blaise's office and finding it occupied with the witch and wizard they had gone there to meet.  

“Luna,” Theo crooned, reaching in to embrace her.  

Luna hadn't changed much since her years at Hogwarts. Her fair curly hair had grown longer and curlier. Sometimes, on days like today, she kept it piled atop her head in a way that reminded Draco of a blonde Bellatrix. The dreamy look in her eyes remained as well, though he supposed that came in handy when dealing with psych patients all day. Luna knew healing magic well and could counter nearly any curse faster than some more experienced healers thanks to her time in Dumbledore's Army, but still she found most of her shifts revolving around the day to day care of their long term patients - primarily those whose run ins with death eaters ended in not so favorable circumstances. 

“Theodore,” she said, her whimsical voice nearly singing his name. “You haven't been in in a while. Did you stop sticking things into places they don't fit?” 

Theo's face grew scarlet and Draco pledged he would get the story from him the next time they went out drinking. “Yes, beautiful. I only stick things in proper holes these days.” He paused, giving her a gentle wink and completely missing the death stare Blaise was shooting at him. “I love what you’ve done with your hair, Lulu. You know, I have this lovely little charm I would be so happy to teach you that would do wonders for those beautiful curls. What do you say, my place? Around eleven tonight?” 

How the small smile on Luna’s face never faltered amazed him. With a strange politeness only she could muster, she said, “No thank you. You have more wrackspurts infesting your ears than I’ve ever seen! I hope you heal what’s attracting them before they find your friends. Especially Hermione, she has enough wrackspurts of her own without taking yours as well.” Luna stepped towards the door, offering Blaise a subtle nod before leaving. 

“I tried that hair charm on Granger when I first started at the ministry, too. That witch took me up on it, only to leave me her friend Fred’s number and leave!” Theo laughed, remembering the early days of his friendship with Hermione. 

Blaise shook his head as a small laugh escaped his throat. Draco, however, found himself for the second time that day wanting to break his friend's nose. 

*     *     *

Diagon Alley had lost its new school year flare. The streets seemed dull without the excited chatter of children starting their journeys through Hogwarts and the shops held shorter lines than Draco had seen all summer. Yet, the Leaky Cauldron remained full of drunkards and shady wizards having shadier meetings, glaring at them as if Draco had nothing better to do as an Auror than arrest them for illegal betting or fraudulent magical item sales. 

Because, of course, he had been eavesdropping. And maybe using a touch of Legilimency on the extra suspicious men. It was his job, after all. And if he stumbled on information regarding the resurgence or death eaters at large, then it would be a happy coincidence.  

“Oi, Malfoy!” Blaise urged, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. 

“What?” 

“I said,” he said tersely, “Are you going to the Potter's Halloween party?” 

“Oh, yeah. I suppose I am. That's not for a few weeks, though.” 

 “Were you not listening at all, mate?” 

“Not really, no,” Draco admitted with an air of cocky indifference. 

Blaise cursed under his breath. “I was saying I took that weekend off.” He stared at Draco, waiting for some sort of response. Huffing an exasperated breath, he said, “I thought you weren't working today?” 

“I'm not,” Draco replied unconvincingly. 

“I thought it was strange you suggested the Leaky Cauldron over someplace in Hogsmeade. I just thought maybe you wanted to explore London a bit after.” 

 “I have some errands to run in Diagon after,” Draco admitted. “But I'm just out for a pint and a nice lunch. No ulterior motives.” 

 Theo scoffed. “Draco Malfoy always has an ulterior motive.” Draco shot him a dirty look. “What? It isn't a bad thing. It's just that Slytherin charm. So cunning and whatnot.” 

“Yeah, but you were in Slytherin too, Theo, and your motives are about as transparent as Nearly Headless Nick,” Blaise joked. “Witches can see right through your little charm line.” 

“To be fair I've only tried that on two, and I think they've both already had their hearts stolen by someone else.” 

“Do you know who Hermione's seeing?” Draco asked suddenly, catching himself just a moment too late when Theo’s eyebrows began wiggling about goofily. “I still don't know who's been sending the threats. I'd like to run a background check on the bloke.” 

“No, I don't know his name. She hasn't mentioned him much, honestly. Then again, I haven't seen her much. I figure she'll start coming ‘round again when her potion’s finished. Though, he wasn't exactly who I meant.” Theo giggled into his spiked butterbeer.     

“Granger fancy someone else?” Blaise asked.  

Draco tried to morph his features into his usual unimpressed sneer, gazing instead around the shifty pub. 

“She’s never admitted it, but there is a wizard she tends to ask about quite often.” 

“And you've never mentioned—” Blaise began, being quickly interrupted by Draco. 

“You two gossip like my mother during afternoon tea,” Draco scolded. 

“Don't act like you're not invested in Granger’s—speak of the devil, where's she running off to?” 

“What?” Blaise asked before they all directed their attention to where Theo was looking, finding Hermione rushing through the pub in her lab coat towards muggle London.  

“I don't know. But I'll be sure to ask her,” Draco said bitterly, pushing up from the table.  

“Hold up, mate. Pansy mentioned going out with Ginny today. She's probably just meeting up with them.” 

“She agreed not to leave her flat alone,” Draco grumbled, sitting back down. “ And, I owled her this morning and she said she wasn't working! She agreed to have me around. It's not safe for her to run around lying about where she's at. Not when there's a bloody psychopath out to get her.” 

“Draco, it's Hermione bloody Granger,” Blaise reasoned. “She's broken more magical laws than any of us. I think she'll be okay for one Saturday afternoon.  

“Nah, I'm with Draco,” Theo agreed. “She can be careless when she has a plan. How many times has she literally run towards danger? One rogue death eater probably doesn't faze someone who broke into the ministry to fight a horde of them as a teenager.” 

Draco's heart dropped. He hated the sudden discussion of . . . well, any of those moments that had directed the rest of his life. The battle at the ministry and his father's first arrest had certainly been the beginning of the end of his childhood. 

“I think we should follow her,” Theo said casually.  

“What?!” Blaise exclaimed. “You can't honestly think that's a good idea?” 

“For the first time today, I think Theo might actually be on to something,” Draco agreed. 

“For her own safety, really.” 

“You two are idiots. I am having no part of this.” 

Chapter Text

Ten minutes later their drinks were empty, the tab was settled and the three men were creeping out toward muggle London.  

“I cannot believe you two talked me into this,” Blaise complained, following closely behind and looking as if it were the greatest day of his life. 

“Like you’ve never pretended to be an international spy when you were young,” Theo mocked. 

“I feel like James Bond.”  

Draco and Theo looked at Blaise in surprise.  

“What? If you two can watch muggle movies, so can I!” 

“Did Pansy say where they were meeting?” Draco asked. 

“No, but she likes this muggle café just ‘round the corner,” Blaise explained. 

 An elderly couple passed by, giving them the strangest looks and muttering complaints about generational slang. 

“Gotta watch the word muggle out here, mate,” Theo chided. 

“Is that Pansy?” Draco whispered. They were across the street looking into the café. A slender woman with short, silky black hair stood with her arms crossed and a cross look on her face. “Is she . . . is she scolding Granger?” 

“Leave it to Pansy to not fear Hermione’s wrath,” Blaise said. 

"Hermione's mellowed since fourth year,” Theo argued. 

"What about the DA's hexed coins?” Blaise countered. 

“Or that time she confunded McLaggen,” Theo remembered. 

“Or when they were on the run, Weasley told me of a time Harry wouldn't even give her her wand for fear she would curse Ron,” Blaise added. 

“True, true—” 

“Would you two shut up?” Draco snapped. “You would make terrible spies. Can't even pay attention during a bloody stake out—fuck, they’re coming!” Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. “Quick! Around the corner!” 

Down an adjacent side street the trio watched as the three witches headed back toward the Leaky Cauldron. As they rounded the corner, movement in a narrow Alley across the street caught Draco's attention—a greasy haired teenager no older than nineteen stared at the witches as they passed by. He moved from the dirty street and began following the girls at a distance. Though he had muggle-passing attire, the clothes were crooked and out of place for the season. And there, in a hand held tightly at his side, he held a rather worn wand.  

“You two stay close to the girls. Mainly Hermione,” Draco ordered sternly before stalking casually from their hiding spot. 

“Oi, where're you off to, then?” Theo complained. 

“I'm off to catch a wizard,” he winked. 

In no time at all Draco’s long legs caught up to the trembling teenager. He had made it just outside the pub and was waiting behind a scraggly shrub no bushier than a desert tumble weed, watching the girls through a grimy window as Pansy expertly flirted with a young bartender. With practiced Auror grace, Draco snuck behind the wizard, pulling his wand discreetly and pushing it under the boy's chin, digging it roughly into the thin skin.  

The young wizard smelled of stale booze and piss and shook like a freezing chihuahua. His already cracked wand fell to the pavement immediately.  

“I-I d-don't have ‘ny money!” he stammered.  

“Tell me what you want with Hermione Granger,” Draco said darkly, his voice rough and determined. 

“W-who?” Draco pushed the wand tip further into the wizard's throat. “O-okay, okay! I'm s'posed to follow her is all! Get a feel for her schedule! Her old man thinks she was cheatin’ and wannid ta pin ‘er!” 

Draco glanced around, making sure the coast was clear before grabbing the wizard’s discarded wand and apparating away to the designated point near the ministry, dragging him through to the hidden entrance.  

“Where . . .?” the wizard began before recognizing the atrium. “N-no! Please no! I-I can’t be here! Please!” 

Ignoring his pleas, Draco led him to the elevator and straight to Harry’s office, barging in without a knock. 

“Merlin, what the bloody—” 

“Save it, Potter. I need you to have this one interrogated. Found him following Granger. I need to get back. I left the two dumb-arses in charge and knowing them, they’ve already blown their cover.” 

“Fuck. Alright—wait, cover?” 

“Long story. Fill you in later.” 

Harry called in Terry Boot, who had just finished closing a case, and, of all the irritating Aurors in the building, Cormac McLaggen. They got the young man situated in an interrogation room. Draco hurried through the paperwork and general explanation before bidding them good luck and rushing to the floo.  

The floo network, though immensely convenient, had a flaw—it could only deposit witches and wizards at a designated fireplace. Or, in the case of Diagon Alley, a set of fireplaces positioned and maintained in a beautiful stone atrium about halfway down the main street. Draco had no way of knowing which way their group had gone, so began wandering, keeping his eyes peeled for someone .  

Harry had once mentioned a small used bookstore down a ways from Gringotts, quietly tucked in off the streets with little foot traffic to upset the delicate peace one usually likes when reading. He had run into Hermione accidentally several times since and hoped he could find her once again in her favorite reading spot, drinking her favorite coffee and surrounded safely by her friends. Instead, he spotted Pansy and Ginny heading straight towards the joke shop—no Granger in sight.  

“Fuck,” he cursed. “Pansy! Ginny!” 

The girls turned to glare at him.  

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Ginny snapped. 

“Why the bite, Ginevra?” 

“You sicked your henchmen on us! They bloody barreled right through us and nearly knocked us into the boutique! Walked in looking like bloody numpties!” 

“I knew those wankers would make shite spies,” he muttered more to himself than to them. “I think your ego will mend, Ginevra. But please tell me Granger is with you.” 

“Draco, darling,” Pansy purred, “Do you see the curly brown mane of the golden girl? Have you been hexed like our fellow snakes?” 

“Hexed . . . Pansy what are you—” 

“You didn't come with Blaise and Theo?” 

“No, I sent them ahead. They didn't warn you when they ran into you?” 

“'Mione honestly never gave them a chance,” Ginny explained. “Once they ran into us, she said something along the lines of them being backstabbing rats and gave them . . .” She looked at Pansy to explain. 

“Basically, magical food poisoning. They had to go home,” she finished. “Why? What should they have told us?” 

“Hermione made certain agreements with me about her safety that she seems to have no concern over keeping and I just arrested a bloody teenager stalking you three down muggle London!” Draco's temper was rising. “Where did she say she was going?!” 

“She didn't!” Ginny claimed, suddenly frantic. “She said she was stopping by a bookshop then running some errands!” 

Draco nodded, already stepping away in the direction of Hermione's bookshop.  

“Draco!” Pansy called. “If anybody hurts our witch I want to be there when you kill them!” 

“That would be illegal, Pansy,” he said with a smirk that felt more like a wink before his body shifted into something more primal. 

As a teenager there were times Draco had wished to be unrecognizable—to be someone, or some thing without pressure or responsibility; without status. The moment he was acquitted, before even applying for Auror training, he had started the process of becoming an animagi. It took a few tries, and it wasn't until partnering with Harry that he had accomplished it, but now he could fulfill his dream of being other . 

Draco had expected white fur. He had expected his silver-grey eyes to transfer as well. Mostly, he had expected embarrassment in the form of four paws and a small stature to match how small he felt on the inside. If he were honest, he had hoped for a ferret at best, a naked mole rat at worst, but had a slight inclination he would have turned into a showy albino peacock—AKA the utter bane of his childhood.  

Instead of any of those atrocities, he was gifted with powerful canines built within an even stronger muzzle, four large paws and a luxuriously full coat. He had taken the form of a grey wolf. Large enough to protect those He needed to, small enough to pass as a domesticated dog—a husky or a malamute, Harry had once told him—and with enough good sense, in this case, to find lost witches. 

Draco put his nose to the ground and quickly found her scent leading to the bookshop and, subsequently, leading away from the bookshop. He followed it to a cramped apothecary, a bakery, Gringotts, and finally a small market before he caught sight of the curly brown hair twisted into a knot bouncing between a group of wizards as she headed back towards the floo atrium.  

“Hermione!” he shouted as he transformed back, eliciting a few loud gasps from a group of unsuspecting elderly witches. He just caught a glimpse of the pale lavender top she had worn under her lab coat as she rounded the corner. “Hermione!” he shouted again. 

Draco rounded the corner after her in time to see her flash away in a puff of green flames.  

“Fuck!”  

He had gotten to her too late. If only he had remained a wolf, maybe he would have reached her. At the very least, he could have heard her destination. 

He apparated to outside her flat, to a small metal bench across the street, hoping she had returned or would very soon, and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Draco waited, pacing up and down the notoriously empty street, working himself into a fit as he wavered from worry to frustration; desperation to anxiety. The calloused pads of his paws were worn raw and red from his track along the sidewalk as he found himself cursing how careless Hermione had been up until now, then fretting over how long she had been gone. He had finished plotting his lecture, perfecting how to pass it off as cocky nonchalance, adding in smirks and sneers and just the proper amount of condescension to rile her up and make her listen when the dark house finally flickered to life.  

As the lights turned on throughout the house, Draco became aware of two things: Hermione was not inside the house, and she was definitely not alone. Her flat had awakened in her presence, lighting up as if aware she had rounded the corner and was waiting for her pleasant return.  

 And pleasant, it was.  

Hermione was amidst a fit of giggles as she walked arm in arm with a moderately tall (not nearly as tall as him, of course), mediocrely handsome (alright fine, he had the chiseled jaw of a muggle star! But Draco was obviously better looking), and a pile of black hair that seemed to sit effortlessly atop his head, swooping over his forehead in loose waves that had to have been done by magic.  

Draco immediately did not trust him. Nor did he trust the gleam in the wizard's eye as they paused at Hermione's warded gate, especially when Hermione invited him inside. By the time the front door shut between them, a knot had formed in the pit of Draco's stomach. Remembering he was disguised as a stray dog awaiting his owner, Draco settled himself down on a park bench and continued waiting; continued watching. 

He watched as Hermione made coffee in some muggle contraption. Watched as she poured an ungodly amount of sugar in hers and only a splash of milk in his. Watched as she blushed and laughed and occasionally disappeared out of view. It was in these moments his eyes would flit towards her bedroom, and the knot would tighten around his lungs, around his ribs, around everything beating in his chest.  

But the light never turned on, and after too much time he worried what that meant. Then, as the breath he had barely been holding released, the front door opened gently. The begrudgingly handsome man flicked his eyes towards Draco's bench, sending an icy chill through his spine as their eyes met, but he quickly turned his attention back to Granger, offering a slow kiss on her lips, then a swift peck on her cheek, then just a warm smile as he walked back out of the wards.  

Hermione sat on her front step watching after her wizard until he disapparated into nothing. Her bedroom never lit up, but the soft glow of her television continued all night. Draco never rekindled his desire to scold her. Instead, he made himself comfortable with a warming charm and kept watch on her front gate until dawn breached the sky.    

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke Sunday morning groggy and hungover. A headache radiated behind her eyes. The couch she laid on had grown unbearably warm beneath her, creating a sweltering cocoon around her already hot skin.  

“Crookshanks,” she groaned, pushing herself up.  

The cat did not come.  

The sun shining through her living room windows told her it was at least late morning, though her half-kneazle companion hadn't nibbled at her nose for breakfast. Or maybe he did. With the way she felt she had probably not noticed. As she wondered, a large orange fluff across the street caught her eye as it rubbed affectionately on a large stray dog. 

“Crookshanks?” she called again.  

Standing brought on a nausea that was difficult to fight, but she pushed through to find out who's lost companion Crookshanks had befriended. By the time she reached her front door, she couldn't hold back. She rushed to her personal bathroom and released the remainder of what had been in her stomach the previous night—primarily red wine and firewhiskey. 

“Oh god, why did I drink firewhiskey,” she moaned, scuffing across the floor back to the hovel she usually called her couch. 

“I don't know. You look like absolute rubbish, though,” a deep, familiar voice sounded from her entryway. 

Hermione yelped in surprise, her body throwing itself into a small jump that only succeeded in emphasizing her headache and causing her to slip on the laminate floors. She fell swiftly onto her backside. With slow reflexes she had the wand pulled from her top knot, letting her matted hair fall in waves across the floor. All she heard in return was a dark chuckle eliciting memories of her childhood. 

“Malfoy?!” she exclaimed, peering at him through squinted eyes in time to see Crookshanks leap from his arms. “What in God's name are you doing here? How did you get in?” 

“God’s? Merlin you’re so muggle sometimes, Granger.” Draco stepped over and offered her a hand, which she quickly swatted away. “I have an update on your case. I came by last night, but you were a bit . . . preoccupied. So, I thought this afternoon may be better. I can see I was mistaken.” 

“This afternoon?” she asked, still laying sprawled out on the floor. “Can't be, I just woke up.” 

“Yes, Granger. It is nearly two in the afternoon.”  

A smirk played on his lips, drawing her eyes to the soft pink of his mouth. Then to the crisp white lines of his teeth. She imagined his smirk against her lips, his teeth closing on her pouted lip in a gentle nip.  

“Are you ever going rise from the floor?” he asked, shaking her free from the vision. 

“Yes,” she said promptly, her voice a bit unrecognizable.  

“Great.” He waited a moment for her to move. When it became apparent that she was not, he extended a hand toward her. 

Hermione knew the adult Draco Malfoy was a far cry from who he had been at Hogwarts. He refused slurs, learned muggle culture and overall strove each day to improve himself. However, she couldn't help but remember the bullying teen that would offer a hand simply to push the fallen back down. So maybe it was for that reason she once again ignored his attempt to help. Or maybe it was because she feared what the feel of his long, strong (and very manicured) fingers around hers would make her think of. Heaven forbid if they were calloused, which she knew they must be from his long hours in training.  

You see, Hermione harbored a secret. One she refused to even acknowledge herself. It had started on the platform to Hogwarts express. Her parents had stepped away to find another wizard family, leaving Hermione to sit patiently with her trunks staring up between platforms nine and ten. It had felt like ages of being alone before a tall man with long blonde hair walked past and stepped straight through the brick wall.  

She supposed she shouldn't have been too surprised, considering how they had gotten to Diagon Alley. Nevertheless, she had found herself quite nervous to follow.  

Was there a trick? Did she need to think certain thoughts to pass? Did she need to carry her wand? Would the wall decide she suddenly didn't belong and block her out?  

Her mind had raced, cementing her solidly to the pavement while she waited. It was then that a small boy about her age approached. He had a sneer and a proud gleam in his eye similar to the first man. Yet, the boy looked at her hair and her teeth with curiosity. She had grown accustomed to the taunts of school children, but this boy's immediate reaction had not been distaste.  

She felt herself blush under his scrutiny. He studied her face, her curls, and mostly her eyes, until a woman came up behind him and softly said, “Come along, Draco. While no muggles are present,” then she disappeared after the man. 

“There isn't a trick to it, if that's what you're thinking,” he sneered before stepping towards the gate. His eyes remained on hers, searching—for what, she didn't know at the time. “You just walk through it.” 

“Does . . .” She had felt silly asking, but magic was so new at the time and something about this boy told her he wouldn't lie to her. “Does it hurt?” 

He didn't lie. But he did look at her as if she had grown an extra head.  

“No, it doesn't hurt,” he had scoffed incredulously before his sneer turned into a laugh. His grey eyes lit with warm humor rather than the smug superiority she would eventually grow to know, and Hermione thought maybe that was what the boy had been searching her face for. Then, he said more kindly, “It doesn't hurt. Trust me.” 

So, she did. When her parents returned empty handed, she explained enthusiastically what the boy had shown her. It wasn't until later that very year she learned what the boy had been searching her face for. 

Hermione had first heard the term mudblood from a group of older Slytherins when she passed by their table at the dining hall. She realized then that Draco had been searching her face not for the warm humor that lit his, but for something different, something to indicate her muggleness; her dirty blood . But the damage had been done. A sliver of her screamed to trust him ever since, feeling the sting of betrayal each time he proved that sliver wrong.  

So, it had become easier to push back against that sliver, even if it meant pulling her own hungover arse off the floor rather than allowing him to help her. She regretted it immediately as the room around her spun and her legs wobbled. Steadying herself with her kitchen island, she took several deep breaths as her world slowed to a standstill.  

“Why don't I make some coffee while you shower,” he said, more of an order than a suggestion.  

Hermione felt the spark of an argument quickly extinguished by simply how good that sounded.   

“Alright.” She took sluggish steps toward her hallway. “Coffee makers there.” She pointed to her small four cup pot in the corner. “Beans are in the canister. Grinder is up top.” 

“Yes. Very good. Go shower.” 

*     *     *

Hermione sat under the burning liquid nearly ten minutes before finding the strength to wash up. Foregoing the second shampooing her hair could have used, she soaked it in more conditioner than necessary before sitting mindlessly in the steam for a while longer. By the time she emerged, her mirror had fogged completely and the air had grown thick with moisture. Forgetting she had left Malfoy in her kitchen and the bedroom door wide open in her hungover haze, she cracked the bathroom door to release some of the pent-up steam, allowing the significantly cooler air to flood her lungs. By the time she had charmed herself dry, her hair remaining damp (she's never been able to fully dry it with a charm), redressed, and returned to the kitchen, she felt mostly human again.  

“I couldn't figure out that muggle contraption,” Malfoy admitted grumpily upon her entrance. A tinge of pink painted his cheeks, which she attributed to his inability to solve the riddle that was the power outlet. “I went to the café, instead. The one just down the street here.” 

It was then the sweet, caramelized aroma hit her from the two take out cups from the counter. A paper sack sat next to them. Draco stood from the kitchen island stool, his complexion clear again as he dropped the orange fluff from his lap. “I ordered some sweet concoction and a plain black, in case you wanted to fix it up here.” 

“And muffins, scones—is that an omelet?” 

 “Yes, Mippy enjoys breakfast.” 

“Who—” 

“My house elf. Well, one of them. It’s her favorite meal, if she had to choose.”  

Hermione nodded along, ignoring the fact that Draco was currently incapable of making eye contact. 

“Don't worry, your SPEW continuation was not in vain,” he sneered teasingly. “Mippy and Tilly, as well as the remaining elves at the Manor, are well compensated.” 

“The remaining elves?” 

“Yes, Granger. Once we freed them, most inevitably remained. However, one or two fled the moment they received their suits or dresses.” 

 “S-suits?”  

Hermione was at a loss for words. She knew Draco had made attempts at curing his prejudices toward muggleborns, but to hear he had presented each of their elves with respectful freedom touched her in a way she had not expected. 

“And dresses.” 

“And time off?” 

“Quite literally more than they know what to do with, so no need to feel some odd sense of justice by boycotting eating this omelet like you did fourth year.” 

“How did you know I didn't eat food from the kitchens that year?” 

“I pay attention, Granger.” He smirked at her, finally looking her in the eyes. “Besides, I needed something to tease you about that year. It was difficult with all the bloody Durmstrang blokes drooling over you at the library.” 

It was Hermione's turn to blush, turning away from him and grabbing the nearest coffee without knowing which it was—she nearly spit it across the counter as the bitter black water burned her tongue, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her bodyguard.  

"You said you had information on my pen pal?” she asked, desperate for a change of topic.  

“Yes. During your little rendezvous with Pansy yesterday, we caught someone trailing you. A teenager hired by an unknown wizard.” 

“My rendezvous?!” Hermione said aghast. “I would hardly call it a rendezvous!” 

“I was kidding, Granger.” His tone was unexpectedly soft. “Did you miss the bit where someone was tracking you?” 

“Of course not! But you said teenager— apprehended teenager—so I wasn't extraordinarily worried about that bit.” 

“Yes, working for someone else. Someone who must have known your schedule enough to know where you would be meeting Pansy for lunch. How did you get to Diagon yesterday?” 

“Floo. From the lab.” 

“Any of your assistants there?” 

Hermione's eyes flickered over his face, determining how much of her day he already knew about. “No. Just me. Sarah popped in for a bit to attribute her signature, then left.” 

His eyes narrowed at her, the silver-grey of them icing her out. “What's the point of agreeing to an Auror, if you're just going to ignore the precautions?” 

“I don't need a babysitter!” 

“Oh? Did you know you were being followed, then?” He stalked around the island until he had her backed up against the main counter. 

“N-no—” 

“Or maybe I should call off the interrogation? Maybe it was some voyeurism kink?” His voice steadily grew louder in frustration, his face more inches from her own as he towered over her.  

She suddenly realized how much larger he was than her, having grown into his body over the years. His broad shoulders filled out the white button up he usually wore beneath his black Auror robes, the sleeves rolled up so she could easily see the toned muscle of his forearms. 

“Now you're just being a prick, Malfoy,” she said much smaller than anticipated. 

“I'm not being a prick, Hermione! I'm just trying to figure out why you lied to me! I would have been at the lab with you yesterday. I would have walked you to Pansy! There is some pervert stalking you, waiting to get you alone to rape and butcher you! Do you not understand how serious that is?!”  

Hermione was silent. Her cheeks burned and tears tickled at her eyes, but she firmly held his eye contact, barely registering his deep, steadying breaths.  

Finally, she broke away, looking down at her cooling coffee and feeling smaller than she had before her shower. When she spoke, her voice came out quietly, an emotional whisper after a harsh truth. 

“Of course I understand.” 

After a moment Draco pulled back, moving back toward the island. “Good,” he said, waving his wand gently over her coffee until steam rose once more. Then he pulled out the omelet and repeated the charm. 

“What did Harry get from the interrogation?” she asked nervously as she added a heavy dose of creamer to her coffee. 

“Nothing, really. Too many memory charms in place. McLaggen tried Legilimency to no avail. All we know is someone hired him to follow you through Diagon. Claimed you were their cheating wife.” 

“Cheating wife?!” she scoffed. “As if that could happen without it being in the Prophet.” 

“He's not the cleverest wizard we've ever brought in. But whoever hired him is . He knew your schedule, knew where to place the kid and brushed away his own tracks. He couldn't remember who hired him, how he knew where to find you, or even how much he was being paid.” 

Hermione felt herself nod, losing her thoughts to the hangover fog lingering. “Who interrogated him?” 

“Just Boot and McLaggen.” 

She couldn't help the face she made at McLaggen's name. After the slight (mostly spiteful) interest she showed him in their sixth year, Corman McLaggen had tried every few months to take her on a date. Hermione had even heard several rumors, likely started by him, that they remained casual acquaintances, slipping off to hotels and broom closets to feed an animalistic hunger that only he could satiate. The idea made her want to hurl. 

Draco smirked. “I take it he is not the 'sex god you're so addicted to you simply can't stay away from’ like he claims?” 

“Oh God no!” she heaved. “He stuck his tongue down my throat one time during Slughorn's party and I nearly gave up on all of mankind.” 

“Well, if it's any consolation, no one bloody believes his stories anyway.” 

“Oh, good. I mean, my reputation for being a prude was at stake!” she found herself joking, chuckling along with Draco as they ate brunch around the island. 

Hermione made a fresh pot of coffee when theirs were finished, the one drink not being enough caffeine to drive her through her hangover. It filled her flat with the pleasant vanilla aroma as it brewed. 

“Before I leave, we need to talk about suspects,” Draco said seriously. “I’d like go over your years at Hogwarts.” 

“That will take ages, Malfoy.” 

“With your history? Yes, I suspect so.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Year by year.” 

“Very well. First?” 

Hermione huffed in annoyance. “First year is simple. I was fresh to the wizading world. Apart from being a Mudblood—” she paused and noted how Draco flinched at the word. “Apart from being muggleborn, and the obvious issues your circle had with me attending Hogwarts to begin with, the only wizards I pissed off enough to hunt me down all these years later are dead.” 

“And who would that be?” 

“Quarrel and Snape.” 

Draco gave her a questioning glance, and she huffed again. 

“Quarrell had tied himself to Voldemort and was trying to steal the Philosopher's stone from Hogwarts to immortalize himself.” 

“The Philosopher’s . . .” 

“Don’t worry about it. He was after it. It was hidden at Hogwarts under a series of traps. We stopped him. But we thought it was Snape, so I lit his robes on fire at a Quidditch game when Harry’s broom was being bewitched. Turns out, he was chanting a counter-curse. But let’s be honest, Snape didn’t care for me regardless.” 

Draco looked at her agape, utterly dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, can we go back to the traps under Hogwarts and how three eleven-year-olds, one of whom had only known about magic less than a year, stopped a professor of the Dark Arts and The Dark Lord?”  

“Well, the traps were simple, really. First there was Fluffy, the three-headed Cerberus. But he was already asleep. Then the Devil’s Snare, which luckily I had already read about because of Snape, coincidentally.” 

“Of course you had.” 

She brushed him off. “Then there were the flying keys, and the life-size wizard’s chess—that's where we lost Ron.” 

“Lost Ron?” 

“Yes. He sacrificed himself. Anyways, then there was the poison—” 

“Poison?!” 

“I really need you to stop interrupting me, Malfoy,” she snapped, exasperated. “Yes. The poison. We didn’t drink the poison, obviously. It was a riddle. Harry took the potion to go ahead; I took the one to return and flew Ron to Dumbledore’s office. He made us head to the hospital wing rather than help with Harry, so I’m not entirely clear on what happened between him and Quarrel, but I am entirely certain he is dead.” 

“Do you know what I did, when I was eleven, Granger?” 

“Bitch about muggleborns getting better marks than you?” 

“Precisely. How many times have you three saved the bloody wizarding world?” 

“I’m not quite sure. Lost count, if I’m honest.” 

Somehow, he didn’t think she was joking. “I’m going to need time to process that before we move on to second year. In the meantime, I need to know who you're seeing. I've run background checks on all your assistants, and they've come back clear of any death eater associations. But I need your boyfriend's information to check him.” 

“He's not my boyfriend,” she clarified. “But his name is Fillian. Fillian Blackfoot. He's a professor through the university teaching Advanced Potions specializing in rare herbs of South America and Advanced Ancient Runes to archeologists and curse breakers. Theo trained under him, actually.” 

“So, you met him through the university or through Theo?” 

“Both, sort of.” He gave her a questioning look. “I knew of him through the university but had never had the opportunity to officially meet him. Theo and I ran into him when we were out to dinner one night and he found me at the campus a month or so later and he asked me out for coffee. We're both so busy we don't get together often.” 

“I see. Well, I hope you don't mind I run a background check regardless.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“Great.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Yes. I need a list of all the cases and laws you've worked on, amended or created since you started at the ministry—” 

“That will take ages to gather!” she interrupted hotly. 

“—and everyone involved or affected.” 

“You'd be better off asking who I have not affected with the reforms I've assisted with!” 

“That's crossed my mind.” 

Hermione huffed, a twinge of a headache reforming behind her eyes. “Fine. Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow. I'll contact Sarah to do what needs to be done at the lab, then I'll spend the remainder of the day at the ministry. I have a few other things I can do while I'm there.” 

“Great.” They sat in awkward silence for a moment. “Well, I'll let you get on with your day then. I'll see you at the office tomorrow.” 

“Yes. Enjoy your Sunday, Malfoy.” 

He had a feeling she didn’t quite mean the sentiment, but said anyways, “You too, Granger.” 

Chapter Text

Her. Desk. Was. A. Mess.

First thing Monday morning Hermione began sorting and compiling case information from the moment she graduated Hogwarts to the laws she had just barely started rectifying, including one adjusting the harsh sentencing of some of Azkaban's life sentenced inmates. The list of wizards, witches, elves, trolls and even some muggles that have been helped, hurt, inconvenienced or simply irked in any way was innumerable and nearly impossible for her to organize. Yet here she sat since six a.m. with a growing list of names and so many piles she had lost track of which each belonged to. To say she was overwhelmed would be an understatement.

On the bright side, she had finally put together a comprehensive binder full of copies of her cases—only an hour past lunch.

A knock on her door distracted her from resorting her piles into their proper folders.

“Come in!”

“My love,” Theo cooed charmingly as he entered. “What in Salazar's bloody dungeon do you have going on in here?”

“Charming as always, Theo,” she laughed. “Draco wanted all the cases I've ever been a part of. I was so focused on getting this binder together—”

“Beautiful binder, really. Excellently labeled.”

“Right?! Thank you! But I was so focused on getting it ready today that I forgot to put case notes away as I went. So now I have piles.”

“Would you like some help?”

“No, it's alright. It shouldn't take long. Was there something you needed, Theo?”

“Yes, I simply needed to see your lovely face, dear. It's been so long since you've graced me with your presence and now, you're sending all this work for me with these horrid marriages. I just wanted a brief reprieve from the torture. Please, my love, come to lunch with me?”

“You're the most dramatic man I know, Theo. Unfortunately, I cannot have lunch with you.”

“You wound me, Granger. Have you even eaten yet? What could you possibly have going on that's more important than me?”

Hermione gestured around her office.

“Fine. How about dinner?”

“I don't know, Theo.”

“Don’t make me beg, my love. It isn’t a pretty sight. Ask Daphne.”

“I would rather puke slugs than ask Daphne what she makes you beg for,” she laughed again. “But I really can't this week, Theo.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“Can't.”

“Fine,” he conceded bitterly. “But promise me it is not because you are sore over us following you Saturday.”

“I am no longer irritated at that. I understand you had reasons. Do you forgive me for hexing you?”

“Like I could stay mad at such a beautiful woman,” he purred with a wink. “Will you be attending Potter’s party?”

“Halloween?”

“Of course. Are they having another party I was not invited to?!”

“They wouldn't dream of having a party without you, Theo. And yes, as long as it's still the weekend before. I’m planning my travel for that week. Speaking of which, you remember that I need a portkey, right?”

“Right. The portkey for the 30th. I'll have that ready next week.”

“Thank you again, Theo.”

With as much flair as he could manage, Theo blew her a kiss and left. Hermione could see through her open door as he stopped at the secretary's desk where Rose, a younger witch with large baby blue doe eyes recently started.

She stared back down at the mess that will inevitably take all evening reorganizing.

“Bollocks.”

“Malfoy, it is seven in the morning. Why are you in my office?” Harry asked contemptuously as he flooed into work.

“I need the Auror notes on the stalker.”

“Ask McLaggen. He hasn't turned anything in yet.”

McLaggen's desk sat on the far side of the Auror office nearest the bottomless water cooler. It remained in such a perpetual state of disorganization that it was a miracle any records from his cases made it to Harry's desk at all. As he approached, he heard McLaggen's pompous voice coming from the neighboring cubicle.

“—with her perky little tits bouncing in my face all weekend. I swear she was begging me to fuck her through the whole dinner. Had my hand up her skirt under the table. Gets off on that sort of thing ever since I took her virginity behind a curtain at Slughorn's party!”

“Your Granger stories are wild,” McLaggen’s partner, Amos Hopkirk, replied, completely enthralled in the story and officially marking himself on Draco’s shit list. “How Ron ever let her go is beyond me. Seeing her in those tight little skirts, her blouse open—like a sexy little librarian. Makes me miss the Hogwarts library.”

“It's funny, McLaggen,” Draco drawled, interrupting, “I was on duty with Hermione all weekend. Yet I don't remember seeing you around? Is this the same Hermione Granger that spent all Slughorn's party hiding behind a tapestry to avoid you?”

Hopkirk, the wizard in the neighboring cubicle who had been a few years older than Draco at Hogwarts chuckled as McLaggen's face turned deep red.

“What do you need, Malfoy?” the irritated wizard asked.

“I need your files on the Biles interrogation.”

“I haven't completed them yet.”

“Then I need them by lunch. I'd hate to see you earn another suspension. It would be your third, right?”

McLaggen grit his teeth. “Yes.”

“Great. So, by lunch then?”

“By lunch,” he agreed solemnly.

Draco didn't bother with Legilimency to read the murderous thoughts shuffling through his head.

Draco's desk, in stark contrast to McLaggen's, was so orderly he'd be able to tell if something had been moved just by walking into his office. Though not nearly as spacious as Hermione's, it offered adequate room for him to spread his notes and files pertaining to The Granger Case across. Draco hadn't spent more than an hour sifting through his materials when Theo popped his head in.

“Granger in her office today, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“She still pissed we followed her?”

“You afraid of getting hexed again?”

“Absolutely! I'd like to keep my guts inside my body, thanks.”

Draco chuckled, leaning back in his desk chair to look at his friend. “No, I think she's over it. I was there yesterday and she had cooled down.”

Draco suddenly remembered returning to her flat with coffee, stumbling past an open bedroom door, steam escaping, carrying the soft scent of hibiscus and honeysuckle, then suddenly a flash of perfect bare skin, hair dripping over the curve of her breasts. His mind had etched the shape of her body into memory before he had found the common sense to look away. It was a wonder she hadn't noticed the blush that had burned his cheeks.

“Do me a favor and invite her to lunch. She's working on a project for the case and I'm sure she'll forget to eat.”

“She’ll just tell me no like she usually does.”

“Insist. Please.”

“Alright, you softie. I can do that.” He winked as Draco threw a muggle pen at him.

“I have something else I need from you, too,” Draco admitted hesitantly. “I need you to tell me all about that professor she's seeing. The one you said you didn't know the name of.”

“I really don't know who she's seeing, mate. You said professor?”

Draco nodded. “Fillian Blackfoot. Granger said you trained under him and introduced them.”

“Bloody hell. I had no idea that's who she had been seeing!” Theo came to sit across from him. “I don't know much apart from his talents—and I mean personal talents, too. He's a bit of a campus slut, that one. We all worshiped him. It was like he had an itch he just couldn't quite scratch—never shagged the same witch twice.”

“Lovely. And that's the wanker Granger's been seeing?”

“Apparently. Though, it could have all been rumor. He never did confirm or deny any of it.”

“Brilliant.”

“Other than that, he was a decent professor. Helped me get past the bad reputation You-Know-Who and my father gave me and get into the ministry.”

Draco hummed in answer, his fingers steepled against his mouth as he thought. “Will you send a message to Census? I believe Lavender Brown's in that department. She owes Hermione and will keep it discreet.”

“Keep what discreet?”

“I want his personal and ancestral histories. Just a precaution.”

“Right. I'll head straight there.”

“Great. Thanks.”

*     *     *

As promised (or threatened), McLaggen sent copies of his case notes on the interrogation to Draco's desk before lunch. Overall, it was a straightforward case of memory alteration, similar to what they had seen in other witches, wizards and even muggles who may have had contact with the remaining death eaters or the resurgence. As he had not technically broken any laws, he was released with a temporary trace.

The remainder of the day went similarly: absolutely nowhere. Lavender had gotten back with Fillian's full history quickly. A half-blood wizard with no known ties to the dark arts on either side of his family. Strangely, she hadn't brought him any personal history prior to his third year at Hogwarts. He jotted a quick note to himself to check back with her on the matter.

By five 'o'clock Draco was knackered and more than frustrated. Hermione hadn't yet come to tell him she was leaving, so with a heavy sigh he lifted himself from his stiff chair and made his way up to Hermione's floor.

“Mr. Malfoy!” The shrill voice of her secretary caught him as he stepped toward her office. “What a surprise seeing you up here this late!”

Rose batted her large blue eyes at him. Her shirt had somehow been unbuttoned by one extra button as he looked down toward the closed door, showing her rather voluptuous cleavage.

Draco supposed she was conventionally attractive. A beautiful face, soft curves properly proportioned and shown off well in her form fitting button down dress. Yet, something about the way she said his name and brushed his arm with her perfectly manicured fingers sent a strong revulsion through him.

“Ms. Cummings,” he greeted coolly.

“Oh please, how many times must I ask you to call me Rose?” She let out a light giggle Draco was sure would have had Theo drooling. “Ms. Granger's not in the office right now. But if you'd like,” she started walking her fingers up his chest, “I'm available.”

Draco grasped her hand firmly and put it back into her own proximity. “No thank you, Rose. I'm only interested in seeing Granger. Has she gone home?”

“No. She booked the training room this evening. She has another hour there,” she answered significantly less warmly.

“Another hour?”

“Yeah, she's been there about an hour already. Usually stays for two. I'm getting ready to head home myself, if you've changed your mind?”

“No thank you, Rose.” He wasn't sure where he had meant the comma to be in his sentence, but he was sure it would be true regardless. “Has she eaten?”

“Hermione?” she laughed. “She forgets to eat four out of five days she's here. I'd be surprised if she remembered to eat dinner tonight.”

The training room roared to life as Hermione entered. She had gotten no work done today other than the lists she had promised Malfoy and the sensation of the world building up around her, piling onto her shoulders and slowly suffocating her grew with every passing minute. So, she booked the training room, filled it with magical enemies and set to work dueling until sweat soaked into the tight fabric of her sports bra and her chest heaved in heavy pants.

The clock on the wall told her she still had an hour left in the room. With only a moment to catch her breath, the room conjured three new enemies that started sending jinxes. Hermione rolled out of the way and threw a shield around herself in time to be bombarded with spells. It broke quickly under her exhaustion. A stinging jinx hit her shoulder from behind, so she reached back with a Bombarda, blasting one of the conjured opponents to pieces.

Two left, she thought, narrowly blocking an Expelliarmus and following up with a string of Confringo curses, each aimed at the nearest target. The magical balcony the faux death eater had been perched on was reduced to rubble, but Hermione had no time to breathe as the third opponent strung together a series of spells starting with another stinging jinx, an Expelliarmus, then Petrificus Totalis.

The first spell hit her wand arm. She escaped the second with a generally ungraceful tumble, and she had the enemy sliced into several pieces as the third landed its blow, ending the simulation.

“It's a good thing there were only three, otherwise you would have lost,” a voice drawled from the doorway.

“I've been in here over an hour, Malfoy. I'm tired.”

“I imagine if it had been an actual opponent, rather than the rubbish the training room conjures, you probably would have lost in, oh, I don't know, ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes?!” she shrieked, rising from her puddle on the floor.

With the simulation ended, the room had reverted to its original state—a large, plain office with bright white overhead lights and smooth white tiles. No windows, no tables, no charm. Hermione preferred the crumbling stone of the castle in her simulation.

“You'd probably only last five against an Auror,” Draco boasted smugly, stepping into the room. His dragonhide shoes squeaked slightly on the waxed floor as he approached.

Hermione bristled, falling for the Auror’s bait. “I would last a lot longer than five minutes!” Her hands had found her hips. She had entirely forgotten she wasn't wearing a shirt over her sports bra and the bike shorts weren't any more modest. “I'll duel you right now and prove it!”

Draco's eyes moved slowly over her face, trailing down to her shoulders but no further before meeting her eyes again. “I'll pass. It'd be too easy.”

“Too easy?!” She was nearly at a loss for words. Nearly. “There is nothing about me that is easy!”

Draco coughed, choking on air as he gasped for breath.

“I-I mean, I am skilled at one on one! It would take a lot more than one Auror to pin me down!”

He was full on laughing now. “More than one? Merlin, Granger, I didn't realize you were so lascivious!”

She'd had enough of his teasing. It felt like Hogwarts all over again as he jeered at her amongst peers, laughing while he tried again and again to push her spirits into the dirt.

Draco stopped laughing as he seen the silver line her eyes and the first angry tear start to trail down her cheek. She wasn't sure if it had been exhaustion, frustration or embarrassment that caused it to break free, but as he started saying her name, she cut him off with a zap from a stinging jinx.

“If you're going to be such an arrogant arse, then duel me,” she seethed.

“Hermione, I—” Draco was cut off as he blocked another jinx as it zinged toward him. “Fuck, Granger! You want to duel that badly? Fine! Let’s duel!”

Draco swished his wand around the room causing it to shift and transform into a functional dueling space. Hermione nearly missed the polished wood floors, the smooth marble pillars around the room and the great glass doors leading to a starlit balcony—Draco had conjured Malfoy Manor. With a flick of her wrist Hermione sent two Expelliarmus spells on either side of Draco, distracting him as she sent a stunner down the middle.

“Years!” she screamed as she flung spell after spell, the buildup of years of conflicting feelings, shame and sheer burnout rising to the surface of her soul from one fit of laughter.

He had been joking. She knew, deep down, he had been joking—but she was already beyond her own control. Tears streamed down her face like she was twelve years old again, walking past the Slytherin tables as they told her she didn’t belong.

“What?”

“For years I took it! Every sneer, every slur! I studied! And practiced! And became the best bloody witch at Hogwarts! I thought you would be different now! Instead, you're still the same snotty, pompous dea—” Hermione stopped herself. She could feel the look of shock on her face.

“The same what, Granger?” Malfoy asked coldly; calmly. His eyes darkened as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

“I took it too far,” she whispered, pulled from her own mayhem. She loathed how she always seemed to take it too far.

A shiver ran down her spine, reminding her of the lingering chill permanently etched into her.

“The same what?” he repeated coldly, his voice dropping like the last draping of a cool, dark shadow before dusk. “Death eater? The same death eater I was?”

He took a small step toward her. She retreated in turn.

Hermione couldn't recall a time she had ever been truly scared of Malfoy. Standing across from him in the manor ballroom as he waved his wand over his body, bringing forth a mask and a set of midnight black robes—death eater robes—Hermione felt her body shutter at the rage pouring out of him.

She backed up another step.

“What's the matter, Granger?” he asked, his voice muffled through the slits in the chromatic silver mask. Onyx black whirls spiraled and waved across the surface in intricate designs. “Isn't this what I am? What I've always been?”

“I'm so sorry, Malfoy,” she muttered in another whisper.

“I'm sorry,” he taunted. “I can't quite hear you from so far away!”

Draco vanished in cloud of misty black smoke that floated so quickly through the air Hermione had difficulty tracking it until he materialized directly behind her, his tall frame cradling around her as he lowered his masked mouth to her ear.

“I learned a few tricks from Voldemort. Would you like me to show you?”

Hermione whirled around, pointing her wand at the blank wall that had just occupied Draco. Her heart pounded in her chest as if it were trying to escape. She whipped her head back and forth searching for him, her damp hair flying around and sticking to her neck at odd angles. Though she struggled to bring in air, her wand was ready as she spotted him, shrouded in strange shadows across the room by the balcony.

“Alarte Ascendare!” she shouted into the consuming mist, only to hit an already placed Protego.

“Nox Nebulus,” she heard him chant before the strange black mist filled the room, shrouding out all light. Hermione couldn't see even her hand as she held it before her.

The panic rose higher in her chest, undampened by the deep steadying breaths she forced through her chest.

“Lumos,” she tried, but the light was swallowed up by the black mist. “Fuck!”

Without sight, Hermione closed her eyes and listened. His shoes had squeaked on the waxed floor earlier, and she knew they would again if he approached. She counted her breaths, waiting.

One . . .

Two . . .

Squeeaaakk.

She sent a stunner toward the noise.

Nothing. She waited again.

One . . . Squeak. She fired again in the opposite direction.

Why wasn't he attacking?!

She began counting again.

One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . . Nothing.

She waited more, her breathing becoming more difficult to force into submission as her body trembled. She didn't know where Malfoy had gone, or why he was toying with her like a full bellied cat and a field mouse.

“W-what are you waiting for, Malfoy? I should be right where you want me, right?”

She was answered with the brush of something warm and soft against her leg—only briefly as it passed, but enough for her to jump away and right into a warm, hard chest. His hands were on her arms before she could scream, his voice at her ear. No longer in the cold mask, his hot breath graced her damp neck like a cool breeze.

“I'm just a death eater, Hermione. We like to play with our food,” he taunted bitterly, letting her go when she lunged forward. “Avis Lumiere.”

Through the utter blackness, a flock of golden-lighted sparrows burst into being, flying gently through the blank space around him, a glowing, golden halo expanding no more than a few inches around each of them. They swarmed around the silver-eyed Auror, his metallic mask vanished from his ruthless face as he stared her down.

Hermione knew what spell he would cast next. After all, these were her birds, and she had once sent them flashing through a hallway in anger as well. As if on cue, he flicked his wand and muttered an unenthusiastic “Oppugno.”

The golden sparrows flew, beaks of sunlight pointed at her. One by one she blocked and slashed them away, sending jinxes between attacks at the shadow of a figure still lit by the small birds. As the last of their light died out and the shadows grew once more, Malfoy shrunk into the darkness, his cloaked body hunching over toward the ground before disappearing altogether.

Malfoy's charm had given Hermione an idea. If his birds could light the darkness, she wondered if others could too. Conjuring the happiest memory she could, she cast her patronus and her silver otter sprang to life, offering a gentle glow to her surroundings. It bounced around the hallway the dueling had pushed her into. Hermione ran to keep up with it, barely registering a pair of glowing eyes in the shadows of the hall reflecting the ethereal light of her Patronus.

The otter stopped at a massive door, waiting for her as if it wanted her to enter. With Malfoy lingering behind, and the sharp, glowing eyes of whatever beast he had conjured with him, she pulled open the heavy, familiar doors and ducked in. She needed a moment away from the pitch black to settle herself.

To settle her thoughts; her breathing.

To settle the rising panic that exhaustion and stress were building before she spiraled and let it consume her.

The fog had not permeated this room. Likely due to the closed doors. A slice of moonlight cast a glow over the dark floors and shimmered off an extravagant chandelier. The deep plum walls reminded Hermione of the purple bruising that had formed along her body in the days after her last visit within this grim nightmare.

She stopped breathing. She couldn’t swallow the lump lodged in her throat. Utterly paralyzed as the memories bombarded her—the feel of Bellatrix’s knife. The sound of Greyback as he snarled and asked for a taste. She had feared him more than the black-haired witch— feared that his form of torment and pleasure would do far more harm than Bellatrix's Crucio. Somewhere in the distance she heard banging, but the world around her was so drowned out by the growing fear she didn't quite understand where it came from.

“I have my wand,” Hermione began chanting, trying to catch her breath when a sharp cackle sounded from the center of the large oriental rug.

“Do you?” a woman taunted, her cracked voice sending a chill through Hermione that made her want to collapse. An Expelliarmus shot at her from nowhere, sending Hermione's wand across the drawing room.

“I can't wait to taste every piece of her,” another familiar voice snarled.

Bellatrix and Greyback had fully formed in the center of the room.

“No . . . No . . . You're not real,” Hermione whimpered. She didn't have someone to protect this time; someone to be strong for. It was only her and she felt it. Felt the pressure, the fear, every ounce of it. She pressed her hands to her ears and sank to the floor, waiting for the inevitable pain as the two conjured figures approached.

Chapter Text

“Hermione!!” Draco shouted through the double oak doors of the drawing room. He had tried to warn her before she entered, but it only came out as a growl. By the time he was changed, she had rushed in and the doors locked behind her. None if his spells worked to open it and the more he banged his fists against the solid wood, the more frantic he could hear her become.  

So, he shouted again, “Hermione!” 

Draco heard her scream and the eerie cackle that followed. Suddenly he felt as though he were in the room with her, protecting her mind from his aunt's mental attacks. He was unable to protect her from the physical pain, but at least he could protect her secrets. But he wasn't a teenager anymore. This wasn't really the drawing room. And that certainly wasn't his aunt.  

Hermione's own anxiety had hijacked the training room, confusing it to conjure this farce. Though Draco now stood on the tiled floor of the plain white office, the rest of the manor having fallen away, Hermione still existed within the manor and only she could end it. 

She screamed again and so did he.  

“Fuck!”  

Draco backed away from the door and prayed to whichever God was listening, muggle or otherwise, that Hermione was not near the door as he cast a series of explosions, shredding the wood to flying pieces and finally opening his way to her. He found her huddled against a wall, her arms around her head as tears streamed down her face. Her wand lay several feet away. The two death eaters looked up at Draco as he stormed in, wand ready. The only way to end Hermione's simulation was to defeat her conjured demons.  

So, he did.  

With swift precision he dueled his aunt. Blow after blow, wasting no time in turning her to dust and only pausing to curse Greyback away as he tried to take advantage of the unoccupied woman. With Bellatrix down, Greyback was easily taken care of and he rushed to Hermione, who remained a crumpled mess, sticky with sweat and tears. He pulled her from the floor, listening to her as she gasped for air and fought against his arms as he pulled her closely to his chest and rushed from the damned room.  

The drawing room dissipated into mist as they stepped through the blasted doors and sank back into the floor.  

“Breathe with me, Hermione,” Draco said soothingly, bringing in a slow, deep breath as he brushed the wild curls from her face. “Then let it out slowly.” 

She copied the best she could, repeating with him until slowly her ragged breaths stabilized. “I'm sorry,” she whimpered hoarsely, coming to her senses and pulling up from his lap onto shaky legs. “I didn't mean—I don't think you're—” 

Draco waved her sentence off as if what she had said wasn't a knife twisting open a wound that had finally healed. An emptiness stung in his chest as he looked into her onyx eyes, dulled from the drawing room, her own uncertainty clinging to her like a death shroud.  

“I took it too far.” 

She jerked her chin down once in acceptance. “I'm going to head home.” 

Draco struggled to find the drive to remove himself from the floor. When he had entered the training room, seeing her glistening in sweat, he had been proud of her. It had given him a sense of comfort knowing she kept up with dueling practice. Though she had been using basic spellwork as he watched, he had good faith she had started off strongly.  

Then he laughed.   

He hadn’t meant to laugh at her—not like the Slytherins used to. It hurt more than he would ever let on to realize she didn't trust his laughter to be anything less than judgmental torment. The death eater comment—or, near comment—had been the icing on the proverbial cake. She had fought at each trial, each hearing, each minute meeting, that he hadn't truly been on Voldemort's side. Even during sixth year, when he had had the mark forced upon him by circumstances she had argued with her best friends for his benefit.  

It was so easy falling into that role. Filling that space that he once thought was made only for him in her life had felt like fulfilling a prophecy. And it hurt. 

The brown paper sack he had been carrying caught his attention from the doorway. Sitting there alone just as he was. With a grunt, a deep breath, and a few choice words against himself (mainly, “f ucking idiot ”), Draco pulled himself from the deep hole of despair he had been digging (some may call it simply the floor ) and grabbed the bag before heading off to find Harry.  

Or Pansy. 

Or Theo. 

Or even any of the Weasleys, at this point, just as long as someone other than himself could take this bloody food to Granger for dinner. If no one else was going to keep her fed, it might as well be him. She'll probably fire him as her Auror in the morning, anyway. 

Hermione sat alone in her flat. One lamp remained on, fighting off the lingering shadows on its own. Crookshanks sat beside her in the quiet. She hadn't had the energy to turn on the television, didn't feel the desire to read a book or pull out work she hadn't gotten to at the office. Her stomach growled and though she hadn't eaten all day, she couldn't find it in herself to make dinner. So, she sat, stroking the loyal orange fluff as her flat grew darker and darker. 

“The stray dog's back, Crooks,” Hermione croaked, spotting the cat's new friend in its spot in the neighboring park. Crookshanks promptly jumped from his spot warming her hip and began scratching at the front door for release. “Traitor. I'm glad you have a friend that visits you.” 

Ginny stood on the porch, readying her hand to knock as she opened the door to let the half-kneazle traitor roam. “‘Mione, good timing! I feel like my arms are about to fall off carrying this!” 

In her arms was a large brown paper sack. Greasy fingerprints marred the sides.  

“What is it?” 

“Dinner!” A grin so wide her cheeks must have hurt spread across the redheads face. “What was that about friends visiting?” 

“Oh, nothing important,” she laughed, suddenly feeling a bit lighter. “Come in and set that down.” 

As Hermione closed the door behind her friend, she spared a glance toward the stray and her cat, who now curled itself happily in the dog's thick fur. The dog stared back at her, as if it wondered what she was thinking. It's eyes, a shade of silver so clear she could see it even from the distance, reminded her greatly of something she couldn't quite place. 

“‘Mione!” Ginny called from the kitchen. “Food's getting cold! Looks like we have a variety of Asian cuisines to choose from! I'll grab plates. Island or Couch?” 

“Um, couch. And what do you mean ‘looks like’?” 

“This wasn't exactly my idea,” she admitted, handing Hermione a plate. “Not that I don't want to be here! But the food was sort of handed to me and requested—well, begged of me, really—to take it and have dinner with you.” 

“Who in Godric's name bought dinner then begged you to eat it with me?”  

Ginny paused, a strange look passing over her face.  

“Tell me, Gin, or I might assume it's poisoned!” 

“You might think it’s poisoned anyways,” she muttered, scooping rice onto her own plate. 

“Who?”  

“Malfoy.” 

“I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Who?” 

“Malfoy! Draco Malfoy. You know, your Auror!” 

“He's not my Auror!” Hermione argued as she continued scooping the delicious smelling beef into mounds over her own rice. “After today, it really might be poisoned.” 

“He mentioned something about you not accepting it if he brought it to you himself. Care to elaborate a bit or plan on just letting us place bets?” 

Hermione shot her a don't you dare look. “He was laughing at me, and I may have overreacted and called him . . . I called him a death eater.” 

“What?!” Ginny nearly dropped her plate on the living room carpet. “Why was he laughing at you? I swear if he was being cruel I'll permanently turn that handsome face into a ferret and feed him to Blaise's boa! I don't care if Harry would need to find a new partner!” 

“No, Gin. He was laughing at something I said. Honestly nothing you all wouldn't have laughed at, too.” 

“Hermione . . .” Hermione watched Ginny’s eyebrows stitch together in understanding, sending a wave of discomfort through her. “Please tell me it ended there.” 

“It didn't. Then we dueled.” 

“DUELED?!”

Hermione nodded, now unable to look at her friend.

“And he won? That's why you don't want to see him ? Because if I'm honest, ‘Mione, he should be livid with you!” 

“Yes. He should be. I wouldn't be surprised if he dropped my case first thing.” 

“He won't. He's invested.” 

“What could you possibly mean by that?” 

Ginny waggled her eyebrows, reminding Hermione greatly of the twins. “Not my place to say.” 

They ate quietly for a few more minutes before Ginny piped back up, her curiosity boiling over. “So . . . did he win?” 

“Not really.” 

“So, you won?” 

“Oh, no, I definitely lost. He just didn't really beat me.” 

“Have you gone mad? That's nonsense.” 

“I'll explain another time, Gin,” Hermione promised, laughing gently before the thought of Ginny's empty plate and her imminent departure shoved through. The flat already felt brighter with the fiery witch by her side. “Will you stay through a movie, Gin?”  

Ginny looked at her closely as if seeing something for the first time. “As long as I get to pick.” 

 *     *     *

The wide, black eyes stared straight into her as the screaming around her echoed, reverberating through her soul like shockwaves.    

“Where did you find the sword?!” the feral woman shrieked as she carved endlessly into her body.   

It hurt. All of it hurt. Her arm, where slurs had been carved into every inch, her abdomen where the knife still lay buried, and her head where the woman's Crucio wreaked havoc. But none hurt more than the agonizing screams of the man and woman in the dungeon. She couldn't see them, but she knew. She knew it was her fault they were there.  

One more Crucio rocked through her. When her head fell to the side, she found the masked figure in the corner. She knew that mask; knew those strong shoulders, lean and muscular. Even under the black cloak she knew she should see white-blonde hair and silver eyes.  

“H-help,” she begged, her voice raw.  

The figure merely turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her with the group of death eaters as they multiplied around her, readying to satiate each of their twisted desires.  

“Bring them up!” a voice snarled.   

A door appeared amidst the villains and two figures, their heads hung low, floated up to meet her, moaning as blood flooded from their mouths. Where hair had once been was only raw flesh and bone. Where eyes had once looked at her so lovingly, empty craters. Cuts covered their bodies where appendages hadn't been forcibly taken. One death eater followed behind, waving two squishy pink vines as the others cheered for him.  

No. Not vines.   

Tongues.  

Hermione cried harder as she took in the man and woman.   

“M-mum?” she whimpered.   

The woman, who had once had such thickly curled hair, turned her sightless face towards the sound.   

“D-dad?”  

The man had stopped moving, instead hanging limp from his bindings in the air.  

All at once the death eaters descended, crowding around her as they began tearing into her, piece by piece.  

Hermione flew off the couch with a scream, the images of her mutilated parents fresh in her mind as she raced to the bathroom to hurl the contents of her stomach. Tears hadn’t stopped streaming down her face and her eyes were beginning to burn from the exertion. When she was sure her stomach had emptied, she made her way back to her couch, pulling several blankets onto it with her. 

Her flat had grown dark again. Crookshanks lay on the small armchair by her head. Ginny had left sometime after she had dozed off.  

“I forgot my dreamless sleep,” she huffed, shivering in sharp spasms beneath her blanket. “Just a dream . . .” 

Still the nagging thoughts lingered enough she tossed and turned the remainder of the night, waking the next morning groggier and in a worse mood than when she left the training room the day before. Theo greeted her at her desk as she finally stepped into work, nearly two hours late.  

“Hermione, my love,” he started, “you look dreadful!” 

“Thanks, Theo,” she replied bitterly, setting her bags down in the chair nearest the door. 

“And what in Merlin's great beard is that thing you're wearing?” He gestured to the sage green, hand knit jumper Molly Weasley had gifted her two Christmases past. “It looks like kneazle vomit! Where's your pencil skirt that gives me such a nice view of your legs?” 

“It’s always a pleasure, Theo. I'm not in the mood today. Get out.” 

“Are you ill?” Theo never took Hermione's poor moods to heart, choosing instead to ignore her orders of solitude. 

“I'm fine, Theo. Bad night.” 

Theo looked at her like he understood. “I see,” he said calmly. “Anything you want to talk about?” 

“I'm fine. Really.” She didn't mean to be so short and the growing sense of regret was already gnawing at her, but the last thing she wanted to do was tell Theo, or anyone , about her dreams. So, when Theo nodded curtly and stood to leave, she nearly let him.  

“Theo, wait.” He stopped at the door, turning toward her. “Thank you for checking on me. How have you been?” 

Theo's normal puppy dog smile didn't return as he said, “I'm fine, Granger.”  

He left right after. Hermione didn't see him the rest of the day. 

By lunch Hermione had reorganized her cases and notes and finished the now overfilled binder for Draco—though the second to last thing she wanted to do was see Malfoy. Luckily, Rose barged in before she had to with a note from the lab giving a hopeful update on the recent ingredients. 

“Rose, do you have a moment to run a quick errand for me?” 

“Of course, Ms. Granger.” 

“This binder needs to go to Auror Malfoy.” 

Hermione didn't miss how Rose's eyes lit up at his name. “Of course, Ms. Granger!” 

“When you return, I'll have a note that needs owling out to the lab as well.” 

“Certainly. Let me take care of the binder, then go on lunch. I'll send the note straight after.” 

“Perfect. Thank you, Rose.” 

With the pureblood marriage laws altered, Hermione was left with only two partially complete cases left over from her time with the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department. Two passion projects she had been garnering support for over the years. Then, she'd be free to pause her ministry activities until the completion of her potion. One law—well, more of an amendment, really—gave Centaurs more say in environmental regulations of their forests. The second hit more closely to home.  

Werewolves had continued to suffer greatly even under Shacklebolt's ministry rule. Most magical workplaces offered no protections for werewolves in regard to the lunar cycle and their specific needs, instead choosing simply not to hire known werewolves or fire them once they know. Hermione was proposing new laws and protections against that, dubbing it Lupin's Bill. Currently she was in the process of collecting testimonies to strengthen her case, with Lavender and Bill's personal experiences at the forefront. 

With the werewolf registry before her, she began rifling through page after page, drafting letters to each eligible citizen that could sway the Wizengamot's vote. She was nearly through B's when a knock on her door interrupted. 

“Come in!” she shouted, but her door remained closed. So, she shouted it again, slightly louder. When no one opened it again, she huffed and opened it for them, readying her temper to tell them off if needed. However, she was only met with an empty hallway. “Hello?” 

She took one step out into the empty hall and her foot kicked a metal tin, causing a platter to echo down the hall. The wizard working in the office across hers gave her a stern look, wholly unamused. With a slight wave of apology, she grabbed the round serving tray and carried it back to her desk, glancing inside to find an appetizing French dip sandwich and a folded note in the now familiar scrawl of her Auror. 

               I'm sorry. 

                        —DM 

Chapter Text

“Malfoy, you are a fantastic partner. But if I walk into my office first thing in the morning to see your face waiting for me one more time, I'm transferring you to muggle artifacts,” Harry threatened Tuesday morning as he entered his office.  

His hair was the usual messy mass of black locks sticking this way and that. Draco briefly wondered if Theo had tried teaching him his hair charm as well. 

“Interesting of you to bring up a transfer,” Draco drawled in forced nonchalance. He wore casual grey dress pants today, his black seemingly all dirtied. His white shirt wouldn't unwrinkle no matter how many charms he cast and even his hair left something to be desired. “I'm expecting Granger to request a new Auror today.” 

Harry stopped part way to his desk, his eyes wide. “What happened.” 

“There was . . . an incident.”  

“Excuse me?” 

“In the training room last night.” 

“Based on the lack of your usual smugness, I'm guessing not the sort of incident that would have given you wet dreams as a teenager.” 

“No, Potter. Unfortunately not that kind of incident.” 

Harry heaved a sigh, bracing himself for the story as he stepped around Draco's crossed legs to his desk chair. “Go on, then.” 

“We dueled.” 

“Oh,” Harry exclaimed in relief. “That's it? I thought it was something bad. Like she called you a death eater or something!” He laughed. “Not that she would. She always believed you were decent . . . underneath, at least. So, what happened?” 

“She called me a death eater.” 

“Very funny, Malfoy. Tell me what actually happened so I can get everything straight to calm her down.” 

“She called me a death eater. So I conjured my death eater mask and robes. Then we dueled.” 

Harry's face fell, matching how Draco felt. “Tell me you're joking.” 

Draco shook his head solemnly. “It gets worse.” 

“How?! How could it possibly get any worse?” 

“She accidentally manifested the drawing room. With its previous inhabitants.” 

“She's going to murder me. I hope you know that, Malfoy. You've killed me. She's creative. It'll be painful and you'll have to explain to Ginny why her fiancé is dead. She'll then kill you. You've killed us!” 

“You're as dramatic as Theo sometimes, Potter. She'd never kill part of your precious trio.” 

Harry stared wide eyed at Draco, his genuine panic unsettling him. “She almost killed Ron once,” he said, worried. 

“What?” Draco said in disbelief, though the revelation did ignite a fresh wave of unease. He wiped his palms, which had grown quite warm, across his pants. 

“When we were hunting horcruxes. When Ron left - well, when he came back.” 

“Ah, but Ron is fine! She didn't kill him. Then they dated right after!” 

“I had her wand, Malfoy. We only had hers at the time.” Harry began rifling through his desk. “I should find my will.” 

“Oh, bloody hell.” Draco jumped up from the chair and headed to the door. “If she boots me, just make sure that imbecilic McLaggen doesn't get assigned.” 

Harry made a noise of disgust matching Draco's personal thoughts. “I would never. I'm pretty sure he'd be stealing her panties and telling the office he ripped them off her with his mouth.” He shuddered.  

“Don't give me a reason to get fired, Potter. Talk like that and he won't have hands to pass anything around the office. He's snapped my last bloody nerve with his obsession.” 

Harry waved him off, still searching through his desk. “He's harmless. Unrequited love and whatnot.” 

Draco grunted, feeling a slight more agitated than he had when he entered the office that morning and shuffled back to his own neighboring office. Theo sat on his desk, waiting patiently as his teeth crunched into a green apple.     

“Salazar, Draco, you need a bloody facial! Look at those bags under your eyes! I'd offer to give you one,” he said with a suggestively wink, “but I don't think you'd quite appreciate it as much as Daphne.” 

“What do you want, Theo?” Draco rounded his desk and sat, feeling entirely not in the mood for Theo's . . . well, for Theo.  

“Snake night this weekend? Saturday night, Hog's Head. Then a classic Slytherin Sleepover!” 

“You keep trying to make that a thing Theo. It isn't going to stick. But yeah, snake night sounds good. I'll probably be off Granger's case by then anyway.” 

Theo leapt from the desk. “Did you find the fucker?!” 

“No, unfortunately. I fucked up. Just waiting on her rampage.” 

“Tell. Me. Everything.” 

“No.” 

“What?! Why not?” His hands flew out wide with indignation. 

“You're much too excited. Besides, I just spoke with Potter and am feeling particularly murderous at the moment. Rather not in the chatty mood.” 

“Fine. But I expect a full recap on Saturday.” He slowly walked toward the door, an air of a dramatic exit building. “It's bad enough Blaise has a mystery woman he won't tell me about. I don't need you running around with secrets too! We're not supposed to keep secrets from each other!”  

Draco stared at his case notes. With Hermione at the ministry again this week he had planned to follow up on some leads. Throwing himself into work had been the easiest escape from unwanted feelings, and his guilt had been the strongest motivator over the years.  

A witch named Beverly Fardle filed a complaint over the weekend regarding a dubious gathering of wizards in Knockturn alley. He figured it was as good a place to start as any and headed to her home in Hogsmeade.  

Beverly's home was a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town. Surrounded by fenced in lawn, lush shrubbery and trees surprisingly green for the season's chill, the stone building sat peacefully away from the hustle of Hogsmead. The path up to the house itself was a dusty, winding mess of loose gravel and the occasional stone that looked an awful lot like colorful sea glass. Animals of all species, from goats and small horses to hippogriffs and fwoopers could be heard from every edge of the property.  

Draco felt the simple alerting wards as he passed through them and knew Beverly would be at the door before he reached it.  

“Good morning,” he greeted with a flash of his Auror badge as the tall witch with sandy-toned hair and sun-kissed wrinkles opened the door. “Are you Beverly Fardle?” She nodded. “My name is Draco Malfoy. I'm an Auror with the DMLE. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your recent complaint?” 

The witch looked over him questioningly, sizing him up. “I know who you are.” She stared at him another moment while she thought, deciding whether to trust the Malfoy heir or not.  

Then she shut the door in his face. Draco was beginning to raise his arm to knock once more when an owl flew from the cottage window and Beverly returned.  

“If I go missing, they'll know it was you. I don't know what more I can tell you that wasn't in the report.  Ask your questions.” 

“I’d like to start with why you were in Knockturn that day.” 

“I've answered these questions already,” she snapped. “I'm not facin’ any charges! I did nothin’ wrong!” 

“Forgive me, Beverly. It's just a means of verification. I am investigating threats made by an unknown group and feel you may have stumbled upon them. I would just like all the information I can gather.” 

Her eyes slanted as she sized him up again. Either she had trust issues, or his family had personally harmed her. He assumed with a heaviness it was the latter. 

“There was a lead on a Hippogriff I've been searchin’ for a friend of mine. They haven't been illegal to own for a decade, so I will file a complaint against you if I see charges for this! But the one in question was . . . well, wanted. And I intended to give it sanctuary.” 

“And did you find it?” 

“Like I'd tell you,” she scoffed. 

Cutting his losses, he continued, “In the report you had given a general description of a few of the wizards. I was hoping to get a few more details from you. How many were gathered?” 

“Borgin and Burkes has a lot of shelves. Windows were a bit dusty. But four I could see.” 

“Can you describe them?” 

“Couldn't see one of ‘em—too dusty. Two were older men. About my age, maybe younger. One of ‘em sat in a wheeled chair and was real unhappy ‘bout it. The fourth looked more about your age, I'd say. He had light hair.” 

“What about their physique? Were they tall? Thin?” 

She hummed in thought, picturing the men. “Hard to tell in their robes. Tall—not quite as tall as you. Real fit, from what I could tell through their robes.” Beverly's face softened suddenly. “Who'd they threaten?” 

Draco's chest fluttered remembering the letters. “That's confidential.” 

“Someone you care about.” 

Draco forced a neutral look over himself. “I'm not at liberty to say.” 

Beverly merely smiled. Something in his face must have given him away. “I didn't catch a lot of what they said. But one of ‘em—the younger one—did a lot of yellin’. Like he was defendin’ himself. And the one I couldn't see had one nasty snarl.” 

“Snarl?” 

“Yeah. Real throaty. Could give any of my creatures here a run for their money. Not quite human, if you know what I mean.” 

Draco was pretty sure he felt his heart sputter to a stop.  

Snarl.  

Beverly continued, “I did hear one tidbit before I booked it out of there. It's the reason I suspected they were no good and no good could come from their meetin’.” 

Draco's heart started back up, now beating twice as fast in anticipation. “And what's that?”  

“Before I say it, I want it on record that I'm on’y repeatin’ what I heard. I know you won't be offended by it—” somehow Draco didn't think that was a compliment “—but I don't want word spreadin’ that I feel this way!” 

“No one will think that, Ms. Fardle.” 

“Good. The snarling one said, ‘I'll finally get a taste of that bitch.’ Then the other older gent said ‘Mudbloods don’t belong around a cauldron in the first place.’ And the youngster chimed in saying ‘That mudblood know-it-all bitch will know her place before I'm done with her.’ That was when the other one—the one I couldn’t see—spoke up.” 

Draco perked up. “What did he sound like?” 

“Well educated. A bit posh. Likely from one of your lot.” 

He ignored that jab. After years of dealing with the aftermath of his role in the second war, he’s learned to brush off the snide remarks. It wasn’t like they were undeserved. “And what did he have to say?” 

“He jumped in arguing about their need for ‘her’ work. Said somethin’ about the usefulness of it all. The one in the wheelchair agreed, started ramblin’ about somethin’ he lost. That was when the other man got into it real good with the one I couldn’t see. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what they rambled about though. Then they said somethin’ about Ireland I couldn't quite hear and I booked it out of Knockturn right after. Was afraid it would turn nasty if I stayed longer. I came straight to the ministry when I left ‘em.” 

“Ireland,” Draco hummed to himself as Beverly crossed her arms, closing herself off to him, clearly done with the conversation. He asked, “Straight to the ministry? No detours? Say, to buy an illegal hippogriff?” 

The older woman's face reddened as her eyebrows pushed tightly together, creating deep crevices through her forehead. “Out,” she ground out through her teeth. “I'm done. I've given you all the information I had.” 

Draco felt his eyebrow cock upward, testing her anger. With a smirk playing on his lips, he said, “You know where to find me if you remember anything else. I hope your beast isn't too wanted, or I'll know where to find it .” 

Beverly slammed the door in his face. He supposed it was to be expected; he had threatened her. But as he turned to walk back down the path, he began wondering just what a hippogriff could be wanted for? Had it murdered someone? Had it stolen a countess’ precious jewels? It isn't like it could have been working alone.  

Maybe it had scratched a rich prat, he joked to himself. 

When he reached the last few feet before the wards, he heard the familiar scrape of oversized eagle claws on soil, followed by the deep avian chatter he had avoided since third year. Slowly, he turned to find the large beast staring directly at him twenty yards away.  

“Fuck.” 

The feathered brute lowered its grey and white head and clawed at the ground, throwing dust into the air. Draco's arm tingled slightly, as if the memory of the horrid beast had torn open the faintly scarred line.  

The Hippogriff jumped forward. He snapped his beak before jumping again and Draco, being the brave Auror he was, turned and ran as quickly as he could through the wards and away from the nightmarish beast, pretending he didn't hear the soft cackle coming from inside the cottage.  

*      *     *

As Draco stepped foot through the mostly empty Auror office at lunch, he knew something was off. The air felt charged. The hairs along his neck stood on edge and he slowed his pace. With his fingers reaching for his wand, he waited for the attack. 

Instead, he found Rose.  

“Can I help you, Miss Cummings?” he asked with as little snark as he could manage when she had clearly just used a breast plumping charm. She carried with her an overstuffed binder organized with dozens of color-coded tabs sticking out along the sides.  

Clearly Granger's work, he thought. 

She nibbled gently on her lip. “There are many ways you could help me, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred seductively, gazing at him through her lashes. 

Draco reached around her to open his office door, careful not to brush against any part of her. “Why are you here?” he asked shortly, not in the mood for her flirtations. 

“Ms. Granger requested I bring this to you.” She carried the binder into the office, bending at the hips to pace it neatly on his desk. Her shirt fell open just enough to see the red lace cupping her breasts. 

Draco kept his eyes glued to the binder. “Thank you,” he grumbled professionally. “Has she eaten yet?”  

Draco wasn't sure why he bothered asking. He felt like he should be giving her space, but something in his chest pinched at the thought of her forgetting (or skipping) lunch. It frustrated him to no end. How could he work if he was busy worrying about her?  

“No, sir,” she said, emphasizing the title. “She was preparing letters for her werewolf bill when I left. But if you're looking for company, I'm free?” 

“Rose, while I appreciate your attention, I am not interested. I apologize if at any point I led you to believe I was.” He almost felt bad as her face sagged in disappointment on her way out.  

Almost. 

The moment she closed the door behind her, Draco sent word to Tilly to send a second lunch. When the small house Elf arrived with two silver platters of pasta and salad, he scribbled a quick note and set it upstairs to Hermione. He had no more than opened his own platter when Harry opened his door, making himself as comfortable as one can be on the stiff chairs Draco had sitting across from him. 

“Don't mind me,” he declared, crossed one ankle over his knee. “Go on and eat while I talk. I have a bit of an assignment for you.” He plopped a thin file onto the desk. “The memo you sent about Ireland panned out like you thought. Rowle owns a bit of property out in the country. Inherited it from a great aunt or . . . something—anyways, I'm sending you and Ron to look into it. You're leaving tonight.” 

Draco had sent that memo less than an hour previously. Clearly, Lavender needed more excitement down in the records room. 

“And what of Hermione? I thought my job right now was bodyguard.” 

“McLaggen volunteered.” 

“You’re joking,” he snarled, his fingers twitching over his wand. 

Harry broke into a grin. “Of course I am,” he laughed. “You should have seen your face. Boot’s finished up a case and is taking over for the week in case she heads into the lab but she declined so much of your watch there isn't much work, anyway. I’ll have Gin talk to her again about loosening those restrictions.” 

Draco hummed in agreement, leaning back in his chair as he thought of all the nights he had spent watching her street regardless. “Why Weasley?” 

“He's a damn good Auror as long as paperwork isn't involved. And this case is important to him, too. As long as you two can keep from ripping each other apart I think you could be a good team.” 

“Fine.” He wasn't shy about letting his disdain for the idea show, but he was eager to get into the field for information. It wasn’t as if he had never worked with the Weasel before. 

“Great. He'll meet at your house around seven. Good?” 

“Yeah, fine.” 

“Great.” He lingered in the chair. 

“Is there something else, Potter?” 

“Hermione never fired you. She was late this morning, but you're still her Auror. I expect she would have come to me first thing if she planned on sacking you.” 

Draco gestured to the large binder on the desk. “Just received this present from Rose, her secretary. I don't suspect she plans on it, either.” 

“Good. I was worried Ron would be stuck with her.” 

Draco furrowed his brow, slightly confused but more so irritated by his statement. “What could you possibly mean by that?” 

“She gets frustrated with Ron. He can be a bit sensitive about it.” Harry stood to leave the office. 

“Have you ever heard of a wanted hippogriff?” Draco blurted before Harry could leave. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The woman that tipped us off about Knockturn was there to buy an illegal, wanted hippogriff. I don't know how that’s possible. It's a bloody beast.” 

Harry's face Scrunched in thought. “A wanted . . .” Draco watched intently as his eyebrows rose, a thought clicking. Suddenly nervous, he scrambled to the door and shouted behind him, “Nope! Never heard of a wanted hippogriff! Good luck in Ireland!”  

The door shut quietly behind his rushed footsteps. “Well, that was bloody suspicious.” 

*     *     *

Seven came and passed and still Draco waited, wearing a path down in his expensive hallway runner. Against his better judgment he had told Ron to floo in, knowing he would be added to his words. Together they were to use a portkey to a remote beach in Kerry, secluded on three sides by steep cliff sides a few kilometers away from the Rowle property. With proper warding, they would be nearly imperceptible. Three additional Aurors were assigned to meet them at the sight, one being a specialist in ward breaking, another a cursebreaker. The third was some specialist on the Irish countryside. Why they needed a landscaper was beyond Draco, but he suspected the Ministry had ulterior motives. 

The floo flared to life in bright green flames at nearly half past seven. “Sorry I'm late mate, got a bit . . . held up.” Ron erupted from the fireplace, patting away soot. A thick red hickey stained his neck. 

“Which if the lucky women had the pleasure of your three minutes this time, Weasley.” 

“I'm in too good of a mood to let your snotty remarks get to me, Malfoy,” he said jovially, his cheeks and ears turning pink. “And for your information, Daph and I made up! I hear you and her sister have been negotiating. Maybe you and I will be brothers someday!” 

Draco nearly screamed a sound of disgust. “I would walk into a Basilisk lair before I became your brother, Weasley. Don't make me sick. Now, where's the portkey? The others are likely there by now. As leads, we should have been first to camp.” 

“Leads? I'm lead Auror! I have seniority!” 

“You're lucky I'm giving you any leadership at all, Weasel. Don't push your luck.” Draco took a step towards the red head, raising himself to his full height. A murderous glint shone in his eyes and he thought he watched Ron blanche momentarily. “Granger is my responsibility. My charge. Any leads regarding her safety fall under my jurisdiction.” He was nearly growling at this point. “I will let you share lead because she is important to you, too. But make no mistake, Weasel, if you make one wrong call, step one foot over a line I've drawn or threaten this mission in the slightest, I will take you down first and send you back to the ministry petrified with your foot up your own arse!” 

Ron stared at him wide eyed. “Alright.” He took a step back, creating space between them. “You can have the bloody lead.” 

Ron turned to dig through his luggage, finding the small wooden pumpkin they were to use as a portkey, muttering a word sounding quite like “psychopath” under his breath.  

“We have thirty seconds to grab it once I activate it. Ready?” 

Draco grabbed the duffel and slung it over his black robes. Under his Auror uniform he wore a thicker, black cargo-style pant rather than his typical trousers and a similarly shaded tactical pullover styled by a muggle military unit. Ron had dressed similarly, though chose to carry wands in specialized pockets within his robes instead of the dragonhide holsters Draco kept strapped around his sturdy chest. 

The beach on the Irish coast nipped at Draco's cheeks as the portkey pulled them to meet with their team. Though the sun had long set, the sandy ground shone brightly as the moon cast a white glow over the black waves crashing against the shore. The dark cliffs surrounding their tranquil entrance served as an ominous reminder of the threat of the resurgence and lingering blood purists looming over them.  

A modest tent had already been built just inside a shallow cave along the cliff. Draco knew without entering it was magically expanded, likely having a small room for each of them, a kitchen only large enough for basic needs, one table and chair set and a simple washroom stocked with medical supplies. 

A man, stocky with chestnut hair curling tightly against his scalp, and a woman, slender with toned muscle under her tight dragonhide gear greeted them at the edge of the warding.  

“A lemur leaps through rings of stars,” the man chanted in code. 

“He'll fall to Earth before he starts,” Ron replied, followed by the woman. 

“And if the atmosphere chooses to hold him against his will?” 

To which Draco answered, “Then he'll shatter the heavens to reach the moon.” 

The woman cocked an eyebrow at him. A curious smile played on her lips. “I'm Calid,” she introduced, extending her deeply bronzed hand to Draco. “This is Dariel. He's your ward specialist. I'll be your cursebreaker, should you need one. We're still expecting another Auror, correct?” 

“Draco.” He gestured to himself, then waved casually toward Ron. “Ron. Yes, we were told one more. Some specialist on the landscape.” 

“Well, let's give ‘em another hour before we start on those wards,” Dariel suggested. “Between the four of us we should be able to rupture enough to get in undetected.” 

“So we're classifying this as a raid,” Draco clarified. 

“Search and seizure,” Calid agreed. “We didn't want anyone hiding out here to get wind of our operation and scatter.” 

“How many you suspects in there?” Ron asked. 

“We detected two magical signatures definitely. A possible third’s been coming and going.” 

“How often?” 

“Three times already since we've been here.” 

“Come in and unpack while we wait,” Dariel said. 

Draco plopped his duffel down on the cot, feeling a presence behind him. “So, that Calid's something to look at,” Ron said conspiratorially from the curtailed doorway. 

“I suppose.” He continued to pull folders from his duffel, hoping Ron would take the hint.  

“What I wouldn't give to see those black curls spread out over a mattress.” 

Draco sneered. “You know, if you're not interested in Daphne, she had other people out of their minds to be with her.” 

Ron scoffed. “Daphne? She doesn't care who I shag. All but admitted to sleeping with others, she has. I don't think one's enough for her, honestly. Parvati, on the other hand, did not like the idea of sharing. Dropped our long weekends in Italy straight away when she found out I was taking Lavender out.” 

“Is that why Granger finally had the good sense to leave you?” 

Ron laughed. “That was a mutual separation, mate. ‘Mione is . . . brilliant. But not that creative, if you know what I mean. And she'd get herself so wound up thinking about things it was near impossible to make her come.” He shook his head. “She's no actress, mate. She tried faking it for my benefit once and I got so mad I stayed with my mum for three days.” 

“You don't need to convince me you can't please women, Weasley. I've always suspected. Have you ever considered you just weren't good enough?” 

“Every day,” he admitted seriously. “But we're both happier as friends. I know she is—she's always been happier with her nose in a book.” 

Is she? Draco asked himself.  

“So, you couldn't satisfy Granger, Daphne needs a little more than just you—do you disappoint Lavender as well or are her expectations so low from sixth year that anything you give her is an upgrade?” 

Ron scowled, crossing his arms. “I liked you better when you were a death eater. I suppose you're some sex god that makes witches come just by blowing in their ear.” 

“I'm not the one that usually does the blowing, Weasley,” he quipped. “But if you're lacking in that department, women are usually quite eager when they come first. When they don't have to fake it.” 

“Piss off, Malfoy.” He turned to walk away, stopping as a thought occurred to him. “I bet I can get that feisty little cursebreaker to say yes to me before you.” 

“I'm not making that pathetic bet with you, Weasley,” he said with an eyeroll. 

“Scared to lose?” 

“To you? Never.” 

“You have someone waiting for you? A secret girlfriend? I know I joked before, but I know the deal with you and Story. I know those negotiations aren't stopping you.” 

Curly brown hair and flecks of golden honeyed irises flashed briefly through his mind. He chose to ignore the question. 

“No one holding your leash?” Ron prodded casually. 

“Watch it, Weasley. I heard how you ended it with Granger. Someone owes you a—” Bright sparks burst from their wands, telling them the wards had been activated. “Look at that. The extra is here.” 

The spare Auror shook like a leaf as she entered the tent with Calid and Dariel. She was small for a woman—even smaller than Hermione. With bushy brown locks chopped just above the shoulder, she really did remind Draco of Hermione when she was much younger.  

“Godric, she can't be out of Hogwarts more than a year,” Ron whispered. 

“Shh!” Draco hissed, though he agreed. He didn't know what the department was playing at. The woman was terrified. He presumed this her first training mission. Her knuckles were white with how tightly she gripped at her wand—clearly, trust was an issue for her. Though she focused on Calid, her eyes darted frequently in his direction. 

Ah , he thought, realizing it was his presence making her uncomfortable.  

He had completely missed her name before this point but began to piece together who the woman was. Likely a half-blood or muggleborn witch, by her discomfort. She would have been young during the second wizarding war and his subsequent trial, so a muggleborn wouldn't have known the part he played before his publicized redemption.  

Half-blood, then.  

Then there was the way she gripped her wand, as if readying herself for attack.  

Or defense.   

Salazar, she really didn't trust him. Which means she likely lost someone in the war . . . or more than one someone.  

Fuck, was it his family? His father? Bellatrix?  

The group had stopped their conversation and were now staring at him expectantly. Fuck, did they ask something?  

“I'm sorry?” he found himself saying, unable to pull even a sentence from his memory of their conversation. 

“We were introducing Isolt here to the group,” Calid explained with a raised brow. “We were explaining our roles, and she was telling us hers.” 

“I do apologize,” he said aristocratically.  

Though he had dropped most of his posh upbringing after the war, something about the way she stared at him made him shift uncomfortably. His childhood lessons helped.  

“I've had a terribly long day and I'm afraid I was a bit lost in thought regarding safety precautions for the mission.” He extended his hand. “My name is Draco Malfoy. I am the assigned Auror to a classified section of this case and am here to lead this group through the search of the Rowle property and hopeful retrieval of information regarding the resurgence.” 

Isolt took his hand slowly. “Isolt Pocumtuc,” she squeaked in an American accent.  

So, Ilvermorny, not Hogwarts.   

“My family originates in Kerry. I'm still in training with MACUSA, but since I've studied this area my whole life, my department head assigned me here to shadow and assist in any way I can.” 

“Pocumtuc,” Draco repeated under his breath, trying to place how he knew the name. “Pardon my saying this, but you seem quite young to be joining us.” 

A nervous shiver went through her and her already large blue eyes widened further. “I am old enough!” she nearly shouted. “I graduated at the top of my class! Just because I'm a Steward doesn't mean I don't deserve to be here!” 

Then it clicked. “Your great grandmother down the line was a Gaunt,” he said, mostly to himself. 

She stumbled backwards. “We don't talk about them.” 

“Not talking about it doesn't make it less true,” Draco said sternly. “At least I understand why you're afraid of me. You're probably well acquainted with the stories of all of Voldemort's puppets.” 

Isolt, to her credit, stood up straighter. “My brother died fighting a war you were a part of!” she hissed. “And now you're leading this group like you were part of the golden trio! If Hermione Granger knew that you were in charge of this, she would have something to say about it!” 

Ron shifted on his feet next to him. “Hello,” he said awkwardly with a wave. “Ron Weasley. Part of the trio. I'm just gonna step outside and start on those wards.” 

The others said a quick agreement before following him out, leaving Draco with the girl.  

“I am sorry, about your brother,” he apologized softly but with an edge he couldn't quite tear away. “And I am glad you idolize Hermione Granger—there's no better witch to do so. But you do not know me. You do not know my story. And you certainly don't know Hermione well enough to speak for her. The entire purpose of this mission is her safety. So you can stay, and be a part of the team, or portkey back to MACUSA.” 

Isolt stared down at her black trainers. “I'd like to stay and help,” she said quietly. 

“Good. It's time to start doing our jobs.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione sat in her dark, quiet flat.  

It was always dark. Always quiet.  

Even with the T.V. playing quietly in the background, with Crookshanks staring at the empty park across the street, waiting for his stray dog. She hoped he had found someplace warm, away from the rain that now fell gently from the sky. Maybe if he showed up again, she would cook him a warm meal. Maybe bring him inside and give him a warm blanket in front of the fireplace. He could probably just have her bed; she never slept in it anyway. 

A soft tap on her window startled her from her thoughts. Pulling the curtains away from the alcove nearest the front door she was met with two eyes the size of dinner plates pressed against the glass. Droplets of rain slid down and fell off two crookedly elongated bat ears. 

“Can Tilly come inside, miss?” the little house elf cried from the rain. 

Hermione ran to the front door, nearly ripping the wood from the hinges. “Tilly! My goodness, please come in! Let's get you dry!” 

“Oh, thank you, miss.” 

“Why on Earth are you here?” Hermione conjured a towel as Tilly snapped her fingers, raising a silver platter from the stoop and levitating it into the kitchen. “Oh. Draco sent you? I thought he was in Ireland?” 

“He is, miss. Tilly was asked to make sure you ate, miss! Master Draco worries. And makes Tilly worry! Master Draco says Mistress Hermione doesn't keep food in her pantry!” Tilly added the last bit conspiratorially, as if gossiping over tea. 

“I assure you, Tilly. There is nothing to worry about. I had missed my shopping day when Malf—Draco visited.” 

“Master Draco says miss forgets to have lunch, too. Tilly is to bring lunch every day Master Draco is gone.” 

“Tilly, while I appreciate—” 

Tilly straightened her spine, and with a slight smile on her face said, “With all due respect, Miss Hermione, Tilly works for Master Draco. So Tilly will bring Miss delicious food every day and check on Miss, so my Master Draco doesn't worry. It is up to Miss if she wants to go hungry. But Tilly bring.” 

“Well, I wouldn't want to worry him,” she conceded, her belly grumbling as the savory smells of roasted beef and carrots filled her. “As long as it isn't much trouble.” 

“No trouble at all, Miss. Tilly likes to cook. Mippy likes the chores. Mippy cleans while Tilly cooks. Master Draco likes the laundry—the muggle way!” Tilly giggled. “But tells no one—Master says it's to stays a secret!” 

“Laundry! Really?” Hermione said aghast. 

“Aye, Miss. On a long string in the yard! Or in a hot, rumbly machine that spins them round and round and round! Sometimes, when the chores is all done, Mippy and Tilly sit and watch them!” 

“Well, Tilly,” Hermione said kindly, “I have my own secret.” 

Tilly's eyes widened further. Her ears lifted and she stretched out onto her little toes, lifting her heels straight out of the little toddler flats she had on. “Will Miss Hermione trust Tilly with such a thing?” 

“Yes, Tilly. I will. Do you want to know what it is?” 

“Oh yes! Oh please, Miss Hermione!” 

Hermione lowered her head to whisper “I hate laundry. Especially the muggle way!” 

The elf gasped dramatically, as if it were the most scandalous secret of the season. “But you is muggleborn, Miss!” 

“Yes. But I enjoy dusting. The muggle and magical ways.” 

“Oh, Tilly does enjoy Miss Hermione. You would make an excellent Mistress, indeed, Tilly thinks. Tilly sees why Master Draco cares—oh, Tilly shouldn't say! That was one secret Mippy told Tilly must stay secret! She says ‘Tilly, you can't blabber Tilly's blubber on this one! Master Draco could get hurt!’ Silly Tilly, they call me.” 

“How can caring about someone hurt them?” Hermione asked sincerely. 

“Hurt his heart, Miss Hermione. He cares different than he cares for Tilly and Mippy.” 

“I see,” she said, trying to put pieces together. “Well, I think I understand who he cares deeply about, Tilly. And Draco is a wonderful man, so I'm sure Astoria loves him back equally, if not more.” 

The kitchen had lit up when Tilly arrived. Her small presence brought an easy joy Hermione had needed. Now, it suddenly felt dim again, and she wasn't sure why. She didn't feel sad, exactly . . . but hollow; missing. 

She completely missed the questioning look on the little elf’s face. 

“Miss, Master isn't in love with—” 

“Oh, Tilly, it's okay. You don't have to spill Draco's secrets to me. I promise to eat the food you bring, but only until he gets back from Ireland and I can tell him off in person.” 

“Oh, thank you, Miss Hermione! Tilly will go tell Mippy you promised to eat! Tilly will bring you all sorts of foods, Miss!” Tilly's little legs shuffled towards the door. “Scones, and pies, and sandwiches, and stews . . .” She continued listing food until she disappeared through the front door, apparating with a small pop from the stoop. 

*     *     *

Hermione stood in the familiar kitchen, stirring a pot of classic beef stew. Photos of her with her parents plastered the walls and laughter radiated from the living room.   

Christmas. It was Christmas.   

Harry told a joke that had her parents screaming in joy before her father rounded on Ron about their future. In typical Ronald fashion he stuttered around the subject before dragging someone else into the conversation. She knew she should feel disappointed, but she couldn't help but laugh along with them. Having them here, together—it felt like a dream.   

“Stew's done!” she shouted, grabbing the deep pot and carrying it through the kitchen. As she rounded the corner, the laughing stopped. The room had grown silent. “Is everything alright—”  

The sight before her drowned out her question. Everyone she loved hung pinned to the far wall, emptied chests ripped open and bleeding over the worn floors of her childhood home. Photos of her under a Christmas tree caught fire beside them, the flames rising to lick at the ancient stockings adorning the hearth. She stared from one face to another, taking them in.  

Her father.  

Her mother.  

Harry.  

Ron.  

A steady rhythm pounded gently between her hands. As she finally lowered her gaze from the slowly decaying bodies, she found she no longer carried a pot of stew, but a large silver serving tray, opened to display five still beating hearts, one pinned with a bloody M, leaking a dark brown sludge instead of the crimson plasma of the others.  

Mudblood.  

The silver platter cluttered to the floor.  

Hermione woke in a puddle of cold sweat. She had slept past her alarm again and the creeping headache from the day before had morphed into a full-blown migraine. It was already Friday. The rest of the week had come and gone so quickly Hermione barely noticed, each miserable day morphing into the next. The normal chill through her body was now an icy plague of cold sweats and too many layers, the force of her denial keeping all thoughts of fever at bay. 

There was no time to be sick. She had a lab to run this weekend. 

True to her word, Tilly stopped by to see Hermione three times a day (sometimes four if she made a special snack). Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had eaten so regularly and typically found herself so full and tired after lunch, her eyes threatened sleep by early afternoon.  

She assumed something must be going around the office, because Rose had vanished shortly after her meeting with Draco, owling in sick the remainder of the week. Draco, who had been temporarily replaced with Cormac McLaggen, who had the rare fortune of being the only Auror not on assignment who hadn’t contracted some mystery illness. While Draco had kept mostly to their agreed terms, Corman chose to see Auror detail as an opportunity to follow her like a service dog. To file case reports, to see Theo about his marriage bonds (he had been having some trouble with the severing of certain on-the-run death eaters, for obvious reasons), even to the restroom where he creepily waited outside the door for her return. It was Slughorn's party all over again.  

And the following weeks after Slughorn's party. 

January 1997  

Hermione sat alone in an empty classroom. Lavender had snuck Ron up to their dorm and had been too busy snogging him senseless to realize she had been there. She had heard rumors about Lavender's decision to take their relationship to the next step, and the last thing Hermione wanted was a first row seat of her first love losing his virginity to someone else.  

After a good cry (sob), she pulled out parchment and books and got to work on next month's homework, nearly oblivious to the presence of anyone else. It wasn't until Cormac's annoyingly pompous voice spoke to her from the desk just opposite the aisle that she realized someone had been watching her write.  

“Hermione, what in Merlin's name are you doing alone in this classroom?” He had asked her, a smile over his lips. His hands sat in the pockets of his uniform trousers, one ankle crossed over another as he casually leaned against the desk side.   

“I just needed a quiet place to work,” she snapped. “Too much . . . tongue in the dorm.”  

“Oh!” Realization passed over his face. Then a glimmer of excitement—which Hermione missed, staring intensely at her parchment. Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away.   

Cormac pushed gently off the desk and stepped slowly, intently across the aisle. “Were you . . . distracted?”  

“Of course I was distracted! I can't believe they were so public about it! That sort of thing should be done—”   

Cormac suddenly was beside her, pushing closer into her space. His arms had stretched around d either side of her, locking her against the desk.   

“Where should it be done, Hermione?” he purred, as if everything made sense. “Should it be done, say, in private?”  

“Of course!” She bit with less fire than when she had the space to breathe. She couldn't reach her wand, which she had twirled into her hair to study.  

“Maybe, the privacy of a classroom?” He leaned closer, reaching up to pull the intricate wood from her hair. Hermione felt frozen in place, for once her brain going foggy as he tossed the wood across the room. “I love when your hair is down, Hermione. Wild, like you. I'd love to see what it looks like tamed, after a good fu—”  

The classroom door burst open and three laughing Slytherins entered. One dark skinned, high cheek boned and now suddenly serious. One shorter, rounder faced with kind eyes and brown hair that sat in a puff atop his head. And one tall, pale and white-blonde with narrowed grey eyes and a sneer that always made her feel either too small or too seen.  

Blaise, Theo and Draco. This was either excellent, or disastrous.  

“What have we here, gents?” Blaise asked sarcastically. “Looks like this room’s taken.”  

“We wouldn't want to intrude,” Theo added, pausing his own laughter as he read the room. “Then again, it would be a shame to ruin Granger's golden reputation!”  

Draco bent over and picked up the wand Cormac had tossed aside. His teeth snapped together reflexively. His left hand clenched so tightly around his own wand it threatened to snap. When he looked up from the floor, his face had relaxed back into the nonchalant prat he liked to play—but his eyes had darkened to a deep, hateful grey. They were two storm clouds promising destruction, yet when he spoke, it was with the absolute calm and disinterest she had expected.  

“I knew your family were blood traitors, McLaggen,” he began taunting, his loathing seeping into Hermione’s skin, “but I didn't expect you to debase yourself by forcing a filthy, wandless mudblood to fuck you.”   

He stepped forward quickly, nearly passing them as he headed for the front of the classroom, sliding the wand into Hermione's hand as he passed. The trio ducked into the adjoining office.  

“Heads up, Filch was following us,” Theo warned purposefully as he passed, joining the others. “Should be barging in any second!”  

Cormac jumped away and she could finally breathe, casting a quick disillusionment in time to watch Filch burst through the same door, grab a stuttering Cormac, and drag him out.  

Hermione never thanked Draco for his intrusion—for the unkind words that somehow saved her from greater unkindness. At the time she had been so relieved, she never questioned the way he had slid her the wand, or the hateful way he had looked at Cormac. She just assumed there was so much disdain for her that it transferred to everyone she was near.  

Now, as she ducked around another corner quickly to avoid her new Auror spotting her, she wished nothing more than to have Draco pop through another doorway with cruel words to send him away. She knew how to handle Draco's sharp tongue—she did not know how to handle (politely and professionally) Cormac's persistence. So instead, she avoided him altogether, peering around corners before charging quickly ahead, locking her office door, and occasionally sitting with Harry, who claims he had had no other choice this week but McLaggen. 

Today, however, as she fought past the throbbing in her head, the chills, and the body aches that refused to see reason no matter which potion or muggle cure she threw at it, she forgot to check her own office before entering, coming face to face—or rather, face to chest—with the Auror in question.  

“Hermione!” he greeted brightly, ignorant of the sour mood she was in. “You're a slippery one to keep track of! I can't imagine Malfoy being able to keep up with you.” 

“Malfoy's probably the only one who can,” she blurted without thinking. 

“Are you kindling a little flame for the Slytherin Prince?” he asked keenly, a bit of poison dripping from his tongue. He was sitting comfortably in her guest chair, his fingers steepled together.  

Hermione merely scoffed at the accusation, cursing Harry for forcing her to add the prick to her warding—one of the few reasons she had spent the week at the ministry, rather than her lab. “Why are you here, Cormac?” 

“I'm your Auror! It's my job to be here.” 

“I am currently at the ministry, Cormac. According to my signed agreement, when I am here, you can bugger off!” 

“You'll come around, Hermione,” he purred before leaving.  

Hermione stared at her notes on her desk a long time after he left, keeping herself awake by sheer will power as she compiled the werewolf statements. While Bill’s had been concise, Lavender's was less so. Making a quick note to herself to discuss it in person, she stepped out to check the front desk which remained empty, apart from one letter written in her bubbly scrawl. 

Rose was flirty, sassy, and enjoyed the pub each night after work. She occasionally took too long of a lunch and once or twice she had been caught in a broom cupboard with an eligible wizard from a neighboring department. But she never missed more than one day of work in a row. With brisk steps, which only succeeded in making her lightheaded, Hermione stomped down to the Auror department to their owlery to send off a letter to her. 

The Auror department was in chaos. Papers flew from desk to desk. There was incomprehensible shouting from a nearby meeting room. Witches stood around the water cooler whispering with devious smiles plastered across their faces, and, most troubling of all, Cormac merely glanced up at her with satisfaction. Postponing the owlery, Hermione raced to Harry's office instead, barging in to find him in quiet discussion with Ron. 

“You're back?” she asked in worried surprise.  

He nodded, no hint of a smile on his face.  

“What happened?”  

Ron didn't answer right away. His mouth merely opened as he gaped for words. 

“Ronald Weasley, answer me!” 

“It was a trap,” he said hoarsely, plopping heavily down into a chair. He was covered in dried blood. “The others are at St. Mungo’s.” 

“What?!” Hermione lunged for Ron, running her fingers through his Robes in search of injuries. 

“I'm okay, ‘Mione. He saved me.” 

“Who?” she asked, pausing her fingers on his crumpled collar. 

“Draco. The healers are working on him now.” 

Isolt led the Aurors to a small break in the cliffside, finding a steep staircase hidden by green moss and leafy vines stretching over the ancient stone. Each step inched them closer to the beautiful grassy expanse above.  

Draco stared out at the black void of the sea, waiting for the others who had fallen behind. They had taken their first night on the beach to get a lay of the land, learning the cracks and crevices of every rocky drop-off and grassy hill. The house, if you could even call it that, sat a little over a kilometer from the top of the steps. An abandoned stone cottage built partway into the soft slopes of the earth lay in partial ruin in the middle of what used to be a large sheep farm. Fences of rock and boulder crumbled in all directions, sectioning off long unused pastures. The building itself looked as if it had housed a small family at one point in time, no larger than two bedrooms and one central living area. Now the roof, which had visible gaps, and the windows whose shattered glass offered more hazard than protection, made it clear that the abode was uninhabited and uninhabitable, apart from the few desperate stragglers who consider a hazardous hideout better than no hideout at all. 

The second night they had started on the wards. Blood wards had been woven together with runic symbols etched into the stone walls along the outskirts of the property. After hours of tedious work, Dariel had managed to puncture a human sized hole in the wards without sending an alert to whoever existed within. Calid focused on impending curses, of which none had yet to spring at them, and the others helped whenever and wherever they were needed. They were ready to explore by sunrise, but Ron insisted they return to camp, rest, and enter with an ambush the following night. 

Draco initially had difficulty trusting the Weasel's judgment as an Auror. After several missions with forced partnership, he learned Ron had an uncanny ability to understand the enemy's next move. He could strategize better than any Auror Draco had ever met and on more than one occasion he wondered if the wizard ever played Wizarding Chess in his free time. He would never admit it out loud, but it was one of the only areas of their teamwork where he didn't think Ron was a complete twit. 

“Everyone know the plan?” Draco barked as the others joined him, each nodding once in response. “Good. We can't let any witch or wizard leave and inform the others of our ambush. We only need one alive for information, but all are ideal. Do not touch anything before Calid or myself have inspected it. Isolt, remember your position. Do not engage in one on one unless absolutely necessary.” He looked each Auror in the eyes. “This should be in and out. Let's move.” 

They filed through the hole in the wards one by one, Draco taking lead and Ron heading up the rear. Isolt had led them through the expected terrain around the smooth cottage, mapping the most disguised pathways. Every so often a detection charm was cast, coming up empty of curses or secondary wards.  

“This seems too easy,” Calid worried as her charm once again showed no sign of hidden curses. 

“Isolt said this was an older sheep farm. Apart from the outer wards, the Rowle family probably didn't have much need for internal protection. 

“But why didn't the resurgence add any?” Ron chimed in. 

“We haven't reached the cottage yet,” Dariel answered. 

The group continued with caution, ducking behind stone walls at every opportunity, stepping over the heather clumps rather than crunching over rocky patches, and above all, kept their wands up and ready. 

It took twenty minutes—ten minutes longer than expected—before they reached the outer garden of the cottage. Dariel took down the warding effortlessly as the others spread to each corner of the building. Once the shimmery blue of the old magic disappeared, the group added their own anti-apparition wards and raised their wands. In unison, doors and windows burst open and they each rushed in. 

An explosion sounded from the front door before Draco took two steps through his own meager window into the cramped kitchen, but there was no time to question. The two wizards inside were ready, blasting green and red spells like the finale of a fireworks show. 

One witch with long red, matted hair conjured wild flames and sent them at Isolt, who had focused her attention on sending rather magnificent chain-animals on a rampage toward the second wizard. With a quick swish of his wand, water poured onto the flames, sizzling them into a steamy vapor and distracting the second wizard long enough for Isolt's chains to trample him into the earthen floor and lock around him.  

Unfortunately, it was also distracting for Draco.  

Ron bolted through the dissipating covering, shouting his name as he charged at the redhead, who had quickly flicked a small gold coin high into the air. He had her tackled to the ground, wand broken and body bound in freshly conjured ropes before the coin clattered to the planked flooring above the cellar.  

Three more dark wizards dressed in blood red robes with obsidian masks misted through the floorboards around the golden signal. 

“Where the bloody hell did these three come from?” Ron blurted. 

“Must be special warding around the cellar. Maybe a signature blocker.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Not very creative on their look, are they Weasley?” Draco asked nonchalantly, taking the pause to count his Aurors. 

Isolt remained by her chained man, closely monitored by Dariel whose wand pointed firmly toward the three resurgence members. With Ron slowly rising to stand next to him, that left Calid at the front explosion.  

“I'd say they're taking blood purity a bit extreme,” Ron agreed before one of the red clad wizards began shooting spells muffled by the black mask.  

Back and forth they blasted and petrified the air, Dariel coming to join as Isolt, fully intent on keeping the wizards alive for information, dragged the bound wizards away from the fight. A stray beam of orange light flare past Draco straight towards her. With only a moment's hesitation, he pulled the earthen floor from her feet, erecting a shield before her in time for the spell to blast the dirt to smithereens.  

Dust clouded the air, but Draco had no time to focus on the particles scratching at his lungs as another spell sliced at his back. He had felt this spell before. The cuts and slices as the skin across his body split apart. But this was from a wizard not nearly as powerful as Potter, and one with shit aim.  

The blood soaked into his uniform quickly, but failed to spread across his body, remaining shallow along the strong muscular planes of his shoulders. He swooshed his wand and summoned a flock of his golden sparrows, sending them with a sharp flick to attack. One mask cracked in two, an all too familiar face revealed beneath the hood. 

Draco had Gregory Goyle petrified before the mask shattered across the wooden planks. The other two began to circle, their red robes shifting. Ron blocked a fire hex as it flew toward him, throwing it away from the group where it hit a nearby wall. Draco counted a blister curse before it hit his own beautiful cheek.  

“Dariel, get to Calid!” Draco ordered, blocking a series of stinging jinxes before one made its mark, bursting into a painful blister on his right arm. He retaliated with a temporary blinding hex of his own creation. They continued to circle, passing by flames that now engulfed the curtains along the far wall. “Isolt, get the captured out of the cottage!” 

Ron threw a wall into the circling wizards, stopping the blinded one with a sudden crash. He had them bound and sent with Isolt as Draco dueled the third. Spells flew back and forth, blocked and dodged and redirected. 

“Bombarda!” he screamed, sending the spell toward the wizard, only for him to redirect the blast behind him, where Ron had started minimizing the flames. 

Draco knew his Protego wouldn't be quick enough. He misted through the air, materializing in front of the redhead in time for the spell to blast him into Ron, knocking them both down. Ron sent an unexpected strangling curse as he fell, hitting the wizard in the chest.  

“You bloody pompous arse,” Ron scolded. 

“Save it, Weasley, Draco choked out, standing shakily. Get the wizard out of here and bound with the others.”  

He needed a healer—fast. But first he needed to kill the flames before they destroyed evidence.  

Footsteps sounded behind him as he splashed Aguamenti across the structure. “I know you're a git, Weasley, but you're supposed to be—” 

“I-it's m-m-me,” Isolt trembled. 

Draco turned to see graying black hair and long, crooked fingers holding a cracked wand to Isolt's throat. “It's been a while, Flint,” Draco drawled, kicking himself for forgetting about the third magical signature.  

“Give me your wand, traitor, and I'll give you the witch!” Marcus Flint offered, pressing his own wand harder into her throat.  

“I can't do that, Flint.” He poised his wand, ready to attack.  

Isolt, he said using Legilimency. Will you trust me?  

She nodded her head only slightly. It was enough. Draco blasted the far wall, sending glass and stone flying at the duo. Flint pushed himself away from Isolt, clumsily dropping his wand as he threw her to the floor. Draco lunged for her, blocking a long shard of wood Flint had tried to plunge at her. The spear skewered his arm, but Draco managed to push the opposite end into Flint's abdomen in the same movement, and he fell to the ground.  

“Th-the others are stunned,” Isolt said, still shaking.  

“Fuck.”  

Draco left the bleeding Flint to check the others. Two Aurors lay motionless, face down in the dirt beside their petrified charges. Their chest rose and fell with their soft breathing, the only indication Flint hadn’t outright killed them. One, however, lay further from the rest. She heaved shaking, ragged breaths beneath the splintered debris of the blasted door. Though her body trembled, convulsing in spasms of pain as she fought desperately for her life, her eyes remained alert, following Draco’s every movement as he rushed to her side. 

“Calid,” he said softly, desperately, looking over the charred, bleeding flesh of the woman.  

She blinked at him slowly—too slowly.  “H-hello—” she drew in a few ragged breaths, “—h-handsome.” 

Draco sent an emergency patronus to the DMLE before casting stabilizing charms on the witch. “Stay with me,” he ordered, feeling himself grow lightheaded as he worked.  

“Only . . . if you promise to take . . . me out . . . later.” She wheezed between words, the rattle in her chest shouting alarms at Draco. 

“Anything for you, beautiful. You want to go to dinner? Maybe the theater?” He continued his charms, slowing the blood loss and warming her chilled body enough to pour a blood replenishing potion into her mouth. 

“S-sounds lovely.” She closed her eyes, a soft smile on her face.  

“Calid?” Draco panicked. “Calid, you have to stay with me for a date!” 

Nothing. 

“Damn it, Calid!” He pulled up her diagnostics, finding the deep burgundy warnings alarming.  

She had stopped breathing. Her chest no longer shook with the strain of her damaged lungs; it no longer rattled as she sucked in air. Quickly, he rolled her head back and placed his mouth over hers, pushing air into her lungs from his own before pushing rhythmically on her chest. He got three rounds in before the cottage behind him blasted apart. Draco turned to see Flint standing in the doorway, Fiendfyre flaring from his wand.  

“WE'D RATHER DIE THAN LET A BLOOD TRAITOR LIKE YOU WIN!” Marcus shouted before directing the uncontrollable flames toward them. 

Draco looked around at the unconscious witches and wizards around him, death eaters and Aurors alike, before turning to the small witch who had remained close on his heels. 

“Isolt, keep doing muggle CPR until the healers arrive,” he ordered. 

“What are you—” 

“Protego Momentum!” a shield erupted around the group of Aurors and dark wizards before shuffling and sliding them all away from the cottage and far away from the flames now swarming around him. 

Draco felt the sweat rolling down his face. He felt the heat melting his robes into his skin and the peeling, blistering and bubbling of his flesh as he approached Flint through the thickening smoke. There was only one way to end an uncontrolled Fiendfyre.  

The green light shot from his wand without a second thought, but as Marcus fell to the ground, Draco soon followed. The fire had spread too much around him. His final sight before he succumbed to his injuries was the flash of Aurors as they landed around the perimeter of the wards. 

Chapter Text

The waiting room felt cold and uninviting. Portraits of mediwizards bustled through, rarely lingering in one spot for long. She had gleaned far too much information from their gossiping and had since tuned them out, only listening for talk of “That Malfoy Boy”.  

Hermione had been allowed to visit after his first round of procedures with Ron and Harry. He had been magically sleeping; his body wrapped in gauze seeped in now dried blood. The healers assured her his body would be healed by that evening, but uncertainty gnawed on her the longer she stared at him in the narrow bed. So, she left a small vase of fresh lavender and ducked out to wait for word of recovery, allowing the onslaught of more important friends and family to sit with him.  

Theo and Pansy stopped to talk with her for a few minutes, offering kind words—though they both managed to inform her she looked awful. In their defense, she felt awful too. Chills had overtaken her. Food wasn't appetizing and the migraine she had started the week with now felt like an old friend.  

“Hermione?” A soft, dreamy voice called to her from the door to the medical rooms.  

“Luna!” She jumped from the stiff waiting chair, nearly knocking it over. Swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat, she asked, “Is he awake?”  

“Yes,” she replied with her soft smile.   

Luna's hair had grown considerably since Hogwarts, now cascading in long white waves down past her back. Her narrow shoulders barely fit the white Healer's robes she wore, providing a baggy contrast to the tight material hugging her now very curvy hips. Though she still worked with her father's magazine in her spare time, she had gone into healing after the war, providing interesting insight into the small, invisible, and possibly imaginary beings plaguing those knocking on death's door. Hermione had long since stopped teasing her, after she had somehow warded off not only Lavender's death at the hands of Greyback, but also lured Fred back to the light. George had nearly made her primary shareholder of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.  

“He woke up just a few minutes ago. Would you like to see him?”  

Hermione thought for a moment, taking a step back from her friend. Draco's presence in her life felt new. They weren't exactly friends, and she wasn't entirely sure why she was there in the first place. Certainly, there would be others more deserving of the bedside space than her.   

“No, thank you.” She felt something in her chest sink low, dragging her mood with it and leaving only the unburdened relief. “How is he?”  

“He's doing remarkably well. His burns are nearly healed, but some of the deeper cuts are being quite stubborn.” She watched Hermione as she chewed a too-short thumb nail. “He asked about you.”  

“Me?!”  

“Oh yes. Nearly his first words. He liked the bouquet. I think he was a bit disappointed you weren't there holding them when he woke up, though. He was a bit frustrated with Ron and Harry with no Hermione.”  

“You must be mistaken, Luna. He wouldn't have expected me to be there.”  

“No . . . But I think he was disappointed to leave you behind in his dream, to wake up without you.”  

Hermione waved her off. Luna was typically full of delusional thinking, whether she was a great healer or not. “Thank you for updating me, Luna. I should be heading back.”  

“It was my pleasure, Hermione. I'll tell Draco you left to get some rest. Which, you should rest, Hermione.” Luna eyed her carefully, making her squirm. She always seemed to see more than she let on. “You look quite terrible. I see wrackspurts buzzing around your ears. They must be waiting to feed on your dreams. Don't let them, Hermione, or you'll never be rid of them.”  

Luna walked back through the door to the emergency wards.   

“A bit nutty, she is,” a new voice said from next to her, making her jump.  

“Astoria!” she breathed in shock as the beautiful witch outstretched her hand.   

Long, slender fingers adorned with gemstones of various colors and nails so perfectly manicured, Hermione was sure she could cut glass with them, wrapped gracefully into her own.  

“I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting officially. I am Astoria Greengrass. My sister, Daphne, should be along shortly. She's a bit nervous to have both Ronald and Theodore in the same room.” Astoria flipped her long, silky blonde hair behind her shoulder, showing off the perfectly perky breasts she had primly on display in a set of sapphire blue robes that likely cost more than Hermione's monthly salary.   

“Hermione,” she introduced, forcing a polite smile onto her lips, though every muscle in her shoulders tensed. She refrained from touching her own frizzy hair piled atop her head or glancing down at her rumpled muggle clothes. She continued, “I remember Daphne from school. You were a bit younger though, I believe?”  

“Yes. But don't let that fool you, I've always been the mature one. While I've already entered into negotiations, Daph is too busy rutting around with two men who will likely never settle down. Oh well, that's what I'm here for, I suppose. Thank Merlin Draco didn't turn himself into a vegetable during that horrid mission. I'd hate to enter a contract with anyone else.”  

The way Astoria held herself reminded Hermione greatly of Narcissa, and the way she would fit in perfectly as a Malfoy left a bitter taste in her mouth.   

Shuffling back and forth on her feet uncomfortably, she said, “Yes, well, who would want to contract themselves to someone they didn't care for.”  

“Precisely! And Draco is so giving. And determined. When he sees something, he wants, it's nearly impossible to talk him out of it! Not that I try too hard.” Astoria winked at Hermione, as if she were in on the joke. “But when he has you backed against a wall and has just been reaming you for hours, almost like he enjoys your torment, then flips and suddenly it's all about pleasing you ! I understand why everyone calls him a dragon. Quite a negotiator.”  

“I really don't need the details, Astoria—”  

“Nonsense. Please, call me Story. Everyone else does. And the sheer size of his—”  

“I'm so sorry, Astoria, but I was just heading out. Luna just told me he woke up, and I'm sure he can't wait to see you.”   

Or have you backed against a wall again, she thought.  

“Story,” she corrected politely. “And you're right. I should get in there. It was lovely to officially meet you, Hermione. Please don't be a stranger!” Astoria walked off, a pretentious smirk across her face as she waved goodbye behind her.   

 *     *     *

Hermione pulled her work from the day out and onto the desk in her home office. Tilly had dinner waiting for her, magically charmed keep warm in the silver dish, yet Hermione found her appetite missing and the food remained untouched. With the day spent worrying about her Auror, she had fallen behind in her ministry work, having only accomplished sending off Pansy's letter of recommendation and a few correspondences with troubled werewolves throughout the week. So, she worked into the night, compiling a little of all possible arguments she may face with the Wizengamot and school boards when she presents her case. She ignored her drooping eyes, writing in scribbles until eventually her head sagged into the desk, her exhaustion winning.  

Come morning, Hermione realized with perfect clarity that she was sick, finally admitting to herself that the chills and body aches she had been plagued with all week had been the start of a flu. However, she had a potion to work on and a deadline to do it, so she twisted her hair into a knot around her wand, dressed in more layers than necessary and flooed to her university lab without alerting the hovering stand-in, McLaggen.   

The familiarity of her lab office comforted her. The warmth of the greenhouse with the lingering fragrance of herbs and vines, of leafy little tendrils growing in artificial rain welcomed her and immediately cleared the stagnant fuzz that had bogged her down in the sterile hospital. It would have been the perfect working environment, had it not been for the broad, blonde wizard sitting in a dimly lit corner, scaring her out of her skin as he greeted gruffly.   

“Hello, Granger. I thought I’d find you here.”  

He. Looked. Livid.  

The potion ran down Draco's throat with a chill that spread across his entire body, soothing the bandaged scar tissue wrinkled over him like the skin of smoked chicken legs. The healer had assured him the scarring would be nearly nonexistent by Sunday, though Blaise has been known to be wrong before.   

As his healer, Blaise had scolded Draco the moment he began to discharge himself in the early hours of Saturday. As his friend, he brought him fresh clothes and his potion regimen stocked through the weekend.   

Hermione's office felt like a welcoming embrace. The softly sweet scent of her lingered along every piece of furniture, reminding him why he pulled himself from the comfort of St. Mungo’s to work. Time ticked by and Hermione hadn't arrived—though he knew better than to assume she'd stay home. His friends had informed him she had been one of the first to the hospital and stayed until he woke enough to ask for her.   

He was, unfortunately, greeted by Astoria instead.  

Hermione's office floo flared to life and he watched as she passed through the green flames. Normally he would be thinking how he loved her in green and wished he could see her in the shade more, but today he couldn't get past the itching consuming each of his pores and the fact that Granger looked like she may faint at any moment. When she finally noticed him, the shriek that escaped her throat sent a small thrill through him. Though, not enough of a thrill to make him forget she had broken her side of the contract.   

Again.    

“Hello, Granger. I thought I'd find you here.” He tipped his arms behind his head and stretched his legs, giving an air of nonchalance that certainly masked the storm brewing inside.  

“Malfoy!” she breathed. “What in God's name are you doing here?”  

“It's part of our agreement. I'm allowed to protect you here. Yet, you always forget to mention you'll be here. Fool me once, Granger.”  

“ You should be at St. Mungo's! Resting! You look like shit. Your cuts are practically bleeding on my books—did Blaise release you?!” She grew faint from her rant, but continued, “I swear on Merlin if that numpty released you before you were fit, I will file a complaint with the—”  

“Settle, Granger. I’ve been cleared. Besides, have you looked in the mirror, Granger? You look as if you'll fall over with the slightest breeze. Fillian keep you up too late this week? Or did McLaggen finally settle his score from sixth?”  

Hermione's eyes lit up, sending a thrill through him. “You had McLaggen assigned on purpose, you prat!”  

“I assure you, Granger, it was an unhappy accident!” He stood, ignoring the bitter ache through his back.  

“That vile excuse for an Auror practically followed me like a shadow!”  

“So he did his job?” Draco hadn't noticed he had stepped toward her and now stood merely a foot away, towering over her as she straightened her back to make up the height difference. The flickering embers in her eyes dimmed and he knew whatever came next from Hermione's mouth was going to piss him off more than when Harry first told him the slimy Auror had been the only available Auror to guard Hermione.  

Damn it, Boot, he cursed his coworker for the sudden illness.  

“It's not his job to follow me into the bathroom, corner me in my office or stalk me back to my home! I found him in my bedroom once! Said your elf let him in!”  

Draco’s fists clenched at his side as he pictured the pompous prick in Hermione’s house, likely sifting through her drawers.  

“Don't drag Tilly into this,” he said instead of siding with the witch. “She is nothing but—” he growled, but Hermione cut him off.  

“I would never! Tilly has been wonderfully polite and made an honest mistake!”  

“Good! Why didn't you take up a complaint with Potter?!”   

He was inches away now. The sweet scent of her wafted through his nostrils, the slight spearmint of her toothpaste making his mouth water for a taste. It was increasingly difficult to stay frustrated with her—even more so when the last embers of her eyes burnt out, leaving behind the dull coal in the washed-out sea of her freckles.  

“I was going to, but then Ron said you were at St. Mungo's,” she whispered.        

“Why did you care?” The question slipped from his lips. He didn't want the answer he knew was on hers.  

“I don't know,” she said.  

It pulled him to the present, even if it was a sore disappointment. “Right. Well, I'm fine. And McLaggen will be taken care of.”  

“Fine.” She stepped away, practically falling into her office chair. Draco did the same, sinking slowly into the spare.   

Draco couldn't keep his eyes off her—not that he tried very hard. Her hand scribbled quickly over a notebook of lined parchment; a spelled quill raced in time beside her taking secondary notes—maybe arithmancy? He'd snoop later. All the while small curls sprang free from her wand-knot and fell elegantly over her face.   

And into her eyes.  

Her eyes that drooped, closed and shuttered as her head bobbed gently, threatening to come crashing into her desk. Watching her work reminded him of Hogwarts. If he had spent half the amount of time listening to his professors as he did watching her listen to their professors, he may have actually been head of their class. Instead, he had studied the way she wrote, how her face scrunched when she focused, and how he knew when she had stayed too long in the library the night before or gone on one too many adventures with Potter by the way her head would dip carefully to the desk.   

Once, and only once, he stumbled across her actually sleeping in an empty classroom between classes. Theo had caught him watching her. If it had been anyone else, he would have had to put on a front, taunt her, or worse—but Theo was different. He let him wonder what life could have been like. And he let him cast a small fluttering bird to wake her after he had crept away to class.   

She was similarly exhausted now. And feverish, by the looks of the dewy pale skin stretched across her forehead and enough layers to safely tame a dragon. So, he sent a small bird, a little golden sparrow, to flutter about her desk to stir her.  

The little friend twirled around her face, swooping through her hair and overall doing all the things Draco had longed to do over the years.   

“Hello,” Hermione cooed to the little magical glimmer, unaware of Draco as he crowded behind her. A ringlet had fallen loose from her bun and he couldn't stop the urge to touch it. Gently, avoiding any caress of her smooth skin, he pulled the strand away from her eyes and tucked it carefully behind her ear. It was softer than he had imagined—coarse, but smooth.  

He felt entirely too close to her, and utterly too far away. He did the only sane thing he could think of. He leaned even closer and knew she had frozen. Was she breathing?     

Channeling his intensity, he breathed slowly, letting his breath trail slowly across her neck as he growled, “Go home, Granger. You need rest.”  

“I need to finish this equation so I can do the next step of the potion by noon!” she argued shakily, the heat of a fever radiating from her.  

“By noon?!” he scoffed, pulling away. “It's past eleven now!”  

Her eyes widened in horror. “What?! How! Oh no . . . Shit!”   

“What's the issue, Granger? Go home, get some rest and come back on Monday. I'm sure you'll figure it out in no time when you're not dying over your desk.”  

“No, I need the equation done by noon! The next step—the seeds and stems—have to be added at precisely that time! But I can't work out how much I need!”   

Draco noted how she had gone breathless, taking on gulps of air between sentences. The more she spoke, the harder her breathing became. “My brain is just—it's not—”  

“Easy, Granger,” Draco warned warmly. “Fine. Since you begged, I'll take a look at your equations.”  

“I did no such thing!” she shrieked. He wondered what other sounds he could pull from her, given an opportunity. “And you will not! You'll screw it up!”  

Draco peered at her work. “No worse than you already have,” he laughed. “There is no world in which this turns out to be eleven grams. And does that say you boiled nearly thirty grams of the leaves? That’s entirely overkill. You’ll have prepped leaves for enough potion for all of Hogwarts!”  

Hermione scanned back over her notes and algorithms. “Fuck,” she hissed. “I don't have time to redo it!”  

Tears threatened her lower lashes. She should be resting—but a nagging voice was telling him this potion, though important to the wizarding world, was even more so to her.   

He cast a quick diagnostic over her. “You have pneumonia, Granger. With a fever. You're dehydrated. You need rest.”  

“I've already told you, I'm not leaving until I've done this!”  

“Fine. Let me sort out the equation.”  

“Absolutely not!”  

“The only reason I came in second at Hogwarts was because a swotty know-it-all happened to be born in the same time frame as me. I can figure the arithmancy just as well as you can—possibly better, given the mushy state your brain's in at the moment.”  

He watched the thoughts cross through her mind and felt his agitation grow. For someone on a deadline, she liked to drag it out.   

“Fine,” she agreed begrudgingly.   

“Ask me nicely.”  

“What?! You just argued—”  

“You've been quite rude. Ask me nicely to help.”  

She clenched her teeth together and ground out, “Malfoy, will you help me—”  

“Please.”  

The look she gave him would have sent lesser men to their graves.   

“Malfoy. Will. You. Please . Help me fix my arithmancy.”  

“Yes, of course! It would be my honor to fix your blunders. Go make tea—”  

“Don't tell me what to do!”  

“Go. Make. Tea! And then sit your arse over in the spare and I'll have you working on your potion in fifteen!” He watched her sway to the kettle, preparing himself to catch her should she stumble. When she finally pulled her wand from her hair to warm the water, he mumbled “stubborn bint,” under his breath, not entirely unkindly, and set to work fixing her arithmancy.   

Chapter Text

“Granger,” Draco called quietly ten minutes later. Hermione had fallen asleep nearly before she sat down with her untouched tea.  

“Hmm?” she mumbled, barely stirring under the blanket he had levitated over her.  

Draco reached out to tuck her loose curls back, stopping himself midway and clenching his fingers into a tight fist.  

“Granger,” he called again, more sternly. “The calculations are finished. It's time for the potion.” He checked her diagnostics again, finding her fever had spiked higher. “Let's get this done and get you home.” 

“Alright,” she mumbled, forcing herself to stand.  

The moment she straightened her back she began to wobble. Draco reached toward her without thinking, bracing her and savoring the warmth. Now that he had her, it felt too difficult to let her go. So, with one hand firmly on her lower back and the other grasped in her own, he led her out to the too-bright sun of the main lab where her potion brewed steadily.  

“How much?” she asked. 

“Of what?” He felt thoroughly distracted by her still holding his hand.  

Why hadn't she let go? Slapped him? Yelled at him for being overbearing? Why was she— 

“Of the—of the stuff!” she snapped, yanking her hand away in frustration. 

There it is, he thought.  

“You need twenty grams of the root, only 0.25 grams of the leaves.” 

“Thats it?” 

Draco nodded as she began pulling the root from its jar and piling it onto a muggle digital scale.  

“Don't forget to tare it,” he said helpfully, which Hermione took as very unhelpful and pompous by the scathing look on her face.  

“Why would I forget to—” her face relaxed as she realized her mistake. “Shoot. Thank you, Malfoy.” 

“Also, you may want to weigh after you crush it.” 

“Mhm. Yes. That's a good idea.” She set to work crushing the greenery with a mortar and postal.  

“You're very agreeable when you're ill.” 

“Am not.” 

“Agreeable or ill?” 

“Both. Why would I agree with you?” she asked with a smile, piling the crushed root on a zeroed scale. 

“Because I was better at potions than you.”  

He still felt entirely too close as he watched her movements over her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her shampoo captured in her thick hair. If she turned even slightly her hip would brush against him. He backed up half an inch. 

“You were not! I was making Polyjuice when I was twelve! ” 

“Ah, yes. Is that how you turned into the cat from Zabini's nightmares?” he teased. 

“There was—I didn't know—ugh!” she sputtered, her face flushing pink. 

“It's okay Granger, you gave all of us Slytherins a good laugh. And if you ever tried that Polyjuice again, I'm sure even Zabini wouldn't mind watching you crawl around on all fours now,” he spurred, his voice turning gravely as he spoke, though he was kicking himself for the words that had escaped.  

Hermione stilled.  

“What's Wrong? Weasley never leashed you up and told you what a good pet you are?”  

Oh Salazar, why was he still talking.  

Yet, if he wasn't mistaken, he felt the slightest shift in her hips as she pressed her thighs together. “It isn't funny, you prat! I spent a lot of time in the infirmary that year!” 

Draco slid his hand over hers, carefully taking over potion making. “I know. Who did you think brought you your assignments?” 

She thought for a moment. “Ron and Harry,” she admitted, pulling a chuckle from Draco's chest. 

“As if they could even keep track of their own assignments!” he added the perfectly measured root to the potion before starting on the leaves. “No, as second, they sent your assignments with me. I waited until you were taking your afternoon cat nap to deliver them.” 

He expected a slap. A laugh. An insult—anything other than the crestfallen look taking shape on her face.  

“Why?” she asked shakily. “You wanted me dead?”  

Fuck.   

Tears ran down her cheeks. “I would have been devastated if I no longer had our rivalry,” he said lightly, turning away from her as she wiped the moisture away. “What would have been the point in returning to school if I didn't have a Gryffindor swot constantly outranking me? I probably would have turned out as lazy as Potter.” 

Hermione laughed. A wet sound that fluttered through his chest. He had forced a lot of sounds from her, but he had never made her laugh. He wondered again what other wonderful sounds he could cause. 

Draco finished the potion as Hermione instructed, the latter being far too delirious to properly execute potioneering. When the crucial steps were finally completed, and she was only partially awake in a nearby lab chair, Draco tidied the lab, put the stasis back on the potion, and lifted the small woman in his arms to floo her home. 

The wind whipped and howled through the castle, blending seamlessly with the screams echoing down from the upper tower. She knew what she would find, yet her feet carried her further and further forward, up and up to the final, creaking staircase of the astronomy tower.  

Six death eaters formed a half circle against the far pillars before the open night sky. The clear, brilliant moon lit them with a clarity she could only describe as iridescent. It would be utterly beautiful, if it were not for the four hanging bodies, swaying gently in the breeze.  

A scream escaped her lips, one unheard by her ears but was known by the raging burn through her throat as it escaped.   

Her mom.  

Her dad.  

Harry.  

Ginny.  

Each lined up and on display. Her family - those she was born with, and the siblings she had found along the way. Before them a figure slouched dramatically to the floor. Cloaked and familiar. A mask like the others, but she knew this one. She knew his slender frame, his lean, muscled torso. She even knew the silver plastered to his face.   

A long dagger protruded from Draco's death eater clad body. He fell to his knees, staring up at the wild black hair of his snarling aunt.  

“YOU BETRAY US TO PROTECT THIS FILTH?!” She screamed at him. He was no older than sixteen as he collapsed into the ruby puddle.  

“NOO!” Hermione screamed for the boy she knew; for the boy who's bright, wonderful future had been snatched before her eyes.   

She lunged for them—toward all of them, her wand at the ready, fully prepared to burn them all to ash, but two sturdy hands clasped her by the shoulders. She kicked, and screamed to no avail, his hands only gripping harder.  

“Granger!” the man said firmly.   

She kicked harder and he grabbed her face, directing it to his own. His silver eyes stared into hers.   

She knew those eyes. But how? How could they be looking at her when they remained in the boy lying dead?  

“Hermione!” the man plead again, and she stopped fighting.   

A dream. Another dream, she realized.   

“I'm stuck,” she cried. “They're dead, and I'm stuck.”  

The man—Draco, she realized—pulled her closely to his body. His warmth seemed unreal compared to the frozen night. His free arm wrapped around her tightly, pressing her securely into his chest as he waved his wand.   

Blue and purple swirled around them before jutting out into brilliant, sparkling spikes, spearing each remaining death eater through the heart. As the magic burst away in a glittering storm, each body fell to the stone floor. Draco waved his wand again, gently this time, and the tower faded away to inky black. Before the last stone was gone, she felt her own eyes droop, her body going slack against Draco's hard form.  

*     *     *

The living room came into focus slowly as Hermione opened her eyes. A wonderful aroma of something cooking on her stove hit her as she found Draco kneeling over her on her couch. Her one hand felt hot and the urge to lean her face toward Draco's fingers that hovered near her hair was overpowering. He flinched away briefly as she pushed her head into his hand, but as she settled, she felt herself relax, coming down from the nightmare that he had pulled her from. 

“How?” she asked quietly. 

“Legilimency,” he answered apologetically. His eyebrows pushed together in worry. If it weren't for the gentle stroke of his thumb against her cheek, he would almost look annoyed. “I didn't mean to. I fell asleep waiting for the soup to finish and I must have slipped in. I'm sorry.” 

Hermione pictured him, sitting on the soft blue rug with his back propped against the sofa where she lay, dozing off only to find her constant hellscape. She could have explained she takes a dreamless sleep daily. She could have thanked him for bringing her home, or for dragging her out of her nightmare; for staying with her or even for not pulling away when she leaned against him.  

Instead, she simply asked, “Soup?” 

“Yes, Granger. Soup. Chicken Noodle, if you need specifics. It's a hot broth, typically filled with vegetables, egg noodles and meat from the feathered birds that scream in the morning,” he said dryly. 

“Is Tilly here?” 

“No, Granger. I am making the soup. I had an alarm set before my nap. I did just get out of St. Mungo’s.” 

“Yes . . .” She closed her eyes and laid her head back down on the couch, away from his hand that simply followed after to feel her forehead. The world had started spinning. “What would the world think if they found out Draco Malfoy, playboy extraordinaire, pureblood Prince of Slytherin, was cooking soup for Potter's mudblood?” 

Draco flinched at the slur, but returned to his duties, casting another diagnostic over her. “Your fever has spiked even higher. I think I should have a tonic with me. I already have one for the pneumonia brewing and now that you're awake I can start on the healing charms.” 

“Potion!” Hermione shrieked, jumping up from the couch only for gravity to pull her back down. 

“I followed all your steps, Granger. Your potion is taken care of,” he insisted, releasing the hand she hadn't realized he had been holding. It suddenly felt cold without it. 

“How do you know so much about healing?” she asked, watching him mix the tonics into a small flask for her to drink. 

“The same way I know about most things,” he said self-assuredly—she found his confidence irritatingly attractive. “By studying. And practice. I took extra healer courses during my Auror training.” 

Draco helped her into a sitting position before handing the potions over and retreating in search for bowls and spoons. The tonics tasted like rotting fruit with a nauseating aftertaste of brine, but the persisting chill that had haunted her all week immediately released its grip. He quietly handed a streaming bowl to her, a towel draped beneath, and took a seat in the comfortable chair to her left.  

“Maybe you missed your calling as a healer,” she complimented. “Or even a potions master, considering the day.” 

Draco smirked and Hermione couldn't decide if it made her want to smile or throw her soup at him.  

“Yes, but then who would make you soup?” 

She smiled and took a sip of the broth, following it up with a large spoonful. It may have been the best soup she'd ever had. “Do you make soup for all your assets?” 

His eyes roved over her, darkening slightly. A blush heated her cheeks. “Only the ones threatening death by negligence.” 

“It's not negligence!” 

“Ignorance?” 

“I resent that.” 

“Stubbornness?” 

“I am not stubborn” she said with a mouthful of soup.  

“You're joking,” he sneered.  “You're the most stubborn witch I've ever met.” She slurped the rest of her broth. “Careful, you're eating like Weasley.” 

“Eat with Ron a lot, do you?” 

“I made the mistake of offering to pay at a pub once. I think he ordered three baskets of chips before his actual meal came.” 

Hermione pictured it: Draco, Ron, and Harry out to eat as if childhood rivalries never existed. Then it morphed and the Aurors were joined by Ginny, Lavender, and Astoria. There was so little room for her even in her own daydreams.  

“I'm glad it isn't Ron babysitting me,” she admitted.  

“Of course you are, Granger. I'm much nicer to look at.”  

The laugh burst out of her chest unbidden. Draco stood and took the empty dishes to the sink before pulling the sponge from its cup.  

“I don't think Ron would have made me soup . . .” 

“Weasley's a twit who doesn't know how to care for things when he has them,” Draco snapped as he hand-washed the bowls. 

Hermione watched him in wonder. Making soup by hand, washing dishes the muggle way—and now, her traitor of a cat danced between his legs, rubbing affectionately against his trousers. Her eyes had already grown heavy. Without the fever or ache in her belly, her body reminded her that it needed rest.  

“Go back to sleep, Hermione,” she heard Draco mutter. “I'll find you if you get stuck again. I'll always find you.” 

Hermione writhed around the floor, her screams puncturing every corner of the room. A decaying stack of bodies lay rotten against the far wall of the drawing room, no doubt part of the nightmare she had conjured. Bellatrix sat beside her, carving obscenities into her flesh while Greyback salivated against the other arm.  

He hated Greyback—had always hated him, but the images the monster had conjured while Hermione was nearly in his clutches created a burning rage he would never be willing to choke out. It was the first time he realized he could kill—that he was capable of meaning the killing curse.   

Which is why it was so easy to lift his wand and send him into an eternal Hell. Dream or not.   

He hadn't even noticed his gloved hand when he intruded into her dream. But now he found the silver mask against his face a heavy burden, his thick robes he had vowed never again to wear (though, he had already broken that vow once recently), and the too-thick dragon leather gloves that gripped his wand.   

Bellatrix was screaming, shrieking and wailing at him—cursing him for his betrayal. He couldn't quite find it in himself to care as he silenced her. Hermione was sobbing, sprawled across the floor. Her clothes shredded, her body bloody and every muscle tensing and relaxing as she convulsed.  

“Y-you came,” she sputtered.  

“I said I would.” He lowered himself next to her and pulled her into his lap before casting the waking charm to end the dream.  

*     *     *

Hermione was covered in sweat. Her fever had broken while they slept—or it could have been from the hellscape he had just pulled her from. Tears flowed from her eyes and mingled with the salty damp across her cheeks. It was all he could do not to wipe them away.  

“Have nightmares often, Granger?” he asked, his voice low and rough with sleep as he swallowed the million difference assurances he wished to give her.  

“I take dreamless sleep,” she explained.  

“But you couldn't with the fever tonic,” he surmised. “How long?” 

She thought for a moment, lingering on her answer. “Fifth year. After the Department of Mysteries.” 

“Fifth year?!” he sputtered angrily. “The side effects alone from prolonged Dreamless Sleep use could kill you! Anemia, delusional paranoia, decrease in bone density—fuck, Granger, every night?” 

“Mostly.”  

Resigned. She had resigned herself to the side effects because they were better than the alternative.  

“Dolohov's curse should have killed me,” she mumbled.  

It sounded like a regret on her lips, as if all would be right in the world if only she had died that night. As if anything could be right if she had died! 

“Well, it's bloody good it didn't or else we'd all be under Voldemort's thumb waiting on the other two-thirds to finish finding the horcruxes. Hell, they probably would have perished trying to survive the bloody camping trip!” 

She was quiet for a moment, taking in the darkness that had fallen since their soup. “How long was I asleep?” 

“It's nearly one-thirty, so all afternoon and well into the night. Your cat's been keeping me company.” 

“You didn't have to stay.”  

She had said it so quietly Draco nearly didn't hear. His own friends had been many things over the years—vindictive, conniving, and sometimes cruel, to name some of their lesser qualities—but they had never been known to abandon their own.  

“If I had gone, who would have kept you from marching your stubborn arse back to lab first thing? No, you can't fool me, Granger,” he sneered, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, catching an unfamiliar look passing over Hermione's eyes. “I shan't leave until you're healed. I'm a perfectionist, after all.” Draco stood and wandered into the kitchen to find the kettle. “If you kick me out, I hear there's a lovely bench in the park across the street.” 

“Crookshanks tell you that?” 

Shit. He shouldn't have said that.  

“Maybe. Does he visit the park bench often to make friends?”  

He should not have said that, either. 

“Yes, actually. There’s a stray dog that visits. I haven't seen him in a few days though . . .” 

“You sound worried,” he said, a strange hopeful twinge running through him. 

“A bit. With the change in the weather, I hope he found his way home.” 

Draco turned sharply and winced. He really had left the hospital far too early, but it reminded him too much of the days spent visiting those dead or dying after the war. To know that there was one other now fighting for her life in one of the very same beds felt too much to bear. Granger's incessant need to overwork herself had been an added worry—and a welcome excuse. 

“I’m sure he's someplace warm, being doted on by a kind witch and wishing he had been by her side all along.” He hoped his words weren't too transparent, but as she stared out the dark window, his wish mingled with a bit of disappointment. “Tea?” he asked, obtaining a general sound of agreement before bringing over two steaming mugs. “Since we're up, why don't we go through some more possible suspects.” 

“Fine. Another year?” 

“That sounds organized. Second?” 

“Let's see, second year wizards who I've pissed off . . . There's you, of course. And the rest of our Slytherin friends. Crabbe and Goyle, Milicent Bulstrode, I think Marcus Flint disliked me quite a bit that year, too.” 

“Yes, he did. But Goyle and Flint were apprehended during our raid.” 

“You're joking?” 

“Nope.” 

“I'm sorry, Malfoy, I know—” 

Draco cut her off. He hadn't been friends with the two for years, and pity from Hermione over men that wanted her dead—or worse—only served to piss him off. “Don't be. Please,” he requested for her to continue. 

“Well, Lockhart probably grew quite tired of me, but he's still suffering from his own memory charms.” 

“Weren't you one of his fans?” 

“Oh, yes,” she said, a blush creeping into her cheeks to Draco's utter delight. “But when I was petrified and the others forced him into the tunnels to get to the chamber of secrets and he tried obliviating two twelve-year-olds, I quickly got over that, thank goodness.” 

She sipped her tea, her eyes roving over what he knew were the fading scars from his trip to Ireland. Did she care? Was that worry he detected faintly in the sleep-deprived chasms that stripped him bare?  

“I spent a lot of time that year in the hospital wing, so I don't know if I had too much of a chance to irritate anyone other than the obvious. Maybe your father, that was the first year I had become . . . acquainted, with him.” 

“Yes. That was after the summer he realized his son had been writing home for the last year about a muggleborn witch that not only was becoming a distraction, but also beating the Malfoy heir in nearly every subject.” His chest ached as he thought about his next admission—of the rift it would surely cause. “I think he had hoped you'd be the basilisk's victim, simply to spare his pureblood legacy the humiliation.” 

“Yes. That was the first time you called me a mudblood,” she reminisced, no hint of calloused resentment in her tone. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why she didn't loathe him. 

“I hated the taste of it the moment it came from my mouth,” he admitted so quietly it felt as if his words had been eaten by the quietude of the flat. “I had just learned its meaning and had spent the entire summer listening to grown men, men I admired at the time, describe you as such without fully understanding the weight of the word. Not until I seen your face and Weasley's complete disgust with me. None of it matched how I felt about myself.” 

Draco's confession was met with the soft reverberation of sleep. She had drifted off, once again with a nearly untouched mug in her hand. So, he watched her. He watched her chest rise and fall peacefully, watched her lips part slightly, and memorized the planes of her face before lifting her from the sofa and carrying her to bed, ready to tuck her into the plush bedding she had meticulously chosen for her bedroom. 

Draco spent the remainder of the night leisurely guiding her dreams towards meadows and libraries, to yule dances and snowball fights, and absolutely anywhere away from the horrors that had haunted her for a decade.  

Chapter Text

Fillian.  

Fillian.  

Fillian.  

Draco—no, Fillian!  

Hermione's mind followed a similar pattern throughout all of Sunday, flipping through thoughts of her impending date with the man who actually has an interest in her, and the man who had simply gone from a pompous prat to a kind, intelligent, sexy—not sexy!   

It's Malfoy! she thought. 

But he had grown since Hogwarts. And his shoulders had filled out, and his arms—oh, god, she almost forgot about his arms. She could nearly still feel them wrapped around her, carrying her, caressing her gently as she woke . . .  

Fillian! Fillian! Fillian!  

Nope. It wasn't working. Her mantra for the man she was supposed to be on a date with at this very moment (if she hadn't canceled due to a promise to Draco that she would rest) was not having its intended effect.  

“What do I do, Crooks?” she pathetically asked her cat, who was perched at the windowsill watching the stray dog as it sat diligently watching the street. “Oh, he's back. Poor guy, I really had hoped he'd found a home.” 

The cat meowed at her condescendingly.  

“No need for attitude!” she scolded, her hands finding her hips. “I'm not the one who threw him out!”  

Crookshanks stared at her with judgment. 

The rest of her Sunday went similarly. When Monday came around, she had finally stopped thinking of Draco, instead turning to the work she needed to finish—primarily the remainder of the werewolf rights case, since the Centaur amendments were finished and voted into effect without trial the previous week. She happily entered the ministry, feeling more rested than she had in years. The soft taps of her heels on the shining black tile felt like a balm to the anxious nagging of her workaholic brain. The floor of her own office eased the remaining tension along her spine. All was right in the world.  

Except, it wasn't.  

Hermione stopped at the reception desk. Instead of Rose's cheerful smile and quick greeting, she was met with a man about her size, sandy brown hair, and a pinched face. 

“Patrick?” she asked in surprise. “Where's Rose?” 

“Surprise, surprise, she owled in again, so they called me up from the first-floor office to cover.” 

“Has anyone heard from her? It's not like her to call in so much . . .” 

“Call?” 

“Nevermind. Have you talked to her?” 

“No. She might have quit, for all I know.” 

“Let me know if you hear anything!” she ordered before marching down to her office. 

Patrick mumbled in return, “Will do,” then pulled open a magazine and began leafing through the gossip. 

Hermione plopped her files down on her desk. One of her pens slid from the stack and bounced to the floor, so she quickly bent over to pick it up. 

“If you had worn skirts like that at Hogwarts, you would have converted every pureblood heir into a blood traitor,” Draco's silky sneer sounded from her guest chair behind her, making her jump out of her skin. “Would've ended the war before it could even begin!” 

“Malfoy! Circe, you scared me! You can't just break into my office whenever you bloody please!” 

“Circe? I thought your family was Catholic?” 

“What?” she asked, befuddled. “I mean, they are, but why—?” 

“If you're going to swear to a false God, maybe make it one from your pantheon, then. Most wizards aren't familiar with Greek Mythology.” 

“But she was just as real as Merlin, or Godric, or Salazar!” 

“True, but because she painted herself as a goddess and her primary deed was turning men into pigs, she's not well remembered by the wizarding world.” 

Hermione had expected him to goad—to brag and sneer and make some snotty comment about knowing more than her, or about how she'd know that wizards didn't swear to Circe if she hadn't been muggleborn.  

But he didn't. It had felt . . . normal. Even Ron would sometimes slip and accidentally belittle her for something she didn't know.  

“I still don't know how that fucking skirt is ministry approved. Don't we have an HR here? Someone to keep attire workplace appropriate?” 

And the moment was ruined. “My skirt is entirely long enough, Malfoy,” she retorted, moving around the desk to sit. “Why are you even here?” 

“Your office is bigger than mine.” 

“Why are you really here?” 

“Your stalker changed tactics and sent me a letter this morning. Was kind enough to include photos. Muggle images, believe it or not.” Draco looked down to the file he was holding before saying uncomfortably, “And I wanted to be sure you were feeling better.” 

“If I still had my time turner I'd go back and tell younger me about how caring and considerate you are now! She'd likely laugh in my face at the sheer thought of you being concerned over my well-being.” She chuckled lightly but was thrown off by the contemplative look that had spread across Draco's face.  

“Time turner?” 

“Third year story for another time.” 

“How about lunch?” 

“What?”  

Was he asking her out on a date?  

“Lunch. With me. Today. There's a little bistro down the street that has somewhat secluded booths so no need to worry about the prophet making assumptions.” 

Assumptions.  

She felt like a balloon with a small leak and she didn't understand why—or, rather, she was ignoring why.  

“Okay,” she finally squeaked out. 

Fillian. Fillian. Fillian!  

“So, it's a date. I'll cancel Mippy's delivery.” 

“Don't call it that.” 

“Embarrassed by me, Granger?” He almost looked hurt. “I am London’s most eligible wizard, you know.” 

“Yes, because I helped keep you out of Azkaban!” she teased. “But no, Skeeter just has ears everywhere and has it out for me ever since she registered as an animagus. I swear that woman is a nightmare!” 

“Why since she registered?” 

“That's a story for fourth year. I'm afraid you'll have to wait.” She winked at him, suddenly wondering why she felt like flirting with Malfoy. 

Hermione found it easier than expected working side by side with Draco. Even with his neatly stacked papers crowding her own organized chaos, they scribbled and sorted in companionable silence, breaking occasionally to bounce an idea off the other or to offer an educated opinion. She was used to working through things on her own . . . this felt different.   

Heaven help her, but it even felt nice. She was sure it would feel similarly working this way with Fillian, if they saw each other enough to do so. 

By lunch she had worked through more of her werewolf case than anticipated, nearly having it fully sorted apart from Lavender's testimony and the small piece she had convinced Fillian to attribute.  

“I need to make a stop before we go to that bistro,” Hermione stated as they headed out of the ministry, passing briefly by an irritated looking McLaggen. “I'm surprised I didn't have to tell him to bugger off this morning.” 

Draco looked back to see who Hermione was talking about. “Oh, I took care of him first thing.” 

“Oh?” she said, mildly impressed and partially flattered. 

“Mhm. Never liked the fucker. Glad to have an excuse to tell him to piss off, honestly.” 

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. A smile played at the edges of her lips. “Thank you, then.” 

Draco gave her a sidelong glance. The sunlight set off the pale grey hues in his eyes and he suddenly reminded her of a glacier—so little of the icy surface was visible that the true depth of him was easily dismissed until one came crashing into him. And she, it seemed, was the Titanic. 

It was a twenty-minute walk to Rose's flat in the opposite direction of the bistro. This typically would have annoyed Draco, if it had been anyone other than Hermione Granger leading him. He had spent so much of his youth allowing himself to feel anger, and hatred and sheer disdain for the young witch to mask what his father had pushed him away from that to walk with her now, openly, and to converse freely felt like a heaven he didn't think he'd be allowed to have.  

To watch her ramble, her hands flying to the air as she examined the facts of their histories, was to fall in love. But he knew that already. He had sworn an oath as an Auror to catch, dismember, or murder dark wizards so that the light—her light that always seemed to glow around her, lighting the world, lighting her friends and lighting their future—would never be extinguished. Because she was a force. A tiny, spitfire of a force that he was pretty sure would hex him back into a ferret at any moment and stuff him inside a jar if he acted up. 

Because, let's face it, he knew most of Granger's stories from working with Potter—including her scary kidnapping of the famed reporter. But he was excited to hear her version, regardless.  

In fact, Draco wanted all the stories in her own words. From the time she met the other two thirds of the golden Trio to how they found each horcrux, and even before. He wanted the muggle birthday stories, or to know what her mum cooked for Christmas. He wanted to bask in the glory that was Hermione Granger, because at the end of it, when the stalker is caught, the resurgence stifled, they will go back to how things were. And maybe, if he was incredibly lucky, he would be able to have a piece of her to cling to. A piece of that burning brilliance, the courageous rebellion—the, dare he say it, Gryffindor charm. 

But for now, he was utterly content listening to the history of the stone sidewalks and how wizards used the Great Fire as a means of unopposed expansion. When they stopped at Rose's flat and pressed the buzzed, the vision of sunlight glinting off the golden strands woven through her chestnut hair remained swirling in his mind. 

“I've never been here before, I was worried I had gotten the wrong one for a moment,” Hermione said, breaking his trance. 

“I've been a couple times. This is certainly it.” Hermione looked up at him questioningly. Jealously? “She invites me over occasionally for parties,” he explained. “Strangely, everyone seems to cancel last minute. I learned after the first time it was a ruse.” 

Hermione buzzed her flat again. “Was this before you and Astoria entered into negotiations?” 

 “Yes, but I don't see how—” 

 A woman's voice cut him off from the sidewalk behind them. “If you're looking for Rose, I haven't seen ‘er in a few days.” 

 “She hasn't been home?” Hermione asked. 

 “No. I usually see ‘er for lunch on Sundays, but she didn't answer. Thought maybe she'd gone on vacation.” 

 “I see . . . Thank you.” The woman walked off, bouncing casually up the neighboring steps. “It's not like Rose to miss so much work.” 

 “Do you know when you seen her last?” Draco admittedly hadn't been concerned for the secretary before, but as they headed back toward the ministry and, subsequently, the bistro, he felt the tickling sensation of his detective's intuition. 

 “Last week when I sent her to see you with the files. She was going to lunch right after and was supposed to owl off a memo when she returned.” 

 “Did she?” 

 “No. She owled in. I sent the memo myself. Patrick from transportation was transferred as a temp to fill in.” 

 “Hmm. I'll talk to Harry about it after lunch. I'm sure it's nothing,” he lied. Even though she nodded in acceptance, he was sure she didn't buy it. 

*     *     *

 Draco's favorite bistro sat two blocks from the ministry. Disguised as a vacuum repair shop specializing in 1930's hoover vacuums (which very few muggles owned, coincidentally) that kept odd hours, the restaurant boasted private booths with large windows charmed with one-way views. It's food, simple French cuisine, was, in Draco's always modest opinion, some of the best you could order outside of France. Even some of the high-class establishments his mother loved to drag him to had over-complicated dishes that lured rich wizards in with the high-class price, but had flavor that fell sub-par. 

No. This was his favorite. And even if it was a platonic date, he was happy to have a chance to share it with Hermione. However, as their knees brushed against each other under the small table, the two of them secluded in a quaint corner with the sunlight filtering in over the beautiful golden rivers through her eyes and casting a warm halo around her, he began to struggle to focus on anything other than the rapid pounding in his chest. 

He may not have thought this all the way through. 

“So, I believe we've left off on third year,” Draco said casually after ordering for them in flawless French—he could admit he was maybe showing off a bit. 

“Yes. Third year. So, of course you are once again at the top of the list of people I pissed off that year,” she said with a breathy chuckle. 

“I remember it fondly. I couldn't tell if I wanted to hex you or drag you into an empty classroom and snog you until you apologized,” Draco found himself admitting, showing just enough of a smile to tint her cheeks with blush. 

“R-right,” she stammered, beginning to fidget with her napkin. “So, there's Professor Trelawney, who I never quite seen eye to eye with—” 

“Yes, I believe you stormed out from her class? Called her a fraud?” 

“She was a fraud!” 

“No, she had at least two true prophecies, from my understanding.” 

Hermione made a sound of disgust. “That doesn't mean that what she taught day-to-day wasn't rubbish!” 

“Agree to disagree, Granger.” 

“Fine. Let's see, Ron and I didn't quite get along for a bit that year.” 

“That seemed like it happened a lot,” Draco said carefully. He always assumed Ron's ability to put his foot in his mouth caused her a lot of hurt. It had bothered him many times over the years, his dismissiveness of her. 

“Yes. He could certainly be an arse. Still can, I suppose.” 

“Why didn't you get along that year?” 

“My cat tried to eat his rat,” she said matter-of-factly. “In Crookshank's defense, his rat turned out to be Peter Pettigrew! I mean, honestly, how creepy!” 

“I am completely on Crook's side there. He is an excellent judge of character.” 

“Thank you! You should tell that to Ron!” she exclaimed rather loudly as the waiter brought their food. “Ron hates my cat.” 

“Figures. Weasley hates anything that's smarter than him.” He smiled as he watched her face light up. “We can finish your list after we eat.” 

“No, if I stop now, I'll lose my place,” she said after swallowing a bite of creamy chicken. “Let's see . . . I was very busy that year, so I was a bit of a bitch to pretty much everyone. So, definitely some of the time turner committee members—not everyone agreed a thirteen-year-old should have a time travel device. I didn't get their names, though.” 

“There's probably a record somewhere. Why were you issued a time turner?” 

“To take more classes,” she said sheepishly. 

“Of course you did, you swot,” he teased. “Even if they didn't agree, why would they hold a vendetta?”  

“They probably guessed it was the reason . . . certain things happened. I suppose they wouldn't necessarily be wrong.” She took another bite, savoring the flavor.  

Draco grew irrationally jealous of the fork. 

“What things?” he asked suspiciously, putting his own fork down to focus. 

“Off the record?” she asked innocently. “I mean, the statute of limitations surely has to be up by now, and morally it was the right thing to do! Besides, as far as legality of it, we’ve done way more illegal things that were quickly forgiven!” 

Draco's interest was thoroughly peaked. “Fine. Off the record. You're speaking to Draco Malfoy, ex-death eater, accomplice to Albus Dumbledore’s death, not Draco Malfoy, redeemed Auror.” 

She contemplated him a moment, sucking thoughtfully on her teeth and certainly not drawing his attention back to her mouth. “After Sirius was captured and Remus was outed as a werewolf and nearly killed us, it was suggested that Harry and I use the time turner to right a couple wrongs . . .” 

“And what were those wrongs?” 

“Well, the first may be why Mulciber disliked me—well, more than the whole mudblood thing.” Draco felt himself flinch. “If you recall, he was Buckbeak’s executioner after your truly unjust account of his attack.” 

“Buckbeak? The hippogriff that nearly ripped my arm off?” 

“The hippogriff that scratched you,” she corrected. “So, I think it was kept pretty quiet, considering your father would hear about it ,” she teased, and he found it was his turn to feel his cheeks pinken. “But he didn't exactly make it to his execution.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Harry and I went back and freed Buckbeak before Mulciber could behead him!” 

“Fuck me,” he hissed, the white and grey beast that stared him down just the previous week rushing back to him. “But why would he be wanted?” he asked mostly himself. 

“Who's wanted?” Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion as she took another bite, wrapping her lips around the silver.  

Draco had to give himself a moment before he could remember his answer. “I just . . . There was a bloody Hippogriff at a witness's house last week. It stared at me like it wanted to eat my spleen, and I thought it looked familiar. She said it was wanted, but that didn't make any sense. If it was Buckbeak, it still doesn't!” 

“Actually . . . it does.” 

“Explain.” 

“We used Buckbeak to break Sirius out of Azkaban.” 

“You bloody fucking delinquent!” He laughed. “Salazar, Granger. I've done some bad things, but I think you've broken more laws than I have!” 

“I know I have,” she admitted slyly.  

“So, that feather brained arsehole,” Draco said after their laughter subsided, “really was the Hippogriff that attacked me?” 

“It would seem so.” 

“I should have him confiscated.” 

“You wouldn't dare!” 

“Detained. Beheaded!” 

“Draco Malfoy you take that back!” 

“Fine. Since you said please, I'll leave the beast be.” 

“I said no such thing!” 

“Well, you used my first name. That's pretty much the same thing.” He couldn't help the wink he gave her, finding immediate gratification from her freshly spread smile. 

Chapter Text

“The potion's not quite right,” Hermione explained to Draco as they walked toward the hall of records later that week. They had spent every day together, for protection of course, and had spent the previous night at the lab until late, testing the now mostly complete potion. “I had a hunch it would come to this, so I already had a specific stabilizer in mind, but basically it only retrieves fragments of a memory for a short while, eventually losing out to the charm that had been cast. Which is utterly useless for retrieving memories permanently.”  

They stopped at the ornate double doors leading to the records room—a library-esque vault with records of nearly every witch and wizard in the world.   

“What do you need?” he asked, as if he would give her the world if she requested.  

For a moment, she believed it. “I have to go to Massachusetts for a pumpkin.”  

Hermione watched the various emotions cross Draco's face as he tried to sort it out, settling firmly on dumbfounded. “We have pumpkins here , Granger.”  

“Yes, but there is a variety of pumpkin that was introduced to North America in the 1800s by a prison ship. Now, the Salem witch trials, which took place nearly 200 years prior—”  

“But those weren't real witches,” Draco argued. “That's what pushed forward a great number of Statute of Secrecy laws!”  

“True! But, those falsely accused were tossed into unmarked graves and forgotten by most of Salem. Most, except for the true witches that the whole ordeal pissed off! They were so angry that they formed a coven—which is practically unheard of, apart from fiction—and began hunting down those that had wrongfully accused others and buried them with the women—”  

“What did this have to do with pumpkins?”  

“Hush and you'll find out!” She waited to ensure he obliged. “This coven planted crops over the dead, growing ingredients from the rot and decay of the tragedy. They would perform rituals each moon cycle, make celebrations out of harvesting, et cetera.” She waved off the end of her thought. “But at the center of their garden, directly over the burial site, is a pumpkin patch full of Hubbard Blue Giants. They have a normal shelf life of months , but these can last decades on the shelf! They have so much magic imbued that they are ideal for stabilizing our— my —potion!”  

“Okay,” he agreed, his steely eyes roving over her face softly. “When do we leave?”  

“We?” She in no way expected to drag him across the world for a pumpkin but quickly realized as her Auror, he probably seen it as his job. “Malfoy, whoever is threatening me isn't going to follow me by port key to the United States for a day. It would take them longer just to find out where I'm going!”  

“Doesn't matter. It's my job.”  

“Fine,” she agreed bitterly, pushing through the record room doors. “ We leave Friday morning. The coven does a ritual on All Hollow's Eve and I'd like to steal one when the magic is strongest.”  

“Steal?”  

“They're a bit . . . protective over their pumpkins. They have special uses for them.”  

Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Okay. Tomorrow morning then, your house at ten?”   

“Merlin, is tomorrow Friday already? I was thinking more like seven. I'll need extra time to locate the patch before the coven gathers.”  

They walked through the vaulted room, through shelves so tall the tops were shrouded in shadow. Folders magically floated to and from their permanent homes, flying to the different offices on the outskirts of the archive.   

“Seven it is.”  

 *     *     *

Lavender's office consisted of seventeen piles twice the size of the witch herself of unfiled folders and three half stacks waiting to be sent to ministry officials. Now keeping her hair tied up into a professional bun that most wouldn't know hid a grisly scar which didn't allow hair growth, Lavender had mostly remained unchanged to those that did not know her since her Hogwarts days. With scarring and severe tissue damage across her abdomen and a lunar cycle from hell, she had many hurdles to overcome after the final battle.   

“Hermione,” she said amiably, closing the folder she had been working on. “Draco,” she nodded a bit more curtly.  

“Hello, Lav. How are you?” Hermione asked. She had been part of the team that ensured Lavender's transition into the life of a werewolf went smoothly. With consistent work, an understanding mind healer and links to a potions master specializing in the development of new treatments, Lavender was able to retain a semblance of the life she dreamt of having before the war.  

“Oh, busy, busy. You must be here for my finished statement?”  

“Yes, we go to trial next week and just wanted to make sure you were prepared for the Wizengamot. You looked through the questions I sent?”  

“Yes, Hermione,” Lavender said, exasperated. “Ron's been excellent at helping with mock trials.”  

“How . . . how are you two ?” Hermione was put off by their renewed relationship so quickly after she and Ron had separated, especially since they had seemed so much stronger together than she had ever been with him. But, as they bounced back and forth from in a relationship to not, it became easier to see they had been made for each other.  

“The same. We want things the other can't give,” Lavender admitted stoically. “He’s back with Daphne right now, anyway.”  

“If you just talked to him. I know the whole thing with Daphne is off putting but I know he would settle down if you just told him why—”  

Lavender held up a hand to cut her off. “Hermione, you know the problem with us isn't his desire to whore himself out to that distraction . I don't want to settle down. I won't do that to him. I will suffer the occasional lapse of judgment. It's hard when it's my Won-Won. But he deserves a family, and I can't give him that anymore! So please, drop it.”  

Hermione nodded. She had argued things before, and each time came to the same conclusion: it was none of her damn business.  

“Do you have something for me?” Draco asked coolly, breaking the lingering tension between the witches.  

“Ah, yes.” Lavender rifled through a small pile before pulling out a rather thin folder. “This is everything I could dig up.”  

Draco took the file wordlessly, tucking it away safely and catching Hermione's suspicious stare from the corner of his eye. “Don't worry about it, Granger,” he said coyly.  

Outside of the records room, Hermione felt her curiosity bubbling up. He had tucked the file so suspiciously into his jacket it was as if he hadn't wanted her to glimpse the name. However, before she could begin her line of pointed questioning, he asked, “What was all that about?”  

“Pardon?” she asked in return, forgetting about most of her conversation with Lavender.  

“I thought Ron was a sleaze, bouncing from witch to witch, desperately searching for the next cunt to wet his cock.”  

Hermione's soul flew out of her body. “Oh my God, Draco! We are still in the ministry! Watch your mouth!” she hissed, missing the smirk twitching across his lips at his name. Yet, she couldn't help the twinge of pleasure trickling through her as his words elicited images of a different wizard's member glistening as he thrust it in, and out, and—  

“Seriously, though,” he continued, breaking her concentration, “What’s up with him and Brown? I thought he had just been shagging them.”  

“No,” she answered quickly, pretending her face hadn't flushed and the ache between her thighs was an illusion—Merlin, it had been a while since she'd been laid. She couldn’t remember her last rendezvous with Viktor and made a mental note to reschedule her date with Fillian for the following weekend, after the Halloween business was cared for. “No, after he and I separated, he . . . reconnected with Lavender. I was a bit peeved at first, but after everything she had been through, he seemed to really make her happy. And he seemed truly happy as well.”  

“So why the break-up?”  

“Why do you care?”  

“I don't. But you s eem to, which makes me curious.”  

Hermione contemplated him a moment, letting his honesty sink in. “Greyback’s attack took more from Lavender than her freedom during the full moon. He . . .” Hermione cleared her throat, the lump reforming quickly. “He ate her uterus. How Luna had been able to help her is beyond me, but she did. However, it took any chance of having biological children away from her.”  

“Okay, but there's surrogacy, there's adoption, there's—”  

“Yes, and I've discussed that with her, but she is adamant that she is not what Ron wants. That she's not good for him. I think she's worried he's begun enjoying this lifestyle he's formed. But if she would just talk to him, open and honestly, then they could stop being such bloody idiots and be happy!”  

“Granger, it's not your—”  

“I know it's none of my bloody business, Malfoy!” she snapped, stopping dead center of the glossy hallway. Witches and wizards glared at her as they stumbled around her, speeding off to their destinations. “Of course, I know I should stay out of it! But Ron is one of my longest friends! It's because of me they broke up the first time, and I couldn't make him happy! I just want—” Hermione cut herself off. Taking deep breaths, she swallowed the tears that had built along her waterline, forcing her tenacity into submission. It did neither of them any good to cry. “I just want to see my friends happy, is all,” she finished calmly; subdued.  

Draco's eyes narrowed at her. She found herself wishing for a mask, a curtain, or a speeding train—something to hide behind as she felt him scanning her, prodding at her thoughts without even needing Legilimency. “I was going to say it's not your guilt to carry. What happened or ends up happening with them, is on them. They're adults and can make adult decisions based on their adult feelings—stupid, or otherwise. You shouldn't tear yourself into shreds because you're smarter than they are. Just be there when they need you like you've always been.”  

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't pause to see if she would reply, or cry, or even scream at him. Draco said his peace, turned on his heel and continued down the hall. Hermione thought about walking away—about turning and leaving him to wonder where she had gone and worry about if his job would still be alive come Friday morning.   

But he hadn't been cruel. And Hermione was not a child. So, she skulked after him, offering enough distance for separate elevator rides. They didn't speak much the rest of the day, and Hermione was for once grateful to return to her dark flat and the stray dog waiting by the park bench.  

The following morning Draco arrived at Hermione's flat at 6:50 A.M. with gifts in the form of port keys and lattes. He hadn't liked where they had ended their conversation the previous day—not that he had felt he was in the wrong, just that he didn't care for Granger's return to disdain masked as indifference. He had succumbed to her gravitational pull, allowed himself to grow and change and morph into someone who could be her friend—someone worthy of her friendship, and he'd be damned if he went back now.   

“Good morning, Granger,” he cooed, throwing the silky-smooth notes of his voice into a near purr. He didn't know what it meant, but he enjoyed the slight doe-eyed expression that came over her when he did. So, of course, he lowered his voice any chance he got. “I brought you breakfast for the road.”  

“Breakfast? Thank you, Malfoy, but it's going to be 2 A.M in Massachusetts.”  

“But it's 7 here, so eat before your parfait warms and your latte cools.” He savored the dirty look she threw at him. Salazar, if she knew what she did to him, she could have him wrapped around her finger tighter than it already was. Of course, she's a bloody Gryffindor, so she would never. “Why are we planning on arriving at 2 A.M again?”  

“So that we can scope out the area at night. I don't know what beasts lurk in those woods and I'd rather not find out while traveling with a priceless pumpkin!”  

“And if the coven catches us the first night, and adds back up for All Hollow's Eve? Or decides against performing their weird ceremony?”  

Hermione's eyebrows cinched together, worrying her face. “I need this potion, Malfoy,” she plead quietly.  

“Why?” he asked softly, watching as her eyes closed, fighting off the sting of tears he could see forming along her waterline. “Why do you need this potion so badly?”  

She cleared her throat and turned away to grab the small duffel bag that had been tossed near her couch. “Story for another time,” she said more clearly. “Maybe when we get to seventh year.”  

The portkey tugged them into the swirling vortex of teleportation and deposited them on a dark, deserted street littered with fallen leaves. Behind them stood a two-story colonial home that even in the dark appeared well maintained and possibly renovated.   

“Welcome to Vertica,” Hermione said, stepping towards the house. “This is a small, magic-friendly pocket of Salem built about seventy-five years after the Salem witch trials. I'll drop our bags with the front desk, and we'll head to the forest about a mile down the street.”  

 *     *     *

It was difficult to see at two-thirty in the morning, but the quiet streets they had landed on felt peacefully untouched by the dark wizards recently plaguing London. There were homes with quaint yards lining the simple street, play equipment hidden behind white picket fences and a moon so bright Draco imagined it had been magically altered just to light their walk. If he had known of places like this, maybe he would have fled long before he had sold his soul for his family's debt.  

“If we hadn't gone the opposite way, we would have come to Vertica’s shopping district. It's a lot like Diagon Alley, just American,” Hermione explained as they came to the edge of a forest.  

“So, cheap?” Draco sneered, earning a soft slap on the shoulder.  

“ No— of course, some of it isn't quite as authentic as you'd find in Diagon.”  

“Exactly. So, cheap !” Draco stepped over a rotting log, barely missing the vine Hermione had charmed to trip him.  

“Just different,” she emphasized. “They have aspects of Wizarding culture from all over the world and one of the best muggleborn integration programs I've ever seen. I haven't been able to accomplish even a semblance of its capabilities, but because there are so few purebloods in the America's, most of them being those that fled the war, muggleborns were able to find adaptations easier!”  

A thought clicked. “You used Ilvermorny as an example for the policies you amended for Hogwarts,” he stated as they paused before a dense tree line. “The ones you proposed before breaking the pureblood marriage vows.”  

“Yes. Not all of them were accepted by the Wizengamot, but it was a step in the right direction. They approved the board for Muggleborn Inclusivity, requiring at least seventy-five percent of the board members to be muggleborn themselves, so at the very least they will be able to re-evaluate and adapt as needed.”  

“So is the patch somewhere in there, then?” Draco asked, pointing to the dense forest and changing the subject. If it were daylight, he'd suspect the trees would be brilliantly vibrant in the warm shades of autumn. But it was night. And it was dark and bitterly cold. And he was growing quite grumpy.   

“Yes. Somewhere. I believe it's in the southeast quadrant, where the forest is bordered by traditional cemeteries dating back to the 1800s. But it could also be dead center, where it would be safest and hardest to stumble across.”  

“We're in the heart of their magical haven, why wouldn't the whole bloody town know about their magic pumpkins?” His words snapped from his mouth harsher than he meant, but Hermione seemed unfazed. He figured it was due to years of learning to ignore his sharp tongue.  

“I didn't get into the politics much, honestly. I’ve been a bit busy and it’s quite difficult to learn about without pure immersion. I suspect the coven holds some sort of power in the community—similar to how you Malfoys were.”  

“I think you mean are.”  

“Yes, fine. Are. Didn't mean to offend, your majesty ,” she quipped.  

“Don't be silly. Sir will do just fine,” he retorted, sticking his foot (and his genuine dragonhide boots) into a sinking mud hole.  

Hermione guffawed—she didn't giggle, or chuckle. She guffawed, as loud as a goose flying south. Draco would have been offended, if he hadn't already been so boiling mad at the mud hole.   

“The day I call you sir will be the day I'm lying on my death bed,” she said, shaking with laughter as he shook mud from nearly half his trouser leg.  

*     *     * 

“How far?” he asked sourly after they had walked an hour in what felt like circles. It was nearing lunch time back home—breakfast time here.   

Hermione looked down at the compass she had discreetly attached to the rather adorable puffer vest she wore. He enjoyed librarian Hermione, and ministry Hermione. He could do without sick Hermione, but only because it made him an anxious mess seeing her in that state. He loved student Hermione, and scientist Hermione, friend Hermione and Yule Ball Hermione. Now he found himself equally as drawn to hiking, outdoorsy Hermione—even if he couldn't quite keep up with her. But then again, when could he?  

“We're nearly to the center. I'd say we'll have the patch located in forty-five minutes or so.”  

“What's to stop them from putting wards up after they’ve realized we’ve been here?” he asked, catching her by the arm as her foot slid through a particularly slippery patch of grassy-mud.  

“Well, nothing.” She marched onward, dipping her chin as to not meet his eyes.  

“ Are there wards, Granger?”  

“There likely will be,” she admitted.  

This bloody witch, he thought.   

“And your brilliant plan?” he asked gruffly, his question laced with sarcasm.  

“Well, you're so excellent at ward breaking. I rather hoped you could adjust them tonight so we may sneak in tomorrow unnoticed. And maybe add in an entrapment as well, so that when we flee, they cannot.”  

Draco stopped in his tracks. “And if I hadn't insisted on coming?!”      

“Well, to be honest, I had rather expected you to join me, being so intent on my safety and all.”  

“I don't remember you being this fucking manipulative in school,” he scolded with a smirk. “Which reminds me, let's discuss fourth year while we're wandering.”  

“Do I have to?”  

“You tricked me into hiking through mud. Yes, you have to.”  

“Fine. So, fourth year . . . There's of course you, because you were you,” she said almost playfully.  

“Gee, thanks Granger.”   

Draco remembered that year well. It had been the first time in his life he had witnessed the death eaters as a unit; the first time he had seen the dark mark. It was the year he realized they would do a lot more to Hermione than simply kill her, and somehow, he had grown to miss the threat of the basilisk.  

“Every pureblood loathed me that year—more than usual. Between my work with S.P.E.W and sullying Krum's name, the list is endless.”  

Draco couldn't help the noise of disgust he let slip under his breath.  

“I know, I know. You were on the list of students who were unable to believe Krum would date a bushy-haired mudblood—”  

“That's not what—”  

“It's fine. But a lot of other witches our year disliked it, too. Pretty much anyone who had a thing for him. And Karkarov, of course, hated it. Ron was mad at me again that year. Of course, he was mad at Harry, too. Let's see, Barty Crouch and Barty Crouch Jr., for different reasons. Fleur and I didn't see eye to eye, but we get along fine now.”  

“And Skeeter?”  

“What about her?” she asked with a smirk.

The anticipation was killing him. While he had heard this story from Potter, it was in vague detail and he was eager to hear it from her own point of view. Somewhere in the distance a twig snapped, but he was too focused on finally knowing the full Rita Skeeter story to notice.  

“Please, Granger.”  

“I kept her in a jar for a while.”  

“How long is a while?”  

“Umm, I honestly don’t recall. A few days, at least. Maybe a week. I did nearly forget about her though, and I was able to use it as blackmail a few times since.”  

The level of nonchalance both scared and thrilled him. “What?!”  

“She had been writing article after article about Harry, then began dragging me into it! So, when I found her crawling around as a little, disgusting beetle, I trapped her. She had everything she needed to live her life as the insect she was!”  

“If she's afraid of you, why worry about her articles?”  

“Well, she's not anymore. She was unregistered at the time, so I had the upper hand. She is now, and if anything, has the whole ‘kidnapped and kept in a jar’ leverage against me. So, I try to play nice.”  

“The things you could have done to me and chose not to when I was such a prat scares me, truly, Granger. Is that why we're here? Are you here to offer me as sacrifice to the pumpkin gods?”  

In the subtle glow of the drifting night he watched a smile light up her face. “Yes! I can't believe you caught on so quickly! Penance for your sins!”  

“Ripping my heart out at an altar would be the least of what I deserve for my sins, Granger.”  

Hermione stopped and turned to him. “You're a good man, Draco. I see it everyday, the good things you do for the world.” She paused, letting the words soak through him, before smirking and adding, “An absolute arse of a teenager, but a good man.”  

An eternity of silence later and they made it to the edge of the warding. The sun still hadn't risen, yet the dusty blue undertone told Hermine the daylight would soon be threatening its appearance. She watched as Draco inspected the wards, equally as impressed by her view of his irritatingly impeccable bone structure as she was by the intricately cast magic as he tweaked the coven’s spells. So enthralled by their tasks (Hermione was supervising, obviously) that neither of them noticed the half dozen pairs of eyes now watching from the shadows.  

“There, I think that about—YEEARGH!” Draco bellowed as a mouthful of sharpened canines clamped down on his arm. Instantly his fingers lost their grip on his wand as it fell to the dead leaves below.   

Hermione had a blast spewing from the tip of her wand before Draco’s hit the dark ground, sending the wolfish monstrosity flying back to the shadows, a trail of sparks following and lighting the dry foliage on fire.  

“Fuck,” Draco gasped, pulling a spare wand from his sleeve.   

Surrounding them from the shadows of the forest glared salivating, wolf-like creatures. Some towered over them on two feet, while others assumed a typical canine stance. All, however, had the distinct snouts of werewolves whose faces and bodies had been mangled and distorted into demonic monstrosities.   

“It's not a full moon, Granger,” Draco hissed, as if she had orchestrated the attack.  

“It is tomorrow.” Her own wand trembled in her fist. Her mind flashed to Greyback's bloody maw and the gaping hole in Lavender's abdomen.  

“They shouldn't be—” he was cut off once again as another brave beast lunged forward, thwarted quickly by Draco's spellcasting.  

All at once they attacked, the group snapping their jaws and swiping their paws in a unified effort. Hermione and Draco cast spell after spell, blasting them away. Hermione chanced a glance down to her Auror’s heavily bleeding arm, his hand hanging limp at his side. They needed to control the wound before it grew too serious, but the wolves were relentless. As one fell back, another took up its place.  

Dropping to her knees, Hermione crouched before him, grabbing his arm as he continued to fight the wolves off with his non-dominant hand. Blast after blast Hermione kept herself from flinching, holding steady as she cinched his skin back together.  

“Don't move it too much!” she shouted at him as he tried transferring his spare back to his wand hand. “I don't know how well my stitching will hold!”  

Just then, another wave of attacks started. A small beast was blown away and another was quickly bound by Draco as Hermione petrified a third as it rushed to attack Draco’s blind spot. A long, irregularly smooth stick reflected the light from Draco’s spells. It was mere feet away, tucked beneath the dead foliage.   

Hermione lunged forward, snatching it from its grave before finding herself face to face with a group of the snarling beasts. Dangerously close, their hot breath brushed at her skin as they panted, saliva dripping from her muzzles. She tucked the wand into her cloak before turning sharply on her heel to get back to Draco. One step, two steps, then a wet, searing pressure erupted through her ankle. One of the beasts had his teeth deep within her. A spell on her lips died out behind an agonized scream as the beast yanked her to the ground and pulled.  

“DRACO!” she shrieked, her own wand falling to the earth just beyond her reach. She kicked the beast as hard as she could until its fangs sank deeper into her leg, nearly ripping her foot from her body as it ran through the underbrush.  

“HERMIONE!” Draco shouted back, notes of panic lacing his scream. He raised his wand to blast away the beast tearing apart her ankle when another wrapped its teeth around Draco's spare wand and snapped. Wood splintered, Draco cursed, and Hermione, who had latched onto a protruding root, was yanked further away. Her head crashed to the ground, snapping onto a large rock before the wolf pulled again, dragging her limply away.   

The world was spinning—it always spun, right? Like this? She couldn't remember if the world spun in such a way that she could feel it. But it helped her forget the heat of the wet mouth on her ankle and desperate throbbing coursing up her leg.   

It did worry her, however, that her stray dog had suddenly appeared. The grey and white animal was larger up close than she realized, and not quite as docile as he appeared beside the park bench. His fur, now matted and bloody as he ripped into the throats of werewolves unbound by magical laws, looked soft enough to touch; to pet.   

To stroke.   

To cuddle.   

Maybe he would let her use him as a pillow . . .   

She could use a nap. Her eyes had grown quite heavy and all in all, the pain through her leg wasn’t that bad anymore.  

The werewolf pulled her again rather rudely and she snapped back into reality as the stray's mouth tore through the final beast. He stalked toward her, eyes set over his snarling mouth on the werewolf that had now released Hermione. Its eyes darted across the killing field. In a sudden panic, the wolf bolted back to the shadows.  

The stray—the wolf, Hermione realized, now seeing the creature up close—stood over Hermione, blood dripping from its maw as he stood on alert, snarling in warning and guarding her until he was sure the coast was clear.   

“You're a long way from home,” Hermione cooed, stretching out a hand to scratch behind his ears.   

He had frozen. Utterly still, staring wide eyed at her. Maybe it was from the minor contusion from hitting her head, or the adrenaline still numbing her ankle, but she reached her other hand up and cupped the pup's face.   

“You killed like eight people, Malfoy,” she chastised lightly, staring into the familiar icy blue of his eyes.  

“I don't think they're regular werewolves, Granger,” Draco bit out, shifting back into his own skin and holding Hermione's hands against his stained face.   

He was warm.  

“I don't think I can walk.”  

Her head hurt.  

“Oh. You don't say?” Draco pushed beneath her, scooping her into his arms and lifted her from the ground.   

She was wet.    

Merlin his arms are toned, she thought as she tried her best not to press her nose into the sweet musk coming off his shirt.  

She suddenly realized, “My wand!”  

“I have it,” he snapped. “What were you even doing that had you so bloody distracted that one of those mongrels got the jump?!”  

On one hand, Hermione was beginning to feel rather guilty over the whole ordeal. On the other—  

Fuck his attitude!  

“Put me down,” she growled.  

“Oh, you can suddenly walk again?!” His eyes had spread wide; raging. It sent a thrill through her. If they were going to fight and break whatever hypnotic trance he'd been casting on her, now would be as good a time as any.  

“My head is feeling much clearer. Put. Me. Down!”  

Draco all but tossed her into the muddy leaves. Without weight on her mangled foot, she stood up straight, forcing herself to ignore the slight sway of her body as the dizziness returned. She squared her shoulders, ready to fight, to argue, to duel—and realized how much he towered over her. He could have her incapacitated before she got a single punch in.  

It's a good thing she trusted him as she took one painfully small, limping step towards him, close enough to point her finger into his chest and poke the distractingly firm muscle.   

“For your information,” she started, as bratty and indignant as ever, “I was finding your wand!” She pulled the wood out from her inner pocket and tossed it at the wizard. “And it's a good thing, too, considering your spare snapped!”  

“My spare snapped because I was distracted by one of those things dragging you halfway through the woods, you stupid, bloody wit—”  

“I am a lot of things, Draco Malfoy, but I am not stupid.” She thanked the heavens it was still dark. The last thing she wanted at the moment was for Malfoy to see her cry over a stupid word.  Staring stubbornly down, her fists clenched at her side, she began the walk back to the bed and breakfast.   

Slowly.  

Painfully.  

Each limping step sent a jolt through her leg and into her lower back, each slight stumble a cracking through her skull. She made it five steps before she heard Draco’s frustrated growl then felt his arms grab her, pulling her back into the air.  

“We'll never get back to the fucking hotel at that pace,” he scolded, his hands tightening around her as he stared forward, focusing on the dark woods around them.  

It took twenty minutes before Hermione grew tired of his brooding silence. “You know you won't be able to lurk creepily outside my flat with my cat anymore, right?”  

Draco, to Hermione's pleasant surprise, let out a breathy chuckle as if he hadn't taken a proper breath since lifting her. “Yes, Granger. I came to that conclusion.”  

“How long?”  

“I registered during training. I was instructed to keep it quiet for professional reasons.”  

“Why do you think those weren't regular werewolves?”  

“To start, it's not a bloody full moon and they had fully shifted!” He glanced up to the canopy as if he could see the moon clear as day. “But also, Legilimency. I can't read animals, but I’ve been known to break into the human brain in werewolves, even shifted. Sometimes I can calm them enough to stop the rage.”  

“But you couldn't . . .”  

“No. Nothing. Tell me, those pumpkins, what sorts of spells are they known to stabilize?”  

“All sorts.”  

“Remember fourth year when false-mad-eye turned me into a ferret?”  

“That memory will live with me forever, Malfoy,” she said with a soft giggle.  

“What if they're turning timber wolves into men? Not full men, obviously, but . . .”  

“Well, a spell like that is possible but would certainly be unstable. The magic would likely fall apart and potentially break down the bodies before they converted back to themselves.”  

“But with special pumpkins?”  

“It's possible , but I couldn't be sure without testing!”  

“That's alright. I'll send an alert to MACUSA when we return that a coven in their sacred Salem is illegally caring for a homegrown pack of bodyguards. They'll take care of it after you get your pumpkin.”  

Hermione thought over his words, slowly realizing he was still following through with their plan. “Thank you, Draco,” she murmured, watching his icy eyes almost melt into a soft blue.   

Chapter Text

The Weary Traveler Bed and Breakfast had far too many pillows on the bed, if Draco was concerned. It's use of frills reminded him of the mansion in paintings of his ancestors, long before his mother renovated (the first time) and the gaudy wallpaper, though pristine in condition, felt like it belonged in a museum. The one upside to the rather large estate was the utter lack of available rooms, and their complete aversion to adding more than one bed for guests. Which meant an utterly frazzled Hermione charming him as she attempted to explain away how she had not intended for them to share. He would have been entirely fine with sharing, and cuddling (or not), but being the perfect gentleman he was raised to be, transfigured a borrowed stool into a rather comfortable chaise lounge before demanding Hermione sit still on the bed while he healed her.  

He enjoyed every moment he was allowed to touch her. Every chance to help, to heal; to fix his past one little cut or bruise, wolf or stalker at a time until his soul could be cleansed of the words he spewed as a child. Yes, he was grateful for the time he was able to spend by her side. But her recklessness and sheer inability to stay out of danger ate at his chest, at his stomach, and at his mind, leaving him feeling like no more than the seventeen-year-old watching her writhe in agony on the drawing room floor. Or like the fifteen-year-old visiting the hospital wing in spare moments to watch her chest rise and fall after Dolohov's curse. Or even twelve, helplessly wondering if the Mandrake potion would work, spewing the phrase “pity it wasn't Granger” while his mind was screaming praise to whichever deity allowed her to understand that mirror trick in time.  

But he wasn't helpless this time. No, this time he had a hand caressing her ankle while another magically closing the bone-deep holes from the canines, mended the small fracture enough to walk with a wrap, and scanned her brain for signs of serious injury. He could carry her through the danger and make sure she was never alone again, if she'd let him. And as he looked up into her rich brown eyes sparkling like two golden snitches, she stared back at him, and for a moment he wondered if she were a Legilimens, peering into his thoughts and seeing for the first time everything he had never been allowed to feel. She was seeing him. And he felt small. 

Draco cleared his throat and broke their eye contact. “The sun's finally out. Why don't we go grab a bite before our nap?” 

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let me just wash up first.” 

“That's a good idea. Your mane's been tamed by mud and leaves. I've never seen it so slick,” he said slyly, reaching up to grab a clump for emphasis. 

“You're one to talk!” she balked, smiling brightly at him and making his heart pound a bit harder. “You're caked in so much blood you look as though you single handedly recreated the revolutionary war!” 

“Fighting off those wolves felt like I was!” 

Hermione slid off the bed, taking his offered hand for support before he helped her to the bathroom. “Are you going to need a hand in there, too, Granger?” he asked coyly, throwing in a smug wink. 

“I hadn't realized you were so chivalrous, Malfoy. What would your father think?” she replied conspiratorially.  

“What he doesn't know won't give him an aneurysm.” 

“If I have a particularly difficult time taking care of myself, I’ll be sure to call your name,” she said, her voice a husky whisper that made his cock twitch against his trousers. 

Was she flirting?     

Draco spent the entirety of her shower picturing her under the water. Her hand roving over glistening skin, fingers venturing carefully between her legs. At one point he thought he had heard a soft moaning as the warmth of the water washed over her and his imagination only spiraled further.  

When she emerged, skin flushed and warm and hair in drying ringlets over her breasts, he rushed around her and into the still steamy room before she could spot the rather unprofessional, though rather large, bulge now uncomfortably pushing against the stiff fabric over his crotch. He then spent half of his shower taking care of it. 

“We should be able to find brunch somewhere,” said Hermione as he pulled on a fresh shirt. It's going to be quite busy, I suspect, but I'd like to see a bit of Salem while we're here.” 

Salem was busier than Hermione could have imagined. Men, Women and children walked through the leaf littered streets in combinations of black shirts and dresses paired with boots or in full Halloween costume. She had never seen so many pretend witches in her life. Draco, who had usually appeared far over dressed in the muggle world while in his long Auror coat and crisply ironed white or black shirt and trousers definitely-not-meant-to-be-worn-in-the-field, he simply now looked as if he had dressed himself as a classic movie star. He certainly had the looks for it, with his hair tousled at the top of his head so perfectly Hermione suspected he had fussed over it after his shower. 

They walked together down the crowded streets visiting quaint shops filled with smiling tourists and warm scented candles, much quieter used bookstores where there were a surprising number written by witches and wizards, and Judge Jonathan Corwin's historic home-turned-witch museum. Each fall-colored lane pushed them closer together until their hands were practically entangled, bumping gently against each other as they avoided the bustle of people around them. To Hermione's surprise, and pleasure, Draco didn't flinch away from the contact. Instead, she found him using it as an open invitation to touch her more . Placing a discrete hand on the small of her back to guide her, pushing stray curls from her face when the wind blew them haphazardly, and even grabbing her hand as they crossed streets with impatient drivers trying to turn into crossing foot traffic. For the first time in a while, Hermione didn't feel bogged down by work, by priorities or tasks—she didn't feel overwhelmed by failure. Failure in relationships, failure as a friend, failure as a daughter. She was just Hermione. 

Lunch went similarly. Draco had tried once to initiate a conversation about fifth year, but was quickly shot down. Instead, they spent the meal in raucous laughter, making crude jokes and arguing rather indignantly until they fell back into fits of laughter. By the time they were back at the bed and breakfast, Hermione realized she liked Draco Malfoy. Not just his competence, or his chiseled figure that he had definitely worked on since school—but him. And she was sorely disappointed over his engagement, or, negotiations, with the youngest Greengrass.  

Maybe it was for the best . . .  

He would likely tire of her before long anyway. That was what drew her to Fillian. He was constantly working, too. It was easy for him to like her when he had not spent enough time getting to know her. When she hadn’t had the time to shut him out because she needed extra time renovating a law or bore him with detailed descriptions of the history of a particular spell. 

As they meandered back to Vertica, back to the bed and breakfast, she couldn’t help but dwell on whether or not Draco could like her in return, or if, like the others, he would grow tired of her as well. 

Draco lay restless on the lounge, drifting idly through Hermione's dreams just long enough to pull her from whichever hellscape her brain wanted to throw at her. She had slowed down on her dreamless sleep, taking it only every other day since their fight. Spending each day working with her, it had become painfully obvious which days she took it, and which she didn't. On her days where no bags darkened her eyes, she remained alert, task oriented and, above all, freezing. Her fingers were icy, she would keep a sweater draped around her at all times and he had caught her shivering while practically laying in a fireplace. On her off days, she would fall asleep while working six times a day, snap at the slightest disagreement and cry at any inconvenience. While her body felt warmer to the touch, the lack of sleep did nearly as much damage as the drought. It made him wish he could be with her always, if only to fend off the demons he had once vanquished in himself.  

“What time is it?” Hermione asked groggily, sitting herself up to find him wide eyed and staring at the shadowed ceiling.  

“Nearly eight.” 

“Did you get enough sleep for tonight?” 

“Yes,” he lied. The few winks he had managed between her nightmares would have to tide him over until their return. “Sleep well?” 

“I did, actually. It seems I always sleep better when you're—” Hermione's eyes widened as she caught herself, her cheeks and nose and even ears reddening with the realization of what she nearly admitted dawning on her.  

Draco knew, and over his teeth grew a self-satisfied smirk. “Please, do finish,” he prodded slyly.  

She looked at him defiantly and awful thoughts of licking the obstinance off her beautiful face flooded his mind, sending a thrill down to his groin.  

“No,” she declared. 

“Say it, Granger. Say how much better you sleep with me around.” 

“Never.” She stood from the bed, her nipples peaked under her loose t-shirt, the fullness of her breasts fully outlined by the fall of the thin fabric.  

Salazar did he want to rip it off. 

“Please,” he tried, his smirk morphing into a full smile as she turned her back to him, presenting a gorgeous view of her perfectly rounded arse in cotton pajama shorts he could die happily having seen her in. 

“Shan't,” she teased, clearly enjoying herself. Not that he could argue otherwise as she disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up.  

“I. Am. Fucked,” he cursed under his breath, standing to stretch and dress out of his grey joggers.  

*     *     *

Dinner was at their door before Hermione emerged, walking out to a sprawl of New England clam chowder, lobster rolls, bacon wrapped jalapeño poppers and green salad sprinkled with dried cranberries, walnuts and a sweet vinaigrette.  

“What's all this?” she asked in amazement. 

“I ordered room service.” 

“Yes. Thank you. I meant when? When did they have the time to make this? I've only been awake fifteen minutes!” 

Draco felt the smug smirk slide back into place. “I placed an order after lunch, before we came up to nap. I assumed we'd be up by now, so I asked for it to be ready by eight-thirty.” Hermione stared at each course, nearly drooling. “Sit,” he demanded. “Eat.” 

And surprisingly, she did. 

They took their time eating, just as they had at lunch. With each bite she took, every soft moan of pleasure as she chewed and every slight giggle when he teased her drew him deeper into being absolutely fucked. He'd probably lose his job if he ever met Fillian, at this rate.  

By the time they had their fill and were fully caffeinated, it was nearly time to begin their hour walk to the patch. Draco finished dressing in all black, strapping his primary wand holsters across his chest and not missing Hermione's eyes as they roved over him before he pulled on his long coat. A new spare wand lay flush against his right forearm, and he strapped two new knives to his legs; one thick hunting knife to one thigh and a sturdy fighting blade to the opposite calf. Hermione, in all her glory, looked as close to an Auror as one could get without the sanctioned attire. She wore black cargo pants tucked into boots, a turtleneck sweater he assumed was charmed and warded against spells, and a small beaded bag looking entirely out of place. 

Draco dropped elegantly to his knees before her as she double braided her hair, looking quizzically at him. A hair tie held between her lips prevented her from asking with anything more than her eyes. In answer, Draco trailed one hand to the back of her calf and lifted her foot from the ground. Savoring the intimacy and noting that she didn't flinch away, he slid leather straps up to her thigh and buckled them securely. He then slid a new blade, long and sturdy but light enough she shouldn't have an issue wielding it into her new sheath. 

“What's this?” she asked, not pulling away as his hands lingered only a moment longer against her thigh. 

“Just in case. I'm hoping we took care of them all last night.” 

Draco found it difficult to lower himself to anybody. Even as a child he had felt the superiority of his bloodline, and even though he had been greatly humbled in that regard, he still held himself as a proper pureblood: proudly. Yet, kneeling in front of Hermione, her rich eyes looking down on him felt okay—even right. He would crawl through the dirt for her, if that was what she needed. 

“Ready?” he asked, bringing himself back to his full height to remind her of it. 

She nodded once then turned on her heel and marched out the door. Draco grabbed her forgotten wand from the nightstand, laughing to himself as he strode after her. 

*     *     *

The woods were quieter this evening. Whether from their own silence or whatever magic All Hallow's Eve brought with it, Draco wasn't sure. He cast a quick disillusionment over himself, Hermione following suit before he could finish. Hers was, regrettably, better than his anyways. As they crept as stealthily as possible over the crunchy leaves, they stayed nearly touching. Finally approaching the wards, Draco signaled to stop and cast a silenced Muffliato. 

“It's nearly midnight. What time are we expecting them?” Draco whispered, not fully trusting his spell. 

“Any minute. Here,” she said, pulling a sheet of fabric out of the small beaded bag at her side. “Throw this on. Just in case.” 

Without another question, Draco tossed the fabric over himself, hunching over Hermione in the process and covering her like an umbrella. “What is it?” 

“An invisibility cloak. I borrowed it from Harry—just, don't mention to him we used it.” 

“We're already disillusioned, though.” 

“Yes, well, a quick Revelio and we'd be had. We're still covered this way. I wish I knew where they would be standing, it'd be a lot easier if we didn't have to sneak in after—look!” 

As she spoke, the first witch apparated into the clearing in a burst of pink and purple haze that flooded the vined ground like a fog machine. She dressed in a classic witch's hat reminiscent of McGonagall's but paired with a deep violet velvet gown and so much cleavage she looked dressed for a Halloween party. Long blonde hair curled softly down her back and her manicured nails held a wand so smooth it practically glowed under the largest full moon Draco had ever witnessed. Soon after, theatrical bursts of pink, blue, purple and green sprang up around the first witch, forming a circle around her. Witches dressed in all shades of the galaxy stood, wands ready, around the first. 

“Sisters,” the blonde crowed into the gathered witches. “We gather once again to mourn and rejoice our fallen covens, those bewitched and those hidden in mortal flesh, sisters one and all.” 

“One and all!” the gathering chanted back. 

“On this hallowed ground beneath us lay the butchered, the bereaved and the betrayed. We once again offer the sacrifice of our magic in exchange for their most precious protection!” 

Draco leaned down to Hermione's ear as the witches began chanting an elongated spell. “Now may be the best time to move,” he whispered, slightly in awe as the normally blue-grey pumpkins began to glow vibrant fuchsia.  

Hermione nodded, taking a small step into the wards, pausing just inside to ensure they had not alerted the coven. When no witch stirred in their direction, they continued with careful steps toward the patch’s edge. 

“Now rise!” the leader commanded suddenly, shooting yellow sparks into the depths if the forest. “And fulfill that which we created you for! Replace your brethren who have fallen so valiantly!”  

From outside the wards, a low rumble vibrated through the trees, followed closely by the howling of a dozen wolves. “Fuck,” Hermione hissed.  

“Grab your pumpkins and let's go,” Draco ordered. 

“I can't until they stop glowing!” he could hear the desperation in her voice but couldn't hold back the bite in his. 

“And how long before they stop glowing?!” 

“I don't know! These are the only pumpkins like this in existence! The ritual hasn't been studied!” 

The yipping of hungry canines grew closer. Draco felt his free arm reflexively pull Hermione in closer, tucking her tight to his side. She quickly shrugged him off, instead holding her wand steady and readying herself. 

The first wolf emerged from the shadows, lit by the purple glow. It's eyes shone like glittering amethysts and across its face the beast bore three ragged scars. Draco knew it was one from the previous night, alive and sniffing out revenge, the same moment Hermione did. Brave as she was, she backed up a step, her shoe landing on a fallen twig and snapping beneath her. Every eye in the coven turned in their direction. 

“REVELIO!” the nearest witch shouted, dissolving their disillusionment. 

Draco was suddenly very grateful for Harry's sneaky robe and Hermione's thieving hands. Unfortunately, they found themselves surrounded by untrusting witches that believed the pack of deformed wolves now snarling in their direction over the well cast spell. 

“Tentaculem!” the blonde called, aiming for the pumpkins near Hermione's feet. 

A burst of mossy green light slithered around the pumpkin vines, absorbing into the green tendrils. Slowly, the vine began slithering toward her foot, crawling over her shoe and wrapping around her ankles like long, cold fingers. Draco could nearly feel her heart beat faster as if it were in his own chest.  

Draco slipped his free hand around her, cupping her mouth just as a gasp neared it's escape from her lips. The vines crawled higher up her legs. A second set started their ascent up his own. 

“I'm going to hold the cloak,” Draco said in her mind. “You need to reach down and cut the vines with your new knife. One . . . Two . . . Three!”  

Hermione crouched down slowly and slipped the blade from its sheath. She glanced once at her own bondage before making a decision, quickly reaching over to cut Draco free first. As she did, the vines screamed, wailing in an unnatural shriek as shrill as a whistling kettle. The cloak waved around them, revealing just enough of their feet to give them away before the blonde witch blew the cloak from their bodies with a freezing wind. 

Draco had his wand at the ready, casting his infinitely black smokescreen around them as the hybrids rushed forward. With the midnight cover, he transformed, ready to tear the wolves apart as Hermione freed herself. Their cover was blown, his top priority now was getting her to safety; pumpkins be damned. 

Draco's teeth sank into the first of the attackers as it lunged blindly at their location. With a twist, the distorted beast's neck snapped with a whine and he was on to the next. Two more wolves later and Draco was himself again, his black attire soaked. At least four more wolves wandered blindly through the patch. Beyond, the witches argued, casting spells and curses as they navigated the dense night to find each other.  

“YOU FUCKING THIEVES! YOU INTRUDERS!” one of them cursed, sending hexes in their general direction.  

Hermione was still crouched down, likely trying to free herself from the thick knots. “Granger, we should be going,” he growled at her. 

“Nearly ready,” she ground back as a shockingly green spell zoomed just past her ear.  

Draco conjured a flock of birds, bringing them down from the endless sky so as not to give away their location. The shimmering sparrows shone like shooting stars as they hurled toward the coven, stabbing and exploding into bursts of fireworks as they landed. 

“Done!” Hermione declared. 

Without hesitation, Draco latched onto her arm and pulled her towards the nearest wall of wards, the cool bubble washing over them as they crossed through. The moment they passed, Draco's spells wore off, the midnight shroud clearing within seconds and giving them a clear view to the coven and the wolves as they pounded, shrieked and chomped at the wards, now impenetrable to them.  

“You did it!” she gasped. “I didn't think you had had time last night!” 

“Of course I did, Granger. I'm me! They won't last long though.” Draco reached down and faced his fingers into hers, readying to apparate. “I'm sorry you didn't get your pumpkins.” 

A Cheshire grin spread over her face. With the hand not holding his she patted the beaded bag. “Of course I got my pumpkins,” she gloated. “I managed to grab Harry's cloak, too.” 

He couldn't help but grin back as he apparated them away, back to their room at the bed and breakfast. 

Chapter Text

“Where did my lounge go?” Draco asked melodramatically upon their return. He rushed to the now empty space where a small notecard lay.  

Please don't transfigure the furniture. The antiques can't handle it. Thank you.  

“Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath. Hermione giggled behind him. “Think somethings funny, Granger?” 

“A tad.” She pulled off her beaded bag and placed it into her duffel. 

“We'll see how funny you think it is when I'm sick of the floor and come crawling into bed with you!” he threatened poorly. 

“The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us. There's no need to drag the floor into this.” She drew more amusement than expected by the shock etched across his face. She had rendered him speechless—she hadn't been sure it was possible. 

“I'm surprised you aren't biting at my heels to portkey us back to London.” 

“I'll admit, I would like to start prepping the pumpkins. I'm not entirely sure how much I'll need for stabilization. I'm afraid it will be a bit of trial and error, and I'd like to get started tomorrow—today, I suppose.” 

“I figured. Unfortunately, I have the portkey. And it being a holiday, I'd like to enjoy it.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What did you have in mind?” 

“I'm so glad you asked! We are going to order a snack from the kitchen I'm on good authority is still open, watch one of your muggle films, take a long nap, maybe hit another museum in the morning, and head back in time for the party.” 

“That's well thought out,” she said suspiciously.  

“Yes, it is. I was not planning on gallivanting through the States for a seasonal squash just to rush home for you to hole yourself up in your lab and miss the party.”  

Hermione didn't know what to say. That had been exactly her plan, and he had seen straight through it. She supposed it did neither of them any good to deny it. “I don't even have a costume, Malfoy.” 

“Already sorted.” A smug smile lit his face and he began pulling off his robes, ignoring modesty as he unbuckled his holster. He had no right to make a strap of leather so attractive. “I am to have tea with my mother when we return. However, you will be greeted by our dear friend Pansy at Grimmauld place, where she and Ginny are to ensure your safe arrival to the party.” 

“Sneaky bastard,” she muttered. He was now pulling off his shirt and Merlin. She felt her head fall askew as her eyes uncontrollably roved over the cords of muscle making up his arms, flowing evenly into his broad chest and down into a lean, strong stomach. The sharp v of his hips led her eyes down to the hem of his trousers. An unmistakable bulge caught her off guard and suddenly she was spiraling, trying to figure out how she had refrained from noticing it until then. 

“Like what you see, Granger?” 

Fuck.  

She cursed herself for not tearing her eyes away sooner. When she found his face again, Draco's eyes had darkened hungrily. Her breath hitched in her chest. She felt a heat pool in her belly.  

“Not in particular,” she said with a smirk, keeping it steady as he smiled back.  

Hermione told herself It was all in her mind—that Draco Malfoy, pureblood heir and prince of Slytherin wouldn't—couldn't—see her that way. She stepped toward the bathroom to take a cold shower, her hand mindlessly hanging onto her left forearm as she explained away the look in his eyes. 

Lust meant nothing. She knew she was attractive. But she worked too much, had a terrible habit of correcting people and tried to debate everything, including, in Ron's incorrect opinion, whether she debated, or argued. On top of all that, she was muggleborn. Draco may have grown into the idea of acceptance and universal melding of cultures but he could never see her that way—the way she'd begun to look at him.  

Fuck, her stomach hurt. 

Fillian.  

Fillian.  

Fillian.  

*     *     *

Hermione emerged from the bathroom clear headed and slightly morose to find Draco lounging, sprawled across the bed, surrounded by seven courses of food, after-dinner snacks, and chocolate. Her stomach cramps hadn't subsided, and the grey sweatpants currently shrouding the blasted Auror's penis weren't helping. Nor was his inability to put a shirt on. 

Thankfully, she was born a stubborn witch unafraid of a challenge. And sitting in bed next to a half-naked Draco Malfoy without jumping down his throat or into his pants would certainly be a challenge.  

At least there was pizza. And chocolate. Overall, it was actually quite lovely after the lights were dimmed. Draco had the whole evening (or, morning, rather) sorted until they were so full and sated they could burst, had gone through two movies (only one of which they had paid any attention to), and had laughed and argued contentedly until they lay half-asleep under the covers each blaming the other for their childhood debates. 

“Fifth year?” Draco asked after the laughter of a particularly heated conversation subsided.  

“Not tonight.” She was quite suddenly knackered and couldn't stop reeling from how surreal the weekend (day?) had been. 

“Then tell me about the potion. Please. I'd like to understand why you work yourself ill and sabotage relationships for it.” 

She didn't think he had meant to be cruel . . . but the honesty of it hit home.  

“I told you. Seventh Year.” 

“Yes. But I now have to set up a meeting with MACUSA, which will be tedious. We've fought off a coven and mutated wolves. I know the potion will change the world—you don't need to give me some cookie cutter interview response. I want to know why it's important to you .” He rolled onto his side to face her head on, finding her eyes. Even in the dark she felt too seen; too exposed. “Please, Hermione.”  

She understood now what he had meant about his name being the equivalent of please. O nly, he had said them both.  

“How much do you know of our time hunting for horcruxes?” she finally began. 

“Most of the general timeline. Some detailed stories here and there, but not many.” 

Typical of Harry not to talk about himself.  

“I spent that summer with the Weasley's,” she started, not entirely sure of how to just say it. “I was only home a few days after Dumbledore died before leaving for the Burrow. I had dinner with my parents. We caught up. I heard about the Castle's young boy biting their hygienist so badly she needed stitches. They heard all about Ron and Lavender. I left for the Burrow with everything important packed into my little beaded bag, with clothes for the boys and all of the essentials for nearly every situation. I had so many weightlessness charms on that thing I think I broke the magical laws of physics!” She giggled uncomfortably.  

“Weren't your parents worried about you leaving for a war?”  

“They would have to remember me, to worry about me.”  

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. He went to speak but she cut him off as she rolled onto her back, away from his penetrating gaze.  

“I didn't tell them about the war or Voldemort—at all throughout my time at Hogwarts. They never knew about the philosopher's stone, or the Chamber of Secrets, or Dumbledore's Army. I was afraid they wouldn't let me return. And I was afraid Voldemort would use them against me.  

“Before I left for the Burrow I erased myself from their lives. They had never had a daughter. I gave them new names and new lives in Australia with a quaint little bookstore.” She found herself laughing again as tears soaked into her pillow as she thought about the family and lives they had since created. “They . . . they remembered by middle name. I had thought for so long it was a sign . . . but they . . . they . . .” 

She couldn’t finish; couldn’t find the words to tell him she had been replaced. Not that she didn’t love the fiery child with all her heart—she just simply wished it hadn’t been a choice made to fill the gap she had left empty. 

It was silent for a minute, other than the sounds of her occasional sniffle. Draco seemed to understand, instead stating, “And your spell—it's too powerful to reverse.” 

“Yes. I've tried. So, so many times. But I'm still just one of their regulars. I've had tea with them a few times over the years . . . but it's hard to spend much time with them.”  

“Mind healers?” 

“I've tried the best in country, even the muggle versions, with no luck. I usually just get scolded for mind tampering at a young age. Really, I think they're just pissed a teenager was more advanced than them.” 

“That's believable. But what about a mind healer for you?” 

“For me?”  

“Yes. I spent many years seeing one. Have you ever gone?” 

“No. When would I have time? Honestly, most of my stress will dissipate once this potion is ready.” 

“And if it never is?” 

Her mind flashed through several emotions. First, shock that he had guessed her deepest fear. Then anger at him for suggesting it before finally settling at last on the sorrow of the possibility. “I don't think I'll ever give up.” 

“No. I suppose that wouldn't be very Gryffindor of you.” Hermione's eyes fluttered shut. She was barely asleep when he asked, “When do you see them next?” 

“Soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I keep putting off their invitations.” 

“Maybe I could come with you next time. If you'd like.” 

“That sounds nice, Draco,” she said half-asleep. She likely wouldn't remember it come morning. 

But he would. 

*     *     *

Morning came quickly. The bed was warmer than it had been before, with an encompassing weight that gave her a security she hadn't felt in years—since Ron. Suddenly she realized Draco had not only drifted to her side of the bed (or maybe she had rolled to his), but he had, at some point in the night, wrapped her into himself. His face was buried in her curls, likely frizzed and tickling his face, yet he slept soundly.  

Then she felt the other sensation and quickly remembered the cramping that had not subsided from the night before. “Shit,” she cursed, leaping from the bed and rushing to the bathroom, leaving a surprised and suddenly awake Draco staring after her.  

Draco knew he had drifted to her. He had known he had wrapped her into his body as if she belonged there and he certainly knew he shouldn't have. But it had happened while he slept, and her hair smelled of cashmere sweaters and fresh air after a spring rain and he knew that his Amortentia had shifted. It would now forever smell of her in this moment.  

Then she woke up, too. And she realized where she was and whose arms had held her through the nightmares he knew had come for her. As expected, she had leapt from his side in a heartbreaking hurry, reminding him that he had so many things yet to atone for. He was here to protect her, not cuddle her, or woo her. She would never want him the way he had wanted her. And that would have to be alright.  

Draco pulled himself up from the comfortable cocoon and dressed quickly. He meant his intentions of fitting more Salem-packed fun into the morning. He was halfway through the buttons on his shirt When Hermione emerged from the bathroom, dressed and noticeably perturbed. 

“Hermione, I’m so sorry about—” 

“What?” She asked, cutting him off and looking at him as though she had just realized his presence. 

“About last night—or, this morning, rather. I didn't mean to cross that line, I would never—” 

“Oh, right. Of course. No, never . . .” 

“Well, not never,” he began to say, suddenly afraid he had given the wrong impression. “But the way you jumped up this morning, I just needed you to know -” 

Her face blushed noticeably. “Yes, about that. I'm just going to head out for a bit. There are some things I need and forgot to pack.” 

“What could you possibly need that couldn't wait two hours until we get back? Granger, if you’re looking for an excuse for space, then we can head back now—” 

“Tampons,” she blurted. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Tampons. I need to pop by a pharmacy or a supermarket - somewhere. I think we passed a CVS yesterday. I started cramping last night and should have expected—but it's early! And I forgot to pack . . .” 

Draco paused the latching of this holster in surprise. “Oh!”  

“Yes. So, I'll be back in a bit!” 

“Hold up, let me just brush my teeth and I'll join you.” 

“No, you really don't—” 

“Granger, I grew up with Bellatrix ‘Nutcase’ Lestrange and Pansy ‘No-such-thing-as-privacy' Parkinson. Not to mention Theodore ‘Open-to-all-kinks' Nott. The muggle feminine hygiene aisle doesn't frighten me. Besides, I promised Blaise I'd pick him up an electric can opener as a souvenir for his new girlfriend, whatever the hell that is.” 

She laughed. A beautiful, chiming sort that seemed to ease his previous worry. “He's not secretly dating Mr. Weasley, is he?” 

“Not that I know of. But it would explain why he's apparently taken an unbreakable vow of secrecy.” 

“Well, I'll be sure to help you pick out CVS's best electric can opener for the happy couple. And maybe a few canned goods to use with it as well!” She twisted her loose curls around her wand and stuck it through, creating her messy bun and accessory no muggle would look twice at, and they were off. 

*     *     *

“What the bloody hell are these?” Draco asked indignantly as he stared at the small selection of can openers, coffee pots, and toasters. He lifted and closed a mouthpiece of something called a Keurig six times trying to decipher its use. 

“These,” she grabbed the most basic can opener, “Are what you're looking for. But I suggest a battery powered one since whichever witch, or wizard, Blaise has requested this for likely doesn't have a source of electricity to use it. So—” she scanned the shelves, walking her fingers across the metal like a walking man, “—here! This one.” 

The rounded contraption with bright red and white plastic coating it reminded Draco of something one might see in a bedroom. Nevertheless, he trusted the witch that handed it to him. 

“I'll show you how to use it later,” she said with a wink.  

His mind surged toward terribly wonderful places.  

Was it for the bedroom? He thought nervously. Fuck.  

He cleared his throat, clearing the lustful images from his mind. “And your needs?” 

He wouldn't want her to think he was selfish. It's important to meet a witch's needs, especially when including bedroom innuendos.  

Hermione led him to the aisle where stacks and stacks of pink and purple boxes and small plastic bags sat on the shelves. She quickly grabbed the brand she must have been most familiar with and turned to him, clearly expecting a discomfort one might find in a juvenile.  

“Menstrual products right around the corner from home goods. And to think, Pansy had to special order her products each month and hope they arrived in time. You'd think some witch somewhere would have invented something a tad more comfortable than the infinitely absorbent rags she'd buy.” 

“Pansy was that witch. You purebloods benefited from the muggles with much more than just period products after the war. Once she was enlightened by the muggle world, she went on an inventing spree. Her products are everywhere in Diagon and Hogsmeade. Didn't you know?” 

“I knew of her endeavors after her parents were sentenced and she was barred from the family vaults. I didn't know specifics. Did she tell you Hogwarts accepted her immediately after your letter?” 

“No! Oh, that's wonderful. I hope she enjoys it.” 

“She's already complained about McGonagall three times and has told me an endless amount if drama—including Longbottom’s recent breakup with Hannah Abbott and how she could, and I quote, ‘Lick the memory of her away if he'd let her’.” 

“Oh god,” she snorted. “So, she's enjoyed her first day, then?” 

“Yes. Yes, she has. I'll be sure to have her tell you every detail later today.” 

“Oh, thank you. I would hate to be out of the loop.” 

Chapter Text

“I'm telling you Granger, if I had known puberty was going to hit Longbottom like the Hogwarts Express, I wouldn't have been such a bitch to him!” Pansy vented as she and Ginny chauffeured Hermione through racks of Halloween costumes. Throwing aside the last set on her rack, she let out a great huff and said, “That's it. I can't find one to wear.” 

“You can wear an old one of mine,” Ginny offered, pulling out a pair of long lavender satin gloves that sparked an idea. “Help me find bunny ears!” she suddenly demanded. 

“Don't you think the whole bunny girl thing is a bit overplayed these days, Gin?” Pansy sneered. Hermione had half a mind to agree but helped in the search regardless. 

Ginny simply gave her a devilish grin. “Not for me.” 

“Oh, dear God,” Hermione gasped. “You're not going to cross dress with Harry again this year and make him wear some ridiculous leotard or lingerie, are you? We've told you, Ginny, no one wants to see that!” 

“Except maybe Theo,” Pansy countered, approaching from a few aisles over.  

“Definitely Theo!” Ginny laughed. “But no! Just, trust me. It's going to be fantastic.” 

“Here are some ears!” Hermione pulled the white headband from its rack, finding next to it a pair of vampire fangs. “Maybe I could be a vampire. I'm sure they have plenty of—” 

“No!” both women said in unison. 

“Draco already has your outfit all planned out. We had lunch before the trip to plan it,” Pansy explained. “He knew you'd try to weasel out of the party and wanted to make sure you couldn't.” 

 “Personally, it seemed like a bit of an old fantasy playing out,” Ginny quipped. 

Pansy nudged the redhead with a stern look. 

“His job is to protect me from my crazy resurgence stalker, not pick out movies and can openers and Halloween costumes! And why can't I pick out my own costume?” 

The women stared at her in confusion a moment. “You lost us with a bit of that,” Ginny admitted. 

“Because, Hermione,” Pansy started with a tone, "you'd turn those cheap plastic fangs into a full Victorian era cosplay! It would never be done on time. And Draco . . . his needs were pushed aside a lot as a teenager. Help wasn't offered until it was too late in most cases. So, he's grown into more of a no man left behind kind of wizard. In your case, that means making sure you don't alienate yourself more than you already do.” 

“I wouldn't alienate myself by making my own historically accurate costume!” 

“Maybe not, but you have avoided our party in the past because you didn't have time to make a costume,” Ginny added bitterly. “You haven't been to one in a few years. He's probably noticed.” 

“He's definitely noticed,” Pansy mumbled. “Regardless, you have a costume awaiting your perfect arse at Grimmauld.” 

*     *     *

“This is the costume?!” Hermione squealed indignantly, staring at herself in a slightly modified Hogwarts uniform. The hems hung somewhat immodestly over her curves.  

"Yes. He said if it were in the shop it'd be labeled as a Swot,” Pansy laughed. 

“Again, I think he's playing out a secret fantasy,” Ginny said. 

“Then why isn't it green? He was with you at Hogwarts, Pans. And he's in negotiations with Astoria. It seems like his fantasies would involve a lot of his own house colors.” 

Ginny made another confused face, mouthing out “Negotiations?” to Pansy, who shrugged back. 

“Oh, he definitely has a Slytherin kink,” Pansy laughed again. “But it wasn't any of the actual Slytherins he was obsessed with. He likes to think none of us noticed, but trust me, this is perfect. And it's historically accurate!” She smirked, her cunning face suddenly cat like. 

The uniform wasn't bad. It was quite modest for an adult costume. She was suspicious whether Draco really had picked it out, or if Pansy was playing a game with them both.  

Fine. I can play, too.  

With a swish of her wand she began modifying the fabric. 

“What are you doing?” Pansy asked suspiciously.  

“Three can play this game of yours, Pans. He insisted on me dressing up, and I know you had a hand in this outfit, so I'll wear it. But I'm going to be his absolute worst nightmare,” she teased. 

“No, ‘Mione, I don't think you are.” Ginny grinned, wildly excited. “This is going to be amazing.” 

Draco sat patiently in the sunny observatory sipping his tea quietly as he waited for his mother. After their trip to CVS, Hermione had been ready to call their trip early and they packed the room and portkeyed back to London, giving Draco enough time to file a report to MACUSA, one he specifically addressed to Isolt to ensure it was taken care of, and drop the definitely-not-bedroom-related can opener off to Blaise after delivering Hermione safely to Grimmauld place. He trusted Ginny and Pansy explicitly with her now that they were aware of the full threat. 

He had come for tea early. Too early, apparently, since his mother was not yet ready to host him. Why she felt the need to dress for his visits, he couldn't understand, but like most issues, he blamed his father and their pureblood heritage.  

Between etiquette classes and dance lessons, witches were morphed and molded from a young age to be perfect hosts, and his mother lived up to her reputation well. With pristine balls and elegant parties that went well into the morning, she had it down to a science. Which is why, of course, they were having tea today.  

“Draco, dear, you're early!” she cooed from the doorway, rushing over to sweep him into a motherly embrace.  

“How are you, Mother?”  

“Oh, don't worry about me, I'm fine. It's lonely, without your father . . . But I'm making do. How about you, dear? How was your trip?” 

“Lovely, actually. A few minor hiccups, but overall, it was a success.” 

“Is that poor girl aware of what you're doing?” 

“I'm not doing anything, Mother.” 

“If you say so. It's no use lying though. You know I've always seen right through that.” 

“It's impolite to use Legilimency on your own son.” 

“Even if I was, you and I both know you're frequently Occluding. It helped a great deal, when you were young. But I don't suspect too many are attempting to break into your thoughts daily these days.” 

“It doesn't matter. It's a habit. Some things are just better off hidden behind a shroud for safe keeping. Now, can we please move on to why you asked me here? Potter is having his party this evening.” 

“Ah, yes. So, you and Astoria are moving along nicely. I would like to host a small dinner next month to celebrate your union.” 

“Fine. Host at my place, though.” 

“Why?”  

“Because I can ensure it remains small that way.” 

Narcissa smiled softly at him. “Very well. I shall pick a date and let you know. Now, one more request, if you would.” 

“You're being so polite about it. It's either very important to you or it's something I'm likely to say no to. What is it?” 

“I would like Miss Granger over for tea either next week or the following—” 

“I believe when we spoke last, I had requested you make these plans outside of this home,” he bit out, failing to maintain his calm. 

“Yes, but Draco, you know how difficult it can be for me to step out these days and truly, I want this to be welcoming for her. Please. Either next week or—” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“She still has nightmares about this house, Mother. I'm not asking her to return so you can, what? Interrogate her? Feel her out for your next charitable donation?” 

“Of course not, My Dragon,” she breathed. “She has always meant a great deal to you in one way or another but that is irrelevant to my request. I wish to make my own amends and ensure she is aware, if she's ever in need of assistance, that she has the remnants of the Malfoy name on her side.” 

“The remnants?” he scoffed. “Father is imprisoned, not dead.” 

“You would be surprised what your father is capable of, Draco.” 

“I know what he is capable of, Mother.” 

“No, Draco. The change he is capable of. The good he is capable of. The love. He loved me well for many years before he got entwined in that darkness. There was a time that he would sacrifice the world for us. Now, I believe he would sacrifice his version of the world for us, given the opportunity.” 

“What does this have to do with Hermione?”  

She eyed him, making him feel like a bowtruckle under observation in Care of Magical Creatures.  

“As I said, I'm making amends.” Narcissa twirled her finger over her cup, wandlessly lifting a delicate pink flower from her tea and sipped with an oddly mischievous, and unsettling, gleam in her eyes. “So, when may I invite her to tea?” 

*     *     *

Draco pulled on the tight black trousers of his costume, adjusting himself accordingly. At least the black, billowing pirate shirt afforded him comfort and breathability. He had splurged on a pair of expensive dragon-hide leather boots and matching gloves, all black, and had an eye mask custom made with the same high-quality linen he had tied around his head.  

Hermione's favorite movie was The Princess Bride. Ginny and Pansy had told him as much nearly a month previously, and it was all but confirmed the night before as she mouthed the lines in time with the movie as they laid side by side in the bed and breakfast’s cozy bed. With absolutely no ulterior motive other than dressing for a Halloween party, he had decided to go as the dashing, daring, and completely, hopelessly, utterly in love Dread Pirate Roberts. Or, more specifically, Westley. If she didn't swoon at the sight of him, he'd get black out drunk and pretend the night never happened. 

Either way, it was a win-win. Especially since he would get to see Hermione Fucking Granger dressed in uniform swooning over him. Not that it was fulfilling a lifelong fantasy, obviously. He certainly wasn't hoping she’d forget to smooth her curls, leaving them a ball of frizz sprouting wild and free from her scalp, or decide she needed to research something and start lingering in a far corner with an open book. He could distract her under the table, pushing her panties aside as he buried his face— 

No, no, no.   

He had to focus. He had already relieved himself once in anticipation, allowing his fantasies to roam into disastrous corners of his mind. Now that he was fully dressed in his devilishly appealing pants, he was not taking them off due to a boyhood longing and loss of control! 

She was Hermione Fucking Granger, and she was seeing someone! He could not let himself leap into the dangerous territory of longing. 

Draco stomped to the floo, unsure of what the fuck he was doing with himself to have dressed as her favorite character. Surly, he would have to lie to her. Or maybe he could get by with obvious flirting. That usually flustered her to the point of either reciprocation or argumentation, and he would be game for either, honestly. 

He arrived fashionably late. Late enough that a good portion of the party had arrived with drinks in hand, but not late enough to make a scene. Hermione had yet to arrive, which would have worried him if Pansy had not been missing as well. Ginny had greeted him in a sultry, curve accentuating sparkling red dress with a slit going up past her hip bone. Harry, much to his confusion, was dressed in white bunny ears, cartoonishly plush yellow gloves and red fabric trousers with attached braces. Underneath, he was shirtless, showing off his considerably toned chest. 

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he blurted the moment Harry came to greet his partner. 

“Roger Rabbit," he answered candidly, as if it explained it perfectly.  

“Why does Ginevra look like that,” he gestured to the glamorous redhead, “and you look like a poorly imagined cartoon character?” 

“Because I am. Not the poorly imagined bit, but a cartoon character. She's my wife.” 

“I know she's your wife Potter; I went to your wedding.” 

“No, she's dressed as my wife!” 

“There's no way Ginny dresses like that normally. Besides, the point of Halloween is to dress as something you're not!” He was feeling flustered. Had Potter lost the bit of intelligence he actually had?! 

“No. ” He was clearly just as frustrated. “Ginny is dressed as Roger Rabbit's wife in the movie! And I am the cartoon Rabbit who is married to her!” 

“Why didn't you just bloody say that to begin with?” He left a dumbfounded Harry and his giggling, beautiful wife to find some whiskey, hopeful they had a store of the muggle kinds he rarely indulged in. 

Grimmauld's eclectic kitchen boasted a spread of Halloween goodies ranging from witch hat cupcakes to jack-o-lanterns spewing fruit salad from their carved mouths. Every inch of the table was filled with themed treats and snacks. Every inch, other than the end crammed with enough booze to intoxicate the entire Slytherin dormitory at once, that is.   

He watched as a suited-up Longbottom ladled a glass of bright red liquid labeled witch's blood into a cup. He plopped a sugar eyeball into the drink, and it began to fizz, puffing out an eerie fog from the glass as it slowly turned the red potion into a glimmering black. Draco decided to stick to whiskey rather than whatever concoction the girls had created.  

Off in a corner he spotted Macmillan and Boot in a heated discussion with McLaggen, Boot being on the verge of tears. He thought it was a tad early in the night for the dramatics, but figured the wizard had pre-gamed and let them be, instead pouring his whiskey two fingers higher than he typically would, adding a cinnamon candy, and heading off to find the party in the living room.  

“Draco, thank fuck!” Theo explained as he entered, pausing suddenly to look him over. “What on earth are you?” 

“I'm a pirate.” Draco sipped his whiskey, letting the burn pass over his tongue and wake his body.  

“Sure you are, mate.” He patted Draco roughly on the shoulder. 

“Let me guess, Roman gladiator?”  

Theo had on intricate bronze armor and carried a genuine shield. The sword sheathed at his side wouldn't have surprised Draco if it had turned out to be real as well. His normally golden-toned chest had been oiled for the occasion, making the fit wizard appear dressed more for a high-budget film than a costume party. 

“I'm here to fight for my love!” he declared, gesturing over to the blonde devil flirting with the unmarried Weasley twin.  

At least, Draco assumed it was the unmarried one. Now that he was thinking of it, he wasn't entirely sure either twin was actually married. He scanned the room, unable to find the match to the set, but found Ron standing off to the side dressed in feathers with oddly shaped claw hands. He talked quietly with Lavender, who had donned a bloodied wedding dress, neither paying Ron’s on and off again girlfriend (ex-girlfriend now, Draco supposed) any mind as she flirted with the hopefully single wizard. 

“Have fun with that, Theo,” Draco said dully. 

“I'm going to duel him.” 

“What?” he scoffed. 

“He's dressed as a pirate—a real pirate, not whatever the hell you are. I know he has a sword. I'm going to challenge Fred to a sword fight for Daphne's attention!” He took out a flask and took a long pull. “Just as soon as we're all drunk enough!” 

“What an excellent idea Theo. There’s no way you'll get hurt in that scenario.” 

“Oh, Salazar's long, slithering snake!” Theo exclaimed, staring wide-eyed into the hall. “Hermione knows how to make a bloody entrance!” 

“What are you—” he turned to look, finding Hermione walking slowly down the stairs.  

The Gryffindor costume he and Pansy had picked had been modified in the most sinister of ways. Now sporting an untied green tie, a little snake embroidered at the bottom and her uniform top so tight it remained partially unbuttoned, showing off more cleavage than Draco realized she had. Her skirt, as short as it had already been, had somehow shrunk, cutting off just under her arse so that as she walked down the stairs, he could see the bottom hem of her lacy panties hugging the soft curve of each perfectly round cheek. Green garters held up thigh-high schoolgirl stockings. She ended the outfit with shiny black stilettos as sharp as the winged eyeliner Pansy had applied for her. If it hadn't been the unruly curls, somehow even wilder than usual, he may not have recognized her as she sauntered into the room with a gleam in her eye that said she would step on anyone who got in her way.  

Draco would have let her walk all over him. 

Pansy trailed behind in nothing more than lingerie and an undone tie. 

The moment Hermione's beautiful brown eyes met his, the sharp Slytherin glare she had somehow perfected dissipated into the warm grin he associated as hers.  

“That is not the outfit we picked out, Granger,” he chided with a smile. His heart fluttered just talking to her and suddenly he felt like they were back at school. A very, very different version of school. 

“No, I felt the other was far too inappropriate for a party,” she laughed. 

“Yes, and this is much more tame.” She smiled at him. “What is Pansy supposed to be?”  

“She wouldn't tell me! Said it was a secret between her and someone else. I plan on using my Slytherin cunning and piecing it together.” She winked at him. “Would you mind walking with me to grab a drink? I always get a bit overwhelmed at the start of parties.” 

He wouldn't leave her side if she asked him. He bowed dramatically and said in his best Cary Ewles voice, “As you wish.”  

The blush painting her cheeks made his own slight embarrassment worth it. 

Following her into the kitchen proved to be a mistake. The moment they entered, the energy shifted and he noticed the new man tucked away in the far corner beside Cormac only a moment before Hermione. McLaggen leered lasciviously at Hermione, raking his eyes over her before scowling and storming off. The other man, who Draco had recognized the moment he entered, had more class, which irked Draco. He watched Hermione from afar, smiling slightly as she started chatting with Ginny and Theo, who refused to keep his hands to himself (like he was capable). Then, Theo gestured to the man in the corner and Hermione’s face lit brighter than it ever had for him. 

Fuck. 

Fillian. Fucking. Blackfoot. 

Hermione hadn't mentioned that he was coming. In fact, she hadn't even been planning on coming! So why the fuck was he here, ruining his night? 

Hermione all but ran to him. He couldn't see her face but he was sure she had a smile from ear to ear plastered onto it. She grabbed his hand and turned them toward Theo.  

No, she turned toward him. 

Fuck. He was going to need another drink. He couldn't pour the whiskey fast enough and he found himself capping the bottle as Hermione began her formal introduction. 

“Fillian, this is Draco Malfoy, he's been helping me with . . . Well, He's been helping me. Draco, this is Fillian, my—well, a friend of mine,” she finished awkwardly.  

While he hated her introducing him as Draco , seeing as how she rarely used his first name to begin with, he was thriving in her stumbling through what to call Fillian. Was he not her boyfriend? She looked uncomfortable, now that he could see her up close. Did he not know about her work? He had so many questions now! Which reminded him, he had never had a chance to look through the extra information Lavender had retrieved.  

“Pleasure,” the man purred, reaching his hand to shake Draco's. He had to choke down the inappropriate desire to elbow the wizard in the nose. In his too-straight, perfectly proportioned nose—he just needed to add a little bend to it.  

Draco took the wizard's hand firmly. “Please, the pleasure's all mine. Hermione gave me the impression you weren't going to make it tonight.” 

The wizard flexed his fingers as they released. Maybe Draco had shook it a bit too firmly.  

“Yes, well, my Hermione here forgot to mention the party, actually. It was Theo who had invited me! We ran into one another yesterday as he was dropping off some files to her office! I had some other business and was going to check and see if she wanted to grab lunch, only to find out she was in Salem , of all places!” 

Theo popped in at that moment. “Yes, I felt so bad for him I decided to invite him along! I knew her costume would be salacious, but I had no idea it would be so delicious. If I had known, I would have told him to bugger off so I could have a go at the new Slytherin Princess myself!” He grinned, eyeing Hermione like dessert.  

Draco didn't give a damn about Theo. He knew his intentions held firm in the just friends category. But something about the way Fillian's eyes lingered over her hungrily made him want to tell both of them to fuck off. So, he did. 

“Theo, we both know you're salivating over Daphne, so save your energy for a witch you actually have a chance in hell with and fuck off.” 

“Feeling a bit testy there, mate?” he said casually to Draco under his breath. “Pirates usually hide their treasure, not guard it like a dragon.”  

“I thought you didn’t like Blackfoot for Hermione? Said he had a reputation,” Draco accused. 

“Maybe I was hoping it would light a fire under your arse. That witch isn’t going to be on the market forever.” 

With that, he walked off, leaving Draco as grumpy as ever as he greeted Longbottom with a pat on the back, interrupting a rather intimate conversation with Pansy about the tie she wore loosely around her neck. Draco noted how the rich satin would have paired rather nicely with the Herbology Professor’s immaculate—and somehow tieless—suit. 

“I'm afraid I must steal my Hermione away from you, Draco. I'd like to meet each of her friends tonight before I head out. I have a lecture to attend early on and I'd rather not fall asleep half through!” Fillian said through a snake's grin.  

“Of course. Don't let me keep you,” Draco replied cooly, his eyes fixed on Hermione's as Fillian led her out by the hand. 

Hermione stopped abruptly at the doorway. “I'll catch up with you later. Don't run off without finding me first!” 

Draco said the only words he could in the hopes of conveying how he felt. “As you wish.” 

*     *     *

The next hour ticked by dreadfully slow as Draco watched Fillian paw at his witch. Stealing kisses in the midst of conversation, he’d slide his hand over her arse while she’d swat it away with a smile, all the while plying her with drinks until she had to lean on him just to stand. Draco hated the kisses the most and usually filled his glass when he stumbled upon them. 

“You look miserable,” a familiar voice taunted from behind him. 

“I'm fine, Pansy,” he lied without looking up at her. 

She followed his line of sight toward where Fillian was gently rubbing Hermione's back and whispering into her ear. “I don't like him,” she whispered conspiratorially. 

“No?” 

“No. Something's off about him. Did you know he hasn't tried getting her to bed yet?” 

“No, Pansy,” he said exasperatedly. “Why would I know that?” 

“Well, it's just weird! Look at her and tell me you wouldn't have taken her upstairs the moment you seen her!” He turned his icy glare to her. “Sorry, I didn't mean it—I just meant, she's a goddamn catch and between Ronald, the few tossers in between and now this arsehole, she has the dating confidence of a broken twig!” 

“I don't even know what that's supposed to mean, Pansy.” 

“It means she wouldn't know true love if it bit her on the arse and told her ‘As you wish ’.” 

“Bugger off, Pans. I'm not in the mood for one of your pep talks.” 

“Fine. But just to warn you, Viktor Krum just walked in. From what I heard, he still holds a rather sweltering torch for our girl.” 

“Not my anything, Pansy,” he reminded her.       

“Yes, well, she's certainly not Krum's! And if I had to wager a guess, judging by the costume she picked out—” 

“You picked out.” 

“We picked out,” she compromised tersely. “I'd say she was more than interested in a certain Auror who's equally as obsessed with her.”  

“Don't tell me McLaggen's finally won her over,” he joked, earning a small shove from the petit brunette. 

“Fine. Sit here and sulk. Or get out there and play the offensive. Make her jealous, for a change.” 

“She has to be interested to be jealous.” 

“Maybe. Either way, it wouldn't hurt. Hannah Abbott is newly single and has been eyeing you all night. Go play with her hair and tell her she's pretty and maybe you'll get laid tonight. Or, you could always see if Astoria could make it.” 

He shot her a glare, then walked away in time to see Hermione throw her arms around her ex's fat neck. Krum wrapped his own nearly twice around her. Salazar, he had somehow bulked up since school. If he punched Krum, there was a significant chance he would be punched back harder.  

Not long after Krum's arrival, and his disinterest in leaving Hermione's side until a very drunk Weasley (the married twin, Draco was certain), pulled him away to discuss Merlin-knew-what, Fillian finally departed. Draco didn't need to look at Hermione's face to know she was disappointed. He also didn't need to to know how irritated she was the moment Cormac approached her with a glass of the punch, fizzing and fogging as wildly as the rest. Had he Been paying any attention, he would know she had strictly been drinking red wine and half-shots of firewhiskey all night and hadn't once tasted the foul concoction. Nonetheless, she took the drink and took polite sips as he sucked her into conversation, eyeing the heavy Amount of skin she showed off on her chest far too much for a coworker. 

Fillian's attention he had to suffer. 

Krum's he accepted based solely on Hermione's comfort. 

McLaggen, however, had a history—one involving Hermione requesting an absolute lack of his presence. So, Draco was entirely justified as he marched toward them, ready to pull his witch away.  

Not his witch.  

Unfortunately, Hannah chose that moment to drunkenly bombard him with unwarranted affection. She blocked his path with a hand on his chest, trailing her fingers along the deep hem of his collar. Draco had had too much to drink to find the appropriately polite words to end the horrifying interaction. His mind jumped from Granger's own distressed features and her drunken sway as she searched the room, finding his unbelievably uncomfortable interaction and looking . . .  

Was that hurt?  

Was she upset that Hannah was— 

Oh, shit when did she start kissing his neck?!  

He shouldn't have had so much to drink. As gently as he could he removed the woman from his lap.  

When did they sit down?!   

She looked at him in confusion, then anger, before ending their entire interaction with a slap. Whatever he had said to her was not the polite way to let her down. If only he could remember what it was. All he could think about was the woman he now couldn't find, and the wizard suspiciously missing as well.  

Draco leapt from the couch and all but ran to where they had been before searching each room. He found Longbottom and Pansy uncharacteristically close (he'd dissect that interaction later), Fred and Theo in a heated discussion as they stumbled up the stairs, and Ron and Lavender snogging in a bathroom before finally finding Ginny who had mentioned seeing her stumble up the stairs to bed.  

“Was she alone?!” he growled. 

“I think so, but there were so many people going up and down that it was hard to tell. Fillian left though so I don't know who—” 

“Who was on the stairs?!” 

“How the fuck should I remember?!” she snapped back. 

“Ginevra, I need you to try! Was McLaggen there?” 

“Don't be a prick to me in my own fucking house, Malfoy, or you'll be out on your arse in the street!” 

“Ginny, please,” he begged, his voice softening. “Please tell me which room she would have gone to.” 

“Okay! Fuck. Her room is on the third floor. Last door on the left. Go check on her if you're so bloody worried about whether she took someone other than you to bed!” 

Draco sprinted up the steps, ignoring her venom and tripping slightly on the runner in the hall before making it to the third floor. There were so many rooms stretched down the hallway it was as if he had been transported into a nightmare. He couldn't remember which room Ginny had said was hers, so door after door he barged in, finding each empty except for one. The last door on the left was locked.  

He knocked. Politely at first, but growing in intensity as no one answered. He wanted to barge in, to explode the door to pieces to see that she was in there alone, sleeping the booze away peacefully. But he couldn't do that—not yet. So, he knocked louder, this time hollering her name through the wooden panel.  

Suddenly the door opened. A disgruntled Theo stood in the doorway. “What do you want, mate? Kind of busy here!” he hissed through the narrow opening, his bare chest showing over the pale blue sheet wrapped around his waist.  

“What the fuck are you doing, Theo?!” Draco growled back, seeing red as he imagined all the times he had flirted with Hermione in front of him. He shoved through the door, pulling his wand and readying himself to hex his best friend.  

But it wasn't Hermione's naked form lying on the bed ready for Theo. Daphne sat, fully naked on the bed between Fred Weasley's legs. Clearly, they hadn't stopped while Theo answered the door and now gave Draco a sight that would probably linger in his mind for eternity.  

“What the fuck, Draco?!” Daphne hissed, removing Fred's cock from her mouth with a haunting pop. 

“Isn't this Granger's room?!” he shouted, still pulsing with adrenaline. “This is not the type of swordfight I thought you fucking meant, Theo!” 

Theo, at least, had the decency to look ashamed. 

“We didn't realize it was until she walked in on us getting started,” Fred explained apologetically.  

“Where did she go?!” 

“Is she alright?” Theo asked.  

“I don't know. Where the fuck did she go, Theo?” 

“She said she needed some air,” Daphne chimed in. “So probably outside. You must have just missed her on the stairs.” 

“In fact, I see a rather handsy couple out by the gazebo,” Fred said, peering out the window. “Look, you can just see their shadow there by the tree. Is that . . . is that McLaggen?” 

“Who knew he had it in himself to pull Granger,” Daphne said. 

“He doesn't,” Theo said, a bit fearfully before running to grab his faux armor. 

Draco was already running for the stairs, his wand clenched tightly in his fist. “I'm going to fucking kill that fucking ghoul,” he roared, flying down the stairs. 

Theo followed after, donned in his ridiculous armor and stopping only long enough to pull a pair of boxers over his still rather rigid cock, and to pry Harry away from Ginny's mouth. 

Chapter Text

If Hermione was honest with herself, she would know that this night could have ended differently, had she been forthcoming about her feelings at the start. If she had ended things with Fillian the moment he bombarded her in the kitchen. If she hadn't accepted each of the offered drinks he and McLaggen—and even Viktor—had plied her with. All of the ifs that could have prevented Cormac's slimy tongue forcing its way into her mouth, his hands pawing at the few functioning buttons of her shirt. She wanted to shove him away. Her mind was screaming that he did not belong , but her body simply refused to cooperate. 

The tree bark pressed sharply into her back and scratched at her bare thighs. Her body ached in unnatural longing—not longing for him, but a heat that had forced its way into her, creeping up all at once from the alcoholic buzz that warmed her limbs.  

His hands finished the job of her shirt. Mercifully he left the emerald green bra in place as his hands traveled to her thighs, ripping away the garters. His mouth was on her neck now, slobbering over her collar bone.  

“Get . . . off . . . Cormac,” she forced out. Her voice sounded tired through the slur of her words. 

“You don't mean that,” he said confidently into her hair. “If you did, you'd push me away right now.”  

“C-can't,” was all she could say. She was so tired, but her body was on fire.  

“I know.” He laughed, his forehead falling onto her shoulder. His hands stilled on her hips. “I knew the potion was going to be incredible. I just didn't realize it would be this potent! Look at you, all flushed for me . Finally, for me! You're probably drenched by now. Merlin, Granger, I've waited a long time to have you. I couldn't let that bastard have all the fun!” His hands were at his own pants now, unbuttoning. “I knew he wouldn't let me have you first, even after all the fucking work I put in! All the danger I put myself through for his fucking plan! All because his uncle is losing his bloody marbles and has fucked up his damned memory!”  

His hands were back on her waist, his fingers trailing the hem of her pleated skirt. Something firm pressed into her thigh and she squirmed at the idea of what it was. 

“I guess I shouldn't complain, though,” he continued, his mouth hot against the plump curve of her breast. “If it had been Dolohov making the rules, you'd have been dead the moment word got out about your world changing potion. He would hate for anyone to find his precious hideout—as if he’ll actually win when Voldemort lost against a teenaged orphan!” He laughed again. “With him in charge, I get to have you as much as I want while you fix his memory. I deserve to have you.” 

His mouth started working on her neck again. She wanted to shout for help, shout for Harry, or Ron, or . . . or Draco, but she couldn't connect her brain to her body. If only she could push him away and take a deep breath of the fresh air, clear away whatever was possessing her so she could think! So she could remember where her wand went, remember how she got outside, remember how she ended up unable to bite Cormac's tongue off for sticking it anywhere near her teeth!  

So she could remember how she got in this position. And remember how to fight back. 

— Earlier that night —  

“Slytherin green?” Pansy scoffed proudly. “Hermione, you're going to have every male bastard downstairs drooling!” 

“There's only one I care about,” she mumbled without thinking. 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. Fillian!” s he cooed sarcastically, drawing a heart in the air with her fingers before pretending to vomit. 

“Right. Yes . . . Fillian.” Hermione stared at her reflection. “Can I be honest with you, Pans?” she asked, fluffing her hair into wild curls that oddly resembled Bellatrix's deranged mane. 

“I insist on it, Hermione. I hate dishonesty. Especially when it involves feelings toward mutual friends.” 

Hermione whipped her head around. “What are you talking about?” 

“Please. It's been written on your face since his trial. For a while I thought you two had been lovers at Hogwarts and I was pissed at him for keeping it secret. Then we became friends, and I realized you're both simply idiots.” 

“Both?” Her heart skipped a beat. She thought she had felt a spark, of something between them, but her rational mind insisted it couldn't be.  

“Never mind, Hermione. It's nothing. So, you didn't invite your boyfriend?” 

“No . . . I actually wasn't sure I was coming until last night. Besides, he's been adamant about separate lives until we're more serious, so I didn't think—I think I need to break up with him,” she blurted.  

Pansy's hands stilled on her crown as she had been smoothing her near black hair into perfect waves.  

“I never see him, “Hermione continued hurriedly. “It's only a matter of time before he leaves me anyways and I've been thinking of someone else, so it doesn't feel right.” 

Pansy's eyes sparkled. “Who?” 

“It doesn't matter. There's no universe he could or would feel similarly. But what matters is, I need to break up with him.” 

“I'm not an idiot, Hermione. I have eyes and intuition as sharp as McGonagall!” she scathed, reaching over to twist a flattened strand at the back of her friend's head. “If you don't want to discuss it, fine. Just make sure I'm not the last to know when something finally happens between you two—AHT!” She cut off Hermione's argument before her mouth could fully open. “I said what I said. I think it's a wonderful idea to break up with that priss that used to teach Theo. He has a rotten aura—sludge brown like my father's. I don't trust him. Even Theo was surprised when Draco told him you two were together, given his reputation.”  

Hermione waved her off. “Fillian’s admitted he had a bit of a past with witches, but we’re grown adults. We all have histories.” 

A low whistle sounded behind them as Ginny barged into the room. “Pansy, if I wasn't so in love with Harry I'd be on my knees begging you to take me to bed!” 

“Speak for yourself, Ginevra! Look at those tits!” 

“Who are you supposed to be? And what's with the tie?” 

“It's a secret between me and the other half of my costume. He'll take me home after the party and has promised to rip whatever costume I'm wearing off with his teeth. I figured I'd make it easy for him.” 

“What about you, Hermione? Trying to impress any wizard in particular tonight?” 

“Malfoy picked out that ridiculous uniform, and I am nothing if not compliant.” 

Both women laughed. “It's so typically you to bend the rules how you see fit,” Pansy teased.  

She waved them off again. “He wanted to embarrass me. So, I'll own it Instead.” 

“Yeah, that's what he wanted.” Ginny rolled her eyes, missing the smug look plastered on Pansy’s face as she stripped out of the casual clothes that were now covered in flour and various juices. The sequined dress she slipped on hugged her curves snugly, yet she still asked Pansy to charm the dress to accentuate her features further. By the end, she had a cartoonishly hourglass shape perfect for Jessica Rabbit. 

*     *     *

Hermione listened as the party started downstairs. She was unrealistically nervous knowing the cheeky lace panties she had picked out would practically be on display. Thankfully, Pansy had opted to wait behind with her, taking half-shots of Firewhiskey as they giggled over Pansy's first days of teaching.  

“Alright. The party is well underway. Draco should be down there mingling by now. Let's go make our grand entrance,” Pansy instructed, reaching out for Hermione's hand to stabilize her in the charmed heels she wasn't used to wearing.  

Hermione stepped onto the stairs. One step at a time she descended into the throws of Halloween celebration. Already their friends had paired off with their potential mates. Ron was busy whispering in Lavender's ear, who blushed under her bloody makeup. Hermione hoped they would work things out—after all, Daphne stood on the opposite end of the room flirting shamelessly with Fred without even a jealous glance from Ron. 

By the middle step, all eyes had made it to her and Pansy. She scanned the room, finding the pale blue-grey of Draco's melted ice caps drinking her in. His eyes darkened and she felt the heat building between her legs. He had come as the love of her life, as she had joked about only the night before. Surely that wasn't coincidence. 

“That is not the outfit we picked out, Granger,” he chided, his mouth curving beneath his mask to form a wolfish grin. 

“No, I felt the other was far too inappropriate for a party,” she flirted back, not missing as his eyes lingered politely over her face rather than the expanse of chest she had placed on display. 

“Yes, and this is much more tame.” He took a moment to admire her fully. Maybe it was the whiskey, or his tight pants, but she wanted to push him into the nearby broom closet and let him rip apart what little fabric covered her body. “What is Pansy supposed to be?”  

“She wouldn't tell me! Said it was a secret between her and someone else. I plan on using my Slytherin Cunning and piecing it together.” She winked at him. Suddenly she realized how many eyes were on her and she felt increasingly self-conscious. “Would you mind walking with me to grab a drink? I always get a bit overwhelmed at the start of parties.” 

“As you wish.” 

The heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered the line from the movie.  

Did he understand what that meant?! Was it intentional ?  

She needed to know more than anything. 

“My love,” Theo cooed from the drink table, rushing over to them. His hands strayed a little low on her back during their hug. “You look ravishing. Delicious. There's not a wizard here who isn't going to picture this at least once while they wank!” 

“That's . . . charming, Theo.” Yet, she felt less than charmed by that notion as she felt Cormac's seedy eyes lingering on her.  

“Between you, baby Weasley here, and Pansy with her fucking lingerie, this party feels like it's heading toward an orgy!” 

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, Theo!” Ginny scolded. “Go fuck off back to your bloody duel with my brother before he takes Daphne up to the spare room.” 

Theo rolled his eyes before pulling Hermione fully into his arms. She felt him swaying back and forth before he planted a kiss firmly on her cheek. “You do look beautiful, love. So beautiful, in fact, I think Fillian is probably dying in the corner there to see you.” 

“What?!” She quickly masked the surprise on her face with her best semblance of excitement as they turned to see the man she planned on never seeing again.  

Fuck.   

She couldn't break up with him here, at a party that she hadn't even invited him to. That would be rude! He had a conference on Monday that he was traveling to first thing in the morning . . . maybe she could convince him to leave early. 

Hermione's feet moved forward hesitantly. She had to tell them to move faster and when they did, she practically lunged forward from her nervous energy. She had to get it together before they started talking or she may just blurt out her feelings—or lack thereof. After a brief kiss on the cheeks in greeting, she turned him back to her friends. The best, most normal thing to do is make introductions.  

Starting with Draco.  

Maybe, if he decided to use his Legilimency, he could think of an excuse to extricate her from the situation. Maybe he would hex Theo for her for ruining the party. 

But Draco wasn't looking at her. He couldn't see the plea in her eyes as he focused on pouring himself a drink. And then they were there, and she had to say something.  

“Fillian, this is Draco Malfoy, he's been helping me with . . . Well, he's been helping me. Draco, this is Fillian, my—well, a friend of mine,” she finished awkwardly.  

“Pleasure,” Fillian sneered, reminding her oddly of Snape as he reached his hand out to shake Draco's.  

“Please, the pleasure's all mine.”  

Was it? Was he happy to be meeting him?   

“Hermione gave me the impression you weren't going to make it tonight,” her Auror continued. 

“Yes, well, my Hermione here forgot to mention the party, actually.”  

My Hermione?!   

“It was Theo who had invited me! We ran into one another yesterday as he was dropping off some files to her office! I had some other business and was going to check and see if she wanted to grab lunch, only to find out she was in Salem, of all places!” 

Theo popped in at that moment. “Yes, I felt so bad for him I decided to invite him along! I knew her costume would be salacious, but I had no idea it would be so delicious. If I had known, I would have told him to bugger off so I could have a go at the new Slytherin Princess myself!” He grinned. Hermione knew Theo was a flirt and only meant about a quarter of the things he said. 

“Theo, we both know you're salivating over Daphne, so save your energy for a witch you actually have a chance in hell with and fuck off,” Draco snapped testily. 

“Feeling a bit testy there, mate?” Theo said casually to Draco before whispering something in his ear, only furthering to set his teeth on edge. As he walked off, he greeted Neville with a pat on the back, intruding on a rather cozy conversation. Hermione noticed how Pansy seemed to take half a step back from the Herbology Professor as Theo approached, her hand pulling away from where it had been resting on his chest. She laughed at the absurdity of it all and thought for a moment the two looked like the costume equivalent of a one-night stand—maybe even a secret office affair. 

“I'm afraid I must steal my Hermione away from you, Draco. I'd like to meet each of her friends tonight before I head out. I have a lecture to attend early on and I'd rather not fall asleep half through!” Fillian said jovially, making Hermione cringe at his intentional use of ownership. Had it been a normal night, she would have lectured him.  

“Of course. Don't let me keep you,” he said, his eyes fixed on Hermione's as Fillian led her out by the hand. 

Hermione stopped abruptly at the doorway. She was at this blasted party on his insistence, and she'd be damned if she let him get away with it without spending time with her. “I'll catch up with you later,” she told him, pleading with him with her eyes. “Don't run off without finding me first!” 

Draco said the three words that screamed to her through the doubt. “As you wish.” 

The moment they were out of earshot, Fillian bent low to brush a kiss against her ear and whisper, “You look ravishing. If I didn't have that conference I'd be begging you to let me go home with you.” 

Hermione tried not to cringe away. Fillian had been such a gentleman—kind and understanding—from the moment she had met him. And he was genuinely interested in her, work schedule or not. Now that she was with him, she found it difficult to justify leaving him for the uncertainty that was Draco Malfoy. There was no possible future there, and so she let Fillian twist his fingers through hers and pour another tall glass of wine. She let him lead her around the house like a pet as each step grew less sturdy and she stopped caring that her lacy bra had begun peeking through the top hem of her shirt.  

“Oh! Here's Harry!” She wasn't quite at the point of slurring, but knew if she continued the path Fillian was leading her she'd be stumbling about Grimmauld in no time. So, she had stopped drinking, instead leaving her glass mostly full and sipping casually as a deterrent—or at least, that’s what she tried to do.  

Harry and Ron stepped over to meet them. Neither looked pleased to meet Hermione's boyfriend, which honestly made her further decide to stay with him. Of course, that could have been the firewhiskey thinking for her. 

“Fillian,” he introduced, extending his hand eagerly to Harry, who took it hesitantly, then to Ron who squeezed firmly and puffed out his chest as if in dominance. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Harry, Ron,” she gestured correspondingly.  

“The Golden Trio,” Fillian sighed in reverence. “You three basically orchestrated the fall of one of the greatest wizards of our time before you were even past NEWTS. Marvelous.” 

“Well, not much of a choice, was there?” Harry responded bitterly, and Hermione understood. 

“Mostly those two, really,” Ron admitted modestly.  

“Still, what a miracle that you three were always there, ready to save the day,” Fillian said, a strangely mocking tone hidden beneath the honeyed timbre of his voice. 

“Lovely to meet you, File-an,” Harry said abruptly. She was sure the mispronunciation was on purpose. “I'm sure we'll meet again.” 

As Harry turned on his plush rabbit feet and walked away to join Ginny, Daphne and Fred, Ron crossed his arms and tried making general small talk, discussing everything from Quidditch teams to Fillian’s intentions, fully settling into the friend zone before he, too, was called away to Lavender’s side, earning a slight glare from the petit blonde now trailing her fingers across Fred's chest. 

“So, how is your potion coming along?” 

Fillian's question caught Hermione off guard. She had let herself sober up a bit, though the persistent buzz was welcome, and after giving him the full tour of the party and fighting off his roaming hands for nearly an hour, Hermione was ready to kindly suggest he get going for the night.  

“Fine! Yes, it's coming along nicely, actually. I have high hopes to have it completed in a matter of weeks.” 

“Weeks?! Really?” 

“Yes! I believe I've acquired what will be the final ingredient. It's simply a matter of finding the correct quantity and then determining dosage and treatment.” 

“Astounding. Truly.” 

“Thank you, I—” 

“Herm-in-ninny?” a thick Bulgarian accent called to her, cutting off her thought.  

“Viktor!” He reached down and pulled her into a far too friendly embrace, pushing Fillian out of her grasp altogether. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering against her skin. “I didn't realize you were coming into town today!” 

“I came to see my muse,” he murmured romantically. “The female Weasley invited me after last veekend’s pre-season match. She promised you vould be here.” He turned to Fillian. “You, I am surprised to see, though. It has been long time. I am glad to see you have removed some of your thoughts.” 

“You two know each other?”  

“Yes—” Viktor began to say at the same time as Fillian said, “No—I mean, a long time ago.” 

“Not long enough. Forgive me, Her-my-ninny. Let me get you something to drink and ve will have a toast.” Viktor was back with a fresh wine and a shot for both of them. “To reconnecting,” he said lifting his shot into the air and downing it.       

“So, how do you two know each other?” Fillian asked bravely. 

“My Her-my-ninny walked into my life on the shores of Black Lake during our time at Hogwarts for the Tri-wizard tournament. With her nose stuck into a book with so many words to make my head spin. She was as beautiful then as she is now. I am surprised your memory lacks such beauty. I thought I recalled you had been one of the students who—” 

“Your Hermione would have been, what, sixteen back then?” 

Hermione coughed. “Fourteen.” 

“Yes. Thankfully she's grown into herself some since then.” Fillian winked at Hermione. She wasn't quite sure what to make of the statement. “And I can enjoy her in ways you can't even fantasize about in your wildest dreams, Krum.” 

Hermione blushed scarlet. They hadn't even had sex yet—not that she hadn't thought about it, they just simply hadn't found the time. Could that be the reason she found herself so drawn to Draco? She'd revisit that sober. Fillian was a good fit for her. He was intelligent, understood her work ethic, and didn't get frustrated when she canceled plans. He was a secure choice.  

She chanced a glance toward where she knew Draco was watching Krum and found him downing an amber-filled glass before pulling a pile of coins toward him at the poker table. He had taken his mask off, leaving the sharp planes of his face visible and had just stood and faced her, as if he would come to fulfill the promise of finding her before he left. However, he turned toward the kitchen instead, heading off to refill his glass. 

Viktor smiled at FIllian, then leaned closely to his ear like an old friend. “It is my name she moaned only weeks ago, тарикат. It will be mine she screams again when you let her down.” 

“Krum!” George shouted as Viktor released his grip on Fillian’s shoulder, running over to Hermione's small group. She was relieved to have a buffer, if only for a moment as the redhead pulled the quidditch star away toward Angelina and Ginny. 

“I'm afraid I should be going as well, Hermione,” Fillian declared briskly.  

“I'll walk you to the door.” 

“Actually, I was hoping to use the floo? I'm afraid I'm not sure I should apparate. I think my speech is fine enough though.” 

“I'll walk you to the floo, then,” she said with a smile. 

“Nonsense, Hermione,” he said softly. “You enjoy your party. I've taken up far too much of your time as it is.” He winked at her. “Besides, looks like you have yet another admirer coming to vie for your attention.”      

She felt the audible sound of disgust escape her lips as she spotted Cormac prancing over to her with a full, fogging glass of punch. Fillian gave her a quick peck on the mouth before heading off to find the floo. She wished he had asked her to show him, simply for the sake of avoiding Cormac's persistence. 

“Hermione, I dare say I don't think I have ever seen you dress so provocatively,” he started slimily, giving her the urge to wrap herself in a sweater or throw herself into the fireplace—either would do, honestly. “Green suits you. If this is what you would have looked like sorted into Slytherin, the hat did all the purebloods a great disservice.” 

“Thanks, Cormac,” she said awkwardly, unsure whether it was truly a compliment. He handed her the yellow fizzing drink. Something seemed off about the color, but she couldn't quite remember what, so she took a polite sip of the too-sweet concoction.   

“Shame Fillian had to leave so soon. Seems like a decent wizard.” 

“Yes, he is. He helped several of the children of death eaters acclimate and reform their image after the war. He's studied the wars quite a lot and is planning on releasing a book in the next few years.” 

“Brilliant. And your work? All coming along well?” 

“Yes, very well.” 

“Malfoy not giving you too much trouble about being a mud—muggleborn, I hope?” 

Hermione ignored the almost slip. Even those without prejudice catch themselves using the slur on occasion simply from habit or upbringing. She had long stopped finding offense in the word. “He's been an absolute gentleman.”  

She glanced toward him, finding Hannah Abbott, who had not been shy about her infatuation with the blonde, trailing her fingers along his chest. She couldn't see his face, but he didn't remove himself and figured he was probably enjoying the interaction. 

His engagement to Astoria must not be finalized, she thought to herself, missing something Cormac had said.  

“I'm so sorry, say that again?” After a night of drinking primarily wine, the punch was flooding her head quickly.  

“I said, ‘Cheers to the potion’. For all the hard work.” Cormac lifted his glass to her and clicked it as she lifted her own. His beer touched his lips as the sickly sweet punch filled her mouth. She took a larger mouthful than intended, but when she went to pull her mouth away from the glass, Cormac's fingers were there, gently encouraging her to finish the small flute of pretty liquid. 

She felt the effects of the drink almost instantly. Heat flooded her cheeks and crept down between her thighs. Images of Draco just the day before bombarded her mind. His shirtless body firm. The long, hard outline of him beneath the grey sweatpants. She needed him.  

Her body grew heavy as she turned her head to search for him. Draco wasn't in the spot she had just seen him. Cormac, on the other hand, remained far too close, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. But the room was spinning and the small black outline of her vision was building slowly, tunneling her to find the objective.  

The fast pace of her heartbeat in her ears. Cormac grabbed her wrist, but she ignored him, finally finding Draco. She spotted his white-blonde hair on the other side of the room, sitting comfortably on the couch. She had taken no more than one step toward him before spotting Hannah, moving to straddle him, her mouth nibbling on his neck.  

She found his eyes watching her and something in her chest cracked, but the heat aching through her body wouldn't cease.  

“Fuck,” she blurted. 

“Everything alright, Granger?” Cormac asked, playing with the hem of her sleeve, his lips twitching up at the corners. 

“Yes. Fine. I'm afraid I've had a bit too much to drink tonight. I'm going to go lie down.” She rushed the words out nearly as fast as she rushed from the room. She wanted to be far away from Draco and Cormac and everyone else before the tears trickling her waterline fell or her fingers cured the throbbing ache between her legs. 

Hermione threw herself against the upstairs bathroom door, barely getting it locked before the tears started down her cheeks. She only had time for a moment of crying though before another wave of longing rippled through her. She ached to be touched and couldn't hold it back, bringing herself to completion almost the moment her fingers slid against the slick lace pressed against her clit. She continued rubbing small circles after her body finished convulsing, trying to ease the incessant throbbing, but the fingers now thrusting inside of her weren't enough. 

Her bedroom was down the hall—the one Harry and Ginny kept for her rare overnight visits. She knew she would have to give it up eventually, but was grateful it was there as she pictured the various objects she could transfigure into an adequate dildo. The door was shut but opened easily and she stumbled in to find Daphne on her knees, hovering over a wizards face as his tongue worked itself side of her. Her breasts wiggled as she jumped a little in surprise. Another wizard sat on his knees, taking the first man fully in his mouth while his hand gripped his own cock, stroking it in time with his blow job. 

This wizard tried looking up, but the first pushed his head back down, nearly choking him. “Come to join?” the first wizard asked cheekily, his fingers replacing his tongue in Daphne’s cunt, and suddenly she recognized him as Fred. 

Her body wanted her to stay. To join in and let them care for the building need, but even though her sensibilities were fading fast, she knew something was wrong. “S-sorry, I think I need some air.” 

Hermione forced herself from the room. Each limb dragged her down, pulling her slowly toward the floor. She heard the door lock as it closed behind her. 

The stairs were an added obstacle. Her feet caught the runner more than once, nearly tumbling her head first to the first floor. At the bottom she heard Draco's voice booming against Ginny's and she briefly spotted Hannah curled up in the lap of someone Hermione recognized from the office. Her body wanted her to run towards him it ached for it . . . But she needed air. Grimmauld was suffocating in her current state.  

Ginny and Pansy had decorated the back patio in string lights for the party. Any other night they'd give a gentle ambiance perfect for quiet conversation. For Hermione, they flared in her eyes too brightly, flickering in her vision at every angle. She stumbled off the concrete slab and into the cool grass. Picking herself up, she then followed the stars and the moon to the little gazebo at the far end of the lot. 

More string lights had been arranged there as well, but a rickety bench just strong enough for one person sat off to the side under the cool, dark branches of a sprawling maple.  

“I would have liked to have had a bed for this,” a posh, male voice sounded behind her. She whipped around, nearly spinning her vision, to find Cormac waiting behind her. His hands hung in his pockets, his sweater buttoned perfectly. Not a hair out of place apart from the slightly transfigured ears. He had come as a werewolf, she suddenly realized. “But I suppose taking you up against a tree won't be so bad. I can always have you in a bed next time.” 

“Cormac, now is really not the time for your—” 

“Enough, Granger. I've wanted this long enough, I'd rather you not spoil it with your incessant whining. The fucking Golden Girl, always on the right side of things! I never hated muggleborns. My family never had prejudices. But I'm a pureblood! You should have been grateful to have my attention!” 

Cormac rushed forward, closing the distance between them. His hand was firm on the long column of her throat, using just enough pressure to hold her against the tree. His mouth met hers in a forceful press and the moment her lips parted to tell him to fuck off, his tongue slid between her teeth. She wanted to shove him away, but the longer he kissed her the more her body reacted, betraying her with whatever poison brought on this reaction. 

The tree bark pressed sharply into her back and scratched at her bare thighs as she fought against the sensations. His hands worked at her shirt buttons, finishing the job with hands shaking from anticipation. Mercifully, he left the emerald green bra in place as he traveled to her thighs, ripping away the garters. His mouth was on her neck now, slobbering over her collar bone.  

“Get . . . off . . . Cormac,” she forced out, voice slurred, arms too heavy to lift. 

“You don't mean that,” he said into her hair. “If you did, you'd push me away right now.”  

“C-can't,” was all she could say. She was so tired, but her body was on fire.  

“I know.” He laughed, his forehead falling onto her shoulder. His hands stilled on her hips. “I knew the potion was going to be incredible. I just didn't realize it would be this potent! Look at you, all flushed for me. Finally, for me! You're probably drenched by now. Merlin, Granger, I've waited a long time to have you. I couldn't let that bastard have all the fun!” His hands were at his own pants now, unbuttoning. “I knew he wouldn't let me have you first, even after all the fucking work I put in! All the danger I put myself through for his fucking plan! All because his uncle is losing his bloody marbles and has fucked up his damned memory!”  

His hands were back on her waist, his fingers trailing the hem of her pleated skirt. Something firm pressed into her thigh and she squirmed at the idea of what it was. 

“I guess I shouldn't complain, though,” he continued, his mouth hot against the plump curve of her breast. “If it had been Dolohov making the rules, you'd have been dead the moment word got out about your world changing potion. He would hate for anyone to find his precious hideout—as if he’ll actually win when Voldemort lost against a teenaged orphan!” He laughed again. “With him in charge, I get to have you as much as I want while you fix his memory. I deserve to have you.” 

His mouth started working on her neck again. She wanted to shout for help—wanted to cry out for Draco, but the words failed, and his mouth was soon against hers again. Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t have her wand. It had slipped from her fingers when she fell. No magic to free her.  

Cormac’s hand slid up her thigh, his fingers twirling in the pooled moisture dripping down from her earlier excitement. Her body was so heavy as she accepted what was to happen, retreating to the only place she could: her memories.  

Suddenly Cormac stilled against her, then jerked his face away in time for a red-hot blast to send him flying into the base of the gazebo. Hermione fell to the ground, unable to hold herself up any longer. She would have been relieved, had Cormac not stood and returned three equal blasts. Hermione needed to move, to help—but she had no wand and no strength.  

A fleet of sparrows lit up the yard. 

Draco.  

With each spell cast by McLaggen, Draco danced around the magic, blocking and countering, sending fluttering birds stabbing into him like a dart before blasting apart in sparks. His wand drifted through the air like a conductor, his face set in stony focus as he approached the man one step at a time. 

“Draco, h-here me out!” Cormac begged as blood oozed from his cheeks. “That slut led me on! She called me out here and now plans on playing victim! I'm an Auror like you! A pureblood like you! We're misunderstood! And that mudblood—”  

“Enough!” Draco bellowed, sending a blast to the man's chest. Cormac crashed onto the gazebo roof, bringing the structure to the ground. Debris piled over him but Draco took his wand and bound him tightly in conjured ropes. He crouched down beside the wizard and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him close enough to hiss in his ear, “You're a slimy, pathetic worm and could live a thousand years and never deserve to breathe the same air as Hermione fucking Granger. She would have torn you apart if you hadn't drugged her and you know it. I'll be glad to see you rot in Azkaban.” 

“Draco!” Theo shouted from across the lawn, but was cut off by Harry, whose apparition cracked next to the fallen gazebo.  

“Fuck. Tell me what happened.” 

“Get him to holding. I need to check on Hermione. I'll tell you everything I know after,” Draco seethed. 

Harry nodded and Hermione watched Draco stop before her and drop down to her level. His face was so close to her. She still had the dull throbbing of need and couldn't help herself as she leaned forward to plant her lips against his, to pull him up to an empty room and show him how big of a swot she could be. Her body finally responded, as if grateful she was fulfilling its request. 

But Draco's hand was against her lips before they could meet his mouth. He had pulled her up to stand, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist to hold her steady against himself. “Not tonight, Granger,” he said gently, his voice rough and low. “What did he give you?” 

“I don't know,” she croaked back stiffly, a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment washing over her. She had a good idea of what he had slipped her but didn't have the cognizance to put it to words. “But it seems like it's wearing off.” 

He nodded back. “Good. Do you feel like you need St. Mungo's?” 

She shook her head, making her dizzy. “No. Just sleep.” 

With one hand around her tightly, Draco led her toward the house on shaky legs not yet ready to walk. An upturned root tripped her and before she could fall, she felt his arms swing under her and pull her from the ground. The world was spinning, but she was safe.    

“Stay with her,” she heard him growl to someone as he took the stairs to a spare room.  

“Where are you going?” Pansy asked sharply. 

“I have an Auror to interrogate.” 

“Painfully, I hope?” Ginny added. 

Draco laid her down in a bed. Her eyes were too heavy to open them, sleep encroaching quickly. “Very.” 

Then the world went quiet. 

Chapter Text

The holding cell air tasted of metallic ore, leaving a tang of iron on Draco's tongue for hours after each visit. He couldn't figure out how the guards managed to work each day in the cavernous pit, prisoners wailing and screaming and cursing at each Auror as they passed by, pleading their case or spitting at their feet. McLaggen hadn't been received well, being the Auror that had placed his first cell mate in the hell hole, and had to be transferred to a solitary unit before his brain had turned to mush. Draco wouldn't have minded, if it weren't for the fact that in no universe was McLaggen the mastermind behind the resurgence. 

A small puddle splashed over the hem of his trousers, soaking the expensive threads in something smelling of piss. If he wasn't already in the mood to slice the traitor from head to toe, he certainly was now. 

“You sure you can handle yourself?” Harry asked him as they approached the barred door. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Harry didn't look at his partner. He simply stared at the purpling wizard in the lonely cage. “It means if I go in there, he's not living long enough to give us information,” he explained through clenched teeth. “So, can you handle yourself, or do we need to outsource?” 

“No. I can control myself.” 

“Good. Boot and Macmillan are heading out to search his home in Godric's Hollow. And Ginny flooed before I left the office—Hermione finally woke up.” 

“And?”  

It was now Sunday afternoon, easily over twelve hours since he laid her asleep into the spare bed with Ginny and Pansy glued to her side.  

“Headache. Doesn't remember more than bits and pieces. They're bringing Luna over to run a scan before they let you take her home, so how does dinner at Grimmauld sound?” 

“Grand.” 

“I'll let Kreacher know.” He nodded and left, leaving Draco to his own devices and no witnesses with the ex-Auror before him. 

The door creaked as he pushed it open, the rusted metal sticking with age. They had given him the least comfortable interrogation room. As cold and damp as the rest of the subterranean cells, but without even a ragged towel for warmth. Condensation dripped down the walls, leaving soggy puddles around the edges and mildew fogging up Draco's lungs. It was a miracle more wizards and witches didn't get sick down here. 

McLaggen sat stiffly at the single rickety table, his flimsy chair threatening collapse at any sudden movement. “About damn time,” he spit, his mouth stained bloody from his new friends beneath civilization. 

“I see your welcoming committee treated you well.” The traitor’s mind and body had been too broken for Draco to interrogate the night before, which let him get a few hours rest before attempting this meeting. He slept across the hall from Hermione, his door opened wide just in case she needed him. Had Pansy not nearly hexed him, he would have been propped against her bed, laying on the floor with his mind wandering in and out of hers as it had those blissful nights he had stayed by her side. He left early that morning to file paperwork on the assault and to check on the progress of McLaggen, who they had healed just enough to preserve him for interrogation. It had taken all night. Thankfully, because Draco, now sober, realized he likely would have suffered the same unchecked rage Harry was currently feeling. 

“Yes. Really pulled out all the stops, they did,” the flobberworm charmed thickly. 

“I'm sure,” Draco drawled, reminding himself of Snape in potions class. “It really is a pity they left you alive. I trust the mediwitches have administered your Veritaserum?” 

He grudgingly tilted his chin down in a nod. 

“Good. I'll be less likely to slit your throat with the hunting knife tucked away in my jacket if you're not fucking with me.” Cormac's eyes flashed down to the Auror robes hanging loosely around him, the plain black hilt of a blade just barely peeking out. “Now tell me,” he leaned forward slightly over the table, the single lamp casting a yellow shadow over his face and darkening his eyes, “what the fuck did you give her, and who the fuck are you working for.” 

“Well, I gave her a potion, of course! One of my own invention. A clever mixture of lust and Amortentia, subdued by a few drops of a paralysis tonic and a sleeping drought. I may not be able to invent potions from scratch like our pretty mudblood,” Draco's hands flexed under the table around his wand, “but I'm quite skilled at combining. But you knew that, of course, from Auror training.” He laughed, coughing a bit on lingering blood. “I made it right here at the ministry! Nott just lets anyone with a bloody badge walk through his department. So much for mysterious. I’m pretty sure Granger has been known to sneak in there and take things—in fact, I believe there’s a certain item you’d be quite interested in. Word has it she went through a bit of a phase that had Weasley quite worried after their breakup. Nearly sent her to Senatio’s Sanitatum—to the care of Dr. Mortem. I believe you visited Parkinson up there quite a bit during her formative years. If you ask the right questions, I’d be happy to—” 

Senato’s Saniatium was an institution Draco hadn’t visited in nearly a decade. It housed and cared for witches and wizards who had proven a harm to themselves or others. Pansy struggled as a teenager, spending nearly an entire summer in their care after a house elf found her attempting to curse herself. Draco was sure Hermione had never lashed out on others without just cause . . . but he’d seen her alienate herself for years. Just like Pansy had tried to do.  

With the Veritaserum, he knew McLaggen wasn’t lying. It was a clever tactic. Trying to entice Draco with more concerns over Hermione, with stories to lead his mind to terrible places. And as tempting as it would be to ask what he knew of Hermione’s struggles, he repeated his question instead. 

“Who are you working for?” 

 “I'm not working for anyone!”  

Draco watched his eyes go foggy. McLaggen wasn't a practiced Occlumens, but he had enough talent to push back the Veritaserum just enough to skirt a question. So, he rephrased the question. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“N-no one! I am the mastermind!” 

“Why Hermione?” he asked, switching tactics. 

His eyes cleared momentarily as he snapped, “Because that fucking bitch embarrassed me! She enjoys embarrassing me and I wanted her to feel it too! I deserve her. She should be begging on her knees for me, and instead she's salivating over—” His eyes clouded again. “She wanted me. You could see it. She wanted me so badly she—” 

Draco was sick of McLaggen’s mouth moving. In a brutal attack, he dove into McLaggen's mind, forcing through the walls and barriers he had erected. He swam through hazy memories of childhood, ignored old potion's lessons and forced himself to leave each memory of Hermione in the quidditch stands in the past until he jumped into the night before.  

He felt the push as Cormac's mind fought to force him out, but Draco had years more practice and a sharper determination, erecting his own walls and fences that shifted and traveled and strengthened as he moved through the fragmented thoughts. 

The party had started. He was in the corner of the kitchen, talking to someone whose face was shrouded in shadows and his name, though on the tip of his tongue, evaded him.  

“You need to keep her distracted, keep her here while I get her work. I need a copy before Dolohov gets to her. If she walks in on me, she’s dead and if the potion's not complete, I don't get my potion. If I don't get my potion, you die! Got it?” 

“Yes! Shit, I'm not an imbecile.” 

“No. I suppose not. But you are a liability, so no fucking it up. Play your cards right and she's yours when I'm done with her. Stick to your fucking doll for now—yes, don't give me that look, like I wouldn't fucking know about her!” 

“I don't know what you're talking about!” 

“They'll be looking for her sooner rather than later,” the man snapped. “She bloody works for her. Get rid of her—” 

The memory cut off suddenly, as if Cormac had erased a part of it—or the other wizard had. He jumped back in time, searching for the man again, finding only bits and shards occasionally until he fell into an old cage, vines creeping up the bars. The open blue sky above him. He followed memory-Cormac through the labyrinth of overgrown bars until they came to a small, run down building with no windows. Lizards had been painted along the sides and as they entered the dim abode. They were met with rows of terrariums, some emptied and broken, others intact with old plastic greenery covered in grime.    

“I came!” Cormac shouted into the empty atrium. No answer. “Why did you call me here if you weren't planning on coming out!” 

“I hear you've been the one helping us with our little problem,” a voice growled from the shadows. A voice Draco recognized. 

Greyback.  

The beast limped from a far corner, nearly toppling over. Blood dripped from his mouth. The hoof of a deer could just be seen twitching from where he came. The years since the war had not been kind to him. Even so, Draco felt himself retreat a step. He hadn't seen the monster since the war; hadn't been subjected to his appetite since the fateful night at the manor.  

“Yes. You want a mole. Someone to feed information in and out of the ministry until your numbers stabilize.” 

“Yes. And make sure that potion gets completed and into our hands!” 

“That's where I'm confused, am I working for you, or for Dolohov, then? Because you both have different objectives, and frankly, he seems to have more to offer.” 

“If you don't wish to die horribly right here, you'll obey me. I need that potion. If I am to reign in a new era with the others, I need the memories that are slipping. I need my power back over my pack! Those fucking werewolf amendments, and Dolohov’s lies about my health—about my abilities! My pack won’t follow me. They barely listen to that waste of space I’ve called nephew. If Dolohov succeeds in killing the mudblood first, I'll tear his throat out with my teeth and feed it to you until you choke! I need to remember where I put it . . . I need to remember where it is, before they find me!” 

“I don't much care for the idea of blood supremacy, I don't give a damn about that. But if I do this, I require a name for myself. A place of power in the new order.” 

“And a wife, if my nephew is to be believed.” Greyback chuckled darkly—a hoarse sound like gritting sandpaper. 

“Yes. In a way. The mudblood is mine.” 

“I believe my nephew has a plan for her, first. And I am owed from years ago. If she survives my visit, fine. She's yours.”   

“Great,” he agreed with a smirk. 

Cormac's mind skipped. A curly-haired brunette lay facing away from him in bed, her skin too pale and body too long to be Hermione's. Draco jumped from the memory, back to Halloween, searching for more clues. And suddenly he was staring at Hermione's cleavage from across the room, filling a glass of punch and poured in his own potion, letting it fizz over in shades vastly different than the other drinks.  

It skipped again and he was feeling Cormac's delight as she drank.  

He watched in irritation as she focused on someone across the room. Draco followed her gaze to find himself with a witch grinding on his lap. Then he had to watch her face crumple before excusing herself, staggering from the room. Cormac's mind reeled with frustration. His disdain for Draco thickly coated the memory. She wasn't meant to flee before the scene was set—before she flaunted her desire for him in front of the whole room, begging him to take her to bed. But if this is how the night was going, he would adapt. He had tested the potion so frequently on her that he knew Hermione would be begging for release at any moment. 

Begging him at any moment.

Hermione's face was flushed as she stumbled back down the stairs. A light sweat gleamed on her forehead and a gasp through her parted lips sent a shiver of excitement down Cormac. He followed after, cornering her. It was more dangerous this way, out in the open with a house full of her friends—but so much more exciting. He had waited so long. Then, his mouth was on hers, his hands roving freely, touching her body. He caught snippets of his monologue before his tongue found hers again. The sounds she made between kisses drove him mad and then—

Then it was black. And Draco was swimming to the surface to find his own hands around the real Cormac's throat.  

“Fuck!” he roared, releasing the wizard and letting him slump to the floor with a thud.  

Cormac had passed out. 

Draco hailed a nearby guard before stomping off to find Harry. 

*     *     *

Harry was found in his usual spot at his desk with the unusual company of Minister Shacklebolt, who greeted Draco with a curt nod as he entered the spacious office.  

“What did you find?” Harry asked tersely. 

“Not a lot. Seems he was charmed to not remember who he was working for. Couldn't even see him with Legilimency. I do know Greyback and Dolohov are involved though—with Hermione and the resistance, it seems. At one point Greyback kept referring to his nephew, but to my knowledge, that bastard didn’t have any family. He passed out before I could get anything else useful. I’ll write up a full report before I leave.” 

“Passed out? Legilimency doesn't typically—” Shacklebolt began.  

Draco cut him off, “It does when the Auror jumps into some particularly distressing thoughts and wraps his fingers around their throats without realizing it. I was too focused on the incident with Hermione to work properly,” he admitted grumpily. 

“I figured. Did you see anything else in there? Any other . . . incidents?” 

“Like, with women?”  

Harry nodded.  

“No. I skipped over a memory of someone turned away from him in bed, but that's it. Brunette, lean, curly hair. Why?” 

“We found Rose.” 

“Why don't you look happy about that?” 

“Cormac was keeping her. She was locked up in his closet.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah. Not the worst part. He transfigured her hair to look like Hermione's. I'll spare you the details, but she's at St. Mungo's for treatment and a mind evaluation.” 

“Can I ask, Mr. Malfoy, why you suspected Rose was missing to begin with?” Shacklebolt asked suspiciously.  

“Hermione suspected. We stopped by her home before our trip and confirmed it.” 

“I see. And that’s when you informed Potter and filed the missing persons report?” 

“Yes, sir.”  

Minister Shacklebolt stood from his seat across from Harry. “I trust you'll keep this under wraps for now?” 

“Of course, Minister.” 

“Good. Send over any information you find. In the meantime, I expect full evaluations of every Auror and DMLE employee by the end of the week. Starting with Malfoy here so he can go back to protective duties. If McLaggen was working with the resurgence, who knows who else they have with access to her and her research.” 

As the door closed behind the minister, Draco asked, “How's Boot?” 

“Hasn't left her side. He's the one that found her. Ernie's still searching the house. Will you be able to finish McLaggen's interrogation?” 

“I can go back in in a couple days. His memory's been tampered with, though. It's like a maze trying to find connections. Not like he's occluding, which he was, ff course, but different. Like too many missing pieces were causing pitfalls.” 

“What if a mind healer went in?” 

“It could help. I have a few connections in France—ones that specialize in minor tampered memory restoration and Legilimency. I'll see if they'd be willing to help.” 

“Might be good to have a second in the room, regardless. You know, in case you decide to go all Peter Pettigrew on him again.” 

Draco shot him a dirty look. “What time is dinner?” 

“Seven. Give you enough time for an eval? Kingsley is requiring them done at the office, so you won’t be able to use Dr. Goodwell.” 

Draco gave him another dirty look. Dr. Goodwell had been the mind healer he had been seeing for several years now. The ministry appointed mind healer was a biased piece of shite, if Draco was concerned. 

“I'll fit it in. Now that the Minister is gone, I should tell you, whoever McLaggen is working with was at your party. That’s who Greyback called nephew.” 

Harry slumped in his chair. “I didn’t know he had family. Do you think someone was Polyjuiced? Had someone snuck in as one of our friends?” 

Draco shook his head. “Wouldn’t have needed a memory charm if he were.” 

“Fuck. Write me up a full, detailed report.” 

“Will do. And can I get a copy of McLaggen's file? The raid and Rose.” 

“After your eval you can have whatever copies you want. I'd recommend waiting to have a look at the file until after you've successfully interrogated him, though—it's uncanny the resemblance in the photos. He made some serious changes to her before . . . Well, before he had his fun, I'll say. It'll be a miracle she gets herself back.” 

The reality of what Harry said slowly sank in. “Right. Avoid photos unless I want a trip to Azkaban along with him. I'll keep that in mind.” 

“One more thing,” he said as Draco reached for the door, “we found a few unsent letters in his desk. There's already copies in your office. Some appear to have been written by him, others are in different writings. One has a duplicate, oddly, written by two separate hands. One in Cormac's, the other matching Hermione's threats.” 

“Splendid.” He ripped the door open, sending a gust of air toward a neatly stacked pile of papers on the small coffee table by the door. They scattered across the floor as he left. 

*     *     *

The ministry mind healer's office was covered floor to ceiling in black with shades of deep teal and forest green. Black obsidian floors gleamed from the layers of polish. Black marble countertops accented every reception desk. If it weren't for the copious amounts of natural light and living plants throughout, it would feel like a villain's lair. In a way, he supposed, it was. 

“Draco, lovely to see you again,” Mind-Healer Mary Beaufort said as he entered her open-concept office.  

It was rather off putting, seeing the rest of the offices knowing they couldn't see or hear you. It promoted truthfulness, trustworthiness and the removal of metaphorical walls, she had claimed during his first visit. Draco had quickly found a more suitable healer outside of the ministry for personal use. 

“Healer Beaufort,” he greeted tersely. She had a permanent smile that couldn't possibly be genuine that reminded him quite a lot of Professor Umbridge.  

“I thought for certain we'd be done with our meetings after I'd cleared you for ministry work.” 

“You say that as if you suspect I've turned back to my old ways?” he said suspiciously.  

“I never go into my sessions with bias or expectations. Whether I believe you have regained prejudices or have acquired unhealthy obsessions or beliefs since we last spoke, what you say and how you behave within this space will tell me.” 

“Just as it told you about McLaggen?” he accused. She would have signed off on his ability to work as well. 

Her oily smile faltered. “He did not have any signs of unhealthy prejudices at the time of our sessions.” 

“Save your lies, Beaufort. McLaggen's been a menace to Hermione since sixth year. Let's just get on with it so I can go back to ensuring he never leaves Azkaban alive.” 

“Very well. Let's begin.” 

The nausea was tolerable. Though the small guest room spun wildly the first three times Hermione woke up the morning after Halloween, by afternoon the dark space had stilled and the thought of consuming anything, even water, didn't send her stomach churning. 

The confusion was irritating, but she remembered enough of the night to fill in the blanks. She had drank too much. Theo, Daphne and Fred were apparently trying something new—well, adding Fred was new, at least. And McLaggen must have had more to drink than she did, if his attempts to kiss her had any bearing. 

Even the headache had dulled enough that she could endure the lingering pounding in her temples. 

No. It was none of those that forced Hermione from the comfortable cocoon of maroon and gold. It was the searing, sweltering, melting heat that she felt radiating from her every pore. She would have been cooler in a heated oven.  

After peeling herself from the frying pan of the guest bed, she grabbed her wand from the nightstand and trudged heavily out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom for a cold shower, peeking into her guest room along the way.  

The blush bedroom smelled of sex. Like sweat and adrenaline and it brought back the slightly embarrassing memory of how she had entertained, however briefly, the idea of joining them.  

She felt more normal after the chilled water cooled the furnace of her core and left her with a shiver that the thin robe and slippers she slid on with fresh pajamas subdued. Placed beside her bedside, next to the constantly refilling glass of water (bless whoever had charmed that for her), were two small vials and a note. 

Take blue vial for hangover. If effects are lingering from last night's potion, take the Pink vial— potioneers at ministry had antidote, will explain tonight. Stay with Ginny and Pansy.      —D  

“Last night's potion?” she muttered to herself before downing the mouthful of blue liquid. 

“I thought I heard your mousy little footsteps, Granger,” Pansy said cautiously from the doorway. Ginny stood beside her rigidly. “I see you found Draco's present.” 

“I can't believe I drank that much last night,” she said. “I don't think I've ever blacked out like that.” 

“Blacked out?” Ginny said in a harsh Tone that took Hermione by surprise. “Blacked out?!? Hermione, that fucking bastard drugged you!” Her face had grown as red as a tomato, the colors spreading from ear to ear and saturating her scalp. “If Draco doesn't Avada that slimy motherfu—” 

“Gin,” Pansy said sternly, putting a hand on the livid witch’s arm.  

“Don't ‘Gin ’ me! In my own fucking home! My best friend! If Draco hadn't—” Ginny shook her head, biting her tongue. She stepped away only a moment while Pansy continued. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Feeling hot and . . .” she trailed off, embarrassed. 

“And horny?” Pansy finished, her tone steady and professional. 

“Yes. The last thing I remember was walking in on—” she gestured absently toward Ginny and her room. 

Ginny grunted un disgust. “Don't remind me.” 

“Anything else?” 

Her cheeks blushed remembering bits of the scene she had walked in on. “Well, I needed to be alone, and I was hot, so if I'm remembering correctly, I went outside.” 

“Is that it? Then you woke up?” 

Hermione closed her eyes. “No, the night skips a bit. Let's see, I think I remember being by the tree. I remember laying down. Oh God, I tried to kiss Draco!” She threw her hands over her face. “He's negotiating terms with Astoria! Oh God. I'm an awful woman. I need to apologize.” 

“Hermione, snap out of it. I need you to think. Is that all you remember?” 

“Yes! Why are being so insistent, Pansy? What did I do?” 

“Maybe it's best she doesn't remember,” she mumbled to Ginny, deflated. “Draco will handle him.” 

“Fuck that,” the redhead cursed, barging past Pansy. “You don't remember McLaggen following you outside?”   

“Cormac . . .” Hermione stopped to think. 

“You don't remember him sticking his slimy—” 

“Ginny! Tact for the love if Salazar!” 

“You’re a bloody Snake, Parkinson! Where’s that Slytherin charm we loathed in school?! You’re all about payback, except when it isn't about you!” 

The look of hurt on Pansy’s face faded to an icy glare. “We know more about tactfully facing our trauma than you ever will, Ginevra. Quit being another bull-headed Gryffindor and think about your friend’s fucking feelings!” 

Hermione had tuned them out long ago. They enjoyed sparring each other and knew by the end of the conversation, all would be right between them. Yet, her mind swam through murky memories of the night before, piecing together fragments of images and words, of feelings and betrayals. Suddenly, a picture began to form, and she felt sick. 

“Cormac!” She rubbed her hands over her arms as pins and needles pricked at her skin. The missing pieces of the night before filled in—not completely, but enough for her understanding. “That vile, manipulative—ugh!” she shrieked, words failing her. “I feel like I need another shower to wash him off!” 

“What's the plan?” Ginny asked. “Murder? Transfiguration? We've broken into the ministry before! Let's do it again!” 

“Ministry? He's not at work after that, is he?!” 

“Merlin, no, Hermione,” Pansy answered. “Draco took care of him.” 

“Oh my God, is he dead?!” 

“We wish,” Ginny muttered grumpily. “They arrested him. He's being interrogated today. We'll know more when Malfoy comes back for dinner.” 

“How are you feeling?” Pansy asked carefully, softer than her typical bedside manner. 

She thought, taking inventory of her body. She remembered the actions of the night before, but it was hazy; dreamlike. It was easy to separate herself from it.  

“Grimy,” she said at last. “Annoyed. Angry. But alright, I suppose. A little embarrassed by how I had acted otherwise, though.” 

“Don't be. You weren't yourself. Now, come downstairs and eat something small. The boys will be back in a few hours.” 

*     *     *

An hour later and Hermione found herself slouched over on the couch, curled up next to the girls with a movie. She had forced down a bag of crisps and half a sandwich and felt slightly more human - though a nap felt close to the horizon. 

Luna had made a visit after hearing of her ordeal, running quick diagnostics and bloodwork to note for later. The potion used had been newly developed by the ministry without official authorization, so it was required for a certified healer to document results. Hermione didn't mind; she had missed Luna and invited her to visit soon. 

Pansy, on the other hand, found the curious witch off putting and barely spoke two words to her before excusing herself from the room. 

“What the hell was that about?” Ginny asked as the blonde flooed back to St. Mungo’s. 

“No clue. Pansy will tell us when she's ready. You know how she can be.” 

The floo roared to life again, interrupting the two girls. Harry brushed soot from his shoulder and took all of a step before looking up at his wife. Lines marred the corners of his eyes, aging his face more with each passing year. Hermione frequently found herself grateful to see him; grateful her best friend still existed in the same plane as she did. The gleam in Ginny's eyes as her husband came home each day told her the redhead felt similarly.  

Today, however, the sparkle wasn't returned in the dull green eyes of her best friend. 

“What happened?” Ginny asked intuitively. 

Harry glanced discretely to Hermione. “Nothing that can't wait until after dinner. You alright, ‘Mione?” 

“Yes, Harry. I'm fine. If I ever see Cormac again, I can't say he'll be able to say the same.” 

“Draco may make that impossible, I'm afraid. He's already strangled him once today.” 

“When will the ferret be here, anyway?” Ginny asked. “Kreacher said dinners about ready.” 

“Any minute. We’re having emergency evaluations in the department. He decided to get his out of the way. Ron's not going to make it like planned—has some unexpected work to take care of as well.” 

They started their walk to the kitchen. The roar of the floo made Hermione pause at doorway in time to see Draco climb from the fireplace. “Hermione,” he blurted in surprise, keeping a healthy gap between them. She felt his eyes surveying her face. Her first name took her by surprise and sent a small flutter through her chest.  

“How—” he paused, a bit uncomfortable as he searched for the words, swallowing what he truly wanted to say. “How are you?” 

“I'm alright. A little better than I was when I woke up.” 

“I meant—” he made a strange gesture with his hands. 

“I know, Malfoy. I'm fine, really. I honestly didn't remember much of it until I started to talk with Pans. A little disappointed in myself for letting it happen and not hexing him straight into an Egyptian catacomb, but I'm fine.” She gave a nervous laugh, the kind that came out when one was uncomfortably making light of a situation.  

Draco's eyes narrowed on her.  

“Let me make one thing clear, Granger. You didn't let anything happen. McLaggen had an unhealthy delusion. You merely took a drink from an Auror you had known over half your life, at a party full of trusted friends.” She watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, either holding back information or burying anger. Maybe both. His eyes bored into her like heated iron, though she couldn't bring herself to look up until he said, “We found Rose.” 

The melancholy of his voice crashed around her. “Alive?” 

He nodded once. 

“Where?” 

“McL-” 

“Dinner's ready,” Harry interrupted hastily, popping his head through the doorway. 

“We'll talk after dinner,” Draco supplied. 

*     *     *

“So, if I get you a ticket to our opening match, you'll come?” Ginny asked from across the table after swallowing her last mouthful of sweet and savory pumpkin soup. The accompanying grilled cheese made with fresh chunks of mozzarella and basil highlighted how far Kreacher had come since they had first met the grouchy elf. “With how well we kicked Krum’s arse at the pre-season match I have high hopes for us this season.” 

“Have I ever missed the Harpies opening match?” Hermione asked.  

“No but I know how much you hate it. It's cold and it’s Quidditch! I don't think the private box is available this season. Some rich bloke bought it out for every game, so I can only get stand seats for you.” 

“It's fine, Gin. That's what warming charms are for.” Hermione sipped from a steaming mug of tea. It had taken the elf years to accept her enough to include her in dinner but still found herself on her own when it came to tea. This didn't bother her, though, as she preferred the loathsome creature to have his own agency. She had been surprised, in all honesty, that he had stayed on with the Potters after her elf-rights laws were passed. “So, now that dinners passed, can we discuss what happened at the ministry that you two have been tiptoeing around? You mentioned Rose.” 

The boys glanced at each other before Draco pulled a folder from a charmed pocket. He opened it to a picture before thinking twice and closing it back up. “Rose is at St. Mungo's. We found her during our raid on McLaggen's estate.” 

“Raid on . . .” Hermione pieced together what he was saying. “Why did he have Rose, Malfoy?” 

Harry gave him a pointed look.  

“She's going to find out tomorrow, anyway, Potter, so save your scolding. McLaggen was trying to curb his obsession with you with a replacement. He’s been working with your stalker, someone in charge who's been keeping him on a leash, and he used Rose as a temporary replacement.” 

Hermione felt sick. The soup churned in her stomach, threatening to remake an appearance.  

“She's expected to make a recovery, but he's not skilled in Transfiguration, let alone Human Transmogrification, so it's up in the air as to how that recovery is going to look in the long run.” 

“What did he do?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.  

“It doesn't matter, Hermione,” Harry said. 

“It absolutely does!” she shrieked, the damn of guilt bursting and with it the tears that now streamed freely over her cheeks. “It's because of me that he did this! To my bloody secretary! I knew something was wrong the day she left, and I waited. I knew something was off with Cormac and I didn't file a complaint.” She was standing now, barely taller than Draco who remained seated beside her. Pansy and Ginny had excused themselves. “So tell me. What. Did. He. Do?” 

“Hermione, I can't—” 

Draco held up a hand, silencing Harry before reopening the folder and pulling one photo from a stack and sliding it to Hermione. Curly brown hair stuck out at odd angles, matted with blood as it slowly peeled in a layer from the scalp. The woman had been dressed like a doll in a black pencil skirt tighter than she would ever wear and a sweater that had gone missing from the office nearly a month prior. Her face was swollen, as if it had been used as target practice for stinging jinxes, but beneath the soon to be scar tissue, Hermione could just make out the ill-adjusted features of her secretary. 

She fell back into her chair and pushed the image back to Draco with a shaky hand. 

“We found letters at his house as well,” Draco continued. “It appears he's been working with the resurgence and whoever is stalking you. His memories have been modified, however. We're bringing in a specialist. Hopefully with your potion nearly complete, we'll be able to track the bastard down more easily. I'll be at the ministry tomorrow working on him.”  

His tone sent a chill through Hermione. She knew the ex-Auror wouldn't be in the primary interrogation room—no, this was personal. They blurred the lines of morality and legality in cases like this.  

Hermione nodded, then cleared her throat. “I'll need to be at the lab. With the pumpkin. I can begin calculations and start trials as early as next month.” 

“You still can't be at the lab without an Auror present. Would you be able to work on arithmancy at the office until lunch?” 

She thought a moment. She had most of the textbooks she would need at her house and her work never left the small beaded bag practically glued to her side. “Yes, I think I can make that work. I think . . . I think I need some air.” 

“Great.” Draco pushed up from the table. His towering frame made her feel small, but the way his eyes burned into hers prevented her from the retreating sense of insignificance. “I'll walk you home.” 

*     *     *

November brought on the crisp chill promising winter's looming arrival. They apparated a few streets away from Hermione's. She had been gone a few days and Draco needed to check the wards before they went bursting into her home through the floo—not that Hermione was upset by this. Though her thoughts were a torrent of contradictions brought on by their time together, she felt oddly at ease strolling next to the pureblood.  

“What year did we leave off?” she asked calmly after his request to continue her account of witches and wizards that would have it in for her. 

“Fifth, I believe. Last I remember, you were telling me about Skeeter and the well-deserved glass prison.” 

“Right. Well, year five was rife with hatred. There was you, of course, heading the bloody inquisitorial squad.” 

Draco snickered. “Yes. Yes, and Umbridge, you were her favorite muggleborn, helping lead Dumbledore’s army. I'm surprised, and glad, she never found an excuse to serve you detention.”   

“Me too. I remember what she did to Harry. But other than that, Marietta Edgecomb would have had it in for me.” 

“Did her . . . issue ever resolve?” 

“Eventually. But it left some nasty scars until well after Hogwarts.” 

“Crossing you seems to have a lasting impression on most. Who else did you inflict your wrath upon that year?” 

“Not many, unfortunately.” She gazed at the perfectly white smile stretching casually over his face, wondering how she had missed how handsome he had been at school. Then, she remembered the end of fifth year and her own smile faltered. “Then there was the trap in the Department of Mysteries. Whoever was there would have it in for any of us. I know if Dolohov hadn't hated me for being a mudblood before that night, he'd have hated that I walked away from that curse.” 

She rubbed her chest involuntarily, still feeling the strange magic that had once passed through her and left her in a crumpled pile on the glossy black floor.  

“I was wondering where that scar was from,” Draco said under his breath. “I had heard them talking, long after. Complaining, really, about how you should have died. I hadn't realized at the time that that's why you were in the hospital wing.” 

“Yes. Well, you had a lot going on. With your father going to Azkaban that night, and all.”   

“I thought that was the beginning of the end, for me. I’m glad I was wrong.” His gaze lingered on her face strangely, a mix of emotions churning under his stormy eyes. 

“How is your father?” Her question came out smaller than she had ever sounded. 

“Well, all things considered. I've found it difficult to visit him under our circumstances, but my mother is requesting I see him before my negotiations with Astoria are complete.” 

She nodded. She had nearly forgotten his promise to the Greengrasses during their walk. They had just reached her driveway, and Draco checked that the wards were still intact before heading towards her front door. 

“I need to apologize for last night,” she blurted on her front porch.  

“What for?” 

“I shouldn't have tried to kiss you. Between our professional relationship and our personal relationships, it was improper. I understand I wasn't in my right mind, but I still shouldn't have—” 

“Granger,” Draco interrupted, a cocky smirk playing across his lips that made her want to smack him or kiss him. He leaned down, his breath warm against her neck as he said, “You never have to apologize for trying to kiss me.” 

Then he pushed the door open to reveal garbage strewn across the floor, pillows slit open and books pulled from shelves. Crookshanks, thankfully unharmed, screamed at her from the countertop. And a note, written in something that had dried to a dull brown, stuck with a knife into the wall beside them. 

Chapter Text

Draco pulled his wand from its holster and sent a patronus, a small sparrow no larger than Hermione’s palm, off to Harry before casting spells across the house for intruders. Hermione had her own wand out, casting her own charms which lit bright purple sparks across her bookshelf. 

“What is that?” Draco asked, tucking the letter away and walking toward the dissipating sparks. 

“Looks like my friend left me a present.” 

Draco pulled a small book from the shelf. No title marked its spine, but the worn red fabric would have fit right in with the remaining books had the spell failed. With a swift swish of his wand, the rectangle transformed back into a human-sized ear. 

“Is that—” 

Hermione cast Muffliato over the fleshy blob. “It's an extendable ear,” she confirmed. “Fred and George sell them at the joke shop. It looks to have been modified for longer distances.” 

Harry burst through the floo dressed in a worn white robe and pajama bottoms. 

“Way to dress for the occasion, Potter. Couldn't have thrown on a shirt?” 

“I was . . . in the middle of something and couldn't find one. You're lucky I found the bottoms!” 

“Thank Salazar. The Last thing we needed was for you to burst into the house half-cocked from shagging Ginevra.” 

His face pinked. “Just tell me what this is about, Malfoy, before Ginny finishes without me.” 

He gestured to the house with sarcastic flair. “What the fuck do you think this is about? I knew you were dull but at least pretend to be competent.” 

Harry paused, looking less aghast than Hermione had expected. “Right. Touchy subject,” he said at last, to Hermione's confusion. “Where's the letter, then? I'm assuming they left one if they left the place in shambles.” 

Draco handed the parchment over and explained what he knew—which was next to nothing—before showing him the ear. 

Harry released a heavy sigh. “I suppose I'll go change and tell Gin she'll be spending the night with Edgar instead.” And he vanished. 

“Edgar?” Draco asked, brow furrowed. 

“Yes. Edgar Allen Hoe—Pansy named it when she bought it for her.” Hermione laughed at the memory of Ginny's flushed face when she opened the elongated box in front of her mother their first Christmas after the war. “It's her dildo.” 

The sound that burst from Draco's lips melted the remaining anxiety of their surprise. “Bloody hell. Leave it to Pansy fucking Parkinson to gift that to someone she barely knew.” 

“I'm pretty sure that's why they're such good friends now.” 

The floo flared to life and Harry, now fully dressed in Auror garb, was followed by Ron, Hopkirk, and a few others Hermione had seen only in passing around the office. They began their search of the flat, magically sealing various items and casting charms through every inch. Hermione speculated they were looking for more hidden objects and anything that would curse her or Draco, but no one spoke as they worked. Draco had left her side to search the property and perform a more thorough check on her wards. 

He returned with a worried face as the wizards inside were finishing up. 

“Who all has floo access?” he asked sternly when he returned. 

“Harry's home and office, my office at the lab—not at the ministry. I’ve argued with Kingsley far too many times about utterly ridiculous ministry regulations to find the concept worthwhile and I certainly don’t trust the public floo to have access. Of course, Harry gets to set as many limitations on his personal floo as he would like. You know, I really should bring it back up to—” 

“Granger,” Draco interrupted gently, bringing her back to the subject at hand. 

“Oh, right, right. Let’s see, the Weasley's floo is connected. Luna’s, Pansy's, Theo’s. It may still be linked to Viktor's cabin in Cornwall, as well.” 

Draco's jaw clenched. He rolled his shoulders, relieving some form of stress over the Quidditch star's mention. “Krum?” he asked tersely. “The most limited connection list I've ever heard, yet Krum is on it?” 

She wasn't sure where he was going, but she watched the little muscle flicking in his jaw regardless. “Yes. He's been a good friend over the years. We've remained in touch. I sometimes visit during the summer while he's home from training or between assignments.” 

Draco's arms crossed in front of him. “Someone invaded your home during a party using your floo. A party Krum was at and could have accessed the network while McLaggen kept you busy ,” he growled, ignoring what she could have meant by assignments. 

“Kept me busy,” she repeated in disbelief.  

“I didn't mean—” 

“No. Malfoy, if Krum wanted to attack me and steal or destroy my work, he's had half our lives to do it. He didn't need to wait for the party! I trust Viktor. He could have just asked for my notes, and they would have been his!” 

The sneer pulling at Draco's lips reminded Hermione of his younger self—hateful and angry and rather like someone she didn't wish to be in the room with. When he stepped toward her, his shoulders back and eyes flared open, she forced herself not to retreat further than half a step, fighting the urge to put be distance between them. Hermione glared around, realizing the other Aurors had left, leaving them to argue openly. 

“There were plenty of witches and wizards you trusted at that party, Granger. One of them wants to hurt you in the cruelest of ways. I witnessed how those fucks thought firsthand, and I know how many lost friends and relatives because they chose the wrong side. Potter knows, too, better than most how it is to put the trust in the wrong sort. So, forgive me, Golden Girl, if I don't trust an ex-boyfriend clearly still in love with you, when you were attacked just last night by another! I suppose you have that effect on people!” 

This riled her. As the hairs on her neck bristled, she felt her fist tighten around her wand. She had dueled Draco once already in a fit of anger and didn't plan on sinking to that level again, but his words cut through her deeply—more deeply than he could possibly understand.  

That effect on people.  

Yes. She knew she made others angry. She questioned and pried and studied in a way that bothered most—including Malfoy for many years. She spent a great amount of time as an outcast, only finding friendship when fate and the trauma of near-death and magical mysteries forced them together. Still, she wasn't sure if either of her best friends would have given her a chance had it not been for her persistence and ability to un-fuck whatever situation they had thrown themselves into. 

So yes. She pissed people off and made them wish to attack her, belittle her and overall knock her down a peg. And now Draco found himself wishing the same. Her hand relaxed over her wand as she deflated, the fight leaving her body. 

“Yes. I suppose I do,” she said in bitter defeat. Hermione had stopped fighting with the part of her insisting no one would enjoy her company for long. It was no surprise he was at his limit. “There's no use sleeping out by the bench anymore since I know it's you. I'll bring sheets for the pull out.” 

“Hermione, I—” 

But she had already tuned him out, swishing her wand across the destroyed apartment to fluff pillows, reshelve books, clean the broken glass and bring the space back to its former gloomy glory. Just the day prior she had thought when the sun rose in the sky it might penetrate the murky atmosphere that had settled; might brighten her world just a little. Instead, she pulled down bedding knowing it would remain just as dark and lonely as it had ever been. 

*     *     *

Coffee was made for her early the next morning, the aroma wafting through the kitchen like a pleasant wake up call. Draco had the couch made as she usually kept it, the sheets folded and placed neatly on one end. She was still surprised by Draco’s willingness to perform mundane tasks, given his upbringing, and recalled Tilly’s minor breach of confidence with a small smile.  

“Goodmorning, Granger,” his thick voice called from the hallway behind her. She could smell her hibiscus and honey body wash mixing into the air before she turned to find his bare chest glistening, his shirt unbuttoned and his trousers hanging low and open on waist, waiting for hands to tuck the crisp fabric over the bulge she couldn't look away from. “I hope you don't mind I used your shower. Didn't want to wake you to ask and certainly couldn't leave you alone in the middle of a crime scene to use my own.” 

“Crime scene!” She pulled her eyes away from his trousers to find him smirking down at her as he ruffled his hair with a towel. Her heart fluttered. Her body felt like rubber. And she was sure the flush on her face gave away her sudden lust. She would have been better off staring at his crotch, at this rate. 

“Yes, Granger. A crime took place here. That makes it a crime scene.” 

She huffed. “Just—put your shirt on!”  

“As you wish,” he teased infuriatingly.  

“You know, if you're going to be here for a while, you don't need to make the couch each morning. You can just shove it back together with the bedding on.” She took a sip of coffee then headed towards the bathroom, coming much closer than necessary to his chest. 

“Tilly will appreciate that.” 

Hermione whipped head toward him, eyes wide. “You didn't!” 

Draco snorted, his hands falling to his knees as he laughed. “Of course not! I knew you thought I'd called an elf. It's only a swish of the wand, Granger. I'm not a totally spoiled prat!” 

“You've always had me fooled. Will your father hear about this? ” she deadpanned, silencing his laughter but not extinguishing the easy joy lighting his eyes. 

“You wound me, Granger.” He placed his hand over his heart, still not covered by the buttons that he simply did not want to secure. She knew he was enjoying her glances by the smirk that played on his lips each time her eyes drifted over his shoulders, his chest, down to his defined obliques that begged her to run her tongue down past the low hanging waistline— 

Pompous asshole.  

*     *     *     

When she was showered and dressed for the day in her favorite fall sweater—a rust toned piece, thinly knit with flowy lantern sleeves cuffed tightly at her wrists—and a thick high waisted faux-wool skirt that cinched her naval but fell loose over her legs, she returned to find Draco unfortunately fully dressed and sipping a coffee.  

“Ready?” he asked, rolling up the day's copy of the Daily Prophet. 

“Let me grab some breakfast to go and I will be.” 

“No need. I thought we could grab something from the café near the ministry. They have those bagels you like today.” 

“How do you know about those bagels?” 

“You’ve eaten them nearly three times a week since you started at the ministry, Granger. It'd be hard not to know you liked them.” He glanced over her, making her feel suddenly self-conscious over the untamable frizziness of her hair. “You look nice, by the way.” 

“Thank you,” she said, still trying to smooth her ringlets down. 

“Shall we?” 

*     *     *

They apparated into an alley near the café and bought enough bagels for the entire DMLE before heading into the office, separating only after Draco had thoroughly checked her office. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, a new assistant had been hired to replace Rose as her secretary, allowing Patrick to return to the first floor and leaving Rose unemployed after her recovery. She already didn't like the new wizard, as he spent more time gossiping with the assistants than he did doing the proper paperwork. She stubbornly refused to learn his name.  

Sitting behind her desk, she pulled out her notes and books. Her formulas were laid neatly out on her desk, a fresh cup of coffee beside them. And she got to work. 

Draco stepped out from the interrogation room, his boots splashing over the damp floor as he wiped the blood from his knuckles. He would take care of the staining splatters across his shirt back in his office. The specialist came out behind him. 

“Head Auror Potter wasn't joking when he warned me this was going to be a messy case. Did you have to punch him so many times?” The specialist asked, followed closely by a secondary whom Draco hadn’t met previously, a man much older than himself named Augustus Wormwell. 

“The healers will fix him up. I think we got all we can from him, anyway.” 

“But we hardly got any new information. I couldn't unlock the accomplice’s face or name. Couldn't pull out a location. Whoever charmed him is nearly as good as Hermione Granger!” 

“Excuse me?”  

Draco knew all of the wizarding world knew her name—but very few knew what she had had to forfeit. Auror Dubois, or Dr. Dubois, depending on what you were using her for, was a leading specialist in memory retrieval using Legilimency and mind-mending. She had a 95% success rate, typically failing only with those that had Cruciatus or similar trauma. After several discussions over the years, Draco knew that only one case bothered her greatly. He had never suspected it would hit so close to home.  

“I shouldn't say anything,” she explained. “But since it's you and you're her Auror, you should know why memory potions are so important to her.” 

“I'm aware,” he said. “But tell me, Valerie, how do you know?” 

She looked at him as if it were obvious. “Miss Granger came to me about a year after her final year of Hogwarts for a consultation. One of the professors there helped to set it up. She had tried several times to retrieve her parent's memories on her own and had gone to more specialists than she could count. Wormwell and I were essentially her last resort of typical memory retrieval. It took me four months to finally give up. Augustus worked with her a few months further, to no avail. I never thought such a young girl could produce such effective memory charms—certainly not ones that I couldn't reverse.” 

“It was certainly remarkable. A case unlike any others,” Auror Wormwell added. 

“She has always been the brightest witch of her age. She had Voldemort to contend with, after all.” 

“Yes. No death eater was breaking through those charms. No doctor was either. I thought she'd give up when I did. Instead, she asked us to teach her Legilimency.” 

They had reached the empty lift. Rarely were workers on it this far below the offices. “She knows Legilimency?” 

Auror Dubois laughed. “No! She never got the hang of it. Couldn't break into the mind of a toddler. But she knows absolutely everything about it now and could tell you who created and mastered each technique! Occlumency she wasn't much better at.” 

“Nearly a year, we worked with her,” Wormwell added with a laugh. 

“Hopefully she's practiced,” Auror Dubois said. 

“Still a bit rubbish, I'm afraid.” 

“With a mind like hers it's probably a bit difficult to organize her thoughts enough to conceal them.” 

“Her brain is like a maze without occlumency,” Draco said, remembering with a touch of sorrow the times he’s been inside her mind. 

“That's likely why her memory charms are so powerful. Overlapping disorganization and brilliance. Like putting something somewhere safe, but it's so safe even you've forgotten where! You need just the right reminder to find them, or else they forever remain on the tip of your tongue.” 

They reached the DMLE floor and parted ways. Auror Dubois had paperwork to file with Harry, while Draco was heading out for a late lunch with the other snakes. Ginny had promised to eat with Hermione at the office if Tilly brought them whichever lunch she wanted. Turns out, she was easily won over with Scottish stovies.  

“Auror Malfoy!” one of the young Aurors in training called to him as they entered the Auror offices. “Auror Macmillan is looking for you. He's in the meeting room.” 

Draco nodded and headed to the large room filled with a single, oval table stretching from one end to the other. “Macmillan,” he greeted. 

Ernie Macmillan was stuffing his face with a bagel that fell to pieces over his robes. “Malfoy. That was quick. I just sent that kid to grab you.” 

“News on Rose, or the break in?” 

“Bit o’ both, actually. Boot’s still with Rose, but they've cleared her for questioning. Said you could go this afternoon.” 

“And Hermione's?” 

“Right. We pulled quite a few cursed objects from her home. Six of the eight were muggleborn targets. Five were cursed recently, likely from the intruder. Nasty curses but nothing that would have killed her—designed more to sap magic.”  

“And the others?” 

He swallowed a large bite of bagel, breathing through his nose slowly as it struggled to go down. “The other three appeared to have been put in stasis, like she had had them before the break in—including the other muggleborn targeted one. But . . . that one's become a bit of a problem for us.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It's the Lestrange dagger. The one your aunt used on her. We don't know how she got it, or why. We had it in storage in the Department of Mysteries for safekeeping and study, last we knew.” 

“Is she going to be in trouble for having it?” 

“Not if she tells us how she got it. I'm more worried about why she had it. If she grabbed it without that stasis on it, she likely would have turned it on herself—and it wouldn't have been to carve a name in her arm. That fucker would be swift and precise.” 

Draco's thoughts jumped through the possibilities, remembering McLaggen’s attempt at distraction before lingering too long on the times he had watched over her through her window. Alone. Always alone, anymore. Once again he found himself wondering if she had been to a mind healer since the war. 

“Thanks.” 

*     *     *

Draco was first to the pub. With waters brought to the table, it gave him only a few minutes with his tumultuous thoughts before his friends began arriving one by one. First Blaise, always incredibly punctual. Then Theo, always fashionably late. Lastly Pansy, who always enjoyed Dumbledore's philosophy of arriving precisely when one means to. In her case, it was either incredibly early, or incredibly late, but never right on time.  

“How's our girl?” Theo asked after they had all eaten, spending that time laughing and teasing each other like old times.  

“Alright, considering. I need to ask you, Theo, how she might have gotten her hands on a certain dagger-shaped artifact usually kept in your department?”      

“Don't look at me! That dagger was still in its case when she left that day. Bloody Macmillan already came and asked. She's a sneaky little witch, that one. The heart of snake.” 

“She would have eaten us alive and spoiled all our good parties, though,” Blaise said under a large gulp of ale. “I'd have been more terrified of her than I already was. I swear I ran the other way when I seen that big bushy head of hers walking down the hall.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend. He knew he had no qualms with Hermione now, but couldn't help but linger on how many of their classmates had acted similarly. He, at least, always faced his problems with her head on. 

“What about McLaggen? That troll already admitted to sneaking into the department to work on potions! And he knew about Hermione’s worrisome spell of despondency. Maybe he had hoped she’d experiment.” 

“You knew about that?” Draco said bitterly. 

“Of course we knew, mate. Weasley had spoken to Pans and me about an intervention of sorts. Not that she bloody listened to any of us. Overall she seemed better after, though, just knowing we all cared enough to be there for it.” 

Draco didn’t believe that. He had spent his life watching her—as creepy as that may be, he realized—and was familiar with the dull cast over her eyes when she thought no one was looking. 

“What about you, Draco?” Pansy asked. “Maybe you slipped her the dagger?” 

“Slip her the very item I watched my aunt carve up her body with? The one that one wrong move would take her from me— us, forever? Yeah, that would be bloody brilliant of me.”  

Pansy smirked at him. Theo looked on the verge of laughter. Blaise, to his credit, looked at him in understanding. It wasn't his first slip about his feelings this week, but he hoped it would be the last.  

“I think I accidentally told her I'm in love with her last night,” Draco admitted, remembering how he had practically screamed at her about the effect she had on people. 

The effect she had on him.  

The three Slytherin's faces lit up like they were children on Christmas morning.  

“What did she say?!” Theo asked a little too excitedly. Even Blaise had sat his drink down in eager anticipation. 

“No,” Pansy snapped. “What did you say exactly?” 

So, he told them, as close to word for word that he could manage. “Then, after I pointed out how all the wizards in her life fall in love with her and stay wrapped up in their obsession, referring to the blabbering Bulgarian and that fucking pervert McLaggen, of course, I decided to blurt how she has that effect on people—people, of course, being me .” 

“So, then what did she say?” Blaise asked questioningly.  

“She was angry. Said she knew of those feelings and then she swished her wand rather crossly and I didn't see her the remainder of the night.” 

“No. That doesn't make sense,” Pansy argued. “She—” 

She what, Draco thought hopefully.  

“Never mind. It's not important. She must have misunderstood you, is all.” 

Draco's chest sank. “Or she's coming to her senses about me. Why the fuck should she have forgiven me?” 

Pansy rolled her eyes while Theo said, “She's forgiven all of us, mate. And you're the best of us. If you don't think you deserve it, it's like saying you don't think we deserve it.” 

“Speak for yourself, I'm a bloody healer,” Blaise said cockily, lightening the mood. 

“I was the worst of us, though, too,” Draco said morosely.  

“Alright, enough with the pity party, for Salazar's sake or I'm going to start having snake night with the Gryffindor's. They're less moody,” Pansy threatened, giving Draco a bit of an idea. 

“How often do you two see Hermione anymore?” 

“Since she started at the lab, next to never unless I pop by her office,” Theo said. “I miss seeing that beautiful face in the dark, seedy joints of Knockturn Alley.”  

“I can drag her occasionally to lunch, but she likes to blow us off if it isn't important.” 

“Even when she is with us, her mind is elsewhere,” Theo added. “Must be lonely, being in your head like that all the time. That's why I choose to live in the real world, living each day to the fullest.” 

Blaise laughed. “In what way is your pureblood triad with a Weasley and a Greengrass living in the real world? ” 

“Hey! We have something special, us three! One cock isn't enough for that little freak,” Theo said like a prayer. “So isn't it rather beautiful I get to have the love of my life and a beautiful, funny redhead? I think you're just jealous.” 

“I think having a Weasley on my arm would have been my personal Hell,” Blaise laughed. “You know if it lasts more than two weeks, you'll have to meet Mrs. Weasley, right?” 

“Zabini, quit trying to scare the fellow! Mrs. Weasley is lovely as long as you don't fuck her children,” Pansy chimed. 

“You mean fuck with their children, right?” Theo asked. 

“Sure,” she replied sarcastically. 

“Draco,” he plead, turning his attention back to the tall blonde, “I need you to come with me when it's time! I don't want to die alone!” 

“Quit being so dramatic, Theo.” Draco thought for a moment, finding it not entirely a terrible idea. “Fine.” 

The group gaped at him, waiting for the joke.  

“No, I'm serious. Fine. I agree to accompany your twisted trio to the Weasley's if you last until your invitation.” He looked the three of them in the eye one at a time. 

“But?” 

“But, you need to visit Hermione more. At the house. Both of you. I was thinking we could even move snake lunches to snake nights there.” 

“You can't just invite people to her house, Draco,” Pansy scolded. 

“Oh, I'm not,” he clarified. “One if you two need to reach out and set it up. I don't give two fucks what the excuse you make is for having it there, but I think she could use the company of her friends in her own bloody home.” 

Pansy's eyes narrowed. “Fine. I don't enjoy being lumped into this little scheme, but I am curious to see how it plays out. I'll set it up.” She stood from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the school for my class.” 

“You don't have a class tonight, Pans,” Blaise said suspiciously. 

She winked as she pulled her fitted cloak around her shoulders. “It's a private lesson.” And she left. 

“You think she's fucking Longbottom?” Blaise asked when she was out of earshot.  

“Why, you jealous?” Draco asked, a bit of a snap in his tone. He was the one who had to pick up the pieces of their friendship when Blaise broke her heart years previously. Thankfully they had been young at the time, long before war had morphed them into who they were today. Yet, the sting of Pansy's tears those weeks still hurt when he was served a reminder. 

“Salazar, no! But you seen them at the party, right? And she's being so secretive. It's unlike her.” 

“She’s being secretive?!” Theo said aghast. “You're one to bloody talk! You've been with your girl for months now without even a hint!” 

“We're just casual.” He took a long drink of his ale. “When we decide to make it more serious, and when I can trust you two not to be bloody Slytherins about it, I'll bring her around.” 

“You're embarrassed by her!” Theo accused. 

“Absolutely not,” he countered smoothly. “She is wonderful. Curious, beautiful, kind. She has a . . . unique view of the world. And I find her more amazing each day. So no, not embarrassed by her , mate. You, on the other hand, cause me embarrassment every day.” He drained his glass and stood from the table. “Afraid I must head out now, too. Meeting her at Diagon for a bit before her shift.” 

“We should head back, too,” Draco said to Theo. “Hermione's waiting to head to the lab and I need to pay a visit to Rose.” 

*     *     *

Draco rapped his knuckle gently on Hermione's office door, waiting politely for her gentle “Come in!” before entering. She was sitting at her desk with Ginny across from her, her wand twirling in her fingers like a guard dog as her bushy haired friend studied notes and worked on equations. Somehow her hair had doubled in size since they left that morning and Draco wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through it. He didn't know how to braid hair, but if he could learn on hers he would braid it for her every day. 

“About bloody time you showed up,” Ginny snapped. 

“Don't act like you didn't enjoy your time, Ginevra,” he drawled back. 

“Of course I did, but I have practice in less than an hour. If I'm late, they’ll give my spot to my second for opening match!”  

“Well don’t let me keep you, I paid good money for a private box to watch you kick Puddlemore’s arse next weekend.” 

She smiled at him and winked. “I knew it had to have been you to buy that bloody box out from under me. You're a right bastard, Malfoy.” She grabbed her cloak and waved to Hermione. “Let me know if you need a babysitter again.” 

“I resent that!” Hermione squeaked, barely looking up from her work. 

“Love you!” Ginny called as he skipped to the door. 

“Love you too.” 

“Love you, Ginevra!” Draco called cheekily.  

“Fuck off, Malfoy!” 

Draco chuckled under his breath. She was his favorite of the Weasley’s. 

“I've been given permission to interview Rose today,” Draco said to Hermione once the ginger beauty left. “Potter said he could—” 

“I’d like to come with you,” she declared without glancing from her notes. 

“Excuse me?” 

Finally, her deep eyes found his. They were murky in the office lighting, without the rich earth tones that sucked him in when she laughed or the golden flecks that glittered like captured sunlight when they walked through the streets. He felt his lips flick downward when she looked away. 

“I’d like to come. I’m not asking to be present while you speak to her. I understand that is confidential and honestly, I don't think she’d want me being privy to information that personal. But she was my assistant and secretary, and she was taken because of me. I’d like to visit. Sit with her for a while. Apologize.” 

“Granger, you have nothing to apologize for.” He plead with whichever God was listening, if any, for her to look back up at him. 

“I know it wasn't directly my fault, Malfoy, but she was taken in my place and forced to forfeit everything that made her her.” She looked up at him. “So yes. I would like to apologize on behalf of fucking McLaggen and society as a whole for screwing her all because I said no!” 

Her eyes were no longer murky. They had deepened into near black onyx burning with anger. “Okay.” 

“Good.” 

“We’ll leave in thirty.” 

“Great!” 

St. Mungo’s was as it ever was, busy and full of witches and wizards that had accidentally spelled this or that. Rose had been transferred to the Janice Thickey ward for long term patients, though she was expected to return home in a weeks’ time with continued appointments for treatment. Hermione had learned through the grapevine that Terry had talked her into returning home with him, so he could properly care for her. It seemed fast, considering she had set her eyes on Draco just prior to her abduction, but her sources gossiping with her new secretary seemed to find it romantic. Terry had been in love with the witch since she started, slowly getting to know her as she navigated her career. 

Hermione figured her sudden return of affection was likely due simply to his proximity. Though she would likely never admit that fact out loud, because she truly wished it to be wrong. 

“Aren't roses a bit on the nose, Granger?” Draco asked as they marched down the hall toward her room, gesturing to the bouquet in her arms.  

“I used to think it was a bit vain for her favorite flower to be her own namesake, but I think I'm beginning to understand. Her whole identity’s been ripped from her. And, if I'm honest, she was adequately named. Beautiful like the flower, but thorny if you handle her wrong. She could be a right bitch if you crossed her.” 

Draco laughed and it made her want to smile too. “Know from experience?” 

“Absolutely. I tried to fire her once. She marched straight to my office and gave me a piece of her mind. It was brilliant. I told her if she ever spoke to me like that again I would ruin her career and every career that came next and to go back to her desk to cancel the interviews I had set up for the following morning.” 

 They stopped at her door. “I'm going to do the interview first. I’ll send Boot out to sit with you while I ask my questions.” 

She gave him a nod and turned to sit in a chair across the hall. Terry came out from the room less than a minute later. He strode across the hall and took the seat next to her.  

“How is she?” 

“Okay. Considering.” 

“You?” 

“Haven't felt this bad since Creevey’s funeral.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You?” 

“When has it ever mattered?” she asked with a dark smile before saying, “I'm okay. Considering.” 

 *     *     *     

Draco was in with Rose for thirty long minutes, looking rather glum as he exited. Hermione decided she didn't currently care what her time with McLaggen offered regarding information. She didn't currently care about her stalker, or the letters, or the resurgence, for that matter. She cared about her potion and the woman sitting in the room across from her fighting for normalcy. 

She stood and stepped toward the looming door, her flowers wilting in the sweat of her palm. “I suppose it's now or never,” she muttered to Draco.  

“I have some other business at the hospital,” Draco returned. “Boot, would you mind standing guard a while longer?” 

“I had no plans to leave, mate. I’ll be here.”  

He gave him a nod and strode off down the hall, leaving Hermione at the door. 

Rose’s room was dark with the setting sun. Not dark, Hermione supposed, but dim; cozy. A small table lamp lit the corner of the room on the far side of her bed. A comfortable chair sat beside her. The far wall beneath the window had a cot with mussed bedding and a pile of pillows—Terry had clearly been staying here. Hermione imagined she would find two toothbrushes and a bar of soap in the shower had she decided to snoop. 

Rose looked worse for wear but not as terrible as she had expected. Her hair had returned to a dirtier blonde than natural, but her once sleek strands now lay in tangling spirals frizzing from the magical humidifier placed next to the bed. And her face looked mostly like her own again. Her eyes had returned to their normal shape, although the color had remained a muddy hazel and the speckling of freckles painting her nose and cheeks seemed to only be growing in abundance. Her lips, too, refused to return to their former plumpness, instead keeping the romantic curves of Hermione’s own mouth. 

Still beautiful beyond reason, just different. Hermione prayed Cormac hadn’t decided to torture them all by giving her her former buck teeth. 

“Hello, Rose,” Hermione started sheepishly, walking slowly toward the bed. 

“Ms. Granger!” 

“Please, Rose. Hermione,” she corrected, receiving a somber nod. “These are for you.” Hermione placed the bouquet on the bedside table. “How are you?” 

Rose glared at Hermione before the stony stare broke into despair. Tears welled in her eyes before spilling over into a gentle sob. With a gentle touch, Hermione reached out and took her hand, still as pale and perfect as all of her had been before.  

She noted the scarring around Rose’s collar and wrists as the young witch caught her breath. Likely marks that would fade in appearance but never from memory. A bandage covered her left arm and Hermione absently wondered what had been carved there. 

“You don't have to talk, Rose,” she said at last, taking a deep breath to steady her own rising emotions. “I just needed to come in and tell you how very sorry I am.” 

“It was s-supposed to be y-you,” the woman sobbed. “It sh-should h-have been y-you!”  

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “It should have been.” 

Rose sniffled and they sat in silence, Hermione gently tracing a pattern in her hand with her thumb. “I'm sorry, Hermione,” she said at last. “I didn't mean that.”  

“It's alright. It wasn't untrue. Just know, Rose, that he will suffer greatly for the rest of his life, while you will adjust. You will grow, and thrive and life will be brighter and happier because of your strength. I've seen it before. It will be hard, but I will be there if you need anything. Terry Will be there. The entire Auror department, really. And he will rot, alone and miserable.” 

They went quiet again, the silence only broken by the light sniffling of Rose's nose. “I-I . . .” She paused, debating if she should continue. “I haven't looked in a mirror since he started changing me,” she admitted. “The healers said he wasn't very good.” She sobbed. “H-h-how bad is it?” 

Hermione wiped a tear off her cheek. “Rose you’d be beautiful even if he’d turned you into Quasimodo.” 

“Wh-who?” 

“Never mind. Muggle reference. You’re as stunning as you've ever been, Rose. Different in places, but it’s still you. I think you’ll have some difficulty with your hair for a while. But if what the healers said is true, then they forgot to tell you that they did a remarkable job taking away that bastard’s spells.” She watched Rose take a deep breath. “I'm not saying it won't be a shock at first. But I promise, it will fade.” 

Rose looked at Hermione’s mane. “I had always wanted to try a muggle perm,” she joked. 

“Chemical free services right here,” she laughed back. “So, you and Ernie?” 

“He’s sweet.” She smiled and glanced down to her lap. 

“Yeah. He thinks the world of you.” Hermione stood to leave. “One more thing, and I hate to bring it up, but I don't want whatever rude way they'd do it to ruin everything.” 

“I already know,” she said. “That they gave my job away. Terry told me this morning.” 

“Yes, well. You’re the best secretary I've ever had, and I see so much more in you. When you feel like returning to the world, just know I'll have a position for you, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing. One with better pay, better hours, with a greater chance of climbing the ladder. We’ll get you to wherever you want to be.” 

“Thank you, Hermione.” 

Hermione stepped out of the small room to find Ernie in a deep discussion with Rose’s nurse. She glanced down the hall to see a tall, dark figure dressed in a smart, casual suit giving a healer with nearly white hair curling softly down to her thighs a soft kiss on the lips. Their sweet departure left a smile on Hermione’s face as she turned to find Draco stepping out from the elevator.  

“All set?” he asked. 

“Yes. I'm ready to go to the lab.” 

Chapter Text

The remaining week went quickly with work divided between the lab and the ministry. She had tried three separate variations of her pumpkin stabilizer, each with varying effects on the nifflers but none with lasting memory retention. While Draco had been technically assigned as her Auror bodyguard, he still had his own casework to keep up with, primarily information regarding Hermione’s stalker at-large and the resurgence. He had apparently gotten a few minor leads from his interrogations on Rose and McLaggen, so he ensured another Auror was always present when he was off investigating. Today was, to Hermione’s disappointment, Ron’s turn to babysit while she caught up with her ministry work. 

“Ron, I already told you, if you’re hungry, then go get something to eat! I'm perfectly fine for a few moments alone in my office!” 

“No offense, ‘Mione, but one of us attacked you! I don't trust anyone in the bloody department anymore. Rose was taken at the office for Godric’s sake!” 

“Fine. But if you don't stop complaining then I’ll never get this equation done and I'm not leaving until I have my quantities for the potion!” 

“I thought you were working on the werewolf thing today?” 

She huffed and threw down her muggle pen. “I was. But I've hit a bit of a standstill. Between McLaggen and Rose, the trial has been postponed. Thankfully, because Fillian isn’t responding to any of my letters, so as of right now I only have Lavender and Bill’s testimonies! Which are wonderfully helpful, but the word of two werewolves is not going to sway the Wizengamot. So I'm finishing my formula so that come Monday, I can brew the first test run with the added pumpkin.” 

“Pumpkin?” 

“Yes.” She began to explain the special pumpkin she and Draco had attained when a knock on her door interrupted. “Come in!” 

Her new secretary, whom she still refused to learn the name of, popped his head in waving a small letter. Hermione got excited, hoping it was Fillian returning her correspondence at last. Instead, she opened a letter in distinctly feminine writing. “It’s Pansy.” 

“Everything alright?” 

Her furrowed brow as she read must have given him the wrong impression. “Yes. She’s asking to have their weekly snake night at my house tonight.” 

“Does she say why?” he asked through a mouth full of crackers. 

“Ronald,” she huffed, slapping the parchment against her desk. “If you had food, why have you been complaining the last hour and a half?!” 

“I didn't want crackers! What does it say, anyway?” 

“She says with Draco’s preoccupation with work he hasn't come to their official snake night this week and now that he’s staying on my couch, she’d like to bring snake night there since I'm already friends with most of them anyway. She says Draco is acting—” Hermione giggled at the sentence “—like a spoiled prince and is refusing to compromise, so she decided to compromise for him. Then goes on to say ‘The damned ferret can't argue if you invite us over to your house for snake night. So please say yes.’”   

“‘Mione, are you really going to offer your home to a bunch of bloody Slytherins?” 

“Save it, Ron. The only one I don't know well is Blaise.” 

“McLaggen was working with someone, Hermione. Who’s to say it’s not one of them?” 

“It’s not,” she said, less sure of herself than before. 

Her reply took less than a minute to scratch out. Her formula five minutes after that. Within fifteen they were locking up her office and heading to Harry’s to floo home. 

*     *     *

“Does it feel dark in here to you?” Hermione asked as she halved jalapenos. 

“No darker than usual,” Ron answered.  

He had, of course, accompanied her to the market and back to her flat. Now he sat across her on a barstool eating crisps with salsa she had purchased for her party while she prepped jalapeno poppers. 

“I feel like I need more light,” she huffed, beginning to stuff the halves with cream cheese. “Maybe I just need a new flat. This one has never quite felt right, no matter what I've done to it,” she thought out loud. 

“Your bedroom turned out alright. Maybe you just need to do what you did in there, out here?” 

“Ron, are you suggesting I use more illegal charms on the rest of my flat? You’re an Auror.” 

“I catch dark wizards, Hermione. I don't regulate the improper use of magic. You know I don't give a rat’s arse about expansion charms.” 

Hermione smiled at him. “I don't think an expansion will help this place, regardless. Being here I just feel . . . I just feel so lonely sometimes, you know?” 

He thought for a moment. “No.” 

“I didn't expect you would.” She returned to the poppers, moving on to wrapping them in slices of bacon. 

“I didn't mean it like that,” he backtracked. “I just meant you have so many friends. You have me, and Harry and Gin and my whole family. Plus, the bloody Slytherins you've inherited. You have friends, Hermione. But you blow them off for work. If you don't want to feel lonely, quit working so bloody much. Quit making excuses not to come for drinks. I shouldn't have to come to your flat to drag you to brunch with my family.” He shoved another crisp into his mouth. “Honeshly, we shee ya more ‘ow ‘en we did—”  

“Please don't talk with your mouth full, Ronald.” 

He swallowed his bite. “Than we did before Draco convinced us all to let him protect you.” 

The floo lit up and Pansy, clad in a sleek sweater dress and boots that stretched to reach the short hem stepped out.  

“There is no way you’re allowed that outfit working at Hogwarts!” Ron gaped. 

“Of course not, Weasley. I changed after class and flooed here.” 

“Shoot,” Hermione said, putting the tray in the oven. 

“Burn yourself? Ron asked. 

“No. I forgot I had Hogwarts linked to my fireplace as well. Draco asked after the break-in. He got so upset about Viktor’s cabin still being linked that I utterly forgot about Hogwarts!” 

“What do you mean, Viktor’s cabin is linked?!” 

Even Pansy looked surprised—though her catlike eyes sparkled with the chance to gossip. “Yes, from when he and I were . . . seeing each other—Oh don't act surprised, Ron! You knew all about it!” 

“Well, I—I didn't know you had your bloody floo linked to his! Had it all set up for midnight shags, eh?” His voice pitched too high, cracking towards the end as his ears reddened. 

“Well, you didn't expect me to apparate in my lingerie to the end of his driveway, did you?!” 

“Lingerie?!” he and Pansy said in unison. 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Ron, why are you surprised?” 

The rest of him turned deep scarlet as he replied sheepishly, “I always thought you did that because we had something special.” 

“I always pictured you as more of the lights out, shy, please don’t look at me type, honestly,” Pansy added. 

“I'm not having this conversation with you two—I’m not a bloody prude!” 

The floo roared to life again, presenting Theo in sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair was still damp and curling from a shower. “What’s going on here?” 

“We’re discussing Hermione’s sexcapades and the scandalous attire she used to screw Krum in,” Pansy teased. 

He hummed and roved his eyes over her body. “I’d say lace. Lots of tight lace and straps with cutouts for easy access. Something that doesn't even have to come off for him to lick you clean.” 

Hermione felt her face heat, the blush traveling across her cheeks and ears, even creeping down to her neck. 

“Salazar’s tits!” Pansy exclaimed. “Hermione, did Theo nail it? He just described it exactly, didn't he?” She jumped in excitement before rounding on the wizard. “You cheated. You’ve seen—why have you seen? You two haven't . . .” 

“No!” Hermione shrieked, words finally coming to her.  

“Not that I haven't tried,” Theo admitted with a catlike grin. “Who wouldn't want to take the Gryffindor Princess to bed. Ever since the yule ball, am I right Draco?” he called over his shoulder to the Auror who had just stepped through the front door. 

“Excuse me?” he said gruffly. 

“Even Pansy here has had a wet dream or two about the golden girl.” 

“It’s true. You look delicious wrapped in nothing but green silk, by the way,” Parkinson purred with a wink. 

Draco smirked, shaking off his initial shock. 

“That’s it. Malfoy’s here, I can't handle this conversation!” Ron blurted, standing from the island. 

“Why?” Draco pushed. “Can’t stand the thought of her being unwrapped by another wizard—or witch?” 

“Bloody Hell, Malfoy. I thought you of all people would be on my side! I mean, Krum was bad enough! It’s like she has a thing for bloody Aurors!” 

“Who said anything about—” his face shifted quickly into something darker, the amusement draining from it. “Aurors?” 

“Oh, now you bloody care,” Ron scoffed. “Yeah, they’re discussing the ways Krum would, what was it you said, ‘lick her clean’?” Draco’s glare turned downright murderous. “Yeah, have fun with snake night, mate. These two are out for blood tonight!” 

Blaise flooed in, nearly running into Ron as he rushed to leave, earning him a quizzical glance from Draco. 

“Where did you . . .” he began to ask before realization clicked. 

“Now that we’re all here, let’s get the night started!” Pansy cheered, pulling a bottle of Ogden’s from her purse and beginning to pour shots. 

*     *     *

Four hours later, five group shots, two mixed drinks and more wine than she had bothered to count, Hermione sat on the floor with a handful of numbered cards in primary colors. She knew the goal was to get rid of all her cards, yet the growing stack in her fingers told her she was losing.  

Tilly had brought them dinner—thankfully, otherwise the alcohol would have already kicked Hermione’s arse. Her jalapeno poppers, too, had been a hit, already receiving requests from Theo to make them for him once a week. It had taken her some time to adjust to so many people in her home, but now, sitting at her coffee table with Draco in a comfortably transfigured chair on one side, Pansy and Theo sitting thigh to thigh on the other, and even Blaise across from her bragging about being one card away from an Uno, she felt overwhelmingly at ease.  

“So, is this what you all do during your infamous snake nights? Gossip like teenagers and play muggle card games?” She was sure that she was slurring, but as with most individuals who have consumed more than their limit, she didn't quite care. 

Draco looked as though he would answer but quickly got sidetracked, instead doing what appeared to be math in his head before standing from his mossy green high-backed chair that Hermione contemplated keeping in place of the rickety step stool. Instead, Blaise answered for him. 

“No, Granger. Usually, we're out seducing women and causing a general ruckus.” He eyed Theo carefully as he placed a red five. “Unfortunately, we've all been snatched up by women and men and are forced to suffer the mundane lives you Gryffindors are accustomed to.” 

“I can't speak for the others—” she hiccupped “—but I rode a dragon. And broke a wizard out of Azkaban on a stolen Hippogriff—but sshhh, I'm not supposed to tell people.” 

“DRAW TWO CARDS!” Pansy shrieked before switching the color to blue.  

“Fucking hell!” Blaise laughed in disbelief at both himself and Hermione. “Yeah, alright Granger.” He turned to Theo and Pansy. “I think we've drank the princess here under the table with those stories.” 

“They're true,” Draco stated, setting a glass of water down beside Hermione and removing her empty wine glass.” 

“Bullshit,” they said in unison. 

“You remember the rumors that would spread about The Chosen One and his pompous posse.” 

Hermione stifled a laugh. “We were the pompous ones? You were the most pretentious person I had or have since met.” 

“Hold up a moment,” Theo stopped them. “So, the threesomes in the restricted section, their orgies in the DA meetings, Hermione's tryst with Krum in the broom closets?” 

“My WHAT?” Hermione flushed, dumbfounded. 

“First, no,” Draco pointed to Theo, glancing quickly down at Hermione for confirmation, who gave him a jerky shake of head. “Second,” he turned his attention fully to Hermione, who still felt the shock of these rumors on her face, “that's very rude, Granger.” 

“That's very rude, Granger,” Blaise mocked in imitation. 

“Very rude indeed, ” Pansy riffed. 

“Careful, my loves, his father will hear about this!” Theo continued, not wanting to be left out of the joke.  

“This has gotten entirely out of hand. No, you arseholes, the non-sexual rumors were true! Blithering idiots. They freed the bloody Gringotts dragon.” 

Hermione stood up and wobbled to the bathroom.  

“I thought that was just a rumor,” Theo asked, befuddled. 

“No, the magical waterfall is just a rumor,” Pansy replied. 

“It’s not!” Hermione shouted from the hallway. “I went in looking like Bellatrix, I left soaking wet looking like Hermione. It really threw a wrench in the plan.” The door closing behind her muffled the end of her sentence. 

“I’m sure there’s another dragon you’d wish she’d ride,” Blaise muttered cheekily through a sip of his firewhiskey. 

When Hermione returned, now dressed comfortably in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, Blaise had left and Theo had curled up on the couch half-asleep. Draco and Pansy stood in the kitchen, deep in conspiratorial discussion. Hermione heard Pansy hiss something about Astoria and decided it best not to join in, choosing instead to curl up in Draco's chair across from a softly snoozing Theo after laying a soft blanket over him.  

The chair smelled of warm cashmere and leather, enveloping her calmly and lulling her into the same peaceful drowsiness that had swept over Theo. The scent reminded her faintly of sixth year potions and falling chandeliers. Her last thoughts before she closed her eyes was how bright her home was, and she wondered vaguely who had brought the extra lamps. 

Draco woke early the next morning with a stiff neck. He had given Pansy and Theo the couch, sleeping instead in his chair after carrying Hermione to her bed, placing a hangover tonic on her nightstand with a glass of water. She hadn't taken her dreamless sleep nearly all week and though she shivered less throughout the day and wore fewer layers, he added an extra blanket over her anyways. He had pulled her from two nightmares since moving in and caught himself accidentally lingering in her good dreams as well. 

It was late morning when he heard her stir. Mippy had already brought breakfast, which sat in charmed serving platters, and he had made coffee, which Theo and Pansy sat on the couch drinking. She had just turned the shower off when her mail slid through the front door. 

Rifling through the letters he found one from Fillian. Part of him wanted to incinerate it before Hermione made her appearance, but instead he sat it on the counter with all but one of the letters. 

The stalker had sent another.  

Draco ripped it open and steadied himself for the vulgar language, occluding enough as to not picture the dehumanizing things they threatened her with. Since McLaggen's arrest, the letters (there had now been three) held consistency in their tone, referring less to rape and more to tearing her apart emotionally and physically. 

This one was no different, promising an eternity of pain and suffering if she didn't hand over her notes on the potion. Whoever sent these had decided he wanted the potion for himself, rather than for her to quit her research. That, at the very least, meant they wanted her alive. 

He had just finished magically sealing it when Hermione shuffled into the kitchen. The surprise on her face told him she hadn't expected to see Pansy and Theo sitting in her living room with their coffee and eggs, yet he savored the gentle smile that played at the corners of her mouth.  

“Did you mess with my lamps?” she asked him suddenly. 

"Excuse me?” 

“It just seems so bright in here. I noticed it last night before I fell asleep.” 

He hadn't been surprised to find her asleep in the armchair. Nor had he been particularly disappointed carrying her to bed. For so long he had bit back the urge to embrace her, now every moment he could touch her felt valuable.  

“I haven't touched your lamps, Granger. Maybe it was Crookshanks—who, by the way, has turned our new chair into a scratching post.” 

“Our?” she asked, her head cocked at a questioning angle. 

“Ah, well, I—you know—” 

“When the case is over will we have joint custody? I get it Monday through Thursday but Friday she's all yours?” she teased. 

He got over the sting of moving out quickly. “Well, yes, actually. You see, it may have been your step stool but it was entirely my creative genius to bring it to life. I dare say I've grown attached. We'll split holidays. I call first Christmas.” 

“You two are unbelievably adorable,” Theo patronized from the couch. “How are you not as hungover as we are?” 

“There was a—” she looked at Draco. “You didn't bring enough for everyone?” 

“They're big kids. If they wanted hangover tonic they could have made it their damn selves.”  

Hermione mouthed a quick thanks to him as Theo and Pansy gossiped over who they suspected Blaise to be seeing.  

“Is it alright if you and Pansy head to the Potter's today?” Draco asked. 

“I actually have a lunch date,” Pansy admitted. 

“And I think Harry and Ginny took a weekend vacation,” Hermione added. 

“Weasley?” 

“The Chudley Cannons have their opening match today. He's taking his brothers,” Theo supplied. “Krum’s meeting them.” 

“Why?” Hermione asked. 

“. . . to see the Quidditch match?” Theo asked questioningly. 

“No,” she scoffed back. “Why do I need a different babysitter today?” 

He chewed on his words while the truth of his day settled in. His task was long overdue, easily put off month after month with his increasingly busy life. But with his contract to Astoria coming to fruition, his feelings for Hermione burning stronger and his investigation's dead ends, he knew the six months had been enough of a reprieve.  

“I have to take a trip to Azkaban,” he confessed dully. “I've hit a few dead ends in the case, and I'd like some . . . advice.” The last word was difficult to admit, considering his father's advice had never been particularly moral. He could feel his friend's eyes boring into him from across the room and refrained from hexing them - personally, he felt he deserved an award for such restraint.  

“Oh,” was all Hermione said, clearly uncertain where he stood with his father. 

“Yes. And in light of McLaggen and last weekend's break in—” 

“And the letters you received today!” Theo added unhelpfully. 

“Letters?” 

“Yes, letters.” He gestured to the one from Fillian. “The other is from the stalker. You've gotten three this week.” 

“Why haven't I known about them?!” She shrieked. He could see the anger rising. 

“Your nightmares returned every time you got one. You can finally sleep most nights without a bloody potion!” He deepened his voice into a near growl. “I wasn’t going to let you backslide because of an insignificant cretin.” 

She crossed her arms. “How often are you in my head?” she bit. “My dreams? You're there every night, aren't you?” she accused.  

“Legilimency, Draco? Really?” Pansy scolded. 

He merely mimicked Hermione's posture. “Every. Bloody. Night.” he growled. “Not even on purpose, most nights! It's just so easy to slip in!” 

Completely affronted, he could swear the hair on the back of her neck bristled. “Stay out of my head!” 

“Make me!” He knew it was a low blow, but was also in too sour of a mood to care as she screamed in frustration, cursing him and his choices.  

Come to the manor while I'm gone, he said into her head. 

“You pompous, manipulative, narcissistic arsehole!!” she screamed in return.  

Go have tea with my mother, he continued. “Please, Granger,” he said softly; pleadingly. Watching her face falter, he continued, “I won't be able to focus on my father if I'm busy worrying about you. The manor has ancient blood wards. Only the Malfoys and our elves can enter without explicit permission.” 

“I can care for myself, Malfoy.” 

“Yes. You can. But you shouldn't have to.” 

“This isn't what I agreed to when I agreed to Auror protection. I didn't agree to be babysat constantly!” 

No. She didn't want him around all the time. She didn't want to wake up to him, to go to bed with him, to have him fret over her when she's in obvious danger. And she certainly wouldn't fret over him. “I know. Please, Hermione.” 

He held her gaze as she thought, her brilliant brown eyes reading him. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that this was Legilimency.  

“Stay out of my mind,” she said at last. 

“Fine.” 

“And duel with me twice a week.” 

“What?” 

“In the practice room. Like before.” 

“No. Absolutely not. Remember last time?” 

“Neither of us hate the other quite like last time.” Her tongue dripped with poison she was unaware ate away at him. 

Hate. She hated you. 

But he knew that already. And she had every reason to. But . . . 

“I've never hated you, Granger. I was just excellent at playing the part. Fine. I will keep my mind tethered to my own dreams and we will duel twice a week.” 

“Fine.” She hesitated, rotating gently on the balls of her feet. “But . . . what should I wear?" 

“Excuse me?” 

“I believe I can help with that,” Pansy declared, jumping from the couch and leading her to the bedroom.  

*     *     *

Draco couldn't remember the last time he entered the manor through the front gate. It felt strange, now doing so with Hermione Granger, knowing the last time she had done so had been fraught with uncertain doom.  

“Where are your peacocks?” she asked suddenly, catching him off guard.  

“Excuse me?” 

“You say that quite often for an Auror. When have you last had your hearing checked?” 

“I hear perfectly fine, thank you,” he snipped, walking through the main gate toward the house, no longer concerned with her last trip here. “I don't know where the beasts are. Likely pecking each other to death in the rose garden or trying to find their way out of the hedge maze.” 

They continued up the long drive. He pointed out his mother's plants, her small flourishes of landscaping and lawn ornaments, and generally avoided all mention of torture.  

At least, he tried to. It was a long walk and reminiscing over his chaotic childhood with the woman he antagonized for much of it due to his family's hatred of her was, in fact, torture. Not to mention the damn peacocks, the bane of his existence, decided they enjoyed the company. 

“That's Frederick,” he said, pointing to a large opalescent bird stretching its feathers wide as it strutted alongside the drive. “And Sasha. Emmanuel. Uh, he's new, so I'm sure mother will be asking you for name recommendations during tea.” 

“Frederick is pecking Sasha's face.” 

“Yes. He's a bit of a cunt. Steer clear of him if you know what's good for you. Mother decided one year that chores would help me become a man, so I was, of course, tasked with caring for these monstrosities. It was absolute torture.” 

Fuck.  

“I can only imagine. I'm surprised your patronus isn't a peacock. They suit you so well. I think Emmanuel must have learned to walk from watching you, the way he struts around.” 

“I'm just glad it wasn't a ferret.” 

She laughed, clearly remembering the severely traumatic event. “Why is your patronus a bird?” 

For you.   

“It's a sparrow, I believe.” 

“It's just like the ones you charm.”  

They reached the front door and he hesitated. Whether procrastinating their moment ending or his trip to Azkaban could have been a draw. “They're based on the same thing, I think.” She looked at him expectantly, so he took a deep breath, readying himself to admit to more than he expected to. “The memory I use for my patronus is of this sixth year Gryffindor one day sitting on a windowsill in the library. The sun was hitting her just right I swear, to this day she looked like an angel, the way she glowed.” 

Draco pictured the day, remembering how her face had scrunched in thought with each turn of the page. “She was so enthralled in this bloody book that I could sit and watch as she twirled her wand, creating these perfect little birds. I think she was practicing to keep her mind quiet enough to read. But it felt warm. That was a rough year for me, Granger. And for the first time in what felt like ages, she felt warm.” 

“Who was she?”  

He focused heavily on the large wooden door before him, knocking before his answer came. “I don't remember her name,” he teased, wondering how she couldn’t know. In all their years at Hogwarts he wasn’t sure he had seen another make birds quite like hers—except the few times he attempted to recreate them. Nevertheless, he continued, “but she had this hair that was the size of the bushes down by the black lake, and as brown as the soil that grew them! And the book, she must have read it a thousand times—certainly enough to recite it. I don't know who needs to read about Hogwarts’ history past first year, but she apparently enjoyed it.” 

She was silent. As he had expected. He kept from looking at her, knowing the look on her face as she gaped at him would surely make them both uncomfortable. He had to remain professional. He was, after all, her Auror. 

But then she said his name. His name in a way he had never heard from her lips, and he nearly turned to look. 

“Draco, I'm your pa—” 

The front door jerked open. “My dragon!” Narcissa cooed motherly, pulling him into a tight embrace. She released him and pasted on a gentle, open mask. “Miss Granger,” she greeted welcomingly.  

“Mrs. Malfoy, thank you so much for—” 

“Please, dear. Call me Narcissa. Come in, come in! Dolly is prepping tea. Draco, dear, I know you must head out. Please use the upstairs floo, I'll give Hermione here the full tour. All the wards are in place. The other floo is locked. I have my ring in case there's an emergency.” 

He watched Hermione's eyes flicker to the three he always wore. A simple band that his father hadn't been allowed to bring to Azkaban hugged his right thumb. It was his wedding band, charmed to alert its match of danger. He now wore it as a constant beacon of protection for the only parent to have protected him.  

On his middle finger sat his signet ring, also passed to him from his father when he became the head of the Malfoy family. Paired on the same finger sat another simple band of silver meant to split in two and go to his eventual betrothed. For now, it rested beside his family ring, waiting patiently for the hand it belonged on. He liked to pair the trio with an assortment of other bands and jewels depending on the day, and they occasionally moved across his fingers for certain activities that he had long ago mastered with the broad face of his signet ring, but those three were always on his person. 

Draco looked to Hermione. Her eyes. Always to her eyes, as they roared and crashed into his with unspoken questions. He watched her shift, relaxing into a comforting smile that told him she was okay. 

“Very well, Mother. I'll be back soon.” 

It felt odd, leaving Hermione willingly on his doorstep. But as he kissed his mother farewell on her cheek, and she whispered assurances in his ear, he knew nothing would happen so long as she was here. 

*     *     *

Azkaban stood as dark and stormy as it ever had, even in the absence of the dementors. His father had bought off the guards early on, paying for not only his own safety but certain comforts from home, including a private cell cushioned with an exotic rug, three tall bookshelves his mother frequently owled new novels to fill, and two highbacked chairs cushioned to his outrageous standard. On the ornate coffee table between them sat an antique vase Draco recognized from the family vault with three softly hued roses from the manor’s greenhouse—a variety his mother particularly loved. 

“Your mother tells me you’re doing well as an Auror,” Lucius inquired from one such chair, one leg crossed over the other and a simple cup and saucer in his lap. His hair remained long, pulled back into an aristocratic ponytail and apart from the sallow complexion and deep shadows that had overtaken him, looked no worse than he had in those long years Voldemort had imprisoned them. If anything, he looked well fed. 

“I suppose so,” he drawled indifferently. 

“Potter treating you well?” The ice in his tone had long diminished, replaced with near gratitude—or, as close as Lucius Malfoy could come to gratitude—for his part in keeping Narcissa and Draco from his own fate. 

“I suppose so.” He sipped his own tea.  

His father's sharp stare cut through him. “How are negotiations coming with the Greengrass girl? Smoothly, I’m sure?” 

“I suppose so.” 

Lucius slammed his tea down with a huff. “If you’re not going to have a proper conversation with me, you might as well leave!” 

Draco sighed. “Fine. Potter is a trustworthy partner whose competence exceeds all former expectations. Astoria and I have nearly come to a mutual agreement. She had specific terms for our arrangement that I had not initially expected nor cared for, but I believe we have come to a mutual understanding that will benefit both families.” 

“And the mudblood?” 

Draco’s temper spiked. His nostrils flared and his grip on the frail cup tightening, crushing the dainty porcelain handle. Lucius merely smiled, his eyes alight with mischief and plotting. 

“Now, now, Draco. Don't go reaching for your wand or you’ll end up sharing my cell. I was merely wishing to test you. Clearly you haven't mastered that anger you’ve harbored.” 

“If you ever call her that again, Father, I will make sure that you never see the light of day or hear the voice of a loved one for as long as your miserable life shall last.” 

“No need to be rash, my boy.” Lucius picked back up his tea, ever the picture of nonchalance. “Rumor has it Miss Granger has worked her way onto a few former companions’ hit lists.” He sipped his tea silently, watching Draco’s reaction. “And that you have been ever her keen protector.” 

“Did your source have any helpful information, or just gossip to try to sour your pureblood son’s name in your mouth?” 

“They may have given a few tidbits of information that I am willing to offer.” 

“At what cost?” 

“A simple trade, really.” 

“Nothing has ever been simple with you, father.” 

“I wish for monthly visits. I will tell you what I know now and continue to have my sources feed me information so long as you collect in person. We are to have, at minimum, thirty-minute discussions about our lives before venturing into work related topics, and we will use my cooperation at my retrial next fall. I would like this to be my last Christmas away from home.” 

“I'm sorry, is Azkaban not living up to its potential? I apologize if your life has been altered by the murder and rape your lot committed over the years!” 

“You took the dark mark, too, Draco!” He roared. “Don't you ever forget that your innocence, our very lives were at stake!” 

“I was forced to take the mark because of your mistakes!” Draco leapt from his chair. His father rose to meet him, hovering an inch shorter but sharing the icy cold glare. 

“If you believe you were the only poor wizard forced to take an oath of servitude to a cause you did not fully understand, then leave. I have no business to discuss with you,” he said calmly, staring him down over the tip of his nose as if he were still a child. “But,” he continued, moving to sat back down, “if you can believe that I, too, had been pulled back into the throngs of war solely based on who I thought I needed to be at one time, then sit.” 

“Do not sit there and pretend as though you thought muggleborns your equal! As if it wasn't you who taught me to spew hatred by planting the seeds of prejudice within me!” He laughed darkly. “The life I could have had. The choices I could have made, had you not poisoned me!” 

“I will not insist that your words are false, Draco. There was a time where muggleborns were the bane of my existence. They threatened the very nature of the society I had thrived in. I met your mother during that time. I fell desperately in love with her the moment our eyes met, and I knew I would protect her with every fiber of my being. I chose the side that I believed would bring her a world full of prosperity. The Dark Lord was powerful and cunning. And I was sixteen when he rose to power. What was it like when you were sixteen, Draco?  Did you maybe make similar choices for those that you loved?” 

“My choices were forfeited the moment you went back to him!” 

“You were a year old the first time he died.” For the first time, Lucius’s eyes glazed over, lost in reverie. “And I was glad. There was no leaving the death eater regime, son. To leave meant death, or worse, to not only you but your family. And as I said - I would have burned the world down for your mother. But for you, I wanted peace. So, when he met his demise, I was glad. Though I knew it wasn’t over.” 

“Why are you telling me this? What good could it possibly be to my investigation?” 

“I merely wish for you to understand my motives.” 

“And a monologue of your poor choices is the way to do that?” 

“Yes,” Lucius bit back. “When the Dark Lord returned, I had no choice but to return to his side or he would kill you all! I knew he would return. There were whispers all around of his dark entity roaming, gaining strength! It was a matter of time. I had only hoped you would be grown! I never wanted my choices as a teenager to reflect so deeply on my son! When I noticed your obsession with the Granger girl, I knew I needed to put a stop to it. For your own safety!” 

“Would you get to the point, Father? I’m growing impatient.” 

“My point, Draco, is that you have grown into your own man capable of making your own choices. And that you, like the Malfoy men before you, have loved one woman more deeply than most others could fathom. Do not let her suffer a lost cause.” 

Draco held his father’s stare. His hand twitched towards his wand. “I’m confused, Father. Is that a threat? Or a blessing?” 

“You do not require my blessing, Draco. But it is a warning. While our family may adapt to her ability to disprove our past antiquated beliefs, most of the regime would rather die, or put her in her place, as I’m sure you're finding.” 

“Get on with it, please,” Draco sneered. 

“Apologies. I have so few to converse with in here that I do become quite long winded these days. Fenrir’s memory has been fading for quite some time now. It is likely he believes Voldemort may return once more, though any of the others would know otherwise. I’ve heard he’s even become too great a liability for Antonin and has been kicked out of his little club. I'm sure you’re aware Antonin is also heading the new regime—though, he likely just wants power in a new world order. While Antonin would be after Miss Granger to make her an example, Fenrir may need her for her potion. He had a pack during those years between Voldemort. With his fading mind, he would need someone close to him to assist. Likely a relative or someone who looked up to his ruthlessness from his pack. I believe he had a boy not much older than you that he would tote around, trying to sway the Dark Lord to favor him. Forced him into all sorts of unsavory acts while they were rooted within our walls. Then Antonin would feel the opposite, of course. Wishing the potion remains unmade. That’s where their plan will falter.” 

“Is that all you have? Philosophical views and what-ifs about information I have already acquired?” 

“Of course not.” Lucius pulled a small scrap of paper from the book nearest him. “This is an address. Antonin had a home in Finland he would use to avoid the Aurors after the Dark Lord’s first death. I believe it is still in use for, what have you been calling them? Resurgence members?” 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“If you don't believe me, ask your mother. You’ve always trusted her.” Draco stood to leave. “Are you sure this contract with the Greengrasses is truly what you wish for?” 

“It’s what you would have done. It’s what’s expected of me. What’s best for the family.” 

Draco called to the guards. As the doors opened to release him, Lucius called out one last time, “I’m proud of you, Draco.” 

He didn't look back as he left Azkaban. 

“I think we’ll have tea in the library today, Dolly,” Narcissa said kindly to the elf shortly after Draco vanished. “Come, let’s take a quick tour while she finishes up.” 

The matron linked her arm through Hermione’s, taking her by surprise. Her steps were slow, careful, each with purpose quite unlike Hermione’s urge to hurry to the next room. She had been anxious for this visit. So many times she had been to the dark, dreary manor in her nightmares, reliving the torture and worse. But this manor was nothing like the recreation of her subconscious. It was bright and welcoming, full of the warmth of a family that at one time lived carefree within its walls. Slowly she felt herself relax. 

They wandered halls that twisted like a maze, taking so many detours and shortcuts through rooms and courtyards that she was sure she would never find her way out on her own. She showed her the updated guest rooms, the kitchens, a dining room the size of Hermione’s entire flat, the most beautiful observatory she had ever seen, and a small greenhouse attached to a pleasant sunroom. 

“You’re going to love this,” she told Hermione as they entered the humid room. “We have plants and herbs from all over the world growing here, all on Draco’s insistence. I was always drawn to blooming plants, myself, but ever since he was around twelve, he’s pushed for this greenhouse. We even have mandrakes growing off in the corner!” 

“Mandrake?” she asked in surprise. 

“Oh yes, dear. He harvests them frequently and brews tonics and cures.” Narcissa gave her a knowing look. “Of course, there are others here, too. He even grew ingredients to counter some of the nastier spells that our . . . previous associates created. Antonin Dolohov had a particularly disastrous curse that to my knowledge, only one had survived. Draco’s created a sort of repellent for it. It coats the Auror’s clothing. He came home each year more motivated to grow cures than the last, bringing new ideas. His dream was to be a Potions Master long before it was to be an Auror. Then, of course, with his penchant for healing after so many years requiring it, it felt natural for him to combine the two.” 

Mandrake. 

Dolohov’s curse. 

Draco’s garden filled Hermione with more questions than answers. “Why did he choose those particular potions?” 

“Oh, you know Draco. He would never tell me exactly the reason. Just said there were times they were needed and it made him feel better to know they existed.” 

Hermione’s hand drifted to her chest, where her heart still beat strangely when caught off guard and on the nights her nightmares grew too much, the long-faded line ached with unfulfilled purpose. “I'm sure they would have been useful, once upon a time.” 

“He delivers potions to Mr. Zabini and St. Mungos as they’re needed.” Dolly popped into the greenhouse. “Come along, dear. Tea is ready.” 

*     *     *

Narcissa had saved the library for last. Its vaulted ceilings boasted rich wood tones with gentle lighting just bright enough to comfortably read. The bookshelves towered high above her with wheeled ladders on every wall. In one corner a glass domed ceiling sat above a partial second story whose staircase had been built against the wall with all curves and no hard angles. The walls of this floor alone were painted a midnight blue with glowing constellations shifting with time.  

The rest of the ceiling had a scaled effect etched and painted. It shimmered subtly at just the right angle, reflecting the hazy light like dragon scales. Every way that Hermione turned she found something new to love, until they reached a spacious break in the shelving. Velvet lined chairs, loveseats and lounges sat in a semi-circle before a stained-glass window-wall the height of the entire mansion. Potted trees thrived alongside it, sitting in comfortable companionship with the silhouettes of the magically blooming flowers on the other side of the colorful panes. 

“Narcissa, this is . . . this is absolutely beautiful.” 

“Thank you, dear. I had this room designed when I was around your age. It’s always been Draco’s favorite as well.” She stood stoically beside Hermione, silently taking in a memory from years ago as she gazed at the room. “Come. Let’s sit before we find our tea cold. It's always better without a warming charm.” 

Narcissa sat down in the plush chair while Hermione chose a narrow loveseat adjacent. Rose-tinted sunbeams colored the coffee table between them.   

“So, tell me about yourself, Hermione. I’m afraid I know far too much about you from Rita Skeeter and the Prophet’s headlines and not nearly enough from the mouths of those I trust.” 

Hermione went on to tell Narcissa about her childhood and her parents, her family pets and friends she had lost when she found out she was a witch. She found Mrs. Malfoy easy to talk with, the conversation flowing readily from one topic to another with neither woman talking more than the other. Narcissa, in turn, opened up about her own upbringing and the letters she had sent to her once estranged sister, Andromeda.  

“That Teddy certainly is wonderful,” Narcissa commented once their tea had run dry and the evening sun drifted across the horizon. “I've had the pleasure of visiting them recently. He enjoys storytelling—particularly stories of three children who saved the world.” 

Hermione felt her cheeks heat. “I fear one of the Weasley’s was responsible for that tale. We tried focusing on stories of his parents.” 

“He was full of those as well,” she let out a breathy laugh. “Speaking of his parents, the Wizengamot is abuzz with a rumor that you’re creating a werewolf foundation next?” 

“Something like that. Professor Lupin was a kind, brave man who taught us far more than most others. Yet he was forced to relinquish his position shortly after his condition came to light. Not only him, but students who have fought in the war are now finding life difficult. Children who had been born to families of lycanthropy are missing school. Even before the war. I am a firm believer that had werewolves had proper protection of their rights, we would have seen fewer following the likes of Greyback! There are so many examples of unfair treatment and I’m simply doing my best to put regulations in place to prevent career loss, educational mistreatments, among others.” 

“How very noble. I'm sure you’ll succeed with your reformations with flying colors on your own, but if you need any advice or a friendly face, I would be more than happy to throw a dinner party with members of the Wizengamot. Just something to help boost understanding regarding the policy suggestions.” 

“That would be incredibly helpful, Narcissa. But I couldn't possibly ask you to—” 

“Nonsense, dear. It is my understanding that your hearing has been pushed due to recent events, and I have a standing reservation with many of the members every other month, which falls two weeks from now. It’s short notice, but we could turn it into a networking event.” 

“I’ll check my schedule on Monday and owl you, if that’s alright?” 

“Perfect, dear. Do be sure to bring a guest. Dinners are always more fun with someone to conspire with," she said with a winked. 

“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Draco’s voice drawled from across the library, the husky notes absorbing into the neatly stacked pages of their tomes. 

“Hermione is lovely, my Dragon,” Narcissa cooed back. “I do expect her company next time we plan tea. And anytime in between.” 

He looked at her, reading her face without the telltale pressure of his mind pressing in. She returned a reassuring smile. 

“Granger, would you mind excusing my mother and I for a moment? We have a few items to discuss from my visit in private.” 

Narcissa’s face drooped. For the first time since their arrival, the welcoming smile faded into something hard and serious. 

“Of course not,” she agreed before thanking Narcissa for her hospitality and making an exit. 

She sat in the great hallway alone all of a minute before her bladder got the better of her. She wandered down the hall in search of one of the eighteen bathrooms mentioned on the tour, opening door after door as she took hallways and stairs in search, finding herself down corridors too similar not to be going in circles. She very nearly gave up the search when she stumbled across a set of double doors. Their familiar handles marked her memory and paralyzed her. She couldn't bring herself to move away, nor could she imagine taking the daring step of opening them, either. 

“Would you like to see?” The soothing voice asked calmly behind her, coating her nerves like a balm.  

Hermione couldn't pinpoint when his presence had turned into a comfort. Sometime between homemade soup and pumpkin hunting. But as her shoulders relaxed and she fought the urge to lean back into the muscular chest she could just feel the presence of, she said quietly, “Maybe next time,” and had the strength to turn away. 

Chapter Text

Hermione met Draco at the training room first thing Tuesday morning after his lengthy DMLE meeting. She dressed in tight leggings and her sports bra and didn't miss Draco’s eyes as they took in her figure. 

“Don't think I won't curse you because you’re dressed like that,” he teased. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s merely meant to be a distraction while I hex you.” 

Draco opened the training room, dropping his Auror robes in the corner by the door. “I am a trained professional. I will not be swayed into fantasies by an open midriff. Where would you like to duel today?” 

She thought for a moment. “A beach.” 

“In that?” 

“Well, it’s not a real beach, is it? Besides, I’d like to see you try your death eater swishy-swish-no-more-light trick under a blazing sun.” 

“Deal. But I’m not putting the mask and robes on. I don't care how much you irritate me.” 

“We’ll see,” she said playfully. 

The room around her swirled into an oceanside beach, the waves crashing angrily against the shore under the winter sky. Draco had perfected the magical simulation with a white sand beach, rocky cliff faces and frosted beach grass. And yet, he had kept it set in the icy November weather, and she was cold. 

“Why?” she asked, shivering, her teeth chattering together. 

“It’s only fair.” 

“How is this fair?!” 

“I may not be as professional as I led on Granger,” he drawled, raking his eyes once again over her, sending a shiver down her spine and deep into her core. Suddenly she wanted him to do it again. To let his eyes take in every curve and angle of her body, drinking her in.   

Unfortunately, they were there to duel. And she planned to win. 

She started with a quick warming charm, the spell dripping down her like warm honey. Draco started out ready to prove a point, setting straight to casting his eternal dark over the false sun, drowning them in thick night. Hermione had seen this move before. She had planned for this move.  

If Draco’s birds could cut through the veil, so could hers. 

Hermione cast her patronus and let the silvery hue leap around her like a guard dog as she conjured her own fleet of war-sparrows. One by one they flew from her wand until they formed a protective dome around her. Their presence was strong enough to cast enough light for her to see a few feet in every direction even after her otter faded away. 

“You’ll still have to be faster than me,” Draco’s silky voice taunted from the shadows. He stepped just into view and Hermione sent two sparrows charging at him, colliding only with the black mist and lingering laughter of his apparation. 

His laugh followed around her, stopping as he did on the opposite side of her dome. She spun through the sand, an exhilarating smile spread on her face, and sent two more birds at him with enough time to block his disarming spell. 

Black mist again. 

Back and forth they went like a waltz, one leading the other as they spun and twirled over the dark beach. When Hermione was down to her last two birds, she switched tactics, choosing instead to apparate herself. She had the disadvantage of sight, but had memorized enough of Draco’s beach before he snuffed out the light to bounce from one side to the other, sending outward rings of fire with every stop. 

When her feet landed in the damp beach grass for the third time, he sent a series of hexes her way. One by one she blocked and countered, stepping away from the oncoming shadow. As he sped up his casting it was all she could do to keep up. 

“C’mon, Granger, out of breath already?” he taunted, approaching. His darkness had lifted across the training room just enough for her to make out the outline of his torso. He took a step. She stepped back with him. “You need to practice sending—ACH!”  

She cut him off with her own stinging jinx to the shoulder.  

“Yes!” he praised. “You need to remember to send your own between blocking! Take the offensive!” 

She was out of breath and her warming charm had faded, leaving the brisk chill of the wintery beach to distract her. Draco remained merciless, sending jinx after jinx. One hit her chest and she jumped back with a yelp, another to her arm. He sent three more and she instinctively stepped back again. Draco tried calling her name, reaching out to stop her, but her foot had already started sliding on the edge of the icy grass, the crumbling rock falling from beneath her. 

Then, she fell.  

Draco turned to mist and in a blink had his arms around her, squeezing her close to him as he apparated to the solid, sandy ground. The momentum of the fall took them both down and suddenly he was on top of her, his face merely inches from her.  

Hermione was out of breath, her chest heaving against him. Neither moved, their breath mingling in the air between them for what felt like an eternity. Then, he leaned down, ever so slightly, and she couldn't stop herself from meeting him halfway. 

Their lips crashed together like the waves meeting the sand, melding in time. She brushed the tip of her tongue gently against his lower lip in question and he took it wholeheartedly, deepening the kiss. His arm reached around her, his hand sliding over her back and pulling her tightly to him as his tongue explored her own, before reaching her hair. He pulled the soft scrunchie from her messy bun and tangled his fingers into her curls. She felt the burning desire for more of him, warming her core and sending the aching need down lower between her legs. As if he had read her mind, or was simply trying to relieve his own growing pressure, he slid his knee up to meet her pelvis. She couldn't help but wiggle at the sudden contact, the jolting sensation sending a soft whimper of pleasure and longing through her lips.  

The sound was enough to bring them both to their senses.  

Gasping for breath they broke apart. Draco’s leg slid back down, leaving behind a throbbing ache. His hand reluctantly pulled free from her hair.  

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione panted. 

“Granger,” Draco started, his voice like deep gravel that made her clench her thighs together, “I think I’ve mentioned you never have to apologize for trying to kiss me.” 

She nodded, still out of breath. 

“We should get back to work.” 

“Right. Work,” she said. “Lab?” 

He nodded. “Lab is fine.” 

Hermione spent the rest of the day working quietly and mentally listing all the reasons why that kiss was such a terrible idea. 

*     *     *

Hermione awoke the following Saturday after another Pansy-planned snake night to her flat feeling, once again, homier than it ever had. This time she didn't fall asleep in Draco’s nearly perfect chair. She had insisted he keep it transfigured as with him around she rarely needed the previous stepstool. Much to her irritation, he argued just for the sake of arguing, finding some strange euphoria in their verbal back and forth.  

That seemed to be their natural rhythm. All week had been similar. They debated whether her formulas were correct, whether the Holyhead Harpies would win the upcoming match, and even which café served better fish and chips. So far, they were about even with the winner—not that Hermione was keeping track. Mostly though, they had continued making progress with work and avoided all discussion of the training room. 

Hermione had had a breakthrough with the potion. At last, with absolutely no help at all from Draco pointing out a flaw in her otherwise perfect arithmancy, of course, she had created a viable prototype. The niffler had now gone two days retaining its memory of the intricate maze and traps Hermione’s assistants had built and for the first time in many years, she felt the renewed sense of hope. They were to portkey to Australia the following week to bring back her parents, and she couldn't be more excited.   

But today they scrambled to get out of the door in time for Ginny’s match.  

Jumping out of the shower, Hermione wrapped her towel in her hair and dressed quickly into her favorite muggle jeans and team jumper, layering warmly with a flattering peacoat and scarf before running out to meet Draco in the kitchen. He had donned a dark green sweater accentuating how broad he had become since school, his chest strong and arms muscled. His leather wand holster remained in place strapped across him. He was leaning against the counter, one foot crossed casually over the other. Hermione found herself momentarily taken back, fawning over his slightly tousled hair before realizing hers was still dripping wet in her towel. 

“I’m nearly ready,” she sputtered, coming to her senses and pulling the towel from her head and searching her pockets for her wand as her hair dripped over her coat. 

“Here, let me,” Draco said calmly before waving his wand over her tendrils, drying them quickly into near perfect ringlets as she found her wand tucked beneath her notes on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her skin abuzz even after he had finished. 

She twisted her hair up into her messy bun and tucked the vinewood into it to hold, glancing at her companion in time to spot his eyes light up ever so slightly.  

“Ready?” he asked gruffly, his voice suddenly a deep rasp. 

She nodded and they headed to the floo to meet the others at the Weasley’s. 

*     *     *

The private box shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Hermione. But knowing Draco had purchased it not only for the opening match, but for their use the whole season gave her an itchy feeling she couldn't quite scratch. It felt as though he had done it for her . . . Yet she knew she had to be mistaken, considering the blonde woman that waited for them from inside the warmed space. 

“Draco!” Astoria called, rushing over to give him a squeeze and two polite kisses on either cheek.  

“Tori,” he returned gently. “No Daphne?” 

“No, she wasn't quite ready to out their little threesome.” 

Off to the side, Fred stood with George and Angelina. The other Weasleys crowded the front of the box as the announcers called the players names for their grand entrance. Harry hadn’t made it to the box yet, likely still working his way up the steps after his usual pre-game rendezvous. 

“Understandable. Have you heard I’m expected to be there when they out it at Weasley brunch?” 

Astoria laughed. A tinkling, beautiful sound that grated against Hermione’s nerves much like Lavender did years ago. She supposed, much like the woman now accompanying Ron, Astoria, too, was better suited for the wizard she could now call friend. So she swallowed her pride, thought of Fillian’s increasingly sweet letters, and smiled at the beautiful witch before her. 

“That is amazing. Daphne would never tell me the details, so I look forward to you dishing out all the embarrassing moments to me.” Astoria glanced at Hermione before lowering her tone so the others wouldn't hear. “Have you looked over the updated terms?” 

“Yes,” he replied coolly. “We’ll discuss it over dinner as soon as my mother and I have a chance to look over the changes, but your requests seem reasonable enough, so I don't see how it would be an issue going forward with finalizing the arrangement.”  

“Wonderful.” She smiled at him sweetly, biting her lower lip gently. Hermione took a deep breath, realizing she should have excused herself from the conversation far earlier. “It’s a date,” she said as Hermione walked over to Ron and Lavender. 

“Did you see the spread of food they have up here?” Ron asked as Hermione shrugged out off her coat. The announcers overhead cheered as the Harpies scored back to back goals. “I mean, I know Gin usually comes through for us getting the box, but it’s never stocked like this! Don't tell him I said it, but Malfoy’s not as big of a git as he used to be.” 

“Say that again when the food runs out,” she joked, eliciting a girlish giggle from Lavender. 

“That’s our Ron,” she said sweetly, twining her arm through his and giving it a squeeze. Ron blushed up to his ears.  

“Oh, Harry just walked in. Be right back, Lav,” he said, letting her go and rushing over to where Harry and Pansy entered, briefly stopping to greet Draco with a firm handshake and pat on the shoulder. 

The announcers shouted that the Harpies scored a goal, quickly starting the match in the lead while the opposing seeker narrowly missed the snitch, losing it again somewhere near the ground. 

“So, you two seem to be doing well,” Hermione began. "Are you working through everything?" 

“Yes,” she beamed, though a shadow lingered as her hand rubbed vaguely over her stomach. “He was completely understanding. I spent so long being afraid of what being with me would mean for him. I was a little mad when he suggested Daphne be a surrogate, of all people! We have quite a lot to work through. But it’s been wonderful ever since the Halloween party—not that the party was—” 

Lavender had begun spiraling into an apology over what had occurred with McLaggen at the party, but Hermione easily waved her off, instead pulling the focus back to her and Ron. “He really suggested that?!” 

“Yes.” 

“He’s so obtuse, sometimes.” 

Lavender nodded absently. The Harpy's seeker spotted the snitch and the crowd roared as it slipped through her fingers. “Have you told Draco how you feel?” 

Hermione whipped her head away from the game just as Puddlemore whipped a bludger at the Harpy’s seeker. “Excuse me?” 

“Please, Hermione. A goblin would have noticed how hard it was for you to tear your eyes away from him at the party.”  

“You’ve read the papers, Lavender. You know they’ve entered negotiations. They went out every Tuesday before he took on my stalker case.” 

Lavender arched a brow at her. “I didn't take you for one that reads the paper, Hermione.” She smiled juicily, barely containing her excitement. “How long have you been kindling this crush?” 

Hermione scoffed. “I could barely stand him before he became my Auror, Lav. It was just hard to miss the articles.” 

As she spoke, she caught Pansy’s eye from across the room and watched as Astoria gave Draco another kiss goodbye, this time practically on the lips. Hermione assumed it to be some faded form of pureblood tradition, keeping to regency era norms of public conduct. She chewed the inside of her cheek until the tang of a sore formed, then turned back to the game.  

Lavender was called over by Mrs. Weasley, giving Hermione only a moment of peace before Pansy swooped in. 

“I’m just saying a quick hello,” she explained. “I'm actually here on a date. He was running late but should have found our seats by now.” 

“When will we meet this mystery wizard?” 

“Soon, I think.” She winked. “Poor Astoria had to go back to her family's box. Dreadfully boring over there—much unlike here,” she said, gesturing to the muggle beer pong going on in one corner and the table quidditch going on in the other. 

“I’m surprised Draco didn’t just join their box,” she questioned. 

“Well, he has to protect you, right?” she said simply, plummeting Hermione’s spirits. 

“Right.” 

Pansy said goodbye as quickly as promised. Hermione, having had it with people for the day, chose a seat and absently watched the game, ensuring an enthralled mask was plastered delicately across her features.  

Ginny had the quaffle and was rushing it down the pitch, not a beater in sight. She took aim, her forest green robes billowing behind her in the brisk November wind and faked her throw, sending the keeper reeling towards the wrong hoop as she rolled stealthily to the right and threw, scoring another ten points for the Harpies. Harry cheered somewhere behind her as Ginny did a celebratory lap around the stadium. The crowd cheered and she pumped her fist in the air.  

Just then their seeker spotted the shimmering golden ball and took off into the sky, closely followed by Puddlemore’s. They twisted and turned, overlapping each other as they spiraled through the clouds fighting to reach the little ball. The Harpies were well in the lead, but not quite far enough ahead that the catch of the snitch wouldn't matter, so Ginny headed back into motion, taking the offense and zooming through two beaters readying to knock her down. 

“Never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d be this invested,” Draco’s voice sounded from behind her. She turned to find him holding out a stadium box of popcorn and a pair of binoculars toward her. 

“What’s this?” She reached for the popcorn, taking it from him. 

His eyes narrowed dramatically, emphasizing the stupidity of the question. “Popcorn?” he replied sarcastically. 

“Obviously,” she bit back with an eye roll.  

“Then why’d you ask?” 

“Never mind,” she grumbled, turning her attention back to the match in time to see a bludger strike one of the Harpy's brooms, sending splinters through the air and the team’s beater flailing toward the ground.  

The crowd around them gasped, but not a moment later the witch was seen holding the broom of a teammate, waving encouragingly as their captain flew her a spare broom. All the while, Draco’s eyed had remained fixed on her. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, a touch of bit in his words.  

“Nothing.” She grabbed the binoculars from him, thanked him for bringing them, and began looking around for Ginny, finding her playing a frustrating back and forth with the opposing team.  

Hermione’s attention drifted to the stands as the teams reset their positions. The stadium wasn't incredibly busy. Empty seats remained between groups leaving plenty of clarity for people watching. Primarily, the dark brunette in the Harpies box across the stadium.  

The woman’s short, sleek bob blew gently in the wind. Her typically sharp features and judging eyes were soft with the laugh that was flowing from her mouth. The man beside her a far cry from the boy they knew from school. His childhood softness hardened with manhood, his jaw defined by the dark stubble growing. But his smile remained the same as it stretched gently over his face, his eyes alight with whatever magic she was casting.  

Pansy Parkinson was on a date with Neville Longbottom. And they both looked utterly happy. 

“Another wild bludger from Puddlemore!” the announcer called. “They’ve come for Weasley blood today as she scores another ten points for the Harpies, putting them in the lead 140-20!” 

“I warned her to be careful this game and she’s still trying to drown them,” Harry worried beside her. She hadn't noticed him sit down. “They’ve been saying in all the interviews they wanted to take the Harpies out for the season. Gin said it was all talk to fill the stadium, but here we are.” 

His knee bounced anxiously as his eyes stayed with Ginny. 

“I’ve never seen you this nervous for her flying, Harry.” 

“She wasn’t feeling well this morning. And now these beaters. I just have a bad feeling about this game.” 

Hermione nodded and reached for his hand. “Georgia Gryffith has been two steps behind the snitch the whole game. She’ll catch it any minute and end the whole thing.” Draco eyed her curiously. “What?” she snapped. 

“I just didn’t think you’d be that into Quidditch,” he admitted with a shrug. 

“I went to all the matches at school, what do you mean?” 

“I always assumed you were there more out of obligation than anything. After your first bout of flying lessons we all assumed you hated anything to do with a broom. You had most of the Slytherins in tears during that lesson. If they hadn't realized you were muggleborn yet, they would have after that, had I not distracted the whole lot with my little challenge to Potter.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I hate flying. I didn't grow up strapped to a broom like you. Doesn't mean I hate Quidditch.” 

“I wasn't judging you, Granger. Just surprised. I used to joke with the others you only showed up to watch me. Had they known you actually enjoyed the sport, they never would have believed me.” 

“There’s no way they believed you, regardless.” 

He laughed, though his smile wasn't quite reaching his eyes and he lingered his gaze over where Hermione still held tightly to Harry’s hand and her body rested against his. “True. They always thought you were shagging Harry and Ron in the players' tents after the matches.” 

Hermione and Harry made sounds of mutual disgust and she threw his hand back to him and slid away, feeling suddenly grossed out by his touch. “That’s terrible, Malfoy,” she hissed. 

“Well, that’s quite rude, Hermione,” Harry said defensively. “I know you’re not grossed out by the idea of shagging Ron.” 

“You’re just as uncomfortable with the idea of shagging me, Harry. Don't give me that.” 

“Who’s shagging you?” Ron piped up behind her.  

“Hopefully that Fillian bloke, considering you haven't been laid since your last fling with Krum,” Fred added, joining the conversation.  

“There’s no way, that was well over a year ago,” Ron countered. 

“Oh my god, no one’s shagging me!” she screeched. “I mean, in this conversation—oh my god! We were talking about Quidditch!” 

“You do seem to like Quidditch players,” Fred joked.  

“And Aurors,” Ron added sourly. “Speaking of Krum and Aurors, I met up with him at the Cannon’s match. He wants to have a word with us, Harry. Next week sometime.” 

“Alright. I’ll owl him first thing Monday.” 

“What does Krum have to do with Aurors?” Draco asked, earning strange looks from everyone. 

“He—he works for the BDSM,” Hermione explained in confusion. “You didn’t know?” 

“The Bulgarian Department of Specialized Magic?! Krum? Since when?!” 

“He grew bored with just Quidditch after school, so he decided to begin Auror training in his off season,” Hermione explained. “He wanted something adventurous and noble for when he retires from Quidditch, and has become rather successful operating tactical missions part-time. He’s brought down several cells of unified masters of the dark arts and once broke up a massive dragon fighting ring. He hooked up with Charlie Weasley to get them all rehabilitated afterwards.” 

“That fucking Bulgarian,” Draco muttered under his breath. 

Harry leaned over. “Ginny says it was a lot more recent than a year ago that she was fucking that Bulgarian,” he said with a devilish wink. 

Hermione blushed. 

“That’s why the floo was still connected, wasn’t it?” Harry asked without taking his eyes, or the smarmy smirk, off of Draco. 

Meanwhile, Draco’s jaw ticked as he clamped his teeth together. His shoulders had long gone rigid before he said, “Can we return to discussing Quidditch, please?” 

In the distance, Ginny scored two more points back-to-back and outmaneuvered Puddlemore’s beaters to dodge three more attacks. 

“Discussing Quidditch? Or Hermione’s strong affiliations to Quidditch players?” Fred asked. 

“How many have there been?” asked Theo, who had remained so quiet and reserved that Hermione hadn’t realized he had even entered the box. She figured that was likely by design. 

Beside her, Draco’s knuckles grew white in his lap by the force it took to keep them from wrapping around his wand—or one of the pale-skinned, freckly necks that were now antagonizing him. 

“Every wizard she’s shagged has played Quidditch,” Fred answered, to Hermione’s utter horror. So at least five!” 

“Fred!” Hermione hissed, but he ignored her. 

“Not to mention the few dates Ginny has set her up with,” Harry added. 

“We’ve determined it's the thighs,” George chimed in from across the box. Draco looked horrified at what he’d started. Even more so when George added, “Thick broom thighs built to really hold a witch up!” 

Draco shoved up from his chair. “Alright, this has gone on—” 

“WEASLEY’S BEEN HIT!” the announcer shouted over the gasping crowd. Everyone rushed to the edge of the box, forgetting entirely the conversation as they found Ginny hanging on to half of a shattered broom, her leg wobbling in an odd place. Her fingers were slipping as the broom struggled to stay in the air, and it was anyone’s guess as to which would give out first. 

Harry, Draco and every other Weasley in the box leapt from into the gasping crowd below, apparating between onlookers as they raced for the dangling witch holding on to her splintered broom for dear life. Across the field Neville raced down the stands to join them just as Ginny’s fingers slipped from the broom. She plummeted down out of sight, the wooden shards not far behind. The crowd had grown utterly silent, the whole world seemingly holding its breath as they waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Chapter Text

“Tell me about year 6.” 

Hermione’s foot tapped on the frosted grass. “Now?” she asked through her nervous tremors. 

“Yes. It will take your mind off things.” 

“I don’t want my mind off things, Draco. I want to be here, in this moment, thinking about one of my best goddamn friends!” 

Her voice broke. He didn't have to look at her to know she was crying. So, he took a seat beside her, letting the damp ground seep into his pants. “She’s going to be fine, Hermione.” 

“You couldn't possibly know that. The way she hit the ground, Malfoy.”  

Her tears ate away at him, dissolving him like acid. He wasn't used to comforting others, but with an awkward arm he pulled her into his warm side. “Our timing wasn't spectacular, I'll admit. But we were able to slow her fall enough. And if I’m not mistaken, Longbottom had the forethought of a pillow charm across the field.” She sniffed again. “If she wasn't going to be fine, they'd be rushing her to St. Mungo’s, not trying to treat her in the medical tent.” 

“Right.” She took a shaky breath and pulled away, leaving his side to feel the chill of her absence. “So, sixth year?” 

“Yes.” He knew he didn't sound thrilled to relive that year.  

“Is this really still necessary? I mean, Cormac was clearly the one I scorned and there has been nothing to indicate another presence in my past other than death eaters.” 

Her eyes were fixed on the tent. A stray curl fell into her face from the topknot twisted around her wand and he decided now was not the time to hold back. He reached out, startling her slightly as his fingers brushed gently against her cheek. Her hair was smooth and soft as he took the chance to slide his thumb over it before tucking it behind her ear. The red that crept over her cheeks brought him more satisfaction than the hair, and he found himself wondering how her face would flush if he bent down and ran his lips along her throat.  

Would she whimper? Would She shove him back? Or would she let him take her in all the ways he had fantasized? 

Probably not here, while Ginny’s health remained uncertain.  

“Maybe I just like hearing your stories.” His hand lingered on the warmth of her jaw, barely tracing a path. When he pulled away, he thought he saw the slightest twitch in her face of longing. “Or maybe there’s something there . . . somewhere.” 

“Fine. Sixth year, then. Let’s see, Sirius had just died. Your father was in Azkaban.” 

“No need for the reminder, Granger.” 

“Sorry, I’m just trying to get my bearings. I was still prefect, so a lot of our classmates hated me for that. You were a bit preoccupied, so I think you hated me less than usual.” 

The setting sun caught her face just then, gilding her light speckling if freckles in a golden glow. “Yeah. Less,” he muttered incoherently.  

Voldemort had taken over his home that year and though his feelings for the woman beside him had taken root years prior, the stakes of his admiration weren’t known until that summer. He had forced himself to practice occlumency every day, blocking out all possibility that she could be used against him, all the while watching her fawn over a git that would never quite deserve her.  

His loyalties had been torn from the moment his father called her a mudblood. Yet there were moments—small, shimmering glimpses, if anything—where he had chosen her. And he prayed they shone through all the times he couldn’t. 

“Then again,” she continued, “Ron seemed to hate me more than usual that year. At least in the beginning. Lavender, too, after their breakup.” 

“Is that all?” She gave a small laugh and a nod. “That’s shockingly fewer than other years.” 

“Well, we were all a bit preoccupied, I suppose. And we’ve already taken care of Cormac.” They were quiet a moment. “I remember those birds, Draco.”  

Her voice shimmied down his spine as she spoke his name, a prayer upon her lips that he would gladly burn the world to hear her recite each day. 

“What birds, Granger?” His voice came out rough with the intimate direction of the conversation. 

“Your birds. My birds. I remember the window ledge. I remember you staring off into nothing on the astronomy tower. I hadn't realized I was that noticeable from up there.” 

“Death could have come for me that day and still, it would have been only you I noticed, Hermione.” She was the warmth in his abysmally cold soul, the kindling to the fire that only burned for her. 

“I modeled those birds after your paper cranes.”  

“My cranes?” 

“The ones you would fly around the charms classroom third year sending snide comments to everyone like a prat.” 

“Why?” 

“They were beautiful. And I never could get them just right. No matter how hard I tried, either one wing would be larger than the other, or it would end up with a kinked neck or a beak too long or too short. So, I gave up and made my own.” 

“You stopped conjuring those birds sixth year.” 

“I did.” 

“I noticed you that night, too.” Draco hadn't expected to admit this. The thought of it made him squirm. “I was on my way back from the astronomy tower. I took a detour to kill time. I avoided most everyone that year. You were crying. I was worried it had been something I said during the match.” She looked at him then, the puzzled look on her face making him a bit queasy. “I wanted to apologize.” 

“You. Draco Malfoy, Pompous Prince of Slytherin, notorious bully to the underdog, wanted to apologize to Potter’s Mudblood?” 

He flinched but turned to meet her gaze. The golden flecks sparkled in the dimming sunset. “More than anything, Hermione.” 

Her teasing smile faltered. “Oh.” 

“Then Potter came out and I understood, like usual, it had absolutely nothing to do with me, and everything to do with that bumbling buffoon that stumbled into the hallway shortly after.” 

“Yes. That was the last time I used my birds,” she said sadly. “They didn't make me happy after that.” 

“I went back to the common room and talked to Pansy for the first time in a month.” He laughed suddenly, the sound bursting from his chest as he remembered the rest of the night. “Did you know she had an interesting desire to catch other students in intimate moments? She enjoyed the pure embarrassment on their faces. So imagine her excitement when I told her where she could find Weasley and the blonde bimbo that had been writing him love letters all year.” 

“You didn't!” She laughed, the sound ringing through his chest. 

“I did. You’d have to ask Pansy for the full story when she gets back from tearing the other team a new arsehole, but supposedly Snape was there, and Filch and McGonagall. She came back triumphant, so it's no wonder Ron never mentioned it.” 

“That makes me feel remarkably better, actually.” 

“Good, I—” 

Harry popped out of the tent and they both jumped from the cold ground to greet him. “She’s alright,” he said, out of breath with a massive grin spread across his face. “Better than alright, actually.” 

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, putting words to Hermione’s befuddlement.  

“The Medi-witch still doesn't want anyone other than family in, but she told me I could tell you both. You know how she wasn't feeling well this morning?” 

“Yes,” Hermione said impatiently.  

“Well, the healer had her diagnostics charmed above her while she fixed her leg and examined her head, and the strangest little glow popped up. Bright golden, right in the center of her diagram.” 

“What does that mean, Harry?” she asked. 

“It means Ginny’s out for the season,” Draco drawled, a contented smile twitching at his lips. 

“What? Why are you happy about that?!” 

“She’s pregnant, ‘Mione,” Harry finally explained, his grin cemented.  

Hermione’s excitement was palpable, radiating off her in waves as she flung her arms around Potter’s neck and squealed. Draco backed away quietly, giving the two friends a minute to revel in the beautiful change life had thrown their way, and letting his own mind wander into the endless possibilities of his own future. 

“Pansy, I’m telling you, she doesn’t like ginger!”  

“Granger if you don’t put the bloody ginger in the pot, I'm going to charm your damn pencil skirt to shrink until it’s no bigger than the knickers covering your arse!” 

Hermione flashed her a devilish grin as she stirred the pot on the Potter’s stove. “What knickers?” she asked innocently. 

Draco choked on his tea from the Potter’s kitchen table behind them, excusing himself quickly from the kitchen. 

Pansy cackled. “Maybe I should do it anyway. Give that big prat something to really stare at. Seriously, though, put in the ginger. It's for nausea, it needs the ginger!” 

Hermione huffed. “Fine, but if Ginny doesn't drink it, you’re remaking it on your own!” 

“Agreed.” 

Pansy passed the chopped ginger, and Hermione added it slowly as she stirred the herbal brew. “Hey Pans, can you do me a favor and cool it with all of the Draco stuff?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, it always seems like you’re trying to flirt for us, and it doesn't seem appropriate, with our professional relationship, and Fillian, and his contract with Astoria—it’s just gone on a little too long, I think.” 

It had been over a week since they kissed. Each day she spoke with Fillian, and each day he spoke of how deeply he missed her. While each day Draco grew closer to his contract with the Greengrasses. Seeing them together at the opening match made it real and it gnawed at her conscience, distracting her in the worst of ways so close to her trip to Australia. 

“One,” Pansy started, pulling Hermione’s thoughts back to the kitchen, “the Aurors don’t have codes for relationship conduct like your muggle police. Two, you wanted to break up with Fillian like a week ago—” 

“I had a brief moment of insanity. Fillian and I just fit, you know?”  

He actually wants me, she thought. He’s not pledging his hand to another witch. 

“And three,” she continued, ignoring Hermione’s excuse, “what on Earth do you think Draco’s contract entails that would keep him from flirting with any witch, let alone you?” 

“What do you mean ‘what do I think it entails?’” she snapped, bewildered. “They’re in negotiations for their marriage contract! Final negotiations, at that! Soon they’ll be wedding planning, and discussing children, and who would I be to give Astoria even a hint of doubt about Draco’s trustworthiness?” She rambled some more, her nerves and guilt building. Had he kissed her, or the other way around? Regardless, she would be damned, literally, if she broke up their marriage before they even finished their contract. 

“Marriage contract?” Pansy snorted. “With Astoria?!” 

“Well, yes. That’s what all the papers have said?” 

“Since when do you read the bloody Prophet? Oh, don't tell me you were checking on him even before he became your Auror?” 

“Don't be ridiculous! I stumbled across the articles. There were so many of them it was difficult to miss. Plus, Rose was such a gossip and was always trying to get him on a date.” 

Pansy laughed again, clutching her side as she bent over. “You were jealous!” 

“Shh! I was not!” she hissed, worried Pansy’s voice would travel to the other room. 

“So, if I told you all about the witch he took to bed only a month or so ago, and how she has been almost literally stalking him since he forgot her name, you wouldn't care?” 

“Absolutely not.” She felt the familiar weight growing in her throat and went back to stirring. 

“She was stunning. Beautiful, silky hair. Tits that made me want to bed her. He took her home after a snake night at the pub just after you agreed to let him take your case. He must have shagged her fucking brains out because she found me two days later walking the street in Diagon and insisted I let Draco know she was available that night. Gave me her address and said she’d leave the floo open.” 

“Oh? Sounds lovely,” she ground out through her clenched teeth. 

“Don't you want to know what he said when I told him? If he went back with her and made her scream his name until her voice rasped hoarse from utter euphoria?” Pansy purred in her ear. 

Hermione couldn't take it anymore. She slammed the spoon down on the counter and ripped her apron off. “You’re a bloody bitch sometimes, Pansy,” she stabbed, her voice breaking as she swallowed back tears. 

She nearly knocked over Harry as she sped from the kitchen. 

“H-he didn’t!” Pansy shouted in defeat from the stove before cursing under her breath. 

“Tell Gin I’ll visit when I get back,” Hermione said to Harry as she raced up the stairs, wiping an angry tear from her eye.  

Draco came from around the corner in time to see her clear the top step. Hermione knew he’d be rushing into the kitchen and sure enough, she could hear his growling timbre trying to get the story from their friend. She didn't stick around to hear him run up after her, but knew she’d have exactly thirty seconds once she took the floo home to get her shit together or risk having a conversation about why she was upset—and on the list of things that were not going to happen that night, it was at the top.  

*     *     *

An hour later Draco knocked on her bedroom door with a mug of tea. She had plunged herself into the bath the moment she stepped through her fireplace from the Potter’s. Even though it had roared to life right after, Draco had had the courtesy of leaving her be—for a little while, at least. 

“Come in,” she said, laying her book flat down on the page she had been staring at for the last twenty minutes. Pansy, the manipulative witch she was, knew exactly what she had been doing earlier. Now Hermione knew two things for certain: that Draco was not in, nor was he planning to be in, a marriage contract with Astoria. And that she had been utterly jealous long before he had become her Auror. 

Draco stepped into the room. He was still in his crisp button down from his day at the lab with her preparing for their trip to Australia. The top buttons had been opened, revealing just the top of his chest and enough of his neck that the briefest vision of her fingers sliding up one side, her tongue the other, flashed through her mind. She shook the thought away as he set down a steaming mug beside her. 

“Thank you.” 

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” 

“No.” She grabbed the mug from the table, letting the heat soak into her chilled hands. “Pansy just knows exactly which buttons to push.”  

“But you won’t tell me which buttons she pushed?” 

“It was nothing, really. I'm sure I overreacted. I’ll apologize when we get back.” 

He swaggered closer to the door, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, pausing in the doorframe. “You sure you’re alright?”  

No.  

“Yes.” 

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded and walked away all the same. 

*     *     *

It had been months since Hermione’s last visit to Australia. Seven months, one week and six days, to be precise. Each visit had become more painful than the last as her parent’s lives grew fuller and farther from her; as her life changed and grew, too. To Wendell and Monica Wilkins, Hermione was simply a worldly traveler who came to their bookshop when she was in town on business. She had somehow created a friendship with them that enabled her to visit their home and share modified stories about her life, but it was all in all a poor substitute that she was determined not to rely on again until she found a cure.  

Today, she was bringing her parents' home.  

Hermione took a steadying breath as she stood on the front porch of their home. It was a lovely house in a well-cared for subdivision ten minutes from their bookstore. Today was their day off, and like most of their days off, they were having afternoon tea with guests. If only Hermione had the courage to knock. 

“They won’t know we’re here unless you knock, Granger,” Draco drawled beside her. “Unless you fancy standing here in the downpour for a bit before we go in. That sky looks as if it will open up any minute.” 

The late Australian Spring heat beat down on them, the mugginess of the threatening rain smothering her in its blanket. She stepped closer to the door, took a deep breath, and raised her trembling hand to knock. 

She froze.  

She couldn't do it.  

What if it doesn't work? she thought. 

“It will,” Draco whispered, grabbing her hand in his to steady it and using his other to knock on the bright white door.  

“Stay out of my head.” 

“No.” 

Hermione whipped her head toward him, readying to argue, when the door opened and a woman, her mother, stood before her. Draco’s triumphant smirk transformed into a warm smile.  

“Hermione, dear! How wonderful for you to be back in town!” Monica Wilkins exclaimed, pulling her into a brief embrace. “Wendell!” she called, ushering Hermione’s father down from the second floor. 

“Mrs. Wilkins, thank you so much for always being so generous with my visits,” Hermione forced herself to say. “Oh! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She stepped into the home and Draco followed a step behind, reaching out to take Monica’s hand. “This is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is Monica and Wendell Wilkins.” 

Something sparked in Wendell’s eyes as he took Draco’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you . . . Have we met somewhere before?” Mr. Wilkins asked. 

“I was wondering the exact same thing,” Monica added. 

“Not that I’m aware of, I’m sorry,” Draco answered cordially. 

They had had flashes of memories before. Brief lingerings of their forgotten past not entirely wiped from the planes of their consciousness. But never anything that stuck, and certainly never anything that cascaded into more rememberings. 

“Strange. So familiar,” Wendell laughed. “Well, come in, come in!”  

Wendell and Monica Wilkins led the two to a small sitting room with a loveseat and two chairs around a short coffee table. Hermione had sat on this very couch countless times over the years as she got to know her parents and they her, but this was different. They talked about Draco and how he had come into Hermione’s life—a temporary fib created by Draco himself to help ease the transition back to the truth. They also told stories from the bookstore, bragging modestly about sales and guest authors, about the crazy regulars and their plans for expansion.  

Then, they talked about their daughter. 

Not Hermione, of course. But the one they had five years prior. They had decided the one thing missing from their perfect lives was a child. Just one. Another glimpse into their past life, a longing once fulfilled. 

Draco hadn't known about Jeanie Wilkins. Hermione realized a fraction late as the look of utter shock crossed his face when the small girl with matching brown eyes and curls that stuck out and frizzed at all angles came running from her room after what looked to be an excellent nap. 

“My-knee!” she said, racing to greet Hermione, stopping short as she seen Draco lurking on the loveseat. 

“Jeanie! I have something for you,” Hermione said, meeting her halfway. With a flourish of her hands, she pulled a small present seemingly out of thin air (the endless purse made muggle magic simple).  

The young girl's face lit up as she ripped open the package to find a small necklace. A locket, complete with a picture of her parents. 

“It’s astounding. I’m amazed every time I see them together. She could be her mother; how similar they look!” Monica exclaimed. 

“Or her sister,” Draco uttered desperately. 

Monica and Wendell laughed.  

“We joke about that all the time!” Wendell added, oblivious to Draco’s tone. “If we didn't know any better, right sweetie?” 

“Yes.” Monica smiled at the two. “If Jeanie turns out anything like Hermione, we’ll count us all blessed.  

Hermione took a deep breath. Then another. And another, until the moisture pooling in her eyes slowed and the lump in her throat disintegrated.  

“You know, it’s already so late, why don't you two join us for dinner?” Monica asked as Hermione stood from the floor. 

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Wilkins. As long as it’s okay with Draco?” 

“I have no other plans. We can stay as long you’ll have us.” 

“Wonderful! You two wash up and we’ll get the table set!” 

When the family was out of ear shot, Draco turned to Hermione and whispered, “Why didn't you tell me you had a sister?” 

“Because right now, I don’t. Harry and Ron know of her, but not many more.” 

“Is that why you didn’t drop the potion in their tea?” His hand hovered over her back as if it were itching to pull her into him. She’s glad he didn’t. She might not have been able to hold back the tears, if he did. 

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know how they’ll react. She goes down right after dinner. Then they’ll usually invite me to stay for a drink.” 

“So with drinks, then?” 

“Yes.”  

He nodded, then went to walk away.  

“Draco,” she called quietly, stopping him. “Thank you for being here.” 

“Anything for you, Granger.” 

Chapter Text

Richard and Jean Granger were dentists. Well off dentists that loved their daughter very much. They brushed their teeth three times a day, ate sweets on the holidays, and enjoyed having guests for dinner. Overall, Wendell and Monica Wilkins were much the same.  

“How long have you two known each other?” Wendell asked as he stabbed a roasted carrot with his fork. 

“A long time, actually. We didn't quite see eye to eye until quite recently, however,” Draco answered cordially.  

Hermione envied how casually he kept his perfect posture at the table while she reminded herself every five minutes to straighten out her back. Then again, she looked to her mother, who was folded nearly in half as she giggled with little Jeanie over her messy hands, and wondered why it was so important to be proper. 

Wendell laughed at Draco’s response. “That seems to be the story for some of the best relationships. If you’ve known her for so long, you must know her parents?” 

“I have unfortunately never had the pleasure. She talks about them all the time though, as if they’re still here with her. She talks about you two quite often as well.” He took a bite of roast. 

“It’s been such a pleasure getting to know Hermione,” Monica said, chiming in gently. “She first stumbled into our bookstore after her parents passed away. And honestly, it just always felt like she belonged! I don’t even remember getting to know her at this point.” She laughed and Wendell chuckled along with her.  

“I’m full,” Jeanie said from beside her mom.  

“Alright, sweetie. Let’s get you ready for bed, then.” Monica turned to the others. “I’ll be back down in twenty. Don’t worry about cleaning up, I’ll take care of it after our visit.” 

Ignoring her request, Draco and Hermione made quick work of helping Wendell clean up dinner so that when Monica returned, the kitchen sparkled cleaner than it had before dinner. Hermione poured herself a generous glass of wine and a scotch for Draco and met the others back in the sitting room. She had barely touched her drink as the others laughed and gossiped and discussed philosophical world views and how they related to popular works of fiction, while Hermione sat in near silence, barely hearing them as they debated.  

Wendell downed his glass first. 

“Here, let me get you another,” Hermione offered, standing and taking his glass before he could politely decline. “Monica?” 

Though her glass was still a quarter full, she gave her a quick “Please.” 

Hermione sat Wendell’s glass down on the counter and took her seventeenth deep breath of the night, letting a few tears slide down her cheeks with the exhale. The small vials, dosed out to what she believed to be perfect for their size, clanked together as she pulled them from her small, beaded bag. Wendell was easy. She poured the potion into his glass, added a bit of scotch and swirled, letting the shimmering purple blend into the amber liquid. Monica, however, hadn’t given her her glass. So, Hermione improvised.  

 The bottle of red Monica had opened sat mostly full beside the sink. Their only two wine glasses remained in use. So, Hermione did the only sensible thing she could think of: she dumped the wine into the sink. Most of it, at least, until just enough to refill a glass was left in the bottom. Then she poured Monica’s vial into the bottle and hoped it would blend into the deep red liquid as it did the scotch. 

“Here,” Hermione said to her dad as she handed him the scotch. “I’m so sorry, Monica, I wasn’t going to pour in your sitting room, but all your glasses are in use!” 

“Nonsense! I trust your steady hand.” Monica held out her now empty glass for Hermione’s pour. “Wow, is that all that’s left of the bottle already?! Maybe I should slow down!” 

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I think I was a little heavy on my own pours!” Hermione gestured to her own full glass. “Please, I’m never out this way. I would love to keep catching up.” 

“Oh, alright.” She took a large sip of her wine. “So how has work been going?” 

“Great! I’m actually finishing up a major project, I think.” Her voice wavered and Draco’s fingers brushed hers before lacing themselves between.  

“That’s so wonderful, dear.” Monica took another swallow and scrunched her face, shaking something off. “I’m sorry, I feel rather odd all of a sudden.” 

Wendell finished his scotch and asked if she needed anything.  

“No, I think I’m alright. Maybe it’s just time I—” her eyes went blank and she drank more of her wine. 

Draco’s face had gone still, as well. 

“I think I just needed to relax,” Monica continued once her glass was emptied. Her eyes cleared soon after. “I’m so sorry, Hermione, what were you saying?”  

She pinched the bridge of her nose again. Wendell stared at her in confusion.  

“Hermione . . .” he muttered. “Hermione . . . Isn't that the name of a woman from a play?” 

“Yes,” Hermione croaked back, barely holding it together as she waited. 

“I think . . .” Monica cleared her throat, her eyes still squeezed shut. “I think I had a daughter named Hermione.” 

“Yes.” Her voice broke, no more than a whisper of air between her lips. 

Suddenly Wendell’s eyes cleared, and his face sparked with joy. He jumped from his chair. “Hermione,” he crooned. “Look at you!” He fell to his knees before her, his arms opened wide and she jumped into them, nearly knocking him over. Monica wept beside them, at last her memories catching up to her. She, too, wrapped her arms around her daughter. 

It had been nearly a decade since Hermione had felt the embrace of her parents. Nearly a decade since they recognized her; remembered her. 

“My sweet girl,” Jean Granger whimpered. “Where have you been? What happened?” 

“I’ve been right here, mom” 

“Yes, you have,” Richard agreed. “But what happened? This isn't our home. This isn't our life.” 

“I-I . . .” She was sobbing and couldn't bring herself to admit what she had done. “There was a lot of danger. F-for, for everyone.” 

Something clicked in Jean’s face. “You used magic. You used magic on us,” she accused harshly. Her eyes darkened and she stepped slowly away. “Y-you’re not our daughter. Wendell!” She was flat against the back wall now and Hermione had no idea what had happened. “Wendell! Get away from her!” 

“Monica, don’t be ridiculous,” he placated. His face shifted too. “Monica . . . You! What did you do? You and your magic!” 

“Wendell! Jeanie!” Monica shrieked in warning, pressing her fingers to her temple. 

“WHERE’S OUR DAUGHTER?!” Wendell shouted, reaching for his own temple as if a shocking pain blast through it.  

Monica had crumpled to the floor, hysterically sobbing. “My daughter . . . My daughter . . . Where's my daughter . . .” 

“Mom? Dad? Jeanie’s just upstairs!” Hermione pleaded. “And I’m right here! Please! Please come back!” 

“You’re not our daughter!” Wendell barked, stomping toward her. His face had twisted into something wholly unlike him, something dark, and broken. He reached out and grabbed the collar of Hermione’s shirt, shoving her into the wall of pictures. Pictures of their family . . . pictures without her. 

“I am,” she cried, holding out a hand to stop Draco, whose hand held firmly around his wand.  

Just then, two little feet came trampling down the stairs. “Mommy?” Jeanie’s little voice called. “Daddy? What's wrong?” 

Monica Wilkins jumped from her corner, her mascara running in steaks across her delirious face. Wendell looked over at the little girl in complete confusion.  

“Who are you,” Monica growled suddenly to the little girl. “WHO ARE YOU!” 

“M-m-mommy?” Jeanie froze.  

“My Jeanie is off to school! Off to school! WHO ARE YOU?! THIS IS WITCHCRAFT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY DAUGHTER?! RICHARD! RICHARD! OUR DAUGHTER!”  

Monica crumpled back to the floor, both hands on her head as if it were splitting in two. Jeanie stood across the room in horror, her small body trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks. She had no idea what was happening as her father shouted, screaming profanities inches from Hermione’s face.  

Draco stared at her. His hand tightened around his wand, and it was all he could do to simply stand back and watch as the man grabbed his witch, towering over her as she cried for her father and mother.  

To Hermione, the world had gone quiet. Her entire being numbed as Wendell shook her against the photo wall, shattering the memories of their full life without her.  

The potion wasn't right. And she no longer fit in their world. She nodded to Draco and without missing a beat, he froze the room. The three Wilkins fell gently to the floor, asleep.  

Hermione floated like a zombie to her parents. Slowly, meticulously, she wove through their memories taking herself away. Taking away the mismatched memories the potion had returned, taking away the memories she had forged as their friend, and worst of all, taking away the small moment of comfort they had had before it all went to shit.  

It had been difficult enough the first time. This time would likely destroy her. 

Draco worked carefully on Jeanie, doing more to hide her memories than remove them. Then, he drifted the family to their beds. By morning she will once again have never existed. 

Hermione marched straight to the door and out into the downpour toward the hazy glow of the streetlights. The heavy spring rain soaked into her favorite yellow sundress, washing away the numbness as she stared up into the cloudy night sky and mixing with the tears she couldn't feel streaming down her face. 

She knew Draco was behind her without turning. “I don’t know what happened.” she cried. “They were there. They were back and they were with me!”  

She turned to face him. His shirt had been soaked through with the downpour and now clung to his skin. Yet, he just stood there stoically. 

“What do I do?” she begged. “I can’t. I can’t do that again! How do I move on from this?!” 

“You’re Hermione Granger. You’ll figure it out.” 

It was too much. “Yes,” she agreed scornfully. “I’ll figure it out. Because I’m Hermione bloody Granger.” She turned and started stomping down the road. “Brightest witch of her age!” she screamed to the blackened sky.  

She needed to be away from him. Away from the house. Away from Monica and Wendell fucking Wilkins. Away from Jeanie.  

She just wanted to be away.   

“Granger!” Draco called after her. 

“I’m sick of being Hermione fucking Granger!” she yelled, the lump in her throat growing. “I’m sick of being the one that solves everyone else's fucking problems! I can’t even solve my own!” 

Draco reached out and grabbed her arm in time for her to apparate. She didn't know where she was going and didn't care. 

“Fuck,” Draco muttered as they landed on a slippery hill somewhere far away from the Wilkins’. The rain had let up here and in the distance the moon had just started peeking through the clouds, its glow lighting the glistening tears and rain-soaked clothes of his witch. 

“Oh, we’re trapped in a devil’s snare? Fire! Oh, you need to break into the Slytherin dorms? I’ll brew some bloody Polyjuice! Oh, you’re nervous about Quidditch tryouts? Here, let me just bewitch this fucking broom for you! Well, I can’t, anymore!” She was sobbing again, the cavity of her chest cracking open. She turned wholly to Draco who just stood there, listening. “I can’t even solve my own problems. I can’t balance work and friendships. I can’t be there for the people I love. And I can’t do that again!” 

“Then don’t,” Draco said simply. “Let them live in the beautiful lie you’ve built for them. Go back and be with the people who do remember you.” 

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t do that either.” She released a choking cry as she squeezed herself tighter.  

“You’re Hermione Granger,” he said softly. “There isn't a problem you can’t solve. But it’s okay to give up. It’s okay if it's too much; if you don’t solve it.” 

The numbness had finally gone completely, and the damp chill of the rain and wind made her shake. “And if everyone forgets? If it’s not just the two people who have loved me most all my life, but also the friends that I neglect? The work that I pour myself into??” 

“That's one of your nightmares, isn't it, Granger?” 

She searched for his eyes under the white gleam of the moon. His silver irises a beacon calling her to the truth.  

“Yes,” she whispered, broken. 

“I’ll remember you, Hermione.” Draco grabbed her hands in his, warming them before reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I will remember you, Hermione Jean Granger, until my flesh rots from my body and they lay these bones to rest and even then, I think your memory would linger beside me. There isn't a witch or wizard alive that could take your memory from me.” 

Hermione crashed into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm if his heart as he wrapped his arms around her. She cried until the rain stopped. 

“Tell me a memory.” 

“A memory?” 

“Of me.” She sniffled as he rested his chin on her head. “Something recent. Something you would have told Richard and Jean Granger about.” 

He thought for a moment.  

“I would tell them about my trial. About sitting in that rusted cage like a rabid animal, the bars digging into my back. Not a soul in that courtroom on my side to vouch for me. And why would they? My father had already been sentenced. My mother wasn't allowed in and was sitting alone in the next room. They had changed the date. Moved it up unexpectedly by nearly a week. And just as they were about to drop their gavel and doom me to Azkaban, you and Potter and Weasley storm in in a fit of righteous indignation. You called out every single witch and wizard by name and told them where they could shove it.” 

Hermione let out a soft laugh, no more than a breath. But it was enough for Draco’s shoulders to relax around her. “I did not,” she huffed. 

“That’s how I remember it. You called each person out and asked them where they had been when three teenagers were risking their lives day in and day out for years. Where they had been when Harry warned them. Where they had been when my father was sent off and the Dark Lord had taken over my home and held my mother hostage. Only, you didn't wait for an answer. Because you knew where each and every member had been and which side they had taken. You knew who had turned the other way when Umbridge dealt her punishments, and you knew who had voted in favor of her changes. I don't know how you knew, but I could tell from the looks on their faces that you weren’t wrong. 

“You could’ve let me rot. Instead, you gave me another chance. And when I seen you again, it was my first day at the ministry. You had on this skirt that made me want to quit then and there. You had brought pastries, and you were going on excitedly to Ron about your elf laws. I don't think he was listening . . . But I was. I discussed changes with my mother that night.” 

“That night? But my elf laws were only propositions when you started?” 

“I know. But you were always right. I wasn't going to fight it anymore. Whichever side you were on, was the side I was going to be on. It helped me be a better man, Granger. You helped me be a better man.” 

She took a deep breath, unaware she had stopped breathing. “Oh,” she sighed, speechless. 

“C’mon. Portkey expires soon. We should get back. We can figure out our next steps tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” she agreed. 

Chapter Text

“I think I’ve solved it,” Hermione said suddenly, jumping from the papers sprawled across her kitchen counter. 

“The potion?” Draco asked, striding through the kitchen to see.  

He was shirtless. Again. Which had become his norm since their yet undiscussed snogging in the training room. And Hermione felt considerably less bothered by either now that she understood the true terms of Draco’s contract with the Greengrasses. A simple (well, not so simple) business contract merging several of their companies to cut costs and improve profits all around. Their publicized dinners had been just that: dinner. 

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I think if I even looked at those notes I’d end up smearing them to incomprehension,” she hurried, blowing him off. “Your case! Well, my case I suppose. The resurgence, my stalker! I’ve solved it.” 

“You know who’s been threatening you?” He quirked an eyebrow, his interest peaked. 

“What?” she huffed. “Didn't I say don’t be ridiculous?” 

“But you said—” 

“Never mind what I said,” she flustered.  

“You sound absolutely mental, Granger. Please make some sense.” 

“The party. Cormac was talking to him at the party!” 

“Yes, but we have been unsuccessful in accessing those particular memories, Granger.” 

“Right. But he can’t have scrubbed himself from everyone! I’ve made a list of everyone I remember being there. If we each make a list, we can check through their memories and see if anyone remembers seeing Cormac in the spot from his memory and who he was talking to! It was quite stupid of him to have been so present.” 

“That’s an excellent idea, but not many people appreciate me rooting around in their memories and they’re likely not to consent. And the fact that he was there, blending in so easily makes me suspect even more someone from your past.” He stepped closer. His bare chest and the heavy fragrance of soft leather made her heart thud a beat. “Maybe we should move on to year eight?” 

“Why not seven?” she asked, shaking off his spell but finding it difficult to breathe steadily. 

“You were on the run or in disguise most of it. Besides, that year has been torn apart in every Wizengamot hearing since the final battle.” 

“Yet you didn’t know about the dragon?” she questioned.  

“True. I’ll add the goblins to my list of suspects.” 

“Fine. Tit for tat, though.” She stared up at him, never losing his gaze. “Tell me a memory.” 

“Of you?” 

She nodded. 

“I barely remember the year after the battle, Granger. There was a lot of booze. A lot of dark rooms and late nights. The only memories I have of you that year are of what I read in the papers.” 

“Seventh year, then,” she insisted. His eyes softened and his mouth drooped into a frown, curving slightly as he traced the lines of her palm. She wasn't even sure when he had reached for her—or if she had reached for him. 

“Seventh year.” He stared down at their hands, avoiding her. “I remember . . . I remember the uncertainty. The others always had little radios they’d secretly play when the Carrows weren’t around. It listed those that had died.” 

“We listened, too.” They spoke no higher than whispers. 

“I’d sit and listen, sometimes. When I didn’t have anyone around to force me into my mask. I’d listen. Dreading the days I heard familiar names. Everything I had done was real. And it had consequences I wasn't ready to bear. But there was one name I listened for most. Not that I needed to . . . I would have known if you had died long before Lee Jordan got the word out. But still I listened.  

“Then I was called home. And you were there. I remember your screams, and how completely unbreakable you were. I knew I would have crumbled under far less. I tried to use legilimency. I didn't know what I was doing. A colleague of mine said you never grasped Occlumency . . . but your thoughts that day were a labyrinth. Bellatrix never had the patience for mazes.” He gave a wistful smile before finding her eyes again. He memorized them, scanning her face for more than a moment before continuing. 

“I remember you lying there . . . and the chandelier . . . and I didn't need to tell my legs to move before you were in my arms and it was shattering around me. I remember how still you were as Weasley took you from me, from that hellhole, and I remember not knowing for so long what had happened to you.” 

He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. 

“The next time I saw you, we were at war. And we were battling in the room of lost things. The very room that had once felt like a prison. I was sure it would become my tomb.” 

“You looked like you wanted to tell me something that day,” she murmured shakily. 

“I wanted to say so many things, Granger.” 

She thought back to the room as Draco trailed his hands back to hers, the space minimal between them as it had been in the room of lost things. 

Hermione, Harry and Ron had separated after finding the room of requirement to search for Rowena’s diadem. The battle raged beyond the four never-ending walls, but they had their mission and if they failed, the battle could never end in their favor. So they dug through the antiques, the replicas and the rubbish.  

She had just tossed an old tiara behind her when Draco appeared nearly out of thin air, making her jump as she pointed her wand at the wizard to duel. But he was faster, and far closer than she realized. With one hand on the wall of things behind her and the other suddenly clasped tightly at her mouth, she felt her chest brush against his with every heaving breath.  

Slowly he released her mouth and drew his finger to his lips to quiet her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, just the empty silence lingering. It only lasted a second before his eyes hardened to the frosted panes she was used to.  

“Go find Harry,” he whispered instead, before running off in the opposite direction and hissing to Crabbe and Goyle about hearing a noise. 

“What did you want to say to me?” she asked, her mind returning to her kitchen. 

“I wanted to tell you to leave. I wanted to tell you about the gaping hole that had been ripped out of my chest and buried beneath the chandelier in the drawing room. I wanted to tell you I was sorry.” 

“Why?” she mouthed, her voice weak. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Hermione?” 

Her name plummeted through her like a stone, shattering all willpower. “Come with me Saturday,” she blurted softly, desperately. “To your mother’s dinner. Not as my Auror, but with me.”  

She feared to offer more. He was, after all, still a pureblood heir full of expectations and one kiss didn't erase their years of challenges. Draco felt the same, apparently, because the moment the words left her mouth he changed.  

With his jaw set in a hard line he released her hands and took a step back, adding far too much space between them. “I’m sorry, Granger, I can’t.” 

Granger.  

She wondered if the name tasted like acid on his tongue now that the simple request was in the open. If she had asked for more, would he have scoffed? Sneered like he used to? Would he have laughed at the audacity of Potter’s Mudblood asking him, the Prince of Slytherin, to join her in . . . in what, she didn’t know. In something.  

Against her better judgement, she asked, “Why?” 

He crossed his arms. His eyes roamed around the space around her, casually avoiding her face. “I . . . I have a date, actually.” 

“Oh!” she said in surprise, feeling her heart pick up speed, pounding desperately to escape the confines of her chest. It took a lot to make Hermione Granger feel stupid, but as she hurriedly stacked the case notes she had had no business looking through, she felt idiotic. Pathetic. Small.  

“If, um, if you’re going on a date, then who is going to be my—the Auror accompanying me to your mother’s soiree?” 

Soiree?! she thought sourly, mouthing a quick what the fuck and kicking herself for digging the hole she was sinking into deeper. 

“Well, Weasley is on assignment with me this week and signed himself up for interrogations this weekend, and Potter has that baby thing. So either Boot or Macmillan.” 

At the very least, she would be able to put herself into work mode and completely ignore whoever accompanied her. Then again, Fillian had returned from his extended conference and had been pressing her for a date . . . Maybe it was time for her to choose. 

“Interrogation?” she asked, making her decision and shaking off the sting of his surprise. “Are you expecting to find resurgence members?” 

“We have teams for three raids this week. Mostly from information we’ve acquired from McLaggen. Whoever erased his memory of resurgence locations wasn’t nearly as talented as the suspect from the party. Between the specialists and I, some not so helpful leads from Ireland, and a surprisingly helpful tip from my father, we cracked enough to get a few solid leads. As long as word of the arrests hasn’t traveled far, then it's likely we’ll have at least a few bodies in the holding cells.” 

She nodded solemnly, but made no response, so he continued, “Ron and I will be making a special trip to Durmstrang as well. Auror Krum verified some suspicions I’ve had, and Lavender supplied me with information I need to follow up on before the weekend.” 

“Why before the weekend?” 

Draco pushed his hands into his pockets to conceal how his shoulders tensed. “No reason,” he lied tersely. “Tit for tat, Granger. You owe me your eighth year. What sorts of trouble did you find yourself in without me and the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio around?” 

“Would you stop calling us that?” she asked, annoyed. 

“If the rest of the world can, so can I,” he replied lightly, tilting his head side to side to casually stretch his neck before waiting patiently, annoyingly patiently, for her to answer. 

Breath released from her chest in aggravation. “Fine. Eighth year was . . . different. We spent the summer rebuilding and attending funerals. Harry found his cousin and tried restarting their relationship. Ron and I went to Australia to fail for the first of many times. When Ginny and I boarded the train, the only seats left were with Theo and Pansy. It was awkward,” she laughed, remembering how Ginny and Pansy had started their friendship by flinging insults through the compartment. “Theo was so quiet back then . . . I thought it was because of me that day.” 

“Theo never cared for the typical pureblood mentality. He fled from anything his father believed in.” 

“He’s mentioned him a bit over the years,” Hermione admitted. The abuse, the neglect, the utter loneliness that shrouded him in the manor. “The compartments near us were filled with new professors. McGonagall had several roles that needed to be filled. Slughorn stayed on staff for advanced potions, but insisted on hiring a new professor for beginner and intermediate classes—anything below O.W.Ls—Professor Mendax. He was supposed to be a well accomplished potions master, but his incompetence proved to be the only thing astounding about him. He didn’t see the end of the year.” 

“He was fired?” 

“In a way. He fled after I confronted him about missing ingredients from the storeroom.” 

“You confronted him? What ingredients were missing?” 

“Yes. We argued a bit, he called me a nosey swot and recommended I mind my own business. Powdered horn of bicorn, lacewing flies, dragon blood, powdered moonstone, and a few others over the months.” 

Draco hummed under his breath. “Did he have any potions on him?” 

“He was gone before I found McGonagall.” 

“Who else did you piss off?” 

“An ex-Auror took over Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Rosairone. She was retired from Italy and set me up with Dr. Dubois and her assistant, Auror Wormwell.” 

“So you two were friendly enough?” 

“At first. She wanted to teach us like children, even though the majority of us had fought in the war. She omitted spells, baby proofed her duels and refused to discuss the war—she reminded me of a younger, prettier Umbridge.” 

“Younger? I thought she was a retired Auror?” 

“Forced retirement,” Hermione clarified. “She was grouped with a few others in their department that were sent to Azkaban at the end of the war. Supposedly she was Imperioused and, being top of the field at counter curses, was used rather heavily in concocting new ways to make muggleborns suffer. The department put her on paid leave and eventually spoke with her about permanent retirement.” 

“Why did McGonagall hire her?” 

“Likely for the same reason Dumbledore hired most Dark Arts professors—limited availability.” 

“Do you think she was Imperioused?” 

Hermione thought about it, tapping her thumb against the counter. “I don’t know. But she certainly avoided nearly any mention of counter curses and apart from setting me up with Dr. Dubois, which was also a disaster, made no attempt to discuss the course with me outside of arguing. That is, until our duel, of course.” 

“I’m sorry, whose duel?” 

“It wasn’t in my file?” 

“No.” 

Hermione hummed in interest. “Well, about halfway through the term she paired us off for dueling practice. Ginny and I typically paired up, but we were a classmate short that week so I had asked if she could partner with me.” 

“Oh no,” Draco said under his breath.  

“She wasn’t teaching properly, Malfoy!” she snapped back. “We were all either adults or nearly there. We had been to war. We had fought against spells darker than what she had conjured while imperioused yet she wanted us to practice expelliarmus and bloody bubble charms like we were second years!” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight. His free hand rested on his hip in defeat. “How badly did you embarrass her, Granger?”  

“I stuck to curses I knew she could counter at first! She was an expert, after all. I simply wished to prove what we knew. But then she started cursing back, and every time I countered, she grew more and more angry. Finally, she cast a few rather nasty homemade ones definitely made for muggleborns and when I countered, well . . . the counters weren't pretty.” 

“Lasting damage?” he asked reluctantly. 

 Hermione nodded. 

“Lasting enough for her to come after you and your success?” 

She shrugged. “Last I knew she fled to America and started working for MACUSA.” 

“If she was forced to retire here, the only way MACUSA would hire her is with forged documents,” Draco said, thinking aloud.  

“And with memory charms.” 

He nodded. “I’ll look into it. Who else did you piss off?” 

“Apart from the usual classmates I sent to detention and all of wizarding Europe when I helped you and your mother and started fighting for magical creature’s rights at the ministry, just Auror Wormwell.” 

“He seemed perfectly unbothered discussing you when he came to help Auror Dubois and I, so I’m sure whatever you think you did, it wasn’t that bad.” 

“After six months of one-on-one training and several trips to Hogsmeade, he decided to inform me during a trip to Australia that he was in love with me and tried sleep with me. He genuinely thought the hotel only only giving us one bed trope found in cheesy romance novels would work!” Draco gave her a strange look, which she ignored and continued, “I told his wife when we returned. She filed for divorce immediately.  

“Fuck, Granger. Have you ever had a normal interaction without pissing someone off?” He scoffed. “Your list of enemies and my list of suspects is never-ending!” 

Hermione felt her shoulders droop.  

No, she thought.  

She hadn’t. She was difficult, argumentative and persistent. “It’s not too late to drop my case, Malfoy,” she said bitterly, turning to walk away. 

“Yeah,” he gave a breathy laugh. “And who in Merlin’s name would take on this monstrosity of a case in my stead, Granger?” 

Who would take on you, she thought, filling in the unsaid words and feeling their sting. They constricted her chest and filled her throat with barbs. With a stern glare she hissed, “You can always find just the right words, can’t you, Malfoy.” 

She stormed out, her hands clenched tight enough her nails left small red crescents in her palms. She quietly locked her bedroom door behind her and silenced the four walls, leaving her in dim solitude. It was all she could do before the choking sobs broke free. 

Chapter Text

Draco hardly slept. Between setting Hermione off and the uncertainty of being away from her, he tossed and turned on the small couch until dawn, drowning in thoughts of suspects.  

Hermione left a wake of irritation everywhere she went. Strong-willed witches usually did. Her tenacity had once irked and intrigued him in a way not too dissimilar to Wormwell. He spent years at Hogwarts getting under her skin, waiting for her to yell and scream at him and still he found himself wanting her to scold him until she was screaming his name from beneath him, telling him all the ways to touch her until her body was a quivering mass around his cock. 

Fuck. Now he needed a shower. And he was pretty sure he would break Wormwell’s nose the next time he saw him. 

Draco peeled himself from the warm couch and started a pot of coffee. It had taken him a few tries to learn Hermione’s muggle contraptions, but could now use each with relative ease. The clock on the stove told him he had just enough time to shower before Potter arrived to take over. 

The floo roared to life just as Draco finished buckling his holster across his chest.  

“I thought you were interviewing Durmstrang first. Why do you look ready for battle?” Harry asked, gesturing toward the knife strapped to Draco’s thigh and his two additional wands.  

“Kuzmanov changed our meeting to Saturday, so we’ll be doing the raids first.” He grabbed his cloak and the dragonhide duffel and headed for the floo. “I suspect she’s awake by now, waiting for me to leave.” He nodded toward Hermione’s room. He had knocked on her door four separate times last night and stopped himself three more. “If anything happens to her, Potter, there won’t be enough left of you for the D.M.L.E to identify.” 

Harry waved him off. “I’ll send word if anything changes this week, Malfoy.” 

*     *     *

Ron met him in the Auror offices with Macmillan. Together they portkeyed to Finland to meet a team assembled in Helsinki, where they would apparate to a small, abandoned section off the peninsula that many refer to as a ghost town. A small villa on the outskirts of the town was set for their initial stakeout.  

Finland was cold. And wet. And off the coast, in the decrepit house with walls crumbling around them, the wind was as bitter as he was. 

Draco realized he had been moping rather than paying attention to the guide when Ron elbowed him roughly.  

“What the hell are you brooding about, mate?” Ron asked in a whisper. He and Draco had set up the perimeter and planned the attack based on their intel over the weeks.  

“Fuck off. Didn't sleep.” 

Ron gave him a boyish grin. “Finally made your move on ‘Mione, did ya?”  

Draco shot the redhead a glare and couldn't help his lip from curling as he said, “Mind your business, Weasel.” 

He stalked off before Ron could reply and announced, rather grumpily, that he was beginning his survey. Then he transformed into his wolf, surprising all but Ron, and leapt from the nearest broken window.  

The frozen forest crunched beneath his paws. The seaside air burned his lungs and invigorated him, waking him from the morning haze. After scouring each dilapidated structure, he found one surrounded by a magical barrier he recognized as a creation by none other than Antonin Dolohov. 

Dolohov had a knack for creation. Unfortunately, he had to tailor each and every spell to Voldemort and hated adjustments. Therefore, thanks to Nagini’s comings and goings, he failed to enforce his barriers against animals—animagi included. 

The house, if one could call it that, had the fortune of nailed plywood reinforcing the empty spaces where glass panes once held firm. Smoke rose from a chimney, disguised magically to blend with the morning mist trailing in off the sea. Voices argued within the walls, indistinguishable.  

Draco crept closer for a better look, crouching low as he went to seem like an everyday animal hunting for its next meal. He slid under the porch and found a small hole with light glowing from within. 

His eyes widened as he peered inside. Three men sat around a leaning table with an old oil lamp casting shadows over their faces. They argued about the old ways and retribution—sparking an idea in Draco’s wolfish mind. Behind them at least four more bodies lay under hemmed bedrolls. Red cloaks—nine, from Draco’s count, hung on hooks in one corner.  

Draco curled into a ball. The porch dulled most of the biting wind and his thick fur took care of the rest. Now all that was left was to wait it out. 

*     *     *

Nighttime brought a new level of damp cold that soaked into Draco’s paws and froze the water in his fur into icicles. He was hungry, tired and chilled deep into the bone. He wanted nothing more than a warm meal and his warm bed with a warm witch beside him. 

A rabbit scurried along the tree line. He had moved one paw in pursuit when two new voices approached the shack. 

Clad in black death eater robes, their masks blackened to match the resurgence, the two figures held out their wands to the shield, which lifted over them like blocked water before falling back into place, then marched up the porch and barged through the door. 

Downstairs the resurgence members stirred, fetching their ruby red cloaks quickly. The two death eaters caught one witch still swinging the crimson shroud over her head. 

They screamed.  

They belittled and embarrassed. 

And finally, they Crudio’d.  

Draco found it hard to sit back and watch as she writhed in pain on the dirty floor. But he was there on a mission. He marked the death eater whose wand remained pointed at the young woman.  

“If the others could see us now,” the man muttered. “Lucius would have locked you in the dungeons for such insolence! And after the utter failure in Ireland! He’d have had your guts strung around the fucking mantle for Christmas!”  

Rowle. 

A resurgence member huffed in indignation. “Please,” he said offensively. “As if the Malfoys still held any power over us!” 

The spell shot from the second death eater's wand too quickly for the man to stop. Blisters bubbled over the little skin visible on his arms and he clawed at his matte black mask trying uselessly to remove it.  

“You’ll watch how you speak of the twenty-eight, you filthy half-blood!” the second wizard warned. 

Selwyn. 

Draco’s idea blossomed, taking shape quickly as he waited for the events to play out. It was near dawn before Draco was comfortable enough to leave the shack. 

He raced back to base, snatching two squirrels as he went.  

Hermione stared at the notes sprawled at her desk, her mind a million miles away as she replayed her catastrophic visit with her parents. Over and over she remembered their joy, pure and warming.  

Then their disgust.  

Then she was forced to relive the worst moment of her life as if karma herself had sought retribution.  

The few moments her traitorous brain had allowed a reprieve, she had found herself instead reciting Draco’s words. Or, more accurately, the meaning she had interpreted.  

Tilly brought her lunch, as she or Mippy did each day Draco had not pulled her from the office to eat. The silver platter remained untouched. As did the tray of casserole they had brought that night, spare a few small nibbles churning in her upset stomach. 

By the following day, Hermione was sick of the Aurors posted outside her flat. She was tired of moping. And she was starving.  

After nearly ripping her front door from its hinges, she barked at the two cloaked figures (she hadn't bothered to determine who had been assigned to her this week) that she was leaving before taking the floo to Harry’s office and rushing off before the Auror himself could arrive. He could see through whichever mask she chose to wear. 

Theodore Nott, on the other hand, could not. So, when Hermione opened her office door to find him patiently waiting at her desk, she plastered on the face of a woman content to work. Muscle by muscle she forced her feelings into a tightly lidded jar as she let her Gryffindor courage take the stage.  

Theo would never know the lion before him was really no more than a neglected house cat.  

Or, so she thought. 

Theo lounged at her desk, his feet propped up casually. A charmed mug of coffee sat before him, along with a bagel smothered in cream cheese. 

“My love,” he greeted softly. 

“Good morning, Theo,” she said in a bright falsetto to make her mood. 

His eyed narrowed. “Please don't play pretend with me, love. You’ve seen too many of my days not to let me see yours, too.” 

Hermione sighed deeply and sat her books and notes down. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Theo.” 

“Fine,” he relented, standing from her desk and striding to where she placed her things. “You can’t play pretend forever, love. We can all see it—the way you force yourself away. You built your walls when you grow tired and afraid; when the world doesn’t play out quite right. We worry about you, you know. Tilly and Mippy worry about you. You’ve sent every meal away uneaten. You look as if you haven’t slept since Draco left.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his chin on her head. “Please talk to us.” 

She pushed away, letting a smile cover her face. She couldn’t bear the soft plea of Theo’s voice; couldn't bear to have him worry about her when he’s right, she had seen his darkest days—and they were the abysmal sea on a moonless night. How could her worries ever compare? She would never force him to discuss the trivialities of her own sorrows. 

“I’m fine, Theo. Really,” she lied. “I’ve been eating out far too much and staying up late working. I’ll go to bed earlier tonight.” 

Hermione stepped toward her desk, stopping as Theo’s fingers held tightly to her own. His eyes held desperation. “Why did you take the dagger, Minnie?” 

Her smile faltered.  

Minnie. 

He hadn’t casually called her that in years—not since he had first introduced her to Fillian. She supposed that was why the man began using it, too. 

She didn’t answer.  

“Please tell me you weren’t planning to use it.” 

She shook her head. A slight movement, one unsure of its own truth. “No,” she breathed, the word barely audible for fear he would hear the lie behind it. “Never.” 

A tear broke free from his lashes as his face crumpled, his own mask shattering. “Then why is it missing again, Minnie?” 

More tears followed and Hermione felt her own faltering. Her voice failed to make a single sound of comfort. No more lies escaped her lips. So, she shook her head again, another small, indiscernible movement. 

“Please don’t take yourself from us. From me,” he begged, his cracking voice smaller than she had ever known Theo’s voice to be. 

She closed the fractured distance between them and wrapped her arms around his as her mask finally crumbled away, the tears she had dammed breaking free. 

“Never,” she promised. 

And this time, it wasn’t a lie. 

Draco stood outside the wards two nights later. Much to Ron’s protests, he had insisted on returning the following night by himself for additional recon, leaving the half dozen remaining Aurors to spend another boring night awaiting the bloodied wolf to return with two pilfered wands whose owners were buried deep in the snowbanks. 

The two ex-death eaters had left each morning and returned each night, not dissimilarly to Flint’s behavior at the base in Ireland. Tonight would be no different, giving him at least an hour for his plan to unfold. 

His wolf form took him easily through the shield. Shifting smoothly, he stood ankle deep in the snow. The sworling crystals fell to the ground around him, heavily enough to blot out the outskirts of the small property. His black cloak billowed in the winter storm but the fitted mask against his face, both so much like his father's, shielded him nicely from the icy wind. 

If they had been worried about Lucius Malfoy’s wrath, they would beg before his own. 

Draco marched through the snow. His magic pooled behind him, sucking all light into its murky depths. All around him his sparrow sentinels flew, each flap of their wings grounding him as a reminder that this is not him. This mask was only that: a mask.  

The resurgence members puttered around the dilapidated hut without suspicion. With a surge of magic, Draco showered them in wooden splinters as he burst through the front door. Two members, their red cloaks discarded on a ragged couch, leapt to action but were petrified before a spell could be shot off. Three more charged up the stairs as they heard the commotion, blasting curses exploding from the tips of their wands. Draco redirected the explosions, sending the curses flying around him with ease.  

The kitchen wall exploded to the side where Draco knew Weasley’s disillusioned head would be watching carefully. Another blast was sent at the stairwell, destroying the landing to the second floor. One resurgence member found himself least lucky as the third deflected Bombarda hit him square in the chest. Draco cursed as the man briefly screamed in agony, but refocused quickly as a hex zoomed past his ear, pulling his hood from his head and releasing his blonde strands. 

“M-malfoy?!” one woman gasped. “B-but y-you’re . . .” 

The shimmering sparrows surged and silenced her before he sent them soaring toward the last charging wizard. The air tingled with magic as the body thumped to the floor.  

“Pathetic,” Draco muttered quietly. 

The basement looked exactly as it had the night before. From his original count, at least four resurgence members remained unaccounted for. 

Other than a few barely used muggle notebooks (remnants of previous inhabitants, he was sure), he found nothing substantial in his brief search and sent a patronus to Weasley. The Aurors used their stolen wands to enter seamlessly through the wards, making quick work of returning the hut to its former pallor before resuming their disillusioned stations along the property’s edges.  

When Rowle and Selwyn returned from their daily excursion, Draco was ready. Sparks cracked at the tip of his wand as he heard the crunch of snow. He glanced down at one of the bodies—seven, in total, after two had been found half-frozen in an outdoor shack. As the knob turned, he lifted the largest of the men and threw him with all the force he could magically muster through the recently repaired frame. 

“Son of a—” one of the men began, pushing the body off himself before locking eyes on the familiar silver mask.  

Draco cocked his head slowly to the side, his dueling gloves clenched tightly around the hawthorn wand that had served him so well through the years. His sparrows buzzed around him, shadows dripping from their wake, threatening to envelop the country.  

The death eaters realized what had happened almost comically late as they stared at Draco in his full death eater garb.  

Hell broke loose in the blink of an eye, leaving Draco grateful the others weren’t there to get in his way. The crackle of spells shot past his ears and crashed into his own in outright explosions. His sparrows sailed through the air, spearing their targets in angry vengeance and pushing the two dark wizards back toward the wards. Two small blue spell lights zipped through the volley of red and hit the two unsuspecting men in the chest before a purple beacon of light shot towards the sky in the distance. 

The signal. The Aurors had safely escaped. The plan, accomplished. 

Inky pools of night flooded the round glen. The wizards cursed and began shooting spells all around the blinding haze. But their target was already gone, escaped quickly through the wards and apparated far, far away. 

Now all he had to do was wait. 

Chapter Text

A fitted black cocktail dress floated in the air beside the ornate vanity Ginny kept set up for Pansy’s emergency primping sessions. The knee length, fitted (yet still workplace appropriate) garment absorbed light into its casual abyss, leaving only the thin mesh geometric cutouts running along the flowy sleeves visible in any definite shape. As promised, Pansy pulled and prodded at Hermione’s hair until it was pulled sleekly into an elegant chignon. 

“I still can’t believe that snake asked another woman out on a date,” Pansy seethed behind her, stabbing a pin a little too roughly into the updo. 

Hermione had vented during snake night (which they had insisted on still having at her house the night before) after a few too many shots of firewhiskey. “It’s fine, Pans. At least I know where I stand. I can make decisions if I know where I stand.” 

“I take it by the sexy little slip you have on under that dressing gown you plan on making that decision tonight,” she said with a wink. Hermione's face heated. “I don’t blame you. Fillian’s sexy and I bet he’ll fuck Draco right out of your mind.” 

“That’s a vile reason for me to sleep with him,” she scoffed. 

Pansy shrugged. “Maybe. But if Draco’s on a date, I can guarantee his mind will be in the same place. He’s almost never waited until the second date. And you need a good shag before you combust. You can decide to break up with him after you’ve told me all about his cock.” 

“Pansy!” 

“What?! It’s not like you wouldn't be telling me tomorrow anyways! If Ginny wasn’t at her bloody parents right now drinking ungodly potions to soothe her nausea, she’d be here preaching the same damned thing.” 

She had a point. Ginny had been on team why-wait from their first date. Merlin knows she and Harry hadn't even gone on a single legitimate date before she had all but dragged him to his room. Then again, she had also decided to forego a proposal from the famed wizard and convinced him to drunkenly elope after a rather lush ministry party. Hermione, Draco and Ron had been the only others in the last-minute attendance, and they all had been too afraid to tell the Weasley matriarch she had missed her only daughter’s wedding.  

Even though she had every intention of getting certain needs fulfilled this evening, Hermione remained silent, refusing to give Pansy the satisfaction of agreement. Instead, she paced the floor by the Potter’s floo one hour later, worrying her bottom lip as her shoes wore a path through the floor. When the green flames roared to life at last, she inhaled a deep breath and reminded herself that the room full of Pureblood socialites would not bite—and if they did, she was confidently more skilled with her wand.  

It wasn't until Fillian stepped out in crisp heather grey wizard robes and a bouquet of chrysanthemums and orange lilies that Hermione’s nerves finally settled.  

“These are lovely,” she demurred, smiling softly as he handed them gently over. “Let me put them in some water and we can—” 

“They’re charmed, Minnie.” He let out a soft chuckle just a breath away from a scoff, reminding her greatly of the blonde wizard she had thought would be escorting her. 

“Of course. They’re beautiful, Fillian. Thank you.” 

“Not nearly as beautiful as you. Shall we?” He gestured for her to floo first. 

*     *     *

The castle-turned-exclusive club glowed in the light of thousands of floating candles. The wide ballroom’s polished floor reflected the shine into scattered gemstones the size of Crookshanks along the walls, adding a warm ambiance to the benched alcoves occupying witches and wizards stoically facing their own personal meetings. Hermione glanced toward the wall of cocktails, immediately spotting one of her fill-in guards standing ominously beyond the reach of the bartender. 

“Well, this is fancy,” her date concluded, reaching out to entwine his fingers in her own. 

She fought the urge to pull away. “Yes—oh, there’s Mrs. Malfoy,” she exclaimed, pulling him ungraciously toward the platinum blonde hair facing a trio of witches Hermione recognized as members of the Wizengamot. 

“Hermione!” Narcissa cooed, glancing her way as they approached. “So glad you could make it! I’d like to introduce you to Theophylline, Xanadora and Helen. Coincidentally, they will be on the board for reformation of regulations should your proposal pass its Wizengamot hearing!” 

“I’ll fetch us some drinks,” Fillian offered, excusing himself from introductions as pleasantries were exchanged. 

Before long, Hermione had been introduced to every member of her future regulations board and several who would be contingent to the Wizengamot’s decision in pushing it through. Fillian, to his credit, made himself an asset on her arm. He fetched drinks, he filled in lulls in conversation and embraced his own identity as a successful werewolf, helping her to woo each member until they no longer worried over the sympathetic muggleborn and her groveling pets. 

“I dare to say that you have every pureblood in this inferno eating out of the palm of your hand, Minnie,” Fillian breathed in her ear, distracting her from the twirling buzz growing in her head, his words trilling down the column of her neck.  

His hand had grown increasingly adventurous throughout the evening and as she slowly lost her senses to expensive champagne, the heat in her core grew. Now, as witches and wizards slowly dispersed to their own homes, she felt the growing desire to rip his suit off and lick him from the stubble growing thicker each minute along his jaw down to the sturdy muscle angling deep beneath the waistline of his trousers. 

Narcissa popped her head into the dimming alcove, cutting off her dizzying thoughts with a sharp look of masked disgust toward Fillian, whose hands continued to toy with the hem of her dress creeping up her thigh. “Well, Miss Granger, I believe you successfully wooed the Wizengamot today. I personally heard six members praising your very existence. Frederick was still feeling quite stingy, but he’s never held much sway over the others.” 

“I don’t know if I could ever thank you enough, Narcissa,” Hermione replied, her words heavy against her tongue. She pushed her glass of champagne away as Narcissa flashed her a warm smile. 

“Nonsense,” she hushed. “It's the least I could do.” She glanced between the two of them again. “I do have to say though, it’s growing rather late. Hermione, dear, let me walk you to the floo.” 

Hermione stood from the rounded booth in the alcove, her head slightly swimming from the night’s fun. She brushed off the sway of her body and took a deep, steadying breath.  

Too much Champagne, she thought, as the aching need only grew stronger between her legs.  

“If it’s all the same, Mrs. Malfoy, I’ll continue to be her escort for the evening. I will ensure her safe return.” Fillian gave Hermione a snarky wink, sending a flutter through the familiar buzz already disorienting her. 

Narcissa looked displeased but graciously bid them goodbye and left them for the few remaining guests. 

Hermione turned her large brown eyes up to Fillian. “Will you be joining me for coffee?” 

“And turn down a chance to see you in that silky slip you’ve been practically rubbing in my face all night?” Something flashed through his eyes, sending a thrill through Hermione. The growing need for him was intoxicating. 

They stepped through the floo into a darkened Grimmauld—Harry and Ginny must have opted to stay with the Weasleys overnight—before turning right back around and taking the floo to Hermione’s flat. Her head spun as she stumbled out of the fireplace, but quickly shook it off. She wasn't sure how she would manage making them coffee when all her body wanted to do was wrap itself around Fillian’s hopefully large— 

There were still guards. She had almost forgotten them in the heat of the night. Prying herself away from Fillian’s roaming hands, she pulled open her front door, gasping as the icy wind whipped snow at her burning skin and clearing her head enough to call out to the man she could barely see through the evening blizzard that she wished for him to leave. 

“Are you sure?” the familiar voice called back.  

Macmillan? 

“I’m sure, Ernie! I have a guest tonight!” 

He appeared at the edge of the wards. “Alright, ‘Mione, but when Potter—or Malfoy, for that matter—gets pissed, you better have my back!” 

Fillian, hiding behind the door, brushed his lips along the column of her neck and trailed his fingers up her bare thigh. “Always, Ernie!”  

She slammed the door a second before Fillian had her pushed against the white wood, taking her mouth hungrily. He slid the black abyss of fabric off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. He walked them away from the door, heading toward the bedroom as she stepped out of her heels, leaving them askew by the door.  

But her head was spinning and the gust of cold eased the boiling heat beneath her skin long enough for her to gently push him away. “Coffee,” she reminded him.  

Irritation pasted itself upon his face—no, anger? Frustration.  

Regardless, Hermione knew he was just as eager for the bedroom. She pulled down her ground coffee and filled the pot with water, taking a blessed second to breathe. The heat beneath her skin and the ache in her core were swiftly returning, unlike anything she had ever felt before. 

“Muggle coffee?” he scoffed. 

No. Not unlike anything she had ever felt before. 

Diluted. Slower building. Smaller dose. 

The coffee sizzled as drops missed the pot, landing indelicately on the warming plate. She reached for the small, beaded bag concealed but still draped over her shoulder and slowly pulled out her wand. She felt the zip of his magic a breath before he cast the curse. 

“PROTEGO!” she clumsily cast, blocking the yellow flash and retaliating quickly to disarm. 

“You fucking bitch,” he seethed, avoiding the red sparks easily through Hermione’s fog. 

Even now she felt the need in her body growing, her mind muddying more and more.  

“The whole time?” she plead. 

His face had contorted since he had her up against the door. His features melted away, a crooked nose replacing the straight cartilage, his jaw thickened, his brow bone lowered. “Don’t feel so smart anymore, do you, mudblood bitch?” 

She glanced between him and the floo, but he was too quick, sending a stinging jinx. The spell hit her shoulder and the skin beneath the slip’s thin strap bubbled and burst. The wail that flooded her chest was cut short as she forced herself forward, reaching the green soot as he flung another spell.  

The red magic exploded at the tip of her hand, sending small metal shards and floo powder flying in all directions. Her hand stung, but Fillian didn’t give her time to inspect before he sent a binding spell toward her.  

Hermione leapt out of the way, sending her own flux of spells toward her assailant. 

“Why?!” she shrieked. “Why wait so long?!” 

“I needed you. Now that you’ve convinced the committee, I’m sure they’ll expedite werewolf rights without you.” 

“This isn't even about the potion?!” 

“Two birds, as they say. Dolohov wanted the potion destroyed. But I have a need for it, so once I've had my fun,” he raked his slimy eyes over her body, knowing the effects the potion would have on her, “you’ll come see your new home. My uncle’s wanted to get his claws into you for a long, long time now. He’ll be as thrilled to sink into you as I am. Then you can finish your potion for us.” 

“I’ll never work for you.” 

“You won't be able to help it.” 

She pushed off from the wall, racing toward the front door, taking him by surprise. As he lunged, she dropped to the floor and slid, ignoring the slicing along her leg from the metal bucket. Ten little sparrows conjured quickly around her, charging for the series of spells he sent her way and exploding against them, concealing the Expelliarmus that zipped through the sparks and hit him square in the chest.  

Fillian’s wand flew away, but she didn't give herself time to grab it before she was reaching for the front door. With no floo, she had to get past her apparition wards. 

The wind blew it open before she finished turning the handle, the icy wind stinging against her bare skin. 

Fillian’s hand twisted into her hair and yanked back.  

“Confringo!” She cast backwards, letting the flames explode, the heat singing her back and melting holes into the silk slip.  

Fillian roared behind her as he released his hold. She lunged forward, through the wards just far enough to apparate. As the magic tugged at her navel, she glimpsed feet in the snow a few feet away, snow dusting over the trainers. 

Ernie! 

But it was too late. She was outside Grimmauld place, the building still dark without its occupants. The potion was affecting her in full force now, its dizzying effects spinning the empty street. Two figures charged at her, pulling wands and splitting into four. A crack of apparition sounded beside her and before she had time to react, a silver blade plunged into her abdomen. 

Hermione stumbled back a step, but did not let herself fall.  

“I can get by without you,” Fillian seethed, his face charred. 

The others lifted their wands. Fillian twisted the blade. Through her agonizing wail, she cast one more spell, sending him flying, leaving the dagger wedged snuggly into her gut.  

The spells were hurling toward her. There was only one place left she could go. One more person she knew would keep her safe.  

Splinching hurt nearly as badly as the bleeding hole in her stomach. It was hell limping through the wards, miraculously keyed to her as she left a trail of blood through the snow behind her. She had no way of knowing if he was home—but with two more dark figures racing toward her, she persevered, all but crawling up the short drive to the modest porch. Her knuckle barely made a noise against the beautiful oak door, and she prayed he had sensed her pass through the wards.  

Blood ran down her body as effortlessly as the tears along her cheeks. At last, the door opened. 

“H-help,” Hermione gasped before the dark edges of her vision won out and she collapsed to the icy ground. 

Chapter Text

Durmstrang loomed over Scandinavia like a suspicious archbishop pulling the puppet strings of the jovial medieval king. Its grey stone walls jutted from the snow-covered cliff sides leaving little room for outdoor activities. The single covered walkway over the surrounding water echoed as the icy covering cracked off in the gusts of bone-chilling wind. How the school managed to produce such excellent quidditch players—not that Draco would ever admit to Krum’s excellence—was beyond him when there was little room for practice.  

Draco hated Durmstrang. Too many dark wizards passed unhindered through its walls. Sure, maybe he was biased . . . But if he sat down to calculate the percentage of dark magic wielders leaving Durmstrang compared to Hogwarts or even Beauxbatons, he was certain his arithmancy would agree. 

“Never actually visited Durmstrang,” Weasley stated as they approached the towering doors to the entrance hall. “Why do you s’pose they had us trek through the cold when we could have flooed in?” 

“They’re run by a sadist who wants to shove us through all the wards and strip us of any defense we could have,” Draco seethed. He glanced over to the redhead and found him gaping. “I hate this bloody place,” he explained bitterly. 

“You been here before?” 

“Too many times with my father. Between business with Karkaroff and the few times we toured on the off-chance Hogwarts became ‘too morally flexible’, as my father put it. Like Hogwarts was the one damned for their beliefs, not the other way around!” 

“Would have made my life a lot bloody easier if you had transferred.” 

The doors creaked open as they approached, the sound bouncing along the frozen lake before disappearing into the expanse of water beyond the cliffs. “Pretty sure I’d already be dead or in Azkaban had I transferred.” 

The gloomy interior of Durmstrang castle welcomed them with the eery quiet of overly behaved students busying themselves in their first classes of the day. The warm, earthy tones of the floors and walls, rich with the life of the Mahogany trees the planks were hewn from, contrasted harshly against the steely white landscape beyond the great windows.  

The headmaster's visiting office was stationed on the first floor, far away from the personal office Draco had visited with his father. While the private space had given them the solitude away from prying eyes and ears, the business office would add a certain risk of their discussions traveling back to the few remaining death eaters still at large. They would have to be careful not to disclose their plans. 

“Were the trackers working alright?” Ron asked as they wound down another empty hallway toward their meeting.  

“Seem to be. The Aurors watching them haven’t had much luck finding where they’re reporting yet. They haven’t been back to that hut, so I doubt they’ve realized we replaced their posse with roadkill and have the real members in interrogation. They’ve mostly been getting drunk and sleeping in their own piss.” 

Ron cringed. “It was a good plan, Malfoy.” 

“I only had the outline, Weasley. It pains me to say it but you’re the reason it played out so well. I would’ve just taken those two bastards in for interrogation. Or killed ‘em.” 

“They’re gonna be pissed when they find out those wizards were transfigured.” 

“If they find out. Those bodies are likely nothing more than ash in the snow by now. Besides, Bennet has spent his life studying transfiguration. He could have made a dirty rag into a believable body, let alone those dead squirrels.” 

Ron paled. “Don’t remind me of your eating habits, Malfoy.”  

Draco flashed his canines and Ron made a gagging noise.  

“No casualties this time,” Ron added thoughtfully. 

Draco returned with no more than a grunt, his mind pulling him to their last raid. 

“How is she?” he followed up with genuine concern. Though it was a major part of their work, no Auror liked following up on those injured in the field. 

“St. Mungos released her yesterday. I’m taking her out tonight to celebrate.” 

They rounded the corner. The headmaster’s office sat at the very end of what felt like a never-ending hallway. 

“Tonight—” Ron started in surprise, cutting himself off to continue, “Isn’t Hermione’s thing tonight?” 

Draco hummed in agreement. “Granger will fare fine in the den of misguided prosperity. It’s the Wizengamot I fear for. Besides, Pansy owled me to inform me Fillian was back in town, and she had already expressed interest in taking him. He’s helpful to her cause, being a successful werewolf and all.” 

“Why’re we investigating him if you’re fine with him being alone with Hermione? Jealousy?” 

Draco shot him a look that would have most men withering. “Don’t be absurd, Weasley. Following up on his background is only part of this.” 

“Right,” Ron said incredulously. “So, you’re in no way trying to link him to Greyback?” 

“She fancies him. I’m not going out of my way to destroy that.” 

“I thought you would take her tonight and she would finally come to her bloody senses. I don’t care much for him.” 

For once, he agreed. “I had prior commitments. Loose ends.” 

“So much for dumping him, poor bloke. And if her date goes well?” Ron asked suggestively as they reached the headmaster’s ornate double doors. 

The tension in Draco’s jaw was immediate, but he willed his features to remain passive. “She’s being guarded, not being held captive. She can spend her night with whomever and however she pleases.” 

“And if yours goes well?” 

That was the end of this conversation. “I’m not discussing my dating life with you, Weasley. Come on, the headmaster is waiting for us.” 

*     *     *      

The business office hadn’t changed with the new headmaster. No personal effects littered the regal desk, no picture frames distracting the wandering eye from the meetings at hand. Draco loathed how cold the large room made him feel despite the roaring fire beside him.  

“Thank you for meeting with us, sir,” Draco started, crossing his ankle casually over his knee in the sunken leather chair. “I trust you called this meeting based on successful findings from my request, and not to discourage us?” 

“Yes,” Kuzmanov, Durmstrang's current headmaster, said in his thick accent not too dissimilar to Krum’s. “And no.” His lush black hair matted against his head from the fur hat he had recently removed, and his face gave nothing away regarding his age, the shallow lines and bright eyes surly masking the long years since his youth. “We have found the Blackfoot records. As you said in your request, he began her in his fourth year with records transferring from Hogwarts. By all professor accounts he was an excellent student. Excelled in potions and the dark arts, even inventing his own forms of magic by sixth year. That was why he was favored for the Tri-Wizard Tournament—unfortunately for him, Krum was better suited.” 

“He was at Hogwarts for the Tournament?” Draco asked, surprised. 

“Yes. He would have gone with Karkaroff and the other Durmstrang students.” 

“How did he get along with the other students?” Ron asked. 

“That is where the information grows interesting,” Kuzmanov began. “He came here as a young werewolf—Durmstrang is no stranger to the lunar cycle, so he fit right in with fellow pack children, even going so far as to summer with them. But it seems our records are also lacking. There are many noted arguments and disagreements, each siding with Blackfoot. Including one with Viktor Krum—an argument after their return from Hogwarts.” 

“The details?” Draco snapped. 

“Lacking,” he answered simply. 

“What about listed family? Krum’s memo noted links to Greyback, but none have been able to confirm,” Ron asked, taking charge as Draco pieced it together. 

“Also lacking. None known—it doesn’t even list who enrolled the boy.” Kuzmanov searched through his parchment. He merely summered with his pack, as I had mentioned.” 

“His pack? You said he summered with classmates. Who bit him?” 

“No knowledge of who bit him. The pack he summered with adopted him, so to speak, by allowing him to run with them.” 

“Who?” 

“The Alders. Though, I believe some of them go by the name Mendax, now.” 

Ron looked at Draco expectantly, who shook his head slightly in answer. 

“Thank you for your time, Headmaster. Do you mind if I send an owl from your Owlery?” 

“Please, use what you need. Any friend of Viktor’s is a friend within these walls.” 

Draco penned a quick letter to Hopkirk and headed out to find the owlery. 

“Not convinced?” Ron asked. 

“I can’t make a move against him until I’m certain.” 

“What will you do?” 

“If he is a pawn in this game, and I act too quickly, he could snap. We’ll increase security at the dinner. My mother will convince her to return to the manor with her. And after Hopkirk receives this letter, he won’t leave her bloody side.” 

“Why don’t you watch her yourself?” Ron snapped accusatorially.  

“I made promises, Weasley,” he ground out, sending off a second letter addressed to Azkaban. “Ones I need to fulfill before I can move forward.” 

*     *     *

Draco couldn’t peel his mind away from their meeting with Kuzmanov. As he meticulously tied the long silky fabric around his collar, his mind drifted back to the young werewolf that wandered the halls of both Hogwarts and Durmstrang. His presence and befuddling records failed to shed light on the case at hand, only furthering to ensure Draco’s suspicions.  

Krum had warned them of the man’s blood purity beliefs in school, citing claims that he should be as feared as the one and only Fenrir Greyback. But if he were to convince Hermione—or the Wizengamot—he needed proof. And damn it, the best way to prevent him from fleeing (or speeding up his timeline), is to pretend that all is well. So, he heightened security, adding any additional Aurors they could spare to the dinner, and though the chosen guard for Hermione had yet to respond, he gave Hopkirk specific instructions not to allow any guests—particularly male guests—back to the flat. If Fillian was associated with the resurgence, or with any of Hermione’s threats, he had thus far avoided taking action when he knew he was being watched. With information to take down Fillian in the works, all Draco could do now was hope the two tagged death eaters would lead them to Dolohov as he smoothed out his hair, cringing at how the magical mousse reminded him of his early years of school.  

Less than an hour later he was standing outside a small cottage by a lake. A bouquet of fresh yellow roses hung in his hand at his side. The woman that opened the door was stunning in a long yellow dress. Her dark hair curled in tight spirals down to her shoulders, her bronze skin paler than it was when he met her, but beautiful none the less.  

“Draco, you’re early,” she purred as she pushed a small dangling gemstone through a hole in her ear. Luna had informed him the waving scar tissue along her hands and neck would be a lifelong reminder. Her face, however, had been mercifully spared the harshest flames by the rest of her. “Come in, come in! I’m just finishing up.” 

Draco sat the flowers on a wooden countertop nearest the door, barely noticing the interior of the cozy house. “You look lovely, Callid.”  

A blush crept over her cheeks, tinting them like a sunset. “I know.” She winked. “Thanks again for sending Parkinson my way. Blaise wanted to shave my head—and if it weren’t for her, I don’t think any of my hair would have been worth keeping, anyways.” 

“She’s had a way with hair tonics since she still took naps.” He looked her over once more, noting the short layers and asymmetric curls, and how the deep, rich tones added to blend out the exaggeration of it all. “It suits you, Callid. How has your transition home been?” 

She waved him off. “It’s been fine. Nervous to go back to work, but that’s not been discussed yet anyway. Come. We should leave now or we’ll miss our dinner.” 

*     *     *

The dimly lit restaurant buzzed around them with the murmuring of couples deep in romantic conversation. Dinner had been astounding—not that it had ever been less than excellent when a Malfoy made an appearance—and Callid was an excellent conversationalist as well. They had explored their youth, their mutual desires to see the world, and by dessert, Draco had discovered the witch had quite a charming laugh. So much so that when the bill was paid and their coats were on, he invited her home to continue their evening.  

“So, this is what Malfoy money will buy you in the city,” Callid joked as she removed her long duster. 

Draco chuckled, pouring himself a glass of firewhiskey and gesturing for her to do the same. “No. Malfoy money will buy you much, much more. I simply prefer not to live in a mansion with more rooms than acquaintances.” 

She smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Draco.” 

“I made a promise. You held up your end of the bargain. I could hardly decide not to fulfill mine.” 

She smiled brighter. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been real,” she said wistfully, but not sadly. 

“It was real.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

He nodded. “No. It would have been the perfect date in another lifetime.” He moved to sit across from her, doing her best not to dwell on another witch. He trusted the other Aurors to keep her safe as he tied this final loose end. Besides, they had had a moment—she wouldn’t invite Fillian to her flat after their moment. After she had confided in Pansy her plans to break up with the questionable wizard . . . right? 

Except, you’re on a date, he reminded himself.  

Pulling himself from a jealous spiral, he asked, “What are your plans now?” 

She sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can go back on another mission. I have plans—plans for my future. I want a family, I want kids. You never think it will happen to you . . .” She paused, lost peacefully in a thought Draco could only guess at. “Isolt invited me back to America. MACUSA is looking for skilled cursebreakers for a teaching position.” 

“Good pay?” 

“Excellent.” She smiled. 

“That sounds—” Draco froze, the smile dropping from his face.  

“What happ—” 

He cut her off with a raised finger. “Someone’s triggered my wards.”  

They were on their feet in an instant, wands ready, when a weak, muted knock rapped against the door. 

Draco’s heart plunged deep into his gut as he opened the door to find Hermione clad in nothing but a shredded silk nightie, her bare skin smeared red from wounds he couldn't count. A trail of bloody footprints from her near frozen bare feet tracked through the snow from his front gate. He couldn't breathe as he spotted the familiar dagger buried and twisted into her gut. The very one that had haunted their dreams. 

“H-help,” she croaked before her body gave out, falling into the snow at his feet. 

Chapter Text

Draco fell to his knees, catching Hermione as she collapsed. He cast a floating diagnostic and slid one arm under her bare legs and lifted her into the warmth of his house, taking her to the couch he had lounged on not five minutes prior. Callid remained half a step behind, worry coating her lush features. 

Draco swished his wand to cast his patronus. He needed Blaise—or Luna, if the melted shift meant what he thought it did. But the blue sparrows flapped a few feet and faded into nothing, his thoughts too dark to keep the hopeful blue light alive.  

“Fuck!”  

He took a deep breath and recast. 

Nothing but blue mist fizzled and the diagnostic above Hermione shifted from yellow to red. He took another breath, closed his eyes, and found her face. He pictured her radiant smile in the quiet moments in the office, snake nights where her laugh filled the hollow spaces in his chest, and finally he found the moment their lips locked for the first time. The feel of her melting into him in the warm sand. 

He cast again. One sparrow sped off to find Blaise, another to Harry. He called for his house elves and sent them on their own missions: one to fetch his cauldron and a list of potions and ingredients, the other to St. Mungo’s for medical supplies. 

Hermione’s eyes opened into slits and his attention snapped back to her. 

“Who did this?” Draco growled, the sound deep from the caverns of his chest. He brushed his trembling thumb gently over her cheek, then swallowed the boiling rage that would threaten his sanity, shoving past the consuming terror until he was nothing but cold and calculating. 

“Er-ernie—” she rasped. 

“Macmillan?!” he nearly shouted, the steely facade crumbling much too quickly. 

Her head shook slowly. “Hurt—He-he’s h-hurt—” she started to lift up, but winced and fell back into his arm. 

“Stay still, Hermione. I’ve got you,” he cooed. “Where was Hopkirk?” 

Blood continued to pool around the dagger.  

She simply shook her head again as her eyes drifted closed. 

If Macmillan had replaced Hopkirk . . . then his warning had never made it to her. 

His realization only added one more question: where the fuck was Hopkirk?! 

“Callid,” he said after conjuring another patronus for Harry. “I’m going to need you to go back to work now.” 

“What?” she gasped, her scarred hands limp at her sides. 

“We need to break the curse on this dagger before we can remove it.” He started to cast simple stabilizing charms over her blistered back and the broken skin at her shoulder.  

“B-but I’m—I can’t!” 

“You can. And you will,” he ordered. “If you don’t, it will kill her. My aunt cursed it to slow healing. It took months for her arm to stop bleeding! We don’t have time for it to resolve on its own. So break. The. Curse.” He moved his eyes from the blood smearing his hand and leveled a glare at her. “Or her death is on your hands as much as it would be on mine.” 

Callid stared down at Hermione’s limp form. In a heartbeat she steeled herself and jerked her chin down in determination. Her wand worked fast, pulling small golden runes from the blade. She twisted them into circles and knots, trying combinations like an ancient safe, inserting symbols here and there as she read and scrambled each spinning line.  

Draco was already mending the burst skin of her shoulder when Blaise all but ran through the floo dressed in a midnight suit.  

“Blaise, I need you to call for Lu—” he began before the floo roared to life again. A small blonde with waving moon-white hair down to her waist stepped through the floo in her own sparkling cocktail dress, her white robes flowing around it. A spare set lay draped over her arm. “Luna?” 

“Hello, Draco. I seen a thestral on our way to dinner and knew the night would bring us trouble.” She handed Blaise his robes. He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and pulled them around his shoulders.  

“I’ll never question you again, love,” he murmured as the world tilted sideways. He knew Blaise had been seeing someone, but had no idea it was Loony Lovegood—not that he had considered her loony for many years. 

Just . . . quirky. 

Luna took over his spot at her shoulder and dropped dittany over the missing skin. She checked her charts as the flesh sealed back together. 

“These are lovely charms, Draco,” she chimed. “I hadn’t realized you had healer training.” 

He raked his fingers through his hair, his body growing jittery without a job. Blaise helped to stifle the bleeding as Callid continued breaking the curse at a snail's pace. If only they could get the bloody thing out so they could seal the wound! 

“Draco, do you know what she’s been given?” Luna asked. 

“Given? No—” he looked at the diagnostic, suddenly recognizing the small symbols from Halloween. He had a supply of the antidote with his potions. “Yes. Mippy will be back with an antidote any minute.” 

“It’s alright,” she answered dreamily, finishing with the shoulder. “It’s working to sedate her. We can give her the antidote when she’s healed. I can’t start on her back until the blade is out, but a few drops of dittany on her leg should do the trick nicely. Would you like some tea?” 

He glanced up at her, finally pulling his eyes from the rusted dagger and shook his head. “I’m alright.” He stood. “I’ll make you some.” 

“No, thank you.” She smiled wistfully at him. “I’ll find it myself. You stay with Hermione. She needs you to keep the wrackspurts away.” 

“O-okay,” he stuttered as she turned on her heel and wandered in the opposite direction of the kitchen. 

“I think I've almost solved it,” Callid announced as Mippy popped in with a tower of potions nearly twice her size, balancing in a shiny black cauldron. 

“Good. I don’t know how much longer she can take the blood loss. Draco, you have a blood replenishing potion in your stores?” Blaise asked.

“M-master Draco has loads of blood potions!” Mippy said excitedly, placing the cauldron on the floor and jumping into the clattering pile to find the right bottle. Tilly cracked into the room not a moment later with armfuls of gauze and antiseptic. 

“Got it, Master Blaise!” Mippy shouted. 

The front door burst open, startling them all. Draco had his wand pulled and aimed, noticing briefly Luna had appeared in the hallway posing in a similar stance, red sparks already flickering at her wand tip.  

“Easy!” Harry called from the doorway. “It’s me!” He crossed into the front room and met Draco at his side. “Godric,” he gasped. “How is she?” 

“We’ll know more once we get this damned blade from her!” Blaise hissed in frustration. 

“Tell me something, Potter. Anything,” Draco begged. 

“Hopkirk is missing, but Ernie will live. Hexed to death’s doorstep, but St. Mungo’s has him waking up. He didn’t see who attacked him, but said Hermione had asked him to leave.” His eyes flickered sideways at him. “She had brought Fillian home.” Then they glanced at Callid in her flattering yellow dress. “Place was trashed. Multiple magical signatures, multiple footprints. Either Fillian was attacked too, or he had partners.” 

Draco looked down at the silk shift hugging her curves. Then he thought back to the voracious lust that had taken over her at Halloween. Fillian had already left—from the Potter’s floo . . . 

“Partners,” he deduced quickly. Then, if only to keep his mind from the bloodied form on his couch, he asked, “Hopkirk was supposed to be on duty with her, not Macmillan. I scheduled the whole night. I sent updates after Durmstrang—updates to Hopkirk! When did he go missing?” 

“This morning. He fulfilled the rest of his shifts this week, including the watch before the banquet. Macmillan said he was owled before he was set to meet them asking if he could cover watch. I think they wanted to control the environment.” 

“Or they knew Macmillan’s relationship with Hermione well enough to know he wouldn’t argue.” 

Harry nodded, his jaw tense. Draco knew what he wanted to say—it was the same accusation he was currently running through his own mind. You should have been there. 

“Done!” Callid announced triumphantly. “I-I did it!” She reached forward to grab the dagger. 

“Don’t!” Blaise warned in a growl, shocking her. 

“She could bleed out if we’re not prepared,” Luna chimed in casually, taking a spot across from Blaise, her wand hovering in a golden glow above Hermione’s abdomen. “I’m ready.” 

Blaise yanked the blade free and tossed it aside. The two healers focused as they stifled the bleeding as best they could magically before resorting to muggle sutures and wraps.  

“Is that—” Harry began, pointing to the dagger. 

Draco nodded once. “It somehow keeps escaping the Department of Mysteries. I need you to investigate it while I’m away from the office.” 

“Didn’t Theo have it?” 

He nodded again. “Both times.” 

“You don’t think . . .” 

“I don’t know what to think right now, Potter," he snapped, his mind too busy leaping between the blood seeping from his witch, self-loathing, and his own indescribable murderous intent.

“Ready to flip?” Blaise asked Luna before turning Hermione onto her stomach. 

The melted fabric fused into her skin, shading every ridge and wrinkle into a burnt mess. Whichever fire from Hell had done this, it had been hot and fast. Yet, the two wizards worked seamlessly together, mending the delicate skin until there was no more than the glistening pink sheen of new tissue. 

“Yeah. I’ll look into it first thing tomorrow,” Harry agreed. “Owl me the moment she wakes up. I have to go give Ginny an update. It was hard enough to make her stay at the burrow.”  

“Will do.” 

“I think I'll like MACUSA,” Callid said quietly a few minutes later. 

“They’ll be lucky to have you.” 

“She’s lucky to have you,” she replied warmly, as if coming to a grand conclusion. She bent low to meet him where he sat on the floor, his back resting against the bottom of the opposing sofa. She gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for tonight, Draco. And everything before it.” 

“It was my pleasure, Callid.” Though the nagging reminder that if he hadn’t kept his promise to her, Hermione wouldn’t be lying shredded on his couch. “Thank you for your help.” 

He didn’t listen for the floo, his attention too focused on the steady rise and fall of Hermione's back and the slow pulse of her heart on the glowing diagnostic above her head. 

A dull ache stirred Hermione from sleep. Not the one in her abdomen, which she only noticed after she tried to reposition, but one throbbing lightly behind her eyes. She didn’t recognize the silk beneath her head, but the musky scent of cashmere and leather cradled her in familiarity. Though she was foggy on the details, she was certain before she opened her eyes that she was safely tucked away in Draco’s bed. 

As her eyelids peeled open, Hermione pulled the heavy blanket off her shoulders and squinted in the filtered midmorning sunshine. She slowly tested each joint. Sore, but manageable. 

“You’re awake,” Draco’s voice, rough with sleep and worry, said quietly beside the bed. 

Hermione started to sit up when the sharp pain in her stomach had her wincing and laying back down. 

“Easy, Granger. Don't want you to pop a stitch.” 

“Stitch? Why didn’t they just use—” her scratchy voice cut short, her tired body deciding the words weren’t worth the exertion. 

“Cursed blade,” he explained simply. 

Hermione’s eyes finally found him in the corner, perched in a chair with deep purple bags beneath his eyes. He wore a wrinkled button up and dress trousers from his date. A tie lay undone and draped across the back of the chair. He rubbed his neck as if it were stiff from sleeping by her side all night.  

“I ruined your date,” she said simply.  

Draco stood from the high back chair and rolled his shoulders. “You did no such thing. She and I had a lovely time. Then the night was over, and that was that.” 

“You brought her home, and because of me . . .” 

“Let me clear something up for you, Granger. I invited her here because she was a lovely conversationalist and an excellent diversion. I promised her a date on her deathbed if she were to survive. Nothing more. She knew full well my affections are kept by another, but we had a lovely time, nonetheless. Do not apologize for valuing your safety. Never apologize for coming to me, regardless of intrusion, for help.”  

He stared at her with an intensity that devoured her soul. When he spoke again, voice raw and crumbling like the shield she had built so carefully around her heart, she could no longer deny or refuse or avoid the desperate longing that consumed her when he was around.  

“I should apologize, Hermione,” he rasped, taking a step closer to her. “I should have been there tonight.” 

“You made a promise—” 

“I made a promise, yes. But you will forever be my priority.” 

“Forever . . . You mean until the case is done . . .”  

Draco’s eyes bored into her, making her squirm, until he said simply, “I said what I said, Hermione.” 

“. . .oh,” was all she could say. 

“I’ll go tell Luna and Blaise you’re awake.” 

“They both stayed? How many guest rooms do you have?” 

He smirked down at her as he twisted the door handle. “Just the one, Granger.” 

She gasped. “Oh!” 

 *     *     *

Luna finished her exam a few minutes later after Blaise changed the gauzy bandage over her sutures, telling her they’d be healed in three days and preaching rest. 

“So, you and Blaise?” Hermione asked, getting an airy nod in return. “How long?” 

“Well, we’ve been seeing each other physically for a few months now. But our past lives are entwined, and our souls were tethered by vaesen a century ago, so really, all our current life I have been his, so to speak.” 

Hermione stared at her friend, dumbfounded and utterly at a loss of how to respond. Thankfully, Luna wasn’t one to continue conversations in a traditional manner.  

“I need to ask, Hermione,” she started, suddenly serious, “based on the clothes you were in, if there were any sexual advances while you were in that state.” 

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out. “I-I don’t remember. There’s a bit of time I don’t remember between coming home and being hit with the stinging jinx” 

Luna patted her hand. “It’s up to you if we check. It’s a simple magical scan. But we would have to go to St. Mungo’s. Those records are strictly kept since the first wizarding war.” 

She nodded and moved to sit up with Luna’s help. For the first time since waking, she realized someone had changed her clothes. Her tattered silk shift lay in a folded pile on the nightstand, and on her body, she wore a loose-fitting cotton t-shirt and men’s pajama bottoms.  

She looked around the grand room. A fireplace warmed the space from the side, evened out by a sitting area with emerald green velvet chairs. A matching chaise lounge near a three-paned alcove window overlooking what Hermione assumed was the quiet street. The deep wood accents contrasted the pale walls and matched the tall spirals on the four corners of the king-sized bed. Bookshelves covered one corner of the room, with texts neatly organized along the shelves.  

“No one’s told me yet, how's Ernie?” Hermione asked, letting the waves of headache pass as her equilibrium leveled.  

“He’s right as rain today. They weren’t looking to make more of a fuss than needed. Should be home by now, actually.” 

“Good,” she replied quietly, testing her feet on the plush carpet of the bedroom.  

“Ginny dropped off some clothes for you. The bathroom is there.” She gestured to the door across from them. “You can’t shower until those sutures come out. Do you need help changing?” 

“No. I’m alright, Luna.” 

Hermione’s legs were steady, albeit a bit tired as she trudged to the bathroom. The room was just as grand as the bedroom, with a tub deep enough for even Malfoy to sink into comfortably with a guest or even two. A separate shower stood a few feet further away and beside a large vanity stood a second set of doors, likely to an extravagant walk-in closet.  

“I’ve never had a guest in the tub before. I’ve always wondered how comfortably it would fit two,” Draco’s velvety smooth voice purred suddenly from behind her. 

She whipped around to find him holding out a pile of clothes, her beaded bag visible and lying safely on top. His eyes were intense. Not burning with the fire of attraction, but simmering with rage that would only take one small breeze to send into a rampage. He had showered and changed, bringing a fresh wave of cologne into the crisp room. His tightly fitted shirt showing off the hard slopes of his body made her legs weak, but did nothing to make her forget about the events of the night before. 

“I have to go with Luna to St. Mungo’s,” she said flatly.  

His steely eyes shifted into something deeper. “Let Blaise perform it, if you’re comfortable,” he said in a low, knowing voice. “He had far too much practice during the war.” 

Hermione took the clothes from him. “Why?” 

“He looked after the prisoners held at Nott and Zabini manors. Theo learned to cursebreak to help them physically. Blaise learned the diagnostics for assaults to help them mentally. His mum never stood for it in her home. Rarely let in prisoners to begin with. But Nott relished torment in all forms. It was no surprise he didn’t make it through the second war.” 

Hermione had heard the story from Theo once. How his father had crossed the line of forgiveness long before his birth, but had ventured deeper and deeper until Theo couldn’t fathom a world in which he lived. Nott Sr. had died slowly and painfully in his own dungeon, attached to the very same cursed objects he had used on so many—some of which were Theo’s own classmates. 

Theo may not have attached the objects. He didn't go out if his way to murder his father. But when the young woman his father visited every night retaliated, he left the curses and locked the cell, never looking back. 

Aurors found him after the war. Theo never held a funeral. 

“Blaise was the anonymous informant for the ministry,” she said at last. “The one that helped imprison the followers that were otherwise clean.” 

Draco nodded. “He kept a running log of every wizard and witch to enter the cells. Every time someone’s diagnostic was positive, he knew exactly who had been the cause. He ratted every single one out.” 

“That’s why Luna told me I needed to go to St. Mungo’s.” 

“They can keep a more accurate record.” 

Hermione turned to change, but stopped. Somewhere along the way, Draco had become her comfort. Her safety. 

She couldn't quite face him as she said quietly, “Will you come with me?” 

Draco reached out unexpectedly and cupped her face, bringing her gaze to him. “You’ve been attacked twice now. There isn’t anywhere you could go that I won’t be right there. It’s my job to keep you safe, and I’ve been failing.” 

“Your job . . .” she said quietly, struggling against the sting of the phrase to bring in air as he pushed lower into her space. 

“It is my job, Hermione. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean more to me than most things in my life.” 

“I see,” she said, her voice breathy. 

His eyes narrowed. “Do you?” 

“I think I'm starting to.” 

“Good.” 

He pulled back, releasing her face and stepping away. Suddenly she could breathe again, and it was too much. Too cold. Too open. She missed his crowding presence even just a few feet away. 

“What will we do after?” 

“I’ll take you home. We’ll make lunch. Maybe watch one of your films.” 

She pictured her flat. Dark. Sad. And now full of pain and deceit.  

“I don’t want to stay there . . .” 

“Then you’ll stay here, Hermione,” he said simply. “We’ll go pack your things. We’ll gather your beast. And you two will stay here.” He stepped further away, readying to leave. “Now get dressed, Granger. The warming charms on breakfast won’t last forever.” 

Chapter Text

The exam was brief. In and out. With one swish of Blaise’s wand, he had a miniature diagnostic hovering above her with symbols she couldn’t begin to read. It felt as though the very next moment she was sliding down from the table and Draco was charging in with the muted expression of someone wanting answers, though he would never push her for them.  

“Negative,” she said softly, watching the masked tension flee his body as relief crashed through him. She jumped in surprise as he pulled her tightly into his chest and wrapped his arms around her, holding her there as if more for his own reassurance than hers. 

*     *     *

Hermione’s flat looked the same as it always had. It had the same dull lighting, the same furniture in all the same places. The same pictures on the walls. It even smelled the same. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel the same. And she was more than glad when they had her bags packed and were taking the floo back to Draco’s.  

Draco had tried to set her up in the master bedroom, insisting he was equally as comfortable in the guest room, but after an emblazoned argument with Hermione that left her feeling quite alive, he caved. The guest room was nearly as big as the master but lacked the attached bathroom and sitting area. Its fireplace wasn’t as lavish, but roared with an equal warmth. The bed not as wide, but equally as soft. There was even a twin high back chair perched beside the end table, its presence comforting her in strange ways. 

Draco carried her bags to her room and brought in a desk from a hidden corner of the house for Hermione to work safely. By the time they could relax, Tilly had dinner served—a full feast of meat pies and sautéed vegetables, roasted potatoes and chocolate cake, enough to feed all of Dumbledore's Army. The two barely made a dent before they were stuffed and curling up by the fire in the sitting room.  

“Tell me about sixth year,” she asked through the comfortable silence, each having picked a book to read. “A memory.” 

Draco slid his long finger suggestively along the sunken gutter of his book before closing it, taking Hermione's mind to interesting places.  

“Of you?” he asked. 

“That’s the game we’ve been playing.” 

Draco sighed deeply. “I hated sixth year.” He placed the book down on the table between them. “I remember . . .” He thought hard over his words. “I remember our first day back. Admittedly I didn’t start it with my best foot forward, with my little spat with that eavesdropping Potter. But I remember seeing you for the first time since your jaunt in the hospital wing as we waited for the carriages. Something was different about you. About all of us, I suppose.” He stood and wandered over to a small table with glass decanters full of amber liquid. He poured a glass, downed it, and poured another before taking his seat. 

“I had spent the whole summer listening to blood purity bullshit. About how you, in particular, were worthless. Mudbloods were lower than even the house elves. I listened to talks of servitude, rape, and murder. So much, all summer, that finally, finally, I could start to see their vision. My father was locked up. Voldemort was back. Everything was a mess . . . 

“But then I saw you. And you were different. And all the brainwashing was carried away with the Hogwarts Express. How could you be lower than me? Your test scores were better, your morals were better, your family was better—I knew, because even then, they had begun to hunt them. You had dueled so many times already and won.” He stared at her chest, now covered by the cloth of her shirt, and could still see the scar jutting between her breasts. “Seeing you again was like being splashed with cold water. I was wide awake, and wondering how the hell I was going to accomplish what was asked of me. Every time I would take one step forward, you were there and my soul was being pulled one foot closer to Hades. 

“I remember the day we made Amortentia. I was disappointed by what mine smelled like, but not nearly so much as what yours did.” 

“What was yours?” 

“The same as it is now.” He closed his eyes and took a breath, as if he could smell it here and now. “Something floral I’ve yet to fully pinpoint—a bouquet of sorts. Maybe Jasmine, or Hibiscus.” Your hair. “Honey.” The constant reminder of your eyes each time I would make my tea. “And fresh ink on parchment.” 

He stared at her a moment longer, wondering if she understood before continuing, “Then there was Slughorn’s party. I’ve never been partial to red but a glimpse of you in that dress was worth every detention Snape had me in. It fueled every fantasy I had for months.” 

“Draco—” she started, but he cut her off before she could interrupt his train of thought. 

“I remember you sitting alone by Black Lake in the evenings. Or studying alone in the library. I remember watching you from the astronomy tower. Some days watching you was the only thing keeping me from flinging myself over that balcony.  

“Of course, I remember the disgust I felt those times I found you crying over Weasley. At first I thought it was because I couldn't fathom someone longing over the red-headed twit . . . But by the time he was in the hospital wing, and it changed between you two, I knew it was because I couldn’t fathom how anyone could choose someone over you.” 

Hermione felt her heart beat in overtime, racing to break free of its ivory cage. “Fifth year,” she requested, suddenly needing to know more, needing to know when it started. 

“And spoil storytime for another night?” he asked with a smirk, though his eyes glistened softly in the dim light of the fire, longing shining through. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I'm exhausted. It’s been a terribly long week.” 

She nodded and stood from the couch, her side aching slightly but dulled with the potions Draco brewed for the pain. The fresh sheets were cool and crisp against her body, yet the room felt oddly empty with the corner chair sitting vacant. Sleep came quickly. 

And so did the nightmares. 

Draco had weaned her off the dreamless sleep. She wasn’t as cold throughout the day, and he helped her through horrors throughout the night. Even all week with him gone, rest came peacefully, and mornings were uneventful. But with Fillian now occupying her mind center stage, the terrors returned, thrusting her into a horribly gilded cage on display for laughing wizards, dueling for her freedom.  

*     *     *

Fillian towered over her, her own wand knocked away while his pressed so firmly into her throat that she could feel the blood dripping from the puncture.  

“P-p-please,” she begged, as the scene changed from the circus ring to the downy, blood-soaked fabric of her own mattress.  

Far away she heard her name, but not enough to stir her from the vivid image of Fillian prowling closer. She was strapped down, sprawled open for him as a champion grin split across his face. She felt the jagged edge of a poorly trimmed nail graze her size, digging into the slit on her abdomen. 

Hermione screamed in pain and someone called her name a little louder, but Fillian had begun to unbuckle his trousers. How could she focus on the pleading voice calling to her when Fillian’s face morphed into something wolfish? Something familiar? He prowled forward, crawling atop her, his mouth finding hers just as he— 

“HERMIONE!” Draco shouted, pulling her from the horrid dream at last.  

She was chilled by the sweat that clung to her. Her heart pounded in her throat between gasps of air. Her fingers clung to him desperately, yet his were gently on her, holding her, stroking away the remnant of the nightmare.  

“I couldn’t get to you,” he gasped. “I tried, I’m so sorry. It was just a dream.” 

He repeated that over and over, until her breathing settled and her body relaxed. When she finally laid back down for sleep, and he stood to leave, she felt herself reach out. Her fingers wrapped around his and he froze. 

“Stay?” she begged in a whimper, her body remaining on the verge of tears. 

Without a word he climbed in beside her, wrapping her firmly into his arms, her back against his bare body. The heat of his shirtless chest radiating through her now shivering bones.  

“Fifth year?” 

“I remember how brilliantly devious you were. I remember thinking that you would have been terrifying in Slytherin. I remember kissing Pansy with the thought of you on my lips. I worried all year that she’d find you—Umbridge, not Pansy. I was terrified of what she’d do to you. So terrified that I hadn't even imagined what one of the others would do. Not until you came back that night. 

“You looked dead, Hermione. Too many times you’ve looked dead. It’s been in my dreams ever since. The blackened cracks in your chest as if you were a stone burning from the inside. I’ve seen that spell kill dozens, yet there you were, breathing through the curse with no name.” 

Hermione’s eyes were too heavy to open, her voice too thick to ask for more. “I’m sorry I took the dagger,” she relented heavily, feeling Draco’s arms lock around her. He knew now why she had taken it—to study, to learn, and worst of all, to use if ever she became desperate enough. It would have been a  decision she couldn’t back out of. 

“Too many times you’ve looked dead,” he repeated, an ache in his voice that served to crack her open and mend the damage all in one sentence. 

She wanted to know all of it; all his stories. All his memories. She wanted to see herself through his eyes. 

But she was tired. And there was always tomorrow. So instead, she asked for what she wanted more than the puzzle pieces of his feelings towards her. 

“Will you stay through the night?” 

“Always,” he whispered into her hair, his breath trailing along her ear and neck, reminding her own body of when to breathe. 

*     *     *

After agreeing to take the week off to rest, Hermione sat at her new desk the following day, staring blankly at her notes on pumpkins after chucking her werewolf case across the room. Papers were still strewn randomly across her own plush carpet nearly an hour later as Draco invited himself in to visit. 

“Is the desk okay?” he asked sheepishly, staring at the accumulated mess. 

“The desk is lovely, thanks,” she snapped back, her tone clipped. She glanced sidelong at him, catching his brow furrowing in either confusion or concern. “I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she relented. “I’m just . . . I’m afraid to move forward.” 

“In case you fail again.” 

“I can’t watch them forget me again.” 

“But the nifflers aren’t enough,” he surmised. 

“The potion worked on them beautifully. I get updated twice a week. They found their treasures and have lived happily ever since.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. 

Draco nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets and stared up at the moulding around the ceiling. “Test it on me,” he concluded. 

“What?” 

“Test me. I might like gold and jewels, but I'm no niffler. And you won't have to relive losing your parents over and over. Test me.” 

Already the cogs were turning, developing an experiment. “I couldn't,” she tried. 

“You can. You will. Controlled memory loss.” 

“Pensieve emergency retrieval.” 

“I’m with you all the time regardless.” 

“You’d really do this for me?” 

“For you, Granger?” He smirked, then braced his hands on either arm of the chair she sat curled up in, his rings digging into the soft material. His signet ring glistened at her tauntingly as he leaned forward, invading her small bubble of space. “Anything,” he whispered before leaving her alone in the room. 

Hermione rubbed the goosebumps from her arms but ignored the tiny prickly hairs along her neck and set to work on formula adjustments. 

That night Draco slept beside her once more, his presence shielding her from her own dark subconscious.  

Little did she know, the feel of her own body, the soft sounds of breathing and the light scent lingering in her thick curls against his face kept his own nightmares at bay. 

By morning, they were completely entangled. Her head rest against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart beating in her ear. Their legs twisted together, her bare thigh hitched up high against him. She had worn a silk nightgown not too dissimilar to the shift she had worn for Fillian. With no bra, she knew she had gone to bed with her nipples peaked and the black lace of her panties fully visible through the mostly sheer fabric. Yet, to her disappointment, all she received was a mumbling of her not playing fair.  

She knew he had awoken first by his hand trailing sweetly in back and forth strokes along her back. “Fourth year,” she requested, breaking the silence of the room.  

“No,” he said after a breath. 

“Why?” 

“It’s time for breakfast.” 

“No,” she said in turn. 

Draco chuckled. His hand slid down along her side, grazing the hem of her nightie before wrapping around her thigh. She fought the urge to push herself closer as he slowly pulled her leg off him. 

He headed to the door, his sweatpants revealing far more than Hermione had bargained for. “Get dressed, Granger,” he called behind him casually, “or Mippy will scold me for an hour about not properly caring for our guest.” 

“You seem distracted, Draco,” Lucius drawled from behind his teacup. 

Draco tapped his foot anxiously over the thin rug barely softening the cold stone floors, holding his own untouched teacup. “Apologies, Father. The witch currently healing at my home and the information you have but refuse to tell me, is weighing a bit on my mind.” 

He hoped his sarcasm oozed from his words enough to penetrate Lucius’s ego, maybe even work him up enough to split apart the mild facsimile of a smile he plastered to his face each day. Unfortunately, the patriarch merely said, “The deal, Draco.” 

“Yes, yes,” he bit back. “What would you like to know about my life.” 

“How are you?” 

“Peachy.” 

“How is Miss Granger?” 

“Fine.” 

“Tsk,” Lucius scolded. “I’m going to need more than that, Draco.” 

Draco huffed in aggravation. “Fine. I am angry, Father. Is that what you would like to hear? The love of my—my charge,” he corrected himself, but not before Lucius’s eyes sparkled with the slip, “is resting after a brutal attack that I could have prevented, bleeding on my bed as my childhood nemesis guards her. Aurors are interrogating the near dozen Resurgence members we’ve captured with next to no luck—the bloody imbeciles are so low on the food chain they barely knew who Dolohov was, let alone that they were working for him! Even Rowle and Selwyn are no better than fucking junkies these days, given the disgusting cesspool they’ve chosen to live in. Not to mention, Fillian fucking Blackfoot has disappeared into the mist, along with whoever was fucking working for him!” 

Lucius nodded, the epitome of composed. “Miss Granger is healing?” 

Draco huffed again. “In spite of your sister-in-law, may she rot beside Salazar, yes.” 

“And there’s no evidence Mr. Blackfoot’s more . . . unsavory attempts were successful?” 

“No,” he ground out through his teeth, remembering the flush of relief as Hermione uttered the word negative. 

“Good.” He set his tea down. “I believe I recall Mr. Blackfoot from Miss Granger’s first visit to the manor. Of course, he had been playing with name changes a bit throughout that time, searching for one with meaning and power—something that would strike fear in others such as Malfoy or Greyback. He was obviously unsuccessful, since he returned to his family name.” 

Draco waited, his patience already running thin. 

“He was the young charge of Fenrir. A misguided boy who had no real home. Fenrir had been the one to transform him nearly a decade earlier, killing his blood relatives in the process. Though they’re not truly related, he believed claiming the young pureblood would assist in his own rank and status with the Dark Lord and allowed him to remain with his pack, even going so far as to call him his nephew. I would have never known the poor bastard’s name without the transpired events.” 

“That information would have been extraordinarily more helpful before he nearly killed my witch!” 

“My, my, my,” Lucius drawled. “You certainly do love to throw that word around. Tell me, does Miss Granger return your affections at last?” 

Draco glared at the icy blue eyes that matched his own. “Please, continue, Father.” 

“Very well. The so-called Resurgence has officially split in two. Those loyal to Dolohov’s ideals, and those who believe it will be the wolves to usher in a new era. Finding Dolohov alone won’t solve your little problem. He likely won’t know a thing about where Fenrir and Fillian are hiding.” 

“Azkaban hasn’t taught you a thing about the art of the pep talk, has it, Father?” 

Lucius chuckled—a light sound Draco wasn’t sure he had heard his entire life. “I suppose not.” 

“Dolohov has sent his own share of threats. I’m beginning to understand, at the very least, why the letters have been so hard to trace back to a single source. He wants her dead as much as Fillian, or Greyback, or fucking Mclaggen. I will be glad to send him away permanently, regardless.” 

“Then you’ll need to conduct a separate search for Fenrir’s hideout, as well.” 

“Yes, thank you for the gleaming revelation, Father,” Draco spit back venomously. 

Lucius merely smiled again. A proud sort of sparkle in his eye. “Tell me what you know of it.” 

Draco related the details from McLaggen’s interrogation. The reptile house, the cages. Then added the scant details from other prisoners as well. 

“I will ask around,” he merely replied. 

Draco stood to leave, mildly surprised by his father’s assistance. “Thank you,” he said. 

“How did negotiations go?” 

“With Astoria? Fine. They’ve been finalized. We had lunch to celebrate last week.” 

“And her plans with this merge?” 

Draco smirked. “Noble.” 

“Good,” Lucius approved.  

Draco’s hand reached for the cell door. 

“Don’t forget the rings, son,” Lucius called after him. 

“What?” 

“The rings, my boy. You know the ones.” The shock on Draco’s face must have been poorly masked, because before Draco could ask, Lucius explained, “They’re not charmed against muggleborns and you weren’t going to ask my approval, regardless. You know how they work—what they’re capable of, if used properly.” 

“And she has your blessing to wear a Malfoy ring? My muggleborn. A Mudblood?” He hadn’t said the slur in so long that it burned like acid as he spewed it towards his father. 

“If anyone is strong enough to lead the Malfoy family into this new era of acceptance in your mother’s stead, it is Miss Granger.” Lucius reclined, crossing his ankle over his knee before flipping over a newspaper to read, as if this were an everyday conversation. “Besides. You are the Malfoy head. You do not need my approval.” 

*     *     *

Narcissa had come by while Draco was visiting Azkaban to sit with Hermione and Harry—a touching scene to come home to as they all sat around their bed with tea, leaving crumbs between the silk sheets. Luna had stopped to visit as well, insisting she had healed better than expected given the cursed blade and removed her sutures early. Though it would still be several days before the wound healed fully, he knew she was grateful to take a shower and truly wash away the attack.  

Scourgify never seemed to do the trick. 

To celebrate, Draco took her to his favorite wizard restaurant in Diagon Alley. The establishment was on the fancier side of casual dining, giving Hermione the freedom to wear something comfortable. She was stunning in the simple black dress and fake cashmere sweater. 

Christmas was around the corner. Maybe he would purchase her a real cashmere sweater. As a friend. As a coworker? 

Neither of those titles worked for the almost sinful nightgown she had worn to bed, or the way she had wrapped herself around him, pressing so closely he had to escape before his fingers trailed to places they shouldn’t.  

He had to relieve himself twice that morning.  

No. They needed a new term for what they were. 

So, at dinner, between laughter and pleasant debates over muggle authors and which wizarding columns will be most relevant in the future, Draco pondered Hermione’s feelings. She had kissed him in the training room, she wasn’t opposed to entangling herself with him, and he’s caught her more than once ogling him in ways that sent a happy twitch down to his cock. Yet, he had no idea how to approach the topic of his own feelings.  

Telling her about fourth year would be too abrupt. How he had spent weeks fighting with himself about asking her to the dance, only for Krum to beat him to it. How his friends had teased him mercilessly for fawning over her in the periwinkle gown. How he nearly dove into Black Lake himself when he realized she was hidden deep within its abyss. 

Telling her about fourth year would be telling her how utterly in love with her he was. And she had just gotten out of a relationship—rather violently, too. Now was not the proper time.  

Yet, as they walked home through the chilly November air, their feet melting small circles through the snowy sidewalk from their warming charms, he couldn’t help but feel enthralled by the happy smile breaking freely over her face, the gentle flush from a few glasses of wine adding color beneath the golden tones of her skin. Her eyes glistened like golden snitches under the streetlights and before he could stop himself, he reached out for her hand and stopped her.  

The moon glowed above them. The snow fell softly in her hair.  

Draco stepped closer to her, feeling her out. She looked up at him expectantly, almost pressing her body closer to him. He leaned down, pausing just long enough to let her decide if she wanted to retreat, then gently brushed his lips against hers.  

She kissed him back instantly, her hands coming up to his face. The soft, sweet kisses quickly filled with heat as she parted her lips in invitation. His hands stretched behind her, pulling her deeper into him as his tongue explored and tasted every bit of her mouth.  

They were panting as Draco apparated them to his doorstep. He had her pressed against the vinyl siding, his hips pressing his growing erection against her. He slid his hands beneath her backside, grazing his fingers gently against the moisture saturating her tights, before lifting her thighs to wrap her around his waist.  

She moaned into his mouth, the sound reverberating through him, hardening him further beneath the constricting fabric of his trousers. He moved his mouth to the supple curve of her neck, nibbling and licking his way across her throat until her heavy breathing turned into small whimpers of need.  

He moved his hand to her abdomen, stretching it across her belly reflexively to hold her still when she brought in a sharp hiss of air. He stopped, his mouth freezing against hers as he suddenly realized his hand was splayed over her wound and quickly moved it beneath her for support.  

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized through heavy breaths, lowering her feet back to the solid porch. 

Hermione continued to catch her breath, unable or unwilling to respond. 

Draco led her inside and back to her room, where he left her, apologizing again. He went back to his own room and changed into his usual loungewear, his erection slowly retreating despite the taste of Hermione still on his lips and the feel of her warm, wet core imprinted against him, and sat by the roaring fire. He had no plans of staying with Hermione tonight. After a few drinks and getting carried away, he didn’t trust himself not to take advantage of the scintillating nightwear she preferred. She would likely be asleep by now. He didn't know if he felt worse for making a move so soon after her ordeal, her body still healing, or for leaving her alone to face whatever nightmares were to come her way. 

Yet even now, with his book open in front of him, he could only focus on the thought of licking up and down her body, of her voice calling out to him as she fell apart beneath him. He was sure, even if she did want him in the ways his very soul craved her, that she was not ready. 

Except, as he sat there staring blankly at his open book in the light of the fire, his door creaked open in the dark behind him and clicked shut not a moment later. And Hermione, looking like a glowing emerald in a sheer green nightgown, padded silently across the carpet until she stood before him, the fire alighting just enough to show her completely bare beneath the translucent fabric. 

Chapter Text

Hermione stood before Draco, her hair cold from the rushed drying charm. She had showered in the hopes of soothing the burning ache he had left within her, though the scalding water and her relentless fingers only left her burning for more, the evidence pooling and dripping down the soft curve of her thigh. 

She grabbed the book from his hands and set it aside, noting how his eyes never left her face. Carefully, she slid one knee beside him on the chair, raising the silk shift up her legs just enough to reveal the smooth continuation of skin before sliding the other knee into the chair. 

“Say something,” she whispered nervously. 

His hands remained firmly gripping the arms of the chair. “Are you sure?” 

“Have you ever known me to start something without being certain?” 

His fingers dug deeper into the armrests. His eyes burned, the icy silver melting into liquid mercury. “I need you to tell me what you want, Hermione. I need you to say it.” 

She grabbed the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head, revealing herself fully to him. She swore he stopped breathing as she said, “I want you, Draco. All of you.” 

His mouth crashed into her quickly and softly, wasting no time in devouring her. His hands held her firmly to him as he lifted her from his lap and stepped toward the bed. “I could hurt you,” he rasped. 

“In more ways than one, I imagine.” 

He laid her down on his mattress and took her in, his stiffened cock straining against the cotton fabric of his pants. Ever so gently, he reached for her arm, pulling it up to his mouth to leave a tender kiss over each carved letter unhidden by her usual glamour. Then he met her mouth briefly, letting her taste the whiskey he had been sipping by the fire before his mouth trailed down her throat to her chest, coming to rest upon the branching scar between her breasts. 

His fingers kept busy, greeting the soft curvature of her full breasts before kneading the sensitive skin of her nipple between his fingers. Hermione arched her back in response, feeling the throbbing need growing stronger.  

Draco merely continued his trailing kisses down her body, stopping once again at the healing red line across her stomach, pressing his lips against it as if he could heal it. His free hand, however, had roamed to her thigh, slowly making its way up to the apex of her leg where the moisture pooled around her vulva. His thumb met her slick slit and he groaned. 

“Fuck, Hermione,” he growled, sliding his thumb up and down the velvety folds before pressing into the small bud of nerves sending pleasure through her body. He started moving in small circles, taking careful notes how she responded to each change of direction.  

“May I continue?” he asked politely, staring down at his hand as his fingers slowly moved up and down her folds, making their way painfully slow to her center. 

“Draco,” she half-moaned, “I swear to Merlin, stop asking permission and just fuck me!” 

The surprise on his face lasted briefly before a devilish grin took its place and one long finger plunged deep into her, crooking slightly to rub against her outer wall as he stroked her. “Be careful what you wish for, Hermione.” He slid a second finger in, stretching her pleasantly, his thumb keeping a constant pressure over her clit. “Fuck. You’re so fucking wet, Hermione. 

Hermione moaned as his mouth met her nipple, sucking and nibbling until it peaked over the gooseflesh covering her breasts. She felt the pressure building, but just before he let her have release, he shifted, pulling his fingers from her and hiking her legs over his shoulders. When his tongue began to swirl in dangerous circles, she shook, arching her back for more. He slid one hand over her abdomen, careful to avoid the jagged gash, and held her still, adding a finger as his tongue worked tireless against her clit. 

“Oh, God!” she moaned. 

“You can call me a god all you want, Hermione,” he purred, his hot breath sending anticipation through her as his fingers stretched deeper inside her, rubbing her walls and pumping faster until he had to press his hand against her to still her arching back. “But I only want my name from your mouth while I’m inside of you.” he growled working her faster, harder. 

“Draco!” she nearly screamed, her climax nearing her to a breaking point. Just as she nearly fell over the edge, he pulled his finger from her once more. “Noo,” she whimpered, desperate. “Please, Draco.” 

Draco slid his sweatpants off, releasing his own throbbing member. Hermione’s jaw fell slightly open, and for a moment she forgot about her overwhelming need and solely wondered how on earth it would fit. 

He merely smirked, as if he could read her mind. 

He crawled above her, lining the head of his penis up with her aching center, sliding it up and down through the slick folds until it was wet with her. Hermione's hips moved, searching for friction against his tip as she tried to gain any of his length inside of her. 

“I need you to hold still for me love,” he murmured into a deep kiss, pushing slowly into her. 

She stilled as a moan broke free from her lips. He was certainly larger than she was used to and could feel herself stretch as he pushed forward another inch and backed out, letting the moisture further coat his cock before gently thrusting again.  

She held still, letting out a gasp of pleasure as he fully seating himself and let her adjust to his size. “Good girl,” he groaned, watching her face twist with need and pleasure before pulling out to the tip and thrusting back in in one smooth motion, sliding against every nerve inside her. 

"Fuck," she gasped, her fingers clawing at his back, searching for a hold on reality.

Draco's pace faltered a moment as he checked to ensure he hadn't hurt her. He smirked, triumphant and cocky, as realized her curse had purely been for his length deep inside of her and he picked up his pace, knowing now, as her body stretched and ached for him, that while he may not have been the first to have Hermione, he was certainly the biggest, and he would make sure he was also the best.

With the newfound confidence that he wasn't going to somehow wound his witch (he was toying with that phrase—my witch—over and over in his head with every thrust), he grabbed her wrists and pulled them high above her head, holding them still with one of his large hands while the other snaked beneath the arch of her back and lifted gently. He had given himself a new angle; a deeper angle to Hermione's surprise. She felt him fill her, his cock hitting every spot of pleasure in her core as he slid out again, leaving her with the desperate need for more for only a heartbeat before he slammed back into her. She screamed in pleasure, his mouth suddenly on hers, swallowing his name as he set a punishing pace, building the pressure within her for the third time. She thought she would shatter if he pulled from her again.  

Instead, he thrust harder, deeper, releasing her wrists and rolling his thumb over her clit as he roughly demanded, “Come for me, Hermione.” 

On cue she felt the waves of pleasure crest and burst free, sending her body into convulsions, constricting around him as he searched for his own climax. Three thrusts later had Draco meeting his own release, letting his cum fill her before pooling out around his cock as his hips slowed, riding out the aftershock with her. He pressed his lips to hers as he slid out and rolled to the side, both panting as he pulled her with him until they were under the bedding. 

Hermione’s eyes were already hardly open as he tucked her into his body, waved his wand to clean them both, and wrapped his arms around her. Just before the oblivion of sleep overtook her, she felt a soft kiss against her forehead and Draco’s soft voice whisper what she thought was I love you. 

Chapter Text

The Weasley table had never been so full for their weekly brunch. 

Or so uncomfortable. 

Molly sat at her usual table head, Arthur taking position at the other. Ginny and Harry sat together, as the former took steadying breaths in a great effort to keep the small amount of toast she had nibbled from resurfacing. George and Angelina, with their matching but much further along baby bump. Bill and Fleur, with grins spread across their faces and excitement in their eyes. Their little ones were spending the morning with Fleur’s family. Percy, as usual, had refrained from attending, though his perfunctory invitation stood and Charlie was stuck nursing a sick fledgling whose reptilian mother was stolen by bandits some weeks previously. 

No, those four siblings were not the cause of Mrs. Weasley’s worried looks. Nor were they why her heart raced and her plate remained untouched.  

That honor went to the other guests at the table. 

Hermione sat between Harry and Draco, her chair pushed conspicuously close to the blonde’s. They had arrived at the Burrow together, hand in hand, much to Mrs. Weasley’s surprise. Had it not been for Lavender, who had arrived just a few minutes prior with Ron, Hermione was sure Molly would have started the visit off with innuendos and comparisons to her son.  

Neither the ex-death eater nor the on and off again romances could have topped the horror on Mrs. Weasley’s face when Fred arrived through the floo. 

Then Daphne. 

And then Theo. 

Mrs. Weasley had long accepted Fred’s lack of sexual preference. However, his sudden appearance on the arm of his brother’s ex and a former enemy had sent her into a shock she struggled to recover from nearly an hour later. 

The only person who looked less comfortable than Molly, was Ron. 

“So, Malfoy, how did your date go?” he snapped protectively, unaware of the details of the auror’s previously promised loose ends. To him, Draco had abandoned one of his best friends for another quick shag only to find her pliable in the wake of her attack. 

Hermione tried not to stiffen but felt the warmth of his hand as it returned to rest on her own. Lavender slapped him lightly, appalled at his outburst. 

“The date went as expected, Ronald. Thankfully, Callid was lovely company and just as competent in the field as she was during our mission.” 

“What about you?” he pointed accusingly at Hermione. “You’re alright with being someone’s second choice?” 

“Ronald Weasley!” Molly hissed, slamming her fork to the table.  

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s made that lapse in judgement, ay, mate?” Theo chimed pointedly over a sip of water. 

Arthur choked on a bit of egg beside him. Lavender turned her head down to her plate. Even Daphne shrunk back, hiding herself between her partners as if she would disappear entirely from the view—heaven help her if she got dragged into this twisted cacophony of relationship turmoil. 

Draco cleared his throat beside her. “Don’t mistake my evening with Callid as a preference, Weasley. Hermione has never been my second choice.” 

A flutter spurred in Hermione’s chest. She stared at Draco, willing him to look at her. But he simply returned to his meal during a prolonged moment of silence. 

“So, Daphne,” Arthur began cheerfully, “How have you been? It’s been a while since you’ve been around for family breakfast.” 

Molly heaved an exasperated sigh, letting her head fall in her hands. Lavender kept her blush-stained cheeks to her own plate, pushing around a bit of potato with her fork.  

“I’ve been wonderful, Mr. Weasley, thank you for asking. And yourself?” 

“Oh fine, fine,” he said, waving it off. “How did . . .uh . . . how did you come to be with . . .” 

Daphne gasped, her own face now turning scarlet. 

“Well, what I mean to say, is that it seems like just last week you and Ron were seeing each other—and that’s not so say I'm not delighted to have you back, Lavender, dear, it’s just that—” 

“Arthur!” Molly hissed. 

“—it all seems rather fast, and for it to be with two—” 

“Arthur!!” she hissed louder. 

Finally, he stopped, distracted by his wife. 

“Well, you see, father,” Fred started, a fiendish smirk playing on his lips, capturing the family’s attention. “It all started with this truly magnificent threesome.” 

“Oh dear God,” Harry gasped beside Hermione.  

Ginny grinned from ear to ear as she exchanged money with George under the table.  

Fred continued, “Theo was down on one knee proposing marriage and Daph here just wasn't going to have it. Quite jealous, she is. It was then she discovered she was madly in love with me! Just couldn’t stand the thought of me being with a wizard without her.” Daphne held her face in her hands between them. If it weren't for her shaking shoulders, Hermione would have thought it was from embarrassment, not laughter.  

“I thought it was you on your knees that night, Freddie,” Theo purred with a cheshire grin.  

“‘Mione was there, she can clear that up for us!” Fred added, sewing chaos as every head turned slowly towards her.  

Her face was on fire. Her neck was ablaze. “I-I-I. . .” she stammered through her ire before jerking her face around the table to Ginny. “How have you been feeling Gin? Better, I hope?”  

Draco had gone rigid beside her, no doubt remembering the events of the night clearly. 

“Fine, I suppose. I’ll be happy to be back on a broom again, though.” 

“Have you two thought anymore about what we discussed last weekend?” Molly asked tersely. 

“Mother, I am already pregnant, rushing a ceremony isn’t going to make a difference! I can’t even imagine the ridiculous articles Skeeter would write about it. ‘The Chosen One Has The Choice Made For Him: Weasley Runt Sets Her Trap!’” 

Not to mention if she ever found out they were already married—a secret, drunken ceremony away from the press (and family), Hermione thought. 

Molly waved the nonsense about the article off as if Rita Skeeter would never write about The Boy Who Lived with such distaste. “I will love my grandbaby regardless, but you should be married before bringing them into this world!” she scolded. “I did not raise you to give yourself away without security—no offense dear,” she added sweetly to Harry.  

“Um . . . None taken?” he said uncertainly. 

“What about George?!” Ginny shrieked. “Where’s his lecture? Angie’s further along than I am and I haven't heard you push them to marriage!” 

“I am one of six boys, dear sister,” George gloated, knowing full well his sister was blissfully, secretly, married. “You’re her only daughter.” 

“Besides, I've turned him down four times already,” Angelina added with a smirk. “Most of them on his knees too,” she added with a wink to Theo. “After the last Weasley wedding, I’ll let a few of the others go before we chance it.” 

“Our wedding waz beautiful,” Fleur said thickly. 

“And exciting,” Bill added. 

“And ze death eaters barely shot zeir spells.” She narrowed her eyes on Draco. “Were you able to see our beautiful wedding, Draco?” 

He cleared his throat. “No. Unfortunately I had to miss that occasion.” 

“Too busy running around for the dark lord, were you?” Ron asked sourly.  

“Ron,” Lavender hissed, worrying a napkin between her fingers. 

“What?! We’re all aware of his past. Have we not forgiven him? Can we not talk about it? So tell me, Malfoy, what were you up to that summer?” 

“Don’t answer him, Draco,” Hermione said as Harry grumbled, “What is your problem?” 

“My problem is that Hermione was attacked—stabbed, with a cursed bloody blade—while he was out getting his bloody cock wet! When he should have been with her!” Draco went rigid beside her, his knuckles white as they clasped the table. But Ron continued, “So I was wondering, where were you the other times our best friend was in danger?” 

Draco took a deep breath before leveling his icy eyes on Ron. Hermione could see Harry with his fingers tightening around his wand. But Draco’s voice came out cooly as he said, “My family and I spent the summer before seventh year preparing guest rooms in the manor for slaves, should Voldemort have won.” 

“What?” Hermione jerked her gaze toward him, shocked. 

Guest rooms, he had said. Not cells. 

“Hmph,” Fleur grumbled, as if the mystery surrounding Draco had been sorted. The twins and Bill glared at him, readying to lash out regardless of the good he had done in his adult years.  

But Hermione looked at Harry and Ron, who had resigned their arguments for a strange understanding. Ginny and Theo looked heartbroken. Daphne rolled her eyes like she had heard the story a million times. 

“You were going to save her,” Ron stated, resigned. 

Draco cleared his throat. “As many as Malfoy money could have bought. Voldemort wouldn't have looked twice at us opening a plantation of sorts. A better fate than what Rookwood or Dolohov had planned. My father wanted power, not genocide and while he may have felt superior towards muggleborns, he recognized a good business venture when they arose. My mother, on the other hand, could see two futures for me should He have won—one where my soul remained intact, and one where it did not. She of course preferred the idea that her only child remained somewhat innocent, and not be turned into a depraved socialite with a fetish for blood and torture, so the choice was obvious.” 

Lavender said quietly to Ron through the complete silence, “I think we need to talk when we get home.” 

And then no one spoke again. Everyone finished their plates in silence. Fred and his new harem left first, followed closely by Bill and Fleur. George and Angelina lingered just long enough to help clear the dishes. Harry and Ginny were spending the day at the Burrow. 

Draco and Hermione said a quick goodbye to Molly and Arthur before stepping out to the yard to apparate rather than floo. They had just crossed into the field to leave when Ron was calling for them to stop. 

“‘Mione, can you give us a minute?” he asked kindly.  

She looked to Draco, who gave her a quick jerk of his chin in reassurance, and walked back to the house. 

Hermione found Ginny standing at the window, watching. Lavender had left through the floo, alone, and Harry was showing Arthur an assortment of muggle gadgets—some things hadn’t changed since the war. 

She joined Ginny just as Ron started waving a finger at Draco’s chest. She had forgotten how tall he was, but standing beside Draco she realized how much he had grown since Hogwarts. If Draco was even an inch shorter, Ron would have been quite the intimidating presence. But as it was, Draco’s own stature made him evenly matched physically and far more capable magically. So, he stood cooly, his arms crossed and a cocky smirk playing across his face.  

“He loves you, you know,” Ginny said, taking Hermione by surprise. 

“What?” 

“Ron,” she clarified. “Not in any way that matters. But he does love you. He’s afraid to see you hurt again.” She paused for a moment, watching Draco shrug, passing back his own biting remark. “When Harry told him you and Macmillan had been attacked, he lost it. He found out this week that that bitch’s dagger was used and he had to take two days off.” 

Something ached in Hermione’s chest. Flashes of his voice cracking with desperation as he screamed her name from a damp cellar haunted her. “I love him too, Gin. But he doesn’t have to worry about me. I can handle Draco breaking my heart.” 

“The ferret’s not gonna hurt you, ‘Mione. But we all worry about you.” 

She nodded, watching as Draco and Ron shook hands and parted. She gave Ginny another squeeze and met Ron halfway through the yard.  

“Ronald Weasley,” she began scolding. “You cannot just harass the men I bring around! We just started . . . whatever it is we started. Just because you—”  

His arms reached her before her feet had stopped moving, cutting her off abruptly and pulling her into a startling embrace. His cheek was wet and tear soaked against hers. 

“Don’t worry, ‘Mione,” he said somberly. “We’re all good now.” Ron kissed the side of her head gently, stirring a warmth in Hermione she hadn’t noticed had been chilled for some time. “Love you.” 

Ron released her, walking away without another glance. “Love you too,” she said after him. 

Draco was at her side in a heartbeat, his own unreadable mask in place. “Ready?” he asked, as she took his extended hand.  

“Very.”  

Draco pulled her into his chest, tipping her head back with his free hand against her jaw. He planted a searing kiss against her lips, igniting a fire within her.  

“What are we doing the rest of the day?” he asked, trailing his teeth down the column of her neck.  

“I have some thoughts,” she all but panted. 

Draco smiled against her skin before the tug of apparition had them pulled seamlessly to his doorstep. 

*     *     *      

Her lab.  

It had been ages since she stepped foot in her lab. With a deep lungful of air, she ran her fingers along the workbench. Her assistants had kept the space pristine in her absence. Their personal projects boiled and bubbled across the room and new plants grew in tangling, thriving vines in the greenhouse. Her own research remained in perfect stasis where she left it. 

It was time to get back to work. Draco squeezed her hand silently beside her and she released the breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding. 

“You’re ready, Hermione,” he soothed. She nodded, steeling herself before preparing the next potion attempt. “Let me know if you need me. I have some reports to fill out before we head back to the ministry this afternoon.” 

*     *     *      

“You really want to do this?” Hermione asked Draco a few hours later, sensing his presence behind her as she stared at the cauldron. 

The potion bubbled. Yellow, putrid bubbles shifted to a sweetly scented pink before deepening further to a galaxy purple. The shimmering stars swirling within stared at her, reminding her of the anger her parents had attacked her with. She had had Sarah boil the pumpkin with the Silphium, hoping to stabilize the magic better prior to its addition to the potion. Her arithmancy had been correct—checked, to her frustration, by Draco. If this failed, it would mean she was missing more ingredients—missing pieces in an unsolvable puzzle. 

“You need a human to test on.” 

“That’s not really an answer to my question, Draco.” 

He was quiet for a moment, the glaciers of his eyes roaming over her hair, her face, until finding the warm honey that calmed the winter storms. “We’ll be safe about it. But the memories I'll be forfeiting are important. You won’t let me lose them forever.” 

“It’s happened before . . .” 

He stepped into her space, wrapping one arm behind her while the other reached up to brace gently against her cheek. He kissed her once, tenderly; reassuringly. “And it’s not like Hermione Granger to let it happen again. 

“Come. Let’s head to the ministry. You can work out your next steps in Potter’s office.” 

“Where will you be?” she asked bitingly. 

“I have some leads to follow up on.” He glanced back at her as he led her to the floo. “Don’t worry, Weasley’ll be there to protect me.” 

“What a shithole,” Ron blurted. “This is where those bastards went?” 

“Apparently.” 

Draco wasn’t any more pleased with the charred farmhouse before them. The two-story building hadn’t been burnt down recently, but the blackened bodies within were fresh. 

“Nox claimed this is where Selwyn scurried off to. He waited, watching others come and go. Tagged a few of the bigger names. He met with Rowle one day and when he came back, killed everyone inside before Nox could stun him.” 

“Fuck.” Ron took a breath. “Alright. Let’s get this bloody over with.” 

There were five bodies altogether. Three female, two male. All charred beyond recognition. 

“Check for lingering magical signatures,” Draco ordered.  

The wreckage was a struggle to sift through. The bodies stank and churned their stomachs with every wave of their wand. But, it held answers to some of Draco’s growing questions. 

Whoever annihilated this group failed to fully destroy the wands. Draco linked the magical signature of one of the crisped women to Ernie Macmillan’s attack. Ron matched a lingering trace to Hermione’s flat. And three had been werewolves—beasts disfigured like their associate, Greyback. If they were to match the deceased with their pack, Draco was certain it would be the one Fillian had run with as a student. 

There was one body, however, with no wand. “Take special care with this one. I want every piece of him sent to the department’s coroner.” 

“Fuck. Alright.” Ron swished his wand across the body, encasing it in a stasis. “If Dolohov isn’t working with Greyback, why are Rowle and Selwyn meeting with the pack?” Ron asked, levitating the body out of the house. 

“They killed the pack, Weasley.” 

“Right.” Ron began sealing evidence. “Hey, have you noticed, since Harry’s promotion, you and I are more like partners than you and Harry?” 

Draco though a moment, picturing how Harry had been slowly pairing them up over the last years. “Fucking Potter,” he hissed. “Finish this up Weasley. We have another visit to make.” 

*     *     *

Ron sat uncomfortably on the outdoor loveseat in the Malfoy garden, holding his teacup with two hands under the magically charmed space. Snow fell in glittering specks around them, melting away as they hit the magical dome. Draco and Narcissa sat in matching chair across from him. 

“Tell me, Mother, what do you know of Greyback’s pack?” 

“Next to nothing,” she supplied easily. “Just that they were all but killed off after the first war. He replaced them, I believe, with his own distant relatives—people he could easily find and control. They would be less likely to challenge an alpha family member than an alpha from a different bloodline.” 

“What about the Alder pack?” Draco asked, realizing Fillian had likely been one of the attempts to rebuild Greyback’s pack—why his parents hadn’t made the cut, he wasn’t sure. 

She scoffed. “Them.” She set her tea down. “I know a bit. What do you need, my Dragon?” 

“Melany and Andy Alder were wanted for their roles in Hermione’s attack. They’ve been murdered by Dolohov’s men. I need to know why.” 

“Your Father says Antonin no longer ties himself to that monster, Fenrir. Isn’t it likely they were merely removing the competition?” 

“Yes, had there not been signs of torture. I think they were tracking a location. What about the name Mendax?” 

Her eyes sparked. “Yes, that name sounds familiar,” she said darkly. “Though I don’t know much about them, only that they worked with Fenrir often.” 

“Do you recall them owning any properties? Under Alder or Mendax. I believe they’re tied.” 

“Merlin, apart from the home you said was destroyed, no. The Mendax family owned a property back in the seventies—a circus, or something.” 

“A zoo?” Draco asked. 

“Yes! Yes, it could have been a zoo. Their Grandmother used to brag about it before the family was cursed and fell to ruin. The Mendax line had cousins that may have inherited it—the Blackwells? Blackwood? Anyway, they took it over in the seventies and never reopened after the first war. Salazar knows who owns it now.” 

Ron gaped. “Could it have been Blackfoot?” 

Narcissa’s eyes widened. “I’ve met Fillian before, haven’t I?” 

Draco nodded. “I believe he tutored under Greyback with pseudonyms and magical disguises, likely to tie himself to the pack legitimately. We think mainly under his cousin’s name, Mendax.” 

“Fuck!” she hissed, catching Draco off guard. He wasn’t sure he had ever heard his mother curse. “He was that nasty little shit Fenrir would bring around to the manor. The bastard son—his father cheated on his wife and left the mother to raise him alone. I think she remarried but kept the father’s last name for the boy, hoping it would give him honor or power or some other nonsense. I had no idea it was the same child—I’m not entirely sure I ever even knew the boy’s name!” 

“He learned to shift his appearance as he aged to fit his needs. With Polyjuice at first, then with his own techniques of Human Transmogrification. He taught at Hogwarts under the name Mendax. He taught at university under the name Backfoot, returning to the name he used as a student. And we’ve recently discovered he’s been an assistant with the department of transportation under the name Alder. That’s how he connected with McLaggen and learned Hermione’s schedule and floo connections. Father has been sending locations and leads, but to no avail as of yet.” 

“He likely has forgotten all about that bloody zoo. It would have been a subject the women moaned about over tea; gossip he wouldn’t have concerned himself with. I will meet with him tomorrow to discuss where it could be. It was in Wales, or Edinburgh, or even possibly across the Channel. Maybe Brussels or up in Denmark, or . . . or . . . fuck I don’t bloody remember!” 

She stood with a huff, racing through the snow back to the house. 

“Does this mean we can leave?” Ron asked, piling the leftover biscuits into his hands. 

Draco was still too dumbfounded to answer. 

Chapter Text

“This probably isn’t going to work the first time.” Hermione trembled. Her lab coat fell around her loose skirt as she bottled a vial of the cosmic potion.  

Draco had grown to love the flowing fabric almost as much as he loved her sinfully tight pencil skirts. The fabric cinched at her waist and bounced with every step, swaying with her hips like a pendulum. 

“No. It likely won’t.” His voice was steady. Draco knew it wouldn’t work this time—it would be too easy, and nothing for either of them ever came easily. But he wasn’t nervous like she was.  

No, he knew which memories to remove today, and he had them doubled and bottled in their own small vials waiting for him in the inner pocket of his Auror robes. Hermione knew this, yet her hands still shook as she raised her wand. 

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes wide enough to see the whites full around her rich irises. 

He reached out and brushed his thumb across her cheek, then tilted her face to meet her eyes. “I trust you, Hermione,” he murmured softly, smirking as her cheeks turned a beautiful shade of pink. 

Her lips parted slightly, releasing a soft breathy gasp that invited his own mouth to meet them. He savored the kiss, taking it soft and slow and filling it with promises he dared not speak aloud. 

“When you are, Granger.” 

She eyed him for the use of her surname but cast the spell regardless, careful only to obliterate only those memories at the forefront of his mind. His skills in occlumency locked the remainder of his mind behind steel walls in a labyrinth Hermione’s magic couldn’t hope to navigate unintentionally.  

Draco felt the threads unraveling, loosening the carefully woven tapestry until the edges of fourth year frayed and tangled, losing some intangible aspect of his life he prayed could be returned. The memories that just two weeks prior would have terrified him to have Hermione see now only existed as the swirling silver matter in the glass vials his fingers twitched towards, eager to replenish the missing facets of his being.  

He nodded once. A simple uneasy jerk of his chin to tell her of her success. “Let’s test it.” 

The potion tasted like the first weeks of Autumn. When the air is crisp and invigorating. Fresh apples, chocolate frogs on a long train ride, new robes. A simpler time before dark lords and death, when his biggest sin was hurting those he cared about. 

Hurting a beautiful, intelligent witch that haunted him in ways no one else ever could. With curly hair and large, warm eyes.  

Hermione. 

“Well?” she asked as the memories burst to life, at first in such vibrant colors they seemed false, a strange rainbow haze around them that didn’t quite match the rest. 

He nodded. 

“Tell me,” she plead in a whisper. “Fourth year . . . What did you remember?” 

“The world cup,” he started, his voice raw. “My father warned me about the death eaters' plan to crash it. I remember I hadn’t particularly cared. I hadn’t given it much thought. But then I seen your bloody bushy head.” He chuckled lightly, letting her know he hadn’t said it in cruelty. “But there was no way it could have been you! Except, there was a group of gingers, and a pair of round glasses and you smiled and laughed and that indifference felt like lead in my veins.  

“I think I watched you more than the match. I don’t even remember who won . . . But I remember leaving my father. I lost you once in the crowd. When the screaming started.” 

That was the first time he had known fear. He wished it had been the last. 

Moisture pooled in the corner of Hermione’s eyes. She remembered what happened next. “You warned me,” she said. 

“I wasn’t kind about it. I knew who was there. I knew the things they had done during the first war.” 

The memory took on a different fuzz, distorting. He brushed it off and went to the next, the glimmer around it still strong and strange. 

“I took away the yule ball,” he explained next. 

“Why?” 

He laughed again, this time darker. If any of his memories were to give away his lifetime of desperate longing, it was this. 

Draco reached out and threaded his fingers through hers, playing mindlessly with a small ring he had never noticed before and refusing to look at her eyes. 

“I had kept myself in denial. Told myself I only cared about you as a classmate, that it would be inconvenient if something had happened to you at the hands of my father and his friends. That is, until the bloody Yule Ball.  

“Everyone assumed you were going alone. Ron was an imbecile, so it didn’t surprise me that he hadn’t gathered the courage to ask, but surely someone had asked. The whole school wasn’t blind! But no one had—so I thought. So, I decided not to ask anyone, either. The Slytherins and I went as a group, boycotting the whole ridiculous event.” 

Static clouded the memory. He shook it off. 

“I stood at the bottom of those stairs as you descended like Aphrodite reincarnate and stepped right into Krum’s arms. I gaped like a fool. Looked for ways to run into you on the dance floor but Krum kept you far, far away. It’s like he knew! 

“Then you left in tears. I had to stop myself from following when you stopped on the stairs. I likely wasn’t the first person you wanted to see, and I don’t know if I could have found the words to comfort you anyway. But you were so alone . . . I sent three little birds. I had watched you practice them for years in the library. It was the first time anything I did made you happy. First time anything I did felt right.” He wiped away a small tear trailing down Hermione’s cheek. “Then I sent flowers, ones my mother likes to grow, and chocolate to your dorm and made Weasley’s life hell for the next week.” 

“You sent those?” she gasped. 

The memory blurred, dulling into warm sepia tones and spurring a sharp headache. He squeezed his eyes tight and nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose as the memories thrashed through his mind. 

“I did.” 

“I thought they were from Viktor,” she admitted sheepishly. 

He shook his head, muttering something quite rude about the Bulgarian and tucked a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. “There was one complaint I had about your attire that night,” he said. 

“Oh? And what may that have been?” 

“Your hair.” 

“I’ll have you know we spent hours on my hair that night!” 

“Yes. And while it was lovely, it wasn’t you. Unruly. Wild. Powerful.” 

“Did you just call my hair powerful?” 

With a completely straight face, he replied, “If it wasn’t powerful, you wouldn't have had such difficulty managing it.” 

She scoffed, but found a smile tugging her lips. “What else?” 

His headache worsened. Needles pricked his eyes, an ice pick driving through his temple. But he cleared his throat and looked for the recovered memories. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing something on his face. 

He pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s nothing, they just . . .” The words didn’t seem right. He knew deep down the memories weren’t right, that he had laced them together in a way they fit. But how could he describe it to Hermione?  

“They just what, Draco?” 

“Something is off about them. The memories. They’re there, but . . .” He repositioned his hands, shifting uncomfortably. “They feel false. Like an alien implanted them, or like I've been kidnapped by bloody Aurors and brainwashed!” 

“Aliens.” 

“You know what I mean, Granger. They’re dull, and lifeless, and it almost hurts to try to think about them. They’re . . . devoid. Hollow.” 

He thought to the next memory. Of her missing from the stands on the edge of black lake.  

Something has been taken from each of you. 

But she was never Krum’s to take. 

He remembered how he felt before. How he felt after. But the memory that was returned to him was bland and lifeless, so at odds with what he knew to be true. It made him angry. It made him want to rip apart his scalp, obliviate himself, lash out at Hermione in ways he would never let himself do.  

“Hollow?” she asked, her voice lacking the same warm quality as the images antagonizing him. 

“Yes.” 

She studied his face. “Do they hurt?” 

He didn’t want to answer. Answering would break her heart. “Yes.” 

He remembered her parents' response and understood. Fragments of memories were enough to drive him crazy as his mind tore them apart, dissected them and rampaged. A lifetime would have been unbearable.  

She lifted her wand to help, but he stopped her. “Let me tell you one more.” 

He wanted to tell her about the lake, not see it through the eyes of the pensieve. To tell her how he had searched for her when she disappeared from the library, and how Theo had to bind his body in the stands. Witches and wizards died in the tournament—not just those competing—and he knew the death eaters had a plan in motion. If he had been tasked with killing Dumbledore that year, there wouldn’t have been hesitation.  

But he couldn’t. Before he could work up the nerve to admit his longing had begun long before he stopped being a selfish ass, the buzzing in his brain sharpened, the memories morphing into vengeful images, their empty husks leaching into the others and draining them of color, of life; of love. 

“Take them!” he hissed, his voice raw as gravel, startling Hermione. She gaped at him, her warmed bourbon eyes wide. 

“What?” she whispered, her voice as hollow as the false memories. 

“TAKE THEM BACK, HERMIONE!!” He hadn’t meant to shout. Hated the way she flinched and the set of her face as she lifted her wand. But her hesitation was painful, and he was bound to lose more if she waited. “NOW, HERMIONE!” 

Hermione knew the potion wasn’t ready. She felt hollow as she watched the burning terror in Draco’s eyes fade with his stolen memories. They weren’t really his memories, she supposed, just foreign imposters, yet the effect remained the same—a hollowing, burning feeling as her soul lost another small fragment. How much would be left before her potion was complete? 

“Better?” she asked when she finished, her voice small and lacking her normal self-assurance. 

“I can’t say with certainty, considering I have no recollection of the last thirty or so minutes,” he said with feigned nonchalance, though his eyes bored into her in a way she was sure he could see every fracture of her heart as if it were painted on her lab coat.  

She handed him a small vial, a silver memory swirling in its glass prison. 

“I was afraid taking the memories you’d regained wouldn’t be enough.” She felt her shoulders slump, but fought through their attempt to curl in on themselves. “I don’t have a pensieve here to view them. There’s one in the Dean’s office, but the list to use it could wrap around the university twice over.” 

“We’ll go to the manor, then. There’s one in my father’s old office.” 

*     *     *

Hermione hadn’t had much of an expectation for Lucius Malfoy’s personal office, but she supposed she had always assumed it would be as dark and dreary as the drawing room once was. Someplace that exuded power, with shades of wood to dominate the eyes and paint to match. Someplace large and cavernous to make one feel small and insignificant. 

Not the small, bright room with enough windows and natural light to bring out the rich golden undertones of the grand desk. Stately, certainly, but modest. Beautifully carved molding around every inch, the few walls visible were a soft cream and at the tops of the windows, stained glass with images of dragons sparkled in greens and blue. 

The pensieve had its own cabinet with leather bound accounts of the family histories shelved around it. Labeled vials of memories sat in organized rows on their own shelf. 

Draco poured his last stolen memory into the basin and remembered quickly why he should be feeling better. When it became apparent that reliving the ordeal through pensieve wouldn’t have the same effect as the potion, he poured in the memories Hermione had stolen earlier that day. 

“Shall we?” he asked, holding out his hand for her. 

The office disappeared in a whorl of grey mist. Draco’s fingers were warm against hers as the silhouette of the city of tents outside the Quidditch World Cup appeared. Through a chaos of witches and wizards she spotted herself, clad in green for Ireland but looking rather like a Slytherin. They stared at her for a long moment as memory-Hermione laughed, radiating a joy tenfold what lay in her own memories.  

Lucius’s oily voice cut through and the scene shifted to the stands, where she stood far beneath him. The Malfoy box was warm around them, but not nearly as lively. The details were muted, as if not even Draco cared to remember them, but the curls on Hermione’s head as they blew in the wind, the glitter and smoke that exploded in the seats, and every freckle covered in green paint was crystal clear. 

Then the Hogwarts express. Crabbe and Goyle flanking him as they strode into their seats. Theo and Blaise joined them.  

At first, Hermione wasn’t sure how this scene related to her. Then, Crabbe and Goyle opened their big, blubbering mouths. 

“Granger really grew up over the summer,” one said. 

“What I wouldn’t give to tie her up for a night or two,” the other added indelicately. “Have her squealing like the dirty bitch she is.” 

They laughed and Draco’s grip tightened on her hand. He had gone rigid beside her and it brought her attention to memory Draco, who had slid his wand out and was gripping it until his knuckles were white around it. 

“I don’t think she’d be squealing with what I’d do to ‘er,” the first said—Crabbe, she realized when memory-Draco glanced over. “I’d teach that pretty mouth of hers how to be bloody quiet for once while I pounded my co—” 

Memory-Draco whipped his wand so quickly between the two that neither even realized they had been stunned before their heads lolled to the cold train walls.  

“Bloody imbeciles,” he seethed, scowling at the deep purple welts appearing on his lackey’s faces. He was surprised to look up to see his other two friends covering massive smirks behind their hands. “What?” he hissed. 

“Protecting the mudblood’s honor, now?” Blaise laughed. 

“You know dragons don’t like to share, Zabini,” Theo chortled back. 

“Don’t worry, mate, I’m sure the Weasel will bend over and let you have her as soon as he’s had his fun. Bloke gets so red when she starts in on her lectures, no way he’d put up with that after a few shags,” Blaise added playfully, watching as memory-Draco’s jaw tightened. 

“Maybe you could let your grades slip, sign up for a bit of late-night tutoring,” Theo began, his voice dipping into a low, sultry timbre as he set the scene. “She could help you with Advanced Charms and you could tutor her in anatomy. Make her see the library in a whole new light as you give her an oral exam,” 

Memory-Draco’s eyes went wide, his face flushed. “Would you two fuck off!” 

“Just as soon as you admit you have it bad for Gryffindor’s swotty princess,” Blaise said jovially. 

“I had it bad for Gryffindor’s princess,” Draco purred in Hermione’s ear, surprising her as the scene suddenly shifted. His body was behind her now, the warmth of him radiating through her clothes as he bent down and planted his lips against her neck.  

“Funny way of showing it,” she returned shakily as his hand slid up her skirt and brushed against her panties, cupping her hungrily. Her breath hitched as he slid one curious finger against the cotton, savoring how quickly she grew wet for him. 

“I’ll spend the rest of my life groveling on my knees to make it up to you,” he growled low against her shoulder, nipping at the tender skin. 

The scenes flashed around them.  

“Draco,” she moaned as he dipped one finger beneath the lacy hem and traced her opening. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention?” 

“I’m multitasking,” he purred before sinking the finger deep inside her. 

Hermione gasped. The scene changed to Hogsmeade but Draco curled his fingers inside her, rubbing relentlessly against her walls. He pushed his signet ring around and pressed it gently against her clit, savoring the squeak it elicited as he swirled in circles against the sensitive skin. 

The pressure inside her was building. The scene shifted again and she couldn’t register where they had even landed before her eyes closed in ecstasy. He had added another finger at some point and her growing climax was consuming every thought process. Just as she began to crest into bliss, he pulled free of her and they were back in the Malfoy office, panting with need. She whined in longing, suddenly feeling far too empty. 

Draco waved his wand and locked the doors, his cock straining against his slacks before he whipped his belt free in one smooth motion and backed Hermione up to the grand desk, their hearts pounding faster, harder, with each anticipated step. When she bumped into the sturdy mahogany, a small whimper of surprise radiating up her throat when his hands grabbed her bottom, his fingers pressing against her core as he moved them to the backs of her thighs and hoisted her onto the desk. 

He still hadn’t kissed her. 

Hermione was a burning inferno of need—a need for his mouth, for his cock, for every bit of himself he could give her, but he just stood there, breathing in her very existence. 

“Draco,” she whispered. A question, a praise, an approval—whatever his name meant was swallowed suddenly by his mouth on her, hungrily tasting her as his length pressed against her clit, separated only by thin fabric. 

There was no gentle request made by his tongue to enter her mouth like she had read in countless fairy tales. No gentle ease into euphoric bliss. He devoured her like a starved man at a feast. 

Her mind had gone utterly blank as she grabbed at his clothes, pulling herself closer against him when he freed a hand from her tangle of curls and pulled aside the thin lace separating them. She had no idea when he had freed himself of his own fabric confines but as he pressed the entire length of himself into her in one claiming thrust, she didn’t care. She couldn't care, or think, about anything other than the steadily building pressure inside of her. 

“Fuck,” he growled, pumping harder, deeper, into her. “Cum for me, Hermione. Break, for me.” 

He reached down and swirled his thumb in wide, hard circles over her clit, sending her over the edge in violent convulsions of ecstasy. She cried out his name as she peaked and he found his own release, filling her cunt until it dripped out of her. They rode out the orgasm gently, with small thrusts that sent small shockwaves of bliss through her until he finally pulled from her.  

“I will never deserve you, Hermione,” he breathed against her neck, planting soft, loving kisses against her skin. “But I will spend every day trying to.” 

*     *     *

They tried variations of her potion three more times that week with limited success, each closer and less painful than the last. Each ended in the same place, with Draco’s praise, with his vows upon his lips and her mind so clouded in orgasmic bliss that she couldn’t think or dwell or suffocate under her utter failure. She could only look at the future, plan the next adjustments, and thank fate for bringing him to her as she fell maddeningly deeper into love. 

Chapter Text

“My mother’s Christmas gala is tonight, Granger. Why are you working?” Draco drawled from behind his home office desk as Hermione marched in, still clad in nothing more than her silk nightgown and sheer robe, and slammed a sheet of elegant notes down on his desk, covering the Prophet’s small exposé Rita had been attempting to piece together on the new couple through third-party interviews—none of whom Draco felt had any true information on their personal lives. 

“It lacks feeling!” she insisted, much to Draco’s confusion. “Emotion! They’re nothing but . . . But soulless replicas trying to impersonate the real thing!”  

She was pacing now, and Draco was very much trying not to focus on the fact she likely hadn't put panties on, either.  

She continued, “I’ve been so busy trying to stabilize the memories, thinking they’re falling apart inside the brain, when instead they’re deficient! I need to reincorporate the feelings those memories bring us! Like happiness, and safety, and warmth, and, and, and—” 

“And love,” he finished. 

“Exactly! But how to incorporate all those feelings in one?”  

She sat down across from him and crossed her legs, the movement shifting the nightgown just enough to confirm his suspicions—she was perfectly pantiless. And his own work sprawled across his desk suddenly ceased to exist. He stood. 

“Amortentia!!” she exclaimed in an epiphany. 

Draco rounded the desk, loosening his tie. “Excuse me?” 

“Amortentia,” she repeated, as if the mere word would trigger his understanding.  

“Granger, if you’re asking if I've been slipping you a love potion, I’m flattered that your feelings are so strong, but I assure you, they’re as authentic as my own.”  

He was working on his buttons now. Her hands were on her hips, pulling the smooth fabric tight and showcasing the delicious lines and curves of her body.  

“What?” she asked breathlessly, eyeing his agile fingers as they removed his shirt. “No! No, I mean—” 

“That you've been using amortentia on me?” he finished playfully, sitting against the edge of his desk. “I mean, that would be quite impressive, love, but you would have had to have been brewing it before you bought your first cauldron and while that seems unlikely, if it is the case, between you and me, I'd rather like you to keep dosing me. I’m a better man than I could have ever been otherwise.” 

A blush burned as her cheeks, the heat setting her honeyed flecks aglow. “W-what?” she stuttered, and he smiled. “No! Amortentia is the key to my memory potion! Or, more specifically, the rose thorns in it!” 

“Rose thorns?” 

“They’re used for passion—they could be used to elicit passionate connections in the memories. And the petals, obviously, to retain the beauty in the memories!” 

He thought about it. “That could certainly work,” he said before setting his heated eyes on her again. He stepped forward until their bodies were barely touching and she had to crane her neck up to look at him. “Now,” he started huskily, “I’m going to take you upstairs and make sure there’s no room in that beautiful brain of yours to think about work for the remainder of our evening.” 

His lips met hers, gently at first as he walked her backwards until she was pressed against his bookshelf, then devoured her until his cock strained for freedom and she was breathing in soft pants. His hands roved across her body, settling behind her thighs as he lifted her legs to wrap around him, pressing himself against her core delightfully. 

“Fuck,” she breathed. 

Draco felt his cock twitch. “I love it when you swear, Hermione,” he growled, his voice husky with desire.  

Then, he pulled her from the bookshelf and carried her upstairs. 

Three hours. It took Pansy and Ginny three hours to get her ready. They each took forty-five minutes on themselves and looked stunning, but spent three bloody hours prodding at her hair, at her makeup and at her wardrobe. But she had to admit, she had never felt more glamorous.  

Her hair had been only subtly tamed, her curls simply smoothed and twisted into well-behaved versions of themselves, swept to the side in cascades over her shoulder. The dress she had purchased weeks ago slid over her bare skin and melded with her curves like a silken second skin, the deep emerald green hugging her curves so tightly she couldn't wear anything underneath. The backless number slouched in a cowl neck over her breasts, revealing a tasteful amount of cleavage to pair with the deep slit up her thigh. Strappy green heels smothered in cushioning and stability charms rounded out the ensemble.  

She descended the stairs slowly, ready to make an impression. This was her and Draco’s first event as a couple, and she was excited for him to see her.  

Pansy and Ginny came in to view first. Dressed in the darkest of crimson minidresses that showed more leg than what should be legal, Pansy stretched herself even taller with black heels that matched Hermione's, ties wrapping up the length of her calf. Ginny went simpler, wearing a sleeveless A-line that flowed over her toes. The midnight blue of the soft chiffon sparkled with stars and moons that blended elegantly across the loose bodice hiding the now well-formed bump and down into the skirt. 

Harry was beside them, in his own midnight blue suit to match. He never had grown accustomed to dress robes, even though Ron, still scarred from wearing what looked like his Aunt Muriel’s old robes, had spent a fair amount of his well-earned salary on a pair for every occasion. 

Draco stepped out from the doorway beside the stairs as she grew closer. She wanted to take his breath away, but as he came into view, dressed head to toe in a black suit cut perfectly around his trim body, a crisp ivory shirt beneath his onyx waistcoat and a tie of Slytherin green to match her dress, she could swear it wasn't until her lungs burned for breath that she gasped. His throat bobbed as he took her in. She was grateful he had taken her to the bedroom earlier, otherwise they would be late to his own mother’s party. 

He stepped up the stairs to meet her and offered his arm and a chaste kiss to the cheek. “You are breathtaking, Hermione,” he whispered in her ear, bringing a beaming smile to her face. 

“It’s funny, I was just thinking the same about you,” she returned. 

The front doorbell rang just before Theo barged in. 

“What’s the point of ringing the doorbell if you're just going to barge in anyway?” Draco scolded. 

“Just being polite. One of these days I'll get rewarded with walking in on you taking Granger on the banister.” Theo looked around as Fred and Daphne trailed in, amusement on their faces. “Or that table there. Or the couch. Or maybe the heavens would bless me and I'd see her perfect tits bouncing as she fucked you from behind!” 

“Theo!” Hermione shrieked, her cheeks burning red. 

“I’ll be happy to oblige whatever fantasies Hermione can think up, Theo, but trust me when I say if you walked in on it, it would be the last image you ever seen.” 

“Tempt me harder, Draco darling. Some images would be worth it.” 

“Merlin,” a deep, kind voice rang from the doorway. “I’m not sure what I missed but if Theo was involved, I’m certain I’m glad I missed it.” 

“Neville!” Hermione and Ginny exclaimed excitedly. 

He was dressed in steely grey tweed that showed off his magnificent physique. He walked towards Pansy and whispered in her ear and for the first time since Hermione’s known her, the witch blushed so deeply she nearly matched her dress. As his knuckles grazed the curve of her body, she reached up and adjusted the crookedly tied tie that hung around his neck a few shades darker than her dress. 

Draco stopped Hermione as the others took turns with the floo. He pulled out a long box from his jacket pocket. 

“What’s this?” Hermione asked as he opened the box to a beautiful necklace full of draping emeralds and black onyx. Small diamonds glittered in symmetrical clusters around the corners. 

“A gift,” he said simply. 

“It’s too much,” she gasped as he placed it around her neck, brushing gently against her warm skin. 

“It’s not nearly enough.” He pulled out a much smaller box from another pocket. He opened it to reveal a rose gold band, twisted in loops with small, evenly spaced diamond-shaped cutouts.  

“Before you break my heart and tell me no,” he joked, “this isn’t a proposal. Although, if you’re open to it, I’m certain we could convince someone at my mother’s party to perform the ceremony.” 

Hermione stared at him, the word “what” wordlessly on her lips. 

“No?” he answered for her, playfully smiling. “That’s alright, Hermione. When I do propose, it will be so bloody romantic you won’t be able to say anything but yes. This, however, is a precaution,” he continued, more serious. “Attacks have increased since we’ve taken down resurgence factions. I’m afraid someone will get through when I can’t reach you.” 

She let him slide the ring onto her hand, feeling it heat over her finger as it paired with its mate on Draco’s hand—the hand that now only held one half of the marital set beside his signet ring.  

“I’ve gotten more letters, haven't I,” she asked, more of a statement than a question. 

He hesitated, and she knew. “Yes,” he admitted honestly. “Your ring was carved from mine,” he said, changing the subject as he pulled a matte black ring, hammered all over with a smooth inner ring of rose gold, off his finger, leaving the half dozen other rings untampered with. The inside of his ring had a cut out that looked like it could fit hers perfectly. 

“I’ve had them bound together. It’s a special service the goblins perform on their silver. It changes their properties to suit the wearers—that's why the set looks so different than it did a few weeks ago. It can only be done once. Once per set, once per Malfoy.” 

“But that means . . .” she started, the implications swirling. 

You will forever be my priority. 

“There isn’t anywhere in this world you could go that I won't find you,” he promised. 

“And if they take it off?” 

“Only you can make that choice.” 

“They could take my finger.” 

He flinched. “There’ll be hell to pay if they take that finger before I do.” 

She hadn’t realized he had placed it on her left ring finger before he pulled his wand and disillusioned the dainty band. She still felt its heat against her skin, its weight like a tether, but it no longer existed to anyone else. 

Draco left his in plain sight, camouflaged by his other rings but still there, perfectly visible to any wizard—or witch—who looked. She didn’t fight the smile as she realized that was intentional. He was hers, and if she had said yes, he would have raced them to the altar. 

Draco pulled on his long wool coat then swept a thickly lined shawl around Hermione’s shoulders and ushered her to the floo. 

“Took you long enough,” Blaise greeted as they arrived, finding their group lurking in the middle of Hogwarts’ grand entry. 

Luna was at his side in a floor length silver dress adorned in diamonds. Her waist-length hair curled under a matching headband falling over her forehead. She looked straight from a Gatsby party—which, Hermione supposed, the Malfoys were the modern equivalent. 

“We thought maybe you'd ditched us to go shag,” Fred declared, earning a heavy scoff from Ron who had just approached with Lavender, dressed in beautiful lavender ruffles, on his arm. 

“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Lavender said in greeting, giving her a gentle hug. 

“So do you, Lav,” she returned, meeting Ron’s happy gaze as he watched the two witches. 

“Come on, then. My mother will have my head if we miss her opening toast.” 

*     *     *

Hogwarts. It had been years since they’d been here—let alone been here together. Yet as they entered the Great Hall, with snow floating through the air and Christmas trees lining the walls, with glowing orbs across the ceiling tables fit for a five-star restaurant, it almost felt as though no time had passed at all. 

Hermione grinned in spite of the photographers’ flashes lighting the room. A giddy warmth erupted through her chest as she raised her glass to Narcissa’s toast. After dinner, the tables disappeared, leaving room for guests to mingle and dance. Her glass had never been empty thanks to a refilling charm and she must have been on her fifth (at least) glass when Draco pulled her into a waltz. 

His hand on her hip, his lips against her ear, they twirled under the lights until Hermione’s head spun and the cushioning charms wore off her heels.  

“This was how it should have gone,” Draco mumbled somberly to himself. 

“How what should have gone?”  

He dipped her low and a giggle escaped her throat. 

“The yule ball.” He twirled her, then pulled her close, his hand splayed across her bare back. “So many wasted years.” 

“You have me now. We’ll just have to make up for all the lost time.” 

A wicked grin spread across his mouth. “I know just where to start.” 

With his hand at her back, Draco pulled her hurriedly off the dance floor, ignoring Theo and the rest of their friends (but mainly Theo) as they snuck out of the Great Hall, running right into Headmistress McGonagall.  

“Professor,” Draco greeted in surprise, not much too different from if he were still a boy in school caught after hours. 

“It’s Headmistress, now, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger,” she added in greeting, a glint twinkling in her eyes. “And where might you two be scurrying off to? Surely you’re not retiring from your own mother’s party before any of the other guests?” 

“Of course not, Headmistress. Hermione’s feet were merely causing her some pain, so I thought we’d find our room for the night and rest her feet before we continued dancing.” 

“Is that so?” she replied insincerely. She turned to Hermione. “Miss Granger, since Mr. Malfoy insists on lying to me even after all this time, I suspect he is up to no good. You are a terrible liar, Mr. Malfoy.” 

“But—” Hermione started to defend, but she was cut off by McGonagall’s silencing hand. 

She smiled at the two of them, almost as if she was giving a blessing. “Miss Granger, I expect you to keep him out of too much trouble.” She turned to head back to the party, but stopped, rethinking her former statement. “Or perhaps, given your history here as well, it is Mr. Malfoy I should request to keep you from trouble?” 

“We will be on our best behavior, Minerva,” Hermione said warmly. 

“Very good. This is the first year that no students are in the castle for the holiday. So, certain charms have been released in case former students wished to revisit their old haunts.” She winked at the couple. “It was lovely to see you, Hermione. Draco.” 

She swished her regal dress robes and disappeared into the Great Hall. 

“Did she just give me permission to fuck you wherever I wanted?” Draco asked incredulously as they started down the hall at a quick pace, afraid of running into anyone else. 

“It seems so.” 

“Well, that almost takes the fun out of where we’re going.” 

“Almost?” 

“Oh, we could be haunted by every headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen and it wouldn’t sway my plans. I’ve thought about this for far too much of my life not to take the opportunity.” 

He kissed her deeply, backing her up until she was flush against the cool stone of the castle walls. His hands cradled her face, tipping her chin so his curious tongue had better access. Just as Hermione let out a small, breathy moan, he released his kiss to trail his lips down the column of her neck. His hand released its hold to reach down and palm her breast through the silky fabric dress, the smooth material warming under his touch. He pinched and teased at her nipple as he nibbled at the sensitive area of her shoulder and found the long slit up her leg with his knee, pushing the fabric aside until his leg settled at her core. 

Draco had almost forgotten she wasn’t wearing panties. The thought made him harden against her. Her hand trailed down his chest, down his stomach, until she had his length against her palm, driving him mad with desire. 

He reached one finger between them and slid it through the silky moisture pooling around her vulva, rubbing in loose, lazy circles until it was dripping over his pant leg and she was squirming above his touch. She was hungry for him. Starved.  

But this was a special occasion and required a special venue—not that the halls of Hogwarts hadn’t also been a teenage fantasy, it just wasn’t the most important one.  

He removed his hand and pulled her through the nearest door. 

Hermione’s brain was swirling from the heat of their kiss and she hadn’t recognized the hallway they had been in. At least, not until they stepped into the pinnacle of her time at Hogwarts. 

The library. 

The smell felt straight from her own amortentia. Each row and packed shelf brought back the long hours of silence and solitude she had spent among the pages, the things she learned and practiced, the battles they won because of her time within these very walls. She felt powerful here. Intelligent. Like the whole world could bend to her whim if she simply found the one paragraph in just the right book that only she could find. 

Draco flicked his wand behind her, but she barely noticed the way the doors sealed shut and locked, or the way the edges of the room shimmered as she all but ran to her favorite table, running her fingers along the smooth wood before finding the plush window bench she would always end her days at. She sat down and looked out, searching the skies and the castle until she found what she was looking for. 

The astronomy tower. A clear view to Draco’s personal purgatory. If she had ever bothered looking to the stars, would she have seen him staring back? Could she have helped him like she had helped Harry so many times before? 

“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured behind her, brushing his lips against her neck. 

“Impossible.” 

“Not for me.” 

“You wouldn’t use Legilimency on me,” she breathed confidently, her brain and body buzzing from his touch. 

“No,” he consented. “But I know you. And I see where you stare.” He pressed his forehead against her hair, his arms holding her tightly. “Things happened the way they were meant to. Who knows what could have happened had we come together earlier.” 

His thoughts traveled to the infamous night at the mansion. Had he betrayed the death eaters, had she found a way to save him (he had no doubts that she could have), she would have been taken someplace else when they were caught. He was under no illusions that he could have swayed her in any way to have gone into hiding rather than assist with horcrux hunting, so he likely would have gone with them. 

And when they were captured, he would have been trapped, wandless and helpless in a cell as she was tortured, then killed. He might not have been much help that night, but she left his mansion alive, at least. 

“Come,” he said, his voice gravelly from his thoughts as he took her hand and led her toward the far end of the library. 

“Where?” 

“We are adults now,” he said. “We’re allowed past certain restrictions. I’ve had a dream for some time now that I would very much like to make it a reality.” 

They stepped through to the restricted section. Hermione’s fingers grazed the dusty tomes.  

“What I wouldn’t give to spend even an hour going through these,” she gasped in awe. 

“Another time,” Draco growled before startling her, his hands suddenly on her hips, twisting her around until her back was flush with the bookshelf.  

His mouth met hers, his tongue darting into her mouth and dancing with hers as he swallowed her moans. He was already hard against her hip. Hermione moved to undo his tie, to remove his jacket, to find his chest, his shoulders—something to spur things along, to tease him into easing the growing ache between her legs, but instead he pulled away and smirked at her. 

“I have something very specific in mind for you, Granger.” 

He suddenly sounded like the irritating, cocky teenager she had loathed . . . and yet she was excited. She played into the swotty, school version of herself and put on her best affronted mask. 

“I don’t know what you had in mind, Malfoy, but unless you’d like to get caught, I’d suggest you get on with it. Or, if you’d prefer to watch.”  

She trailed her fingers up the slit in her dress until she found her center. Slick with her arousal, she slid her manicured fingers along her clit, watching as Draco’s features darkened. He growled and the knot of anticipation in her stomach twisted, building into a desperate plea for release.  

Hermione sank her finger in, lifting the dress and her leg so as to give him a proper visual. 

“No,” he growled again, grabbing her waist and lifting her onto the small platform ladder behind him.  

Then he swished his wand and her dress shrunk, and shifted, and transformed until it was an (almost) exact replica of her school uniform. The skirt was shorter—too short—and the shirt too tight, revealing far more cleavage than she had had as a teenager. But her tie and stockings were in Gryffindor's colors and her panties were still missing. Pansy and Ginny had been right—Halloween had been a play on Draco’s fantasies.  

Draco took her in, devouring the sight of her. He licked his lips and stepped forward, but Hermione stopped him. 

“This isn’t quite right,” she scolded before flicking her own wand over him.  

She was fine with his suit shirt and trousers, but his tie needed to be striped. It needed the small Slytherin pin.  

Draco laughed when he realized. Only a small chuckle in disbelief, as if he could no longer believe this was a reality.  

Then she moved her hand between her legs, her delicate fingers rubbing firmly until he knew she was soaked with arousal. His eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide as he roved them over her body, burning the sight into his mind. Hermione’s breath hitched as he dug his fingers into his tie and loosened it from his neck; she gasped when those hands landed on her bare thighs and thrust them apart, giving him a full visual of her hand wet against her glistening vulva.  

He pulled her to the edge of the platform, startling her hand free from between her legs, and crouched down onto his knees. His hands slid across her smooth thighs, under the hem of her pleated skirt and to the sides of her hips, holding her closer to him. 

“My, my. So this is what you do with all those late nights in the library. You look like you could use a little help there Granger.” He moved his thumb along her slit, teasing her opening and pushing the pooling moisture across her swollen clit. “I may need to be persuaded to keep this a secret. We wouldn’t want everyone to know what Gryffindor’s Princess does in her free time.” 

Her giggle was caught short, shifting to a gasp as he attacked her clit with his tongue, swirling it around and savoring the eager buck of her hips. 

“That’s it. Good girl, Granger. Show me how much you want me.” 

“Please, Malfoy,” she whined, the sound giving her pause.  

“Please, what?” he asked, his breath hot against her. He plunged a finger deep within her. “Fuck,” he growled. 

Her first thought had been to beg, but that wasn’t her—had never been her. 

“Please, Malfoy,” she repeated, her voice taking on a confident, conniving tone. “You think it was an accident you caught me in the restricted section?” 

He resumed the lazy strokes of his finger, adding a second, crooking them so that they pet her walls, building her towards climax. He had no clue how their little game had twisted so quickly, but it was better than he had ever imagined. She was better than he had ever imagined. His cock was straining against the stiff fabric, growing harder with every beautiful word purred from her lips. 

“I’ve seen the way you watch me, Malfoy,” she teased, half moaning. “The way you’re always there, pushing me, protecting me. You don’t really hate me, do you, Malfoy?” 

Draco nibbled her inner thigh, hanging on to every word as his thumb, complete with the Malfoy signet, brushed against her clit, pressing harder with each swirl. She panted, desperate, but kept her voice even. 

“Do you know what my amortentia smelled like, Draco?” 

He shook his head, picking up pace with his fingers. It wasn't really a race, but dammit if she could still think enough to talk, he wasn’t doing enough. 

“If—”  

He plunged his long fingers down to their base and pressed his ring against her clit. She lost her words as a feminine scream escaped her lips and Draco grinned. 

“If, what?”  

He sped his fingers, in and out, building her towards climax. Her fingers grabbed at his hair, entwining in the strands, her other hand reaching up to grab the bookshelf behind her.  

“If, what, Hermione?” he urged. 

“I-I don’t know,” she mewled. “Please, Draco—fuck!”  

She panted, her hips trying to meet his pace as she dripped over his hand. It wasn’t enough. She needed more, she needed to be stretched, to be filled—she needed him. 

“I need you,” she begged. 

Draco had his hand pulled from her before the sentence was finished. He devoured her mouth, exploring desperately as one hand undid his belt and yanked it from the loops. Hermione fumbled with the buttons before pulling his rigid cock free, grasping the smooth velvet with her soft, warm hand. She brushed the small bead of precum around his head before lining him up to her entrance. She begged again. A soft, moaning plea that had Draco’s self-control in shambles. 

He took her pristine uniform shirt in his hands and ripped it apart, exposing Hermione’s plump breasts and the silky green bra that held them high on her chest. 

“Fuck, Hermione,” he groaned.  

She smiled deviously. She had transfigured it the moment she changed his tie—a simple surprise hidden underneath the crimson facade.   

“You like it? I was hoping a snake might slither in and catch me, tonight.” 

“Hopefully not any other snake?”  

His mouth was inches from hers, his cock just one good thrust away from entering her. 

“There’s only ever been one that’s held my attention.” 

His hand was on her chin pulling her face to his, his other tangled in her hair as he swallowed her pants, drank in her need, and thrust forward, burying himself fully inside her. He gave her only a second to adjust to him—himself only a second to savor the tight heat surrounding him—before he set a pace that had them both panting in ecstasy.  

Hermione's fingers clawed at his shirt until his bare chest was against her, her long nails reaching around to claw at his back, holding him tighter, closer. She could feel herself building towards release, the orgasm coiling tightly in her gut. She was close—so close. 

Draco released his hold on her mouth to trail kisses down her neck, below her ear, his hand roving across the green silk of her bra before he vanished the thing entirely, leaving her breasts bare for him. He teased her nipple, pinching and pulling until each were hardened, erect atop her beautiful chest. 

He moved his hand down between them, toward her clit as he began to lick at her breasts, pulling them into his mouth. She would fall over the edge any moment, and he with her—except, just as her climax neared its apex, just as his own release was building to its glory, she uttered—blurted, really—five little words, and froze. 

“Fuck! I love you, Draco!” 

His hand stilled on her clit. His mouth no longer lapped at her breast. His cock still throbbed eagerly inside her, willing Draco to move again. 

Hermione’s eyes were wide, her voice shaky as she said, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

He cut her off with a kiss. Deep and slow; burning. Then he wound an arm around her waist and lifted her off the platform, cock still sheathed within her. He had aimed to lead her to the windowsill, to give her comfort as he earned those words. But her voice echoed within him, and he was still buried, each step moving her over his erection until he thought he would combust if he didn’t move his hips. 

They stopped, not making it out of the restricted section. Draco pressed her against the towering shelves, his arm strong at her waist. She reached up behind her for a hold on the nearest shelf as he pulled out slowly and slammed back into her. Draco met that arm with his own, grasping her wrist high above her head and holding it prisoner as he pounded into her, dragging her moans from her until she was screaming his name, her muscles contracting around his length, edging him.  

I love you. The words repeated in his mind, over and over, until her moans settled into satisfied pants and he was spilling himself deep inside her. 

“Draco, I-I,” she began breathlessly, but he cut her off with another kiss as she tried lowering herself to the library floor. 

“I’m not done with you,” he growled, his voice raw and seductive as he pulled her away from the shelves to get to his original destination—the wide windowsill bench. 

Draco laid her down, vanishing her clothes, then his. He took her in, her hair sprawled across the crushed velvet bench, her skin bathed in moonlight. He gently spread her legs, watching his seed drip out of her and slowly stroking himself hard again. He slid a finger through it, watching her soundless moan and he dipped it into her, pushing it back in with each stroke of her inner walls, building her back into a climax, claiming her as his cum mixed with her own glistening lubricant. 

He lined himself up, rolling the head of his penis against her, against the shared evidence of their frenzy, then he leaned down and gave her one small, soft kiss against her lips. 

“I love your hair,” he said, staring into her eyes before pushing himself inside of her, slowly sheathing himself to his base before pulling out, savoring the way each groove gripped him. “I love your eyes.”  

Again.  

“And your lips.” 

Again. Each thrust more frenzied than the last. 

“I love every freckle. I love your enthusiasm. I love your right hook and your inconsistent morality.”  

Each statement was punctuated by another deep, penetrating thrust, building to something grand, something beautiful between them. Faster, harder. Hermione’s pants were coming desperately now, and Draco’s voice was ragged as he continued. 

“I love the way you argue and the way you prove me wrong time and time again. I love the way you say my name. I loved you when I met you. I loved you when I hated you.” 

She was crying. 

Oh, Salazar she was crying! 

Then she contracted around him, her body shaking in euphoria. He felt her walls clench, and spasm, massaging him until he came again, too.  

Draco pressed his lips against hers, his fingers gently caressing her cheek. He had to give himself a minute before he could fathom the sensation of pulling out.  

“I love you, Hermione.” 

His forehead was against hers, his eyes closed. But he could feel her shaking breaths, feel the tears as they rolled down her face. He brushed them away, found the strength to pull out of her, and fell over beside her, pulling her into his chest before quickly vanishing the messes they made. 

Hermione wrapped her arms around him, clenching him tightly to her as the tears continued down her face. 

He held her, slowly growing worried that he had done, or said, something wrong. Surely, she would have told him to stop . . . right? 

“Hermione, love, did I hurt you?” 

She shook her head no. 

“Is it something I said?” 

No again. 

“Are you okay?” 

Yes, this time, nodded forcefully, with her face buried in his chest—contradicted greatly by the breathy sobs still raking through her chest. 

Draco shifted to coax her head to face him. Her face was blotchy, eyes puffy. This was not how he had hoped the confession would go. 

“What’s the matter, Hermione? Speak to me.” 

“I-I-I d-don’t know,” she whimpered shakily. 

“Are these happy tears, or sad tears?” he asked nervously, stroking away the fresh streams. 

“I d-don’t know.” Her voice was achingly quiet. 

Draco kissed her once on the forehead, then over each eye, then gently pressed his forehead to hers.  

“Breathe with me, love,” he cooed, taking in a deep inhale.  

He held it a second, waiting for Hermione to follow shakily after him, then let it out just as slowly. It took a few breaths before her tears slowed, then stopped. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, listening as she took another breath. “Good girl.” 

When she had finally calmed, he settled back down, letting her curl against him. Neither had dressed yet, so he grabbed his wand and cast a warming charm over them, letting them bask in the moonlight just a moment longer before Hermione’s body relaxed and her breathing evened. 

“I love you, Hermione,” he vowed. “I will always love you. In this life, and every life after.” 

“And if you forget me?” she asked groggily, her mind on the cusp of a deep, well-fucked sleep. 

“Impossible. You have been burned into my very soul, Hermione. And I will obliterate anyone who tries to take you from me.” She squeezed him just a little tighter, and he pressed his lips against her hair. “I love you,” he added softly. 

“I love you, too.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione woke to her favorite smell: warm cashmere, amber silk, and the heady musk of Draco’s cologne tangled with rich leather. He was warm against her, holding her tightly between matching satin sheets.  

“Goodmorning, Granger,” he rasped, a devious tone so early in the morning.  

“Mmm,” she groaned. “Is it good? I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.” 

“Or like you’ve been drinking magically refillable champagne all night?” 

“Yes. Definitely that.” She still hadn’t tried opening her eyes. 

“I have a hangover tonic in my bag. Do you . . .” he hesitated. Hermione wasn’t sure she had ever heard him so uncertain. “Do you . . . remember?” 

“Remember what?” She finally cracked her eyes open to the dark, bleary room, so unfamiliar. She made a mental note to ask him where the hell they were in a minute.  

“Last night.” 

He sounded . . . sad? 

“Yes, of course I remember last night,” she scoffed. “Malfoy, I drank enough for a headache, not a lapse in memory.” Then it clicked—the crying. “Oh my god!” 

“So, you didn’t remember . . .” He took a breath and looked away, pulling her closer to him as if what he was about to say would scare her off. “Hermione, I’m not going to take back what I said. Even if you don’t feel the same now that you’re sober, I meant every word.” 

“What?” she asked in disbelief, pushing away. His face crumpled, but he released her. “Draco, I hadn’t meant to say it last night, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel that way. No,” she took his face in her hands, “I just can’t believe I cried after. I’m incredibly embarrassed.” 

Relief visibly flooded him. She found his mouth, giving him a soft, gentle kiss before glancing around the room.  

They were curled up together on a twin mattress. Green curtains draped around the four-poster frame. Another bed, empty, sat in the far corner while a large green rug covered the floor between.  

Snakes were embroidered and engraved everywhere. 

“Draco . . . are we in the Slytherin dormitories?” 

“Not quite,” he murmured. “Just a replica.” 

She remembered falling asleep beside him in the library. Then she was carried, dressed back in her long silk, her arms wrapped around Draco’s neck. She must have fallen back asleep in his arms, because she barely remembers anything before he was resting her down on a bed and carefully removing her dress, the pins in her hair, her shoes—then tucking her in and curling up beside her. 

But, they hadn’t gone down through the dungeons. Nor had they left Hogwarts. 

“I was going to tell you last night, but I didn’t want to wake you,” Draco said. “I received special permission from McGonagall for us to stay after the ball so we could utilize the school’s library and student records for research. Since no students were staying, she agreed, and I decided to live out another long-awaited fantasy.” 

“Which is?” 

“Waking up to Hermione Granger, swottiest of Hogwarts swots, in my bed after a night of being thoroughly ravaged. The room of requirement seems to have done its job rather nicely.” 

A smirk played on her lips. She trailed her lips across his chain, his neck. A breath away but close enough for the sensation to send goosebumps across his flesh and leave him wanting more.  

“And what happens next, in this fantasy?” 

“Usually, I sneak you out through the common room while everyone’s still asleep, pressing you up against the door with one last reminder.” She finally pressed her lips to his skin. “But sometimes I would let myself imagine getting caught, or heading to the Great Hall together, and letting the whole bloody school know you’re mine and to keep their damned inbred eyes off of you.” 

Hermione giggled, a tinkling laugh that made him smile. 

“Inbred?” she laughed. 

He chuckled in return. “I was different back then, Hermione.” 

She kissed his neck. “Yes.” Then his collar bone. “Now what do we do in your fantasy?” Then his chest, going lower and lower down his torso until she reached his navel. 

Draco groaned. “This is good.” 

He was stark naked beneath the sheets, his cock already hard from anticipation. She wrapped her fingers around it and said, her breath hot against the velvet soft skin of his throbbing shaft, “And after?” 

“After, I get to walk out of here and show the fucking world how lucky I am.” 

*     *     *      

Hermione would never look at the Hogwarts library the same. She found her table, set up her station for the day, and went to work sifting through the restricted section’s ancient texts on memory charms and stability potions, looking for some mention of Amortentia ingredients and the various things that would counter them in a mixture. Meanwhile, Draco had found the old student records and sat quietly next to her, jotting his own assortment of perfectly scrawled notes.  

What he was there studying, she wouldn’t know—he had been incredibly secretive of whose student records he was looking into. 

By lunch she was no more knowledgeable than she had been that morning, but had a promising starting point for quantities. Unfortunately, the pumpkin she and Draco had hunted for countered the rose in a way that she would need twice the amount of the orange vegetable—something she already had very little of. She would need to be certain of her potion’s efficacy before testing it again. 

“I think I could use a break,” she admitted, watching Draco make additional copies of yet another file. 

“I know just the place,” he said, tidying his already neat piles before holding out his hand for her. 

They left by foot, Draco leading the way to Hogsmeade. As they stepped down, finding themselves in view of Hagrid’s snow-covered hut and a very familiar spot beside the castle. 

“Third year,” she said expectantly, staring into space as if she could see their younger selves before them. She supposed she had an abnormally vivid image, considering she had actually watched this interaction before. 

“Well, one never forgets the first time they’re decked. Especially not when it’s done by the most intriguing witch they would ever meet.” 

“What else?” 

Draco took a breath and sighed. He grasped her hand and began leading her through the snowy grounds. “I remember watching you board the train. I had spent all summer remembering you petrified, and remembering the overwhelming relief I felt when Madam Pomfrey announced the potion was finished—and the guilt for saying so many wrong things that year. Then when I saw you on that train, you looked so different. So happy. Like what had happened and what I had said had had no bearing whatsoever on your life. In one aspect I was glad. I was relieved. On the other, it stung a bit. 

“Then we started that bloody class with the Hippogriff—who, by the way, you’ll be happy to know still hates me!” 

“Buckbeak? How do—” 

“He lives on a bloody farm outside of town here!  Fucking bird. Anyway, I remember trying to impress you. I bowed; I did everything the way I should have with that temperamental beast. It wasn’t my idea to have him slaughtered, you know.” 

“Maybe not, but you’re the one who spoke to your father about it.” 

“I didn’t, actually. I was quite the bloody prat for saying I would, but I never managed to write it. No, Dumbledore actually penned the notice himself, I believe. Or had Snape do it for him. Father contacted the ministry officials immediately.” 

He thought for a moment, staring down past Hagrid’s hut, towards the unchanging grounds of their past. “I remember you were alone a lot that year,” he finally said. 

“I was alone a lot every year,” she scoffed, wearing a smile that couldn’t hide the true pain of that fact. 

“More so some years than others. This year was one of them.” 

She nodded. “My cat didn’t trust—and tried to eat—Ron’s family pet rat who turned out to be one of Harry’s pseudo ex-uncles-by-association-turned-death-eater Peter Pettigrew hiding as an Animagus.” She looked up at him, his eyes full of surprise. “It's okay, though, Sirius bit Ron under the whomping willow and, personally, I think that was enough of a revenge for me.” 

“Why were you friends with them?” he asked earnestly. 

“I didn’t have anyone else to be friends with, when it started,” she admitted. “Let’s be honest, they would have died without me. Fluffy would have killed them and that would have been the end of the wizarding world as we know it.” 

“According to you, the three-headed dog was asleep.” 

“My apologies, Malfoy. The Devil’s Snare would have killed them, then.” They laughed. “But I fear we've gotten off point.” 

Draco sighed. “I mainly remember, that was the year I realized you would forever be in the center of danger. Whatever it was, whoever it involved, you were in the thick of it. And the other two, of course, but I didn’t really give a damn about them. Not that I had realized I cared for you yet, either. But, it was unsettling nonetheless, to be constantly bothered by your safety. By the time I heard what had happened with Lupin and Snape, it was no surprise you had been there. I hated him for a long time for endangering you like that.  

“I spent all summer dreading seeing you again. My father was an active death eater again, being called away for meetings. I knew things would start getting bad again for muggleborns. They would be stricter on my opinions and views. My parents began to teach me to occlude—I think they suspected and didn't want me killed for it.” He chuckled humorlessly. “When I saw you next, all I could think about was how of course you were at the Death Eater’s first public rally. And I was certain that would be how you died.” 

They were nearly to the Three Broomsticks. 

“How many times have you been certain that I would die?” 

“Far too many, Granger.” 

They chose a booth near the end of the pub, hidden away and quiet. Hermione took one side, Draco the other, and after a warm meal they pulled out novels and read quietly over butterbeer, their hands entwined above the table, completely unnoticing of the camera pointed at them from across the room.  

“Clarify something for me, Granger,” Draco said from across the desk in the library shortly after lunch. They had nearly spent the entire day at the castle and McGonagall was sure to kick them out sooner rather than later. 

“Okay,” she agreed, pushing aside a rather fragile tome of what Draco believed were geological records—why they were restricted was beyond him.  

“Mendax. The professor you nearly got fired eighth year. What was his first name?” 

She huffed, surprised. “Gosh, that was so long ago. I probably only ever heard it once or twice. Let’s see . . . Aiden?” She chewed her lip, thinking. “No, that’s not it. Acker? Arty? Elder? I think it was a tree.” 

“Alder?” 

“That sounds right. Why?” 

“Because that fucker has been circling you since we were bloody kids. It’s been right there the whole bloody time.” 

“Who?” 

“Fucking Fillian. He’s a dab hand at memory charms—much like you. He alters them as he needs to get by.”  

“The missing Polyjuice ingredients . . .” 

“Yes.” 

“Then he created Human Transmogrification to get by when potion ingredients were scarce—when I got him fired from Hogwarts!” 

“That is my current assumption.” He jotted down notes before standing to search for another text. 

“What are you searching for, anyways?” 

“Properties and family histories.” 

“What?” 

“I’m searching for properties from the seventies to nineties. Something secluded. Abandoned. My mother has given me a list of territories to search—narrowed down by my father, who is currently using his contacts to narrow further—but the one she thought to have been transferred through the Mendax line is conveniently missing from records.” 

“For Greyback?” 

He nodded. 

“The Resurgence?” 

He shook his head no. “We fear Dolohov’s fully separated at this point. But our adventures in my father’s study have given me clues as to where Rowle and Selwyn had been meeting him. Weasley’s leading the investigation as we speak.” 

Hermione thought about other groups that have proven their involvement, her brow furrowing. “Other werewolves? 

“Most likely.” 

She nodded. “It doesn’t change my goals.” 

“Nor did I expect it to. Trials begin after the New Year?” 

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes.” 

“With only two statements?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“You’ve done more with less,” he said, giving her hand an easy squeeze. He opened his mouth to say more as an antlered stag crashed through the space, Harry’s voice echoing through the ethereal calm. 

“Dolohov has been captured. Nox, Boot and Weasley in medical. All available Aurors report to ministry immediately for interrogation.” 

“So much for Christmas break,” he sighed. “Shall we?” 

“I should go see Ron . . .” He had just been at the gala the evening before, twirling Lavender through the falling snow. Would Lavender have already been notified? Surly Mrs. Weasley would have owled her. Or maybe she had heard through a coworker—Hermione hoped someone had had the decency to inform her. 

“Potter would have sent word separately if the Weasel was in danger,” Draco said reassuringly, seeing the wheels of her mind processing the little information anxiously. 

“Still . . .” He was one of her best friends—she had to see him! 

“Very well,” Draco finally agreed, his voice soft with understanding. “Ministry first, then we’ll find you an escort to visit your ex.” 

A sinking dread filled her and as her hands begun to shake beneath the familiar library table, she wondered, however briefly, if this was the end of the Resurgence . . . or the beginning of the end. 

Chapter Text

Dolohov looked like hell sitting alone in the interrogation room, his face in swollen shades of black and blue, hair long missing from age. The dark wizard scowled through his busted lip—something he had been told was given from Weasley’s fist just before an onslaught of curses brought him down.  

They had found the last of the Resurgence members in a hidden wing of the ancient Dolohov estate. A decrepit building on the outskirts of Moscow, the main house had been hidden by blood magic and tied to the piss-stenched shack Rowle and Selwyn had spent their time holed up in. Draco had had the brilliance, if he did say so himself, to discover the tie after a rather tumultuous pensieve visit with Hermione. After she had had an utter breakdown when the potion failed for the umpteenth time and was whisked away to the library for a heavy dose of calming drought and one of the dusty mystery novels his mother collected, he searched through his own family records, finding similar links to an estate in France—a quaint Chateau he was sure had been long forgotten, but one he planned to fix up as a surprise once all this werewolf business was sorted. With permission from Shacklebolt, he left Hermione in the care of his mother, who was all too happy to keep her company while he went and searched the old ledgers filed away at the ministry, tomes confiscated long ago during Antonin’s first incarceration and the downfall of his lineage.  

Once they convinced a distant cousin to relinquish their blood ties to break the ancient seals, it was all too easy for Ron and his team of Aurors to use the glorified shed to get to Dolohov and his forces. While several of their team were injured in the skirmish, they all made it out with their lives more or less intact. Rowle and Selwyn could not say the same. 

The handful of upper-level members had completed their basic interrogations with little to no information about Greyback or his hideout. Draco had left them to the few others skilled with Legilimency while he escorted his witch to the Weasel’s cramped bedside. He would return to Dolohov after the bastard had time to listen to the screams of his cohorts.  

Ron was asleep when they arrived—comatose, was more accurate—and while Hermione would have stayed until exhaustion and hunger forced her away from his bedside, he was surrounded by loved ones who all promised to update her immediately, allowing them to reluctantly return to the safety of the ministry and the task at hand rather quickly. 

“Brilliant of you not to bring the Toad,” Draco remarked blandly to Auror DuBois later that day as he approached the dank cell, deeply disappointed by the missed opportunity to slug the auror’s ex-assistant, the slimy Wormwell, square in the nose.  

“After your department memo and his prior inappropriate behavior, I found it not quite worth the risk of the death—or incarceration—of a colleague.” 

Draco hummed, a noise somewhere between agreement and disappointment.  

“Shall we?” Auror DuBois gestured toward the cell. 

Draco merely hummed again and strut forward, pushing his shoulders back, drawing himself to his full height as he fixed a scowl upon his face. Antonin likely only remembers Draco as the sniveling teenager, shaking like a leaf whenever the grownups were nearby. There would be no fear inside the rusted prison—not yet, anyway. 

Hermione’s foot tapped impatiently on the smooth tile of her office. A coffee steamed before her, untouched in its paper mug. A second sat beside it, nearly empty after being all but chugged by the Auror sitting across from her. 

“Ron’s going to be okay, Hermione,” Ernie Macmillan soothed from his wheelchair. 

While he had lived, the night of Hermione’s attack had left Ernie mostly paralyzed from the waist down. Healers met with him each week in futile attempts to reconnect the nerves spliced from the Alder matriarch’s severing charm, but as time went on, and the nerves and delicate fibers of his spine cemented into their new normal, it grew less likely they would be successful in regaining his full functionality. 

“I should be there,” she groused, watching him pull the dregs of his stale coffee into a swallow.  

“If there were any Aurors available, you know Malfoy would have let you stay at Mungo’s with them. We've been getting picked off like flies since McLaggen. I'm lucky to be alive.  I could have ended up barbecued like Hopkirk.” 

Hermione winced at the image. She had heard the autopsy identified the unknown male body, kidnapped and charred beyond recognition at the Alder house, as Auror Hopkirk. While not always agreeable—especially when paired with his past partner, McLaggen—Hopkirk was a damn good worker and took his cases seriously. It was likely Draco had initially ordered the man on babysitting duty for that reason. It was also the reason Fillian and his now terminated gang of wolves had to remove him from the picture, instead allowing Macmillan and a faulty line of communication to open his way into her house. 

She was quiet for a moment; a contemplative silence as she dwelled on how her actions, her choices, have hurt so many. She tried not to linger too long on the man before her or the way his arms shook as he rolled the chair across the room. “How are interrogations going?” 

“I haven't heard much, but Harry sent a memo at lunch that the remainder of the Resurgence factions have been rounded up by the French ministry. So, I'd assume quite productive.” 

“Good . . . That’s good,” she said absently. “Any word on the others?” 

He gave his head a small jerk. “Not really. Nox has come to a bit, but they haven’t been able to stop the bleeding from Dolohov’s curse. Boot needed three fingers amputated from a necrotizing hex and Lovegood thinks every potions lesson he ever took has been wiped clean from his mind. Rose has been beside him every day. Most of us thought she was going to leave him the moment she was out of Mungo’s, but she’s been absolutely beside herself over it. I think she actually loves the bloke!”  

He added the last bit in utter disbelief, a small chuckle escaping his lips. But Hermione could only focus on his omission of Ron. Ernie, being the Auror that he was, didn’t need a verbal question to know she would push for her answers. 

“You’ll know before I do when he wakes up, Hermione,” he said softly, trying to lessen the blow but unaware it fell on her like the weight of his new life. 

A pit formed in her stomach as she offered him a grave nod.  

Ernie’s wheelchair. Rose’s identity. Terry’s fingers. Hopkirk’s life. Ron . . . 

She couldn't imagine what fate would steal from Draco for being tied to her. 

The weight leadened inside her, churning around in unease as she fed it with self-loathing. Had this all been her fault? 

Yes, that inner voice whispered, reminding her that this all began because of her foolish mistakes. Because of her incompetence.  

Hermione slammed the book she had been staring at down on the table. The chair screeched across the floor as she stood. Ignoring the confused look on Ernie’s face, she grabbed her bag and charged from her office, oblivious to the huffed scolding following her. Ernie nearly missed the elevator as it closed behind her, his arms shaking from his inexperience wheeling the chair. 

“Bloody Hell, Hermione, at least give me a heads up before you flee from me!” 

“Forgive me, Ernie. You should ask one of your healers to charm your chair. I’m sure Luna knows the linking spell.” 

“Why’re you rushing off, anyway?” 

“It’s nearly five. I know Draco won’t be done yet, but I can’t just sit around doing nothing while Ron’s in the hospital.” 

The small scrap of fabric Draco had chosen to soak the blood from his hands barely wiped him clean before its stains grew too saturated. Dolohov, to his credit, held up far longer than either Auror had anticipated before the thick walls and twisted mazes of his occlumency crumbled. 

Dr. DuBois sat wide-eyed in her chair across from the crumpled death eater. “Will he . . . live?” 

“I suspect so. Be sure to let your associate know the depravity I’m willing to steep to. In case he had any notions of pursuing Granger again after so long.”  

She ignored him. “Do you think his memories were altered? Or . . . do you really think that’s where . . .” 

“I’m positive they were accurate.” DuBois shuttered beside him. “I’m just not entirely certain where they were.” 

“We should make a list of properties large enough to hide such a place.” 

“Already done. My father assisted in compiling a short list.” 

“Y-your father? Lucius?!” 

“Yes.” 

“And can we narrow it down based on the atrocities we just witnessed?” 

Severed limbs strewn across overgrown cages. Blood dried and flaking off broken terrariums. A man with a snarling muzzle foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog as a door locks between them. Dolohov had many memories of the zoo Greyback currently called home—and the savagery his demented brain was having him commit—but the location had been wiped clean. Draco had a feeling Fillian was behind that touch of concealment.  

“Very little.” Draco leaned against the grimy wall as Dolohov groaned on the floor in the corner. He may have taken the interrogation a bit too far this time and Harry was likely not to allow him with prisoners again, but it was worth it to ferret out the remaining factions and the little info they could on the werewolf's location. “But I know someone who may be able to help.” 

“Who?” 

He shook his head and pushed off the wall. “Don’t worry about it, DuBois. Thank you for your help today. I’m sure the department will need your assistance further while our ranks continue to heal.” 

She nodded, only slightly put off by his bored dismissal.  

Draco opened the cell door as a pair of footsteps clattered urgently down the hall, reminding him of the bleeding man in the corner. “Hear that? Potter’s already sent the cavalry. Cheer up, DuBois, no dead death eaters on your hands.” 

But as he closed the door, Draco realized that what should have been the sounds of several rubber soles rushing into action, was actually only the one pair and a faint squeak of a tire against the damp cobblestone. Hermione rounded into view, a determined look pinching her face. Ernie wheeled closely behind her, keeping enough distance for the pretense of privacy. 

“What on Earth are you doing down here?” he scolded, his tone more biting than usual after his afternoon with Dolohov. 

“I can’t just sit in that bloody office anymore! I won’t!”  

He noticed the slight tremor in her voice, the way her hands perched defiantly on her hips, already expecting a fight. But it had been a long day, and while he normally loved Hermione’s enthusiasm, he was tired and needed her focused for what he was about to ask of her.  

Draco brushed a clean finger across her cheek before tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She softened beneath his touch, the simmering embers of her own fatigue dying down to warmed coals.  

“Let’s discuss it at the manor,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek and savoring the lingering scent of her perfume after a day in the musty cells. When he pulled away, a small red smear stained the spaces between her freckles like an omen. 

“The manor?” she asked, stunned. 

Draco stared at the red smear. With a gentle hand, he brushed it away, taking with it the visions that flashed through his mind. “Yes. I am in need of a pensieve and a brilliant witch to lead me in the proper direction.” 

She blushed beneath his touch, and he remembered what the color red ought to look like on her cheeks. “I am a far cry from a detective, Draco.” 

“Quid pro quo, Granger. I’m helping you with your potion, it’s only fair you help me, too.” 

“I never said no,” she smirked. “But we’re going to see Ron first.” 

“Nothing has changed since we left, Hermione. We were promised to be informed immediately if anything changes.” 

“Yes, but I won’t be able to focus on anything else. He’s one of my best friends, Draco, and I was there for less than twenty minutes. I should be there. I need to be there!” 

Draco sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll visit the pensieve first thing in the morning.” 

*     *     *

“Everything okay?” Draco asked Hermione from outside the hospital room. The door was closed, Ron sitting comatose just inside. They had been staring at the yellowed wood and stainless hardware for far too long and Draco had run out of signs to read waiting for his witch to knock. 

“Yes.” 

“We could leave,” he offered gently. “Let Ginny and Lavender sit with him. Let Harry send an update when he wakes up.” 

“Thank you, Draco, but no. I need to be here.” 

Hermione reached out for the handle, but he grabbed her wrist to pause her. “None of this is your fault, Hermione,” he said.  

She didn’t look up as she said, “I know.”  

Her small voice fractured his chest and lingered in the hollowed crevice. Surely, she knew—she had to know—that this wasn't her fault.  

“Hermione—” he started, but she was already turning the handle. 

Or . . . someone was turning it. The door opened briskly to Astoria Greengrass standing beside Daphne and Theo.  

“Draco!” Astoria said in surprise, shooting a smug look to where Hermione had slid into the room. She greeted Theo with a gentle hi and he returned it with a slight squeeze of her shoulder. Daphne looked torn between embarrassment and true devastation. 

“Story,” Draco greeted back. 

“You two go on without me,” Astoria said, waving off her sister. “I have some business with Draco while he’s here.” 

“No need, Astoria. We can communicate through more official means if you have issues regarding business.” 

“You’re right, Draco. I could set up a private dinner at a well-known restaurant, pull you away from guard dog duty and send a tip to the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter’s headlines would certainly keep my family from forcing less than suitable marriages on me for at least a month. And after this morning’s headline it would be quite the scandal.” 

“This morning’s . . .”  

Draco hadn’t paid any attention to a newspaper since his father’s incarceration, spare the blips Rita had tried to incorporate about Hermione. They had a habit of trampling his mother’s name and he only had so much patience and willpower to spare for the parasites that wrote them. Regardless, he usually knew when he had made the news and in this case, he had done nothing newsworthy.  

“You must have been too busy with the death eaters to notice, as usual,” she bit. 

“Spit it out, Astoria.” 

The witch rolled her eyes. “You and Hermione. Two star-crossed lovers absorbed in each other at a swanky charity gala, reconnected after all this time. Spending a long weekend together in the romantic, falling snow of Hogsmeade, holding hands at a grimy pub, reading your books without a care in the world. It’s rather sweet you didn’t notice the photographer. It was quite the headline this morning, considering as far as any of the papers were concerned, we were betrothed.” 

Astoria followed her statement up with a smile and an unbecoming gagging noise which would have made him chuckle when they were younger, each running around trying to see who could woo a witch faster. Astoria had always been much more adept at taking witches to bed than he had been, winning most of said bets while their parents dreamed of romance between the two heirs. 

“Fucking Prophet,” he cursed. He didn’t mind the world knowing he had wooed this particular witch, but he would have preferred to have had it confirmed on their terms, long after the prosecution of her terrorizers. Though, he supposed he should have expected some form of gossip considering the photographers that had been removed shortly after his mother’s Christmas toast. 

“Yes. And you could imagine the field day they would have with a story if they thought you were playing the field with their precious Golden Girl.” 

Draco glanced at Hermione, who had settled in beside a tired-eyed Lavender. “Fine. Briefly.” 

Astoria smiled delicately, pleased with herself for winning. This was why their negotiations took so long—she wouldn’t settle until she had won.  

When they reached a small, empty break room, she began. “I have a proposal for our foundation.” 

“Grand. This couldn't have been written in a letter?” 

“Maybe. But since you’re here.” 

“And what is this proposal?” 

“There’s two, actually. The first is that I would like us to formally back Hermione’s werewolf project. I have on good authority that it will pass the wizengamot hearing based solely on her discussions at your mother’s dinner party, and I would like to be on the side of the angels before it goes to trial.” 

“Done. Obviously I was already in full support of that, and it requires nothing monetary from the funds set aside for other organizations, so I don’t see why you needed to discuss—” 

“I have one more.” 

Draco sighed. “Fine. What is it.” 

“There are several families affected by her other laws. The ones regarding blood status and our family’s outdated traditions.” 

“And?” 

Astoria cleared her throat. “I am in full support of many of her changes. You know that I am, Draco. But the lingering effects of dismantling our system could be detrimental to many families.” 

“These changes are good, Story.” 

“Yes! They are magnificent!” Her voice broke. Draco could see the passion she so rarely let show. Whatever this was about, it meant a great deal to her. “But there are so many witches and wizards whose entire way of thinking is being uprooted. Do you remember what that felt like?” 

Draco thought back to his days at Hogwarts. Every train ride back to Hogwarts. Every test score, every battle, every corner of his youth proving that blood status meant nothing. “Of course I remember. What are you proposing?” 

“I would like to provide a space for those affected by the change in laws to seek help. Whether it's a place to learn about muggle life, or a place they seek mind healers after a lifetime of servitude under their husband.” 

Draco nodded. “How is your mother?” 

“Not great,” she whispered. “She and my father aren’t planning divorce yet, but she has had to unpack nearly thirty years of being unable to deny him. My father, then, has had the realization he’s been practically raping the love of his life occasionally for their entire marriage. He had no idea my grandparents had written those vows into their marriage—not until Theo showed up, at least.” 

Draco couldn’t imagine what a lifetime of that would be like; what it would be like to find out it was happening to his mother would be entirely heartbreaking. “The foundation sounds good, Story.” 

She smiled at him. “I hope it will be good. I would like to include a way for pureblood families to lessen their grudges, as well. Maybe create a mentorship program. A muggleborn student, and even their family, could stay with a pureblood family during the summer prior to their first year. Maybe vice versa as well.” 

“We’ll discuss details next week and sort out where we can spare finances. Send an owl to my mother to set up a lunch.” 

“Thank you for making this easy, Draco. I’m quite glad we merged our resources.” 

“Me, too.” Draco thought of Hermione’s frustration when she found out they had not been negotiating marriage but business. “We might have done well to have cleared up the tabloid rumours sooner, however.” 

She laughed sharply as they followed the hall back to Ron’s room. “Yes. Next time I’ll be sure to be more transparent. It was just so much fun that I often forgot that not everyone was in on our little inside joke.” They reached the room. “I thought you would certainly have told Granger at the first opportunity. It was quite entertaining watching the brightest witch of Hogwarts work through everyone’s innuendos. And I must admit, seeing the flush over her cheeks when she grew flustered was quite attractive. I finally see why you pined for her for so long." 

Draco wasn’t quite sure when she would have had an opportunity to weave such innuendos, but let it go, saying, “It seemed inconsequential at first.” 

Astoria hummed in response. “You won’t make that mistake again, I’m certain.” 

“I won’t make several mistakes again.” 

They parted, leaving Draco to enter the dimly lit room alone. Lavender sat beside the youngest Weasley, holding tightly to a hand that seemed to be moving. Hermione held the other, a smile bright across her face. While he hadn’t woken up, Ron was moaning incoherently.  

Why are they happy about that god awful sound, he wondered. 

Then, he realized it wasn’t quite as incoherent as he originally thought. He was saying a word—just one word. A name, really.  

“Lav,” Ron mumbled from the bed, his lips barely moving with the gargle of noise.  

“Thank Merlin,” Harry breathed, suddenly beside him. 

“Is he waking up?” Draco asked. 

“I don’t bloody know but the last time those two surrounded his hospital bed, he started saying Hermione’s name. It was a nightmare. Dumbledore was quite pleased, though.” 

Harry stepped forward, giving Ginny a long, gentle kiss to her temple and Hermione stood, relinquishing her chair to him. “Keep me updated. Please,” she asked the group. 

“You’ll be one of the first to know,” Lavender promised with a wet smile.  

Draco pulled the silvery films from his mind and sank them into his father’s pensieve first thing the following morning. The images swirled around them as they returned to late summer, the blazing sun overhead casting stark shadows across the abandoned park. Large cages rusted around them as they followed Dolohov through the maze of attractions, each prison cell marked by overgrown foliage and the stench of hot decay. 

“How long has this place been closed down?” Hermione asked in a whisper, taking in the scene. 

“Not sure. At least since the eighties, possibly earlier. We have nearly a dozen possible locations across the continent.” 

“I see.” She cringed as they passed an old cage with a tree growing through the center. Ropes stretched and frayed toward the ground—a primate habitat. Attached to one of the limbs hung its only inhabitant: a muggle man moaning in agony, half alive, strung up like a tire swing. His lower body mauled, bleeding over the trampled wildflowers as he slightly swayed. 

Dolohov moved on quickly, heading toward a large concrete building. Painted words in blue and green faded and peeled from the side.  

Draco had recognized the reptile house from McLaggen’s memories. The memory cut off just as they stepped inside to the shrill screams of a woman and the snarling laugh of a monster. 

“Why’d you pull us out?” Hermione snapped at him. 

“There’s nothing relevant beyond that.” 

“Don’t you dare ask me to review something as a peer and then censor it! I am not a child! I am not some . . . some withering woman who can’t stand the sight of blood!” 

“I know, Granger!” He was losing his patience. “I have skimmed that memory from top to bottom! There is nothing but concrete and blood beyond those doors.” 

“You asked for my help.”  

He stared at the determined set of her features, growing ever the more vexed as she stubbornly waited for him to concede. “Fine! Scar yourself with those images, but I'm not bloody going back in!” 

Hermione turned on her heel and plunged herself back into the memory. 

“Fuck!” he hissed, knowing somewhere, distantly, she could still hear him. “I’m not pulling you out of any nightmares because of this!” 

Hermione pulled herself from the pensieve not long after, her face ashen, eyes muted and voice hollow. He had told her there was nothing beyond that point but grief, yet she chose to go anyway! So why did he still feel guilty? 

“I told you it there was nothing—” 

“Actually,” she interrupted, a spark returning to her eyes. “I may have an idea.” 

Hermione twisted her hair back around her wand, giving the small piece of wood a strange, expectant look as she led him towards the greenhouse and explained, “There was a sign in the corner of the main atrium, half hidden behind . . . well, behind his pile . . .” 

“Ah. Greyback’s pile of flesh that I tried to warn you about? The one with rotting limbs and carcasses so decomposed you can’t tell what’s furred or skinned?” 

She glared at him. For good reason, he supposed, but he was still worn from the previous day and the thought of Hermione’s hellscapes returning because of his own incompetence grated on him.  

“Yes, Malfoy. That pile.”  

Draco tried not to flinch at their return to surnames. She’d hardly noticed, returning quickly to their march through the greenhouse.  

“Tucked behind that pile was a sign—the kind that would be set outside of an attraction—with a large bird on it. A Mauritius Kestrel, to be exact.” 

“Study a lot of birds, do you?” 

“No. Ornithology has never been one of my pursuits,” she answered back, missing his attempt to lighten the mood. “But the species name was written in rather bold letters and boasted of its rarity. If it were an endangered species at the time, we can narrow down which zoos had them in captivity.” Hermione opened the greenhouse doors and headed straight for the far end, walking haphazardly through his mother’s favorite roses. “There were also mounds of a wildflower I didn’t automatically recognize. I figure if we identify the species and its native region, we’ll be able to narrow down your search considerably. Of course, we’ll need to know the month of the year this visit took place in order to correctly identify the blooms. I’ll need all the information I can get to single out one common wildflower in the whole world.” 

“Not the whole world, just Europe.” Draco pulled a large text from the small working bookshelf in the humid room. “But I should be able to acquire that information as soon as the bastard is alive again.” 

“Alive again . . .?” 

“Figuratively.” 

“Ah—so does that mean—” 

Hermione was cut off by the sound of Harry shouting through the manor and Dolly’s crack of apparition into the office. 

“Mr. Potter is rather urgently calling for Master Draco through the floo,” she said politely. “He says there has been a breach at the ministry. Miss Granger’s office has been broken into. Ransacked, his head says.”