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Chapter Text

It’s the classic tale.

A man dates a woman for years, several and several. A woman who’s always been there for him, who supports him through thick and thin, who lifts him up and encourages him forward, who offers him the safety and comfort he promises to cherish more than anything in the world. They’re of the same age, similar good looks and lifestyles, though she’s a smidge smarter and more hard working, but let’s not go there. Overall they’re even matched, everyone says so: they’re perfect together. Only, they never tied the knot because he’s not sure he quite believes in the institution of marriage. He tells her that it doesn’t matter, that it wouldn’t change anything between them either way, that they’re good just as they are. Children, he’s not certain yet. Maybe later. They’re in such a stable place in life, aren’t they, why mess it up? She has no choice but to accept. She doesn’t want to rush it or worry about future issues. She agrees they’re fine as they are, his love is all she needs. And it is fine, until time passes, they grow older, and suddenly they break up. He’s having doubts. They’re in their 30’s now, after all. They’re not kids anymore and life is flying by. He wishes to make sure that this is what he truly wants; perhaps it’s time to give each other some space before they can know without a question that this is it. Once more she accepts it, and tries to see from his perspective, to understand what went wrong with them. But before that, boom, it’s one year later and he’s married to a twenty-five year old who is pregnant with his first child: a son. He’s happier than ever, family and friends over the moon for him.

And the woman stays behind.

Hermione did.

After fourteen years with Ronald, he left her to ‘‘figure life out’’ and did so on the lap of a girl a decade younger than them, who apparently gave him everything Hermione never could. Not that she was ever asked to. He had decided for the both of them, and Hermione acquiesced because she didn’t know what else to do. He was her best friend, her first and only love, her confidant. They knew each other since they were eleven, together as a couple since their eighteenth birthday. He had never married her, according to him, because she was ‘‘practically family already,’’ and he swore there was no need for it. And she believed him because she trusted him with her life. Which is why, in the aftermath, the betrayal aches in ways she didn’t know possible. That all the Weasleys welcomed the new girl with wide open arms heightens the pain to an unimaginable degree. The girl’s family now, real family, not just ‘‘practically.’’ Harry tells her that she’s a nice bird, and that the baby has no fault in anything.

He's right, of course.

So, in turn, Hermione leaves them all behind.

The last to go is Harry.

Hermione has a fine job at the Ministry of Magic. She had followed her two best friends, nearly thirteen years ago, in their frenzy to join the Auror training in the wake of a war victory that tasted far too sweet to ignore. Their blood had still been pumping with adrenaline and self-righteous ideals of good and evil when they swiftly enrolled themselves in the programme with hopes of keep fighting, to protect and serve. Although Ronald didn’t last much longer, Harry and her have been partnered in the Auror Office for the better part of the last decade.

She doesn’t regret it, despite the flawed reasons that have led her toward that career path. She likes her occupation, much more so in the previous years since she’s been promoted to an intelligence position within the investigative section of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She enjoys what she does, and most importantly, she’s good at it, and if there’s one thing Hermione Granger appreciates is the solace, and unabashed pride, of excelling at something.

However, there’s no way she can continue to count on Harry to be her right hand.

As such, she marches in the direction of the Deputy Head of the DMLE on a cloudy Monday morning, donning her most impressive work robes and sheer determination. She knocks on Mackenzie’s door with two confident raps. 

‘‘Come in.’’

They have a good rapport, her boss and her, so she’s not afraid to speak her mind when allowed to.

‘‘I understand that private matters should never interfere with our job here,’’ she tells the dark-skinned witch in front of her once they finally get to the meat of it. ‘‘But I also know you appreciate smart partnering and smooth relationships. It’s the reason we’ve succeeded in our assignments so far. We both acknowledge the importance of the human element to our job and how to make the most with what, and whom, we have available. And it’s because of that that I felt compelled to tell you all of this, and to report that things have irrevocably changed between Harry and I, which will most certainly impact our work negatively. And very much so. Therefore, I’m here to ask you to assign me a new partner.’’

Mackenzie frowns at the explanation, her thin lips that are usually shaped in prime preparation to command or scold folding on themselves in reticence. It doesn’t surprise Hermione that she doesn’t like this. Harry and her have had the best results in the DMLE for the fourth year in a row, gathering more useful data to feed strategic operations than any other division. Dismantling their long-standing partnership could mean affecting the office’s marks, or at least slowing their progress in their current open cases. It’s risky, and surely unforeseen.

Any other boss would have outright told Hermione no. Mackenzie, though, takes her time. She studies Hermione, reflecting about the information just shared and weighing her options. Hermione waits in silence, resigned to the possibility of having to burn bridges to get what she wants. She doesn’t wish to spoil her relationship with the Deputy Head but she will do it if that’s what it takes to tear apart the last tie that binds her to a most painful past. There have been many lessons learned from the Second Wizarding War, but the one that has perhaps stuck the hardest to Hermione’s core is that she needs to fight for herself for no one else will.

Especially now, that she finds herself completely and utterly alone in the world.

It’s time to begin again, and although she doesn’t intend to leave the Ministry, something’s got to give. Fortunately, it’s Mackenzie who does.

‘‘Alright, Hermione. I accept what you’re telling me and I’ll grant you your request.’’ She reclines back in her full-grain leather chair, crossing her hands on top of the mahogany desk and tilting her head. ‘‘But you’ll have to agree without complaints to anyone I decide to partner you with.’’

It’s Hermione’s time to frown. She never presumed otherwise. The leader of the department is, by all means, the one with the prerogative to assign partnerships, save for rare exceptions. She doesn’t understand her boss’ need to reaffirm it to someone as experienced as Hermione.

‘‘You’ll work with Malfoy from now on.’’

That clears up her confusion rather quickly.

There are only a few people Hermione truly admires, particularly among the ones with whom she regularly interacts. There’s always something that hinders her affection of becoming something more: sometimes the person is a nasty drunk in spite of the responsible version of themselves when sober, sometimes they are more bark than bite, or sometimes they just have certain stubborn traits that tarnish Hermione’s respect for them, such as jealousy or short-mindedness. It’s not that she doesn’t like them or think they’re not good people; she just limits her admiration to those who seem to earn the feeling where it really matters.

Like Harry used to.

And like Mackenzie still does. The woman is only nine years older than Hermione and yet her reputation precedes her in the most complimentary of ways. Her accomplishments are known across the entire Ministry of Magic. She’s tough and uncompromising, clever in a quite wicked manner, in addition to all her academic and professional accolades. More relevantly, she knows how to do politics like few other people do. Such as presently. 

Draco Malfoy has been working in the DMLE for the past five years, after skipping around the Ministry like a hot potato, insistent in imposing his presence and thoroughly unwelcome by every single department. Despite the decade since the end of the war trials and his full acquittal, the Wizarding society has had a hard time forgiving the pureblood. He’s been accepted back, and so has his mother in exchange for his father rotting somewhere in Azkaban, but that hasn’t meant he’s wanted amidst the rest of them. On the contrary, nobody wishes to put up with him. It doesn’t help that his attitude has improved very little since their school days.

Mackenzie, who shocked nearly everyone when she took the man in and offered him a job as a junior analyst, has had her sights on Malfoy during the entire trajectory. Not one to hold grudges or let prejudices get in the way of efficiency, she found no issues in employing him after the Department of International Magical Cooperation denied him a promotion one final time. Starting low, Malfoy has climbed the rankings speedily, and before Hermione could realise, he was her peer in every sense of the word. Nevertheless, irrespective of his otherwise positive performance as an individual, his work has been tainted by a distinctive lack of a partner.

No one wants to work with him, and he has spent the last year since he’s become an intelligence officer having to bear a workload suited for two all by himself, on top of the piles of criticism and side-eyes he routinely receives from the other Aurors. It has become an issue that nobody’s willing to address, or resolve. 

Mackenzie has been, naturally, aware of it, but had yet to make her move.

Until now.

Hermione doesn’t know if she’d been patiently waiting for the opportunity to present itself or if it had been purely something of the spur of the moment, entirely incidental, but she can’t help but admire the dexterity of the woman sitting across from her. If she wasn’t the one to have to weather her machinations, she’d probably pay her boss an effusive compliment.

As it is, Hermione only grimaces.

‘‘Malfoy, Emily? Really?’’

‘‘Take it or leave it, Hermione. What you’re asking of me completely deviates from Ministry norms. It’s highly objectionable, as a matter of fact. But I’ll do it because it’s you, and because, as a woman, I empathise with your situation. But that doesn’t mean that I’ll allow the division to suffer from it.’’ She shrugs, and Hermione is left to appreciate how genuine the witch sounds, when she knows for a fact that her motivation runs much deeper than that. ‘‘If I let you drop Potter, you can’t expect me not to try and find a replacement that equally benefits the office. Malfoy’s gone without a partner for far too long, and now you’re about to be without one as well. It makes absolute sense.’’

Mackenzie’s a master of scheming and Hermione respects that. Against herself but she does. Because she just went and ambushed Hermione in a seemingly inescapable trap, which in the end the latter was the one to bring upon herself. There’s no one she can blame but herself.

When Hermione falters, recognising the inevitability of it all, Mackenzie plunges on.

‘‘I firmly believe you’ll make a good team. Honestly. You know Malfoy’s competent. And he’s discreet, he surely won’t stick his nose in your business, or concern himself with why you’re no longer partnered with Potter. And I dare say he’ll be the only one. You know the office will buzz after the news breaks.’’ She offers a half-smile when Hermione sighs at the implication. ‘‘You see then how I need to perform some damage control here. I can’t allow my best team to break up without a strong back-up. And Malfoy, after you and Potter, and perhaps Hopkins on a good day, is our best employee.’’ Her smile spreads as she appears to fully take in what’s about to happen. ‘‘Yes, Hermione. I’m sure you two will make an excellent duo. I’m sure there will be no loss to the DMLE.’’

Hermione wonders if there will be yet another loss to her.

It’s somewhat easy to ignore the scuttlebutt making the rounds in the department the next few days. It’s less so to ignore a flummoxed Harry invading her workstation carrying a wholly indignant air on himself, one week after her agreement with Mackenzie.

‘‘Hermione, what the fuck is going on?’’

She doesn’t lift her head from where it hangs from her shoulders, scanning the lone parchment on top of her desk. She does, however, offer a reply. ‘‘What?’’

She hears her friend- former friend - inhale deeply before telling her.

‘‘Mackenzie has undone our partnership. She says it was by your request. She’s put me with fucking Fawley.’’

‘‘Oh, Fawley is not that bad. I’m sure you’ll make a good team.’’

There’s a moment of silence, in which Hermione carries on with her reading before her chair’s forcefully yanked ninety degrees and her entire body jolts with it. Harry gets in her face, nose to nose, forearms coming to crowd her on each side. ‘‘Why did you ask to undo our partnership?’’

His rage strangely calms her. She won’t waste inflamed sentiments with such a backstabbing wanker.

‘‘Because I no longer want to work with you, Harry. I thought this wasn’t a very difficult conclusion to come to.’’ She says it coolly. She peels his fingers from her chair armrests one by one. ‘‘I thought it was common knowledge that you and I are through with one another.’’

It’s obviously not common knowledge, since no one apart from the people involved know how ugly everything got in the end, but she’s no longer afraid to use words to injure.

It seems to work.

Harry baulks. ‘‘What?’’

“What what? Our friendship is over, Harry. I told you so that day. You picked your side, and what kind of man you want to be. I know I shouldn’t let it interfere with our professional relationship, but to be honest I don’t give a flying shit anymore.’’ She holds his gaze. ‘‘Now excuse me because I have a lot of things to do. And a new partner to catch up with.’’

‘‘Hermione, you must be fucking jok-’’

‘‘Potter, Granger.’’

For what’s probably the first time in her life, Hermione smiles warmly at Draco Malfoy.

‘‘Malfoy, hi. I was just talking about you. We have so much to go through together.’’ Turning back to Harry, she ices her voice. ‘‘You can go now.’’

It’s quiet again, and terribly awkward. It’s painfully clear, too, not only to the circle where the three of them stand but also to the rest of the office that not-so-subtly pays attention to the stilted interaction, that there’s a juicy drama ready to unfold. This time, Hermione does feel bothered. She hates being at the centre of public rumours. Lately, though, there’s little she’s been able to do about it. Since it became known to the whole world via The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Spellbound, The American Charmer, and every other Magical magazine printed in English language, that Ronald got someone else up the duff and left her after fourteen years together to marry the new bint, Hermione’s seen herself in the eye of the hurricane. It has been invasive, and exhausting, and excruciating. Most days, she wishes she could forget she ever had anything to do with a Weasley, if only the media outlets permitted it.

She wishes she could erase the last two decades of her heart.

Harry appears to realise the path of her thoughts because he suddenly backs off. Before he leaves, he stares at her forebodingly. ‘‘This is not right, Hermione. I’m warning you now, you’ll regret it bitterly.’’

He walks away without waiting for an answer, and it’s just as well. Hermione’s embarrassed enough to have Malfoy witness the harsh exchange of words. Glancing away from her oldest and dearest friend who never treasured her like she did him, she forces herself to face her blond coworker.

‘‘Sorry about that.’’ She croaks, and aims for an even tone. ‘‘Shall we begin our briefing?’’

For a still instant, Malfoy just looks at her. Then, in an unexpected motion that ends in a courteous dip of head, he nods. ‘‘Lead the way, Granger.’’

Despite being caught off-guard by this unanticipated kind reaction, Hermione does just that. She fetches her work satchel and takes him to an empty conference room on the last corridor of their Level.

‘‘This is all the cases I’ve been working on. Mackenzie gave me the green light to split them evenly between Harry and I as I see fit, considering that I was the officer-in-charge in the majority of them, while Harry mostly worked in the field. Before I do that, though, I think it would be prudent to take a look at yours too, so we can try and compare them, and perhaps find a common thread that will help us make the transference smoother.’’

Malfoy agrees easily with her plan, and they set to work. It’s oddly unproblematic, their weaving back and forth through their current projects, their ready accordance with what should stay and what should go. All in all, Malfoy offers little resistance and neither does she whenever he requests a different route. She wants this to work, and apparently so does he. If she cared about appearances, or fixed status quo, she’d fuss about how effortless this all is going. But she doesn’t, so their briefing is over without hiccups and her day draws to an end in a surprisingly good note.

Her evening, nevertheless, begins the exact opposite.

She had arrived home only a quarter of an hour before. She’s barely out of the shower, wrapped in her favourite fluffy bathrobe, just musing about dinner, when her chimney comes to life. Her floo is closed, though, as it has been for the entire past year since Hermione started to dread impromptu visits from people who habitually broke her heart.

The sound of the obstruction caused by the blockade reverberates around her flat until it comes to a stop. A handful of seconds go by before the flames surge again, this time for a floo call.

‘‘Hermione?’’

 It’s Ginny, and Hermione groans in anticipation. This won’t be pleasant.

It has been a few weeks since they last spoke, when the redhead finally gave up owling Hermione after yet another no-reply. They had seen each other briefly at the Diagon Alley when Hermione had to drop by Gringotts for a bank transfer. Bumping accidentally into one another in front of Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary, Ginny took the opportunity to once more badger Hermione for how distant she was being. The girl had insisted that there was no reason for Hermione to not be in their lives anymore, the Weasleys’ lives that is, just because Ronald and her were no longer together. She had the gall to tell Hermione that she’d always be her ‘‘pretend sister-in-law’’ no matter what.

Hermione had wanted to either laugh hysterically or sprint into the contrary direction.

She knows Ginny will be even more unrelenting now, after certainly having learned the news from her husband.

‘‘Hermione, are you there? I can’t floo in.’’

‘‘That’s because my floo is closed, you dumb twat.’’ Hermione mutters under her breath, continuing her search inside the fridge for something to eat.

‘‘Hermione!’’

It goes like this for another few minutes, Ginny calling her name and Hermione pretending to be none the wiser, until she finally decides for a veggie wrap. She sets the ingredients on her island counter, organising them according to her order of preference, and walks back to the living room. Ginny hollers when Hermione comes into view.

‘‘There you are! I knew you were home, and that you were just ignoring me. Not cool, by the way!’’

‘‘What do you want, Ginny?’’

‘‘I want to ask you what the hell is wrong with you.’’ She barks, her pretty face scrunched between the dancing flames. ‘‘Harry just told me you asked to stop being partners. Come on, Mione, really?’’

Hermione sighs. ‘‘Ginny, I’m not discussing it with you. It’s my decision, it’s done. Can you please leave me alone now?’’

‘‘No! I told you I’m not gonna give up on you. No matter how hard you try to push me away.’’

It sounds lovely when she says it like this. To any outsider, she appears to be the most dutiful of friends, running after Hermione to make sure their friendship remains standing, refusing to let them fall apart. On paper it does sound nice. In real life, it’s all bullshit.

For the first few months, when Ronald had been by all appearances trying to ‘‘find himself and what he truly wanted from life,’’ they were still in regular contact. Hermione believed they would get back together at some point, and it felt petty to be angry at the man for needing some time. She continued to see the Weasleys rather often, though respecting Ronald’s request for space and yet still managing to meet the Potter family somewhere neutral. She even had lunch with Molly and Arthur a couple of times during that period, and saw Percy after work on some occasions, too. They were still her family, she thought. Nothing needed to change. 

Then Ronald’s birthday came along and she attended the party they threw for him. She had barely set foot at The Burrow and there it was: the new girl, young and fit, wrapped inside Ronald’s arms in the middle of the living room as if she’d always belonged there, completely at home among her in-laws. Not having been warned of it by a single good soul, Hermione had frozen in disbelief, feeling like she was one breath away from collapsing. She had no idea what was going on, who the fuck was that kissing her boyfriend’s neck, and absolutely nobody came to her rescue. Ginny, who now behaves herself like a tenacious, supporting friend, had just stood there, giving Hermione an awkward smile and refusing to address the elephant in the room. As a matter of fact, she never once confronted her brother, and neither did Harry. They never once called Ronald out for his scumbag behaviour, or empathised with how enraged Hermione felt afterward. When they met right after the wretched party, Hermione still reeling from everything and trying to make sense of what had happened, they acted as if she was overreacting, since, hey, Ronald had asked for a break, hadn't he? So, actually, he had done nothing wrong by getting with someone else. He was single, after all. And Hermione should just take the hint and move on already.

It was then that the final piece of her heart shattered. 

She left the restaurant they had been in a trance and, as soon as she arrived home, she closed her floo. She readjusted her wards to not allow anyone but her to come a single foot from her flat, and then she burned every last token that reminded her of any of them: photos, notes, presents, Quidditch paraphernalia, Hogwarts mementos. They were as good as dead to her.

That Ginny would not get that just made it all more painful to Hermione.

‘‘Ginny, please. We’ve talked about this.’’

‘‘No, Hermione, you talked. You’re the one who decided that we’re over, and so, what? I’m supposed to just accept it without a fight? After everything we went through together? After knowing you half of my life?’’

Hermione’s mouth stretches, but it’s not a smile. ‘‘Yes. The same way you accepted when Ronald did the same to me.’’ Ginny’s scintillating face blanches at that, and Hermione twists the knife. ‘‘Now it’s your turn to be discarded like rubbish. Doesn’t feel good, does it?’’

‘‘It’s not-’’

‘‘Ginny, I’m done with this conversation. I’m hungry, and I’m gonna go make myself some dinner now.’’

‘‘Hermione, wait!’’ The redhead bellows and Hermione heaves in irritation at her insistence. ‘‘Please, Mione. The kids miss you.’’

That gives her pause. 

She misses the kids something awful. It has been perhaps the cruellest part of it all, being forcefully removed from the Weasleys and Potters who are not to blame for anything. Hermione wishes there was another way, any other solution that could preserve her beaten heart from even more hurt, but she’s come up empty. The only remedy she’s found it’s to begin again away from the entire family.

But that’s not fair with the children, is it? She’s James’ godmother, after all. And Albus and Lily are her sweetest angels. 

‘‘Please, Mione. Don’t abandon them. If you never want to look at me or Harry again, fine. But don’t do that to them, too. They don’t deserve that.’’

Hermione sighs, rubbing her eyes in pure exhaustion. She lets one moment go by, then another. At last, she relents.

‘‘You’re right, Ginny. I’m sorry that this mess has spilled onto them. It was not my intention. And I’m not planning on abandoning them, of course not.’’

The floating head in the flames grins, victorious. ‘‘Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t. So can we schedule a visit?’’

‘‘Yeah, I- erm, I’m gonna check my calendar. But I’m sure we can find a, uh, a weekend where I can take them out for ice cream or something.’’

‘‘Great. Owl me?’’

Urgh. She can’t believe she’s back at it. She really thought she’d cut all ties. She really thought she’d be free of all the reminders of how life had gone wrong.

But no. 

No fucking deal.

‘‘Will do.’’

When Ronald was still in her life, Hermione had a certain routine to her days. She always woke before him, usually around six thirty in the morning, while his job at the Wizarding Wireless Network never needed him before eleven. Truth be told, her shift at the Investigation Department didn’t start until eight o’clock, but Hermione was a slow riser. She liked to take her time to lay in bed as soon as her eyes opened, and think about the day that was starting. After reviewing all that she was supposed to get done before she retired to sleep again, she got up and took a long shower, washing her hair and generously applying Sleakeasy’s Frizz Ease conditioner. She’d spent the next fifteen minutes taming her curls with shape-forming spells. After that, she made herself a cup of black tea, which she carried with herself as she got dressed. All done, she left their flat twenty to eight, which gave her just enough time to stop by her favourite bakery at West London to grab a freshly-baked croissant and a vanilla bun before she apparated to the Ministry.

She worked from eight to five, if there wasn’t any incident that required her to do overtime, which happened more frequently than not. Either way, she was seldom ever home after eight at night, a time that coincided with Ronald returning from his own job. They would, then, order takeaway or Hermione would cook something simple for them, and they’d eat while watching the telly Hermione had bought to introduce the Muggle entertainment world to her boyfriend. He had immediately taken a liking to it, so they spent most of their evening hours following the stories told on the screen, sharing a pastry and chatting about their work day. It wasn’t much but it was comfortable; it was exactly what Hermione craved after a hectic day at the DMLE, surrounded by heavy paperwork and tumultuous criminal cases. She enjoyed their agreed leisure time. Their apartment was warm and cosy, and Hermione felt safe there. Like she always felt with Ronald, too: at ease. 

Now, there’s no more routine.

Most days Hermione awakens late, often snoozing too much after a fretful night of sleep. As such, she’s got no time to reflect and plan; she has to jump in the shower and hurry through her self-care regimen. Sometimes she makes it to run to Buns From Home, sometimes she has to skip breakfast altogether. She always starts her shift at eight sharp, though, because she’s nothing if not punctual. And yet, lately, she’s worked far past five on normal days, and on the ones she has to do overtime, she’s never home before nine. There’s no need to rush, anyway. There’s no one waiting for her anymore. She arrives the time she arrives, irrespective of when that is, and makes herself whatever is still left in the cupboards from the last time she went grocery shopping. She eats staring at the wall or reading through a work file. She goes to sleep late and tired, and her cold bed no longer provides her with the rest she desperately searches for.

Needless to say, that week Hermione’s schedule is even more out of place. Having a new partner changed her entire work dynamic, not to mention the trouble of having to learn the idiosyncrasies of someone new, someone she knows nothing about. And someone with whom she has such a complicated history to boot. It has uprooted her whole agenda, and left her feeling even more adrift.

On Friday that feeling only gets worse.

As soon as she turns the corner to the oak doors of the Auror Headquarters, she knows something is afoot. There are more employees clocked in than what she usually finds when she arrives first thing in the morning, and hushed whispers hit her ears every step that she takes. Craning her neck, she can see Harry in a seemingly serious conversation with Mackenzie in his cubicle. Her new partner’s nowhere to be found.

She drops her satchel on top of her desk, and looks around trying to gather more clues from the surroundings. When her eyes travel back to Harry’s workstation, Mackenzie’s gaze meets hers.

The witch instantly gestures for Hermione to come closer.

She does, feeling her stomach grow heavier, tension curling her insides with the unknown that soon will be made known to her. 

‘‘Hermione. Have you heard it already?’’

‘‘No, I just got in. What happened?’’

Mackenzie sighs. ‘‘We’re not sure yet. It’s Malfoy’s case, by all means. We’re waiting for him to return from the Office for Detection and Confiscation.’’

Hermione frowns, mind ready to run with the possibilities but Harry speaks before that.

‘‘He thinks there’s blood-purity dark magic in the artefacts he confiscated last night in his raid.’’

She raises her brows in surprise at the information. Blood-purity dark magic artefacts? Those are supposed to have been all destroyed or seized by the Ministry following the Second Wizarding War. They haven’t had a case of such dark magic in years. And for it to have suddenly reappeared out of the blue, with zero prelude or indicators, sounds a little incongruous to her.

Before she can voice her thoughts, a commotion grabs their attention.

Malfoy’s back.

‘‘Mackenzie, can I talk to you in your office?’’ He says without preamble as he approaches them with long, fast steps. Almost like an afterthought, his silver eyes flick to Hermione. ‘‘Granger too.’’

They acquiesce, ignoring Harry’s aggravated face for not being included and marching away from the rest of the Aurors. They lock and silence the door behind them, Mackenzie taking her full-grain leather chair and offering Hermione and Malfoy to make themselves comfortable on the sofa opposite to her.

‘‘What did the Office for Detection and Confiscation say?’’

Malfoy heaves a fortifying inhale. ‘‘They confirmed it’s a Black Quill, recently used as a torture device.’’

‘‘Where did you find this?’’ Hermione interjects before they get further into the discoveries. She needs some context here.

‘‘It’s the Zimcooke case. Remember we went through it on Monday? Two men were caught selling contraband off the coast of Dedham.’’ Malfoy tells her, refreshing her memory of the open cases they had discussed during their briefing. A project he was adamant to remain as officer-in-charge, she recalls. She nods, showing him that she remembers, and he goes on. ‘‘With the information they fed me in the beginning of the year, I was able to capture other members of their gang. And one of them rattled out a location under interrogation, which I raided last night with my team. And there I found dark magic artefacts.’’ He pauses, looking back to the Deputy Head. ‘‘It’s as I suspected, Mackenzie. It’s not just regular Dark Arts paraphernalia, it’s blood-purity dark magic.’’

‘‘Wait. How can you know that for sure?’’ Hermione cuts in once more. ‘‘A Black Quill? That’s not a difficult item to find, or trade. And it’s hardly a blood-purity dark magic artefact.’’

‘‘That’s not the only thing I confiscated. I also retrieved Bloodstained packs of cards. Several of them.’’

Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up again.

That’s an interesting development.

‘‘Are you sure they’re officially Bloodstained?’’ The last official one had been seized during Voldemort’s second attempt at power, a decade and a half ago. Ever since, they were believed to be extinct.

‘‘Yes, Granger. I just had it confirmed by the Detection Office.’’

‘‘What else did they tell you?’’ Mackenzie enquires. ‘‘Do they have any idea of the origins of the artefacts? Did they have The Trace in them, or any Dark Arts protective curses?’’

‘‘Not as far as they can tell. They’re still in the preliminary stages of testing, of course, so they need some more time before their formal full report.’’

‘‘So there’s a possibility that this isn’t actually a Bloodstained object? Or that there will be other traits that will rule out blood-purity dark magic?’’

‘‘I find that hard to believe. Trust me, Granger.’’ He holds her gaze, a half-smirk crooking his left cheek. ‘‘I know a dark object when I see one, and this is definitely a-’’

‘‘Yes, a dark object. Sure. But a blood-purity one? That’s a big stretch, Malfoy.’’

His eyes turn hard. ‘‘Why, because the Wizarding society is known for being so morally correct when it comes to blood status?’’

His sarcasm is not appreciated by her. 

‘‘No, because if we really find blood-purity dark magic being passed around again, we might as well start considering the possibility that we will soon need to fight another war.’’

He arches one white-blonde brow. ‘‘Would that be a shock to you?’’

Yes, it would.

Hermione is no gullible war survivor who has the naive conviction that their victory has meant that everything wrong in the world was suddenly fixed, and that now they will live happily, and peacefully, ever after. She knows the Dark Arts are still very much alive, and that many people still discriminate on account of blood status. She’s not stupid. She doubts that there won’t come a time when they’ll once again have to fiercely repress dangerous waves of bigotry. They’ll probably need to contend with the ebb and flow of that until the end of time.

That being said, Hermione has also been paying attention. She’s an avid political participant, following every piece of legislation that is passed and every parliamentary debate occurring in the Wizengamot. She accompanies Wireless round tables with different segments of society, she reads gossip columns and socialites’ statements, she listens to the whispers on the street and she stays updated with every fluctuation regarding the feelings and inclination of the general public. And not purely for a professional reason. Hermione has a personal motivation behind it, obviously. For being a muggleborn, and one that has suffered deeply at the hands of the last maniacal despot who tried to decimate her kind, Hermione doesn’t take the topic lightly. She makes herself be on top of everything, at all times, ready to act if there’s even so much as the slightest prospect of things getting bad again. Therefore, she’d know when, and if, the tide changed.

It hasn’t. Blood purity is not making a comeback. At least not for now. And in addition to all that, she hasn’t run into any type of such dark magic in years and years, and she’s been working for the DMLE practically since the end of the last war.

The fact is: she would’ve known. She would’ve seen the signs, without a doubt. Dark powers don’t appear out of nowhere; there are manifestations, giveaways that people miss because they ultimately choose to ignore in the name of keeping it as it is, unchallenged inside their comfort zone. But not Hermione. Never Hermione. 

And that’s why Malfoy’s certainty doesn’t convince her.

She tries to be reasonable, though. ‘‘May I see the artefacts in question?’’ 

Perhaps he’s not completely wrong. Or perhaps this is the beginning of a current shift. She’s not so arrogant to believe she can never be mistaken. It’s always good to make sure, in any case. 

‘‘When the Detection Office is done with them, yes. In the meantime,’’ he refocuses on their boss. ‘‘Can I have a team of Hit Wizards at my disposal? I’d like to make some arrests, further my investigation into-’’

‘‘Whoa, wait, wait. Hit Wizards?’’ Hermione chuckles in incredulity. ‘‘Don’t you think that’s a tad too much? I think you’re getting carried away with the very limited evidence you have at the moment.’’

Malfoy’s eyes harden again, turning on the sofa in a deliberate motion and looking at her as if she’s purposefully trying to test his patience. ‘‘No, I don’t think I’m getting carried away. Mackenzie, I believe that-’’

‘‘Malfoy, why don’t we wait first for the formal full report of the Office for Detection and Confiscation before we make any hasty decisions?’’

‘‘This is not a hasty decision, Granger. I’m acting according to the information I have access to. And I’m convinced that this is not a work of ordinary dark wizards.’’

‘‘What, because you found one Black Quill and an alleged Bloodstained pack of cards?’’ The emphasis that Hermione places on the word alleged is not lost on Malfoy, taking by the way his jaw clenches in response. ‘‘Honestly, that would never hold up on trial, much less be regarded seriously by any judge in the granting of an arrest warrant. First, you’d have to-’’

‘‘I’m sorry, who’s the officer-in-charge of the Zimcooke case again? Who has been accompanying the developments of the case, since the first contraband bust to the monitoring of no less than three interconnected criminal networks, for the past ten months? Is that you, Granger?’’

‘‘I’m not saying that-’’

‘‘No, it’s not you. It’s me. So forgive me if I don’t take into consideration the opinion of someone who knows a total of nothing about any case beyond her neat little world of bureaucratic protocols and white collar crimes, and now is trying to give unsolicited advice about something completely outside her reach. You stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine, alright? Mackenzie, I need a team of Hit Wizards. Can you approve it bef-’’

 Hermione sees red.

‘‘Excuse me? Who do you think you are to-’’

‘‘Hermione, Draco, please.’’

‘‘Who I think I am is the officer-in-charge of this case, and as such I’m the one entitled to make decisions about it. You don’t see me sticking my nose in your open cases.’’

‘‘We’re partners now, Malfoy, or have you forgotten? We’re supposed to listen to each other, to debate together about a course of action before we decide on it. But I guess you’ve gone too long without having to concede to anyone or anything but your ego, so indeed it must be really hard now to-’’

‘‘My ego? Ha. Says the delusional former poster child that hasn’t moved on from being the Golden Girl who gets to do everything her way-’’

‘‘Oh, are we to insult each other now? Do you really wanna go there, Malfoy?’’

‘‘No, nobody’s going to insult anyone. Hermione, Draco, will you please-’’

Mackenzie’s ignored as if she doesn’t have the power to fire both of them at the spot. 

‘‘I’m just returning what was thrown at me. You decided to talk about my ego-’’

‘‘I didn’t mean it to-’’

‘‘- and yet you’re the one who doesn’t have the first clue about the case but somehow still thinks you know more than the officer-in-charge. Can’t you really not entertain the possibility, for once in your life, that you might not be right? Heh, Golden Girl?’’

Hermione huffs, skin tingling in infuriation. She can feel her unkempt hair, already too wild from the lack of care she’s been putting into it lately, fizzling on the sides of her head, cracking with energy. She wouldn’t be surprised if she looked ready to combust inside Mackenzie’s office as she stares at Malfoy, and he stares back.

An impasse.

At their briefing in the beginning of the week, they had gotten along fine. They had been both in their best behaviour, and they had wanted it fervently to work. It was beneficial to the two of them that they agreed on most things and so they did, because that would mean that this partnership could actually, despite all odds, be a success. And that was too important to both of them, individually and professionally.

As such, Hermione had made the miscalculation of thinking that’s how their interactions would flow from there on. She genuinely believed, for that brief period of time that had spanned the last four days, that Malfoy and her could make this work. That they could find a common ground from which to build their professional relationship, the bad blood aside. That perhaps his reputation, and his school-reminiscent insufferable attitude, wouldn’t come in the way of their partnership.

She’d been terribly wrong.

As they hold each other’s gazes, unflinchingly, Hermione realises she's landed herself in scorching hot water.

Chapter Text

As the most punctual person she knows, Hermione appreciates anyone who respects her time. She appreciates not having to wait long for someone to show their faces when they have previously scheduled a meeting. Mainly, she appreciates people who are prompt and prepared, especially at work.

She does not appreciate Draco Malfoy.

Even more so when he meets her at the Office for Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects the following week’s Wednesday five minutes before the agreed upon time, carrying two thick folders containing every detail of the case’s developments, one of which he wordlessly hands to her.

It’s solicitous and efficient, and she doesn’t appreciate it. Rather, she begrudges his competence.

They wait out the minutes until they’re expected for their appointment in silence, eyes on the documents Malfoy had supplied. Then, still quietly, they follow the employee that comes to fetch them from the waiting room, leading them through the maze of labs and trial facilities toward Wood’s workroom. Elias Wood is the senior analyst in charge of the testing of the dark artefacts related to the Zimcooke case. He turns promptly on his heels when Hermione and Malfoy walk through the threshold of his doorway.

‘‘Auror Malfoy.’’ He says, hardly a polite greeting. His lips pinch in obvious discontentment for having to respond to the blond git. 

‘‘Wood.’’ Her partner replies, not appearing to have noticed or cared in the least about the lack of enthusiasm of the other man. ‘‘You know Granger.’’

It mildly surprises her that he acknowledges her at all, but she doesn’t miss a beat.

‘‘Elias.’’ She stretches her arm for a handshake. ‘‘Thank you for making time for us.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ Wood grins at her, accepting her palm and shaking it vigorously, while Malfoy barely suppresses an eye-roll. 

That’s one of the reasons no one can stand him in the Ministry: he never wastes time with pleasantries, always jumping straight to the point and neglecting to build a good relationship with his coworkers. Like, for instance, by acknowledging their willingness to talk through their discoveries. Hermione, despite her no-nonsense disposition, knows how important networking is; she recognises that sometimes one has to fake niceties in order to fabricate rapports with those worthy of doing so. Like, for instance, by pretending that the analyst had any choice but to see them today to deliver the report. It’s the thoughtfulness that counts. That’s how things go in their world, especially in their field of work, and Malfoy should’ve learned that already. His loss, she thinks.

His hard work and intelligence could take him much farther if he got out of his comfort zone once in a while and just bloody smiled at people. He doesn’t have to be friends with anyone he doesn’t want to, cordialness would be more than enough.

But he’s him, a pureblooded aristocrat with his nose stuck up high until the very end.

Again: his fucking loss.

‘‘Have you been able to finish all the testing?’’ Hermione asks, grinning back and looking expectantly at Wood. An act, surely, but a convenient one at that.

Wood nods, unsurprisingly, magically opening the first drawer of the bureau to his left and levitating a file from inside. He floats it to her, next. ‘‘Here’s the full report, Auror Granger.’’

She grabs the folder, at once opening it. ‘‘Oh, wonderful. Thank you.’’

She can see from the corner of her eyes that Malfoy’s getting more exasperated by the second. Not only does her schmoozes irritate him, but she’s the one taking the first peek at the lab results of the artefacts he confiscated in his raid last week even though he’s the office-in-charge of the case, not her. It amuses her how much that bothers him, and she can’t help but smirk down at the document in her hands.

Her smirk dies when Malfoy takes two steps forward and basically glues himself to her side, hovering over her shoulder. 

‘‘What are you doing?’’ She barks, rotating her body away to create distance between them.

‘‘I want to read the report too, Granger. We are partners, after all, aren’t we? We should do everything together, according to you.’’

Although Malfoy sucks at friendliness and people-pleasing, he’s fluent in sarcasm, as Hermione has learned in the past ten days since they inaugurated their partnership. It’s wholly unnerving his ability to throw her words against her in such a saccharine leer.

She tries not to let it get to her.

‘‘Well, you can wait your turn.’’

‘‘No, thanks.’’

Once more, he crowds her and Hermione’s spine stiffens at the forced proximity. 

‘‘Fine. Have at it.’’ She gives up with a puff, practically throwing the file at him and going around to be as far from the prat as possible. ‘‘I’ll read it after you’re done.’’ She doesn’t wait to see his gloating smirk; she turns to Wood, willing her facial expressions to soften. ‘‘Did you experience any resistance during the testing period, Elias?’’

‘‘Not at all, Auror Granger. The artefacts didn’t contain any layer of protective curses. We were able to analyse them with our standard protocol spells.’’

‘‘Mhm, that’s good. What kind of spells did your team use, exactly?’’

‘‘Erm, well, we always start with the basics, right? Specialis Revelio, Aparecium, Finite Incantatem, Appare Vestigium, Surgito. Then some more specific, like Tenebris Modus, Sanguis Pudicitiae-’’

‘‘The complete list of spells is in the report, Granger. You don’t need Wood to recite them one by one to you.’’ Malfoy interrupts, not looking up from where his face is buried in the folder.

‘‘Ah, but you don’t mind, do you, Elias?’’ Hermione offers the analyst another smile, the third in the five minutes she’s been in his presence. A record even for her. She wonders if annoying Malfoy will make her a better person all around.

‘‘Not at all, ma'am.’’

‘‘Brilliant. And what have the investigative spells you used shown you?’’

‘‘Uh… Well, of course, it’s always up to debate, and I’m certainly not the most knowledgeable person to interpret the results. I’m sure you and your partner will have a much more precise understanding of what-’’

‘‘I trust your judgement, Elias. Just tell me what you found.’’

‘‘Erm, what we found was that… Well, it’s complicated. The results were not completely conclusive.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘The artefacts posed no obstacles to our reading, but their origins and track record weren’t always clear. For example, the Black Quill was undoubtedly used with the sole purpose of instigating a forceful participation and/or drawing a forceful confession out of a human subject. So it was definitely applied as a torture device, if all my calculus is correct, at least in the past three months. The Bloodstained packs of cards, on the other hand-’’

‘‘Are they confirmed to be officially Bloodstained?’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am, I’ve found that-’’

‘‘You’ll have all your questions answered if you just wait and read the damn report yourself.’’ Malfoy suddenly snarls, getting in between the back-and-forth of Hermione and the senior analyst. He looks particularly aggravated, the lab results hanging limply at the right side of his body, almost falling from his lowered hand. He’s apparently forgotten all about the reading, having decided to just stare angrily at Hermione instead.

‘‘I don’t want to wait, Malfoy, and I don’t need to since I have dear Elias here who doesn’t mind looping me in as you take your sweet time.’’

Malfoy sneers. ‘‘For someone who’s always had a partner, you’re absolutely dreadful at teamwork. Which, to be honest, shouldn’t come as a surprise, since you were partnered with Potter, who’s the worst team-player I’ve ever seen with his recklessness and impati-’’

‘‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares about your opinion. Carry on with your reading, and stop bothering me.’’ Hermione twists in place, once more focusing on Wood. The man is the picture of awkwardness, eyes bouncing between Malfoy and Hermione as they bicker. He falters, not knowing what to do. Hermione helps him. ‘‘So, Elias. You were saying?’’

‘‘Erm…’’

‘‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake!’’ With one last huff, Malfoy picks up his wand and in a sharp flick reproduces a second file, a copy of the original report. He pushes it into Hermione’s palms. ‘‘There you have it, Granger. Happy?’’

She smiles, unfazed. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She turns back to Wood. ‘‘You were saying, Elias?’’

She doesn’t see Malfoy’s murderous face; she only hears the sound of his swirling footsteps and then the door of the workroom opening and slamming closed. Not reacting to her partner’s abrupt departure, she prompts the man in front of her with a cock of eyebrows.

Wood widens his eyes in consternation, certainly embarrassed with the petty behaviour her and her partner have just displayed, but finally replies to the question.

‘‘Uh, I- I’ve found that the packs of cards are indeed officially Bloodstained. The spell I used was Sanguis Residua Revelare, which, I’m sure you must know, it’s an incantation that reveals a chart of every blood-based dark magic wielded onto an specific object.’’ Despite his assumption, Hermione does not know the spell he’s talking about but she nods as if she does, encouraging him to go on. ‘‘It confirmed that the cards were curated in blood-based dark magic. Most likely done by one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.’’

‘‘But how? We destroyed all blood chalices after the last war. There was no blood-based dark artefact left from any of the pureblood families, the Ministry made sure of it.’’

‘‘Yes, I understand that, Auror Granger. And that’s why I went through the entire catalogue, and double checked the artefact’s origins.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘It is definitely Bloodstained. And I’m almost entirely sure that it was by one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But…’’ Wood hesitates, two short fingers coming up to rub at his chin in unease. ‘‘From what I could gather, the dark magic in the artefact is rather recent. It doesn’t seem reminiscent from the Second Wizarding War.’’

‘‘What? How’s that possible? Blood chalices are extinct. It’s impossible to curate new blood-based dark objects without them.’’

‘‘Or so we think, ma’am.’’ 

‘‘What do you mean by that, Elias? Are you saying blood chalices are still out there?’’

He shrugs. ‘‘Or that there are other ways to curate blood-based dark objects that we don’t know of.’’

Hermione’s guts twitch.

This is bad news. This is really bad news. Hermione is no expert in dark magic or blood-based curses, but she knows there are supposed to be rules to it, limits. She’s read her fair share of academic books versing about the Dark Arts, in her run with Harry and Ronald during Voldemort’s brief return in the last century but also afterward, whenever she had to prepare for a case or another. She’s a naturally suspicious person, and after what she’s been through, it’s no wonder she’s felt paranoid on occasion. Every time a strange case appeared, one that seemed a little more sinister than normal, Hermione would hurry to make sure it wasn’t blood-purity related. In doing that, she learned a great deal about the topic. Not so much as to make her a master in unravelling all the inner workings of the Dark Arts but enough for her to understand that such magic requires discipline. It requires meticulousness and carefully selected means. One cannot simply create a dark artefact from scratch, without the right tools and motivation. The designs are specific and so are the objects that allow it. Such as, for example, blood chalices to curate Bloodstained artefacts.

That there’s any sort of novelty to something that was supposed to be rigid, and archaic, is highly concerning. Flexibility and originality should never be associated with the Dark Arts.

She needs to understand more about this.

‘‘You said that the results were inconclusive, though?’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am. Erm, like I said, the packs of cards are Bloodstained, and the Black Quill was certainly used for dark magic purposes. This was all very clear from the start. And the standard protocol spells confirmed it easily. But, uh, again like I said, I wanted to make sure I got everything right, so I double checked the charts and the provenance of the artefacts, with more specific exploratory spells. And that’s when things became a little confusing.’’

‘‘How so?’’

‘‘Well, first, I realised that the Blood Staining process didn’t track back to the last centuries, as it should have. The Magical signature was much more recent, without a doubt from the last decade or so. Definitely the twenty-first century, which is already very bewildering. That discovery alone already put me on guard since it wasn’t supposed to be possible. And then, the next day, one of my junior analysts brought me another piece of evidence.’’ Wood waves his wand and a second file, a one-page-long parchment, flies from his bureau’s drawer. He frowns down at it, scanning the document as he keeps explaining it to Hermione. ‘‘One of our standard spells revealed a strange inscription in the packs of cards. It showed that not only was the Blood Staining process done in the last few years, it also greatly deviated from the orthodox ritual. See here?’’ He raises the file to Hermione’s eye level. ‘‘This here, you see this signature? It means that there has been an alteration to the object’s core, but that that has not necessarily been done through the conventional means, which should be curation via blood chalices.’’

Hermione reads the line of runes to which Wood points at the parchment. ‘‘How was it done, then?’’

‘’That’s the confusing part, ma’am. The diagnosis wasn’t clear. The results were inconclusive on that end.’’

She looks up at him with a furrow of brows. ‘‘Have you tried other investigative spells, in addition to the standard protocol ones?’’

‘‘We have, ma’am. We’ve casted the entire range of investigative and analytical spells allowed under the Department’s domain. For some reason, it was not possible to track the origins of the Bloodstained cards, only that they’re officially Bloodstained, but not through blood chalices, and that the process occurred somewhere in the last decade.’’ Wood shrugs, offering her an apologetic curl of lips. ‘‘We have no idea why we couldn’t read everything. There were no protective curses surrounding the artefacts, so we should have been able to conclude our testing. We just… didn’t. And I have no good explanation as to why.’’

It’s puzzling information, and Hermione realises she’ll need time to digest it. She’ll need a quiet moment to go over the whole report before she can truly decipher all its meanings.

And still, she asks, just for the heck of it. ‘‘Could you at least verify whether the artefacts are of blood-purity dark magic?’’

Wood shakes his head. ‘‘I’m sorry, Auror Granger. I cannot give you an answer to that, either.’’

She sighs but thanks him anyway. She leaves his workroom promising to write to him or schedule another meeting if she comes up with any more questions. She walks back to the Auror Headquarters carrying the two folders in each hand, the formal full report and Malfoy’s case file, plus the parchment containing the runes that Wood kindly allowed her to duplicate. When she arrives at her cubicle Hermione instantly catches sight of a moody Malfoy before her. His workstation has been moved to stand across from her own, to facilitate their partnership or whatever. She’s not entirely sure she’s satisfied with that particular development.

They face each other with sour expressions, in another one of their impasses that are becoming quite reoccurring.

Hermione breaks it with a scoff. ‘‘How very adult of you to storm out of Wood’s workroom in the middle of our appointment.’’

Her partner doesn’t bat an eye. ‘‘How very adult of you to carry a loud conversation when I’m trying to read the lab report.’’

She scoffs yet again. ‘‘What, you can’t focus if there’s noise around you? What are you, a theatre kid?’’

‘‘A what?’’

She ignores his confusion at her Muggle reference. ‘‘Malfoy, that’s how partnership works. Two people need to make the best out of their limited time and resources. While one reads, writes or, I don’t know, explores something, the other is doing something else, talking to people or leading another part of the investigation. You’ll have to get used to not having a perfect environment around you every single time. People are not gonna just wait around until you’re ready to carry on.’’

‘‘I know how investigative work looks like, Granger, thank you very much.’’ He zeroes an unimpressed glare at her. ‘‘That’s not what the issue is. The issue is that you were doing it on purpose. You got annoyed that you couldn’t be the first one to read the results, even though I am the officer-in-charge and therefore have the prerogative, so you decided to race me to it.’’

‘‘I did no such a thing.’’

‘‘Yes, you did. You were literally asking Wood to tell you exactly what was written in the report, when you could just read it yourself within five minutes. As a matter of fact, you said it yourself. You didn’t want to wait until I was done since you had someone who could feed you with the information in the meantime.’’

‘‘And what’s the problem with that?’’

Malfoy heaves a deep, exasperated inhale. ‘‘The problem is that you were the one to get me stuck in this bleeding partnership in the first place, and yet you don’t want to be a partner to me. You want to remain the officer-in-charge of every single case, like you were with Potter, instead of actually collaborating with me-’’

‘‘First of all, I was definitely not the one to ask to be assigned to you. Trust me on that, it was completely against my wishes.’’ His mouth purses at this, as if he didn’t know this information already. Hermione’s certain their boss told him about the whole situation. There’s no way he actually thinks Hermione asked for it. But just in case… ‘‘You know Emily set this up. I had no choice, and neither did you, to be fair. I’m not saying this is your fault.’’

‘‘So what are you saying?’’

‘‘I’m saying that both of us are regrettably stuck in this. Neither of us are happy with this partnership, I think that’s clear for everyone to see. But, unlike you, I was determined to make it work.’’

‘‘Ah, were you?’’

His derisive tone only serves to incense her. ‘‘Yes, I was, you absolute prat. I was in my best behaviour last week, and would have stayed so if you hadn’t literally attacked me out of nowhere-’’

‘‘Attacked you? Dramatic much, Granger?’’

She feels her skin once more beginning to prickle, as it’s becoming the new normal around him. Not wanting to take any chances, she brandishes her wand and silences the bubble around their two workstations, bracing herself for the disproportionate argument that’s bound to follow. ‘‘That’s what you did, Malfoy. The minute I started countering you, you went straight to personal insults, calling me a delusional poster child and that I only care about bureaucracy.’’ She’s not going to lie, it stung what he threw at her face. A little because she knows he’s not completely off the mark, but mostly because it took her all the way to their school days when he was mean and bullying, and she hated feeling again like she did around him back then. ‘‘You were the one who decided to antagonise me, and derail this partnership from the start, not the other way around.’’

His expression hardens progressively the longer they argue. ‘‘I only insulted you because you mentioned my ego. All I wanted was to do my job and work the case until you started interfering and belittling my decision process. How did you expect me to respond to that?’’

‘‘I didn’t belittle you. Jesus, how can you be so sensitive? I literally just gave my opinion as your partner, and as someone who should be consulted about the developments of the case before you go ahead and make use of an entire team of Hit Wizards to bulldoze your way through-’’

‘‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares about your opinion.’’

One thing she can attest about Malfoy is that his memory is impeccable. The way he uses things she said to him at some point or other as a timely comeback, word for word and without missing a single beat, is frankly impressive. And so very grating. One day his sarcasm is going to undo her.

She knows they’re acting childish. Their display in front of Wood was incredibly inappropriate. She knows better than to engage in petty bickering with coworkers, especially when they have an audience. After all, Hermione’s learned plenty with Mackenzie and her ability to play the politician with everyone around her. She believes one has to have grace and the tact skills to deal with inconveniences and difficult people. So far, Hermione has done well in this regard, at least in the Ministry. Her personal life has gone to shite in the last year, but her professional one is a source of pride. She’s regarded by the DMLE Heads and her peers as a balanced, qualified Auror who’s known by her unblemished reputation.

And yet, there’s just something about Malfoy that unsettles her, that makes her act less rational than what she would like.

Unfortunately, at the moment, there’s little she’s able to do about it other than dive head on in their nonsensical standoff. Perhaps her future self can be a little wiser. 

‘‘Nice, Malfoy. You’ve been proving yourself a very mature person.’’

‘‘Same back at you.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes but refrains from answering. She settles on her chair instead, placing the files she had brought from the Detection Office on top of her desk. She spreads them in front of her, one next to the other, and gets ready to return to the case, ignoring whatever contention still steams off from across her where Malfoy stands.

She doesn’t get far. Within seconds, he’s on to her again.

‘‘What’s this?’’ He asks, going around his desk to approach her cubicle.

‘‘What now?’’

‘‘This.’’ He stretches his arm in the direction of the one-page parchment Wood had supplied at the end of their appointment. In an automatic reaction, Hermione snatches it from his reach. He freezes, frowning down at her. ‘‘What’s that, Granger?’’

Hermione breathes in, relaxing her body, belatedly realising it makes no sense to keep information from him. ‘‘It’s another file regarding the case. Wood gave it to me after you left.’’

That naturally peeves him. ‘‘And you were going to hide it from me?’’

‘‘No, of course not. I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to take it away from you.’’ Making an immense effort to act like the professional that she is, she hands him the parchment. ‘‘Here, sorry. It was just a reflex.’’ Malfoy narrows his eyes at her; still, he accepts her offer, gaze dropping to read what the paper contains. Hermione forces herself to relay in a neutral voice what she had been told. ‘‘After you left, Wood told me how the results were inconclusive because the origins and track record of the artefacts weren’t completely clear in his reading. He said that the packs of cards are confirmed to be Bloodstained, likely by one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but that it wasn’t apparently done through blood chalices.’’

His gaze snaps back to hers. ‘‘What? How the hell not?’’

‘‘He couldn’t tell me.’’ She shrugs like Wood had done whilst feeding her the same information. ‘‘He said that the artefacts didn’t really offer any resistance to the testing, but that for some reason he couldn’t read everything. Only that the Blood Staining process happened somewhere in the last decade and that it took place through means other than blood chalices.’’

Malfoy looks as dumbfounded as she probably did at Wood’s workroom. He returns his attention to the parchment, to re-read the runes used in the incantation. Hermione waits patiently for the whole of four seconds before twirling around in her chair, giving her back to him. She eyes the two folders in front of her but decides for the lab report, first. She’s a few minutes into it when Malfoy speaks again.

‘‘Why exactly did you get a hold of this information and not me?’’

Hermione had been fully submerged in the calm headspace she reserves for working her cases but, at his loaded question, the aggravation surges back instantaneously. It’s like they had never stopped arguing.

‘‘Because, Malfoy, you stormed out within ten minutes of our appointment like a bratty child just because you didn’t like that I was doing my job and questioning the analyst who had all the answers to our case. What did you expect, that I’d run after you begging for you to come back and finish the meeting? Or that I’d refuse to proceed alone? Of course I carried on and got all the information I could out of-’’

‘‘I didn’t storm out like a child, I simply did not want to- You know what? I’m not getting into this with you again. What I mean is why didn’t Wood give us this file together with the formal report?’’

‘‘I don’t know, mate. You’ll have to ask him.’’

As a moment passes in silence after she says it, Hermione becomes firmly aware that Malfoy does not like to be called mate. His square jaw grinds, hard, and he looks at Hermione as if he’d love nothing more than to be alone with her in a dark alley where no one could witness him avadaing the shit out of her. 

It’s funny how two decades ago that same look would have made her a little queasy on the knees, actually concerned that he might give in to his intrusive thoughts one day and corner her in an empty Hogwarts corridor with his Slytherins lackeys. She had no hopes for herself back then. Presently, she’s confident that if he dares to try anything, she’d turn him into mush before he could even lift his wand. And yet, she knows he wouldn’t dare. They’re not teenagers anymore, despite what their current behaviour might suggest. They’re long out of school, and their blood statuses no longer matter. Only, apparently, their irreconcilably clashing personalities.

After glaring at her for what he must judge a sufficient amount of time, Malfoy swallows (his pride, most likely) and asks her. ‘‘What else did Wood tell you, or showed you, while I was not there?’’

‘‘I think that was it. He prefers not to infer too much from the results, he’d rather leave this task to us. But don’t worry,’’ Hermione tells him with the same saccharine leer he always angles her way. ‘‘Unlike some people, I am a very good partner, and I’ll write down everything I learned today and add it to the case file.’’

It’s so childish, but she can’t seem to hold her tongue. Malfoy just rolls his eyes. ‘‘Whatever you say, Granger. At least now we both know I was right all along.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

His smirk is partially hidden by him turning on his heels to go back to his workstation. ‘‘I said from the beginning there was blood-purity dark magic involved. Now we know for sure.’’

‘‘No, we don’t.’’ She shoots back and he immediately stops in his tracks. He cranes his neck toward her as she elaborates. ‘‘Wood did not confirm there was blood-purity dark magic involved. And I specifically asked him that, and he told me the results didn’t allow for that conclusion. So we don’t know if you were right or not. It’s too soon to tell.’’

‘‘You gotta be joking, Granger.’’ Malfoy swivels his body fully back to face her, expression once more growing inflamed. ‘‘Are you not paying attention to anything? You just fucking said that the cards are Bloodstained and that there’s some sort of blood-based dark magic going on. How can you be so stubborn and refuse to admit that-’’

‘‘I’m not refusing to admit anything. I’m being thorough. This was only the first step of our investigation. We still have a long way to go.’’

His scoff is incredulous. ‘‘I can’t believe this.’’

‘‘Well, you better. I’m a competent professional, and a scrupulous Auror. I don’t jump to conclusions. I take my time, I review all evidences and then make a decision according to them.’’

‘‘And you’re implying that I don’t?’’

She shrugs, glancing away from his flaring nostrils and sharp silver eyes. ‘‘You can interpret it as you wish. All I’m saying is that this case is a very complex one and I plan on doing my job, my meticulous job. I plan on working on it for as long as necessary and giving it my all regardless of the circumstances, as I always do.’’ And because she just can’t stop herself but needle him one last time, she adds. ‘‘You can go ahead and leave as soon as the clock chimes at five o’clock as you always do. You know where to find me if you ever need someone who actually gives a damn about the DMLE’s open cases.’’

With her eyes rooted on the folder in front of her, Hermione waits for the comeback. A long instant ticks by before Malfoy speaks, voice lowered but ice cold.

‘‘Yes, thank you for being such a dedicated employee, Granger. It’s clear that the Ministry appreciates it, seeing how you are everyone’s favourite. Unfortunately, I cannot afford spending the entire day and night at the office as I have an eight year old at home who needs his only parent around. I won’t apologise for not being a workaholic or feel guilty for not being able to put the same hours as you do, no matter how much you try to shame me for it.’’

Hermione’s shoulders had stiffened halfway through his speech. She is instantly sobered. ‘‘That’s not what I meant.’’

‘‘We both know that it was. Don’t backtrack now, Granger, it’s not a good look on you. I think this conversation is done. Send me the case file after you have it updated.’’

Without another word, Malfoy twirls on his feet and walks back to his cubicle, where he doesn’t look at her once for the rest of their shift.

That night Hermione takes a forty five minute long bath, soaking under the soapy water until the tips of her fingers become wrinkled and her skin is soft all over. She drags herself out when the cold starts seeping in, then casts a half-arsed drying spell on her hair and wraps a bathrobe around her tired body before sinking on the sofa and staring gloomily at the wall.

It has been nearly a year since her life changed forever. A year since Ronald moved out and she started spending her nights in complete solitude. She’s never been one to mind the silence of isolation. Books were her best company, was what she firmly believed then. As long as she had something to read, she wouldn't mind the lack of people around her. Now, she feels so lonely it aches in her bones. Especially after such a day, when her head swirls and swirls.

Hermione is a stubborn person. Self-righteous at times, obstinate always. A Gryffindor at heart, through and through. She’s proud of that, and has endeavoured to embrace those personality traits together with all the other qualities and flaws she knows she has. She’s long learned to accept who she is and to love herself unconditionally. Far are the school days and the insecure swot who felt self-conscious of her appearance or endured shit from people, especially close friends. And for the past twelve months since she burned every last bridge around her, she found herself having to depend each time more on this fortress to keep standing. The one thing that has carried her through the current storm of her life is her immoveable grit. 

At work, she’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s Hermione Granger, war heroine, Order of Merlin, first class, senior Auror, Golden Girl. Regardless of what takes place in her personal life, in the Ministry she’s admired and respected, her opinion always taking precedence. She’s revelled in it, and used it to help her stay steady on. However, after today, she feels no satisfaction in acknowledging her intractability. What she feels is guilt for having provoked Malfoy the way she did. She regrets having handled such a low blow on him, purely for the sake of persisting in their childish quarrelling. 

She knows Malfoy’s had a tough time in life. First, as a teen Death-Eater, coerced to join Voldemort’s inner circle and carry to term the most heinous tasks. Thrown in the middle of a war and then punished for the side he had to pick. Later, despite being fully acquitted in his trial, ostracised from the Wizarding society at large alongside the very limited remainder of his family. For years he’d been hindered from performing certain jobs and blacklisted from most relevant Magical events. Considered a traitor by the few conservative purebloods still standing and a bigot without chance of recovery by the rest, there were scarcely any establishments that still welcomed him open-heartedly. He’s had to carve his place in the world with a similar grit that Hermione prides herself of having.

But beyond that, away from the public eye, Hermione’s also aware of his personal tragedies. Married at twenty three to the only pureblood family who didn’t turn their nose to the Malfoy name, he’d at last found some solace in the arms of Astoria Greengrass. Hermione doesn’t know much about their relationship; all she knows are the occasional whispers in the streets, mainly from former Slytherins who still care a hang about those types of things. Yet, what she’s heard is that Astoria was a good woman, and that they were happy together. After welcoming a healthy son two years into their marriage, it had seemed like Malfoy’s fortune was finally about to change.

It didn’t. Astoria died four years ago, victim of an incurable blood curse, leaving behind her four year old boy and twenty nine year old widower. Ever since, Malfoy’s had to juggle the responsibilities of being a single father to a kid who lost his mother far too soon, a career that was just starting at the DMLE after Mackenzie gave him the opportunity to finally show his skills, and the never-ending shunning of his family by the Wizarding world, now also extending to his innocent child. Hermione doesn’t know his son, nor is she in contact with his mother or the Greengrasses that are still around, but she can recognise that it must have been hard. She reckons that of all the survivors, Malfoy has perhaps received the worst fate of those who have stood on the wrong side of History a decade and a half ago, because his penances never appear to be quite over.

She’s aware of all of that even though it’s not something she has a habit of remembering often. Despite Malfoy’s position as an Auror in the same department as her, they have seldom crossed paths before. They have never been partnered until recently, and their cases have always been rather distinct. The only moments they have shared at the office were the occasional interdepartmental meetings and sporadic Ministry social events. As such, she’s barely spared him a thought in the past several years. They have acted polite toward each other, but avoided interacting much. Time has passed, but the bad blood has never truly gone away. She can acknowledge it now.

Not unlike her, he hasn’t lost his signature personality traits nor his Slytherin disposition. He’s still sly, sarcastic and haughty. He doesn’t take shit from anyone, either, and that has earned him a reputation of being difficult to work with, one that Hermione herself never got, despite the fact that she can be absolutely overbearing at times. No one will dare to think ill of her whereas of Malfoy… Nobody needs a reason for that, they dislike him for free.

As does she.

They have history, of course. She doesn’t need to like him, or enjoy working with him, because nobody would ever blame her for not getting over the past, all the bullying and bigotry she suffered from him. It’s been fifteen years, but how could she forget? Especially when the minute they are forced to coexist he’s as ruthless as he’s always been. And she doesn’t make things easier either, she knows. Their personalities simply don’t go together, and she’s certain they never will. They’re polar opposites and neither of them wishes to give in, or renounce their own convictions. It’s an impasse alright, and she’s afraid nothing good will ever come of it.

And yet...

That doesn’t mean it’s okay for her to shame him for being a good parent when she knows his misfortunes in that area. Their school-reminiscent rivalry doesn’t excuse her of being insensitive toward his grim family situation. Just because she’s not used to taking his feelings, and tough past, into consideration in her dealings, that doesn’t justify her contempt for him in behaving in a way she disapproves of in an Auror. In fact, she should never judge colleagues for leaving the office when their shift ends just because she has no one to come home to and therefore pours all her energy into the only thing she still has: her job. It’s ridiculous to jump on such a high horse about it, especially regarding someone like Malfoy, a widower and basically an outcast. 

She should know better. She should act better. She should be better.

Hermione feels the guilt eating at her insides. She crumples on herself in the sofa, hugging her legs and wishing that the television staring back at her could give her some advice. She wishes she wasn’t always alone. She wishes that there was someone, anyone, next to her right now to tell her that it’s alright, and that she can fix this.

Because she will.

No more petty bickering. No more unnecessary needling. No more throwing things on each other’s face. It’s time she proved why, in spite of her demanding character, she’s still very much respected and admired in the DMLE. 

Which means, naturally, that she will have to apologise to Draco bleeding Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The dreaded day had arrived.

Hermione stares at herself in the round mirror of her flat’s foyer, hoping for some courage to appear out of thin air so she can just get on with it. She takes measured breaths: in and out, in and out, in and out -  checking every spot of skin she can see reflected back to her, searching for anything out of place. The clock on the wall moves slowly, and she lingers, waiting for the time to come, all the while she scans her face and doesn’t find anything terribly wrong.

When it’s five o’clock Hermione doesn’t stall, though the courage’s still missing. She wants to get this over with. She grabs a handful of floo powder from the shelf above her chimney and throws it in the fire, stepping in the next moment and calling out the address. 

She lands in the middle of the Potters’ residence.

She hasn’t been there in almost a year, and the living room looks a little out of sorts. It’s the same but more chaotic, more foreign to her. There’s colourful decoration all over, plenty of food in floating trays, and more people hanging around than what she had expected to find at the late hour, but at least Ronald and his new wife are not one of them. George, Angelina, Bill, Fleur, Percy, Audrey, Ginny and Harry are there. A few DMLE coworkers, too, and also a couple of Ginny’s former Holyhead Harpies teammates Hermione faintly recalls meeting years ago. 

They all twist their necks toward her when she steps out of the fireplace, which is then followed by several enthusiastic exclamations.

‘‘Hermione!’’

‘‘There she is!’’

‘‘I thought you weren’t coming anymore.’’ It’s George, the first to reach her and engulf her in a bear hug. ‘‘It’s so nice to see you, Mione. It’s been so long.’’

‘‘Hi.’’ She says, awkwardly, but there’s little time to feel overwhelmed by it. A procession of Weasleys and their significant others line up to crush her in between their arms, each one of them offering some type of affectionate remark. Hermione doesn’t know what to say so she doesn’t say anything, just silently returns their embrace.

The last one is Ginny, who beams at her, squeezing her forearms a tad too hard.

‘‘I’m so glad you’re here. James will be absolutely over the moon!’’

‘‘Er, where is he, by the way?’’

The boy’s the only reason for Hermione to force herself to visit their house again. It’s his ninth birthday, and she received a handwritten invitation about two weeks ago. She had immediately owled Ginny to give her excuses for not being able to participate, offering instead to take her son out another time in celebration. Ginny had owled back within the hour to tell her she had to come, that James had specifically asked his mum to make sure his godmother would attend. She then proceeded to convince Hermione to arrive at the end of the day when a certain couple would certainly have left already. Hermione hadn’t wanted to come, but she remembered her promise of not abandoning the kids, and how long it’d been since she saw them last. 

So she had gritted her teeth and stepped into the lion’s den, or what it felt like to be back among those who had made it a habit taking her for granted.

‘‘He’s in the yard with the rest of the kids. Come.’’

Ginny pulls her by the hand and holds it there, fast on hers, evidently trying to resume a past intimacy as if nothing had changed. It irks Hermione, but before she can set herself free she catches a glimpse of Harry in the corner of the room, nursing a beer and a scowl in her direction. She realises he was the only one not to come and greet her. She looks away.

The two women cross the high red-tiled arch to the backside of the house and enter the green patio. Children of varied ages twirl and skip around before them, a mess bigger than the one inside. In addition to Ginny’s three kids, there are Bill’s two daughters and son, Percy’s daughters, George’s daughter and son, and quite a few other other boys and girls Hermione doesn’t recognise, probably their coworkers’ or Ginny’s former teammates’ children. They scream at each other, energy too high to remain trapped inside their little bodies, and during the brief seconds Hermione watches at least three of them trip over themselves in their hurry to keep having fun. 

She smiles for the first time since she’s arrived.

Her smile grows when her sweet angels spot her.

‘‘Aunty Mione!’’ Albus is the one to see her but at his shout, James and Lily stop what they’re doing and come barreling toward her. The three of them hug her tightly, and that’s the only embrace that Hermione welcomes whole-heartedly today.

‘‘Hello, my sweethearts. Oh, look at you. Lily, you’re so big!’’

She really is, having grown at least three inches in the past year. She’s almost as tall as Albus, and by the way she puffs her chest forward, shoulders coming up to bring her to her full height, she knows that. Her half toothless grin finishes confirming it.

‘‘I’m big too.’’ James proclaims loudly, driving his siblings away with a well-aimed hip push so he can stand solely in front of Hermione.

‘‘You are. All of you are! You look even more handsome than the last time I saw you.’’

They agree with her, at once prompting themselves with the task of letting Hermione know in fine detail all about their growth spurt, and the things they have learned in the eight months they haven’t seen each other, and what they had to eat that day and the day before that. Hermione listens dutifully, albeit a little lost when they speak over one another, which happens pretty often. She doesn’t mind it; rather, she much prefers to stay outside with them than with anyone that’s inside. Ginny had lingered for the first few minutes before returning to the indoor kitchen to grab Hermione something to drink. She accepts it out of politeness, knowing the second she’s done with swallowing, she’s out of there.

‘‘Godmother, where’s my present?’’

She chuckles with James’ forwardness, shaking her head. ‘‘You’re incorrigible, James. How do you know I have a present for you?’’

He looks at her like she’s such a silly goose. ‘‘It’s my birthday. Presents are mandatory.’’

‘‘Are they now?’’ Hermione hums in faux-pensiveness, making her godson pout. She laughs, pinching his belly. ‘‘I’m kidding. Of course I’ve got you something. Here.’’ She searches within her magically enlarged purse, fetching the wrapped square box to give to him. ‘‘Happy birthday, my lovely.’’

James screeches in elation, gifting her cheeks with consecutive pecks as a thank you before he tears into his package. It’s an enchanted miniature figurine of Cassilda Lilliput, Chudley Cannon’s star seeker and the world’s current best Quidditch player. James’ shriek raises several octaves, bouncing up and down in sheer joy.

‘‘Thank you so much, Godmother!’’

‘‘You’re welcome, James.’’

Ten minutes later Hermione is back inside the living room. The adults of the family swarm her as soon as they see her entering, but she had prepared for it already. She smiles mechanically and placatingly, drifting steadily closer to the chimney as she makes small talk and avoids answering their multiple questions.

She doesn’t wait for an opening, otherwise she’d never escape.

‘‘Hermione, what are you-’’

‘‘I gotta go, Ginny. I just wanted to see the kids quickly and wish James a happy birthday.’’

‘‘Already? No, you should-’’

‘‘Thank you for having me. Take care, everyone.’’

She shamelessly turns her back to them, gathers the floo powder in one hand and travels to the safety of her empty, cold flat.

She cries for the rest of the night.

It’s dawned on Hermione that she can’t keep going on like this. Initially, she had been too under water to acknowledge how problematic it all was. Her righteous anger had kept afloat for that first year, steering her forward out of pure spite. Lately, though, she feels the outrage slowly starting to frost and bitterness taking its place, festering like a long-neglected wound.

She needs to move on.

She’s already erased everyone out of her life. She’s switched partners and shifted her routine to a nearly unrecognisable degree. There’s nothing left to do when it comes to changing gears. Her new life is set; she has to make it work now.

So far, she hasn’t. She barely sleeps and the crying fits have been happening more frequently than she’d be comfortable admitting. She’s not being more productive at work, certainly not now with Malfoy as her partner, nor is she feeling at all vindicated for having pushed everyone away. She’s just lonely. Void. Stranded. And that won’t do. She promised herself that she was going to begin again, and so she shall. 

After taking a few nights to brood heavily about it, nights where she drank her body weight in wine and woke up feeling as bad as any other regular day, Hermione comes to the conclusion that she needs to make new friends. She’s no island; she needs people in her life.

At work it’s practically impossible. She had entertained the possibility for a very short while, when she had just made up her mind about asking Mackenzie to dissolve her partnership with Harry, of being partnered with one of the recent hires, two younger, spirited female Aurors. Not having the best track record when it came to making easy friendships with other women, Hermione sort of hoped to have the chance to try it again now that she’s older and more understanding of her own sex. Unfortunately, her boss assigned Malfoy to her, and down the drain went her expectations. There’s no way she’ll ever be friends with the man, not by a long shot.

After their last quarrel, a couple of weeks ago, Hermione had arrived at the Auror Headquarters the following day determined to apologise to him. She had psyched herself up the entire night and morning. She’d even practised the right words so that she wouldn’t put her foot in her mouth and say something even more insulting. And it was all for naught. Malfoy had barely let her speak. When she acknowledged that her comment about him not working longer hours had been insensitive and that she regretted saying it, he had only stared coldly at her and told her to spare him the artificial platitudes since he had no interest in hearing any of it.

Needlessly to say, Hermione had nearly choked on her indignation and swiftly forgotten all about her attempts at smoothing their relationship over. She had instead huffed and turned around to her workstation. From that day on, their partnership has been a wonderful balance of glacial stare-offs and heated, snippy words. The whole office has been made aware of their antagonism and has thenceforth preferred to maintain their distance in order to not get caught in the crossfire.

So, yes, it does seem a little unlikely for Hermione to make new friends at work. 

Considering that she’s never out or doing any fun hobbies, her possibilities are depressingly limited. All she ever does is wake up late for work, rush through her morning routine, arrive tired and overwhelmed at the Ministry, bust her arse for twelve hours straight and then go back home to eat some insipid food she put together as she wallows in her misery. 

How did she even get here? It feels impossible to fathom that someone like her could end up like this. She honestly never saw it coming. But it doesn’t matter, either way. She has no time or energy to figure that one out just yet. What she needs is a change. She needs to get a fucking grip. And she needs to once more fight for herself. 

That’s why, on an uncharacteristically warm evening by the end of November, Hermione sits down in her home office and writes three letters.

The first one is addressed to Neville Longbottom. Once a close Gryffindor friend, she hasn’t talked to the bloke in several years. The last time they saw each other was probably right after Lily’s birth, over a half decade ago, when Harry and Ginny invited him and his Muggle girlfriend for the sip-and-see party. Ever since, Hermione has made no effort to reach out to him, and because they never attended the same circles, their friendship has been left out to die. 

Swallowing her bothersome ego, Hermione writes:

Dear Neville, 

It has been far too long since I’ve last heard from you. I know most of it must be my fault, and I can assure you I’m ashamed of it. Life has been (not-so)kind enough to show me all the mistakes I’ve made and I know one of them was never truly investing in our friendship. I wish now to correct this, if you’re so inclined. 

How have you been? What are you up to? Would you like by any chance to meet some day to catch up?

Hopefully still yours,

Hermione

The next is to Luna Lovegood. Despite Hermione’s old reservations regarding the girl and her peculiar personality, she has good memories of their time together in Hogwarts. They’d never been best friends but Luna has a good heart and a fierce spirit that led her to fight tooth and nail right next to them in the bloodiest of wars. Hermione appreciates it more than she can express, so she writes her some generic words instead.

Dear Luna,

How are you? I’ve found myself lately thinking about our school days and missing the simplicity of it all. It has been a long time, and I'm curious to know how life is treating you. And so I wondered if you’d like to meet some time to catch up.

Let me know how things are going for you!

Yours, 

Hermione

The last one gives her pause. She doesn’t have to write this letter in particular; hearing back from Neville and Luna would be more than enough to achieve her goal of resuming past friendships. But something pushes her ahead, perhaps the most genuine feeling she’s experienced since she sat down to do something she never thought she’d ever do.

She writes to Lavender Brown.

Lavender,

I’m aware this is long due, too long to be honest, but I suppose I’ve only just now got here. 

I owe you an apology for how I treated you in Hogwarts - our entire six years there but especially our last one together. I was judgemental of you, and acted like a jealous bitch when you never really deserved my spite. I’ve been coming to terms lately with my social limitations and how quick I am to criticise others, especially women. I’m going through what some would say it’s a life inventory. I’ve been reviewing all the ways things have gone wrong for me and trying to fix some of them. And so I found myself regretting most of our interactions in school, and lamenting the lost chance of making a sincere friendship. Consider this not only an apology, thus, but also me extending an olive branch. 

Please do write back if you ever wish to try again.

Hermione

Three letters, three old friends, three new attempts at friendship.

After everything is done, though, Hermione falters. The envelopes are sealed and addressed, her owl seated on the window sill waiting for her command, and yet she hesitates to make the move.

Although she’s meant most of what she wrote, Hermione feels like a farce. Like a manipulative opportunist, reaching out to people she’s ignored for years and offering excuses and apologies that are wholly too late to offer, only because she’s lonely. Only because she has no one else in her life. If Ronald had never left her, would she ever even think of resuming her relationship with any of them? She knows the answer is no. She barely remembered them, after all, or basically any other student she went to Hogwarts with, during her once normal life. She had never spared them a single thought when everything was going well; she hadn’t cared for or missed them in the least. And now that she has been discarded by the Weasleys and Potters, and has found herself alone in the world, she suddenly wants to get back in touch with them?

How despicable is that?

How can she have the face to write to them and expect them to readily accept her shallow words? How can she be so bold to offer these artificial platitudes, in Malfoy’s acid but accurate words, after so ridiculously long? 

The right thing to do would be not to send the letters at all. Or to rewrite them to only feature her apologies and nothing else, no proposals of finding a moment to meet again and resume their friendship. She can’t be that cunning. She’s not a Slytherin.

Or at least that’s what the Sorting Hat once thought.

She’s not so sure anymore.

Because she does eventually gesture to Alba and stripe the three parchments to her feet, murmuring the addresses while petting her owl’s feathers; so she does send the letters and afterward feel even more lonely, void and stranded.

The tea had been way too hot so Hermione put it down on her desk to let it cool. Then, naturally, she forgot about it as she dived into the paperwork in front of her and the beverage went completely old. Sighing, Hermione gets up from her chair. She doesn’t mind lukewarm drinks; she can always cast a warming spell in any case. But old tea is the worst thing in the world. No amount of magic can make it fresh again.

She walks to the staff kitchen, vanishing the cold beverage on her way. She summons a new tea bag when she gets there, at once setting the kettle to boil more water. While the herbs stir, she fetches a biscuit from the upper cupboard, taking a bite of it at the same time she turns on her heels and abruptly comes face to face with a dishevelled Malfoy. She startles at his sudden appearance, swallowing the crumbs in her mouth much too fast and earning herself an explosive coughing fit. She covers her lips with her free fist, slightly bending on her knees as the force of it makes her a little unbalanced. 

Malfoy side-eyes her as he moves past her into the kitchen. ‘‘Don’t die, Granger. You haven’t finished the Thestral report yet. I need it before Friday, so save your untimely death for afterward.’’

If she wasn’t still coughing for dear life she’d flip him off, but all she can do is try not to choke any further. When she’s finally recovered, she has to swipe two fingers under her eyes to clean the streak of tears that had marred her skin with all the wheezing she spent the last minute doing. She takes a long, deep breath to clear her airways, and decides to skip the rest of the biscuit, throwing it in the bin for safety. Bringing her now steaming hot mug to cradle against her chest, she faces Malfoy.

He looks like he’s just finished a gruesome Quidditch match. His usual neatly combed hair is pointing to all directions and his cloak is dirty and slightly torn in the hem. There’s also a faint burnt smell coming from him. 

‘‘What happened to you?’’ She asks because she can’t stifle her curiosity, even though she’d rather keep ignoring his presence like she’s wont to do. Well, she can resume that after he tells her whether or not he made it to catch the golden snitch.

He doesn’t turn to her at the question, busy with his own stirring. ‘‘Had a run in with an outlaw Veela. Things went south fast.’’

Hermione frowns. ‘‘An outlaw Veela? How did that happen?’’

Malfoy waves her off, clearly not feeling like expanding on the subject. ‘‘Nothing you need to worry about. It’s not a case.’’ Done with his tea, he saunters off to the door, entirely unbothered to leave Hermione behind in the middle of their chat.

She crosses her eyes, taking another deep breath, this time for patience, and follows him.

They walk back to their workstations and, by the time they get there, Malfoy’s gotten rid of his crumpled cloak and straightened his hair. They sit down across from each other and set to work without acknowledging one another, as per habit.

It’s just as well. Hermione has a lot to think about.

Discreetly removing the two parchments out of her pocket, she re-reads Neville’s and Lavender’s replies.

Dear Hermione,

It’s so nice to hear from you after so long! It’s actually funny to get your letter today because I was just thinking about you this past weekend, about the time we went to the Kew Gardens and couldn’t stop laughing inside the Temperate House, remember that? And now you go and reach out to me out of nowhere, what are the odds? Lovely! And meeting again sounds great! How about you join me on Friday at the Porcelain Pixie, down Brick Lane? We always hang out there after work, so if you want to stop by around nine we can definitely catch up then!

I’m excited to meet you again. I’ve certainly missed you.

Still yours, of course,

Neville

Dear Hermione,

Thank you for your letter. It was such a welcome surprise.

I appreciate your apology, but let me offer you one of my own: I’m sorry I’ve never tried harder to be your friend at school. I suppose we both never really dedicated our time to getting to know one another or made an effort to get along during the years we spent side by side. We were young and silly, I guess, so we let that chance slide. But, like you said, we can certainly try again. I’d absolutely love to meet you to catch up and give it another go. How brilliant it would be to reconnect! 

Let me know your schedule and when you can make some time to meet somewhere. I’m usually free on Tuesday evenings, Friday mornings and most weekends.

Lavender

Hermione doesn’t quite know what she was expecting but it certainly wasn’t that: the earnestness, and quickness, to which they have owled her in return. She scans the letters again, eyes drinking in the kind words on the paper, barely believing how ready both of them seem to be in accepting her apologies and jumping back into their friendship wagon. It’s unexpected but entirely welcome. The only thing is that it makes her realise she hasn’t heard from Luna.

It’s only been a week, but Hermione had hoped that the girl would be the one that felt least that her request to resume their friendship was a calculating, and selfish, move. Luna has always been a little airy, never too concerned with the implicit undertone of things, and much too nice to call anyone on it even if she did. Neville was as nice as her, but he wasn’t one to hold himself from standing up against those who wronged him. Lavender, Hermione has no idea what to think about. She doesn’t think she ever knew who the girl really was.

It’s a little disappointing that Luna hasn’t written back, and for some reason Hermione has a feeling that if she hasn’t yet, that she won’t anymore. She tries to push the negative thought down and focus on the ones that have returned her olive branch.

She’s glad that they did. She really is. It surely went much better than what she had anticipated. So she should be grateful. And giddy that she gets another chance with them, even if she’s not so certain she deserves it. However, as she blows lightly at her tea mug, eyes blurring in the edges as her mind gallops away, she feels something she hasn’t felt in many years.

Hermione’s nervous. She’s nervous to meet with them again. To show up at a random pub she doesn’t know and sit down with Neville and his pals (for that was the meaning she got from his letter, that he would be out and about with other people anyway, and she should just join them). To meet Lavender, someone she has never willingly spent more than ten minutes in cordial chat with before, at some café in London to talk about life. It’s silly, she’s aware, but Hermione feels a little like she did in her first year at Hogwarts, when she didn’t have any friends yet and she’d try and take a seat next to someone at the Gryffindor table who looked just friendly enough, hoping that they would strike up conversation and become instant mates. It never happened like that, of course; she actually had needed a deranged troll on the loose in the castle to get her to finally become friends with Harry and Ronald. 

As such, Hermione’s the first to admit she doesn’t know how to do casual. How to maintain occasional contact in unattached relationships; how to have impromptu meetings and act nonchalant about it. She doesn’t know how not to fully, drastically commit herself to something, whether it be her job, a boyfriend or her friends and family. She’s always been an all-or-nothing type of bird, and her assumption had been that at this stage of the game she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Her life was settled, she had thought not that long ago, and she had everyone she ever wanted around her. There was no point in getting herself out there to reevaluate, and perhaps change, the way she interacted with people.

But, naturally, there is one now. Amidst the entire chaos of her existence in the past several months, another thing that Hermione has been forced to face is how positively unfit she is to deal with people she’s not viscerally acquainted with. People that don't mean the entire world, and some more, to her. People that haven’t almost died by her side and that have been present in every single day of her life ever since.

Hermione has no clue, thus, how to casually meet someone for drinks and chat about what’s up with them.

She cringes at the imagery that this stream of consciousness brings her, taking a sip of her still too hot cup of tea just so she can have something to do with herself. Anxiety makes her stomach turn and growl embarrassingly. 

Urgh. She hates this. She hates feeling like that first-year again, insecure and worried about how those around her perceive her, fervently hoping that they won’t mind her heavy-handed character all too much. She was supposed to be past that already, to have come to terms with her qualities and flaws in equal measure, and not concern herself with how she comes off to people beyond her inner circle. 

The problem is: she doesn’t have an inner circle anymore. It’s just her now, making an effort to reconnect with someone, anyone, yet again.

So she does have to put herself out there once more, doesn’t she? She has no other choice but to face her anxieties and the very real possibility of being judged or misunderstood for her stubborn traits and not-so-attractive attributes. It’s mildly scary and nerve-wrecking, and Hermione spends the rest of her shift trying to convince herself that she can do this.

On Friday, Hermione's short walk from the Apparition point to the pub feels as challenging as getting ready for her N.E.W.T’s had been. She needs ten full minutes outside the bar to gather her bearings. She keeps checking her reflection in the glass windows of the establishment, patting down her curls for what it seems like the tenth time in a row. She wipes her sweaty hands on the back of her jeans, which she chose for the specific purpose of meeting Neville and his mates, and cracks her knuckles repeatedly. She takes fortifying breaths over and over again. 

It only hits her how ridiculous she’s acting when she glances inside the pub and sees how relaxed everyone else looks. She shakes her head, at her behaviour and the whole situation, and pushes herself before she can second-guess this.

The place is packed, every single table occupied with all sorts of patrons. Hermione lets the door swing close behind her while she gets used to the new ambiance. It’s a little dark in there, and the somewhat loud music distracts her other senses. She blinks, searching around for Neville. Unaware, she starts walking, moving slowly inside the venue, inhaling the mix of alcohol and cheap fried food smell hanging in the air. She’s reaching the middle of the salon when someone stands up in her peripheral vision and she turns her neck to find that it’s Neville, waving at her from a couple of feet away.

Her smile is instantaneous, as is the warm feeling blossoming within her. She hasn’t seen him in so long and yet he looks exactly the same: tall and wide, a little clumsy but wholly sweet. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her when he gets close enough.

‘‘Hermione! I’m so glad you made it.’’

She hadn’t replied to tell him she was coming. She half suspected that her nerves would get the best of her at some point and she’d baulk, inventing an excuse not to make an appearance. She’d thought, thus, that it would be better not to say anything to not disappoint the lad. And if she did come, at least he’d be pleasantly surprised and not annoyed in case she cancelled on him last minute.

Still, she should have told him. So she apologises. ‘‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure I would make it until half an hour ago.’’ Which is not entirely untruthful. She only pumped herself with courage after she’d been home for an entire hour flirting with the idea and trying to convince herself to just take a goddamn shower and put on some nice outdoor clothes. She’s glad she did it, though. She tightens her hug, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘‘It’s lovely to see you again, Neville.’’

They separate and grin at each other.

‘‘Likewise. This is really great. Come on.’’ He gestures to her to follow. ‘‘Let’s greet the rest.’’

Hermione smiles and does what he says, walking behind him. She looks away, swiping some loose strands out of her face in a familiar motion, and when she looks ahead of her again she suddenly stops dead in her tracks.

At the table in front of them, the one toward which Neville’s heading, sit Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes clash with Malfoy’s and the shock of it sends her twirling around with the speed of a runaway truck. She snatches Neville’s forearm and pulls him to her.

‘‘What is Draco Malfoy doing here?’’ She all but hisses.

Her friend blinks, caught off-guard with her abrupt change of mood. ‘‘Erm, Pansy invited him.’’

‘‘Pansy Parkinson? Neville, what the fuck is Pansy Parkinson doing here?’’

Neville’s face widens in confusion. ‘‘Why wouldn’t she be here? She’s my fiancé.’’

‘‘She’s what?’’

 Hermione’s reeling. What the actual fuck?

‘‘You didn’t know that?’’ Neville asks, and then chuckles. ‘‘I’m guessing you didn’t, seeing by the look on your face. Hermione, it’s like I told you I’m running off to marry one of Charlie Weasley’s dragons.’’

Well, he might as well; the result sounds quite about the same.

Hermione clears her throat, reluctantly letting his arm go. ‘‘Neville, I had no idea. I didn’t even know you were dating, let alone engaged.’’ She shakes her head, trying to reorientate herself. ‘‘How did this happen?’’

How did sweet, kind, Gryffindor Neville end up with haughty, mean, Slytherin Pansy Parkinson? It seems absolutely unthinkable to Hermione. 

The bloke shrugs as if it had been the most natural occurrence in the world. ‘‘We just bumped into each other at a party around four years ago. We got to talking and, by the end of the night, I asked her out on a date. She accepted and the rest is history. I proposed in the summer.’’

‘‘Wow.’’ It’s all Hermione can muster to say. She doesn’t think she’s ever been more surprised about a development in her life, and her job is to solve crimes for the Ministry of Magic. No mystery murder has ever astonished Hermione to this degree. She’s quite literally rendered speechless.

Neville picks up at her hesitation. ‘‘She’s very different from what she used to be at school. Just like Draco. You must know that, you guys are partners now, right?’’

He says it with a big grin, tone chipper, and Hermione grimaces.

‘‘I don’t know about that. To me, Malfoy is exactly as he’s always been. Minus, you know, the blood-purity ideals. But he still treats me the same way he did at Hogwarts. Nothing’s really changed between us, to be quite frank.’’

Neville’s grin dims. ‘‘Oh. Is that really? How strange, I find him to be a real nice chap. He’s Pansy’s best friend, you know, so we hang out rather often. And he’s always cool to me.’’ He falters, expression growing serious. ‘‘I thought you two got along. Being partners now and all. That’s why I invited you tonight, I didn’t think you would mind him also being here. Sorry, Mione.’’

Hermione’s heartstrings pull for the sweet lad.

‘‘Of course not, Neville, no need to apologise. This is totally fine. I don’t mind at all.’’

Bullshit. She minds it plenty. The last thing she wants to do in her free time is have to endure Draco bloody Malfoy and his insufferable attitude. Her goal for tonight was to catch up with an old friend to whom she hasn’t talked in years, in a valiant attempt to reinvent herself. She can’t do that if the worst partner in the history of the DMLE is sitting right across from her. But she doesn’t want to upset Neville, either, so she rallies a brave face and spins around to finish her walk to the table where the two Slytherins patiently wait.

Malfoy’s white-blonde eyebrows arch as soon as she reaches them. ‘‘Finally. I thought you were going to spend the rest of the evening on your feet badgering Longbottom.’’

Breathe in, breathe out. Do not react, Hermione.

She gives him a robotic smile. ‘‘Malfoy. How wonderful to see you outside work.’’ He smirks, clearly amused by her tone, and she can’t stand looking at his stupid face one second longer. She turns to the woman by his side. ‘‘Parkinson.’’

Similar to Neville, Slytherin’s ice princess looks exactly the same as she did in Hogwarts: fair-skinned, slim, with doe black eyes and a short waveless bob. She’s as pretty as she’s ever been, and Hermione can easily imagine how Neville might have struggled with a sudden surge of attraction in a run-in with her at a party. But how the hell they made it four years together eludes her. She supposes she should wait to see what comes out of the girl’s mouth before she makes up her mind.

Hermione is trying to be less judgemental of women, isn’t she?

Parkinson smiles, only a little, before she speaks. ‘‘Granger. Nice of you to join us.’’ Her voice is deliberate and her speech well-articulate. She sits straight in her chair, shoulders aligned, her slender arms folded graciously on her lap. A perfect pureblooded lady.

Hermione’s diametral opposite.

She tries to mimic her politeness, though. ‘‘Thanks for inviting me.’’

‘‘That was Neville.’’

Ah, well. At least she’s honest.

God, this looks like it’s going to go great. Hermione can already picture the delightful night she has ahead of her. She still takes a seat at the table, Neville in the chair to her left.

‘‘So, tell me everything, Hermione. How you’ve been? I was so happy to get your letter, wasn’t I, Pans?’’

‘‘He was.’’

Hermione grins at her friend. ‘‘I’m glad. Sorry it took me so long to reach out to you.’’

‘‘Nah, that doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you’re here. But, tell me, how’s everything?’’

She’s sure he’s not trying to stir up some drama. Or rip a confession out of her regarding Ronald and all the shit that went down between them. Neville’s not the type. He probably doesn’t read the gossip column of the papers at all and therefore might not even know that she has been spectacularly dumped by her boyfriend of fourteen years. She’s sure his question is completely innocent.

Still, she can’t help but feel like a knife’s been twisted in her insides. That’s only made worse by the heavy feeling of Malfoy’s eyes on her.

She looks down. ‘‘Erm, everything’s fine. You know, busy at work.’’ She clears her throat and forces herself to meet her friend’s gaze. ‘‘How about you? Are you still working at Dogweed and Deathcap?’’

‘‘I am. I’ve been promoted to manager, last year actually.’’

‘‘Oh, that’s brilliant! Congratulations, Neville.’’

‘‘Thanks. I was really chuffed about it, actually. The salary bump came at a perfect timing, didn’t it?’’ Neville glances at Parkinson at that, surely meaning that the extra money was welcomed by the engaged couple in planning for their nuptials.

Parkinson nods with a suave smile, returning Neville’s gaze, and Hermione takes the cue. ‘‘Ah, congratulations for the engagement, by the way. How are the wedding preparations coming along?’’

‘‘They’re fine. Mother is taking care of most of it, as tradition dictates.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Hermione has no idea what to say to that. She wrecks her brain for something to add, but she comes up empty. She settles with a damn artificial platitude. ‘‘That’s nice.’’

Silence follows, and Hermione internally cringes with the awkwardness of it. She doesn’t know where to look and what to do, so she’s all too relieved when Malfoy stands up all of the sudden.

‘‘I’m getting the next round. Pansy, another firewhisky?’’ The woman nods, and he looks at Neville next. ‘‘Gillywater?’’ The bloke also confirms it and so Malfoy sidesteps their table, to go in the direction of the bar. Before that, he pauses briefly by Hermione’s side. ‘‘Granger?’’

It takes her a little off-guard, though it shouldn't. Of course he wouldn’t exclude her from the round of drinks. As any other pureblood, or mildly decent person in general, he has excellent table manners.

‘‘Erm, just some beer's fine. Thank you.’’

He leaves, and Hermione turns back to Neville. He smiles, opening his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by his fiancé. 

‘‘I’ll let you two catch up. I need to visit the loo, anyway.’’

It’s a balm. Hermione immediately feels more relaxed without the presence of the two Slytherins.

‘‘You okay, Mione?’’

‘‘Yes. Sure. I just… This looks awfully like a double date, doesn’t it? Just the four of us, you and your fiancé, and then me and Malfoy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being weird about hanging out with him outside work. It was definitely not what I expected for tonight.’’

‘‘Yeah, sorry again about that. I had no idea you guys didn’t have a good relationship.’’

Perhaps it’s Hermione and her deep-rooted, unmoving perception of things, but she finds it almost laughable that anyone would say something like this to her; that it’s anywhere near a surprise that muggleborn Hermione Granger doesn’t get along with pureblood, former Death-Eater Draco Malfoy. She really does not hold his past against him, and the choices he was forced to make when he was only sixteen, but still… Have people completely forgotten who they are and what they have been through in life? How can Neville find it strange that they don’t get along, regardless of the amount of years that have passed? Has his improbable relationship with the former queen of snakes softened him to the point where he can’t fathom certain things being unable to be brushed aside?

Or is Hermione the odd one out here?

She shrugs, not wishing to go into the matter at the moment. ‘‘Like I said, it’s fine, Neville. No problem at all.’’

He doesn’t appear to quite believe her but soldiers on nevertheless. ‘‘Yeah, well. At least you won’t need to worry about this looking like a date for much longer. The lads are coming, any time now I suppose, so it won’t be just the four of us anymore.’’

‘‘The lads?’’

Oh, please, let it be that he means the Gryffindor lads. Hermione would love to see Dean again, or even Seamus-

‘‘Blaise and Theo.’’

Oh-oh. ‘‘As in Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott?’’

‘‘Yes! And Blaise is bringing Susan with him, so it won’t be just boys either.’’

‘‘Susan?’’

‘‘Bones.’’

Hermione needs to ask. ‘‘And he’ll be bringing her because…’’

‘‘Well, because they’re married, of course.’’

Yeah, that does it. 

Hermione has officially lost the plot. 

What the fuck is going on in here? Has she stepped into an alternate reality where these people actually like each other and spend time around one another as if House rivalry and their complicated, dark past have never meant a damn thing? How did they even get together in the first place? Neville and Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Susan Bones? 

How? When? Why?

Hermione has so many questions, brain dashing in five different directions trying to make sense of what Neville is telling her, that she just stays silent. She doesn’t know where to begin. Most of all, she doesn’t know if this is another case of her being absolutely clueless and trapped blindly inside her isolated little world where nobody that’s not invited can get in. It has happened before: because she’s an all-or-nothing type of person, Hermione usually hyper-focuses on the things that matter to her and completely disregards the ones that don’t. Consequently, it has already occurred that she failed to notice something happening, or simply ignored its existence, because she didn’t care enough to pay attention to it. Saturated in her life among the Potters and Weasleys, Hermione hardly interacted with anyone outside that specific circle of people, with the exception of her coworkers and Ministry bosses, and even so very superficially. She also never paid any mind to rumours about who was dating who, who hated who, who worked with whom.

Perhaps it’s because of that that she hadn’t had the first clue that a Slytherin had married a Hufflepuff, and that her fellow Gryffindor, dear old Neville, was engaged to the meanest girl Hermione could remember from back in the day. And more importantly, that they all hung out together, meeting regularly at pubs for Friday drinks. Has Hermione really missed the momentum in which the Wizarding society had put aside the bad blood and years of built-in resentment for the sake of inter-house camaraderie? When did it happen, and how come she failed so badly to take note of it?

It’s truly staggering, and Hermione feels once more like she’s been left behind in the process. And this time surely by fault of her own.

‘‘Oh, there they are. Theo, Blaise, over here!’’

She had been so lost inside the turmoil of her head that she didn’t see both Parkinson and Malfoy returning from where they had gone, and the newcomers arriving. She raises her head just in time to watch the two Slytherin men and Susan Bones reaching their table.

They greet Neville and their former housemates with warm hugs and Hermione can only stare, in an absolute daze. 

‘‘As I live and breathe. Is that Hermione Granger?’’ She’s shaken out of her reverie by a loud, entertained-sounding voice, and catches Blaise Zabini looking her up and down as if she’s the oddball there. Which, to be fair, she probably is.

‘‘The one and only.’’ It’s Malfoy who replies, and when Hermione glances at him she sees that his unbearable smirk is taking over his entire face. He seems to be rather enjoying her state of bewilderment and that’s enough to ground her to Earth again.

She shakes her head, standing up and extending her right hand in politeness. ‘‘Hullo there. Zabini, Nott.’’ Finishing at the Hufflepuff, a small grin gets thrown in the mix. ‘‘Hi, Susan. Nice to see you again.’’

‘‘Hermione, it’s amazing to see you!’’ The girl says, plunging ahead and wrapping her arms around Hermione in an unexpected hug. ‘‘I had no idea you were joining us tonight.’’

‘‘Neither did I, to be completely honest.’’ Hermione replies, reciprocating the embrace for a beat before taking a step back.

‘‘Well, now that you indeed have, care to have a seat and indulge us for a while longer?’’ Zabini interjects, smoothly. He pulls the chair Hermione had abandoned and holds it out for her, a dazzling smile directed at her. 

She inclines her head in thanks and takes the offered seat. After she makes herself comfortable, flanked on each side by Neville and Susan, she finally looks up to find the four Slytherins staring at her from across the table, eyes sharp like hawks. 

Hermione gulps. 

Oh, lord. What has she gotten herself into?

Chapter Text

Hermione takes a sip of her beer, self-conscious of her every move.

Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott sit directly across from her at the pub table, which gives them a perfect view of her tense, quiet self. She doesn’t know what to say to break the ice, but it turns out she doesn’t need to.

‘‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of having the great Hermione Granger joining us mere mortals tonight?’’ Zabini asks with what Hermione is beginning to think is a signature dazzling smile. 

She doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic or not, so she chooses not to worry about it lest she becomes even more uneasy. She shrugs, motioning to her former housemate to her left side. ‘‘Neville invited me, and I wanted to catch up with him so I came.’’

‘‘Mhm, lucky us, then, I guess.’’

Hermione narrows her eyes, still undecided as to whether he’s messing with her. Neville speaks before she can make up her mind.

‘‘And you’re very welcome. I wish I had invited you sooner.’’

Her serious expression breaks and softens. She’s about to say something nice to him in return when Parkinson cuts in. ‘‘I, too, wonder why we haven’t had you around, you know, sooner.’’

This time Hermione doesn’t need to search for hidden meanings; it’s a pretty obvious jab from the woman, and she feels her hackles rise in response.

‘‘Now, now, Pansy. We should just be glad that she’s finally here, shouldn’t we?’’ Zabini volleys back, his smile spreading until it makes his dark eyes crinkle in the corners. ‘‘But pray tell, Hermione. How have you been?’’

Another double entendre if she ever saw one. She swallows and tries her hardest to remain civil.

‘‘I’m good, thank you for asking. How about you?’’

‘‘I’m awesome. A Friday night with my best friends and my darling?’’ He winks to Hermione’s right, where Susan sits. ‘‘Couldn’t get any better. Right, Draco?’’

Malfoy hums a faintly positive-sounding noise, taking a swig of his own beer. It hasn’t escaped Hermione’s notice that they have the same taste for drinks.

Zabini is not discouraged by that. Rather, he seems to become more emboldened with their small talk. ‘‘I for one think it’s great that we get to hang out together as a group like this. Especially now that Draco and Hermione are partners at the DMLE. How is that goin’, by the way?’’ His eyes bounce freely from Hermione to Malfoy. ‘‘Has it been as easy and smooth as I picture it?’’

By the dirty look Malfoy throws at him, Hermione knows that the wizard is very much aware that things have not been easy and smooth between them but is trying nonetheless to coax them into saying something to that matter. She doesn’t know why, but that piece of knowledge relaxes her a little. Perhaps it’s because she realises he’s not poking fun at her; he’s just generally on a quest to cause mayhem.

She snorts in response. ‘‘Definitely. Haven’t you heard? We’re besties already.’’

Zabini lets out a deep laugh at this, seemingly delighted to see Hermione playing ball with him.

‘‘I thought so. Honestly, what a genius move to put you two working together. I have indeed heard that your boss is a very clever woman.’’

‘‘You can stop talking now.’’ Malfoy tells him coldly, bringing his glass up for another sip. Hermione mirrors him for a loss of what else to do.

‘‘I’m good, thanks.’’ His mate replies, and refocuses his attention on her. ‘‘Now tell me, Hermione, I’m curious. What does your former partner think of this new partnership? Is he as– mhm, what word should I use? Erm… Ah, got it. Is he as open to it as you seem to be?’’

Hermione’s stomach sinks together with her mood. 

She averts her eyes, grounding it on the pint between her palms. ‘‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’’

‘‘Blaise, enough.’’

That makes Hermione’s gaze flick back up, in the direction of Malfoy’s voice. He glares at his friend, who, in return, doesn’t seem fazed at all.

‘‘What? It’s a genuine question. I was just wondering whether-’’

‘‘Come on, Blaise. Stop that.’’ This time it’s Nott, speaking for the first time since he’s arrived. His tone is low compared to the rest of the table; a little gentler, too. Hermione absently recalls him as a very shy boy in Hogwarts. It doesn’t seem like he’s changed that much either. ‘‘Why don’t you go get us something to drink, yeah?’’

Zabini ignores his friend yet again. ‘‘I don’t see what’s wrong with what I’m asking. I’m just curious about the reason behind the golden trio- pardon, I meant the golden duo.’’ He smirks at Hermione, making her spirit dip an inch further. ‘‘About the reason behind Potter and Hermione’s partnership to have ended so suddenly. To Draco’s good fortune, surely, but still. Don’t you guys find it a little curious, too?’’

A brief silence follows his words, broken by a confused Neville.

‘‘Does there need to be a reason for a partnership to end? Isn’t your boss the one who decides it?’’

Bless his soul; he truly has no clue.

Zabini does, though.

‘‘I don’t know. Was it your boss’ decision, Hermione?’’

Feeling her insides wringing anxiously as she’s put in the spot, Hermione once more gulps. And pounders.

Her natural response would be to send Zabini and his double entendres straight to hell, which would certainly make the awkwardness at the table reach astronomical heights. She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want to get up and leave, either. She’s already here. She wants to spend time with Neville, and now that she’s seen her again, with Susan too. 

More than that, however, Hermione feels like this is what she deserves; what she owes them. And perhaps it’s finally the moment for her to pay the price for the opportunistic move that got her here.

So she lifts her chin and holds Zabini’s gaze unwaveringly. ‘‘It wasn’t her decision, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I was the one to ask to be assigned another partner and Malfoy was the only one available. But that’s not what you’re really getting at, is it? Or you.’’ She snaps her eyes in Parkinson’s direction for a beat before settling them back on Zabini. ‘‘What you really want to know is if what you’ve read in the papers is really true. So I will tell you because I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, it is true. Ronald dumped me after fourteen years together to marry a girl a decade younger than us, who, by the way, was already pregnant with his son not six months after we’d split up. And, yes,’’ she turns again to Parkinson, sharpening her voice. ‘‘I only did write to Neville this past week because I am in need of new friends, since everyone I know sided with Ronald and left me hanging. And Neville was the first person I thought of when deciding to start over because I’ve always had a lot of affection for him. That’s why I am here tonight, since you’re all so curious. That’s the real reason. Which I hope it’s alright.’’

The last part she directs at her Gryffindor friend, offering him an apologetic look and hoping from the bottom of her heart that it is.

The bloke doesn’t hesitate. ‘‘Of course it is. You don’t even need to ask. You’re always my friend, Mione. That will never change.’’ He envelops her hand with his much bigger one, squeezing it tightly. His green eyes become clouded with sympathy. ‘‘I’m so sorry that this has happened to you. That he- they did that. It’s so awful, I could have never expected it from them.’’

Her chest tightens, not at all ready for this sort of conversation, but still she manages a weak smile. ‘‘Thank you, Neville. It means a lot to hear you say that.’’ Twisting back toward the snakes in front of her, she zeroes on the one in the middle. ‘‘If you are so kind to allow it, Zabini, I’d like to change topics now.’’ 

His grin is the widest he’s given her so far.

‘‘Absolutely.’’ He gets to his feet in a swift motion, rubbing his palms on one another excitedly. ‘‘Who wants to drink what? This round is on me.’’

His three Slytherin mates roll their eyes at him, certainly used to his shenanigans by now. But they do start rattling their orders, which works to shift the charged atmosphere that had taken over their table in the last minutes. Hermione practically sags on her chair in relief, attempting to calm her racing heart.

‘‘Sorry 'bout him.’’ A voice to her right slices through her breathing regulation endeavour. Susan smiles sheepishly at her. ‘‘He doesn’t mean any ill-will, he just can be a little too insistent at times. And somewhat sardonic.’’

She looks like she’s had her fair share of difficult interactions with her husband. 

‘‘How did you two meet?’’ Hermione asks, wondering not for the first time tonight how such a sweet, considerate person could have ended up with that type.

‘‘At school. Don’t you remember he went to Hogwarts with us?’’

‘‘No, Susan. I know.’’ Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘I meant how did you meet meet. Like, to really get together. After Hogwarts.’’

‘‘Oh, we were already together at Hogwarts.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Yeah, we started dating in fifth year. We were on and off for a few years, then the war came of course, and we only got back together after he returned from his studies abroad. But that was almost, like, ten years ago. Come June, we’ll celebrate eight years married.’’

Yep. Hermione is officially a clueless, blind bird. 

Susan and Zabini dated in school? In the middle of the chaos that their fifth and following years were? Hermione would have never guessed. She could never have imagined such a pair. But here they are, seemingly opposites in everything but also apparently happy in their improbable marriage.

‘‘Wow. I had no idea, Susan.’’ Hermione tells her, going for a voice that doesn’t betray her absolute perplexity. A thought suddenly assaults her. ‘‘Do you have any kids?’’

The woman hums in the negative. ‘‘No, we don’t want children.’’

‘‘Oh, okay.’’ Hermione looks around, noticing how the table has split into smaller circles that chat more quietly with each other: Malfoy appears to be in deep conversation with Nott while Neville and Parkinson laugh together at something. She turns back to Susan. ‘‘And how long have you guys been a group? Like, I had no clue that you hung out with one another regularly. It never occurred to me coming in tonight that I’d meet you all like this.’’ 

Susan chuckles. ‘‘I can only imagine. No wonder you looked so lost when we first came in. But I don’t know, erm, it’s been happening for many years already? I mean, since I got permanently back with Blaise I’ve always participated in their get-togethers, naturally, and since Neville and Pansy started dating, so did he. Sometimes Greg comes along, too, with his wife and-’’

‘‘Who’s Greg?’’

‘‘Gregory Goyle. You know him, he also went to school with us.’’

Jesus. Hermione had forgotten he existed. She nods, pretending to find this ton of information all very normal and unsurprising.

The former Hufflepuff goes on. ‘‘Friday is always our day. During the week we all have our jobs and responsibilities, obviously, and on the weekend we’re usually busy with something else. Also, Friday night is the only night Draco’s found someone to watch Scorpius so he can go out. And for many years that’s been our thing; we always meet here for drinks come rain or shine.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’

If she gets past her bafflement, and old grudges, Hermione can begin to acknowledge how nice this sounds. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins getting together every week, putting aside their history and just enjoying their new shared reality, able to forgive and forget. Honestly, it seems like something of which Hermione is in desperate need, too.

Zabini returns, several cocktail glasses trailing in the air behind him. He distributes them accordingly, and takes his seat again in front of Hermione. This time, though, he doesn’t focus on her. He peers around, his wide grin making another appearance as he takes everyone in.

‘‘So, what’s up, everybody? Tell me everything.’’

A thick folder suddenly landing on her desk, to the left, has Hermione jolting in place. She looks up to catch sight of Malfoy’s retreating back as he walks on in the direction of his workstation after having dropped the mentioned file. 

He talks without looking behind him. ‘‘The update after last night.’’

Hermione glances down. Opening the folder, she flips through the pages until she gets to the final one; there, an extra sheet has been attached to it, containing the information concerning Malfoy’s raid of the previous day.

Another pointless raid, if anyone asked her, though the paper in front of her seems to suggest otherwise.

She scoffs when she reads the third paragraph. ‘‘Evidence has been collected that strongly points to blood-purity dark magic?’’ She eyes her partner snidely from across her, now sat in his own chair. ‘‘You found burnt scraps of an old religious Sanskrit parchment, Malfoy. How on Earth does that classify as strongly pointing to blood-purity dark magic?’’

His expression remains unaffected as he replies. ‘‘The Detection Office is still piecing the shreds together, but it’s already blatant that the parchment has been used for dark magic. The Dark Arts signature was clear from the start-’’

‘‘Honestly, I’m beginning to think you must be partially deaf.’’ Hermione rolls her eyes. ‘‘No one’s countering the fact that the Dark Arts might be involved. My reservation is concerning blood-purity dark magic. Can you grasp the difference or am I speaking too fast for you?’’

This time his face flinches in annoyance. Hermione doesn’t know why she relishes in it like a small victory. ‘‘Trust me, Granger, any type of speech coming from you is always too much in any direction.’’ Hermione’s brief satisfaction instantly sizzles, though she should have expected it. Malfoy’s been proving himself to be a debate opponent very much on Hermione’s level, more than anyone with whom she ever engaged in bouts of arguments. No one has ever rebutted her with such wit and sharpness before, even when those are used for the sake of his flawed reasonings. He still keeps her on her toes at all times. ‘‘And replying to your original question, before you descended into unprofessional sarcasm, despite not being one hundred percent clear whether-’’

‘‘Ha, the king of sarcasm telling me that my sarcastic comment is unprofessional!’’

‘‘-whether the object was surrounded by blood-purity dark magic, it can be inferred from the circumstances that-’’

‘‘Inferred? Are you out of your mind? It’s not our job to infer. What we do at the DMLE, in case you haven’t heard, is to do thorough investigation over factual- ’’

‘‘And as I was saying, the Detection Office is busy doing their job of diagnosing the nature of the seized artefacts, whereas we, Aurors, must continue our investigation into the other relevant aspects of the case, such as the circumstances of the offence, alibis, criminal interconnectedness-’’

‘‘We, Aurors, can look into whatever we want, as long as we don’t jump to conclusions-’’

‘‘Working theories for unsolved cases is not jumping to conclusions, Granger. It’s part of the process. I’m sure it must be hard for you to step outside your comfort zone and ever dare to use your large brain for anything other than black-and-white, bureaucratic prot-’’

‘‘I swear to God, if you tell me I only care about bureaucracy one more time I’m gonna lose it!’’

She hadn’t acknowledged it before but all of a sudden Hermione realises she’s standing; and so is Malfoy. They face each other off from only a few inches of distance, having apparently gotten to their feet at some point during the argument and drifted closer without even noticing it, bodies taut like an arrow ready to shoot at one another. With a quick glance around, she sees that the entire office is staring at them, watching their squabble like a tennis match. Turning back to the blond git, she flicks her wand and silences the area surrounding their cubicles. 

Despite the protective spell, Hermione lowers her voice. ‘‘If you’re going to add working theories to the case file, please do note so next to it. Don’t write it down as if it’s a confirmation of anything. You might disagree with my way of working, or think I’m too cautious, but ongoing investigations must always be careful not to derail into a guessing game, irrespective of our own private opinion.’’ Malfoy’s jaw grinds but he doesn’t say anything to that. Hermione floats the file toward him. ‘‘You can add a section about working theories at the end, and both of us can jolt down our ideas as we go.’’

Sitting back on her chair, she’s all too happy to ignore him.

Despite their happenstance the previous week, having spent an entire evening voluntarily sharing a table and a drink with their mutual friends, nothing’s changed between them. They still bicker more than talk, and irritate each other more than coexist. To be quite frank, it’s not like they’d actually had an opportunity to bond then. At the pub, they barely spoke to one another. Well, Hermione barely spoke, period. Still reeling from surprise after surprise as the night rolled by, she found her walls coming up despite herself; there was no way she could make herself relax and just enjoy the company. She tried her hardest to be cordial, and she did manage to catch up a little with Neville and Susan, but it didn’t take long for her to feel her energy stock drain with the unexpected, and challenging, social interaction. She left before the clock had struck midnight. 

She’s not so sure that she’s glad she went, but at least she can give herself kudos for making an effort. Not once did she provoke Malfoy for the two and half hours he sat in front of her. He, too, didn’t react much to her presence, which in the end only served to keep their relationship exactly as it has always been.

In addition to that, the Zimcooke case is progressing slowly. Malfoy’s raid the night before has been the only (mildly) meaningful development in over a month: every suspect arrested in one of their busts has already provided all the information they possibly could and currently await trial; the Black Quill and Bloodstained packs of cards haven’t yielded any other relevant insights besides the ones already known. The lack of advancement has clearly put Malfoy on edge, which in turn puts Hermione on it too. Not that they need that to snap at one another; they do it without any incentive. But the present lacklustre status of their most pressing case is not making anything easier for their partnership.

Hermione tries to focus on other lines of investigation. After all, she’s got more on her plate than Malfoy’s relentless blood-purity dark magic conjectures.

As a matter of fact, she has an important appointment today. She’s meeting with the Head of the Magical Enforcement Patrol, Donny Cazalvara, regarding the customised leaflets she’s in charge of overseeing. With the recent rise of petty to middle-range common offences in London, the MEP has designed a campaign to bring awareness to the population of ways to enhance their overall feeling of safety. As a senior Auror and the investigative officer usually in the lead of strategic programmes and tactical ventures, Hermione has been selected to collaborate with the law enforcement squad in their task of sketching a model of pamphlets to be distributed in the metropolitan area of the city.

She’s almost done with the first draft, and her meeting in the afternoon with Cazalvara will give her the green light to pursue what she has in mind, or rather force her to restart her endeavour from scratch. She needs the first to happen, so for the next few hours she pours herself into it, tuning out from everything that is going on in her surroundings.

After grabbing lunch at the Ministry canteen and eating it quickly while she adjusts the last details of her proposal, Hermione returns to her Level but turns right as she steps out of the lift instead of keeping straight ahead in the direction of the Auror Headquarters. She marches past the Wizengamot Administration Services, the Administrative Registration Department and, finally, the Improper Use of Magic Office. The last corridor takes her to the MEP Headquarters, which, similar to the DMLE, is a completely chaotic environment. There’s no secretary to buzz her in or announce her presence, and the squad officers are allotted in even more cramped cubicles than the ones at her department. They practically scream at each other to be heard, memorandums flying over their heads and bursts of light accidental magic popping here and there. 

Hermione spends about two full minutes to locate Cazalvara. 

When she finally does, waving her hand frantically in the air to get his attention, the man’s reaction tells her all she needs to know. Widened eyes, wrinkled nose, pursed mouth.

He forgot about their meeting.

‘‘Auror Granger.’’ Cazalvara rushes toward her, crossing the length of his unit in long strides and motioning for her to step back outside so they can talk. ‘‘Forgive me, I seem to have overlooked our appointment for the day. What was it that we were supposed to discuss?’’

‘‘Er, the pamphlets. You know, for the security reinforcement in the metropolitan area of London. I finished the first draft, according to the instructions you gave me the last time we gathered. Today you were supposed to approve them.’’

‘‘Ah, yes. Well, they’re approved.’’

‘‘I- what?’’ Hermione tuts. ‘‘ You haven’t even seen what I’ve done.’’

The Head of the MEP waves her off. ‘‘I’m sure whatever you came up with is great. You have my go-ahead to finish the design. Let me know when you’re through with it, yeah?’’

Not giving her time to respond, Cazalvara only offers a thumbs-up before he’s back inside the havoc that he heads. Hermione stares at the empty space in front of her for several seconds, disbelieving of what just happened. She rouses herself when a hasty young officer nearly bumps into her from behind in his mission to magically balance what appears to be twenty plastic cups of steaming coffee.

He disappears inside the MEP and Hermione walks back to her own headquarters.

Disappointed is an euphemism for what she’s feeling at the moment. More like dismayed and frustrated. A little infuriated, too. How can the Head of such a relevant department be so negligent with something so big? Hermione understands the man must be positively swamped in workload; she can only imagine how stressful and borderline overpowering leading your own division must be. Take Mackenzie, for example. She’s not even the final boss, she’s Head Deputy, and still she works more than anyone Hermione knows, including herself. Still, she cannot ever see Mackenzie doing what Cazalvara just did, especially when it comes to-

Every single thought occupying Hermione’s mind vanishes when she reaches the lift at the exact instant that it opens to reveal Malfoy stepping out flanked by Lana Hudson and Harry MacFayden. 

The best two Hit Wizards of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Malfoy’s gaze travels to her as hers squints in suspicion.

‘‘Granger.’’ He drawls, already walking past her.

‘‘Hullo, Hermione.’’ Hudson greets her with a smile whilst MacFayden inclines his head in politeness.

‘‘Hi, there. How’s it going?’’ She doesn’t wait for their reply; Hermione gets promptly on the move. ‘‘Malfoy, hold on.’’ She has to scurry to catch him. With his ridiculously long legs, three steps that he takes equal six of Hermione. He’s halfway to the Aurors Office when she manages to finally stand by his side. ‘‘What were you doing with Hudson and MacFayden?’’

Malfoy shrugs one shoulder, not bothering to slow down or look at her. ‘‘Working.’’

‘‘Working on what?’’ She presses, feeling herself starting to pant. Although Hermione’s job requires her to stay fit for fieldwork, for the past couple of years since she’s been promoted to an intelligence position she can’t deny that she’s slacked a little in her physical form. She’s surely not as athletic as the aggravating prat next to her walking so fast it has her nearly sprinting to keep up. 

‘‘On a case.’’

Merlin, this man.

Could he be any more grating? Hermione honestly cannot fathom anyone as capable as him to rile her.

‘‘What case, Malfoy? Spit it out.’’

They arrive at the headquarters' oak doors. Malfoy pushes past them, moving inside the narrower corridors made up of numerous workstations. As such, Hermione has to stay behind since they don’t fit both together in the tight passage. He takes the moment to gain speed on her, but she’s not so easily defeated. She reaches him a few seconds later when he stops by his desk to get something.

‘‘Malfoy.’’

‘‘Granger, I’m busy right now. Can’t you wait until afterward to complete your annoying-Malfoy quota of the day?’’

‘‘My what- Christ, you’re the worst.’’ He doesn’t give signs that he heard her, eyes scanning a parchment on his hands that she doesn’t recognise. She still halts next to him, not at all discouraged. ‘‘I only want to know on what case you, Hudson and MacFayden are working together.’’

Yet again, he doesn’t reply. He’s apparently found what he needed to find, though, because he abruptly raises his wand to summon another file, which he grabs with intent as he turns on his heel and goes back from where they just came.

Hermione groans, praying to the gods for patience, and instinctively follows him.

‘‘Malfoy, can you just fucking answer my question?’’

‘‘I told you I’m busy, Granger.’’

‘‘I don’t give a flying shit. That’s not-’’

She’s cut off by a coworker getting in between them, crossing the same corridor to go somewhere she doesn’t care. She’s forced to pause for a moment, to let the woman through, before she resumes her Malfoy chasing. He’s already crossed the threshold when she starts walking again, once more needing to sprint to try and gain on him.

‘‘Goddamn it, Malfoy.’’ She dashes after him. She finally draws closer when she sees he stopped in front of the lift. She crowds him there.  ‘‘I’m your partner. You can’t simply not tell me what-’’

‘‘It’s the Zimcooke case, Granger. Mackenzie’s granted me permission this morning to recruit two Hit Wizards to help with the investigation. We just returned from the Wizengamot’s provisional detention centre, where we left three suspects we arrested earlier today.’’ The jingle of the lift arriving to their floor reverberates and the doors in front of them swing open. Malfoy steps in without delay, twirling around to meet Hermione’s gaze at last. ‘‘How’s that for answering your question?’’

Hermione gapes and the doors shut close, whisking Malfoy away.

Then the penny drops.

The motherfucker went to Mackenzie behind her back, got himself the Hit Wizards Hermione was adamantly against, left without telling her that he would be working the case, made arrests and surely many other new developments, and was probably not going to tell her any of it if she hadn’t been so suspicious that she literally chased him around the DMLE begging for answers.

And now he’s gone, to where she has no idea.

It’s only pure ire that drives her forward. She casts a tracking spell, to trace which Ministry lift had taken Malfoy, waiting until the final Level is known. After a beat, her wand glows.

Level 9.

Department of Mysteries.

Catching the next lift, Hermione presses the button and stirs in growing rage. By the time she reaches her destination, her senses are almost on fire, consuming her wholly. At the unfamiliar floor, she has to halt and think. Where could Malfoy have gone? He doesn’t have access to be here, he can’t just waltz in and-

A movement on her peripheral has her twisting her head. A middle-aged man with a beer belly returns from an entryway to Hermione’s left, pocketing what she guesses it’s his authorisation card. She automatically smiles at him despite her foul mood.

‘‘Good afternoon.’’

‘‘Good afternoon, miss. How can I help you?’’

Hermione’s brain springs to action faster than a Zouwu after a prey. ‘‘Erm, my partner was just here. Draco Malfoy. He, uh, forgot something behind, so I brought it to him.’’ She grins her most convincing grin, holding up her Auror badge. ‘‘May I go after him to deliver it?’’ 

The man doesn’t bat an eye. ‘‘Sure thing, miss. He went right that way into the registries.’’ He points to the entryway from where she saw him stepping out, scooting to the side to let her pass.

‘‘I appreciate it. It will be only a minute.’’

She smiles one last time before going through the passage, following the corridor until it opens into a large room brimming with filing cabinets as tall as the wooden ceiling. Rows after rows of stored documents block her view from the entirety of the room, and looking around Hermione doesn’t see anything or anyone.

‘‘Homenum Revelio.’’

There’s only one human presence inside the registry, all the way to the left corner. She bolts in that direction, only needing a few minutes to run into Malfoy’s back. He’s absorbed in his reading of a folder, head hanging from his shoulders, and thus does not notice her arrival. Hermione takes advantage of it to wordlessly silence their surroundings, cast a protective spell to prevent them from being spotted there and accio Malfoy’s folder.

Her partner startles when the file flies from his hand, turning around in confusion.

Hermione seethes.

‘‘I am going to murder you.’’

‘‘Granger? What are you doing- How did you find me?’’

‘‘We are partners! Partners! Do you understand that, Malfoy? How can you work the case- no, not just work the case. Literally make arrests without telling me. How can you-’’

He rolls his eyes; certainly because he hasn’t fully grasped how close Hermione is to losing her shit, otherwise he’d tread much more carefully. ‘‘I was going to tell you eventually. Relax. It’s not like you’d be of any use, anyway. You’d be interfering the entire way. Telling you would cause more harm than good.’’

‘‘Cause more harm than good?’’ Her voice has gone low, almost a hissed whisper. ‘‘Who the fuck do you think you are to make that decision? I am your partner. You don’t get to choose which information you share and which-’’

‘‘Yes, you’re my partner, you have said that already. Multiple times. And yet, you don’t act like it, so forgive me for not feeling comfortable-’’

‘‘Feeling comfortable?’’ Hermione’s too far gone; she can only find herself repeating his words like a parrot, so furious that her brain can’t seem to cooperate with the rest of her. ‘‘You think your feelings are more important than the work ethics of the department? You think you can ignore Emily’s decision to partner us and go on as if you were still working alone-’’

‘‘I haven’t ignored Mackenzie’s decision, I’m just making the best out of it.’’ He silently brandishes his wand and the folder flies back from her hands to his. ‘‘Honestly, Granger, I wish you’d stop making such a fuss about this. Like I said since the beginning, stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine. Alright?’’

Hermione’s body throbs, fury radiating beyond her control. Unable to speak, her magic does it for her, pulsating from within her like a tidal wave, violently shaking the filing cabinets surrounding them and dimming the artificial light of the room.

Malfoy’s silver eyes dart around for a brief moment before returning to her, hardened. ‘‘Can you please take a hold of yourself, Granger? We’re not ten anymore. You should be able to control your magic-’’

She doesn’t know what comes over to her next, except for the sheer ferocity of despising someone so ardently that your consciousness appears to fall back to let you deal with the raw emotion without any logical tools. Because once more her body moves without the consent of her brain, and Hermione plunges ahead without thinking, drawing herself to a single inch from the man in front of her and promptly thumping him on the top of his head with her closed fist. She has to jump in order to reach the higher height and when her feet reconnect to the floor, she’s face to face with a bewildered Malfoy.

Rationality storms back in, and she realises what she’s done.

She hit him. She physically harmed a coworker with her bare hands.

Fuck.

She steps back, shaking her head in instantaneous regret. ‘‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’’

Malfoy only blinks. She waits for his incensed reaction but it doesn’t come. He stares at her with a face that in any other context would make Hermione laugh because of how comically flummoxed it is.

‘‘What just happened?’’ He asks, expression finally giving way to his bafflement through a thick furrow of white-blonde brows.

‘‘I apologise. I wasn’t thinking. I let my anger get the best of me, and I shouldn’t have-’’

‘‘So you thumped me on the head?’’ Malfoy chokes. ‘‘Instead of hexing me. Why didn’t you use your wand like a normal person intending to hurt another?’’

Hermione shrugs, feeling the tips of her ears burn in embarrassment. ‘‘It’s not the same. It’s much more satisfactory to use your fists to cause pain. It relieves stress, that’s already proven scientifically.’’

Malfoy stares at her for another moment, mouth slightly ajar as he takes in her answer. Silence swirls heavy around them. Then, suddenly, he barks a laugh.

‘‘Merlin’s tits. You are certifiably insane!’’ His head drops back as he laughs heartily, the sound loud in the open, empty room.

Hermione’s still ashamed of herself but she can’t hold her tongue. ‘‘If I am, it’s because you drive me insane!’’

He laughs even more, left hand coming up to rest against his chest as it vibrates with his booming guffaw. Hermione’s embarrassment slowly fades the longer he laughs, and she’s left to acknowledge the humour behind it all. Despite their horrid impasse, and the reprehensibility of trying to cause bodily harm to a colleague at work, her unfiltered impulse was indeed oddly amusing. To be sure, his good-spirited reaction to it has effectively made it to break the tension, and diffuse the situation.

She lets out a reluctant chuckle when he wipes the tears gathered in the corner of his eyes.

‘‘Honestly, Granger. This is the funniest thing that has happened to me the whole month. Hell, probably the whole year!’’ He shakes his head, looking at her with a certain awe. ‘‘Here I was thinking you were so predictable, that I always knew what to expect from you. Well, I can affirm without a shadow of a doubt that I did not expect you to do what you just did, at all.’’ His laughter finally dwindles. ‘‘I guess even stuck-up swots can surprise you every once in a while.’’

This sobers her up rather quickly.

She inhales deeply, returning to the matter at hand. ‘‘Look, Malfoy, what you did was not cool. You show me no respect. I have no idea why you loathe me so much as your partner. I really don’t. I don’t- unless it’s still…’’

She doesn’t finish the thought, too hesitant to put it into words, but he gets her meaning anyway. His eyes harden again, humour completely gone at the implication. ‘‘No. Granger, no.’’

She didn’t think so. She looks down. ‘‘Well, I don’t know then. I know I’m not the easiest person to work with, but neither are you. You certainly must know that you have your own difficult ways, too. So why resist me so much? Why make such an effort to push me away just because I don’t always agree with you?’’ He swallows but doesn’t answer. Hermione sighs. ‘‘This was not cool. Going behind my back like this. I’m sorry I laid hands on you, that was unacceptable and I won’t ever do it again. But, frankly, I cannot let what you did slide. It’s utter shit. And this partnership is a fucking sham. We should just ask Mackenzie to find something else for us. So then you can be partnered with someone you actually respect.’’

She walks away without waiting for his agreement.

Every year the Head Deputy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement conducts an evaluation of the Aurors’ performance of the previous twelve months. That takes place as an assessment of the assigned teams and their workload, their case closing rate, and other related statistics. It’s also a chance for their boss to review the partnerships, and any possible shortcomings or improvement areas.

Despite only being partnered for about two months, Hermione knows that Mackenzie will still want to assess hers and Malfoy’s progress as a team. She knows their boss must be aware of the tension between them and how complicated their professional relationship has been, which will certainly be the main topic of the meeting. Although it doesn’t give her any sense of pride, Hermione can at least recognise it as the perfect opportunity to request the woman to dissolve their partnership. She’s sure Mackenzie will not be happy, but Hermione doesn’t see any other way. She tried. She really did. But she failed - they both did.

Taking measured breaths when her name is called, she doesn’t look at Malfoy as she rises from her chair and walks to Mackenzie’s office. She lets the door hang open behind her and takes a seat at the same sofa where her current problems started two months ago, when she first heard about the blasted Zimcooke case.

Malfoy plops down by her side, and they wait for the Head Deputy to begin.

‘‘Hermione, Draco. Thank you for making the time to sit with me today.’’ The witch has a sheet on top of her desk, which she consults while she talks to them. ‘‘As you are already familiar with, this is the evaluation of your annual performance. Since your partnership is rather new, I believe it will be the most productive if we focus on your individual performance first, and then review your work together in the past few weeks.’’

They nod in agreement, and so she starts.

Not too surprisingly, they are told they feature as the leading Aurors in solving cases in the department. Only behind Harry, who has a seventy-five percentage of successfully closing an investigation, Hermione and Malfoy both have their percentages around the sixty something, with a very small distance between one another. Hermione is a smidge ahead of him, but that is not impressive: after all, Malfoy has worked alone since he started at the DMLE and Hermione’s always been partnered. She should be a much more comfortable breadth away from his scores.

She doesn’t really care. She’s not as competitive as she used to be. She just wants to do her job, a good job, and move on with her life. She’s had enough disappointments to last a lifetime; she doesn’t need to worry about bloody statistics in addition to everything. 

Mackenzie proceeds and dissects their performance in the last year into more details, occasionally asking them to provide further information about one case or another. They both do it almost mechanically, clearly just wanting to get it over with. When that’s finally out of the way, Mackenzie jolts down her final remarks and adds her signature at the bottom of the parchment, attaching it next to a binder most likely containing everyone else’s review.

She lifts her head and smiles at them. ‘‘Alright. That’s done. Now onto your new partnership.’’ At that, her face grows serious and Hermione braces herself. ‘‘I’d like to hear from you first about your experience so far.’’

Hermione has rehearsed this. She replays the words she’s memorised as neutrally as she can. ‘‘Emily, I want you to know that I truly appreciate your good will in accommodating my highly unusual request back in October when I asked you to find me a new partner after years of working alongside Harry. I really do. And I want you to know that I’ve really given this a try. I did not take your decision lightly; I’ve one hundred percent respected your choice and have, truly, given my all to make this work. Me and Malfoy being partners, I mean.’’ She heaves a fortifying inhale. ‘‘Unfortunately, it’s not working. We are- we’re just too different. Our work methods simply don’t mash, no matter how hard we try. And I’m sure you must’ve noticed how difficult it has been for us to work together in the past months. That’s why I stand here in front of you today again to ask you to reconsider, and find us different partners.’’ She pauses, for effect. ‘‘For the sake of the DMLE.’’

‘‘For the sake of the DMLE.’’ The other woman repeats after her, tone even. ‘‘Really? Mmh. How about you, Draco? Do you agree with Hermione?’’

Hermione doesn’t look to the side to see his expression. She only notices the silence that follows Mackenzie's question, a few seconds dragging by where one could loudly hear a hairpin drop, and then his careful voice. ‘‘Indeed, as Granger mentioned, we are very different people. It has been, erm, challenging.’’

Challenging. The absolute wanker.

Mackenzie hums, eyes bouncing between the two of them. She studies them for another moment and yet, unlike the last time Hermione sat in front of her with a request, this time her boss has no sympathy to show for.

‘‘You say that I should find you other partners for the sake of the DMLE, yes, Hermione?’’ At her employee’s confirmation, Mackenzie nods. ‘‘Alright. You’re back with Potter. Malfoy, you’re with Hopkins. Have a good day, you two.’’

‘‘Emily, you can’t put me back with-’’

‘‘Hopkins? You’ve got to be kid-’’

‘‘You are dismissed.’’

Hermione’s heart is nearly leaping out of her ribcage. ‘‘Emily, please, be reasonable. You can’t expect me to-’’

‘‘I’ve been more than reasonable with you two. More than patient. Just because you have a high score of solving cases you think you should get preferential treatment?’’ Hermione opens her mouth to refute that but her boss doesn’t let her. ‘‘Because this is what it is, what you’re expecting of me: preferential treatment. Do you really think that any other Auror around here would get away with what I’ve allowed you two to do? Do you think any other Auror here would have gotten away with being a rude prick to everyone around him to the point where no one wants to come anywhere near him?’’ Her sharp gaze cuts to Malfoy. Then back to Hermione. ‘‘Or coming to cry on my shoulder because she had a lovers’ quarrel and, boohoo, her best friend didn’t take her side?’’ Mackenzie reclines on her full-grain leather chair, voice as hard as her eyes. ‘‘You can bet that no one would get away with it. Not even Potter, who’s the top leading Auror of the department and who, by the way, has never once asked me anything other than the strictly professional. And yet, here you two stand in front of your superior officer, claiming it’s just too difficult to act like the professionals you’re supposed to be, when in reality what’s happening is that you can’t seem to suck up your delicate feelings for a single second in order to do the goddamn job you’re paid to do.’’ The Head Deputy sniffs, looking down to the pile of documents in front of her and picking up her quill. ‘‘Well, I’ve had it. The two of you need to figure your shit out, or Hermione’s back with Potter and Draco will be partnered with Hopkins.’’ She scribbles something before looking back up to them. ‘‘What’s gonna be?’’

Chapter Text

Hermione rubs a hand over her face, squeezing her eyes shut. She feels haggard, and acutely blue. It’s the feeling one gets when they know they got themselves in trouble and they’re not sure how to proceed to improve their situation. She drops her defeated body onto her chair, and sees Malfoy doing the same across from her. He looks as thwarted as her. 

Hermione sighs.

Their annual evaluation with Mackenzie went much worse than anything she imagined. Despite knowing how ruthless her boss can be, she’d never been the target of the woman’s severity in such a way before. And it sucked. Mackenzie made Hermione feel like the pettiest and most unprofessional of women.

Coming to cry on my shoulder because she had a lovers’ quarrel and, boohoo, her best friend didn’t take her side.

Ouch. That hurt.

Not that the Head Deputy wasn’t within reason. It’s just that it hit Hermione too close to home. And she guesses Malfoy too. After all, they both did agree in the end to remain in their partnership and to, in their boss’ words, ‘‘figure their shit out,’’ since neither of them wished to go for the alternative she’d given them. Now, they’re back to square one: stuck with one another.

‘‘Granger.’’

Hermione glances up. Malfoy’s square jaw ticks once as he holds her gaze.

‘‘I want to apologise for how I behaved last week. With all the, you know,’’ he waves one hand slackly in front of him. ‘‘The working the case behind your back. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t respect you.’’

Hermione digests his apology for a moment, an assortment of various responses brewing inside her. At last, she chuckles. ‘‘Any other day, I’d tell you in reply to spare me the artificial platitudes since I have no interest in hearing any of it.’’ She makes air quotes, using a slightly high-pitched voice to denote her mockery. When his expression becomes edged, she chuckles again. ‘‘But I suppose that if we’re to carry on working together we have to stop throwing each other’s words on the other’s face like ill-mannered toddlers. It’s time to start acting professional and do the job we’re paid to do, like Emily so accurately put it. So, yeah, fine.’’ She shrugs. ‘‘I accept your apology. As long as you don’t ever do that to me again.’’

‘‘I won’t.’’ He says and abruptly gets to his feet. He walks until he’s standing in front of her. He extends his right hand. ‘‘Truce?’’

Hermione grabs the offered palm. ‘‘Truce.’’

After a beat, their hands separate and he returns to his workstation. Hermione resolves to take the lead.

‘‘Can we, please, then sit down now and talk about the case? No bickering, no defensiveness. Just- let us just discuss what we have so far and what the evidence we’ve gathered really points to?’’

Malfoy agrees, and that’s how they find themselves in the conference room of the last corridor of the Aurors Headquarters, the same where they had their first ever briefing as partners, delving into the Zimcooke case.

‘‘Okay, so what we know so far.’’ Malfoy begins. ‘‘Back in January, I was tipped off about suspicious transactions taking place in Essex, so I organised a bust at one of the locations.’’

‘‘I never asked. Who tipped you off?’’

‘‘It was an anonymous tip. The Communication Office forwarded a memorandum they received, addressed to the DMLE. In it, there were a few pointers to where we should concentrate our investigation, particularly the mention that Zimcooke elixirs were involved. And it turned out to be right. My team and I arrested two men in the act of selling contrabands off Dedham’s coast.’’

‘‘Who exactly made the team?’’

Malfoy’s silver gaze slides in her direction, a tiny smirk reaching his lips. ‘‘Hudson and MacFayden.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes. ‘‘Naturally. Continue.’’

‘‘Right. So we arrested these two men and interrogated them for about ten weeks until they finally offered useful information.’’

‘‘Ten weeks? That’s long.’’

‘‘Yeah, they did tell us a few things in between but those didn’t really pan out. Only a couple months later we finally identified one of the other members of their criminal organisation.’’

‘‘They couldn’t identify the people they worked with?’’

‘‘Apparently their work was all very secretive. Like I told you before, they used masks during their operations, and the members at the bottom never went face to face with the leadership. So they really didn’t have much to offer, seeing how they were very low in the ranking.’’

‘‘Mhm, okay. So you finally identified another member?’’

Malfoy nods, opening their case file and flipping through the pages until he finds the picture of the man in question, taken when he was detained in one of the DMLE’s interrogation rooms. In the image, a dark-haired wizard stares back at Hermione, winking conspiratorially as if they shared a secret.

‘‘As you know, this is Michael Lowburn. He’s a high-ranked official of the Essex gang. You’ve heard about them.’’ Hermione hums in the affirmative, recalling the finer details Malfoy had fed her in their first briefing. ‘‘It was with him that we learned about the other criminal activities and their interconnectedness. As we discovered after months of interrogation, there’s actually a completely syndicated network of various different criminal organisations, all led by a single individual who by all appearances controls everything.’’

‘‘The Death Eater.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Malfoy had first told her about the leader after their argument in Mackenzie’s office when Hermione questioned why he was being so adamant that the case was related to blood-purity ideals. Apparently, the person behind every large criminal activity in the East of England goes by the nickname The Death Eater. Nobody knows his real name, of course, and this alias was the initial crumb of suspicion that led Malfoy to believe this wasn’t an endeavour of ordinary dark wizards. Ever since, her partner has worked the case through the angle of blood-purity dark magic, fixated on this man and what the true purpose of his actions is.

In Hermione’s opinion, that's the root of all their problems - this obsession of Malfoy’s.

Still, she lets him talk.

‘‘We’ve heard different accounts about their leader, but we haven’t captured enough gang members to actually gather a comprehensive description of him. All we know is that he is very careful with his identity, and that he manages to control at least three different organisations all by himself.’’ Malfoy eyes Hermione pointedly. ‘‘That’s why I always insist on conducting raids, Granger, and it’s why I requested the Hit Wizards. We desperately need more information about this bloke. And we need people to tell us that. And the only way to get to these people is by arresting and interrogating them.’’

Hermione relents. ‘‘I get it, Malfoy. I still think it’s an overreach, but I understand where you’re coming from.’’ Her partner nods in acknowledgement and she carries on. ‘‘So, I know all of this. I know about the artefacts that have been confiscated in the past year and about the other information of the case. The only thing I’m missing is what the hell you were up to last week.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Malfoy lets out a low chuckle, returning his attention to the case file. He opens it to the last page, wherein a sheet Hermione hadn’t seen before has been attached. ‘‘This is what I was up to.’’

Hermione scans the paper, recognising the old Sanskrit parchment Malfoy had found in one of his last raids. Only, the parchment is no longer burnt and unreadable; the majority of it is quite legible now, and it clearly shows a complex incantation formula.

‘‘What-’’

‘‘This, Granger, is how Blood Staining processes are being done in the new century.’’

She really shouldn’t drink black tea this late at night, knowing quite well how the caffeine in it keeps her awake far past her bedtime, but Hermione gives in with little to no resistance. She brews the drink and couples it with a chocolate muffin - just because. She then carries the two items back to the living room and snuggles under the crochet throw of her sofa, placing the thick book she had abandoned to go fetch the snacks back on her lap and getting comfortable to resume her heavy reading.

The book is called The Praxis of Dark Rituals. She borrowed it from the Ministry’s library about three weeks ago and still is not done with it. The bloody thing is so large and gruelling to leaf through that even Hermione herself has had trouble studying it. She needs to read every sentence twice before she can wholly grasp its meaning.

Regardless, it has been useful. Although Hermione still has more questions than answers, at least she’s starting to understand a little better what she’s up against.

What they are up against.

Since the Office for Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects pieced the Sanskrit parchment back together and recovered its content, Malfoy and her have had their hands full. Naturally, their bosses (and she doesn’t mean only Mackenzie, but also the Head of the Department, Hestia Jones) caught an immediate interest in the Zimcooke case and the discovery that artefacts were being Bloodstained through a process very different from what’s always been done. Having in their possession the complex incantation for the ritual put Hermione and her partner under the pressure of figuring out everything else about this rather alarming development. But despite them having access now to the formula, they have yet to decipher the mechanism and complete steps through which the Blood Staining is taking place.

As such, Hermione has spent the past few weeks since Malfoy brought this information to light pouring all her energy, and scrapes of free time, into puzzling it out.

It doesn’t help that something in this whole debacle smells a little fishy to her.

Hermione has learned to accept that Malfoy was right regarding his raids and recruitment of Hit Wizards. It did yield valuable information for the case, which wouldn’t have been possible without his insistence and all of which has indeed pointed to blood-based magic. And if one focuses solely on the seized artefacts, the conclusion would tend to suggest the work of blood-purity Dark Arts as Malfoy so fervently maintains. And yet, she’s still not fully convinced.

And it’s not only stubbornness. Hermione has been making an actual effort to shift the way she handles their partnership. After all, she did agree to a truce and, besides, she doesn’t ever want to feel again like she did after she left Mackenzie’s office following their annual evaluation. She knows she’s a competent Auror and teamplayer. She knows she’s a professional. It’s time she made it crystal clear again to Mackenzie; and Malfoy. Therefore, she’s been trying her damn hardest to behave lately, to listen before speaking, and to acknowledge that her partner knows more about the investigation than her, since he’s been involved in it for much longer. She has immersed herself in riddling the mysteries surrounding the case together with him, and not despite him. As a consequence, their bickering has reduced to a minimum, and they no longer partake in public display of pettiness (or in her case, of physical violence).

Because Malfoy always leaves the Ministry as soon as it’s five o’clock, Hermione has taken to bringing the Zimcooke case file home with her to study it at night before returning it to the DMLE in the morning. By doing that, she has gotten herself up to speed with every detail of their investigation, which she knows by heart now.

That’s why there’s something there that simply does not sit right with her.

The objects Malfoy confiscated in his raids are indeed drowned in dark magic. The information surrounding the gang leader does indicate that he has some sort of kinship to Voldemort’s old claims. Her partner’s gut, and long-standing experience with the subject, screams that it’s a blood-purity matter, and she shouldn’t doubt him only out of bull-headedness.

The more Hermione soaks the specifics of the case, however, the more incongruent it all seems to her. Two men are arrested selling illegal magical draughts on the coast of Dedham. During the interrogation, they hardly can offer any insights about their criminal organisation, other than the secrecy of it all. They spend months sitting in the detention centre until finally saying something that leads to a high-ranking gang member, who, when captured, feeds the DMLE information rather freely. Information that takes them for the first time to the confiscation of dark artefacts, which so happened to be found lying around the location the man had rattled out, in complete contrast with the rest of the abandoned area. Up to now, Hermione and Malfoy haven’t discovered what the objects were doing there, only what they were used for. And then, another two months pass and nothing. Absolute silence. Until Malfoy gets yet another anonymous tip guiding him to the site where he finds another three suspects and the Sanskrit parchment that, despite being in apparent awful conditions, turns out to be one hundred percent recoverable. And extremely invaluable: it gave them the entire incantation formula for the Blood Staining ritual.

If one only takes into consideration the artefacts and the overall undertone of the case, it surely makes sense to chalk it up to the nefarious working of the Dark Arts. And yet, if one pays closer attention to the coming together of everything, it just doesn’t add up. Something does not make sense: to Hermione, their progress seems almost counterintuitive. 

She has yet to tell Malfoy her suspicions. Not that he doesn’t already know about some of them, which she has loudly voiced before, but since their so-called ‘‘truce’’ Hermione’s really been trying not to cause friction between them by constantly bringing up her reticence. Especially because she can recognise how much he is trying his best, too. She knows it’s a joint effort, and she appreciates it. Their job has become much easier now that they are not fighting every step of the way. The only issue is that each day she finds herself reading everything about the Dark Arts and blood-based rituals, and studying every single detail of the case, and turning every working theory back and forth around her relentless mind - and she knows, she really does, that something’s wrong. But she doesn’t know exactly what, and that’s why she’s refrained from bringing up her suspicions to Malfoy.

She prefers to avoid another confrontation with her partner when they have been doing so well lately, if she’s not absolutely certain about what’s going on.

Hermione sighs, resuming her research into The Praxis of Dark Rituals. It’s a tough endeavour. She reads until her brain is sizzling and she can barely comprehend the words before her. Both her tea and muffin are gone, and so Hermione decides to take a break. She gets up, cracking her spine when she stands fully erect, rolling her neck from side to side. It’s relaxing, and she feels instantly better. Continuing with her stretches as she walks, she goes to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. When she passes by her island counter she catches sight of The Daily Prophet that she hasn’t been able to finish yet.

She sits on one of the tall stools, the cup in one hand and the paper in the other. She skims lazily through the latter until Page 8 smashes her to smithereens.

GOLDEN TRIO’S RONALD WEASLEY WELCOMES FIRST CHILD INTO THE WORLD

The wizard and his wife, Amelia Travers, have given birth to a baby boy on this Saturday, December 20th.

The sudden news knocks the air out of Hermione’s lungs in one go. If she had really reflected on it, she’d know that the time must have been indeed coming; but she hadn’t spared a thought to it in many weeks, so absorbed as she was in the ruckus of her professional life. She’d momentarily forgotten that the world was still spinning outside her busy little bubble in the DMLE and that, unlike her, people were moving on. Like Ronald and his shiny new woman.

And their baby.

Hermione baulks, chest rising and falling strenuously as reality hits her without mercy. 

Ronald is a father. He had a son with somebody else. He’s married to somebody else. He left her.

He left her.

Hermione doesn’t know when it happens but the next thing she knows, she’s curled into herself on the kitchen floor, struggling to breathe. Her hands feel clammy and her skin tingly. Her ribcage tightens inside her sternum, choking her. She timely realises she must be hyperventilating.

She tries to slow her respiration. She counts until ten, and then again. She listens to her heartbeats, one by one, willing them to calm down, to not fail her now. She knows she needs to pull herself together.

Come on, Hermione.

After what seems an eternity, she stands up. She doesn’t have the strength to grab the paper, not even to throw it in the bin, so she leaves it on the ground and walks vacillatingly toward her bedroom. She’s aware there’s a mess in her living room but can’t be arsed to care right now. She can only drop in bed, staring at the ceiling as the tears trail hot down into her ears.

Even though it’s been over a year since everything, Hermione still finds herself wrestling with the notion that all of this has actually happened to her. That her life has turned out this way. That she really is thirty and three years old with no family, no friends and no long-time boyfriend with whom she was meant to grow old. The only thing she has left is her job, which at the moment is far from the ray of sunshine and pride that it used to be; ever since Mackenzie’s reprimand and Hermione’s increasing suspicions about the Zimcooke case, she has felt like she lost her footing in the DMLE, not entirely sure of how to proceed anymore. For the first time in her career, she feels like she needs to act in a certain way in order to not burn herself. And this awareness has somewhat mined her confidence.

Despite the past weeks of relative peace with Malfoy, he’s no Harry. She used to love having a partner, having someone she could count on with eyes closed and to trust with her life. Someone who knew her inside out, and with whom she had such an easy, light dynamic. There’s a reason why Harry and her were the top leading Aurors of the department: there was no case they couldn’t solve together. Their chemistry was off the roof, and that translated into efficiency, into effortless partnership. Now, she goes to work every day and she needs to hold herself back. She needs to behave.

And, then, after all the stress of her working day, she comes home to emptiness. To the knowledge that she’s getting older by the day, and that she has nothing to her name. And no one.

She has no one.

Her cries intensify when her down spiral takes a sharp turn to remind her that Christmas is coming and she doesn’t have any plans to celebrate it, which of course takes her to the memory of her parents. Of the only two people on Earth she could have counted to never, ever abandon her, to never leave her behind, and how she was the one to do it to them. And how they have no idea of it, because they don’t remember her. They don’t remember their own daughter, and it’s her fault.

Perhaps the other things are her fault, too.

Perhaps she’s the only one to blame for being utterly alone, after all.

It’s the afternoon before Christmas. The last day before the DMLE closes for the holiday, except for the Emergency Unit. Hermione’s not on call this year, although she wouldn’t mind it if she were. She’d actually welcome it but she supposes it won’t matter whether she’s working from the Ministry or from home. She knows she’ll spend the next four days submerged under her open cases, anyway, windows locked and floo shut.

She can’t forget to stop by the grocery store, though. She doesn’t have anything to eat in her cupboards, and ordering takeaway on Christmas Eve is literal hell. Hermione is just going through the  mental list of what she should get at Tesco when someone approaches her desk.

‘‘Hi, Hermione.’’

The familiar voice effectively erases every thought of minced pies and pork from her head.

‘‘Harry.’’

They haven’t spoken to each other since their last interdepartmental meeting five weeks ago, when he asked her to close the door of the conference room behind her. Ever since, they barely allowed themselves to look at one another, much less to talk when they are not strictly required to.

She watches her former best friend circle her workstation and halt in front of her. He’s the same as always, though his messy black hair appears more dishevelled than normal, as if he had run his hands through it one too many times, most likely because of the stress of having to get everything done before the mandated time off. If Hermione didn’t know she would be spending the upcoming days as involved with her workload as usual, she’d also be concerned about it.

‘‘So…’’ Harry starts, letting the word linger awkwardly in the air between them. Hermione waits, and he bites the inside of his cheeks as he’s wont to do whenever he feels nervous. ‘‘Tomorrow’s Christmas.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Plans?’’

Ah, the audacity.

‘‘Uh-hum. Gotta a lot of work to do.’’

‘‘So you’re spending it alone at home.’’

This makes Hermione swivel in her chair, twisting her face away from him. ‘‘Is there a reason why you’re talking to me, Harry?’’

‘‘Matter of fact, there is.’’ She hears the bespectacled man inhale. She pretends to be engrossed with her ink pot and quill. ‘‘Ginny has asked me to invite you for supper tomorrow. It’s gonna be just us and the kids. And, you know, we did guess you’d be spending it by yourself, so we thought that would be, erm, nice to have you over.’’

Even if the first part had been anywhere near convincing, the last sentence aptly sours any inclination Hermione might have had to accept such an invitation. Also, his wife was the one to invite her, not him? Cool.

She flattens her voice. ‘‘Thank you, but I much prefer to spend it by myself than among spineless traitors. You can tell Ginny that.’’

She’s not looking but she can almost see the indignation puffing Harry’s chest.

‘‘I have no idea what’s the matter with you, Hermione, but-’’

‘‘Harry, I gotta lot to do. Can you be indignant somewhere else?’’

She notices from the corner of her eyes him opening his mouth to respond, but the sight of Malfoy returning to his cubicle apparently interrupts his train of thought. Her current partner glances at the two of them for a moment before promptly averting his eyes to return to what he was doing. Hermione knows that, of all of them, the blond is the one most stressed to finish everything in time before he can go home to his son and shut his work obligations off for the next ninety six hours. He has been bursting his arse all morning to wrap up what he can in his pending cases.

As such, Malfoy’s clearly in a heavy mood. His expression has been invariably closed-off since he arrived at the office, and he hasn’t spoken two words to Hermione the whole day.

Harry, of course, picks up on it but misconstrues the reason behind the attitude.

He refocuses on Hermione, voice gone low. ‘‘Heard that Mackenzie gave you two a good ol’ scolding. Partnership’s not going all that brilliant, is it?’’

‘‘Bye, Harry.’’

He tsks. ‘‘And you look like rubbish. You’re obviously not happy being partnered with Malfoy. Of fucking course.’’ Hermione can’t help but look up to him at this. How dare he say she looks bad? Before she can tell him to sod off, he continues. ‘‘I told you you’d regret this, Hermione. I told you what you did, breaking up our partnership, wasn’t right. I knew it would come back to bite you in the arse. And now you’re reaping the consequences of your own recklessness.’’

Holding his gaze for another beat, Hermione senses every single horrid feeling that has been accompanying her since she read about the birth of Ronald’s son three days ago threatening to burst the surface of her carefully groomed steadiness. She’s been pushing everything down, not ready to deal with any of it at the minute, but Harry’s cruel words might just be the final drop to have her letting everything loose.

She blinks, and in the millisecond that this takes another choice comes to her.

She looks away, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘‘You know, Harry, I did mean what I said. I’d rather be all alone in the world than surrounded by people who rejoice in my misery. Pretend friends that can’t wait to jump at an opportunity to point out all my flaws, and tell me how I’m wrong, and what I should be doing instead.’’ She shakes her head. ‘‘And I’ve come to realise it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? You and Ronald, and I reckon everybody else too, are always expecting things from me. Always demanding that I act a certain way, that I behave level-headedly and in control, and always goddamn wise. You can make all the mistakes you want, but I have to be a fucking fortress every day of my life.’’ Turning back to him, unable to keep fighting the emotion off, her voice breaks. ‘‘I might not be happy right now, but I will one day again. When I surround myself with people who deserve me, and who truly wish me well.’’ 

She stands up, not wanting to spend one other second in his presence. Bolting towards the loos, Hermione can hold only long enough until she’s between private stalls; then she cries.

It becomes a sort of routine. 

For the following days, Hermione finds a consistent balance between amply focusing on the case, shoulders deep in the mechanics of dark rituals and in the little missed clues that might elucidate what's really going on with the investigation, and letting herself sink into a messy ball of depression. She wakes up and allows herself to have a good weep still in bed before getting up to set to work. Somewhere in the afternoon, when her head becomes too heated with the dissecting of depositions and lab results, she cooks some bland meal and bawls staring at the kitchen tiles. For the rest of the day she reads, reads and reads, then writes every idea that comes to mind, before retiring to her bedroom where she cries herself to sleep.

It’s oddly therapeutic. She doesn’t understand completely why only now the waterworks have officially come out, but she supposes it had to hit her at some point. She had cried a lot before, of course, when Ronald had just left her and, later, when she found out how easily and fast he had replaced her. But whereas in the first case she had still held out hope that everything would be okay in the end, in the latter she mainly just reacted in righteous anger. 

She guesses now it’s finally the time for sadness.

‘‘Do you have last month’s report of the Essex patrol?’’

Hermione rouses, blinking up to her partner looking expectantly at her. She needs a few seconds to process his question, and when her brain finally computes what he said, her body reacts. She glances down, scanning the surface in front of her to find what Malfoy’s asking for. When she locates it, she passes it to him wordlessly.

‘‘Thanks.’’

She nods in acknowledgement, returning to her reading. Or better saying, to her staring at the page pretending she’s seeing anything before her. They’ve been at it for over an hour, conducting their last briefing of the year, going through their open cases and their priorities for the upcoming quarter. It’s the end of the day, the second to last day of the year, and she’s exhausted. She wants to go home and stare at the wall instead.

‘‘You’ve been quiet lately.’’

Hermione looks up again. This time the surprise is the culprit for her taking too long to answer.

Malfoy surveys her with a sharp eye but she just shrugs. ‘‘Work’s been keeping me busy. Both of us, I suppose.’’ She motions to the mess spread on the large, oval table between them. Once again, they’ve taken to working on their cases in the conference room of the last corridor of the DMLE’s Level, aware that it’s usually unoccupied in the last hours of the afternoon.  

‘‘That has never kept you from speaking your mind before.’’ The blond counters.

‘‘Don’t have much on my mind right now, to be honest.’’

It’s both true and false. Despite the turmoil inside of her, her brain has also been dented by a particularly dejected fog recently, even more in the past half an hour. Hermione has never felt so tired in her life. She can’t wait for the weekend, and the turn of the new year, so she can sleep a minimum of fourteen hours straight.

She can’t wait to get a reprieve from her self-sabotaging spirit.

‘‘Right.’’ Malfoy doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t push either. They don’t have an intimacy for that, after all. They talk strictly about work. There’s no space to wonder about each other’s mental state or, God forbid, their feelings.

Hermione’s glad for it. She just wants to keep going until she feels better again. She knows this is just a phase. At least, that’s what she repeatedly promises herself.

Breathing deeply in, she returns to her task, which is to code the transcription of their last round of interrogations of the three suspects that Malfoy had arrested in the beginning of December, in the raid he hadn’t told her about. So far the captured men haven’t given up too much information, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a ton of paperwork to process. She picks her wand back up and continues to highlight the most relevant parts of the transcript. Not five minutes later the door of the conference room opens and startles her, shattering her concentration one more time.

‘‘Excuse me. The document you requested, Auror Malfoy.’’

It’s one of the recent hires, a junior Auror going by the name of Jenny. Hermione struggles to remember her last name.

‘‘Thank you, Mills.’’ Malfoy replies, distractedly grabbing the paper the woman extends to him.

Oh, yeah, Jenny Mills. That was it.

Hermione grins friendly at her, but the witch doesn’t see it. Her eyes are glued to Malfoy, who in turn hasn’t even lifted his head to acknowledge the young employee. Mills lingers, a slightly cringy look of hope etching across her pretty features.

‘‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’’ She asks, voice adopting a cajoling tone.

‘‘No.’’

The silence is awkward after Malfoy’s clipped answer, and she finally takes the hint. Mills glances at Hermione for the first time since she stepped in the conference room, offering her a half-smile and then walking back to the door, where she fumbles with the handle two times before she manages to set herself free from the embarrassing situation.

Hermione can’t help; a snort escapes her. She bites her lower lip to stifle the sound of it, staring down again at her notes, but the humour lightens her mood. 

Poor girl.

‘‘You can stop smirking now.’’

Looking up, she meets Malfoy’s silver gaze. He appears altogether bothered. It works to make her snort again.

‘‘No idea what you’re talking about.’’

He narrows his eyes at her. ‘‘Subtlety is not your forte, Granger.’’

‘‘And, apparently, neither is Jenny’s.’’ 

She chuckles, amused by her own quip, but Malfoy’s scowl only deepens. ‘‘Whatever. This is ridiculous. Let’s go back to work.’’

Unfortunately, Hermione’s interest has gotten effectively spiked. She shifts on her chair, making herself more comfortable to face the man in front of her.

‘‘What is ridiculous, the girl almost tripping over herself in her haste to impress you or me noticing it?’’

Malfoy purses his mouth. ‘‘Both.’’

She should let this go, of course, but she’s knackered. She really doesn’t want to go back to work at the minute, so Hermione does something she’s never done before: she tries to get to know Malfoy better. ‘‘Why would it bother you to have the undivided attention of a beautiful young woman? I thought this was the highest compliment a man could ever get.’’

Her partner’s expression informs her that he firmly disagrees with her. ‘‘She’s a child.’’

Hermione frowns. ‘‘From what I can recall, she completed her Auror training in the summer. So she’s at least twenty one.’’

‘‘Exactly. A child.’’

If her interest hadn’t already been secured, it certainly is now. She tilts her head, curiosity swarming her. ‘‘Most men wouldn’t think so. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’d rather catch the eye of someone her age than older.’’

Malfoy scoffs, looking down at the file Mills had delivered, a derisive curl taking over his lips. ‘‘That’s because they’re insecure little tossers. What in the world could they possibly want with a barely legal adult? What could they possibly have in common, let alone talk about with each other? These twats just want to feel good about themselves. They know a younger woman will look up to them and do their bidding, because they don’t know any better. They take advantage of that to feel superior. Which is pathetic in my opinion.’’

‘‘And you don’t? Want to feel good about yourself, that is.’’

She’s clearly trying to goad him and he seems to realise it. His eyes leave the parchment, travelling upward to find hers. ‘‘No. I prefer my woman to be my equal.’’ His tone is hard and unwavering, making sure she understands it before he looks down again, undoubtedly done with the conversation.

But she isn’t.

The humour is gone from her, replaced by a heavy, earnest feeling. 

Despite her musings of not even five minutes earlier, about how her partner and her only talk about work since they are not close enough to go about more personal topics, Hermione finds herself threading ahead.

She does it carefully, though, voice low and gentle. ‘‘Like Astoria?’’

There’s a pause where Malfoy doesn’t move. His head stays lowered, fixed on the paperwork in front of him. After an instant, his voice comes out steady. 

‘‘Yes.’’

Hermione nods, though she knows he doesn’t see it. She clears her throat. ‘‘I never met her, but I wish I had. Everything I’ve ever heard from her was that she was a wonderful person.’’

Another pause, another still moment. ‘‘She was.’’ Malfoy says at last, gaze ascending to hers again. ‘‘Irreplaceable.’’

It strikes her like a punch to the gut. 

Of all the things Hermione has wrestled with, the hardest she’s had to accept is how utterly unimportant she realised she was to the Weasleys (and Potters) when Ronald decided to leave her and then found another woman to take her spot in under six months. How easy it had been to replace her. After so many years together, after a decade and a half of all of them being a family in everything but blood, Hermione suddenly found herself excluded from their future. And so effortlessly, too. Ginny can say whatever she wants about Hermione always being her pretend sister-in-law, but everyone knows in reality that that means fuck all. Hermione’s no longer part of the clan. Harry is married to one of the Weasleys and so is Ronald’s new girl. Hermione? All she could ever be to them now is a family friend. 

She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t go from being everything, from meaning the world to her man, to being only something - just another one of his mates. Hermione knows she’s a stubborn, proud person, but she doesn’t think anyone would fault her for this: for refusing to become somebody’s scorned woman, a man’s passed-up option. And although she stood her ground and repelled the possibility, removing herself completely from the situation, the rejection still burns over a year later. The feeling of being disposable, and so easily replaceable, has haunted her day and night. So hearing Malfoy describe his late wife with that exact word with which Hermione cannot describe herself, hits her where it hurts the most.

She feels her eyes water as Malfoy and her hold each other’s gazes, and she can’t fight the urge to avert them. She blinks rapidly, willing the unwelcome tears to recede, looking everywhere but him. When she feels herself in control again, a few moments later, her partner has already returned to the Essex patrol report. She fervently hopes he hasn’t noticed her emotional reaction to his answer.

She zeroes on the interrogation transcript, watching the words on the paper mingle and melt. She forces herself to read them but it’s pointless. She knows she’s no longer going to be of any use. Not that she was for the past thirty minutes, but much less now after her exchange with Malfoy.

She sighs, dropping the file on the table and rubbing her eyes tiredly.

When she reclines back on her chair, head resting on the wall behind her, she manages to look at Malfoy again. He appears focused on his task, brows furrowed in seemingly high concentration, but his shoulders remain tense, his breathing paced. 

Not for the first time she contemplates his path in life. Back before they were working together, when they barely interacted with one another in the DMLE, she never really took into consideration the difficult situations he’s had to navigate in the past decade, much too busy dealing with her own challenges, her own growing career and the personal issues she's had to grapple with in the aftermath of a war that left plenty of scars on her body and mind. As such, she didn’t think much about him, or whatever hardships he’s had to handle. Since they got partnered, however, she’s been faced with the knowledge that he, too, went through a lot, perhaps more than anyone else she knows. Accepting that hadn’t influenced the way she saw him when all they were was hostile to each other. Now, though, that their tempers have settled and Hermione is determined to be less judgemental and purposefully stubborn, it’s easier to appreciate his trials, but also his accomplishments. 

Hermione swallows thickly.

‘‘Despite our troubled relationship,’’ she begins to say, interrupting the strained silence in the conference room. ‘‘I’m not incapable of recognising how hard life’s been for you. I think we all suffered a great deal with, erm, with everything, but I know your part has been particularly… difficult.’’ As she talks, Malfoy becomes even more tense, forehead doubling in its wrinkling. He still looks down, and that helps her get the rest out. ‘‘So I’m glad that you had Astoria. I'm glad she was there for you when you needed the most. It’s not easy to find someone to love and who loves you in return unconditionally. To find someone who will stick around no matter what.’’ Her voice cracks at the last part and she needs to clear her throat to keep going. It successfully draws Malfoy’s gaze up. She holds it in hers, letting her sincerity leak through this fragile connection. ‘‘Even if your time together was unfairly cut short, it’s clear how much you loved and cherished her. It’s clear how much she meant to you. So, despite your loss, you should still count yourself lucky to have been able to experience such happiness with someone like her. And I’m- I’m glad you did. I really am.’’

She stops talking, allowing the words to sink between them. She finishes it with a tiny smile, intended to let him know that this is her truth. This is her olive branch.

He accepts it.

‘‘Thank you.’’ He tells her quietly, bending his head in acknowledgement and softening his usual stiff expression.

She nods in response then gets to her feet. ‘‘I’m heading home. Can we finish this tomorrow?’’

If Draco Malfoy finds it odd (and ironic) that Hermione Granger is leaving the Ministry before him at four thirty in the afternoon, he doesn’t let on. He just hums in the affirmative. 

‘‘Good night, Granger.’’

‘‘Good night, Malfoy.’’

Chapter Text

The café is a cosy little establishment just down Carnaby street, tucked away from the chaos of West End London. It’s rustic and quiet, with only a few patrons peppering the pink round tables on that Saturday morning; one of them is Hermione, sitting by the window, watching the pedestrians walk by.

And waiting for Lavender.

After a lengthy back-and-forth to find a date that suited the two of them, and preferring to let the business of the holidays pass, they finally agreed to meet for a coffee halfway through January. It’s the first time they’ll see each other since they were both eighteen, and Hermione feels butterflies taking flight in her stomach. It’s not only nervousness; she’s also excited for it. Coming from weeks of prostration, ever since that twentieth of December, Hermione’s eager to shake her melancholy off by distracting herself with more mundane things. She wants, she needs, to fight the sorrow that has been plaguing her days. She knows she’s the only one who can do this for herself. 

She’s even met with Neville and his improbable circle of mates one more time. The previous Friday Hermione had swallowed her reluctance and showed up at the Porcelain Pixie on their regular nights out, willing to try again. It surely went better than the first time, especially since Malfoy and her have finally improved their relationship and Zabini mercifully left her alone, and yet it still wasn’t Hermione’s cup of tea. She couldn’t help but still put her walls up, unable to relax among the group.

She thinks that a one-on-one meeting in a calm place, without the pressure of having to act a certain way or make herself heard above the booming surrounding noise, has much more of a chance to succeed. Particularly when she’s so inclined to make it happen as she presently is. She wants this to go well, and she’s determined to make a new friend. 

She looks around the café, weaving a hand through her hair and sweeping it to the left side. She smiles at a friendly waitress when they make eye contact before returning her attention to the window. She sees another couple of people stroll by and the front door open and close, but she doesn’t spot Lavender. It’s only five minutes past, anyway, so the witch is hardly considered lat-

‘‘Hey, Hermione.’’

Hermione startles, swivelling her neck and glancing up to the woman standing next to her table. The woman she had not noticed approaching her. The woman who looks like anyone but Lavender Brown.

Hermione remembers what happened to her in the Battle of Hogwarts. She remembers the horrific sight of Fenrir Greyback savaging her pretty face then leaving her behind to die. Hermione also remembers hearing about Lavender’s recovery in the year after the battle, the months and months she had to stay in St Mungo’s fighting for her life, which in the end still had her suffering from after-effects. Hermione expected, thus, to find a war victim today. Someone whose skin told a story of pain and violence.

That’s not the case at all. Lavender is more beautiful than what Hermione can recall from their school days. Her dirty blond hair no longer falls heavy to her waist but it’s rather styled in a pixie cut, which gracefully befits her heart-shaped face. One thick, long scar threads from her left eyebrow all the way down to the right side of her chin, but the blemish isn’t blotched or ugly - it makes Lavender look fierce instead. And her appearance is completed by a bright grin that transforms her from striking to absolutely lovely.

Hermione blinks, feeling gobsmacked for a moment, but in the next she stands up.

‘‘Lavender.’’

They don’t hesitate in hugging each other tightly, fifteen years vanishing just like that.

‘‘I’m so glad we’re doing this.’’ Lavender tells her when they take their seats across from each other.

‘‘Me too. I wish I had written to you ages ago.’’ 

‘‘I wish I had written to you first.’’ They laugh at one another, moods light and happy. Lavender takes a quick glance around the establishment. ‘‘This is such a nice place you picked. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.’’

Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘Not at all. I was not even five minutes sitting when you arrived. And thanks.’’ She grins, taking her own peek at their surroundings. ‘‘I love it here, too. I just found this café, like, a couple months ago, and completely by accident. So it was the first thing that came to mind when you suggested meeting for coffee. But anyway, it’s crazy how-’’ Hermione’s interrupted by the friendly waitress coming by their table to take their order. The woman does it swiftly and when they’re alone again, she resumes her train of thought. ‘‘It’s so nice to see you after all this time, Lavender. I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since Hogwarts. I mean, not even running by accident into each other somewhere in Magical London, how’s that possible?’’

The blonde chuckles in response. ‘‘I don’t suppose we navigate the same social circles for that to happen.’’

‘‘Yeah, I guess not. A shame, really. But tell me, how have you been?’’

Hermione thinks the girl’s smile dims just a little at the question. ‘‘I’m okay. You know how it goes. Always having to swim on, right?’’

‘‘Right.’’ Hermione nods in understanding. ‘‘Tell me about it. Life can be a real bitch sometimes, can it? Never going the way we want it to go.’’

‘‘Mhm, that’s definitely true. But you know what else is true? Most times that’s exactly how it's meant to be. Even when it sucks.’’ She folds her hands on top of the table, piercing Hermione’s soul with her clear blue gaze. ‘‘As to you, I say good for you. You’re better off without him anyway.’’

The waitress chooses this moment to bring their cappuccinos and it’s a relief; Hermione feels choked with Lavender’s unexpected words, throat promptly closing and eyes flooding. Albeit the fact that everyone around her knows what happened - her Ministry coworkers, her other acquaintances and former friends - no one dares to mention it to her. No one’s brave enough to put it into words, even when she knows they all read it in the paper. She sees it in their faces, though, their pity and at times sheer awkwardness to have to deal with someone who has been casted off so publicly. But no one has ever directly addressed the elephant in the room except for Zabini the other night. And that had been so invasive, so afflictive to Hermione, that having somebody else daring to do it again but in such a dextrous, kind manner this time around - it touches her. 

When the employee finally leaves them, Hermione has already managed to swipe the back of her wrist over her face, and inhaled and exhaled deeply until she felt herself becoming steady again. She grabs the hot mug and takes a sip as she glances at Lavender.

‘‘Thank you. I whole-heartedly agree.’’

They trade smiles, falling into a brief comfortable silence while they drink their coffees. Although Lavender doesn’t stop looking at her, Hermione doesn’t feel judged or assessed; she doesn’t feel like she did when she met Neville and his Slytherins, plus Susan, at the pub. All she feels is that Lavender is there to see her.

She sees her, too. As such, Hermione takes note of the careful way she carries herself and the slight face she had made when she sat down.

‘‘How’s your health?’’

The other woman shrugs. ‘‘It’s- it’s quite the same as it’s been for the past fifteen years. Nothing’s changed. I still have to go to St Mungo’s three times a week to get the treatment.’’

‘‘The treatment?’’

‘‘For the after-effects of the attack.’’

‘‘Oh. Wow, still? For how long will you need to keep doing it?’’

‘‘I’ll have to do it for the rest of my life.’’

Hermione blows air out of her mouth, unable to imagine how dreadful such a perspective must be like. ‘‘Jesus. But how’s your quality of life? Does the treatment allow you to do everything a regular person would?’’

‘‘Well… In theory, yes. But I have a lot of pain, and I get fatigued quickly. So I avoid doing certain things, like straining exercises or staying up late. I do need a lot of rest.’’

‘‘How about work?’’

Lavender smiles, and there’s a tinge of sadness to it. ‘‘I’m not working at the moment. I used to work at a cosmetic boutique in Chudley, but the long hours eventually wore me down. It’s very tiring for me to stand on my feet for long periods of time or, if I’m being quite honest, to just be out and about regardless of whether I stand or sit. It just- it always drains me, leaving the house for more than a couple hours. So, yeah. Lately I haven’t done much, really just relying on my parents to support me.’’ She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. ‘‘You know I’ve never been the studious type. If I had been more like you and become some sort of a scholar, perhaps I could have still managed to find a job that allowed me to stay in and remain productive, even in my situation.’’

She says the last part as a humorous quip, evidently trying to make light of her circumstances. Hermione smiles back but her heart aches. ‘‘That sounds tough. I’m so sorry that this happened to you, Lavender.’’

‘‘I’m sorry this happened to me, too. Fucking werewolf.’’

They can’t help but laugh at this, somewhat relieved that they can share their tragedies without feeling too sorry for themselves. It feels restorative, and Hermione is so glad that she reached out to the girl.

She really should have done it sooner.

‘‘But how’s your work?’’ Lavender changes topics. ‘‘Are you still an Auror at the DMLE?’’

‘‘I am.’’ Hermione replies, taking a bite of the biscuit accompanying her cappuccino. ‘‘How did you know that?’’

Lavender rolls her eyes playfully. ‘‘Like The Daily Prophet could shut up for a second when the Golden Trio decided to follow the Auror programme of the Ministry.’’

Hermione chuckles. ‘‘Ah, of course. The goddamn Daily Prophet. But, yeah, I’m still at the DMLE. I’m a senior Auror now, and for the past years I’ve been acting as an investigative officer, so a lot more of paperwork than field work.’’

‘‘That’s good, right? Isn’t it more your style?’’

‘‘It definitely is. I do really like my job, even now with- Erm, what I mean is that all’s fine. I’m happy with my job.’’

Lavender sips on her cup, eyes squinting knowingly. ‘‘Even now with what?’’

Hermione grins, shaking her head. It’s like they’ve been friends forever. Not even Ginny was able to pick up on her unsaid words, or her reticence surrounding something relatively delicate. She doesn’t recall Lavender being this perceptive back at Hogwarts, a time when she appeared to be much busier enjoying her teenage years in fun and silliness instead (as one should). Hermione supposes that life gave her no other option but to become sharper.

It makes Hermione feel comfortable enough to share anything with her.

‘‘I have a new partner.’’

‘‘Oh? And they’re not nice?’’

‘‘He’s Draco Malfoy.’’

Lavender’s mouth falls, forming a cute O as she takes in what Hermione tells her. Next, she grimaces.

‘‘Ouch. That must be something.’’

Finally someone who appreciates her dilemma. Hermione was starting to think she was crazy for finding her predicament complicated, to say the very least, considering all the history and bad blood between Malfoy and her. Thank Circe she’s not the only one to see it. 

‘‘It is. But we’re working on our partnership. On making it smoother.’’

Lavender hums. ‘‘And how’s he now? I haven’t heard Draco Malfoy’s name in years, if I stop to think about it. I didn’t even know he was an Auror.’’

‘‘He’s alright.’’ Hermione is not lying. The past few weeks have shown her that, despite still being a very specific type of bloke, Malfoy is not as unbearable as she used to think. Especially after their- well, not heart-to-heart, since Hermione was the one talking and he just kind of let her, but since their more personal conversation in the conference room the day before New Year’s Eve, something’s shifted between them. His devotion to his deceased wife, even all those years later, told Hermione a story of someone who loved deeply and stayed by their spouse’s side until the very end. It told Hermione that while Malfoy can be a giant prick to people he doesn’t care for, he’s loyal to those he does. And that told her that perhaps they’re not all that different from each other after all. Hermione can acknowledge that. And, too, the fact that her partner has stayed true to his word and hasn’t done anything again behind her back or to make her feel disrespected by him. It has made a huge difference in their working relationship. ‘‘He’s very good at what he does. But he’s sort of a lone wolf. He’s always worked alone, so he struggles oftentimes in being partnered with another person.’’ The understatement of the century, but okay. Hermione’s trying to stay positive today. ‘‘For the first couple months it was hell. We fought every day. But now… It’s going better.’’

Lavender snorts. ‘‘I can only imagine. Merlin, Malfoy was the worst at school. And after everything he did to you, after everything his family did!’’ She shrugs one shoulder, finishing off her coffee and putting the mug down on the saucer. ‘‘I know those times were mental and that we shouldn’t judge people’s mistakes during it, but I find it really hard to forgive those who fought against us. Irrespective of their reason. I never wanted to fight a war either, but I didn’t have an option, did I? And seeing so many of them walk away free, able to start over as if nothing happened, as if they hadn’t made the wrong choice, while I must live the rest of my life carrying the weight of my choice literally on my skin… It doesn’t strike me as fair, is all.’’

It’s not. It’s everything but fair.

Hermione extends her hand to rest on top of Lavender’s on the table. ‘‘It’s not your duty to forgive anyone. You don’t have to be compassionate or- or clement. Fuck that. Only you know what the war meant to you. Only you know what it has cost you. And nobody can demand anything else from you.’’

The blonde witch nods, serious. ‘‘The same applies to you, Hermione. So how can you work with him? Have you forgiven him?’’

‘‘I have. A long time ago. But that doesn't mean I’ve forgotten.’’ She squeezes the palm beneath hers. ‘‘I don’t need to like Malfoy or be nice to him in order to do my job. It’s something I’ve learned in these past months and that I always tell myself whenever things get bad. But more than that…’’ Hermione hesitates, gaze straying to the salon behind Lavender’s back, becoming unfocused as she absently surveys the paced movement of the café. She thinks of Malfoy and everything she came to know about him in recent times. She looks back at Lavender. ‘‘Malfoy didn’t get to walk away free and start over as if nothing happened. He paid his price, Lavender. And he’s still paying it. His life has not been easy at all. And I guess… Well, I guess that makes me a little more sympathetic to him in the end.’’

Lavender smacks her lips. ‘‘Well, then, I’m glad his life is hard now. He had it easy for far too long; it was about time he reaped what he sowed.’’

Her face is resolute as she says it, eyes shining fierce, and Hermione realises that gone is the bubbly girl who used to spend half of her time flirting with their Hogwarts classmates and the other half giggling up and down the castle. Lavender Brown has endured more than one should have had to, and now in her place is a tough woman turned into steel by life.

The corrections officer is massively late, and Hermione can’t stop her right foot from tapping on the floor impatiently. Next to her, Malfoy is still like a frozen ice statue, regal face staring ahead, devoid of any emotion. She wishes she could be as composed as him but it’s an impossible mission. She’s one instant away from climbing the walls with frustration.

Where the hell is the man? He should have been there half an hour ago. The Wizengamot Detention Centre granted the prisoner to be removed from their custody for only two hours, which by itself is already very little. Every second that goes by is their time slipping through their fingers; it’s less time they have to squeeze information out of the suspect.

Hermione sighs, looking sideways to Malfoy, wondering what's going on in his head. He hates tardiness as much as she does and yet he looks entirely unbothered. She weighs if she should just ask him but before she reaches a decision, the metal door to their right opens and in walks the person they had been waiting for.

‘‘Oh, hiya. How’s it goin’? I haven’t kept you waitin’ long, have I?’’ The short, round man has the gall to wink at Hermione, leaning against the ajar door as he talks cheerfully to them.

Hermione wants nothing more than to hex his bollocks off, but she settles herself. ‘‘Good afternoon. I believe our appointment was at two o’clock, sir. But it’s no matter.’’ She doesn’t want to waste another single precious second. ‘‘Can you take us to the prisoner, please?’’

The officer’s cheeky grin doesn’t falter for even a moment. ‘‘Right this way, miss.’’ 

She glances at Malfoy as she starts to follow the wizard, to try again and gauge his reaction. Still the same. Stony expression, shoulders straight, cold attitude. Their eyes meet, though, for a brief instant and there she finds his hot annoyance. She looks down, smiling to herself, and hurries to catch up with the tardy bastard. 

He takes them down the broad corridor from where he came, passing by several interrogation rooms before he stops in one of the last. He grabs the bunch of keys that had jangled by his side the entire way there, hanging from a loop in his belt, and scans one by one until he finds the right set. He inserts the key in the lock, tapping his wand against the wooden surface at the same time he whispers an incantation under his breath, and the door automatically swings open for them.

He takes a step back, smiling magnanimous. ‘‘There you go, miss.’’

Hermione returns the smile though she would much prefer smacking him. ‘‘Thank you.’’

She enters the interrogation room where the familiar tall, grey-haired man slumps by a lumpy bench, the picture of despondency. She hears Malfoy walking in behind her, shutting the door, and she places the folder she had brought with her on the table in between the Aurors and the prisoner. 

‘‘Good afternoon, John. How are you doing today?’’ 

He doesn’t reply, but she hadn’t expected him to. Out of the three wizards Malfoy had captured together with Hudson and MacFayden in early December, John Catrall has been the one who has cooperated the least with the authorities. In the previous two interrogations, he has barely said more than a handful of sentences to them, refusing to give the DMLE any useful information whatsoever. 

However, Hermione is not discouraged. She checks the magical clock on the wall; they have another hour and twenty four minutes to go. Damn her if she won’t make the best out of it.

She takes a seat by one of the metal chairs in front of the table, waiting until Malfoy does the same by her side before she charms an Instantaneous Quill to record the current session. When that’s done, she looks at him, finding his eyes already on her. She gestures to him to go ahead.

Malfoy clears his throat. ‘‘Have you reflected on the offer we presented to you last time?’’

Catrall remains silent.

‘‘It’s a generous offer, Catrall. And all you have to do is provide one name. That’s all.’’ 

Nothing.

‘‘Or a location.’’ Hermione pipes in. ‘‘Tell us the address of another one of your facilities, and we’ll consider it cooperation enough.’’

The man keeps on looking down, eyes casted depressingly on the footer of the wall.

Malfoy shifts on his chair. ‘‘You should be smart about this, Catrall. Your situation is looking very bleak right now.’’ When there’s still no response, her partner presses. ‘‘You know you’re looking at twenty to twenty five years in Azkaban if you refuse to cooperate and the Wizengamot charges you the full sentence for your crimes, don’t you?’’

At that, the prisoner’s eyes regain focus. Hermione only notices it because she had been staring attentively at him, mapping his every movement. She also sees his mouth moving slightly, as if he’s mumbling something to himself.

‘‘What was that?’’ She asks, leaning closer.

He mumbles something again but doesn’t look up.

‘‘John, you can tell us anything. We’re here to help you. Just give us something, and we’ll plead your case for you.’’

Another mutter but this time Hermione can discern a few words here and there. 

‘‘-told us. Look at them-’’ 

‘‘-like expected, innit, of course, yeah.’’

‘‘-small and petty, always petty but nah-’’

Hermione exchanges glances with Malfoy, both of them holding their silences in hopes of picking up more of what the prisoner’s saying. But after some more indistinguishable murmuring, Catrall falls quiet again.

‘‘Would you like to repeat that a little louder, please?’’

It’s a weak effort to get him to talk, yet Hermione tries anyway. When once more the wizard only stares down unmoving, she sighs and resorts to what they had done the last two times. She flicks her wand and a few images appear on the floor, in the spot to where the suspect gawks. It’s pictures of people and places; an assortment of photos of criminals they know for a fact are involved in the Essex gang and of sites they have confirmed to be part of their operations, together with others of which they only suspect. They hope by doing this that perhaps Catrall will unwittingly react to something they force him to look at, pointing thus to a new discovery. 

They go through the whole process twice, cataloguing each motion out of him. They don’t get much, so their next attempt at rousing the man is to start rambling, rattling facts that they know to be both right and wrong to see if then he’ll react to something.

About less than five minutes before the time slot for their interrogation ends, after everything else fails, Hermione has an idea. She thinks back to what they said earlier that got him to mumble. ‘‘We are here to help you, John. You know that, right? We only want to understand what’s happening and how we can stop it. We just want to help people, to prevent them from getting hurt.’’ Nothing again. She tries another route. ‘‘But you need to cooperate with us. It’s the third time we’ve come to talk to you and silence is the only thing we’ve been getting. You know you need to do your part, don’t you? You need to give us something, anything.’’ He stays mute, gaze glued to the floor. The clock ticks: one minute left. Hermione attempts her final shot. ‘‘We’re not looking for common people like you, John. It’s not you that we’re interested in. Actually, we want you to get the minimum sentence possible so you can start your life again on the right path, away from the gang. We don’t have any interest in having you locked up for any longer than necessary. All we want is to stop what’s happening, and to protect society. The Wizengamot is willing to mitigate sentences of prisoners who-’’

Dark, brown eyes lifting in sudden sharpness have the words dying on Hermione’s throat. 

Catrall looks straight into her eyes for the first time since they walked in. Perhaps for the first time since they started their interrogation sessions back in December. His stare is unwavering on her - and surprisingly lucid.

‘‘Fuck you, madame. That’s all I gotta say to you.’’

Hermione blinks.

And then the door behind her opens and the short, round corrections officer is back.

‘‘Time’s up, lads. Very sorry but orders are orders. Howay, old man.’’ He closes a palm over the forearm of the prisoner, hoisting him up and dragging him out the room. ‘‘A good afternoon to you two.’’ The officer tells the Aurors before whisking Catrall away.

After they’re gone through the doorway, Hermione swirls in her seat toward Malfoy. ‘‘What in Godric’s name was that?’’

Her partner shakes his head, a haggard hand running through his golden locks the only thing betraying his well-kept frustration. ‘‘No idea. I expected many things to happen today, but him saying that to you was certainly not one of them.’’

Hermione sighs, looking away from him and to the wall in front of her, frowning as she tries to recall the exact words that were exchanged. ‘‘It was something we said that prickled him. He was completely unresponsive until- until something. What was it that we said?’’

‘‘That we’ll help him get his sentence shortened?’’

‘‘No, I don’t think it was that.’’ 

She hums, mind turning. She told Catrall a few things in her last rant, most of which went by unnoticed by him. Except for the last part. Her last sentence about-

She looks at Malfoy again. ‘‘Do you think there’s something to do with the Wizengamot? I’m thinking now… Both times we mentioned it, first you then me, Catrall reacted in some sort of way.’’

Malfoy knits his brows. ‘‘It could be. I mean, it’s no wonder that prisoners don’t like the Wizengamot. They always dread hearing about them.’’

‘‘Nah, it’s not that. At least it’s not only that.’’ Hermione glances down to the folder on the table, flipping its pages aimlessly as she tries to articulate her thoughts. ‘‘He wasn’t just upset to hear us mention the institution. Just the name of it was enough to literally wake him up from his slumber. I mean, it made him curse at me, didn’t it? So it was more than just the fact that he doesn’t like the people who will pass his sentence.’’

‘‘Then what, Granger? What are you thinking?’’

‘‘I don’t know. It doesn’t add up.’’ She sighs again, throwing the folder closed, a little in vexation. ‘‘This case is driving me mad. Nothing in it makes sense.’’

At that, Malfoy rolls his eyes. He stands up, getting himself ready to leave. ‘‘Let’s not read too much into the odd behaviour of an erratic, old criminal, alright? That doesn’t affect our case at all. We still know what we’re doing and what we’re looking for.’’

Packing her things, Hermione follows her partner out of the interrogation room, down the broad corridor and back to their Level, in silence. She feels more conflicted about it each day; she still thinks there’s something really wrong with the case, and with the pieces of evidence that keep falling on their laps, but she still doesn’t feel comfortable to share her doubts with Malfoy. The minute she mentions her reservations, like she just did about the prisoner’s behaviour possibly meaning that something might be afoot, he dismisses her. 

He’s deep in his tunnel vision, and there’s barely anything she can do at this point to rouse him out of it. If at least she had more concrete proof to show him other than her gut feeling - he’d probably laugh at her face if she told him how she feels like they’re cruising through the case too suspiciously. He probably wouldn’t even let her finish her reasoning.

At the Auror Headquarters, they stop by his workstation. 

Taking his chair, Malfoy immediately gets to the interrogation’s transcription. His quill dances furiously over the parchment, putting down in words his memories of what had just transpired. Hermione quietly places the paper containing the Instantaneous Quill’s record on top of his desk, careful to not disturb him. She’s learned not to bother him when he’s in such a modus operandi; although they already have a perfectly good transcript of the session, Malfoy prefers to have his own recounting of the events, adding thoughts and remarks to the dialogues that have taken place. 

She waits leaning against his desk, arms crossed and gaze locked on the wall ahead, until he’s finished with it. Her mind has wandered away, as usual, trying to unsuccessfully connect the dots outside her reach. 

‘‘Done.’’ Malfoy fishes her attention back after a few minutes, waving the parchment in front of her eyes. Hermione blinks, stirring from her reverie, and accepts the transcription.

She reads it quickly. ‘‘It’s good.’’ She returns it to him, and he proceeds to attach it to the last page of the case file, together with the one created by the Instantaneous Quill. 

‘‘What are you thinking about?’’ He asks when Hermione becomes quiet again.

‘‘Nothing.’’ She shrugs. ‘‘Just how strange this whole thing was.’’

‘‘You’re not bothered because Catrall cursed at you, are you?’’

Hermione snorts, giving Malfoy a side-eye. ‘‘Please. Like it’s the first time someone’s told me to go fuck myself at work.’’

He looks unimpressed. ‘‘Regardless. The way you’re obsessed with keeping everyone happy the entire time, I wouldn’t put it past you to worry about a suspect being upset with you.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’ Hermione baulks, turning on his workstation to stare fully at her partner. ‘‘I’m obsessed with keeping everyone happy?’’

‘‘You are, Granger.’’

‘‘I literally have no friends because I told them all off on their shit.’’

Malfoy rolls his eyes. ‘‘You know that’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is that you’re the most bull-headed, impatient person I know and yet at work you’re all smiles to everyone around, the queen of fake pleasantries.’’ He pauses, clocking in her affronted face. ‘‘No offence.’’

‘‘Well, very much taken. First of all, I’m not the most bull-headed, impatient person you know.’’ Hermione narrows her eyes at him. ‘‘We both know that’s you. Second, fake pleasantries do not equate to wanting to keep everyone happy the whole time. What I do is try to create a rapport with important people, people who we need in order to do our job well. I’m not gonna scowl my way through sixty plus hours of work a week, thank you very much.’’

‘‘Bullshit.’’ Malfoy says, but surprisingly there’s no bite to it. ‘‘There was no need to grin and chat with the insufferable corrections officer who obstructed our session today. He was inexcusably late and you were still nice to him. There was no need for that. He means absolutely nothing to our work here. So why did you put a smile on your face and pretended everything was fine?’’

‘‘Because what good would it do to us to be rude to him? What was done was done. Calling him out would only prolong the interaction, making us waste even more time with him. I wasn’t aiming to keep him happy. I was literally just trying to be efficient and to get away from him as fast as I could.’’

Malfoy grunts. ‘‘I still don’t think that was necessary. You could’ve just-’’

‘‘Glared and stuck my nose up?’’ She supplies the words, smirking at him. ‘‘How’s that been working out for you so far, eh? Is being a moody prat who can’t even muster a smile to his coworkers doing wonders for your career?’’ It’s a rhetorical question so she doesn’t wait for an answer. She shakes her head, straightening herself away from his desk. Although this is the longest they have bickered in the past many weeks, following a commendable streak of attempting to maintain the peace with each other, Hermione feels different about this. They’re not just insulting one another, or trying to provoke the other until they lose their head. Despite the harsh words, this conversation feels much more like exactly that: a conversation, and not an argument. It’s probably because of that that Hermione adds some private opinions. ‘‘There’s nothing wrong with pretending, Malfoy. I’m not just being fake; I’m being professional. Do you really think I’d have gotten as far as I have if I hadn’t schmoozed people on my way here? Do you really think I’d be, in your words, everyone’s favourite if I hadn’t been rational about my behaviour, instead of letting my dislikes get the best of me? Or don’t even take me, take Mackenzie. You know how smooth she is. You know how good she is at doing politics. And would you say she’s a phoney just because she knows how to play her hand? It’s the reason she’s the Head Deputy in the first place. It’s being smart, not fake or wanting to keep everyone happy the entire time. She still sets down her boundaries and doesn’t accept shit from people. Like I do, too.’’ Hermione sighs. ‘‘Perhaps with not as much dexterity as her, but still. What I’m trying to say is that being nice to people pays off. Helping them helps us. Do you understand what I mean?’’

Malfoy stares at her, laser focused on her explanation. She stares back when she’s done speaking, expectantly but unsure of what his reaction will be.

After a long moment, he averts his eyes. ‘‘I never said you were a phoney.’’

Hermione scoffs. ‘‘Really? That’s what you have to s-’’

‘‘I do understand what you mean.’’ He cuts her off. He doesn’t look at her again as he shrugs. ‘‘It’s just that it’s a bit of whiplash. To see so many sides of you all at once. Sometimes I think I don’t get you at all.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

It’s information odd enough to render her wordless. Hermione wrecks her brain for something to say to that, but first she would have to know how to construe such a comment before she can know how to respond to it. 

She falls short on both accounts. ‘‘Erm, sorry?’’

It works to diffuse the tension. Malfoy rolls his eyes, returning to his dismissive self. ‘‘Honestly, Granger. Just go back to your desk. We have work to do.’’

Hermione doesn’t know what else to do but obey him.

In the last week of January, Hermione decides to start a new hobby, as per one of her many New Year’s resolutions. She had just taken a long walk across the dog park near her flat where she watched several people stretching and meditating on a particularly isolated clearing of the grounds, and so as soon as she’s back home she promises herself to begin doing Pilates every Sunday at sunset, to oxygenate her brain and de-rust her muscles. She’d also welcome the peace that appears to overcome those who sit idly in nature, letting their body and mind recharge without hurry.

In the first week of February, Hermione finds herself a perfectly good spot in the quiet clearing, extending a coverlet on the grass and sitting down in the lotus position. She had learned a few exercises in the past few days for that exact purpose and she gets promptly to them, willing her head to become empty and her limbs to flex through the different poses. Within five minutes, though, Hermione has entirely given up the task, having instead come up with a lengthy list of things she needs to get done in the upcoming days.

Before she could stop herself she had conjured (after double-checking there wasn’t indeed any Muggles in her surroundings) a comfy sweater, a parchment, a quill and an ink pot. If she’s being completely honest, Pilates might not be for her. She should just stick to power-walking whenever she feels the need to expend her pent-up energy, or when she feels like her body is yearning for some movement. Sitting in silence and folding herself up and down does nothing for her; immediately her mind wanders and boredom seeps in. Hermione should just accept that she was not made to be a relaxed, peaceful woman.

Rather, she prefers to remain practical. And productive. She has so much to do in the next fortnight.

First of all, she needs to finish the pamphlets. Despite Cazalvara’s astonishing negligence toward the initiative, Hermione takes her appointment to design the customised leaflets seriously; the Home Safe, Outside Too campaign is a very important enterprise considering how insecure Londoners have started to feel lately. She’d been thrilled when she was selected to lead the programme, but with the tribulations of the Zimcooke case in the past few weeks, Hermione has overlooked not only this but also her other assignments. 

Not anymore, she decides as she leans against a large tree trunk, working on her to-do list.

She jolts down in the parchment that her number one priority of the following week is, thus, to conclude the sketches and take it to the Head of the Magical Enforcement Patrol no later than Friday. Next on her list is to reply to the birthday party invitation she got from one of her DMLE colleagues, excusing herself from attending it since she has absolutely no intention to go to bloody Scotland in two weeks time for a bender with people she much prefers to remain strictly professional. Item number three is to go grocery shopping; her cupboards are ridiculously empty and she can’t keep ordering takeaway every goddamn night. Her bank account is already suffering from it. Ah, the bank. She timely remembers she needs to pay Gringotts a visit - she writes it down, as well.

Finally, there are two letters she must write. Well, not that she must write, but it would be a good thing if she did. 

First, to Lavender. Their coffee meeting had been a couple of weeks ago, and Hermione does not wish to let too much time pass for their instant connection to grow cold. And she just wants to see the girl again, simple as that. It had been a blast to catch up with her in the café, and Hermione’s eager to repeat the experience. After a lot of thought, she decides to invite Lavender to accompany her in her quest to find a fetching but formal evening gown. On the tenth of March, as it happens every single year, the Ministry Gala will take place and Hermione’s presence is mandatory. In thirteen years she’s managed to skip it once, and only because she was at home in bed with Black Cat Flu. She doubts she will be so lucky again, so it’s wiser of her to get already prepared for the dreadful event, even more so this year that she’s attending it alone for the first time in her life. She wants, therefore, to at least look good. She won’t settle for a patched-up, reused dress found buried somewhere in the depths of her closet, as she tended to do in the previous occasions. This time she will make an effort, if only to feel a little better about herself.

And who is more fitting to help her with the whole ordeal than a new friend who used to work at a cosmetic boutique and obviously has a much better sense of style than Hermione?

Yes, Lavender’s letter will be swiftly written the minute she gets back home. The other one she will address to Neville.

Ever since they resumed their friendship, they have only met twice: both times at the pub together with the other people Hermione wasn’t quite expecting to meet. And although she knows her reticence with the Slytherins has much more to do with her own unresolved issues than with them specifically, she regrets not being able to really spend time with Neville as she had intended to do all those weeks ago when she bucked up and wrote to him after so long. Even if she becomes less reluctant to enjoy her nights at the Porcelain Pixie with the bigger group, Hermione misses not having the opportunity to sit down and have a real conversation with him - just him.

And perhaps Parkinson, too. 

After all, Hermione can’t expect to become closer to the man if she doesn’t strive to get along with his fiancé too. 

So without letting herself second-guess this, afraid she’ll get cold feet, Hermione conjures another parchment and sets to already cross the last item of her to-do list.

Dear Neville,

How are you? I’ve been meaning to invite you for an outing for some time, but work’s kept me busy. I’d love to be able to meet just us so we can really catch up about all those years we spent away from each other. And, of course, Pansy is very much welcome. I’d also love to get to know her better.

So what do you say we go out for dinner next Saturday? Have you ever been to The Willow? It’s a franchise of a great restaurant I once went to in Hogsmeade, but they also have a place in Soho. What do you think? If you’re busy that night I’m more than open to find another date that suits the three of us. Let me know anything!

Yours,

Hermione

In the second week of February, when she gets a positive reply to both letters, Hermione decides to skip the whole Pilates-fiasco altogether and just stick to her apparent new favourite hobby: putting herself constantly out there with practically strangers in the hopes of making a new friend out of them.

Chapter Text

‘‘Can I get you something, Auror Granger? A coffee or tea? I’m sure we have scones somewhere inside, would you like one? Or perhaps another type of pastry or- or refreshment?’’

Hermione schools her expression, turning around to face the young patrol officer. ‘‘Louie, right?’’ When he nods eagerly, she smiles. ‘‘Thank you, Louie, but I’m okay right now.’’

‘‘Oh, right. Well, let me know anything, Auror Granger. Anything you want or need, I’m on it. You only need to say the word.’’

‘‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’’

The lad finally leaves her side, rushing to the magically-enlarged Ministry tent in the outside border of the patch they’re in. Hermione shakes her head and as she does it, she catches sight of an awfully amused-looking Malfoy a few feet away from her.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘I didn’t say anything.’’

She knows better than to prompt him, so she spins on her heels and resumes her inspection of the surrounding area. Of course, a man like Malfoy doesn’t actually need prompting. 

‘‘I just find it funny,’’ he begins, oh-so-casually, and Hermione just knows what he’s going to say. She’s right. ‘‘You couldn’t stop going on and on about that one time that girl, the junior Auror, I forget her name now, was trying to be helpful, wher-’’

‘‘Don’t be a snob, her name is Jenny Mills.’’

‘‘-whereas the lad was literally ready to lick the sole of your boot, and I’m not supposed to notice the double standards?’’

Hermione sighs, turning around again, this time to her partner. ‘‘What double standards, you absolute prat?’’

His grin is unscrupulously wide. Hermione wonders if the roles reversed and now he’s the one needing to complete his annoying-Granger quota of the day. ‘‘Well, when a young woman tries to get my attention, I’m supposed to feel flattered, according to you, since that’s what all men desire. So if it’s the other way around, and a puppy of a boy is desperate to please you, shouldn’t I be able to comment on how thrilled you must certainly be, too?’’

‘‘Am I keeping you from commenting? By all means, go ahead. Make all the jokes you want, I don’t mind. The boy was indeed almost salivating. It deserves being made fun of.’’ She pauses, letting the moment stretch in silence, and when Malfoy falters, not having expected it, she smirks. ‘‘It doesn’t work both ways, idiot. A young man fretting about an older woman will never carry the same weight as the other way around, just like an older woman couldn’t care less about the attention of a child. Unfortunately, as we all know, the opposite isn’t true, and grown men will absolutely take advantage of naïve, inexperienced girls.’’

‘‘I’m aware of that, Granger. If you can recall, that’s exactly what I pointed out to you that day.’’

‘‘Precisely. Which is why you should know better than to try and make a comparison out of this. But if you feel you must,’’ she shrugs, gesturing with her hands for him to proceed. ‘‘Be my guest.’’

He holds her gaze, grin gone. He’s the one annoyed now. And she simply adores the fact that she’s able to wipe the smirk out of his face so damn easily.

‘‘Whatever, Granger.’’ He grunts. She chuckles, pleased with her small win, and he shoots daggers at her. ‘‘Also, the name-calling is getting out of control. Imagine if it was the other way around.’’

He’s barely finished with his sentence and he realises what he said. He grimaces while she plunges in. ‘‘Again, not the same. Would you like me to explain why?’’

‘‘No. You absolute prat.’’

That makes her laugh, so in response he grunts something unintelligible as he walks away, moving to the contrary side of the clearing. Hermione shakes her head, making an effort to clear it and go back to a serious mode. She takes a deep breath before returning to what she had been doing previously to being interrupted.

It’s a break-in situation. They received a report of a burglary just outside the metropolitan area of the city, in a rural Magical settlement where a couple live with their two underaged children. Whilst this type of offence would usually fall under the jurisdiction of the patrol squad, the DMLE was called in because of the unusual circumstances revolving around the crime. Despite the trespassing, nothing of value has been stolen except for some experimental elixirs that the father kept in a Ministry-approved potions lab. Naturally, the simple mention of elixirs was enough to catch Hermione’s and her partner’s attention.

It could very well relate to the Zimcooke case and so they have taken the investigation over, overriding the MPE’s authority. 

They have already inspected the interior of the large house, including the aforementioned laboratory, and are now covering the outdoors, searching for potential evidence that might clarify the robbery. Or, at least, how the owners’ wards were triggered by the invasion and yet didn’t function to keep the perpetrators away. They had briefly talked to the couple when they arrived, to inquire after the most relevant information, but their formal questioning will be done at the Aurors Headquarters when they’re through with examining the crime scene. For now, the proprietors are being handled by a couple of patrol officers, including Eager Louie, while Hermione and Malfoy conduct their preliminary site investigation.

Hermione is attending to the North and West areas of the grounds and Malfoy the other two. There’s not much to find on her side, though, the wide green pathway nearly clear of any residue of magic. She invokes the protocol list of forensic spells to reveal the vestiges that someone unauthorised was there but, other than that, it’s unclear how many of them were, how they got in, and what type of spellwork they used. She tries a few other incantations, deviating slightly from the DMLE’s standard practice, but that doesn’t unearth anything she didn’t already know either. Sighing, she leaves it be for now, hoping that Malfoy’s had better luck.

One look at his face tells her that he hasn’t.

‘‘Nothing?’’

‘‘No. You?’’

‘‘Nada.’’

‘‘Alright. Should we head back in, then? Perhaps ask the owners a few more questions before we leave?’’

Hermione juts her chin forward. ‘‘Lead the way.’’

They approach the Ministry’s provisional tent, entering it to find the husband finishing the inventory of which potions have been taken while his wife is busy feeding the patrol officers with further details of the morning following the trespassing. Apparently, the two of them had only discovered the robbery as quick as they did because they had returned unexpectedly early from an outing and at once noticed that there was something off with their wards. They weren’t supposed to be back home until the next day, which tells Hermione that the robbers were acquainted enough with them and the place to know the former would be gone and that the latter would be empty and, thus, easier to break in.

It suggests premeditation. It suggests insider knowledge and careful planning. It’s not random that only the experimental elixirs were abducted; that was the exact and sole purpose of the thieves. Which also suggests that this delict is only a preparatory stage for the real objective of the perpetrators, and for the main crime.

That is yet to come.

Hermione’s eyes travel from the wife to the husband, watching him deliver to Louie the parchment where he wrote down the stolen elixirs, then to her partner. Malfoy seems to have arrived at the same conclusion as her. She nods at him and he takes a step forward.

‘‘Mr Patrickson. May I see the list?’’ He addresses the owner of the house, though his gaze is glued to the young patrol officer holding the paper. 

‘‘Erm, of course, Auror Malfoy.’’ The man replies and Malfoy promptly stretches his arm, taking the parchment into his own hands and readily scanning its content.

Hermione trails by his side, curiosity riddling her, keen to learn what type of draughts the man had been brewing in his home lab, but she forces herself to be patient and wait her turn. She stands by in silence until Louie’s partner, another uniform officer whose name Hermione cannot for the life of her recall, crowds her.

‘‘Auror Granger, while you and Auror Malfoy are here I’d like to show you something interesting that we found.’’

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Like Mr and Mrs Patrickson told us, their wards didn’t stop the intrusion but they were still triggered by it. Nevertheless, the signal was delayed, and that’s why they didn’t take note of it until they decided to return home earlier and arrived to see signs of breach. It didn’t make sense initially, I thought, but then we found something that -’’

Halfway through the officer’s speech, Hermione’s peripheral vision detects a few movements from Malfoy: his shoulders stiffen, first, then there’s a slight shake of head; he squints his eyes, returning to the top of the parchment, likely to start it over. There, he appears to remain for longer than necessary.

He’s distracted by the parallel conversation. 

Hermione timely remembers one of their several fights, months ago, in which he mentioned having difficulty concentrating in his reading when people loudly spoke too close to him. Although Hermione had dismissed him then, finding it ludicrous that he expected everyone around to be still as a grave only for his benefit, right now she has no trouble making everything simpler for the lot of them.

She cuts in the rambling of the man next to her. ‘‘Erm, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’’

‘‘It’s Thomas, ma’am.’’

‘‘Right. Well, Thomas, do you mind showing this to me in a moment?’’ As Hermione talks she walks, guiding the patrol officer with a steady palm on his lower back to distance both of them from Malfoy. ‘‘I’d like first to take a look at the list and then discuss it with my partner. When we’re done we’ll come to you, if that’s alright.’’ They reach the tent opening, and the man thankfully gets the hint.

‘‘Of course, Auror Granger. As you wish. Come, Louie.’’

They leave, bringing the couple with them, and a welcome silence falls upon the makeshift Ministry quarter. Hermione uses the opportunity to go find those promised scones.

It takes her a moment to locate them; they are by a floating tray in the back of the tent, accompanied by two thermals. She serves herself some lukewarm coffee, preferring that drink to a half-arsed cup of tea, and grabs a buttermilk scone, taking a healthy bite.

As she helps herself to a second pastry, a shadow looms behind her.

‘‘I’m done. Here.’’ It’s Malfoy, offering her the potions list. Hermione wipes her mouth, cleaning her hand afterward on the back of her work robes, and makes it to accept the parchment. But before she does, Malfoy pulls it back, drawing her eyes up with the movement. ‘‘I know what you did. I appreciate it.’’

He’s all too close and his gaze is far too intense on hers, and Hermione feels a little unsettled for some reason. She clears her throat, willing the feeling away. ‘‘No problem. Coffee?’’

He nods and finally gives her the parchment. ‘‘Thanks.’’

She serves him a cup and, shaking herself off from the foreign emotion, dives straight into the list.

1. EMERALD POTION (half an ounce)

replaced the furor inducens plant-based ingredient with flame clove

2. ANGEL’S TRUMPET DEATH + BULGEYE POTION (2 oz + 1.5 oz)

mix of ingredients for a possible eyesight poison

3. FATIGUING FUSION + SLEEPING DRAUGHT + MEMORYLESS INFUSION (1 oz + 2 oz + 5 oz)

experiment of ingredients to produce an elixir in carbonated form

4. BLOODROOT POTION (0.75 oz)

replaced sanguis fundatur seeds by bezoar

Hermione’s eyebrows rise the longer she reads and by the time she’s finished with the inventory, her forehead is nearly hidden under her hairline. 

Talk about experimenting with black-labelled potions. The catalogue features some of the nastiest draughts of which Hermione has ever heard, and not only that, it conceives a foul blend of two or more as if they alone weren’t capable of causing irreparable harm. She acknowledges that the endeavour seeks to better understand the working of the elixirs in order to create antidotes for them, and that’s why it has been approved by the Ministry, but still she’s somewhat astonished by the perilousness found in the one single piece of parchment.

Looking back to Malfoy, she can only think that this burglary is starting to appear alarmingly more related to the Zimcooke case by the minute.

Her partner seems to follow her chain of thought. He puts his coffee down to face her straight on. ‘‘I have a feeling this is really bad news for us.’’

She wouldn’t be able to differ even if she wanted to. ‘‘Me too. Dreadful list of things to have been stolen. And who’s this man, by the way? Richard Patrickson? I’ve never heard of him. How does he have an authorisation to experiment with such dangerous potions at home?’’

‘‘Haven’t the foggiest.’’

Hermione puffs, looking around for a moment, searching for what she has no idea, as she drains her own paper cup. Placing it next to Malfoy’s, she spurs him. ‘‘Shall we go? I don’t think we’ll find anything else of relevance here. And I prefer to spend my time questioning the husband at the DMLE. I think it will be much more fruitful.’’

Her partner nods in agreement and turns on his heels. Following him, Hermione steps out of the tent and runs into the patrol officers. She’s then reminded of Thomas and his something interesting.

It turns out that he and Louie had encountered, by complete accident, a crooked mirror shard, so small and shredded that it initially escaped the Aurors’ notice. It was lying forgotten under the bushes by the backside of the house. After casting a few detection spells, the officers came to the conclusion that it had some form of Scrying effect that could potentially give way to undetectable teleportation. Which, in turn, could explain how the homebreakers were able to slice through the protective wards without being spotted. 

It’s a slightly far-fetching theory, but Hermione is no longer rejecting any hypotheses at this point. If the current crime indeed has anything to do with the Zimcooke case, not one outlandish conjecture about it could ever surprise her. This case has already removed every last shred of assuredness out of her.

She expresses her appreciation to the uniform officers, promising to investigate their theory in more depth as soon as she’s able, and apparates to the Ministry accompanied by Malfoy and the owners of the house. There, they lead the couple to the DMLE’s interrogation rooms, where the Aurors spend the next two hours thoroughly questioning them about everything they can remember regarding the circumstances around the burglary.

When they’re done, an hour past lunchtime, Hermione and Malfoy thank the Patricksons for their cooperation and tell them that they will let them know when they have any breakthroughs in the case. Returning to their headquarters, the two of them sit across from each other with identical troubled expressions.  

Hermione is the first to talk. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’

Malfoy shakes his head. ‘‘Well, there are a few possibilities. The stolen potions were in too a small quantity to be intended for contraband, so we must assume there was a different purpose to it.’’

‘‘Such as?’’

‘‘Most likely the making of another Dark Arts artefact. Or, if we’re to consider all possibilities…’’ He rubs a hand over his mouth and chin, a rare display of uncertainty. ‘‘Perhaps preparing for an attack.’’

Hermione quakes, but she’s not necessarily surprised by it. ‘‘What type of attack?’’

‘‘No idea. What do you figure?’’

She shrugs. She’s conditioned herself in the past several weeks to never speak her mind freely, so she has already learned by now to first take her time to reflect and plan before she even considers sharing her ideas with her partner. ‘‘Dunno. I think there’s a lot in here that we don’t understand. Maybe we should put it on hold for a while as we resume other lines of investigation. At least for now.’’

Malfoy nods, unexpectedly agreeing with her and more unexpectedly still, doing something he’s never done before. ‘‘Right. Should we go and grab some lunch?’’

It stuns Hermione to the point of making her trip over her words. ‘‘Erm, wha- lunch? Uh, you want to have lunch, like, together?’’ Her senses return after a beat. ‘‘Don’t you always bring it with you and have it alone in the kitchen while you review case files?’’

Since she’s known him, at least for the last five years, Malfoy’s always eaten by himself whenever the staff kitchen was empty, usually after lunch hours so that he could avoid their coworkers, and always a meal wrapped in aluminium foil which he brought from home. She’s never once heard him say the words go and grab some lunch together in her entire life.

Malfoy is unfazed by her disbelieving reaction as he gets to his feet, fixing the cufflinks of his work robes. ‘‘I didn’t bring anything today. It was a hectic morning and I ended up forgetting it.’’ He looks expectantly at her. ‘‘I’m going to the canteen now. Would you like to join me?’’

Her stomach choosing to growl in hunger at that exact instant is an answer as good as any. She copies him, standing up from her own chair. ‘‘Yeah, let’s go.’’

He walks behind her as they cross the narrow corridor of the Aurors Office and then by her side as they pass through the oak doors in the direction of the lift. The latter is empty when it arrives at their Level and they travel in silence until Hermione can’t contain her curiosity anymore.

‘‘You said you had a hectic morning. Everything okay at home?’’

He’s never mentioned to her anything about his life outside the Ministry, much less about his home situation, but he’s never invited her to anything before either, much less for lunch. So Hermione takes the shot, hoping he won’t shut down or dismiss her as he’s made a habit of doing.

To her relief, he doesn't. Malfoy answers her personal question without a tinge of hesitation. ‘‘All’s good. It’s just that my mother is visiting and it always takes a bit of- well, of adjusting, whenever she stays over. Especially concerning Scorpius. The first days are always a little hectic.’’

Colour her shocked.  

Hermione falls quiet, digesting the unanticipated piece of information.

She did know that Narcissa Malfoy no longer lived in Britain; if she recalls correctly, Malfoy’s mum had moved to France shortly after his father’s permanent imprisonment, leaving her recently affianced heir to fend for himself alone in the old country. But Hermione had also heard through the grapevine that Narcissa had returned to London after Astoria’s death, supposedly to help with the upbringing of her grandson. Apparently, though, that didn’t last long, considering that she’s only temporarily visiting now.

Hermione hesitates, unsure of where the line stands between what she’s allowed to ask in good faith and what he might consider intruding in his personal business. They reach the lobby and step out together, heading to the food counter. She soldiers on.

‘‘Erm, for how long is your mother staying?’’

‘‘A couple weeks. Scorpius’ birthday is coming up and she always spends it with us.’’

‘‘Oh, right.’’

They stop in front of the long buffet bar. Malfoy scans the sandwiches and fresh salads before them, carefully picking what to eat, but Hermione’s mind is way too busy for that. She grabs the first thing she sees, moving toward the cashier where she also mindlessly fetches some sort of orange drink. She pays for everything and waits quietly until her partner joins her. They spot a vacant table in the far corner of the salon, distant enough from the more bustling area of the canteen. They welcome the calm, sitting in front of each other in companionable silence. 

Hermione breaks it before she can think any better. ‘‘So it’s usually just you and your son? At home.’’ She knows she’s bordering on prying into his private life but she can’t help it.

Malfoy chews politely on his tuna and sweetcorn sandwich, the perfect image of a gentlemanly pureblood. He only answers a few seconds later, once his mouth is free again. ‘‘Yes.’’

Despite the short reply, he doesn’t seem to mind her prodding, so she carries on at her own risk. ‘‘And what does he do while you’re at work? Who takes care of Scorpius during the day?’’

‘‘He has a tutor. For a few hours, at least. The rest of the day he’s with my aunt.’’

‘‘Your aunt?’’ She repeats after him and he hums in the affirmative. ‘‘What aunt?’’

‘‘Andromeda, of course. She’s the only relative I still have in England.’’ He considers it before adding. ‘‘And alive.’’ Then some more. ‘‘And not in captivity.’’

‘‘Oh. I didn’t know you were in touch with each other.’’

Malfoy nods, taking another bite of his food. When he’s finished chewing, he elaborates. ‘‘We are. Since I got married. Andromeda reached out to us back then, and ever since she’s been present in Scorpius’ life. And mine.’’

‘‘That’s nice.’’ That’s the only thing Hermione can think of saying and, after a slightly uncomfortable lull, she finally looks down at what she bought. It’s a limply panini, looking worse for the wear. Not appetising at all. But, well, that’s what she gets for being a curious bint who doesn’t give attention to what she’s paying for, much too interested in dwelling on other people’s lives instead. She rallies on, nonetheless, and takes a chunk out of it, chomping on it and ignoring the appalling taste as she reflects on what he’s told her. Several moments dwindle before she unthinkingly resumes her line of questioning. ‘‘How about Astoria’s relatives, do they also participate in Scorpius’ care?’’ The second she gets the question out, she regrets it. She sees Malfoy immediately tensing and realises she went too far. ‘‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey. You don’t have to answer that.’’ 

‘‘It’s fine.’’ He says but his voice has turned tight. He finishes his sandwich, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice and politely dabbing the napkin over his lips. Once he’s done with it, he clears his throat. ‘‘Astoria’s sister, Daphne, visits us weekly. The rest of the family is no longer involved with Scorpius.’’ 

Hermione recognises from his tone that the conversation is over. ‘‘Right.’’ She gobbles the rest of her bread, chugging her own cold beverage in one go. It’s become awkward, and she’s anxious to end this absolutely odd interaction between them.

As soon as she can she gets up, Malfoy mirroring her, and they throw their leftovers and used wipes in the bin. They walk back to the DMLE in utter silence.

It had been so close. Hermione had almost managed to escape it. It was Cazalvara’s fault, in any case; as if the man hadn't done enough to clog her life.

She was just returning from the Magical Enforcement Patrol’s Headquarters, after having waited forty five minutes for the Head of the Department to finally spare her some of his precious time. She showed the elusive wizard the final version of the customised pamphlets she had designed and didn’t let him leave until he had approved it and dispatched the formal endorsement for the Home Safe, Outside Too campaign to be launched. Victorious at last, Hermione walked back to the DMLE a little distracted and, as such, missed the calculating look in her boss’ eyes as they crossed one another in the corridor.

‘‘Hermione.’’

‘‘Oh, hi, Emily. Are you coming or going?’’

Mackenzie gestures for her to step ahead of her inside the Aurors Office. ‘‘I’m just coming in.’’

Hermione hums, strolling leisurely in the direction of her cubicle. She passes a quiet Malfoy on her way there but as she settles back at her workstation, ready to ask him what he’s up to, she notices the Deputy Head is still standing next to her. And she’s staring at both of them.

‘‘So… I expect to see you two tonight.’’

Hermione’s at once hit by clarity. She belatedly realises the other woman’s angle but is still categorically determined to refute it. ‘‘Ah, Emily. I won’t make it. I’m so sorry, but I’ve got so much work to do, I’ll probably won’t be home before nine o’clock, really. It’s such a shame, but there’s nothing I can do. And I already told Frederic and he said it’s alright, you know?’’

‘‘Er, I have a son.’’

Hermione side-eyes her partner. 

Is that his whole argument to get out of the situation? I have a son? No more details provided? So fucking lame. Everyone knows about Scorpius already. And Hermione also knows that Malfoy has a babysitter for him on Friday nights. But perhaps Mackenzie doesn’t and, thus, will buy this deflection.

It’s not the case. Mackenzie looks at them with the highest unimpressed glare. ‘‘I don’t wanna hear it. You two never join in the social events of the department. It’s unbecoming. And Fawley’s turning forty, which warrants a big celebration from all of us. So no excuses.’’ She cocks a well-contoured brow. ‘‘And as if I’m not aware that you don’t have any pressing cases at the moment that require you to do overtime, Hermione. And you, Draco… I know your sister-in-law takes care of your son on Fridays. You’re the one who told me that.’’

Malfoy’s face falls as he registers his misstep. Tsk, what a rookie mistake. One should never voluntarily supply this type of information to their boss. They always find a way to use it back against you.

‘‘I mean it. I better see the two of you around tonight, you hear me?’’

Mackenzie leaves after the veiled threat and Hermione slumps on her chair. If only she hadn’t bumped into the Deputy Head on her way back. Or, instead, returned earlier and became much too occupied with some other assignment. If it hadn’t been for bloody Cazalvara and his inconvenient busy schedule Hermione might have been able to escape her boss’ ultimatum. Now, she’ll have to go to goddamn Scotland for a coworker’s birthday party with the entire DMLE. Urgh.

The only consolation prize is Malfoy’s absolutely horror-stricken expression at the perspective. Hermione can’t help but snort as she watches the man in front of her slowly and woefully come to terms with the fact that he will indeed have to interact with his peers.

‘‘I have a son. Pff. What a pitiful attempt. You should’ve said you had a date.’’

Her partner’s eyes snap to her in annoyance. ‘‘Why didn’t you say you had a date, then?’’

‘‘Ha. Like she’d believe me.’’ Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘There’s no more fighting this, Malfoy. We’re going to celebrate Fawley’s fortieth birthday together in Hogsmeade tonight, whether we like it or not. We should just make it easier for ourselves and accept it already.’’

And yet the idea gives her stomach pains.

Hermione has never been the most sociable of people, but ever since the break-up she seems to have receded even more inside her shell. A fact that is absolutely incongruent with her desire of making new friends, and still she has been somehow forced to acknowledge that large groups of boisterous drunkards are just not for her. Especially if those are colleagues who are very well acquainted with her heavy-handed character and unfortunate dating past. She had already declined Fawley’s invitation, claiming a previously-arranged appointment; now she’ll have to make up another excuse as to why she’s actually attending the blasted party, all the while she needs to put on a bright façade for everyone to see.

Wilted, Hermione dresses up that night with a bare minimum effort. She decides on a sensible pair of jeans and a cashmere jumper, incapable of mustering the enthusiasm necessary to cast curl-shaping spells on her hair. Rather, she  does it in a bun, simple and functional, and throws a large raincoat over herself, paired with laced boots. It’s swift, and so she has more time available to arrange a last-minute Portkey.

The line at the intracontinental section of the Department of Magical Transportation is just obscene, and Hermione feels a tad guilty for cutting in, brandishing her Auror badge to get through the bureau. She has no other option, though, so she crosses the sea of people in waiting, needing only fifteen minutes before the deputy in charge finishes registering her, charging for the service and then authorising the request. Hermione signs the form the woman hands her, receiving in return a ceramic bowl.

‘‘I set it to leave in eight minutes, Auror Granger, so you should get going. The way back is set to eleven thirty as requested.’’

‘‘Perfect. Thank you, ma’am. Have a good evening.’’

Hermione steps outside the division, finding a removed corner to get ready for her travel. She fastens her coat and checks her pockets one more time just in case. In no time she takes note of the customary buzzing of the Portkey object and places her palm around it. The sensation of being hooked by the belly button expands to her other limbs until her entire body swirls and encompassing dizziness takes over her, abruptly delivering her to the desired location.

She enters the pub with a fortifying breath, putting the ceramic bowl carefully away. The establishment is half full, most of her coworkers having already arrived. She spots Mackenzie and Hestia Jones in chat with the younger female Aurors on one side, the birthday bloke on the other surrounded by the male Aurors. Harry is not there yet and Malfoy is nursing a beer alone by the bar counter.

At least her partner doesn’t have his back to the salon. Progress, if she’d ever been so brave to call it that.

Hermione goes after Fawley first. Plastering her best fake smile on her face, she calls his name loudly to get his attention off the circle around him. When he sees her, his eyes bulge and his arms spread on each side of him.

‘‘Hermione! You made it!’’

‘‘Yes. I managed to rearrange my schedule so I could have tonight free.’’ Damn, she lies so easily. She’s not fazed by it at all. She removes the last-minute gift she got for him from her hand purse. ‘‘Happy birthday, Frederic.’’

‘‘Ah, you didn’t have to! Look, lads, Hermione got me a birthday present.’’ He waves the yellow-wrapped box in the air, shoving it in their coworkers’ face. ‘‘That’s why I like her much more than you lot. Blimey, Hermione! You’re so thoughtful. C’mere.’’

Before Hermione can react the man pulls her in for a crushing hug, staying glued to her for much longer than what she would feel comfortable with. She still grins when he releases her, but efficiently moves out of the way, telling him she’ll be right back. She goes after Mackenzie, next.

After all, she has to show off her attendance, doesn’t she?

‘‘Hullo, Hermione. I’m glad you made it.’’ The Head Deputy smiles sweetly and Hermione needs to suppress an eye-roll.

‘‘Hi, Emily. Hestia.’’

‘‘Hermione, how are you? It’s been so long since we last talked.’’

‘‘Indeed. I think the last time was at the Ministry Gala last year, wasn’t it?’’

‘‘Oh, indeed. So long! And will I see you there this year again?’’

As if she had any choice in the matter. ‘‘Of course, Hestia.’’

They exchange smiles and continue their small talk until the arrival of more Ministry employees distract them.

Despite her past good relationship with the Head of the department, in recent times Hermione has harboured a certain disapproval regarding the witch. Since reaching the highest ranking inside the DMLE, Hestia has made some controversial and, in Hermione’s opinion, proper reproachable decisions. Now that she no longer works on a daily basis with the Aurors, much more preoccupied with the political side of her position instead, Hestia has acted in a way that seems only intended to appease the Wizengamot and no longer in benefit of her own staff. The last project of which her ultimate boss was part, the design of a high level security detail for important Ministry members, and the manner in which it was done made it clear to Hermione that her priorities have permanently shifted.

She’s still polite toward Hestia, but that doesn’t mean she’ll want to spend time with her if she can avoid it. Looking around her, Hermione realises that there’s actually no one there she would like to spend time with.

With the exception of Malfoy.

She doesn’t bother to understand how she got to feel this way when only a couple of months ago he was her most bitter rival; Hermione marches determinedly to where he still sits drinking his beer without second-guessing herself.

Their eyes meet as she approaches him with quick steps. They carry similar expressions of faux friendliness for the sake of others. ‘‘Having the time of your life, I’m guessing?’’

‘‘I’m sure it’s obvious from my face that I’ve never had so much fun before.’’

Hermione laughs, reaching the counter and addressing the barkeep. ‘‘Can I have the same pint he’s having, please?’’ After the man nods and begins preparing her drink, she turns back to Malfoy. ‘‘Have you at least wished Fawley a happy birthday?’’

He throws her a stink eye. ‘‘I have. Though I didn’t go as far as buying him a gift.’’ He purses his mouth, shaking his head lightly. ‘‘You’re impossible, Granger. You don’t even like the man.’’

‘‘I have nothing against him.’’

‘‘Bullshit. You think he’s a show-off.’’

How does Malfoy even know that? She doesn’t remember ever telling him such a thing. She shrugs, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his crazy accurate observational skills. ‘‘Your words, not mine.’’ Her beer is ready, being handed to her by the man on the other side of the counter at the same time Malfoy snorts at her reply. ‘’Thank you.’’ She says to one before taking a small sip and continuing to the other. ‘‘It’s his birthday. Giving gifts is the right thing to do. Regardless of our opinion of him.’’

‘‘Right.’’

They drink their pints in an agreeable silence, watching their peers mingle in front of them. Hermione knows she’ll need to join them at some point or another and play the extrovert she’s not, but for now she just wants to enjoy the comfort of drinking in quietness next to someone with whom she doesn’t have to pretend. At least not outside their work agreement. With Malfoy, Hermione doesn’t feel like she has to present a better version of herself; in any case, not anymore. He’s already familiar with all her worst traits and has witnessed her at some of her lowest, and most reprehensible, moments. To him, Hermione is her most genuine, unafraid of being her snarky and judgy self, knowing he’ll still be around after all’s said and done as it’s been the case for all this time since they’ve become partners.

She takes another swig.

‘‘Are the lads at the Porcelain Pixie right now?’’

‘‘They are.’’

‘‘Sorry you’re missing it to be here instead. What a bad trade.’’

Malfoy chuckles. ‘‘Tell me about it. But I can’t just ignore Mackenzie, can I?’’ Hermione nods in understanding, because she does know very well about that. After a moment, Malfoy asks. ‘‘Are you planning on joining us again? At the pub back at London, I mean.’’

Hermione cranes her neck, catching his gaze. ‘‘Erm, sure? I mean, I don’t know if the lads would like that or if I would-’’

‘‘You’re always welcome with us, Granger.’’

It’s perhaps the nicest thing Malfoy has ever said to her, and so she grins. ‘‘Thank you. I’d love to join you guys again. It’s actually nice to have people to talk to outside work.’’

‘‘Don’t you have other people that-’’

‘‘Hermione! I didn’t know you were coming!’’

Harold Hopkins, a senior Auror who has been working at the DMLE since before Hermione can remember, waves at her from a table away.

‘‘Hello, Harold.’’

‘‘Come sit with us.’’ The man motions to the spot available next to him, beckoning her. 

Hermione falters, not really wanting to, but she’s aware she can’t stay forever in her comfortable bubble with Malfoy. She looks back at her partner, tilting her head and raising her brows to let him know that if she’s going, he’s coming with her. Getting her meaning, he sighs but accepts his fate. He drains his glass before lifting a hand to flag the barkeep for another one. Hermione picks up hers and walks to the table where three of their coworkers sit, all of them saluting her enthusiastically, Malfoy joining them a few instants later.

She doesn’t miss how they greet him with much less excitement than they did her, but at least he gets to take his seat among them. She knows they’re a bit weary of him; she trusts that this has more to do with the fact that Malfoy’s never around, not allowing their colleagues to catch a glimpse of the man he has become, than because of who he is and what he’s done in the past.

She hopes that all of them will behave tonight. Including her.

As such, she smiles widely at Hopkins. ‘‘How are you doing, Harold? How are the kids?’’

‘‘They’re great. Emma has just started her last semester at Hogwarts.’’

‘‘Oh, wow. How exciting! Is she preparing for her N.E.W.T’s already?’’

‘‘She is. But the lass is a brainy one, her mum and I need not to worry about it.’’

‘‘Wonderful. How about little Frankie? He should be in second year now, yeah?’’

‘‘That’s correct. And he’s made the Quidditch team.’’

The Auror says it with a distinctive proud undertone, one that he hadn’t reserved for his smart daughter only a second ago. Hermione smiles a little less bright this time around, remembering all too well of her own school days. ‘‘That’s cool, Harold. I’m sure you must be over the moon with your two remarkable children.’’

‘‘I am, Hermione, I sure am.’’

Before she can continue her talk with Hopkins, she spots Charles Moroso to her left attempting to initiate a chat with Malfoy. She halts in what she was about to say, interested in seeing how the blond will react. Eventually, after a while of coaxing by the other wizard, Malfoy begrudgingly responds, allowing the conversation to flow even if somewhat stilted. 

Hermione grins, well pleased, and has no issues in participating in the table’s back-and-forth. Suddenly, she’s no longer so against being there.

Until she is.

‘‘Oh, there he is. Finally. Harry, over here!’’

Despite herself Hermione swivels to where everyone stares, in the direction of the door of the pub, and that’s when everything comes crashing down. Because her former best friend walks in, entering the establishment with his habitual messy black hair and crooked round spectacles. 

And behind him, following closely, is Ronald.

‘‘Look at who it is!’’ Fawley hollers loudly, grabbing the rest of the bar’s attention as he meets the two newcomers in the middle of the salon. ‘’Weasley, your old chap! You made it too!’’ 

The men hug one another, clapping hard on each other’s backs and exchanging words that Hermione can’t hear over her buzzing ears. Soon, her vision is also impaired but with the flood of unshed tears. She blinks them away, looking down. The surrounding noise becomes muffled as her entire flesh overheats and her insides twist and turn. She sits over her hands to stop them from shaking and swallows one, two, three times.

She doesn’t know what Ronald is doing there, but for the brief time she watched it seems like he’s friends with Fawley. At least close enough to be invited to his birthday party. She has no idea how that came to be, but it doesn’t matter. He’s here and Hermione can only think that this is the first time she sees him since his own birthday party, almost a year ago, when he looked at her melting down in the Burrow at the sight of him with another woman with eyes full of pity and sympathy. 

Hermione doesn’t want to see his eyes tonight. She’s not ready to find out whatever is in there.

‘‘Hi, everyone.’’

Harry’s voice suddenly rings around her, then everyone else’s.

‘‘Hiya, Harry.’’

‘‘Aha. Better later than ever, eh, mate?’’

‘‘Harry, welcome!’’

‘‘Potter.’’

‘‘You guys know Ron.’’

His voice, next. ‘‘Hello there. How’s it goin’?’’

‘‘Nice to see you again, Weasley.’’

‘‘Hullo, Ron. How are you doing?’’

‘‘All good, mate?’’

‘‘Weasley.’’

Finally, a pause.

‘‘Hermione.’’

She looks up because there’s nothing else left to do. She supposes that for the entire time she’s known Ronald, he has never really given her much choice. She’s only followed on his tide, unable to swim against the current he’s always set for her.

‘‘Hi.’’

‘‘It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.’’

She nods, her voice failing her. Seeing Ronald and Harry next to one another in front of her again - it breaks her heart. It reminds her of how they used to be. It reminds her of what she’s lost. It reminds her of the inexorable emptiness inside of her.

She feels herself one second away from having yet another very public meltdown. 

She can’t, though. She can’t have his pity eyes on her again. And she certainly can’t have everybody witnessing it. She already notices the surreptitious glances they’re getting from her coworkers at the table, all of them aware of the history between the broken-up couple. So she holds it in until her two former best friends are gone to greet the rest of the DMLE, and then she counts on her head until five hundred, gaze stuck on the wooden surface before her. She only moves when she thinks it’s safe.

‘‘Excuse me.’’ She says to no one in particular, getting up and marching to the loos without daring to look up once.

The restrooms are to the right, down a staircase. Hermione almost flies over the steps, trying the toilet handle to find it locked. There’s someone already there and Hermione can no longer keep herself together. The tears pour freely down, washing her cheeks in warm streams, wrecking her in heart-stopping waves of hurt. She places two palms over her eyes, curling herself against the wall and crying with abandon. 

She doesn’t know how long she stays like this; she doesn’t hear the bathroom door open, only the heavy footfall down the stairs and behind her. In a movement that’s more involuntary than anything else, she looks around at the sound and finds Malfoy on the other side, frozen on the last step, staring unblinkingly at her.

Hot shame sears through her, at being caught in this state by him. She hastily wipes away her tears, cleaning her running nose and turning around again, incapable of sustaining his gaze.

‘‘Sorry.’’ She doesn’t know why she says it. She shakes her head, angling her body away from him. She tries to think of what would be appropriate to do in this situation. She comes up empty. ‘‘I’m okay.’’ She sniffs. ‘‘I’m okay.’’

Too embarrassed to stay put, she dashes toward the loo, noticing for the first time that it’s unoccupied. She locks herself in there, muffling her sobs with a rough hand over her mouth. She remains inside until she regains control of herself. It doesn’t take that long; she’s already spilled everything she could from within her aching soul. She’s got barely nothing left.

Fixing her face with glamour spells, Hermione walks back upstairs, rejoining their table as if nothing was the matter. She doesn’t meet Malfoy’s eyes again, although she can feel their steady presence on her the entire time. Rather, she avoids them with intent, engaging in the conversation around her just enough to not alert anyone to her frame of mind. She hangs on for as long as she can, but as she sees in her periphery Harry and Ronald approaching them again after a while, Hermione knows she cannot take it once more.

With the excuse of getting herself another drink, she strolls to the bar counter, letting enough people get in between her and the line of sight of her colleagues before taking a sharp turn to the exit. She leaves the pub as discreetly as she can.

For the next hour or so, while she waits for her Portkey to be activated, Hermione wanders aimlessly across the streets of Hogsmeade, remembering the good times she had there and how all they do now is leave a bad taste in her mouth and a calamitous feeling in her heart.

Chapter Text

The embarrassment lingers.

Hermione’s not entirely sure why but she feels acutely ashamed of herself in front of Malfoy, absolutely hating the fact he saw her in such a vulnerable state, falling apart for a stupid man who broke her heart a year and a half ago. Perhaps she feels so ashamed because she’s still not over it despite all the time that has passed, still ready to crack at the mere sight of her former boyfriend. Perhaps she’s embarrassed that Malfoy, too, will realise how pathetically hung up she still is about the whole thing.

The following Monday, Hermione cannot meet her partner’s eyes no matter how much she tries. They sit at their usual stations in an awkward silence, working on their respective cases without exchanging a single word besides the initial good mornings. She attempts to shake herself off, to accept that what’s done is done and what Malfoy thinks of her and her emotional response doesn’t matter, but it’s all for naught. Who is she kidding? Of course she cares what he thinks. And she has done so for much longer that she’d like to admit. She’s made a fool out of herself in front of him on several occasions, letting him see her very worst, and yet it still bothers her that he saw her crying.

Not just crying - bawling her eyes out.

The memory makes her wince every time it assaults her, such as presently. Hermione grimaces, feeling the back of her neck heat at the recollection. It’s extremely hard to retain a peaceful mindset to work when she cringes at herself every two minutes. She re-reads the parchment before her for what seems like the tenth consecutive time, unable to comprehend the meaning behind the words. After a long tortuous while, she gives up. Stifling a groan, she stands up, eyes everywhere but across from her, and marches toward the kitchen staff. She puts the kettle on, leaning against the counter as she waits for the water to boil.

‘‘Silly, silly Hermione. Urgh.’’ She softly knocks her forehead against the upper cupboard and mutters curses under her breath. She wishes she could just wipe Friday night out of her brain. She wishes she could erase from her mind the image of Malfoy staring at her with the most stunned expression at the sight of her breakdown. She wishes she could-

‘‘Hiya, Hermione.’’

She startles, spinning on her feet at the other unexpected presence in the kitchen.

‘‘Oh, hi, John. How’s it going?’’

‘‘Brilliant.’’ The Auror walks past her in the direction of the fridge, placing inside the appliance a large opaque tupperware likely containing his lunch. ‘‘How was your weekend?’’

Awful. Depressing. Shame-ridden. ‘‘Fine. Yours?’’

‘‘Uh-hum.’’ By the sink now, the man chugs a full glass of some beverage Hermione doesn’t recognise. When he’s done he smacks his lips in apparent delight and puts the dirty cup down. He angles his body in the direction of the door, so Hermione in turn angles her own toward the making of her tea, assuming their interaction is over. He surprises her by speaking again. ‘‘Friday was mental, yeah?’’

Every muscle in her body tenses. ‘‘Was it? Why?’’

Her coworker frowns. ‘‘Were you gone already when it happened?’’

‘‘When what happened?’’

‘‘Ah.’’ He shakes his head, an amused grin starting to seize his roundish face. ‘‘Yeah, I think you were. Damn, I can’t believe you missed it, Hermione.’’

‘‘What did I miss, John? Just tell me already.’’ Hermione is not a particularly patient person. The whole mystery that the wizard is building is doing nothing for her except grind her gears.

He chuckles. ‘‘A complete wreaked havoc is what you missed.’’ He moves back to her side but not before shooting a brief glance to the outside of the room, as if to make sure they’re not being overheard, and lowers his voice, though the latter still comes out laced with humour. ‘‘I didn’t really see it happen, I only witnessed the aftermath. But apparently, at some point in the late night, Ron Weasley tripped over himself and fell face first on the floor. And it was ugly. I’m talking about loads of blood, a black eye, the whole thing. I don’t know if he broke his nose or if it was just a bad bruising, but he got hurt hurt, you know? Anyway…’’ John waves a dismissive hand in the air like that piece of information means nothing. ‘‘That’s not the juicy part. A drunk stumbling after one too many? That’s hardly something worthy of note. The thing is… Weasley swears he didn’t trip on himself. He says he wasn’t even that drunk. He says, instead, that somebody made him fall. That somebody hexed him.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Weasley was all but screaming to the entire pub to hear that Malfoy was the one who jinxed him and made him trip. And nothing or no one could persuade him otherwise. Ha, Hermione! You should’ve seen it! The redhead was out of himself, trying to literally jump on Malfoy-  I guess he lost his wand somewhere in the process, I don’t know. What I do know is that he had to be physically held by Harry and the other lads because he was beside himself. Shouting and cursing, jumping up and down, saying that Malfoy had done it on purpose, that he was trying to use the Dark Arts on him, or something like that. It was mental. A complete shitshow.’’

He chuckles once more and looks expectantly at her, awaiting her reaction. 

‘‘Er… But was it Malfoy or not?’’

‘‘No idea.’’ The man shrugs. ‘‘He said it wasn’t him, that he didn’t do anything, but it’s Malfoy, isn’t it? I wouldn’t trust him with a single penny of mine.’’ Hermione doesn’t say anything to that, mostly because she no longer agrees with that assumption, and so her colleague moves on. ‘‘Right. Anyway, that’s what happened. I thought you should know, since, you know, it’s your ex and- and your partner. Anyway. Now you’re up to speed. Gotta go now, Hermione. Have a nice day.’’

He leaves but Hermione stays rooted in the same place for much longer. She can’t wrap her head around the story she just heard. She has no clue how to construe the situation John’s told her.

She returns slowly to her cubicle, taking her seat and placing the steaming mug in front of her. For the first time in the whole morning, she looks at Malfoy, her embarrassment fully replaced by curiosity. His eyes are casted down, cruising through a case file. After a few seconds, though, while she watches, he glances up and then back down, in an absent-minded motion. Then, as if only computing her gaze on him after a beat, he looks up to her again.

Hermione silences their surroundings. ‘‘Did you jinx Ronald Friday night?’’

The blond blinks, certainly not having expected the question. Several moments pass as he stares at her. She doesn’t know if he’s deciding whether he should use honesty with her or not, but only after a long time does he finally reply. ‘‘I did.’’

Hermione frowns. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Why not? He’s a wanker. He deserves to be jinxed.’’

That doesn’t make any sense. She can’t reconcile the Malfoy she’s come to know in the past many months, the extremely collected man that always keeps his calm, with someone who would brashly curse another person in public just because the other one is a wanker.

‘‘I don’t get it. You still hate him from school?’’

‘‘He’s still the same wanker, isn’t he?’’

Hermione shakes her head, utterly confused with the exchange. ‘‘You don’t even know him. You haven’t spoken to him in years, how could you even-’’

‘‘I know what he’s done to you.’’

Every train of thought inside Hermione’s busy mind comes to an abrupt halt. Her mouth falls open. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Weasley had it coming. And so did Potter, by the way, so he should count himself lucky that he got away without a scratch.’’

‘‘Wha- You hexed him because of me? ’’

‘‘He made you cry, didn’t he?’’

Silence inside and outside their bubble reigns. Hermione feels lost for a moment, trying to digest his reply but miserably failing. She gapes at Malfoy for so long she realises his jaw has squared in discomfort.

‘‘You hexed Ronald because he made me cry?’’

‘‘You're my partner, Granger. I won’t ever sit back and watch people try and fuck with you. No one can do that.’’ He pauses briefly before adding. ‘‘Besides me.’’

A laughter inadvertently escapes Hermione, and it comes out watery. The gates are apparently open again, and she hurriedly presses fingertips against her eyelids to stop herself from bawling yet again.

‘‘Granger, no. Don’t cry again, please.’’

She chuckles against her hands. ‘‘I won’t. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with me lately.’’

‘‘Don’t apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong.’’

Malfoy’s tone is tight so Hermione drops her hands to look back at him, making a huge effort to swallow her emotions. His gaze has taken an intense quality, one that she’s beginning to notice on him every now and then. She’s not sure how to interpret it, but she decides to focus on the topic at hand, first. Despite still struggling to conceive that her partner really did what he did, and for her, Hermione cannot let the moment pass without telling him what’s on her mind. 

‘‘Thank you. For having my back.’’ She croaks, then shakes her head, glancing away in search of the right words. She clears her throat. ‘‘And thank you for- for never using it against me. Sometimes I feel like everyone around me only sees me as the scorned woman. They never outright say it, but it’s in their eyes. It’s in the change of their behaviour towards me.’’ She brings her gaze back to him. ‘‘You never did. Not only that, you never threw any of it on my face although you had plenty of opportunity for it. Back when we fought like rabid dogs every single day… Even when we were being absolutely foul with each other, you never once used this knowledge against me. You’ve never insulted me about it, about being, you know,’’ she shrugs, replaying the worst names she’s called herself at her lowest points. ‘‘Being frigid or- or whatever. Unwanted even by who was supposed to be my best friend. I mean, if even he can’t stand me, how could anyone else?’’ Her chuckle is bitter and humourless this time. ‘‘I’m sure many other people in your situation wouldn’t hesitate to use it against me. So I’m grateful you haven’t. I do really appreciate it, Malfoy.’’

There’s not one inch of Malfoy's face that could be currently described as soft. He stares at her with the expression of a marble stone. ‘‘I would never do that.’’

‘‘I know, that’s why-’’

‘‘I’d never do that because none of it is true.’’ He interrupts her, voice hard and sharp. ‘‘None of the- the adjectives you just mentioned applies to you. None. Weasley is the one who should be insulted. He’s the one who fucked up. He’s the arse who threw away the best thing that’s ever happened to him, like the massive fool that he is.’’

If she wasn’t trying to not upset her partner, Hermione would definitely have already given in and allowed herself to openly weep in front of him one more time. She bites down on her lower lip instead, doing her best to keep it all in, a movement that’s caught by Malfoy.

He carries on before she can fall apart. ‘‘And since we’re on the subject, I also have some thanking to do. Thank you, Granger, for never once holding my past bad, very bad decisions against me. For never seeing me, even when you hated me the most, as a Death Eater still after all this time. You, too, had plenty of opportunity to distrust me based on who I used to be, just like everybody else at the Ministry does so effortlessly. And yet, you only disliked me because you’re a stubborn, arrogant prat who thinks you know better than anyone around you.’’ That makes Hermione laugh again, and it’s again watery but much less sour. The corner of his lips twist at her reaction, ever so slightly. ‘‘Despite our clashing personalities and the infinite fights we’ve had, many of which I was utterly out of line- I’m man enough to admit it… You never shunned me for the things I’ve done. And the wrong I did before.’’

‘‘I would never, ever do that.’’

Their eyes lock. ‘‘I know that now. And I’m extremely grateful for it. You’ll probably never know just how much.’’

It’s a lot, this heart-to-heart, and Hermione’s chest feels like it just experienced the turbulence of a lifetime. She swallows, attempting to settle her frayed nerves.

‘‘You’re welcome.’’

Malfoy nods. ‘‘Now, please. No more crying.’’ She chuckles and he allows himself a little smile, at last. ‘‘Deal?’’

‘‘Deal.’’

It does something to Hermione, her conversation with Malfoy. Their genuine exchange of gratitude; their very raw, and in her case tearful, acknowledgment of each other - it slices through her otherwise impenetrable façade.

And for the next few days, his words find a way to repeatedly loop inside her head when she’s the least expecting it. 

You're my partner, Granger. I won’t ever sit back and watch people try and fuck with you.

None of the- the adjectives you just mentioned applies to you. 

He’s the arse who threw away the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

She had no idea Malfoy felt like that. She had no idea he appreciated her in such a way, and that he had finally accepted her as his true partner, in every single sense of the word. She had come to understand and respect him for the past several weeks of their ‘‘truce,’’ but she never imagined the other way happening as well; that he would also start seeing her as someone worthy of esteem. As someone worthy of defending.

It still boggles her mind that he really hexed Ronald for her.

He made you cry, didn’t he?

Has anyone ever done anything as considerate on her behalf? Especially by causing her ex-boyfriend physical harm: literally the best thing she could have ever come up with. It’s just a shame she was no longer at the Hogsmeade pub to see it when it took place, the absolute beautiful sight of Ronald dropping on his face and breaking his huge fucking nose.

Hermione can't stop thinking about Malfoy doing it for her, and she can’t stop thinking about how upset he looked when she thanked him for never seeing her as a scorned, frigid, unwanted woman. How he had said that none of it applied to her.

Did she think it applied to her? Did she think she deserved Ronald leaving her? Did she think she must have done something wrong to be so sad and alone in life now?

Consciously, she didn’t, but after hearing the vehement negation coming out of Malfoy’s mouth, Hermione’s not so sure if unconsciously she actually did. Because following their heart-to-heart, in addition to looking at her partner with brand new and appreciative eyes, Hermione notices that something has distinctively changed in her.

Which perhaps is a good explanation for what happens next.

It’s Thursday night and Hermione is working late, one of the last ones at the DMLE. The headquarters are quiet around her with the exception of the sound of her quill scribbling away. She’s so immersed in the paperwork that she misses the tentative footsteps and a body suddenly dropping anchor in front of her.

‘‘Hey.’’

It’s so softly said that it doesn’t startle her, but she still snaps her head up to find green eyes staring down at her.

‘‘Harry.’’

Her former best friend gives her a closed-lip smile. ‘‘Still working hard?’’

‘‘Erm… yeah. I have a report to finish before the weekend. I wanted to get ahead of it before tomorrow.’’

‘‘Of course.’’

They fall quiet, Harry just standing there looking at her with an indecipherable glint in his eyes. Hermione waits for a few beats, expecting him to say something else or just leave, and when he doesn’t do either she leans against the backrest of her chair, dropping her quill and crossing her arms over her chest.

‘‘Is there something you want from me, Harry?’’

The bespectacled bloke seems to rouse himself. ‘‘Er, yeah.’’ He bites the inside of his cheeks, letting his anxiousness leak through the movement. Hermione frowns, confused as to why he would be nervous right now but in the next moment, she understands. ‘‘I, uh, I wanted to apologise for bringing Ron on Friday. I- I didn’t think it through. Freddy told me I should bring him along since they met each other a few times before, and I just went with it. I didn’t, erm, realise that it might- well, that it might not be the best idea, all things considered.’’

Hermione’s first reaction is defensiveness, though that’s swiftly replaced by suspicion. She narrows her eyes. ‘‘Why are you telling me this?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’ Harry pulls a face. ‘‘I just told you, I wanted to apologise to you.’’

A very bold statement for someone who never once acknowledged, much less said he was sorry, for not standing by her when she had her heart atrociously broken by his brother-in-law. Harry’s historically known for being horrid at apologising. And now he’s being so solicitous about it… It’s odd. And why does he look so guilty?

‘‘There’s no need for apologies, Harry. You’re free to bring Ronald wherever you want. I have nothing to do with it.’’

‘‘Yeah, but- I, well, it was not my intention to upset you.’’

The suspicion goes off the roof; wariness takes over Hermione.

‘‘Who said it upset me?’’

Harry shrugs. ‘‘I figured.’’ Before she can press him for more, his expression switches and he scowls. ‘‘Your current partner made sure I did.’’

‘‘Malfoy?’’

‘‘You know he hexed Ron, don’t you? Have you heard what happened already?’’

‘‘I have.’’

‘‘Well, yeah. He did. Even though he won’t admit it to other people… He basically did it to me. And he threatened doing the same to me if I continued to be so- what was it again? An oblivious, uncaring tosser.’’

‘‘Malfoy went after you to threaten you? When?’’

‘‘Erm, technically, I was the one to go after him yesterday. I wanted to ask him whether he had cursed Ron or not, and that’s when he basically bullied me-’’ Harry abruptly cuts himself off, knitting his black brows together. ‘‘Why are you smiling?’’

She is; Hermione can barely contain her grin. ‘‘I guess because it feels really nice to finally see someone having my back.’’

It’s the wrong thing to say; or rather, the right thing to say to get him properly incensed.

Harry’s face transforms altogether. ‘‘You are so unfair.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

‘‘You are. The way you talk it’s like I was the worst friend in the world.’’

‘‘Harry-’’

‘‘All this time you’ve been punishing me for something that’s utterly not my fault. I wasn’t your boyfriend, Hermione. I wasn't the one to break up with you. I’ve done literally nothing wrong and yet you blame me for what happened, for something I had no control over, and then you go and end our friendship without one look back. How is that fair to me?’’

Any other day, Hermione would have told him to get lost. She wasn’t keen on yet again unearthing the shit that had gone down and rehashing old wounds that still cut too freshly. In any other circumstances, she’d refuse to engage once more in this argument, if nothing then to protect what was left of her dignity.

Tonight, though, following her conversation with Malfoy and the emotional page that seemed to have turned inside her, she chooses to shoulder the ordeal.

‘‘I didn’t blame you for Ronald dumping me, Harry. You must be clueless if you think that’s what this is about.’’

‘‘What is it about, then?’’

‘‘You can’t be serious and tell me you don’t-’’

‘‘I am.’’

‘‘Harry, come on. You really-’’

‘‘Just fucking tell me, Hermione. Okay? Can you do that? Can you just fucking tell me already why you decided to dump me as your friend?’’

It’s the slight way his voice breaks at the end of the sentence that softens Hermione’s spirit. She inhales deeply, deliberately setting her pride aside for this. ‘‘It was never about Ronald’s behaviour. It was about yours.’’ She states the obvious. ‘‘All of you. The way you accepted what he did to me without batting an eye. You just said now that you didn’t do anything wrong and still I ended our relationship without one look back? That’s exactly what happened to me, Harry. Can’t you see that’s what Ronald did to me? He just woke up one day and told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore, and then six months later he was engaged to another woman. Just like that. And you all knew it. Every single one of you knew before me and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t warn me, you didn’t sympathise with me, you didn’t tell me once how sorry you were and how awful it was of him to make me go through that.’’

Harry shakes his head. ‘‘It’s not that I accepted what he did, Hermione, I just didn’t think I should be taking sides.’’

‘‘I know, Harry. And that’s the problem.’’

‘‘How?’’

‘‘Do you really think that if Ginny ever did something like this to you, if she ever betrayed you in this manner, I would be worried about not taking sides? You really think there’d be any chance that I’d be silent about the whole thing for, what? For the sake of remaining neutral and impartial?’’ Hermione makes a derisive sound in the back of her throat. ‘‘You can bet your arse I’d be all over Ginny, ripping her hair off for daring to hurt my best friend like that. You can bet I’d never be quiet about it like you did.’’

‘‘Hermione, you can’t say that. You don’t know-’’

‘‘But I do. Harry, how can you think I wouldn’t take your side? And it’s not even about who’s more important to me, you or Ginny; it’s not about affection. If it had been you instead to discard her like rubbish, it would be you that I’d be all over, ripping your hair off. Can’t you understand that? It’s about doing what’s fucking right, Harry. And you should know all about it. Isn’t that your whole life motto, doing the right thing regardless of the repercussions?’’ The black-haired man doesn’t offer a reply, green eyes faintly bulging as Hermione plunges forward mercilessly. She scoffs. ‘‘And although it shouldn’t have anything to do with choosing one person over the other, that’s what you did, wasn’t it? You say you didn’t want to take sides, but you clearly did. You chose Ronald. You clearly showed to everyone who was more important to you in the end.’’

‘‘Of course not, Hermione.’’ Harry rasps, and his voice is uncharacteristically small. ‘‘I didn’t choose anybody. That’s exactly what I didn’t wanna do, but you went and did it for me.’’

‘‘Being silent in the face of injustice puts you on the side of the perpetrator, Harry. There was never any doubt in my mind about that. And like I told you before, I prefer being completely alone than surround myself with spineless people who won’t stand up for me when I’m hurting.’’ She pauses, and the sudden silence is so heavy she feels it in her bones. The office is eerily quiet, the two of them the very last employees still around. Swallowing, Hermione goes ahead and just says what’s been insistently on her mind for the past four days. ‘‘As opposed to what Malfoy did. He’s not even a proper friend, but he saw what being next to Ronald again did to me and he immediately jumped in my defence. And you know why he did it? Because we’re partners, and he won’t ever sit back and allow people to fuck with me. His own words.’’

Harry looks like he ate rotten fruit. At her remark about his long-standing rival, his cheeks hollow in aggravation. ‘‘I guess Malfoy can be your next best friend, then.’’

Hermione blinks, not expecting such a retort, before snorting grimly. ‘‘Wow. Great comeback, Harry.’’ 

She’s done with this. She feels emotionally drained, the tumultuous week already having overwhelmed her usually predictable routine. She gets up, swivelling toward her desk to gather her work material.

‘‘Hermione, wait.’’ Harry rushes to say when he sees her getting ready to leave. ‘‘I didn’t mean- that was childish. I shouldn’t have said it. I just…’’ He trails off, and Hermione involuntarily holds her breath in expectation. 

His pause lingers for too long, and she has no choice but to resume putting everything inside her satchel, summoning her cloak and stepping out of her workstation. Before she can walk away, though, his voice rings again.

‘‘Hermione, just- I’m sorry.’’ Harry tells her hoarsely, in the hushed quality of wrangled-out confessions. ‘‘It was never my intention to make you feel like I was taking his side. That was never the case, I swear. I was so mad when Ron did what he did, and I told him that. I didn’t let it slide, I promise you that. And he knows what I think of his behaviour. He knows I disapprove of it. But I just- I think I just didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire by starting a big fight with him about it.’’ He sighs tiredly. ‘‘All I wanted was for it to pass so we could return to what we were before all that shit. The Golden Trio, you know? No romantic relationship to complicate it. As it used to be in the beginning before- before everything.’’

Hermione knows he’s being sincere; she can hear it in his voice. She knows there’s nothing in this world that Harry cares more about than the people around him, people he fought really hard over the years to protect. She knows how much goodness Harry carries in his heart. It’s the reason it ached so much to lose him, because she knows, deep down, that he never meant to hurt her.

But she also knows that if it hadn’t been for Malfoy, Harry would never have come after her tonight to apologise. 

She turns around to face him. ‘‘It was never going to return to what it was, Harry. Are you that naïve?’’ She goes on without waiting for an answer. ‘‘Ronald broke me. He made me feel like I was worthless. That everything we went through together, all those years, meant absolutely nothing to him. I would have never been able to look at him the same way again, but you know what I could’ve done? I could’ve suffered for a while, hating him with all my guts until I finally healed by having my friends on my side, and by knowing that he was not getting a free pass to be a prick without consequences. If I knew I wasn't the only one loathing him, if I knew that I wasn't alone in the way I felt because all of you gave him hell for it, too… Eventually I would have moved on. I would’ve never been able to be friends with him again, but I would still be around.’’ Hermione shakes her head, crossing the strap of her satchel over her chest and fastening her cloak. ‘‘It’s too late for apologies now, Harry. I already learned my place in your lives; I already learned how disposable I am to all of you. And there’s no unlearning that.’’

Everything settles inside her after that.

There’s not one particular logic to it; Hermione’s had plenty of time in the past several months to rationalise the end of it all, her role in it, and what type of future she saw for herself after all was said and done. She had gone through the motions, she had swayed and faltered, swung back and forth, advanced and retreated in equal measure. Despite knowing in her mind, and heart, that she had done the right thing by starting over, away from everyone she knew, for the past year and a half Hermione still struggled to really move on from her old life.

As February finds closure, she finally starts to find it too. 

It has something to do with her talk with Malfoy; it has certainly something to do with the one she had with Harry. Whilst the former showed her what loyalty actually looks like, proving that it is possible and that she has earned it as much as anybody else, the latter provided her with something she so desperately craved: an apology. An acknowledgement of guilt. A display of regret. 

Both Malfoy and Harry, without meaning, gave her what she needed to turn the page, but she supposes that it was about time anyway. She knew from deep within that she couldn’t stay uprooted and adrift forever. She knew it was a phase, and that at some point it had to pass.

When it finally happens, Hermione is more than ready for it.

It’s like a weight is lifted from her chest. Internalising, at long last, that it was not her fault and that she doesn’t deserve to be sad and alone in life works to free her from the invisible cage she’d unwittingly locked herself in. It still hurts to think of everything she lost - it still makes her cry when she remembers how happy she used to be and how much she misses the Weasleys and Potters. And yet, Hermione can finally accept that this part of her life is over and a new one must begin now.

One in which predictability is no longer a given, and her comfort zone doesn’t dictate her routine anymore. The time has come for her to allow her mind to be changed and to let improbable people in, and unexpected situations to unfold without being scared of not having control over them.

With this refreshed state of mind, Hermione enters The Willow with a big smile on her face, and excitement humming through her veins. She spots the couple sitting on the second to last table by the window and she doesn’t hesitate to wave in their direction. She tells the maître the name under the reservation then hurries to join them.

‘‘Neville, Pansy. It’s so nice to see you guys again!’’

It took a while but their dinner had finally been scheduled for the last Saturday of the month. Hermione is looking forward to catching up with her dear friend and getting to know his fiancé better. At her effusive reaction, Neville grins widely, at once getting up to greet her with a tight hug, but she doesn’t miss Parkinson’s light frown.

‘‘Mione! How are you?’’

‘‘I’m great, thanks. How are you?’’ Taking a step back, Hermione glances at the woman still sitting down. ‘‘Have you been waiting for me for long?’’

‘‘Not at all.’’ The doe-eyed witch replies, voice careful. She surveys Hermione with a keen gaze, certainly finding her far too positive attitude strange. Hermione can’t blame her; the last time they met, only a few weeks ago, Hermione had been distant and cautious. She’d also think it odd if someone she knew abruptly changed approaches for no apparent reason.

At least to the naked eye. And to outsiders.

To Hermione, her reformed behaviour makes absolute sense. It has been a year and a half in the making, after all.

‘‘Come, take a seat.’’ Neville coaxes her. ‘‘I love this restaurant. I’ve never heard of it before. I didn’t even know they had it in Hogsmeade.’’

‘‘They do! I’ve been there a couple times before.’’ She leaves out the detail that she used to patronise it with Ronald, on their date nights, right after the war and the reconstruction of the village. She doesn’t let the memory plague her as she gets comfortable in the chair from across the pair. ‘‘But it’s been a while for me, so that’s why I suggested it.’’

‘‘I love it! What a great pick.’’

They grin at each other, two old friends buzzing with enthusiasm for being able to meet one another again. By Neville’s side, Parkinson watches on in blatant guardedness.

Hermione supposes she has to do her part to win the woman over. She refocuses her attention on her, adjusting her grin into something more palatable. ‘‘How are you doing, Pansy? Malfoy mentioned that you and your mum were to visit the state where the wedding is taking place this weekend.’’

Hermione had all but accosted her partner, eager to gather a little more information about his best friend. She didn’t want to come empty-handed to this dinner, and she was also a smidge curious about who the girl had become after all those years. Despite acting like his dismissive self, added to a certain distrustfulness at Hermione suddenly taking interest, Malfoy did prove himself useful by supplying her with enough topics to fill in their three-courses meal.

Not unlike her mate, Parkinson’s pretty face widens in brief surprise at the unexpected question. Swiftly, though, as the very well-trained lady that she is, she schools her expression to relay only politeness. ‘‘I’m doing okay, thank you. Everything is going according to plan.’’ She pauses for a fleeting moment before doing her own part, giving Hermione something more. ‘‘We’re visiting the state tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.’’

‘‘Oh, I can bet.’’ Hermione smiles. ‘‘Knowing how impeccable your mother’s sense of style is, I’m confident this wedding will be the most gorgeous of the year. I mean, your cousin Marcella’s debutante ball looked absolutely stunning.’’ 

This piece of knowledge Hermione gained from Lavender. Two weeks before, they had gone shopping together in search of Hermione’s Ministry Gala formal gown, but all they really did was gossip. Lavender, mainly due to her inability to work for long hours at a time, has been spending most of her days reading fashion magazines and social events gazettes. Because of that, the blonde knows everything about everyone, especially pureblood families and their gusto for extravagant parties. During their four hour long rendezvous around Muggle London, she told Hermione all about the Parkinsons, the Selwyns, and any other member of the Sacred Twenty Eight that Hermione remembered to ask about. She confided in Hermione about the scandals, and the drama, and the lavish functions they throw every season. When talking about Neville’s fast approaching nuptials, Lavender informed her that Parkinson’s mother was known for organising the entire family’s affairs and some more, from birthdays and anniversary celebrations to fund-raisers and spring fetes.

With the marked absence of Narcissa Malfoy in the past decade, Eleanor Parkinson has become the hostess extraordinaire of the Wizarding high society. As such, her balls always receive excellent coverage from every entertainment newspaper, both national and international, which will surely also be the case for her daughter’s greatly anticipated wedding.

Hermione had stored this information carefully away so she could arm herself with it tonight - to try and break the ice with her friend’s fiancé by being less clueless about her family, and overall just showing to be less disinterested in her as a person. Not only is Hermione genuinely curious about the witch, she is also aware that her characteristic indifference for other people’s lives is not something of which she should be proud. Instead, it should be something she’s actively striving to change in herself. 

She may as well start with Slytherin’s former mean girl. 

Parkinson’s cupid’s bow mouth opens in astonishment before she catches herself. ‘‘Erm, thank you. She’s very excited about it, indeed.’’

‘‘Of course she is.’’

‘‘My Nan is also joining, did you know that, Hermione?’’ Neville chips in. ‘‘Eleanor’s been kind enough to invite her to come along. She’s over the moon about it, cannot stop talking about it for one second.’’

Hiding her shock to learn that his grandmother is still alive, probably somewhere at the reap age of at least one hundred, Hermione croons. ‘‘Oh, how nice. I can only imagine her delight at being able to participate in something so special to you, Neville.’’

‘‘She is. I mean, she doesn’t understand much about the new trends, or about fashion or sense of style in general, but she’s still excited to put in her two cents’ worth.’’

‘‘As she should.’’ Parkinson tells him, unaffected. ‘‘Mother might know all about the new trends, but Augusta is the real matriarch. And your most beloved relative. It only makes sense that she’s accompanying every step of the way.’’ 

At this, Neville beams, looking at his fiancé with sheer hearty-eyes, and suddenly Hermione has no issue in comprehending how come he fell in love with the woman. It’s obvious to anyone to see that the couple is crazy about one another, and Hermione’s been in their presence for the whole of five minutes. By the end of the meal, she will have no doubt that they’ve been made for each other.

‘‘I agree with Pansy.’’ Hermione says and leaves it at that because the waiter comes in the next moment to take their order. 

Parkinson acquiesces when Hermione asks her if she wants to share a bottle of Bordeaux Blanc, while Neville sticks with a simple orange juice. Each of them decides for an individual dish, and when their server is gone, Parkinson is the one to resume their conversation.

‘‘So… I’m gathering that you and Draco are getting along a little better. Since he’s mentioning my whereabouts to you and all.’’

It’s not said with an undercurrent of criticism or needling; the comment is delivered in a neutral tone, inclining to mild curiosity. Hermione, thus, doesn’t hesitate to be honest. ‘‘We are. Finally.’’ She chuckles. ‘‘I mean, we’re not best friends or anything, but we’re certainly more at peace with each other. I guess we learned to just let the other be, and respect each other’s points of view.’’ 

‘‘That’s good to know.’’ Parkinson replies, for the first time offering Hermione a small smile. She reciprocates in kind and prepares herself to change subjects but before that, Parkinson continues. ‘‘Personally, it’s a relief to know Draco is doing better at work. He has so many things to worry about already, with Scorpius and his parents and all the rest. Fighting you about everything was just another thing to add to the pile.’’

Hermione’s surprised again; this time not due to a strong-willed grandma surviving despite all odds, but to a strong-willed father doing his very best. Mostly, it surprises her that Parkinson talks so freely about it. Though it doesn’t how much she cares for him. Hermione is starting to realise that the Slytherins are not that different to Gryffindors when it comes to being loyal to the ones that matter to them.

Feeling the memory of how protective Malfoy acted of her during Fawley’s birthday party wash over her, Hermione nods whole-heartedly. ‘‘I know. It’s a relief to me as well that we’re getting along now.’’

Parkinson clocks in her response, clever eyes drinking her expression and emphatic words. ‘‘I can see that. Though, I should’ve noticed it before.’’ Her face assumes a wondering expression all of a sudden. Her eyes look past Hermione, as if she’s trying to recall something. ‘‘Thinking now, yes… Draco has seemed much less stressed lately. And I haven’t heard him complain about you in a hot minute.’’ Her eyes focus back on Hermione. ‘‘Who would’ve guessed you two would finally bury the hatchet?’’

Hermione chuckles, softly. ‘‘Definitely not me. But it got to a point where there wasn’t any option left. And to be quite honest… I mean, Malfoy is not the worst of them, is he?’’

‘‘He’s certainly not.’’

They smile at one another, and there’s something to be said about burying the hatchet between them, too.

Chapter Text

When Jimmy Tremlet, one of the three men arrested by Malfoy and the Hit Wizards in early December, takes responsibility for orchestrating the theft of Richard Patrickson’s experimental elixirs, Hermione feels her gut reacting instinctively. She doesn’t need to think too hard about it; she knows it’s bullshit. She’s one hundred percent certain he’s covering for someone, but that doesn’t make much sense either: he’s been in detention for months, how does he even know about the burglary? Why is he shouldering the blame only now? What changed since he got arrested and refused to offer any useful information?

As the latest round of interrogations uncovers these new and unexpected findings, Hermione and her partner see their days getting busier and busier, buried in mountains of paperwork in preparation for the upcoming trial of the confessed suspect. As such, their other (non-pressing) cases are put on hold and they spend most of their hours working together on the Zimcooke case in the last conference room of the Aurors Office. And despite Hermione’s internal system going completely wayward at the situation, she has no choice but to move along with it.

She informs the potioneer of the development, she processes the signed confession according to the Ministry guidelines, she seals the affidavit and other legal memorandums for the Wizengamot. When all the procedural protocols are done, she sits back around the oval table with Malfoy across from her, and tries to instil some logic to the most illogical investigation of which she’s ever been part. Malfoy stares attentively at the documents in front of him, paying little mind to her, so she attempts to relax, letting go of the stress-induced paranoia that has been accompanying her in the past few days.

She flicks the pages of the case file, going through the gathered information and cataloguing what they have so far. Almost at the end of it stands the DMP’s report, followed by the Patricksons’ testimonies and the list of stolen elixirs. As Hermione skims the words and flips the parchments, she nearly skips the small paragraph dedicated to Thomas and Louie’s far-fetching theory about the undetectable teletransportation.

She pauses.

She hasn’t given any thought to the hypothesis since she first heard it, weeks ago. She does it now, likely because she doesn’t know what else to do.

Granted, she knows next to nothing over the theories and practices of Scrying. As a rule, Hermione has always turned her nose to any branch of Divination. At the moment, though, she feels more than inclined to learn about it. She tells her partner she’ll be right back, to which she receives an unintelligible grunt in response, and makes her way to the Ministry library. There, she borrows three books: Scrying: The Most Elusive Form of Divination Explained, The Gaze of the Seer, and Catoptromancy.

Returning to the conference room, she gets herself ready to dive into the unknown. She reads until her eyes cross and her sight blurs.

Unlike popular belief, Scrying mirrors do not only allow their holders to gaze into the future. The ability to see distant things magically is not limited to the unit of ‘time’ as it also applies to ‘space’. Most wizards and witches are quick to relegate every branch of Divination to ‘‘the art of predicting what will happen.’’ They seem to forget that the spheres of the universe are all interconnected, and nothing exists in a vacuum. If one’s able to see future events reflected in a translucent surface, one’s able to travel through open gaps in space as well.

Is it possible that Jimmy Tremlet used a Scrying mirror to invade the Patricksons’ home? In principle, he could have done it without needing to leave his prison cell, but how did he get his hands onto such a catoptromancy tool? And how did he do it by himself? Because for all of what Hermione learned in the past couple of hours, despite the possibility of bodiless teletransportation, Scrying mirrors can’t unite people from different planes. Tremlet would have only been able to travel to the desired location to steal the elixirs with someone accompanying him if that person had been right next to him, which is impossible. Hermione knows he was alone in detention. She also knows that there was more than one perpetrator to the offence; she verified it herself during the crime scene investigation.

Another possibility would be him being the mastermind behind said theft, outsourcing its actual execution. He hadn’t needed to be present to carry out the crime; he could have just given the order and made sure all fell into place from afar. But, still, he would have needed outside information for that. He would have needed access and means to communicate with the lackeys that would be enacting his plan. That also doesn’t seem plausible: he’s been allowed no visitor or owling rights, his cell has been warded with the DMLE’s strongest protective curses, and he hasn’t interacted with anyone in the last months save for his guards and the Aurors.

The conclusion is that it just couldn’t have been him. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He must be lying. How else could he have done it if not? How on Earth could he have-

Hermione halts her deep musings when repeated sounds and movements in her periphery catch her attention.

Refocusing her sight, she sees her partner act somewhat erratically in front of her. His white-blonde eyebrows are permanently glued to one another as his entire face scrunches in seeming frustration. His hair is uncharacteristically messy, as if he had run his hands through it one too many times, and tiny irritated noises escape him as she watches. When he shakes his head a little too hard, mouth pinched and expression tight, Hermione decides to intervene.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

Malfoy shakes his head again, eyes not meeting hers, and retains his silence.

‘‘Are you okay? What’s the matter?’’

He remains quiet and Hermione’s voice turns stern.

‘‘Malfoy.’’

He lets out a mix of a sigh and a huff. ‘‘It’s nothing.’’

Hermione drops her book and straightens in her chair. ‘‘Come on. Out with it already.’’

He finally looks up. ‘‘It’s just…’’ Once more shaking his head, he rubs a haggard hand over his face. His voice comes out muffled next. ‘‘It’s just not making any sense.’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’

‘‘This case, Granger. This fucking case.’’ He finally snaps his eyes to her, dark in agitation, hand falling from his face. ‘‘Nothing in it is making sense anymore. I mean, Jimmy Tremlet taking responsibility for the Patricksons’ burglary? What the fuck?’’ He gestures wildly. ‘‘Why is he talking now? Catrall is still mute as a mule, Yuxuan only smirks at us when we interrogate him. Why is Tremlet out of the sudden so interested in cooperating? And don’t even get me started on the anonymous tips. I mean, one’s fine, two is odd but passable, but bloody three?’’ He refers to the last anonymous tip the DMLE received about four weeks ago to investigate another location, but which hasn’t really panned out; they have only been able to retrieve a few artefacts that have yet to produce valuable information. ‘‘The Sanskrit parchment with the formula, Lowburn’s arrest, everything… It’s just- there’s just something wrong here.’’ His countenance falls in dismay as he looks at her. ‘‘I’ve really tried to make sense of it and to keep going, but I can’t ignore this anymore. I feel like this- this entire case, it’s a set up. It’s a fucking trap.’’

And Hermione feels like she could give him a hug.

As she looks back at Malfoy, at his open expression and vulnerability, she feels a remarkable blend of relief and admiration filling her. 

She’s so very relieved that he sees it, too; that she’s not crazy or making things up, and he’s not as deep in his tunnel vision as she had originally thought. That he is in it as much as she is, and therefore is not blind to how goddamn suspicious this case is turning to be. She’s relieved because they’re finally on the same page and he’s giving her what she’s wanted from him since the beginning: caution and a healthy amount of scepticism. 

And she admires him because he is clearly putting his ego aside to admit to something that costs him a great deal too. He’s letting go of his iron-cloud certainty; he’s allowing doubt to storm in. He’s being humble enough to backtrack, to recognise the faults in his reasoning of before and to say out loud that he doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

It’s been a hot minute since Hermione felt this strong surge of admiration for someone.

Overwhelmed by such an abrupt feeling, she can’t help but smile at the man in front of her. ‘‘I agree with you.’’

He doesn’t fail to notice her cheery disposition. He scowls. ‘‘Aren’t you going to tell me I told you so? You were suspicious about this case from the start. I’m finally agreeing with you that there’s something fishy going on here.’’

‘‘Precisely.’’ She says with another grin. ‘‘We’re finally on the same page. And that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. No need to rub it in.’’

He rolls his eyes, glancing down to the document in his hands. ‘‘Sorry if I’m not as thrilled about it as you are.’’

‘‘That’s okay. Tell me, what are you thinking?’’

‘‘I’m thinking that Tremlet is fucking lying. He’s covering for someone. There’s no way he orchestrated the whole thing. He shouldn’t even know about the burglary in the first place.’’ Her thoughts exactly. ‘‘I’m thinking someone fed him the information and told him to take responsibility.’’ He holds her gaze again. ‘‘I’m thinking this is an inside job.’’

Hermione’s mouth falls open.

She hadn’t gone that far. To be honest, she hadn’t allowed herself to get lost inside the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories bubbling to the brim inside her restless brain. ‘‘An inside job? You mean, in the Ministry?’’

‘‘Or the DMLE.’’

She gapes even more. ‘‘You think someone in the DMLE is collaborating with the Zimcooke criminals?’’

‘‘Think about it, Granger. It’s the only thing that would make sense. Someone’s been covertly leading us astray this whole time. Feeding us with just enough information to keep us going, manipulating our findings and making sure our investigation takes a particular route. Before, I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. Or, at most, that the Essex gang was behind everything in their own way. They could have forwarded the anonymous tips and guaranteed we found exactly what they wanted us to find. They could’ve had their reason to try and distract us. But how can we explain Tremlet knowing about the Patricksons’ stolen elixirs? It can’t have been done by someone who doesn’t have current access to the prisoner.’’

‘‘It could’ve been a breach in the wards. A leaking of classified documents, or- or somebody infiltrated the Ministry to get in touch with him.’’ And yet, as she says it, Hermione knows the chances of any of that are infinitesimally small. 

Malfoy sees it, too. ‘‘The probability of this happening is close to zero, Granger, and you know it.’’

‘‘So you think it’s much more likely that someone in the DMLE is dirty?’’

His scoff is immediate. ‘‘That would hardly be the first time, would it?’’

It certainly wouldn’t, but they’re not merely talking about taking bribes or committing fraud for personal financial gain. The stakes are at a completely different level when it comes to the Zimcooke case. They’re talking about blood-purity dark magic, for Christ’s sake.

‘‘You think there’s still people in the Ministry working to bring back blood supremacy?’’

Sighing, Malfoy lifts a rough hand to weave through his blond locks. He looks away. ‘‘Honestly, I’m not so sure this is about blood supremacy anymore.’’

Because he’s not looking at her, he misses how her eyes widen. He misses, too, the way they soften as she stares unblinkingly at his most surprising admission. 

‘‘You changed your mind about this as well?’’

He shrugs. ‘‘I didn’t have a choice. The evidence is no longer pointing to it. I can’t keep being stubborn about it.’’

Hermione ignores how that makes her insides somersault. ‘‘Why were you so adamant about it in the first place? I mean, I know the leader is called The Death Eater and many artefacts we found were drowned in the Dark Arts, but other than that, the evidence was all scattered around. It seemed more random than anything, and yet you never wavered in your convictions. I always wondered why.’’

‘‘You really don’t know, Granger?’’ He meets her stare. ‘‘I don’t think it’s that difficult to understand.’’ When she doesn’t offer anything to that except for a puzzled face, he sighs again. ‘‘I just couldn’t be part of the problem yet again, could I?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘I mean that I couldn’t just allow it to happen again. I couldn’t sit back and watch the world fall apart one more time because of a megalomaniac with delusional ideals of blood purity. Even in the face of the tiniest of chances, even when the probability was potentially low. I would never forgive myself again if I didn’t do anything to stop it. Again.’’

At once, it all adds up. His insistence, his fervour in getting to the bottom of this.

Her heart softens an inch further.

‘‘You were never part of the problem, Malfoy. Not even the first time. You were forced into it.’’

His silver eyes are cold as they flicker in her direction. ‘‘Please, Granger. Don’t give me these platitudes. I might’ve been coerced to become a Death Eater when I was a teenager but if I hadn’t, we both know I’d become one eventually. I was a fucking bigot back then.’’

‘‘Well, it was the way you were raised, wasn’t it? I mean, you barely had a choic-’’

‘‘I always had a choice. Sirius Black was also raised by a pureblood, bigoted family and he made his own path.’’

It mildly shocks her to hear him mention Sirius, and in such a determined way. It shocks her to hear him mention their past in such a way, period. It sends a fresh new wave of sympathy through her.

‘‘Different people, different lives. Don’t compare yourself to others. When it mattered, you made the right choice.’’

He sighs. ‘‘I know.’’ He pinches the bridge of his nose with the index finger and his thumb. ‘‘It’s what I always try to tell myself. Still… I couldn’t possibly remain passive now and let it get that far again.’’

‘‘It won’t. There’s no Voldemort anymore. There’s nothing indicating that blood purity is on the rise.’’ Hermione leans forward, bracing her elbows against the oval table, commanding him to keep looking at her. ‘‘Just like you, I’d never forgive myself if I was negligent and allowed shit to get bad again. That’s why I’m always so alert to any news or development that could mean that blood discrimination was making a comeback. It’s the reason I was so promptly disbelieving of you that first time, when you had just confiscated the Bloodstained packs of cards. It sounded really odd to hear you be so certain about it when there was no indication whatsoever that Dark Arts groups were getting strong again. And they’re not.’’ She pierces him with a heavy look. ‘‘You know that, Malfoy. Apart from this absolutely contradictory case, there’s nothing pointing to it. So you don’t need to worry.’’

‘‘I will always worry.’’

‘‘Right. You can worry, but you don’t have to hold yourself as the sole responsible for preventing it from happening again.’’

‘‘Not the sole responsible, but-’’

‘‘You know what I mean.’’

‘‘Granger…’’ Malfoy swallows. His large hands sprawl across the surface in front of him, and his eyes stay rooted down. ‘‘Look. I do know what you mean, and I know where you’re coming from. I do. And I appreciate your attempt to mollify me. But it’s just- it’s different for you. Than what it is for me.’‘ His jaw ticks. ‘‘You fought on the right side of the war. I was literally aiding and abetting the enemy.’’

‘‘Again, it wasn’t your choice. And when push came to shove, you stuck to the right side.’’

‘‘When it was already too late.’’

‘‘But it wasn’t. If it hadn’t been for your mother, we would’ve lost it all.’’

He scoffs. ‘‘This is pointless. I don’t want to discuss semantics. What I do want is for you to understand that we have very different perspectives about this. And while I know you are as committed to avoid a Third Wizarding War as I am, the burden of it- it’s just not the same for you and me.’’

‘‘I understand that.’’

‘‘You do?’’

Hermione nods once. ‘‘I don’t buy this indifferent façade you put on for a second. I know you now, Malfoy. I know you care. And I know you still feel remorseful, even though you pretend you’re all moved on. I know you notice the way people treat you around here.’’

‘‘How could I not?’’

‘‘Well, fuck them. Like they did so much better in the war. The only person who could ever have the right to hold a grudge against you is Harry, and he forgave you a long time ago.’’

‘‘He still hates me.’’

‘‘That’s because you’re still insufferable.’’

She finally plucks a small smile out of him. He reclines on his chair, forearms anchored on each side of it as he peers amusedly at her. ‘‘He’s not the only one who has the right to hold a grudge against me, is he? I’d probably say you have even more reason for that than him.’’

She mirrors his grin. ‘‘I used to. Why do you think it took me so long to warm up to you?’’

‘‘I thought you said you didn’t hold my past against me.’’

‘‘Well, I am full of shit, aren’t I?’’

 At that, he chuckles. ‘‘You sure are. So that means you still have grudge?’’

‘‘Nah.’’

‘‘Nah?’’

She’s smiling, he’s smiling; they’re bantering now.

It feels nice.

‘‘Nah. It went away already. You managed to pound it to the ground.’’

‘‘Oh, did I? My, my, what a cunning man.’’

Hermione laughs. ‘‘Shut it. And go back to work. We have so much to figure out.’’

His eyes nearly roll to the back of his skull as he puffs. ‘‘I don’t want to get back to it. It’s driving me insane. The knowing that something’s up but being unable to piece it together, the reading and reading and reading, without being able to make sense of the words.’’ Hermione bobs her head because she knows very well what he means. It’s what’s been plaguing her for months. Once more, she feels so relieved that he’s right there with her now. ‘‘I’m one moment away from sending everything to hell.’’

‘‘Before you do that… We need to discuss something.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘I think I might have a new theory.’’

Her new theory is nothing too sophisticated. As a matter of fact, it’s not even fully formed; Hermione has pieced together some recent information, welcomed Thomas and Louie’s hypothesis into the mix, and jumped to conclusions here and there. She’s been partnered with Malfoy for long enough to finally accept that every once in a while one’s got to go ahead and infer a little. She’s learned to concede that speculation can indeed be an important part of the job.

As such, there’s a few things they have to take into account: first of all, there’s definitely dark magic involved in the Zimcooke case, in one way or another; second, there’s an ultimate purpose to the actions of the criminal organisation apart from monetary interests; third, someone’s trying to send the DMLE off track with contradictory, fabricated evidences; and finally, they are getting help from inside.

Much is still unclear or inconsistent, but Hermione knows how to navigate uncertainties better now. They no longer shut her down. She doesn’t need to be sure of every single detail as long as she has a working theory which she keeps striving to confirm or falsify. Which, at the moment, is that the leader of the Essex gang, also known as The Death Eater, is planning a coordinated attack somewhere and/or at something by using Richard Patrickson’s stolen elixirs, undetectable teletransportation and inside information. Her partner and her had already entertained the possibility that an attack might be in the cards for the gang, following the burglary, but until that point they weren’t really convinced that something massive like that could actually be pulled off. However, now having the knowledge that one or more Ministry employees are assisting the bad guys and that they might be in possession of Scrying objects, Hermione’s much more assured that there’s something of large scale being planned, large enough to justify using diversion tactics to mislead the Aurors. She doesn’t know exactly what that could be, or even where to look for, but she does know that when it happens, it will be out of nowhere and targeting something, somewhere or someone highly unexpected.

She’s also very inclined to believe that it will greatly rely on Scrying effects to come through. Which means the Ministry’s standard protective wards won’t manage to prevent it.

And that’s how Hermione finds herself telling her partner that they need to pay Sybill Trelawney a visit in Hogwarts.

‘‘Hermione, drop the file right now.’’

Hermione glances up, caught. ‘‘I only need another minute.’’

‘‘And I need several of them to make you presentable.’’ Lavender shoots back, not buying into her shit. Her clear blue gaze is firm in the reflection of the mirror through which Hermione looks at her. With two hands supported on each side of her waist in a perfect imitation of a teacup, she appears more motherly than Hermione ever imagined possible. ‘‘The Gala is in less than an hour. Your hair is miles away from done and I haven’t even started with your face.’’

‘‘I know, I know. But I promise, I only need one more minute to finish this.’’

Lately, every single thought in Hermione’s mind has revolved around their new theory. Everywhere she goes, everything she does, she’s playing scenarios in her head, trying to work out more details, more explanations that could help her and her partner make a breakthrough. Since the week before, following the official start of Tremlet’s trial, there haven’t been any meaningful developments, so she has resorted to replay each information of the case, and read the case file, on repeat.

‘‘Alright. Sixty, fifty nine, fifty eight, fifty seven-’’

‘‘Lavender!’’

‘‘Fifty six, fifty five-’’

‘‘Urgh.’’

There’s no way she can concentrate with someone counting aloud next to her. Huffing, Hermione floats the file away from her and toward her night cabinet, where it plops neatly beside the three borrowed books about Scrying.

‘‘I’m done. Happy?’’

‘‘Immensely. Now face forward and don’t move.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes but does as she’s told. The blonde immediately lifts her wand and resumes her beauty charms on Hermione’s half-curled locks. She works mostly in silence, only letting out a few instructions here and there, and low hums of approval. Hermione watches on, tracking her appearance slowly changing from unkempt and overlooked to something very close to pretty.

Hermione has never really cared about the way she looks, except in very specific self-conscious occasions in the past, but it does feel good to see herself and be met back with admiration. Even if it’s only by her. Although it’s not her number one priority in life, it still gives her a positive feeling to add beautiful to the list of adjectives she attaches to herself. 

When Lavender is done, Hermione’s usual wild curls are tamed in a voluminous half-up with a deep side part, allowing her brown eyes and lashes, thick with mascara and eyeliner, to be highlighted. Lavender’s choice of lipstick for her is a dark red, not too bright but flawlessly in tone with her long, black dress and stilettos. Hermione blinks at her reflection, barely daring to believe that’s actually her.

‘‘You look stunning, Mione.’’

‘‘I do.’’ She replies, and there’s a faint note of disbelief in her voice. ‘‘Blimey, Lavender, you’re a real professional. I’ve never looked this good in my entire life!’’

Her friend beams, her broad face scar breaking in two at her expansive grin. ‘‘Thank you. But, you know, the natural beauty of the model helps a lot.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes, grinning too. ‘‘Right. Anyway, thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.’’

‘‘You’re welcome. I’m glad I could be of service.’’ She checks Hermione’s round clock on top of the doorframe. ‘‘It’s two minutes to nine. You should get going.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Hermione grabs the purse she had picked to go with her gown, clutching it between two hands as she peers back at Lavender. ‘‘I wish you had been invited, though. I’m certain my night would be a hundred times better if you were also in attendance.’’

‘‘Thank you, but no, thank you. This gala sounds absolutely dull.’’ They laugh at the truth in her words. ‘‘But you’re not going to have fun, remember that. You’re going, one, because you’re mandated, and two, because you want to show to everyone that you’re doing just fine, and that you don’t need any Weasleys or Potters in your life.’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

‘‘Good girl. Now up you go.’’

Hermione smiles, bringing the witch quickly in for a hug before she departs. ‘‘Thank you. You’re the best.’’

‘‘You’re welcome, babes. Good luck.’’

Hermione nods, appreciative of the sentiment. Waving goodbye, she turns on her heels and walks to the fireplace. She told Lavender to make herself at home while she’s gone, but her friend won’t probably stay long. Hermione could already see that she seemed quite fatigued, so she’s sure to head back to her parents’ house as soon as Hermione’s left to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

Hermione closes her fist around a handful of floo powder and makes the uncomfortable journey.

She arrives in the large foyer of the Town Hall the Ministry always rents for its yearly galas. It’s grand and unnecessarily luxurious. Every wall is filled with expensive art dating from at least a few hundreds years ago, grandiose mirrors and floating candles making everything look even bigger. Layer rugs and thick ceiling-to-floor curtains give the ambiance a sombre but ostentatious aesthetic, which is only added by the fancy-looking furniture that crowds the place. The heads of the Wizarding government have, indeed, seldom spared costs to let people know how much they have been thriving since the war reconstruction. It appears that the magical population needs to be reminded at every turn that they won, and that everything is fine.

Hermione ignores the multiple photographers, eager servers and maîtres trying to guide her inside. She waves her no’s politely and hurries to enter the huge salon reserved for the annual festivity. It’s still early, nine o’clock on the spot, but it’s already starting to fill up. Hermione takes a few tentative steps in, looking around for familiar faces. The first one she finds is Kingsley Shacklebolt.

She makes her way to him.

‘‘Hermione. How good to see you. You look beautiful tonight.’’

‘‘Thank you, Minister.’’

He’s surrounded by two Wizengamot members that Hermione is not acquainted with. She stretches her hand formally. ‘‘Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you.’’

‘‘Miss Granger. A pleasure.’’

‘‘Good evening, Miss Granger. Richard Fox.’’

After the introductions are over with, they settle for small talk. She notices, though, Kingsley throwing her side-glances from time to time. It’s discreet, as is everything else that the man does, but she still takes note of it. It intrigues her, and so when the other wizards bid their goodbye sometime later, moving along to greet newcomers, she promptly turns to him, face schooled into polite curiosity.

He doesn’t stall.

‘‘I’ve heard you’ve been having your hands full at the DMLE lately.’’

Ah.

‘‘You’ve heard right, Minister.’’

‘‘Particularly one case, if I’m not mistaken.’’

Hermione holds in a sigh. ‘‘That’s right, too.’’

‘‘Many accounts have reached me in the past few weeks. I was wondering what yours would be, Hermione.’’

That’s the most direct Kingsley can possibly be in a public setting. Hermione has known him for long enough to know exactly where he’s getting at.

She measures her words. ‘‘My account… is that I think the Zimcooke case is a very strange, complex case.’’ She’s not afraid to name names since they’re going at it. If the Minister wants to inquire after her job, she might as well make sure they’re speaking plainly. ‘‘Nothing about it is straightforward. Much of the evidence is contradictory. To be completely frank, we’re still trying to understand what is exactly that we’re dealing with.’’

If that’s what Kingsley wants to hear or not, she will never know. The wizard gives no outward signs of his thoughts.

‘‘So you and your partner have not yet come to a working theory?’’

It doesn’t escape her the tiniest but surely present inflexion he uses when he says your partner. It tells her that Kingsley is very well aware of hers and Malfoy’s reputation of disliking and disagreeing with each other. If he had asked her that question only a week ago, she’d have trouble answering it with honesty and civility. Currently, however, she finds no issues in looking him in the eye and telling him the truth.

‘‘Not yet, Minister.’’ Well, perhaps not the entire truth. Malfoy and her have started to investigate the entire thing through the lens of a coordinated attack by The Death Eater that likely has nothing to do with blood-purity reasons and that will certainly be done in a way that will blindsight the DMLE in every respect. She can’t tell the Minister for Magic that, can she? At least not until they have gathered enough support for their hypothesis. ‘‘We think it’s important to be cautious now. Like I said, this case is very strange. It wouldn’t do well to jump to conclusions without evidence.’’

The man in front of her takes in her answer with an indecipherable face.

A few seconds drag by before he speaks again.

‘‘I find it interesting to hear your take on this, Hermione. I must say your… caution, it doesn’t seem to be shared by many others.’’

‘‘It’s shared by my partner. And I’d say, as the lead Aurors of the case, what the two of us think is all that matters, is it not?’’

At that, finally, Kingsley displays some reaction. His eyebrows twitch, ever so slightly, but in a clear demonstration of surprise. ‘‘Oh?’’ Tilting his head, in an unconscious move or to inspect Hermione closer she doesn’t know- he spurs her. ‘‘So you and your partner have come to an understanding, is that what you’re telling me?’’

Hermione chuckles. ‘‘We have. I know it sounds hard to believe, but our relationship has improved greatly in the past months. We’re on the same page about the investigation.’’

‘‘I see.’’

They fall silent, and Hermione waits for his next move. She looks around her, watching her coworkers and other Ministry employees arrive in their classy attires. Everyone looks excited to be there, deeply expectant of a night full of scrumptious food and abundant liquor. That it’s also an opportunity to make relevant connections and schmooze your way into the good graces of a higher up Ministry authority just makes the gala that much more palatable for most of them.

Hermione cares little for any of it, so she limits herself to gaze around listless, already bored. Kingsley’s voice, ringing out again, brings her attention readily back.

‘‘I’m pleased to hear you two have sorted yourselves out. After all, it’s of everyone’s interest that two of the DMLE’s best Aurors work well together.’’ He pauses, taking a short sip of his champagne flute. Casually, he resumes his deliberation. ‘‘But I must be forthcoming and admit that the lack of initiative is becoming… something of concern.’’ Hermione barely hides her startlement at this. She swivels her face toward Kingsley, for the first time stopping the pretence of being captivated by whoever is joining them tonight. The Minister, nonetheless, maintains his dark eyes casted away, scanning the crowd in his usual relaxed way. ‘‘Hestia has made her thoughts about this comprehensively known. And I’m starting to think there might be some foundation to her worries. Especially if one takes into consideration the nature of the case.’’

The single mention of the Head of the DMLE promptly sours Hermione’s mood. She keeps her mouth shut, though, cataloguing every word and expression coming out of Kingsley.

He continues.

‘‘There’s an argument to be made for being thorough in one’s job, of course. One can never be careful enough. Yet, that doesn’t mean that passivity should be the order of the day. We should never confuse prudence with inertia.’’ He finally turns to her. ‘‘I’m certain you of all people understand that, Hermione.’’ She doesn’t offer a response, but he doesn’t really need one. He finishes his flute and his message. ‘‘Make sure that such an important case doesn’t fall through the cracks. No one would like to see the Wizarding world plagued again by what was supposed to be as good as done.’’

Curving his head in cordiality, the Minister takes his leave.

Hermione’s head burns. 

She needs a drink.

After securing a tall glass of the bitterest pint the bar served, Hermione takes a long gulp to cool herself. She sticks to the sidelines of the large saloon for a few instants, gathering her bearings.

She dissects word for word of her conversation with the Minister for Magic.

It wasn’t a reprimand as much as it was a warning. Kingsley clearly sought to let Hermione know what the birds have been whispering in the streets. He wanted to alert her that the way things are going, people will very soon start to have a problem with the lack of results in the Zimcooke case. And by people, he means not only the DMLE (and its overbearing Head) but the Ministry as a whole.

She knew there was a considerable interest coming from above regarding the case. Malfoy and her have been called into meetings with the Deputy-Head and her boss on more than one occasion, where the core of the discussion was always how close, or rather not, they were to get to the leader of the criminal organisation. Not so much to stop whatever plans were being put into action, but virtually to just find a culprit and bring them to justice.

And yet, despite Hermione’s awareness of the pressure her partner and her were under to solve the case, she didn’t imagine it also coming from Kingsley. Beyond his attempt to warn her, there was also a distinctly disapproving tone to the point he made. He, too, censures the way she has been dealing with everything so far. And, apparently, much more so after she thoughtlessly informed him that Malfoy is on her side now, as well. If there was reproach to the slow development of their investigation before, now that one of the Aurors responsible for the case is no longer screaming murder about blood discrimination every chance he gets, it is guaranteed that whoever is eager to chalk up the entire thing to the Dark Arts followers will become even more displeased.

What doesn’t sit well with Hermione is why everyone’s so inclined to believe that the case is one of blood supremacy. Surely that should be the least desirable outcome. The last thing anyone would want to confirm. Is it also a matter of high alertness to prevent another war at all costs, as it is for Hermione, or is something else at play here?

She doesn’t know. And that troubles her tremendously.

She shakes her head, trying to clear it from the foreboding thoughts, and reels herself back in. It’s not the time or place for that. She glances around, taking stock of who’s in attendance to distract herself. She notices that her partner is still not one of them yet, which is odd. He’s the most punctual person she knows. And he did tell her he was coming. Taking another sip of her beer, she wonders if he’s alright.

To her left, Harry and Ginny arrive.

They look great together, as usual. Ginny with her flaming auburn hair, marvellously skinny even after three children, and Harry with his eternal boyish charm. They clean up exceptionally well, too, and their devotion for each other shines through every interaction they allow the general public to witness. Hermione’s not so bitter to feel jealous or resentful of them; they deserve their happiness after everything they went through. They’re a good couple, and she’s glad their love has withstood the test of time.

As if sensing her attention, her former best friend cranes his neck and looks directly at her.

They haven’t talked to each other since their heart-to-heart a few weeks ago, right after Fawley’s birthday celebration in Hogsmeade. When Harry finally apologised to her. And she walked away.

She doesn’t regret doing it. Too much has happened, and too much time has passed, for her to pretend I’m sorry will fix everything between them. Harry only did the bare minimum, something he should have done a year and a half ago.

And still-

After their talk, Hermione has found herself finally able to move on. As such, her chest’s no longer heavy with the old tartness that afflicted her for so long. She feels free at last to rebuild her life, which is what she’s been actively doing of late, and thus seeing her former best friend doesn’t fill her with sorrow any longer. She’s sorry that their friendship has come to this but, truth be told, she’s finally… okay.

She’s okay.

Not looking away or making a face, Hermione keeps on watching the pretty couple in front of her as they make their entrance, a flock of guests hurrying to welcome them in. Harry glances in her direction quite often, face blank, but Ginny only sees her after some time. The redhead pauses, and then smiles. It’s small and guarded, but Hermione doesn’t mind reciprocating it. Hers is barely there, yet it is. It’s a little sad, too, but it is what it is.

After several minutes, the two of them move along and Hermione takes another swig of her drink.

From a distance she observes the rest of them. It’s nearing ten o’clock and the Town Hall is almost full. She waves to Mackenzie, all the way across from her speaking to Hestia Jones in a corner (the latter whom Hermione prefers to ignore for now) and she even allows Harold Hopkins, John Cavill and Maddie Ortiz to entrap her in a twenty minute long tale about the last Quidditch World Cup and its enthralling finale. 

She lets out a relieved sigh when another coworker arrives and the three Aurors promptly become distracted. Without wasting time, she takes five swift steps to the side, going around the rectangular food table and getting out of their line of vision. She smiles to herself, already turning around to head to the bar again but, before that, she sees him.

The first thing she notices is the absence of dress robes. Malfoy wears black robes everywhere, even when they’re at the headquarters working in their respective stations, his Auror badge and sensible cufflinks the only accessories accompanying it. Presently, though, the man appears to have decided to skip the formalities, despite the very formal nature of the current outing, and replaced his habitual attire with a white shirt and waistcoat under a dark tailcoat, coupled with a black cravat. Muggle twill chinos and dragon-hide footwear finish his ensemble. It’s less conventional than what’s usual and classier at the same time. It makes him look taller, more imposing, but also less severe.

When they make eye contact, Malfoy discreetly changes his route and walks straight to her. About a couple of feet from each other, it’s his cologne that hits her first.

It’s something expensive and a little crisp that screams money and sophistication and man. It’s also subtle but poignant, not unlike the wizard himself, and Hermione’s lower stomach inexplicably tightens at the smell of it. And the sight of him.

And his deep voice greeting her. ‘‘Granger.’’

The effect all of it combined has on Hermione is outlandish. Her neck heats and sweat gathers in her palms. Even lower than her stomach, somewhere that should markedly have no place in her mind tonight, she feels a harsh pull, a tautening that renders her almost weak. It makes no sense, such a reaction to someone she sees every goddamn day, but Hermione is no fool. Nor a liar. She hasn’t felt it in ages but she can still recognise it.

Attraction.

Overpowering, blunt, ridiculous attraction to her partner. 

It knocks her off kilter. She turns sharply away, tipping the entirety of her glass down her suddenly dry throat. 

‘‘Malfoy.’’ She finally manages to say, without meeting his gaze.

From the corner of her eyes, nevertheless, she can see him looking her up and down.

‘‘You look… less dishevelled than usual.’’ 

The pressure in her guts shift, becoming a heavy, unpleasant weight. 

It’s the worst thing he could have possibly said to her.

Earlier, when Lavender was doing her best to make Hermione anything closer to a pretty girl, she mused about how appearances meant little to her. She’s seldom worried about the way she looked, and hasn’t done so since Hogwarts, because there were always more important things to concern herself with. Marks, duties, proving herself deserving of a place in the Wizarding world as much as any pureblood. A few years later, all she cared about was surviving and after that, discovering what her role in society could be following the most brutal and destructive war the magical community has ever witnessed. Throughout it all, looks were the least meaningful part of her.

She knows she’s plain-looking. Not ugly, just… Average. Brown eyes, brown hair, light brown skin. Neither curvy nor slim, just average. 

Ordinary. 

It never mattered. Her long-time boyfriend liked her just the way she was, or so she thought, and what other people made of her was of no relevance. And, if she’s being honest, it always appeared to be too much work to maintain the beauty standard. Back when she was still with Ronald, she did attempt to care for her hair, but that was it. Nothing more than that. She couldn’t fathom waking up hours before the alarm every day to charm one's hair and face, meticulously pick an outfit, the make-up, the uncomfortable shoes, etcetera. And that’s not even talking about the effort one has to invest in exercising constantly to keep fit. 

It was too much of an endeavour in her opinion, and Hermione preferred to waste her energy in more worthwhile tasks. Plus, the fact that she’s an Auror, threading a fine line between a routine of boring paperwork and dangerous fieldwork, always made such efforts seem pointless to her.

Her mind hasn’t changed. She still cares little for how she looks, and that’s why she goes to work each day with nothing more than brushed teeth and hair, and the most practical jumpsuit she can find under her work robes.

What her colleagues might think of her appearance never bothered her- until now.

At the first glance at Malfoy tonight, Hermione felt like a teenager again, salivating over the hot senior bloke that would never give her the time of the day. Raw attraction almost made a shamble out of her. All the while, all Malfoy thought of her was that she looked less dishevelled than usual.

Even after the amazing work Lavender put in.

It still shouldn’t bother her, because fuck what he thinks, right? And if he does think she’s ugly, beauty isn’t everything. She’s so much more than the way she looks. There are so many adjectives that encapsulate who she is as a person and she knows Malfoy sees them, too. So it shouldn’t bother her that, among all the things he thinks of her, that she’s attractive is not one of them. But it does. It does bother her; it makes her feel small, and unappealing, and less worthy somehow. And that’s stupid. She shouldn’t feel like this. It’s so superficial. It’s vain and frivolous and-

It enrages her that he makes her feel this way.

So before she can stop herself, she snaps at him.

‘‘Nobody asked your opinion.’’

They have become close in the past few months, their partnership progressively evolving toward something that looks distinctively like affectionate friendship. The rude answer for all accounts, therefore, is uncalled for. 

Malfoy raises his eyebrows in her periphery. ‘‘Wow, okay.’’ After a brief pause, he snorts. ‘‘What an absolute delight you are.’’

His characteristic sarcasm only makes matters worse.

‘‘My apologies for not being over the moon at someone telling me I don’t look as ugly as I normally do. Was that supposed to be a compliment?’’

At some point, she had twisted back to him and they’re staring at each other now.

Malfoy frowns. ‘‘That’s not what I said.’’

Even with his forehead scrunched and mouth pinched, he looks terribly good. Frustratingly handsome.

Hermione wants to yell.

She doesn’t. She stalks off, instead.

‘‘Whatever.’’ She tells him before leaving him behind.

She walks to the bar, flagging the waiter for another pint, and forces her eyes shut. Breathing in and out, she tries to recompose herself. In possession of a fresh new glass, some moments later, Hermione brings her front to the salon again, arranging her expression into something neutral. She doesn’t glance Malfoy’s way, and she’s keenly aware of where he stands. She looks pointedly away, anywhere but at him, and focuses on getting back to a placid state of mind.

She pushes every insecurity down and, after having her name called, she joins a circle of Control of Magical Creatures’ employees and does her hardest to make the best out of the dreadful night.

Chapter Text

It’s on the fourteenth day of March that everything inadvertently turns upside down. 

In just one day, Hermione’s life takes a sharp turn, one that, months and months later, she’ll look back to recognise as the inception of all (good and bad) things that were inevitable to come.

It starts early in the morning, when unexpected news reaches her and her partner: Michael Lowburn wants to talk.

The high-ranked official of the Essex gang, the one who had provided extremely valuable intel in the first couple of months of his detention only to later stop giving them information altogether, suddenly decided to resume his mutually beneficial communication with the Aurors.

‘‘There’s something big being planned, and I know what it is.’’ He reveals to the two of them when they finally sit in front of him in a hastily arranged interrogation room at the DMLE, the clock not having yet completed ten rounds. ‘‘I can tell you what but I naturally want something in return.’’

Hermione and Malfoy exchange glances. Everything about this smells sketchy: the abrupt change of heart, the implications behind his words, the timing of it all. After debating their new theory with each other at length in the past weeks, going back and forth on every variable and possible outcome, Malfoy and her have often wondered when the fateful day would come - when The Death Eater would finally set in motion his obscures plans.

Said day appears to have arrived. 

Dread fills Hermione’s lungs as she watches the sly man before her smirk. Every inch of his face tells her that he’s someone with an ace up his sleeve; and that she won’t know which exactly until it’s too late.

‘‘What do you want?’’ Her partner asks.

‘‘Nothing too complicated.’’ Lowburn grins wickedly. ‘‘Just a pardon. A full one at that.’’

‘‘A full pardon?’’ Malfoy tuts. ‘‘I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here, Lowburn. There’s no way you can be pardoned without proving yourself to the DMLE first.’’

‘‘Oh, I will prove myself alright. I can promise you that.’’

‘‘And you expect us to believe that? Just because you promise?’’ Malfoy scoffs, leaning back against the metal chair and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘‘Let’s do this. First you give us good info, then we see what we can do about this pardon request.’’

Lowburn just stares back at the blond wizard, his expression indecipherable. 

Hermione unwittingly holds her breath. 

The prisoner smiles. ‘‘Okay.’’ Shrugging as if this is all commonplace, he proceeds flippantly. ‘‘The Death Eater is planning simultaneous attacks on Ministry facilities all across the country. The goal is to undermine the Ministry’s manpower in order to facilitate an uprising, one that will see the right type of leadership put in place, if you know what I mean. I know the time and date of each of them and I will tell you all of it if I’m granted a full pardon by the end of the week.’’

She releases her breath in a harsh exhale.

This is a nightmare coming to life. Not because she believes him; she would bet every penny in her Gringotts vault that Lowburn is lying through his teeth. And it’s not just the odd coming together of everything or the suspiciously convenient time in which he, just like Jimmy Tremlett, decided to drop a major bomb on the Aurors’ lap, out of the blue. It’s not just the dubious developments of the case in the last many months, either. It’s all of that plus the conniving, calculating look on his face as he tells them the world-shattering news. Every single word out of his mouth is intended to fuck with the DMLE, and Hermione knows it without a doubt.

The problem is that the Instantaneous Quill scribbling right and left in the air next to them, committing every piece of information he relays straight into the DMLE’s registries, doesn’t know the same as she does. It can’t impart context or subtleties. It can only report hard facts, presumedly stemming from confessions wrung out during interrogations.

And, by all means, it’s the only version of the events that the heads of the Ministry are interested in. All they have wanted of late was to have a breakthrough in the case, whatever and however that was, and now they got it. It’s highly unlikely that they will advance with caution after this. They will never listen to Hermione and her suspicions now. A pardon for one single individual who can, for all intents and purposes, help them prevent a possible (though invented) threat to their authority? That’s nothing to them. It’s so easily done they won’t even break a sweat. Or worry there’s something shady behind the confessor's sudden good-will to assist with the investigation.

But worse than that-

If their bosses were already convinced before that the Zimcooke case was related to blood-purity ideals and the dismantling of their current order, now they all but have the confirmation they so fervently desired. Nothing will be the same after this. If Hermione and Malfoy felt the pressure before, now there won’t be a step they take that won’t be heavily monitored and scrutinised. After her talk with Kingsley at the gala, she knows this in her heart. 

Her partner seems to have reached the same conclusion when she peeks at him and sees he has gone completely rigid. A pulse ticks on the side of his neck visible to her. Several seconds go by before he speaks again.

‘‘How do we know you’re telling the truth? We need proof, Lowburn. Name one place and date, and if that pans out, we can discuss the pardon.’’

It’s not what the man before them wants to hear. His insufferable smirk vacillates.

‘‘No deal. First I sign a pardon, and then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.’’

‘‘No.’’

It’s simple and firm. Malfoy looks resolutely to the prisoner, expression unwavering.

‘‘No?’’

‘‘Your hearing skills are still sharp, I can see.’’ He deadpans. ‘‘Yes, that’s what I said. No. There’ll be no talk of you getting anything in return if you don’t prove yourself to us first.’’

‘‘I already did.’’ Lowburn spits back. ‘‘Have you forgotten all of my useful tips? How to get to Braintree, how to find the blood-based artefacts? It was all me. You wouldn’t be nearly half as far as you are if it weren’t for me.’’

‘‘How do you know the artefacts were curated in blood?’’ Malfoy tilts his head. ‘‘From what I can recall, and my memory is impeccable, just ask Auror Granger- Last time we interrogated you, you didn’t seem to know what type of artefacts were being handled in the facilities. You just rattled out an abandoned area that was used for the contraband transactions.’’ Schooling his face in a faux-confused countenance, her partner asks the only relevant question. ‘‘How strange that you know so much when you swore before that you didn’t have a clue about it. Is there perhaps a good reason for you to have changed your mind so… conveniently?’’

Gone are the grin and the casual façade. Lowburn shoots daggers at Malfoy.

‘‘I already gave you more than enough information. There’s an attack on the Ministry coming. If you want more details, mate, I encourage you to get me out of here first.’’

‘‘Sorry, no can do, mate.’’ If there’s one thing Malfoy hates, it’s being called mate. He stands up unceremoniously, almost startling Hermione. He turns to her. ‘‘Shall we?’’

Hermione hasn’t uttered a word since they sat down to listen to what Lowburn had to say. And as such it remains as she gets to her feet, pocketing the Instantaneous Quill and the case file, and quickly follows Malfoy out of the room.

‘‘Are you fucking joking right now? Are you really going to just-’’ 

The door slamming behind them cuts off the rest of the prisoner’s rant. Hermione looks at the door and then at Malfoy, an avalanche of emotions and thoughts streaming through her. Her partner just shakes his head, in a silent ask to hold on for now, and starts walking down the corridor. She reacts on auto-pilot, copying his footsteps. Turning left, he needs a few more strides to reach the conference room that they made into their own since the beginning of their partnership. He throws a hand against the door, keeping it open for her, and when she’s inside, he locks and silences the room.

‘‘Emily will go absolutely ballistic when she reads the transcript.’’

Without offering an immediate reply, Malfoy moves in the direction of the makeshift counter at one corner, where beverages and snacks are usually stored for the benefit of whoever is using the space. He pours himself a cup of coffee, charming it to a scorching temperature. He gulps it down as if his thermoreceptors have taken a vacation from the duty of informing him when his tongue is about to get churned.

He meets her gaze again, unaffected.

‘‘I’m aware. I’m just buying us some time.’’

‘‘What for?’’

‘‘Not sure yet. I hoped you might have come up with something…?’’

Hermione sighs. ‘‘I haven’t. We’re fucked, Malfoy. There’s nothing else to it. Hestia will jump at the opportunity the second she learns what Lowburn said. Our theory is good as dead now.’’

‘‘No, it’s not.’’ This time he replies promptly. ‘‘We can still pursue other lines of investigation even if the official one is rooted in whatever fabricated tale Lowburn tries to sell us.’’

‘‘How? They’re gonna be breathing down our necks from now on. Emily will never allow us to divert DMLE resources to anything other than to stop the presumed attacks on Ministry facilities.’’

Malfoy puts his cup down, rotating his body to face her. ‘‘Well… She doesn’t need to know everything we do, does she?’’

She frowns. ‘‘You mean act behind her back?’’

‘‘Not act act. Just… continue to investigate whatever we want while also pretending to follow whichever nonsensical orders they give us.’’ When her eyebrows remain furrowed, he elaborates. ‘‘Listen, Granger. We both know Lowburn is lying. And if he’s lying there must be a damn good reason for it. We can bet that whatever attacks he’s planning on confessing to us, it’s a smokescreen for the real plans of The Death Eater. So are you really gonna be content in simply stepping back and letting the entire fucking Ministry march face first into a blatant trap?’’

‘‘Of course not, Malfoy. You know that’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do we have? Emily is not stupid. She’s aware of our reticence regarding the case. She’ll notice if we start acting weird, working on assignments she didn’t bloody assign to us.’’

‘‘We’ll be careful.’’ He pins her under a heavy stare. ‘‘Come on, Granger. We can’t just give up like this. We can’t let them play us for a fool and do nothing about it.’’

Hermione takes a deep breath, looking away.

The tension of the past hour has only added to the one that she’d already been carrying since the previous weekend. Since that godforsaken gala.

Things between her and Malfoy have been… off. They haven’t talked much about what happened with the exception of him briefly, and very awkwardly, telling her on the Monday after the event that he was ‘‘sorry for his insensitive words’’ and that he ‘‘hadn’t meant to upset her.’’ Hermione had only nodded her head and completely refused to speak further on the topic.

She knows he hadn’t meant anything with it. He might have been insensitive, sure, but he couldn’t have known how the exact words he used would hit home, rubbing on Hermione’s ugliest insecurities. After all, she’s always posed herself as someone who doesn’t care about appearances. How could he have known that his unassuming comment would be taken so literally? How could he have known that she was struggling horribly to control her attraction for him when he still only saw her as his nonplussed, albeit dishevelled, partner?

She has tried to move past it, to accept that sometimes one’s self-esteem is more fragile than one originally imagined and that that’s okay; it hasn't worked so far. Probably because Hermione can’t unsee how good he looked at the gala nor, unfortunately, dial back her new-found attraction for him. It’s the absolutely last thing she wants but alas, she’s had no luck fighting it off.

It also doesn’t help that he, too, has been acting somewhat strange toward her. Not really meeting her eyes, at least not as much as he used to do, and not breaching any subjects that don’t strictly involve their caseload. If she wasn’t so worried about her own confusing feelings, she might have tried harder to understand what on Earth was up with him. As it is, Hermione has too much on her plate, especially now with Lowburn’s fucking pardon request, to waste her precious brain cells with figuring Malfoy out. At the moment, there’s nothing she’s able to do but let the tension between them linger and foster.

She answers without holding his gaze. ‘‘Fine. What do you propose we do, then?’’

In her periphery, her partner sighs, but he seems relieved. ‘‘I’m not sure. When do you think Mackenzie will have a chance to look over the Zimcooke case file for updates?’’

‘‘With the amount of attention the case is receiving lately, I doubt it’ll take more than a few days.’’

‘‘Right. So we should get a move on.’’ Malfoy looks around, taking stock of what’s on top of the oval table in front of them. ‘‘What did we have planned for today, again?’’

Hermione wrinkles her nose, trying to recall her schedule. ‘‘Erm, not much, I think. We were just going to prepare for next Friday.’’

‘‘Next Friday.’’ Malfoy repeats after her, face assuming a jolted expression as if he had forgotten all about it. ‘‘That’s right. Do you think Mackenzie will still be none the wiser until then?’’

‘‘Very unlikely. She won’t go that long without checking in with us.’’

‘‘Fuck. That’s a problem.’’

It is.

That Friday they were supposed to finally pay Sybill Trelawney a visit in Hogwarts, to ask her more about Scrying and the different types of bodiless teletransportation. Hermione had written to their former professor a couple of weeks ago, inquiring over her availability to speak to the Aurors, and the other witch had suggested meeting just before the weekend, when she’d have the whole afternoon open to entertain them for as long as they wished.

Now their efforts appear to have been for naught. Emily is certain to have learned about Lowburn’s attempt to make a deal long before then.

Hermione shrugs, a hesitant idea forming inside her mind as she speaks. ‘‘Unless we anticipate it.’’

‘‘What d’you mean?’’

‘‘The meeting with Trelawney. I could owl her and ask to move our talk to an earlier moment.’’

‘‘Such as…?’’

Today.

As they soon discover, when they get an expeditious letter back, Trelawney has an entirely busy schedule for the following days. The only time she could possibly see them would be right this instant. And that’s how Hermione and her partner free up their calendar for the time being and apparate to Hogsmeade at a minute’s notice.

It’s odd being back at Hogwarts.

Last time Hermione was there it had been the tenth anniversary of the battle, and that was years ago. Ever since, she hasn’t set foot anywhere near the castle or, to be quite frank, thought about her old beloved school in the least.

Being there rings a distant and remote period of her life as having her two best friends still by her side, when the world was a less complicated place. Back when it used to be good against evil, us against them, the power of friendship against pureblood hatred. Now, up is down and Hermione spends most of her waking hours glued to her former nemesis while the rest of it is occupied with other similarly improbable Slytherins (she’s been frequenting The Porcelain Pixie quite often lately, joining the peculiar inter-house camaraderie of Neville and his new circle of friends with much less resistance) and a former romantic rival to boot.

As Malfoy and her take the carriages in the small village, riding side by side in silence, she feels a very curious mix of anticipation and dread. She doesn’t remember feeling like that before, on the occasions she had revisited the castle, but she guesses that with everything that’s happened, and all the ways she’s changed in the past year and a half, it’s no wonder that she’s a little ambivalent regarding the unprompted visit.

She settles herself with long, calming inhales and exhales, trying to focus on the fact that she’s only coming here for work, and as soon as they get what they need from the Divination teacher, they’ll be out of there. And back to the real world of hierarchical pressure and scheming criminals.

When the Thestrals come to a stop, her partner and her swiftly march across the school grounds, Malfoy gentlemanly helping her step over a few unstable patches of grass with a polite hand around her elbow. They cross the threshold of the tall oak entrance double-doors and head to the Great Hall, where they’re supposed to be welcomed by Hogwarts’s new caretaker who, in turn, should direct them to Trelawney’s chambers. The man, who goes by the name of Florian Smith and does not share a single personality trait with his predecessor, smiles warmly at their arrival. He doesn’t waste time to guide them to the Faculty Tower and there, to instruct them to take the spiral staircase to the fourth floor where Trelawney awaits them.

Hermione’s fist is not yet finished with the second knock when the professor’s door bursts open.

‘‘Miss Granger! What a pleasure to meet again.’’

Sybill Trelawney hasn’t changed a tiny bit. Her spectacles are still far too big for her bony face, colourful shawls and bangles and strings of beads covering her from head to toe. She doesn’t look older but she does look a little crazier, and that’s saying a lot considering Hermione always found her to be right on the odd side of lucidity. 

But she gives Hermione a genuine grin, so Hermione gives one back.

‘‘You too, Professor. You remember Draco Malfoy.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ The woman sniffs, barely sparing the wizard a glance. ‘‘Well, do come in.’’

They step inside her chambers, which is hardly more than a small and dusty hundred-square-foot bedroom with a single bed and drawer, a wonky desk and two mismatched chairs. Hermione and Malfoy loom awkwardly, waiting for the teacher to tell them what to do.

She gestures to the stools. 

‘‘Please, Miss Granger, take a seat.’’ She says and then claims one of the chairs for herself, leaving Malfoy to fend for himself in the crowded room. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. ‘‘So, my dear, you mentioned in your letter that you were interested in learning more about the ancient and powerful art of Scrying?’’

Right to the chase, apparently.

Fine with her.

‘‘Yes, Professor. Malfoy and I, we’re partners at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of the Ministry of Magic, and we are currently working on a case together. A very complex, contradictory case in which most things don’t make sense.’’ She bounces her gaze between her partner and the eccentric witch sitting all too close to her, insect-eyes drinking in every word out of Hermione’s mouth. ‘‘We can’t go into too much detail, of course, since all information concerning the investigation is classified, but we can tell you a few things that relate to our interest in, well, as you put it, the art of Scrying.’’

‘‘I understand, I understand. Please, go ahead. Tell me, what was it in this particular case that made you think that Scrying was involved?’’

Hermione breathes in. ‘‘Well, that’s just a theory for now. But we think- we think that someone, or rather more than one person, used a mirror shard to effect a bodiless teletransportation.’’

‘‘A bodiless teletransportation! Upon my word, what a treat!’’

From behind Trelawney, Malfoy crosses his eyes in exasperation but remains quiet. Hermione holds in a snort as she replies. ‘‘Yes, well. Very interesting, certainly. But also concerning. We worry the culprits will make use of it again, this time on a much bigger target.’’

‘‘I see. And what is it that you want from me exactly, my dear?’’

Anything. Any guidance or a shred of clarity. Just give us something, please.

‘‘Erm, well, Malfoy and I are not very acquainted with this, er, this art, or rather this specific branch of Divination. And I guess what really matters to us is to understand how far can Scrying be taken when one’s in possession of the right tools.’’

‘‘Oh, Miss Granger. The real question is how far can Scrying not be taken.’’ She chuckles, amused by her own quip, before sobering again when realising she was not joined by either of them. ‘‘You see, dear, the art of Scrying is not at all entirely deciphered by wizards and witches. There’s so much that escapes our knowledge, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to tell you the extension of its magic!’’

Hermione deflates like a slashed balloon. Another bad news in the sea of setbacks they have had to deal with lately.

Malfoy fills in the silence that she’s left. ‘‘Can you at least tell us if it’s possible for people travelling from different space gaps to meet at one same plane via a Scrying mirror?’’

‘‘Mhm. I’ve never heard of it, that’s for sure. But I suppose it could be possible. As I said, anything’s possible when it comes to the reaches of undiscovered divining arts.’’

Hermione deflates an inch further whereas Malfoy soldiers on. ‘‘Alright. Can you tell us, then, what do you actually know about the topic? Anything you know about Scrying and whatever other related magic, we’d welcome any piece of information you’re willing to share with us.’’

Trelawney looks, really looks at him for the first time since they arrived. She grins as if he’d told her that Christmas came early.

‘‘With pleasure, Mr Malfoy. But before we begin,’’ she announces, tone bright and light. She stands up from her chair, looking expectantly at them. ‘‘Tea?’’

They return to the DMLE just after lunchtime. Their former professor had spent nearly two hours babbling about the ancient and powerful art of Scrying, and though most of it was completely useless to them, at least Hermione can attest to anyone who might ask that they presently know more about the subject than what they did when they left the Ministry. And probably more than every single employee there combined.

So it wasn’t for nothing.

That’s what she keeps telling herself, trying to instil some sort of optimism to her foreboding mind.

Which promptly goes up in flames the moment they step inside the Auror Headquarters and absolute madness is what greets them. 

‘‘What in Merlin’s tits-’’

‘‘Malfoy. Granger. Where the hell have you been?’’

The Deputy Head charges in their direction and her face is a canvas of sheer vexation.

‘‘Erm, we were, er, following a lead. We were just gone for a couple hours-’’

‘‘Lead? What lead?’’ Fuck. Hermione and Malfoy baulk, not having prepared for a confrontation of their whereabouts and shifty modus operandi so soon, but before they can think of a bullshit excuse, Mackenzie dismisses their answer with a shake of head. ‘‘Never mind. We don’t have time for that. We need you on the field immediately.’’

‘‘On the field?’’ Hermione sprouts, confused. ‘‘Why? What’s going on?’’

She looks around. Memorandums fly in and out of the office at an urgent speed. Their coworkers are divided into nearly shouting at each other from feet away and rounding heads up to whisper conspiratorially with one another. Detailed maps of London and holography of multiple live-locations float against the walls of the headquarters, an eerie technicolour emblem of on-going investigations. 

The very air around them smells tense and reminiscent of bad omens.

Mackenzie purses her thin lips and crashes their last hope of getting a grip on this fucking case. 

‘‘Michael Lowburn escaped.’’

First, they gather at the Operations Room of the DMLE, the only room in their floor that is magically enlarged to fit every Auror, Hit Wizard and patrol officer the Ministry employs. It also has the best layout to allow Hestia Jones to stand cavalierly in the elevated stage at the centre, soaking up everyone’s attention and barking orders no one can contest.

‘‘Montenegro, Hopkins, Cooper and Chang, you are on the back-up team. I want you to stay put in the headquarters until counter-orders, okay? You’ll be responsible to monitor the situation from afar and to inform Emily and I of every development on the field.’’ The Aurors express their understanding and the woman continues. ‘‘Potter, Fawley, Evans and O’Neil, you’re on the ground. MacFayden, Goldstein and Harrison will join you and, erm, you two.’’ She points to the uniform officers closest to her, clueless to their names. To be fair, Hermione doesn’t know it either. ‘‘I want you to contact every informant you have on your book for intel, and make a sweep of every location on our suspicious-activity list. I don’t want to see you back in the Ministry unless you have a new lead, am I understood?’’

The men nod, and she goes on with further instructions.

Hermione watches it from the far side of the room, Malfoy right behind her and Mackenzie straight ahead, directly in their line of vision. Their boss sneaks a look at them every fifteen seconds, her disapproval oozing out of her in invisible but palpable searing waves.

They had no choice, naturally, but to inform the Head Deputy of the meeting with Lowburn and the deal he tried to seal with them, once they learned the prisoner had escaped. Mackenzie had been, to say the least, furious. She couldn’t understand how they didn’t jump at the opportunity, or rather, immediately called for her to consult about how to proceed. They didn’t tell her about Hogwarts, but they didn’t need to. She wasn’t interested in hearing anything else. She had just told them to follow her to the Operations Room and now they’re waiting to find out their fate.

When the briefing is concluded, the assigned officers getting on the move while the rest of them return to their regular tasks, Hestia turns to Hermione and her partner.

‘‘Granger and Malfoy. A word, please.’’

Hermione braces herself, walking to the front of the room and stopping next to the witch. Malfoy and Mackenzie close the circle, the latter at once shrinking the huge space around them and silencing it.

‘‘Emily told me about this morning but I would like to hear it from you. Please, enlighten me about what happened.’’

Well, here they go.

Hermione speaks without looking at Malfoy for good measure. ‘‘Early this morning I arrived to find a memo at my desk from the Detention Centre informing us that Lowburn had requested a private meeting. Malfoy and I promptly arranged everything and met the prisoner at Interrogation Room number seven around a quarter to ten. There, Lowburn proceeded to tell us he had information for us and that he wanted a pardon in exchange for it. Malfoy, as practice dictates, agreed to it but asked first for him to prove that his intel was good and not some sort of desperate fabrication of his. The man refused, so we left. That’s what happened.’’

It’s simplistic, and it certainly doesn’t cover everything that transpired in the meeting, but their bosses don’t need to know all the details. By all accounts, that’s the only thing that took place and the Instantaneous Quill’s transcriptions would back them up on it.

‘‘Why didn’t we hear about any of it until now?’’ Hestia asks and, once more, Hermione takes charge of answering it.

‘‘Because we didn’t know whether he was lying or not. Surely if he had meant what he said, he would’ve contacted us again, this time with a better offer. Lowburn, he- he seemed off. It wasn’t like the other times, when he fed us good intel. Something about him this morning felt… unreliable.’’

‘‘Don’t you think that was a call for me or Emily to make?’’

‘‘No.’’

Among the several things Hermione has learned from Malfoy in the six months they’ve been working together, one of the most important is that ‘‘no’’ is a full sentence. And that she doesn’t need to be scared of using it when needed.

‘‘No?’’

‘‘No, Hestia. Malfoy and I are the lead Aurors of the case. We are the ones working on it on a daily basis. We are the ones making all the hard choices, because that’s what our job entails. And as such, we need freedom and we need the discretion to make a decision in a split-second without having to run it by you every time. We made a judgement call that Lowburn was lying. And, as far as I can tell, we were right.’’

‘‘I beg your pardon. You were right?’’

‘‘Yes. If Lowburn was being serious, if he truly knew the plans of The Death Eater and was willing to trade that information with us in exchange for a pardon, how come he escaped the minute we denied it to him? If he could’ve gone away anytime he wanted, why first try it through the legal channels? Why would he give up such precious information if he planned to escape anyway? Why the pretence?’’

Hestia only blinks, certainly not having looked at the situation through this angle before. Mackenzie knits her eyebrows next to her but doesn’t give it much allowance.

‘‘You don't know how that happened. How he escaped, I mean. Maybe it was just luck. Maybe it had nothing to do with his earlier attempt to make a deal with us.’’

Hermione can’t help it; she rolls her eyes. ‘‘Really, Emily? Luck?’’ She clicks her tongue. ‘‘Honestly, I’m done trying to put sense into your head. If you want to remain blind to the incongruities here, fine. Go ahead. Give me an order, I’ll do it and won’t say another peep about the case.’’

Both Mackenzie and Hestia open their mouths to counter this but the voice that comes out first is Malfoy’s. ‘‘Stop that, Granger. You’re not checking out now. We still have work to do.’’

The thing is-

Hermione’s tired. She’s been fighting this for so goddamn long. She has been trying and trying and trying for months, unsuccessfully. And before Malfoy joined her, just a couple of weeks ago, she was alone in it. She was the only one resisting the almost irresistible allure of going with what everyone else believes. Even with her partner backing her up now - since the not-so-covert scolding that Kingsley gave her at the gala, Hermione’s been painfully aware that not only her and Malfoy are still alone in their resistance, they have the entirety of the Ministry against them.

And that’s a pretty shitty thing to have.

But the worst part of it all is that she doesn’t have an answer that would prove them wrong. She knows, with every fibre of her being, that it’s not blood supremacy that’s in play here but she has no idea what else could be. She knows that they’re being manipulated and she knows things are not what they seem, but she doesn’t have an alternative working theory, at least not a concrete one. She can refute other people’s conclusions; what she can’t do is draw her own. And what good is an investigative officer that only rejects others’ hypotheses but fails to offer a proper replacement for them?

Perhaps she’s wrong. Perhaps she’s just no longer of any use. Perhaps she should indeed let their bosses take the lead and just be done with it.

‘‘Agreed.’’ She replies to Malfoy, then turns to Hestia. ‘‘What are the orders?’’

The Head of the DMLE hesitates, eyes swinging between Malfoy and her. ‘‘Erm, well, I suppose you could-’’

‘‘May I offer a suggestion?’’

‘‘Yes, Malfoy?’’

Hermione doesn’t glance at him. She knows he must be livid at her for not putting up more of a fight.

She hears him clear his throat. ‘‘I would like to pay the Detention Centre a visit. I know you already sent a few people over to take testimonies from the correctional officers, but I’d like to have a chance of investigating myself how the hell Lowburn managed to escape one of our safest facilities.’’

Hestia and Mackenzie exchange one long look, and they appear to come to a mute agreement. The latter is the one to speak this time.

‘‘Very well. You two may go to the Detention Centre, but be back before the end of the shift.’’ Her eyes and voice grow sterner. ‘‘We still have a lot to talk about concerning your hasty judgement call of this morning.’’

Hermione and Malfoy acquiesce, and twist in unison to the exit. Once again her partner holds the door open for her. She goes ahead without acknowledging it, intending to make a pit stop at her station to gather a few things before-

Her right arm is pulled abruptly, her body moving with no consent of her brain until she finds herself thrown against a pillar. Malfoy stands in front of her, crowding her in, forehead scrunched and lips pinched. He waves his wand, wordlessly silencing their surroundings.

‘‘What the fuck was that, Granger?’’

He’s far too close, and Hermione’s mind stutters a little. ‘‘Wha- what was what?’’

‘‘Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’’

Hermione shakes her head, taking a deep breath in. The movement unfortunately captures Malfoy’s scent, which has her head swimming again. She averts her gaze, tries to concentrate on giving a logical answer.

‘‘I’m tired, Malfoy. This case has completely depleted my energy. And for what? We’re still stuck in the same place. We have nothing to show for ourselves, except suspicion after suspicion. Eventually even that becomes pointless.’’

‘‘So, what, you’re just gonna give up?’’

It prickles her the intensity of his words. Even more the intensity of his eyes, the gravity that the proximity of his body exudes. She shouldn’t raise her gaze to him again but she does, unthinkingly, and instantly regrets it.

After Mackenzie had told them they were expected to go on the ground, before she knew about the private meeting with Lowburn and therefore before she pulled them off the mission, Malfoy got changed into his active fieldwork Auror kit. And that means open red robes, a black tight shirt and a stab vest tucked into dark combat trousers, and a wand holster strapped to his left shoulder. He looks absolutely striking in the ensemble; a man not to be messed with.

Ever since, Hermione’s having a very hard time keeping her composure around him. As they stare at each other behind the pillar, she’s horrified to attest the obvious truth.

She fancies her partner something awful.

It triggers her fight-or-flight response. And, as it is habitual for her, she chooses the former.

‘‘I’m not giving up. I’m simply staying in my lane. Wasn’t that what you wanted from me from the start? I’ll just stick to my comfort zone of bureaucratic protocols and let you and everyone else solve the case as you see fit.’’

It’s petty, throwing his words, his months-old words, against him again. They should be past that. And they were. They haven’t descended into such childish confrontation in what seems like forever, but Hermione’s guards are up to the hilt. Her insecurities have been taking her hostage since the gala, and she feels off kilter, confusing feelings causing her head to swirl, making her vulnerable.

And Hermione’s never been good at vulnerability.

Also, she’s starving. They haven’t had any lunch yet, so… Really, what else could have been expected of her at this point?

At her two-edged words, however, Malfoy’s expression shifts, becoming harder until it’s inscrutable to her. He takes a step back. ‘‘Is this how it’s going to be again?’’

She feels guilty; she feels hangry; she feels fucking miserable.

She has to stop feeling if she wants to remain professional and get the job done.

‘‘Let’s just go, Malfoy. I need to drop by my desk first before we leave.’’

She walks away, not waiting for his reply or for him to come with her. She marches to the Aurors Office, and there, to her cubicle, and doesn’t look behind her one single time.

It’s the same correctional officer, the one who’s made a habit of showing up late with the prisoners at the DMLE whenever they had scheduled interrogations, that welcomes them at the Detention Centre. He grins lazily at the sight of Hermione, sitting a tad too comfortably across from them, legs wide-spread like the perfect specimen of a male tube commuter.

‘‘Didn’t see anything, miss. Was on me lunch break, you see.’’

‘‘It says here that the escape was flagged at approximately 11:30.’’ Malfoy informs him. He raises a sceptical brow. ‘‘Do you usually have lunch in the morning?’’

‘‘Was feeling quite peckish today, wasn’t I?’’

Malfoy glares but refrains from commenting. It’s not worth it; the only sure way to clarify this is to check the logbook entries, to see if he’s telling the truth. And Hermione suspects that the template is going to confirm his version. After all, why would he lie about something that can be so easily disproved?

Still, there’s something iffy about the bloke; she stores this information for later.

‘‘What did you do when you returned from your lunch break and saw that the emergency alarm had been activated?’’ Malfoy resumes his questions.

‘‘Went where all the lads was. The management quarters.’’

‘‘Was everyone accounted for there?’’

‘‘Dunno. Didn’t count.’’

Hermione’s surprised by Malfoy's keeping his mouth shut. With the impertinence the officer is showing, she would have expected him to have slated the sassy man a long time ago.

‘‘Right. Do you know who was on watch duty when the incident took place?’’

‘‘Erm, think it was- Wait. Nah, dunno really. Maybe good ol’ Martin?’’

Her partner visibly holds in an exasperated sigh. ‘‘Could you go fetch him for us, please?’’

‘‘With pleasure. Ta ta, miss.’’ He winks at her before leaving the small office they have been occupying for the questioning. Hermione ignores the bold move, feeling miles away from her usual self-inflammatory tendencies. 

When the door clicks behind him, she turns to Malfoy.

‘‘There’s something off about this bloke.’’

‘‘Oh, you still have an opinion? Wow. And here I was thinking you only wanted to stay in your lane and follow orders like a puppy.’’

It’s been like that since their regrettable hushed talk behind the pillar. From their five-minutes pause to gather their belongings at their workstations, and something to eat in Hermione’s case, to the apparition at the Detention Centre’s foyer, their walk from the entrance to where they are now and the first couple of chats with the correctional officers, they have been constantly snapping at each other.

Malfoy apparently found no issue in jumping right back into the immature bickering wagon and the petty throwing of past words on each other’s faces. Hermione was the one to start it but, boy, is he the one making it a shiny new thing all over again.

‘‘Malfoy, let’s focus now. Don’t you think the cheeky bastard is hiding something?’’

He shrugs, eyes cast everywhere but her. ‘‘Maybe.’’

Hermione frowns, revisiting their half-formed theory, trying to fit this piece of information somewhere in there. ‘‘You think he might be the one helping the Essex gang?’’

‘‘Not sure. Let’s talk to this Martin bloke first.’’

It’s not the Martin bloke.

Also known as Martin March, the older officer is the opposite of the first, younger one. He is polite and helpful, providing actual informative answers to the Aurors’ questions. As it turns out, he wasn’t the one on watch at the time but rather another coworker, going by the name of Benedict Mason, who replaced the former last-minute and who answers all their questions in a similar elucidative fashion. As far as Hermione’s concerned, none of the two appear to have anything to do with the escape.

Which leaves them with only the impertinent, sassy, cheeky bastard.

Andrew Byrne.

Hermione writes down the name on the case file, adding notes next to it, intending to further investigate her suspicions at a later moment.

‘‘What are you writing this down for?’’ Malfoy interrupts her contemplative headspace. ‘‘Are you not only doing as you’re told from now on? I doubt Jones or Mackenzie will have any interest in this irrelevant piece of information.’’

Hermione bristles. ‘‘It’s not irrelevant-’’

He gets to his feet before she can finish her sentence. He pushes the chair back under the table’s legs, making an unnecessary screeching noise, and grabs his red robes, which he had peeled off about ten minutes after they settled on the tiny space, to Hermione’s immense chagrin. Without the loose cloak, she had nowhere to look but at how his current tight shirt and vest paint a very clear picture of defined biceps, strong neck and lean abdomen. 

Kill her now.

Nobody does, so she has no choice but to stand up as well, collect her things and follow a moody Malfoy out of the room. They had managed to interview five correctional officers since they arrived, two with leadership roles and those last three, who were supposed to be on the ground when the catastrophic incident happened. Nothing of much value has been revealed and a forensic team has already been there to inspect the facility, running all sorts of tests to determine how the breakout was made possible. They need to wait for the results, but they can’t do it there.

So after a couple of rounds across the Detention Centre, spending over half an hour on the cell in which Lowburn had lived in the past year to no avail, Hermione and her partner call it a day and apparate back to the Ministry.

It’s before five o’clock, ergo they have at least dodged from going yet again against what the Ministry expects of them. They take their seats on their respective desks, facing each other while actively ignoring one another, and stay on standby until their boss is ready to meet with them. About ten minutes before their shift is over (at least, in theory; Hermione knows she won’t be home before nine that evening, not with all the work they certainly have accumulated today), Mackenzie asks them to come in and wait for her in her office. She still has unfinished business to attend to, so it’s just the two of them in the silence of the room.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And-

‘‘Can you please, for the love of Salazar, stop tapping your fucking foot on the floor?’’

Just like that, the silence is shattered. 

And any resemblance of peace they might have attempted to achieve.

‘‘No, I can’t. Deal with it.’’

‘‘I’m curious, Granger. Have you ever taken a course on how to be the most annoying person in a room? Because, let me tell you, you’re absolutely profeci-’’

‘‘How about you stay in your lane and I stay in mine? Yeah? I think that’s goin’ to work much better for us-’’

‘‘Have you become a bloody parrot? Repeating everything I say without context-’’

‘‘Do you want context? Alright, let’s do context.’’ Hermione’s at her wits’ end. She shouldn’t do this, she shouldn’t, but she can’t stop either. It’s out of her mouth before she can think it through. ‘‘This is all your fucking fault. You were the one who forced the blood supremacy theory down our throats from day one, and now-’’

‘‘My fault? You can’t honestly be-’’

‘‘You were the one who didn’t wanna hear anyone else’s take on your fucking case. ‘Cause you were the officer-in-charge, weren’t you, so you knew better than everyone-’’

‘‘Ah, and out come the claws. Let it all out, Granger. Let me know what you really think.’’

They are standing in front of each other now, in the middle of Mackenzie’s office, angry and taut, firing nasty, merciless words they will never be able to take back.

‘‘What I really think, Malfoy, is that your stubbornness is what got us here. You were relentless in your blind pursuit of preventing another blood purity insurgence, which was completely made up by your delusional brain, by the way, in some sort of twisted saviour complex-’’

‘‘Do you take pleasure in never letting a single thing go and then shoving it all over people’s face at the worst moment possible?’’

She doesn’t. She doesn’t at all. Her chest is so tight she’s having trouble breathing. She hates every word that she’s spewing, but she’s lost control of herself. ‘‘I would fucking love to forget any of it happened, but the problem is that it’s coming back to bite us in the arse, is it not? Now that you have successfully brainwashed Hestia and Emily, and apparently the entire fucking Ministry too, they won’t bloody forget-’’

‘‘I brainwashed no one. I made a mistake, I realised what I did, I corrected it. They are the ones who are refusing to see sense, not me.’’ He runs a hand through his blond hair, shaking his head. ‘‘Fuck. I can’t believe you of all people are saying these things to me.’’ 

Hermione wants to cry. She wants to yell some more. She wants to apologise and tell him that she’s acting crazy because she has come to the realisation that she has big, big feelings for him. And that she doesn’t know what to do with it. She just wants to numb her heart and go back to how they were before - before he made it clear that he was never going to see her the same way. 

Before he made sure she knew she was not for him.

She inhales long and deep, willing herself to backtrack. ‘‘I didn’t-’’

He interrupts her before she can try and remediate the situation. After all, Malfoy might be a lot of things, but a person who lies down quietly while being attacked is not one of them. ‘‘I have made mistakes, I’m man enough to admit. Maybe you’re right and this is indeed my fault, the beginning of all of this. But at least I’m actively trying to fix it now. I’m not giving up. I know where my real duty lies. And no matter how tired I feel, or how many setbacks I get, I’m not gonna throw the towel.’’

‘‘I’m not throwing the towel-’’

‘‘Yes, you are. You are throwing away everything we worked so hard for in the past months, just because fucking Mackenzie is acting like an obtuse mule and Jones is being her insufferable self as usual.’’

‘‘I’m not throwing anything away! I’m just doing my goddamn job.’’

‘‘How’s that-’’

‘‘It’s not our job to investigate behind our superior officer’s back. It’s not our job to ignore orders and stick to what we think it’s right because we supposedly know better than them.’’

‘‘Granger-’’

‘‘No, Malfoy. That’s not how it’s done. I agree with you that we couldn’t possibly accept everything that was happening without a healthy dose of scepticism. For crying out loud, I was the one to beg you to agree with that. Since the start, I was the one insisting, and trying to gather more evidence, more theories that would explain-’’

‘‘So why are you fucking giving up now? Explain me that.’’

‘‘Because it comes to a point where we have to shut the fuck up and listen to our bosses. That’s how it works in the real world. We’re not superheroes. We’re not Sherlock fucking Holmes.’’ Malfoy frowns, the Muggle references flying right over his head. It doesn’t deter her. ‘‘We need to understand that there’s only so far one can go before it becomes a case of insubordination. Before Mackenzie has enough of our shit and decides to take the case from us or, I don’t know, split us up and partner us with other people.’’

Which, at the moment, does not sound like such a horrible idea. She could definitely use some distance from Malfoy to clear her head for once and for all.

His thoughts have gone in a completely different direction, however. ‘‘Do you think that’s a good enough reason to allow scumbag criminals to have the upper hand and fuck with the entire Ministry?’’

‘‘It’s not-’’

‘‘I wouldn’t give a single fuck if they took the case from me or, hell, even if they demoted me- If at least I knew I had done my part to prevent a bad thing from happening. And honestly, I had the impression you felt the same. Apparently I didn’t account for your weakness of character.’’

It’s sandpaper on a fresh wound. It grinds, and rubs, and scratches until it bleeds.

Hermione loses it.

‘‘My weakness of character?’’ She nearly shouts. ‘‘How dare you? You have the audacity to say my character is weak? You of all people, the former De-’’

A fist shoved inside her mouth is the only thing that works to keep the words from fully forming.

She cannot go there.

That she knows, even when her body shakes and her mind splatters around. She will not be that person. She won’t.

‘‘The former what?’’ Of course Malfoy wouldn’t just let it go. His voice has gone ice cold, so sharp it could cut her open. Hermione refuses to meet his gaze as she shakes her head, a hand still firmly against her lips. ‘‘Don’t stop now, Granger. Finish what you were going to say.’’

She shakes her head again, not trusting herself in the slightest.

‘‘I want to know what you really think of me. Go on. Fucking say it.’’

‘‘No.’’ She releases her mouth, placing the two palms against her eyes and pressing hard. ‘‘That’s not what I think.’’

‘‘Yes, it is.’’

‘‘No, it’s not. It really isn’t, Malfoy. I’m just… angry, and I’m exhausted, and I’m still so hungry. And you, you-’’

‘‘I what?’’

‘‘You bring out this version of me that says things that I always regret later.’’

She finally holds his stare. He’s still a couple of feet away, so static he looks like a marble sculpture. An enraged, gorgeous marble sculpture.

‘‘So, again, this is my fault. I’m the one who-’’

‘‘No, of course not, it’s just that-’’

‘‘My, my. Who would’ve thought that the mighty Hermione Granger would be so good at pointing fingers at everyone but herself?’’

‘‘Fuck you, Malfoy.’’

His nostrils flare at the swearing but he offers no reply to it. Hermione hadn’t meant to say it but, as per what she just admitted out loud, it flew from her mouth before she could choke it down, because that’s what happens when she’s around Malfoy and her soul is struggling to find its footing. 

‘‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- Fuck.’’ She needs to get out of there. She can’t possibly stay another second locked in this office with him, not if she wants to retain any sense of pride in herself. 

She doesn’t move, though. He does.

He suddenly charges in her direction and for a wild, delirious moment, Hermione thinks he’s going to hit her. When he’s only an inch from her his arm shoots out, and she braces for impact. She thinks that maybe he’s decided to pay back for the time she thumped him on the head in the registries, months ago, when she, too, was so incensed she couldn’t avoid becoming physical.

His fist finds the back of her head, and it grabs a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. And then he tugs.

She expects pain, she expects some sort of aggressive outburst, but very fast and very unequivocally it becomes blatant that that’s not what this is; the way he pulls her hair is something one would do in a very different and specific setting that has nothing to do with violence. And everything to do with something else entirely. Something he appears to know rather well how to navigate.

He yanks at her roots and a soft noise that sounds embarrassingly like a moan escapes her lips without permission. 

‘‘You’re the worst witch I know.’’ He hisses, face only a breath away from hers.

Hermione’s head falls back while her mouth falls open, and his eyes track the movement, enrapt. In another delirious moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her.

A bang and the door of the office swings open, their boss walking in.

‘‘Granger, Malfoy, thank you for waiting.’’

Her partner lets go of her as if he had been burned. Luckily (mercifully, providentially, blessedly), Malfoy had his back to the entrance of the room, blocking the view of her to Mackenzie. So when he steps away to ensure a safe distance between them as the Deputy Head swiftly marches toward her desk, it’s plain that she hasn’t seen anything.

She sits on her leather chair, looking up to them. ‘‘Please, take a seat. Let’s go over everything, shall we?’’

Chapter Text

If things had been tense before, after their inappropriate behaviour in Mackenzie’s office, Hermione and Malfoy’s relationship becomes as strained as a rope ready to snap. Nothing between them so far had prepared her for this: she knew how to expect the exasperation, the fights, even the contempt; what completely escapes her pretty extensive range of professional experience is how to act toward your partner after you almost utter the most insulting words only to show him, not a minute later, how much you actually want him. 

If Hermione thought she’d been embarrassed in front of Malfoy before, or that he had already seen her at her worst, she’s forced to readjust her perspective. Nothing tops the absolute shame and awkwardness she feels walking in the Aurors Headquarters the next morning and facing the man after everything that happened.

‘‘Good morning.’’

‘‘Good morning.’’

Their eyes touch for a fraction of a millisecond before scurrying away to safer places. She plops down on her chair and feels so lost as to what to do that she wants to weep. She’s never felt like this before; she’s never not known her next step in such a way.

Even after Ronald dumped her so mercilessly. 

Still, the next day, she had come to work like a robot, focusing on what was in front of her and leaving her crying fits to when she was back at home alone. The problem is that what's in front of her now is Malfoy. Unwavering, decent, loyal, stupidly attractive Malfoy.

She can’t look at him not only because of the shame she feels for how she behaved the previous day; she’s also quite sure that if she stares at him for too long she’ll start sighing like an infatuated school girl.

So she doesn’t look at him and he doesn’t look at her. They don’t talk about the Zimcooke case, or any case for that matter, and spend the next hours working on everything and nothing at the same time, a suffocating silence filling the air between them. Hermione’s never been less productive in life. She counts down the minutes until lunchtime, when she’ll have an excuse to disappear for an hour and not have to-

‘‘Hermione, Draco.’’ Mackenzie’s voice startles her out of her numb reverie. ‘‘Briefing at the Operations Room. Now.’’

Fucking hell.

Hermione and Malfoy stand up simultaneously. She falters, body at once warming as a new wave of embarrassment swarms her. Her partner, eyes casted down, takes a polite step back to let her go first. 

‘‘Thank you.’’

She walks the narrow corridor resolutely, though self-conscious of the way her body moves when Malfoy’s right behind her. She’s painfully aware that the attire she chose for the day, a sensible pair of work trousers with a loose dress shirt, does not do her any favours. She’s as plain as she’s always been. Grimacing, she shoves the thought down. She keeps her shoulders straight and head held high while also ensuring that she doesn’t trip and make an even bigger fool of herself before him. She ignores her coworkers filling the corridor too and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

The Operations Room never seemed so far away.

When she’s finally inside, she hurries to occupy a free seat at the most hidden corner and trains her gaze to stay on Hestia and Mackenzie in the elevated stage. As the last officer gets in, closing the door behind him, the briefing starts.

‘‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for your readiness in joining us. I would like to take the moment to share the updates concerning yesterday’s custodial breakout.’’ The Head of the DMLE pauses at that, turning to address Harry. ‘‘Potter?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Hermione’s former best friend gets up, swivelling in place to face his colleagues. ‘‘Yesterday my team and I effected a thorough sweep of every location in London that has been, at least once, flagged as suspicious or likely to house suspicious activities. Two spots presented promising leads: one in muggle Lambeth, South London, and the other in Diagon Alley, an empty warehouse where traces of recent illegal bursts of magic were detected. No person of interest was apprehended in the locations, but we did collect important intel from our most trusted informants. We’re still processing it, but we’re optimist that something’s gotta give.’’

The meeting goes on for almost an hour but, despite Harry’s optimism, Hermione knows they have hit a dead end. Lowburn’s gone. The same way he escaped when he chose to, he’s not going to be found unless he wants to. And at the moment, it doesn’t look like his or The Death Eater's plan is pointing in that direction. They have moved on to the next stage of their obscure diversion strategy, and she knows that the next lead the DMLE gets will be as fabricated as everything else so far. Applying their resources to try and recover a loose Lowburn in Britain is a waste of time and energy. 

Not that they care about what she has to say, anyway.

At some point, her brain switches off and she only listens to half of what’s been discussed. 

Friday is Blaise Zabini’s birthday. She had received an owl invitation the previous week to join in the celebration that was going to take place at his house, but she hadn’t given it much thought until right now, her mind desensitised enough to wonder about other less pressing issues. She had indeed intended on meeting everyone again at the pub that weekend, but that was before she knew that the bloke was turning older and that he had decided to make a big thing out of it. But more importantly: before her life had turned upside down with the recent events.

Now, she’d much rather get steamrolled by the Knight Bus than spending a single second of her night in the company of Malfoy and his insufferable best friend. Much less at bloody Zabini Manor.

She’s trying to come up with excuses to skip the party when Hestia closes the meeting and lets them go. Or at least the rest of them. Hermione is still inside the Operations Room when her boss stops her from following her coworkers out.

‘‘Hermione. How was yesterday at the Detention Centre?’’

‘‘Erm, it was fine. We questioned five correctional officers. I’ve attached the notes to the case file, if you want to go through them.’’

‘‘Yes, I’d like that. But before that, what did you- Malfoy, join us, will you?’’

There’s a moment and then Hermione feels his reluctant presence approaching her back. She schools her face into unfazed nonchalance, looking straight ahead to Hestia. 

‘‘Jones.’’

‘‘Hermione was just telling me about your visit to the Detention Centre.’’

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘Could you find anything of value to our investigation there?’’

‘‘Not really. But it’s too early to say. You can always check our case files notes, in any case.’’

‘‘Yes, Hermione said that. But I prefer to hear it directly from you, and what your expert opinions are.’’

It’s so hypocritical Hermione needs to stifle a scoff. Hestia playing the considerate, open-minded boss is the most unamusing joke she’s ever heard. The woman hasn’t cared for their expert opinions during the entirety of their investigation and now, out of the sudden, she’s interested in listening to what they have to say. Hermione suspects that after hers and Malfoy’s meeting with Mackenzie the day before, when both of them were too rattled to give a single rat’s arse to the reprimand they got for not closing the deal with Lowburn when they had the chance, the Head Deputy must have informed her of their state of mind. Hestia must be attempting to lift their morale by pretending she gives a damn about them.

It’s very telling that none of them take the bait.

‘‘My expert opinion is that it’s still too early to say.’’ The fact that Malfoy doesn’t instil any sort of undercurrent of sarcasm to his reply is yet another tell that he's very much checked out.

Hermione feels markedly guilty of the part she’s played in this happening, when only the previous morning he was still willing to give his all to the case. It’s just another gloom-ridden feeling to add to the pile of negative emotions overwhelming her.

Hestia nods, calculating eyes jumping from her to her partner and back. ‘‘Okay. Have you entertained any theories in the meantime?’’

An awkward pause, a smidge too long, compels Hermione to open her mouth. ‘‘No. Like Mackenzie told us yesterday, we should wait for Harry’s team to finish conducting their on-ground investigation. Since, you know, we have been pulled off the mission.’’

Hestia’s reaction is a slow blink and a slight furrow of brows. Hermione doesn’t care if she’s not being helpful at the minute; as the Ministry wanted from the start, she’s finally content to only do as she’s told.

‘‘Is there anything else?’’ She asks the witch, tone dry.

‘‘Er, no. That’s all for now.’’

Hermione bobs her head and turns around to leave the room. She marches to her workstation without looking behind her and is palpably relieved when she realises she has not been followed. Malfoy’s nowhere to be found, so she sits back on her chair with a mollified sigh. An unknown parchment resting on her desk, one that hadn’t been there before she left for the briefing, arrests her attention.

It’s a letter sealed with the Parkinsons’ emblem.

Granger,

I’m writing to you because Blaise asked me to. Don’t tell him I told you that. He’s asked me to make sure you’re coming to his birthday party on Friday. He says he’s certain you will flake, making up some last-minute excuse not to show. I think he’s probably right, but I also think you’re the only one to decide what to do with your free time. Blaise, nevertheless, was very pushy and made me promise that I would convince you to come. His true reasons escape me, but I suppose he might want to use the opportunity to win you over after being a royal prick that first night we met.

De toute façon… Here you have it. Do with the information what you will.

Pansy

It takes her by such a surprise that Hermione stares frozen at the paper in her hands for two full minutes. She only rouses, putting the letter quickly away, when she sees Malfoy returning to his cubicle. She pockets the parchment and, as she’s been doing since her arrival this morning, roots her gaze down and makes herself look busy with whatever.

This time, though, there’s an even bigger riot inside her head. She had already decided not to attend the celebration; currently, she’s not so sure of it anymore. For Pansy to have reached out to her… She’s never done it before and Hermione cannot shake the feeling that it must mean something. In spite of Pansy’s casual and noncommittal words, her actions speak to the contrary: something tells Hermione that the woman wants her there, too.

And Hermione has come a long way with her. The same with the other Slytherins, the exception being Zabini, with whom she never really clicked, always too mistrustful of him since the stunt he pulled at their first meeting in the pub. Obviously, he’s noticed it. And, if she’s to take the literal meaning of the letter, he’s determined to rectify it. 

Her first impulse is to say hell to it. Screw him for wanting to make things right only now, months after he was a wanker with her. What changed his mind so abruptly? It doesn’t concern her, either way. Regardless of his sudden willingness to improve his attitude, she doesn’t owe him anything. Plus, she knows Pansy (and everyone else) would understand if she didn’t show. It would be the easier way out, there’s no doubt about it.

And yet-

That is not who she is anymore. She’s changed. And her life is better for it. Since she let go of her stubborn pride and internalised that she was the only one in charge of turning things around, she stopped passively accepting the contretemps that happened to her and actively worked to become a better version of herself. She can’t back away now, especially not with everything that’s been going on. She can’t recede once more inside her shell, allowing her days to be dictated by shame and her nights consumed by loneliness. Surely she can suck up for a single evening, enduring the company of the two men; she just needs to keep her distance and everything will be fine.

Right.

She wishes she could say she doesn’t dress for him. She should have learned her lesson, after all. She had never looked better than what she did at the Ministry Gala and he had been entirely unimpressed by it. So, as any sane person would fervently tell her, don’t even fucking try. Don’t waste your time. It’s not worth it. Do not bother.

She still does.

She picks a red polka dot sundress, although it’s the middle of March and half of her thighs are showing. She throws a black leather jacket over it, as if to compensate for her flimsy choice of outfit, and black leather boots. Attempting to apply what she’s learned from Lavender’s make-up sessions, she aims at a soft glam and lets her curly hair fall loose down her back. Staring at the mirror, she looks nothing like the Auror who only cares about practicality in daylight. It makes her feel good and bad at the same time. She knows she looks pretty but she also knows she shouldn’t be going to the trouble.

Not for him.

Her partner.

Draco bloody Malfoy. 

She groans, throwing her head back as she presses her eyes shut. How did she get here? How is Hermione Granger primping herself up for Draco Malfoy of all people, her literal school bully? The man whose existence, up to six months ago, she neglected to acknowledge besides the bad blood reminiscent between them and his foul reputation within the DMLE. How is it possible that so much has shifted in so little time, and she finds herself now craving the approval of someone who never mattered to her before? She, the stuck-up swotty war heroine who never let societal standards direct her life and never once moulded her behaviour for the benefit of her long-standing boyfriend (she’d rather tell Ronald to go touch grass before she changed how she looked for him), is now willing to feel cold and exposed just so that she can earn a single lick of appreciation from the last wizard she’d ever imagine doing it for.

Her world has definitely turned upside down.

Huffing, and swallowing her ego, she departs her flat and walks to the Apparition point. Rereading the invitation to retrieve the correct address, Hermione spins on her heels and pops away to Bayford, Hertfordshire. When she arrives at the destination, she takes a moment to fix her hair, adjust her dress and breathe deeply in. Zabini did mention that the occasion was supposed to be casual, something more spontaneous than not, but as she stares at the huge mansion in front of her, Hermione regrets her outfit for the tenth time in ten minutes. Nothing to do now, though, so she just goes ahead and rings the bell, ignoring her nerves already on edge. 

She expects a servant or even a house-elf to appear behind the wooden surface and not the unfamiliar woman wearing the most informal dress robes Hermione’s ever seen. 

The witch smiles brightly at her. ‘‘Hello. Welcome to the party.’’ And then, unceremoniously, she turns around and goes back inside the house, leaving the door open for Hermione. 

Hermione frowns, confused with the exchange, but steps in in any case, shutting the door and hanging her jacket in the coat rack. The manor is, as expected, absolutely massive and expensive-looking and yet, Zabini hadn’t lied about the celebration. The entire thing is very low-key. There’s no fancy decoration, multiple waiters or elegant people showing off the most valuable items of their wardrobe. In fact, there are way fewer attendees than Hermione had anticipated and they all dress modestly, unpretentious in a way she hadn’t seen coming.

‘‘Hermione! You’re here’’

It’s sweet Neville, waving two hands in the air to get her attention. He stands to her left past the wide foyer from which she just came and so she alters her route to move toward him. By his side, leaning gracefully against a high stool, is Pansy, and her smile has a little quality of triumph to it. Although nothing compares to the look that takes over Blaise Zabini when he spots Hermione. His handsome face splits in two with an indecent grin and he immediately gets up from the sofa to come personally greet her. Before he reaches her, though, she takes stock of the rest of the large sitting room. 

Despite the big space, most guests stay close together, around chaises, loveseats and cocktail tables. Susan Bones sits to the right of her husband, a similar grin painting her gentle features, and next to her is Theodore Nott displaying a much milder countenance, which matches his habitual seriousness. From across them, near a long sideboard, there are a few people Hermione has never seen and then a chubby man she faintly registers as Gregory Goyle. She hasn’t seen him since Hogwarts so she’s not so sure her memory can be trusted. A tall woman she doesn’t know, presumably his wife, flanks him to the right and to the left, right by the last armchair of the room, sits Malfoy.

He reclines against the backrest in a relaxed pose, his long legs spread in front of him and arms bracing his thighs. He wears a dark-forest green jumper and fitted trousers; simple but efficient in making Hermione’s heart leap inside her chest at the sight. His expression is inscrutable, but Hermione swears his eyes dip ever so slightly to her feet and then up, as if taking her in. It’s so fast she questions if it happened at all, but she isn’t able to dwell much on it as Zabini pointedly crowds her and steals her focus.

‘‘You came.’’

She holds his gaze, and pairs it with a small smile. ‘‘Of course. Happy birthday, Zabini.’’ She recovers the gift she got for him from her purse and pushes it into his hands in the most polite manner she can muster.

The dark-skinned wizard glances down, rendered quiet for a second, before flashing her one more gigantic grin. ‘‘Merlin’s beard, this is considerate. Thank you so much, Hermione.’’

It fairly bothers her that he uses her given name, since they share no such intimacy for that, but she lets it slide for the sake of the occasion. ‘‘You’re welcome.’’ She peeks around. ‘‘Quite an intimate party you got going on here.’’

‘‘Mhm, yeah. Didn’t feel like doing anything over-the-top this year. Luckily, Mother’s out of town so I got away with only inviting my closest friends.’’

Hermione has the fleeting urge to raise a petulant eyebrow at the implication that she’s one of his so-called closest friends, but she manages to keep a straight face. ‘‘That’s cool.’’ She gives him another cordial curl of lips before looking past him, already planning on bidding her goodbye and finding a much more comfortable position amongst her Gryffindor and Hufflepuff former classmates. 

Zabini has other ideas in mind.

‘‘So, does that mean you finally like me?’’

This time, Hermione’s brows do react, jumping at the bold question. ‘‘Excuse me?’’

The birthday bloke tilts his head, smile still in place. ‘‘I know I left a bad impression on you that first night. But you’re still here, aren’t you? So I’m guessing that means you’ve forgiven me completely and are now ready to love me for who I am.’’

The facetious hyperbole doesn’t impress her. Hermione replies unenthusiastically. ‘‘Me being civil to you on your birthday only means I’m a civil person. I came tonight because you invited me and because I promised Neville that I would.’’ As requested, she doesn’t mention Pansy’s straightforward letter. ‘‘I wish you all the best, Zabini, but far away from me, if that’s alright.’’

Any other person would have baulked at her wry words, or even taken offence by her conclusion. Zabini, however, chuckles. ‘‘Ah! There’s the Granger we admire so much. I can always expect honesty from you, can’t I? You say what’s on your mind and no social conventions will ever get in the way of that.’’ Taking one step closer to her, still giving her space to breathe but crashing any chance of them being overheard, he measures his words. ‘‘That’s the same with me, you know? You can always count on me to say it how I see it.’’

‘‘Being cruel in the name of honesty is nothing to be proud of, Zabini.’’

She should know it; she’s struggled with that exact thing. Being always poignantly right has not made Hermione’s life better - it hasn’t made her any happier. Her self-righteous mentality has never brought her the peace and comfort she coveted and, on the contrary, it has only pushed people away. It’s been a painful process but she’s finally learned that lesson.

‘‘I never meant to be cruel.’’

‘‘Well, that’s how it came across to me. Excuse me.’’

Hermione doesn’t intend to spend her evening discussing such minutiae with the man. She makes to step aside and go around him, but he sways to block her way.

‘‘I apologise, then, if it did. That was not my intention.’’ Hermione sighs and looks up at him again. His grin has dimmed and his dark gaze has become serious at last. ‘‘I confess your presence took me by surprise that night. I reacted with the few tools I had available.’’ Is that a good justification for the way he made her feel? Hermione narrows her eyes, appraising him. A few seconds pass in silence. Zabini lowers his voice. ‘‘But it had to be done, don’t you agree?’’

‘‘What had to be done?’’

‘‘The confrontation. We needed to clear the air once and for all. Not only for us.’’ One edge of his mouth tugs up. ‘‘Also for your benefit. Wouldn’t you say that?’’

It’s strange how she gets the impression that he sees right through her.

Because he’s right. Thinking back, returning to that horrid time in her life, Hermione promptly remembers what an imposter she had felt. How she regarded her own actions as manipulative, as fake and shallow for going after people she ignored for years only because she suddenly found herself lonely and friendless. She remembers quite well the bitter feeling and, later, how much better she felt after she told Zabini off at the pub; after she exposed her reasons for being there and received in turn Neville’s reassuring words that she was entirely welcome by him irrespective of her motives.

Indeed: the confrontation had to be done.

Perhaps not how he did it, but she understands what he means.

Still: is that a good justification for the way he made her feel?

She’s not sure, but her hackles lower a speck.

‘‘I suppose I get where you’re coming from.’’ She ends up telling him and is rewarded with his signature blinding smile.

‘‘I knew you would. And, you know, I really appreciate you coming tonight.’’

‘‘I appreciate you inviting me.’’

He sighs, happy. ‘‘Can’t wait for us to become best friends, Hermione.’’

She rolls her eyes. ‘‘Alright. Goodbye now.’’

His amused laugh follows her as she proceeds inside the sitting room. She smiles broadly to the people around her, offering friendly hellos and taking her time to hug Neville, Susan and Pansy. The latter squeezes her forearms before letting go, giving her a meaningful look. Hermione winks at her in response.

Getting herself comfortable within the circle of her new friends, she tells herself to relax.

‘‘So, has Blaise finally played nice?’’

Naturally, Slytherin's former ice queen would never make it easier for her. Hermione throws her an exasperated side-glance. ‘‘I don’t think nice is really a part of his vocabulary.’’ A round of chuckles is what greets her remark. She squints her eyes in Zabini’s direction. ‘‘But I guess he did come to the conclusion that he needed to be a good boy if he wanted to get his birthday gift.’’

The circle laughs again, Zabini the loudest of them. Hermione barely notices.

‘‘A good boy, that I am! Just ask Susie. Right, babe, wouldn’t you s-’’

She barely notices because, at her jest, Malfoy’s expression softens. As his mate goes off with whatever gibbering he’s so fond of gibbering, her partner just brings his pint up to take a swig and hide his smirk. The motion is ridiculously attractive. Hermione can’t keep her gaze away, tracking the way his throat bobs with the swallow, the contour of his strong hand wrapped around the glass, the view of his tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip. She averts her eyes before she’s caught, but her body already becomes positively heated. She looks around, in dire need of something to distract her, and realises she forgot to fetch herself a drink.

‘‘Can I get you anything?’’ The gentle, low voice takes her off-guard. She twists her head to see Theodore Nott looking intently at her, a kind face among the boisterous environment. ‘‘A pilsner, perhaps?’’

It’s her usual drink of choice. It plucks a smile from her that he remembers. ‘‘Thank you. I’d love one, actually.’’

He nods and walks in the direction of a cocktail table. Hermione redirects her attention to the shenanigans around her.

‘‘Did you see that Carol Knightley and Reginald Hammond broke their engagement off?’’

‘‘What? Where did you see that? It wasn’t in any of the magazines-’’

‘‘I have my contacts.’’

‘‘Oi, fuck off. Don’t be a party-pooper, tell me who-’’

‘‘Hey, Greg, did you catch last night’s game?’’

‘‘’Course, mate.’’

‘‘Crazy that last goal, wasn’t it? I genuinely thought Francis was gonna get his head chopped-’’

Hermione grins to herself, satisfied to silently accompany the crossed conversation, watching bemusedly as one interrupts the other, eager to put in their two cents’ worth. She’s glad she came; it was a good call.

Even if to her right, Malfoy remains a constant source of distraction. She needs to restrain herself from looking at him every other minute. His steady presence drags her in like a gravitational force, but she resists it. She uses the discipline and dedication she gained from years of office work to navigate this absolute new, unwelcome situation. She’s never had to deal with such a thing before, never struggled so much from wanting someone she shouldn't, but damn her if she’ll throw everything out of the window for a moment of weakness.

‘‘Draco, how did Scorpius like the trip to Alton Towers?’’

The question is posed by one of the attendees that Hermione doesn’t know, and it effectively spikes her attention. Alton Towers is one of the best amusement parks in the United Kingdom. The muggle United Kingdom.

‘‘Ah, he loved it, Ben. Merlin, he couldn’t stop talking about it. Well, he couldn’t stop talking about it the second I told him we were going, and much less after we went.’’ Hermione remembers Malfoy mentioning that Scorpius' birthday was coming up, somewhere in the past month. She wonders if this was his birthday gift to his son. ‘‘I swear, he must’ve ridden that rollercoaster, the Galactic, about fifteen times. I’ve never seen him having so much fun in his life. It was fucking brilliant.’’

‘‘That’s wicked. Great idea to take him there, bruv. Did you like it, too?’’

‘‘For sure. It was absolutely -’’

Hermione’s brain switches off again, as it’s been prone to do lately. Her neck is craned to the opposite direction, her entire demeanour indicating that she’s not listening to what’s being said, but she is. Oh, she is. His deep voice envelops her like a siren song, insistently shoving down her figuratively stubborn throat that Malfoy is so much more than just her former school bully and a coworker with a bad reputation.

Christ, he’s so much more than that. He’s her partner in every sense of the word: the only one who’s ever stood up for her, who’s ever really listened to her and allowed his mind to be changed by her, the only one who demanded respect and admiration from her, and got both freely. Because he’s the man who has seen her in every possible disgraceful scenario and hasn’t gone anywhere. His immoveable grit and character of steel have kept him going regardless of the countless obstacles life puts in his path.

Listening to him talk so excitedly about his day trip with his son, to a goddamn muggle amusement park, pulls at her chest. 

Pulls and pulls.

She listens and she waits and when, about an hour later, their circle disperses and she sees him moving to grab another drink at the cocktail table in the corner of the room, she discreetly joins him there. He doesn’t see her at first, so she stops by his side and coughs softly. His head instantly whips toward her.

She doesn’t look at him as she talks. ‘‘I’m truly sorry for what I said in Emily’s office. I meant none of it.’’ She swallows and finally glances up. ‘‘Not a single word.’’

His silver eyes blaze, so intense on hers she can’t stand it. She knows she needed to get the words out, she needed to apologise for the insulting things she’d said, but more than that she’s not really sure she’s capable.

She turns around and finds a seat on the opposite side of wherever Malfoy is for the rest of the night.

Sooner than later, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement comes down from the high of frantic chase.

They are forced to accept that Lowburn’s gone and all there’s left to do is damage control. Mackenzie reinstates Hermione and Malfoy as the officers-in-charge of everything related to the Zimcooke case and assigns a few more Aurors to help with the on-ground investigation. Harry remains active, roaming the streets every day in search of miraculous leads, promising the Earth and some more to his informants in exchange for any scrap of intel. He gets more false alarms than anything else and eventually it becomes clear that he, too, loses hope.

That only means that the pressure returns at full blast to Hermione and her partner. The Ministry is watching, now even more closely than before if that’s possible, and so the demand for answers grows at an exponential rate. As anticipated, Hermione finds herself working from eight to eight, sometimes longer, buried up until her neck in paperwork.

What she hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy joining her. After he received an earful from Hestia, when she happened upon the headquarters at five o’clock and upon her partner getting ready to leave, the man had no other choice but to start working past his usual hours. Mackenzie had tried, in vain, to persuade her boss that this was not needed, that Malfoy had a specific home situation that warranted an exception, that everyone was alright with him not staying until late night. Hestia did not sway. For her, nothing was more important than this case. Therefore, if he wanted to keep his job, Malfoy had to figure his shit out.

If Hermione didn’t despise the Head of the DMLE yet, she absolutely does now. 

As such, the last conference room of the Aurors’ floor becomes stage once again, this time also throughout the evenings, of the workings of their partnership. And this time, thick to the brim with tension. Night after night they sit across from each other in the large oval table, all sorts of parchments and files covering the surface between them. They barely talk except to clarify a piece of information here and there, working tirelessly on the scarce leads they still have on hand. Exhaustion seeps in as much as strain, and Hermione remains disappointed at how unproductive she finds herself to be.

Particularly tonight.

She feels the rope becoming stretched beyond repair.

She can’t seem to stop stealing glances at him. She can’t resist listening to him breathe, paying attention to all the small sounds he makes instead of her actual tasks. She can’t prevent herself from drowning in his gravity, inch by inch.

It makes her acutely aware of how her perception of him has taken such a sharp turn. Before, even in the past couple of months in which they have been getting along, Hermione had never really looked at him. That is, she knew how he looked. Of course she did. Malfoy’s been in her life since they were eleven. His features (white-blond hair, long nose, pointy chin) have always been acknowledged by her as much as the next girl. But, despite seeing him every day, she never really took note of the finer details of him, not really.

Suddenly, the opposite is true. Who once never merited a closer look besides the cursory glance, in a flash becomes the object of every peak of interest in her. Each square of skin in his body draws Hermione. She thoroughly trails the length of his square jaw, that frames his face so powerfully and makes him more regal than he ought to be; of his broad shoulders, beautifully hugged by the black robes he wears every day; of his large hands, weaving confidently through the paperwork, making her lose all train of thought when imagining them wrapped around her. And his smile: so rare and yet so invaluable when it’s just for her.

As she fails to keep her eyes in check, she’s flooded with the feeling that he’s as foreign to her as he is familiar. He’s been in her life since they were eleven but, in truth, she’s only known him, the real him, for meagre weeks.

Not for the first time she wonders what he thinks of her. Following everything that’s happened in the past few days, Hermione’s not so sure Malfoy’s unimpressed by her like she convinced herself he was. After all, he did appear one second away from kissing her at Mackenzie’s office and, at Zabini’s birthday party, she thinks he gave her a once-over when she arrived, his gaze much more heated than-

Silver eyes catch hers and Hermione’s internal monologue stumbles to pieces.

The eye contact lasts only a second; she stands up at once.

She walks toward the coffee counter in the corner, relieved to have a reason to give her back to him. On the way, she fixes the hem of her skirt, pulling it down. The skirt that’s a little tighter than advisable for a Ministry job and that she only picked because she wanted to look good for him, even during bloody working hours. At the makeshift bartop, pretending to be busy arranging something to drink, she supports her palms on the surface and takes fortifying breaths. This is getting out of hand. What is she doing? She’s losing track of what’s what and how she’s supposed to behave.

The situation is becoming unsustainable. 

Eyelids firmly closed, she can tell the exact instant she feels him approach. She doesn’t move, she barely breathes. His footsteps are so light it’s not what warns her. 

It’s the pull. It’s the rope being straught from side to side.

When he’s behind her, he doesn’t touch her. The fabric of his work robes faintly brushes her back but he doesn’t do more than just stand there at first, tall shadow looming over her. His respiration tickles her neck and she hears his inhales and exhales, too loud in the quietness of the room. Her eyes are still shut, though every other sense is on alert.

A gentle hand threading through her hair breaks the stalemate. Unlike the last time he grabbed her, now he does it softly, lean fingers interlacing her curls with dexterity. He doesn’t tug; he merely casts her locks aside, freeing the part of her neck closest to him. That done, his face dips lower, ghosting her left ear, mouth so close it sparks goosebumps.

‘‘You’re the worst witch I know,’’ he murmurs, resuming his earlier thought in Mackenzie’s office and concluding it. ‘‘Because I can’t get you out of my head.’’

She doesn’t know if he’s the one to turn her around, or if she does it herself. What she does know is that when they kiss, they meet in the middle.

The rope snaps.

Lips against lips, teeth razing teeth, tongues devouring each other: it's the messiest thing Hermione’s ever done. It’s also the best.

Pure instinct drives them forward, everything else laid forgotten at their feet.

His hand moves to cradle her neck, guiding her mouth in accordance to his, keeping up with the frenzied motions as her arms enveloping his waist maintain them fused together. The force of their kiss pushes her over the coffee counter and, as such, it’s easy to complete the next step: Malfoy is swift to lift her with one strong hand under her right thigh, hoisting her across the surface, toppling mugs, saucers and chocolate-chip biscuits in the process. They plummet to the ground in resounding noises that go unnoticed. 

Sitting now, Hermione’s legs fall open, making room for him to slot himself between her spread knees. As she knew he would, he fits perfectly. When their fronts rub against each other in the new position, his taut shape pressed to her, Hermione’s unable to repress a moan into his mouth.

It encourages her partner to let go of any sense of decorum, if he had any to begin with. Both his palms descend with intent, diving under her skirt, finding the soft spot of skin between her thigh and arse. He kneads at the flesh, pulling Hermione closer to grind their centres together.

She breaks off the kiss with a gasp.

Every inch of their bodies is connected save for their mouths. His hands enlace the small of her back, her legs wrap around his hips, his chest pushes deliciously against her breasts. Panting, they stare at one another.

For a suspended moment in time, a choice has to be made.

Hermione does it for the two of them.

She reaches for the clasp of his work robes, briefly removing her legs from around him so the entire thing can drop to the floor with one swipe. Malfoy wears a t-shirt and jeans under it. It’s so surprising, so casual for someone like him, it short-circuits her brain for a second. Then her eyes fall to the bulge straining against his zipper and all rationality flies out of the window. As she blindly claws at the buttons, their mouths meet again and the rest is history.

There’s something to be said of Hermione’s presumed silly hope of looking better to her partner at the DMLE.

If it hadn’t been for that lapse of judgement, things wouldn’t go as smoothly as they do. As it is, it costs Malfoy nothing to slide under her impractically short skirt and drag her knickers out of the way. It’s monumentally easy for him to bring her flush against him, widening her knees and lining their bodies together. It takes him no effort at all to sink into her in one staunch thrust. 

Hermione hasn’t been touched in nearly two years. Even before Ronald broke up with her, they hadn't slept together in a while. Their sex life was far from riveting, but this fact never troubled her much. She didn’t consider herself someone who placed such an importance on that part of intimacy. And yet, she can recognise that after so long, she’s become touch-starved.

Too many nights without feeling someone’s comforting weight pushing her down a mattress, someone’s determined fingers or mouth bringing her ecstasy, have turned her hungrier for it than she remembers of ever being.

Or perhaps it’s just the fact that it’s Malfoy.

Either way, the first feel of him inside her is unadulterated bliss. Like the rope, he stretches her to her limit but, this time, she yearns for it. Her moan is loud in response and so is his grunt. But he wastes no more time than that. Instinct, once again, takes control and he begins pumping without a flick of hesitation. The coffee counter shakes precariously under her with his feverish movements; Hermione has to throw her arms around his neck, holding herself tightly to him to ensure the connection is not lost. As he rams into her, hot and hard, they don’t exactly kiss. Their mouths are open, lips grazing each other with every back and forth, his breath becoming hers and vice versa.

Eyes locked the entire time.

It’s want beyond anything she’s ever known. It’s pent-up frustration and repressed desire. It’s two weeks of oddness between them, since that goddamn gala; of unhappiness at their self-imposed distance and nonsensical coldness toward one another. It’s finally letting go and allowing themselves to just take the plunge. And quash their all-consuming craving.

Her orgasm crests much quicker than she would have expected it. She feels it tingling at her fingertips and warming her lower stomach. Hermione becomes frantic with the prospective, rendered dumb with arousal. Reacting brashly, without much forethought, she pushes at Malfoy’s chest. Gaining a swift advantage over him, the mindless bloke caught completely off-guard, she manages to shift their position, bracing her right knee on the counter to half-straddle him. It puts her on top and it’s all she needs to achieve a full climax.

Before she gets there, though, Malfoy buckles under her. With a strangled fuck, his hips jerk and he comes violently, expression wrenching for a moment before slacking in pleasure. It’s enough to push her over the edge. She comes, too, burying her face on the crook of his neck to muffle her cries. 

Her busy mind stills for the first time in months and her usually tense body, glad for it, sags in relief.

They remain in each other’s arms until reality can no longer be postponed. As her mental faculties slowly return to her, Hermione detaches herself from him, sitting back on the coffee counter. By her side, Malfoy straightens on his feet. While she searches for something to say, she distinctively feels the result of their irresponsible tryst leaking down her inner thigh.

Panic immediately storms in.

She’s not on any contraception potion. She hasn’t shagged anyone in so long it made no sense for her to keep going with the one she used to take when she was with Ronald. And now she went and had unprotected sex with her work partner in an unlocked and unsilenced conference room of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The partner in question, as it is habitual, arrives at the conclusion at the same time as her.

‘‘Sweet Circe.’’ Malfoy rasps under his breath, redirecting Hermione’s attention.

When she peeks at him, she finds his trousers already fastened and his face buried on his hands: the image of incredulous realisation. It springs her to action. She hops off the bartop, pulling at the hem of the skirt that should be ultimately blamed for everything. Walking quickly to the oval table, she fetches her wand and vanishes the mess between her legs. Next, she closes her eyes, concentrating, trying to remember the correct incantation. She doesn’t know if she got it right, but she still does it anyway, trying her hand at casting an after-spell for intercourse. 

When that’s over, and she has nothing else to do with herself, she turns to look at the wizard in the room with her. Hermione and Malfoy, in opposite ends of one same space, just stare speechless at each other. 

And now what?

Chapter Text

It’s on the twenty-seventh lap across her living room that Hermione gives up; she has been pacing back and forth since she flooed back to her flat, incapable of sitting down or really just doing anything useful with herself. She’s a ball of anxious energy, nerves swallowing her whole.

She fetches parchment and a quill, and calls for Alba. The letter she sends is stripped of any ado.

Are you awake? Sorry to write at this time but I need to talk to you. Can we meet?

After the bird is gone, she walks to her kitchen and starts making tea. She’s not in the mood for the beverage, but she needs to keep herself busy with something. Once the drink is made, she lets it rest on top of the island counter, untouched, and proceeds to deep clean the room. She’s halfway to scrubbing the second cupboard with her bare hands when pecking noises at the window snap her out of her frantic cleaning mode.

It’s Alba again, the note she brings back as short as the one she’d delivered.

I’m on my way. Open your floo.

Hermione does so immediately, and only a minute later it comes to life. Out of the flames her friend emerges, pixie blonde hair full of ashes and pretty features pinched in concern.

‘‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’’

‘‘I’m okay.’’ Hermione says at once, not wanting to let her get more worried. She then pauses, rethinking her answer. ‘‘Actually, I’m not okay. But I’m not harmed or anything.’’

‘‘Alright. What happened?’’ Lavender moves inside the living room, coming to Hermione’s side. ‘‘You’ve never owled me so late at night.’’

‘‘I know, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what else to do.’’ She sighs, closing her eyes. ‘‘I fucked up so bad, Lav.’’

‘‘For Godric’s sake, Hermione, what happened? You’re scaring me.’’

Hermione reopens her eyes. She chews on her lower lip, meeting her friend’s clear blue gaze and trying to find the courage to tell her what she’s done. It’s a more difficult endeavour than she imagined.

‘‘I-I- Jesus, this is hard to get out. Okay.’’ She takes a long, fortifying breath and soldiers on. ‘‘I had sex with Malfoy.’’

For some reason, Hermione had expected that getting the statement out there would mean the world collapsing over her head. What actually happens is… nothing. Sheer silence greets her confession. Lavender only blinks, staring at Hermione with a blank expression.

‘‘You had sex with Malfoy?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Draco Malfoy?’’

‘‘Yes, Lucius is in Azkaban.’’

‘‘Draco Malfoy, your work partner?’’

‘‘Yes, the one and only.’’

‘‘You mean, sex sex?’’

‘‘Yes, like, twenty minutes ago.’’

Lavender’s face doesn’t change much; it is still the embodiment of perplexity.

‘‘Why did you have sex with Draco Malfoy?’’

Hermione wants to laugh with Lavender’s slow comprehension of the situation; she also wants to cry. She settles on shrieking. ‘‘Why? Because I’m fucking stupid. Because I seem to have lost control of my life. Because I fancy him so bad it has driven me completely mad.’’

At this, the other witch reacts. A grimace seizes her entire countenance. ‘‘You fancy Draco Malfoy? What the fuck? Since when?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I’ve been aware of it for about two weeks, but I’m starting to think that it’s been longer, I was just not… paying attention.’’

‘‘How did this happen, Hermione?’’ Lavender asks, genuine curiosity overshadowing her surprise. ‘‘Last time we talked you barely tolerated him.’’

Hermione sighs. ‘‘I think it was so gradual, I can’t even tell you the exact turning point. I guess we just stopped fighting and then, eventually, we started trusting each other, having each other’s back and now I- I like him a lot, Lav. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. Not even with Ronald in the beginning.’’

‘‘Well, of course.’’ Lavender rolls her eyes. ‘‘Ron’s a knob.’’

This time Hermione laughs. ‘‘He is. Malfoy is nothing like him.’’

Lavender frowns at that response. She peers at Hermione, assessing whatever she can see written plainly on her face, and finally nods. ‘‘Alright. Come.’’ She gestures for Hermione to take a place next to her in her olive-coloured sofa. ‘‘Tell me what happened exactly.’’

Hermione folds her hands on her lap as she sits to the right of her mate, shrugging. ‘‘Honestly, I don’t even know myself. Things have been so fucking weird between us lately. Since the gala… We just- I don’t know, something changed. There’s so much sexual tension between us, you wouldn’t believe it.’’ She sighs again. ‘‘I guess tonight, it was the final drop. We were just working, minding our own business across from each other, normal stuff, you know, and then suddenly he was shagging me on top of the coffee counter.’’

Lavender’s brows jump. ‘‘On top of the coffee counter?’’ At Hermione’s embarrassed confirmation, she chuckles. ‘‘That good, yeah?’’

Hermione can only groan as the woman puts into words what she’s been trying to forget since she set foot home.

Good is the understatement of the century. It was the best, most delicious thing she’s ever done.

She cannot, for everything that’s sacred, acknowledge that.

‘‘Right, right. I get it.’’ Lavender rushes to appease her, shifting the direction of the talk. ‘‘Okay. You guys lost control for a second, succumbed to the, erm, how should I say it? The urges of the flesh. Right?’’ Hermione shoots daggers at her and she chuckles one more time. ‘‘Right. Then, what?’’

‘‘Then what, what?’’

‘‘Well, what did you do afterwards? Like, what did Malfoy say after it was done?’’

‘‘Uh…’’ Hermione wrinkles her nose. ‘‘He didn’t say anything.’’

‘‘He didn’t? What did you say, then?’’

‘’Erm…’’

Lavender’s face falls in incredulity. ‘‘You didn’t talk after?’’

‘‘Not really.’’

‘‘What did you do?’’

‘‘We just- We said it was better if we just went home, so we packed our things and left.’’

Hermione hasn’t had a mother figure in her life in nearly fifteen years; as such, she’s forgotten what it was like to be met with mildly disappointed eyes and an affectionate exasperation that only older, wiser people have seemed to master. Presently, she is promptly reminded of how that feels. Lavender Brown, two months younger than Hermione, looks at her with the perfect stern expression of a displeased mama.

‘‘Hermione. You cannot simply leave after something like this happens. You need to talk about it.’’

The same defensiveness she always used to counter her mum’s scoldings kicks right in. ‘‘It’s not that easy. I don’t- I’m not good at talking.’’

‘‘What do you mean? You talk all the time, literally about everything.’’

‘‘It’s not the same.’’ Hermione shakes her head, glancing around her living room as she searches for the difficult words. ‘‘I’m not good at vulnerability. At exposing my- my weaknesses, my troubling feelings. Before I realise it, my brain has already found a way to get me the hell out of the situation and there I go, eager to feel safe again. I’ve always been a bit like that but I guess since what Ronald did to me I’ve gotten even worse.’’

Lavender’s severe semblant softens. Her countenance assumes an air of understanding and her hands find Hermione’s, holding them tightly together. ‘‘I get it. It must be hard putting yourself out there again after everything you’ve been through. But, babe, you don’t really have an option in this case. Malfoy’s not just a random one-night-stand you picked up at The Leaky Cauldron. He’s your partner. You have to see him at the Ministry every single day of your life. You can’t just ignore the situation and hope it will magically blow away with the wind.’’

‘‘I know, Lav. I- I know.’’

Of course Hermione hadn’t thought any of it through. Not only has she allowed one moment of weakness to jeopardise everything they have built together in their partnership for the past six months, she didn’t even have the guts to face the mistake and try and handle it like an adult. Instead, she had instantly run away to the security of her home, back to her comfort zone of avoidance and evasion. 

She gushes hot air out of her mouth, in vexation, freeing her hands to rub against her forehead. The beginning of a headache already pounds against her temples.

‘‘I’m gonna talk to him tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Clear the air between us, and whatnot.’’

Lavender smiles, or Hermione imagines she does since she has her eyes closed while stroking her face in soothing movements. ‘‘It’s the right thing to do, babe. You will feel better afterward, I promise you. After everything is said and done.’’

Hermione highly doubts it but she nods anyway, making an effort to instil some sort of bravery to her jaded soul. 

Lavender’s pointed voice grounds her to Earth again. ‘‘Now let’s talk about these feelings you have for Draco bloody Malfoy.’’

Hermione sets her alarm to six in the morning. When it goes off, she gets up without any delay, ready to take on the world. Ignoring the little voice in her head that tells her she’s acting ridiculous, she chooses her outfit carefully: a sleeveless pencil dress that hugs her body in a flattering way and, therefore, that she’s never worn to work before. She matches it with short black heels and ties her hair up in a high, voluminous ponytail. 

She’s never put so much effort into her Ministry attire before, but it is what it is. She’s done with second-guessing everything. Everything that could possibly go to shit already did. Now it’s time for damage control and not crippling self-doubt.

She arrives at the DMLE a quarter to eight, equipped with a vanilla bun and a freshly-baked croissant from her favourite bakery in London. It makes her feel stronger, this certain return to the good bits of her old routine. Despite her current predicament, she hasn’t lost what she gained in the past year and a half; she’s still a changed woman with new goals and a renewed appetite for life.

Walking inside the Aurors Office, she only needs a few steps to spot Malfoy already sitting by his desk. Her stomach somersaults, her heartbeats speed off and her palms instantly start sweating, but she presses ahead, Lavender’s advice still ringing in her ears. 

She has to get this done.

About a foot away, he looks up.

His silver eyes assume that quality that seems reserved just for her, blazing and intense. It makes her knees weak, another physical symptom to mess with her determination, and still she keeps going.

Stopping in front of him, a nice few inches separating them for good measure, she speaks. ‘‘Good morning.’’ She raises both her hands. ‘‘Erm, croissant? Or bun? They’re divine.’’

Malfoy frowns, glancing down at the two items. ‘‘No, thank you.’’

‘‘Right. Er, okay. Look, I-’’

‘‘Draco, Hermione. You’re already here.’’ It’s Mackenzie, materialising out of thin air. ‘‘Good. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Can you come to my office, please?’’

Hermione had started at the sudden voice, swivelling around to identify its source. Now, she gapes, at loss for words. Her mind had been so intent on what she had to accomplish, she struggles to presently redirect her attention. 

What now?

What could Mackenzie possibly want with them?

It can’t be any more bad news, can it?

Malfoy standing up in her periphery spurs her on. ‘‘Yes, of course.’’ She drops the pastries on top of her desk and follows her partner to the end of the corridor. There, in front of the door, he comes to a stop, letting her go first.

‘‘Thank you.’’ She tells him and scurries inside.

Once they’re in her office, Mackenzie casts a muffliato and motions for them to take a seat before her. ‘‘Please.’’ 

They sit on the sofa, side by side within a safe distance, and stare expectantly at the witch. She takes a deep breath before beginning. ‘‘I wanted to take the opportunity, as we are the only ones in the headquarters at the moment, to have a conversation with you two. One that I think it’s been long overdue.’’ They say nothing to this, a little clueless to what she means. Mackenzie clears her throat. ‘‘I understand that there’s been, erm, a few things happening around here that you don’t agree with. I know that… Well, that Hestia can be a difficult boss at times.’’ Halting briefly, she offers them a tiny smirk. ‘‘So can I, if we’re being completely honest. Correct?’’ At that, Hermione grins a little too. The Head Deputy goes on. ‘‘What I’m getting at is that I’m aware of your contrasting standpoints regarding the Zimcooke case. I know that we haven’t seen eye to eye about it for a while now, and that often you have been forced to do things you don’t necessarily think is right. And, unfortunately, in the past couple weeks, I haven’t been able to- to really give you a voice. And I regret that.’’ Her expressive brown eyes bounce between Hermione and Malfoy as she speaks. Leaning back against her leather chair, Mackenzie drops her hands and metaphorical guards. ‘‘So I’d like to take this moment to give you the chance to tell me what you think. What you really think.’’

‘‘About what exactly, Emily?’’

‘‘Everything. The case, the leadership. Whatever you feel comfortable discussing with me, I’m all ears.’’

Hermione tilts her head. ‘‘You mean that? Can we seriously be frank with you? No reprisals?’’

‘‘Hermione, you know me. I wouldn’t set up a trap like that.’’

She’s right; she wouldn’t. Hermione’s known Mackenzie for several years. She’s one of the only people Hermione can say she truly admires. She knows Mackenzie is an honourable, trustworthy woman.

Hermione glances at Malfoy. Her partner had been staring attentively at their boss but, noticing Hermione’s eyes on him, he turns his attention to her. She cannot read his mind, though she repeatedly tries it, but she supposes he feels similarly to her about this.

He dips his chin, in an assenting motion, and Hermione gets herself ready. ‘‘Alright, then. I’m going to be completely honest with you right now, okay?’’

Mackenzie pinches her mouth for a second before nodding. 

‘‘Okay. Here’s the situation, Emily: this entire thing, the Zimcooke case, is a ploy. Malfoy and I are confident that The Death Eater and his gang are determined to lead the Ministry astray, pretending to be targeting something related to blood purity only to distract us, so that their real objective can be achieved without resistance.’’ The Head Deputy blinks slowly but other than that, she doesn’t display any reaction. ‘‘From the start, this case has come off as odd to me. So many things didn’t make sense in it. And with time, Malfoy has noticed the same. Things just didn’t add up, you know? Like I told you the day he escaped, Lowburn’s actions were not logical. His intentions were one hundred percent suspicious. But it’s more than that. Think about the convenient anonymous tips, the artefacts lying randomly around for us to find, the contradictory information we collected in our interrogations. All of that, it’s just not- it’s simply not adding up.’’  

Hermione pauses and Malfoy takes the lead, talking for the first time since they got there. ‘‘You know I was the one to push for the blood supremacy theory, Mackenzie. I was really convinced that this was the case at first. If it weren’t for me, this theory wouldn’t even be on the table right now.’’ As it’s been frequent lately, Hermione feels a prickle of guilt at the memory of throwing this same fact at his face, in this same office, not that long ago. To hear him say it, taking the blame so freely, makes her chest twist. ‘‘So you know I wouldn’t have changed my mind if I didn’t have a good reason for it. You know me, and how bullheaded I am. Do you really think I would’ve wavered for anything less than very high reasonable doubt? The truth is that the evidence is not holding up anymore. It’s not stubbornness or lack of will to solve the case: it’s that we really think something’s up here.’’ 

Hermione takes the reins again. ‘‘Look, Emily. I know this is not great to hear. And, to be sure, in case you’re wondering, I don’t particularly enjoy that this is our situation right now. I don’t want it to be like this. I wish I had all the answers, and I wish I could tell you right now who’s the real culprit and what are their plans, and be done with it. But I can’t. Because I don’t know. And it’s- honestly, it’s very demoralising not to have a clue of what I’m doing here anymore.’’ She shakes her head, looking down. ‘‘You should know that I wouldn’t put my job on the line if I wasn’t certain that something shady was going on.’’ Once more, the memory of their fight in their boss’ office invades her; how Malfoy had called her out for not being willing to sacrifice her career in the name of doing what’s right. When he called her out for her weakness of character. Hermione sighs, pushing the thought away, looking at Mackenzie again. ‘‘But on the other hand… I’m tired of fighting everyone. I’m not gonna spend the next I-don’t-know-how-long until this case is solved, pushing back and resisting the big guns in the Ministry. I’ve never been under so much pressure at work before, and I gotta say it’s becoming a little too much.’’

Hermione is finished with what she has to say, and the room falls ominously quiet. She holds Mackenzie’s gaze, patiently waiting for the Head Deputy to respond to this avalanche of information. She doesn’t expect much of it; honestly, she doesn’t think there’s anything her boss can do to change their shitty reality.

Several seconds pass in silence. Mackenzie’s face is hard to read; she’s clearly in deep thought. Hermione still waits, Malfoy as collected as ever by her side.

At last, Mackenzie straightens in her chair. ‘‘Thank you for your candour. I appreciate you trusting me with this. I’m sure I haven’t given you many reasons for that in recent times.’’ She crosses her fingers across the mahogany desk. ‘‘As you mentioned yourself, Hermione, there’s a lot of pressure coming from the big guns in the Ministry. There’s little I can do about it. The orders are to pursue the blood supremacy theory and to prevent whatever attacks are supposedly targeting our facilities. And this has to be our number one priority.’’ Hermione nods, having expected nothing else. The dark-skinned woman, nevertheless, continues. ‘‘However… Whether it be the big guns or me, we have our own jobs to take care of. We can’t keep track of everything our employees do. As such- well, there’s also little I can do to stop you two from pursuing other lines of investigation, is there? As long as you can show some receipts, whatever you do with the rest of your time… That's really none of my business.’’ 

Hermione blanches.

Did Mackenzie just say what she thinks she said?

She stares, stunned, at her boss, who finishes her piece. ‘‘In the meantime, I want things to return to normal. And you, to your usual tasks.’’ She zeroes on Malfoy. ‘‘Eight to five. No more extra hours. I don’t care what Hestia says; you will go home to your son when your shift is over.’’

Next to Hermione, Malfoy exhales. ‘‘Thank you, Mackenzie.’’

She nods at him then turns back to Hermione. ‘‘Do we have a deal, Hermione?’’

‘‘We do.’’ Her admiration for the witch doubles in size. She smiles. ‘‘Thank you, Emily.’’

Mackenzie rivals her grin. ‘‘Good luck. If you discover anything worthwhile, I’d like to be informed of it.’’

‘‘Of course.’’

She bobs her head in goodbye, dismissing them, and so the two Aurors get up to leave her office. As soon as the door closes behind them, Hermione spins toward her partner. ‘‘Oh my God, I can’t believe Emily just did th-’’

Malfoy cuts her off without a preamble. 

‘‘Granger, we need to talk. Now.’’

Her words choke on her throat as Hermione blinks up to him. They’re very close to one another and that wrecks her a bit. ‘‘Ok-okay.’’

He nods, terse, and starts walking. Hermione follows him, mind already erasing everything that happened in the Head Deputy’s office to promptly freak out about what’s to come. When they get near their (‘‘their’’) conference room, Malfoy falters. He had clearly headed that way automatically, without thinking, and now the realisation hits him. 

Hermione huffs. ‘‘It’s fine, Malfoy. Let’s just go in.’’

She pushes the door open, stepping in with determination. This time, it’s she who falters.

They hadn’t tidied up the place after they left the night before. Broken dishes and ruined pastries still pepper the floor around the coffee counter; the counter in which not twelve hours ago Malfoy shagged her within an inch of her life. She gulps, the recollection making shambles out of her. Her partner is quicker on his feet: with a swift flick of his wand he clears the mess. Next, he locks and silences the room. Something they could have benefitted from doing yesterday.

Okay, Hermione. Focus.

She swirls to him as he leans against the oval table, supporting his backside on it and facing her.  He’s the picture of coolness and it kind of rattles her. So she speaks before he has the chance. 

‘‘Okay. About what happened…’’ She scrambles to recall what it was that she had practised telling him. She remembers it with a bracing inhale. ‘‘Well, first of all, I want to apologise again for that day at Emily’s office. After Lowburn’s escape. I was completely out of line and I said things I didn’t mean, things that- that were only supposed to hurt you. And I hate that I did that. So I’m really sorry for it.’’ Another inhale. ‘‘I’m also sorry for how I behaved with the case in the past couple weeks. Especially now, after this talk with Emily. I was wrong, I cannot simply check out. I’m not gonna allow those scumbags to get away with it just because the Ministry Heads are being dense about it and I’m, well, feeling the pressure.’’ She doesn’t mention anything about her weakness of character, though his words still haunt her. ‘‘So I want you to know that I- I’m back, okay? With the green light Emily just gave us, we will fucking get to the bottom of this. Alright?’’

‘‘Alright.’’

One more inhale helps her ignore his aggravating composure. ‘‘I was not in a good place. Then. I was just-’’ Ashamed. Feeling rejected. Pissed at everyone, especially herself. ‘‘I was, like I said, feeling the pressure. And I didn’t handle it well. I promise you I’ll act better from now on.’’ She halts to take a peek at him, all this time her eyes having jumped from corner to corner of the conference room. Her partner stares back with the same cool semblant. She clears her throat. ‘‘We have a lot of work to do and we can’t get distracted now.’’

At this, Malfoy arches one blonde eyebrow. ‘‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’’

‘‘Well… Last night was entirely bizarre, wasn’t it? I have no fucking idea what came over us. I, for one, have never acted so irresponsibly in my life. And it’s just something I think we should try to get past. I mean, we’re partners, aren’t we?’’

The last sentence sounds a little less confident than Hermione would have liked to. It comes across more like a real question than a rhetorical one; like she wants him to confirm it back to her whether they are indeed partners or not. Or, rather, whether that actually means nothing and their attraction for each other is still valid even though they work together.

Hermione’s done everything in her power to not over-analyse what they did the evening before. It’s much easier to just chalk it up to raw attraction, pent-up frustration and accumulated stress. Mistakes can happen when two people spend such an amount of time together, under so much pressure. Particularly when those two people fancy each other, as they clearly do. It doesn’t mean they should simply throw caution to the wind and ignore the rules of professional conduct. 

They can’t just start hooking up like they’re casual acquaintances. 

Can they?

As if hoping for Malfoy to give a positive answer to this, Hermione stares at him anticipatorily; almost wishfully.

He crashes her hopes by being his calm, collected self. ‘‘We are partners, indeed.’’ He detaches himself from the table, straightening to his full height. ‘‘You’re right: last night was a mistake. We should forget it ever happened.’’

She tries not to let the disappointment show in her face.

She doesn’t even know why she should feel disappointed with his response. That’s literally what she just told him. It’s what she thinks they should do, isn’t it?

But-

You’re the worst witch I know because I can’t get you out of my head, it’s what he said last night. It imprudently filled her chest with all sorts of warm feelings; and with the relieving realisation of being reciprocated. What is she supposed to do with all of that now?

She shakes her head, whisking these contradictory thoughts away. She needs to remain focused. She has to remember what’s in stake here.

‘‘Right.’’ Hermione breathes in one final time. ‘‘So let’s just move on, pull ourselves together and do our goddamn job, right?’’

Malfoy doesn’t reply immediately to this. He only looks at her, serious and intense again. Only after a moment does he curve his head, almost imperceptibly. ‘‘Right, Granger. Whatever you say.’’

He’s gone before she can decipher what the hell that means.

Hermione hadn’t planned on attending The Porcelain Pixie that weekend.

She already had so much on her mind lately, so many warring perspectives addling her, that she found that the best route was to stay low until the dust settled. When Friday comes along, though, so does Lavender.

‘‘Ah, look at you. Leaving your floo open. Times are changing, eh?’’

Hermione, rooted on her sofa for the last hour since she arrived from work, just smiles at her friend’s sudden appearance, cradling her tea mug closer to her chest. ‘‘Just for you, silly. After Wednesday, I figured you should have unrestricted access to my flat in case I fall apart at the seams again and need you to rescue me.’’

The blonde chuckles, ruffling her short hair to get rid of the vestiges of ashes and then taking a place next to Hermione. ‘‘How was the talk?’’

‘‘Not great.’’ Hermione grimaces. ‘‘I think I fucked up again.’’

‘‘Dear Morgana. Why?’’

She shrugs, sipping on her lukewarm beverage before she says out loud the intrusive thoughts that have been swirling in her head for the past thirty six hours. ‘‘Because I was the only one talking. I dumped a ton of shit on him and told him what we should do before I even asked him his opinion on anything.’’ Hermione heaves, disgruntled. ‘‘I keep doing this. I keep running my mouth, saying things I always regret later. Honestly, I’m getting tired of myself and my same old shit.’’

‘‘Ah, babe. Come on. It’s part of it. Didn’t you say you’re not good at this, at showing your vulnerable side? Of course when you finally forced yourself to brave through it, it wouldn’t be instantly perfect. That takes time. And a lot of practice.’’

‘‘I guess.’’ Hermione sighs. ‘‘Now I’m wrestling with myself whether I should talk to him one more time or simply owl my resignation letter to our boss and never show my face at the Ministry again.’’

‘‘Oh, the drama.’’ Lavender rolls her eyes. ‘‘Cheer up, lass. The hardest part’s over; the first conversation after an irresponsible fuck is always the most difficult.’’ Hermione snorts at the unexpected crude words, swallowing too much tea and promptly having a coughing fit. Lavender gives her healthy slaps on the back as she finishes her argument. ‘‘After this first part is done, the following ones are much easier. I promise you.’’

Recovered, Hermione clears her throat, putting the mug down on her coffee table. ‘‘Sounds like you have plenty of experience at this.’’

Her friend wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. ‘‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’’ Before Hermione can push for more, she changes topics. ‘‘But, correct me if I’m wrong, didn’t you tell me once that Malfoy and his friends always meet on Friday nights at some pub?’’

‘‘Erm, yeah. That’s right.’’

‘‘Well, why are you not there with them right now, then?’’

‘‘Because, Lav, I’m already shaken as it is, with everything that-’’

‘‘Bleh. Hermione, quit it. We’re past that. Tonight would be the perfect opportunity to try and move on from what happened. And return to some semblance of normalcy. Which is what you want, isn’t it?’’ Reluctantly, Hermione nods. ‘‘Well, then. You have to make an effort. Plus, you might get the chance to talk to Malfoy again and do a better job at it this time around.’’

Hermione narrows her eyes. She doesn’t particularly like the things the other witch is telling her. Much less her tone. She contemplates flipping her off but, ultimately, comes up with a better idea.

‘‘I’ll go if you go with me.’’

‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

It’s Lavender’s turn to narrow her eyes. 

Hermione’s not intimidated by it. ‘‘We’ll be sitting the whole time. And it will be brief; I’m surely not in the mood for a night-long bender. A couple hours at most. And I will feel so much better if I have you by my side. Please, Lav.’’ 

What she doesn’t say is that Lavender, too, needs to get herself out there more. All this time they have been concentrating on Hermione’s struggles with moving on and stepping out of her comfort zone, while in the meantime Lavender, too, doesn’t have that many friends. She, too, stays at home instead of socialising, preferring her own company to that of others. Naturally, her reasons for that are different from Hermione’s. She knows Lavender’s trajectory has been much harder than hers. It doesn’t diminish the fact that the both of them are still young and mostly willing to make something out of their ordinary existences. 

At Hermione’s pleading gaze, Lavender eventually gives in. ‘‘Fine. Two hours and I’m out. And you’re paying for my drinks since you have a job and I don’t.’’

Hermione beams. ‘‘Deal. Let’s get ready.’’

Lavender lifts a sassy brow. ‘‘What d’you mean?’’ She settles more comfortably against the cushions, looking down at her ripped jeans and old flannel top, nonchalant. ‘‘I’m not changing. This is what they’ll get, whether those snakes like it or not.’’

‘‘It’s gonna be cold outside, Lav.’’

‘‘Well, do you happen to have a leather jacket I could borrow?’’

As a matter of fact, she does. Hermione lends her friend the same jacket she wore to Zabini’s birthday and, for herself, she settles on high-waisted trousers and a long-sleeved satin blouse. After another pleading look, Lavender relents and does her make-up and hair. 

They’re out of her flat within half an hour.

Swiftly apparating to the East End of London, they walk inside the pub and already head to where Hermione knows the lads will probably be. She’s so glad for her forethought; she feels so much more at ease with her friend next to her. As if, regardless of what happens tonight, she’s got someone to come to in case she ends up crestfallen.

Hermione had forgotten what that felt like: to not always be alone, having to be your own fortress time and time again.

As such, she marches to where the inter-house circle gathers with a toughened spirit. The first to see them is Theodore Nott but, as it’s usual with him, he doesn’t show any outward reaction, merely watching them approach with placid features. Susan Bones is the next one to spot them.

‘‘Oh, Hermione! Hello there!’’

The rest of the table turns to them, prompting different exclamations as each one throws out a greeting.

‘‘Ah, my best friend’s finally here. The night is complete!’’

Hermione pretends she doesn’t hear Zabini’s theatrics, instead just smiling around and motioning to her side. ‘‘Good evening, everyone. You guys remember Lavender Brown.’’

‘‘Hi.’’

Lavender smiles less enthusiastically though everyone welcomes her whole-heatedly. They take a seat, Lavender between Hermione and Susan. It was the best arrangement Hermione could come up with, since Neville is across from them, flanked by Pansy and Zabini. She would never do her Gryffindor friend dirty like this, placing her anywhere near the two known agitators. 

‘‘It’s so nice to see you again, Lavender. It’s been so long.’’

‘‘You too, Susan.’’

The former Hufflepuff glances at Hermione. ‘‘I didn’t know you two were in touch.’’

She doesn’t say it, but her words are laced with a veiled hint of disbelief. Hermione gets it; they are a very unlikely pair of friends. 

But again: so is the entire circle of them. 

Hermione doesn’t scramble with the truth. ‘‘When I reached out to Neville, all those months ago, I also did it to Lavender. She quickly replied to my letter and, ever since, we’ve been hanging out.’’

‘‘Oh, how cool!’’ Susan sighs dreamily. ‘‘I love this about life. How unexpected things keep happening to you, and how sometimes someone you never got along with before suddenly pops back into your life and becomes a close friend. That never ceases to amaze me.’’

Hermione and Lavender exchange looks, amused with Susan's kind but brusque sincerity. Luckily they don’t mind being reminded they once detested each other; it’s actually been a great bonding experience. Especially their mutual loathing for Ronald Weasley.

‘‘You’re right about that.’’ Lavender comments. ‘‘Life can be full of surprises.’’

Hermione smiles, softly, squeezing the blonde’s hand under the table. She returns the squeeze and they tune back into the chat around them. Zabini, of course, has the word, loudly recounting an entertaining story that took place at the potions company he works for. She listens for the whole of thirty seconds, then turns to Lavender, about to ask her what she’d like to have for a drink. Before Hermione can get the question out, though, something else catches her attention.

Sitting by the end of the table, on the other side of Pansy, Nott stares in her direction. She only needs a moment to realise he’s not looking at her; he’s looking at Lavender. The blue-eyed witch doesn’t notice, watching with a guarded semblant Zabini tell his exaggerated tale, but the shy bloke gazes at her friend with an expression Hermione has had yet to see in him: intense interest. His eyes track Lavender’s face thoroughly, mapping her long, visible scar, her short, spiked hair and unpretentious, blasé style. Hermione would not be far off if she said he appreciates everything he sees.

She regards him for another instant, storing this intriguing information to dissect later. It's in that moment that something drives her to look sideways, where she finds Malfoy’s gaze. This time she can read his mind: he’s noticed the same thing as her.

He blinks and, when she thinks he’s going to glance away, he only holds her stare. A barrage of emotions overtakes her at the prolonged eye contact, which fastens her resolve. 

She addresses her friend fleetly. ‘‘What can I get you, Lav?’’

‘‘Erm, if they have Blishen’s firewhisky, I’ll take it. If not, any firewhisky is fine.’’

‘‘’Kay, be right back.’’ As she stands up, she turns to Malfoy again. He still observes her and Hermione discreetly tilts her head to the left, in a silent ask for him to follow her. Without waiting any longer, not wanting to alert anyone to this brief interaction, she moves towards the bar. 

She relays her order and remains on stand-by; for both the barkeep and her partner. A few minutes later, she feels the latter’s presence approaching her back; her pulse immediately quickens.

He takes a place next to her, his deep voice resonating in the inconsequential space between them. ‘‘A Dragon Scale and a pilsner, please.’’

The bloke in front of them nods, putting Hermione’s beverages before her on the counter and scuttling to get Malfoy’s. Alone across the length surface of the bartop, they finally face each other.

Gorgeous, Hermione thinks before catching herself. 

She clears her throat. ‘‘Hi. How’s it going?’’ Jesus, what a horrible starter. Focus. ‘‘I, uh, I’m still thinking about our talk. Erm, from yesterday.’’ Could she sound any more uncertain? Get yourself together, Hermione. She settles herself and threads forward. ‘‘Thinking back, I realised I was the only one talking. I just shoved what I was thinking on you and then just- Well, what I mean is that it wasn’t a conversation; it was just me imposing my opinion. Which, I know, it’s what I do best. We can’t say you never warned me about that, can we?’’ She snorts, self-deprecating, but when he doesn’t join her, Hermione sobers up. ‘‘Anyway. I just thought I- I’d let you know that I know I’m not always right. I’m aware I can be insufferable and- and stubborn at times. But I really am trying not to be in this case. So, yeah. This is what I wanted to tell you. And, of course, give you the opportunity to actually, erm, say your piece. Whatever that is.’’

Falling quiet, she looks up to him, willing her face to stay impassive. And yet, despite her efforts, her result is not nearly as effective as his: Malfoy’s expression is absolutely impenetrable. So she just waits, hoping for the best.

At last, right before the air becomes thick with awkwardness, he reacts. ‘‘No, you were right about this, Granger. Wednesday was a mistake. We’re partners, we can’t let this happen. It’s inappropriate.’’ Hermione lets her breath out in one go, nodding robotically. Malfoy’s not finished, though. ‘‘The only problem is that we fuck as good as we fight. And if I couldn’t get you out of my head before, now it will be virtually impossible.’’

Blank.

Absolutely, wiped-out blank.

It’s what her mind looks like after Malfoy says what he says. She just stares at him, mouth gaping, rendered completely stupid with his words.

A beat passes and his eyes harden. ‘‘Granger.’’ It’s clearly a warning. She only blinks, unable to offer anything remotely logical back. His jaw sets as he tells her roughly. ‘‘Granger, if you keep looking at me like that I won’t be able to stick to our agreement, and refrain from doing inappropriate things to you again.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

She used to be smart. Quick-witted. She was known for winning monumental arguments as she always had a clever comeback no matter the situation or topic. At the minute, however, there’s not a single rational thought between Hermione's two ears.

Her silent mindlessness is enough to make Malfoy groan, hastily grabbing the drinks the bartender had just placed in front of him, dropping a galleon on the counter and promptly leaving her behind without another look.

She needs a full five minutes to recover herself and return to their table. There, she grabs Lavender’s hand like a lifeline, being the one now in search of reassurance. Her friend, the wondrous emotional support golden retriever that she is, lets Hermione hang on tightly to her, steadying her and helping her go through with the night.

The return to a routine occurs slowly yet unavoidably. Their Auror duties don’t stop and neither can they. With the reverberation of Lowburn’s escape dying down, the DMLE goes back to a semblance of normalcy, just as Mackenzie intended, and Hermione and Malfoy have no choice but to carry on.

On the following Tuesday, a memorandum requesting them interrupts their usual activities. They walk together (though there is an infinite distance within the few inches that separate them), departing their headquarters and heading to the department of Magical Enforcement Patrol on the same Level. They have been called to consult on a robbery that occurred in the East area of England, near Essex.

Because of the circumstances surrounding the offence, it’s been inferred that it might have been carried out by The Death Eater’s gang. Hence the need for Hermione and Malfoy’s presence.

‘‘Not much was taken. Two wands, the shop owner’s Nimbus 2010 and a few muggle objects and currency.’’ The patrol officer in charge loops them in. ‘‘The owner said the robber was using glamour charms, so the description of him or her is not accurate.’’

Malfoy hums. ‘‘How about the voice?’’

‘‘Like I said, the robber had glamour charms on. That also affects their voice, as anyone knows.’’

‘‘Not always.’’ Her partner replies, smoothly. ‘‘It depends on the type of spell casted and the reach of it. Sometimes the charm only alters part of one’s appearance, making it possible to at least identify the gender of the caster.’’

‘‘It’s not the case here.’’

Malfoy hums again, glancing down to his notes, but Hermione frowns. She’s not at all pleased with the officer’s prickly attitude. 

‘‘Have you contacted Gringotts to warn them about possible suspects trying to exchange the muggle currency?’’ She asks only to appraise his answer. 

‘‘I have, Auror Granger. The goblins have been advised to notify us of every muggle transaction for the upcoming week.’’

His tone is much more deferential when speaking to her. She nods, still eyeing him closely. He goes on, relaying the other information of the theft. According to him, what made the MEP presume that the crime related to the Zimcooke case wasn’t only the geographical element: supposedly, suspicious activities in the past couple of days have alerted them to a potential attack on a few locations, and one of them was that of which they are currently discussing.

‘‘By any chance, did you receive an anonymous tip about this particular crime happening?’’ Malfoy inquires.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Mhm. Did the lead come from an interrogated suspect?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘How exactly did you get there, then?’’

The patrol officer sounds bored as he responds to her partner. ‘‘Like I said, there were suspicious activities that alerted us to the crime. I’d suggest reading the case file if you want to know the details.’’

Hermione’s head snaps up at that, her half-sentence left unfinished on the parchment in her hands. Malfoy, ever polite, keeps going unaffectedly.

‘‘What I’m asking is if the reason the MEP was called to the location has anything to do with the ongoing investigation regarding the Zimcooke case, or if it’s merely the timing and place of it all.’’ When the other man doesn’t reply, Malfoy tries again. ‘‘Okay. Can you tell me if the shop that was robbed is part of the list of sites allegedly targeted by the Essex gang since last year?’’

‘‘Dunno, Malfoy.’’

‘‘Auror Malfoy.’’ Hermione pushes through gritted teeth. The two wizards turn to her, but she only addresses the younger, insolent one. ‘‘It’s Auror Malfoy to you. He’s your superior officer, so you’ll treat him as such, with the due respect. If he has a question, you will answer to the best of your capabilities, and if you don’t know it, you will figure it out and make sure to tell him later.’’ She pauses, forcing herself to calm down and not start using expletives. ‘‘Now you’re going to go and search for the elaborated answers to every single question Auror Malfoy just made and then report back to him, no later than this afternoon. Was I clear?’’

The patrol officer, eyes wide and round, nods quickly and bolts at once to do what she told him. Hermione watches him go and markedly regrets not having said more.

The fucking audacity.

She’s never seen such impertinence and that has her fuming. She absently wonders if she should go after his direct boss, or even Cazalvara, to inform them of the occurrence. She cranes her neck to Malfoy, about to ask him what he thinks, but promptly freezes.

The intense gaze is back, though multiplied by a thousand. Malfoy stares at her like he wants to devour her whole. 

Hermione’s knees nearly give up at the sight.

‘‘Thank you.’’ He rasps, voice so rough it’s almost a growl.

Her breath comes out short-winded. ‘‘Of course. I still have your back, Malfoy. Like I know you have mine.’’ He just keeps looking at her, so she quietly says the rest. ‘‘As you once told me, no one can fuck with me except for you. Well, the other way around is also true.’’

His silver eyes seem to flash at this. ‘‘Yeah.’’ He swallows. ‘‘You’re damn right about that.’’

The sexual tension that had dimmed slightly since the weekend returns in full swing. The air between them cracks with electricity as they look at each other, completely immobile save for their eyes, which consume one another with a wild fire not really appropriate for the Ministry.

Nothing in their relationship appears to be Ministry-appropriate anymore.

Hermione internalises that with all the implications that it carries.

They march back to the DMLE without speaking, but their bodies are an inch closer than what they were earlier, when they left the headquarters. They silently take their seats in their respective stations, across from each other. Hermione’s heartbeats seem intent on not slowing down as long as she’s facing him, skipping erratically every time their eyes meet. She attempts to control her breathing, to regulate herself, as she works on the paperwork the robbery of today elicited. Her partner is tasked with updating the Zimcooke case file, adding notes about the burglary and his input on it. They talk a little, when necessary, the awkwardness and embarrassment that had tainted their last weeks replaced by something else. Something Hermione can't name just yet.

When the end of their shift rolls over, she finds herself unwittingly at the edge of her chair. The paper in her hand no longer holds her attention; her eyes are drawn up again and again, checking Malfoy’s every movement. Because of that, when he doesn’t make to stand and leave, Hermione drops all pretence.

‘‘It’s five o’clock.’’ She tells him gratuitously. 

‘‘Yes.’’ He replies but stays unmoved. He looks a little frail, glancing repeatedly at her and then back to his desk with an odd disquiet energy. His hair is less prim than habitual, she notices, and both his cufflinks and robes’ collar are crooked. For the first time, his unkemptness doesn’t appear to bother him.

His attention keeps returning to her.

‘‘Don’t you need to go?’’ She has the nerve to ask.

‘‘I do, but…’’ 

He doesn’t finish his sentence, letting it dwindle and fizzle between them. Their eyes never stray too long from one another.

Hermione’s pulse picks up. ‘‘How about Scorpius? Isn’t he waiting for you?’’

‘‘Andromeda stays with him until I get back from work. Lately she’s gotten used to me coming home a little later than usual.’’

‘‘Oh, right.’’

They become quiet, but their gaze is still locked. Hermione struggles, does her very best, tries to come up on the other side, makes an effort to recover: it’s all for naught.

Her hands move without the consent of her brain.

She scribbles on the corner of a parchment, then rips it off and floats it to Malfoy’s desk. The small piece of paper plops in front of him, immediately dragging his eyes down.

‘‘That’s my address. I’m going home now.’’ She rises, summoning her satchel and cloak. ‘‘My floo will be open.’’ She says it quickly before she loses her inadvertent courage.

She walks out without acknowledging anyone in her way. The lift ride passes in a blur, just like the short distance to the Atrium and to the first fireplace available. She travels to her flat, turning around as soon as she steps in to cast the incantation that will allow visitors to come through. After that’s done, she removes her cloak, dropping it carelessly on an armchair, and begins pacing back and forth across her living room. 

She’s right back to where she was after their tryst in the conference room.

This time, however, her mind is saturated with something else. 

Something she now dares to name hope. 

Chapter Text

The fire comes to life before her eyes within minutes.

Out steps Draco Malfoy in all his glory, uniquely equipped to capsize Hermione Granger’s entire world. 

He moves inside her living room, sending a cursory glance around the space before settling on her. Hermione exhales heavily, feeling his presence burrow under her skin and tip her over the edge of sanity.

‘‘What are we doing, Malfoy?’’ She asks him as if she hadn’t been the one to invite him to her flat. ‘‘This is so wrong.’’

‘‘I don’t care.’’ He walks with purpose, halting only when he’s right in front of her, mere inches of distance from her yearning body. ‘‘I want you.’’

She swallows, stares directly into his silver irises. ‘‘I want you, too.’’

His throat bobs as his gaze travels across her face, trailing the heated flesh and ending in her mouth. ‘‘Need to kiss you again.’’

He does so without further ado. 

His lips are thorough, though less frantic this time around. He places two hands on each side of her neck, keeping her still while his mouth reacquaints itself with hers. Despite the lack of urgency, he kisses her deep and long, and Hermione melts so damn easily. Enwrapping her arms in the small of his back, she lets him proceed as he wishes, doing whatever he pleases with her.

In stark contrast with the week before, he takes his time now. There’s no rush. Their want for each other has morphed from raw, blind need to acknowledged desire, vast and certain. If they’re finally accepting that there’s no other alternative for them, then they might as well make sure to enjoy it properly.

It costs Hermione a great deal to reopen her eyes when his lips leave hers a few moments later. She peers at him and he sighs. ‘‘I haven’t been able to think of anything else lately.’’ His thumbs caress her cheeks. ‘‘Don’t think I can’t function anymore if I’m not allowed to touch you.’’

Raging butterflies wreck her insides. Hermione shakes her head, finding it extremely hard to form words. ‘‘How did this happen, Malfoy? How did we get here?’’

‘‘No fucking clue. I can assure you I never saw it coming.’’

‘‘Me neither.’’ She draws a fortifying breath, blinking up at him and feeling him imprint her with conviction. ‘‘I’ve been feeling like this for a while. And it has driven me crazy. That’s why I’ve acted so horribly these past weeks.’’

‘‘You haven’t-’’

‘‘Oh, but I have.’’ Hermione removes her hands from around him, although she remains close enough that their clothes brush one another. ‘‘I’ve been losing my mind and doing despicable things. Ignoring you, insulting you, not allowing you to-’’

‘‘Granger.’’

‘‘No, Malfoy, I haven’t treated you right. And I apologise for it.’’

‘‘You already did. Merlin, I’ve never met anyone that apologises as much as you do.’’ He snorts, bringing her body flush to his again by crossing his forearms behind her back. ‘‘Stop now. I heard you every time. I understand your reasons and I’ve accepted your apologies. There’s no more need for it. We’re good, okay?’’

Hermione holds his gaze for another beat before grinning, resting her face against his torso, further relaxing into his embrace. ‘‘Okay. I just wanted to guarantee that you know I respect you.’’

He plants a kiss on the crown of her head. ‘‘I know that. You’re the only one in the Ministry that does.’’

That has her whipping in his direction immediately. She searches his eyes, but they only give away calmness, looking on to her without a hint of displeasure. 

‘‘That’s not true.’’ She tells him even though she doesn’t actually believe it.

Malfoy smiles. ‘‘It doesn’t matter, Granger.’’

‘‘It does to me.’’ She removes herself from his grasp, taking a step back. ‘‘I hate this. That patrol officer today…’’ Hermione huffs, annoyed all over again. ‘‘I wanted to kill him. The impertinence!’’

His soft smile doesn’t go anywhere. ‘‘That’s alright, Granger. I swear. I’m used to it.’’

‘‘Well, you shouldn’t be! It’s not right. You’re a senior Auror just like me, you have a pristine record at the DMLE, your case-solving rate is as good as mine-’’

‘‘But I’m not you. I’m Draco Malfoy.’’

Hermione stares at him, breath coming out harsh and furious. The injustice makes her want to scream. 

‘‘Yes, you’re Draco Malfoy. The only man in the world who had to live with fucking Voldemort for years, who was forced to join a suicidal army at the age of sixteen, who gave Harry enough time to escape and survive when no one else did, whose mother changed the course of the entire war, who endured more than most people would ever be able to and who still paid the price, having to prove himself to everyone time and time again. Yes, you’re Draco Malfoy. A widowed father who solves more cases for the fucking Ministry than ninety five percent of our department and who does more for the Wizarding community than all these fuckers who dare judge you combined!’’

Hermione wants to say much more; she wants to shout to the whole planet to hear that they have no right to jump on a high horse, that they ought to put themselves in their place and show some goddamn respect, but Malfoy doesn’t let her.

He drowns her words with his mouth, now feverish and hungry. His kiss scorches, leaving her brainless again, promptly forgetting what she was on about.

‘‘You have to stop saying this type of shit to me,’’ he grunts against her lips. ‘‘If you expect me not to lose the last scrap of self-control I still possess.’’

‘‘But that’s not what I want.’’

‘‘And what do you want, Granger?’’

‘‘I want you to do to me every single inappropriate thing you ever imagined.’’

As intended, the words turn Malfoy feral. He grabs her hair, tugging hard at the roots, bending her head backward. ‘‘That would be a fucking lot. Are you sure that’s what you want?’’

Hermione keens, pointedly realising that despite her earlier aversion to having her hair pulled, when she was still with Ronald, her tastes appear to have positively changed: when it’s Malfoy who does it, she likes it perhaps a little too much.

‘‘Well, since what we’re doing is already wrong, better make it really wrong.’’

His groan, this time, he buries under her tongue, devouring her with intent. Their mouths slant from side to side while his palms find refuge in her arse to knead roughly. Glued to each other, Hermione and Malfoy snog like horny teenagers, frenzied and deliriously, as if the world is ending tomorrow. Or as if they are still in Hogwarts, patrolling the corridors at night as part of their prefect duties, rushing to get the most out of one another in a secret alcove before a professor, or Filch, finds them.

The fantasy is enough to drive Hermione even hotter. She clings to Malfoy, nearly climbing him like a tree, desperate to touch every square inch of his big, strong body. He reciprocates for a moment, giving everything back in the kiss, before severing their connection.

‘‘I want to see you.’’ He pants. ‘‘Will you take off your clothes?’’

What a question.

She’s reaching for the buttons of her blouse before he finishes the sentence. Once the garment is loose, she pulls it over her head, dropping it to the floor without a care. Next, she wriggles out of her work trousers, letting it join the other discarded garment. Lastly, Hermione steps out of her heels, standing in front of him in only knickers and a support bra, which happen to not match today. 

It doesn’t matter a smidge; Malfoy stares at her like he has never seen a naked woman in his life.

Well, she’s not naked. Not yet.

She gets swiftly rid of the last fabrics covering her body, laying herself bare to him for the first time in the middle of her living room.

‘‘Fuck.’’

Hermione breathes in, closely watching him react to her. There’s no space for self-consciousness; Malfoy doesn’t give her any time for that as his eyes ravage her from head to toe.

‘‘Fuck, Granger. You’re beautiful.’’

‘‘You think so?’’

‘‘Very much. Fucking hell. Always thought so.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

She doesn’t mean to sound insecure, but some leftover of it spills over her question. Malfoy’s gaze finally leaves the region around her breasts to meet her own.

‘‘Yes, Granger. You must know it.’’ His jaw sets as he looks resolutely at her. ‘‘Listen to me. I fucking messed up at the gala, okay? Acted like a bloody puber.’’ At the mention of the event, Hermione’s chest tightens. She hangs onto every word he says. ‘‘I got so fucking, I don’t know, flummoxed, floored? Literally knocked out stupid at the sight of you, that I tried to play it cool, to pretend I was unaffected, and ended up saying the worst possible thing. But I was so full of shit. You looked fucking perfect that night.’’ His gaze dips, taking in her naked state and her certainly ruffled hair after his hands made a mess of it. ‘‘For the record, I like you dishevelled too. I like you in every form.’’ Malfoy exhales. ‘‘I like you angry and outraged, and I like you sarcastic, stubborn and insufferable. I like how determined you are and so annoyingly decent. I like it when your work ethic shines through everything you do and I like how you never really give up on anything. But most of all, I like you defending me and insulting me and berating me and- and seeing me. I just like you in every fucking form, Granger.’’ 

Her breath gets stuck in her throat at this admission. She feels her heartbeats gallop away, laying her bare to him in more than just the physical sense; she’s becoming emotionally helpless, a little more his at each passing second.

She swallows the lump in her windpipe, trying to regain control of her composure. ‘‘I’m completely naked and you’re still in your work robes. That’s not fair.’’

Malfoy’s serious expression slacks at her observation, and he smirks. ‘‘I’m not complaining.’’ He tells her cheekily but proceeds to unclasp the long cloak. Tonight, he has a jumper and dark trousers underneath it, which he promptly removes. The shoes are the last to go, together with his boxers. 

He already stands hard and proud, and all rational thought eludes Hermione. 

She barely notices his approach until he’s bringing her flat against his body, caging her in between his arms. In this position, skin on skin, his cock presses against her stomach and Hermione can’t stifle the loud moan that escapes her at the wonderful contact.

‘‘Can’t wait to fuck you again, Granger. But, first, I’m gonna eat you until you black out.’’ Malfoy kisses her one more time, then hoists her up. ‘‘Where’s your bedroom?’’

Hermione’s head swirls. Crossing her ankles behind his back, she weakly points to the left with her neck. ‘‘There.’’

Their mouths meet once more on the short way to her room. Leaving the door wide open, Malfoy walks to the bed and drops both of them on it. The motion makes their bodies rub against one another and Hermione moans again. He quiets it with his lips, making a hash of her as he grinds his tongue and pelvis in tandem. 

It’s been so long since she had someone on top of her and, oh, it’s heaven. 

Hermione’s never been wetter.

When his face dunks, and descends until it finds her breasts, Hermione’s hips can’t help but cant eagerly. Malfoy sucks, and nibs, and ravishes every inch of the flesh in front of him, murmuring words she’s not able to make out, etching them in her skin instead. 

‘‘Perfect tits.’’ He announces when he’s finally done with them. He moves lower, kissing her ribs and soft belly, once more muttering sweet nothings she can’t pick up. At her bellybutton, he inhales, his hot breath tickling Hermione, and she whimpers. She is being much louder than normal; as a matter of fact, she’s left to acknowledge that she can’t understand a thing Malfoy is saying due to all the little noises that keep breaking out from her, drowning whatever he whispers. She can’t stop it though; he’s unhinging her bit by bit. His breath meets her again, this time where she’s pulsing for him. ‘‘Perfect pussy.’’

He spreads her legs, pulling at them and draping them over his shoulders. She’s completely exposed like this but before she can feel some type of way, his mouth finds her and Hermione nearly screams. Throwing her head against the duvet, eyes falling closed, she’s powerless to the explosion of sensation. She doesn’t remember the last time someone (Ronald, of course, who else?) went down on her; for at least the past two years, all her clit has known was the boring feeling of her own subpar digits. 

Now Malfoy sucks at it with such passion it makes her squirm and trash against the mattress. He holds her still with his large hands clutching her thighs in place, allowing him to lap at her without obstruction. Hermione’s own hands find his hair and pull, but he’s unmovable. Like he had told her, he’s committed to eating her until she blacks out.

Which won’t be such a difficult feat, after all.

An explosive orgasm already works its way up her body, and Hermione thrusts harder against Malfoy’s face, feeling herself going utterly mad at the pace he sets; it’s too much. It’s too much, she’s too sensitive for it, it has been far too long and it’s just too much-

She comes with a broken howl, her entire body folding in itself, almost sitting in bed as the climax racks through her.

It’s white noise, and a burst of colours, and silence of mind. It’s a rupture of life as she knows it and the start of everything else. Hermione knows, just knows, she will never be the same after tonight.

When the last wave of pleasure subsides, and her moans drop to a low wail, Malfoy gives her clit one final kiss and rises to hover over her. She still has her eyes shut as she hears him sigh, satisfied. ‘‘It’s been forever since I ate pussy. Fuck, I’ve missed it. ’’

She can’t even grimace at the crude words; she feels like she’s floating away in a thick cloud of bliss. She’s so light she could promptly fall asleep and only wake up the very next day. 

Malfoy’s entire length descending upon her brings her back to reality. Gasping at the feeling of being crushed, she opens her eyes to find his face looming a fingerbreadth away from hers, a devilish smile splitting his in two. ‘‘Would you like to taste yourself?’’

In lieu of an answer, Hermione throws her arms around his neck and pulls him down, crashing their mouths together. Indeed, she detects a metallic flavour, something sharp and a little sour. She licks it from his tongue, thoroughly savouring the mix of her and him, content in spending the rest of the evening just making out.

Malfoy, naturally, has other plans.

He slides a forearm between Hermione’s back and the mattress, holding tightly onto it and hoisting her a few degrees from the bed. With the new inclined position, he can tilt her pelvis against his with more ease, aligning their bodies more intimately. 

He doesn’t move immediately, though. They remain locked on each other; hip to hip, chest to chest, lips to lips. He kisses her meticulously, somewhat carefully, moulding every square of her frame to the shape of his. Sweat gathers between them, the temperature of the room rising hopelessly the longer they stay fused together, until Hermione is panting. She twitches in his lap and Malfoy groans.

‘‘This feels- fuck. This is too fucking good.’’

She agrees whole-heartedly. He’s not even inside her yet and she’s already on the verge of coming again. Looking down, she marvels at the sight of their glistening bodies intertwined, and in the middle of it, his throbbing cock grinding against her centre. At every small brush, she becomes more aroused; crazed to feel all of it inside one more time.

It’s the only thing of which she can think.

‘‘Malfoy.’’ She calls urgently, then stops out of the sudden. Looking back at him, she blinks. 

He nuzzles her nose with his. ‘‘What is it, love?’’

At once, she needs to repress a needy whine. The off-handed, spur-of-the-moment pet name comes to effectively ruin her, as if he hadn’t done enough of it already.

Hermione closes her eyes, presses their foreheads together. ‘‘You’re not Malfoy anymore.’’ Breathing forcefully in, she finds his silver gaze again. ‘‘Draco.’’

Malf- Draco freezes, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. ‘‘Yeah?’’ After a moment, however, his smile crooks. ‘‘You’re still Granger, though. You’ll always be Granger to me.’’

Chuckling, she gives him a saucy peck, lightly biting on his lower lip before releasing it. ‘‘What I wanted to say, you absolute prat, is that you can’t come inside me again. I’m not taking any contraception potion, and I’m fairly certain I’m remembering the after-spell for sex wrong.’’

He grins, returning the peck and the sassy bite. ‘‘I’ll come wherever you want me to.’’

‘‘Good. Now that this is settled, will you please, just please, fuck me already?’’

With a low laugh, Draco rolls and drops them back in the bed. ‘‘Your wish is my command, love.’’ Before she can react again to the endearment, he pushes in and her words are lost to the static of her whimpers. 

He waits a moment, letting her get used to the stretch; allowing themselves to rejoice in the inevitability of them ending up together, at last. When the burning want becomes too much, he finally moves. Draco lifts one of Hermione’s legs, bringing a knee to her breast, and only then does he start to pump with gusto. With the new angle, he goes deeper than ever and Hermione sees stars.

‘‘Fuck.’’

This time, she’s the one cursing, struggling to keep the profanities to a minimum. As Draco’s rhythm picks up, thrusting fast and merciless, Hermione finds herself swearing like a sailor. 

‘‘Fuck me. Fuck, Draco. This feels so- Jesus fucking Christ.’’

‘‘Yeah? Does this feel good? Do you like it when I-’’

‘‘Hermione!’’

The shrieking voice reverberates throughout her entire flat. Draco’s hips stutter before coming to a violent halt.

The two of them stare at each other, wide-eyed.

‘‘What the f-’’

‘‘Hermione, I know you’re there. Harry told me you left the Ministry half an hour ago. Quite early, if you ask me, don’t remember you ever leaving this- Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? I know you’re there so, come on, show me your pretty face already!’’

Draco blinks above her, utterly stunned. ‘‘Who the hell-’’

Hermione purses her lips. ‘‘It’s Ginny.’’

‘‘Weasley?’’

‘‘Do you know any other Ginny?’’ Hermione tells him before adding. ‘‘And she’s a Potter now.’’

Draco frowns. ‘‘I didn’t know you still talked to each other.’’

‘‘Hermione! I can’t believe you’re gonna leave me hanging like this. For Merlin’s sake, this is so silly. Where are you?’’

Hermione shrugs, or at least as much as she can in their current position. ‘‘I had no option. I’m the godmother of her oldest son, and I didn’t want to punish the kids for something they had no fault in, vanishing from their lives altogether. We only ever really talk to each other to make appointments for me to see them.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ Draco nods in understanding. ‘‘Do you need to go and-’’

‘‘Hermione! ’’

‘‘Circe, she’s so annoying.’’ Hermione puffs. ‘‘No, I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

Their gaze locks and they smile at one another.

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘Hermioooooone!’’

Hermione can’t stifle the laugh that bubbles out of her. 

The situation is beyond hilarious: Draco Malfoy balls deep inside of her while Ginny bloody Potter screams murder from her fireplace, clueless to all the inappropriate things Hermione’s doing only a few feet away. Draco doesn’t dare to move, though he’s still pointedly hard, forehead scrunched as he tries his very best to stay still. Hermione chuckles against his chest, unable to hold it in. After a second, he snorts too, burying it in the crook of her neck.

‘‘Hermioooooone!’’ 

‘‘Is she going to spend the entire night yelling at you?’’ His question is muffled by her collarbone.

Hermione chuckles some more. ‘‘She’s the literal worst. She always floo-calls me at the least convenient moments ever. If you think I’m stubborn, you clearly never spent more than a-’’

‘‘Hermione, I swear to Morgana and all the faes that I’m gonna break your walls down if you don’t come right this instant!’’

Draco raises his head. ‘‘Maybe you should go talk-’’

‘‘No. She’s not dictating my life anymore. And I’m not letting her ruin this.’’ She extends her neck to press her lips against his. ‘‘Just ignore her. She’ll give up eventually.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’ He asks and punctuates it with a shallow thrust. A moan unintentionally escapes Hermione, and she hurries to smother it between his pecs. ‘‘Well, whatever you say, right, Granger?’’

He resumes his pace, though a little slower and more measured this time. Flashing her a dangerous smirk, Draco reaches under him to take a hold of her other ankle, hiking thus both her legs up and locking them across his forearms. This done, he drops his entire weight on her middle as he succeeds to cage her in among his lean biceps and, God Almighty, Hermione doesn’t know what to do with herself. Touching from head to toe, not a centimetre of distance from his body to hers, they sway with the steady movements of his hips and there’s nothing she can do but take it without making a sound. It’s not as frenetic as before but it’s twice as intense. She swears against his skin, closing her eyes and praying for Ginny to be suddenly accosted by a voice malady, and just shut the fuck up.

Some divinity seems to have listened to her because, after a few moments, silence reigns. Hermione can only hear her strangled whines and Draco’s quiet grunts. 

‘‘I think she’s gone.’’ She whispers to him, hoarse with all the effort of the last minutes.

At that, he sits up abruptly. Glancing at him, Hermione realises he’s reached his limit. His face is flushed red, hair windswept, pectoral glowing and oscillating with his laboured breath: he is the picture of a man with only one goal in mind.

And it’s clear what he needs.

Leaning back on his heels, Draco drags her firmly forward. They’re still connected and the motion brings her navel hard against his. Hermione hisses but he just stares. He looks down to where they meet, silver eyes so feverish they spark in the semi-darkness of the room. He begins to pound, fucking her slowly but thoroughly, watching himself go in and out, disappear inside her only to withdraw again a second later.

‘‘Dreamed about this so many times.’’ He rasps, voice gruff. ‘‘Fucking rubbed my cock raw thinking about being inside you. Making you come, making a mess out of you. Making you mine.’’

Oh, Lord.

Hermione has never been someone easy in bed; it always took some work to bring her the ultimate pleasure. Ronald had needed a considerable deal of time to learn the ways of her body and, even alone, Hermione always required the perfect combination of proper stimulus, the correct mood and frame of mind. It wasn’t always guaranteed that she would come. 

Right now, it’s plain certainty. All the right circumstances seem to align at this moment because she quickly feels her fingertips tingle and her lower stomach tighten, the telltale signs of an impending orgasm. Draco stares at her like she’s a goddess delivered to Earth just for him, his long, deliberate strokes hitting that sweet spot inside her and the rugged sounds and broken words spilling from him give her that extra boost, meeting not only her physical needs but her emotional ones as well. 

She’s stimulated in every way that counts, feeling desired and taken care of and seen.

When Draco places a heavy hand over her belly, where he’s buried deep within her, Hermione jerks. She comes bright and sharp, a peak of hot ecstasy that leaves her disoriented and spent. She hears Draco swear in the distance, forcibly pulling out and dousing her abdomen in his release.

She’s completely sticky, feeling dirty in all senses, but she couldn’t care less. When Draco’s shaking wanes, plopping in the space next to her in bed, Hermione sighs, sated, and swivels to the side to rest her head against him. He lifts an arm so she can fit in more comfortably, draping it around her waist. Entangled, they come down from their high.

Just like last time, Hermione’s head is free of turmoil in the aftermath. She relishes in this rare occasion, in which her body and mind become one, aligning in their relief, unwinding from whatever cages them in the real world. She has seldom felt like this before, fully detached from who she is outside the small bubble of happiness happening in her bedroom; presently, there’s no other place in the world she’d rather be.

Minutes drag by in satiated peace. She feels her grip on consciousness gradually slipping, bent upon taking her under and gifting her with the best night of sleep of the decade.

Draco must notice that because he turns his face and speaks softly against her ear.

‘‘Granger, I have to go.’’

Hermione blinks herself awake. Twisting to him, she hums. ‘‘Mhm?’’

‘‘I really wish I could spend the night. There’s nothing I’d like more than to fuck you another hundred and one times.’’ He sniffs, though a small grin also makes an appearance in his expression. ‘‘But I’m already late enough. Scorpius is waiting for me.’’

Hermione rouses at once. ‘‘Of course.’’ She perches herself on the mattress, giving him the space to rise. 

He does it without haste, sitting up and looking earnestly at her. ‘‘I’m sorry. It’s bad form to have sex and bolt right after-’’

‘‘Draco.’’ She calls him and his words dwindle to a stop. ‘‘Hey. I know. I know you, and I know your home situation.’’ She smiles. ‘‘Even if your intention was to hit and run, tomorrow you still have to see me eight sharp in the morning at the DMLE. So, tough luck getting rid of me, mate.’’

He chuckles, bending forward to give her a kiss on the lips. Holding her chin, he narrows his eyes. ‘‘Don’t call me mate.’’

Hermione laughs while he goes on and gets on his feet. ‘‘What should I call you, then?’’

‘‘Draco.’’ He tells her over his shoulder, walking out of the bedroom toward her living room. 

Hermione sighs, staring at his cute naked arse for as long as it’s in sight. Once he’s gone, she stands up too, going to her ensuite bathroom to fetch a towel and clean her belly. She grabs the bathrobe that hangs behind her door next and wraps it around herself as she moves in the direction of where he disappeared.

He’s already putting his jumper on, trousers fastened and belted. Leaning over a stool, he efficiently laces his shoes and recovers his cloak from the floor.

All done, he looks at her.

She inhales. ‘‘Before you go…’’ She takes a few steps closer to him, hesitant. In a normal scenario, were Draco any other bloke, Hermione would gladly welcome his imminent departure; it would allow her to decompress alone, not having to worry about all the what-nows that are certain to follow an evening like this. But he’s not just a random bloke: he’s Draco Malfoy, her partner. And they’ve had their fair share of miscommunication and unsaid words clogging the smooth progress of their relationship so far. Hermione feels cramps biting at her stomach at the prospect of such a delicate conversation, but she can’t take the risk again. They need to act better this time around. ‘‘What does tonight mean, Draco? What are we doing here?’’

A heavy silence steals the next moment.

Draco considers her, measuring her questions before swallowing. ‘‘I don’t know, Granger.’’ She nods. She doesn’t know either, but she wishes she did. She holds his gaze, thinking about what she should say next, but he beats her there. ‘‘Tell me. What do you want?’’

‘‘From this?’’

‘‘Yes. And from me.’’

Yep. That’s exactly why Hermione hates this kind of talk. The cramps become more acute, urging her to cut her losses while she still can, to flee to safety again, to not put herself through this uncomfortable tight spot. She suppresses her inner coward reflexes, soldiering on. 

Honesty comes with great difficulty. ‘‘I- I don’t want this to impact our partnership. Work is the most important thing in my life. It’s- it’s everything I am at the moment. It’s what gives meaning to my days, and I can’t fuck it up.’’ Draco listens attentively, face assuming its characteristic inscrutability. ‘‘But I would be cynical if I didn’t acknowledge that it’s already impacting our partnership. This thing between us…’’ Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘Ignoring it didn’t work. Pretending I didn’t feel what I felt only made everything worse. And after tonight- Yeah, there’s no going back to what it was before.’’

‘‘No, there isn’t.’’ He says evenly. ‘‘One time might be a mistake, but twice is a choice.’’

‘‘And what’s your choice, Draco?’’

She’s always the one talking; always the one giving her opinion first. Now it’s his turn.

He shoulders it. ‘‘My choice is you. I told you: I want you. And I’m afraid I won’t stop wanting you for a long time to come. If you think us being together might complicate our partnership too much, then- Well, I’ll respect your decision; we won’t do this again. But I don’t think that’s the problem. What I think was the real reason our relationship became strained in the first place was the not accepting of how we truly feel.’’

Hermione gulps, his words rattling her core. She steadies her voice, though it still comes low and small. ‘‘What if it is? What if this goes south and everything becomes even more shit? What if we end up hating each other again? What are we going to do, then?’’

‘‘Stop being partners.’’

She closes her eyes.

The idea sounds awful. She can’t see herself partnered with anybody else in the department; more than that, she can’t see herself walking by Draco in the headquarters every bloody day and pretending she hasn’t learned how wonderful warm his skin feels against hers.

Gentle hands on her cheeks stir her. Draco stands in front of her now, peering deeply into her eyes. ‘‘As long as we talk to each other, we’ll be alright. There’s nothing we can’t handle together, Granger; we’ve proven this time and time again in the past six months.’’ His mouth purses for a moment. ‘‘I know I’m not the most forthcoming man you know. And, unlike you, I’m terrible at apologies. So I promise you I’ll try my best not to have a reason to say sorry anymore. I promise I’ll keep my temperament in check and do everything in my power to make this work without affecting our partnership.’’

Hermione can’t help a tiny smile. ‘‘Can you promise to keep my temperament in check too?’’

He chuckles. ‘‘Always.’’

Their mouths meet once more. The kiss is slow and soft, tinged with the quality of goodbyes. She holds him close for another instant. ‘‘Okay. We will do this. But nobody needs to know, okay? We will keep it just between us outside the Ministry, but when we are at the office, we’re partners. Only partners. We can’t mix things.’’

‘‘Deal, love.’’ A shiver crosses her spine at the endearment and at his departing kiss. She already knows she’s done for. Draco winks at her before grabbing the floo powder on top of her fireplace. ‘‘See you tomorrow. And sleep tight. I know I will.’’

His cheeky grin is the last thing she sees before he spins out of her flat.

Hermione exhales heavily and throws her exhausted body on the sofa.

What has she got herself into?

She’s dozing off in the same place as she’s been since Draco left when the shrill voice she unfortunately knows too well scares her awake.

‘‘There you are, you little minx.’’

Hermione sits up in a startle. Blinking sluggishly around, she finally spots the source of the annoying noise: Ginny Potter’s heart-shaped face dances between the flames of her chimney. She smiles widely and Hermione groans.

‘‘What. Do. You. Want. Ginny.’’

Her tone doesn’t seem to disturb the redhead. ‘‘I called earlier and you didn’t show. Where were you?’’

Hermione wipes a hand over her eyes and nose, ending in her mouth. Not satisfied, she rubs her eyes again, exhaustion still claiming her mind. ‘‘Er, I wasn’t home.’’

It’s the best she can come up with at the minute. She’s not in the mood to entertain Ginny’s antics, but she doesn’t want to raise any suspicions either.

‘‘Oh, where were you?’’

‘‘You’re funny.’’ Hermione says, pushing herself up from the sofa. ‘‘When was the last time I gave you an explanation about what I do with my life?’’

‘‘I was just asking-’’

‘‘It’s none of your business, Gin.’’ Bracing one hand on each side of her waist, she looks at the scintillating head. ‘‘How can I help you?’’

The smile is smaller now; Ginny clears her throat. ‘‘I just wanted to talk to you.’’

‘‘About…?’’

‘‘Next Sunday.’’

‘‘What about next Sunday?’’

‘‘It’s the last one of the month.’’ When Hermione doesn’t offer anything back to this, the other woman sighs. ‘‘Don’t you remember you promised Albus you would take him to visit Tomes and Scrolls in Hogsmeade, and buy him at least three books there?’’

Fuck, she had.

Of course, with the rollercoaster her life has been in the past several weeks, that titbit of information completely evaded her overwhelmed brain. The promise had been made on the last time she met with the kids, at the Godric Hollow’s celebration of the Leap Year Day, an occasion in which Harry had been stuck doing a night shift at the DMLE and Ginny invited Hermione to attend together the street festivities, just the two of them and her three sweet angels. It had been a calm evening, revolving around the kids and not their unresolved issues. 

By the end of the night, Albus had pulled Hermione to the side, asking her with a sad voice if it would take them another two months to see each other again. Hermione had almost bawled right then and there. 

Determined to not disappoint the boy, Hermione had assured him that, as a matter of fact, she already knew when they would go out again, and that it happened to be on a visit to his favourite shop in Hogsmeade. Unable to restrain herself, a tickle of pride ushering her forward as Ginny had told her earlier that her second child was becoming a bookworm, Hermione swore to him that he would have his choice of books; that she would buy him whatever he wanted. At the time, that seemed worth it just so she could see the bright grin blossoming on Albus’ face.

Right now, she can only groan with the perspective.

Not that she wouldn’t love to spend time with the young lad; it’s just that, lately, she hasn’t been in the right frame of mind to act like a responsible godmother. Definitely not when she’s breaking at least ten Ministry rules by sleeping with her partner, in and outside their facilities. 

And intending to do so a thousand times more.

‘‘Hermione?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ She hurries to confirm. ‘‘I mean, I had totally forgotten about it, so thank you for the reminder. But, yeah, of course. I’ll take Albus to Hogsmeade, there’s no question of it.’’

‘‘And James, too. And probably Lily as well.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

Ginny’s floating face chuckles. ‘‘Did you really think they wouldn’t want to join Al? James, as soon as he heard you’d be going out together, latched onto my legs and only let me go when I promised him he could tag along. Lily hasn’t said much about it but I know when the day comes, she’ll wreak havoc if she’s not included in the programme.’’ She gives Hermione a wry smile. ‘‘Sorry, Mione. I’m afraid you’ll be on babysitting duty for the entire family on Sunday.’’

‘‘That’s alright.’’ She smiles too. ‘‘I miss them. It will be a fun outing, I’m sure.’’

‘‘Awesome. So I’ll drop them by around, erm, let’s say, nine thirty?’’

‘‘Sounds good.’’

‘‘Great. Thanks, Hermione.’’

Hermione smiles again, nodding. ‘‘My pleasure.’’ Raising a hand, she waves friendly. ‘‘Bye, Ginny. See you next weekend. Have a good ni-’’

‘‘What happened to your hair?’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

Ginny’s shimmering head tilts, closely studying Hermione from inside the fireplace. ‘‘It’s completely dishevelled. I’ve only noticed it now. But it looks like you spent the entire night riding a broom. Which, of course, is absurd since you hate brooms. So what were you doing to get it like this?’’

Oh oh.

Hermione falters, warning bells ringing inside her, alerting her to nearby danger. ‘‘Erm, like I said, I wasn’t home. It was, uh, windy outside.’’

‘‘It’s not windy today.’’

‘‘It is where I was.’’

Ginny’s gaze squints, staring at Hermione with a blatant disbelieving expression. She can see the witch is dying to ask, once more, where she was but is biting her tongue to swallow the question. They stare at each other from across the floo, an impasse.

Hermione knows no one will emerge the victor from it.

‘‘Anyway, Ginny. It’s settled, next weekend. Just come by at any time in the morning with the kids, okay? I’m looking forward to it.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’ Her former friend hesitates another moment before finally relenting. ‘‘Yeah, sure. Sounds great. Thanks again.’’

‘‘Good night, Ginny.’’

‘‘Good night, Hermione.’’

The chimney finally darkens, returning to its normal state. Hermione sighs, flinging herself onto the sofa again, feeling around for her dishevelled locks. Indeed, her hair is pointing everywhere, almost becoming a sentinel being and marching around her flat without her.

Ginny’s not stupid; nor blind. She realised something was up with Hermione. To be sure, it’s very unlikely that she would ever guess that the answer to that riddle is Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy shagging each other silly when no one’s watching, but still…

Hermione has to be careful. If they are to carry on with- with whatever this is between them, she’ll have to make sure the secret stays hidden from plain sight. From everyone they know.

She pinches her eyes closed.

Once more the question begs to be asked: what has she got herself into?

Chapter Text

Has sex ever been like this?

Hermione can’t recall, but she’s not that pressed to find an answer when Draco hauls her against the filing cabinet, plastering open-mouthed kisses all across her sensitive neck. She bites her lips to stifle a moan, powerless to do anything other than close her eyes and become pliable under his ministrations. 

They had been searching for the employment files of the correctional officers from the Wizengamot’s Detention Centre, after they agreed to dive back into the incongruities of the Zimcooke case, starting by Lowburn’s escape and the inside person who probably made it possible. They took the lift, therefore, to Level 9, showing their Auror badges and telling the middle-aged guard they needed to visit the registries for the next hour in virtue of an ongoing investigation. Once in there, they had managed to locate eight of the fourteen pertinent files before Draco got other ideas.

‘‘Draco, we’re at the Ministry. We said no funny business while we-’’

‘‘I know, I know.’’ He had rushed to mollify her with a well-aimed brush of lips to her left ear, getting her to sigh in bliss, rendered effectively silent. ‘‘I just wanted a quick kiss.’’

A quick kiss had swiftly turned into him pressing his erection against her, hands shamelessly diving under the hem of her skirt while his mouth went on to switch Hermione’s brain off, as usual unable to resist his melting touch. Now, they have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing here; as Draco finds his way inside her again, Hermione doesn’t quite remember how they had promised to remain professional whenever at the workplace, restricting themselves to only being partners and nothing else.

‘‘This dress is a sinful little thing.’’ Draco pants against her lips, his lower half not faltering in its rhythmic pounding. ‘‘It makes it really difficult for me to maintain my composure around you.’’

Hermione can only offer a breathless scoff. ‘‘So it’s my fault that you’re breaking your word in less than two days?’’

‘‘It is.’’ He tells her without skipping a beat. ‘‘Your arse looks absolutely delicious in it. It really couldn’t have been expected of me to keep my hands to myself when you’re determined to bend down and flaunt this present of the gods on my face the entire damn time-’’

‘‘I was looking for the files, you dirty libertine!’’

The argument doesn’t register in the slightest; Draco reclaims her mouth for another moment, kissing her hard and wetly, hands working overtime to hold her up and her thighs open as he thrusts in and out. The filing cabinet stands strong, weathering the attack, though jiggling noisily. 

‘‘Can you at least cast a notice-me-not?’’ Hermione manages to grit before she becomes irreversibly gone.

Draco does so at once, retrieving his wand from his back pocket to conceal their precarious position. He also silences their surroundings and throws in a spell that will alert them of any other human presence in the registries, for good measure. That done, he resumes his efforts, with twice the intensity.

Hermione, as it has happened the past two times, can only keen and feel the pleasure overwhelming her system; something that has never been a part of her experience before. Ever since she lost her virginity to Ronald, after one of the countless parties hosted by the Wizarding society to celebrate Voldemort’s defeat and the end of the war fifteen years ago, sex has always been nice and gratifying, but never a mind-numbing activity. She has always kept her wits about her, enjoying the moment without losing herself in it.

With Draco, this no longer holds true. Being with him has meant each time the temporary loss of her mental faculties, which she was not prepared to handle. And still isn’t, as she sees herself once more breaking Ministry rules and acting like a randy tart, desperate to have her partner regardless of the consequences.

The thing is-

It feels different. It’s not only a means to an end anymore; the necessary journey to arrive at the desired destination, that being an orgasm. Being with Draco, the intimacy of feeling his skin against hers, having their breaths mix together, listening to his rough voice mutter filth into her ear - all of it consumes her whole, it brings utter ecstasy to her body and quiet static to her otherwise restless mind. It quenches a part of her that has never been fully satisfied before.

Somewhere deep inside, Hermione knows they can’t be doing this; she knows they should behave better. And yet, despite having spent the last thirty three years of her life doing exactly what was expected of her, following every single rule in the book, she distinctly feels that this, right here, is the one instance she will allow herself not to mind too horribly.

After all, Hermione has, in fact, broken a few rules before, when it really mattered, and always gotten away with it, hasn’t she?

Draco finds her mouth one more time, noticeably getting closer to his peak.

‘‘This is so fucking good.’’ He grunts, words glueing messily to each other in their current frantic state. ‘‘Like I knew it would be.’’

‘‘You did?’’

‘‘Fuck, yeah. I told you, I knew we would fuck as good as we fight.’’ Readjusting his palms under her legs, he changes angles to support her more steadily. It appears to be a challenging feat, to keep her lifted in the air while pumping his hips at the same time, and yet he’s mastering it with expertise. ‘‘Though I gotta say, fucking you is much better than fighting with you.’’

Hermione chuckles, which comes out a little winded. ‘‘I don’t know about that. I do love fighting with you.’’

Draco smirks against her cheek. ‘‘Yeah? Does it turn you on?’’

‘‘You turn me on.’’

He groans at the reply, closing his eyes and ramming into her even more resolutely. She feels him getting deeper each time he pushes forward, and the movement is consistent enough to get her right on the edge of a marvellous orgasm. She might just need a little… well, hand.

‘‘I’m so close.’’ She tells him and reaches behind him for his wand again. 

It’s not a perfect fit and the spell is far from her best work with the foreign piece of wood, but she still casts a feather-light charm on herself, making it possible for Draco to hold her in place with only one hand. She grabs his other one and lets his wand fall to the ground carelessly. Bringing his arm up, she sucks his index and middle fingers into her mouth, tongue swirling to get them as wet as she needs it in order to achieve what she has in mind. 

Guiding them down again, she positions his two digits against her clit, rubbing them in a circular motion, creating the exact friction that will make her cross the finish line.

‘‘Shit.’’

The bold move is apparently more than Draco can endure: he curses loudly, eyes squeezing shut as he comes, spasming erratically before faltering to a stop. Luckily, the lack of motion doesn’t really matter; Hermione is already far too gone. She pushes his hand more insistently, grinding it harder against her clit until she’s coming, too, sinking her face on his neck to silence the noisy evidence of her climax.

Pulling her head backward, Draco kisses her until they’re both resettled. After a while, he drops her back down, only then leaving her lips alone.

‘‘You started with the potion, you said?’’

‘‘I did.’’

The first measure Hermione had seen to the morning after they met in her flat was to visit an apothecary and restock her provisions of contraceptive draughts. She started taking it on the same day, though this is the first occasion it’s been put to test.

At least now she feels a tad less guilty of doing the very thing she said she no longer would.

‘‘Draco, honestly.’’ She huffs as she recovers her own wand and vanishes the stickiness from between her thighs. ‘‘We really can’t keep doing this at the Ministry. It’s so wrong. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t care.’’ She points an accusatory finger in his direction, anticipating his sassy response. ‘‘Because I do. So we gotta quit this shit.’’

Draco sighs, clothes straightened and freshened with a cleansing spell. ‘‘I know, Granger. We won’t do it anymore.’’ When she narrows her eyes, not quite buying it, he holds two palms up. ‘‘I swear I mean it. It will also be better for me.’’

‘‘How so?’’

‘‘Ministry sex is not really helping my reputation, is it? It’s the second time I come before you.’’ He grimaces. ‘‘I can’t make a habit out of it. It’s very bad for my image.’’

‘‘Your image to whom?’’ Hermione snorts. ‘‘No one knows what’s going on but us.’’

‘‘Well, to you, of course. You’re the only one who matters, aren’t you?’’

She shakes her head, exasperatingly, but gives him a soft peck on the lips. ‘‘It’s alright, Draco. I know you’re an old man. Your stamina surely isn’t what it used to be, it’s very understandable, really.’’

‘‘I’m younger than you, you prat.’’

Hermione shrugs. ‘‘And yet here you are, performing much worse than me.’’

She barks a laugh when he abruptly grabs her by the waist and pulls her body to his, annoyance colouring his features. ‘‘Am I performing badly, is that what you’re saying?’’ 

His face only an inch away from hers drives her to tell the truth, bobbing her head in the negative. ‘‘Fortunately, no. Your performance is very on point, I must admit.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’ He kisses her perfunctorily, at once taming her sardonic attitude. ‘‘But I suppose avoiding Ministry sex will be good all-around, especially to my stamina. It’s just too hot; you're too hot.’’

‘‘I’m too hot?’’ She looks down to her cute but ultimately modest work attire. 

‘‘You are. You mess with my head.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Hermione chuckles to distract her poor heart from skipping too eagerly. ‘‘And who’s the one pointing fingers at everyone but themselves now, eh?’’

Draco chuckles as well, amused with the reminder. Their mouths meet one last time before they return to a more professional behaviour.

‘‘Okay, we still have six files to go. Let’s get this fucking done.’’

It takes them another half an hour but, eventually, they come into possession of everything they need, finally leaving the registries and walking back to their Level a little before lunchtime. In a silent agreement, they first fetch two sandwiches and cold beverages at the Ministry canteen, bringing it with them to their conference room alongside all the files related to the Zimcooke case.

Making themselves comfortable in front of each other, the paperwork and their lunch in between them, they set to work.

‘‘Right, starting with Andrew Byrne.’’ Draco plasters the man’s employment file on top of the oval table, spreading the multiple pages before them. ‘‘He’s our number one suspect of facilitating Lowburn’s escape.’’

Hermione hums in acknowledgement, eyes drinking in the words on the parchment. ‘‘He’s been working for the Wizengamot since 2005, having started as a security guard.’’ She reads the information contained in the file. ‘‘Apparently he had to take the exams three times before he was finally accepted as a correctional officer.’’

She looks up at Draco, who takes a bite of his chicken sandwich. ‘‘Mhm.’’ He politely swallows the food before speaking. ‘‘What type of exam one has to pass to become a correctional officer?’’

‘‘I suppose a physical one? And perhaps one of magical ability, too. To ensure the person’s capable of casting all the necessary protective wards.’’

‘‘Right.’’ Draco has a long swig of his pumpkin juice, clearing his throat afterward. ‘‘So he failed twice before he passed. Correct?’’

‘‘Correct.’’ Hermione glances again at the pages. ‘‘It says here he’s been a correctional officer for only the past year and a half.’’

‘‘Mhm. Convenient, don’t you think? Right around the time I first busted the Zimcooke contraband transaction on the coast of Dedham.’’ They exchange looks, knowing rather well how these sorts of coincidences are never really just that. ‘‘Okay, what else?’’

‘‘Erm, let me see. He’s single, no children. Lives alone in a flat in Appleby, both parents deceased, no siblings.’’ Hermione stretches her hand toward her own sandwich, chomping on it and continuing with her observations even with her mouth half full; she’s no mannerly pureblooded heir, after all. ‘‘I mean- he couldn’t fit more perfectly in the profile of someone who would be persuaded to become a traitor if he tried.’’

Draco nods. ‘‘And there’s also the fact that he has always obstructed our job. Arriving late with the prisoners to our interrogations, acting completely unhelpful when we questioned him after the breakout. He always seemed a little off to us, I suppose, but we could never really put our fingers on why exactly. Now we might be finally getting to the bottom of it.’’

‘‘Yes, but he wasn’t the one on duty when the escape took place. How did he manage to pull it off, then?’’

Their questioning round at the Detention Centre on the day Lowburn escaped revealed to them that a senior officer going by the name of Benedict Mason had been in charge of watching the premises at the time of the incident. The older man had been extremely obliging with their investigation, and nothing concerning him or his behaviour betrayed any suspicion. However, Hermione is an experienced Auror; though she trusts her gut, she more so trusts the hard facts available to her.

She locates Mason’s file and scans it from end to end. As expected, everything checks out.

‘‘Benedict Roy Mason, fifty seven years old, married with four children.’’ She reads out loud for Draco’s benefit. ‘‘He started his career as a private security guard, then he worked in Azkaban for five years. It says here the maximum security prison’s conditions affected him greatly so he requested to be transferred to another detention centre and that’s how he ended up at the Winzegamot’s. He passed his exams with flying colours and has been active at the WDC for the past seventeen years.’’

Draco hums, finishing his sandwich. He stands up to throw the leftovers of their meal in the bin. ‘‘Doesn’t look like our guy.’’

‘‘No, it doesn’t. But, again, how did Byrne pull it off when Mason was the one on watch? Do you think the senior officer might have turned a blind eye for his coworker?’’

‘‘Well… I mean, that’s always possible. We can’t know for sure, can we?’’ He takes his place again, leaning against the backrest of his chair as he shrugs. ‘’But, to be frank, I’m not sure that really matters. Our focus here is Byrne. He’s the one with probable connections to The Death Eater. Or at least to Lowburn. Even if Mason had some involvement in it, he’s unlikely to be the inside person we’re looking for. The one who will give us the answers we need. That, I argue, is Byrne. Until proof to the contrary.’’

‘‘Right. So we need access to him. To figure out what’s his part in all of this.’’ 

‘‘Any ideas?’’

Hermione looks down again, screening the parchments before her. She reflects on their options. ‘‘As we’ve noted, Byrne doesn’t appear to be the sharpest tool in the shed. He doesn’t have any known relatives or roots at all in England, so he could have been recruited by the Essex’s gang at any given moment, considering how easy a target he seems to be. Could’ve been a year and a half ago, when they might have placed him inside the WDC for the express purpose of breaking out possible gang members who got caught, or it could’ve been years ago, while he was still working as a security guard.’’

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘So I propose we start by investigating any suspicious activities involving him since before he started at the Ministry. Where did he work early on? What has been up to since school? You know? I think knowing more about his life outside his current job might help us find any opening that might suggest he was initiated in the gang. Or at least that he started leaking information maybe even before he became a correctional officer.’’

‘‘That means we will need to get our hands on his personal file as well.’’ Draco quips. He arches a white-blonde eyebrow. ‘‘We don’t have authorisation for that, Granger. We can only access personal files of the Ministry’s staff when there’s fumus commissi delicti, which is not the case. There’s nothing pointing to him having committed a crime other than our theory that he’s The Death Eater’s inside person. Well, that and…’’ Draco hesitates, the wheels of his mind visibly turning. ‘‘If I’m not mistaken, there’s one other possibility for requesting private dossiers.’’

Hermione’s right there with him. ‘‘Yes. If a Ministry Head cosigns it.’’

‘‘Jones will never do it.’’

‘‘She won’t.’’

They look at each other, the realisation settling heavy in between them.

Hestia Jones has been everything lately but helpful. Despite her pretence of caring for what their expert opinions are, she has been acting however she feels, shooting orders that brook no arguments. In the past few weeks Hermione, and after a while Draco too, stopped worrying about that; as they started ignoring each other and the case for that regrettable brief period of time, Hestia’s insufferable type of leadership no longer registered as acutely as before. Now, though, that they are determined to return with full force to solving the investigation irrespective of the obstacles in their way, their boss will surely pose the biggest of them all.

To get Hestia to approve a request for Andrew Byrne’s personal file would probably mean that they will have to explain to her the reasons behind their interest in the man; there’s no way the head of the department will accept their theory that someone inside the Ministry is assisting the Essex’s gang with their mysterious plans. 

But there’s someone else who might.

The Head Deputy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has a crammed agenda for the rest of the day and the next one, with the exception of a fifteen-minute slot right before their shift ends and the weekend begins. Hermione and Draco rush to embrace the presented opportunity. 

‘‘Last time we talked, you mentioned that you’d like to be informed of any development in our side investigation on the Zimcooke case.’’

Their direct boss hums, the subject of their last-minute arranged meeting becoming thus clear to her. ‘‘I did.’’

‘‘Well, we might have something.’’

She gestures for Hermione to go on but Draco is the one who does it. ‘‘We think someone inside the Ministry is helping The Death Eater. More specifically, someone inside the WDC. A correctional officer.’’ Mackenzie’s brows jump as Draco concludes his piece. ‘‘The name of our suspect is Andrew Byrne. We think he aided Lowburn’s escape.’’

‘‘And perhaps other things, too.’’ Hermione pipes in. ‘‘We’ve just started diving into this theory, so we can’t really say if we think he’s working alone or not, but for the sake of this conversation, let’s suppose he is. If so, then he’s likely the one who sent the anonymous tips and who fed Jimmy Tremlett all the information about the Patricksons’ burglary so he could confess to the crime, among many others we probably don’t even know. If Byrne is The Death Eater’s inside person, then he’s the one who has been manipulating almost every discovery we’ve had in the past several months.’’

The Head Deputy waits a moment, in case the Aurors have something else to say, before she asks. ‘‘Why is he a suspect?’’

‘‘Because he’s the only one who stands out in our investigation.’’ Draco explains. ‘‘We interrogated five correctional officers at the Detention Centre the day Lowburn escaped, and we spent some time there making rounds and inspecting the facility. We also, as you know, have been in close contact with the officers in the last year because of the interrogations regarding the Zimcooke case. We know them. And we have started looking into their files. From all of them, Andrew Byrne is our best suspect.’’

‘‘So you don’t actually have any hard proof of his involvement?’’

‘‘If we did, Emily, we wouldn’t be here telling you our suspicions. We would have arrested him already.’’

Mackenzie looks at Hermione, head tilting. ‘‘So why are you here, then?’’

‘‘Because, like you just said, we don’t have any hard proof. And we need it. So far, all we have is suspicions. Our theory is still too fragile to actually support any of it, so we have to go after some confirmation. And that’s why we’re here now.’’

Draco takes the plunge. ‘‘We need access to Byrne’s private dossiers. What we got so far from his work files points to him being a very plausible suspect, but as Granger said, we need more than that. And we thought we should start by getting access to the classified files that could direct our investigation further along.’’

‘‘You want me to cosign your request for the files.’’ Mackenzie deadpans, finally getting their motives for scheduling the meeting. ‘‘I can’t do that, Draco. It has to be Hestia.’’

‘‘We know, Emily. But we had hoped that you could find a way to circumvent this. Even if just by trying and convincing Hestia to sign it for us.’’

Mackenzie turns to Hermione again. ‘‘You want me to tell her everything you just told me?’’

‘‘God, no.’’ Hermione scoffs, the perspective humouring and disquieting her in equal measure. ‘‘She’d freak out if she learned of our theory. No, Emily. We thought you could try something else, persuade her to sign it for any other reason. I mean- we know what we’re asking is a lot.’’ She sighs. ‘‘But we really could use your help right now. Anything is welcome at this point.’’

Their boss hesitates, eyes skipping back and forth between the two of them, processing what they’re telling her. They wait in expectation, inwardly praying that she will heed to them. They need her help.

Hermione can see the exact second Mackenzie makes up her mind.

‘‘Alright. I’ll see what I can do.’’

It’s not much, but it’s enough. Hermione nearly sags in relief. ‘‘Thank you, Emily.’’

‘‘Thank you, Mackenzie.’’

‘‘I’m not promising anything.’’ She warns them, face growing serious. ‘‘I have no idea how I can get Hestia to sign something without telling her the real reason behind it. It might not work at all.’’

‘‘We’re just asking that you try.’’

She nods. ‘‘Yes. Alright. I’ll do my best.’’

‘‘Thank you, Emily.’’ Hermione says again. ‘‘Let us know if it pans out.’’

‘‘It might take some time for me to get back to you about it.’’

‘‘Take as much time as you need.’’ Draco appeases her. He gets to his feet and Hermione copies him. ‘‘We will be working on our regular tasks while attempting to gather more proof by any other route available. We’ll wait for you, for as long as it takes.’’

‘‘Right.’’ Mackenzie breathes out, curving her head in acknowledgment. ‘‘I’ll let you know anything.’’

They thank her again and depart her office. At their workstations, Hermione glances at Draco.

‘‘Do you need to leave now or can we talk before you go?’’

His eyes slant to check the metal clock floating by the South corner of the headquarters. ‘‘It’s not five yet. Do you want to go to the conference room?’’

‘‘Mhm.’’ Hermione leans forward to retrieve the mug on top of her desk. ‘‘I’m gonna make myself some more tea. Walk with me to the kitchen?’’

He readily complies and off they go. The staff kitchen is empty when they arrive, and Hermione pushes the door closed until it almost touches the threshold. It gives them some sense of privacy but, just in case, she also casts a muffliato.

‘‘So, what d’you think?’’

Draco joins her in front of the island counter as she prepares her infusion. ‘‘I think it’s promising. Mackenzie is skilful; I’m sure she’ll find a way to make Jones agree to it.’’

‘‘What if she ends up telling Hestia about our side investigation? Hestia would shut us down in a blink of an eye.’’

‘‘I doubt she’d make such a mistake. Mackenzie would be in as much trouble as us. I mean, she should be the one shutting us down and not acting on our behalf behind her boss’ back.’’

Hermione closes the lid of the kettle and braces herself against the surface to wait for the water to boil. ‘‘True. Emily’s too clever for that. She wouldn’t compromise herself in such a way.’’

‘‘No, she wouldn’t. I think she’ll pull it off, I just have no idea how long that might take. And at the moment, we’re a little short of other sound leads to follow.’’

She doesn’t necessarily disagree.

So far, all the clues they have gathered has made them more confused than not: John Catrall’s jaw-dropping reaction to hearing about the Wizengamot during their interrogation back in January still makes no sense to them; the conviction that Jimmy Tremlet lied when confessing to the Patricksons’ burglary doesn’t really clarify what he could possibly get from doing it; the knowledge they got from Sybill Trelawney regarding Scrying magic has yet to prove itself useful. They understand the reason behind the anonymous tips and why Lowburn would pretend to make a deal with them in exchange of ‘‘giving away’’ the date and time of future Ministry attacks - it all serves the purpose of convincing the DMLE that blood purity is what’s at stake here.

The rest of it, though; the other contradictory developments of the case…

Hermione and Draco remain none the wiser regarding their role in the bigger picture, and how they can further The Death Eater in achieving whatever the hell he’s got his sights on.

‘‘I think we need to know how to pick our fights.’’ Hermione says slowly, trying to put into words her muddling thoughts. ‘‘The goal of The Death Eater is to confuse us, isn’t it, and until now he’s been successful. He and his gang just keep throwing a shitload of intel on us, some of it aimed at diverting us from their real plans, yes, but the others… I suspect they might not even mean anything. They’re just a way to distract us, to offer us so many leads we don’t know which one to follow. And our job is to assess what’s valuable and what’s not. What’s worth investigating in the sea of useless information directed at us.’’

Draco pays close attention to what she says and when she halts, he nods. ‘‘You’re right. We shouldn’t try to make sense of everything at once. It’s not worth it.’’

‘‘Yes. I think, for now, we should forget the rest and focus on figuring out who’s aiding them. If we can discover who’s the inside person at the Ministry, a whole new world will open to us.’’

‘‘And close to them.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

They smile at each other, glad to be on the same page again after so long, and their gaze lingers. Hermione notices Draco’s eyes dipping, taking a long pause around her mouth before ascending again. 

She cocks a censuring eyebrow. ‘‘Don’t even think about it.’’

He smirks, not looking even a little bit censured. ‘‘I’m not thinking about anything.’’ When Hermione clearly doesn’t believe his empty promise, he relents. ‘‘Not here, at least.’’ Stepping closer to her, Draco lowers his voice. ‘‘Let’s do something together this weekend. Something private, just the two of us.’’

‘‘My, my. Is Draco Malfoy really asking Hermione Granger out? What a plot twist.’’

He grins at her taunt. ‘‘I guess a man has to do the right thing and finally act like a gentleman after he shags a woman three times in ten days.’’

She laughs, tilting a smidge closer. ‘‘Well, if it was me guessing, I’d say your chance to be a gentleman about this has come and gone.’’

‘‘Has it?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. It’s far too late. I already found out you’re a dirty libertine.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’ Draco takes the last step forward and their bodies flush against one another. ‘‘That’s fine by me. I don’t care about the right thing, anyway. I just wanna spend some time with you.’’ Hermione smiles, limbs starting to become pliant at his proximity. He raises his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her right ear. ‘‘Let’s go somewhere Sunday, love. I can drop Scorpius at Daphne’s and meet you at any place you want.’’ 

Hermione opens her mouth, an enthusiastic agreement already at the tip of her tongue when reality comes crashing down. ‘‘Oh, shit. I can’t Sunday.’’ She frowns at the memory of Ginny’s annoying face floating in her chimney. ‘‘Can’t it be tomorrow?’’

‘‘Saturdays are for Scorpius. We always spend the day together.’’

The sweetness of the statement turns her even softer. Hermione threads her fingers in between his on top of the counter. ‘‘That’s nice.’’

Draco squeezes her hand. ‘‘What are you up to on Sunday?’’

‘‘Taking Harry and Ginny’s kids out. Remember when Ginny floo-called me on Tuesday?’’

An amused chuckle is the answer to her question. ‘‘How could I forget?’’

‘‘Yeah, well. She wanted to remind me about Sunday and how I had promised to take her kids- well, Albus. That’s her second son. I promised him a long time ago that I would take him to Hogsmeade, to visit Tomes and Scrolls on the last Sunday of the month. I can’t back down now, even though I had completely forgotten about it until Ginny decided to corner me in my own home.’’

‘‘The Weasley girl can be very insistent, I remember that from school.’’

‘‘She definitely can. But in this type of situation, I don’t mind. I love the kids. They’re a handful but they brighten my day anytime we meet. It’s not their fault that they have such insufferable parents as Harry and Ginny.’’

Draco sneers at her joke at the same time the kettle whistles. Hermione turns to it, bringing it to her mug. A minute passes in silence while her tea gets ready. Once that’s done, she swivels back toward Draco, holding the beverage with two hands, blowing on it. When she looks at her partner again, though, his face has suddenly become inscrutable.

Her forehead wrinkles. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’

His shrug is not at all convincing. ‘‘What is it, Draco?’’

‘‘It’s nothing, Granger. Don’t worry.’’

He moves, making to stand back and walk away from her, so Hermione grabs the sleeve of his work robes, keeping him in place. ‘‘Hey. Remember what you said?’’ He tilts his head, not knowing what she means, and she puts the cup down. ‘‘As long as we talk to each other, we’ll be fine. Our partnership will only survive if we keep on communicating. About everything.’’

‘‘It has nothing to do with our partnership, Granger.’’ He says it cavalierly, but at her persistent gaze, he sighs. ‘‘It’s nothing, really. You don’t have to worry about it. It’s just- I was just wondering about this outing you mentioned. You’re taking the three kids to Hogsmeade alone?’’

‘‘Erm, yes.’’

‘‘Right.’’ His eyes travel from one kitchen appliance to the other. ‘‘And the oldest. James, isn’t it? He’s nine, right?’’

‘‘He is. Why, Draco?’’

He shrugs once more, gaze still not quite meeting hers. ‘‘I was just wondering, that’s all. He’s the same age as Scorpius.’’

‘‘Oh, yeah, that’s right.’’ When Draco continues to act cagey, Hermione tries another route. ‘‘Have they ever met each other?’’

‘‘Nah. The opportunity never came up.’’ He hesitates for another moment, but then his chest inflates with a deep breath. He finally looks at her, decision made. ‘‘Scorpius doesn’t have any friends. There are no kids his age in the family, and even if there were, we’re obviously not close-knit or anything. And, as you know, none of my mates have children yet. So it’s always been just him.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘I’ve tried to, uh, befriend other parents before, but it’s not like anyone has any interest in getting to know us. Getting to know me, actually. Scorpius has nothing to do with this. The problem is me. No one wants to be associated with the Malfoy name because of me. And that unfortunately has spilled onto him.’’

Oh.

Hermione’s chest tightens in anguish. It breaks her heart to hear him speaking like that, recounting the misfortunes he has to go through just for being who he is or, rather, who he used to be. Misfortunes she has never even imagined he still had to endure after all this time. And Scorpius, too. The poor boy that has no fault in anything, being punished now by people, adults, who should know better than this.

‘‘Arseholes.’’ Hermione can’t help but mutter, at once angered.

‘‘They’re not to blame, Granger. I get why they prefer to stay away. It’s just- I worry for Scorpius. He should be in touch with kids his age. He should have at least, you know, one friend. It’s important for a boy as he grows older.’’

The way he says it makes Hermione wonder if he’s thinking about his own upbringing. She muses if he had any friend growing up at Malfoy Manor.

‘‘You’re right, of course, Draco. Friendships are so important at that age. At any age, actually.’’ At that, Hermione thinks about her own experience; how she found herself a full grown-up without any friends and how that wasn’t any easier than being nine years old without the company of your peers. She pulls at the sleeve she still has in between her fingers, bringing Draco closer to her again. ‘‘Do you guys want to come on Sunday? Meet me and the kids at Hogsmeade.’’

Draco shakes his head, though he doesn’t fight their renewed proximity, instead draping an intimate hand on her hip. ‘‘Nah, Granger. We can’t do that. How would we explain the two of us hanging out together in public like this? And, anyway, I doubt Potter would be okay with that. Or the Weasley girl.’’

‘‘They’re both Potters, Draco. They’ve been married for ten years.’’ Hermione corrects him with a small smile. He makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, and her smile grows. ‘‘If there’s one thing I can tell you about Harry is that he would never make a fuss about his child hanging out with someone else's. Regardless of who their parents are. Harry might be a lot of things, but a prejudiced prick is not one of them. And much less Ginny.’’ Draco’s lips open to offer a retort, but she beats him to it. ‘‘Either way, we don’t need to make it look like we went out for a stroll together. I mean, we could’ve just met there by chance, couldn’t we? I had to take Albus and his brother and sister to Tomes and Scrolls, and you were simply having a nice walk with your son in Hogsmeade at the same time. If we happened to bump into each other on the High Street, why should we pretend not to know each other? Why couldn’t we, say, spend the rest of the day together, letting the kids be kids while we just, you know, stay around watching them?’’

Draco’s silver eyes soften the longer she speaks. By the time she’s done, his face has assumed a gentle expression she’s seldom seen on him before.

He holds her tighter to him. ‘‘That’d be lovely, Granger. Scorpius would be overjoyed to spend a day with other children.’’

‘‘And you? It’s nothing private like you had in mind, so we surely won’t be able to touch at all, but… We would still get to spend some time together.’’

His grin is heart-stopping. ‘‘Sounds great.’’

‘‘Even if there’s no sex involved?’’

She doesn’t know why she asks it; they have just begun their casual involvement. Well, she doesn’t know if it’s casual or not, she doesn’t really know much about it or its boundaries. All she knows is that she likes him a lot and she likes being with him, regardless of their state of undress. Perhaps that’s what drives her to pose the question although everything about this, about them, is new and uncharted.

His mouth is so close to hers that she feels his words against her breath. ‘‘I told you. I like you in every form.’’

Her pulse skitters, her eyelids drop low, her chin tilts forward.

Loud footsteps just outside the door have them springing apart faster than a stinging hex would. Not a second later, Frederic Fawley bursts into the kitchen, his indulgent face brightening at the sight of Hermione.

‘‘Oh, hullo there, Hermione. How’s it going?’’ He opens the fridge, throwing a belated and listless ‘‘Malfoy’’ over his shoulder.

‘‘Fawley.’’

‘‘I’m good, Frederic. How about you?’’

The Auror replies but she doesn’t compute it. Exchanging glances with Draco, he lets her silently know that it’s time for him to go home. She reaches out discreetly to give his hand a departing squeeze; he winks at her before leaving the kitchen.

‘‘- and then I told him he’s mad for wanting to go out there alone like this. But you know Harry, yeah, the bloke is absolutely -’’

Hermione has no other choice but to tune into whatever her coworker is babbling about, schooling her features to only relay mild curiosity, all the while her mind is filled with images of pleasant Sundays, children’s laughter and Draco’s steady presence next to her throughout it all.

Two days later, Ginny drops James, Albus and Lily at her flat a few minutes after nine thirty. She lingers, watching her daughter jump up and down in Hermione’s arms and the two sons run around the living room reciting out loud all the ice cream flavours they will eat at Maggie’s Parlour, before realising that a conversation with her former friend is not an actual possibility. Hermione is glad to shoo the witch away, back inside the fireplace and out of her house; then it’s just her and her three little demons.

‘‘It’s time for today’s rules.’’ She announces to the space in front of her, efficiently getting six eyes to instantly lock on her. ‘‘Rule number one: we will not be eating ice cream until our tummy aches.’’ She throws a stern glance in Lily’s direction. ‘‘We will limit ourselves to two lollies, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.’’ A chorus of disappointed ahs and ohs receive the news. She forges ahead, unbothered. ‘‘Rule number two: everyone will get books today, not only Albus. James and Lily, you both may also pick three books at Tomes and Scrolls.’’ This time it’s a pointed lack of enthusiasm that welcomes her words. Hermione has to suppress a laugh at the unimpressed faces before her. ‘‘Rule number three: if we’re walking in the street, I want to see everyone holding everyone’s hands. Or mine. Especially you, Lily.’’

‘‘Why?’’ The girl’s high-pitched voice immediately chirps.

‘‘Because you’re little and we have to be more careful with you. Okay?’’

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Okay. Last rule: no fighting.’’ At this, she looks directly at James and Albus. ‘‘If you start being mean with each other at any moment of the day, we’ll come straight home. You hear me?’’

‘‘Yes, Aunt Mione.’’ The two boys agree in unison. 

‘‘Good. Do we have everything? Everyone got their coats on?’’

‘‘Yes!’’

‘‘Alright, then, let’s go.’’

From the top of her sideboard she grabs the large pointy hat she collected at the Department of Magical Transportation the day before. She organises the children around it, instructing them as to where to stand and how to hold onto the object. In under a minute the portkey activates and the four of them travel to Scotland, arriving together at Medea’s Rage Inn. Hermione looks around, ensuring that everyone’s safe and sound before shrinking the hat to fit in her hand purse and ushering them to leave the establishment. 

They filter out in the middle of the High Street, which today is far from the busy site it normally is in warmer weathers. Although it’s not raining nor very windy, the low temperature works to keep most visitors away. She sees a few families walking around, patronising the quiet stores, but overall the village is calm and idle.

It’s just as well.

Less nosy people to track her and Draco’s movements.

With that in mind, Hermione asks the question to which she already knows the answer.

‘‘Do you guys want to have your morning lolly now or later?’’

‘‘Now, Aunt Mione!’’

She grins in satisfaction, guiding the two boys and single girl forward toward the ice cream parlour, as it had been her plan all along. Casting a swift tempus, Hermione finds it’s seven minutes to ten.

Right on time.

They enter the shop, at once breaking the stillness of it with the cacophony of three small but boisterous voices speaking at the same time. As the kids walk in before her, Hermione’s not surprised to discover her partner is already there.

Draco stands to her left, next to the counter, and one glance at him is enough to make butterflies take flight in her stomach. He cuts a striking figure in all black; yet, today, he’s replaced the stiff work robes with a cashmere sweater and wool trousers, wrapped under a trench coat. With his styled, prim hair and regal face, he’s more handsome than Hermione can handle.

She inhales, long and deep, and moves in his direction. She smiles when he does. ‘‘Draco, what a coincidence to bump into you here of all places.’’

His grin widens, bemused by her theatrics. ‘‘Granger. Indeed, what are the odds.’’

It’s not a question, so she doesn’t offer an answer. Instead, her gaze sways, drifting to the boy plastered to his side.

Scorpius is much taller than Hermione would have expected for a nine-year-old. Certainly much taller than James. But, perhaps, that shouldn’t come as a shock, given who his dad is and who is James’. Still, Draco’s son is big and lean, looking older than his limited years, though his cute, cheeky face betrays his young age.

‘‘Scorpius.’’ Draco’s voice rings. ‘‘This is Hermione Granger, a friend of dad’s. We work together at the Ministry.’’

Hermione might have not expected his height, but what she surely would have never seen coming was the sheer excitement that Draco’s introduction causes on the lad.

‘‘You’re Granger! Daddy talks about you all the time. He told me about the time you had to fight three vampires at once and that you destroyed them all alone!’’

Hermione blinks, caught off-guard. 

The situation had happened years ago, when she was still partnered with Harry. The case had not been a brainy one; it was rather obvious that a group of vampires were behind the several disappearances taking place in a small town just outside Irish Kenmare. On the fateful day, Hermione and her then partner had travelled to interview a few people when they were ambushed in an alley. They had no choice but to duel with three vampires each, eventually emerging victorious but barely. Hermione had certainly not destroyed anyone; she scarcely overpowered them, much less inflicted much damage. But, at least, Harry and her had managed to arrest the offenders and transport them back to London, where they were tried for their crimes.

Nevertheless, that Draco told his son of the event, exaggerated as it might be, fills her with lovely feelings.

She beams.

‘‘Oh, does he talk about me?’’ Hermione smiles broadly, catching Draco’s eyes in delight. ‘‘Well, you should always believe your dad. If he tells you that I’m the smartest, most incredible person he’s ever met, you must know it’s true!’’

Draco laughs, a delectable sound. Scorpius follows him, though the joke naturally flies right over his head. ‘‘He always tells me the stories of your work cases. I love listening to them. They’re so fun!’’

‘‘They’re dangerous, Scorpius.’’ Draco tells him but neither his son nor Hermione pay him any mind.

‘‘Do you? What other stories did you like the most- Ah! Come here, boys.’’ Finally coming to herself and remembering her company, Hermione gestures for Ginny’s kids, who had been looming behind her, to approach. ‘‘Let me introduce you. This is Draco Malfoy, we work together. And this is his son, Scorpius. Scorpius, this is James, Lily and Albus.’’

The four children just look at one another, suddenly shy in the face of this new acquaintance. The adults wait for a beat, letting them get used to each other’s presences before intervening. 

‘‘James is your age, Scorpius. He’s also nine.’’ It’s Draco who says it. ‘‘You’ll be in the same year at Hogwarts.’’

It’s the right subject to broach.

James immediately perks up. ‘‘I’m going to Gryffindor just like my mum and dad.’’

‘‘Me too.’’

‘‘Me too.’’

What a surprise, that Harry’s three kids can only regard the red and gold House as their future.

Scorpius, at that, perks up too. ‘‘I’m gonna go to Ravenclaw. Daddy says I’ll be the cleverest boy in my year.’’

Hermione’s heart, already full of warmth and fondness, swells to triple its size. She looks at Draco, who in turn smiles affectionately at his son, and she feels herself melt even further.

‘‘I’ll be the bravest boy.’’

‘‘I’ll be the boy with the best marks!’’

‘‘And I’ll be a girl, not a boy.’’

Lily’s innocent, matter-of-factly remark has Hermione laughing out loud. She bends to give her sweet angel a kiss in the crown of her head, and then gets to business. ‘‘Alright, it’s now or never. Who wants what?’’

Chaos ensues, as expected, the four children promptly swarming around the ice cream counter to choose the best flavour in stock. Hermione and Draco hang behind, wasting no time to kill the distance between them, not an inch apart from each other as they pretend to be engrossed in surveying the kids.

‘‘Scorpius is wonderful.’’

She means it.

Timidness promptly forgotten, the boy had joined the three brothers and sisters excitedly, watching them argue over who gets to place their orders first with a huge smile on his face. He pipes in at times, giving his opinion every now and then, but mainly just stands there looking happy to be part of it. 

Hermione doesn’t know exactly what she was expecting, but she guesses she never really imagined that Draco Malfoy’s offspring would look so sweet and cheerful around people he doesn’t know; something his father certainly isn’t. Though Scorpius is the spitting image of his dad, with the same light blonde hair and eyes so dark blue they turn to grey, his bubbly personality suggests he’s been exposed to a completely different example than what Draco seems to set. Or perhaps… Draco is serious and detached only at work, while at home he’s the type of parent that shapes his son to be a bright, happy little thing.

‘‘Thank you, love.’’

Hermione grins. ‘‘I’m so glad we’re doing this. Look at them. They’re already getting along.’’

Draco doesn’t respond, his eyes glued to how smoothly his son’s interaction with the other children flows. After the choices for lollies are made, he pays for everyone (despite Hermione’s vehement protest) and they depart the parlour, the four youngsters going in front of them. The walk is slow and indolent, licking ice creams and people-watching. They pass shops, they greet unfamiliar faces, the kids scream-laugh and the adults cherish every second. At last at Tomes and Scrolls, they push the door open to invade the quiet establishment. Holding Lily’s hand, Hermione saunters in the direction of the Fantasy section while Albus goes directly after Wizarding History books and James, with Scorpius in tow, jumps from shelf to shelf, the two lads already fast friends. Draco only looks around casually at first, so Hermione allows herself to go ahead without him and also pick three books.

It’s not only kids who deserve treats, is it?

Immediately she spots the latest instalment of a Veela-world fiction series that she most enjoyed reading a couple of years ago. She places it under her free arm, going in search of her next well-merited gift. It’s not long before Lily becomes bored and asks to go to the children section; Hermione allows it provided that she returns within a few minutes. After the girl’s gone, Hermione wanders even deeper inside the corner dedicated to magical fantasy, choosing a second book that someone had recommended but that she had never given it a try until now. Despite how busy she’s still at work, she’s been more successful in assigning herself some free time to just decompress and relax. And she’s always done so in the company of thick volumes of literature.

Before Hermione locates her third indulgence of the day, a large body edges behind her, emanating a sudden heat that promptly gives her shivers.

‘‘Is the no-touching rule still on?’’

‘‘Draco-’’ He throws a hand against the shelf in front of them, causing his front to mould into her back, and Hermione’s voice catches on her throat. 

‘‘Mhm.’’

She closes her eyes. Swallowing, she resettles. ‘‘We’re in public.’’

‘‘I know.’’

She turns around, which forces him to take a small step back. Their eyes meet and Hermione shakes her head.

‘‘You’re incorrigible.’’

He grins, wickedly. ‘‘I am. Sorry, it’s been so long for me, I don’t know how to act properly anymore.’’ Before she can dissect these words or ask so long since what, he continues. ‘‘What do you have there?’’

‘‘Erm, just some fiction books.’’

‘‘Which ones?’’

He grabs the two copies from her hands, reading their back-cover blurb. Hermione peers around, while he’s thus occupied, and notices that there’s no one in their surroundings. The Fantasy section is quite isolated from the rest of the shop and there are no other customers anywhere near.

‘‘Oh, I’ve heard of Francesca and the Shimmering Skies before. Didn’t it win a prize for-’’

Hermione cuts his words short by grabbing a handful of his sweater and firmly pulling him to her. Rising on her tiptoes at the same time he tumbles forward, her mouth presses to his. One second, two, and the books tumble heavily to the ground under their feet. Draco laces her back with his arms, at once deepening their kiss. No more so chaste, their tongues clash, lips giving space for their teeth to meet briefly, heads bobbing forward and then backward in a delicious dance. 

Having had her fill, Hermione pushes against his chest, releasing him.

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

‘‘Hi, love.’’

‘‘Just wanted a quick kiss.’’

He smirks, acknowledging his words thrown back at him. ‘‘Sorry to disappoint you but there’s no filing cabinet ‘round here.’’

‘‘Thank God.’’ Hermione chants, then urges him with a jerky motion of her head. ‘‘Come on, let’s go find our little demons. It’s too silent in here. They must be up to no good.’’

Draco chuckles as he bends to retrieve the books from the floor. ‘‘Half of the shop is already torn to pieces, I’m afraid.’’

They laugh, together, and insert a safe distance in between their bodies as they return to the front of Tomes and Scrolls, ready to proceed with the rest of their day.

Chapter Text

In categorical contrast with the previous months, April sails past Hermione.

With a fresh new impulse to solve her most pressing (and mind-boggling) case, she goes to work every day determined to put a brake on her keyed-up instincts and face things through the perspective of someone who will not dance to the music The Death Eater is setting. Rather, she slows down, studies the clues with less stubborn eyes and accepts that she needs to wait; time is the only one that can give her more answers.

At home, Hermione also unwinds from her habitual tautness. Whereas in the beginning she really struggled with it, now it comes much more easily to put work aside and simply relax in the few hours she has for herself at night. She cooks instead of ordering takeaway, actually learning a few new recipes in the process; she reads fiction books at a leisure pace and watches comedy films that lift her mood; she goes to sleep at a reasonable hour, knowing her body will be thankful for it the next morning. The weekends once more become a moment of respite, which she looks forward to, no longer dreading the looming prospect of having to fill forty eight hours with only her stressed self as company. It helps that most Friday nights she’s out with everyone at The Porcelain Pixie, but what really helps is that Draco and her have spent every Sunday of the month so far together. 

After their outing in Hogsmeade with the kids, they had met one more time during the week, again in her house, but it hadn’t been ideal. Draco didn’t like coming home late to his son, although his aunt had assured him she didn’t mind babysitting for an hour or so longer. Draco didn’t appreciate making Scorpius wait, wondering when his dad would finally arrive from work after an entire day away. The shy confession, after Hermione had invited him over on a Tuesday and he awkwardly turned her down, was truly effective in making her swoon. Each time she was faced with the corroboration of what a good parent he was, she fancied him a little bit more.

Hermione had readily assuaged Draco that it was fine, that they didn't need to meet on a work night, and ever since they have bent themselves in half to make sure they got to spend the last day of the week together, even if only briefly. After six days of thinking of one another constantly, five of them spent in the other’s presence for at least nine straight hours, Sunday could not come soon enough. At Hermione’s flat, they made the short hours count, dragging as many orgasms from each other as physically possible.

As such, April flies by - even more so after Mackenzie calls them to her office halfway through with updates.

‘‘Here it is.’’ The Head Deputy slides a file toward the edge of her desk, closer to where Hermione and Draco sit staring expectantly. ‘‘The dossiers you requested.’’

Hermione can’t help the gasp that escapes her. ‘‘You did it.’’

Mackenzie smiles wryly. ‘‘I did. It cost me a lot of brain cells, but it eventually paid off.’’

‘‘How did you do it?’’ 

‘‘Best not concern yourselves with it.’’ The other witch says, shrugging lightly. ‘‘Some things I should bear alone. Now that I’ve chosen to support you in your side investigation, I’ve got to take upon myself to see it through.’’

Hermione nods, grateful for her boss. She knows her position is not an easy one; it must certainly be a challenge to tread such a fine line between being a leader and a teamplayer; doing her job as the Deputy Head, according to the Ministry’s directives, but also looking after her employees; fulfilling her responsibilities of a manager without losing sight of what’s really important: solving cases.

‘‘Thank you, Emily. We’ll get back to you as soon as we have a lead on it.’’

They immediately get to it and the rest of the month becomes thus occupied.

‘‘Andrew John Byrne, twenty seven years old, single, no children. Only son of half-bloods Marie Violet Byrne (née Smith) and Paul Boris Bryne. Born and raised in Appleby, North Lincolnshire, he entered Hogwarts in 1997 and was sorted into the Hufflepuff House. In 2003 he secured three N.E.W.T.s., in Herbology, History of Magic and Charms. Upon graduation, he spent one year working as a freelancer, assisting a few known wizard shops, such as Quality Quidditch Supplies and Sytner, with varied tasks before he was hired by the Wizengamot in 2005 to work as a security guard.’’

‘‘There’s a one year gap there. He graduated in 2003, worked as a freelancer for a year and started at the Wizengamot in 2005. There’s one year unaccounted if one is to follow that maths.’’

‘‘You’re right. It doesn’t say anywhere what he was up to in 2004.’’

They write that information down.

As they finally get their hands on the private dossiers of the correctional officer that features as their leading suspect, their plan of action is to thoroughly screen the file from top to bottom, searching for anything that doesn’t add up; anything that might give room for doubts, for conjectures of whether or not Byrne could have been turned by the Essex gang. If there’s something slightly inconsistent, they are prepared to latch on to it in pursuit of answers.

And so they do: the next day, they pay a visit to every business listed under Byrne’s prior employers, asking around about the man’s behaviour and possibly shady character. The stores’ spokespersons do not offer them anything useful, apart from the confirmation that Byrne has always been a cheeky bastard, certainly not the most professional or skilful bloke but one who never caused too many issues, either. Poking the lead a stretch longer, Hermione and Draco approach a few of the officer’s former housemates, trying to get a grip on what he could have possibly been doing after Hogwarts when no official work tie or whereabouts could be traced back to him. It’s this way that they learn that Byrne had come into a small sum of money after his mother passed and left him a modest inheritance, which he promptly splurged in parties, liquor and overall being a useless human being.

His unaccounted year is, as such, verified.

They move on to their next lead.

‘‘During his last year as a Wizengamot’s security guard, Byrne took an extended medical leave, staying away from his duties for nearly four months, claiming to be inflicted by the Spattergroit Disease. However, after returning to work without displaying any of the side-effects that the ailment is known to cause, his boss opened an investigation and discovered that the doctor’s note used to substantiate his leave had been forged and Byrne had never really contracted the illness. He was then penalised with one hundred hours of unpaid overtime and made to give back four-months worthy of salary for the period he didn’t work.’’

‘‘Mhm. I wonder how the hell he actually spent those months.’’

The next Monday, Hermione and Draco walk to the Wizengamot administrative headquarters, a few corridors down the Aurors’, and ask for Claire Alves, Byrne’s former boss and the one who had caught him in the lie. The witch complies with their request to go over what had happened without hesitation, sitting with them in a quiet office and telling them about the circumstances surrounding the incident. Once more, Byrne is described as a lazy, brazen employee, unwilling to do his job and preferring tasks that didn't have him working much. Alves, as it turns out, had gone a step further in her investigation and not only found out that the man had been fabricating a disease, but also that he was involved in semi-illegal betting enterprises. 

They uncover, therefore, that during the four months Byrne was on official medical leave he was essentially attempting to make money off smuggled fire crab fighting. It is no surprise to the Aurors that soon after that, he was terminated as a security guard.

‘‘How on Earth was he even allowed to take the exams to become a correctional officer after this clusterfuck? Well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s keep going. Next in our list of suspicious activities: in the past year since Byrne has been working at the Wizengamot Detention Centre, he’s already accumulated four warnings. It’s the policy of the WDC that each officer can, at most, receive five warnings; if the last one occurs, it lays the ground for discharge with cause.’’

‘‘He got four warnings in one year? Damn, he’s toeing that line boldly.’’

‘‘He is. And there’s no more details in the file about what said warnings were about.’’

Following this third clue, April starting to reach its end, Hermione and Draco apparate to the WDC for a meeting with Warden Thompson. In possession of a formal request issued by the Head Deputy of the DMLE, in which a breach of confidentiality regarding private matters of an officer on duty is petitioned, they watch the man begrudgingly inform them that three of the warnings Bryne received revolved around tardiness and absences, while the final one concerned inappropriate conduct, as the correctional officer was caught drinking before his shift had ended.

Hermione doesn’t understand how such an unprofessional, inept geezer could still be employed guarding one of the most central facilities in Wizarding society, but she keeps her thoughts to herself as the warden in front of her looks ready to snap. Surely he’s not happy for having this problematic classified information exposed to outsiders. Instead, she and her partner thank him for his cooperation and apparate back to the Ministry, travelling to Level 2 in an inevitably morose spirit.

None of the leads so far have gotten them anywhere. Weeks have passed since they directed their investigation on Andrew Byrne as a suspect, and nothing. They’re nowhere closer to finding proof that he’s The Death Eater’s inside person, and much less to cracking the Zimcooke case in the slightest.

They don’t talk, marching inside the Aurors Office with dejected countenances, resigned to search yet again for another scrap of intel, anything to keep them going, even though they have no idea where to. They cross Mackenzie and Harry on their way, exchanging apathetic greetings as they do, and it’s probably their aura of sheer detachment that makes the Head Deputy stop them on their tracks.

‘‘Alright, Draco, Hermione?’’

‘‘Alright, Emily. You?’’

She hums. ‘‘Just going over a few personnel issues with Potter. Are you two busy right now?’’

Hermione and her partner trade unenthused glances. ‘‘Not really. Why?’’

‘‘Would you mind joining us? As my top stats-leading Aurors, the three of you could really help me with, er, a pickle that I find myself in.’’

Hermione would much rather not have to spend any fragment of her time next to Harry if she can avoid it, but the situation is not one to warrant private preferences. She’s at work, and it’s her boss requesting something from her; a boss who has been extremely accommodating and supportive through Hermione’s wild-goose chase of late.

Because of that, she readily nods and sees from the corner of her eyes Draco doing the same, with a mirrored lack of enthusiasm.

‘‘Great. Follow me.’’

They do, walking behind the tall, slim woman toward her office. Harry is the last to enter, closing the door behind them before staring with a flat expression at the sofa that only marginally fit three people; her, her former partner and her current will have to squeeze themselves in order to sit next to each other on the furniture.

Draco, quick on his feet as usual, fixes the problem: he conjures an armchair and at once urges Hermione to take a seat on it, nonchalant as ever. Hermione can’t smother a bright smile as she thanks him for his kindness, relieved to not have to be closer to Harry than what she’d like. The two men get to their places, side by side, and they shift their focus to Mackenzie.

‘‘Thank you, all three, for taking the time to go through this rundown with me.’’ Hermione frowns, not knowing exactly what she means, so she clarifies. ‘‘As you know, Caroline Evans is going on maternity leave in the beginning of May, as is Lynn Shafiq at the end of that month. What we did not know- well, not expected, actually, was that Harold Hopkins would apply for a sabbatical and Arnie Chang would fall sick at the same time.’’

‘‘Arnie is sick?’’ Hermione asks with a heavy heart.

‘‘Yes. Dragon Pox. He’ll be away for at least a month.’’ Hermione winces, grieved for the poor lad, and Mackenzie carries on.  ‘‘So you see in what a tight spot I currently find myself. Within two weeks I’ll be short four officers for a pretty long period of time. That’s why I asked you here. I need to do some serious reshuffling to make sure the division doesn’t suffer from this shortage of staff, and since you’re my most entrusted Aurors, and sort of leaders around here, I imagined you could help me find a solution that will be good for the entire office.’’

Not having an immediate answer to this, Hermione fiddles with her hair.

Harry, in turn, doesn’t waste time playing coy, pretending to wait for someone else to offer a suggestion first; he jumps in straightaway. ‘‘I think you should dissolve a few partnerships. Temporarily, at least. We’ve been experiencing a low season, with far less patrol incidents and open investigations than normal. Surely that won’t last, but until it becomes busy again, you could split some teams so that you have a bigger number of officers to assign to different cases. Most cases don’t need two Aurors on it, anyway.’’

Hermione swallows, zeroing on Mackenzie to assess her reaction. Irrational as it may be, she’s instantly worried that the Head Deputy will separate Draco from her; even if only temporarily, as Harry puts it, the perspective turns her stomach in knots.

‘‘Who would you suggest?’’

Hermione now stares at Harry, paying close attention to the words that leave his mouth. ‘‘Well, I have a few ideas.’’ He starts, slowly. ‘‘Montenegro, Mills, Cooper and O’Neil will already be without a partner, since theirs will be away for one reason or other. I’d say let it be; I’m confident they can perform their current tasks by themselves, as long as they’re not assigned anything extra. And, erm, I can also work alone, uh, if needed. For the next couple months.’’

He says the last part in a remarkably sheepish tone, as if barely daring to get the suggestion out. Hermione catches that, and muses if his partnership with Fawley isn’t going as swell as it appeared to be a few months ago. Hermione wouldn’t find it odd; her former best friend is a discreet bloke, one that would rather show his skills than talk about them, whilst his boisterous partner is quite the opposite. It is no wonder that Harry would favour some time alone, working by himself in his cases without the ever-counterproductive presence of someone who is a notable show-off.

Mackenzie deliberates on his proposition with a pensive face. ‘‘Mhm. That might be a good idea. Is Fawley on board with this too?’’

Harry bites the inside of his cheeks. ‘‘Erm, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind it too terribly.’’

Hermione wants to chuckle, because it’s obvious they have never talked about it and the idea is one hundred percent one-sided. She stifles the humour and contents herself with only watching them, still wrestling with her hair which, today, seems a little more prone to unkemptness than usual. 

‘‘Alright. I’ll note that down. Any other suggestions?’’ At that, Mackenzie glances at Hermione and then, at Draco.

The latter tilts his head. ‘‘You could always offer incentives to those who do overtime. Such as extra holiday days or paying a higher margin per worked hour. They did that at the Department of International Magical Cooperation when I worked there: paid the officers who reached a certain mark of overtime per week an extra two galleons. That way, the people we have available at the headquarters will be encouraged to work for longer, which will lessen the staff shortage.’’

‘‘That’s also a good idea.’’ Mackenzie says at the same time Harry supplies, snidely-

‘‘Will you do overtime too, Malfoy?’’

Before her partner can comment on it, Hermione inserts herself in the back-and-forth. ‘‘That’s none of your business, Harry.’’ She turns to Mackenzie. ‘‘I’ll cover for Draco. I’ll do overtime every day of the week if you want me, Emily. Er, except Sunday. But the rest I’ll do it, I don’t mind.’’

She doesn’t miss, in her periphery, Draco smirking at her mention of not working on Sundays; after all, it’s their day.

‘‘I won’t make you work extra every day, Hermione, but thanks for the offer. I’ll set up a scheme with everyone’s scale for the upcoming weeks and I’ll divide the extra hours evenly so that every Auror does one night a week but no one does too much more than that. I’ll also inform Montenegro, Cooper, Mills and O’Neil that they’re to go without a partner for the next month. And Fawley, too.’’ She scribbles a few things in a parchment before nodding at them. ‘‘Alright. Thank you for your suggestions. It's been very helpful.’’

‘‘You’re welcome.’’

Hermione and Draco stand, but Harry remains in his sitting position. He looks like he has something to say and, sensing it might not be for their ears, they move along, going in the direction of the door. There, Draco stops, as always letting her go first. Before she does, though, Hermione reaches her limit; she pulls at the hair tie, irritated, freeing her messy locks and instantly feeling better for it. Sometimes one should simply accept that a bad hair day is there to stay, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

Draco, at the sight of it, smirks again. ‘‘Alright, Granger?’’

‘‘My hair is annoying me today.’’

He crooks his smile. ‘‘I can see that.’’ His eyes rove freely, trailing across her face and thoroughly taking her untamed curls in. She can tell, without any semblance of doubt, that he likes what he sees. His silver gaze sharpens. ‘‘You look positively... dishevelled.’’

This time, she takes it for what it really is: a compliment. 

He loves her dishevelled. He’s told her so a handful of times during their most intimate moments - when she’s panting and flushed, frantic with the need to come, unable to care about how tousled she looks, or when she’s recovering from a powerful climax, lying in the bed next to him, as rumpled as the sheets beneath them. He’d kiss her long and deep, whispering in her ear that she’s beautiful.

The implications of his words, now, in Mackenzie’s office, send a rush of desire through her. Hermione shakes her head, very aware of the impropriety of it all. 

‘‘Shut up, Draco.’’ 

‘‘I’m not saying anything.’’

She can’t fight a chuckle at this; he’s incorrigible.

She opens her mouth, ready to retort something sassy, but suddenly takes note of Harry. At some point, he had gotten to his feet and approached them without her acknowledging it. The bespectacled bloke hovers a few feet away, and twisting her neck in his direction, she realises he’d been watching them with narrowed eyes.

It spurs her to action.

She hurriedly leaves their boss’ office and walks to her desk. Swivelling in her chair, giving her back to the corridor, she dodges having to meet Harry’s attentive gaze again. When Draco takes his place in front of her, a few beats later, she leans forward to hiss at him.

‘‘You have to behave, you prat.’’

He has the gall to laugh. ‘‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry.’’

‘‘People will start noticing if you keep looking at me like that around here.’’

‘‘I know. Sorry, love.’’

‘‘And don’t call me love.’’ She hurls in retort but, this time, there’s no bite in it. 

Draco grins and Hermione, unable to resist him, grins right back.

When the first week of May comes around, Hermione is recovering from a debilitating flu. One that had her leaving work earlier on Friday, physically incapable of doing her job for a single second longer, and spending the entire weekend prostrated in bed. It’s only on the following Wednesday morning that she starts to feel better, nose still blocked but no more fever or headaches. Feeling guilty for having been less than useful when Mackenzie needed her the most, as the new month brings along the discussed staff shortage, Hermione tries her best to compensate for her subpar performance of late. As such, when a junior Auror that had been assigned to take the Sunday shift backs down at the last minute, she tells her boss that she doesn’t mind replacing him.

She’s barely out of Mackenzie’s open office, walking in the direction of the kitchen for a cuppa, when a firm hand wraps around her elbow and pulls her until she’s behind a pillar in the deserted corridor.

Flashbacks pop behind eyelids at the sight of Draco in front of her, crowding her in; particularly because of the angry look on his face, not at all that different from how he looked the last time he pushed her against a pillar after she had attempted to step down from their investigation.

She smiles at the memory and he scowls. ‘‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’’

Even the words are similar. She chuckles. ‘‘What on Godric’s tits are you talking about, Draco?’’

‘‘Why did you volunteer to work on Sunday?’’

‘‘Well, because Johnson backed down and I-’’

‘‘Yes, I know why. But what I’m asking is, why?’’ This obviously doesn’t make any sense so Hermione only stares at him until he sighs. ‘‘Granger, Sunday is our day. We already didn’t do anything last weekend because you were sick, now you also intend to spend this next one apart?’’

‘‘We did do something last Sunday. You nursed me back to health, remember?’’

Once more, she smiles as he scowls.

Draco had visited her while she was ill, stopping by her flat to bring hot soup and cold medicines. He had massaged her head and given her sweet kisses on the cheek, wishing her a speedy recovery. He didn’t stay long, returning to Scorpius within the hour, but Hermione still cherished how much care he had shown her.

‘‘That doesn’t count.’’ 

‘‘Why not?’’ She asks though she knows the answer.

He huffs, utterly exasperated with her. ‘‘Because… You know why.’’ When Hermione continues to act daft, he snaps. ‘‘Because I haven’t fucked you in almost two weeks, and it’s driving me crazy.’’ Suddenly his body is pressed to hers and his hand has found the roots of her hair to grab with purpose. ‘‘If I don’t have you soon, I will no longer be able to behave around here like you expect me to.’’

Hermione barely contains a whimper. 

‘‘Draco.’’ She calls in warning, which does nothing to bring him back to their current reality of standing in a very public space where any of their coworkers could walk by and catch them in this compromising situation. ‘‘You’re not behaving right now.’’

‘‘This is nothing, Granger. You have no idea how close I am to-’’

‘‘Draco.’’

At her tone, he sighs again, lowering his hand. ‘‘I miss you. It’s been a long time. I just wanna be with you, no one around, just you and me.’’

She softens. ‘‘I know. Me too.’’

‘‘Can’t you tell Mackenzie you can’t make it on Sunday?’’

‘‘I already promised her that I would.’’

He deflates. Resigned at last, he takes a step back. Heart on her throat, Hermione looks fleetingly around, clocking the empty place before rising on her tiptoes to enlace his neck. She pins her lips on his for a moment; a breath-stealing moment in time.

She reclaims a safe distance, letting go of him and leaning against the pillar again. 

Their eyes meet, dozens of emotions warring for the spotlight. Draco’s jaw ticks and his hands flex by his side, but he remains still, not daring to touch her again.

He swallows.

‘‘Are you coming to the pub on Friday?’’

His voice is husky, full of something she recognises as restraint only because she’s exercising the very same thing; it sends goosebumps all over her flesh. ‘‘Erm, I think so. If I’m still feeling good by then.’’

She hasn’t patronised The Porcelain Pixie in a couple of weeks, due to the flu but also an extra shift on one of the Friday nights. But she misses the lads, her new group of friends. And if it’s an excuse to spend more time around Draco, even better.

‘‘Okay.’’ Draco replies and his eyebrows furrow, seemingly in calculation. After a couple of instants drag by, he speaks again. ‘‘I could ask Daphne to pick up Scorpius earlier. Normally, she arrives a little bit before eight so I can leave for the pub, but I could ask her to come, say, at seven.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ He shrugs. ‘‘And then, maybe, I could come by the flat before we have to apparate to the Pixie.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘Does that sound good?’’

Hermione’s grin is wide. ‘‘Sounds perfect.’’ He grins, too, and appears on the verge of stepping into her again. ‘‘Draco.’’ Another warning. ‘‘Behave.’’

His limbs go slack and he takes a deep breath. ‘‘Right.’’

Sending her a final heavy look, he turns around and goes back inside the headquarters. Hermione exhales, recomposing herself, and proceeds in the direction of the kitchen.

It has been a challenge to maintain their distance while at work. They’re together the entire time, going through case by case, having lunch and countless staff meetings almost every day, walking in and out of the Ministry on field missions. They’re glued to each other nine hours a day but they can’t touch. They can’t kiss; they can’t even look at one another without the need to disguise their true feelings.

And although they have faltered a few times, not really behaving as they should, Hermione doesn’t think anyone suspects them. 

Except, perhaps, Harry.

Since their gathering with Mackenzie to find solutions to the unexpected deficit in their workforce, she has noticed Harry paying a little too close attention to her interactions with Draco. He’s never commented anything to that end, but she has caught her former best friend glancing at them more often than not, seemingly studying their body language and keeping an ear open for their conversations. She knows he probably became curious after their careless flirtatious display in the Head Deputy’s office, yet she wonders if he might have other reasons to suspect.

She wonders if the kids told him about their day in Hogsmeade.

That’s to say- they probably did. Children never shut up about anything, and she highly doubts they haven’t mentioned Scorpius after spending hours together roaming the Scottish village with ice cream and several books and toys in hand. But what she now speculates is whether they provided any details concerning how they oh-so-accidentally bumped into each other there and how Hermione and Draco treated one another throughout their outing.

Likely not, though; kids might talk their mouths off but they’re not particularly perceptive creatures. 

Still… Harry may have caught something in between the lines. That might explain his interest in her dynamic with her partner lately, even more if he’s been talking to his wife. Has Ginny relayed her suspicions to him about when she floo-called Hermione and she looked a little, well, dishevelled? Has the couple, perhaps, put all the clues together to arrive at a certain undesired albeit correct conclusion?

Oh, well, either way. The only thing Hermione can do about it is try and be a little more subtle whenever she’s with Draco in front of colleagues. What Harry is thinking or what he might suspect is none of her business, just as much as what Draco does when his shift is over is none of his. And the same applies to Ginny. There’s nothing to it if they can’t prove that there’s something happening between Hermione and Draco; all they can do is speculate.

And Hermione doesn’t care about what other people think anymore. She’s past that; she’s come to a point in life where all that matters are things that bring her joy and fulfilment, things that keep her healthy and safe.

Like Draco. Like The Porcelain Pixie and her inter-house circle of friends. Like being alone by herself and feeling good in her own skin.

She wouldn’t exchange it for anything in the world.

Hermione’s tidying her kitchen when the fireplace erupts. Draco ducks inside the living room, dusting the ashes off his shoulders but otherwise looking absolutely flawless in his casual chic attire for the evening. Her heart, as it’s becoming the new normal, leaps when she sees him.

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

‘‘Hi, love.’’

The pet name he has chosen for her doesn’t make her life any easier; it only manages to cause her heart to perform even more acrobatics. One, because the word uttered in his low, deep voice is more irresistible than it has a right to be; and, second, because it doesn’t look like he calls anyone else that. He refers to his son as ‘‘baby’’ or ‘‘sweetheart,’’ which by itself already works swimmingly to undone her an inch further; and other people he cares for, such as friends or family members with whom he’s still in touch, he never uses any type of endearment. 

Only for her.

And love of all things.

How is she not supposed to feel utterly infatuated with him?

Ignorant of the effect he has on her, Draco advances toward the kitchen with blazing eyes and a wolfish walk. Hermione can already tell he’s ready to do all the misbehaving he’s not allowed to do at work. Attempting to keep herself in check, this perspective addling her mind, she goes on with the organising, putting away clean dishes and the leftovers of the ingredients she had used for dinner. As she reaches for an upper cupboard, Draco drapes himself behind her.

His arms rest on each side, caging her against the sink counter, as his head lowers to her height. His hot breath ghosts her left earlobe. ‘‘You’re not dressed.’’

She is not. She knew he was coming, as per their prior agreement, and she knew what that would entail. Aware that there wasn’t a single possibility that she wouldn’t get herself dirty and mussed after they did all they wanted to, Hermione decided to wait to get ready after everything was done. To not waste time with putting on clothes that Draco would immediately take off, and then having to re-apply her make-up and re-charm her unruly curls. 

Hermione is nothing if not pragmatic.

Hence her current ensemble: loose sweatpants and a sweater, hair pulled into a tight bun. Not her sexiest version, but it’s not like she needs to doll herself up to get him going. As repeatedly confirmed by now, he likes her dishevelled.

‘‘I figured it would be counterproductive to slip into a nice dress only for you to rip it off me as soon as you got here.’’

The grunt resonating from deep inside his chest informs her that he approves this answer. ‘‘Mhm. You’ve always been smart, haven’t you? The cleverest of our year.’’

Oomph.

Praising her by calling her intellect superior to everyone else’s? Draco has really learned how to turn her on in the most effective way.

He follows the compliment with a wet kiss to her neck, and Hermione’s moan sounds loud in the quiet apartment. It only encourages him, and he needs just a few more rotations of hips to harden. The feel of his erection against her bum sets her alight.

‘‘Draco. Let’s go to the bedroom.’’

‘‘Mhm, no. I’m gonna fuck you right here.’’

She keens, wanting to protest but incapable to voice her thoughts. As if she had any thoughts, really. Her mind is already heading to that subspace where rationality is disregarded in the benefit of the promised peace that a life-changing orgasm gifts her.

In response to her facile acquiescence, Draco proceeds to shove her sweatpants down to her ankles, bringing her knickers with it. He bends her torso forward, prepped with elbows on top of the counter, and drags her hips backward, in a position that throws her arse up in the air. Kicking her legs apart, he has her spread and pliant, easily yielding to whatever he fancies.

Another throaty grunt is indicative that he likes her just like that.

Hermione hears a shuffling noise, sensing one of his hands retreat from her waist to probably unfasten his trousers, and after a moment his tip nudges her. She keens again, bracing herself on the surface in front of her, holding tightly to the edges of the sink. But, instead of immediately pushing, Draco only rubs against her at first, smearing her wetness up and down until he’s satisfied that she’s lubricated enough. Not a second later he’s driving into her and her soft moans become sobs. Apparently not very content with the current angle he’s reaching, though, he abruptly sets her free. She whimpers, feeling the loss of him, but it doesn’t last long: Draco removes her sweatpants, untangling it from her ankles, so that he can pull her right leg up, hiking her knee over one of his forearms. Pleased, he plunges back in and Hermione can only do so much as to not scream.

He goes so deep like this, it feels like he’s going to tear her in two.

‘‘Fuck, you’re tight.’’

She can feel it. From behind it’s always a snugger fit, but they have never done it standing. They usually make use of her bed or sofa, preferring a comfortable position that allows them to enjoy the experience more thoroughly. Standing sex can be very tiring and, at times, just not as pleasurable as other stances. And yet, if she’s being completely honest… Right now, she’s unravelling quicker than any occasion before.

‘‘Draco, please.’’

He groans, not slowing the slapping of his hips. ‘‘Touch yourself, Granger. My hands are a little busy.’’

Whilst he’s supporting his left palm on the counter, to give him the traction to swing into her, his right one is still hoisting her leg. It makes her wide open for him but also for herself. It’s simple, therefore, to skate her fingers down and find her drenched core. Her swollen clit barely needs more stimulation than what’s already bringing every bundle of nerves in her body sharply to life.

But she grinds at it anyway and, as such, comes as hard and fast as her hapless body can take.

‘‘Salazar fuck.’’ Draco swears as she squeezes around him, becoming even tighter, and his pace teeters, losing all pretence of cadence, instead just slamming into her without any finesse. 

The final ripple of her orgasm is still going when Draco joins her, spilling inside and emitting a guttural moan that drowns her own. As they recover, still connected, they’re finally rendered silent, only their heavy breathing reverberating around the four walls of her kitchen. 

Slowly, Draco lets go of her thigh and helps her straighten. Wiping a drop of sweat from her brow, Hermione turns around and faces him for the first time this evening.

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

‘‘Hi, love.’’

They kiss, languid and sated, enjoying the bliss of the aftermath.

‘‘How’s Daphne?’’

‘‘She’s good.’’ He draws back, hands falling to tuck himself away. Hermione squats to retrieve her knickers, which she uses to temporarily clean herself. ‘‘She loves spending time with Scorpius, so it’s no hassle to stay longer.’’

‘‘That’s a good auntie. Tell me, what is she like?’’ They start walking, crossing Hermione’s living quarters to get to her bedroom. ‘‘I barely know anything about her, and it makes me curious.’’

‘‘She’s great, Granger. I mean, we don’t have much in common except for Scorpius, but that’s more than enough. She’s very committed to be there for him and, frankly, also for me.’’

‘‘I’m glad.’’

Throwing her dirty undergarment in the laundry basket and folding her sweatpants for later, when she’s back from the night out, Hermione fetches her wand and casts a cleansing spell. Stopping in front of the wardrobe, she muses about what she will wear tonight.

Draco takes a seat on the edge of her bed. ‘‘Do you remember her from Hogwarts? She was in our year.’’

‘‘I do. Well, a little. I remember her face and who she hung with, but we never really spoke.’’ Halting briefly in her search for an outfit, Hermione sends him a glance from over her shoulder. ‘‘Wasn’t she friends with Pansy?’’

‘‘She was.’’

‘‘As in… she’s not anymore?’’

Draco sighs. ‘‘Not really. She’s not friends with any Slytherin anymore.’’ At Hermione’s quizzical look, he elaborates. ‘‘After the war, the Greengrasses left Britain to recover from the tragedies. They lost a lot of family members in those years, you know.’’ She didn’t know that; Draco continues. ‘‘Astoria was the first to return and we almost immediately started dating. When we got engaged, Daphne came back to England, too, but she was very much changed by then. I think she blamed all of us for what happened. Me and the lads, all of our families. The Grengrasses never really aligned with blood supremacy values, but they found themselves having to play along with traditional pureblood families due to their standing and the pressure to act as such. That’s why when you asked me if they were involved with Scorpius’ upbringing, I told you no. Daphne is the only Greengrass still living here. And I suspect she only came back for Astoria and is staying now for Scorpius.’’

It tugs at Hermione’s heartstrings to learn about the witch’s plight. All alone in a country that only brings bad memories, and all due to her sister’s son. Because she’s the only Greengrass left in Scorpius’ life.

Clearing her throat from the clog of emotion, Hermione resumes her closet hunt. ‘‘I’d love to meet her one day. She sounds like a hell of a woman.’’

‘‘You will.’’

They fall quiet as Hermione gets herself ready. She ends up showering, feeling the need of it in her bones after such an intense tryst, and steps inside her bedroom again, wrapped in a towel, to start working on her hair and make-up. She has decided on a white flowy dress, since the weather is finally improving and it’s at least eighteen degrees outside. Drooping it over an armchair, paired with a light jacket, she stands before the mirror flicking her wand back and forth around her face.

When she’s done with it, she moves to grab the dress but Draco blocks her way.

‘‘You know what?’’ He begins conversationally, a naughty glint in his eyes. ‘‘We still have at least half an hour before we’re expected at the pub.’’ He toys with the edges of her towel for a moment before undoing it, letting it fall to the floor and exposing her. ‘‘I’m sure there are better ways to fill our time than waiting for everyone else to arrive.’’

‘‘Oh, are there? Pray tell.’’

He kisses her bare collarbones instead, running his sinful mouth over the ridges of her breasts. ‘‘It’d be better if I showed you.’’

‘‘Draco.’’ Hermione chuckles in exasperation. ‘‘I literally just finished my face and you wanna ruin it all over again?’’

‘‘I’d never do that. Your face is a work of art.’’ His mouth finds hers now, gently, not to mess with her make-up. ‘‘I’ll be careful. Actually, you know what?’’ Grinning roguishly, he drops back in bed. ‘‘You could just ride me. See? Problem solved. Your beautiful face will remain immaculate like this.’’

She shakes her head, affectionately riled with his antics, but she can already see a growing bulge pushing against his trousers. And, after all, she’s only human.

She promptly climbs into his lap.

‘‘You’re incorrigible.’’ 

Thirty four minutes, three orgasms, another shower and hair-curling spell later, they apparate to The Porcelain Pixie. She goes in first, so as not to raise any suspicions, which their arriving together certainly would, and Draco is to wait a few beats before following her. Only Theo and Lavender are already in the pub, sitting side by side at a table in the back. They don’t seem to notice her, engrossed in a conversation, and Hermione’s eyebrows lift at the intriguing scene. 

Hermione hasn’t forgotten the way Theo looked at her friend the first time she attended their weekly gatherings. The bloke appeared utterly besotted at the sight of the former Gryffindor and, in the past month in which Lavender has more frequently joined them at the bar, Hermione has noticed that the wizard’s interest has only seemed to increase. She didn’t really spot any reciprocation coming from Lavender, but perhaps that’s starting to change.

The witch looks quite at ease, talking animatedly with Theo, unaware of her surroundings.

‘‘Hello there.’’

The couple twists at once in her direction: Theo frowns, looking a little disappointed with the interruption, but Lavender only grins.

‘‘Babe! You’re here early.’’

‘‘Erm, yeah. I’ve missed the last two Friday nights, so I was looking forward to seeing everyone again.’’ She smiles. ‘‘How are you, Theo?’’

The man resettles himself with a congenial nod. ‘‘I’m well, thank you, Hermione. And you?’’

She pulls the chair in front of them, claiming her seat. ‘‘All good. Finally recovered from that awful flu.’’

‘‘Oh, that’s right! You told me that in a letter. I’m glad you’re feeling good again.’’

‘‘Thanks, Lav. Me too. Now I can finally do my job again, without feeling like I’m about to faint if I so much as fucking sneeze.’’

‘‘Aw, poor darling. But did you take the convalescent draught I recommended you the last-’’

‘‘Draco, hey.’’

At Theo’s calm greeting, Lavender stops talking as she glances at a point above Hermione’s head. Hermione cranes her neck toward Draco’s arrival, rearranging her expression into one of welcoming cordialness. He mirrors her casual reaction; smiling placidly, he moves to the head of the table.

‘‘Good evening. Sorry I’m late.’’

‘‘You’re not.’’ Theo replies. ‘‘It’s just us so far.’’ 

‘‘Well, I suppose I’m just less late than everyone else, then.’’

Hermione chuckles and so does Theo. Lavender only observes her partner with a keen gaze.

‘‘Malfoy, you look… peppy.’’ She arches an eyebrow, side-glancing Hermione. ‘‘I wonder why.’’

‘‘Friday nights always lift my mood, Brown. Doesn’t yours?’’

The two of them hold each other’s glare and Hermione gets up, predicting what’s about to happen. ‘‘What can I get you guys to drink?’’

She marches to the bar counter, glad to miss the stare down that is sure to take place for the next few minutes. Lavender knows Hermione and Draco are shagging regularly; she doesn’t necessarily endorse it. She thinks it’s too risky and Draco too unreliable. Though Hermione has tried to make her friend see that she actually doesn’t know Draco and that she has never given him a chance to show his true self to her, Lavender still acts like a mother hen, overly protective of Hermione. 

It feels good, having someone watching over her like this, but she wishes Lavender would stop being so snarky in front of other people. But, again, perhaps Theo also knows about their entanglement. Though Hermione would bet Draco didn’t tell too many people about it, and she has a gut feeling that Blaise is the one he would choose for that.

Speaking of the devil-

The dark-skinned man and his fair-skinned wife enter the pub, and the environment’s noise instantly rises an octave. Hermione walks back to the table with four glasses floating around her, mouth already stretched in an amused smile.

‘‘- and I was sure you would flake tonight, Nottie, which I’m glad that- Ah, Hermione! Look at you. A vision in white!’’

She laughs, distributing the beverages and leaning in to give Susan a hug. Blaise throws his arms around her when the two women are done, squeezing Hermione in between his biceps.

‘‘Urgh, Blaise! I hate when you do that.’’ She swats at him, but a grin still plays on her lips. Their relationship has changed from water into wine in the past few weeks. After Hermione finally decided to let go of her resentment towards him, they began getting along amazingly, trading inside jokes and bantering whole evenings long. Sometimes she wonders if that has also something to do with him knowing she’s the one making Draco so peppy.

‘‘You do look absolutely divine. I love this dress, Hermione!’’

‘‘Thanks, Suze. Finally the weather is allowing us to dress better.’’

‘‘Oh, tell me about it. This weekend, Blaise and I have a spring fête to attend and I was so worried I’d have to wear trousers. Imagine! But luckily I’ll get to flaunt my new collection of-’’

‘‘Salutes, you huddle of tossers.’’

It’s Pansy, accompanied by Neville.

‘‘Pans! I didn’t even hear you approach-’’

‘‘Nev, darling, how are you?’’

‘‘I’m good, thanks, how about-’’

‘‘Okay. Who’s buying the first round?’’

‘‘I already did, I just got four drinks-’’

‘‘Well, I don’t have anything in my hands, do I?’’

‘‘Can you see in my face any fucks I might give about that, Blaise?’’

‘‘Wait, lemme check. Turn to this side. Now the other-’’

‘‘I’ll get them! What does everyone want?’’

And so the chaos of their get-togethers starts. 

Albeit one would say it happened slowly and rockily, Hermione can’t see herself without the six of them- seven now with Lavender- anymore. Friday nights at The Porcelain Pixie, though not always weekly for her, have become one of the highlights of her routine. There are many things to which Hermione is grateful for helping her heal from the heartbreak of twenty months ago: work, Draco, her unmoveable grit. Meeting this improbable, messy group of people with so many different backgrounds, opinions and life paths, has certainly been one of them, too.

They keep her grounded to Earth, knowing there’s more to life than the office and her empty flat. Knowing that there’s more to her than her old ways; knowing that there’s more out there in the world than the people she used to know but doesn’t anymore. The seven of them have welcomed her when she was at her lowest, taking her in with arms wide open and yet always keeping her on her toes. Supporting her, but not buying into her shit. And she’s become better for it; she’s grown as a person with and because of them.

And she can’t recall the last time she’s felt this happy.

‘‘Oh, I just remembered!’’ Pansy exclaims abruptly. ‘‘Hermione, you insufferable bint. You still haven’t RSVP’d to the wedding.’’

Hermione grimaces as Pansy glares at her. ‘‘I forgot.’’

‘‘You are the worst-’’

‘‘I’m so sorry! I was gonna do it but then I got sick, and I totally forgot.’’

‘‘That’s absolutely no excuse for-’’

‘‘I know, I know. Babe, I’m so sorry.’’ Hermione never calls anyone babe, but she supposes Lavender’s mannerisms have found a way into her head. Also, she needs all tools available to try and placate Slytherin’s former ice queen. ‘‘I swear to you I’ll do it first thing tomorrow. Really, I swear to Merlin and all his hats.’’ Pansy seems less than convinced by it, so Hermione throws her arms around her, pleading apologetically. ‘‘Come on, Pans. Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s not on purpose, I’m just a little airy whenever there’s a-’’

‘‘Hermione?’’

He has always been one to command everyone’s attention. At school, he revelled in it, often doing exaggerated, over-the-top romps so that all eyes would fall on him, and his brother. Though Hermione suspects he doesn’t do it intentionally now, it works just the same: every single person around the table stops talking and stares at the source of the unexpected voice.

George Weasley.

And Angelina Weasley, a step behind her husband but looking at the circle with the same bugged eyes.

Hermione swallows, swiftly overcoming her surprise. ‘‘Oh. Hey, George. Angelina. How are you?’’

They don’t answer right away, gaze still somewhat widened as they stand in between tables at the bar, bodies frozen in their direction. A beat passes and Hermione sees George’s eyes make the whole round: first to the arms she still has draped over Pansy’s shoulders (at that, she discreetly removes them), then to her right side- Susan, Blaise, Lavender, Theo, Draco and, finally, Neville.  

Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor.

‘‘Hi, guys! Good to see you.’’ Neville chirps during the silence that follows, as usual the nicest bloke around.

The former Gryffindors still appear to have been hit in the head by a bludger. It’s Angelina who recovers first, clearing her throat and making a fierce attempt at a friendly smile. ‘‘Hi, Neville and Hermione. We’re good. How about you?’’

‘‘I’m good, thank you. How are Freddy and Roxie?’’

‘‘Good, good.’’

‘‘Good.’’

It’s all rather awkward. Angelina can hardly offer a follow-up while George hasn’t said a word since the initial calling of Hermione’s name in sheer bewilderment. He still stares, gaze jumping back and forth between the eight of them, looking like he doesn’t really believe what he’s seeing.

Hermione gets it; they’re an odd group of friends. She used to think that as well, though lately it’s becoming more difficult to remember a time before they were her dear mates, and no one else. But, still, it must look absolutely incongruent to George the sight of them together. To be honest, though? She doesn’t give a flying shit about what he makes of it.

Before, when she was still the old Hermione Granger, she would try to ease the tension, throw in some small talk to get the conversation going, fill the air with anxious ramblings. The new version of herself can’t be fucking arsed. She just stares back, waiting for their move since they’re the ones, particularly George, who are being rude.

Angelina breaks the ice again. ‘‘Er, I didn’t know you-’’ She gestures weakly to the circle. ‘‘Erm, that you all hung out together.’’

‘‘Oh, you didn’t? Tsk, what a shame.’’ Of course Blaise wouldn’t remain subdued; certainly not in such a cringey situation. It’s exactly in those that he thrives. ‘‘But worry not.’’ He says magnanimous, sending a wink in Hermione’s direction. ‘‘Our Hermione here also found it all very strange in the beginning and look at her now: my best friend in the world!’’

In normal circumstances, Hermione would tell him to piss off. Likewise, Draco would roll his eyes, Theo would pat Blaise’s forearms in an attempt to curb his theatrics, Lavender would shoot daggers, and the rest would just endure it because it was Blaise being Blaise. At the moment, though, what the seven of them do, simultaneously, is laugh.

Blaise can be an annoying bloke, but he’s their annoying bloke. And, right now, he’s making it very clear that this is their group, and Hermione is very much a part of it.

Another awkward minute drags by.

‘‘Well, it sure was lovely to see you again.’’ Lavender pipes up when the silence starts to seem endless. Her voice is overtly sweet and blatantly sarcastic. ‘‘Don’t forget to try the Tarantula’s Venom, it’s their best cocktail.’’ Her words sound of a strong dismissal and, just so there’s no confusion over her meaning, she waves her hand in the air. ‘‘Please, do send my regards to Won-Won.’’

At that, laughter explodes again. The table sets off, howling at the cheeky remark. Hermione does her best to stay composed, also waving her goodbyes when she sees the couple finally moving on, walking further inside the pub to find a spot on the opposite side of them. After a while, though, she gives in, freely chuckling at her friend’s bluntness.

Her eyes catch Draco’s, who shine alight, satisfaction wrinkling the corners. He grins at her and she grins back.

She’s happier than she’s ever been, and she knows she deserves it.

Chapter Text

Of course things couldn’t remain great forever.

It’s on a Thursday that Draco’s black owl taps at her window, too late at night to be the carrier of good news. Confirming her suspicions, Hermione reads the letter that informs her that the wedding of the season is off: Pansy and Neville have broken up. On the very next day, eery alarms blare through the entire DMLE, bearing the other string of bad news: a mass breakout took place at the Wizengamot’s Detention Centre and John Catrall, Jimmy Tremlet and every other Zimcooke case-related detainee have escaped for good.

‘‘That’s not what I asked. I asked if the Forensic Lab is done with their preliminary report or not.’’

‘‘I don’t have that information yet, ma’am.’’

‘‘Well, then what are you doing here staring at me with this sorry face? Go get it. Now.’’

The words are harsh enough for Hermione and Draco to exchange glances. Not that they didn’t expect the rudeness coming from the head of the department; it’s just that it’s the third brusque order she’s barked in only the past half an hour and, even for Hestia, that’s a record.

They’re not alone in their discomfort; Mackenzie rests a hand over their boss’ elbow, speaking low into her ear. ‘‘Hestia, calm down. Everyone here is doing their best. There’s no need to snap at rookies.’’

The other woman doesn’t bat an eye. ‘‘Their best is not good enough.’’ She steps forward, disentangling herself from Mackenzie and addressing the next poor bastard. ‘‘Aguila, have you heard anything from Warden Thompson? He was supposed to be back from the emergency meeting with the minister an hour ago.’’

‘‘Erm, not yet, ma’am.’’ The blonde witch, an undersecretary of Wizengamot’s security division, clearly struggles to keep her voice steady. ‘‘He said he would send a memorandum once he had more information for us.’’

Hestia glowers. ‘‘That won’t do. Go after him. He doesn’t get to choose when he’s ready to talk to us; we do. I want to see him in my office within twenty minutes. Go tell him that.’’

Aguila nods and, wisely, spins on her heels to immediately do what she’s been told.

The Operations Room falls quiet, not a single whisper among the dozens of officers gathered around. They all look at Hestia and wait tensely for the next command. She sighs, returning their stares.

‘‘Okay, listen up. I’m aware I’m not being very nice at the moment. That might be a little upsetting to some of you, so I’m gonna be clear about it once and for all: grow the hell up and get over it. We’re in the middle of a crisis rarely seen before. A mass escape just occurred right under our noses, not only causing irreparable damage on a central Ministry facility, but also jeopardising one of our most important cases. It’s an emergency situation, if you haven’t figured that out yet, so standard protocols are off and it’s up to us to adapt to it in order to do our bloody jobs. So my question is, are you ready for it or not?’’ An uninspired chorus of yes peels around them, and the head of the DMLE purses her lips. ‘‘Alright, then. Let’s get this done.’’

They disperse without needing to hear it twice.

Hermione and Draco stay behind, lingering by the door as the last officers filter out. Instead of acknowledging them, as it would be expected since they are in charge of the case they had just been discussing, Hestia marches right past them, face hard and unapproachable, not sparing a look in their direction. She leaves the room, and it’s just the two Aurors and Mackenzie.

And Harry.

Noticing that her former friend is still around, Hermione clamps her mouth shut. She’d been on the verge of conferring with the Head Deputy, but she won’t do so in front of him. Draco, taking by his stiff posture next to her, is of the same opinion.

For a moment, the four of them just look at each other.

Then Harry goes ahead with his usual bluntness. ‘‘This is getting out of hand. I’ve never seen such a thing before, these breakouts. First Michael Lowburn, now seven prisoners in one go. How is this even happening?’’

Hermione and Draco maintain their silence while Mackenzie replies, carefully. ‘‘We’re still trying to ascertain that.’’

‘‘How?’’ Disbelief colours Harry’s huff. ‘‘What’s been done in that respect?’’ His green eyes slant to the two partners. ‘‘Do you guys have any leads on the escapes? At all?’’ Once more, Hermione and Draco only trade glances, refraining from speaking up. Naturally, Harry catches on to that. His gaze narrows. ‘‘You do, don’t you? What are you not telling me?’’

Draco breaks the impasse. ‘‘Look, Potter. I know you’ve helped with the case before and that you have all the reasons to want it solved, just like everybody else at the DMLE. But there are certain aspects to the investigation that shouldn’t be disclosed to those who are not-’’

‘‘I think we should loop him in.’’

Draco’s words die on his throat at the same time Hermione’s mouth falls open. ‘‘Excuse me, Emily?’’

Mackenzie sets her jaw, mind made up. In a flash her wand whirls, throwing the door closed and silencing their surroundings. ‘‘I’ve told you countless times before: you three are the best I have in the department. And this case is fucking with us in ways I’ve seldom experienced before. We need every hand on deck. More than that, we urgently need our most competent Aurors working together to crack this.’’ Mackenzie’s voice turns coaxing as she tells Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Harry’s on our side, guys. You know that. He’s only interested in solving the case, and not in whatever politics might be at stake. And if there’s anyone around here who doesn’t care about going against the rules, you know it’s him.’’

The last part she directs at Hermione. 

Which is utterly unnecessary - as if Hermione could ever forget all the times she’s helped him break those exact same rules for a greater cause; every time they snuck about and lied and paid no mind to whichever hierarchical authority was telling them to conform. Harry has only won the Second Wizarding War because he went against the current, never contenting himself with following others.

Hermione knows he doesn’t care about politics, Mackenzie doesn’t need to remind her of that.

Yet, she vacillates. ‘‘I don’t know, Emily. It’s not his case. It’s not his problem.’’

‘‘It’s everyone’s problem right now, Hermione. We’ve hit rock bottom. We need a fucking win.’’ As the two of them still hesitate, Mackenzie’s eyes flatten. ‘‘How’s your investigation on Bryne going, by the way?’’

Hermione feels herself instantly souring. 

‘‘Who’s Byrne?’’

Draco ignores Harry. ‘‘We’re still studying the files. There have been a couple of leads, but…’’

He trails off, so Mackenzie finishes the sentence for him. ‘‘But they haven’t panned out.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Mhm, I see.’’

Hermione and Draco hold their boss’ gaze, interpreting the sharpness of it rather well. She dares them to make the next move.

‘‘Who the hell is Byrne?’’

Hermione sighs and, with a brief glance at Draco for acquiescence, gives in. ‘‘He’s a correctional officer at the WDC. We think he’s dirty.’’ She tells Harry, causing his eyebrows to climb to his hairline. She shakes her head, swallowing her reticence. ‘‘The theory we’ve been following in the past month is that he’s been working with the Essex gang. We think he was the one that made Lowburn’s escape possible. And, now, for all intents and purposes, the other prisoners’ as well.’’

Silence settles meaningfully whilst Harry digests the information. 

To his credit, he does it quickly. ‘‘So the WDC is compromised. Well… I mean- yeah, that would make sense. Last time a massive breakout like this happened was when Voldemort managed to enlist the dementors and everyone in Azkaban was set free. That’s the only way I can think of for someone to escape such a maximum security prison.’’ He pauses for a beat before smirking. ‘‘Well, and being an Animagus. That also helps a lot if one’s trying to flee.’’

Hermione can’t stifle a smile. She rolls her eyes, good-naturedly. ‘‘I’m certain that’s not the case here, Harry.’’

‘‘Hopefully.’’ He becomes serious again. ‘‘Alright, so you found a suspect. What do you have on him so far?’’

Draco, who had been watching the odd positive interaction between Hermione and Harry with an unimpressed expression, answers the question. ‘‘Nothing much. Our leads turned out to be dead ends. We’re still trying to dig something up on him.’’

‘‘Mhm. How about other suspects?’’

‘‘We don’t have any. He’s the only one who stands out in our investigation. Everyone else seems pretty much clean.’’

‘‘Eh. That’s a downer.’’

A moment passes before Mackenzie presses on. ‘‘I think Harry should join your investigation from now on. Officially. You guys need any help you can get.’’

Hermione barely contains a pout. ‘‘Emily. There’s really no need for that. And we’re going through a staff shortage, remember? This would only worsen it.’’

‘‘Nothing trumps the importance of this case, Hermione. Hestia might’ve tried to play it down but Zimcooke is the most important case at the moment, not just one of them. The entire Ministry is freaking out about it, more than what they have about anything in a very long time. Like I said, we need all hands on deck. Leave the shortage for everything else; for this, right here, you’ve got all the resources you might ever need available to you.’’

It’s extremely hard, but Hermione manages a curt nod. Who is she to counter the Head Deputy? Hestia is clearly pissed at them, somehow blaming them for the whole incident - or perhaps just for their by-now characteristic lack of results. They can’t have another boss against them. And more so: Mackenzie knows what’s up, on both sides. She wouldn’t suggest it if she didn’t think it necessary.

At Draco’s following agreement, Mackenzie seems to relax. ‘‘Right. Great. That’s settled, then. Please update Harry on your progress in the investigation so far.’’ She offers them a sort of lopsided smile. ‘‘Both on the record and off the record. I have to go now, I have a debriefing in ten minutes, but I’m sure it will be done before the end of the day. So don’t hesitate to come to me if you need anything.’’

Without another word, she’s gone and it’s only Hermione along with her former and current partners.

The man who used to be her best friend and the one who’s been presently occupying that spot.

The former speaks first, a laconic look on his face. ‘‘Listen, Hermione. Er, and Malfoy.’’ He adds Draco’s name almost like an afterthought. ‘‘I know this is far from ideal for you right now. I know none of us really have, erm, a good relationship. But this is not what this is about. I only want to help with the case. Genuinely.’’ His eyes shine with sincerity as he stares at Hermione and Hermione only. ‘‘It’s not my intention to make your life harder. And I know working with me- being around me… It’s not what you want or feel comfortable with. So I won’t get on your way, I promise. I’m not gonna impose myself. I’ll help however you want me to; just say the word, whatever you want me to do, and I’ll do it. We don't even need to spend time working together. You tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it far away from you.’’

Hermione’s hackles promptly shrink.

That’s not how it’s supposed to be. They’re coworkers and their boss just gave them a direct order. Harry shouldn’t be worried about bothering her when their sights should be on solving the case and nothing else. That he feels the need to promise her he won’t be in her way fills her with shame for being so easy to read, and so stubbornly against working with the bespectacled wizard, who’s namely one of the best Aurors she’s ever seen in action. 

‘‘That won’t be necessary, Harry.’’ She asserts. ‘‘Like Mackenzie said, we need every help we can get. I know how good you are. I’m sure you’ll be an advantageous addition to our investigation.’’ Just to be sure, she glances at Draco and his subtle but definitive nod lets her know he backs her up on that. She carries on more firmly. ‘‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I know how to keep my feelings in check at work.’’ Well… Perhaps that’s not entirely true but, luckily, none of the people in the room call her out on it. It’s for everyone’s benefit that certain things are left unmentioned, such as her being incapable of remaining partners with Harry after everything that happened between them or, if one wants to be too on the nose, her barely being able to stop herself from jumping Draco’s bones in the office. She takes a deep breath, pushing these thoughts away. ‘‘If we’re going to do this, then we must do it right. No half measures.’’

Harry exhales, and Hermione swears he appears a little relieved. ‘‘Alright. Let’s do it.’’

It goes like this: they tell him everything they know, from every contradictory piece of evidence to the pressure they have been exposed to at the Ministry in the past few months. Hermione relays to Harry word for word of her talk with Kingsley at the gala, Draco explains how he came to the realisation that the case wasn’t actually one of blood supremacy and, together, they guide him through their alternative theory and on-going side investigation. Harry knows nothing about Scrying magic, nor has he ever heard of Richard Patrickson and his experimental black-labelled elixirs; he never once interacted with Andrew Byrne and his knowledge of the WDC, its prisoners and possible escape routes is close to zero.

All in all, he only listens without contributing much. It’s fine, Hermione reassures him. They also know very little. But at least now a new pair of eyes and working brain have been added to the mix, which can only bring welcome fresh perspectives to a case that had become all but terribly stale.

Strangely, she feels soothed with Harry’s sudden inclusion in their team. Though she still finds herself struggling to address him without awkwardness, miles away from how they used to be, there’s a certain solace in knowing that he, too, is in it now. After all, Harry is the person who has always been at the forefront of solving the biggest puzzles, always leading life-or-death tasks, always being there to shoulder the responsibility. Except for that one time (the one that mattered the most), Hermione has always known in her heart she could count with him.

And despite everything, this feeling of blind trust apparently has yet to fade.

So they slowly begin working together, somewhat in secret, always meeting at Mackenzie’s office or the last conference room of the DMLE’s Level. The entire office is on high alert and, unlike last time, after Lowburn’s escape, the situation doesn’t improve after a few days. On the contrary, the atmosphere becomes tenser and tenser, the disappointing absence of new leads or understanding about how such a gaolbreak could have happened pestering the air, staining every spoken and unspoken interaction. Hestia remains holding the reins strenuously, tauter than ever before, tossing blame around and openly exasperated with the lack of immediate results.

Bereft of four men and with double shifts due to the crisis status of the department, the Aurors’ scale scheme turns into a nightmare: everyone’s supposed to do overtime at least three times a week (at Hestia’s orders) and weekends are no longer a given; every active officer is expected to be available at a minute’s notice and holiday or leave requests are summarily denied for the time being. Draco, once more, starts staying past five o’clock and their Sundays are as good as gone. As such, Harry joins them whenever he has a chance, working simultaneously on the cases he’s assigned to alone, now that he’s no longer partnered with Fawley, and on their side investigation, helping them track down the scarce leads they still have on Byrne.

Following the mass escape, after the standard round of questioning and forensic tests, Hermione and Draco visit the Detention Centre and bring Harry along. With the excuse of doing an extra round, they use the opportunity to prowl around Byrne, to try and sniff something out of him. It takes Harry only ten minutes to agree with them: there’s something off about the bloke. 

And yet, nothing in his files, work or personal, further boosts them; they have hit a wall.

Until, of course, a breakthrough miraculously happens.

Mackenzie is the one to bring it forward. In an agitated frame of mind, she calls for an emergency meeting with the Ministry heads (from the seven main departments) and the two officers-in-charge of the case. After ten days of chasing after their own tails, the DMLE is abruptly faced with a very tangible source of intel: a former gang member wants to come clean and become an informant.

Unsurprisingly, Hestia is thrilled to bits with the development and for the next few hours the whole office is fixated on the handling of the individual. On the sidelines, Hermione and Draco watch the interrogation from afar and, likewise, the stream of information that flows readily from the man.

Puck, as he identifies himself, tells Hestia and Mackenzie that the Essex gang has lost its way: once directed at profitable targets and dividing the gains equally between the members, under the leadership of The Death Eater the organisation now only has eyes for the corruption of the Ministry. No longer petty criminals, the new members have allowed blood-purity beliefs to brainwash them and make them obsessed with the dismantling of the Wizarding society’s current order in hopes of imposing a better, purer one. Gone is the financial goal, replaced by an ideology that Puck, himself, doesn’t subscribe to.

Or at least that’s what he tells them.

Hermione and her partner can only listen in silence as the story develops according to the planned script, doubling down on the conspiracy theory and following the plot they had predicted long ago: a calculated move to throw the Ministry off. Next to her, Dedalus Diggle, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, almost shrieks in excitement when the informant starts rattling off names, many of them known convicted Death Eaters.

‘‘Aha! I knew something’s gotta give. We couldn’t stay in the dark forever.’’ He winks at Hermione. ‘‘Cheer up, lass. We’re finally getting somewhere.’’

Hermione smiles politely before turning back to look through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room. The questioning goes on for another hour and a thorough list of suspects is provided, alongside a few potential sites for patrol busts and the confirmation that The Death Eater’s ultimate plan is to conduct varied attacks on Ministry facilities across the country. By the end, Hestia is smiling again whereas Hermione and Draco can barely keep a grimace off their faces.

‘‘Granger, Malfoy. First thing Monday morning I want you in Azkaban.’’ She floats the parchment containing the prisoners’ names towards them. Draco catches it in the air. ‘‘There’s at least nine promising sources of intel here; you’re to request a meeting with them and do not return to the Ministry without talking to each individual separately.’’ She begins walking and they have no option but to trail after her. ‘‘I want to know which Ministry facilities they are targeting and when it’s all going down. If anyone is willing to talk to us, you have the authorisation to directly make a deal and offer sentence deduction.’’ Her voice becomes noticeably harder. ‘‘Don’t make the same mistake you did with Lowburn. Don’t wait to figure out if the intel is good; I want you to take the deal immediately and squeeze as much information you possibly can from the inmates.’’ Turning the left corner, they arrive at the long corridor leading to the Aurors’ Office. Hestia strides in the direction of the lift, only throwing them a fleeting glance over her shoulder. ‘‘Do not screw this up. Or there’ll be consequences.’’

They stop at the entrance of the oak doors, watching her go.

‘‘Fuck me.’’ Draco curses under his breath.

‘Fuck us, you mean.’’

Swapping dark looks, they step inside the headquarters, Draco allowing Hermione to go first in the narrow passage. A few feet from her station, her peripheral vision picks up a new presence. Harry marches toward them with intent.

‘‘And? What happened?’’

Hermione swallows, pulling him to the side and casting a muffliato to the general area where they stand. 

‘‘We have to go to Azkaban on Monday. The turncoat gave Hestia a list of former Death Eaters who are apparently aware of the plans of the Essex gang. We’re supposed to interrogate them for answers.’’

‘‘In Azkaban?’’ Harry’s black brows furrow. ‘‘That makes no sense. How would they know anything? Convicted Voldemort followers have been behind bars for nearly fourteen years. There’s no way they have managed to keep in touch with the gang in recent times. I mean…’’ He tilts his head. ‘‘Only if they have an inside person in Azkaban as well. Is that a possibility?’’

‘‘I don’t know, Harry. I don’t think so, but- I don’t know, maybe. Either way, we have to go. Hestia’s orders. She’s convinced that if we talk to the names the informant provided we’ll get the dates and locations of the Ministry’s attacks.’’

Harry hums, face pensive. 

When they told him they suspected this threat of usurping the Ministry’s power was just a ruse to conceal their real target, Harry had hesitated. Although he had been swiftly on board with their theory of a traitor in their midst, similarly taking their word about the involvement of Scrying and stolen elixirs without issues, he had a harder time believing that everything he knew so far about the case was a ploy. He found it doubtful that the entire DMLE was being so deftly tricked. Hermione hadn’t tried to convince him; whether he agreed with her or not felt far less important than when it had been Draco the one disbelieving her. Now that her current partner is one-hundred-percent on her side (and presumably the Head Deputy too, to some extent), she doesn’t really care what others, Harry included, think.

So she doesn’t attempt to emphasise that Hestia’s expectations about their visit to Azkaban are bogus and, at the minimum, counterproductive. Hermione relays to Harry what had been discussed in the informant’s questioning and then goes back to her cubicle, taking her place in front of Draco.

‘‘What are we gonna do?’’ She asks him without a preamble.

‘‘No idea. This is looking worse by the day.’’

Hermione sighs, leaning against the backrest of her chair. ‘‘When is your next extra shift?’’

‘‘Friday night.’’ 

‘‘And the weekend?’’

‘‘So far nothing scheduled.’’ There’s an ostensible bitterness to his voice, but Hermione knows he much prefers not joining his mates at the pub than losing his Saturday with Scorpius. His timetable, thus, could have been worse.

‘‘Good. I have the Saturday afternoon shift, but Sunday I’m also off so far.’’ She pauses only briefly, to glance around and make sure they’re not being overheard. ‘‘Perhaps you could come by? We can work in the case at my flat.’’

She doesn’t need to mention that there are other things they can do at her flat, too.

Draco’s mouth twitches at the corners. ‘‘I could.’’ He arches one blonde eyebrow. ‘‘Or you could you come to mine.’’

Hermione blinks, not having expected it.

She has never been to his place. It’s impractical, of course: he has a son, who spends most of his time there. Draco had never invited her before, for obvious reasons, so the idea didn’t really ever cross her mind. And her flat’s fine; they can do everything they fancy and not worry about anything or anyone. So it surprises her that he offers the alternative.

‘‘What about Scorpius?’’

‘‘At Daphne’s for the day.’’ At her confused countenance, he expands. ‘‘We have a lot of work to do, Granger. And we can’t do it all around here. We need privacy. And- Well, my place is perfect for it. I mean, not that yours isn’t, it’s just that…’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I have a large office where I keep copies of all the case files and related documents, and a small library inside with plenty of useful, valuable books.’’

‘‘You do?’’ Hermione can’t keep the wonder off her voice.

She didn’t know about that; she knew he no longer lived at Malfoy Manor, but she had no idea where his new house was, much less how it was like. Hearing him talk about a large office and a library is enough to make her mouth water. 

It sounds perfect, just like he said.

‘‘I do.’’ The smugness leaks through a well-aimed smirk. ‘‘You’ll love it.’’

Images of him fucking her against shelves pop into her mind without her consent. 

She shakes her head. Focus, Hermione. They have important things to figure out; there’s no time to explore long-dormant fantasies. She’ll have to wait for better timing in the future.

‘‘Alright, then. Sunday at yours.’’

He smiles, winking affectionately at her, and goes back to work.

She’s packing her work satchel when heavy footsteps alert her to someone approaching.

She swivels to watch Harry halting his jog as he spots her. ‘‘Oh, good. You’re still here. I thought I’d missed you.’’ Bending in half, he braces his hands on his knees, taking a moment to catch his breath. When that’s done, he straightens and grins. ‘‘I have something for you.’’

‘‘Okay?’’

Hermione looks on to him in surprise; she hadn’t expected to see him. It’s Saturday and she’s just finished with her extra shift, being joined by only a handful of employees in the headquarters. Harry, she recalls, wasn’t scheduled to work today. 

So his sudden presence at the office, by all means having raced to find her, is a little mind-boggling.

‘‘Hang on.’’ He fetches something from inside his jeans pockets, his wand hand reciting the incantation to enlarge the object. Objects, actually. In the next second he is holding several thick files. ‘‘Here.’’ He tells Hermione, extending the folders in her direction.

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘Supplemental information. Of the prisoners on the loose.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

She takes the files from him, supporting them over one forearm, against her hip, while her free hand starts flipping through the pages of the first one. As she reads, Harry explains. ‘‘I know, er, someone. He’s not really a Ministry informant, at least not officially. He prefers to keep his freedom. But he does help whenever I need and, well, I asked him to gather some intel about the seven men that escaped and that’s what he came up with.’’

Hermione only needs a glimpse to realise it’s information the DMLE has never succeeded to retrieve: school and old employment records, travel itineraries and whereabouts, detailed evidence of numerous criminal connections.

Her voice rings of astonishment. ‘‘Oh my god. How did he get all of this?’’

Her former best friend shrugs, sheepishly. ‘‘I can’t tell you that. Not that I don’t want to- I just really don’t know. He’s not very forthcoming about the way he gets his information. He just hands it to me and I… I take it without asking questions.’’

Hermione looks down again, reading a few more lines that offer her better insights than her investigation has done in the entirety of the past six months. She shakes her head. ‘‘This is amazing. Really, Harry. It’s everything we need at the moment.’’ She holds his gaze one more time. ‘‘Who’s that person? He’s my new favourite hero.’’

Harry chuckles. ‘‘You don’t know him. Nobody here does. Like I said, he’s not an official informant. He only talks to me and, in turn, I preserve his identity.’’

‘‘Well, if he’s able to gather this much information about people he doesn’t even know without access to any of the DMLE’s resources, then he surely earned the right to retain his privacy.’’ 

‘‘Yeah, he’s the best. He literally came up with all of this in merely two weeks. I only asked him after you looped me in the side investigation.’’

‘‘Wow. Unbelievable.’’ She can't help smiling at Harry, elated with this mysterious miracle informant. Unlike the other anonymous, and most times suspicious, helpers of the case, she believes that Harry’s intel is good. She still, by and large, trusts him. She smirks, instead of sceptical only bemused by the bloke’s sketchy sources. ‘‘I suppose there’s a reason you’re the top leading Auror of the department, isn’t there? You really know how to do proper investigation, through any kind of channel.’’

His grin makes a comeback. ‘‘You know me. Never afraid of going a little behind everyone’s back.’’ He looks smilingly at her for another beat before shifting to a more serious demeanour. ‘‘But, yeah, I guess it bothered me that I wasn’t being very helpful. You and Malfoy brought me in to help with the case and I haven’t contributed at all so far. So I realised I needed to do something about it. Bring out the big guns, you know.’’

‘‘Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.’’

‘‘Don’t mention it. I’m here for you, Hermione. As much as I can.’’

The words blatantly carry a double meaning and Hermione’s chest tightens against her ribcage. ‘‘Right. I gotta go now. Thanks again.’’

She leaves him and their nice little moment behind, walking quickly out of the Aurors’ Office and travelling home. She puts the pile on top of her coffee table and lets it rest there. As much as she might be tempted to go through the files immediately, she will wait for the next day. Draco and her should work through this new batch of information together.

She goes to sleep in anxious spirits and, as such, the clock has barely chimed ten times in the following morning and she’s exiting Draco’s open floo. Her mind is so set upon everything they have to get done today that it takes her a while to register her surroundings.

Emerging from the huge fireplace, she’s stumped to realise that the rest of Draco’s flat does not follow the same dimensions. The living room in which Hermione stands is hardly much bigger than her own; there is an extra sofa and an additional space for children’s toys in the corner, but other than that everything is more modest (and less elitist) than what she would have predicted. A charmed wall clock, colourful and noisy, chirps as it finishes its tenth round and, on each side of the sliding door that opens toward the kitchen, a tall Bamboo palm and what looks like a magical fern give life to the place. The house looks tidy and clean but homey, not at all mirroring the expensive sophistication its owner exudes. 

‘‘Granger. As punctual as ever, I see.’’

Twisting her neck to where the familiar voice comes from, Hermione sees the entrance to a yard; the glass windows allow a clear view into the green area from where Draco steps out, a coffee mug in hand. In contrast with the rest of his flat, the unexpected outdoor patio appears to be immense, at least twice the size of the living quarters.

Hermione’s chin drops. ‘‘How the hell did you find a house with such a massive yard in Central bloody London?’’

He chuckles, not replying right away. He sets his mug on top of a sideboard in his stroll to her. As he stops in front of her, his silver eyes spark. ‘‘Hi, love.’’

He kisses her, a soft press of lips.

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

‘‘Come, make yourself comfortable.’’ He removes the heavy work satchel from her shoulder and takes off her jacket, gesturing for her to take a seat. ‘‘Can I get you a cuppa or something?’’

‘‘Just some water is fine.’’

‘‘Got it.’’ He floats her jacket to the coat hanger in the annexed foyer, to her left, and places her bag next to his coffee mug. In a jiffy, he comes and goes from the kitchen, bringing a water glass. ‘‘Answering your question, the yard is enchanted. This is not how the flat is actually built. The real proportions are smaller, but I got permission to expand it. After I paid a very handsome sum to the board committee, naturally.’’

Hermione accepts the glass, turning to look outside the green patch again. ‘‘I bet it was worth it, though. So much space. Scorpius must love it.’’

‘‘He does. I purchased this house with him in mind, after all.’’

‘‘Oh, so you haven’t been living here for long?’’

Draco sits at a chaise, and Hermione takes the hint and lowers herself on the sofa next to him. ‘‘We moved right after Astoria died. We used to live in a Greengrass property but it made no sense to stay there after she was gone. And we both like this place much more.’’

She can see that. Everywhere at which she glances looks lived in; despite the neatness, there’s evidence of the inhabitants all around, in the comfortable, worn seats, the vibrant display of kids’ trinkets, the random drawings hung on the wall, the lovely vases of plants. It looks like a home and Hermione gets all sorts of fuzzy feelings inside.

It’s another piece of Draco she didn’t have access to before but it’s finally being allowed in. It is, perhaps, the most important side of him, and it does something to her to know him an inch deeper.

‘‘It’s very nice in here.’’ She comments to distract her poor, wimpy heart.

‘‘Thanks. I’m satisfied with it. It’s a far more suitable environment for a nine-year-old than an ancient pureblood estate.’’ 

‘‘I imagine.’’ She gives him a smile and sips on her water.

‘‘Alright. Are you ready for today?’’

‘‘Mhm. Actually, the real question is if you’re ready for today.’’ At Draco’s challenging brow raise, Hermione leans forward to deposit her glass on the coffee table and summon her satchel. ‘‘You’ll never guess what happened yesterday.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Harry showed up out of nowhere at the DMLE when I was finishing my shift and told me he had information for me. Someone he’s in contact with, an off-the-record informant, gathered this shitload of intel on all seven men that escaped.’’ Hermione recovers the files and passes them to him. ‘‘Draco, it’s so much. Things we never managed to put our hands on before. It can change everything for us.’’

She has tried in vain to remain grounded about this, to not let her hopes up. But as she spent the entire evening and early morning obsessing about these new findings, she can’t help but feel like this might be a game-changer; the real breakthrough they have been waiting for.

The blond wizard frowns as he takes hold of the folders. ‘‘How the hell did he pull this off?’’

‘‘Dunno. Harry either. He says this man works alone and with unknown methods. If you ask me, there’s probably a lot of illegal shit going on here, but to be honest I couldn’t care less. We need this. And…’’ She hesitates, uncertain if she should put her thoughts into words. One look at Draco’s inquisitive face and she lets it out. ‘‘I trust Harry. He knows what he’s doing. If he says the intel is good, I’m sure it must be.’’

Draco studies her for a moment. She doesn’t know what he sees in her expression but he ends up nodding. ‘‘I agree. Potter wouldn’t give this to you if it wasn’t reliable information.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ He gets to his feet. ‘‘Shall we go to my office? Get to it right away.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Hermione joins him, though she sends a cursory glance around. ‘‘But, later, maybe you can show me to the rest of the house?’’

His smirk is very telling. ‘‘Of course, love. We have the whole day. Daphne’s only returning with Scorpius for dinner.’’

She wills herself not to beam too hard at the prospect. A full day with Draco? It’s never occurred before. They never had so much time to each other- alone, just the two of them- since they became intimate. Well, even before that; they never got to spend an entire day in privacy like this, and the promise sets off dozens of raging butterflies within her.

There’s so much she’d like to do with him. 

Sex, obviously, loads of it. But also talk and walk around and have meals together. Frankly, there’s not a single activity she wouldn’t like to have Draco as her companion, and the fact that they can’t, that this is not in the cards for them, makes her more disappointed than she’d like to admit. Hence her excitement at having several hours ahead of them; to work the case, surely, but also do whatever else they feel like.

She follows him, going up a staircase that leads to the second floor of the flat. Five doors grace the two sides of a carpeted corridor.

‘‘The last one is my bedroom and in front of it is Scorpius’.’’ Draco points as he explains. ‘‘That one is for the bathroom and the other’s a guest room.’’ He guides her to the first door to their right. ‘‘This is my home office.’’

He hadn’t exaggerated: the space is rather large. Likely as sizable as the living room and decorated way less modestly too. An old and valuable-looking desk, made of some type of African hardwood, stands at the centre on top of a broad, braided dark rug. The desk is paired with a leather chair and two filing cabinets, the latter which must be storing the case files’ copies and other relevant documents. Across from it there’s a long sofa, a side table, two armchairs and a bar cart containing the best liquor Wizarding money can buy. A tall fireplace, traditional but luxurious, adorns the bricked walls, and lavish curtains and a floating crystal chandelier complete the business-like, classy style of the ambiance.

Hermione looks around, searching. ‘‘Where’s the library you mentioned?’’

Draco chuckles as he closes the door behind him, walking to the desk to drop the files and both their beverages on it. ‘‘Of course you’d be utterly unimpressed by the room I spend every night in, a room I must say I perfected to the last details. But Hermione Granger’s swotty mind only cares about one thing, doesn’t it?’’

She grins, placating. ‘‘Your office looks as gorgeous as you. Now, where’s the library?’’

Shaking his head, lips still stretched on a bemused smile, he flicks his wand. 

The stone wall behind the sofa suddenly starts moving, its burgundy bricks shifting and shrinking until it lays wide open, clearing the way for a few square metres of floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed to the brim with books.

Hermione gasps and at once comes closer to inspect it.

Though the space isn’t big, there must be at least a couple of hundred books there. All sorts of hard covers greet her eager eyes, versing about several different subjects, from classic magical literature to handbooks and research publications. 

If she thought the office was gorgeous before, now she’s officially in love.

‘‘Draco, wow. Just wow.’’

She hears him chuckle again somewhere in her back. ‘‘It’s a shame you never got to see the library at the manor. If this impresses you, you’d be absolutely blown to smithereens there.’’

She turns around to face him. ‘‘You could still take me for a visit someday.’’

‘‘Mhm. Yeah, maybe someday.’’

She knows he hasn’t sold it. After the war trials, when his father was sent to serve his life sentence in Azkaban and his mother fled to France, the papers announced that Malfoy Manor was being investigated by the Ministry and eventually put to sale. Nevertheless, years after the dust had settled, the mansion remained property of the Malfoys. Draco married Astoria and moved to one of her residences, and the fate of the ancient house was never again discussed. 

Hermione knows the manor still belongs to Draco, he just doesn’t acknowledge it anymore. 

Until now.

The off-handed mention of the possibility of visiting it together in the future supplies Hermione with a refreshed wave of fuzzy feelings, of seeing yet another side of Draco she only glimpsed once, very blurrily, when they were young and other people altogether. Long gone is the reticence, or the bad memories: Hermione is a brand new woman who’s utterly smitten with the man who happens to be her coworker.

She probably makes a strange face because Draco regards her attentively. ‘‘Alright, Granger?’’

‘‘Yep. All good.’’ She clears her throat, stepping out of the enclosed library and marching to the desk. ‘‘Come on, let’s do this. There must be a thousand pages in those files, easily.’’

‘‘Yeah, it looks like it.’’ He transfigures an armchair into a flawless replica of his leather chair, placing it on the other side of the desk. Motioning for her to sit down, he does the same from across her. ‘‘How should we do it? You start with the top half and I’ll take care of the rest?’’

‘‘Sounds good.’’

So they start, diving into the uncensored, novel information regarding the Zimcooke fugitives. It’s a lot, all very detailed and specific, and a great deal of work goes into screening the avalanche of intel, filtering what’s relevant to their search. In silence, Hermione takes over an hour to go through the first file, belonging to one of the two men arrested by Draco at the initial bust in Dedham, which later went on to launch the entire investigation. There’s not much there that would trigger any insight, but she had expected so: the criminal, going only by the street name of ‘‘Titan,’’ is a low-ranking member of the Essex gang. It was highly unlikely that anything about him would be useful to their current investigation.

Before she moves on to the next folder, her mind foils her and begins to wonder. 

Her mouth, following her brain’s example, proceeds without permission, breaking the quietness of the room. ‘‘So… Any news?’’ She looks down, to all effects still engrossed in the reading of the parchment in her hands. A few seconds pass and she continues casually. ‘‘Has Pansy said anything else to you?’’

Notwithstanding the professional whirlwind that had taken over their days recently, she hasn’t forgotten about the other regrettable development in their lives: Neville and Pansy’s cancelled nuptials. Hermione and Draco have had very limited opportunities to discuss this other bad news in the past couple of weeks; at the office, there’s never been space for them to broach private subjects, and they have barely had any time off to be just them without the looming pressure of working on the case. All she knows is what he told her in the letter (when he explained that Pansy had showed up two hours prior at his flat, bawling her eyes out because Neville had called off their engagement after a fight) and what he mentioned the following day, en passant, before every alarm at the DMLE erupted in the wake of the prison escape.

To all accounts, Neville broke up with Pansy for the single reason that he wants a family and she does not. Apparently, having convinced himself before that the witch would eventually change her mind, Neville suddenly faced the reality that he couldn’t force his loved one to bear his children when she was against it. Unwilling to change his own mind, he cancelled the wedding.

It's heartbreaking, knowing that two people who are mad about each other are not going to end up together. Hermione, however, still holds out hope that this is not the last they’ll hear of it.

Draco sighs before answering her impromptu question. ‘‘Not really. The only thing she’s been doing lately is mope.’’

‘‘Understandably, right, Draco? Losing the man you love is probably one of the most difficult things a woman can go through.’’

Silver eyes rise to meet hers. ‘‘You didn’t mope. After Weasley abandoned you, you still kept going. You showed up to work every day with a brave face on and still performed well, regardless of your broken heart.’’ His voice adopts a distinctly disapproving tone. ‘‘All Pansy does is cry and feel sorry for herself. I’ve visited her twice since she told me the news and each time she’s prostrated in bed, incapable of toughening up and dealing with it like the fucking grown woman that she is.’’

Hermione’s heart leaps weakly at his praise for how she acted after Ronald left her. Still, the second part of his speech bugs her.

‘‘It’s not the same, Draco. They were getting married. That’s such a huge commitment. Pansy had the whole thing planned already, only to have to call it off out of the blue like this? And it’s not like something happened to cause it. They always knew they didn’t have the same opinion about-’’

‘‘It was out of the blue for you, too, Granger. Wasn’t it? Nothing really happened. Weasley just woke up one day and decided to walk away.’’

Hermione falters. ‘‘Well, yes. But it’s different.’’

‘‘How? You just said there’s nothing more difficult for a woman than losing the man she loves.’’

‘‘Among other things, yes.’’

‘‘So, what’s the difference between you and Pansy?’’

The truth comes forward effortlessly. ‘‘I didn’t love Ronald how she loves Neville. Ronald- he was my best friend. One of the only people I could trust. Honestly, one of the only people in my life, period. He was… comfortable. And safe. But I wasn’t madly in love with him like Pansy is with Neville. Perhaps that’s something to do with the fact we were together for so long, things had gotten stale. But still. It’s not the same. Pansy’s broken heart can’t be compared to mine.’’

Draco hangs onto every word she says, gaze laser focused. Her admission lies heavily between them for a moment before he replies. ‘‘Alright. I understand that. I still make the comparison, though. Not regarding the reasons behind the end of the relationship or the amount of love involved. My point stands: both of you suffered a disillusion and you reacted very differently to it. You carried on, bearing your responsibilities and turning your life around. Pansy, who doesn’t even have a proper real fucking job, spends her days at home, wallowing instead of fighting for what she wants.’’ Draco’s face betrays his dismay about the situation. Despite his critical stance, it’s clear he’s deeply upset with Pansy’s suffering. ‘‘She loves him and she wants to be with him. And yet she doesn’t do shit about it.’’

‘‘What can she do, Draco? Neville wants kids, she doesn’t.’’

He huffs. ‘‘Of course Pansy wants kids, Granger. She's always wanted them. She’s just being a bloody wuss about it now. She hates her family and she’s scared to bring a girl into the world of pureblooded heir bullshit. And I’ve told her a hundred times that it’s up to her to break the cycle. Just like I did. But does she listen? No. She says I’m a man and both my parents are away so I get to do what I want, while she still has to endure her father’s iron fist. Which I get; it’s hard. He’s a bigoted arse and he still controls a lot of what she does. But once she’s married, she’s free. Longbottom has money. They can simply take off and never contact the Parkinsons again if they so wish. But Pansy can’t even entertain the idea. She’s a fucking wuss.’’

‘‘Draco-.’’

‘‘She is, Granger. Like I said, I know it’s hard. I know our old ways are fucked up, and the war fucked us even more. But it’s not the end of the world. Life goes on. I learned that the hard fucking way.’’ His voice is steady as he says it but Hermione’s entire body shudders at it; at the knowledge that she tends to forget sometimes: Draco is a widower. He’s seen the end of the world when the mother of his son died, but he returned from it, soldiering on and making more out of his life. ‘‘You have to dare to break the cycle, to stand up for what you believe. To fight against all odds. Like I did. And like you did, too. But Pansy won’t. So no amount of moping will make me feel sorry for her.’’

It's that same story: their unmoveable grit; hers and Draco’s.

Hermione still attempts to defend Pansy.

‘‘Don’t compare her to us, Draco. At least not to me. We’re such different people. It can’t be expected of us to react similarly to personal tragedies.’’

‘‘You know what? You’re right.’’ Draco affirms unexpectedly, and Hermione frowns with his sudden shift of direction. ‘‘I can’t compare the two of you. You’re Hermione Granger. Nothing can get you down because you’re stronger than each obstacle in your way. It’s not fair to compare someone like Pansy with an extraordinary woman like you. So I won’t do it. Let Pansy be a coward, losing the best thing that ever happened in her life. I know I’ll be sure to treasure the ones in mine.’’

It’s undoubtedly a good thing that Hermione is sitting.

Every muscle in her twists at the words he utters, a feeling of fireworks exploding inside her veins. Draco’s eyes are fast on hers, letting her know he means it; that he thinks she’s one of the best things that ever happened in his life. That he thinks she’s an extraordinary woman.

That he won’t lose her because he treasures her.

Before she knows it, she’s pushing to her feet. Resettled from the overwhelming emotions of the past minute, Hermione rounds the desk that separates them. As she reaches his side, Draco twirls in his chair, facing her with a questioning expression.

Bracing her hands on the two armrests of the seat, she leans into his space. ‘‘This is probably one of the nicest things someone has ever said to me.’’ She whispers against his mouth, catching his lips. She kisses him for a second and, then, she drops to her knees. 

‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘I want to let you see how much I appreciate it.’’

She holds his gaze, watching his Adam’s apple move with a thick swallow as she reaches for the clasp of his trousers. She undoes the buttons, pulling the fabric marginally down, just to give enough room for her fingers to manoeuvre inside his briefs. She grips him, massaging the half-erection waiting for her there.

‘‘Fuck, Granger.’’ Draco’s eyes flutter shut and she chooses this moment to set him free and wrap her mouth around him. His eyes fly immediately open as he curses again. ‘‘Salazar fuck. Granger, what- Fuck!’’

He’s completely hard now, easily gliding past her lips and poking at the back of her throat. She takes him fully in, bobbing her head up and down, sucking with more enthusiasm than she’s ever done before.

She’s heard that some women love giving head and that always made her a little confused. It’s not bad per se; Hermione just never understood how one could enjoy it so much. As any other loving girlfriend would, she regularly blew Ronald whenever he asked or as foreplay. It wasn’t her favourite bit, but she didn’t mind it either. It was all part of being in a committed relationship.

Sucking Draco off is on a whole different level. It’s the first time she does it, never having had the chance before in the rare stolen moments they got in the past few weeks, always preferring to go straight to the point. She regrets, though, not having done it sooner. 

He feels delicious in her mouth, silky and warm, throbbing with desire. But the best part is the effect it has on him.

He stares at her like she’s his goddamn wet dream, emerging from the dirtiest folds of his subconscious to blow not only his cock but his mind, too. He does have a tendency to look at her with such intensity when they’re in each other's arms, true, but at the moment this supersedes everything else. His eyes are nearly bugged, watching her face rise and fall in front of him without so much as blinking, one hand having found the back of her head. His fingers weave through the roots of her hair, cradling softly, which is in stark contrast with the way his stomach tenses and his chest oscillates harshly. 

‘‘Fuck, love, I- I can’t. This is- Merlin. Fuck.  Fuck, I’m- I’m gonna come.’’

One more deep suck, a swirl of tongue and he really does, letting out a shout and pouring down her throat. It catches her unaware and it’s all she can do not to choke. She inhales, swallowing diligently and cleaning the leftover that drips down her chin. 

She looks up, snorting. ‘‘Jesus. That was fast. You lasted, what, forty seconds?’’

Draco has his head thrown backward, supported on the chair, eyes firmly closed as he recovers himself. He copies her snort, though his is breathless. ‘‘Probably.’’ He smiles lazily, the picture of a sated man. ‘‘Honestly, I wouldn’t have expected any different. I can’t remember the last time I got a blowjob. I forgot how ridiculously good that felt.’’

While he can’t see her, Hermione’s forehead wrinkles. It’s not the first time Draco mentions being too long since he’s been with someone. She knows he hasn’t had a relationship with anyone, at least not officially, since his wife passed away, but he surely dated in the last almost five years. He must have gone out with a few women since he became single again - and yet, the way he always puts it, it makes it sound as if he hasn’t. 

She wants to ask, but her train of thought scatters when he finally opens his eyes and his grin becomes fond. 

‘‘You’re amazing, Granger. Everything you do is flawless. Really. It’s actually a little exasperating.’’ Bending forward, he grabs her and lifts her until she’s sitting on his lap. ‘‘Sometimes I just wish you were bad at something, you know? Anything, even if just the way you dress, or how your flat is messy. But no; you’re perfect in apparently everything.’’ Hermione chuckles, ready to counter this preposterous assumption, but he captures her mouth, kissing her hungrily. When he releases her, it’s to murmur against her lips. ‘‘Wanna come too, love?’’ He doesn’t wait for her reply; his hand dives into her jeans expertly, burying inside her with little fuss. He fingers her until she screams, her cries muffled by his shoulder, and when her orgasm melts her on top of him, he licks his digits clean from her. ‘‘Mhm. See? Even your taste is perfect.’’

She smirks, too pliant to argue about anything. For the next minute they kiss, long and slow. It’s the grandfather clock, loudly bonging to announce midday, that springs them apart.

They return to work.

Hermione’s mind is a little fuzzy on the edges and that’s presumably why it takes her so long to compute the words on the paper. When it finally does, after she needs to reread John Catrall’s file for the third time, she screams again, but now in exhilaration instead of pleasure.

‘‘Draco. That’s it. I found it!’’

Chapter Text

‘‘This way, Auror Granger, Auror Malfoy.’’

Having finished with the wand-weighing and the handing of the two pieces of wood over to the front desk, the security guard- certainly not yet past his twenty-fifth birthday- motions for them to follow him through the corridor to their right. Draco presses a palm against Hermione’s lower back, guiding her to go ahead of him, and they trail after the young man.

He leads them to the Northwest block, a walk shy of ten minutes. They pass several Aurors on duty on their way there (some acquaintances, others not) and countless locked, warded cells. Looking around, Hermione marvels at how much lighter and less despair-inducing the prison appears to be. Azkaban has always been a pit where the worst part of the magical community was found; even after Kingsley’s reform following the Second Wizarding War, the fortress still remained a cold, hopeless place. And yet, visiting for the first time in years, Hermione acknowledges that gone are the days of double punishment that the prison was known for: liberty deprivation and psychological torture.

For one, there are no more dementors. The inmates’ pens, which used to be made of heavy, impenetrable rocks, are now glass panels, magically blurred to retain the privacy of guards and visitors, but also that of prisoners. The very inside of the detention facility no longer reeks of depression and madness. It reminds Hermione of modern prisons in the muggle world, where living conditions are mandated to adhere to a certain quality standard upheld internationally by legal bodies.

She smiles to herself. 

The security guard halts in front of a metal door. He grazes his wand against the surface in a round movement that ends with a little triangular flourish, and the door pops open into an office of sorts. He turns back to them. ‘‘Please, take a seat. I’m going to fetch the first inmate.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

They occupy the two chairs on the other side of the table, looking on to the entrance of the small room. While Hermione makes herself busy with the setting on of the Instantaneous Quill, Draco reads through today’s list again. There are nine names, rattled off by the former gang member and recently-acquired Ministry informant, and at least half of them are notorious convicted Death Eaters. Although he hasn’t said anything to that respect, she knows her partner must recognise some of them; they used to be his father’s mates, after all.

Draco takes a deep breath next to her and Hermione wants to ask him how he’s feeling, but footsteps are suddenly heard and, only a moment later, the guard is back with a short, skinny man.

‘‘Biko, these are Auror Granger and Auror Malfoy from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of the Ministry of Magic. They have a few questions for you.’’ The guard proceeds to lower the prisoner into the chair from across them and place both his hands on top of the table. He then casts an unfamiliar spell that binds the man’s wrists to the wooden surface, making it thus impossible for him to leave or even get up without the counterspell. ‘‘If you need me for anything, I’ll be right outside the door.’’

With one brief nod, the guard steps out, leaving them alone to start the questioning.

‘‘Good morning, sir. May I call you Omari?’’

The inmate doesn’t falter. ‘‘Yes, madame.’’

‘‘Great. Omari, we’re here today because we have been informed that you used to have ties with a few known members of a criminal organisation that acts mainly in the East of England, particularly in Essex.’’ As Hermione speaks she closely clocks the flickers of expression in the wizard in front of her. He wears his emotions on his face, so it’s somewhat easy to read him. ‘‘A former gang member who goes by the name of Puck told the DMLE that you were one of multiple prisoners here in Azkaban that was still in contact with the leader of said gang. The Death Eater, it’s what he’s called.’’

Omari Biko only blinks, providing no immediate reply, and Draco forges ahead. ‘‘The Essex gang has been posing a lot of problems to the Ministry lately, and it’s of our highest interest to stop them. The informant assured us you might have some intel that can help us in our search for the criminals, so we are willing to offer you a deal for any useful information you give us.’’

When the prisoner still hesitates, Hermione elaborates. ‘‘We’re authorised to offer you a sentence deduction if you cooperate, Omari. Any information about the Essex gang, the leader or anything regarding their future plans. If you help us, we help you.’’

She stops talking and the next seconds pass in utter silence. Omari’s eyes bounce from Hermione to Draco, and a crease makes an appearance on his otherwise smooth forehead. Another beat and he finally reacts. ‘‘Madame, sir, I’m so terribly sorry. Only the gods beyond and above can attest for my spirit, and how eager I am to cooperate with the esteemed Aurors in front of me. But, unfortunately, because the will of the gods is not always known to us men, I am not in possession of this information you talk about. I do not know this gang and much less this man with this wretched, wretched alias. May Merlin and all the other ancient wizards forgive me, but I cannot help you with your task. I express my deepest apologies to you, madame, and to you, sir.’’

It’s clear to both of them that he is telling the truth. There isn’t one mannerism, turn of phrase or facial expression that would make them suspicious of him not being quite genuine. Because of that, after exchanging one long side glance, Hermione and Draco decide to swiftly move along.

‘‘Thank you, Omari. We appreciate you for your time.’’

Standing, Hermione goes around the table towards the door, knocking once. It opens in the following second, the guard on the other side of it.

‘‘We’re done with Mr Biko. Can you take him and bring the next one, please?’’

If he finds it strange that their so-called questioning only lasted two minutes, he doesn’t let on. The young lad nods and gets to it, efficiently releasing the inmate from his bound position and walking out. Hermione watches them go for a moment before returning to her seat.

‘‘Why do I have a feeling that this is how every single one of our interrogations today is gonna go?’’

Draco hums. ‘‘At least we know we’re not being set up. These people have no idea what we’re talking about, so they couldn’t possibly try and manipulate us.’’

And, indeed, that appears to be the case. Round after round, the security guard brings a new prisoner, someone who has been incarcerated for at least the last decade, some of them carrying out their sentence for serious felonies such as aggravated assault or the illegal casting of magic, while others for their former connections with Voldemort. From the convicted Death Eaters, two of them recognise Draco, Mark Jugson and Charlie Lee, but after the initial widening of eyes and snide remark, they don’t give them much trouble. The story repeats itself: they are none the wiser concerning what the Aurors are asking them about, they have never heard of the Essex gang before and, for the most recalcitrant of them, they wouldn’t help the Ministry even if they did know something. 

It’s frustrating, getting the same answer over and over again, the vast majority of the time in a rather rude fashion. Hermione feels like they’re wasting precious hours stuck there when they could be doing something much more productive with their day literally anywhere else.

At least, she thinks, they can return to the DMLE and inform Hestia that her tiring little crusade didn’t pan out and that the miraculous informant of hers might not be so miraculous, after all.

‘‘Aurors Granger and Malfoy. This is Jack Lochty. Lochty, these are Auror Granger and Auror Malfoy from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of the Ministry of Magic. They would like to ask you a few questions.’’ The guard proceeds to repeat the same movements he had done the previous seven times, binding the inmate’s wrists to the table and promptly leaving the questioning room.

‘‘Good morning, sir.  How do you prefer to be called?’’

‘‘Lochty is fine.’’

‘‘Alright, Lochty. Let me explain to you why we’re here.’’ Hermione starts, in a dull repetition of the past two hours. ‘‘Last week, a man called Puck came forward and announced himself as a former gang member of a criminal organisation known as the Essex gang. They operate mainly in the East of England, and for the past year and a half they have caused many issues to the Ministry. This former gang member that I just mentioned agreed to become our informant and, after we interrogated him, he gave us a list of names of people who still have ties with the organisation. One of these names was yours, and that’s why we requested a meeting with you today.’’

Draco goes on with their unintentional rehearsed speech. ‘‘We have authorisation to offer you a sentence deduction if you cooperate with us. We’re searching for any type of intel about the organisation, their plans or their leader, who’s known as The De-’’

‘‘The Death Eater.’’

Draco freezes, mouth half open. Hermione blinks, tilting her head as she stares at the prisoner in front of them. ‘‘You’ve heard of him?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ The middle-aged wizard shrugs. ‘‘We worked together for years. How could I not know him?’’

‘‘You did?’’ Hermione swaps looks with Draco, her spine becoming reflexively taut. ‘‘Where did you work together?’’

Jack Lochty, they know, is serving time for being an accomplice and facilitator of the Dark Arts: he wasn’t convicted as a Death Eater because he wasn’t one; he only aided Voldemort’s army but never officially became part of it.

The man replies again in a casual way. ‘‘During the Second Wizarding War. I wasn’t initiated in the gang, but we did do some jobs together.’’

‘‘What kinds of jobs, exactly?’’ Draco’s voice is careful, neutral.

‘‘Whatever they asked us to.’’

‘‘Who is they?’’

‘‘The other Death Eaters. They came to us and asked us to do something for them, something quick and efficient, and we did.’’

‘‘So this man you worked with, who’s called The Death Eater, was also a Death Eater, is what you’re saying?’’

Lochty looks at Hermione as if she’s a little slow in the head. ‘‘Of course. Why else would he be called that?’’

‘‘The other Death Eaters never called themselves that. They had their own names. That’s why I’m asking, because this pseudonym is a bit curious.’’ He doesn't reply to this, so Hermione continues. ‘‘And can you tell us what’s his real name? The Death Eater. How was he called when you worked together among the other Death Eaters?’’

‘‘Oh, no idea. I always called him De. You know, like D and E, from Death Eater.’’

It’s odd information. Yet, although Hermione doesn’t believe him for a second, she doesn’t let it derail her.

‘‘Alright. So you worked with The Death Eater, De as you call him, for a few years during the last war, doing jobs for Voldemort’s army.’’ She doesn’t miss the subtle flinch that the latter’s name causes on the prisoner. She doesn’t apologise, either. ‘‘Do you know if he participated in the Battle of Hogwarts? I’m asking that because, as you know, the Ministry managed to locate and arrest almost all Death Eaters after the war was over. But, apparently, the leader of the Essex gang successfully evaded us. I was wondering how.’’

‘‘I don’t know if he fought in the battle or not. I wasn’t there. And I was caught only a few months later and been locked up ever since.’’

‘‘Right.’’ Draco frowns, his handsome face scrunched in focus. ‘‘But you said that you were never part of the gang. So that means the gang already existed during or before the Second Wizarding War. And was The De- erm, De. Was De already the leader of the gang? At the same time he was a soldier employed by Voldemort?’’

Another flinch and a long pause. Lochty shrugs again. ‘‘Dunno. I think he did both. Maybe. Can’t say for sure.’’

Once more, it’s odd information. Highly contradictory - but so has been this case since day one, hasn’t it?

‘‘Okay. So you worked with him a few times, you collaborated with the Death Eaters but you never joined the gang, correct?’’ After the inmate’s nod, Draco nods too. ‘‘Alright. And what was he like? De. Do you have a description of him?’’

At that, Lochty grins. It makes his emaciated face look deeply unsettling. ‘‘Now, now. I’m sure I already gave you plenty of information. And we’ve yet to discuss my sentence deduction.’’

Naturally.

Hermione clears her throat. ‘‘Right. Your file says that you have served almost half of your sentence of thirty years. If you cooperate with us now, and tell us everything you know about The Death Eater and his gang, we can offer you two years of deduction. So you would only have to serve another fifteen years instead of seventeen.’’

Lochty smiles his off-putting smile again. ‘‘No. I want five years deduction.’’

In any other scenario, Hermione would scoff and tell him to get real. Five years deduction? It’s a disparaging request. Unfortunately, just like Jack Lochty, she has her hands presently tied; in her case by one Hestia Jones. There’s no room for manoeuvre here; she needs to comply with whatever he demands at her boss’ order. 

Draco arrives at the same conclusion. His jaw ticks as he lowers his chin in acquiescence. ‘‘Deal. Now tell us what The Death Eater looks like.’’

‘‘Ah-ah. First I need to see the signed document. You understand that, don’t you?’’

Ten minutes, a few incantations and three signatures later, the deal is sealed and Lochty beams, victorious.

‘‘Alright, where was I?’’ His unpleasant grin wavers only to return at full force in the next second. ‘‘Oh, yeah. De. What a wonderful chap. Taught me so much. We would spend hours talking to each other in the stakeouts, when there was nothing to do but wait for someone to come and give us instructions.’’

‘‘Can you describe him to us, please?’’

‘‘Of course. A tiny man. Shorter than you.’’ He addresses Hermione at this. ‘‘A bit round ‘round the belly, too. Dark hair and dark eyes. A scar on the left cheek. But other than that, a lovely man. If you met him, you’d see it immediately.’’

The flippant way Lochty recites the physical attributes irks Hermione; for some reason, she gets the impression that he’s making them up as he goes.

‘‘Okay. So a short, overweight man with dark hair and eyes, and a scar on the left cheek.’’ Draco repeats after him, scanning the Instantaneous Quill as it scribbles the information down. ‘‘And his personality? What type of ambitions did he have, what things did he talk to you about…?’’

‘‘Ah, the little man had the biggest dreams. He wanted to become Minister for Magic one day, can you believe that?’’ He barks a short laugh. ‘‘Funny bloke. I guess he never let go of his aspirations, not truly. I’m sure he’s still trying to achieve them some way or another.’’

Hermione’s stomach flips. ‘‘So his ambition was to enter the world of politics?’’

‘‘Oh, no, no, no. He didn’t have the profile for that. No, he admired the Dark Lord. He could understand one’s desire to overthrow the government and rule the nation without the hindrances of popular vote and due process, you know?’’

Hermione and Draco look at each other, and the former is the one to keep going with the charade. ‘‘So, according to you, The Death Eater’s ambition has always been to overthrow the government. Do you know if he had any concrete plans to make this happen?’’

‘‘During the Dark Lord’s reign, no. Of course not. He wasn’t crazy. But he did talk about a time when the Ministry would become strong again, not afraid of anything or anyone, and that’s when he would attack.’’

‘‘Attack? So he did mention attacking the Ministry?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. Many times.’’ Lochty’s mouth stretches wide, right up to the corners of his face. ‘‘He would start at the Aurors training facility, you see. Make sure to pick a day where all the officers would be gathered, like an event of sorts, and then he would incapacitate the lot of them all at once. As such, the first layer of defence would be down. Clever, yeah? Next, he would move on to the headquarters, attack the Wizengamot, finalise the other layers, such as the patrollers and Hit Wizards. Finally, with no resistance left, he would go for the Treasury and the Ministry of Justice. Ensure he controlled the central aspects of the government, to force the current Minister to step down.’’ He ends his fairytale with another nonchalant shrug. ‘‘Brilliant plan, if you ask me.’’

It is, if one really thinks about it.  

Hermione releases the air in her lungs, cold sweat prickling her skin. ‘‘And where would he get enough people, and capacitated people, to conduct such an attack?’’

‘‘I’m sure he has plenty of gang members following him, and that he has trained them all really well. Like I said, a wonderful bloke De is. Very capable, too. I wouldn’t underestimate him, if I were you.’’

It’s a foreboding warning.

Hermione and Draco ask another couple of questions, clarify more details about the alleged ‘‘plan of attack’’ and the leader’s criminal records. Jack Lochty supplies the information freely, all with a smile on his face, undoubtedly over the moon to have secured himself an early release from Azkaban. After they are done with him, calling for the security guard and explaining to the latter about the deal that had been struck (in order to have it straightaway processed within the prison’s administrative division), they need to wait until he returns with the ninth and last prisoner of the day.

They do it quietly, sitting next to each other in tense silence, not yet ready to put into words what had just transcribed.

Similar to the first seven interrogations, the witch they question last doesn’t have the foggiest of what they’re on about. They thank and dismiss her in less than five minutes and, after that, it’s all over. They depart the maximum security prison in strained moods, face serious and tempers gloomy.

As they apparate to the Ministry, stepping inside the DMLE’s headquarters, the first thing they are made aware of is that Hestia is expecting them in Mackenzie’s office to have a debriefing about their field mission. Inhaling long and deep, Hermione squares her shoulders and goes in front of Draco, knowing he will be trailing after her. She knocks softly on the door and pushes it open after receiving the command to do so.

‘‘Ah, Hermione. Draco. You’re back. Come, take a seat here.’’ Hestia fusses around, perching herself on the edge of Mackenzie’s desk and pointing to the sofa where the two partners are supposed to sit. As they do, she resumes. ‘‘How was it in Azkaban? Have you learned anything useful?’’

Hermione can almost hear Draco’s hard swallow. ‘‘Yes.’’ He tells their boss. ‘‘One of the nine prisoners that Puck the informant mentioned did happen to know the leader of the Essex gang.’’

‘‘Oh, wonderful. And did he or she provide any intel about the future attacks on the Ministry?’’

While Draco replies to this, Hermione catches Mackenzie’s gaze from the other side of the desk. She hasn’t said anything since they entered her office, surveying the interaction with her characteristic sharp attention. Hermione stares at her, trying to communicate with her eyes what she can’t do with words.

‘‘He. Um, yes. That is to say, he talked about ambitions that The Death Eater had years ago, when they used to work together. Of course, we can’t know for certain whether the man is still holding on to the same plans.’’

‘‘But he might. Right?’’ Hestia turns to look at Mackenzie and then again at them, a hopeful glint in her face. ‘‘Tell me what he said. What sort of plans are they?’’

Draco relays everything that had been discussed in their penultimate questioning meticulously, not skipping any detail, and it’s all he needs to do to have Hestia pumping with energy.

She all but radiates excitement. ‘‘Excellent. This is exactly what we were looking for. Some direction. Some damn perspective.’’ She grins at Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Well done. You did a good job. I'll inform the Minister right away. In the meantime, please make sure to send two- no, three copies of the transcriptions to my office. Also, I want a list of every upcoming event taking place at the Auror training facility in the next few months. I want dates and attendance sheets, and I want you two to write a report about the probability of an attack on each event and any possible security breach. Make sure I have it on my desk no later than by the end of the week.’’ She gets to her feet, swivelling to Mackenzie. ‘‘Emily, I’ll see you later. Send me a memo if you hear back from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.’’

Without further ado, she’s gone.

The door flies closed behind her and Hermione sees the walls gleam with the silent muffliato Mackenzie promptly casts.

‘‘Alright. Now tell me the other version of today.’’

Hermione breathes in and out in preparation. ‘‘It was very odd, Emily. Nobody knew anything except for this bloke. Out of nine inmates, eight of them had never even heard of the Essex gang. Why would the informant include them in his list at all? How did he even know these people, who by all means have nothing in common with each other?’’

‘‘Surely not to bring too much attention to Lochty.’’ Draco cuts in. ‘‘And it’s not only that. The fact that no one has ever heard of the Essex gang makes us really think that the gang hasn’t existed for that long. At least not for a decade or more. I mean, those prisoners were deep in the underworld during their time. They knew everything that was going on with organised crime before they got arrested. If they never heard of the gang before, it’s likely because it didn’t exist yet. But then Lochty goes and says that The Death Eater worked for the gang and Voldemort all at the same time?’’

‘‘Yeah, that sounds implausible.’’

‘‘Indeed.’’ Mackenzie pounders, humming in accordance. ‘‘The DMLE has only become aware of the Essex gang in the past two years. There wasn’t anything pointing to their existence before, at least not in any organised form.’’

‘‘Nor did Puck the informant say anything to that end. Didn’t he contend that the Essex gang has lost its way only after The Death Eater became the leader, and that that has only happened recently?’’

‘‘Exactly. I mean, I’m not necessarily saying that The Death Eater didn’t work for Voldemort or that he never entertained plans of overthrowing the government. But the whole thing, this picture that Lochty painted of him being both a Dark Arts follower and the leader of a gang, and that he always had ambitions of becoming Minister and whatnot, and that he already had a plan formed of how he would do it- It’s just…’’

‘‘Too seamless.’’ Hermione completes the sentence for him. ‘‘Just like Puck listing several names and only one of them knowing something- and not only something. Everything. Lochty didn’t just give us some scattered information about what The Death Eater looks like or what he might have been up to before, as these interrogations usually go. No. The only person we questioned the whole morning that had intel for us just so happened to provide us with a pretty much detailed account of the presumed attacks on the Ministry. The exact places and a very good estimate of the dates. Like, what are the chances of that?’’

‘‘I suppose we didn’t allow Lowburn to feed us this fake lead, so they had to find another route to get it to us. And cue to a random informant who shows up out of nowhere and takes us precisely to the one person that can tell us about the attacks.’’

Hermione and Draco nod at each other, this certainty crystal clear between them, before turning back to Mackenzie. The Head Deputy glances back and forth, brows furrowed and thin lips pinched.

It’s blatant that she’s following their reasoning and seeing the logic behind it. It’s also blatant that she doesn’t particularly like where this is taking them.

‘‘What do we know about the prisoner? This Jack Lochty.’’

‘‘Not much.’’ Draco admits. ‘‘We only screened his file. We couldn’t have known who among the nine names would actually have something to tell us.’’

‘‘Alright. Dig deeper. See if you can find anything on him, any connection with the gang or something else that might explain why he’s so interested in collaborating with the Ministry. Check if he got any suspicious visitors in the past month, someone who could have instructed him on what to do.’’ The two partners assent and Mackenzie clears her throat. ‘‘How is your side investigation going? Has Harry been helpful?’’

It’s Hermione’s turn to nearly beam in excitement. ‘‘Yes. Harry was amazing.’’ She doesn’t hesitate to say it; he really was. If it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t currently know what they do. ‘‘Don’t ask me how, Emily, but he managed to unearth crucial information about the seven men that escaped two weeks ago.’’

‘‘Oh? And did you find anything interesting?’’

‘‘Yes, definitely.’’ Hermione fetches her wand from her back pocket and summons the file she had locked inside the last drawer of her desk this morning. ‘‘Take a look at this.’’

She places the folder in front of her boss, opened on page 12.

‘‘What am I looking at?’’

‘‘Here.’’ Hermione points to the second paragraph, where John Catrall’s employment records meet their swift end. ‘‘Catrall’s last known work ties was with a corporation called Westor. Does that ring a bell?’’

Mackenzie’s gaze widens in recognition. ‘‘They provide service for the Unspeakables.’’

‘‘They do. They have been working closely with the Department of Mysteries for years, assisting them with their confidential research. They are the only private company regularly employed by the Ministry that is not required to sign an Unbreakable Contract.’’ The Head Deputy nods, confirming she knows what Hermione is talking about. The latter moves on. ‘‘Well, even though most of what they do is classified, they still have to abide by Wizarding labour policy, which means that work bonds are not supposed to be confidential. At least not to the DMLE.’’

‘‘But this one was.’’

‘‘Yes. After we arrested Catrall, we did a full background check on him and this never came up. We had him under custody for over five months and, despite our most thorough investigation, we never learned he was once employed by Westor.’’

‘‘How come?’’

‘‘That’s a good question.’’ Hermione gestures toward the file again. ‘‘At first, after I recognised the name of the company, my mind bugged for a moment.’’ She refrains from telling her boss that she had still been recovering from an intense orgasm gifted by Draco’s skilful fingers and that’s why the information took so long to register. ‘‘But then I kept on reading…’’ She flips the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. ‘‘His official record was sealed. The Wizengamot intervened on Westor’s behalf to have it undisclosed for external investigations.’’

Mackenzie’s eyebrows jump. ‘‘What? Why?’’

‘‘Because of what happened. What caused Catrall to be fired after working for the corporation for twelve years. They didn’t want it to be public knowledge.’’ Mackenzie reads the words on the paper at the same time Hermione utters them out loud. ‘‘Catrall lost the plot. He had been working with the Unspeakables for years, joining in their research, developing experimental spells and complex incantations together, among other classified projects. But at some point, his goals started to diverge from the Ministry’s. He became obsessed with one particular project. He was sure he would have a breakthrough so he kept going despite his bosses’ warnings that he was verging too close to dark magic. Until, eventually, he went too far in his megalomaniac tendencies and Westor had no choice but to let him go at the request of the Wizengamot. After all of this happened, I suppose they thought the best course of action was to bury the occurrence, probably to avoid too many questions. In any case, after he got fired, he disappeared. There’s no record of Catrall being employed anywhere else, or even participating in anything public anymore. Our theory is that after Westor axed him, he was approached by the Essex gang and given the resources to carry on with his experimental research.’’

The discovery finally elucidates Catrall’s erratic behaviour when they interrogated him back in January, and his reaction to hearing the Wizengamot being mentioned.

The Head Deputy’s eyes fling across the file, mouth slightly ajar as she takes the information in. Harry’s mysterious informant was quite comprehensive in his truth-finding. He managed to compile almost everything about the project in question; he’s been able to even recover the spellwork.

‘‘Scry in Harmony?’’ Mackenzie lifts her head to stare at Hermione, semblant confused. ‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘That’s the project Catrall was working on. He was attempting to confine Scrying magic onto passage objects, in this case a black mirror. And, for all intents and purposes, he succeeded. He developed the correct incantation.’’

Mackenzie repeats what it says on the parchment. ‘‘Harmonia spatium passus? What is it for?’’

It’s Draco who answers this, speaking for the first time since Hestia left. ‘‘It’s a spell that derives its form from harmonica nectere passus, which is the one I used to repair the Vanishing Cabinets at Hogwarts in my sixth year.’’ His jaw is set as he explains. ‘‘When Granger realised that Catrall was the one behind Scrying magic, which is something we have been after for months, we tried to understand how he’d done it. And that’s when I recognised the incantation. It’s modified to apply to one sole object instead of two and to take the caster to any place he or she visualises while scrying.’’

‘‘That’s how they broke into the Patricksons’ property, Emily.’’ Hermione declares, barely suppressing the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘‘We thought that the Scrying magic was allowing for bodiless transportation, because the Patricksons’ wards weren’t triggered by the invaders. But they wouldn’t even need that. Just like with the Vanishing Cabinets, where Hogwarts anti-Apparition wards didn’t work, they were able to teletransport inside the house, steal the elixirs, and then leave again without being so much as detected by the Patricksons’ magic.’’

Their boss nods slowly, catching on to all the implications. ‘‘So it wasn’t Tremlet, after all?’’

‘‘No, definitely not. He never left his cell. And he didn’t have a wand to cast the spell nor a black mirror. I’m sure someone told him to take the blame only to mislead us, knowing that later they would break him free anyway.’’

Mackenzie swallows, surely thinking about the long trial they had to go through, in which she participated quite vigorously, only for Tremlet to escape and not even be the real culprit.

‘‘And you think they’re gonna use it again?’’

‘‘We think so.’’ Hermione meets Draco’s silver gaze, remembering all the assumptions they had came up with together at his flat the day before. ‘‘We think they are indeed planning an attack, just not where they want us to believe. We think they have a completely different target in mind, and that they will use a black mirror to teletransport there and the Patricksons’ elixirs to incapacitate whatever defences the place might have. And they will do it while the entire DMLE is deployed somewhere else, likely the Auror training facility.’’

Mackenzie blinks and, after a beat, sighs. 

Poor woman, Hermione thinks. They’re putting her into such a tight spot.

However, because there’s a reason she became the Head Deputy of the Department of Law Enforcement at the age of thirty eight and one of the only people in the world Hermione truly admires, she bears the burden beautifully.

‘‘Alright.’’ She tells them, sharp as usual. ‘‘This is good. You’re doing good work. We’re much further in our investigation than what we were only a few weeks ago. We have now a much clearer idea of what’s in stake.’’

‘‘And that’s all because of Harry, Emily. So, thank you.’’ Hermione smiles at the witch. ‘‘If it hadn’t been for your insistence that we got help, we wouldn’t have made this discovery. As always, you know how to be the exact leader we need.’’

An instant of recognition passes between the two of them; they trade smiles, grateful for each other.

‘‘You’re welcome, Hermione. Thank you, and you…’’ She turns to Draco, grinning at him, too. ‘‘For trusting me. That’s why I always say you are the best I have in the DMLE.’’ He dips his chin in acknowledgement and Mackenzie exhales, ready for the next step. ‘‘Okay. This is what we’re going to do: you will go along with what Hestia asked of you, the report, the lists, etcetera. Yeah? On the side, I want you to pay Westor a visit. I’ll sign some papers if you need, to show at the company in case they refuse to talk. And bring Harry with you. He always causes a certain commotion, and it ever works in our favour.’’ Hermione chuckles because it’s true. The amount of times they got away with requesting private information just due to Harry’s status as the chosen one is not in the books. ‘‘While you are busy with the list of events taking place at the Aurors training facility, do also compound a list of other potential locations that could be targeted by The Death Eater.’’

‘‘Will do.’’ Draco easily agrees. ‘‘I was also thinking about talking to the Patricksons again. Inspect one more time what types of potions the husband was brewing.’’

‘‘That’s good. Do it. You have my permission to follow every lead you feel might be promising.’’

‘‘Thank you, Emily.’’

‘‘Thanks, Mackenzie.’’

‘‘You’re welcome. Good luck.’’

They depart her office in visibly brighter spirits. With no need to confer with each other, they walk in sync to their conference room, armed with all the files related to the Zimcooke case. As the door draws shut and it’s finally just the two of them, Hermione throws her arms around Draco’s neck.

She moulds their bodies together, going on her tiptoes to get closer to his face. ‘‘How are you doing? This morning must have been heavy for you.’’

He presses his lips to hers, crossing his forearms behind her back, before replying. ‘‘I’m fine. It was weird being in Azkaban knowing my father was probably only a few cells down, but the feeling is gone now. I’m okay.’’

‘‘Yeah? Do you wanna talk about it?’’

‘‘There’s nothing to talk about. Honestly. Like I said, it’s weird because it’s- it’s my father, you know? And all his former acquaintances that we had to question. Fucking weird. But, really, it’s not even bothering me anymore. I guess I made peace with it a long time ago.’’

Hermione regards him for another moment, but he sounds genuine. She relaxes. ‘‘I’m glad to hear it.’’ She kisses him, this time for more than just a second and with a tad more gusto. Afterward, they hug, coming down together from the high of that morning and the follow-up meeting with their two bosses. Once she feels re-centred, Hermione takes a step back. ‘‘Come on. Let’s get to it.’’

They settle on their respective chairs, across from one another, in the habitual dance that had become a steady part of their lives for the past countless months. They smile at each other and dive back into work.

Draco turns thirty three on June fifth, which falls on a Monday. A few days before, Hermione asks him if he has ideas on how to celebrate his birthday, to which he responds that he doesn’t want to make anything big out of it; they have been so busy lately, with all the developments at work and double shifts, that he prefers to just take it easy this year, enjoying a calm evening with his son on the very day and meeting everyone at the pub on their regular Friday nights.

And so they do, carrying on with their normal business at The Porcelain Pixie, only adding a lemon pie in the middle of the table as a little token of celebration for Draco.

Hermione keeps her distance, although she’d like nothing better than to spend the entire time glued to his side, unconcerned about displaying the affection she carries for him within herself. As it is, she only grins and sits an appropriate amount of chairs away, watching him every once in a while with her keenest subtle abilities. Consoling her is the knowledge that Draco has arranged for Scorpius to spend the night at Daphne’s, which he contended with the excuse of returning late from the pub. In reality, he’s planned so they can sleep together tonight, not needing to say goodbye at the end of it as they always do.

The prospect of falling asleep next to Draco, waking up and seeing his face as the first thing in the morning, fills Hermione with something akin to elation.

She can’t fucking wait.

Before that, though, they have to play pretend in front of their friends, acting as if Draco’s birthday doesn’t mean anything special to her and as if celebrating it feet away from each other cuts it for them.

‘‘If you stare any harder at him, the side of his face will burn and melt. It’s true, I read it at Witchy Science.’’

Hermione’s eye-roll is so ostentatious it nearly gets stuck in her skull. ‘‘Bugger off, Lav.’’

Her friend sniffs, bringing her firewhisky up for an exploratory sip. ‘‘I would, but you are annoying me. I’m trying to have a conversation and you don’t listen to a word I say. You only have eyes for him.’’

‘‘Sorry.’’ Hermione offers a semi-apologetically smile, squeezing the blonde’s hand. ‘‘I’ll be better. It’s just that it’s his birthday and I wish I didn’t have to hide- well, whatever I feel for him.’’

‘‘And what’s that, exactly?’’ A perfectly contoured brow is raised together with the question.

Hermione shrugs. ‘‘A lot.’’

‘‘A lot?’’ Hermione nods and Lavender narrows her gaze. Her tone drops. ‘‘Hermione, are you in-?’’

‘‘Cheers, bitches.’’ The voice materialises out of thin air and Hermione jumps a couple of inches off her chair. Lavender looks up, irritation colouring her features as she’s interrupted by Pansy; the latter, however, who sits next to them completely unbothered at having wiggled her way into a private conversation. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

Apparently, she too is entirely aware that a private conversation was being held.

‘‘Nothing, Parkinson. We were just admiring the general splendour of the evening.’’ Lavender retorts, saccharine and sarcastic, her favourite combination. 

‘‘Right.’’ Pansy obviously doesn’t buy this, but she doesn’t say anything else to counter it, either. 

Taking a closer look, Hermione notices the signs of fatigue, in her opaque irises and gaunt cheeks. Pansy is still gorgeous and regal, of course, but the truth is right there: no amount of make-up can fully conceal the evidence of a heartbreak.

‘‘How are you, Pans?’’ Hermione asks, her palm leaving Lavender’s to grasp the other woman’s instead. ‘‘It’s so nice to see you. I’m glad you came.’’

They weren’t sure she would. Draco had personally invited her, dropping by the Parkinson Manor to tell her that her presence was very much expected in spite of the fact that Neville might also be in attendance. He isn’t, actually, at least not yet, but Pansy had originally baulked, affirming to Draco that she was not yet ready to show her face to the world. Her best friend had insisted, pleading for her to leave her self-imposed house confinement and make an appearance on his birthday, if not for herself then for him.

Ultimately, she relented and here she is- four weeks into her broken engagement- for the first time meeting all her mates again. 

The former Slytherin shrugs with the pomp she wears better than anyone else. ‘‘I’m feeling like utter shit and I know I look like utter shit, too. But Draco all but threw a tantrum when I said I wasn't coming, so here I am. Alas.’’

Hermione’s heart winces. ‘‘I’m so sorry, Pans. There’s nothing I can say to you in this situation, except that I truly wish you didn’t have to hurt as much as you’re doing right now. I wish there was something I could do for you.’’

‘‘I know, Hermione.’’ Pansy returns the squeeze. ‘‘Of everyone, I know only you understand what I’m going through.’’

They have exchanged letters in the past couple of weeks. It had started with a short and kindly-worded parchment sent by Hermione, inquiring about how the witch was doing after she had heard the news from Draco. Pansy had taken several days to reply but, after she finally did, their correspondence persevered. Pansy poured her heart out, day after day, admitting to her struggles and fears of raising a little girl in this merciless, misogynist world, and Hermione listened, offering what little she could back. When talking about moving on after becoming grief-stricken in such a way, if that was even possible to begin with, Pansy had asked Hermione how she had done it. In turn, Hermione poured her own heart out, letting go of her walls and dread of vulnerability to give her friend the comfort that she sought. 

She told Pansy about the many months of depression and loneliness; she told her about the feelings of worthlessness, of being so easily replaced, of deserving to be abandoned; she told Pansy about the hard reality of having to put your ego aside to start again. To choose yourself again. To actively decide to be happy again.

If for nothing at all, it has been a bonding experience. Despite already getting along well enough before, after the pages-long, tear-jerking letters, the two women have become much closer. And Hermione, by all accounts, is the one person for whom Pansy is willing to make exceptions in this situation.

(Hermione has also written to Neville, likewise offering her solidarity in the wake of the upsetting event, but she hasn’t mentioned this fact to Pansy; considerably because Neville was short to reply to her and they haven’t broached the subject again.)

They trade smiles at the pub, the two women, holding each other’s hands and allowing themselves to show how much affection they have for one another - at least Hermione can do it for Pansy since she can’t for Draco. Lavender abruptly standing up breaks their eye contact.

‘‘I’ll let you two carry on with your sappy moment. I’ve got better things to do with my night.’’

She departs and Hermione can only chuckle with the clear display of jealousy. Lavender is such a character. Pansy extends a manicured finger to summon her drink, which she sips on as she watches Lavender go. ‘‘I guess she still doesn’t like me.’’

‘‘Nah. Lavender is just a little tough on the outside, but she’s a sweetheart on the inside. Not that unlike you, actually.’’

Hermione laughs when Pansy wrinkles her nose in distaste. ‘‘Excuse me. I’m tough on the inside and outside.’’

‘‘Try you may, Pans, but I already know who you are. I’ve seen your soul, babe. So give it up.’’

‘‘Urgh. Don’t call me babe. It’s unbecoming.’’

Ah, the lingering effects of pureblood fineness. Just like Draco and his aversion to the word mate. Hermione laughs again. ‘‘Sorry, siñora. Will be much careful from now on, don’t worry.’’

‘‘You know what, Granger? For a Gryffindor, you have a hell of a sharp tongue-’’

The light scolding dies on her throat as, before them, the door of The Porcelain Pixie opens and in walks Neville.

Tonight even Hermione has to admit: he looks good. Astoundingly tall, with bright green eyes and a sincere grin, Neville wears casual trousers and a polo shirt that does his slim body plenty of favours. He marches directly toward Draco, evidently only having shown up to the latter’s benefit, and Hermione hears Pansy suck a choked breath next to her.

She reacts at once. ‘‘It’s okay, Pansy. You’re okay. Hey, hey. Look at me.’’ Hermione grabs her hands, swivelling their bodies to the side, away from the sight of their two men, and compelling Pansy to hold her gaze and not let it go. ‘‘It’s fine. You’re fine. It doesn’t matter. He will be gone soon. Ignore it. Ignore him.’’

Teary black eyes bore into hers. ‘‘I can’t- I can’t, Hermione. I haven’t seen him in so- so long- since-since- Oh, dear Salazar. Please. I love him so much.’’

It’s devastatingly sad. Hermione doesn’t waver. ‘‘I know, I know, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter right now. Right now the only thing that matters is that you breathe in and breathe out. Come on, darling, do it with me.’’ She does it herself, setting the example for Pansy to follow. After a few seconds, her friend copies her, inhaling and exhaling a lungful, in an attempt to calm herself. ‘‘That’s it. Good girl. One, two, three, in and one, two, three, out. Yes, that’s it. See? You’re fine. It’s fine. This will pass soon.’’

It works to a certain extent. Pansy’s tears seem to retreat and she no longer appears on the verge of a meltdown. Hermione’s glad for it; she knows more than anyone how painful the crippling perspective of falling apart in public is, when there’s no one there to put you back together. It’s an experience hard to recover from and Pansy is better off without it. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.

‘‘Well done. You’re good. See? You’re good.’’

Pansy nods, looking more composed save for a slightly trembling lower lip. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘Don’t mention it.’’

The former Slytherin closes her eyes for a moment, taking another fortifying breath, then drops Hermione’s hands, straightening her shoulders. 

The classy, well-trained lady is back. 

She drinks from her cocktail again, gaze rooted down. Glancing to the other side of the salon, Hermione sees Draco and Neville in seemingly earnest conversation. The latter catches her eyes briefly and they trade a small smile of acknowledgement.

She returns her attention to Pansy.

‘‘Did you ever try to get Weasley back?’’

Hermione’s not surprised with the question. ‘‘No. I never wanted him back. I just wished he had done things differently to spare me the pain.’’ Pansy nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Hermione guesses where her mind has taken her. ‘‘You want Neville back, don’t you?’’

‘‘Every second of my day.’’

Hermione sighs. She’s given this a lot of reflection lately, after having spent half of the afternoon on that Sunday talking to Draco about it. During her letter exchanges with Pansy, she often thought about saying it, but she never took the plunge and just did it. She supposes the time has come.

‘‘I always tell you that our situations are different, don’t I? That we had altogether different relationships with very distinct men, and that the break-up happened for some many varied reasons that we can’t really compare our experiences. I stand by that, but I do think there’s something that might make us similar after all.’’ Pansy’s pretty eyes suddenly rise, drinking in Hermione’s measured words. ‘‘Like me, Pans, you have traumas. Different sorts of traumas, but traumas nonetheless. The two of us were raised in a difficult world and we suffered from it, to different extents and manners, but we did. And in consequence, we both developed toxic traits that have deeply affected our relationships, because we both have unresolved issues to tend to inside ourselves. No man will do it for us and no one can understand the struggle but us. It’s our battle to fight.’’ She locates Pansy’s hands again, interlacing them with hers, holding tight. ‘‘As I see myself now finally coming out on the other side, after the unthinkable happened and I found myself having to start over in life, I can tell you with all certainty that the battle is worth it. But you have to go through it. There’s no other way. You have to hurt and you have to suffer and you have to doubt. And after all of that, you have to find peace within yourself and heal. Pansy, listen to me. You have to heal. You have to look inside yourself and deal with everything you don’t like, everything that needs to be changed. You need to do the work. Only then you’ll be ready for a relationship.’’ Hermione’s gaze can’t help but stray, landing on the one person on Earth with whom she would want to be in a relationship again. Draco stares back, observing from afar her interaction with Pansy. ‘‘Whether it will be Neville the one waiting for you on the other side or not, only time will tell.’’

Averting her eyes again to Pansy, Hermione notices the return of the tears. But the witch nods, mouth pursed in grief, yet also a tinge of determination.

‘‘You’re right.’’ She says and bravely looks straight into the source of her aching heart, now chatting with Susan and Blaise on the far right corner. ‘‘I will heal.’’

‘‘Yes, you will.’’

It’s long before midnight when Draco stands from his chair and tells the circle he’s going home.

‘‘Daphne is waiting for me.’’ He argues with the chorus of protest surrounding him. ‘‘It’s already late enough. She can’t be with Scorpius the whole night, lads.’’

A load of bullshit, of course, but no one doubts him. He goes around, thanking everyone for their presence, shaking hands with the men and hugging the women. Hermione remains still, a casual façade in place. That is, until she catches Blaise’s eyes.

He smirks, wide and proud, staring at her with all the looks of someone who’s very much in the masquerade. Hermione can’t be arsed to pretend: she smirks back, winking at him and being promptly reciprocated. Not having been told so, she just knows that he knows. 

She waits for a total of ten minutes after Draco’s gone to play her part. Pansy, following Neville’s swift departure, had relaxed and finally enjoyed the gathering, momentarily absorbed in a conversation with Gregory and his wife Christine. Lavender has spent half of the evening glued to Theo’s side, talking about God-knows-what. As such, it’s just Hermione at the centre of the large table, surrounded by a few former Slytherins (invited especially to Draco’s birthday) and chatty Suzy, ogling a half-finished piece of lemon pie.

She doesn’t feel guilty in the least to bid her farewell. The circle, as expected, also protests her leaving but she easily convinces them that she’s tired and depleted of energy after such a long week. Lavender shoots daggers at her, aware of her true motives, but Hermione ignores it effortlessly.

Blaise hugs her tight in goodbye, whispering in her ear. ‘‘Go get him, love.’’

‘‘Don’t call me love.’’

Only Draco can.

Hermione winks at him again, grabs her purse and walks out of the bar.

The agreement had been that he would wait for her in one of the alleys that cut the busy street where The Porcelain Pixie is located. After both of them had successfully extracted themselves, they would head to the Apparation point only a couple of blocks away and travel together to her flat.

Hermione ambles slowly, looking around in search of Draco. Within seconds, strong hands wrap around her midriff, bringing her close from behind. ‘‘Hi, love.’’

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

He kisses her neck, too eager in the quiet of the late night. ‘‘Fucking finally. I thought we’d be stuck at the pub forever.’’

‘‘Tell me about it. Come on already.’’

They move hurriedly to their destination, hand in hand, but when they get there, Draco halts their progress. ‘‘Let’s go to my flat instead. Scorpius won’t be back until the afternoon. And I want you in my bed tonight.’’ He brings her body flush to his, hungry eyes trailing hotly over her face. ‘‘Can’t stop thinking about it.’’

Acquiescence comes readily. ‘‘Okay.’’

Draco kisses her on the lips once and then spins on his heels, bringing her with him. They apparate directly into his bedroom.

Their movements are fluid as water: they already know each other from memory. Their curves and ridges, the shape of their bare bodies in sheer darkness. Their mouths know their way into the other’s skin without the need of guidance. It’s a rehearsed dance: tongues, hands, hearts.

Draco sits against the headboard of his bed as Hermione straddles him. His long legs fold up behind her back, locking her in, and her arms twine around his neck, locking him in. She bounces gently, feeling him go in and out, in and out, in and out.

‘‘You look good in my room.’’

‘‘Do I?’’

‘‘Mhm. Fantasised about it repeatedly. Every night I laid my head against the pillow, I pictured you here. Riding me just like you are right now.’’

Hermione hums, eyes closing for a moment when he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her. She enjoys the sensation for as much as she can, not faltering in her deliberate motions. Peeling her eyes open again, she stares at Draco, the moonlight that invades through his curtains shadowing his face daintily. ‘‘When did you fantasise about me for the first time?’’

He chuckles, low. ‘‘Far too long ago to have been even slightly appropriate.’’

‘‘Nothing we’ve been doing for the past two and a half months has been appropriate. Tell me. When did you fantasise about me for the first time, Draco?’’

The corner of his lips tug upward. He holds her gaze, unashamed despite what he might say. ‘‘After the gala. I came home and went straight to the shower. I touched myself thinking about ripping your beautiful black gown off and fucking you until the daylight.’’

Hermione smiles, pleased with the information. ‘‘That’s why you could barely look me in the eye the following Monday.’’

‘‘You noticed that, eh? Well, how could I? I had spent the entire weekend imagining doing the filthiest things to you. I was ashamed of myself.’’

Her smile lingers, her hips maintaining the same pace. She feels a little lazy and indulgent, not as desperate to reach the climax as she’d been in previous occasions. They have the whole night ahead of them. And the morning. She wants to relish this. To take her time to explore their connection - of bodies and minds.

‘‘The gala changed things for me, too.’’ She lets him know. ‘‘I was so rude because I realised I was terribly attracted to you, and that threw me off kilter.’’

Draco nuzzles his lips against hers as a reward for her honesty. ‘‘I’m glad. At least I wasn’t the only one spiralling.’’

‘‘No. We both spiralled until we ended up together at last.’’

As they sway on his bed, their mouths flirt with each other, touching and then not, skimming breaths and leisured tongues. His bedroom is quiet, peaceful. She decides she likes it, and a thought occurs to her: she only looks good in his room because he’s there with her.

She kisses him more deeply at this, moving her hips to angle a little higher. It skyrockets her pleasure and Hermione gets lost in the moment. She recovers by drawing back, away from the dangers of his enticing mouth, and easing her rhythm once more.

‘‘Tell me, Draco.’’ She murmurs. ‘‘Is reality as good as the fantasy?’’

Through hooded eyelids, she sees him exhale. ‘‘Infinitely better.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Yeah. It’s-it’s a little overwhelming at times.’’

‘‘In what way?’’

‘‘In the way that it never felt like this before.’’ His tone doesn’t alter as he talks, neither does his body; his bottom half remains still as his hands softly clutch her waist, ghosting the up-and-down motion of her hips. ‘‘Sex has never been this good for me before. I don’t know why, but you and me, we work together.’’

Yes, they do.

Hermione releases a shaky breath, his words combining with the steady love they have been making for the past several minutes to loosen the grip she has on self-control. She closes her eyes again, breasts bouncing together with the rest of her; a little harder, a little faster.

‘‘Nothing in the world compares to the feeling of being inside you, Granger.’’ Draco goes on telling her, unaware or uncaring of how she’s irrevocably derailing. ‘‘Nothing I’ve ever done before can compare to it. I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, but I can still recognise something rare and singular when I see it. Which is how I feel every time I am with you.’’

The dam breaks; Hermione throws her head back, bucking roughly on top of him until she’s coming. Anticipating the erratic quality that her movements were bound to take, Draco assumes the reins, palms closing more firmly around her waist to bring her down hard against him, slapping them together until he, too, orgasms.

When Hermione comes to herself again, they are in the same position. She sighs, shifting forward to lean her entire body against his, chest to chest, her face nested inside the crook of his neck, eyes contently shut as Draco’s arms close around her. She feels more than listens to the staccato of his heart growing slow.

Her brain gradually returns to life.

‘‘I have a question for you.’’

‘‘Yes, love?’’

‘‘It’s not the first time you mention being so long since you’ve been with anyone. What does that mean exactly? How long is a long time?’’

In the aftermath of their most intimate symbiosis, reticence gives way to sincerity. 

‘‘I haven’t been with anyone since Astoria died.’’

Hermione is too overstimulated from their tryst to react properly to this. She only blinks her eyes open. ‘‘Really?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘It’s been almost five years, Draco.’’

‘‘I’m well aware.’’

She should move, straighten herself to look him in the eye, to carry this conversation face-to-face. She doesn’t. She stays buried in his embrace, and whispers. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Lack of options. Lack of will. Lack of time. All of the above.’’

His tone is neutral, as constant as always. If the fact doesn’t seem to bother him, it won’t bother her either. Still, she tells him. ‘‘I’m sorry. It must have been lonely.’’

He hums into her hair. ‘‘I suppose as lonely as it would’ve been with someone I wasn’t meant to be with.’’

It’s a profound truth and it’s perhaps what drives Hermione to her next question.

‘‘Can you tell me about Astoria?’’

An instant passes in which Draco breathes deeply in, his chest inflating and jiggling her a little. ‘‘Astoria… She was the sweetest woman I’d ever met. Kind words were all she had for people. Even after the war, even after all her losses. Even after the illness. She saw the world through a rose-coloured lens, from the moment she was born until the moment she died.’’ A soft chuckle leaves his lips, warming Hermione’s forehead. ‘‘She was, clearly, the opposite of me. In every single way. When we met, I could barely believe it. It took me a while to accept she was genuine and that she didn’t see me like everyone else did. She was generous and forgiving, and I guess… Well, I guess I saw her as my absolution. And I think she was, in the end. I mean, she did give me the only good thing I’ve ever offered to the world.’’ At this, at the mention of Scorpius, his voice falters and he needs to take a second to clear his throat before resuming. ‘‘I loved her, Granger. More than I had loved anyone before. Or at least less selfishly than I had before. And I was a good husband to her. I know that.’’

Hermione shifts, raising her face a few inches, under the impression that he’s done. 

He's not.

‘‘I did right by her, Granger, and for a long time that was enough. But-’’ Hermione freezes in her motion, unwittingly holding her breath and hanging onto every word. ‘‘Our relationship had limits. I suppose I always knew that deep down but, after all these years, I’ve finally achieved full clarity. See, I was struggling after the war ended. It was hard to be who I was at the time. And all I wanted was a chance to try again. To reinvent myself. And I recognise now that there was love, yes, but there was also desperation. She was my ticket to redemption. If I was good to her, if I treated that woman right, that woman who was an angel amidst the other horrible souls of our destroyed world, then I might be absolved of all my sins after all.’’ The chuckle is back, though this time is less soft. ‘‘It sounds a bit ridiculous saying it now, but at the time it made sense to me. So I did my best. I worked so hard in our marriage, I was so- so good. I really was. I only showed her my best sides, my most redeemable qualities. Which is why I now realise I was just playing a part. I wasn’t being me. Not completely, at least. I- I guess I was scared she wouldn't love me if she saw the real me. Which was unfair of me, of course, because that meant I robbed her of the chance of choosing. Of deciding for herself. And something tells me that if she were still alive, I would have eventually let her in. If she would’ve stayed with me or not, I’ll never know.’’ His sigh is bone deep. ‘‘I have no idea how our marriage would be standing today. Astoria was a sweet woman, but a little too naïve. Especially after her illness; she didn’t live the same reality as most of us. And, like I said, we were opposites in everything. At some point, I see it crystal clear now, I would’ve tired of playing the part of the dutiful husband. I would miss being me. The real me. The ugly me, the- the bad me.’’ There is a pause, in which neither of them move. Hermione barely allows herself to blink. Draco’s arms, still crossed behind her back, suddenly tighten. ‘‘Back when we used to fight like rabid dogs, you and me. Before… everything- I used to think you only brought out the worst in me. It took me a real long time to understand that’s not true. You bring out the real me, Granger. Which can be bad on occasion and it can be ugly. But it’s me. With all the flaws and qualities, and without the paralysing fear of not being good enough and without having to pretend to be something I’m not. You bring out the worst in me sometimes but, most times, you bring out the best. I see it now. And now that I can be my true self every day again, I realise that any other way is simply not the right way.’’

It’s curious that, for a woman who had spent over a decade in a relationship with someone who was also her best friend, Hermione has never experienced this level of intimacy before. During the crawling seconds of silence that follow Draco’s admission, it strikes her as absolutely eye-opening that, in the few months they’ve been in each other’s worlds, Draco and her have shared the most candid, vulnerable moments she ever recalls having.

It’s stunning. And life-changing.

She buries her face deeper into his neck. ‘‘Thank you for telling me that.’’

Draco’s nod gets lost in their embrace and, in the next beat, in their passionate kiss. She tries to tell him with her lips that what he just told her means more than what she can put into words. When their mouths finally decelerate, it’s him who gives the idea of a bath. They shower together in his master bathroom, washing each other in idle movements, exhaustion starting to claim their limbs. They drag themselves back to bed when they’re done, falling heavily under the duvet as their bodies blend into each other until she can no longer tell where she ends and he begins.

The next thing Hermione acknowledges is the sound of footsteps and a loud voice ringing.

A female voice.

She draws herself up in a flash, sitting naked and suddenly alert in bed. Draco rouses slower, sleepy eyes blinking at irregular intervals, still pretty much out of it. Sunbeams infiltrate from the open curtains, bathing his bedroom in light and announcing the late morning. Hermione stares at him and then at the ajar door, from where the noises filter in. Noises of glasses clinking, of drawers opening, of renewed footsteps. 

When the female voice speaks again, closer than ever before, Hermione gets to her feet. She looks frantically around for her clothes, but realises in a split-second that she won’t make it. She panics, grabbing the first thing she sees, which is the second layer of Draco’s duvet, at the same time the man himself catches up with their situation.

He covers himself with a sheet around his lap, groaning and grimacing. ‘‘I’m so sorry, Granger. I had no idea she would come today. It was not what we agreed on.’’

Hermione doesn’t have the time to ask what nor who he means, because the door of Draco’s room is pushed open and she sees herself face to face with Narcissa Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Before Hermione can react in any way, an excited Scorpius runs inside the bedroom, coming behind his grandmother with a face-splitting smile.

‘‘Granger! You’re here! Did you come for Daddy’s birthday? You did, didn’t you? Are we gonna celebrate it together today? His birthday is not today, technically, but we can still celebrate it, can’t we? He said he didn’t want to do anything, but maybe you can convince him to -’’

Very few times in her experience has Hermione been so thrown off balance she didn’t begin to know what to say; this occasion, right here, is undoubtedly one of them. She just looks on to the nine-year-old chattering five words a second, loudly and enthusiastically, and at the tall, blonde witch, who stares back at her with the same shocked expression.

Draco, cleverly, stays seated, hiding his naked state, though Hermione can’t do much about it other than remain immobile, frozen where she stands, hands clasping the duvet for dear life.

‘‘- and then, maybe, we could go to Hanson Chocolaterie afterward. Daddy has been promising me their caramel cobwebs for ages, and today it would be perfect if we could go together-’’

‘‘Scorpius, baby, slow down. Come here.’’

The boy does so at once, entirely clueless to the awkward atmosphere of the room, taking his place at his father’s lap and giving him a kiss on the cheek as a greeting. ‘‘Last night was so fun, Daddy! Auntie let me watch two films on her television. One after the other! And, this morning, Grandma watched the ending of The Smurfs with me, because I fell asleep last night before it was over. It was so cool, wasn’t it, Grandma?’’

Narcissa Malfoy finally blinks away from Hermione. ‘‘It was, my dear.’’

‘‘It sounds great. I’m happy you had such a good night with your aunt.’’

‘‘Should we invite her today, too, Daddy? To celebrate your birthday. We could go out you, me, Grandma, Granger and Auntie. It’s gonna be so fun!’’

Sweet Circe.

Hermione’s heartbeats go absolutely wild.

Blessedly, Narcissa intervenes at this. ‘‘Scorpius, dear, step outside with me for a moment. Your father and Miss Granger will follow us soon. Let us allow them some, erm, privacy for now.’’

Scorpius doesn’t appear to understand this request but he follows his grandmother dutifully, without protest. Narcissa shoots Draco a piercing look before she closes the door, one that he misses due to having his gaze averted to everywhere else.

The click sounds and he immediately speaks. ‘‘Granger, I’m so fucking sorry. Fuck. This was totally unexpected. Mother wasn’t supposed to come today. I told her I’d be out and that Scorpius would be at Daphne’s. I had no idea she would decide to pick him up earlier and show up here as a fucking surprise.’’

Hermione still stands, too flummoxed to move. ‘‘Well…’’ She starts slowly. ‘‘It is your birthday week, after all. It makes sense that a mum would want to make a surprise for her son.’’

He groans in response, large hands coming up to massage his scalp, as if seeking for some shred of comfort in their present predicament. ‘‘Salazar’s pants. This is unbelievable.’’

Hermione agrees, of course, but she has more urgent things in mind. She resumes her search.

Thanks to all the gods they had apparated the previous night directly into his bedroom. She locates her skirt and knickers behind the drawer and her top at the foot of the bed. She dresses quickly, fetching her wand from the sideboard to throw in a few beauty charms and fix her dishevelled appearance, lastly retrieving her shoes by the door.

Finally recomposed, she dares to glance at Draco again.

Having put on only grey sweatpants, torso still bare and hair uncharacteristically tousled, he looks delectable. Which he shouldn’t be, considering their situation. Or better saying, Hermione shouldn’t be taking note of such things at the moment. But she is. She feels awfully attracted to him, her treacherous body inclined to resume from where they had left off the day before, while at the same time her insides perform an Irish jig, tap-dancing over her inner organs and crushing all of her vitals.

She hasn’t seen Narcissa Malfoy since the war trials. Down the line, her face has popped up a couple of times in the newspapers, but not so much in the past years that she’s been living as a recluse in France and the Wizarding society has stopped caring so much about Voldemort and his old followers. And now, fourteen years later, they see each other again: the woman donning her finest robes and Hermione completely starkers. 

Despite her conflicting feelings about Narcissa and her character before her actions ended the war, the emotion that chiefly wins inside Hermione is jitteriness. The fact remains: this is Draco’s mum. The mother of the man with whom she’s utterly besotted. Regardless of their past, the reticence about one another, the dark circumstances that have once intertwined their paths- Hermione still feels, at her core, the need to make a good impression, knowing- hoping - that they will be in each other’s lives much more from now on.

The realisation works to make her even more jittery. Hermione gulps, wiping her sweaty palms on the back of her skirt. 

The action doesn’t escape Draco’s attention.

‘‘Hey, it’s okay.’’ He steps into her, resting a hand on each side of her shoulders. ‘‘I don’t expect you to stay and deal with all this shit. That’s on me. I’ll tell Scorpius that something came up and you had to apparate home straightaway. He’ll understand.’’

‘‘And your mother?’’

He snorts. ‘‘She doesn’t get to have an opinion.’’

Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘Of course she does. She’s your mother. She just arrived from France to find a naked woman in her son’s room. The least she deserves is an explanation.’’

‘‘She doesn’t deserve an explanation.’’ Draco frowns. ‘‘What are you talking about? What I do with my free time is none of her business.’’

‘‘And yet it is.’’

‘‘What? Granger, it’s not-’’

‘‘Draco, she’s your mother. Everything you do is her business.’’ When he still frowns, seemingly ready to counter her again, Hermione adds. ‘‘Wouldn’t you expect to know about whom Scorpius might be seeing, once he’s grown?’’

‘‘That’s different. Our relationship is completely different from the one I have with my mother. And I'd never intrude the way she just did.’’

‘‘Still.’’ Hermione shrugs. ‘‘She will want to know what I’m doing here and I don’t intend to make an enemy out of her by running away behind her back like a coward. And, also…’’ She smiles in spite of her nerves. ‘‘I couldn’t possibly in good conscience say no to the caramel cobwebs of Hanson Chocolaterie, could I?’’

The wrinkles in Draco’s forehead smooth as his cheeks burst into a grin. ‘‘Well, according to Scorpius, only a mad person would do so.’’

Hermione chuckles, thinking about the sweet lad. A day next to him sounds great; she only needs to conquer the dragon that currently guards him downstairs.

‘‘Alright.’’ She tells the other dragon in front of her. ‘‘Let’s do this.’’

They walk out of his bedroom together, though their hands are kept to themselves. Draco has found a sweater and trainers along the way and it’s the most casual she’s ever seen him, which only puts her more on edge. Hermione inhales deeply as they descend the staircase, arriving at the living room where Scorpius is playing with some sort of floating puzzle while his grandmother watches from the sofa.

She turns to look at the sound of footsteps.

‘‘Good morning, Mother.’’ Draco anticipates her. ‘‘Interesting seeing you here. I don’t recall agreeing to meet this weekend.’’

Narcissa’s aristocratic expression doesn't slip. ‘‘It was meant to be a surprise. I planned with Daphne to collect Scorpius and then floo here so we could have the day together with the three of us. My idea was to spend the week, but of course-’’ Her shrug somehow manages to be elegant. ‘‘If I’m an inconvenience, I’ll go back to France tonight.’’

Despite himself, Draco softens. ‘‘Of course not. You’re always welcome in our home.’’

Narcissa nods, certainly having predicted that exact retort, before her blue eyes settle on Hermione. For a brief second they just stare at each other. Hermione doesn’t know what she’s waiting for until the woman suddenly gets up. She moves gracefully, coming to stand in front of Hermione.

‘‘Miss Granger. It’s been a long time.’’

‘‘Indeed, Mrs Malfoy. It’s good to see you again.’’ Hermione pushes through her anxiety. ‘‘I’m sorry we have to meet in these circumstances, though.’’

Narcissa regards her closely. ‘‘I can assure you it was not my intention. Nor had I ever expected to find such a scene.’’ This last bit she directs at Draco, whose jaw hardens once more at the comment.

‘‘Well, Mother, if you didn’t want to see it, then you shouldn’t have-’’

‘‘We apologise for it.’’ Hermione cuts him off, sending him a warning glance. ‘‘It was a surprise to everyone involved.’’

Draco sighs, resigned, and Narcissa’s keen gaze springs from one to the other. A tense beat passes as she studies them, and only then does she speak again. ‘‘Very well. Should I make some breakfast for us?’’

Before Draco can protest, Hermione acquiesces. ‘‘That sounds wonderful. May I help you with it?’’

‘‘You may.’’

She twirls around, marching in the direction of the kitchen and, with a last look to Draco, who seems to have eaten Hippogriff’s dung by the way his face contorts, Hermione follows the Malfoy matriarch. They cross the sliding door, Narcissa promptly producing her wand. With a practised flick, she draws the fridge door open, making ingredients fly out and land on the island counter. Next, three pans float from inside the lower cupboard toward the stove to receive the cracked eggs, the sausages and the peeled tomatoes. Once those are cooking, she charms the bread to toast and the orange juice to pour evenly onto four glasses. 

Hermione just watches, uncertain of how she’s even supposed to help. The older witch has obviously everything under control.

It’s when Narcissa sets the kettle to boil, the finely ground coffee beans dancing around in the air as it awaits, that she addresses Hermione. ‘‘So, Miss Granger. I’m assuming your relationship with my son has improved greatly in the past few months. Last I heard, the two of you were rather contentious with each other.’’

Naturally, Hermione had expected it. It wasn’t for nothing that Narcissa had allowed her to come along. She wants answers that she knows she won’t get from Draco. And Hermione wants to give them. ‘‘You’re right, Mrs Malfoy. Draco and I have come a long way since the beginning of our partnership, when we used to argue the whole time. We’ve learned to listen and respect one another.’’

‘‘Mhm. And how long have you two been listening and respecting one another?’’

Hermione cringes at the blatant double meaning. ‘‘Um, about a couple months.’’

‘‘Right. So does that mean you are officially a couple?’’

As if they would be one without her hearing of it. ‘‘No.’’ Hermione admits, and she can’t keep the grimace off her voice. ‘‘It would probably not be very well received at the DMLE, this, erm, new development in our partnership.’’

Narcissa nods but momentarily shifts her attention. She twirls her wand again to scramble the eggs and flick the sausages, turning off the fire for the tomatoes. She sets two pieces of toast on each plate and levitates them out of the kitchen together with the orange juices, likely to rest on the dining table. 

As she busies herself with the coffee, she resumes her questioning. ‘‘So, despite this apparent inappropriateness of your relationship, you intend to go on with it?’’

‘‘Er, I guess so.’’

‘‘And you like my son?’’

‘‘Very much.’’

The matriarch only hums, still not facing Hermione.

The latter, desperate for something to do with herself, goes to the cupboard on top of the sink to fetch some utensils. She transfers the tomatoes from the pan to one bowl using a spatula, and turns the sausages over again. Seeing that the eggs are ready, she places them in another bowl and leaves it on the counter for now. 

At least she’s been minimally useful. Even if she’s too rattled to use her own wand, afraid she’ll drop something and make a fool of herself in front of Draco’s mum.

She can feel Narcissa’s eyes on her, assessing her every moment. Hermione clears her throat. ‘‘And how have you been doing? How’s France?’’

Hermione swivels to her with a carefully arranged face, neutral and civil. The other woman smiles, equally neutral and civil. ‘‘I’m well. France is a fine country. I enjoy my life there.’’

‘‘I’m glad.’’

After a long and quiet minute, the sausages and coffee are done and Hermione almost cries in relief. Narcissa does all the work, floating the bowls and the thermos back to the living room, and Hermione follows her out, once more breathing deeply in to resettle her racing heart.

Draco straightens at once when he sees them reemerging from the kitchen. He looks as taut as Hermione feels.

‘‘Food’s ready.’’ Narcissa calls, gently flapping her wand a couple more times to finish setting up the table. It looks beautiful: a full breakfast table with refined porcelain dishes and cutlery, a deliciously-smelling, fresh meal, and a chic vase of lilies right at the centre, which Narcissa had conjured for decoration. It strikes Hermione as clear as day her status as a pureblood lady of the highest degree; Hermione could never do what she just did in so little time and with such finesse. ‘‘Scorpius, dear. Come.’’

The four of them gather around the table, taking their seats - Hermione and Draco on one side, Narcissa and Scorpius on the other. 

‘‘I love scrambled eggs.’’ Scorpius announces as he stretches his arm to grab a spoonful. ‘‘It’s my favourite type of all time. Granger, what’s your favourite type of eggs?’’

Hermione’s trepidation thaws a little. ‘‘Erm, I suppose scrambled, too. I do like eggs Benedict, though.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘It’s poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, which is a sort of creamy sauce. You usually eat it with muffins and bacon.’’

‘‘Hum, that sounds very good.’’ The lad says and stops, chewing politely on his bread. Only after his mouth is wholly free again he continues. ‘‘I want to try it once. Can we have this next time Granger comes for a visit, Daddy?’’

‘‘Of course, baby.’’

It’s enough to relax Hermione almost entirely. Scorpius is just too cute, with his table manners, nearly identical to his father, and his calling her ‘‘Granger,’’ which he also took from his father.

Hermione grins at him. ‘‘Scorpius, you don’t need to call me Granger. Just because your dad is a stubborn piece of work who refuses to refer to me by my first name,’’ she side-eyes Draco, who only raises a cheeky brow back. ‘‘That doesn’t mean you should also call me by my surname. I’m Hermione to you.’’

‘‘Hermione.’’ Scorpius rolls the syllables over, voice wondrous as if he has only heard her given name for the first time right now. Knowing Draco, that’s probably true. ‘‘Wow, that’s such a pretty name. I like it! I’m gonna call you Hermione from now on. That’s okay, right, Daddy?’’

‘‘Of course, baby.’’

Hermione chuckles with the interaction and the next minutes pass in similar fashion: Scorpius makes a thrilled comment about something or other, like telling Hermione about Alton Towers and his favourite rollercoaster of all time, the Galactica, only to couple a ‘‘right, Daddy?’’ or a ‘‘isn’t it so, Daddy?’’ at the end of every sentence. Draco, in turn, always retorts with a smile and a ‘‘of course, baby.’’

It’s sweet and quite funny at the same time. 

As Hermione eats the delicious breakfast that Narcissa prepared, she listens diligently to the boy and the stream of tales and information that flow from him. If she wasn’t used to the cacophony of deafening chaos that ensued every time she met with James, Albus and Lily, she might feel overwhelmed by the lad’s euphoric spirit. As it is, she only regards him amusedly, enjoying the antidote he offers to what would otherwise be a very awkward and strained meal. By becoming the centre of the attention at the table, he steals the spotlight off of Hermione and unwinds her to an extent she didn’t think possible.

‘‘What is your favourite film of all time, Hermione?’’

Scorpius and his favourite of all time things.

She represses a chuckle while she thinks about it. ‘‘Erm, that’s a difficult question. There are so many amazing ones. By the way, how do you even know what films are?’’ She turns herself on the chair to look at Draco. ‘‘Daphne really has a television?’’

‘‘She does. She loves muggle culture. She always watches their shows and listens to their music.’’

‘‘Really?’’

‘‘Uh-hum. I told you, Daphne is a very different woman from what she was when we were in Hogwarts. She- she has her own opinions and tastes, which are very distinct from, well, from pureblood traditions.’’

She doesn’t miss how Draco’s gaze snaps to his mother for a millisecond before focusing on her again. Narcissa’s features remain even and a tinge haughty as usual, but Hermione doesn’t struggle to guess that she must have objections to Daphne’s opinions and tastes. Once more, it gets Hermione’s feelings warring inside herself: she wants to make a good impression, wants Narcissa to like her and approve of her for Draco, but she can’t forget who the woman is; she can’t forget that, despite the fact that she ultimately saved Harry’s life in the end, Narcissa has always stood beside blood prejudice. 

Hermione finishes her sausage and tomatoes, drinking up the leftovers of her glass. Dabbing an embroidered napkin over her mouth, she resumes their conversation topic. ‘‘Well, Daphne sounds fun. And I’m glad Scorpius gets to watch films with her. You like them, don’t you, Scorpius?’’

‘‘I love it! My favourite of all time is The Lion King.’’

‘‘Oh, The Lion King. What a cinematic experience. I cry every time I watch it.’’

‘‘Daddy too!’’

‘‘It only happened once, and I didn’t cry. I- I became a little emotional, that’s all.’’

An elated laughter escapes Hermione. ‘‘Really? Oh, lord, who would’ve thought? Draco Malfoy not only watching muggle kids films, but also becoming emotional at them. What a precious tidbit of information.’’

Draco narrows his eyes at her, but the corners of his lips twist ever so slightly. ‘‘Are you intending to do something reprehensible with it?’’

‘‘Ah, well. Just the usual, you know? Blackmail you with it whenever you annoy me, threaten to release the information to all your enemies. Nothing too drastic, of course.’’

Scorpius giggles, loving the banter, and Hermione joins him whilst Draco shakes his head, good-humouredly. Narcissa continues to be stoically silent, but Hermione is suddenly not impressed by it. His mother already knows they’re sleeping together; she probably doesn’t endorse it, similarly to how she certainly still feels about anything muggle. What else is new?

This constatation effectively removes the pressure off Hermione’s shoulders. If there’s anyone she should worry about making a good impression on is Scorpius and, by the looks of it, even before he had met her he already liked her. 

His dad’s treat.

The only person who actually gets a say in their… relationship.

Hermione feels her chest swell as she looks at Draco, all those implications coming together at once. She blinks hard, making an effort to remain in control of herself. Clearing her throat from the clog of emotion, she changes subjects. ‘‘So, what’s good about this Hanson Chocolaterie anyway?’’

It’s all Scorpius needs to go off for the next quarter of an hour.

Hermione returns home in the final hours of the afternoon, after having spent a lovely day with Draco’s family. Following their breakfast together, they had apparated to Mayfair’s street market in the magical part of the neighbourhood, where Scorpius led them until they ended up at the much-discussed and long-awaited chocolaterie. They finally had their famous caramel cobwebs, which Hermione has to admit were indeed delicious. After patronising a few more shops, all by Scorpius’ suggestions, they meandered around, watching the joyful boy and chatting idly. Narcissa had behaved well during the few hours, being mostly pleasant albeit not very talkative.

Only when Hermione is already back to her flat, in the process of washing her hair under the strong shower spray, does it cross her mind the very public aspect of their outing. It isn’t until now that she realises that someone they know might have seen them. Draco and her hadn’t touched or done anything inappropriate in front of his son and mother, of course, but it would still qualify as an odd sight Hermione simply being out and about with all the Malfoys on her day off.

She dries herself with the towel, charming her curls and brushing her teeth. As she inspects her reflection in the mirror, it becomes rather clear to her that the perspective doesn’t bother her as much as it should. The whole world might become aware of them, including the DMLE and their bosses, and she wouldn’t particularly mind. Perhaps then she’d finally be able to look at Draco without the need to disguise her true feelings.

Her true feelings.

Hermione recalls her short-lived conversation with Lavender the night before, when her friend had started to question her about how she felt for Draco. The blonde hadn’t been able to finish her sentence, interrupted as she was by Pansy, but Hermione knows what she was going to ask.

Are you in love with him?

Hermione blinks, staring at herself.

Am I in love with him?

The answer, once again, is interrupted. A repeated drumming sound against glass drives her to leave the bathroom, wrapped in her towel, and go see what’s going on in the living room. Her head shifts direction completely when she finds Heta perched on her window sill.

‘‘Oh, hello, darling. What are you doing here?’’ She pets Harry’s owl, caressing her reddish wing feathers with one hand as the other retrieves the parchment tied to her leg. ‘‘Thank you for this. If you just wait a moment, I’ll get you a nice little treat.’’

The clever bird stays still, waiting for Hermione to fulfil her promise. She forages inside the drawer where she keeps all her Alba stuff, fetching the owl biscuits that her own bird loves so much. She returns to the window, giving Heta the snack but, instead of eating it and flying away, Harry’s pet remains in the same place, looking expectantly at Hermione.

‘‘Is Harry waiting for a response, is that it?’’ There’s naturally no reply, yet Hermione understands it.

She opens the parchment.

Hermione,

I just heard back from Layla, my contact inside Westor. She said she’s available to welcome us there and answer our questions next week Tuesday, at 10am. Does that work for you and Malfoy? If it does, I’ll write to her right away and confirm our visit.

Harry

Hermione doesn’t need to reflect on it or check her calendar; she doesn’t even need to confer with Draco first. This is their most important lead at the moment. Nothing takes priority over it, and if something else does happen to pop up on the day, they’ll reschedule it without batting an eye. She jots down her positive answer, strapping the brief note into Heta’s paw and giving her feathers a parting caress. She then writes another letter, this time for Draco, to inform him of the plans. She has to wait for Alba to return from her evening hunt, but she won’t probably take much longer.

Hermione finishes her dressing ritual, slipping on comfy pyjamas and marching to her kitchen to prepare the supper. She eats quietly on her sofa, looking at the wall, where she proceeds to spend the rest of the night thinking about the case and Draco; their most recent lead and her feelings for the man; her new working partnership with Harry and how all she wants is to have an official romantic relationship with her current partner. 

She goes to sleep exhausted.

‘‘Good morning. My name is Harry Potter, this is Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. We are expected by Layla Eyre. We have a meeting with her at 10 o’clock.’’

‘‘One moment, please.’’

Harry nods to the receptionist in front of him when she excuses herself. 

They’re in a several-storey high building in Hampstead, North London, where the headquarters of Westor Corp. are located. In the middle of a predominantly muggle area, the company’s offices are protected by massive, thick layers of disillusionment charms and masking spells to render them unplottable. The ground floor where they are, accessible through a rotating door, is a large foyer made of glass panels and granite counters, very on key with modern muggle receptions. Anyone who walked in by mistake would not suspect a thing for the brief moment they were there before the magic kicked in and they got the uncontrollable urge to turn around and leave.

The receptionist returns after a minute, asking them to follow her. 

She guides them to the lift, which by all means still shares the same characteristics with its muggle counterpart. They travel in silence, reaching the tenth floor a little too quickly and yet smoothly for some wizarding mechanics not to be behind it, despite appearances.

‘‘This way, please.’’

They trail after her until they arrive at another reception, on the opposite side of the gallery to where the lift opens. Another woman, in front of another granite counter, awaits them.

‘‘Auror Potter, good to see you again.’’ She takes a step forward, extending her hand for Harry to shake. He reciprocates the greeting, moving to the side to let her reach Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Aurors Granger and Malfoy. I’m Layla Eyre, a pleasure to meet you.’’

‘‘Pleasure.’’

‘‘If you could come with me, please.’’

The receptionist is left behind as they walk with Layla down the corridor to one of the last offices to their left. The entire floor is eerily silent and empty, but that is to be expected in such a sophisticated, top-level organisation. The walls shimmer with protective spells, which must be concealing a dozen interactions and meetings happening behind closed doors.

‘‘Can I get you anything to drink?’’

‘‘No, thank you.’’

At the three polite declines, Layla occupies the head of the large conference table, the Aurors taking the seats perpendicular to her, Harry across from Hermione and Draco. The witch doesn’t need to cast additional spells; the moment the door draws shut, they’re utterly and impenetrably sequestered.

‘‘Auror Potter. You said you had a few questions for me.’’

‘‘Yes. My questions revolve around a former employee of yours.’’ The witch lowers her chin in acknowledgement, encouraging Harry to proceed. ‘‘His name is John Catrall. He worked for Westor until 2009.’’

Layla’s professional countenance falters. It’s back in place the very next second, but it’s too late. Glancing at Harry, Hermione knows he caught it, too.

‘‘John Catrall?’’ Layla repeats after him, voice assuming a deliberate vague quality. ‘‘I’m not sure if I-’’

‘‘Layla, cut the crap. I know you know who I’m talking about. I’ve told you countless times that you are a lousy actress.’’

Hermione gapes at her former friend, bewildered with the way he just talked to the woman. He did mention having a contact inside the corporation, but Hermione had no clue they had such an intimacy for him to address her like this.

Even more after Layla, in response, only shakes her head, looking more guilty than affronted. ‘‘Harry, you know there are certain things I’m not allowed to speak with you so freely.’’

‘‘In this case, you’re very much allowed.’’

He summons the warrant Mackenzie had convinced a judge to sign, in which full disclosure of the company’s records is requested on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He slides it toward the woman, who reads it with a troubled expression. 

It’s clear that it is a highly delicate matter, one in which Layla much prefers never having to partake.

Hermione sits straighter on the chair in anticipation.

Done with the document, Layla sighs. Her eyes raise to Harry and they’re so full of chagrin that Hermione almost feels sorry for her. Almost. ‘‘I don’t know how you got a hold of this but, Harry, I mean it. I can’t tell you anything.’’

‘‘Are you really going to disobey a judicial order?’’

‘‘My hands are tied. My employers would fire me immediately if they found out I talked to the DMLE about this.’’

‘‘Well, then let’s make sure they never find out that you did.’’

‘‘Harry-’’

The senior Auror doesn’t bulge a single inch. ‘‘The situation is very straightforward, Layla. We already know that Catrall worked here and that he was let go in 2009 because he went a little mad and started dabbling into the Dark Arts. What we’re asking for now is further details about the incident, who else was involved, etcetera.’’ The longer he talks the wider Layla’s eyes become. ‘‘We’re in possession of a judicial warrant for information. If you refuse to talk, then I’ll have no choice but to inform my superiors, which can only have one outcome, as I’m sure you’re well aware: you’ll be held in contempt of a Wizarding court of justice.’’ He pauses for effect. ‘‘Getting fired doesn’t sound so bad in comparison, does it?’’

Hermione had forgotten how ruthless Harry can be at work. Once more, it tells her that there’s a reason he’s so good at what he does, and why he’s the best they got at the DMLE.

And, once more, she’s grateful they have brought him along in the case.

Layla’s wince is more seen than heard. ‘‘Alright, alright.’’ She breathes in, the wheels of her head visibly turning. ‘‘One second.’’

She materialises a wand out of nowhere (she doesn’t carry a holder nor could Hermione make out the shape of the wood anywhere inside her skin-tight pantsuit) and waves it in front of her, lips moving with a silent incantation. Something in the air fizzles, something invisible but not entirely inaudible. Hermione peers around but she can’t distinguish what just happened, and yet Layla appears to become a tad less tense.

A sort of confundus jink, Hermione guesses; to neutralise any tracker or recording device.

‘‘Okay. What do you want to know?’’

She looks at Harry who, in turn, looks at Hermione. Bobbing his face once, he lets the latter know that the ball is in her court now.

Hermione clears her throat. ‘‘First of all, can you tell us a little about John Catrall? What type of man he was, how was his work ethics, did he have a good relationship with his colleagues, and so forth?’’

‘‘Well, I didn’t know him very well. I was working at Westor for only a little over a year when he got fired. But I heard the rumours. Everyone says he was an awfully strange man, incredibly smart, but socially inept. He didn’t have many friends, he wasn’t the extrovert type. He arrived, he did his job, he went home. Done. Didn’t really stay around to get to know people or let people get to know him.’’

‘‘And yet he worked here for twelve full years?’’

‘‘As I said, he was very intelligent. Miles above average. And he did well in his liaison with the Ministry. You see, he used to work closely with the Department of Mysteries.’’

‘‘Yes, we know that. He helped the Unspeakables with their confidential research.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Draco takes the charge at this. ‘‘Do you know anything about the project he was working on when he got fired?’’

Layla shakes her head. ‘‘No. Not many people knew about it. It was confidential for us, too. Westor prides itself in being a very discreet, reliable company. The risk of classified information leaking virtually doesn’t exist for us, not even in our midst, which is why our clients know they can trust us with their most, er, sensitive dealings.’’

‘‘But what did the rumours say about it?’’

Her pursed smile is indicative that, despite Westor’s proudly-held discreetness, gossip always finds a way to go around. ‘‘The rumours were that he had a breakthrough in his project that, unfortunately, took him too close to the Dark Arts. They said he became a little crazy with all the possibilities and that he begged Mr Bouwman, our executive project manager, to be allowed to cast illegal curses in order to create an original, groundbreaking branch of magic.’’

Hermione exchanges glances with Draco, knowing that this information matches perfectly with what they deduced from the files Harry’s informant had provided them.

‘‘Is any detail about the project or this groundbreaking branch of magic known?’’

‘‘No. The records are sealed and the only ones who have access to them are Mr Bouwman, the CEO and the president of the company.’’ She cocks an eyebrow toward Harry. ‘‘I’m afraid your little intimidation tactics won’t work with them, Auror Potter.’’

Harry rolls his eyes but refrains from answering this taunt. Hermione carries on. ‘‘Okay. Do you know if Catrall had a partner, or someone he was working with during the months before he was let go?’’

Layla returns her attention to her. ‘‘Not that I am aware of. He was very much a loner.’’

‘‘Right. And do you might know with whom he was working in the Department of Mysteries? Which Unspeakable was helping him with his project?’’

‘‘I don’t. No one knows anything about the project except the three men I told you.’’ 

Hermione nods and looks at her partner, trying to redirect her focus. All Layla seems to have to offer is hearsay and not real, sound intel. And the way she just described it, they won’t be able to successfully retrieve this information via any other route: the aforementioned wizards will never speak to the DMLE, and Hermione doubts a judicial warrant will bully them into cooperating. Powerful, well-connected men don’t play by the same rules as everybody else in society.

She sees Draco opening his mouth, preparing a follow-up question, but Layla speaks again before that. ‘‘There was, however, another rumour.’’

Hermione’s gaze cuts sharply in her direction. ‘‘Oh?’’

The witch appears a little uncertain at this, left hand fidgeting with the gold bracelet in her right wrist. ‘‘This one I only heard from one person. Someone who is the worst gossip I’ve ever seen. So, please, do take it with a grain of salt. I’m not even sure I should tell you this, because it’s probably hogwash.’’

‘‘Just tell us, Layla.’’ Harry urges her. ‘‘It’s fine.’’ 

She sighs. ‘‘Apparently, according to this very unreliable source, Catrall was gay. And he had a fling with an Unspeakable. I don’t know if this man worked with him on the project or if they met doing something else, I don’t even know if any of this is actually true. But… Well, apparently there wasn’t only one reason for Catrall to have gone mad. He was supposedly involved with someone and when that didn’t work out, he lost his rag.’’

‘‘Do you have a name for us?’’

‘‘I have a first name.’’ Regret paints Layla’s face before she even says the words. ‘‘It’s Tommy Lee.’’

Despite not having the Unspeakable’s last name, his first one appears to be uncommon enough to narrow down their search, especially within such a small-scale division - at least that’s what Hermione expects. 

The reality is that they can’t find anyone in the Department of Mysteries who is called Tommy Lee.

Apparating back together to the Ministry, Hermione, Draco and Harry lock themselves in the last conference room of the Aurors’ Level to work on this new lead. In possession of several files that they had recovered from the registries, it takes them surprisingly long to find the man.

It turns out he had been discharged from his appointment as an Unspeakable in 2009.

‘‘He got axed two weeks after Catrall was fired from Westor.’’ Harry says incredulously. ‘‘It can’t be a coincidence.’’

‘‘Nothing in this case is a coincidence, Potter.’’ Draco retorts, reading the folder over Harry’s shoulder. ‘‘I bet this bloke knows exactly what happened to Catrall. He probably was working with him on the project.’’

Because all information regarding the assignments of the Unspeakables is undisclosed to the rest of the Ministry, the only intel they are able to retrieve is his full name- Tommy Lee Travis- and for how long he worked on Level 9. The rest is confidential, and there’s no way they can get their hands on it through the formal channels.

‘‘Harry.’’ Hermione pipes up as soon as the thought crosses her mind. ‘‘Can you reach out to your informant again? Ask him if he can locate Travis for us.’’

Harry doesn’t hesitate. ‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘And while you’re at it, do you think you can also ask him to do some background check on Andrew Byrne? We couldn’t find anything on him, but perhaps your informant can. He’s already proven that he’s much more effective than the entire DMLE combined.’’

Harry chuckles, but his answer this time is less certain. ‘‘I’ll ask him. I’m not sure he can do it, though. He’s good at digging up dirt on criminals and fugitives. Ministry employees are a little trickier, I reckon. Travis might be easier because he hasn’t worked for the Ministry in years, so he’s just a regular person by now. But, anyway, I’ll try. See what he says.’’

‘‘Great, thanks.’’

They remain working together on the files until other tasks demand their attention. Whilst Hermione has an appointment with Donny Cazalvara, the Head of the Magical Enforcement Patrol, to discuss the recent spike of petty offences in the Greater London, Draco will resume their investigation on Jack Lochty; he’s requested a meeting with Azkaban’s warden to go through their visitor records and other communication routes that the inmate might have had with outsiders in the past few months.

Harry has tons of other cases to attend to, so they agree to separate for now and gather again as soon as they have anything new to share with each other. Saying her goodbyes to the two men, Draco heading to the lift and Harry to the Aurors’ headquarters, Hermione makes her way toward the MEP.

She is suddenly startled by the latter falling into step with her.

‘‘Oh. Hi, Harry. I thought you were going back to the office?’’

‘‘I am. I just wanted to have a quick word with you before that.’’

What, something he couldn’t say in front of Draco? Must be personal, then. 

She becomes instantly guarded. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘This weekend James has a game. He passed the summer trials for the youth team of Islington United, and he’ll play for the first time on Saturday.’’

‘‘Oh, really?’’ Hermione’s wary face breaks into a large grin. ‘‘Well done, James. In what position is he playing?’’

‘‘Chaser.’’

She chuckles. ‘‘Ha, just like his grandpa. Oh, how exciting. He must be over the moon with it.’’

‘‘He is. He won’t shut up about it. He’s been literally counting down the days since he joined the team. And he wants everybody there in the crowd watching him play.’’ Harry throws her a not-so-subtle side-glance. ‘‘Including his godmother.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ There’s no need to think about it. Of course he wants her there and of course she’d never miss it. Even if it means spending time with the Potter family. ‘‘I’ll be there, Harry. Just let me know the time and place.’’

The bespectacled wizard beams. ‘‘Brilliant. He’s gonna be so happy to see you there. All of us, actually. Ginny and the kids will love the news.’’

That doesn’t give her pause anymore. She’s not particularly looking forward to spending perhaps hours in their company, but it’s not like the prospect soils her spirit as it did before. Hermione is strong now; she has her life back on track. She’s not scared of putting her feet down in case any of them tries to overstep a boundary. She knows she can do it and she knows she’ll be fine.

‘‘Alright, Harry. I’ll hear from you.’’ The entrance to the MEP comes into view, so she brings her hand up for a wave. ‘‘Bye.’’

She overpasses him, killing the final couple of feet until she’s inside the patrollers’ hectic office, searching around for Cazalvara. The man, as expected, is not yet ready for her, but she’s used to it by now. She waits patiently for him to finally make some room for her.

Their meeting doesn’t last long, but it is rather valuable. Cazalvara relays to Hermione an interesting account: petty to middle-range crimes in the metropolitan area of London have experienced an atypical increase in the last couple of months in spite of the on-going Home Safe, Outside Too campaign. The Head of the department tells her that, although the citizens have majorly adhered to the Ministry’s programme that she helped design, that hasn’t been enough to counter the recent drift toward less efficient patrolling. For the past several weeks since both Lowburn escaped and the mass breakout took place, the priority of the DMLE and the MEP have shifted to the chase of the fugitives and the pursuing of leads related to the Zimcooke case. That has meant that fewer resources and personnel have been made available for other affairs.

According to Cazalvara, minor assaults have risen in 19%, the casting of semi-illegal magic in 22%, and property damage and larceny in 28%.  

When their appointment runs its course and Hermione makes her way back to the Aurors’ headquarters, it's with a brand new theory springing forward in her mind. Before she finds the solace of the conference room, she makes sure to scout up a few relevant reports and bring them with her to hers and Draco’s safe haven. She spends the next hours foraging through them, writing down important statistics, giving further foundation to the idea festering within her. When she’s done all she could, she goes after Draco. He should have returned from Azkaban by now, she thinks. Leaving the mess of parchments and notes on the oval table, Hermione marches inside the oak doors of the office, looking for her partner.

She finds him chatting with Charles Moroso.

They stand next to Charlie’s workstation and, by all appearances, their talk is an animated one. Charlie gestures enthusiastically and Draco, shockingly, doesn’t frown nor look the least annoyed or indifferent; he pays attention to the tale being told, expression pretty open in interest.

Hermione’s steps falter as she comes closer.

Charlie notices her after a beat. ‘‘Hiya, Hermione. How’s it goin’?’’

‘‘Hi, Charlie. I’m good and you?’’

‘‘Awesome. I was just telling Draco about a Hobgoblins concert I went to years ago, and what an absolute shitshow that was. Not that Stubby Boardman wasn’t a great singer, it’s just that the entire atmosphere was so wild, you wouldn’t believe it. At some point, I swear to you, there was a number with flobberworms, I’m not even joking, and they literally -’’

Charlie goes on for another ten minutes and Hermione listens politely but, most impressive of all, so does Draco. When they finally excuse themselves, the other Auror realising he has stolen enough of their time and that they should get back to work, she latches onto Draco’s forearm and drags him to their conference room.

The door is barely closed and she rounds up on him. ‘‘I’m sorry, are you having a stroke or something?’’

‘‘I’m having a what?’’

‘‘Draco.’’ Hermione squints her eyes, looking him up and down. ‘‘Were you just chatting with a coworker? Willingly?’’

He rolls his eyes. ‘‘Honestly, Granger. It’s that what this is all about?’’

‘‘Yes, very much yes. You don’t chat. You don’t waste precious seconds of your day with pointless, superficial conversations. At least not with people in the Ministry.’’

‘‘Aren’t you the one who once told me I should be friendly to our coworkers even if I didn’t like them? Something about building bridges and playing my hand smartly in case I need them in the future?’’

Hermione’s eyebrows climb to her hairline. ‘‘And you were actually listening?’’

Draco snorts a little exasperatedly. ‘‘I always listen to what you say, Granger. I might not agree with everything, but I never take you for granted. And, you know… Sometimes you happen to be right, and when that happens- Well, I guess I’m tired of being a stubborn, moody prat after all. I realise I do have to make an effort every once and a while. And like you said all those months ago, there’s nothing wrong with pretending a little whilst at work. It’s called being professional.’’ He shrugs. ‘‘Also, Moroso’s not half bad. He’s actually a nice chap.’’

That shouldn’t make her chest flutter as hard as it does. It’s not even a big deal: Draco has come to the realisation, at long last, that he needs to improve his attitude around the office in order to positively affect his and everyone else’s work. A very simple, obvious fact.

And yet… That seemingly inconsequential fact brings the Irish jig back, stomping all over her enamoured heart.

Despite being regularly right, Hermione’s warnings and instructions have a history of being ignored. Mainly by her former Hogwarts friends, who always rolled their eyes with her insistence on how to do certain things properly, but sometimes at the office too, like with Hestia and other colleagues that jointly agreed that she could be a little over-the-top. More flagrantly, her ex-boyfriend never took her lessons to heart. Ronald hardly ever listened to what Hermione said whenever he came back home frustrated from the Wizarding Wireless Network, demanding comfort; she can’t count on two hands the amount of times he asked for advice only to swiftly dismiss it the second it was out of her mouth.

Therefore, seeing Draco now not only agreeing to something she argued once, ridiculously fucking long ago, but actually applying it in practice? Following her suggestion and trying to become a better professional- a better man?

It’s balm on a fresh wound. It soothes, and dulls, and sews until it heals.

‘‘What?’’

Hermione shakes her head in lieu of an answer, and steps ahead until her body is pressed against his. She kisses Draco deeply, once more telling him with her lips that what he just told her means more than what she can put into words. He kisses her back just as eagerly and, for a moment there, they forget where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing.

She’s reminded of it when the wall clock of the conference room chirps, announcing the end of their shift.

She regains some distance to tell him. ‘‘I have a new theory.’’

On Saturday, at exactly a quarter to nine, Hermione apparates to Borough of Islington. The Quidditch pitch, home to the Islington United, is located only a few blocks away from Grimmauld Place, so Hermione has no issue in finding the address. The oval-shaped field has been shrunk to stage the junior league, starring children from eight to eleven years old, but it still attracts dozens of people; mostly parents, though also other spectators from the neighbourhood seem to be present today. 

A few minutes before the game is set to start, she spots two patches of bright red hair at the centre of the stands, which she follows to discover another two patches of hair, this time jet-black. The Potter family, minus James, claim the closest seats to the pitch, perfectly placed to cheer until their throats become sore. And they start right away, screaming in glee as Hermione comes into their line of vision.

‘‘Auntie Mione!’’

She hugs her nephew and niece, giving them five kisses each for good measure. They appear absolutely delighted to see her, which only fastens her resolve that this was the right decision. Being in their lives, despite all the shit that happened with their parents, was the right decision.

‘‘Hermione, I’m so glad you made it.’’

‘‘Thanks, Ginny. I’m excited for this. Hi, Harry.’’ Greetings done, she turns back to the boy and girl still surrounding her, both wearing Islington's team shirt and huge grins. ‘‘Is James’ team any good? Are we gonna win today?’’

‘‘Yes! They’re the best of all!’’

Hermione chuckles, but has a hard time believing Lily’s opinion on her big brother; she always thinks he’s the best in everything.

‘‘Well, I do hope so.’’ She slots herself in between the two kids, throwing her arms over their little shoulders and pulling them in. ‘‘God, I missed you two. Tell me, what have you been up to lately?’’

‘‘I’ve finished the sequel of The True History of the Opal Fire!’’

‘‘Already, Albus? Blimey, that’s impressive.’’ 

It really is. He had bought the first volume when they visited Tomes and Scrolls together, alongside two other books; that he managed to read those three and a sequel to one of them in so little time is really something.

‘‘I know, I really enjoyed-’’

‘‘I took Mommy’s wand and redecorated the living room. Daddy said it looked better than before.’’

At Lily’s impromptu admission, Hermione can’t help shifting her attention back to the couple. Ginny’s face immediately sours, narrowing her eyes at her proud, unbothered daughter, whereas Harry looks distinctly guilty. 

‘‘I didn’t say it looked better. I said, er, that you had a knack for decoration just like your mother.’’

‘‘She painted the walls purple, Harry.’’

‘‘Well, yes. I mean, of course it-’’

‘‘It looked so pretty, Auntie Mione. You should’ve seen it!’’

Hermione tries but doesn’t manage to stifle it; she laughs out loud. Lily laughs with her, utterly joyful, and Albus joins them after a while. She doesn’t see their parents’ reaction; a loud bong sounds and the teams enter the pitch.

Everyone stands, applauding the fourteen young players that fly in. Islington United plays against Puddlemere United, the reigning champions of the league. Hermione watches the children shake each other’s hands, James in the middle of them on his Firebolt. He looks adorable in his dark blue kit, grinning from ear to ear. Hermione’s heart warms at the sight, and she finds herself wondering if Scorpius likes Quidditch, too. Would he enjoy playing with James? Would he have fun being out with so many kids his age?

She decides to ask these questions later. She’s having dinner with Draco tonight, so she can inquire over the matter very soon.

As the crowd calms and silence envelops the pitch, the referee releases the bludgers and the snitch and, in the next moment, throws the quaffle high in the air. 

The game starts.

And it ends in under twenty minutes. Puddlemere United wins with a staggering two hundred and ten points of difference, James’ team having scored only twice. The good news? James was one of the scorers.

‘‘Did you see that, Dad? I scored a goal! I scored a goal in my first game ever!’’

‘‘You did, James. I saw it. Well done!’’

Father and son jump around in a hug as if Islington had won, pride colouring their nearly identical faces and delight branding their synchronised laughter. Hermione smiles, pleased to acknowledge the good atmosphere around them despite the sweeping loss. If only adult Quidditch could be the same…

‘‘Can I have a hot dog?’’

‘‘We have food at home, James.’’

‘‘But mum! I’m so hungry! I was flying for like an hour. I need to eat something now, not when we get home. I won’t make it, I won’t!’’

The drama. 

Ginny ends up relenting and lets herself be dragged by her three children to an outside tent selling snacks and refreshments. Hermione stays behind with Harry before she can tell them that she should be on her way; as it is, she can’t leave. Not without saying goodbye to the kids first.

She sighs, accepting her fate, and falls back into her seat to watch the Quidditch pitch and its stands beginning to empty in front of them. Harry sits next to her in utter silence, which he holds for much longer than what she imagined him capable. At work, he’s always reaching out to her, initiating conversation, and there she has no choice but to go along with it. She doesn’t need to do that currently, as they’re on their day-off, therefore several minutes drag in which everyone around talks and interacts but them. It’s only when the wizard suddenly inhales a lungful that Hermione realises he had spent this entire time gathering the courage.

‘‘So. Erm, George told us about, er, about bumping into you a few weeks ago.’’ He starts tentatively. ‘‘He mentioned the people you were with and how- how comfortable you looked around them.’’ Harry hesitates, voice markedly uncertain. Hermione doesn’t resist craning her neck to look at him. He stares straight ahead, a crease appearing between his black brows as he struggles with the words, measuring each one of them before he throws them at the wind. ‘‘Well, what he actually said was that you looked happy. That it looked like you and the others have been friends forever. That- that it looked like- like you fit right in.’’

Someone shouts close to them, calling for their disobedient son; a replica of a golden snitch flies in between them before disappearing into the morning; a hasty mother excuses herself as she jumps over their extended legs; all the while Harry falls stiffly quiet.

Hermione still looks at him, curious to know what else he has to say. For the first time in very long, she waits patiently to understand his meaning.

A hard swallow precedes the continuity of his thought. ‘‘You told me once that it might take a while, but one day you would be happy again, surrounded by people who wish you well. At the time, I doubted it. I was bitter and angry that you had ended our friendship, and I couldn’t understand what you were telling me. I do now. And I- I’m glad you got there.’’ He turns and his green eyes bore into hers. ‘‘I’m happy that you’re happy again, Hermione. Even if I still don’t understand everything. Even… Even if it’s with them. With Malfoy and- and the others. That doesn’t matter. I-’’ Shaking his head, he averts his gaze again. She supposes he wouldn’t be able to utter the next few words whilst meeting her eyes. ‘‘Despite what you may think, I do love you. You’ll always be my friend, even if I’m not yours. So… I’m happy you’re happy. Truly. You deserve it.’’

He exhales when he’s done, as if he had been holding his breath until now.

In her turn, Hermione feels a small, forgotten chip of her heart abruptly shake itself awake. For the past many months, she has found peace in her make-over. A new phase of her life had begun and she didn’t regret closing the chapter that had starred the Potters and the Weasleys. But now- out of the sudden and roused by Harry’s raw, poignant confession, the pages fight to be drawn open again.

Hermione blinks, at once unmoored by the unexpected emotion. It’s only with the hard-won maturity that has come with the years of hurt that she manages to supply a response. ‘‘You’re right, I am happy. I’ve found people that actually take the time to look at me and see me. People who have come into each other’s lives not because of some random coincidence in the past that put them together, but because they choose every single day to be each other’s friends. And I couldn’t have chosen better.’’ Having said her piece, she recognises that she’s not inclined to disregard the visible effort Harry put into admitting what he just did with no traces of bitterness or resentment in his voice. She clears her throat. ‘‘But I appreciate you telling me that. It- It’s good to hear it.’’

He nods, though he doesn’t look at her again. A heavy silence steals the next moments until his wife and children return. 

Hermione promptly stands.

She kisses the kids in farewell, as usual promising not to take too long before seeing them again. As she bids adieu to Ginny, the witch regards her more attentively than what would be comfortable, certainly having noticed her earnest conversation with Harry or, perhaps, just trying to find herself an opportunity to speak her mind to Hermione.

Hermione doesn’t allow her any. She walks away before one of them can linger, apparating back home much sooner than she had anticipated. It’s just as well; she has loads to think about.

The afternoon witnesses her drowning in self-reflection. She realises she’s at a turning point in life: whereas before, right after Ronald had left her and she had lost everything and everyone she knew, Hermione could only swim against the current, focused on survival and nothing else, for the past many months she’s let herself flow together with the current, giving up the reins and welcoming the unexpected; the new.

Now she’s healed. She has survived and she has found her footing again.

And then what?

Where is she going? In which direction will she allow the current to take her? What does she want to do now that she finally has the choice again?

It’s ironic, in this way, that she finds herself as of late constantly in between two worlds; the past and the future, the hurt and the healing, Harry and Ginny and George, and Draco and Scorpius and the lads at The Porcelain Pixie. The more she tries to let go of the first, distancing herself as much as she can from them, the more difficult it seems to become. She is, once again, partnered with Harry for a case; she still spends considerable time in the company of the Potters because of the kids; she bumps out of nowhere with George and Angelina on a night out. It appears that, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t untangle herself from the lot of them. And now, with Harry’s unanticipated, touching words, Hermione feels herself no longer holding so steadfast to her absolute refusal in forgiving him.

On the other side of the coin lies Draco.

As the universe insists on pulling her back, keeping her surrounded by the ones she had once sworn never to care about again, all of her heart’s desires lead to him. The way forward, as it appears to her, can never not include him.

So, as she finally pushes herself off from the sofa to get dressed and floo to Draco’s flat, arriving at six sharp just as they had agreed; as Scorpius is the one to welcome her, sprinting from the toys’ corner to hug her tightly and inform her that Daddy is in the kitchen, making dinner; as she walks inside the aforementioned room to find Draco in front of the stove, wearing a cute apron and looking too deliciously domestic, as much as it is her approaching to give him a kiss on the lips and ask what she can do to help; as they finish cooking together, setting the table for three and spending the next hour eating pasta and joking around and talking about Quidditch; as it gets late and Scorpius goes to bed, Draco walking with him to ensure he will sleep alright while Hermione finds comfort in his plush recliner, the Prophet of the day keeping her company as she waits; as Draco returns and readily grabs her wrist to whisk her away to his bedroom, where he proceeds to take off her clothes, item per item, before laying her down in her stomach; as he fucks her from behind, gifting her two orgasm and then coming inside her, turning her around to clean her and capture her mouth for a breathtaking kiss; as they stay in bed for the next two hours chatting about their Saturday and planning their Sunday; as they fall asleep in each other’s arms, waking up the next day to fuck again, nice and slow, before showering together and preparing breakfast; as they’re swiftly joined by a hungry Scorpius, who badgers them until they relent and make pancakes with hazelnut spread and whipped cream; as they spend another weekend together and Hermione feels her heart ready to burst at the seams in happiness.

So, as she keeps on glancing at Draco’s softened face throughout the day, the obvious truth comes this time without hardships or resistance: of course she’s in love with him.

Chapter Text

The pointed tips of the shelves dig painfully into her back, yet Hermione can’t be arsed to care.

Draco had just turned her around, after having spent many blissful minutes eating at her from behind, her face shoved against the book covers as he knelt in between her spread legs; following her shouted orgasm, he had stood to flip her over, grabbing each of her thighs to lift at the same time he pushed inside. Foregoing a feather-light charm, he now holds her against the shelves as his hips pick up the pace, ploughing mercilessly.

Hermione has her arms thrown around his neck, pulling him to her so that their lips graze one another in the rhythm of his thrusts. With their breaths mixing, eyes locked and bottom half fused together, she doesn’t want this to ever end.

Fuck, she loves him.

She’s completely and utterly in love with this man who is currently fucking her like it’s his last day on Earth. And doing it to fulfil a fantasy of hers, one she had told him once in between sheets and one he clearly hasn’t forgotten since he cornered her, out of nowhere, while she was waiting for him to get ready by browsing the books in the enclosed library of his home office.

Regardless of the handful of months they have been sleeping with each other, their intimacy only seems to further; they might not be as frantic to shag as they used to be, but their moments together have become exponentially more meaningful, more familiar. Sex has ceased to be a blind endeavour to come as hard and fast as possible to turn into a joint experience to connect with each other deeper and deeper.

And each time they do it, the certainty grows steadier within her: she loves him and she wants to scream it for the whole world to hear.

But, first, she needs to tell him that. 

Which is proving to be a more complicated feat than she had expected. Despite the fact that they spend the majority of their days together, their hours are stolen by the industriousness of their routine. The Zimcooke case is on full swing; with Jack Lochty’s intel and their assembled list of potential dates for The Death Eater’s attack, a target has been situated: in the last week of August, the Ministry of Magic is known to celebrate the beginning of a new calendar year by organising a summer fête, which is usually succeeded by the latest Wizengamot’s political appointments, the kick off of national Quidditch leagues and, of course, the new cycle of Auror training.

It’s on the first of September that the most recent batch of recruiters is initiated at the Auror training facility in Westminster. The programme is supposed to last for six weeks, but on its first day an opening ceremony gathers the entire DMLE in a closed auditorium. 

The Head of the department has decided- not completely without reason, Hermione can admit it- that this is the most likely occasion for the Essex gang to put their plan into action, according to the information provided by Lochty, and so the division has been furiously preparing for it. As such, her partner and her have barely managed to breathe in peace inside the office under Hestia’s strict orders, having to limit their side investigation to their off-hours, which are already few and far between. Even outside the office, the stress is always there; Hermione and Draco, and often Harry too, dedicate every extra moment they have to the case, in hopes of solving it before August draws to an end.

Hermione, thus, hasn’t found the right time to tell Draco of her new (private) discovery. She doesn’t want to blurt it out in the throes of passion, nor when they are spending a nice day with Scorpius. She wants to be able to look him in the eye and confess her true feelings without the fear of being interrupted or needing to hurry back to work.

There’s also the matter that she has no idea how to say the words out loud.

It’s new territory for her. She hadn’t needed to worry about it when she was with Ronald; their relationship had been brewing for so long that the I love yous came naturally. She doesn’t even recall who said it first. They had just survived the most destructive war and their future was finally on the horizon; in the aftermath, they clung to each other because that’s what they knew how to do best, and reflection about her feelings for him was never once something of such significance.

With Draco, it’s different. They’re no teenage survivors desperate for some semblance of normalcy. They’re adults with mountains of baggage and caution about whom they let into their lives. Hermione didn’t wake up one day and realised she was in love with Draco; she took her sweet time to mull it over, to understand her feelings and what to do with them. And to finally do it, to relay them to him, she wants to do it right. She wants to express herself well and allow him the space to think about it, to give him the room to determine whether he reciprocates it or not.

Again, they’re no newbies in the business of love. She doesn’t want to unwillingly corner him or pressure him in any way, but she also doesn’t want to earn herself another heartbreak. If Draco rejects her, she will need to end it. There’s no way she can continue with their casual relationship after that. If he tells her that he doesn’t feel the same, Hermione will have to break it off and then figure out how the fuck she’s supposed to move on from this.

Because they had promised each other not to let it affect their jobs. They had agreed that, should things end romantically between them, they would handle it like professionals and, if that didn’t work, they would stop being partners. 

Hermione doesn’t want that. She has no clue how she would manage to spend the same amount of time around him while not being allowed to touch him anymore, knowing that he’s not in love with her like she is with him, but a worst prospect is to have him completely removed from her existence. Have him cut off like she did with Harry- No. She could never do it. She would just have to learn how to deal with her once again broken heart (something she’s become quite good at, to be fair) and suck it up, because she’s not willing to lose Draco. Even if they only remain partners and friends, but not lovers: it’s better than not having him at all.

But it would hurt. Like a motherfucker. Hence Hermione not doing it right away. Before she confesses her feelings to him, she needs to be ready for every possible outcome and she needs to measure her reaction to them. She needs to handle this well for the sake of everything they’ve shared together. For the sake of her love for him.

So she stalls. The days pass and Hermione waits, plans, ruminates.

In the meantime, turmoil marks their every hour. There’s so much to be done, so many things to accomplish, so little time to do it all. But, thankfully, they’re still able to steal a few moments to enjoy themselves a bit.

Draco comes with a guttural moan, capturing her mouth at the last minute. They kiss wetly, some leftover of hunger still denting their movements until, finally, they come down. Righting their clothes, a couple of cleansing and refreshing spells thrown in the mix, they leave Draco’s office and his flat, where they had agreed to meet before heading out to The Porcelain Pixie on that Friday night. They travel to the pub with a side-along apparition, going inside together. Hermione tries not to read too much into it: does he not care anymore about what people might think of them arriving at the same time? Similar to how little she worried when she realised she had spent an entire afternoon at Mayfair’s street market with the Malfoy family for anyone to see, does Draco also not mind their friends suspecting of them?

Well, she’s aware that Lavender and Blaise know about them. Certainly the latter’s wife, too. Pansy might not know but Hermione doubts she cares, in the present whirlwind of her own life, and the same applies to Neville. Theo- she hasn’t the foggiest; Hermione doesn’t know what to make of the bloke, not only about this but, really, just generally speaking.

Still…

She wonders if Draco doesn’t notice it or if he’s thought about it and decided he’s done with the perpetual pretence. Or, rather, that it means he loves her, too, and that he also wishes to let the rest of the world finally be informed of it.

Either way, they push the doors of the bar and march side by side to the table where their mates gather, tonight only Greg, Christine and Neville missing. They are greeted cheerfully and Hermione doesn’t read too much into Draco taking the seat next to her either, so close that their shoulders brush. No one comments on it, so she chooses to let it go and just relax for the next few hours, something she's been in urgent need lately.

Which, unfortunately, proves to be impossible the second the door of the pub opens again and it’s her former Hogwarts housemate walking determinedly toward them.

For the past month since Hermione saw Neville last, at Draco’s birthday, she has felt a pang of guilt for not being in his life as much as she is in Pansy’s. Naturally, Pansy is still attending The Porcelain Pixie regularly, as she has been the glue that had initially placed Neville inside the circle, but Hermione doesn’t think it’s right to entirely exclude the man just because he’s no longer engaged to the witch. And she’s not the only one. Draco, Blaise and Theo have been very outspoken, albeit never in front of Pansy, of the fact that they don’t wish to stop being friends with Neville; that the latter should know that he’s still very much welcome within their group. As such, the three of them have reached out to the lad, inviting him to come along on different occasions and yet, until now, Neville has been elusive (much like he was when Hermione wrote to him all those weeks ago).

It appears, though, that something has changed. As he joins their table, saluting everyone with his habitual sweet friendliness, Hermione feels her nerves spike with his unexpected presence. She glances surreptitiously at Pansy, on the other side of her and a few chairs to the right, but the woman doesn’t seem on the verge of falling apart like the previous time. On the contrary; she stares at the newcomer with a poorly veiled love-struck expression. Glancing quickly back at Neville, Hermione catches him returning Pansy’s stare, very briefly but also quite evidently in a dotty manner.

Hermione grimaces, at loss. She lets a few moments pass, Neville’s arrival settling and their friends resuming their conversation threads, before turning to Draco. 

His eyes are already on her.

‘‘What the fuck?’’ She whispers, lips barely moving. ‘‘What just happened?’’

‘‘No idea.’’ He murmurs back. ‘‘He never told me he was coming in his letters. I had no idea he would show up tonight.’’

‘‘Did she mention anything? Are they, I don’t know, in touch with each other again?’’

‘‘I don’t know, Granger. She didn’t say anything to me either.’’

They frown at one another, Hermione once more glancing at the green-eyed wizard on one end of the table and then to the black-haired witch on the other. She keeps an eye on them for most of the night after that, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. As it’s normal, the circle disperses when the hour starts to become late and the liquor in their system plenty, some preferring to hang out by the bar (e.g. Blaise and his uncontrollable urge to chitchat with every barkeep the place employs) while others would rather be divided in smaller groups to have more private conversations. Which is the case of Lavender and Theo, as usual absorbed in a deep confabulation only they understand; and Draco, Susan and Neville, who round up heads to update each other on their lives. Hermione just watches on, observing her friends and assessing their current situation. 

When Pansy returns from the loo, though, she readily claims the chair next to her.

‘‘Care to explain?’’

The other woman chuckles. ‘‘You’re insufferable.’’

‘‘Pansy, look at you. Laughing freely, acting like you don’t have a single worry in the world. What in Merlin’s tits changed?’’

Pansy smiles, shaking her head. ‘‘Everything, Hermione. Did you really think my life would remain the same after what happened?’’

Hermione has no interest in mincing words. ‘‘Are you and Neville back together?’’

‘‘No.’’ Pansy looks down, manicured hands straightening the fabric of her skirt over her knees. She seems to be carefully picking what to say. ‘‘But we have been talking.’’

‘‘Talking?’’

‘‘Yes. I wrote to him last week.’’

Hermione inhales heavily. Here they go. ‘‘Okay, and…?’’

‘‘And we’ve been talking ever since.’’

‘‘Pansy, come on. Just tell me already-’’

‘‘Hermione, it’s a process.’’ Pansy interrupts her, dark eyes rising sharply. ‘‘That’s what you told me, remember? It doesn’t happen overnight. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re taking it slow, going through some of our issues, trying to be more forthcoming with each other, and so on.’’’

Hermione frowns. ‘‘That’s not what I told you. I said you needed to look inside yourself and heal whatever trauma you had before you were ready for a relationship.’’

‘‘And I am. I- I am taking the time to focus on myself. I truly am, but…’’ Pansy’s regal face softens on the edges. ‘‘I miss him. So much, Hermione. I tried- I did my best, but I could barely sleep. I just wanted to hear from him, you know. Just- just know if he was doing alright.’’

Hermione feels herself softening with her. She can’t say she doesn’t relate to the girl; after all, she was just musing about how she would rather become only a friend and partner to Draco than to lose all of him at once.

She sighs. ‘‘I get it, Pansy, but… You know you do need some space to actually figure things out?’’

‘‘I know, I know. And he’s giving me it. We haven’t seen each other at all lately. Well…’’ She vacillates and Hermione raises a challenging brow. ‘‘I mean, we met like one time. But we only had coffee! I swear, nothing else. Neville agrees we need to handle our issues first before we get any ideas. And we are. At least, I am. I’m really doing the work, like you told me to.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Yes, I-’’ Pansy exhales, eyes zapping through the pub for a moment before fixing on Hermione again. ‘‘I’m thinking about moving out of my parents’.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘It’s the only way I see to disentangle myself from my father. With physical distance. Otherwise I won’t ever make it.’’

Hermione nods. ‘‘It sounds like a good idea. But would you be able to support yourself? I’m guessing your father wouldn’t be very pleased with your decision, so I wonder if he’d still allow you to make use of your inheritance.’’

During their long and detailed letter exchange, Pansy had confided in Hermione about her complicated relationship with her dad. The crux of the problem came down to Pansy not being financially independent and, because of that, wholly reliant on the senior man to allow her to do anything she set her mind to. Indeed, it’s quite challenging to be valiant and break the cycle when you can’t even pay your own bills.

At the question, Pansy clutches her lower lip in between her teeth in an unladylike fashion that betrays her distressed frame of mind. ‘‘I’m still trying to work out the details. I’m not yet really, erm, sure of how I can pull it off. But I’m not gonna give up.’’ The confidence suddenly returns, Pansy’s gaze straying again but this time to land on the object of all her desires, staring at Neville with determination. ‘‘I know what I have to do, I just need to brave through it and get it bloody done.’’

It’s certainly much more complex than that, Hermione knows it, but she admires the witch all the same. Like what Draco had wanted from her since the beginning, Pansy is no longer lying down and accepting her fate with a sorrowful spirit; she’s fighting back.

Hermione smiles, squeezing her friend’s hand in hers. ‘‘You will. I believe in you a hundred percent, Pans.’’

They trade grins, palms remaining clasped until the circle shuffles and Pansy, very coincidentally and surprisingly of course, winds up sitting right next to Neville. They immediately descend into an intimate conversation and Hermione just shakes her head, swapping affectionately exasperated looks with Draco. 

She gives it two weeks before their resolve breaks and they’re back together. Issues solved or not.

Chuckling softly to herself, Hermione peers around again. Blaise has returned to their table, left arm thrown possessively over Suzy’s shoulders, telling her an expansive tale he’s likely heard from the bartenders and other patrons of the pub. His wife listens with an amused smile on her face and a fond look in her eyes. 

Hermione’s heart tightens at the sight.

She wants that. She wants to lean against Draco and watch him talk about whatever he fancies, in front of their peers and without worrying about the appearance of it all. She wants to display her love, to wear it on her sleeve, to experience it with no boundaries. 

She wants to-

‘‘Kill me now.’’

Hermione startles, swivelling to the space Lavender abruptly occupies. Her friend looks like she’s in utter misery. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘Theo just fucking asked me out. Can you believe that?’’

Hermione blinks. ‘‘Yes, I can. You said no?’’

‘‘Wha- Of course I said no, what are you talking about? I don’t wanna date Theo!’’

‘‘Well, that’s news to me. And I’m certainly guessing to him too.’’

Lavender unsticks herself from the chair, bending until her elbows rest on her knees and her face is only a couple of inches away from Hermione’s. ‘‘How so? I don’t get that.’’

‘‘Lav, you guys have been all over each other lately. Every single outing we have, you spend the entire night talking to each other, paying no mind to anyone else. If I had to say, it looked pretty obvious that there was some sort of romantic interest going on.’’

‘‘We’re friends, Hermione. I do the same with you. Before I got to know Theo, I was glued to your side the entire time, too, if you remember.’’

Hermione hums, pondering it. ‘‘That’s- yeah, that’s probably true. But we’re women. It’s different with blokes. If you only have eyes for each other- well, it kinda gives the wrong idea.’’

‘‘Urgh.’’ Lavender huffs emphatically, throwing her body back into the chair. ‘‘This is ridiculous. I have never ever, ever, ever fucking flirted with him. I never led him on. I just like talking to him. He’s kind and calm and not at all like those other loud fuckers like Zabini and Malfoy. Theo’s nice. And since you haven’t been giving me any attention since you started fucking the blond prick, I had to make do with what I had. Which was enjoying Theo’s company. As a friend.’’

Hermione’s guilt eats at her chest. ‘‘Shit. I’m so sorry, Lav. I assumed you reciprocated him so I just let you guys be. I had no idea. Really. I’m so sorry for being such a shitty friend to you lately.’’

Lavender waves her hand dismissively. ‘‘Nah, that’s fine, babe. I know you’re in love with the wanker and I get it, you’re not even that bad. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that Theo’s actually mistaken my friendship for me coquetting myself to him. Urgh, it completely ruins what we had. How am I supposed to talk to him again and be genuine about it when now I’ll always be wondering if he has ulterior motives? Sodding hell, men are the fucking worst.’’

Hermione stays momentarily stuck in the first part of her friend’s speech (what the hell did she just say? Lavender knows she’s in love with Draco? Is it that obvious?) and she wants to inquire after it, but she knows it’s not the moment. The blonde clearly needs comfort.

‘‘That’s shite, Lav. I’m really sorry Theo mixed things up. I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose. It did really look like he fancied you.’’

‘‘Really?’’ Lavender’s eyebrows furrow. ‘‘You could tell that he fancied me?’’ At Hermione’s confirming hum, she prods. ‘‘Since when?’’

‘‘Since he first saw you. The minute you arrived at the Pixie, I could tell Theo became enamoured.’’

‘‘Huh.’’ Lavender chews on her lips, ruminating on that piece of information. ‘‘I never noticed that.’’

‘‘Well, perhaps just like you were clueless about Theo fancying you, perhaps he was too about you not fancying him. You both only saw what you wanted to see. So there wasn’t any ill-will, Lav. I’m certain Theo has been trying to ask you out since he met you because he likes you that way, not because he’s been misreading your signals. Don’t judge him too harshly for that. Like you said, he’s a kind, nice bloke. You should take that into consideration.’’

A long, suffering sigh escapes Lavender’s mouth. ‘‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right. I suppose I didn’t realise-’’

‘‘Where’s Theo?’’

The two women raise their necks to the sudden voice. Draco stands in front of them, having approached without them acknowledging it.

Lavender shrugs her answer. ‘‘Gone home, I guess.’’

‘‘What? Why?’’

‘‘Men can’t handle rejection, Malfoy, that’s why. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.’’

And with that, and a pointed look in Hermione’s direction, she gets to her feet and disappears toward the entrance of the loos. Draco turns to Hermione with a stunned expression.

‘‘Theo made a move on Lavender and she rejected him.’’ Hermione explains before he asks. 

‘‘Ah, fuck.’’

‘‘My thoughts exactly. From what I can gather, these two are as good as done. But, on the bright side-’’ She smirks sarcastically. ‘‘Pansy and Neville will be engaged again within the month.’’

Draco snorts as he reclaims his seat next to her. ‘‘Merlin, our friends are fucked in the head.’’

Hermione’s smirk grows. ‘‘Might say something about us, eh?’’

Draco doesn’t reply, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he disagrees.

In mid-July, Harry’s informant comes through for them once more. He locates Tommy Lee Travis and what the man’s been up to since he was terminated as an Unspeakable. That’s why Hermione and Draco clear their agenda on an afternoon in the third week of the month to visit London’s Public Magical Library. At the front desk, they show their badges and ask for the archivist. The librarian is kind enough to guide them to the Records Room, where Travis works by himself maintaining and organising the archives. The employee knocks loudly to announce them, then leaves them to be. 

Hermione steps inside as Draco closes the door behind them.

‘‘Hello, Mr Travis. May I call you Tommy Lee?’’

The dark-skinned wizard, as tall as Draco and twice as muscular, puts down his quill and parchment, smooth face wrinkling as he tracks their progress in his direction. ‘‘You may, Auror Granger.’’

Hermione’s eyes widen. ‘‘Sorry, do we know each other?’’

‘‘Everyone in England knows Hermione Granger.’’

‘‘Oh, right.’’ She chuckles, a little awkward for having forgotten that small detail. ‘‘Erm, so you also probably know Auror Malfoy?’’

Travis reclines his head. ‘‘A pleasure to meet you.’’

‘‘Likewise.’’ 

‘‘Please.’’ Standing up, he gestures for them to come forward inside the room. He conjures two chairs for them, placing those next to his own.

After they make themselves comfortable, Hermione grins warmly at Travis. ‘‘Thank you. Now. You must be wondering what we’re doing here.’’

‘‘You’re here because of John. Aren’t you?’’

Hermione bugs her eyes yet again. ‘‘How do you know that?’’

He shrugs. ‘‘I knew it would happen sooner or later. The way everything was done, I was sure it wasn’t the last I would hear of it. Especially after I saw in the news that he escaped prison. I’m surprised it took so long for someone to come after me for information.’’ Draco opens his mouth at this but the archivist beats him to it. ‘‘But I don’t have any. At least not that I can freely provide. All of our work as Unspeakables is classified and that remains so even after our appointment ends. We sign Unbreakable Contracts and we’re bound to it until the day we die, and that includes every single research conducted inside the department. Mine, John’s and everyone else’s.’’ He offers an apologetic smile. ‘‘I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you.’’

Hermione and Draco swap looks, considering this. The former is the one to press on. ‘‘Do you mind if we ask a few questions anyway? If you can’t answer them, we’ll understand. We just- we want to make sure that we’re on the same page concerning, well, the topic of our interest.’’

Travis tips his chin in acquiescence. ‘‘Of course. Go ahead, Auror Granger.’’

Hermione clears her throat, taking a moment to rearrange her thoughts. She needs to approach this right if she wants to drag any useful information out from the man in front of her. ‘‘Alright. So, as you guessed, we’re here because of your connection to John Catrall while you worked as an Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry of Magic, a position you held until 2009, correct?’’

‘‘Correct.’’

‘‘I assume you’re not allowed to disclose the reasons for your lay-off, yes?’’

‘‘You assume correctly. I’m not allowed to disclose anything about the period I worked at the department, the assignments I had in there nor the motives for my departure.’’

Hermione inhales, contemplating her next move. In the meantime, Draco takes the lead. ‘‘But can you at least tell us if you worked on the projects together with Catrall?’’

‘‘I can’t, actually. But-’’ Travis sighs. ‘‘I’ll tell you anyway. I did not work with John at the time. We weren’t appointed for the same project.’’

‘‘But you knew each other. You had a somewhat close relationship?’’

A beat passes before he replies. ‘‘We did.’’

‘’Can you tell us a little about it? Not anything regarding his or your work, only your personal experience with him. Such as what was Catrall like, what happened between you, if you’re still in touch…’’

‘‘I haven’t talked to John since I was fired. I can’t tell you anything about what he was doing in the years leading to his imprisonment simply because I have no idea of any of it. I can only refer to the time he worked for and with the Ministry.’’ Pausing to regard the two Aurors, Travis licks his lips in preparation. ‘‘John… He wasn’t doing well back then. His work started to consume him and that affected the other parts of his life.’’

‘‘Such as your relationship?’’

‘‘Yes. I’m guessing by the nature of your questions that you know we had a romantic relationship.’’ At the two nods, he continues. ‘‘Well, then. Indeed, we were together for a while. Four years to be precise. We met at the department, though we never worked in the same research while we were dating, for ethical reasons. It worked for some time but for the final, I’d say, ten months of our relationship things weren’t good between us. That’s when John started to become obsessed with his new project. Again, I can’t tell you what it was and, to be honest, I don’t even know much about it. What I do know is that he started to act very strange, spending night after night at the Ministry, not talking to anyone, not trusting anyone, not even me. It put a strain in our relationship that I wasn’t able to endure. So I had no choice but to break up with him.’’

‘‘When was that?’’

‘‘About a month before he was fired from his old job.’’

‘‘At Westor?’’

‘‘Correct. He didn’t take the break-up well and I suppose that only made everything worse.’’ He sighs again. ‘‘We weren’t in much contact during that time, since I wanted some space from him after everything, but I did hear what happened through others. I heard that- well, that John went against his bosses’ orders and that’s why they fired him.’’

‘‘And how did he react to it?’’ Draco asks. ‘‘You said the last time you saw him was after you were terminated as an Unspeakable. But that didn’t happen for two more weeks. So you still saw him before that?’’

‘‘I did. I saw him three more times. The first one was right after he was fired. I wanted to see how he was doing. I knew how much his job meant to him. He’d been there for years and he loved what he did. Especially after, erm, after the things he had accomplished during it. He wasn’t really ready to let go of his project, and I knew that.’’ 

‘‘And how was he when you went to see him?’’

‘‘Devastated. Looking completely lost, adrift in life. I tried to help him, give him some perspective, but it was all for naught. He didn’t even let me speak; he promptly kicked me out of his house.’’

‘‘And the second time?’’

‘‘That was the day I was let go from the department. Like I said, I didn’t know much about what he was working on. I knew pieces of it, things he had mentioned en passant or that I had accidentally overheard. But I knew my place: as an Unspeakable, you learn how to stay in your own lane and respect the confidentiality of others’ research. However, after they axed me, I went after him. I wanted to understand what happened, why I was being punished for something I had no part in.’’

Hermione pipes up. ‘‘Why were you so sure that your lay-off had something to do with him?’’

‘‘It was obvious, Auror Granger. I can’t tell you the specifics, of course, but I knew. The entire circumstances, the lead-up to it… I knew instantly that whatever had got him fired had spilled onto me because of our relationship.’’ 

‘‘So that means your relationship was an open knowledge in the Ministry?’’

‘‘Not in the Ministry, only in the Department of Mysteries. The moment we started seeing each other, I informed my bosses of it. Even though we didn’t exactly work together, I didn’t want to carry such a secret with me. So I immediately communicated the fact to my superior officer to get it above board and avoid future problems.’’ 

A pregnant pause follows as Hermione and Draco glance at one another, disconcerted by the parallel with their own situation and how less ethical their choice of path has been, hiding their relationship instead of coming clean like Travis had done. Draco clears his throat, looking away. ‘‘Right, so… You went after Catrall the day you were fired?’’

‘‘I did. And we had an explosive argument, in which we both declared we never wanted to see each other again.’’

‘‘And yet you did.’’

‘‘Two days after it. You see, I felt bad about how we had left things. I said things to him in the heat of the moment that I regretted later, when my head had cooled down. So I showed up at his house again, unannounced.’’ He shrugs. ‘‘We barely talked this last time, though. He had company and he all but kicked me out again.’’

‘‘He had company. Like, another man?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Travis sounds a little bitter as he says it and Hermione frowns. ‘‘Who was he? Did you know him?’’

‘‘No. I had never seen him before. It took me by surprise, if I’m being perfectly honest. I never expected John to move on so fast. But it doesn’t matter anymore, I suppose. So, yes, the last time I saw him, he barely looked twice at my face, so engrossed that he was with this other chap. He only told me to leave and never come back, and that’s exactly what I did.’’ He shrugs once more, coupling it this time with a gentle smile. ‘‘Sorry I can’t be of much use. I have no idea what happened to John after this. Well, I guess not great things, since he ended up in prison. But, where I’m concerned, there’s nothing else I can add to what you’re looking for, sorry.’’

‘‘That’s okay, Tommy Lee. Thank you for your willingness in talking to us, anyway.’’ Draco tells him but still circles back. ‘‘Um, perhaps one more thing. What did that man look like, the one you saw with Catrall the last time you went to his house?’’

Hermione unwittingly holds her breath when Travis opens his mouth to reply.

‘‘Oh, he was one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen. Tall and slim with blonde hair and mesmerising blue eyes. And he had this presence, you know? Like he commanded an entire room. Not that unlike you, actually. But perhaps an older version of you; I think he was in his late forties or early fifties.’’ He grins cheekily at Draco. ‘‘So maybe like your father? Though his hair wasn't platinum blond like you and him, it was more like a dirty blond. Honestly, this man looked like a retired runway model, so stunning it could make a lesser person cry.’’ He snorts, shaking his head. ‘‘Terrible, isn’t it? You date someone for years only to be replaced in a couple of weeks by someone much fitter than you. Life’s definitely not fair.’’

Hermione can’t help snorting with him, identifying this set-up at once, one she had to face herself not that long ago. ‘‘Tell me about it. Unfair doesn’t begin to cover it.’’ Getting to her feet, she extends a hand. ‘‘Thanks for your time, Tommy Lee. Would you mind if we came back in case we have other questions for you?’’

‘‘Not at all. As long as it’s nothing I can’t tell you in virtue of the Unbreakable Contract, I’d gladly help.’’

‘‘Thank you. Have a good day.’’

Hermione and Draco walk out of the library, choosing not to apparate to the DMLE right away. Wandering for a few minutes around the big building instead, they proceed to recapitulate what they have just learned. Not that there’s that much to discuss; Travis’ version does confirm the rumours Layla had heard about both the project Catrall was working on and the break-up being the reasons behind his going mad, but, other than that, the archivist gave them little concrete information.

And yet-

There’s loads they can infer from the half-words the wizard spoke, and if there’s one thing Hermione and Draco can say they have become proficient at it’s the art of deduction.

‘‘Do you think the man was The Death Eater?’’

‘‘I do.’’ Hermione confirms with ease, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. ‘‘Of course, it’s a wild guess but my gut is telling me… I don’t know, I feel like whatever Travis interrupted wasn’t a private meeting between two men romantically involved.’’

‘‘The description doesn't match with the one Lochty gave us.’’

She scoffs. ‘‘Lochty’s description of The Death Eater is a work of fiction.’’ At Draco’s responding scoff, she continues. ‘‘No, the person we’re looking for is not a short, overweight bloke with a scar on his cheek. My guess is that he’s the virtual opposite of it. Lochty was visibly taking the mickey out of us.’’

‘‘But what if-’’ Draco enlaces Hermione’s forearm when they cross a street, guiding her safely to the pavement. ‘‘What if that wasn’t The Death Eater, either? Maybe it was another member of the gang, someone high in the hierarchy that we haven’t managed to put our hands on yet.’’

‘‘That could be. Either way…’’ Hermione shrugs. ‘‘That would still mean that Catrall was approached by the gang almost immediately after he was fired. Literally two weeks later. Which means they were tracking him, that they already had an interest in his project and that they promptly pounced on him the minute he found himself unemployed and free to break the confidentiality of what he was working on.’’

Draco hums. ‘‘Something he could only do illegally. No respectful company would hire him after what happened, and even if someone did, Catrall would be incapable of pursuing the project again. He was completely barred from using the knowledge he gained while he worked with the Unspeakables.’’

‘‘Except if he placed himself on the other side of the law. Then he could whatever he wanted, however he wanted it.’’

They exchange loaded looks.

‘‘Should we request a meeting with Mackenzie?’’ Draco asks. ‘‘There have been a lot of developments lately. Not only about our meeting at Westor, and now with Travis, but also the suspicious letter Lochty received and your theory.’’

In the trail of their recent leads, both Hermione and Draco have come into new intel; Draco discovered, after he met with the warden of Azkaban, that Jack Lochty had received a very oddly-worded letter only a few weeks before Puck the informant presented himself to the Ministry (they recognised at once that the parchment was coded, but they haven’t been able yet to crack it), whereas Hermione has had the epiphany that the Essex gang’s target is the simplest one anyone could think of: they are going to rob something.

All this talk in the past year and a half of blood supremacy, of the resumption of Dark Arts, of the dethroning of the Ministry- and their mastermind plan ultimately rests on the most rudimentary basics of every criminal organisation that has ever existed. Because Hermione knows Puck lied; the goals of the gang never shifted. Profit still is the flagship of The Death Eater and his followers, and that will never change.

But instead of proceeding like every other criminal organisation, they have decided to instead fuck with the Ministry and send them in a wild goose chase, running around like headless chickens, wasting precious resources with something that’s nothing more than a farce. That’s what tipped Hermione: financial offences have risen unbridled since the DMLE started focusing on their crusade against the Essex gang, and the reason for it is evident.

The Aurors are much too occupied hunting an imaginary threat to acknowledge the real danger. And that’s certainly what The Death Eater has intended since the beginning.

Hermione stops in front of the pedestrian crossing leading to the Apparition point. She tilts her head to Draco. ‘‘Do you think we should?’’

‘‘What do you think?’’

‘‘I think… I think we still don’t have enough. Especially now that Harry’s guy cleared Byrne from being the rat.’’ To her and her partner’s profound chagrin, the off-the-record informant confirmed that Byrne might be a little shit, but he’s not a traitor on top of that. ‘‘I think we should only go to Emily when we follow this through.’’

‘‘What exactly is this you mean?’’

She sighs. ‘‘I suppose Lochty’s coded letter. This mysterious man that Catrall was last seen with, which may or not be the real Death Eater. The assembling of a list with the alternative targets to the Auror training facility.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Draco sighs too, their task seeming to become nearly insurmountable in front of them. ‘‘You’re probably right.’’ He grabs Hermione’s hand, walking the final steps until they’re in place and nodding once at her to relay his intention. ‘‘Shall we?’’

She returns the nod and he spins on his heel to apparate them to the Ministry.

Scanning the reflection staring back at her in the round mirror of her foyer, Hermione has a déjà-vu: a little over eight months ago she found herself in the same position, breathing deeply in to prepare for the challenge of flooing to the Potters’ residence. Although a lot has happened and she has strengthened herself ever since, as she stands in front of the fireplace, she still feels her stomach turn in knots. A couple of weeks ago she might have not felt that way but, following her conversation with Harry at James’ game, she’s second-guessing many of the hard truths she had come to in the last year. 

Especially considering that they’re celebrating him today.

The end of July has always held a special place in her heart; Harry’s birthday has always meant the beginning of a new year, their new journey in Hogwarts or, later, with their families, friends and work. The Potters and Weasleys were consistent in throwing a huge party, summoning everyone in their circle to make a proper celebration for another successful lap around the sun of the boy who lived.

This year is no exception. Hermione received the colourful, magical invite ten days ago, and she didn’t have it in herself to decline it.

She closes her eyes for a minute before soldiering on and burying her hand into the floo powder holder. She makes the trip before she can overthink it. Landing at the centre of their living room, the sight of everyone she used to love so dearly in front of her overwhelms her for a brief moment. She freezes before the emotional tools she has acquired in the past many months kick in and she regains control of herself. 

Inhaling, she walks inside the room with her head held high.

‘‘Hermione!’’ 

Even more than the previous time, a procession of Weasleys step ahead to welcome her: Ginny, Arthur, Molly, Percy, Audrey, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, George and Angelina. To her surprise, the last two greet her with large smiles, apparently already over their encounter at The Porcelain Pixie and how awkward that had been. Ginny beams when Hermione allows her to hug her and her parents swarm Hermione with questions about how she’s been, how’s everything in the DMLE, what has she done with her hair for it to look so soft and evenly curled; of all of them, together with a recently of-age Teddy Lupin, who also makes up the group that encircle her, they have been the ones Hermione hasn’t seen for the longest.

And Charlie, of course. The handsomest of the Weasley brothers, and the most unavailable of them, wasn’t around when shit went down between her and Ronald, and then later with the rest of the family, so Hermione hasn’t really talked to him for almost three years. Which works to remove any lingering resentment she might still have toward another member of the Weasley clan.

‘‘Charlie!’’ She exclaims in delight, holding him tightly. ‘‘How are you? It’s been forever!’’

‘‘I’m good, Mione, I’m good. The same as always, I guess, nothing very exciting to tell you about.’’

‘‘Yes, I can imagine. Working with dragons must certainly be very boring.’’

He laughs, throwing one arm over her shoulders and guiding her deeper inside the living room. ‘‘I’m sure it must be as boring as being an Auror for the Ministry. But enough about me, what’s up with you? You look fantastic, by the way. Even prettier than what I remember.’’

Ah, Charlie, the eternal flirt. 

Hermione’s grin is wide. ‘‘That’s because your memory is shite, after getting repeatedly hit in the head by dragon mamas protecting their eggs.’’

‘‘Ah, you might not be completely wrong there. Or I am not and being single has worked wonders to make you shine even brighter.’’

It’s probably the return of their old, sassy banter or perhaps the fact that Hermione’s feeling good, not at all anxious or depressed for setting foot inside the Potters’ house again as she had feared, that compels her to wink at him. ‘‘Who said I was single?’’

Charlie’s smirk takes over his entire face as he looks her up and down appreciatively. ‘‘My, my. Hermione Granger, you sneaky little thing, have you-’’

‘‘Auntie Mione!’’

She’s swarmed this time by her sweet angels. She kneels down to talk to them and proceeds to spend at least fifteen minutes dutifully listening to their recounting of all that has been happening in their lives in recent times. Which becomes a much longer story after Bill’s, Percy’s and George’s kids join them, and Hermione has to wrestle to give equal attention to ten children of varied ages. When she realises there must be steam coming off her ears with so many shouts and interruptions and Auntie Mione, look at me’s, she tells them she’ll be right back and finally stands up.

As she straightens, her gaze falls on the red-tiled arch that leads to the Potters’ backyard and the three people who have just come out of it: Harry, Ronald and his brand new wife, Amelia.

Hermione blinks, taken off-guard. 

Though she shouldn't. Right? She knew they would be there. She has prepared for it at length.

‘‘Hi there.’’ She breathes out, recovering from the momentary surprise with a dry swallow. ‘‘Happy birthday, Harry.’’

Fishing the cheeky gift she had bought him from her purse, she pushes it in his direction, a small albeit genuine smile blossoming in her face. Harry accepts what she offers him, inching closer to her. ‘‘Oh, thanks, Hermione. You didn’t have to.’’

He unwraps the present to come face-to-face with a fancy hair gel. ‘‘Sleekeazy just launched a new line of lotions designed to wrangle the most rebellious of hairs. It made me think of you, so there you have it.’’

Harry’s amused laugh is as genuine as her good mood. ‘‘Of course it did. Well, thank you. I appreciate it.’’

‘‘You’re welcome.’’

They hold each other’s gaze and Hermione feels an abrupt urge to hug him. Irrespective of her best efforts, she hasn’t been able to prevent her heart from thawing for him. She smothers the urge, though, when her eyes travel and find Ronald again. He has been watching them this entire time, his wife having already wandered away somewhere. Despite not feeling as affected by his presence as she did previously, it still makes her less than comfortable.

She focuses back on Harry. ‘‘I hope you enjoy your party.’’

He frowns. ‘‘Are you leaving already?’’

She hesitates. Perhaps she should and, on any other occasion, she most definitely would. Why would she spend more time with the Potters and Weasleys than strictly required? And yet, as she looks around, watching the children run and giggle, the adults chat animatedly, many of whom she truly misses, such as Charlie, Teddy and Fleur, and the loud music and tasty food, Hermione relents.

She supposes it won’t hurt to stick around for another hour.

‘‘I don’t know. Is there rice cake?’’

Harry grins. ‘‘You bet there is.’’

‘‘Oh, well. Then I might as well just stay for a while longer.’’

They trade smiles and Hermione moves along, not sparing Ronald another glance. She knows she looks nice, she knows she looks happy and she knows her life has become much bigger than the contents of the house she’s currently in. There’s nothing there that can bring her down again; she’s grown and gotten over it, and now she’s allowed to enjoy a pleasant afternoon without worrying about binding ties or bitter memories.

She just wished Draco and Scorpius were here, too. The latter would be absolutely thrilled to be among so many other kids while the former would probably wear the longest face known to men.

Hermione chuckles as she imagines the scene, entering the kitchen to fetch herself some well-deserved pastries. It’s chaos, a messy assortment of crisps, canapés, flappy jacks and countless types of tarts, at least seven sorts of alcoholic beverages floating over the counter. She serves herself some butterbeer, not feeling like overindulging, and wavers between something sweet and savoury.

Before she can decide, someone comes behind her and she swivels around to find Ginny. ‘‘Hermione. Merlin, I’m so glad you’re here.’’ The redhead encircles her forearm with a Quidditch-calloused palm, stepping into Hermione’s space. ‘‘I really wasn’t sure if you’d come, so you should know it makes me happy to bits that you did.’’

Hermione allows the forced proximity for now. ‘‘I’m glad. Sorry I didn’t confirm my attendance beforehand.’’

‘‘That’s fine.’’ Ginny grins, reaching behind her to grab a bottle of white wine. ‘‘So, tell me, how’ve you been? You look great.’’

‘‘Thanks. Erm, I’m good. A lot of work at the DMLE lately, but I’m sure you’ve heard it all from Harry already.’’

‘‘I did. He’s told me of the pressure everyone is being under. Sounds tough.’’

Hermione nods, offering a half-smile, and sways away from the witch. Finding a better spot against the opposite counter, she wills herself to sustain the small talk. ‘‘How are the kids doing? Still driving you mad?’’

‘‘Ha. You know it. Not a single second of peace in this household.’’

‘‘I can only imagine.’’ 

They chuckle lightly with each other, sipping on their respective drinks. Hermione hasn’t been in Ginny’s company for this long, just the two of them with no one else to act as a buffer, in years. She can’t help but feel a little stiff. Whereas with Harry she’s learned to accept his presence as an occupational hazard, becoming almost as used to being around him as in the past, with his wife the scenario is much more distinct. What’s more, Hermione hasn't had any heart-to-heart with her nor been offered a sincere apology, as it was the case with Harry. All Ginny does is push Hermione, trying to bludger her way back into her life.

She should have known that this time wouldn’t be any different.

‘‘So…’’ Ginny starts, swirling her wine glass in apparent casualness. ‘‘You said everything’s good at the DMLE. I guess that means your partnership with Malfoy has been going well, too?’’

Hermione’s stiffness doubles. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’ When Hermione doesn’t elaborate, Ginny presses. ‘‘That’s good, of course, but it just- I don’t know, it’s a surprise, innit? Malfoy of all people.’’ Hermione remains quiet, so the other woman has no choice but to stop skirting around the topic. ‘‘We could never have guessed that you two would get along so well.’’

‘‘Well, you know me, never ceasing to amaze people.’’ Her smile is wry and sarcastic, which unfortunately doesn’t deter Ginny.

‘‘Most certainly, Hermione. Nothing you’ve done in the past two years have borne any resemblance with the old Hermione we knew and loved so much.’’ Hermione narrows her eyes, shoulders squaring on alert, but Ginny continues without waiting for a reply. ‘‘For starters, this new caginess of yours. Never offering a direct answer anymore. It’s quite annoying, if I may say so.’’

‘‘You may not.’’ Hermione puts her drink down with a clunk, done with this conversation. ‘‘You know what else is annoying? Your nosey arse, sniffing around my business the entire time. I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with this shit anymore.’’

She makes to walk in the direction of the kitchen door but her former friend takes a side-step, blocking her way. ‘‘Don’t leave. I’m trying to talk to you.’’

‘‘Well, that’s too bad because I don’t wanna talk to you.’’

‘‘Hermione, please-’’

‘‘Ginny, just get out of my way.’’

‘‘I will if you answer me one question.’’ Hermione sighs, head running to find solutions to her current hurdle: how to get away from the redhead as quickly as possible. Of course she has no interest in answering anything, much less spending the next- ‘‘Are you dating Malfoy?’’

Hermione’s busy brain stills.

She blinks at the witch in front of her, rendered instantly silent.

Ginny takes the opportunity to strike. ‘‘You are, aren’t you? You must be. You are everywhere with him. At Hogsmeade, in a random pub in the middle of the city, in a fucking street market in Mayfair. I saw you there, Hermione.’’ She hurls it like an accusation. ‘‘You and the entire Malfoy family. Traipsing around like you are the new Mrs Malfoy. I’m not crazy. I know you’re with him. It’s the only reason for you to be so moved-on.’’

Shock gives way to ire. Hermione would like nothing more than to slap Ginny’s aggravating face until it bleeds, but she contends herself to only eviscerate her with words.

‘‘Are you done?’’

Ginny sighs. ‘‘Hermione, I- I’m just asking. It’s fine if you are. Dating him, I mean. Like, Malfoy’s awful, but if he’s making you happy, fine by me. I just hate that I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore. I hate hearing through others the news about you, about your new mates or whatever, and the places you’ve been frequenting and what you’ve been up to. I hate it.’’ Her brown eyes turn supplicative. ‘‘It’s been so long, Mione. And you’ve clearly moved on. Can we just- just go back to what we were already? Harry says your relationship is getting better, and that’s all I want for us, too. For the two of us to be able to talk to one another like we used to. No more of these evasive half-answers and this reticence of yours. Let’s just put what happened behind us and be friends again. Please.’’

There is so much Hermione could say to counter this load of crap that the woman just dropped on her; and yet, she won’t give her the satisfaction. 

She leans closer, getting a fingerbreadth away from Ginny. ‘‘If you want to know that badly why I’m so moved-on, maybe you should start by looking at yourself and your surroundings. Then you might realise how fucking toxic this environment was for me. If I look great and happy now, it’s because I’m no longer around you lot.’’ She realigns her spine, ready to depart even if, for that, she'll need to knock down the stubborn witch on her way. ‘‘And a piece of advice: your approach doesn’t fucking work.’’ Whereas Harry had taken his time and distance in the beginning, reflecting on everything that had happened before he came after Hermione again, Ginny’s insistence has never wavered. Unlike her husband, who played his cards right by giving Hermione space and addressing his previous faults, Ginny has been relentlessly pestering Hermione all those months, trying to force an intimacy that’s no longer there. ‘‘Every time you push me, I recede further. Every time you try to nag me into being your friend again, the more reticent and cagey I become. If you haven’t noticed this by now, then you’re thicker than I remembered.’’

She pushes past Ginny, uncaring if she bumps too hard on her shoulder in the process. Hermione stalks out of the kitchen, pausing only to say goodbye to the kids and some of the adults before flooing back home, the party effectively ruined for her.

As Hermione had called it, the beginning of August brings a fresh new batch of news: Pansy and Neville are back together. 

The pureblood writes to Hermione before she does anyone else; she seems eager to explain to her friend the motive behind the decision and, despite Hermione’s reservations, she allows the woman’s reasons to wash over her. Pansy relays that she had told her parents that she wanted to move out and be more independent, which, naturally, led to an ugly confrontation with her father and, later, to her disowning of the family’s inheritance. More than a little desperate, she went after Neville, who promised to take care of her. And voilà: the couple has decided to purchase a flat and move in together.

Pansy tells her in the letter that the wedding is still off. They have multiple issues yet to address and, although they do not wish to be apart from one another any longer, they don’t want to rush into anything permanent either. So living together would allow them to work through their difference of opinions and discover if their coexistence still makes sense, now by sharing the same roof.

Hermione can’t and doesn’t want to argue with that logic. She might worry that the two of them are setting their relationship up to fail, but she can also acknowledge that the circumstances don’t accommodate many other alternatives. If Pansy wants to break free from her family, it’s better to do it with Neville than completely by herself. At least for now.

Therefore, Hermione writes back to congratulate the witch and she’s readily invited to an open house the following weekend, to celebrate their reuniting and show their new apartment to all their dear friends. Hermione’s surprised to see how fast things are moving, so unlike the way her own healing took place, but who is she to judge? She confirms her presence and, on the day, floos to the address Pansy had provided expecting a small, cosy gathering.

She’s surprised to find a swinging party.

Similar to Harry’s own party, everyone’s there. All their mates, of course, but also Scorpius and a blonde woman Hermione faintly recognises as Daphne Greengrass, Neville’s Dogweed and Deathcap colleagues, Pansy’s socialite girlfriends, and a few older people Hermione guesses are probably distant Longbottoms. The flat is massive, the decoration so extravagant and the guests so plentiful that one would never tell that everything was done last-minute, in a rush to fix a bad situation and make sure Pansy can move on with her life now that she’s cut-off.

Likewise, the shit-eating grin that is plastered on her friend’s face does not betray the depression she had been for the past several weeks; Pansy beams without restraint, filling the shoes of hostess extraordinaire of her own place flawlessly. 

As Hermione makes her way inside, she can’t help comparing the two parties she has attended then, only a couple of weeks ago, and now: once more a clear image of her past and future, juxtapositioned. Her old friends and her new, the environment she used to frequent and the one that has become her refuge. The gathering tonight is much larger than what Hermione’s accustomed to and yet she doesn’t feel a touch apprehensive. The friendly faces around are enough to guide her through and forward, something she knows wasn’t always the case before. Cloistered to the Potters and Weasleys, then Hermione had dreadful social skills; not that this is only their fault, but perhaps the way she had allowed their codependent relationship to evolve. Now Hermione is a much more confident, mindful and unreserved woman. 

She smiles at the strangers, walking ahead toward the acquaintances. She hugs and kisses Pansy and Neville, gifting them with a complete set of steel cutlery, and greets her other friends excitedly. Looking around, searching for the two most important people, she locates them on the other side of the living room. Excusing herself to fetch a drink, she moves in the direction of the makeshift bar counter, hired together with waiters for the evening, all the while she sends Draco a pointed look.

The young woman in front of her has just handed her the pint, hardly two minutes later, when she feels him behind her back.

‘‘Hi, love.’’

It’s nothing more than a whisper, but it still triggers goosebumps. ‘‘Hi, Draco.’’ She turns around to catch his silver eyes trailing down her body, shamelessly heated. She smirks as she says her signature warning. ‘‘Behave.’’

He ignores her. ‘‘Mhm. I like this dress. You wore it to Blaise’s birthday.’’ He’s right; she had worn the red polka dot sundress on that occasion, repeating it tonight due to the good weather and the fact that it looks pretty flattering on her. Draco’s gaze pauses too long in the vicinity of her thighs. ‘‘It made me want to devour you whole.’’

‘‘Draco.’’ Hermione chides. ‘‘Behave.’’

Still she laughs, although her eyes zap through the salon, checking if anyone is paying attention to them. And that she does find: Daphne Greengrass stares at them, face blank but keenly attentive. Hermione’s heart leaps inside her ribcage.

‘‘Daphne is looking, stop ogling me.’’

‘‘Let her look.’’

Hermione meets his gaze and once more she wonders if he doesn’t care about appearances anymore. And if that means that he’s ready to take the next step and make them official.

‘‘Draco, do you think that-’’ She suddenly cuts her own words off. His entrancing eyes bore into her and her courage vanishes quicker than what it takes to blink. Maybe she hasn’t become so confident after all. ‘‘Er, I- I mean, do you-’’ Embarrassment hits her as he frowns with her stuttering. She glances away, shaking her head with an awkward laugh. ‘‘Never mind, I’m speaking nonsense.’’

‘‘What is it, Granger?’’

‘‘Nothing. Really, it’s nothing.’’

His frown doesn’t go anywhere and Hermione begins to feel a little uncomfortable. Stupid her, letting an impulse put her in such a situation when she had promised herself to take her time and talk with him only when she felt ready for it. 

She gulps half of her pint down, cleaning her lips with the back of her hand after. ‘‘So, huge party, huh? Definitely not what I was expecting.’’

Draco sees right through her pitiful attempt at diversion but, thankfully, lets it slide. ‘‘Yeah, Pansy’s gone the full way. Heedless as always, of course, but at least she’s not moping around anymore.’’

‘‘Oh, yes, she looks much better. She-’’ Again halting abruptly, though this time for a good reason, Hermione’s offish expression slacks into a light smile. ‘‘Look who it is.’’

Scorpius marches in their direction, adorable in his semi-formal forest-green suit. He all but throws himself at her, skinny arms wrapping around her midriff. ‘‘Hermione, you’re here!’’

‘‘I am. I didn’t know you’d be, too.’’ As he lets go, she bends to level their faces. ‘‘Hello, my darling. How are you?’’

‘‘I’m great! I had no idea Aunt Pansy would invite me but I’m glad she did, this party is so cool! And Auntie got to come too, how great is that?’’

Auntie chooses this exact moment to join them. 

Daphne Greengrass is as handsome as every pureblooded witch who has been raised to meet the beauty standards of Wizarding society: long, lush blonde hair, thick with care and expensive products; soft face unwrinkled by life struggles; perfect figure, slim and regal, sustained by strict diet, controlled exercise and good posture. The way she moves only reaffirms the impression, careful and aristocratic, nearly no expression marring her pretty features.

‘‘Hello.’’

‘‘Oh, hello.’’ Hermione straightens, automatically extending her palm. ‘‘Hermione Granger.’’ She suddenly realises Daphne already knows her; why is she introducing herself? ‘‘But you know that.’’ Her laughter is once more awkward, and she hurriedly lowers her arm. ‘‘It’s nice to see you again, Daphne.’’

She feels embarrassed, neck warming at how clumsy she’s acting (in front of Draco and Scorpius no less), and she tries to recover from it by averting her gaze, fingers coming up to fiddle with her hair. Her graceless movements are put to a stop when Daphne raises her own hand.

‘‘Nice to meet you again, Hermione. I suppose we’re such different people now than what we were when we first met, that new introductions might be in order indeed.’’ They shake, eyes locked. ‘‘It’s good to finally see you again after so long.’’

‘‘You, too. Draco talks a lot about you.’’

‘‘Does he?’’ The blonde’s gaze snaps to Draco curiously. The latter just shrugs, nursing his own beer by now.

‘‘And Scorpius as well, of course.’’ Hermione is hasty to add. God, why is she being so awkward? She feels nervous, anxious to make a good impression. And unlike the time she had met Narcissa again, when she realised halfway through that the woman shouldn’t hold as much power over her as Hermione was allowing, with Daphne things might be a little different; after everything she’s heard about the witch, the strong person she’s become and how important she is to both Scorpius and his dad, Hermione can’t stop herself from wishing fervently that they develop a smooth relationship with each other. Hence her agitation. It doesn’t help that, when she peers inside her green eyes, Hermione is vividly reminded of Astoria. ‘‘Your nephew always mentions you, don’t you, darling?’’

Scorpius, who had been watching the interaction with his habitual polite manners, perks up at this. ‘‘Auntie is one of my favourite people of all time. Together with Daddy and you, Hermione. Well, and I suppose Grandma too.’’

The way he says the last part, as if he felt compelled to include Narcissa to the list due to some inner sense of obligation, makes Hermione chuckle. Daphne, as composed as ever, merely smiles, but her eyes glint with humour. 

‘‘Of course, Scorpius. You love your whole family, we know that.’’ Daphne says before turning back to Hermione. ‘‘So, Hermione. How have you been? As buried in work as Draco seems to constantly be?’’

‘‘Yes, very much so. The DMLE has been quite busy lately, unfortunately, for the both of us.’’

‘‘But you still take the time to enjoy yourself. That’s important.’’ Her eyes bounce again to her brother-in-law, then back to Hermione. ‘‘I always tell Draco he has to make time for himself. He insists on spending every hour of his day either working or taking care of Scorpius. But he also needs to find things that give him pleasure, right? Though… Well, I suppose he’s becoming better at this lately.’’

Daphne smiles again, gently but knowingly, and Hermione becomes self-conscious once more. Despite the witch’s tone not particularly implying anything, nor being barbed or ironic, Hermione feels like the Greengrass sister is as aware of their involvement as Blaise and Lavender, although no one has told her so. She might have seen the way Draco was looking at Hermione, and put the puzzle together of their long hours working together and spending every spare moment glued to each other for the past few months, or perhaps she has suspected it all along.

And thus another person is clued in their office affair. At this point, can it even still be considered a secret when half of their acquaintances already know about them?

To distract herself from going down that rabbit hole, Hermione only lets out a non-committal hum before focusing on Scorpius.

‘‘So you’re enjoying the party, aren’t you? It's cool here, right?’’

‘‘It’s so cool here! Aunt Pansy even has a heated swimming pool.’’

‘‘It’s called a jacuzzi, Scorpius.’’ Daphne corrects him, kindly.

‘‘Yes! Do you wanna see it?’’ At Hermione’s slow reaction to this, not having expected it, the boy grabs her hand and immediately pulls her forward. ‘‘Come, I’ll show you.’’

She has no other choice but to let herself be guided to the outside patio she hadn’t even noticed before; Scorpius leads her through the sea of people until they cross the glass double doors that takes them to a small yet charming sort of garden. And, indeed, right in the middle of it there’s a large jacuzzi, placed inside a lovely gazebo and surrounded by wooden benches. It’s a little eccentric, not to say lavish, but she supposes Pansy is still having a crack at being a householder. 

Hand in hand, after letting him see her marvel at the heated swimming pool, Hermione returns inside with Scorpius. They navigate across the guests, back to where they left his dad and aunt, but before they get there Hermione spots the two in a seemingly tense stare down. As she watches, Draco appears to say something snippy that, taken by Daphne’s expression, the woman doesn’t appreciate. 

Hermione stops in her tracks, unwilling to get in between that.

‘‘Erm, are you hungry, Scorpius? Should we go try and get us something to eat?’’

‘‘Yes! Wow, I could eat a Hippogriff. I saw that they were serving miniburgers, I want one. Can we have one, Hermione? And maybe chips. Do you think they have chips?’’

‘‘Mhn, I don’t know. Should we check?’’

They do, successfully retrieving a plate full with the snacks, Scorpius also fetching a pumpkin juice for himself. They walk slowly back and Hermione’s relieved to find Daphne gone and the strained moment over. Draco stands alone in the same place and, as they make their way back to him, Hermione grins at him.

He doesn’t reciprocate it.

‘‘Look, Daddy. I got burgers and chips. Hermione said I’m allowed to eat two of them, since they’re not very big.’’

Draco blinks, silver gaze springing from the meal to the hand Hermione still has interlaced with his son’s. His eyes seem to harden. ‘‘Did she?’’

‘‘Well, he said he was hungry and I assumed that was alright. Of course, if Daddy says no, it’s no, right, Scorpius?’’ She chuckles nervously, getting Scorpius to follow her but not Draco. He still appears somewhat off, face inscrutable as it used to be all that time ago when they didn’t like each other.

It’s like a shock to her system. Is he mad at her? Does he think she’s overstepping, holding Scorpius hand and giving him unhealthy food? Or is there something to do with what Daphne and he were talking about just a few minutes ago?

She doesn’t know and she can’t read him, which only distresses her more. She lets go of Scorpius’ palm. ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. I- I should’ve asked you first.’’

He doesn’t reply, eyes averting to the other end of the room. None the wiser, Scorpius begins prattling about the last film he watched with his auntie, in the meantime stuffing his mouth with the burgers and chips. Hermione can’t keep her eyes off Draco, though, chest tightening the longer he ignores her. At some point Hermione can’t be really certain, lost to the anxiety that swamps her, Daphne returns and she and Scorpius scatter off somewhere, oblivious to the stiff mood of the circle.

They’re barely gone and Hermione springs to action, coming closer to Draco. ‘‘Are you angry at me? I’m so sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean anything by it. Scorpius was the one to grab my hand and take me away, and he asked for the food. I thought that was okay. I had no idea you wouldn’t like it, I’m sorry.’’

Gaze still firmly away, Draco dismisses her. ‘‘Calm down, Granger. You’re overthinking it. I’m not angry.’’

‘‘You’re not? But- You’re not even meeting my eyes.’’

He brings them then sharply to her. She almost wishes he hadn’t; it overwhelms her, how cold they look; how bereft of the affection she had come to always find in them.

Voice hoarse, throat blocked with an unwelcome clog, she tries again. ‘‘Please, just tell me what-’’

‘‘Granger, a letter for you.’’

It’s Pansy who interrupts them, approaching Hermione’s side with a Ministry-sealed parchment in hand. 

‘‘A letter?’’

‘‘Yes, here. An unfamiliar owl just delivered it.’’

Frowning, she accepts it, promptly opening it to find her former best friend’s handwriting. As Pansy goes away again to keep fulfilling her hostess duties, Hermione reads the note quickly. ‘‘Harry is requesting our presence on a crime scene.’’

‘‘A crime scene?’’ At Hermione’s nod, Draco grimaces. ‘‘Right now?’’

‘‘Yes. He says it’s urgent.’’

They exchange heavy looks, knowing rather well that this cannot be good news. 

‘‘Alright, let’s go.’’

They don’t let their departure linger; saying goodbye only to those who matter, and asking Daphne to watch over Scorpius for the next hour before Draco is back, the two partners apparate to the address that Harry had scribbled in the letter. They arrive at an open clearing in North-Eastern London, the sun already set in the horizon. Walking side by side in a leaden silence, they head to where they can distinguish patrol uniforms in the distance, a bustle of DMLE and MPE’s employees tramping back and forth inside the neon yellow barricade tape. They have no issues in locating Harry among the ruckus.

‘Oh, you’re here. Good.’’

‘‘What is it, Harry? Is everything okay?’’

The senior Auror raises the tape to give them passage, gesturing for them to follow him. ‘‘Earlier today I received a strange notification from the Metropolitan Police Service. You know I always keep an eye on the movements of the muggle police divisions in England, just in case.’’ Hermione nods, aware of Harry's unusual though thorough investigation habits. ‘‘Well, as I was scanning the dispatches, I noticed a suspicious occurrence. A body, found at the South of Epping Forest. The MPS ruled out the death as natural causes, by all appearances a heart attack, but that didn’t sit well with me. The described circumstances were too, I don’t know, odd. So I decided to take a look at it myself. I know a few people inside the muggle department, so it wasn’t such a hassle.’’ He stops only a few feet away from the white sheet that covers a dead body. He looks up, eyes skipping between Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Even though I didn’t recognise the person, it became blatant to me that he had been victim of the killing curse, set up in a way to make it look like it was a common death, not by any means magic-related, which explains why the body was dumped in a muggle area for the muggle police to find. The intention was for the MPS to take charge of this and us, at the DMLE, to never even hear the tale of it.’’

In a furrowing of brows, Hermione glances around the crime scene again. ‘‘Why? What would be the point of that?’’

‘‘You tell me.’’ Harry inches toward the body, Hermione and Draco on his trail. ‘‘It sounded all very weird to me and I had no clue what this was all about until the victim was identified. And I immediately recognised the name, the same that my informant provided us not that long ago.’’ 

Squatting, the bespectacled bloke lifts the white sheet to reveal the dead man. There, looking as peaceful as the last time they had seen him, except for his closed eyes and blue mouth, lied Tommy Lee Travis.

Chapter Text

The drumming of Hermione’s heel against the laminate flooring is the only sound in the office. She knows it’s a little annoying, but she’s currently unable to stop herself, her nerves on edge and her body incapable of keeping still. From where she stands, she can see Draco’s profile, eyes hard and jaw set- if because of the irritating noise she’s making or the entire situation, she can’t tell.

For her part, Mackenzie is quiet, studying them with her signature sharp gaze. They had owled her and Hestia first thing in the morning, asking for an urgent meeting on that Sunday, but the topic of such a request has remained undiscussed until now. While they wait for their other boss, no one looks at anyone and the silence swirling in between them is uncharacteristically loaded. The Head Deputy has surely noticed it, watching the two partners all but ignore each other.

Hermione taps her feet, bites her nails, chews her bottom lip. She’s anxious to an extent she’s seldom been before; not just because of the lamentable reason that has brought them there, but also for the memory of how she had tried to discreetly reach for Draco’s hand when she arrived at the DMLE only to have him swerve away. She had hoped a night of sleep and a new development in their investigation would be enough to ditch whatever had gotten into him the previous evening, but apparently that’s not the case. He’s still acting off, not quite meeting her eyes and barely speaking to her.

It gives her a stomachache, and she can’t afford one right now. She has a job to do, which at the moment seems to be at the cusp of something big. Exhaling heavily, she turns to stare at the entrance of the office, willing Hestia to just fucking show up alr-

The door flies open and the Head of the DMLE arrives in a flurry of robes and hasty steps. ‘‘Good morning. Sorry I’m late, I had another urgent matter to attend to first.’’ She flicks her wand to silence their environment and conjure an armchair, taking a place next to Mackenzie and looking on to Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Alright, I’m here. What is this all about?’’

Hermione’s eyes are already on Draco, to clock his reaction. He holds Hestia’s instead, going on without waiting for Hermione’s acknowledgement as their praxis. ‘‘Good morning, Jones. Last night, Potter summoned us to a crime scene at Epping Forest, one that featured a key-actor in our investigation as the victim of the killing curse. We had talked to the victim, Tommy Lee Travis, only a couple weeks ago, and the entire circumstances surrounding his murder were too dubious to not have been due to him helping the Ministry. That’s why we called a meeting with you two today, to go over this regrettable development in the case.’’

‘‘Tommy Lee Travis, you said?’’ Hestia frowns. ‘‘Who’s that?’’

‘‘He is a former Unspeakable who used to be in a romantic relationship with John Catrall, one of the seven WDC fugitives.’’

Their boss’ frown deepens. ‘‘What?’’ She glances at Mackenzie, who sustains her impenetrable façade, before twisting back to Draco. ‘‘He is a key-actor in the investigation? How come I never heard about him before?’’

Draco clears his throat. ‘‘Um, it was a new lead. We weren’t sure if it was relevant or not, that’s why, er, you weren’t informed.’’

‘‘But you just highlighted his importance to the case. So it was relevant in the end.’’ Once more, Hestia’s gaze bounces around the occupants of the room. ‘‘You said you talked to him weeks ago. And yet I’m only hearing of it now?’’

Draco doesn’t have an answer to this. Of course, the truth is that they haven’t been forthcoming with most of the leads they have followed in the past multiple months; Hestia hasn’t been informed of anything of relevance, not only this. And that’s one of the reasons Hermione’s stomach is turning itself in knots: she’s aware that by bringing Travis’ death to Hestia’s knowledge, they will be exposing their side investigation and, with it, everything they have been doing behind her back for all this time, all of their less than above-board practices. But what choice do they have? Someone bloody died, someone who by all purposes and intents has provided them with the first accurate description of The Death Eater.

Several seconds pass in heavy stillness, no one daring to speak a word. After realising she wouldn’t be getting a reaction, Hestia moves along begrudgingly. ‘‘Well, okay. So, this Tommy Lee Travis. What about him? What intel did he give you, what were the circumstances surrounding his death, etcetera etcetera. Fill me in.’’

Finally Draco looks at her. Hermione meets his cold and detached stare, and his subtle nod invites her to say her part. 

She breathes in, trying to focus on the matter at hand and not in the way her poor heart is stumbling to its knees with Draco’s behaviour. ‘‘Travis was an Unspeakable until 2009 when he was terminated from the Department of Mysteries, which was only two weeks after Catrall was fired from his own job. We found these two events to take place too closely to one another for it to be a mere coincidence, so we decided to investigate it. We wanted to collect more information about Catrall’s line of work so we tracked down Travis and spoke to him about their romantic relationship. He told us a little about the man’s personal life but not much about their job, since as a former Unspeakable he’s bound to an Unbreakable Contract even after his appointment ends. Yet he did tell us about Catrall’s frame of mind after he was fired and a person he saw him with in his house. A person we believe is The Death Eater.’’

This recounting is, to be sure, very watered down and somewhat ambiguous, not really clarifying where certain pieces of information have come from, but Hermione has no desire to throw them even more under the bus than what they are already doing by coming clean to Hestia. She hopes the witch will be too overwhelmed with this avalanche of novel intel to not fixate on the minutiae of it all. 

The witch in question mercifully only hums. ‘‘Right, so the person this Travis told you about matches the description given by Lochty?’’

There they go. 

‘‘Erm, no.’’

Hestia baulks. ‘‘No?’’

‘‘No. The description he gave was completely different, but we believe that this is the accurate one, and not Lochty’s.’’ Hermione catches Mackenzie’s eyes, who offer in turn a slow blink of encouragement. She braces herself. ‘‘We think Jack Lochty lied to us, in an effort to hinder our investigation. Draco met with Arthur Strong, Azkaban’s warden, and they recovered evidence that Lochty had received a coded letter only weeks before Puck came forward to become a Ministry informant. Although we haven’t been able to fully crack the letter yet, it seems rather obvious that something is going on with him and this mysterious eagerness of his in helping us. We suspected his intel was a little too, well, too specific and seamless, so we opened an investigation on him and-’’

‘‘With whose authorisation?’’ The Head interrupts her, and Hermione stutters.

They stare at each other until Mackenzie speaks. ‘‘Mine.’’

Hestia swivels to her, nose promptly wrinkling. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because I agreed with them that the inmate’s account was suspicious and that a side investigation was therefore needed.’’

‘‘You did? And why didn’t you tell me about it? Any of you.’’ As silence is the response that greets her yet again, her voice becomes more authoritative. ‘‘Is anyone going to do me the courtesy of answering my questions?’’

It’s Draco who breaks the stalemate. ‘‘We didn’t tell you because we didn’t have enough evidence supporting our suspicions. And we thought you wouldn’t heed to them, in either case. We have been doubting the course of this case for many months, which I suppose is the reason behind our lack of results until now. The direction the investigation was taking wasn’t the one we believed in, so we tried to thread our way around it in hopes to understand better what was really going on.’’

It’s a little alarming the way their boss’ entire demeanour appears to sharpen, face slacking and eyes turning edgy. ‘‘You didn’t believe the direction the investigation was taking? Please, do enlighten me; which direction did you believe in?’’ 

Warning bells blast everywhere inside Hermione, screaming danger, but it isn’t as if she can backtrack from this now, is it?

May the gods protect them.

‘‘We think this blood supremacy theory the DMLE has been following for the past year is a ploy to conceal the real plans of the Essex gang. We suspect The Death Eater has been purposefully feeding us fake intel with the intention of misleading us, so that we keep chasing after our own tail and let the way open for him and his lackeys to do whatever they want. And we think the reason Travis was murdered was because we were getting too close to figuring this out. If we’re right about it, Travis was one of the only people outside the top members of the gang that has ever seen The Death Eater in flesh and blood, and who could give us a factual description of him, which he did. Why else would he show up dead only a couple weeks after talking to us, his body being discarded in a muggle area for the muggles to find, the killing curse disguised as a heart attack? They murdered him because they were afraid of what he could tell us, so they would rather wholly eliminate the risk while making sure we would be none the wiser of what actually happened to him. Thank Merlin Harry caught on that and we were called to the crime scene before it was too late.’’ Hestia opens her mouth, and Hermione can already see the counterargument on the tip of her tongue, so she hurries to get in between that. ‘‘Wait, Hestia. Please, let me finish.’’ 

The atmosphere around them thickens with Hermione's rushed appeal, but the other woman nods, curtly, so she resumes. 

She minces no more words. 

‘‘I was the one to doubt this case from the very start. The moment I was brought in, when Draco and I had just become partners, I was sceptical of it being about blood-purity ideals and the comeback of Voldemort’s old claims. All the evidence that seemed to point to it was too random, in my opinion, too inconclusive. Like the Bloodstained packs of cards and the Black Quills, the origins of which were never clarified and which haven’t served any purpose at all. Similarly, the burnt Sanskrit parchment with the Blood-Staining formula hasn't taken us anywhere. And all of those were just laying around, so damn easy for us to find even though we were barely able to gather any other leads. But, of course, those came in the form of anonymous tips that we will never know from where or whom they came from, because they just happened to materialise out of thin air for our sole benefit.’’ 

As Hermione continues, she feels herself get more riled, listing every incongruity that has bothered her for ages but about which she could never vent to the ears that really mattered. ‘‘And how about Jimmy Tremlet and his confession of having broken into the Patricksons’ home to steal the black-labelled elixirs, and yet being unable to give us any practical explanation as to how he had managed to escape his detention cell at the WDC and circumvent the Patricksons’ wards? How about Puck, the mysterious informant, and Jack Lochty being the only one out of nine names to have ever heard of The Death Eater, all the other inmates who Puck swore were involved with the gang having no clue of who they were? And Lochty not only being the only one with intel but with everything we needed to know, every single detail of The Death Eater’s plan. What are the odds of that? What are the odds that he would remember the exact ambitions of someone he worked with fifteen years ago, when other far more straightforward information such as his position within the gang or his real name he’s conveniently forgotten all about? What are the odds that a person we just questioned not a month ago showing up dead after telling us about a strange man he saw when he shouldn’t have- a tall, commanding man who fits The Death Eater’s reputation to a tee?’’ 

Hermione takes a pause to breathe, to reorganise her thoughts. ‘‘All of this, Hestia, it- it’s just confusing, inexplicable happenstances. There have been enough contradictions around this case to make us doubt, to have us go out on a limb and try and see if there could be another explanation, any logical explanation, to why all of this just feels wrong. And there is. If you put down the blood supremacy lens for just a minute and hear us out, we will tell you a much more convincing, plausible version of events.’’

She falls silent, eyes darting to Draco to see if she did well; he dips his chin and she knows she did.

Looking back at Hestia, Hermione waits with her heart on the throat. To her immense regret, the former’s voice is far too cold to be mistaken by anything akin to trust or belief. ‘‘What is this more plausible version of events, then?’’

Hermione swallows. ‘‘The attack on the Westminster facility is a diversion. The Death Eater’s plan is to have us concentrating our entire security personnel there while he makes a move on his real target.’’

‘‘Which is?’’

‘‘Er, we don’t know that yet.’’

‘‘Oh, you don’t?’’ The Head of the DMLE widens her eyes, but it’s cynicism that leaks through the motion and not genuine surprise. ‘‘So what do you actually know?’’

‘‘We know the date, we know the intention, we know the method.’’ Draco cuts in, voice as crisp as Hestia’s. ‘‘We know they’re going to use the ceremony at the Auror’s training facility on September first to distract us, and that they will use the Patricksons’ potions to take down the defences of their targeted location and Scrying magic contained in a black mirror to teletransport in and out of there without detection. Which tells us that the place they’re aiming for is large and heavily protected, which would warrant such a strategic, covert plan.’’ In a swift movement, he summons the list of the other targets they had been working on the whole week, handing it to their two bosses. ‘‘We’re sure it’s going to be one of these.’’

The women scan the parchment in front of them, which reads:

National Treasury

Museum of Pureblood Diamonds

Gringotts Bank

St Mungos’ Coffers

Library of Luxembourg

Bettencourt Mansion

The list is far from exhausted but, due to time and resources concerns, the two partners have had to limit their guesses to the sites that, by all means, would offer the greatest financial return. If one really thinks about it, though, the choice for one of those buildings that house the largest concentration of wealth in Wizarding society makes complete sense.

With bated breath, Hermione awaits.

Draco, conversely, remains pressing. ‘‘Despite The Death Eater’s considerable effort to have us take him for a lunatic with power thirst and blood biases, his goal is the same as every other petty, street criminal: make easy money. His plan is to rob something big and to do it by making a fool out of us, sending us off to the other side of the country so that he can do whatever he pleases without a single obstacle on his way.’’

Mackenzie is the first to look up, dark eyes shining with approval. Like them, she hangs tight in expectation of Hestia’s response to them finally clueing her in their latest findings; the latter of whom takes several moments to put the parchment down and meet their gaze again.

‘‘This… side investigation you mentioned. What else have you done apart from questioning this victim Travis?’’

It’s not a promising start, yet Hermione has no option but to give her an honest answer. ‘‘Erm, not much, really. We tried to understand more how Scrying magic works and we talked to a few people that we hoped had some intel for us.’’ A reminder pops in her head and she lets it out before she gets cold feet. After all, if they’re laying all of their cards on the table, they should be at least thorough about it. ‘‘Um, we also came to the conclusion that someone at the WDC must be dirty. It’s the only way we can explain the breakouts and how certain confidential information seemed to be circulating freely.’’

‘‘You think someone’s leaking information? Who?’’

‘‘We haven’t been able to ascertain that yet.’’

Hestia’s nostrils flare. ‘‘Right. So correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m hearing is that you spent precious time and probably scarce Ministry resources to chase after an unsubstantiated, unauthorised mission in hopes of undoing everything we have been working so hard for the past year.’’ She openly ignores the fact that Mackenzie has just revealed to backing them up in their endeavour, rather just focusing on the two Aurors in front of her, her wrath conveniently restricted to them and not the department’s immediate leader. ‘‘Not only you’ve just admitted that the lack of results in the investigation is due to you not believing in it and therefore not doing your best to pursue it, but you’re also telling me that you are sure that there is a different target to The Death Eater’s plan, though you don’t know which one, and that there’s a rat inside the Ministry, which you also don’t know who. So, please, do speak plainly right now. What did you expect to accomplish by coming forward to me with this- and there’s no other word, really- flimsy contention?’’

Hermione gulps, already knowing that everything is about to go to shit. She glances at Draco, who appears similarly despondent as he replies. ‘‘We expected to tell you about our recent findings that we haven’t been able to share before. We expected that you would listen to our doubts regarding the case and the reasoning behind it. We expected that the four of us could discuss Travis’ death and what it may mean to our investigation.’’

Their boss raises a sardonic brow. ‘‘And then what? You expected me to tell you you’re right and that we should forget every single effort of late and all our preparations for September first, to do what? Leave the Westminster facility unprotected and instead send our men to six bloody different locations, and just hope for the best?’’ Her palm taps loudly on the table, on top of the list with the alternative targets. ‘‘It’s that what this is all about? A shot in the dark of two frustrated Aurors who can’t get their job done and prefer rather to make up absurd conspiracy theories to justify their inefficacy.’’

‘‘Hestia-’’ Mackenzie tries in vain.

‘‘No, I’ve heard enough. I have to say, I’m extremely disappointed with the two of you right now. I honestly never imagined that, at this point in your career, you’d display such a careless, sloppy professional conduct.’’ She shakes her head, lips folding on themselves as she regards them with steely eyes. ‘‘I don’t see what else is there for me to do but to take you off the case.’’

‘‘What? You can’t honestly be-’’

‘‘Hestia, please. Don’t do anything rash-’’

Whereas Draco and Mackenzie instantly jump to counter the Head of the department, Hermione just closes her eyes. The day she most dreaded seems to have arrived at last: when all her efforts would prove to be futile. When, no matter how much she invested, how hard she fought, how careful she’s been, no one would listen anymore. When her voice would become null. 

The sounds in her surroundings fade away as she reopens her eyes to stare at the wall clock to the left, watching the pointer move inexorably slowly and yet firmly announcing the sure arrival of the finish line.

Is this it? Is it all over? Was it all for naught?

Is Hestia done with her? 

Is Draco done with her?

Is everything coming to its inevitable end?

She blinks, willing the tears to recede. She can’t zone out now, much less come apart at the seams again. She has to keep going. Tuning back in, she catches the last words of Mackenzie’s emphatic speech. ‘‘-that there is. You know what I’m saying is true. Please, Hestia, I’m begging you to reconsider this and think of the team above all else.’’

Silence rings once more, loaded and thick with tension, until their boss concedes. ‘‘Alright. Perhaps this decision is indeed too hasty. Which doesn’t mean I’m any less disappointed or that you are remotely right in your behaviour of recent times. But perhaps- Well, I wouldn’t want to jeopardise everything we’ve done so far by removing the officers-in-charge overnight.’’ Brown, icy eyes bounce from Hermione to Draco. ‘‘You may remain in the case, but under warning. No more side investigations, no more wasting your brain cells with anything that isn’t our preparation for September first. And I’ll be watching you two closely for any mishap. You step a toe out of line and you’re done, you hear me?’’ The two partners nod robotically, not daring to say anything to this veiled threat. Hestia swallows, nodding too. ‘‘Alright, this is settled. Now, please, excuse us. I want to have a word with Emily.’’

Hermione stands up at once. ‘‘Emily, Hestia. Have a good day.’’ Sending one last glance to the former, wordlessly wishing her luck for what’s to come, she departs the office as fast as she can. Outside, stopping in between the Aurors’ workstations, she takes a deep breath, flexing her trembling hands by her sides. She feels herself on the brink of losing it, but she won’t. She won’t allow it to happen.

When she notices his presence joining her somewhere behind her back, she twists on her heels with a confidence she doesn’t really have. ‘‘Can we talk?’’

Draco had expected it. He gestures with his chin forward. ‘‘Lead the way.’’

They walk to their conference room, the headquarters nearly bereft of people and noises, the corridors ominously void. Locking themselves inside, they face each other with a trepidation fit of their early days of intimacy, when they had no idea what to do with the bothersome, confusing feelings springing within them. She suspects the same applies to the present situation.

And, yet, Hermione has learned her lesson. Her stubbornness isn’t limited to her being self-righteous and arrogant about her own ways; she’s obstinate when it comes to doing the right thing as well.

She’s already internalised that communication is the key to every good relationship.

‘‘Draco, can you please tell me what’s wrong? Why are you suddenly so cold and distant with me?’’ Clasping her palms together on her lower abdomen, lest they start wringing in anxiety, she begs him with her eyes. ‘‘Is it because of me holding Scorpius’ hand and giving him a burger and chips at the party? Because if it is, I’m so truly sorry. I did not think it would upset you, but I should’ve realised that it might be seen as overstepping.’’ She sighs, putting into words her feverish thoughts of a sleepless night. ‘‘I have no intention of playing the part of his mum. I know where I stand and I know the boundaries of our relationship. I would never, ever break your trust with this. I swear I’m not trying to insert myself where I shouldn’t. And if you think it’s becoming too much, just tell me and I’ll back off. You’re the only one who knows what’s best for your child and I’ll happily comply to anything you decide regarding this.’’

She halts, staring at him in nervous expectation. 

He had been listening to her speak with a guarded countenance but, as she passes the moment to him, his shoulders drop. ‘‘No, Granger. I meant what I said last night; I’m not angry about this. It’s- it’s nothing to do with you overstepping or, whatever, giving him snacks. Scorpius’ body is half made of chips at this point, anyway. I’d be a massive hypocrite if I told you off for something so small and inconsequential like this. Or like holding his hand. No, honestly. It’s not that, so stop worrying about it.’’

It’s less dismissive than the previous evening, but it still doesn’t elucidate what the fuck is up with him. 

‘‘What is it, then?’’ She urges him, starting to become a little desperate. She tries to reel herself in, to remain calm and sensible about this, but it’s becoming more difficult by the second. Much more when Draco only shakes his head, averting his eyes and appearing ready to evade her yet again. Hermione’s mind can’t help but run off, imagining all sorts of things, from worse to terrible. Once more, it’s the delirious reveries of a night where sleep eluded her entirely that steal her next sentences. ‘‘Is it about Harry? And how we’re getting along better these past few weeks?’’

Amidst her frenzied musings, when her empty bed offered her no semblance of comfort, Hermione departed from the inkling that Draco might be mad about her interactions with Scorpius to him actually being worried that Hermione was welcoming back her past. Just like she had been often wondering about the colliding of the two worlds, of the then and the now, and how she didn’t seem capable of untangling herself from the former, she fretted that Draco might be bothered by this, too. She had told him, naturally, about her heart-to-heart with Harry at James’ Quidditch game and how she couldn’t prevent herself from becoming less against him; how she couldn’t avoid the feeling of, well, missing her former best friend. She told Draco because she tells him everything; so not only she confided in him about how her relationship with Harry was slowly beginning to improve again, she also mentioned her own thawed feelings and how sometimes she questioned her decision of breaking away from everyone she knew so decisively and unyieldingly. 

In the trail of Draco’s sudden shift of attitude, Hermione asks herself if seeing her inching closer to her life before him has made him concerned. Or, at least, irritated to some extent. Similarly to how this knowledge was somewhat affecting her, maybe it was affecting him as well; maybe he didn’t approve of how more open she was becoming to Harry after he had failed her as a friend.

After all, Draco never liked Harry.

And yet, his frown is so pronounced it’s like she grew another head before him. ‘‘What? What are you talking about?’’

‘‘Well, I don’t know. I just wondered if seeing me on better terms with Harry has- I don’t know, upset you?’’

‘‘Why would it upset me?’’

Hermione huffs, exasperation mingling with the other negative feelings inside her taut chest. ‘‘I don’t know, Draco. You’re not talking to me, so I have no other option but to guess. And I thought… Well, I know you don’t like Harry. So perhaps seeing me thinking about forgiving him for what he did might’ve annoyed you. Or perhaps seeing me- seeing me becoming close to him again might’ve-’’

‘‘No.’’ The answer is hard and brooks no argument. Hermione falls quiet, looking up and finding Draco’s gaze rooted on her at last. ‘‘That is not true. I would never begrudge you for wanting to be friends with him again. First, because it has nothing to do with me or my dislike for him. It’s none of my business the people you choose to be close with. And second…’’ He lingers for a moment, eyes skipping between hers, searching for something of which she has no idea. His sigh is indicative that either he has found it or he gave up the search. ‘‘And second because I know you miss him. I know how much being away from him, how not being partners with him anymore, has impacted you. I know despite the appearances and how tough you act, this has saddened you. Because you care for him deeply, Granger. Only an idiot can’t see that. And no matter how much of a prick he is, your love for him is still very much there. I notice it every time you look at him.’’ Draco’s face softens and it’s a balm to her heart to see the vestiges of his old self. ‘‘If you can find it in yourself to forgive him for what he did, then I’m glad. I’m glad that you can let go of the resentment and bring him back to your life, because I know that cutting him off was what hurt the most in everything that happened. I could never begrudge you for that, Granger.’’ He steps forward, their bodies coming in less distance than they’ve been in many awful hours. ‘‘If you’re happy, I’m happy. Simple as that. So don’t give these horrible, devious ideas any more room to fester. It’s not true and it’s not right.’’

Emotion clogs her airways and vision, so Hermione can’t supply much more than- ‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Leaning closer until they’re flush against one another, Draco murmurs against her lips. ‘‘I’m not angry, love. Believe me in this, okay?’’

‘‘Okay.’’

He encircles her neck with his right bicep, his entire arm caging her in so he can pin their mouths together, kissing her with the hunger of someone who has, by his own choice, spent too long cast away. Hermione, heart leaping and paranoid mind momentarily put to rest, throws herself at it, clinging to him as if her life depends on it. 

And maybe it does.

To be under official warning at the office doesn’t change as much in their routine as Hermione had initially feared. After all, they were already being extremely careful for Hestia not to get wind of their side investigation, and they already did most of their extra work in off-hours at Hermione’s or Draco’s flat. Likewise, they had conveniently left out the fact that Harry was helping them, so that their boss wouldn’t start monitoring the other bloke too, which meant, in the end, that most of their non-official endeavours continued to fly under the radar.

As such, the two partners resume their assistance in the preparation for September first, having the hawk-eyed Head of the department watching them the whole time but, aside from that, doing the same things they were already doing before. Not to say nothing changed at all, Hermione and Draco have started acting less enthused about the case, attitudes around the headquarters bleak in comparison to the other Aurors invested in the investigation.

And, unfortunately, that isn’t a pretence to have Hestia buy their renewed commitment to her orders.

Despite their conversation in their conference room and Draco’s appeasement that he was not mad at her, his behaviour toward Hermione has become different. There isn’t a quiet anger in his silver gaze anymore, and yet his distant demeanour persists. When they must interact, which should be something rather often since they work face-to-face but which grows increasingly more rare in those weeks, he doesn’t treat her coldly nor as if she’s done something wrong; instead, he’s painstakingly professional, as one would act if they had never shagged their partner to an inch of their life like he has. Their relationship turns strictly platonic for most of the time, no more stolen kisses and hugs behind closed doors or the occasional brush of fingers when no one’s around.

He still fucks her like a man just released from prison whenever they can spare a few minutes alone with each other, kissing her for a lifetime in the aftermath, holding her so tight she thinks her torso will melt against his. He’s not inclined to talk during those moments, though, even when Hermione tries to engage with him and ask if everything’s alright. He tells her it’s the stress, that he’s worried about the case and how severe Hestia is being with them, that he has a lot on his mind lately.

She can see that; she doesn’t miss his constant pensive features, his gaze wondering and wandering. He’s clearly going through something and she just wishes he’d open himself to her about it. She wishes he’d be as unreserved with her now as he had made a habit of being in the past months, when their communication skills had evolved to an impressive degree. It’s one of the things that had made her realise that they could work as a real couple: they were so good at talking to each other, at listening and respecting the other one, at threading difficult, heavy topics with alike sensitivity, that a committed relationship sounded like an easy task to them.

Well, at least to her.

She already ruminated about the whole nine yards, and the conclusion was simple to get to: she loves him and she wants to become officially, publicly together. She wants for them to be everything they possibly could be; no more confines, no more secrets. Each day she becomes more certain of it. And having this certainty deep within her only makes those last weeks of August more painful. Witnessing Draco pull back, seeing his demeanour shift, acknowledging the words he isn’t saying aloud- it hurts deeply. She can no longer get to him and that makes her sad and tense at the same time; it makes her miss how they used to be and worry for what they are becoming.

Hermione should confront him, of course. She should demand to know the truth, especially since he’d promised her honesty above everything. It’s the least he owes her and the fact that he’s putting her through it is frankly despicable. Retreating like that is the coward way and it’s unfair with her, with them. She should challenge him to just come out with it and fucking say it already. After all, she’s a Gryffindor, isn’t she, and as such should always pick bravery front and foremost: she should confess she’s in love with him and, if he doesn’t reciprocate it, she should tell him to just leave her the hell alone already.  

She should, but she doesn’t. She can’t. She’s not ready to face the end. She’s not ready to give up on her love just yet.

She’s scared of finding out exactly what is going on with him. She’s scared of discovering that he’s withdrawn because he no longer wants this with her and he’s not sure how to break the news to her. She’s scared that he’s slowly removing himself from her grasp until not even sex can keep them together anymore. And then he’ll be gone, back to the beginning, back to being her partner and nothing else, back to being lost to her. 

Not capable of facing such a perspective, she just endures the limbo they’re currently in.

In the meantime, Hermione has no choice but to go along with the current tide. She still has a job to do. She won’t relinquish their theory nor allow the gang to get their way without a challenge: despite Hestia’s hardened iron fist, Hermione and Draco remain steadfast, still doing their best to crack the case before September first. They secretly visit the Patricksons one more time, collecting further details about the stolen elixirs and the husband’s authorisation to brew such black-labelled potions at home; they approach a couple of Unspeakables on their off-hours, seeking for more information regarding Catrall and Travis, to no avail; they resume their search for The Death Eater’s inside person at the WDC when no one’s watching, though after ruling Andrew Byrne out this effort doubles in difficulty. Simultaneously, Hermione keeps an eye on the patrol reports and the notifications of financial offences; she combs through statistics, she rummages around security issues of top-level Wizarding buildings, she hunts for hidden clues and overlooked signs. 

As the days pass and no miraculous answer comes to them, she grows more strung out. And, this time, Draco’s not there to make things better. He’s only adding to her misery, and so she finds herself struggling to sleep, struggling to keep the tears at bay, struggling to face each morning with her usual immoveable grit. The last week of the month approaches unrelentingly and, along with it, the summer fête the Ministry is organising to welcome the new year. It’s just another item to pile up over her shoulder, and Hermione wilts at the prospect.

Luckily for her, Lavender has no patience for her melancholic bullshit.

‘‘I don’t wanna hear it, Hermione. We’re leaving now.’’

It’s the last Sunday of the month, one she should be spending with Draco and Scorpius as per their established routine of the past weeks but isn’t due to some whatever excuse her partner made up to not meet that day. She had been wilting, as she’s been wont to do since she remembered she had a fucking Ministry gathering to attend in five days, when her fireplace suddenly comes to life. Lavender Brown walks in, as confident as always, and looks entirely unremorseful to drag Hermione out of her comfy sofa, stuffing her friend’s feet in the first pair of shoes she sees laying around and marching to the door. The hot, humid air greets them when they step outside, Hermione wincing when she comes in contact with the uncomfortable weather.

She hasn’t been outdoors in probably days; lately she only floos to the DMLE or apparates directly to other locations when needed. She hasn’t roamed in the streets for so long she’s forgotten how good it feels to look up and see a blue sky instead of a roof of concrete. Regardless of the oppressive warmth and Lavender’s disapproving scrutiny, she’s glad to have a reason to get out of her own head.

‘‘I told you he was unreliable.’’

‘‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’’

Lavender knows everything since Hermione has, naturally, turned to her in her hour of need. Despite the blonde’s reticence concerning Draco, Hermione still chose to unburden her overwhelming feelings with her, yearning for any type of comfort. But now- Well, Lavender is quite transparent with her displeasure of the whole situation and her increased animosity toward Draco, but Hermione has no interest in joining an anti-Malfoy club. She doesn’t want to hate on him nor feel emboldened to pay back for what he’s been doing to her; she only wants to take her mind off things, if only for a couple of hours.

Her friend pinches her lips in crossness, but heeds to her. She decides to do what she does best: take Hermione shopping. 

‘‘You may feel like crap, but damn me if I’ll allow you to show your face on this godsforsaken event and not look absolutely stunning.’’ She announces, firmly, and then smirks when browsing for the summer gown at a store in Chudley, a town where she used to work and, as such, knows like the palm of her hand. Of course it’s her idea to get Hermione a Slytherin-green fitted dress that nearly crosses the boundary of what’s appropriate for a work party.

‘‘Lav-’’

‘‘Ha. I’d kill to see Malfoy’s stupid face when he sees you in that. That’ll show him what he’s losing. Fucking wanker.’’

Hermione sighs but refrains from protesting. The dress is, indeed, marvellous and she can’t lie and pretend it doesn’t give her a small flick of hope imagining Draco’s reaction to it. Would he even still care?

She pushes these thoughts down and does her hardest to enjoy the morning with her dear friend.

It’s a reprieve that, unfortunately, lasts very little. Hermione blinks and the day of the fête arrives. Lavender helps her get ready as usual and, at Hermione’s insistence, ends up bulging and promising to attend the next Ministry function. Thus pleased, Hermione apparates alone to Chiswick House Gardens, where the party is to be staged on the most isolated lawn at the North-East corner, magicked to be unplottable for unsuspecting muggles passing by. A large white tent covers the extension of the yard, protecting the guests from the unmerciful afternoon sun, whereas several compact stalls, offering a variety of food, beverages, games and souvenirs, pepper the green area. High tables and stools are spread around to allow the dozens of government officials to gather and lounge idly, recovering from the August heat under the shadows. Hermione imagines the event’s organisers must have casted countless cooling charms, but those are discernibly not sticking. 

She fans herself with one hand, the other pulling her hair up for a few moments to welcome the occasional breeze. Shortly after, though, she drops her locks back in place, remembering Lavender’s efforts to make her look beautiful and not wanting to ruin the effect of it before Draco sees her. Fixing the straps of her silky dress in nervous energy she barely can contain, she looks around the mass of coworkers, most of the invitees having already arrived per her guess. She lets her gaze float, searching for the white-blonde head that has been the source of every good and bad feeling inside her for the last month. Not for the first time she contemplates if, once the blasted Zimcooke case is finally done, whether to the DMLE’s success or not, Draco will return to normal. If all the stress and pressure are gone, would he resume their relationship as it used to be or would that, rather, be the perfect occasion to end things once and for all? And if so, would he-

Hermione’s mind halts when she finds him.

Draco is only a few feet away, having just turned around from a beer tower, pint in hand. He stops in his tracks when he sees her, gaze stunned still for a moment before lowering across her body, heavy and thorough, taking in every inch of her covered skin and the ones uncovered, too. Satisfaction blooms within her at watching the blatant want oozing from him, at recognising that whatever the hell is going with him lately, his adoration for her hasn’t gone anywhere. He gapes as if she’s a mirage in the desert and Hermione suspects Lavender would love the sight of it; of how letting her hair down, pretty but a little dishevelled just like he likes it, choosing the bold colour of his former Hogwarts house, and the nearly indecent height which both her skirt and cleavage reach- Of how all of this combined would effectively render one Draco Malfoy stupid, face sagging in stupefaction. 

She smiles, brighter than she’s done in weeks, which finally brings his eyes up. They hold each other’s stare for long, meaningful seconds, and Hermione thinks it’s time. She won’t allow him to evade her any longer; if he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t feel for her what she clearly can see in his eyes, than he’s a fucking moron. And she won’t waste one more aching heartbeat with him.

She’s about to take a step in his direction when-

‘‘Hermione.’’

The unexpected, out-of-place voice is enough to make her freeze. Craning her neck, she’s startled to see herself facing her ex-boyfriend. He comes closer, approaching from the right, looking her up and down appreciatively until he’s in front of her.

‘‘Wow. You look amazing.’’

She frowns, at loss for an instant. ‘‘Ronald? What are you doing here?’’

‘‘I’m Harry’s plus one. Ginny couldn’t make it and I was quite free this weekend.’’ The redhead grins, a little too vividly in her opinion, trailing his eyes down her body one more time. ‘‘I meant it, Hermione: you look absolutely amazing. I’m glad to see you getting back on the horse.’’

Her eyelids immediately drop in annoyance. ‘‘How kind of you.’’ She smiles saccharinely and sarcastic, a skill well learned from Lavender. ‘‘Now kindly fuck off.’’

She rounds him, putting some healthy distance between them, intending to go get her man but he’s no longer there. Draco has vanished from the spot he stood not thirty seconds ago, and Hermione spins in place looking for him.

‘‘Hermione, come on. Don’t be like this.’’ Ronald is again next to her, taking the opportunity in which she’s distracted searching for Draco to approach her once more. ‘‘Why do we have to go on like that? It’s been so long, it’s more than time for us to bury the hatchet and-’’

She walks away without looking back, leaving him to talk to himself.

Her face swivels on her neck as she moves, scanning every square metre of the garden. Draco can’t have gone very far; she hadn’t taken her eyes from him for more than a minute. She’s sure he must have found himself a quiet, remote table to drink his beer in peace, and it’s exactly that that she stumbles upon a moment later. He stands alone to the left, right after the last stall, head turned from the crowd as he studies the horizon, seemingly lost in thought. 

She wastes no time to join him.

‘‘Hi, Draco.’’

She smiles again brightly, wanting nothing more than to resume from where they had left off when he saw her arriving, gazes bearing the whole truth to each other.

‘‘Granger.’’

His tone is aloof enough to make her grin falter. Flashbacks from the gala in March, when she had felt herself beginning to fall head over heels for him whereas he barely looked twice in her direction, swarm her. She steels herself, regarding his profile since he’s not holding her eyes. ‘‘Are you not gonna look at me?’’ A beat and he does it reluctantly, so she challenges him again. ‘‘Are you not gonna tell me how good I look?’’ She pushes further. ‘‘Or are you only gonna say I look less dishevelled than usual?’’

His brows lift with her cheeky tone, but Draco meets her where she demands. ‘‘You look beautiful, Granger. You always look beautiful.’’ Letting his gaze stray for just a brief second, he adds. ‘‘I knew green would suit you far better than red and gold.’’

Hermione doesn’t repress a snort. ‘‘Who would’ve guessed, huh? Perhaps the Sorting Hat isn’t as wise as we all thought.’’

Draco’s eye-roll is almost imperceptible, but what is very perceptible is him turning to the side again, giving her his profile once more, and his throat bobbing with a dry swallow. A few instants pass before he speaks. ‘‘What did Weasley want?’

Hermione sighs, growing serious. She had guessed this was, indeed, the reason for his abrupt departure. ‘‘Nothing. Or, at least, nothing of importance to me. He wanted the same as Ginny, I suppose: to badger me into becoming friends with them again. Frankly, it’s so annoying I want to hex them in the bollo-’’

‘‘Friends? Are you sure that’s all he wanted?’’

‘‘cks- What? What do you mean?’’

‘‘Please, Granger.’’ Draco’s voice turns pointedly sneering, a feature she hasn’t seen in him in a long time. ‘‘He was devouring you with his eyes. It was hardly friendliness that made him approach you.’’

She frowns. ‘‘He has a wife and kid, Draco.’’

‘‘Maybe you should remind him of that.’’

‘‘What?’’ Hermione’s becoming a little lost with the conversation. ‘‘I’m not gonna remind him of anything. He doesn’t care for me, Draco, I thought that was made very clear by now. Not as a friend and definitely not as a girlfriend, taken by how-’’

Draco scoffs, pure acid. ‘‘That’s just what he does, isn’t it? Like in sixth year. He spent the whole year completely gone for you all the while he had his tongue stuffed down Brown’s throat. It was obvious for everyone that he had been dumb enough to get himself involved with her when it was you who he really wanted.’’ His sharp silver gaze travels away, finding the horizon again. ‘‘He’s created a habit of taking you for granted, but it never takes him long to realise his mistake and come running after you again like a pup. He’s done it before and he’s doing it again. He has regretted leaving you and I’d bet my entire Ministry salary that give it a few weeks and he’ll be trying to win you back one more time.’’

Confusion and exasperation make a strange mix inside Hermione. ‘‘Okay, I totally disagree with this, but even if you’re right, who cares? Ronald can do whatever he wants, if he comes after me again I’ll send him off like I did just now. I’m completely over him. Our relationship is in the past and I couldn’t care less about-’’

‘‘Are you sure about that?’’

The interruption sends her off kilter. ‘‘Wha- what do you m-’’

‘‘Don’t you remember all of our conversations about you doubting some of your decisions? How your past perhaps is not really in the past? You’re already ready to forgive Potter; it wouldn’t surprise me if the Weasleys were the next in line.’’

A sting of hurt zaps through her chest. ‘‘You said you didn’t begrudge me for that, Draco. You said-’’

‘‘Yes, when it comes to Potter. Or, well, anyone else. Not the fucking weasel. You bloody ex-boyfriend, for Salazar’s sake.’’

His words are harsh, but Hermione takes a little comfort in realising what this is all about: Draco is jealous. Or, likely, feeling threatened. He shouldn’t, of course, since he’s the only one Hermione could ever love again, but for some reason that escapes her bitterness has gotten the best of him. And she knows there’s a simple way to fix this. 

She has to confess her feelings. She can’t delay it one other second; she’s done it too much and that only worked to get them in this horrible, messed-up situation.

‘‘Draco, please. Look at me.’’ She waits patiently until he finally does, face hard and closed-off. She tries not to let it affect her. ‘‘Look. I get it that it might upset you the fact that I’m wavering in some of my previous decisions. Wasn’t that exactly what we talked about that day after Hestia almost took us off the case? And you told me it wasn’t that, that I didn’t-’’

‘‘We were talking about Potter and not-’’

‘‘Yes, we were, because it’s the only talk we should be having. Because that’s the only one I truly miss. Well…’’ She recapitulates. ‘‘And maybe a couple Weasleys, like Charlie and Fleur. And the kids, of course. But that’s it. Draco, I don’t miss Ronald. At all. Even if he changed his mind, even if he regretted leaving me, I would never take him back. You must know it. I told you before, I never loved him that much, at least not enough to make me want to forgive him after everything he put me through-’’

‘‘I don’t buy that.’’

‘‘You- you don’t buy what?’’

‘‘You said that before, that you didn’t love him like that, but I don’t believe it. Why else would you have stayed with him for so long? Why else would you have settled for someone like him, someone who was your inferior in every single sense, who was clearly not deserving of you, and yet with whom you dreamed of marrying and having children? Love makes us all blind and stupid, and that’s the only explanation for you to have chosen him to be your partner out of everyone available.’’

‘‘Draco, that’s not-’’

‘‘And I know if he hadn’t left you, you’d still be with him to this day.’’

Gone is the determination to tell him she loves him. Hermione blinks, stumped with Draco’s hostile attitude.

‘‘You don’t know that.’’

‘‘But I do. You’d still be partnered with Potter and we would have never happened.’’ She shakes her head and he scoffs. ‘‘What, you disagree?’’

‘‘No, I just don’t give a rat’s arse for this scenario. What does it matter what I would be doing today if Ronald had never left me? He fucking did it already. It’s done. It happened, it hurt me and I moved on. And I’m with you now and that’s the only thing that matters.’’ She locks gazes with him, forehead wrinkled, trying to read him and this sudden outburst she hadn’t seen coming. ‘‘I don’t get it why you’re bringing this up right now.’’

‘‘Because, Granger, I’ve just come to the realisation that the weasel is gonna crawl his way back to you in no time and forgive me if that makes me a little insecure, not knowing if that’s what will take for you to kick me to the sidelines again.’’

She lets out a heavy exhale. ‘‘Is that why you’ve been acting so off these past few weeks? You’re scared I’m going to go back to my old friends and past life, and leave you behind? Is that it?’’

‘‘No, it’s not-’’

‘‘And I asked you about it.’’ Hermione huffs, closing her eyes in anguish, disbelieving that this is really happening to them in the middle of the fucking Ministry summer fête. Peeling her lids open, she looks around, glad at least that no one is in hearing range. ‘‘I worried that that was the issue, so I asked you about it and you denied it. Instead of bloody talking to me like a grown-up, owning up to your insecurities, you dismissed my-’’

‘‘Because it isn’t about that!’’ His raised voice renders her silent. Draco pauses, inhaling deeply before continuing in a lower tone. ‘‘Granger, put it in your head that I do not care that you’re willing to go back to your old life. I for one can’t understand the appeal of the Weasleys and the Potters, but if you miss them, if you think you’re ready to forgive and forget, then who am I to say otherwise? You do you, as long as you’re happy with it. What I’m trying to say is-’’

‘‘Now I’m the one who doesn’t buy that.’’ She interrupts him this time around. ‘‘You said that before, that if I’m happy you’re happy and that you don’t begrudge me for becoming closer with my former friends again, and yet you’ve been absolutely unapproachable lately. You changed with me, Draco, and the fact that you won’t admit it makes me so mad.’’

It actually doesn’t.

She wishes it did. She wishes she would get as incensed with him as she used to do before, months and months ago when they still fought like cat and dog, his dismissive and guarded attitude driving her to the brink of sheer fury. But, now, all she feels is heartbroken. She doesn’t like arguing with him anymore; she no longer finds pleasure in trying to prove herself right and him wrong. Those days are long gone; they were left behind together with her obnoxious bias against his history and reluctance to unlock herself to the better things in life. Instead, his return to his old ways makes her worried sick, frightened of what it might mean. Frightened that he will abandon her, too, just like everybody else has done it.

She swallows the emotional reaction, making a huge effort to keep herself in check as Draco responds. ‘‘I told you a thousand times it’s the stress. You feel it too, it’s been insane at the office lately-’’

‘‘I don’t fucking buy it.’’

‘‘And I don’t give a single fucking shit if you do or not.’’ He flings back at her, voice and face so harsh it nearly cuts her open. ‘‘You keep pushing me and I’m getting bloody tired of it.’’

‘‘Draco, I didn’t-’’

‘‘If I wanted to talk to you, Granger, I would’ve done it by now. But I don’t, which is more than obvious and yet you never leave me the hell alone.’’

‘‘What does that-’’

‘‘And the fact you can’t take the fucking hint makes me really question your so-called intelligence. Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl who can read every book in the library but not a fucking room. Who can’t just fucking back off.’’

The first tear falls without her consent. She wipes at it hurriedly, but the next one follows suit and Hermione finds herself struggling to maintain composure.

She shouldn’t take his biting words to heart. She knows he’s just angry and reacting on instinct, and like she herself has done many times before, he’s probably saying things in the heat of the moment that he doesn’t really mean. How often has she done exactly that, only to regret it the very next day? Especially with him. She has said horrible, mean things to him before, which she knew were not right and which she took back as soon as she could. So she knows how these things go. A rational, level-headed Hermione might have comprehended that and tried to de-escalate the situation, preferring to wait for a better, more calm occasion to finish their conversation. An emotional, heartbroken Hermione, however, can’t seem to get to this conclusion right now.

The only thought throbbing in between her temples is that she’d been right in her dread of the past few weeks: Draco’s done with her. Despite the heated way he looks at her and how jealous he seemed to be not ten minutes ago, he just said it himself: he wants her to leave him alone; he wants her to back off. She may try to lie to herself as much as she wants, but he just made it crystal clear that his withdrawal has been on purpose, certainly to let her know that he’s no longer interested in pursuing the same path as her. That he realised, somewhere along the way, that their casual relationship was becoming too serious and, therefore, began to attempt to remove himself from it before it was too late.

Again, it should make her angry that he didn’t have the guts to face her and tell the truth, or that he’s been sending off so many mixed signs, but there’s no space for indignation within her unsurmountable grief.

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She chokes out. She hadn’t noticed the wetness overflowing her cheeks, so she does quick work of cleaning it with her palms, the back of her hand sweeping the teardrops from falling down her chin. ‘‘I- I didn’t know you wanted me to- to leave you alone.’’ The words come out strangled and a little broken. She clears her throat, peering around to make sure no one is witnessing another one of her meltdowns. She had promised she would never come apart in public again, but she hadn’t accounted for Draco taking the wind out of her sails in such a way. She shakes her head, sniffing and swallowing with difficulty. ‘‘I- I’m sorry, I won’t push you anymore. I’ll back off like you want.’’

It takes her every dribble of courage to bring her eyes back to him.

Draco stares directly at her, face gone pale. He’s eerily still, just watching her wipe tear after tear, the waterworks still insisting on coming in spite of Hermione’s fiercest attempts to control her emotions. When a soft hiccup abruptly escapes her, sounding more like a sob than anything, Draco reacts as if she had hexed him.

He flinches and then looks away, nostrils flaring with his sudden laborious breathing. Closing his fists around the table towel, he speaks quietly and measuredly. ‘‘No. Don’t apologise. You did nothing wrong. You did- you didn’t push. I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry and frustrated and lashed out at you.’’ His shoulders are so tense they’re practically a straight line from left to right, tautness pulling his dress shirt to the limit of the fabric. It seems to cost him a great deal to continue talking. ‘‘I suppose I’ve been craving a fight for some time and the perfect occasion just presented itself. I didn’t lie when I told you I’ve been stressed. These past few weeks have been hard on me and I guess today was my breaking point. And, regrettably, this is what happens when I can’t control myself anymore. This is the person I become. This is my ugly, bad side.’’ His scoff is as acidic as the previous times, though also a whole lot miserable. ‘‘Perhaps I should go back to hiding it from everyone as I used to do when I was still married. No one should have to see that, even less you.’’ He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment before swinging them to her, his silver sparkling against the bright August sun. ‘‘Forgive me, Hermione.’’

It’s the first time he has ever called her by her first name and the sound of it in his deep voice drags a gasp out of her. Another tear runs down her cheek at this, but she doesn’t bother to dry it now; every muscle, nerve and vein in her hold still as she scans his face, desperate to figure him out, to understand what is going on, to get what he’s telling her.

She opens her mouth, but he talks over her. ‘‘You haven’t done anything wrong. And I know you’re telling the truth. I know you would never go back to Weasley, I know you don’t care about what-ifs and potential scenarios, I know you mean it when you tell me that you’ve moved on. You wouldn’t throw away everything you’ve accomplished so far. I’ve watched you grow so much in the last few months. I’ve seen how much stronger you’ve become, how more inclined to give others a chance, and to open yourself up to life. It’s beautiful and it makes me really proud. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re an extraordinary woman.’’ He shifts his gaze, tracking the way down of the single tear, and his jaw flexes. ‘‘And yet here I am making you cry, when I had sworn to the universe that I’d never be another one causing you pain.’’

Once more, Hermione wants to chisel in, tell him it’s okay, that she understands. That being under such stress can make one react poorly, that she has gone through it before, that it’s fine as long as he goes back to normal and they can resume their communicative, healthy relationship.

And, once more, her words die on her throat. This time when Draco brings a hand up to scrub at his face roughly, thumbs digging hard against his eyes. His voice comes out strained but otherwise clear.

‘‘I told you love makes us all stupid. Seeing you with Weasley just now, it- it made me blind with jealousy.’’ He swallows. ‘‘I suppose I’m just too fucking in love with you to act rational about any of it anymore.’’

Hermione thinks she squeals, but she’s actually stricken silent. Her mouth falls ajar as she stares unblinkingly at Draco, not braving to believe her own ears. His palms remain covering his eyes for another long moment before he sighs deeply, freeing his face and turning to her. He appears resigned, looking hopeless in wait for her response.

Her heart beats so loud against her ribcage that she worries it will drown anything she attempts to say. She opens her lips, determined to try it anyway, even though she can’t trust her muscles to comply with her sluggish brain.

‘‘Is everything okay here?’’

As slow as her mind, her neck twists at the sudden interruption. Harry had approached them completely undetected, standing now on the other side of the high table, green eyes glaring at Draco.

Hermione finally blinks. ‘‘What?’’

Harry doesn’t glance at her when he replies. ‘‘Why are you crying, Hermione? What did he say to you?’’

Draco exhales at this, blatantly ticked with Harry’s unwelcome intervention at such a moment, but he doesn’t say anything back. Hermione shakes her head in an effort to clear it. ‘‘Harry, what are-’’

‘‘Hey, what’s going on?’’ It’s Ronald now, coming from behind his best friend to join their merry little group. ‘‘Harry, you left out of nowhere. What’s the problem?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Is there a problem here, Malfoy?’’

‘‘Harry, can you pleas-’’

‘‘No, there’s no problem here, Potter.’’

‘‘Yeah? And why is Hermione crying?’’

‘‘Harry, please, just-’’

‘‘Hermione’s crying?’’ Ronald squawks, bending forward to peer at her more closely. ‘‘Why are you-’’

‘‘God, will you please-’’

‘‘Excuse me.’’

It’s absolutely no wonder that Draco wants no part in this utterly absurd interaction, particularly because Hermione can’t get a single word out to resolve the issue without being interrupted.

‘‘Draco, wait.’’

She can’t let him go. Not after he just told her what he did. Not without solving their issue first.

Unfortunately, her call doesn’t deter him.

Draco rounds their table, going past both Harry and Ronald in the direction of the stalls.

‘‘Draco!’’

Hermione pushes herself off, also going around the table, ready to follow him.

‘‘Hermione, what is going on? I saw you guys arguing and then you crying. I came as fast as I could, but I kept being stopped by-’’

‘‘What the fuck did that prick do? I knew there was something weird when Harry told me about you two getting along so well, it couldn’t be real-’’

‘‘I just want to know you’re okay, Hermione.’’

She turns around so sharply both Harry and Ronald jolt, taking a step away from her certainly murderous expression. ‘‘I don’t know what else I have to say or do for the two of you to understand that you are not a part of my life anymore. I thought I had been clear when I left, but I guess you are too slow to get it. So I will say as slow as you twats are.’’ She spits the words at them, each of them a metaphorical slap on their face. ‘‘Fuck. Off. My. Business.’’

She twirls again, at once stepping ahead toward the path to which Draco had veered, but she doesn’t see him anymore. Her pulse races, her eyes darting furiously around, searching for him. She joins the other Ministry employees at the centre of the white tent, surrounded by so many people that panic grips at her, terrified she won’t find Draco in time. She keeps looking, walking and rotating at the same time, until she finally spots the white-blonde head. It seems miles away, small in comparison to the other guests.

‘‘Draco!’’

At every passing second he becomes more distant, slipping away from her. Her breath comes out strenuous at the prospect.

‘‘Draco!’’

He can’t hear her. He’s too far gone. There are too many people in between them. She’s going to lose him. She won’t be able to finally confess her feelings.

It’s going to be too late.

‘‘DRACO!’’

The cover above their head and every other booth hood lurch explosively, fluttering in the air with the powerful waves that are discharged from Hermione. The floating summer decoration undulates with a loud noise, then dives to the ground, breaking glasses and knocking down floral arrangements. Every single individual attending the summer fête falls quiet, stopping whatever they are doing to turn to the source of the abrupt magic burst.

The blonde-head halts, no longer bobbing away.

Hermione ignores all the rest.

She runs to him, bypassing the perplexed spectators, only one focus in mind. The way to Draco is long-winded and tortuous, full of obstacles and second-guessing, but Hermione covers it with determination, knowing the destination is worth the difficult journey. Her eyes are locked with his the entire time, which is enough to push her forward until she’s mere feet away from him.

‘‘Don’t you fucking dare leave me behind.’’

Draco watches her approach frozen in place, forehead scrunched in tortured expectation. He breathes out when she gets close enough. ‘‘Never. I will never leave you behind.’’

If there’s people around, she doesn’t acknowledge; she’s on him without thinking about the consequences. Going on her tiptoes to bring her face to his, her arms at once winding across his neck, Hermione sighs. ‘‘You better.’’ Their gazes touch for a fleeting instant. ‘‘I love you too, you absolute prat.’’

She barely registers the relief in his expression.

She captures his lips in front of the entire Ministry of Magic. They kiss as if it’s only them in the room, though, long and deep, pouring in it every unspoken sentiment, each precious second wasted with undeclared loving words. Hermione has missed him so awfully much, she hugs him as tight as she can, ecstatic to be in his arms again.

And being loved by him.

Because he reciprocates her feelings. He’s not done with her. He doesn’t want her to leave him alone.

They are in it for real.

Hermione draws back, only slightly but enough to speak against his mouth. ‘‘Are you gonna stop now with this nonsense distance you’ve put between us these last weeks?’’

‘‘I will, love. I’m so sorry for my ridiculous behaviour. I was scared and I didn’t know what-’’

‘‘I don’t care.’’ Hermione chimes in. ‘‘It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to know if you’re ready to be mine. My man. Officially. No more secrets, no more hiding our relationship.’’

Closing his eyes, Draco rests his forehead against hers. ‘‘I’ve been yours for longer than I can recall. I’d like nothing more than to finally let the whole world know it.’’

Hermione smiles, basking in the moment for another beat before taking a step back. She looks at him and grabs his hand, gathering the courage-

She then turns to face everybody else. 

Chapter Text

The Slytherin-green fabric slides down her shoulder like the touch of a feather. His palm follows, the original source of the disturbance in her wardrobe. With softness and reverence, he unburdens her of the weight of the silky straps.

‘‘My beautiful woman.’’ The murmur accompanies the reveal of her nipples. ‘‘My perfect girl.’’ Her bellybutton. ‘‘My wonderful person.’’ Navel, hair and thighs. ‘‘My love.’’ 

His lips leave a warm trail in their wake, assisting his hands in the worship of her. When bare at last, he lays her on the mattress, larger body covering and pinning hers, arresting her eyes. Silver meets brown, the most extraordinary combination.

‘‘I love you, Hermione Granger.’’

‘‘I love you, Draco Malfoy.’’

‘‘You’re off the case.’’

Hermione can’t even pretend to be shocked; they absolutely had it coming.

She sighs and nods to the Head of the department, accepting their fate with the most grace she can muster. Draco, next to her, swallows but equally doesn’t offer any resistance.

A moment passes as Hestia peers back and forth, certainly expecting some sort of fight, and when they don’t put up any, she shakes her head. ‘‘I can’t even begin to say how disappointed I am with the two of you. I really thought that after our talk last time, you’d get in line. But no. Your inappropriate conduct only persists, and not satisfied in doing it behind closed doors, you deemed it acceptable to showcase it to the entire Ministry.’’ Standing up, she looks down on them. ‘‘For now, you’re no longer in charge of Zimcooke, but concerning your other cases and your very position inside the division, I won’t make a decision just yet. I have a meeting with a few other Heads this week and I’ll wait for it before deciding on this. Until then, Emily will make sure that you don’t cause any more issues to those around here who actually want to do some good investigative work.’’ 

She walks off without a departing word.

Hermione winces internally, glancing at a stone-faced Draco before steeling her neck to meet Mackenzie’s eyes.

Deep down, she knows she doesn’t give a single shit about Hestia. Despite being her ultimate boss and the one who actually has a say in Hermione’s career, the woman has lost her respect a long time ago. She hasn’t been of any help for several years and Hermione no longer has any hope of getting along with her or, much less, earning her approval.

The situation is starkly different when it comes to Mackenzie. 

The Head Deputy means something to Hermione. Her opinion matters. Therefore, the confirmation that she has disappointed the witch in front of her will hurt much more than whatever harsh words or punishment Hestia throws their way. But she’s made her bed, now she must lie in it.

Hermione holds her chin up.

Mackenzie locks eyes with her and then Draco, regarding them both in silence. Whereas Hestia never shuts up, confusing being loud and brash with decisiveness, her underling has mastered the art of contemplation. She deliberates thoroughly before making up her mind, which usually leads to sensible, sound decisions. 

This time, though, Hermione doesn’t have any expectation that the call she makes will be a positive one.

She braces herself when Mackenzie begins to speak. ‘‘Hestia is not wrong, you know? I would have expected you two to have learned how to be discreet by now.’’ Hermione wills her face to remain even as the other woman goes on. ‘‘I really thought, for a moment there, that you guys had finally figured out how to keep your relationship under wraps. I suppose that was too optimistic of me, after all.’’ Wait, what? Hermione’s neutral façade breaks as she frowns, feeling Draco doing the same by her side. ‘‘Of course I don’t love the idea of you being off the case, but at this point there’s no other way, really. I can’t see any other route. Which doesn’t mean you are to give up your entire investigation, does it? At least not where I’m concerned. It will just make everything that much harder.’’ She sighs, shaking her head in mild despondency. ‘‘What a mess. As if things weren’t complicated enough. But, well… I guess at least you two have sorted yourselves out and can go back to making progress in the case.’’

She stops talking and they just stare at each other, the two partners gaping at her.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Draco is the first to recover, though his voice carries a heavy confused note. ‘‘What do you mean ‘you thought we would have finally figured out how to keep our relationship under wraps’?’’

Mackenzie makes an unamused face. ‘‘I mean that you would quit with the snogging each other in the corridors for anyone to see.’’ Eyes bouncing from one Auror to the other, clocking their bewildered expressions, she purses her mouth. ‘‘Like I said, you were not very discreet. I saw you together once, sometime ago. In front of the conference rooms.’’ Hermione only contains a shriek at the last minute; Mackenzie had seen them? ‘‘And, of course, the way you looked at each other when you thought no one was watching was very telling. But after a while, it did get better. I guessed it had been the start of everything and you were still learning how to deal with all of it, and as the months passed you calmed down. Until, naturally, the bloody summer fête.’’

Hermione feels the mortification stain her cheeks. ‘‘You’ve known all this time?’’ The only occasion she can recall of them kissing in a corridor at the DMLE was in the beginning of May, when Draco had dragged her behind a pillar to complain about her accepting a Sunday shift and, thus, taking away their only day together. And, in fact, after that they started behaving much more carefully around the office. But that had been nearly four months ago. ‘‘How- why-’’

‘‘Please, Hermione. Do you think I’m daft?’’ In spite of the words, the witch’s tone is remarkably gentle. ‘‘I’d have to be an utter idiot not to realise what was going on between the two of you. With all the arguing at first, all the tension and hostility, and then suddenly, peace. Cheeky smiles and covert glances everywhere.’’ She rolls her eyes, but a small grin makes an appearance in her countenance. ‘‘It was a clear case of enemies-to-lovers, and I’d know that since I’ve read countless books with this exact plotline. You start off rocky, hating each other, until you have no other choice but to accept that there’s a reason your fights are so, well, passionate.’’ Hermione doesn’t have a retort to this, neither has a completely stunned Draco, so Mackenzie carries on undeterred. ‘‘And I was glad. When you finally gave in to each other, things progressed. You were able to focus fully on the case and join strengths instead of trying to undermine the other the whole time. And the results were right there: your investigation skyrocketed. You managed to make breakthroughs that none of us could have done.’’ She sighs, becoming serious again. ‘‘And that we still can’t. Without you, I’m afraid we will fall face first into The Death Eater’s trap. I’ve tried to reason with Hestia a hundred times already. I’m also in hot water with her, guys. There’s only so much I can do before she stops taking my advice altogether, and that would do more harm than good. That’s why I need you. Now that whatever issues you two were going through these past few weeks seem to have been resolved and you seem to be back at being happy and clear-headed, I need 7you to do what I can’t.’’ Her face turns sharply intent, as if pleading with them to rise to the occasion. ‘‘I know it’s dangerous and could really hurt your careers, but I need you to keep working on this unofficially. I hate to be asking you this, but you’re our only hope of preventing a massive Ministry fiasco. I need you to put yourselves on the line for the greater good, even if no one will ever appreciate it.’’

Honestly, she hadn’t even needed to ask.

Hermione’s ready to do it; rise to the occasion, that is.

‘‘You can count on us, Emily. Never once did it cross my mind to give up now.’’ Trading glances with Draco, who nods in unmitigated accord, she squares her shoulders. ‘‘Like you said, this thing is bigger than us and being an Auror means more than just solving cases. We do this job because it matters, because it can save lives. And I don’t care what Hestia tells us. If I can make you proud, then I know I’ve done good.’’

A beat passes and Hermione can almost swear Mackenzie’s dark eyes appear to water. The latter blinks and clears her throat, and the moment is gone. ‘‘Thank you. I’ll be forever indebted to you for your commitment to this, regardless of the consequences. It’s something the Ministry has been in dire need of lately.’’ Inhaling deeply, she begins to strategise. ‘‘Right. This won’t be easy. For all we know, Hestia will come back from her meeting with the other Heads and suspend you for good. If that happens, our approach will have to adjust substantially.’’

‘‘But that won’t really matter, Emily. Thursday is September first. Even if this meeting takes place before then, it will be too late anyway. The entire office is preparing for the ceremony at the Westminster facility, no one will pay us any mind.’’

‘‘True, but I’d much prefer my best Aurors to not be suspended on the eve of such a pivotal event. A suspension means you can’t even get access to your workstations.’’

‘‘It won’t come to that.’’ Draco interjects. ‘‘Hestia won’t have the guts. Particularly during these tense, high-pressure circumstances. Her focus will be on Thursday and nothing else. In the meantime, we will have free reign to do whatever we please, now that we no longer have to answer to her about the investigation.’’

‘‘You’re still in charge of other cases, though.’’ Mackenzie muses and her expression becomes pensive, gaze shifting to the wall behind them. She hums. ‘‘Perhaps… Well, not that Hestia will mind it terribly, in any case, but I can try to excuse you from the office for the upcoming days. Tell her that I gave you the week off, so you’ll no longer ‘hinder the investigation’.’’ She makes air quotes, looking back at them. ‘‘Nonsense, of course, but I’m certain she’ll buy it and then you won’t have to stick around here and play pretend, wasting precious time that you could be working on the case. If I tell her not to expect you around the DMLE, you can do whatever you need to do at home, without the need to account for your every move and whereabouts.’’

‘‘Sounds good.’’ Hermione tells her. ‘‘And I agree with Draco that she won’t care what we’re doing as long as we’re out of her face while she gets ready for the attack. The only thing is what you said, Emily: even if not suspended, but with a supposed week off, we won’t have access to the files we need.’’

‘‘I’ll make sure you have them.’’ Their boss deadpans, without any hint of hesitation. ‘‘Just write down what you need and I’ll get them to you.’’

Hermione and Draco swap looks and swiftly arrive at the conclusion that this plan is the best they could have hoped for.

‘‘Great. Thanks, Emily.’’

‘‘You’re welcome. I’ll-’’

‘‘I have a question.’’ Draco interrupts her, but Mackenzie isn’t one to care for such formalities.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘What about Potter? Should we bring him in this as well?’’

The Head Deputy breathes in and out. ‘‘No. Knowing Hestia, she’ll turn to him to lead the investigation now. Harry is her fix-it man. And, as such, he’ll be drowning in preparations and expectations, reporting to her every other second. I don’t think including him this time will benefit us. On the contrary, it would only slow us down.’’

‘‘I agree.’’ Hermione seconds her, but she has an additional reason for that.

She hasn’t spoken to Harry since the summer fête. To be fair, they have only seen one another briefly, when she had arrived at the DMLE in the morning before she got whisked away by her bosses to discuss what happened. It had been but a fleeting glance, and yet she could still feel the awkwardness impregnating the air between them. It was quite different from the previous weeks, when their interactions had somewhat returned to a safe space, something more comfortable and familiar. After their little interlude during the Ministry party, though, the progress in their relationship seems to have been stumped to the ground, especially now that he knows about her and Draco, and so Hermione has no wish in lingering around the bloke for too long.

It’s good, therefore, that he won’t be helping in their side investigation again. It’s time she focused on the case and not on what other people might be thinking of her.

‘‘Okay.’’ Mackenzie concludes. ‘‘It’s settled, then.’’ With a wave of her hand a parchment flies and plops down on the mahogany desk, facing Hermione and Draco. ‘‘Make a list of what you need and I’ll deliver it to you this afternoon. Where exactly will you be working on this?’’

‘’At my place.’’ Draco promptly replies, only then looking at Hermione for confirmation. She smiles, entirely on board.

‘‘Okay. I’ll get it done. You should pack your stuff and go as soon as possible.’’

‘‘We will.’’ Draco concurs as Hermione starts scribbling the items to which they need access. ‘‘Should we need to contact you, how-’’

‘‘Send an owl to this address.’’ Mackenzie rips a note, jotting down the directions to her home. ‘‘I’ll have it redirected to me here immediately.’’ The three of them nod, sealing the plan. When Hermione’s done with the list, they get to their feet, walking toward the door together. ‘‘Good luck, you two. Let me know anything, please.’’

‘‘We will.’’

That very same day, Draco’s home office becomes a makeshift situation-room. 

The walls from both sides are covered floor-to-ceiling with piles and piles of Ministry files: of weekly patrol reports since the Essex gang came to knowledge of the DMLE; of compiled dossiers of dozens of government staff members; of interrogation transcripts, internal memorandums, political statements and bank transactions. It’s everything Mackenzie could get her hands on, anything that might have a low-to-mild chance of being relevant to the Zimcooke case. The sofa and two armchairs are occupied with several boxes containing the artefacts and other magical items apprehended during their raids, alongside pages-long lab reports. Draco’s filing cabinets are empty, stripped from the files he always kept under lock and key in case any of it happens to shed some light in their current predicament. The enclosed library is wide open, half of the shelves housing no more books or research publications as those are spread across the African hardwood desk and side table.

Hermione and Draco sit opposite each other, buried under mountains of paperwork, a holographic sort of scroll floating above them, where they can insert any potential lead or intel for the other to see. The hours fly without restraint, their days seeming to become shorter and shorter.

Still, they make time to have dinner with Scorpius.

On Tuesday night, after they have been at it for thirty hours straight, they leave their enclosure and go down the stairway to find Draco’s son and an older brunette woman with him.

Andromeda Tonks.

Draco’s only living aunt and Scorpius’ main caregiver during the week.

Despite the role she played within the Potter clan, being Teddy Lupin’s grandmother and legal guardian, she has steadily grown removed from them and the Weasleys. After James was born and Harry became thus busy with a family of his own, she brought Teddy’s upbringing onto herself, taking a step back and preferring to keep her distance for most of the time. Hermione realises now that this must have been also due to the other role she had to play: help Draco in his mission of raising his son alone after Astoria died. 

Until Draco told her so, she had no idea the woman was involved in his and Scorpius’ lives. Hermione was none the wiser about her participation in the Malfoy family, simply taking for granted her lack thereof in the Potters’. Presently, she’s learned to appreciate the Black sister to a whole new degree.

‘‘Hello, Hermione. It has been a while.’’

The last time they saw each other was long before Ronald dumped her; at least two years ago. Hermione has seen Teddy a few times after that, the last one being at Harry’s birthday party, but his grandmother didn’t attend it nor any other major celebration in the past years. She knows Andromeda still visits on occasion, mostly when it concerns her grandson to some extent, but no bigger effort has been made to that respect. And neither has it on Hermione’s end.

‘‘Andromeda. It’s good to see you again.’’

They hug, lingering for a couple of seconds before Scorpius inserts himself in between them, fastening his skinny arms around Hermione. 

‘‘Scorpius.’’ Draco calls in a light reprimand. ‘‘Don’t throw yourself on people like this.’’

‘‘That’s okay.’’ Hermione grins, holding the boy tightly to her. ‘‘Scorpius gives the best hugs. They are always welcome by me.’’

Scorpius mirrors her grin as they look up to Draco, glued to one another, faces sunshine-bright. Draco pinches his lips for a moment but his eyes visibly soften, taking the scene before him with a fond expression.

Andromeda, next to them and watching it all, clears her throat. ‘‘Um, Draco mentioned you have the week off from the Ministry and that’s why you’ve been working from his home office.’’

Without letting go of the sweet boy just yet, Hermione nods. ‘‘That’s right. Things at work have been… Well, it’s tricky times. We’re better off staying away from the DMLE for now.’’

Andromeda nods too, but a tiny wrinkle mars her forehead. She glances back and forth between the three of them, surely trying to understand what’s in play there. ‘‘Well, I hope you accomplish whatever you set your minds on. I wish you good luck.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Hermione smiles, pausing to plant a kiss on Scorpius’ white-blonde head. ‘‘I saw Teddy a few weeks ago, by the way. On Harry's birthday. He looked great; so grown up.’’

‘‘Oh, yes. He told me he saw you there too. He said you didn’t stay long, though.’’

‘‘Er, well.’’ Nothing in Hermione’s disposition changes; the reminder of her argument with Ginny and her consequently hasty departure does her no harm anymore. ‘‘You know how it goes. I’m still adapting myself to the new situation. But it’s fine, we’ll get there. I’m not worried.’’

Andromeda’s eyebrows lift at Hermione’s casual words and tone. She might not be frequenting the Potters and Weasleys as often as before, but she’s no fool nor alienated: she knows very well what went down with them and Hermione, and the latter’s breakaway from the two families. Hermione’s sudden jovial attitude about the entire affair must certainly surprise her.

Filling the following silence, Draco speaks. ‘‘Would you like to join us for supper, Aunt?’’

Andromeda blinks and her walls come back in place. ‘‘Thank you, but no, Draco. It’s time I headed home.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ He draws a step back, hand politely gesturing her forward. ‘‘Thank you, as always, for taking care of Scorpius today.’’

‘‘Thanks, Great-Aunt!’’ The thinner voice joins in, so adorable Hermione can’t help but squeeze him harder in between her arms.

‘‘You’re welcome. I’ll be here tomorrow morning at the same time.’’

‘‘Great. I appreciate it, Aunt.’’

‘‘Bye, Andromeda. It was good to see you.’’

‘‘You too, Hermione. Goodbye, Draco, Scorpius.’’

She walks to the massive fireplace and disappears in the next minute.

Draco promptly turns to his partner and son. ‘‘What shall we eat tonight?’’

‘‘Spaghetti! Bolognese, what d’you think, Daddy?’’

‘‘Hm. Granger?’’

She beams. ‘‘Sounds perfect to me.’’

The three of them get to it immediately, Andromeda and her obvious reservations all but forgotten. Scorpius is not particularly helpful, standing more in their way than anything else, but that just makes it all the nicer. Hermione absolutely loves these moments with them, especially after she had been denied it in the past few weeks. Being back to the Malfoy home, spending time, however short, with her loved boys is everything she wishes for: regardless of the critical momentum she’s going through at work, when it’s just her, Draco and Scorpius, nothing feels as heavy as she first judged it to be.

She wants nothing more than to be surrounded by them for a long, long time to come and, learning that Draco is of the same opinion after an in-depth conversation they recently had about their intentions, they have come to the conclusion that they must have the talk with Scorpius. And sooner rather than later. Timing hasn’t been ideal, yet Hermione is not sure it will ever be.

As such, as they take their places at the square glass table, Draco readies himself.

He clears his throat. ‘‘Erm, Scorpius, there’s something we wanted to discuss with you. Something you might have noticed already, but which is still important to talk about without subterfuges.’’

The lad chews a mouthful of pasta before replying. ‘‘What is it, Daddy?’’

‘‘Well, I’m certain you have noticed that Granger has been frequenting our house quite often lately.’’

‘‘Yes, Daddy.’’

‘‘And what do you think of it?’’ Hermione cuts in before Draco continues; she’s curious to know Scorpius’ perspective in all of this.

‘‘Oh, I love it.’’ The delightful child answers at once. ‘‘Hermione is one of my favourite people of all time, I love having her around!’’

Hermione smiles as Draco makes use of the window of opportunity. ‘‘Yes, and she happens to be one of mine as well. And that’s what we wanted to discuss with you.’’ His son only blinks, enraptured, so he plunges on, not before drawing a fortifying breath first. ‘‘Granger and I haven’t only been work partners for some time now. As a matter of fact, it would be more correct to say we are, well, erm-’’

‘‘Are you getting married?’’

The question is asked in a raised tone, brimming with vivid excitement, and Hermione barks a sudden laugh, amused with the jump Scorpius made having so little information; his father only shakes his head. ‘‘No, son. We are- we’re just dating for now.’’

After the summer fête, they had sat down and finally addressed what they had been hesitating to do for months: what were they? What kind of future did they see for themselves? What did they really want from each other?

Everything.

In consensus, they decided that, no longer casual, their relationship should be officialised- not that it hadn’t already been after their little exhibition at the Ministry party- and that it was time they started telling people about it. And the first one should be, of course, Scorpius.

Who, at the moment, takes the news rather heartily.

‘‘That’s good too! So does that mean that Hermione will be coming over every day, then?’’

Draco’s nerves finally give and he chuckles. ‘‘That will depend. But, yes, she’ll be coming over very often. And so will we, to her flat. And also outside together, for a walk or any other activity. That’s what I wanted to talk to you, baby. Hermione will be a fixed presence in our lives from now on and I wanted to check with you if-‘’

‘‘Oh, can she come to Auntie’s birthday with us? And how about our trip with Grandma to Dublin, Daddy? It would be so cool! Have you ever been to Dublin, Hermione?’’

‘‘Yes, I-‘’

‘‘Oh, Daddy, and what a great idea would be to go to Hogsmeade with James, Lily and Albus again! Can we? I already know what new game I’m gonna introduce to James!’’

Needless to say, Scorpius finds no issue in welcoming Hermione to their small family. He barely lets Draco get another word in, too busy making plans and urging Hermione to join each one of them, all this while he inhales his food and chews and swallows so quickly, in an effort to not speak with his mouth full as good manners dictate, that she worries he will choke on a piece of minced meat at any given moment.

But he doesn’t and their long-awaited big talk with him goes more smoothly than they had expected, and that’s done.

One less thing to worry about.

Another is, naturally, their mutual friends. They have already handed in a formal memorandum to every Ministry department that counts, making their relationship publicly known and declaring that their partnership is to be dissolved for the sake of ethical conduct. They don’t expect to have to do anything about it before the blasted Zimcooke case is done and dusted and, after that, they have accepted that it’s better to separate their private lives from their professional’s, anyway. So, at work, things are as redressed as they possibly can. 

The circle at The Porcelain Pixie is something else altogether.

There’s no document they can submit to guarantee everything is above board; they’ll have to tell their mates directly to their faces and certainly receive in turn exasperated, knowing looks. Not that they will mind it that much; it’s just that Hermione is not really looking forward to Blaise’s cocky smirk and surely sarcastic remark in front of everyone. 

Oh, well. They’ll survive it. They only have to survive this week first, then they can meet everyone on Friday and share the good, old news.

Hence, first things first.

After dinner is over and Scorpius goes to bed, Hermione and Draco find their way again to his office, resuming their gruelling undertaking: find a needle in the immense thread of Ministry information before them. They don’t even know what they’re looking for; they’re just scanning paper for paper, page for page, word for word- in fervent hope that a miraculous intel will magically present itself and solve a nearly two-year-old case within minutes.

By Wednesday night, not eighteen hours before the ceremony at the Westminster facility and therefore when the attack is supposed to take place, Hermione is on the verge of tears.

There’s nothing there. Or better saying- there’s too much there. Too many facts and statistics and assorted potential leads; too many people to investigate in their search for The Death Eater’s inside person; too many lab reports supplying an excess of diagnostics except the one they truly need, the translation of Jack Lochty’s coded letter, which hasn’t yet been processed by the Detection and Confiscation Office. At some point, Hermione can’t even differentiate anymore amid the oceans of parchments what she’s focusing on at the moment: is she trying to determine what is the real target of the Essex gang or is she trying to understand how the Patricksons’ black-labelled elixirs could be used in the attack? Is she looking for more details about Catrall’s illegal creation of a new branch of magic or is she seeking to uncover, among the hundreds of patrol reports, a central location for the gang’s rendezvous? Which keywords is she even processing in her file screening?

She has no goddamn clue, and her eyelids slowly start to droop. Every blink takes longer than the previous, eyes closing for countless seconds before she’s able to peel them open again. Her brain is a cluttered chaos of despair, frustration and useless information. She hasn’t moved in her chair for about forty five minutes.

Her head suddenly lurches forward and she startles, swivelling her neck from side to side in confusion.

Draco stands in the same place across from her, forehead supported by a resolute fist, eyes narrowed to slits as he keeps on reading whatever is written in the parchment in his hands, face slacked in exhaustion. Looking around, Hermione sees it’s ten to four.

In the morning.

She had fallen asleep and stayed so for hours.

Her chest twists in panic. ‘‘Draco, why didn’t you wake me? I just wasted three hours sleeping!’’

He doesn’t even glance up. ‘‘You were completely knackered, love. You needed the rest.’’

‘‘No, I didn’t. Not tonight. Not before we solve this fucking case!’’

He sighs, and Hermione knows he has stopped believing in it.

Her throat begins to close.

She swallows hard and reaches blindly for the file closest to her. It takes her a full minute to comprehend what that one is about and, when she realises it’s an arrest report from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad dating back to 1996, she forces her eyes shut again. She can’t fathom how such an old piece of paper has ended up in the middle of everything, how on Earth has Mackenzie judged it valuable information to add to the pile, and the acknowledgement that there are probably many other documents there that are similarly unrelated to their quest almost makes her cry.

She shakes her head furiously, refusing to give up, stubbornly reading what the bloody record says despite the blatant worthlessness of it. Once she’s done, she throws it to the stack of other dossiers who have been examined and discarded by her.

She reaches for the next one. And then the next one. And the next.

‘‘Love, slow down. You’re going to give yourself a migraine like this.’’

‘‘I can’t, Draco. I have to keep going. I can’t give up now. We can’t give up.’’

‘‘We have done everything in our power. I don’t think it-’’

‘‘No. No, we haven’t. Not yet. Not until there’s no more time to spare.’’

‘‘It’s four thirty in the morning, Granger.’’

‘‘Exactly. We still have many hours to go.’’ She feels his heavy gaze on her, lips opening in her periphery, so she talks before he does. ‘‘We can still do this. It’s not over yet.’’ Her eyes blur as she forces them to read the words in front of her, mind spiralling away. ‘‘We promised Emily we could do this. She asked us to do it and we said we would. We can’t disappoint her, we can’t-’’ 

Her tongue gets stuck on the roof of her mouth when her brain finally catches on.

Wait a minute.

She frowns, rational thought coming with such difficulty that it literally hurts her head. She blinks multiple times, attempting to mentally retrieve the information she had so hastily discarded. When the last piece falls into place, several seconds later, she turns around and dives back into the pile of tossed-out files.

‘‘What is it, love?’’

She finds the arrest report again. Opening the first page, she reads it much more care this time around.

Suspect: Louis Thompson, 39, half-blood, single, no children

Offence: illegal handling of highly-volatile magical stones

Other circumstances: arrested on the scene, signed confession, cooperation with the MLES

Officer-in-charge: Martin March

Hermione looks up to Draco. ‘‘Are there two Martin March’s working for the Ministry?’’

‘‘What?’’

She floats the parchment to him. ‘‘This report says that one Martin March used to work at the MLES in 1996, but wasn’t one of the correctional officers we interviewed at the Wizengamot’s Detention Centre also called Martin March?’’

Draco’s silver gaze skims the file before returning to Hermione. ‘‘Yes. Martin March was the correctional officer that Byrne told us was on-duty when Lowburn escaped, but whom later we discovered was replaced by Benedict Mason last-minute.’’

They only stare at each other for a beat. And then Hermione springs to action.

‘‘Quaero-accio Martin March.’’

The spell, which is used to locate the targeted words in any paper of the vicinities, envelops the desk, side table and numerous piles of documents covering the walls in a mellow gold glow until the desired objects- every parchment containing the name ‘‘Martin March’’- flies into the air and into Hermione’s waiting hands. There are a few other arrest reports, some transcriptions of debriefings and interrogations, and two interdepartmental memorandums. It’s scarce information that doesn’t really clarify much except one thing: the officer who worked at the Magical Law Enforcement Squad in the 90’s is most certainly the same one who now works as a correctional officer at the WDC.

Draco raises a white-blonde brow. ‘‘How the hell does a high-paid Hit Wizard who, by the looks of it, did very well at the MLES,’’ he motions to one of the memos that seem to indicate that the man was in line to get a promotion. ‘’End up as a low security guard?’’

‘‘He must have done something really fucked-up to have been demoted like this.’’ 

Unfortunately, that something is not available to them. Amidst the tons of material Mackenzie managed to get to them, the private dossiers of the WDC guards were not included; naturally, of course, since it’s particularly sensitive information for one to get their hands on without authorisation.

And yet…

‘‘Did we ever find out why Mason replaced March so last-minute?’’

‘‘No.’’ Hermione replies, scuffling to make sense of this unexpected discovery. ‘‘We never got to it. Both Mason and March cooperated voluntarily with us and none of them raised any red flags. We were too focused on Andrew Byrne being the rat, anyway. We barely checked for other suspects.’’

‘‘We did scan Mason’s file, though. I remember that. But everything checked out.’’

‘‘Yes. And we never looked into March because he wasn’t the one on duty that day.’’

Sirens blast everywhere inside Hermione.

‘‘We still don’t know who’s The Death Eater’s inside person.’’

‘‘But we’re mostly sure is someone from the WDC.’’

‘‘And apart from Byrne, who we already know isn’t the one we’re looking for, no one jumped the page until-’’

‘‘Until now.’’

Their eyes hold one another in silence for long seconds, the situation they find themselves in steadily settling in between them.

Hermione is the first to break the stillness. ‘‘We can’t get his files. We’re not supposed to show our faces at the DMLE this week and I doubt Emily would be able to get them to us in time.’’

‘‘Yes, and either way, the type of information we need is not likely to be so easily retrieved from the Ministry’s registries. But-’’

‘‘What?’’

Draco tilts his head. ‘‘Potter’s informant might be able to get it for us.’’

Hermione blinks, not having thought of it. ‘‘He- Do you think he can do it so quickly? We barely have nine hours before the DMLE puts their defensive plan into action.’’

‘‘I don’t know, Granger. But I think it’s worth a try.’’

For someone who looked like he was about to throw in the towel, Draco seems to have recovered his usual grit. Conversely, Hermione finds herself faltering.

‘‘Harry will be the one leading the operation at the Aurors facility. He won’t have the time, nor the privacy, to go after his informant for us.’’

‘’Well…’’ Draco’s tired but alert eyes dart to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. ‘‘It’s almost six a.m. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s when Potter gets up. You could try to reach him before he leaves for the DMLE.’’ When Hermione only blinks again, he tuts. ‘‘I can’t do it, I have to stay with Scorpius here until Andromeda arrives. And, let’s be honest, he’d never allow me into his house so early in the morning. But you, perhaps…’’

Hermione hesitates for only another moment before she shakes herself off. Why is she being so indecisive? This is a good lead; the only lead they currently have. If what will take to pursue it is to knock on Harry’s door to badger him into helping them, to hell with her reservations and whatever awkwardness is once more taking roots between them: the case trumps everything else at the present time.

‘‘Yes.’’ She agrees, mind made up. ‘‘That’s a good plan. I know their fireplace is still open for me. I’ll just wait another hour, then I’ll floo to them and ask Harry to get me in touch with his informant.’’

Draco nods, though his eyes rove around her features, assessing her. ‘‘If you don’t feel comfortab-’’

‘‘No, Draco. There’s no space to feel anything. This has to be done and I’ll be the one doing it. End of story.’’

‘‘Okay. Now come here.’’ He stands up, rounding the table to get to her side and, after he does it, he pulls her up by the wrists. She falls readily into his arms. ‘‘We should get some sleep. Just for an hour. Then you’ll floo to the Potters and I’ll keep going with the rest of the files. Not that I think there’s anything here for us, but still.’’ His head feels warm and heavy above hers, and Hermione’s eyes close without vacillation, cocooning herself in his embrace. ‘‘Come on, love. Lie with me on the sofa for a bit.’’

She does, once they clear the furniture off the mess of boxes and artefacts, falling asleep immediately, bodies intertwined with one another as they finally let go.

The alarm clock she had conjured wakes her at six sharp.

She rouses groggily, wanting nothing more than to stay inside the wonderful nest she and Draco had made for themselves on the sofa, but she doesn’t out of sheer will power. They both pull themselves up, rubbing eyes and casting charms to fix their dishevelled appearances. Draco summons coffee and an Awakening potion, which they drink in silence.

When it’s time, they kiss on the lips, wishing each other luck and promising to see the other again soon, Hermione to return directly to his flat after she’s met with Harry.

She travels to the Potters residence with nerves on edge.

Utter quietness greets her when she takes the first step inside the living room. Unlike the last couple of times she’d been there, when there’s no swinging party going on the place is tranquil and much more befitting of a family of five. There’s still disorder, but that’s to blame on the three young kids that habit the large house, and their disorganised collection of toys and clothing items, and not on the popularity that the Potters often enjoy. 

Stopping in front of the fireplace, Hermione looks around in search of signs of life. When she finally finds it, it’s for her soul to almost leave her body in startlement.

‘‘Hermione?’’

Ginny materialises behind the kitchen counter, a tea mug in hand and hair a tousled bun on top of her head. Her eyes are tiny, muddled with sleep, and she has obviously half-convinced herself that she’s still dreaming as she stares at Hermione with an absolutely gobsmacked expression.

‘‘Oh, it’s you, Ginny. Hi. So sorry to intrude, but I really need to talk to Harry. It’s urgent. Is he awake already?’’

‘‘Harry?’’

The redhead only blinks, apparently not yet capable of making quick mental connections. Hermione nods and waits patiently for the other woman to catch up. Before she does-

‘‘Ginny, who are you-’’ 

Harry, still in his pyjamas, freezes on the second-to-last step of the staircase, another one to stare dumbfoundedly at Hermione, mouth falling open on his chin.

She wastes no time. ‘‘Good morning, Harry. I apologise for showing up unannounced like this, but I really need to talk to you. Do you think it would be possible to step outside with me for a moment?’’

‘‘Step outside?’’

Honestly, the couple needs to learn how to be a little more agile when they have just woken. She understands it’s early and they have plenty of children to render them tired to the bones, but it’s like Hermione is speaking in riddles; they look like they have no communication skills left in them whatsoever. It would be funny if they were in any other situation but, as it is, Hermione is running out of time.

‘‘Yes, Harry. Outside. Can you come?’’

As to spur the confused bloke, she makes to go in the direction of their backyard, plastering an encouraging smile on her face. It works; Harry follows her automatically, though still appearing disoriented with her presence. As they cross the red-tiled arch, Hermione gestures for him to join her on the far corner where they are certain not to be overheard. Just in case, she casts a silencing charm.

‘‘Is everything okay, Hermione?’’ Harry recovers himself enough to ask once they stand in front of each other.

‘‘With me, yes. I’m fine.’’ She meets his eyes and inhales deeply. 

It still baffles her everything that has happened to them in less than two years; how they went from best friends and steadfast work partners to non-speaking terms and actual hostile attitude; then from polite acquaintances to a friendly working relationship again, and now to- To what? She doesn’t even know. She feels awkward facing him, aware of all the unspoken words, of her knowledge of his knowledge of her and Draco, of the memory of their last unpleasant interaction looming tensely between them. Despite the several months separating them from the painful event that had split them for good, Hermione doesn’t feel like they have truly found closure yet. Neither for him nor for her. There’s still something unresolved hanging there, something that prevents her from counting him out as she’s easily done with the others, including his wife.

Shaking her head, Hermione wills herself not to let her warring feelings get in the way of this. ‘‘I have something to ask you, though.’’

‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘I- I need you to get me in touch with your off-the-record informant. The one who has helped us with the case before. I need him to do a background check on someone for me.’’

‘‘A background check?’’

‘‘Yes. For the case. That’s why it can’t wait. And why I’m here so early.’’

‘‘What?’’ Harry’s thick, black eyebrows furrow. ‘‘Why do you need that? You’re no longer working on Zimcooke.’’

Hermione exhales. ‘‘I am, actually. We are. Draco and I. We’re still working on it unofficially.’’

‘‘What? Why?’’

‘‘Because it’s our case, Harry. We’ve been there since day one- or, at least, Draco’s been. I’ve been part of it for almost a year, and I’m not about to drop it without a fight. You know me, I never give up like that.’’

‘‘But Hestia-’’

‘‘Hestia doesn’t know the first thing about it. Did she even tell you the reason behind her taking us off of it?’’

Harry’s gaze jumps from Hermione’s right eye to her left. ‘‘No. I mean, she said you disobeyed her orders and were no longer trustworthy to be in charge, but she didn’t get into details.’’

‘‘Of course she didn’t. Harry, Hestia is a stubborn, arrogant little shit.’’ Speaking plainly with her former friend comes effortlessly to Hermione; the habit doesn’t seem to have died just yet. ‘‘She’s put in her head that the investigation should go a certain way and there’s nothing we can tell her, no evidence or proof to the contrary we show her, that convinces her otherwise. It’s tunnel vision at its best. And she took us off the case because we didn’t allow her to steamroll all over us and our alternative view of it.’’

‘‘And because you snogged each other’s face off in front of the entire Ministry.’’

Hermione stutters. ‘‘Er, well. That too. But mostly the case thingy.’’ Harry grimaces, disbelievingly, and Hermione shushes him. ‘‘Never mind that, Harry. It was just an excuse to remove us from sight so we’d stop getting in her way. Hestia is refusing to see reason and I’m not the only one that thinks that.’’ She folds her arms in front of her chest. ‘‘You know Emily sides with us. She’s the one who had the idea to call you in to help us with our side investigation, behind Hestia’s back. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without her, and we still have her support. She has asked us to keep working unofficially on this, because she believes we’re the only ones capable of avoiding a Ministry fiasco if Hestia’s September first operation really goes ahead.’’ 

Harry’s disbelieving face slacks, but he still looks unconvinced. ‘‘Why didn’t she mention any of it to me? Why haven’t any of you come to me again, if the plan was to keep working on it behind closed doors?’’

‘‘Because- because it was better that way. You were too busy leading the operation and-’’

‘‘Oh, you mean the future Ministry fiasco?’’

Hermione sighs, having expected Harry’s sarcastic sharpness, but still finding it irritating to handle. ‘‘Harry, please. I never said it was your fault that-’’

‘‘What I don’t understand is how come you decided not to loop me in on your side investigation this time around, because it was better that way, and yet you’re here right now, still asking for my help.’’

‘‘Because we’re desperate.’’ She admits in a rushed voice, uncaring of laying all her cards on the table. ‘‘Because we have no other leads and virtually no access to the DMLE resources to investigate anything by ourselves. Because we’re losing every last shred of hope and you’re literally our last resort before we are forced to give up everything we've worked so hard for, which not only has already cost our good relationship with the goddamn department Head, but which might still get us fucking suspended.’’ She pauses briefly to breathe, frowning as she stares at the man who used to be a beacon of light in her life and who, now, occupies an indiscernible place in the same world as her. ‘‘Harry, I would not come encroach on you at your own home at six in the fucking morning if I had any other choice. And I’d never nearly beg you for something if I didn’t truly believe it crucial to the case. You know I’m not an impulsive, reckless person. Certainly not at work.’’ Their eyes hold in a deadlock. ‘‘I’m asking you to believe me. To believe I must have a very good reason to come ask for your help at this point in the game. I’m asking you to trust me in this, trust that I know what I’m doing, just like I’ve always trusted you blindly whenever you asked me to.’’

It’s perhaps a low blow to bring their past into it- to try to convince Harry by reminding him of all the times he was the one with an outlandish suspicion about something or someone and how Hermione had always stuck by him, regardless of all the grounds not to. It might not be her most honourable move, but she’s way past worrying about it. She hadn’t lied; she is desperate. He’s their last shot at preventing the worst result she could have predicted for the Zimcooke case, and she’s not above using all the tricks up her sleeve to get him to relent and take her to his secret informant.

Once more, it works.

Harry’s sceptical countenance gradually recedes until he’s looking at Hermione with an earnest, gentle sort of gleam to his eye. His sigh is more felt than heard.

‘‘Of course, Hermione. Whatever you need from me.’’

It takes her by surprise. She had hoped she’d eventually manage to sway him, but she hadn’t expected the ease in which she does it. Nor the way he stares at her, as if there was little she’d ask that he wouldn’t do for her.

She blinks. ‘‘Really?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Carding a hand through his jet-black locks of hair, Harry looks around the yard. ‘‘I have a prep debriefing at eight a.m., so that gives me a very small window to reach out to him, but I suppose if we leave now we can catch him at- where he usually hangs before work.’’ The senior Auror makes a face. ‘‘He won’t like it, but that’s our only option to find him before it’s too late. And, mind you, Hermione- even if we do get to him and he agrees to look into the person you want him to, that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to get back to you before the operation starts.’’

‘‘I know, Harry. I know it’s a long shot but, like I said, it’s the only one we’ve got presently.’’

He meets her eyes for another beat before sighing again. ‘‘Alright. Let's get going, then. It’s quite the way to him.’’

She nods and trails after him when he moves back inside the house. Walking into the living room, they come across an anxious-looking Ginny.

‘‘Is there something wrong?’’ She promptly asks when she sees them.

‘‘No, darling, everything’s fine. It’s work-related, nothing to worry about.’’ Harry assuages her, halting briefly to give her a peck on the cheek and returning to the staircase from which he had descended not five minutes ago. ‘‘I’ll go with Hermione now, we’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll be back before I have to leave for the DMLE, though, to kiss you and the kids goodbye.’’ Glancing at Hermione, he jerks his neck toward the second floor. ‘‘Give me a moment to get dressed and we can go.’’

‘‘Sure. I’ll be here.’’

He disappears upstairs and it’s just Hermione and Ginny.

The former’s guts tense instinctively, at once getting ready for the inevitable third degree the redhead is certain to give her. Resigned to fend off the usual intrusive questions and veiled accusations, Hermione awaits with raised shackles. 

It doesn’t come.

Silence envelops them thickly and, when Hermione chances a glimpse at Ginny, she finds the witch turned to the opposite direction, body language seeming as stiff as Hermione feels. Despite her gloomy expectations, nothing comes at all; they just stand there not acknowledging one another until Harry’s back.

‘‘’Kay. Think I got everything.’’ He approaches his wife for another kiss. ‘‘I’ll be back in thirty, if everything goes right.’’

‘‘Bye, darling. Be careful. Both of you.’’

‘‘We will.’’ Hermione says, then wavers. Finally locking eyes with Ginny, she offers a small apologetic smile. ‘‘Sorry again for intruding like this and ruining your morning. I promise it won’t happen again.’’

Her former friend returns the smile. ‘‘It’s fine. Just good luck with… whatever this is all about.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’

‘‘Bye, Gin. Be right back.’’ Harry gestures for Hermione to follow him out of the house and to the Apparation point of the neighbourhood. It’s a short walk and soon they arrive at a backdoor alley where they can make the trip without witnesses. ‘‘Here, Hermione. Hold my arm.’’

‘‘Where are we going?’’

Harry smirks. ‘‘To Hogwarts.’’

It’s not really Hogwarts.

Harry’s penchant for the dramatic always shows its face sooner and later, and this time is no different. He loves having people guessing, only to throw them off by saying something they’d never seen coming. What they actually do, Hermione and the drama queen, is apparate to Berwick-upon-Tweed, the English town closest to Scotland and, from there, floo to Hogsmeade, where his mysterious informant patronises an inconspicuous, obscure pub no one ever goes to. What Harry had meant, instead, when he had her going in wild shock at the knowledge they were travelling to their former school, is that the person they’re looking for works at Hogwarts and that’s how they made their very first contact, years and years ago.

What he doesn’t say, and lets Hermione find out by herself (in another massive shock), is that his informant is a house-elf.

They meet him at the last table of the dirty bar, nursing some kind of distilled spirit Hermione can’t distinguish from where she stands. The tiny creature regards them warily as they draw closer, wrinkled mouth pursed in obvious distaste.

Harry had indeed mentioned he wouldn’t like the sight of them there.

‘‘Good morning, Libby. Do I catch you in a bad time?’’

The elf’s irked expression doesn’t change. ‘‘It’s always a bad time, Potter.’’

‘‘True that.’’ Harry volleys back, keeping his tone light. ‘‘Oh, well. I guess we’ll have to make do with what we have, won’t we?’’ He grins and motions to Hermione by his side. ‘‘This is Hermione Granger, as you know. Hermione, this is Libby.’’

‘‘Hi, Libby. Nice to meet you.’’ She says, trying her hand at a cordial, unassuming smile. ‘‘Sorry to interrupt you like this.’’

His clear blue eyes hardly register her. He glares at Harry. ‘‘What do you want, Potter?’’

Hermione has to double the efforts of hiding her shock; she has never seen a house-elf behave that way before: downright rude and moody. She’s met many of them, especially during her S.P.E.W. campaign, and despite their subtle but existent individualities, she has never encountered one who treated wizards with such open disdain. As Harry only breathes in, going straight to the point and casting a notice-me-not around them, Hermione realises that this must be his normal. And probably the reason why he’s become Harry’s trusted informant: though he still walks among the others of his kind, occupying the same circles and jobs and owning the same magic, he’s different enough to be a great asset.

‘‘I need you to do a background check for us. On someone that works for the Ministry. And I need you to do it as fast as you can. It’s rather urgent.’’

Libby’s slow blink denotes how unimpressed he is with the request. ‘‘I told you before that government employees are hard for me to find. Much less in a hurry.’’ Bringing his glass up for a healthy gulp, he dismisses them. ‘‘No can do, Potter. Now bugger off.’’

Harry narrows his eyes. ‘‘Come on, man. I know nothing is impossible for you. You can at least try.’’

‘‘I already told you to bugger off, Potter. And take your hairy side-piece with you. She’s staring and it’s annoying me.’’

Hermione barely stifles an insulted gasp; she frowns, glancing at Harry to watch his reaction to this. He pinches his lips, calculating eyes not straying away from the disrespectful elf, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

A beat of heavy silence passes, Harry and Hermione’s attention on Libby, whereas his remains on his drink. Right before the loaded atmosphere becomes insupportable, Harry speaks.

‘‘Alright, Libby. As you wish. I imagined you wouldn’t be able to do it, anyway. Let’s go, Hermione.’’ He tells her as he turns his body away from the table. Craning his neck, he throws over his shoulder while he moves. ‘‘By the way, best if you forget about the Daedalian Keys search. I’m sure it will also be too much for you to investigate. I’ll find someone else who can do it for me, someone more skilful. Have a good day.’’

He walks out, Hermione hesitatingly coming after him. Departing the establishment without a look back, Harry marches toward the inn from where they had flooed, determination branding his every step. For her turn, Hermione feels a mix of confusion and disappointment, not fully certain what’s going on but knowing it’s not what she had prayed for.

When they cross the last street to their destination, entering the alley that leads to the establishment, someone suddenly approaches them from behind.

‘‘Well played, Potter.’’ It’s Libby, joining them on the passageway, wrinkled face even more sour than before, if possible. He rounds them, stopping their progress as he stands in front of the two former partners. ‘‘I didn’t know that’s what we did: threatened to spoil each other’s endeavours to strongarm them to cooperate, but it’s a good lesson for me. I’ll be sure to remember that in the future.’’ Hermione doesn’t miss the guilty expression that flashes through Harry’s face fleetingly; although the man puts up a confident front, Hermione recognises that he’s probably pushing his luck a little too much to help her. The house-elf, after holding Harry’s gaze in disapproval, shifts to Hermione. ‘‘Is this for you? For that clusterfuck of case you pretend to be in charge of?’’ 

Another wave of affront surges through her and, once again, she smothers it. If Harry’s putting himself and his hard-worked-for allies in the line for this, the least she can do is keep her temper in check.

She swallows. ‘‘Yes. It’s for me. I’m- I want to investigate someone, but I don’t have the official resources at the moment. And, like Harry mentioned, it’s quite urgent. It needs to be done before the afternoon.’’ She doesn’t fight off a grimace. ‘‘I know it’s all very rushed and, well, perhaps it’s not doable at all, but I thought I could at least ask you to try. You’re literally my last resort.’’

Libby squints, studying her with a glary countenance. ‘‘Who are we talking about here?’’

‘‘His name’s Martin March. He works for the Wizengamot’s Detention Centre. I want to know everything about him. Whatever you can dig up on him.’’

The elf takes another minute to look at her before giving a terse nod. ‘‘Fine. I’ll get it done. Where can I meet you to give you the intel?’’

Dangerous hope shoots up Hermione’s spine. ‘‘I can meet you back here again, if you want. At, let’s say, twelve o’clock?’’

It’s a little too late if she’s being honest. The ceremony at Westminster will start at two p.m. and, naturally, the DMLE’s operation will have a go before that, but Hermione knows the creature needs time to gather the necessary information. She’s already asking a lot; she wants to give him the most time she possibly can to do a thorough background check. And she can’t forget he has a job to attend to; although she has no idea what exactly he does at Hogwarts, she expects him to be busy for the next few hours when the school finally wakes.

Luckily, Libby agrees to the terms. ‘‘Fine.’’

Swirling around, he leaves them behind, walking back to the pub without so much as a farewell.

Hermione turns to Harry. ‘‘This was tense.’’

The bespectacled bloke sighs. ‘‘Yeah. Libby- he’s complicated. Extremely smart and handy, but a fucking pain in the arse. He’s had a hard time in life. There’s a reason why he is as he is.’’

Hermione wants to inquire over what happened to him; she’s dying to know how the hell did Harry manage to enlist a Hogwarts elf to work for him as an unofficial informant, but she’s aware she’s already asked too much of her former friend. She’s already barged more than enough into his life today.

And he’s borne it all graciously.

Without overthinking it, Hermione extends a hand to grab one of Harry’s. She lets her appreciation leak through her words. ‘‘Thank you for this, Harry. I know you didn’t want to do it and that it might hurt your relationship with Libby, so please know I do appreciate you doing it anyway, and that I’ll always be grateful for it.’’

Harry’s responding smile is as graceful as all the rest. He squeezes her palm. ‘‘You’re welcome, Hermione. I told you: whatever you need from me. Always.’’

The way back to London is done in companionable silence.

Once again at Draco’s flat, Hermione is restless beyond control. 

She won’t be doing the rehearsed path back to Hogsmeade for at least another few hours and the wait rattles her. Much more so when she can’t be certain Libby will be in possession of the information she’s nervously hoping for and, even if he is, if it will be enough to address their unanswered questions or, at least, give them some direction.

And even if all of that does happen- it might still be too late.

Anxiety eats at her nerves and Draco’s efforts to calm her bear no fruits until he takes her to his bed and kisses her to oblivion, trailing down her body to take care of the most needy part of her. It’s only after her orgasm finally breaks free, long-drawn-out and blistering, that she manages to fall into a fitful but necessary sleep.

She wakes with Draco’s comforting palm on her cheek.

‘‘It’s time to go, love.’’

She’s walking through Hogsmeade again within half an hour. Entering the same decadent pub she did when the sun had barely begun to shine, now stationed proudly in the middle of the sky, Hermione exhales in relief when she spots the grouchy house-elf occupying the same last table.

He doesn’t glance up from his still unrecognisable beverage. ‘‘What you asked.’’ His small right hand nearly throws the file toward Hermione. ‘‘Now leave me alone.’’

Hermione’s heart thumps hard, but she grabs the offered folder, stuffing it inside her satchel bag and levelling her voice. ‘‘Thank you so much, Libby. You have no idea the good you’re doing.’’

‘‘The door is that way.’’

She chuckles weakly, unable to repress it this time, and nods her goodbye. Spinning around, she returns from where she came, travelling back to Draco’s in a jiffy.

He’s waiting for her in front of the fireplace.

‘‘Love, you okay?’’

‘‘Yes. And I got it.’’

They trade meaningful looks before rushing to his office.

Once locked and silenced, shielding them from the other two habitants of the house, they dive into the file.

Hermione can’t lie; she’s most impressed. In only a handful of hours, Libby had managed to gather a quite comprehensible range of information about Martin March: the circumstances surrounding his birth, his family and close friends, his employment records and other relevant developments both in his personal and professional lives. If the compiled dossier doesn’t go too deep into classified information, understandably so due to time pressure, it makes up for it by offering a wide and diverse peek into the man they are assessing.

More importantly, it tells them exactly what happened that had him demoted from his privileged post as a Hit Wizard.

The words on the paper are straightforward: Martin March worked for the Magical Law Enforcement Squad from age twenty five, following a meteoric career started at the Magical Enforcement Patrol, until he was thirty seven, a time he was forcefully removed from his senior position. The reason behind his demotion is surprisingly capricious: he was transferred from the MLES due to his controversial  opinions - after his partner was arrested and tried as a Voldemort supporter following the Second Wizarding War, March led a loud campaign to set the man free, claiming he was no such a thing, which had as only result the former being shun away from the department he’d been for over a decade.

The story bears a stark resemblance to John Catrall’s and that fact grips Hermione’s stomach wickedly.

She remains on reading, learning that March had fiercely contended that a witch hunt was taking place, explaining thus why his partner was deemed a Death Eater based only on his surname and his familial connections- that being that he was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. March fought tooth and nail for the wizard that had worked by his side for numerous years, losing the battle on all fronts when his partner was sent to Azkaban and he, to a detention centre on the other end of the country to perform as an inconsequential security guard.

The motive to become a turncoat is abundantly clear, and Hermione’s suspicions grow unbridled. The pit in her stomach is colossal by now and everything in her tells her that this is it, but she knows it’s not proof enough. They have but circumstantial evidence, pointing to potential reasons and plausibility but not yet confirming involvement beyond reasonable doubt. If only they had more time… If they could dig deeper, request other records and classified dossiers, they certainly would be able to-

‘‘Granger.’’

Draco’s voice shatters her woeful musings. Turning to him, she finds his eyes fixed on the last page of the file, where a couple of pictures are added to the compilation of the guard’s life path. The first one is of a young March accompanied by whom she supposes are his parents and siblings; the second features him at his Hogwarts graduation, surrounded by same-aged peers wearing red and gold; the last one has him standing in the middle of a large office, winking conspiratorially to the camera while another man throws an arm around his shoulder. In this last image, the two blokes grin and interact playful with each other, denoting a close relationship that is reaffirmed by the photo caption.

Martin March and his partner, Doug Carrow.

There he is, the wizard who had been incarcerated as a Death Eater despite his claims of otherwise and the reason behind March’s catastrophic professional descent. And yet, what makes Hermione gasp has nothing to do with his name or standing, and everything to do with his looks.

Gorgeous. 

Tall, slim, dirty blond hair, mesmerising blue eyes and with a sort of presence of someone who commands a room.

Not that unlike Draco.

Their storm-in at the DMLE is overwrought yet unavoidable. The division is bustling with activity and officers, the culmination of weeks of preparation. The final arrangements for the operation that is supposed to tackle once and for all the source of the long-standing Ministry unrest is at full speed, and Hermione and Draco’s presence is a surprising, disturbing addition to the chaos. 

Curious faces, aware of their current withdrawal from the department following their inappropriate behaviour at the summer fête, turn as the two partners walk down the narrow corridor between the workstations in the direction of Mackenzie’s office. Hermione spots Harry by his cubicle, watching them from a distance. She nods and he returns the gesture before she stops in front of the ajar door.

Draco knocks and the Head Deputy’s voice rings in the next second. ‘‘Come in.’’

Pushing the door open, they step in to find Mackenzie and Hestia rounding heads by her desk with two men Hermione recognises as the security chiefs of the DMLE and the MEP. All four swivel at their entrance.

Mackenzie’s gaze widens. ‘‘Draco. Hermione.’’

She falters, clearly not having expected them in person since they hadn’t bothered to write to her first as agreed. Too pumped up with their discovery, the suggestion of owling her should they have something to discuss didn’t cross their minds once.

‘‘What are you doing here?’’ At Mackenzie’s hesitation, Hestia’s crisp tone slices through the air.

‘‘Hestia, Emily. We would like to speak with you.’’ Draco announces, pausing to eye the two wizards next to them. ‘‘In private.’’

There’s a tense lull, where nobody moves, that is only broken by their immediate boss’ initiative.

‘‘Give us a few minutes, fellas. I’ll call you back shortly to pick up from where we left.’’

The Head of the department, who looks like she wouldn’t take the same course as her underling, folds her lips in reproach, but remains quiet. After the gentlemen are gone, Draco locks and silences the door behind them, approaching the mahogany desk together with Hermione. They exchange one single look as Hestia finally addresses them.

‘‘I thought you had the week off.’’

‘‘We did.’’ Hermione is the one to reply. ‘‘Emily told us to take these days to rest, but it was impossible for us.’’ The lie comes easily and so does the neutral façade on her face. Hermione rushes past this to get to the meat of the matter. ‘‘We couldn’t give up just yet, so we continued investigating and… We had a breakthrough.’’

‘‘You did?’’ Mackenzie doesn’t try to hide the hopeful undertone in her question.

‘‘We did. We uncovered The Death Eater’s identity.’’

Another beat of silence, another stare down between the four occupants of the room. Whereas the Head Deputy’s eyes shine with triumph, her employer’s only simmer with poorly-concealed censure.

‘‘I can't believe you once more disobeyed my orders-’’

‘‘Who is he?’’ Mackenzie interrupts Hestia and doesn’t look like she cares in the least.

Hermione inhales. ‘‘His name is Doug Carrow. He’s an ex-convict who served an Azkaban sentence for his alleged support for Voldemort. He is a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, as his name shows, and a former Hit Wizard. He was partnered for years with Martin March, who now works as a guard for the WDC and, as we believe, is the inside person who has been helping the Essex gang all along.’’

Mackenzie pulls a deep breath, likely to steel herself. ‘‘How do you know that? What is your evidence?’’

‘‘This.’’ Draco offers their two bosses the file supplied by Libby; Mackenzie promptly accepts it while Hestia keeps her hands behind her back, face hard as marble. ‘‘We found out March used to be a top Hit Wizard and it made little sense to us that he would now be working such a low job after an entire career at the Ministry. Upon investigation, we discovered the motive behind his demotion and his link with a convicted Death Eater.’’ Draco guides the Head Deputy to the last page. ‘‘Here they are. Martin March and Doug Carrow.’’

‘‘Do you see it, Emily?’’ Hermione pipes in, focusing only on the dark-skinned witch and not the other silent one. ‘‘Does he look familiar to you?’’

It takes a moment for the penny to drop. When it does, Mackenzie snaps her head up. ‘‘He matches Tommy Lee Travis’ description.’’

‘‘He does. He’s the man he saw at Catrall’s house the last time they met. It was The Death Eater, like we suspected. And that’s why he was killed. Travis knew his identity and they were scared he would inadvertently tell us, which he indeed ended up doing.’’

‘‘It makes absolute sense.’’ Unlike Hermione, Draco’s eyes are glued to Hestia, tall body taut in his ardour to convince the woman. ‘‘There’s no reason for Travis to have been murdered the way he was unless he knew something the gang didn’t want us to find out. And yet, he had basically no information for us when we talked, except this chance encounter with a man he shouldn’t have seen. A man who faced charges of blood-purity crimes in the past and who so happens to be old friends with a security guard that works for a detention centre that has, ever since, endured a never-seen mass escape. This connection is not insignificant; it can’t be. Look at him.’’ Draco urges them, tapping on the picture where the two blokes display their friendship to the camera. ‘‘He matches Travis’ description perfectly. To the last detail. He is, without a doubt, the man he saw with Catrall. So the question is, what was Carrow doing at Catrall’s house mere weeks after he was fired from his project with the Unspeakables? It can’t be a coincidence. It’s too on the nose, it’s too-’’

He trails off, searching for the right words, and Hermione resumes where he stops. ‘‘We know this discovery doesn’t tell us much about the attack that’s about to happen. I know there’s still much to figure out, but- It’s enough for us to know that Jack Lochty was lying. His description of The Death Eater is utterly delusional, not to say misleading. It’s his word against Travis’, and I don’t see a reason to trust him if nothing he’s told us so far has checked out. And not forgetting his odd, suspicious activities in the weeks preceding our visit, when he received that letter. Why would he receive a coded letter at bloody Azkaban of all places? What is he hiding? Why did he come forward so eagerly to tell us so much and in such detail? I mean, we don’t have an answer to these questions, but what we can and should wonder is: if he lied about what The Death Eater looks like, how can we know he didn’t lie about the attack as well?’’

‘‘Has the Detection Office get back to you about the letter?’’ Mackenzie instantly asks when Hermione pauses.

‘‘Not yet. But we haven’t called on them at all this week, so they might have made progress we don’t know about.’’

‘‘Alright, so this might be a lead. We must try to figure out who contacted him and the content of the letter, it would explain a lot. We also have to further investigate this Doug Carrow, and figure out what-’’

‘‘No.’’

The word reverberates across Mackenzie’s office walls, swirling menacingly between them until it comes to a halt in the centre of the room, harsh and pungent. Hestia looks at them one by one, authoritative stance brooking absolutely no argument.

She settles finally on the two partners. ‘‘You are hereby suspended. I do not want to see you for the next four weeks, otherwise I’ll be terminating your employment contract with cause, immediate effect. I don’t want to hear another word. Leave now.’’

Hermione blinks and reality washes over her.

It’s the end of the road.

Their hope had been flimsy at best, but Hermione held to it fiercely with the last pull of her fingertips - thinking wishfully, she still had faith that, by finding a perfect match to Travis’ description and his suspicious connection to the WDC, Hestia would be forced to recognise that there was something worthy of investigating there. Hermione didn’t expect her to call off the entire ordeal, but she naively believed their boss would at least allow them to pursue this lead in the little time they have left before the DMLE moves into action.

But no.

The Head of the department hasn’t become wiser overnight. 

And now it is all over.

‘‘Hestia-’’

‘‘Emily, shut up. I’m fucking done with you coming to their defence the entire time. You have to stop playing favourites or I’ll do it for you!’’ In spite of Hestia’s characteristic severity when addressing her employees, she’s never used curse words to express herself before. That she does it now clearly hints to an enraged state of mind. Her face is twisted in vehemence, cheeks red and eyes narrowed. ‘‘The disrespect- I can’t- I have been more than patient. More than understanding of the liberties you took during the case, considering your- your work style. The great Hermione Granger, war heroine, and Draco Malfoy… The most efficient field agent Emily has ever seen.’’ Her incensed gaze flashes to Mackenzie, rife with resentment. ‘‘Doing as they please and not answering to any authority simply because they can. Well, I’m fucking done with it. I’ve asked you countless times to step back and you deliberately chose not to follow my orders. And now you’ve pushed your luck far enough. You’re suspended for the time being and I don’t want to hear a fucking peep. Out now. ’’

Every step Hermione takes when she twirls around toward the door breaks her heart. It’s devastating that everything must end like this. That no happy ending will be marking their history here.

Hermione and Draco walk out of the Aurors Office under the steady vigil of their coworkers. They watch the two partners go, tracking their slumped shoulders and defeated energy, and no one says a word in the heavy silence that follows, broken only by the click of their shoes on the laminate flooring. It’s just as well; Hermione can’t face anyone nor does she want to see the criticism or, worse, the pity that certainly will be evidenced in their expression.

Departing without looking once at Harry, they travel with the lift to the Atrium, where they intend to floo back to Draco’s flat and-

And then what?

What will they do now?

Hermione has no idea, so she just follows through with the motions in autopilot mode, walking beside Draco in the direction of the row of gilded fireplaces with her head bowed low. They wait in line for their turn, quiet and subdued, not daring to glance at each other just yet. Defeat is a hard feat for the likes of them to admit, and Hermione knows the moment she meets Draco’s eyes she’ll burst in tears.

So she avoids it for now, tracing the polished dark wood of the ground under her feet, counting the seconds until she can get out of there and bury herself between Draco’s safe arms, away from everything else that can hurt her. 

‘‘Hello, Hermione.’’

Her head springs up at the sound of the familiar voice.

A familiar voice she hasn’t heard in years.

To the left side, having just stepped out of one of the fireplaces, stands Luna Lovegood with her straggly blonde hair and protuberant pale eyes, staring at Hermione with her usual dreamily aura and curiosity.

‘‘Luna.’’

‘‘You look sad. I’m sorry for that.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ Hermione blinks, feeling wildly confused as she’s wont to feel whenever she’s around the woman. She recovers after a few seconds. ‘‘Don’t worry about it.’’ She widens her eyes. ‘‘Luna, wow. It’s been so long! I can’t believe I bump into you here of all places.’’

Luna smiles, softly, and Hermione doesn’t stop herself from surging forward to hug her once dear friend. They hold each other close until the blonde pats her in the back.

Hermione draws backward and Luna tilts her head. ‘‘I haven’t replied to your letter. I was deep in the Mongolian forests in search of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and I knew it wasn’t time yet. But I returned here as soon as it was.’’

Hermione frowns, not quite knowing what she means with that, but brushes it off as she’s always done in Luna’s presence. ‘‘That’s okay, it doesn't matter. I’m just glad to see you now.’’

‘‘Yes. The time has come, indeed.’’ Hermione frowns again but before she asks, Luna’s gaze shifts to her partner. ‘‘Hello, Draco. You seem sad too.’’

‘‘Erm, hi, Lovegood. Good to see you.’’

‘‘It is. I wondered how the two of you would look together.’’ She tilts her head again, now squinting her eyes to regard them both more closely. Draco’s grimace is not that different from Hermione’s; how does Luna even know- ‘‘Great!’’ The witch exclaims and then sighs. ‘‘Now to business, I suppose. I’ve just come from Diagon Alley.’’ She says it in a sudden lowered tone of voice, as if she’s telling a secret. Hermione unconsciously drifts closer. ‘‘The place is not a beautiful sight, unfortunately. Stores closed, patrols at every corner, no visitors in the streets.’’

‘‘Er, yeah.’’ Draco scratches his head, searching for a mollifying answer. The village, as any other relevant wizarding space of gathering in England, has been put under a partial martial law. The Ministry, in preparation for the operation at the Westminster facility and concerned about a fallout, has preventively declared a state of emergency in the locations that can cause high casualties, such as the Diagon Alley. It is, nonetheless, not public information, instead being advertised as festive arrangements for the English Quidditch league that’s to start within the week. ‘‘The government has decided to make a bigger celebration this year. Um, you know, the league is about to set off.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ Luna replies, sounding convinced though meaning something entirely different. She grins and continues unbothered. ‘‘Anyway, everything looked so strange. Especially the North side. It felt as if a magical dark mist had settled over the buildings, particularly one.’’ Cool gaze settling on Hermione, she nods to her. ‘‘You know which one, don’t you, Hermione? The one you’ve been looking for.’’

The moment suspends itself in time.

Luna waves cheerfully. ‘‘Good luck, you two. Let’s meet again soon.’’

She walks away, but Hermione remains rooted in place. Slowly at first and then all at once, she snaps her eyes to Draco, and there she finds the same realisation.

Gringotts.

Chapter Text

They don’t bother returning to the DMLE. They’re suspended, after all.

Instead, they make use of the fireplaces in front of them to floo to the Leaky Cauldron, where they rush through to get to the courtyard in the back and then through the archway that opens to them. Entering Diagon Alley at once, they don’t need to walk much to find what they’re looking for.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank stands before them, all snow-white marble and imposing height. The multiple stores loom over the neighbouring shops and, as such, it’s easy for the two partners to recognise what Luna was on about: whereas the surrounding area is remarkably still in spite of September’s good weather, there’s a certain quality to the air encircling the centuries-old building- something less seamless, less belonging. Hermione doesn’t know if it’s her magic talking, but there’s just a wrongness there that she can’t ignore.

By the way Draco glances at her, he feels the same.

And his next comment only confirms her suspicions.

‘‘Gringotts wasn’t supposed to be deserted like this. I overheard a few of the discussions between the security chiefs and it was never the intention to completely shut down the bank. There was supposed to be guards here, or at least a few goblins warding the place.’’

There aren’t any. The set of stairs that lead to the burnished bronze doors are empty, the entryway appearing to be under lock and key. There’s no one around, as a matter of fact; no patrol, no sentinel. Only them in the middle of a completely vacant street.

‘‘Then this is it, Draco.’’ Hermione turns to him, feeling her blood start pumping harder with adrenaline, her heart racing and thumping against her ribcage - her usual body reaction whenever she’s preparing for a field mission. ‘‘This is the target. This is where The Death Eater is.’’ She looks back to the towering construction, which appears to grow larger and more daunting by the second, not unlike the last time she found herself having to break in there, over seventeen years ago. The agitation remains the same regardless of her age and circumstances. ‘‘And by the looks of it, he’s already started to put his plan into action.’’ 

‘‘Yes.’’ Draco peers back and forth, checking their surroundings and searching for another living soul. Not finding any, his expression becomes cagey. ‘‘I don’t like this.’’

‘‘Do you think it’s a trap?’’

‘‘No, I-’’ He swallows. ‘‘I think there’s a reason it’s so deserted out here. And I think we will find out exactly why as soon as we set a foot inside.’’

A chill climbs Hermione’s spine at his words. She takes a step closer to him. ‘‘We know they used illegal magic to get here. Scrying and whatever black-labelled elixirs they stole from the Patricksons. They’re no petty, harmless crooks trying their hand at making some easy money. They’re dangerous and, more important, very skilful wizards. We should definitely be wary. But on the other side,’’ she counters. ‘‘They do not expect us. The entire Ministry is heading to Westminster as we speak. Surely March has told his partner that no one suspects them and where they actually are. That gives us an advantage.’’

‘‘It does. At least at the start.’’ Draco concedes. ‘‘But we’ll be outnumbered, Granger. Even if we catch them unaware at first, at some point they’ll recover and fight back. There’s no way we can last long in a physical combat with I-don’t-know-how-many gang members.’’ He pauses, once more looking around in distress. ‘‘We should try Mackenzie again. If she knows we know what the target is, she can-’’

‘‘Draco, we don’t have the time for that. If we travel again to the Ministry now, even if Emily comes with us or deploys backup, by the time we’re back here and ready to intervene, they might be gone already. We’ve got no idea for how long they’ve been inside. For all we know, they’ve done what they came here to do and are preparing to leave any time now.’’

‘‘We can’t go in alone, Granger. That’s mental.’’ Hermione opens her mouth to retort, but he adds before she can get anything out. ‘‘But to whom am I talking, anyway? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve broken into Gringotts. Going inside with only me but without the usual wards and security probably sounds like child’s play to you.’’ 

Draco smirks despite his reluctance, and Hermione’s taut nerves loosen an inch. She returns the smirk. ‘‘Not child’s play exactly, but… Well, not impossible.’’

Draco shakes his head. ‘‘Nothing’s impossible for you. I’ve learned that somewhere along the past year.’’ His smile is fond and it helps soothe her a little further. After a beat, he sighs. ‘‘Alright. We’re going in, but we should let people know where we are. Let’s send Mackenzie a patronus.’’

Another reason for her to not only love the man in front of her deeply, but also to appreciate what an amazing partner he is: irrespective of his magical abilities, he always keeps his cool and manages to think clearly and sensibly; never impulsive, never over-confident.

She’s going to miss having him as her right hand.

But that’s a matter for another day. At the moment, she only nods in immediate agreement.

Draco gets to it and, after the ethereal lizards are off (he also sends word to Andromeda, to let her know he won’t be home soon, so to stay with Scorpius until he does), they face each other and the white marbles before them again. Hermione breathes deeply in, closing her eyes for a brief instant. Steeling herself. When she finally feels ready, she makes to take the first step but is suddenly blocked by Draco. His hand catches hers, locking her in place.

‘‘Hermione.’’ His voice is low and serious, eyes pinning hers with gravity. The rare use of her given name makes it all more solemn. ‘‘Please, be careful. Don’t do anything rash or stupid. Please.’’

‘‘I won’t, Draco. I promise. And you either.’’

‘‘I won’t, love.’’ He brings her close to him with their interlaced palms, pressing lips in a quick but meaningful kiss. He murmurs in the whisper of space between them. ‘‘I love you.’’

‘‘I love you.’’

Having passed the first layer of doors and the small entrance hall, both absent of jinxes or movement, Hermione and Draco perform the standard Auror protective combo before they enter a potentially dangerous environment: disillusionment and shield charms, protego duo, quietus and a vision-enhancement spell. Thus armoured, wands at the ready, they walk inside the longer hall where there are usually hundreds of goblins flaking from each side, yet that tonight is sinisterly empty and silent. One step at time, shoulder to shoulder, they cross the massive room, alert to any whiff of human presence.

Instead, they find something else.

‘‘Draco.’’ Hermione calls when she arrives at the end of the main area and sticks her head where she normally never would.

Behind the counters in which the goblins sit during their day shift, dozens of them lie unconscious on the floor, hidden from view due to the tall surface that had managed to conceal their bodies from the two partners until now. Looking closer, she notices with relief that they’re alive: their little chests move up and down rhythmically though very slowly, as if they are in a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

‘‘Patrickson’s potion.’’ Draco whispers in response. ‘‘One of the stolen items was an experiment to produce an elixir in carbonated form, made of sleeping draught, fatiguing and memoryless infusions. I bet that’s what they used to knock the goblins down. The security was already lower because of the martial law. The bank was supposed to be out of service today and, as such, not all employees stuck around, so that made it easier for the gang to incapacitate the ones who did.’’

Hermione nods, the discoveries they had made in the past months finally falling into place. ‘‘They must have teletransported here with a black mirror, slicing through the anti-apparition wards and catching the goblins by surprise and, before the creatures could react, they threw the potion in the air to deck everyone around.’’

‘‘Yes, and in the meanwhile the gang members were probably wearing protective masks to avoid inhaling the potion.’’

‘‘Probably. Since there are no other guards around here, I’m gathering that either they took him or her down somewhere else, or there were none of them to start with. Do you remember what the security chiefs discussed about Gringotts’ protection during the day?’’

‘‘Not really, only that it wouldn’t be completely empty, for obvious reasons. There were always several goblins and guards supposed to stay behind to guard the bank.’’

Hermione hums. Glancing around, she tries to put herself in The Death Eater’s shoes. As a former Hit Wizard, he knows for certain how Ministry field operations work and the typical security measures that are activated in emergency situations. Despite having the advantage of a decoy, surely confident that no one has any idea he’s been targeting Gringotts this entire time, still he wouldn’t be careless to not set up any protective incantations. Or at least a defensive perimeter in case they are happened upon by someone.

‘‘This is too easy. There’s no shielding incantations anywhere here. Nor around the passageways to the vaults.’’ She bobs her head from one side to the other, watching closely the entrance to the tracks that lead to the private safes. She lifts her wand. ‘‘Appare vestigium.’’

Nothing.

The hundreds of doors that pepper the two parallel walls of the main hall remain dark and unmoving, denoting a lack of recent magical activity directed toward them.

‘‘This doesn’t make sense. They’re clearly somewhere here, otherwise why would the goblins be drugged?’’ Draco casts a few other spells in search of further magic signatures in their surroundings and when, once more, nothing gives, he frowns. ‘‘Where the hell are they?’’

Hermione shakes her head. ‘‘Their location must be concealed. They wouldn’t leave trails like this. They probably aimed at pretending that the bank was completely empty in the off-chance someone decided to come inside; that’s why the goblins are hidden behind their counters. If one walked into Gringotts right now, not knowing what to look for, all they would find is a dead space, soundless and void.’’ She inhales, taking deliberate steps, circling the eerie room, letting the clogs of her brain charge free. ‘‘But they are here. I can feel them.’’

It’s the last piece of the puzzle.

They are in the right place. They know who they should expect on the other side of the line. They already figured out how they managed to get inside, circumventing the strict safety measures. They’re familiar with the diversion, the tools used, the ultimate goal of The Death Eater. The only thing left to do is to find the latter within the gigantic maze that Gringotts is; within the countless of possible vaults to be pilfered, the endless options when someone’s seeking undeserved financial gain. 

‘‘Where are you?’’ Hermione mutters to herself as she passes the stone doors, still dark and unmoving.

She knows by heart what’s inside them; she’s walked that path many, many times before. She remembers how excited she had been when she opened her first account there- at the age of 19, having just won the war of the century and finally having the comforting reassurance of a Ministry job to cover her bills. After she sent her parents off to Australia, she had been utterly on her own. No more on the run for horcruxes, real life would have to start: a flat, monthly groceries and other tangible expenses of a young adult fresh out of school. As a muggleborn, she didn’t have a Gringotts vault for herself until she submitted the form and specifically requested one, together with the handsome sum that was required to seal such a protocol. Ever since, she has visited the bank quite regularly, which explains why she’s so viscerally acquainted with the insides of the dimly-lit passageways behind the doors. She still remembers the strong impression it had left on her being able to walk the halls without hiding, without the fear of being caught because now she belonged in there as much as everyone else.

It was an incredible sight. The narrow tracks, the little carts, the labyrinth of twisting passages. She felt proud of herself then- of the muggleborn, who had seldom stepped inside the grandiose building before, having instead her oblivious parents exchange muggle money for her in order to pay for school material and other living costs, and now being able to-

It downs on her like a sharp icy shower.

She comes back to herself at the double doors leading to the entrance hall. She hadn’t acknowledged walking so far, lost in musings, but that doesn’t derail her from the realisation. She rushes to Draco, who, recognising the look in her eyes, also rushes to her until they meet in the middle.

‘‘There are more here than the vaults beneath us.’’ She tells him in a brisk, intense whisper. ‘‘Gringotts exchanges muggle currency for wizarding’s. My parents did it for six years straight. I was with them for the last one.’’ She twirls, marching past the counters in the direction of the first row where she knows the entry for a gallery hides in plain sight. ‘‘The goblins accept the muggle money and store it here until they can put it back into the muggle world. I don’t know how often it happens, but I would guess it’s not every day. Not even every week.’’ 

As they reach the start of the corridor, she guides Draco to the chamber on the right that no one ever pays attention to.

‘‘It’s September first: Hogwarts is officially back. Which means dozens and dozens of muggleborn parents have just been to Gringotts exchanging their currency so that they could pay for their kids’ school supplies. And it’s rather likely that all this money is still somewhere here. If I could bet, I’d say there’s way less security guarding it than the wizards’ vaults. And that, if it goes missing, there won’t be that many complaints about it. It’s the perfect target.’’

Hermione arrives at the barely-there door and extends her hand to push it open, but stops herself mid-air. She considers the cunning person she’s been chasing and reacts accordingly.

‘‘Omnia consummare. Praesidium debilito. Purgo.’’ 

The deactivation spells work through the closed door and beyond, enveloping the room on the other side and neutralising the wards in place. The wards The Death Eater had erected to warn him of human presence entering the gallery. Although they are invisible, and the countercurse doesn’t really offer any outward signals, Hermione can almost swear she hears them shimmering and then fizzling away. 

‘‘All clear.’’ She tells Draco, stepping ahead to enter the now unhampered area. He follows her inside, surveying the compact room. ‘‘This is where the muggle transactions occur. I was here with my parents in our sixth year, exchanging currencies. A goblin normally sits there,’’ Hermione points to the sole flip-up countertop hooked into the South wall. ‘‘And deals with all the muggleborns who haven’t got the foggiest of what a galleon is.’’

Draco hums, coming closer to the spot she’s indicated. ‘‘And where does all that money go to?’’

‘‘If I had to guess…’’ She joins him when he moves. ‘‘I’d say right here.’’

In unison, they stare at the smooth stone wall behind the counter. 

‘‘Aparecium.’’ Draco casts and the flat surface shifts until a narrow door materialises before them. He sends her a sidelong glance. ‘‘As usual, and annoyingly, you’re correct.’’

Hermione smirks for just a moment; by the next, she’s serious again.

This is it.

The Death Eater and whatever lackeys he’s deployed to assist him in his masterplan are right there, behind the former concealed passage. And yet, this time around, Hermione has no idea what waits for them on the other side. Contrary to the cart tracks leading to the vaults below their feet, which she has travelled on plenty of occasions before, she’s clueless to where this door will take them. For all they know, it might be a recreation of the underneath safes or, rather, just a large room containing the money yet to be returned to the muggle world. As such, their fight might be an hour away or only a minute.

The uncertainty wrecks her nerves.

‘‘Come here, love.’’ Draco beckons her and she readily kills the distance between them. His silver gaze bores into hers. ‘‘Commando tactic. I go in first, you back me up.’’ He flips the countertop, keeping it open for her to pass and get behind him. When both are in position, he nods. ‘‘Ready?’’

She nods back, hoisting her wand.

A beat and Draco moves. Throwing the door open, he storms in, squatting slightly in a defensive position. Hermione is right behind, a counterspell already on the tip of her tongue should she detect any movement whatsoever. She doesn’t; the space they walk in is a long, tight vestibule, bereft of sound and light. 

‘‘Lumos maxima.’’ 

With the white flash coming from her wand, Draco’s able to push through, covering the empty ground in front of them with careful but firm steps. At the end of it, there’s a lift.

Hermione and Draco share a look. 

It’s beginners’ textbook to avoid elevators at all costs during field missions: every Auror learns during their first week of training that getting into such a closed, dead-end compartment is practically suicide. The chances of an ambush waiting for them at the arrival, a situation in which they’ll find themselves backed into a corner with no escape route, are too great to risk it. And yet, at the moment, there’s little they can do about it.

It’s the only way in.

So on they go, entering the lift and waiting with bated breath to see what happens next. The old platform rumbles, rusty doors closing laboriously before descending at a creeping, noisy pace. Hermione throws in a rushed quietening spell and an extra notice-me-not, just in case. For excruciatingly slow and plentiful minutes, they’re bound to wait with wands raised and heart on the throat, in the dark to when the elevator will reach its finish line. It takes longer than they had expected and every second puts them more on edge. Then suddenly, and much quicker than it had taken for them to close, the doors open in a sharp motion.

Lit torches break the darkness they had gotten used to, Hermione extinguishing the light from her wand to not bring attention to them at the same time Draco shoots a consecutive finite incantatem and omnia consummare to counter any protective spell aimed at those entering the space. In a jolt, they scutter out of the lift, introducing a couple of feet in between them as they scan the new room they find themselves in. It’s a big chamber, a cave-like quality to it in the way it extends under uneven crests of rocks, a pathway of rugged cobbles giving a wide berth for people to traverse. A few metres ahead there’s a turn, the track leading to the left where it continues among several flaming cressets and an irregular ground. With the defensive charms disarmed, Hermione and Draco are free to press forward. And so they do. The sizable ambiance dampens the noise they make as they walk down the pathway, resuming their search. They trudge carefully, faces swivelling as they look from side to side, watching the shadows, straining their ears. The broad course remains uneventful for many long moments. Before they get to the curb, however, a low rumble of magic makes them freeze.

Flattening themselves against the stone walls, they stop to listen.

Muffled voices sound distant. Four or five. It looks like a discussion, an argument of sorts. No spells are cast and no activities seem to be carried out except for the talking. Minutes pass that way and, when Hermione chances a glimpse at Draco, she sees he’s had the same thought as her.

He gestures for her to stay put. She nods and he takes a deep breath, sliding his back down the surface behind him until he can squat and make himself smaller. Then, slowly, he peeks around the corner. In a handful of seconds he’s withdrawn once more, getting up to stand next to her again.

‘‘Seven.’’ He whispers, reflexively disregarding the muffliato they had performed. ‘‘There’s a huge single vault at the end of the chamber, but I think they haven’t figured out how to break in yet.’’

It’s a relief, though the amount of gang members alarms her. It’s more than three against one, and Hermione has never faced such odds before. Irrespective of her confidence in their skills, it still appears a little too intimidating. Especially if she takes into consideration the ranking amid the seven criminals.

‘‘The Death Eater?’’ She asks Draco.

He nods. ‘‘And Lowburn, Yuxuan and Catrall. And another three I don’t recognise.’’

‘‘March?’’

Draco shakes his head.

It makes sense he wouldn’t be there; it’s too dangerous and he wouldn’t risk having his cover blown. But the others- the leader and the WDC fugitives- are more than enough to make the Aurors falter. They have proven their magical proclivities before and, in Doug Carrow’s case, he’s made a pretty respectable career out of it before he decided to join the Dark Arts. 

‘‘What’s the plan?’’

They have the element of surprise. And the fact the wizards have their backs to them. It might not only buy them time, but also allow them to disable a couple of them before they spot their presence and react. But that still leaves them with at least four men against the two of them.

Draco swallows. ‘‘Our only chance is to come in hard. Create a big distraction, an explosion or something. To make them disperse and hide, so we can move quickly and-’’

He cuts himself abruptly off when the muted noises in the background become unexpectedly louder. Snapping their heads to it, they realise that the sound reaching them is voices coming closer and closer as footsteps draw nearer the curb where they lurk.

Hermione and Draco stare at each other, widened eyes. There’s no longer time to plan; they have to act at once if they want to have any chance at getting out of this alive. Without missing a beat, both of them move backward, using their disillusionment to fade against the wall. Holding their breaths, they hang on tightly for one, two, three, four, five, six-

Two men suddenly appear, rounding the corner in the middle of a debate about something Hermione doesn’t bother to pick up. Their bodies have barely crossed the Aurors’ field of vision, becoming completely shielded from the other occupants of the room, and they spring into action: Hermione stuns the one closest to her, a short, dark-skinned fella she’s never seen before, while Draco does the same to his companion, a man they recognise later as Yuxuan, one of the WDC fugitives. As the two wizards fall unconscious to the ground, the partners pull them to the side, closer to the wall and clear from the pathway. 

‘‘Petrificus totalus.’’ Hermione casts and then- ‘‘Occultare.’’

Thus bound and hidden, the two gang members won’t pose them any issues for the time being.

Hermione turns to Draco. ‘‘We have to move in now. We don't know what those two were up to, why they were coming this way. The others will surely clock their absence sooner or later.’’

‘‘You’re right. But I stand for what I said: we need to create a distraction.’’

‘‘And we need to incapacitate as many as we can before they take note of us.’’

One long look is enough for them to come to a strategy. 

‘‘You’re good with big bangs, I’m better going a more subtle way.’’ Draco tells her and if they weren’t in such a nerve-wracking situation, Hermione would chuckle at the remark. 

‘‘Alright. On the count of three.’’

Draco nods and they take their places. Hermione inhales, hears her partner do the same next to her, shuts her eyes for a fleeting moment, braces herself.

‘‘One.’’

She tightens the hold in her wand, bringing the chosen spell to the forefront of her mind.

‘‘Two.’’

Draco shifts to her right, gradually letting go of the wall that had concealed them until now.

‘‘Three.’’

It happens faster than her eyes can take it.

Draco jumps forward at the same time she swirls and aims at the most distant cluster of rocks she can find. Confringo is out of her mouth before she’s stepped fully out of their enclosure, her target exploding theatrically as the first man at the end of the chamber, who happens to be Michael bloody Lowburn, drops to the ground with Draco’s swift stupefy jinx. She runs, intent on mirrorying him and stunning someone else, sensing him falling into step right next to her, but they don’t get far - a massive wave of magic abruptly hits them square on the chest and the next thing she sees is the crest of stones above her head, body flush against the floor and ears tingling loudly. 

‘‘Granger, move!’’

With her arm pulled roughly, she feels herself being yanked right before a nasty curse tears into the general area she had just been in. Draco drags her with him until they find cover behind a large piece of rock that had detached itself from the roof with the blast she caused. They kneel close to each other, shrinking in their temporary refuge. Booming crashes and the sizzling of fire ring everywhere around them.

‘‘Fuck.’’ Draco swears, looking worriedly at her. ‘‘Are you okay?’’

‘‘Yes, what-’’

‘‘The fucking Death Eater. I’ve never seen anyone react so quickly. We’d barely moved in and he shot us down without even seeing us.’’ He coughs, rubbing a hand over his mouth. ‘‘We’re lucky he doesn’t know where we are, otherwise we’d be good and done by now already.’’

‘‘Where is he now?’’

‘‘No clue. He’s probably disillusioned himself too.’’

‘‘And the others?’’

‘‘There’s still two up with him. Your explosion fortunately managed to knock Catrall over.’’

Hermione swallows with difficulty, the fall having played a number on her lungs. ‘‘So it’s us two against three. It’s not that bad.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t be so sure. The fucker is a dextrous one.’’ Draco closes his eyes, throwing his head back on the rock behind them. ‘‘And how fucking anticlimactic is that? The great, powerful mastermind we’ve been chasing for ages is a git called fucking Doug. Thanks a lot, universe.’’

‘‘What, you’d prefer if he was called Archibald or something?’’

Draco pops one eye open, the edges of his mouth climbing on his cheek. ‘‘It would certainly be more satisfactory.’’

A chuckle breaks out from her lips, incapable of staying buried at the absurdity of his thinking. ‘‘Shut up, Draco. We have to focus now and figure out how we’re gonna get ourselves out of this goddamn mess.’’

Her partner sighs, blinking both eyes open and straightening himself inside their hiding place. ‘‘Yes. I think we should-’’

Another explosion, this time too close to home, bursts their little shelter. No longer having a rock behind which to hole up, Hermione and Draco lurch forward, scuffling to get themselves into a combat position.

‘‘Finite incantatem.’'

Nothing changes in her, but Hermione knows she’s suddenly visible. And as she struggles to stand straight, no more concealment or obstacles hanging in between, she finds herself face-to-face with The Death Eater.

Travis hadn’t exaggerated: the man is stunning.

Just like a retired runway model, Doug Carrow is obviously older than in the picture they saw of him with March, and yet his beauty persists, even potentially heightened with his now pepper-and-salt hair and light wrinkles surrounding striking blue eyes and haughty cheekbones. He looms tall in front of Hermione, strong and capable, carrying a wide stance of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

‘‘Hermione Granger.’’ His deep voice travels the expanse of space in between them. With firm hands, he motions to the two unfamiliar men shouldering him to stand down as he takes a few steps toward her. ‘‘Of course you puzzled this out. You’re a force to be reckoned with, after all.’’ His smile is bright and contagious; Hermione can’t help but feel a little thrown by his charisma. Fortunately, he redirects his attention before she becomes too enraptured. ‘‘And Draco Malfoy.’’ At that, his eyes harden. He looks her partner up and down with blatant contempt. Catching his gaze again, Carrow tsks. ‘‘The only actual Death Eater in the room. How ironic.’’

Hermione senses Draco drawing closer to her, body oozing tension. ‘‘Are you sure about that? That’s not the reputation you’ve so carefully built.’’

Carrow’s white teeth flash. ‘‘And wasn’t I convincing? There’s an entire DMLE squad eager to catch the very last Voldemort supporter and wave his defeat to The Daily Prophet’s cameras. It will be a lovely show I wouldn’t want you to miss.’’

‘‘Except it’s all lies.’’ Hermione says, holding tight to her wand as she watches his lackeys attentively in search of any sign of attack. 

‘‘Well, it’s not like the Ministry really cares about the distinction between truth and lie, anyway.’’

She snatches her eyes back to him, her mind racing and coming to a blunt halt.

It all clicks in place.

‘‘You were wrongfully convicted.’’ The certainty washes over her as she speaks. ‘‘You were never a Death Eater.’’

This time, his smile is less infectious; it sours his lips. ‘‘But I’m a Carrow, Miss Granger, have you forgotten about it? Isn’t that more than enough?’’

March didn’t fight for nothing: his partner was innocent. The campaign he led, which ultimately stripped him of his hard-earned career, was based on the truth and tge injustice that had Carrow incarcerated for a decade.

It’s not like the Ministry really cares about the distinction between truth and lie, anyway.

‘‘This is revenge.’’ She utters slowly, studying the man in front of her under a brand new light. ‘‘They ruined your life and now you’re using their biases against themselves to get back at them.’’

The Death Eater grins. ‘‘Quite clever, isn’t she?’’ He tells his partners-in-crime, though his eyes never stray from her. ‘‘I’m glad Potter had her by his side, otherwise the world would be a far different place right now.’’ The compliment doesn’t hit her where it should; she frowns and Carrow’s grin dies. His handsome face turns sharp. ‘‘But you’re wrong about one thing. I don’t care about the Ministry anymore, Miss Granger. I’ve spent too many years of my life fighting for what was right, what was duly mine, and that took me nowhere. So I’m no longer interested in proving my worth. Nor do I intend on wasting my future paying the Wizengamot back for what they did to me. Instead, I just want to make a nest egg and be done with it. I believe it’s only fair after everything they put me through.’’ He stretches his mouth again, but this time it’s not a smile. ‘‘And that would’ve been the end of it, no casualties, no unnecessary confrontation, just me and the lads getting what we want and disappearing into the muggle world… But, of course, you two just couldn’t conform like the rest, could you?’’

‘‘No casualties? Tell that to Tommy Lee Travis, you hypocritical piece of shi-’’

The spell is nonverbal and blistering, Carrow’s arm barely moving; it hits Draco head on, shoving him hard to the floor. 

‘‘Protego duo!’’ Hermione shouts, shielding her and Draco from the three men. She drops to her knees, keeping her wand raised and steady as she checks on him. ‘‘Draco, are you okay?’’

There’s a thick cut crossing his pectorals from side to side, slashing his layers of clothing and starting to bleed. Draco winces, sitting up at the same time two curses clash against her protective incantation.

‘‘Hold fire.’’ She faintly acknowledges Carrow ordering his subordinates, but she can hardly pay it any mind above the roar in her ears.

‘‘Replace my shield, Draco.’’ She murmurs just for him, hands trembling slightly. ‘‘I’m gonna heal you.’’

He nods and, in the next moment, they make the change smoothly. Flawlessly.

Hermione begins working on his chest at once, willing her palms to stay firm. She's appeased to see the cut is not so very deep. Draco flinches as the charm sews him back and forth, his eyes closing in pain. Which causes the block to waver for a millisecond, and that's all it takes for everything to go to shit. Breaking through their shield with an unmatched speed and power, Carrow throws Draco’s body away from Hermione’s hands and against the opposite wall and, in the same fluid movement, binds her, tossing her wand to the darkness ahead. She hears Draco’s brief scream at the impact before all she can acknowledge is the man right in front of her.

The Death Eater closes their distance until his face is only an inch from hers.

‘‘This is not what I want, believe me. I have tried my best to send you off track, to have you on the other side of the city, safe and sound, while I do what I’ve set myself to.’’ He sounds genuine, his blue gaze holding hers in earnest as she grapples with the invisible restraints. ‘‘I admire you, Miss Granger. The entire world is indebted to you and the greatest service you’ve done to the magical community. And despite what I’ve tried so hard to make everyone else believe, I despise Death Eaters.’’ The dirty look he throws Draco is scalding, but at least it gives her an idea of where her partner is. Her brain scatters off, trying to find an escape to her present dire situation while he talks. ‘‘I’m not my surname; I have never been. Part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight or not, blood purity has always been my enemy as much as it’s been yours. I’ve built an entire career around something you spent your childhood unwillingly doing: hunting dark wizards and putting them in Azkaban. And yet, I did it for two whole fucking decades, only to have my sorry arse join them in the filthy prison in the end, my life’s work sent to literal hell.’’ He shakes his head. ‘‘Of course, none of this is your fault, but I find myself without a choice right now. I’m gonna go break this vault and then I’ll have to obliviate you.’’

‘‘What? You can’t-’’

‘‘It’s that or kill you. You pick.’’

‘‘How about you go fuck yourself instead?’’

It’s not Hermione who says it; much less Draco.

The voice comes from behind her right before two spells fly over each side of her shoulder, knocking the two last gang members down. Carrow, in his usual ability, falls immediately back, bringing Hermione with him as a human shield, but she drops down, too. Seeing herself suddenly free, body-bind curse lifted, she somersaults on the cobbled floor, escaping his clutch and hurriedly searching for shelter.

Violent jets of light beam inside the cave-like chamber, bouncing on the walls, smashing rocks and making the ground shake. Hermione runs for cover, finding it behind a pile of gravel. From her precariously concealed position, she locates Draco, taking quick stock of him from afar, and then her wand. As she plots how to attend to the former and retrieve the latter, she cranes her neck back and the scene that greets her makes her gasp.

Harry and Mackenzie stand side by side past the curb, fending curse after curse thrown by Carrow on the opposite end of the clearing, sneaking their own any chance they get. Hermione’s brain struggles to understand how they’re here- how her boss and former partner have unexpectedly turned up to save the day- but time becomes scarce: Catrall, who had been down for the past ten minutes after getting hit by her explosion, gets up without a notice and fervently joins the fight. Now it’s two against two, and The Death Eater doesn’t look like he even needs the extra help.

After making sure that Draco is not that badly wounded, Hermione springs up and dashes to recover her wand, keeping herself low to duck the backlash of the duel happening only a few feet away from her. Once she has the piece of wood, she promptly sends an incarcerous in the direction of the recently-awake wizard, missing him as he squats out of the way at the last minute. Thus noticed, Hermione stands to walk to Harry and Mackenzie but, before she gets there, a green-lighted flare makes her hurl herself back to the floor, evading it by only a whisker. 

Time seems to still as life and death flash across her eyes.

The little shit had tried to avada her.

She stands up again in shaky knees, the uproar in her mind reducing to one single focus: end these motherfuckers once and for all. She’s done with this; they’ve been playing her for far too fucking long, uprooting her life in the worst sense possible, and it’s time they get put back in their places.

Carrow’s sad little story be damned. 

Casting another shield, lest she’s forced to dive again to dodge fatal curses, Hermione moves until she reaches her fellow Aurors. Her eyes are glued to the two men across from them. Carrow’s countenance has become serious, wholly concentrated on the unforeseen duel. Whereas he had expected to get in and out of Gringotts unscathed, having fooled an entire country in the process, now he must face the fact that the only way out for him is to subdue three high-ranked Ministry employees, needing to kill or at least obliviate them, which certainly will shatter his plans of escaping the bank without a trace.

A rash movement and a low growl in her periphery, and Hermione has to redo her maths.

Four.

He’ll have to subdue four high-ranked Ministry employees, because Draco is suddenly on his feet again, appearing absolutely murderous as he flings himself toward Catrall, lacerated chest all but forgotten.

‘‘You fucking dare to try and touch her. Spiritus constrictio!’’ Before anyone can react, the other bloke stumbles, face going purple, his hands shooting to his neck as his airways become constricted with Draco’s curse. The blond wizard is on him the very next instant. ‘‘You’re. Fucking. Done.’’ His fist connects with Catrall’s cheek ferociously. ‘‘This one is for Tommy Lee, you coward fucker!’’

As Draco pounces on one gang member, the other stands alone facing Hermione, Harry and Mackenzie.

There’s only one moment of stasis and then the fight restarts.

It’s somewhat easier from there on: in spite of Carrow’s impressive battle skills, he’s only one man - he can’t overpower three Aurors by himself. Especially Harry, who’s arguably the best duellist in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and who seems to be particularly inspired today, dodging every spell sent his way with cinch, responding in the same coin, his own growing in intensity and aggression as time passes. Her former friend’s face is frozen in a laser-focus expression, wrestling with Carrow with a fury Hermione has seldom seen before.

When Draco is finished with Catrall, leaving him bloody and beaten behind, the duel is swiftly over. Carrow eventually becomes outmatched, dispatched with a final stunning hex from Mackenzie. 

Hermione sighs, shoulders dropping in surrender at last. She turns to Draco, barely believing it’s really over.

They won.

They defeated The Death Eater.

The Zimcooke case is officially closed.

Hermione smiles and moves, reaching for him, needing his touch, his comfort-

She’s smothered by a different set of arms, torso squeezed painfully against another. ‘‘Hermione.’’ She recognises Harry’s voice, but also his distinctive way of hugging her. She’s spent half of her life doing it; just because she hasn’t done it for the past two years, it doesn’t mean she’s forgotten what it feels like. He buries his bespectacled face on the crook of her neck, tightening his hold on her as he whispers roughly, brokenly. ‘‘You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.’’

Once she overcomes her surprise, Hermione relaxes inside the embrace. Harry continues to murmur fragments of sentences, some discernible, others not, keeping her close for long minutes.

‘‘I’m okay, Harry. I’m okay.’’ She tells him in a soothing tone, rubbing his shoulder blades in affection.

Finally, he takes a step back. He doesn’t let go of her just yet, though. ‘‘That killing curse was so close to you.’’

‘‘I know, but it didn’t hit me. I’m okay.’’

He frowns. ‘‘I can’t believe you came all alone down here, planning to face an entire gang by yourself.’’

‘‘I wasn’t alone, Harry.’’ At this, Hermione breaks free from him. Searching, she finds Draco chatting with Mackenzie as the two scan the area around them and the end result of the skirmish. Still, when she looks, his head snaps to her, promptly catching her eyes. ‘‘I was with Draco.’’

This time no one can stop her: she runs to him. He spins in place, opening his arms, face slacking in relief. 

Her gaze falls to his chest. ‘‘Are you-’’

‘‘Mackenzie healed me already. Come here.’’

Her body thumps against his, in an embrace that cures all the maladies within her. She folds in two, wanting to sneak inside, enter his veins and make home under his skin. Alas, the borders keep her out, maintain them two separate beings, connected only by heart and mind.

‘‘My love.’’ Draco sobs against her forehead. ‘‘We did it. It’s over.’’

Hermione surges above, capturing his lips. ‘‘We did.’’ She says against them, pressing more urgently for a beat before lowering to slot herself against his healed chest.

They stay fused until their heartbeats slow, the adrenaline subsiding and reminding them that their job is not over yet.

Turning around, she watches Harry and Mackenzie clean up their surroundings. They’ve already collected the unconscious gang members dispersed around the large chamber, setting them next to one another and against the wall. The Head Deputy clears the pieces of rocks obstructing their way while Harry seems to be surveying the rest of the space for trace evidence.

Hermione joins the former.

‘‘Emily.’’ The witch swirls at the call and Hermione doesn’t hold herself back; she steps ahead and hugs her boss, too. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘What are you talking about? I’m the one who has to thank you, you solved-’’

‘‘You saved my life.’’ Hermione lets her go, sliding a look to the end of the chamber. ‘‘You and Harry. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, we-’’

‘‘We came as soon as we could. Draco’s patronus arrived about an hour ago, but we were already on the move with the operation. It found us at the DMLE’s provisional quarter outside the training facility.’’

‘‘Oh, really? How did you manage, then? Did Hestia-’’

‘‘She saw it.’’ Mackenzie’s thin lips purse, but there’s a dark bemusement somewhere in there. ‘‘She told me to ignore it, naturally, and when I said I wasn’t going to, she went ballistic. She said if I left, I was as good as suspended too.’’

Hermione gasps. ‘‘What? Is she crazy? She can’t possibly mean-’’

‘‘I don’t care, Hermione. I knew this was the right thing to do. I knew what I would find when I got here and that, later, she would be glad I disobeyed her orders. She always is when she’s ultimately proven wrong.’’ The other woman smiles in exasperation. ‘‘The problem was that she didn’t allow me to gather a backup. I tried my best, but she all but physically stopped me from getting to my team. Fortunately, Harry was nearby.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

Hermione’s neck swivels again, finding the object of the conversation now being assisted by Draco in his crime scene inspection.

‘‘Yes. He saw everything happen, from your message to my argument with Hestia. And when I said I was going in alone, he followed me and said he was coming with.’’ Mackenzie rests a hand over Hermione’s left shoulder. ‘‘If there’s anyone you should thank, it’s him. He’s the one who left his entire operation behind to get here as soon as possible. He’s the one who figured out the entrance to this place, otherwise we would’ve never made it. He’s the one who rivalled The Death Eater to the last spell while you recovered, Hermione. He gave his all for this and it was all for you. You must know it.’’

Hermione nods absent-mindedly, still watching the two men move around. They look rather in sync with each other, working seamlessly together for the first time since she can remember. It’s a nice sight, and Hermione can’t stifle the soft smile that escapes her.

If even they can find a middle ground, can she not as well?

Once everything’s done, there comes the tricky part.

Floating the seven criminals and carrying out every evidence of their flagrante with them for future investigation, Hermione, Draco, Harry and Mackenzie need several lift rides and another hour to return above-ground, where there’s only one thing left to do: call the DMLE.

The Head Deputy takes charge of it, sending Hestia and the security chiefs of their division a patronus that supplies the direction of where they are and explains what went down. Another half an hour passes before the commotion starts. The burnished bronze doors burst open when Harry is wrapping up with Hermione and Draco’s official testimony of the events, the Head of the department storming in with the two wizards responsible for the safety of the DMLE and the MEP right behind her.

‘‘Emily!’’ She marches determinedly to them, clocking their surroundings with feverish motions of head, her usual imperious attitude appearing to be down a few pegs at last. ‘‘What’s going on? What happened here?’’

Mackenzie steps forward, meeting her a few feet away from the three Aurors, though not out of earshot. ‘‘Everything’s okay. The situation is handled. We got The Death Eater.’’

Hermione has to give it to her; Mackenzie sounds absolutely clinical, as if the woman in front of her hadn’t been their biggest obstacle in the solving of the case.

‘‘You’ve got him?’’ Hestia’s eyes bug in bewilderment. ‘‘You- Really? You- You have him under arrest?’’

The Head Deputy points to the makeshift bench they had conjured to seat the seven gang members, all conscious, silenced and restrained with three different binding spells by now. Doug Carrow watches their interaction with a keen gaze, surely already planning his next retaliation once he serves this new Azkaban sentence. 

Hestia blinks, comically speechless. Mackenzie goes along unbothered. ‘‘Like I tried to explain to you earlier, Draco and Hermione had uncovered the gang’s real target and immediately travelled here to stop them. Harry and I joined them after they had already started the confrontation with the perps and, fortunately, our addition to the duel was able to tip the scale to our side. We disarmed and stunned all seven of them before they even touched the vault they had their sights on.’’ Her boss and the two chiefs remain quiet, likely struggling to take this information in after having spent the previous countless weeks preparing an strategic operation that turned out to be a grand fiasco. Mackenzie, bless her heart, doesn’t give them the time to digest. ‘‘What happened in Westminster?’’

Stuart, the man to the right, clears his throat. ‘‘Erm, nothing. We were just waiting for a long time until a small-scale bomb was detonated a few miles away, which arrested our attention for some moments before we realised it was only a distraction. There were no casualties, nor real damage. Right after it, we received word from you.’’

‘‘Okay, good. So, at the end of the day, this was a success. Nobody got hurt, nothing was robbed and we have the culprits in custody.’’ Mackenzie smiles and, despite her blatant reticence, one can tell that she means it. ‘‘This case is finally over.’’

Hestia opens her mouth only because she’s expected to say something in front of so many subordinates. ‘‘Er, yes. You’re right. This was a success. Um, well done.’’

She looks utterly embarrassed and Hermione revels in it. She swaps amused glances with Draco, victory tasting deliciously sweet. Turning away to hide her smug face, she catches Harry smirking at her.

‘‘Indeed well done, you two.’’ He says in a low voice, only for her and Draco. ‘‘This was good work. Impressive, if I may say so.’’

‘‘Thanks, Harry.’’ She replies, hesitating for a second, unsure of how to proceed. She wants to thank him for more than just the compliment but is timely interrupted by Hestia.

‘‘Alright. Erm, yes, right. I suppose we should head back to the office, then. Er, Emily, lead the way with Granger and Malfoy, please. We have to place the suspects under supervision right away.’’

The arrangements leave Harry behind with the department Head and the security chiefs, who are supposed to start off with the debriefing at the headquarters while Hermione and her partner deal with the arrestees. 

It’s just as well.

There’s another thing left to do, after all.

Apparating to the Wizengamot’s Detention Centre without a word of warning, Draco and her take over the premises in one expeditious, merciless swipe, locating Martin March as he fulfils his alibi with an afternoon shift among several witnesses, which, unfortunately for him, won’t save his arse this time around. They arrest him on the spot and bring him with them as they return to where everyone expects them. The Westminster team is already back by the time they walk inside the office, as well as the other patrollers and Hit Wizards; with the ruckus that the operation at the Aurors training facility had caused, the opening ceremony for the recruits was cancelled, postponed to the next day. As such, the DMLE is filled to the brim with every officer that the Ministry employs, all of them there to watch Hermione and Draco place the WDC rat in one of the interrogation rooms, at the end of the long row of doors that currently house the other seven gang members, and then join Mackenzie and Hestia in the former’s office.

The way through the narrow corridor is the same as it had been just a couple of hours before, and yet it feels completely different. Heads held high, the two partners once more cover the distance under the steady vigil of their coworkers but, this time, there’s no criticism or pity to be found: the mass of employees follow as Hermione and Draco rightfully return to where they should have never left, now harnessed with a closed case.

‘‘Alright. We’re all here.’’ Hestia says as a way of greeting, shutting the door of Mackenzie’s office. ‘‘We should start-’’

‘‘Wait.’’ Hermione cuts her off. ‘‘Harry should be here, too, for this.’’

Hestia frowns. ‘‘Potter wasn’t involved in the case. He only took the lead at the last minute, by my request, but I don’t see why he should be-’’

‘‘Harry has helped us plenty with the case.’’ Hermione cuts her off yet again, putting her foot down. ‘‘And he fought side by side with us to defeat The Death Eater. He has a right to be here as much as any of us.’’

‘‘Agreed.’’ Draco readily seconds her.

‘‘Me too.’’

With Mackenzie’s final corroboration, Hestia has no choice but to acquiesce. ‘‘Fine. I’ll call him.’’ She throws the door open again, jutting her head out to the headquarters. ‘‘Potter! Join us.’’

There’s silence and then footsteps. Harry appears between the ajar door, entering it tentatively. ‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Come in.’’ Mackenzie tells him. ‘‘Lock and silence the door after you, please.’’ He does, still a little hesitant, staring at the four occupants of the room when he’s done. The Head Deputy smiles at him. ‘‘We thought you should be part of this, considering the role you played in the success of the Zimcooke case.’’

Harry’s black eyebrows jump slightly, caught off-guard, but in the next beat he nods, accepting the invite for what it is.

They go over in detail about what happened, from the moment the two partners left the Aurors Office with a suspension on their back to the moment Hestia received the news that the Essex gang had finally been bested. Whereas at the start there’s an unmistakable undertone of reprimand in the air, Hestia’s reaction to their account of how they had ignored her orders once again verging on the irascible, by the end of the tale she looks much more positive about the whole thing. After their version of events is covered from top to bottom, with the reassurance that the criminals are waiting in line to be interrogated, The Death Eater’s inside person among them, she hurries to call a meeting with the Minister for Magic and the other department Heads. As she dismisses them, there’s a patent enthusiasm to her stance, now openly congratulating Hermione and Draco for their quick thinking, praising Harry for having helped them behind her back, and thanking Mackenzie for never having doubted them. 

Their previous heated disagreements aren’t brought up once. 

As the hours pass- with the rounds of interrogations first, then the office briefing taking place in the largest conference room of the Level to inform the others of their triumph, and finally The Daily Prophet being summoned to report the story on the first page- Hermione finds that time slips through her fingers. Countless staff meetings are needed throughout the day, particularly after the four wizards (and one witch) who had been assigned to guard Gringotts are found unconscious and bound behind a skip bin in a nearby alley, and the bank’s several goblins are finally revived and taken in for questioning. In the throes of having everything filed and processed, the paperwork taking an insurmountable space within her mental faculties after such an intense day, all the while she still has to look presentable and accessible to answer every enquiry of the Ministry’s authority figures swarming the headquarters, not to mention the annoying encroaching of the media… It’s all just too much, and Hermione’s barely able to exchange a private word with Draco.

Nor with Harry.

She keeps reliving the moment she saw him standing next to their boss, after having set her free from her body-bind curse: of how she had gone from desperate when she realised she couldn’t find a way out, to fully convinced that victory was within reach. And all because of a single look at Harry. Knowing, in her heart, that if he was there, then she’d be alright. 

Just like she’s always been with him, for all those years they fought side by side. Harry might have disappointed her in other matters, but whenever her safety was in jeopardy, he has always come through for her. 

She knew, and still does, that she can trust him with her life any day.

As they cruise through the evening, still stuck at the DMLE, Hermione grows restless. She needs to talk to him, she needs to thank Harry properly, but she can’t find the occasion. She can’t snatch a single minute for herself. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t even know where he is; after having participated in their initial debriefing, Harry withdrew himself from the spotlight, letting her and Draco deal with all the tiresome formalities- but also to receive all the compliments and praise from the most important people in the Ministry. 

She hopes he hasn’t gone home yet. She really hopes she can have the chance to-

‘‘Hey, Hermione.’’

As if beckoned by the direction her thoughts had taken, Harry materialises in front of her as she’s giving the final touches to Catrall’s signed confession in the Operation Room.

She looks up in startlement. ‘‘Harry.’’

‘‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m heading home. It’s quite late, Ginny must be going up the walls in worry.’’ He chuckles lightly, though after a second he rallies. ‘‘Unless there’s something I can do for you.’’

‘‘No. No, of course not. You should go. It’s beyond late.’’

‘‘Great. Well, I just wanted to say goodnight, then.’’ Harry hesitates, bespectacled eyes studying her. ‘‘And, again, good job. You did amazing, Hermione. You and Malfoy. Incredible investigative work.’’ He exhales, gaze flicking away in his usual awkwardness to broach sensitive topics. ‘‘And, um, I’m glad you’re alright. It was- it was tense down there at Gringotts. I thought- Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re okay and that’s all that counts.’’ He forces a smile, glancing back at her. ‘‘I suppose that’s it. I’m going now. Good luck with wrapping everything up.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ Hermione replies automatically, watching him spin around to leave. Her pulse races, realising this is the opportunity she had been waiting for the past several hours. She blinks, too many different parts of her suddenly in war: the emotions, the logic, the ego. 

It’s her heart that ultimately wins.

‘‘Harry!’’

She gets to her feet at the same time he halts, turning back to her again.

She walks until the tip of their shoes graze, lifting her head only marginally to catch his pretty green eyes. 

‘‘Thank you… for everything. For saving my life, for helping me so last-minute, but mostly… Thank you for trusting me.’’ She’s the one to smother him with her arms now. ‘‘Thank you for being on my side.’’

His own arms come up a beat later, enlacing her without hesitation, squeezing her tightly. ‘‘Don’t thank me. I should have never not been on your side.’’ He buries his face on the crook of her neck as per habit, which makes his voice muffled against her skin. But she still hears him loud and clear. ‘‘I’m so sorry for everything, Hermione. I’m so sorry for letting you down. For hurting you.’’ His voice cracks at that, and he snuggles closer into her. ‘‘I’m sorry for taking so long to say sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that.’’

It’s all just too much. After such a stressful, frightening, exhausting bloody day-

The dam breaks, and Hermione leans her entire body against his, finally letting her guard down and crying with abandon.

He holds her tighter. ‘‘I’m so, so, so sorry. Please, forgive me, Hermione. Please. I don’t want to lose you. When I saw that green light going in your direction, my heart stopped. I thought I was gonna lose you forever. And that… that was one of the scariest moments of my life.’’ Hermione sobs against his shirt, the fabric already soaked with her tears. He doesn’t seem to mind in the least; Harry remains gripping at her as if he’s afraid that she’ll vanish from him once more. ‘‘I didn’t tell you enough when we were friends, and I cannot make that mistake again: I love you, Hermione. You’ll always be my best friend. And I’ll always be there for you whenever you need me. Whenever you allow me.’’

She cries for so long that, when she finally lets go of him, she feels ready for a long night of sleep. Her limbs are heavy, eyelids hardly able to support themselves up, and all she wants is her bed. And she minutely realises that she’s earned that.

She inhales deeply, looking Harry in the eyes. ‘‘I’ve known you more than I’ve known anyone in my life, Harry. You’ve been there for me since I first learned what magic was.’’ She smiles, closes her hand around his. ‘‘You’ll always be my best friend.’’

Hermione leaves the Operation Room and marches to where she knows Draco is. He’s not done with whatever is still occupying his desk, but neither is she. And she no longer cares. Pulling him up by the wrists, she guides him to the exit.

‘‘We’re going home now.’’

As she’d called it, Hermione sleeps like the dead, only rousing when the first noises of Scorpius traipsing around the kitchen makes her startle away from Draco’s arms. The night before, they had returned to his flat to take over from Andromeda, her great-nephew already gone to bed due to the late hour. With the sun already slicing through the open curtains now, the couple leave their warm lodge to join the boy downstairs. Despite their best wishes, they depart after breakfast when Draco’s aunt arrives, since they’re expected back at the office to finish their job.

The pile of paperwork is still humongous, as it always is when a case is considered closed, but it appears to be even more when it comes to Zimcooke and all the attention it had gathered from all levels in the Ministry. By the end of the morning, far from done, Hermione can only hope she won’t be spending her entire weekend at headquarters to finalise the bloody thing. 

Her hopes crash and burn when Mackenzie calls them to her office at lunchtime.

‘‘I had a feeling you wouldn’t take a lunch break.’’ She smirks when they occupy the sofa in front of her, sandwiches already hastily ingested at their own desk. ‘‘I called you here because the Minister has just confirmed that you two will be conferred a Justus Pilliwickle Award for outstanding service provided to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The ceremony will take place today at five o’clock, right after the opening ceremony at the Aurors training facility.’’

If Hermione doesn’t roll her eyes, it’s because her self-control has improved greatly as of late. Draco, next to her, hums in evident disinterest. ‘‘How… satisfactory.’’

Hermione chuckles, remembering his words down at Gringotts’ cave-like chamber, when complaining about Carrow’s first name. She side-eyes him. ‘‘At least something in the conclusion of this case is pleasing you.’’

Draco’s self-control hasn’t improved as much as hers; he rolls his eyes. Focusing on Mackenzie, he musters a sardonic smile. ‘‘Let me guess, Jones was the one who had this awesome idea?’’

Mackenzie tilts her head. ‘‘How come you don’t think it came from me?’’

A scoff is the answer. ‘‘You care even less for these nonsensical futilities than us. I know it was Jones,’’ Draco’s mouth pinches. ‘‘Surely in an attempt to mask her fuck-up in suspending us.’’

The Head Deputy’s shrug is very telling. ‘‘I told you: Hestia would be over the moon that we disobeyed her when she eventually realised she made a mistake. There’s a reason she’s the Head of the department. It’s not only expertise; Hestia is the queen of retracting when it suits her and shifting blame when the situation asks for it. Have you seen The Daily Prophet’s front page today?’’ Hermione and Draco shake their heads. As if they had time for it in the chaos of their day so far. ‘‘The entire story is told through a very different lens than what we experienced. We’re all heroes in it, especially her. She’s come off as the wise, generous boss that allowed two of her employees to go rogue with nothing but their gut feeling to guide them.’’ At the two Aurors’ indignant faces, she gives them a wry smile. ‘‘There’s a lot to learn from her, guys.’’ Her smile dissolves into a smirk. ‘‘But not everything.’’

‘‘She’s a bitch.’’ Hermione says with all the letters.

Her boss chuckles. ‘‘She’s the woman who’s in line to get an Order of Merlin, Third Class for her commendable work as the Head of the DMLE, particularly after her successful leadership in one of the most complex, critical cases of the century. And she’s making sure to show how grateful she is to the officers who have thrived under such leadership. Hence the Justus Pilliwickle Award.’’

It’s a travesty from every single angle. After all the deterrents she has posed to them, all the distrust and harsh attitude, she gets to come on top, reaping the rewards of an achievement she didn’t deserve.

‘‘Fuck this.’’ Draco thunders, mirroring Hermione’s exact thoughts. ‘‘We shouldn’t accept this joke of an award out of damn principle.’’

Mackenzie inhales patiently. ‘‘But you will. You will accept it. You’re a smart man, Draco. You know you have to play ball if you want to have a future here.’’

His only response is to huff, but Hermione sees the point and she knows he does too. Refusing to attend the ceremony would be considered a terrible slight and it would certainly have repercussions to their own standing inside the division. With or without the Zimcooke case closed.

And Hermione has no interest in starting from zero again.

‘‘We’ll be there, Emily. We’ll put a happy face and pretend Hestia isn’t the massive cunt that she is. We will take the award home and then flush it down the toilet. Right, Draco?’’

‘‘I might burn mine.’’

Mackenzie grins. ‘‘Sounds like a plan. Now tell me, have you found the time yet to read through March’s interrogation session?’’

The Westminster facility is a formidable Victorian construction dating back to the fifteenth century, built under Burdock Muldoon’s rule as Chief of the Wizards’ Council, the predecessor to the Ministry of Magic. The historical building shares the same architectural features with the others from its ranking, both muggle and magical: colonnaded porticos lead to carved timber doors, cornices and mouldings pepper the entire structure inside out, balconies and decorative parapets surround the exterior while pelmets, fireplaces and ceiling roses imbue the interior. The only real difference is the heavy unplottability that conceals the magical building, which stands right in the heart of London, from the rest of the muggle world. Wizards and witches must cross St James’ Park to get to the discreet pathway that will eventually open into the right address.

Hermione feels like she’s stepping through the Middle Ages as she takes her place inside the large auditorium where every official ceremony of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement occurs. She knows the rest of the premises, deeper within the facility, are not as stiff and grandiose as the one she’s standing on at the minute. The rooms where the recruits receive their training, as she recalls very vividly from her own experience, are nothing like it; on the contrary, they are functional and sterile, allowing for the best Auror programme the DMLE can offer to the newcomers.

Next to Draco, she waits for her name to be called to receive the blasted award. She had come straight from the headquarters, leaving half of her workload unfinished since she had to hurry to be there punctually, no overtime for her today.

It turns out she’s not particularly upset about that. Draco and her had agreed to take the evening off, meeting the lads at The Porcelain Pixie to kill some hours before they head back to his flat once more, looking forward to another very much needed (and uninterrupted) night of sleep on each other’s arms. And it will be the first time they’ll see their friends as an official couple, and Hermione can’t say she’s not excited about the prospect.

They only have to get through this rotten, theatrical act first. 

At twenty three minutes past five, finally, Hermione and Draco are invited to get on the stage and be publicly bestowed the Justus Pilliwickle Award. They smile as genuinely as they’re capable, thanking the Minister and Hestia for their kindness in appointing them for such an honour. Mackenzie grins brightly by their side, nodding in approval when they shake her hand last. With the medal pinned to their chests, Hermione and Draco give a mandatory speech, so short that half of the audience is left a little confused when they bid their goodbyes in under five minutes.

‘‘Congratulations again, Hermione.’’ Kingsley’s rich voice blankets her as she’s drinking a flute of champagne by one of the fireplaces, watching Draco being dragged for the past several minutes into a notably boring conversation with Dedalus Diggle. She had been amusing herself with Draco’s polite but fake expression of interest when the Minister decided to strike a conversation with her.

‘‘Thank you, Minister.’’

He tuts. ‘‘It’s what they say, isn’t it? Just in the nick of time. When it counted, you and Mr Malfoy made it work.’’

He’s being absolutely pleasant, and yet Hermione feels irked with the interaction. Perhaps it’s the forced circumstances she finds herself in that makes her say it, or perhaps the evocative reminder of their last conversation at the Ministry Gala, which had left her with a sour taste in her mouth.

Either way, she looks up to the man without a hint of a smile. ‘‘Yes, Minister. I suppose we learned how not to confuse prudence with inertia. Wasn't that what you told me the last time? That passivity shouldn’t be the order of the day. Well, then. Draco and I took your advice to heart and did what we thought was right. So, yes, you can say we made it work despite the Ministry's constant hindrance.’’

The dark-skinned wizard turns serious on the spot. ‘‘Is there something you want to say to me, Hermione?’’

This time, Hermione does smile. ‘‘I just said it, Minister. Excuse me.’’

She walks away without a specific direction, only wishing to put distance between her and the man. She shifts route when she locates Hestia, not wanting to go that way either, and then again when Frederic Fawley and his big mouth corner her from the left. Hermione spins around, evading another couple of pedant coworkers until she finds herself next to Harry.

‘‘For the love of God, save me from this nightmare before I bury myself into the ground for an escape.’’

Harry laughs with gusto. ‘‘Now, now, Hermione. This is all for you. Don’t be ingrate.’’

She zeroes an unimpressed glare on him. ‘‘They can shove my gratefulness up their arses, for all I care.’’

She takes a gulp of her drink as Harry laughs again. Standing side by side, they watch the stuffy mass of people in a companionable silence, occasionally throwing in a comment or two. 

It feels good. It feels normal.

It feels like old times, when they teamed up in these sorts of events to make fun of everybody else. When they used to be partners and best friends. And, when that realisation dawns on Hermione, she doesn’t run to pull herself away, to insert some distance between them again. She feels, conversely, comfortable. Glad.

The invite is out of her mouth before she overthinks it.

‘‘We’re leaving soon. Draco and I. We’re meeting some friends at a pub in Brick Lane. Erm, if you don’t have any plans for tonight, you should come too. It’ll be good fun.’’

Harry blinks, twisting to face her in utter surprise. He stares at her for so long, Hermione chuckles.

‘‘You can say no, Harry. I know the former Slytherins aren’t really your crowd-’’

‘‘No.’’ He interrupts her a little loud. Clearing his throat, he waits a beat before resuming more calmly. ‘‘No, it- it sounds good. I’ll be there.’’

Hermione grins. ‘‘It’ll be fun, you’ll see.’’

‘‘What will be fun?’’

Hermione and Harry turn when Mackenzie approaches their small circle. The older woman nurses a firewhisky as she parks in between the two of them. 

‘‘The pub tonight.’’ Hermione clues her in. ‘‘Draco and I are meeting some friends later, and I invited Harry to join us. You know, so we can actually celebrate the end of this bloody case.’’ She tilts her head. ‘‘You should come, too, Emily.’’

Similarly to Harry, Mackenzie blinks. ‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Hermione chuckles again. ‘‘This isn’t a celebration, this ridiculous function right here. We should actually take the time to toast that this hell of a journey is finally over. The four of us, I mean. We were the ones who made it happen and we are the ones who deserve the praise. And I think a night out in the pub with our mates sounds like the best way of doing that.’’

Mackenzie is grinning before Hermione’s done speaking. ‘‘I’m in.’’ She says cheerfully. ‘‘I don’t remember the last time I went out for drinks. I feel like all I do lately is work.’’

‘‘Tell me about it.’’ Harry puffs in agreement. ‘‘For me it’s work or kids. It’s been probably a few months since I’ve been anywhere besides home and the office.’’

‘‘Well, there you go. Tonight we’re changing that.’’ 

She tells them the address to the bar and then lingers around for another fifteen minutes before fetching Draco and leaving Westminster without a lick of guilty conscience. They apparate separately, Hermione going to her flat to get ready as Draco travels to his. They meet again after an hour or so when Hermione floos to his apartment where they had agreed to meet. Stepping out of the fireplace, she immediately runs into Daphne.

‘‘Hello, Hermione.’’

‘‘Hey, Daphne. How is it going?’’

She walks inside the living room, searching around for her sweet angel.

‘‘All good, thank you. Scorpius is upstairs with Draco. He loves watching his father get dressed.’’

‘‘Of course he does.’’

‘‘You look nice.’’ Daphne says after a moment, looking her up and down appreciatively. 

Hermione’s wearing a simple yellow dress today, nothing special, but she cherishes Daphne’s compliment anyway. ‘‘Thanks. It’s good to be out and about again.’’

‘‘You’ve certainly earned it.’’ They share a smile until the blonde’s eyes fall to what Hermione’s carrying in her right hand. Her eyebrows rise on her forehead. ‘‘It’s that a sleepover bag?’’

‘‘That’s absolutely none of your business.’’

Draco’s voice reaches them as he descends the carpeted staircase.

‘‘Hermione!’’ Scorpius cuts through the still moment, coming from behind his dad and rushing to hug Hermione.

She returns his embrace with steady arms around his shorter figure as she eyes Draco sternly. ‘‘Don’t talk to her like that, Draco. She asked a valid question. Weren’t we supposed to be outspoken about this now?’’

Draco makes a face. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose so. Sorry, just a reflex.’’

Hermione rolls her eyes while Daphne lets out a small unladylike snort. ‘‘Draco here is still a little butthurt about my questioning during Pansy’s birthday party. I’m guessing you haven’t forgiven me yet for being nosey?’’

‘‘Of course I have. It’s just- I’m still getting used to be open about private things, that’s all.’’

They exchange meaningful glances, and Hermione watches it in silence. She has her suspicions about what happened in the aforementioned event, which had been, after all, the trigger for Draco to start acting closed-off and distant. And yet, she’s not really bothered to find out the minutiae of it all; it’s water under the bridge, and Hermione prefers to let it rest for her own peace of mind.

‘‘Well, I for one understand it perfectly.’’ His former sister-in-law says at last. She smiles gently. ‘‘I’m glad you two have decided to allow your relationship to thrive.’’ Her gaze falls on Draco. ‘‘I’m happy for you. You deserve to love and be loved again.’’

Hermione’s eyes water at the kind words, and she extends a palm to squeeze the witch’s forearm in appreciation. Draco, across from them, appears a bit awkward but, in the end, accepts the sentiment. ‘‘Thank you, Daphne. And thank you for taking care of Scorpius tonight. We won’t be back late.’’

‘‘That’s fine. Enjoy your evening.’’

‘‘Daddy, send Aunt Pansy and Uncle Neville my regards. And Uncle Blaise and Aunt Susan, too. And Uncle Theo. And-’’

‘‘Yes, baby. I’ll send your regards to everyone I see, I promise.’’

Leaving an appeased Scorpius and Hermione’s duffel bag behind, they depart through Draco’s front door and apparate to the East End.

They walk inside The Porcelain Pixie hand in hand.

They are all there already: Pansy and Neville, Blaise and Susan, Greg and Christine, and Theo and Lavender. They sit around a large table with two vacant seats and, as Hermione and Draco come into view, it’s the man at the head of it that stands up at once.

‘‘Ladies and gentlemen, here they are! The best Aurors of the Ministry. The case-closers. The couple of the century- I mean, partners.’’

Blaise flashes them a shit-eating grin and Hermione can’t even get mad. As everyone else looks at them with smiley faces, she steps ahead to give him a kiss on the cheek.

‘‘Hi there, Blaisey.’’

‘‘Mione, love. So good to see you.’’

‘‘Don’t call me love.’’

They trade winks, Hermione moving forward to greet the rest while Draco and his best friend hug each other tightly. They take the vacant seats, Theo bustling to get them drinks, and instantly become the centre of the attention.

‘‘So.’’ It’s Lavender who starts and Hermione braces herself. ‘‘Is this official, then?’’

‘‘Yes, Lav.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’ She throws Draco a stink eye. ‘‘Well, as long as he behaves, that’s fine by me.’’

‘‘Oof. Thank Merlin for your permission, Brown. I was crossing my fingers here the whole time.’’

Her boyfriend and best friend glare at each other, and Hermione takes a deep breath. She chooses to focus on the other couples of the circle. ‘‘We’ve already come forward with it at work, so our relationship is fully above-board. And we’ll no longer be partners. For the sake of ethics and etcetera.’’

‘‘Ah, but you were so good working together!’’ Susan protests.

‘‘I know, but this is for the best. We don’t wanna risk any issues coming in between us because of work.’’

The group nods in understanding.

‘‘So, who is going to be your partners, then, from now on?’’

What a good question.

Hermione glances at Draco, who shrugs in response. ‘‘Not sure yet. This is a problem for next week. Though…’’ He pauses, smirking at her with one side of his mouth. ‘‘I suppose your next partner won’t be that much of a puzzle after all.’’

Hermione chuckles as the others frown.

‘‘What does that mean? Who’s going to be your-’’

‘‘Is that… Harry?’’

Neville’s question shifts everyone’s attention. Twisting on their chairs so they can stare at the pub’s entrance, the table watches in varying degrees of confusion as Harry and Mackenzie march to them through the sea of patrons. Hermione timely realises she should have given their mates a heads-up.

Oops.

‘‘Er, hello.’’

The two newcomers stand a little timidly in front of them, smiling hesitantly to the gaping expressions that welcome them.

‘‘Hey, guys.’’ Hermione hurries to break the ice. ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t warn anyone that you were coming. Um, this is Emily Mackenzie, the Head Deputy of the DMLE and our direct boss. And this is- Well, you all know Harry.’’ A moment of silence passes and she carries on. ‘‘I invited them tonight to celebrate closing the case. Can we make some extra room for them?’’

The circle shuffles, conjuring two extra chairs. Mackenzie ends up sitting between Hermione and Draco while Harry, the poor bloke, lands in the seat shouldered by Blaise and Pansy. Hermione can’t help the amused smile that takes over her mouth. She doesn’t do anything to save him from the two known agitators, though; let him fight for his life.

‘‘Hi. I’m Lavender.’’ 

The blonde witch peers around Hermione, offering a hand in Mackenzie’s direction.

‘‘Oh, hi. Emily.’’

‘‘Hi, Emily. I’ve heard great things about you. I’ve also heard that you’re hard-arse motherfucker.’’

Hermione’s eyes widen in shock as the Head Deputy lifts one single brow.

‘‘So… Only great things, then.’’

Lavender chuckles loudly. ‘‘Exactly. And, from all I’m seeing so far, they’ve not been wrong.’’

‘‘Mhm. Perhaps that’s something you should investigate more… thoroughly.’’

Hermione blinks, then looks down to where the women’s hands are still connected. Her gaze bounces from one witch to the other, whose eyes hold fast to one another and whose lips are stretched in keen smiles.

Sparks fly.

‘‘Well, don’t mind if I do.’’ Lavender’s voice drops an octave. ‘‘Can I buy you a drink?’’

‘‘Lead the way.’’

They promptly get up and move together to the bar. Hermione watches them go with her chin dropped before turning to Draco. His expression is as stricken as hers.

‘‘Did you just see-’’

‘‘I did.’’

‘‘Huh.’’ Hermione closes her mouth. She gives it a minute to process the information. ‘‘Well, I guess that’s how Lavender acts when she fancies someone.’’

Even though they’re on the opposite side of him, Hermione still looks over to where Theo sits, checking if he’s caught something from their conversation. He doesn’t appear like he did, only because his attention is not on them at all. Instead, he tracks the obvious flirty conversation taking place at the bar counter, the object of his desire having met the object of her desires right in front of him. Hermione feels her chest tighten for the man, the breaking of his heart she can hear all the way from across the table. It looks painful and she can relate a little too well. But, unfortunately, there’s nothing she can do for him. He has to go through it. And, perhaps, seeing it so clearly now might help him get there eventually.

Hermione twirls back to Draco, swapping concerned glances with him.

‘‘It’s no one’s fault.’’ He tells her and he’s right.

Life’s like this sometimes. 

And yet, that doesn’t mean that one should just watch it powerlessly. Draco, despite his affirmation, shifts places and spends the rest of the night next to his mate, an affectionate arm thrown over his shoulder. They talk quietly, only for each other’s ears, and so the experience is made a little less excruciating to the dark-haired wizard.

The other dark-haired wizard in attendance, for his part, is having a similar difficult time. Blaise and Pansy take turns to subtly grill Harry, all but interrogating him about every step he’s taken in life since he was born. Hermione finds it too funny, but she’s not so cold-hearted. At some point, she takes pity on him and comes to the rescue, inviting the bloke to get the next round of drinks with her. He readily agrees, evident relief written across his face as they walk away from the table.

‘‘Jesus, Hermione.’’

She laughs in the middle of her order. ‘‘-and three pints, please.’’ When the barkeep goes along to arrange the beverages, she turns to him. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘You know what. These people are fucking crazy.’’

She shrugs. ‘‘They’re no worse than George on a bad day. Or Ginny, if we’re being completely honest right now.’’

‘‘There’s no way you actually believe that. Zabini and Parkinson-’’

‘‘I know, I know. But that’s just how they behave when they don’t know you yet. They also gave me a hard time when I first came to the pub. That’s just standard practice for them, trust me. They’re just making sure you’re alright.’’

Harry purses his mouth. ‘‘And if they decide I’m not?’’

‘‘Ah, well. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’’ Harry grimaces and Hermione laughs again. ‘‘Come on, Harry. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.’’

‘‘Right.’’ He sighs, gaze straying back to the table. ‘‘I just- I’m still struggling to accept that this is your new life. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m super happy you found them and that they’re good friends to you.’’ He rushes to ensure. ‘‘I truly am. It’s just- it’s so weird to witness that. I mean, you’re hanging out with the entire Slytherin year. Quite literally. You’re dating the king of the snakes.’’ Another grimace takes over his expression. ‘‘Jesus, Hermione. Draco Malfoy. Do you realise that? You’re dating Draco bleeding Malfoy.’’

‘‘Trust me, Harry, I’ve gone through the same thought process. I too struggled to accept that this was happening, but… It did. It happened. And I love him. More than I believed it possible to love someone.’’

Harry brings his eyes back to her. They bore into hers, finding the truth of what she’s saying in them. His countenance softens. ‘‘Yes. Yes, you do. And that’s all I need to know to put myself through a night with the vipers when you ask me to.’’

Hermione chuckles, equally touched and amused with his words. ‘‘Thanks, Harry. I promise you, they’re not that bad-’’

‘‘Potter.’’

The topic of their conversation approaches them, leaving Theo alone for only a small period of time to come to Hermione’s side, hand encircling her waist possessively. His silver eyes fall on Harry and there they stay.

‘‘Malfoy.’’

There’s a certain tension in the atmosphere, one that wasn’t there when they were at the office or even during the award ceremony at Westminster. Hermione supposes that, being at Draco’s territory, surrounded by his friends and his girl, it makes both of them a little more guarded.

A few seconds pass before Draco says what he came all the way there to say.

‘‘I’m glad you made it tonight, Potter. And that you two are getting along again.’’ He holds Hermione tighter against his body. ‘‘I saw you guys talking, appearing comfortable with each other again, and Hermione laughing. That’s good.’’ He smiles but there’s a blatant undercurrent of menace in the motion. ‘‘But if you ever make her cry again, I’ll end you.’’ The smile suddenly becomes wide. ‘‘Deal?’’

Harry regards him for a moment- a quiet, stiff moment- and then he nods.

‘‘Deal.’’

Draco extends a hand and Harry takes it. They shake as they hold one another’s gaze before letting go and looking at her. Both of them grin and so does Hermione.

She snuggles closer to Draco, happy as a clam.

It’s the classic tale.

A man is made to have a close proximity with a woman he doesn’t like, a woman who has been a thorn in his side for years and years. Their rocky relationship dates way back and the track record is far from positive; they loathe each other. But, as fate usually has it, they have no choice but to put up with one another and make it work for the sake of something bigger than them. And so time passes, the old grudges begin to fade, prejudice is replaced by curiosity and, then, curiosity by affection. Respect, admiration, love. Their rivalry can no longer stand on its own two feet and is, as such, swiftly converted into a feeling too strong to deny. The man, who has a weighty baggage to carry every day, tries his hardest but can’t escape the whirlwind that the woman he once found insufferable has brought to his quiet, isolated life. She comes like a storm, uprooting everything he has taken for granted and shaking his world to the ground.

Hermione did.

After plunging to rock bottom, rejected and betrayed by everyone she knew, Hermione claws her way each day into a better life. A changed life. Forced to face her many shortcomings, to overcome her biases and welcome her biggest fears, she rebuilds herself. It takes time, it takes effort and broken pieces of her heart. She’s not perfect, but she’s exactly what Draco wanted. And he, what she needed. They fall in love against their wishes and, once she’s whole again, she makes him too. Draco says that, sometimes, they bring out the worst in each other but, most times, they bring out the best. He says that any way that doesn’t allow one to be their true selves is simply not the right way. 

He’s right, of course.

So, in turn, Hermione loves him with all his flaws and baggage, and lets him do the same for her. Reciprocity gives way to a shared life and a certainty that no one will ever be left behind again.

Chapter Text

It’s due to Scorpius’ insistence that they floo to the Diagon Alley on that Sunday. They had been debating what to do on the actual day of her birthday- the festive celebration had taken place the Friday before- when the nine-year-old suggested the village, convincing the adults that, the academic year having already started, it would be an uneventful, tranquil afternoon stroll.

For the first couple of hours, it had been exactly that; Hermione, Draco and Scorpius walked hand-in-hand through the cobblestoned alley, visiting a few stores and patronising Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour after lunch, cherishing the lovely yet rare moment of being just the three of them, no hurry to be anywhere or do anything except enjoy each other. It had felt, as it was the case for the past several weeks, like they were a family of sorts.

Or much like a real one.

This thought always worked to make Hermione’s insides somersault, a rush of adrenaline- and longing- cruising through her veins. She never dared to say the words aloud, but she was becoming increasingly more attached to the idea as time passed.

She loved Draco something fierce; this was set in stone by now. She couldn’t see herself with anyone else in the world, and she knew that what they had was the real thing. It was nothing compared to her past relationship, and the stark differences made her realise, literally every single day, how much happier and more fulfilled she felt. That’s to say- she was in it to stay. For good.

Forever. 

And Scorpius… God, she loved him too. He was never going to be her son, and she didn’t dream of trying to force such a thing, but the bond they had created in the last months was absolutely precious. The boy was precious. She knew with each fibre of her being that she’d do anything to protect him and keep him safe and healthy. And she was aware that he was crazy about her, too. It was a great arrangement that they had: boundaries that didn’t affect the shared affection, responsibilities that didn’t stifle the joy of being together. Draco was the parent; Hermione helped him with it whenever he needed an extra set of hands. They didn’t live together, but Hermione was at their flat every other night and the entire weekend. Their time was usually short during the week and there were always too many things to get done, too much accumulated work, but the everyday interaction was still there, keeping them close and devoted to each other.

If that wasn’t the base principle of a family, of blood or not, then she didn’t know what it was. And that’s why, when planning for her birthday, the only way she wanted to spend it was with her beloved lads. Whether it be at Diagon Alley or elsewhere.

So here they are, by Scorpius’ suggestion, traipsing around the small town bolstering huge lollies, chatting about everything and nothing at the same time. It’s a true delight. However, as the first hours draw to an end, with it goes their peace. Because as soon as they cut a corner at the Owl Post Office, they come face-to-face with the Potters and Weasleys.

The last time Hermione had seen Harry was just the previous Friday, when he attended her celebration at The Porcelain Pixie. After the conclusion of the Zimcooke case, the two Aurors pretty much made up and slowly returned to their friendship of before. Attuned to that, as she was with every other little thing that happened in the headquarters, Mackenzie wasted no time to call them up and suggest they became partners again. It turned out that neither of them had any qualms about it, since both were indeed in need of a new partner and somewhat missed working together, and so the situation once more settled in peace: Hermione with Harry, in their smooth partnership that once meant the most efficient results in the DMLE, and Draco with Charles Moroso, whose own partner had found a higher paying job and left the Ministry the previous month, and who was the only person Draco got minimally along in the entire office, besides Hermione. 

As such, after being partnered again with him for the past two weeks, Hermione saw absolutely no issue in inviting Harry to her party or, for that matter, in bumping into him out of the sudden in the streets. Ginny, in contrast, hasn’t participated in their healing process, so seeing her like this, without a prompt, still somewhat unsettles Hermione. And, of course-

Ronald with his new wife and baby; Hermione is not sure she’s ever been in the presence of the three of them all at once, much less surrounded by the other Weasleys. It’s everyone: George and Angelina with their own children, Percy with his youngest daughter, even Arthur and Molly. They appear to be in their regular day-out with the kids who haven’t started at Hogwarts yet.

Hermione remembers those quite well. It was always on the last Sundays of the month, a get-together with everyone who is still at home, a nice reminder that time passes and as such one should cherish it dearly before it’s gone before their eyes. It normally took place at Diagon Alley or Godric Hollow, and it used to be one of her favourite moments of the year, because little else made her feel so much like a Weasley.

And now she’s unwittingly carved her way back into it completely by accident.

But, contrary to what might have been expected, the chance encounter doesn’t cause her anything beyond mild surprise. She already has her own family; there’s no need to miss the old, borrowed one.

‘‘Hermione!’’

For the first time in a long while, there’s no awkwardness. Molly, as usual, rushes to play the role of the mother hen, crowding Hermione and inquiring after her well-being. The children are next, her darling angels, and cheerful old George. Hermione greets them all in glee, genuinely happy to see them. Naturally, it helps that Scorpius is thrilled to bits to meet James and Albus again, swiftly falling into the easy, unassuming interaction kids are so good at. Draco is visibly glad for it, watching his son glow in elation with his new friends with a soft grin on his face, and Hermione can’t have enough of the sight.

‘‘Hello, Mione. Happy birthday.’’

The words are low and gentle, just for her ears. She turns to meet Ginny’s brown eyes.

‘‘Thanks, Gin.’’

They don’t hug and, surprisingly, the redhead doesn’t try to push it. They only look at one another for a minute, smiling privately, before tuning back into the general conversation of the larger circle around them.

Hermione hadn’t sent out invitations for the Porcelain Pixie; that would have made it a bigger deal than what it actually was. All she wanted was a relaxed evening with her mates, to decompress from the exhausting months of bustle that had accompanied Zimcooke, something that the meagre weeks since the end of it haven’t accomplished yet. As a matter of fact, she’s still dealing with the aftereffects of the blasted case: Carrow and March’s trials are ongoing, media attention remains high and there are piles of paperwork yet to be processed. Hermione’s been finding herself stressed more often than not, and therefore the only thing she had wished for was a low-key celebration of her thirty-fourth lap around the sun.

The Porcelain Pixie was the ideal setting for it. Few people were invited, one of them being Harry. She wanted him there and it had been easy to catch his eye from across her desk, where now his own desk stands, and ask him if he was free six days from then. He’d instantly agreed and that had been it. She hadn’t extended the invitation to a plus one; she never once mentioned, or thought of mentioning, Ginny’s name.

She knows, nevertheless, that his wife was well aware of his destination when he left their home to be the first to arrive and to return only when Hermione herself was done with the night. And yet, Hermione hasn’t heard a word of it. Nor is she hearing it now.

Her former best girlfriend congratulates her quietly, leaving it be and palpably deviating from her characteristic confrontational, nosey style. It surprises Hermione. 

In a strangely good way.

‘‘Happy birthday, Hermione.’’

Shaken from her musings about Ginny, she swivels to the familiar voice, automatically putting a polite smile on.

‘‘Thanks, Ronald.’’

He stands to the left, slightly off the circle, seeming a bit hesitant. It doesn’t shock her; this is far from the most comfortable scenario for him: his ex-girl with her brand new man, meeting for the first time with his own brand new wife and baby. And to add to the party mix: last time they spoke, she told him quite literally to fuck off, then immediately ran away to snog his former arch nemesis in front of the entire Ministry of Magic.

A little awkward, if one really looks at it.

She couldn’t care less. Her relationship with Harry is being mended, and the latter is taking the news of her dating Draco fairly well, all things considered, and that’s all that matters. He had initially struggled to make sense of how the two of them had managed to fall in love in secret (and so quickly), but for the rest he’s accepted them as a couple without too much complaint. Not that he had a right to voice any displeasure at all, but the fact that Harry came on board with everything rather painlessly did help Hermione realise that anybody else’s possible issues with her new boyfriend didn’t deserve an ounce of her attention.

Much less Ronald bleeding Weasley.

She glances away from him, holding his wife’s gaze instead. Despite the pregnancy and consequent motherhood, she still looks like a child herself- rounded baby features, big bright eyes, an effusive, artless smile. She mustn’t be older than twenty-five. She’s objectively pretty, blonde and slim, and there’s just an air on her, something genuine and a little, well, angelic. Hermione can see what Ronald saw in her and, decidedly for the first time ever, she concedes.

She grins at the younger woman, taking a side-step to come closer. Looking at the adorable boy in her arms, Hermione coos. ‘‘Oh, hello there. Who’s that charming little fella?’’ She brings her eyes back to the girl, Amelia. ‘‘Freddy, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Yes, that’s Freddy,’’ she replies at once, widening her own grin. ‘‘He turns nine months tomorrow.’’

‘‘Wow, all of that already? You’re a big boy then, aren’t you?’’

The baby is stinking cute, ginger hair like his father and hazel eyes like his mother. And freckles everywhere.

‘‘He certainly thinks he is!’’ Amelia giggles, staring adoringly at her son, who has been babbling something that only she seems to understand.

Hermione hums. ‘‘That’s good. And how are you? I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.’’

‘’We haven’t!’’ The retort is so effusive Hermione almost shifts back in startlement. Amelia beams. ‘‘It’s so nice to meet you here, Hermione. I’m doing great, thank you. How about you? Out on a stroll on this beautiful Sunday?’’

‘‘It’s her birthday, actually,’’ her husband supplies to their side.

‘‘Oh, Merlin’s boots!’’

It’s mayhem; the other Weasleys had forgotten about her birthday, except for Ginny and Ronald, and the latter’s wife shrieks in excitement that they ran into each other on such an important date. They all take turns hugging and congratulating Hermione, and Amelia is adamant that they must go somewhere together to celebrate right now.

‘‘Erm…’’ Hermione searches for Draco in the circle, catching his amused countenance from a few feet away. He appears entertained with the spectacle that their peaceful walk has become, witnessing Hermione’s former friends, family and lover crowd her in wait for an answer. ‘‘I’m not sure,’’ she says slowly. ‘‘Draco?’’

He shrugs. ‘‘Up to you, love. Scorpius would love to spend more time with the lads, but it’s your birthday. You choose.’’

‘‘How about you?’’

‘‘Whatever you want is fine with me.’’

She nods, glancing around and noticing how everyone had fallen quiet during their interaction, watching their exchange of words with sharp curiosity.

She clears her throat. ‘‘Ah, well. Why not?’’

They’re all satisfied with her acquiescence. Most of all Scorpius, who had been too absorbed with James and Albus to hear the plans of walking together to the Leaky Cauldron and joining the two groups there for a small commemoration. At the news, the boy bounces up and down in front of her.

‘‘That’s so fun, Hermione! Your birthday is already my favourite of all time!’’

She chuckles as he comes to side-hug her, and as such they move, intertwined in each other, his little arms around her waist. Well, at least for the whole of three minutes; soon enough, he abandons her to be next to his new best friends, a much cooler set-up for sure, and Hermione throws Draco a good-humoured wink. 

Occupying his place is Percy, who falls into step with her and promptly engrosses her in a conversation about Ministry’s dealings and shortcomings. Though Hermione agrees with the majority of what he argues, especially after the clusterfuck of the Zimcooke case, she’s not in the right headspace to talk about it at the minute. So she nods and hums, interjecting a couple of words here and there, but mainly just preferring to watch the scene around them: her beloved kids, all together at last; Draco in friendly conversation with Molly and Arthur; Harry smirking at her from the outer side of the ring. The git appears awfully bemused with the odd coming together of everyone and Hermione can’t blame him.

Who would have thought that this was where she would have ended up? 

She most certainly didn’t, but she’s grateful that it did either way. 

She wouldn’t change it for the world.

At the last street before the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione’s skin breaks out in goosebumps.

‘‘Alright there, love?’’

She nods absently, folding her arms around herself to produce some kind of heat. ‘‘Yeah, just…’’

‘‘I know.’’ 

Draco kills their distance, draping an arm over her shoulders, bringing her close to his body. As they walk, they pass the towering white-marbled construction. Today, two guards patrol the entryway, another two circling the bank every other minute. 

It’s been nearly three weeks since Hermione and Draco had to take on the building alone, counting on nothing but their own skills and team effort. Regardless of the fact that they emerged victorious, it still daunts Hermione how everything played out, and how dangerous it had all been. Particularly when she recalls the killing curse that had been shot her way, which she only very narrowly escaped. 

Things would look much different right now if they hadn’t stuck together, and if their two coworkers hadn’t arrived to change their fate.

The memory makes her sag against Draco’s hold. ‘‘Crazy that it’s over, isn’t it? It took us so long and it really felt for a moment there like we were going nowhere.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ He sighs above her. ‘‘I had pretty much given up in the end.’’

‘‘I’m glad you didn’t.’’

‘‘I’m glad you didn’t let me.’’

Hermione smiles, craning her face up to look at him and revelling in the soft kiss he presses on her lips. She sighs, too, all but snuggling inside his embrace as they cover the last few feet to the bricked wall. They halt to wait for the others before crossing the surface and entering the establishment.

Putting two tables together at one corner of the pub, the eleven adults and seven children (and a baby) take their places. Hermione is glad to sit between Draco and Harry, Scorpius across from them with James, Albus and Lily. The others are spread around the other seats and it’s as comfortable a setting as she’s been in the presence of the Potters and Weasleys in years. It amazes her for a brief instant how far she’s come; how changed she feels about the whole thing, how little resentment and pettiness have found refuge in her since she’s fallen in love with Draco- and been reciprocated by him.

It makes her grin like a fool, uncaring of how silly that might make her look.

On the other side of the table, Ginny watches her with a keen eye. Hermione barely has a moment to collect herself when Draco’s voice reaches her distracted ears.

‘‘I’m torn.’’

‘‘Mhm?’’

Draco’s face is kept straight ahead as he talks. His tone is low and smooth. ‘‘I can’t decide if that baby is really that cute or if I’m just experiencing a baby fever.’’

It’s probably the last thing she expected him to say, so she snorts. ‘‘Baby fever? How come?’’

‘’Mhm. I wouldn’t be surprised, you know?’’ His shrug is subtle. ‘‘Scorpius is all grown up. I suppose I miss the early years of a kid. There’s nothing like it.’’

Once more, it’s not what she expected, and the way he phrases it makes her stomach perform its preferred movement of late: a somersault. She swallows. ‘‘Well, erm… Yeah, I guess you’re right.’’

‘‘Mhm.’’

He doesn’t say anything for a few beats and Hermione tries to resettle. The musings about families, real families, and how she feels with him and his son swirl back again inside her restless mind. She attempts to refocus on the table, and their current reality, but Draco speaking again shatters her resolve.

‘‘What’s your take on kids? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.’’

Another snort escapes her, a little winded no less. ‘‘You wanna talk about that here? Really?’’

‘‘Why not?’’ His neck finally swivels and their eyes meet. 

She ignores his sassy arched brow. ‘‘No particular reason, just thought it strange that this topic came up now of all times.’’

He shrugs. ‘‘I haven’t been around a baby in ages. Like I said, seeing that one makes me wonder…’’

‘‘Wonder what?’’

She holds her breath as his silver gaze roams her face. ‘‘What’s your take on kids?’’ He repeats his original question and she exhales. 

‘‘I love them. My nieces and nephews are everything to me.’’

‘‘I meant kids of your own.’’

‘‘I’d love to have them one day.’’

Their words are nothing more than whispers, but Hermione feels like everyone is eavesdropping into their private conversation. She’s hyper-aware of her surroundings, although she hadn’t noticed Draco’s head tilting until their mouths are whiskers away from each other, his right arm wrapped protectively around the backrest of her chair. Her guts twist and turn as he blinks slowly, appraising her answer.

Suddenly, his expression alters. Inscrutable except for the intensity that mars it.

‘‘Well, I’d love to put loads of them in you.’’

Her exhale this time is brutal. ‘‘Draco.’’

‘‘What? I was only supposed to behave when no one knew about us. Am I to hold myself back forever?’’

Despite the complaint, there’s a hint of amusement somewhere in there. Hermione purses her lips. ‘‘Apparently, yes, since you don’t seem to know how to act in public spaces.’’

‘‘I’m not doing anything.’’

She narrows her eyes, measuring him, but it lacks bite. ‘‘You’re incorrigible.’’ 

‘‘That I am.’’ And because he really is, he circles back to the subject that’s making sweat gather in between Hermione’s breasts. ‘‘Notwithstanding my confirmed lack of propriety, I stand for what I said.’’

Hermione tries to fight a smile, but it’s a lost cause. She doesn’t give up altogether, though. ‘‘Well,’’ she tells him, endeavouring to keep an even voice and nonchalant countenance despite her twitching lips. ‘‘Either way. Before getting ideas about babies, you should know that there’s no way I’ll let you get me up the duff if this little guy here is still nice and empty.’’ She wiggles her right hand, bringing attention to her bare ring finger.

She had anticipated Draco’s smirk; perhaps a poorly concealed snort and a shake of head; even a roll of eyes or a sigh were well within her realm of expectations. She surely didn’t see his actual reaction coming.

Draco’s face loses its inscrutability to become serious and sharp. His eyes flit to her mentioned hand before snapping back to her, gripping her gaze with unsettling gravity. Her insides swoop as he delivers the final blow.

‘‘I’m very aware of it. You should be, too.’’ His body slants an inch closer. ‘‘And rather sooner than later.’’

Seconds crawl by as they hold each other’s eyes. The air between them appears to vanish as neither of them dare to breathe, content in merely floating in the magnetic field that keeps them strung together. If Hermione could be able to house rational thoughts, she’d ponder how for the past several months the axis of her world has shifted just like that, having found a new centre to sustain itself upright. Gone was the old Hermione, as she had often deliberated before; in her place is someone who seems to exist brightly inside Draco’s orbit.

‘’Good afternoon, everyone. What can I get you all to drink?’’

The waiter popping up abruptly ends the moment. Hermione blinks away, tuning into the origin of the disturbance, planting a weak smile on her face.

‘‘Hi.’’

It’s good that the others rush to give their orders; Hermione feels herself reeling from the unforeseen, and heart-stirring, information she’s just been given.

Rather sooner than later.

She swallows, willing herself to calm down. When the server turns to her, she manages to ask for a pint without her voice breaking too terribly. A true accomplishment in her present condition. The young employee leaves and the table returns to their fragmented chats. Hermione barely knows where to look, and her gaze unwittingly falls on Ronald. 

He observes her with a blank face, but the wrinkle in his forehead betrays his upset. Next to him, Amelia is busy with their son, who has been fussing since they sat down at the pub, but he pays them no mind. The redhead stares at Hermione, and surely at Draco too, and she can tell he’s not happy with the scene in front of him.

Twat.

Hermione’s eyes dart away again, this time to land on another corner and on someone else who’s similarly watching her. Once again, Ginny regards her with curiosity and a hint of contemplation. It’s less unsettling than her ex-boyfriend acting jealous while he sits literally beside his own wife, but still it causes Hermione’s chest to tighten a little. Ginny’s behaviour of the last weeks, and particularly of today, departs so markedly from what Hermione’s been used to that confusion is the only result. She had trained herself to always expect confrontation and interference from her, therefore this neutral, mindful Ginny shakes the walls Hermione had so decidedly built around her heart quite dangerously. 

Whether this is a positive development or not, it’s yet to be determined.

Hermione once again swallows, looks away, and is still trying to find her footing when Draco’s face looms by her side, descending until his mouth grazes her ear.

‘‘I love you, you know that, right?’’

Warmth explodes inside her veins, and trepidation disappears.

Hermione shuffles and, as Draco recedes a few inches to give her space, their noses nearly bump into one another. Brown catches silver, and she smiles.

‘‘I know.’’ She proceeds to rest her head against his shoulder, sighing happily. ‘‘I love you too.’’

Draco’s arm lowers, encircling her waist and pulling her closer to him. They stay interwoven until their waiter is back with the beverages and they have to straighten to accept them. Hermione’s ribcage is back to its usual size, her breathing light and consistent again, and she gladly joins in the conversation around the circle, presently about George’s new invention in the joke shop.

All in all, it’s a good birthday. 

The morning had been as uneventful as Scorpius had predicted, lunch delicious in a small, cosy bistro, dessert absolutely perfect at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, the walk delightful with her two favourite men, and the rest of the afternoon passed in cheerful camaraderie with her old and new loves. Regardless of the brief moments of awkwardness or stiltedness when it came to Ronald, everyone else behaved and Hermione felt herself much more inclined to receive from them whatever they were able to give her.

Things would never be the same again, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Hermione is not the same, after all, and that has meant wonderful things. She’s a better person and she’s happier for it. Expecting that the others wouldn’t change too, or that their relationship would either have to carry on unsullied or simply not exist at all, it’s children’s fantasy. It’s not how it works in real life. And, importantly, Hermione has the choice to accept it, and concede that mistakes and flaws are part of it all, or to walk away and lose forever those who once helped her become who she is today.

Before, she had chosen for the latter. She didn’t want anything to do with the Potters and Weasleys anymore. It had made sense, at the time, that this decision was to be made by her; it was the only way for her to protect herself and move on.

Now healed, content and whole, Hermione finds herself in the precipice of choice again. But, this time, for different things: to remain unforgiving and stoic, closing the door to her past for good and not allowing it to shift until it can fit in her future, or to open herself to a changed relationship with the people who loved her even when they hurt her. It’s not choosing between ‘‘never again’’ or ‘‘go back to how it was;’’ it’s between cutting them off forever or welcoming them back in new terms.

 In her terms.

They’re never going to be family again. They’re never going to see each other regularly again. They’re never going to share blood.

And Hermione doesn’t want it. But she doesn’t want coldness, either. Spite. Resentment. Regret. 

She wants to forgive and forget. She wants to live her life without hang-ups. She wants to know they’re well and participate in the kids’ birthdays and wish them happy holidays and have lunch with them every now and then- without worries or qualms.

She wants to invite them, when the time comes, to her wedding.

The thought has butterflies raging inside her and Hermione chances a look in Draco's direction as they stand outside the Leaky Cauldron saying their goodbyes. He’s engrossed with his son, James and Albus, the latter of the two who seem to be trying to convince him of something. Hermione guesses that it must be about a sleepover or another get-together in the near future. 

She smiles, as usual her heart softening to see her three darling angels becoming such good friends.

‘‘He’s a sweetheart.’’

It doesn’t surprise her to see who says it. Hermione nods, waiting until Ginny steps forward and reaches her side.

‘‘He is. He doesn’t have many friends, so it’s really nice that he can hang out with James and Albus sometimes.’’

‘‘Of course. He’s welcome anytime by ours. Whenever they feel like playing together.’’

‘‘Thanks, Gin.’’

They grin at each other, falling quiet. In front of them, Molly and Arthur go around wishing everyone a good night, while Percy struggles to persuade his daughter to put on a jacket since the wind is rather chilly. As the family bid adieu to each other, Hermione prepares herself for their own departure. She’s about to call Draco and Scorpius when the redhead next to her halts her advance with a hand on her forearm.

‘‘Hermione.’’ Hermione spins on her heels and Ginny inhales. She lets go of her, though their distance is still scarce. ‘‘I wanted to apologise for my words. And actions. From before. I don’t think we should dwell on it anymore, and I know you no longer even care, but I just wanted to say… You look good. And you look happier than you've ever been. You and Malfoy are clearly madly in love with each other, it’s honestly a little disgusting to see, but-’’ At that, she chuckles, her characteristic wry humour showing its face at last. ‘‘I’m happy for you. And I promise I won’t say anything else about it again. I know you can’t stand my intrusions, anyway. So for your birthday, here you have it.’’ Ginny’s face suddenly scrunches. ‘‘Okay, scratch that. That sounded so self-serving. I can’t help it sometimes, even when I’m apologising, I come off a little pricky.’’ She laughs again and Hermione follows along this time around. ‘‘Anyway… You know what I mean. I’m sorry for how I behaved and I promise I won’t do anything like it again. There. That’s the message you should take home. Er, not that you should take anything home from me, or that you have to think about it-’’

‘‘I get what you mean, Ginny,’’ Hermione interrupts her, her own hand coming to rest on the other witch’s arm. ‘‘I appreciate you apologising. And vouching not to encroach me or meddle into my life anymore. Thanks.’’

‘‘Ah, well…’’ Ginny shrugs. ‘‘It’s the bare minimum, innit? After everything.’’

‘‘Quite right.’’

They both laugh and a hug of goodbye doesn’t seem so out of place anymore. Nor when Amelie materialises next to them out of nowhere and insists on a hug, too, and Hermione doesn’t have the heart to refuse. The girl is kind and genuine, even if a little too much. Without the baby in her arms, finally so after many hours, she throws both of her arms around Hermione and squeezes her, all the while prattling about how they should meet again soon. Ginny snorts loudly at that, which flies right over the younger woman’s head; Hermione only nods politely. Because Ronald is the one carrying Freddy now, and because Hermione has said goodnight to everyone else in the circle, and so have Draco and Scorpius, she has no option but to talk to him next.

‘‘Bye, Ronald. Bye, Freddie.’’

‘‘Bye, Hermione. It was good seeing you again.’’ He scans her up and down. ‘‘Erm, you look great by the way.’’

Twat.

‘‘Thanks. Amelie too. She’s gorgeous. And nice.’’ Hermione inclines herself forward until their heads round together and no one can hear them. She keeps her voice low and menacing. ‘‘Take care of her. She’s your wife and the mother of your child. Don’t fuck around. Don’t stray. Be a stand-up guy and stand up to your responsibilities. It’s the least you owe her.’’ Hermione straightens, looking him in the eye. ‘‘And me.’’

Ronald gulps but, eventually, nods weakly. 

There’s nothing left to say after that. The circle disperses and Hermione accepts her place under Draco’s spread arm, hand-in-hand with Scorpius.

‘‘All good, love?’’

She grins, catching his gaze. She brings Scorpius closer to her, leaning against Draco’s hold as they walk down the busy London street toward the Apparition point.

‘‘All good.’’

As a matter of fact, she’s never been better.