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Chapter Text

Malfoy approached the property - and, at least for the day, his puzzle to solve - the same way he did everything else: with calculating suspicion and great flair.

The great manor stuck out of the lonely moor like a broken, decayed tooth, all wreathed in lingering fog like so much bad breath. Ancient and exuding abandonment, it rose up five stories high, complete with a turret wrapped in thickly overgrown ivy.

He went straight for the turret. Because, of course he did. When it came to secreting anything valuable, illegal or a combination thereof, people gravitated to basements, lofts (the dingier and dustier, the better) or, if at all available, architectural features reminiscent of an Evil Villain’s lair. It was only natural, bordering on an inevitability. After all, what was the point of hidden passageways or sliding bookcases if you didn’t have something illicit tucked away on the other end?

The heavy baroque doors swung in to admit him, the hinges made silent and smooth by a Lubricating Charm. It felt a bit of a betrayal of style. Doors that heavy were meant to groan and shudder their way open, yet needs must. 

Draco had a quick shufty, his detection charm coming up clear, and made his way up the spiral staircase. The ascent was slow and measured enough to test for tricks and traps before committing his full weight, even as his eyes scanned the mould-darkened walls to find nothing more nefarious than the occasional cobweb.

The very next step, he was plunged into darkness and there was a feeling of perilous, knife-edge weightlessness. The candlelit sconces flared to life, only the flame was upside down and all evidence pointed to him currently standing on the overhanging underside of the stairs. Beyond up and down (which, warped as they seemed to be, were still the conventional directions), the steps also seemed to lead to the side.

A look to his left had Malfoy facing his own ankles. He did not look up. Or, as it may be, down.

“This is more like it,” he whispered to himself, oddly reassured. He’d walked in expecting the most fiendish and crafty bits of archaic magic imaginable. Disconcerting though this M.C. Escher worthy tableau was, it lacked the fire, ice and snapping jaws he’d feared. 

Tout ça pour ça…

He closed his eyes, relaxed and called up the memory of the layout of the stairs pre-shift. After one semi-confident step that felt the length of a Quidditch pitch, light returned beyond his eyelids.

Back to inhabiting a number of dimensions he was comfortable with, Draco reached the top of the turret, the way forward blocked by an ornate grandmother’s clock (which differed from the more common grandfather’s version by being shorter, louder and generally keeping much better time, demonstrating the level of wit one should expect from clockmakers). The clock face sported small, angular symbols he didn’t recognise, and there was only one hand, unmoving, pointing up at where twelve should have been.

Without touching it, he scanned the mechanism (absent; he supposed it must be entirely driven by magic) and tried to spell and prod the hand into motion to no avail. The symbols themselves were unlike any runes, glyphs or script he’d ever seen. Some were simple: just one or two short, slashing lines. Others were far more meandering, weaving out and back into themselves.

Number three looked familiar, two sides of a right angle triangle, almost like-

The swipe of a Stupefy , a spell he’d performed without a second thought a thousand times over.

He smiled. These were wand motions. The twelve numbers had been replaced by spells, and there was a clear prize available for identifying and producing them all.

The first one, at the top, was a full circle followed by a slice, top to bottom - Alohomora. As soon as he’d performed it, the clock came alive, the hand edging to the following spell - Incendio - and, speeding up, to the one after that. When Malfoy couldn’t identify it, the hand returned to its starting position.

On the second attempt, he made it almost halfway before failing to perform a Caterwauling Charm in time. His third to eighth attempts were no better. The little hand mocked him, moving faster and faster between symbols, then zipping up at the first misstep. He sighed, then rubbed at his forehead. Time failed to tick away.

He sat cross-legged to face the clock, horribly aware that he was racing against it in more ways than one. How far had his competitors made it? Were they all facing uncooperative magical horology puzzles or was he the only overconfident sod that headed straight for the turret only to get stuck at the top?

Malfoy rolled his shoulders down his sore back and memorised the order of the spells, muttering them under his breath over and over as he practised transitioning from one to the next.

It took another twenty minutes and multiple incomplete attempts. He suspected he must have looked like a deranged maestro, weaving spellwork in a frantic, breathless crescendo until, finally, with a second Alohomora for good measure, the clock gave a single discordant bong , then moved aside before he could give it a well-deserved kick.

Draco stood there for a second, panting and hopelessly smug. He didn't rank the odds of his contenders' success at tackling this type of puzzle very highly. They were mostly career Aurors: ambition-driven, entitled twerps, their intellect gone as saggy as their bingo-wings behind the confines of a desk. There were maybe two that could have made it.

One, for sure.

The triumph was sweet, but short-lived. The doorway opened out to a narrow corridor, broken and crumbling bricks lining the walls. There were several other doorways, all of them blocked by stone slabs, and at the other end fluttered a heavy maroon curtain, the promise of a way through.

He caught a faint sheen among the packed earth floor, conjured a Quaffle, and lobbed it. It bounced a few times and rolled to a stop.

Nothing happened. Historically, very few problems had been helped by swinging balls at them, and yet, this had never stopped his gender from trying.

There was nothing else for it. He tied his hair back and away from his face - he’d only just had it cut - and, with a sucked breath and as strong a shield charm as he could muster, sprinted down the corridor.

The walls around him cracked and exploded in a cloud of dust as dozens of long, white spikes burst from the stone slabs and up from the floors. Some he dodged, aiming a blasting curse at anything he couldn’t, even as the irregular shapes resolved into an ulna, a collection of stubby ribs, the arched concave of a pelvis.

Whole skeletons were emerging and re-assembling all around him, far livelier than they should have been and seemingly intent on turning him into a kebab. He pushed down a wave of revulsion.

One spindly heel delivered a glancing blow to his side as he pushed down a shoulder-height skeleton, cringing at the dry, brittle yield of the cranium and the overwhelming scent of decay and grave dirt.

Several fleshless arms clung to his shoulders with surprising strength, pulling him back. Draco stumbled, pivoting to send out a thundering Bombarda , but a few missing limbs didn’t even slow his skeletal foes.

He shook them off with effort, yet more and more were rising all around him. Gnarly carpals, metacarpals and phalanges shredded his robes and clawed at his ankles, tripping him up as he lunged for the curtain and fell short and heavily to one knee, cursing the air blue as he spelled and battled through the ever-growing mass of undead, bone dust stinging his eyes. Those same debris coated his upper airway and down to his lungs, making him choke as the corridor filled all around him with a multitude of macabre, lopsided grins.

He could feel the claustrophobic horror rise up in him, his breaths coming too fast and too short.

And there she came, out of nowhere, carving out space for herself, eyes blazing and wand pointed straight at him. There was a curse half-formed on her lips.

So, this is how I die. It was almost wholly unexpected. In the Cluedo board of his demise, out of ‘curse to the face' by ‘Hermione Granger’ in ‘creepy manor’, he’d only guessed at one third of that solution, and hadn’t considered it particularly likely.

Her slashing curse cut down more skeletons that had crept up behind him, bones previously angled for his throat sagging to the crypt floor.

He was beyond pissed. Absolutely bloody livid. "What was that?" Malfoy spat out blood and osseous matter, getting up and wheeling around to ping another attacker with a well-placed Stupefy. “Have you forgotten this is a competition? Or has your saviour complex finally addled your cognitive function?”

"Get out of my way, Malfoy.” Her snarl was a prelude to her shoving him against the wall and weaving a blanket of blue fire over the whole corridor, laying waste to a good chunk of the undead army and sending their ashes fluttering around them. 

Unnecessarily showy but still a neat party trick.

“I was ticking along perfectly fine until you butted in.”

“Sure you were.” She was in full Muggle gear, a form fitting jumper and some hideous cargo trousers which, unflattering as they were, let her run unimpeded through the opening she’d made.

Draco wished he’d thought to wear his dragonhide boots when he smelled melted rubber and felt the soles sucking at the still-scorching floor.

Granger hissed when he made to drag the curtain open. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? This is the only way out.” Their respective points of access had bricked themselves shut so neatly as to be entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the wall, even if they could successfully battle their way back.

“That,” she crunched down rising bones under the heel of her boots in dull stomps, “is a trap.”

He exhaled through his nose in frustration at the waste of time, their window of opportunity closing. He could hear the tell-tale clinking shuffle of the reanimated assembling to strike again. “No traps. See?” Draco pointed at the clear detection charm with gleeful malice, then pulled the fabric apart.

To find a solid wall.

Well, that’s unfortunate. He refused to give Granger the opportunity to rub his nose in it. The ceiling stretched too high to make out. There was no exit at either end and he wasn't about to face disinterring even more bones by digging his way out. “We’ll have to climb.”

She was ahead of him there too, already blasting precarious-looking footholds into the crumbling brick. Malfoy added his own handholds and they started their reluctant ascent. In this, at least, his long limbs and superior athleticism gave him the edge, allowing him to move much faster. He could hear Granger’s huffed breaths as she struggled to make progress.

Hollow-skulled as they were, the skeletons appeared plenty smart enough to mimic their movements and followed suit, even going as far as climbing one another in infernal teetering totems.

There was a sudden gasp and he looked down to see a cluster of white limbs dangling from one of Granger’s legs, clawing at her clothes and tugging her back down. He could see her scrabbling for purchase as she kicked to shake them off.

A few feet beneath her roiled a sea of writhing decay, snapping to tear her apart.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Granger roared as he started picking off skeletons, thwarting their attempts to seize her, one of his fists wedged firmly enough into the wall to draw blood so he could twist back and have the use of his wand.

“Stay fucking still so I don’t stun you.” His back was barking agony at him even as he locked his elbow for stability.

“Weren’t you just reminding me all about,” she panted, barely reaching the next foothold with a short, gravity-defying hop - damn her, he told her to stay fucking still! - "how this is a competition? I don’t need your help.”

Like hell she didn’t. “Has it occurred to you,” one of his feet slid and his right shoulder was wrenched by the sudden weight of his whole body before he found a protruding brick to balance the toe of his boot on, “that the department would set us a task that would force us to cooperate? Think about it.” Two well-aimed Impedimenta and more skeletons fell back with a sound like tumbling dominos. His words were coming out in spurts around gasped, difficult breaths, a sad state of affairs. He would have to train harder. “Aurors work in pairs. This is exactly the sort of wishy-washy, touchy-feely, team building bullshit they would come up with.”

“Why would I consider working with you?"

“We both want to win.” The subtext was clear: a temporary alliance was an acceptable compromise. “I know my first puzzle would have been a sodding breeze if I’d had someone to help with the spellwork. I’m betting yours was too.”

Granger was level with him by then, wisps of curly hair stuck to her red forehead as she heaved with effort. "The library," another Evil Villain favourite, Draco noted, "was easy enough to clear. Your difficulties are probably just a reflection of your own inadequacy.”

The gall on this witch - insulting him even then. “What are you so worried about? Scared I’ll betray you with a curse to the back?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

He peered meaningfully down to where the skeletons still lurked, now eerily still, their empty eye sockets trained on them as if following their progress. “Were it my intention, I would simply push you down to get besieged by the terminally skinny horde. Far cleaner. Untraceable.”

There were perhaps three feet between them as they paused, still straining with their precarious holds, yet Granger didn’t even flinch, nodding once. “Fair point.” She seemed far more at ease with his designs at attempted murder than with his help.

They set off again after that brief respite, their climb into rising darkness seemingly endless - right up until they heard movement followed by echoing voices and flashes of spells. “Our would-be colleagues are catching up.”

“This doesn't make any sense. We'd already reached the top of the turret when we found the crypt, and now we’re climbing further still."

"I can't be sure of this but, at a guess, I'd say they used magic."

She gave the wry comment no reply.

His arms and shoulders were fully on fire by the time he reached the open loft hatch and swung himself over. The angry bands of pain along his back promised the worst was yet to come. Draco did not relish the thought of cooling down. After taking some grim satisfaction in seeing Granger struggle to emerge (since she was too proud to ask for help, he felt perfectly justified in not offering), they made their way across the cramped abandoned loft, kicking aside mouldering boxes and ancient trunks, a couple of which were marked with crests reminiscent of the Durmstrang coat of arms.

They squatted by the bannister and peered down at a chintzy, overly pink sitting room with peeling floral wallpaper. The angle wasn’t the best but a hanging mirror helped a little. Their ‘hostage’ was sitting in a plush red velvet armchair leaning against the far wall, surrounded by at least four wizards that he could spot. Draco suspected there would be more lurking behind the furniture or even just outside.

“Help. Help. Save me,” Cheung - the would-be hostage - said, her tone flat enough to calibrate spirit levels.

“That ward is at least five layers deep, two of them locked, and that’s before we get to the chains on her arms,” Granger whispered beside him, and, annoyingly, she was right. “That’s going to take time.”

“Enough for several waves of reinforcements. What’s it going to be, Granger? Are you ready to concede that we need to work together?”

He could practically feel her fighting her way to the only logical conclusion as if it caused her physical pain. “Fine,” she finally huffed her agreement. “We’ll play as a team to take the win, but if you turn on me at any point you really will wish you had thrown me to the skeletons. Can you dispel the wards?”

Draco assessed the shimmering distortion haloed around the hostage, the complex runic commands carved into the floorboards that would raise mayhem with the mere hint of an incorrect incantation. The chains wrapped around Cheung’s forearms absorbed and bent light, hinting at some serious charmwork that made stealth less of an option and more of a suicidal strategy. “Given enough time, yes.”

Her lips curled. Evidently his assurance didn’t pass muster. “I’ll do it. Just draw them off me for as long as you can.”

He choked on the effrontery. “I said I could do it.”

But Granger was already coating herself in the watery slickness of a disillusionment charm. “You won't manage to cover everything,” she said, compounding the disrespect - frankly, his talents were wasted as a distraction, thank you very much -, “but try not to let them take me out too early or we’re both stuffed.”

"Just worry about the wards,” he gritted out as she faded out of sight.

He aimed a sneaky little Confundus at the wizard closest to him, then listened out for signs of alarm.

There was a soft, hollow thump to the left of the stairwell and the room erupted with flashes of spells - away from Granger, no more than a heat distortion-like shadow running along the outer wall.

Draco managed to land one Stupefy , halving the threat of the would-be hostage takers, and, predictably, the remaining wizards hunkered down to hold their position.

This turned out to be a strategic mistake as Granger sent them flying into the wall. They might have been - almost definitely were - fellow Aurors, but she wasn’t bothering with pulling any punches.

He took the opportunity to close the gap and run towards the hostage, thinking he could assist with the wards, when the second wave arrived. Granger was fully exposed now, kneeling down as she unwove delicate spellwork, and he tried desperately to extend his shield to the both of them, failed, and went crashing into the wall panel.

Head ringing like a bell, he heard Cheung hamming it up: “Oh deary, deary me,” she crooned, “please save me, you big strong Aurors, you.”

“Get up or I swear I’ll leave you there to serve as target practice,” Granger hissed, standing by him as she fought off what looked like a larger wave of reinforcements.

She launched another wicked wall of fire, effectively cutting off any attackers.

“I’ll remind you that any harm to the hostage will cause immediate disqualification,” Cheung’s tone hardened at the resulting devastation. “And that extends to clothing. These robes are brand new.”

“I wouldn’t have been caught out if you weren’t so completely oblivious. Honestly, Granger, have you no peripheral vision whatsoever?”

“I knew this was a laughable idea,” she muttered, pinging a particularly courageous wizard with something disfiguring before conjuring a passable domed shield.

Draco took this as an invitation to have a crack at the wards. He continued her work, pulling them apart as calmly and with as much meticulous care as one could muster when there were seriously harmful curses flying around in the same room.

He was afforded less than a minute before two hexes came close to taking his ear off. “Granger!”

“Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.” A large credenza was floated closer to better cover sightlines and there was a thunderclap followed by a low groan.

“You’re trying to concentrate?” Sweat beaded on his forehead as he narrowly missed a frankly devious snare, followed by a ticking time bomb of a conflagration ward.

“You have to convert it to a three-sided-”

“I know how a covalent ward works, thanks all the same-”

“Well, apparently not. I can see you trying to rush steps, you’ll get us both turned into teapots.”

There were sounds of breaking glass and the muffled taps of deflected curses. “For my part, I would really rather not get turned into any kind of tea-making implement,” Cheung piped up. 

They ignored her.

“If only I didn’t have to deal with your shrieking while I’m trying to do this-”

“Oh please, I could disable that with my eyes closed!”

“Keep them open, if it’s all the same to you, I just about have this,” Draco insisted. She set off a literal smoke screen around them, thick and grey and cloying, and he felt the insistent push of her shoulder into his arm, could smell the sweat on her hot skin. “What are you-”

The chains clinked open.

Without preamble, he grabbed hold of Cheung and, far more reluctantly, Granger, Apparating the three of them outside the Manor to land in patchy wet grass. It was now drizzling, the low hanging clouds promising the unforgettable delights of a traditional British Winter morning.

“I told you I had it!” 

How a witch that dishevelled and ragged, one of her sleeves in tatters and half her hair escaped its tie could look that smug, he’d never know. “I got it faster.”

Cheung’s underling, a tall slim fellow by the name of Wareham, was approaching them at a half-run.

Sweat cooling down his back and with the adrenaline ebbing away, Draco was panting, queasy, in need of a sit down and thoroughly aggrieved. “We would have been out of there far more easily if only you would work with me instead of against me. We didn't even have a proper plan.”

“The plan was fine, it only went out the window because you didn’t shield-”

“I was providing you cover! That was the whole point!” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh, I absolutely should have shielded myself instead. You’re the most absurdly infuriating-”

“I’m infuriating? I couldn’t even tackle the warding without you cocking up-”

“I most certainly did not cock up-”

“Ehrm, well,” Wareham dithered, clutching his clipboard and throwing Cheung a questioning look as he tried to make himself heard over the argument. She shrugged at him. “Congratulations on your successful completion of the cooperation challenge?”

Draco turned to Granger with the full wattage of a self-satisfied grin. She shook her head, let out a strangled huff, and walked off.

~*~

Down a narrow alley off the beaten path in St James, London, through a grubby sandwich shop, up a set of stairs and (eventually) across an intricate system of spellwork and warding so challenging it sent legitimate employees to St Mungo’s at the rate of two per month, was the rabbit warren that passed for offices of the London SDB. This technically stood for Special Detection Branch of the Auror services, but was widely known within the DMLE itself as the Single-minded Devious Bastards.

After the tribulations of their morning challenge - Draco was absurdly pleased to have gotten top marks; unfortunately, so did Granger - they were rewarded by having their brains steadily blended to runny soup by double-duration classes on History of British Magical Law and Underpinning Theory for Defensive Charms. As the day wound down, they were at least given the opportunity to engage in every aspirant’s favourite activity: beating the absolute living daylights out of each other with magic, fists, or a combination thereof.

Their instructors encouraged them to make imaginative use of their surroundings (which explained the wobbly, mismatched furniture and the scorch marks) as they stood in two opposing lines, waiting their chance. Clipboard in hand, Wareham served as arbiter, Health and Safety Officer and, in case of dire necessity, one man Fire and Rescue Service.

Draco joined a queue and saw Granger opposite, eyes flashing immediately to him. His six foot three frame wasn’t exactly easy to miss. She counted heads and politely requested to skip ahead one place, ensuring they would get to face off.

Excellent. His fingers tightened as he crossed his arms, itching to get at his wand. He was going to relish the opportunity to take her down a peg.

There were only three more bouts to go before them when all hell broke loose.

Biticaine was easily crushing the younger, far more hesitant Honey, when she barely managed to dodge two curses and, in clear desperation, somehow managed to Transfigure the carpet under their feet to roll onto itself and rise in the form of an enormous, thickly banded serpent.

It reared up, scales gleaming under the weak light, opened its overlarge jaws, and let out a hiss so loud it rattled the windows. There were several gasps and mutters of admiration.

It was beautiful, artful magic, shockingly fast, but an easy enough counter.

Yet Biticaine, the slovenly arse, fell back on his own rear with a shriek of terror and lifted one hand over his eyes as if faced with a Dementor’s kiss.

Honey, too green to take advantage of this development, just stood there.

Faced with this stalemate, Wareham stepped forward and returned the carpet to its inanimate if patchy state. “Okay, well, that was that. Point to Honey. Do get yourself re-settled there, Biticaine.” He was steeped to the gills in second-hand embarrassment.

“I have a phobia of snakes,” Biticaine defended himself as he got up again to general ridicule and a couple of chortles from the back. “That’s pretty fucking low of you, Florence.”

“I didn’t- I didn’t know,” Honey assured him, looking worried.

“This isn’t over,” Biticaine gritted out, his neck red and splotchy as he received back slaps of mostly good natured ribbing.

“It absolutely is,” Wareham declared, pointing at the clock. “Everyone get home. Training resumes tomorrow.”

Damn it. This meant Malfoy didn’t get the chance to fight Granger. It would have to wait. The opportunity, he felt, was bound to present itself.

“Malfoy,” Cheung called him back, nodding towards the inside of her office. “A word, please.”

Indeed, Draco’s as yet entirely undeveloped Divination skills came to the fore as he felt with near certainty that the opportunity was, at that very moment, barreling its way to him.

Chapter Text

Narrow boats dragged themselves lazily along the canal, their motors’ ever-present chugchugchug providing a bass note to the otherwise near silent early morning. Draco circled the jetty on silent feet, staying out of sight behind piled up crates to find a suitable vantage point.

One man was standing by the edge of the path, facing the water, shoulders rolled down his back. He dragged out a cigarette before lighting it between his hands. There was no flash of a match or tell-tale flick of a lighter. He took a long, slow drag - Draco saw the flare of golden orange at the tip beyond the hood of his cloak - choked, which rather ruined the moment, then said, voice muffled, “You’re late.”

The other man, shorter and bandy-legged, shuffled from between two nearby trees. Draco’s enhanced senses had picked up on the musty rustle of his cloak well before he melted into view as if coalesced from shadow. 

The new arrival made a very particular sound. It was a cross between the wheeze of a clogged vacuum and the wet gurgling cough of a drain shock full of industrial sludge. “Sorry. Wasn’t easy to convince old Cin-”

“ No names, ” snapped The Smoker. “I’m aware that you’re about as dim as an unlit candle in a coal scuttle, but surely even you can remember that much.”

The second man crumpled and smoothed himself again in what may have been a shrug. “No need for any of that. Just us ‘ere.” That’s where you’re wrong, Malfoy thought to himself. "I was just makin’ a point, wasn’t I? The- them,” he stammered, trying to stick to the no-names rule and struggling, “the crew , there’s been discussion.”

Draco’s ears perked up at the mention of the ‘crew’.

“Are they in or not?”

“They’ll come round.” Which, Draco noticed, was a very well-worded negative. Then, hesitantly, “But it will take more than what they was promised.”

The smoker continued staring straight ahead at the gentle waters. “Gold isn’t a problem. The offer can be doubled, if that’s what it takes. They better be as good as you've made them out to be - for your own sake.”

"Or else, right?” asked Bandy-legged, with a hint of defiance.

The Smoker turned very slightly and Draco could just about make out the edge of a clean-shaven jaw. “No. If you fail this, there will be no 'or else'. In fact, there won't be anything for you to worry about ever again.”

Trace planted, Draco waited behind cover for the two men to go their separate ways.

~*~

Later that day, Draco was over the moon on a fast broom. Positively chuffed.

He’d completed the latest challenge - the simple, yet perennial favourite ‘go out and solve a case, we could use the boost in clearance rate’ - and he’d done it in a record six hours. Six hours.

His strut on the way to Cheung’s office was borderline obnoxious. There might have been an extra swing of the hips, a little tap of the heels. He’d solved the case and the top spot was his. Life was sweet. There was barely anyone around but, if there had been, he would surely have been subjected to some swooning over the dashing, genius Auror that he was.

“Director.”

Cheung grunted at his knock, not bothering to look up from the paperwork, and Draco took this as an invitation to enter.

“I have my report on the case.”

“Hmm.”

The scroll was produced and waved down just over the desk where Cheung could see it. “Investigated, solved and written up within six hours.”

The Director finally seemed to twig that this demanded a more effusive response, yet still failed to deliver. “That’s great, thank you, Mr Malfoy. You may leave it on the tray.”

She gestured to the aforementioned tray and went right back to work.

“Wait, is that it?” Draco protested, before he could stop himself. “Six hours - that must be, what? A departmental record?”

Cheung scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Well, hardly. You’re not even the first to deliver a report for this challenge.”

Draco’s flight of fancy stuttered and halted, frozen in an agony of leaking ego, then plummeted to earth to crash his mood. His eyes snapped to the offending report, the neatly wrapped scroll mocking him.

The whiteboard Cheung had put up to tally up the aspirants’ efforts - she was a big believer in the benefits of healthy competition - revealed the offender across the top line.

He gritted his teeth. Of course. Who else could it be?

His report was chucked onto the tray on his way out. He stomped out, feeling like an absolute tit.

He was still irrationally angry during sparring practice the following day, which was probably why it took him so long to read the room, focused as he was on the irritant that was Granger.

Tensions had been steadily rising as recruitment drew to a close. As a result, the competition had gotten stiffer, more ruthless, and the atmosphere of jolly cooperation of earlier weeks had all but evaporated.

There was some sniggering accompanied by loose re-arrangement of the two queues (highly irregular behaviour: this was British soil and, therefore, perfect queuing still held the fabric of society together) which had Honey facing off against Biticaine once more.

“I guess it’s us again, Martin.” The youngest among the aspirants hesitated and made a nervous attempt at a smile, yet Biticaine acted as if this was a formal duel instead of more or less an excuse to blow off steam. He puffed out his chest and attempted to jut out his (absent) chin before making a plethora of idiotic wand flourishes and setting his feet much too far apart.

Floppy bellend.

Had Draco been any less intent on duelling Granger, Biticaine would have made the perfect target to take out his frustrations on.

“Keep it square,” Wareham warned, vanishing his ever-present clipboard to give the bout his undivided attention. In hindsight, this showed much better instincts than expected of a desk jockey.

Honey tugged on her hair tie and shifted in place to adopt a textbook defensive stance.

There was a collective hush, the rain battering the windows suddenly the loudest sound in the room, and the duel, such as it was, started. 

It was clear that she would lose within the first five seconds, which came as no surprise. Draco would estimate her to be trailing around the 75th percentile of the rankings while Biticaine, thumb-faced prick though he was, consistently made it to the top ten. 

He aimed a heavy, overhead Slashing Curse, and waited for the deflection to close in and attempt a kick at Honey’s lower abdomen.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy could see Granger flinch.

Florence rolled to the side and got to her feet, too slow, not steady enough, but did put up a good shield in time to ward off Biticaine’s Impedimenta. He replied with a Whomping Hex, shot flames at her feet as a faint, then set off two Stupefy in quick succession.

In no time at all, Honey was puffing, her long strawberry blonde hair falling in lank tendrils around her face, but there was no real fight in her, just shields interspersed with dodges aimed at maintaining the distance between them.

It became an uncomfortable watch. This wasn’t a duel, just plainly payback for the humiliation they’d witnessed weeks ago, and Draco wondered when Wareham was going to step in and put a stop to it.

“Finish her off,” came the heckle from the back, and Wareham tried to shut it down with a snapped “Silence from the peanut gallery, if you please,” but Biticaine must have taken this as his cue.

He fired a Curse, quick and sharp as a sting, and Honey fell to her knees. There was a split second of confusion during which her face drained of colour, her full lips an open gate of pain, letting out no sound at all, passing no breath.

Then the training room exploded.

Twenty Aurors rushed forth at the same time to assist Florence, Wareham looking stricken, but Granger moved in the opposite direction to go straight for Biticaine, pinning him against the wall with an elbow to his windpipe. 

Malfoy could scarcely believe it. She was easily half his size and resorting to nothing but the meagre strength of her short arms, yet Biticaine struggled against her hold. She was holding him up through sheer, stubborn force of will and, because it was Hermione Granger, it worked. It was almost a new branch of magic all on its own.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Biticaine’s face was a study in spite. “It’s called a duel. If little Miss Honey can’t take it, she should withdraw.”

“Coward,” Granger spat at him. “You’ll get the boot for this.”

“For what, exactly?” he grinned, wide and careless, flushed from excitement, and, as he realised what Biticaine had done, Draco couldn’t stop the revulsion rising up. “It’s a perfectly legal spell.”

Wareham, so far oblivious to the conflict, was kneeling close to Draco at Florence’s side. They aided her to a semi-seated position, making sure she was breathing. “Not too quickly, now. Slow breaths , in for three, out for five. You got this,” Wareham said.

Her chest rattled with difficulty and her colouring didn’t look right. Two Aurors had diagnostic spells up, another was weaving a careful dispel, but this was finicky work and they had little more than Field Healing training. One of the aspirants was dispatched to get a Healer in, even as the debate continued over whether Florence should be taken straight to St Mungo’s for assessment.

Granger looked seconds away from strangling Biticaine with her bare hands. “Aiming a Petrificus on her diaphragm like that - if you’d missed, if you’d as much as grazed her heart, you could have killed her!”

“Like I’d ever miss. I knew exactly what I was doing. Now go bother someone else with the little defender of the weak and innocent act, that’s a good girl.”

There were several options to consider. First, Biticaine was aiming for suicide by proxy, in which case he was doing a stellar job. Second, he’d wildly misjudged his own abilities into thinking he could survive a bout with an angry Granger without being turned into an unrecognisable smear on the carpet. Or third - and Draco was fond of this one - he really was that stupid.

“Out. Both of you,” Cheung emerged from her office and gestured at Granger and Biticaine. The former’s eyes blazed with such hatred that Draco was hit with the uncomfortable realisation that he was not, in fact, Granger’s least favourite wizard among their cohort, which was just offensive . “You better have your heads on straight by Monday morning.”

Biticaine was still sporting that virulent grin when he left, but Draco wasn’t paying him any attention. He was noticing, instead, how Granger paused by Cheung’s desk for a mere second, as if to secure a clasp on her cloak.

As she did, her other hand was swiftly shoving a roll of parchment into her battered leather backpack. It looked suspiciously similar - identical, in fact - to one of the reports in the tray just beside her.

~*~

Sunny Saturday morning found Draco Flooing to an idyllic little Staffordshire hamlet. It catered to a mixed population, with two wizarding families on record, so the local pub’s hearth had been conveniently connected to the Network for strict out of hours use.

He spotted her from a distance, notepad in hand and seemingly engrossed in conversation with a local dog walker. The pet was a fussy designer poodle crossbreed but, in deference to the countryside location, the man was outfitted with a traditional waxed jacket and wellies.

Granger blended in nicely, wearing an oversized puffer over a knitted dress (or it may have been a jumper; her stature was diminutive) and a pair of long breeches of the sort that Muggles referred to as leggings. Her hair was unbound, something Draco hadn’t seen since their school days, and it tumbled out of her woollen beanie in glinting curls all the way down to the small of her back.

Which meant that, apart from her known record as harridan, repulsive know-it-all and decorated War Hero, she’d spent the intervening years adding Advanced Capillary Management skills to her repertoire while training to become a passably talented Auror on the side.

Interview concluded, he followed Granger down the narrowing country lane to a cul-de-sac, then suddenly lost her behind a wisteria hedge.

“Why are you following me?”

Damn it. His whole body jolted with alarm as he realised she was standing right behind him. “Good morning to you, too.”

Malfoy turned - slowly, so as not to spook the dangerous witch - and she closed in to cover the sight of her wand against his chest. This close, he got his first good look at her in years. Her eyes were the same deep brown he remembered, lined with long lashes and purple smudges that betrayed chronic sleep deprivation. Her olive skin was still gently freckled and the dark dusky pink of her mouth might have been full if not pressed together in firm suspicion. The little thrill of her proximity was definitely due to her menacing glare and nothing to do with the way he’d seen her pin a man to a wall. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t stun you and leave you in your underpants, in a ditch, to be found by a Muggle farmer. I should make it a good one.”

“If you’d like to see a wizard’s undergarments, you should ask politely first.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to know how you solved your case in two hours.” This had been a sore point and he had no intention of letting it go.

Granger’s eyes widened in surprise, then she shoved her wand back in the pocket of her coat and set off walking uphill and away from him at a rather brisk pace. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

“Not until you tell me how you did it.”

“I worked on it until it was solved. I’m an Auror, that happens occasionally.”

Her tiny little rushed steps were almost comical. He needed no time to catch up. “Not in two hours, it doesn’t.”

“And yet.”

“Just tell me how you did it and I’ll walk away. Merlin knows I have much better things to do than follow you around on a Saturday.”

“Great. Go do those things, any of them, right now.”

“Not until you cough it up.”

“Or - and I’m really liking this option - I make good on my earlier threat.”

“Even if you could manage it, and that’s by no means a sure thing,” she gave him a look of utter derision that suggested that, had she put her mind to it, he’d be neck deep in mud and disgrace already, “I’d just go to Cheung and tell her all about how you copied a confidential report and compounded the offence by taking it out of the office, both of which are in clear contravention of the Auror Conduct Regulations, 1784.”

She went rigid. It was delicious. Having the upper hand and moral high ground on Granger was a thing of rare and extreme beauty, like an iridescent pileus cloud or a perfect Yorkshire pudding.

“I guess it’s comforting to know some things never change. Even if one of them is that you’re the same snotty-faced tattle-tale you were in school.”

Ouch.

“Insults won’t chase me away either.”

Granger shrugged as they reached the doorstep of a cottage just off the main road. “It was worth a try.”

Her knock was answered by a bespectacled elderly lady with wildly tufted hair. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”

Malfoy cut in, “You see, my colleague and I work for a television programme-”

That did the trick. The woman’s eyes doubled in size behind the thick lenses. “Oh! Television! How exciting!”

If Granger’s gaze could kill a man, Malfoy would have been dead many times over. There were multiple ways to lose a witness, but this was the fastest: the merest hint that television was involved turned British Muggles less reliable than the weather. They’d waffle, embellish and even fabricate whatever they thought would be required to secure their fifteen minutes of fame.

“ Go away, Malfoy,” she hissed at him once she’d crafted a lie about scouting for shooting locations and they’d walked out of earshot. "If you lose me another potential witness, there will be a whole new crime scene and reason to have Aurors around."

This did not appear to be an idle threat.

"As soon as you tell me what I want to know, I’ll be out of your hair." Then, to show he wasn't cowed, he added, with a bit of malice, "But only because I wasn't tangled in it in the first place, otherwise there would be no hope of rescue."

She consulted her notebook and crossed the road at the same dogged speed, leaving Malfoy no choice but to follow. “I don’t have time for this. I swear it really isn’t that interesting a solve. More often than not the answer is somewhere in the initial report. Or do you believe the rumour that I’ve cheated?”

That shocked him. “Do people really think you - Chief Swot, Righteous Anger Personified - would cheat? That’s ridiculous.” A short pause as he considered it. “Did you?”

“No.” Her voice could have frozen grain alcohol.

"You could have asked Potter for a little inside information."

"Not that it's any of your business, but he's on paternity leave and not with the SDB in the first place." So the friends had parted ways somewhere along the years. Interesting. “Now, as you can see, I’m very busy.”

“Doing what, exactly?” He looked around at the bare hedges like tangles of spindly bones, frost covered hills dotted about with patches of mud - all in all, not the most inspiring sight.

Granger was checking house numbers before returning the notebook to her backpack. “I’m investigating a case.”

“Which one?”

She hesitated for a second. “This is where a wizard was found dead with holes burned through his chest and torso.”

Malfoy’s steps faltered. “That was Biticaine's case. You’re- oh, no,” he groaned. “Is this about what he did to Florence?”

“No.”

He stared at her.

“Not entirely,” she admitted.

“For Merlin’s sake, the case was closed as an accidental cauldron explosion. A freak accident, probably a rusty, unbalanced old thing.”

“I snuck a look at the report he filed and it doesn't add up. The burns were too deep and regular for that." 

He shook his head. Great. Just great. Granger was wasting her weekend pursuing pointless vendettas and, by extension, so was he. “Do you have another theory?”

“No, but a neighbour mentioned loud noises-”

“You know what causes a very loud noise? A cauldron, just as it explodes,” Draco pointed out.

“They said it sounded more like an argument,” she bit out, put off at being interrupted.

“You know what might also make a wizard start shouting and screaming?”

“If I hear you utter any variation of the words ‘cauldron explosion’ one more time, I’ll hex you.”

Malfoy did not repeat himself, but his silence, he felt, spoke volumes. When they eventually made it to the back of the victim’s cottage to sneak in, he concluded that future records would reflect only one remaining wizarding family in the area. 

The deceased wizard’s home was small but it could not be called quaint. Instead of lace curtains and hanging painted porcelain, there was the overwhelming smell of damp and stacks of unwashed dishes left to moulder. The fireplace in the living room (which seemed to double as an office) was overflowing with ash and the empty cage in the corner needed mucking out.

“Bowtruckles,” Granger answered his questioning look. “The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is handling the relocation. He shouldn’t have kept them in captivity in the first place.”

“Naughty dead wizard.” Malfoy ignored the scorch marks on the floor and busied himself by going through the contents of the man’s cupboards as Granger scanned the room with detection charms. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

“ We aren’t looking for anything, because you’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you. And I’ll be gone as soon as you tell me how you solved the case so, really, you’re the one keeping me here.”

They stared daggers at each other. He bet her desire to get rid of him against her unwillingness to give into his demands - and lost.

“Go on,” she muttered. “Waste your Saturday, for all I care.”

“You do realise that, even if you should find something, you can’t bring it to Cheung? Not without admitting your little peccadillo.”

Granger tapped the walls, murmuring spells. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“You could be spending your time addressing far more interesting mysteries.”

“Such as?”

Draco abandoned the cupboards and started examining the scant pickings of the bookshelf. “Well, just to think of an example off the top of my head - me. And what I’m supposed to have been up to before applying to the SDB.” This had been the subject of heated speculation among the other aspirants. The prevailing theory was that, impoverished by the post-War reparation payments, the elder Malfoys had relocated to South America, thereby forcing him into gainful employment. His personal favourite, however, was the less popular but far more romantic rumour that the marriage contract to the love of his life had fallen through and, brokenhearted, he’d turned to a life of crime fighting to heal his soul.

“Oh, that. The only mystery is why you've been allowed to apply in the first place. I know where you’ve been.”

She couldn’t have known. “No, you don’t.”

“You’ve been working as an Auror in France.”

He set Acromantula Acropolis down with a thump. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I saw you dunking pieces of croissant in your morning latte, which, as far as I can recall, is new behaviour, and very distinctly French,” Granger explained, her back to him as she turned over the sofa cushions. There was a short moment of comeuppance as she discovered something horrid, yelped with a curse, and flipped the cushion right back.

“Well, you’re wrong,” Draco informed her.

She turned, frowning. “Am I?”

“I favour a café crème, not a latte. Which, incidentally, is just Italian for milk and therefore a silly designation for a coffee drink.”

Malfoy was saved from a scathing reply when he lifted a stack of stained bits of parchment on the bottom shelf and found an illegally extended partition. “Make that a very naughty dead wizard.”

There were jars with strands of Demiguise fur, a bottle of mercury-like fluid that may have been Unicorn blood, Manticore tail hair, Augurey feathers, and more - all very rare, very illegal, and, therefore, worth an absolute fortune on the black market.

Once they took stock of the contents, Granger worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “What are you thinking?” Draco asked.

“That Bowtruckles are known for nesting in wand-quality wood trees.”

He turned a jar of desiccated furry claws over in his hand. “Some of these could be used for wand cores. Messing about with wandcraft using unstable, untested cores sounds like a great way to give your internal organs an unwanted airing.”

“But it still doesn’t explain the argument the neighbour heard. I think it’s time I interview them.” Then, as she realised Malfoy was still following her out of the house, “How did you even find me in the first place?”

“There’s a Trace on every Auror’s badge, as you well know.”

She burrowed into her coat. The frosty air bit at their exposed skin as soon as they edged into a shadowy patch of the lane. “That is meant to come in handy during an emergency, not for finding and pestering people on a whim.”

“I’d be able to track you down all the same. Terribly good at training Aurors, the French.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he spotted a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Granger's key witness was a vital, ruddy-cheeked, exuberantly moustachioed man whose great disappointment was that the nice fake journalists wanted to discuss his dead neighbour instead of the incipient threat of chicken theft.

“It’s not just hens, they’ve made off with rabbits too. Cut a hole clean through the netting and the next morning half my patch of spinach was dug up. There’s no respect anymore.” When asked what had happened on the fateful night, all he said was, “I wouldn’t know.”

Granger pretended to consult her notebook. “When you first spoke to the local officers,” in fact, Aurors in disguise, “you told them you’d heard a bit of an argument and thought you’d seen some fire.”

The farmer was visibly confused, mouth opening and closing as his eyes unfocused and fogged over. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Did I? Must have gotten my nights mixed up. I would have remembered if I’d seen anything like that.”

She tried a few more questions, but there was no mistaking it - his memory had been tampered with. Draco grudgingly admitted that it was looking less and less like an accident.

“The problem is - where do we go from here? He was the closest thing to a useful witness,” Granger said.

“Given how the victim died, didn’t you think there was very little fire damage to the house? Unlike that barn over there,” he pointed at the tell-tale dark smoke crown atop the edge of one of the window frames.

The building was one of the rare authentic Tudor barns yet to be converted into a wedding venue: long and narrow, its black roof stained by time, moss and desiccated remnants of long ago culled ivy. The barn door slid to let timid light creep into the cool, cavernous space.

“Hello?” Granger called out.

He could hear something behind a large metal implement, likely motorised and agricultural, yet the Detection Charm came up curiously empty.

“I’m going to have a look around.”

Malfoy saw her conjure a shield and lay a hand on her forearm. “Wait a second,” he said, and closed his eyes. This would have been easier if he could have relied on his full skillset, but this wasn’t an option with Granger there, and he couldn’t very well ask her to go for a walk while he investigated. There was something like a rustle, small and scratching- “Get down!”

His shout was followed by a large, billowing fireball that sailed over their heads. “You go around to cover, I’m going in,” Granger whispered as she kneeled beside him, wide-eyed.

“No, wait,” Draco repeated. “It’s not what you think.”

“I think the victim’s killer is in there so we best not let them get away,” she gritted out.

“Yes, fine, it is what you think but just- let me get in there.”

She gave him an odd look. “Why?”

He sighed. There was such a good answer, and it was such a bad idea. This whole incident is a bad idea . “Call it instinct.”

With extreme reluctance, Granger set up a couple of perimeter wards and agreed to stay on lookout. "What is your instinct telling you about the odds of me having to pull out your smouldering corpse out of there?"

He ignored her.

“Hi, there. I’m coming in. I hope that’s okay,” Malfoy said in a soothing voice, a shield out in front of him. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

“What are you-”

“Give us a second,” he whispered to Granger. Then, back to his normal tone of voice. “If you come with us, we can get you a lot better stuff than feathery country hens or rabbits. There will almost certainly be sausages, a bit of cheese. Maybe even bacon.”

There was a shuffle and an almost inaudible whine.

“What do you think? Would you like to go for walkies?”

The movement in the shadows gently resolved itself to a furry shape reminiscent of a Jack Russell Terrier, at the exception of the forked tail. It had a broken coat and a big brown patch of fur over one of its eyes.

It was adorable.

Malfoy sensed its hesitation and went down on one knee. “Come here. Let’s get you some treats. It’s okay.”

The young Crup finally trotted towards Draco and was allowed a thorough sniff before sitting down for some ear scratches.

“Are you seriously petting that thing?” Granger whispered, making him jolt.

“Thing? What are you calling a thing ? She’s a sweet little Crup.”

“That just launched a fireball at us! Crups can’t usually do that,” which, Malfoy had to admit, was a perfectly valid point.

“But just look at that snoot. Tell me you don’t want to give her a cuddle.”

Granger sighed.

~*~

Cheung was in a foul mood to have been called into the office on the weekend. Then they conveyed the broad strokes of what had transpired, which made it worse. By the time Biticaine was summoned, the Director seemed to be fighting off a migraine. “Has the Crup crossbreed been safely handled?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and it was the truth, although maybe not in the way the Director may have expected.

“So the dead wizard was a smuggler that got, so to speak, hoisted by his own petard.”

“Or, in his case, roasted,” Malfoy whispered. Granger glared at him.

Cheung leant forward to rest her elbows on her desk. “How did we miss this, Martin?”

All things considered, Draco felt the use of the royal ‘we’ was showing unprecedented generosity.

Biticaine cleared his throat, his complexion mottled in deep humiliation. It gave him a distinctive toad-like appearance. “There weren’t any signs of magical creatures in the house,” except for a full stash and that illegal cage of Bowtruckles in the corner, Draco thought, “and the victim didn’t have a criminal record. Based on the available evidence and damage, an accidental cauldron explosion seemed the most probable cause.”

As smooth and as predictable as Swiss-engineered clockwork, Granger rounded on him. “Not all available evidence. There was a witness account that your final report suppressed and, when I tried to interview them, their memory had been conveniently modified. How are you justifying that?”

“It must have been the original investigative team,” Biticaine muttered, which was utter bollocks. He’d seen his way to a quick, lazy solution, and he took it. It was the worst kind of shoddy, half-arsed coppering and, what was worse, all too pervasive. “Since you’re moonlighting as Internal Audit shrew, Granger, you might as well go after them, too,” he spat.

Cheung’s face gave nothing away as she made them all stand there. “This is what is going to happen. I’ll be asking Granger and Malfoy to re-file the report-”

What was this? “I was only marginally involved-” Malfoy started, but was cut off.

“-which they’ll submit as soon as possible.” Shit. “I’m sure Biticaine conducted his investigation with the utmost rigour and that Granger was selflessly moved to ensure justice had been served.” If there had been any Sneakoscopes within a five mile radius, they would have been blaring. “You two will shake on it, apologise, and this will be the end of it.”

Stares slid to Biticatine. He issued something of unclear wording and even less feeling which resembled an apology in no way, shape or form.

Granger one-upped such efforts immediately.

“Biticaine, the fact that you’re still permitted to wear that badge is a stain in the annals of the Auror service.” Draco choked on air as she turned to Cheung next. “The report will be on your desk first thing Monday morning.”

Once she’d left, Biticaine was about to open his mouth, but Cheung had had enough. “A fire breathing Crup, Martin. Go home and think on how you missed that. Malfoy, hang back.” The Director eyeballed him over her steepled fingers as the door shut with rather more force than necessary. “Granger’s just managed to alienate everyone she’ll ever work with for the rest of her Auror career and made it look easy.”

Malfoy went the safe, well travelled route of Dumb Copper. “Do you really think so, Director?”

“Don’t play games with me, Malfoy.”

This broke through his resolve to stay well out of it. “There are kiddies in that village. What Biticaine did or, more precisely, failed to do… He didn’t just lose his way, he knew it and went back to change the street signs.”

“Nevermind him, I’ll have a chat with his senior and find a way to frame it nicely enough - budget cuts or some other rot - but I’m not having that cunt join the Branch,” she said, savagely, and he saw a hint of the steel behind the nigh permanently exasperated outlook. “No, the issue here is that you never, ever , throw your fellow Aurors in the cacky, Malfoy. There aren’t that many hard rules to the job, but that is one. And then, there’s you. You’re an arrogant, unlikeable bastard, and, quite frankly, half the unit believes you’d go over to the Loyalists at the earliest possible opportunity. The other half is convinced you already have.”

Despite his best efforts at a stiff upper lip, he felt his stomach sink to his knees. “So we’re both out on our arses.”

"Could be." Cheung's gaze was calculating. "My problem, and it is a problem, don’t you dare look smug, is that you’re both bloody good. Granger’s brains and your very particular talents would be great assets to have on board.” She paused, fingers tapping on the desk. “I do have an idea. It might be one of my best. Or it may be an unmitigated disaster. I have yet to decide."

Some defining moments pass by, whisper-quiet, the delicate ripples spreading from an innocuous enough starting point to cause a myriad of unforeseen effects.

Not so with this one.

From the start, Malfoy knew , with bleak and absolute certainty, that he would be looking back at that meeting to pinpoint the exact moment his life had irrevocably gone tits up.

Chapter Text

The crime scene was in the sub-basement level of a prestigious Muggle London Law firm, nothing to mark its location but a small etched sign attached to the black metal railing. Muggle eyes would skid over it without taking it in; Magical patrons would be able to read the claim that the establishment was one of Britain’s finest purveyors of antique diamonds and jewellery. Draco all but ran past it, steps thundering like a storm.

The Auror stationed by the door as a sentry eyed his formal robes and newly minted SDB badge with suspicion. “You’re late. They’ve been in there ages.”

Malfoy could feel his jaw clench. “I’m well aware, thanks all the same.”

“I suppose the victim isn’t going anywhere,” the other man said, but he was already making his way around the counter and inside the store room, not in the mood for nonsensical chitchat. He felt his ears pop with the change in pressure, as if he’d suddenly descended to a great depth. The air felt warmer, too. The space was as vast as a warehouse, with several tables clustered in the centre, all piled high with weighing scales, magnifying glasses, bottles of testing and cleaning solutions, delicate tweezers and tongs. Deep shelves wrapped around the space, sporting a variety of boxes and cases. Some of these were small and dainty, barely large enough for a pair of earrings or a ring; others were wide and tall enough to fit a flexible adult.

This wasn’t the luxurious, carefully lit and decorated stage of a salesman, but very much a backroom, the dwelling of the magical artisans and artists, the horologists and the jewelcrafters that brought pieces to life.

The layering of wards was so oppressive as to give him a mild headache just from standing there. This was exacerbated by the stench of old greasy food emanating from the waste bin. Despite its less than impressive front, the owners had stacked security measures like layers on a mille-feuille.

Two junior Aurors with Magical Artefacts, readily identifiable by the orange patches on their uniform and their bookish, ever-so-slightly startled look, were standing well away from the body, making notes on the inventory. Draco approached them first.

“This one is yours. Killing curse,” was the extent of their report. Draco had to agree. There were no signs of any other trauma, no evidence he’d even reached for his wand. Poor bloke.

He saw how the victim was laid out, just past the doorway, and bent down to run a cursory check for belongings.

“Already done.” He was presented with a plastic bag holding a wand, a leather wallet, a set of keys and a half-empty box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. A yellow sticker advertised ‘New Spring Flavours: Cherry Blossom and Raw Chicken Breast - Now In Every Box!’ That felt like a crime all of its own.

“Who discovered the body?”

The two Magical Artefacts flunkies exchanged looks. “Are we going through this again?”

“Why wouldn't you?" Malfoy bristled. "Go on, I'm not asking you again.”

A pause. “Only, we’ve already reported to the SDB-”

“I am with the SDB.”

One of them edged away at his tone of voice. “Well, you might want to speak to your senior…” He trailed off meaningfully, tilting his head at the other end of the room to where Granger was standing. “She’s interviewing the owner.”

“Do you know, I think I will go over for a chat with my partner,” Draco gritted out, leaving them to whisper about how he was the one turning up late at a crime scene, they weren’t about to go over everything twice, and why wasn’t he with his partner in the first place, that was just odd.

Yes, it was. Beyond odd - it was an infuriating position to be in.

“Is someone usually in on the weekends?” Granger was asking, sparing him no more than a glance as he came to stand beside her. Like him, she was wearing full formal robes, her hair pinned up in a chignon. Their uniform was a deep, light sucking black, cut smartly. On Granger, it stretched close to her narrow shoulders and waist, set off against the crisp white of her button down. It added a harsher, far more serious edge to her appearance, accentuating the long column of her neck.

The owner, a nervous middle aged woman, was looking around in distress. “Not at all, we’ve just fallen behind with the current workload. We’re very busy, you see?” Draco was spared having to admit that he didn’t by her continued rambling. “Of course we do repairs and evaluations - who doesn’t? - but our specialty is assessing and, if required, defusing cursed objects. That is what our reputation is built on. You know what it’s like with wizarding families, there’s always curios knocking around in the miscellaneous drawer that will take your fingers off if you’re not careful and, well, there’s only so many times people put up with that sort of thing before getting professional help.”

“Do you have any valuable pieces in at the moment?” he asked. Granger gave him the side-eye, clearly displeased by his interruption.

“Oh, multiple. There’s one of the enchanted Fabergé Eggs, a wonderful piece, then there’s a seventy-five carat emerald and diamond brooch, and a pair of carpet slippers that belonged to Merlin himself!”

This stumped him. Even Granger blinked owlishly. “You- someone entrusted you with Merlin’s actual slippers?”

The woman looked a little sheepish. “Yes. Well… Perhaps. We’ve yet to authenticate provenance. Bit tricky, of course, but they may very well have been. They’re a rather charming tartan.”

“I see,” Granger nodded, crossing something off in her notebook. “Have you had time to check if anything is missing?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” The witch produced a long scroll. “I have gone through our entire inventory and one of the collections entrusted to us is incomplete. It is short-” both Aurors stiffened in expectation, “-one teaspoon.”

This was met with a long and awkward silence.

“Someone broke through all the warding to steal one spoon?” Draco attempted to clarify.

“Goodness, no. The wards were all perfectly intact when I arrived this morning, that's what we can't understand. Poor Mr Simmonds hardly fell to his death of his own accord, did he? And it’s an eighteenth century silver teaspoon, to be precise.” She gave a loud, burbling sniff. “Such a lovely man. A good worker.”

“How much is it valued at?”

A rustle of the scroll. “Ten galleons and seven sickles.” She went on to assure them that no, nothing else was missing, that there was absolutely no way it could have been misplaced, and that every single item in their care was secured with the exact same level of warding. They thanked her for her cooperation and, when she became even more upset, Malfoy suggested a restorative cuppa.

Granger walked off with her nose still buried in the notebook, and Malfoy blocked her path. “Where are you going?”

“Off to work the case, of course.”

“Do you want to go over the evidence? Determine our course of action? In essence, go about the business of doing our fucking jobs?” His voice had strangled further around each question as he tried to control his rage in the presence of their colleagues. They were supposed to be tough and professional Aurors, kicking arses and collaring baddies, not squabbling at a crime scene like children.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

“The only reason I was late to the scene was because, when I got to the office - perfectly on time, might I add - you’d left for this shout without as much as a note!”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Malfoy: whatever Cheung says about us being partners, all that matters is that the job gets done. That doesn’t mean I wait for you or leave you little notes to keep you apprised of what I’m doing.”

“Is that your plan? You’re going to work on your own?”

“I can’t see why not. Saves me carrying around dead weight.”

That stung his pride. He was a damn sight far from dead weight, but he wasn’t about to grovel for a chance to work with her. “And what is my role supposed to be in all of this?”

She barely spared him a glance. “I couldn’t care less. We’ll have plenty of casework to split between the two of us. As long as both our names go on all the reports, I fail to see a problem.”

“Do you? Because I can spot it a mile off. There’s a reason Aurors work in pairs. You need someone to watch your back.”

“I agree that would be useful, but I wouldn’t trust you to watch a pet rock, let alone my back.”

Malfoy felt a sharp pain along his tense temporomandibular joint - he was grinding his teeth. Just his luck to have been lumbered with this nightmare of a partner. She was going to fight him the whole damned way. “I don’t have to prove myself to you.”

“Merlin, of course not. Save it for someone that hasn't met you.”

He hated this woman. Not with the puerile, noxious hatred afforded to self-assured girls that haven’t yet learned they’re supposed to be demure, subservient and insecure. Not the harmful, nurtured hatred against a ridiculously gifted Magical child of Non-Magical parents.

No, this was the visceral, grown-up loathing that made him long to break into her house, set loose a Sock Goblin to do away with exactly one out of every pair, craft a Perpetual Crease Charm on her sheets and crumble a packet of biscuits to polute her sofa cushions.

“Why do you have to make this as difficult as possible?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to interview the victim’s family?”

“I’ll ask one of the juniors to do it while I chase the provenance of the stolen item.”

For a second, he considered the possibility he’d misheard her. “You’re chasing what, now?”

“The spoon,” Granger confirmed, attempting and failing to side-step him.

“Let me get this straight: you think someone managed to break into a highly secure magical jewellers with such expertise that they left behind no traces or damage, killed a wizard, and ignored riches worth millions of galleons, all to steal a rusty fucking teaspoon?”

“It’s the only thing that fits.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw half the duo from Artefacts lean away from the assorted inventory and make his way over. “Or - and I understand this may be a stretch, but bear with me - we should be looking at this as a murder, instead.”

Granger looked entirely unconvinced. “Why would anyone break into this place to murder Mr Simmonds when they could have gotten to him at home or a dozen other locations with far less difficulty? Not to mention he wasn’t even supposed to be here on the weekend. It’s more likely that they broke in, our victim surprised them in the course of the robbery, and was killed as a result.”

“I can’t imagine any situation where a teaspoon could be the ultimate murder motive.” The man he’d clocked had inched closer still.

“That just shows you lack imagination.”

“Can I help you?” Draco finally barked at the eavesdropping little runt, who blinked wearily at them both and straightened his collar.

“I was just after Hermione.”

“What is it, Basil?” she asked, her tone just as hard.

Eminently suitable name - green, looks like he’d be more at home in a salad bowl.

“That’s okay, I’ll wait.”

“No, we’re all done here,” Granger insisted.

“Are we now? Fine. Perfect, in fact. Have it your way, Granger. I wish you a delightful time finding all about antique cutlery once you’re done getting inexpertly asked out,” Malfoy snapped, striding away from her with relish. “I shall be busy solving a murder.”

“He’s not asking me out,” she said to Draco’s back. “Are you?”

Basil let out a strangled sound and adopted the colouring of his namesake. It clashed horribly with his uniform.

As his temper cooled, Malfoy concluded that there was a lot to like about this turn of events. It limited his interactions with the ray of sunshine that was Granger - optimal - and left him plenty of time to get on with his own work, including his special little sideline, entirely uninterrupted.

He could, and would, make this work to his advantage. Working alone was, after all, what he was best at.

~*~

The following day, at Mrs Dribble’s Owelry and Pet Emporium, two men held a secretive meeting. It was a public, noisy place, and therefore seemingly a strange place to hold such a conversation - unless the whole point, of course, was to avoid being overheard.

Draco, having installed himself in a comfortable, if dubiously stained little corner well before their arrival, was nevertheless listening in to determine whether this would be worth his time and effort. There was a strange misperception that it was difficult to find horrible, dishonest people, but Draco knew this couldn’t be further from the truth. They were a Sickle a dozen and you’d still walk away with incorrect change. The difficulty and, to a point, the artform, was in finding the right kind of wrong people and effectively skim the soup of humanity for the scum.

“Of course you can do it,” the smaller man, the one that looked like a rusting clotheshorse, was saying. “It will be a walk in the park." Then he made the familiar gurgling drain pipe noise, loud even among the din of the shop.

“It’s not about that,” said his counterpart, in a surprisingly soft voice for someone with a build reminiscent of a large boulder that had decided to sprout limbs.

"You'll be buried in gold many times over."

"It's not about that either." From the corner of his eye, Draco saw him jolt a little and knew he'd been spotted, then just as easily dismissed. The trick was to lend an ear but resist the urge to watch the exchange. He kept his eyes trained on the opposing wall and its display of discounted owl treats. "Although buried is an interesting turn of phrase to use, Mycelium."

"You know what I mean." A moment to allow a father to pass by and out of earshot, towed along by an eager toddler. "These aren't the type of people you disappoint, if you catch my drift."

"Why do they want this done?"

"Wrong question." He was the kind of man that pronounced the word question as que-shun, with extra spittle.

"For that matter, who are they in the first place?"

"Wrong question again," said Mycelium.

"And what should I be asking, then?" asked the larger man, losing patience.

"Don't ask any fucking questions, that's what, you tit. You go where you're told, you take- whatever they want you to," he scowled, coughing loudly again. "And that's that. These are some scary fucks. You don't mess about with them."

"I don't like it."

Mycelium proceeded to explain exactly where he should store this opinion, using colourful language and anatomical descriptors of dubious precision, and the two men parted ways.

Draco hung around for a few more minutes until the coast was clear, which resulted in being spotted by an employee of Mrs Dribble's. Startled, he looked Malfoy up and down and made him doubt, just for a second, whether the man was about to sound the alarm and start screaming.

He shouldn't have worried. The employee said, "Cor. I'd no idea we were selling those these days," before disappearing between shelves.

Draco just about repressed a snort. You really could rely on humans' inability to disbelieve the evidence of their own eyes.

~*~

Following their spat at the crime scene, Malfoy didn't lay eyes on Granger for a full week. Cheung had made it clear she preferred them not come in unless they were summoned, injured or due to file a report, since - and this was flawless logic - they were unlikely to find any Dark Wizards waiting for them in the office.

He ran into Granger at the training room, of all places. She appeared to be busy impersonating a subspecies of mountain goat by scaling the far wall as protrusions of different sizes, shapes and depth materialised and vanished at regular intervals. The complex spellwork necessary for running such a randomised set of Charms must have taken hours of calculations, if not days. Granger stretched, hopped and heaved herself around, falling frequently. She had terrible form and the muscle strain was made all the more evident by her choice of fitness attire. The leggings were back, only this time there was no overhanging baggy jumper. It exposed far more of her general shape than Draco had ever had any interest in ascertaining.

Since he had no desire to stand there and wait for her to be done with whatever it was she was doing, he dived right into his well drilled practice routine.

A row of burlap training dummies were available for practice, their chests labelled ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘four’ and ‘Steve’. The last one, its moniker spelled on with an unsteady hand, was by far the most damaged, inviting speculation at who Steve was and what he could have done to have earned such vitriol.

Draco took a few deep breaths, rolled his shoulders, and went through the swift sequence of spells, enjoying the stress-relieving properties of blasting bits off his target with flawlessly placed curses. He’d worked up a rhythm by the time Granger jumped off the wall and made her way over.

There were beads of sweat along her hairline, turning the downy hair darker, trickling down to pool at her collarbones.

He focused back on his target.

“Cheung is asking us for an update on the jewellers’ case.”

"I'm aware," was his curt reply. He didn’t break concentration. The Director was still under the impression that they were working together. Given how his continued engagement with the SDB and, by extension, the future of his career was reliant on this unholy union, he was in no hurry to disabuse her of this notion.

“Do you want to give me a rundown of what you’ve got?”

“I, I don’t think I do.”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried.

Attempts to locate her badge using the Trace again had proven an exercise in futility. It led him erratically through thick forest, a golf course and, on his third attempt, the olfactory delights of a busy Muggle fish market.

He suspected that, following their countryside expedition, she’d tampered with the Trace to neutralise it, but couldn’t prove it. He filed this firmly under ‘not his fucking problem’. After eschewing him as a partner, should she desire to find herself stranded, abducted or otherwise in mortal peril without possible rescue, Malfoy was going to delight in the opportunity to testify to his complete inability to assist at - one could only hope - the inquest into her untimely passing.

Draco heard a sigh followed by a quick rhythmic tapping that may have been her foot.

All of this he registered as Steve’s stuffing burst into snowy drifts at his continued assault, yet he wasn’t done. He didn’t stop until Granger stepped in front of him, shoulders loose, holding her wand like a rapier, pointed down and to the side. The tension was all in her eyes, darkened to almost black.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he bit out.

“Seeing how well you do against a target who fights back.”

This was a long time coming. Weeks, maybe even over a decade.

Malfoy turned away from the training dummy that was, at that very moment, already putting itself back together, and adopted a duelling stance.

They bowed to each other, stiffly and without breaking eye contact.

Then Granger proceeded to rain absolute and unrelenting destruction upon him.

She launched a curse that bloomed into a mass of razor thin cuts threatening to engulf him. He shielded, instincts blaring at him that there was no safe direction to which he could dodge.

Ice curled around Granger’s leg, aiming to root her to the spot, but she wrenched it free and vaulted to avoid his Stupefy by less than an inch.

Draco just about managed to bite back a cry of surprise when she launched that wall of blue flame he’d seen her aim at the skeletons at the Manor.

He panicked.

He summoned an Aegis, a physical shield of magically reinforced stone that crushed down, cracking the training room floor underneath. It was pelted with a salve of projectiles, every hit threatening to jolt his shoulders out of their sockets. From behind cover, he cast a windstorm, and heard Granger’s grunt as it caught her, throwing her in the air before she fell on her back.

He disarmed her, fast and nastily, and breathed a sigh. It was over.

Or so he thought.

She barreled towards him and down they went, both their wands clattering off his hand to land feet away. He hadn’t even processed what was happening before she’d landed a ferocious right hook to his left cheekbone, sending his head ringing as fireworks burst painfully behind his eyes.

Training was a beautiful thing. Muscle memory bypassed the conscious mind, engaged as it was in frozen bewilderment at the fact that Hermione Granger had just punched him in the face, took hold of his muscles, spun her and dragged his forearm under her chin in a chokehold.

Granger snarled, fighting for space to draw air, fingernails digging into the skin of his forearm, and craned her neck.

Brown eyes carved into his own. Sharp and pointed as a scalpel, Granger cut into his mind.

Or, more precisely, she tried.

It skidded off its surface, a glancing blow that had her jolting against him.

He knew he was an exceptional Occlumens. He’d had to be. The alternative would have been death.

Her pupils contracted with a painted inhale and, the next second, he was in. Past mental defences that were like plates of hard chitin, woven around and over one another as armour. He only got a glimpse - shock, the distrust of a thousand conjectures, his own reflection in its sweaty, messy-haired glory - before she swatted him out of her consciousness and rolled off him.

They swayed to their feet, their breathing ragged. Granger had her hands on the knee, her leg bleeding freely, face red and eyes bright with adrenaline.

He could feel the trickle of sweat down his back and the pulsing soreness on the left side of his face that hinted at ugly bruising in the near future. His anger hurt more, raised and blistered. “Fuck you." He felt that just about summarised his feelings. "That took some audacity.”

“The opportunity presented itself.”

Draco wasn’t about to be spoon-fed Thestral manure. “No, it was entirely contrived. What were you looking for? Evidence that I'm a Loyalist plant?"

“Among other possibilities," she finally said, after too long a pause.

He let his arms hang limply at his sides. “Next time, try asking nicely. You might find it yields better results.”

She surprised him by asking, “Are you going to let me see your report or not?”

Warily, one eye still on each other’s every movement, they recovered their wands and walked to the pigeonholes by the door.

Malfoy handed over the file next to his water bottle, retying his hair and tucking a few errant strands behind his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Granger skimming his work in silence. Impatient to move things along, he gave her the highlights: “Engerbert Simmonds was married, trained as a Cursebreaker and left a high paying commission securing Quidditch venues when he became a father of two. He worked the same job for over ten years and was well liked by all accounts. No criminal record, no interesting friends, no evidence of unexplained wealth.” Criminal association or playing inside man were good, solid motives that he’d pursued and excluded in turn.

“There’s a recurring entry in his diary. BP,” she pointed out as she shuffled through the pages.

“I spotted it, too. His eldest is a squib attending Muggle middle school and Mr Simmonds volunteered as the assistant basketball manager for the under twelves. He never missed a practice session."

Granger's expression softened. "He was a good man."

Malfoy agreed and saw her reach with calculated slowness into her leather backpack to retrieve a far thicker file. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that a man's life could generate far less to work with than an antique teaspoon.

His fingers flicked through the pages to find Granger had dug up the different proprietors of the cutlery set through the years, explored the potential uses for the stolen item and had even- "You traced the spoons' composition and provenance of the materials used?" he huffed.

"It might have been significant, somehow, if the silver had been melted down from a powerful artefact."

It was so very predictable. She had failed to mature past the same meek little girl she’d always been, desperate for approval and thirsty for praise, embracing neurotic perfectionism as a shield against reality. Of course she’d spend dozens of hours of painstaking work sorting through expert texts and historical records. Nothing could have been more in character.

“What a waste of your time,” he summarised. All of it amounted to precisely nothing; she’d found no motive, no means, no suspects. Whatever the break-in had been about, it hadn’t been to steal the blasted spoon. The very thought enveloped him like a warm glow. "How does it feel to hit a dead end?"

"You should know."

He deserved that. Indeed, he hadn't been able to find a motive for premeditated murder either. "So we're back to square one."

Granger nodded. “With nothing to show for it.”

Chapter Text

He picked it up outside the building: the wretchedly sweet scent, hovering, stifling as a shroud. The body must have been fresh; there was very little decay and his still sharp hearing picked up no buzzing insects, although the cold winter weather may have masked some of it.

Before he could enter said building, however, he was accosted by two other wizards.

“Have you gone inside?” asked the youngest of the Aurors, a bronze-skinned woman with a shaved head and large, expressive eyes. She moved with a cocky, assured gait.

“Not just yet,” he admitted, looking between them. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Gayan Asheni. My partner - well, you probably know who he is.” Draco had, in fact, recognised him instantly: John Stallworth, holder of legendary status as one of the most prolific Dark wizard takers over the last ten years. 

He stared down Malfoy from behind square glasses perched on cauliflower ears and dipped his chin. “Morning.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he lied. “Is something wrong? Maybe a mistake with the summons?” It was just possible the SDB had called two sets of investigators in error, but unlikely at best.

Granger and he had developed a method for dealing with cases: they would both attend the scene, quietly decide which of them would take it based on their respective workload, and go their separate - and all the merrier for it - ways. This arrangement had worked just fine. However, if the presence of the more experienced duo at their crime scene was any evidence, this hadn't escaped Cheung's attention.

"Not at all. We just thought it would be nice to give you two the benefit of mentorship and offer ourselves as an invaluable source of knowledge and inspiration," Asheni expounded, her partner looking steely and severe and inscrutable.

Shit. Cheung had definitely sent them to check up on things.

"Is this about the Simmonds case?" There had been no breakthroughs whatsoever. He felt confident Granger would have informed him if she'd made any progress, if only to lord it over him.

"No," Stallworth said, in a way that meant perhaps, just possibly, almost certainly yes . “This is routine.”

It was the furthest thing imaginable from routine.

“Fine. Let’s go in-”

“Aren’t you going to wait for your partner ?”

He didn’t enjoy the emphasis on that last word one bit. A quick pop of Apparition saved him coming up with an excuse. Granger had just arrived, looking worse than he felt. This was quite the achievement, given how little sleep he'd managed to steal from a night mostly spent in fruitless surveillance. Mycelium and his associates failed to do anything more interesting than getting sloshed on cheap lager at a grimy pub.

Their crime scene was a cramped attic studio flat. If death had lingered outside, it filled the space here. The kitchenette was cluttered but clean, Quidditch posters covered the walls and there was a set of barbels next to the small table. In the living area, the fibres of the carpet glinted from embedded broken glass.

He glanced at Granger, stiff-backed as she scribbled on her ever present notebook, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. They surveyed the crime scene steeped in awkwardness, bumping into each other as he weaved Detection Charms and she carried on her incessant note-taking.

"This is boring."

"Let them work," Stallworth grunted to shush Asheni.

"When the Director told me she'd paired them up, I thought it was bonkers, but at least that it would be a bit of fun. This is like watching a cauldron, waiting for a potion that's never going to come to the boil," she whined.

"Feel free to start helping anytime," Draco suggested between gritted teeth.

Hovering in the landing, Asheni made a point of looking at the limited space. "Wouldn't want to cramp your lack of style."

The silence between Malfoy and Granger dragged on past the point of obvious discomfort because they had no idea how to do this. They had developed no shorthand, no cues, no systematic way of working together.

Merlin fucking aid me.

Draco finally cleared his throat and said, "The tennant's name is Taygeta Patapolous, twenty years old." Granger gave him an incredulous look, noticed the stares of the two older Aurors, and said nothing. "Her landlady said she heard a scuffle around ten last night, alongside what she thought were two distinct voices, although it was impossible to make out what was being said. At the time, she questioned whether Miss Patapolous was just having a particularly rowdy Thursday night and kept to herself.”

Granger nodded. “The wards have been taken down, and it wasn’t a careful job. They’ve been shredded.” She pointed at the glass and a small scorch mark on the corner of the sofa cushion. Draco frowned; he’d missed it. “There’s signs of a fight.”

“So the perpetrator comes in,” he tried his best to ignore the observers, “kills her after a short confrontation, removes the body. Let’s see if we can find a motive. I’ll start here, you check around the bed.”

“How can you tell the victim was dead? She's only been reported missing."

Malfoy’s step almost faltered. Shitshitshit.

His only chance was to style it out. “She’s a witch. If she wasn’t dead or being held somewhere against her will, she would have turned up by now. The first is by far the most likely scenario.”

Granger’s eyebrow quirked up. If they hadn’t been under scrutiny, Draco was certain she would have called him out.

It took them less than fifteen minutes to search the place top to bottom, yet they came up with a wealth of potential clues. There was a small fortune in galleons hidden in the hollow of the pedestal bathroom sink alongside a creased map of Wizarding communities in Europe, heavily scribbled with notes. The most interesting find had been pressed under the bed frame with some double-sided Spellotape: a hexagonal token made of solid silver and featuring a honey badger.

“There’s a Protean Charm on it. You can tell by the glimmer,” Granger said.

“Hufflepuff House badge?”

Stallworth took it, turning it over in his hand. “This takes me back. Have either of you been to the Blustering Badger?” At their joint denial, he almost smiled. “You’re in for a treat.”

“What is it?” Draco asked.

"That's for you to find out." 

"Can’t you give us any more information than that?"

“We’re meant to serve as shining beacons, not do your work for you. Why, when I was a young whippersnapper such as you,” Asheni pronounced dramatically from the heights of her two or three year age gap, “I would have leapt at such generosity. Have fun tonight.”

Granger deflated as a spent Levitation Charm. Then, as the two of them made their way to the safe Apparition point down the street, said, “I’ll work my contacts and see what I can find out about this place. It sounds like a pub. If they use Protean Charms on their admission tokens, their cocktails must be expensive."

“There can’t be a parting of ways on this one,” Malfoy pointed out.

“Not for the time being.”

“Not at all, Granger. I know full well you don’t give a shit about this, but I happen to care about this job. I haven’t spent the last seven years grinding through the worst, most dangerous assignments that the Direction Générale could throw my way only to have you sabotage my career without a second thought. I don’t have an Order of Merlin, First Class, and a whole plethora of famous and influential friends to fall back on.” He gestured between them. “When the two of us go in front of Cheung to answer for our failings, who do you think will get the narrow end of the wand?”

That made her stop. Under the light of rare February’s apricity and for the first time since they'd joined the SDB, or possibly ever, Granger took slow, meticulous stock of him.

She saw him.

He hadn't realised he’d been striving for her to do so, that he’d been offering himself up for inspection like a hapless supplicant at the altar of some devious saint.

It was awful.

It made him shrivel, activated some latent animal instinct closely related to the urge to shove misplaced laundry under the bed or sweep crumbs off the table.

After a second that stretched like pulled toffee, Granger nodded, a crease between her eyebrows, and they headed back to the office under the banner of a tentative détente.

~*~

The building was Muggle, post-modern in construction, and utterly devoid of personality. Draco might find this a valid architectural choice if it were to serve as a canvas for beauty, its contents bold or artful.

It had been filled with cramped cubicles and beige carpet, instead.

In the daytime or, more precisely, between the hours of half-seven in the morning (for the pathologically keen) and half-seven in the evening (for the unsocial moles among the butterflies), it was filled with the muted bustle of Business. For the remaining twelve hours, it stood, hollow and shadowed among its peers in the heart of London. A veritable waste when, with little more than a few Sleeping Charms towards the security guards and a clever little system of spreading the word about that week’s Apparition point, an entrepreneurial soul managed to set up the Blustering Badger: a fantastically popular roving wizarding gambling den.

The DMLE mostly pretended such ventures didn’t exist. The unofficial line was that the wizarding community at large should be allowed to waste their time and their gold as they saw fit, particularly the subsect of it with the means to fund things like re-election campaigns and expensive new Ministry initiatives.

Draco had a very shrewd idea of who these people were, some down to their name, address and whether they spent their Summer holidays in Tuscany or the South of France. Fortunately, glamors weren’t just accepted practice, but practically de rigueur.

He pretended to pay attention to the card game as he surveyed the other players at the table. One of them kept frowning down at his hand, then puckering his lips at the play in an exaggerated bluff. Another two were engrossed in talks of commerce, haggling about shipping costs, both looking remarkably coherent although their mouths were stained dark from copious wine consumption. At least one of those wizards was talking bollocks. The other was Asheni, wearing a crisp suit that was all lapels and swagger, a ridiculous fedora perched on her head at an angle.

Stallworth might have also been in attendance but, if so, Malfoy hadn’t been able to recognise him. He sincerely doubted anyone could.

Draco’s own disguise for the night consisted, for the most part, of turning his hair short and black and his eyes a deep dark blue, although there was also a drastic rounding of his usual sharp features.

The room swirled around him in conversation, the clinking of glass, the rattle of dice and smoke laced with undertones heavier than tobacco. Draco had indulged enough during the misspent time wallowing in the depths of the pit of his own making. This was back before he discovered that therapy worked, and work helped even more than therapy. He hadn't enjoyed it. It had lent him pretty daydreams but taken away his faculties, pinned his problems like notes on a corkboard, all there for later perusal. It hadn't made him feel good, it had improved nothing and eventually he’d been driven to a detached sadness.

There were quite a few people there intent on pursuing that detachment to whatever hollow end.

He was almost sure Miss Patapolous hadn’t been one of them. No habitual substance user or gambler - or tragic combination thereof - would have been able to keep a steady job as a shopkeeper and a tidy little studio flat, rent paid every week on the dot, and a large pouch of gold stashed away to boot. That token had been glaringly out of place.

As the night wore on, he felt confident enough to start putting his back into some of the games, and had won a couple by the time the flop revealed an impostor. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand shot out to cover the cards. "A moment, please."

"That was a Full Coven, sir," the dealer announced, a little peeved at the interruption. "Better luck next time."

"Was that really a Full Coven?"

"That's exactly right." When Draco made no move to release the cards under his palm, the man sought to clarify, "That's two sets of matching rank, one of three cards and one of two."

"Do you know, that does sound like the Full Coven I've learned about in Wizarding Poker."

The man nodded once.

"Thank you for the reminder," Draco said.

"You're most welcome, sir. It would appear you're still holding onto the cards, sir," the dealer added, after a fruitless jerk at the edges peeping out from under Malfoy's digits.

"Just a quick follow-up question, do pardon the imposition, but is that still a Full Coven even if the deck has two obsidian Circes?"

There wasn't time for a tense moment. The dealer simply abandoned the cards and started shuffling through a fresh deck. "I'm sorry to say you are mistaken, sir."

"I assure you I am not."

"I think it's time you look for a new game."

"And I can't imagine a place like this looks kindly on magically assisted sleight of hand, whatever the table."

The card shuffling did not stutter. The dealer was wasted playing House; he had the best poker face there. The witch at the far end, though, was tense as an oyster, glaring at Malfoy through gauzy cigar smoke. “I wouldn’t try anything like that, if I were you.”

“Me?” Draco asked, mock offended. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

“There would be no point whatsoever, after all. Not under the watchful eye of a seasoned, focused man such as yourself. You really couldn't have missed it. Not a chance."

The dealer sent out a shower of red sparks to summon security, and Malfoy thought he could hear Asheni rattle out a laugh.

He could easily have proven the cheating and the dealer's complicity, only this was made harder when the dealer vanished the cards and, with them, any shred of evidence, and more difficult still when he realised that flaunting his badge wouldn’t win him any popularity contests.

Which is why he let himself be summarily ejected and shoved out into the gutter, not having proven any of it.

"Next time we see you back in there, you’ll get a free swim down the Thames," was the cursory, unoriginal threat he was left with.

"Bollocks," Draco muttered, making his way around the building. He waited until he was safely under the cover of some yew pyramids, shifted, and slunk back in through the car park entrance, cursing his rotten luck.

In his current shape, he could make out the wards as clearly as if they were pulsing neon lights, failing to affect him in the same way. He could smell the air changing around the concealed doorway, even if his eyes couldn't make it out. There was the gentle background periwinkle fuzz of a Protego Totallum , the yellow scrunch of a Silencing Charm and the magenta glare of a Muggle Repelling Charm.

The Notice-Me-Not was noted, and just as easily dismissed.

Child's play, the lot, for someone of his cultivated abilities.

He was already back at the bar, new glamours in place, by the time Granger came to find him, looking more volatile than the contents of his glass.

Her silken dark emerald dress had buttons crawling over one of her clavicles to unite the two raised and rounded ends of the collar. It would have been modest, bordering on severe, if not for the overall length.

At her every short but assured step through the crowd, the pleats grazed her thighs to hide and reveal, in turn, the edge of her sheer stockings and the clasps of a garter belt against smooth olive skin.

This had a profound effect on Draco’s physiology. His mind buckled under the strain of superimposing the contours of the witch in front of him - subtly changed features, a shine of forest green to her irises, but, in effect, still Granger - with the woman whose style when out of uniform could generously be defined as frumpy-librarian-chic.

With every rustle of that skirt, he was indelibly changed. The confines of his personal universe contracted under pressure, then expanded. Bits of him fizzed.

Faced with this study in incongruity, he opted for the mature reaction and bolted. His senses were still buzzing from the recent shift and the last thing he needed was further exposure to this Granger.

"Malfoy," she hissed. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"I've been rather busy." Nevermind exactly how; there was no need for her to know that.

"Where are you going?"

Oh, this was rich. Priceless, even, if it weren't such a personal tragedy. He dodged punters on the way to a back corridor. "Following me, are you? Interesting turn of events."

"Don't be childish. Only earlier today you were lecturing me about how we needed to be professionals and work together so damn well slow it down, I'm wearing heels!"

He didn’t cherish the reminder. "What if you needed to run out of here? Poor planning on your part."

"I'm more prepared to fight than to flee. Do keep that in mind."

Antagonising her had helped purge the embarrassment of his ridiculous reaction from his system, proving its value as a coping skill. "Our victim worked here."

Beside him, Granger frowned. "Bar staff?"

“Service à l'anglaise." Malfoy called her attention to the men and women serving drinks. "I saw that exact crushed velvet vest hanging in her wardrobe. I should have realised it was a uniform. No one would go out and purchase something as repugnant as that."

"I think it looks smart."

"Did someone help you with that outfit, by any chance?" A look around, and they’d slipped past a door marked 'Staff - Do Not Enter'.

"What has that got to do with anything?" she bristled.

"Nevermind."

They approached a uniformed server elbow deep in discarded lemon twists and melting ice buckets, a winning combination of youthful inexperience and meek slope to her shoulders. Indeed, when they posed as concerned friends, she seemed ready to believe them. "We were hoping to meet up with Taygeta," Granger said.

“Sorry, she’s not in today. She owled the shift manager this morning.”

Malfoy already knew Miss Patapolous was dead, so someone else must have sent that letter. “That’s odd.”

"Yeah, it's not like her to miss work and leave the rest of us in the lurch. Not only that, Friday nights are usually great for tips and she's been saving up for ages."

"Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"No, but Glycinia will know.”

Interesting. "Does Glycinia work here?"

It was the wrong thing to ask; Malfoy could tell so immediately. The young witch looked them both up and down. "Where do you know Tay from, exactly?"

“Quidditch,” Granger said, in a rush. “She’s a fellow Harpies supporter, we’re used to commiserating together.”

“Kestrels,” Malfoy whispered.

“What?”

“The posters on her wall. It was the Kestrels.”

Granger’s cheery little smile was starting to slip. “No, I remember the colours. It was green and yellow, I’m positive that’s the Harpies.”

“And the Kestrels,” he insisted.

“He’s right, you know. It is the Kestrels. And anyone who knows Tay would know Glycinia. They’re barely ever apart.” Tray abandoned behind her, the server was eyeing them up with undisguised suspicion. “Maybe I should call security-”

“You’ll have to forgive her. Memory like a sieve. She got cursed a few years back, it’s only gotten worse. It’s what caused the hair,” he made a wide, swirling gesture with his hands.

“ What? ”

“Yes, indeed. Very sad. We try not to talk about it, but it’s really affected her.”

The server looked bewildered. “Right.”

“I’m sure we’ll get a hold of Tay sooner or later. Come on, deary, let’s get you home.” Then, in a lower voice as he tugged Granger away by the elbow, “Oh, that was great work, Granger. Real smooth, the wrong Quidditch team as well-”

“Spell damage, is it? You’ll know all about it once I’m done with you-”

They rounded the corridor to face the two security guards from earlier entering the staff area. Their chatter died down as one of them studied Malfoy’s face. "Here, have I seen you before?"

"You probably saw me out there at a few tables. I was the one getting trounced over and over again," Malfoy chuckled, his new glamour all long brown hair and dark eyes that couldn't possibly-

“Wasn’t he the fucking cheater we booted earlier?”

-get recognised. Fuck. "We should be going," he muttered to Granger.

“What did you do?" she asked as he fairly dragged her behind him. The security guards caught up, aiming to stun or bind them. He had to admit she was fast with a Shield Charm as they wove around offices to break up sight lines.

Malfoy sensed the shifting air and the dead end ahead to change course through a long, narrow meeting room.

“There’s a fire exit.”

“Warded,” he said between clenched teeth, sensing the hint of pepperiness to it as they passed it at a dead run. The keen awareness he experienced with his shift usually lingered even after he’d returned to his human form, lending him a very useful set of extra reference points of awareness. It was hard to explain to someone that had never experienced it, a little like an ear for changes in temperature or suddenly seeing the edges of a musical note in the air.

A piece of sky surged above them as they reached the atrium and a potted plant to the right, hit with a wayward spell, exploded in clods of dirt and leafy debris. They hunched together behind the cover of a wide column.

“The maintenance door-”

“Is a decoy. There’s nothing behind it but a snare.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can.” Just as she looked exasperated enough to start screaming, Malfoy could hear gusting air. “What’s a central vacuum?”

She studied the small white plastic flap. “It’s a cleaning system built into the whole building, but it’s much too narrow for us to fit through.”

“Too narrow? For fuck’s sake, Granger, we’re bloody wizards ! You get to work on it, I’ll hold them off.” The two security guards were used to disabling belligerent and incapacitated patrons, not duelling trained Aurors, so it took virtually no time to reduce them to a crumpled heap. “Did you get it?”

She nodded. “It will widen as we get through, hopefully all the way to the end, wherever that is.”

“What do you mean, hopefully ?”

“I can’t be sure of the range. I don’t know how many bends-”

“It will have to do,” Malfoy shot back, the scuff of approaching feet at the edge of his hearing.

He didn’t know what was worse: the dust and mouldy waste, turned viscous with smears of grease as the duct swole just enough to admit him; or the smell, piercing his still sensitive olfactory receptors with all the kindness of a hot needle; or the pitch black claustrophobia combined with the uncontrolled fall, limned with the ever-present fear of getting stuck.

Closing his eyes, Draco refused to breathe until it was over and they’d been ejected to the basement and vaulted a high window onto a side alley. The city air, while far from fresh, felt like a boon, and he inhaled gratefully.

“That was… Awful.” Granger, having acquired the greenish tint of someone likely to revisit the contents of their tea, was uncharacteristically silent.

They were probably the dirtiest thing in that alley.

“Don’t look down at your dress. Seriously, just- don’t.” He stumbled away until he could support himself with one hand against the wall as he Scourgified them both “Let’s just find a safe Disapparition point.” So he could go home, burn his clothing and stand under the scalding shower spray until he felt clean again.

“Do you think Asheni noticed?”

“I certainly did.” She was at the alley’s mouth, a leg twisted behind her ankle, grinning like a chorus girl. 

“How did you get here?” Granger looked utterly bewildered.

“There are these things called doors, although, I will say, you two made quite the exit,” she smoothed a hand over her pristine outfit. “Did you find anything useful?”

“We have a name,” Draco said, trying to sound upbeat about all they had to show for the night’s work.

“Half of one, really.” Granger was less hopeful.

Asheni shrugged. “I’ve had investigations start worse off than that. Good going.”

The other Auror had rounded the corner before Granger whispered, “We’re fucked.”

Malfoy nodded.

Chapter Text

Wizards had a fondness for the unusual and the archaic, which generated a host of interesting and, at times, unfortunate naming conventions. As it turns out, their half of a name eventually proved just as useful as an address.

The address in question, however, was of particular concern.

"He's rumoured to have been a Death-Eater, back in the day,” Granger said, staring up at high wrought-iron gates. 

Draco could hear the question she hadn't asked. "Suspected, but never confirmed.”

He had never been trusted enough to be given access to any useful information. A failure, whichever way you held him up for inspection, which, perversely, was its own achievement. As a result, he’d only known the identities of Death Eaters cruel or careless enough to share this freely or, and his stomach twisted at the thought, those with family members to do so for them. He didn’t waste his time explaining this to Granger. She wouldn’t have believed him, and he didn’t care.

Draco’s father would know, of course, but Lucius Malfoy was deathly allergic to sharing information unless there was something in it for himself. In hindsight, especially staring down at the black of his own Auror uniform, this had turned out to be a shrewd precaution.

“No signs of our au-pairs today, unless they’re about to jump out from behind that row of junipers.”

“A wizarding family was found tortured in their own home. The father was a muggleborn and there were two children. Every available SDB Auror has been pulled in.”

Loyalist activity, more than likely. The unspoken deduction walled itself between them.

They waited by the gate as a tall, straight-backed wizard advanced from the sprawling bulk of the stately home to the edge of the path with long, unhurried steps. He stared them down with the same dismissive look one would spare for a particularly invasive species of garden gnome as no more than a harmless, pesky inconvenience.

“We’re here to speak to your granddaughter,” Granger told him, after they’d identified themselves and flashed their badges. Lord Marcus Grevill-Stokes ignored her, turning to speak to Draco as if he and his partner were a ventriloquist act and he was refusing to get in on it.

“You have wasted your time. Glycinia is not at home.”

“We will need to come inside and verify that,” Draco said.

The man’s tone was haughty in the extreme. “Take my word for it or choose not to. In any case, you are not invited in.”

Granger’s eyes flashed. “We don’t need an invitation, sir. Under article 308-”

“This is my ancestral home,” he sneered, every bit the elderly misanthrope in his heavy robes stinking of expensive tobacco, “and I don’t have to endure your unwanted presence in it. Good day to you.” He was still staring at Malfoy as he said it, then walked off, soon swallowed up by the penumbra of the foggy morning.

“What now?” Draco asked.

She was already walking along the edge of the property. "Would you say that stone pillar is looking a bit worse for wear?"

"It's seen better days."

"Bit of a vulnerability for a place like this. Ward maintenance at this scale is a pain."

"Yes, well, it will be corners like this or the gates-" She cut him off by aiming a Bombarda Maxima at the pillar. Granite fragments were blasted off and into the air, revealing a pitted crater. "What do you think you're doing?"

He barely had enough time to shield his eyes before Granger's next blast of destruction, her mouth set with malice as the top third of the stone column exploded. "Just following protocol. All in accordance with Article 308, in fact. Let Lord Knobhead complain all he likes."

“I very much doubt Lord Grevill-Stokes is familiar with the inner workings of that particular piece of wizarding legislation," Draco hissed.

“Ignorance is no defence from the law." She was landing solid hits on the outer walls now, and not bothering too much with accuracy. The hole was going to be wide enough to ride a Thestral through.

“You were hoping he’d refuse, weren’t you?” he asked, realising he was right even as he said it.

“Whatever gave you that impression?"

A house elf Apparated almost atop Draco, making him gasp an imprecation at the rheumy yellow eyes bulging up from the wrinkly face.

“Good morning,” Granger greeted the interloper. “Are you here to let us in?”

Nodding, the elf gestured frantically for them to follow.

“Will you look at that? We’ve been invited in after all," Malfoy muttered.

“I’ve always found it’s all in the asking,” Granger said.

On the way to the morning room, he stealthily confirmed there were no other humans in the vicinity apart from the Lord of the Manor. The very same was intent on glowering at them. “I look forward to lodging a complaint to the Ministry and have you both answer for this behaviour, you lethiferous-”

“I did inform you, sir-”

“Do not pollute this house by daring to address me, you filthy Mudblood ,” the old man spat.

The room itself seemed to darken around Malfoy, snakes slithering and winding their fat, gruesome bodies around the branches of the wallpaper. “One more word from you, one more insult towards my partner, and we will have the Ministry gut this Manor," he heard himself say.

Beside him, he could have sworn he felt Granger stiffen. Not at the insult, he noticed, but at his own words.

“There is a great storm coming for the likes of you,” the elderly man said, thin lips pulled over yellowed teeth. “And when it arrives, let’s see what fun we can have with such a puppet, if you should survive the first flood.” His fingers had splayed over his forearm, a mockery of the white hand symbol that the Loyalists had adopted.

As he blathered on, Draco realised his mistake. He’d forgotten himself for a moment, but of course he knew exactly how to outmanoeuvre Grevill-Stokes; he'd seen it done a thousand times. Making a point of looking around the room, he settled back into the padded seat, legs crossed, the very picture of ease. “This is an interesting collection of objects you have here. Is that an illegal Time Pocket charm built into that shelf? What of that prohibited Dead Man’s snare I just spotted around the painting of the Battle of Mag Itha? I wonder what might be behind it. Why, this house seems to be brimming with objects of great interest, if only we decide to take our time and peruse. ”

Clawed hands attacked the tweed upholstery in impotent rage. “How you defile your name and ancestry, you impudent child. Your parents must weep over the moment you first drew breath.”

“He’s heard much worse from far better people,” Granger cut in. “Where is your granddaughter?”

For a moment, it was unclear whether the man would respond. In the end, and still refusing to acknowledge Granger, he said, “She left for Switzerland two weeks ago to attend to an infirm great-aunt.”

Unasked, he’d given them a time-frame, even as he narrowed his granddaughter’s location down to an entire country. The amount of red flags in one statement was truly astonishing. “We will need the conveniently poorly aunt’s full address.”

“That lies outside your jurisdiction.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched at the man’s smug expression, both of them aware of the accuracy of that statement. “When will she be back?”

“That would depend entirely on Aunt Lourdes’ recovery, but she is certain to be back in time for her nuptials in the Summer. I am proud to say she will be marrying into the Edisone family.”

“Have you ever heard of a woman called Taygeta Patapolous?”

“Never,” Lord Grevill-Stokes lied, but Draco’s mind was busy tracing acquaintances and British wizarding genealogy.

“Edisone. Would that be a descendant of Lord Edric Edisone?”

“Not a descendant at all, but the very same.”

For a moment, Malfoy was at a loss for words. “The Lord Edisone I remember was aged, bordering on decrepit."

"We are nearly the same age."

"Yes, well, there you are."

Thankfully, Granger picked up the questions without a break. "Your granddaughter is eighteen years old. Did she agree to marry a man forty years her senior?"

More like fifty , Malfoy thought to himself.

For the first time, Grevill-Stokes turned to face Granger. "This is precisely why people of your ilk should have never been allowed a wand. You have no understanding of how our world works. Wizarding families are fiercely loyal to each other, with deep connections going back generations, forged in honour and mutual respect. The union of our two houses is the most natural, traditional course of action imaginable."

"Did she consent?" she pressed.

"Consent does not come into it. Glycinia is of age. The marriage contract has been sealed and filled with the Ministry.”

Malfoy felt calm slipping out of his reach to be replaced with nausea. Eighteen years old. His eyes scoured the room for a photo, a painting, some manner of evidence of the young woman whose life had been sold and signed away to a loathsome old reprobate. “This can still be lawfully contested.”

“So there is some truth to the rumour, after all. I wouldn’t have believed you’d squander your last chance to do right by your family.” Dried spittle was collecting at the edges of Grevill-Stokes' mouth in revolting foamy white and yellow specs. "Buying out your own marriage contract is the ultimate act of disrespect. It’s no wonder your mother avoids the very mention of your name."

It was a low blow, and Draco should have been able to shrug it off, yet the recollection of his mother's pale, drawn face when they'd last met tugged at him like an anchor, its weight impossible to ignore. Beside him, Granger remained stone-faced and unperturbed, as if this wasn’t the first time she’d heard of it. He couldn’t judge her reaction at all, but made no move to shield his own, knowing he could use it to its full advantage, “If you’ll excuse me, I could use a moment.”

“Elf!” Lord Grevill-Stokes barked, gleeful at Malfoy’s unease. The elderly house elf materialised with a wan pop , wild white tufts of hair sprouting from his elongated ears to swing with every movement. “Escort this man to the closest facilities and wait for him by the door. You know the consequences should you allow him to wander or fail to supervise him,” he added, darkly.

“Thank you,” Draco said to the elf. “I shan’t be any trouble.”

This seemed to amuse Grevill-Stokes. “He won’t answer any of your questions, if that’s what you’re after. All my elves are Silenced. What is the use of a talking toaster or a mop that answers back?” 

Granger seemed ready to set the man’s robes on fire for that alone and Malfoy, for his own part, would be happy to add the kindling.

He followed the elf and waited until they were out of earshot to stop him. This led to a heartbreaking flinch away from his reach. This elf, this house, the utter boisterous bastard that was Grevill-Stokes - it was all too familiar. “Miss Granger and I are Aurors and we need to speak to Glycinia. She isn’t in any trouble but one of her friends has gone missing.”

The elf stared at him, hands squirming along the tattered edge of the soiled dishcloth tied around his neck.

“Right,” Malfoy considered asking binary questions, asking for nods or taps - then inspiration struck, driven home by the talk of bloodlines. “It just so happens that I am the son of a cousin of Lord Grevill-Stokes’ late brother-in-law.” He paused, went over it again in his mind. “I’m reasonably sure that’s right.”

The elf tilted his head.

“Yes. And, as a family member, I am one of the Masters of this house and you will answer to me when asked,” he added, trying to inject the statement with false confidence. “I insist. In fact, I demand you tell me your name."

After an obvious hesitation, the elf whispered, "J- Jotty, Master."

They stared at each other in surprise, then Malfoy seized the small elf before he could run off. He all but vibrated between his hands, his long toes off the floor entirely as new orders and old dictats collided. “Nice to meet you, Jotty. Stay calm and do not, under any circumstances, injure yourself. Do you understand? I’m going to put you down, now.”

“Master Malfoy is kind.” The revulsion that had been rising inside Draco sloshed once more, threatening to spill into anger.

“I fear you haven’t seen enough decency and kindness to know the difference. Where is Glycinia?”

With speed that belied his age, Jotty ran and crashed head-first into a nearby plinth, too fast for Draco to be able to stop him. An antique Satsuma vase wobbled and he barely caught it with a Levitation Charm before he could reach the elf.

“Whatever did you do that for?” Malfoy hissed.

“Jotty protects the Miss.”

Draco thought back to his words. “That’s quite clever, Jotty. I didn’t tell you not to alert Grevill-Stokes. You’re trying to get me caught. Glycinia isn’t in Switzerland, is she? I doubt there’s even such a creature as an Aunt Lourdes.”

The little elf projected his concave little chest. “Miss is safe.”

“I'm very glad to hear it. Look, do you see my badge? I’m with the Ministry. I really am trying to help Glycinia.”

"Jotty cannot help Master Malfoy. Jotty is a loyal elf. Even if Master hurts Jotty, the Mistress will be safe."

Malfoy sighed, staring down the corridor, knowing he was running out of time. "Help me or not, I'm not going to hurt you. Let me tell you what I know. I know Marcus Grevill-Stokes is a cruel, vicious man and that he would never willingly let his granddaughter out of his sight until after that wedding is sealed. I know an ancestral home like this soaks up gold like a sponge, gold he doesn't have. I know he will have sent men - men without badges, men that couldn't care less about what happens to Glycinia - to find her and bring her back."

The elf's prodigious ears swung around as he shook his head in mute horror.

"I need to find her before those men do. I promise to do whatever I can do to help her."

~*~

“I can’t believe that worked,” Granger said, once Malfoy had briefed her.

Honestly, neither could he. “Tough luck having to deal with Grevill-Stokes on your own.”

She shrugged. “It was worth it. I will say that interviewing a person of interest torn between pretending I didn’t exist and talking about how I'd stolen a wand from a deserving magical child was a new challenge. The thought of arresting him for obstruction is more than a little tempting.”

"He wouldn't be worth the ink on the parchment." What neither admitted, yet both knew, was that Grevill-Stokes would beat the charges and walk out of the Ministry before that same ink was dry.

Conjuring a pair of umbrellas, they braved heavy rainfall to search along the row of biscuit-cutter park homes for the address Jotty had provided, weaving anti-Apparition Charms as they went. Their destination was almost entirely indistinguishable from its neighbours except for two large planters overflowing with red roses.

“We’ll check the perimeter first, then I’ll approach through the front while you stay in position out of sight, looking out for a standard distress signal. Not that I’ll need to use it.”

"And who, pray tell, decided you were the lead?" Malfoy could scarcely believe her audacity.

"I have seniority."

"Granted, you have a few months on me, but being a decrepit thing doesn't mean you get to boss me around."

"Seniority within the service , poshknob. Now do as you're told."

Like hell. Granger hadn't heard the last of this. It wasn't even as if she was making the effort to use valid insults anymore. Out of sight, Malfoy heard the knock on the door and the strain on rackety hinges as it swung open.

And, far more muted, the scraping shuffle of cloth going over metal.

He hared it around the house, instincts blaring, rounding the corner with his wand in hand, and turned an Incarcerous on the half of the witch that was hanging awkwardly over the window ledge.

She slumped stiffly over the wet soil, glaring at him. “Hello, Miss Patapolous. It’s nice to see you’re alive. I'm sure we can escape this weather and you can tell me and my partner all about it over a nice cup of tea."

"I won’t let you take Cin away.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You're the younger Malfoy, I heard you were off bullying people for money,” she accused.

"I'm an Auror."

"Same difference."

He sighed heavily. Honestly, his talent was wasted on this job.

He escorted a mud-streaked Taygeta into the house to join Granger and Glycinia. The two Aurors were reluctantly offered tea and a biscuit.

“We don’t have to tell you anything.” Then, to Taygeta, “We don’t have to tell them anything,” Glycinia pleaded, pale and skittish.

“That’s true,” Granger said, steeping her tea bag and sipping her tea with every sign of relish. Dark and bitter, much like herself, Draco couldn’t help noticing. “I’ll talk to you, instead. This is what we’ve gathered so far. You, Miss Grevill-Stokes, and Miss Patapoulos, are good friends.”

Taygetta scoffed over her mismatched teacup and saucer. “Well, you’ve got that wrong.”

Glycinia’s hand twitched between them until their fingers curled together.

“I see,” Malfoy continued. “With the wedding approaching, the two of you decided the only way forward was to run away. Started looking at maps to find your next move and putting gold away to give yourselves a fresh start.”

“It’s a shame you had to leave it behind,” Granger said.

The two young women didn’t move a muscle, eyes down and the detached, hollow countenance of someone wishing to be anywhere else in the world but here, in this moment.

“Your grandfather, Miss Grevill-Stokes, isn’t a kind or understanding man. I’m betting he sent someone after Miss Patapolous to persuade her to stay away-”

Glycinia made a hollow noise like a sickly goose. “Persuade her? He’s been threatening Tay ever since he found out about us. Using her.” Taygeta tried to shush her girlfriend, yet panic had shaken loose an unnamed horror and it came bursting forth regardless. “He told me he’d have her killed if I didn’t marry Edric but- I couldn’t. I can’t. All they want is a magical broodmare. If I marry Edric, I’ll be pregnant inside the year, and then I’ll never get away,” she was shaking now, her short brown hair sticking to the damp skin of her neck as Taygeta continued trying to calm her down.

Granger and Malfoy exchanged a look. “There’s a few points we need to clear up,” Granger said.

“What do you want to know?” Taygeta asked, irritable, trying to shield Glycinia against her side.

“What happened to the man that Grevill-Stokes sent?”

Taygeta was silent as her girlfriend cried, yet there was a flicker of her eyes, brief and damning. “I managed to injure him and he ran off. I don’t know where he got to, I just went to get Cin and we left,” she stopped, checking their reactions.

“If you take her in, my grandfather still wins. You must know that. If he finds me… My life is over. Our life is over,” Glycinia croaked.

Malfoy drained his drink, fervently wishing it was something stronger than tea.

Beside him, Granger's gaze was a bonfire.

~*~

"Interesting bit about the missing injured mercenary.”

“I don’t doubt that he was injured.”

“I think he might be terminally resting at a likely location, would you agree?”

Malfoy spared Granger an incredulous look. "Tay may have a look of good qualities but her bluff needs work."

They both turned to the sad little plot of churned earth in the back garden.

"There may be a way to resolve this," she told him, each word slow and careful, "but it would be better if you weren't involved."

"Not this again," Draco bristled, but Granger still had that crackling aura around her.

"I heard what you said. If this job really means that much to you, I suggest you let this one be.”

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"My idea isn't strictly by the book," she admitted. "And I wouldn't blame you if you'd like to preserve some plausible deniability."

"It’s still perfectly legal, though."

Granger offered no reassurance. She just stood there. Staring.

Draco scoffed. "Come off it. As if you, the ultimate good girl, would ever put a foot wrong."

Her eyes flashed, her mouth a set line. "We must be remembering our Hogwarts years very differently. I'm far more prone to asking for forgiveness than permission."

There was the sudden sense that he was standing at a threshold, that this decision would prove a watershed moment for their working together, so he afforded it some thought. Whatever her plan was, he wasn't going to be sidelined.

And he knew all too well what it was like to have one’s prospects and future taken away.

“Will it keep Glycinia out of Grevill-Stokes' arthritic, liver-spotted clutches?”

“Yes.”

“Is it very illegal?”

“Also, yes. But it is justice. More than what they would have had otherwise, that is.”

He nodded once.

Granger looked him briefly up and down, nodded back, and told him all about her idea. Draco couldn't help feeling he had just passed some sort of test.

Then he grasped what she was planning to do and any shred of relief left him all at once, sending the door rattling behind it. He tried his best to temper his reaction, to play it out to its logical conclusion, but the words still left his mouth, unbidden:

"There is categorically no fucking way that will ever work."

~*~

The following morning found them both at their back-to-back desks, rushing through paperwork before the weekly briefing was due to start. They were almost certainly due to be assigned new casework today so it would be in their best interest to, at the very least, make a dent on their respective intrays.

Draco's desk featured glossy ring binders of case files, all aligned to within an eighth of an inch. The only personal touch was a cheap mug with a painted dragon curled around the handle.

By way of contrast, the surface of Granger's desk hadn't seen daylight in weeks, buried as it was beneath stratified layers of notebooks, scrolls of parchment, broken quills, yet unbroken quills, and enough books to start an indie store that sold caraway buns and had its own cat mascot with a bell on its red collar.

“I’m caught up,” she sighed, slapping down a teetering stack of files. “Do you need help?”

“This isn’t casework. It’s all the information I compiled on marriage contracts and legal precedent. It felt like something Glycinia could use,” Malfoy explained.

"Did you really have to buy out your own marriage contract? I assumed Grevill-Stokes was just winding you up."

"You assumed incorrectly," Draco drawled. "I’m sure you can imagine the parental unit’s reaction to my wishes to join the Auror service. My marriage contract was used as a carrot and, when that didn’t work, as a stick. As it turns out, they severely underestimated my commitment phobia."

Granger turned that probing gaze to him once more, and he struggled not to squirm.

"Granger. Malfoy." Stallworth interrupted, pulling up a chair, the metal legs scraping the floor with a jarring sound. "I've had a flick through the Grevill-Stokes casefile. It made for one hell of a read."

If Tay Patapolous was a poor bluffer, Granger could have taken the whole department to the cleaners on poker night. "Any notes for us, Stallworth?"

"Not as such. It was quite the achievement, if anything, how a case so convoluted could be wrapped up so neatly." The senior Auror's stare was piercing. "Consider his Lordship Marcus Grevill-Stokes, a hardened fuckwit and Voldy supporter linked - rumoured, you understand, never proven, but we all damn well knew it - to six deaths spanning fifteen years. And yet, he's careless enough to hire an incompetent mercenary, kill him and bury the corpse behind the stables."

The silence that followed had a distinctive treacle-like quality.

“Still, he can’t very well contest it, since no one could access the property without setting off the wards. Except, of course, maybe a family member, or one of his elves.”

Malfoy resisted the sudden urge to check his boots for traces of mud.

“It brightened my day to no end to see that bastard get dragged into holding. Good work,” Stallworth said, at last, snapping the band around Draco's ribcage. 

“All you need to do is avoid triggering subsection one seventy-five and, one day, you’ll be running the fucking Branch,” Asheni grinned, following her partner out.

“What’s subsection one seventy-five?” Draco asked as they filed into the meeting, knowing that, if anyone had gone through the hassle of memorising their code of conduct, that would be Granger.

“I believe that was Asheni’s idea of a joke,” she muttered.

In the end, his curiosity failed to spare him:

Auror Code of Conduct - 175/a) Auror partners must maintain a standard of professional relationship commensurate with their position at all times. Any proven contact of a romantic or sexual nature⁸ will lead to immediate dismissal without the possibility of appeal. The record of the Aurors involved will reflect any and all aspects of inappropriate behaviour, dereliction of duty and, ancillary to specific circumstances, fraud, which may be subjected to criminal charges.

⁸This includes any romantic or sexual contact with a partner’s family member and /or spouse - see Case 309-E, Ministry of Magic vs Steve D..

Ha!, thought Draco. A joke, indeed.

Chapter Text

The Grecian-inspired facade - a faithful endorsement to its contents - adorned postcards, selfies and fridge magnets worldwide. Millions visited the British Museum every year, yet only a secretive few knew of its Magical Wing. Better yet, it was only in High Holborn, a leisurely five minute stroll down the street.

There were no long queues or post and rope barriers, no grand entrance or literary shops in the Grand Court.

Instead, Malfoy followed Granger into Bruno’s, a miniscule corner shop that served as emergency access in case of lockdown. They had to flatten themselves against the wall to slip past pallets of fizzy drinks and cardboard boxes full of yellow tubs of instant noodles.

“Is it behind that shelf?”

“It looks like it - hold on.” The metal scraped against the floor as he pushed it out of the way. “That’s semaphore. Can you remember what the configuration was?”

Granger tapped her wand until the lights on the top right corner changed, yellow fading to black as the green flared, the chevron yellow stripes dropping at an angle. “There should have been someone stationed up here.”

The floor beneath them rumbled and sunk, blackened brick and crumbling mortar rising past them as they dropped at least four floors. “They must have gotten tired of going up and down all morning.” The British Museum Underground Station was the dark and damp of abandoned buildings, its graffiti long defaced by efflorescence. “What’s that noise?” Draco’s Lumos carved the gloom. 

“That will be Amen-Ra,” Granger failed to explain.

“Hi, Hermione,” the poltergeist greeted, her colourful form bobbing between them as she scrutinised their uniforms. “Are you coming about the robbery?"

“We- yes,” Malfoy said, recovering from the fright.

“Oh, they’re having kittens in there.” The long dead Egyptian Princess was all schadenfreude. “They shan’t be able to say it was my fault this time. They’re always trying to blame me for things." A click of her tongue, the sound indistinguishable from unearthed shards of ancient pottery scraping together in sand. “Damaged artwork, broken pipes. Honestly, you cause one little ship to sink-”

Granger rustled at this. “It was the Titanic. That’s hardly a little ship.”

“Oh, come on, what else was I supposed to do? We’d been at sea for what felt like ages, it was all brass bands and big dinners I couldn’t eat. It was so boring. ”

She led them past an intricately carved lintel and through enough layered warding to make their ears pop, and were welcomed to the grandeur of the Magical Wing of the British Museum. “Granger,” Malfoy hissed. “How come you’re on a first name basis with Creepy Teenage Princess Poltergeist?” He knew about her, famously the most dangerous extant poltergeist in history, but had assumed she was somehow contained, not greeting visitors like a vicious sort of mascot.

“I’ve visited a few times, sometimes for casework. They have experts on almost every magical subject. Amen-Ra is generally okay, unless she’s in one of her moods. Then she starts wailing, makes the lights flicker or traps the visitors."

“That happened once ,” Amen-Ra protested. “Sheesh, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

“You kept us waiting,” said the Head Curator, blotting his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Is that part of one of the exhibits?” Draco gestured at the nearest doorway and radiant white marble shards atop a mangled pile of pipes, cogs and springs. They seemed to be discarded components of a larger mechanism.

“Not that we could find. Before we proceed, I want to make one thing very clear. Your priority in this case, the one aspect of utmost importance - and I cannot stress this enough-” You’re certainly trying, Draco thought. “-is that we must keep this contained. If the Prophet gets a hold of this story, we’ll be finished. We won’t be worth the gilt on the letterhead. Private collectors worldwide will retrieve their items faster than a Niffler hoards gold."

“We can’t promise that,” said Granger.

The man’s tone changed. “I’ve granted you access so you could perform your little investigation, I expect full cooperation.”

“I think we'll have to disappoint you,” Draco’s partner insisted. "Despite being in charge, you didn't even report the robbery. This is a Ministry funded institution, we don’t need your permission. Your full cooperation is appreciated, though.”

Malfoy held back a smile as the man stood there, sweating through his robes. Granger’s abrasive, borderline acidic approach was rather fun to witness, provided it was directed elsewhere. “What was taken, exactly?”

“That may take some time to ascertain,” the Head Curator admitted. “We have three floors of exhibits that barely scratch the surface of our inventory. Checking storage and the archive-”

“They only took one item.” The crisp staccato voice emanated from around Malfoy’s knees.

“Are you positive?” Granger asked.

“Yes. Treasure keeping is often considered an innate ability for my species." After it became clear no one was going to make any comments about gold or banking, he continued, “I have never met a female law enforcement officer before.”

“I can’t say I’ve met a goblin Curator before, either.”

“This is fair. I meant no offence, of course. The goblin gave a small, deferential bow. “I am Professor Walter Blitherskite.”

Truly? Oh, no. In the cramped space of half a second, Malfoy evaluated whether this was a joke, a real name, or a trap where the wrong guess could cripple the case from the start. Seeing as Granger seemed mired in much the same conundrum, he cut in, “I’m Auror Malfoy and that’s Auror Granger.”

“Charmed.”

“You mentioned there was only one item missing,” Draco prompted, with great relief.

The Curator produced the velvet lined case, conspicuous by the absence at its centre. “It was a remarkable piece. A cloisonné broach, once part of the Portuguese Crown Jewels.”

“How did it come to be housed here?”

“It was gifted as payment to a remarkably powerful sorceress - Alma, Our Lady of Suffering - in the first half of the fourteenth century,” Blitherskite explained, getting into the subject with the ease of sliding into the deep and comfortable armchair of his own area of expertise.

Granger’s quill trembled furiously over her notebook. “What was it valued at?”

Walter - Malfoy's mind rebelled at calling him Blitherskite - hesitated. “That is a difficult question to answer with any degree of accuracy. It is an antique and a royal jewel, both of which will make it relatively valuable, not to mention the artwork of the piece itself. Considering its history, of course, it could be worth hundreds of thousands of galleons to a magical collector.” He disappeared behind a desk for a few seconds to return with a large battered hardcover edged in silver. “In 1339, Prince Pedro fell in love with Inês de Castro, one of his wife’s handmaidens. A semi-secret dalliance was not the scandal it would appear; at the time, royal weddings were mere tools of political alliance and often held no romantic substrata. Nevertheless, after his wife’s passing, Pedro provoked his father’s ire by seeking to marry Inês. The King, I fear, may have overreacted.”

“Did he?” Malfoy asked, lost in the long-winded lecture they’d unwittingly triggered.

“Yes. He had her beheaded.”

Not as boring. Certainly not for Inês. “Oh, dear.”

“The best bit is coming up,” said Amen-Ra, with obvious glee.

“Indeed. Pedro went on to launch a full scale civil war and ascended to the throne. Once instated, he declared that he and Inês had been married in secret, and had her posthumously crowned as Queen. I mean this quite literally. She was exhumed and King Pedro I forced his court to kiss her ring.”

He pointed at a reproduction of a painting depicting the macabre tableau: a young man on his knees, kissing a gloved skeletal hand. The empty eye sockets of the recumbent dead Queen seemed to stare out from the canvas even through the photograph.

Ines de Castro by Paula Rego (source: varsity.co.uk)

“That certainly sounds like mediaeval behaviour,” Granger said. “What was Alma’s role in all of this?” 

The Curator carefully put away his book and gestured to a niche of scrolls, loosely bound and Charm-protected. “There are contemporary accounts by witches and wizards all over the Iberian Peninsula that bear witness to the Muggle version of the legend almost in its entirety. The details are scattered but they agree on the following addition: the Queen lived on for several years after her coronation.”

Granger, for her part, was having none of it. “That’s impossible. Not unless she wasn’t dead in the first place-”

“Her beheading was attended by three executioners. Named historical figures.”

“Then, it wasn’t her. Alma could have developed some proto-Polyjuice and conned the King," she insisted.

Walter blinked slowly up at her. “That potion was not to be developed for many years yet and Alma, gifted as she was, had received no formal magical training. These days, we tend to think of her more as a hedge witch.”

“How she managed was immaterial - no one can revive the dead.”

“Reviving is, perhaps, too strong a notion. Reanimating would probably be more accurate. A few accounts mention a degree of- decay.”

Malfoy shuddered, still considering that painting. Somehow, even though he was staunchly avoiding her, he could still tell Amen-Ra was grinning. “How did Alma do it?”

“That, I’m afraid, is lost to the fog of history.” The Curator sighed. “Alma left behind no writings, not that she would have had the time to document anything. The brokenhearted King felt cheated, to put it mildly, to see the shambling shadow of his beloved instead of the lively woman he’d fought so hard for.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Draco said.

“Yes, Alma was also beheaded.”

“Tell them about the other thing,” said Amen-Ra, her incorporeal chin propped up on her hand.

“Amy, you know I’m not comfortable with speculation.” If the Princess was in any way insulted at the diminutive, she didn't show it.

“What other thing?” asked Granger.

The Curator hesitated. “There’s a legend - this one very much unsubstantiated, I hasten to add-”

“Yes, yes, hasten it a bit more, please,” the poltergeist prompted.

“-that Alma imbued her spirit into the three jewels she received as payment and that reuniting them will allow her summoning.” A pause. “We submitted the broach to thorough examination and found nothing amiss. There is no reason to believe this to be true.”

“Someone believed it,” Granger murmured.

Once the Curator had left them alone to roam the scene, Malfoy noted, “Heavy security, one point of access in and out.”

“They broke in while the building was empty and under magical lock and key.”

“Left no evidence and ignored millions of galleons’ worth of artwork.”

“And the wards are untouched, I know.” Granger sighed. “This is the Simmonds case all over again.”

Malfoy considered both cases. “This has to be linked. We know the first robbery wasn’t motivated by murder or financial gain, but it did generate a lot of news articles. What if the thieves used the first break-in as a test run, a way to prove they were capable of pulling off this one?"

He was rather pleased at that particular idea, not least of all because Granger would have to recognise his brilliance.

“It’s a theory," was all she said.

Draco tried very hard not to let her dismissal get to him, but he was wasting his energy fighting off a headache. “These tweedy museum coves can dish out whole historical lectures on the drop of a sickle then turn around and have fish and chips for breakfast. Gods, the smell is revolting.”

“I can’t smell anything.”

“I’m not having a stroke, Granger, see there…” He trailed off, staring at the grease-stained cardboard box jutting out of the bin.

He’d just remembered where he’d seen an identical one.

~*~

Asheni had promised them the perfect vantage point for their stakeout. This perfect vantage point, as it turns out, was a Muggle car. It was impossibly small, may have once been burgundy in colour, and it smelled like a pub carpet. As he tried to enter the wretched vehicle, Malfoy banged his knee, cursed, and sank into his seat, feeling much like an adult trying to use nursery furniture without looking like a lumbering twat. "How are we supposed to use this for surveillance? Is it even road-worthy?"

"All we have to do is sit here and keep an eye on the chippy, so that doesn't matter if it isn't," Granger pointed out. "We're not going anywhere."

"I don't know the first thing about cars and even I can tell this one is shite."

"Apart from being more susceptible to magic damage because of their electrical components, a new car would draw far too much attention."

Draco felt his eyebrows rise. "Oh, and you think this is inconspicuous, is it? This pile of rust is two crumbling bolts and some Spellotape away from falling apart on the street."

"It's not quite as bad as that."

"I'm probably contracting tetanus as we speak."

"Any chance you could do it quietly? At least until the muscle contractions start."

Any lingering good mood evaporated as the day wore on without any suspicious movement. People came and went without sparing them a glance as the charmwork built into the vehicle - if it could even be called that - meant Muggles could have had their noses pressed against the glass and they still wouldn't have been able to see anything.

True to form, Granger had brought paperwork and a couple of books to entertain herself with. She had one large freckle on the corner of her left eye, an oval celestial body orbited by smaller comets. "You're staring," she accused.

He scrambled to point at her notebook. "Are those projected attempts for spell research?"

"Why are you interested?"

"There's literally nothing else to look at." Nothing else he should have been looking at, in any case.

"I suppose it has been slow since rush hour died down," she admitted. "Speaking of which, should we get some food?"

"I'll go," Malfoy all but jumped at the opportunity to stretch his legs and get some fresh air. Noticing details about Granger's features was the kind of behaviour that heralded the onset of carbon monoxide poisoning.

By the time he made it back, the streets had nearly emptied and a cloudy night's sky had draped itself over London.

"What did you get?" Granger asked him, surveying the contents of his takeaway. "It seems to consist of amorphous beige bits."

"There's nothing wrong with chicken and chips."

"There isn't any salad, not even a bit of sauce to go with it. Is it just a super sized toddler meal?"

"Moisture free meals are ideal food for casework. You hardly want something that will spill out and turn these seats even more odorous," he gestured at her container with vicious reproval, "which is exactly what you're risking. That curry is so strong, it's making my eyes water at three feet."

"Push off, then. My curry has all the components your sad little meal is missing."

"What, potential for catastrophic gastro-intestinal discomfort in close quarters?"

"No, you sad waste of a palate. It has seasoning, herbs and vegetables. Flavour," she added, her brown eyes alight in the white-gold sheen of the street lights.

"I'll stick with my chicken and chips, thanks all the same."

Granger wasn't done judging his choices. "I bet you're the kind of person that will get the same menu item every time."

"It's called being consistent."

"It's dull and so are you." She ate a few bites with every sign of enjoyment.

"I'm so glad you seem to have me all figured out. For my part, I don't think I understand you at all," Malfoy admitted, before he realised, to his profound horror, that he'd been reduced by sheer boredom into becoming the kind of Auror that made pointless conversation at work.

Granger's plastic fork paused midair. "What do you mean?"

Well, it was too late to back out. They were talking. He allowed himself a fortifying breath. "You've got enough plaques, awards and miscellaneous honours to mount your own dedicated, if obnoxious, exhibit at the Museum. It stands to reason that you would be able to wrangle a better assignment than this."

"All these years later and you still think you know best about where I do and don't belong, Malfoy. That's almost nostalgic."

It served him right. He should have never tried to start a conversation. Draco decapitated an innocent chip with his wooden fork, already resigned to wait until closing time to go home and forget this day had ever happened, when he saw a man in a suspiciously long overcoat and scraggly hair enter the chippy. "Heads up."

Granger hastily waved a wand at the remnants of her meal until they bagged themselves neatly. "He came out of that boarded up printing shop. Let's wait it out and see where he's heading."

The man went straight back into the abandoned looking building with a stack of oblong, paper wrapped boxes tucked under his arm.

Malfoy followed him, sticking to the shadows, his back to the dirty, heavily graffitied wall. The cold, heavy evening air was laced with the stench of rotten food and motor oil. It burned his nostrils on the inhale.

The entrance to his left was so well disillusioned he would have missed it if he hadn't been expecting a variation on the theme. He checked both ends of the side road, ensuring they were still clear of any passing Muggles and ran a check for wards.

The result was unsettling.

They were present but rough, barely cobbled together and easily disabled with half a thought. Too easily disabled, a red flag he couldn’t ignore. Even if the suspects had decided to rely heavily on stealth for protection, this was nonsense.

He took his time prodding at the layers, like pulling back various curtains, until - there.

The doorway frame was booby trapped, a horrible incantation sticking to the metal frame with runes and something else, older and almost sentient that resisted his attempts at pinning it down.

Malfoy considered his options. He didn’t have time and couldn’t afford to draw too much attention.

Ever so carefully, he coaxed a Charm to weave itself around the rusty, pitted metal, sealing it off and the Curse with it. It wasn’t so much skirting protocol as pantsing it altogether, but every Auror knew you had to get the job done, even if it took some creative interpretation of the rules. Malfoy made a mental note to make sure trained personnel were dispatched to disable it properly once they were done and unlocked the door.

The corridor beyond was oppressively dark, the light at the tip of his wand illuminating mouldering walls. A clear path cut through the dust, rat droppings and assorted rubbish on the cement floor, hinting that this entrance was in frequent use.

He made his way in carefully, planting his feet with every step and listening for any movement, a Shield Charm held out in front.

The path wound itself to the left and down a short corrugated metal ramp, walls narrowing to barely three feet wide. There was no sound except for the steady echo of a drip and the soft rustle of clothing.

Suddenly, a gaping maw opened to his left, absorbing the light. He pivoted to face it, wand out, shield up-

Granger’s posture mimicked his, her body rigid with tension. Halfway out of a similar corridor, her brown irises wrapped around rapidly shrinking pupils. She glanced to her left and brought her hand down in a sequence of gestures, signalling that there was a suspect up ahead and to go in first as she circled around. Malfoy gave her a sharp nod of acknowledgement.

Judging by the smell, their suspects had made the incomprehensible decision to hole up at a derelict den. Despicable behaviour . In a city the size of London, why couldn’t criminals pick somewhere clean and well ventilated as a base of operations? There was no shortage of real estate.

Malfoy peered around a large pipe to see one of the wizards leaning over an upturned crate. Dirty dog-end dangling from the corner of his mouth, his brow knitted together as he tried to reassemble a mechanism. Springs, cogs and bolts littered the flat surface and surrounding floors. Further along, there was a half-hazard pile of stained scrolls. There was no one else there. Where had the other one got to?

'Hit first and hit hard' was practically the unofficial Auror motto. Before the man could react, Malfoy had him stunned, restrained with an Incarcerous and bound to one of the large tables with a Sticking Charm.

A shuffling sound echoed through the room followed by a bark of an unknown voice. He took off running through an archway to find Granger in pursuit of their second suspect, brightly coloured curses and hexes bouncing off and flashing to the way ahead.

An Incendio singed out in front of him, bursting against his shield. 

Malfoy much preferred it when suspects started on dangerous offensive spells nice and early. It certainly eased his conscience when he took them down later. He wheeled back and prepared to launch an Impedimenta with all the subtlety of a mediaeval war hammer, but the young wizard had already legged it down the passageway.

The corridor bifurcated and he took the opening on the right at a flat run, away from the noise. Leg muscles screaming in protest, he picked up speed over an incline.

Up ahead, there was movement. He ran faster still. It was a gamble, but it paid off. Running at full speed out of the passageway, Malfoy barrelled shoulder first into the man, both of them losing their balance and toppling together.

The air vibrated with a Curse. He ducked, rolled, and was briefly showered in splintered concrete as the wall took the brunt of the spell.

Now Disillusioned, he set off stunners one after the other, slowing down the wizard enough that Granger could close the distance. It was over within seconds.

“Got him,” she said.

Malfoy bent over, hand over the stitch on his side. “Great. I can’t wait to get out of here and out on the fresh air.”

The heartening thought of a warm shower and stretching out on clean sheets was a wonderful, short-lived daydream.

"He was right here." Malfoy stood looking around as if he'd somehow temporarily misplaced his suspect and he’d find him lurking just behind a loose panel if only he’d look for a bit. "I secured him, I’m sure I did. There must have been a third man and we missed it.”

“Did we?” Granger's steps echoed between hollow drips in the gloom of the central hub. "You took your time meeting me inside." There was no mistaking the accusation in her voice.

"I had to sort out a nasty little trap on the way in.” His temper was rising, he could feel it. “Go and check it. In fact, I insist. You can get on with that while I go after our suspect."

Her fingers flexed around her wand, her stance changing. "I wasn't aware that you were a Cursebreaker in your spare time."

"I'm not, but getting them here would have taken too long and drawn the attention of the whole street. It would be a waste of time, much like this conversation. I could be out chasing the second suspect.”

"Stay right there," Granger surprised him by dispelling the Silencing Charm on their captive. “Who ordered the robbery?”

“Dunno nothing about no rob-”

The man’s unshaven jaw snapped shut as her wand pressed into the hollow of his throat. “Do not fuck around with me. There’s always a careless word, someone that overhears something they shouldn’t. A name thrown around.”

“I don’t- you’re bloody Aurors. What are you going to do, jostle me around a bit as you take me in?” He tittered, shifting, and Draco was hit by a wave of stale body odour wafting from the man’s robes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Are you not? I’d say you have a point, some of us are just plodding along. Others, however,” she produced her badge and held it up to the weak light, “are Devious Bastards."

Malfoy couldn’t help but think this didn’t have the dramatic effect she was going for. “So you’re special filth, good for you. Bit of extra finery, same load of twats,” was the man’s only response.

“Not quite the same. A friend of mine was injured recently  - had her diaphragm paralysed, in fact - and it made me think, what an idiotic spell. What an asinine thing to do, hurting someone like that, making them endure a lengthy recovery.”

“We don’t have time-”

She continued, almost conversationally, “It made me think of how you could use a much easier spell far more effectively. See, drowning is very, very painful and filling someone’s lungs with water is child’s play, but draining it away is hard. Humans are mostly water and magic isn’t that discerning. Mercury, however, doesn’t exist naturally in the human body, and it’s liquid at room temperature. It makes it so easy to remove without a trace.”

Their suspect was putting up a brave face, but Granger’s even and matter-of-fact tone was getting under his skin. “What, are you threatening me?”

“Imagine that. Drowning over and over again, your chest full and heavy and wet. No air. Imagine the pain.”

“Fuck you. You can’t do that. It’d be your badge- it’d be Azkaban!” he shouted.

Her slight frame was half in shadow, skin and hair leached of colour by the eerie light, casting her as a wraith in sepia. She tilted her head.

“I don’t- I don’t know nothing. And you, are you going to just stand there and fucking watch or what?” Eyes darted between the two Aurors. “Is this some sort of trap?”

Malfoy couldn’t read her at all. Even as Granger started to weave a spell, silvery mist emerging from her wand, the thief bellowing threats, he realised he couldn’t be sure if she would go ahead with it.

It seemed to be this, if anything, that finally convinced the suspect to cooperate. “Bloody hell, stop. Stop! I’ll tell you, though I'm not sure,” the man tried to edge away from her, hands and feet scrabbling backwards on the dirty floor as he threw a look at Malfoy that was just as much a plea as it was hatred, “just a rumour-”

“Give me a name!” Granger shouted.

“The Lestrange woman! Bellatrix!”

Everyone froze and it may have gone silent, or maybe Draco couldn’t hear over the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

Even Granger seemed to have paled. “She’s dead," she mouthed.

“Her body was never recovered,” Malfoy countered, his voice likewise barely above a whisper.

“The bint isn’t fucking dead, she’s running around with what’s left of the Death Eaters, tryin’ to build their numbers back up. Although, a fat lot of chance they have of getting the band together if they execute half of their own as traitors.” His words were coming in a torrent now that he’d evidently decided cooperating was his only way out. “I don’t know what she wants the broach for, alright? This was just a gig. They gave us this mechanism looking like something out of a Victorian box of tricks,” he gestured at the mess of metal parts strewn nearby, “we went in the daytime, attached a little piece to a doorway and it made a connection between two points. After the place shut we slipped in, grabbed what we needed. Plain and simple.”

"No, not as simple as that," Granger said. "Not at the jewellers."

The thief recoiled, still eyeing her wand warily. "He came out of nowhere. It wasn't me, I didn't even know anything until it had already happened. Don't know who it was that killed him."

And that's how a good man dies, coming into work on the wrong day, at the wrong time, and stumbling upon something he shouldn’t have.

Draco shivered at sudden cold sweat on his back. “I’m going after the other one,” he told Granger, already turning to leave.

“Malfoy, wait!”

But he had already disappeared into the darkness of the tunnels, shifting into something else entirely as he went.

Chapter Text

Rain poured heavily over London, cascading down eaves and hitting asphalt with a sound like the burble of hot oil. Draco walked for hours, miles melting under his feet, his mind lost in a land the damp slog of the city couldn’t reach.

He stalked between buildings with the vague intent to check on any place of interest he could think of. It was late, and he was tired, and there were too many fears and anxieties jockeying for the focus of his limited attention.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t notice the two witches until he was almost upon them.

“It will draw too many eyes.”

“This isn’t about keeping it quiet.”

He heard steps in the dark, caught the sourness of milk on the turn and the stratified brown tannin of a stained teapot. “It’s always meant to serve a purpose, and a whole lot more careful than this. There’s no rhyme or reason, now, just chaos.”

“If you’re looking to be careful, run along, latch your doors and bar your windows. Let’s see how much good that will do you,” the other let out a tight, malicious laugh.

“Ladies.” Malfoy’s ears perked up as he recognised the third voice. “Fine evenin’ for it.”

“What do you want, Mycelium?”

“Just a natter. Let’s head inside, yeah? I’m freezing my bollocks off out there.”

Here was his chance. He kept to the shadows, rounding the corner-

Magic laced itself around him, trapped his body in place and he panicked, fighting it, but he hadn’t the use of his wand. He’d never felt its absence so accurately. He couldn’t shift.

Trapped. Caught.

A howl built up low in his throat.

A fraction of a second later, a tall wizard crossed the mouth of the alley, passing inches away from where Draco was standing cloaked in shadows, Petrified. The man joined Mycelium and the two witches with a muttered greeting and a door closed with the dry snap of a ward.

They were gone, melted into a nearby building. They might as well have been in another city, in another country. For all he knew, they were.

He’d lost them.

He had worse things to worry about than pursuing them. Someone skilled enough to sneak up on him undetected had him in their clutches and it was entirely likely that he was already done for.

His heart hammered, blood thumping in his arteries with nowhere to go, his every muscle locked.

Draco wasn’t even as good as dead. Bellatrix - fucking hell, my batshit aunt - was going to make a sport and a spectacle of the torture of her blood-traitor nephew. She would draw it out. She would make sure it stood the test of time as an acid etching in the minds of every single one of her allies considering rebellion.

His eyes spun wildly in their sockets as he tried to make out his attacker.

“Don’t make a sound.” The whisper was followed by a Dispel, and Granger was crouching beside him. “You’re coming with me.”

Fuck.

~*~

“I knew you were hiding something. I knew it.” She paced the length of the office with light steps, while he felt in serious risk of falling asleep standing, just as he was, back slumped uncomfortably against the wall as he crashed from the earlier adrenaline high.

“Well done, you were right. Can I go home now?”

Granger scoffed. “How did you think you would get away with this? No wonder the thief was so nervous. He must have thought you were going to kill him."

Draco recalled the, for lack of a better word, interrogation. Had their suspect been afraid of him? Is this some sort of trap? , the man had asked. He knew exactly who Malfoy was, and had identified his aunt by name. “I think your performance did a much better job of scaring him, on the whole.”

“Right under all our noses.” Her steps slowed and, for a moment, she was completely transformed, pausing as she had hundreds of times on the edge of her classroom chair, face alight, arm extended as high as it would go. “You shift into a wolf, and Sirius was a large dog. Does the morphology follow bloodlines? I wonder if there’s any research on that.” Then she resumed pacing as if that interlude had never happened. “No wonder I couldn’t track you.”

“You tried tracking me?”

“Don’t you dare sound indignant, I had every reason to follow you.”

“Well, you didn’t know that at the time,” he pointed out, shocked at the fact that he’d never been aware he was being tailed.

“I’m going to turn you in.”

“I’d gathered that, funnily enough,” he gestured vaguely to the Director’s desk in front of them.

“You don’t look worried. Why don’t you look worried? At the very least, you’ll be sacked, and I’d be very surprised if you don’t get dragged straight in front of the Winzengamot.” He had the twisted, visceral pleasure of seeing her eyes widen as she worked it out.

The Director chose that moment to make her entrance. “Granger, Malfoy. Good morning. My, you two are raring to go. And here I thought I was an early bird.”

“Malfoy is an unregistered Animagus and you knew all about it,” Granger accused.

“Ah,” Cheung said, settling behind her chair and putting her cloak away. “Yes, that is correct.”

“How could you allow that to happen? It’s completely illegal, not to mention unethical. If Malfoy were captured while out on a mission, then what?”

“Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Granger looked so utterly crestfallen that Draco almost felt sorry for her. 

Almost.

“All those times Malfoy would disappear for hours at a time and I thought he was meeting up with Loyalists, that he was their double agent, he was spying for the Branch. You’ve been using him all along.” Granger slapped her hand on the desk with all the confidence of someone for whom career progression and longevity were foreign, insubstantial concepts.

He'd been wrong about Granger. Her efforts were the furthest thing from performative. She wasn't out for praise or validation but something far less tangible, far more dangerous and stupidly, incredibly worthless.

Circe hang me, she's a true altruist.

What a waste of a mind, of magical talent, of a thousand missed opportunities. What could Draco have done with her skillset and social standing? Almost anything.

And yet, here she was, tilting at windmills, as if he wanted or had need of her meddling.

“No one is using me,” he intervened, rather tired of being spoken about as if he wasn’t in the room. “It’s not as if I don’t have agency in this, Granger.”

“Does a man walking towards the gallows with a prod at his back have agency?” she snapped back. Her attitude towards him was baffling. She'd gone from planning Draco's arrest not five minutes ago to hissing like a Kneazle at the perceived injustice committed against him.

Cheung’s patience was visibly thinning. “Mr Malfoy knew what he was applying for when he joined the Branch. He has years of experience in surveillance and, yes, I will admit, this is part of the reason he was recruited in the first place, although he is a reasonably competent Auror besides.”

Malfoy felt that sting but didn’t challenge it.

“Does that ease your guilty conscience? You gave him no backup!”

“Didn’t I? I assigned him a partner, Miss Granger. In retrospect, maybe expecting him to confide in you was a mistake, but so was thinking he could successfully hide it for any length of time.” The Director turned to him in disappointment, which Malfoy didn’t appreciate.

“It’s called a confidential assignment for a reason. If you wanted me to loop her in, you should have said so, or was I just supposed to guess at your intent?”

“I trusted you to follow your instincts,” Cheung sighed. ”I predicted this pairing would be a pain and here’s the ball ache, right on schedule.”

“Your own instincts almost got him captured by Bellatrix Lestrange’s cronies tonight.”

Draco couldn’t help the dread that laced tightly around his spine at those words.

The Director straightened in her chair. “What happened?”

They gave her a full report, from the heist and stakeout to the thief’s testimony. “So we don’t know why Lestrange is after Alma’s jewels.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I think the thief was telling the truth about this being a contracted job.”

“Any other leads worth pursuing?”

Granger's hesitation was the flutter of Doxy wings; blink and you would miss it. “No, Director.”

“I don’t need to tell you just how dangerous this has suddenly gotten for the both of you. If - and it is still an if - Bellatrix Lestrange is alive and running the Loyalist movement from the shadows, I want the two of you as far from this as you can possibly get. You’re off this case. See, Miss Granger? I do have a conscience. I’ve even been known to pay attention to it, on occasion.”

~*~

As expected, Draco’s week did not improve. Stripped of the Museum heist assignment, he and Granger were sent to Cheshire to investigate an instance of unauthorised use of magic. This insult was, in effect, the casework equivalent of the crumbs accumulated at the bottom of the breadbin.

He knocked on the door and it swung open, peeling green paint giving way to a small foyer. Children’s toys were abandoned in a haphazard pile in a corner and a beaded curtain shielded the rooms beyond. A voice emerged from the first floor, “Do wait just there, lovies. I shan’t be a moment.”

Granger followed, still invested in bestowing him the silent treatment. She’d been doing so since their unscheduled meeting with Cheung, not realising how futile this really was. He was a Malfoy. Her cold shoulder just gave him slight pangs of nostalgia for the sulking and emotional constipation that had been the constant throughout his childhood years.

The woman that greeted them was decidedly Muggle. No witch, no matter how ebullient and eclectic, would have been wearing at least seven different types of fake occult jewellery, a scarf with misspelt runes and, for no reason Draco could discern, a floppy hat embroidered with the kanji symbols for ‘warrior soil’. “You’re here for an interview, I expect.”

“That’s right,” Granger said. She backed this up by producing her notebook and quill, the latter smoothly Transfigured into a fountain pen.

“That was quick! I only wrote to the newspapers yesterday. Still, I can see how they’d want to get it done sooner rather than later. It’s not every day that someone with my talent comes along.” She wove up the stairs in front of them. “My work room is just up here.”

They sat awkwardly around a table that was too low to be of any practical use. “I’m Jeanette Bal-” she hesitated, eyes widening. “Just- Madame Jeanette, I think. Yes. You wouldn’t want people knocking down the door, would you?”

Of course not. Which is why she’d written to the newspapers and kept said door unlocked. The corners of Granger’s mouth twisted down, which Malfoy took to mean she was thinking along the same lines. “Right, Madame Jeanette. You mentioned your talent. What does it consist of, exactly?”

Jeanette shifted in her seat. “Well, it all started when I got very ill. Not that my husband believed me, you know what men are like, but I felt, in myself, that I was near enough at Death’s door. I touched the veil, and it changed me,” her voice trailed off, large watery eyes widening.

“Was it an accident?”

“No, I got this terrible rash. It was all over my left side, it itched something awful. I couldn’t even sleep.” As this did not evoke the desired emotional response, she added, “I had to take four courses of antibiotics before it cleared up.”

“And what did this- experience unlock?” Malfoy asked, although he was regretting it already.

“I can do magic,” Jeanette pronounced with a grin. “Real magic. I’ve always been what you might call a sensitive. Just little things, like when I felt cold and faint one morning and my neighbour’s car broke down later that day. You know, the odd bit of precognition. But nothing like what I can do now.”

Granger wasn’t even pretending to take notes anymore. “Any chance we could have a demonstration?”

It took Jeanette a few minutes to prepare what she called ‘a session’. She arranged several crystals of great energetic significance in an occult formation (or, for the rational among us, fannied about with bits of pretty rock) over a velveteen tablecloth and produced a box full of animal bones. “Rabbit,” she revealed, closing the curtains to cast the room into a gloomy pink. “My brother-in-law is a hunter so I’m hoping he can get me a deer soon.”

“What are you doing?” Draco sputtered.

She stopped halfway through unbuttoning her blouse. “I can commune with the elements so much better when I can really connect to the Earth.”

Nevermind that they were in the first story of a semi-detached nineteen-fifties council property in Cheshire and not in a stone circle in the middle of the woods.

Granger stopped her. “That- doesn’t sound strictly necessary. We’d really be more comfortable if you didn’t.”

“Well, it will affect my process, but… Whatever tickles your pickle, I suppose,” Madame Jeanette sighed her disappointment but didn’t try to remove any clothing, thank fuck.

Malfoy had already resigned himself to a wasted afternoon with a thankfully tickle free pickle when the woman produced the book. It was very old, the words on the spine mostly faded, and a source of Dark Magic so powerful it made the downy hair along his arms stand on end. “Where did you get that?”

“It was a gift from a relative.” For a fraud, she was an exceptionally bad liar. “Anyway, it’s just a conduit, isn’t it? You follow the words and they shape your power, as long as you have the talent.”

Granger spoke slowly and very clearly, as if addressing an excitable child holding an explosive device. “And what have you done with it so far?”

“Well, the first time I tried to read a few paragraphs aloud I thought nothing had happened and then I noticed the two great big holes in the back garden.”

Malfoy looked at the small, sad bones in the shoebox and a horrible suspicion started to form. “Did you happen to have family pets buried back there?”

“Yes, that’s how I started to experiment,” she explained, gratified to have captured their attention. “Now I can get them to jump, run, do pretty much anything I want them to. All it takes is a little blood-”

“Oh that’s fine. We’ve seen enough.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” The woman’s voice had turned shrill as she picked up a paring knife. The refusal to let her take her kit off had clearly stung. She was adamant they bear witness to the rest of it, at least. “And you better put all of this in the newspaper and get everything right-”

There was a red flash and the thump of a body collapsing onto the high pile carpet.

“Well, that’s unfair. If I Stunned a Muggle, you’d be livid,” Draco admonished.

“Yes, I would have.”

“That’s the dictionary definition of a double standard.”

Ignoring the woman she’d stunned, Granger had levitated the book in front of them. “Well spotted. Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.” Pages curled away from each other, each illustration more macabre than the former. “She’s not entirely wrong, you know. She must have a small amount of magical talent or the Reanimation spellwork wouldn’t have worked at all.”

He nodded. “There’s a few scattered cases like this. Just enough magical endowment to cause problems, not enough for formal education.”

“Once we Obliviate her, she won’t even remember ever having done magic.”

“It’s for the best. If it’s any consolation, she’ll probably be back to her inane self and running fraudulent sessions in her pants in no time.”

"Thinking the pants stayed on is a bit of unwarranted optimism." Granger secured the book, wrapped and sealed with Charms, in her leather backpack. "Now all that's left is finding the provenance of this book."

~*~

“A tea shop,” Draco muttered, looking past the window to the display of colourful metal caddies with matching labels, assorted tea sets and large glass jars of loose leaf tea. “It’s the middle of the afternoon and still pissing out. Why couldn’t it be a pub?”

“Feel free to go find one. I won’t be needing your help.”

He followed her, his patient worn see through. He’d thought Granger frosty before, but her attitude had turned glacial. All through their search of the ‘warrior soil’ fraud’s dwellings, securing the book and inquiries around the village, she’d treated him as if he were a Flobberworm mucus stain on her shirt - and only when there was no chance of failing to acknowledge his existence altogether. “Is something bothering you?”

“Not at all. There isn’t any warding on this door,” she mentioned. It led to the back of the building. The shop took up the whole ground floor, attached as it was to a workroom and conservatory, magically expanded into an enormous greenhouse as soon as they came through the door.

“I can do a sweep,” Draco said.

Granger opened her mouth, frowned, then shut it again. Draco could see her fight her curiosity down. “I’ll do it myself.”

There were no registered wizards living in the village and the shop itself wasn’t overtly magical in any way, but wizards routinely ran businesses catering to Muggles.

“Is that your plan? Just continue ignoring me for however long we remain partners?” he asked over the creak of their steps on old floorboards. There lingered the smell of tobacco, resin, charred pine and, overwhelming it all, tea leaves in different stages of oxidation. 

Granger reached for the shelves. “There’s only a few books here - handwritten ledgers on deliveries, weights and timings, all perfectly innocuous. Nothing magical whatsoever.”

“So you are going to continue ignoring me,” he searched through the workbenches, checking for obvious signs of magic.

“No, I am going to continue working on this case. You just aren’t worth taking notice of.”

“Here,” he gestured, showing her a magically sealed opening in the floor. She nodded and assisted him in unweaving the runic seal before following him down the narrow wooden staircase to the basement.

It was cramped, the only light a lone, low hanging bulb in the centre of the space. There were crates everywhere, stacked high against the walls and in haphazard piles. Draco bent low to whisper in her ear, “We’ll split up. Careful, the place is heavily warded.”

He shifted, experiencing a little frisson as Granger didn’t bat an eye, opting to hang back and secure their exit. He’d never been able to make use of his full skills during paired casework before. It was oddly satisfying.

To his wolf’s senses, the pleasant smell of tea was earthier, musty and unpleasant, like mouldering leaves and stagnant water. From the boxes, he picked up something else entirely. It could have been seeds or bottled potions. He got the sense of power in potentia, dormant and definitely magical.

There was the thump of heavy steps from behind the stairs.

“Sorry to barge in, sir,” he heard Granger say. The man, no more than a tall, broad shape, did not reply. Draco had to fight the urge to warn Granger. There was no way he could have walked down the stairs without him hearing it. She must have known; he saw her clutching her wand close to her body.

“Who’s down there?” a scrawny ginger teenager interrupted, stomping down the stairs and glaring at Granger with startled expression.

“We understand you’re the right people to speak to about some specialist books,” she said.

The teenager’s voice went brittle. “I don’t know who told you that, but they were mistaken. We should head upstairs.”

“In a moment. What’s in the crates?”

“Tea leaves, obviously.” With a jerky movement of his arm, he gestured towards the wide, shallow bamboo screens full of gently oxidising leaves. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“That sounds interesting. What kinds do you carry? Would you show me?” Granger’s question was all saccharine curiosity.

In the meantime, Malfoy was busy going deeper into the rows of long, heavy crates. One of them was freshly open, the straw of its interior spilling out, and laid empty.

Straw? Why would tea be packed with straw?

He heard a creak of wood as the shopkeeper told Granger he could show her everything upstairs, in the shop, if only she’d follow him up. “This is my uncle’s workshop. He doesn’t like having strangers down here,” he said.

“Whyever not? It’s only tea, right?” Granger asked. Another sound, and Draco moved silently between the stacks, trying to find the rattling box. “That’s okay, I won’t be long at all. Jeanette was telling me about how she got this book from you and I thought you might be able to help me, too.”

The box was buried under two others, one long oblong crate. It juddered, something inside trying to let itself loose. And it reeked .

“Selling second hand books is hardly a crime.”

Granger’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “Who said anything about a crime?”

Malfoy realised with revulsion what exactly was in the boxes.

“There are no books down here! You need to leave,” the teenager entreated.

The shadows around Granger flickered with a movement that was too fast and inarticulate to be wholly human, and she went down with a muffled thump.

“Malfoy! He’s-”

Her voice was cut off by a grunt of pain and Malfoy was already there, leaping through the air to collide with the large man, forcing him away from Granger only to be hit with a wave of nausea.

If he’d been overwhelmed before, it was nothing compared to the man’s stench. The reanimated corpse’s head lolled to the side, the skin purple and mottled.

Dead. And not recently, either. The man’s cadaver, now motionless, was regnant with decay and Dark Magic.

“I warned you. I told you to leave,” the shopkeeper yelled, his voice clipped by a sob. Malfoy turned on silent feet, keeping to the shadows. The teenager’s stubby wand alternated between tearing wild arcs through the air and pointing at her face, his eyes drifting madly to each corner of the room. “It’s not my fault that stupid bitch couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I just wanted to show her. Just wanted someone to see what I could do. You’ll see-” Draco knew better than to let him finish his thought and potentially raise dozens of reanimated corpses to do his bidding.

Not all magical problems necessarily require magical solutions. Most wizards consider this to be the case merely because they have a wand right there and, really, what could possibly be better than a grand, flashy spell? 

The young wizard discovered the answer as four hundred pounds per square inch of force were suddenly delivered to his wand arm by Draco’s jaw.

Such as it was, he made use of the only defence mechanism still available to him and let out a long, piercing wail.

~*~

“There,” he signed his name on the report and tapped the scroll with the tip of his wand to add his seal. “If you’d care to look that over, I’d really like to get home and go to bed.”

Granger’s jaw clenched and, for a second, he really thought she was going to thank him. “You’re an idiot.”

He should have said Fine, so be it. What did it matter that Granger called him an idiot? He couldn’t care less. Yet, he couldn’t help asking, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why would you apply for the Branch as an unregistered Animagus ?” her voice had dropped, angry and sibilant, so as to not be overheard amidst the bustle of their offices. “Why wouldn't you just rank up as an Auror like the rest of us?”

Draco was irritable and sleep deprived, both of which were inextricably linked and, at that moment in time, unsurpassable. He had no patience for belligerent witches, partners or not. “If I hadn’t achieved that particular proficiency, I wouldn’t have been able to become an Auror in the first place. I was rejected by the Direction after Selection, although I’m relatively confident I was in the ninety-fifth percentile of that year’s intake. Then, at the interview, as soon as I mentioned re-applying, I was told in no uncertain terms that I would never be considered for a position.” Granger’s brow had furrowed. “I could train, I could better myself, improve combat mastery and recite magical legislation on request - but I couldn’t change my past. Once a Death Eater…” 

“That’s absurd.”

“That’s reality, yet you're still angry."

"Of course I'm angry! The question is, why aren't you?"

"Anger isn't a useful emotion," was his only defence. What use was it to dwell on his many mistakes and their inevitable consequences? This was no more than he deserved, after all.

"You're allowed to have non useful human emotions, Malfoy, and it isn't right. It isn't fair." Granger crossed her arms over her midsection, dissecting him with her gaze. He’d thought her eyes were mostly rich, deep brown and hazel, but now he could tell they were limned with the amber embers of a bonfire. "Besides, it’s an insanely difficult thing to attempt, and there are no guarantees of success.”

“I wasn’t in a very sane frame of mind, and failure was a given. I had more free time than I could ever want, unfettered access to one of Britain’s largest magical libraries and a stubborn streak a mile wide. In the end, it only took a few weeks.” Mostly because, while still very much afraid, he had accepted the consequences of putting himself through experimental magic and dedicated his entire self to it.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you said they sent you on the most dangerous assignments possible.”

“No, I wasn’t. Then Cheung goes and assigns you as my partner, which is just a continuation on the theme.” He gathered his things, slipped on his cloak, and staggered towards the fireplace in the corner.

"Are you leaving?”

“Yes. I’m exhausted. Feel free to stay angry at me in absentia and I’ll endeavour to dream of your frowning face. I’ll see you tomorrow, Granger.”

Chapter Text

The magically assisted climbing wall was back up in the training room. In beats between bouts of his own training, Draco snuck glances as Granger struggled, contorting and squirming to reach the handholds, her grip tremulous at best. The short, loose curls at her nape were dark with sweat, beads disappearing down the gaping neckline of her loose burgundy sweatshirt. The rest of her hair was up and out of her way in a large, slapdash chignon that was stretching two hair ties to capacity.

She was an unapologetic mess, and a strangely glorious one.

He saw her go for an ill-timed sliding hop and found himself just there, breaking her fall with one arm nestled in the small of her back, his other forearm under her thighs. It was only instinct. Her skin was warm and sweet scented. Draco hated the fact that he’d noticed. 

They stared at one another in mutual distressed revulsion until Granger - currently the brains of the outfit but still relatively clumsy - slid down his body to her feet, flushed with exertion.

"You'll want to be careful without a spotter." 

"Is that so?" Giving him a look of utter contempt, she smacked her heel into the floorboards and their shape changed, forming a small concave depression under pressure. Of course . "Or I can just use a Cushioning Charm and avoid being patronised by passing bellends."

Draco cleared his throat and gestured at the wall. “Is this a replica of a Muggle thing, then?”

“Yes.” Her voice was the hiss of a fuse.

He looked at the shifting supports, judged their distance and positioning. “Can I have a go?” It took him less than a minute to get the hang of it. “Did you come up with the spellwork yourself? This is rather good fun.”

“That’s hardly fair, you’re freakishly tall. You barely have to reach.”

“Good point. Any chance you could make the holds further apart? And maybe ten or fifteen percent faster on the slide?” After some indistinct grumbling, he felt the rhythm change, and then keep changing. "That's not ten or fifteen, it's more like fifty! Have you got an issue with fractions?"

"It's not that easy to adjust." Profane little witch. Despite her attempts at sabotage, Draco was enjoying himself immensely, in no small part because of how miffed it made Granger. He could practically feel her gaze trying to burn holes through the back of his skull. “I’m going to go do some work. You can join me whenever you’re done showing off,” she announced.

“So long as you show me how to do the spell later.”

She considered this. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that stone shield Charm of yours again.”

“Deal. This is just a suggestion, of course, but you might want to do a bit of work on your balance.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my balance.”

“Right, how silly of me. I’m sure you meant to fall on your arse earlier.”

Granger avoided him by drinking deeply from her water bottle as she retrieved a thick foolscap file. Tapping it with the tip of her wand, she made its contents flutter up and arrange themselves into their case board. She plonked down facing it, cross-legged as well as generally cross. “Let’s review.”

“Again? We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

“We haven’t solved it yet, so, yes, again. Alan Stormbridge, sixty-three, fiction writer and managing editor for The Prophet.”

“Technically he’s a journalist,” Draco interrupted.

“No one in their right mind would call his fabrications reporting,” she bit back.

Draco pointed at the report from Forensics. “There was no evidence of Dark Magic or combat spells having been used at his home, but his half-drunk firewhiskey glass showed traces of Tincture of Bliss. A few drops are enough to induce a temporary state of euphoria, followed by respiratory arrest at higher concentration.”

“We have no reason to suspect murder. Stormbridge is still a missing person.” When Malfoy shot her a look, she shrugged one of her shoulders. “For now, at least.” They both knew the statistics on finding someone alive and well after forty-eight hours. Stormbridge had now been missing for just under two weeks.

“Missing it is. This introduces the problem of timing. We have no way of knowing when the firewhiskey was doctored.”

Granger pressed on. “Which leads us to the obvious first suspect. Mrs Stormbridge was with their daughter all day, they came home together and there’s no financial gain following his death.” The partner is always an automatic suspect with any kind of foul play, which Draco felt spoke volumes on the staying power of romantic love.

“She was also very distraught, I thought.”

“Sure.” Granger seemed just as sceptical about lasting relationships. “The second theory hinges on Fabian Dieter-Collins,” she sent a thin bolt of light careening towards a newspaper cutout of a young man with artificially straight teeth, cutting an angry profile as he glared at the photographer. “Quidditch player, apparently quite popular.”

Malfoy was aghast. “Popular? Granger, he is a genius, he’s scored-”

“Spare me the statistics, I couldn’t care less. He took his girlfriend out on a broom ride while they were both intoxicated - yes, very funny, Malfoy, how mature of you - there was an accident and she sustained life changing injuries. The Prophet ran a few stories around the time of Dieter-Collins’ trial that cast doubt on his initial account. Stormbridge was sent multiple death threats. I have to say, I like Dieter-Collins as a suspect.”

Malfoy stretched as his muscles cooled, attempting to shake off some of the soreness, and Granger followed his movements like a cat fixated on a dust mote. He might have flexed a little, just for the look of the thing. “I like him too, but he’s been in the Wizengamot-mandated rehabilitation facility ever since the end of his trial. We’ve been through their security. Cushy prison it may be, but it’s still an effective one. Then there's theory number three, that he’s fled or in hiding, which I don’t think is viable. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to cower if he were in danger, not when there’s a profit to be made from splashing suspicions as headlines.”

She drew nearer to their board. “As a lifeform, he may be less evolved than your average Flobberworm, but he is one of the biggest names within his pungent, mucky field.”

“Which is why fleeing doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. I’m agreeing with you.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for failing to recognise what that sounds like,” Malfoy pointed out. “I hate to say it, but we’re stuck.”

Granger’s stubbornness had the density of a neutron star, and displayed the inertia to match it. “We’re not stuck. We have all the available evidence, we just need to work it until we get somewhere.”

“Or we need to gather more evidence.”

He could tell she was about to contradict him when Florence dashed into the training room. “Hermione, have you got a second?”

“Not really. Is it something important?”

Florence managed to look even less combobulated than usual. “It’s not unimportant. My brother is visiting and I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if the two of you hit it off? There’s a new vegan place in Diagon Alley he’s been dying to try.”

Granger’s whole demeanour changed at the drop of a hat, shoulders slumped and the eyes of a doe poised to run and this, Malfoy reasoned, was the first time he’d seen her afraid in months of them working together. Murderers, Dark wizards and scoundrels didn’t even faze her, yet someone trying to arrange a blind date had her shifting on her heels. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“You’re going to love him.”

“We’re very busy…”

“He’s dying to meet you.”

So Florence’s brother was both dying to try a vegan restaurant (which, in Malfoy’s book, was highly suspicious behaviour) and date Granger. Maybe the man was just dying in general. This would explain a lot.

“What does your brother do, again?” Granger asked Florence, eyes narrowing.

“He works in Magical Creature conservationism. His specialty is rare species."

This stymied Granger. It was hard to find fault with a creature hugger. "He sounds nice."

"He is nice," Florence confirmed, gratified.

"Bad idea to set us up, then. Good Aurors make for rubbish relationships," Granger explained as our colleague's face fell. "We're always too busy and getting called away. You should try and set him up with someone more available. Now, we really should get back to the case."

"Hold on," Florence tried, but was interrupted.

“I wouldn’t take it personally, Hermione is about as resistant to a dinner date as your average feral Kneazle,” said the new arrival.

“Harry!” Granger greeted her friend with a warm, lingering hug. Malfoy’s gaze was drawn to the casework in front of him, which suddenly required his full attention even as he strained to listen in on the conversation. Florence lacked the presence of mind to try and look busy and just stood there, gaping. “How was your first day back?”

“To be honest, the whole return to work thing feels like going on holiday. You’d think it would be easier with the second one, since we’ve been through it all before. Bad coffee and Dark Wizards are nothing compared with diaper changes and indiscriminate wailing. Malfoy,” Potter eventually acknowledged.

“Potter.” The man was virtually unchanged from their school days, his robes worn and slightly shabby, his hair still unruly and in need of a cut. Malfoy could almost respect that.

"You're Harry Potter," Florence choked.

"That's right. Hello," he addressed her. Malfoy thought he saw her swoon, but he couldn't be sure. He'd never seen anyone do it before.

Scant pleasantries dispensed with, The Chosen Git turned back to his friend, gesturing evidence. “I see you’re still hard at it. Must be a bit of a challenge.” He glanced at Malfoy as he said it, the prick .

Granger’s voice tightened just a fraction. “Just running through a few leads. You know how it is.”

“On the other hand, that might convince you to come back. You know your desk will always be open.”

Interesting . And why did Malfoy feel like that had been partially directed at him?

“I know,” was all Granger said.

"Is there an opening in your team?" Florence asked Potter.

He looked confused. "Ehrm, maybe. Didn't you just join the SDB?"

"You know I just joined?"

"Yes, Hermione's told me all about you."

Florence suddenly looked like she needed a sit down. "Harry Potter knows who I am."

"She'll be alright in a minute," Granger assured everyone.

The two friends chatted for a couple more minutes - plans for coffee with several Weasels, and ‘have you heard about Dawlish’s latest case?’ - before parting ways.

“Where were we?” There was a spark of something in Granger as she dove back into the casework.

Right. They were not going to talk about Potter’s job offer and he wasn’t going to ask why she’d left in the first place, even if the words were burning his tonsils. “We were talking about gathering more evidence. I know Cheung is dead set against it but we need to have a look around Stormbridge’s office. If there are any worthwhile leads, that’s where we’ll find them,” Draco insisted.

“Imagine the two of us walking into the offices of The Prophet. Hold that image in your mind for a second, because we would be one clown car and some elephants short of the entire circus. There’s no way we’ll get away with that.”

“I had a thought.” It was a bad thought. An erratic brainwave. He wouldn’t have entertained it, let alone voiced it, if not for Potter’s little jab about Granger going back to the central DMLE. He couldn’t deny that this would be ideal, of course. Having Granger become someone else’s headache would fill him with the kind of unadulterated joy that not even Tincture of Bliss could provide. And yet, witnessing Potter’s soppy and half-arsed attempt to entice her back - his partner , as if he hadn’t been standing right there, in the room - seemed to bypass his better judgement and set the pyre of his pride alight.

So he told her all about it, and her reaction was just as predicted. "That's pretty far-fetched."

“It will work.” His confidence was most definitely not deserved. He himself did not believe in this idea. It was ludicrous. But he was invested. “We will make it work. We just need a little help getting us in.”

He hadn’t been imagining that little spark in her, that edge of something like defiance. She wanted to do it. Not because it was viable or even entirely sound, but because it was clever, and she wanted to try it. “And if we’re caught?” 

“Then we’re in serious trouble. Business as usual, really.”

~*~

Heads turned to the witch strolling through Diagon Alley as if they were compass needles drawn to their magnetic north pole. A springtime vision, she was dressed in fine ivory robes, betasseled and jewelled and embroidered all in gold. Her long strawberry blonde hair swung down her back, catching the light.

Trotting gently beside her in obedient steps were two canines, both of the hardy, cold-weather tolerant persuasion, breeds you wouldn’t be surprised to find pulling a sled across the snows. One of the animals was slender with a dark chocolate coat interspersed with unruly tufts of fur. The other was much, much larger, pure white with a long snout and pointed ears.

“Here we are,” the witch said under her breath. The intricate columns supporting the ornate pediment bore witness to the faded beauty of a once grand building. These days, black paint flecked off the door, the colour muted and just as faded as the gilt of the words ‘The Daily Prophet’. “Here goes nothing.”

Behind the high counter, the receptionist gave her the cynical once over of one used to weeding out the raving mad fish within a sea of eccentricity. “May I help you?”

“I have an appointment.” Her small scroll was presented and taken to the back office for scrutiny. “This isn’t going to work,” Florence whispered, her hands shaking as she smoothed sweaty palms down the front of her robes. “I don’t know why I let you two convince me to do this.” The two dogs exchanged a look of exceedingly human exasperation. “I told Cheung I was only joining the Bureau if she didn’t make me do field work. Why am I even here? Oh, Merlin help me.”

The receptionist’s return put a stop to her bemoaning. “You’ll want the third floor, but I’m afraid your pets will have to wait outside.”

Florence drew herself up to her full height which, although still fairly unimpressive, benefited greatly from her block-heeled boots and shoulder pads. “Winnie and Snowdrop,” there was an almost inaudible growl from the vicinity of her knees, “accompany me absolutely everywhere. I will not leave them out of my sight.”

“We have a strict no pet policy within the building.”

The Auror’s composure faltered, then fairly crumpled. Draco felt his muscles bunch up under his fur. Shit. “Oh, please. You don’t know how much they mean to me, I can’t leave them outside. Please.”

After a tense moment, the receptionist leaned in conspiratorially. “Look, I’m not supposed to do this, but I have furry little cuties of my own at home. How about I find them a nice quiet office to wait in?”

“Oh, thank you so much! And don’t worry, these two have better manners than most humans.”

~*~

Once the door to the office snicked shut, Malfoy shifted and set about the slow, careful process of reversing Granger’s Transfiguration until she was, once again, bipedal, if only marginally less hairy.

“I can’t believe that worked.”

“Of course it worked.”

“It shouldn’t have,” she argued, looking at the space around them. The windows had been enchanted to cover one whole wall floor to ceiling, the bright morning sunshine pouring in and splintering on the glass coffee table to paint her in rainbows. “A great big Arctic wolf strolling down Diagon Alley should have sent people screaming and lobbing Curses.”

“That’s precisely why it worked,” Draco argued, rummaging through the desk as Granger took the tall filing cabinets in the corner. “Imagine if you saw a two hundred pound wolf, just out walking on the street. It’s impossible, and no-one else is shouting, so you’re not going to be the only one to do it and risk looking like a right tit. You convince yourself it’s just a big dog, and that makes perfect sense and fits in neatly with the rest of your personal universe, so that’s what it must be. And then you move on with your life and forget all about it.”

“Blissful ignorance is its own kind of magic, I suppose.”

“Works every time.” Mostly , he mentally corrected himself. Nine times out of ten, anyway. "We should hurry up, I don't see Florence being able to buy us much time." The drawers were locked behind basic warding, so he spared the contents no more than a cursory look. Any wizard worth his salt would spend more time and effort protecting the kind of documents worth being killed for.

Granger visibly bristled. "I know she gets flustered, but she's incredibly talented. She's researching the same type of enchantments used to detect underage magic to come up with a way to detect Dark Arts and provide us with real time locations. It will revolutionise Magical law enforcement."

"So long as no-one asks her to step out from behind a desk, I suppose." He heard her move her search to the adjacent records cupboard. The shelves were adorned with trophies, plaques and photographs of Stormbridge shaking hands with wealthy and influential wizards.

One of the photos drew his eye, even as the rest of him recoiled. Lucius Malfoy bore his signature silver tipped cane and haughty expression, his attitude darkening the room through the frame to announce his indisputable superiority. Draco wasn’t surprised that the two men were acquainted, perhaps even friends. It made perfect sense for lying narcissists would gravitate to one another. There was probably a linguistic attribute for such a group, something suitably slimy and off putting. An ‘entrepreneurial conglomerate’ or a ‘social infection’ were his best guesses.

Tucked away between two books he found a bronze cigarette holder, its appearance innocuous but imbued with magic. It hummed as he picked it up. “Granger, have a look at this.”

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s changing, too. The resonance is louder up close to the desk.”

It took them precious minutes to scrutinise every edge of it until they found a seam, no more than a thin gap almost lost in the wood grain in the underside of the desk. Granger knelt beside him as Draco slotted the bronze case into place, the curve of her thigh pressing into his as a panel melted away to reveal a bolted door of the same material.

“I know what you’re thinking, but there won’t be enough time before Florence comes back for us.”

Her teeth trapped her plush bottom lip. “We might as well take a crack at it until she does.”

“Granger…”

The tips of her fingers were already skimming over the detailed symbols set in spinning clusters to form part of a larger wheel as she bent under the desk and, incidentally, gave him a stellar view of her arse in tight dark jeans. “We’ll be fine, Snowdrop .”

“I can turn at the drop of a hat. You, Millie, cannot.”

“It’s Winnie. Don’t worry, your Transfiguration work is perfectly satisfactory. Now see what you make of this sequence,” Granger said, essentially ignoring him. He’d seen this from her before, the way she became entirely immersed in the irresistible draw of the solve.

Every so often they would hear a set of steps just outside the door. “That could very well be Florence for all we know.”

“Each knot we solve, there’s fewer moving parts to worry about. Almost there.”

There were people talking in the corridor. By this point, they’d been in there at least half an hour. “ Granger. ”

“Go stand watch by the door if you’re that worried.”

He followed her movement. “No, go back, that rune is Raido, it needs to line up level.” She shot him a look and Draco shut his mouth with a click. Fine, so she wasn’t the only obsessive. It didn’t make them any less screwed if they were found.

When they finally cracked the safe, Granger let out a garbled sound of triumph and dived for the contents. “It’s all files, and quite a lot of them. There’s a nifty Expansion Charm on this.”

“It could just be notes for his auto-biography,” Draco ventured.

“It could be blackmail material,” she countered.

They were both wrong.

It was a treasure trove consisting of tip offs, letters, information requests and interview transcripts, a lot of which related to yet unpublished material.

He heard Granger let out a low gasp and she held up a foolscap file with the imprint of a white hand on the cover. The Loyalist symbol.

Before they could do anything, voices in the hallway became louder and far easier to distinguish. “We appreciate you coming in for the interview, of course. I hope your dogs did okay in there, alone all this time.”

“Oh, I’m sure they were fine.” Florence walked into the room to find Draco sitting back on his haunches. “There’s Snowdrop. I wonder where Winnie got to…”

Crouched behind the desk,  still human-shaped Granger cringed.

“Well, she must be in here somewhere.” As the receptionist tried to step forward, Draco was suddenly there, nuzzling his arm with such force that he was forced back into the corridor, almost losing his balance altogether. “Oh! What an enthusiastic pup. You’re a very Good Boy, aren’t you?” 

He allowed himself to be subjected to the baby voice and nails dragging through the sensitive skin behind his ears and Florence shuffled around amidst the watery rasp of Transfiguration. “Here she is! Right, we’re all set, I think.”

The receptionist’s face fell. “That’s not Winnie.”

“Yes, it is.” Florence’s smile was a rictus of desperation.

“No, Winnie was- different. Her coat wasn’t curly like that.”

“Oh, a brush through will fix that.”

“I’m sure she was bigger,” the receptionist insisted.

“She always looks smaller next to Snowdrop, of course.”

“And she definitely wasn’t a poodle.” Beside Florence, Granger was a nightmarish balloon animal come to life. There were rounded tufts of brown fur just over her skinny little paws and at the end of her ratty tail. Her ears sagged on either side of a massive furry head sitting on a shaved neck.

If Draco hadn’t been so horribly stressed, this would have been one of the greatest moments of his life.

Florence might have been a genius, but she was clearly pants at Transfiguration. “She’s a crossbreed. There’s definitely some poodle in there, that’s what you’re picking up on, well spotted. We really must be going.”

“Wait, but…” the receptionist was still staring at Granger. “That’s not how that works.”

“Thank you so much for everything.” They took the stairs at a calm pace, hoping the man wouldn’t follow them. “Merlin, please let us get out of here, please please please ,” she muttered under her breath.

Truth is, they almost made it. Draco would later reflect on the fact that his plan, aside from a few critical faux-pas, could have worked.

What they didn't count on was that Prophet foolscap files were enchanted so any attempt to remove them from the premises set off every single security countermeasure at once.

Spell resistant metal bars came down across every window and door as a long klaxon sounded across the building. A Burglar Jinx was already taking hold of them all, red angry blisters crawling over every part of their skin regardless of fur. Draco shook his, sneezing repeatedly and pawing at his own snout. It fucking stung .

“Wait right there!” the security guard called out. “The DMLE will be here in a minute, they’ll sort you out good and proper."

Almost, thought Draco. We almost got away with it.

Chapter Text

“What in Merlin’s name is this?” Granger asked. Malfoy was equally puzzled. When they were assigned a murder investigation at the venerable Sequacious Order of the Oleander Tree, he’d been expecting quiet, sheltered academics working diligently on magical research and, possibly, tending beautiful gardens full of varieties of sweet peas.

It wasn’t the only institution of the sort, but it was the oldest still in existence. Back in the Middle Ages, wizards noticed Abbeys and Monasteries popping up in idyllic sections of the countryside and saw an opportunity to set up shop and work without fear of being disturbed by pesky Muggles - so long as they were willing to hang up some religious iconography and wear some slightly silly robes.

Granger and Malfoy found the building in upheaval. There were quite a lot of people shouting and running about. One wizard, eyes sunken and glittering with an internal fever, almost collided with them, talking to no one but himself. “What if we use a bottle of Eternal Fire to power it? It might give us an extra fortnight!”

A few steps away, two other wizards with beards long enough to cuddle under at night were at least arguing with one another. “You can’t ask for a new enchanted storage room as part of your research grant. Nevermind the cost, we can’t keep opening more holes in this place, it’s already starting to resemble a magical beehive!”

“I can if I want to.”

"You don’t need it.”

“Of course I need it, my whole undergraduate team could use it, and who is going to tell me any different? Hmm?” This seemed to stymy the other wizard. “Seniority, Threepwood, makes up nine tenths of the grants.”

“We both know you’ve been after a dry, cool cupboard for your pipe tobacco, you supercilious rat.”

“Excuse us,” Malfoy entreated, as a jar containing - yes, those are fingers - sailed over his head and continued chasing a poor startled young woman. She disappeared up a set of stairs, almost colliding with another cluster of horrified students. “Do you know where we can find the Chancelor?”

The two wizards previously engaged in discussion of storage noticed them for the first time. “There isn’t one. Try again next year.”

“If you could just direct us to whomever is in charge at the moment, that would do,” Granger tried.

“Does it look like anyone here is in charge, young lady? Flat command structures are a critical problem. I have always said that succession planning-”

“Oh do give it a rest, Threepwood. Wizards can do all the succession planning they like, it doesn’t work. We are well aware that no one wants the job and there will be months of infighting and manipulation before some poor, meek soul gets lumbered with it.”

Malfoy was trying his best to understand. “Let me get this straight. Your former Chancelor has passed away and this has triggered a succession crisis because no one wants the job?”

“Correct,” said Threepwood, examining the Aurors through small, square glasses.

“How is this place supposed to function until a new Chancelor is found?” Granger asked.

The other wizard didn’t seem too worried. “We can generally manage pretty well. The roof should stay on most of the time, provided the Alchemy experiments are kept an eye on. There might be a few Curses flying or the occasional threat of bodily harm.”

“Bodily harm?” Malfoy asked. “What is the faculty doing while the students engage in this type of behaviour?”

“Generally, it’s the students trying to cool tensions between the senior lecturers. A lot of their projects are susceptible to magical interference.”

“Great,” muttered Granger. “Sounds like a cooperative bunch.”

~*~

They were led down corridors lined with classrooms. Some were vacant and cavernous and others, such as the vast Exceptional Library or Celestial Greenhouse, still frothing with activity in the late evening. Rows of cauldrons were being tended to, projected attempts and ingredients meticulously documented on the blackboards behind each one. Their contents reflected different colours on the ceilings and the flames lit students and researchers from beneath, making them all look like deranged pagan worshipers. Books fluttered, suspended midair as they were consulted and dismissed, some of them in groups so dense they clashed with one other as unruly birds vying for bread.

No one paid them the least bit of attention. The students, older researchers and Professors were all consumed by a disease of the mind, fingers scarred at the edge from spellwork dangerous enough to eat through flesh as well as sanity.

“How long was Chancelor Hunter at the Order?” Malfoy asked Threepwood.

“Almost all his life. That’s relatively common. Some decide to publish their results or go in for writing books and manuals, but most of us decide to stay on,” the elder wizard explained. There was no mistaking the derisive tone he utilised for the first group.

“Was he well liked?”

Threepwood looked wounded for a moment. “Of course, he was a wonderful chap, we all thought so. Patience of a saint, which is exactly what you need to run a place like this. He will be sorely missed.”

“A universally liked leader? That’s a rare thing indeed.” 

“Hunter was always the first to champion an interesting project,” Threepwood insisted.

“However…?” Granger entreated, looking into one of the classrooms where Draco felt sure he saw a double helix model of DNA assembling itself midair.

Threepwood hesitated, tugging at his beard. “He was a jolly, lighthanded sort of person. His approach relied on gently nudging the faculty into a vague sort of shape.”

“I bet that laissez-faire approach caused some tension,” Malfoy noted as they arrived at the former Chancelor’s classroom. It was located at the end of a row of spacious laboratories. Here, the halls were wider and better tended, airy with the natural light that came with tenured status among the undergraduate rabble.

“Well, there you have it. Old Eridanus Hunter’s classroom. His hat brim will hit his successor well past his ears, I don’t mind telling you. Hopefully it won’t take the two of you too long to conduct a routine investigation,” Threepwood said.

“What made you assume it’s routine?” Granger asked.

Threepwood dragged his hand over his beard. “The Chancelor was one hundred and six. I shouldn’t think his death holds any secrets.”

Granger nodded, betraying nothing. “We’ll start by having a look around.”

“Capital. Do get one of the students to fetch me when you’re done. I would offer you tea or coffee but, as you may already be aware, stimulants are verboten within the Abbey.” Threepwood smiled widely at their shock. “Yes, I’m afraid our founders, visionary though they were, were hot on banning things. They were under the impression that coffee, alcohol or any weaknesses of the flesh were not just time-wasting distractions, but interfered with magic output as well.”

Malfoy couldn’t see the sense in that at all. No caffeine or sexual activity whatsoever would certainly drive people insane long before it could interfere with their magic. “We will comply with all local guidance as we work here, of course,” he lied.

Granger was already off, silently breaking the magical seal on a locked cupboard. It was full of ingredients Malfoy didn’t even recognise, some of the jars glowing or flashing intermittently. “Mind how you go, some of this stuff is probably volatile.”

"Feel free to tut and frown accordingly," Granger seemed entirely unimpressed with this admonishment.

"What did you do that for? That almost singed my hair," Draco complained as one of the candles' flames flared, bathing the room in a sudden flash of searing light.

"I'm just trying to warm up. This place is like a refrigerator." Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, "A refrigerator is -"

"I know what a fridge is, Granger, no need to Muggle-splain it."

"Sorry."

"That's quite alright. And you can just cast yourself a Warming Charm instead of trying to burn down the flammables."

"Warming Charms don't work on me. Not for very long, anyway - it's as if my magic wears right through them."

"You should ask Threepwood if he has any research on cold, stubborn, repulsive witches."

"I might just do that. I have to admit, Hunter’s own work isn’t what I expected,” Granger remarked, elbow deep in parchment. “The Order is well known to engage in pretty fringe magical research and this is all so… Boring.”

“Maybe the Chancelor was past his maverick days.”

She made a non committal noise and continued her search.

Draco set about his work with little relish. He was tired, he was weary, and had nothing to look forward to apart from the dubious delights of investigating stark raving mad academics.

Following their bungled infiltration at The Prophet, Cheung had managed to pull enough strings to keep their names out of the papers - no mean feat - and proceeded to make her frustrations known by pelting them with rubbish casework.

They’d investigated everything. There had been a violent haunting in a graveyard in Scotland that turned out to be nothing more than a polite yet confused vampire and some very silly teenagers. That was followed by a short entanglement with two dangerous Hags in Berkshire that had tried to lure Muggle children into their cave. They then had to rescue a wizard halfway up a mountain after he made the inexplicable decision to create and test a prototype homemade Time-Turner in order to extend a fishing trip. Their last call out led to an interesting yet brief conversation with an elderly witch utilising an old and unstable Dark Magic Sigil to keep her chicken coop warm through the frost. Draco’s efforts at Scourgify notwithstanding, he had been picking bits of eggshell out of his hair for days.

“This classroom is a pit,” Granger whispered.

“Speaking ill of the dead is unbecoming.” It was a pit. “Why would someone keep stale biscuits in balled up bits of paper?”

“Maybe he had to smuggle them tucked into his pockets, although Threepwood didn’t mention anything about sugar being banned.”

Malfoy shuddered. “No wonder the Order members all seem a bit mad, if they cut out sugar alongside everything else.”

She hummed her agreement, thumbing through books while holding up a Lumos . “And someone was mad enough to dispatch the Chancelor with poison.”

“Poor chap. He missed out on years of lounging in coffee shops and sucking down cappuccinos, trading it all for cold rooms and biscuits with pocket lint for toppings.”

“He traded it for the pursuit of knowledge.”

“It seems rather lacking in wisdom,” Malfoy muttered, unlocking another cabinet. “Didn’t the Forensics report say Hunter was poisoned with a mixture of Alnwick’s Monkshood and Laburnum?”

“Yes, why?”

He held up a purple vial, identical to dozens more, all labelled in a neat rack. “He was using the solution for one of his experiments.”

“I’ll keep it for analysis. You realise this means everyone in this school had easy access to the murder weapon?”

“I agree, it doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

They continued their search in silence, even though Draco could feel Granger’s eyes flicking to him every few seconds like a moth drawn to a flame. “Anything on your mind, Malfoy?”

“Perhaps. We certainly haven’t been getting the most fascinating casework.”

“We’re investigating a murder.”

“The man was one hundred and six years old. The murderer’s greatest achievement was beating natural causes,” he pointed out. At Granger’s scathing look, he continued, “This isn’t why I joined the Branch. The Director took us off the Loyalists’ track, there are no other surveillance assignments and I didn’t sign up to chase petty criminals.” He slammed the files on the desk on top of one another, some of his frustration showing through despite his best efforts at smothering it.

For a second, Granger’s frown stretched to sadness before, just as quickly, turning to something the approximate hardness of diamond. “You are being a despondent idiot. Snap out of it.”

“Granger-”

“And don’t interrupt me, I hate that. Look, against all odds and my personal expectations, you are very good at this job. Excellent, in fact. Do you know what the reward for excellence is?” He didn’t say anything, partly because he wasn’t about to interrupt her again after that rebuke, but mostly because he was too bewildered to do so. “It’s that you have to do it. Walking away would be a huge mistake because this is so clearly what you’re meant to be doing.”

Draco was flattered. A part of him also recognised that she was probably hating every moment of trying to convince him to stay, yet she was still doing it. But Hermione Granger wasn’t the only one in this partnership that could display infernal levels of bloody-mindedness and he wasn’t quite done sulking. “Is it, though? Take away the little extras when I turn furry, am I really anything but average?”

This was, of course, a fear he’d nurtured for as long as he could remember. It manifested in a little voice that told him that, if it weren’t for his lineage, his reputation, his money and titles, there wouldn’t be anything left but a mediocre man or, worse, a horrible little footnote in wizarding history for a bloke that had been given every advantage, then looked every choice straight in the face, and chosen wrong.

And then he’d proceeded to light a match to it all to see if his life could yet burn clean, and was left to rustle through the ashes with a stick.

Abandoning her search, she came around to him, producing a small glass jar with a golden lid from the depths of her leather backpack. “Give me a hand and find us something to drink from.”

“You brought coffee?”

“Of course I did. It’s only instant, but it’s better than nothing. Yes, that works, come and help before I change my mind about sharing my precious caffeine.” She filled a small tartan thermos with Aguamenti and he heated the water just short of boiling for their brew. The smell filled the room with complex notes of chocolate, nuts and smoke. 

“Have you got any milk?”

“Milk?” Granger gasped in offence.

“I can’t be expected to drink this black sludge without doctoring it.”

“I’m not going to be carrying around milk, am I? Just drink your coffee.” He decided not to ask for sugar. “Cheung made no secret of our scores when we joined the Branch. You must know you’re a gifted Auror.”

“I wasn't top of the class though, was I?” He was used to losing out to Hermione Granger. It had happened consistently all the way through Hogwarts.

She blew softly over her mug. “Do you remember the case with the fugitive, the one I solved in two hours and you were so curious about?”

“Yes, of course.” If he were being honest, he was still curious.

“When I checked the evidence log, there was a reservation stub for the Knight Bus.” Granger smiled at him - rueful, gleaming - and his thoughts slid for a second. It was a beautiful smile and, when directed at him, Draco found he wasn’t immune.

Then reason caught up with him and he borrowed time by gulping down a small amount of coffee. It scalded his tongue, but it was worth it in order to process what she was telling him. “Surely not.”

“Yep.”

After several more sips of coffee, he indulged in a deep, satisfied exhale. It was too strong and bitter for him, yet still excellent, soul-soothing stuff. “So the man gets arrested, pulls off an amazing, daring escape…”

“Only to go get the bus he’d booked tickets for. Waste not, and all that.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh and, for a second, Granger looked in danger of joining in. “That has to be a whole new level of stupid.”

“Most criminals are idiots, Malfoy. And it takes clever people to catch them.”

“Is that us?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “Yes, I think so, for our combined sins. I know I’m not the easiest to work with.” It was not, he recognised, an apology; just a statement of fact.

“Yes, now that you mention it, you’ve been an intransigent arse.”

“And you’ve been a snobbish prat,” Granger snapped back, then caught herself, whispering something that sounded like ' too easy' . “But we can do this job, and we can do it well. If you want to go after the Loyalists, there’s always ways around the Director’s orders.”

“Do you have anything worth pursuing?” he asked, startled.

There she went, smiling at him again. It caused a strange, slippery feeling in his chest. “I may have. Do you?”

“There might be a couple of leads worth looking into."

His partner seemed to take this admission in stride, as if this was no more than what she expected. There was genuine excitement there, if he was any judge, and more surprising still, it came from both of them. The feeling was electric. "Stop that," she ordered.

Malfoy stilled, looking around in genuine confusion. "What am I supposed to be stopping?"

"The jaw thing."

"What jaw thing?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Genuinely confused here, Granger."

She made a short waving gesture to the side of her face. "You clench your jaw and smile and it gives you a dimple."

"A dimple, you say?"

"Oh come on, you must have practised in front of the mirror."

"Have not." It was true, he hadn't, but was at that very moment trying his best to simulate the effect. "I had no idea you were so taken by my sweet little dimple."

"I didn't say it was sweet."

"You didn't have to. It was implied."

“Just finish your bad coffee, we have work to do.”

Further down the corridor, there was a polite shuffle. By the time the witch rounded the doorway, Granger and Malfoy were in opposite corners of the classroom and there were no traces of their illicit beverages save for, perhaps, a lingering scent.

Dressed in the plain brown robes that marked her as an undergraduate, the short witch stood stock still for a few seconds, her arms overflowing with scrolls of parchment. Her glasses slid over the bridge of her nose until she nudged them back up with her forearm.

It started sliding back down almost immediately.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, only the faculty didn’t seal the room and I have materials to drop off for tomorrow. I can always come back.”

“That’s fine, come on in.” Granger introduced herself and Malfoy. “We’re looking into what happened to Chancelor Hunter.”

The witch nodded, accelerating her glasses’ descent as she offloaded onto the desk. A box rattled out of her pocket and she collected it hastily, shoving it back into her robes. “To tell you the truth, I can’t really believe he’s gone,” her voice broke. “Somehow, I’d convinced myself he’d be just down the corridor forever, ready with a kind word or a biscuit.”

“He sounds like a fine wizard.”

The witch’s lip wobbled, and her eyes were suddenly damp and limned in red. “There’s a tendency in this place for undergraduates to be treated like chattel, but the Chancelor always made a point to get to know and support everyone he came across.”

“How very typical of you, Puttock, that you would miss the man only because you will no longer be able to hide behind the folds of his robes,” said a high, mocking voice. The wizard it belonged to resembled a blade: thin, elongated and unpleasant. “What are the two of you doing here without an escort?”

“We weren’t aware we needed one, Professor…”

“Cockburn,” he announced, making sure to pronounce ‘ Coe-burn’ very carefully, lest there be any possibility of misunderstanding. “And the two of you should not be here unattended. Any visitors should be escorted at all times.”

“Then it’s a good thing Puttock came along,” Granger nodded towards the young witch.

“Do you have everything you need here?” Cockburn asked. “If not, you’ll have to return in the morning. It’s getting late and people are conducting time sensitive work, we can’t have you disturb it.”

“I can be your escort tomorrow,” Puttock offered, dalying by the door. Malfoy hung back, waiting to see if she had anything to volunteer. “Do you have any suspects yet?”

“Unofficially?” Malfoy told her, following her gaze to the retreating form of Professor Cockburn. “Not yet.”

She nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

~*~

First Assembly at the Refectory compounded the horror of a mandatory gathering at the ungodly hour of half-past six by being a worse sort of breakfast. There was, after all, no tea or coffee, just room temperature milk and sad, plain porridge.

“Bacon and toast would probably imbalance the humours,” Granger muttered under her breath. 

“Imagine the damage a sausage and eggs could bring.”

Standing by the Founder’s sculpture in the Main Hall as previously arranged, Granger checked her watch. “She’s late.”

“Breaking the laws of magic is tough work, and they’re doing it without caffeine.”

Yet Puttock never showed. “Is it possible she forgot all about it or left during the night? There will be a record of it if she did.”

“There will be other ways to slip away other than the main gate,” Granger nodded. “Hogwarts was riddled with secret passageways. Wait, did you see that movement on the wall?” she asked.

Malfoy was about to ask her what she meant when he saw it himself. There was a ripple at the edge of the bas-relief, as if a small creature’s shadow as it ran past. “What was that?”

His detection spell died on his lips as the bas-relief rippled again, this time with a shuddering pulse, and everything went dark.

There was a sucking, tight sensation, accompanied by almost painful pressure to his eardrums. When it eased, they were left standing in a strange landscape, wide and barren with scrubby, weathered little trees and shrubs. Wind, dusty and smelling strongly of iron and sulphur, battered them both from multiple directions. Granger’s hair whirled around her as she squinted, trying to see through the debris being whipped up around them.

“We seem to have left the Abbey,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard.

“At least, the Abbey as it is right now,” she said, pointing at the building behind them. Without its many additions over the centuries, it looked almost forlorn. The structure was wrong, stretching up to the sky, too thin and leaning. It was eye-watering. “I did wonder if this was the reason everything seemed so innocuous in a place where they’re constantly running dangerous experiments.”

She conjured a light and the tree closest to them suddenly burst into flames the colour of mercury. “This definitely feels dangerous.”

“A pocket universe. Quite clever, really.”

“I think this might possibly be an ambush."

"It's definitely an ambush." Granger’s smile was positively bloodthirsty. "Excellent.”

“How is any of this excellent? Someone - likely the killer - has trapped us in the place where magical experiments come to explode.”

“That’s true, but they wouldn’t have set this up so anyone could stumble into it. They may be researchers, but they’re hardly suicidal and the building is full of innocent people.” She was already advancing, wand up, carving her way into the Other-Abbey. “Which means they trapped themselves in with us.”

They climbed through the now familiar corridors that were, nevertheless, entirely different. In the corner, putrid grey sludge dribbled up a wall to scar it, making it bubble like acid. One window pane shattered in front of them, the glass skewering the air in a burst of damp light before trickling back and reforming once more. They dodged these traps with little difficulty and made their way to the mirror of the Chancellor’s classroom. Malfoy risked a detection Charm.

It was not worth the risk.

The stones at their feet twisted and roiled and they spun. One moment, all was stable, then it wasn't. His ribs crashed into the wall and he crumpled, winded, as Granger was spat out twenty feet away.

"Malfoy?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” He heaved. After the shock of the landing, everything wobbled in front of him - quite literally. Granger could barely reach him to kneel beside him.

"It's this place. It’s saturated with magic already, every time we attempt a spell, it reacts with the charged atmosphere. You’re not going to be sick.”

“You’re not the boss of the lining of my stomach. Oh gosh, the ceiling is starting to wrap around the wall.”

“Keep your eyes on me,” Granger steadied him, both hands on his shoulders. It worked, after a fashion. She was the one stable, unchanging thing in the midst of a sensory assault. “We can’t do magic here, it’s completely unpredictable, so if you’re sick on your shoes, you will be wearing it. Neither of us wants that.”

“Fair point.” With a couple of false starts, they both got to their feet. "They did tell us the Abbey was all about unbound magic but I doubt they meant to break the fabric of reality."

"I don't. I think that’s exactly what they meant to do. Magic is tethered to life, it cannot subsist on its own,” Granger said, almost to herself. “It’s started eating through the confines of this universe, and will continue to do so, until it’s completely gone.”

From then on, their progress was slower and more careful. Draco tried his best now to look around. “How are we supposed to defend ourselves without magic? Or even navigate this space, for that matter?”

“I’m not sure. But it seems we have to play by its rules, whatever those are, or risk it folding in on us. You’ll just have to suppress your male instinct to go wanging your wand around.”

He didn’t have time to show offence as voices travelled to them.

“This was all your fault,” he heard Cockburn say. “You did this.”

“Yes,” Puttock was saying. “And once the Aurors are here, you will admit to what you’ve done.”

“Admit to what?” asked Granger.

“He killed Chancellor Hunter. He was a kind, defenceless old man and you,” Puttock choked on a sob, “you killed him. Poisoned him, you fucking coward.” She was holding a roll of parchment, her hand splayed atop a glowing sigil. The edges of the paper smoked around it, as if it were almost catching fire.

Cockburn did not seem to be taking the student seriously. “Hunter’s weakness and ineptitude have been driving this place to the ground for decades. Just look at what he allowed in. You barely have any magical aptitude to speak of!”

Malfoy had suspected as much, seeing the woman carry a heavy load herself instead of using a simple Levitation Charm and the box of matches flopping out of her pocket. Those were precisely the type of mundane bits of magic most wizards took for granted.

“It’s true, I’m essentially a Squib. I’m not ashamed of it. I used to be,” Puttock revealed, “but the Chancellor made me recognise and hone my strengths. He didn’t think I had to be perfect to succeed, or that I should be embarrassed. He brought out the best in me, the best in all of us, and you killed him. Admit it!”

Cockburn crossed the room to face down Puttock. “Or what? What can you do, exactly? You have no evidence and just threatened me in front of two serving Aurors. How exactly do you see this working out?”

“Puttock,” Granger said, stepping forward. The edges of the sigil were burning in earnest now, small glowing flecks of parchment floating up from it. If this was the only thing holding the little pocket universe together, they were all about to die. “You don’t have to do this.”

Malfoy realised what she meant a moment later when the student relaxed, her arms going slack off her shoulders. “It’s what he deserves. You two should leave, if you run all the way to the Founders’ monument, you’ll make it out. I just wanted someone to know what he did, so that everyone will know.”

“No one needs to die,” Granger insisted while Malfoy edged gently around the back, getting ready to tackle Puttock to the ground. He wasn’t sure what that would do, especially if her hand were to slide off that sigil, but it felt like the only chance they had.

“Someone already did, and his killer shouldn't be allowed to live,” Puttock insisted, and started lifting her hand-

“He’s alive! Hunter’s alive,” Granger said, both hands raised pleadingly.

Her words were met with nothing but the ominous howling of the wind outside.

“That’s not possible,” Puttock whispered.

Granger’s ability to spin a tale in record time was truly astonishing. Malfoy hesitated, half a step behind Puttock, his eyes on the parchment. “He was admitted to St Mungo’s and they managed to treat him in time. He’s still recovering, but he’ll live.”

The lie was not that unreasonable. The Professor had been admitted to St Mungo’s, his health status critical for several days before he eventually passed. “We had to keep it secret lest the killer make another attempt at his life,” Malfoy added.

Puttock hesitated, and he saw the moment she decided to end it for all of them.

Unfortunately, so did Granger.

“I’ll prove it to you. Here.” Producing the vial from the Chancelor’s office - the one full of poison - she drank it down.

For a moment, there was only silence. Cockburn stood to the side, pale with shock. Then the student crumbled to her knees, her face in her hands. “Take me to him,” she repeated over and over again, her face awash in tears as Malfoy pocketed her proffered wand. “Take me to him.”

He hadn’t the heart to tell her that it was impossible. She might go and try to break another Universe if he had.

~*~

Once Puttock had freed them from the pocket Universe with a carefully drawn runic enchantment, Granger turned to Draco: "I don't suppose you've got some Common Antidote on your toolkit? Mine's run out and I haven't gotten around to replacing it yet."

His throat suddenly decided to work. "What do you mean, run out ? I've never even used mine!"

"Great, then I can have it." She swallowed it down in two gulps. "That should tidy things over for now but I should really get to St Mungo's."

"Oh, do you think? Would that be the reasonable course of action? How can you tell?"

"Why are you being so difficult? It's only a bit of poison. It's hardly going to kill me."

"Do you even listen to yourself?" He hissed, jostling her out of the building through dozens of bewildered students to Apparate them both to the Hospital.

Emergency Care was busy. There was wailing, arguments and some sounds that were decidedly non-human. Draco tried to get the attention of one of the Healers, easily identifiable by their green robes and harassed outlook, but no-one seemed inclined to make eye contact. "I'll check with the main desk, surely they can’t be waiting for you to croak it.”

Her eye roll was not appreciated. "Don't be dramatic. I'll be perfectly fine.”

“Yes, well, I'd rather not have to find a new partner, if it's all the same to you."

Before she'd had a chance to say anything, a Healer pulled back the curtains on their partition. "Auror Granger?"

"That's me."

"You took the Antidote within five minutes of ingestion." She nodded in confirmation. "In a healthy adult, the amount of poison you ingested isn't expected to cause any lasting damage so long as we treat you immediately."

Granger gave him a look that spelled ‘ I told you so’ in blinking letters and Draco's shoulders dropped from where they'd taken residence around his ears. "That's gr-"

"However," the Healer's eyes, alert even saddled by heavy bags, slid off the chart as he glared at Granger, "you are by no means a healthy adult. You're dehydrated, anaemic and suffering from chronic exhaustion. You need to rest."

"I will," Granger lied.

"You're lying, which is why I'm administering a strong sedative as part of your treatment."

"I don't want a sedative," she protested.

The Healer didn't bat an eyelid. "Do you want treatment?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then that includes the sedative." He pointed at a glass filled with a cloudy blue liquid and encouraged Hermione to down the whole thing, then turned to Draco. "Please make sure your partner drinks plenty of fluids in the next few hours. It will help."

"Is that it? Aren't you keeping her in for observation?" Draco asked.

"No. I'd rather keep an eye on people that are, in fact, sick, instead of bloody stupid self-destructive Aurors. She's discharged as soon as she takes the treatment."

"I can't say much for his bedside manners," Granger commented at his retreating form.

"I don't know," Draco countered, biting back a smile. "I thought he made some rather good points."

~*~

He was exhausted, hungry but much too tired to eat, and now had to half-carry a semi-conscious Granger home. It was hard not to feel he'd been assigned his own raincloud.

And he was gasping for a proper cup of coffee with lashes of milk and heaps of sugar.

"Where are we going?"

"What do you mean, where- this is your house, Granger. You gave me the address.” The fact that this was protected with a Fidelius Charm was entirely unsurprising, since Granger was the only woman - and Muggleborn - in the Golden Trio. There were no prizes for guessing which of the three had received the most death threats.

She squinted at the doorknob. "Did I? Oh, Gods." For some reason this seemed to fill her with dismay.

"Come on, let's get you in. The Healer said you needed rest."

She flopped in his arms as they crossed the threshold, her small, unsubstantial body a nonsensical contrast with her usually enormous presence. Draco could only speculate it had all gone towards the hair. Which, as he tried to prop her up, continuously tried to sneak its way into his nostrils.

"Let me go."

"Just a few more steps," or so he hoped.

" Let me go," Granger insisted, pushing feebly at his chest.

"After the day I had, seeing you faceplant in the foyer might just cheer me up, so don't tempt me."

She squinted up at him maliciously, almost nose to nose. The pharmaceutical cocktail she’d been administered had blown her pupils, turning them into unnatural wide pools of black surrounded by warm brown, all framed in thick lashes and scatterings of freckles. Even then, she retained that mystique that was all her own. Then, inching her hands to his jaw, she made the grand pronouncement: "Your face is stupid."

Insulting him as a strategy to get what she wanted. That had Granger written all over it. “You’re not baiting me into leaving you in a crumpled heap on the floor, you odious witch.”

“How did you get this scar?” She ran a finger very gently over the puckered skin slanted just under his mouth, making him shiver. Then, all too soon, her touch was gone.

His scars told stories neither of them was in the right mind to tackle. “I got it as an enhancement of my masculine beauty.”

Granger blew a wet raspberry at him, which was strangely endearing. “What, scars? Like you need them. Have you looked at yourself?"

This was an interesting development, whatever the ethics around her level of incapacitation. “What am I meant to be noticing in the mirror, then?'

"You’re all shoulders and cheekbones and general lanky-ness, all topped with nice hair." Then, in a lower voice, "Really, quite nice hair.”

She took some of the soft strands between her fingers and he momentarily forgot how to breathe. "How insightful."

“I’m observant. S’an Auror thing,” she slurred.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Sofa’s closer. Sleep there all the time.”

This felt like a good compromise. She was winking out on him and he didn’t want to find himself in a position to be carrying an insensate Granger around in his arms in search of her bedroom.

She slumped onto the sofa, toed off her boots and mashed her face into one of the scatter cushions. With a sudden burst of extreme and uncharacteristic generosity, Malfoy found her a blanket, then felt awkward. He cleared his throat. “I’d get some water as soon as you wake up, help flush the system and whatnot.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes closed. “I like your stupid face.”

There was a smile tugging at his lips as he left her, sound asleep, a conjured glass of water on the side table.

Chapter Text

They spent the best part of the morning navigating a Portkey, two Floo connections and a small boat getting to their intended destination but, at least, the view was astonishingly beautiful. The uninhabited islet stood alone, no more than a jagged rocky escarpment jutting out from the waves. Their little craft docked itself neatly in a sheltered cove and they hustled ashore, getting soaked in the process. As she waded out in front of Malfoy, Granger’s leggings clung to her, darker up to mid thigh, and even higher, over her shapely derrière.

“Gods, the water’s freezing. I do hope this proves worthwhile. This was a very long way to come just to test Walter’s hypothesis,” Malfoy muttered.

Granger rustled through her battered backpack, its contents making a noise like pots and pans clanging together, and found the map they had been provided. “May I remind you that you were the one that told me you wanted to continue on the Loyalists’ track. I think this is much better than just waiting for them to gather all the jewels.”

“I didn’t imagine I’d get quite so wet in the process.”

She harrumphed. “It’s not like we had anything on for the next few days.”

“You make it sound like we just had some spare annual leave. You’re technically supposed to be recovering.” Granger still looked far too peaky and this weighed more on him than he’d like.

“There’s fresh air and a beach. This is the very definition of a holiday.”

“I think I see what you mean. Who wouldn’t want to book themselves into a pay-your-expenses-your-own-damned-self stroll in an inhospitable island in the middle of the Atlantic?” He followed her across the sand and over an outcrop. They were quickly swallowed up by the tree line. “There is no accommodation, no bars and - this is becoming a worrisome theme - nowhere where I can get a cup of coffee.”

“You can stop your moaning, I packed some milk and sugar this time.” Along with, in all probability, half a library, a well stocked potion-making kit, three of her current reads and a waterproof tent with a built-in chimney.

“That’s an improvement.”

“I got biscuits, too,” she glanced back with the suggestion of a smile.

“Chocolate digestives?” he wondered.

“Of course. We’re not animals.”

Malfoy found himself smiling back, reaching to retie his hair and gather the escaped strands.

"That's gotten long," Granger remarked, surprising him. “It threw me, at first. It’s more of a change than I’d expected.”

He wondered if she meant more than just his hair. “Yes, well, I suppose it’s overdue for a trim. Don’t look so startled, I won’t chop it all off, just enough to disabuse any unpleasant juxtapositions with my father."

“Has he commented on it?”

“I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in years.”

“I suspected you might be estranged,” Granger said. At his silence, she added, “Your clothing is all good quality, yet well worn. Then you told me about the marriage contract and I just thought…” she hesitated. “I’m trying to say it’s understandable.”

The prospect of tackling his relationship with his parents was on par with the idea of dirty nails sinking into an open wound, opening it to infection and purulence - yet, in this instance, Draco curiously found himself wanting to. He desperately fished around for the right words, to strike the right balance on how much to offer, and came up empty.

Would she take plain facts as a dismissal? Oversharing might just put her off entirely, making her regret having ever asked.

Granger had seen him at his worst, so, in a peculiar way, he found her opinion to matter quite a lot.

He remembered what those first few days after his trial had felt like. 

Having somehow managed to stay out of Azkaban, he was suddenly a rudderless social outcast. There were no radical lunatics or monsters living in the Manor, his family wasn’t likely to be tortured or murdered, and what should have been relief had amounted to exhaustion and numbness, instead.

Then, one afternoon, Draco was unexpectedly ushered into his father’s study. “It is time you avail yourself of the essential knowledge that will, one day, have you take your rightful place as the Malfoy heir.”

Draco stared in confusion. “Seeing as I don’t have any siblings, I don’t see how I could possibly fail the requirement.”

Lucius Malfoy was unamused. “I have cultivated relationships spanning most areas of magical political engagement, and you’ll be expected to understand how to direct our resources, stay alert to the current tides and protect our interests accordingly.”

His father seemed to be expecting something of him. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Draco said at last.

“This is exactly why you must learn.”

It was an instructive afternoon, though certainly not as intended. As his father delved into the family affairs, Draco glimpsed at the machinations and secrets that fueled a well greased wheel of dirty dealings. Their connections to political and legal figures, boards and social clubs were all about the right ties to horrible people, all of it balanced on the sharp end of a pin.

“Why are we still doing this?”

“What did you just say?” his father asked.

“It’s obscene,” Draco gulped in a breath at the look on his father’s face, and carried on regardless. “It’s as if the War isn’t over-”

“Purge the War from your mind,” Lucius interrupted. “It is mere trivia for future historians. What matters now is what we make of the situation we find ourselves in. Malfoys prevail. We always have, and we always will.”

“Surely you intend to reflect on what we’ve done? Of trying to atone for some of it, at least?”

His father shut a large, leather bound ledger with a violent snap, the long sleeves of his robes agitated by the movement. “What has gotten into you, boy?”

“What’s gotten into me? An unwillingness to make the same mistakes you did!” The words refused to dissipate, a heavy fog between them.

For a moment, it seemed as if Lucius was going to address what had happened for the first time, but it had never been their way. There had been no conversation when Draco was dragged in front of the Dark Lord for the first time. Lucius had stood in silence as his son was branded with the Dark Mark as if this was nothing more than what was expected. He had not said a word when Draco was forced into an Unbreakable Vow.

Shamefully, Draco hadn’t relinquished hope that, one day, his father would sit with him and bridge the chasm between them to offer him something , even if just an acknowledgement of the horror they had been through, if not an apology for his own failings.

“We have indulged your puerile ennui for far too long, and I blame your mother for it, but no longer,” Lucius said at last, with a sneer. “We stand at a critical juncture. Our next steps must go towards solidifying our public image, and the attention around a good marriage for you will do nicely. In this, at least, your mother’s help should prove invaluable. We’ll review the suitable candidates and go from there.”

It’s never going to stop, and it’s never going to get any better, Draco finally realised. This is what it means to be a Malfoy.

In his memory, the thin, webbed stained glass of his father’s study cracked. Through his exhaustion, numbness and disappointment, Draco had found a kernel of something different, and it had turned out to be anger.

“Careful here,” Granger said, jolting him to the present. “The path is turning rockier.” The landscape had changed around them as they turned inland, which wasn’t hard in a landmass the approximate area of a jam donut. The cave entrance, as marked by Walter, was a vertically cleaved rock. “Can you sense anything?” she asked after he’d shifted to run a sweep.

“Yes, definitely, but it’s too indistinct for me to make out what it is. It feels old. Set into the roots of the island.”

This made her pause. “What do you think? Should we try and find another entrance?”

"I don’t think there’s anything too dangerous.”

“If the Portuguese fleet indeed stopped over on the way to Brazil,” Granger argued, manoeuvring to shimmy sideways into the cramped access, “I see why they thought this would be a nifty little hiding place.”

“True, but there’s no telling what may have happened since they passed through in the eighteen hundreds. They might have even instructed their descendants to come by and grab their valuables on the way back home,” he pointed out, following her in. Draco had never been a great fan of dark, cramped spaces, yet his discomfort was brief. The narrow entrance opened up to a long cavern, willowy stalactites drooping down from up high. 

The waters pooled at the bottom of the cavern, mirror-like, reflecting and playing with light and shadows, making them dance along the walls. It played tricks on the eye, made him believe something had moved. The air was fresh, hinting at a cave system open to the skies.

“Then there’s always raiders,” Granger whispered to avoid generating too much echo. “Still, there’s worse days out than a bit of spelunking.”

“Don’t go booking anything on our days off, if you please, I dread to think what you could come up with.”

They plotted their steps by wandlight, climbing over lichen and algae covered stones and struggling to retain their balance. Their detection Charms didn’t work at all, either out of magical interference or a natural side effect of the rock and surrounding ocean. The temperature of the air seemed to dip as they moved onto wider sections, their path leading up. The water coursed and dripped past them, the steady sound reverberating off every surface to fill the space. After a few minutes, they were both breathing hard, resorting to hand holds to propel them up. “It’s always with the climbing, have you noticed that?”

“At least all our practice should prove useful. Well, mine is. You’re still horrible at it,” Draco noted.

“Bugger off. I’m definitely getting better.”

She wasn’t. “Provided it is still here, any idea how we are to find Alma’s next bit of treasure?”

Ahead of him, Granger paused. “I’d been planning on scrying for precious metals but I can’t get the Charm to work. It’s so frustrating. According to this, there is either no gold whatsoever or we have somehow stumbled upon naturally occurring gold veins left over from volcanic activity when this island was formed. Take your pick.”

“Somehow, with our luck, I sincerely doubt we’re about to become richer than Creosote.” Then, from the very edge at the top, a different sound. It was singular in its harmonic, both clearer and higher pitched than the other plink plink gloop sounds Draco had grown used to around the cave system. “Let’s check over there.”

Despite resting there for the best part of three hundred years, the necklace was barely covered in limestone. Granger was practically vibrating with excitement as she explained how it could take over a thousand years for a limestone deposit ten centimetres long to form. She debrided the rock, careful to never touch it, and they waited with baited breath for the necklace to come loose from its niche. It was a gold chain interspersed at intervals with glittering gems - twelve in total - and a work of art in its own right.

Granger had come prepared with a box to accommodate it and, once this snapped shut alongside several Stasis Charms and general warding, their relief was palpable. “Walter will be over the moon.”

“He can get right to work on figuring out where the third piece might be.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw movement, and tensed. His partner noticed, of course. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s just the shimmer of the water on the walls,” he said, but the cave belied his words. The rock moved, and a section broke off the walls opposite them. It was not a clean break, but as if a sliver slid off the whole and launched itself up in the air.

“What is that?”

The small, misshapen rock unfurled with wings angling off the main body, all connected to rigid sinews tipped with sharp claws. By the time if had formed a bat and the creature screeched at them, others just like it were emerging from the walls, the ceiling, shaking themselves from the water.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance those are friendly rock bats?”

He didn’t have time to voice his suspicions before the first one dive bombed them, propelling him to destroy it with a Bombarda. “None whatsoever.” Draco’s hand was closed around her wrist as he scrambled down the rock, jagged edges seemingly rising up to meet him, and soon he was forced to forgo her hand so he could rely on the extra handhold as he destroyed more of the vicious creatures.

“You get down, I’ll cover you,” Granger shouted, and he realised he’d never seen her fight. He'd seen her duel, and faced off against her himself, within the sheltered halls of the Branch, but he hadn't seen her go to battle. She conjured clouds of water that swirled into a typhoon to smother the bats, pulling them within its turmoil to shatter on the ground. Bolts of magic as thin and bright as hot needles, edged to strike at the heart of another colony until they burst into sand.

Hermione Granger, shining with sweat, eyes dark and magic pouring out of her, was an incoming storm. And she made it look easy.

The problem was, there were always more and more of the bats coming for them. “Granger!” he shouted, shoulder wedged uncomfortably into one end of a tunnel to bring down another three, five, ten bats.

And still, more came off the ceiling, the floors, materialising just beside him.

“I see them.”

“You have to come down.”

“I can’t. They’re-”

He saw what had scared her. The very ground between them was opening with the scale-like edges of more wings and he rushed back up to her side. “I don’t suppose putting the necklace back will stop them?”

“I should think not. I really, really wish I could meet whomever laid the trap for this island just so I could Curse them to the ground.” She froze another wave of bats and Malfoy sent them careening down the passageway with a volley of wind.

“If it’s any comfort, they’ll be very dead.”

“Good.”

“Granger…”

“I know.”

He saw her swallow, the sheen of perspiration on her skin, the little tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead and neck, and wished-

“No,” she agreed. “No, we can’t fight a mountain. No spell is big enough to destroy it, there is so much stone. But the mountain wasn’t always a mountain…” her voice trailed off as she was lost to some internal thought process.

“Have you got something? What is it?” he asked urgently.

“Give me cover,” she instructed, and they turned, back to back, as Malfoy fought to stave off more and more stone bats. They were so densely packed around them now, wings hitting against each other and crowding them, that it didn’t matter if his aim was clunky or the depth was off, as he was bound to hit something.

All the while, Granger weaved something behind him, an incantation in what he recognised as smooth Celtic, even if he couldn’t make out the words. It tugged at his memory, the bits he did understand invoking an echo. Magic was rushing out of her, or perhaps to her, strong enough to bathe his back with fire.

She jabbed an elbow on his side and he realised he’d missed a newly formed colony that had gotten close, much too close, only to crash against his imperfect Aegis , the first spell that sprung to his lips in the middle of the panic .

Still, more came.

The whole mountain seemed to be shaking now. “Can you feel that?” he asked, even though Granger seemed to be chanting now, a low echoing loop, and the rumbling beneath his feet heightened, got louder, strong enough that he was slipping in place. “If that’s more bats…”

And then, with an almighty judder, the mountain chattered. There was an answering flash from Granger’s wand and she let out a yelp, falling back against Malfoy.

Lava rushed in a torrent from the depths, from above them, pouring from all sides. He shielded himself just in time, stepping with difficulty - just an edge of a foot, then another, until he had enough purchase - to make sure Granger was covered as well.

“What did you just do?” he accused.

“My wand…” she wailed. The wood had splintered in a spiral, the core bright and visible underneath. She tucked it away in her pocket, suddenly determined. “We can’t destroy a mountain, but it wasn’t always a mountain. This is a volcanic island. This, where we are right now, was probably a lava chimney, and the stone remembers.”

Realisation hit him. “That was a summoning invocation. A magical echo.” The lava was a memory of the very island as it formed, a piece of magic more powerful than he'd thought possible. It was the stuff of legends.

She nodded, barely hanging onto the rock as the lava coursed around the two of them, blotting out everything else. “We just need to wait it out.”

Even as she said it, he saw her fingers digging for purchase on the slick surface. Rock dislodged and fell, crumbling away.

“I don’t think we’ll survive waiting this out.” Sooner or later, the ceiling was going to cave in on them.

“There’s no other alternative.” Her voice was as hard as the stone around them.

“Yes, there is. The cove in the middle of the island. We make ourselves an exit, we let go, and land out in the water.”

“Absolutely not.” The words weren’t out of her mouth before she lost balance again. “We can’t let go. We’ll drown, or bang our heads against a sharp edge and bleed to death.”

"You're in a snit."

"I'm not in a snit. No one over the mental age of five is in a snit. I have a preoccupation. It is grounded in perfectly rational concerns."

Malfoy felt a small sense of triumph when his impeccable sense of direction guided him to carve out a perfect opening. One hundred and fifty feet below, the water of the cove shimmered in the sun. "Pensioners with cats have preoccupations, Granger. Come on, we're not dying inside this volcano. This isn't us. It isn’t even properly active, it would be a shambles. Downright embarrassing." The spell kept building, the echoing roar of it loud enough to swallow the words straight from his lips. “We need to let go.”

Her breathing had turned shallow. “Water isn’t a friend. Not- since fourth year.”

He remembered the sight of her, a huddled figure by the Great Lake, drenched and impossibly small in her bundle of blankets after hours in the depths. “It’s about to get up close and personal, so I suggest you make friends.”

“Nothing to water, really. Air is a fluid, we’re surrounded by it all the time.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He made a small movement to detach her from the wall and her hands twitched convulsively around their holds. Bollocks. They were running out of time. This couldn’t go on. “Did you know water deflects and slows down projectiles? There’s a whole new field of research around how it could work for magical shielding. We should try it as a variation on your Aegis spell.”

Eyes that were too rounded turned to him in something uncomfortably like supplication, and Draco understood. He knew - Merlin, he hoped he did - what to do.

“We will,” he promised, swinging himself on a precarious foothold to cocoon her body against the walls of the lava chimney. “We’ve got the training room booked for next week. Let’s see how much experimentation we can get away with before Wareham expels us from the building.”

“My wand-”

“I know. Turn around and get as close as you can, I’ll Bubble-Head us both.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Granger stressed, clinging onto him with her chin on his shoulder.

“We’re going to be fine,” he echoed.

And, with her inhale in his ear and weightless dread deep in his stomach, Malfoy edged to the ledge and let go.

They fell through at dizzying, impossible speed. Draco felt his elbows and knees scrape against stone, a moment of airborne horror, then the impact and sudden complete darkness of the depths, so utterly disorientating that, for a moment, he couldn’t tell which way was up. Sunshine limned trails of air bubbles spiralling up to the surface and he followed their source to billowing clouds of hair. Granger was also fighting her way to the surface, her skin turned ghostly.

Kicking hard, his every muscle screaming from lack of oxygen, he broke the surface. Beside him, she was just as much of a coughing and spluttering mess, hacking up water as they dragged their bodies past pebbles and onto sand. Wounded and covered in scrapes but safe, alive. 

They collapsed a few feet off the shore. For his own part, he was too tired to make it any further. They just laid there, sprawled on the sand and limbs akimbo, sodden and panting for breath.

Draco's anger was flashpaper, igniting in a bright whirl as he wove a hand through his hair to pull it out of his face. "For fuck's sake, Granger, what were you thinking, launching spell after spell and then doing that invocation, all at once?”

She was visibly shivering. “Did you have a better idea?”

That was beside the point. “Wielding spellwork at that scale could have killed you. It was the end of your wand, for one. Taking on a fucking mountain is insanity.”

Some people manage to retain both dignity and composure when damp, yet Granger was not among them. She looked every bit the drowned rat as she levered herself onto a shaky elbow, heavy wet hair tumbling over her shoulder, her braid completely undone. She pointed at the pile of rocks where a mountain used to stand, eyes ablaze. “I’ll have you know I won, you overbearing arse.”

For a moment, neither said anything. Then they burst out laughing - great big belly laughs, interspersed with coughing up brackish water.

“You’re- impossible,” Draco said, at last, still smiling, still angry. You couldn't deal with this woman, you really couldn't. It was like hitting yourself on the head with a brick: incredibly stupid, left you dazed and bewildered. “Just look at it. It was a perfectly good mountain, now it’s a ruin. Let’s hope you didn’t wipe out any endangered species.”

That made her wince.

“Are we spelling a Portkey?” he suggested.

His partner didn't seem to baulk at the idea of a non-approved Portkey, just as he suspected, but still hesitated, running her hand absentmindedly over her wand. Neither of them as much as looked at it, staunchly ignoring the hairline cracks along the length of the wood, almost invisible in daylight. “Maybe in a minute. I’m still a little lightheaded.”

Which he assumed was Granger-speak for I’ve pushed myself too far, probably damaged my wand beyond repair and am liable to pass out any second.

Perfect.

His anger refused to dissipate. "Arms up, then, if you please, and I'll help peel off your wet things."

Had he just offered to take her clothes off? It would appear this was the case. Well, there was nothing for it but to forge ahead. She was staring at him incredulously, expecting him to take back the words, and this, of course, meant he would do nothing of the sort.

"Are you this polite every time you want to take a witch's clothes off?" she asked.

He sincerely hoped the bright sunlight would mask the colour suffusing his cheeks. "Yes, I am, in fact."

"Good for you." Inexplicably, this seemed to do the trick. She extended her arms in silent invite and Malfoy dutifully helped tug off her sodden apricot jumper with slow movements, a seesaw of wet cotton brushing up her torso and over her hair.

Her clothes delivered the smell of her, of vanilla melting on the tip of the tongue, of sugar crystals burnished almost all the way to caramel, and something deep and spicier, like cinnamon, and Draco inhaled, and greedily at that.

As they moved, her jumper started to drag her camisole up. In a bit of a panic, he reached to tug it down, fingers brushing at the hem and, just at the very edge, at the creamy softness of skin.

Granger’s lips parted, the exquisite firewhiskey of her eyes meeting his own. This close, too close, he hesitated a half second too long for comfort before discarding the wet bundle and she leant forward, her own hands curling under his jumper.

At his inquiring look, she said, “I’m not the only one soaked to the bone.”

He was lost, well at sea without a compass. This whole situation was bonkers. He couldn’t be sitting on a remote beach, taking turns removing clothing with Hermione Granger, noticing the play of sunshine on her freckled skin, the precise slope of her collarbones, the shape of her beneath thin wet cotton, all the while feeling the drag of her gentle, nimble fingers over his torso.

“Should we,” he started, then cleared his scratchy throat. “Should we light a fire?”

“I think we’ll soon warm up in the sun.” Her teeth were chattering.

A sudden idea had him rummage through her bag. “You’re going to be feeling weak for a bit but, luckily,” Draco found what he’d been looking for, “you brought provisions.”

“My hero, offering me my own chocolate digestives.”

“There’s no need to be ungrateful. I’ll brew you some bad coffee, if you’d like.”

“Alright.” Having successfully navigated that tricky juncture, they eased back into lounging on the sand, sipping their drinks in their enamel camping mugs and nibbling on the very best snacks Britain had to offer. This seemed to hearten Granger quite a bit and, after a few minutes, her shivering eased. “Do you think Cheung will let us take some leave to recover from the time off?”

“Wouldn’t bet on it.”

She collapsed back onto the sand, a chaotic beauty. “Bollocks.”

Chapter Text

It was a cold Spring night. Wind ruffled the trees with its frost-tipped fingers, almost muffling twin pops of Apparition. Seconds later, two figures stalked through the lane, sticking to the shadows.

“Let’s split up and check the perimeter. Quiet and careful. For all we know, they might still be here,” the slighter of the two said, darting left to a pedestrian pathway by an old three story cottage that looked to have been cobbled together from multiple extensions.

Draco nodded once, shifted, and followed the edge of the property along the back where the white fence opened to a large rambling garden and vegetable patch. It sloped down to a brook before dissolving into woodland.

Warding, recently dismantled, showed in the air as an orange haze, flickering into nothing. It had been disabled with care and patience; multiple wizards working at once, at a guess. He scented them at their Apparition point, a few steps into the woods: waxed leather, varnish, the sharp sweat of nerves, and tobacco. Once he doubled back into the house, their traces were fainter, more confused, and confined to the cramped ground floor. There was nothing stronger than the enchantments around the kitchen and cold larder, no traces of offensive spells or Dark Magic. Upstairs was undisturbed.

Finishing his sweep, he found the Director deep in thought by the wide hearth. He dutifully delivered his report. Cheung nodded gravely, eyes on the dying flames. “The traces of tobacco, were they familiar?”

Draco hesitated, remembering the unpleasant whiff hanging over early morning fog by the river. “The broker I was following met with someone once. The Smoker. I can’t be positive it’s the same wizard,” he explained, “but I’d swear it’s the same tobacco.”

The Director’s expression grew more troubled, as if her fears had been confirmed. “Thank you, Malfoy.”

“Is that all?”

Cheung pondered, then relented. “We believe that man - the one you’ve dubbed The Smoker, showing relatively limited imagination, I might add - is Lestrange’s right hand man. We don’t have an ID as of yet.”

“It really is her.”

“Yes, the papers you and Granger recovered from the Prophet only confirmed it.”

“It’s nice to hear that failed infiltration wasn’t a complete debacle,” Malfoy ventured, trying to conceal his shock. As an Auror, he fully accepted there were wizards out there who wished him dead, but he rather baulked at sharing alleles with the worst of them.

The Director made a low sound of disgruntlement. “If that idiot Stormbridge had only brought what he knew to us instead of hoarding it for blackmail, he would probably still be alive and we would have caught on much faster. Such as it is, we’re still several steps behind and getting nowhere fast.”

“They don’t generally go for quiet abductions,” Draco acknowledged, moving to sit. His knees had turned somewhat gelatinous. 

“This is only the second that we know of. The journalist put a target on his own back by compiling material on Loyalist movements but this one doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who’s the victim?” Draco asked, looking around at the clean, cheery cottage.

Cheung’s frown deepened as she sank into the opposite seat. “No one, that’s precisely the problem. What could they possibly want with a sixty-eight year old retired Healer who’s out in the sticks growing organic cabbages?” The Director crossed her legs, tugging one shoulder down, then the other. “There’s something here, Malfoy, and I don’t know what it is. I can’t see the shape of it. This sect of fucking lunatics has been responsible for some ruthless and horrifying things before, but this is different. Coordinated, purposeful.”

“Director-”

She waved him to silence. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I’d much rather you be calm and cool-headed about the risks when you decide whether to re-join the investigation. Give it a few days, sleep on it multiple times, then come back to me. Rest assured I won’t take it personally if you tell me to piss off. Just this once,” Cheung warned him.

“I want back in.”

“What have I just fucking said?”

Malfoy didn’t have the heart to tell her that Granger and he had never really given it up. This felt like an inopportune moment to mention it. “I’m not going to change my mind. I’m being perfectly rational about this, and it isn’t about reclaiming my family’s good name or some other critically stupid reason.” Merlin knew that particular broom had flown, dived off a cliff and crashed spectacularly. “They need to be stopped, it’s up to us to do it. It’s that simple. You can make me wait,” he shrugged. “I’ll just go back to working my contacts behind your back, if it makes you feel better.”

“Funnily enough, it doesn’t,” she drawled, staring back to the fire.

~*~

Draco headed back to the office, his mind still on the details he'd uncovered, already compiling the highlights for his report when he walked over to his cubicle and let out a loud, masculine yelp that may have, to the untrained ear, sounded a lot like a high pitched scream.

There was someone sitting in his chair.

The large, shadowy apparition somehow resolved itself into the crumpled shape of an exhausted Granger, blinking bleary-eyed up at him over what he recognised as one of her omnipresent notebooks.

"You're here. In my chair," he blurted out, as if this accurate, albeit inane account would make up for his previously lacking observation skills.

Granger nodded, surreptitiously checking him over. "I was working. I see you're back." They were both doing a great job stating the obvious.

"That covers me being here, what about you?"

She turned to the paperwork scattered on his previously pristine desk. "I'm still trying to find out what the Loyalists want with Alma's jewels. Walter thinks he may have a lead on where the third one is located."

"And you're doing this now ?"

“It’s not exactly official, so I have to do it in my spare time."

"We haven't got any spare time."

"I don't usually get much sleep in the first place.” Granger got up, waving her damaged wand twice before the assorted pieces of parchment, photos and maps tucked themselves loosely into her notebook. “How did it go?”

Draco shifted in place then perched on the edge of the desk. “What do you prefer first, the good news or the bad news?”

“Bad.”

“That’s a bit of luck, because I don’t have any good news.”

He gave her a summary of what had transpired and saw her wrangle her shock into something keen and determined. “It’s what we expected. At least now we’ll be looped into what’s going on.”

To his shame, Malfoy suddenly realised he’d just assumed Granger would agree to it with the same readiness he had, yet actively pursuing and arresting Loyalist scum was in a completely different order of magnitude of danger when compared to chasing Walter’s tips on Alma’s hoard. “You don’t have to do this. I know I’ve agreed but I’m sure Cheung would understand if you-”

“Don’t be absurd,” she chided him. “I'll be going. See you in a few hours."

"Granger, I-"

It wasn't until she'd squeezed past him that Malfoy caught the the salient detail in all of this. He was fairly confident that she’d waited in a poorly lit office until - he checked the clock on his desk - near enough five o'clock in the morning to make sure he was alright.

Which was nice. Unexpected, of course. He could have done without the spike in heart rate, for one thing, but he had to admit he felt a little flattered. He imagined it was not unlike having a feral, angry cat unexpectedly curl up on your lap.

Not that he was imagining Granger curling up on his lap. Not one bit.

Well, he was, but that's only because he was trying not to imagine Granger on his lap, and that was about as useful as trying not to think of a pink Erumpent. Only, in his case, the pink Erumpent was small and freckled, with a heart shaped arse that would very conveniently-

Draco ran a hand down his face. Their innocent little moment at the beach had led to some rather less than innocent thoughts. Who could have predicted that his libido would react this way to lingering memories of soft fragrant skin and wet hair? It had been nearly as hot as seeing her raze a mountain with magic.

It was a puzzling attraction. Decidedly malign, and not to be engaged with. It would pass.

He was overtired. He needed sleep. Tomorrow - or more accurately, later that morning - everything would look better. After he got some rest.

~*~

He didn't get a lot of sleep, but it did get better. His desk was Granger-less once more but did sport a promising café crème and a croissant.

"It's an apology croissant,” she explained on the way to their briefing. She looked predictably awful, her eyes glassy with exhaustion.

“Whatever for?”

“It was- I shouldn’t have been lurking in here. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

Yes, she had been lurking, and yes, it had been awkward, yet he couldn’t deny it had been nice to have someone waiting to check he’d made it back alright.

Cheung chose that moment to interrupt them. “Get your gear, you need to head out.”

Granger looked bewildered. “We only just got in, the briefing isn’t due to start for another five minutes.”

“Good, then you didn’t have time to settle. We have a time sensitive, high priority mission, and the two of you are just the Aurors for the job.”

Malfoy tensed, exchanging a terse look with Granger. This could be their first official assignment chasing Loyalists. “What is it?”

~*~

I really shouldn’t have worried, Draco thought, as they rang the bell and knocked repeatedly. “Is he even home?”

“He should be,” Granger grumbled, just as disappointed as he was at the assignment.

“I meant to say thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome,” she relented, after a lengthy pause, then repeatedly smacked the door with her closed fist, making Draco wince. “Since he’s not answering, I suppose we should take a look.”

After a few attempts at disabling the wards with her damaged wand, they finally made their way in.

The wizard they found looked utterly dumbfounded, particularly amidst the mess of the living room. He was on his knees, shuffling through what appeared to have been the contents of his bookshelf.

“Mr Urnfield?” Malfoy called out, doing a quick Detection Charm for intruders that came up empty. “We’ve been assigned to protect you.”

The man - a sheep faced, shambling apparition - blinked, staring at them as he chewed on his teeth. It called attention to his patchy beard. “What?”

“The Ministry is aware of threats on your life and sent the two of us to keep you safe,” Granger said, slowly and not unkindly. “What happened here?”

The man unfolded before them, seeming to collect himself, and Malfoy noticed the yellow star patches sewn into his robes at the elbows. They matched his hat. “You’re too late. I’ve had a break-in, everything is out of sorts, and I’m in the middle of organising, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Actually, Mr Urnfield, we are to accompany you to the Coven.”

“I can’t go to the Coven.” The man looked horrified, fingers running over the edge of his sleeves. “There’s people after me! Have you seen what they’ve done? No, I’ll stay right here.”

“You’ll be safe to attend the Coven. We won’t let you out of our sight. Our Director impressed upon us the importance of making sure you attend.”

“Tell them I have changed my mind.”

Granger was adamant. “Not to worry, you have the length of the journey to change it back.”

“Young lady-”

“Auror Granger.”

“Auror Granger, what are you- Hey! That’s my carpet bag! What are you doing?”

Malfoy thought it best to intervene. “I should say, Mr Urnfield, that cooperation is certainly your best option. Knowing my partner as I do, I would amend that statement to say that cooperation is, in fact, your only option. I would run along and help Granger pack, lest you find the entire contents of your home stuffed in that carpet bag.”

The man’s bottom lip curled over his teeth. “This is harassment.”

“No, Mr Urnfield. This is the British DMLE.” Draco considered this for a few seconds, “Although I will admit it’s not always easy to tell the difference.”

~*~

"Why were you so adamant we escort him?"

Granger paid the wizard a cursory glance behind her shoulder as she drove. The man was snoring with abandon in the backseat of the car, his carpet bag and yellow hat tucked beside him. "It would appear he's a well respected Seer, if he’s managed to earn a few death threats."

"Did he make some poor predictions, then?"

"I should think it would be more cause for alarm if any of them turned out to be accurate."

“If there was actual danger we were better off letting him avoid the Coven. Unless- are you going to dangle him as bait? How very cold of you, Granger.”

She shrugged. “Isn’t it more expedient to apprehend the person or people that are after him? Otherwise he’ll have to stay in hiding indefinitely.”

“Expedient, yes. It might not exactly be kind.”

“We’re Devious Bastards, Malfoy, do keep up. We’re not in the business of being kind.”

Malfoy let himself breathe in a lungful of perfumed air, staring out at green fields. He’d been apprehensive about travelling by means of the rust bucket they’d previously used for surveillance at first, yet Granger had turned out to be a smooth and confident driver. In the distance, flowers swayed lazily under the sun. Something about the French countryside soothed some ancestral line of poetry coded into his genes. "Not that I'm complaining. Out of all the potential babysitting jobs we could have been saddled with, this one isn't too awful at all."

They wound through picturesque villages, passing fields dotted about with the dirty cotton shapes of sheep, the day warming incrementally, no other soundtrack except the rumbling bass of the motor overlaid by Urnfield’s snoring.

“When is Stallworth due to brief us?”

“As soon as we’re back, I suppose,” Malfoy answered.

“And you’ll be pulled back into surveillance.” Her every knuckle was white against the steering wheel. “Are you going to continue tailing Mycelium?”

“Of course. We need to find out what they’re planning and, from what Cheung told me, they don’t have any viable clues.”

"I'm aware. Next time, I’m coming with you.”

Urnfield’s snoring was deep and even. Draco did not trust it, so he walled off the backseat with a Silencing Charm. The respite from the ungodly noise was immediate. “You can’t. Whatever advantage I may have, it would be lost if you tagged along."

"I can hold my own for surveillance,” Granger snapped, offended.

“I don’t doubt that you can but if I make sure you can follow me from a distance, anyone else will be able to do the same.”

A pause. "It doesn't mean I have to like it. How am I supposed to be your backup if I don't even know your movements?"

She was exhausted, tension radiating from her shoulders. This, Draco realised, was what had been bothering her. Cheung had assigned her the task of keeping him alive, and Granger had taken this to heart, seen it as part of her job. A part of him struggled with brief, edged disappointment, but he made an immediate effort to repress the thought. "From now on, I'll keep you in the loop about my movements."

"And maybe we could come up with a way for us to debrief afterwards, go through any salient details.”

"Sounds good.” Whatever her reasons, the opportunity to loop someone into what he was up to was reassuring.

The Inn where the coven was being held was an ancient schist structure, its rounded bulk tucked away in the corner of a quaint hamlet. Inside, the atmosphere was convivial, wizards well into their drinks drawing others into conversation over tables groaning with local stews, cold cuts and, most notably, an enormous quantity and diversity of cheese.

“This is an absurd amount of dairy,” Granger said.

“It is their toolset, after all.”

She gave him an odd look. “Pardon? What are they going to use cheese for? Heal infections with harvested penicillin or suffocate them in eau de parfum of unwashed sock?”

Several heads turned their way, eyebrows drawn in reproach. Urnfield was trying to blend into the wall, keeping well out of sight.

“This is a Coven of Tyromancers,” Draco explained. “It’s a branch of Divination that utilises cheese instead of, say, tea leaves or a crystal ball.”

“You can’t be serious.”

A large wizard with the general aspect of an overstuffed tweed sofa sidled closer. “It’s true. Tyromancy is an ancestral practice. We examine the threads of fate by interpreting the pattern in specific cheeses.”

“A very important point!” A slim lady with a face like a shot of lemon juice and the accent of a local jabbed a knobbly finger into the wizard’s chest. It sunk in almost to the first knuckle. “It cannot be just any old cheese. You need a cave aged Roquefort to divine anything of any use.”

“Oh, Meliane, but everyone knows Stilton will do the job nicely enough! Have you read my latest book, Star-Curdled Love ? You might find it instructive,” he replied.

“I found it nauseating.”

Malfoy considered and dismissed a crack about lactose intolerance. “I can’t stay here,” Urnfield pleaded, “I really don’t feel well. I think I’ll retire to my room.”

“We’ll accompany you to dinner later on,” Granger said. The man seemed dismayed by the perspective.

“Urnfield, old chap!” the tweedy wizard shouted, even though Urnfield himself was already lugging his carpet bag away at speed. “I look forward to catching up. You’ll need to help me put these Europeans in their place about texture.”

“What place would that be, Harbourne?” the accusing witch asked.

The man opened his arms wide. “You have to contend with facts. My book made it to Witch Weekly’s bestseller list for fifteen consecutive weeks, and counting.”

“One cannot dispute the popularity of loo roll,” someone snapped from further down the table, generating uncivil bickering.

“This happens everytime the Tyromancer Coven conveens,” a small, fussy-looking man half-whispered to Malfoy.

“It does have the ring of a long-running discussion,” Malfoy replied.

“Roquefort, Stilton, even the Parmesan the Italians champion, none of those will make any difference.” The wizard shook his head, weak chin wobbling with the movement.

“I should think not.”

“Everyone knows you need Fourme d’Ambert to get anything close to an accurate prediction,” the man continued. 

Tweedy man - Harbourne - cut in with a, “Oh, don’t be an arse, Malcolm-Smith. We should focus on pushing back this wave of New World cheeses the Americans are touting. Did you know they wanted to send representatives to this year’s Coven? I should jolly think not! They are utterly delusional!”

Granger’s expression held the puzzlement of the sane faced with a tidal wave of bizarre. “How can you tell?”

~*~

The two Aurors spent three quarters of an hour warding every corner of the property and Urnfield’s room, yet the man still refused to accompany them to the evening meal, settling for a sandwich sent up in a tray. Dinner was well underway by the time they made it to the elegant dining room.

She studied the menu and passed it to Draco. “You have a look, I’m not that hungry.”

“Did the wards give you trouble? You must get that wand replaced.”

“It’s not as easy as that. There’s an international shortage, as you well know.”

“You’re Hermione Granger. I’m sure you need only say the word and wandmakers will be tripping over the hem of their cloaks to fit you with a new one,” he reached for his water, scanning the dishes on offer.

Her brow furrowed. “I’m not going to jump the queue when there’s children waiting months for their first wand. It wouldn’t be fair, especially when mine works most of the time.”

“That’s not good enough,” he snapped. ”What if it fails you at a critical juncture?”

“I’ll deal with it if it does.”

Malfoy resisted the urge to grind his teeth. They were drawing moderate attention from around the room, nothing to trigger suspicion. It wasn’t until the server came back with their entrées that he noticed the not-so-subtle sneer in Granger’s direction. She did look a little worse for wear, from the tendrils of hair escaping the long braid over her shoulder to her crumpled jumper, but this was no good reason for the man to be such an arsehole.

"Plutôt que de regarder ma femme de travers, vous feriez mieux de vous occuper de vos plats. La soupe est aussi fade que froide,” Draco bit out.

The server’s colour drained. “Désolé, Monsieur.”

“What was that?” Granger asked.

“They’re fixing our soup, nothing to worry about.”

“I was surprised you didn’t want the cheese platter.”

"Do you know, it's quite probable that this whole episode has put me off cheese for life."

Granger let out a soft gasp. "You don't mean that."

He considered. "No, perhaps not. Any thoughts on suspects?”

Draco could see her shifting gears, her posture straightening. “Nothing yet but, then again, all we have are the death threats Urnfield received. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming about a motive.”

“I have one: they’re all batty.”

“I got the feeling the most offensive behaviour expected out of this group would be throwing a glass of Cabernet in someone’s face,” she said.

Malfoy tutted good-naturedly. “Of course they wouldn’t. The tannins in a Cabernet would ruin the taste of the cheese. They’d have to use a Chenin Blanc from the Loire valley instead.”

Her reluctant smile, paired as it was with the smudged violet shadows under her eyes, was a cloudy sunset. Draco enjoyed the excellent meal as they discussed other cases and, as the plates were cleared away, the server listed the desserts on offer.

He was about to translate when Granger said in perfect lilting French, “Je vais prendre un clafoutis s’il vous plaît, sauf s’il est aux prunes.”

“Bien sûr qu’il n’est pas aux prunes. Vous êtes dans un restaurant français, pas dans une taverne allemande,” the waiter remonstrated, then scurried away at the look in Malfoy’s face.

“You never mentioned you were fluent,” Draco accused Granger.

“More accurately, you assumed I wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to be a surprise, like the one I had when, quite out of nowhere, you revealed I was your wife. I don't know how I could have missed that."

Draco’s full stomach stuck to his spine in horror. “It makes sense to introduce you as my wife if we’re going to be sharing a room.”

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Are we sharing a room?”

Surely that was rock bottom Draco was seeing. There was no conceivable chance that he could dig himself any deeper. “It would be practical. We would both be available, and on hand, for each other, at all times. If you’re not opposed to it, of course.”

He never considered he’d be talking more bollocks than a sozzled Tyromancer, yet here they were.

~*~

Back in their room, Draco concluded that he was an absolute bastard for having done this to himself. Fresh out of the shower, beads of water still on her skin, Granger smelled… Gods. Edible. And there was all that wet hair, tumbling just so.

Draco focused on the contents of his overnight bag and most certainly did not stare at his partner in a bathrobe, because that way madness loomed, scrabbling for purchase at the edge. He strengthened his resolve. His loins were decidedly girded.

"The Coven starts in earnest tomorrow. We’ll take turns escorting Urnfield, but we have to hang back if we want to assess for threats. Just close enough to intervene if it goes wrong,” she said. It was important stuff. He should have been paying attention. "Maybe you should be the one to stick with him, in case my wand fails to comply.”

He was strong willed and determined.

Only, not quite enough.

Draco’s eyes flicked to her hair (there was so much of it, after all), the soft jut of her collarbone under the white fluffy neckline, and, Merlin help him, he just about reigned in the urge to look lower. “That’s a good idea. I’ll stick with him throughout, you can work the perimeter and have a chat with our suspect pool.”

“Are they our suspect pool?” she asked, hopping onto the bed. “Oh, don’t be an arse, sit here. It’s not like I’m going to sleep, there’s plenty of room. I promise you won’t get Muggleborn cooties.”

Chastened, Draco ceased his efforts at nesting in the fauteuil crapaud - just his luck there wasn't a proper fauteuil Récamier available - and joined her, back ramrod straight against the headboard. “The threats only started a few weeks ago, increasing both in frequency and tone overtime.”

“Someone wanted to keep him from attending. The question is why.”

“Maybe he devised a groundbreaking new method using fondue.”

“Or he’s using American spray cheese to prophesize the end of days,” Granger ventured.

“I’m sorry - what have Americans done to cheese?” Once his partner had explained the intricacies of aerosolized dairy, his shock intensified. “This is bordering on criminal behaviour.”

Granger chuckled, blinking slowly up at him, and a band constricted around his ribcage at the casual domesticity of that moment. “We should contact MACUSA and make a case for a crime against gastronomy.”

“Clearly. I’ll see what I can pry from the man himself in between the sessions tomorrow. I suppose it could just be nerves, yet he seems a little too jumpy to be entirely innocent, don't you think?" 

Draco was about to repeat himself when she didn't answer, then turned to find her-

Asleep.

Her face had eased itself loose from its usual array of frowns, long dark lashes and swathes of her hair draping shadows on the stark whiteness of the pillowcase. Her chest rose and dipped regularly - a comforting movement, slow and lulling.

Draco blinked. It was such a simple, frighteningly difficult thing to reconcile, that she would ever afford him the kind of trust that would allow her to sink to unconsciousness right beside him. Merlin knew she needed it. It looked as if she hadn't slept properly in days, maybe even weeks.

The softness of her was almost unbearable.

He couldn't look away.

He unrolled the coverlet to drape over her. Sure, Draco could have just conjured a blanket, yet the small gesture felt somehow more significant.

She didn't twitch a muscle, dead to the world. His to keep safe.

Malfoy ran a detection charm and a diagnostic spell to ensure she hadn't somehow been stunned or poisoned without either of their notice - an impossible feat - yet his Auror instincts could only be appeased, not denied. He meant to busy himself with something, either getting a headstart on their report or perhaps flick through one of the several books Granger always carried, but he did none of those things.

He surfaced to wakefulness hours later, instead, blinking around at the darkened room. He hadn’t expected to doze off, but he must have done. The heavy quiet of the wee hours had settled over the Inn’s bones like a thick cloak. In their room, in their shared bed, he felt warm and peaceful, and drifted to soak in that feeling, halfway back to sleep when he was disturbed by an insistent tug at one of the wards. It was so discreet as to be a scratching, a careful unravelling at each strand of magic they’d laced. It wasn't one of the perimeter wards, those were intact, and the realisation prodded at an idea and set it loose.

He slid out of bed, ever so carefully as Granger was still yet to wake, and made it two doors over before the fussy wizard from earlier intercepted him. “Oh, hello. It’s a great time for a quiet stroll.”

“Yes, if you’ll excuse me-”

“I had a glimpse at your future, you know. Embedded in the pattern. Isn’t that marvellous?” Malcolm-Smith asked, in a dreamlike voice. ”A few hours earlier, I’d never met you. I wouldn’t have been able to divine anything at all.”

“That’s very interesting,” Malfoy lied, trying to dodge the man.

This did nothing to discourage the Tyromancer. “She’ll resist the idea. Very unlikely to say yes, at first. Look out for a dark night’s sky where jewelled light suddenly drips like milk. That will be your best chance.”

Malfoy had heard of dairy induced night terrors, but this was on another level. “I’ll be sure to mark it on my calendar.” And he ran at full speed all the way to Urnfield’s room.

The wizard was on his knees again, feverish concentration stamped on his face as he fussed about with the window latch. “What are you doing in my room?”

“This isn’t your room at all, as we both know, so the way I see it, I have just as much right to be in it as you do,” Draco countered.

“I’m just trying to get this blasted window open, to get some fresh air-”

“I’m sure you’d find an open window very useful, but we must be going.”

The man’s frown deepened. “Go where, exactly? I thought your partner was relentless about my attending the Coven.”

“She was keen to have Mr Urnfield attend the Coven, yes. Thing is, you’re not Mr Urnfield.”

The man’s expression slid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What have you done with him? Is he still alive?”

The wizard was standing now, giving up any pretence at innocence as he levelled his wand at Draco. “You’ll let me out of here right now.”

“Not a chance. I’ve made one stupid mistake today already - but you can hardly blame me. You see a dopey looking wizard kneeling down in the middle of a room and you assume you’ve stumbled upon the victim, not the attacker. More fool me.”

There was a trace of calculation to the man’s response, “If you don’t let me go, Urnfield will be disposed of.”

“Nice try-” A Curse blasted past Malfoy’s ear, earthing itself in the wall just by the doorway with a dull thunk . “Now listen here!” he hissed, his shield up. “My partner is asleep a few doors down and she is in dire need of some rest. If you just come quietly-”

The man let out a couple of Stunning Spells that wouldn’t have alarmed a stoat.

“Really, this is completely unnecessary. You’re wearing a nightshirt and a floppy hat. I don’t want to fight you.”

“You must. Only one man will leave this room alive.”

What a bloody stupid thing to say. Malfoy sighed. “Sir-”

The man sprung upon Malfoy. Or, would have done, if he’d been able to spring. The end result of his efforts was more of a lurch. He tried another attack, missed, and set fire to the edge of the rug. “Duel me with honour, you coward!”

Malfoy put the fire out with a sigh. “I really don’t think I have to.”

Unbelievably, the man decided to rush him.

“What’s going on?” Granger appeared, broken wand held out with a steady hand even as she attempted to blink off the remains of sleep.

"I've got this, Granger. Everything is in hand."

"You're lying."

"Yes, fine," he admitted, looking down at the wizard he was currently holding in a headlock. The man was still spouting imprecations and demanding a duel, despite the fact that his wand was about six feet away, by one of his discarded slippers. "Everything isn't in hand just yet, but I do have it. Go back to bed, you need your sleep."

She seemed only half awake. Some self-preserving part of her brain overrode her usual stubborn tendencies and took over her motor skills, because the next moment Granger was lowering her wand with a yawn, but not without a last ditch effort: "Harbourne must be behind this. He is the only one who got a good look at faux-Urnfield, and pretended to recognise him, the fraudulent arse. Well, they’re all frauds, especially this one.”

"I know. I've reached the same conclusion, I'll round Harbourne up as soon as I'm done here. Now go get some sleep."

She nodded. "I will. Thank you."

Draco waited to hear her steps down the wall, then he was on their impostor, his wand digging between the man’s eyebrows. He was blisteringly angry. Faux-Urnfield gulped.

“How fucking dare you? I told you not to wake her. I was very reasonable about it. Have you any idea of what she’s been through the last few weeks? The woman drank poison and fought a mountain and you couldn’t even get arrested properly, you detestable excuse of a wizard.”

The man was bewildered, drenched in fear. “I didn’t-”

“Stop talking. You will give me Urnfield’s location and the name of everyone involved with this ill-advised plot or, so help me Merlin, I’ll make you cry at the sight of a runny brie for the rest of your sorry days.”

Chapter Text

Granger rolled her shoulders, let out a breath and conjured. The movement was two handed, close to her body, reminiscent of petals unfurling under the sun. Draco felt the magic rush to her as iron fillings would draw to a strong magnet, charging the room around them.

Then, a falter, a stumble, a wrinkle in the air. He didn’t know enough to pinpoint what had caused it, couldn’t have said if it were a misplaced finger or something in her incantation, but something shifted out of alignment. “Did you mean to set Steve on fire?” Draco asked, already knowing the answer. Six paces away, the training dummy had erupted into flames.

His partner looked somewhat embarrassed. “Not exactly. I think I need more practice.”

Draco sighed, re-tying his hair with a sharp tug. After her wand had shattered, Granger should have bought or borrowed another. Because it was Granger, she had gone with a third, far less sensible and near impossible option: learning everything there was to learn about wandless magic. "For the record, this is me very much not volunteering. This stubborness of yours is dangerous."

"I can defend myself alright," she countered, Steve still belching sticky smoke as evidence.

"I didn't mean it would be dangerous for you . Come here, we'll do a bit of hand to hand and keep your skills up, on the off chance you don't want to melt someone's eyeballs out of their skull."

"Useful skill to have," Granger muttered.

They squared off on the soft mat and Malfoy bid his time, counting on her short fuse. When she went for him with a decent enough faint, he swept her feet from underneath her and had her pinned on the floor in one smooth gesture. “Well, that wasn’t great.”

“You’re so much bigger.”

“True, that’s why you can’t go in that high. You didn’t have enough leverage or stability to take me. Try bending further at the hip, feet further apart and one in front of the other.”

She took his advice in stride and dropped her stance when they went again. His ribs became the target for some fast and brutal strikes, yet he overpowered her again, and the time after that. Frustrated, Granger huffed and twisted in his hold and he shrivelled in horror, canting his hips away from her knee as it came up. “How can you be this squirrely?” she complained, then let out a sharp cry when he drove his shoulder into her thigh and sent her back down. They pushed and pulled and rolled for dominance until he finally managed to get her to yield by twisting an arm behind her back. “What am I doing wrong?” Granger asked over her shoulder.

“You have to disengage faster. As it is, you’re opening yourself up to counterattacks far too easily,” Draco managed before his throat clogged up. A few paces away, Granger was stripping her sweaty overthings to reveal a black sporty top that covered only her ribcage, a flimsy zipper down its front.

“Alright,” she pressed her lips in steely determination, and Draco knew he was in for it. “Show me again.”

~*~

Granger was trying, of all things, to be conciliatory. This wasn’t one of her natural skills. “I understand how upsetting the theft of the Aglaophotis is,” she entreated.

“Get out,” the elder gardener, Mr Kepouros, said, keeping his back to her. “We don’t need or want you here.”

One of his sons, Thomas, shot Granger an apologetic grimace. He’d been helping the investigation along as much as possible, despite his father’s reluctance. “Come on, Dad. I called them here in the first place, remember? We can’t just give up, there’s still a chance Mom’s plant can be recovered.”

“I doubt it,” his twin brother Jack crossed his wyvern leather covered arms over the ties of his work apron. In contrast to the immaculate robes his bean counting brother wore, he was covered head to foot in mulch. “Although points for having remembered its name.”

“We’re doing our best under a tight deadline,” Granger explained. “Trying to locate the plant was always going to be a challenge, particularly if whoever has it is waiting for it to bloom to sell its petals in the black market.”

“Have you got any further with the letters we gave you?” Thomas asked, looking hopeful.

Malfoy was hanging back by the greenhouse entrance. They’d spent over a week pouring over two full crates of missives from schools, research facilities, large potion outfits, collectors and museums. Near enough the entire wizarding world wanted to get their hands on this flower, some bidding tens of thousands of galleons for the privilege.

The elder Mr Kepouros did not seem very impressed by the Auror’s efforts. “All I want is to have the Aglaophotis returned. I don’t care how it happens. I won’t ask any questions as long as it comes back to where it belongs.” The defeated slope to the older man’s shoulders spoke volumes. “Now please leave. We have a lot to be getting on with.”

“Let’s face it, they’re never going to find it in three days,” Jack muttered, and his father disappeared behind a rack of Bitterthorn Lillies, shutting the door behind him with enough force to send the glass panes of the greenhouse shaking. 

Malfoy and Granger exchanged a look. Their best attempts at tracking the Circe-damned flower notwithstanding, he and Granger hadn’t made much progress, and the clock was very much against them. The extremely rare flower (that had taken a full twenty-one years to reach maturity, and was rumoured to concede invulnerability or summon a demon when consumed, depending on which book you read) was due to bloom during the last full moon before the Summer Solstice, just three days away.

“We want to look at the theft itself more closely. I know we’ve done this before, but there’s often inconsequential details that could make all the difference. We need to go over your statements and check the grounds.”

“Again?” Thomas asked.

“Again,” Granger confirmed.

The young man started on a repeat of his statement and Draco avoided his twin’s glower, leaving him to Granger before he stalked off to have a look around the nursery and garden centre. He was headed to check the toolshed when he was interrupted.

“Are you okay, Mister?” A small grubby child, perhaps seven or eight years old, ran over.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Simon.” Keporous’ grandson, Malfoy realised.

They exchanged the customary suspicious glances between child and adult as they both sized each other up to determine if they were a nuisance or actually worthy of their time, since they both had better things to do. For Draco, that would be work. For the child, he bet there were fifteen different ways to sow mischief as well as plants.

“I’m fine. It’s just very smelly, in there. I suppose you get used to it, after a while.”

“I’m not going to get used to it,” the boy said. “When I grow up, I’m not going to work in mucky fields and greenhouses like Da or Granda.”

“What are you going to be, then?”

“A Quidditch player. I’m going to be a world famous Beater!” he proudly proclaimed, flexing his spindly arms.

Draco nodded, thinking that if the tot grew up to be the size of his father, he’d certainly be in with a chance. “Excellent. I’m sure they’ll be very proud.”

“I’m a good flyer. And my Da promised me the new Cleansweep for my birthday. Do you play Quidditch?”

“I used to, when I was in school, but I wasn’t very good at it. Is your father Jack or Thomas?”

The child looked taken aback by the question, as if it was completely obvious which of the identical twins he owed parentage to. “Jack.”

“Of course,” Draco nodded. “I’ll tell you what,” he rummaged inside a lidded jar for a dirigible plum, selected one with skin split from too much rainfall and hefted it in his palm. “Get your bat ready and I’ll see if you can fend me off.” For a few minutes, he controlled the plum at wandpoint to knock gently on the boy’s head as he tried to bat it away, giggling with delight. “Don’t just go running about, watch your step!” Draco called out as the child tripped and almost fell over a fat, gnarled root. “Why don’t we take a break and you could show me where the special flower used to be?”

The boy was suspicious of this request, which Draco took as a mark of exceptionally well developed intelligence and instincts. “The one our Grandma planted? You can’t. It’s not there anymore.”

“I know.” He showed the boy his badge, which imparted the desired open-mouthed and gap-toothed awe. “My partner and I are trying to find it and get it back.”

“That would be nice. Granda won’t say anything, but he’s very sad about it.” Malfoy found it difficult to imagine the gruff, hulking older Mr Kepouros, biceps like tree trunks and a black line of dirt under every teaspoon sized nail, as being anything other than silently furious.

The plant had been housed in a secluded garden at the back, surrounded by shady trees and, at the far end, a fountain with a stone naiad. The statue winked at Draco, readjusting the overflowing bowl as she moved. The space was modest, dotted about with low benches and far more ornate than the tall greenhouses the family used for their magical herb and plant supplies business. It was decorated with hand painted flowers crawling over the forest green frame and complete with a scalloped roofline. “Granda let me see it a few times, but not very often. He always gets very cross if he finds anyone in there,” Simon warned.

“That’s understandable. It’s a very valuable flower,” and it would have benefited from some proper warding, instead of being left in the backyard.

Simon only shrugged. “I don’t think he really cares about that.” And, with that pronouncement, he turned to run across the field in search of something more adventurous and interesting to occupy him.

He had to bend over to avoid hitting his head as he entered the small glass structure at the centre. Once inside, Malfoy was hit with the warm, foetid, Graphorn manure rich air. Despite his attempt at taking shallow breaths through his mouth, he could have sworn the stench was coating his teeth. There were rare species here, including something like a coconut that sprouted hundreds of thin and spidery limbs before ambling away from Malfoy, and a gigantic flower that stretched its leaves to tap at his face. Sunflowers hissed and shook themselves free of small seedlings that took wing, resembling a swarm of tiny insects.

Already dreading the olfactory assault that was sure to come, Malfoy shifted, hoping for a clue. As predicted, he regretted this almost immediately, wondering if there was a chance he could assimilate oxygen through his ears.

Padding quickly among rows of lush pots and planters, he saw the distinct halo of multiple spells, some unknown and probably designed to boost the plants’ growth and vitality. Others, like standard protection charms against pests, were household staples.

And yet, at the very back of the room, a dull and hollow brown pulsed, beckoning to him.

Before he could reach it, there was a slight change to the air, a vibration too close at hand. He would have never missed it if he’d had full use of his senses. As it was, he’d been trying his best to shut down his sensory input as much as possible.

It cost him.

The last thing he saw was the shadow of a long leafy tendril as it whipped through the air and pain seared at the back of his skull.

~*~

“I don’t understand why you won’t go to St Mungo’s,” Granger told him for the fifth time.

“I’m too lightheaded to stand there for half an hour only to have a Healer stitch me up in five seconds.”

She glared at him. “Too unwell to go to a Hospital? That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“If I go, they’ll log my visit and then I’ll have to include it in the report,” Draco explained. “Mr Keporous was embarrassed enough about his Aries Vine attacking an Auror without adding a run-in with the DMLE to the mix. What are you doing?”

Granger didn’t look up from where she was stuffing her notebook in her overfull backpack. “I’m coming with you.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m not going to the hospital, I’m going home to lick my wounds and get some rest.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “I’m still going with you.”

Malfoy’s head throbbed angrily. All this stress couldn’t be helping his injury. “In that case, I suppose I should explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Introductions will be required.”

“Oh,” Granger frowned, hand on his forearm to prepare for their Side-Along Apparition.

Malfoy’s flat was a cosy (estate agent speak for miniscule, he’d come to realise) two bedroom in Earl’s Court. “Since I can’t seem to dissuade you from following me in, just know I felt this was for the best for everyone involved." He ran his wand over the locking wards built into the door and its stone surrounds so it would admit Granger. “Come in, meet Cassiopeia Malfoy II.”

The happy little creature bounded up to them as soon as the door opened enough to let her through to the landing, forked tail wagging as she jumped and yipped with excitement. “Malfoy, is that… No,” Granger breathed.

“Cassie is a very good pup. Well trained, follows commands beautifully,” he preempted, hoping Granger wouldn’t notice the scorch marks along the shoe rack.

“She’s the Crup we found in Staffordshire. You kept her? You told Cheung she was secure!” 

“Could you not shout at me when I have a head injury?” Draco winced, pressing his fingers to the sides of his head. Granger rushed closer.

“I’m sorry,” she bit her lip, reaching down automatically to stroke Cassie and disposing of her backpack in the hallway in the same movement. “Let me have a look at that huge head of yours. No wonder you got hit, it would be harder to miss it.”

“Make yourself at home,” he mumbled, watching her toe off her boots and hang up her cloak. He felt deeply self-conscious about how tiny the space was with its every imperfection. “Mind you, it’s only a rental. I’ve been meaning to start looking for somewhere more permanent, but I don’t need to tell you our schedule is a bit of a nightmare.”

Granger waved him off and didn’t seem to pay any attention to the space whatsoever. “What do you even do about Cassie when you’re off on assignment? She can’t be left on her own.”

They settled on the living room sofa. “I have an understanding with my neighbour. He has a Schnauzer puppy of his own, Sargeant Billingsgate. Billy, for short."

He could have sworn her lips twitched a little at that. Cassie settled on the rug, alert for any mention of treats. "Doesn't he question the hours you keep?”

"He's a retired London Met officer."

"Ah, I see. A fellow sufferer. Right, let’s see the war wounds." He flinched away at her prodding. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

"Precisely. And it hurts already.”

"I’m not going to hurt you, just lie here and be still. Better lend me your wand so I don’t set your precious hair on fire. So- you adopted a Crup involved in a wizard’s murder and regularly leave it with a Muggle. Shall I list the number of laws you’re breaking?”

Draco rested his head on her lap to let her use the Cleaning and Stitching Charms. “What can I say? I evidently have a soft spot for small, hairy, fire-breathing creatures with a bad temper.” She didn’t rise to the bait. His eyes drifted closed at her soft ministrations, his neck going floppy and body melting further every time the pads of her fingers touched his scalp. Cassie came to snuffle at his fingers and he let her climb onto the sofa (yes, it was a horrible habit and no, he didn’t care).

"This is all very out of character."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never pegged you for a non-conformist." There was an edge of mirth in her voice. "I think it suits you."

"You're just hoping it makes me more biddable when you go off endangering my life."

“Cosy there, Malfoy?” she inquired after he let out a deep, satisfied sigh.

His only response was a rumbling hmm , his eyes refusing to open.

“I’m holding back about a dozen variations of cracks about petting and lapdogs, just so you know. I want my good behaviour noted.”

He could feel the skin knitting itself with a transient, slightly itchy pull. “Go ahead if you must. I’m too comfortable to care about your petty jibes.” Her thighs really did make for an ideal pillow.

“And yet, I need you to move.”

He shimmied to bury his shoulders more firmly into the sofa cushions, only accidentally brushing against her soft abdomen in the process. “No, thank you.”

“I can’t see,” Granger grumbled. “I haven’t got an angle to reach properly.”

“You’ll have to move me. I’m too injured and feeble.”

“You have a tiny little scalp wound from a glancing vine.”

“I think I may be concussed. I’ve come over all dizzy. Mustn’t open my eyes, it’s well known this leads to more damage,” he whined, just to annoy her and not at all because he wanted to feel her inebriating touches for a little longer.

She cursed under her breath, wriggled underneath him - an interesting sensation - to lift one of his shoulders and tilt his head. Draco assumed he was being forcefully evicted from her lap until he felt her positioning one of the cushions to prop him up and closer to her chest.

Gooseflesh broke out along his skin as her face drew nearer, her hot breath murmuring over Draco’s neck. He swallowed down rising nerves, which was ridiculous. Why should his heart rate speed up just because he was in a girl’s lap, his face almost buried in her (objectively delectable) breasts? This was Granger, for goodness sake, and yet, his skin felt tight and hot all over in a way that had nothing to do with any charms.

A ridiculous reaction. He probably had an infection.

That was it. He was dying of sepsis. A comforting thought.

“I’m almost done,” she whispered, with an edge of reassurance, wildly mis-representing the tension in him.

“Do take your time.” His voice had gone low against his will. The stitching - mild discomfort - continued, alongside more weaving of fingers through his hair - bliss - until Granger pronounced her work finished and his head was lowered once more.

He waited to be booted off her lap and, when this failed to occur, risked opening one eye.

Granger had pulled up the most ridiculously detailed Diagnostic Charm he'd seen outside St Mungo's. It was vast, colour coded, it had labels and bits that pulsed. The worst part, however, was the open concern on her face.

It made all of Draco's insides twist and knot quite painfully. Who could bear to stare up at such an honest expression? It was terrifying.

"Are you still dizzy?"

"Yes," he answered reflexively, and surprised himself when it turned out to be true. “But I’ve had a thought about our case.”

"Great, you can tell me later. Does Cassie need a walk or her dinner?" The Crup had settled herself over Malfoy’s knees. Beside the sofa was her tartan bed, in near mint condition, on account of being ignored apart from the occasional brief, desultory sniff.

"Not just yet. In a few hours."

Granger nodded, summoned a book from the nearby shelf and got settled. "Try to get some rest. Don't worry, I won't let you swallow your tongue or anything." And, with that dubious bit of reassurance, she flicked through the pages and turned to read, eyes quick over the lines, her hand a soft weight on his shoulder.

It was…

He didn't know what it was, precisely, but decided that was fine, that no one was going to ask, least of all him. That it was perfectly acceptable to relax with Granger on his sofa, dozing softly with his head on her lap as she read. Superb, in fact.

Outside the window, the afternoon light turned a burnished butterscotch hue. Anxiety leached out of him. Deep-rooted concerns withered, starved for his attention.

Rare wisdom told him that the twilit, honeyed warmth of that moment was worth savouring.

~*~

Despite their tight deadline, Stallworth’s owl dragged them away from all thoughts of flower theft to Canary Wharf. They arrived in the late evening, the sun still out and shining as people milled around, enjoying the longer days, in no hurry to commute home.

“Ash and I have finally made a breakthrough,” Stallworth announced.

“Halle-fucking-lujah,” Asheni said under her breath, squirting too much ketchup onto a venomous-looking red sausage in a bun. The caff where they met took their reputation as a greasy spoon seriously. If you were to drag your finger over the tabletop, you’d cut a streak through years of grime. Draco kept his distance from the table top, hands tucked over his knees.

“I thought you had the list of names we found at The Prophet,” Granger countered.

“And we do,” Stallworth agreed. “And even though we have every reason to believe it is a credible source, we need evidence to take to the Wizengamot, otherwise these assholes are just going to walk straight back out.”

“Couldn’t we just arrest them, interrogate them and shake them up a little, see what comes loose?” Draco suggested.

Asheni smiled at this. “I like your style. Unfortunately, Cheung, in her demonic wisdom, has decided we need it to be ironclad, so no picking them off.”

“It makes sense. During the War, everytime we managed to bring in a couple of Deatheaters and it didn’t stick, they would just lay low for a good long while so we couldn’t map out the network of associates. Fucking pain in the bum,” Stallworth grunted, pouring sugar into his tea.

“But you said you’ve made a breakthrough?”

“Florence has developed a new tracking spell. It’s rather ingenious really. It essentially binds with their magic or something - I checked out when she started explaining the particulars,” Asheni gestured, getting more excited, “but it’s untraceable.”

“That just makes it a shit tracking spell,” Malfoy pointed out.

“No, listen - it’s dormant, right? But if two people that we’re tracking meet up, it sends up a magical flare that only we will know about.”

“Two or more,” Stallworth sent Malfoy a meaningful glance. “And you’re skipping bits. It involves a decent amount of work and concentration. It’s not an easy spell to learn or to use-”

“I was being succinct,” Asheni shrugged, taking a huge bite off her toxic looking supper. “We can show them how it works, or Florence will.”

“Is it legal?” Draco felt he should ask.

“It isn’t illegal, ” Stallworth clarified. "Mostly because it's just been invented. This may yet change."

Granger sat back, mulling this over. “That’s very clever. We will be able to find out where and when the Loyalists are meeting up, possibly even get to a scene before it’s too late.”

“What’s our next move?” Malfoy asked.

“One of the names on the list is a shithead that runs a pawn shop around the corner. We can get started with him. It’s easiest to show you the spell on the go, and it will be good to switch things up, make it less recognisable.” Stallworth balled up his napkin, ready to leave. "Hermione can go in with me. For the purpose of this exercise, I'll be her daddy on the lookout for a fancy graduation present."

Draco's facial expression got away from it. Beside him, Asheni wheezed.

"Her father, you knobheads," he groaned. "You need to take some Mrs Skower's to those morals."

Once Stallworth and Granger had gone to tag their pawn broker, Asheni leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s working out pretty well, you and Granger.”

“I guess so.”

“Takes you by surprise, doesn’t it? When I first got paired up with Stallworth, it was all I could do not to throw a strop. Five years in,” she sighed, “and if something should happen to the old man, I would eviscerate the responsible party through their tear ducts.”

“Vivid,” Draco commented, “but I think I know what you mean. It took us a little time to find our rhythm, is all.”

“And now look at you, six months later.”

Had it been six months? “Curious of you to remember that, just off the top of your head.”

“I have a mind like flypaper,” Asheni assured him, ripping apart the stale bun.

“Really? So you’re telling me there wasn’t an office pool on how long Granger and I would last as partners?”

“You cost me five galleons, if that makes you feel better.”

“What, because we made it to six months?”

She laughed heartily at that. “What six months? I had you down to tap out at three weeks.”

~*~

“Do you have a moment?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas Kepouros closed the office door behind him, walking beside Malfoy down the path. “Have you found anything?”

“I’m afraid not,” Draco confirmed.

Thomas nodded solemnly. “I guess I wasn’t holding out much hope.”

“I don’t know about that. We may not have found any trace of the Aglaophotis but I still think it can be recovered before it’s due to bloom tonight.”

The youngest son walked in silence for a few seconds. “How so?”

“We had put a few things together, and then there was a pretty conclusive witness statement.”

“A witness?”

“Cracked the case wide open.”

“Someone saw the theft?” Thomas tried to clarify.

“No, but it got us what we were missing: motive,” Draco explained.

A scoff. “There was nothing but motive. A plant worth hundreds of thousands of galleons-”

“That your father and brother never had any intention of selling, did they?”

The two men stopped walking, Thomas looking perturbed. “Who is your witness?”

“We don’t normally reveal the witness’s identity, but I don’t suppose it will make much difference. It was your nephew, Simon. He was telling me all about how his father promised him a new Cleansweep. Now, they’re a perfectly reasonable bit of kit, but nothing like the flashy Bolts or the new Hummingbirds. Which begged the question: why would a man about to come into a hearty share of hundreds of thousands of galleons buy a budget broom for his son?”

“He wouldn’t.”

Draco looked down the row of mandrakes to where Granger was talking to Jack and the elder Mr Kepouros. “Then I went back through all the potential buyer information you shared, and one thing became clear: you were the only family member any of them were in communication with. Your father and your brother never had any intention of selling.”

“It’s just- sentimentality,” Thomas remonstrated, frustration cracking the mask of the calm and collected brother for the very first time. “Our mother planted the Aglaophotis as insurance. A way to shore up all our futures when she found out she wasn’t going to be with us…” He set his teeth against sudden, unwanted emotion, then cleared his throat. “And they were just going to waste it. This precious, unbelievable opportunity, and you know what they were planning to do? Just watch it bloom. Sit there and watch while a fortune beyond our wildest dreams is wasted before our very eyes.”

“Your father knows.” When the man snapped his startled gaze to Draco, he continued, “He was telling you himself. He doesn’t care how it happens, he just wants the flower back. Your mother’s legacy. A part of her that he isn’t willing to let go of just yet.”

They were near the edge of the greenhouse now, and the older Mr Kepouros met his son - solemn and dour, yes, but also sad and hopeful.

“I still have it,” Thomas said, in a stuttered rush. “I- I almost went through with it. I should have done, and just found some way to get the money to you and Jack-”

His father engulfed him in wide, muscular arms, patting his back, before pearly tears started running down his face. “Let’s go get it.”

“The Aurors-”

“We’ve talked it through,” Mr Kepouros nodded his thanks in Malfoy’s and Granger’s general direction, sniffing loudly. “No harm done, just a misunderstanding. Now let’s go get Mom’s Aglaophotis. She would have been proud to see her boys come together for the bloom.”

“Is he alright?” Malfoy asked.

“He will be. We’ll be there, with him,” Jack replied with the gruff air of people unused to shows of emotion. “If you’d like to stay and watch, that’d be fine.”

Draco was stunned to see Granger hesitate. He would have thought her ready to steal into the greenhouse, notebook in hand so she could generate enough evidence on the rare flower to feed scholarly articles for years. “That’s a very kind offer, but this is a private moment. We’ll let you enjoy it as a family. Besides, Malfoy and I have somewhere we need to be.”

This was news to Malfoy, yet a quarter of an hour later they were entering a restaurant near Chinatown. He followed her in as she greeted several servers by name and they were shown to a small table. The tablecloth was paper, the overhead lighting was fluorescent lightbulbs and the decor included everything from theatre posters to vinyl album covers to Muggle photographs pinned up by blue sticky globs. The place was heaving with people in a cacophony of laughter, multiple languages and, from inside the kitchens, the metallic hiss of woks being tossed over naked flame and scraped with spatulas.

“Where have you dragged me to, Granger?”

There was a worrying level of mischief to her smile. “I’m investing in your education so I can save you from a life of bland, cardboard-esque nourishment.”

Which meant that Hermione Granger, a woman that categorically did not date, was taking him out to dinner. Malfoy was still trying to wrap his mind around this when they were interrupted.

“Is this him?” The high pitched voice belonged to a short Southeast Asian woman with impeccably coiffed hair, a colourful apron in a cherry pattern and a pair of glasses perched at the end of her nose. She stared suspiciously at Malfoy through them. “He is so white,” she bemoaned.

Granger tried to stifle a laugh. “Hi, Grace. Yes, he is- rather pale.”

“Hm,” Grace hummed reprovingly. There was something about being examined by the small lady that made him feel deeply inadequate. “We’ll see.” And with that, she stalked off to the kitchen.

“What just happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Can we see a menu?”

“No, definitely not,” she snapped, in a don’t-you-dare-embarass-me-and-order-chicken-and-chips tone of voice.

Malfoy wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a prank or a test, but definitely leaned more towards the latter when the food started to arrive. Their table was incrementally crowded with bowls of rice, brightly coloured vegetables, platters of sliced pork belly and steaming fish and skewers dripping in sticky sauce. Everything smelled heavenly.

Granger pushed a plateful of curried noodles in his direction, and Malfoy was leaning in to check the contents when Grace returned, armed with the same glare. “Well?”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Are you going to try my food or just sniff it?”

Granger was trying not to laugh, only not very hard.

He tried the red curry in front of him, slurping gently at the noodles and prawns thickly coated in creamy coconut, the earthiness of peanuts and delicious floral lime. The backbone of the curry washed in after, bringing with it garlic and ginger and more spices that Draco possessed in his sad little rack at home.

It was mouth-scorchingly spicy. It was also one of the most delicious things he had ever tasted.

“It’s very good,” he told the expectant Grace, before diving in for another mouthful. “Excellent, in fact.”

Grace tutted, mollified. “If you want more, let me know. We do takeaway.” And she walked off with a short nod to Granger.

“How is it, really?”

He waited until he was absolutely sure Scary Grace was out of earshot before coughing and drinking a full glass of water. Granger chortled. “It is excellent.”

“Good!”

“But, perhaps, not right for my particular constitution.”

“You’ll work your way up to it,” she pointed towards a couple of safer options to save him, and he could have sobbed in relief.

“What about yours?” Her plate looked most attractive, if even deadlier looking than even his curried noodles.

“Ah, you are nowhere near attempting chilli crab. You might just be a little too white for that.”

Even so, he tasted everything on the table and came back for seconds of most. It was a riot of flavour and texture and dozens of unexpected combinations - like finding a secret door to somewhere unexpected and slightly strange, but deeply exciting.

There was a lot of that happening in his life recently.

They walked somewhat aimlessly in an effort at digesting their feast, chatting about everything and anything, and eventually reached his building. “I’ll let you go in,” Granger said, gesturing towards the Apparition point down the street.

“Before you do,” he interrupted, “thank you for tonight. It was fun, even if mostly at my expense.” It beat his pre-existing plans of moping around the house, both dreading and looking forward to the following day, even if all it would bring was more of what he’d had for the last few years: a package of homemade cakes and cookies with no note. A remembrance of his birthday that did not extend to understanding. Lingering familial love that had not prevailed above all else, that had shown itself conditional on his silent complicity.

This had been better.

“You’re most welcome. Goodnight, Draco.”

She’d walked off into the night by the time he saw the bag by his front door. Once inside the flat, he proceeded to bribe Cassie into letting him explore the contents, and found a note:

Contents: birthday present. DO NOT OPEN until actual birthday.

His conscience stalled him for all of thirty seconds.

Inside the bag, there was another, accompanied by a second note:

I knew you wouldn’t wait. Honestly, you’re worse than a child, but I guess it is will soon be your birthday. I hope it’s a happy one! - Granger.

He unwrapped his present, tearing at the paper, and caught his own goofy smile in the reflection of his living room window before marshalling it into something more appropriate.

It was already the best birthday in years.

Chapter Text

“Morning, Malfoy. I’ve heard back from Walter and it’s good news, we have-” Granger’s voice died off and Draco experienced an undeniable vicious thrill at the little O of her open mouth. “It fits,” she finally said, after a lengthy pause. “Well, it would, I enchanted it so it would adjust to whatever fit was needed,” her next words were quiet, for their ears alone, “including when you shift.”

“Yes, you seem to have embedded some nifty little tricks into this thing.”

She nodded, standing in front of him to work at the buckles of his black leather body harness, ensuring it was straight. Her fingers brushed over the thin linen of his shirt, ghosting along his shoulders and chest.

A definite triumph. He’d been ever so careful to make them slightly lopsided, after all.

“It’s just a few protection enchantments and, when you shift, it will give you a few seconds of Disillusionment. It’s not much.”

Her skin smelled incredible. Draco curled his fingers around the end of his desk so he wouldn’t lean forward and in. “I assure you it’s plenty. I’m very fond of my birthday gift. Thank you, Granger.”

She pressed her lips together, pleased and slightly pink, and the very next moment, as the Director rounded the corner, Malfoy was standing much straighter and Granger had her hands safely ensconced in the pockets of her robes. “What are the two of you doing here?” Cheung asked.

“We can leave, if you’d like, but it might be a good idea to give us some casework, first.”

“Don’t be cheeky, Malfoy. Incidentally, I've had Wareham put out some feelers to get you new partners. I'll tell you more once I've had some expressions of interest back."

Malfoy's internal gravity was suddenly dialled up. What was this about new partners? For a moment, he half-suspected Granger might have requested it, but she looked about as shocked as he felt.

"Why are we getting new partners?" she asked.

"Things are a little more established now and you both seem well integrated with the rest of the team. There's no reason to keep you shackled to one another."

Their protests rose in a chorus.

"Should we really be looking to-"

"I don't see how it could-"

"-developed our own modus operandi-"

"-subjected to having to deal with her-

"-used to his neurosis-"

"Oh, I'm the neurotic one, am I?"

"Yes. But to start from scratch-"

"Enough!" Cheung waved at them both, horrified. "Merlin's saggy tits, I don't care if you stay partnered or not. Couldn't give a fig. I thought I was doing you both a favour. Just forget I said anything." And she trundled off to the meeting room.

"We're getting the shittest case in the stack, aren't we?" Draco asked.

"Yes, we are," Granger agreed, but she was smiling when she said it.

~*~

The Collector's home was tucked away amidst blooming wisteria and myrtle, the steeply pitched and gabled roof hinting at a Tudor conversion or, perhaps, merely a passable imitation of the style. The door was unlocked when Malfoy tried it, no wards to speak of, and he mistakenly took this as an invitation instead of what it truly was.

An omen. A warning.

The door shut behind them with a muted snap. The stained glass panel fractured the light, glittering along dust motes and pitted, uneven plaster.

“Hello?” Granger called out. Then, to Malfoy, “Can you sense anyone?”

"Yes, and there’s an odd scent in the air. Something floral overlaid with bitterness.” The place felt undisturbed, his Detection Charm coming up empty.

They decided to explore as they waited, turning right into a low ceilinged living area with a stove fireplace and wide leather settees. The scent was stronger there. An arch opening flanked by knickknack-laden shelves led to the formal dining room and its collectible china display.

At the head of the table, eyes wide and unseeing, was the Collector. The woman’s neck was gaping open in a slash, her wand arm slumped over the table. Her face had turned the mottled bruising of decaying flesh.

They didn’t rush to her side. She was long past saving.

“That’s not right,” Granger frowned. “Walter told me he spoke with her only yesterday.”

Up close, Malfoy could match the angle of the cut with a self-inflicted wound. “The cadaver is much older. It doesn’t look to have been disturbed.”

“Let’s get Forensics in and we can search for the crown afterwards.”

Granger tried to summon a Patronus twice with no success, and Draco couldn’t Disapparate, which might have only been warding built into the roots of the house itself.

It might have been, only it wasn’t.

“Why won’t the door open?” Granger asked, frowning. “Malfoy?”

“I told you, I can’t sense anything,” he snapped, apprehension morphing into something else, darker and slithering over his spine. “We’ll blast it down.”

Nothing they tried - successive Bombarba Maximas , fire, ice, Unlocking or Shattering Charms - had any effect whatsoever. Despite their best combined efforts, the door remained, solid oak panels and coloured glass repelling magic without a scratch.

Granger turned to the staircase behind them. “Do you hear something?”

Two seconds later, he did. There was a rapid tapping, almost a vibration from upstairs. Suddenly, a hulking shape lunged for them, barreling at impossible speed, claws snapping and purplish hot liquid arcing through the air, staining the knees of Draco’s uniform. Its segmented arm crashed through the carpet to splinter deep into the underflooring.

Malfoy pushed Hermione out of the way, panic taking over his limbs. “Get away, run! Try the back door-”

The monster sidestepped them, too many legs - so many legs - pushing off the wall for impetus to land on his partner. She landed poorly with a hollow shout. Malfoy set off a Stupefy and set the air on fire to push the infernal creature away but, in the midst of it all, a claw sailed overhead and came down. It sliced through Granger’s chest with a wet, crunching sound.

And Draco’s whole world stopped.

Darkness uncoiled and washed over him, swallowed him whole, and there was nothing, nothing .

Not fear, not rage, nor breath.

He felt it coating his skin, creeping inside him, and then, when his breath did come, once it was out, he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

It lasted a moment. It lasted an age.

Granger let out one short, startled sob, and it was over.

It was over and Draco was on his knees, crying like a child, as that darkness peeled back, flaying him even as it left.

“Granger,” he choked, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t see the blood soaking her hair, slickening his hands.

When his eyes opened, he was standing again, and Granger beside him. The door was shutting behind them.

“Granger?”

There she was, wand by her side, curious and whole and impossible. The same jewelled light that hit the walls and the floor - the unmarred floor, clean of death - played with the planes of her face. “What is it? Can you sense anyone?”

“You’re alive.” He drew closer, hands out to touch her, to reassure himself she was real. There was no trace of the fight on their clothes, no trace of the short horrible battle anywhere. The deep well of anguish inside him was already fading, no more than the ghost of pain left behind in the face of her solidity.

Alive.

“Of course I’m alive, did you hit your head when I wasn’t looking? Let’s find the Collector.”

He hadn’t hit his head, but he couldn’t exclude the possibility that he had vividly hallucinated the entire incident. That could have been the result of a ward, a strange eldritch protection built into the house itself to warn off intruders.

"Draco," she whispered, startling him. "Are you okay?"

Unbeknownst to him, his fingers had curled around her forearm. Real. Solid. Alive. “Yes. I am, yes. There was an illusion, a- creature,” Malfoy tried to explain. “It attacked you.”

This seemed to worry her further. “Oh. No wonder you look so pale all of a sudden. Would you like to go outside, get some air?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” The memory was less substantial by the second. There was no blood or tears or soul-rending loss, all a product of magic messing with his mind.

Yet, when they turned into the living room, the knick-knacks looked exactly the same, as did the set of settees. Before they turned to the adjacent dining room, nascent dread was already getting worse. There was shaking - Draco looked down and saw his own hands twitching at his sides.

“That’s not right. Walter told me he spoke with the Collector only yesterday.” His head snapped at the echo of her words, at the exact position of the cadaver at the head of the table, the ornate chairback rising over the woman’s slumped and lifeless form like a horrifying mockery of a throne.

“It’s exactly the same. But how can it be the same?” he whispered to himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“We need to leave.” The windows were shut firmly, completely invulnerable against magic. “Right now. Let’s try the back door.”

“We need to get-”

“Forensics, and then we can search for the crown afterwards. That’s what you were about to say, wasn’t it?”

Granger drew back. “How did you know that?”

“Because you said it, before.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Me neither. We have to leave."

He all but ran down the corridor to the kitchen, then tried to spell the door open before aiming a Bombarda Maxima at the window.

Nothing.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” he closed his eyes, tried again. “I don’t know. But this is all the same as the illusion I had.” If it had been an illusion at all.

Granger was already shaking her head. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Are you willing to risk your life on it? I’m not.” The airing cupboard was empty, as it often was in magical dwellings, and Draco spotted an opening in the ceiling where a patch of damp had worn through the floorboards. It gave when he tried to enlarge it, pulling down chunks of plasterboard. “We might be able to get through to the first floor.”

Even though Granger still looked incredulous, she kept lookout all the same. “How did it happen, last time?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did I die? Don’t bother coming up with a lie, you were muttering ‘alive’ over and over, like you couldn’t believe your own eyes.”

Draco thought on this as he wedged one large boot beside the door jamb and held out his hands to signal to Granger. “Come on, I’ll lift you up.”

“Are you going to answer?”

“Later,” and only if he couldn’t help it.

Something chittering made an echoing, clacking noise further down the corridor, and they both scrambled up to what turned out to be the powder room. The small window did not give when they tried it and Draco experienced a profound sense of claustrophobia, almost as likely to claw his way out as he was to claw at his own skin. “There has to be a way.”

“We have to find out how this works. It’s definitely a Curse,” Granger said, her hand on the doorknob. “But Curses feed on something. They can’t subsist on their own.”

Yet the only resident on file was dead in the dining room downstairs.

“It could be a Dark Artefact,” Draco suggested.

“In the house of a Collector? It would fit.”

“Are we stuck here until we find it?”

She considered this. “And, in all probability, destroy it.” The upstairs was quiet, two bedrooms and a study, and Granger went behind the desk to study the books and paperwork. “There might be a clue somewhere in here.”

The chittering grew louder. “We need to move. I’ll ward the door for now.”

“Where would we move to? You’ve only just said it, we’re stuck here until we figure this out.”

He couldn’t help but feel that it was unjust of Granger to be cavalier, not when he couldn’t forget the sight of her broken and lifeless body. “We can’t hold out forever.”

“Let me at least give us a direction.” Draco heard the creature just outside the door, rustling on the wooden floors and bouncing off the walls. It seemed to grow angrier, and plaster dust fell from the ceiling at successive hits.

“There’s something here, a concealed room off of the dining room.” Whatever her next words were going to be, they were cut off by the horror that surged right behind her.

It detached itself from the wallpaper like a rippling shadow, almost too quick for the eye to parse. Inside one heartbeat, it reached Granger, two humanoid arms with gnarled fingers grasping her neck to break it with one loud snap.

It took an infinity for her to fall, the room suddenly as empty as Draco’s chest.

“Granger!” Draco rushed to her, staring around as if he could suddenly find the invisible foe. Outside the room, all had gone quiet.

He started to reach for Granger, then remembered what had happened before. Closing his burning eyes, he muttered. “Please, please, please. Let her be alive.”

Draco opened his eyes.

They were in the foyer. Behind him, the door shut with a click, and he whirled around to scrabble at the lock, pounding on the wood with a vengeance.

“Malfoy, what is it? What’s going on?”

He let his head fall onto the wood, cold sweat breaking across his neck. “We’re stuck here.”

“What?”

“We’re stuck in this fucking house. It’s a Cursed loop,” he swallowed, finally allowing himself to look at her.

Safe, sound, alive. For now, he added miserably.

“I don’t understand.”

Neither did he. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

~*~

The hidden compartment next to the dining room was a magically expanded access to a basement, the cold space well kept and lit with magical lights at intervals. Since the Collector had passed, these had faded, waking immediately as Granger revived them.

At a glance, Malfoy registered neat shelves of books, a rack of potions and other curios, yet he stayed right by the entrance. “You go in and investigate, I’ll stand guard.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to come over and have a look?”

“No. It needs to be me. It doesn’t care about me. At least,” he conceded, “it hasn’t yet.”

“I wonder if it’s a trap against Muggleborns,” Granger mused aloud, and Malfoy’s blood ran colder still. Could that be the reason the Curse was going after her and letting him live? “Malfoy, is that…?"

"A Vanishing Cabinet," Draco confirmed with a gulp. The old pressure made itself known around him, an ugly pulsing thing that made his heart thump irregularly in his chest. Shadows oozed at the edges of the landing, too solid for comfort.

“I wonder if it’s one of the pair,” she said, trailing off.

“It’s not. It can’t be. The Ministry burned them to ash. It turns out they’re pretty thorough when it comes to getting rid of illegal magical items used as part of a War Crime.”

“I’m sorry.” It was the very worst thing she could have said. How did Hermione Granger get off apologising for the worst thing he’d ever done?

“What are you sorry for, exactly?”

She must have noticed his tone of voice. “Malfoy…”

“Was it the destruction? The death? Or perhaps the people, the children that I grew up with, that I called friends or jeered at, all dead, laid out in rows under white sheets? Is it the betrayal you’re sorry for?”

“No, I know that wasn’t you. I know,” she held onto his hand, forcing him to meet her eyes, “I know you were threatened. That you had no choice.”

“I had a choice.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I did.” The words were forceful, final. “I wasn’t threatened, it wasn’t to keep my family safe. Not at first. I chose to do it, I came up with the idea.” He had never admitted this to another soul. His father knew, of course, as the only other person present when, drunk on his own despicable hubris and self-importance, Draco had bragged about his clever little idea to a tyrant and a madman.

Granger didn’t even blink. The fingers curled around his never loosened. “I know it must have felt that way at the time, but you were indoctrinated your whole life and, even then, you wouldn’t have gotten through with it in the end if you’d had a choice.”

“And how exactly do you figure that?”

“I remember what it did to you. Not much,” Granger admitted. “There wasn’t a lot of time and there was so much confusion, so much going on, but… I remember that. I remember noticing you. I know who you are now, and I can’t imagine you could have changed quite as much as that.”

“Don’t tell me that, Granger,” he pleaded. “I’m stacking my whole fucking future on the offchance that I can change enough to be someone worth knowing.”

“Why would you tell me this?”

Because you probably won’t remember it, Draco thought. As if he’d summoned it, the Shade grew, taking up space in the room.

He set off multiple spells, but it didn’t even slow. Arms formed, just like before, as it assembled itself into the same towering, grotesque shape. “Get behind me.” Time to test the Muggleborn theory.

“Do you think we should go through it?” Granger asked, gesturing towards the Cabinet, her voice going high as the shadow pushed them inexorably over despite their combined efforts.

He kept trying anything he could against the Shade - fire, ice, wind, Stunning Spells, a runic bind for cursed creatures.

It just kept on coming. “We’ll open it. Look inside, see what’s on the other side.”

Granger touched the handle and the Cabinet exploded with a blinding magical outburst.

The blast hit Malfoy like crashing a broom into the ground at speed, the impact flattening him into nothing.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing in the foyer, unharmed. The door closed behind him and Granger with a snap. “What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing the look on his face.

After the intense and searing pain, he was half convinced his throat wouldn’t work, but of course it did. “We’re stuck in a Cursed loop.”

“How?”

“Try and open the door.” He heard her trying for a few seconds, keeping his clenched fists close to his body.

“I don’t understand, it won’t open.”

“Come on. We’ll figure it out.” We have to. There’s no other choice, he told himself.

~*~

He knew to avoid the Vanishing Cabinet after that.

It took multiple loops before they’d gone through every single object in the basement, nowhere near a solution. The Shade struck Granger repeatedly, seeming more corporeal every time, which couldn’t be a good sign, yet there were no traces of the massive creature that had first attacked them. Draco was close to despair until he found the loft hatch by the master bedroom. Like lofts everywhere, it was chock-full of boxes and trunks and odd bits of furniture.

There was too much dust for it to have been disturbed recently yet, when Granger pointed this out, he hadn’t been prepared to let it go.

And when something obscene and large and slithering struck her in the leg, leaving her bleeding freely from the twin wounds and lightheaded, paling by the second, Draco couldn’t even staunch it.

“Stop staring at me like that,” she commanded harshly, taking him by surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“As if you can’t really see me. Like I’m insubstantial, already gone,” she swallowed thickly and Draco shrivelled to understand she was almost crying. Granger, his Granger, almost in tears. “I’m not some sort of ghost. I’m right here,” she was getting more and more upset. “I can’t bear it anymore, and not from you, so just stop it. Please.”

“I don’t-”

“I’m right here,” she insisted, scrabbling at his forearm as she panted, breathless, and he thought, But you’re not. I’ve seen you die a dozen times, I’ll see you die again, and I don’t know how to stop it, he finally admitted to himself, in bitter shame. I’ve lost you, I'll lose you again, and I can't bear it.

Before he could reply, she was already gone.

~*~

The house was changing.

It had happened only slightly, at first. It had seemed almost the same, except for the Collector’s cadaver - now wilting, desiccated, the flesh drying on bones but attracting no insects - yet Draco noticed the corridors growing longer and darker. More rooms that led nowhere.

He couldn’t do this alone. If only Hermione was the one to retain the memories, they would have been safe. She would have solved the Curse, have felt for its hinges, examined it for a chink in its inner workings. If all else failed, she would have cracked it like an egg under the hammer blow of her magic.

But he was weak-willed, weak-minded, insufficient.

He couldn’t do it at all.

She was trying her best to staunch the bleeding in his arm, but under mangled flesh Draco could feel the wrongness of splintered bone. The enormous snake had almost wrenched the whole limb off, without even doing him the decency of going for his cursed arm.

More importantly, he’d found something new about Granger: she would offer up anything of herself to distract him, to take his mind off the pain. It was almost unbearably annoying. Unfortunately, there was also something deeply endearing about it. “Do you know, I find myself considering this job may not hold much of a future for me.”

Breathless, he wheezed a phantom chuckle. “I can’t say I blame you.” It was preposterous to think all this blood was his own. He tried not to breathe in the scent of hot rust, but it slickened his skin, seeming to coat everything, spreading.

“Even before the cursed houses and giant evil snakes-” he hissed in pain and she stopped immediately, still propping up what was left of his elbow. Before he knew what he was doing, his forehead was nestled in the small cradle just under her collarbone. “Have we…?” the question was a whisper on his neck.

Another thing about Granger, then. She had no mercy. Here he was, bitten in half and dying out, and she'd dealt him yet another blow.

"No," he whispered. He'd pull away, if only everything stopped spinning.

She nodded, eyes down. “To be honest, I haven’t found a place that felt like home since Hogwarts, and that was despite your best efforts at the time.”

“I deserve that.” Granger continued as soon as he started breathing again. “What about home with your parents?”

She shook her head. “Not there. They’ve done their best but there’s very little common ground when I’m part of this world and they’re just standing at the periphery, looking in.”

“They don’t like the fact that you’re magical?” Malfoy had never considered that Muggleborn parents would be anything but fascinated by a child with such talent, especially an overachiever like Granger.

“I wouldn’t go quite as far, but it isolates them. Because of me, they have to straddle both worlds, not part of one of them and knowing too much for the other. They have to lie about me to their closest friends. A non-magical child would have been far easier, and that was all before the memory modification during the War,” she admitted. “It’s fine, really.”

It wasn’t, yet he didn’t know how to help. “Have you made any plans? About leaving the job, I mean.”

“Not yet. I would, but it feels a bit pointless when I’m not going to remember them.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me and I’ll remind you later."

"Please do. Remind me of it all.”

Not all of it. Never all of it.

Because she kept dying. And he couldn’t stop it.

He could work warding and spells and use his own body as a fucking shield if it came to it, but he wouldn’t die, and she kept being taken from him.

~*~

“I can’t do it anymore. Please don’t make me do it anymore. I can’t.”

Draco was near enough hysterical, barely making any sense. He recognised this in the same way he recognised he was alarming Granger, scaring her even, but there was nothing he could do. It was like watching a Quidditch crash midair from the stands, hundreds of yards away, no more than a witness to his own agitation.

“What do you mean, what-”

“I can’t go through it again. You have to end it. If I have to watch that snake kill you…” he sobbed, low in his throat. “That fucking slithering thing, it gets more familiar every time.”

Granger held onto his shoulders, trying to hold eye contact. “Wait, it changed overtime?”

“Yes, does it matter? Yes,” he repeated, his mind scattered. “It was more of a gigantic scorpion, at first, and now it reminds me of his fucking snake. Even the house has changed. It’s darker, the corridors are longer, no windows.” Draco was shuddering in place, seeing blood stains and hearing the echoes of screams. “It’s been weeks, and I can’t find a way out.”

They had been in there for weeks. The Collector’s corpse was the only thing that seemed to mark the passage of time, now decayed to a dry, hollow husk.

Granger was thinking furiously, a deep frown between her brows. “A Curse would never have lasted this long.”

Draco closed his eyes, swallowing. “You’ve said that before.”

“It’s feeding off you.”

“Yes, I know,” he breathed, thankful she’d voiced the suspicion and not himself. The solution beckoned at him with a vengeance, lurking at the edge of his mind. Hermione understood it, now. This was the only way he could save her.

“I think I know what to do to get us both out.”

Both? “No, Hermione-”

“Do you trust me?” she murmured, then her hand came up to cradle his jaw as the other was held out in a request.

“Yes,” he answered, his stomach in knots as he surrendered his wand. She raised it with a near blinding white-blue light.

“Obliviate .”

~*~

When Draco came to, he was sitting on the doorstep of the Collector’s house amidst dozens of Aurors going in and out. He could barely hear himself think over the chatter. It was very early morning, the street still otherwise quiet, all the cars still parked in the neat driveways.

He tried to piece things together and couldn’t. It had been mid morning when they’d arrived, yet he couldn’t remember going in.

Granger sat beside him, looking him over. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he answered reflexively. “What happened?”

“The house was Cursed,” she explained, giving him what he recognised as a Surgical Scalp Look Number 3: still very sharp, but no threat of immediate danger. “We were stuck in there for a while.”

“What, all night?”

“Seems so,” she shrugged. “Can you remember any of it?”

“No,” Malfoy admitted, and he could have sworn Granger seemed oddly relieved. “What about you?”

“Not much. Unfortunately, the crown was gone by the time we arrived. The Loyalists beat us to it and left us a grisly trap.”

“Fuckers.”

“Absolute plonkers. They have the broach and the crown, but two out of three isn’t enough. Or at least, I hope it isn't,” Granger shifted, toeing the gravel driveway. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m… A little wrung out,” he confessed.

She nodded. “We should probably head home.”

“Yes.” Neither of them moved. “Sod this, would you like to go get coffee instead?” To his surprise, Granger nodded, offering a hand to help him up. He didn’t know what to make of this wealth of kindness. 

“Come on. I’ll get a proper coffee and you’ll get a sugary, milky monstrosity, and we’ll be right as rain.”

Chapter Text

Malfoy reached out a hand. "Up you get."

"Give me a break," Granger sagged.

"Oh no, you don't. We haven't had a chance to train all week, the way this tagging business has us chasing our tails." Their initial enthusiasm was slowly waning in the face of lack of progress. Florence’s experimental spell had turned up bursts of Loyalist activity - fleeting, spread out, no pattern to be discerned as yet - but a real opportunity at tracking and arresting some of the bastards had not materialised. Then Malfoy got out of his own head, noticed the glassy aspect to Granger’s eyes and the purplish shadows beneath them. “Are you not sleeping again?”

“You know I don’t sleep.”

“Whyever not?”

She hesitated, then explained, “It started in my teens, back when we were on the run, during the War.” There was no need to specify who was included in the ‘we’ she was referring to. “There was the stress and hypervigilance of it, and I suppose carrying the Horcrux didn’t help. I’ve never quite managed to sleep well after that.”

Draco felt like an absolute arse for pushing her. “What do you normally do?”

“Read. Work on something which, most recently, has been wandless magic. I find it restful to focus my mind, to give it something to latch onto,” Granger shrugged. It didn’t feel appropriate to mention that this was the diametric opposite of rest.

“Let’s have a stretch, then. Your posture and balance have been pants, I think your hip abductors are tight. Lay back for me.” She stretched out on the padded mat, unprotesting, bathed in afternoon light. They’d taken to training in Malfoy’s spare room so they could linger as long as they wanted. This also saved them the trouble of having to book the one in the office in advance, and they got to take Cassie out for a walk afterwards.

Her hair, the ever savage thing, was sneaking out of its ties. Draco laid one hand on her hip and cradled the opposite knee, bringing it up and across.

There was a sound from her lips, little more than an exhalation, and his eyes were suddenly glued to the wall.

He’d been getting flashes of this more often. His thoughts would slide, errant and unbidden, to perilous and unsought territory. He’d find himself noticing things about his partner - this exasperating nuisance of a woman - all trifling things, quite innocent, that came back to haunt him later. Often, later at night, once tiredness had worn at his better judgement, he’d think back to something she’d said, a fleeting smile, the plump rosy curve of her bottom lip, that dip at her waist where it seemed like his hand would fit. 

Sometimes these came to him in the shower, and it evolved to something less innocent altogether.

Draco would rather be Crucio’d than admit to any of it and, in any case, he wasn’t going to allow it to go on.

He felt her body twist under his hands as the stretch deepened and fingers tightened on pliant flesh, reflexive. He needed a distraction; that would save him. “I’ve been thinking about the Tracking Spell.”

“Oh?”

“We should test out its limitations. We must be missing something, there’s just no possible way they aren’t meeting.” This was good, coherent stuff, and it emboldened him.

Granger hummed and he swapped sides, feeling more confident.

“Let’s check with Florence and set out a few parameters we can try. Longitudinal distance, altitude, going underground, Charm protection like the Fidelius - we can use your place for that last one. What do you think?” When she didn’t answer, he paused for a moment, his thumb drawing little circles over the ridge of her ribs. Then he finally looked down in horror, realising he’d been using Granger as the human equivalent of a stress ball. His hand had traitorously migrated from her hip, going for that waist he hadn’t meant to fixate on (and it was soft, and his hand did fit around it, which was both pleasant and deeply embarrassing). Granger was quite pink, glaring up at the ceiling. Malfoy considered and dismissed Apparating to the other end of the house as rude and accepted his impending murder. “You alright there, Granger?”

“Yes.”

Draco inched away slowly. He might yet live. “Oh. Good.”

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

Granger tilted her head, a gleam to her eyes. "Could I ask you to do something for me?"

His gulp must have been audible. "What do you need?"

 ~*~

Malfoy stopped Granger just as she was about to knock on Potter's door and only partially because he was playing for time. "What's my role here, Granger?"

This had about the same effect as if someone had asked her if the East Argentinian Spiked Marmoset had webbed feet. "What do you mean, role? You're coming as my friend."

That word, friend , coated his teeth unpleasantly. "Best behaviour, then."

"Well, not exactly. I'm not having you sit at the table turning your nose up at Harry's cooking and being stiff as a boiled Firecrab." Was that really her concept of his best behaviour? He was shocked. "I thought more along the lines of running interference when this acquaintance of Ginny's enters the field."

"So, in other words, turn myself into a chaotic nuisance." Draco shook his head. "That's more your speed. I have impeccable manners and am quietly reserved, not stuffy and snooty, thanks very much."

"You are so stuffy and snooty. The poster boy."

"Am not."

"You could name your pectorals stuffy and snooty," Granger openly mocked him.

"Do people really name body parts after attributes? Because, if so-"

"No, stop it right there, I'm not going to be dragged kicking and screaming down this conversational cul-de-sac."

The front door wrenched open and there stood Potter, a dishcloth slung over one of his shoulders and a stormy, get-off-my-fucking-doorstep scowl that would put most wizenned wizards’ to shame. Granger and Malfoy jostled a little in place like a responsible adult had just caught them giggling like teenagers - which, of course, was exactly the case.

He welcomed them both, after a fashion, with greetings of distinctively different temperatures. Granger was afforded every morsel of warm brotherly affection while Potter’s muttered ‘Malfoy’ could have snuffed out a flame at twenty paces.

The Potters’ dwellings were ample, well lived in, and objectively lovely. Malfoy tried to find something he could fault, noticed what he was doing, and stopped himself.

Old grudges were like stray cats. They only stuck around if you fed them.

Not only that, letting go of the old knee-jerk pettiness first made him, by definition, the better person, and that pleased him immensely.

“Wotcher, Malfoy,” said Ginny. She sat on a rocking chair, breastfeeding an infant, while her eldest spawn barreled into Hermione’s legs, hugged them and made loud and distressed noises about a present. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Not since before his trial, by all accounts. Nice of her not to mention it. “Likewise. You look well, how’s motherhood treating you?”

“I’ve been reliably informed I might get some sleep in three to five years,” she sighed, yet there was a tired benevolence to her. 

As Potter retired to the kitchen to work on their repast (Granger hot on his heels with a cake box from Fortescue's), Malfoy hedged, “I’ve been following your Quidditch pundit career with interest. You’re good, but I’m sorry to say you’ve made a blunder on your prediction for Carron’s season.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “He’s clearly going to be the highest scoring Chaser.”

“Not after that midair collision, he isn’t. You’ve seen how the man is flying, he’s twitchy and scared. Lost his edge.”

“Oh, that. He’ll soon get over it.”

“Bet you five galleons.”

“You’re on,” and they shook on it.

“If you’re going to be betting on Quidditch, you might as well set the table,” Potter’s voice echoed from down the corridor.

Malfoy appeased the Potter’s eldest child with a present - a big and bright red rubber ball that delighted the tot to no end - and let himself get drafted into service. “What does that do?” Ginny asked.

“It bounces off things.”

She considered this. “Does it return if he claps, or mimic animal noises, or sing humorous high pitched songs if you slap it repeatedly?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Malfoy said. “In fact, if it starts doing any of those things, you should probably get it checked out. That doesn’t seem like normal rubber ball behaviour.”

“So you got my child a completely average, non spelled, Muggle rubber ball.”

“Yes.” He was starting to get a little defensive.

“Perfect,” Ginny sighed. “If anyone gifts us anything else that sings, zooms around or otherwise adds to the chaos, I will personally send them a Howler every morning at dawn for a week.”

“Vindictive. I like it.”

Ginny started laughing. “Okay, I’m starting to get why Hermione likes you for a partner.”

He was still thinking about that remark when he edged to the kitchen and lingered, just close enough to make out the conversation between the two friends.

"-living in each other's pockets."

"He's different."

"Is he, though?" Potter's voice was flat with just a soupçon of derision. "At the end of the day, it's still Malfoy."

"His hands are calloused."

Were they? Draco supposed they were. Was that good? Why had Granger fixated on that, of all things?

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Granger was silent for a moment. "Think back to the boy you knew at school-"

"Oh, do you mean the pointy git that bullied you and held a grudge against me for years and very nearly got me killed?"

"That was ages ago. Practically an eon. People do change, Harry, and he has. Everything I've seen of him only proves it. He's determined, courageous, hard-working and noble."

He also listens in on private conversations a lot, Draco considered, with a twinge of guilt. But only ever a twinge - not enough to get him to stop.

Potter made a sound like a dry branch scuffing a windowpane. "He can't have changed that much."

"You know what? Suit yourself. Be stubborn all you like. You don't have to like him, he's not your partner."

" You don't have to like him either."

"Trust me, I know that. It’s made no difference." Cutlery snapped against the worktop, almost muffled by the sudden thunder of Draco's heartbeat in his ears. "Now pass me the cake stand."

~*~

They were having a drink over a well put together cheese board when Potter decided to engage their interloper. “So, Sebastian, Ginny was telling me you do Quidditch supplies.”

“That’s right. My mother started the business and I took over shortly after graduation.”

“Was it Beauxbatons?”

“Durmstrang.”

If Draco were to pass judgement on this meek looking bloke, he would have marked this down as a clear demerit, only he wasn’t, so he resumed casual enjoyment of his hors d'oeuvre. Then he remembered Granger had briefly dated Krum, and that maybe she wouldn’t see it quite that way. 

“That must keep you busy during game season,” said Ginny.

“It’s the best part.” His smile was too wide to be entirely trustworthy. “I get to travel all over the country and get pitch-side seats to all the action. You should come with me sometime, Hermione.”

Malfoy could tell Granger was about to shut that down, only Potter was doing a squinty thing at her, and she wrangled a smile into place instead. “That might be nice.”

“It’s the best,” he repeated, inanely. “Harry - is it okay if I call you Harry?” Genuinely, no entirely sane person would be showing that many bicuspids. “Harry was telling me you’re an Auror in the Special Detection Branch. That’s remarkable.”

“It’s been very interesting,” she commented.

“Were you behind taking down any famous wizards I might have heard of?”

There was a charged silence. “Not recently.”

This went right over Sebastian’s head. Malfoy was now three quarters of the way convinced that the man wasn’t merely a bumbling fool but may, in fact, be a prat. “Still, a pretty dangerous line of work. How much longer do you see yourself doing that for?”

A furrow dug itself between Granger’s eyebrows. “Indefinitely, I should think.”

Ginny hustled to the rescue. “Hermione has always enjoyed a challenge.”

“Yes but, in the long term… There’s building a family to consider. I’m sure everyone that cares for you would rather have you safe and protected, as you deserve to be.”

Draco's jaw ticked. Who the fuck is this retch-inducing menace?

“That’s different for everyone,” Ginny cut in yet again, before Storm Granger could gather steam. “I remember when Hermione still worked in your department, Harry, and she kept being passed up for missions.”

Potter almost choked on his water. “It wasn’t- I wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Granger asked. “I was never even given the opportunity. By the time I found out about a raid, the report was being filled, and I once spent three weeks behind a desk just doing other people’s paperwork.”

“No one ever meant to treat you differently,” Potter defended. “I’ve never asked them to.”

“And who would own up to sending their boss’s best friend out on a dangerous mission?” she insisted.

Once more, Sebastian entirely failed to read the room. “Well, there have to be some advantages, right? I’m no fan of paperwork myself, and, as a business owner, I swear the stuff multiples overnight when you aren’t looking,” he chortled obscenely, “but why shouldn’t we do our best to keep the most wonderful people in our lives safe?”

“Yes, we should. Which is why Granger should be out there, doing her work,” Malfoy cut in, sick to his stomach of the bilge this nonce was engaging in.

The man didn’t even acknowledge Draco, his horrible smile never wavering.

“Should I get the chicken? I should get the chicken, I think it’s ready,” Potter clucked, and the conversation moved to Ginny’s latest report and Puddlemere’s chances at the Cup.

They were halfway through the main course - well seasoned, though Malfoy thought the parsnips would have benefited from a few minutes longer in the oven - when Sebastian decided to make his move. “So when can I take you out, Hermione?”

“My work makes it very difficult to make plans.” The dismissal was smooth and not unkind.

“What about those cursed papyri you wanted to see?” Ginny suggested, repositioning little Freddie on her other knee as the infant fussed and made a grab for her plate with its pudgy hands. “You were telling me about how they’ll be on show at the Magical Wing of the British Museum next weekend. The two of you should go, Sebastian.”

Why didn’t Granger tell me about it? Malfoy wondered. They could have gone together. He made a mental note to get tickets.

“Is that next weekend?” Sebastian sucked his overlarge teeth. “That’s not going to work, I absolutely must go see the Harpies thrash the Canons. It’s going to be such an exciting game.”

And that was it.

Any faint spark of interest that Granger may have held for the man was thus summarily and terminally snuffed out. Draco could see her mentally erasing Sebastian from existence, her attention on her plate - resigned, almost reassured - as she checked out of the conversation.

Quite suddenly, Malfoy found himself swell in anger. Was this specimen, this Graphorn-manure for brains twerp, anything but the dregs of the dating pool? Granger deserved so much better. Yes, she was a blister and a nightmare, but he’d grown to know her, and had long ago seen through her snarl of a personality.

Inside her pulsed a heart the size of the universe, able to worry about everything and everyone, and take on the world as her own to defend, against itself if need be. Granger had an unfathomable thirst for knowledge, an encyclopaedic understanding of even arcane forms of magic, and intelligence only matched by her stubbornness.

She was magnificent.

She deserved everything.

And this fucking stain couldn’t miss a Quidditch match to take her to a museum and look at interesting papyri?

Fuck this prick.

Malfoy meant what he’d said. He’d been forged and bound in strict etiquette and a thousand layers of emotional repression, but he’d also been Hermione Granger’s partner for over six months, so he was no stranger to chaos as a concept.

“So, Sebastian,” he cut in, saving Ginny from having to endure inane observations about some hiring rumour or other, “you mentioned you’re in Quidditch supplies. What does your company do, exactly?”

The man perked up at the chance to talk about something he knew a lot about. “We specialise in high performance broom maintenance. Our kits are used by professional teams worldwide. You may have heard of us-”

“What’s that, replacement parts?”

“No, no,” the man’s smile became a little more brittle. “We have fifteen different types of varnish, a whole range of waxes and protective coatings, we do cloth-”

“Broom polishing,” Malfoy interrupted yet again. Granger showed signs of paying attention again, and Potter frowned suspiciously. 

“That’s a simplification.”

“Do you do repairs? Spare parts? Just asking for my own edification.”

The man did have the ability to stop showing teeth. How interesting. “The brooms all have proprietary components. You’d have to go back to the manufacturers for that.”

“I think it’s amazing that there’s such specialised work in the broom polishing business. Wasn’t even aware that there were professionals in the field,” Malfoy ventured, and was gratified to see the look on Granger's face.

“Maybe it’s time for dessert,” Potter cut in.

“Oh, it’s an enormous business. There’s a lot of choice for your broom these days,” Sebastian The Oblivious continued.

Malfoy obliged. “Really? Do tell.”

“It’s all about a customised experience, just how you like it. Some people prefer lots of slide, others more friction-”

Ginny was barely keeping it together, and Potter’s colour was draining away. “Have we got ice cream? I meant to buy some.”

“That’s okay, Hermione brought cake. Sorry, Sebastian, we keep interrupting you, horrible habit. You were talking about broom handling?”

“Right. Yes. It’s all about your slow and steady versus getting some real speed.” Malfoy was convinced Ginny could handle about thirty more seconds of this when his and Granger’s badges started blaring.

“I’m really sorry but we’re needed,” Granger got up and Malfoy helped her slip her cloak on.

“So soon? Can’t they call someone else?” Ginny asked, looking dismayed. “You’ll be back for Harry’s birthday, right?”

“I might.”

“What does that mean?"

“I will if I can,” Granger amended. “And, if not, we’ll catch up some other time.”

“Come to the party,” Potter entreated as he walked them out.

“Harry…”

“Come to the party. I know you can make it if you want to, and I’d like my family together. You don’t have a good reason not to.”

Granger shuffled a little. “I do have a good reason. Two words: Molly Weasley.”

Malfoy didn’t know why that made Potter grimace. “Fine, I’ll give you that. Come anyway.”

“You deserve to have a stress free birthday with your family.” Her smile was a little sad, which, as everyone knew, was so much worse than all out tears.

“You’re family, too.”

“We really have to go.”

And lacing her arm through Malfoy’s, they Disapparated.

~*~

Their shout was riverside so they found themselves a good vantage point on the end of a wooden pier to wait it out. Malfoy stepped away for a quick detour, blaming it on how forlorn Granger looked.

"What are you sharing?"

"Well, we didn't make it all the way to dessert earlier."

She eyed the square paper box with awed wonder. "Is this Fortescue's chocolate fudge cake?"

"The very same."

"Malfoy, I could kiss you." The sun was peeking out, heating his skin. When she consumed a bite of deep, sweet richness with every sign of enjoyment, small moan included, Draco could have sworn it was, quite suddenly, almost uncomfortably hot.

"I'm curious. What does Hermione Granger's ideal date look like?"

"I wouldn't know."

"I don't believe that for a second," he scoffed, stealing a corner of the large slice of cake. It was over-indulgent, a gooey, sticky mess. He went for another piece almost immediately.

"No, it's true. It's so much easier to lay out what I don't want, what I don't like - there's millions of combinations on that." She shuffled her legs in front of her. "Otherwise I have to collapse the waveform, make it real, and eschew all other possibilities."

Only a preposterous creature such as her could ever apply metaphors on quantum mechanics to the murky depths of relationships. "Putting aside the fact that you can just change your barmy little mind anytime you want, collapse it for me. Just a little. Barely a fold." She licked traces of chocolate off her bottom lip, stalling, and sugar coursed in his blood. "What about dinner by candlelight?" Draco suggested.

"Cliché and performative, not to mention the uncomfortable shoes and death by a thousand lukewarm topics of small talk," Granger said.

"That had some feeling."

"That was the voice of experience."

"Right. Well, there are other, less travelled options. Like going flying at sunset," he tried, rather liking the sound of that himself.

"Surely you don't mean to say dangling off of a bit of wood is a worthwhile and enjoyable use of my time?"

"And the innuendo just keeps on coming."

They were sitting close enough for their thighs to brush, for their knees to kiss. Closeness, enticing and heady as she let out a massive sigh. "All I want is someone I can sit with by a fire in quiet companionship, looking up at the stars."

Then Hermione Granger proceeded to blush to her ears.

"Did you just say those words?"

"You'll forget them immediately."

"You did just say those words."

"I can make you forget," her wand was out, eyebrows up in hairy menace.

"You must let me have this. I brought you cake."

“Forget sorry attempts at dating, anyway. This is better.”

It was too warm and the chocolate had made his mouth dry up. “This?”

“Yes,” Granger stared resolutely ahead. “You know, having chocolate cake out on the pier.” There was a burbling sound from the water's surface. Granger gave a short reply in gutural mermish, gesturing downriver, and vague shapes swam on, soon too deep for the naked eye to track. “Right, all done.”

“Wait, was that it? We’ve been waiting here hours just to give merpeople directions?”

“They need to check in with a Ministry representative. It’s the law.”

“Anyone could have done this. It’s a scheduled pass.”

“Yes, I know. Which is why I asked Florence to give it to us.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Exit strategy.”

“The hallmark of any good Auror. More cake?”

Chapter Text

“When can I go home?”

“As soon as you’re done giving your statement,” Cheung replied, without hesitation.

Their witness assessed the Director, seeming to find her lacking. “You can’t keep me here.”

“Not without cause.”

“Do you have one? Otherwise, I’m hard pressed to understand why I’m being held in this grimy prison.” She tugged on the collar of her rumpled robes. It was impressive how haughty she sounded despite the lank, oily hair and the skin stretched over the delicate bones of her face, an indication of sudden deprivation after a lifetime of relative comfort.

“This is just our meeting room. I’m afraid the lighting isn’t high on the list of budgetary priorities.”

“I’m an Old Woman,” she pointed out, with the same intonation some would use for ‘Head Of State’ or ‘Concerned Citizen’, “I should be allowed to go home and have a hot meal and a bath, this is shameful.”

Cheung presented her palms. “This will only take a moment. In fact, we could have been done already.”

The woman sniffed. “And does that thing need to be present?” She tilted her head at Malfoy, sitting there in his wolf form.

“Yes. He’s a service animal.”

Despite his best efforts, a growl bubbled up Malfoy’s throat.

“Psha,” their witness huffed. “Well, since you’re so adamant to keep me from my tea, what could you possibly need to know that I haven’t told the other Aurors?”

The Director leant forward on her elbows. “Who took you from your home, Healer Garnett?”

“They didn’t exactly introduce themselves.” A gesture over her eyes. “They used a Blindfold Charm.”

“Did they sound like men or women? How many of them?”

“Both, and I couldn’t say.”

“Did they modify your memory?”

Healer Garnett paused at this. “No, I have perfect recollection, no missing time. I’m sure they didn’t.”

Clever, Draco thought. If a witness were to admit to confusion or mention any inconsistencies, they could be legally called upon to subject their memories for detection of magical interference.

The Director pressed on. “Where were you kept?”

The response was also immediate. “I don’t know.”

“You must have had an idea of where you were held. What noises there were, how large the space was.”

“It was cold. I couldn’t hear anything, I couldn’t see anything.” Healer Garnett shrugged. “It might have been underground.”

“What else can you tell us?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, but I’ll have to disappoint you. I have no idea what they wanted with me, I’m just a pensioner.”

The two women eyed each other for a long moment.

“I should think you’re very exceptional indeed, Healer Garnett.”

“Why is that?”

Cheung tilted her head, a curtain of straight dark hair sliding off her shoulder. “The Loyalists have taken others, some of them just as yourself, simply gone in the middle of the night, but none of them with so little fuss. None of them without a fight, without an injury. And you’re the very first to be recovered alive. You are unique, Healer Garnett.”

The woman ran her hand over the edge of the table. “I suppose that makes me suspicious.”

“Not necessarily. They let you go. Why is that?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

This finally seemed to rattle Garnett. “What’s that supposed to mean? I should think if there was anything I could do to fight against those vile, fascistic sect of halfwits, of course I would do it. Of course.”

Cheung was almost off her seat now. “Then do. Tell me why they took you. What did they want?”

Healer Garnett shook her head, drawing in on herself.

“You said it yourself, these people must be stopped. Would you like me to tell you how many they’ve killed this year alone? How many they’ve tortured? Perhaps you’d like to see photos-”

“I know what these people are capable of. Who do you think dealt with the bodies at St Mungo’s the first time around? Or, worse, the survivors? I’m not afraid of what they can do to me,” the Healer snapped.

“Then who are you fearful for?”

But that’s all the Healer would say. She repeated what she’d told them, over and over again, until they had no choice but to let her go.

Granger came into the room shortly after she’d left. “That was strange.”

“Indeed. Malfoy?” the Director asked, turning to him.

“She wasn’t kept around here. Her clothing smelled musty. There was also resin, old beer and honey.”

Granger looked at him strangely. “Honey?”

“Are you questioning my nose?” That would have been a first.

Cheung walked around the desk, arms crossed. “Would you say she was kept somewhere in the city? Out in the countryside?”

“If she did, they were keeping her holed up underground.”

“Not underground,” Granger said. “The musty smell, would you say it was damp?”

“Isn’t that essentially the same thing?”

“Did it smell of salt?”

Draco shook his head. “I’m sorry, Granger, but salt doesn’t actually smell of anything. It was a bit… Briny, I will admit.”

“Do you have an idea?” Cheung asked, seeing Granger taking furious notes in her notebook.

“Maybe, but I’ll have to check with Florence first. We may need to work on her spell,” she squeezed Draco’s forearm and hurried out, her bag slapping the door on the way out.

“I don’t like this.”

“Seeing Granger excited is always good cause for alarm,” Malfoy agreed.

“I mean this business with Surella Garnett being returned unscathed.”

“She was scared.”

“Exactly.” The Director sat on the edge of the table, staring at the toes of her boots. “She’s seen it all, tough as nails, and something has her terrified. What the fuck is going on, Malfoy?”

“We’ll find out.”

Cheung nodded. “Off you go, then, and keep Granger out of trouble.”

“I don’t say it lightly, but you may be overestimating my skills.”

His boss took this in stride. “Have a crack at it, at least.”

~*~

Draco boarded the empty train at St Pancras, just before a quarter to nine in the evening. At that time, the station was sparsely populated - a vast cavernous space echoing with his steps. He chose an empty carriage and a seat one row over from the doors.

Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

The doors slid shut and the train gathered speed as the announcer rattled through the stops:

This train will stop at Farringdon, City Thameslink, London Blackfriars, London Bridge…

Then the fluorescent lights overhead flickered, and he was no longer alone. A man and a woman stood on opposite ends of the carriage, their faces obscured under the hood of their dark cloaks. On their left shoulder glistened the ghostly shape of a white hand.

Loyalist scum.

“If it isn’t Master Malfoy,” came the mocking voice of the man, cockney accent thick as a pork pie. If Malfoy had ever met him, he had clearly blocked the memory. “Last time I put eyes on you, you looked like such a waif. My, my, but the boy has grown.”

“Like a fucking weed,” the woman agreed from behind Malfoy’s back. His neck prickled with unease. He hated having an enemy at his back, and he enjoyed being boxed in even less.

Though the muscles of his back bunched and released, he forced himself to remain still.

“We’ve heard through the Devil’s Snare that you have something we need and - lucky us! - turns out you’re planning on parting with it tonight, anyways. It’s well simple,” the man’s unshaven jaw was suddenly visible in the intermittent light of the tunnel. “Hand us the necklace and there’s no need for any ugliness.”

“It doesn't belong to you and, if I’m any judge, I don’t think it will suit you,” Malfoy countered.

“Play nice,” the man spat, “or it will be your aunt Bella playing with you. She does like her toys, but she doesn’t leave them half broken.”

Fear pressed in, thick and cold and horribly familiar. “Oh, I don’t know. She must be going soft in her dotage, if she’s sending the likes of the two of you.”

The man moved in at the same time as the woman drew her wand, but Malfoy had already Apparated to the following carriage, locking the door behind him.

They blew the door to the carriage down after him and Malfoy launched a half row of seats in their path before aiming two stunning spells. Something - spellwork or mangled metal, he couldn’t tell - took down the witch but the wizard vaulted and sent Malfoy flying back with a Flipendo.

He rolled, dodged two Curses from the witch and burst one of the windows to shower the Loyalists with glass.

The wizard yelled in pain but the witch shielded and, quicker, Apparated almost on top of Draco. He smelled the sourness of milk on the turn on her breath as she tried to immobilise him. “Give us the fucking necklace!”

“Come and get it,” Draco countered, as the windows of the carriage in front were swathed in darkness. She shrieked more curses and he had to shield against dark arrows of ice, a spike coming close enough to nick his ear, before they were out of the tunnel and he’d Apparated on top of the carriage.

London was a vast galaxy of artificial light, flashing and twinkling and streaking past at speed. Draco spun, arms out to keep his balance as the metal under his feet turned dark red and pulsed, the only warning he got before the roof of the carriage exploded.

He vaulted over the hole, his heart in his mouth as the witch blocked his path, her mouth jagged in scorn as she cursed him. “ Cru-”

The word wasn’t out before she took his Stupefy to the abdomen, her insensate body landing close to the edge. One of her arms dangled off the side.

The train slowed as they neared the next station and the wizard came up through the damaged ceiling. “Go on, little Malfoy. Give it up, lad. We have your scent now, and we’ll just keep on coming.”

“I like my chances just fine.”

Draco ran.

The train entered a tunnel and all turned dark except for the flashes of spells, bursts of light zipping close to Draco’s face, his arm, tearing through his trousers for a glancing blow at his knee. He felt the trickle of sweat down his back and the uncoiling of a spell behind him. He Apparated to where he really fucking hoped was the very edge of the carriage.

As the train emerged from the tunnel, he had the wizard in a Bind.

Shaking off the remnants of the Stunning spell, the witch got gingerly on her knees and elbows, and stood. “I’ll kill you if you hurt him.”

“I don’t doubt that you will.” Malfoy marched the wizard closer to the end of the carriage, his hair whipping around his face.

“Don’t fucking do it,” the Loyalist witch hissed.

“The way I see it, you have a chance, but only if you’re quick.” Malfoy judged the distance, saw the bridge approaching, the glimmer of Blackfriars station, and made a split second decision. He took the necklace from inside his robes pocket and draped it over the wizard’s neck. The man stared at him in mute hatred. “Here, catch.”

Then he launched the man off the side of the train. With a sound like rending cloth, the witch Disapparated.

There was no splash.

Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Draco dropped down to the carriage and found an undamaged seat to rest in. The landscape changed slowly beside him, high rise buildings becoming scarcer and giving way to homes lined up like biscuits in a packet.

“Did you manage to tag them?”

“Of course,” came Granger’s voice as she came to sit beside him. “Do you think it might have been worth tagging the necklace, too?”

“No, it’s definitely getting checked for anything out of the ordinary. Not to mention that they’ll get rid of it as soon as they realise it’s a fake.”

She nodded. "I suppose we should be getting back and cracking on. There's the Rosedale report to file."

"I've done that one," Draco said. "Turned it in last night."

"Cheers. Since we're still on the clock, we could linger around the offices in case something comes in." They both mulled this over.

"They can find us if they need us. In the meantime, we could go for a bit of supper. Are you hungry at all?"

"I could eat," Granger entreated.

They wound up, as people do at that hour in the evening, at a pub. It was a small place, no more than a hole in the wall, its name following the convention and combining a farmyard animal and innuendo, something along the lines of The Belligerent Arse or The Vigorous Cock.

It was a kitschy place, going for bohemian maximalism with a dash of Old Britannia. They selected a booth by a fake fireplace mantle topped by an oil painting of a Jack Russell terrier in a crown. “You should have Cassie painted like this,” Granger suggested.

“It would look fabulous right over the sofa, so she could survey her domain forevermore.” When his partner was taking her time going through the menu (he had no idea why; he already knew she’d go for the Korean fried chicken waffle), he entreated, “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m worried about the new version of the spell.”

“It had better work,” Malfoy sipped his pint. “Chasing down Mycelium and feeding him the tip off about the necklace was painful enough.”

Granger shifted, the leather of the booth squeaking gently. “There should have been a way to do this without drawing attention to you.”

Her concern was as sweet as it was genuine. “It’s hardly a secret, Granger. My whole family knows I’m an Auror.”

“I should have served as bait, instead.”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly. But out of the two of us, you’re still the one most likely to get a short sharp Curse in the back. It will work. You're overthinking this."

She let out an almighty sigh. "I know."

“Have you got any new tricks to show me? Maybe the interesting spellwork you used inside the tunnel?”

Her lips quirked. “Noticed that, did you?”

“I’ll have you know I’m surprised all my hair is still on.”

“Truly a miracle.” She pulled her wine closer, turned up her palm and slowly gathered her fingertips. Ice crawled along the stem of the glass in a layer, turned luminescent and, with a minute gesture, sublimated to steam.

Inside the glass, floating gently on the wine, was a single rose petal.

Malfoy tried to control his surprise. “Wait, how did you do that? That’s precision spellwork.”

“I told you I’m getting better, despite your insistence that you won’t practise with me.”

“That’s why the hair is still on, let’s not forget.”

They ordered a round of drinks to celebrate the success of their tagging, and the next to toast the success of Granger’s foray into wandless magic, and another because the drinks had turned out to be delicious.

Her laugh was a lovely, eyes shut and wrinkling at the edges thing, and he wanted to kiss her.

"Where's your dimple gone?" Hermione's soft smile slid. "Go on, bring it back."

His heart rate was all over the place. "I thought you didn't like my dimple."

"I never said that. What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all." Everything was wrong, and he had the feeling that nothing would be quite right ever again. Surely he didn't mean to kiss her.

Yes, I do.

Well, yes, perhaps, because Granger was really quite arresting in her unique way, but not because he meant to hold her closer in the pub snug and kiss her.

Yes, I rather think I do. That sounds perfect.

This level of stark and painful realisation was frankly inadmissible on a Thursday evening. Draco found he couldn't cope with it, so he didn't. He moved straight past it at speed, waving it away as he went.

Alarms were going off in his mind. Except, not just in his mind; in his pocket, his badge was blaring.

Granger’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Shit.” She conjured a Patronus - her casual use of advanced magic would never cease to amaze him and, damn him, she was beautiful every time - and sent a message. “Florence, we’ve been called to a scene. I’m going to need you to do something for me.”

~*~

Florence met them by a willow tree at the edge of their scene, two flasks of Pepper Up in hand and a confused expression. “What happened? Did the dropoff all go according to plan?”

“More or less. It, uh, took a turn,” Granger stalled, downing one of the potions and handing Malfoy the other. It burned his throat on the way down, but it was turning out to be a night to experience all kinds of internal discomfort. “Merlin, this is hideous.”

“Malfoy, Granger,” Stallworth greeted, looking harassed. Granger straightened as if jolted into action. “You’re on babysitting duty for a squad of juniors.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t imagine what’s tripping you up about that statement. It goes like this: there’s five junior Aurors running around. You would imagine getting through Basic would mean they have a modest amount of common sense but I can confirm this is in no way the truth. Look after them, make sure they don’t hurt themselves or anyone else and get them to produce something that resembles a report.”

Draco looked at the semi-detached homes in front of them and frowned. “How likely are they to hurt themselves or others?”

“In my experience? You’ll have to watch them like a fucking hippogryff on three shots of espresso.” Stallworth finally noticed Florence. “What are you doing here?”

“Just catching up about the new Tracing Spell.”

“Right-o. I know it’s your night off but don’t ever let Cheung catch you coming into a scene smelling of wine,” he warned. Granger winced.

As Stallworth went into the scene, Florence rounded on them. “Is that why you had me bring you the potions?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to. Where are those juniors?”

There were three men and two women, all sporting the bewildered look of the freshly minted Auror. Gods, had Malfoy really ever looked that young? Or had the War landed an extra decade on his shoulders and features in a way their juniors had never experienced?

Granger rounded on them with immediate intensity. “You’re splitting up. One of you is on perimeter sweep, two of you are to check the house top to bottom - and you had better ensure you don’t miss a single detail as I will be checking. The last two are on witness statements and canvassing the neighbourhood. What are you waiting for?” she added, seeing the vacant consternation in their faces. “Go on. I expect an update in twenty minutes.”

As soon as the juniors dispersed, bumping into each other and muttering as they decided on task assignments, Granger’s shoulder slumped.

“What’s with the shivering?”

“I don’t think the potion was a good idea,” she exhaled in a winge and, in the absence of a water bottle or blanket, made the alarming decision to seek him out. “You’re so warm,” she moaned.

“Fucking- your hands are freezing!” he complained in a hiss, because the horrible witch had snuck her iced appendages up his shirt. Her only response was a broken moan, somewhat muffled against his chest, even as he wrapped himself around her like vines.

He shouldn’t.

This was so fucking stupid. Such self-destructive nonsense, this desperation to get closer, to feel more, to draw her in like breath and hold her in his lungs, in his heart. She was there, stamped and woven into him.

He really fucking shouldn’t, but he did.

Draco drank her in, delighted in the small noises of pleasure that were like fingers down his back - but those were real, her actual hands pressing against his skin with delicious firm intent. A dinner, drinks, and he would have given anything to take her home and see what other sweet, breathy noises he could draw from her before the night was over. To feel her shivering in pleasure against him. The thought alone had him twisting his hips so Hermione wouldn’t feel him, hard against the softness of her abdomen.

This is how Stallworth found them, completely wrapped up in each other, and shot Draco a disbelieving look. Shit. The older Auror rolled his eyes and stalked off before Granger even noticed him there.

“Is that better?” Draco asked her with a voice that had gone grittier, trying to act as if he didn’t feel like his very bones were glowing.

“Much,” she sighed, ending their - hug? Embrace? Poisonous blend of pleasure and pain? - and squaring her shoulders to go check on their future colleagues’ work.

“The victim disappeared earlier this evening. There were clear signs of a struggle-”

“Conjecture,” Granger interrupted. 

The Auror glowed as red as a Remembrall. “P-pardon?”

“What did you actually see ?”

Malfoy clocked the young man picking at his cuticles. “Everything in the house was strewn around, especially by the door, where the victim must have been taken.”

“Everything in the house? Are you sure about that?” Granger insisted.

Another one of the Aurors came forth, a young woman with golden blonde hair. “Not the whole house. In fact, it was mostly the foyer and a few bits around the kitchen. Plates and things.”

“Anything valuable?” Malfoy asked.

“No.”

“Interesting. What else?” Granger entreated.

The sequence of events built itself bit by bit, after much back and forth. The victim’s partner reported him missing as soon as she came home. This came on the tail end of a spat of small crimes and nuisance behaviour in the area: damage to the fences, rubbish strewn on the lawns, cracked windows, loud noises in the middle of the night. Their next door neighbour, an elderly Muggle with square little glasses, looked particularly perturbed as he relayed the events.

“How long has the victim’s partner lived here?” Draco asked.

It became evident no one had checked. “Why is that relevant?” The blonde witch was feverishly taking notes in a notepad. Maybe there’s one in every generation.

“There’s only one toothbrush and no male grooming products in the bathroom. I only see the witnesses’ shoes and cloak. What does that tell you?”

“He left of his own free will,” sighed the young witch, disappointed. “We’ll probably find him at his home address.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so,” Granger said. “This,” she gestured around them at the old Victorian home, “is a prime piece of real estate right in the middle of an affluent Muggle neighbourhood. A lot of these homes are being converted into one large mansion or as a block of flats worth millions of pounds. Imagine you’re a young witch whose grandmother left you half the property. The other half,” the juniors followed her in a perfect queue, like ducklings following their mother, “is owned by an impressionable older Muggle who’s surprisingly spry.”

“And you realise that maybe you can convince him to sell his half of the property at a reasonable price," Malfoy continued.

Ahead, Granger wobbled, but recovered gamely. “Chances are, there was never any partner to speak of. Get our witness into interrogation and, should she fail to go in willingly, stick her with a false report. We’ll figure out the rest of the charges later.”

The lanky junior Auror stayed behind, still worrying at the ends of his fingers. “How did you two do that?”

“Part of it is experience,” Malfoy explained. “But mostly? It’s about seeing what’s really in front of you.”

A lesson he felt destined to learn for himself, over and over again.

Chapter Text

Two dull pops of Apparition sounded in a side alley and there was a muted, rushed conversation. “Push off.”

“Does it look like I’ve got any space to move around in, you fathead?” Asheni garbled at him.

The first voice didn’t seem to take too kindly to this insult. “Why are people constantly going on about the size of my head?” Malfoy wondered aloud.

“It really is quite large,” said Granger.

“Casts a shadow,” agreed Stallworth.

“I’ve heard it’s inversely proportional to the size of the-”

“Ash,” Stallworth cut in, and a second later they could see why. The two Loyalists Granger had tagged were clomping along to a semi-hidden doorway further along. Between them, a mechanism was produced and unfolded, metal cogs and tubes stretching to assemble a frame. The wizard and witch affixed it but didn’t have enough time to get at their wands before they’d been reduced to a crumpled heap on the cobbles.

“What is that thing?” Asheni asked, as Malfoy finished securing the two suspects.

Granger examined the frame’s spellwork as they waited. Even the sky seemed to be holding in its judgement, dark low hanging clouds pressing down on them to darken the afternoon into dusk with the querulous promise of a storm. “We’ve seen this before, Malfoy and I. It’s the same mechanism they used at the jewellers and the Museum. It generates a portal.”

“Is it set to a location?” At Granger’s nod, Stallworth’s countenance firmed. “Right, hold positions here. I’ll take them back to Detention and light the beacons.”

Asheni was barely containing her excitement. “Is this going to be a stealthy, go in and stick to the shadows type of thing?”

“We’re past stealth now, Ash.”

"Excellent." Their fellow Auror gave Malfoy and Granger a wide grin and Disapparated. In minutes, the alley was crawling with witches and wizards severely bedecked in black cloaks. The entire SDB had been summoned, and Malfoy thought he recognised a few people from Potter’s team at the central DMLE.

The atmosphere was electric, hushed jokes and the nervous titters of those about to risk their lives and thus could only go through with it by making light of it, and yet there was still something like excitement in the air. There had been too many months of frustrated searches, too many haunting crime scene photos, unsolved murders piling up on desks as a constant reminder of their joint failure.

Tonight was the chance to put a stop to it all, and, to a woman and man, they could all taste it. Malfoy’s blood thumped in his ears, his mouth gone dry, and it made no difference that he’d done this before, that he’d joined dozens of raids and come out unscathed at the other end of it.

“Line up,” Cheung told them all. “Malfoy, you’re taking point.”

Draco touched his body harness, his field potion kit and wand holster as if following a subconscious checklist before he felt Granger’s knuckles graze his own. From the corner of his eye, he thought her calm at first, yet her firewhiskey eyes were alight with adrenaline. He returned her touch, his indicator snagging onto hers for half a breath.

At Cheung’s signal, Draco leaned in to clear the arched opening of the Edwardian building so he wouldn’t brain himself on the voussoir, completely blind to what awaited him on the other side.

“We’ll be right behind,” Granger whispered.

Malfoy went, and his foot went through the floor as he spun, stretched, every ligament taught as a violin string, before the spinning slowed, but didn't stop.

After a few seconds Draco realised he wasn't the one spinning, but everything else. The very floors tilted beneath his feet, rocking unsteadily side to side in a swaying, regular movement.

Strong, heady brine hit his nostrils at the same time, and he realised where the portal had delivered him. He was at sea. The floorboards beneath him formed a hull, the deck stretching above him as ceiling.

No wonder no one had been able to pinpoint the Loyalist hideouts. They must have been hiding in ships off the coast, forever moving. The thought of the miserable winters they must have spent bobbing in the waves gave Malfoy no small amount of satisfaction.

He crawled along, conscious of the fellow party crashers about to follow him in, and scuttled along the ropes, buckets and lanterns to steal glances at the deck. He heard voices, the muffled stomps of booted feet, and waited.

“Will you look at that?” Asheni said from behind him. “Nice of them to have backed themselves neatly into a net.”

Draco had to agree. The expanse of water all around them, not to mention the constant motion aboard the ship, made Apparating inside it an almost surefire way to Splinch oneself horribly.

Without warning, the sky was suddenly visible above them and a startled witch gave out a scream.

And from one second to the next, the battle was on in earnest.

Stallworth Stunned and Bound the witch with expert speed amidst Aurors running up to the deck, Granger and Malfoy at the fore.

The ship was wide and long, three masts towering above them with sails furled against the rising wind.

Two Curses flew past him, Loyalists scrambling out of the heavy fog to join the fight. He saw Granger shielding with her wand even as she motioned with her other hand to pull an attacker out from the crow’s nest and send him crashing onto the boards.

Malfoy enchanted ropes to Disarm and restrain two witches trying to flank them and felt the small hairs of his neck get singed by a sudden burst of fire behind him.

“Steady on!” Stallworth admonished. “Don’t go bursting so many holes in this thing or we’re going down with it.”

“Don’t worry, old man. I’ll Transfigure you the nicest dingy you’ve ever seen,” said Asheni.

“You better make sure you leave at least one plank of wood unburned, then.”

Despite Stallworth’s protestations, half the boat seemed soon to be ablaze, Loyalists using Darker, more punishing Curses as they lost ground. One of them aimed a Bombarda too close to the main mast and it shattered, swinging to sweep the deck. Malfoy ran in its direction, flinging a hand to push Granger down as it sailed above their heads and dragged multiple Loyalists out to the choppy waves, Stallworth with them.

Asheni shouted, unable to help as two - no, three wizards closed in on her.

Malfoy dived in behind the older Auror. He felt the dive as if hitting cold glass that splintered over his hands and face, such was the difference in temperature. He bobbed in the water amidst the debris, Curses zinging past him to hit the surface until he spotted Stallworth floating maybe eighty feet away.

He swam as fast as he dared while shielding, all too aware of the easy target he presented out on the water. Before he even reached Stallworth, fat raindrops started pelting them. The storm had finally broken.

He found the Auror unresponsive yet breathing, which Malfoy hoped meant he’d just been knocked out. The flare of the fire and multiple spells had turned the ship into a hellish sight, yet there was the sense that the battle was turning. Chatter became audible as, “Down here!” and “I found one,” were signs that the fray might be coming to an end.

And then, the fog thinned, darkening, as a huge shape came close.

“Fucking hell,” Draco muttered, seeing the outline of the second ship, Loyalists lined up and staring down at him from the rigging. Spells impacted the water beside him and he swam away, the weight of his soaked robes combining with Stallworth’s to drag him back.

It was a futile effort. He’d never get away in time.

From across the water, he heard frantic yelling and saw Granger running, locks of hair plastered to the side of her face. The ship they’d taken was too far for them to join the battle.

Malfoy saw his partner immediately scramble for a better vantage point.

What are you doing, Granger?

Just then, a Reducto hit the water just beside him and the resulting wave sent him spinning, unable to shield, and he dived, hoping he wasn’t drowning Stallworth in the process. When he came up, he only had a moment to notice Granger’s expression before he was shouting, “Granger! No!”

She’d already done it. With a crack that rang loudly in the sodden air, she Apparated on the second ship and set to work ripping it to shreds. Wood splintered, sails shredded to the wind as blasts of magic had Loyalists scrambling for cover.

This woman. There was the blistering, relentless brilliance of a supernova to her. Pity he had no time to watch. He continued to swim away even as more Aurors, emboldened by Granger’s success, Apparated across to join the fray. They helped him heave Stallworth aboard and pulled him up. He joined in immediately, summoning an Aegis to protect Granger from being flanked.

Malfoy was whirling around to take stock of the battle when he was struck. He couldn’t understand what had happened at first, found himself unable to conciliate the impact and the large wound left by the magical bolt in his side with every bit of sensory input.

Everything was cold and wet, his skin smarting from the wind and salt.

Then he made the mistake of breathing in, and the pain nearly killed him.

The wizard responsible already had another Curse ready when Malfoy shielded, then counterattacked, looking for cover but finding none. The Aurors were being pushed to the bow of the ship, away from where he was fighting at the stern.

“Die, you fucking traitor,” his attacker spat.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Malfoy replied, dodging a nasty wheel of cuts to launch a Stunning spell.

They traded blows, the deck slippery under Draco’s boots. He was losing ground, his vision clouding and the roaring of the sea and his own adrenaline in his ears. “I seem to be doing just fine.”

His adversary was familiar - tall, broad, and there was the distinctive scent wafting even in the heavy salt air. “I’ve seen you before.”

“You don’t even know how true that is,” the Smoker sneered, confident in his victory, and rightfully so. Draco couldn’t win this. If only he could stall for long enough, the other Aurors would help. Granger herself would give short shrift to this arsehole.

Then Malfoy was slammed back and he fell through a doorway. Not just a doorway, but another portal. More discomfort, that same sensation of an endless drop, sudden and weightful, and he was on a rooftop terrace.

London’s skyline stretched before him. Malfoy took a knee; it was getting more and more difficult to breathe.

“I’d hoped you would have recognised me. I have to say, Malfoy, I’m a little wounded.”

The voice scratched like a nail at the edges of the pages of his mind, trying to catch the right one.

The Smoker noticed. “There it is. The Sickle has dropped.” He pushed the hood back and Draco saw his face for the first time. Then the Smoker moved in, too quickly for Malfoy to realise what was happening - until a solid weight crashed into his wounded abdomen, bowling him over.

He howled in pain at the kick, his hand uselessly scrabbling for a wand he wasn't going to use. "I don't want to fight you," Draco mouthed.

"You've always hated the odds of a good, clean fight."

Fists rained down on his face, glanced off his jaw, and his windpipe might have suffered serious damage if his training hadn't kicked in. His forearm was up with a Protego, pure muscle memory to the rescue, even as he felt a kick to the magical barrier that sent him spinning.

There was movement from the doorway. The momentary distraction was all he needed.

The next kick met empty air as he shifted. The empty terrace was replaced by sudden brightness of spellwork, his foe pinned to the floor with wolf's jaws around his throat.

“That’s new,” Goyle told him.

Malfoy could have finished it, then.

But he found this was not an ending he could live with. Maybe it would have been different if Goyle had been trying to kill him instead of bestowing angry, physical punishment. Perhaps, if he had looked more like a Loyalist, weathered and angry for malice, and less like the soft-jawed teenager he'd been friends with for so many years, Draco would have seen him as a threat and an enemy.

He couldn't.

Draco's own guilt shackled him, restrained him, made him hesitate and shift back, panting, a few feet away.

Goyle’s expression was murderous. “Still too much of a coward to finish the job?”

“My job isn’t killing people. It’s finding and arresting the guilty.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night when you’re staring at the shadows, waiting for your reckoning?” Goyle got to his feet, his hulking form towering over Draco.

“The Loyalists are finished.”

His former best friend pressed in, a horrible gleam in his eyes. “Our work is just getting started. You have no idea of what is coming, Malfoy. We’re getting it all back. It’s going back to how it was, before it all went wrong.”

“Come in,” he urged, ignoring the fanatical posturing. “There will be stragglers, there always are, and I will help you navigate the Wizengamot to get a fair deal. You can come out on the other side of this.”

“I would die before turning into a blood traitor.” Goyle spat on the ground between them.

“You very nearly just did! Would it have been worth it?” Malfoy shouted. "Think me a traitor if you must, at least I didn't go looking for another, crueler bully, waiting to be given orders instead of conjuring a thought of my own, for once in my life!"

It was the wrong thing to say, yet it was out there. Malfoy regretted it immediately, well before his childhood friend dug his wand into his neck with enough force to bruise. "Then fight me."

Malfoy's wand remained firmly pointed away as he clapped the other man's shoulder. Even after shifting he could scent the acrid bitterness of Goyle's fear, see the way his big bulk trembled. "I won't. I know you, Gregory, I've known you most of our lives, so listen to me. I can bring you in, and we can make the best of it."

“How can you wear that uniform and work for our enemies? The same people that killed my father?” Goyle was in his face, fingers curling menacingly around the collar of Draco's robes.

“Because we don’t have to keep repeating our fathers’ mistakes. They were wrong, Gregory. The right side won.”

Goyle hauled him up, dangling him close to the edge. “That's your mistake, Malfoy. The War isn’t over yet.”

And he threw Draco over the side of the building.

~*~

“You two." The Healer approached them with intense efficiency, waving his wand to get instruments on the table ready for use. "You need to leave," he told Hermione.

"She stays," Draco countered.

"I need to run diagnostics and examine you-"

"She's my person," he meant partner, Granger knew he meant partner. "She stays."

The Healer's face pinched. "So be it." He gestured for Draco to shift slightly on the gurney. Even the small movement made him grimace.

Granger just stood to the side in perfect, stone cold silence, eyes fixed on him. He rushed to fill it, discombobulated by the look on her face. It wasn't one he recognised.

"I'm sure it's nothing serious."

She still said nothing. Her eyes burned him.

"Just the wound and a few bones that need mending, I'll be cleared for duty in no time."

The Healer let out a noise of derision, gesturing at the readouts. "Not likely, the damage to your ribcage alone-"

Draco tried to make frantic gestures at him to shut up and an electric jolt earthed itself in his spine, all the way up to his neck and jaw, making him gasp and sink his nails into the gurney's slim mattress so as not to cry out. "I'm already injured, would you mind not throwing me under the bus?"

"I have to be realistic," the Healer shrugged. Unannounced, he weaved a spell that felt like a whole maw of needle-pointed teeth sinking into Malfoy's side. He screamed, loudly and without any possibility of restraint, his vision pulsing red. "This may sting a bit."

Utter bastard, Draco thought, but couldn't verbalise through the pain.

Hermione shifted, then, drawing close to the gurney and capturing one of his hands. "You're an idiot. A very nearly dead idiot, splat down on the cobbles."

Despite it all, he almost breathed a sigh of relief. Her silence at him was unbearable but Granger berating him was just a Tuesday. It made it fixable. "It was a small fall."

"It was five. Stories. And whatever your talents," her eyes glanced briefly to the Healer with an appraising edge; the man seemed entirely oblivious to their spat, "suddenly sprouting wings isn't one of them."

"I-" Draco started to protest that he had quite another plan to exit that roof when the Healer did something else that lanced through his internal organs like a shard of ice. His link with reality frayed, his vision tunnelled, and there was a passing thought that losing consciousness would be a welcome reprieve.

"Can't you give him something for the pain?" Granger said. Bless her. Her hand was on his forehead, on his cheek, lightly touching his jaw, cool and gentle. He might have leaned into it.

"Not yet." Knob gobbler of a Healer.

The discomfort eased nonetheless, and the Healer left for supplies, leaving them alone for a few moments.

“How’s Stallworth?”

“Fine. Cleared to go home.”

“Did we get them all?” he insisted, aiming for more than clipped answers.

“A few of them got away in the confusion, and Bellatrix was nowhere to be found.” Silence stretched, then. “I thought I was too late,” Granger whispered. “I only caught a glimpse when I went through the portal - it was Goyle, wasn’t it?” Draco had no way to deny it, so he stayed silent. It was all the confirmation Granger needed. “I thought as much. Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“I was trying to reason with him.”

This incensed her. “Reason with him? Is that what we’re doing with violent criminals now? Sitting down for a chat about their career prospects and how they might, just possibly, not want to go around terrorising and killing Muggleborns and their families?”

“We used to be friends. In actual fact, he was probably the closest I had to a brother, and I failed him.”

“You didn’t fail him.”

“Didn’t I? I didn’t look out for him. We parted ways after our respective trials and I didn’t check to see how he was doing. He didn’t reach out either, but that’s no excuse,” he preempted, seeing the argument form.

“It’s not the same. The two of you are not the same.”

“Once upon a time, you could have very successfully argued that I was the worst of the both of us,” Draco countered, and he could see Granger struggling with that truth, trying to manipulate it into submission. “It’s been nice, this second chance.” He paused, watched her for a few moments. “I should like him to have one of his own.”

“You fought for your second chance, worked for it, put yourself in harm’s way. Goyle’s done nothing of the sort.”

“I was lucky. My father lived, and it’s easy to be angry at him and what he’s done when he’s right there. Highly convenient stuff. But Gregory’s died in the Battle of Hogwarts, and he can’t argue with a ghost. In his mind, switching sides would be a desecration of his father’s memory, the ultimate disrespect for his sacrifice.”

“Draco…”

“I know. I get it, trust me.”

“He could have killed you. He certainly tried,” she grew agitated again, eyes raking over him. “Whatever happens, don’t do this again. You’re not to get hurt.”

“It’s not always avoidable, Granger. It’s the job.”

“It’s only a job if you survive it. Otherwise, it’s a suicide mission. I won’t allow it.”

“Granger…”

“Don’t. You don’t get to scoff, and you don’t get to act like an idiot, because I know you know better. Saying my name with that voice and doing the sparkly eyes things does nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am inured, immune and unaffected. Should you do anything this bloody stupid ever again, you better hope I don’t get my hands on you afterwards.” Then she went quiet, checking the wounds on his bare chest and stomach with cold assessment, her shoulders still set and eyes distant the whole way through.

Without a word, Draco let her get on with it. He would have liked to claim that this was strategic, a surefire way to let her simmer through the head of steam she’d built up, but mostly he found himself tongue tied, to have her care this much for him, this openly.

He'd finally recognised the too wide eyes that skittered, the hands that wouldn't stop working at something - because Granger was afraid. Is she were any less serious, Draco would have teased her, or berated her for being overbearing while risking her own life in new and creative ways at every given opportunity.

Such as it was, he couldn't.

He'd been half drowned, stabbed and thrown off a building, yet this feeling, this gathering glow, blanketed him completely, suffocating him. It was miserable, tremendous, and the worst thing to happen to him that day.

“Have I thanked you yet?” he finally managed.

Granger ignored him.

“I should. I suspect all your Charms and Enchantments on my harness are the only reason I survived.” He claimed her attention, his fingers curled around her slim wrist, keeping her there as he thumbed her delicate bones and the dip of her pulse. "Thank you, Hermione."

The tension in her softened, a gradual thawing. They stayed like that for a very long time indeed, even when the Healer returned, a silent conversation that was all perfect understanding of push and pull, and the knowledge that this was far from over.

Chapter Text

The morning briefing at the SDB was generally a brief and sedate affair, no more than a huddle to catch up with case assignments. Unless pre-warned by one of Wareham’s dry memos, attendance was by no means mandatory, and usually limped along at less than half the staff.

That morning, however, the room had to undergo a hurried Extension Charm - twice - to accommodate all the Aurors as they jostled for space, the joint hum of their whispering threatening to drown out Cheung’s voice.

“David Bradford is joining us from MACUSA as a Magical Law Enforcement liaison,” the Director was saying, unperturbed, as she introduced a tall, built wizard in well cut robes. He nodded politely at the assembly. “I’m sure we will all endeavour to make David feel welcome to the team.” That last bit was most definitely a threat.

“I think he’s very welcome. So welcome, in fact, he can have my firstborn,” Asheni whispered, prompting an eye roll from Stallworth.

“Very nice, Ash. I knew you were talking bollocks about not dating men for a year,” he said.

Asheni lifted a thick eyebrow. “Plans change, and I’d be all over Florence in a flash if there was no chance of me getting caught with my hand in her biscuit tin.” Then she flashed Florence a playful little wink.

Florence herself flushed pinker than her strawberry blond hair and Draco thought Stallworth’s scowl might have extended to him, too, even if he couldn’t possibly figure out why as he was in no way part of the conversation.

“Be quiet, Cheung’s about to get to the good bit,” Stallworth warned.

“Unless you’ve been living in a Horklump infested tree stump, you’ll be aware of the Minister’s plans for the August Market at Diagon Alley,” Cheung was saying.

“Is it really going ahead?” one of the youngest Aurors, Tilley, asked.

“Regretfully, yes.” There was a disjointed chorus of groans, expletives and general grumbling. “I know this is frustrating-”

“Frustrating?” Asheni piped up. “The Ministry is spewing lies to the newspapers about how the Loyalist threat is over, and now they’re putting on a fortnight long street party. They might as well put up a great big target saying, attack here! ”

More grumbling, this time agreeing with Asheni. “Are we supposed to patrol this thing? I heard from a chap at the DMLE that we were getting pulled to walk the streets.”

“Fuck off,” was the reaction from the back.

“No, I’m serious. They’ve suspended all non urgent casework.”

More protests followed. Beside Malfoy, Granger was staring silently at the Director, a furrow in her brow.

Cheung started saying something, then stopped herself, as if having to temper her words. “The Ministry has taken the line that people have had enough uncertainty and fear. We all know there are still Loyalists and sympathisers out there,” she put her palms up to quiet the swell of talk, “but, with thirty-seven suspects in custody and no threats or activity since the raid on their ships, there is also cause to be hopeful.”

“Right,” Stallworth huffed. “It’s like the fucking Death Eaters all over again. We’re giving them time to regroup, recruit and come back to wreak havoc on our lives.”

“Maybe it won’t be for a few years,” Tilley shrugged.

“Make no mistake, this isn’t over.” Granger’s back was so tense she was practically vibrating. Malfoy’s hand twitched as he reigned in the impulse to reach for her, to slide his palm down the ridge of her back and smooth her worries. There had been a pulsing anxiety to her ever since the raid. The prolonged spell of no Loyalist activity had only made it worse, given her no outlet, no avenue to pursue.

“We have been asked to patrol the Market in a show of strength and safety for the wider magical community,” Cheung drawled out as if reading from a press release, to more protests.

“Wonderful,” Granger muttered, turning towards the door the moment Wareham stepped up to talk of shift assignments.

“Granger,” the Director called her back. “My office.” Draco followed her in unasked, and his presence wasn’t contested. “The Minister will be making a speech on the Market’s opening day and he’s kindly requested your attendance.”

Malfoy’s partner didn’t even blink. “No.”

“Did you hear me say kindly requested? That was the Minister. This, what I’m doing here, is called an order, Granger.”

“I’m an Auror, not a performing Puffskein,” Granger ground out. “This isn’t part of my job and it isn’t happening.”

Cheung rubbed at her temple, looking tired and frazzled. “Normally I would say this is none of my business, but you snubbing the Minister’s request is the type of snafu that’s bound to crop up at a future critical juncture such as - oh, I don’t know - when I apply for additional funding to rebuild private proprety that got accidentally destroyed, or for resetting the Warding spells for the Daily Prophet no one meant to trigger, or for the bills St Mungo’s sends me, just to name a few. That makes it my business, Granger. Not now,” she snapped at Wareham as he approached her desk with a stack of parchment. 

“We’ve done ‘not now’ a week ago, Director,” Wareham warned.

“What about ‘later’?”

“Two days ago. It appears it lacks a tendency to transmogrify into the present.”

Cheung did not seem to appreciate the level of sass. “What about ‘piss off’?”

“We’ve done that twice already.”

“What is this?”

“It’s the payroll-”

“I know what this is,” the Director cut him off. “My question is, why are you putting it in front of me? Any assistant worth their salt can forge a signature, you’ve known how to do mine since your second week. Now, for the last time, go away .” Wareham left the room with a sniff. “I’ve had a bloody difficult week, Granger. Potter and I have tried everything we could come up with to block this fucking demented idea of opening the Market, but it’s going ahead regardless. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it.”

Granger seemed to mull this over. “I can’t promise grinning,” she finally said, “but I might show some teeth.”

~*~

Market inauguration day rolled around in blistering heat, the sky sun-faded to powder blue. For its first August Market in years, Diagon Alley transformed itself into a winding furl of silks and satins in jewel colours, shimmering and moving by magic in the dead air. At one end, overlapping stands promised magical gastronomy. One sold fried dough, rich with honey, nuts and spices. Another had chocolates with liquid potion centres, nestled into decorative paper boxes with labels such as Tenderness, Ambition or Nostalgia . But it was a smaller, quainter booth that drew them in.

“Pumpkin pasties,” Asheni crooned at the golden pastry parcels in delight, reaching for her purse and distributing them. “My treat. Stallworth?”

“I’ve never liked these.”

“Oh, right. You were probably there when they first brought pumpkins over to Europe, back when the peasants were still uncertain about-”

“Shut up and hand it over,” he sighed.

“I haven’t had those since the Hogwarts Express,” Granger revealed.

“I’ve never had one at all.” At their combined shock, Draco explained, “My parents were very distrustful of the food served on the train. I only ever had the stuff they sent with me.”

Asheni took a large bite off of hers. “They sound like horrible snobs,” she said through a mouthful.

“Pretty much.”

They had little choice but to move slowly down the street, packed in as they were by the crowd. Hundreds of witches and wizards had set aside their misgivings to join in the revelry, some already heavily into their beers and Elf-made wine. “What time is the speech?”

Malfoy regretted the question when, already guarded, Granger’s expression grew more muted. “Six o’clock.”

“What do you have to do? A wave and a handshake, then exit stage left?”

“As fast as I possibly can,” she muttered.

The stalls were changing, now littered with antique cauldrons, enchanted vases and ornate candlesticks holding Eternal Flames. “I thought you, Potter and Weasley got on well with the Minister, since he was in the Order with you all.”

Stallworth and Asheni hung back, feigning interest in one of the stalls to give them a modicum of privacy. “We might have both been Order members, but that’s the extent of our similarities.” At his confusion, Granger continued, “Harry was the kind of boy willing to risk his life for wizardkind as a teenager, and Kingsley was the kind of man to let him.”

Draco mulled that over, and sensed the anger in her towards someone so blinded by a cause that they could see a person - worse, still, a child - as an acceptable sacrifice, and wondered what she felt about Dumbledore, all these years later. “Should we check this one?”

Granger might have hesitated, but he’d seen the gleam in her eyes. “We’re supposed to be patrolling.”

“We’ll only be a few seconds.” He dragged her through rich purple silk drapery to a magically enlarged stall full of shelves of books. There were tomes floating midair, passages stretched from between the pages in ribbons of letters to hang in the air for a few seconds, allowing the reader a snippet of its contents. Some of the spells were more complex, and Draco stopped by one projecting an illustration that played on a loop to show landscapes full of snow, dragons flying overhead.

Granger went in further, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and reaching on tiptoes for a large book bound in teal with gold embossing. Her gentle, curious smile lit her as she ran a finger over the title page. It made her look more like herself than he’d seen her all day, and he wanted her this happy, always.

If there was a name to put to that feeling, someone would make a fortune in bottling it and wrapping it in chocolate.

“You should get it.”

“I have more than enough books,” Granger countered. That same curl had already bounced itself out of place, a vestige of her personality in contrast with the severe black of her uniform.

“You should still get it. Your birthday is coming up soon; it would be a nice gift to yourself.”

She pondered this, gave the price tag a hesitant look, and slipped it back on the shelf. “That’s too nice a gift. I’ll get something more modest.” Draco waited until she moved along and slipped it to the stallholder with his details to reserve; he’d come back for it later.

They were already back on the street when they heard a peel of laughter, too loud - followed by a scream. Draco ran, shouldering awkwardly amidst the press of people to find Asheni over a Stunned young man. “He was trying to attack that vendor. Have you seen his eyes? It’s as if he hasn’t got any pupils.”

“He was under a compulsion,” Stallworth explained, turning him on his side to help him breathe. “A simple Dispel should do it.”

It did work and, combined with a Renervate, the man was back on his feet, scratching at the back of his head. He couldn’t remember anything before he attacked the vendor, and the other man was shying away, even as more people drew closer to ascertain what had happened. Asheni went forth to get them to disperse and, close by, the wrappings of another stall were pulled as a fight broke out.

There were two of them, this time; two young women clawing at each other’s faces, their eyes just as blank. Draco didn’t even bother with Stunning them; two snaps of Dispel later, they were staring up at him, bleary eyed and confused.

“What the fuck is happening here?” he asked Stallworth. Right as he turned to look up and down the street, he saw a white haired witch stumble, then rush at her husband beside her.

Granger grabbed his elbow. “Something is wrong. It’s spreading.” Asheni and Stallworth moved to help the couple, even as Granger sent up sparks to alert the other patrolling Aurors. “These people aren’t being spelled,” she whispered close to his ear.

“It has to be some sort of Curse. If we find out how it spreads, we can contain it,” he agreed in a low voice. “Just some high spirits, with all the excitement,” he smiled at a group of passing wizards. “Nothing to worry about.” Or so he hoped.

“You keep an eye out on that end of the road, I’ll go up and-” she trailed off, seeing the puddle on the ground outside a stall doing good business selling ice cold Gillyweed and Butterbeer. “It’s the mirrors.”

“What?” Malfoy was already scanning the road for reflections, but Granger got his face between her hands, demanding eye contact.

“Don’t look. It’s transmitted by mirrors. The first man we saw was outside a glassblower’s, and the two young witches were buying makeup.”

“And the woman looked at this puddle before attacking her husband.”

From the corner of his eye, Malfoy noticed Asheni turn around, realise what she was doing, and shift to stare down at the cobbles. He did the same.

“There’s reflective surfaces everywhere along this street,” grumbled Stallworth.

“I have an idea. I’ll be back,” Granger vowed, and melted into the crowd.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” Malfoy shouted after her, but heard no reply. 

"Is she planning something reckless?" Asheni asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Yes," Draco sighed.

"How can you tell?"

"Her eyes are open."

~*~

Trying to surveil the Market without drawing enough attention to cause a panic or get Cursed by a stray reflection themselves proved a migraine of massive proportions. As six o’clock neared, Malfoy drew closer to the stage outside Gringotts to find his partner.

“Malfoy! Where the fuck is Granger?” Cheung was, evidently, doing the same.

“She’s dealing with an emergency, Director.”

“What emergency? Do I need to brief Potter?”

Or, in other words, was this a Loyalist plot? “Unclear. Also, you should avoid mirrors or anything reflective.” 

Cheung was suitably confused. “Fucking hell, Malfoy. Not today.”

“Sorry, Director.”

“Just find your partner and get her here. Now.”

But, as the minutes ticked away inexorably, Granger was nowhere to be found.

The Minister took to the stage as planned, talking of unity and taking back our streets and the bravery of serving Aurors. The voice boomed through the frame to where Draco was standing, sweating through his robes. Come on, Granger.

He tried to catch the Minister’s eye and ask him to stall, waffle, whatever was required, until Granger arrived, and eventually got on stage, standing on the sidelines to wave at the man.

"I am proud to stand here today and pronounce the Loyalist threat a thing of the past,” The Minister smoothly delivered. Prick. “One among many talented Aurors spearheading the daring efforts, a prominent Wizarding War figure, a leading light in the rebuilding of trust and safety in our world and close personal friend of mine,-" Kingsley Shacklebolt rattled off, gesturing towards where, half-hidden in the shadows and drapery in an easily recognisable Auror uniform, was “- Draco Malfoy.”

Malfoy couldn’t have said who was most surprised: himself, the Minister, or any of the hundreds going on thousands staring up at the stage with blank, puzzled or, here and there, outraged expressions.

Fucking hell.

“What are you waiting for?” Cheung hissed, and kicked his chin to get him to move.

Years of masking his feelings had, as it turned out, not been for naught. Draco reigned in his panic and put on an approximation of cool professional detachment to go and get his hand shaken by the Minister.

There was already a smattering of clapping, which rolled on like an avalanche. Group behaviour at its best, Draco considered, a corner of his horrified brain deciding to analyse the situation with serene detachment because if this was happening and he really was shaking the Minister’s hand in front of a massive crowd of people, this was either one of the worst things that had ever happened to him or a heat induced fever dream.

~*~

Predictably, he didn’t find her until hours later. “There you are. What are we doing up here?”

“We’re waiting. How did it go?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Poorly, but I think I managed to blag it in your stead. Cheung is furious with us again, expect shit assignments for the foreseeable. Also, I hate you.”

“I know,” Granger smiled with every sign of deep affection. “How does it feel, being a close personal friend of the Minister of Magic?”

“Hear that, did you?”

The air was barely shifting, the night still bright and warm, haloed in hues of orange burnishing to violet as only the very brightest stars studded the fabric of the sky. “I’d be very surprised if it didn’t make first page news.”

“It feels surprisingly inconsequential.”

She nodded. “I thought the same thing, myself.”

“Was this an elaborate form of sabotage?”

“I think your career will survive.”

“Yes, very funny, do mock the failure."

"On that, we agree. You were given every single opportunity in life to become an utter bastard and you still managed to bypass them all."

It might have been worth renouncing title and fortune, he thought, if only to hear those words from Hermione Granger. "Careful. That was almost a compliment."

"Good point, do forget I ever mentioned it." She was shifting around, eyes trained on the building across their rooftop, her steps arrhythmic and unsettled, like a small bird.

“You never said what we were waiting for.”

“Didn’t I? Well, let’s imagine a Cursed object was planted, something with a lasting, self-reproducing effect.”

“Hard to trace.”

Granger shrugged. “It was only a matter of finding a known affected reflection and using some Arithmancy to reverse-engineer the origin. Took me about fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen- Granger! That was hours ago and years off my life,” he whined. “Cheung kicked my chins!”

“Yes, yes, but you see - this is a valuable Cursed object. It’s old. Potentially one of a kind.”

“And you disabled it and logged it as evidence. Right? Oh, Granger,” he sighed, starting to recognise the excitement.

“I could have. But the other option was to leave it where it was - with some added bits of warding, of course.”

“And wait for someone to retrieve it?”

“Precisely.”

“Granger…”

Suddenly, the building across the street exploded with the bright light of activating Runes, the shockwave enough to be felt under his feet. She whooped, whirled once, right there on the rooftop, and-

Her soft mouth was on his, pressing, brushing, his own bottom lip caught between hers for a slice of a moment. It was warmth, spice and melting vanilla.

The next second, she was gone, Apparated across the road to go arrest some miscreants as if nothing had happened.

Draco sighed and ran a hand down his face.

Awful, devious witch.

Come back here. Do it again.

Chapter Text

“I’ll say this for the Director, there is justice in her retribution,” Draco gloated.

Granger looked around in dismay. They were standing in the middle of the gaudiest room - gaudiest house, as far as he could see - Draco had ever set foot in, and he was a Malfoy, so that was a feat in itself. “This is abhorrent.”

“For you, yes, absolutely. Me? I’m having a lovely time.”

“Stop being smarmy.”

“I’m not being smarmy, I’m being smug.” And he sprawled on the ugly ivory chaise with the golden tasseling. The salon was interspersed with hideous furnishings in the same shades, right up to the enormous light fixtures, and it was remarkable how the efforts to tie it all together in a coherent fashion could have failed so miserably.

“You’re having fun,” she accused.

“Correction: I am having all the fun, which is exactly the point, seeing as I am the remarkable, dependable Auror, and you’re a vortex of chaos. And hair.”

Granger cocked an eyebrow. “Remarkable, are you?”

“Likely the best of this generation."

"You're what ?"

He thought that would get her attention. “Stop pacing and come look at this sculpture and its lovely orbs. It’s very suggestive.”

“It’s not suggestive, it’s obvious and crass. I loathe it, and you, and this assignment.”

“This is going to be so much fun. To think I was planning on catching snippets of the World Cup Final broadcast if I had the time, and now we’re going to be right in the thick of it.” Granger’s straight white teeth gritted with an audible click, and he continued. “We’re going to attend training, and the press junket, not to mention the main event itself.”

“All because we’re meant to be protecting an arrogant halfwit with a passable ability to lob a ball-”

“Quidditch genius,” Draco muttered, knowing full well she wasn’t listening.

“-when I can think of a thousand worthier uses of our time.”

This, Malfoy secretly agreed with, although he had no casework in mind. The memory of that half-moment at sunset, of that kiss - too fast, so very sweet - had lingered and made space for itself in his daydreams. There were a thousand variations, all hinged on him catching Hermione just before she could flee, capturing those dark rose lips so he could taste her at his leisure, and hold her there until he’d snogged her breathless.

Nothing he did seemed to make any difference, not that Draco had a clue what could be done in the first place. It was lunacy, this longing. It pulsed inside him like a star, bright and impossible to contain, the potential for pain looming at the edge.

Mindless of his inner turmoil, their assignment burst in with a kitbag swung over his shoulder, quickly shoved onto the vintage carpet to splatter mud everywhere. Fabian Dieter-Collins was powerfully built, his hair shorn close to his scalp, and Malfoy thought he was shorter than expected. Looked meaner, too. “What took you so long? I called the Ministry yesterday. Gigi, get out,” he gestured at the witch with him, pointing to the hallway as you would to evict a dog.

Granger’s frown deepened and Malfoy considered this was off to a bad start.

"Why?” Gigi asked him in obvious puzzlement, a little hurt. At a glance and despite the heavy makeup, she seemed barely old enough to have graduated Hogwarts.

“I have important things I need to discuss. Go on, I’ll find you later.” He waited for the clicking of her heels to fade upstairs.

“Is that your sister?” Malfoy asked, politely.

Consciously or not, the player changed his stance to square up to him. “Girlfriend.”

“Why don’t you want her to stay?”

“I don’t trust her not to blab to her friends. Or the papers, for that matter.” He was known to make headlines, after all, especially after the incident with his ex-girlfriend as reported by the Prophet.

“And what would she tell them?” Granger insisted.

“Why do you think you two are here? Someone is trying to kill me. Last night they took down the wards, bypassed my security team and broke into my bedroom. It was lucky I was- I wasn’t there,” Dieter-Collins amended, and Malfoy very much wanted to know what he’d meant to say.

He settled for asking, “If you weren’t there, how do you know there was someone in your bedroom?”

“Because they left this on my fucking pillow.”

He shoved a piece of parchment at Malfoy. Written in wild, wide swipes of ink were the words, ‘I know what you did. You’re dead.’

“Well, as far as threats go, that’s certainly to the point.” Granger pointed out.

~*~

“It’s impossible for someone to have snuck into the house. We have people dedicated to keeping Fabian safe around the clock.”

Granger eyed Dieter-Collins’ agent with active suspicion, yet she and Malfoy had arrived at the same conclusion hours prior. Wizards were only human, after all, and spellwork was rarely without its flaws, but a full sweep of the property had come up empty for any weaknesses or evidence of tampering. “Did anyone leave or arrive last night?”

“We’ve been on strict lockdown for the last two days,” the agent - Emsworth - explained. “It’s just a precaution until the Cup Final. I don’t mind telling you that I’m starting to get a bit of cabin fever.”

Malfoy scoffed. “The grounds must be at least fifteen acres.”

“Probably closer to twenty.” Emsworth shrugged. “Fabian prefers to have me close at hand. I handle anything and everything for him.”

“That sounds demanding. How long have you two worked together?” Granger asked.

“Five years under contract, but we’ve been good friends for twice as long, all the way through Hogwarts. He was incredible, even then. Everyone could see he was going to be the next big thing, but Fabian can be… Challenging.”

Granger and Malfoy exchanged a glance. “We’ve read the papers.”

Emsworth adjusted his collar. “It’s not like they got everything right. What happened to Estelle was a tragic accident and it affected him deeply. He’s not the villain they made him out to be. There’s a lot more to the story.” Malfoy doubted that very much, if Gigi the girlfriend - not to mention the half dozen other witches he’d been photographed with over the last few months - was any indication.

“Then why would someone want to kill him?”

“They don’t.” The agent looked between them. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone thought it would be funny to play a prank on him or, at worst, find a way to get his mind out of the game right before the Final.”

“So you would have us believe no one in the house wishes him any harm?”

“Of course not. We all rely on Fabian after all, some of us to a lesser extent than others.” The man’s fingers drifted yet again to the collar of his robes.

Malfoy leant forward. “You said it yourself. No one has been in or out of the house in days so, whatever their motive, one of the residents must have planted that note. Does anyone come to mind?”

Emsworth’s answer was interrupted by a long, piercing scream. The two Aurors scrambled upstairs, wands out, to find Gigi sprawled on the floor. The young woman’s back arched as she convulsed, eyes wide, her every muscle stretched in agony as she clutched at a bundle of blue and gold fabric. “Quick, get her on her side,” Granger told Draco. After a quick check at both ends of the corridor, he came back to assist her. Together, they got Gigi on the bed and pulled up a Diagnostic Charm.

“Get the personal Healer up here,” Malfoy told Emsworth.

“Is she-?”

“ Now, Emsworth. She needs medical attention right away. She’s been Cursed.” Granger turned to Malfoy. “Whomever is after Dieter-Collins, they’re not just trying to intimidate him.”

Gigi’s breathing was shallow, black veins standing out against the unnatural white of her skin. She looked almost Petrified. Malfoy’s attention shifted to the discarded jersey she’d been holding. Using a Levitation Charm, he unfolded it to reveal the Puddlemere United logo and, at the back, Dieter-Collins’ name. “No, I’m pretty sure they want to keep him from playing altogether.”

~*~

The Healer was with Gigi for several hours before pronouncing her stable and expected to make a full recovery.

“Thank Circe,” Emsworth sighed, staring down at the soggy leeks oozing out of his slice of chicken pot pie.

At the head of the table, Dieter-Collins filled his wine glass. “That was so fucking lucky. If that had been me, I would have been out of the Final.”

This was met with shocked awkwardness. For all of Emsworth’s claims, his client was turning out to be as sensitive as a plank of wood, with the brains to match.

Sat at his right, his assistant stirred. “Would you like me to contact her family?”

Dieter-Collins drained his glass. In defiance of Emsworth’s glare, he tipped the crystal decanter to fill it yet again. “That won’t be necessary, she isn’t close with her family. In any case, I’m handling it.”

“Maybe you should go easy, Fabian. Have something to eat.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Apollo. Remember?” Dieter-Collins raised his glass to his agent in the mockery of a toast. “It’s very much the other way around.”

Emsworth stared at his plate, an angry flush high on his cheekbones. No one was eating much at all; Granger’s plate was virtually untouched as she kept tabs on the conversation. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I always have been.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Just look at what happened to Gigi.” Dieter-Collins slurred, and drank the rest of the wine before storming out of the dining room.

Gertie shuffled in her chair. “He gets into these moods sometimes, but it’s only because of all the pressure he’s under. He doesn’t mean it.”

“Yes, he does,” Emsworth replied, and Gertie didn’t insist.

After dinner, Granger went off to question the Healer for details while Malfoy pulled Gertie aside. “Do you think Gigi is going to be okay?” she asked.

“The Healer said so.”

“This is terrible, all of it. This stupid Final can’t come fast enough, it’s been like a dark cloud over this house.”

“Dinner was a tense affair,” Malfoy agreed. “Do you have any idea of who might be behind the threat and the Curse?”

She reached for her coffee. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Draco pointed out, noting her evasion. “As his assistant, you’re one of Dieter-Collins’ inner circle. You know what happened to Gigi. Anything you can tell me, even if it’s just a suspicion, will be a great help.”

They sat in silence for a few moments as Gertie looked out onto the gardens where, barely visible by moonlight, Emsworth paced. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Malfoy nodded. “That’s a good starting point. Now tell me everything you know.”

~*~

Night had fallen by the time Draco left the stifling confines of the house to carry out a full perimeter sweep of it and the surrounding terrain, shifting to his wolf form as soon as he was out of sight of the main building. Apart from making fast and efficient work of checking for suspect spellwork or strange scents, it was also exhilarating to run in the fresh air and breathe in the scent of earth that had baked in the sun all day.

Once back in the house, he found Granger in the upstairs hallway, setting Snares. She waved him close. “I have news.”

“Me too.”

“I’m reasonably confident I know who is behind the threat,” Granger whispered.

“Same here.”

“We can’t let her get close to Dieter-Collins.”

“Right. Wait, what do you mean, her ?” Before Malfoy could ask more questions, steps sounded down the corridor - a confident, unhurried stride - and they crammed into a broom cupboard. Not a walk-in cupboard; that would have been a palace compared with the tiny absence of space they were sharing with cleaning implements and a leaking bottle of floor polish. 

He couldn’t keep his distance. There wasn’t enough square footage for the two of them in the first place.

Draco closed his eyes. Maybe if he was very, very still, he could pretend he was elsewhere.

Back outside, in the open fields. Large, verdant woods with babbling brooks. Had brooks actually ever babbled or was that just something writers had made up? In his experience, such bodies of water were resiliently silent.

The confident strider walked closer, and Granger cast a wandless Muffliato . “I think it’s the assistant Healer.” Then she shuffled, trying to create space where there wasn’t any to be had, and succeeded only in rubbing her arse on his thigh.

Draco’s mouth dropped open at the luscious sensation, the unique torture of sharing space with her.

“It doesn’t seem like he’s going to attack Dieter-Collins. You’re holding your breath,” she accused, and it was true. His heightened senses lingered, the wolf still rippling under his skin, and scenting her would only make this situation so much harder to endure. As in, quite literally, harder for distinct parts of his anatomy.

Which he couldn’t tell her, so he opted for a little white lie. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she accused, and even the feeling of her hissing at him was interesting, her voice vibrating through her chest and into his. “Oh Gods, do I smell?”

He had to chuckle at the indignation in her voice. “Everyone has a scent, Granger. You're no exception."

"Is it- something unpleasant? I’ve always been curious, you’re always picking up and describing suspects’ scent.”

And she tilted her neck, exposing it in the half light. Draco didn't know if it had been instinctive or purposeful, but it felt like trust. He didn't need the invitation, neither could he refuse it. He took a greedy lungfull.

“You-” he almost said taste, the scent felt so powerful on his tongue, “smell like…” Temptation. Sweet spiciness. Sin. “Cinnamon and brown sugar.”

“Oh,” she chirped, and Draco would have bet his annual salary she was blushing. “That’s not so bad. You like cinnamon and sugar.”

“Yes.” He liked it very much.

“Anything else?”

Of course she asked. Of course. “Warm cotton.”

Granger stiffened a little. He could not. Everything that could have stiffened - his posture, his abdomen, his cock - already had, to the point of pain. “So, I smell of clothes.”

“No, not like that.” Malfoy licked his lips. He really could taste her there, too, but not the way he wanted to. “More like sleep warmed sheets.”

She was very quiet for a second, then, unexpectedly, told him, "You smell like Winter. A lit hearth, a warm jumper and the vanilla and grass scent of old pages."

This lodged in his chest, as heavy as a stone. Draco's own description felt woefully inadequate in comparison. He wished he'd thought of something as nuanced and beautiful as she had.

He didn't have a good reply, so he deflected, aiming to fill the silence. "So- I smell of musty old books."

"I like musty old books." Draco could hear the smile in her voice. “Should we get out of here?”

“Hold on.” He heard it first, and, a few seconds later, Granger drew closer to peer through the crack in the doors. Whomever was nearing Dieter-Collins’ bedroom, they were being a lot stealthier about it than the assistant Healer had been. “This is it.”

“Who?”

“It’s Emsworth,” Malfoy explained. “Gertie just told me Dieter-Collins negotiated a contract with Falmouth for next season.”

“I thought he was Puddlemere’s star player.”

“He is. It’s going to be a huge scandal.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “Why would Emsworth have a problem with that? He’s the agent.”

“Because Dieter-Collins lied to him about the terms so he could cut him out of most of the profits. Emsworth has been his agent for five years, they’ve known each other for most of their lives, and now he’s been robbed of a share of tens of thousands of Galleons. Gertie heard them arguing about it last night.”

Granger tilted her head to look up at him. “So if they were together, how could Emsworth have left the note on his pillow?”

Damn it. “Okay, so maybe there’s one flaw in my theory.”

“I should think so.”

There was a ripple close to the opposite wall, the tell-tale distortion of a Disillusionment, and Granger drew up, poised to spring. At the last moment, Draco curled an arm around her to keep her from revealing herself. “Just a second.”

Their suspect passed right by Dieter-Collins’ bedroom. Steps continued down the corridor, and a door clicked shut.

“Interesting choice for a bit of midnight wandering.”

“Should we investigate?” Granger proposed.

Malfoy nodded, then realised she couldn’t see it. “Let’s.”

“You might need to let go of me first,” she explained, her voice breathier than normal.

He drew his arm back as if scalded. “Sorry.”

~*~

Under their own cloaking, they saw their suspect search through the bedroom. With a professional’s outlook, Malfoy would have given their efforts a six out of ten: organised but hardly thorough, not to mention missing the two Aurors standing six feet away.

“Gertie.”

The assistant yelped at Granger’s voice, the jewellery box in her hands dropping to the floor with a crash. “What are you-”

“Granger was just telling me that security remembers you going into Dieter-Collins’ room yesterday. Something about him needing his migraine relief potion? Interestingly, the Healers knew nothing about it when she asked.”

Gertie folded onto the edge of Gigi’s bed. “I’m so embarrassed. I should have never left that note, I don’t know what I was thinking. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, but I was so angry…”

“That you Cursed Dieter-Collins’ jersey?” Granger finished.

“No!” Gertie exclaimed. “I would never do that. Yesterday, I broke into his bedroom looking for evidence and, yes, I left that note,” she admitted. “But that was all. I was never going to follow through on the threat. I just wanted to scare Fabian, to cause him some distress, for once.”

Malfoy scratched at his forehead; he was going to need a migraine potion of his own, in a minute. “What evidence were you looking for?”

“That he hurt my sister Estelle on purpose.” Gertie stared at the two of them in turn with something like supplication. “She was the warmest, most brilliant person I’ve ever known. A wonderful artist. And then she met him and, from one moment to the next, she was gone. He didn’t like her coming home as often, or going out with friends. Even when he was playing or at practice, he wanted Estelle there, and eventually I stopped seeing her altogether. She used to sneak me letters when she could. I told her to leave him,” Gertie swiped at her face, and her eyes filled again with a fresh wave of tears, “but she wouldn’t. In her last letter, she said she had big news, that she was so happy and that things were going to change. Two days later, we got the Floo call from St Mungo’s.”

“And you decided to work for him?” Granger prompted. “Whatever for?”

“I needed to understand what happened to my sister. He’s hiding details about what really happened the night of the accident, I know he is. And you’ve seen how he behaves, rehab was nothing but a big joke for him.”

Malfoy decided to press her. “You do understand none of this exactly screams innocent, don’t you? And you’ve already admitted to leaving the note. Who’s to say you didn’t Curse the jersey as well?”

Gertie got up, incensed. “I wouldn’t. I would never - after what happened to my sister, do you really think I would endanger someone else? Especially poor Gigi, who is going through pretty much the same thing?”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say we believe you, and that someone else left that Curse,” Granger said, giving Malfoy a meaningful look. Now, that’s a theory. “What kind of evidence are you looking for?”

“Why?” then, turning hopeful, Gertie asked, “Are you going to help me?”

Malfoy warded the door and pulled up a chair. “Tell us everything, right from the start, and no lies this time, if you please. Then we’ll talk.”

If Granger’s expression was anything to go by, she wholeheartedly agreed.

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.

Chapter Text

He woke with a stretch of his arm to the other side of the bed, finding only the bite of cold linens. It drew him out of the limbo between dreaming and wakefulness, out of the scenario his mind had constructed and played out.

She wasn't there. For a second, he let that hurt.

Then Draco rolled off the bed and went through the motions of getting ready for the day. His therapist had encouraged him to sit with his feelings, to allow himself time with them, but he never saw the point. It just made him feel like shit.

Their agreed meeting location was two streets down from the rundown betting shop they were due to stake out. He'd barely Apparated when he felt her arrival, a little bottled sunshine under London's dreary sky, and it didn't matter that they were in a horrible back alley strewn with rubbish and smelling even worse. The pitiful organ in his chest lurched all the same.

"Good morning. You're twenty minutes early," Granger accused him as they started making their way down the street.

"That’s because you're always a quarter of an hour early." 

"Quarter of an hour is standard practice."

"If you're obsessive, sure."

Her face twisted. "I hate being late for things."

"Which is a concern, since you're not a witch powerful enough to Apparate damn near everywhere and have to rely on unreliable transportation. Oh, wait."

They passed a coffee shop.

“Would you like one? Or-” Granger hesitated, because they didn’t do that anymore. “I can get them in, that’s best.”

Malfoy wanted to protest at this nonsense. Partners getting coffee was perfectly standard behaviour and in no way unprofessional or harmful (except perhaps towards managing his anxiety, but a life without caffeine did not merit contemplation).

Unfortunately, he could admit to himself that it wouldn’t be entirely harmless. Getting a coffee would never be enough. He’d want to hold her hand under the table, and swipe that errant curl behind her ear, and bend down to kiss her again. And again. Maybe pull her onto his lap to better enable the- kissing.

And they would be right back where they were the day of The Incident.

Which they hadn’t discussed, not that they needed to. The work was the work and their priorities, post the momentary, momentous teetering and wobbling on the floor of his spare bedroom, were straight. There were to be no more wobbles.

So Draco acquiesced and Granger got their coffees, and there was no hostility or resentment, only the understanding of what they were to each other, and the enormity of negative space left besides.

It was going to be fine.

They settled in for their stakeout, spoke little, and let the hours drag.

Despite his best efforts at repression, Malfoy was cheerless. 

By the look of things, Granger hadn’t been sleeping.

They were going to be fine.

~*~

A few days later, Draco was woken in the middle of the night and dragged to the office by his badge’s interminable blaring to find Granger already there, looking as confused as he felt.

This only got worse when they found Potter in Cheung’s office.

“You should brief them,” the Director said, hands shoulder apart as she leaned on her desk, rigid with tension.

“What about?” Granger asked.

“Just listen.”

“Earlier this morning, Irma Pince contacted the DMLE to report contact with a Loyalist cell,” Potter looked grave, his hair sticking out in a way that spoke to little sleep and no combing out whatsoever. “She was approached for information months ago.”

“Why did she wait until now to come forward?” Draco asked.

“She dragged her feet as long as she possibly could.”

“What does that mean?”

Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Madame Pince’s partner was kidnapped as leverage, yet she still refused to cooperate. When the Loyalists realised this, they upped the ante. They let her partner go.”

Malfoy’s head snapped to Cheung. “Healer Garnet.”

Cheung nodded only once in a sharp jerk of her chin.

“The threat was clear: we can go after your partner again, or any number of family members, friends, co-workers…” Potter trailed off.

“She could have come in earlier,” Granger debated. “We would have provided protection spellwork and posted Aurors.”

“But she knew we wouldn’t be able to protect them at all times. Not everyone. Like I said, she stalled for months, but she’d been given a deadline.”

“When did it expire?” Malfoy asked.

“Midnight last night.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. Then Granger asked the most important question of all: “What information were the Loyalists after?”

~*~

Malfoy tore through his target’s known haunts one after the other, a stress migraine hammering behind his eyes.

Five hours. The Hogwarts’ librarian went to the DMLE as fast as she dared after holding out for months, giving them a headstart of five hours.

It was so little time.

It was a fucking eternity.

He’d been asleep while it had been happening. He’d been safe in bed and-

Draco finally found him hanging around the canal boathouse he occasionally passed out at when he was either too inebriated or too skint to find himself better accommodation for the night.

“Mycelium.”

He spared Malfoy a glance behind his shoulder and tried to run, wand poised to Apparate, only to have it plucked from his hands by Malfoy’s Disarming Spell. “Leave me alone, I haven’t done nothin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” Malfoy muttered, catching up with the man easily and tugging on the scruff of his robes. “What happened to you?”

Half of Mycelium’s face was the scarred, raised tissue of a healed burn, his left eye white and milky. “What the fuck do you think happened? This is your fault.”

“I didn’t do this.”

He tried ineffectively to shrug off Malfoy’s grip. “What did you think would happen when they realised your lousy tip off about the train meeting was a double cross? Did you think your Aunt Bella would believe me when I told her I wasn’t in on the little joke?”

“I still wasn’t the one to do this to you, or to give the order.”

“You might as well have been.”

“No,” Draco insisted, his hand tightening around the smaller man’s shoulder. “I dropped a few careless hints at a pub, late one night. You were the one that went and sold that information to Loyalists, even knowing exactly what they’re capable of.”

Mycelium’s scarred face scrunched as his lips tightened over his stained teeth. “Have you come to gloat, is that what this is?”

“I need to know where they might be keeping hostages.”

“Fuck you-”

“They got their hands on this year’s list of Hogwarts First Year students.” Names, addresses, and, worst of all, blood status. “They’ve taken twelve children.”

Twelve children, Muggleborns all, taken in the middle of the night. Some families had been spared the discovery until Potter’s team arrived to check on them in the early hours of the morning. Others, the Aurors found dead or worse.

Twelve children. And Malfoy had slept right through it, none the wiser.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

If Draco was at all a decent judge of character, this was to be believed. “You may be able to help all the same, you’re good at picking up things here and there. Come on.”

Come on.

He barely resisted the urge to shake the man, but Mycelium looked scared and grave already; if Malfoy were to press any harder, he may just clam up.

“It might be nothing, but there was this place a couple of them liked. An old abandoned cottage hospital-”

“Tell me where to go.”

~*~

Aurors assembled in the grounds, their dark bulks Apparating among the trees and overgrown weeds. The sun was high in the sky, yet a gossamer thin spread of cloud turned the light pale and eerie.

Malfoy couldn’t believe it wasn’t yet mid morning. The day seemed to have dragged on for years already.

In front of them, the old hospital building stood lonely and weathered, almost entirely covered in ivy. The shape of it was distorted by heavy layers of defensive and Dark magic to form an impenetrable dome, and it didn’t matter that they couldn’t confirm the hostages’ presence. No one had any doubts they had the right location.

Wareham came over to where Malfoy and Granger were standing with the Director. “Preliminary assessment has uncovered Blood Warding all around the perimeter,” he reported. “Trying to cross it would surely mean death.”

“We’ll have to wait for them to make their demands.”

“What makes you so sure they have any?” Florence asked.

“If this was just about targeting the students, they wouldn’t have taken them.” The other half of the deduction, the part the Director didn’t need to specify, is that they would have been dealing with a dozen murdered ten or eleven year olds, instead.

“Someone is coming.”

Granger was right. A man left the building, clad in nothing but pyjamas. He stumbled as one of his bare feet snagged briefly on a root, yet his gaze remained level and unfocused as he walked on.

Behind him walked Bellatrix Lestrange, her crooked wand held out as one would clutch at puppet strings.

The years had been undeservingly kind to her, leaving little mark except for a few more white hairs. The brutal set of her mouth, the horrible sunken quality to her eyes, all remained exactly as Draco remembered. He suppressed a shudder.

“What a nice surprise! My, and you all came so quickly,” she yelled. “I’m glad. I hate waiting.”

There was nothing but silence from the ranks of Aurors, a breath collectively held. Malfoy waited for Bellatrix to take notice of him, and he thought he saw a sneer when it happened, but it was too quick for him to be certain.

“Not in the mood to play? And here I went to all this trouble to get us these toys. Not this one, of course. He’s useless, just one of the parents.” The Muggle man remained utterly still, as if Petrified. “He’s here just to show you all a neat trick. Go on!”

The man lifted his hand. In it, was a short, serrated knife - the kind found in any kitchen drawer.

There was a scramble from the Aurors, Spells hitting the barrier in unison as, without a moment’s pause or hesitation, the man sliced his own throat open, left to right, in one smooth movement.

The shouts and noise from spellwork died down as Bellatrix’s cackles emerged and, louder still, a gasp of distress from Granger.

“Bring me the necklace, or the next one to die is one of the fresh young Mudbloods. I think I’ll have them awake for that.”

Her shrieks of laughter pierced the air again.

“She dies for this,” Granger said, pale and furious, her eyes still glued to the shape of the dead man, barely visible among tall grass.

Wareham stared at the Director.

“I didn’t hear a fucking thing,” Cheung told them all. “Malfoy, you and Stallworth are on perimeter. You’re good at sniffing out weaknesses,” she hinted, “so see what you can find and report back. The rest stay with me. If these fucks think we’re going to stand here and wait for their next move, they have another thing coming. We’re going to take their warding down.”

Asheni shifted on her feet, looking uncharacteristically serious. “They’re expecting a fight.”

“Good. Let’s not disappoint them.”

“What about giving them the necklace?” Florence asked.

“They’ll never let the children go, no matter what we do,” Cheung said. “The only way to get them out is to pull them out ourselves, understand? Let’s get to work.”

“Malfoy,” Stallworth inclined his head towards the West path even as Draco lingered, seeing Granger get absorbed into forming groups as they split their targets. There were already calls for Cursebreakers and Unspeakables to be mobilised, and it seemed like half the Ministry of Magic was going to descend on the scene within minutes.

Among all the confusion, he had eyes only for her.

“Malfoy!” Stallworth called again. “Come on.”

He held her eyes for a mere second. There was too much confusion, too much noise going on for anything more.

Draco had no choice but to follow the older Auror, and Stallworth gave him a knowing look. “Ash is with her. So’s the Director, and Potter’s team.”

“I know.” But he wasn’t, and that’s all he could focus on.

They wove Detection Charms and tried to pierce the warding and barriers at intervals, growing more frantic as they heard sounds of the battle as it started. Flashes of spells surged alongside shouts, and Draco’s heart pulsed in his throat as he listened in for a specific voice.

It was taking too long. He was taking too long, when he should have been looking after his partner.

Half obscured by brambles was a squat metal box covered in faded hazard stickers. It sat just at the perimeter of the wards and, as Malfoy exploded it at wandpoint, leaving nothing but a shallow crater, Stallworth let out an imprecation. 

“I’m going to try something,” Malfoy warned before he shifted, and almost reared back. The warding was an assault on his senses, a tangle of colours overlapping and shifting like an iridescent haze.

“Merlin’s fucking beard,” Stallworth hissed, seeing his Animagus form for the first time.

Draco ran up and down the edge of the warding, then stood stock still, facing the small opening.

The other Auror didn’t need any more prompting. “I’ll cover you, if you’re sure.”

So Malfoy dove behind the wards.

He knew pain. He'd experienced it in many iterations.

This was different.

This was a rending deep inside, his every muscle bunching as his very bones flashed and scraped against each other until they felt on fire. His tendons stretched to snapping point and perhaps beyond it, and he suspected his joints might have creaked, bones about to pop out of their sockets.

When he got to the other side, Draco was somehow human once more, heaving big breaths. His head swam and he waited just long enough for his knees to hold his weight again before he ran into the building.

Outside, fighting had broken in earnest, and he heard running feet, yet saw no one until he spotted two Loyalists, easily identifiable by the white hand print on their left shoulders. They were hanging around one of the doors in the first floor corridor, the only one marginally clear of dust.

He didn’t wait for them to notice his presence, casting the strongest Muffliato he could.

The first one was Stunned by the time the second turned around and attacked Malfoy with a shard of ice. Draco conjured an Aegis and sent his assailant flying to hit the wall. Hard. Good.

He vaulted the Loyalist’s unconscious lumps and opened the door to find the children huddled in a corner of the room, some of them taking cover behind disused equipment. They had tried to construct a barricade, of sorts.

One of the tallest children, a reedy looking youth, stepped shakily in front of the others, frowning. “Who are you?”

Maybe there really is one in every generation , Malfoy thought. “I’m a police officer,” he said, his mind scrabbling for the nomenclature he’d learned from his neighbour. He showed them all his badge. “I’m here to help you all to safety, okay?”

“Are you a magical police officer?”

“Yes.”

“You look a lot like one of the bad guys,” the child pointed out, gesturing at his black uniform robes.

“It’s not always that easy to tell,” Draco granted. “We need to be quick.”

The reedy child pushed forth three of the smallest among the children. Malfoy asked them to hold on as tightly as possible and Apparated outside the wards.

“Oh Gods!” Florence shouted, running in his direction.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy told Stallworth. “Just get them to safety.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Malfoy swiped two fingers over his top lip. “So I am. Don’t worry about me, is Granger-”

“She’s fine. We’ve got this,” he assured Draco.

“Tell Cheung so she knows we have a way in. Tell her to keep them as busy as possible, I could use any distraction.”

“Consider it done.”

And, with that, Draco shifted to cross the warding again. It was, if anything, harder the second time, and he was biting down on his tongue by the time he made it through, in order to keep himself from crying out. He felt too weak to risk taking more than two children, the next time he Apparated.

The third time he went across, he heaved up the meagre contents of his stomach before he could walk again.

Spells hit the barrier continuously. Near where Florence stood, shepherding the children to safety, laid the wounded. Further on, an Auror Draco had never met laid dead with a wound spanning the entirety of his abdomen.

He wasn’t the only one.

The time after that, his vision clouded and wouldn’t clear. He could only take one child with him; any more would be madness.

Trees were burning down around them when he Apparated, ash floating through the air and coating his mouth. He coughed, and Stallworth was telling him something, but he couldn’t hear him.

As soon as he could, he ran straight back to the barrier. Forced himself to crawl through.

One more child, scared and small as they clutched at his robes. Malfoy must have looked a nightmare.

There was so much confusion that he had to shout to be heard. He asked for Granger, but no one could tell him anything, and Florence was busy running to the makeshift medical tent.

It didn’t matter how weak or sore or drained he felt.

He kept going.

~*~

“Malfoy.”

Granger was standing a few paces from where he was lying. It was dark and the air stank of acrid woodsmoke. Malfoy realised he must have passed out at some point.

The effort to get his throat to work nearly killed him. When the words finally left him in a rough whisper, they felt like broken glass. "How many? The children, how many made it?" Draco tried to swallow, but there was nothing to go down the back of his throat. "I tried."

It was important that Granger knew that he'd tried.

He'd failed, he knew he'd failed, just as he'd failed at every juncture of his life that had ever mattered. There was a moment of pure soul-destroying shame that made him want to cry. There was a chance that he might be crying already.

Her papery shape shuffled closer in an awkward movement full of wrongness - she was ever so pale. There was blood down the front of her cloak, too much of it. He wanted to reach out and wasn't sure he'd managed, but it didn't matter, because she laid down on the gurney beside him and sidled close until they were together, side by side, ankle to ankle, her shoulder pressed into his bicep, her face turned up to his.

"The children are safe. You got them out, Draco. Every single one."

As the words sunk in, there was no doubt in his mind what the hot wetness on his cheeks was. Hermione's fingers laced themselves through his, a silent reassurance.

He was desperate to stay awake, clawing at the encroaching darkness to stay conscious and check on Hermione. There were Healers around, seeing to others and administering treatment. He could hear them shuffling and muttering. Why weren't they helping her?

He must have asked it out loud. “It’s fine, Draco.”

His vision tunnelled as, one by one, his senses shut down. He thought he heard a familiar voice saying, "You two. Again."

“We’re going to be fine,” Granger shushed him.

Then he could fight it no longer and awareness slipped and curled, receeding from him like a wisp of smoke.

~*~

Later that week, Draco still felt like one enormous bruise on legs when he moved house. It was the worst possible timing, but the real estate market waited for no man’s recovery. 

Stallworth insisted in helping out, deaf to all of Malfoy’s protests. “You know a suspicious amount of useful spells for this,” Draco admitted.

“I moved all three of my daughters out as fast as I could. The last one, I had everything packed and transported in less than an hour. What have you got there?”

Pride of place among his qualifications and certificates, Malfoy was hanging a framed letter of recommendation for an Order of Merlin. “I had an inkling Granger would do something like this, so I intercepted it.”

His favourite paragraph read, ‘Beyond his record as an exceptional wizard and a talented, hard-working Auror, Draco Malfoy has demonstrated outstanding bravery in the face of danger. I am both proud and privileged to have him as a partner.’

“What did you do that for?”

“It doesn’t make sense to risk people finding out about my status as an unregistered Animagus for the sake of a shiny metal plaque and a ribbon ceremony with cheap alcohol and pompous wizards in bad robes.”

Stallworth chortled. “You’re really selling the prestigious event there, Malfoy. Another beer?”

“Sure.”

“Last one, though. I think these are going down a little too easily in this heat.”

Was he inebriated? Malfoy took stock of himself, attempted to follow a train of thought, and found that he felt much too sober. "Did you know alcohol is a depressant?"

"What's the alternative?”

“Talking about our feelings.”

“That’s just as depressing, not to mention decidedly non-British." Stallworth swallowed down a vengeful portion of his beer as if to prove the point.

"I wouldn't mind trying it," Draco admitted, unguarded.

"Are you asking me for advice?" Stallworth nodded towards the framed letter.

"Trust me, I feel suitably humiliated."

Stallworth's usual composure gave way to the comfort level of a penguin strapped to a broomstick, then he reached some internal plateau. "Dante had it backwards. Any form of Hell can become your new normal, if there is no other succour. Given enough time, you can get used to almost anything. But if there is a shred of doubt, no matter how distant and small, it will eat away at you. Purgatory is the worst."

"So - accept that I'm hopelessly in Hell." Draco paused. "You don't get asked for advice twice very often, do you?"

"Just for that, you get another nugget of wisdom."

"Shall we call it a pellet?"

"I'll call you a fucking twat in a minute, now pipe down. A good chunk of… Feelings ," he ejected the word as if it were sticky and liable to block his airway, "is anticipation, the prancing around in the soft golden bubble of what you imagine things could be like. You enjoy the idea of liking- this person." Who, of course, would not be named, because that would be an admission too far.

"Wrong again. I don't enjoy it, I resent it. It's a contaminate, a festering stain."

"Has it really festered?"

Draco's eyes closed, his head dropping back against the wall behind the stool. "Yes. I'm chock full of toxins and lapses in judgement. Scratching the itch makes it worse," he admitted, thinking back to her scent in the delicious squeeze of a cupboard and soft hands in his hair and kisses upon kisses.

"Please don't tell me about your itches." Stallworth sighed. "It won't always be like that."

No, Draco thought. It's only ever gotten worse.

The older Auror gestured towards the wall. “I’d leave a bit of space free, if I were you. You might have gotten your hands on Granger’s letter, but there’s no way you got all of ours.”

Chapter Text

The wolf’s fur was splattered moonlight against the doorway steps - there one second, then melted away into darkness. The hallway beyond smelled of rust and old sorrow, Dark Magic clinging to every surface in a stain.

From upstairs came the clean, bronze sunlight he’d come to associate with Granger’s magic, a background to the lilac blue of a Protego Totallum flickering towards the back of the house. Malfoy stuck to the shadows and shifted, his wand down along the outside of his thigh.

The toes of his boot skimmed the floorboards in an arc, edging closer and past the warding so he could listen in on the conversation. A fast flicker of a Mirror Charm showed three wizards at the table, wine goblets and a half-empty bottle between them.

“Have you heard from Zachary? He was supposed to check in last night.”

“Nothing so far.”

A shuffle, nervous knees moving under the table.

“The Alleney cousins were with him. They wouldn’t let themselves get pinched.”

They didn’t, thought Draco. But all that means is that they didn’t live to stand trial.

“Then what about Hawksforth?” asked the deepest voice of the three.

“Dead.”

“Fuck, I keep forgetting. There’s Druscilla and her husband-”

“Arrested. Just last week.”

“What about Ackroid?”

There was a sound like steel wool forced over stone. Someone scratching at dense stubble, at a guess. “Last I heard, he’d gone to ground in Bedfordshire,” Now, that was interesting information. He’d be worth a visit, and Malfoy had every intention of pencilling that in.

From upstairs, a drag of echoing noise, like heavy furniture tugged across the floor. Draco’s shoulders tensed. He held his breath.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“What did you think was going to happen when she decided to go after the kiddies?”

They hadn’t noticed. The wine had dulled their senses, and they’d let themselves sink into the confident inattention that came from numbers, relying on one of the others paying attention.

“They’re not children, they’re Mudbloods, and you’d do well to remember that.”

“Fucking kids!” the other wizard insisted, slamming his goblet. There was the sudden, vinegary stench of sharp wine. “First the boats were sunk, and now this shit, and we’re nowhere closer, just sitting here waiting to get picked off. We, the ones that proved our allegiance over and over again. Soon, there will be none of us left.”

And good fucking riddance.

“It’s not what we were promised.” The voice was low, a bare whisper of sedition, hardly dared.

There was a crash from upstairs, sudden movement, and the kitchen exploded into pitch black. Malfoy heard shouting, careless spells cast at random, and the glassy shatter of crockery.

When the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder cleared, one of the wizards was on the floor, presumed unconscious, and the other two pounced on Draco. One of them tried Stunning him with a snarl, even as the other muttered a Curse. They traded blows, Malfoy shielding briefly to deliver a kick to the side of the closest man’s knee. It folded with an ugly snap and he went down wailing.

The largest wizard took this as his opening, conjuring a set of heavy glowing chains, the links draped over his forearms as he swung them. Draco tried to deflect but they sliced through his Protego as a hot knife through butter, hitting his side with enough force to draw the air from his lungs.

The other end of the chain laced itself over Draco’s arms, crushing them to his body with increasing force.

“The traitor nephew,” the horrible man drawled, showing a mouth full of teeth like a jagged coastline. “You don’t look scared.”

“You must be the wit of the party,” Draco drawled, with more wheeze in there than he’d like. 

The wizard Malfoy had kneecapped tried to get up, listed to the side and almost fell, propping himself up against the wall. “Why don’t we shut him up?”

Granger’s timing was immaculate. 

She didn’t enter the kitchen as much as coalesced, shadows wrapping themselves into her shape.

With slow, soundless steps, the horror of her became evident in the collective drawing back from the two Loyalists.

Blood glistened obscenely at the front of her cloak, spattered down her neck and the side of her face. It dripped, audibly, from the gruesome bundle held at her side.

She was a thing of nightmares.

She was Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, a wand in one hand and a severed human head in the other. 

Beautiful. Terrifying.

“Release him.” The words were quiet, barely above a whisper, yet they ricocheted off the walls. Even the wizard holding the chains shuddered, then stepped back.

“What are you doing?” the injured one hissed. “Kill them!”

“She killed Caleb-”

“Nothing to be done about that. Give me a moment to think, alright?”

Draco moved to better grip his wand as the large man hesitated, his dark eyes on Granger all along.

She nodded in a signal. Tried to conjure.

And nothing happened. 

The Loyalist drew the chains in as Malfoy hissed an imprecation and managed a stone Aegis to crash between them, severing the links. With an open palm, Granger slammed their suspect to the floor, kicking up dust, and they went about Silencing and Binding their quarries with practised efficiency.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she muttered.

“Of course it bloody well worked. You walked in here with a severed head! ”

She held it up. “This? It’s an old Quaffle I Transfigurated, and hastily at that. It wouldn’t have passed close scrutiny.” And it worked. Of course it worked, for who was going to stare critically at a severed head? Malfoy was still avoiding it, even knowing what it was. Granger cleared the fake spelled blood from her robes with a swipe of her hand. “You thought I’d decapitated someone?”

“Well, no, not really. Maybe if they were already dead,” he considered.

Her lips twisted, and she seemed oddly flattered, but Malfoy hadn’t missed her shock when her wand failed to comply. “I’m just tired,” Granger mentioned, accurately guessing at his thoughts.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. You move an eyebrow and I can tell exactly what you’re thinking.” Granger rubbed at her face, sighing. “Time to head back. I’ll start putting the report together while we wait on that Trace from Florence.” Malfoy told her about the Loyalist hiding out in Bedfordshire, and they made plans to follow it up in the morning.

Which was, he pondered, a whole six hours away.

He had to say something. “We can’t keep going at this pace.” They hadn’t had a moment’s peace since Malfoy had been cleared for duty. Before the kidnappings, Granger had been dedicated. Now, she was hunting with brutal, relentless efficiency, even as she spent her every available minute quilling letters to Hogwarts demanding psychological support for the children (instead of relying on the good old ‘it will sort itself out’ method), and maintaining correspondence with the victim’s families that had refused to let the children start the school year.

All he could see was her blurring at the edges, stretching herself and her magic too thin until Draco had blown past worry into fear. He wanted her safe, he needed her to be okay.

“We won’t. We just need to finish this, once and for all. I’ll rest once it’s over.”

Draco sighed. “Right. Back to the office.”

~*~

It took a lot of convincing and, even then, all she would say was, “We don’t have time for this.”

“Yes, we do. It won’t take long.”

“Why are we even here?”

“Be patient, it will be worth it,” he assured her, opening the shop door for her, setting the bell tucked behind it jingling.

They were kindly attended to by a tall witch in vibrant robes embroidered to resemble a meadow. She ushered them into her reception room and probed at Granger’s wand with the tips of her fingers, drawing it up to eye level. "Oh, but this is broken. How have you been managing delicate spells?"

"I've had to borrow Mr Malfoy's wand, on occasion.”

“And his wand did your bidding as if it were your own.” It wasn’t phrased as such, but there was a question in it all the same.

Granger shuffled in her seat. “I assume there might be - an affinity between our magic."

The Wandmaker looked between them in the slow swirl of someone stirring a cauldron. "Affinity is an interesting way of putting it. Yes, let’s leave it at that.”

“What would you call it?”

Madame Loris smiled. “Oh, I couldn’t comment,” she said, in a way that told them she could have written textbooks on the subject. For all they knew, she might well have done. “How well did it work for you before the damage?”

“Perfectly.”

“However…?” the Wandmaker prompted.

Granger hesitated. “Very seldom, it felt underpowered. More so as of late.”

“A common problem. This is an Olivander’s, and a fine Wandmaker he was, but he did have a tendency to underestimate the power in delicate magic,” Madame Loris explained. “I will be delighted to help you.”

“I don’t want a new wand.”

“Good, because that’s not at all what I’m planning. Mr Malfoy, I believe you have something for me?”

Draco nodded, handing over the velvet pouch as Granger glared at him. “I appreciate you fitting us in.”

“But of course. I’ll be back shortly, help yourself to tea and biscuits.” A burnished orange teapot landed on the table with a gentle clinking sound, and the air was soon redolent with the fresh scent of verbena. An enormous fluffy cat with a grey and caramel ruff observed them from his perch by the window, tail waving indolently.

“What just happened?” Granger asked.

“Madame Loris is just having a look at your wand. Tea?”

“Malfoy, I don’t want a new wand.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Yes, but I don’t feel that you’re listening.”

Sensing her agitation, he decided to put her at ease. “I promise you, you’ll have your wand back. Madame Loris is a world-renowned expert in her field.”

“And more than a little intimidating.”

“Why do you say that?”

Granger frowned. “She’s so… Tall, and beautiful, and chic.”

“She’s just French,” Draco chuckled.

“That will be it.”

“Why are you so attached to that wand?”

The verbena and morish biscuits did wonders to soothe her nerves. “Because getting it is one of my most treasured memories. I’d performed trifling bits of magic, most of which I couldn’t reproduce, but when I got my wand, I realised it wasn’t a mistake, that I really belonged. That I was a witch.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Yes. I worked at it. Read, and practised, and stayed up past my bedtime with my schoolbooks and a flashlight under the covers to read through them, again and again. A flashlight is-”

“You’re Muggle-splaining again.”

Her rueful smile was brief. “I was convinced it was only a matter of time before everyone found out just how much of a fraud I was and sent me back.”

Draco’s fingers twitched around his teacup. He dared not reach out to her.

They didn’t do that anymore. 

All he could do was say, “One would have to be the most fatuous, dim-witted knobhead to ever darken Hogwarts’ staircases to doubt your worthiness for a moment.”

When she laughed, pleased and teasing, so much like her true self - his Granger, moody and irascible and wholly wonderful - the breath went completely out of him.

Madame Loris finally returned with Granger’s wand and he heard his partner gasp beside him. The split vinewood had been repaired with veins of inlaid silver, wrapping protectively around the core to gather at the handle into a intricately designed end cap.

“There you have it: your own wand back, as requested. Since we have repurposed Goblin made silver, it will absorb only that which reinforces it, and the dragon heartstring within will be safe for the next hundred years or more. You’ll be able to pass this wand down generations, if you so wish.”

For long moments, Granger was absorbed by testing the feel and weight of her mended wand. “I learned wandless magic,” she protested.

“I know.”

“And it did work. Most of the time.”

Malfoy knew better than to get drawn into that argument. “I know that, too.”

“That which has been damaged has the potential to become stronger than ever,” said the Wandmaker.

The two women seemed to come to an understanding. “A lot like people.”

“Just as you say,” Madame Loris nodded.

“It’s magnificent,” she finally whispered, easily casting a whole bouquet of flowers to spring from the empty teapot. At the same time, flowers bloomed in the window box, and even the potted Pilea in the corner of the room shivered and grew a few more leaves. A knot of unease deep in Malfoy’s stomach unfurled itself with relief.

Madame Loris smiled brightly. “I’m so glad you like it.”

“Like it? I-” Granger faltered. “Thank you, it’s marvellous. Goblin silver is extremely rare, how did you ever get it?”

Draco shrugged sheepishly as they turned to him. “It was an ugly old signet ring I had no use for. Not to worry, Granger, I was happy to part with it.”

Hermione was faintly misty-eyed at that, all the way through grateful goodbyes with Madame Loris and down the street. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thankfully, I do. Happy birthday, Granger.”

She wrapped her hands around her back. Malfoy stuffed his in his pockets.

They failed to hug and just lingered. Just for a few seconds before they tacitly got a move on.

And there went his plans.

He considered the drafts of letters he’d put together, job applications for Auror services all over Europe that he’d meant to send as soon as the Loyalist threat was behind them, and knew then he’d never go through with any of it.

Fragile and thin lies were strewn behind him like cracked eggshells, so he let himself stare at the truth: he’d never leave her orbit unless she chose to change her trajectory. Even then, his pattern would probably only widen, his heart beating out the forlorn pulse of a dying star.

And it was going to be fine.

Draco genuinely believed it.

At least, until one fateful Friday evening.

~*~

As it often happened, a group of Aurors edged to the local pub, Malfoy among them. He looked around, beer glass in hand, and surveyed the room, eyes skimming over the patrons with the subconscious assessment of the Law Enforcement Officer At Rest.

“Eyeing up the talent?” asked Asheni.

Off-guard, he blurted out, “Whatever do you mean?”

“The two witches by the bar have been measuring you for robes for the last hour.”

“People can waste their time as they see fit,” Malfoy babbled, half into his beer glass.

Asheni wasn’t done probing, the bore. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“I’m not,” and maybe the words were a bit too raw, because he did see her, all the time, and that very much wasn’t the issue.

“And are you going to be a twat about it or are you planning on telling her how you feel?” she asked him, cocking her head, birdlike.

“There’s nothing to say.” Talking about it, giving it a name, with edges and teeth, would only get him bitten in the arse.

In any case, he was fairly sure she knew.

“Yes, of course there’s no feelings, which is why you’re sitting here, green around the gills, fidgeting like an idiot and ignoring beautiful women,” Asheni mocked.

He wanted to say,

It doesn’t matter that she’s fire burning up all my oxygen, my beloved source of light. 

And,

It doesn’t matter that she’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me and her mere presence makes everything better.

And,

It doesn’t matter that she fits and fills all the gaps and crevices I hadn’t admitted were showing in my soul.

What he said was, “Whatever feelings I may experience, it will come to pain in the end,” and maybe that was the worst of all.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“Who’s being dramatic?” Stallworth interjected, his big ears finally living up to their potential as he approached with his own pint.

“No-one,” Malfoy said, at the same time as Asheni said, “Malfoy.”

“And why is Malfoy being dramatic?”

He pierced his colleague with a stare to shut her up. It did not work in the least. “He’s moon eyed and feeling sorry for himself because of a bird.”

“There is no bird. You two are fucking awful, I was better off when I worked in France and didn’t know half my co-workers’ surnames.”

“Is there a bird in France, then?” Stallworth waggled his eyebrows, a sickening move.

Asheni shook her head. “No, the bird isn’t in France, he’s avoiding the bird. Presumably, the bird is on British soil, but this is unconfirmed.”

“Flapping around close by, then,” Stallworth piped up, the bastard.

“There is. No. Bird,” Draco bit out.

“And yet, he wants to move back to France just to avoid her.”

“I hate you both.”

“Nah, you like us just fine. Oh, that reminds me - I owe Granger a round for getting a case off my hands. Is she coming?” Asheni asked.

Before Draco had a chance to say he wasn’t sure, Stallworth cleared his throat, fingers dabbing at the condensation on the side of his pint. “She’s not coming tonight. She’s got a thing.”

“What thing?” Asheni and Malfoy asked at the same time.

“She’s out with Bradford, the liaison fellow.” Stallworth darted a glance of apology at Malfoy, clearly uncomfortable at breaking the news. “They’ve gone on a date tonight.”

Asheni said something about a power couple, but Draco was too addled to catch it.

His vision was pulsing red at the edges as he imagined tearing the man’s limbs off one by one. Bottles and glasses rattled behind the bar, which must have been a coincidence; he hadn’t experienced an episode of accidental magic in well over a decade.

Fucking Dave.

The conversation carried on without him until Draco made his excuses, although perhaps not his most convincing effort, since he was desperate to leave the pub. It was only after he made it outside and smelled the cold night air that he realised he didn't want to go home, either.

He felt a mess of anger, tension and, most of all, jealousy. She was on a date, and of course he knew that was the logical thing to happen, he'd never expect her to stay single, Gods knew the woman deserved love and care and passion - but what did she have to be out on a date for?

He was going to have to endure it. She was on a date with fucking Dave, and they were going to fall into a disgustingly happy, sticky relationship, get married and start a wizarding dynasty of dark, curly-haired children with massive brains that would take over the galaxy over the next millennia.

Draco was probably going to be called upon to be the godparent of one of the sprogs, or some other injury to the soul.

Merlin damned him, he could barely see straight.

In the end, his legs tracked back into the office with little to no input from his conscious mind. When everything else in his life listed and crumbled to pieces, he had his work. Cold comfort, yet he would take whatever he could get.

He loped over to his desk, and there she was. Her loose apricot jumper threatening to spill over a shoulder, staring up at a crime board, a mug of coffee used at the corner of a roll of parchment to keep it stretched over the table.

“Granger.”

“Oh, hey, Malfoy,” she shot back with barely a glance, as if the mere sight of her hadn’t just restarted his pulse. “I’m looking into that poisoning in Diagon Alley.”

It took him longer than it should to string words together. “That’s not our case.”

“No, it was Asheni’s, but she felt like she was going around in circles with it. Since we don’t have anything pending until we hear back about that witch in Cornwall, I thought we could have a look,” she shrugged.

“You’re supposed to be on a date.” Draco hadn’t meant to say it.

“I cancelled,” was all Granger said. “I was comparing witness statements and these two,” she pointed at a cluster on the bottom left corner of the board, “are the only that mention timings. There’s a chance they’re covering up for each other.”

“Granger, you’re not meant to be here.”

“I don’t want to go on a shitty date, now come on, have a look at this.”

“It might go well. It has to be better than that cursed Sunday dinner, although I will concede that the bar is dragging on the floor,” Malfoy said.

The look she gave him could strip paint across a Quidditch pitch.

“You might like him,” he insisted, like the idiot he was, because he was being Noble and Selfless and fuck if it didn’t feel like sawing open his own chest with a rusty butterknife. “It could even be fun. You deserve some fun.”

Hermione just shook her head, back to gazing lovingly at her murder board. “It won’t be.” 

"Why didn't you go, Granger?"

She scrutinised him with slow, methodical difficulty. "Do you really want to know? You've never asked why I don't date."

Draco nodded. "I'm asking."

"Long or short answer?"

"Long." He'd heard her petty excuses - that wasn't what he was after.

She relaxed back into her chair. “You were there for one of my blind dates. You're well aware of how cringe-worthy and disappointing an experience dating is, on the whole. The truth is… It's nothing to do with the men I get set up with."

A derisive snort bubbled its way out of his throat.

"Yes, there's the occasional professional broom polisher," she continued, a tiny sparkle of laughter in her low voice, snuffed out almost immediately, "but mostly they're perfectly nice people. It's me." Granger stared down at her hands. "I don't- I know I'm not an easy person to have around. Initially, it might be fine. Everyone likes the idea of someone that's a bit unconventional, in theory. The problem is when they realise that means I won't, in fact, follow convention. That's when it gets difficult, it takes effort, it demands work I don't want to do, and it isn't enough. Eventually, I'm expected to bend in order to fit the mould. If that doesn't work, I'm meant to fracture myself if need be, shed anything too challenging to deal with.

"What I didn't realise, not at first, is that loneliness will chip at me all the same." She was all but whispering now. "In the end, we all have to pick the least bitter poison." Draco perched on the table to sit with her, and before he could offer up another piece of his damned self as sacrifice for her chance at happiness, the last fucking think he’d expected to hear left her lips, calm and soft: "Ask me for the short answer."

He looked up into her eyes with their intense halo of liquid amber light. "What's the short answer?"

"They're not you."

His thoughts turned slippery. There was a low pitched whine in his ears. 

She didn’t want to date Dave . But she did want him.

Well, fuck being Selfless. Who ever thought that was a good idea, anyway? His ancestors were probably rolling in their tombs, and for more reasons than one. No wonder he'd been feeling sick to his stomach. He was probably having an auto-immune reaction to being nice and self-sacrificing.

“Get your bits together, we’re leaving.” The plan was just there, fully formed, as if his subconscious had worked it all out just in case.

"What? Where-"

"Not your badge, though," Draco thought quickly on his feet. "Leave that behind. You're supposed to be out on a date, no-one will be too suspicious if you happen to inadvertently forget to carry it with you tonight."

"Alright," she frowned, collecting her coat and waving her wand to clear their crime board before following him out to the Floo by Cheung’s lair.

They were lucky. The office remained deserted.

He stepped onto the flames, a pinch of powder between his fingers.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The Cabin,” Draco intoned clearly, her hand wrapped in his as the flames flickered emerald green.

When they stepped out of the hearth, Granger looked around in wonderment, taking in the sloping timber walls and ceiling, the floor to ceiling windows open out to the woodland. “What is this place?”

“Remember me saying I’d finally moved out of that crummy little flat?”

“I liked your crummy flat,” she admitted.

“I think we’ll always have some memories of that place, yes,” she hummed in agreement, “but this came up and… Well, Cassie quite likes to go out running.”

“Not walking?”

“What’s the point of turning into a wolf if not to run freely through the woods?”

Granger grinned at that. Cassie came bounding into the living room, yawning through her doggy stretches, to sniff and wag her tail at her second favourite human. “I’ve missed you so much,” Granger assured her, bending over to scratch behind her ears and coo at the Crup.

All the while, Draco waited for his anxiety to turn his heart into a fluttering Doxy, but it never happened.

She was here, in his space, and he adored the sight of her coat on the back of the chair. He’d imagined it there, just as he’d imagined her reading out on the deck, or laughing with him in the kitchen. For weeks, he’d been busy setting up his perfect home, and here was the most important piece of it.

“Would you like a tour?” Draco offered, because he was in love with this witch, and he might currently be plotting just which surfaces of his home he’d like to shag her against, in order, but he was still British, and educated in propriety to within an inch of turning to marble.

Granger hesitated. “Is that why we’re here?”

“Not entirely,” he admitted.

“We agreed not to do this anymore, not to spend time together.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Then why am I here?” she insisted. Cassie, never a fan of having her sleeping schedule disturbed, trotted off back to her favoured spot on the spare bedroom duvet.

“To have a date. With me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Like an Unforgivable.”

“Malfoy…”

“You deserve a proper date, Granger. Have one with me.” 

And he would have held her, except she was busy going into a whole impromptu soliloquy on all the reasons why the two of them dating was a terrible idea. The words ‘unacceptable’, ‘irresponsible’ and ‘unprofessional’ were used, the last one repeatedly and with unwarranted enthusiasm. There was talk of hard work, of training, of ambitions and careers. Interestingly, she even drew on some of the same excuses he himself had considered and dismissed: that months of camaraderie, mutual reliance, respect and physical attraction (he couldn't help but smirk at that little admission) had blurred lines that should be redrawn instead of ignored, that she suspected codependency and obsession…

Slumped on his sofa, Draco did switch off at one point, in an effort to preserve his sanity. For all her arguing, Granger made no effort to leave, which he felt was telling.

"Those are all very good points," he interrupted during what seemed a lull, "but I do have a counter-argument."

"What is it?"

He tugged on her hands long enough to slowly coax her to stand between his thighs, inched up to hold her face, and planted a hot, long and luxuriant kiss on her lips, lingering there for a breath to enjoy the feel of her between his arms before opening his eyes again.

Hers were wide and bright, the tip of her nose gone pink.

"What do you think?" Draco asked.

"You said this wasn’t clever." The protest was weak. She still failed to put any distance between them.

"I'm sick of being clever. It's making me miserable."

Hermione sighed. "You're right."

"It's the first time you've ever admitted that."

"No, it isn't," she frowned at him.

"That's more like it. Where would I be without you to cut my ego down to size?”

“I’ve hardly made a dent on that gargantuan thing-” and she might have said more, but he was busy tasting the sweet bite of her lips again, brushing his own against them at his leisure with a deep sigh of pleasure. 

The kiss deepened, and he loved her wicked tongue, imagining how else it could torture him, until he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. "This is a date."

"So you've said."

Good. He felt it was highly important that this was explicitly settled. There was only one problem: "What are we supposed to be doing, again?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me." Granger's eyes dropped to his mouth in what he felt was a highly suggestive manner, although his perception was possibly, almost definitely skewed. "I famously don't date."

"Me neither."

This seemed to shock her. "You don't?"

“I’m an unlikeable, suspicious workaholic that enjoys nights in with his Crup, fuzzy socks and tailing criminals. You’d be amazed at how many people aren’t queuing to date me.”

“Fuzzy socks? Really?”

It didn’t escape Draco that she hadn’t touched on unlikeable or suspicious. “Yes, really. Apparently, it makes for poor boyfriend material.”

“Shocking. It occurs to me that most dates include snacks, refreshments, and discussing our respective days."

"This feels like us on any given Friday. I'm pretty sure you've left something out."

"Have I?" Granger asked, all feigned innocence.

He nodded, and she bent down to kiss him yet again. Before he knew what he was doing, Draco had moved his mouth to her neck, laving kisses on the delicate skin to feel her shudder. He spread his fingers over the small of her back, drawing her into his lap - finally, finally -, and the smell of her skin was enough to undo him.

"This is bordering on unacceptable behaviour."

"What would constitute bad behaviour, exactly?" he inquired, licking a stripe along her exposed collarbone.

A rolling sigh, her eyes half-lidded. "Shagging on a first date."

"I've never had sex on a first date. I'm not sure why you're so convinced I would break the streak of pristine conduct."

Hermione lifted a brow and let her eyes drag down purposefully to where his hand was cupping her arse, all but his thumb already tucked into the back of her jeans.

Oops. "Ah."

"Yes, well, this would serve as evidence against you."

He offered a cheeky grin. "Rather damning."

"You are, quite literally, trying to get into my pants at this very moment. Bit of an open and shut case, really,” and off came the jumper, alongside any bit of restraint Draco might have been clawing at.

He felt the movement of her throat under his lips. “Maybe it’s time we admitted we’re pants at following rules.”

“That sounds like us.” Hermione reached between them to undo the button of his trousers and Draco had to remind himself rather sternly that he wasn’t a teenager and he wasn’t to rut into her hands like one.

It wasn’t easy. He might have, but only a little.

The light from the fireplace caressed every inch of her beautiful skin as it was revealed, miles of it for him to marvel at, almost dizzy with arousal.

“You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” Draco accused between mapping her breasts. He decided he loved them and set about nipping and kissing the soft undersides. Her breaths shortened as he pressed the flat of his tongue to her nipple, and she squirmed when he applied gentle suction.

So he did it again, but harder.

Hermione’s hands were in his hair, prying it loose from his tie and carding her fingers through it. “I’d never known complete and utter failure until you. You make me lose a grip on my feelings, my thoughts, my actions. It’s all spun out of my control, and I hate it.” She rolled her hips, only the thin material of his boxers between them, making him groan.

“With you, I’m everything I shouldn’t be, everything I once despised.” Draco shivered in pleasure at the sight of the indents left by his fingers on her ribcage, at the little circular movements of her pelvis, grinding down ever more feverishly. “An unreasonable, lovesick, horny imbecile.”

“You’re defeated me, you know that? You’re the only one that ever has. You’ve won, now take care what you do to me.”

Draco shifted to lay her down along his sofa, apologising with kisses strewn down her abdomen, the soft skin below her belly button, the jut of one hipbone, then the other. “I will. I promise, I will take care of you, for as long as you allow me. Let me take care of you.”

He took his promise as he should, on his knees before her.

And there he traced his hands and mouth on her thighs before pressing his mouth - tender, coaxing - to where she was wet, and warm. They moaned in tandem. “Fuck, you taste incredible everywhere,” Draco whispered, mind addled with want as he licked her cunt more intently. He was ridden by want to explore her, to know her. Hermione’s hands flew up over her head, nails sinking into a cushion as she panted, back arching as soon as his lips lingered at the apex of her thighs, testing and pressing.

She keened, and let out a few curses, and he rather liked the sound of her voice when she was breathless with pleasure, especially when it formed his name.

He added two fingers, working them inside her ever so slowly, deeper and deeper, whispering absurdities to her flesh as his erection throbbed, heavy on his thigh, the tip dragging wetly on his skin. It jolted when one of Hermione’s hands came down to weave in his hair, pressing herself more firmly into his face, chest thrust out in silent plea.

Draco licked and sucked her flesh and fucked his fingers in and out of her, the feral portion of his brain barely restrained by the absolute need to ring pleasure from her. When Hermione broke, riding his face in earnest all the while as her magic pulsed to flare the fire to high, white-blue flame, the last of his sanity skittered away into shadows, not to be seen.

He watched her recover her breath, a shimmer of perspiration like a veil over her freckled skin, and stayed between her thighs, idly stroking soft skin as he inhaled greedily.

The air was heavy with her, with sex, with them, and he was drunk on it.

No sooner had he returned to soft, long licks along her cunt, she was calling his name. “I want you.”

“You can give me one more,” Draco said, voice barely more than a growl. “I know you can.”

She undulated her hips at the intrusion, made to protest - of course she did, it wouldn’t have been his Granger if she hadn’t been berating him every inch of the way - but her voice died out in a moan as his fingers curled inside her, harder and faster than before, driven by instinct alone.

This was true of them, too: they’d known each other from the first, try as they might to deny it.

It wasn’t long before he could feel her build up to another peak, squirming away from him at the sharp pleasure, and Draco shushed her, an arm wrapped over her stomach to hold her in place as he told her he was beautiful, that she was perfect, that she was his, the span of her arms the edges of his entire universe-

When Hermione shattered yet again, pulsing along his knuckles, he almost came right alongside her, untouched, such was the swelling shudder of seeing her and feeling her.

“Are you trying to kill me? Is that what this is?” she croaked, chest flushed and heaving.

“Only sweet little deaths, my darling,” he stretched out alongside her, and if she opposed the endearment Draco certainly wasn’t able to tell. Hermione kissed him with abandon, tongue against his, and he was perfectly content to indulge in soft, lulling touches, now that the urgent horniness had worked itself out of their systems. “I want to do this again and again with you,” Draco whispered.

“I can’t say I’m opposed,” she looked loose and relaxed as she rolled on top, her knees on either side of him.

“We could just go to sleep.” He meant it, too.

“Not just yet.” Her hair had evaded its ties, draping over her shoulders, over the curve of her breasts. Draco’s breath stalled as she tugged his boxers down his thighs, then sighed loudly at having his erection finally spring free. “Hmm.”

“Is something wrong?”

There was a devilish, appraising look in her eyes. “This might be… A challenge.”

He could have sworn his canines had elongated for the smile he was wearing when he said, “You enjoy a challenge.”

“I certainly plan to enjoy this one.” The air thickened again between them as they kissed, and Draco took full advantage of his free hands to hold her face, snag his fingers in her curls, and snap them to her hips when she pressed down onto him.

Draco felt her flutter around him, heard her soft cry, and gritted his teeth, his whole body flushing. He mumbled pleas for her to go slowly, please , to take a little more, stop, more, just another inch…

When he was finally fully seated, his mind reeling at the soft, wet, liquid pleasure of her, Hermione stilled, pupils swollen to eclipse her iris, her soft mouth open. All Draco wanted was to kiss her, and kiss her, and palm and mouth those beautiful tits - she liked having them sucked, he’d discovered - and he was going to die.

“Move,” he finally whispered on her skin. “Please, darling.”

Her hips stuttered and he swallowed her moan. “It’s so…”

“I know. I know, but please, please move. We’ll go slow,” he nodded to reassure her, his hands rounding to grab hold of the globes of her arse.

“Slow,” Hermione nodded in agreement, and dragged against him just a little, a push and pull.

“That’s it,” he groaned, low in his throat. “You’re doing so well.”

The perfect friction, mind melting as it was, eventually gave way to harder, longer strokes that had him seeing stars and twitching, helpless as she fucked him, his every muscle tensing and releasing in time with their joint rhythm.

He’d been right all along. The sex was fucking incredible .

Draco drew his tongue over beads of her sweat, barely clinging on. The sight and scent and feel of her overwhelmed him, his own body moving even as he tried to hold back, to slow down, but it was too late. They were barreling down to the edge of the cliff together, teeth and nails - rough, fast and hard.

Draco pressed hard with his hand open at the base of Hermione’s spine, his mouth over her neck as he felt her breathing change through her ribcage, heard it hitch, the very warmth of her changing in a wet, sticky rush, and he came right alongside her in long, drawn out movements as he tried to fuck deeper, further, as far and as close as he could possibly go.

He settled Hermione in his arms, both of them a sticky mess as their breathing evened out. Hermione waved a wandless Scourgify over them both to help with the worst of it. “It seems we broke the no-shagging-on-the-first-date rule quite… Thoroughly,” Draco noted.

“So much for a date. You didn’t even feed me,” Hermione’s remonstration was weakened by her soft smile.

“We’re breaking all the rules.”

“Maybe we were always meant to.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, Hermione had drifted to sleep in his arms.

~*~

Draco witnessed her waking up in his bed, a little bleary eyed and blinking. As soon as her gaze focused, her sleep-heavy eyes crinkled at the edges and she drew nearer to rest her head on the crook of his arm.

It was the most natural thing, as was the floppy, idiotic smile he could feel plastered on his own face. He couldn't have stopped it for the world.

Gods, they were in trouble.

This was already careless. Hermione probably - or, in all honesty, definitely - should not have spent the night. They shouldn’t draw attention, they had to be clever about this, yet there she was, her liquid cat eyes assessing him, and he wanted to keep her in bed for days. Weeks. He was hungry but in no rush to abandon the covers and face blissfully contracting scurvy from consuming only the meagre contents of his cupboards.

"Oh no," she said, with such happiness that he couldn't help but grin broadly in answer.

"Indeed."

She moved over his body between the sheets, the warm silkiness of her skin so much softer than the fabric, kissing along smooth and scarred skin alike. "We've just stuffed up both our lives."

"Not only just," Draco protested, delighted in this turn of events as Granger straddled his thighs. His cock stirred gamely to life at the sight. "Might as well face it. From my part, I've been fighting being in love with you for months."

Granger nodded, clusters of her awful, beloved hair cascading over one shoulder. "A detestable development."

"You?"

“What about me?”

“Since when?” he pressed.

"Let a girl retain a little dignity." Her tongue flicked out over the ridges of his abdomen and the muscles clenched reactively.

"No," he moaned. "Tell me."

She sighed, and even that little air hitting his skin had his legs twitching, his cock now painfully hard. "If you must know,” he did, he had to know, “the better part of a year. And now - where does that leave us? What do we do?"

He wished this conversation wasn't happening while he was thus compromised. "It would depend on your intentions, I suppose."

"My intentions?" There was an arch to her brow and he resisted the urge to kiss it. Had Draco kissed her brow yet? It was likely he had. He should do it again.

Passion had unravelled him, unspooled him, left him pleasantly adrift.

"Your intentions towards me." He sucked in a breath as she gave his cock a slow, leisurely lick. "I'm sure they're- ever so noble."

"Just in it for the sex, I'm afraid. I thought you knew," she lied. Cheeky.

"I shall have to endure it."

Hermione mouthed gently at his cock from its base upwards, flicking her tongue out in a way that made his every muscle tense. His neck snapped back at the enduring surge of pleasure that wouldn't ebb or crest, and Draco wasn't sure how much of it he could take.

Then, out of nowhere, she stopped.

"I was thinking-"

"Now? Oh, Merlin's sake…" he covered his eyes with his palms, throbbing in painful frustration.

“We should come up with a plan.”

“You appalling witch.” Draco sighed loudly. "There's always the option of asking for reassignment and new partners, or I could ask the team at the Direction Générale  for my job back, since the commute wouldn’t be a problem. Shuck this in."

But they wouldn't. He knew they wouldn't. This was their fight, they were a team, and stronger for it.

"We need to finish it," Hermione told him, quietly, an echo of his own thoughts. Finish off the Loyalist plots once and for all, capture the last few players, particularly his hated aunt. "I can't do this without you."

"Of course you can."

"Yes, I can," she was forced to agree, "but it will be harder, and slower, and more dangerous without you watching my back. Keeping me safe."

"Mostly from yourself," Draco added, because he couldn't help it, but she only smiled. He stretched over to her, kissed her and adjusted them both until Hermione was face down on the bed, naked and glorious. He caught a pillow and positioned it under her hips. The sight made his mouth water and his hand was reaching down for a slow stroke of his cock before he realised he was doing it. "Let's hear it."

"Hear what?" Her voice was breathier with anticipation.

He took his time kissing along her shoulders and down the gentle ridges of her spine. "You have a plan, I know you do. It will be brilliant, and risky, and our best bet. Let's save ourselves some time," Draco let his teeth graze the curve of her arse and she let in a sharp inhale, "and just tell me what it is."

Hermione craned her neck back and her smile dissolved into something lax and open mouthed as Draco's fingers tightened around her hip and hot flesh parted over the head of his cock.

It was so good. Too much. Liquid pleasure bathed him, radiating to the base of his spine and further and he had to hold tighter, clawing for some measure of control. The sensation was unreal, and he knew he mustn't look, he mustn't focus on the sight before him, at the sensual moan Hermione let out, or he'd come embarrassingly quickly.

Draco still looked.

A part of him was still incredulous that this was his life, this closeness deeper than flesh, the mess of curls on his pillow.

"Hermione?" he asked, hoarsely.

" Yes. "

Chapter Text

“This never happens.”

Hermione was walking a few steps behind him, her nose buried in the case file as she shuffled through parchment at breakneck speed. “You may want to revisit your definition of never.”

“No, I mean it. A shoe is about to drop from the sky, just you watch for the heel.” Draco had been dreading getting back to work after the pure perfection of a stolen weekend, convinced he’d give up the game within seconds by advertising their illicit entanglement with his body language or the dopey smile that slipped into place anytime he relaxed.

But instead of getting called into the Branch to sit under the scrutiny of dozens of highly trained investigators, luck had shone upon them, for once, and they picked up a shout in Scotland.

“Whatever you say. This shouldn’t take us more than a couple of days, I have no idea why you packed this much,” she gestured at their bags.

“What if we stretched it to a week, maybe a week and a half?”

“Malfoy…”

“I’m not saying we need to drag our feet, but we could blag some annual leave. Merlin knows we have enough of it saved up,” he explained.

Granger was gearing herself up for a debate when the potted Monstera in the corner of the Bed and Breakfast’s reception hissed at them.

“Florence?” Draco engaged the foliage.

“I’m not here!”

“Right. I will point out that if this is your best effort, I have no idea how you ever passed Stealth,” he remonstrated.

“What are you doing?” Granger asked their colleague.

Florence gave up any pretence at photosynthesis. “I’m technically on break, but my brother asked for my help, I couldn’t say no.”

Granger passed the case file to Malfoy for him to peruse. It was slim pickings: a map of the area and a couple of witness reports. “Is he involved with the alleged egg theft?”

“No, of course he’s not involved! He works with the dragon reservation, and there’s nothing alleged about it. Eggs have been going missing for over eighteen months,” Florence explained. “I’m so glad it’s the two of you, anyone else would send me packing.”

“But we won’t?” Draco asked, looking askance at his partner. Hermione seemed as conflicted as he felt.

Florence kept pulling at the ends of her scarf. “You can’t! I’ll help, I promise.”

“No, that’s exactly what you can’t be doing.” Granger softened her voice. “Surely you see how this is a conflict of interest.”

“What conflict of interest? Andrew could never do anything wrong. He’s an animal rights activist and a vegan, for Merlin’s sake,” their colleague chuckled, as if this was conclusive evidence, and pulled keys out of her robe pockets. “There was some sort of blunder with the room reservations and they had the two of you in a suite, but that’s alright, Hermione and I can share. Here’s your bedroom key, Malfoy.”

Malfoy accepted his blasted room key, his plans crumbling before his very eyes. “Right. Thanks, Florence.”

“You’re welcome. See, I’m helping already.”

“Remember what I said about a heel?” Draco whispered as they followed Florence up the stairs.

Granger had the gall to smirk.

~*~

“How many eggs have gone missing?”

“Between five and eighteen.”

“That’s a rather large interval,” Granger pointed out.

“It’s based on the number of breeding pairs.”

They faced off across the desk cluttered with information pamphlets and leaflets, a broken Muggle rotary phone and multiple charts tracking dragon population, sightings and reproduction.

“So you haven’t seen these eggs.”

“No.”

“Can you show us the location of the nests?”

“Hebridean Blacks don’t nest, they find sheltered rocky crags and bury the eggs in sand to keep their temperature stable,” Andrew Honey sneered, as if this was perfectly common knowledge.

“Have the thieves set off any warding?”

“It’s impossible to ward a dragon reservation of this size, not to mention it would introduce an unacceptable disturbance to their habitat.”

Funny, that. Ten minutes in the man’s presence, and Draco was ready to point out an unacceptable disturbance himself.

“Have you or anyone else witnessed one of these thefts?” Granger insisted.

“No, and I don’t understand where this line of questioning is going.”

“I’m having difficulty understanding why you think the eggs have been stolen.”

“Of course they’ve been stolen, what else could have happened to them?”

“The breeding pairs may have found someplace else to nest, or, if their habitat is so fragile and vulnerable to magical interference, perhaps they haven’t laid eggs at all,” Granger suggested, with a lot more kindness than Draco felt the man deserved.

“Preposterous. Utter twaddle. Is this really the best your department can offer, Florence?” he asked his sister. “They aren’t even asking the right questions.”

“What should we be asking about, in your professional opinion?”

“Motive. Except for trained personnel conducting careful work, no-one is allowed in the reservation, but it could be a veritable goldmine for the unscrupulous. Dragons are sources of magic, and every part of a dragon - from the hide and scales to their eyes, blood and heart - can be used in leatherworking, potioncraft and wandmaking. Even dragon dung is highly prized.”

“That’s the opposite of a motive,” Malfoy pointed out. “Since dragons are so valuable, why would the perpetrators be stealing eggs before they have a chance to hatch?”

“I can’t believe I’m having to explain this,” Andrew sighed in what Draco felt was a particularly wallop-worthy fashion. “Dragons generate their own magical warding to keep out almost everyone. Even trained and skilled conservationists like myself can only conduct short observational studies, and mostly we stick to the periphery of the reservation. The problem is, the warding isn’t generated by the adults, but by the eggs themselves as the shell pieces dissolve and get absorbed into the soil and the water, then evaporate in the air. It’s been almost a year since we last saw a youngling. If we don’t get any eggs hatching soon, the whole reservation might just collapse.”

“You said almost everyone. What did you mean by that?” Hermione asked, zeroing in on the key aspect of the man’s patronising lecture.

“There is a local wizarding family, the Macleods, that can cross into the reservation at will. It’s an old magical pact, passed on through the bloodline, from back when they protected local dragons and allowed them to thrive.”

“Excellent, that sounds like a solid lead. We need to track down the Macleods-”

“Don’t bother,” Andrew interrupted. “We hired a private security firm to do that, already. There’s only two surviving family members, and they’ve ruled them both out as suspects.”

“We’ll conduct our own investigation.”

“Now you’re just wasting time.”

Granger’s expression darkened to black.

“Oh my,” Florence muttered to Draco. “This is even better than what I could have predicted.”

“Really? I can’t imagine how this could have gone any worse,” Draco whispered back.

“Why would pursuing our only lead be a waste of time?” Granger crossed her arms.

“Knox Macleod has carried the family tradition and worked to protect these beasts his whole adult life. His brother has been bed-ridden ever since his accident, so he couldn’t steal a chicken’s egg, let alone a dragon’s.”

“There’s such tension between them. I knew they’d be perfect for each other,” Florence cooed.

Draco shook his head. “Are we witnessing the same conversation? Because I’m half convinced Granger is about to dismantle your brother for parts.”

Andrew Honey supplied the report from the private security name and Granger let out an imprecation when she read through it. “Seriously? Is this who you hired?”

“They came highly recommended.”

~*~

“Fucking Biticaine,” Granger muttered, leaving the offices of the Hebridean Preservation Society at speed and crushing the roll of parchment as she slapped it on Malfoy’s hand none too delicately. “I cannot believe that shameless twerp had the nerve to set up shop as a private investigator.”

“Biticaine Security. The BS logo is a nice touch, at least he won’t be accused of false advertising,” Draco noted.

“Obviously we can’t trust anything on that so-called report, so we’re starting from scratch. We’ll interview the two brothers while Florence verifies if there is any credibility to the idea that they are the last living descendants.”

“Is that before or after our dinner?”

“Does it matter? We can get something on the way.”

Malfoy checked Florence was still inside talking to her brother. “I made reservations at this restaurant where the view is supposed to be excellent.”

“What’s this? First the suite, now dinner reservations. Is this an attempt at romance, Malfoy?”

“That depends entirely on whether you enjoy the idea of being romanced, I suppose.”

Hermione seemed conflicted. “We have a plan.”

“I know.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

Draco stopped dead, wind catching his hair and sending it blowing around his ears. “Of course not. Whatever may happen, I’m with you.” Despite his lingering anxieties, there was a sense of flight, a lightness of the self in this surrender.

She offered him a beautiful smile. “I have an inkling that you might be rather good at this romance business.”

“Good, because Florence is more convinced than ever that you and her brother are soulmates.”

“What?”

“Something about the way you were arguing.”

“That’s ridiculous. Disagreeing with someone is no basis for affection.”

Malfoy shot her a look.

“Right, fine, but patronising cretins really aren’t my type.”

“I will bear that in mind. Now, which brother should we start with?”

~*~

They were saved having to choose when Knox Macleod welcomed them both to his brother’s cottage and introduced them to his live-in nurse. “We would be completely lost without Rosse, she has been a tremendous help.”

“How is your brother doing?” Granger asked.

“Some days are better than others,” the older man admitted, sliding his fingers down the length of his bristly beard. “Sometimes he remembers jumbled snippets of memories, and will suddenly recall a conversation we had decades ago. Then we lose him again for days.”

“How did the accident happen, if you don’t mind us asking?” Malfoy probed.

Knox’s frown drew in on itself. “We can’t be sure of what happened but, as best as we’ve been able to reconstruct, Kelso was out with some unsavoury associates, drinking and partaking of certain potions,” he sounded gruff with embarrassment at this, “and he tried to Apparate. The physical scarring was quick to heal, but his mind…”

“Was your brother a habitual user?”

“I’m not sure. Truth is, Auror Granger, he and I were never close. He was always too restless, too wild, and our relationship was fraught. Kelso would ask me for money and then disappear for months on end and, to my shame, I felt it was easy enough to oblige him instead of picking a fight I wanted no part of. I regret it now, of course, but you always think there will be time to patch things later, don’t you?”

Rosse approached, laying a hand on Knox’s shoulder. “It’s never too late. He knows you’re here, and is always more settled after you visit.”

Knox remained pensive at this.

“Have you ever seen anything suspicious anywhere in the reservation?”

“Nothing at all,” Knox told Draco without hesitation. “The thing is, it’s not exactly the type of landscape where you can hide. There’s no dense woodland or anything of the sort, just the islands and the ocean.”

Hermione changed tactics. “Can you think why anyone would steal the eggs?”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Anyone that has ever seen a Hebridean Black will tell you, these are magnificent beasts. A thing of wonder. Who would be so heartless as to endanger them?”

~*~

Back at the B&B, Granger looked through the evidence that Andrew Honey had compiled for them, focusing on younglings spotted and breeding pair activity, while Malfoy tried not to get distracted by the sway of her hips and thoughts of other kinds of paired activity.

The things Draco wanted to do to her. Would do to her.

And she was going to let him.

“It has to be Knox Macleod. He’s the only suspect that makes sense,” Hermione was saying.

“The man has exclusive rights to more ethically harvested dragon products than he knows what to do with. He’s swimming in gold. What’s his motive?”

“He’s the only one with unfettered access to the reservation. If I was constantly pestered by Florence’s brother to go on a two hour hike to measure wingspans and collect manure samples, I might decide the Hebridean Blacks could afford to get a little more endangered.”

“He didn’t strike me as that kind of man.”

“Yet his brother, the only other human being blood-sworn to the reservation, is bed-ridden, as confirmed by the Healer’s report,” she sighed. “We’re getting nowhere.”

“Did Florence tell you how long she’d be out?”

“No, why?”

Draco edged closer, her skin warm under his hand as he slid it beneath her jumper. “Perhaps we could use a little break-”

Which, of course, was when Florence came bursting into the suite, making them jump six feet apart in the space of a blink. “The Macleod’s have a magically tracked family tree, so it was easy enough to confirm that there are no other living descendants.”

“Where’s an illegitimate cousin when you need one?” Granger glared at the paperwork strewn over her bedspread.

“A disappointment, for sure,” and in more ways than one , Malfoy thought. “This removes any chance of wayward family branches pretty definitively.”

“Andrew isn’t normally this much of a grump,” Florence said, aiming that remark at Hermione. “He’s going through a lot of stress at the moment. What if we all went out to dinner?”

“To be honest, I’d rather set up surveillance at the reservation.”

“It will be fun, I compiled this list of vegan restaurants for you to choose from.”

Granger paid the proffered list no notice. “Wait, there might be something in that.”

“What, setting up surveillance?” Draco asked, confused.

“Of a sort. I have an idea. We’re going to need wellies, sandwiches and a waterproof picnic blanket.”

Florence perked up. “Can Andrew come?”

“No,” Granger and Malfoy snapped at the same time.

~*~

“I’m so cold.”

“Suffering in the name of justice was your idea,” Draco pointed out.

“It will be worth it when the trap springs.”

“And yet, my single bed back at the B&B seems more appealing by the minute.”

"Are you a fairweather only boyfriend, then? That's disappointing."

It was such an embarrassment that this was enough to have him grinning. "Boyfriend sounds exciting. Do I get to call you my girlfriend?"

"Do you have a desperate need to stick your claim on everything?" She harrumphed. "How very moneyed privileged male of you."

Draco shifted on their picnic blanket, taking care not to make himself visible to any onlookers as he edged close to Hermione. “I’m glad to see my efforts at romance aren’t going to waste.”

Hermione smiled with wicked hunger when his arm wrapped around her. “Or perhaps I’m shamelessly using you for body heat.”

He stole a kiss, meant to be brief and careful. Draco let himself sink into it, only a little, and barely controlled the sounds emerging from his throat. Hermione pressed tighter, leaning in. Want clawed through him as he licked at her lips until she pulled away with a sigh.

“Is there a chance of you sneaking past Florence later tonight?” His voice had gone rough.

“I shouldn’t think so, no.”

“If her brother’s personality is any clue, she’s got some significant blind spots.”

“Don’t let familial love fool you, she’s a gifted investigator. I’m pretty sure she’d draw all the right conclusions if she caught me sneaking into your bedroom after you booked us a suite.”

Sadly, Granger was right. “Do you think he’ll come?”

“He has to. One successful hatching might be enough to reinforce the warding for months; Knox can’t risk that much of a setback.”

It wasn’t long before they heard steps dragging through the rocky terrain, rasped, difficult breathing echoing in the otherwise quiet night air. The two of them waited, shielded by shadow alone as any magical warding was out of the question.

“Mr Macleod?”

“Who wants to know?” The beam of a flashlight aimed right at his face, Malfoy’s night vision went up in flames, but not before he realised they’d caught their egg snatcher. “You’re not supposed to be walking around here.”

“That’s interesting. I was about to say the same thing,” Granger said.

~*~

The following morning, Knox Macleod looked more defeated than ever. “I don’t understand. My brother could barely string a sentence, let alone walk. He was examined by so many different Healers, going back months, and they all agreed that there was no chance of recovery. How is this possible?”

“The accident was very real, and, as you said yourself, he had some physical scars from it, but apart from that he made a full recovery. He wouldn’t have been able to fake his injuries on his own,” Granger explained.

Knox stared at his own hands, unseeing. “He had help?”

Draco nodded. “Rosse confessed to using a mixture of a Sleeping Draught and a Confundus Charm - both harmless when used separately, and quite convincing when combined. She had the perfect cover to stay with him at all times and spring to action whenever there were any visitors.”

“What did they have to gain from all this?”

“Despite frequently asking you for money, your brother still owed a ridiculous amount of gold to some scary people, so they threatened him into stealing the eggs to weaken the protections on the reservation. There was a lot of profit to be made if they could come and go as they pleased.”

“I could have gotten him anything. He could have come to me and… We would have sorted it.”

Silence dragged until Granger said, “It’s possible he didn’t see it as an option.”

“My own brother? If that’s the case,” Knox shook his head, tears beading at the corner of his eyes, “I have failed him utterly, and this is as much my fault as Kelso’s.” He got up and shook hands with both Aurors. “I will do what I can to support him through the trial. You never know, maybe the accident did affect him, and the Wizengamot will take that into account during sentencing. I’m glad the reservation is safe again, at any rate. With the number of breeding pairs we have, the Hebridean Black population should be back to normal in no time.”

“Blind spots,” Granger said after he left.

“That reminds me, Florence is still after you with that restaurant list.”

“In which case, you haven’t seen me.”

“At all?”

“Not a bit.”

~*~

Hermione’s cryptic message led Draco to the edge of the reservation, where a waterfall sloped gently to a natural pool surrounded by carpets of pink heather and purple creeping thyme. The air was balmy and fragrant.

Submerged up to her shoulders, she so resembled a naiad, her skin turned rosy and her hair trailing behind her with the black gloss of seaweed, that he had to blink to take her in.

“How did you find this place?”

“It was mapped on the documents as a magical hot spring. In the Spring and Summer months, the dragons come this far south, but past the Equinox-”

Her explanation was cut off when Draco tugged on the scruff of his shirt to remove it, hopping briefly on one foot as the other got caught in his trouser leg. “Say no more.”

“Careful! Don’t go careening into a rock and splitting your skull open.”

“You should have to kiss it better,” he sighed, entering the water and letting the heat of it soothe his muscles.

“I don’t think you should attribute any healing properties to my affections.”

“I think I will, if you don’t mind.” Draco reached a hand up to her face. “Anything is better if you’re with me.”

They lingered there for a few moments, bare to one another in far more than their nakedness.

“Florence has decided to head back to London. An owl arrived this afternoon, and it sounded pretty urgent.”

“Shame. We’ll have to try that vegan place some other time.”

He swallowed the wondrous swell of want at the wet brush of her kiss, of her whole body against his as Hermione’s hands went around his neck. “That’s- an interesting sensation,” he gasped.

Hermione’s voice was sounding more strangled than usual. “Your skin is so warm, I swear it’s getting even hotter.”

“Is this okay for you? I know water can make you uncomfortable.”

“Anything is better if you’re with me,” she repeated his words back to him, making little broken noises of pleasure when he ran his nose down her neck, skimming his lips over that sensitive patch of skin under the ear before he licked it. 

Draco draped touches and kisses in a slow drag, savouring her and giving himself over to sensation. Then, he decided to try his luck yet again. “So, about us staying for a few more days…”

Hermione chuckled against him, a leg draping over his thigh, tense and demanding. “We have a plan. We’re being- careful,” her voice failed as Draco rolled his hips, dragging himself against her, repeating his motion in delight at her reaction.

He kissed the shell of her ear, the juncture of her neck and shoulder, her forehead, while his hand cupped her breasts and rolled her nipples between thumb and index finger. “We can still spare a few hours, can’t we?” He cradled her body to his, pushing, and had to curse at the overwhelming heat of her around his cock, at the incredible torture of having to pause, teetering on the edge already.

There was a bite in her next kiss, in the moan she let out when he reached between them with delicate little circles of his thumb at the edge of her thighs. “I think we should.”

“Perfect,” Draco sighed, feeling himself sink into the pleasure as the sun started to touch the edge of the horizon and water flowed and rippled around them. “You’re perfect.”

Warmth flooded him like magic, blurring everything except for Hermione, moving and clutching and clenching around him until they were desperate, unravelling one another in drawn out gasps.

It was the most beautiful sunset Draco has ever witnessed.

Chapter Text

It was only ever a matter of time. Their interlude in Scotland over, it was back to the office, where Draco's anxiety could find space to stretch out and climb the walls.

When he saw who was occupying Hermione's chair, he very nearly walked straight back out. He'd half expected Cheung to be there, having sensed that shenanigans were afoot in that almost preternatural way she had of knowing everything that was going on even though she barely ever seemed to surface from her office for air.

This was far less welcome.

Even as he sat at his desk, Draco had a vague sense that his meek demeanour and lack of hostility was suspicious in and of itself.

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

He pretended to busy himself with the case file Granger had taken on, trying to concentrate as he read through the witness statements.

"Hermione should be on her way in."

"I expect so."

Granger's marginalia picked out the salient points and she'd made a list of actions at the end. He went through them and started to plan their day's work.

"She cancelled the date with David last Friday."

Malfoy fought to keep a neutral expression and offered no comment.

"He's such a nice bloke. And he likes her, too," Potter insisted, undeterred.

Fucking Dave. A muscle in Draco's jaw ticked. "Bit pompous, though. He has that typical MACUSA swagger, 'we do it bigger and better' sort of attitude. It can grate."

"I suppose." Potter leaned in closer. "Do you know if she is seeing anyone?"

"I couldn't possibly say." He really couldn’t.

"She can be secretive."

"A requirement, really."

Potter eyeballed him. Draco aimed to exude uninterested innocence.

"What made you go into the service in France, then? You could have applied here."

So they were changing topics. That suited him fine.

"Even setting aside the bit of prejudice against me, deserved as it may be, how long do you think it would have taken for it to devolve into a pissing contest between the two of us?"

He could see Potter struggling with that one. "That's fair. Didn't turn out so well for you in the end though, did it? I'm sure Hermione's more than putting you through your paces."

Draco recalled that very morning in the cabin, Hermione's fingers covering his own, guiding his touch, the feel of her skin and the silk of the sigh in his ear-

He cleared his throat. "An unassailable truth."

The woman herself chose that moment to come into work, her leather backpack swinging over her shoulder and hair still damp as she bestowed both men a restrained smile. “Good morning, Harry. I hadn’t expected to see you this week. Not that it isn’t a nice surprise,” she hastened to add, sliding her partner a café crème before sipping her preferred black and bitter sludge.

Malfoy sniffed. He didn’t concur.

“Morning, Hermione.” Potter’s expression was still strained. “Hold that thought until you hear why I’m here. There have been some developments on the rounding up of the last few Loyalist holdouts."

“Is it good news?" she asked.

“We've been approached by someone ready to turn witness.”

Malfoy shuffled in his chair. Granger looked thoughtful. “How reliable is this?”

“Very. Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as taking a statement. The few remaining Loyalists have gone to ground, our witness among them. If they were to disappear for even a few minutes, they’d be in danger.”

“You’re planning an extraction,” Draco deduced. “Did you just march in here to try and poach my partner? Because if so, you can fuck right off.”

“Actually,” Potter was staring daggers at him now, “Hermione isn’t the one I’m looking to bring along on this one.”

“Oh,” she said, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, this should be interesting."

~*~

It took just over a week to nail down the details of Malfoy's deployment. The night before he was due to leave, Hermione and he moved outside after dinner, installing themselves on one of the deck chairs under a chequered blanket, a bottle of wine within reach. At least, Draco was on the deck chair; Hermione was mostly draped over him as they watched the cool, clear night slowly drape its cloak over the trees all around them. 

Draco let his fingers drift up and down Hermione's back, lost in thought. Loving Granger had turned out to be a full body endeavour. She would seek him out constantly, burrowing under clothes and covers to find him with a sigh of contentment. She'd been holding back, before; now it was as if she couldn't stop touching him.

Despite complaining about it on principle, Draco not-so-secretly loved it.

He'd also noticed she seemed to like his forearms. She'd wrap them around herself often, and enjoyed tracing the veins on the inside under the tips of her fingers - both of them, which was as shocking as it was endearing. He hadn’t known this depth of acceptance was a possibility, that someone might love him so thoroughly as to care for the whole of him - broken bits, triumphs and mistakes altogether.

And Hermione slept. Either magnificent, sweaty and sated after sex, or with the pages of her current book dropping away from loose fingers, but always curled into Draco's side, night after night, peaceful and comfortable.

Looking out at the forest surrounding their cabin, Draco could make out the far edges of trees under the sun's last rays, leaves turned every colour of a sunset detaching in the wind. The sheer need to stay within the bubble of that moment struck him deep between the ribs, and he knew he had to go. “Hermione.”

She hummed.

“I should be going.” As with most missions, they’d be assembling at the arse crack of dawn and he already knew he’d be belligerent, underslept and over caffeinated, snappish at any annoyance. If that insult were compounded by leaving Hermione alone in bed, he might just curse Potter for daring to breathe too loudly. Draco's best bet was to spend the night at the depressing yet convenient shift room at the Branch.

“A few more minutes.”

“You’re asleep.”

“I’m just resting my eyes,” she protested, valiantly trying to stay awake.

This was the moment where promises and reassurances loomed at the edge, chased by the need to voice them. Draco held them back with effort. They both knew the score. This was the job, and the job was still important, even if not the most important, anymore. Not for him, anyways. “And this is the same woman that didn’t want to date in the first place.”

A deep sigh, setting her body rocking gently against his. “It's not dating, Malfoy, I told you. It's you, it's this . I don’t think anyone could love me as well as you do. Don’t let that go to your head.”

Warm, liquid happiness filled him, spilling over, overfull. “Too late. It’s there.” 

“Oh, dear.”

Draco's lips touched her forehead. "I shall relive those words forever."

He meant it, too. And when he looked down to steal a glance at her face, he saw she'd fallen asleep.

Bollocks. He adjusted the blanket and tightened his arms around her to ward off the chill. This happiness thing was going to sink him to his knees.

~*~

They hunkered down in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the nearest Floo connection fifty miles away. Half the property consisted of two bedrooms, side by side perfect mirrors of each other. After unpacking his few belongings in one, Malfoy came to find Potter awkwardly setting up in their shared living room.

"There's barely any warding in this place," he noted, trying his best to sound neutral.

"We need the witness to be able to find us. They're the only one that have our location."

The witness. They. "Are you planning on telling me who it is at some point?"

Potter gave a sharp jerk of his chin. "I'm not supposed to share that information with anyone. Protocol."

"Right," Draco said through gritted teeth.

The thing about being the bigger man was that it took consistent effort and a whole lot of repressing one's ego.

Malfoy told himself firmly this would all be worth it. He and Hermione had a plan, and it hinged on finishing off the Loyalists for good. Afterwards, there was to be a staged argument, followed by filing concurrent requests for new partners, and - la touche finale - three months' wait for good measure, before he could publicly ask her to dinner to ostensibly iron out their irreconcilable differences.

They wouldn't have to keep anything secret anymore and Hermione wouldn't have to rely on a clever Entanglement Charm and going back and forth to her house to drop off her Traced badge. In time, they could officially move in together and have a shared life, out in the open.

Of course, the best case scenario still meant that Potter was about to become a fixture of Malfoy's social life forever, but he was trying not to focus on this fact too hard, lest his motivation falter.

Draco couldn't wait to be able to breathe deeply again, instead of feeling as if there was a band firmly wound around his ribcage at all times. He could hardly deny that the thought of his career meeting a fiery end was painful enough, but if he were to cause Hermione's prospects irreparable harm and take away her chance at doing what she loved, Draco would never forgive himself.

With this in mind, he looked over the names, photos and evidence Potter was displaying with a Sticking Charm. A rendering of his aunt in sepia bared her teeth at him and, seeing no reaction, opened its mouth as if to scream at the top of her lungs. "Eleven suspects. Is that really all that's left?"

"According to the intelligence you and Hermione obtained at The Prophet, alongside the material we've been able to gather in the course of the joint investigation, this is it."

"As I'm sure you realise, this is a huge gamble. If one of them steps forth and rolls on the other ten then, sure, it's as good as over, but cornered criminals go for desperate gambits. If this turns out to be a double cross…"

They would both be dead, and the death of Harry Potter might just give the Loyalists the momentum they needed for a resurgence.

"That is why we're taking shifts to keep watch while the other one rests." And why they'd had to keep this contained, just the two of them, lest it get out and reach the wrong ears.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair enough, but some of this information is weeks, if not months old. This is our opportunity to get it right. I'll dig through my contacts and see what else we can get: haunts and associates, last known location, potential sources of income, and so on. This way, as soon as we have the testimony, we cast a net and get them all in one fell swoop."

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

"You recruited me, a surveillance specialist, instead of one of your most trusted friends. Don't act like this wasn't your plan all along, Potter."

"Fine," the Head Auror agreed, not the least bit chastened. "I guess I'll see you in a few hours for shift change."

~*~

Malfoy found Mycelium at his favourite dingy pub, the dregs of a pint in front of him even though it was well before noon. Classy.

"Not this fucking ghost. Piss off and go haunt someone else," he sneered at Malfoy before choking out a cough full of phlegm.

Given the state of the bar stool, Malfoy considered very carefully whether standing was an option, but ultimately decided he would stick out too much. "Nice to see you too, Mycelium. I was sorry to hear you didn't take me up on my offer."

"I'm not filth."

Draco ordered a water, emphasis on bottled, and the publican gave him an offended look. "That's not an option, but you could have registered as an informant. It doesn't pay well, but then again, neither does being an Auror."

"I'm not a snitch, either, now leave me alone. You're shit for my reputation."

"You made the right choice at the right time, and helped save a dozen children's lives. All that makes you," Malfoy wanted to say a good man, but he couldn't discount all available evidence to date, not to mention the sights and smells attacking his senses, "is someone worth taking note of."

Mycelium puffed out his concave chest. "Flattery'll get you nowhere, pretty boy," he lied.

No problem at all. He could just appeal to the man's selfish instincts. "You know how things have been going over the last few weeks, and it's clear by now who is going to come out on top. Care to be on the winning side?"

"What will it take?"

Draco had him. "Just a few answers."

"Confidential, like? And I get payment for high risk work," Mycelium threw in, because why wouldn't he?

"Sure, Myck. We can work something out."

~*~

Things swiftly settled into a routine, of sorts. Draco was either out on surveillance, tensely standing guard as Potter rested, or staring at the ceiling of his bedroom while trying and mostly failing to sleep.

The farmhouse felt cramped by day two. By the second week, the only respite he got from endless, stressed boredom was to run the perimeter of the farm in the hopes of picking up the telltale scent of another witch or wizard. Whether this was their witness or an attacker, it hardly mattered anymore. If he were subjected to Potter's messy handwriting and ubiquitous biscuit crumbs for another full week, the biggest threat to the Head Auror would most definitely come from inside the house.

They were only two days shy of a fortnight when the perimeter wards were tripped. Draco had thought himself ready, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of recognition as Potter escorted their witness into the kitchen, where the walls were covered with evidence to the fruits of their labour.

“Well, that’s fucking strange,” Gregory Goyle gestured at Malfoy and Potter as they sat side by side on the opposite end of the table.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Potter acquiesced, producing a thick roll of parchment and handing it over to their witness. "Before we proceed, do you understand the terms of the agreement?"

Goyle nodded, eyes barely skimming the lines before him and avoiding Malfoy's gaze entirely. Malfoy couldn't tell is this was a relief or not.

Potter signed and produced a miniscule black vial with a golden stopper. "You'll need to drink it in its entirety."

"I know," Goyle all but snarled, and knocked back the liquid anyway.

Draco was stunned. Whatever deal Goyle had been offered, it must have included immunity, or his former friend would have never agreed to take the truth serum that readily.

Once Goyle's shoulders visibly relaxed, Potter started on the questions they had prepared.

All in all, it took hours. Goyle recited names and places, putting faces to crimes and horrors left unsolved for months and years. Once they settled into it, the words seemed to flow more easily. Whenever Malfoy saw Goyle could use a break, he’d find an excuse by offering a sandwich or a fresh cup of tea.

Goyle didn’t lift his eyes from the table. Not once.

Then, they hit a snag.

"Where is Bellatrix Lestrange?" Potter asked.

"I don't know."

"If you had to take a guess, where would you say she is?"

Goyle's expression never changed. "I don't know."

"Did she give you any clues to her location?"

"The last time we met," Goyle grimaced, and Malfoy couldn't tell if this was because he was scared, or because he was trying to fight the effects of the Veritaserum, "she told me she wouldn't be going back to any of her old haunts. That she was going to find somewhere safe."

"Do you know where that might be?"

"No."

"Do you think it would be somewhere in Britain?" Potter insisted, fingers twitching on the tabletop.

"I don't know."

Finally, the Head Auror lifted an eyebrow at Malfoy. It seemed it was Draco's turn to get some answers of his own. “What was the plan behind Alma’s jewels?”

“That was at Bella’s insistence. After the Battle of Hogwarts, she was in hiding for a while, and spent some time in Southern Europe. That's where she picked up the story about Alma and decided to gather the jewels. She got the crown and the broach, but you beat her to the necklace."

Malfoy leant forward over the table. "What does she want the jewels for?"

"In order to summon Alma."

"Why does Bellatrix want to summon Alma?"

"In order to bring He Who Must Not Be Named back to life." Goyle's voice was devoid of expression. For long, terse moments, all that was audible in the farmhouse was the wind howling through gaps in the window frames.

"How is that even possible?"

Even though Potter's question had been directed at Malfoy, Goyle answered anyway, "Alma holds the secret on full, successful Resurrection Magic, since she is the only Sorceress in History to have done it once before. Bellatrix has something of Lord Voldemort's, a relic important enough to power the ritual."

Draco fought against the sudden bite of stifling and bitter nausea. "What is the next step of her plan?

Goyle held his gaze for the first time since he'd arrived when he said, "I don't know."

Interview concluded, Goyle applied his magical signature to the statement and Potter handed him a large, heavy envelope. "It contains the full details of your new identity and some money to get you started. Are you ready?"

"Do you think you could give us a moment, first?"

Potter left them, closing the kitchen door behind him as he went.

"Though I'm not sure how much you'll care, I'm proud of you for having done this," Draco said, breaking the lingering silence.

"I'm not doing any of this because of you," Goyle said and, of course, it had to be the truth.

It might have been a comfort, if only it didn't hurt quite as much.

As they both got up to leave, Malfoy decided to reach out one last time. "We may have gone down very different paths, but I regret not getting in touch with you as soon as I could, that I didn't do more to make sure you were well. I'm sorry, Gregory. I hope you'll forgive me, one day."

Goyle hesitated through some internal battle for well over a minute before he finally closed the gap between them, tears in his eyes as he slapped Draco's back with enough force to hurt in a passing sting.

Potter returned a minute later to finalise Goyle's deal, which told Malfoy he'd been listening in on the whole thing. Sod him , Draco thought, seeing Goyle sign on the dotted line of his immunity deal.

As he did, a runic seal wound itself around both his hands, closing in a loop to envelop the wrist like a pair of tattooed bracelets. Malfoy did a quick scan of the contents and just about stiffled a gasp.

"Ten years without magic," he said to Potter later, once Goyle had walked out into the night.

Potter nodded. "That was the price for full immunity and a chance at a new life. Are you worried about him?"

How could he not be? Like him, Goyle had been taught to value his magical abilities over everything else. Giving it up was - impossible, inconceivable, against every single innate or nurtured instinct Malfoy had ever had.

Still, they had both made their choices and no one, not even Potter, knew the details of the identity the sealed envelope had contained.

With magic or without, Gregory Goyle was no more.

Draco decided to turn to the task at hand, instead.

"Yes, but that doesn't change what we need to do. It's time to call in the cavalry and end this."

Chapter Text

They swept through the building like ghosts, visible only as pale wraiths dashing between shadows. There were stairs spiralling in on each other, and suites of rooms blocked by warding. Hermione didn't even slow down to untangle them, rending them apart instead in a brutal, rushed slash of her wand. It hummed with power in her hand.

They found an abandoned staff room bearing the non-descript, slightly stale air of the long unoccupied.

Her back was pressed against the inside of the door and turned against the outside world when Hermione curled her fingers under his body harness and crushed her lips to his.

The sensation was like a current running through them both. Her mouth was wet, soft and supple. He moaned into it. “I’m back.”

She kissed Draco as if she wanted to consume him, to draw blood under her teeth, barely managing to hold back. “You are.” Hermione used the leverage to haul herself up, her legs wrapped around his hips. 

“I knew the body harness was a kink.” He pressed her further into the door, sucking her tongue and then, as they had to draw breath, just behind her ear and down her neck,  exposed by the wide collar of her dress. 

“I might have had an inkling that it could come in useful,” Hermione whispered roughly.

The gown's material was soft and thin, shifting over her curves and under his hands like liquid, and he approved of the choice.

He’d never experienced this before, this urgency and overwhelming need to get closer, to feel, to let himself burn. It was- disorientating, his head swimming as he tried and failed to marshall his thoughts.

Draco’s fingers were soaked as he slipped them under delicate lace to touch delicate flesh and his lungs were sure to falter from all the pressure inside his chest. She was so very beautiful, and he wanted to find the right words. A thousand different thoughts jostled within him, a thousand different things he had to tell her.

He let gestures speak for him, instead, teasing light circles at the apex of her thighs with the pad of his thumb. “Have you been sleeping in our bed?”

Hermione nodded, a movement he felt instead of seeing. It was too dark to make out much aside from the deep red of her lipstick, the movement of her neck as she swallowed, her hands against the wall in order to shift herself closer, trying to generate more pressure, more friction.

He denied her any relief, taunting her with skimming touches, drawing it out for the both of them even as urgency pressed from within, even as he realised they might get caught at any moment. “I dreamed of you, woke up to memories and fantasies, desperate to feel you, and you weren’t there.”

“I’m here now,” she challenged before pulling him into another kiss, because it would always be like this between them. The cadence of her breathing in his chest, the entirety of his heart in her hold.

She was too sweet, too enchanting in his arms. It wasn’t long before he was drinking in all the little sighs as he used one finger, then two, setting a rhythm, twisting and curving into her even as the heel of his palm pressed and dragged at her with maddening slowness.

She let out a noise of protest as he slowed down and stopped his touches,  turning her around, to crowd with his body. “Can you be quiet for me, darling?” Gathering her wrists, he pinned them both against the wall, drawing his other hand over the silk of her outer thigh, bunching up the skirt of her dress as he went, revealing inky lace stretched over her arse. The sight of it was enough to have him grinding his cock desperately into her plush backside, rutting through their clothes like a teenager, but he couldn’t help himself.

Hermione sucked in a moan, the muscles of her lower back flexing with little movements of her waist. “Could we- use a Charm?”

“Inside a building full of Aurors? It would go off like a flare.”

“Pity,” she sighed, and the air was suddenly full of the whisper of fabric as he unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down, breathing a sigh of relief as his cock was released from the confines of his boxers. “I’ll have to try my best.”

Draco tried to even his breathing as he gathered the lace of her knickers and drew it aside, spreading her gently with his fingers and letting out small, broken obscenities as he started to fuck her. He shifted, flexing his thighs - just once - and had to heed his own advice to stay quiet, nipping Hermione’s shoulders to avoid moaning.

Being with her was- everything. It destroyed him utterly.

Her arse moved in inpatient little circles against his abdomen and he had to kiss obscenities and endearments down her spine as he started to snap his hips, fucking into her, swallowing his groans at the scent of her, the feel of her. Nothing had ever been this good, and nothing would ever compare.

"You’re so beautiful,” he cooed, drifting one of his hands over her abdomen and down, to where he could feel himself sliding wetly in and out of her. He felt her fluttering around his cock in response, her body tense as a bow string. His orgasm was building low in his abdomen, even as he forced himself to slow down, to exert a measure of control.

Draco changed their angle with a hand on Hermione’s lower back, made an experimental push into her - and the loud moan she let out told him everything he needed to know. “Remember, we don’t want to get caught, my darling,” he whispered roughly, as she twisted an ankle to step out of her heel, her whole body curling with pleasure as he kept up those deep, hard thrusts. He kissed her back again, the ball of her shoulder, licking up the curve of her neck as he bent behind her. “As soon as we’re home, I am going to fuck you into the mattress and  have you come on my tongue. And then I’ll do it again,” he vowed, keeping up those slick slides of his fingers until he could feel Hermione clenching deliciously around him.

He barely managed to hang on, letting her work through it, her teeth sunk into the back of her hand to keep quiet.

Only then, did Draco let go, his orgasm ripping through him with violent intensity.

“I missed you," Hermione whispered, beating him to it.

Those were the right words. Draco brushed aside the cascade of her curls, breathing her in, kissing her over and over. "Me, too. So very much." 

~*~

Sneaking back to the main salon, Malfoy found himself a drink and joined the celebration. The Founders Gala was an annual formal event on Hallow’s Eve, celebrating the anniversary of the DMLE’s inception with networking and petitions to wealthy wizarding families for funding.

He was surprised to find they were serving rather good wine. The mood was buoyant, doubtless fueled by their recent triumph. The slide of the alcohol was like knuckles along the inside of his sternum.

Across the room, Hermione drifted into conversation with a gaggle of other Aurors, Florence among them. She looked radiant, not a hair out of place. So very pretty, wearing that dress and, underneath it, the marks he'd left on her skin, bitten and kissed.

This would end poorly. It was unimaginable that it wouldn't; everything else in Draco's life had. The grinding of clockwork was almost audible to his ears now as it counted down towards some manner of catastrophe.

In his mind, the clock handle ticked.

What if it didn't? What if after doing exactly everything he shouldn't have, after giving in, being consumed, and submitting, careless and thoughtless and happy, to being exactly the idiot Hermione fell for despite her best judgement-

What if it went right, after all?

Tick.

Well, Hermione Granger-Malfoy had a certain ring to it. A charade of a fight, three months’ wait and, by next year, they'd be walking in with her arm through his.

Stallworth chose that moment to approach. “Nice to see you back. Did you get your warm reception yet?”

“I wouldn’t know what you mean.”

“Your little Crup,” the Auror insisted, his gaze most definitely not sliding to Hermione across the room. “She must have missed you while you were off with Potter.”

Fine. Stallworth wasn’t the only one who knew how to act like a disingenuous bastard. “We only had time for a brief rendez-vous. I had a party to attend, after all.”

But he had every intention of making up for lost time - and then some - by having Hermione shuddering and sighing in his arms from the moment they got home until they succumbed to exhaustion.

Tick.

“Deservedly so. The Loyalists are finished, and you did that.”

“All but the last one.”

Stallworth bestowed him a gentle clap on the back. “She’ll be found. There’s nothing else left, it will only be a matter of time. Make sure you celebrate. You may have about the same common sense as a Fire Dwelling Salamander eyeing up a freshwater stream, but you’re a damn fine Auror. Well done, son.”

Disconcerted, Draco decided to step out for a breather. He finally made his way outside after being stopped multiple times for congratulations and jubilant praise.

Tick.

The Minister might have to shake his hand again in the near future. The thought was almost enough to make him wheeze out a laugh.

It was cold out on the patio, and he was a little lightheaded. When Draco tried to take a deep breath, he found he couldn’t, and wondered if the glass of wine on an empty stomach had caused the discomfort deep in his gut, slowly radiating to his back.

Darkened gardens slid out of focus as his breathing faltered. Something felt wrong, if only he could go back inside-

Tick.

Blood pulsed, rushing in his ears, and his knee hit the patio slab at the sudden pain blooming across his back.

The tip of a wand stabbed roughly at the hollow of his throat. Tilting his head back, Draco faced a cloaked figure, a black slash of a mad grin barely visible.

“There you are, nephew.”

The Curse on his back pulsed again with vicious pain and, before he could scream, they were already Disapparating.

~*~

“Where is the necklace?”

Draco ignored her, taking in their surroundings for clues. They were in a cave, deep underground judging by the stale air. Cells had been carved into the stone, surely human made instead of naturally occurring, all in a row with a set of stairs at the end.

All empty, aside from his own.

Old, very old indeed judging by the bars flaking off, more rust than metal. If it weren’t for the impenetrable spellwork they’d been imbued with, they would likely crumble in his hands.

An abandoned prison, a castle or a fortress, then.

Bellatrix must have mistaken this assessment for hope.

“You will die here like the blood traitor that you are. Left to rot,” she wore that horrible broken grin again, “and be forgotten.”

Yes, Draco expected she was at least partially right. He would die here, eventually. He was on his knees, his muscles still shaking from rounds after rounds of Cruciatus, the inside of his mouth tasting like a mix of blood and bile.

His Aunt had kept him awake only because she expected him to break. To give in. Thus far - and he truly had no way of knowing how long it had been - Bellatrix had tortured him to the very edge of consciousness and would likely do so, again and again, until his mind broke or she grew too impatient or bored to keep him alive.

He would never see sunlight again. He would never hold Hermione again.

He had not made his peace with this. It sat heavy in his chest, anger running so deep it made him want to scream in an agony quite apart from what Cruciatus could achieve.

But he would not yield.

He had a lifetime of wrong choices behind him, but this would not be one. He was not afraid and would not cower.

There was nothing that could be done to him that would make the least bit of difference. No, he was not at peace to meet his end, but there was still serenity, almost reassurance, in the simplicity of that choice.

So he looked up at his Aunt and tried to smile. “Is that what happened to you? All alone, after all your lot was either dead or arrested?”

“They were useless. Unworthy,” Bellatrix spat. “As soon as it became difficult, the whispers started, the sedition. I stayed loyal through it all. I faced Azkaban and persecution, stared death in the face, and my devotion to the Dark Lord never wavered. I was the only one.”

“What about Goyle?”

Bella’s eyes flashed, as if Draco had needed any further confirmation. After being incapacitated, it hadn’t been long before he thought back to that uncomfortable hug at the farmhouse. Goyle’s final spell before his magical abilities were taken for a decade, and he’d used it to brand Draco’s back with a Curse.

One final betrayal.

I'm not doing any of this because of you , his former friend had told him, and Malfoy had thought it a barb instead of what it really was. An apology, or so Draco wished to believe.

“Gregory came through. His father was weak, but he did what was necessary, and sacrificed himself for the Dark Lord. He will be handsomely rewarded, when my Lord arises again,” Bellatrix intoned. “He did his family proud, unlike you. You have debased yourself, disgraced your name and your ancestry and I will scour every trace of you from my family's tree like the diseased offcut that you are."

"I must have done something right if I've managed to disappoint you so."

Her mind tried to carve into his as she attempted Legilimency again, to no avail. His Occlumency skills were much better, and it caused him no discomfort to shield his mind entirely.

It enraged Bellatrix.

“ Crucio! ”

Pain erupted, bright and overwhelming, before the Curse was fully formed, and Malfoy writhed on the dirty floor.

And yet, he did not yield.

He was tortured until he felt the back of his throat collapse, swollen from screaming, as tears turned to blood to fall hotly from his eyes.

But he never yielded.

~*~

Alone in his cell, he spent time as a wolf, finding it easier to breathe through the lingering pain this way, especially as his pelt shielded him from the worst of the cold. Draco only shifted back when he heard movement along the stairs.

Then, her face.

"Granger."

The awful burnt allium of the warding eased, and she was inside in moments. "Can you walk?"

Having her there was impossible, but all his senses couldn't have betrayed him at once. It was her smell, her gentle coolness against the heat of his own skin as she cradled his face. It was her. "How? She took my badge, my wand. There isn't a Trace on me, how-"

"What would I need that for?" Granger mapped every injury as if collecting fuel for holy rage. "I will always find you. I hardly need magic to be able to do it. Whatever pit, however far - no one is going to keep you from me."

“You can’t be here.”

“Don’t be absurd, come here. Let me help you.”

He thought he would never get to see her again.

The relief, the utter joy, was enough to bowl him over. He pressed her to his chest and breathed her in, his face in her curls for as long a moment as he dared. “Thank you.”

Hermione kissed him once, hard. “Don’t thank me yet, we still need to get out of this place.”

They tore up the stairs after Hermione healed the worst of his injuries and had him drink his fill of clean, fresh water. The only way out led up to a corridor to the inside of a stone fortress - Draco was fairly sure that’s what it was - and a central courtyard open to the night’s sky.

And, at the centre of it, Bellatrix Lestrange. “The Mudblood.” Her face twisted in disdain at their joint hands. “I wondered who would come for you, but never imagined you would have debased yourself quite this far.”

Hermione pointed her wand at Bellatrix. “I will give you one chance. I will either take you into custody now and ensure you have a fair trial, or they’ll be dragging your corpse out of here.”

She meant every word, Draco could tell.

Not for the first time, he considered the fortune of the wizarding world should Granger's abilities and passion, her utter ruthlessness, be paired with anything but self-righteous anger.

If this woman had ever decided to turn her wand to evil, she wouldn't have flapped about with politics or intrigue, the foundations of a following or historical might.

It would have been over in a bloodbath, meticulous planning meeting power overwhelming, a new world order overnight.

Gods, she was magnificent.

“Do it,” Bellatrix sneered, pulling the cuff of her cloak up to expose her Dark Mark and, higher still, almost on the inside of her elbow, runic script shifting and reassembling itself in a loop. “And you’ll be doing me the favour of killing my Cursed nephew alongside.”

Malfoy’s internal horizon tilted. He felt the mirror of the Binding Curse on his back like a stain.

Bellatrix had been experiencing the blowback from her own Cruciatus curse all along, enduring relentless torture. And now that he knew, he could see all the telltale signs of weakness along her frame. She was no longer a young woman, and had lived a hard life besides. This had taken far more of a toll on her than him.

And now, their destinies were inextricably bound.

Beside him, Hermione froze at the realisation.

“The necklace,” Bellatrix demanded, not bothering to promise to let them go afterwards; it wasn’t as if they’d believe her if she had.

“Don’t,” Draco whispered, seeing Hermione reach inside her pack for it.

“We’ll find a way. We always do,” she told him, keeping a Shield Charm in place as she threw it towards Bellatrix.

Lestrange reached inside a sack to extract the broach and the crown, laying them all beside one another with a manic gleam in her eyes.

“Were you expecting something to happen?” Draco asked.

“Be quiet,” Bellatrix hissed, but he could see the panic in her ever shifting eyes. The three artefacts remained inert as ever, jewels glittering in the flickering light of the torches along the courtyard. “There must be a way to summon her… A secret…”

Long nails scraped along the edges as they saw her experiment with Revelio and other spells, all to no avail.

At last, Bellatrix shrieked with rage, exploding one of the pillars to their. “Mudblood! You will find out how the artefacts work.”

“And if I don’t?”

Bellatrix grinned that horrible grin. “Draco will suffer the consequences.”

“You cannot harm him without endangering yourself,” Hermione pointed out.

“I can do plenty before risking myself,” Bellatrix promised, and Draco tried to hold Hermione back, only she lifted a hand, asking him to wait. He saw her taking in the artefacts, noticed the very moment the light behind her eyes changed.

Hermione knew how to get them to work.

“If I die, so does she,” Malfoy hissed at his partner as she kneeled by the crown, the broach and the necklace.

Hermione ignored him.

“We can’t let this happen. Granger!” he insisted.

“Trust me,” she pleaded, spelling the three artefacts to hover midair.

The necklace spun and disassembled itself, as did the broach. For a moment, Draco thought that was Hermione’s plan - to disable the jewels and render Alma’s hoard useless.

Then he saw the cogs and wheels concealed within the broach as it pulled apart. The crown folded, forming a flat circle of gold, the jewels of the necklace - all twelve - fitting themselves along its edges. The necklace chain wound itself around the rapidly forming mechanism until a fully formed clock was assembled.

Loud in the sudden silence, the hand ticked.

From within, tendrils of colour like smoke blurred into shining light to morph into the insubstantial shape of a woman. She was petite and gaunt, her skin dark and unnaturally lucent. Draco understood, then, what she was.

The spectral presence turned to the three of them. “That took a lot longer than I expected,” Alma said, her voice hollow and sibilant, like shards of pottery scraping together.

Bellatrix bowed. “Welcome, great Sorceress.”

“I know that tone of voice.” Alma hovered, taking in her surroundings with great curiosity. “You have something to ask of me.”

Bellatrix reached inside her cloak with a trembling hand. Malfoy watched in horror as she retrieved a wand, long and curved, white as bone. “The greatest wizard that has ever lived was vanquished. This was his, entrusted to me as his most devoted servant. I ask that you bring him back to me, to rule over the wizarding world as he was always meant to.”

Alma seemed less than impressed. She swept over to Hermione, instead. “And you? What would you ask of me?”

Granger didn’t even hesitate. “Release their Binding. Save him, please.”

A tilt of the head, a tick of the clock hand, so much like an inhale. "Power rises from life. There is always a sacrifice."

His deranged aunt leapt on the opportunity. "Say the word, and I will maim and torture and kill. I will level homes, whole cities in the name of my Lord."

Another drop of the long hand of a clock, slicing the air.

Alma’s smile was edged with mockery. "Would you give up your magic?"

Bellatrix recoiled at the words, clearly shocked. “I would never give up my magic. You may take nothing of me, Sorceress. I was the one to summon you, to bring you back from the void. You obey me, above all else.”

Granger shook her head. “How can you think- You can’t take someone’s magical ability, that’s not how it works. It never has. Alma means the old magic: blood, bone and claw.”

The apparition smiled horribly. “This one understands.”

“I will feed you my own blood, that of my family,” Bellatrix vowed, gesturing over to where Draco stood.

“Get the fuck away from him,” Granger said, her face a cold mask. “Do you believe you have a monopoly on cruelty? Do you think you recognise madness every time you look in the mirror? Touch another hair on his head and I will find a way to break that Binding and melt the flesh from your bones. Slowly, so you feel it slough off, every tendon snapping to curl up near the joint, every bit of sinew rending inside you until you feel nothing but pain. And I'll make it last for days.”

The whole fortress shook in rising wind, and Draco couldn’t tell if it was Granger which, he supposed, meant no one else could for sure, either.

“I like her,” Alma finally rasped, breaking the silence. There was a muted click from the geist, almost as if it had tutted. Another slice of time. "Seven hundred years and nothing has changed. Humans are still the same. Love, obsession, power even over death.” A sigh, a slice. “How very boring, how very predictable. You carry wands, you dwell in libraries. I wasn’t even allowed to learn the shapes of letters. And you? What would you offer me?” Alma turned to Hermione with derision.

“I would offer my life for his, of course,” Hermione delivered, deadpan, and a noise that wasn’t human echoed from Draco’s soul, “but it wouldn’t make any difference.”

Alma considered her more closely. “Why not?”

“Because Draco was right all along,” Granger sighed. “People are constantly dismissing the evidence of their own eyes. You have no power to resurrect anyone. No living wizard can, let alone you.”

“I’ve done it before,” Alma ventured, in a sing-song voice. 

Hermione waved her away. “You performed some sort of trick, enchanted some pile of bones with some half-arsed necromantic seal or some such-”

“It was not half-arsed,” Alma protested.

“Yes, fine, as you say. But I very much doubt you could even achieve that, these days. You’re a poltergeist.”

Alma was, after all, the Portuguese for a soul, for a spectre, for an entity of the beyond. The name for the lost and the cursed.

The name they would have used for a poltergeist.

And this one had spent centuries attached to a set of jewels, biding its time to be released. “And a clever one, at that,” Draco agreed.

“Thank you.” Midair, Alma mimicked a small curtsey.

“But you have the secret,” Bellatrix entreated, holding out Voldemort’s wand as she clutched at straws. “You know how to bring him back.”

“Not quite. If you have his corpse, depending how fresh, we could still rig something up…” Alma suggested with a manic grin.

Bellatrix let out an inhuman shriek, launching herself at Hermione. She summoned an Aegis, the stone crashing as a barrier between them. “You have lost,” Hermione yelled from behind it. “Voldemort will never rise again.”

They traded spells. Draco saw the green burst of a Killing Curse go wide as Hermione aimed a Stupefy, but his aunt deflected it at the very last moment.

“I will kill you, Mudblood, and everyone of the same ilk. I will not rest until I see my Lord’s work done. I will dispose of every child, every abomination to darken our world!”

Granger wove an ice cage and Bellatrix destroyed it, hammering it to glowing shards before aiming a blanket of putrid smoke. Hermione dissipated this with a volley of wind and took cover behind one of the pillars to shout, “Draco! Get to safety!”

Like hell, he thought, keeping an eye on what his Aunt was doing.

“A little help here?” Alma asked, a curse burning the ground by her clock. Draco dashed over, picking it up and moving across the courtyard to keep an eye on the battle. Hermione was desperately trying to entrap Bellatrix without hurting her. It made sense; if only they could contain her, they would have time to work on the bind, time to set him free. “I haven’t been dormant for seven centuries just to get blasted by two duelling witches. Impressive stuff, though.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“There’s no need for that tone of voice, young man, I was really quite proficient in my day.” Draco’s heart fell to his feet as he saw Bellatrix hit Hermione with a slashing curse through her shoulder and blood staining her jumper immediately at the deep cut. He had never felt so useless.

“Good, that’s great, so what can you do?”

“Hold on, how do I know I’m doing the right thing? I could be helping the villain here.”

“The villain? What are you- did you not hear my blasted Aunt talking about killing children and resurrecting Dark Lords? Does that sound like heroic behaviour?” Draco hissed.

Hermione cleaved through a burst of fire with a Shield Charm before battering down Bellatrix with multiple Stunning Curses. Bellatrix howled but dodged every single one.

“Yes, well, when you put it like that-”

Draco was yanked from the shadows and thrown up twenty feet in the air, magic curling around him like the grip of a claw. One of the strands, bright silver and pulsing with darkness, wrapped around his throat and squeezed enough to make his vision spot.

“Enough!” Bellatrix yelled in effort as she sustained the Curse. “Surrender your wand.”

Granger had blood all over her arm now, slick over her hand and wand. Her face looked pale with exhaustion. “You can’t kill him without killing yourself.”

“I can still hurt him. I can tear his psyche to pieces. I can damage him inside out, irreparably, and make you watch. If only I knew, I would have ended it that day at the Malfoy Manor. I would have carved you with that dagger and left you to bleed out your filthy blood. A death by magic is too good for the likes of you,” Bellatrix taunted.

Howling wind picked up even more, shaking the very foundations of the fortress. “I will give you just one more chance. Release him,” Hermione said, her voice clear through the tempest.

“No.”

Then, time splintered, and everything happened almost too fast for Draco to track. The gale was now a full blown hurricane, ripping apart the stones and sending them flying off in a spin. For a moment, he shrank in horror as a pillar split in half with a burst and came flying right at him-

Only for Hermione to hold a wandless Shield Charm to keep him safe. It was a perfect sphere around him, cutting off even the Curse’s influence. The pressure around him ebbed and then disappeared altogether under Hermione’s protection. At the same time, she called forth the sky, blasting the fortress to flying rubble.

Bellatrix extended her wand with the insidious emerald burst of a Killing Curse, and Draco had figured it out, he was screaming it, but it was too late.

There was an explosion of white light. The pressure of the air was immense as the walls around them crumbled off into the heavens.

Blinded and breathless, Draco ran right into Hermione. Her eyes were trained on Bellatrix Lestrange’s corpse, a few paces away.

The very moment Bellatrix had issued the Avada Kedava, he had seen the inside of her arm and, most notably of all, what hadn’t been there. The Binding Curse had been lifted.

Fortunately for them all, Granger had caught it too.

She reached up to him as soon as he drew near, pulling herself into his arms. “It’s over. It’s all over,” she said in his ear.

“I should like it noted that I helped,” Alma the poltergeist rasped out from her hiding spot.

“Yes, and I think we could use some more help, at that,” Draco sighed in relief.

~*~

“Damn fine work, but is there any chance Granger could do something about that hurricane?”

It had only picked up speed. Where the fortress used to be, there was now little but ruins, fragments of which were still getting sucked up into the stormy sky.

“I don’t think so,” Draco was quick to reply as Hermione blinked slowly, leaning heavily into his side.

“And I hear that a poltergeist has been recovered. What am I supposed to do with that?” Cheung asked.

“You might want to get in touch with the Magical Wing of the British Museum. There’s a curator by the name of Walter Blitherskite-”

“Walter what?”

“I promise you that’s his actual name. Goblin, great chap. He’s already got one poltergeist in residence, I’m sure he won’t mind another one. He might even relish the chance to interview her.”

“Well done and all that. Now give us some space and let the Healers get to Granger, there’s a good man.” Cheung swept her eyes around them meaningfully. “You don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”

He clutched Hermione’s shivering form even tighter to himself. She had that miasma of spent magic about her, as she’d pushed herself past the limit of what any sane wizard would have risked. Again.

The fear and exhaustion and bone-rattling relief brokered a brief window of clarity. Malfoy clutched at the woman in his arms, clutched at the very best thing in his life, dropped off the ledge and leapt. “I can’t do it, Boss.”

“Let go of her, Malfoy.”

Sod the plan and the three month wait. Skulking around and manoeuvering and keeping a lid on things could go hang. Draco cleared his throat. “Director, Granger and I-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she hissed, looking incredulous.

“The two of us, we’re-” he pressed on.

“Stop talking. Right now, that is an order!”

Draco shut up, glaring at her in contradiction of her mandate. Wareham, with that built-in lack of tact, chose that moment to draw nearer. “Director, we need a decision on who is going to deal with that.” He hitched a thumb at the storm.

“I don’t know how to do it. Find someone who does and make it their problem.” Cheung waved him off. “Before you do,” she stopped him with a second thought, “take this down. We are updating the Branch’s structure to better reflect our team composition. Auror Malfoy has been covertly acting as our Lead for Surveillance for quite a few months, so we better put that in writing somewhere.”

“That’s not a post.”

“It is now.”

Wareham looked closely at how the two partners were huddled together. Granger seemed to choose that moment to burrow her face into Draco’s chest and fall asleep or, just possibly, pass out. “Which means he and Auror Granger-”

“They’re not partners, of course. This was a cover for Malfoy’s activity all along.”

“There’s a paper trail to support this, is there?”

The Director fairly skewered him. “I’m sure a paper trail can be found. It will be going back months. Oh, and find Malfoy some underlings, will you? Can’t be Lead of anything without someone to lead. Florence comes to mind. If we let her continue her experimental magic work, one of these days we won’t have a Headquarters.”

The extent of Wareham’s protest at all the forging he was about to do was a sigh. “I see. What about Auror Granger? She can’t be left without a partner. Even though, apparently, she hasn’t had one in months, so what do I know?” The last few words were a stage whisper.

“Stallworth’s been making noises about retirement so I’m sure we can work something out.”

Her underling visibly baulked at this. “Asheni? You want to partner up Granger with Asheni? They’ll rip the Branch at the seams. They’ll blow our annual damages budget in six weeks!”

“Oh, it won’t be as bad as that.”

His clipboard hit the cobbles. “I quit.”

“Claude, don’t be a drama queen. Claude!” she yelled at his retreating back.

“Do you need to follow him?” Draco asked in complete bewilderment. He’d just attempted career suicide and, as far as he could tell, been promoted.

“No, don’t worry about it. He does this at least twice a month,” she sighed. “Now you and Granger go see some Healers, Malfoy. And take the weekend off.”

“Thank you, Director,” Draco said, injecting the words with as much sincerity as he could.

Cheung might have been smiling, or it may have been a trick of the light. “Always knew you two would be a vortex of chaos. Special things often are.”

Around them, half the DMLE was busy descending on the scene, alongside some Unspeakables trying to deal with the major weather event his girlfriend had set off.

He considered going to find some Healers and dismissed it. He was sure they would find them soon enough, and concentrated only on keeping an eye on Granger.

Thing is, for an infinitesimal fraction of a second, he could have sworn he saw that Killing Curse launched straight at Hermione. He’d been utterly convinced he’d seen her raise her wand against it.

And yet, here she was, chest rising and falling as she dozed.

It wasn’t possible. Everyone knew this, it was one of the oldest bits of lore in wizarding history: a Killing Curse could not be survived, deflected or shielded against.

Except, there was that git that survived it twice, the very proof of exceptions to the rule.

Sticking out of her cloak pocket, Hermione’s wand gleamed ominously. It will absorb only that which makes it stronger.

And Hermione Granger had never been anything short of exceptional.

Chapter Text

“Where’s my wife?” Potter barked at their captors as he was pushed down to join Malfoy.

“Now that the two of you are safely out of the way, we’ll see what fun we can have with the women,” said their attacker.

There was a moment of laden silence as Malfoy and Potter exchanged looks.

“You mean to tell me that you don’t know the current whereabouts of my girlfriend and his wife?”

“We will soon,” was the innkeeper’s response.

The trapdoor shut with the tearing suction of wards settling in. Draco didn’t even need to shift to know they were there.

“Should we do something about that? It might get dangerous.”

Malfoy pondered his answer, flicking dust off the shoulder of his robes. “The way I see it, he was the one that decided to shut us off in a basement. Whatever happens from here, he has it coming.”

As far as basements went, the space wasn’t too bad at all. Metal shelving dominated one end of it, full of cleaning supplies, fresh linen and all the necessities for the everyday running of the Inn. Malfoy sat down on one of the crates of non-perishables stacked along the opposing wall, perfectly comfortable in the bright, warm space - or he would have been, if not for present company.

“Do you think they’ll be long?”

“It’s possible.”

Malfoy examined his cuticles. Potter proceeded with a fruitless attempt at picking something from under his nails.

“Are you enjoying it so far? It’s a nice view, out here.”

Draco cast a meaningful look at the one small window near the ceiling, too high to serve any purpose whatsoever.

“Before all of this, of course,” Potter tried.

In the blissful privacy of his own mind, Draco decided to call up pleasant, comforting thoughts to pass the time, such as Hermione when she was sleepy. Boozy hot chocolate with crushed peppermints and ungodly heaps of whipped cream. Hermione when incensed (strictly at someone else). The upcoming Christmas dinner in all its pigs-in-blankets, roasts and toasts glory. Hermione wearing knee high socks and very little else.

Comforting these thoughts might be, but they were not safe. Certainly not from Potter’s interference. “Any resolutions for the New Year?”

“Harsh impositions on the self during months as dark and lengthy as Merlin’s long johns are for the foolish, boring or masochistic. I am none of those things.”

“Still, you probably have a few ideas of what the near future brings.”

“What is- why are you trying to make small talk, of all things, Potter? I thought we had arrived at an understanding when you stopped ignoring my existence.”

Potter gestured generously. “I was shocked. Hermione had just told me about how she might fancy you a bit-”

“She said she’s in love with me.”

“-although I'm thinking she’ll snap out of it any day now,” Potter insisted.

“Yes, because we both know that, if there’s one sure thing about Hermione, is that she is fickle. Not stubborn at all, changes her mind like the tide. See, this is what I mean - why are you smiling? It’s revolting. Are you trying to look smug? Is that what that is? I would urge you to check a mirror, you look constipated at best.”

Potter clicked his tongue. “I just happen to know something you don’t.”

And then just sat there, the twerp, waiting to be asked.

Draco wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, completely unaffected. “If you got a shiny bruise on your jaw, I could probably pass it off as our captor having taken a swing at you.”

“You’re dying to know, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m not. Dying seems like a perfectly acceptable alternative to being stuck in a basement with you when you decide to act like this. At least there aren’t any biscuits for you to fail to shove down your gob and act like a human gluten sprinkler.” Malfoy could just about admit, in a distant way, that he was starting to get miffed.

Potter smelled defeat and grinned, the bastard.

Malfoy stuck his hands up. “Fine! Enlighten me, Potter. What’s this revelation you’re holding back?”

Gracious in victory - another irritant - Potter told him.

And Malfoy laughed.

Then laughed some more at the other man’s hurt mien.

“Granger isn’t pregnant,” Draco finally announced, and decided on a celebratory shufty of the contents of the nearby crates.

“You can’t know that for sure.”

Draco found a whole case of French red wine that wasn’t from Alsace. Huzzah! “Of course I do. If there was as much as a whiff of suspicion, she’d tell me and then rush to the Library, where she would request every book on magical pregnancy known to wizardkind. This is not the case, I should know. Her latest reading obsession seems to be obscure pureblood wizarding traditions, for some Circe-forsaken reason.”

Potter frowned, no doubt seeing the truth in this argument. “I definitely heard the women whispering about pregnancy.”

“I don’t doubt that you did.”

The other man jolted, then slumped, elbows on his knees and a huff of despair. “Oh, bollocks. ”

“Congratulations, by the way,” Malfoy remembered himself as Potter rubbed at his forehead.

“It’s not that I’m not happy, you understand? Don’t you fucking dare tell anyone I’m anything but delirious with joy,” Potter growled at him, sounding deeply depressed. “It’s just that we’ve only just gotten Freddie on a sleep schedule.”

“Such is life. But then, there’s wine.” He waved a bottle at Potter, who nodded frantically.

~*~

By the time Ginny and Hermione found them, the earlier squabbling had melted away under a buzzing glow of alcohol.

“Hermione! Have you arrested him yet?” Draco asked, trying to hug her.

“Both of the fuckers. It was the innkeeper and his sister!" informed Ginny.

Granger’s knees buckled under Draco’s sudden weight and she recovered with an arm around his middle. “Ginny might have gotten a little carried away, but they’re still in one piece and yes, all arrested. I’ve owled Ash and she should be along to escort them shortly.”

Ginevra turned on Hermione, “At the very least, you’re not cutting our holiday short after going for the fucking ridiculous idea of booking us a relaxing Christmas getaway at a murder inn.”

“How are you blaming this on me?”

“Are you denying that you knew about the missing witches?”

“I really didn’t,” Hermione insisted. “I wasn't the one that picked this place.”

Both women turned to glare at Potter in unison. Malfoy tried to tag along but only managed a squint.

“The area is very pretty, and I didn’t think anything was going to happen. I was just hoping, when we had some downtime, to maybe just have a look for evi-”

“Harry James Potter.”

Draco sucked his teeth. “Not the middle name.”

“This was our chance to relax!”

“Well I didn’t know that we were about to do the whole thing again, did I?” Potter defended.

Ginny huffed and turned pink, arms crossed over her chest.

“Congratulations!” cheered Hermione after the appropriately pregnant silence, and reached for another bottle to celebrate ( but none for Ginny, thanks; she’ll have Gillywater for two.)

This was followed by a round of good natured well wishes and the women’s tale of derring-do as they all pulled up a crate and settled to enjoy the evening.

~*~

"Granger! Granger! " Malfoy was experiencing sudden and vindictive sobriety.

"Stop shouting, what is it?"

"Your bloody chest only went and got me in the chins. It sprouted lots of little feet and kicked me!"

Hermione stuck her head out of the en-suite and smiled ruefully. "It only did that because you tried to open it. Be glad that you didn’t, or it would have shown you its teeth. It’s perfectly harmless if left alone.”

Malfoy eyed it with deep suspicion, lest it sprout limbs again. It was small, the wood carved with a pattern of bulging pears and flower buds and, for the time being, completely inanimate. He didn't trust it. "What am I being punished for?"

"Being a meddling inconvenience."

"You like my meddling ways."

"I tolerate your meddling ways, sometimes. I really wanted to try it, anyway. I read about it in a book."

"You're a menace," Draco sighed.

“I’m perfectly nice, I just know you well enough to understand what will happen when I leave you alone in a room with a locked chest.”

He had been wondering if this was his Christmas present, for all that they’d agreed to exchange them upon their return home. There were a few wrapped presents under their tree with his name on them, but he wouldn’t put it past her to conjure up decoy gifts and hoard the real one.

Draco was particularly excited to have her unwrap the painting he’d commissioned for their living room. It starred Cassie guarding their cabin, her circlet gleaming in the sun as she wagged her little forked tail. The careful observer might notice two small shapes, just visible in the background and vaguely canine in aspect as they leapt and gambolled. One was large and gleaming white; the other was smaller with a brown, almost curly coat.

"It's the truth, Hermione, you are a menace. And I adore you."

She kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his lip, and drew away with a warm smile. "Nice try, but you’re still not allowed to open the chest.”

“Then who is it meant for?”

“Well, it is still technically meant for you, but it’s not that simple. We need to discuss it first.” 

Draco felt a surge of elation. “And how do you open it without losing a limb?”

“You have to tickle the pear until the flower opens.” She fidgeted, tugging on the hem of her cami. "I did a bit of research into wizarding traditions - don't open it!"

Too late. It was much larger on the inside, one of her specialties. "What's this? Is that… A cookbook?"

"Grace was nice enough to give me the recipes for some of your favourites," she pointed out, still trying to stop him. He swatted her hand away and continued to riffle through the treasures.

"And this is a gift card to our coffee shop!"

"That's just prudent, with the amount of gold you've sunk into that place. Look, what I'm trying to say is… I understand it is a traditional pureblood custom to send a bridal chest to the marriage contract holder. Although, since you're the groom that would make it a… bridegroom's chest? Groomish chest? It doesn't matter," she babbled.

His heart did a funny, twisty thing inside his chest. "Marriage contract?" The contents of her proposal lay scattered on the inn's bed. They included, among an array of thoughtful and useful items, a first edition Keel's Guide To Wizarding Policing and a brand new set of Quidditch leathers, all wyvern hide and monogramed with his initials.

"It’s meant to delicately express a formal interest. You were supposed to signal you were open to it by accepting the chest, but it's too late now. You've ruined it,” Hermione huffed.

“No, I haven’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. Forget the whole thing.”

“No, I won’t. Hermione… Come here.” She was visibly upset when she folded beside him. “Thank you for presenting me with a violent wooden chest. It’s- the most Granger thing I would never think of.”

“It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

Here, he found himself flailing. Liking something that had just given him a chin kicking would be stretching it beyond the pale. “If I had known marriage was anywhere in your mind, I would have beaten you to it. Here, let’s do this properly. It’s in my bag…”

“You are not telling me you meant to propose.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because- this is my proposal! You’re just hijacking it because you went ahead and- and fumbled it.”

“I was very serious about proposing, and I have evidence to back up the claim.” Draco produced his notebook and explained his reasoning.

To put it mildly, Hermione did not find this romantic.

To put it less mildly, Hermione was livid.

“Seriously?”

Malfoy pointed at his notes. “The Tyromancer talked about jewelled light from the sky, so I thought this must mean some astronomy or weather event. Maybe the Perseids-”

“The cheese people. You took advice from the cheese people about when to propose.” She wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

“He said you were unlikely to say yes at first!”

“He would be correct.”

“You don’t mean it. My borderline aromantic girlfriend-"

"I am no such thing!"

"Pardon me, beloved intended, of course, after such an expression of undying admiration."

"Forget this ever happened. It was just a silly, spur of the moment idea."

"You planned this for ages, read about it, researched it extensively. This is the Granger equivalent of drawing lovehearts and doodling our hyphenated surnames."

"I'm leaving you."

"No, I really don't think you are. Incidentally, I'll accept your interest.”

And then Hermione’s attention narrowed down to the rings between his index and his thumb. “What are you doing?”

“Swearing an oath to you. If you’ll have me, I will freely offer my magic, my heart, and love you through our trials and time and beyond death, if I can manage it,” Draco murmured.

“That’s not the next step.” This seemed to cause her some worry. Draco’s stomach clenched at the heartwrenching fragility of that moment.

“No, you’re right, we’re skipping about fifteen different traditions, but I hardly think we need to endure chaperoned tea ceremonies or plant enchanted dahlias under the full moon as a sign of devotion. Let’s just get to the bit that matters.”

She had not said yes. He was fairly sure - almost - she had given him the box, after all… For an agonising moment, Draco felt suspended at the edge of a precipice until the suspense physically hurt, and, accordingly, went very still.

Hermione finally, finally, curled one finger over his hand, a substantial touch to soothe him. He felt himself breathe again, and witnessed with rapt attention as she eased the ring onto his finger. Draco followed on quietly, reverently, grateful for this moment that he could never have pictured for his life.

The two slim platinum rings were shining and undecorated, matching in every way. “We can get wedding bands to match,” Hermione whispered.

"I should like that."

Draco held her face between his hands and felt her shiver with a faint blush. He kissed her, filled with a shimmering and soft heat, drawing her into arms as one hand pressed her in close and the other danced over the ridge of her spine and played with her curls.

Far too soon, they broke for air, his body singing with want and, deeper, pulsing relief. Movement caught his attention and Draco let out a short, shocked, mirthful laugh.

Outside their window, it had just started snowing.