Chapter Text
The stadium was still mostly empty as they climbed the stands. They passed custodial staff and Cursebreakers, already hard at work in preparation for the game later that evening. Outside, tents stretched over hills as far as the eye could see, dotted about with colourful banners. Draco could hear songs and the pop of premature fireworks fizzing against the too bright sky.
Ginny looked pleasantly surprised to see them. “Hello, you two. What are you doing here?”
“We need a favour,” Granger explained.
“Name it.”
Granger went around the presenter’s desk and took the vacant seat next to Ginny, lowering her voice so they wouldn’t be overheard. “You’re doing pre-match interviews. We need you to stall one of the England players by any means possible.”
Ginny’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Fucking hell, Hermione.” This was a sentiment Malfoy often shared. “And here’s me thinking you wanted me to sneak you box tickets. Why are you asking? I’ll help, obviously, just- who?”
“Fabian Dieter-Collins,” Granger whispered. Malfoy looked casually around the room, yet no one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention.
“Oh, that twat. Well, you can’t. He hates interviews and goes around with more personal security than Kingsley himself, and that’s before we take into account the additional failsafes Puddlemere assigned him. He’s worth millions of galleons. Every second of every hour of his day is accounted for.”
Granger drew closer. “There must be an opening.”
“Ginevra!” A bearded man barked, thrusting a sheaf of parchment at her. “Why haven’t I received the draft for your column?”
“Get fucked,” said Ginny curtly.
The man’s eyes bulged comically. “I don’t appreciate that language, or your tone. I’ve got enough going on without having to deal with your delays as well.”
“I’ll give you the draft after I’ve had a chance to see the match, you hairy ballsack. Now off you fuck, I’m busy.” And Ginny just stared the unfortunate man down until he left them alone. Malfoy didn’t think they’d get interrupted again any time soon. “If there is a way to stall Dieter-Collins, I wouldn’t know how.”
“Bullshit.”
"Maybe if I were willing to show him my tits-”
“Ginny!” Granger gasped as Draco tried to bite down on a chuckle.
“What else am I supposed to do here?”
“Don’t give me that, you’re not fooling me for a minute. The twins might have achieved legendary status at Hogwarts for sneaking around and breaking the rules, but that’s only because you were that much more careful not to get caught.”
“I’m retired from risky behaviour. Shenanigan-free,” Ginny admonished.
“As if.”
“I’m a mother of two.” The protest was weak.
“What does that have to do with anything? You’re still you. And Dieter-Collins is a twat. Wouldn’t you like to see if it can be done?”
Ginny started to gather her paperwork into her briefcase, speeding past resignation to plotting. “How much can you tell me?”
“We need time to run a search of his house, but we’re meant to be tailing him for security. We’re planning on sneaking off during interviews,” Malfoy explained.
“I can maybe pull a few tricks. Get you half an hour, maybe a little more.”
Half an hour. Malfoy and Granger exchanged a look. “We need longer. As long as you can give us.”
“It’s shit that you got lumbered with protecting him,” Ginny commented, “but you’re Aurors going about your business. Can’t you get a warrant and run a search anyway?”
They followed her out of the office. “It’s complicated. Let’s find somewhere quieter and I’ll explain,” Granger said. Malfoy was about to follow her and Ginny when he saw a potential complication coming straight at them.
He intercepted it. “David.” The American liaison’s surname slipped his mind entirely; Draco knew it was something boring. Fortunately the man looked every inch a Dave, from the tip of his polished dress shoes to the carefully coiffed black hair.
“Auror Malfoy. Here early to catch the game?”
“Strictly on assignment, I’m afraid.” That being said, he had every intention of making it back in time to catch it.
“A pity. I would have asked for an introduction to your partner,” David nodded towards where the two women had her heads down in heated discussion. “She seems like such a kind, sweet woman.”
"Oh no, you’re mistaken. My partner’s Granger.”
Dave the liaison smiled, showing artificially white teeth. “I’m sure I’ll have a chance to get to know her better at some point. It’s a two year posting, after all.”
Draco was hit by an intense and immediate dislike for the man. “Right. We should be getting on, do enjoy the game.” And he went to find his partner before he cursed the man’s teeth back to their natural shape and set off some sort of international incident in the process.
~*~
Gertie met them outside the manor’s grounds, her hands shaking as she let them in the wards. “How long do we have?”
“Less than what we would like. Where have you previously looked?” Malfoy took in the sheer size of the place. Since they had no idea what type of evidence they were likely to find, this was going to be like picking a unicorn hair from a white horses’ mane.
“Everywhere, I think. Fabian’s office, his bedroom, the attic-”
Granger interrupted. “He wouldn’t have kept it there, it would have been too obvious. Are there any vaults or hidden rooms?”
“No. Or, if there are, I wasn’t told about them,” Gertie admitted.
“The time frame is too tight to go on a wild goose chase. We’ll get a headstart on the rooms you haven’t searched through and go from there.”
They tore through the house as fast as they could, checking everything from the underside of the rugs to the chimney flue. Malfoy aimed regular Revelio spells at the walls and doors just in case they decided to lead somewhere interesting, but the house remained just as big, dull and hideous.
“Malfoy!” He found Granger and Gertie out on the patio, going through photos. “There was a cache right there, under the garden chair.”
Draco reviewed the different snaps. They all depicted the same woman as she lingered on the balcony of Dieter-Collins’ room, read a book by a sunny window or walked by the gazebo in the back gardens. There was a sense of loneliness there, of long hours spent in uneasy solitude. Worst still, at no point did it look as if Estelle was aware that her likeness was being captured. “This is creepy.”
Beside him, Gertie had gone very quiet. “Seeing her like this is-” her voice cut off with a choked sob. “I’d forgotten some of her mannerisms.”
Malfoy drew away, leaving her to go through the photos in her own time. Granger, in the meantime, was working on a rectangle of wood no longer than the palm of her hand. “Puzzle box,” she explained. “If we can figure out the weakness, we should be able to open it.” They tried dowsing it in water, singing an incantation and passing it over a small magical fire, all to no avail. Then, with a flourish, Granger conjured a mirror and turned it very slowly until Draco saw the unmistakable shape of a keyhole. “Perfect.”
“We haven’t got a key.”
“When have we ever needed a key?”
Granger was right, of course, yet it took them precious minutes before wooden joints pulled themselves apart to reveal the contents. Her hands were filled with curled and crinkled bits of parchment, dried flowers and a dainty necklace, a silver teardrop pendant dangling from it.
Malfoy started to go through some of the notes. “This isn’t what I was expecting. ‘ My favourite thoughts are those of you, even when I don’t want them to be.’
Granger showed him a different one, written in a different, more jagged hand, and read out: ‘Thank you for sitting with me last night. You’re the only person I feel like I can be myself with.’”
“‘I’ll wait up for you. You better make it.’”
“‘I’m so proud of you. Of everything that you are. You are so important, and you are so cherished.’ Two distinct sets of handwriting,” Granger noted.
“Listen to this: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You have to stay away, and so will I. I mean it.’ This one almost reads like a threat.”
“Or a plea.”
They continued going through the slips of paper, one by one.
“‘Could there ever be a happy ending to a bad start? Maybe in another time, or another place, and, if so, why are we stuck here, slowly suffocating?’”
“‘You give meaning to my days. Time isn’t minutes or hours, it’s the gaps between seeing you and having you see me.’”
“‘How was I ever meant to love someone else?’”
At Draco’s words, Hermione’s eyes found his and held them, just for a moment.
Then Gertie was between them, examining the notes. “I can’t tell if it’s Estelle’s handwriting. It might be. But this is definitely one of hers,” she held up the silver teardrop necklace. “She was the best silversmith.”
“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked, seeing Granger examine the necklace more closely.
“I’m not sure yet. But I think I know where to get some answers.”
~*~
“I thought you’d been called away,” Emsworth told them as they entered the viewing suite. The place was crawling with players’ friends and family as they mingled with dignitaries and celebrities. Malfoy spotted the Minister of Magic and moved to stay well out of sight.
“There was something we needed to look into. It couldn’t wait,” Granger explained.
On the field, the opening show was wrapping up. Thousands of fans shouted and clapped and sung, their voices rising in an almighty din for the players’ entrance.
The master of ceremonies took over, calling out the names for England. “Playing on their home field, we have Geraghty, Mulciber, Carron-”
“That should have been Fabian,” Emsworth interrupted. “He would have been the highest scoring chaser, if it hadn’t been for his stint in rehab.”
“Worst of all, it doesn’t seem to have taken.”
Emsworth didn’t even blink. “He is under a tremendous amount of pressure.” A shrill whistle pierced the air and the crowd roared as fourteen players kicked hard. The game had started.
“You wouldn’t be much of an agent if you weren’t looking out for his interests, after all. Do you think you would feel differently if foul play had been proven, the night Estelle got hurt?”
“It’s ancient history, and he sat a trial and the Wizengamot passed their judgement. He’s suffered enough.” Malfoy slid one of the slips of parchment they’d found from his pocket and, consciously or not, Emsworth drew back. “Those are none of your business.”
“‘ I see the way he speaks to you, the way he treats you, and I just sit there in silence. It makes me feel like the worst of cowards,’” Granger read out. “I think the question is, are these your business?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We found the necklace.” When Emsworth refused to say anything, lips pale and pressed together, Granger continued, “It matches the one you’re wearing.”
Emsworth touched his collar again, staring around. “Estelle was a well known artist and jewelcrafter in her own right. A lot of people wear her pieces.”
Granger showed him the matching pendant and Malfoy thought he could spot pain in the other man’s face. His partner twisted it once, twice - and segments separated from the whole, opening to reveal a small sun. “It’s a clever little way for her to wear your token, Apollo. Does yours turn into a small star, I wonder?”
“Foul!” cried the master of ceremonies, even as the referee waved off the players crowding around him. Dieter-Collins was among them, voicing a protest at the referee before he flew off at speed and, full of malicious intent, almost collided with one of the Senegalese players.
“Fabian doesn’t strike me as an understanding man,” Malfoy entreated.
“If you spend your whole life being told how exceptional you are, you start seeing the world as it revolves around you, and everyone else as set pieces instead of real human beings,” Emsworth said.
“Is that what he did to you and Estelle? Put you in your boxes only to bring you out when he felt like it?” Granger asked, not unkindly.
Emsworth seemed to be done talking.
“You loved her,” Malfoy insisted. “Why didn’t you come forward after the accident? This would have been proof that Fabian had a motive.”
“Dieter-Collins does it again!” the master of ceremonies boomed. “Unstoppable! England in the lead, seventy to forty, and the game is just getting started.”
“We can take this evidence to the DMLE and have the case reopened,” Granger explained. “It’s not too late.”
“No. No, it- it was an accident. It was. Truly,” Emsworth swallowed thickly. “It was so, so very stupid. We should never have gotten involved. The whole thing spun out of control, it should have never happened.”
Malfoy’s gaze was drawn by the insane uptick in noise and he saw Dieter-Collins make a brilliant pass, spinning between two Senegalese players in a corkscrew with a one-handed hold as if it were nothing. For him, it wasn’t, of course.
Which is why the accident had never made sense.
“It wasn’t Fabian on the broom with Estelle that night, was it, Apollo?” Malfoy asked.
Emsworth stared down at where his hands were clutching at the knees of his robes. “When he saw what happened, he asked me to get him some firewhiskey and said he’d handle it. Just sent me back to the house, as if he’d known all along. Maybe he had. And it probably saved my career,” he sighed, painfully. “If it were me standing judgement, I’d get Azkaban for five years or more. Because it was Fabian and he’s such a star…”
“He got a slap on the wrist,” Granger finished for him.
“Some days, I think he did it to protect me, out of loyalty. But some days, I think… I think he knows it will keep me with him forever.”
“Is that why you Cursed his jersey?” Malfoy asked.
Emsworth shook his head. “That was Gigi.” Even Granger looked aghast, but the agent seemed adamant. “You should go see her, she’ll admit to it eventually. It’s like I said, we’re all just set pieces, and when you have his attention he can make you feel like the most important person in the world. When you don’t… Let’s just say some of us deal with that better than others.”
“And Senegal pinch the victory right out from under England with an incredible finish by Seeker Diop! What a game! It will go down in History as one of the shortest finals in the last two hundred years,” the master of ceremonies announced.
Malfoy sighed. “Get out of that house, Emsworth. Make sure you speak to Gertie. She deserves to know what happened to her sister.” Granger and Malfoy slipped out, intent on avoiding the mass exodus. “Technically, I think we’re still supposed to be protecting Dieter-Collins.”
“In Ginny’s inimitable words, he can get fucked,” Granger told him. “Detestable asshole.”
“Detestable assholes deserve protection, too.”
“From me, they might,” she agreed.
~*~
Malfoy’s south facing spare room was sweltering, as it had a tendency to retain heat anytime the British sun decided it could be bothered to make an appearance.
Draco and Hermione circled each other on the mat, feet gripping the cushioned sponge after each careful step. They tracked every little movement, every bend of the knee and flicker of the wrist.
Their wands were tucked away by the door alongside their towels, water bottles and a First Aid Potion Kit. Wandless magic, limited as it was on Malfoy’s side, was strictly off limits. This was just them - bare knuckled, keen eyed and raring to go.
Granger feinted, then lunged for a kick - quick and well aimed; he'd successfully trained her out of telegraphing her attacks - and he had to take the brunt of it on his forearm to protect his side. He tried to get in close but she danced out of his reach. They both knew his strength and stature meant that, if she'd let him have her, it would be game over.
So to speak.
"You're puffing a bit today," Hermione noted.
"It's too hot in here."
"No, it's lovely," she protested, rolling her shoulders, and he took the opportunity to aim a jab, which she dodged, and a low kick, which she didn't. "It's so much better to train without all those layers."
Was it better?
For Granger, very likely so. She normally had to layer up about five different jumpers to avoid freezing to death.
For Draco, though, it was a strange form of torture. That tiny little compression garment she wore as a top was back, taunting him with that zipper right between her breasts, and fuck if his eyes didn't snag on it over and over again.
If he didn't get his shit together, Granger was going to give him a black eye. Again . And he'd deserve it.
Just as he thought it, Granger went for a grab and dropped a quick knee, almost bringing him down on his face before he tucked and rolled, pulling her along. They each fought for purchase, dodging attempts at getting pinned.
He hated the feeling of her wriggling against him. Hated it, loathed it, longed for it.
Fou de toi. It was madness, all because of her. For her.
He caught both her legs between his and received a jab at his shoulder instead of his jaw, made a grab for Hermione's hand midair and pulled her body into his. Her shoulders nestled against his chest, he crowed, "I win."
And then, as unexpectedly as lightning, he felt a sharp pain on his forearm. Draco was so shocked, so completely unprepared, that he dropped her immediately.
"You bit me."
Granger only shrugged. "You let your guard down."
"Oh we're biting now, are we?”
“You wouldn’t.” Her eyes flashed.
“You shouldn’t have bitten a wolf, Granger.”
Draco all but dove for her, cushioning her fall as he sunk his teeth playfully on the slope of her trapezius. She chuckled against him, and he did it again, mesmerised by the scent of her sweaty skin, her body against his on the floor.
His grip on her changed, a playful threat no longer, as he traced smooth skin under his mouth: the hollows of her neck, the dip between her collarbones that rose and fell with her quickened breaths.
She was intoxicating.
Hermione moved, angling him differently, one of her hands on his nape close to where his hair was tied, and he was kissing her.
Yes.
This is what he had been craving. Nothing like the travesty on the rooftop but a slow, consuming rolling of lips and tongues, her sweet sighs swallowed by more kisses.
Yes. He filled his hands with the curve of her hips and dug his fingers in, bringing her close, and she only moaned. This is what he’d been wanting, and he’d make it good.
He was going to enjoy her, and break himself just a little to do so - but oh, would it be worth it. So very worth it.
It was glorious.
It was a disaster.
His body was twisting out of his control, flesh seeking flesh as he palmed all that beautiful skin of her sides - delicate, careful; this was her, and every inch of her was precious - in slow, tender touches up to her ribcage.
Draco wouldn’t open his eyes, because opening his eyes meant he wouldn’t be kissing her, and that wasn’t an acceptable loss. He let her draw in little breaths from time to time before diving right back in, drowning.
His thumbs caressed the softness just below the curve of her little sports bra, then underneath it, and she moaned.
Oh Merlin, yes. He was sure of it, then: the sex was going to be astonishing.
Unbidden, his touches grew bolder, and Hermione let her head fall back just for a moment, open mouthed. She kissed his neck, her thighs falling open to better cradle his own. Draco was so hard it made him lightheaded, sending his body trembling. She bit him again, on the neck this time - the insouciant witch - and soothed it with a lick. A kiss.
The sex was going to be sublime.
There was a rightness and a rapture to being able to kiss her like this, to savour her lips and her tongue against his, to feel the slide of her body.
Hermione , he whispered into her mouth.
They could have sex. Draco could - would - make it good. He’d enjoy nothing more than making her come, over and over again, with zealous, obsessive fervour. The image of all that hair spilled over his bedding, draped over his skin, clutched in his fingers - had consumed him for weeks. Months.
They could-
He couldn’t.
He broke their kiss - a sacrilege - with a sigh and too many regrets to count.
Draco’s once grand youthful ambitions had shrunk to what he had tentatively achieved: a home that was safe, a life that wasn’t fraught or painful, a chance to pursue his calling. Lasting peace.
Anything else was more than he deserved or had earned, a risk too far, and would wreck everything for the both of them.
Nevermind what he wanted, nevermind what he felt - whatever that might be. Best not to prod at that wound, lest he find it deeper than what could be healed.
Hermione’s hands were still in his hair. Her pupils were wide, skin flushed, her lips angry red and wet from nips of his mouth.
He touched the pad of his thumb to her jaw as words failed him, as if the touch would best convey his inner turmoil. “This isn’t clever. We’re supposed to be clever.”
The yearning between them was so strong as to be a palpable, crackling presence.
And, even then, Draco waited to see what Hermione would do. There was a part of him that hoped for her stubborn defiance to rear its head, for her to pull his mouth down to hers again and deal with the consequences later, whatever may come.
She did not.
Air between them, and she wasn’t in his arms anymore, but across the room. “Damn you, Malfoy.” She looked like she could kiss him or set him on fire. Maybe both. He winced. “Damn you for making me be the one to pull away.”
And the door shut behind her, sealing him in silence.
That was the last time Granger visited his flat.
There were no more sweaty sparring sessions, or working well into the evenings, takeaway containers from Grace’s sharing space with reports on his kitchen table. There were no more long walks with Cassie, or getting coffee from their favourite place at the edge of the park.
In the weeks that followed, their partnership shrank back to its roots - to the work, to the hours in the office or out on assignment. Everything else that had grown and bloomed unattended, wild and beautiful, between them, was left to wither.
He was Malfoy, and she was Granger, and that was all.