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This Wednesday felt entirely unusual. First, Draco sat in his very own office instead of a sad grey cubicle; second, he was working late (foul); and third, he currently had a semi hard-on for reasons unbeknownst to him, particularly given the fact he was staring down at a report detailing the brutal murder of a goblin. Thanks to Head Auror Potter—and an injection of funding into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—the senior Aurors had all received their very own offices. It had only taken several years, but Draco now had a space worthy of his name. Enough room for a desk and a visitor chair or two, a green sofa ahead at the wall, a gifted framed picture of a dragon above, and a bar trolley at his left; currently void of any alcohol until he hid it with a charm. There was probably a rule or two about drinking at work in that tome of Ministry policies. Probably something about not wanking at your desk too, but Draco was finding it difficult to care.

Briefly, he peeked out the door to see the dimmed lighting around the array of cubicles and the darkened office doors along the perimeter.

Perfect. He was alone.

Behind his desk, Draco wasted no time in taking his cock from his trousers. The excitement of a new place for a wank—and at work, at that—had now provided him with a rock-hard erection. But with none of his carefully curated porn, he’d have to improvise. He hadn’t had a wank in at least a couple of weeks nor had he been laid. It wouldn’t take long at all. Draco closed his eyes and, as he stroked himself, he dropped his head back to his leather chair, imagining a miscellaneous witch with an amalgam of features from the women he’d bedded over the years. He imagined her bent over his desk, his fingers digging into her full breasts, her wetness on his—

“Malfoy, why did you—”

The witch in Draco’s imagination violently vanished, replaced with the entirely real view of Hermione fucking Granger. In blue robes, wand holding her hazel curls precariously atop her head, she stood at the open door with a folder in hand while Draco held his cock in his. At least it was beneath the desk. She couldn’t see anything, could she? Surely there was no way she could know. He was simply sitting here working, with both his hands beneath the desk... feeling a little flushed in the face. Entirely nothing unusual at all.

Granger’s mouth remained open for a length before she finally asked, “Are you seriously wanking right now?” Her expression hadn’t furled with any disgust or alarm or even fear. While her tone had been accusatory, her eyes appeared faintly curious.

Slowly, Draco shook his head. “Just working.” He thinned his lips, furrowing his chin.

Granger gave a long, scoff of a laugh as she spun and made her way from the office, leaving the door ajar.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered.

When he had noticed Granger, he was teetering on the edge and another stroke or two would have done him in, but now, as the situation truly came to him, he was left with a quickly deflating erection and his face burning with humiliation.

Plans entirely ruined, he put his cock away.

Fuck. Where the hell had Granger come from?

Draco scrunched his eyes tight for his carelessness. He hadn't checked the offices to his right. There were only two at that side, and Granger was the closest. In fact, they shared a wall. How could he have been so careless? He’d been fucking foolish and no doubt there'd be some sort of repercussion, probably via Potter, maybe even escalated higher. Something that would see Draco fired, or even worse, needing to fill out a ream of paperwork or complete some form of training course detailing how to not sexually assault one's colleagues.

Draco palmed up his forehead. Dread was causing him to feel ill. If only he could go back fifteen minutes in time and reconsider his decision to try rub one out at work.

***

They said there's a first time for everything. Draco hadn't a clue who they were, but they were entirely wrong. Despite having worked at the Ministry together for several years now, Draco had never partnered with Granger. A peculiarity, now that he thought about it. Although he had mostly worked with Potter until his recent promotion to Head Auror, Draco had also collaborated with every other individual in the office in some capacity. How was that possible? He and Granger had plenty of passing interactions (read: snide remarks) and crossed paths at least weekly (read: heated glares) at the Auror meetings, but he hadn’t ever needed to visit her cubicle—now office—never had to pop up to ask a question, or even borrow a quill. Nor had Granger ever needed anything from him. At least, not until last night, when she decided she needed to converse at the most inopportune time. That was not to say that he hadn't noticed the way she’d filled out since their Hogwarts days, nor that she always left a delicious vanilla scent in her wake. These days she was rather eye-catching, unfortunately.

But this was all beside the point; he simply needed to confront her before their morning staff meeting. He needed to measure her intentions, maybe clear the air, or at least determine her mood to settle his nerves.

Poking his head through Granger’s open office door turned up entirely nothing. But he knew she was at work. There were only seven minutes until the meeting, and she was always pathetically punctual. Eventually, he found Granger at the small kitchenette beside the meeting room and he noticed her arse in tight blue muggle trousers before anything else. As he approached, she turned with a pink mug in hand, wiggling a tea bag up and down in the steaming water. Why did she bother with her drawn-out muggle methods? One flick of her wand and she’d be enjoying her tea.

Immediately, her eyes were on his crotch. She flicked them up, humour on her lips. "Just checking if you've restrained the trouser snake."

Draco paused his step. He didn’t know what he had expected from Granger—it certainly wasn’t that—but he didn't take time to dwell. He moved in closer, leaning his behind to the worktop and crossing his arms and then ankles.

“About that,” he whispered. Nervousness suddenly swirling in his belly, he barely looked at her, concerned others might see them conversing and think it strange enough to listen in. “You're not going to report me to Potter, are you?”

Granger spun back to face the worktop, not bothering to look at him and continuing the facade of their non-conversation. She vanished the tea bag from her mug with her wand. “Harry doesn’t need to be bothered with these small things.” Her eyes glanced down at his trousers, a grin playing across her face as she took a sip of tea.

Draco’s brows pulled together and he turned toward Granger. “But you're a rule follower if I've ever seen one.”

She gave a clipped laugh. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what Harry, Ron, and I got up to at Hogwarts.”

“I don't need to know about your sex life, Granger.”

Her honey-coloured eyes connected with his, flashing dangerously. “You know perfectly well that I meant what we did in an effort to fight Voldemort.”

He viewed her sidelong. What was she playing at? “You're not going to use this to taunt me? Bribe? Humiliate?”

“I think you're mistaking me for someone like you.” The teaspoon in her mug began spinning in gentle circles. “And I will not report anything because we’re simply both going to pretend it never happened.”

“That's it? We'll just pretend?”

For Salazar’s Sake. Why was he asking such a stupid question? There was no need to protest. He’d received all he needed.

“I mean, thanks,” he muttered before she could say anything further.

Draco was certain he witnessed the flash of a smirk as she went on her way.

In the meeting room, the senior Aurors sat around the large rectangular table, while the juniors loitered around the walls. Potter stood at the front for his monologue, but Draco hadn’t a clue what he was saying. For some reason, his gaze kept trying to cling to Granger opposite. Why were they going to pretend she hadn’t walked in on him wanking? Despite Granger suggesting she was nothing like Draco—not Slytherin in her ways—he couldn’t understand how she hadn’t even bothered to take offence. Wasn’t Granger a prude? He assumed she did entirely nothing except fill her time with books and other boffin-associated activities. It wouldn't have surprised him if she was still a virgin. Maybe their run-in last night was due to pure fascination—she’d never seen a cock before. Of course, she had been dating Weasley, but Draco couldn’t imagine that prat ever figuring out where to put it.

He wore a light frown as he realised—how did he know so little about Granger? He assumed work was her whole life in the same way he’d assumed her predilection for the library had been her everything at Hogwarts. He knew she rarely took lunch and when she did, it was a sad sandwich; but that was work-Granger. Truly, she could have been anyone. Maybe she enjoyed knitting or crocheting or something else yarn-based. She seemed that type. Or conversely, maybe she enjoyed bondage—he genuinely had no clue.

As Draco mulled over the witch, she fingered a curl behind her ear, only to have it spring out again. For some reason, he liked the way it did that. He’d also just noticed she sported a tiny, faint brown freckle at her cupid’s bow. For some reason, he liked the look of it. Draco quickly sent his gaze elsewhere, hoping his thoughts would follow.

“Did you have anything else to add, Malfoy?”

Draco quickly realised he hadn’t heard a single word Potter had just said. He shook his head. “Think you’ve covered it.”

“Great.” Potter sent an unhurried look around the space, taking in the faces of all the Aurors. When he stood front and centre of this room, his expression always appeared serious and his tone ever-commanding, but Potter’s entire demeanour now showed an extra sombre quality. “Lastly, you’re all aware that Auror Preston has passed away...”

Whispers broke out behind Draco. Granger's gaze wandered somewhere down and beyond, and even though he could only see a sliver of her expression, he noticed it was glum. Draco hadn’t known Auror Preston well, but he was always pleasant, seemed knowledgeable, and was a fantastic duellist if he’d ever seen one. Something pricked in Draco’s chest… Okay, so perhaps the reminder of Preston’s death was a little sad, and no doubt he was a loss to their team; a significant loss, in fact.

Potter let the room quieten of the susurrations before he spoke again. “We’ve received word that the funeral will take place next week. For those who would like to attend, I’ll add the details to the notice board.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, Draco thought he heard Granger sniff.

“That’s all for this morning. Thanks everyone.”

Draco had just swivelled his chair to stand when he heard Potter.

“Granger and Malfoy stay behind.”

A pulse of fear lanced through Draco. Had Granger lied to him? Had she already gone to Potter? They were good friends, after all. Maybe she’d left the Ministry last night and immediately ran to tattle on him. Attempting to school his expression into something that maintained his innocence, Draco turned his chair and crossed his arms, while Granger, who had already taken to her feet, angled toward Potter and fiddled one thumbnail with the other. They both watched him expectantly.

When the final Auror had exited the meeting room, Potter said, “I’m currently divvying up Preston’s cases.”

A tension in Draco’s shoulders dropped away. Granger hadn’t tattled. It was fine.

“He only had a couple, and I’d like to hand one to you, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded succinctly. His time was already stretched, but what the hell, add another one to the pile. He didn’t need to eat or sleep, anyway.

“Is this the Horcrux case?” asked Granger.

“Excuse me—the Horcrux case?” asked Draco.

Potter nodded.

“Is this truly something that should take priority?” Draco asked. “There’s no way there’s someone else out there trying it on as the new Dark Lord.”

Draco only caught the end of Granger’s eye-roll.

“I can’t believe we need to explain this to you, Malfoy, but no one should use dark magic to become immortal, even if they don’t plan on forcing pureblood dominance on the wizarding world.”

“What Hermione said—this one has some urgency. Besides, we don’t know what this wizard’s plans are. What if he’s building up to darker things? I think if any Aurors had known Voldemort was actively creating Horcruxes they would have attempted to stop him.”​​

“Well said, Harry,” added Granger, and Draco echoed her pathetic suck-up beneath his breath with a mocking scrunch of his nose.

After sending him a serrated glare, Granger swiftly relaxed her expression for Potter. “I think this is a great idea, Harry. I’m sure Malfoy will find that case very exciting, pleasurable even. He’s had many stiff jobs recently. This one could be fun and doesn't seem too hard now, does it?”

Draco’s face contorted. What the hell was she doing? He felt an irritation prickling.

Potter’s brows tried to meet in the middle. “What the hell is a stiff job?”

Shrugging, a smile spread across Granger’s lips. “You'll have to use your imagination. And you’ll probably need to provide an in-depth overview. I know Preston was well into the case, and we wouldn’t want Malfoy to cock it up or to be caught with his trousers down now, would we?”

Draco’s irritation was quickly tumbling into anger. He plucked his wand from the pocket in his robes, turned his chair to face Granger front-on, and set his fist atop the table. Despite eying his gripped wand, she continued to flaunt her smile.

If this was the way she wanted to play it, then fine. She’d soon receive a curse to wipe the smugness from her lips. Did she truly believe he was just going to sit here and take this? And what happened to pretending it never happened? And not taunting or humiliating him? What was next—bribery?

“Are you alright?” Potter asked Granger.

“I’m not the office wanker, so I’m brilliant,” she said, eyes not leaving Draco’s.

A flash of fear made Draco’s furious expression falter for a moment. He clamped his jaw tight, considering the hexes he could use on Granger as soon as Potter left this room: stinging, tickling—no, tooth-elongating. He would revert her teeth to ludicrously large.

“This is in extremely poor taste, Granger,” said Draco with an air of superiority. “We just learnt about a colleague’s funeral.”

Her cheeks burnished red. She slid her gaze away and pursed her lips to the side.

“Well…” Potter said tentatively, head shifting back and forth between the two of them. “I'm glad you think so favourably of the Horcrux case, Hermione, because you'll be on it too.”

Granger’s eyes snapped to Potter. “Harry—you promised me!”

He shook his head. “I didn’t promise you anything, Hermione. I said I’d consider your proposition and I have. I need you both on this case, that’s it.”

“Harry.” She had emitted his name as though a scolding wife and most definitely not a subordinate, and yet Potter had not flinched, nor had his gaze wavered. His expression was patient, determination firm.

Granger faltered first, straightening her arms and balling fists at her side like a petulant child. She stalked from the room with an offended groan, her indistinct muttering heard curving into the hall.

There was a beat during which Potter stared out the door Granger had taken her stroppy march through and palmed up his head with a sigh. He sunk into the chair opposite. Seeing him at this level really highlighted how he looked like utter crap. Far wearier than usual. Perhaps it was the two tiny, often wailing children. But never mind that, Draco had more pressing matters to solve.

“First off, why the hell doesn’t Granger want to work with me?” For some ridiculous reason, Draco felt an edging discomfort at the thought. He might have even taken offence. “And second, you promised her she wouldn't need to?”

Potter leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the table. “I didn't promise her anything, Malfoy. And I'm uncertain why she doesn’t want to.” He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe something to do with the years of taunts and bullying, perhaps even the fact you were once colluding with the darkest wizard of our time.”

“She’s still stuck on that?” Draco pushed his chair away from the desk as though to physically recoil from the thought. People dredging up his past after all these years made him feel a horrid discomfort. “The Wizengamot cleared me, and I’ve been working at the DMLE for years now; what more does she want?”

“Not a clue. She won’t tell me anything.”

Draco’s frown deepened as he had a sudden thought, driving the discomfort in his chest deeper. What if Granger’s demand was because of their run-in last night?

“Is this a new request?”

Potter shook his head. “Apparently Robards had been accommodating her for some time.”

“This is ridiculous.” How was this the first he was hearing of it? And how hadn’t he realised sooner? “You genuinely know nothing? I thought she was your best friend.”

“If it’s bothering you, just ask her directly. And make it sooner than later; I need you to clear the air. As soon as I figure out where Preston stored his files, you'll both need to get started where he left off.”

Draco crossed his arms and let his gaze wander around the anaemic beige walls as he considered a solution to what was shaping up to be an uncomfortable situation. He hadn’t the tolerance for discomfort these days. At least not Granger-level discomfort. She didn’t want to work with him; he didn’t want to work with her; the answer was really quite simple.

“I'll just take the case myself.”

Potter shook his head and thinned his lips. “It’s a muggle-heavy case.”

“Muggle-heavy? You’re just making up words now, Potter. Besides, I’m not an idiot. In fact, I can read. I’ve taken in plenty of information about muggles over the years.”

“There’s only so much a book can help you, Malfoy.”

Draco quirked a brow. “Is Granger aware of that? I think she’d be shocked to find out.”

“You’ll need Hermione’s expertise,” Potter went on, ignoring the jibe. “And I also need Hermione to learn from you.”

“What—the witch doesn’t already know it all? Have you told her that as well? Can I be there when you break it to her?”

“Come on, Malfoy. I’m trying to have a conversation with a senior Auror, not a wanker.”

“Come on, Potter,” Draco said, matching his stern tone and lifting a hand in the air, “what happened to our banter?”

Potter swept two fingers down his jaw. “I’m not in the mood, given the recent dead Auror.”

Draco twisted the side of his mouth down. “Right.”

“This case has opened up a lot of questions for the department, and a lot of questions for me. I need to find answers. You’re the best Aurors we have now, and I don’t say this lightly, Malfoy, but I genuinely need your help.”

Draco thinned his lips as he contemplated Potter's words. He hadn't been called the best around here before. Sure, best in bed, but the best Auror? He hated that at the moment he shared the title. Draco wanted to take it from Granger; he wanted it all to himself.

“And what exactly do you need Granger to learn from me?”

“We both know she’s incredibly intelligent,” Potter prefaced his answer, “however, her duelling needs work. For some reason, she’s been struggling. She’s been out of action twice in the last three months because of missteps, and I think you could be of help to her.”

“You mean to say I need to fire hexes her way? Done.”

Potter sighed and then took to his feet. “I know you're aware that it's more than that. You go get her on side, I'll locate Preston’s files, then we'll all reconvene, alright?”

Draco gave Potter his most unimpressed look. “Doesn't feel like I have any say in the matter, does it?”

Potter showed him a tight-lipped smile that said as much, and confirmed that there was, in fact, a first time for everything.

***

In an effort to appear as though he hadn’t been searching for Granger at all, Draco slid his hands into his pockets and meandered by her open door with a swift sideways glance. Apparently she was anywhere except her office today. Just as he considered spinning on his heel, he spotted her inside Preston’s now defunct prime corner-space. An office he had typically admired because of its extra three feet and charmed rectangular window with a view of daylight. The room held the sensation of stepping back in time, with a vaguely warm and lived-in feeling about it. An orange sofa with cappuccino striped pillows and a yellow chunky-knit throw sat in the corner. The high wooden shelves behind the desk housed colourful broken-spined books, accolades, and other knick-knacks, including birthday cards and silver timepieces. One clock appeared particularly useless, void of any numbers and with two hands pointing to the words lost.

Standing before the grand desk was Granger, holding a photo frame in hand.

Truly, Draco hated himself for having this thought, but there was something awfully appealing about the view from here. He could see the lines of Granger’s underwear beneath her trousers, her dark curls (which sometimes appeared as though they had their own sentience, depending on the season) curved down towards the small of her back, and after her show of ridicule in front of Potter today, Draco particularly enjoyed the way she stood in a contemplative silence.

What was wrong with him? Probably something to do with the fact he’d been holding his cock when he’d seen her last night. That must have been it. Draco had never let his mind wander this far when it came to Granger. She was always just the best friend of four-eyes and git-face, the third member of the revered Golden Trio, and know-it-all colleague. But why shouldn’t he think of her in that way? She needn’t know. Draco was considering what it might be like to bend Granger over the desk, fist her curls and fuck her so hard that her hips bruised, until she turned around and ruined it all with an expression of utter contempt.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

The sudden reminder that Potter needed them to make this case work quickly tamped the urge to offer something antagonistic. Draco needed to go about this in a different way. “Were you close to Preston?”

A flash of bemusement swept over Granger's expression, quickly replaced by a gentle sort of look. “Not too close. The same as anyone else in this office: a shared tea here and there, a couple of cases together. I just feel for his wife, that's all.”

“A terrible waste, indeed. He was extremely clever.”

Now Granger wore a suspicious brow. Perhaps he'd never been genuine in her vicinity. He supposed it could come as a surprise; but he couldn’t stomach any more tip-toeing around the issue. The sooner he found his answer, the sooner he could rid of this odd discomfort that he now carried in his chest. As Granger returned the photo to the desk, Draco just came out with it.

“Why have you spent years actively avoiding working with me?”

She frowned lightly. “I wouldn't call it actively avoiding.”

“I’d say it’s active enough if you’ve requested zero contact with me from not one but two Head Aurors.”

Granger folded her arms. “Zero contact is a little dramatic, even for you, Malfoy.”

Draco moved in closer and lowered his voice, conscious the door was open. “I’m not sure if I’m the dramatic one in this situation, Granger. It must be something large enough that it’s worth verbalising your concerns to Potter.”

There was a visible flicker in her jaw. Briefly, she looked away as if to consider her next words. “It’s not big at all. In fact, it's so small that it's not even worth speaking about.”

“Was it the bullying? The hexes? The M-word?” When she had provided no sign a response was incoming, he took another step forward and added, “Or was it the whole Death Eater thing?”

“That doesn't help matters.” Granger trailed backwards until her behind hit the desk. “And towering over me will not make me tell you anything, Malfoy.”

Exhaling a long, restrained breath, Draco took a purposeful step backward. “I've been cleared, Granger.” He swept his hand through the air. “You testified on my behalf, for Merlin's sake! How is this still an issue?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Malfoy.”

She walked past him, but Draco sent the door firmly shut with his wand before she could reach it, then he waited patiently as she turned to face him. Her eyes were now alight with irritation.

“We’re going to need to get past this to work together, Granger. So hurry along and fess up.”

“No. We don’t need to get past anything to work together.”

Draco glowered. “So that’s it, then? There’s no issue? Several years of refusing to work with me and now suddenly we’re going to become pally and solve crimes together?”

Granger shook her head. “I didn’t say that, did I?” Fists balling at her side, she had a little bounce in her being as though she was trying to buoy her intimidation. But she was not intimidating at all. If anything, he found her efforts adorable. Draco delighted in the way her constellation of freckles had drawn together with the scrunch of her nose, so much so that he couldn’t help from smiling. It hurriedly became a grin.

“What is so funny?” shot Granger, her buoyancy settling.

“Maybe if you tell me your secret first...”

“Or how about,” she began, her lips twitching into a smile, “I'll work on this case, and you can continue working on whatever you were doing to yourself beneath your desk.”

When she turned on her heel, the door flew open and banged against the wall.

As Granger stalked around the corner, Draco formed a sneer. It'd been several years since this witch had made him feel such a deep, gnawing aggravation, and this time he wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

Or, perhaps she was, in fact, going to get away with it.

After several days with no word from Potter on the Horcrux files, Draco’s frustration for the witch was quickly diminishing.

But never mind, he had other matters to concern himself with. Like that fact it was again late on a Wednesday evening and he was encountering the very same issue as the week prior. Draco had been scribbling down a report, but when the words had stopped coming, he figured he might as well instead.

This time, Draco hadn’t bothered to check the office was clear and instead shot a colloportus at his door. He could be quiet. Draco wasted no time in taking his cock in hand and stroking. The naked witch in his mind was still an intriguing combination of several women from his past, but this time, as he took her from behind, Draco noticed her hair was a mess of dark curls. Just as the heat was building in his face and neck and his breathing accelerated, Draco stilled his movements and wrenched his eyes open. He had heard something. Someone.

Staring at the door, Draco waited another two beats. His pulse hammered. As his cock softened a little from the distraction, he swept a thumb over the sensitive head and incited a prickle. He was about to disregard the noise and send his grip down again when the door unlatched.

Draco held his breath. Stopped his hand in place.

Granger slipped inside the office and leant against the door with a fleeting shy smile.

Suddenly, Draco’s breaths came urgently. As he viewed Granger with faint alarm, his face now heating for the wrong reasons, he watched as she walked deeper into the lamp-lit room and pointed her wand over her shoulder to secure the door. She seated deep into the sofa ahead and crossed one leg over the other, staring at Draco with a look he might have mistaken for hopeful.

If there was anything Granger was, it was clever. She knew exactly what he was doing; so what the hell was she doing?

Throat sticky, Draco couldn’t bring himself to say anything. But his cock was now rock hard. Granger was right there, only feet away, and it was undeniably exciting.

There was a moment in which they both assessed one another as though encountering wild, uncertain animals, and seemingly decided no one was going to startle away or raise their hackles.

“Keep going,” Granger whispered.

Draco’s length throbbed in response. Of course his cock was ready to keep going, but the rest of him was wary. What if this was a ploy? Granger had been nothing but difficult last week, and they both knew neither wanted to work with each other. Perhaps this was a way to get him off the Horcrux case? Though he couldn’t understand how that might be. Perhaps it was just a way to get him off? Maybe Granger was feeling nice today; or maybe she was also just horny. He enjoyed the thought.

A haze of sweet arousal dampened Draco's logical thoughts, and there was something about the way Granger sat there patiently with a curious glint in her eye that thrilled him so. He pulled his grip down his cock once over, as though testing what it would be like to do this in front of her.

It felt far too good to ignore.

But he couldn’t keep their eyes locked. He seared beneath her gaze.

Draco moved his eyes just past the edge of his desk, viewing Granger’s jeans and boots in the periphery of his vision, and then he moved his hand up and down a few times over. His cock wept with precum knowing she watched. His pulse no longer sped with fright but thrill.

Suddenly, Granger's jeans transfigured into a short grey pleated skirt and her boots into black high heels. She unlinked her crossed legs and spread them wide enough that he could see the whites of her knickers.

Draco expelled a trembled breath. Granger was playing along, and it was so fucking thrilling.

Dragging her palms up her thighs, she hiked her skirt, and he could make out the faint line between her legs. What he would do to slip a finger or tongue or his cock along that line, feel her warmth and wetness. He almost lost himself thinking about how it would feel to delve into her tightness. Working his hand up and down, Draco exhaled shakily with his mounting excitement, the pressure building inside. His balls were tightening. He was so close.

“Stand,” ordered Granger. “I want to watch you come.”

Something seized Draco in that moment. He was pathetically obedient. He followed Granger’s command like a house-elf and stood, his posture a little stooped, one hand splayed on his desk, the other running up and down the length of him. Draco was on the precipice. And yet he still couldn't look her in the eye. Instead, he kept his sight trained on the faint outline of her centre. But Granger could see him, and Draco fucking loved the thought. He loved it so much that he let the pressure build up the shaft of his cock, the mounting intensity and warmth, then stilled his hand to thrust into his grip once or twice and the delicious release arrived as he came all over his desk. A disjointed groan escaped his lips. He had thought he could be quiet, but not like this. Not with Granger.

Panting, Draco remained in place. Both palms now to the desk, he stared down at the mess he’d made on the goblin report, truly realising what he’d just done in front of Granger. His school nemesis. His co-worker. His new case partner.

Apparently there was no need to acknowledge their misdeeds, however. At the edge of his vision, Granger abandoned his office, jeans and boots reverting as she went.

***

Carrying a grey filing box in hand, Potter shepherded Draco and Granger into the meeting room. Both of them loitered at either side of the grand table, arms crossed and expectant looks aimed at Potter. It had been two days since Draco had unloaded on his desk in front of Granger, and both of them had been expert in ignoring each other. In fact, this was the first occasion they’d been in each other's presence.

Never mind the fact they weren’t acknowledging that it happened—Draco knew she wanted to pretend following the first run-in—but she had then come back to watch. She had ordered him to stand so she could see his release. What was that about? In the back of his mind, he still wondered whether this would turn into some sort of public humiliation, whether Granger was using the opportunity to get back at him for something or other. But it couldn’t have been, could it? She had been a willing participant. The discrepancy between this version of Granger and the one in his mind increasingly bewildered him. This one was angry, sexy and sure. The one in his memories was bookish, snotty, and seemingly principled. He couldn't imagine the Golden Girl from Hogwarts ever aiding his efforts to do anything remotely risky, let alone an office wank. How had it come to this?

With that, Draco decided he desperately needed to speak with her. He couldn’t just go on pretending. He was equally confused and aroused every time he thought about Granger, and he needed to know whether he could keep feeling that way. Particularly considering that today, along with her tight muggle jeans, she wore a distractingly thin white shirt and he could make out the lines of her bra. Lines he wanted to do away with just to see what was beneath.

The fact he was fantasising about Granger didn’t matter, though. She had little to do with where his thoughts were going, and he needn't tie himself into knots trying to understand why she was the way she was. He was just chasing the feeling again, wasn’t he? Something about that wank had been glorious. Coming by his own hand with another presence simply sitting in his office had been better than fucking his last one-night stand. What were the chances Granger would visit him again? He dared to let himself hope.

Potter set down the box. “We finally located the files at Preston’s home, which is not ideal. His wife didn’t make it easy, so we had to conduct a search. Grief, I suppose. I think we should have waited another week; but we really need to press on. Anyhow, here they are. Hopefully everything you need is in these boxes.”

As Granger lifted the box lid and began setting the brown folders on the table, Potter said, “Malfoy, you'll need to give Singh the goblin case, so you have enough time to take this on board.”

“The goblin case I’m days from solving? The one I’ve been working on late every night?” Also, the one he had left his seed all over, but not that he’d dare say aloud. He’d scourgified it afterwards, of course, but some poor soul in the office had a jizz report coming their way.

“Yep,” Potter answered succinctly, taking a seat at the head of the table.

“Working late?” queried Granger, now sitting on Potter’s right. She had a mischievous look in her eye. “I’m not quite sure about that.”

Draco heaped into the chair at Potter’s left with a bud of irritation in his chest. He’d worked on this goblin case for months now and Potter was probably going to let some other prat get all the credit, and then there was Granger, sitting there equivocating around the fact that sometimes his working late involved wanking. Truthfully, staying at the office into the evenings these last couple of months had been to avoid his manor. Since his father had passed away and now his mother rarely returned from France, the silence was obscenely loud in every corner of his home. Not that neither Granger nor Potter needed to know that.

Draco folded his arms against his chest with a chagrined expression firmed. He was already done with these two and the meeting had only just started.

“Right,” began Potter, “the first step is for you both to review these files. I don’t know what state they’re in, and you’ll need to determine where the case leads to next.”

“Whoever this wizard is must be extremely skilled.” Granger was already flipping through a folder. “This is artful magic.”

“Don’t you mean dark magic, Granger?”

Not bothering to move her head, she viewed Draco from beneath her brows. “Dark magic can still be artful.”

“It can?” Draco asked dryly. “If the know-it-all Granger thinks so, then it must be true.”

Potter ignored their conversation entirely, instead retrieving something from beneath the lip of his jumper, then unhooking a delicate gold chain over his head. He set a long, thin apparatus on the table before him. It appeared extremely delicate, no larger than Draco’s smallest finger, and inside was a tiny hourglass with silky golden sand. At each end were small knobs. It was a Time-Turner if Draco had ever seen one.

“This is where Hermione’s expertise comes in—”

“Wait a minute,” said Draco. “I thought these were all destroyed?”

“I’m glad you bought the Ministry line, Malfoy,” said Granger.

“I think you mean lie.”

“They were all indeed destroyed, but Preston sourced this prototype from colleagues in Germany. It has been found to be functional and stable, and I know Preston had used it several times before he died. The only difference between this and the one you used, Hermione, is that it can move you through both time and place. Unfortunately, however, it still has a five-hour limit.”

“Moves time and place?” The whites of Granger’s eyes grew larger. “Extraordinary.”

“What an arbitrary number,” Draco scoffed. “What happens after five hours?”

“You may harm time or yourself,” Granger said.

“Harm time?” repeated Draco. “How could we possibly harm time?”

With an expression of fear mingled with annoyance, Granger looked at Potter. “Why do I need to partner with Malfoy on this? I think if I work on it alone, it’ll be far safer for not only myself but the fate of the world and the time-space continuum.”

“Hey,” protested Draco, “I have the space-time continuum's best interests at heart.”

Granger tightened her mouth and set a scowl. She turned to Potter. “So this wizard has been planting Horcruxes not just in different places but at different times? That is extremely clever.”

“And extremely annoying,” added Draco. “Why would anyone be so desperate to become immortal if it were not to take over the entire wizarding world?”

“That’s something you’re going to have to figure out,” said Potter.

“If we have this Time-Turner,” began Draco with a sudden thought, “why don't we just go back to whenever this wizard was born and kill him before he started making Horcruxes? Could even snatch him on his day of birth.”

“Go back in time and kill a baby?” Potter’s face crumpled with the depravity of the thought.

“Or go back in time and kill the Dark Lord, save us all a lot of trouble and, in the meantime, stop this new wizard from learning anything about Horcruxes.”

“See,” began Granger with an awfully condescending tone, “this is why you didn’t know about the Time-Turner earlier.”

“You can't go back and disrupt history like that, Malfoy.” Potter slid the golden apparatus to Granger. “Which is exactly why Hermione needs to be on this case. She has the experience required and understands the parameters of its use.”

Draco sighed. “Fine,” he said, then perked slightly at the thought of this case, even if it meant working with the swot. “Horcruxes and Time-Turners… I hadn't a clue we had such fun happenings in this department.”

“Well, maybe you’d know if you paid more attention in meetings instead of staring off into the distance.”

“I wasn't staring into the distance, Granger, I was having difficulty seeing through your unruly mop of curls.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Oh no, I insist, you first.” He could fuck her, she could fuck him, he didn’t care. Since the other night, he was kind of enjoying the idea of the two of them fucking in any which way.

“Right, that's enough,” said Potter. “Give the hair insults a rest, Malfoy.”

Draco shot a suspicious look towards Granger. “Is that why you don't want to work with me? I hurt your hair’s feelings?”

“Hair taunts are rich coming from someone who spends twenty minutes magicking his own every morning to have that perfect prince charming wave over his forehead.” She swiped her hands across her head rather dramatically.

“Twenty minutes? Please. I wake up this handsome naturally, thank you.”

“Enough with the hair!” Potter’s hands and fingers splaying atop the table surface. “Now there should be a list somewhere of Preston’s most recent advancements. At the last update, he said there were seven possible Horcruxes.”

“Seven!” exclaimed Granger. “This is worse than I thought.”

“This is exactly why I need you on this, Hermione. No one else is going to bring as much experience.”

“Except you, perhaps. If you could replace Malfoy, then we’d get this done in no time.”

“You do know I’m sitting right here, Granger?”

She showed him a tight smile.

“I’ll be here to consult on anything you both need,” said Potter. “In terms of destroying the Horcruxes, controlling Fiendfyre might be the best option at this stage.”

“Fiendfyre?” Granger’s eyes flared open. “Honestly, Harry. We’re employed to fight dark magic, not wield it. It’s far too dangerous!”

“The Horcruxes are remnants of dark magic in need of destroying, Hermione. Without a Basilisk fang on hand and no idea where the sword of Gryffindor has ended up, we have few options.”

Mention of the sword of Gryffindor made Draco return to memory of the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, where he heard Granger’s horrid scream at the hands of Aunt Bella. He'd let the memory play on for far too long. So long that he needed to glance at Granger across the table with a forlorn look for the guilt he felt. Was that why she hadn’t wanted to work with him? Though, in some ways, that might've been too traumatic to make sense. What could possibly make her simultaneously not want to partner with him and yet want to watch him wank? This witch was quickly becoming a Sphinx riddle.

“You’re going to allow us to use dark magic, Potter?” Malfoy asked, unable to keep a little excitement from his tone.

“Purely for this case, Malfoy, and only for these Horcruxes.” His tone became stern. “If I hear you’re taking advantage of this, then—”

“Is this why Granger’s on the case? To tattle on me?”

“To keep your inclination for dark wizardry in check,” said Granger.

“Look,” began Potter, voice tight with his waning patience, “you’re both on this case because of your unique set of skills and to learn from each other. Hermione, I want you to practise duelling with Malfoy before you both set off for the first mission, and Malfoy, I want you to learn how to covertly wield and control Fiendfyre.”

“What?!” Granger said, just as Draco said, “Nice.”

Potter took to his feet and began on his way. “I want you both to become better acquainted with the case files, and then I’ll need a debriefing prior to your first mission.” With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back. “And play nice.”

Something about once again being left alone in a room with Granger sent Draco’s stomach into a tizzy, entirely not helped by the fact she was now smirking his way.

“What do you say, Malfoy?” Granger cocked her head. “Are we going to play nice?”

Chapter Text

It had been two hours of sitting in a drab meeting room with Granger, trying to piece together this case. Two hours of flipping through useless folders and files; 120 minutes of sitting with her delicious vanilla scent; 7,200 seconds of batting away the sneaky memory of Granger’s knickers and several imaginings of what it might’ve felt like to hook a finger into the edge, sweep the material to one side and then feel her warmth around his fingers. At one point, Draco’s thoughts went too far and he needed to remove himself from the room to allow his semi to disappear. Why did he feel like he was fourteen all over again? His cock was well and truly becoming uncontrollable.

After realising he had left abruptly and feeling he needed an excuse for his sudden departure, Draco returned with two mugs of tea.

“Oh,” Granger said with a vein of surprise as he placed a mug before her. “Thanks.” She brought it closer to peer at its contents. “How do you know how I like my tea?”

Draco reclaimed his seat. “Astute powers of observation, Granger.”

“And if I drink this, am I going to suddenly have a desire to spill all of my secrets to you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You know, I hadn’t thought about that at all.” He set his hand forward and gave a couple of beckoning flicks of his fingers. “Hand it back. I forgot to add sugar.”

Granger unsuccessfully stifled a smile. She sipped the tea. “It’s already sweet enough.”

Draco mirrored Granger’s expression, satisfied with his ability to mollify her in some sense. Perhaps now was the right time to raise his niggling questions about the other night? He hadn’t a clue exactly what to ask, though. He needed her to acknowledge it, and then, maybe, suss out if there was any likelihood it would happen again.

Quickly, Granger reverted to her serious thinking expression, a look he'd seen many a time across the potion workbench. He felt his opportunity had passed. She sighed and pushed aside another folder. “Considering how long Preston had been working on this case, there's not an awful lot here. I don’t understand how there is so little information about the wizard we're looking for.”

“Plenty of schematics and diagrams, though.” Draco flipped through the seemingly endless pages of notes regarding Time-Turners.

“I think there’s at least one folder missing, if not more. How did he know when and where to find all of these Horcruxes?” She held up the small piece of parchment with seven scribbled lines, then planted it in the centre of the table between them. Her only offering since they had been in this room. “We’re supposed to be dark wizard catchers, and so far there’s no indication of who we’re meant to catch.”

“What's the point in second guessing it, Granger?” Draco plucked the piece of parchment. The first line showed a specific set of coordinates 38.8967° N, 77.0256° W. “Preston left us a simple list to follow. Let's not make it harder for ourselves.”

“But what if there's more than this? How would we ever know? Maybe we should revisit his wife and make sure Harry hasn't missed anything.”

“Have a little sensitivity, Granger,” Draco said with exaggerated sympathy. “It sounds like the first time didn't go over all too well.”

She pushed a breath from her nose. “Then what do you suggest?”

“That we just pick one and go from there.”

“Just pick a time and place and have a bit of an aimless search, shall we?” She offered a facetious wrinkle of her nose.

He nodded once.

Tilting her head, Granger suddenly wore an expression that took him back to Hogwarts. As though she was ready to inform him he’d been following a potion recipe incorrectly. A look that made him feel as though he was less than. How did she have such an irritating way about her? There was no doubt Granger had grown in the last several years, but there were still glimpses of that infuriatingly accurate know-it-all Gryffindor. The one that pricked beneath his skin and made him feel as though he needed to go to the ends of the earth to see her defeated.

“No wonder your cases take so long,” she said. “You have no process.”

“I have processes, Granger. It goes start case then finish.”

She rolled her eyes.

Draco drew his brows together. “Whatever the first time and place is, we can start with that.”

“I don't think we should go chronologically. I have a feeling about it.”

“Okay, but feelings don't matter when there are processes.”

He’d irked her again. There had been an almost imperceptible flinch at the corner of her mouth.

“My process is different from yours, Malfoy. We'll start with the second one. It's the most local according to the coordinates.”

Draco didn't have the energy to put up a fight. They'd been in this room for over two hours. He needed fresh air and to forget Granger existed for a little while. “Fine. Just tell me a day that suits you for duelling practice.”

She shot him a venomous glare. “I don't need training. And certainly not from you.”

“We wouldn't want Potter to find out you're not doing exactly what you were told, would we? See, the tattling goes both ways.”

“I'll brush up on my duelling books.”

“That'll work, Granger. When you next duel a dark wizard, you can chuck a book at them.”

There was a peeved glint in her eye. “You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she mumbled, as she retrieved a piece of parchment from beneath her quill and set it on the table between them. “In the meantime, these are your tasks.”

“You're giving me homework?”

“I refuse to time travel unprepared, Malfoy. I need you to do these things for the sake of both of our lives.”

“Transfiguration homework? Granger, I’m the best in the department.”

She scoffed. “You’ll need to learn how to transfigure muggle clothing.”

“I'm not a complete dolt; I do know about muggle clothing. I’ll have you know that I own four pairs of jeans.”

“Four? Leave some jeans for the rest of us, Malfoy. No—we’re going to need muggle clothing specific to the era. We can’t stand out in jeans or in wizarding robes. I’ve noted the name of a brilliant book there, which details all the components for clothing throughout time.”

“Literal homework,” Draco muttered beneath his breath.

Now watching him evenly, Granger sipped at her tea. “The Fiendfyre is the priority, however. We can’t even begin planning the first mission until you’ve done that.”

“Always wear a watch,” Draco read from the list, “with time and date. I have a wand, Granger.”

“And what if something happens to your wand?” She had said that as though she’d just moved her queen to checkmate his king. “I’ve noticed you’re not wearing a watch and you’ll need to.”

“I also have several watches, Granger.”

“Then wear one—or all, if you prefer, I don’t care. We need to make sure we remain oriented to our current time.”

“Why exactly do I need to do these things when you’ll be there? The highly competent, brightest witch of our class, the brains behind the Golden Trio, the—”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“—best at everything but duelling Auror—”

“And what if I die?” shot Granger.

Draco clamped his mouth shut.

“You’ll need to be equally prepared, just in case I’m not there,” she added, less bite in her tone.

Truthfully, Draco had never thought about Granger’s death. Of course, he’d considered his own while in this role. It was inevitable. Danger had a way of causing one to consider their own mortality.

“You’re not allowed to die, Granger.”

Her brows rose ever so slightly. “Oh?”

“Then I’ll have failed; and I am yet to fail a case. I won’t allow you to be my downfall.”

Granger’s expression loosened. “Then best that we’re both as prepared as possible, don’t you think?”

He nodded gently. Their gaze lingered on one another. Her eyes had settled into a calmness and her lips weren’t edging into irritation or thinning with anger. Perhaps something he’d said had appeased her. It suddenly seemed the perfect opportunity to ask the question that had been pressing on Draco’s tongue. “Are we going to talk about—”

“No.” As she stood, Granger flipped the folder before her shut then slotted it into the crook of her arm, not bothering to look at Draco. As she made her way from the room, she said, “Go practise your Fiendfyre. And try not to get yourself killed.”

***

The next day, Draco strolled into Granger’s office to find her sitting behind the desk, head down, concentration honed in, arm draped across a piece of parchment and quill scratching furiously as though she only had four minutes left to complete an O.W.L. He ambled over and fingered through the display of trinkets on her desk. One was a peculiar grey coaster-looking thing. He plucked it from between two books, and it fit nicely into his palm. It was cold. Had a bit of weight to it.

“Put that down,” she said, refusing to look up from her mad scribbling.

“What is it?”

Granger finally swung her gaze up to Draco. Her eyes narrowed, brows edging in. Of course he’d expected her to be unamused, but her expression was verging on scary. Apparently he’d interrupted something.

“What do you require?” asked Granger, the civility in her tone strained.

“I need to kick your arse at duelling.” He placed down the miscellaneous contraption on her desk. “I mean,” Draco added half-heartedly, “teach you a thing or two.”

Granger’s expression dropped of its sharp angles. She inhaled deeply, then sighed lightly through her nose. “I can’t believe Harry has even asked this of you.” She threw down her quill, sat deeper into her chair and folded her arms. “I’m proficient at duelling.”

“Evidently not, if it’s come to this.”

Granger deepened the furrow of her brow.

“Just think of it this way: Harry doesn’t want you to get killed… and I don’t particularly want to be duelling for two on this case.”

“Was that supposed to help?”

“And you’re the one who said we need to be as prepared as possible.” Draco checked his watch. “Come on, hurry up. I have a meeting with Singh in an hour to hand over the goblin case.”

As Granger sat unmoving in some kind of stalemate, Draco walked around the desk, ready to use force if required. Then he spotted what she had so furiously been working on. As he reached down to swipe it, Granger slapped a palm onto her work. But Draco and his seeker reflexes were quicker. He held the parchment in hand and, as she reached for it, angled away to read.

“I cannot believe it,” said Draco.

Granger pawed around the side of him. Something awfully soft was on the back of his thigh and he entirely hoped it was her boob.

“Swotty has quite literally done a SWOT analysis for the Horcrux case.”

Giving up her efforts to snatch the parchment, Granger retracted into her seat.

Draco turned. “Seriously, Granger? Under both weaknesses and threats you've written Malfoy.”

“Perfectly reasonable.” She lifted the end of the quill to her lips. Bloody lucky quill.

Draco snatched it from her grasp and leant down to write on her SWOT table. After crossing out Malfoy beneath the Weaknesses column, Draco wrote Granger’s duelling, then beneath the Strengths column he added Expert Dueller Draco Malfoy.

“Fixed.” He planted the quill upon the desk. “Now this analysis has determined the perfect opportunity for us to address a weakness, and we both know you live and die by the SWOT. Come on now.”

Granger’s exhale sounded an awful lot like a groan. Tweaking the side of the parchment, she angled her head to view the amended table. Draco might have just enticed her. He had assumed she was the type of witch who couldn't pass up the opportunity to cross something off a list, and she was about to prove him correct. In fact, she’d probably eventually strike a line through what he’d written and then draft an entirely new table on fresh parchment.

“Let's get it over with."

They walked from the Auror office side by side, between the two rows of cubicles. Draco held the door open—pureblood habits, but also to watch Granger’s arse on the way out. Today she was wearing fitted black trousers and a blue t-shirt, drawing attention to the fact she was a delightful hourglass shape. Following a sharp look from Granger past her shoulder, Draco quickly fell into step. Was openly admiring her now impeding their pretending? He wasn't certain of the rules. Maybe that was something they needed to clarify.

“By the way,” Granger began, “I've tested the Time-Turner and although it’s fantastic at moving time, moving place is oddly draining. I’ve conducted a few experiments—”

“You’ve conducted experiments? You’ve literally had a day with the Time-Turner. A night, in fact.”

“—and I’ve found that if I’m closer to the intended location, then the move throughout both time and place is not as exhausting.”

Again, Draco held open the door and allowed her entry into the empty training room. They walked deeper into the large, taupe space, towards the faint white circle on the floor signifying the duelling starting positions. The room was bare except for a long bench on one side and several stacks of soft mats against the back wall. Hopefully they wouldn’t need those. If Granger was poor enough to return to padded floors, Draco wasn’t so sure he wanted to partner with her on this case at all.

“I think it’s best if we journey to the coordinates in the present prior to journeying through time,” continued Granger. “I don’t want either of us to become too drained of our magic.”

“Sure,” Draco simply said, knowing Granger was going to dictate whatever she thought was best no matter what he replied. Besides, he was preoccupied with determining exactly what this practice session would entail. This was entirely different to training recruits. Despite Granger’s recent mishaps, she still possessed a wealth of experience. First, he would need to gauge her abilities, and second, he needed to be gentle. Putting Granger out of action would not go over well with Potter.

As they moved into the centre of the room and took their places at the edges of the circle (Granger with crossed arms and an audible sigh), Draco said, “Let’s just start with disarming.”

Brows fierce, Granger held up her wand in battle-ready position. “I’m not bowing to you.”

Prior to this mention, Draco hadn’t considered the formalities of duelling at all. And now, somehow the thought of Granger bowing merged into a vision of her bending—bent over his desk more specifically—and it quickly persuaded a quirk down below. Draco shifted his feet, hoping his robes had rearranged enough to hide it. This was getting silly. He just needed another (non-office) wank.

Draco and Granger stood primed, wands aimed at each other.

“Ready?” asked Draco.

Granger nodded once, and Draco couldn’t deny that he enjoyed seeing her this way. He’d never faced the Golden Girl in a proper duel before. This was oddly exciting. For him, anyway—Granger appeared nothing but positively pissed off.

“On the count of three.”

A wisp of red emitted from his wand. It floated into the very centre of the circle, where it hovered at their eye-line and suddenly formed into a large three.

Then a two.

And one.

Wordlessly, Draco and Granger wielded their magic, and despite Granger’s expression of grit, Draco was far too swift. Her wand went flying into the air and landed in the centre of the circle with a light clatter.

Taking in a lungful of air, Granger straightened her stance, her expression entirely unamused. As she walked to meet her wand, she said, “If this is going to be an hour of me moving around the room to collect my wand, then I think I’ll just quit now.”

“Come on now, Granger,” Draco drawled. “No need for that defeatist attitude.”

Just as she had bent down to retrieve her wand, Draco moved it another foot. Granger shot him a black look if he’d ever seen one.

He grinned. “Once more, then.”

Granger snatched her wand with a huff and took a stroppy march to the other side of the circle. After she’d turned and readied herself, she said, “Go on, then.”

Draco mirrored her stance and the smokey timer emitted from his wand. As soon as the red one appeared, Granger’s wand went flying again, high enough to kiss the tall ceiling, and then curve down into Draco’s palm.

Granger covered her hands to her face and grumbled. “I'm not usually this bad.”

“It's just me and my devilishly handsome looks, right?”

When Granger dropped her hands, she had a look of indignation and tone to match. “I know for a fact that I’m the best in the office at transfiguration, and potentially at charms,” she added, “and definitely at ancient runes.”

“But no one cares about runes, Granger. Duelling is the most important skill in this role.”

“I know!”

Somehow, she had caused Draco to flinch. He let the silence go on for a couple of beats. Okay, so not so much as let it, but rather, was scared to say anything further lest Granger explode and take him and the Ministry building down with her. “I mean this in the nicest way possible—”

Granger shot him a look of scepticism.

“—but what happened to you? You weren’t like this before.”

Her expression scrunched, offence evidently taken. “What do you mean ‘like this?’”

“So bloody angry. Perhaps even hostile.”

“You mean during school? As a child? Of course I’ve changed, Malfoy. It’s been years. Plenty can happen—even in a day.”

Draco crinkled his brow. What exactly had caused such a persistently foul mood? Surely it wasn’t just him? Of course she was bossy at Hogwarts, but he'd never considered her a threat. Now, she seemed temperamental, ready to snap at or slash the very next person who looked at her the wrong way; and by all accounts, that was going to be Draco.

“Also, you incorrectly assume that you knew me.”

“I know enough of you,” said Draco. “I’ve worked in the same office as you for years and know you haven’t previously struggled with duelling. I don’t understand what happened.”

“Nothing happened.” Granger’s tone was razor sharp. “Duelling is a skill, isn’t it? Every skill needs regular practice.”

Even despite standing several feet away, Draco wondered whether the heat he experienced was radiating from Granger.

“Give me my wand,” she ordered.

He didn’t even think on it. Draco sent Granger’s wand through the air and she gripped it firmly.

“Here—” He moved his arm down next to his thigh, holding his wand loosely. “Just disarm me. I won’t do anything.”

“And what exactly is the point of that?”

“I want to see your technique.” Draco held his hands up in surrender to show her how serious he was and how little a threat he could be. “No need to send me into the wall, by the way.”

Gaze directed out the windows, into the hallway, Granger’s silence was contemplative. “Fine,” she eventually said, turning back. “Ready?”

As soon as Draco nodded, his wand went darting across the room and neatly into Granger’s grip.

“Your wrist action is good.” As Draco walked to meet her, he sniggered inwardly at his dirty thought. “But the rest of your arm could be better placed.” He came to a stop one foot before her and sent out a palm for his wand.

As Granger obliged and deposited the wand in his hand, her fingers grazed his palm, and it was the strangest of sensations. A thrum at his skin. A jolt of electricity, enough that the tips of his fingers pricked with a longing. Draco supposed it was the anticipation of the action, that was all. Unless a biting palm to his cheek counted, he had never been touched by Granger, and it was something he’d thought about endlessly since she had watched him with his cock in hand.

But if Granger’s earlier look of warning was anything to go by, he wasn’t supposed to be having these thoughts amid their pretending.

Draco quickly morphed his expression into something that suggested he was entirely unaffected. Then he became caught up on the way Granger’s appearance had softened. As she peered up at him, her eyes held a gentle wariness.

“Your arm,” Draco repeated to steady his train of thought. He pocketed his wand and moved forward, toward her left elbow, angling his body behind her. Then he doubled back to connect their eyes. “May I?” he asked, hovering a hand near her forearm.

Although her expression showed apprehension, Granger nodded.

Draco moved to stand behind Granger, ready to place a hand on either arm to manoeuvre her like a porcelain doll. All he had done was lay his touch to her bare forearms, and yet his heart sped as though he’d felt a space far more intimate. Again, it was the anticipation of it all, wasn’t it? He may have let himself daydream once or twice about running his hands down the curves of Granger’s body and this felt as close as he would ever come to that imagining.

From this height, Draco's view encompassed the angle of Granger's cheekbone, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and the curve of her breast. Draco ever so gently—as though he needed to coax a wild beast—trailed his touch up both forearms until he met her elbows. While he pushed her left down an inch, he propped her right up and straightened her arm a whit. Draco moved a step to the right to curve Granger’s wrist and better angle her wand hand. Even despite her recent hostility, he enjoyed invading her space in this way.

It appeared she’d had a similar thought, for Granger cast her sight up past her shoulder and settled her eyes upon Draco’s. He watched as her gaze momentarily trailed down to his mouth, then he did the very same, viewing the tiny brown freckle beside her pink lips. He pulsed with a sudden desperation to put his mouth to it.

Draco cleared his throat. What was wrong with him? This was going to be a long case if he kept thinking this way.

“That’s better.” He dropped his touch away and walked to the other side of the circle. “Try this stance and see how it feels.”

“It feels like I’m trying to be Draco Malfoy,” she said, as the countdown timer floated up.

Furrowing his chin, Draco gave a sweeping, understanding nod. “A sudden, heavy, unwieldiness between your legs?”

As the smoky red one appeared between them, Granger shot off expelliarmus with such a half-heartedness that Draco’s wand simply flinched in his grip. Arms dropped to her side, Granger’s eyes widened, giving the distinct impression that she wanted to throttle him.

“Your magic is completely erratic, Granger,” said Draco, entirely seriously. Then he lowered his voice and resigned to a more playful tone. “Were you thinking about the wanking?”

“Malfoy!” They were the only people in the duelling room, yet she checked back over her shoulder.

“Oh right, the pretending.”

With a muttered utterance that sounded an awful like ‘tosser’, Granger made for the door.

“Was it something I said?” he called after her.

Draco followed, but he only caught the backside of Granger heading into her office before the door slammed behind, sending the silver knob jittering. As Draco came to a stop in the walkway between the empty cubicles, Potter met his side.

“What did you do?” he asked casually, their sight stuck to Granger’s office door.

“I'm not sure whether it was anything specific.” That wasn't entirely a lie. She had been this testy long before his wanking remark. He turned to view Potter. “In all honesty, I think we’ve bruised her ego. You’ve told her she’s not the best at something she thinks she’s proficient in, and then given me—very likely her arch nemesis due to the fact she’s refused to work with me for several years—the task of training her.”

Potter folded his arms against his chest. “Well, when you say it like that—”

“She’s hostile and explosive, and I think I’d have better luck training a dragon.”

Potter emitted a hum of thought. “I'm worried about her being in the field like this. I feel like I need to bring Ginny in to get a better sense of what’s going on.”

“Or an exorcist,” suggested Draco.

Potter looked at him out the corner of his eye. “Where did you learn that word?”

“You know perfectly well that I’m not completely ignorant of muggle minutiae.”

Potter turned to face him front on. “That doesn’t negate the fact you still need Hermione on this case, so keep persevering.”

Draco sighed lightly. How much more of Granger’s tumultuous mood could he take?

“How’s the Fiendfyre coming along? Any thoughts on how to control it?”

“I haven’t given it any thought, but I can assure you I’ll have better luck in controlling Fiendfyre than I’ll have in making Granger do anything.”

***

“Come on, Potter,” Draco called out. “That was pathetic. Put your whole weight into it.”

Draco hovered near the centre goalpost of the manor Quidditch pitch, watching as the Quaffle planted to the grass directly below with a distant thud. He whipped his sight around, then spun in a circle with his broom. A green blur rounded past the view of Wiltshire at dusk, weaving to meet him.

Ginny pulled her broom up, stopping several feet away. “You’d be throwing pathetic Quaffles too if you were waking up to cater to a toddler every few hours.”

“Want to swap positions?” Draco offered. “Play keeper for a bit?”

“Let’s begin with that next time. I need to get back to Mum’s and collect the kids.” Ginny shot down to the ground.

After one last whip around the perimeter of the pitch, enjoying the way the cool air bit at his skin, Draco met Ginny on the grass. He collected the Quaffle beneath his arm, slung his broom over his shoulder, and they walked together to the break in the wooden rampart.

“I heard you’ve partnered with Hermione for a new case.” Ginny held a suspect cheeriness in her tone. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Had that just been an offhand comment given their Hogwarts history, or did she have knowledge of Granger’s special request? Briefly, Draco surveyed Ginny’s brown eyes and found precisely nothing. She wasn’t occlumens-level of masking, but she had an excellent neutral expression.

“Did Potter or Granger tell you?” He shook his head. “Never mind that—just tell me what the hell happened to her.”

“What do you mean happened to her?”

“She’s hardened. She’s irritatingly snarky and hostile.” Draco didn’t want to say promiscuous, but seeing as Ginny was her apparent best friend, maybe she’d fill in the blanks herself. “She’s making my life far more difficult than it needs to be.”

“That sounds an awful lot like someone else I know.”

“I’m not hostile.”

“That’s fair.” She offered a placatory look. “But you used to be a real prat.”

“Good to know what you really think of me,” he added, for there was no one remaining in his life who so often reminded him of his pathetic past. In some ways, he wondered whether she did so to test him, to measure his reaction, to watch for a flinch or a buckle as though his current character may be an extended ruse. And yet, Ginny was also kind. She was generous with her time, particularly with two children and an often hopelessly dependent husband.

In only six months, they had come to trust each other enough to divulge from their personal lives, offer advice and, if required, provide practical assistance. Only two weeks ago, a last-minute dinner hosted by the Potters for every Weasley family member the length of England (thirty-three at last count) had meant Draco provided her two house-elves for the evening. Their Quidditch arrangement was born from a pleasant working partnership with Potter over the years, and while he and the Head Auror were amiable, his wife had filled a place in Draco’s life he’d only found needed filling since his father had died. It was peculiar how that happened. Immediately following the war, he’d sworn off Potters and Weasleys, assuming he’d have no reason for them in his life; and yet now, he saw them more often than he did his own mother.

Ginny simultaneously shook her head and shrugged her shoulders for several steps. “If you truly want to know anything, you’re just going to have to ask Hermione.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that? She’s combative, she's never going to tell me anything.”

“Then maybe you don’t deserve to know.”

Draco didn’t appreciate that answer. “Do you know why she didn’t want to work with me directly?”

“Just ask her, Malfoy.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“I’m privy to nearly everything there is to know about her.”

Draco could bet his manor that she didn’t know Granger watched as he serviced himself the other day.

When they stopped at the beginning of the pea gravel path leading to the gardens and then to the manor, Ginny turned to view him. “In all honesty, just keep being your authentic self, Malfoy. She knows you’re not the same scared and stupid boy you were during the war, but I think she’s had little chance to witness it. Once Hermione really understands that, she’ll come around.”

Come around his cock? He could only dream. The revealing of her secrets would be brilliant, too.

“Thanks for this evening,” said Ginny. “Always a pleasant reminder of my old life amidst the new.” With a smile, she readied to turn and Disapparate, but then she seemed to think better of it. “Oh, by the way, if you also keep at whatever you and Hermione were doing in your office the other day, I think you’ll be certain to get her on side.”

With a smirk, Ginny vanished.

Draco was left standing in the chill and setting night with his cheeks flaming. His heart battered against his ribs as rage burned in the very centre of his chest. What the hell was Granger playing at? Was this pretending? It shouldn’t have bothered him in this way, but for once, Draco couldn’t seem to help how he felt. He couldn’t store this irritation in the back of his mind as he would usually do.

It pestered him all night. It cropped up as he turned over in bed in the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t the fact that Ginny knew what he’d been doing to himself in his office (whatever, so he enjoyed a wank at work), but it was the fact Granger had stipulated a single rule and then refused to abide by it.

Two and a half days. That was how long Draco made it without direct interaction with Granger. Truly, it was for both of their benefits. If she prodded at him in the same way she had so frequently done lately, he couldn’t trust himself not to erupt.

As the Aurors all sat in the weekly staff meeting, Draco found himself clenching his jaw at the mere sight of her, and she was only in his periphery. He angled away so that she became invisible. In the afternoon, barricading himself in his office for a length and then later skirting around the halls had worked well enough. That was, until Potter accosted him for several minutes outside his door (fortunately, nothing to do with the wanking) and as Draco turned back towards his office, there she stood before him.

“I think we should meet about the Horcrux case.” Her tone and expression were as even as could be.

Draco worked his jaw before he spoke. “I don’t have time for you. Just put whatever you’ve found on parchment and leave it on my desk.” He moved past her, not caring that he nudged her elbow on the way.

“Just leave it on your desk?” Granger’s tone held an edge of defensiveness.

Draco didn’t bother to turn. “Or send along a missive or owl, so I don’t have you in my vicinity at all.” With a stab of his wand, he made his office door shut, then locked it for good measure. He used a more complex charm this time. Not that Granger wouldn’t be able to unlock it if she truly tried, but perhaps it would strain her patience.

Besides, he truly didn’t have time for her this afternoon. Although he was expert in casting Fiendfyre, Draco needed to learn how to command the flames. He had toyed with the curse over the years, fascinated with the ability to wield such dangerous magic, yet also determined to control the flames and never fall victim to it as poor Crabbe had done.

Typically, he would cast Fiendfyre upon the flagstone floor of the manor cellar, where there was nothing for it to consume. Eventually, it would peter away. But casting Fiendfyre toward what would in all likelihood be a small artefact and not burn down half of Britain along the way was a novel challenge. For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, Draco read an old, dusty Malfoy library book on Fiendfyre. Unfortunately, it told him little he wasn’t already aware of. It did, however, note a counter-spell at the end. But if Draco were to cast the Fiendfyre, unfortunately he’d need Granger’s assistance to counter the flames when they got to this Horcrux-destroying business. More effing training they needed to do together.

Draco dropped the book to his desk and rearranged in his chair, resting an elbow to the armrest and his chin to his knuckles. They would need a non-flammable area to use Fiendfyre on the Horcruxes. Would they be able to transport it back to their current time? Draco supposed Granger had already considered this, but she had been predictably stubborn—no doubt refusing to languish any control—and had provided him entirely nil notes all afternoon.

The renewed thought of her irked Draco. He readjusted in his chair as if it might help to escape the barb of anger at the centre of his chest.

As a distraction, he reached for his unopened owl post and missives. The first memo informed him of the upcoming Interdepartmental Quidditch Match (he was already highly aware), the other advertised a new opening in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (couldn’t care less if he tried), then he discovered mail from Ginny:

Practice 5pm two weeks from today, I’ve sorted child-minding.

(I hope this note doesn’t become yet another victim of your seed).

Face suddenly aflame, Draco crushed the parchment in his fist and chucked it across the room. Why did Granger do this to him? Quidditch practice with Potter’s wife had been his respite. It gave Draco the opportunity to hone his skills with a retired Holyhead Harpies player—as close as he was ever going to get to the professional league himself—and now it was marred by the fact that she was privy to him fisting his cock in front of Granger. It was tainted by the thought of how they probably laughed about him.

How dare the witch.

Either they were pretending or they weren’t. It was that simple.

Sending both his hands back through his hair, Draco drank in a breath; but it did nothing to temper his rekindled anger. His lip curled, edging towards a sneer. Why did Granger’s actions bite at him in this way? He couldn't understand it.

He didn’t care what she said about him.

He didn’t care what Ginny thought of him.

Truly, he didn't.

Well, lying to himself did entirely nothing to help. Draco clenched the arms of the chair, feeling like he could hit something. Twist it, snap it, sear it until it begged him to stop. His blood felt it fizzed. He yanked at his top shirt button until it gave way, then flicked his wand towards the bar trolley. Firewhisky poured into a crystal tumbler and floated neatly into his hand. He shot back the amber liquid, but it did nothing to sate him. It stoked his anger like fuel to Fiendfyre.

Unlike any other emotion, anger had been the most challenging to wrestle with; particularly since his father had died. It refused to be caged in the confines of Draco’s mind and instead would simply dampen and idle at the back of his consciousness, waiting for the next moment to flare, then it would seep into the corners of his vision when the time was right and dare him to ignite.

It was never going to be the right time when he was sitting in the Ministry. He didn’t need this job per se, but he did enjoy the way it filled his days.

Draco set the tumbler down on the desk with a sharp crack. Maybe he needed to return home to practise his Fiendfyre and let out his frustration. Torch the old broken junk in the cellar.

As Draco contemplated, his jaw flexing, he heard the unlatching of metal.

Body rigid, he viewed the door. His heart raced with equal parts intrigue and irritation. Intrigue due to sensing a pattern and wanting his curiosity satisfied, and yet irritation as he bristled at the mere thought of Granger and her pathetic attempt to pretend.

Frankly, he didn’t want to see her.

When she appeared, he felt something arc up inside. She walked towards his desk in that wildly confident manner she had about her since they’d left Hogwarts behind, and Draco shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

The office door closed with Granger’s wordless charm and she placed a folder down in front of him, crossed her arms at her chest and stared expectantly.

Draco ignored the offering. “What do you want? I don’t want to see you right now.”

She tightened her arms, buoying the small show of cleavage in her flimsy white t-shirt. “And why’s that?”

“Don’t play naive, Granger.”

She lifted a shoulder. Made a gentle crease appear between her brows. “You’re going to have to elaborate.”

Draco’s grip tightened on the armrests. “I thought we were pretending?”

She nodded ever so slightly.

“Then—” Draco snatched his wand from the desk and sent a muffliato to his door— “I don’t think that involves telling Potter’s wife how much I came on the desk.”

Her lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Her tone held no remorse. “I just needed to tell someone how big you are.”

Draco’s tight expression dropped. His limbs pulsed, her words shooting him with displaced desire. Granger knew exactly what she was doing and she said as much with the pleased curve of her lips. What she had said stroked him in precisely the right way; and yet, it also flamed his anger.

“I know you’re just saying what you think I want to hear, but I’m serious, Granger.” He shook his head. “I see Ginny often for Quidditch practice; I don’t need her knowing what I do privately in my office, and I definitely don’t need her telling Potter.”

“I think you’re forgetting that Ginny is my best friend, and she’s privy to my every secret.”

“I don’t care,” Draco said with a low growl. The longer he stared at her unrelenting and uncaring expression, the less he thought the threat in his tone a mistake. He raised his volume, glare hardening. “Leave me out of it.”

Granger’s mask of enmity dropped away. Maybe he'd finally set some fear in her. He hadn’t wanted her to be frightened, but he did want her to understand; and she hadn’t abided by their agreement, had she?

“If we’re going to pretend,” said Draco, severity remaining in his resigned volume, “then that’s exactly what we are going to do. This is your rule, so abide by it. The other day did not happen. Understand?” His mouth still verged on a sneer, but Draco wanted to see her comprehension before he let his harsh expression resolve.

It was a beat or two before Granger acknowledged, her expression suddenly impassive. She gave a succinct nod, then set her attention down. “You’re right. I apologise.” Her voice and bearing had eased, causing her to appear genuine. Whether she was, it was difficult to discern. She flicked her eyes up to Draco. Her voice came softly. “Let me make it up to you.”

Draco’s brow contracted in. “I don't need you to make it up to me, Granger. I need you to get out of my office.”

In her predictably stubborn way, she did the complete opposite and walked around the side of his desk until she stood level with him. “I haven’t seen you this heated before.” Her expression took on a perceptive tilt. “Not since you were a temperamental bully, anyhow.”

Draco turned his chair to look up at Granger. Her eyes glinted with something he couldn’t place. Something he couldn’t think too carefully about for it muddled his irritation. This witch was bewildering. What the hell did she want from him? A kind word? Assurances that everything would be just fine? The fiery knot in Draco’s chest twinged and, simultaneously, he went to turn away from her and press his palms to the arms of the chair, preparing his escape. But before he’d moved to stand, Granger—eyes widened with a gentle show of innocence—lowered to her knees. As she knelt before him, her impassivity made way for a crafty look worthy of a Slytherin.

“Show me how angry you are,” she whispered.

Draco’s breath caught; then it rushed. He matched her volume. “What the hell are you doing?”

It looked an awful lot like she was offering herself.

What was possibly going through her mind? They’d just agreed to pretend last time hadn't happened, and here she was suggesting they—what?—do the same thing all over again?

“You know what I’m doing,” she answered softly.

A spasm of need rippled through Draco, entirely disregarding his confusion. His eyes washed over Granger as she waited patiently. It was as though she housed two distinct personalities. It was maddening. Why was she acting like a slut for him in this office and then treating him with hostility everywhere else? It reignited the anger in Draco’s chest. He found his grip tightening upon the armrests, his face flushing with heat.

If he’d wanted to, he could've played the same game. He could've told Ginny what Granger became when she was in this space… But the throb in his trousers didn't want retaliation of that kind.

With deft movement, Draco reached for Granger’s throat, sweeping his touch along her skin until his thumbs met the angles of her jawbones. He firmed the pressure.

“Show me,” she goaded, her face tilting with Draco’s grip. “I want you to show me your anger all over my tits.”

His eyes shifted down to Granger's breasts as he strained against his trousers. His breaths became impatient. He was recalling the way it had felt the last time with her here. The exquisite climax. He couldn’t pass this up, could he?

Leaning in close enough that he took up her entire view, Draco darted his eyes between Granger’s. “We’re not going to just pretend any longer.” His voice was low, rumbling with the force of his command. “If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be a secret. Understand?”

She nudged her head up and down in his hold, but he didn’t want that. Draco squeezed his thumb and forefinger where it wedged beneath her jaw, feeling the ruts of her bone. “Say it,” he sieved through a tight mouth. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” she ground out.

Draco's touch dropped away. With his wand, he made a short, sharp slashing movement and Granger’s t-shirt split down the centre. The white material now hung loosely at her sides, revealing her breasts delightfully full in her bra and stirring with her short inhales.

“Do you want me to touch you, Granger?”

She nodded briskly.

Draco’s eyes flashed a warning.

“Please.”

Draco's hand hovered at her collarbone, splayed around her throat with a thumb at one side and fingers the other. It hovered so long that Granger inched closer and made their skin meet. She was impatient and unbelievably sexy on her knees just for him, blatant desire in her eyes. As his touch trailed down her soft skin, the jolts of her breath made the swell of her chest kiss his palm, diminishing his anger with each strike.

He used both hands to slip his fingers inside the cups of her bra, grazing Granger’s soft nipples as he went. His tongue pricked with desire as he imagined taking each in turn in his mouth. Draco yanked the material down and the cups bowed beneath her breasts, pushing them higher.

“Fucking hell, Granger,” he said, only briefly glancing up at her face, not wanting to relinquish the view of Hermione fucking Granger’s tits.

Staring at her delightfully dusky pink nipples, Draco’s breathing mirrored Granger’s. Tumbling, hungry breaths. How was this happening? She hadn't always had these, had she? As he rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, feeling it harden beneath his touch, she hummed her satisfaction. He desperately wanted to take it in his mouth, but then his desire to feel her wet centre would run away, and then he’d want nothing more than to delve deep with his cock. Despite his frustration for the witch and his sudden desire to plough her with devastatingly punishing strokes, he didn’t want to stretch his luck. She had wanted him to come on her tits, and that exactly was what he was going to do.

Draco reclined back into his chair. His trousers bulged at the sight of an obedient Granger before him. “Take my cock out for me. I want to feel myself in your hands.”

After ridding herself of her tattered t-shirt and unclasping her bra, she slid forward, now firmly knelt between Draco’s legs and nipples perked his way. Fuck, she was a sight. 

As Granger took to slipping his belt from beneath the buckle, unbuttoning his trousers and downing the zip, he curved his touch around her breasts, revelling in the fullness in his palm. His fingertips thrummed in the same way they had done during their duelling training, as though celebrating this moment. A moment he never truly believed would arrive.

After she revealed his cock from his trousers, Granger’s eyes flicked up, linking with Draco’s. It may have been his inability to draw a full breath, or it may have been her hungry gaze, but Draco felt heady. The type of intoxication that had him questioning whether this was a dream. But he knew the feel of his length in her petite hands was real; it lit his centre on fire better than any dream. He hardened further as she swept her fingers down his shaft delicately. As if in reply, his cock pulsed with fresh anticipation.

“You want me to tell you how good you are, don’t you, Granger?” Draco took hold of her by the chin, forcing her face upwards, then trailed his touch along either side of her jaw. “You need to hear how perfect you are.”

She nodded enthusiastically, but Draco squeezed his fingers, feeling Granger’s back teeth at either side. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

She viewed him through narrowed eyes as he held her face firm. “Please,” she whispered.

“Good girl,” Draco said, but he daren’t give her more. She didn’t deserve it.

With that, she moved her grip up his rigid cock until her thumb met the head and she swirled the pearl of precum around. Draco needed to exhale a tremulous breath. Hermione fucking Granger was on her knees, tending to him. He felt a thrill throughout his body unlike any other. Her grip worked up and down, her tits now pushed against his knees and his anger dampening with her every stroke. Granger was, in fact, good at this. He was achingly aroused and it likely wouldn't take much longer.

But Granger draped an arm atop his thigh and stopped her movements. She had closed in so tight that her breath brushed against his cock.

She stared up at him wide-eyed with a small show of tongue teasing at her top lip. “Can I?”

Draco shook his head hurriedly. “Not unless you want me to immediately come in your mouth.”

“I want you to.”

Draco groaned lightly. He grasped the armrests of the chair. She was causing his harsh facade to crumble, dulling the embers of anger he held for the witch and her faux pretending and careless gossip.

“You know, I don’t think you should get everything you want for once.”

Her expression fell with what looked like disappointment. Then he said, “One lick,” as he told himself it was only for his pleasure and not to revert her expression.

Granger’s mouth tweaked at the end with a deviousness. She pressed in even closer, her hot breath against his cockhead inciting a twitch.

Draco clenched the arms of the chair tighter.

With her eyes firmly in his, one hand upon his thigh and the other at the base of his length, she flicked out her tongue then used the flat to lick a circle around the sensitive head. A groan escaped Draco. Then she kept going, the tip of her tongue sweeping along his hole and gathering the precum, swirling around the ridge and then teasing the shaft.

One lick. One long, leisurely perfect lick.

Swiftly, Granger dipped her whole mouth around his cock and Draco pressed his head back into the chair, sucking a breath in through his teeth. It felt too good to stop. His anger was all but forgotten.

Granger sucked, swept her tongue around with a delicious force, and made the sweetest cock-filled sound as she delved lower again. As she deepened and he felt the back of her throat, Draco squeezed his eyes shut with his clipped groan and threaded his fingers into her curls.

Fucking Salazar and Merlin and Circe.

With several bobs of her head, Draco’s resolve was tested like never before. Granger’s hand worked up and down, meeting her mouth, and the other cradled his balls. He could come. He was going to spill in the back of Hermione fucking Granger’s throat after she said one lick.

His balls were tightening. His entire body was heated beyond measure.

“Granger.” It was a warning. His voice was tight with his concentration not to prematurely unload.

Mouth still firmly around his cock, Granger hummed and it caused a delicious vibration that almost sent him over the edge.

“I’m going to come on your tits, Granger,” Draco said, low and gravelly. “That’s what you sold me, and that’s what I’ll get.”

Obediently, she pulled her mouth away and Draco immediately missed the heat of her. As he took over, stroking his length, she pressed her breasts together with a show of cleavage and thumbed at her nipples, ready for his deposit.

He missed her perfect mouth. He wanted it back again.

With his spare hand, Draco slid his touch along Granger’s jaw until his thumb slipped in between her parted lips. Her teeth glided over his skin at either side, then as her tongue swirled around in the same beautiful way she had done on his cock, Draco’s fist picked up pace. This time as he tended to himself, he couldn’t look away from her. The way her fair brown eyes pierced his thrilled him in a way he'd never known. He adored how she watched his pleasure build and waited to see how he came for her. He knew she was enjoying this and dearly loved the thought of her drenched knickers.

With the knowledge Granger’s tits were his to claim, Draco’s balls tightened and the divine release snapped. A strangled noise slipped from his mouth without volition as his forceful load met Granger’s tits. White strands of come coated her skin, down to her nipple at one side and sprinkled up towards her collarbone at the other. The pleasure echoed to every end of his body, lingering. Even better than the last time.

Panting, Draco retracted his thumb from Granger’s mouth. She smirked up at him as she sat back onto her heels, and he put himself back in his trousers.

“Have we come to an understanding then?” asked Draco.

“At least one of us has come to an understanding.”

“Don’t you dare play with me right now, Granger.” He shot his wand to her chest to clean the mess he’d made. “I want you to confirm we have an agreement.”

Although her brazen amusement dipped, the curve of her lips remained. “This is our secret.”

There was something provocative in those words. It shot Draco with a fresh pulse of desire. But as he sat deeper into his chair, watching as Granger righted her bra and then mended her t-shirt, the realisation of the situation came to him harder than his load had hit Granger’s chest.

“What exactly are we doing?” he asked as she stood before him.

She shrugged lightly and glanced around the office to the barren walls and single bottle of Firewhisky on the bar trolley. “Keeping secrets, apparently.”

Draco palmed down over his mouth. Why was she like this? She had every answer in the world where anything else was concerned, but exploits in this office and she was ambiguous and irritatingly evasive.

Although, was this truly an issue?

As long as she wanted to be here, as long as she wanted him to come all over her, then Draco would abide.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked as she moved towards the door.

“You could have gone harder.”

Draco couldn’t help his mouth tipping up then. “What’s your safe word?”

“Quidditch,” she said without a beat of hesitation, and he couldn’t tell whether she still goaded him.

As she placed her hand on the doorknob, Draco already felt his cock edging for more. He wanted all of her. He needed to know when he could have her.

“When do I get to watch you?” His voice had rushed out, revealing his pathetic, sudden desperation.

Past her shoulder, Granger showed him how her face was still lined with a smirk. “Soon,” she whispered; then she was gone.

Chapter Text

In the beginning there had been an easy love between Hermione and Ron, for he was steadfast and loyal, gentle and often considerate. He was handsome in that fair, lanky sort of way, and over the years, his family had become Hermione’s own. But at some point in time, Hermione realised that while she loved Ron in the way he wanted to be loved, his love for her had never been enough. They drifted apart long before that realisation. Far more time was spent in separate corners of their flat following their lengthening days at work, with less conversation and touches and glances; and far fewer quarrels. Until the last argument, that was. It was several hours of tears, some begging and bartering on Ron’s part, reminiscing of joyful memories, mourning of their lost future, and then a lingering hug. Ron hadn’t wanted it to end. Hermione, however, was adamant they needed to grow separately. She had told him that if they were in the same place at the same time as changed adults, then maybe it was meant to be.

Truthfully, she had known that was a lie.

For a time following their break-up, growth and self-actualisation were Hermione’s priorities. She needed to understand who she was alone. Who, exactly, was Hermione Granger? And who could she be? Sometimes the staidness of her personality felt pathetic. When she saw other women, liberal with their clothing, language and bodies, she wondered what it was like to be them. Why wasn’t she like that? Couldn’t she be? She had never been wholly wind-swept, nor felt simultaneously free in body and mind and soul. It had become such an all-encompassing quest to understand who twenty-four-year-old Hermione was that it eventually took precedence over her work. It crowded into her thoughts during meetings and missions, and caused her to second guess the point of it all each and every day.

She knew her insecurities were dangerous and, as it was drilled into her during Auror training, danger could see you felled if not sufficiently prepared. After several failed experiences with Mind Healers—who couldn’t quite grasp that spells or potions were unable to ‘fix’ her—Hermione visited a muggle psychologist to find answers. In fact, it was Auror Preston who had provided an extra nudge she had unknowingly needed. At first, a therapist had been a fleeting thought; but the manner in which Preston had seemingly given her permission cemented her steps.

It was an intimidating occasion when she first partnered with Auror Dominic Preston. At seventy-odd years of age, he was still a well-built man, tall and broad-shouldered with a dark, straight brow that caused you to second guess everything if it furrowed even a whit. But his touch to his wand was gentle, his voice always kind and even, and any offering from his mouth was a thoughtful addition to the conversation. Hermione had witnessed his intellect in written reports and staff meetings, and while she appreciated when others took to knowledge in the same way as she did, it was always daunting to be equalled. But of course, he had several more decades of experience so they weren’t truly equals at all, were they? When they first partnered on a case, Hermione had felt awfully inadequate. Inadequate at a time when she already felt half the person she was, thin and inferior, so much so that she worried the wind might just carry her away.

Hurriedly, she learnt there was nothing to fear where Preston was concerned. Every new day he was all strength and patience, with a perceptiveness in his piercing blue eyes she hadn’t appreciated from afar.

“You know, I’m also muggle-born, Hermione,” he had said one morning as he sat at the opposite side of the meeting table. “And I think we both know that while magic can solve many problems, it can't solve all.” He removed his rectangular reading glasses, better revealing creases at the corners of his eyes. “I must say that muggle methods have plenty to offer for certain afflictions too.”

“Is it that obvious?” she asked, unable to move her gaze away from the quill she twiddled between her thumb and forefinger.

When the silence felt it dawdled, she finally viewed him.

Preston rested a knuckle to his grey speckled moustache before answering. “I hope I am not out of line in saying this, Hermione, but I’ve noticed your spark has dimmed lately.”

He had very kindly labelled it her spark, but she knew he meant her dull hair and eyes, and clothing that hung pathetically on her thinned frame. She had only recently taken to glamouring the dark bags beneath her eyes, but hadn’t been able to do the same for her dark thoughts. Preston had instilled in her that he understood her plight. Hermione felt his empathy, and with each new day, he quietly stoked her with the confidence she had so sorely needed. It was during their fourth week spent partnering that he convinced Hermione that her newfound self-described weakness was only temporary.

“There's only so far you can travel by your lonesome, Hermione,” he had told her as they sat in the meeting room. “You don’t need to undertake this alone.”

Something awfully silly happened in that moment and Hermione felt the hot press of tears. In hindsight, she realised she had simply needed the right person to say the right thing at the right time.

Hermione sniffed, then showed him a smile that crumpled at the corner. “Where did you find such wisdom?”

His own smile was tinged with sadness. “Age, mainly. But also during my own journey with Mind Healers and muggle psychologists. And my wife, of course. She arrived in this world wise beyond her years and I couldn’t have lived this full life without her.” An unburdened smile materialised then, and she felt compelled to mirror his expression.

With that, Hermione finally began sessions with a psychologist in Harley Street.

At first, this time involved queries around her upbringing, setting goals for her future, and homework for cognitive strategies in an effort to attain the habits and the achievements—non-academic—required to become the person she wanted to be. All the while, she expertly avoided the mention of magic. This whole exercise would have been much simpler if she could have visited a witch or wizard who had trained in muggle psychological therapies; however, she and Preston were yet to discover the existence of such a person. On the other hand, Hermione was thankful for the anonymity the muggle world provided her. At her psychologist’s office she wasn’t Hermione Granger, a third of the Golden Trio, she was Detective Hermione Wilkins. For a number of sessions, she both unravelled and spooled with only the use of strategic words, and although she was uncertain whether her growth had been substantial enough to warrant the several hundreds worth of pounds she had spent, Hermione always felt markedly better after she visited her psychologist. That was incentive enough to return every month.

As a matter of priority, Hermione worked towards the goal of new experiences. Experiences in which she was enjoying herself rather than fending for life. At the Ministry, she joined the orphan mentorship program to give back to children who had lost parents during the war. In Scotland she visited a unicorn sanctuary (or, a retired racehorse stable, as she told her therapist) and bottle-fed foals, and for Samhain, she travelled to Ireland and the top of the Hill of Tara, for she’d heard that the liminal time helped one feel closer to their departed.

For a different pace, Hermione visited novel bars and clubs alongside Ginny and Luna, where she received attention from both wizards and muggles alike. Here and there, she experimented with a couple of dates and one-night stands, seeing what felt good for her as a single woman in her twenties. The last time she had been single she was a teenager, and those two versions of single-Hermione were laughably different people. Having been with only Ron, she hadn’t realised what she was missing, and sexual freedom felt an important aspect of her growth. It was on her list, after all. But as Ginny fell pregnant again and Luna went to Japan for several months to research an Asian breed of Nargles, Hermione found herself taking to the same clubs by her lonesome, chasing the thrum in her limbs, music pulsing through her chest, Firewhiskey setting her alight. She danced among the other carefree clubgoers, finding attention from men she never imagined would have looked at her twice. Hermione was happier this way.

At least, until that one night.

But she’d pushed that to the back of her mind, so far back that she now failed to recall the entire memory even if she tried. The only reminder these days was Dragon Barrel Brandy, which she could no longer put to her lips without feeling sickly, and the rude scent of spiced clove, which she had managed to avoid all but once.

Following that night, she withdrew from everyone and everything that made her life whole. For a time, Hermione thought she had done irreparable damage. She took lengths of leave from work, missed her therapy sessions, ignored pleas from Ginny. One day, when she was physically ill at the thought of more time spent feeling miserable, Hermione revisited the same bar from that night. She thought of it as a challenge. Once past the panic she experienced in a bathroom stall, she found that facing the fear soothed her; as did the liquor. Then, as though a craving or compulsion, and with sudden lack of control, she found herself again ending nights with meaningless sex with faceless men. This time it wasn’t for sexual freedom, but rather, a remedy for the way her body now felt foreign and unmoored. But she was happier this way. Wasn’t she?

Sometimes Hermione thought if she was truly happy, she wouldn’t need to ask herself that question so often. She wouldn’t need her therapist’s assistance to reframe her thoughts and pick out the positive from the negative. It wasn’t as though she didn’t greatly appreciate her psychologist; for a while there, she had assisted the uncomfortable symptoms Hermione was experiencing—the fitful sleep and insomnia, the irritability, and the desire to spend entire days in bed—but as Hermione had pussy-footed around what had actually happened that night, she knew she was never going to receive fitting support. Nevertheless, she had made do. Hermione was able to function day-to-day and her maladaptive behaviours had all but disappeared. She was happy again. Wasn’t she?

Besides, since Harry had forced her and Malfoy onto this Horcrux case, Hermione now had more important things to discuss in her precious sixty-minute sessions. Her fitful sleep could wait.

“It's finally happened,” said Hermione.

She sat into the familiar groove at the far left of the blue sofa. In fact, the entire room was blue. The sofa was navy, the carpet cerulean, the walls a rude aqua. Even the tissue box and clock were differing variants of the same colour. Hermione had read that blue was supposed to signify calmness and promote relaxation, and while she was not doubting the science behind it, she had come to the realisation that she had a blue threshold, and often if she thought too deeply about where she sat, she began to feel oddly claustrophobic.

Hermione straightened her black shirt where it fell upon her lap and then looked up at Maeve, who sat in her armchair with her legs crossed and a notepad to her knee. Maeve had kind eyes and short red hair that flitted to the side when she tilted her head, which she often did to demonstrate that she was, indeed, listening. Fortunately, Maeve was fairly pleasant, certainly easy to burden with troubles, and Hermione enjoyed her occasional perceptive remarks.

“I've been put on a case with the colleague I told you about,” Hermione added.

Maeve adjusted her orange-rimmed glasses on her nose. “Against your will, I presume?” Her voice had a smooth, steady quality that rendered everything she said as warm and trustworthy. Enough so that Hermione most often found herself wanting to give more. Just because she found herself wanting, however, didn’t necessarily mean she obliged.

Hermione sent a laugh through her nose. “Of course.”

“And what kind of emotions has that brought up?”

“All of them.” Hermione gave a tight smile.

“Any positive?”

She shrugged loosely. “I haven’t reflected, but the majority are probably negative.”

The therapist let the silence sit in the same way she always did, and Hermione was forced to mull over her thoughts. She supposed that some of the emotions were positive. The way Malfoy had come all over her the other day was certainly a positive. It sated something deep within Hermione… but that was not anything she’d dare say. Other than that, he prodded her patience. Malfoy thought he was cleverer in every sense, yet he was also infuriatingly lax, as though whatever he was faced with might just sort itself out. Truthfully, he instilled a level of anxiety in her she hadn’t experienced with other partners. Malfoy had an ever-present threat of being uncontrollable.

“Perhaps we can move on to the hypersexuality instead,” Maeve suggested, maybe sensing she was to receive little else on the matter. “Do you feel this has been an issue for you since we last spoke?”

In her mind, Hermione replayed the first occasion she had realised what Malfoy was doing in his office, remembering how, as she had sat behind her desk, she’d heard the clinking of his belt buckle unlatch. How she felt a tingling at her navel thinking of what he was doing to himself. She recalled the way she couldn’t deny the opportunity to see Malfoy at his most vulnerable, how she’d ordered him to show her his release and he obediently obliged. Hermione momentarily relived the way she had returned home and used her vibrator to finish herself off at the thought of Malfoy coming all over the desk, and then the next week, used it three times over again in quick succession as she recalled the way he'd played with her breasts and the delicious warmth of him coming all over her chest earlier that evening. She’d gone far too hard that night, orgasming so many times over that she saw wobbly stars at the periphery of her vision and fell asleep for a stint to recover.

“No.” It wasn't a lie, perhaps just an untruth. Of course, the hypersexuality had once been an issue, but it wasn’t anymore. It wasn’t an issue in the sense that she was no longer putting herself in danger, nor was she inadvertently hurting other people. What she had done with Malfoy was perfectly reasonable for two single, consenting adults.

“I'm glad to hear,” Maeve said. “And the nightmares; have they given you any grief?”

Hermione shook her head. “No.” Well, that was entirely a lie.

“You appear a little more withdrawn than usual today. Is there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”

Suddenly, Hermione didn’t feel like talking about anything at all. She inhaled deeply, yet quietly, cautious her every minute action was being scrutinised.

“What do you feel is your primary concern at this moment?” Maeve pressed.

“My ability to work on this case without killing my partner,” said Hermione. “Metaphorically, of course.”

Thinning her mouth, Maeve nodded. “Then perhaps we should discuss some strategies to manage your anger.”

To be honest, Hermione didn’t really feel like managing her anger. She liked it exactly the way it was where Malfoy was concerned. Wanting to direct the conversation elsewhere, Hermione said, “I actually walked in on him pleasuring himself, which I suppose made everything uncomfortable for a few days.”

“Pleasuring himself?” It was the first time she’d seen Maeve’s serious therapist expression move into sincere surprise. “At your workplace?”

Hermione nodded with a small smile to show this run-in hadn’t negatively affected her.

“Is that something you would perhaps raise with Human Resources? Or your manager?”

“Erm.” Hermione made a vague noise as she thought of a way around this question. She couldn’t say there was entirely no such thing at her workplace, given Maeve assumed she worked for the London police. What if she decided to investigate the supposed lack of a Human Resources department at England’s largest police station? Sometimes Hermione wondered if she was just digging herself deeper into a hole with every wizarding world-related lie. “I’ve already started on the process.” She showed a quaint smile—quaint enough for what she measured was the seriousness of the situation, according to Maeve.

Maeve nodded as though she was happy to hear this news. “That must have been quite confronting to see. How are you feeling about it?”

Lifting a shoulder, Hermione attempted to appear carefree. “Entirely fine. We’ve agreed to pretend it never happened so we can move forward.” In fact, they had progressed from pretending to secret-keeping and Hermione suspected she was already failing at that task. But psychologists were secret keepers too, right?

“And how do you think this will affect your working relationship?”

There was a protracted silence during which Hermione considered how her every late night interaction with Malfoy in his office had now sparked something unruly within her. How she wanted nothing more than to feel every inch of him against her palms, crash her mouth into his, grasp at his beautiful hair and feel him thrust inside her. She ached between her legs at the mere thought.

At the end of the day, it was difficult to deny that Malfoy had grown into a beautiful man. His jaw was angled and his shoulders broad, yet his body still had that fair, lithe way about it. These days he often had a few strands of blond hair that fell across his forehead, and a permanent line on the right side of his mouth due to his predilection for smirking. Hermione was adamant she would have felt similar feelings for anyone she was partnered with at work if they simply looked like Draco Malfoy. Besides, none of this meant she couldn’t maintain a professional working relationship. Hermione would simply need to separate Auror work-colleague Malfoy from late night wanking Malfoy.

“I don’t foresee it being an issue,” said Hermione.

“And during the case you and your colleague have been assigned,” began Maeve, “do you think this is a good opportunity for you to discuss the reasoning for your previous unwillingness to work together?”

Hermione hadn’t even needed to think about her answer. She shook her head. “I'm certain that would only complicate matters.”

***

“Are you sure about this, Hermione?” Ginny’s expression creased with a familiar worry before she deposited baby Albus upon the chequered floor of the Potter’s kitchen, his toy wand gripped in hand.

With sudden discomfort for the way her best friend’s eyes cut lines across her face, Hermione readjusted in her chair at the small round table. She watched as Albus tapped his to wand to a nearby stuffed bear and made the ends of its yellow fur pink.

With a sigh, Ginny plopped into the seat opposite. “I don’t think you should be on this case,” she said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you speak to Harry again—or let me bring it up? It wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

“No, Gin.” Hermione fiddled with her teacup handle. “I can’t back out now. That would only make matters worse. Besides, I’d rather you not talk to Harry about these things. Malfoy doesn’t want him getting wind of it.”

Ginny angled her head, eyes round with disbelief. “Hermione…”

As she watched Albus, who was attempting to use his pudgy hands to push himself up to stand, Hermione couldn’t help but smile at Ginny’s maternal tone. Had she always been like this? It felt like a new addition in recent years, alongside the onslaught of pregnancy hormones. She couldn’t help but feel if it were several years earlier, Ginny would have been agreeing how fit Malfoy was these days and encouraging her to sod it all.

“What exactly is your concern?” asked Hermione.

Ginny placed her mug on the faded blue tablecloth and crossed her arms. “My concern is that you’ve had something terrible happen not all too long ago, and you’re now being forced into Malfoy’s proximity against your will thanks to my idiot husband, and then—” She glanced away, squinting her eyes as if she was unsure if she should continue. “The whole wanking on the desk thing. It’s a very confusing situation to be in and, well, I’m worried it’ll all be too much for you.”

What, exactly, would be too much? Probably not what Ginny had in mind. Too much, according to Hermione, would be butting heads with Malfoy more often than they could share a civil word then getting stuck in a foreign time and place. But too much because he’d come for her? Never.

It truly said something that Ginny held such concern despite the fact she wasn’t aware of their second office run-in, and given Hermione’s promise to Malfoy, there was entirely no chance of her verbalising it. In fact, Ginny didn’t know half of Hermione’s sexual escapades. In the beginning, it was partly due to Hermione not wanting to burden a sleep-deprived mother with her smutty adventures when she had more substantial things to consider, like battling to keep her Quidditch career, but then her secrecy became due to the simple shame of it. Now, it was secrecy because she couldn’t bear Ginny’s added worry; and couldn’t revert on her word to Malfoy.

Albus had managed to find his feet and now wandered towards Hermione. Toy wand still in his unrelenting grip, he pawed at her lap, his little leg raising with an attempt to climb up on his own. Hermione gripped him beneath his arms and hefted him onto her lap.

“I’ll be fine,” said Hermione. She dandled Albus on her knee in a manner that also soothed her own sudden anxiety. Hopefully Ginny had bought the confidence Hermione imbued in her tone; she never again wanted to worry her friend in the same way as she had once done.

“Will you? Truly?” Ginny challenged. “I don’t want you going back to the dark place. It was difficult to get you out of there last time.”

Hermione didn’t want to revisit that place either. “I don’t want you to worry,” she said, nothing but truth in her words. “But trust me, I know what I’m doing where Malfoy is concerned.”

***

“Tell me again why we’re down in the depressing depths of the Ministry,” said Malfoy.

Hermione had managed to find a perfectly acceptable location to practice Fiendfyre, an old storeroom at the last level of the Ministry building. It was long abandoned and they had needed to clear it of a few boxes first, but its walls and floor were all stone and it would do nicely.

“We’re here because we have work to do, Malfoy. I thought you were cleverer than this.”

He glanced up at the shadowy corners of the ceiling with thinly veiled disgust, as though he perused for a new home purchase. “But my cellar is far larger and would give us plenty more room to play.”

“It's not play time, Malfoy, and I don't very much fancy the idea of returning to your manor nor experiencing your cellar, thank you.”

“Oh, right.” Malfoy averted his gaze. He meandered off towards the far wall, not even six feet away. “It's been remodelled since, if that helps.”

No matter what he said, she wouldn’t be going anywhere near his manor. Hermione didn't need to be in his home, where there were opportunities to blur the lines of their co-working relationship. At least in the Ministry building, the line was firm. It began and ended at the threshold of Malfoy’s office.

“Okay, fine,” said Malfoy, as though Hermione was waiting for a confession. “I only had the blood and filth cleaned away, but it's still far superior to this place and will give us more room to work. Besides, how many of the hundreds of people working upstairs are going to perish when we set the Ministry on fire?”

Hermione's eyes flared. A bolt of panic lanced through her. She had done everything she needed to in an effort to prepare for their first mission, including several duelling training sessions, but what exactly had Malfoy been doing? He could have been gazing at himself in the mirror this entire time for all she knew; after all, he’d scarcely given her any reason to believe otherwise. There was simply no way she could trust him, could she? Not in the way someone should trust their partner.

“I thought you said you've controlled Fiendfyre?”

Crossing his arms, Malfoy let his wand dangle loosely from his long fingers. “I have, but that’s not to say the counter curse mightn’t work.”

“Why would it not work?”

“Well, it is from a very old book; and it was written by a man named Fred Fredisson, so I'm not sure what to think.”

“Are you quite serious?”

“About the name? Unfortunately.”

Spinning a half-circle on the spot, Hermione fingered at the edge of her jaw, massaging along the muscle that twinged occasionally and often sent a shooting pain up into her skull. A newly collected souvenir following months of tense nights of sleep, or lack thereof. She glanced at Malfoy, who was now making his way into the dim corner, still sizing up the place.

Although there was a lamp in the centre of the ceiling, the dark stone ate the majority of the light and the way the shadows fell across Malfoy’s visage painted him as distressingly attractive. He was like something she might’ve encountered in a hazy, dirty dream. Painfully handsome and yet incredibly irritating, all in one. And the scent of him… deliciously sharp and fresh dulled citrus adding to the pull of desire beneath her navel.

What was wrong with her? He looked like every other Auror in his dark trousers, a shirt that pulled taut along the lean muscle at his chest, and leather wand holster strapped over the top...but he also wore his sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his fair forearms and the faint white scar of a Dark Mark. Somehow, it was too easy to ignore the sins of his past. Maybe it was something to do with the ropey veins that curved down along his wrist and into his hands, inciting a perfect reminder of his touch days earlier. Hermione’s skin prickled as though she had been hit with an icy draft. She needed to cross her arms to hide any evidence of her nipples perking in her thin bra and white shirt. Which, certainly wasn’t helped by the frigid air down here.

With a faint clearing of her throat, she reverted towards the door of the small, square room. “Let’s just get this over with. If this doesn’t work, we’ll need to delay timelines and reassess.”

Malfoy wandered closer, coming to a stop a couple of feet before Hermione. His grey eyes glinted in the meagre light and his expression shaped with faint offence. “How do you have such little faith in me, Granger?”

“Because I’ve met you. I think it’s best if we stand closer to the exit, and you cast the fire toward the back corner, then if anything goes wrong we can dart out, close the door behind and fortify it with steel. That will hopefully smother the flames and allow it to peter out.”

“You’ve spent time determining mitigation strategies in the event of my failure?”

“I’ve also been practising my spells for chemicals found in muggle fire extinguishers—carbon dioxide, sodium chloride, and copper, just in case we need to smother anything further.”

His brows flexed towards each other. “So really, no faith?”

“Come on then,” Hermione began, cocking her head, “why don’t you just show me your proficiency.”

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow.

“Don’t make this dirty,” warned Hermione. They needed to deter from innuendo if there was any chance of her keeping Auror partner Malfoy and desk-wanking Malfoy separate in her mind. She spun and moved to stand before the open door.

“I’m going to stay here,” said Malfoy. “The first rule of casting Fiendfyre is to hold your wand and concentration still, and given your nipples are vying for my attention, it'll be safer if you remain behind.”

As Malfoy lifted his wand in preparation and turned to face the wall, Hermione only half-heartedly stifled her smile. He couldn't see anyway, so what was the harm? When he outstretched his arm and turned his wrist at the same angle he’d shown her days prior, she took a silent step backward, eager not to deter his attention, yet also unable to ignore the incessant voice in the back of her mind warning for her safety. Hermione had seen Fiendfyre only once before. She had witnessed the way it had jetted and roared. Witnessed it take a life. She was determined not to experience that again.

Suddenly, a flame licked from the end of Malfoy’s wand. He twisted his wrist with a smooth motion and the fire grew sleek and evenly. The way he curved his wand made it form a neat spiral as it edged forward into the air, teasing toward the stone wall. Despite only a slip of his visage visible, Hermione witnessed a proud look wash over Malfoy’s expression. And somehow, if it were possible, a task she thought would be just that—a task— now painted Malfoy as even more attractive. Godsdamn him and his proficiency.

“You’re truly controlling Fiendfyre,” Hermione breathed.

As soon as she spoke a syllable, the flames frightened away. The fire hissed backward, retracting into Malfoy’s wand and he turned with his usual smirk.

“Have you learned a valuable lesson about doubting me, Granger? No need for doors and copper, or whatever else you had in your back pocket.”

Hermione lifted her brows. “Don’t get too cocky. You still need to aim it at a Horcrux, and from my experience, they can be extremely feisty.”

“Lucky I thought to bring along a practice Horcrux.” Malfoy slipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a beautifully ornate snuff box with filigree carvings. It fit neatly inside his palm. “An old piece of Malfoy junk. I’ll aim the Fiendfyre, but I want you to use the counter-curse as soon as it catches.”

Hermione nodded once.

Perhaps she had doubted Malfoy a little too much. Or, was he simply proficient in Fiendfyre due to his old ways? Hermione was almost too afraid to ask.

Years ago, following a long period of reflection and at least two arguments with Ron, she had testified on Malfoy’s behalf during his trial before the Wizengamot. Hermione was certain she had witnessed hints of his good character beneath the snark and faux bravado. He had lied for them that day at his manor. But now, having not directly worked with Malfoy and having had so few meaningful interactions, she still hadn’t put her theory of his transformed moral fibre to the test.

During his trial, she had watched him repent. She listened intently as he detailed his desperation to keep his parents safe from Voldemort and admitted his prejudices towards muggle-borns were misguided and dated. Eventually, Hermione found herself swayed by his self-professed desire to absolve his past by training as an Auror. Sometimes, however, she wondered whether the dark magic still had hold of him in some sense, whether it could one day persuade him to return. Did he practise other dark curses alongside the Fiendfyre? Hermione wouldn’t have been surprised to hear. But she couldn’t dwell on her wonderings for too long. The deeper she thought about Malfoy, the greater she questioned herself; and she didn’t want to second-guess what they had been doing in his office. It was too fun to forgo. Too exciting to apply logic and sense.

With the snuff box sitting a foot from the wall, Hermione moved in line with Malfoy and pointed her wand, the counter-curse ready on her tongue.

“Nipples firm?”

“Malfoy.”

He threw her a smirk. “I meant to say firmly away.” He returned his attention towards the snuff box. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

The flames danced from the end of Malfoy’s wand, a slow meandering stream, flickering out like wandering fingers. As soon as it latched onto the box, the lacquered wood flamed and the fire grew tall as though it feasted in celebration. Hermione was adept at wordless magic, but she hadn’t wanted the counter-curse to fail now that Malfoy had held up his end of the bargain. She hissed the spell beneath her breath, causing a flash of white light to erupt from the end of her wand and douse the fire—just like a muggle fire extinguisher, without leaving the foamy mess. Strings of smoke wafted up from the charred box.

Malfoy and Hermione turned to each other, grins on their faces.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” said Hermione.

“I can. We’re the best of the best, Granger,” said Malfoy, a sense of seriousness in his bearing. It was brief, however, as he added, “Now, what do you say we go upstairs and I toss you around for a bit?”

At first she showed him a fed up look, then she struggled to suppress the pull at the corner of her lips. “Is this my every day for the duration of this case? Objectification? Innuendos?”

“I meant throw you around in the duelling room, Granger.” Malfoy vanished the burnt snuff box with his wand. “Now who’s making things dirty?”

Hermione tutted and turned on her heel, moving into the dingy hallway.

Malfoy fell into step. “In all honesty, if you want me to stop, Granger, just say so.”

As she flicked an amused glance up at Malfoy, she said. “Oh, I didn’t say that, did I?”

Chapter Text

Following Hermione’s presentation of their mission plan to Harry—with a couple of useless remarks from Malfoy and a demonstration of his ability to wield Fiendfyre—they were at a point where they could get to the action of the case. They were ready to journey to London, nineteen forty-four.

At a couple of minutes past five on a Wednesday, Hermione conjured her otter Patronus and sent it to Malfoy’s office. It wasn’t long before she heard his drawl.

“You have legs, yes?”

“Two.” Hermione finished off a scribble on another case report before looking up to see Malfoy leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.

“Then why send a Patronus to tell me to come to your office?”

“I thought it was more appropriate. I didn't want you getting the wrong idea when I entered your office again.”

“I think you mean the right idea, and that doesn't matter because it's at the forefront of my mind, all hours of the day.”

Perhaps in Hermione’s mind too, not that she'd ever admit it.

Maintaining her neutral expression, she said, “Well, now is time to concentrate, so put those thoughts out of mind.” After placing her quill down, she threaded her fingers together on the desk. “Do you have everything you need? We'll leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Me and my wand, yes. Let me tie up some loose ends, then we can go.”

“We don’t have time for that. We’ll leave in thirteen minutes.”

Malfoy moved deeper into Hermione’s office and slipped a hand into his trouser pocket. “What do you mean we don’t have time? We quite literally have all the time.”

“I don’t want us to be late.”

Malfoy frowned. “To… the past?”

“I’d like to survey the area.”

“Because we don't know Whitehall well enough already?”

“In nineteen forty-four we certainly don't.”

Malfoy appeared to consider, eyes briefly flinging sideways then back ahead. “Fine.”

He was already on his way when she said, “Go change into something else so you’re not a walking anachronism.”

“Are you serious, Granger? Last I checked, muggle men were wearing shirts and trousers in the forties.”

“Not nearly tight enough to show off every muscle and bulge, though. Correct?”

Malfoy glanced down at the outline Hermione was referring to, then reverted his gaze to hers, looking all too pleased with himself. Feeling her mouth attempting to curve, she snatched up her quill, poised it upon her parchment, and peered down at the desk with entirely nothing to write.

“I’ll give you that one,” said Malfoy. “Besides, this is not what I had planned to wear.”

“See you in twelve minutes then,” she said, not bothering to look up.

In that time, Hermione stood in the centre of her office and transfigured her tight brown trousers so that the waist extended up past her belly button and the legs widened to the same width all the way to her feet. She altered the collar of her white shirt from round to short and pointed, and her boots into flat brown leather Oxfords. As Hermione fashioned her hair into something reminiscent of the time, pinning two great curls back at either side of her forehead, Malfoy returned—several minutes late.

As she turned to view him front on, a laugh tumbled out of Hermione. “Are you quite serious, Malfoy?”

“That's Colonel Malfoy to you, Granger.”

He’d arrived in a military uniform: an olive jacket, matching trousers with a waist far higher than present day’s fashions, and a tan shirt and tie beneath. His shoulders and left breast sported coloured insignia. While he appeared dashing—she was capable of admitting as much—he did look an awful lot like someone had put a costume on a twenty-first century man. There wasn't a way to describe why she couldn’t buy his disguise, but as long as the nineteen-forties Londoners assumed there was an off chance he could be drawing up military logistics somewhere in a battle room, she didn’t care.

“You truly think you'd be a colonel in the second muggle World War?” Her words were marred by her laughter. She held a knuckle over her lip, as though it did anything to hide her humour.

He squinted, then with a playful smile yet entirely serious tone said, “If not a General.”

Hermione’s laughter bubbled in her chest. She couldn’t keep it from escaping. “We’re not going to a fancy dress party, Malfoy. You're having far too much fun.”

He removed his stiff brimmed cap and lodged it beneath his arm. “My last case was staring at Goblin guts in all sorts of different locations around England. It's time I'm allowed some fun.” He stepped closer and smirked down at Hermione. “Besides, you wear trousers and a sad shirt every other day. It wouldn’t hurt you to branch out a little, Granger. And if we’re talking anachronisms, you’re not going to work on the land or in the munitions factories. Today you’re a city girl and I know for a fact they wore delightful little dresses.”

Hermione gave a little shake of her head. How did Malfoy know so much about muggle war?

“What? You gave me reading to do, and I did it.”

“I just… I don’t know where to begin with anything you just said.”

“Then allow me—” He lifted his wand and before Hermione could produce hers to counter, he’d altered her shirt and trousers into a form-fitting red dress with a hem that met her knees, sleeves that stopped just short of her elbows, a black pointed collar and a slim black belt at her waist.

“Malfoy!”

“Come on, Granger.” He procured a length of mirror out of nowhere that stretched to the floor and leant against his chest so that it was the perfect angle for Hermione to view her new attire. “Look at how much better that is.”

She did like the cut of the dress. And only now was she noticing her flat brown Oxfords had been changed into black heels. “I can’t stand out like this.” Without even bothering to lift her wand, she morphed the red into a muted brown.

“Fine.” Malfoy vanished the mirror. “But the heels stay.”

“Unless I have to run from or towards a dark wizard, and then they’re immediately changing into trainers.”

“Deal.”

At her desk, Hermione retrieved her trusty charm-extended bag, which she had already stuffed with all sorts of odd ends and bits and pieces, and had transfigured from its bulbous shape into flat brown leather with a stiff handle. “Now, I’m assuming you know there was a war happening at the time, given the garb, but according to the Internet and several books, the Blitz was occurring over London.”

“I’m aware, Granger. I’m now well versed in Britain’s role in the muggle Second World War.” He wiggled his brows. “Go on—ask me anything.”

“You know what? I’ll take your word for it.” Hermione snatched up the Time-Turner from her desk and threaded the gold chain over her head. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t find specifics even in the library about the German bombing of the Whitehall area on this date, so just keep in mind that if the sirens begin, we need to run for cover.”

“Got it. Sirens mean run for our lives.”

“And there’ll be shelters in the tube stations—”

“Okay, okay.” Malfoy whipped his hand in a circle. “Let’s just get this case started. According to your schedule, we’re seven minutes behind.”

Malfoy’s irritating restlessness was rearing its head. They had done as much preparation as they could; or at least, Hermione had. This was going to be a test of their true skills and collaboration.

With an anticipatory sigh, Hermione moved to meet Malfoy in the centre of her office, her handbag hanging in the crook of her arm. She had closed in enough that they now stood toe to toe.

Malfoy’s fair brows slashed down. “What are you doing…”

Hermione held up the delicate glass of the Time-Turner in one hand and its gold chain pinched between two fingers in the other. “I’ll need to slip this over your head too, so stay still.”

Lifting herself on to the tips of her toes, Hermione witnessed Malfoy recoil a little as she threw the chain over his head, as though he battled with their new distance. Nevertheless, they were now successfully linked by the thin thread of gold. She was now trapped with his intoxicating scent, enfolded in his heat and pinned by a hotter stare.

Not wanting to strain the delicate apparatus, Hermione was close enough that she needed to slot one of her shoes in between the two of his. Their chests were verging on pressing together. At her right side, Malfoy’s military jacket flirted with the cotton of her dress, and there was entirely nowhere for Hermione to look except up into Malfoy’s grey eyes. The way he looked at her… well, it was as though she had informed him she knew how his life was to end. His brows were crooking up, and the whites of his eyes were more visible than usual.

“Are you serious, Granger?” There was a sharpness in his tone that Hermione hadn’t heard since Hogwarts. A tone that caused her to second guess whether something cruel was about to come from his mouth.

Instead, Malfoy raised his wand, aiming for the chain.

Hermione slapped his hand. “Are you serious?”

“It’s a bit snug.”

“You can’t just magic this thing in any which way you want. You might disrupt its ability to correctly travel time and get us killed, or worse, stuck somewhere atrocious together with no way to get back.”

Malfoy’s familiar smirk was burgeoning. “You say that as if you wouldn't enjoy a jaunt with me in eighteenth century France.”

After Hermione swivelled the knob on the top of the Time-Turner to the correct date and time, and double-checked the coordinates around the bottom knob, she flicked her eyes up to Malfoy and showed how incredibly done she was with him. “First rule: you’re to keep your hands and wand to yourself when we use the Time-Turner.”

“Rules,” repeated Malfoy drolly. “Brilliant. Don't get enough of those.”

“Second rule: only I set and use the Time-Turner, and I will keep it with me at all times. It is not to be near you or touched by you.”

“See, I think that should be Rule One B. It’s too closely related to the first Time-Turner rule.”

“Third rule: we cannot leave each other's side. There's no room for error, quite literally no time to be searching for someone because they decided they needed a jaunt.”

Malfoy gave a lazy eye roll. “Enough of the rules, Granger. Let's go.” He went to reach for the Time-Turner, but Hermione slapped his hand again.

“I’ve just recited the rules and you’ve already attempted to break the first two.”

“And if you don't hurry and flick those switches, I'm going to break the third rule. A jaunt away from you sounds incredibly appealing right now.”

With a huff, Hermione used both of her thumbs to simultaneously flick the top and bottom knobs on the Time-Turner.

The silky gold sand inside the glass whipped in circles like a tiny bottled whirlwind.

Travelling both time and place felt peculiarly different to Hermione’s previous experience. This occasion felt much like Apparition. There came an uncomfortable squeeze, as though Hermione’s body had been shoved through a tube far too small, and then in the span of a blink they were standing in an archway before two columns, not far from a London road. Hermione could hear the grumble and grinding of vintage automobiles from the street. As she had expected, given the coordinates, they were very likely outside Dover House.

Hermione slid her sight up to Malfoy, who was glancing around to survey his surroundings. At seeing they had both arrived in their entirety and at their intended location, Hermione propelled onto her toes to unhook the chain from Malfoy. As he stepped away, his gaze pinged around the vicinity, like a young boy stepping into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for the first time.

Passing by were women in knee-length A-line dresses, pillbox hats and wrist-length gloves, and men in thick wool suits of black, navy, and brown, with matching fedoras and homburgs. They had arrived in time for the post-work rush. Everyone had an idyllic way about them. Their walks were keen but not hurried. Their expressions ready and pleasant rather than closed off and cold. There wasn’t any atmosphere of dread in the way she had expected. It was a wonder what time could do for a whole city.

Malfoy placed his cap on his head. “Welcome to nineteen forty-four, Granger.”

“It’s even more polluted than I had expected.” Hermione stood beside him, staring out at the way a layer of pea soup fog marred settling dusk. A couple of old town cars puttered by. “But I adore the beautiful dresses. Everyone has such a refined style.”

“Aren’t you glad I rid you of your trousers?” He flashed a smirk before turning back to the road. “Let’s go explore.”

“Explore? We’re not here to have fun.”

“Oh, but I am, Granger.” He stepped out onto the pavement and away from the mouth of the building. “Unlike someone else, I’ve not time travelled. I know where we are too. None of these buildings have changed—in fact, I think there’s a brilliant shop for fun magical artefacts down here. I wonder if it was open in the forties.” As though he’d heard entirely nothing Hermione had said, Malfoy turned left, walking with an officious stride becoming of a Colonel.

“Malfoy!” Hermione called, chasing after him with a couple of initial wobbly steps.

Between her shoes, the tightness of her dress at her knees, and the bloody length of Malfoy’s legs, she was having difficulty catching up to him. To make matters worse, people were staring. It wasn’t appropriate for a woman to literally chase after a man at this time in history. Hermione walked with her wand pointed towards her shoes, ready to transfigure the high heels away, but two young women were approaching with their eyes trained on her direction. Quickly, however, Hermione realised they were distracted by Malfoy. With their arms linked, they fell into each other slightly and giggled as he nodded in passing.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione finally caught up to Malfoy, and only because he stopped and turned to view the backsides of the women as they passed by.

“We should've put you in some of those tights, Granger. The ones with the lines up the back of the leg.”

Hermione tutted. “If you're going to keep brazenly ogling women, then I'm going to leave you here in the forties.”

He showed the beginnings of a smile. “Come on now, is that necessary? I can appreciate the female form at any time and place, and you shouldn’t have a problem with it.”

He was correct, Hermione supposed. What was wrong with her? As Malfoy took off again, Hermione reverted to the task at hand, desperate to get him to stop. “We shouldn’t go too far. The coordinates have put us exactly where we need to be, and we’ll need to survey the area before it gets too dark.”

“This won’t take long, Granger.”

For his every step, Hermione needed to take two to keep in line. “Malfoy, be serious now. Why could you possibly need a magical knick-knack at this very moment?”

“Because I want something fun for my desk. Something better than that odd ceramic coaster you keep on yours.”

“Oh, please. You can’t just purchase something in the past and bring it into the future. We can’t change anything.”

“Fine, I’ll just peruse.” He nudged his chin forward. “It’s down here, near the Ministry.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione caught his arm and pulled him around to face her. A small line creased between his brows. The manner in which he’d stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared down at her with his cap expertly perched, wearing his ridiculous military uniform, with the shadows highlighting the angle of his cheekbones and then his perfectly kissable lips… it was all doing something ungodly to Hermione’s body. It wasn't The Blitz that was going to kill her. This was it. This man was unbearably fit.

“Please,” she ground out. “Don’t go rogue.”

The sky was losing the last of its light, and yet Hermione could still see the way Malfoy’s grey eyes curved across her face, snagging upon her lips. There were a few hairs poking from beneath his cap and she wanted nothing more than to swipe them back beneath. Truthfully, she wanted nothing more than to remove his cap and brush her fingers through his hair, lingering in what always looked like a lush silkiness.

Clutching for a distraction, Hermione pulled her bag up and shoved a hand inside to fish around. Having no luck, she told Malfoy, “Hold this,” hooked the handle into his palm, glanced left and right to ensure no one was watching and then Accio'd a small metal torch right into her hand. The end was covered with tissue paper to mute the light, in line with the mandated blackout restrictions. Of course, she could have covertly used her wand for light, but Hermione was adamant not to do anything to draw unnecessary attention in the muggle past.

Malfoy deepened his frown. “Alright, Granger, no need to produce a weapon. I'll fall in line.”

“It’s about to get extremely dark given the lack of street lights during the blackout.” She flicked the torch on and pointed it down to their feet. “Now let's—”

The air raid sirens cut through her words. A haunting keening. A wail piercing and long, whipping in a circle to begin over again, warning all to take cover.

As Hermione swore, her heart stampeded as though attempting to break clear from her chest. She looked around for signs as to where the nearest shelter might be, but people were running helter-skelter.

“We need to leave, Granger.” Malfoy had taken her wrist roughly. He still gripped Hermione’s handbag in the other. “We can't stand here in the open.”

“I know that,” she hissed.

Amongst the frenzy of the wailing sirens and darting people, Malfoy yanked her further away from where the Time-Turner had planted them and she gritted her jaw for the aggravating turn of events. As they ran along the pavement, Hermione was buffeted at both shoulders by the panicked people. It took an effort to keep her vision steady. If it weren’t for Malfoy’s grip around her arm, then she might’ve been swallowed into the throng.

Suddenly, her eyes caught on a face in the crowd.

Hermione gasped. The light was negligible, but she was certain she recognised the person who had run past her. It was a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, hurriedly towing along a girl behind. As Hermione spun her head to glimpse them once more, she found plenty of faces, but not the one that she had been looking for.

She yelled over the screaming sirens. “I'm certain I just saw—”

“Less talk, more running, Granger,” Malfoy yelled over the din as he pulled her across the road, weaving and wending through the rushing people. “Why are you so bloody slow?”

“Because someone put me in heels, that's why!”

A low drone suddenly encased them. A bone-deep rumbling.

The Luftwaffe boasted above, small glints of alloy showing through the inky sky, and the crump, crump of the defensive anti-aircraft guns began. Hermione flinched into herself as an ear-splitting crash sounded in the near distance.

Powering on as though oblivious to the escalating noise and destruction, Malfoy sidestepped them around the lolling fire of an incendiary bomb and tugged Hermione up onto the pavement and towards the doorway of a vacant shop. As another bang arrived, quivers made through the ground and into the hard leather of Hermione’s shoes, and just as they stopped directly before the shop doorway, their faces lit with the glow of orange firelight from across the way. Hermione felt the hot lick of heat across her face.

Malfoy squeezed her hand. “Hold on,” he ordered, then spun on the spot.

Before Hermione could even register his words, she felt herself wink away.

They appeared inside the Ministry Atrium.

Hermione’s limbs pulsed. The pinch of her shoes suddenly made itself known.

The only sound in the tall space was their panting.

While the ceiling of the Atrium was not yet the familiar peacock blue, the two long walls of fireplaces were entirely unchanged and the Fountain of Magical Brethren still there, glinting gold. At this point in time, it was noticeably less magical brethren and more one-single-triumphant-wizard.

The wail of the air raid sirens was dampened down here, offering Hermione some assurance for her safety, and she felt her breaths fall in line and the stiffness of her body loosen. It helped that she knew this place well; it was like her second home. Although, the way the Atrium was entirely void of people and the lamps dimmed for evening rendered it a little eerie. In the present, even when Hermione departed in the late evening, there would typically be a witch or wizard or at least the janitorial staff on the way to the Floo.

Malfoy released Hermione and she brushed her fingertips together, suddenly missing the absence of his heated touch.

“I don't know why I assumed Apparition was impossible during time travel,” Hermione mused aloud.

“I thought it was worth a try." He glanced at the ceiling. "But why can we still hear the bombing?”

“Because the highly powerful protections in place in our present weren’t yet implemented until the fifties. I recall a passage in—”

“You can save the textbook response, Granger. That was all the explanation I needed.” Malfoy was taking off in the direction of the lifts, Hermione’s handbag still dangling in hand. “Why would Preston send us to a precise place and time where we could lose our lives? What a prat.”

Hermione hummed. “Perhaps he could have provided a little more forewarning. But the list he’s left is nothing more than Horcrux place, date and time—what else are we supposed to do? Next mission, we need to ensure we’re prepared for any scenario.” The sharp clack of her heels echoed in the grand ceiling as she followed Malfoy, her forehead crinkling with sudden thought. “I’m certain I saw a familiar face out there.”

Malfoy had moved inside the lift and now leant against the back wall, arms crossed. He furrowed his brow. “In nineteen forty-four? You were probably seeing things.”

“It was a young boy, a teenager—” The golden grille of the lift closed behind, and Hermione spun, finally realising what was happening. “Where are we going?”

“I want to see what my office looks like.”

“You don't have an office. It will literally be a room with a handful of desks. It's probably not even in the same location.”

Just as Malfoy shrugged, the lift began its journey. “No matter what you say, it’s not going to sate my curiosity, so best to just let me have this, Granger.”

The wails of the air raid siren strengthened as they ascended floors, closer to ground level, and with a scowl firmly set upon her expression, Hermione considered their next move to find the Horcrux. She checked her watch. They were going to miss the specific window of time Preston had noted, however, they still had another few hours before their five were up. Perhaps they could wait for the all-clear siren. Honestly, how long could it take?

Thundering blasts sounded above, ricocheting through the walls, reverberating in Hermione’s chest, and despite the fact she knew perfectly well that a war was, indeed, happening at this moment and that the Germans did eventually retire their efforts for the night, she was shot with another wave of adrenaline. This moment was just as real as any other, with very real bombs, and she didn’t much fancy losing her life in the past.

The lift stopped abruptly.

Alongside a deafening blast above, they jittered and swayed, and Hermione gasped sharply as she fell back a step, her elbow crashing against the wall and the torch clattering to the ground. Folded into herself, she palmed at the pain, unable to straighten herself from her lean due to the persistent rocking of the lift. Malfoy stood in the centre of the small compartment, weathering the unsteadiness like a spry cat.

The lift made a metal groan. The swaying stabilised, but the bombing above strengthened, a persistent blare marked with the occasional resounding bang and whistle. A dull pain at Hermione’s elbow somewhat distracted from the way her body still pulsed with fright.

Standing primed with his wand, Malfoy stared up at the ceiling and the flickering round lamp. “Are you okay?”

She sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “The Germans must be bombing directly above.” Hermione’s voice had arrived more strangled than she’d have liked. “I wonder if they’ve hit the Ministry building? Why else would a magical lift stop unless it was dangerous for movement to continue?”

Malfoy lowered his wand from its poised position and looked at Hermione. He still gripped her bag in one hand, which, in a time of less impending death, might have made her smile. “How did you not know the Ministry was literally in the path of The Blitz on this date? You know everything.”

Hermione pushed herself away from the wall. “Because the coordinates were for muggle London and I didn't expect to be dragged in the wrong direction and then taken to the bloody Ministry!”

Spinning away to think, Hermione set a palm to the back of her head and truly took stock of their situation. She was stuck in a box no larger than a metre or so square, sixty-odd years in the past, Germans raining bombs down above, and with effing Draco Malfoy. This situation felt like it could end in tears. Her tears, that was. Or something far more salacious that Hermione wouldn’t allow her mind to dwell on, and which most certainly was not helped by the fact she was now forced to be in the vicinity of Malfoy’s lush scent. Hermione palmed at her face then rubbed a forefinger and thumb across her forehead, trying to find an idea.

“We can try to Apparate?” suggested Malfoy.

Hermione whipped around to face him. “You know perfectly well there’s only one place you can Apparate within this building.”

“I do know. I was just hoping the know-it-all would tell me that rule didn’t exist in the forties.” He raised his wand towards the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Don’t you dare try to mess with the magic of this lift, Malfoy.” Hermione pointed her wand at him. “I will not have you fiddling with it and making us drop to our deaths.” Her stomach twisted at the thought of falling several stories. Her breaths were tight. Back of her throat feeling a little bilious.

For a protracted moment, they pointed their wands at each other with steadfast fierceness set upon their expressions.

Malfoy dropped his wand first. “Then care to share what we should do, Granger?”

Hermione lowered her arm. “I think we should try to wait out the bombing and then return to the area and search properly.”

“Wait it out? That’s your best plan?”

“We have several hours until we need to return,” said Hermione, checking her watch, “and we haven’t found a single thing.”

“We haven’t found anything because Preston is fucking with us from beyond the grave.”

“Do you truly think he’d do something like that? He was an Auror for fifty years!”

Shaking his head, Malfoy turned, wandering off to the far corner. “Fine, let’s do it your way and wait.” He dropped Hermione’s bag and it slapped to the floor, making her mouth twitch with irritation.

Malfoy folded down to the floor, leant his back against the wall with one leg bent and the other out straight. He toyed with his wand between both thumbs and forefingers, his stare verging on a glare as the sirens droned on in the background.

“You better hope nothing is broken in my handbag.” Hermione folded down to the floor as carefully as she could manage without flashing Malfoy, then leant against a side wall.

“If anything is broken, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It must be nice to be able to throw money around and get your way.”

An unmistakably smug smile spread across his lips. “It is.” Then Malfoy’s good humour quickly faded away. “You know, now that we’re stuck, and you’ve nowhere to run away from me, I think it’s a good time to tell you that I think you’ve hardened since school.”

Hermione curved up her brows. Hardened? She’d never been described that way. Hermione was certain she was still somewhat reminiscent of the person she had been at Hogwarts. Well, perhaps she now had a few years of life experience that had shaped her perception of the world and caused her to come at it a little differently, but hadn’t everyone? That was what time graced all with. Wisdom. Besides, barely five years ago, Hermione and countless others shared a collective trauma. Hardened? She couldn't have. Not when she felt the way she had done only recently. A hardened woman would have been able to cope far better with her silly feelings. Would have been able to firmly move on.

“And so I ask this as a concerned colleague,” continued Malfoy, “what the hell happened to you?”

Despite the fact Malfoy did in fact have a peculiarly kind and patient look about him, Hermione frowned. “The war happened. Remember?”

He angled his head. “But it's not just that, is it?”

The pulse in her limbs was now centred at her chest. A tight, throbbing knot. She’d never been posed this question before. The concern she typically received from her friends had always been a response rather than a prompt, given she had always gone to them first. This felt awfully… strange.

Hermione settled her gaze upon the gold grille. This was not the time nor the place to bring up the fact that in an effort to find herself following a long-term relationship, she had inadvertently been traumatised by an unknown man and now harboured problematic mental and behavioural symptoms that didn't mesh with the Hermione Granger everyone else had in their mind. Not at all.

The sounds of the blasts above were becoming sporadic and perhaps that was a good sign. Maybe the lift would move and they could avoid the dark centre of this conversation. But not soon enough, apparently.

Hermione felt the press of the silence. It forced words from her mouth. “How can you possibly say I’ve hardened? You’ve never known me well enough to judge that.”

Malfoy screwed up his features. “Potter aside, I probably know you better than anyone else in our office does.”

Hermione shook her head once or twice. A grand assumption. “That still doesn’t mean you know me well.”

“We’ve shared an office for several years now and I can’t recall seeing you laugh like you did during school. I’ve barely even seen you smile. At least, not until today.”

The defensive crease of Hermione’s brow morphed into one of confusion. Was Malfoy seriously telling her that he’d taken note of her every smile over the years? There was entirely no way. “What do you mean laugh like I did at school? We weren’t exactly kidding around together at Hogwarts.”

“I mean, laugh like you don’t constantly have something pressing on your mind.”

There was an unsuspecting sincerity to Malfoy, something Hermione was attempting to recall if she had ever seen. At his Wizengamot trial, perhaps. But not like this. His expression had another quality and it appeared an awful lot like compassion. Truthfully, Hermione didn’t know he had it in him.

“And we did go to school together for the better part of a decade, Granger. I’ve seen your genuine laughter countless times. I remember when I blew up my Herbicide Potion and it landed on Zabini’s robes, singeing a phallic shape; you were in a fit of giggles. And during fourth year, when I sent a scourgify charm to Longbottom’s head and made him a hat of bubbles he couldn’t rid of, I recall you laughed so hard that you had tears in your eyes. You had to take time to gather yourself before you could remove it for him.”

Hermione’s lips twisted up in spite of herself. She needed to shake her head for her disbelief. “How do you remember those things?”

Apparently the end to the conversation was a lazy lift of a shoulder. Malfoy shifted his head to look at his feet, and suddenly he was all manner of shy despite his expectations to hear Hermione’s deepest troubles.

“Well,” Hermione said, putting a snick in the silence, “you've softened since school, scarcely a sneer around these days.”

Malfoy’s good humour hadn’t shown in the way she had expected. “Somewhere between my trial and house arrest, I realised I was raised with a sense of over-importance and everything I had in life was due to dark magic or dark dealings. I think it sobered me.” With his expression smoothed with seriousness, he hadn’t looked up from the view of their feet. “And… dare I say, I think making amends with Potter has helped ground me more than anything.” Finally, he looked her in the eye. “But don't tell him I said that.”

Hermione offered a small smile. “Harry's become awfully perceptive in his Auror role; I'm sure he already knows.”

Malfoy nodded noncommittally, his gaze off somewhere else. While he refused to look her in the eye, Hermione’s eyes roved along him, attempting to reconcile the genuine interest he’d displayed with the beautiful harshness of him. The sharp cheekbones and lines of his jaw. Hermione had never witnessed such qualities in one man. It almost seemed too good to be true.

As the air raid sirens droned on, pockmarked with thundering explosions, Malfoy threw his wand in the air and caught it several times over. Hermione’s eyes followed it up and down. Up and down. She expelled all of her frustrations on a rather audible sigh, which did nothing to halt the persistent rise and fall. After what felt like the fiftieth throw, she decided that if Malfoy chucked his wand one more time, she was going to use her own to yank it away and stuff it in her bottomless bag.

Finally, Malfoy missed a catch and the wand fell to his lap. He left it there and folded his arms. “You know what I could really use right now?” he asked.

“The Germans to stop bombing London? The end of the muggle Second World War?”

“A desk wank.” He grinned. “Or a wank of any sort, for that matter.”

Hermione’s breath stalled. Her mouth thinned. The idea that she couldn’t simply walk away from this conversation made her feel oddly claustrophobic. She was supposed to be separating Auror Malfoy from office-wanking Malfoy, and he was trying his utmost to blend the two. And while below her navel twinged with protest, eager to see where his dirty suggestion might lead, Hermione couldn’t let herself become involved with any such wanking. They were actively working on a case at this moment—Ministry work. If anything detrimental happened, they would need to produce a report including every detail of their mission, and Hermione didn’t fancy noting the part where Malfoy decided to tend to his cock.

“Don’t you dare, Malfoy. Anything you pull out of your trousers is getting hexed off.”

“Why so hostile, Granger? If my memory serves me—and it does very well—you very much enjoyed it last time too.” His lips flexed into a smirk and it was equally infuriating and attractive.

Hermione's thighs clenched. “We're supposed to be pretending that never happened. It’s a secret, remember?”

“What’s the point in pretending? It’s just us. Besides, what is the office, some sort of secret sex den? Are we forbidden to have these thoughts elsewhere?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered sharply. “I've compartmentalised what we did, as my therapist would say.”

Surprisingly, Malfoy appeared to take a moment to mull on what she’d confessed aloud, raking his eyes along Hermione’s face as he did so. “Therapist?”

“Muggle head Healer. I thought you had knowledge of all things muggle now?”

“No, I meant therapist, question mark, as in—why are you seeing a therapist?”

The way Malfoy had posed that question—actually, the fact he had even asked the question, let alone the tone of his wondering—and his entirely curious expression lacking a sneer or wrinkled lip or even a smirk, had instilled an unexpected feeling in Hermione. She judged that he truly wanted her answer. Another show of compassion, perhaps? He was curious to know more of her and it pleased something within Hermione.

“A bit of everything, really,” she began. She set her sights on her lap, where her finger worried at a loose brown thread of her dress. “She helps me with trauma and grief, better understanding of my relationships, working on my goals and negative thoughts…”

“All of those issues sound like they could relate to Weasley.”

“Certainly not all of them. Although, I suppose he was the catalyst. I didn’t understand who I was without him.”

Malfoy’s brows flattened into a frown. “Who you were?”

Somehow, this revealing conversation was also providing a good insight into Malfoy. He either couldn’t imagine her as anything but Hermione Granger, an overachiever and one third of the Golden Trio, or he’d never truly had his own internal struggles. Perhaps both things were true.

“I mean to say,” she began, casting her eyes to the floor, “I was in a relationship for several years and became one half of Ron and Hermione, a packaged deal, so when we called it a day, it almost felt as though my arm was missing. I didn’t know who I was mentally, emotionally, sexually…”

When she risked a glance at Malfoy, she found his expression soft and eyes attentive. Something gentle to add to her perception of the man, sandwiched between the snark and the overt sexuality—which, Hermione recognised by the edging pull of his mouth as it moved into his trademark curve, he wanted to make known.

“Go on, then. Say it.”

His face cracked with a grin. “I can help you with that last thing, Granger.”

Thinning her lips, Hermione nodded. It was exactly what she had expected. “I was hoping you could relate on some other level, but I suppose a sexual remark will also do.”

“In all honesty, I’ve heard muggle therapy can take an extremely long time. Have you not tried Mind Healers? Or is there not a potion or spell out there that can help you in far less time?”

After that particularly traumatic night, Hermione tried every magical possibility available to her, thinking a quick potion or spell was all she had needed. Truthfully, she hadn’t been prepared for the disappointment. “I promise you, I’ve tried and failed with several Mind Healers, every spell and potion I could think of or find in any book, and every method a potioneer could suggest. There was a period where I was taking both a Calming and Dreamless Sleep draught every night and Invigoration Draught every morning to function, and it backfired tremendously. I became ridiculously giddy and needed help from a Potion Master to revert to myself.”

Hermione suddenly realised she had now strayed from her talk of simply finding herself, and Malfoy would no doubt be clever enough to deduce as much. But as she sighed heavily, the tightness at her chest slipped away. Like a catharsis. 

“Besides, maybe a quick fix isn’t always best. Sometimes the journey is what makes the outcome.”

“Do you truly believe that, Granger, or did you read it on a souvenir mug?”

Hermione held an unimpressed stare, and Malfoy simply smiled in reply. He knocked his foot against hers with a couple of playful taps, then left it touching.

“I can relate to what you said, on some level,” he added, his eyes stapled to their feet. “After the war, I felt I had to start over from the beginning and unlearn certain ways of thinking. I had to come to terms with the fact that everything I had been raised to believe was a lie, and I spent a year of confinement reflecting on my misdeeds.”

“You mean everything your father reared you for was a lie?”

Malfoy’s mouth tightened, lip edging with the familiar sneer of their youth. “Don’t bring up my father, Granger.”

“You know, you might do well to talk to a muggle therapist too, discuss attachment styles. I know Lucius was probably the reason for—”

“I mean it, Granger.” His voice cut through hers like a knife. “Enough.”

Measuring the sudden flash of ire in his eyes as genuine, and certainly not worth sparring, Hermione firmed her mouth shut and looked down at her watch, if only to have something else to do. She hadn’t realised how sensitive he would be about the man she had heard he’d fallen out with following the war.

The air raid sirens remained incessant.

It was after another ten minutes or so, during which Malfoy tested how precisely he could float and weave Hermione’s bag around the golden rope hand-holds that hung from the ceiling, that Hermione began to seriously consider why they were bothering any longer. As she stared at the wall ahead, Malfoy’s foot wiggled against hers and gave her a little tap. Apparently his mood had reverted.

“How long do we have until we rupture the space-time continuum?”

Hermione sighed. She re-checked her watch but didn’t bother to truly take in the time. This whole mission had been a waste of it. “Let’s just go,” she said, tone resigned, and they began moving to their feet. “We need to reassess everything. I want to revisit all of Preston’s notes and the dates and give it more thought. Harry’s not going to be happy to know this has all been entirely useless.”

“Come on now.” Malfoy stood directly before her. “We had a little fun, didn’t we?”

“Some of us more than others.” Hermione reached up and flicked the brim of Malfoy’s cap so that it jumped a fraction.

After straightening his hat with amusement on his lips, Malfoy let Hermione’s floating bag drop into his hand.

From beneath the collar of her dress, Hermione inched the Time-Turner out, closed in so that they were now foot to foot and tossed the chain around their necks. As Malfoy waited peculiarly patiently, she altered the date to their present and the coordinates precisely to their office. She could feel his heavy stare and gentle brush of breath along her cheek. Feel the way he wanted to open his mouth to say something. Hermione wasn’t sure what exactly, but she was certain she wasn’t the only one experiencing the sudden heat between them. Something was needed to detract from it.

“Next time,” began Hermione, her attention down on the gold apparatus, “you're to do exactly as I say. There will be no more straying away from the purpose of the mission.”

“Fine,” he replied tightly. “But for the remainder of the missions, we're going in chronological order.”

“Fine,” Hermione grumbled, then flicked the Time-Turner switches simultaneously.

View of the gold walls and small space flickered away, replaced by grey surroundings and a long stretch of hall. They had re-emerged in another area of the Ministry building, which Hermione quickly came to realise was just outside the door to the Auror office. As soon as she unlinked the chain from Malfoy, he stalked through and made for his own office, looking particularly done with her for the evening. Even still, Hermione followed until she stood before his desk. He’d taken off his cap and set it down before he turned and realised she was there.

With his brows curved in, he looked at her expectantly.

Hermione held out her hand. “I know you’ve become awfully accustomed to carrying my handbag, but I really think I should take it back now.”

Brows relaxing, Malfoy glanced down at the bag in his hand before extending it across the desk.

“Thank you.” Hermione flicked her eyes down the length of him, making memory of Malfoy as a Colonel of the British muggle military. After all, when would she have the opportunity again? She might’ve loitered a bit too long, however, for he slipped his hands in his pockets and said, “Yes?”

It was too late to bother revisiting the case files, late enough that Hermione should have just returned home, but she had a pressing desire to stay. Besides, she’d done well to separate work and play while she was stuck in that Ministry lift with Malfoy’s teasing foot taps and roving eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. Now she deserved something for herself.

Turning on her heel, she wandered to Malfoy’s sofa and seated herself squarely in the centre. After placing her bag to the side, she crossed one leg over the other.

Malfoy viewed her sidelong. “Granger, I’m getting ideas.”

Hermione showed a gentle tilt of her lips. They shared the same idea. But before they made it something tangible, she needed to get another matter out of the way. “I wanted to apologise for bringing up your father. I can see how it touched a nerve and I won’t do it again.”

He nodded tautly.

As Hermione used her wand to send the door shut, Malfoy walked a couple of steps to meet the side of the desk, his brow low and suspicious. “Granger…” he said as though a warning. “Don’t tease me.”

“Tease you?” she asked naively, head tilted.

Desire coiled in her belly. Her cheeks prickled and nipples hardened in the way they did when she set her mind to sating her lust. This was what had made her feel good lately. The thrill of it was like nothing else, and the exhilaration with Malfoy, in particular, felt far too good to be bad. That was her logic, anyway. Hermione needed the same rush again.

And again and again.

While she wordlessly disappeared her underwear beneath her dress and sent muffliato to the door, Malfoy said, “If you’re going to just sit here and tell me all the things I’ve done wrong on this mission, then you can save it for tomorrow.”

Hermione dipped her chin, viewing Malfoy through her lashes. “I thought you wanted to watch?”

Chapter Text

Granger sat upon the sofa before Draco in her sweet nineteen-forties dress, her arms and legs crossed, eyes wide with a feigned innocence. Despite his initial concerns, he knew she wasn’t teasing. Where there'd been a spot of irritation in her eye all evening, she now held a devious glint. Her lips were beginning to shape into a smile he’d seen before in the very same setting.

Draco stepped forward tentatively, as though he may frighten Granger away from her dirty intentions. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Entirely nothing. But maybe I deserve it?”

Biting at his lip, Draco moved around to the front of his desk. His cock quirked. What exactly was she going to do? He adored the thought of her tending to herself and letting him watch, but he was greedy and wanted all of her. At night, when he patiently waited for his dreams, he imagined Granger walking into this office and demanding to be fucked, imagined every surface they could use—the desk, the sofa, the floor, against the wall. At this moment, he was trying not to let himself get carried away with those imaginings, not letting his hopes sail. She just wanted him to watch; that was all.

Granger unlatched her legs, then with slow precision, she slid her dress up along her thighs. Draco's heart rate increased with every new inch of bare skin revealed, and when the material pooled at her hips, his pulse went wild and breaths skittered. His cock stood to attention at the sight of her perfect pink centre.

Draco took a step forward as he swiped a thumb along his bottom lip. “I want to touch you, Granger.” It was a plea. A prayer. He flicked his sight up to her face. “I need to.”

He wanted to feel her unravel beneath his fingers, hear her gasp and whimper and moan because it was his doing. He was hungry for her. Insatiable. Could she see it in his bearing? See the way he needed to swallow for the salivation on his tongue at the thought of sliding it along her centre? Hear how his heart was trying to break free from his chest if he didn’t get the opportunity to lay his cock into her at least once?

“You’ve touched me before.”

“Not in that way.” He took another step forward. “You know what I mean.”

“You want to touch me? A Mudblood?” she asked, tone as even as her breaths. “I would have thought I'm not worthy.”

Draco sank his chin down, narrowing his eyes. “Come on, Granger, you know I don't think that way any longer.”

“You don't? Or you can’t, because it’s out of fashion?”

Briefly, Draco glanced at her glistening centre, attempting not to get distracted by the matter at hand. “I was raised in a pureblood elitist family. I had no choice,” he said, trying not to let the defensiveness bleed into his tone.

“I understand the concept of indoctrination, Malfoy. You had little choice as to whether you considered me to have dirty blood, however, whether you called me a Mudblood or not was entirely your choice.”

Draco pulled at his tie knot, increasingly frustrated with the way she was just sitting there, teasing him with her perfect wet cunt, denying him the privilege of touching her—all as she quizzed him on the justification of his problematic past. He unbuttoned his jacket and threw it to the desk behind, then he yanked at his tie until it came off entirely. “Is it an apology you're after?”

“I don’t need your apology. I just want you to recognise that you’re a hypocrite.”

His jaw flinched. He dropped his tie to the floor. “I know I’m a hypocrite, Granger. I teased you for your dirty blood, yet want nothing more than to touch you. I want to draw your blood with my teeth, make it throb in your ears because I’ve made you come so fucking hard. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Apparently it was exactly what she wanted to hear. She sent a hand down between her legs, teasing the tips of two fingers at her lower lips. Granger’s chest raised and fell faster. Draco’s trousers strained. Granger stroked up and down her slickness, made a little circle at her entrance, then delved a finger inside with a gentle hum.

Draco’s own fingers tingled with the desire to touch her, to be the one that made her feel good. But if he couldn’t touch her, he still wanted to feel pleasure. He held her searing gaze and, atop his trousers, rubbed a hand over his needy cock once or twice. Granger sank her fingers in and out, pulsing over and over again. Her breathing rushed. As she gathered her wetness and brought it up to swirl at her clit, she let out the most beautiful sounds—small hums of pleasure. Fucking Salazar, the sounds she was making. Draco couldn’t help himself. He unbuttoned his trousers and took his cock in hand. The way Granger’s eyes went to it fuelled his desire. He loved the thought that she watched his most intimate action, that they were pleasuring themselves for each other.

Pumping his fist back and forth, Draco heated all over. His eyes were locked on Granger working at her clit in small circles and then occasionally pausing to slide fingers into her entrance and retracting with fresh arousal. What he would give at this moment to feel her tight warmth around even one finger.

Draco approached with quiet footfalls, needing to bridge the gap, but wary of crossing Granger's arbitrary line. “I want to touch you, Granger.” He was unable to stop the desperation from edging into his voice. “I want to taste you.”

Granger shook her head lightly, but he could see the way his words had excited her. Her centre pulsed. Arousal dripped down her folds. As her expression creased with brittle pleasure and lips parted with a small moan, her free hand groped at her breast. When she sped her movements at her clit, she emitted a gorgeous little whine.

“Granger,” he rasped out, “those sounds.” His breaths heaved. “If you keep making those sounds I’m… I’m—”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll be screaming my name,” he said with the menacing tone of a man who’d had his life threatened, rather than one who was being so mercilessly teased with the prettiest cunt he had seen. “So fucking hard that the dullards in the Time Room will hear you.”

As she broke the persistent expression of pleasure to flash a smirk, Draco knelt on the floor with his cock still in hand, tending to himself with slow strokes desperate not to meet his end before Granger.

“Granger…please.”

“Are you going to quite literally beg?” she asked, her movements stilling.

Draco nodded tersely. His own hand halted as Granger reached for her wand beside, giving view of her swollen clit. He gritted his jaw to keep his tongue moored, instead of placing it exactly where he wanted it to be. Draco eyed her wand. He’d done it now, hadn’t he? He’d pushed her too far and Granger was going to hex him as he knelt with his cock in hand.

Instead, Granger swished her wand and soon caught something in her palm. It was the green apple from his desk. Draco’s brows snagged in. He couldn’t bring himself to believe she was suddenly peckish mid-wank. As Granger tapped her wand to the apple a couple of times over, knees falling together and concealing the view of her centre, Draco’s length throbbed in hand as though in protest.

After she placed her wand aside, she held up a green phallus.

“No matter what you tell me,” began Draco, “I know that wasn’t the first time you’ve done that.”

Granger ran her teeth over her bottom lip, unsuccessfully stifling her smile. She spread her legs wider this time, and Draco skirted forward so that he was no more than a foot before her.

“You’re killing me, Granger,” Draco bit out, watching keenly as she teased the green toy down her arousal.

It was nearly the same size as him. No doubt it wouldn’t appreciate this nearly as much.

“Tell me what else you want,” she whispered, then plunged the toy inside with a small moan.

Draco exhaled a single desperate breath before he spoke. “I want to feel you come undone around me—arching, pulsing, nails-biting.”

She hummed in reply.

“I want to feel you clench and throb around my cock as you come for me; and I want to make you do it over and over again.”

Pulling one leg further up onto the sofa, she pushed the toy deeper again, squeezing her eyes shut with a devastating whimper that caused Draco to stop his own strokes, far too close to coming without her.

“Please, Granger. For the love of Salazar. I need to touch you.”

Granger expertly ignored him, sending her other hand to her clit. As she closed her eyes again with the pleasure, Draco slipped a hand into his pocket and retrieved his wand.

If he couldn’t touch, he could at least play.

Wordlessly, he made the toy thrust.

Granger gasped, her hand falling away as she felt it thrust in and out. As it continued with deep, reaching strokes, she moaned and writhed and wriggled, angling for its touch.

Draco watched enraptured. He stroked his cock, making small noises of disbelief as the toy fucked Granger and she worked at her clit. He leant forward, the heat in his balls and navel telling him to push harder, to straddle the line. To touch Granger.

“Please.” It was a pathetic syllable. His final beg.

Her eyes swung down to his as she panted through a gently parted mouth. Draco could see the warring in her mind as she glanced at his hand, hovering beside her calf.

Finally, Granger nodded. It was sharp and succinct, but it was all he needed.

Draco clasped at her leg and felt a pleasant thrum all over.

Arching her back, Granger became lost in the pleasure of the persistent toy. He knew she was close to her release. As he felt his balls tightening, Draco tested the line and swept his hand up to rest on her knee. He could smell her arousal. How badly he wished he could taste her, feel her push into his pleasuring. Instead, Draco was faced with the view of a toy fucking Granger and the wetness it dragged out with every thrust.

Draco was so close. Close to her centre. Close to coming.

“Come for me, Granger.” His voice was gravelly with the desperation to hold off his own release until he watched her cunt quiver.

She took Draco’s hand and led it up from her knee, resting it upon her inner thigh, and his cock pulsed in his hand. This incremental touching was driving him wild.

Breaths erratic, Granger glanced down at his straining cock before settling her eyes to his. With her hand atop Draco’s at her thigh, she whined like a woman on the edge. With their gazes linked, Draco tested if he could take the touching further. He latched his mouth onto her inner thigh.

“Oh,” she breathed, then as he bit down harshly, she moaned in a way that told him an orgasm was cresting. Draco pulled back, and with his free hand, yanked the toy from her and threw it atop the sofa, desperate to view how her centre fluttered.

Granger cried out as she came. Draco dipped his forehead onto her thigh and with another pull of his cock, released forcefully upon the floor. He panted, unmoving. He felt his shirt damp with sweat. Heard Granger’s reaching breaths, then the weight of her hand upon the back of his head. It might’ve been the nature of the moment that clouded his thoughts, the afterglow that carried pleasure to every inch of his body, but he felt her touch as intimate. A feeling they hadn’t broached.

It felt good.

After stowing his cock away, Draco moved to his feet only long enough to drop upon the sofa. Granger rested her head back with her eyes on the ceiling, knees together and hands upon her belly with the rise and fall of her steadying breaths. Draco tapped his wand towards the green toy, making it stop its useless juddering, and reverted it back into the green apple. He brought it to his mouth and sunk in his teeth, stripping a piece away. It was sweet and tart with a tinge of Granger’s musk. It was fucking delicious.

She rolled her head to the side with a look of utter amusement.

“Apparently the closest I’m going to get to tasting you,” said Draco.

Granger laughed and he considered it a win on all accounts.

***

“So you’ve discovered precisely nothing?” Potter asked across the meeting table. “That doesn't make any sense.”

Leaning back in to his chair, Draco crossed his arms. “I discovered that Granger could fit into the forties rather well, if not for all the back talking.”

At his left, Granger mirrored his posture. “And I discovered that Malfoy delighted in wearing a muggle military uniform far too much.”

“Oh, but it wasn't just me that was delighting in it, was it?” He sent Granger a wink, and she glared in reply. The muggle women of the forties also couldn’t get enough of him. If it weren’t for Granger clung to his side barking commands, he would have tried it on with a few.

“Seriously, you two—nothing? You didn't stumble across a murder to make a Horcrux? Zero dark wizards? No suspicious looking artefacts?”

“I —” began Draco.

“Nothing,” interrupted Granger. “And something about the whole exercise simply didn’t feel right at all. You can recall what it was like when we were searching for Horcruxes, Harry. There was usually a sense of dark magic nearby. There was nothing of the sort last night.”

The Head Auror gave a long, contemplative nod. “Could be due to the time travel?”

Granger leant forward and placed her forearms on to the table. “I considered that possibility, but I don’t think it’s the case. However, I do worry… what if we’re in the wrong timeline? There’s not just one, is there?”

“I asked Preston the same question months ago,” Potter said. “He seemed to think this Time-Turner uses only one timeline, it can’t skip across.”

“But how do we know whoever created the Horcruxes didn’t skip to another timeline?” questioned Granger.

“We don’t.” Potter sat deeper into his chair and palmed at the back of his head, mussing his already messed hair. “I’m not sure what to think.” He took a moment for his thoughts, then leaned forward, elbows upon the table, and asked a question of Hermione. “Lack of Horcruxes aside, how did you do in the field?”

“Perfectly fine.” She pointed her chin.

“Perfectly fine because there was entirely no one to duel,” added Draco. “However, I’ve confirmed she can outrun deadly bombs in heels, so perhaps that should count for something.”

Granger tutted, but even Potter smiled at that one.

“I suppose continue to research, plan, and prepare, then move onto the next one,” said Potter. “Hopefully another time and place will shed more light.”

Granger nodded succinctly. “I’ll revisit Preston’s files today; I want to ensure we haven’t missed anything before we return to the past.”

“And I think this calls for a refresh of the SWOT analysis,” Draco said facetiously, but he knew it was the truth and Granger’s glower past her shoulder told him as much. “We should add military uniform beneath the weaknesses' column,” he added.

“Malfoy,” Granger hissed.

Okay, fine, perhaps that may have been a bit blatant in front of Potter; but also, Draco didn’t care. Initially, he had been concerned that Potter would find out he had an office wank and order some sort of reprimand, but now that Granger had done the very same, he was finding it difficult to worry about any negative ramifications. She was equally complicit. Besides, Ministry workers were having sex all over this building, no matter what any policy book might have said.

It had only been several hours since Draco watched Granger fuck herself with an apple-toy, rendering this strange arrangement less tinged with fear and instead threaded with utter fucking exhilaration. He was quickly becoming accustomed to the idea of Granger existing not only as an irritable colleague, but as an outlet for his regular sexual relief. She was terribly fun, and he was certain she felt the same about him. So when was it going to happen again? This time, Draco held more certainty that it would indeed occur again, and as he sat in her vicinity, his body existed with a pleasant anticipatory thrum, as if it could happen at any moment. Well, a wizard could dream, couldn’t he?

“Right.” Potter sent a suspect glance between the two of them. With his palms to the arms of his chair, he pushed himself to stand. “I’ll leave you to it then, but let me know if any developments come up.”

As soon as the door shut behind Potter, Granger spun her chair to face Draco, arms crossed. “You’re the one that wanted to keep this a secret, remember?”

“But sometimes a quip is too good to pass up.”

Granger’s cross expression refused to budge. “Promise me you’ll cease the innuendos and sly looks.”

Draco couldn’t keep satisfaction from curving his lips, recognising the same fear in Granger that he’d held only a couple of weeks earlier. “In the vicinity of Potter.”

“And every other person we work with.”

“Fine.”

Granger raised to her feet and straightened her cardigan. “I need to go review the case files again. And what exactly are you going to do to further the case? Fashion new uniforms?”

“You say that like it's not a skill,” he said, brows raising. “Or maybe I'll just sit here and look pretty.”

Sighing lightly, she began on her way. Her ability to segment utterly horny Granger from Auror Granger was an art form. Or given it was Granger, a science. She needed to be studied. During the workday she was all rigidity, harsh looks and noises of discontent, but at night in his office she came alive. How could he see more of that witch now? Her inhibitions had not just splintered, but seemingly broken. Absent. Non-existent. He wondered what she would let him do to her body if she agreed to their fucking. How far could he take the supposed Gryffindor good girl?

“Or maybe,” began Draco, as Granger made for the door, “I'll just sit here and think about last night.”

Granger spun to see him with her arms folded across her chest and cheeks mottling pink. She opened her mouth to utter something, then appeared to think better of it.

“Is this why you didn’t want to work with me?” he asked, tilting his head. “You were too frightened you’d have the overwhelming urge to show me between your legs?”

“I…” began Granger, appearing flustered.

Draco took joy in the way he'd unsettled her. He'd nearly quietened her entirely, which was a feat in itself. Surely he was correct. Why else would she act this way? But the notion was entirely ridiculous and nothing he could ever imagine Granger verbalising to Potter. How would she have said such a thing—don’t force me to partner with Malfoy, I have an overwhelming desire to fuck him? Maybe Draco was thinking all too much of himself. He had a habit of occasionally doing so. Well, he was going to make it his mission from here on to compel Granger to reveal her reasoning behind their peculiar work distance these past several years; and in the meantime, whilst he waited for her to allow more of his touch, he could still make her writhe with his words.

“I’ll be here patiently waiting for you to admit as much.” Draco had the irresistible urge to see if he could make her cheeks burn deeper. “And in the meantime, I want you to know that I think you have a very pretty cunt, Granger. I do hope to see more of it.”

As Granger parted her mouth with faint surprise, her cheeks burnt deliciously red, then she turned on her heel and set off with a light groan. Groan of annoyance or pleasure? He was going to pretend it was the latter.

***

Nott Manor had become something of a second home to Draco. During the past several months, he’d fallen asleep there more times than he could recall. There was always good company in his schoolmates, the ability to find an occasional good enough shag in the witches Nott sourced, and good food—rivalling his own house-elves. Best of all, there was nil reminder of Lucius Malfoy. Truth be told, he was happy to be anywhere but his devastatingly silent manor.

Nott Manor was smaller than Draco’s, and yet still a sprawling mansion. In the style muggles labelled Victorian, every single room was filled with walnut wood from floor to ceiling, with ornate symmetrical shapes surrounding the candle chandeliers, carved snakes at the side of every archway, finely sculpted furniture to match, and golden lamp brackets. They usually spent their time in the salon beside the well-stocked bar, and when Malfoy arrived from the Floo wearing a black slim-fit tailored suit and his dragonhide boots, that’s exactly where he made for. He swept around the corner, towards the din of chatter and the low drone of music.

Through the archway, Draco trampled the gold-threaded Persian rug as he made his way through the low-light of the salon, brushing between gatherings of people at either side, walking deeper into a fug of heat, cigarette smoke and expensive silky colognes. In the far corner, Nott and Zabini lounged on the black velvet sofas with goblets in hand, the former in dark muggle trousers and a white shirt, the latter in green robes. Pansy draped herself atop the arm of the sofa with a cocktail glass in hand, wearing a red flowy dress and lips to match.

“Here he is, wizarding Britain’s most eligible bachelor.” Nott raised his hand in the air and sloshed red wine over the edge of his goblet.

Zabini made a noise of irritation and pulled his wand from his pocket to fix the splatter on his shoes.

“Theo,” Pansy warned, just as Draco leant down and doled a kiss to her cheek.

“Where's my kiss?” Nott tipped his head and tapped at his cheek.

“Maybe if I get desperate,” said Draco, then added to Pansy, “No Longbottom tonight?”

Pansy shook her head. “He’s at Hogwarts.”

Nott narrowed his eyes and furled his mouth. “I still don’t understand what you see in him.”

“His monster cock, for one,” Pansy said, then sipped at her cocktail as Nott and Zabini budged at each other and came out with long, obnoxious oh,’s that encouraged half the room to turn their way.

Nott slapped a hand to Pansy’s knee, causing her to start, and she gave him a perturbed side eye. “‘Atta girl, Pans.”

She whisked his hand away. “Don’t do that, it’s Dior.”

“It’s what?”

As Pansy released a sigh, Nott appeared to double take past Draco’s shoulder. He sent his fingers back through his short-cropped curls, blue eyes settling upon Draco. “Why don’t we get you a drink?”

Draco’s brows crooked up. “I appreciate the sudden and strange hospitality, but think I can figure it out myself.”

But Nott had already taken to his feet, his eyes still focused somewhere in the far corner. “I insist.” He nudged Draco's arm, forcing him to turn.

Pansy smirked into her cocktail.

“I have a witch I want you to meet.” Suddenly, Nott’s harsh grip on Draco's elbow made sense. “I think you’re compatible.”

Typically, Draco would have a few drinks in him before being subjected to this charade. Often enough, he was presented with a rotation of eligible witches according to Theodore Nott, whose standards were decidedly lower; but tonight, Draco wasn’t in the mood. He needed a drink. He needed company with substance.

“The last woman you wanted me to meet could barely speak because she was giggling.”

“She was just overwhelmed by your astonishing good looks.”

Draco attempted to pull from Nott’s hold with a swift yank, but he squeezed his thumb and forefinger tighter.

“It was irritating.”

“You know, sometimes it’s fun when they can’t speak. You can just cut to the chase. Having said that, I don’t think you’ll have the same problem with this witch.”

Finally, Nott dropped his hold of Draco and walked on ahead, ending beside two women who were in a seemingly spirited discussion near the row of gold barstools. One witch had chin-length blonde hair and a fairly appealing face, from what could be seen in the meagre light anyway, but all Draco could see of the other was a spill of dark curls.

To be honest, he enjoyed the sight. Previously he'd never slighted any hair colour, but lately, there was something about dark curls he found alluring. Nott interrupted the witches’ conversation with a dimpled smile typically reserved for attaining exactly what he desired, then he reverted towards Draco, who schooled his expression in the same way he did before an introduction to any new witch—a small curve at his lips and slight prick of his eyebrows that he hoped conveyed a sense of ease. He needed to step backward due to the train of people crossing in front of him, but when they passed, Nott revealed with his hold now secured around the arm of Granger.

Malfoy’s at-ease expression fell.

Granger’s eyes settled on him with an all too familiar disdain. If it weren’t for the tight black dress hugging every godsdamn inch of her and the fuck-me high heels, then they could’ve been standing in the middle of the Auror office.

“Malfoy.” Granger tipped her head to the side, and her thin silver necklace glinted in the chandelier light. The pendant dipped into a slight show of cleavage, and Draco allowed himself a glance.

“Nott.” Draco turned to see his friend’s overjoyed grin. “You know perfectly well that Granger and I work together.”

“You work together, but have you worked together?”

As Granger looked away, sweeping a hand to the back of her hair almost self-consciously, Nott reached over the bar counter, retracted two cocktail glasses and shoved them into their hands.

“I just thought you might hit it off in a less formal setting. Have a bit of fun, you know?” He began slipping back into the guests behind Granger. “Enjoy,” he called, then sent an overplayed wink to Draco.

Nott most definitely wouldn’t have said that if he knew the type of fun they'd already had in Draco’s office. Although Draco wasn't exactly complaining; he hadn’t seen Granger in over a day—she’d artfully ignored him since his last dirty comment—and something about the mere sight of her gave him a buzz of excitement. It was certainly a possibility that he could enjoy her company here tonight in a setting where she wasn't uptight, controlling, or giving him scowls across the meeting table.

Alas, as he moved his eyes to Granger again, he found her familiar scowl.

“Theo informed me he had a charming wizard he wanted me to meet,” she said. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Ah, she has a sense of humour.”

She expelled a curt scoff of a laugh. “Is this your doing?”

“Why would I possibly inflict this discomfort on myself?”

“I thought you might’ve said something to Theo.” Angling away, she shrugged as she sampled her drink. “I don't know how good you are with this whole secret-keeping thing.”

“I’m proficient at the secret-keeping, thank you. You’re the weak link here.” Draco took in a mouthful of the cocktail—gin martini. “And I don’t mean to sound entirely rude, but what are you doing here in the snake den?”

“Oh, I’m glad you didn’t intend to sound rude, because now I feel awfully welcome.” She smiled facetiously.

“You know what I mean.”

Her eyes slid to the side before she answered, as though she needed to think upon it. “Theo guilted me into attending, and he has a way of being persuasive.”

Draco frowned. “His tongue?”

Granger simply smirked, then took in more martini. It perturbed him a little.

A couple of witches cut a path between the two of them, and Granger shifted backward, around to the side of the bar.

As Draco met her again, he asked, “And you know Nott from… school?”

“Yes. Remember, you were there?”

Draco kept an expectant look upon his expression and she hurriedly opened and closed her mouth in the same fashion she’d done the other day, as though she’d lost the words she had intended to say.

Eventually, she added, “If you must know, he's become my go-to Potion Master.”

“Ah,” said Draco. “He's the one that helped with your giddiness.”

Twiddling the stem of her glass between her fingers, Granger nodded.

“Well then, you may find this a little different from the parties you're accustomed to.” Draco moved to Granger’s side so that their arms nearly touched, and they both viewed the assortment of guests. “Although, maybe that’s a great assumption on my part that you ever attend any sort of event where there’s fun to be had.”

Granger paused her quest to put her glass to her lips and sent him a look. “Do you think I’m some sort of spinster who knows nothing except the inside of her house and the company of her cats?”

“You know what, I’ve never truly thought about what you do in your spare time, Granger, but that description does suit you rather well.” He teased, of course. The sight of her at this moment was the furthest from a spinster.

They both spent a moment taking in more alcohol, watching the other witches and wizards mill around. Nott always found an eclectic bunch, from baby-faced to grey-haired, then dark wizards to simply morally grey, and of course, the starving artists and the magnates starving them.

Draco leant in a little so that their conversation didn’t carry. “I suppose I meant that Nott’s parties attract an odd sort. Everyone in this room will have mummy or daddy issues, uses alcohol, potions, drugs, or sex to mask their thinly veiled hatred for themselves, their forced marriages, and seemingly dead end lives. Or all of the above.”

“You say that like it's unique to Slytherins.”

With that, Draco angled in towards the witch and darted his eyes between hers, taking in Granger’s sincerity. As of late, the Golden Girl of the Golden Trio was giving the impression she was not as perfect as she appeared. Or rather, as he had assumed. Perhaps she never was. With their every additional authentic interaction, his assumptions of the witch were becoming stale. He kind of liked it.

“Besides, viewing people as products of their houses has little value outside Hogwarts," said Granger. “We're all still human. We all bear scars.”

Despite himself, Draco felt his brows crease inward. This conversation was taking a solemn turn, and he couldn’t bear the weight of it. Certainly not at a party. Certainly not with Granger, of all people. Talk of war brought up far too many memories he’d worked hard to section away in the back of his mind. His trial. His father's imprisonment and death. His futile future.

Draco cleared his throat. A change of topic was in order. “I’ve noticed the adorable flush of your cheeks has finally died down after my compliment.”

Shaking her head lightly, Granger glanced away. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Normally, no. And then when you’re dressed like this? Certainly not.”

Granger buried her meagre attempt to stop her smile in her cocktail. As she reverted to twirling her glass stem between her fingers, she said, “Tell me more about Ginny.”

“Strange, I assumed you knew all about her, given she's meant to be your good friend.”

“I mean about the Quidditch practice. I’ve always held the impression she was hesitant to tell me any detail. In fact, I’d say it was months before I learnt of the arrangement.”

“Perhaps something to do with your silly rule about not working with me? Not wanting to know about me? Pretending you’ve never heard of me?”

Granger’s smile was as good as a confirmation.

Draco turned in so that they were now face to face. He was close enough that he noticed she was wearing more make-up than usual—he could no longer see the adorable freckles on the bridge of her nose—and her eyelids were a shimmery silver. The way her vanilla scent now held a note of floral and melted deliciously into the heat of her skin was also apparent. Draco couldn’t help glancing at the crook of her collarbone. He desperately wanted to set his lips to that space. But he wouldn’t get his hopes up; he had a strange feeling the Granger before him wasn’t the same Granger who visited his office in the evenings.

“Just tell me.” Draco’s voice was quiet with a sudden seriousness. “What have I done to cause you to go to such lengths to request that we never work together?”

While Granger’s mouth opened immediately, she then visibly hesitated. Her eyes darted back and forth between his, then to the bar and to the guests past Draco’s shoulder. A volley as though she fought an internal battle. “I… I had a sex dream about you when you first joined the department.” Her words came out in a rush.

“That's it?” Draco angled backward with his surprise. “I've had at least a hundred sex dreams about you, Granger.”

“What?”

“Okay, maybe just a handful, but if that's it…” He gave a vague shrug of his shoulders.

“No.” She scrunched her expression as if in spite of herself. “To be honest, I also fancied you at Hogwarts—before your foray into dark arts anyhow—and between that and the sex dream, I didn’t want any unnecessary distractions that would make it seem as though I couldn't take my role seriously as an Auror, and well—for Merlin's sake!” Granger held her hand to her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Something the matter?” Draco asked, tone wooden, mind still caught up on the word fancied. Granger had been scared of finding him a distraction. Scared of falling in love with him… was that what he was hearing?

Granger made an unintelligible noise, fingers still firm against her lips. With a shrewd eye, she lifted the cocktail glass and inclined the remnant of clear liquid in the soft, warm light. “That bastard,” she muttered.

“I’m going to need a little more on the whole fancying thing, Granger.”

“I did not tell you that of my own volition.” Granger planted the glass down upon the bar. “Theo has put something in our drinks. My tongue quite literally feels loose.”

Draco stared into his empty glass. “I did wonder why I told you that thing about the sex dreams. I mean, I don’t mind you knowing, but I hadn’t meant to say it at all.”

Granger’s face had noticeably flushed. She held a palm to her breast as she turned over rapid breaths, her eyes pinging around the room.

He was ready to offer a witty remark, but the fear in her eyes caused him to change tack. “Why are you panicking?”

“I…” she began breathlessly.

Draco frowned. “Are you having some sort of reaction?”

She inhaled deeply before swiftly exhaling. “I’m going to kill him.” Anger overtook Granger’s expression as she edged a couple of steps to see past Draco.

“Relax.” He placed a hand on her arm. “He does these sorts of things all the time. He thinks it’s fun.”

Her brows attempted to meet in the middle. “Do I look like I’m having fun?”

“Truthfully, at this moment you look a little scary, but five minutes ago you certainly appeared to be at least on the verge of maybe thinking about having fun.”

Granger wrapped her arms across her waist and tightly shut her mouth, as if to cage her words. He watched her jaw muscle flex. Watched her control her breaths with a steady in-out, in-out. She appeared on the verge of panic again.

“Here—” Draco retrieved his wand and vanished the last sip of Granger’s glass. “No harm done, right? I’ll find you some water, and if you feel that it helps, I’ll leave you alone for the next hour to ensure the Veritaserum is out of your system before we have any further incriminating conversation.”

“No!” She latched her hands onto his forearm. “Don’t you dare leave me alone. I might say something completely inappropriate or embarrassing or even career-limiting. I’m in a room full of Slytherins for Merlin’s sake!”

“I thought Hogwarts houses had little value these days?”

“Not when you Slytherins are all cunning and vindictive and—you’re the one who said I was in the snake den!”

Laughter burst from Draco. He couldn’t help it. He revelled in the way Granger locked onto his arm as though he was a life-raft.

Reaching over the bar, Draco slotted the necks of two Butterbeers between his knuckles. “Come on.” He steered her away. “I know where we can hide to wait out all of your incriminating truth telling.”

As they passed through the archway, she said, “You’re not taking me to a bedroom, are you?”

He glanced back at Granger with a smile drawn upon his lips. “Do you want me to?”

Granger made an indistinct noise, which he quickly realised was because she was smothering a hand to her mouth.

He let out a short bark of a laugh.

“If you’re going to abuse this power, I’m not coming with you, Malfoy.”

“Fine—no more tricky questions.”

“What if he’s dosed us with more than three drops?” Her voice held sudden panic, and she dropped her hand from his arm. “I need to find Theo. Send him a curse or two.”

Draco snatched Granger’s hand just as she attempted to revert in the other direction. “If your recent duelling practice is anything to go by, you’re better off remaining with me.”

“Hey!”

They curved around the corner, through the entrance hall and off into a dim hallway, where Draco, with an unquenchable smile due to the feel of her silken hand in his, entered the first door on the left. The dark wood of Nott manor was less harsh in this room, broken up by the glinting gold of frames upon the walls, and the delicate flames in the hearth and candle chandelier.

Abandoning his grip on Granger, Draco made for the green velvet and gold-trimmed settee in the corner. As he seated and opened a Butterbeer, she stared wide-eyed, taking tentative steps towards the crammed bookcase behind the desk.

“It fascinates me that the library of a dark wizarding family appears perfectly normal. I think I can even see a Jane Austen novel.”

“I believe that's called overcompensation. And you haven’t seen the Malfoy library yet,” he said, then noticed the thin black seam down the back of Granger’s calves. “You’re wearing the forties tights!”

Granger spun with a smirk ready. “I was a little inspired.” She lightly crinkled her brow. “Also, I thought the Ministry confiscated your every dark possession?”

“Perhaps they missed a book or artefact… or two.”

As he waited for her pedant response, the music from the salon a low drone, Draco slid his gaze down Granger in serpentine fashion: from her breasts (that he’d hold in his memory until the day he died), down to her belly button where he imagined soft skin to press his lips, to the swell of her hips, the material of her dress that ended slightly above her knee, and the sheer tights and black heels he wanted wrapped around his waist and crossed at his back.

Oddly enough, a bureaucratic response never arrived. Instead, Granger deposited her small black handbag on the desk and then met him on the settee, settling herself deep into the corner. “Bloody Theo.” She crossed her arms. “Seriously, how long do you think it’ll take for the effects to wear off? I know it differs between individuals, and we haven’t a clue how much he put in there, but what might you guess?”

“Surely no more than a couple of hours.” Then he felt compelled to add, “Though I can’t lie, he’s highly proficient at potions.”

Somehow, he stopped the urge to tell her that it could last several more hours, rather than simply just a couple. Nott had perfected Veritaserum over the years. Surely she knew he was the Ministry’s first choice of Potion Master when they needed to replenish their stores?

Covering her hands to her face, Granger groaned. When she revealed, she asked, “Where is his potions room? I'm certain you know. Maybe he’ll have an antidote in there. Or you could just threaten it out of him? We both know you could take Theo.”

Draco’s shoulders shook lightly with his laughter. He took a swig of the Butterbeer. He enjoyed the fact Granger thought he could duel Nott and win, but in all seriousness, what was she panicking about?

“I will not interrogate you, Granger. I promise you it will not hurt if we sit here for a little while and wait it out.”

“A little while?”

“Or, if you truly prefer, you could return home? There’s some Floo powder on the mantle just there.” Draco indicated ahead with his chin. He hated the thought of her abandoning the evening this early thanks to Nott’s interference, but he didn’t want her to sit with discomfort any longer than she thought bearable.

The corner of Granger’s mouth pulled in thought as she stared ahead at the fireplace. She sighed. “A little while longer…but if anything else embarrassing slips out of my mouth, I am immediately into that fire.”

Draco nodded in a way that he hoped conveyed his understanding, then turned in to view Granger. “So about fancying me.”

Granger shifted her palms to the settee with the intention of getting to her feet, but raised no more than an inch before Draco clamped his hold on her arms and planted her back down. “Okay, fine. I'll steer clear of that topic.”

She shot him a barbed glare.

When he felt her relax beneath his touch, he relinquished his hold. “I'll just have to ask you next time you're sitting vulnerable between my legs.”

Granger placed a palm across her eyes. “Malfoy,” she said as though she was about to give him an earful, then she emerged from behind her hand with a renewed energy and a matter-of-fact tone. “Look, it was a culmination of silly things that led to several years of us not working together, and I feel ridiculous for ever asking Robards for such a thing.”

“Silly enough that you also asked Potter?”

“It made sense to continue with what was working. I wanted to be the best Auror—not the best female Auror, the best Auror—and between once fancying you, and that dream, it just felt as though I was eliminating a distraction. Which, I'm realising, I was correct in doing. You've been nothing but a distraction.”

“I'm not the one who walked into your office to watch you wank.”

“That aside, every day with you is like a constant attempt to trek uphill.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re not exactly easy either, you know.”

“I'm perfectly aware.”

Draco rested an elbow atop the gold railing at the back of the settee. “Well, it's too late now. There are several Horcruxes between you and me ending this partnership.”

She cocked her head and smiled with a faux sweetness. “And at least one of us is working diligently to try and get us to the end as soon as possible.”

Ignoring her jibe, Draco considered how or when he might return to this fancying-business to understand more. When had it begun? How hadn’t he known when they were at school? Was she still holding on to it? It was playing on his mind more than he liked to admit. It had sounded silly and childish at first, but the longer he thought on the matter, the greater his worry. All these years Granger had spent trying to avoid any direct collaboration due to the fear of falling for him, and now what—she was miraculously impenetrable? Or were her feelings the reason she kept appearing in his office? Granger couldn't possibly be under the impression their fucking around was going to lead to something more…right?

But then again, they had a good thing going.

Draco wanted to see how far he could take it, and shooting down any form of affection certainly didn't seem the right way to go about that.

“About Ginny,” began Draco, reverting to a topic that seemed safe, “Potter and I started throwing around a few Quaffles after work a couple of years ago and Ginny met us one night. And then she put us both to shame.”

“She certainly is brilliant.”

“And of course she's entirely aware. I gave up Quidditch for a long while when everything was…you know, so it’s been fun to have someone to practise with again. Plus, it gives me an incentive to join the annual interdepartmental match at the Ministry; and this year will be the year that I smash the Magical Transportation tossers.”

Something he’d said amused Granger, who was now trying to fight a smile. “Well, Ginny hasn't said as much, but I know she appreciates practising with you too. The children are wonderful and all, but having time for Quidditch again is good for her. A little self-care.” She glanced at her lap. “And it’s nice that you get along so well with Harry after all that’s happened.”

Perhaps it was the way Veritaserum had massaged their conversation in a certain direction, but Draco was enjoying his interactions with Granger. The scowls and hard stares had dropped away. She had curved in towards him, posture loose, and the manner in which she looked upon him was gentle. Her eyes were wide with her usual curiosity. But was it a curiosity for him? Draco enjoyed the thought; after all, it mirrored his own desire.

Suddenly, he wanted to test how much Veritaserum was left in Granger’s system. Measure how much of their conversation was simply propelled out of her, and how much was sincerely for his ears.

“What's your greatest fear, Granger?”

She viewed him with a side-eye. “You said you wouldn’t ask any more tricky questions.”

“Sorry, I misspoke. I meant sexual questions. Besides, consider it a test: do you feel impelled to answer?”

Although she shook her head, the crinkle together of her lips told a different story. “Perhaps. Though…” She appeared to hesitate. “Though, having said that, I don’t mind you knowing that my greatest fear is my mother losing her memories.”

It suddenly struck Draco that he knew entirely nothing of Granger’s parents, other than the fact they were muggles. And he supposed muggles had all sorts of odd ailments and diseases that didn’t inflict wizards in the same way. “What do you mean by losing her memories? An amnesia?”

Granger’s brows pricked in. “I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you?” She cast her eyes to her lap. “I obliviated my parents and sent them to safety in Australia for the duration of the war, and while I was able to return them to England and restore their memories of me, over the past couple of years I've noticed my mother seems to be forgetting words and misplacing items.” Finally, she looked Draco in the eye again. There was a sadness in her expression that she was working to erase; and failing tremendously. “She's only just passed fifty, and I'm worried it's damage from my spell rather than any muggle disease.”

Despite his best efforts, Draco frowned. He hoped for Granger’s sake that it wasn’t her own doing. “I’m sorry to hear.” His voice was soft. He hoped she recognised his sincerity. “And your father? Is he similarly affected?”

“He…” Granger set her gaze to her lap and swept away an imaginary fleck of lint from her dress. “His memory was always fine, but he passed away last year from a muggle illness.”

The manner in which she glanced up at the empty portrait on the wall and the faint twitch of her cheek beneath her eye told him grief was still present. Despite attempting to convince himself otherwise, Draco recognised the emotion well. Grief, he was finding, was unable to be ignored. Draco had promised himself the day Granger brought up his own father that he'd never speak to her about the bastard again, but this bloody potion made his tongue protest.

“My father died a few months ago…I suppose it must be closer to a year now,” he said.

When Granger turned, her eyes were glossy.

“I'm sure you know—it was in the papers. He was never the same after he was put away in Azkaban, and anyway, it was a quick illness… What I mean to say is that I understand.”

Granger nodded gently and they let a look pass between them. Draco swigged at the Butterbeer, willing the stupid truth-telling to wash away. Perhaps Granger had the same idea, for she seized the bottle from his hand and took in a mouthful.

“And yours?” She pulled her knees on to the settee and turned in to better see him. “What is the incomparable Draco Malfoy afraid of?”

The Malfoy name. The weight of expectation that it bore. His manor. The vastness and hollowness of the space. His own memories and self-destructive thoughts, particularly the negative ones that most often outweighed the positive. But he keenly battled the urge to say any such thing, even taking the Butterbeer back from Granger and drinking in another mouthful to distract from the truth.

After placing the bottle down to the floor, he turned in further towards her and said, “My most pressing fear is dying during an aimless search for a Horcrux and never having had the opportunity to touch you.”

Her mouth showed a shadow of a smile. “I have a feeling your potion has worn off far quicker than mine.”

Draco made his best attempt to show sincerity. He straightened his face of any remaining semblance of slyness or smirking. “I promise you, it’s my greatest fear.”

Lips shaped into a familiar deviousness, Granger twisted to press her back to the side of the settee and extended her legs over Draco’s lap. “There. Does that do anything to allay your fear?”

“Barely.” He laid a hand to her ankle and tried to hide the mounting excitement he felt for the fact she touched him again, even if it was the negligible weight of her legs along his. “You know exactly where I want to touch, Granger.”

“I'm not so sure I do know,” she said naively, but she shifted an inch closer to him. “Also, I already have evidence of your touching—” She hooked her fingers beneath the hem of her dress and inched it up until she revealed the silk ribbons suspending her black stockings.

Draco held his breath for a beat.

Beneath the sheer material was the perfect image of his bite. Two deeply purple half-moons with an adjoining blur of grey in the centre. He knew she could have healed herself or glamoured it away, but she'd left it there. Was she keeping it as a reminder of him? Draco pulled his bottom lip in with his teeth, recalling the way he’d felt making that mark. He craved it again. He wanted his mouth on that bruise, his tongue in the sweet dip between her thigh, and then in her deliciously wet centre.

Draco slid his fingers along Granger’s tights and the silkiness made his fingertips celebrate. But he stopped at her knee, realising he was about to get carried away, and he hadn’t a clue if she wanted that.

“About that apple,” he began, persisting with a question he had decided he needed an answer to. “Not the first time, was it?”

Granger bowed her head as if to hide the full force of her grin. She shook her head. “In eighth year, us girls were very drunk one night—”

“I like where this story is going.”

“—and we made a cock from a couple of different fruits we had laying about the dorms.” She pressed her lips together, stifling the re-emergence of a grin. “But that’s as far as that went; so to answer your question, I’ve only fucked an apple-toy once.”

Probably entirely inappropriately, Draco felt himself hardening. “I promise I could be infinitely better than an apple, Granger.”

She let her grin free. As if in reply, she allowed her leg to gently fall an inch, revealing her black underwear. He spotted lace.

It was an invitation, wasn’t it?

With a delicate touch, Draco continued trailing his fingers in a line along her inner thigh. She was warm and silken. How he wished he could touch every inch of her.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

It was scarcely perceptible, but Granger shook her head.

Her gaze latched to his hand, watching his touch glide over the mark he’d left days earlier, and as his fingertips crept beneath her scrunched dress and leisurely teased along the crevice at her inner thigh, she let out a trembled exhale. Her expression had blended into a form of both pleasure and disbelief. He shared the same sentiment, but he didn’t take time to dwell. With a single finger, he slid inward until he met between her legs, ghosting a touch across the bumps and swirls of lace, then down along the heated curve of her. She sharply inhaled through parted lips. Her chest bounced with the rapidity of her breaths.

With a firmer touch, Draco continued down along the line at her centre until he discovered dampness. His heart hammered. It drummed in his ears. His cock strained against his trousers with the realisation he was finally getting exactly what he wanted. After several weeks of wishing and then a couple of teasing instances of touching, it was happening.

Draco hooked a finger into the side of Granger’s knickers and pulled it away to see her sweet centre. He needed to exhale audibly for the thrill pushing at his insides. Suddenly he was aware of nothing except the scent of her arousal. She was devastatingly wet for him, and all he’d done was sweep a finger along her thigh. His cock stirred, making its urge known.

“It’s not just me who wants the touching, is it?”

She shook her head, trapping her lower lip between her teeth.

With their attention in each other’s eyes and chests lifting with hungry breaths, Draco teased a finger at her soft opening. As he stroked near her entrance to play with her arousal, then swept his touch up to circle her clit, Granger’s brows drew in and she let out a sweet, pleasurable hum that felt it went straight to his cock. He was painfully hard.

“Oh, gods,” she breathed.

Draco delved in a finger, feeling her warmth and tightness, and when she emitted a breathy “fuck,” he hummed in reply then slipped in a second finger and stroked her deeper than before.

This was all he had wanted as of late. The snug feel of her around him. Her clenching and needy moans.

Granger moaned lightly as he drew his fingers in and out and flicked his thumb across her clit. She rolled her hip to meet his touch. Rocked against him. Her left hand gripped the side of the settee and her right high-heel pointed and flexed, causing her thigh to rub against his length in the most wonderfully disastrous way. Draco’s breathing had become erratic and he felt precum marking a spot in his pants. Although he’s worked up such a wetness that it coated his fingers and edged into his palm, he was greedy. Draco needed more. He needed to feel her writhe against his tongue.

“I want to taste you, Granger,” he said, his free hand further bunching up the hem of her dress.

With a thumbnail clamped between her teeth, she inched closer to feel his rhythmic strokes deeper. She palmed at her breast over her dress, lingering to tweak at her nipple, and he could sense in her manic breaths how they were close to coaxing her orgasm.

“Are you going to make me beg again?” He slowed his delving fingers to find the soft ridges at her front wall, the spot he knew made women go wild. Perhaps it might persuade her. And if it did nothing to persuade, then there was a good chance it would quickly coax her release.

A desperate whimper slipped from Granger. As he shaped his hand so that two curved fingers persistently caressed her front wall, and his thumb flicked at her clit, she tipped her head back to suck in a breath through her teeth.

“Fuck,” she ground out. “You’re going to make me…” She trailed off.

He wanted her to come. So desperately. But he also desperately wanted to feel her orgasm against his tongue; to lap at her until the aftershocks ebbed away and there was no more release to taste.

“Do I need to get on my knees again? Because I will. It’s not below me, Granger.”

“Lovebirds,” came a voice from a crack in the study door.

Sweet fucking Salazar.

Draco slipped his fingers from Granger and pulled her dress down as he went, enough that it hid away her bruise. Quickly inching away, she moved backward so that she sat flush against the side of the settee, but as she attempted to retract her legs, Draco gripped her ankle tight and moved it on top of his bulging erection. If anyone was going to spot a hard-on, it was Nott. Draco shoved his hand in his pocket and took his wand in his fist, contemplating sending a hex straight between his eyes.

Granger crossed her arms. “Theodore Archibald Nott. Did you really need to drug us?”

He meandered deeper into the room, one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other held up in the air as though to underline his incoming question. “First, pray tell, how do you know my middle name? And second, did I truly do something worthy of middle-naming me?” He darted his finger back and forth between the two of them, not bothering to wait for an answer. “And what’s happening here, then? Was it something I said? Or put in your drink?” He showed a wolfish grin.

One hand still firmly clasped to Granger’s ankle, Draco relinquished the grip of his wand to sweep the other back through his hair and then shake his head. His jaw involuntarily clenched. What was the point of setting them up like this and then interrupting? If Draco wanted to be edged, he could’ve done that himself at home.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nott.”

“We're not at Hogwarts any longer, Theo. There’s no need for your childish pranks.”

His grin dropped a little, rendering it lop-sided. “Kind of you to assume I could've made a batch of Veritaserum that strong at Hogwarts.”

“You're not helping your case,” said Draco.

“I get it, you’re peeved.” He held up his hands and gave a light bow of his head. “I'll leave you two alone. But no fucking on this settee. Or that desk, I have important parchment on there. And don't get any stains on this rug—”

“Nott, enough.”

“Not enough?” he repeated with faux naivety. “Well, you’re aware of how many bedrooms there are upstairs. Or otherwise the spa bath, if you prefer—”

“Enough,” repeated Draco, teeth bared.

Nott fixed Granger with an amused look, then darted his pointer finger between the two of them again. “I knew there’d be something here.” He began towards the door then threw over his shoulder, “You might as well fuck because I’m going to tell everyone out there that’s what you were doing.”

With the study door firmly shut, Granger sighed. Her irritated posture relaxed. “I think I should go. Now I don't trust myself out there or in here.”

Draco dropped his head back to the edge of the settee and groaned lightly. But he straightened abruptly as Granger tried to tug her ankle from his hold.

“Come on now. Returning my leg will allow you the chance to bid that bulge goodbye.”

“I’m not sure it’s going to leave anytime soon.” Simultaneously, he renounced his hold and placed the tip of his finger in his mouth, tasting what he could of Granger, watching as she shook her head with an ill-suppressed smile.

Coming to stand, she rearranged the material of her dress so that it again sat just above her knees, then brushed her fingers down along the side of her neck in what appeared to be a display of discomfort. Apparently the truth-telling had finally worn off. Her words were well and truly lost.

Despite the fact Draco sat with an uncomfortable deflating erection, he felt no discomfort in any other sense. He’d enjoyed his time with Granger away from their work, and as much as he wanted her to stay, he couldn’t bring himself to say such a thing.

He did, however, have something to delay her departure.

“Before you go.” He sat up straight and retrieved a slip of parchment from his jacket pocket. “I’ve made some progress with the case today.”

With a suspicious glint, Granger glanced at the offering before taking it in hand. “I thought you were just going to sit around and look pretty?”

Draco sat deeper into the settee and extended an arm along the back. “I can multitask.”

As Granger unfurled the parchment and read his notes, her hand flew to her mouth. Her entire bearing held novel excitement; and not the type Draco could draw from her with his fingers. “The Horcrux coordinates—they’re the times and places of famous muggle assassinations!” She sat beside Draco and dropped her hands to her lap. “How did I not see this?”

“Maybe you were too caught up on the magic and missed the muggle of it?”

Granger shook her head with a short, disbelieving shake. “How did you find this information?”

“The internet.”

“The internet? Since when do you use the internet?”

“Since the new millennium. You don’t? You should catch up.”

“Of course I do. I'm just…” she trailed off to shake her head again.

“Go on, say it. Impressed?”

“Confused, mainly. Surely you don't have the internet at your manor? Or even electricity?”

“I have my ways.” ‘Ways’ being the local muggle library, where sixty-something year old Ruth taught him everything from how to use the ridiculously named mouse to the reason why he couldn't search for tits on a public computer. “Have you noticed anything about the decades?”

“There are three famous assassinations spanning one hundred and twenty years?”

“And he's missed the seventies. The way the idiot decided to return to the assassination of a Beatle but not include the seventies—the best decade for music—is a crime.”

“I'm sorry, you do know that sentence was entirely backwards, don't you?” Granger angled in so that their knees kissed, the confusion of her expression plain. “And how exactly do you know who the Beatles are?”

“Why wouldn't I know who the Beatles are? They're bigger than Jesus.”

Granger sniggered.

“And you say that like I’m not allowed to know muggle music. I guarantee I have a record collection bigger than yours, Granger.”

Her mouth was parted in what Draco could only assume was bewilderment. He could see the way her thoughts ran at the speed of a centaur, as though she was attempting to puzzle together everything she knew of him. Granger glanced down at the dates on the parchment and then reverted to Draco with a sceptical sidelong look. “You think the seventies was the best decade for music?” She scoffed. “Please.”

He rotated his body towards her. “You're about to tell me the Spice Girls are your favourite band, aren't you?”

She chuckled softly and read him again once over, as though unable to move past her disbelief.

“And what's not to love about the music of the seventies?” continued Draco. “Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson, ABBA, T-rex—”

“Fine, if I agree that it was the best decade for music, will you stop naming muggle musicians?”

With a curt nod, Draco fashioned a self-satisfied smile.

“And tell me, what do you think about these other four dates? There were no assassinations at these times and places?”

“None that I could find. I’m not sure what they signify just yet.”

Granger’s smile was relentless. It was a welcome sight. “I can't believe we've made progress—you’ve made progress,” she corrected.

“More than just a pretty face.” The view of their knees shimmying together as they held enthusiastic conversation and her unmistakable satisfaction due to his efforts made Draco want to smile too.

With fingers lightly grazing her lips, Granger’s eyes ran lines across the parchment several times over.

“In all honesty,” said Draco, “once we get past the bickering, I think we could work well together.”

“Once you begin to pull your weight—”

“And you do away with your controlling behaviours—”

“Then yes,” said Granger, rolling up the parchment. “We’ll only meet the end of the case more effectively and efficiently if we work together and not against one another.”

“Are we finally agreeing on something?” As Draco waited for her reply, he raked his gaze over her delicate features, her wide honey-coloured eyes, petite upturned nose and the tiny kissable freckle at the edge of her lip. Had she always been this beautiful? Perhaps he’d been too dim to notice. Too blinded by prejudice and silly childhood conflict to truly see. Draco had the urge to tell her, but it wasn’t the moment, was it?

His gaze must have lingered on Granger's mouth for too long. After she nodded, she said, “I should go.”

She had made it to the desk before she turned, holding up the parchment. “I’m taking this with me to think about it further.” She stuffed it into her little black bag.

Just as Granger readied to leave, Draco asked, “You're just going to slip out of here without a word to anyone else?”

“I'm perfectly aware my behaviour is not in keeping with your poncy pureblood standards, but Theo slipped me a potion and made me reveal a secret I had no intention of telling you, so he deserves nothing but my ire and well-placed hexes, but I’d rather not make a scene.”

Draco grinned. He did particularly enjoy having that piece of information. Perhaps he should thank Nott instead of cursing him. “I would've retrieved it from you one day, Granger.”

She narrowed her eyes, but it came off more sultry than irritated. “Cunning, all of you. I should have heeded your snake den warning.” She threaded the handle of her bag over her forearm. “When you see Theo, will you tell him I said fuck you?”

“Easy done.”

“And make sure you spend the weekend preparing for Monday. You’ll need to pack some muggle clothing for America.”

Orders, more orders. She truly couldn’t help herself, could she? “Pack?”

“Yes, pack. We’ll take a Portkey on Monday evening, then we’ll set off for the Horcrux Tuesday.”

Draco sat forward and propped his arms onto his knees. “Are you telling me we’re going to spend a night together in America?”

With the ghost of a smile, Granger said, “No, I’m telling you that in order not to deplete our magic, we’ll take a Portkey to America early to plan sufficiently, and then stay in separate rooms before time travelling the following day.”

Draco tried and failed at clamping his grin. He vaguely recalled her mentioning something about this weeks ago, but even so, the news was thrilling. His mind was already wandering through sexy scenarios. “See, again, I heard nothing except that we’ll spend the night together at a hotel.”

With her expression none too pleased, Granger raised her wand and sent Floo powder into the grate. “Just prepare, please.”

“For all the fucking, right?” With an obstinate grin, Draco sat deep in the settee. He laid an arm along the back and crossed one leg loosely over the other, watching as Granger—failing to suppress the curve of her lips—disappeared into the green flames.

Chapter Text

As Hermione stood before her bathroom mirror waiting for the tap to run scalding, she dipped her face into her hands. It had been at least twenty minutes since she’d left Theo’s and yet her heartbeat was so relentless that she was having illogical thoughts about it quite literally giving out. The panic had reoccurred so suddenly. Shrugging her shoulders up to her ears, she inhaled deeply and then let them drop, exhaling from her mouth as steadily as she could manage. Well, that had barely helped. Hermione’s legs felt like flobberworms.

She twisted off the tap and sat on the side of the bathtub. The frigid porcelain bled through the material of her dress and distracted from the uncomfortable fizzing of her body. She swiped her fingers along her forehead in a small rhythmic motion, back and forth and back again, her gaze somewhere off beyond the grey bath mat.

It was nothing like last time, she repeated in her mind as though a mantra.

Nothing like the last time.

It was nothing like the last time except that it had felt remarkably similar. The very same panic had cleaved her chest at realising something dangerous had been added to her drink; the same sour heat enveloped her body as her mind whizzed through the ramifications, and she experienced the same urge to bring up everything in her stomach. Tonight served as a disastrous reminder of what it felt like not to be in control of her body. The greatest test she’d experienced in many months. Fortunately, her drink tonight hadn’t led to the blurring and the breathlessness, nor the infiltration. But the shame? Well, embarrassment was an awful by-product of the potion, but at least she hadn't experienced shame. Still, Hermione had skirted far too close to a precipice she never wanted to be shoved over again. It was enough to no longer trust Theo; for a potion or otherwise.

Hermione let out a vague noise of frustration. She covered her face again. What had she been thinking? She’d attended the party assuming a quick fling with Theo was a sure thing. She was falling into her old patterns. A pattern she promised herself she would never fall into again following the humiliation of being chased out of a cheating muggle's flat by his girlfriend. The shame from that night still clung to her. And yet, Hermione had been foolishly swayed by Theo’s charms. He’d always been flirty, and she hadn’t minded their fun blurry-lined banter, but slipping Veritaserum into her drink and setting Malfoy upon her was a line crossed. Hermione felt her face flush, recalling how the secret of her silly feelings had spilled from her mouth.

Come Monday, she needed to make it clear to Malfoy that there was no danger of anything eventuating. Telling Robards she didn’t want to partner with Malfoy at work was simply a rash decision made some years earlier, and the fact they now had a secret arrangement was not going to influence her feelings for him at all. But secret arrangement for how much longer given Theo’s meddling?

Hermione folded in on herself with a groan. What was she doing? Her ridiculous addictive behaviours were not only rearing their head, but infiltrating areas of her life she promised herself she’d never allow. Work places and colleagues and people who had known her as a child. She couldn’t keep at this. She couldn't let those people see who she had become.

But Malfoy… he was too good to give up.

Hermione paced a circle in the small, white-tiled space. She brushed a hand through her curls, recalling the thrill of Malfoy’s fingers inside her, and a delicious flutter arose at her centre, thinking what might have come about if they hadn't been interrupted. The desire to stay with Malfoy, to straddle and then kiss him deeply, might’ve taken hold. And his knowledge of the internet and muggle music? A smile pricked at her lips. Where had that come from?

She was beginning to second-guess whether she knew anything about Draco Malfoy at all. Hermione halted her pacing to concentrate on her feelings towards the man. There was irritation, of course. But his sudden show of conscientiousness for the case tonight had dampened that feeling. Now, there was an overwhelming curiosity, and not just to feel him inside of her, but a curiousness for who Malfoy was these days. She knew he had changed following the war, but she hadn’t considered the extent of it; and if there was anyone who knew how people could evolve with time, it was Hermione.

She shook her head. No. She couldn’t have those types of thoughts about Malfoy. They were too reminiscent of… well, her feelings at Hogwarts. Reminiscent of the desire to latch her eyes onto twelve-year-old Malfoy across their cauldrons, the need to glance back at him in the Great Hall surrounded by Slytherins, the hope that he’d be the next person to walk through the door just so she could spend more time in his vicinity. Before succumbed to the destiny of the Malfoy name and pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord, Hermione’s feelings were unruly. She couldn’t let that happen again. She simply couldn’t. Curiosity for the wizard was a slippery slope.

And yet, she also couldn’t give up this arrangement with Malfoy.

She was enjoying the fun and secrecy. This arrangement was different. It couldn’t have been the recurrence of her hypersexual behaviour because they hadn't slept together, could it? And they wouldn't. He could never be a one-night stand, not as long as they shared a workplace, an office wall, and a case. But how was Hermione supposed to continue fooling around with him and keep her feelings in check?

With another frustrated groan, Hermione moved into her bedroom, yanking her dress over her head as she went. Her heartbeat had slowed, but she couldn’t cope with these thoughts at the moment. Nor could she let them follow her through the night. Hermione downed both a Dreamless Sleep Potion and Sleeping Draught, but it might’ve been the barely two minutes spent with her vibrator thinking about the interlude on Theo’s settee that helped her so quickly sink into a sleep.

***

Aside from lunch with the Potters and scribbling quick owls to Luna and Ron, Hermione spent the entirety of her weekend preparing for the next Horcrux mission and actively avoiding any thoughts of Malfoy unless it was prefaced with the words, ‘will he remember to...’ Despite his proactivity in progressing the case and determining a link between several of the dates, Hermione still had doubts regarding his ability to prepare for every scenario in the same way she could. Well, could anyone? Once again, she packed her small beaded bag with everything from potions and salves to books and utensils.

Following reassurance from a textbook, Hermione realised she needn’t alter the bag’s appearance all too much, given those carried in mid-nineteenth century America were similarly beaded. However, she did transfigure it into a muted colour for the time period: lilac and white.

Although it was going to be fascinating to witness a pivotal moment in muggle history, Hermione was kept up on two matters. First, she was not looking forward to wearing crinoline, petticoats and a corset, and second, Malfoy had already made his dirty intentions clear. Come Monday, she was going to need her every ounce of willpower. Auror work-colleague Malfoy and desk-wanking Malfoy had now melded into one person who was budging into her private life, rendering it difficult to firm the lines. There would be entirely no crossing The Line.

None.

Hermione and Malfoy met in the Auror office late Monday afternoon, both with the reproachful looks they held for one another when in the same space as their colleagues—Malfoy’s with an undercurrent of vainglory. He presented in all black, with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Hermione had opted for similar trouser bottoms and a white shirt, and she wheeled a small suitcase behind.

“Is that all you’re bringing with you?” asked Hermione.

“I pack light, Granger. Besides, I’m both proficient at transfiguration and have American muggle money in my pocket, so I won’t get caught in a bind.”

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione made for the exit of the Auror office, Malfoy following closely. “You’re going to have to tell me more about how you’ve gained so much muggle knowledge,” she said.

“It started with a single record,” he said rather dramatically. “Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled album. It was a gateway drug to the muggle world.”

Hermione let out a faint scoff. “How do you know what a gateway drug is?”

“Because I was a victim, Granger,” he said with overdone sincerity.

With relatively few words of animosity or even sexual innuendos along the way, they Apparated to a farm at the outskirts of Plymouth, where they met a Portkey in the form of an old Coca Cola can. It appeared that they had both decided to revert to their pretending, entirely ignoring the fact that Theo’s party occurred at all; and yet, their stray glances were far more uninhibited than ever before.

As the sun began its descent for the evening, they both latched on to the Portkey for the journey to America. Shortly, they arrived in an alleyway in Washington, D.C., where the discarded can fitted particularly well on the ground beside an overflowing bin. Hermione powered for the street, where the sun still shone directly above.

“It should just be around the corner. I asked McLaggen to make it as precise as possible.”

“That prick still working at the Ministry then?”

“Funny, he asked the same thing about you when I mentioned why I needed the Portkey.”

As they walked down the street between squat buildings with faces of repetitious windows, alongside smatterings of quaint trees, Draco said, “Explain to me again why we couldn’t just Portkey and then immediately time travel?”

“We weren’t nearly prepared enough last time. This time it’s important we do some reconnaissance. I’ll be taking a two-hour guided tour of Ford’s Theatre this afternoon if you’d like to join.”

“Uh…”

Hermione could hear the excuses churning in Malfoy’s brain.

“I might just nap. No doubt you’ll provide me with the key points; and more,” he added.

Hermione glanced up at Malfoy and then down at her watch. “It’s not even seven o’clock in England.”

“It’s been a long day, Granger. Potter’s meeting monologue today was particularly boring and hasn’t helped matters.”

Truthfully, Hermione would do better without Malfoy pestering her this afternoon. She had spent the day prior reading about President Lincoln’s final moments, committed to memory his company that night and even the clothing he wore, but she was still determined to take in every detail of the theatre to ensure they knew the best vantage point.

They veered right, moving beneath a grand archway entrance and into the hotel, a place decorated in tan and taupe and brown of the eighties, yet spacious and brightly lit, with modern straight lines. Muggles in business suits dashed through the foyer. Others in more casual clothing meandered.

“Good afternoon,” said Hermione, upon approaching the front desk. “Reservation for Granger.”

The hotel receptionist was a young blonde woman with fair, wide-set eyes that lingered on Malfoy. It probably didn't help that he leant an elbow on the desk and smiled at her in an entirely ingratiating manner.

“Welcome, Mr and Mrs Granger.”

Hermione felt a pulse of discomfort. “We’re not married,” she said tightly. “And it should be a reservation for two rooms.”

The receptionist’s smile broadened, yet it was demure enough to be flirtatious. “My apologies. Yes, the reservation notes two rooms; and they are adjoining.”

“Brilliant,” said Draco, sending his smile in Hermione’s direction.

As they made for the lifts, Hermione hissed beneath her breath, “Do you have to flirt with every woman in your path?”

“I wasn’t flirting, Granger. I was smiling. You should try it more often.”

They entered a vacant lift and as soon as the door slid shut, Hermione procured her wand and pointed it directly at Malfoy’s throat. “Tell me to smile again, and I will permanently curse yours from your face.”

Malfoy hadn’t even flinched. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down far too coolly, until he glanced up at the corner of the lift. “I’m certain there are cameras in here, Granger, and you wouldn’t want to undo your cover, would you?”

Just as the lift opened, chiming cheerily to announce their arrival on the seventh floor, Hermione huffed and pocketed her wand. They turned right and passed every door until they met the end of the hallway, and with no further acknowledgement of each other, entered their respective rooms. Hermione left her luggage on the squiggly-patterned maroon carpet, sent a locking spell to the adjoining door, and then sat heavily on the end of the large white bed. She dipped her head into her hands. Why couldn’t Malfoy just act normal? Not irritating. Not stupidly attractive. Hermione let out a frustrated, strangled noise and then righted to her feet. She needed to concentrate on the Horcruxes. She needed to get to Ford’s Theatre and prepare for tomorrow.

As she began unbuttoning her shirt, the adjoining door flew open and Malfoy walked in as though he was exactly where he was meant to be.

“Malfoy! I’d just locked that door.” Hermione scrunched her shirt closed.

“And?” He held up his wand. “You know, I’m still a little sceptical, Granger. Am I supposed to just take your word that the Time-Turner depletes magical energy when travelling to location? What if this is just an elaborate ploy to turn up at my door in the middle of the night?”

“I'm the one who wants doors locked,” she snapped. “And I’ve tested the Time-Turner cross-country and internationally several times now, and there’s always a noticeable magical fatigue afterwards.”

“Yes, but you’re…” He briefly wrinkled his forehead in thought.

Hermione crossed an arm across her waist. “You were about to say muggle-born, weren’t you?”

“Dainty,” he finally added.

As Hermione cocked her head, Malfoy rolled a sleeve, folding it at his elbow. She tried not to grant his distraction any attention, but she couldn’t keep from glancing at his forearm then down to the curve of his large hands and slender fingers. This was not helping her new self-imposed line. He was not helping.

As he rolled his other sleeve, Malfoy said, “Will you just let me try the Time-Turner myself?”

“Never. Remember the second rule?”

He tipped his head and swept a finger across his chin in thought. “Thou shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness—”

“That’s a commandment!”

“So I’m just supposed to trust you here?”

Hermione kneaded the tips of her fingers to the Time-Turner beneath her shirt, making certain it was still there. “Yes. We’re supposed to trust each other as partners.” As Malfoy opened his mouth, Hermione added loudly, “Auror partners.”

Malfoy showed a look of resignation. “What’s the plan then, Master and Commander?”

“You say that as though you’ll follow my instructions, which we both know will never happen.”

“Depends entirely on how you deliver that instruction. And what you’re not wearing at the time.” Malfoy’s gaze fell to Hermione’s shirt, balled in her fist.

“The plan is,” Hermione said tightly, placing a palm to his chest and pushing him back towards the door, “I’m going out, you’re going to get your beauty sleep, and then we’ll reconvene this evening and prepare a proper plan for tomorrow.”

As Malfoy nodded curtly, Hermione dropped her touch and left him at the threshold of their rooms.

“I’ll see you in the bar this evening then. Wear something ridiculously sexy,” he said, then shut the adjoining door before she had time to emit even a syllable of protest.

Wearing a blue summer dress, Hermione strolled toward the site of Lincoln’s assassination. Passing scant muggles but plenty of cars, she walked towards the small view of the domed natural history museum in the distance, the buildings at her sides becoming quainter and the street lights becoming shorter and more extravagant as she went. It almost felt as if she’d already nipped back in time.

At the theatre, Hermione joined a tour with a family of three. The guide, a balding elderly man with a beer-drinking belly, led them along the red carpet of the theatre, between the lines of crimson chairs.

“Now,” the guide began, “let us take a journey back in time…”

Hermione smiled to herself as she slipped her notepad and pen out from her beaded bag.

Travelling back from the theatre, Hermione continued to pore over her notes as she walked, lost in thoughts of how and why the assassination of an American president could possibly tie into the desires of a dark wizard’s endeavour to become immortal. As she approached the entrance of the hotel, she looked up from her notes fully, needing to confirm the sight.

Malfoy was walking towards her in all black: immaculate trousers, shirt, and newly adorned sunglasses. Late afternoon light reflected in his platinum hair. He looked oddly out of place against a backdrop of drab buildings and muggles wearing staid business wear or t-shirts with brightly coloured logos, many of whom stared as he walked by. Perhaps he was a picture of regal beauty that was often not experienced in these parts. At least, Hermione thought he was. Malfoy seemed suited to the magical world in that sense; a world where everything was a little fantastical in this way or that.

As he came to stand before her, Hermione realised he held a record.

“I thought you were sleeping.” Hermione sandwiched her notepad beneath her arm to snatch Malfoy’s purchase. A Nirvana album. “And this is not a product of the seventies.”

“Unapologetically so.” He took the record back and propped his sunglasses on his head.

“This is not a shopping holiday, Malfoy,” Hermione said with a flare of her brows.

“And it’s a sightseeing holiday, is it?”

“The tour was extremely informative, thank you.” She turned towards the entrance of the hotel.

“And?” Malfoy caught up with her in one stride. “Did you find anything informative enough to tie this altogether?”

Hermione hesitated, gripping her notepad tighter. “I need to think about it further. The only theory I've come up with is flimsy.”

“Go on then,” he probed as they made for the lift. “What is it?”

The lift beside them chimed for its arrival. Inside, Malfoy leant against the wall opposite and stared expectantly.

"Do you think it's odd that all these Horcruxes are related to assassinations?" asked Hermione.

He nodded sharply. “Muggle assassinations at that.” Malfoy angled his head. "I’ve wondered, do you think this wizard is setting off all the major events that follow?”

Hermione fingered the spine of her notepad as the lift chimed for the arrival at their floor. “I have considered it, but I don’t like the thought. If they’re writing our history, then will our destroying of the Horcruxes change its path? And what if this wizard is not even from our time? This time?”

“You think they’re from the future?” Malfoy asked as they walked down the hallway.

“Well, I have read about a wizard that spent a good portion of his life hopping through time. I’m certain he was caught and his Time-Turner destroyed, but I’ll have to confirm when we return to England.”

“And why not wizard assassinations?”

Hermione’s thoughts were spinning. They had come to a stop at the strip of beige wall adjoining their doors. She knew they should have continued their conversation privately, but she didn’t want to invite Malfoy into her room, nor did she need an invitation into his. The space between them this afternoon had been good for Hermione and her problematic thoughts.

Malfoy folded his arms and leant against the wall. “Isn’t a Horcrux supposed to be personal? A belonging that means something?”

“It certainly was for Voldemort.”

Malfoy’s eye twitched at the mention of his old master.

“And the wizard needs to believe in its creation with every fibre of their being.”

“I’d say the promise of immortality would be a belief enough.”

“But to what end?” asked Hermione. “Why do they want to remain tethered to this earth?”

“To force an agenda,” Malfoy said simply. “Mimic the Dark Lord.”

Hermione tipped her head to the side to show her doubt.

“I firmly believe we have two options, Granger.” He enumerated on his fingers. “They’re either fucking with us, or they're soon to force something on the wizarding world.”

Hermione sighed. She looked down at her notebook and beaded bag, contemplating a question that had plagued her recently. “What might you do if a cheap imitation of Voldemort rears his head? Will you fall in line?”

Malfoy’s expression shaped into offence. “Never.” He pushed away from his lean. “Is that truly what you think of me, Granger?”

She shook her head, his reaction quelling a strange worry she seemed to have recently acquired. But she couldn’t let on. “I try not to think about you all too much, Malfoy.”

Well, that was her greatest lie in some time. Perhaps saying it aloud would eventually make it true.

Hermione turned to her door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in two hours,” she said, not bothering another glance.

But it was barely an hour before Hermione became bored with her stuffy room and ended up downstairs. Unlike the remainder of the hotel, the bar appeared far more modern, with black walls, purple velour furniture and low, large and round ceiling fixtures giving scant light. After sitting on a barstool, Hermione flipped open her notepad and reviewed the diagram of the theatre she had drawn earlier in the day. She was certain she’d found the best vantage point to view the assassination—a morbid thought, but they needed to witness every movement possible.

At her periphery, Hermione knew the suited man at the opposite end of the bar was staring. Truthfully, she'd noticed him too as she had sat down. He was dark and handsome enough that she considered whether she could use him for one night and rid of the persistent desire for Malfoy. Then again, she had been doing so well as of late. Why was she trying to fall into old patterns? Next therapy session, she really needed to be truthful with her therapist. Her vacillating between wanting to give in to old habits and firm boundaries for her recovered-self was beginning to literally hurt.

A glass appeared before Hermione’s notepad, distracting her from the internal lambasting. A martini glass.

The barman, clean-shaven and black hair slicked to the side, showed a bright smile. “Ma'am, from the gentleman in the corner.” He pointed his chin ahead.

Hermione audibly sighed. The barman’s smile wavered ever so slightly. “Thank you,” she said as kindly as she could manage. However, she knew who it was from before she had even bothered to turn.

Sat at a small table in the far corner, Malfoy smirked and held up his own cocktail in salute.

Hermione may have had a slight swivel to her hips as she walked to meet him, but she told herself it was for the man at the bar, whose eyes were stapled to her behind.

“Shall I just trust that you haven’t paid the barman to add another of Theo’s concoctions to my drink?”

“I thought we were supposed to be trusting one another.”

Hermione slid into the seat opposite Malfoy with a grumble beneath her breath. She hated when he used her words against her.

“By the way, I sorted everything with Nott the other night.” Malfoy folded his arms against his chest. The way his biceps bulged with the pressure of his fists unfortunately did not go unnoticed. “He’s now under the impression we weren’t doing absolutely anything at all; in fact, I told him the Veritaserum backfired tremendously, and that we now loathe each other.”

“I appreciate that, thank you.” Hermione slid her eyes away to the empty tables nearby and sipped at her drink to stopper the sudden rising heat in her cheeks at the memory of Theo’s party…and Malfoy’s fingers. “So if he sees us together I’ll have no choice but to call you a poncey ferret-boy, is that what you’re saying?”

“That won’t be so hard now, will it?” He flashed a smile. “I also hexed him. Made him float an inch from the ceiling for an inordinate amount of time.”

Hermione pursed her lips to stop her smile.

“He admitted he thought it’d be a laugh to set us up because he believes you’re a frigid witch. I hope you understand that it took all of my willpower not to tell him otherwise.”

“And I appreciate your secrecy,” said Hermione, attempting to maintain a cool expression and not reveal the sting she felt from Theo’s true thoughts. So what if she was frigid? And so what if Theo considered her something in need of conquering? There were worse qualities in life than being a prude of a woman.

Hermione placed her forearms on the table, eager to get on with the reason for this meeting and away from any reminder of Theo’s party. “Ready for the plan?”

A server slid a second glass beside Hermione and in front of Malfoy. Glasses of red wine.

Hermione ignored the offering and persisted. She threaded her fingers together. “The plan is, you’re not to go anywhere, do anything, or speak to anyone in the past if it is not entirely necessary—unless you could jeopardise our cover by not doing so. You are not to touch anything or buy anything. Whatever or whoever you interact with may alter the future—whether negative or positive—and we cannot take that risk. We only have five hours to witness an assassination, source a Horcrux, and then set it on fire, so you are going to listen to my instructions and fall in line. Understand?”

“That’s the plan?” Malfoy asked, his expression twisting. “Do as you say?”

“Yes.”

“No details? You think there’s no need to discuss the best place to cast the Fiendfyre or suitable attire? I’m supposed to simply trust you?”

“I think you’ve finally got it.” She leant back into the comfortable curve of her chair. “And don't tell me you've planned military uniform again; we can't stand out that way.”

“I’ll spare you the details. You’re just going to trust me.”

They shared strained smiles then drank in the remainder of their cocktails.

“So,” began Hermione, “what was Fleetwood Mac the gateway drug to?”

Malfoy sat deeper into his chair, his slender fingers still slotted along the sides of the glass stem. “To at least two hundred albums.”

Hermione let slip a small laugh. “And all muggle?”

“Every single one.”

Hermione wondered what his parents had thought of his decidedly muggle pastime. If his father had known, surely he loathed the idea. But she wasn't about to broach that topic again. Although she never saw herself returning to Malfoy Manor, a place she considered dark and traumatic, she said, “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

He curved his lips in a way that suggested he was receptive to the idea.

They both took in more wine and Hermione was convinced she was handling this situation perfectly well. They were having an amicable conversation as colleagues. This was manageable. Then Malfoy’s grey eyes lifted to hers and Hermione’s stomach swooped like she was plummeting to the earth. Suddenly, she needed something—anything—to detract from it.

“Fleetwood Mac reminds me of my father,” she said.

It was an admission verging on personal, but as Malfoy’s gentle smile grew into a toothy grin, she quickly found she didn't mind sharing it at all.

Hermione smiled wistfully. “Their music reminds me of Sunday mornings, the radio humming on the kitchen windowsill while Dad cooked breakfast. Sometimes he would pull Mum in for a dance.”

“Distinctly different from my childhood.” Malfoy’s smile dropped at the corner. “And I envy that you’ve been able to experience muggle music your entire life.”

“And I envy that you were able to experience magic. If I’d grown up in a magical household, I wouldn’t have felt so behind when I began at Hogwarts. I still feel as though I will never learn and understand enough magic in my lifetime.”

“Come on now, you're not even thirty and I know you’ve already absorbed at least half the world's magical knowledge.”

“Half? You’re greatly overestimating me.”

“I think it’s better to over rather than underestimate you, Granger. You astonish me with your freakish intelligence and perpetually amounting skills.”

Hermione’s brows pulled together. That might have been the nicest thing Malfoy had ever said to her.

“Except the duelling.”

And there was the spiky truth she’d come to expect of Malfoy.

“Although Potter said it’s only a recent slip of your skills, so I’m sure we can rectify. Was it another case that rattled you?”

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the lucent red in the wineglass as she considered his question. It wasn’t too long after that night when she had noticed her duelling skills fail. She couldn’t help but feel the two factors were inextricably linked, but she never wanted to reflect on it long enough to understand why. Eager to deter from any conversation related to her traumas, Hermione simply nodded.

Malfoy appeared to give her a gentle glance of pity and she assumed that he could relate to her in some manner. He intrigued her these days. Her curiosity was resurfacing; and she wanted to know more of what Malfoy’s life had involved since she saw him sitting before the Wizengamot.

“You know, I saw portions of your trial, but I wasn’t certain exactly what happened afterwards. One moment you were being hauled from Azkaban in front of the Wizengamot, and the next you were in the Auror office...” Hermione hesitated. She knew it had all gone very differently for his father. The Prophet had reported he refused to reintegrate with the wizarding world until his wife and son convinced him to fall in line. Again, she daren’t bring up Lucius Malfoy; but how was it that his son had taken such a dissimilar path?

“I’m not sure what you expect me to say, Granger. I served time and now I’m atoning for my dark ways by sitting here with you in America, working on this case.”

“Well, that’s exactly it, isn’t it? I suppose I wanted to understand when it all changed. You’re now on brilliant terms with Harry and Ginny—in fact, you seem to get on with most in the office. You’re no longer sneering at me and sometimes I can’t quite believe it. You’re nothing like the pathetic, grovelling ferret you once were, and I suppose I’m intrigued given I never witnessed the change.”

He wore a look that Hermione read as judgement. Judging whether she was worth an answer; and if so, whether she deserved the truth. Malfoy’s chest visibly lifted with his breath. His exhale was gentle. When he eventually spoke, his voice was even. Soft. “You said it yourself, Granger. A war happened. I witnessed wasteful death, I was branded and used as a pawn, I watched my father devolve into insanity as he refused to relinquish his allegiance to the Dark Lord and reject any act of reforming, and I asked myself if it was all truly worth it. That was all.”

“That’s all? You make it sound easy.”

“It was anything but easy, Granger. But I made the right choice, didn’t I?”

Hermione nodded. She hoped he recognised how she appreciated his honesty. “And your muggle knowledge…”

His lips twitched into a smile. “I did what was expected of me following my trial and integrated—a muggle book here, a muggle woman there—but truly, I never imagined it would come to this.”

“You didn’t know what you were missing out on?”

Silence settled as they shared a lingering look, one that caused Hermione’s heartbeat to trip. It felt like a look instilled with far more meaning than it had any right to have. Felt like Hermione was hinting at more than their sly sexual interactions and Malfoy was on the verge of agreeing.

“Exactly,” he finally said. Following a mouthful of his wine, he asked, “Did you see your mother at the weekend?”

Hermione’s words emitted slowly. “I did...” The intimacy of the question was a surprise. A pleasant one. “She’s getting on fine and had no memory difficulties that I could notice. She still works, which is good to keep her mind active, and I visit her at least weekly and log any peculiar slips of memory. While it was increasing over the first few months, it appears to have stabilised.”

Although his expression was mostly sensible, the crook of Malfoy’s lips was teasing.

“You’re going to say something about my mother’s memory log, aren’t you?”

“I’m just impressed that you can bring processes, order, and perhaps even science to any aspect of your life, Granger. It’s truly a skill.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Even despite the fact that I know that was a thinly veiled taunt.” Hermione swept her gaze around, weighing up the words that wanted to come from her mouth, then quickly decided it was worth any cross word from Malfoy. “And, dare I ask, how’s your mother?”

“She’s in France, moving through her grief one bottle of Pinot Noir at a time. Speaking of which—” He nodded towards her glass of wine.

Hermione cocked her head. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Why would I want you drunk?” he asked through a laugh. “Is that what you think of me, Granger?” He shook his head. “No. I’d want you to experience entirely everything I have to offer.”

His grey eyes speared her and caused her centre to pulse impatiently. She reached for her glass, secretly enjoying the way he spoke to her, then sampled the velvety red wine.

The server returned to her side, slotting a bowl of food in front of each of them.

Hermione glanced from the gnocchi up to Malfoy. “Am I allowed to order anything myself this evening?”

“Depends; am I allowed to plan anything on this case?”

Hermione shook her head succinctly.

“Then no. Eat your rabbit ragù gnocchi and drink your Domaine Armand Rousseau Pinot Noir.”

Hermione smiled into her glass of wine, perhaps enjoying Malfoy’s French a little too much.

After a couple of hours spent over dinner—entirely no mission plans discussed—they returned to their hotel rooms, a little tipsier and more light-hearted than they had been prior. There had been less snark and more sharing, and Hermione felt buoyed from good conversation, her cheeks aching from ill-suppressed smiles and unexpected laughter. But she daren’t say as much. That was the type of thing she would reveal at the end of a date. And this was most certainly not a date.

Instead, as they met their doors, she simply said, “See you at seven o’clock,” and entered her room without waiting for a reply.

Something about the night had made Hermione feel unusually wired, even despite the fact it was nearing on two AM in England and she typically would have been in bed hours ago. She made for the bath, something she had come to rely on heavily these past several months to regulate her wayward emotions.

In the sleek-lined room and ambient light, she bundled her curls on top of her head before the mirror, then sunk into the water, enjoying how it was hot enough to sting and then quickly fade. She brought with her a well-thumbed copy of Pride and Prejudice, a story she always reverted to when she needed comfort. It reminded her of home. Of the sweet blur of time between Christmas and the new year, sitting with her parents beside the fire with their noses all buried in books. Well, at least, before Voldemort’s efforts to kill Harry drastically escalated and her every book became magical for the sake of deciphering mysteries.

Hermione submerged until her chin sat above the waterline. She flipped the pages of her book, not taking in the words. This entire mission had to be one of the most idiotic things she had done. How could she possibly think she could help herself when Malfoy was on the other side of the wall and there were two perfectly useful beds to choose from? And when there was an opportunity for them to share meals and conversation and stories that made him seem far more personable than ever before? She hadn’t thought. Not in that way, anyhow. She’d thought like Auror Granger, who made preparations that suited her mission, not like Hermione, who considered the same preparations an enormous distraction.

She certainly hadn’t considered how the Draco Malfoy she was becoming acquainted with was entirely different to the Draco Malfoy she recalled as a child. Was that even something she could have prepared herself for? As Malfoy had grown in the image of his father and her childish feelings had dwindled, Hermione perceived him as a person who shied away from authentic challenge, someone cruel and goading for the apparent sake of it, a mummy’s boy reliant on using wealth, status, and the dark history of his family name to succeed. He was, after all, the same person that had called her a Mudblood. But now, those qualities seemed absent. Now, not only was that history easy to ignore, but she was finding herself impressed by the wizard.

Hermione threw her book over the side of the bath. She just needed to get through the next day. One more day without giving in to Malfoy’s advances. Fortunately, their upcoming mission was in Europe, so entirely no need to consider the fatiguing length of travel. They could journey there, conduct reconnaissance, and complete the mission in less than twelve hours. That made her feel slightly better. As did the warmth of water clinging to her body and the scent of lavender—she was well on her way to feeling sleepy.

A creaking sound ahead caused Hermione to wrench her eyes open.

The bathroom door opened an inch. Simultaneously, the Time-Turner chain around Hermione’s neck floated up and out. It tugged, digging into her skin for a beat before it was unable to be drawn away any further. She snatched the end of the apparatus, just in case.

Hermione pushed herself up to see the shifting of light and shadows at the threshold of the door. She’d barely had a moment to register what was happening before Malfoy waltzed in and came to stand before the bath, hand in his trouser pocket and head cocked as he unashamedly surveyed the sight of her.

The bath bubbles were on their way to dissolving, and there was no doubt he could see all of her. Hermione sent an arm over her breasts and a hand between her legs, making the water momentarily slosh around. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

As Malfoy swiped a slender finger along his jaw, it was a leisurely moment before his gaze trailed up from her body and stuck to her eyes. “I thought I might be able to get my hands on the Time-Turner while you slept,” he said, his gaze jerking to the chain at Hermione’s neck, “but I can see you're one step ahead of me.”

“You are never getting your hands on the Time-Turner, Malfoy, so forget about it.”

“Never mind that contraption.” He sat on the lip of the bath and loosely crossed one leg over another. “Now I'm extremely distracted.”

“Well, you can be distracted elsewhere.” She flicked at the surface of the water, sprinkling Malfoy’s shirt and he jumped up, his eyes swinging down to her pebbled nipples.

Hermione let her mind wander for a glimpse or two and saw a flash of them fucking on the tiles and felt the ghost of a feeling—the hard floor pinching at her shoulders and arse as he buried himself to the hilt and ploughed her with deep, punishing strokes.

No.

There was to be no fucking. No fucking on the floor of the bathroom, or elsewhere for that matter. That was The Line, and she was going to stick to it… and if he wasn't going to take her amiable rejections, then Hermione was going to make him hurt.

Gripping the sides of the tub, Hermione pushed herself up to stand and made the water lurch around her feet. Droplets streamed down the length of her as the frigid air met her every inch, and the Time-Turner dipped like a beautiful necklace between her breasts. She reached out a hand, vaguely pointing to the wall past Malfoy. “Will you hand me that bathrobe?”

Malfoy’s eyes mapped the length of her. He swept his thumb along his bottom lip in an absent-minded way, gaze clinging to the slit between her legs, and although she knew he’d already seen her most intimate areas, there was a fresh thrill that came from standing before him like a treat he couldn’t have.

But she might have become a casualty of the quest to tease. Hermione heated despite the cool air. She felt her clit pulse.

Finally, as she stepped onto the bathmat and stood squarely before him, Malfoy sent a searching hand behind, retrieving the white bathrobe and taking his eyes from her for only a second.

After he handed the robe to Hermione, she emitted a breathy, “Thank you,” slipped it on, and then brushed past him into the other room, not bothering to secure the tie.

She let her curls tumble around her shoulders as she moved towards the bed. Felt Malfoy’s presence closing in behind.

“Why do you keep playing hard to get, Granger?”

She turned, finding him with an evident bulge at the front of his trousers.

“We both want to fuck. Why don’t we just get on with it?”

Hermione wanted to say because getting on with it was reserved for men she didn’t care about. Because it was reserved for fleeting satisfaction.

But then what did that mean for Hermione?

She couldn’t dwell on it. Having sex with Malfoy was the new line, and as long as they were partners, she couldn’t indulge his advances.

“You know perfectly well that we shouldn’t be doing what we’ve been doing, let alone fucking,” said Hermione. “How are we supposed to work together effectively?”

“Come on, Granger.” He closed the distance, and Hermione needed to raise her eyes to meet his. He stooped a little lower so that he was only inches from her face, his rich wine breath tickling her lips, teasing her tongue and deeply testing her resolve. “You’ve had your mouth around my cock—how have we not already spoiled our working relationship?”

Desire heated Hermione from her cheeks down to her décolletage. Her centre throbbed, urging her on, making known a longing to feel him deep inside, but she tamped it down with reason. She had drawn herself a line, and no matter the alcohol she’d consumed, the delicious sharp scent of him and the lust evident in his eyes, she was going to remain firm.

“Is it the office setting that gets you going?” Malfoy lifted his wand. “Say the word and I’ll recreate the whole Auror office right here.”

“It’s not the effing office, Malfoy. What happens after we sleep together? Will this become a regular thing, or will it be a one-off?” Her curiosity momentarily caused her to forget the self-imposed line.

“You’re assuming I’ve considered this with my brain, Granger. It’s my cock doing all the thinking.”

“You’re proving my point.”

He pocketed his wand. “You know what? I think you’re a little scared.”

“Scared? Is fucking you meant to be scary?” she asked with a patronising tone.

It must have prodded him in just the right way. He produced the beginnings of a sneer and gave the slight nudge of his head. “I don’t think you know how to have meaningless sex.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. It was interesting, the way that he viewed her. Something told her that if she revealed her true past this very instant, he wouldn’t believe a word. But he was not interested in her words. Malfoy’s gaze trailed along her lips with such an intense look of longing that she thought she could feel the burn. In a brief moment of weakness, Hermione closed her eyes and fell victim to her harried breaths, imagining his lips crashing into hers, their hot kisses, his delving tongue as her fingers grasped at his shirt collar to pull him in deeper—

No.

She couldn’t let herself get carried away like that. Everything they had done previously had been relatively unfeeling—animal-like impulses with a fair distance between them, but kissing… How was Hermione supposed to come back from the intimacy?

As though broken from a spell, Hermione set her forefinger to Malfoy’s chest with renewed resolve. She pushed until he met the adjoining door. “No,” she said. “There's not going to be any fucking.”

“Fine,” he said with a little bow of his head into her eye-line, “but you know that when I'm told I can't have something, Granger, I tend to want it even more.”

Hermione removed her wand from her robe pocket, and Malfoy stepped backward over the threshold and into his room.

“You know, you’re appearing a little desperate.”

“Desperate?” He huffed a laugh. “I recall you were the one on your knees asking for just one lick.”

His taunt hadn’t provoked her in the way he no doubt intended. Instead, Hermione found herself unable to keep from glancing down at his tented trousers, and then needing to grit her back teeth to detract from the pressing urge to again bend at the knee and put his cock in her mouth.

One more lick?

No.

Hermione just needed the door closed. Needed view of the wizard banished. With her wand, she shut Malfoy in his room and, following a silencing charm, loudly cursed The Line.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with several regrets. First, she regretted not giving in to Malfoy’s advances, because it was a relentless throb between her legs that woke her; second, she regretted her planning of this mission and the doors-width proximity to the man; third, she regretted ever entering his office and starting this whole affair. If she could have gone back in time and made a different decision then she would have done so.

Sighing, Hermione flipped to her side and eyed the rudely bright 4:53AM at her bedside. No wonder she couldn’t sleep any longer. She was typically a couple of hours into her day by now. After slipping on a pair of comfy bottoms and a baggy jumper, Hermione made for the hallway and knocked rapidly on Malfoy’s door.

It was at least a minute before it opened and Malfoy arrived in nothing except his pants. Truthfully, what had she expected? He held one hand high on the door frame, the other on the door handle, and looked at her with vaguely squinted eyes as though the soft hallway light was too much to bear. The deep shadows behind him contrasted with the fairness of his hair and the alabaster of his skin, almost giving him a radiance, and it felt entirely against her own will that she glanced at the lines of the lean muscles at his bare chest and stomach, and the fair hair descending from his navel. The trail of her eyes to the faint outline of his cock, however, was entirely of her own doing.

“Were you sleeping?” she asked. “And how is it then that your hair still looks like that?”

His brow wrinkled. “Why didn't you just use the other door?”

“I didn't want you getting any ideas.”

“We've been through this, Granger, the idea is there all the time.”

Hermione tugged on the hem of her jumper self-consciously. “Never mind that—I can't sleep.”

“And what? You need a cuddle?” A tiny bracket appeared at the side of his mouth.

This is exactly what she needed to get away from before he found a true weakness to exploit. “I need to get on with the mission.”

“It’s not even five AM.”

“But it's ten in England, and it’s going to be half seven in eighteen sixty-five, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

With a sigh, Malfoy let his palm slide down from the door frame. “How is it that you are always irritatingly conscientious, and now you’re in a peculiar unorganised and agitated state? What is wrong with you? And why do you look like you haven’t slept in weeks?”

Hermione padded her fingertips to the grey beneath her eyes. “Oh—I forgot to glamour away my shadows.”

Malfoy’s confused brow only deepened.

“Just get ready and meet in my room in twenty minutes,” said Hermione, then left him with his puzzled look.

Luggage packed and ready to go, Hermione sat at the foot of the unmade bed with her curls now neatly pulled back into a bun crafted of plaits, which seated at the nape of her neck; a coiffure befitting of the nineteenth century. She pointed her wand to her black shirt and trousers and transfigured a dress she had seen in a book: lilac and white-striped satin, which began just off the shoulders. It cinched in at the waist and would bow out as soon as she added the crinoline hoops beneath. A moment she was dreading. At least the corset she’d fashioned wasn’t near as tight as it was meant to be in the nineteenth century. Refusing to let clothing impede her job once again, Hermione hadn’t opted for heels, but rather, she had slimmed the toes of her boots in keeping with the time and would hide them beneath the layers and length of dress.

Hermione had just magicked the crinoline beneath, rendering herself a woman dearly in need of finding her flock of sheep, when the adjoining door flew open and Malfoy padded through with a smirk ready. In front of him floated a tray of what appeared to be pastries. He expertly lowered it to the two-person table beside the window and simultaneously handed Hermione a mug.

“Oh, thank you.” Hermione sipped at her tea. He was getting rather good at fixing it with the correct amount of milk and sugar.

“You are looking delightful.” He paused to rake his eyes down the length of her.

“Oh brilliant, I get delightful, while you could wear that suit out on the street now and no one would bat an eye.”

“No one would bat an eye because they’re all still sleeping, Granger. And this is certainly not something I’d be getting around in now.” He brushed a hand down each forearm in turn and Hermione took in the sight of his tan, looser-than-usual trousers, his lengthy black coat with a waistcoat peeking through, and the silver chain of a pocket watch draped atop. No matter what Malfoy thought, he looked rather smart and his fashions not all too dissimilar to today.

Malfoy tore off a corner of a croissant and tossed it into his mouth while Hermione took to shrinking her suitcase to fit into her beaded bag. “By the way, we’re going to travel back to London using the Time-Turner so you can experience firsthand that fatigue you think I’m fibbing about.”

Malfoy nodded a couple of times; not the reaction she had expected, to be honest. A mouthful of coffee later, he said, “I can see you’ve done away with your dark circles.”

Wand dangling loosely in her hand, Hermione turned to view him, confused as to where this was possibly going.

“So is this sleep deprivation something to do with the therapy? Or perhaps the need for more therapy?”

Hermione frowned. How had she let it get to this? She shouldn’t have revealed so much of herself lately. It was a mistake. Her body was one thing, but her mind? She never would have done the same with any other case partner. And why was he so caught up on her appearance? She supposed perfect and pristine was the standard he had grown up with, if Narcissa Malfoy was anything to go by. But why should he have any care in the world as to how Hermione looked?

“I’d rather not discuss my therapy or lack of sleep, thank you.”

He gave a slow nod as he processed, and then surprisingly, appeared to listen. And that was apparently the end of his observation. In a relatively comfortable silence, Malfoy finished his coffee and croissant, Hermione her tea and a cherry danish, both staring out the window towards the gentle sun cresting over the city.

Shortly after, with their belongings inside Hermione’s extended bag, they moved into the centre of the room and readied the Time-Turner. As Hermione spun the small knob to set the precise coordinates, she became distracted by Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. Just as she peered up, he placed a tall black top hat on his head.

Hermione couldn’t keep from laughing, and her attempt to keep it contained rendered it a combined scoff-snort. She placed her hand to her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” His own smile bloomed. Humour glinted unashamedly in his eye. “When am I ever going to get an opportunity to wear a hat like this again?”

Hermione shrugged and shook her head for good measure. Why he’d taken to fashioning himself such a tall hat, she hadn't a clue. “I didn’t say anything, did I?”

“No, but you laughed. But that’s actually why I wear these things, Granger.” He pulled a small square of parchment and a quill from his breast pocket, then scratched a line.

Hermione’s good-humoured expression dropped. “Did you just note down my laugh?”

“If you can keep SWOT tables and memory mishap diaries, then I can keep Granger Laugh Logs.”

In spite of herself, Hermione let out a short self-conscious laugh.

With the serious expression of a scientist observing Graphorns in the wild, Malfoy scratched another line on his parchment.

“Stop that.” Hermione flattened a palm to his quill and flared her brows. But the bottom half of her face told another story—she firmed her lips, a shadow of a laugh threatening to emerge.

Malfoy mirrored her expression, waiting patiently for laughter to escape; but following the challenging raise of Hermione’s chin and no additional laughs to be had, he pocketed his Granger Laugh Log with a resigned pull at the side of his mouth.

“Are you and your ridiculous top hat ready then?”

He knocked twice on the top of his hat. “Ready.”

With her eyes concentrating on the looping of the Time-Turner chain over Malfoy’s monstrosity of a headpiece, Hermione smiled in spite of herself and, in the corner of her eye, she noticed Malfoy’s lips curve in the same way. With the handle of the beaded bag threaded around her arm, she flicked the Time-Turner switches, and the whites and maroons of the room rapidly dissolved away.

A dark alleyway cropped up around them, and Hermione could scarcely see anything beyond Malfoy’s shadowed visage. But it was the odour that came to her first.

“Nothing like the smell of nineteenth century horseshit to really get you going in the morning,” said Malfoy, as Hermione tucked the Time-Turner beneath her bodice.

“I have a feeling it's not just horseshit.”

They walked towards the tepid glow of torch and moonlight and came to the mouth of the alleyway. There was a buzz of activity along the main thoroughfare. Unlike the day prior, the road was a muddy fixture, with horse-drawn carriages rattling down the centre. Women in fine dresses and men in suits milled along, a couple of louts were already in drunken stupors, and squealing children zigzagged through the crowd. Beneath the window ledges of the buildings ahead were bright shows of patriotism with half-roundel flags of red, white and blue, and it felt as though there was a heady rush of excitement in the air that they’d just met head-on.

Malfoy whistled—a low, long sound. “Look at some of the dresses here, Granger.”

Instead of taking in the women's wear, Hermione glanced up at Malfoy and watched as his eyes darted around the street. She could see him calculating.

“I think you can afford to look fancier.” Just as Hermione opened her mouth to protest, he added, “You wouldn’t want to stand out now, would you?” Snatching her hand, he pulled them back into the shadowy alleyway, only far enough that they were in a slip of light yet hidden from passers-by. His wand was already making amendments to her skirts as they went. The lilac stripe quickly became bright azure blue, the satin now held a faint shimmer, and her handbag matched perfectly.

Hermione freed from his hold and placed a palm in front of his wand. “You need to stop dressing me, Malfoy. I'm not a doll.”

“Oh, but you are.” He smirked down at her in his usual way, and yet it seemed stupidly charming now that he wore a top hat.

“Stop flirting and listen to what I’m saying, otherwise I'm going to revert to magic.” Hermione stuck her hand into the covert pocket she’d fashioned in the side of her skirt and pulled out her wand.

“Look,” he said, expression straightened, “the way I see this is that I can either dress you or undress you.”

“Malfoy, that’s a logical fallacy. I know you’re clever enough to realise a false dichotomy.”

“Just one more bow.” He spun Hermione in a half-circle with a firm grip upon her shoulder.

“You've put a bow on me?”

“Only three. Or five.”

Hermione flinched out of his hold. “Malfoy.” As she turned to face him front-on, her heavy skirts whipped with a delayed spin, and she witnessed the enormous bows he had added at the last foot of fabric. “Alright, you’ve had your fun!”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“It’s time to focus. The theatre is just around the corner. Without tickets for the evening’s show, I think it best we use Disillusionment charms—”

“You mean to say we’ve gone to all of this effort to look this good and we’re just going to hide away?”

“Precisely. Now, once we’re in there, we’ll need to watch keenly when the assassination occurs. If a Horcrux is being made—”

“Any suspicions as to what this Horcrux may be?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, done with his disruptions. “I suspect an item on Lincoln, but I couldn’t say exactly. They will take him away from the premises shortly after the gun is fired, so we may need to follow him to track the Horcrux. And—as I was going to say—there should be a dark wizard here too, so we’ll get a sense of exactly who it is.”

“Wait. So, no tailing the dark wizard?”

“There’s no need. This is the past, remember? What’s done is done. We can’t confront him or reveal ourselves, as that will just hinder our efforts in the future. Understand? We need to stay out of the way. We can’t intervene or influence anyone, dark wizard, American President or any other in between. Okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken in every incessant word you’ve said. Let’s just get on with it, we only have—” He flipped open his coat and retrieved his gold pocket watch. “—four hours and fifty-seven minutes left.”

They both stepped towards the street, then Hermione stopped abruptly, an outstretched hand hitting Malfoy’s arm and halting him before he could go any further. “If at any point we are not Disillusioned, our cover story is that we’re siblings.”

With an overdone “psh”, Malfoy turned in fully.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Look at us. We don’t appear related at all. If anything, we’d do better to say we’re dating—or whatever it was called these days… courting?”

“We could never court publicly like this; it would ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation in eighteen sixty-five?” He gave a slight shake of his head. “We can be married then.”

It was Hermione’s turn to scoff.

“And why is that so hard to believe?”

She wanted to say because he was fair and pure-blooded and she was wild-haired and muggle-born, and in the world they had been raised, such a contrast always seemed too stark. But she wasn’t going to bother with an explanation. They had already wasted enough time.

“We’re brother and sister and that’s final.” Hermione recommenced their walk.

Malfoy appeared to drop the argument and fell in line. He looked at her sidelong. “You’d do well to accept my hand in marriage, Granger. You are getting on in years, you know.”

Hermione expelled all of her vexation on a sigh, then stopped to view Malfoy, who had paused with a sharp grin that told her he revelled in her reaction. “You know what?” Hermione lifted her wand and tapped at the two of them in turn, casting Disillusionment charms. “That settles the matter, doesn’t it?”

“Remind me, does the statute of secrecy exist in eighteen sixty-five?”

Ignoring him, Hermione moved into the fray. It was dark enough; no one would have noticed anyhow. She weaved past women holding their skirts high away from the mud, through hovering cigar smoke behind knots of chatting men in slightly lesser hats than Malfoy’s, and darted around a spill of drunks that had emerged from a tavern.

“You better still be back there,” Hermione threw over her shoulder.

“Yes, dearest sister,” she heard.

Then she felt pressure and pulling, as though a weight had suddenly been strapped around her waist.

“Are you holding on to me?”

“I understand the intersection of fashion and function, Granger. I’ve added another bow at the small of your back with that in mind.”

“Malfoy, if you add one more bloody bow to me, I’ll permanently glue that top hat to your head.”

Hermione entered through the double doors of Ford’s Theatre to the sound of Malfoy’s chuckle behind. They merged into the horde, sandwiched between the scent of rose and jasmine perfumes and rich nutty tobacco. Hermione had never seen a theatre like this, heaving with people and with a whiff of anticipation in the air. The excitement felt contagious. Hermione’s excitement, however, was vastly different to everyone else's, who merely wanted a glimpse of the pioneering president. They hadn't a clue they were shortly to witness an integral moment in history.

Powering through a gap in between two elderly couples, Hermione sought a pocket of space in the corner of the front of house. As she came to a stop beside the staircase, something collided with her back hard enough that she second guessed whether she’d been hit by a Hippogriff.

“Ow!” hissed Hermione, shouldering the wall.

“You gave entirely no forewarning that there’d be stopping, Granger.”

Between the new ache at her shoulder, the blare of conversation in the packed room, and the ability to hear yet not see Malfoy except for a faint wavering translucency, Hermione was slightly disoriented and extremely irritated. Perhaps upstairs would hold relative quiet and more breathing room.

“Just follow me,” she said, however as she went to plant a foot forward, Malfoy’s arm latched around her waist and she felt his body firm against her back.

A portly man nearly bowled her over as he made for the stairs.

“That was close.” Malfoy’s low, warm whisper was beside her ear. “Try not to get yourself killed, Granger.”

It was close. Far too close. The hair on Hermione’s nape stood on end and she needed to stifle the shiver that coursed her spine. His scent was wonderfully fresh amidst the dull and musty fragrances, his heat bled through the silk of her bodice and breath brushed the delicate spot beneath her ear. Between Malfoy’s commanding grip, his solid presence at her back and his teasing words, she was beginning to feel certain things.

Last night’s desire was pricking up. She was again considering what his heated touch would feel like if it was upon her bare skin, if she budged it lower…

Hermione quickly recalled The Line.

She brushed Malfoy’s hand down and away from her stomach, muttering a thank you before urging forward.

They discovered fewer people at the second level, yet enough that in their Disillusioned states they could slip through the closed doors of the theatre without stealing any attention. They emerged in the dress circle, overlooking the empty stage below. After a glance around turned up entirely no muggles, Hermione removed their Disillusionment charms and moved to sit in a wooden chair, front-row centre. It was a couple of attempts before she could plant her behind down. She ended propped up rather stiffly.

As Malfoy walked to meet her, one hand in his pocket, he nodded towards a secluded box at the side of stage, where two slender archways framed red chairs and an American flag was draped over the ledge. “I take it that's where the President will be then?”

“Indeed.” Hermione was distracted, attempting to rearrange her skirt so that the crinoline hoops didn’t push back against her. Finally, when she slotted them beneath her behind comfortably, she huffed a swift exhale. “I can't quite believe we're going to witness this, can you?”

“Actually, I can.” Malfoy lounged loosely in the chair beside. “I’ve seen many a dead person in this role, Granger. If it were a Beatles concert, then I'd probably be asking myself the same question.”

Hermione laughed lightly, the thought of Malfoy amongst swarms of screaming girls was far too enjoyable.

He pinched something from his pocket—parchment and a quill.

“Are you seriously still recording my laughs?”

Eyes alight with mischief, he marked another line and then slotted the parchment away.

“In all seriousness, am I too glum?” Perhaps she cared a jot about what Malfoy thought.

“You're not glum, Granger, but I think you could lighten up more.” His eyes darted between hers, grazed at her lips, and then quickly moved towards the stage. “I only mean to poke a little fun. I suppose it's just…”

Hermione’s breath held as she waited. She hadn’t a clue how, but it felt as though his joke had led them to something genuine, and she wanted to hear every single word.

Eventually, his gaze fixed upon her. “It's just a roundabout way of me saying that I'm fond of the brief moments when you enjoy yourself in my company, and that I think it should occur more.”

For a length, Hermione read Malfoy’s expression, swallowing gently as she realised there was no quirk of his lips that signalled a witty remark impending, no falter in the authenticity of his stare. Not only couldn’t she believe what she was hearing, but Hermione was having trouble coming to terms with how it made her feel. Was he admitting he enjoyed spending time with her? That he enjoyed her laughter and wanted more? She couldn’t help but think that if Malfoy knew the true depths she’d visited as of late, then perhaps he would think her the cheeriest person he had ever known. It was all about perspective. At least during these last several months, she had been able to shape her lips into a smile. At one point, that hadn’t been so easy.

“So,” Malfoy said, threading his fingers together upon his lap, “when do we get to resume the touching?”

With an eye roll, Hermione faced the stage. “Is it possible for you to go several minutes without thinking about sex?”

“Typically I can, Granger, but look at you. You’re dressed like a cupcake, and for some reason I find it ridiculously attractive.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. The heat continued on down her neck and beneath her dress, and suddenly the several layers of corset and drawers and chemise felt burdensome. While her thirteen-year-old self would have celebrated hearing such a thing, her twenty-four-year-old self needed to be reminded of The Line. “Well I’m glad to hear you find me attractive, Malfoy, but there is more to me, you know. I’m not just a warm hole for you to conquer.”

“So what you’re saying is you’d like me to desire you for more than what’s beneath your knickers. Is that correct?”

“That’s always nice.”

“For a while there, I was convinced you weren’t like other witches.”

“You mean living and breathing with thoughts, hopes and fears? Yes, we’re all irritatingly similar.” She smoothed her hands down her skirt, glancing at the mound of hoops she had perhaps improperly heaped behind; she did rather enjoy the blue of the satin now. “Although, I think if you can find a way to touch me beneath this monstrosity, then it’s well-earned.”

In an instant, Malfoy knelt before her, prying the hem of her skirt away from the floor.

“What—don’t you dare!” Hermione snapped, propping the toe of her boot against his thigh. “There’ll be people here soon!”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said, but I didn't think you'd take it so bloody literally.”

He straightened to his feet, slid a hand in his pocket and smiled down at her. “Come on now, wouldn’t it be a little fun to see if both me and my top hat could fit beneath your skirts?”

A fiery blush reclaimed Hermione’s face. Briefly, she pressed her lips tight to stop the snap of a smile, then said with a jolt of her brows, “That’s not very brotherly of you.”

“A little disappointed that you’re wearing knickers and not period accurate slip-drawers.”

“Neither is that!”

As Malfoy opened his mouth for retort, a racket marred the quiet.

The doors behind lurched open and a steady stream of guests and ushers journeyed into the theatre. Hermione and Malfoy quickly moved to the back and stood against the wall to watch the chairs fill. They held regal stances and fair expressions befitting of the nineteenth century, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel that it likely came more naturally to Malfoy. When nearly every chair had filled, they shared a look and returned to just outside the doors, slipping into a space tucked away enough that they could Disillusionment themselves.

As the stage play began, they wandered through the dim aisles and amongst the raucous laughter, ending at the front row with a view of Lincoln in the Presidential box.

Hermione wanted to speak to Malfoy, but at quickly realising she couldn’t feel him pawing at the bow on her back and hadn’t a clue which way to lean, she waited for another pulse of laughter and hissed, “Where are you?” Even despite their privacy charms, she couldn’t bring herself to speak at a normal volume.

A gentle touch laid between her shoulder blades, then a palm clasped at her arm. Malfoy was on her right. Hermione could smell nothing except his scent of citrus. Feel the heat roll off of him. It made her want to close in further and bridge the negligible distance between them…

No. the Horcruxes. They were the priority.

“I can't see nearly as much as I'd hoped,” Hermione whispered, observing how the archway perfectly framed Lincoln's wife, yet a draped curtain blocked the view of the President. What if the wizard was hiding in the corner? Or at Lincoln’s feet? They wouldn’t have a clue. “I think one of us will need to go over there.”

“Me or you?” Malfoy’s breath gusted past her cheek, and the side of her lip twitched upon its own volition.

“I’ll go. Meet me there immediately after the gun has been fired.” Hermione pulled away from Malfoy’s touch and made through the aisle.

Given entirely no one would notice, she jogged in a very unladylike manner throughout the theatre, eventually coming to the same walkway she had witnessed on the tour the day prior. With silenced footfalls toward the unguarded door leading to Lincoln, Hermione cast Homenum Revelio and discovered entirely no presence in the hallway. As she waited, she checked her watch once or twice, listening for any strange sounds between the uneven beats of audience laughter.

Suddenly, Hermione gasped and pulled back against the wall, pressing down her skirts as she went.

John Wilkes Booth dashed down the hall, passing her with not even an inch to spare. Peculiarly, the Horcruxes became the last thing on Hermione’s mind. Instead, she felt an overwhelming sense of awe. A morbid fascination. With the reminder that this moment had already occurred in history, she released any inclination for guilt or heroics, and marvelled at the sight of moustached John closing in on the door to the presidential box, pistol ready in hand. Despite the fact she watched a well-known moment of history replay, Hermione’s heartbeat sped. It was a moment that would destabilise American politics for some time, and here she was, witnessing it first-hand. Morbidly, she felt lucky.

Hermione gripped her wand, tensed her shoulders and firmed her jaw, inching towards the doorway as Booth crept towards Lincoln with his weapon raised. If her theory was to be correct, this was also the very moment she was waiting for. However, she could see nothing except the backs of four unsuspecting muggles and one madman.

Bang.

Wordlessly, Hermione cast Homenum Revelio, expecting a wizard to run full pelt from the presidential box. Again, nothing. For what felt like a moment too long, entirely nothing and no one moved.

Then the screams arrived.

A frenzy of activity occurred within the box. At Hermione’s left, four soldiers in dark blue coats came rushing through the hall, one nudging her Disillusioned form on the way and glancing back to understand his misjudged footsteps. Perhaps the dark wizard hid around the sides of the wall? Perhaps he was biding his time for escape? Hermione heated with mild panic, feeling as though they had gone about this all the wrong way. Then she second guessed her theory. What if the assassination was a decoy? What if the wizard was elsewhere at this very moment, making a Horcrux from an innocent muggle?

Hermione startled as something brushed against her fingers. “Malfoy!” she snapped, pulling her hand to her chest as the realisation came to her. “How did you even find me?”

“You’re scented lavender like the hotel bath.”

Rekindling last night’s memory, Hermione felt a pulse of desire for a split second. Quickly, she banished it away. “Did you see anything at all? A wizard? Any magic?”

“I saw a madman jump from the presidential box to the stage, then break his leg. But it wasn’t the best vantage point and any spell I used turned up entirely nothing.”

“Same here,” mumbled Hermione as the soldiers rushed past with Lincoln’s limp and bloodied body. “As soon as his guests leave, we need to assess the area.”

“What if we’re focused on the wrong thing here?” Malfoy asked, bolstering Hermione’s worry.

“Do you have any other theories?”

“I’m still theorising that Preston is just entirely fucking with us.”

Hermione turned in towards Malfoy despite the fact he was a haze of the same cream colour as the wall. “You truly think Preston spent over a year on this case, sourced a Time-Turner, identified dates, times and locations, and left them on a slip of paper just for us to find and undertake a wild goose chase?”

“Why not?”

Hermione felt Malfoy’s hand brush hers again as he turned in to face her. “Why would a respected Auror do such a thing?”

“Maybe he wanted to go to the grave laughing. He probably had a good chuckle knowing that he left behind an inscrutable puzzle. That was the last of them,” he added as a weeping woman and her stony-faced husband swept past, the last of the guests leaving the presidential box.

There were no longer any muggles around. Even the frenzied sounds deeper in the theatre had died away.

“Let me go first,” said Malfoy.

Stuck on her spinning thoughts of Horcrux theories, Hermione waited a couple of beats as Malfoy’s glimmering frame approached the door. After he’d secured the area, she closed in towards the space and discovered him—Disillusionment charm gone—whirling around to see her with his wand held in one hand and his ridiculous top hat still perched on his head. “I don't understand, Granger, there was supposed to be another wizard here, right?”

“I thought so…”

Paused beside the red velvet settee, Hermione eyed the last remaining theatregoers exit down below. How could a Horcrux have been created if they hadn’t turned up a wizard? The lamps above fluttered as if a moth had found its beacon, distracting her enough that she abandoned her thoughts and joined Malfoy in shooting off spells to reveal any magic in the small, empty space.

“Ah,” she heard Malfoy say following his whispered Appare Vestigium.

He was crouched near a blood and brain-matter stained chair, eyes set down at the soiled carpet. Hermione gasped when she saw it. A top hat neatly hidden in the shadows.

After sending a repellent charm to her skirts, Hermione knelt beside Malfoy to better see the silk-banded top hat, somehow impervious to all the blood that surrounded it.

“This one might be even larger than yours,” Hermione said with a sly side eye.

“You know perfectly well it’s not the size, Granger.”

Hermione had a slight smirk as she prodded the hat with her wand.

“What do you think, then? Is it a Horcrux?” he asked.

It still glowed faintly gold from Malfoy’s spell, indicating a magical signature.

“Well, it’s magic, isn’t it?”

“Then surely that’s it. Let’s take—”

“No!” she cut in as Malfoy placed his hands on the top hat. “We can’t just pinch the hat and destroy it—surely that’ll change the course of history. It’s currently sitting in a muggle museum in the future.” Hermione took to her feet and placed a palm on her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of this? I can’t believe I didn’t think of this.”

How were they going to remove an artefact and not alter the future? If they couldn’t do so, they had no choice but to return to their present and then revisit this moment again. Theoretically, they could go back as many times as they needed, but they only had one opportunity to not accidentally rewrite history.

“I can’t believe you didn’t think of this either,” said Malfoy. “Perhaps letting me in on the planning of the mission might have helped?”

Hermione shot him a cranky glare.

With Lincoln’s hat in hand, Malfoy righted to his feet. He pinched his own top hat at the brim and flipped it from his head. “Why don’t we just swap them? Surely no one will know.”

Hermione sighed curtly, a growing dread stifling her ability to take in a full breath. They were running out of time. Soldiers, law enforcement and simply the curious would soon be in this room. “Fine,” she said, tone strained. “But what’s going to happen when your magic wears off, or—or you die? A muggle museum is going to be left with what? A hat that has transfigured back into a Fizzing Whizbee wrapper?”

“They'll be left with a hotel ashtray, and hopefully that'll be in many, many years to come.”

Hermione huffed. Truly, what other option did they have?

“Duplicate it,” she said. “I’d rather leave the world with nothing when you’re gone, instead of an ashtray.”

As Malfoy vanished the top hat he had arrived with, he created an exact replica of Lincoln’s and left it on the floor, while Hermione hoped, wished and prayed to all the gods old and new that they weren't about to irrevocably alter their future.

With their Disillusionment charms, they ran from the box and bypassed several suited men and soldiers rushing their way. Hermione squished against the wall, waiting for the small entry to the stairs to be free of muggles. Malfoy’s hand was reassuring upon her shoulder, his touch settling the spike of her nerves. After every mission she was thankful for her adrenaline, but in the midst of the pressure and danger, Hermione had never managed to dampen the fear in the same way she'd witnessed other Aurors do. Her breaths raced and her frantic thoughts were stuck on seeing this Horcrux rid from the world.

Weaving through the muggles, they made it to the front of house, covertly removing their Disillusionment charms before setting foot on to the street and into a horde of frantic theatregoers. They squeezed through the crowd, where angry men were yelling threats of violence and the women’s faces were streaked with tears. Hermione winced as she became wedged between a burly man on one side and the pointy elbow of a woman on the other. Perhaps it was her squeak of surprise that caused Malfoy to enclose his hand around hers. He knotted their fingers.

“This way,” she heard.

Malfoy steered them, wending through the crowd and past horse-pulled carriages, his height providing a better pathway. As the people thinned, great bangs sounded above. The sky lit up. Fireworks flared, making beautiful stars against the deep night sky. When they both slowed to view the blooms of sparkling light, Hermione caught up to Malfoy’s side. He hadn’t dropped his grip. She hadn’t pulled away. Hermione became awfully conscious that they stood in the centre of a street amongst a frenzy, wearing nineteenth century garb and craning their necks to see something that should have marked a celebration, rather than the morbid end to a life. She became awfully conscious that she stood there holding hands with Draco Malfoy.

Sometimes she had strange, brief periods of lucidity, where she recalled the past between them. His past. Not so much that it had occurred, but rather, a disbelief that it was the past of the person who stood beside her, a wizard seemingly now far less misguided than he was, a man that was far less cruel than he had been. Now, the slight of his smile and his occasional gentle touch quickly clouded any old and unpleasant memories she had of Draco Malfoy. She found that she only wanted more of him in the here and now. To make more memories. And as she peered at the unfurling of the fireworks above, she couldn’t help but feel this would become one of her favourites.

Following a glance down at their loosely held hands, Hermione let her touch drop away. She looked up at Malfoy, his expression set with an admirable composure in the midst of their haste, the glint of fireworks in his eyes. “We should find somewhere safe to Apparate,” she said.

Malfoy nodded in agreement and made for the side of the street, where they met a dim alleyway. Top hat in one hand, his wand in the other, he eyed the thin space suspiciously before stepping into the shadows. Hermione followed, grasped his forearm tightly, and then they were off.

They re-emerged in cooler air. Hermione had brought them to a stretch of rock bordering an estuary, and the breeze that licked at them held the faint odour of salt. The great moon reflected in the calm water. There was a gentle lapping against the rock below, and behind was nothing but a length of darkness, entirely void of any presence, muggle or otherwise.

Malfoy lit his wand and held it high enough that he illuminated the few displaced strands of hair across his forehead.

“What if this is not a Horcrux?” Hermione asked, suddenly self-conscious about her every decision this evening.

“Then we’ll file a report calling Preston a meddling liar, close the case, and get on with our lives.”

As she wordlessly lit her wand, Hermione showed an unimpressed expression she hoped he could see in the meagre light. “Or,” she began, “we reassess and go back in time again.”

“If you already had the answer, Granger, why did you ask me?”

Hermione rubbed at her arm, beginning to feel the cold biting. “I thought perhaps you might help quell my nerves, but I suppose my expectations were too high. Put the hat down then. Let's set it alight.”

Malfoy placed the top hat on the rock surface between them and then moved a good several feet away, wand aimed. “I suppose we test it first,” he said. “Incendio.”

The top of the hat sparked. Short flames danced across the crown and then, as though a mighty wind had come, they doused. Hermione angled her wand light towards the hat. There wasn't even a scorch mark.

They linked their mistrusting gazes.

“Diffindo!” said Hermione.

Nothing. With the force she'd put behind it, she would have expected the hat to split in two…but nothing. No cut of fabric, not even a tiny tear.

“How peculiar,” Hermione said slowly. “It should burn with incendio if it's not a Horcrux, and yet it's not behaving in the same way as any Horcrux I've encountered. It's almost as though it doesn't have any fight.”

“All the better for us, then. We can destroy it without any retaliation.”

Hermione’s gut was telling her that this Horcrux wasn't anywhere near as nefarious as Voldemort’s. It didn’t feel like a Horcrux at all. But given how powerful The Dark Lord had been, perhaps that made some sense?

“Ready?” Malfoy asked, and Hermione primed her wand in response. She had purposefully chosen a fire-resistant surface beside the water, and yet, unleashing Fiendfyre could bring them any number of surprises. She kept the counter-curse at the tip of her tongue.

The end of Malfoy's wand glowed orange and then a finger of a flame licked out. It wove down, snaking until it latched to the top hat. At first, it appeared as though it would dwindle like any other fire. Then the flames grew tall, as if fanned. The fire ate down the length of the hat and skated along the brim in a neat counter-clockwise circle, making the entire hat glow hot, orange flames.

Malfoy no longer needed to produce the spell, for the Fiendfyre worked on its own. They both took a step backward. Hermione lifted a hand up to shield her eyes, the heat of the flames making her forehead feel taut, then as she lowered it to again glimpse the top hat, the flames extinguished with a putt.

A slight breeze worked its way between the two of them, and the bulk of the ashes scattered off the rock.

“That felt far too easy,” Hermione said with a frown.

“Maybe we're just that good?” He moved to meet her side.

Hermione’s concern deepened her expression.

“Come on, Granger.” He nudged his elbow playfully. “We've just successfully completed a mission. You can allow yourself to celebrate for a minute or two.”

The end of Hermione's mouth twisted. Then she allowed herself a small smile. They had succeeded, hadn't they? They'd done something right, worked collaboratively and effectively—even despite the resistance and quips and sexual propositions—and the gravity of the case no longer seemed so daunting.

“Shall we?” Malfoy asked, his glowing wand held high.

As Hermione watched the remainder of the ashes drift into the water, she nodded and pulled the Time-Turner from her bodice.

“You suspected it was going to be the hat, didn't you?” she asked, twisting the coordinates in the correct direction.

It was a beat before Malfoy answered. “I had an inkling.”

“And you didn't feel like sharing this earlier?”

Time-Turner readied, Hermione finally looked up at Malfoy.

Satisfaction curved his mouth. “I wanted to see your expression when you realised I could be competent.”

Was he truly admitting he had let his silly desire to toy with her get in the way of their case? “Next time, we're doing proper planning and preparation—”

“You do recall you’re the one that decided the plan was just for me to follow everything you say?”

“Well, now that I know you're capable of thinking about more than just sex, we could both benefit from far more coordinated and strategic planning.”

She had expected a witty remark in return, but Malfoy’s expression suddenly set with impassivity. “Speaking of sex,” he began, “I know I appeared desperate last night—”

“Extremely desperate.”

He nodded with concession. “Extremely desperate; but I need you to understand my sincerity.” Pocketing his wand, he closed in with a faint crease at his brow. The moonlight caused shadows to play in the crevices beneath his cheekbones and rendered him far more attractive than he had any right to be.

Hermione took a half-step backwards, but it was a useless endeavour as he inched forward, close enough that he now blocked the entirety of her from the jostling breeze.

“Granger, I want all of you, and I don’t want to have to wait for you to meander into my office one Wednesday evening at the off chance that it might happen.”

Something in Hermione’s chest throbbed with an impatience. She stifled it. Discarded the feeling entirely. It was a pulse of lust and longing, the very same reason she was in this position in the first place. Malfoy had become caught up in her addictive behaviours. But he wasn’t the right person to meddle with in this way—remember The Line?

Gently, he cradled her jaw in his hand and his warmth melted the cold from her skin. He nudged her chin a whit so that she had no choice but to view his drilling gaze. “You are driving me wild. I'm certain you want the same; but if I’m incorrect…” He shrugged. “We’ve got a long way to go on this case, Granger, so if it’s truly never going to be a possibility, then I need you to reject me once and for all and put me out of my misery.”

With an unsteady sigh, Hermione grasped both her hands around Malfoy’s wrist and drew his touch away. But she let her hold linger, not wanting to so quickly part with such a sweet feeling.

“I know there’s the complication of the fact that you once fancied me,” continued Malfoy, his tone now a little more light-hearted, “but it doesn’t need to be anything serious. In fact, it shouldn’t be. One time—that’s it.”

“Oh, so you’ve thought about it with your brain, have you?” Finally, she slid her touch away. “Just one time?”

“Once—no wait.” His smirk burgeoned into a fully fledged grin. “One night.”

Hermione showed a small smile despite herself. It felt nice to be wanted; and so blatantly too. When was the last time anyone had chased her? And McLaggen doling out a dull pickup line because he needed to deliver something to the Auror office didn’t count.

Flinging her eyes skyward, Hermione sighed long. She was quickly losing her logical mind; it was buried somewhere beneath the desire. There was just something about him. “This whole case has been an exercise in self-restraint.”

“Why do you need self-restraint, Granger? We're just two adults who want to see each other naked and do certain sexual things. This shouldn't be so difficult.”

“I—” Hermione's cheeks prickled pleasantly with his suggestion. She revisited snatches of memories: Malfoy’s fingers working inside of her, his release on her breasts, the bite mark on her thigh she’d left there for a length purely because it made her centre clench to view it over again.

The Line was beginning to look thin.

Studying the way the moonlight made the threads inside the Time-Turner shimmer, Hermione twiddled at the gold chain around her neck. She tossed it over Malfoy’s head without connecting their gazes—which was far easier without the monstrosity of a hat. Malfoy seemed to think her past feelings were of no consequence. He seemed to think they could sleep together and the way she had once fancied him would remain dormant in the past; and somehow, his confidence drowned any concerns that had reared in Hermione’s head. And working together after another sexual interaction? Well, they’d already done that before, hadn’t they? They were more than capable of continuing on with the case in a civil manner… right?

The Line now looked an awful lot like a speck.

“I want one rule.” Hermione heard herself speak, but her voice sounded unlike her own and the words hadn’t felt as though they had been made in her own mind. She now pulsed with trepidation to the tips of her fingers, waiting for more of her unintended words.

Malfoy’s eyes darted between hers and she knew he whizzed through the possibilities of what was soon to come out of her mouth. “Let me guess,” he began. “No talking during? No more partnering on cases? Nothing in your arse? No—”

“No kissing.”

Malfoy paused with his mouth open. He closed it and deepened the furrow of his brow. “Kissing where exactly?”

“On the mouth,” she said, unable to keep the laughter away.

“Is there something wrong with my mouth, Granger? Because I’ve had no complaints.”

“It’ll help me keep my distance.”

Malfoy breathed a laugh. “Distance? How much distance can we possibly have if we’re to fuck? I’m big, Granger, I know, but not that big.” He nudged his head left and right, humour lasting on his lips.

Lifting her knuckles to her mouth, Hermione shielded her smile. She attempted to straighten her expression. “I don’t want to explain this further right now. Will you just agree?”

“Are we negotiating sex?”

“Yes or no?”

He glanced out to the water, as if to think about her proposition; but it was barely a few seconds before he turned back. “I’ll agree, but I’m not entirely happy about it.”

Hermione clamped a smile. She felt a rush within, right down to her centre. “I truly didn’t think you would agree. Perhaps I should have asked for something grander. A week in Paris at The Ritz, a library of every first edition classic novel—oh! A first edition of Hogwarts: A History, or perhaps a pearl necklace—”

“I’ve already given you a pearl necklace, Granger. You can strike that off your list.”

Hermione blinked. Well, he wasn’t incorrect.

With a novel whole-body thrum, Hermione flicked the switches on the Time-Turner, ready for their return to present day London; and ready to plan her single night of sex with Malfoy.

***

Come morning, Hermione nipped into Harry's office to share the good news. News about the Horcrux, that was; not the sexual agreement with Malfoy.

With a palm to the back of his head, Harry prodded through the mess of paper on his desk with his wand and a look of irritation. A pressurised look he had often worn since his promotion.

“We got it,” Hermione said through a smile.

“Got what?” Harry hadn’t bothered a glance.

“The Horcrux…” she said, spirits somewhat deflating.

“Brilliant—aha!” He snatched up a thick report. “I have to meet with Kingsley now. Let’s organise a debrief— too pressed for time today, but let’s meet tomorrow?”

Absent-mindedly, Hermione nodded, her gaze pinned to the Daily Prophet on Harry's desk. Malfoy’s moving picture grinned up at her. But it wasn't the fact that Malfoy was in the paper—she knew the Prophet had a sick fascination with the reformed Death Eater—but rather, it was the person he was pictured with. It was the headline. It was… it was beginning to make her feel ill.

With a curt exhale, Hermione snatched up The Prophet and marched from Harry's office, ignoring his “Hey!” as she went, not stopping until she stood before Malfoy’s desk.

In one fell swoop, she shut and silenced the door with her wand and threw the newspaper directly in front of him.

Malfoy steepled his fingers, expertly ignoring the image of his own face looking up at him. “As much as I’m loath to admit, you were right, and I was buggered from both the time and place travel yesterday.”

“You're engaged?” Hermione’s tone was sharp, her volume greater than she intended.

He bowed his mouth to his fingers and looked up at her from beneath his brows, as though he gauged the best response.

“This is not a difficult question, Malfoy! You either are or you aren't, and by the looks of this article, you're due to wed Astoria Greengrass in a lush summer wedding.” Her expression had creased with fury. Her tongue felt acidic.

“Sort of.” Malfoy dropped his hands to the armrests of his chair.

“Sort of? What does that even mean? And we've been…we've—” Hermione upturned her palms, searching for the words.

“We've been pretending?”

Hermione’s fist clenched around her wand. “Malfoy! This is not funny.”

“Relax, Granger, it's not a real engagement.”

“How is it not real? You've taken up half a page in the Prophet!”

“Simple. Astoria likes to think it’s real.”

Hermione’s eyes flew open. Her mouth was tight with her desperation to keep her breakfast down, and she fought off a cold sweat at momentarily reliving the last time she’d inadvertently helped a man to cheat on his poor, unsuspecting partner. No—she couldn't let that happen again. She had an addiction and she'd fallen into a bad pattern. Now she knew better.

“Why have you drained of all colour?”

“Malfoy, this is serious. You’re engaged. You’re in a relationship!”

As if he’d finally registered her words, he pushed away from the desk and came to stand. He slipped a hand in his pocket. “Relationship is too generous a word. It’s an arranged marriage for inheritance purposes. That’s it. It’s a condition set by my father, which unfortunately remains despite his death.”

“You need to marry a Pureblood for money?” The words had come out as though surprise. It was not a surprise in the sense she couldn’t believe his circumstances, but disbelief that she hadn't realised sooner. How could she have assumed a wizard like Malfoy was single? Why hadn’t she bothered to think of his responsibilities to such an old Pureblood name?

“I don’t see any other way around the arrangement, Granger. What else am I going to do? Work here for the next thirty years?”

“Are you serious?”

“Not quite,” he said with the beginnings of a smile. “I actually enjoy my work and would continue despite my inheritance.”

“You’re marrying someone purely because of money? What about love, affection, enjoyment of shared interests? Don’t any of those things matter to you?”

“What is so offensive about this, Granger? People marry for all sorts of reasons, and money certainly isn’t the worst of them.”

Hermione paced a small circle on the carpet before the desk. She muttered to herself, “All of the conversations we’ve had, and you haven’t mentioned Astoria even once—that’s an art form.”

“If anything, it shows how little I care about her.”

With the shake of her head, Hermione faced Malfoy. “You do know what this means, don’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. He knew perfectly well. She could already see the indignation in his expression.

“There’ll be no fucking,” Hermione ground out. “There’ll be no anything.”

“You think this changes anything?” His tone was bitter, face set with an edging sneer. “Astoria and I have an arrangement. I'm as good as single, Granger.”

“It changes everything. It changes the way I think of you, for one.”

He dropped his twisted expression; then recovered with a frail smile. “Good to hear you're still thinking of me.”

With a scowl, Hermione stepped forward to propel her anger. “You're pathetic.”

Malfoy bridged the distance, close enough that they breathed the same air. “Be careful, Granger. Remember what happened last time you talked dirty to me in this office.”

With a furious groan, Hermione turned on her heel.

The door flew open and she flicked her wand to make certain it slammed behind. But before the sharp snap arrived, there was a metallic crash. The door smashed shut and the silencing charm quickly sequestered any further noise.

Hermione showed an uneasy close-lipped smile towards the Aurors that had popped their heads up from their cubicles and then reverted to her office, wondering exactly what Malfoy had taken to destroying in his own.

Chapter Text

As far as Draco was concerned, Granger’s threat had been empty. His engagement to Astoria was a shock, that was all. Certainly not a deal-breaker. Maybe he should have mentioned his fiancé at some point, no doubt during one of the many moments they had been alone together; but why would he cockblock himself? The engagement was nothing but a farce. His friends understood, Astoria was in on the plan and now he just needed Granger to realise. Then they'd return to exactly where they'd been a few days prior: with an agreement for one night of fucking minus the snogging.

Monday morning, Draco sat at the table in the Auror meeting room at precisely ten AM like the missive had informed him, and yet he waited several minutes before Potter and Granger traipsed in.

“So you got one?” Potter asked, dropping down a ream of folders as he seated.

Granger settled opposite Draco with a tight expression, stiff-backed with her hands threaded together upon the table, as though she was about to provide him a terrible performance review, cut his Ministry role, and then kill his cat. Fine, he didn’t have a cat, but the tightness about her jaw told him she only meant business. He didn’t want her all rigid and serious. He liked her pliant so that her body curved in towards him and her lips curved into smiles. Surely he could get that back again? Surely Fun Granger was not too far out of reach?

Turning towards Potter, Granger nodded curtly. “We have one destroyed Horcrux, however we couldn’t detect a wizard and have entirely no motivations.”

“Any theories?” asked Potter.

“Well,” began Draco, swinging an arm over the back of his chair, “as the great Tears for Fears once said, everybody wants to rule the world.”

Granger shot him a glare. “As we've already discussed, this wizard doesn’t necessarily want to rule the world, or even force an agenda. There are other reasons they may strive for immortality.”

“Such as?” pressed Potter.

“Well,” said Granger, elongating the word as she viewed her lap, “I haven’t any theories just yet.”

“My theory,” began Draco, “aside from supremacy—is that he’s a smooth operator.”

Granger sent him a scowl.

“Or maybe he just wants to break free? Free his soul from his physical body, that is. Break it into tiny irretrievable pieces and remain earth-side forever.”

“You do know we’re in the midst of a business meeting, don’t you?” She cocked her head. “I had assumed you knew how this all worked by now. Did you actually finish your Auror training? Or were you just a pity hire?”

Potter sighed lightly. “I just don’t understand how you couldn’t find someone—anyone? This should be the same timeline. In fact, it is the same timeline, given you’ve retrieved the Horcrux.”

“I…” Granger sat back into her chair, folding her arms across her waist. “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry.”

“Another theory,” began Draco, “is that we're simply being sexist; after all, girls just want to have fun. This could be a dark witch for all we know.”

Granger angled her chair towards Potter. “He won’t stop speaking in song lyrics. Do you think we should contact St Mungo's?”

“He’s done this before. It’ll pass.”

Granger released her frustrations upon a forceful sigh. “Despite the lack of dark wizard—or witch—” She flung her severe stare at Draco— “and lack of motives, I do think we’re better placed to understand the pattern now. We’ll complete the third mission this week.”

Potter twisted his mouth down at the side. “I was hoping you’d have a little more, Hermione, and as much I’d rather not see another written report for as long as I live, I’ll need you to put together an interim one after the next mission. Kingsley wants regular updates on this case, given the Time-Turner use.”

“Of course.” Her voice was thin, like a scolded child. She placed her palms flat on the table and pushed herself to stand. “Well, if we're done here, then I best get started on the report.”

“Don’t stop believin’, Granger,” said Draco as she padded towards the door. “We’ll get there.” He flashed her a grin.

After Granger had left the room with a tut, Potter folded his arms across his chest and asked, “So partnering is going well then?”

“From my perspective, anyway.” Draco left out the part where he thought their partnering could improve if she’d just let him eat her cunt.

“You've broadened your music tastes since we last worked a case.”

“Considerably,” said Draco. “I'm seeing your wife tonight. I'll pass on some new records.”

Potter came to stand and slotted the pile of folders beneath his arm. “Look forward to it. Also, if I were you, I wouldn't annoy Hermione with any more lyrics. I haven't seen her this uptight since the Grey case.”

“I'll try,” Draco said with an awfully tortured tone.

All things considered, that interaction with Granger hadn’t been too bad. He was fairly confident he could get her on side again with his humour. It had worked well enough before.

After exiting the meeting room, Draco was struck by a horrid sight typically not seen in the Auror office. McLaggen, swanning past in shirtsleeves that he no doubt knew were too tight across his chest, with his mouth twisting into a cursable smugness. Draco straightened his spine and puffed himself up. He hadn’t seen the prat since the Magical Transportation team had beaten the DMLE in the Quidditch finals last year. As he watched him close in towards Granger at the kitchenette where she was busying herself with a teakettle, Draco took some solace in the fact he was taller than McLaggen, even if it was only by a couple of inches.

McLaggen hemmed Granger in with his arms on the worktop and spoke into her ear.

Draco slid his wand from his pocket. What was the prick doing in the Auror office blatantly hitting on Granger? He would have cursed him between the shoulder blades if he thought for any reason he was troubling her, but he couldn’t see Granger’s expression past McLaggen’s stupidly broad shoulders.

“Malfoy,” said McLaggen, nudging his chin as he approached. “Gearing up for us to smash you at interdepartmental Quidditch this year?”

“Shove it, McWanker.”

He smirked, not bothering to slow his step. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Draco’s upper lip curled as he closed in on Granger, who was now plonking a tea bag into her mug.

“What was that?” he asked, hoping it hadn’t sounded as much an accusation to Granger as had to him.

“A past mistake,” she murmured, gaze fixed on her tea.

“Wait a moment—” Hip to the worktop, Draco ducked his head, leaning in to better read her expression. “You’re saying you’ve slept with that wanker?”

Granger flicked him a sidelong glance. It was a look that told him as much.

Draco furled his mouth, suddenly feeling sickly. He angled away from her. “Eurgh. How could you do that? Do you not feel ill thinking about it in your post-nut clarity?”

Granger vanished her tea bag with her wand, lifted her mug and turned to face him. “Funny you assume there was any nutting on my behalf.”

Draco’s gaze drifted away, caught up on thinking about whether this knowledge made him feel any better or worse… No, entirely worse. The more he thought about that brute bucking into Granger, the greater his nausea. He narrowed his eyes. “You know what? I think I might feel sorry for you. McLaggen on top of you and no orgasm?”

Draco masked his sickly feelings with a quip, but in reality, he wanted to turn around, spring a body-bind curse on McLaggen, shove him into an abandoned storage cupboard and leave him there until an unsuspecting janitor dawdled in. He knew Granger wasn’t just a warm hole to be conquered—and he knew that before she’d told him as much—but he was riled by the thought that McLaggen had beaten him. Again. The feelings of nausea accompanying this irritation, however, felt entirely misplaced.

As Granger went to move on without another word, Draco stepped sideways, blocking her next move. He knew he was beginning to appear desperate (again), but he was suddenly done with her cold shoulder.

It was a beat before she looked him in the eye, apathetic expression intact.

“Come on, Granger,” he said quietly, “can't we just go back to the way things were?”

“Unfortunately not.” She matched his volume. “We're case partners, nothing more. We're done.” There was a fleeting firm of her lips, then her tone suddenly sharpened. “I'll be planning for the next mission tomorrow morning. Join me, or don't—I don't care.”

This time Draco didn't impede her exit.

He was left with a feeling he hadn't experienced before and hadn’t a clue what to label it if he tried. Whatever it was, it gnawed at him from the inside, making him want to yell and send hexes to the guileless idiots around him, yet it also tried to compel him to follow Granger's footsteps and gently impress upon her that he needed their arrangement reinstated. There were times when he hadn't gotten his way (although they were few and far between), and he had certainly experienced dejection and failure and every other uncomfortable feeling following loss; but this was something different.

After the rest of his day spent with Granger refusing to play into his witticisms, leaving rooms he'd just entered, and entirely ignoring his glances, Draco decided he needed to change his strategy.

The next day, Granger’s missive sailed through his door: Mission planning at 10am. Meet in my office. Don't be late.

Draco screwed up the note and used his wand to fling it into the walkway. He snatched a piece of parchment and pen.

Can’t—busy.

Granger’s next message sailed back a couple of minutes later: 11am then.

Unavailable, was all he replied.

1pm, final offer.

Shan’t.

Draco’s new strategy was nothing but pettiness. He was going to annoy her in every which way, dig his heels in, and make her day more difficult. Sure, it was unprofessional and he was distracting from a very serious case, but he reasoned it might irritate her enough that his charm and banter would again work the way he intended.

Barely thirty seconds after the memo had sailed off, Granger appeared in his office wearing red robes.

“Why are you being so petty?” The two thin lines between her eyebrows were beginning to show. He enjoyed it when they made an appearance.

“If this is petty, then what is it that you’re doing?”

“I'm acting like a colleague.”

Draco took to his feet. “My colleague? Funny that—Potter is also my colleague and can still manage to find a sense of humour.”

As he rounded to the front of his desk, Granger took a step backward. “You know what? I don’t need you there—I’m undertaking this mission alone.”

Draco advanced two steps. This time she remained unbudging, the crinkle of her brow deepening.

“I will not allow you to attempt this alone, Granger. Tell me when the Portkey departs.”

“You won’t allow me?” She gave a taut shrug. “You’re not my keeper, Malfoy.”

His pettiness was not having the intended effect. Draco softened his expression. Desperation was making his pulse race, and he knew he was on the verge of appearing pathetic. “Look, about this arrangement with Astoria—”

“I don’t want to hear it. I’m undertaking this mission alone.” She whirled around and slammed his office door on the way out.

Draco’s insides felt barbed. Maybe he’d overdone the pettiness. When had he ever had to work this hard for a woman? Forget about the hypothetical one night of sex—he just wanted her to hear him out. To fill her in on the specifics of his dead-end marriage.

Unable to bear the thought of returning to Granger with his tail between his legs, Draco descended the Ministry floors until he found McLaggen’s stupidly large office. It was the only way to find information about Granger’s Portkey. The wank-stain had been demoted from the Department of Magical Games and Sports after an affair with a Quidditch player’s wife became public, and yet he still managed to land on his feet. The prat.

Draco barrelled through the door and disarmed him before he could emit a syllable of a spell.

McLaggen’s face took on a pink hue. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Before he could thrust a hand through the air with his question, binds spun out from Draco's wand. They strapped around McLaggen's wrists and across his chest, wrenching a gruff protest from his mouth.

Draco closed in and dipped low. “Where’s the request for Granger’s Portkey?”

“Are you insane? You’re on the request—just ask her yourself!”

“If I could simply ask her, do you think I’d be in this pigsty?”

McLaggen jerked against his restraints, making the chair jolt against the desk. “You seem to be under the impression you can still threaten your way through life, Malfoy.”

“Oh, but I can,” Draco said distractedly. He prodded his wand beneath the strewn paper, parchment, and Cauldron Cake wrappers upon the desk.

McLaggen’s ugly mug creased with anger. “Remove these restraints or I’ll—”

Draco leant in to encompass his entire view. “You’ll what?”

McLaggen’s eyes narrowed. Hurried breaths stormed from his nose and his mouth was set in a furious line.

“I thought as much.” Draco righted his posture and with a wordless Accio, commanded a Portkey request slip directly into his grip. As he went for the door, he chucked McLaggen’s wand over his shoulder and it clattered somewhere behind. “Time to practise your wandless magic.”

Early Friday morning, Draco arrived at the precise coordinates of Granger’s Portkey, which was due to appear in seven minutes' time. The crisp air bristled his lungs on the way in and had a definite whiff of cow-pat. He stood on a stretch of green at the outskirts of Sarajevo, where there was nothing or no one to see for a great length—except, as the heavy breathing behind soon informed him, a single cow. At least there'd be nil questions from the animal with regard to his rather dated suit. Draco had opted for brown this time, with a matching waistcoat. The fit was boxier than he liked, but it was still not too far off the muggle men's clothing of today. Granger, on the other hand… well, he was a little excited to see what she would be wearing.

Draco leant back against the wooden fence post, a book prised open in one hand.

“You are maddening,” he soon heard.

Granger was standing before him. She slotted the thimble she was holding into her magically extended handbag, now plum-coloured to match her darling wool dress. It was a straight silhouette except for the way it drew in at the waist, with darker lace at her chest and matching gloves. Her typical wayward curls were softened, her hair piled on top of her in a pompadour fashion fitting of the early twentieth century.

“What did you expect?” asked Draco. “I’m not allowing you to undertake the mission alone.”

Oddly, her expression mellowed, and as he followed her eye-line, he quickly realised she had spotted the cow that was tucking its head between the slats of the wooden fence to nuzzle Draco's elbow.

“I see you've made a friend,” she said.

“Which reminds me—” Draco tapped his wand towards the mug of tea he'd settled upon the fence post, removing the stasis charm, and the steam whirled into the cool air. He floated it towards Granger. “If it needs more milk, then I might know where to get some.”

She accepted the mug with a small, familiar smile; one that told him she'd lost her battle to ignore his silly joke. Was his charm working again? It certainly felt like it. They could come back from their sudden distance, he was sure.

“You know I appreciate the tea, Malfoy, but if you think this is the way back into my knickers, then you can give up now.” As she took a sip, she eyed the book in his hand. “Are you reading 1984? You can't bring that with you—it hasn’t been published for another thirty-odd years.”

“So? Don't pretend you haven't ten magical texts in that bag, no doubt all published this century.”

She straightened her arm out his way, proffering her wide-open handbag. “In, now.”

Draco reluctantly slotted the book inside and took to straightening his sleeves, dusting away invisible lint.

“So,” began Granger, “the plan for today is that we’re going to stand in the crowd lining the street and look positively happy to catch a glimpse of the Archduke of Austria. We need to watch for both the wizard and a Horcrux, and I’m hoping we’ll have better luck given we’ll not be in a dark theatre.”

“No pursuing the wizard, I assume?”

“Precisely. And in terms of the Horcrux, I’m expecting it will be the—”

“Hat.”

“Exactly. He seems to be depicted wearing it, but as far as I could find in muggle textbooks and on the Internet—”

“It disappeared not long after, and there's a small chance it's in a private collection in Austria.”

“Are you going to continue doing that?”

The end of his mouth quirked up. “Do we think this dark wizard had an obsession with all manner of things that could be propped on one’s head?”

“Or they’re simply being strategic, using personal belongings that had a high likelihood of being guarded in museums in the future.” She sipped her tea. “Now, we also need to be mindful that there are several bombings along the route today. Be wary of anyone acting suspicious, but do not interfere.”

“Any more rules before we get this started?”

“Yes: no shameless flirting, no innuendos—” she took a step with each command and now stood no more than half a foot before Draco, her eyes narrowed and chin pointed upward (gods he had missed how the freckles on her nose trembled with her irritation)— “and no talking about my cunt. Understand?”

He didn't like that rule. Nevertheless, he nodded once in understanding (but not in agreement). Maybe this was going to be trickier than he had thought, seeing as new rules were popping up by the second. Conveniently, she had left off any rules about discussing his ill-fated future.

Apparently satisfied, Granger vanished her mug of tea and then focused her attention upon the Time-Turner.

While she held her shrewd gaze elsewhere, Draco cast his eyes down her figure, enjoying the memory of what was beneath her dress. He not only felt desire prick up somewhere inside, but frustration. Perhaps this proximity was going to be more difficult than he had expected. He’d meant it when he’d told her to reject him once and for all. He had completely intended to put the thoughts of her out of mind and move on in life without having sex with Granger. But Draco was certain that he not only saw, but felt, her hesitation.

They had almost made it to bed together, hadn’t they? If not for the bloody Prophet announcement, then they might’ve already done so. Draco gritted his jaw, made his back teeth wedge together.

Her rejection was supposed to put him out of his misery… and now he felt like his fingers had skirted the golden snitch only for it to fly into the entirely undeserving hand of McLaggen. Of course, he knew McLaggen never bothered to play seeker—his stupid giant oaf body too heavy for speed—but he still maintained his analogy as he was certain the wanker had never truly exerted himself to win a Quidditch match nor to bed Granger.

She padded another step closer with her sweet scent of vanilla, dulling the odour of cow-pat. “Ready?”

Draco pulled in the side of his mouth with thought, then he turned an inch or two to stroke the cow’s nose, which still sniffed unrelentingly at his elbow.

Turning back, Granger’s eyes told him she was done with his antics, but her mouth was showing the strongest attempt yet to clamp her budding smile. “Are you ready now that you’ve said your goodbyes?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

As she sprung onto the balls of her feet to toss the chain over his head, he stared into her eyes unashamedly, watching as the hard stare gave way to the keenly intelligent look she ordinarily kept. It was something he’d only noticed recently, the way she held a curiosity in every inch of her bearing, right down to the glint of light in her eyes. He supposed he enjoyed it.

When Granger planted down on her feet, she linked her gaze with his, her brows quivering in faintly. “What is it?”

Draco was thinking about how he preferred her curls wild and free. How he enjoyed the last occasion they were bound by the Time-Turner, when she had pressed against his chest for a short-lived moment, yet long enough that he craved to feel the same heat against his bare skin. He thought about her sweet sequence of preparation each time they were in this position, how her eyelashes dusted her cheeks as she fixed the travel coordinates, and then the sharp intake of breath before she’d look up into his eyes and ask if he was ready to depart.

But Draco simply shook his head gently. Something heady and urgent centred at his chest. It was rather distracting, and he couldn’t even bring himself to offer a witty remark.

Granger flicked the Time-Turner switches and although their surrounds dissolved and then re-emerged, the spill of grass at every side was so peculiarly unchanged that they both looked down to determine whether their travel had worked.

“Oh,” Granger said, evidently coming to the same realisation.

The threads of light in the Time-Turner were swirling in the same way they had done at the last occasion. She slid her fingers beneath the golden chain, nails lightly grazing the skin beside Draco’s collar before she succeeded in removing it from him entirely. Palming at the side of his neck to deter from the tingle at his skin, Draco turned and found that, although the tiny farmhouse in the distance was just as dilapidated as moments ago, the road down past the slope of farmland was no longer fixed. Then the clouds above shifted, revealing a full sun, and bringing attention to the fact the chill in the air was well and truly gone.

“We’ll need to Apparate closer,” said Granger.

When he turned back, she was already slipping her fingers beneath his arm, grip firming at his bicep. Draco placed his hand atop hers.

They winked out of existence only to re-emerge beside a road and different shapes of greenery—from what Draco could gather, anyway—prior to falling sideways. Swiftly, he extended an arm. His palm met the rough bark of a tree trunk and Granger weighed down against him with her limbs grazing a certain delicate area. Her fingers dug into the arm she had linked through, the other hand flattened to his chest, and somehow her legs ended astride one of his. As she wriggled away, her knee grazed at his inner thigh and her gentle noises of alarm and delicious scent were all working together to tease at him in the most infuriating manner.

“For fuck's sake, Granger!”

“Sorry!” Finally, she pushed herself up to stand on her own feet. “I had difficulty visualising exactly where we were supposed to appear.”

Shaking his head to himself, Draco swept a hand down each arm of his suit jacket. “You’d think you’d just learnt to Apparate…” he mumbled to himself. Following a quick search around to ensure there were no muggles in the immediate vicinity, he shot his wand at his forearm to straighten a wrinkle. When he finally glanced at Granger, she gave him an abashed sort of look. He could tell she nibbled at the inside of her mouth.

“Sorry,” she repeated meekly. “It’s not too far down here now.” She fingered the edge of her dark plum glove aside to eye her watch. Her usual vigour returned to her tone. “And we have about twenty minutes until the assassination.”

Draco expelled a perturbed sigh. Perturbed for what, exactly, he wasn’t certain. There had been no harm done by Granger tipping him off kilter. Pulling his expression into something less irked, he outstretched a hand, indicating for her to lead the way, and then off Granger went.

They had Apparated next to a line of green-topped linden trees on what appeared to be the edge of the city, and as Draco soon found when they crossed over a short bridge, they were lucky Granger hadn’t miscalculated by a metre or two, or they would have been in the Miljacka river.

Concerned that his knowledge of this historical muggle event was far paler than the last, Draco had read all he could about their destination before departing. He was pleased to see the descriptions now matched the view. The city was a blend of architectural styles he was unaccustomed to. Grand neo-Renaissance buildings with ornate facades, arched windows, and intricate stonework, but also mosques with elegant domes and then cobblestone streets. It was a city built lower than the last they had visited. The great hills beyond were still easy to see.

As they walked side by side, more muggles appeared and all ventured in the same direction. They waded away from fresh air and into the odours of tobacco and coffee, and it was not long before they found people lining the street in anticipation of the motorcade procession. The men all wore loose fitting suits of blacks and browns with low, wide-brimmed hats, and the women were in dresses far less rigid and far more form-fitting than those of eighteen sixty-five; and, to his disappointment, with far fewer fripperies. The muggle women were largely outweighed by the number of men on the streets, and Draco couldn’t help but notice that none were as becoming as Granger. She seemed to suit any historical garb.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asked as they began through the crowd. “You’re worrying me.”

Worrying her? He didn't know he was capable of evoking such an emotion in Granger. Well, if she was going to give him the opportunity to reveal what had been playing on his mind as of late, then he was going to take it.

“Apropos of nothing,” began Draco, “this engagement to Astoria has been planned for some time—by my parents, that is—we rarely see each other and when we do speak, it's about the wedding arrangements.”

He heard her sigh, even as she powered ahead of him. “I don't know why you feel the need to tell me this,” she threw over her shoulder. “It will not change anything.”

“What is the issue?” He kept in line with her now, not caring if he needed to nudge a muggle or two out of the way to do so. “Is it the fact there’s another woman?”

“We're not in a relationship, Malfoy. You can have as many other women as you like.” She sent him a look of judgement. “And I know you've said Astoria is complicit in your plan, but you'll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.”

Well, if she wouldn’t take his word for it, then what was he supposed to say? He and Astoria had discussed their sham engagement and doomed marriage once or twice, but hadn't spoken of fidelity. It had never seemed necessary. Years ago, they had attempted to date and it fizzled into nothing. Now, although they were soon to marry, it felt simply unsaid that they would carry on with others.

“I thought my word was at least worth something.”

Granger ignored his remark, marching on with purpose. “And the fact you've put me in the middle of a high profile Pureblooded engagement is equal parts infuriating and dangerous. Imagine if the Prophet caught wind! I can't even bear to think about the shame, the potential ramifications for my role, and my future at the Ministry…”

Draco opened his mouth to say something quelling, but Granger moved towards the road. He caught up to her as she waited for a daisy yellow vehicle to roll past, and he placed his hand on the small of her back without very much thought.

“Malfoy.” Her eyes locked on him with a look of warning. “For Godric’s sake, stop ushering me around. Once again, you're not here as my personal protection, and it’s not appropriate for you to have your hand so close to my arse in public at this time in history.” After a beat, she added, “Nor at any time, for that matter.”

Draco expelled an irritated exhale. Every single thing she had said and done in the past half hour had grated him in a way he hadn't known possible. Particularly considering the fact he was arguing for the opportunity to bed the woman, for Salazar’s sake. Still, he refused to budge his touch from her lower back. At least not until they met the other side of the road and she moved sideways, creating her own distance.

“I just didn’t want you getting trampled, Granger. It wasn’t just a thinly veiled attempt to win my case.”

“Case? There’s no case here. And why does this matter so much to you?”

There were fewer people on this side of the road, allowing them to walk in step; and allowing for the opportunity to appreciate Granger’s unimpressed brow.

“If this is the first time in your life you’ve been told no, then you're simply going to have to get used to it. That’s life. Besides, there are plenty of women around that would jump at the opportunity to sleep with you. I don't know why you're wasting your efforts on me.”

Draco slowed his steps with his thoughts. Why was he expending such effort on Granger? He'd meant what he'd said—hearing no only made him want something more, and as much as he knew it was a terrible quality he should have outgrown as a child, knowing this witch was seemingly unconquerable only firmed his desire. Perhaps that was the crux of the issue? Once again, Granger was infuriatingly correct. And he could have any other woman. Perhaps he just needed a distraction in a different witch.

“We had some fun, Malfoy. Now it's time to move on.”

But he didn't want to move on.

So much so that he literally stopped moving.

When Granger noticed, she whipped around with a huff of an exhale loud enough to turn the head of a nearby muggle. She crossed her arms tightly, vexation upon her face contrasting sharply with her sweet attire. There were several metres between them, people criss-crossing obliviously through the space they’d created, and yet their hardened stares upon one another were unwavering.

Quite hypocritically and in a very unladylike manner, Granger made her voice carry the distance. “I'm not dragging you through nineteen fourteen sulking, Malfoy. Now move.” She hadn’t bothered to wait and instead stalked away, continuing on her mission.

Draco followed. Not because she ordered, but because he was now concerned that the extremely out-of-place and out-of-time public reprimand he’d received from a woman might draw unnecessary attention.

They spent another several minutes walking to their destination. Or rather, Granger forged on as though he wasn’t there, ignoring eye contact, and drifting away when she judged he stepped an inch too close. Their every interaction was biting at him. And it was too warm for this bloody suit. His cooling charms were useless. Why had he chosen wool? Bugger the historical accuracy—he needed cream linen. He could’ve been a mysterious visitor from the south of France for all the locals knew.

By the time they stood on the street corner with a view of where Franz Ferdinand’s assassination was to occur, Draco had lapsed into an annoyed silence. The growing racket of the crowd detracted from any reason to share in conversation, but the way the other onlookers jostled at his sides did nothing to help his temper. In his pocket, Draco wrapped his fingers around his wand, teasing the idea of creating a magical impenetrable barrier around his body so that none of the muggles—nor Granger for that matter—could irk him once more.

“You're failing the part of the mission where we need to appear positively happy to see the Archduke.”

“I'm not in the mood for your instruction, Granger,” Draco said, eyes remaining stapled ahead as a lorry puttered past.

“You are so prone to dramatics, sometimes I wonder how it didn't get in the way of your entry into the Auror training program.”

“The same way I wonder how your hair doesn't impede your entry into the Auror office each day.”

“Hey! I thought we were done with the hair taunts?”

A muggle—at his other side now—jabbed an elbow into Draco’s ribs, causing him to flinch in and his breath to stall uncomfortably.

That was it.

Draco removed his wand from his pocket, left it down beside his leg, and shot a stinging hex directly to the man with the flailing limb. It was only harsh enough that he jumped backward a foot and peered down near his waist to find the culprit. If one more thing pressed at Draco in the wrong way, he was ready to raze the city. Fuck upsetting history—the future. Whatever.

Granger nibbled at her thumbnail despite her glove, oblivious to his troubles. “I’m again beginning to worry we’ll miss something if we only have one vantage point.”

“I’ll cross the road,” said Draco, ready to move entirely anywhere else.

After grumbling a bit, then tossing her mouth from side to side, Granger eventually said, “Fine. But as soon as the shooting ends, we both go for the hat, okay? I’ll meet you there.”

Draco nodded succinctly and left before he was provided any further orders. He was done with them. Done with this mission. Done with Granger.

At the other side of the road, he slotted in behind a thinner crowd, between men in fez hats and dark waistcoats. Sun beat down upon the top of his head and his suit was taut with heat between his shoulder blades. He checked his watch once or twice.

Eventually, he heard the cheers of the crowd relay at his right, and the faint rumble of a vintage car engine; a dark, open-top Gräf & Stift. The Archduke and his wife sat in the back, and in front were two men, one holding an air of importance, the other operating the vehicle.

Somehow, the premature end to innocent lives did not feel any easier when he knew it was coming. Hopefully it would be swift. Hopefully their pain was over quickly. Waiting with his insides curdling, Draco connected his gaze with Granger across the other side of the street and noticed the way her throat worked with a sharp inhale. They turned their eyes towards the black car advancing between them. In mere moments, it was going to turn in the wrong direction, stall, and the driver would then struggle to manoeuvre it around.

It did just that, puttering to a halt straight ahead.

As the crowd waved, cheered and applauded for the Archduke, a man in a dark suit stepped in front of the vehicle with a pistol in his hand, then up onto the footboard to stand at close range.

In some ways, it seemed so simple. So crude. That metal muggle device was going to swiftly take a life and alter the course of history, begin a war with consequences far-reaching enough that even the wizarding world had suffered. Wizarding trade had always been affected when the muggles experienced heavy losses in lives, or crops, or their money market. Their worlds were inextricably linked, no matter how deeply they attempted to keep magic separate and secret. Draco supposed, in some ways, this moment was similar to the Second Wizarding War. If Potter hadn't lived after a second failed attempt to end his life, Draco held no doubt he’d be living in a much darker world, and he certainly wouldn't have been glancing at Granger in the midst of an assassination in nineteen fourteen.

A gunshot fired. Then another.

As the screams came, Draco surveyed the scene: the vehicle, the Archduke’s collapsed wife, the assailant, then amongst the crowd.

The driver of the vehicle frantically manoeuvred the car, the man at his side shouting in a language Draco didn't understand and yet in a manner that conveyed all meaning. Military men and a few brave bystanders ran towards the car, but the remainder of the crowd darted in all directions around Draco. Granger ran towards the car and Draco searched for the Horcrux maker, attempting to identify anyone who perhaps looked a little more magical than the rest, whose attentions were honed in on the Archduke, whose—

His eyes snagged.

“It can’t be,” Draco said beneath his breath. “How could it be?”

The Archduke was slumped in the back of the vehicle, the peaked military-style cap he had been wearing noticeably missing. With Granger’s sights locked on the Horcrux, Draco ran towards the wizard he had spotted. His eyes were stuck to the back of his dark, short-cropped curls, mottled with grey. It must have been him. He had the same assured stride, a wand in his fist, and he was the only other person working against the crowd.

A car engine roared behind, then came the crash of glass and screams.

Draco gained on the man and he was no more than several feet away. But he suddenly stalled in place, his attention forced away by a silver, translucent and brilliantly bright otter immediately in front. It clamoured around him in a circle, as though attempting to herd him elsewhere.

“Fuck,” muttered Draco, considering all the manners in which Granger could have been in danger if she were risking the muggles sighting her Patronus.

Draco craned his neck to glance past the otter and found the dark wizard well and truly disappeared.

Reeling off a string of swears beneath his breath, Draco followed at a run as the iridescent animal propelled itself forward, guiding him to the end of the lane. Just as they met a brick archway, the Patronus vanished, leaving only a few silver wisps in the air.

Descending a short set of steps, Draco’s heartbeat thudded. These days, he was proficient at keeping his nerves reigned and allowed the adrenaline to drive him, firm his magic, and sharpen his senses; but today, he simply felt sick. Where was Granger?

Three figures ahead moved in meagre daylight at the end of the walkway. As he closed in with his silenced footsteps, he discovered Granger roughly handled by an older man in a ragged suit, his fingers clawing into her shoulders as she tried to wrench away. A younger dark-bearded man closed in towards her face, the Archduke’s military cap gripped in his hand. Noticing Granger’s wand on the ground between her feet kindled Draco’s temper. What was the point of having a magical weapon if muggles could so easily disarm her?

When the men spotted him, their eyes darted to his outstretched wand and they laughed. They let out long, gruff, tobacco-marred laughs that fuelled Draco’s rage and set him with a searing anger. As he again yanked at the knot of his tie, their amusement trailed off to throw some words back and forth, and although Draco couldn’t understand what they said, he understood the sentiment perfectly well. There was their laughter again, making his jaw clench. Causing the pop of a vein near his temple.

“Malfoy,” Granger began.

The older man was surprisingly spry. He took Granger in his grip and lifted his short knife to her neck clumsily, causing her voice to waver. Momentarily, her eyes flared. Then she persevered in that infuriating Granger-way, “Remember that you can't—”

“I don't think you're in the position to make orders!” shot Draco.

His breaths came loud and fast. His blood felt alight and his pulse was a persistent drum in his ears. How could she have let it get to this? She'd been in this role for several years now, had battled dark wizards as a teenager and become proficient in anything she set her mind to; yet now she showed such glaring weakness. A weakness that hadn't seemed to respond to his own teachings. Draco’s rage burned. What was he to do without altering future events? There was a short, dirty blade held to the dip beneath Granger’s jaw and he needed to get her out of this foolish position.

White-hot rage threatened to impede Draco’s vision. There were very few of his dangerous thoughts that he could enact without upsetting the future, he knew that, but as his hearing dulled and vision tunnelled, he found it difficult to care.

Draco cast Muffliato on the two muggles. “Move to your left as soon as I say, Granger.”

Her chest bounced up and down with rapid breaths, and eyes showed alarm that he judged for his impending actions rather than the blade pressing at her neck. Bloody foolish witch and her Gryffindor-like selflessness.

The younger man closed in towards Draco, Bosnian sieving from his lop-sided grin, and the tone threatening enough to provoke a swat of anger.

“Now,” Draco ordered, and Granger swept to the side just as her body-bound assailant dropped backward like a dead weight.

Draco snatched the Archduke’s hat and then threw it Granger’s way.

The young muggle flung his stricken gaze between the two of them before lunging forward with a knife. Draco caught his wrist before the blade closed in towards his chest, pocketed his wand, and threw a fist to his bearded chin, rocking the muggle backward. As he stumbled into the brick wall, Granger yelled, “Malfoy, stop!”

Draco felt her pull at his arm as his knuckles pounded into the muggle’s cheek. He came away with blood.

“You could permanently injure or incapacitate or traumatise—it could ruin our future! Malfoy!”

With his glare stuck on the pathetic cowering man, Draco's riled breaths filled the space. He allowed Granger to tug his arm down and away, knowing that his temper was impeding good judgement.

Turning on his heel, Draco Accio’d Granger's wand into his grip. He drew her hand forward, slapped it into her palm and stooped to show her his seriousness. “What is the point of all of those duelling lessons if you're going to ignore everything I've taught you?”

Her mouth was thin, brows flexing inward, her expression bordering on chastened.

Draco snatched the hat from her grasp and then stalked out of the walkway and into the slip of sun on the other side. With a tap of his wand, he cast Geminio and then threw the duplicate back towards the muggles.

“You can’t be using magic on and around muggles like this!” Her voice was shrill, stabbing at his composure. Then recalling the hypocrisy of her sending a Patronus into a muggle street provoked his temper.

“Enough, witch!”

Granger flinched back a fraction. Her eyes narrowed into a glare.

He snatched her wrist, as if it might drive home his next words. “Will you stop your lectures and listen?”

She firmed her chin and he took it as a cue to continue.

“I saw who created the Horcrux.”

Her glare swiftly dropped away, eyes rounding with her curiosity. “And?”

“It’s Auror Preston.”

Chapter Text

They appeared on the top of a craggy surface, feet surrounded by misshapen rocks. The fresh air sailed around, playing through the hem of Hermione’s dress and at the edges of Malfoy’s jacket.

Realising Malfoy still clawed her wrist, Hermione yanked away. She teetered back a little, her belly swooping and fingertips tingling as she glanced at the vertical drop below, but Malfoy snatched back her wrist and hauled hard enough that she bounded into his chest.

This time, she took one firm step backward, ensured she was on even ground, then broke from his hold with a downward tug. His sour mood had gone on too bloody long and she’d had enough of his orders and commanding hold.

“How many times can you try to get yourself killed in one day?” he shot. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re at the peak of a fucking mountain!”

“I know we’re on a mountain. I put us here, didn’t I?” Hermione crossed her arms. She kept her gaze moored in nature, aware she had nothing to offer Malfoy at this moment but a frown.

At their every side were jagged mountains, grey at the peak and wearing skirts of green. In the centre below was a mint-coloured river. It was even more beautiful than the pictures she had seen on the internet, and it might have even been somewhere to enjoy, if not for Malfoy’s foul mood.

“This is the highest peak in Bosnia and this is limestone—” Hermione kicked a smaller rock, and it clattered down off the side, sending small echoes around the space as it went— “so it won’t catch fire and put anyone or anything in an inordinate amount of danger. And I'd like to remind you I’m not the one who diverted from the plan of meeting at the Horcrux!”

As he spun away, Malfoy raked his fingers through his hair and made a noise reminiscent of both a sigh and a growl.

“What is your bloody problem?” asked Hermione.

“Why are you so difficult? So obstinate? So infuriating?” He gesticulated wildly towards the beyond, still not bothering to face her.

“Me? I’m not the one that’s been walking around in a strop all day!”

He expelled a frustrated breath through clenched teeth, still staring off somewhere in the distance. She needed to temper his mood.

“Aren’t you going to gloat?” she asked.

Malfoy finally whirled around to see her. “What for?”

“You were correct. It’s Preston messing with us.” The wobble of her voice at the end caused Hermione to realise how she held a dull pain. She never would have imagined a colleague deceiving the Ministry like this, meddling with time and sending them on this strange chase. Certainly not Preston.

“I don’t feel like gloating now that I’ve learnt an Auror of fifty years has created several Horcruxes. I’d rather just follow through on destroying this one, and then we can move on to considering his motives.”

Hermione shook her head gently, mouth now drawn into a sad line. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered, her posture drooping. “Preston, of all people…”

“You can feel sad about it later, Granger. Let’s just get this over with.”

Malfoy placed the Archduke’s hat atop the large rock to his left. He shot off Reducto and it simply flinched on the spot. At least they had the correct object.

He realigned himself with the Horcrux, shaped his stance, then appeared as though he was at the stage where he needed to clear his mind of any distraction.

But he still had that irritated way about him. The lines of his throat worked as he swallowed and his expression was nudging towards anger.

Hermione had thought her emotions were going to get the best of her—if she sat with thought of Preston fooling around with Horcruxes and Time-Turners for too long it set her dull ache into a sharp sting, right in the centre of her chest—but it was Malfoy who looked as though he was going to be the first to break. He appeared stuck in place. Stuck in whatever inner turmoil was happening behind his eyes.

With a swift inhale, Malfoy finally summoned the Fiendfyre, but as he did so, his eyes darted up to Hermione and fire ripped from the end of his wand like a beast. His arm flung upward, entirely missing the Horcrux. The fire snuffed out as quickly as it arrived.

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy! I'd rather you not raze an entire country. Focus!”

He dropped his arm. “And you shouting focus at me is meant to assist matters, is it?”

Hermione checked her watch, if only to no longer witness his hostile gaze. “You know what?” she said as she moved behind him with several precarious steps on the uneven ground. “I think it’s all of your brooding today that is not assisting matters. Now gather your wits and go again. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can return to the future and you can put on a Robbie Williams record.”

Past his shoulder, Malfoy cut her a look. Perhaps it wasn’t the time for humour.

Surely this would be easier now that she was out of view. Hermione had a feeling it was simply her presence that was pestering him. But even from behind, she witnessed the tenseness in his body. The rigidity at his shoulders.

Malfoy took in a great inhale of the alps twice over, then raised his wand.

“Actually—wait,” said Hermione. “This isn't a good idea.”

He whipped his entire body around to see her. “What now?”

“I can feel your temperamental magic, Malfoy. What is wrong with you? Why are you so bloody angry?”

The muscle in his jaw flecked like a taut band. His mood may have been even worse than the night he scolded her for telling Ginny about their first office run-in. Malfoy’s cheeks were scarlet and his hair uncharacteristically unsettled, like he’d spent the day carding his fingers through, but it was the hurt beneath the anger threatening to overtake his expression that set this instance apart from the last.

With Malfoy’s exhales loud enough to fill the valley below, Hermione waited with silent yet stern expectation. When nothing came, she firmed her resolve and asked a question. A question she already knew the answer to. “Is this to do with your impending marriage?”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand, Granger. You have no idea what it’s like.”

“No, I don’t have any idea, Malfoy. I was not raised in a Pureblood family.”

“That wasn’t an accusation, Granger, that was a confession.”

Her tight mouth and drawn in brows softened with her realisation. “Then tell me what it’s like.”

Malfoy’s expression was fragile and she still couldn’t predict whether it was going to fracture with rage or anguish. As he stepped closer, he lowered his voice. “I had my entire life written for me before it began: the school I was to attend, the friends I was to keep, the classes I was to take…” He swallowed. “The allegiance I pledged.”

Hermione’s brows knitted. She held herself tight.

“I was born with the expectation that I would marry another Pureblood. As a child, I had my wife chosen for me, my wedding planned right down to the date and the flowers, and the name selected for our impending heir. I delayed it all as long as I could before the engagement was enforced, then when my father died, I learnt he had added a cruel stipulation, bound by his death. It is so fucking suffocating to have no agency in life, and I was foolish to think this helplessness would disappear when my father died.” He cast his eyes down as he cleared his throat. “I had once convinced myself marrying a witch I have no particular affection for wouldn't feel so uncomfortable, but I…”

He trailed off and glanced away, but Hermione caught a glimpse of how his gaze watered before he turned. She loosened the hold of herself, teasing the idea of setting a reassuring touch on his arm or offering something vaguely supportive; but she was not naïve. Hermione knew she was the reason for his arrival at this realisation. She didn’t want to offer him false hope when he was in this state.

“You…” Malfoy began, staring off into the stillness of nature below. “You don’t understand the pressure and expectations—the desire to escape.”

“If there’s anything I might understand from your life, Malfoy, it’s the desire to escape the pressures.”

“The pressures of what, exactly? Perfection?” he asked, turning to face her front on.

“I…” She sighed lightly. “I spent several years living with the expectation that I was to marry Ron. Not just Ron’s expectations, but my own, and then his family’s, and if not his family’s, then the wizarding world. To this day, I still receive letters from strangers telling me I have made a grave mistake in abandoning the relationship, calling me all sorts of foul names, even threatening my future if I don’t return to him.”

Malfoy's expression softened.

“And well, escaping the pressures by leaving a relationship that was not working, moving against what everyone else expected, and determining what I needed for once, was a fear I hadn't known.” Hermione dropped her gaze. “And I suppose it's what inadvertently led me into your office that night.” She revisited his eyes with a small curve of her lips. “I know it’s not the same—my relationship with Ron was not enforced—but this is all to say that I understand pressure.”

Apparently something she said had permeated his terrible mood. Malfoy’s smirk simmered, attempting to make itself known.

“I'm happy for you, Granger. Happy that you’ve been strong enough to push back against the expectations,” he said, expression genuine. “And I'm extremely happy that it led you into my office.”

She jutted out a foot from beneath her dress and playfully nudged at his shin. “Well, I want you to know that even though we’re not continuing our… activities” —she slid her eyes up to his— “you can speak to me about any of this, Malfoy. I'll always lend an ear.”

“You will?”

“Of course. I might have grown a little fond of you and now feel slightly invested in your well-being.”

“A little?”

She curved her lips in reply.

“You're not just saying that because you fancy me, are you?”

“Fancied you,” she corrected, turning away and peering into the distance. “And no.”

They caught each other’s eye and shared a fleeting smile.

For a length, they viewed the greenery in the valley below and watched as the river’s surface skittered with the faint breeze. After all their snide interactions, Hermione hadn't expected the beauty of today. This view.

Their shared understanding.

“Well then," began Hermione, "let me have a go.”

“At Fiendfyre?”

Hermione faced the Horcrux and outstretched her wand. “I practised in the event you didn't show today.”

“You've been playing around with dark magic? Granger, I didn't know you had it in you.”

She smiled as she fussed about preparing her stance in the way Malfoy had done moments ago. He fell back a step or two, past her shoulder.

The Fiendfyre teased from Hermione’s wand in a restrained curl, reaching towards the Horcrux. It latched its flaming fingers around the hat and as it worked, ash fell away into the gentle breeze, scattering it in all directions. When the object was no more, Hermione lowered her arm and spun to see Malfoy with a triumphant expression.

He inclined his head towards her. “Well done, Granger, admirable effort.”

“Admirable!”

“Fine—brilliant.”

She grinned broadly, letting slip a small laugh, and Malfoy’s smile pricked wider again. Hermione closed in towards him, tipping her head with her thoughts as she went. “The non-existent fight in the Horcrux makes no sense, other than it's the product of a supposed good wizard,” she mused aloud. “I guess that explains the lack of dark magic we feel in the vicinity?”

“None of this is making sense. What is the point of creating Horcruxes and then leaving us a list to find them?”

Hermione pulled her mouth in at the side, searching for an answer. “All I know is that we need to inform Harry.” She fished the Time-Turner from beneath the collar of her dress. “Preston making Horcruxes, and on Ministry time at that, is far above our remit.” Quickly, she bridged the gap between them and pinched the gold chain through two fingers, ready to loop around Malfoy’s neck.

But as she went to lift on to her toes, he distracted from her efforts. “I didn’t realise you were injured.”

Following his eye-line, Hermione dragged her fingertips down her throat, coming away with a smear of red. “Oh, I hadn’t felt it.”

He held up his wand. “I can mend—”

“No, I can—”

“Granger.” He gave her a stern look and she stilled. “Just tilt your head this way.”

Gently, Malfoy clasped her jaw to angle her head and better see the injury, and Hermione pretended her eyes hadn't fluttered ever so slightly as his fingers met her skin. All Aurors were adept at minor healing charms for the field and she could have managed perfectly well herself, but Hermione couldn’t deny she enjoyed feeling his heated touch. Could he feel the fevered fleck of her pulse beneath his thumb?

When his touch dropped away, she was left with a longing desperately in need of ignoring.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers rubbing at her disappeared wound.

Before departing Sarajevo, they transfigured their clothing back to twenty-first century attire, Malfoy in black trousers and a shirt and Hermione in fitted blue jeans and a pink shirt. Even still, they were met with a double take from a stray Ministry wizard when they materialised in the middle of the hallway outside the Auror office.

“Hello,” Hermione said with a small bob of her head towards the elderly man.

“Perhaps next time we should change the return coordinates for outside the Ministry,” suggested Malfoy as Hermione unwound the chain from his neck, “lest we land on Wilbur from the Muggle Liaison Office on the way back.”

Hermione pressed her lips together as she tried to smother her smile. It was a losing battle.

Something happened at the top of that mountain. Something that, to Hermione, felt like an awfully significant moment. She'd witnessed a wholly genuine Malfoy when he'd let her into a little more of his predetermined life. While she found herself entirely grateful, she now held many more questions, and although she knew she shouldn’t have the thought at all, she was now left wanting to understand more of the wizard.

In Hermione’s office, Malfoy walked into the centre and then turned to face her. “I’m beginning to understand Potter’s concern surrounding your duelling.” He flattened his brows. “And now I’m worrying about my ability to train anyone in the art—maybe someone should check on the new recruits,” he added wryly.

“It’s not you,” Hermione said hurriedly, not wanting him to feel as though any of her carelessness was his fault. “It’s…” She brushed a fingertip along her lip.

“It’s?” He shifted on the spot and folded his arms across his chest, his expression patient. It provided Hermione a jot of courage.

“This is difficult to say.” Suddenly feeling winded, Hermione sucked in a breath. “In fact, I haven’t even managed to say it to my—” She caught herself and closed the door without opening her mouth nor touching her wand. “My therapist,” she added quietly.

Losing her courage, Hermione recoiled a step. What was he going to think of her? She didn’t want to find out. She’d kept it a secret this long and there was no need to tell anyone now. “Never mind,” she murmured.

Malfoy stepped forward. “If this is something that is going to continue affecting our missions, I think I have a right to know. Don't you? And if it's something that I can help you with, then…”

Hermione wrapped her arms around her waist. He was correct. In all likelihood, it would continue to affect their missions.

“I freeze,” she blurted before she could talk herself out of it again. “When faced with a weapon, I just—freeze.”

He dipped his head a little then, as though willing her on.

Hermione shifted her gaze to his shoes. “And I think my failing duelling ability aligns closely to the night I was assaulted—sexually,” she added, not wanting for there to be any need for clarification. “I remember reaching for my wand and not being able to cast anything because I was losing consciousness, and then… and well, now I'm finding I freeze in similar situations. A trauma response, I suppose.” Still, she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. That hadn't been as difficult as she'd thought. There was no sickly feeling or regret. Not yet anyhow.

But time marched on without a response.

Of course, she knew she would need to look him in the eye eventually, but Hermione had hoped he would have spoiled the taut air by now with some sort of remark. She would’ve even taken a joke at this point.

Regret was quickly coming to light.

Hermione flitted her eyes to his. Malfoy’s expression had darkened. Stare sharp, his mouth had flattened into a line, the ghost of a sneer crinkling his top lip. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight. “Who was it?” His jaw muscle flinched twice over.

She shook her head lightly. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t?” His brows shot up, then quickly sunk as his frown deepened. “Not even whether it was a wizard or a muggle? Someone familiar? A stranger? Or otherwise the location—was it in London?”

His questions were dizzying. She needed to glance away. “I wasn’t of right mind. I had been drinking,” she explained, pulling her shrug high. Then she let it drop. “And I either had a potion or muggle drug in my drink—hence my panic at Theo’s—and the memory is in a million pieces. I couldn’t retrieve it, even if I tried.”

The way his brows held inward and down made it seem as though he didn’t believe her; but truly, she had nothing else to offer him. And all of this was beside the matter. She simply needed Malfoy to know why she was entirely useless at duelling as of late, not the specifics of everything that had led to it.

There was a prolonged moment during which Malfoy’s riled breaths filled the space and Hermione began to feel regret for reverting his mood in this way. She had won him over at the top of the mountain, and now they had crashed to the bottom.

“I had just wanted to give you some insight into why,” Hermione said, as though she could explain away his sudden state. “That’s all. We—we should go find Harry.”

She turned on her heel, but was halted as Malfoy clutched at her wrist.

“Wait.”

Her eyes locked on his grasp. He suddenly dropped it away.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

Hermione held her wrist self-consciously. “This is what I was afraid of. I don’t want you treating me any differently.”

He scowled. “You best believe I’m treating you differently, Granger.” If she hadn’t known the conversation leading to his remark, she would have heard that as a threat. “Next mission, I’m not leaving your side, no matter how detrimental you think it might be to the outcome. If need be, we can go back and start the mission all over again. I don't want you in another position where you freeze and risk your life.”

Taken aback by his sudden sensible suggestion, she simply offered a small nod before retracting through the door to find Harry. Perhaps a few moments alone would temper what appeared to be his budding anger. Hermione mentally lambasted herself. Why did she even open her mouth?

Even after she found Harry’s office empty and a junior informed her the Head Auror had already departed for the day—peculiarly, for the first time before five that she could remember—Hermione loitered in the hallway to take a moment for herself. Why did she have to do that? She didn't need to tell him. Or she could have simply said she freezes under pressure; left it at that. Hermione shook her head. Now she'd gone and changed the way he would look at her and very likely the way he would treat her. She resented the idea of his pitying glances or out of place soft tones. She needed to tell him as much. And she needed to do so now.

When Hermione entered her office, Malfoy was perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed and ankles linked. He had apparently been considering a spot on the carpet. Breaking from his reverie, he slid his eyes up to Hermione and showed how his expression was smooth and even; in fact, she would have described it as good-natured.

“Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me with that information.”

Hermione grasped for a reply but was seemingly incapable of finding any words.

“Is there anything you need?”

With a frail smile, Hermione shook her head. “My therapist has been a great help, Ginny understands without me saying as much, and Harry has helped me feel supported at work. I just need to concentrate my energy on moving on.”

“Understandable.” He gave a firm nod. “But if anything arises, I want you to let me know.”

Hermione read his offer as genuine. Read that she could count on him too.

“Come on.” She nudged her head in the direction of the door. “Harry’s already headed home, but this can't wait.”

Shortly, they appeared in Devon, at a picket fence leading to the blue door of a little pale cottage, where Hermione rang the doorbell and then knocked hurriedly, ignoring Malfoy’s sidelong glance of disapproval for her impatience.

“So sorry to appear on your doorstep without any notice, Gin,” Hermione said as soon as the door opened.

Ginny, with a foot-jiggling baby Albus set upon her hip, showed an oddly tight expression. Perhaps it was Malfoy at Hermione’s side? Surely he was welcome company given all the quidditch training?

The end of Ginny’s mouth turned into a sort-of smile. She swept the door open wider. “It's not a problem. Come on in.”

Hermione stepped into the hallway, into the hug of heat and the scent of nappy cream and stewed apple.

Malfoy followed closely behind. “Ginevra.”

“Ferret,” Ginny said tightly.

They moved into the sitting room at the left of the hallway, a room with blue wallpaper, two large plush sofas facing the barren fireplace, and children's toys scattered around the carpet.

“We won't be long,” said Hermione, reaching out to catch Albus’ flailing hand as he babbled her way. He grasped at her proffered finger, then attempted to drag it into his gummy mouth. “Is James about?”

“At Angelina and George's this afternoon.”

“Well, we're here on some Ministry business that I'm afraid can't wait. Apparently Harry's left the office for the day. Is he here?”

“Um.” Ginny’s eyes flung to Malfoy. Colour brushed her cheeks and Hermione realised she couldn’t recall the last time Ginny Potter reddened if it weren’t from the exertion of Quidditch. She always had a way of coming at life, situations, conversations and people with an unapologetic force, which rendered little room for self-conscious feelings.

Ginny inhaled curtly and pushed out a swift breath. “Here.” She handed Albus to Malfoy. Not only did she hand her baby to him, but Albus flung his arms out, ready to be held. Hermione wasn't sure what she had expected then… perhaps a grimace from Malfoy, a thanks-but-no-thanks, or arms left firmly at his side. But he took on the infant with ease, shifting Albus so that his little legs settled on either side of his waist.

“He’s grown since I've last seen him,” said Malfoy.

“Yes, they tend to do that,” said Ginny.

Albus pawed at Malfoy’s mouth, who then made a curt gobbling noise as he pretended to eat the little fingers. Albus giggled, whipping his hand away, only to test at the make-believe monster's mouth all over again.

“Hermione?” repeated Ginny.

“Hm?”

“I said let's chat in the other room.”

“Oh, right.” Hermione powered into the hallway to make up for her complete inattention. What had come over her?

In the kitchen, Ginny spun to face her, arms folded at her chest. “Are you quite alright?” Her familiar mischievous smile was showing. “You were gawking.”

“I wasn't gawking.” Hermione mirrored her stance.

“Your mouth was literally hanging open.”

Hermione nibbled her bottom lip in an attempt to stifle her smile. “I just had no clue, really.”

“He's really good with both of the children.”

Hermione nodded in a way that she hoped signalled she didn't care a jot, then glanced around to find any distraction. She'd been in this kitchen so many times over the years. It was routine to step from the Floo straight into the hallway, immediately wind around the corner into this room and the scent of Earl Grey, head towards the tall windows with view of the beautiful greens and pinks and purples of the garden, and sit at the round table where Ginny would float over a pot of tea. This place had always felt like being folded into a warm hug.

But today it felt different. Past the cat-shaped clock on the wall, Hermione noticed patches of darker paint where someone had pried away photos. Hermione couldn't quite recall what they had shown, but she knew they were gone. And now, as her eyes pinged around the worktop, she noticed new tea towels, the rectangular utensil-holder beside the range empty, and the great red teapot now replaced with one that was small and blue.

“What was it you wanted to chat about?” asked Hermione.

Ginny breathed deeply and then shoved out her exhale. “Harry is not here.” Just as Hermione was about to ask after his whereabouts, she added, “Because we've separated.”

If Hermione had been tasked to guess what was going to come from Ginny’s mouth, she would have failed miraculously. She never would have guessed Harry and Ginny were separating. She couldn’t even imagine them having relationship troubles. Had she even witnessed any arguments? Or even shared conversations with either about their doubts? There was nothing.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said slowly. Then her voice sped with her questions. “What’s happened? Can you not work through it? Attend counselling? Give it some time?”

The shake of Ginny’s head was near imperceptible. Her expression brittle. “It’s decided, Hermione. We’ve been separated for several months now. We told the kids last night, and today he's finally moved out.”

Her eyes flared open. “Months! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ginny shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “Because it hasn’t felt like my story to tell.”

Hermione deeply wrinkled her forehead, no longer concerned about letting her utter confusion show. She needed to get to the bottom of this. “What does that mean? It’s your marriage, I don’t understand…” She let her eyes drop to the chequered floor as she smoothed a fingertip along her brow. “Months!”

“To be honest, it's taken such a time because I was also worried about you.”

“Me?” Hermione brought her hand to her chest. With every new sentence, Hermione’s confusion mounted. How was this anything to do with her?

“I didn’t want to burden you any more than you needed. I knew you’d worry—you’re worrying right now. It’s written all over your face.” She shook her head. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“Ginny, please. You thought I couldn’t handle the worries of my two best friends?”

“It’s not that I didn’t think you could handle it…” She flung her eyes out to the side, as though searching for her next words. “I just didn’t want to be the one to tip you back into that horrible place.”

Hermione shook her head. She scrunched at her hair and paced a little on the spot, still not making sense of the situation and now, peculiarly, carrying some guilt for not being there when Ginny or Harry might have needed.

“You should speak to Harry. He’s at Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione thrust out a sigh and turned to Ginny with her brows slashed down. “I will, but this is not done between us. Alright? I can come back here immediately after I see him. Do you have plans this evening? We could get dinner from that Thai place you like, and I could stay over—help with the kids?”

Ginny offered a small smile. “I'll be at George's tonight, and I've been making do without any fuss, Hermione. Please don't worry.” She lifted her lips into an assured smile. “Though perhaps next time Harry takes the kids for the night, we can go out for a drink, like old times.”

Briefly, Hermione’s smile crumpled in at the side as she recalled what the old times entailed, but even still she said, “I'll be there.” She reached out and clasped Ginny’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better now that you know; and I promise I’ll be just fine.”

Despite their years spent together—sometimes in each other’s pocket—she was never a good read of Ginny. A brave face was her baseline. “If you’re sure,” Hermione replied slowly. “But if you need anything, I’ll be here. Any time, okay?”

As Ginny nodded, Hermione pulled her in for a hug. She had always been all tough exterior and self-sufficiency, but Hermione was so glad to feel her wilt beneath her hold.

After returning to the sitting room, they found Albus sat upon the rug pointing his toy wand at a plastic caterpillar contraption. Malfoy lazed beside him, using his own wand to change its rainbow colours into a different assortment with each tap from Albus, who laughed with each new turn of reds and blues and greens. This time, Hermione firmed her mouth so as to not gawk.

But it was all rather sweet and unexpected, wasn’t it?

As she stood there for a beat—not gawking—Ginny turned to show an infuriatingly flagrant grin that told her she knew how much Hermione was enjoying this scene.

But given the morning she’d had with Malfoy and the conversations that had come about, as far as Hermione was concerned, they were now going to be testing a friendship instead of testing each other's resolve. And staring at him and wondering what their own children might look like was not the correct way to go about that. This man was one half of a high-profile pureblooded engagement, and Hermione needed to remind herself of this all the way back to London.

Apparating directly onto the doorstep of Grimmauld Place was truly a skill. After the disastrous run-in with muggles and the need to be rescued as though a damsel in distress, she felt the urge to flaunt her proficiency to remind Malfoy that she was, in fact, a capable witch.

“Salazar, Granger. Close call,” he said, eyeing the scarcely inch-worth of step behind them.

Smirking, Hermione knocked gently on the battered door with the serpent-shaped silver knocker. It was barely two beats before it opened a couple of feet and revealed a confused Harry, still wearing his Auror robes. Two deep lines were taking shape between his brows, yet the rumpled hair at his crown painted him a little less serious than he probably intended to be.

Hermione showed a gentle smile.

“What…” began Harry. “What is going on?”

Malfoy slotted his hands into his trouser pockets. “Your wife told Granger to be gentle with you, so I can only assume that’s what she’s attempting to do with her face.”

Harry’s bearing slackened a little. The door opened a foot wider. “You’ve spoken to Ginny then?”

“Yes, but she was rather evasive.” Hermione was trying to keep her expression relatively neutral. However, it was an odd mix of worry and apprehension for what was soon to come. What was he going to tell her about the breakdown of his marriage? Somehow, she had almost entirely forgotten the fact that a Ministry worker—a perfectly lovely colleague—had used dark magic to create several Horcruxes.

“May we come in?” asked Malfoy.

“What is this about?”

Simultaneously, Malfoy said “the case” and Hermione said “your marriage.”

Malfoy’s brows flew towards his hairline. She hadn’t told him any semblance of the conversation between her and Ginny, not feeling it was her place, and now she was realising she’d already said too much in his company.

Hermione turned back to Harry. “The case.”

“Though, I’d prefer if we didn’t talk about it on the doorstep,” added Malfoy.

“And I’m afraid it can’t wait,” said Hermione, preempting the reason Harry opened his mouth.

He swept aside and let them through with a rather reluctant look. “Try not to say anything in the halls. Walburga’s portrait is still stuck and as horrid as ever.”

After several years of disuse, Grimmauld Place appeared an awful lot like the derelict building they had stumbled into as children. It smelled damp. It was dark, the decor eating away the meagre light. Giving the troll leg umbrella stand a wide berth, they moved beneath the dim chandelier, their feet making trails through dust and whirling it into the air. Hermione needed to rub a knuckle to her nose to quickly stifle a sneeze, fearful she would disturb the cruel portrait. She was not in the mood to be called a Mudblood today. Before they curved into the kitchen, she shot cleaning charms back into the hall, determined not to see the grime again on the way out.

“You're going to have to let me clean, Harry. This is not habitable.”

“I’ll get Kreacher onto it, don’t worry.” He trailed further into the kitchen and towards the end of the grand table. “Though I’m fairly certain there’s another Boggart upstairs, if you feel like tackling one.”

As she moved into the space, Hermione felt a bittersweet pang of nostalgia. Although she disliked the feel of the place, this room in particular held memories she never minded reminiscing. This table had once been surrounded by so many people she loved, and now it simply held Harry’s sad dinner of cheese and bread, and an assortment of work files. Closer to Hermione were the missing utensils and tea towels from Ginny’s.

After Harry took a seat at the head of the table, they followed suit. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who she thought had been peculiarly quiet. He seemed to be taking in the space with a rather inscrutable expression. Now she truly thought about it, this must have been an odd feeling for both men in the room. Malfoy, who had been sucked into the middle of a situation he likely would prefer not to concern himself with and dragged to a house that was more closely linked to his ancestors, and Harry, whose childhood nemesis was sitting in what was now his bachelor pad following the breakdown of his marriage. It was this realisation that caused Hermione to simply get straight to the point.

“We destroyed another Horcrux.” She placed her hands on the table and entwined her fingers.

Directly ahead, Malfoy nodded succinctly.

“And we now know who created said Horcrux.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest. “And?”

“And…” She slid her eyes to Malfoy before answering. “It’s Preston.” It had come out quieter than she had intended. But she had progressed on from her shock and sadness and was beginning to feel sickly about it.

“Is this a joke?” His eyes darted between the two of them.

“Unfortunately not, Potter. This isn’t my type of joke.”

Harry sunk his gaze to the table. He took in a long inhale, held his breath for a beat or two, then pushed it from his mouth. “I think I’m understanding your urgency.”

Malfoy angled his entire body towards Harry, his feet knocking Hermione’s on the way without bothering an apologetic glance. “We haven’t had an opportunity to consider the motive just yet.”

“Are you two entirely sure? Couldn’t it be a transfigured wizard? Someone who looks vaguely similar? Polyjuice Potion?”

Hermione eyed Malfoy to judge whether they might have disagreed on the matter, but she could see simply by the way his eyes settled on her that they shared the same view. “We think it’s him, Harry. While I haven’t a clue why, it makes an awful lot of sense given his case notes. The lengths he appeared to go to source the Time-Turner. The obscure list he left for us.”

“Why would he create Horcruxes and then leave you a list to find them?” Harry asked. “That defeats the purpose entirely.”

Hermione shrugged for a protracted moment.

“And as he's creating these Horcruxes, you’re telling me the muggles can’t see anything? How is he using such dark magic in front of them and getting away with it? What about the International Statute of Secrecy?”

“It would be easy to miss,” said Malfoy, an elbow now propped on the table. “As soon as shots were fired, the streets were a riot. And then last time, the audience were all distracted by the stage play, weren't they? Of course they didn’t see anything.”

“And I suspect any ability to determine breaches in the Statute at these points in history were crude,” added Hermione. “He would be in another place and time before they even caught wind.”

Harry flattened his mouth, appearing unconvinced. “But why didn’t you see Preston at the last mission? Your spells revealed no presence?”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy as she grasped for an answer. “That I can’t say, Harry. Perhaps he immediately used the Time-Turner?”

“The more I consider his plan, the cleverer it seems,” said Malfoy. “Using muggles destined for an early, infamous death means he doesn’t harm anyone he doesn’t need to, he knows exactly where to find a dead man walking, and it still serves its purpose in scything away a part of his soul. In fact, I know Granger suspected as much at the beginning of this case,” he added, nodding in her direction.

“And Malfoy had suggested Preston was completely messing with us during our first mission, but I refused to believe him at that point.”

“I appreciate your ability to now value each other's aptitude, but I'm not sure I'm making any sense of what you're saying.”

With that, Hermione cast her gaze down, feeling a sudden wave of heat in her cheeks for what was really behind Harry's words.

“I think what you're trying to tell me,” continued Harry, “is that this is different to what we expected given it's an allegedly good wizard using dark magic, and perhaps with intentions that are not necessarily bad given he’s killing individuals at the very end of their life.”

“We believe so,” said Hermione.

“But why?”

“Perhaps immortality is still key and the Horcruxes will become trickier as we go?" offered Hermione. "Maybe he's leading us to something far grander?”

“Like what?” queried Malfoy. “A beast? The final Horcrux is a dragon impenetrable to Fiendfyre?”

“It could be,” Hermione said with a point of her chin.

Instead of the usual look of challenge she had come to expect, Malfoy simply tipped his mouth into a smile.

“Perhaps his list is incomplete,” added Hermione, “and there are hundreds of Horcruxes out there and we'll never know precisely how many.”

“Hundreds?” Malfoy’s eyebrows raised. “How many years would that take us, Granger?”

“I'd say we'd be entirely grey by then. Perhaps even white.”

“Tits and balls stretched to the floor, but we’ll be well-travelled due to all the time and place hopping.”

“And across the centuries we’ll have gained far more knowledge and power than other witches and wizards, so we’ll have wandless and wordless magic all day.”

“And true invisibility—”

“Are you two done?” Harry cut in. “I'm glad you can find humour in this, but I'm worried about what Kingsley is going to think about an Auror not only making Horcruxes but using Ministry time and resources to take us all for a ride.”

Hermione showed a weak smile. “Sorry, Harry, I understand this will be the beginning of some very difficult conversations for you.”

Following another drawn out breath, he huffed a sigh. “I truly wish I had known him better.”

At that, Hermione felt her expression drop of any remaining humour. She had thought she knew Preston better than this; very likely better than anyone else in this room. How had she not seen any inkling of his strange behaviours? At the very least, Hermione thought she was a better judge of character. “He truly didn't seem the type, did he?”

After an exchange of defeated expressions, Harry rose to his feet. “From Monday, this case takes priority over anything else. I know I'm going to get all sorts of questions from above and I need you to find me answers.”

“Of course, Harry.” Hermione took to her feet, and Malfoy followed suit.

They all wandered towards the door, but Hermione was ready to loiter, not yet done with difficult conversations.

Harry slotted a hand into his pocket and openly appraised the two of them. “You know the strangest thing about this?”

Hermione had glossed over something, hadn't she? Well, there hadn't been time to reflect appropriately and formulate motivations, or even properly assess the case and plan from here on; and then all this business about the Potter’s marriage had been distracting.

“You two aren't bickering,” said Harry.

Hermione cocked her head and shot him a look.

Apparently inspired, Malfoy jutted out his elbow and nudged her in the arm. Playful, and yet hard enough that she tipped sideways and needed to catch her footing.

“Is that better?” Malfoy asked Harry.

“Less suspicious, at least.”

Shaking her head, Hermione rubbed at her arm.

“Right then, I'll leave you to it.” Malfoy began towards the hall. Before he slipped around the corner, however, he glanced back past his shoulder and let his gaze linger on Hermione. Long enough that she had time to shape her lips into a thankful smile, and he mirrored her expression.

Before silence had time to settle, Hermione turned in on Harry. “Care to offer an explanation?”

He slipped his other hand into his trouser pocket, mouth tipped up at the end. “Is this you being gentle with me?”

Hermione attempted to soften her expression. Perhaps she hadn’t come at the conversation in quite the right manner. “I'm concerned and still waiting for answers. I know it might seem awfully pushy of me, but Ginny has said an explanation should come from you; so here I am, asking.”

There was a flicker in Harry’s manufactured expression of ease, a brief show of heartache. “You know I love Ginny.” His voice failed at the last syllable of his sentence and he cast his eyes down. When he lifted them, the pathetic light in the room glinted.

“I…” Harry’s cheeks were suddenly pink. His eyes darted about. Words came out with stammers.

“Is there someone else?”

“Not exactly.” The muscles in Harry’s throat strained with a swallow, then he whispered, “This is difficult to say to anyone, Hermione. It’s difficult enough to say to myself.”

Hermione read Harry’s discomfort. It twigged a reminder of the last occasion she’d seen him all red and flustered, after Ginny’s offhand comment about his drunken fling with Dean Thomas some years ago. Besides that, Hermione had always noticed the way Harry’s eyes would linger on other men. It was with that Hermione judged she understood the situation.

“Then don’t,” Hermione said with finality. “I don’t want to charge in here and cause you to feel uncomfortable, Harry. I just want you to know that I love you and Ginny. As long as you’re both happy, then so am I.”

“We are. Or at least, I’m certain that we both will be.”

Hermione nodded. “Does Ron…”

He gave a hasty shake of his head. “The Weasleys aren’t aware just yet, but I think they suspect something, so we’ll tell them soon. In the meantime, if you could tell Malfoy not to…”

“Of course.”

He showed a lop-sided smile, reminding her of the Harry Potter she’d met at Hogwarts all those years ago. He had become so very serious these last several years. Serious Head Auror, serious father, serious husband. While Hermione understood the strain of work and relationships, and then coping with the aftermath of the war, she hoped he could shrug off the seriousness a little and finally enjoy life more as his genuine self.

Hermione nudged closer to Harry, slid her hands around his waist and laid her head against his chest. As he wrapped his arms tight, he rested his cheek on her curls and she felt him loosen in the same way Ginny had done. Perhaps this was all he needed.

No words at all.

A great crash and then crack startled Harry and Hermione from their hold.

They bolted towards the sound and into the hallway, their wands brandished as Walburga's portrait began to screech. But Harry’s arm dropped before Hermione had a chance to turn the corner. She discovered Malfoy standing in a mess of junk, beginning to hover an old walking stick back into the troll-leg umbrella stand.

“I thought you’d gone!” Hermione’s words were lost beneath the screams of Walburga’s portrait.

Harry yanked the curtains across her expletive-filled rant and finally, as the silence fell, whirled around to peer at Malfoy.

“Your bloody house-elf was giving me the third degree for loitering,” began Malfoy, “and I backed into the troll leg, and then that wench—” He slotted the last umbrella into the stand, then swept a palm down his forearm to straighten his shirtsleeve in a way Hermione now recognised as a habit to reset into his usual suave ease. “Anyhow, I just thought I could escort Granger home.”

Hermione glanced at Harry, whose brows snagged upwards. “Escort?”

Hermione huffed. Why had she bothered revealing anything to him today? What was she thinking? Now he was going to worry Harry. “There’s no need, Malfoy. I was going to Floo—I’ll be in my flat in seconds.”

“Shall we then?” Malfoy asked, as though she hadn’t said anything at all.

Harry’s gaze whipped back and forth between the two of them. “Is there some sort of danger I don't know about?”

“Just the danger of Malfoy’s over-dramatics.”

“Why must you always be so combative?” asked Malfoy.

“I think the word is headstrong,” said Harry, glancing at Hermione’s grumpy expression. He thumbed over his shoulder. “I’m going to find Kreacher—I’ll make sure he doesn’t accost you next time. I’m sure you two can sort yourselves out.”

“Don’t be too harsh on him, Harry,” said Hermione, “he’s just doing his job in protecting your home.”

“From loiterers?” asked Malfoy.

As Harry went on his way, flapping a dismissive hand behind, Hermione deepened her scowl for Malfoy. But truly, what was her issue? He was being nice. There were all manner of other things he could be right now. Offering to see her home wasn’t offensive at all, and after the day they'd had, perhaps she even wanted to give this to him.

“I don't need to be wrapped in cotton wool, you know,” said Hermione, beginning up the stairs towards the drawing room.

Malfoy made a thoughtful noise as he followed behind. “Today has provided evidence to the contrary, Granger.”

It was only after Hermione watched Malfoy disappear in the drawing room Floo that she realised she had just allowed him to her flat. Her home. Draco Malfoy in her home. When she emerged not long afterwards, he had already meandered into the centre of her small living space, sweeping his sight along the walls, past the small kitchen at the far end, over to the television in the corner, then the bookcases at the other side. He actually didn’t look ill-fitting in this space at all. And there was no air of judgement she expected, despite the fact her entire flat was likely the size of his bedroom.

How had she ended the day with a personal escort home? As she observed Malfoy perusing her bookshelf with a much looser expression than he’d kept only minutes earlier, she realised how this was obviously comforting him in some way. It wasn’t doing her any harm in allowing his company. Besides, it wouldn’t be for long, would it?

“Muggles have such fascination with souls.” He thumbed through her copy of The Essential Plato.

“More than wizards?” Hermione scoffed. “I’m not so sure.”

“Of course more than wizards,” he said, slotting the book back into its place on the shelf. “Your preoccupation with this case is clouding your perception.”

“I’d say they’re equal.”

“And I’d say there’s probably hundreds of muggle books on the matter and thousands of songs.”

“That’s evidence, is it?” Hermione padded closer. “Wizards have found a way to scythe their soul. I’m not sure there’s even an argument here.”

He arched up the end of his mouth in that infuriating way. That infuriating way in which she hated to admit that she was beginning to thoroughly enjoy. “There is, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Malfoy’s fair eyes washed over hers, dipping down to her lips and then back up again. Something about the look he wore went straight to the centre of Hermione’s chest. A soul-crushing, chest-tingling, hope-stoking look. It caused her to make-believe a memory of them tangled in her bedsheets, his hot palms mapping her skin, his whisper in her ear as his warmth caged her in.

Hermione’s heartbeat thundered. She breathed deeply, willing herself to ignore whatever that utterly ridiculous feeling was.

“Well, you’ve escorted me home safely,” she said evenly, as though she hadn’t just flirted with the idea of latching her mouth to his and leading him to her bed with her fingers scrunched into his shirt.

“Thank you for indulging me.” Malfoy’s voice was so low it neared a whisper, and to Hermione’s ears, it felt downright sinful. “But I understand how much you dislike this fuss, so I’ll be back to my usual self Monday.” He had reverted to his natural volume, and Hermione knew it was for the best.

“Good.” Had that sounded as pathetically unconvincing to Malfoy as it had done to herself? She felt the need to say more, to detract from any show of disappointment. “Back to my soon-to-be-married far-too-annoying colleague, right?”

Malfoy’s smile no longer touched his eyes, but he nodded gently. “That’ll be me.”

He studied her for a beat longer than perhaps just a colleague would normally do.

“Goodbye, Granger,” he eventually said, then disappeared into the Floo, leaving Hermione with a ridiculous and entirely inappropriate wondering of what might have happened if she’d asked him to stay.

Chapter Text

It became Hermione’s routine to walk into her flat at the end of a working week, through the living room where the contents of the overflowing bookcase sat in piles upon the floor, bypass her tiny kitchen, and make directly for the CD player in her bedroom. When Ron left, the place became a stripped back version of itself. The sad white walls—only spotted with the odd burst of colour in the duvet and sofa—reminded her of how lonely she often felt, and filling the flat with music began as a way to drown out those thoughts. But if there was anything she had taken away from therapy, it was that she needed to spend more time with her thoughts. Doing so allowed her to realise how she missed reading for fun, and how if she left her cases behind at the office, she could better concentrate on formulating her thoughts on house-elf condition reform and refine her draft proposal. That was not work, she reasoned, seeing as she most certainly did not work for the Magical Creatures department.

But today was vastly different. For one, Malfoy had escorted her home, and then once he’d disappeared, she had spent ten minutes watching the Floo in a stupor, dazed by her inappropriate thoughts of the man. Then she was reminded of the day’s discovery: Preston had been creating Horcruxes. Had she known the wizard at all?

Hermione toed off her shoes as she walked through her bedroom. She ran a bath and peeled off her t-shirt, reliving all her memories of Preston in her mind, searching for clues. She returned to her dressing table where, between the stereo and a scatter of cassette tapes, amongst the pens and parchment, hair ties and stray textbooks, was a gift she had brought home from work. It appeared entirely innocuous. Like a beermat one might find in a pub, but weighted and an oddly beautiful grey. Hermione snatched it up, feeling the cool ceramic in her hand.

The day it had come into her possession, she had worked through lunch in a deserted Auror office when Preston had knocked on the top of her cubicle with a rat-a-tat.

“Back from your travels already?” Hermione had asked, dropping her pen and sitting deeper into her chair.

“Just yesterday,” he’d said, coming to stop at the side of the partition and settling an elbow. “Have you been to New York? An experience to be sure.”

Hermione shook her head gently. “One day, I hope.”

Preston crinkled the sides of his eyes with a smile. “Well, I don’t want to distract you from your work, I only wanted to give you this.” He held out the flat, round, palm-sized object.

Hermione took the item with an expression of polite interest.

“I was sorry to hear about your father's passing,” he said.

“Oh, thank you.” Hermione found herself unable to look him in the eye for the way a swat of grief attempted to break her expression. She perused the grey stone circle, beginning to wonder what on earth she’d been handed.

“And I hope you don't mind that I briefly borrowed a photograph from your desk the other week to create this contraption. See, all you need to do is—”

With a step forward, he tapped his wand to the disc in her palm and from the centre flourished a wisp of white, unravelling in circles until it created a gently spinning image atop the stone. Not just an image, but a complete rendering of the photograph Hermione kept of her father and her three-year-old self. The muggle photo had caught him swinging a laughing Hermione into the air; and here was the very same sight in a silver mist, yet solid enough that it resembled something like the hologram she had once seen in a film. As the image spun, she found every tiny detail the magic had filled in; the flop of her short ringlets, the pivot of her father’s body with his throw, then the fold of Hermione into his chest for a lengthy cuddle.

She needed to whisper for the sudden ache in her throat. “I cannot believe what I’m seeing.”

Her disbelief shrunk away beneath an overwhelming longing for her father, the mourning still so recent and raw. It wetted her eyes. She attempted to channel it into something that looked like gratitude as she peered up at Preston. “How on earth did you do this?”

“My wife’s invention, actually.” He smiled fondly. “Many years ago she made me my very own. Extremely useful when you’ve no painted portraits or magical photographs.”

“And so incredibly clever. Thank you,” Hermione breathed, tilting her head to marvel at the little scene.

Now, she did the very same in her bedroom.

Hermione tapped at the gift and tipped her gaze to watch as her father lifted her into the air, rekindling the memory of him. This time she struggled to pull a smile. In her mind, she couldn’t reconcile the Preston who had expertly magicked this thoughtful gift and the one who schemed to become immortal using dark magic. And to what end?

As she considered her question, Hermione slotted on a CD from the top of her precarious stack. When her father died, she inherited his music collection. Although, perhaps inherited wasn’t the correct term. She had saved it from a pile of boxes her mother put aside for a charity shop donation. Fortunately, Hermione had room enough at her flat to save the belongings her mother judged as suddenly useless, and now she was the proud owner of a wildly eclectic bunch of CDs and tapes, collectible football stickers, and a framed certificate awarded for a Doctor of Dental Medicine.

With The Beatles humming in the next room, Hermione spun her curls into a bun atop her head, dipped into the berry-scented bath and felt herself lighten. Her back decompressed and limbs tingled pleasantly from the press of hot water.

The men that had snatched her today were needlessly rough. One of her shoulders was beginning to bloom with bruises, and there was still dried blood beneath her nails from the cut at her throat. Briefly, Hermione let her mind meander in the memory of Malfoy’s hands on her jaw and the delicious spark of something she had felt along her skin. In the moment, she had tried to ignore it. Now, she was conflicted. She should ignore it. But then his gaze and touch had lingered again this afternoon, and it felt too difficult to dismiss. She had been so very ready to ignore everything to do with the wizard, and now all of a sudden he was not only enjoyable to look at but he was unexpectedly wonderful with children, and incredibly kind and attentive—dare she say protective—offering her anything she might need in the wake of revealing her trauma.

But all of this was beside the point.

He was engaged. Very publicly engaged and set for a pureblood wedding critical to securing his inheritance.

Despite this logic, Hermione suffered a pang in her chest. It felt an awful lot like longing. With a groan, she dropped deeper into the bath. She needed to be honest with her therapist at the next session. And she couldn’t say anything to Ginny, could she? As far as Hermione was aware, she and Malfoy were still treating their sexual interactions as a secret. But for how long? He’d be wed sooner than later, and Hermione would become nothing more than a memory. She just needed to get through the next several months and she would no longer be caught up on anything to do with Draco Malfoy.

Hopefully.

For a length, Hermione laid in the bath with her eyes closed and mind focused on her breaths. The steam in the room clung to her face, and a few of her curls had swept loose and floated in the water, tickling at her shoulders. As the Beatles’ Yesterday droned on in the background, Hermione felt peaceful enough to lose track of her breathing.

A sharp tapping caused Hermione’s eyes to wrench wide. It was distractingly off beat.

She swivelled towards the noise and found an unfamiliar tawny coloured owl at the window. Taking it as a sign to abandon her bath, Hermione patchily dried herself as the great owl watched her with round amber eyes. It was a majestic beast, encompassing most of the window frame, with two distinct tufts of feathers pointing towards the sky like overgrown eyebrows.

“Well, hello,” Hermione said, as she untied the scroll from its extended white leg. “Who do you belong to?”

Just as she went to unfurl the message, a small, brown owl with wide yellow eyes skidded to a halt on the sill beside and incited overzealous wing flapping from the both of them.

Hermione angled away from the swats of air. “Alright, alright.”

It was Twiggy, the Potter’s owl. A darling little creature that could only take local trips with letters and definitely no parcels. But whether it was from Ginny or Harry, Hermione had little way of knowing at the minute. Twiggy proffered his short white leg before then sliding its great eyes back and forth around the room.

After an Accio’d treat for both birds—which the great owl neglected—Hermione peered down at the first letter. Thick, cream parchment that felt lush between her fingers.

Considering today’s events, I’m wondering whether you need some company?

DM

Hermione grinned. Grinned like an utter idiot until she realised she was not supposed to be delighting in this way. It had barely been an hour since she’d seen him. Did he know she hadn’t wanted him to leave earlier? Perhaps he’d seen it in her expression. But what could company possibly involve? What might they make of time together when there was no work to offer distraction? She knew the answer to that question and it was entirely inappropriate.

As she thought on the possibilities, Hermione opened the second scroll bearing Ginny’s wide-set, flowery scrawl:

I need you.

Without hesitation, Hermione slipped on a white t-shirt, her comfy army-style trousers and a yellow jumper, then walked into the fire without even drying her damp curls. If Ginny needed her enough to write it with ink, she couldn’t wait.

Hermione nearly landed on a toy broom when she arrived in the Potter’s sitting room, her ankle ending up on a peculiar angle to avoid smushing the fine twigs. The place was, more or less, in the same state as she had seen it hours earlier. And yet peculiarly quiet.

“Ginny?”

There came a sniff. “In here.”

Hermione curved out of the sitting room and across the hallway into the bedroom, where Ginny was sitting on the foot of her bed, face held in her palms. Hermione typically bypassed this room. Perhaps she had stepped foot inside once or twice, but she was fairly certain she had never before seen it like this. Every square inch of the bed was covered in clothing and stray books and photo frames. Several boxes surrounded the bed and Hermione wasn’t sure how best to cut a path.

“Did you happen to Bombarda your wardrobe?”

Ginny sniffed and then peered up from her hands. Her eyes were pink, entire face mottled, and red hair clung to her wetted cheeks. She appeared so very unlike Ginny that Hermione simply needed to take in the sight before she could think of what to do next.

“I was moving some of his belongings into a box,” she said, her voice clogged with tears, “and then I cried a little, and now I just can't seem to stop.” Ginny’s features creased with her sob.

“Oh, Gin.” Hermione pressed forward and seated upon the bed. She swept a hand back and forth along Ginny’s shoulders, feeling her shivers as she quietly wept, then drew her in closer and let her cry against her shoulder for a length.

All the while, Hermione stared ahead at the wardrobe, empty except for some stray clothes hangers and a shoebox on the floor with stacks of photographs and trinkets. The dressing table sported a few books, a mug that said World’s Best Auror, and on the nightstand glinted a gold ring. It was a similar scene to the night Hermione cleared the flat of Ron’s remaining belongings, and the weekend her mother had rid their house of her father’s possessions. It was a sign of change. A strike of finality. It was never easy spending years crafting a life together and then picking apart the pieces to deposit into boxes, even if you were plucky Ginny Weasley.

“I don't want to be this person,” Ginny eventually said, shaking her head against Hermione’s shoulder before pulling herself upright. “I don't want to sit here and cry. I don't want to mope and feel horrible because it isn't horrible. It's a good thing. Harry can be who he wants to be, and so can I. I'm not old and done with. I still have life left in me, don't I?” She turned to her, blinking away tears.

“You certainly do. You have more life in you than most.”

“Good.” She nodded decidedly. “Now that I've finally cried, I'm done with the mourning. I'm ready to live.” She stood up like an exclamation mark, causing Hermione to flinch away. “What do you say? Let's go do some living.”

“Sure,” Hermione said as confidently as she could manage. “Let's live.”

Why hadn't she replied to Malfoy before she'd left home? Hopefully he had better things to do on a Friday night and wasn't sitting around waiting for word. With a sudden thought, Hermione glanced out to the hallway with her ears reaching for the sounds of small children. “Before we make any grand plans, where are the boys?”

“With their father.” Ginny swept the back of her hand across a wetted cheek. “I'm a free woman.”

“Well then...” As she took to her feet, Hermione realised the state of her mismatched old clothing and worn trainers. “Although, I either need to borrow something to wear or go home first if this living is going to take place in public.”

***

Wearing a tight black dress discovered in the bottom of Ginny’s drawer and borrowed gold slingback heels, Hermione walked unsteadily down the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. The now sufficiently tear-free ex-Mrs Potter clung onto her arm, walking just as precariously in silver heels and an emerald thin-strapped dress so tight at the knees that they needed to take preposterously short and slow steps. Despite most shops closed for the evening, there were still witches and wizards dotted around. One or two showed amused side-eyes towards their efforts.

“This wouldn’t be such an issue if we could just Apparate directly into the alley,” grumbled Hermione.

Ginny snorted a laugh. “But then we wouldn’t be holding each other up like absolute pillocks.”

Hermione let out a curt sigh. “Here.” She pointed her wand towards their feet and charmed the ground so that their every new step met an even surface instead of uncomfortably angular cobblestones.

“See, this is why you’re the brightest witch of your age.” Ginny straightened her spine and then swept palms down the sides of her dress, walking with sudden renewed vigour.

“A perfectly easy charm. You could have managed it yourself.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think to cast it, did I?”

They were making their way to Borgin and Burkes, of all places. The antique shop had been converted into a bar following the war due to a new Ministry’s decree for a gradual cleansing of Knockturn Alley. Dark and dangerous magic would always find a way to exist in London, but those in charge now felt like they were doing something useful. Despite the change in trade, Knockturn Alley still had a whiff of sinister about it. As they approached the yellow glow of the curved windows, Hermione felt fear brush along her skin. Nausea swilled in her belly.

Initially, Hermione had tried to put any worry out of her mind, but here she was, about to have a ‘night out,’ as Ginny so casually described it. What it was, rather, was a return to a world Hermione had left behind and an evening of battling reminders about the last time she lost herself in a place like this. To Ginny, this was an act of therapy. To Hermione, it was a true test of her therapy.

As they side-stepped a couple hooked to each other's faces and walked into an unpleasantly sweet heat, she promised herself no matter what or who she was faced with tonight, that she would not fall into old habits. Weaving through an inconveniently placed throng of people at the door, they found where the shop counter had once been. It was now a sleek black bartop, extending from one wall to the other. Behind were dark shelves with gold interiors making lines of spirit bottles glow bright. What appeared to be small and transparent snitch-sized orbs fluttered, rolled and bounced about the low ceiling, providing meagre light alongside the gas lamps at the walls, and between the pell-mell of unimpressed portraits were artefacts nailed to baroque red wallpaper: shrunken elf heads, torn books—one with a bloodied handprint upon the leather cover—and a glinting dagger.

“Surely there aren’t still dark objects in here,” Hermione said as they stood behind the disordered lines of people at the bar.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. A dull mother of one of James’ friends told me about this place. She was going on about it being a monstrosity. But what’s the harm in a night out where you might fall against a cursed trinket while you’re having a snog?”

Even after all these years, her friend’s inclination to run towards danger rather than shy away never failed to surprise her.

As the people before them cleared away with their drinks, Hermione flinched. She had caught a glimpse of the barman, black cloaked and hooded, with a glinting silver mask. Evidently with the same thought, she and Ginny turned into each other.

“Are they…” began Hermione.

“Supposed to be Death Eaters?”

“Isn’t that a bit naff?”

Ginny surveyed the space. “I suppose the whole theme of the bar is really quite dark though, isn’t it? Playing into its history.”

With a shared sidelong glance in which they agreed to throw caution to the wind, they progressed forward to order from a husky-voiced imitation of a Death Eater. Despite his threatening garb, he was all too happy to help them determine which aged Firewhisky they might prefer, and advised that next time they should arrive an hour earlier for half-priced cocktails.

With their drinks hovering in front of them, Hermione and Ginny nicked a booth from a departing couple and slid into the black velvet-lined seats to face one another. In addition to a shot of Firewhiskey each, Ginny had sent her red-dotted eeny, meeny, miny, moe charm to the menu for a cocktail. Now they sat with their forearms along the table between them, sipping on passionfruit flavoured pearlescent liquid, and glancing off into the horde of people standing at the bar, crowded in at the nearby tables, and lounging back on the black leather sofas. There was a mix of young and old men, and no doubt someone Ginny might find suitable enough for a night—she hadn’t said as much, but Hermione could recognise the same desperation she’d held following her break up from Ron. A desperation to feel desired. And not the sort of desire that involved a cooking or cleaning charm.

Ginny gently swivelled her shot glass between her thumb and forefinger. “Harry told me you two had a word.”

“To be honest, not all too much was said; but I understand.”

“Good. That’s good.” She flung her sight aimlessly around the room. “I do hope the boys are fine. I spent two hours cleaning the bloody place before I left them. Hopefully they won’t pick up a Doxy or some other wretched thing.”

While the thought of the horrible creatures that had previously inhabited its nooks and crannies gave Hermione pause, she eventually said, “I don’t want you worrying about them tonight. Harry is more than capable.”

Ginny quirked her lips into a smile. “You’re right.”

They let silence dawdle. Sipped at their cocktails. Downed their whiskies and savoured the burn.

Hermione noticed witches in tailored muggle dresses likely dearer than all her wardrobe combined, middle-aged wizards in smart robes, and young men wearing sleek trousers and shirts; at least two in waistcoats. She recognised three people from Hogwarts, all several years younger and all Slytherins. She supposed the bar felt akin to what she imagined of the Slytherin common room; at least given the description from Harry years ago. It was really quite pleasant. There was a distinct lack of any thumping bass or shouty crude conversations. Rather, there was low crooning music, smooth voices, and beneath the lingering odours of cigarette smoke and sweet drinks was the scent of expensive leather. If it weren’t for the threatening barmen and the scattered dark artefacts, it might have been perfect.

“You know, I felt a lot of resentment at one point,” said Ginny, and it felt like they’d reached the time of the night where truths and confessions were ready to freefall. “I gave away my career—successful career, mind you—because we were supposed to do this family thing together, and then Harry went back to work and carried on like he always had, and—” She tugged her lip in at the side. “I love my boys, of course, but I’m truly sick of the monotony of this life. I miss my Quidditch. The competition. The girls. Sometimes I even miss the dreary locations and horrid rain-soaked uniform.”

Hermione maintained a supportive silence as Ginny sighed and attempted to make her gentle smile meet her eyes.

“It was nice to have aspirations away from the family. I’ve given so much to Harry and the boys these last several years that now I just want a little more for myself, you know?”

Apparently the question was rhetorical, because as Hermione opened her mouth to reply, Ginny continued on.

“And then to add to it all, I've spent several months now feeling awfully unattractive and unwanted after my soon to be ex-husband informed me that he prefers sleeping with men. I know I shouldn't take that personally—it's not a preference at all—however I can't help but feel wounded by it.”

“Well of course—”

Ginny gasped. “Is that Blaise Zabini? He’s still so fit.”

Hermione moved her head to follow Ginny’s eye-line. Blaise cut an impressive figure. He was tall, lean and handsome in the same way Hermione was coming to learn all Slytherin boys boasted since their weedy and pointy Hogwarts days. He wore dark trousers and a red roll neck jumper, highlighting the curves of the muscle at his chest and along his arms. Hermione had heard he was an investigative reporter for the Prophet these days, and for some reason it seemed a fitting role; perhaps due to the calm yet attentive way he’d had about him. It painted him the type of wizard one might tell anything to.

Realising her sight had lingered on the man for perhaps a moment too long, Hermione turned her whole body in towards Ginny.

“Well—” Hermione took in a great pull of her cocktail, sensing her night was going to be over rather quickly. “I’m glad you think he’s fit, because he’s basically eye-fucking you across the room.”

She flashed Hermione a smirk. “You know, I heard that he’s been engaged three times. They never last longer than a few months.”

“Perhaps he just enjoys telling women what they want to hear.”

“Though, the no marriage thing doesn’t bother me at all,” Ginny continued on as though Hermione had been the victim of a silencing charm. “It’s the last thing on my mind. In fact, I don’t care to marry ever again.” Her eyes hadn’t let up from him the entire time they had been speaking. “You know, he tried it on with me when I was in fourth year, and I’ve always regretted that I didn’t give in.”

Blaise stared past the shoulder of another wizard he carelessly conversed with, taking in a mouthful of drink with his dark eyes firmly drilling into Ginny. He was unashamed. So blatant that Hermione needed to look away again. It felt like she was intruding on a private moment.

Just as Hermione placed her lips upon the rim of her glass she jumped and scarcely saved her drink, jabbed for the second time today as Ginny’s pointed shoe met her shin.

“He’s coming over,” hissed Ginny.

Hermione leant in. “Are you sure about this?” she whispered, attempting to be the voice of reason she might have once appreciated herself. “It hasn’t been long at all.”

Ginny teared her eyes away from the bar and swung her sharp gaze to Hermione. She dipped her head closer and lowered her voice. “It hasn’t been long for you, perhaps, but it’s been several months of separation and at least nine months since I’ve had sex!” Her eyes bulged a little, as if she needed to drive home her point.

Hermione lifted her fingertips to her lips. Perhaps she didn't need to be a voice of reason.

“Ladies,” came a low, honeyed tone. “Mind if a couple of snakes join you?”

“That depends,” began Ginny, taking her cocktail in hand and forming her lips into a sultry show. “Do you bite?”

Hermione rolled her lips in to avoid smiling at Ginny’s trite joke. Although, she did wholly admire her unmatched ability to so readily switch from slightly panicked—and if not a tad desperate—to entirely sensual in the space of thirty seconds. Hermione’s efforts to contain her smile suddenly became unnecessary, her expression dropping with the realisation of who, exactly, the second snake was.

“Granger, darling.” Theo stood there in dark trousers, a white shirt and grey waistcoat with a drink in hand. “Mind if I snuggle in with you?” He slid into the seat beside her without waiting for an answer, while Blaise sat beside Ginny.

“Depends, do you have any Veritaserum in your pockets?” Hermione downed the remainder of her drink with a glare.

As he extended one arm out along the top of the seat, Theo angled towards Hermione and smiled in that dashing way, dimpling in both cheeks. “No Veritaserum this time, but I do have—” He shifted on the spot, fishing around in his pocket with one hand as his tongue flicked from his mouth with his efforts, then he threw a condom onto the table. “That.”

“Why on earth are you carrying condoms? You’re a wizard.”

“Yes, but when I tell that to the muggles, they don’t believe me.” He rolled his eyes lazily, pocketing the condom. “So, how’s working with our boy?” Theo gave her an awfully suggestive waggle of his brows.

“Who’s our boy?” asked Ginny.

“Malfoy. Who else?” Theo had said his name as though his world revolved around him. And perhaps it did. As long as she had known Malfoy, he was flanked by goons; but these days it appeared he had traded gormless idiots for suaver snakes.

“Interesting,” said Blaise with an assessing look. “What’s it like working with the wizard?”

Ginny peered down into her drink with an awful attempt at suppressing a smile, then she flitted her gaze up and Hermione couldn’t help herself from mirroring the same ridiculous look. No doubt they appeared as though two women who were in possession of a silly secret. A secret that involved office wanking and appendage length.

“What’s with all the smirking?” Theo’s eyes swung between the two of them.

With a grand effort, Hermione smoothed her expression. “Working with Malfoy is a constant test of my patience” —and restraint, she could have added— “and my days now consist of far more cashmere, silk and sneers.”

“Sounds about right,” said Theo.

Blaise tipped up the end of his mouth. “The know-it-all Gryffindor is funny, who’d have thought?” Fascinatingly he had said as much without bothering to laugh at all. Now that Hermione thought about it, she couldn’t imagine his laughter, and couldn’t even recall a chuckle during their Hogwarts years. He'd always held such a nonchalance.

As Ginny turned to Blaise, she tilted her gaze and hooked up an eyebrow. “You think I’d keep friends who don’t have a sense of humour?”

“I’m not sure what to think of you, Ginny Weasley.”

Barely leaving the sexual tension in the air for a beat, Theo said, “Well I think I heard that you left your successful Quidditch career to raise Potter’s sprog.”

Ginny showed him a tight smile. “I see you appear to pride yourself on knowing everything.”

“It’s an art, Weaslette.”

“Well,” Ginny began with a cursory glance into her cocktail, “I bet you don’t know that Harry and I have separated.”

Theo and Blaise spun to face each other. “Dibs,” they said simultaneously, in a show more reminiscent of their Hogwarts selves.

Ginny bowed her head to hide her amusement. When she lifted her eyes, she linked them with Hermione’s. “Will you accompany me to the washroom?” Her mouth tightened and eyes flared ever so slightly. Hermione truly had no say in the matter.

The boys took to their feet and offered hands to assist their efforts sliding from their seats, and Ginny wasted no time in threading her arm in Hermione’s and dragging her off in the direction of a doorway down the far end of the bar. They weaved through the knots of people in conversation, then with a sharp abruptness, Ginny halted and turned in on Hermione with panic at her brow. She grasped Hermione’s hands in hers.

“Can you believe this is happening? Doesn’t Blaise look gorgeous? And what in Merlin’s name should I do?”

“Yes, yes, and what do you want to do?”

She creased her mouth and forehead as though she had been asked to pick a favourite child or perish. “It’s Blaise Zabini.”

“I don’t know why we’re having this conversation,” Hermione said through a laugh, with a little shake of her head for good measure. “You’ve made up your mind.”

Ginny gave a great sigh. “I think I’m just nervous. What if they’ve changed sex since I’ve done it last?”

“In nine months? I think you’re fine.”

“It’s been years, Hermione. Years since I’ve had a one-night stand.”

Hermione held a knuckle to her mouth to hide her smile and had to stifle the press of laughter attempting to escape. “I promise you.” She laid a hand upon Ginny’s arm. “It’s not changed and you’ll be just fine.”

With a nod, Ginny took in a great inhale, making the lines in her neck sharpen. Not seeing her good friend composed and in control was a peculiar sight, but the nature of the separation had no doubt dented Ginny’s confidence. A night with Blaise was beginning to look like a remedy.

After several minutes during which an actual visit to the washroom took place, they returned to the table where they discovered the boys had sourced new drinks for all. Four inky black cocktails, this time, shimmering with golden flecks, and which Hermione had entirely no intention of putting to her lips.

It was no time at all before Ginny was turning in towards Blaise, fiddling with her hair as they spoke, occasionally nudging him playfully. Hermione couldn’t help her silly smile as she watched on. How had Ginny spent several months separated from her husband and not said a single word to her family or friends? She must have been feeling so burdened. Tonight must have felt freeing.

“Where’s Malfoy tonight?” Hermione asked Theo as though she hadn’t a care in the world for the answer. He didn't need to know she was eagerly awaiting the chance to return home and send him an owl.

Theo relinquished his hold on his cocktail glass and swept a hand back through his curls. “Probably brooding somewhere, knowing him.”

“Oh, he does this often, does he?” she asked. “I thought it might just be me.”

“It might just be you, Granger.” Theo darted blue eyes her way.

Hermione waited for his expression to crack or a joke to appear, but it never arrived.

“He’s been moodier than usual ever since you started working together at the DMLE.”

Hermione’s heartbeat skittered. “Are you truly blaming me?”

“He’s mentioned that you despise each other, so all I can gather is that you're driving him up the wall. But in all honesty, I thought you two would take well to each other after all these years.” He glanced at her with his expression softened a little. Perhaps it was sincerity. “Sorry about the Veritaserum by the way. Malfoy said I caused you to panic and that was never my intention.”

“You only intended for me to spill my every secret, is that it?”

“Actually, you’re such a powerful witch that I assumed you’d fight the potion.”

Hermione looked at him sidelong with a little curve of her lips. She couldn’t deny she enjoyed the compliment.

“But now that my meddling has backfired, Malfoy’s loss is my gain, right?”

There wasn’t an immediate need to sidestep the suggestive question, for Ginny and Blaise distracted by suddenly taking to their feet. They swept out of the bar hand in hand with a hurried goodbye, Ginny showing Hermione a nervous pull of her smile past her shoulder.

“You know, I'm happy for him. He's had a bit of a dry spell since his last engagement ended,” said Theo. “Do you think we should follow suit?”

“Was that it?” Hermione crossed her arms. “‘Should we follow suit? Is that meant to charm me into your bed?”

He showed a conciliatory smile. “Not my best work, I’ll give you that.”

“Besides, I just watched you ‘dibs’ my best friend. So what am I, a consolation prize?”

“Oh, please,” said Theo. “I know you’d like to feel special, Granger, but I’ll sleep with anything that walks and talks—which still provides plenty of options should every witch and wizard in the world decline me.” He twisted his entire body a little further in then. “And, I should like to add, this worldly experience I’ve collected over the years means I can devour a cunt.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned. Very likely giving away what she really thought of his remark.

“I’d have you begging for more,” he added.

Hermione felt a familiar pull below her navel. If he’d said any such thing to her a few weeks earlier, she would have entertained his conversation a little longer. Only long enough to stare into his eyes with a show of seduction as she grabbed his length beneath the table.

Instead, she listened to a foolish voice in her head. A foolish, foolish voice that asked: what about Malfoy? What if his engagement was suddenly broken? What if any number of happenings occurred and she could finally give into his persistent efforts? Sleeping with Theo—even once—felt like it could be an impediment. An impediment to a silly non-happening.

“You’re shameless, Theo.”

“You know what…” His eyes flung to the ceiling with thought and he flared his fingers to enumerate upon each. “Daddy issues, attention whore, praise kink—” He settled his sight upon her. “No, I think you’re right, no shame to be found.”

At that, Hermione knew his efforts would persist. Theo Nott had enough charming or otherwise dirty pickup lines to keep her trapped for the night; and she was only so strong. “Goodnight, Theo,” she said, taking to her feet.

He saluted her with the cocktail she hadn’t bothered to taste. “Goodnight, darling. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’ve lost just yet.”

After he dimpled one cheek with a smirk and winked his darkly lashed eye, Hermione went on her way, reminding herself of the very silly, preposterously foolish voice in her head.

When she returned to her flat, she slid off her shoes and went straight for parchment and quill on the kitchen worktop. Glancing over her shoulder, she found two great amber eyes in the midst of the darkness, watching her with rapt attention. She was certain she had seen Malfoy’s owl depart before she jumped into the Floo earlier this evening; he must have sent her back.

I am so sorry.

Ginny needed me and, well, she has never really needed anyone, so you can imagine the urgency.

She’d had hours to determine the best response, and suddenly Hermione had nothing. Did she need company, had been Malfoy’s question. Did she need it? No.

Did she want it?

Hermione flung her head back to sigh skyward. Her every interaction with this wizard was a battle between her desires and what she knew was right.

She pressed her quill to the parchment and watched the ink blot with her indecisiveness. The last time the two of them were alone without the case or a mission to concern them, they couldn’t help themselves doing exactly what they shouldn’t have been doing.

Hermione didn’t need another test of her will.

No company needed tonight, thank you. I appreciate the offer, she wrote, but all of this extra concern is unnecessary.

By the way, what is your owl’s name? I think she’s rather grumpy from the wait.

HG

What else was she to say? She hadn’t a clue. All she knew was that she couldn’t seem to move herself from sitting at the foot of her bed waiting for a reply, arms and legs crossed so that she was in an obscure knot. Perhaps he wouldn’t even bother writing again. She had kept him waiting, after all, and the clock on her nightstand told her it was almost midnight. Maybe he’d fallen asleep?

But after several minutes, she heard a furious tapping. Hermione bounded up, straight for the bathroom window, where Malfoy’s owl appeared a little more ruffled this time around.

Hermione meandered back towards her bed as she unfolded the parchment and found the reason for its strange thickness. Beneath the tidy scrawl was a cassette tape.

Fine, I’ll live with that rejection. But perhaps you’ll let me win our earlier argument?

P.S. Her name is Morgana. If you find the right place to scratch at the left-side of her mask, you’ll forever be in her good graces (be careful, she bites).

Hermione slotted the cassette in her stereo and, biting her lip to stifle the smile, pressed the play button.

Jewel's Who Will Save Your Soul began playing, and Hermione laughed, tumbling back onto her bed. Ten songs about souls. Songs by David Bowie, Smokey Robinson, Modern Talking, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Hermione’s smile was unrelenting as she laid listening to crooning and then feverish guitar, to lyrics about spiritual redemption, mysterious women, personal demons, but mostly, about deeply held love. Malfoy had made her a mixtape. He’d spent his evening curating a playlist of songs, and even if it were for the ability to win something over her, it was undeniably sweet.

Hermione felt lighter. Something she never could have predicted only several hours ago. When was the last time she couldn’t stifle a smile?

After the tape had played out, Hermione snatched a piece of parchment and pen from her dressing table and rediscovered Malfoy’s patient owl on her windowsill.

“Morgana,” she said, and lifted her hand to the side of its face and tested a scratch. The owl perused her for a length before eventually angling deeper into her touch. “Ready to return to Wiltshire?”

Smile still ever present, Hermione scribbled to the parchment:

You win.

X

Chapter Text

Recently, Draco noticed he’d been smiling more than usual. Laughing, too. When he thought back on the commonalities of the occasions, Granger was there, the realisation leaving him with a dull ache. Between learning of Granger’s trauma and the reminder of his own hurriedly approaching ill-fated future, Draco refused to get out of Nott's guest bed for an entire day. At least not until a pushy house-elf made him move so she could perform the weekly bedding change and refused to take “just magic it around me” as an order.

He returned to the fresh sheets, holding on to Granger’s last owl post where it was slotted beneath his cold pillow, and mourned the fact there was entirely nothing he could do to eliminate this feeling. His light mood now felt a lifetime ago. So much so that Nott used the words ‘glum,’ ‘bitter,’ and ‘pathetic,’ when he came to sit on Draco’s bed and prodded him like some sort of paid entertainment who wouldn't perform.

Despite the irritation he felt when Granger ploughed ahead on missions and how she always had an answer, even if there was no question, he deeply enjoyed her ever-persistent problem-solving, the way she wore drab muggle clothing with mismatched colours, propped her hair into a bun with her wand, and how her she crinkled her nose and shimmied her freckles when she worked her way up to a retort. This catalogue of realisations had led him to question why his fiance couldn’t be even half the witch Granger was. It felt like he aligned with Granger in a way he had never experienced with another woman. That knowledge was the ache at his centre. How, exactly, was marrying another witch meant to remedy the feeling?

Come Sunday afternoon, Draco finally ended his extensive lie in and dressed in new black robes. He stalked into the Nott salon, tightening his silver cufflinks. Pansy sat on one sofa, crossed legs poking from a pink tweed skirt matching her fitted suit jacket, engrossed in a muggle magazine, while Zabini was on the opposite sofa wearing tailored green robes and holding a faraway look in his eye.

Draco set the record player in motion with the swirl of his wand and it started up The Smiths album he’d left atop the week prior.

“He's back on the dreary muggle music,” came a voice.

As Draco sat next to Zabini, Nott popped up from behind the bar wearing shocking blue robes and a bottle of wine in each hand. It made his eyes all that much brighter.

Draco simply sent him a look. Dreary. He wouldn’t call the music dreary; not when it soothed him in this way.

Alongside a relay of clinking from the bar, Draco lifted the tip of his wand and waited to lower it until the novel he’d left in the guestroom levitated into his hand. Whether he’d started re-reading Jane Eyre because of his current state of mind or whether the book was perpetuating his dreary mood, he couldn’t say.

Nott, after downing a glass of wine and not bothering to offer a drink to anyone else, sat next to Pansy so heavily that she bounced her crossed legs apart and looked up from her magazine. He swivelled in place and extended back until his head reached her lap, but as he went to settle down, she smacked his shoulder.

Pansy tapped her wand towards her skirt. “Now you may lay.”

“There’s nothing in my hair you need protecting from,” said Nott, firming back onto her legs, “this is tout naturel.”

“And this is Chanel.”

Draco re-read the same line in his novel, unable to fade out the chatter.

“Did you always have this freckle?” Nott's eyes were scanning Pansy’s face above.

“Very perceptive of you. It’s new.”

“New since yesterday?”

Another line to re-read. Why was he bothering? He should have been preparing for the evening, not trying to lose himself elsewhere.

“I just think they’re adorable,” continued Pansy, “and unfortunately I don't have any of my own, so I've experimented with drawing them on.”

Draco glanced at the tiny brown spot Pansy had placed at the top edge of her cheekbone.

“What do you think then?” she asked Nott.

“I think it looks like you’ve drawn on a freckle.”

With a sigh, the brown splotch vanished from Pansy's skin, and Nott sat up just as she went to flip open her magazine atop his face.

“How’s that manor of yours looking?” Nott asked Draco, elbow perched on the armrest and a finger momentarily tweaking at one of his curls.

“Cold and empty.” Draco’s eyes glazed over the same line of his novel for the fourth time.

“So… not welcoming?”

Draco flung his gaze up. “What’re you getting at, Nott?”

He had a meek look in his eye, threatening to give way to a cower; one that told him Nott was itching to say something Draco didn't want to hear.

“Here’s the deal: I wanted to have sex on that sofa the other day and I actually had the thought—tongue in the middle of a cunt, mind you—that we needed to relocate elsewhere in case you popped up.”

Draco scrunched his expression and snapped his novel shut. “Is this your way of telling me to get back to my manor?”

Draco had made it well known that he hated the idea of being at Malfoy Manor alone. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been there by his lonesome before; after all, his father had spent the last years of his life in Azkaban, and Draco spent one of those in the manor under house arrest while his mother flitted around society following her own shorter home confinement. It wasn’t the manor’s silence that filled Draco with dread, but rather the pressing weight of expectation. It was as though his father’s death had fortified the weight of the magic. The place felt suffocatingly heavy. Burdensome.

As if Nott had heard his thoughts, he said, “If it’s really so difficult being there alone, why don’t we shift our little gatherings to Malfoy Manor? We moved to Parkinson Manor when Pans’ father died, and mine when the old todger got his comeuppance. We can call it the tournée de la mort.”

“Morbid,” mumbled Pansy, then flipped a page in her magazine.

“Fine, we can call it something else.” Nott swished his hand through the air. “Then we can include Zabini when his mother commits to her next marriage and migrates elsewhere.”

“Which may be sooner than you think,” added Zabini.

There was some back and forth between the three regarding the new prey for Zabini’s mother. But Draco was too preoccupied with his thoughts, considering all of the ways he might again be able to feel comfort in his manor. He came up entirely short.

“...and why didn't anyone tell me the Potters are no longer an item?” Nott asked. “Imagine if I could conquer two of the Golden Trio.”

“I don’t think you’re Weasley’s type,” said Draco distractedly.

“I meant Granger,” he clarified. “Although I can't deny I haven’t thought about it.”

Draco heated. His heart rate kicked up to a dangerous speed. With a glare levelled on Nott, his voice arrived low and tight. “Don’t you fucking touch Granger.”

Pansy, Nott and Zabini exchanged looks in various shades of bewilderment.

Pansy placed her magazine aside, her dark brows now a flat line. “Where on earth did that come from?”

Why wouldn't the fiery heat in his cheeks fade? This time, he made certain his voice arrived even. “I have to work with her every day. I don't need to be hearing about your escapades.”

Pansy set an elbow to the armrest and turned her palm up in question, pink pointed nails in the air. “But I also see her now and then with Neville. What if she were to prattle in your ear about me? Would that matter?” Although the question had been for Draco, her eyes slid to Zabini, openly showing her perplexity.

“Sorry, did I say escapades?” asked Draco. “I meant sexcapades.”

Nott offered a small shrug alongside a smile that lit mischief in his eye. “You're listening to her discuss sexcapades now, are you? I was under the impression you two despised each other.” He cocked his head, an infuriating smile still in place. “If you want her all to yourself, just tell me.”

Pansy gave a half-hearted eye roll. “Yes, darling, just tell him, then he'll completely ignore you.”

“Not completely,” said Nott. “I'll consider the proposal and counter offer.”

Draco flipped his novel onto the sofa and then marched towards the sitting room next door. The heels of his Oxfords briefly echoed in the hall until he met the green and gold threaded rug, bypassed the settees and occasional tables, and jabbed his wand toward the fire grate to make it flame.

With a hand on the wooden mantle, Draco stared down, attempting to steady himself with long, even breaths. It felt useless. He tensed his every muscle as though it might lessen the emotional torment. Draco was already being forced to participate in a torturous event shortly and now had to think about Nott meddling with Granger. His absolutely ridiculous outburst didn’t help matters, either.

Pansy's two-toned high heels nudged into his view. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said gently, dipping her head to find his eyes, “you're not occluding, are you?”

“Do I look like I'm occluding?”

Pansy retracted her touch and straightened her spine. “Well, not right now, of course. But, are you?”

“Not to the extent that you, nor my mother for that matter, should worry about.” He knew they spoke regularly. He also knew that no matter what he said, Pansy would relay this information with the emotional flair she thought it might require.

Nott and Zabini journeyed into the room. They positioned themselves around Pansy, resembling the album cover of some sort of dark muggle band with their expressions assessing, aloof, and amused.

Pansy crossed her arms and tilted her head, holding a stance and expression he knew meant she cared—perhaps even worried—despite the fact she appeared on the verge of scolding him. “Are you sure about this evening?”

“No,” was all Draco could manage. Without bothering to lift his wand, he wordlessly sent a wad of Floo powder to the flames, stepped into the grate, and said, “Malfoy Manor.”

There was a brief moment in which Draco felt the manor’s cool air press around his every inch, almost as though it welcomed him home. And then it constricted, reminding him of his impending duty.

“Draco! Where have you been?”

There wasn’t even the opportunity to swipe stray soot from the shoulder of his robes before Astoria's grating voice filled the sitting room.

“Work,” he mumbled as he moved forward and Pansy, Nott and then Zabini materialised behind him.

Of course, he hadn’t been at work at all; if he had been, perhaps he wouldn’t be in this mood. He’d simply been delaying this moment as long as he could by moping around Nott Manor. Which, by the sounds of it, he was no longer welcome to do.

“Astoria,” began Nott, “you are looking lovely ton—”

“Work!" She perched her fists on her hips and her hazel eyes shaped into a glare harsh enough to petrify a ghost. Even her walk held disapproval, her arms stiff, fists balled and the green silk of her dress riding the air with her determination. As she marched along the cream carpet and between the settees, Pansy's hands flapped at Nott and Zabini, herding them towards the door and out of sight.

Astoria stopped before Draco, folded her arms and softened her expression a touch. “I don’t know why you bother with your work. You don’t need it.”

“I excel at my role, Astoria, and in case you have failed to recognise, I enjoy it immensely.”

As Draco viewed his fiancé in the meagre chandelier light, he realised she had the very same eye colour as Granger. But he didn't care to look into these eyes for a length. Even her show of cleavage was doing nothing to tempt him.

Astoria pulled her mouth into what looked like disgust.

Their disagreement felt it teetered on the edge of escalation as she thinned her mouth and narrowed her eyes. But her irritation suddenly relaxed and she wore a much fairer look. “Well, I'm just glad you're finally here.” Astoria looped her arm in his and the cinnamon-like scent of her perfume became apparent. “Shall we? Rita Skeeter is here and her photographer wants to take our picture. She said if nothing else exciting occurs, we may even be on the front page tomorrow.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Firmed his shoulders. Tightened every muscle except those that allowed him to walk. He was steered from the sitting room into the entrance hall, where the clacking of Astoria's heels bounced into the high ceilings until the chatter in the ballroom room drowned them out.

Unlike Nott Manor, Malfoy Manor was less mahogany and far more blacks, greys and greens—the silk wallpaper, the rugs, and the settees. The hallways sported damask ash-coloured walls and the sitting rooms dark upholstered sofas and armchairs between occasional chairs. In the ballroom, floor-to-ceiling emerald was draped around the great windows, framing a view of the winking stars, and several dozen witches and wizards meandered about or stood in gatherings for polite conversation with crystal glasses or goblets in hand.

As they walked deeper into the gathering, Draco attempted to shape his features into something that might have conveyed he was happy to be there with his impending wife. He failed tremendously. Instead, he laid his palm upon Astoria’s hand where it sat atop his arm. As they were offered congratulations and best wishes in passing, he greeted the people they walked by with their priggish smiles, dipping his chin and then briefly quirking his lips up at the ends. He resented their felicitations. How desperately he wanted to wriggle out of his skin and not be Draco Malfoy for the evening.

Astoria leant in. “Unfortunately, the Minister for Magic was unable to attend, but he’s sent his Junior Assistant, and there’s at least three members of the Wizengamot.”

As to be expected, any remaining members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were also in attendance, including the Abbotts, Fawleys, and Macmillans, the latter of which were in seemingly polite conversation with Marcus Flint’s wife Millicent Bulstrode.

Flint saluted him with his goblet. “Welcome to a new world of pain—” He folded inward from the jab of Millicent’s elbow to his ribs. “I mean a new world of joy.” He chuckled in a way that Draco read as mocking. He already knew Flint’s sentiments about marriage considering he was in town every other week bedding anyone that wasn’t his wife.

When they stopped beneath the chandelier, they met Draco’s mother, who was in fervent conversation with Pansy; at least as fervent as could be for two women of pureblooded breeding and in a very public setting. They both turned their heads with demure smiles as Astoria and Draco closed in.

“Pansy,” Astoria said, unable to hide the tightness in her voice. For some reason these two witches started on the wrong foot and hadn’t found the right one since.

“Astoria, lovely party you’ve arranged,” Pansy said cordially. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can see Neville has arrived.” She left before another word could be passed between them, but not before arching a brow to Draco on the way.

“Are you pleased with the party?” Narcissa asked Draco. “Astoria’s coordination of the event has been brilliant. The string quartet is delightful, isn’t it?”

“The Daily Prophet is a good touch.” Draco had wanted to say that wryly but it came out flatter than intended. He was unable to pretend the addition of reporters to this farce of an engagement party pleased him.

With a delicate swish of her wand, Narcissa floated two glasses of champagne from a nearby hovering tray and gently nudged them into Draco and Astoria's hands. “You look like you need a drink, dear,” Narcissa said to her son. “And make sure you eat something—the caviar blinis are wonderful.”

“Come now, Draco.” Astoria craned her neck to view past Narcissa. “Rita is waving us over for a photo.”

With Astoria’s renewed efforts to drag him across the ballroom, Draco needed to remind himself how the future he had expected and always envisioned as a Malfoy now relied on this marriage. Marriage to a woman he had no particular feelings for, good or bad. This evening was one of the several milestones he had agreed to in an effort to satisfy the arrangement, and he’d already dragged his feet for several months. If he could just meet the ridiculous stipulations set out by his father, then he could be content in life. That was what he told himself, anyhow. If he could secure the Malfoy future as intended, then he could breathe easier; particularly given the manor would no longer be attempting to suffocate him.

After the camera flash went off (to Rita’s “Marvellous!”), Draco heard the clinking of glass. Following the accosting of light to his eyeballs, it took a moment for his sight to sharpen and settle on Astoria rapping her wand against her champagne.

The room quickly fell to attention. All eyes honed in on Draco.

Astoria whispered something in his ear about a speech and nudged him a step forward so that he was better positioned within the ring of guests. Wizards in fine robes and witches draped in silks and sparkling jewels stared, their expressions expectant or dour or bored. For most, this was just another tedious event, an average weekend, one more celebration for the union of two well-off wizarding families. For Draco, it was a night that signalled the end of his life as he knew it.

Fifty-three days and counting.

The lack of warning for this immediate speech meant that Draco began with an unceremonious “Um,” then he quickly came to his senses and welcomed the guests, rattled off a well-received joke about the collective wealth of the room, then finished by saying, “And I would like to thank you all for joining dear Astoria and I this evening as we celebrate an archaic pureblood tradition and await our upcoming nuptials. We look forward to seeing you at our impending wedding.”

Draco lifted his champagne glass and, following an incredibly loud silence, there came a “Cheers!” from somewhere in the circle of guests that sounded an awful lot like Nott, which incited a relay of toasts.

Without sparing a beat, Draco stalked from the room. He refused to take in a single face as he passed by. Until he neared his mother at the doorway, her expression creased with faint worry. “Is everything alright, dear?”

“Of course,” he said, not bothering to break his stride towards the billiards room. His breaths were tightening and he felt like he had the entire weight of the manor sitting on his chest; but she didn't need to hear that.

In the low-lit billiards room, Draco made straight for the plush black sofas as he summoned a bottle of Firewhisky from the corner bar. As he seated, his wand shifting the whisky cork away, there was a pop of Apparition.

Pansy stood before him, arms already crossed and a line forming between her brows. “What was that?”

A crack, and Nott appeared at her side, one hand pocketed, the other wrapped to a silver goblet, and appearing wholly entertained.

“My duty,” Draco replied, then swigged a shot of whisky.

“If you felt like being defiant in the face of old world traditions in a room full of purebloods—and a reporter, for Merlin's sake—then you could at least do it a little less blatantly. Wear muggle clothing like I do, or shag muggles like Theo. There are other ways, Draco.”

“Also,” began Nott, “doesn't your duty extend to swanning around out there with your bride-to-be instead of hiding in here?”

Draco felt his lip curl. He despised their prodding. “The agreement was an engagement party at Malfoy Manor and a speech of no less than ninety seconds. My duty for the evening is done until the first of August.”

Nott glanced at him sidelong. “I think I'm busy that night, if this is going to be your mood…” He stepped forward and extended his goblet towards Draco. “And you could at least share.”

Draco crossed his arms, allowing his wand to hover and pour the whisky. “And that was not about muggles or being defiant.”

Zabini strolled in, magically flipping the doors shut as he went. “Your fiancé is looking incredibly fragile all of a sudden. I wonder if it was something you said?”

Pansy shot her glare to Zabini and Nott in turn. She closed in a step. “Is this truly worth it, Draco?” she asked. “I thought you had made up your mind. You said you were going to make this work, but this is appearing an awful lot like the very opposite.”

After sending the Firewhisky over to the bar, Draco shrugged. “It’s worth plenty, Pans: five estates, several vaults of gold, even the bloody house-elves.”

Zabini and Nott had folded themselves into the sofa opposite, however Pansy still stood menacingly. She angled away and shook her head, making her short, black hair sway. “You’ve known this was coming for several months now. The wedding is quickly approaching, and I don’t know why you haven’t tried something to rid yourself of this responsibility.” Her voice was becoming increasingly shrill. “This is not the time to be circumspect, Draco, this concerns your future—it concerns the rest of your life for Salazar's sake!”

“Are you just here to harass me?”

“If that's what it takes not to see you this miserable again, then yes. Pureblood customs and contracts be damned. We all just want you to be happy!”

“She's correct,” said Zabini.

“Hear, hear!” Nott raised his goblet in a toast.

Draco's eyes bounced between Zabini and Nott and Pansy, reading their distinct brands of concern and affection. Even despite the shrillness, perhaps he felt a little lighter with them on his side. Enough so he could finally take another full breath. “And what exactly do you suggest I do?”

“Use everything at your disposal,” said Pansy. “Money, connections—”

“Dark wizardry,” added Nott.

“You’re forgetting an important and accessible wealth of knowledge,” said Zabini.

They all turned their heads, waiting for him to offer what sounded like it could be a beacon of hope for Draco’s dark and misfortunate future.

Zabini’s eyes were suddenly shining amusement, apparently entertained by the fact no one else had offered the idea. “The Brightest Witch of Our Age.”

***

“Morning,” Draco said with as much vigour as his mood would allow. He was one hundred miles away from his manor, and yet it still felt as though the weight of it was pressing down on him.

It was a torrid affair. His first night returned home after a couple of months at Nott’s. So much so that he had awoken at 2 AM with the need to drink in breaths lest he die and, ever since, had been holding out silly hope that Granger would somehow function as a remedy to all of his troubles. He wasn't certain how she might do so, but he did know that when she echoed “Morning,” with a fleeting glance, he immediately felt lighter.

Draco moved into the meeting room, a mug of tea in one hand, another mug hovering out front. He lowered the levitating mug down beside her hand, and despite her eyes being intent on the documents in front, he witnessed the way her lips curved into a smile. Then his own budding smile crumpled as he realised a folded copy of the Daily Prophet on the table. Chosen One Chooses Divorce read the headline, with a rather over-dramatic wedding photo of Potter and Ginny tearing itself down the middle. He already knew that Astoria would be irritated to see that their farce of an engagement hadn't made the front page. Owl incoming, no doubt.

Granger took a measured sip of tea. “You've managed to perfect it. Thank you.”

Draco showed a short-lived smile before drinking his own. Leaning back in his chair, he rested one leg atop the other and watched unashamedly as Granger, attired in maroon robes and hair perhaps a little wilder today, pored over the words in front of her. This witch had rented a significant amount of his headspace over the past two days. As if his stiff engagement party weren’t enough, nor learning Potter and his wife had been separated for months and neither had shared this during their many interactions with him, Granger’s plight sat at the forefront of his mind.

Although she would have hated to hear it, he viewed Granger differently today. Their generation had all experienced traumas, of course, but that had been years ago and in the context of war. In this post-war world, it felt unfair that it had continued on for some; perhaps some not so deserving. He admired Granger’s quiet perseverance. Draco knew she was persistent in the face of educational pursuits, and it was the expectation of an Auror to be resilient, but this was a different matter. It wasn't a rogue spell from a dark wizard; Granger’s trauma was deeply personal. Infiltrating. Perhaps he had underestimated her? Maybe she did have what was necessary to outperform him as the best Auror in the department.

“You're…” Draco paused, smoothing his brow from its furrow at the reminder of her manhandling during their last mission. “You were relatively unharmed following the other day?”

Granger showed enough of a smile that Draco was satisfied. “Just a bruise or two.”

“So, you're fine?”

She tilted her head. “Malfoy, I thought you were returning to your prattish self today?”

Draco watched Granger and her sudden seriousness with an angled gaze. “Right. And that means I can't ask after your well-being?”

“Well, yes. You're being nicer than usual. It's strange.”

“If my memory serves me, you were nice first.”

Her eyes cast to the corner in thought. “You're right.”

How often had she told him he was correct about anything? He wanted to savour the feeling.

She grinned. “What’s come over us?”

As they let their enjoyment settle into sedate smiles, they shared a lingering look. What had come over them? Enough of an understanding, he supposed. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be friends with Hermione Granger. He never thought he'd see the day.

“So,” began Granger, “did you see anything notable when you chased after Preston?”

“He disappeared around a corner. No pop of Apparition that I heard.”

“Well, he used the Time-Turner, didn't he?”

“I suppose,” Draco said slowly, entirely unconvinced.

Granger flipped her folder shut and pushed it away. She folded her arms across her chest, lips firming in a way he’d come to realise she did when contesting whether it was appropriate to share a thought. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, “maybe if we go back in time to see Preston, perhaps not long before he supposedly passed away, then we simply ask him what his motivations are.”

“I don’t think that's wise.” It was as though the words had fallen from his mouth.

“It’s not wise?” Her brows pricked up. “Why?”

As Draco stole a moment to formulate his reasoning, he realised that, above all, it was selfish. It certainly did not align with the core values of an Auror; and yet, he was finding it difficult to care. Why should this case end prematurely? As far as they could tell, there was no immediate threat to the wizarding world; nor to anyone, for that matter. Why should they speak to Preston and solve everything before they underwent another mission or two? No matter what the wizard could tell them, they would still need to destroy every single Horcrux, wouldn’t they? Draco searched his mind for a valid reason, and as he considered the rules and bounds of time travel, he quickly realised there was, in fact, considerable risk to Granger’s idea.

“There’s too much room for error. You’re suggesting we go back in time several months and visit the Ministry. What if we walked into ourselves in the hallway? We both know that’s an extremely dangerous scenario.”

Her eyes narrowed, but with the curve of her lips it painted her crafty. “You say that as though I haven’t already been in such a situation before.”

Draco knew as much as she had detailed the specifics during their dinner in Washington; but it certainly didn’t negate the issue. “You were children. What’s Adult Auror Granger going to do when she sees herself?”

Her eyes drifted down with thought. “We could try his home?” she suggested, lifting her gaze. “Our past selves certainly wouldn’t be there, would they?”

“And what if we find him before he’s completed his plan? We tip him off? Couldn’t that potentially change our futures?”

Granger shrugged lightly, sending a sigh through her nose. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we continue with the original plan: work down the list, search for and destroy the Horcruxes while formulating a motive.”

She fingered at the handle of her mug. “I suppose you’re right. It would be a bit of a risk.”

Was he truly trying to prolong a case? Draco’s every effort this far into his career was to get them over and done with as swiftly as possible, then scratch a line against his running tally. He was simply mind-addled. That was it. The stress of his father's death and then the impending marriage, it was all sending him as loony as Lovegood.

If only for something to take his mind elsewhere, Draco wandlessly made the Prophet slide towards him and then thumbed through the pages. After a two-page spread dissecting the relationship of Potter and Ginny (“From Hogwarts to Heartbreak”), he found a photograph of himself with a reticent expression and champagne in hand, standing stiffly beside a demurely smiling Astoria. The headline was rather uneventful: Celebrating The Malfoy-Greengrass Engagement. There wasn’t a single word in the article that might have alluded to his petulant show that night. Perhaps his mother reached Rita before the ink could settle. Still, none of this brought any solace.

Flipping the paper shut, Draco glanced up to find Granger’s heavy stare.

“What is wrong?” she asked. “You’ve got that look about you, as though you’re at risk of brooding again.”

“This is my usual demeanour.”

“Oh, please.” She dipped her chin towards her chest with her doubt. “Do I need to start a Malfoy book of brooding? The aim is to keep the pages blank, but I already have at least three instances to note.”

Although Draco enjoyed the quip, he couldn’t bring himself to even tip up the corner of his mouth. Palming his neck, he dropped his gaze to the table, as if that might stop Granger's drilling stare.

“Did something happen on the weekend?”

“Engagement party.” The words slipped from a tight mouth.

“Ah.” Granger shifted in her seat. “Reason enough to brood then.” Her eyes darted to the Prophet before she took another folder from the stack at her side. “Did you want to talk about it?” Her focus remained on the parchment in front.

While he appreciated the sentiment, he hadn’t wanted to add to her burden. Not after last week, at least.

He shook his head. “I'll manage.”

“Shall we press on, then?” asked Granger, viewing him from beneath her brows.

“We shall.”

“Very well,” said Granger. “Have you had any bright ideas for Preston’s motive?”

Draco took in a great, deep, lung-expanding breath, held it for at least five beats, and then sent it out quickly through his nose.

“Are you quite done with your huffing and puffing?”

“Not nearly.” He was finding breaths weren’t coming so easily these days.

Granger seated deeper into her chair. “If I give you something to improve your mood, will you promise to leave this brooding behind?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He’d welcome any distraction at this moment; and if it was from the witch sat before him, then even better. “Give me something? Granger, my imagination is going wild.” He could dare to dream again, couldn’t he?

She tutted. “Poor choice of words. How about, I'll allow—will you stop grinning!”

“I thought that was what you wanted?”

“I wanted the brooding gone, ideally not replaced by leering.”

Draco pursed his lips, determined not to let his expression impede whatever Granger was about to say. A prickle of a thrill darted down his spine.

“I'll allow you to dress me for our next mission.”

Something about hearing those silly ten words in exactly that formation lifted Draco’s sullen mood. “And then undress you, right?”

“Don’t push your luck, Malfoy.”

But pushing his luck also meant an amused expression was attempting to push past Granger’s defences. It was always such a glorious feeling. Draco gave into his grin. “I can dress you in anything I want?”

“Anything as long as it meets two conditions—” She enumerated on her fingers. “—it is within the realm of what ladies wore in nineteen fifty-one, and it won’t make me stand out, seeing as part of our job is to blend in.”

Draco steepled his fingers. A little glee may have overtaken his expression, enough so that Granger gave a little shake of her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“I hope you understand how much trust I’m putting in you here.” Granger did that thing where she made her mouth small, eyes earnest, and tilted her head to convey the significance of what she was saying. In school, he found it obnoxious. Now, he simply wanted to make her do it over and over again. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Truly? Nothing?”

“I visited the coordinates and they currently hold nothing except a dilapidated shed surrounded by neglected fields. There’s nothing in books, maps, or on the Internet, and I couldn’t even find a local to ask what might’ve been there in the fifties.”

“Intriguing.” He attempted to flit through all the things that they might find in the middle of an abandoned old field in Hampshire, but the options were too endless. This mission had the makings of the most difficult one yet. “Go on, then, provide your list or rules or whatever it may be this time.”

Granger shrugged. “I have nothing.”

He shot her a look of unrestrained doubt.

“There’s truly nothing this time.”

“Not even a stern word?”

She shook her head.

“An admonishment?”

Another little shake.

“Punishment?”

“Are you trying to tell me you've done something bad and need attention? Because that’s all I'm gathering from this conversation.”

Draco smirked. There she was again—fun Granger. She was a delight. “I suppose you've simply surprised me with your sudden lax attitude. I was expecting at least one new rule.”

“No rules. We’ll leave Wednesday afternoon.”

They regarded one another for a length. Draco waited patiently; his eyes making a couple of lines across her face: to the cute cupid’s bow of her lips and that tiny, dark freckle, the lighter smatterings across her nose and her hazel eyes wide with a reaching innocence. He waited because, as he was coming to realise, he now knew her well.

Finally, she opened her mouth and drew in a long breath. “And whatever you say, I won’t allow you to arrive looking like Danny Zuko because that’s your singular knowledge of the fifties.”

“See, there it is.”

“In fact—” She held up her wand and the meeting room door flew open. A book whizzed in, closely followed by the sound of a not too distant “Watch it!” and then it landed neatly in front of Draco. “You can borrow this. I've left pink post-it notes beside the fashions I was considering, and yellow beside those you should consider.”

She couldn’t help herself, could she? Draco riffled through the pages, coming to land on one with a pink square of paper at the side. It showed several drawings of women in dresses with three-quarter length sleeves, wide skirts in colours of purple, grey and pink, with necklines the text described as scooped, square, and sweetheart. Granger would look brilliant in absolutely any of these designs. Even so, he felt reason to complain.

“Truly, how much creative freedom am I going to have here?”

“If it’s marked in the book, it's a possibility.”

“So, little to none.”

“Enough to end your brooding.”

“Fine,” muttered Draco, flipping the book shut. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Brooding banished?”

There was a flip somewhere low in his belly at seeing the hopeful expression alongside her question. “Successfully,” he said, enjoying her clear pleasure in his answer. Draco knew he needed to rein in his temperamental attitude during work, and there were worse ways to be compelled to do so.

With a jab of his wand, he sent the Prophet back over towards Granger, eager to rid of any reminder that may again sour his mood.

“Ghastly woman,” Granger muttered, her eyes on the printed Potter and Ginny. “I should put her back in a jar.”

Draco raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Oh.” Granger’s expression verged on bashful. Her next words took some time to arrive. “Well, I’m sure you know she’s an unregistered Animagus—a beetle—and, well, in fourth year following her horrid reporting, I captured her in a jar.”

“You captured her?”

A smile bloomed on her lips, a little proud, a little vengeful. “And left her for a week.”

“Salazar, Granger. You're more unhinged than I thought.”

“Oh, please. I could do—and have done—much worse.” Was Granger gloating about her misdeeds? Did she know it only endeared her to him further?

He smiled wistfully. “See what you've deprived me of all these years spent not working together?”

They traded smiles for a beat, then Granger let her sight float down and away.

Perhaps he’d originally misjudged her. Granger was not only intelligent and crafty, but entirely capable. In many ways, very similar to Draco. Sharing his troubles wasn’t going to suddenly overburden the Hermione Granger now, was it?

“Would you happen to know anything about magically binding marriage contracts?”

Any remnant of Granger’s good humour faded. She suddenly had a seriousness about her, as if the conversation now concerned death and dying. Well, to be fair, it felt like Draco’s impending end of life; but she didn’t need to remind him with her face.

“Not all too much, perhaps bits and pieces I've collected from cases and books over the years.”

Draco nodded gently. What had he expected from her? Staring off into an empty space, he searched for a change in conversation. He didn’t know what he had been thinking in discussing this with Granger. He wasn’t, really.

“But I'd be happy to take a look. I'll do some research this evening.” Her eyes were a little brighter, brows pricked up with a dash of hope. No doubt from the prospect of delving into dusty old tomes.

Draco’s expression perked. Perhaps that’s what he had been thinking: Hermione Granger, his remedy.

Chapter Text

In a particularly good use of his time, Draco spent the next evening flipping through the book Granger had provided. A book of mid-twentieth century fashions. He viewed every option for the early fifties, changing the little renderings so that their eyes became bright and hazel and their hair dark and curly. He didn’t bother to revert them, eager for a certain witch to one day find the surprise.

For Granger, Draco opted for a high-waisted, knee-length pink skirt and a black short-sleeved top that allowed him to see the way the Time-Turner chain dipped a path towards her peek of cleavage. She was unusually obedient as he fashioned her into a nineteen-fifties woman, and somehow, hadn’t even noticed that he’d also altered her knickers.

They hadn’t exactly admired themselves in a mirror together, but Draco knew he complimented her well in his tailored charcoal suit. The last couple of missions, his attire hadn’t been nearly as fun as Granger’s, seeing as men opted for suits every decade; but this time he’d improved upon his look by wearing a tie spotted pink and black, rendering them a matching pair.

They didn't bother journeying to the location before travelling time, given it was not all too far from London. In the settling dark of a mild night, they arrived in Hampshire in nineteen fifty-one, precisely three centimetres from the bonnet of a red Ford Anglia.

“Jesus Christ,” said Granger, at noticing their proximity to the metal contraption.

“Draco Malfoy; but close.”

“Oh, please. If your head were any bigger, you’d topple over and take me with you.” She yanked up the Time-Turner chain, carelessly clipping his ear on the way (or perhaps entirely on purpose).

Darkness stretched ahead and left and right. Moonlight revealed that the car they’d nearly landed on had at least half a dozen neighbours on either side. Turning, they found several lines of old-fashioned cars with rounded bonnets and some with no roofs. A couple of young muggles were leaning against one snogging. Beyond was a reasonably sized structure, rectangular with a thatched roof that barely contained the buzz of swinging music. “I take it that's the old shed you witnessed?”

“Well, it doesn't look nearly as old now, does it?”

“That's a barn, Granger.”

“Oh. Well, how am I supposed to know? There were no animals or farm equipment. In fact, it barely had any roof left during our time; and we weren't all so lucky to grow up in a manor with a barn and stables and a greenhouse and an orangery—”

“Well, that’s a bit excessive.”

With a tsk, Granger padded her fingers along the bottom of her pinned curls then swept her palms down her skirt. After shouldering her extendable handbag (now black and box-shaped), she went on her way towards the barn.

The open double doors glowed with warm yellow light, and as they stepped inside, they met the racket head on: the blare of conversations and laughter falling over one another, the zealous tinkle of piano and the arch of trumpets. At the far end of the space was a short stage for six—no eight—men with brass and string instruments, and a mess of at least a hundred people on the floor before them, spinning, flailing their hands, and kicking their feet to the frenzied tune beneath streamers slung from the rafters.

Granger gasped, fascinated as she watched the couples in bright skirts, crisp shirts, and lacquered hair fling each other around.

“You’re going to have to explain this to me, Granger,” said Draco, as an ill-footed woman held up by a burly man elbowed past. “My muggle knowledge doesn’t extend this far. Why are they dancing in a barn?”

“They’re swing dancing!” She said it as though it might mean something to him. As she tore her eyes away from the whirling couples, Draco sent his brows upward, awaiting clarification.

“You know, I have a book—”

“Granger.”

Turning to face him front on, she fixed him with a fed up stare.

“Why don't you give me the summary?”

“Fine. It was extremely popular for young people at this time. Much needed fun after the restrictions and rationing during the war, and perhaps we're in a barn because the older generations consider it a little risqué or a little too Rock and Roll.” A smile threatened to take over her face. Her whole bearing held a sweet excitement. “Looks rather fun though, doesn't it?”

Draco didn’t have the heart to tell her that breeding a colony of flobberworms might have been more fun at this moment. “There is no way that a Horcrux will be made here tonight, Granger. Perhaps a few poor decisions, but other than that, this place is too far off theme for Preston’s agenda.”

She cocked her head. “Then what do you think we’re here for?”

“Maybe Preston just wanted you in a poodle skirt.”

“Oh, please. You wanted me in a poodle skirt.” She turned, beginning to make her way through the throng. “Come on, there must be a reason he’s sent us here.”

They followed the perimeter of the barn, past the haphazardly scattered small, round wooden tables and chairs. There was a sickly sweetness in the air. Sugary drinks, vanilla perfumes, and young love.

As the musicians played their big band music, Granger seated herself at a vacant table and turned her gimlet-eyed stare into the crowd of people.

“So,” began Draco, “we've got a bombing, assassinations, and now dancing. What do they all have in common?”

Eyes still trained on the dancers, Granger said, “I have a theory.”

“Care to share?”

“I'd rather collect further evidence—” With sudden drawn in brows, she squirmed in her chair. “Am I…” She shifted her hips. Her gaze jerked to Draco. “Did you transfigure my underwear?”

He cocked up the side of his mouth at seeing her adorable crankiness. “I thought you could do with some lace knickers.”

“Malfoy! I had two rules.”

“Come on now, no one can see your anachronistic yet no doubt gorgeous underwear.” He'd fashioned her something low on the hips that covered only half her arse cheeks. He thought he had, anyhow. It was difficult to tell without glimpsing his work. “What’s the harm?”

“I give you an inch…” she muttered, her focus on removing the wand from her thigh holster. Pity he couldn't see the slant of her skirts beneath the table as she went for it.

“While we’re on the topic of matters conducted without one's explicit consent, I have this for you.” Draco slipped parchment from his breast pocket and handed it to Granger like a baton, perhaps with a little too much hope that she could finish this race for him.

She cut him a look. “Is this your contract? Why… why does it smell like a campfire?”

“I may have tried to Fiendfyre it this morning.”

“I see,” she said, apparently unperturbed. Unfurling the scroll across the table, she dipped closer to read. Her eyes had barely made two lines across the parchment before she looked up at him with poorly hidden fright. “This is a blood-bound contract, Malfoy. How on earth did your father do this in Azkaban?”

“Your guess is as good as mine; and the fact he was not of sound mind in the end apparently means nothing.” Draco shook his head. “I had been promised a Greengrass girl since we were children, but this blood bound stipulation came about following my trial. I imagine he thought of it as some form of security; or perhaps even retaliation.”

Granger scanned the contract. "Essentially, the contract states that a wedding must be officiated with a pureblood partner by the first of August this year, or access to every possession will be forfeited."

“Access to the vaults rescinded, elves forced from the manor, barred from all estate wards, et cetera.”

“Of course you still have house-elves,” she said, barely hidden beneath her breath.

“Yes, Granger, I have house-elves, and they are very dear to the family and have excellent working conditions, including paid holidays.”

Her expression softened. “They do?”

Draco nodded succinctly.

“With an old wizarding family like yours, I'm not sure what I expected.” She frowned. “Though, I would prefer improved elf working conditions legislated so that all must abide. In fact, I've been working on drafting a proposal in my spare time, and I’m hoping I’ll have the opportunity to get it in front of someone at the Ministry one day.”

“What time could you possibly have spare?”

“Whenever I’m not babysitting you.”

“And in your precious spare time, you're writing policy for magical creatures? Isn’t that a little out of realm for the DMLE?”

Granger rubbed a palm down her arm and glanced around. “It is, but I want to effect change for magical beings, and how else might I do that?” Briefly, she pursed her lips. “Truthfully, I've spent some time lately considering whether Auror work is my future. With my declining abilities and all…”

A sudden heat overtook Draco. His cheeks burned and his thoughts whirred. Perhaps—just maybe—he was having the realisation that he not only enjoyed partnering with Granger, but assumed they would do it again in the future. Honestly, this hadn't been all too bad, had it? If anything, they had found a way of working together that suited them both. There was something like an ease about it. Fun, even. Draco didn't want to be deprived of that. Of her. Particularly with his impending, ill-fated marriage.

“What happened to your goal of becoming the department’s best Auror?”

“It feels like it's getting further away with each mission.” She gave a curt laugh, as though dejection wasn't written on her face.

“But you're good at your job, Granger.” Draco couldn’t let his inclination for competition get in the way of losing her as a partner. “You’re brilliant, in fact; and your duelling proficiency will come to you again.”

Her brows curved in and upward, eyes shining a little brighter. “Did you just call me brilliant?”

“I'll call you any number of things if you stay with the DMLE. Besides, how can I know I'm the department's best Auror if there's no competition around?”

“You do know you work alongside Harry, right?”

“Sure, he's really excelling at all those meetings.” He frowned. “What kind of competition is Potter?”

With that, she flashed him a smile, but it appeared as though it pained her to do so. “I wouldn't worry yourself, I have nowhere else to go.” She proffered the tightly rolled contract. “Here. I'm sorry there’s not much more I can help you with. And to be honest, I'm surprised your father didn't add something cruel, like your cock falling off if you fail.”

“But then how am I to breed more pureblooded children?”

She thinned her lips with an undeniable show of pity. “I'm really sorry, Malfoy. I don't think there's an awful lot you can do in this situation.”

Draco slipped the contract into his pocket, attempting to ignore how the swift blow of disappointment felt like a rogue stunner to his chest.

“I'm assuming you've consulted a lawyer?”

“Several. They seem to be good at putting ink to parchment and little more.”

“Then perhaps you should speak to a curse breaker and see if they can offer further insight. I can put you in touch with Bill Weasley if you like? He'll certainly know someone who specialises in blood curses.”

Draco sighed. He glimpsed his watch. “Instead, perhaps I should simply enjoy my fifty-one days of relative freedom. We could nip forward in time and find some better music.”

“There will be no nipping forward in time just for music,” she said with a flare of her brows.

“The mixtape was better than this, wasn’t it?”

Finally, he incited a smile from Granger that wasn’t dampened by gloom.

“I know you created it just to prove a point, but it might’ve just made my day. Thank you.”

Hearing her say that might have made Draco’s, but he didn’t want to let her in on the secret. “I did have at least another fifty songs about souls lined up in the event you disagreed.”

Granger’s smile stayed. She glanced out at the crowd, rearranging her skirt. “By the way,” she began, “have you spoken to your fiancé about this?”

“When you say this…”

“Malfoy, you need to tell her you’re trying to dissolve the contract. Preferably yesterday.”

“The bossiness extends to my personal life, does it?”

With her most withering stare, she crossed her arms. “If it were me, I'd want to know that my supposed soon-to-be-husband was trying to leave me before the wedding.”

If it were Granger, would he feel this hopeless? For a time, Draco became swept away with the thought, enough so that he evidently missed his cue for a response and the witch before him glared with an expectant expression. This line of thinking was entirely useless, wasn’t it? An entirely useless hypothetical, seeing as Granger was certainly not pureblooded.

“I've seen how overjoyed she appears in your Prophet write-ups,” said Granger. “You’re not just trying to get out of a contract, you're trying to break her heart, and no matter how compliant you think she is in your plan, she’s going to feel awful. Particularly with the newspaper ensuring the wizarding world is following along. It’s kinder if you tell her sooner than later.”

Discomfort drove Draco to his feet. Something inside him suddenly felt horrid and caustic, and he wanted nothing more than to do away with this topic. “I’m going to conduct surveillance.” He departed before he could hear Granger’s reminder of the third rule.

Yes, he needed to speak to Astoria. Yes, he should have done that yesterday; but he had wanted certainty that he could void the contract. What use was it to anger the witch if he was going to be stuck with her for the rest of time? Draco dawdled around the place with his dead end thoughts, taking in sight of the partnered muggles now dancing to a slower tune. He had never been in a room that felt so full of joy. Sickly, sure, but joyous. Perhaps even enviable. These muggles were allowed to determine their own futures and they only looked less burdened by that fact.

With nothing of importance catching his eye, Draco paused to look back at their table. When he locked eyes with Granger, they exchanged glares. Until a hulking man in a brown suit got in the way. Draco passed the dancing couples, pushing through three people loitering in his way, and rounding the crowd to find the man had one hand on the back of Granger's chair and the other to the table as he stooped to speak with her. How had Draco been so careless to leave her alone? What did he think was going to happen? Bringing her into this place looking like that at a time when men most viewed women as nothing more than walking, talking baby dispensers.

Closing in, Draco tightened his grip on his pocketed wand.

“…but I've not seen you here before.” The oaf looked up at Draco when he noticed his presence. He straightened and palmed through his slicked-back hair. “I’m sorry, is this your boyfriend?” he asked Granger.

Sensing Granger might want saving from this situation, Draco opened his mouth to say that he was indeed her boyfriend. But she was far too quick for him.

“Oh no, this is my brother.”

“Brother?” Fair brows above particularly dimwitted eyes moved towards the stranger’s hairline. “I wouldn’t have picked that.”

Given Granger apparently had the situation well under control, Draco dipped back into his chair and released the grasp of his wand.

“Different mothers,” she said stiffly, eyes sliding to Draco as he mouthed ‘see.’ Who in their right mind would think them related? Not even this dolt, apparently.

“Well, in that case, would you like to dance?”

“Oh, well, that's really quite sweet but—”

“She would love to,” said Draco. “No one has taken my dear sister out for a dance yet this evening, and I dare say she deserves to be spun around.”

As she kicked him beneath the table, he grinned. This was her own doing. Terrible lie, that. Could have just pretended they were a couple from their first mission and now she wouldn’t be in this terrible jiving position. He flaunted his smile in her direction as she was steered to the dance floor as though she was being led to the gallows. Or a divination lesson.

Surprisingly, it wasn't long before her stiffness disappeared. The way the lout spun her in and out caused her face to light up with a laugh, and perhaps Draco wished he was the one twirling her in a silly dance.

After what she had recently revealed to him about her past, perhaps he felt a little protective… and maybe he enjoyed the idea of Granger needing him. But she didn't, did she? Granger was a strong witch; and she wasn’t his to protect. As his eyes stuck to her in the crowd, he knew it wasn't his inclination to keep her safe that spun his heart into an uneasy cadence. Granger was beautiful. A gut-twisting, breath-hitching beauty. And it was nothing to do with the fashions he had attired her in; she'd always been this way, hadn't she? It had just taken him some time to see.

Just then, Draco was hit with a lucidity. Granger held a new lustre.

He needed to drop his eyes away, as if that might soothe the feelings inside that were verging on discomfort. An uncomfortable force pressuring him to do something foolish like intervene in her dance. Draco resisted, but tomorrow he'd speak to a curse breaker. A blood magic specialist. Anyone.

“You'll never guess who popped up beside me!”

Granger was suddenly next to him. His discomfort was quickly abandoned at realising she had dumped the dancing fool.

“Elvis? Dean Martin? Elizabeth Taylor?”

“Well, I had said that for the sake of conveying my surprise, but now I'm concerned you truly won't guess.”

“Preston?” he asked with a deepening frown, wondering how he possibly could have missed the wizard.

“Exactly, and he's very young too. I'd say early twenties.”

“Ah,” he said, his question answered.

She slid her chair around to sit beside Draco, then leant in close so that she could whisper and covertly point into the crowd. He could smell her vanilla scent and it was doing something else to him today.

“See?” she whispered. “They’re both wearing blue and he doesn't yet have his bushy moustache.”

Instead of searching in the crowd, he turned to view Granger, eager to see her beauty this close. Her cheeks were a deeper shade of pink than when she had arrived and eyes gleaming with the thrill of making headway with this seemingly lost cause of a mission.

“What is it?” Her eyes roamed about his face, attempting to read his expression.

Draco shook his head gently, turning back to the dancers.

“It's rather obvious, isn’t it?” she asked. “The way he looks at her?”

“So much so that surely he’s not going to slip away mid-dance to murder someone and make a Horcrux?”

“At this age? I don't think so. He was older-Preston when you saw him in Sarajevo, wasn't he?”

Draco nodded, eyes on the throng of dancers without truly taking in the sight at all.

“I wonder what this means,” said Granger. “You know, I was fairly certain I saw him in the forties too, and there was no Horcrux there.”

“Not that we could see from within the lift anyhow.”

“And whose fault was that?”

At the periphery of his vision, he noticed her shake her head.

“During The Blitz, I saw a young boy towing along a girl, and I must say they looked remarkably like these two.”

“Speaking of, where’s your lover boy?” asked Draco, glancing at Granger.

“If you must know,” she began tightly, “he tried to put his hand on my behind, so I told him I'm not that kind of girl and ran away.”

He gave a watery chuckle. “Little does he know.” Before he turned his gaze back to the mass of dancers, Draco revelled in the smirk he won from Granger. “Do you need me to go teach him a lesson? As your brother, of course. I can do it the muggle way, no wand.”

“I think I'll survive. Oh—” She was suddenly on her feet. “They’re leaving. I'm going to speak to him.”

As she took a step forward, Draco snatched her hand. “And ask what? Why is future-you splitting his soul into pieces? You’ll scare him half to death. Besides, what happened to not pursuing the dark wizard?”

She wriggled in his touch for a beat. “That was before we knew he wasn't dark at all.”

“You don’t know that at all.”

Her posture softened. Brows attempted to meet. “I suppose that’s what I want to believe.”

He squeezed his grip around her palm to press home his point as he said, “It can still affect time, Granger. Don't do it.”

With the sidelong glance of a sulking child, she mumbled, “Fine.” But he didn't relinquish his hold until she had seated.

“You're brilliant at creating rules and then breaking them.”

“And you thought I was a rule follower—oh, they’re back again.” Fondness had returned to her tone. “Look at them. They seem as though they've forgotten the rest of the world exists. It's rather sweet, isn't it?”

She was correct, as usual. With the swing number settling into a slower tune, Draco noticed the woman in Preston’s arms was recognisable—a younger version of the witch in the photograph upon his desk. The longer he watched on, the greater the realisation that they were witnessing a relationship take shape, love deepening and a special memory being made.

After a time, Draco asked, “Do you think Astoria looks at me like that?”

“Not quite,” Granger said slowly. “And if anything, you deserve someone who does look at you in that way.”

Draco turned to her. “I do? Me? Former Death Eater? School bully? Ferret?”

A grin overtook Granger’s face. “Even you, Malfoy.”

They went back to watching Preston and his future wife dance for a length.

Eventually, alongside a spear in his chest, Draco said, “As do you, Granger.”

Chapter Text

“By the way, Granger. I’m sure I was wearing underwear yesterday, but it appeared to be missing when I returned home. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

From the head of the meeting table, Harry's gaze volleyed between Hermione and Malfoy. Of all the expressions he could have plastered on his face, he chose fright. “Is this work related?”

As usual, Malfoy was teasing the boundaries of what was acceptable to say in front of colleagues, as if he didn't know any better. Fortunately for Malfoy—and unfortunately for Harry—Hermione was in a playful mood.

“Don’t worry, Harry. He’s just jesting.” Her smile was unrelenting as a pointed jester collar—triangles alternating black and white with bells at the end—appeared where Malfoy’s shirt collar had been. He jingled a jot as he tilted his head and showed an exorbitant amount of irritation in his glare. “And I believe I also found your underwear,” she added.

For a beat, his eyes widened, and Hermione guessed he had felt the constriction of a second pair of pants. Thinning his lips, he nodded slowly as if he contemplated retaliation, the bells of his collar tittering as he did so, and Hermione let slip a rather unladylike snort.

Harry sighed, discomfort still at his brow. “Let’s get on with it. Preferably sans collar.”

Malfoy’s face cracked into a grin reminiscent of Peeves.

“Something amusing you?” asked Hermione.

“I was waiting for him to also say sans unmentionables, but alas…” Malfoy disappeared his jester collar, leant his forearms on the table and a rather heavy foot atop hers. A reminder, perhaps, that this was not yet over.

“So with all of this in mind,” said Hermione, directing her attention back to Harry, “should we visit Preston’s wife?”

“Edie?” Harry rolled his lips in with thought. “Not yet. I don’t want us showing our hand too soon. I’ll organise a junior to tail her for a few days and see what they find. In the meantime, we need to know what's happening during the remainder of those dates.”

“It appears only one more is a famous assassination,” said Hermione.

“Exactly,” said Potter. “So what are the others? What is it that Preston is telling us?”

Malfoy and Hermione shrugged, contorting their mouths in a show of uncertainty.

Although Hermione had made observations about the missions thus far, there was nothing of substance worth sharing. “This doesn't feel as straightforward as our usual cases, does it? I think we need to know more of Preston’s history. I just don’t believe he has a wretched past or something to prove, not to the extent that would drive him to meddle with us in this way, anyhow. And this is very serious magic! He’s certainly aware of that; he was a bright man and proficient wizard.”

Harry gave his usual unhurried nod. “I’ll see whether we have any Ministry files on Preston, and perhaps you two can source his schooling and DMLE training records?”

“I’ve already been working to retrieve his education records,” she said. “But perhaps I’ll track down his wife’s as well.”

“Great idea.” With a slap of his palms to the table, Harry stood.

Hermione beamed Malfoy’s way, feeling as though she had won something over him.

But in a reply she found unfitting, he grinned. His tongue teased at a canine tooth. “I'm starting to see how those very many years of quivering with your arm in the air to answer the teacher's question has amounted to your persistent need for approval. And your praise kink.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione and Harry said in unison.

Harry made for the exit, muttering something about pretending not to hear.

Malfoy’s amusement persisted alongside the quick tap of Hermione's foot, as if to say ‘got you.’

When Harry met the doorway, he doubled back, spinning to see them. “I assume you both received your invitations for the anniversary ball?”

Hermione nodded firmly while Malfoy nodded slowly, like it was a chore.

“I expect you both there to represent DMLE.”

“Of course, Harry.”

Malfoy had a calculating look about him. He angled his head and looked sidelong at Harry. “I’ll attend if you play the interdepartmental quidditch match this year.”

Although Hermione knew very little about the particulars of quidditch, professional nor the amateur Ministry tournament, she knew Harry had been too busy to play the last three consecutive years. At first, it was his family. Then it was his new seniority in the department. But now, he appeared to consider.

“Deal,” he finally said, “but I get to play seeker.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Potter.”

“Then no deal.”

“Then no ball.”

“Then no matter,” Harry said, not bothering a glance back as he abandoned the room.

“Bugger,” Malfoy muttered. He turned his attention towards Hermione, who was readying to leave. “What are you wearing to this ball, then? Anything enticing enough to ensure I attend?”

“It’s a surprise.” Hermione continued on with perhaps with a little more swing to her hips than she’d normally allow. “Is that enticing enough?” she asked, then didn't wait around for an answer.

***

Hermione’s therapist, Maeve, had a checklist. Whether it was a physical list or simply stored in her mind, she was uncertain, but it was employed every session. In no particular order, she would ask what was on Hermione’s mind, enquire about new instances of hypersexuality, query her sleep, and then when Hermione offered a menial life issue to solve, Maeve would probe her desire to change behaviours or set novel goals. In the beginning, there had been homework tasks for cognitive restructuring and then journaling, but without Hermione’s complete honesty, they had now met a dead end. The monthly hour was simply Maeve holding space for Hermione to feel as though she were addressing her traumas and apathy; and they both knew as much.

Well, today that was going to change.

Shaping her expression into something that might have conveyed her openness, Hermione sat on the blue sofa with a vow to be a little more truthful and a lot less evasive.

“Anything in particular on your mind today?” asked Maeve. Check One.

All sorts of matters were on her mind, but she didn't know how to broach a single one. A pitfall of seeing a muggle psychologist, she supposed. How was she meant to describe that, as of late, her days involved finding sections of souls in the past and witnessing historical assassinations? She couldn’t. She would be sent to the hospital for delusional thinking. Besides all of that, a certain blond sat at the forefront of her mind, and she wasn’t sure how to introduce the matter of her childhood bully yet crush-cum-colleague, who was now engaged to another woman against his will.

“Perhaps you can tell me how your sleep has been as of late?” Apparently Hermione had taken too long to form an answer. There was Check Two.

“Better,” she answered without hesitation. “In fact, I haven’t required a sleeping p—sleeping tablets the past week.” Now that she thought about it, she was perhaps feeling a little more rested than usual. Only once in the past seven days had she needed to glamour the purple beneath her eyes.

“Wonderful.” Maeve’s mouth pricked up at the side. “And the hypersexuality—any challenges recently?” Check Three.

“None.” There was entirely no reason to lie this time. She had been strong in the face of triggers and temptation, where Theo was concerned. But Malfoy? “My colleague…”

This truth was muggle-therapist suitable, seeing as it simply concerned feelings. But how was she to say it?

“Ah yes, your new case partner. Any tensions there?”

Sexual, yes. But Maeve didn't need to hear about that. This wasn’t about Hermione’s addictive behaviours.

“I think we've become friendlier than I had intended,” Hermione mused aloud, “nor ever thought possible.”

With each new day, Malfoy surprised her more than the last, whether revealing his new muggle learnings, offering her encouraging words, or showing small acts of kindness. The Malfoy she knew today felt very unlike the one she had been partnered with against her will only a month prior. Even now, even after their several silly disagreements (and their one very serious agreement), Hermione was enjoying his company.

Fine, greatly enjoying.

Delighting in, perhaps.

And then his genuine concern for her wellbeing the other day… well, she hadn’t thought he was capable of such a thing. It had caused her to again see Malfoy in a different light, gave him the glow of a novel shiny thing, as if the man wasn't already exciting enough. Then, of course, she adored the way he teased her, and serving it back to him was always a thrill.

Since their agreement to not sleep together, his every stray glance or lingering look felt like his warm fingers skirting her thighs, mapping a path towards her centre. Sometimes their verbal sparring felt as close as she could come to revisiting that touch. As much as she pretended otherwise, Hermione knew if Malfoy came to her tomorrow and admitted he'd found a way to break his engagement, she wouldn't hesitate. The Line would become a distant memory. Their working relationship didn't matter. Her old addiction was beside the point. Now, as she was understanding, this was more than her inclination to satisfy her urges.

“I think, perhaps,” Hermione began tentatively, “I may have inadvertently rekindled my feelings for my colleague; and I’m not so sure it’s one-sided this time.”

Maeve inclined her head an inch, willing her on.

“And while the fact we work together in close proximity may be an issue, it’s not the chief issue, but rather, he is bound by a legal document to marry a woman hand-picked by his father, or he will surrender centuries worth of his family fortune, power and legacy, and the wedding is to take place in six weeks’ time.”

After this admission, Maeve forgot the fourth and final item on her checklist.

***

It had become a tradition to meet Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron following therapy. At first, it was a task impressed upon Hermione by Maeve: a simultaneous form of social support and an exercise in exposure to places that had suddenly felt uncomfortable following the assault. But then it remained because, in the midst of their work and family responsibilities, it simply felt nice to have regular time for one another. Borrowing a term from Maeve, Hermione and Ginny labelled it a form of self-care.

Everything quickly became ‘self-care:’ an extra glass of wine, leaving the laundry for another several days, eating nothing but an assortment of cheeses and chocolate for dinner. It became synonymous with anything that might make one feel better in the moment. It very likely did not align with what Maeve had intended, but Hermione and Ginny were just having too much fun. And fun was a form of care, wasn't it?

“So apparently they haven’t changed casual sex.” Ginny had slid into the other side of the booth in a dress the same fiery colour as her hair and demeanour.

“Good afternoon to you too.” Hermione nudged her chin towards the foam-topped glass. “I ordered you a Butterbeer.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, then took a sip.

“And I’m assuming given your preposterous smile that Blaise was a great deal of fun.”

“Perhaps an understatement. Being with a man that truly wanted to be between my legs, devouring my—”

“Ginny!” Hermione’s gaze met that of a small white-haired witch with a pointed hat and knots of arthritis in her hands, who appeared no less than one hundred and seventeen years old and entirely affronted.

With a fed up look typically reserved for her children and husband, Ginny swished her wand. “There, happy now? No one can hear us.”

Hermione sent the old witch an apology in the form of a thin-lipped smile, who then narrowed her eyes and turned back to her tea.

“And so I assume you’ll be going back for more?” asked Hermione.

Ginny’s face softened from her usual expression—one that challenged anyone and anything to test her. “You know, I’m not quite sure.” She traced a fingertip along the rim of her glass, puckering her brow. “He’s already sent me yellow roses, and Belgian chocolate, and two owls suggesting a date.”

“Is that not enough? Do you need a fireworks display? His request tattooed on his forehead?”

“You know I’m not about those things.” She sighed lightly. “But it is nice. It’s just… I’ve come out of a long relationship, haven’t I? I thought he’d be a bit of fun given his aversion to commitment; that's it. I don’t think it should become anything else.”

“Not even just a form of self-care?” Hermione’s mouth tipped up at the end.

“Perhaps if I can’t seem to attract anyone else.”

“Oh, please. There’s a line out the door and down the road,” said Hermione. “Which reminds me, I ran into Anthony Goldstein at the Ministry yesterday, and he asked me if the Rita article was true and whether you’d mind if he sent you an owl.”

“Bloody Rita.” Sitting deeper into her seat, Ginny contorted her face. “If I find her in bug form, she’s going to be jarred indefinitely.”

“Not if I get to her first.” She crooked her brow. With all the fuss Rita had continued to make with her quill and ink, Hermione was regretting ever freeing her from the jar to begin with.

After a great mouthful of drink, Ginny placed her hands into her lap and set her eyes upon Hermione with steadfast focus. “Enough about me, then. How was your therapy?”

“Well, Maeve seems to think I’ve made some progress.” Hermione allowed herself a gentle smile, ignoring how her palms had become clammy. It had been some time since she could say as much, and although she felt proud, she was also feeling a swell of trepidation for the conversation that was to come. But Ginny, who gave a hum of acknowledgement in a way that willed Hermione on, was helping her feel awfully supported.

“Maeve suggested I divulge my current predicament to you, rather than ‘suffer from my self-imposed self-reliance,’ as she called it.”

“You know I'm always here for anything you need.” Ginny put her head to one side. “And is your therapist usually quite so straightforward?”

“She was particularly passionate today.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

“And persuasive,” added Hermione, “seeing as this is meant to be a secret.”

Eyes wide and waiting, Ginny leant forward an inch.

Following a deep steadying breath, Hermione began, “Malfoy—”

“I knew it!” she whisper-yelled. “Your eyes became little love hearts the other day!” Ginny had nearly bounced from her seat with her enthusiasm.

Truly, did she even need to say anything further? Hermione covered her face and groaned into her palms. “But he's engaged! His wedding is in just over a month!” She dropped her hands, brows bent in with her helplessness. “It's this stupid case.”

“There's no point in blaming the case.” Ginny’s expression held unmistakable satisfaction.

“He's fun Gin, and funny and considerate and—”

She gasped. “Have you slept with him?”

“No, that’s not… No.”

“Why not?”

It was a complicated set of occurrences that had impeded any sex, and Hermione thought each and every one would be a subpar excuse in the eyes of Ginny. Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

All the while, Ginny’s mouth had shaped into a wicked grin. She shook her head with some type of unrelenting awe. “You fancy him.”

“See,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, “this is exactly why I never wanted to partner with him. And what happened to your concern? You were so worried about us working on this case.”

“That was before I saw the two of you together and witnessed your shared smiles and longing looks. It was all rather nauseating. Now I think all those years spent avoiding him were just delaying the inevitable.” Her caring expression had firmly given way to glee. “The feelings are reciprocated this time. And he's much fitter than he was in school.” Ginny was bordering on giddy. She flared her fingers upon the table and with another little bounce in her seat, asked, “Have you snogged him yet?”

Hermione offered a listless shake of her head.

“Truly? Nothing?”

“No—in fact, Maeve and I came to the realisation today that I consider kissing far more intimate than I once did.”

“Than sex?”

Hermione shaped her mouth into a smile, as though it would make the next words easier, and ignored the way it felt rather glum and out of place. “It was something that wasn’t taken from me that night.”

Suddenly, Ginny’s look softened into one that simultaneously conveyed her love and concern.

“Oddly enough,” Hermione continued, if only to mar the silence, “kissing now feels like a form of intimacy I should reserve for someone I love.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione.” Her voice verged on a whisper. “I shouldn’t speak about these things so flippantly.”

“Yes, you should.” Hermione gave a resolute nod. “I’ll tell you if there’s any discomfort on my part. In fact, I demand you share every filthy detail of your own newfound singledom.”

“Every detail?”

“With Muffliato for good measure.” Hermione darted her sight past Ginny’s shoulder to the now blissfully unaware elderly witch. “Besides, you've been awfully patient with me over the last year or so, and I haven't always been so forthcoming. How else were you supposed to know?”

They exchanged a look of mutual relief and understanding. It had taken Hermione far too long to get to this place, to be vulnerable and feel she could wholly divulge to Ginny. Before, she had gone to her searching for vague support for verbally misrepresented feelings and cryptic issues, and perhaps it was the shame of it. Now, however, it felt different. Hermione felt different. Maybe truth-telling in therapy had its benefits and perhaps being honest with herself was necessary. Just maybe she needed to try it more often.

“I've been meaning to ask…” Ginny suddenly had a sly look. “What do you know of Theo Nott?”

“Brilliant yet insatiable potioneer. Why's that?”

“Harry’s asked to swap his day with the boys this weekend because apparently Theo has asked him out for a drink.”

They traded knowing looks.

“Poor Harry might get more than he's bargained for,” said Hermione.

“I told him as much.”

Hermione sniggered into her Butterbeer.

“I also promised that I'd bring the kids to watch him play the first interdepartmental quidditch match. Would you care to join?”

“Oh, he’s playing now, is he?”

“And he’d love your support, even if you’re sitting there looking bored.”

Hermione twisted her mouth down.

“Malfoy’s playing,” she said with a teasing lilt to her voice.

Hermione sighed. “Am I mad, Gin? Malfoy? Former Death Eater, colleague, and engaged? Why can’t I enjoy someone without a criminal record? Or at least available.”

“But where is the fun in finding someone normal? After all you've been through, you need this. Fun flirting, Ministry broom cupboard sex, some snogging if he's lucky.”

“Perhaps if he finds a way out of this engagement.”

Ginny’s expression hurriedly dissolved of humour. “And if he doesn't? How do you think you’ll cope?”

Hermione warmed a little then, for the reminder of how her friend had been a saving grace at her very worst. She wouldn’t inflict that upon her again. “I don't want to worry you, Gin. This is entirely different. I'm not going to lose the will to live because I can't sleep with Malfoy.” Though, to be fair, the mere thought felt like it scored her.

“Good, I’m glad to hear you say as much, because Malfoy asked for Bill’s help, and he has already sent him to someone who better understands blood contracts; and, well…” She hesitated. “It’s not looking all too promising.”

“Truly?” Now it felt as though something sharp had delved into the score at her chest, needling between her ribs and prodding at her heart. “Malfoy said that?”

“I heard from Bill,” said Ginny. “Though perhaps it’s progressed since I spoke to him?”

Hermione nodded distractedly.

“Look, I’ve watched the two of you over the last month—together and separately—and I can see you’re kept up on one another. I truly think he’s desperate enough to find a way out of this marriage, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I have confidence in Malfoy.”

Hermione nibbled her lip to stop her smile. “He really is quite impressive these days…”

“Oh, I know, you’ve already told me what he keeps in his trousers—”

“Gin!”

“What? The old bat can’t hear us.”

“Yes, but she did just see you thumb at her past your shoulder.”

“Never mind that.” She flapped a hand through the air. “What I mean to say is that I don’t see any harm in you continuing to have a little fun with Malfoy while he tries to find his way out of this marriage. He and Astoria are not in a real relationship. Just think of it as a form of self-care!”

***

Think of it as self-care? Hermione couldn’t think of Malfoy as anything except a complication. A complication to her work, her days, and suddenly, her sleep.

That night, he was the guest star of the first sex dream she’d had in years, and while it was undeniably fun and drove her to rediscover her vibrator, when she returned to the office the next day and found her supposed self-care walking around as though sex on legs, her lust was only heightened. Hermione was in more of a state than ever before.

There was no doubt in her mind that this was not what Maeve had intended. Ginny was supposed to be a safe and reliable outlet for her thoughts between therapy sessions, and instead, she was a terrible influence. A positively terrible and yet convincing influence. It didn't help that Malfoy had spent the day meandering around the office in fitted grey trousers and a white shirt—sleeves rolled to his elbows—with his leather wand holster atop. As she passed by in the afternoon, he stood in the doorway of his office and held the frame above to stretch, inadvertently pulling his shirt from the tuck in his trousers, allowing a peek of skin to show and revealing a fair trail of hair from his navel. A perfectly kissable trail.

It was with that Hermione hurriedly shut herself in her office.

She sat behind her desk distractedly completing paperwork until said paperwork needed to be with Harry. Then she had no choice but to hope that Malfoy had tucked himself away in his own office.

But of course not. Why would he have?

When she emerged from behind her door with a stack of folders loosely held in the crook of her elbow, Hermione found Malfoy standing several feet ahead, his forearms propped on the top of a junior Auror’s partition and the curve of his arse looking entirely biteable. The lithe muscle at his back and shoulders shifted beneath his shirt as he used his hands to speak to the other Auror, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione imagined the feel of those muscles beneath her palms as he thrust inside her. She groaned inwardly. What was wrong with her? It was as though she'd never seen a man before. Nor Malfoy.

What if she simply forgot that he was engaged? After all, he had an arrangement with Astoria. Why should they let a cursed piece of paper get in the way?

No.

She and Malfoy had made an agreement to no longer fool around. And besides that, he needed to inform his fiancé of his intentions. And Hermione needed air. Her overwhelming frustration for the wizard, standing there all attractive and unattainable, was causing her to clench her jaw and make half-moons in her arm with her fingernails. How had she let it get to this? If only she could go back in time and convince Harry that partnering with Malfoy was a terrible idea.

Hermione swept past Malfoy, pretending she didn’t register the way he turned to view her as she fled the office.

In the hallway, she rounded the corner with little thought except to escape the Ministry, find fresh air, and somehow banish her problematic thoughts to the street outside.

Suddenly, the wad of folders flew from her arms. She came into sharp contact with something rigid, only to find that the something was a someone: Cormac McLaggen. His large hands grasped at her shoulders to keep her from falling backward, not surrendering her until she was steady. With a flick of his wand, he Accio'd the fallen contents into his arms.

“Hermione.” He showed his perfectly handsome grin. “In a bit of a hurry, are you?”

“A little.” She gave him a small, polite smile. “Busy day, you know.”

He chuckled. “Not really. It's a doddle down there.”

“Lucky you.”

Cormac ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Say, will you be at the upcoming quidditch match?”

“Oh, quidditch…” Was she ever going to hear the end of this forsaken match?

Hermione was spared the need to respond. Malfoy brushed past her arm and then nudged into Cormac's with the force of a territorial centaur, sending the folders spilling to the ground once more.

“McLaggen,” spat Malfoy in passing.

At realising her mouth was agape, Hermione snapped it shut.

Cormac set an expression of repugnance. Following a cursory glance backward, he shook his head. “Absolute fucking wanker. I still can't believe they let him work at the Ministry, let alone in the DMLE.”

Hermione furled in her brows. “Well, I know it might seem an odd arrangement given what happened during the war, but he's really quite a skilled—”

Her sentence was cut short as Malfoy apparently saw fit to turn on his heel and revert to standing between the two of them. With his brow a straight line, he fixed Hermione with a fierce stare. “Is McLaggen pestering you, Granger?”

“He’s—” Again, she was cut off. This time as Cormac slid in front of her so that her nose nearly brushed the white cotton of his shirt. He flexed his shoulders, puffing himself up.

Sighing lightly, Hermione moved backward and crouched to shuffle the fallen folders into a pile. It felt preposterous, and yet somehow also inevitable, given Malfoy’s disgust during her last run-in with Cormac.

“Who do you think you are?” asked Cormac. “Hermione doesn’t need a personal protection officer.”

“And she doesn’t need a wank-stain like you, either.”

When she stood, she noticed scarcely a broom handle width between them. The manner in which the two wizards fisted their wands, pointed their chins and bared their teeth was reminiscent of children in the Hogwarts halls. But a cockfight over her was certainly never something that had happened at school. What a peculiar feeling that was. Hermione’s cheeks coloured with a little flattery and a lot of mortification as an unsuspecting wizard skirted around the corner. Even still, she could admit that given the state she was already in, seeing Malfoy make a show for her went straight to her centre; even if it was entirely inappropriate.

“Are you jealous, Malfoy?” asked Cormac.

He scoffed a laugh. “Of your wiry hair and subpar quidditch skills?”

Cormac’s cheeks flushed. “You know perfectly well of who I was referring to.”

Their chests clashed like a pair of sparring manticores just as a small, elderly wizard edged around the three of them, scuttling off as though a Weasley Wizard Wheezes explosive was raring to ignite.

“Oh, come on now, this is ridiculous.” With her wand pointed, Hermione forced the two apart until their shoulder blades met the sad brown walls on either side.

Cormac sent her a heated look. “Hermione—”

“Stay out of this,” Malfoy finished, sweeping his wand up into battle-ready position.

As Cormac followed suit, Hermione hissed, “Are you kidding me!”

She linked an arm through Malfoy’s and yanked him back towards the Auror office, simultaneously casting a wordless shield charm to deflect Cormac’s errant stunning spell behind.

The two wizards called out her name and protested in varying volumes whilst throwing spells at each other, but Hermione refused to drop her grip on Malfoy until she had marched him firmly into her office and charmed the door for the conversation that was to come.

He thrust his hand through the air with an offended look. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Hermione leant away from his sharp tone. “Excuse me?”

“McLaggen!” He stuffed a balled fist into his pocket, his severe brow not surrendering its place.

“I’m not doing anything to myself. I slept with him once, that’s it.”

“That's it?” He echoed.

“A quick fling.” Hermione crossed her arms and angled her head, fed up with the interrogation. “A form of self-care.” Okay, perhaps the experience with Cormac had little to do with care. She may as well have been any other faceless or nameless woman given the way he had rammed into her for several minutes to purely tend to his own needs, but that was all beside the point, wasn't it?

Malfoy’s eyebrows were making for his hairline. “Self-care! Granger, please.” A disgusted sound slipped from his crumpled mouth. “Why him, of all people?”

He had said that as though she had knowingly done something to wound him. If he was so offended by the thought of her and McLaggen together, then he was in for a surprise. It was with that Hermione realised their conversation was moving into a territory they had no right to be in. Somehow, it felt like she hadn’t the ability to stop it. She heated top to toe with her indignation, despising the way he was causing her to feel bad about her past.

If they ever found a way past Malfoy’s impending marriage, he would need to know all of her, wouldn’t he? And if he were uncomfortable with her past, then perhaps he wasn't worth her future.

“You truly want to know why?”

“Enlighten me, Granger.”

“Because I used him as a means to an end. I used sex as a way to cope. It had felt like a way to reclaim my body after what had happened, and then I used it to chase a high, to feel something and fill a void.”

The confession tasted like regret. Her tongue quite literally soured. Hermione had not once said as much to even Ginny, and although her therapist knew, she had never needed to parcel it out for her in this way.

But Malfoy’s expression softened. Now, he watched her as though she was wounded.

“I eventually had the realisation I was being reckless,” continued Hermione, as though she might diminish her regret, “that I was hurting people and putting myself in danger. My therapist has helped me to avoid falling into the same pattern again, and truthfully, Cormac was the last time I slipped.” She pulled her mouth in tight. That was enough. Enough of her confessions.

Malfoy folded his arms across his chest as he silently assessed her. She had done it now, hadn't she? She'd ruined whatever this silly flirty relationship was.

Hermione shrugged with her sudden helplessness. What was she supposed to do from here? She sent her eyes around the office to nothing in particular, before landing back upon Malfoy’s penetrating gaze. “Recently, sex has been with men I cared nothing for. Transactional.” She couldn’t seem to help herself now. How was it that the truth had never before come so easily?

Malfoy wore a gentler expression, something far more contemplative than she’d ever seen from the wizard. His eyes speared her in place and refused to let go. Within them, she read his realisation. He had heard the words she hadn't said aloud. Understood the weight of them.

“McLaggen was the last time you slipped,” he repeated.

She nodded gently.

“So this, what has been happening between us…it hasn’t been—it wasn’t…”

She shook her head slowly. Perhaps her addictive ways had led her to Malfoy’s office that first night, but now, as she was coming to understand, it was not the reason she returned.

“How many men?” he asked quietly.

“I… I don’t know.” She hadn’t kept count.

Malfoy dropped his gaze to the floor for what felt like a long, drawn-out moment.

“I'm sure you now think differently of me—”

“No. Not at all.” His eyes found hers, the slate of them lacking the judgement she had expected; then he shook his head for good measure. “Besides, you’re just describing a Friday night for Nott.” He shrugged curtly. “I can’t help but feel that if you were a man, this wouldn’t even be a conversation.”

Hermione attempted a smile and failed. “I agree, but I also know it was too much. I let my life unravel. Cormac was just a symptom of that.”

With a protracted nod, he unpinned her from his gaze. “Just please promise me you won't fuck McLaggen again.” His tone was resigned. “That’s the opposite of self-care.”

She wasn’t going to. Never again.

And yet, Hermione shook her head. “You don't get to have a say in who I sleep with, Malfoy.”

His features creased as though she had maimed him. “And I hate that,” he said through a tight jaw.

The way he moved into her space, with the hand at his side grasping the air, made it appear he contested with the desire to touch her; but he stopped a foot short.

“And I hate that you're marrying another witch!” she told him with equal frustration in her tone.

Malfoy's eyes grew distinctly troubled, and although Hermione knew where his hand was moving to, she allowed it. Not only allowed, but savoured the feel of his touch as he cradled her cheek. The warmth and tenderness of him. They shared a significant look, one Hermione didn't want to dwell on for too long. One that reinforced that this thing between them at this very moment felt tangible. It could have been wonderful; if only they could act upon it.

His gaze drifted down to Hermione’s lips. “Sorry…” he whispered. “I know we agreed, and…” His words drifted away, along with his touch.

He stepped backward.

As he turned to depart, Hermione wanted to grab his hand and make him stay; but she yanked her palm to her chest before she reached for him. It was then she knew that Malfoy was never going to simply serve as an act of self-care, as Ginny put it.

Hermione needed him for more than one night.

***

As she left work, Hermione felt many things she had never felt before where a man was concerned: impatience, fear, regret, and longing, all overlapping and causing her to feel unusually weary. Enough so that as soon as she emerged from the Floo in the living room, she dropped her bag to the floor, snatched her father's old Arsenal shirt from the dressing table and then laid in a straight line upon her bed.

As she stared at the ceiling, she staved off tears for the first time since her father had died. It was not helped by the fact that every single occasion she had cried in her flat, Crookshanks had been there for comfort. Now she was reminded of the great orange-fluffed void. It deepened her longing and mixed loneliness into the array of ungainly emotions.

Hermione brushed a fingertip to her lips, still feeling the ghost of Malfoy’s gaze. How desperately she had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted his lips on hers, his fingers in her hair, his heat against her body. And she couldn’t have it. Not without feeling as though it wasn't hers to have.

Suddenly, Hermione had the urge to chase a distraction. To lose herself somewhere. With someone. She sat up sharply, searching around for anything else to take her attention. She needed distraction. Redirection. Hermione snatched her black notebook from the side table and crossed her legs beneath her. This would do nicely—lists had always helped to organise her life, and at this moment it felt like it desperately needed organising. Rather than open the notebook to her five-year list, which had simply provided her panic several months ago, she opened her twelve-month list. In half a year, it had been whittled down to only two items:

(1) Further policy endeavours at the Ministry

What a strange realisation that Preston was the reason this goal had made it from her mind into ink.

Following several weeks away from the DMLE, Preston had returned to the office and to a new case with Hermione. He had sat opposite her in the meeting room and flashed her a broad grin. “Dare I say you are looking better than the last time we were in this position?”

She had tussled with her next words for perhaps too long, then thought they were better served out than in. “And dare I say, you’re looking a tad worse.” Hermione offered a polite smile, hoping to convey her words had come from a place of concern.

He showed a wan smile in return. “Perhaps I should have stayed on my holiday.” Preston inhaled and shifted in place in the way people often do before changing tack. “I enjoyed your addendum to our last case report detailing proposed changes for the manner in which the DMLE handles cases with magical creatures, Hermione.” He tapped the folder before him.

“Truly?” Her brows had pricked up. “I don't think even Harry read the addendum.”

“Truly,” he echoed with an enthusiastic nod. “I’ve never known another Auror quite so passionate about change. Your problem-solving is proactive rather than simply a means to close a case, and your writing is a head above the rest.”

It was the closest she had felt to the Hogwarts classroom in some years, her face burning with pride.

“Have you ever wondered if you could do more with such skills?”

“Constantly.” The confession arrived so readily, as though she had held an impatience to be asked.

“Then you should.” Preston’s grin returned full force. “And I’d be happy to assist you in any way, Hermione.”

Well, there was no gaining assistance from him now that he was in the form of several Horcruxes. Nonetheless, she had appreciated the offer at the time. Now, Hermione’s knowledge of Preston conflicted so sharply with her memories of him; she wasn’t sure what to think of his confidence in her. But why should that hinder her plans? Hermione eyed her list again.

(2) Find happiness

It was possible that she had made some headway with this item as of late; even despite the fact that, at this very minute, it didn’t feel like that way at all. Hermione knew she could make further progress without unnecessary complications. Complications being a newly-wed Malfoy meandering around the Auror office. How was she ever going to strike off item two with feelings for a married man? Feelings that had now travelled so far beyond simply fancying him that they seemed unwieldy and unnamable.

Hermione found a bolt of motivation as she quickly came to the realisation that item one would feed into item two. Several weeks ago, she had convinced herself the advertised role in the Magical Creatures Department was ill-fitting, purely because it would involve a side-step. Sideways, rather than up-ways, simply didn't feel right. Hermione wanted to climb. She wanted to assume greater responsibility, have staff to manage and earn a new title. But she also wanted to effect change. Namely, she wanted to champion rights for the vulnerable and already had policies drafted for furthering the rights of house-elves, werewolves, and centaurs. But how was she to influence such policies from within the Auror office?

Hissing from the Floo distracted and Hermione jerked upright.

“Hermione?”

She slumped a little, hearing that it was only Harry. He appeared in the doorway in his familiar rumpled state, a crooked smile set upon his face. “I thought I should check in to see how you’re doing,” he said, moving into the room. He lifted a couple of glass bottles. “And I brought Butterbeer.”

“Me?” Hermione held a palm to her chest. “I should be the one checking in on you.”

“You're alright then?”

“I'll be fine.” She offered a small smile. “You?”

“I'll be fine, too.” Harry placed the Butterbeer on the dressing table, then moved to the other side of the bed and folded himself down.

Hermione followed suit and flopped her head back onto the pillow. It hadn’t been the two of them like this for some years, not since their Horcrux hunting days. As she was finding, it was a comfortable silence as they both stared at the ceiling, weary from the weight of their troubles.

“You know,” began Harry, “I try not to blur the lines between our work and private lives, but I saw Malfoy leave your office in a mood this afternoon, then he never showed up for a meeting.”

Hermione’s chest ached with the reminder of the way Malfoy had looked at her before he’d found his self-restraint. It had appeared an awful lot like hurt. How had they come to this place? Wounding each other in this way?

“Did I make a mistake putting you two on this case?”

“We work well together,” Hermione said without hesitation.

“Perhaps too well.”

She tried to smile, but it crumpled at the edge. Harry was becoming more perceptive with every year. “He’s different these days. Truthfully, he’s nothing I expected.”

He provided a vaguely affirmative tone. “I think he’s the person he always could have been if it hadn’t been for the influence of his father.”

This time, Hermione’s smile stayed. It was nice to know she wasn’t simply seeing what she had wanted in Malfoy. She glanced at Harry, feeling warmed by his company. There had been an awful lot of sharing these past two days, and yet somehow, Hermione was not quite done.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” he said, head turning to see her.

She returned her gaze to the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking about moving on from my Auror role.”

“To the Magical Creatures Department?”

Hermione laughed gently; with relief. “Am I so predictable?”

“To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve given this many years to DMLE.”

She hummed her agreement. “Auror work always seemed too prestigious to turn down, and it’s been fun and challenging in the best way. But…”

“You think moving on will make you happier?”

Hermione answered with the flash of a sedate smile.

“Well, it worked for Ron, didn’t it?”

It took a couple of beats, but Hermione eventually nodded.

“I meant about leaving the DMLE, not you.”

She laughed a little self-consciously. “And yet, I think you’re correct on both accounts.”

They let the silence dawdle on, both seemingly in their own states of contemplation. Until Hermione said, “So, Theo Nott, huh?”

“Merlin.” He left his gaze on the ceiling. “Did she tell you about Dean too?”

“No.” Hermione flipped on to her side and nestled her fists beneath her chin with rapt attention. “Tell me more.”

He shook his head with the ghost of a smile. “Just someone I was seeing for a bit. And I’ve decided to not bother with Theo.”

“Has he been a little too forward?”

“Forward is an understatement,” said Harry with a chuckle. “Despite that, I’m not sure he’s what I need at this point in time.”

Until now, she hadn’t given it all too much thought. She considered Theo nothing but a meddling pest as of late, but now, imagining Harry and Theo together only caused Hermione to believe they would complement each other nicely. Harry’s sweet sedateness for Theo’s chaos. They shared similar intellect, as well as the way they both rushed to speak when the conversation hit on their particular passions. But Hermione kept the thought to herself, not wanting to further confuse his ambivalence.

“Grimmauld is so quiet without the boys,” said Harry. “And eerie.”

“Eerie? From the wizard who battled Voldemort?”

“I think there’s a ghoul in there and for the life of me, I can’t find where.”

“Perhaps it’s Kreacher?”

“His mumbling is telltale and usually contained in the kitchen.”

Hermione knew what Harry was trying to say; and it wasn't about a ghoul at all. She waited until the silence lengthened long enough that he felt the need to turn. Waited until she had his green eyes in hers. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Harry, don’t you?”

At that, they sent each other twin smiles.

After a couple of hours spent chatting, Harry’s voice faded away and he instead let out little snores. As he slept, Hermione reflected deeper on the matters at hand, and in the end it was her failing duelling abilities and the scribbled goal in her notebook which led her to send an owl to the Being Division of the Magical Creatures Department. It finally felt like the right time to take a side-ways step. It was time to leave the Auror office behind.

Chapter Text

It wasn't all too long ago that Draco had three clear intentions: (1) marry Astoria, (2) keep his family fortune, and (3) agree to an arrangement that allowed him to live his life within the confines of a loveless marriage. Then came Granger, and his only intentions were to fool around with the witch, keep it a secret, and then eventually, keep a friendly distance.

Now, it was taking everything in him not to show up on her doorstep or test whether he would make it through her Floo.

Now, not only did Draco not want to marry, but he was finding it difficult to care about the ramifications.

As of late, his interactions with Granger had progressed from sexual to confessional. Only now did he understand that her initial hesitation to sleep with him was not an inability to have meaningless sex, but rather, a lack of desire… Not a lack of desire for him, of course—she’d wanted to avoid the intimacy.

Draco knew there was something true and tangible between them, and he craved the closeness and familiarity she was running from. Not once had he felt this way about another witch. It wasn’t simply the fact she had declined him several times over now. Nor was it the fact they were constantly in each other’s space every day, or that she was the woman who had most recently captured his attention. It was because she was Hermione Granger. He was mad for her.

The way she worried her lip when faced with a fresh problem to solve, when she turned her invariably curious eyes on him, but mostly, how she was now a little less serious when they spent time together. He was mad for it all.

Draco knew he needed to respect Granger’s boundaries, and yet, he also knew he might need to check himself into St Mungo’s if he couldn’t kiss her.

There were several matters to address before he made a move.

Although there were at least twelve beds and five dozen sitting apparatuses in the Malfoy Manor, Draco instead vanished the marble-topped coffee table in the sitting room and laid in the very centre of the rug. As he stared at the dangling crystal of the chandelier, the sounds of Pink Floyd filled the room. He had put the record on in an effort to lull himself from this persistent discomfort but it did little to help. He instead spent several minutes reminding himself to breathe.

“Back at the manor!” It was Nott’s voice. Far too cheery. “How does it feel?”

He glanced up to see Nott stroll in through the double doors, Pansy and Zabini following closely behind. Draco dropped his head back to the floor. “Oppressive.”

Pansy took up his entire field of vision. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

“Trying to find a way out of this hell.”

Zabini settled into the sofa while Nott took to the floor and laid his back against it, stretching his legs out and prodding Draco in the ribs with his brown leather-tipped toes to the beat of the music. Pansy began pacing the length of Draco, her heels muffled on the thick carpet and her mumbling indecipherable.

“So the curse breaker was unhelpful,” began Zabini, crossing one leg atop the other, “but how about the blood magic specialist?”

Draco swatted at Nott's feet, still poking into his ribs. “He’s explored all avenues and there’s nothing he can do.”

Pansy halted her walk beside his head and sighed. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

Zabini emitted a thoughtful hum. “I have a cousin in Italy who was bound by a similar contract. I can send him an owl.”

“He found a way around it?” asked Nott.

“He married and she later died, but at this point, what other options are there? Maybe he’ll have some advice.”

Pansy tutted. “Killing Astoria is not an option.”

“No one said anything about killing anyone, Pans,” said Nott, but there was little conviction in his voice.

Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaned. “What am I doing?”

“Falling for someone that isn't your betrothed,” said Pansy.

He rose up on his elbows to view her, all swathed in black and looking a little smug. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Draco, please. You nearly took off Theo's head the other day.”

Nott’s gaze bounced between Draco and Pansy. “Wait, what?”

“Granger,” clarified Zabini.

“Since when?” Nott’s voice held an edge of disbelief. “Last I heard, you were going to marry Astoria and sort out an arrangement, then you were going to try to dissolve the contract, and now what—you're going to marry Granger instead?”

“I'd rather not marry anyone.” Draco curled his spine back down to meet the floor and crossed his arms tightly.

“Besides,” began Pansy, “marrying Hermione won't do any good due to the pureblood stipulation.”

“But at least there’s no infidelity clause,” added Zabini, which Draco registered as his attempt at finding a positive.

“Merlin, she must have a treacle flavoured cunt for you to give this all away,” said Nott with a half-hearted flare of his hand through the air.

“I wouldn't know,” mumbled Draco.

“You haven't even bedded her?” asked Nott.

What would Nott say if he knew he hadn't even kissed Granger? For Salazar's sake. Was Draco insane? He was considering giving this all away for a woman that had spent half their interactions frustrated by the way he needled her.

“Will you sit up?” asked Pansy. “I have something important to tell you all.” Her voice was uncharacteristically brittle.

Draco narrowed his eyes before following through on the request. Even despite regular fretting from Pansy over the years, he’d never once heard her say anything that had caused him to worry.

Zabini leant forward, forearms on his thighs, and Nott flopped his head back onto the sofa cushion and angled his eyes upward.

Flicking one thumbnail against the other, Pansy inhaled deeply before rushing out her words. “Nev and I are engaged.”

“What?” Nott sat to attention.

“Truly?” asked Draco. “Are you sure about this, Pans?”

“We barely know the man,” said Zabini. “Not in the way we should, anyhow.”

Pansy's apprehensive expression bled away, replaced by tempered elation. She tapped her wand to her left hand, removing a notice-me-not charm and revealing a glinting diamond on her finger. “Of course I’m sure! I said yes several weeks ago, I just didn’t know how to bring it up to you lot. You’ve not exactly accepted him yet, and with Draco’s forced marriage, I didn’t know when would be the right time to tell you…” Twiddling her ring, she trailed off, suddenly appearing self-conscious.

There was a beat in which they all glanced at one another.

"Well then," said Zabini, coming to stand, "we'll have to initiate him into the snake den."

“I’m beginning to wonder whether I know anything about any of you.” Nott pointed his finger at each in turn.

Zabini scrunched his brows. “What have I done?”

“Don’t you mean who have you done?” replied Nott. “My sources tell me there’s been a parliament of owls on a Weasley’s roof from a certain eager someone.”

Ignoring the conversation taking place behind him, Draco went and gathered Pansy in for a hug, sweeping his palm up to the back of her head. “If you’re happy, I’m happy, Pans.”

She nestled into his hold. “I truly am.” And it was all the truth. He could hear it in her voice.

Nott snatched Pansy’s hand, spun her away from Draco and enveloped her small frame in a hug. “When’s the wedding?” He doled a kiss to her cheek. “You're going to be the most beautiful bride, my dear.”

She let out a laugh. “Next year; and I hope you enjoy ice sculptures and decorative fairies because my mother cannot be stopped.” As Zabini folded her into his arms, she added, “But we’ll have an engagement party soon and I need you all there.”

Eventually, Pansy turned to Draco, cheer quickly fading. Across the years, she’d been there for all of his trials, giving her all so that he kept his sanity; but he never wanted to needlessly take from her. Not like this. “I wish you hadn't waited.”

“I didn't want to add to your troubles, that's all.”

“I'm the last person you should have been thinking about. You should be celebrating and swanning around with obnoxious excitement.”

“Well, I'm glad you've said that, because now I'm going to be insufferable.” With a pull of her shoulders, she finally grinned wholeheartedly.

This was the way impending marriage was supposed to be—an excitement that edged into one’s whole bearing. It was, after all, meant to be something to look forward to. It was the beginning of the rest of Pansy’s life, shared with someone she considered deserving.

The music paused and there came a gentle clearing of a throat.

They turned to find Narcissa standing in the doorway, wearing fair pink robes and an inscrutable expression.

“You're back,” she said to Draco.

“You’re back,” he echoed with less surprise and more resentment.

Narcissa’s mouth shaped into a polite smile. “If you don't mind, I would like a word with my son,” she said, not bothering to glance at any other in the room.

Following a couple of claps on his back and a gentle squeeze at his forearm from Pansy, he heard three pops of Disapparition.

“I received an owl from the Greengrass family this morning,” his mother pressed on without sparing a beat, “I hadn't realised that you've not spoken to Astoria since the show at your engagement party.”

“That's not entirely correct; I sent her an owl.”

“Draco.”

In those two syllables, he heard the full weight of her disappointment and it quickly fuelled his anger. Draco clenched his jaw. His heart barrelled against his ribs. “Why did you let him do this to me?”

“Draco, you know perfectly well that marrying a Greengrass has always been expected of you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Her eyes briefly narrowed with genuine confusion. “I was under the impression you were partial to Astoria.”

Draco shook his head. Her evasive answers pricked at his composure. “How could you let him coerce me in this way?”

Any semblance of good nature dropped from Narcissa's expression. “Do you genuinely think I had any say in this plan?”

“You had some say!” Draco's breaths tumbled. He paced several steps back and forth, sweeping his palm down his mouth. “What if I don’t go through with it?”

“Draco.” She had said his name as though a sigh, dipping her gaze away and then returning with a novel fear in her eyes. “You must see this wedding through.”

“But I don't love her.”

“You'll learn to love each other, just like your father and I.”

He shook his head. Learn to love. He shouldn't have to learn—he wanted to feel. He wanted to think about the woman he was to marry every moment of the day, to savour their time spent together and imagine their futures. Draco wanted love to settle into his whole bearing in the way he had witnessed in Pansy.

“Draco, you must follow through.” Narcissa moved closer.

He surveyed his mother’s fair eyes. Up close, he could better see her concern, and while it slightly subdued his anger, it did nothing to remove Draco’s unease. He knew she cared for him. He loved her in return and never wanted to disappoint her again as long as he lived, but why did that need to resign him to an unhappy marriage?

“Draco.” She took his hands in hers. “Our every last possession is tied to your impending wedding. You must marry Astoria; there is simply no other way.”

***

“You are a Malfoy,” were his mother’s departing words. A sentiment heard countless times in his life. One that held such leaden weight. In any different context, he could have considered it motivation, a compliment, or an insult. At first, when he was young and naïve, Draco felt a swell of pride at hearing those four words. Then, he had felt shame. Now, he simply felt responsibility.

He needed to remind himself of this in his every new interaction with Granger. He was a Malfoy and he not only had a responsibility to the generations that preceded him, but importantly, to his mother.

But it was not so easy.

Come Monday, Draco’s eyes slid to Granger and her riot of curls every single time she entered the room. Tuesday, he immediately gravitated to the spare seat at her side during the Auror meeting, and Wednesday, he found himself missing her vanilla scent when it no longer clung to the air. It was this realisation that caused Draco to retreat to his office. They hadn’t shared a word for nearly three days—nothing except strained smiles—and yet, being in the vicinity of Granger was giving him a body ache that felt like it stemmed from his heart.

Late afternoon, a missive slipped beneath his door and then sailed through the air before swooping down and settling upon his desk. It was from Granger. He not only recognised the tidy, slanted scrawl, but the note had the vague scent of her.

Meeting 9am tomorrow to prepare for the next mission.

When he arrived the next morning, Draco had every intention of attending this meeting. That was until his eyes linked with Granger’s across the room. In fitted red robes with her wand poking from a bundle of curls atop her head, her perfectly kissable lips shaped into a smile just for him.

Draco retreated like the coward he was, hurriedly shutting himself in his office. How was he supposed to continue working with her? How was he supposed to marry another woman when this beautiful and intelligent and perfect witch was right there, causing him to feel this way? This office felt more dangerous than ever. Draco was one stray look away from doing something immensely stupid. He spent at least twenty minutes with his forehead on his desk, searching for an answer to his impossible questions, then, when nine o'clock came and went, a luminous otter burst into the room and somehow appeared just as perturbed as the voice that emitted from its mouth.

“I know you're in there,” said Granger. “We need to prepare. If you're going to continue to sulk, I'll undertake this mission by myself, and you know perfectly well that I mean it.”

After the Patronus had bounded away, Draco groaned. He took to pacing before his desk. Then he swigged at the Firewhisky from his bar trolley despite the fact it wasn't even ten AM. He didn’t know how to be near Granger anymore. What was he to do? He didn’t trust himself not to say something idiotic again—like asking that she not sleep with any more idiots—or do something foolish, like cradling her face in his palm. He had been inappropriate. And yet, he needed to be in Granger’s vicinity for at least three more missions. He couldn’t allow her to go at it alone. How could he live with himself if she was maimed or killed in the past because he was incapable of controlling his feelings?

Laid along his sofa, Draco squeezed his eyes shut to consider his options, only to find there was nothing there. Not even a dirty thought. Blankness. All of a sudden he wrenched his eyes open, feeling a prodding at his forehead. He snatched at the pink paper aeroplane that continued to nudge at him.

Stop right now, thank you very much, it read.

It may have been a simple coincidence. They were certainly words Granger would say to him—and he could hear her bossy tone in his mind—but he could also hear the same words in the melody of a Spice Girls song. When a second missive arrived some twenty minutes later, his theory was confirmed.

Baby come back.

Draco groaned, louder this time. She was using his own song lyric tactic against him.

Another arrived: Don't you forget about me.

This witch was going to be his undoing.

Draco sat up, watching one more note wriggle beneath the door and fly up neatly into his palm.

Don't blame it on the sunshine.

A rat-a-tat of a knock sounded just as he read the latest note. Flinging the door open with his wand, Draco came to meet Granger, who leant against the doorframe with her arms folded and looking less of a harridan than he had expected.

“Why are you knocking? You never knock. And these lyrics have nothing to do with anything.” He turned up the latest message.

“I know, but I couldn't resist,” she said through a bubble of laughter, and it soothed something in him.

Granger let herself into his office with a familiar stride, as though she were exactly where she was supposed to be. He heard her breathe in deeply and then sigh curtly before she turned to face him, making the door close as she did so.

“Look,” she began, “I know we're both a little delicate right now—”

“A little is an understatement—”

“And continuing to flirt and pretend this is what friends do is truly not helping.”

Draco couldn’t keep his eyes on her for long. He darted his gaze away to the sofa, the bar trolley and the bookshelf, and then reminded himself he was a Malfoy for good measure. “So, what do you suggest?”

“I think we need to get the case squared away, then I'm going to request that we don't partner again… At least, not immediately.”

Draco looked away, not wanting to reveal how her words had wounded him. It felt as though she had given him a death sentence. No, death was over much too quickly. An Azkaban sentence. With shackles and no visitors and no way of knowing if he’d ever lay eyes on Granger again.

Honestly, now he was just being melodramatic. He'd changed case partners plenty of times and there was no need to mourn her just yet, was there?

“At least until the wedding is over with, right?” Perhaps his tone had been a little too hopeful.

Granger showed a tempered smile. “I suppose so.”

Draco nodded stiffly. “I’m sorry about the other day. What you do and with whom should be none of my concern.”

“You’ve already apologised.”

“But I wanted you to know that I mean it. I now understand why you have your boundaries and I want to respect them.”

The curve of her lips looked more sure, then.

“But I don’t apologise for trying to curse McLaggen. He’s had it coming for a long while.”

Granger tutted. “Let’s move on to this mission planning.” She sat on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.

Draco’s eyes widened a fraction. “What are you doing?”

“I thought we’d just meet here, seeing as you refuse to leave your office.”

Draco smoothed a finger across his brow. Was she doing this on purpose? Even after drawing attention to the fact they were both feeling delicate? “Please, for the love of gods, Granger, sit anywhere else.”

She peered up at him with her brows curling in, eyes wide. An expression of innocence she had no right to wield. “Truly?”

“Anywhere else.”

With her expression of innocence unbudging, she stared at him for a beat longer.

“Don't make me say it. For once in your life, just do as you're told.” She knew what had occurred on that sofa; knew about his dirty thoughts and how quickly they could get away from him.

Granger came to stand with a mildly offended expression. “I am very good at doing what I'm told.”

Had he simply imagined that vaguely sexual undertone? Draco groaned as he spun to watch her track around to the other side of his desk. Perhaps she couldn’t help herself. After all, he knew what that felt like. They had fallen into a terrible pattern. Seriously, how were they supposed to ever work together as case partners with all of this unresolved sexual tension? His wedding wasn’t going to change that.

Granger sat heavily in his leather chair, set her palms to his desk and flared her fingers. Wandlessly and wordlessly, she opened the door wide. “There, is that better?”

Draco pulled down the side of his mouth. It was the best he could manage. Still, rather than sitting, he loitered before the desk with his arms crossed, determined not to get too comfortable or too close.

“Why does your desk chair feel comfier than mine?” Her eyes snagged on a book on his desk. “And are you reading Pride and Prejudice?”

Draco shrugged loosely. “I noticed you were reading it in Washington and curiosity got the better of me.”

“And? What do you think?”

Truthfully, it was now one of his favourite novels, but instead of admitting as much, he said, “I’ve enjoyed Mr Darcy overcoming his flaws and finding humility.”

Granger smiled up at him in a fond sort of way.

Suddenly, a folder whizzed in through the doorway, narrowly followed by a pained “Watch it!” somewhere out in the hall.

“Right.” Granger unfolded a length of parchment and revealed a map. “It's here, just outside of Glasgow. I’ve discovered that it's now a private residence, however, until nineteen seventy-eight, it was a hospital.”

“A hospital? So, no Horcrux at this one either?”

“Well, there was certainly no famous assassination at this time and location, but it is a hospital, after all. Perhaps he's chosen someone else on the verge of death? Why should we assume that only famous deaths were used to create all the Horcruxes?”

Draco wrinkled his brow in thought. Bugger the Horcruxes. He was still caught up on what Granger had said earlier. “You truly don’t want to work with me any longer?”

She gathered interlocked her fingers upon the desk, and said softly, “You know perfectly well it’s not that I don't want to—”

“Knock, knock.” Draco swivelled to find Potter, who upon seeing Granger behind the desk, turned to re-read the nameplate on the door, and then apparently appeared to think nothing of what he was seeing. “Do you two have an update on the Horcrux case?”

Draco clenched his jaw at the interruption. He wanted to hear the end of Granger’s sentence.

“Three more missions to go, one tomorrow,” Granger readily offered.

“Great,” said Potter. “Make it quick, if you can. Kingsley is beginning to get impatient about the Time-Turner. He wants the Unspeakables to analyse it before we need to return it to Germany.”

At that, Draco flushed a little with a pulse of panic. Quick was entirely the opposite of what he desired at this moment, and he definitely didn't need any additional pressure bearing down on the two of them.

“We'll try, Harry.”

Potter sent Granger a smile that stayed as he briefly glanced towards Draco, then he curved off around the corner.

Granger sat back deeper in the chair, arms crossed. “I don't suppose allowing you to fashion my outfit for tomorrow will fix this distraction of yours?”

This distraction. She had said that with such flippancy, as though ignorant of the fact she spoke about herself. “Not this time.”

His answer quashed the remainder of her good-natured expression. As she took her folder beneath her arm, Granger resigned his desk chair and journeyed to him, nodding once or twice along the way. It was a length of time before she lifted her eyes to his and showed her solemnity.

Her lips twitched at the side, as if she weighed her words. Although Draco desperately wanted to hear anything more she had to say, he fought his own battle not to say something entirely stupid like he had done the other day. What more could either of them do? What more could be said?

“In that case, I'll meet you here at twelve o’clock tomorrow,” Granger said in a tone befitting of an amicable colleague and nothing more.

As he watched her leave, Draco’s heart beat wildly. It felt like a protest. He couldn't bear this any longer.

Despite the fact he was supposed to meet Potter in less than half an hour, he made straight for the Ministry Atrium and stepped into the Floo.

***

Arriving upon the hearth in the Greengrass sitting room, Draco flitted his eyes around the light space, from the golden intricate cornices to the glass candle chandelier and the cream antique settees, where Daphne laid in violet robes, reading a book.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off fighting dark wizards?” she asked, not bothering to take her eyes away from the pages.

“Aren’t you supposed to be barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen somewhere?”

“You know perfectly well that we have house-elves.” Daphne came to sit, throwing her book to the side. “And our home is being renovated. If Adrian thinks I can live in a manor where everything is emerald, sage, or forest green, then it’s going to be a very brief marriage.”

Moving deeper into the room, Draco slid a hand into his pocket and did nothing to hide his boredom for this conversation. After all these years, they knew each other well enough. She had already witnessed his impatience and he wasn’t afraid to let it show. “I need to speak with Astoria.”

Daphne took to her feet and linked her hands in front in that demure way pureblood women tended to do. “You’re about ten days late and one hundred miles too far north.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s found a new wizard and I think it’s going rather well, given the house-elves haven’t seen her for over a week.”

Something heated in Draco’s chest. It was jealousy, but not of another man. It was an envy for Astoria’s ability to have blissfully ignorant fun while he was stuck between wanting to fulfil his duty to his name and mother, and wanting to follow his heart.

Perhaps he’d sighed a little too heavily, for Daphne said, “Don’t tell me you were expecting a virgin on your wedding day, because again, you’re about six years too late.”

“No, it’s not that.” He shook his head distractedly. An owl wouldn’t do, and he didn’t fancy tracking her down at the home of some unsuspecting bloke. “I need to speak with her. Tell her to come see me when she returns; I’m back at the manor.”

“What am I, an owl?”

“No, you’re a Pucey née Greengrass.” He shaped a menacing smile. “And I’m a Malfoy.”

***

Exactly fifteen hours after Draco and Granger had last seen each other, they stood in the very same place in his office. But time had been good to them.

They couldn’t help themselves. Missions felt like playtime. They wore far more mischievous expressions, and solely because of their brilliant outfits. The best yet. Draco had opted for unsightly brown trousers and an obscenely bright orange shirt with a pointed collar and the top two buttons undone. It was vaguely concealed by a russet Harrington jacket, casual and stylish enough that he could wear it in the present day.

Granger’s eyes flew down the length of him. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything quite so rude in my life,” she said, face scrunching with an effort to restrain her laughter.

“No need to worry, Granger, I won’t stand out nearly as much in the sixties.”

“Oh, I’m not worried. I’m just annoyed that I didn’t think to bring along a camera.” Failing to stifle her laugh, she quickly sent her palm to her mouth, but her eyes squeezed with her smile, glinting with canned laughter.

Draco put his head to one side. “And is this bow just for me?”

Granger had impressed during every decade thus far, but seeing her dressed like a sex kitten was something else. Her outfit was nothing special: a brown, white-striped long-sleeved dress that cut off mid-thigh, but her hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders with a little less curl than usual, and she had fashioned some height at the top where she’d slotted in a white headband with a bow.

“Well, I do know how much you enjoy them.” She slung her white, rectangle, and larger-than-usual handbag around her arm before drawing out the Time-Turner.

Although Draco had declined the offer to style Granger for the sixties, he felt the urge to change the colour of her dress a step lighter so that it was the same shade as her eyes. Impatience got the better of him, and he probably could have chosen a more inconspicuous moment.

“You can't help yourself, can you?”

He flashed a smile in reply.

It felt like an obscenely drawn out moment as they prepared to move through time. It was silly, wasn’t it? They’d done this several times over and there was little need for such care and consideration; but even so, Draco waited patiently as Granger spun the correct numbers into the apparatus and checked it twice, then thrice. He watched intently as she stepped closer, ensuring they were toe-to-toe, and then tied the two of them together with the gold chain. As she spent an extended moment straightening it around his collar, Draco kept his eyes on hers, watching as they darted from his face to his throat and then down to the Time-Turner, flexing his fingers into his palm to stamp the urge to reach out and pull her in close.

When they arrived in nineteen sixty-seven, Draco still had his gaze deeply seated in Granger's eyes. They were both dangerously captivated, ignoring their surroundings during a mission in complete contradiction to everything they had been taught. There was fresh air and the titter of birds, but other than that, they were blind to whether there was any sort of danger.

This was the very reason Draco had avoided her yesterday. They were both vulnerable. And now, they were attempting to tell each other everything with closed mouths and longing looks, both blatantly coming to terms with not acting upon their true desires.

Draco kept his hands curled into fists and tensed his entire body to avoid sliding his fingers into her hair and reeling her lips in towards his. Desperate for something to distract, he glanced down at his watch. “If we could just swing back in time a couple of years, there's a Beatles concert at the Hammersmith.”

As Granger detached him from the Time-Turner, she reapplied her fed-up expression, which he had come to learn was a thin facade his dashing smile or excellent humour could break through. “There’ll be no swinging by anywhere to see a concert, thank you.”

They had appeared behind a greenhouse. Beside a great length of glass with rows of beautiful greenery rivalling the size of his own. The weather was positively dreary; the view underwhelming. Draco had imagined sun and sex for the swinging sixties. The soundtrack was meant to be the electrifying guitar of Wild Thing, rock and roll strum of Twist and Shout, and the breathy sighs of Time of the Season. There was supposed to be the scent of weed and young people being free with their hair and their sexuality; but as they walked along an expanse of lawn, through drizzle that beaded in Granger’s hair as they went, this location may as well have been somewhere out the back of Malfoy Manor.

“This way,” said Granger. Her footing slid a little and Draco sent out a hand to capture her hip, but as soon as she steadied, he retracted his touch as though he’d laid his palm to flames.

Never mind his bloody expectations of the sixties. He needed to avoid touching Granger, and he needed to focus on the reason they were here. Horcruxes. That was it.

They journeyed alongside a building that was unlike any hospital Draco had seen, more reminiscent of a home. A square, taupe three-level building—an Italianate villa he certainly hadn’t expected to see in Glasgow—with ornate arched hoods above the six windows and several chimneys on its relatively flat roof. Draco fell in line as Granger marched up the tiled steps to a grand double door.

“Pretend as though we know exactly where we're going,” said Granger. “We don't want to look suspicious.”

“Don’t worry, I’m brilliant at pretending.”

She sent him an unimpressed side eye. “And if anyone asks, we’re visiting a patient. Surname Smith.”

They stepped into an entrance hall reminiscent of many manors Draco had seen in his lifetime, with both fair coloured wallpaper and fair beauties in gold-framed artwork, but as they tracked forward and passed an unmanned desk, he discovered the halls held a hallowed calm reminiscent of a library. He could see Granger felt at home, a sense of awe pricking up in her expression. This was precisely nothing Draco had expected. His muggle learnings told him this decade was synonymous with brilliant music, miniskirts, and Beatlemania. This past most closely resembled Draco’s present life.

“Smith,” he echoed.

Granger’s voice was a whisper. “Relatively popular name, was my line of thinking.”

He hummed his understanding. “When you were younger, did you ever wonder what your name meant?”

“What it meant?”

“Did you ever think that you needed to be someone or believe something because of your name?”

“Never.”

He envied the way she hadn’t even needed to think about her answer.

“But I suppose that goes hand in hand with being reared to consider your blood status superior. You were born with expectations far exceeding just that of merely joining a family.”

Strangely, Draco felt warmed by her response. She understood him. It was not very often he’d needed to earn understanding given the people he typically surrounded himself with had most often suffered the same burden. The fact that it was an understanding from Granger made it all that more meaningful.

They journeyed past a tastefully decorated sitting room and then a parlour void of any guests, ascending the carpeted staircase until they reached the second floor. Sofas were scattered throughout the space, one occupied by a family of five, who were keenly looking down at a small bundle in a woman's arms.

At the far end of the hallway, there were two women in matching sets of brown pyjamas undertaking a whispered exchange. A muggle covered in white from her shoes and tights to her starched dress and cap bustled out of one room, arms laden with towels, and across the hallway into another.

Draco was positive there wasn’t a Horcrux here. They were unlikely to even see death; the place appeared more of a convalescent home than a hospital.

Granger cast an interested look around the hallways, to the thin table along the wall, its black rotary phone, then to the vacant pram at the opposite side.

“This is a maternity hospital,” she said.

Upon cue, the peal of a baby’s cry sounded, and one of the chatting women dipped away from her conversation. When she pushed through a door, Draco caught sight of the corner of an unmade bed with a wicker bassinet beside.

“Do you even think Preston is here?” asked Draco.

“Surely.”

Draco meandered several steps down the hallway, attempting to appear as though he was exactly where he needed to be and not a lurking stranger, but as he read a name card on a closed door, Granger curved her hand around his forearm and yanked him in the opposite direction.

“Let’s try upstairs. We don’t have long until the time Preston specified, and we’ve found nothing.”

With her hand still firmly in place, Draco’s heart celebrated, sending his pulse into a new pace. Although he wanted to reach down and knot their fingers together, he instead hummed noncommittally and gently drew away from Granger’s touch. If she could avoid testing him in that way, then perhaps he could make it through this mission without saying or doing something foolish.

The third-floor hallway had far more doors, several more crying babies, and at least three nurses zipping back and forth like Billywigs. The place was suddenly more reminiscent of a hospital, and yet somehow still holding a steady calm.

As they walked, glancing at every door to read the names, Draco couldn’t help his gaze from sliding to Granger. He was going to miss her sheer determination.

With the push from Potter to finish their case and Granger’s suggestion to cease partnering, Draco suddenly had several things he wanted to say. He was being ridiculous, of course. It was not as though he was truly off to Azkaban. No one was dying. They would still see each other again in the office, and now they had friends in common; but even despite this perfectly reasonable logic, he couldn’t help himself from instigating the conversations he had always been planning to have.

“Did I ever thank you for testifying on my behalf?” he asked.

“No, but you made plenty of quips about my hair.”

“I truly, genuinely, very much enjoy your hair, Granger. And all those horrible things I said as a child were because I didn’t know any better, which doesn’t make them any less hurtful, I know.”

She stopped her quest and turned in on him. “See, I’m not convinced you didn’t know any better, Malfoy. You’re very clever and always have been.”

He enjoyed the way she read him; even if her reading caused a swat of guilt. “You’re right, I knew better, but I also knew what my father expected from me.”

Following a succinct nod, she started up their walk again.

“All of this is to say that I think having two of the Golden Trio testify on my behalf made all the difference. You’re the reason I’m here today and not rotting somewhere out over the North Sea.”

“It wasn’t us, Malfoy. The Wizengamot saw the good in you—actually, I believe you did apologise. You grunted something at me when you began in the department.”

“I most certainly did not grunt. Malfoy’s don’t grunt.”

“And your mother thanked me at the trial. In fact, she hugged me.”

Draco drew his mouth down, perhaps a little impressed. This was the first he was hearing of this. “That’s high praise, Granger. My mother’s hugs are difficult to come by, but when you get one, it’s worth it.”

She dipped her head with her smile. Her footfalls slowed. They were nearing the end of the hallway without any luck in terms of the mission, but Draco could have spent their remaining four hours and however-many minutes simply walking around chatting with Granger and he would have been perfectly content.

She spun to see him and cocked her head. “Were you ever scared during the war?” With her eyes pinging between his, seemingly so intent on his answer, he judged this was a question she had wanted to ask for some time.

“I was terrified of losing my mother.”

She nodded gently. “I thought as much.”

Granger tilted her chin to better look him in the eye, her lips gently curving for him, and Draco needed to remind himself that he was a Malfoy. He needed to remind himself that, similar to his responsibilities during the war, this wedding was his responsibility to save his mother all over again. She had endured too much to lose the Malfoy name now.

Granger’s gaze flitted away. It became stuck somewhere beyond him, the small bracket at the edge of her mouth disappearing with every passing second.

A wail disturbed the hush, but it wasn’t an infant. Draco spun to find where it had come from.

It was only a flash, but even then, it felt too much. Too personal. A blonde woman in bed with her reddened face scrunched in a sob, comforting hands on her shoulder to steady her as she attempted to fold inward. When another nurse rushed to her aid and promptly closed the door behind, Draco turned back to view Granger. A profound sadness had claimed her face.

“What’s wrong?” asked Draco.

“I think I understand now,” she whispered. Her gaze was distant, stuck on the closed door past his shoulder.

“You do?”

“Yes, and I think we should leave.” She turned sharply.

“Already?” He followed after her, checking his watch. This was their shortest mission yet.

They had descended to the second floor without another word passing between them.

“Granger, speak to me.”

She stopped abruptly just before the next set of stairs and faced him with a flustered look about her. “These missions—those that aren't assassinations—are all significant periods in Preston’s relationship with his wife.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed curtly. “In the forties I wasn’t certain at the time, but now I know I saw teenager Preston running through the streets with his future wife. Then in the fifties we saw them dancing and falling in love. And now…” she trailed off.

Draco had thought the upset muggle had been familiar, but his glance was so fleeting that he convinced himself otherwise. “That was Preston and his wife?”

“Edie,” said Granger.

“The birth of their child?”

“And the death,” she whispered. “They didn't have any children, remember? I hadn't realised they did in fact have a child, it's just…”

Draco’s posture crumpled a little then. He palmed at the back of his head.

“I think we should leave.” Granger began off again, her strides impatient. She had nearly made it to the double doors, but he watched as she noticed the steady stream of rain through the windows.

“Wait, Granger, are you sure about this? There's nothing else to this moment in time?”

They both lingered before the exit. The crying of babies and mothers was dampened down here, but the lashing of rain on the windows was loud and steady. Draco waited patiently with his hands in the pockets of his open jacket, willing her to look at him.

Finally, she faced him, tears holding steady in the corners of her eyes. When she cast her eyes down, the lines of her throat straining with a swallow, Draco realised how deeply affected she was. Admittedly, he didn’t entirely understand it, but he wanted to fix it. He flexed his hand in his pocket, battling with what he knew he should do and what he deeply desired.

Words suddenly felt awfully inadequate.

Draco sighed. Sighed because he was about to abandon all the self-control he’d practiced today.

With a grasp behind her elbow, Draco towed Granger in and, as though it was exactly where she wanted to be, she slid her hands inside his jacket and around his waist. The shell of her ear pressed to his chest, and Draco’s palm laid heavy on the back of her head. He heard her exhale and it sounded like relief.

Every passing moment, it felt as though Granger wilted further into him. Her bearing slackened. Her feet shuffled as far as they might fit between his. Every inch of body that could press against him was there, soft and pleasantly warm, and he leant his cheek on the top of her head, just to feel more of her yet again.

Perhaps the moment might have passed in which he should have retracted his arms, but her hold hadn’t slipped away either.

They remained in nineteen sixty-seven for a stretch, as though they had all the time in the world. All the while, Draco forgot that he was a Malfoy; and when he reminded himself once more, he simply failed to care.

***

“Merlin's tit, Malfoy! Are you trying to take my head off?” Ginny steadied her broom after lurching sideways and shot him a glare taut with offence. She darted to the ground.

Draco met her on the grass and flipped his hand in the air. “And I quote, ‘give this one all you've got’.”

A line had formed between her brows. “Give it all you've got and aim anywhere else but at me. What has come over you?”

Draco ran his fingers back through his hair. “I just need to win the upcoming tournament, and I need you to speak to your soon-to-be ex-husband. I want him to take this seriously.”

“If you let him have the seeker position, then maybe he will.”

“Fine, whatever the Chosen One wants, he can have it. As long as he starts practising, I don't care.”

Ginny abandoned her grip on her vertical broom and it remained in place as she crossed her arms and deepened her frown. “He can have the seeker position? Are you feeling quite alright?”

“Perfectly fine.”

She scrutinised his face. “How's your case going with Hermione?”

“Fine,” he said tightly.

“I have a feeling this mood has something to do with the witch, no?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Was he so transparent? His obsession with Granger was bleeding into his every way of being. “I'm not sure if this is of your concern.”

“Oh, but you're wrong.” She stepped closer and fixed him with an intimidating glare. “It's my concern to make sure you appreciate her as much as she deserves.”

“You mean appreciate her as a colleague, right?”

“I mean, in every sense. Appreciate her for the brilliant witch she is.”

Apparently it wasn’t just the snakes that had clued on. Their secret-keeping had entirely failed. But how much did Ginny know? And what was he supposed to say to what felt like a stab at his intentions?

Ginny closed in with the most serious expression he’d witnessed from the witch. “Too many people in her life have underappreciated her, and know that I say that as the wife and the sister of the two people who underappreciated her the most. Plus there’s her mother, who of course loves her, but also holds an unsaid grudge for wiping her memory during the war. Hermione has always tried to be the best and brightest of all, which is not necessarily the answer, and even though she has never said as much, I know that she often feels unfulfilled and unhappy. I want her to be appreciated for the brilliant human she is, not for who everyone else thinks she needs to be.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because Harry and his efforts to save wizarding kind were the focus of Hermione’s adolescence, the relationship with Ron took everything from her in her early twenties, and now it’s finally time for her to take priority. Do you understand?”

Draco nodded firmly. “I have no intention of treating her poorly or taking from her. I promise you.” His voice softened, then he added, “I want to give her everything she deserves.”

Ginny’s eyes released her assessing stare, widening a touch.

Draco began to walk from the pitch, if only to no longer witness her look of thinly concealed surprise.

“What do you know about her assault?” he asked when she finally fell in step beside him.

Ginny emitted a hum before answering. “Very little. She never told me what happened that night—I put the pieces together. All I know of that time was her depression afterwards. She stopped taking care of herself, barely ate or showered, then when she finally came out of that spell, everything about her had changed—the way she dressed and held herself; her mood. She was withdrawn yet temperamental. Her magic suffered. Only in the past several months has she returned to the Hermione I know.”

Their gazes briefly connected, exchanging a mutual concern.

Draco hadn’t realised the extent of it all. He had certainly expected it, but confirming this detail caused blood to pound in his ears and his fingers to twitch with the desire to curse her faceless assailant.

“I still have a fear that something might make her revert into that place again,” added Ginny.

“You’re worried that something might be me?”

“All I’ll say is that I’d love her if she wore a potato sack and didn’t bathe for a month, but I don't want anything to make her go back to that place ever again.”

Outside the pitch rampart, they crossed onto the path where they would typically bid goodbye, and turned in toward each other.

“You don't need to worry,” he told her. “At all.”

Ginny’s expression softened. “Good, I'm glad we have an understanding.”

Draco smiled softly. “You're fiercely protective, Weasel.”

“Of course.”

“Then how the hell did you let her sleep with McLaggen?”

“I'm not her keeper, Malfoy. She still needs to make her own mistakes.”

“And what an effing mistake.” He narrowed his eyes with sudden thought. “It wasn’t that prick who hurt her, was it?”

“I’m certain it wasn’t McLaggen. That occurred afterwards… A fling—”

“So help me, if you label him self-care—”

Ginny snorted laughter.

Draco cut her a look.

She shaped a smug smile. “Why do you care anyway?”

“Come off it, Potter.”

She fixed him with an irate stare.

“Weasel,” he corrected. “And don't feign naivety.”

Her smugness doubled in strength.

“And stop looking at me like that.”

Her teasing grin overtook her whole face, and while Draco felt incapable of experiencing the same amusement at this moment, he realised Ginny was not only a brilliant quidditch teacher and fiercely loyal friend to Granger, but now his own confidant. “In completely unrelated news, I think I’ve figured out how to solve my predicament.”

“Your predicament being your impending marriage?”

“The very one.”

Ginny showed him a softer look. “Does Hermione know?”

Draco shook his head gently.

“Malfoy, you need to tell her.”

Chapter Text

Over several years, Hermione had experienced every horrid scenario expected of an Auror. In her first year, she had noted the instances of death and dying she witnessed, as though being able to quantify the tragedy might help her in the future. Somewhere along the third year, she lost count of the bodies. This time, there hadn’t even been a body to see; and yet, she knew the memory would forever be branded in her mind.

Preston had gripped his wife’s shoulder, his own shuddering as he dipped his head to cry. There was an unmoving bundle in her arms. The infant's blanket was pink.

Following their return from the past, Hermione—again dressed in twenty-first century attire—stepped into the Floo and emerged in the dim drawing room of Grimmauld Place. James looked up from his toy train and ran full pelt, his laughter unravelling behind as he went.

“‘Mione!”

She crouched and he burrowed into her arms for a tight hug.

“My brilliant James.” As he squirmed through a giggle, she doled several kisses to his cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

When she withdrew, he pawed at her face with two small—and somewhat sticky—hands. James was the picture of his father but with Weasley impishness in his eye. “Did you know dad lives here now?”

“I sure do, and—”

Before she could say another word, he ran into the hallway yelling, “Dad!”

As always, the eldest Potter child was no less energetic than a dozen Cornish pixies. Soon, she heard shushing from somewhere outside the drawing room, then Harry’s voice.

“James, you’ll wake Walburga and Albus.”

Hermione had a feeling a well-timed silencing charm halted James' next attempt to speak. He yanked his father into the drawing room, mute mouth still flapping, and then jabbed a finger her way.

“What's the matter?” Harry asked Hermione. “You've got that look.”

An imploring look, no doubt. She couldn’t seem to fix her face with anything else. “I'm sorry, Harry. It's about work and it doesn't feel like it can wait.”

Without hesitation, he sent James to tidy the battalion of toys from the floor of his bedroom; but not before a back-and-forth argument between Harry and the four going on fourteen-year-old.

“Attitude,” remarked Hermione.

“An abundance,” replied Harry, then he showed her the sharp, attentive gaze of Head Auror Potter, ready to listen. But as Hermione detailed the events witnessed in nineteen sixty-seven, his expression shaped into something far gentler.

“I had no idea,” said Harry.

“I suppose it's not something easy to speak about; and it was over thirty years ago now.” Hermione shrugged swiftly. “I was wondering, do you know how Preston passed away?”

Harry shook his head faintly. “I’ve not heard the specifics about his death; which makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

“And he was certainly muggle-born?”

“His initial Ministry application said as much.”

“The Time-Turner—you say he only used it once or twice?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“And his wife—anything there?”

“Singh has tailed her for a week and there has been nothing out of the ordinary.”

“We haven’t been in contact with her since we retrieved the files, have we?”

“Not yet. Do you think it’s time?”

“Not quite. I want to see what else he shows us. What about his—”

“Hermione. Please take a breath.”

Hermione closed her mouth. Her thoughts were racing and she wanted nothing more than to solve what was beginning to feel like an extremely personal puzzle. She was overcome with a heated wave of emotion. Frustration, impatience, hurt. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes warmed.

“Why’s he doing this to us?” she asked. “Somehow, Malfoy has been correct from the very beginning. Preston has been toying with us. He's making us chase dark artefacts all over time and place and showing us a bloody living slideshow!”

Harry’s brows contracted in. “You seem upset.”

Upset felt unfitting. She was deeply irritated and confused, and it was only stoking her anger. “Cases don't usually unfold this way, do they? They rarely involve wizards I know and never this level of intimacy.”

Harry’s eyes surveyed her face twice over before he asked, “Has he perhaps caused you to feel closer to him?”

Hermione made her mouth small then nibbled at the inside. The many emotions this case had caused were unusual. She’d never been in this position before where her work was concerned. Today it had been unrelenting. If witnessing the death of Preston’s daughter wasn’t enough, Malfoy’s comforting embrace had caused her to feel emotions for a man who would be married in several weeks’ time. The most painful of which was hope. Hope that the next time she saw him, he would again fold her in his arms and tell her he’d found a way they could have a future together.

Hermione blinked against tears, feeling daft. “I'm being ridiculous, I know.”

“You're being human, Hermione. You knew him better than the others. We all saw the way he took a shine to you, and in many ways, you were extremely similar.”

Hermione laughed in a manner that she hoped would soothe some of her edging chagrin. “Well, I didn’t know him well enough to see this coming, did I?”

“Who could have seen this coming? It’s Auror Dominic Preston—he has an Order of Merlin, for Godric's sake.” Harry sighed. “Is it too much to complete the case?”

She gave a listless shake of her head. “I have a strange feeling I'm supposed to.”

“And what does Malfoy think about all of this?”

“We haven’t properly debriefed and I'm not sure what he thinks except that he seems… He seems content on this case.”

“You mean he seems content to be with you?”

It was a swift surrender in a battle to stop her mouth curving up at the end.

Harry didn't appear to share in the amusement. “You know he’s getting married soon, right?”

In what felt like a ridiculous show, Hermione laughed, and with it came the press of tears. They spilled over and she felt silly all over again. As she swept a finger beneath her eye, she nodded to signal that she very much knew. Tears had rarely come so fast. She had been in a drought for months on end, and here she was drowning, unable to wield any control. The vision of Harry swam. His figure became larger and larger until he was there, arms wrapped around her frame alongside the soft promise of, “It’ll be alright, Hermione.”

She let out a watery chuckle as he kissed the side of her head and then released his hold.

“You and Ginny have had very different approaches to this situation,” Hermione said, and Harry laughed with her. “But to be fair, I managed not to cry in front of her.”

“Perhaps the event tomorrow will take your mind off of it all?”

“Oh, Merlin.” Hermione swiped her fingers over her cheek. The reminder stilled her tears.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“No… of course not,” she fibbed. “Although, I better go organise something to wear.”

Harry glanced at his watch. “And I better check on James. Last time he was this quiet, he'd managed to feed his brother a Canary Cream.”

Hermione sniffed out a laugh. “I adore that boy.”

Harry smiled in a way that was a little disapproving and yet a little proud. He squeezed Hermione’s arm. “Just think of it this way: two more missions and it’ll be over. You won’t be on this case—hell, you won’t even be in the Auror office. You’ll be settling into your new desk in the Magical Creatures department.”

She gave a nod lacking any conviction.

“Soon both Preston and Malfoy will be nothing but history,” said Harry.

***

It took several owls back and forth—poor Twiggy was in a state by the fifth occasion—then a five-minute visit to Ginny’s before work, and Hermione finally found a dress to wear. Something black and staid for an evening spent exchanging small talk with other Ministry employees, and topics which would no doubt range from the upcoming quidditch tournament to another retelling of Auror McKenzie’s recent run-in with a Crup in a muggle street of London and the skilled memory erasure that ensued. With any luck, she would come across Gethsemane Prickle and could enquire about her application for the Magical Creatures role without appearing too nosy or, dare she say, desperate. Hermione simply needed to get through the next eight hours.

And then the next forty days.

By that time, Malfoy would be married and she would no longer have any right to feel this way. With any luck, she would be on an entirely different floor of the Ministry building, and their interactions would only be at the bi-annual celebratory work events, which he never seemed to attend anyhow, so perhaps she could go on with life avoiding him altogether.

But how hurriedly finding a beautiful, large blue box on her desk changed her thinking.

Hermione immediately knew who was responsible for the mysterious gift. She also knew that she had promised herself she’d forget the foolish hope for any future with Malfoy. But as she read the card slotted beneath the white ribbon and felt a whole-body throb of excitement, she conveniently forgot as much.

Indulge me once more?

Wear your curls wild.

DM

Hermione's heartbeat spun into a frenzy as she gently pulled at the end of the ribbon and then pried the lid away, revealing a lustre silk—periwinkle.

She lifted the dress and it spilled down, the ends fluttering before finding stasis. Then she held it against her body and grinned like a fool. Never in her life had she experienced elation because of an item of clothing—perhaps not even due to a gift. It felt silly. But also, the dress felt exquisite. And it had been hand-picked just for her. What did it mean, exactly? She brushed it off as Malfoy’s strange inclination to dress her like a doll because thinking about it too deeply was not going to take her thoughts to the places she wanted to go.

Several hours later, standing before her full-length bedroom mirror, Hermione felt a heady thrill as she slipped on the dress and felt the material trail an electric tingle down her skin. It dipped low at the front for a small show of cleavage, hugged the swell of her breasts into the dip of her waist, then fell off her hips and neatly to the floor. It was only then, in her reflection, that she glimpsed something she had overlooked in the gift box, something velvet peeking from the upended tissue paper. A small case. Inside she discovered a delicate silver necklace and two teardrop earrings sporting weighted sapphires at the end. They matched the old silver heels she had pulled from her wardrobe and shone brilliantly along her décolletage and between the gaps in her curls.

Viewing herself in the mirror, adorned in all her gifts, Hermione held her breath for a beat. She hadn't felt this beautiful in… well, so long that she couldn't recall. She couldn’t believe this was all for her—and from Malfoy, at that.

It truly hit home when she Apparated to Ginny’s and was greeted with an enthusiastic, “Good fucking Godric, where did you get that?!”

Ginny was still in her fluffy yellow dressing gown, a full face of makeup and ginger hair hanging in loose, beautiful curls.

“I’ll give you one guess,” said Hermione, curving around the corner into the bedroom.

“Unbelievable.” As Ginny came to a halt near the bed layered with clothing, several handbags, and at least seven high-heeled shoes, she crossed her arms and meandered her gaze down Hermione as though studying her for an impending O.W.L. “It’s just so beautiful. You're beautiful. I mean, you always are, but now—this—I…” Her eyes bulged. “Listen to me—I’ve forgotten words.”

Suddenly plagued by self-consciousness, Hermione folded her arms across her chest and wilted in a little. She hadn’t been aiming to stand out at this event, and now that appeared to be a very real possibility. “He left it on my desk with a handwritten note.”

Ginny shook her head with a long, disbelieving shake, her mouth curving more with each second. “This is like one of those silly romance muggle films Harry used to make me watch.”

Hermione inhaled deeply and blew out a curt breath. “Is this mad, Gin?”

Her smile turned down a little at the end with her effort to hide her delight in this predicament. “Which part?”

“The part where I’m falling in love with an engaged colleague who gifted me an extravagant dress and jewellery that probably costs more than a year’s worth of my salary.” The whites of Ginny’s eyes had grown larger with every new word from her mouth.

“Love, Hermione?”

She groaned with a fresh wave of agony. “I wish I could find the words to describe how he looked at me yesterday, but I won’t do it justice; and the way he held me—I could feel it, Gin. I can feel what he feels and I know it’s more than just wanting to bed me—”

“Wait…” Her brows drew in. “He’s not…” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Not what?”

Ginny glanced at her watch. “We’re going to be late. I better get into this dress.” She whisked off, leaving Hermione clawing for meaning in her scant words.

Had Malfoy planned something this evening that Ginny was privy to?

Hermione was suddenly too overwrought to unearth a logical thought. Never mind logic—any thought at all. Her whole being flooded with heat, her heart felt it lurched with sudden celebration and awful impatience. Somehow, it felt that tonight—a night that was entirely forgettable only yesterday—could be an unforgettable evening.

***

It had been several years since Hermione had set foot in Hogwarts. After her eighth year, there had been a long, drawn-out process over the space of many days in which she bid goodbye to her favourite nooks in the castle. She had grieved her loss of the library, simultaneously teasing the idea of returning as a Professor simply not to let the place go, then she’d held back tears as she viewed the bewitched sky of the grand hall one last time. Now, walking beneath the winking stars and wisps of cirrus clouds, she beamed. Hogwarts always felt like home.

Swathed in periwinkle and gold, Hermione and Ginny walked deeper into the crowded Great Hall, catching stray glances and double-takes as they went. With the long tables cleared away, there was now room enough for a length of bar along the wall, a string quartet at the back, and a circle of dance floor in the centre with a swirl of clouds moving between everyone’s feet. They moved into the heat. The din of conversation pocked with laughter as they threaded through a horde of people, experiencing notes of spices and fruits and florals from the amalgamation of aftershave, perfumes and hair potions.

Hermione was dizzied with anticipation and buoyant with hope, feeling as though she might float up and away into the bewitched night sky. She barely remembered to return a smile to the colleagues she passed by, her gimlet-eyed stare darting through the milling witches and wizards, past their shoulders and between their brown and grey and black locks of hair, searching for a glint of platinum blond.

A low whistle emitted nearby. Theo, in smart navy robes, stopped Ginny’s mission with his fingers on her forearm.

“Weaselette, Zabini is my guest for the evening, so if you don’t feel up to being accosted, consider this your warning.” He grinned. “However, if you would dearly enjoy an accosting, he is over by the bar.”

“Those are my only two options, are they?”

Theo's eyes had latched onto Hermione long before Ginny finished her sentence. “Granger, what have I done to deserve you looking like this?”

If she were still in her addictive pattern, she would return a compliment to Theo. Not that she needed to—he knew how handsome he appeared in this colour. It gave his eyes such a striking quality that it was difficult to glance away and only provided more opportunity to see the salacious grin. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

Head cocked, he ran his bold stare down the length of her.

Ginny took Hermione’s hand and began pulling her forward.

“Save me a dance,” Theo called out.

Ginny was aiming for the bar, but before they arrived, a lone floating tray nudged into Hermione’s shoulder and they both turned with an “Oh,” taking a proffered champagne.

“Still ignoring Blaise, are you?” asked Hermione as they both angled to view the wizard in his vibrant gold robes.

“Gods, I forgot how gorgeous he is,” said Ginny.

“You know, I've never seen two people eye-fuck each other quite like you two.”

“That's only because you can't see what I can when you and Malfoy are in the same room.”

“Oh, please, we don't eye-fuck.”

“No, you're right. It's a much more loving look, as though you want to ride out the end of days together. And by the way, everything I said about Blaise still stands, but also—” She made a tortured sound. “Look at him.”

“Why don't we avoid looking at him for the time being? You seem like you're about to do something you might regret.”

This time, Hermione led Ginny back through the throng. They’d made it safely past an unctuous man from the Improper Use of Magic Office, whose first words to Hermione the day they met were “my my my, the Golden Girl,” and diverted away from a lanky fellow from the Muggle Liaison Office, whose singular impression on Hermione was his clammy handshake. She wasn’t in the mood for feigned enjoyment of chit-chat with people who viewed her as nothing but an extension of Harry and Ron.

Zig-zagging between a gathering of men from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and the spectacled and serious-looking from the Department of Mysteries, she aimed for the edge of the dance floor, where there were fewer people and the string quartet was louder than the ribald jokes. They'd travelled half the length of the room and still entirely no sign of a six-foot-two blond.

Hermione’s hand tugged.

“Oh.” Ginny halted abruptly, and a floating tray of canapés nearby needed to swing a quick right. She turned to view her properly. “Did Harry tell you who he was bringing along as his guest?”

“No, and—why are you looking at me like that?”

Her expression creased for a fleeting moment. Too fleeting to read. “Because my intention is to always ensure nothing is going to overwhelm you.”

“I wish you'd stop worrying. Look at me: don’t I look better?”

She nodded, but her expression furled and then remained. 

“I can handle anything now,” said Hermione.

“Truly—anything?”

“Perhaps if Voldemort returned, I might take pause, but truly, anything.”

“Well, I'm glad, because your ex-boyfriend is making his way towards us.”

With that, Hermione turned to watch Harry and Ron moving into the hall, seemingly parting the guests like the red sea as all swiveled to gawk, and while the former was diverted by Kingsley, the latter escaped the conversation and powered forward to meet them.

“Oh, now he’s my ex-boyfriend. He's also your brother, you know.”

Ginny snorted.

“You made it sound like it would be Umbridge herself. Ron is fine. We’ve actually been exchanging letters for the past several months.”

“Oh.” Ginny’s shoulders dropped. “I didn't realise you’d been talking so often.”

It was, however, the first time she had seen Ron since last year. Before he’d left the Ministry, bumping into him between the office cubicles and finding him in the hallways had been too much. Fortunately time had stretched on and done its magic. Their letters were easy, they were now on the same amicable page, and he would always be dear to her. And so it was with this remnant of love that Hermione appreciated how he seemed much healthier in his face and the short growth of ginger stubble suited him extremely well.

“It’s nice to see you, Ron,” said Hermione.

“Blimey.”

He stared at her with his faint eyebrows snagged upward—stared so long that she felt the need to ask, “What's the matter?”

“You just look brilliant, is all.”

“As do you,” she said without a hint of a lie. She couldn’t see all too much beneath his black robes, but she knew he looked fitter all round.

Ginny cleared her throat.

“You look alright too, I guess,” said Ron with barely a sideways glance at his sister as he snatched a glass of beer from a nearby tray.

“Oh sod off, Ron,” said Ginny.

“How’s the joke shop?” asked Hermione.

“Unbelievable! Didn’t Ginny tell you? We’re going global.”

“You are?”

“Please,” said Ginny, “Ireland is in the very same corner of the globe. In fact, it’s just next door.”

“Well, I think that’s wonderful news.”

“Thank you, Hermione.” He saluted her with his beer, then took in a mouthful.

She smiled warmly in reply. “And how's Susan?”

“Ah, we called it quits a few weeks back.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

He shrugged and took another pull of his beer. Hermione watched as he wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand in that very Ron-like way she hadn’t missed, then he deeply furrowed his brow in a manner that felt unfitting. When Hermione realised the reason for his sudden change in demeanour, her face grew hot.

Malfoy was at her side. He was immaculate in all black, attired in what was probably a Malfoy evening staple of cashmeres and silks, from his shirt and tie, waistcoat and trousers, down to his dragonhide dress shoes. Somehow he was far more striking than usual, with his artfully dishevelled hair and silver rings glinting merrily. Merlin, he was beautiful. Hermione might have stared up at him for far too long, eager for his eyes to turn on her; but they were firmly on Ginny and Ron.

“Weasels,” he said with the hint of a drawl.

Ginny smiled in reply, then slid her eyes to Hermione in a less than conspicuous manner.

“Malfoy,” said Ron with an undercurrent of petulance. Truthfully, what was she to expect? He had given Malfoy little chance, even when they were still colleagues. “Can we help you with something?”

“I merely wanted to say good evening to two of my favourite witches.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed. They must have been scarlet by now.

“Come off it,” said Ron.

“Haven’t you heard? Your sister has been kicking my arse on the Quidditch pitch for some time, while Granger whips my arse into shape every day at the office.”

“He’s not lying,” added Ginny. “He hasn’t outscored me once.”

As Ron darted his eyes between the three of them, attempting to deduce the truth, Hermione felt the softest brush of Malfoy’s fingers against hers. Her heart skittered. Had it been intentional?

Malfoy answered her question with the readjustment of his footing, closing the gap between their arms, hiding the motion of his thumb as he stroked carefully along the back of her hand. The simple touch, nothing more than a warm featherlight caress, caused a frisson the length of her body.

“I had a run-in with a Weasley-made sparkling crown last month thanks to the devil offspring of Potter,” said Malfoy, shifting a miffed glance Ginny's way. “The spell-work on that product is extremely impressive. I couldn’t get rid of it for hours—house-elves thought it was rather amusing, though.”

Malfoy knew what he was doing; and it was working. Ron's expression loosened, then his posture followed.

In the same moment, Malfoy enclosed a gentle touch around Hermione’s littlest finger, trailing down then teasing at the tip with his thumb. The scarlet in her cheeks felt like it bled to her collarbone. How was he doing this to her? They’d touched plenty of times and in all sorts of intimate ways, and yet her breathing was verging on panting. It was her pathetic, newfound hope, she decided. She was delicate and hopeful and waiting. Waiting for him to whisk her away somewhere private and tell her he'd solved all of their problems.

“James enjoys riling you up,” said Ginny.

“Mutual enjoyment, I suppose.”

“Draco, darling, the Bramstons’ are here.” Astoria's voice was like a dip in the Great Lake.

Hermione moved an inch to withdraw from Malfoy's touch.

Ron shifted clumsily to allow room for Astoria, who had popped up behind him, causing him to roughly elbow Ginny.

Ginny's eyes swung to Hermione.

Hermione's heart clenched.

Astoria, impressive in an emerald green dress reminiscent of an Athenian god, stones in her ears to match and enviously shiny chestnut hair, beckoned Malfoy with two delicate swipes of her fingers. “Come say hello.”

Malfoy’s warm touch returned to Hermione’s palm. His grip squeezed as he leant down to whisper, “The family sapphires suit you, Granger.” The low timbre of his voice tickled her ear in a way it had no right to do as she stared into the face of his fiancé. Hermione briefly touched the cool jewel at her décolletage. Of course they were Malfoy jewels—how had she been so naïve? It wasn’t costume jewellery and wasn’t purchased especially for her, and the way Astoria’s eyes had lingered on her chest made it seem as though she knew. Astoria knew Hermione was standing there wearing jewellery from her fiancé.

Hermione wanted to wither into herself, down through the floor and away.

“What was that about?” Ron asked as soon as Malfoy had stalked off.

The two witches exchanged a knowing look.

“Come, let's get a drink,” said Ginny, snatching Hermione’s hand.

Ron frowned. “But the glasses are re-filling—”

Not bothering to wait for the end of Ron's sentence, Ginny dragged Hermione around the curve of the dance floor, past the twirling couples. They came to a stop beside a very enthusiastic hand-waving discussion between the Obliviators and the Invisibility Task Force of the Magical Accidents and Catastrophes department.

“I feel like an absolute idiot,” hissed Hermione, “standing here wearing these lavish gifts like some sort of other woman.”

“You’re not the other woman, Hermione. He is so blatantly in love with you; he barely glanced at Astoria. She’s the other woman!”

Hermione shoved out a sigh, attempting to eject her irritation. Apparently tonight was nothing more than an opportunity for Malfoy to feel as though he had claimed her in some sense. There wasn’t going to be any declaration and, by the looks of it, he hadn’t solved his betrothal. What was wrong with her? She had let herself get carried away, and it was so very unlike her. Instead, she should have been using tonight to network with the Magical Creatures department and discover an alternate way into the fold should her application for the new position fail. She should have been championing her drafted policies. Anything else but pining for Malfoy.

As Ginny laid a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder, Blaise appeared at their side, stealing her friend’s attention. Attention which quickly melded into an expression of astonishment.

“Do you prefer a begging man?” he asked Ginny. “Because I will get on my knees in the middle of this hall and—”

“Blaise.” Ginny’s eyes darted around behind him to ensure he hadn't captured inadvertent attention.

Hermione could feel desperation rolling off of the wizard. She skirted away to let them have it out alone, but she had only made it two steps before her own hand was captured. She knew it was Malfoy without even bothering to turn. She knew the soft, slender feel of his fingers. Knew his sharp scent.

“Dance with me, Granger,” he said next to her ear, and an electric thrill spun along her skin.

She turned only enough to see him in her periphery and make it appear nothing untoward was happening. She witnessed a glint of desperation similar to that just seen in his friend, but this was of a different brand—one that told her he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Malfoy was suddenly reminiscent of their night in America, displaying the comportment of a man that needed her as though she were his oxygen, his grasp tightening as if she kept him afloat. But they were playing with Fiendfyre. His fiancé was no doubt somewhere nearby. Their every colleague was in this room.

“Malfoy, let go of my hand. People are staring.”

“Let them stare.”

He led her several feet across the stretch of floor between dancing couples then drew her in so that the fiery heat of one palm was in hers, the other at the centre of her spine. They were in a classic waltz stance, perfectly respectable for a work do. Yet, Hermione was in a slight panic. She avoided his gaze and the undeniable pleasure in his expression.

“I can feel your fiancé’s eyes boring a hole through my head. Let. Me. Go.” Truthfully, she had no sense of where Astoria was, but this felt that dangerous. Her heart thundered in her throat. Hermione tried to flinch away, but Malfoy held strong.

“Astoria is not the type of witch to cause a scene; not during an event like this, anyhow,” said Malfoy as he led them around to the elegant music.

Hermione’s breaths tightened. Her vision flitted about to the faces in the crowd that had turned to watch, making them blur. She wanted to trust him. She did trust him. Besides, they were just dancing, weren't they?

“Are you just doing this to get back at Cormac?” she asked, finally swinging her eyes back to him.

Malfoy’s mouth pricked up a little at the end. She knew, no matter what he said, she was correct. “I would be dancing with you even if there was no one else in the room.” His voice was like velvet. “I needed to feel you in my arms again.”

Merlin. Looking into his eyes—pupils blown wide—was doing her in. Hermione expelled a vexed sigh. All she wanted was to sweep her touch around the back of his head and draw his lips to meet hers. But she tamped down that feeling. Why were they torturing themselves?

“Did you have to make it quite so public?”

He smiled fully then. “You know, I’m not sure if I want to answer that question.”

He couldn’t help himself, could he? It was written all over his face. This was as close as he would get to boasting about her in front of Cormac, and he was enjoying every minute. Perhaps, in some ways, Hermione was too. She did very much enjoy that silly, self-satisfied smirk on his beautiful, beautiful mouth.

Out the corner of Hermione’s eye, Harry had moved between the guests and came to stand beside Ginny at the edge of the dance floor, who was apparently simply ignoring the unashamed stare from Blaise beside her. Both Harry and Ginny had a preparedness in their bearing, as though they might need to whisk in and be of service at any minute. As Malfoy led her around the floor, she glimpsed Ron and his face set with plain confusion. Beside him was Astoria, who showed a pinched expression. Hermione held her breath. What must she think of them?

“Don't worry about everyone else,” said Malfoy.

With a step sideways to obscure her view, he pulled her flush and swept his hand down to the base of her spine. His heat at front and back bled through the silk of her dress. He tipped his head a little until he again captured her eyes, then lowered his voice, making certain the words were only for her, “You are breathtakingly beautiful, Granger.”

Until this moment, Hermione hadn’t truly known what it meant to feel butterflies in her stomach. She had felt excitement, apprehension, and desire, sure, but now it was all those things at once, and it was the very first occasion she could recall anything closely resembling a beautiful flutter. It complemented the warmth at the centre of her chest, the thrum of her pulse in her ears, and the ache at her core. She wanted more of it… and yet in this extremely public arena, she couldn’t bring herself to play along.

“Well, you are admiring your own handiwork.”

“I needed to remind myself to breathe when I saw you.”

Heat blossomed again. In her cheeks. Below her navel. Hermione knew people were staring, but she couldn't resign his eyes and the novel glint she witnessed in the greys. Tonight, they were arresting. Perhaps it was the lilt of the music. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was the way Malfoy skillfully manoeuvred her across the floor and the slight thrill of danger as they intently watched each other while others so intently watched them.

Hermione shook her head a fraction. Were they truly doing this? She tried to sober herself in some way, words her only weapon. “It's the dress.”

“The dress only accentuates your beauty.”

“It’s the colour…”

“It’s the same as your Yule Ball dress.”

“Don't pretend you catalogued the very specific memory of my dress colour in the fourth year, Malfoy.”

“How could I forget? You made an impression on everyone that night.”

That night felt much closer than it ever had. Had they skipped into the past?

“Do you think you could get used to more nights like this?” asked Malfoy.

“Do you have more dresses planned?”

“Well, there are going to be far fewer occasions like this after I’ve formally rejected this marriage contract; which is a shame because you would fit in so very nicely at the menial pureblood events, and no doubt you would make them far more enjoyable.”

The implication of his words and intensity in his eyes caused Hermione to look away. Astoria now held her arms crossed tightly, and despite her incapacity to stop staring at her fiancé, she appeared to be in some sort of distracted conversation with Ron. Ginny, however, now smiled in a rather fond way. Harry offered a quick waggle of his brows as their eyes connected, which incited a curve of Hermione’s lips; but then it fell as her eyes found Theo at the opposite side of the dance floor. His tie was loosened and his gaze heavy-lidded, refusing to relinquish Hermione as Malfoy spun her in and out once over.

“You two are looking sharp!” It was Neville’s voice. He and Pansy swept past in a delightful show for the music.

“Quiet, Nev,” said Pansy, with a swift tap against his shoulder. “Let them be.”

After Pansy had manoeuvred them to the other side of the dance floor, Malfoy said, “Hear that? Longbottom thinks we look sharp.”

Laughter slipped past Hermione’s defences. A single syllable. “Well, if Professor Longbottom thinks so…”

Their smiles stayed as they viewed one another, amusement on their lips and affection lighting their eyes, and at that moment, Hermione let the drone of conversation and the lull of music die away. She quickly forgot the other guests. Forgot who Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were supposed to be, and found that a long missed feeling flourished at the very centre of her chest. The glow radiated to her every end and caused her to believe her smile was unending. It was happiness, wasn’t it?

But as the background of their reality bled into her eye-line, umbrage stamped down that glow.

There were so many things Hermione despised. The unfairness of this situation, the foolishness on her part for falling for this man, and Astoria bloody Greengrass, who hadn't let her eyes up from the two of them and was now nudging into the dance floor with a gold-pointed shoe that Hermione could likely never afford in her lifetime unless she went without food.

“There's something I need to tell you,” began Malfoy, re-capturing Hermione's attention.

A flash of light distracted.

They both snapped their heads in its direction.

Rita Skeeter was standing at the border of the dance floor in lurid turquoise robes, mouth shaped in superfluous delight. The bloody cockroach. As the photographer at her side bent his knee, angling for another shot, Hermione suddenly struggled to grasp her breaths. What ridiculous headline was the Daily Prophet going to run? How was she going to be painted? The loose woman who had involved herself in the middle of a highly anticipated pureblood wedding? If there was anything that was going to shove Hermione back into the pit of depression, it was not only the torment of fancying a man engaged to another woman, but having it splashed across the Daily Prophet and scrutiny from the wizarding public. She was being stupid. Reckless.

Everyone could see what was happening in the way he held her, how closely he whispered, and the manner in which he kept her eyes moored in his; and now it was immortalised.

What were they doing?

“We can't do this,” whispered Hermione, and she slipped away from Malfoy before he could tighten his grasp.

With sharp breaths, Hermione charged away. Out the corner of her eye, Astoria went for Malfoy, Ginny headed for Rita, while Cormac made a beeline and stood directly in Hermione’s path.

“You can do much better, Granger,” he said. “Fancy a twirl with me?”

Hermione sunk her eyes to the floor, hoping it would hide the shocking colour of her cheeks, and swerved around him.

Behind, Ginny’s voice cracked sharply: “Give me that camera—and give me that notebook! I’ll put you back in that bloody jar!”

Harry’s even voice: “Gin, please. You know you can’t threaten the press in that way.”

Ron’s pleading: “Ginny! Get your hands off of her!”

After Cormac, the guests parted for Hermione as though she had Spattergroit and she easily escaped into the hallway, past the lingering gatherings of Ministry employees against the walls, until she was far enough that no one might notice her and her panicked breaths.

“Granger, wait!”

She made the mistake of turning instead of marching straight on.

Theo had caught up with her, his tie now entirely undone and a look of playfulness far too ill-fitting for the situation.

“What is wrong? You can’t tell me that’s the first occasion you've been photographed by the Prophet?”

Hermione folded her arms. “I'm not in the mood to talk about this, Theo.”

“No talking, huh?” Canting his head, he closed in a couple of steps. “I can work with that.”

“Theo,” Hermione warned, stepping backward from his advances and meeting the frigid stone.

He placed a palm on the wall beside her head and, with a smirk that might have worked on her once before, he let his eyes dance all over her face, trailing down to her mouth once or twice.

“Granger,” he simply replied.

She shook her head and narrowed her eyes. “You don't want me. You just want what Malfoy has.”

“Naturally.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “Tell me, how long has Malfoy been having you? Since I pushed you two together?”

“You're being awfully presumptuous.”

“And I can also be awfully artful with my tongue.” His head was dipping closer, his Firewhisky breath fanning across her lips.

Hermione groaned lightly, kneeing his encroaching thigh away. She hadn't let her thoughts stray to Theo since the night she found him in Borgin and Burkes. Why would she? Malfoy had kept her plenty occupied. But as he stood in her space, all dimples and scented like spearmint and his woody cologne, suddenly she felt a rekindling of temptation. She could feel his heat radiating. It was a reminder of exactly what she wanted to feel and where. A reminder of how the prize often felt as delicious as the chase.

But Theo was simply fanning the flames of her addiction. Hermione wasn't weak any longer. It wasn't the same as it had been.

“Theo, please.” She nudged him away with her palms pressed to his chest. “You have the wrong impression about Malfoy and I, and you certainly have the wrong impression about the two of us.”

Just as Theo opened his mouth, he flinched backward and then palmed at his arm. “Fuck!”

“Nott!” Malfoy’s voice cracked sharply in the high ceiling, drawing attention from the Ministry workers he had scarcely passed by.

Hermione winced, pulling away from the wall.

“What in Salazar’s name do you think you're doing?” He stalked towards them, the severity of his sneer like nothing she had seen before. The muscles clenching in his jaw were visible even at a distance, and Hermione knew his breaths were agitated simply from the rigidity in his shoulders.

Theo rubbed at a scorch mark along the blue wool at his bicep. “What was that for?”

“You don't understand what you’re meddling in,” growled Malfoy. “I will duel you in this instant. I'll take you in the courtyard—”

“I'm not duelling you.”

While everything in Malfoy’s bearing was threatening as he marched forward, Theo’s calm demeanour refused to break. He unhurriedly repaired the burn to his robes, meandering a couple of feet away from Hermione as he did so. “I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, but Granger here has now rejected me for the second time, so you're already a winner in more ways than one.”

With his wand in fist, Malfoy passed Theo with a sharp look of warning, but didn’t halt until he was directly in front of Hermione.

“Leave,” he commanded past his shoulder, and Theo didn’t bother to even make a show of considering any other option.

They had barely been alone together a beat before Malfoy closed in towards Hermione in the same way Theo had done, making her press hard against the wall.

He stooped a little to make her read his eyes. “Have I mentioned that I don't like sharing, Granger?”

The intensity of his expression hadn’t let up. Hermione knew his anger wasn’t for her, and yet it sparked her indignation. “You're engaged to another woman!”

“That's different, isn’t it?”

“It’s not different—it still hurts!”

He retracted a little then, his scowl slipping.

Malfoy bared his teeth with a fresh sneer, closing the space between them so that his thigh brushed against hers. “You’re mine, Granger.”

“No, Astoria is yours.”

“She’s not. Not any longer—that was what I wanted to tell you.”

Hermione shook her head and drew her eyes away from his, not wanting to be mollified by his transparent desire.

“Astoria understands I won’t be marrying her and tonight was meant to be our final public show.”

This was everything Hermione had wanted, but the joy she had imagined was missing, tainted by the mess of it all.

“Hermione, listen to me.” His tone had lost the edge of irritation. He was suddenly more familiar. Soothing. “I don’t want to pretend any longer. I’m done with it all.”

She relinquished her view of the shadows, sliding her eyes to his, and was met with a gentler expression. Yet she sharpened her tone. “No. It’s Granger, not Hermione. I am your colleague, school rival, your greatest Ministry competition. We are not on a first name basis.”

Crossing her arms, she shook her head and peered back down the dark end of the hallway.

Malfoy’s touch to her shoulder was gentle. His fingers ghosted up the curve of her throat, then smoothed over the edge of her jaw. His voice arrived as a whisper. “Look at me.”

His touch steered her until their eyes met.

It was undeniable, their mutual affection and infatuation and desperation. They weren’t falling. They had already fallen and their harsh tones and cutting words were for the pain of the situation.

“I’m sorry. It’s just…” He trailed off with a shake of his head.

Malfoy swept a stray curl away from her face. His breaths appeared easier. His furious mask had dissolved.

Now, alone in the shadows and away from the scrutiny, they shared a look laden with so much love that Hermione thought her chest might fracture. She closed her eyes to steal a moment. To save herself from the ache. But the way his fingers rested at the hinge of her jaw and his thumb tested a path for his tongue across her lips made the ache echo.

Hermione parted her mouth for a gentle sigh as Malfoy’s mercury eyes studied her. She loved the way his cheekbones had burnished pink, and how he faintly dented his brow as he watched her—captivated, as if he was determined to make a memory.

What was she saying? She loved all of him.

“Kiss me,” she told him.

His eyes briefly widened. Gaze intensified. “Are you sure?”

Hermione scrunched her fists into Malfoy’s shirt, drawing his lips to hers, and he made a sweet contented hum. Although she wanted to feel all of him in this instant, the first soft press of their lips was testing. He teased his tongue along her bottom lip before he pulled away.

“Granger,” he breathed, eyes a little wild and wary, assessing her certainty.

Following a hurried nod, his lips met hers, and he deepened their kiss into something soft yet demanding. He tasted like champagne and spearmint as his tongue glided along hers, his hand cupping her jaw, fingers threading into her curls.

As he kept her pinned to the wall, he kissed her with an increasing hunger that sent her mind blank. She knew nothing but the relentless sudden ache between her legs. Concern for public indecency was non-existent. Worry about tomorrow’s headline forgotten, care for pureblood weddings, all but gone. Kissing had never before felt this good, had it?

Malfoy’s hand slid beneath her dress, fingers clawing into the flesh of her behind. As one palm teased her hardened nipple through the silk, his knee rode up between her legs and pushed against the dampness of her underwear, inciting Hermione to meet his friction with the rock of her hips. But it wasn’t enough. She needed all of him now.

“You’ve truly solved this?” she asked breathlessly, as he charted a path down her throat with kisses while Hermione’s finger and thumb worked at his trouser button. “You’ve found a way out?”

Malfoy’s hand on her thigh tightened. He dipped his forehead into the slope of her neck and she heard him sigh. His knee dropped away from between her legs and he straightened to look her in the eye, shaking his head.

Hermione drew herself up. “Are you mad, Malfoy?”

He pulled his palm down over his mouth.

“I’m not worth giving up your every last galleon.” Hermione pushed away from the wall, suddenly sickly at the thought.

He held her waist with a heated grip either side. “You are. You're worth it all, Granger.”

“Malfoy, please.” She shoved away his touch. She couldn’t let him do this. “No—you’ve become my new addiction, that’s all.”

“I know what’s happening between us is more than just any addictive behaviour, Granger. It might’ve started that way, but that’s not what it is now.”

Hermione dipped her head, unable to look him in the eye. It had been difficult enough to lie once.

“Are you truly telling me to continue on with Astoria? What happened to marrying for love?”

She shook her head, despising that he used her words against her. “I’m just something new to conquer, someone to distract you from your circumstances.” She couldn’t bring herself to speak with any conviction.

“Believe what you want to believe, Granger, but what I do with my future is my choice.”

The implication of this all suddenly dizzied Hermione. She covered her palms to her face and breathed deeply.

“What in Salazar’s name are you doing, Draco?” Astoria’s voice carried down the hall, and yet Malfoy did nothing to move away from infiltrating Hermione’s space.

She took it upon herself to slide out and away from him, eager to convey innocence and no doubt failing catastrophically.

“Have you forgotten this is a public event?” asked Astoria, her high heels rupturing the silence as she took several steps forward. “I've convinced Rita to take another photo; now get back in here and help make amends.”

Ignoring his fiancé, Malfoy turned back to Hermione.

“I promise you, Hermione, I won't be marrying her.” His hushed voice quickened. His eyes were fierce. “I want you to come to me when you're ready—any time or place, I don't care. I'll meet you there. I’ll leave the manor Floo open for you; I’ll change the anti-apparition wards; I’ll meet you on the other side of the world at any time in history, I don’t care. I just want you to come to me, and only me. Do you understand?”

She couldn't bring herself to answer. How could she let him do this?

Even despite Astoria hovering, Malfoy laid his lips to Hermione's for a swift kiss, then she watched him walk towards his fiancé and away from his predetermined future.

***

Hermione woke before Ginny. She had needed company, and fell into her bed not too long after watching Malfoy disappear with his fiancé. But she hadn’t been able to speak about what occurred in the shadowy Hogwarts hallway, and instead curled into herself, waiting for sleep to claim her.

Now she stood in Ginny’s kitchen in a borrowed pair of daffodil pyjamas, watching the sun rise above the garden’s summer blooms with a cup of tea in hand. Last night had a slippery, fuzzy quality to it, as though it had been a dream. It was a dream until Twiggy appeared at the window above the kitchen sink with a copy of the Prophet and reminded Hermione that it was, in fact, not a dream at all.

Golden Girl Swept Off Her Feet By Dancing Ex-Death Eater

Hermione slammed her mug harshly to the bench top, dipped her face into her hands and groaned. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let him do that to her? To them! Pacing in a tight circle, she took several deep breaths in an attempt to steady the sudden bilious urge.

“Morning.” Ginny wandered in and straight for the cupboard of mugs, revealing the nest of bed-hair at the back of her head.

Hermione pulled in the side of her mouth. “Did I wake you?”

“I’m not sure. Were you the exasperated groan?”

Hermione held the paper up and then out, straightening her arm for Ginny to better see.

“That bloody cow,” said Ginny, snatching the Prophet and peering closer. But when she returned her eyes to Hermione, her anger had disappeared. “Hermione,” she said with a sigh, “have you seen this?”

“Of course I've seen it.”

“No, I mean, have you truly seen it?” She pushed the paper under her nose. “Look at you two.”

Hermione had only glanced at the photograph. Now she watched it loop, reading every minute detail as she breathed jagged breaths. Overnight she had tried to banish the memory of how gorgeous Malfoy had been, but there he was, dashing as ever, and while Hermione thought the way the camera captured her wasn’t all too bad, her dress was the true highlight. It contrasted beautifully with her skin, and the ends floated on the air as he steered her around with a regal bearing. Before they had showed dazed looks towards the camera, they stared at each other with their heads gently tilted, lips curving into smiles of adoration that likely appeared uncharacteristic for the Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy the wizarding world knew. The thought frightened her. Amidst the marriage contract troubles and their role as colleagues, they didn’t need public scrutiny.

“I mean, I saw it with my own eyes last night,” continued Ginny, “but it's undeniable, isn't it?”

Hermione sighed wearily. She threw the paper onto the kitchen table, sank into a chair and placed her forehead on the gingham tablecloth. “This cannot be happening.”

“It is very much happening. In fact, it has been immortalised in ink.” She heard Ginny claim a chair. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Hermione dissented with a vague mumble.

“Fine, I’ll go first. I may have ended up in a cupboard with Blaise and then agreed to go on another date with him.”

At that, Hermione sat up straighter. “Thank Merlin. I’d rather not see him beg again; it doesn’t suit him.”

Ginny smirked. “Oh, but I rather enjoyed it.” She drank a mouthful of tea. “So from what I can see, Malfoy has found a way to solve his forced marriage, he took you for a twirl—no wait, that’s not quite right—he hogged you for several songs, and you danced in his arms while his fiancé glared your way, then the horrible bug-woman clued on, and then what?”

Hermione shook her head. She couldn’t believe Malfoy’s definition of solve. He hadn’t solved anything. They were exactly where they had always been. “Solve means he’s ready to give up everything in his possession, and I can’t let him do that. He'll just resent me.”

“I think money will be the least of his concerns. We both know he’s clever, Hermione; he'll find a way to recoup. Perhaps he'll miss a summer house in France, but I’ve no doubt that he can learn to live like us normal people.”

Hermione bit at the inside of her lip as she considered the absurdity of this situation. It was rare that she was faced with anything in life that was simply black and white, faced with a choice where she could clearly see the outcome. Hermione held such fear. What if she wasn’t enough for Malfoy? Could she carry his resentment for the remainder of her life? What if they grew apart in the same way she had done with Ron?

Ginny sat forward with that honest look about her again. “I know what you're like, Hermione. You're pragmatic, logical, and every other word that hints at order and processes, but for just a moment—and I know in saying this that I ask a lot of you—you need to stop thinking about all the many possibilities and their consequences. What does your heart say?”

Her heart protested her hesitation and discounted her fears as excuses. But she couldn't bring herself to say it aloud.

By some miracle, Ginny let Hermione leave without offering an answer. She only pulled her in for a crushing hug and then reminded her to forgo thinking.

Hermione made an attempt.

At her flat, she slid into comfy joggers and an old t-shirt, laid out her notebooks and three tomes of wizarding legislation along the coffee table, then began revising sections twelve and thirteen of the Werewolf Code of Conduct in the event Prickle contacted her for an interview in the Magical Creatures department. After several hours, Hermione came to the realisation that not thinking had simply turned into avoidance.

In the evening, she soaked in a hot bath in an attempt to switch off her thinking, if only to allow herself to sleep soon. But with her father’s Dire Straits CD mumbling in the background, she instead sang along to every single word before realising her fingers and toes were far too wrinkled to remain there and pursue the no-thinking. Hermione slipped on a grey satin thin-strapped nightdress and stared at herself for a length in the mirror, as though another angle to her problem might help her see a different solution.

Her therapist had once explained that the reason Hermione enjoyed order and process, and preferred to determine every single possible outcome before undertaking an activity, was because of her anxiety. She had never labelled herself an anxious person prior to undertaking therapy. But when Maeve explained that seeking order allowed her a sense of control, Hermione realised that the diagnosis was indeed correct. She enjoyed control over the goings-on in her life because it rendered her reactions and emotions predictable.

All that was to say that Ginny was irritatingly correct.

And here Hermione was, faced with a situation that was rife with unpredictable outcomes and emotions. It set a fear in her like no other.

Yet beneath that fear, Hermione knew what she felt. If she ignored her desire to put things in boxes and make lists and contingency plans, she could see it there.

See him.

Without a doubt, this was a moment Hermione knew she would look back upon and either curse herself for her foolishness, or smile fondly because she was foolish in the most wonderful way. She hoped it was the latter.

As Hermione walked through her bedroom, she snatched a long cardigan on the way, slipped her feet into flat shoes and, with nothing but her wand in hand, stepped into the Floo.

“Malfoy Manor.”

Chapter Text

Draco woke with a whole-body shiver, his wards sending warning.

With his pulse thrashing in his ears, he rolled over and snatched his wand from the nightstand. In the same moment his bedroom lit with the faint glow of his lamp, he propped himself up on an elbow to better see the door.

As it opened inchmeal, there was a spell ready on his tongue. But then—a realisation that caused his heart to beat in triple time. An elf would not bother using a door, his mother had returned to France, and his wards were strong enough to keep away any dark wizards seeking revenge.

“Hermione?”

She revealed herself from behind the door with a beautiful yet cautious expression, her chest rising and falling sharply as she moved deeper into the room. The low-light made her blurry around the edges and her nightdress shimmered weakly as it flitted around her thighs, making Draco second guess whether he was dreaming. But she’d truly come to him, hadn’t she? Just like he’d asked her to.

Granger sat beside him on the edge of the bed and Draco, heart battering against his ribs, sat up straighter to examine her expression. She assessed him in turn. Her honey-coloured eyes showed an unmistakable fondness beneath the trepidation. He dearly hoped it was something more. Affection? Love?

His fingers drifted along the silk of his sheets, but suddenly stopped short of where her hand rested. Draco doubted his every move. Every breath. Every thought. The words on his tongue pressed for freedom, but he worried he would say something stupid and startle the witch away.

Granger dropped her gaze down to their hands and, with an unhurried pace, threaded her fingers in between his. The simple soft glide of her skin against his had him holding his breath.

This was a good sign, wasn’t it?

She was here for a good reason, wasn’t she?

If Draco knew anything about Granger, she was not cruel. She would never travel to Wiltshire in the middle of the night to reject him all over again.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, but worry still restrained her every feature. “Are you?”

How could he make her understand just how certain? Draco would give everything away for her. He would give away everyone, if she asked.

He lifted a palm and cradled her cheek, the pad of his thumb teasing at the corner of her mouth. With a timid smile, she tilted her face into his hold, as though she’d been waiting for this very moment.

Draco nodded. “I've never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Granger’s expression broke with a more assured smile and Draco drew her mouth to his, melding their lips, testing his tongue against hers. He savoured the minty-sweet taste of her, the gentle glide of her tongue and the adorable soft sigh he swallowed.

After all this time, he savoured the opportunity to kiss Hermione Granger.

Without drawing her lips away, she straddled him. Her fingers scraped at the short hairs at the nape of his neck as she deepened their kiss, and his palms roved along the satin of her nightdress and the silk of her skin to make certain she was real.

As his thoughts whirred with disbelief, she searched his body in the same way, palms exploring his chest, fingers trailing the planes of muscle and thin scars with equal attention. For the first time in his life, he ached to be discovered. He vibrated beneath her touch.

Granger ground down against him in the most perfect place and he dug his fingers into the flesh of her hips to keep her still. If he was not careful, she was quickly going to be his undoing.

As though she heard his concern, she broke their kiss, satisfaction plain upon her lips.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” said Draco.

“Neither can I.” Her voice quickly paled. “This place…”

Draco conjured the memory of that day in the drawing room; then quickly banished it. The stab of guilt was always too much to bear, but particularly at this moment.

“It holds bad memories,” she whispered, as though the manor would hear.

“We’ll replace them with good,” he told her, but he didn't have the wherewithal to say she needn’t worry seeing as, any day now, the manor and its horrid past would no longer loom over them. She knew as much. “Are you going to change your mind when my name is worthless?”

She shook her head hurriedly. “Are you going to resent me once you realise you've traded your every belonging for a muggle-born witch?”

“I promise I will never resent you, Granger. You're exactly who I've been waiting for.”

With the shadow of a smile, she made their lips meet in the way he was learning she favoured: a soft press before her tongue tasted his. Draco was convinced he would never tire of the feeling.

They'd barely begun and he was already hopelessly hard beneath her. As his palm flexed over her breast, she gave a little roll of her hips and Draco clamped her down in place, worried he’d get carried away.

“Careful, Granger,” he said, his smile against hers. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. I'm a little fragile.”

She leant back to show her crafty expression. “We can go slowly,” she said, but then she pulled Draco's hand down beneath her nightdress until he discovered she was bare, his fingertips dragging along her heated arousal.

“Circe.” Draco battled between his desire to feel the heated hold of her immediately, but also to slow and savour the moment.

He tugged the hem of her nightdress up over her hips and waist, and then held his breath as he pulled it away. He had dreamt about putting his mouth around her nipples more than once, so when he finally clasped at her flesh with his fingers and thumb, then swirled his tongue around the soft peak and sucked with a gentle pressure, his cock pulsed impatiently.

Granger gasped sharply. Her grip on his shoulder tightened.

Draco took her face in his hands. “You are just…” He suddenly felt breathless. “You're perfect, Hermione.”

She grinned. “You know I lied before—I like when you call me that.”

Alongside their tender kisses, Granger teased her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, and Draco flinched as her nails lightly grazed his skin. He loved how she took control, reaching for him—he had never experienced a woman this way—but he was desperate to explore her first.

After she wrapped her palm around his cock, tip beaded with pre-cum, she flicked her gaze up to him. He knew what she was thinking; but Draco had been so patient. So very patient.

In one swift move, Draco swept her backward until she lay on the bed. “Gods, you don’t understand how many times I dreamt about this. About these—” He cupped her breasts and, with a gentle squeeze, claimed each nipple with his mouth.

She hummed lightly as he worked damp kisses down her chest, discovering new freckles to worship along the way. One at the centre just beneath her breasts, another on the right side of her waist, and his new favourite, a cluster of three in the corner of her pelvis—typically hidden by underwear. Hidden enough just to be his.

“How are you real?” he breathed against her skin.

She laughed softly and carded her fingers through his hair in a way that caused gooseflesh at the nape of his neck.

“Believe me, I ask myself the same question about you,” she said.

Draco sat back to drink in the sight of Granger naked and waiting—for him. With her mouth shaped in a way that rendered her beauty a little wicked, her half-lidded stare was attentive on his every move. He wanted to put his lips to hers; but he also wanted his lips on her breasts and stomach and clit. Draco wanted it all.

With his tongue, he mapped a gentle line starting beneath her navel, pausing as he met her centre. He needed to gather himself before he went any further. Fuck, she was beautiful. His cock throbbed at the sight of her pink and glistening up close, at the sharp musk scent of her, and as his desperate breath gusted out, her back arched, raring for his tongue.

“And you don’t understand how fucking badly I’ve wanted this—”

He slotted the point of his tongue into Granger’s folds, laving at her arousal, drawing up to circle her clit, and pulling a sweet hum from above. Her hand rediscovered his head and her leg cinched tight around his back, all of her reaching to feel him closer, and Salazar, Merlin, Circe; he could do this all night long.

As his tongue swirled, Draco gently slipped in a finger, feeling the heated hug of her down to his knuckle. Then as he worked a second finger into her tightness, he pulled away to watch how her sharp breaths bounced her perked nipples. Granger writhed beneath him, angling and arching to meet his touch, and as he dipped in his tongue to again meet her clit, she fisted his hair and her core tightened around his fingers. Quick, anticipatory pulses.

“That’s perfect,” she breathed, as he caressed her front wall.

Draco groaned against her. He felt pre-cum making a wet patch on the sheets, and he needed to grind his hips to give his aching cock some relief. His voice was scratchy with desire when he said, “Come for me, Granger.”

She replied with a whimper, rocking gently to meet the persistent curve of his fingers.

“I need you to come for me like my life depends on it.”

She ground into his touch and tongue, her fingernails scraping at his scalp as she moaned.

“Since that day you walked into my office,” began Draco, voice pale with desperation, “I’ve never wanted anything so badly than to feel you come against my tongue.”

Granger stuttered a breath as she released her grip in his hair and sent her fingers carding through her own. “Oh, gods,” she panted. As Draco rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sucking on her swollen clit, Granger’s words rushed out: “I just need you to keep doing what you’re doing and there won’t be any need to give up your life.”

He thought it couldn’t get any better, until he dipped his tongue into her entrance and she moaned, “Draco.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. He wanted to make her say his name over and over again.

Draco doubled his efforts, pulsing his fingers in and out, curling his tongue around her clit, coaxing her release and quickening her breaths. Where his palm laid at her stomach, he felt how she quivered with the pull of her orgasm. They were so close.

She hissed in a breath through clenched teeth and bucked into his forceful flicks. “Oh gods, Draco.”

He hummed against her centre in reply, and alongside Granger’s breathy whines and then a broken moan, he felt her clench around his fingers. Her back bowed from the bed, body trembled beneath his touch, and her core fluttered against his tongue as she came for him—because of him. It was the sweetest feeling.

Draco tensed his abdomen against the desperate throb of his cock. His body thrummed, celebrating the feel of her—the taste and scent and touch—all of the details he could never accurately concoct in his mind when he dreamt of the witch. But he was aching to feel more.

As Granger panted, incapable of catching a full breath, Draco kissed his new favourite freckles in the dip of her pelvis before he came to kneel, enamoured by the sight of the wetness dripping down her centre. He stroked his cock twice over with the slick all over his palm, then slid the tip down her folds, drawing a sweet whimper from her lips.

As he flicked his cockhead over her clit, he adored watching her belly flinch and centre pulse with the sensitive aftershock of her orgasm. Then, just as he lined up to feel himself deeper, she rose to her knees and her mouth was on his, keenly tasting herself. She pushed him back until they were where they began, Granger on top, a mess of cum and arousal sticky between them. He loved how commanding she was, but he was delicate. She was gorgeous and perfect and everything he had ever desired; but he was delicate and the glint in her eye was insatiable. He needed to ensure he lasted. 

“Granger,” Draco whispered.

Her eyes pricked a little wider—curious—waiting for his words. Her cheeks were florid, only rendering her more beautiful, and it caused his heart to skate through several beats. With a deep breath to stave off the sudden ache in his chest, Draco tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I promise you, I will never get in the way of what you want in life.”

She laughed gently. “I'm not sure where that has come from, but I can promise you the very same.”

“I just want you to understand how serious I am.”

She showed him that familiar soft smile. One that failed to become fully fledged because she tamped it with a pull of affection at the corner. “I know. I understand.”

Draco’s eyes danced all over Granger’s, delighting in the tenderness he witnessed, until she raised up and curved a hand around his length. He watched intently as she notched him at her entrance and then slid down, inch by inch, until the velvety hold of her was tight and he had disappeared deep inside. As he settled into the snug warmth of her for the first time, Draco pressed his head against the headboard, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

“Fuck. Hermione,” he rasped out, fingers digging into the flesh of her arse. His composure was already fissuring, and she hadn't even moved.

As she began a gentle roll of her hips, Draco’s breathing rushed. Then he panted, watching as she chased her own pleasure, grinding against him when she met the base of his cock, then rocking back and forth where his length hit the perfect spot. She whimpered and whined, making noises that caused his breaths to become elusive. The view of her riding his cock was like nothing else he’d experienced. She was assertive and sure and it was the sexiest thing he’d seen.

Time was suddenly measured in their fevered heartbeats.

In luxuriating kisses.

In breathy noises and hums of disbelief.

Granger took his hand and placed it to her breast with a squeeze, and as soon as he followed her command, pawing at her in the same way, she moved two fingers to her clit for her own ministrations.

“Gods,” breathed Draco. Then as she lifted to work up and down on just the tip of his cock, he ground out, “Fucking fuck.” He already felt his balls tightening.

When she slid back down and ground on him, making sure he filled her even deeper than before, a moan slipped from his lips. Draco dropped his head back again, overcome and ready to surrender to Granger’s every move. Ready to fill her.

Draco had never experienced anything like this before. Anyone. Granger had a proficiency like she did in every other aspect of life; she knew the perfect cadence and angle for both her pleasure and his.

Her rhythmic bounce on his cock built a beautiful warmth, drawing him closer to the edge with her every undulation. As he neared, he slid an arm around her waist to pull her in closer, wove his fingers into her curls at the nape of her neck, and pressed their foreheads together. Their breaths played staccato against each other’s lips.

Until some weeks ago, Draco didn't realise he was missing anything in life. Until now, he didn't realise how desperately he needed her to understand. “Hermione,” he whispered.

Her eyes read his and Draco was convinced he witnessed a shared understanding.

“I know,” she replied, then captured his lips with hers.

Her tongue glided along his with the same measured pace as her rolling hips, until Draco’s fingers circling her clit caused her to break their kiss. Suddenly, he earned sweet little moans beside his ear, and with her needy whispers of “yesyesyes,” she shivered and shuddered, her centre pulsing around his cock and nails biting into his back as she cried out. With two more deep strokes, Draco spilled inside her, unable to keep the moan tearing from his throat.

***

They laid on their sides, Granger’s behind against his thighs and the slick of their efforts drying in between. With the lamps extinguished, the only light in the room was a slip of moon glow from between the curtains. It laid across the bed, along his hand on Granger’s thigh, and caused his ring to gently glint. Their breaths played odd beats, Draco’s to-ing and Granger’s fro-ing, but their heartbeats were one. In the sweet and content silence, Draco realised how effortless this was—the way he loved her. So effortless that he couldn’t keep from smiling against the skin at the nape of her neck.

“I can feel that,” she said, voice dampened by sleep.

He placed a kiss where his smile had been. “Sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

There was such a length of silence that he assumed she had again toppled into her dreams.

She whispered, her words languid. “No need to apologise. But perhaps you can share the reason for your smile.”

A sharp and sudden ache lanced Draco’s chest; but it was the good kind. He had never done this before. Of course there had been women, some in this bed, but he’d never experienced this peculiar longing for a woman as they slept in his arms. She was right there; he could feel her warmth and breaths and heartbeats, and yet, it wasn’t enough.

“It’s just you, Granger.” He laid a lingering kiss on her shoulder and she replied with a hum.

Draco attempted to stave off sleep, not wanting the night to end, but the same warmth and breaths and heartbeats he cherished lulled him into easy dreams.

***

Draco’s hand swept out along the cold bed sheets, up and up, until his fingers slipped beneath the pillow beside him, then finding no warmth, sat up sharply. Everything was exactly the way it had been: the settee beneath the window, his wand on the side table, the stack of blood magic books on the writing desk ahead, and the open ensuite dim.

“Granger?”

He waited out the silence, the wrench in his chest twisting deeper with every fresh beat.

As he walked into the sitting room in grey joggers and a t-shirt, Draco already knew he could no longer feel her—the wards felt changed—but he searched anyway. Everything in the manor was as prim as usual, except for a shallow dent in the Floo powder dish on the fire mantel. Draco couldn’t understand. Why would she leave without a word? When did she leave? Why hadn’t he awoken? He swallowed coarsely as he turned to make for his bedroom, desperate to ready for the day and find her.

The fire hissed into life, and Draco stalled his footsteps and turned.

In dark robes, Nott stepped from the fire grate. “Good morning, my love,” he said, eyes upon his forearm as he dusted away a sprinkle of soot. “I came to see if you’re still in a mood about this Granger thing.”

Draco gritted his jaw, flexing the muscles once or twice.

Nott’s gaze came to rest upon his face, his eyes a little wide for his show of innocence. “And I can see that you are.”

“I don’t appreciate you acting so flippantly about this.”

“Right. Well, darling Pansy did try to tell me, but—”

“You were thinking with your cock.”

“Or maybe not thinking at all,” he said, putting his head to one side.

Whatever Nott was attempting to do was only flaming Draco’s irritation. He couldn’t read anything genuine in his expression. But then again, he’d never been on the receiving end of a Nott apology, and had rarely witnessed anything genuine from the wizard, so what was he to expect?

“Do you truly believe I’d give up all of this just for a quick shag with Granger?”

Nott shrugged lightly. “I didn’t lie when I said I wasn’t thinking. Only this morning I had the realisation that I've never seen you like this before.”

Draco folded his arms across his chest. “This is a long, roundabout way of apologising.”

The ends of Nott’s mouth tweaked down. He dropped his gaze. It was a moment before he nodded—a long swooping nod—then he again linked his sight with Draco’s. “I'm sorry,” he said evenly.

“I'd rather not hear it.” Something about this whole interaction irked Draco. “I'd rather curse you so that your cock falls off—”

The fire flamed green. Astoria emerged wearing bright pink robes, her cheeks the same lurid colour and eyes round, bordering on hysterical. “Hermione Granger!”

“Saved by the screeching ex-fiance,” said Nott.

“Sod off, Theo.”

“Always pleasant, Tori.” Nott attempted a smile for Astoria, but it appeared more like a show of repulsion. He shifted his sight back to Draco. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Will I see you at Pansy’s do next week?”

Draco lifted a shoulder. It was the last thing on his mind at this moment, and the look he sent said as much. There was hesitation in both Nott’s expression and his step as he made for the fire, something Draco had rarely witnessed in a man that always had such sure stature.

Astoria marched forward, a copy of the Daily Prophet in one hand. “You’re truly breaking our engagement for that witch?”

“You already knew this.”

“Yes, but now the entire wizarding world knows, and I look like an absolute idiot!”

Draco swept his fingers through his hair, then held his hands up in a show of helplessness. What else was he supposed to say? “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not!”

She pressed the paper forward so that the photograph of dancing Granger sat chest-level, and Draco’s breath caught due to the pang in his chest. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to find her.

“Does that look like you’re sorry?”

“I meant sorry for the article; I hadn’t expected this.”

“You need to correct this, Draco.”

“How can I possibly correct it? I sent Skeeter a strongly worded owl yesterday, but that will not compel her to print a retraction on the front page.”

“Well, I need her to print something! I can’t have everyone’s lasting impression of me being the pathetic witch who lost a Malfoy to the bloody Golden Girl.”

Draco sighed heavily, pressing the Prophet out of view as he did so. “Then what do you suggest?”

She retracted her arm, scrunching the paper in her fist. “You must stop flaunting this relationship of yours in public until I can find something more tasteful for the Prophet to print.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Are you truly giving me a stipulation?”

“I am!” Her voice was shrill. “Stay away from her until I find a solution.”

With his jaw tense, Draco shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. I have a match to get to.”

“Don’t you walk away from me!”

Not only did he walk away, but as he went, he began altering the manor wards to ensure there was no way Astoria could again chastise him in his own home. At least while he still had it in his possession, anyway. As Draco moved into the entrance hall, he heard Astoria’s exasperated groan and then the fire roar with her departure.

How did she think she had a right to dictate his actions?

Between Granger’s disappearance and Nott and Astoria’s unwelcome appearances, Draco’s chest felt unbearably tight. And now he was supposed to play a game he'd been training several months for, except that he was suddenly failing to recall why he should care about Quidditch at all.

A shower did little to ease him, the steaming water doing nothing for the tension in his shoulders. With a mild panic, he re-lived last night wondering whether he might have said or done something to cause her to reconsider, but there was nothing he wouldn’t do all over again.

Draco dressed hurriedly, not bothering to dry his hair to the extent he usually would, and if he skipped breakfast, he’d have time to search for her before the match. As he emerged from his bedroom in his quidditch uniform, a familiar sharp clack of heels carried towards him.

“Draco.”

He inhaled deeply, but it did nothing for his mounting frustration.

His mother was gliding towards him in moss green robes, her wand fisted and eyes narrowed. “You have ignored three owls. I deserve an explanation.”

“I don't have time for this.” He continued on towards the staircase and descended the two dozen steps, but as he met the marble floor of the entrance hall, she Apparated directly in front of him, impeding his next step.

Narcissa perused Draco through a tilted gaze, a stern look typically only reserved for the very worst of his behaviour. “The Greengrasses appear to be under the impression that you will forfeit your marriage to their daughter in favour of Hermione Granger.”

Draco raised his chin. Firmed his flinty stare and clenched his back teeth together.

“How could you be so careless?”

Draco’s agitated breaths became audible.

“Draco, say something,” she hissed.

“The Greengrasses are correct.” His voice was quiet. Quiet enough that he thought the words would be eaten by the large, harsh space, but he watched her eyes flare. He didn’t care. He wanted her to hear this. Draco’s voice arrived louder this time. “And perhaps love has caused me to become careless.”

Narcissa suddenly dropped her edging sneer. Her chest rose and fell with the rapidity of her breaths. “Draco.”

At first, he thought she’d said his name as though an admonishment, but then he heard it for the injury it was. For the sudden ache he’d caused her. Draco truly saw her then, pale and pointed, small in the grand entrance hall of a home she had lived in—curated—for nearing thirty years, and here he was, telling her that he was giving it away. No doubt she knew he didn't have the means to provide for her on an Auror salary—certainly not in the same manner. The implications of his actions now wore the heartbroken face of his mother, and it twisted something sharp and painful within.

Her voice arrived quietly. “How could you not speak to me first?”

“How could you let him do this to me?” he growled.

“Draco, we've been through this—”

“It came about quickly.” He cut in, not wanting to hear her excuses again. “The decision, that is. The feelings—they've been there some time. I can’t marry another woman in good conscience; it's not fair for anyone, and the Greengrasses should want more for their daughter.”

Narcissa exhaled a sigh. She closed her eyes and gently rubbed a fingertip at the arch of her brow.

“Is this because she's muggle-born?” asked Draco.

“This has nothing to do with her!” Narcissa’s smooth skin creased with her agitation. “This is about our future, Draco.”

He nodded tightly. For a moment, he considered whether she deserved an apology. But any responsibility he felt towards his mother was trumped by his resentment towards her inaction over the years.

Narcissa lowered her gaze to a spot on the floor. “I assume you're certain about this—your love for the Granger girl?”

“I am,” he said without hesitation.

The silence settled over them for a length.

It was eventually ruptured by several of his mother’s drawn out breaths, and then, without bothering to raise her eyes to his, Narcissa twisted on the spot and vanished.

***

Amidst the dull blare from the crowded stands, Draco stalked on to the quidditch pitch toward the congregation of players in the centre. He squinted against the morning sun as he approached Potter, who flung a hand through the air.

“Where have you been?” Potter yelled his way.

Draco waited until he was only several feet away and said evenly, “I’ve had a morning.”

“McLaggen has been arguing that we forfeit!”

As Draco swept a leg over his broom, he sent McLaggen a glare. The prick winked his way, then shot upward, his blue cape snapping at the air as he went. The rest of the Magical Transportation team took to the sky alongside him, and the onlookers broke into sudden cheers.

“What’s the plan, then, captain?” asked Potter.

“Just catch the bloody snitch.” Draco propelled into the air.

Quidditch was typically a balm for his every ailment, but the only thing that was going to solve his mood today was speaking to Granger. The sooner Potter found the snitch, the sooner the game would be over with, and they could all clear out.

The quaffle flew into the air.

Blue and green uniforms became blurs at Draco’s every side, and the disorientation only further fuelled his irritation. He took a lap of the perimeter. The wind jostled in his ears and the cheers of the crowd climbed then tumbled as he dipped and dived. As he slowed, the commentary became clearer.

“Another ten points for the Magical Transportation team!”

Draco felt as though he could be sick. With any luck, McLaggen would be beneath him when he brought up bile over the side of his broom. Between the morning's unannounced guests with their penitence and petulance, his guilt for not being able to satisfy the expectations of his mother and fear for what Granger may say when he eventually found her, Draco could barely recall that he was hovering above a Quidditch pitch, let alone get his head in the game.

A fluttering beside his ear momentarily distracted him. The snitch bobbed directly in front of Draco’s face. Sun glinted off its surface and rendered it a miraculous little sight. Where was bloody Potter?

Just as he’d had the thought, the Boy Who Lived sailed up to meet him, only pausing long enough to show his scowl. “What in Godric's name are you doing? Go help Singh. A bludger has nearly hit him twice over.”

Without bothering to reply, Draco zoomed off through the centre of the game, weaving between the quaffle, the Magical Transportation seeker and a chaser from each team. He darted past the DMLE goal posts, swinging at the bludger as he went and sending it firmly towards the other side of the pitch.

As the DMLE team registered a goal, Draco hovered to scan the cheering crowds. Everyone seemed utterly dull and indecipherable in muted browns and blacks, until his eyes snagged on fiery red hair. Ginny was in the stands with James on her lap. Draco's stomach swooped at seeing Hermione beside her, holding Albus in her arms. He hadn't expected to see her here at all, given how she felt about quidditch. Was she there for him? Or Potter? Or perhaps it was to help Ginny. Granger’s presence could very likely have nothing to do with him. Still, his heart hammered at witnessing her again, even if she was just a vague shape in the distance.

McLaggen pulled up beside him so abruptly that Draco's hand slipped from his broom. He dropped backwards, squeezing his thighs around the wood to stop falling any further. Draco’s rampant pulse drummed in his ears. He was suddenly sickly hot from the fright of free-falling.

“I heard you ballsed up your engagement for a chance with Granger,” McLaggen said through a ridiculous crooked smile.

Draco ground his jaw so tightly that a pain shot through his temple. “Get fucked, McLaggen.”

“Believe me, she's not worth it.” He laughed, and each peal felt like the burn of a stinging hex, fracturing Draco's composure.

A bludger whirled directly towards them, and Draco took the opportunity to not only swipe it with his bat, but guide it directly toward McLaggen's guffawing face. In actuality, he missed his mark. But it tore the taunting expression off his face and hit him in the throat hard enough that he choked and spluttered and fell backward off his broom.

In the same moment, the commentator announced Potter had caught the snitch (of course he had), the crowd in the stands roared in a manner reminiscent of their Hogwarts matches, and Draco watched on as an unconscious McLaggen's fall suddenly slowed and he was gently lowered to the grass.

Draco peered around, trying to find who had spoiled his fun. His eyes latched upon Granger. She was on her feet in a determined stance, her wand pointed towards the pitch. Even from this distance, he could see the unimpressed look she flashed his way.

With a powerful dive forward, Draco travelled between the other players, celebrating and commiserating, with the single intention of halting beside the stand and telling Granger to wait for him.

But she had vanished.

As he halted just before the crowd, he called out to Ginny two rows back, “Where is she?”

She simply shrugged and turned down her mouth as one child tried to hang off her side like she was a tree and the other attempted to fling himself from her lap.

What had he done that made Granger want to ignore him? He knew it wasn’t just belting McLaggen off his broom. He needed to find her. Draco departed the quidditch pitch without even bothering a glance back at the celebrations.

He tried his manor again before Flooing to her home and finding no one. Ginny’s house was empty. Grimmauld Place appeared to hold nothing except the perturbed elf. After rifling through all the places in his mind Granger might go to, there was only one left he needed to try.

Draco Apparated into the Ministry, broom still in one hand and bat in the other. The Atrium was dim and deserted on a Sunday.

He didn't encounter a single other person on the way to Level Two, and he spent the entire journey willing the stillness of the place to calm his rapid heartbeats, but when he reached his office and brushed the door wide, his heart pounded furiously.

“Granger?”

Chapter Text

Just as dawn had sliced between the curtains in Malfoy's bedroom, Hermione had counted the days. Thirty-nine days until he was to lose his manor, every single belonging, and very likely the value of his name. Because of her.

Thirty-nine days.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to verbalise it. She couldn’t even mention his name when she met Ginny in the quidditch stands, and certainly couldn’t admit what they had done several hours earlier. The night spent together had been wonderful and brilliant and extraordinary—every single adjective there was to describe the sensation that was sleeping with Draco Malfoy. It had been so different to her experience with other men that she second guessed whether she had been doing something wrong this entire time. Hermione had an inkling as to why she felt that way, but she was too scared to even complete the thought.

Hermione knew Malfoy would find her at the Ministry. It was neutral territory, private on a weekend, and would suit them well. But what was she to say? She just wanted him to understand this terrible gnawing feeling in the centre of her chest, the one that felt as if it could force her final breath. She ended up in the middle of Malfoy’s office, pacing two steps back and forth between the desk and sofa.

The office door groaned open, and she turned to find Malfoy still in his quidditch uniform.

“Granger?”

With his brow crinkled, he dropped his broom down on one side, bat on the other, then slipped off his gloves and tossed them to the floor.

“Look, I know I probably shouldn’t have hit McWanker off his broom—”

“I don’t care about that,” said Hermione.

“You don't?”

She shook her head, watching his defensiveness give way to worry.

“Where did you go this morning?” He stepped forward, hand reaching for her. It hovered for a moment before his fingertips tentatively held her hip.

Hermione angled her chin to look him in the eye and—oh gods, he was perfect. He was lightly scented with cologne and perspiration, hair beautifully dishevelled from the flying, cheeks flushed from the competition, and she wanted nothing more than to feel his lips on hers again. This was the very reason she hadn’t looked back as she left the manor; she had talked herself out of whatever it was they were doing, but now with his penetrating gaze—the grey of his eyes only a sliver around his pupils—she forgot her conviction.

Hermione quickly shifted her attention elsewhere. “I’m sorry; I regret leaving without a word. It's just—I woke up and saw your bedroom in the daylight—truly saw it—and I realised it was the largest bedroom I have ever spent the night in, and then I think I panicked due to the immensity of the situation.”

Finally, she glanced at him, and witnessing his hurt did something to her heart. A horrid squeeze of a feeling. She reached deeper for a breath.

“I suppose it was discomfort. I don’t want you to give up everything for me. I’m not worth it.”

He took her face in his hands. “I promise you, you are worth it all. This is the choice I want to make. What can I do to make you understand?” Without waiting for an answer, he kissed the corner of her mouth and Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed. He peppered kisses along her jaw, then she sighed softly as he began down her throat.

“Do I have to fall to my knees?”

“You know you've said that to me more than once. I'm beginning to think you just want to be down there.”

With that, he grasped her hips and folded at the knee, staring up at her with a reverence she had never witnessed in the eye of any man.

Malfoy planted a kiss against her stomach, his palms wending up her thighs and beneath her short sundress. Hermione’s centre pulsed from his touch. Her determination was slipping. What was it she was attempting to say?

He peered up at her with his chin resting against her belly, his thumbs teasing along the edge of her knickers, at the crook of her thigh and the fabric. “I want you to understand how serious I am, Granger. Do you think I’d fall to my knees for just anyone?”

Hermione sighed. “Draco—”

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you using my name in that way.”

“Malfoy—”

“Actually, I don’t want to hear my name at all. Not in the way you’re intending to use it.” His fingers hooked into the sides of her underwear, sliding them away until gravity seized hold and they fell to the floor. “Right here is quickly becoming one of my favourite places to be.”

Malfoy scrunched up the skirt of her dress and kissed the cluster of freckles at her pelvis. All at once, Hermione took in a sharp inhale, set a palm on Malfoy’s head to steady herself, and flinched inward at feeling his lips against her skin. He persevered, chasing after her and sending damp kisses south. Hermione couldn’t straighten her thoughts. Not with him down there, like this. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop.

“I just—I’m worried knowing that I’m the reason… that I’m affecting your future—”

His breath skirted her centre and her clit pulsed. She scrunched her fingers in his hair. She had well and truly forgotten how to string a sentence together, and all she knew was that she loved the soft press of his lips against her skin, the silk of his hair through her fingers. Her thoughts were in tatters. Cheeks aflame. Voice uncertain.

“I'm—I’m worried that it will feel like a burden—”

“But does this feel like a burden?”

His hot tongue shot between her folds, earning Hermione’s sharp gasp and a flinch that he was prepared for this time. He held her hips in place as he deepened his efforts. Merlin, she adored his tongue and how it was soft or teasing or sharp when it counted. As it swirled around her clit, his fingertip swept down until it met her entrance, and without thought, Hermione curved in to meet his touch. She nudged a knee up to rest against his shoulder, both to steady herself and open to him further, and he sank in one finger until she felt his cool signet ring. In the same moment Hermione gave a satisfied hum, the door groaned.

“Malfoy? I—oh, fuck. Sorry!”

Hermione’s hands flew to her face, now scalding hot from embarrassment rather than pleasure. Although her back was to the door, she knew that voice well. Then a more distant “Sorry!” arrived and she confirmed that it was, indeed, Harry.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” she muttered into her palms.

Hermione felt her underwear raised up around her calves and then thighs before being placed back to where it should have been whilst standing in the middle of her colleague’s office. Then Malfoy’s fingers were clasping her wrists. He pried away her hands, greeting her with his trademark smirk.

“This is not funny,” she said.

He cocked his head. “Well, it is a little funny.” Malfoy dragged his palm down his mouth, doing nothing to wipe away the smirk. “Maybe you should go find him. I need a couple of minutes.”

Hermione glanced down at his tented trousers and huffed a sigh. “Truly?”

“Yes, Granger, I was truly enjoying myself.”

Hermione turned away as his mouth was arching for a grin. “This is mortifying,” she mumbled as she made from the office.

Harry paced back and forth in the aisle between the cubicles. “Hermione! What the fuck?” He raked a hand back through his hair.

“Well, you weren’t supposed to see that.” She folded her arms.

“And now I’m never going to be able to unsee it.”

“I can obliviate you, if you like?”

“Hermione.” Harry stopped his pacing and turned, showing her his most serious expression.

“I know.” Hermione gave a conciliatory nod, her cheeks still scorching. “I’m sorry.”

With a shake of his head, he expelled a great sigh. “Just… just don’t do that at work, where people can walk in—”

He broke off as Malfoy met them with an expression of indifference. “Potter.” He inclined his head. “I’m assuming you’re not here for the same reason we are?”

Harry glared. “I needed to get something from my office.”

“And that led you into mine?” asked Draco.

“I just thought I heard you in there and—we’re going to the pub to celebrate the win.”

“But I was celebrating—”

“Malfoy!” hissed Hermione, as Harry dipped his forehead to meet his palm.

“Pub sounds great,” said Hermione, her cheeks likely reaching a new level of red. “Shall we?”

Harry began towards the exit. “Let’s.”

“I need to go home and change out of this uniform,” said Malfoy, taking Hermione’s wrist and halting her mid-step. “Will you give us a moment, Potter?”

“I’ll wait out here,” he replied, not bothering a glance backward.

Malfoy tugged Hermione’s arm and she spun into him, her free hand landing against his chest. She lifted her gaze to find his good humour long departed. “I want you to promise me we're doing this, Granger.” He clasped at her jaw with a gentle pressure. “I can't live with the uncertainty. I want to be sure I have all of you.”

“You have all of me.” She answered without hesitation. With her heart.

Why was she fooling herself? She didn’t know what was to become of the two of them. There was no plan. There hadn’t even been a conversation or vague suggestion; but Hermione knew that when he held her in this way, she felt certain in the face of an uncertain future. And when he kissed her in this way, she couldn’t believe he’d ever think of her as a burden. She knew they would find their answers together.

“Go with Potter,” said Malfoy, then he planted another swift kiss upon her lips. “I'll see you soon.”

Hermione took a step, then spun back. “Wait—I think we need to keep this between us. With the coverage from the Prophet, our work, and… well, this, I don’t think we need any more pressure.”

“You want us to continue keeping it a secret?”

“Not secret, just private.”

Malfoy nodded. It was tense, but at least appeared agreeable. “Just us and Potter.”

Her mouth pulled at the end. “And perhaps Ginny.”

“And Pansy,” added Malfoy. “And maybe Blaise—particularly seeing as they're already aware.”

“And Theo evidently knows. But other than that…”

“Private,” he said, and then met her for another tender kiss, as though to ratify the plan.

When Hermione met Harry outside the Auror office, they set off at a steady pace, eyes ahead on the hallway or cast at their feet as though it might dispel the awkward tension.

“I didn’t actually see anything,” Harry clarified. “Everything was covered. I just—the kneeling, well—”

“I’m going to save you from the rest of that sentence.”

Harry sighed as they entered the lift. “Hermione, I need to ask this… what about his wedding?”

Just as her flaming face was beginning to settle, it reignited alongside a churn in her belly. “Don’t worry about that,” she told him, despite the fact she was now most definitely worrying. When was the rest of the world going to know that Malfoy was no longer engaged to Astoria? How was this supposed to happen? She’d never been in a situation like this before.

“He won’t be getting married, and I don’t very much feel like talking about it,” she said simply. “Not right now, anyway.”

“If you’re sure,” said Harry, as they rounded the corner towards the Atrium Floos.

Within moments, they were at the fork between Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, heading towards what had previously been known as Fledermaus and Tanner Bats and Skins, and was now aptly named Fledermaus and Finnigan’s. Seamus Finnigan jumped at the opportunity for cheap Ministry-sold real estate to develop a new drinking hole, and the establishment was again the inn that existed before the bats came along.

As they moved past the apothecaries and stationery store, Hermione heard Harry intake a breath, as if he wanted to say something, then he seemed to think better of it. But just as they reached the newly black-polished facade of the inn, Harry paused beside the door and turned in to look at her for the first time since they had departed the Ministry.

“I know you said you don’t feel like talking about it, but are you sure about this, Hermione? He’s not taking you for a ride? Not attempting to get the best of both worlds?”

Hermione verged on laughter. “Where is this all coming from? You might know him even better than I do. You know he’s not like that.”

He shrugged lightly. “I just want to make sure you don’t get hurt.” He thinned his lips. “I know I wasn’t there for you in the same way Ginny was, but I still witnessed what it was like for you after Ron, then with your father’s passing, and then whatever else was going on… I just don’t want you to—”

She halted his words as she laid a hand on his. “I appreciate your concern, Harry, but there’s no need to worry.”

He scrutinised her and she didn’t shy away. Hermione wanted him to see her surety. She might’ve been uncertain about the specifics of this arrangement with Malfoy, but she knew that she trusted him.

Eventually, Harry must have deemed the matter settled and, with a firm nod, moved in to Fledermaus and Finnigan’s.

Although Hermione had heard plenty about the place, this was the first time she had stepped foot inside. It was the most comfortable space she’d graced in some time. Its walls were brushed white stone like the Leaky Cauldron, but there were booths made of red leather, tables spotted around the crimson and yellow fleur-de-lis carpet, and, as if it weren’t already reminiscent enough of the Gryffindor common room, there was a red-topped billiards table in the far left corner, decorative artworks in glinting ornate frames dotted on the walls, and gold-footed wooden stools at the bar. Seamus’ inn appeared entirely new, and yet felt wonderfully lived in.

“Ladies and gents,” came a familiar Irish lilt, “we have a celebrity in our midst. Two, in fact!”

Patrons with curious eyes and tempered smiles glanced towards the door and then quickly went back to their drinks, but at the table in the corner, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and the Patil sisters all twisted their bodies and craned their necks to see. As they chuckled in good nature, Hermione gave a self-conscious wave. There was only so much embarrassment she could cope with in one day.

“You don’t need to do that every time I step foot in here,” said Harry, approaching the bar.

Seamus, with a little more scruff on his face since the last occasion she’d seen him, flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and then scrunched his folded shirt sleeves into the crooks of his elbows. “Just happy whenever the Golden Trio grace me with their presence.”

“Good to see you can still count,” said Harry.

“Well, Ronald was in here earlier today with a new lady, wasn't he?”

Despite the fact this news did nothing to affect Hermione, she clocked Harry's glance.

“The inn is brilliant, Seamus,” said Hermione with an affectionate tilt of her head. “You've outdone yourself.”

“You can't say that ‘til you try my home-brewed cider, Hermione.”

“For the love of Merlin, don't try the cider,” Harry told her, to which Seamus flashed a guilty smile.

Hermione gave a weak chuckle. “How about a gillywater?”

After several minutes spent standing around and chatting with the rest of the DMLE Quidditch team, which this year—except for Harry and Malfoy—comprised entirely junior Aurors, they discovered Luna charming a dozen taxidermy bats to haunt along the ceiling. Following an extended conversation about how the flight pattern of bats was reminiscent of Japanese Nargles, they moved to a table with Neville and Pansy, the latter draped over her fiancé’s lap.

Perhaps Hermione felt a spike of jealousy as she watched the two of them and their blatant public affection; and then, when Malfoy traipsed over with a beer in hand and sat opposite Hermione, her jealousy felt unruly. Their eyes clung to one another and they shared a licentious look. He darted out his tongue to wet his lips and it was automatic—the thought that she wanted nothing more than to again feel it between her legs. In this moment she’d simply take sitting beside him. She wanted to drape her hand on his knee and feel his touch around her waist. It wouldn't hurt, would it?

But as Padma and Luna joined their little gathering, Hermione lost her nerve. She dipped away and returned towards the bar.

“Back for that cider?” asked Seamus.

She cocked her head and showed him a doubtful look, not much fancying a taste of what Harry dubbed bubotuber pus.

“It’s on the house.” Seamus’ eyes slid sideways, his pleasant expression fading. “It’ll cost double for you, though.”

“Well, that’s not very kind,” said Malfoy.

The cotton of his black shirt brushed against Hermione’s bare arm. A silly, insignificant feeling, really, but as he simultaneously glanced down at her with a suave show of a smirk, it lit a spark at her centre.

Hermione self-consciously brushed a curl behind her ear. Had Seamus witnessed that? They were abysmal at this secrecy-thing.

“You’re not discriminating against snakes, are you?” asked Malfoy.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Seamus with a polite smile.

“Good,” said Malfoy. “Now get Granger another gillywater.”

As Seamus and his forced smile turned around for their drinks, Malfoy angled towards Hermione, his elbow now resting atop the bar. “It’s unbearable not being closer to you,” he whispered. “Let's get out of here.”

“You've barely been here ten minutes.” Hermione couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye too long, as though it might give away their arrangement. Instead, she stared ahead at the mirrored surface on the wall behind the bar, watching the reflection of a woman desperately attempting to hide any feelings for the ridiculously handsome blond wizard giving her his undivided attention. She admired the line of his jaw, the way his shirt was tight in all the places that counted, and how strands of hair fell away from his perfectly imperfect coiffure as he tilted his head to view her, eagerly awaiting her eyes.

Hermione readjusted her footing. “I'd feel bad leaving so quickly. Ginny will be here soon. Besides, you should be celebrating.”

When she allowed herself a glance at Malfoy, his eyes showed blatant mischief.

He leant in closer. “But I want to celebrate with you; inside you and all over you.”

Hermione's core pulsed with a desire to abandon this place and spend the rest of the day in his bed. But she ignored it and instead said, “Another hour.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Forty-five.”

“Fine. But—” he removed the silver signet ring, “—let me give you this.”

“What?” She finally turned to better see him. “Why are you giving me your ring?”

After a glance towards distracted Seamus, Malfoy grasped Hermione’s hand and steered her to the back of the room and into a dimly lit passageway. They halted against the wall, between the muffled music and chatter from the bar, and something that sounded like clanging of utensils and cookware in the opposite direction.

Hermione watched him expectantly. She thought perhaps he’d press her against the wall and they’d share a kiss in the midst of the danger of being found out, but Malfoy tapped his wand against his ring, making it gleam a little brighter. After a swift glance down the hallway, his hand slipped beneath Hermione’s dress and she faltered back against the wall.

“What in Godric’s name are you doing?” she hissed up at him.

He replied by flicking the gusset of her underwear to one side, his eyes alight with a novel hunger. The pad of his finger teased along her slit and, finding wetness present, he hummed. With one palm rested against the wall, he leant closer until his breath brushed the bow of her top lip, causing her mouth to part. Her body instinctively opened up to him. Welcomed him without a thought spared.

Hermione gasped. The warmth of Malfoy’s finger suddenly exchanged for the cool kiss of his ring. Slowly, he slid it up the curve of her. As he moved his lips to her throat and nipped and sucked harshly enough to make a bruise, he pressed the ring deeper into her folds, trapping it atop her clit.

Pulling away, Malfoy crossed his arms. He now held his wand loosely and wore a smirk worthy of its very own picture beside the dictionary definition. What was he scheming? Hermione thought she was well versed in everything sexual by now, having both read and experienced a few kinks and at least several toys, but she was at a loss here.

All of a sudden, she felt a tingle below.

Her eyes flew open. “Malfoy!”

He grinned and the vibration halted. “Did that feel good?”

She realised her mouth was open and promptly shut it. “What—”

The ring pulsed and Hermione flinched inward for the two beats of pleasure.

He gave an amused huff. “Now we can enjoy each other without anyone else seeing.” His voice was silken with desire, but eyes set with challenge.

“Enjoy each other? You mean to say you can garner pleasure from controlling mine?”

A grin overtook his face. He thumbed at her chin. “Just make sure you don’t let yourself go. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

Hermione smirked as she pulled away from the wall. She expected the ring to fall from its lodging, but it stayed. For a brief moment she racked her brain for a textbook passage on the after-effects of sticking charms in intimate areas of the body, but she was quickly losing the will to care. Even without the vibration, the frigid metal was strangely satisfying. Maybe it was something to do with the fact Malfoy put it there. Maybe it was the excitement of the game. She somewhat feared the unpredictability, but in this situation, that could be fun… couldn’t it?

A wizard entered the walkway and they took it as a sign to abandon their secret rendezvous.

Hermione spoke past her shoulder as she began into the main room. “If you abuse this power—”

“What do you take me for?”

“Cruel.”

“Never,” he drawled.

“Calculating.”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Devastatingly handsome,” said Hermione, as she diverted towards the bar.

“If you insist,” he said before he made towards the larger gathering, and Hermione admired how she had caused satisfaction to dart across his face.

Soon, Hermione sat beside Ginny, where she naively assumed there’d be an opportunity to socialise before Malfoy accosted her. But she quickly felt a pulse against her clit. Hermione gasped sharply. Then she attempted to cover it with a quick cough.

The sensation dropped away when Ginny said, “There you are! Where did you get to?”

“Work,” said Hermione tightly.

Harry rolled his lips together in the most sheepish show.

“Well, it was a fun match,” said Ginny.

Hermione settled her gaze on Malfoy ahead. He’d folded his shirtsleeves to his elbows, crossed his arms in a way that drew unnecessary attention to the bulge of his biceps, and twiddled his wand between thumb and forefinger as though a threat.

Just as the corner of his mouth crept up, the ring vibrated.

A relentless pulse.

Hermione clamped her thighs together; knees wedging. All at once, her breathing accelerated and heat prickled in her cheeks, leeching down her throat.

“Not your most impressive game though, was it?” Ginny said to Malfoy and the vibration dropped away. “All those months of practice and you barely hit the bludger.”

“But he walloped McLaggen,” said Neville. “That has to count for something.”

Sniggers relayed the table until Luna’s light giggles were the only sound left.

“I was a little distracted,” said Malfoy, in a way that was both mysterious and added a finality to this topic of conversation.

In the same moment his shameless stare landed on Hermione, the vibration recommenced and Hermione jolted in her chair. Malfoy’s smile widened. The warmth mounted and mounted from her centre outward. How had he done this to her? The ring was perfectly aligned. Every time she squeezed her thighs together to shift the vibration for a brief reprieve, it returned to exactly where it needed to be. He was so self-satisfied. Smirking with the knowledge that he had found a way to pleasure her as they sat separately, sharing nothing but glances in between several unsuspecting friends.

With the sudden onslaught of torturous pulsing, Hermione rearranged in her chair. Her body was beginning to feel like it was on fire. She crossed one leg over the other, only driving the ring deeper, and nearly came then and there. Could everyone see her florid complexion?

This was it. If the vibration didn't let up, she was going to orgasm while sitting in the middle of a pub surrounded by half a dozen school friends, and strangely, her greatest concern was whether she'd be able to do it quietly.

Hermione needed it to stop. She couldn’t do this.

Just as she reached out for her wand on the table, the sensation dropped away.

Hermione finally captured a full breath.

Ginny’s gaze lingered on her cheek. “Are you alright?”

“Perfect,” she said with a glance sideways. Perfect except that her knickers were now soaked, her tightened nipples were chaffing on her bra, and her centre was aching from the start-stop of this unusual torture.

Malfoy’s gaze on Hermione was unswerving. Blatant. It earned him a glare before Hermione leant towards Pansy, who was still atop Neville's lap, and clasped at her left hand, if only to draw attention away from herself.

“What a brilliant ring, Pansy.”

“He’s done well, hasn’t he?” She held her hand in the air and fanned her fingers. “That reminds me, I haven't received your RSVP for the engagement party. You’ll be there, won't you?”

“She will be,” answered Malfoy.

Pansy's last syllable still hung in the air—the question hadn't even been allowed time to breathe. There hadn't even been time for Hermione to formulate a response in her mind, let alone on her tongue, and there was already an answer. From Malfoy. A man who had no business answering for her.

“Oh,” said Luna with her airy intonation. “Do you make a habit of keeping Hermione’s diary?”

Hermione threw him a dangerous look. He was treading the line, and with his threaded fingers resting on his stomach and cool expression, he knew as much.

“I just know Granger would never miss a chance to eat the best vol-au-vent in England,” he said dryly.

“There'll be enough vol-au-vent to actually feed England, so make sure to arrive with an appetite,” said Pansy.

The conversation moved on to the various fancy foods Neville had been subjected to in the name of their impending wedding and Malfoy kept Hermione trapped in his gaze in the most vicious and ridiculously obvious manner. As he wielded his power—the strength and timing of the sensation unpredictable—Hermione’s chest rose and fell dramatically. Her grip tightened on the arms of the chair.

Malfoy trapped his bottom lip in his teeth as he watched her, and his obvious enjoyment only added to the flames. Hermione felt like she was on the precipice.

But she couldn't let herself go. Not yet.

When Seamus stopped by to give Ginny, Luna, and Padma samples of his cider, and Dean Thomas diverted on his way towards the exit to chat with Harry, Malfoy was distracted enough that the vibration ceased. Ceased for long enough that Hermione could properly attend to the conversations at each side. Ginny was telling Luna and Padma about the article she was writing for the Daily Prophet, coverage of today's quidditch match.

“It's just a trial at this stage,” she said, “no promise of publication, but it's still all very exciting.”

“Extremely exciting,” said Padma.

“How wonderful, Gin,” said Hermione.

Harry placed his empty pint glass on the table. “How’d you come by this opportunity?”

Ginny showed a surreptitious smile. “If you must know, Blaise organised everything.”

He gave a thoughtful hum, and although his expression appeared a little tight, he said, “I'm sure you'll ace it.”

Malfoy was now in conversation with Pansy and Neville, and his ring-trick had dropped away for long enough that Hermione felt confident in uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to snatch her drink. But just as she did so, a fervid vibration began and Hermione jolted from the surprise, causing the liquid in her glass to sail out, entirely scuppering every conversation around the table.

Hermione groaned for the simultaneous unnecessary distraction and the pleasure again reprising below, then as she flicked her wand and vanished the mess, she sent Malfoy a look. He smirked boldly before returning to his conversation with Neville. But the vibration didn't drop away. It was again coaxing her into a heated pleasure, making her breaths shallow. How much more of this could she take? She was aware that Harry's eyes were stuck in her direction, and she didn’t very much fancy orgasming under his gaze.

Just as Hermione grasped her wand, Harry asked, “What are they doing here?”

Everyone looked towards the inn's new arrivals.

“Well, I invited Blaise,” began Ginny, “and it appears he's brought his Emotional Support Theo.”

The vibration halted.

Theo walked over with his usual determined air and dashing smile. “Granger,” he said as he passed by. He briefly paused behind Malfoy to palm his forehead back and lay a swift kiss, which Malfoy unsuccessfully batted away before crossing his arms, expression irate.

Hermione showed Theo a smile polite enough not to draw any unnecessary attention in their current company, but then it became genuine as a small square of parchment flew from his palm into hers.

I’m sorry about the other night, it read.

Draco has impressed upon me the seriousness of the situation.

Will you forgive me?

x

When Theo sat next to Harry, his eyes were still on her, as earnest as she’d ever seen. Hermione provided a gentle nod before her gaze returned to Malfoy, whose expression was now livid.

“I heard you both played brilliantly,” said Theo.

“Harry caught the snitch, and Malfoy caught McLaggen,” added Ginny.

“He deserved it,” muttered Malfoy.

They had become a party of ten. Blaise had his arm around the back of Ginny’s chair as he whispered into her ear, Harry smiled unrelentingly at Theo's flirty advances including an affectionate palm held to the back of his head, while Malfoy’s narrowed eyes pinged around the table at the lot of them. Everyone else pretended not to notice these occurrences.

It didn't go unnoticed by Hermione that Malfoy’s ring trick had stopped after the arrival of Theo.

“Where are the little ones?” Theo asked, gaze moving between Harry and Ginny.

“With Mum and Dad,” said Ginny. “Oh, and George was there when I left.”

“Being corrupted again by a certain Weasley, to answer your question,” said Harry.

“They're just harmless practical jokes,” said Ginny.

“Could be worse,” began Theo, “they could have no family.”

Hermione noticed the realisation briefly flicker over Harry’s expression. No doubt a reminder of his own upbringing.

Harry gave a relatively affirmative hum.

“Although, Narcissa was a brilliant substitute,” said Theo.

Ginny’s brows knitted together. “She was?”

“You say that as though you're surprised, Weaselette,” said Malfoy.

“There's a heart behind that cold facade, but you need to earn it,” said Theo. “In fact, I think Harry did so the day he rescued Draco from that Fiendfyre beast.”

“He's right, Narcissa and I are best mates now,” Harry added facetiously.

“Both of you shut up about my mother.” Malfoy shot the two of them a glare.

Theo chuckled. His hand had now had an affectionate claim on the back of Harry’s neck, and Hermione couldn’t help but smirk at the sweet show. It looked so right. And when she glanced at Ginny, she readily shared a smile that told her she agreed.

Malfoy checked his watch. No doubt counting down until precisely the forty-fifth minute. His stare landed on Hermione. Unimpressed, at first, then a cruel smile unfurled across his face.

New vibration arrived with such force that Hermione’s leg jolted, her foot accidentally kicking another beneath the table. She quickly stood, hoping it would mask her strange behaviour. “Drinks, anyone?” she asked, voice fraying at the end as she backed away.

She either needed to remove this ring, or remove herself from a very public orgasm. Below her belly was twitching.

Harry lifted his empty pint glass. “Another—if you don't mind.” Then she heard nothing from the rest of them because she hurriedly dashed away.

At the corner of the bar, Hermione clutched the hard surface and bent inward as she retrieved a long breath. That was too close. It was equal parts terrifying and pleasurable. Exhilarating, perhaps. But that didn't stop her from scolding Malfoy as he met her side.

“You're abusing your powers. You said you wouldn't!” she whisper-yelled.

“You haven't come yet, have you?” His smirk was unrelenting as he made the vibration cease.

“No!” Her abdomen was hot and fiery. She felt drunk and desperate and she'd not had a drop of alcohol.

“Good, I want you to save it.” He dipped lower, his whisper now brushing against her ear. “I want to feel all that tension.”

Hermione groaned lightly. Her breathing was frantic.

Malfoy planted his glass onto the bar. “I've had enough of this place. It's like the bloody life and times of the Boy Who Lived in here.” He snatched her hand, pulling her back into the dim walkway.

“Malfoy,” she hissed, but he swallowed her last syllable as he spun her into him, kissing her deeply. Then Hermione felt a familiar whole-body squeeze.

They had abandoned the inn for what she quickly realised was the Ministry Atrium.

“Seriously?” asked Hermione as Malfoy steered her towards the lift at such an urgent pace that she needed to jog to keep up. “Harry warned us not to—”

“I've been fantasising about fucking you against every surface in my office, Granger, I don't care what Potter has to say. In fact, now I want it more than ever.”

This time, as his tongue infiltrated her mouth, he pressed her against the cool wall of the lift and snaked his fingers up her thighs until he met the dampness he'd inflicted. “Salazar, Granger, I'm a little jealous of your knickers,” he said as he retrieved his ring.

“It’s all your fault.”

He let out a gentle, single syllable of laughter. “But it felt good, didn’t it?”

Caught in a fog of arousal, Hermione had forgotten where their offices were, how they arrived there, and when exactly Malfoy had scattered the items on his desk to place her on the surface. All she knew was the feel of his lips and then his teeth down her throat, and that she was now knickerless beneath her dress. She knew his commanding grip as he pulled her to the edge of the desk and dipped between her legs, pressing them wide.

Hermione knew she was at his mercy and that she adored it.

Malfoy's tongue met her centre, and as he gave a clipped moan, Hermione hissed in a breath and faltered flat onto the desk. He made one broad stripe from her entrance upward, causing her to flinch.

“Torturous,” she bit out.

Her every single functioning nerve felt it was beneath Malfoy’s tongue, hyperaware and hypersensitive. Every measured flick and swirl and suck caused her to visibly quiver beneath him.

He emitted a soft chuckle. “But torture never felt this good, right, love?”

As the heat of his tongue found her again, Hermione bucked against him with an exasperated noise. He laughed longer this time.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “If you don't fuck me right now…”

He was unbuttoning his trousers and yanking down the zip. Even so, he asked with faint amusement on his lips, “You'll what?”

“I'll…”

He teased a finger at her entrance. A slow circle, twice over, and Hermione dropped her head back to drink in a breath. He exchanged his finger for his cock, sweeping the head down along her arousal and drawing out her whimper.

“Malfoy.”

His hand curved around the nape of her neck and he pulled her lips close enough they were nearly on his. “You'll?” he whispered.

Hermione let out a needy huff. “I’ll…” She had nothing. No threats. No thoughts. “Are you going to make me beg?”

His mouth twisted into a sadistic show. “I’m not going to make you, but I might enjoy it.”

She trapped a “Please,” between their lips and the satisfaction in his eyes felt like a reward.

He finally slid into her at a devastatingly languid pace, and Hermione made an unintelligible sound. It was a single, slow long drag, sending a run of electricity along her inner walls, lighting sparks from her centre to the end of every limb. She folded in against Malfoy, her forehead meeting his shoulder. She was so sensitive.

Malfoy quickly found her lips, and alongside a tender kiss, he retracted his length nearly the entire way before he then delved in harshly. Hermione fell back onto her elbows with a little whine.

“Fuck, Granger.”

The sounds they made as he thrust into her were wet and obscene. Her inner thighs were slicked with arousal, and every new delve dragged out more.

“You have no idea how many times I've imagined you here–” He scrunched the material at her chest, yanking it down along with the cups of her bra, freeing her breasts. “Just like this.”

Hermione had some idea. She'd had the same imaginings: him, at this angle, stroking in that way. But she couldn’t even bring herself to speak. Hermione couldn't do anything except tremble out exhales. His every thrust filled her deep, kindling her nerves to the ends of her body, then he'd pull out just enough to tease the tender spot inside, coaxing her orgasm closer each time.

“Malfoy, please,” she sobbed.

She ached from the inside out. She rolled her hips, meeting his thrusts and quivering beneath as he teased her orgasm. As she moved her fingers down to her centre, he clasped her wrist and shifted her hand.

“Did I say you were allowed to come, Granger?”

“Please, please, please,” whispered Hermione.

She’d never begged a man for anything, but she didn’t care.

Malfoy halted, and the end of him pressing at the front wall of her cunt caused her breath to hitch. “I think you can let me have control this time, Granger.”

Malfoy wielded his power, clever and calculated. He read her body like an enthralling book, following her sighs and gasps as though a map to treasure. He knew the tremble in her legs as she neared her orgasm, and the perfect time to pull back just enough that she wouldn’t lose her release, but it would fade and relent at the next occasion. A layer of perspiration had formed across her chest, and Hermione felt so aflame she was certain the flush would never leave her complexion. So tender and untethered, she worried finally reaching her orgasm would end this life and see her into the next.

Malfoy’s tongue swirled around each nipple, then with his fingers tangled in the curls at Hermione’s nape, he brought her mouth to his.

“Please, I want to come on your cock,” she rasped out, and his eyes darkened.

Hermione clenched around him, drawing out a choked groan before he muttered a litany of swearwords.

“Granger,” he breathed, and her satisfaction in his desperate strangled tone nearly tipped her over the edge.

“I want you to fill me,” she told him, and he hummed, his severe mask cracking.

He moved the pads of his fingers to her clit and, as he allowed her orgasm, Hermione fell back against the desk with a sharp cry. It wracked her body with an intensity she’d never known, burning her from the inside out, causing her to clench around him over and over as he continued to thrust in and out, coaxing the warmth to stay.

He groaned. “Fucking perfect, love.”

Hermione gave a soft hum as she linked her legs tighter around Malfoy’s waist. “You still haven’t given me what I want.”

Her burgeoning afterglow was swiftly interrupted as he thrust into her at a punishing pace, then with a low growl, fucked her fast and deep until his hips stuttered and he emptied inside her with a muffled groan into her neck.

***

It was only when they lounged on the sofa that Hermione finally heard her own thoughts. It was then that she had a flash of clarity. A realisation that, although sex with other men had been fun, occasionally caused her to feel powerful and perhaps was sometimes pleasurable, she was always left unfulfilled. Much like a moth grasping for the light, she felt sated yet disoriented, confused as to how everything she desired was still out of reach.

Now, Hermione felt so indescribably fulfilled with Malfoy.

At this moment, it was a different clarity that came to her. A fear, she supposed. She was sleeping with another woman’s fiancé and had deterred Malfoy from meeting a future planned since his birth. Although Hermione was fulfilled in the ways she wanted, it came at a price.

Malfoy kissed Hermione's cheek, distracting from her thoughts. But she must have taken a time journeying back, for he knotted their fingers together and brought their hands up to brush his lips.

“I can’t believe how gorgeous you are. You’re perfect. Have I told you that yet?”

She laughed lightly. “A few times.”

“I just can’t bear the thought that this almost didn't happen.”

Hermione nodded vaguely, humour leaving her expression. “I know we just decided we’ll keep this private, but I think I need to know when the rest of the wizarding world will know about your broken engagement. I need to know when I won't feel uncomfortable about what we’re doing.”

Malfoy’s eyes raked over her face. His own smile had dipped away. “Astoria requested we keep this private until she’s had a chance to rectify her image after the Prophet article.”

“Requested we keep it private?” Hermione hated the idea that she was requesting anything, and yet somehow she simultaneously felt sorry for the witch. Astoria was in the midst of having what appeared to be her life’s purpose ruined.

“I’ll see what I can do. Particularly as I don't like when your face does that.” He brushed the pad of his thumb across her lips, inciting the flash of a smile, then pressed a kiss.

Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. The morning had been uncomfortable, the pub a torturous test, but this was indescribable. The terrible threatening feeling within her chest was absent as Malfoy kept their arms twined and rested his cheek against her head. If not for the matter of the engagement, this might have been perfect.

“Poor Harry, he not only walked in on us fooling around, but may still be waiting for me to bring him back a drink.”

“Potter will be fine,” said Malfoy. “Me, on the other hand—where am I going to live?”

She hummed. “Well, my flat is quite small, but I think it may just fit you.” It had come from her mouth without thinking. There had been no thoughts, no planning, no measuring of possibilities; and yet, it felt fine. It felt right.

“Moving in together? We haven’t even had a proper date.”

“How could I let you become homeless when I’m the reason for your impending lack of home?”

He inhaled deeply. “Any chance there’s room enough for my mother?”

Hermione readjusted, desperate to better read his expression. “What do you mean?” she asked, despite the fact she was perfectly capable of deducing exactly what he meant.

His expression almost appeared pained. “Well, we lose everything, don't we? If my mother's not at the manor, she’s in the house in France, and there’s no way the wards will allow her once this is done.”

Hermione dipped her face into her palms. How had she not thought of this? It was Malfoy inheritance. Malfoy vaults. Malfoy property.

“Hey.” He grasped her wrists, wrenching her hands away from her face. “I promise you, this is the choice I want to make.”

“I can imagine your mother might think differently,” she mumbled.

“I’m giving my mother time to adjust to the idea, then we’ll all meet and devise a plan.”

“A plan for your impending homelessness? Brilliant.” Hermione turned away and held herself tight.

Why had she done this? So her heart had protested when she tried to go on with life ignoring Malfoy, but she could have found a new distraction, changed jobs and moved departments, even stopped seeing their mutual friends for a while if it meant she could forget the wizard. Especially if it meant a future where there wasn’t the possibility of not only Malfoy resenting her, but his mother’s ire. Hermione didn’t very much fancy sparring with the indomitable Narcissa Malfoy. Nor did she fancy a dinner to plan the poor woman’s future.

“Hermione.”

That wretched feeling was creeping up again. Guilt. She shoved it away, determined to think about anything else.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” he told her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say a word, nor look him in the eye.

Eventually, he asked, “What was it that Nott gave you?”

“An apology,” she answered readily, if only for distraction. “And when are you going to forgive him?”

“Who said I have to forgive him?”

“Well, nothing happened between us, did it?”

“His intent was the issue. He's always been like this—chaotic—and although it's typically a laugh, this time he's crossed the line.”

“You know perfectly well he'll try to sleep with anyone. Besides, have you seen the way he looks at Harry?”

“You're not going to sway me on this, Granger.” His expression was tight, but she knew his mood was malleable.

In one deft movement, Hermione straddled him. If she pushed away her guilt at the thought of his family's impending losses, she very much enjoyed this moment.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy grasped her hips. His pupils blew wide. “If you think this tactic will work…”

She ground down on him just enough to feel the delicious twitch of a response in reply. “I thought you wanted to fuck me on every surface of this office?”

***

There was not a single blemish in Auror Dominic Preston’s history—school records, DMLE files, banking statements, St Mungo’s attendance. There was nothing to help them understand his pursuit of dark magic, nor the reason why he was making them walk through a living slideshow of his life's most memorable moments. But at least there were two missions left, and one was certainly another muggle assassination.

Malfoy entered Hermione's office dressed in black head to toe.

“Are you ready? The Portkey will depart in six minutes.” Hermione held up a toothbrush with bent yellowed bristles. “And I blame this on you. McLaggen has never made me a Portkey out of rubbish with someone else's body fluids on it before.”

“Prat,” Malfoy said, with less venom than she expected, then he took her face in his hands for a kiss.

“As much as I enjoyed that,” she began as he released her, “do you have to? We're working.”

“I most certainly do need to.”

“Malfoy.” She pushed his touch down and away. “What if someone walked in?”

“I think they'd be extremely jealous.”

“You're insufferable.”

“And you're incredibly beautiful today.”

“It's from all the sleep I managed last night, seeing as I wasn't waking every other hour to a hard-on pressed against my bum.”

He tried to hide his smile and failed miserably.

The past week, they had spent several nights fucking in between stretches of sleep. Hermione had never experienced this intensity with anyone. They were obsessed. At night, if Malfoy wasn't pressed behind her, caging her in with a draped arm, his fingers were linked in hers. One evening, He took her on the floor as soon as he stepped from her Floo. Later, what began as a slow, midnight grind as they laid on their sides turned into a back-bruising and picture frame-jostling fuck, then following a morning shower, they ended with Hermione on top, riding his tongue.

It was all undeniably fun, but here at work they needed boundaries, if only to ensure they didn't disappoint Harry again.

“The Portkey will take us to New York, and from there we'll Apparate to the hotel—”

“One room this time, right?”

“Then tomorrow morning we'll go back to nineteen eighty.”

“You've booked two, haven't you?”

“This is a business trip, Malfoy.”

“Granger—”

“Close your mouth and touch the toothbrush.”

He gave her an obstinate look, just as the Portkey glowed blue.

“Now,” she ordered.

Not only did he touch the toothbrush, but he snatched her lips in another kiss.

The hook behind her navel was two-fold. But the horrible squeezing feeling dampened the usual pleasant glide of Malfoy’s tongue, and the way he typically left her bereft of any thoughts was absent. Instead, she felt panic; then as her feet planted to the ground, nausea.

Hermione nudged Malfoy away. “For Godric’s sake! You’re lucky I didn’t bite your tongue.”

He lifted a shoulder. “I might’ve enjoyed it.”

It was then that Hermione realised they were supposed to be exchanging their London afternoon for a New York morning. But shadows played in the recesses of Malfoy’s sharp features.

The atmosphere brushed cold and damp against her skin, and there was a peculiar absence of any sound.

Dread slicked down Hermione's spine, inciting a shiver.

Hermione dropped the toothbrush with a step backward.

“Granger,” Malfoy said slowly, “why are we in a forest?” His eyes were on the tightly knitted canopy above. He hadn’t yet registered their company ahead.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hermione muttered beneath her breath. She snatched Malfoy’s hand and then turned on the spot, only for it to fail pathetically as she lost her footing and fell into his chest. “Fuck!”

“Granger.” This time, his eyes were stuck past her shoulder. “Is this…”

“Yes.” It came out a quiet croak.

“Is that…”

Acromantulas the size of motorcycles were making slow and precise movements their way. As they crept over the floor of leaf litter and dirt, and across the felled tree trunks, dozens and dozens of black eyes glinted in the low-light, all trained on Hermione and Malfoy. They were horribly giant spiders. And yet, Hermione knew they were the small ones.

“Run!” she hissed.

They turned and bolted.

Spiders were spilling out from every direction.

How the hell had they emerged in the centre of an Acromantula colony? Cormac McLaggen was how, of course, but for fuck’s sake! They ran for their lives, surrounded by an ominous, excited agitation of spider pincers as they closed in on their prey.

Malfoy and his long legs had already overtaken Hermione, and he tightened his hand around hers as he yanked her forward.

“He’s put us in the fucking Forbidden Forest!” Hermione shouted over the growing noise.

“When I find McLaggen—”

“We can’t Apparate on Hogwarts grounds, and who knows how far into the forest he’s put us.” She was panting, her lungs burning. “And where the hell are we going?!”

There wasn’t a lick of light anywhere. They had needed to ignite their wands as they ran through knots of trees and jumped over gargantuan roots, and for all they knew, they were running deeper into the forest and into the depths of the colony.

Hermione shot stunners behind her as she ran. In between her spells, she crafted her Patronus and sent it to Harry. She suddenly feared it was in their futures to die in this forsaken place, strung up in a spider’s nest for a feast. The shields she flung behind wouldn’t hold; and how were they supposed to outrun creatures with eight legs?

The spiders had abandoned their crawling and now scurried and jumped, enclosing quickly.

Malfoy flung Bombarda behind them, blowing several away.

Hermione’s foot snagged on a root and both her knees roughly met the dirt. Before she could push herself up, Malfoy was above her, yelling Confringo and picking off spiders one by one. He yanked Hermione to her feet and pulled her around the side of the closest tree.

“In here, quick!” He curved her left-ways then pressed Hermione into a hollowed trunk. Malfoy sandwiched in at her side and barricaded the opening with a silver liquid that quickly solidified into metal.

His panting filled the space. “That’ll hold them out, but I can’t say how long we’ll have oxygen in here.”

Hermione squeaked as she agitated her hands through her hair, attempting to shake out the sticky web she had just crossed through. Her limbs fizzed right down to her toes. “I cannot believe that absolute arsehole!”

“I can’t believe he thinks knocking him off a broom is worth killing us.”

“Do you truly think it’s just the quidditch match, Malfoy? You’ve goaded him more than once!”

He raised his wand, keeping their faces illuminated. “I’m sensing you’re blaming this on me.”

“If you’re only sensing it, Malfoy, then I’m concerned about your Auror abilities.”

“This is the worst possible time to take your anger out, Granger. We need to get out of here.”

“Just let me think.” Her jaw was tight. Her pulse assaulted her eardrums.

Maybe they could Bombarda the spiders? Fiendfyre the colony? It would mean the waste of Acromantula life, perhaps an explanation to the Magical Creatures department would be needed, then potentially to McGonagall if they razed half the Hogwarts land, and very likely an awful lot of paperwork, but what other choice did they have?

“I can't believe we might die and I haven't done half the things I want to. If we get out of here alive, we should go to a Beatles concert,” said Malfoy unhelpfully. “And I mean prime Beatles, nineteen sixty-five—”

“The Time Turner! How could we be so daft?”

With her right hand, she whipped the chain onto Malfoy’s head the fastest she’d ever done, then with her left hand she spun the time-knob in the correct direction.

But Malfoy's chin was suddenly pointing sky-ward, eyes sliding further up, and she needed to draw her attention away from the gold apparatus.

As they craned their necks, Hermione held her breath. Her heart felt it pounded against her ribs, desperate to escape.

From the shadows above, several sets of eyes emerged.

They were smaller, and yet infinitely more terrifying than the spiders they had just encountered given there were far too many eyes to count.

Malfoy swore loudly, raising his wand arm.

Hermione’s heart lurched, and her fingers fumbled on the place-knob.

As Malfoy sent a Protego, Hermione spun and spun the knob, searching for the correct coordinates, waiting to feel spiders to scuttle closer and batter their shield.

“Do you have it, Granger?”

She checked the numbers twice.

“Granger! Hurry! They’re—”

His sentence cut short as Hermione flicked the switches on the Time-Turner.

Chapter Text

“New rule!” Granger was incensed. She had that special quality of appearing as though she levitated an inch from the ground with the force of her anger. She yanked the Time-Turner chain away from Malfoy, complexion florid, then took three large paces across his office before turning and crossing her arms at her chest. “No kissing during Time-Turner or Portkey use.”

“Kissing where exactly?”

“Malfoy!”

Her voice was a form of shrillness he'd never before experienced (he hurriedly cast a few wordless charms to keep it contained in this office).

“We could have been killed! And don't pretend you weren't scared—I could feel your unusually sweaty palm!”

“Okay fine, the creatures were mildly terrifying and I'm never going to look at a house spider the same way again. Happy?”

“No, I'm not bloody happy!” Her arms flailed through the air. “We need to be ready and alert as soon as we are on a mission. I don’t fancy losing my life because you can’t keep your lips to yourself for five seconds.”

“There shouldn’t have been any threat to our lives!” Draco’s anger pounced on him unsuspectingly, like a big cat digging its claws into his flesh. Unable to quickly cast it away like he could so often do with his other emotions, his breaths sped. Face grew hot.

Granger's furious expression retracted a whit, but Draco’s hardened. He exited his office, marching past the cubicles of the junior Aurors, whose expressions were wary, worried, and puzzled.

“Wait!” Granger chased after him as he entered the hallway. “What are you going to do?”

“If McLaggen thinks it's funny to play with our lives, then I'll do the same with his.”

“We don't need to resort to this, Malfoy.”

“What is this?”

“I know you're going to attempt something cruel—I've seen this look before.” She was scurrying to keep up with his strides, just making it inside the lift before the golden grilles closed.

“Cruel?” He scoffed a laugh. “He deserves worse.”

“Wait—”

“What do you suggest, Granger? A strongly worded letter?”

“Malfoy, just listen to me—”

The lift opened on the third floor and Draco loosened his posture a touch for Mabel from the Muggle Liaison Office as she entered the lift. He didn't want to scare the old girl.

“Mabel,” began Draco, his tone light, “how are the grandchildren?”

“Oh, they're lovely; thank you for asking, dear. Edward is readying for his fifth year at Hogwarts, and as I'm sure you’ll remember, it’s a fickle time.” She readjusted her purple glasses up her nose with a gentle chuckle. “Testing classes plus all the teenage nonsense.”

“Ah yes, fifteen years old is a trying time for all,” he said with a sweeping nod.

Hermione hummed politely.

“Indeed,” said Mabel, as she went to exit at the fourth floor. “Well, you have a good day, won’t you, dears?”

Draco and Granger smiled politely until the grilles closed again and they were off and away.

“Malfoy,” Granger hissed beneath her breath, but after that brief intermission, Draco allowed his anger to revive and he hadn’t a care to listen.

At the sixth floor, he stormed out of the lift and forged ahead.

If McLaggen thought being shoved off a broom was worthy of sending them into a bloody spider’s nest, then he was a greater prat than he ever imagined. He deserved something worse than spiders.

“Malfoy, don't do anything you're going to regret—or make me regret!”

“I can hear Potter.” Draco neared the open office at the very end of the hall. “Hopefully he's already done something we'll all regret.”

Draco entered the sty, flinging the door wide enough that it banged against the wall. “Potter! Here to murder the wank-stain too?”

He visibly wilted. “Oh, thank Merlin you're safe, Hermione.”

McLaggen was perched on the end of his desk, with an irritating aloofness. “Ah yes,” he said dryly. “Good to see you’re both safe.”

Draco met him in one pace with his wand pointed. “Think that was funny, McWanker?”

He smiled far too broadly for a man who had a wand at his throat and an ex-Death Eater on the other end. “I'm enjoying this, yes.”

The stubborn set of his jaw; the challenge in his eye; the wiriness of his hair—Draco hated it all beyond measure and he wanted to curse it all into oblivion.

“I've already informed McLaggen that we'll put in an official complaint with the head of his department—”

“A complaint?” Draco shot over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Granger. “Malfoy, let's leave.”

McLaggen grinned wider.

Draco heated at Granger's subservience and Potter’s irritating diplomacy. He wanted to instil fear in McLaggen. Wanted Granger to stop saving him from his deserved repercussions.

“Do you understand who you're meddling with?” Draco prodded his wand into McLaggen’s jugular. Before he could even flinch, snakes shot out from the end. Green, scaly creatures wrapped around his chest and neck, constricting him enough that he sputtered.

McLaggen’s face turned crimson.

In quick succession, Granger yelled, “Malfoy!” and Potter’s hands were on his wand arm, pulling down and then yanking him away. His wand flew out of his grip into Granger’s hand, and the snakes rapidly vanished. But Draco shrugged off Potter’s touch and lurched forward, planting his fist into McLaggen's smug face.

“You could've gotten Granger killed!”

McLaggen wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and it came away with blood. “You know, I could get you fired, Malfoy.”

“You? In the transportation department?” He barked a laugh. “I should think not.”

“Fuck you.”

McLaggen lunged forward, but as Granger positioned herself in front of him, Draco was being steered backward by Potter.

“Enough,” she ordered, her withering glare locked on Draco.

As Draco shrugged off Potter, Granger’s touch slid down his arm until she clasped his hand, and he allowed her comforting hold to stay.

He allowed her to tow him towards the exit.

McLaggen’s eyes flicked down to their knotted fingers. “Hermione, I heard you're applying for the opening at the Magical Creatures Department.” He crafted a wicked smile. “I hope you don't mind a little competition.”

Suddenly, Granger's expression creased. She appeared downright vengeful; but it was fleeting.

“You’ll get your wand back when we return to Level Two,” she told Draco as she led him into the hallway.

He couldn’t bring himself to protest, couldn’t even bring himself to say a word. Granger was going to leave the DMLE. She was going to leave the Auror office. She was leaving him.

***

After she’d arrived at Malfoy Manor in the middle of the night, Granger confessed that returning to the place where she was tortured at the wand of Bellatrix felt like a test. She had said it would take several tries to find comfort, but like every other test in life, she was determined to succeed. Since then, however, they had spent all their time together at her flat.

The day Draco finally convinced Granger he needed her at the manor, she stepped out of the Floo in a blue summer dress with uncertainty in her whole bearing.

“Well, here I am.” She swept her fingers down her forearm and shrugged lightly.

Draco smiled faintly as he walked to meet her. “You’ll think this is worth it, I promise.”

Following a soft kiss, he steered Granger through the entrance hall and into a room two doors down, then heard her gasp sharply from behind.

“Oh,” she breathed. Her eyes flitted from the mahogany bookshelves to the silver and green filigree ceiling, then the mezzanine and the abundance of books at the second level. “The infamous Malfoy library. This is brilliant.”

She wandered over the hand-knotted Persian rug, her attention skimming across the lines of leather and clothbound books, posture noticeably loosening.

Draco simply studied her for a length. Watched as she quickly forgot he was there, as she fell in love with her surroundings and as she appeared exactly where she was meant to be.

His chest smarted. Neither of them had yet broached her application for the Magical Creatures role, and the panic he felt when he recalled the matter never seemed to lessen. Draco refused to give credence to it, as though ignoring her desire to depart the DMLE would make it any less true; and so he slipped his hands in his pockets and ambled around the great space, simply watching her in revered silence.

After some time, she rolled her eyes up to meet his. “What is it?”

His chest felt like it might fracture from the simple sight of her, but how could he tell her without it sounding trite? He was struck with a whole body ache that would make him worry for his life if he didn't already know it was love. Love and grief colliding. Grief for the many years already wasted without her. Grief for how short their long lives together would one day feel.

Draco moved to meet her. “You're beautiful.”

Granger smiled, but it quickly dropped at the side. “I don’t want you to have to part with all of this.” She pressed her palm into the open book rested in the crook of her arm. “It’s not just a library, it’s your history, and, well, it should be your child’s future.”

“My child?”

“You know what I mean.” Granger flipped the book shut and held it to her chest. “What if we were to add a room to my flat and put all the Malfoy library books in there? What do you think might happen to them when your wedding date comes and goes?”

“I have no idea, but you’re welcome to try.”

“And what about your gold? What if you were to move it all into the vault of someone without the Malfoy name? Perhaps that’s a way to bypass the stipulations of the contract?”

He laughed a little then as he bridged the distance. He caged her against the shelf with a palm at either side. “Is this just a long game to get all the Malfoy galleons and books?”

“You’ve finally figured it out, Auror Malfoy,” she said with a sultry narrow of her eyes. “The longest con: gruelling Auror training, scary near-misses on missions, thoroughly annoying case partnering, and then shagging all just in the name of books and gold.”

He dipped closer, his lips hovering near hers. “‘Shagging’ was sorely missing an adjective there.”

“Mm,” she whispered. “Incredible?”

He pressed a swift kiss to the side of her mouth. “I think you can do better than that.”

“Extraordinary?”

Draco dipped down beside her ear. “Closer.” He took her earlobe in between his teeth and then sucked, earning a small hum.

He heard the thud of her book dropping to the floor.

“Earth-shattering?” Granger asked breathlessly, her hand tracing up the inseam of his trousers.

He hummed in reply before finding her lips and skirting his tongue against hers. She brushed her fingertips over the ridges of him, causing him to stir beneath his trousers, and as she pulled his zipper he dotted damp kisses down her throat.

Granger gasped; but it was strangely unfamiliar and unfitting.

Draco pulled back, reading the fear in her eyes.

Then the powdery floral notes of his mother's perfume suddenly became apparent.

He turned to find Narcissa at the mezzanine, her hands lightly resting on the railing.

Draco folded his arms across his chest. “You could have at least sent an owl.”

“Before I return to my own home?”

“Or perhaps you could knock, announce yourself.”

She glared at him. Draco knew perfectly well she detested his impertinence, especially in the company of others. Still, he was a little flustered from where Granger’s hands had just been, and a little miffed that his mother was the one to drive them away.

“Is there something you need, or are you here just to appear menacing?”

The muscles in her throat sharpened with a measured inhale. Narcissa turned a fraction, then she was standing before her son. “I’ve returned from boarding up the chateau, so I’ll be here until we’re forced from this manor.” She stared at him resolutely, with no waver towards Granger like he expected. “And on that note, I need to speak with you privately.”

Draco knew he owed her a conversation. He'd seen her efforts post-war to resurrect their family name, her many days and nights spent buying them good will and returning their standing in society, and soon he was going to rip it away from her again. At the very least, he owed her a conversation. But before then, there was something important he needed to do.

“Mother…” Draco held out his hand for Granger and she readily clasped it, coming to stand at his side. “I want you to meet Hermione.”

“I’m familiar with Miss Granger, Draco.”

“I know you’re familiar with her. I want you to properly meet her.”

Although there was a timidity in her bearing, Granger smiled sweetly and extended her hand. Narcissa shook it in her typical genteel manner, her expression unmoving from neutral though perhaps verging on kind.

“Please, call me Hermione.”

At that, Narcissa allowed a small, short-lived show of a smile. Truthfully, that was all he could hope for.

With Granger left in the library, Draco and Narcissa took to the sitting room, where they stood in the centre of the space and the conversation began with his lengthy sigh. He didn't want another argument, but she already had that look about her.

“What are you doing, Draco?”

“If you’re about to offer something cruel about Hermione being muggle-born, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Draco, please.” Her frustration showed in a single shallow line between her brows. “If she were pureblooded, this wouldn’t be an issue now, would it?”

Draco’s insides squirmed with sudden discomfort. “I want you to accept her.”

“I accept her as a capable witch, Draco, however l struggle to accept that she is the reason I will lose everything I’ve fought for in this life.”

He had no reply. He had nothing but an overwhelming desperation for his mother’s acceptance of Granger in every manner. How was he ever going to achieve that in these circumstances?

“I need you to involve me in your plans, Draco. This also concerns me.”

He drew in a deep breath, palming at the back of his head. “I know—it's just, I have no plans.”

“None at all? Are you not planning to marry Hermione?”

“I—it's not… It's only been a few weeks.”

He had avoided any thought of marriage. He hated the word. Despised the thought. All he knew was he was with Granger in the here and now, and when he thought about the future she was there, too, but he couldn't draw the particulars.

“The situation calls for some order, Draco. Where will you live? Will your income sustain the lifestyle you've become accustomed to? Will it provide for Hermione and children?”

“Children? Mother...”

“Draco, it's time to consider these matters.” She stepped forward. “What is going to happen with the house-elves? And will my jewellery simply vanish?”

“You can ask as many questions as you like, but I don’t have answers for you.”

“You must seek answers instead of simply waiting to see. Pansy tells me you've consulted with lawyers and curse breakers, but I refuse to believe you've exhausted every option.”

Perhaps he hadn't. He had become disillusioned by the dead-ends.

Narcissa studied him, her expression softening. “I suppose I’ll begin by seeing if there’s a Black property we could relocate to.”

Draco nodded gently. That wasn’t something he had considered. Maybe he should have let her in on this arrangement sooner.

Narcissa tilted her head with a faintly quizzical look.

“What is it?”

“Well… the way you were with Hermione earlier, I've never seen you like that before.”

“You weren't supposed to see any of that.”

“I suppose I’m only now realising that I assumed you would grow in the image of your father in every way; but he was never quite so… romantic.”

Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes with a gentle noise of disgust.

"Perhaps if he had been, you would have been blessed with a sibling."

Draco snapped his gaze up. “Mother.”

There was a tiny bracket at the side of her mouth. “All of this is to say, I can see your affection for the witch, Draco, and if there was a way for you to have everything, I'd want you to have it.”

“Truly?” A smile overtook his expression, his whole body shot with something that felt remarkably like joy.

She nodded once. “Leave this with me. I'll find answers to our questions.”

Draco was unsure what came over him. He bridged the distance, folding his mother into his arms and, as he rested his chin atop her head and verbalised all of his gratitude, she readily returned the hug.

While they stayed for an extended moment, Draco realised that as he considered his future, perhaps the thought of marriage wasn’t too awful. Maybe he didn’t mind the word. Now, it wasn’t all too difficult to see the particulars at all.

***

The sun hadn't yet set, but Granger was teasing sleep. The New York dusk was orange and gentle. It brushed through her curls and lashes, and Draco questioned whether her freckles sparkled, but he could watch her all day and all night without caring for an answer.

She appeared happier—dare he say healthier—and he knew it wasn't just a trick of the light. He also knew he could sometimes think too much of himself, but in this instance, he was certain he had a hand in it. They were good for each other. They'd fallen into routine without effort: two sugared teas in the morning, at least four secret memos back and forth during their busy workdays, and then finding each other on the sofa in the evening, where Draco would rub her feet as they discussed the many merits of their takeaway choices for the night. They now had a repertoire of private touches and looks to exchange in public, ones that wordlessly said ‘I know’ and ‘later’ and ‘I can't wait to be closer to you.’ The latter was how they ended here in bed as soon as they arrived at their hotel.

With the tip of his finger, Draco wound small, gentle circles up Granger’s bare arm, from her elbow to shoulder. But it wasn't until he swept the pad of his thumb beneath her eye that she stirred.

“What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.

As she took a length to open her eyes, he studied her beauty, making a memory of her just like this. “Your glamours are gone.”

“I've no need for them.” Her eyes momentarily locked on his. She smiled with a lazy, long blink. “You’ve filled all the available space in my mind and I no longer have room to mull over my traumatic past and future anxieties.”

A smile played about Draco’s lips. See? He knew he was good for her. He leant forward and trapped Granger’s cheeks in his hands, then assaulted her face with kisses until she giggled and then squealed and flailed her limbs. With one arm, he scooped her as he flipped onto his back, pulling her on top of him.

She rested her cheek on his bare chest. “You’re maddening.”

“But also a little bit cute, right?”

She let out a one syllable laugh and he adored the feeling against him. “A little.”

Draco swept his palm up her back until he found the end of a curl to tweak. “Do you think Potter told Weaselbee about us?”

He felt her head nudge slightly. “He wouldn't do that.”

“What do you think he would say if he knew?”

“Ronald? That he was disappointed, perhaps.”

“Disappointed!”

This time, her laughter bounced against him.

“Not jealous or angry or sad—disappointed!”

She let her laughter trail off and then propped her chin on his chest to look him in the eye. “You represent everything he hated during our childhood.”

“Hm, maybe I should be the one to tell him then.”

“Look at that smug smile! I didn't think you had it in you to be so cruel.”

“Cruel? It’s not cruelty, Granger, just a little healthy competition.” Draco gripped at the sides of her arms and pulled her up until her smile pressed against his and she threatened more laughter. He hooked a curl behind her ear. “How could he have been so idiotic to let you go? This set of freckles, and this smile…”

He felt her shoulders jolt with her silent laughter before she pushed away from his chest. She sat astride him with her top half wonderfully nude, and the bedsheet pooled around her hips. “My smile,” she repeated.

Draco held her at her hips. “And how when you're particularly fond of something or other, it pulls a little, but then you try to hide it with the roll of your lips.” She did just that, and his own smile felt unrelenting.

“And this curl.” Draco tweaked the hank of hair resting at the side of her cheek. “This one that refuses to be hindered by your ear.”

All of a sudden there was something new in her expression.

“And your boundless knowledge—but I know you've heard that countless times before.”

“Draco…” she said softly. “You're being so sweet you may just make me cry.”

“And with the way you’re sitting right on my cock, you’re making me want to go again.”

She angled her head. “Somehow, I knew the sweetness was only fleeting.”

Draco sat up to meet her mouth. He snaked his fingers into her curls at the base of her skull, deepening their kiss, but she suddenly rolled off of him, laying at his side and pulling the sheet up to her shoulders.

“This is why we needed two rooms,” she said. “We should be concentrating on this mission.”

“We can conduct work and share the same bed, Granger. It’s not going to harm the mission.”

She shifted away a touch. “Let’s just keep a respectable distance until we determine the plan.”

“A respectable distance?” Draco sniffed a laugh, but he obliged. He flopped back against the pillow. Determining the plan no doubt meant listening to Granger expound about something or other for several minutes straight. “Go on, then.”

“Well—”

“I have something to tell you.” Draco turned his head to see her.

“You barely let me get out one word about work.”

“This is about work.”

With a sigh, she turned on her side and watched him expectantly.

He spoke quietly. “I don’t think I can bear to see John Lennon’s assassination.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, Granger. I'm being vulnerable here.”

She rolled her lips in.

“Are you trying not to laugh at me?”

“I think I'm just finding this a little bit amusing.”

“Amusing!”

“But also, a little bit cute.” The corner of her mouth twitched up. “I think we can work with that.”

“Good.” Draco sat up, commanding a newspaper to fly from somewhere on the floor and into his grip. “Now that we're done with the work part—”

Granger tutted.

“—I need to show you this.”

She sat up and shot him a look fraught with exasperation. “Why are you showing me a photo of your fiance?”

“Ex-fiance; and because I had to pay for them to print this silly little article about the dress for our supposed upcoming wedding so Astoria could show off to the wizarding world and feel as though some of the damage had been repaired.”

She crossed her arms. “And has it?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it has been. Part of the deal with the paper was another article, a small mention of the engagement ending in a few days’ time. Something on the second page so it’ll be read by plenty, but not too glaring.”

A smirk simmered beneath her irritation. “So we can…”

He nodded. “We can, love.”

She smiled more affectionately then.

“Will you attend Pansy’s engagement party with me? I want to show you off.”

She nodded, clamping her bottom lip in her teeth as she smiled, and Draco tossed the newspaper off somewhere behind him.

“I’m done with this respectable distance, Granger.” Draco pounced, causing her to yelp as she fell backwards, then she giggled and squirmed as he kissed a path from her throat to her navel, until he met between her legs.

***

The moonlight made Granger glow. Draco watched her from a distance this time. In the sticky summer heat, wearing only his pants, he sat on the balcony in the light of the skyscrapers and sent back another mouthful of wine. Ten floors below was strident honking, laughter and voices, but ahead was such a sweet sight that it dulled the sounds and added to the whole-body prickle instilled by the alcohol.

He watched Granger sleep: lips in a sweet state of repose; the line of her collarbone; gentle drop of her breast, slope down of her waist and the round curve of her hip. She was perfect. If he’d snatched the Time-Turner away at the beginning of their case and come to this moment, he’d think he’d gone mad. Then he’d think he was lucky.

Any clarity about this witch came in the shadows. In his office after hours, in his manor in the middle of the night, and now, in his bed in a new city. Draco was braver in the dark. He could ask himself questions and find truthful answers, like, was he ready for marriage? He'd never asked himself this question—and not because he was afraid of the answer, but because it was always an expectation, not a choice. He had a choice now. What a luxury.

The recent conversation with his mother had seemingly given him permission to dream, and he conjured vivid imaginings of his future. His future with Granger and their house with a blue door. A house with four bedrooms. A bedroom with a bassinet. A place filled with warm light and plush sofas, with books on spare surfaces, and a small kitchen only large enough for dancing to records on the weekends while they cooked their breakfast.

But how was it all going to come true if Granger was leaving him? Well, she wasn't leaving, but creating space between. Maybe she thought they didn't work well in the same office? Maybe their relationship had made their work uncomfortable? Draco knew her goals well, but even still, Granger striving for them felt a personal rebuke. He hadn’t wanted to ask her these questions, afraid of the answers; but maybe if she were awake now, he’d be brave.

Draco sighed and then took in the rest of his wine. He teased the thought of jumping forward several years—the Time-Turner was right there. He wanted to see if Granger was still by his side. See what they had made of life.

He shook his head to himself. What was he saying? He didn’t need the Time-Turner. He might’ve prematurely grieved their Auror partnership, but he knew their future as partners. He could sense it, feel it, see it, as he watched her.

The moonlight made Granger glow. She glowed like she was wearing white.

***

They were staying in a hotel much better than the last. It was boxy with only a bedroom and bathroom, tired carpet and barely enough room for a double bed and desk, but it was better in the sense that the surfaces were self-cleaning, the bed remade itself after several minutes void of company, and the wall-length mirror beside the entrance took any and every request at all hours. They had made at least three orders for room service overnight, including for some whipped cream, which was put to very good use. The mirror did, however, have a voice reminiscent of old batty Trelawney, and when Draco walked past entirely nude, it sung out, “Oh heavens! The gods have been good to me today!”

Come morning, as Draco and Granger readied themselves in front of the mirror, he asked, “How sentient do you think this is? Do you think it saw that thing I did to you last night?”

“I didn't see it, my dear,” the mirror said. “I can't see through walls—but I could hear it and my, it sounded a treat.”

Granger clamped a grin, which Draco witnessed through the reflection. He narrowed his eyes. “And why is it British?”

“I am bewitched for your local language, dear,” said the mirror. “We want you to feel at home.”

Granger turned to view Draco and let her smile free, evidently highly entertained, but he quickly led her around the corner and away from the prying mirror. He wanted to broach the topic of her move from the DMLE, but how was he supposed to do that with unnecessary commentary from a reflective surface?

“She’s a treat,” Hermione said with a laugh.

“Thank you, dear,” answered the mirror.

Draco frowned. He pressed his mouth shut against his question. It just wouldn’t work here. But he’d find the right time.

He had been awfully obedient during this mission. Granger was adamant she was going to choose their outfits and he wasn’t allowed to grumble or complain about her choice; but here he was wearing the ugliest white trainers he’d ever seen, light blue jeans, and a black, blue and grey windcheater with a sports logo on one side. Meanwhile, Granger had fashioned herself a pair of delightful jeans, high at the waist (‘acid wash,’ apparently), with a perfectly normal pink jumper, and black and white shoes she termed ‘chucks,’ all of which no one would consider strange if she walked out onto the street at this very minute. She was having a laugh.

Although Draco had both promised Granger he wouldn’t make a fuss and told himself he was going to stick to his word, perhaps there was a way of expressing his displeasure without complaining?

“I can’t put my finger on why, but I think you’ve dressed me like someone’s dad.”

Granger laughed so suddenly and violently that she snorted. She collected herself with her hand to her mouth. “You’re not telling me Lucius wore clothing like this?”

“Certainly not. There’s a reason I called him Father and not Dad.”

She brought her knuckles to her mouth, shielding her smile, but her shoulders shook with her silent laughter.

“Distinctly different from daddy, I’d like to add,” said Draco.

“I’ll say,” remarked the mirror.

With a chuckle, Granger swished her wand twice over and then viewed him with a tilted gaze. “How about that?”

Draco held out his arms and viewed black leather, a dark t-shirt beneath, jeans now a deeper blue and shoes to match Granger’s. “Better,” he said, giving his jacket a pull to firm it against his shoulders.

“This is reminding me of Tom Cruise.”

“Who?”

“Top Gun?”

“What now?”

“I really need to figure out where your muggle knowledge begins and ends,” she said, reaching on her toes to straighten the strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “He’s an actor.”

“Ah.”

Her smile dissolved. She appeared to fuss with his hair longer than she needed to.

“A bad one?” asked Draco.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” She flattened on her feet and fidgeted with her wand. “I recalled Crookshanks had a weird fascination with him, he'd always watch the telly if he was on. Sometimes I forget he's gone.” She shook her head and shrugged as though it pained her.

“The Kneazle?”

“Half-Kneazle, yes.”

Draco drew her in close and swiped a thumb down her cheek. “You’ve had an awful lot of losses lately, Granger, and you’re all resilience and courage.”

“Well, I'm glad that's how I appear, because it certainly doesn't feel that way.”

The mirror perked up again. “Mighty resilient dear, particularly after all that hanky panky last night.”

Draco rolled his lips in to stop his smile. He hated to admit it, but he was quickly becoming the second funniest sentience in this room.

Granger, eyes blown wide, simply asked, “Shall we leave then?” She slipped the Time-Turner from beneath her t-shirt.

As she threaded her arms into a big-shouldered pink coat, he eyed the scrunchie holding back the top half of her curls. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but your hair is not big enough.”

“What—what are you doing?” She batted away his pointed wand.

“Humidity charm.”

“Stop making my hair frizzy!” She drew her own wand. “Do you know how hard I've worked to ensure it doesn't frizz?”

“Well, that's not entirely authentic, is it?”

“It'll do.” With her bag across her body, now fashioned into something large, black and slouchy, she tossed the Time-Turner chain over his head.

“No kissing while travelling,” she reminded him just before she flicked the switches, and he only had enough time to poke out the end of his tongue before they winked away.

“Shit,” he heard Granger say.

They’d arrived in a shadowy alley in the midst of night, the scent of old food waste nearby. Draco lit his wand and whirled around to see the stretch of street where people passed by. This era was all bright colours, big shoulder pads and bigger hair, and it was quickly living up to the expectation.

As they emerged out of the shadows and out beneath the streetlight, Granger was still attempting to read the Time-Turner. “I’ve put in a wrong number, but I don’t think we’re too far off.” She glanced up at the building ahead, dwarfed by the others at either side. “It’s probably best if I fix it and we try again.”

But Draco was wandering towards a shop to his left. He could hear Blondie’s Call Me playing, and see the sign out front with a round, black disc shape. The neon green cutting through the night drew him like a moth to a flame, and he felt like he couldn't do or think anything else until he went towards it.

“Malfoy, where are you going?” She scrambled to meet his side.

“How could this be the wrong location when you've brought us to a record store? Feels pretty right to me.”

“You know perfectly well you can't purchase anything in the past.”

“Relax, Granger. I'll just take a look.”

She followed him into the shop with a perturbed sigh, but Draco paid it no mind. He couldn't keep from smiling. Every inch of the place was filled with shelves and bins of vinyl records, and any spare surface covered in band posters or stickers: Led Zeppelin, Eagles, Marvin Gaye and the Bee Gees. Two teenagers were crammed into a listening booth at the back, stretching the same set of headphones, a couple of women whispered over records at the back, while the over-pierced shop attendant leant on the counter with their nose in a Rolling Stone magazine.

“Apparently this is as close as I’m going to get to the seventies, Granger. Let me have a little fun.”

She was already showing him a fed up look, but Draco chose to ignore it.

He moved to a batch of records, flipping through what looked like a catalogue of S-bands: Sex Pistols, Simple Minds, and Siouxsie and the Banshees, none of which he possessed, and all of which he made a mental note to source as soon as he returned to their current time.

“Five minutes,” said Granger, crossing her arms and leaning her behind against the collection of records at his right. “That’s it.”

When Michael Jackson’s falsetto dropped away, Draco was seemingly blessed by the music gods. “Come on Granger, now they're playing Fleetwood Mac. Tell me you're not a little happy to be here.”

She showed him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course I'm happy to be here—I'm with you. The music only makes it better.”

If you’re so happy, then why are you leaving me? It was the perfect time to say it. But he didn’t want it to sound accusatory. How was he supposed to better phrase his pathetic insecurity?

Instead, he kissed Granger with one arm snaking around her waist, pressing her back against the vinyl. She laughed against his mouth as he dotted little insistent kisses on her lips before moving to her cheek and then the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s not fair.” Her palms were warm on his chest. “You know how persuasive you can be with your mouth.”

Now, he decided, was certainly not the time to bring up her abandoning him in the DMLE.

“I can't help myself. Look at you; and look at where we are.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her as though they weren't counting down the time until they had one unhappy space-time continuum.

Bee Gees played in the background as Granger stared up at him with a vulnerable look in her eye. A vulnerability that showed him how she truly felt. He recognised love. They hadn't broached that topic, but he didn't need the words. He was quickly noticing it in her every touch and glance, and how the bite had fallen away from her tone when she sent him a reprimand. That's what made this all the more difficult—shouldn't their relationship want to make her stay at the DMLE? Wouldn't she want to continue sharing cases and an office wall?

This wasn't the time or place to ask.

All that talk from Granger about Draco’s convincing mouth, but it was the sultry shift of her palm down his chest until she'd wormed her fingers behind the top of his jeans that physically led him away from the shop.

With the correct coordinates, they appeared across from The Dakota, the relatively squat sandstone-coloured renaissance-style building with deep roofs and dormers, at least three dozen windows on one side, and elegant balconies and balustrades. There was a small crowd out front and Draco's heart clenched with the realisation of why they waited.

Granger pulled her coat tighter and he cast a quick warming charm for the two of them. She checked her watch. “Not long now. I'm going to wait over there with his fans. Just be ready to Apparate us out of here as soon as I return.”

Draco felt a little queasy. A sensation he'd never experienced before—impatience, curiosity, pure unadulterated thrill all to be expected, but sick?

“I'm not sure about this, Granger. How are you going to keep clear of the gunfire?”

“Shield charm.”

“But what if you become distracted and it fails? What if you don't cast it properly?”

“When have I ever not done anything properly?”

“Well duelling, for one.”

“Malfoy, enough—what is the issue? If you don't want to be in the thick of it then there's little else I can do.”

At least half a dozen people passed them by as Draco collected his thoughts and Granger stared up at him expectantly. He was being a wuss. Pathetic. He was being ridiculous about the abandonment he felt due to Granger’s new goal, and about his inability to fulfil his duty and witness this assassination. So what if it was a key member of a band that had lulled him to sleep for six months straight during his house arrest? He didn’t know the man from a bar of soap. Besides, it had already occurred. There was nothing he could do.

Granger glanced at her watch. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, you can shield me from a distance.”

“No, I'll come with you.” He began towards the street, but Granger yanked on his arm before he could step from the pavement. He whirled around.

“Strategically, I think you're better placed here. There's so many people and I'm small enough to get in and out quickly.”

Draco sucked in a breath. He submitted to Granger’s orders and told her as much with a kiss, then she left him for the other side of the street and with a simmering unease in his belly. Why'd he have such a terrible feeling about this? Maybe he was prematurely grieving. This was their second last mission, after all.

A limousine gliding into view yanked Draco from his thoughts. He couldn't see Granger any longer, not even the edge of a curl. She'd been swallowed by the horde that closed in towards the car, ready to harass John Lennon for an autograph as soon as he emerged.

Then came five gunshots. The crashing of glass. Screaming.

All in quick succession as Draco held his jaw clamped and his shield charm strong around Granger. His breaths were shallow. Wand fisted tight.

There was a frenzy of activity at the steps of The Dakota and suddenly Granger was running Draco’s way, darting between two cars and not paying any mind to the ruthless honking.

Draco experienced barely a beat of relief at seeing Granger. His nausea subsided and breath felt fuller. Then he heard it.

“Hey!” shouted an overly hairy muggle in purple joggers. “She stole Lennon’s glasses!”

“Run!” Granger yanked Draco’s arm as she went.

They sped down the pavement, darting between the slow and standstill.

“Didn't you make a copy?” he shouted over the ruckus.

“Of course I did!”

“Then why do we have a wild muggle chasing us?”

“Hey!” the man yelled from behind, and Draco teased the idea of sending him a stunner.

“Don't you dare,” hissed Granger, as though she could hear his thoughts.

They hit a sudden sea of people clamouring the opposite way, some moving away from the source of gunshots, others moving to better see. With their hands interlocked, they forced their path between people to a chorus of yelling and weeping and then sirens, not stopping until they were far enough that the people were sparse enough they could find an Apparition point.

But when they rounded into a dark alley, Draco heard, “Hey! Give that back!”

As they readied to spin and wink away, Draco hesitated. They were in the muggle's view. The muggle that was pushing past people left and right to get to them.

He was bolting towards them when Granger shot, “What are you waiting for? Go!”

The muggle launched at them. Launched like he was attempting a tackle, and in the exact moment that his outstretched hand went to grab at Granger's arm, Draco shot off a stunning spell and they disappeared from New York city.

Chapter Text

Hermione landed roughly on her back.

She couldn't claw a breath. Panic shot through her unmoving body and her heart pounded violently against her ribcage. This had happened to her once before, as a small child when she had naively leapt and missed the next monkey bar, landing flat on her back. She had thought she was going to die then, and she thought she was going to die now.

Cold bled into her jeans. She wanted nothing more than to pull away from the odour of dirt and see the source of the sound of tumbling water, but she couldn’t move until she took a breath; and she was still waiting for that breath to arrive. Through a break in the trees above was a cluster of beautifully bright stars and Hermione imagined it was probably a nice place to be, if not for the circumstances.

Finally, she gasped in a jagged breath.

Malfoy was standing above her, his wand alight. “Are you okay?”

She couldn’t form a word. She needed another breath. Then another.

“Are you hurt?”

With one of Malfoy’s hands in hers and his other gripped around her arm, he easily pulled her to her feet, which meant she could wholly concentrate on forming her exasperation into words.

“Christ, Malfoy!” She batted away his hold of her. “What if you’ve inadvertently killed that muggle?”

“With a stunner?”

“What if he fell back into the traffic?”

“Traffic, Granger? There were enough muggles running about to cushion his fall.”

“What if he fell back, hit his head and died? Our future could be ruined!”

“And what if he’s perfectly fine?”

“You still performed magic on him!”

Hermione still grasped at her inhales. Why were they bothering to argue? The damage had already been done. Exactly what damage, well, they'd need to return to the present to see. She clenched her jaw and steadied her breaths as she surveyed their surroundings. The chill bit at her skin and scored her lungs, and she absentmindedly cast a warming charm.

In gentle star and wandlight, Hermione recognised a forest. It almost appeared as though they were standing in a sunken lane, high banks on either side, trees curving up and out, their ancient roots curving out and down. She could feel the mucky ground beneath her, the mix of dirt and sleet, but ahead was the sound of a trickle: a gentle waterfall cascading over a jut of rock. Peculiarly enough, there was a bright orange flame behind it. It danced undeterred, as though magic.

Hermione moved her gaze towards Malfoy, suddenly looking ill-fitting with his leather jacket in the middle of a forest. “Where are we?” The deal that had allowed her to fashion their outfits for the day meant Malfoy chose their Horcrux-destroying destination, and it was nothing she expected.

“A popular muggle tourist destination, according to the brochure I was handed on the street.”

“You’ve brought us into the centre of a forest?”

“If the Fiendfyre catches, we can blame it on the eternal flame.”

Hermione abstained from what she had wanted to say and instead grumbled lightly. This whole mission was going from bad to worse, and at this stage she just wanted it done with.

They only had one more time and location left to visit, and they had entirely zero motives. Not even an inkling of a motive. Had Preston harboured secret evil fantasies? Nothing indicated that was the case. Was he acting on behalf of another wizard? There was no other wizard they could tie to his actions. Was he enacting some sort of depraved joke in making the two of them run around time and place bickering? Hermione couldn’t rule it out and she was coming to terms with the fact this was becoming the most likely option. To be honest, she was most concerned about what she would write in their final report to Harry: significant Ministry resources depleted visiting four countries across six time periods for apparent shits and giggles.

“I don’t understand,” said Hermione. “I didn’t see Preston at all this time.”

Malfoy stopped his perusal of the eternal flame and walked back to meet her. “Maybe he had a disguise?”

“It was chaotic in there for a moment. Maybe I just missed him.”

“You know, we haven’t really considered other parties.”

“There needs to be such an intent behind this act. I can't even see Preston doing it. How would he convince a second wizard?”

“I don’t know, Granger. It’s been weeks of this and I have just as many answers as you.”

Very suddenly, Hermione didn’t have the space to theorise. Not after that chase, and certainly not after the harsh fall. Her shoulder was beginning to ache and her warming charm was already wearing. “Let’s just get this over with.” She slipped her hands into her pockets ready to retrieve the items she’d pilfered.

“I need to ask you something.” Malfoy had shoved out his words as though she was walking away, never to see him again.

Hermione stared up at him blankly. Shrouded in night and lit by wand glow, his pale skin was almost luminescent. His brows were curved up with a vague look of panic.

“Why are you leaving me?” he asked in a rush.

Hermione’s body shot with a throb of panic. “What? What do you mean by leaving you?”

He stepped closer. “Leaving the DMLE.”

She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Of all the moments you could have chosen to bring this up…” Hermione trailed off shaking her head, then turned to look at anything but him.

She had been waiting for this. Ideally it would’ve come up during their own day and age and not in the bloody dark, but she knew it would arise. She had told herself if he hadn’t broached the topic by Wednesday, then she was going to initiate the conversation. But Wednesday came and went and she found herself avoidant in a manner unbecoming of a Gryffindor.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he pressed.

“Because I knew you’d take it personally!” Hermione sent a frustrated groan to the skies. “I don't even know whether they'll take me—I haven't even interviewed!”

“Of course they'll take you. You're Hermione Granger.”

She hated that. Her name was now loaded with such meaning. She didn’t want anyone to simply give her anything because of who she was. Ron had enjoyed that aspect of their post-war fame and Harry begrudgingly accepted it, but Hermione detested the thought. Merit—that’s what she hoped would land her the role. But she supposed she’d never expressed as much to Malfoy, and perhaps for a wizard who had spent most part of his life getting his way solely because of his name, it was a difficult notion to understand.

“You weren’t supposed to find out that way,” said Hermione.

As if Cormac depositing them in the middle of a spider’s nest wasn’t enough to change her perception of the man from irritating to an utter idiot, after the way he’d twisted the knife into Malfoy, she now loathed him. She couldn’t believe she’d ever slept with him.

Malfoy closed the distance between them, and she needed to tilt her chin to see him.

“We can’t have whatever this arrangement is and continue to work together,” she told him. “I don’t think it’ll do us any favours.”

“I don't understand. Aren't we having fun?”

“Right now? No. I have mud in my hair, water sopped through at my bum, and two Horcruxes in my bag.”

There was a question in his frown before his words arrived. “Two?”

Hermione sighed, filling the air between them with condensation.

She upturned her pockets, revealing a set of round glasses befitting of Harry Potter himself except that the frames were clear and the lenses smeared with blood. In the other hand, she held John Lennon’s cap: black, woollen and short-peaked.

“And you accused me of buggering our future.”

“Every description I found of Lennon the night he died never mentioned a hat of any sort, and then I panicked, because at first I thought the Horcrux would be his glasses, then I wondered if Preston had stuck to a pattern.”

“A hat pattern.”

Hermione nibbled the inside of her lip as she nodded.

“The Horcrux could be absolutely anything, Granger. I know Preston was clever, but I don’t think there’s any real logic to this. He’s just taking us for a ride. For all we know, the real Horcrux could be sitting in a New York hospital somewhere.”

Hermione shoved the cap into Malfoy’s wand-free hand. There was only one way to find out.

She held up the glasses by the curve in the arm and touched her wand to the frame. It was the lightest press of a burning charm. The glasses twitched, jerking from her pincer grip and landed on the ground between their feet. As Hermione retrieved them, Malfoy attempted the same trick with the cap and ended up singeing a hole inside. His eyes slid up to hers as they both came to the same realisation.

“You’ve stolen this entirely unnecessarily,” said Malfoy. “What are we supposed to do with it now?”

Hermione winced. “Maybe we should go back and leave it on the street?”

“I’m not sure if that sounds more or less likely to disrupt our futures.” He flipped up the hat to sit loosely atop his head. “How do I look?”

“Like one of the Village People,” said Hermione.

As he pulled down the hat so that it was snug around his head, Malfoy narrowed his eyes, confusion plain.

“I'm astounded by the gaps in your muggle knowledge.”

“And I can't believe you stole John Lennon’s hat. Did you at least leave a copy?”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. She hated admitting her mistakes. “I might have panicked.”

Malfoy’s mouth stayed open for a length before he finally spoke. “Panicked enough that you forgot to leave a replica of both?”

“Just the hat.”

“And alerted a muggle.”

“Accidentally. And might I remind you, you’re the one who abstained from retrieving the Horcrux.”

With a pale sigh, Hermione wordlessly cast Fiendfyre, watching it snatch onto the corner of the glasses, then dropped her hold as the flames quickly consumed the rest. She was done with this mission. As much as she hated to admit it, she was done with this case. The constant dead ends were disheartening.

Hermione stepped forward and laid a palm on Malfoy’s chest. She attempted to look him in the eye, but the silly cap was casting a shadow. As she peeled it away, she said, “I'm not leaving you, Draco. Maybe just leaving the DMLE.”

Hermione had been so avoidant of this conversation. It made everything feel real. She would mourn working with him, and she understood how she was destabilising the pleasant rhythm they had just discovered, but she was confident in her decision. It was time for something new.

“I've recognised my limits,” said Hermione. “I’ve learnt that my strengths lie elsewhere.”

“But you're forfeiting our competition.”

She shook her head. “Just chasing a different goal. Besides, without me in the department, you'll finally achieve the title of best Auror. Doesn't that bring you some joy?”

He let out a puff of laughter. “Not as much as the thought of us sharing an office wall.”

“At least I'll still be in the Ministry.”

He took her face in his hands. “And still in my bed, right?”

She smiled against his lips before he laid a kiss to hers, but in the back of her mind, Hermione reminded herself that there were only thirty-four days until the intended Malfoy wedding.

***

“I've been sleeping with my case partner.”

Hermione’s therapist, Maeve, tilted her head. “Sleeping with? Not a one-night stand?”

She shook her head.

“And this is the same man who you had feelings for in school, who then taunted and bullied you, and turned to crime, narrowly missing long-term incarceration… is that correct?”

“Well, when you say it like that, he sounds terrible.”

“I apologise. That wasn't my intention, Hermione. I appreciate you sharing this with me.”

Hermione nodded gently, but was suddenly wary. Suddenly reminded that this woman kept stock of absolutely every word out of her mouth, assessing it for greater meaning.

“I suppose I'm wondering,” began Maeve, “if after such a prolonged period of numbing last year, then considering your previous addictive behaviour, whether you're trying to feel more, even if the feelings are not necessarily positive. Does he still incite unpleasant feelings in any way?”

“Not at all,” she answered without hesitation. “He causes plenty of positive feelings. He's made me feel more, and perhaps even better, than I have in some time. But not in the way that once fed my addictive behaviours.”

In some respect, Hermione still lied. She still carried the gnawing feeling of guilt—guilt for the position she was putting Malfoy and his mother in. It reared up when she was not in his presence and when left alone with her thoughts, and she’d simply had enough of it. Hermione didn't want to acknowledge her guilt. Not to herself, not with Malfoy, and certainly not with her therapist.

And yet, even with her desire to ignore, Hermione knew there were thirty more days until Malfoy’s intended wedding date. Thirty days until the guilt would hopefully resolve.

“That's wonderful, Hermione.” Maeve's mouth bracketed at the right side. “Do you see a future with this man?”

“Yes,” she answered, not sparing a beat. When she thought of her future, the guilt was no more, but Malfoy was there. Dashing, loving, and wholly hers.

Maeve showed a rare, eye-crinkling smile. “You appear happy.”

Hermione let a grin overtake her expression. “I am.”

***

The excessive fripperies of Pansy and Neville’s engagement party weren’t exactly Hermione’s style, but she openly admired them in the way Pansy no doubt intended. In the beautiful Parkinson Estate gardens and gentle afternoon sun, Hermione walked towards a grand white marquee, her arm linked in Malfoy’s.

Ahead was a length of flooring filled to the brim with witches and wizards, silver trays floating at their sides bearing cocktails or canapés, and a string quartet beyond. Anything that wasn't white, silver, or gold was lilac: the silk draperies between the arms of the marquee, the decorations on the hors d'oeuvres, and the beautifully arranged flowers.

On either side of the lawn were ice sculptures of the happy couple, seemingly impervious to the summer heat. At their right, a champagne fountain, and on their left, an elaborate hovering sign glittering in the sun that read Parkinson-Longbottom, which Hermione soon realised was jittering in place.

“Ethically sourced fairies,” said Malfoy.

She’d heard him, of course, but it wasn’t until he squeezed her hand that he captured her attention. He peered at her keenly—a quick check of her composure. The simple curve of his lips asked whether she was ready for this moment, and Hermione flashed him a smile in return to tell him as much.

At least, she thought she did. Nerves were getting the better of her.

The Prophet had printed a small announcement regarding the end of the Malfoy-Greengrass engagement, and today the Granger-Malfoy relationship would finally be revealed to the wizarding world. Hermione was concerned about what their colleagues might say, the judgement from their old school friends, and articles from certain reporters and critics, but the way Malfoy knotted his fingers in hers lessened her worry.

Strangely, her greatest concerns were Ron and Astoria. Hermione had drafted her ex-boyfriend a letter three times over before she decided against the idea. Decided she no longer owed him anything. Astoria, however… Well, Hermione felt like she owed her something. With any luck, their paths wouldn't cross anytime soon, and she could better consider how she'd make amends for depriving her of the sole thing she'd been reared for.

With a sharp inhale, Hermione slid a palm down the silk at her stomach. Malfoy had taken her to a boutique in France where even the bergamot scent of the store felt expensive, and then watched as she tried on a ridiculous number of dresses in several styles and colours. Apparently an emerald dress with a thigh-high slit and a draped neckline had suited her best, but Hermione considered it another way for Malfoy to publicly stake his claim in the most Slytherin way. He'd also purchased lingerie to match, plus a silver pendant that it dipped into her small show of cleavage, and Hermione couldn’t even pretend to dislike his lavish gifts nor his desire to dress her like a doll. It had irked her at first, but now she adored that accomplished look he showed her afterwards. Besides, she’d picked out his black suit with silk lapels and he looked absolutely divine.

As they journeyed towards the gathering, expensive floral scents skated towards them on the breeze and laughter dampened the music, but only briefly in that elegant manner Hermione expected of Parkinson guests. She couldn’t recall the last occasion she’d seen so many important people in the same place. Neville had certainly won everyone’s affection following the war, but Pansy may have done an even better job of clawing her way into everyone’s good graces than Narcissa Malfoy herself.

Hermione heard Malfoy’s deep inhale as they stepped beneath the marquee and into a slightly warmer atmosphere. The guests unashamedly gawked. Not glanced or glimpsed or attempted to peer inconspicuously, but gawked.

They passed Kingsley, who offered a brief nod and a sly smile. Beside him, several Heads of departments all turned their way, then Professors McGonnagal and Sprout showed smiles with intrigue in their eyes. There were witches and wizards Hermione recognised as shop owners in Diagon Alley, the chief editor of the Daily Prophet, and even the Muggle Ambassador to the Ministry of Magic. Apparently, Hermione and Malfoy all warranted their rapt attention.

They wandered towards Neville in his smart grey suit, who exclaimed Hermione’s name as he took her in for a crushing hug. She was then freed and placed into the path of Pansy’s kisses, one to each cheek.

“Oh good, you’re both here.” Pansy wore a beautiful sleek white dress, long-sleeved and tight around her knees, looking every bit the bride. “Your mother has been asking when you were going to arrive, and to be honest, I have bigger concerns.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Malfoy.

“Well it's not your fault, is it? The cake is trying to cave in on itself and one of the floating trays hit Slughorn in the back of the head and somehow drew blood.”

“You’ll have to try the cocktails,” said Neville, swiping two purple drinks from a nearby tray and pressing them into Hermione and Malfoy’s hands. “Seamus made it especially for today.”

“Is it going to light my insides on fire?” asked Hermione.

Neville only chuckled and it was all the confirmation she needed. He lifted his glass in salute, but his eyes were well past her shoulder. “Harry, glad you’ve made it. New robes?”

They exchanged handshakes, Harry confirming that his sleek, green dress robes were indeed new, all the while Malfoy’s hand trailed across the small of Hermione’s back, light enough that he left a tingling trail. He curved his touch around her hip and drew her in close enough that he could whisper in her ear. “You are radiant.”

Hermione placed her hand on his shoulder and folded into him, looking up into his eyes, unable to keep away the curve of her lips.

This felt indescribable. Hiding had been fun, but being able to exist here—like this—was something else.

Pansy made a gagging noise. “You two are sickeningly sweet.”

“Sorry,” Malfoy offered as Hermione edged away from his tight clasp. “Too much? I don’t want to ruin your day.”

Pansy’s expression hurriedly softened. “No,” she said firmly. “Not too much at all. It’s everything you deserve.”

Hermione unleashed a grin as Malfoy yanked her closer again. “In that case,” he began, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Did I mention how gorgeous you are?”

Hermione laughed lightly and Pansy shook her head with a smile. Theo slipped into their little gathering beside the soon-to-be bride, pulling her in for a side hug with a kiss to the cheek.

“Lovebirds,” Theo said towards Hermione and Malfoy. He’d dressed in blue robes again. His eyes glinted brighter than the floating crystal chandelier.

“You both look very handsome,” Hermione said, her eyes sliding between Theo and Harry.

“I wish I could say the same to you,” began Theo, “but I don’t want to risk your boyfriend threatening to duel me again.”

Malfoy’s face was a mask of irritation, slightly tempered for their surroundings.

“Did you two arrive together?” asked Hermione, attempting to dispel the tension.

“And you thought no one would notice,” Theo said to Harry, giving up the charade and snaking a hand around his hip.

“She's a highly skilled Auror,” Harry said as he wordlessly summoned cocktail glasses into both hands then pressed one into Theo's.

As Pansy snatched Neville and dragged him away to a newly arrived couple, Hermione asked Harry, “Did you get my missive? About the case?”

“Yes, Hermione. One more Horcrux destroyed, zero motivations. Will you switch your brain off for a moment and enjoy yourself?”

“Did you tell him the part where you accidentally stole John Lennon’s hat?” asked Malfoy. “Didn’t even leave a copy behind? Nicked it from nineteen-eighty entirely?”

For a whole day, Hermione had observed her every interaction with the world with a suspicious eye. Had they altered the future in any way by bringing back John Lennon’s cap? And by stunning a muggle? Apparently not. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all, so much so that Hermione wondered whether they were always meant to make those errors. Malfoy was now the owner of accidental Beatles memorabilia—and, he was extremely insufferable about that fact.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I want to know,” said Theo.

“You’re not allowed to know,” said Harry. “No more work talk,” he added to Hermione.

Just as she mumbled her agreement, Blaise stole Harry and Theo’s attention, while Hermione’s was drawn to a familiar face in the crowd. An older woman with pink robes contrasting beautifully with her skin, and long white hair gathered on top of her head in a fashion reminiscent of Hermione’s nineteen-fourteen hairstyle.

Edie Preston was chatting with Professor Sprout. Well, Hermione supposed she would do; they had worked together for years. By her calculation, she had started at Hogwarts sometime after the loss of her child in nineteen sixty-five, but had moved on before Hermione began at school. Perhaps that’s what she could enquire about: working at Hogwarts. It was a relatively innocuous question.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Malfoy.

“I wasn’t…” It was an automatic response. She crafted an innocent look and glanced up at Malfoy. “Okay fine, I was considering it.”

“We’re not on work time, Granger. Besides, what are you going to do? Walk up to her and ask what the hell her recently deceased husband was thinking when he split his soul into three Horcruxes?”

“Not quite so crudely.”

“I don’t want anything to ruin the day for Pansy. I promise you we can visit Preston’s wife first thing Monday morning.”

“Fine.” As she vanished her cocktail, she flicked her eyes away with her defeated look. “I’m going to find a bathroom.”

“Are you really?” He narrowed his eyes. “Or are you going to harass Edie?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I'm not going to harass her.” When his eyebrows raised with doubt, she added, “I promise.”

Malfoy closed in, his palms sliding around the small of her back, dragging a delicious heat as they went. “Would you like me to come with you?” He smirked and she already knew what he was thinking. As his hands skirted lower until they were around her behind, she felt the lines of him press against her belly. “I’m ready to see this green lingerie.”

“Oh,” Hermione said with a single-syllable laugh, “I think sex in the bathroom has far more potential to ruin Pansy’s day than talking to Edie, don’t you?”

Hermione left Malfoy and his sly smile in the middle of the guests and soon located her destination, but not before being pulled into at least three separate gatherings, and just as many on the return journey. She spotted several heads of red hair: Ginny, Ron, and George, and her heartbeat cantered. Had Ron already seen her with Malfoy? Well if he had, apparently nothing had come of it. Everyone else had certainly spotted them, though; and the reactions were better than she had expected.

“You two make a wonderful couple,” Luna said in passing, her newly adorned shimmering freckles giving Hermione pause.

“Quite the news,” said a very-pregnant Cho with a smile as Hermione stopped to speak with Oliver.

“Are you truly dating Malfoy, Hermione?” asked Dean as she bypassed.

“Hope he's treating you well,” added Seamus.

“Oh, he's treating me very well,” she said over her shoulder, moving deeper into the fray and away from their booming laughter.

Hermione stalled, searching for stark platinum hair in the crowd before she made another step.

Then her pulse lurched.

Astoria, elegant as ever in deep red dress robes, had similarly caught her step as she made through the crowds and now stood straight ahead. She lifted her chin in a way that still rendered her all poise and grace.

Hermione’s pulse doubled again and she felt a swell of sickness. It was twenty-five days until Astoria was meant to wed. Twenty-five days, and hopefully Hermione would stop feeling like she'd ruined three futures with her unruly feelings for Malfoy.

In the shivering instant their gazes connected, Hermione thought a look passed between them. Astoria's eyes were absent of the resentment she expected, but the witch didn’t remain long enough for Hermione to judge what she truly saw.

As she watched Astoria walk away, Hermione quickly relived the moment, attempting to decipher it further. Should she have approached her and said something? What on earth would she say? Besides, if Astoria's relationship with Malfoy hadn’t been a real relationship at all, then what was Hermione attempting to mediate? Her own discomfort, no doubt.

Afterwards, as she returned to Malfoy’s side, she couldn’t even find Astoria amongst the guests if she had tried. She only heard her name in passing when Harry mentioned that Ron accidentally dropped his beer on the back of her dress, only to then momentarily set her on fire when he attempted to clean it with his wand. Hermione felt a little bad for her all over again.

From then on, the party was measured in glasses of champagne. Hermione was one down when Ginny joined in a magnificent burnt orange dress, Blaise following closely behind. Two down when the family of the impending bride and groom gave heartfelt speeches, and three when Ron finally caught her eye. Malfoy had Hermione pulled in close, his hand firm on her hip, one fingertip teasing the line of her underwear—not that Ron could see that, of course. But what he saw between the heads of other guests would have been clear enough.

Hermione expected a look of disgust or otherwise thinly veiled disappointment. Instead, he showed the most subtle of smiles then turned away, and although she thought it was a strange reaction, she didn't want to think about it for long.

With Malfoy’s arm still strong around her waist, she curved against him until she tucked in close to his collar and could peer past his shoulder at the other guests. Where had Edie gone to? A little small talk wouldn't be construed as work, would it? Hermione could feel Malfoy’s voice rumble against her chest as he and Ginny intensely debated the recent sacking of the Puddlemere Keeper.

This space—this feeling—was perfect. He was wrapped around her and she still stole the largest segment of his attention as he worked the room. She could stay tucked here all afternoon, if only for the scent of him. If she were to brew Amortentia today it would only be him: sharp and citrusy, but not his fresh scent because she adored when it was worn and warm. She missed it when she was briefly pulled away by Luna, and then when she became embroiled in a fevered conversation between Kinglsey and Augusta Longbottom on the merits of magically binding house-elves to their masters.

When she could finally take her leave, Hermione spotted Malfoy through the guests, and gods, she couldn’t wait until they could be alone again. As if he wasn’t already gorgeous in the fingers of late afternoon sun sieving through the marquee, his cheeks were a little pink from the drink, and he was truly enjoying himself. A laugh still lingered on his expression when he finally caught sight of her.

The words ‘I love you’ were on Hermione’s tongue a lot lately. Had there ever been a time when she'd felt this way? So hopelessly, utterly, indescribably whole? A smile constantly simmered when she was in his company, a whole-body longing when she wasn't near him, and at every spare moment, she had imaginings of a future that wasn't all vague and slippery.

Hermione stuttered in an inhale as she watched him.

After the last couple of years, she felt she was due her luck and this was it. It was him. Draco Malfoy. It was his wit and intelligence and even his ridiculous banter. The way he walked around the office with that wand holster over a tight shirt didn't hurt, but then there was also the things she witnessed in private: when his face showed a beautiful state of concentration as he became lost in a book; how his eyes lit up when she put on a David Bowie CD, and the scowl that set in when she switched it for a boy band. And then there was the way he caused her to laugh until her belly ached; something she didn't realise she was sorely missing. Each and every single thing, it all culminated in such a beautiful feeling.

Strange how he’d been there all along and she’d failed to see it. Well, she hadn’t quite seen him like this. He’d let her into so much of his life in only a short amount of time. She’d learnt his odd talent of recounting the date of every game won by the Falmouth Falcons, how he’d owl his mother every Sunday night even if there was nothing to say, and that he regretted his last words to his father, yet he considered his father's last words to him far more regrettable. Then there were all the ways he’d told her that he loved her without saying as much. Had she done the same for him? Even if she had, it still didn’t feel enough.

Was it too soon to say as much aloud?

But what was too soon? Everyone lived at different speeds and Hermione considered her pace faster than some. She had weighed all the possibilities and potential outcomes, and she didn't want to wait any longer.

The words ‘I love you’ were raring on her tongue.

Malfoy was fighting hard against the bloom of his smile, but then Hermione grinned and he let it free.

As she walked through the guests to meet him, there was something suddenly very familiar about the moment. Familiar in a way that quickly felt horrible. Sharp and unforgiving.

Hermione stalled her steps to decipher it. Her stomach abruptly turned and the pull of her smile dropped.

There was the distinct scent of cologne. Spiced cloves. Cloying. With it came memories unbidden: reminder of the dizziness and cold sweat and heavy limbs. Suddenly, her arms felt leaden again.

Was he here? Or was she still there?

Was she still fumbling her wand and finding her spells jammed between her teeth?

In the middle of the celebration, Hermione was suddenly petrified, losing herself to an unwanted recollection, recalling fingers clawing into her thighs and her underwear ripping. The weight of her limbs as her senses left her one by one—her consciousness ready to depart next—alongside a whispered wish that the heavy feeling swiftly drag her down and away from this life. Then the infiltration.

Hermione’s cheeks prickled with heat and she swallowed twice over to push down the bile. She was going to be sick. Her feet wouldn't move. She was going to be sick and her feet wouldn’t move. There was going to be upturned champagne and canapes in the middle of Pansy and Neville’s engagement party. Hermione was overwrought, incapable of taking a step as the bilious feeling clawed at the back of her throat, tugging, teasing.

Suddenly the wizard was in front of her, and something about his crooked smile caused her to once more swallow against the rising sickness. Past his leer, Hermione caught Malfoy’s gaze. His eyes were narrowing, mouth wiped of any good humour. The vision of him was swimming. Was she crying?

The bastard kept talking at her—talking at her with the self-satisfied look of a man who thought fondly of their last memory together. But she couldn’t hear the words. A loud sound whirred in her ears and her breaths were so disjointed that she panicked as she clutched for the next, far shallower than the previous. Hermione’s vision spotted at the sides. Her stomach felt caustic and bubbling.

Hermione spun away. She carelessly elbowed guests, the colours and conversation becoming a whirl. Sandwiched between people who wouldn't get out her way, she used the little force she had to tear from the throng. She ignored the call of her name once and then twice.

She needed air.

She was nearly outside.

Green of the lawns were in view.

But as she went, that night came back to her in full force. It assaulted her front on as she tried to leave it behind. How was she meant to leave it behind? She blinked rapidly. Her mouth twitched at the side with her nausea.

Hermione’s heartbeat thrashed in her ears and her tongue was acidic, and she'd made it to the other side of the marquee, walked as far as she could manage and ended behind the ice sculpture just as she bent over to violently bring up the contents of her stomach.

As she righted her posture, her clammy hand to her sweaty forehead, she felt a palm on her shoulder.

“Hermione.” Malfoy’s voice was panicked.

“I need to leave,” she managed as she turned to see his concern, then she gasped in a breath and felt her tears track hot down her cheeks.

He yanked her into his chest and Disapparated without question.

When they appeared in Hermione’s flat she covered her face with her hands and wept freely, shoulders shaking. The shame lanced her worse than any other feeling. The shame of it was going to kill her. How was she supposed to be rid of this feeling? How could she ever be rid of it?

“Hermione.” Malfoy’s voice was steady, but she could hear the edge of worry. His hands were on her arms. “What happened?”

“I thought it was gone. It was gone,” she said, her voice clogged with tears. “And then something about that…and he—and...” She swallowed roughly, pressing her face deeper into her palms as though she might disappear.

Malfoy pried her hands away from her face, and she wasn’t ready for how seeing him made everything worse. With his brows flexing in deeper, she recognised his impatience for her answer.

“I remember.” It came out as a sob. “How it felt like I was losing a battle to keep my eyes open, reaching for breath beneath the pillow he used to stop my scream, then the silencing charm and the darkness; it keeps coming back. It won't stop. How do I get it to stop?” Hermione’s shoulders shook as another sob racked her body. Her head fell forward, chin to her chest.

“Are you…” he began quietly. “Are you telling me the person who…”

Unable to look him in the eye, Hermione nodded hurriedly to stop his next words.

“Who?” he asked woodenly with a scowl.

Hermione covered her palm to her mouth for the reprisal of the horrid sick feeling, and Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. His riled breaths were loud enough to press into every corner of the flat. The lines in his neck worked. His eyes were glassy.

Hermione’s tears escaped, joining the same path as the others, dropping off her jaw. She had never envisioned this moment, never planned for it. She had naively assumed that the trauma was behind her, the pieces so broken that she would never need to live with the realisation. And yet here she was, with the sickening weight of realisation and the heavy weight of Malfoy's stare, both bearing down on her and making her want to disappear.

Her head and eyes ached. She wanted nothing more than her bed and a potion to take away her nausea and her ability to think and feel and dream; but she couldn't draw out his pain into another day.

“Who?” he repeated.

Chapter Text

Granger whispered, “Flint.”

Draco knew he was looking directly at her… but he couldn’t see her.

He saw Flint. Flint and his boorish laugh and self-satisfied smile as he bragged about his latest conquest. Draco had never taken him seriously. Maybe he should have? Of course he fucking should have. They all knew he slept around like every other shackled pureblood, but if Draco had known he was using force to bed women… He should have known—why didn’t he know?

Draco’s nausea spiked. Suddenly he was kept up on the rapid beat of his heart, how his hands jittered and chest felt tight. His anger simmered, threatening to engulf him if he allowed it. It barbed beneath his skin, fizzed through his veins, shot to every heated end of him.

Flint. How? No, not how. Why? Why Granger? Had he been in his company when Flint bragged about her? He'd heard him say, “she had fight in her,” label women “feisty” and “worth the effort” but to Draco, they were always offhand remarks about something consensual. They were always faceless women. Now they were all her.

“Draco,” Granger whispered, but he was still so far away.

She stepped forward, cutting through his thoughts. He expelled an irate breath before inhaling a steadying one.

Draco finally saw her. The most beautiful woman, broken. He drew her into his arms and she took it as permission to break again, sobbing against him. Reaching sobs that tore at his composure. He held her up as she faltered and he whispered reassurances, despite not knowing what to say. He held her until the sobs turned to weeping and the weeping to whimpers. He held her, jaw clamped against the nausea, attempting to stuff his anger into the box at the back of his mind and failing fucking miserably.

With his shirt dampened, he steered Granger to the bedroom and into the patch of light cleaving the shadows. With his eyes painfully hot, he undressed her in a way unlike anything he’d earlier imagined. He threaded a shirt over her arms and head then unstoppered a Dreamless Sleep potion and put it to her lips. After Draco settled Granger in bed, he assured her he’d be there when she woke up, and she replied, “So will the memories.” The barbed feeling beneath his skin burrowed deeper and twisted. How was he meant to take her pain away?

When Draco knew the potion had taken Granger, he moved to the other room, silenced himself and let out a scream. He flung off his jacket, tore off his tie, and with his wand fisted, paced around the flat as though he was in search of something. He moved past the sofa, into the kitchen and beside the sad, empty bowl Granger kept for her long departed cat, back towards the bookcase at the far wall, then as he met the coffee table he kicked the spindly leg with enough force that he caused it to snap.

It did nothing for his anger.

Draco ended up in a heap on the sofa with his face in his hands, encountering all the novel ways rage lit his body as he searched for answers to banish the sensation. He only found one.

His desire to be there for Granger battled his new ire for Flint. It was the latter that won, and which took him to Ginny’s door.

She opened it barely a face-width, wearing the same dress as earlier but with her lipstick worn and a little fright in her eyes.

“I need you to go be with Hermione.”

Ginny pulled the door wider. “What's happened? Why are you all pale and shaky?”

Her question was ironic given the way her own voice trembled.

“Please just do it. I don’t have time to explain.” He turned, beginning towards the gate.

“You can't abandon her just because she's—”

“I'm not abandoning her!” he growled, whipping around.

Ginny had moved away from the door, her arms folded and all five-foot-nothing of her ready to battle for her friend if need be. Inside, Zabini had revealed around the end of the hallway.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because it looks an awful lot like you are.”

“I promise you,” he pushed out as gently as he could manage beneath the kindling of his rage.

Her expression took on an assessing tilt. Then she sighed forcefully, and he judged it as her acceptance. “I'll go now, but I'll have the kids tomorrow morning.”

“Do what you can. I just don't want her to be alone.”

He turned and didn't look back, knowing he could rely on her.

Draco Apparated to a small wizarding town in Greater London, where Flint Manor was the largest and gaudiest structure. A manor he'd been to plenty of times before, with wards that would welcome him in. He could walk right through that door and flay Flint open.

Draco needed several steadying breaths to stop himself, because as much as he wanted to see Flint suffer, he didn't hold the same desire for his wife and children.

He spent three hours in a Disillusionment charm, watching and waiting to see the wizard. The next night, he spent five hours. Six the next. Every single hour was useless. Flint must have solely relied on the Floo, his front door merely for decoration.

Draco needed a different strategy.

***

“How is she?” asked Draco as he emerged from Granger’s Floo.

Potter walked to meet him more rumpled than ever, having spent the night sleeping in his robes. “She's slept the entire time I've been here. When was the last time she ate anything?”

Draco shook his head lightly. He hadn't been keeping track. He should have.

“You should try and get her to eat. Here—” Potter scooped three vials from his pocket and placed them in Draco's palm. “I didn't want to just leave them around. I think she's had more than enough, but Theo insisted I give these to you.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Potter openly studied him and Draco didn't have the energy to tell him to stop. Just when he thought he was done, Potter sighed heavily.

“Don't do anything stupid, Malfoy.”

Draco sent him a look. One he hoped conveyed that they held different definitions of stupid.

“I think I know what you're doing every night, and I hope that I'm wrong,” he said, apparently undeterred. “Just remember your trial conditions and how close you were to Azkaban. Think about Hermione.”

“Think about her? Potter, she’s all I think about.”

***

One morning, as Granger slept, a Ministry owl arrived and the back of the envelope read Magical Creatures Department. Draco left the letter on the growing pile of mail.

***

Granger wanted to sleep. Draco wanted to give her everything she desired. She wanted no dreams or discomfort and so he sourced the pain and sleep potions, but sometimes as the magic wore off, she'd whisper things: “I couldn't lift my wand,” “I said no,” and “how did I make it home?”

Draco could never bring himself to reply.

Now when she cried, it was quiet—like a secret. Sometimes he slept next to her and felt the way the bed shuddered. Sometimes he wanted to hook an arm around her and pull her close to his body, but he second guessed even placing a hand to her shoulder. Sometimes he slept on the sofa.

Draco felt helpless. Each passing day, she felt further and further away. So far he worried he’d lose her entirely. Eventually, he brought her friends in, concerned she needed something more—someone else.

Ginny spent the night, laid behind Granger with her arms wrapped tight.

One morning Harry sat on the edge of the bed as she slept and read the Ministry news from The Prophet, occasionally swiping a palm over her hair.

Then Pansy visited and rearranged Granger’s wardrobe, Nott delivered a tiny vial of Liquid Luck, and Zabini sent the names of three Mind Healers in Europe who had availability at short notice.

As Granger spent her time in bed and in the dark, refusing to remain awake so as to avoid any feeling, Draco experienced it all for her. He worked his way through every emotion but one.

Draco became her rage.

***

“He was at The Obsidian Club last week,” said Zabini, as soon as Draco arrived in the Malfoy Manor sitting room.

“In muggle London,” added Nott, as he lounged back into the corner of the settee.

Their eyes tracked Draco as he paced along the rug, organising his thoughts.

“Someone should tell Millicient,” said Zabini.

“Millie already knows. Remember last summer? She sent him to St Mungo's with horrid boils after she found him with the childrens’ tutor—”

Draco sent a look that cowed Nott from his next words. It didn’t matter what information he sourced or potions he brewed, he still wasn’t in his good graces, and when he wasn't in his good graces, Nott’s every way of being was irritating.

Draco stopped his aimless wander and turned, finding questions written on their faces.

“Well then,” began Zabini, “what are you going to do?”

***

“What if I sent you with Singh?” asked Potter, walking deeper into Draco’s office.

“He's not up to it.”

“Why? The only real dangers you've encountered on these missions are giant spiders, and we've sorted that.”

Draco rounded his desk and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Just give Granger a little more time.”

“I want to give her all the time in the world, Malfoy, but I'm afraid I can only make excuses for so long. They want the Time-Turner returned next month.”

“Give her another two weeks.”

He palmed the back of his head. “Another week and then we'll find you a new partner.”

Draco inhaled deeply. It did nothing to drive away the sting in his chest. He clenched his jaw and peered down at his feet as he stored the prickly feeling away. Last time Granger was like this, she took over a month off work. But truthfully, the Horcrux case was the last thing on his mind.

***

“What am I supposed to do?” Draco asked Ginny, his voice barely above a whisper as they loitered in Granger’s tiny kitchen, waiting for her muggle electric kettle to boil. “She doesn't want to be awake; barely conscious.”

“Unfeeling.” Ginny dropped tea bags into two mugs. “She did this last time—well, this might be even worse.”

“And what did it take last time?”

She pulled in the side of her mouth. “Time.”

Time. He was sick of the bloody thing. It felt like he could give her all the time in the world and she’d still be curled in on herself in bed, a shell of the person she was. “There must be something else I can do.”

“Lay with her, talk to her, reassure her.”

“I’ve been doing just that, but how many more Dreamless Sleep potions can I give her before she never wakes again?” He shrugged and asked once more, “Tell me, what am I supposed to do?”

She sighed lightly.

“What am I supposed to say?” he persisted. “Short of attempting to obliviate the memory from her—”

“Don't you dare!” Ginny’s eyes flashed with warning. “Don’t go messing with her mind. You know she'd never agree to it if you asked her.”

If he could just remove that one memory… he could find the best Obliviator in the world. It would take away all of her pain, wouldn't it? As he frowned her way with his silent question, Ginny busied herself adding sugar and milk to their tea.

“Just be there for her.”

“I’m not enough, Ginny. She needs a Mind Healer.”

She handed him a mug. “You know perfectly well she said she was done with them.”

“Then she needs her muggle head Healer.”

Ginny sighed, lighter this time, and he read that one as agreement. She tested a sip of her tea, then glanced out the rainy window.

“I didn't do this, Ginny,” he said quietly. He’d been meaning to say it for days now. “Put her back in this place,” he added.

"I know, Draco.” She offered a sad smile. “I know it's not your fault."

***

Draco was collecting a travelling cloak from his manor wardrobe when he heard the familiar rap of heels. But the scent that soon arrived was honey-sweet, not floral.

“What in Salazar’s name do you think you’re doing?”

He turned with his cloak fisted. “Pansy, I don't mind you arriving unannounced, but would prefer it not in my bedroom.”

She was in a sleek black dress to her knee, pointed heels and a pointed look. “This is important.”

“If this is about Flint, I don't want to hear it.”

“Fuck Flint!”

Draco shoved out an irritated breath.

Pansy perched her fists on her hips. “Don't you dare do anything to jeopardise this.”

“Jeopardise what exactly?”

“Your freedom!” Her voice was a sharp crack.

He gave a brisk shake of his head. Why had he been so naïve in thinking she wouldn’t weasel this information from Nott and Zabini? This was exactly the reason he hadn’t sought her help.

“I don't want you going back to Azkaban, and I don't want you ruining what you have with Hermione because you can't restrain your emotions,” she carried on. “Put it away. Put it somewhere deep in your mind and forget about it. It's best for the both of you if you just get on with life.”

“She can’t just get on with life, Pansy.”

And neither could Draco.

***

It was midnight when he found him.

Moonlight glinted on the wet cobblestones when Flint arrived at an Apparition point, metres away from The Obsidian Club. He was pathetically easy to restrain. Silenced, stunned and strapped in seconds. Moments later, Draco dropped him roughly onto the dirtied flagstone floor of his manor dungeon, uncaring for the way his head smacked the surface. He then took a meandering lap of the grimed space, noticing how his heartbeat was in time with his steps. His rage had relaxed. It was now vengeance, stealthy and sly, and he was ready to strike with viperous precision.

At one point in time, this place held racks of Burgundy wines and far more grime up the curved walls. Now, it just held an archaic scent. Dust and disuse. Draco drank in the cool night as he journeyed in and out of the shadowed perimeter, enjoying the cold press of air against his face and forearms. He returned to the stunned Flint to send a fist to his cheek once or twice, then he conjured himself a wingback chair and seated with one leg loosely crossed atop the other, his hand and wand dangling over the arm.

This was a wizard Malfoy once admired. At Hogwarts, a man who was just that—a man—while Draco was still a boy. Flint showed him the way as captain of the Quidditch team. He was openly defiant of the professors in a manner that seemingly gave Draco permission, then after school, Flint was the first to undertake the life experiences expected of Purebloods. Draco was at his wedding and he celebrated with him when his first child was born; but now he felt detached from those moments and memories. They were insignificant. They were replaced by imaginings of Flint’s hands around Granger’s slender wrists, his fingers digging into her thighs, his—

Draco was overcome with heat. His nausea churned.

He could have made this extremely easy for himself, but would that leave him satisfied?

“Rennervate.”

Flint revived in the oafish manner he expected, sitting up, registering Draco, then inching back until he met the wall. He tapped his palms against his trouser pockets then fished in his robes, his eyes sliding up to meet Draco’s as he finally came to the realisation.

“Were you looking for this?” Draco tossed Flint’s blackthorn onto the floor, now in two distinct pieces. It made a sharp clatter that met the far ends of the room.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?”

Flint was suddenly on his feet. Draco mirrored his stance, vanishing the chair as he went. His pulse perked. Flint’s naivety was thin and it irked Draco enough that he gripped his wand tighter and readied a spell on his tongue. Flint knew why they were here. He knew what was happening—he’d seen the two of them together at the engagement party. Everyone had seen them at the party.

Suddenly, awareness settled over Flint’s features. Then defiance.

“I’ve been considering for many days and nights what I would say to you,” said Draco.

Flint curved his mouth into a sneer. “You were always good with the words.”

Draco made a vaguely uninterested sound.

“Come on.” Flint’s voice had an edge of panic now. “You actually care about that Mudblood?”

Draco’s eyes flashed with his renewed ire. “See, we both already know the answer to that question…” He smiled ironically, a slow curling smile as he registered the near imperceptible drop at the corner of Flint’s mouth. The feathering of the muscle at his jaw.

Flint spun in place as though he had Destination, Determination and Deliberation in mind. His eyes pulsed wider for a beat when he realised his failure. Realised Draco was still standing before him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t change the wards?”

A lick of fire shot out the end of Draco’s wand.

Flint winced. He stumbled backwards, his heel knocking into the wall. “What are you doing?”

He lifted a shoulder dismissively. “Practising my Fiendfyre.”

Flint attempted a furtive glance around the space before his eyes landed back on Draco. “Come off it. If you wanted to kill me, you could have done it already.”

The finger of Fiendfyre weaved through the air, pointing towards Flint. He blanched, pressing back against the stone.

“I could have done,” said Draco evenly, “but I wanted you to leave this life with the knowledge that the Mudblood—” The word felt rancid on his tongue— “Hermione Granger, was your downfall.”

Flint’s nostrils flared. His chest rose and fell dramatically as his eyes flung past Draco’s shoulder to the only way out.

Then he took his chance.

Flint ran. The Fiendfyre disappeared from Draco’s wand. He turned to watch him stumble as he met the first step, then blunder up the rest.

As his black robes whipped around the corner and out of view, Draco followed without urgency. He stalked after the pathetic panting show as Flint sped through the empty drawing room into the entrance hall and between the bare green walls. The lamp light flickered as Flint appeared to second guess himself, stopping to twist and dart away from the entrance. The heels of Draco's Oxfords clipped sharply on the tiles, a steady drum as he followed past the staircase and in the wake of Flint lurching towards the open back doors.

The chilly dusk met Draco head on. His breaths spun white through the air, but he couldn't feel the force of the cold, his body too heated with his carefully bottled rage. Draco paused where the stone steps at the back of the manor ended. He didn't fancy soiling his shoes.

Flint waded into the fog, where it hovered above the expanse of mud, and Draco waited patiently for his realisation.

A couple of yards ahead, Flint stopped. He whirled around, chest heaving with breaths, and the whites of his eyes growing as he caught the view beyond Draco.

The top floors of Malfoy Manor were nothing but hollow frames and holes earmarked for windows. Incomplete columns of stone at the corners. Entirely no roof. The half-finished manor of Armand Malfoy, an ancestor some centuries past.

Did Flint realise he was in another time? Second guess his reality? Draco relished the thought.

The jut of Fiendfyre from Draco’s wand was quick and precise. A tongue of fire that latched onto Flint, flaming around his whole being and folding him to the knee.

Draco turned and walked back into the half-made manor.

When the screams stopped abruptly, he again heard his heels clipping sharply on the new tiles, and when the orange glow behind him no longer sliced into the shadows ahead, he flicked the switches of the Time-Turner, leaving the ashes of Flint ten centuries behind.

***

Draco had assumed time was complex and fragile. He’d thought something small—stealing a hat from nineteen-eighty—would have the ability to drastically alter the future. But when they returned to find their own time unharmed, he knew killing Flint before he'd been born wouldn’t tear the fabric of time.

Draco returned to the twenty-first century and found Granger exactly where he’d left her, small and destroyed, wrapped in a mess of sheets. As he watched her with his focused breaths, he realised this was the way it had always meant to be.

He’d never before believed in fate. Fated futures were cruel. He liked to think humans had choices, even if he’d been deprived of the larger ones in life. He liked to think his decision to have lunch at one instead of twelve was his. But it was all planned. All written for him. For them. Granger was always meant to be here in this way, wrestling with her memories.

Draco fingered the shape of the Time-Turner beneath his robes, teasing the thought of finding an answer in the future. How were they supposed to emerge at the other side of this? When?

He sighed.

While ridding the world of Flint hadn’t fixed Granger’s issues, at the very least it had dampened his rage, but it meant his desperation was at the forefront. He wanted her back again. He missed her smile, and the thought of again hearing her laughter felt like a fantasy.

From that day, Draco’s sole focus became Granger. He abandoned work entirely and gave Potter and Ginny respite from their days and nights spent in the small flat. At first, he tried to give her more routine. She now ate once a day—nibbling the corner of a cracker or jaffa cake like a mouse—and it was better than nothing. But then she returned to her sleep, and as he tapered down the doses and frequency of potions, he realised it was rarely sleep at all.

One afternoon, he noticed her eyes weren't closed the whole way and he felt compelled to hold a palm to her chest to measure her breathing. Instead, he laid behind and wrapped his arms around her and she didn't start. Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.

Draco circled a finger around her ear to hook away a limp curl. “Hermione?”

He didn't realise she was capable of this.

“Hermione,” he repeated, louder this time.

Her breaths were shallow and her expression at ease. Was this what he had looked like when he’d done the same? Occluding was the reason he made it through his house arrest, and simultaneously the reason he very nearly didn't. It had allowed him to avoid how the trial and his father and the scrutiny felt sharp and unrelenting. It dulled the pain. But this was exactly what became of him—dulled. Wasting away and wishing the same for time.

“I’m sure it feels safer in there,” began Draco, “but you can’t live this way. You’ll lose everything that makes you you.”

Draco swept a thumb down her cheek. He couldn't let her do this any longer.

“Legilimens,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Time wore on in its misshapen way.

Occasionally, Hermione knew Harry was there from the dip in the bed. She knew Malfoy was there from the heat against her back. Knew Ginny was there from the occasional gentle touch down her arm and then, once or twice, small James-sized hands on her face.

When she wasn't in a dreamless sleep or distracted by other company who spoke as though she was listening, she noticed the darkness at the backs of her eyelids. It was the perfect place to relive memories against her will. Memories she thought were irretrievable had been purled back together in a malformed way.

Hermione recalled that night: how she had spotted Flint at the bar, and with one shot of vodka in her system, went to ask him why he was in a muggle club. That interaction was her fault. It was all her fault, wasn’t it? It must have been.

The shame was unwieldy, both then and now. Naively, she had thought she could fix the feeling, deciding who she slept with and when—deciding over and over again—deciding it was the right thing to do, deciding the way her body was used. She was a clever witch. How could she be so naive?

Hermione recalled that night: how she had worn a jean skirt. Her third drink was sambuca.

Sometimes, she thought she had convinced herself she was fine. She could abandon the bed and return to work and life as though nothing had happened. She was fine. Fine. Fine, because she was alive and taking breaths despite the fact they were shallow and felt like a slow suffocation. Fine, even though her heart felt like it was consistently at the crescendo of a song and there was no indication of when it might fall.

Fine.

Hermione recalled that night: how the scent of his cologne had infiltrated her nostrils as his weight held her down. She felt like she was suffocating then. She was suffocating now.

How had she become so selfish? So pathetic. How could she lay here day after day when the world was burning? Metaphorically, literally. Whatever. There were bigger concerns in life than her own sad trauma. How selfish was she?

Hermione recalled that night: the heaviness of her limbs.

It had been a lifetime of promising herself she would be happier if she accomplished this to then get there and achieve that, ignoring how her drive to achieve helped her hide. It was tiring. She was so tired, and yet sleep didn’t seem to help. All she knew was that if she closed her eyes, the suffocation lessened. But what was she to do when the sleep and potions no longer seemed to work? She wanted to be numb.

Hermione recalled that night… how there was still a gap in her memory.

She needed to be numb.

Hermione made countless attempts to occlude the memory—put it in a square box that sat bright white in the darkest reaches of her mind. She placed it inside gently, but it reappeared. She dropped it in, but it sprung up again. Then she stuffed it down deep with a litany of curses and it reappeared directly behind her, flaunting its permanence.

Maybe there was another way?

Before she tried, she attempted to recall what it was like to feel happiness. Could she feel it now if she simply tried? In her mind, happiness glistened gold and caused a quickening in her chest. It warmed her fingertips as she reached out, but faded quickly into the shadows before she grasped for it. It was so long departed now. So very far away.

Her joy.

Her.

Hermione concentrated. She imagined herself climbing into the box, and it magically expanded as she went. She’d rid of both herself and the memory. Within the four white walls, she sat on the ground with her knees drawn in and finally found some semblance of peace.

In here, she couldn’t feel at all.

***

A tender touch swiped across Hermione’s temple. She knew it was Malfoy. He was sturdy and warm against her back. The scent of him was so comforting, but the thought of him was so uncomfortable. Hermione felt such a stinging shame, and being looked upon like she was broken and damaged beyond repair would only drive the pain deeper. She was undeserving of his attention and love, undeserving of a shared life.

But even within the hidden space created in her mind, he was too difficult to ignore. His spell arrived calmly. Gently, gently. It brushed into her mind with a curious stretch around the space, inciting a shiver. Both inside and out of her mind, Hermione squeezed her arms around her legs and laid her cheek to her knees.

Outside of the box, she felt a finger smooth along her hairline, down around the shell of her ear with a soothing repetition.

“I’m sure it feels safer in there, but you can’t live this way. You’ll lose everything that makes you you.”

She felt a spear in her chest.

“There's good to feel too, remember? I don't want you to shut it all away.”

Good? She couldn't recall.

Hermione still felt the urge to vanish entirely so that she was deprived of every memory.

But as Malfoy continued to speak softly and reassuringly, that urge retracted a touch. She couldn't ignore him. He persisted with her, and she loved that. Why did he bother? She couldn't understand.

Hermione allowed her senses to sharpen and immediately felt overcome. She squeezed her eyes tighter to steel herself.

No, she needed to stay. There was no good to come from feeling anything.

“Hermione?”

Inside of the box, Hermione peered up at the surrounding white. There was the same gentle sensation—a sweep around her mind—and she was much too tired to fend it away.

“Have I mentioned before how much I admire your strength?” asked Malfoy. “Even at school, I saw you as strong in every sense of the word. Of course, I despised it back then, but only because I was jealous. You were always so capable.”

The urge to exist unfeeling in oblivion slipped a whit.

“You are capable,” he said. “And while it might not feel like that now, I can be your strength until it does.”

Hermione breathed deeper than she had done in some time, feeling the stretch of her lungs and the burn of an emotion. Perhaps, just maybe, it was a pleasant one.

But it wasn't all like that.

The unpleasant emotions were piercing. A new jab stalled her deeper inhale.

“Hermione?”

But maybe the pleasant could again outweigh the bad? The infiltration in her mind was warm and reassuring… loving, even. It made her feel as though anything was possible.

The walls of the box in her mind fell away like a flimsy diorama. Surrounded by inky black, Hermione stood alone.

Another caress swirled around her mind. She spun with it, trying to chase the feeling.

It happened slowly at first—Hermione registering the soft press of the pillow against her head—and then all at once: the tears on her cheeks, the spiking of her shallow breaths and the suffocating reality. She turned and viewed past her shoulder.

“I’m glad I found you in there,” whispered Malfoy.

***

Hermione turned in towards Malfoy to nestle her head beneath his chin. His arms swiftly wrapped around her and his pulse drummed against her ear, then softly, he sighed her name into her hair. He pulled away a measure, and she could feel how he watched her intently. It felt like a great deal of time and effort before Hermione shifted her eyes to his. She hadn't been able to link their gazes for long lately, fearing what she might see, but now, as she met his eyes, he had a softness about him she had rarely witnessed. Then, in the silver, the same strength he had promised. A promise that he would help ferry her through these feelings.

“You had me worried, Granger. I didn't realise you could do that.”

Hermione breathed in a shaky breath, past the bristling feeling.

“You learnt from Potter?”

She nodded and it felt such an effort.

“But also books? Because he's not the best Occlumens.”

She nodded shorter this time, and although she knew she’d normally smirk at his jibe, she couldn't find the energy.

Malfoy's arms retracted and he moved as though he had another destination in mind, but Hermione scrunched at his shirt and stopped him short. Grabbed at him like he was the singular thing stopping her from slipping to the beyond, and then buried her face in his neck. He smoothed his touch back around her waist and held her as long as she needed. As long as it took for the real world to steady again: the warm solid press of arms, the scent of well-worn pillowcases and Malfoy, the dulled yet persistent aches in her chest and stiff limbs.

Eventually, she let him slip away. She pulled her knees to her chest to hold herself tight, then heard water running in the next room. Soon, Malfoy was scooping her weight into his arms and drawing her against his chest. In the bathroom, he gently placed her into the filling tub and vanished her days-old shirt and underwear. With warmth hugging her skin up to her belly button, Hermione folded inward and rested her head against her knees, turning to view Malfoy as he rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Everything felt like such a feat. The slight movement of her arms, keeping her tears moored, even her breathing.

As Malfoy finished fastening his second cuff, he showed her a small, fleeting smile, then crouched beside the tub. His wandless magic simultaneously tipped a jot of lavender beneath the stream of water.

She didn't deserve him.

Hermione pulsed with a fresh ache. She breathed deep and then huffed it out in an effort to diminish the pain. She much preferred when she was unfeeling.

“I'm broken,” she said barely above a whisper, attempting to keep the quiver from her voice.

Hermione witnessed his silent disapproval. If she were a little less pathetic, she knew he would come out with something frank or sarcastic, but instead, the greys of his eyes tried to press his truth upon her.

“Broken,” he repeated, then shook his head. He dropped his gaze and then appeared to need a steadying breath before seating his eyes in hers again. “I haven't yet told you—because I was ashamed of it—but I'd planned to end it all during my house arrest.”

Hermione lifted her head a little, suddenly feeling robbed of her breath.

“Before that, I was occluding, ready to starve to death if it meant not having to face the reality of what my life had become.”

For once, Hermione’s heart felt squeezed with an ache that wasn't for her own pathetic self.

“But after my mother failed, it was my friends that reached me—Zabini is the most skilled Legilimens of the three. Pansy found me a Mind Healer. Nott brewed Dreamless Sleep and it saw me through the difficult nights. All that is to say, we're all broken, Granger.” Malfoy conjured a cloth. “Perhaps it's selfish of me, but I want you to heal. We can do it together.”

The stream of water stopped, now halfway up her breasts.

Hermione whispered, “Why didn't you…”

Malfoy averted his gaze and his mouth twisted down at the end. “Friend intervention, mother's guilt, and…” He dipped the cloth into the water behind Hermione, spoiling any chance for silence, then finally made their eyes meet. “And Preston, actually.”

Hermione’s brows ticked up.

“My mother contacted many people, trying to find any and all reason for me to go on. He seemed to think I had all the qualities required of an Auror and convinced me that my skills were highly sought after, despite the fact the role was a condition of my trial.” He smirked. “Maybe I was just gullible, but it gave me some hope.”

“Well,” began Hermione, her voice thick from disuse, “he was correct, wasn’t he?”

Malfoy smiled sedately before rolling his lips in with what seemed like an admission. He shifted a little so that he was out of view and Hermione felt the wetted cloth down her shoulders and then back, moving over the ruts of her ribs.

“You shouldn't need to do this.”

“I want to,” he said without a beat.

What was wrong with her? Her tears had restarted as guilt added a fresh layer to her pain. She didn't deserve him. She had lost count somewhere along the way, but she knew Malfoy’s intended wedding date was fast approaching. It was a reminder of how different his life could be. How it should be.

Hermione was guilt upon guilt. For surviving the war when others didn't. For being the reason her mother now kept her at arm's length. For this.

“You should leave,” she choked out as he poured water over her hair and made her curls flat and heavy. “Life with Astoria would be easier than this.”

She felt his movements stall, but it was transient. Soon, there was floral scented shampoo in her hair and Malfoy’s fingers working against her scalp in a touch that was so oddly intimate that Hermione’s tears renewed and she let out a small sob.

Hermione was grief upon grief. For the relationship she had with her body before its violation and self inflicted abuse. For life before the fear of running into her faceless and nameless assailant again. For her relationship with Malfoy before all of this.

“I won't leave you, Hermione,” said Malfoy, breaking her away from her spiraling thoughts. Her hair was now washed and rinsed, the suds milling around her chest in the bathwater.

Malfoy was squarely in her view, thumbing at her chin, gently guiding it until her eyes were on his.

“I can’t leave you.” His voice was calm and matter of fact, and lips angling for a smile. “I think you're written on my soul.”

Her eyes became hot with fresh tears. He wasn't looking at her like she expected, like she was broken. Unlike everything else in life holding a disorienting haze, it wasn’t an effort to see him—how much he loved her. He showed her a look imbued with such affection that she needed to hide. Hermione dipped her forehead to her knees and expelled another sob.

Malfoy let her be her pitiful self, offering an affectionate trail of his fingers here and whispering a reassuring “Hermione” there.

When she was standing on the bathmat wrapped with a towel drawn over her shoulders, he said, “You have a therapy session tomorrow.”

Hermione shook her head stiffly.

“That wasn't a request.”

She felt her hackles spike through the fatigue. “You're commanding me?”

His eyes flashed a warning, but his voice was a gentle caress. “Nudging you—lovingly.”

Hermione cast her eyes down.

“It'll be good, Granger, you'll see.”

Good? She felt ill at the thought.

“And you'll eat the food I prepared for you. You've eaten the equivalent of a piece of toast this past week.”

Hermione flicked her eyes up to him.

“That one's a command.”

That evening, Hermione obliged and ate half an omelette she suspected his house-elf had cooked and delivered, but she was too fatigued to ask. The chives and cheese were an assault on her tongue.

As they sat together on her sofa, she truly considered occluding again. Being awake held an undercurrent of anxiety. A worry for just existing. A waiting for the unpleasant feelings to arrive and then a realisation that the unpleasant feeling was always there because of her waiting.

Malfoy observed her. Sometimes inconspicuously, sometimes overtly. She always knew when.

They were both in bed by ten, facing each other in a room lit by the faint glow of the light in the kitchen. Malfoy's assessing eyes darted between hers with ruinous amounts of affection. How could he love her when she was like this? She felt undeserving. And yet she also felt like she should say something, assure him in the same way he had done her… but this felt like the wrong time to say those three words.

Instead, Hermione captured his mouth with hers, attempting to instill in that one kiss how much this all meant to her. How much he meant. His lips parted for her tongue to sweep his. His hand on her waist travelled down along the bare skin of her thigh, bringing with it a remembrance of how she would break apart beneath his touch. The beautiful form of breaking—sweat-inducing, muscle-clenching, toe-curling. He had always felt so different compared to all the others. He had a pull she couldn't ignore.

Something inside Hermione ignited, then. Something sure and intoxicating enough to drive away the unpleasant feelings.

Instead of searching, Malfoy’s touch stayed on her thigh. But Hermione wanted to feel him closer. Her hand worked down the ridges of muscle in his chest, skirting down and down as she pressed her lips to his throat and nipped at his warm, clean-scented skin.

When her hand moved to his pants and she felt the half-hard line of him, he whispered, “You don't have to do that.”

As if that weren't enough to rattle her, his hand moved to her wrist and stifled her movement.

The rejection felt like a flaying. Hermione flipped onto her back with a fresh gnawing pain.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don't mean to hurt you.”

“Reject me,” she muttered.

“I'm sorry.” His stare bored into her cheek.

“Do you think of me differently?” she asked towards the ceiling.

“I promise you, I don't think of you any differently.” He reached out and grasped at her hand, but she pulled it away. He took a moment then gave a gentle sigh. “But I understand your pattern, and I don't want to encourage your old way of thinking.”

Hermione conjured the thought of that bright box in her dark mind. Why was she doing this to herself? She didn't need this pain. She could shut herself away, couldn't she?

“Hermione.”

He tried to take her hand again, but she rolled over to hold herself tight and let the tears fall from the corner of her eyes. She fell asleep to the nasty voice in her head that hissed with horrible repetition how she was unloved and unlovable, then awoke convinced Malfoy no longer cared for her in the way he once did.

But mid-morning, she studied him as he bent to thread one of her feet through her underwear, then the other. He fastened her bra and then left a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck that caused a small curve of her lips. He helped her dress in jeans and a t-shirt, then she watched in the mirror as he tried to wrangle a brush through her curls.

“Something amusing you?” he asked, catching her fond eyes in the reflection.

“There's a spell that might save you some time.”

He smiled softly—tentatively. “I'll leave you to it then. Meet me outside.”

A man who didn't love her wouldn't do this. A man who thought differently of her wouldn't leave a selection of books on her nightstand in case she spontaneously decided to read, or music playing to fill the silence when she was left alone. Nor would he source strawberries for her breakfast in case she decided to eat, or sort her work mail by urgency in case she decided to return. He wouldn't be here at all.

As Hermione existed in a daze considering how what they were doing now felt very firmly in the region of a committed relationship, she registered his words far too late. “Outside?” she repeated, but he was already long gone.

Weren’t they going to Apparate? Hermione stepped outside her flat for the first time in over a week, and was highly offended by the fact the sky was clear and the weather shaping up to be beautiful. She hated it all. The milling people making their way to work, the fresh air and coo of pigeons naive to her pain. It all felt wrong.

As Hermione stood at the side of the road with her arms wrapped around her waist, wondering how on earth she had lost track of Malfoy, a car arrived beside her. A sleek silver sports car. She wasn't all too familiar with any form of vehicle past the old Ford Fiesta kept at her mum's, but she knew this one was both vintage and extremely dear.

When the engine switched off and Malfoy emerged from the small vehicle, Hermione's mouth parted with surprise. She stared at him with an unbecoming expression as he walked around to open the passenger door.

“Hop in then,” he said, satisfaction plain.

“There is entirely no way that you can drive a car—that you'll drive us through London.”

“I will be, as soon as you get in.” He gave her a little nudge and Hermione automatically folded herself into the low space.

Then as Malfoy reclaimed the driver's seat, her eyes flared open at realising it was manual drive. “You're seriously telling me you can drive this?”

He flicked the key, igniting the engine, and simply smirked her way.

Despite the fact they began off with a perfectly smooth start, Hermione gripped at the belt across her lap. “How?” was all she managed to sieve out as Malfoy handled the car like a seasoned driver. There was no magic at all. Not even a wordless charm to thread through traffic or automatically shift the gears.

“What do you mean ‘how’? I learnt like everyone else.” His left hand shifted the gearstick a notch, and they picked up some speed.

How far had he delved into the muggle world? She couldn't understand; and yet, she shouldn't have been surprised. After learning he not only knew of the Internet but perused it himself, truly, anything was a possibility. What was she to learn next? He had a passport? Undertook study at a muggle university?

If he weren't taxiing her to therapy, Hermione might’ve even enjoyed this. Malfoy’s white shirtsleeves were folded to his elbows, veins in his forearms more prominent than not, and hair falling over his forehead in that carefree way. He was always gorgeous, but like this—surrounded by sleek red leather and with an easy curve on his lips—he was a preternatural form of beauty. It was all too much. Somehow, it made the reminder of his rejection last night all the more painful…

“How long have you had a car then?”

“Cars,” he corrected. “This is my second Porsche and third car. All acquired within the last nine months or so.”

Hermione shook her head to herself. “Are there any other secret muggle things you've accumulated? I feel like I ought to know.”

With his eyes on the road, he shrugged loosely and spoke through a smile. “I have an entire room dedicated to my Beanie Baby collection.”

“Really?”

“No!” he said through a laugh.

“Well, now I'm not sure what to believe.”

They were at their destination before Hermione even realised, having spent the entire ride angled towards him, her brows bent in with unrelenting belief. If he was doing this to take her mind off of things, then it had worked for a blessed moment.

In the therapist's office, the clock on the wall showed ten and the blue sofa was right where she left it. Apparently it was a Monday. She'd never had therapy on a Monday.

After Hermione took a seat, Maeve quirked the end of her mouth into something that could be construed as a smile. “Have you been sleeping?”

“All day.” She was too fatigued to keep a front. Her words were blunt and tone unenthusiastic.

“You're not attending work?”

A quick shake of her head.

“Eating regularly?”

Hermione lifted a shoulder.

“Any symptoms of anxiety?”

Hermione nodded once. Unpredictable heart palpitations and cold sweats, slippery breaths, an inclination to ignore everything outside her flat door. Small decisions were suddenly cumbersome. Second guessing the length of toothpaste on her toothbrush and spending an entire minute sifting through the few forks she owned before she could eat. And for only the second time in her life, work was the last thing on her mind, purely to make room for the negative thoughts.

Maeve tilted her head in the opposite direction, examining her in the same way she would always do. “Any thoughts of harming yourself?”

Well, she occasionally had the vague thought that it'd be easier if she weren't here, but harm herself? She couldn't imagine having enough energy to act on such thoughts. “I just want the pain to stop. That's it. The pain from the memory.”

Maeve nodded thrice. “I understand.”

Did she truly? Because she'd heard that before, and Hermione didn't need placating at this minute.

“Was there a specific incident that triggered this episode?”

Hermione nodded as she considered her lap.

Maeve emitted a thoughtful hum. “I know this is a confronting question, but I wonder if you feel you're at a stage where we can discuss what happened to you that night. It would better help me in assisting you.”

Hermione teased the words on her tongue. Then she opened her mouth, but they died in her throat.

“I don’t want you to feel compelled to share at this moment. However, I'd like you to think about it prior to our next session.”

She couldn't bring herself to say anything. She couldn't even lift her eyes.

“I’ve said this to you before, Hermione, but I think it bears repeating: shame thrives in silence.”

Something about her statement felt like a stab. Like an accusation. “And I certainly heard you the first time, but I didn't listen.” Finally, she looked Maeve in the eye. “I felt shame, and then useless, then powerful, then angry; and in all of those instances I felt unlike myself.”

Her last word almost caught in her throat as she felt the pressing need to weep. It felt like she'd swallowed a whole sherbet lemon. Hermione’s efforts were unsuccessful as tears leaked from her eyes and Maeve leant forward to proffer a tissue box. She took one, if only to give her reason to look elsewhere. Why was she like this? These days, the crying snuck up on her.

“I'd like us to process all of those negative emotions, Hermione.”

Hermione set her sight off somewhere in the corner, her heart suddenly thrashing in her chest. This was exactly what she was afraid of. What if she just abandoned therapy altogether?

“I'd like us to work together to ensure you feel like yourself, as you say.”

Stuff this muggle method. What had she been thinking?

Her therapist tilted her head in the opposite direction. “Could you provide me with an example of a shameful thought?”

Apparently they were delving right in, no more circling the issue.

“It was my fault,” mumbled Hermione.

Maeve nodded as she considered. “I know you're a woman who lives by logic. You may feel that it is your fault, but is there evidence to suggest it is?”

Hermione crinkled her brow. Well, of course a man penetrating her without her consent was not her fault. The thought angered her more than anything. Hermione shifted in her seat. What was it she had once said about the journey making the outcome? Well, she was ready not only for the outcome but the very end. She'd had enough.

“I wonder,” began Maeve, “what you might tell another woman who was in your position?”

Hermione hated this. Maeve's questions were unpredictable and she couldn't judge where this session was going. She craved predictability.

Hermione huffed a sigh and ground out her words. “I'd tell her it was not her fault, even if she thought speaking to the man led him on, or the length of her skirt tempted him, or the alcohol clouded her judgement.”

Maeve nodded, long and sweeping, with a serious line etched between her brows.

The silence seemed to dawdle, and then it turned into a quietude during which Hermione only heard her own words over and over again. An extended breath broke her run of shallow ones, and for a moment, it felt something like relief.

As Hermione soon discovered, the next session was not to occur in several weeks' time, as usual, but at the end of the week. She spent the car ride home wondering whether it was the way she looked half put-together, or something in particular she had said that caused Maeve to make more time during her busy schedule. Maybe it was both.

Starting her week with a therapy session planted her feet firmly in time. On Tuesday, after Malfoy left Hermione to her own devices, she discovered a new pile of papers on her countertop. Several pages printed from the internet, the first of which was titled ‘How to support a loved one after sexual trauma.’ On top was a borrowed library book about mental healing, and then a scrap of parchment with a neatly written list:

Mind Healers

Gwenyth Featherington - available August

Lionel Worth - first availability January

Cillian O'Connor - passed away February

Obliviator Smyth - declined to help

Hermione hadn’t realised her tears had run until they were dipping in towards her nose and mapping a path towards her mouth. The efforts Malfoy went to each day warmed her in a way she’d never known. It did something to chip away at all the pain.

Through her blurry vision, her eyes clung to the word Obliviator. It had never seemed necessary before—there hadn't been a whole memory to erase—but now, each day in her mind she was making a pro and con list. The fact her next therapy session was only days away and she couldn't even bring herself to vaguely consider what it may be like to recount her memory for Maeve was the first reason on the list to obliviate the memory. The irony wasn't lost on her—the very magic she might need was the same she had sworn off after receiving the brunt of her mother's post-war resentment. She despised the thought and couldn't sit with it for long.

On Wednesday, the nightmares returned. They were far less cryptic and far more terrifying than ever before. Hermione needed to charm her sheets dry to remove the sweat. The rest of the night was a fitful sleep.

On Thursday, she and Malfoy finally made love again. He cracked a corny joke about Beanie Babies and she’d finally found the energy to laugh. For several moments he was so seemingly taken aback by the occurrence that he just stared. Then he kissed her. Then deeper again. When Hermione ended up straddling him on the sofa, she said, “You understand this is different, don't you?” and he nodded as he thread his fingers into her curls before drawing her lips back to his. With her legs around his waist, he carried her to the bedroom, where the push and pull of their bodies was patient and slow, yet searing in a manner that made Hermione love even deeper than she ever thought possible.

On Friday, Hermione wanted to spend longer in bed, the dread of another therapy session causing her to coil into herself. But Malfoy ensured she arrived there on time—via Apparition, given he had to make his way to the Ministry immediately afterwards.

After Maeve’s usual line of questioning, she asked, “Have you considered what we spoke about during your last session? Reciting the memory will allow us to undertake an extremely effective form of treatment.”

Hermione shook her head, the truth coming easily for once. Too easy. She challenged herself with a lie. “I still can't recall the whole memory. It's in nonsensical pieces.”

The horrid memory was burnt onto the backs of Hermione’s eyelids: her first drink; dancing in the heated press of dozens of muggles; the second drink; seeing Flint leering through the choppy lights; third drink; fresh air, a wand pointed her way, a—

Hermione shook her head as though it might jumble and disappear the recollections.

Post-therapy, she speed-walked to the Apparition point and left the London street, appearing in the middle of her flat. Malfoy was waiting for her beside the coffee table. He slotted his hands into his trouser pockets, mouth thinning in an attempt to suppress a smile.

“Why aren’t you at work?” she asked.

“Potter wants me to get Singh up to speed with the Horcrux case, so I’m avoiding both of them.”

“He’s what?” Why was she so naïve to think the case could simply sit and wait for her?

He shrugged lightly. “Sorry, I know I’m not supposed to rush you—actually, that’s not why I’m here.”

Hermione stepped closer. “It’s not?”

“I have something for you.” He pointed towards a beautiful violet box on the recently repaired coffee table and Hermione immediately recalled the memory of the Ministry ball.

“Another dress?”

He unleashed a slanting smile. “Why don't you take a look?”

She tentatively slid the loose lid of the box, considering what she could possibly do with fine evening wear at this point in life. Instead of silk, it appeared there was nothing. Until she lifted the lid away entirely and revealed a small orange ball of fur.

Hermione gasped and it let out a squeak of a meow. It was the first time in days she had smiled and it held. It felt foreign and heavy, but she couldn’t stop. “You're gifting me a kitten?” she asked through a wet laugh.

Malfoy stepped closer. “It wasn't supposed to make you cry.”

She was doing it again—crying—and hadn’t realised. “They're good tears.”

Malfoy scooped the cat up and held it out for Hermione to take in her arms. “He's half-kneazle too.”

Hermione sniffed. The tears continued down her cheeks full force and she needed to laugh due to the ridiculousness of it. “How?” she breathed, looking into the yellow eyes of the squish-faced animal.

“Well, apparently half-kneazles aren't the easiest to find—not many intentionally bred these days. I sent enquiries to Romania and Switzerland, and after one useless trip to Estonia, found this one in New Zealand.”

Hermione tucked her chin, overcome with the need to sob, and the orange hairs tickled her cheek. She felt Malfoy’s weighted hand on her shoulder, then curving around to grip at her neck. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Hermione was grinning. It felt beautiful. “Thank you—for everything.”

“Everything?”

“For your patience and strength.” She propelled onto her toes to give him a swift peck, but he chased after her lips and deepened their kiss, the half-kneazle purring in between.

***

Hermione sat at her dressing table, sorting the scattered mix of CDs into alphabetical order, and she absolutely despised the fact. While Malfoy was getting another Auror up to speed on the Horcrux case, she was alphabetizing. The thought brought her a new mix of discomfort and indignation she felt should be aimed towards Harry, despite the fact she was the single person holding herself back from returning to work. Hermione still had an inkling that Preston intended her to see through this case. She failed to understand why, but it was hers to find out. That was, as soon as she captured a full night of sleep and stopped her breaths trampling one another at every unprovoked reminder of her trauma.

In the mirrored reflection, her snoozing kitten—now fondly named Ringo—was a dot of orange on the corner of the vast bed. Hermione hadn't known Crookshanks when he was this small, so there was nothing to compare, but she adored the way Ringo was all relentless energy, pawing at wand-made bubbles and bounding around one moment, then capable of sleeping through the end of times the next. He made her laugh, weaving an 8 around her feet while he waited for dinner, and gently pawing at her nose as she slept to demand his next meal.

The fact Malfoy seemed just as taken by the half-kneazle was a sweetness she hadn't expected. Ringo preferred sleeping in the nook of his neck overnight, and she had overheard many (one-sided) conversations, the latest of which involved the creature sitting on the countertop as Malfoy said, “You know perfectly well this is not a place for animals,” and “Don't make that face.”

Once Hermione had procrastinated enough and the CDs were arranged, she tapped the knick-knack Preston had gifted her and let the image of her father and younger self materialise, then she re-read the letter from the Magical Creatures department offering her an interview in two weeks time. She wished she could have shared this with him. Their time together had most often been comfortable silence over books with a side of tea. But other times he was a keen ear for a new ambitious strategy to earn her spot in the wizarding world.

Well, she wouldn’t be earning anything if she spent the remainder of her life in her flat. Hermione pried open her laptop and skimmed the journal articles she discovered following her last therapy session. Apparently the treatment Maeve suggested was highly effective. Of course it was. Hermione wouldn't have entertained a therapist who operated in the absence of evidence. But the therapy would take months and would require her to recall the traumatic memory. The articles used words like ‘distress’, ‘restructuring’ and ‘triggers,’ and Hermione was fatigued at the mere thought. There were other therapeutic options, of course, but she was a witch, for Merlin's sake. Why was she persevering with muggle methods? Maybe she could effectively use them to complement the magic. Or, perhaps she needn't use them at all.

Hermione just wanted to go back to the way it was before. Before all this happened. Before Flint and before she let herself get carried away.

She teased her wand at her temple, syphoning out the silver thread of the memory as if she were to put it in a pensieve. But even if she had such an apparatus, placing it in there wouldn't solve her issues.

Hermione was confident if the memory disappeared, she could move on from this. Her life would fall back into place. She stared herself down in the mirror, as if she might fold from intimidation and forget the silly idea circling in her mind.

Truthfully, she had thought about it more than once. She had assessed the pros and cons and it weighted in favour of the former. She'd had enough of thinking about it. Enough of counting down the days until Singh took over her case and until the Magical Creatures interview she had once wished for.

Hermione was stronger than this.

She breathed a deep and vaguely dizzying breath then, after a swift exhale, whispered, “Obliviate.”

Chapter Text

Hermione padded into the kitchen with a kitten following at her heels. After she placed Ringo’s breakfast down, she discovered the Daily Prophet laid open on the worktop and leant forward on her elbows to read. She glimpsed the date first. It had become a reflex, one she blamed on the guilt, and the calculations were immediate. Just over three weeks until Malfoy’s intended wedding. Hermione took in a great breath, but it did nothing for the tightness in her chest. Guilt would still occasionally stab like this, causing her to second, triple, quadruple-guess what the hell they were doing. It told her she was ruining a legacy. A pureblood legacy she shouldn't care about at all.

In her current condition, the thought of divesting a man of everything he owned down to his name was not so easy to ignore. Negative thoughts powered her mind, and the added reminder that she was ruining Malfoy’s future felt like an Engorgio for her anxiety.

Hermione suddenly battled with the urge to return to her bed for the day. She carelessly closed the Prophet, revealing a pile of opened mail beneath. Atop was such an elegant pearl parchment that reaching for it was automatic. She had the need to feel it between her fingers. It wasn’t hers; she knew as much—no one would ever owl her with this type of finery—then, as she flipped it open, she confirmed it at the sight of the graceful scrawl and cryptic message:

I’m sorry, Draco.

You understand, don’t you?

A

Hermione's breath was long and trembling as she stuffed the letter back beneath the newspaper, attempting to ignore the first A-name that came to mind while racking her brain for any other. Suddenly, her attention was taken by a photograph in The Prophet. Marcus Flint worked his mouth into a sneer. Beside was a brief article, but Hermione only read the headline, incapable of caring that a man who had always served as a bully had been missing for over a week.

“Are you ready?”

Hermione startled, holding a hand to her chest.

Malfoy had emerged from the Floo and stalked towards her in all black.

“For?” she breathed past her thrashing heartbeat.

“Therapy…” he said slowly, brows drawing in.

“Oh.” She was standing there in nothing but Malfoy’s old Slytherin Quidditch shirt, her hair in a careless bun. She hadn’t realised there was anywhere she was supposed to be today. Her head did feel woolly. “It must have slipped my mind.”

He met her in the kitchen and slid his palms around her waist. “How did you forget? You usually tie yourself in knots before each session.”

“Well,” she began, attempting to figure out how exactly she forgot, “I’m trying not to mull over therapy beforehand to help ease some anxiety.”

He nodded, but suddenly it was prolonged in a way that told her he was carefully choosing his words. “You know, if you'll just allow me to recontact the Mind Healers and mention your name, we could get you—”

“No,” she cut in, retracting a little from his hold. “I won’t use my name to cut lines. I'm not any more deserving than others.”

She could see how he contested with an urge to argue: the pull at the side of his mouth, the quick lick of his lips, the little inhale he reserved for the beginnings of sentences. He was so accustomed to wielding his weighted name. Hermione knew it was difficult for him to understand.

His grip dropped away. “Muggle therapy it is, then,” he said matter-of-factly, then he moved out of the kitchen, snatching Ringo on the way and bundling the tiny thing close to his chest. This was the sole reason Hermione’s frown dissipated quicker than planned.

“By the way, I took the Time-Turner from your nightstand.”

“What?” Her nerves jolted. “Why?”

He stroked the half-kneazle’s whole body twice over before he answered. “Because Singh and I will undertake the next mission tomorrow.”

“No.” Hermione shook her head, rushing to close the distance between them. “No, give it back.” She held out a palm.

“Granger.” It was a tone she didn't admire. Imbued with scepticism.

“I mean it!” She thrust her palm closer. “Tell Harry I'll be at work tomorrow.”

Malfoy's eyes flit between hers for such a long moment that she truly thought he was gearing up for an argument. Then with a loose sigh, he deposited Ringo into her hand and Hermione's irritability tempered all over again. After fishing in one pocket and then another, he laid the golden apparatus into her palm. Hermione clutched it tightly.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a tip of his head that she only read as doubtful.

“Yes!” Perhaps that had come out more forcefully than intended, but she was suddenly done with the mollycoddling. “I can't continue to sit here and be pathetic.”

Malfoy no longer looked at her like she was pitiful. Instead, he showed the hint of a smile. “If you say so, Granger.”

It wasn’t until she sat on her therapist’s blue sofa that Hermione questioned her decision. The thought of returning to the Ministry filled her with a little dread. What if she’d lost her every skill? What if she panicked in the middle of a packed Atrium? But what if she kept her unruly thoughts and emotions in check and excelled at her job? She felt more capable than she had in weeks.

“You appear to be in better spirits than our last session,” said Maeve, her eyes taking a leisurely peruse around Hermione’s face.

“I woke up only once last night.”

“That's promising.” She scribbled something in her notebook. “I thought for today—given you’re unable to recall the memory of your sexual trauma—that we could instead revisit and refocus on your goals, similar to our very first session.”

Hermione’s eyebrows drew together as she took a moment to search herself. Sexual trauma? She sifted through her memories, but anything remotely related was clouded and obscured, as though she was attempting to peer in through translucent glass. Well, there must have been something. She could certainly recall a feeling. She certainly remembered the depression and still experienced the enduring anxiety. There was a memory. She recalled how it had debilitated her, but she couldn’t see the specifics in her mind. Now that she thought back, she vaguely recalled sitting in front of her mirror, her wand at her temple and—

“Hermione?”

She re-focused her eyes on Maeve. “Hm?”

“Your goals.”

Hermione quickly rearranged in place to collect herself. She knew her goals well. She’d spent several days turning them over in her mind and they solidified with each new morning she woke to find Malfoy’s side of the bed cold and each afternoon, when she was in a liminal space between tired and panicky and on the verge of tears.

“I want to go back to work,” Hermione said decisively. “I want to sleep through the night, and I want to control my anxiety.”

Maeve’s eyes crinkled at the edges with her smile. “I appreciate the vigor that has returned to your voice.”

“I feel freer.” Hermione mirrored her therapist’s expression. “Like I’ve been liberated, in a way.”

“Do you feel recuperated?” For the first time, she heard hope in Maeve’s voice.

“I’d say relieved.”

Her therapist's eyes assessed her, another once over, then she smiled brighter than she’d ever done. “I’d like to tell you how much I admire your vulnerability as of late, Hermione. And your hard work and determination. You’ve made significant progress.”

Hermione stuttered in a breath, the validation unexpected but so very welcome. Warming.

“I have no doubt we will be able to achieve your new goals.”

***

Hermione’s heart set a new record as she stepped into the Auror office. But it wasn’t long before she noticed the unchanged nature of it all, the same grid of messy desks as she walked in, the overbearing scent of coffee and the thin silver sign on the door ahead that read Auror Hermione Granger. Why had she been so anxious? She had built up returning to work so very tall in her mind, and not only was there not a single thing worth her concern, but the place held a familiar comfort. She had missed her good eagle feather quills and the camaraderie of the weekly Auror meeting. After she returned the knick-knack gifted from Preston to the corner of her desk, tapped it with her wand to watch her father and younger self appear, it felt like she hadn’t left at all.

Malfoy had given her space. He’d encouraged Hermione to take her own steps as she returned to the office, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before he cropped up. As she stood by the kettle with a fresh mug of tea and mid-conversation with the new recruit, Vaughan, who she was quickly learning had a habit of getting quieter and quieter as his sentences neared their ends, a paper aeroplane missive made a beeline for her. It nudged persistently at her chest three times over before Hermione said, “Excuse me,” to a slightly sweaty looking Vaughan.

Meet me in my office, she read.

There was a rather rude drawing in the bottom corner of the parchment—extremely rude, now that she realised Malfoy had animated it for a little extra whimsy. Hermione had half a mind to ignore him. Instead, she turned the missive into ashes with her wand and entered his office with her curiosity.

Malfoy resigned his chair and came to meet her. “Close the door.”

“We’re not doing that thing in the drawing.”

He chuckled. “No, it's nothing to do with that. I have a new mission for you.”

Hermione donned an unimpressed brow. “If you're about to say on your cock, it's really not the time.”

He clicked his tongue like a disapproving old maid. “Your mind is truly in the gutter today, Granger.”

“You're the one who’s been creating pornography!”

“If I recall correctly, you're the one who started this dirty nonsense by striding in here one night.”

Hermione struggled to suppress her smirk at recalling the memory.

“I meant a mission with the Time-Turner.” He yanked out a golden chain from beneath his shirt.

Hermione’s eyes flew open. “Where did you get that?”

“I told you, I took it from your side table.”

“But—” She feverishly pulled out a Time-Turner from beneath her t-shirt. The Time-Turner. “It's here!”

“That’s a copy.”

“Malfoy!”

“Get your snippiness out of the way quickly. We're about to have some fun.” He flung the chain over her head.

“Fun? But… but wait, we’re not ready. We haven’t planned the mission, we still have no idea what we’ll find—”

Malfoy flicked the switches and her voice warbled like the radio dial had been turned back and then forth before silencing entirely.

They were suddenly shrouded in green. Shrubbery one side, dense trees the other, both sporting leaves beginning to yellow. Craning her neck, Hermione found the sky overcast and air brisk, and she had a suspicion they were still in England.

“Firstly, give me that back—” She snatched the real Time-Turner from his grasp— “and secondly, when are we?”

“I know why you enjoy hanging on to that now. I felt awfully powerful. Perhaps even a little dangerous.” His eyes glinted mischievously.

“Malfoy, you know perfectly well we can’t be using the Time-Turner willy-nilly.”

“This is not willy-nilly, Granger. I’ve put a lot of thought into this.” He belted an arm around her lower back and drew her towards a little trodden path in between the thicket.

“Will you please just tell me why we're improperly using the Time-Turner?”

As they stepped onto a paved road, Hermione suddenly experienced a sense of déjà vu. But the vague memory of a somewhat familiar thought was fleeting.

“I wanted to do something nice for you.” She heard how he spoke through a smile as they walked down the centre of a sleepy suburban road.

“You've done plenty. In fact, too much.”

“I think you’ll really like this, Granger.”

There was a sudden sincerity in his voice that caused her to meet his gaze, where she read nothing but affection. The remainder of Hermione’s irritation melted away. She could trust him. She did trust him. It didn’t matter that this time jump was not within the scope of their work, nor that she had no grasp on the particulars. Hermione would go anywhere he asked.

Malfoy’s fingers gently squeezed her hip. “Cast your mind back to nineteen eighty-two—”

“I was three. There’s not all too much to cast back to.”

“—when you lived in a quaint yellow brick house on Honeycroft—”

“Drive,” Hermione finished. She halted with the realisation, her eyes flinging between the uniform houses with brown-tiled roofs and white-framed casement windows.

How did he know about her childhood home? And why were they here? Uncaring for the answers, her curiosity too overpowering, Hermione pushed ahead.

“I lived at the very end.”

Her eyes were solely trained on a house with the tidy border of hedges and a burgundy Ford Cortina. Then her breath caught as the person at front became clearer. He had a full head of hair then. It was silly, but it made her grin. A full head of hair meant he was younger, and younger meant he was still alive and well.

Hermione was stop-start as she walked, every new footstep sending her heartbeats into a squall. He was right there. Her father, only a dozen feet away. She halted, breath hitching all over again as her three-year-old self toddled along the driveway in a red and yellow ride-in car.

“Well done, Hermione,” she heard her father say, following along beside with a cautious, outstretched hand.

As the older Hermione took another two steps, the cool trickling sensation of Malfoy’s Disillusionment charm encompassed her, and she was reminded that, not only was she forbidden to interact with her father and past self, but she definitely couldn’t be seen.

Hermione warmed. Her heart. Her eyes. Warmed with grief and love and longing. How lucky was she? How many people had the means to leap back in time to see a departed loved one? When her father crouched down and swept an affectionate hand from her short cropped curls to her apple chin, Hermione's throat ached. She fended off her tears, then realised there was no need to hide. No one could see her, could they?

She sniffed. Malfoy's heat was suddenly at her back.

“This was my birthday,” she whispered to avoid the tremble in her voice. “I used that little ride-on toy for years, until I could no longer cram my legs inside, then would perch my feet on the front and read a book. Oh…” She felt a spear in her chest at the new sight. “There’s Mum. They both look so young.”

Her mother had ventured outside with a camera. “Look at me, dear. Hermione! Look at me,” she said at least twice over.

It was all rather idyllic—the beginning of things. Beginning of her life and her parents' marriage, and long before magic made her world topsy-turvy. Before her father’s illness and mother’s resentment and patchy memory. Before her mistakes and the self-blame. In her mind, Hermione walked through all the memorable moments in life, realising the path from there to here was meandering, oftentimes difficult and trying, but still so very worth it. Worth experiencing every unforgiving feeling along the way, but also the special and sensational, right down to the love she felt for Malfoy in this moment.

For a length, Hermione watched the simple interaction, cheeks damp and eyes still brimming with unshed tears. She marvelled at her earlier innocence. Felt the urge to tell herself that everything would be fine in the end because she found a way to stave off the suffocation and finally met the other side of the crescendo of the song.

She spun around and Malfoy’s arms readily captured her. He rested his cheek against her head.

“I thought it might help comfort you in some way.”

Hermione remained silent, wary of how her voice would sound thin.

“But perhaps it's bittersweet.”

She inhaled deeply and pushed out an exhale on parted lips.

“Or perhaps it was a silly idea,” he wondered aloud, her silence evidently feeding him in the wrong way.

“It's perfect.” Her voice came out in a raspy whisper.

He doled a kiss to her temple and caused fresh tears to fall. Lately, she’d realised how he read her like no one else had ever done. He knew what she needed. Knew before she even understood as much herself. Seeing her family like this soothed her in a way she hadn’t expected, and she could have stayed here forever. The beautiful before.

“Ready?” he eventually asked.

The press of tears stoppered her words, so she captured his hand in hers and led him on their walk to where they had first materialised.

Once again between the thickets no longer Disillusioned, Malfoy checked his watch while Hermione stared off vaguely. It was bitter sweet. Beautiful in a way that simultaneously warmed her heart and wrung out her breath. What she would give for just one more afternoon spent with her father. One more hug.

“Hey,” said Malfoy, with a soft nudge beneath her chin. He captured her eyes in his slate grey, full of worry. “Are you alright?”

Hermione nodded faintly. “Thank you for this.”

He swiped a thumb across her damp cheek, then left such a delicate kiss to her lips that she was robbed of breath all over again.

But the sweet moment was interrupted when Hermione felt constriction around her legs—Malfoy’s wand making adjustments to her trousers, morphing them into tight blue jeans.

She angled away. “What—what are you doing?”

“We need to look less like we're attending to business,” he said, turning her shirt into something short-sleeved and with a faded logo she couldn't read upside down.

“Why?”

“The next mission.”

“But that’s in the nineties… these aren't nearly baggy enough.”

He finished fashioning a similar outfit for himself with an added leather jacket before he replied, a devilish smirk in place. “That’s because we're not going to the nineties, Granger. This mission is solely for fun.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut. Maybe she’d hold her tongue for once. After all, she’d been practicing her ability to let go, to not always take control and attempt to predict the outcome, plus this irresponsible use of the Time-Turner had been pleasantly surprising. Enough so that she placed the golden apparatus into Malfoy’s hand and they traded twin smiles.

This time they were Disillusioned as they travelled time and place.

The press of frenetic sound was immediate. A tremble of bass in Hermione’s chest, a tingling rush along her bare arms, and the roar of a nearby audience that seated itself in her bones.

They had appeared in a wide, dark corridor and hurriedly shed their camouflage when they discovered they were alone. Malfoy towed Hermione towards the bright lights and electric feeling and they emerged in an arena with a sea of people.

Hermione shook her head as she realised where they stood. She knew they’d end here one day. But it wasn’t the band she expected.

As they linked their gazes, Malfoy asked, “What?” through a guilty smile and Hermione shared in the same look. The fact they shouldn’t have been using the Time-Turner this way only added to the thrill.

While the audience all drove forward to be as close to the stage as possible, Hermione and Malfoy took a pocket of space at the back. The crowd screamed and shrieked as the band started another song and, with his arm threaded around her waist, Malfoy’s mouth found her ear.

“What do you think?”

“I can't believe it.” She couldn't stop grinning. “When are we?”

“Nineteen eighty. The Tusk Tour.”

The experience was unlike anything Hermione could brew or charm. It was nostalgia and delirium, and it wrenched her mouth into what felt like a permanent smile. It felt like early Sunday morning as a small child. Waking to the mumble of her father’s Fleetwood Mac record, the scent of coffee and a fry-up slipping beneath the threshold of her door. It felt like the beautiful before.

It felt like, in the end, everything would be fine.

Malfoy had made this day all about her, and although Hermione kept a grin as she watched the stage, tears crowded her eyes. When Fleetwood Mac sang, “Yesterday's gone,” he leant down and whispered, “If only they knew, Granger,” and when they played Dreams, he took her hand and spun her out before reeling her back into his hold. They spent the song dancing slow and close as though they weren't sharing the night with another ten thousand souls. By the end of the show, her cheeks ached from her unending smiles and laughter.

Afterwards, they darted through the dark London streets beneath the rumble of thunder and threat of rain. They kissed in the red glow of the oversized Coca Cola sign in Piccadilly Circus, then as the downpour began, ended in a pub surrounded by men and women with mohawks, safety pins on their shirts, and bulky leather jackets and lace-up boots. After Malfoy—three beers down—won a game of darts and enthusiastically announced to the pub he'd accept any form of challenge, Hermione hurriedly dragged him to another.

The second pub was all oak wood panelling and old men on barstools, and a steady stream of music Malfoy dubbed “brilliant.” They sampled every sickly sweet cocktail on the faded bar menu to the sound of Blue Oyster Cult and Kansas, their conversations becoming increasingly nonsensical and topics disjointed as time went on. It had been weeks since Hermione had laughed like this.

“Do you think we know everything there is to know about each other?” asked Hermione.

Malfoy let out a deep belly laugh.

“No need to laugh quite so hard.”

“Sorry,” he said with a broad grin. “Not nearly. But that’s a good thing, Granger.”

All of a sudden, she felt the need to hurriedly rectify this lack of knowledge. “Your hidden talent?” she shot.

He showed her a suspicious sidelong glance. “What’s yours?”

Hermione poked out her rolled up tongue.

He chuckled. “That’s not too much of a talent, Granger.”

“What’s yours then?”

He turned on his stool, revealing a heart-fluttering smirk. “I can’t show you here or we’ll get thrown out for public indecency.”

Hermione turned, her knees knocking into his. “Well that’s not fair. Now I want to know even more.”

“Patience.” He thumbed at her chin before turning back to the bar.

“Then you can at least tell me your greatest fear—your real one.”

She watched as the upturned side of his mouth drooped.

“Never being enough,” he rushed out, then took in a mouthful of his beer.

“For who?”

“Everyone. I worry I’ll never meet the expectations placed upon me.”

Hermione slid a palm along the broad span of his shoulders and nestled in closer to place a kiss on his cheek, soon feeling the pull of his muscles as his smile reappeared. “You’ll always be enough for me,” she whispered.

He wasted no time in turning and making their mouths meet.

“Actually,” he began, “I take back what I said. I know plenty about the incomparable Golden Girl. I think it’s you who needs to study more.”

He was correct. She had no clue he could drive a car until only the other day. “That’s not fair! You’re all mysterious and elusive and I have at least three unauthorised biographies written about me!”

As Malfoy chuckled, the barstool beside him was taken by an older man who declared in his East End accent that he liked Malfoy’s AC/DC t-shirt. Apparently this was more than enough to befriend the stranger.

“What do you know of the stock market?” asked Malfoy.

“Absolutely nothin’, mate”

He nodded deeply, as if this exact response was expected. “In December you should buy something called Apple—”

“Malfoy!”

“What? He seems like a perfectly lovely muggle.”

Hermione yanked him away, inconspicuously obliviating the stranger as she went. She despised using that spell. She certainly shouldn't have been wielding it drunk.

“Naughty,” she hissed. “I should take away your Time-Turner.”

He drew Hermione in closer with his fingers digging into the flesh of her bum. Unable to keep their hands off each other, they emerged from the pub into a street quieter than when they'd last seen it, incapable of walking more than five steps before snogging against a deserted shopfront or telephone kiosk. They found their way to a park where they walked hand in hand beneath a starless sky and along stretching shadows.

“Thank you for this,” said Hermione, concentrating on her footsteps. “It's been so fun. Therapeutic, in fact.”

“I'm glad you think so, because we're quickly encroaching on the five-hour limit.”

Hermione turned in to face Malfoy with imploring eyes. “Just one more drink and two more dances.”

He held her waist. “What do you think the rest of the world will say if we shatter the space-time continuum because Hermione Granger needed to booze and boogie one more time?”

“Did you just—” Her shoulders shook with her laughter. It bristled in her chest, wanting to burst out, but she clamped it down to ask her question. “Did you just say boogie?”

“For the first and last time, Granger.”

It was mid-fit of giggles that Malfoy led her to the dark shadows beneath a tree, where they set off back to their time.

Hermione, shielding her eyes from the sudden daylight, nearly keeled sideways as her feet met a slightly softer ground. Malfoy gripped her by the arm just in time, but somehow she still felt like she was moving. “I don't think we're supposed to be using this thing drunk.”

“I hate to say it, but I think you’re right.”

Through squinted eyes, she viewed Malfoy handing her a vial. “No—wait, take this.” He exchanged it for a larger dose of sober-up potion.

“But I'm quite enjoying this buzz.” She had one eye fully open now and could see they'd arrived in the middle of her flat.

“I have one more surprise for you and I’d like you to be sober. Or otherwise just tipsy.”

“You do?” Her brows drew up. “Is it a second cat? Because I think we could handle it.”

“The first one is already a menace, Granger.” He thrust a hand out towards Ringo, napping on the kitchen worktop. “Ready?”

She'd barely nodded before she felt the familiar squeeze of Apparition.

The daylight was far ruder than before, the sun directly ahead. It was on its way down past an extremely familiar white cottage bordered by a tidy green hedge.

“Why are we outside my mum’s?”

“Because you haven’t seen her in weeks and I thought it’d do you both good.”

Hermione turned to view Malfoy. “Quick, give me another vial.”

“What? I gave you my biggest one.”

“Draco,” she said with all the seriousness she could muster as Malfoy appeared a little wiggly before her. Or perhaps it was her who was wiggly. Something was certainly wiggling. “My mum has never seen me drunk!”

Although he laughed—a little too loudly for her liking—he set another vial into her palm.

As Malfoy led her towards the front door, Hermione felt a little less drunk yet intoxicated enough that she could push through guilt for the fact she hadn’t seen her mother in nearly a month. Truthfully, she had been scared. Scared to scrutinise her mum’s seemingly failing memory. Often enough Hermione considered everything perfectly normal, and then her mother would pause mid-sentence to search for a missing word and Hermione would feel a panic like no other, attempting to devise whether it was normal misremembering, normal ageing, or otherwise entirely abnormal—thanks to her.

It was only when Malfoy knocked on the door that Hermione had a sudden realisation.

“Wait, how on earth do you know where my mother lives?”

The door opened, revealing her mum in cream joggers and a bulky-knit jumper. “Draco! So good to see you again.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped back and forth between the two of them. “Again?”

Her mum pecked a kiss on Hermione’s cheek before opening the door wider. “Come in, dear. I've just boiled the kettle. I’ll make some tea. Two sugars, wasn’t it Draco?”

“Perfect, thanks Helen,” he said, then lowered his voice as they followed behind through the living room and into a crammed kitchen that rivalled even Hermione’s for space. “How do you think I knew where to find your house in nineteen eighty-two?” he asked beneath his breath.

Hermione gasped lightly. “You cunning—”

“Clever.”

“—sneaky—”

“Resourceful.”

“You prefer a dash of milk, don't you, dear?” Helen asked her daughter past her shoulder.

“Yes, please.”

“Handsome,” Malfoy supplied.

“Stop that,” Hermione said in a sharp whisper, cuffing him in the arm.

“And no milk for you, Draco?”

“Thank you, Helen.” He leant in closer to Hermione and whispered, “Brilliant long term memory—best note that down in your little log.”

“Here we are.” Helen turned with a mug in each hand and a smile spread the length of her face. Then it wilted as her eyes fell, only just registering their distinctly nineteen-eighties attire. “Are you two off to a fancy dress party this evening?”

Hermione and Malfoy exchanged grins.

Chapter Text

They returned to the manor because Malfoy preferred to drain the many bars of liquor than have it forcibly taken from him after his wedding date came and went. No doubt he forgot the part where his house-elf would replenish it all again come morning.

Thanks to the excessive sobering potion Hermione ingested earlier, the next three alcoholic drinks might as well have been pumpkin juice. Then they hit her all at once. She had one more shot of Firewhisky, Malfoy another three, and after snogging in bed for several minutes, they fell asleep in varied states of drunkenness and undress.

Hermione woke to a slip of dawn. With the intoxication lingering, she laid on her side for a length to find her bearings. Malfoy ahead did nothing to help. Even during his drunken sleep he was a heart-wrecking beauty, causing her to feel heady. She sighed, recalling there were only twenty days until he was meant to face Astoria at the end of an aisle. Hermione peeled herself away from the sheets, desperate to find a hangover potion and firm herself back in reality.

Dressed in nothing but the silky green shirt of Malfoy’s pyjamas, she moved onto the landing and descended the stairs like a mouse on a kitchen worktop. The manor was still dim. She walked through timid lamplight flickering as if there was another presence in the room, and needed to ignore the heaviness of manor as she went, pressing down on her as though she was an invasive pest.

The third door she tried was exactly what she needed. Hermione moved into the slate grey space, past a tall and wide worktop with several cauldrons, and stopped before a great wooden shelf. She scanned the labels beneath the rows until one arrested her, then snatched up two vials.

“Granger?”

Hermione jumped, nearly losing the glass from her grip.

Malfoy stood at the threshold in the matching green bottoms of the pyjama shirt she had pinched. “I was worried you had left again.”

Hermione’s heart thudded. She creased the corner of her mouth—she hadn’t meant to worry him. “I was in dire need of a potion.”

She floated the second vial towards Malfoy, who snatched it from the air and downed it in one go. Hermione did the same as she went to meet him, then vanished the glass.

“I’m glad you’re still here.” Malfoy grasped at her hip. “I was hoping to finish what we started last night.”

Hermione took a beat to drink him in: the muscle in his chest, the low waistband of his bottoms and the delicious V she wanted to line with her tongue. She felt a flutter at the thought. She might’ve still been a little on edge from their unsuccessful drunken attempt hours earlier.

“You mean learning all there is to know about each other?” she asked with faux-naivety.

He gave an amused “ha” before hooking a palm around the back of her neck and dragging her lips to his. He tasted like sweet mint and tart potion. They travelled out of the room without unlocking their lips, stopping against one wall, then another, before ending beside the staircase.

Malfoy pressed her flat against the silk wallpaper and moved his soft touch to her thighs. “You can ask me as many questions as you like if we can keep doing this.”

When he covered her mouth with his, Hermione pushed her head back against the wall, opening deeper for his insistent tongue. She brushed her palms over his shoulders and down his back, tugging him closer until she felt his heat through the silk at her belly, then he moved his lips to her pulse point and his hands beneath the oversized shirt, humming gently as he found her completely bare. But just as his fingertip skimmed her folds, she slipped out of his grasp and ran up the black-lacquered stairs.

Halfway, she turned to see him still at the bottom. He stuffed his hands in his pyjama pockets and shaped his face with a smirk she would have been able to detect even if she scaled higher.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“We can’t do this in the hall, can we?” She turned and took only one step before she felt his grip on her wrist.

Malfoy spun her into his lips for a chaste kiss, then whispered against her mouth, “But what if I want to take you right here? On the stairs?”

He kissed her so all-encompassing that she bent at the knee and steadily faltered backward to sit on the step. The hard edge of the stair above wedged into her spine as Malfoy’s tongue dragged along hers, then with gentled lips, he peppered kisses along her jaw.

“What about your house-elf?” Hermione asked as his mouth latched onto her throat. He sucked sharply. Harsh enough to bruise. “Or your mother? Or anyone else?”

“Day off; France; banned,” he said between light nips.

Her worry slipped a little. Heat reignited at her centre and she knew she was already slick with need.

“Your favourite colour?” she asked, still determined to play their silly game.

He retracted to see her. “Do you really have to ask?” His eyes dropped to her green shirt, then he ripped at the silk with enough force that the buttons bounced onto the stairs with a titter, revealing her breasts.

With one hand, he traced the edge of his thumb over a nipple, causing it to harden. At the other breast, he dragged his tongue down until his hot mouth enveloped the peak. Hermione groaned when he sucked, cupping her flesh. She was quickly losing her game to Malfoy’s.

Desire stabbed at her centre as his lips mapped a path down her stomach, but she ignored it in favour of another question. “When was the last time you told a lie?”

He took his time in pulling his lips away from her skin. “Well, I didn’t say anything, but I used magic to win that darts game.”

Hermione gasped. “You are shameless.”

“No, I’m a wizard, Granger.”

His searing tongue returned to her skin, now coursing a path up her inner thigh. Hermione laid back on her elbows, staring up at the grandeur of the ceiling. His breath ghosted between her legs and the muscles in her lower abdomen clenched as his mouth skirted closer.

“Your favourite place in the world?” Hermione ground out, instinctively rocking her hips, ready for his tongue.

“Right… here.” He laid a kiss in the dip of her pelvis. “I've missed you.”

“Are you talking to my freckle?”

“Not just any freckle, Granger. My favourite.”

Hermione’s light laughter fell away as Malfoy suddenly pressed her legs wider, then hurriedly dipped his tongue and licked up her wet centre.

She whined in reply. Then as his tongue passed over her clit with perfect pressure, her breaths quickly tumbled into sharp panting. She watched as he reached down to his cock and gave himself a squeeze, and her centre clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him inside.

But she persisted past the ache at her core. “Where’s your favourite place in the manor?”

“The garage,” he mumbled against her clit.

“You’re kidding.” She laughed enough to distract from his efforts.

He lifted his head to link their gazes. “The cars live there, Granger,” he said earnestly.

She laughed again, the grave seriousness in his expression tickling her in the right way.

His eyes swept to the side with thought. “In fact…”

Malfoy was suddenly pulling her to her feet and pressing her against the wall. She automatically sent a hand down to grip his hardened length and he hissed a breath in through his teeth. Then when she spread the pre-cum around his tip with the pad of her thumb, he exhaled with a groan. His chest suddenly rose and fell dramatically.

As she worked her palm up and down, he kissed her hot and open-mouthed, only stopping to whisper “Hold tight,” against her lips.

Hermione felt a familiar whole body squeeze.

In the instant her feet met the frigid ground, she felt his length flex in her grip.

“You did not just Apparate while I was holding your cock!”

“I did, and it worked brilliantly.” He grinned, then danced his fingers down her skin until he met the warmth and wetness between her legs.

Hermione clicked her tongue as she glanced around at what appeared to be a rectangular room as large as her flat. There was a bite in the air absent at their previous location, and entirely no need to ask where they were, for in the gentle light she spotted three silver cars.

“There is no way the two of us can have sex in those.” The nearest car was different to the one he'd driven the other day, with a tiny backend only large enough for two seats, and a long frontend with sleek oval headlights and a silver wing-shaped badge.

“Not in, Granger.”

With a grip to her behind, he pulled her weight up and although Hermione gasped, she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. Malfoy splayed her back against the bonnet of the nearest car and the metal was a frigid kiss against her skin. She adored how he could throw her around like she was weightless.

He stepped back to study her where she laid on the gentle slope of the car, feet propped up and legs open, her tendrils of curls a crown around her head.

“This might be the most beautiful sight I've ever seen,” he said, then went exactly where she had expected.

She was fascinated by Malfoy’s obsession with his mouth between her legs. Previously, she had little care for the act. But she'd also never experienced another man like this, one who put in the work to make it worth it. Malfoy’s tongue lashed with a sweet, sweet repetition and a tingling heat unfurled within her. It curved through her body with a slow, tormenting pace, then he slipped in two fingers and stroked at her front wall and the heat flooded, kindling in her cheeks. Causing her palms to sweat. She could no longer feel the chill of the car.

“Oh gods,” said Hermione, threading her fingers into his hair then reeling off a litany of curses.

Malfoy moaned as his tongue flicked unrelentingly and it caused a delicious vibration. Pressure and pleasure built. Mounted and mounted until Hermione gasped in recognising the sensation.

She sent out a hand, capturing his wrist and stifling his movements inside of her. “Oh gods, you're going to make me…” She panted, her eyes a little wide.

“Wait...” He read her brief panic. “Are you telling me you can…” His eyes glinted like the snitch glowed before him.

Her cheeks burnt, no doubt sending her already flushed skin red. “Remember the self-discovery I told you about? Well, that was part of it.”

His pupils were large, eyes the darkest she’d seen. “Granger, please. I've never witnessed this before—you have no idea how badly I want it.”

“I can see how badly,” she teased with a cursory glance at his straining cock still slotted out from his pyjama bottoms.

He leant down to press his lips to hers. “Please,” he whispered. “If you show me your special talent, I'll show you mine.”

Hermione had forgotten about his remark last night. And now she was a little curious. As her tongue delved in his mouth, she captured her own arousal on her fingers and slicked it the length of his cock, tugging once or twice. He groaned into her mouth as her touch circled the sensitive head. Then she unhanded him and returned to leaning on her elbows. She watched his cock bob in place following her permission to proceed, then Malfoy swiftly resumed with his fingers inside of her and tongue working a furious pace, and Hermione was again imbued by the beautiful heat. She gave in to the building sensation.

The fire at her core that licked into every inch of her body. Hermione arched her back. Then it was only a broken cry of forewarning before she gushed for Malfoy, droplets sliding down her folds and settling on the car.

“Fucking Salazar. That’s my good girl.” His eyes were blown wide. “That was—you are—fuck.”

With her legs trembling, he licked a broad stripe up her centre.

“You are dripping all over my car, Granger.”

Hermione took gasping breaths. She still felt a fiery heat and desperately needed more to stoke it. He didn’t keep her waiting, and she soon sucked in a breath as he pressed into her tender centre. It was just the tip of him, but she was reminded each time how he stretched her. How incredible he felt. It seemed he knew what she was thinking, for his eyes flicked up from where their bodies joined, then he smirked. He retracted his length, then rolled his hips forward with one deep punishing stroke. Hermione bowed her back beneath him and hissed in through clenched teeth.

“Aren’t you so good at taking me, love?”

She heated all over again at his praise.

Malfoy wrapped her legs around his waist and he folded down against her as he stroked slow and measured, causing his pelvis to grind against her swollen clit with a sensational cadence.

“Wait,” she whispered between her fevered breaths, “I thought we had a deal?”

He pulled away, holding onto her hips as he seemed to consider.

“You're right,” he said, then it appeared nothing was going to occur. Until his mouth was on her nipple and she felt it. A gentle current of electricity spun around with the swirl of his tongue, adding to the heated pleasure as he thrust into her.

Hermione pushed her head back against the car as she let out a clipped moan.

“I had a feeling it might do that,” he said slyly, before making for her other breast.

She was quickly losing herself to the sensations. The hot, wet thrum as his tongue darted around her nipple, the gentle prickle of electricity as his fingers concentrated at her clit, and the phenomenal drag of his cock inside of her. Hermione's walls clamped down on him then quivered as she was overcome with pleasure, and he gave a long hum—a noise she now knew as a telltale sign he was close—that turned into a groan. Malfoy retracted in time for thick white strands to meet her stomach.

Still grasping for breath, he laid beside her on the car bonnet.

Somehow, Hermione still felt electric from his trick.

“Unbelievable,” rasped Malfoy. “That's your special talent, Granger.”

***

Hermione tried to Apparate to the coordinates for their final mission but couldn’t seem to go anywhere, which told her there was an Anti-Apparition ward at the other end. Although she preferred to be prepared, she experienced a novel and special form of thrill not knowing what they were walking into. All they knew was that they were off to the Scottish Highlands and it wasn’t an assassination. The date hadn’t lined up with anything they could find in any newspaper or internet article.

Hermione suspected their destination was Hogwarts. Plus Preston’s wife had worked in the Herbology Department for some years—it was all adding up. So when the Time-Turned took them to an empty greenhouse surrounded by potted plants, stifling heat, and with a view of the castle through the grimed window, she wasn’t all too surprised.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looked a little stricken. “Dumbledore’s in there, isn’t he?”

“Well, term doesn’t begin for another two days, but I’d say we should assume he is—”

She gasped lightly and shot off a relay of spells so that they were camouflaged against the tempered glass and unable to be heard.

Young Edie Preston bustled into the greenhouse in camel coloured robes and matching fluffy earmuffs. The sleek chocolate brown bun on top of her head was streaked with grey, and the wrinkles at the edges of her eyes and mouth Hermione had spied at the engagement party were now only beginning to show. She went to the far end of the rectangular space and began working into pots Hermione suspected were new homes for Mandrakes. She recalled the way those earmuffs had shut out blathering Hufflepuffs during Herbology.

There was no way Edie would hear them, but even still, Hermione whispered, “I knew this would be another personal memory.” She readied her fingers near her ears for the moment Edie produced the wailing plant. “Which means we should see Preston appear soon, right?”

“It’s strange being back at Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, as though she hadn’t asked him a question at all. “Do you think this is greenhouse three? Looks like it. Salazar, I despised herbology. Did I tell you about the time a Fanged Geranium bit me? Bloody bastard of a flower.”

“Do you think Edie and Preston are about to do something dirty against the Mandrakes?”

“What?” asked Malfoy, alarm in his tone.

“I needed to get your attention, and sex seems to be the only guaranteed method.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “Quidditch works too—”

His sentence was cut short as a wizard strolled through the door. A tall man with a black billowing cloak and air about him that reminded Hermione of Snape. His bald head gleamed as he entered into the space, and dark eyes momentarily lingered on Disillusioned Hermione and Malfoy for long enough that she felt the need to hold her breath. She'd silenced their sounds and concealed them from sight, but Hermione was quickly realising the scent of Malfoy's cologne and hair potion were dulling the dirt odour.

“Edie, you sent a note requesting a meeting?”

She was digging into the potted dirt with a trowel, oblivious to anything occurring behind.

The visitor walked deeper into the greenhouse and raised his voice. “Edie?”

Green light suddenly filled the space.

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, the other grasped at Malfoy’s wrist.

The light was only fleeting. When the scene sharpened, Hermione found Preston ahead with his shoulder blades pulled together, head flung backward and tendons in his neck straining. The awful contortion lasted no more than two beats. Then he bowed his chin to his chest and took several reaching breaths.

Malfoy’s tense exhales became apparent. He hooked a hand around Hermione’s hip, yanking her closer.

Preston stepped towards the man who now laid supine, and with the sweeping move of his wand and the faint move of his lips, the corpse morphed into a silver pocket watch. He snatched it up and slipped it into his trousers before walking towards his unsuspecting wife. Preston appeared wretched as he journeyed past Hermione and Malfoy. He was unusually pale, forehead beaded with sweat, chest stirring unevenly with his breaths.

As Preston approached his wife, his face was a mask of anger. Then it slipped, slowly and surely. He extended his hand and tapped Edie gently on her shoulder.

“Dominic?” She pulled down her earmuffs. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“I thought I'd take you to lunch in town.”

Edie smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

“Pomona won't mind,” he added.

She placed down her earmuffs, shucked her gloves, then took his proffered hand. Preston led her from the greenhouse like it was any other day, no urgency in his bearing or discontent on his face. Led her away like he hadn’t just killed a man.

Hermione watched them depart with her mouth agape. “Did he…” she began, then dispelled their Disillusioned states.

“He just created another Horcrux,” finished Malfoy.

“But this is past Preston—nineteen ninety Preston—not present him,” said Hermione. “He went back to every time period to use well-known deaths, but this one, he’s—”

“Murdered an innocent wizard.”

“A teacher!” She rubbed at her temple. “How was it we never knew about the death of a Hogwarts teacher on the grounds? Not even a rumour? I don’t understand.”

“Did you miss the part where he turned him into a pocket watch, Granger?”

“Of course I didn’t miss it. I just can’t understand. Do you think Dumbledore ever found out?”

“I feel sick.” Malfoy’s mouth was furled. “I have a feeling that pocket watch is in Preston’s office, and I think I’ve touched it.”

Hermione sighed, then scratched at her forehead. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“A pocket watch dead man, for Salazar’s sake.”

“That'll teach you to poke around in people's belongings.” Hermione crossed her arms and turned to face him front on.

Malfoy followed suit. “What does it mean then, Granger?”

“It means there's another Horcrux somewhere and we have no clue what or where it might be.”

***

“Granger?”

“Hm?”

She was staring at the silver pocket watch on the bookshelf behind Preston’s desk, sitting beside the row of books and between a smattering of other collectibles. There was little doubt that it was the transfigured dead man. Someone whose loved ones believed he simply disappeared one day. Believed that he left his career and life without a word. Hermione’s chest ached at the thought.

“I asked if you’re alright.”

She nodded hurriedly. “Just thinking.” More like trying to reconcile her memories of Auror Preston and the knowledge that he was actually, without a doubt, a murderer; but she didn’t much feel like talking about it.

“That probably wasn’t the best first mission back, was it?”

“It could’ve been worse,” she said absent-mindedly.

Malfoy wandered around the desk and stood next to the pocket watch, impeding her view. “You don't think this is the Horcrux?”

“It's too simple. That was the last date and time he's left us and there's no way he's tied the case up in a neat bow and simply led us to find them all. There's no point in that, is there?”

He shrugged lightly. “We need his motivation.”

“And the professor is key.”

“Do you think if we undo the transfiguration on the pocket watch, he'll tell us?”

Hermione’s eyes widened a touch. “Malfoy, that's morbid.”

“What?” His naivety was see-through.

“You know perfectly well that it'll be a corpse, if not just bones.”

“I wouldn't say I know perfectly well.”

Hermione sighed as she checked her watch. “I need to get to therapy, but we’ll visit Edie first thing tomorrow, won’t we?”

Malfoy nodded as he came to meet her, then kissed her as though she'd just informed him she was off to war. “I'll see you at home.”

Hermione stifled a grin.

“What's funny about that?”

“It just sounds rather domestic.”

“You're right.” He stepped backward as if he'd physically crossed a line. “We haven't spoken about this properly. If you think it's not the right timing, my mother found a vacant Black property in Surrey with wards that allowed her in—”

“No, I want you to stay. I'm the reason you'll be homeless after all. I just think it's sweet.”

They shared slightly thrilled looks as though they’d just said something outlandish. Well, they sort of had done, hadn’t they? They’d just committed to sharing a space together for an indefinite amount of time. Sharing a bed every night. Sharing a life...

After a lingering hug, Hermione departed the Ministry, then, for the first time, spent most of her therapy session with the ends of her mouth tipped up rather than down.

Afterwards, she visited Ginny for her post-therapy debrief, and while the children caused a racket with a self-quacking toy in the next room, Hermione mused aloud over a cup of tea, “I think I've outgrown my therapist.”

“Is that something that tends to happen? I don't know all too much about muggle head healing.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I'm not sure.”

Hermione’s attention flew to James running into the kitchen, flinging a soft toy in the air as he went, but he was gone as quickly as he arrived.

“She's been a wonderful help, but we're rehashing tools I simply need to put into use. Besides…” As Hermione hesitated, Ginny’s brows angled upward. “Well I have you, don't I?”

“Of course.” Ginny’s voice arrived quiet, and if Hermione wasn't mistaken, her eyes were a little glassy. “Always.”

Hermione hid her smile in her tea. For the first time in their years of friendship, she felt like she could be honest. There was no reason to skirt around the topic of the many emotional failings during her relationship with Ron, she'd finally pushed past the shame and secrecy of her addictive behaviours and trauma, and now she found herself only eager to share where her feelings were concerned.

“Malfoy, he…” began Hermione, “he understands.”

“He's a lot stronger than we once gave him credit for, isn't he?” Her smile was a little fond. “But it's more than an understanding, Hermione. He loves you so very much.”

Tears pricked into the corners of Hermione’s eyes. She was saved from what felt a silly show of emotion when tapping arrived at the window and Ginny went to her little owl. Hermione settled her gaze on the colourful garden and took in a long, grounding breath, but her eyes snapped back when she heard a gasp.

“What? What is it?”

Ginny looked up from a scrap of parchment. “Do you happen to have any plans for this evening?”

Thinking back on it, she should have said yes.

Two hours later, in the middle of the sitting room—which was beginning to look like the overfilled Room of Requirement—Hermione considered how she was earlier looking forward to a warm bath and a glass of wine, and now she was staring up at baby Albus floating beside the chandelier. He bobbed along the ceiling like a let-go balloon. Was there a worse time to show accidental magic? And this young? It was just her luck.

While Harry was kept up at work, Ginny could have no doubt gone without her date, and then Hermione wouldn't be straining her neck and mentally sifting through every spell she knew to find something appropriate to land him directly in her arms.

James was hovering too, but fortunately only a couple of feet from the ground. He scooted around on his toy broom with the steering proficiency of a house-elf three Butterbeers down while reeling off constant chatter. “Did you know mum said Uncle Ron's being weird?” he asked as he meandered by.

“Weird, how so? Albus, come on now, this isn't funny,” she added, neck craned to the ceiling.

“He has hair on his face.”

“You mean a beard.”

There came a thud from behind and Hermione only turned in time to see James sprawled on the floor, his broom several feet away. He righted himself quickly and hopped back on the flying contraption.

Hermione sighed. “You shouldn't be riding that in the house. You should be outside.”

“Okay.” He swivelled his broom in the direction of the door.

“Wait a minute! You can't go outside by yourself.” Frustration broached her tone. “Just wait until I get Albus down.”

Hermione lifted her wand and tried a gentle summoning charm, but immediately felt resistance. As she moved for a better view, she found Albus’ little chubby fist enclosed on the lowest festoon of the chandelier. Hermione groaned.

“Do you know Mum's new friend?” James asked, now atop the sofa on his broom. “She said he's insaysh… insaysh… I don't remember how to say it.”

“Do you always repeat what your mum says?”

“Yes.”

“That's mildly terrifying,” mumbled Hermione.

What was Hermione supposed to do? It'd been far too many years since she'd read about the specifics of accidental magic in infants. How long was this supposed to last? And what if she couldn't get him down?

Albus giggled and Hermione clenched her jaw at the utter obliviousness of this child as he filled her with dread. She swept her hands back over her hair and, while James nattered on behind her, tried to grasp onto a happy memory. Hermione cast her shiny otter and it flounced away.

“Albus, please!”

She took to transfiguring a ladder from the coffee table. As soon as she stepped onto the top stair, however, Albus rolled to the other side of the chandelier. James was still madly giggling as Hermione returned the coffee table to its original form.

“Granger!?” Malfoy emerged from the fire grate, his wand brandished.

Albus visibly startled. There was one beautiful beat of silence before he wrenched his mouth open and wailed.

Hermione yelled over the noise, buoyed by James humming beneath his breath as he raced the broom around the perimeter, weaving up and down.

“Why did you come barrelling in like you were ready for an ambush?”

He dropped his wand. “Because you sent me a message shrieking about an emergency!”

“I said it was an emergency to get you here quickly.”

“And here I am, Granger. What is the emergency?”

Albus was still carrying on and Hermione was beginning to feel terrible that she had no way to soothe him.

“You haven't noticed the baby on the ceiling?”

“Well…” He upturned his hand. “Why’d you put him up there?”

Hermione's eyes and nostrils flared. “Will you just take James out to the garden… Please?”

Malfoy rather obediently stalked across the sitting room, snatching the handle of James’ little hovering broom and manoeuvring him through the door on the way out.

Albus was rolling around the ceiling erratically now.

“Don't worry, I’ll get you down,” Hermione called out to him.

As his cries turned to whimpers, Hermione cast a bubble charm to distract him, which seemed to work as well as it did on Ringo. As soon as he relinquished his hold on the chandelier to reach for a bubble, she floated him down into her arms.

Albus laughed up at her.

“Oh that was funny, was it?” Hermione tutted. “You gave me a fright.”

Finally, she could take stock of how excessively sweaty she was, and how her heartbeat was only now stopping its race. Her first time sitting for both Potter children could have very nearly been a disaster. She thought she'd be better at this child-minding business.

Hermione meandered into the kitchen until she met the large window. Malfoy was at the other side, between the brimming green and in the fingers of amber evening light. James hovered around him in circles, far higher than his toy broom would typically allow, and Hermione knew Malfoy had charmed it.

She sighed. She supposed it would be safe, and she hadn't the wherewithal to nag. Besides, Malfoy had such a beautiful, natural ease about him that warmed her in a way that made her want to stand and stare all evening. Hermione breathed deep for the swell of love in her chest. It was a novel feeling. Something she was only now realising she’d never felt with Ron. A bone-deep desire to have everything in this sweet scene.

“I'm in trouble,” she told Albus. He blinked obliviously, then giggled. “That's funny too, is it?”

After a whirlwind of feeding and baths and hooking flailing limbs into pyjamas, Hermione met Malfoy on the sitting room sofa, where James was nestled in at his side with a book propped open. Albus fought sleep in Hermione’s arms.

James perked up. He held the book towards Hermione. “I want the voices. ‘Mione does the voices.”

She slid her eyes to Malfoy and he shrugged with a guilty smile. “Apparently I'm not dramatic enough.”

“We both know that's not true.” She sighed lightly and held the baby towards Malfoy. “Swap.”

He readily took Albus and then James leant into Hermione and settled the muggle picture book on her lap.

By the time she had finished reading—with all the voices—James’ head was on the sofa cushion, eyelids battling valiantly to stay open, and Albus was asleep against Malfoy’s chest.

Hermione’s heart felt it might combust. It must have shown on her face seeing as he asked, “What is it?”

“How is it that you're so good with them?”

He cleared his throat gently. “Aunt Andromeda. Her grandson.”

“Teddy?”

Malfoy smiled as though it pained him. “After our trials, mother went to Andromeda… asked for forgiveness. We've spent a lot of time with her over the years, getting to know her, getting to know Teddy. I have plenty of experience trying to wrangle a small human severely lacking any ability for self-preservation.”

“I hadn't a clue. Harry sees Teddy every other week... He's never mentioned.” She pulled in her brows. “He's never mentioned many things about you, has he?”

“Suppose he's good like that.” His palm was making a constant, soothing repetition down Albus’ back. Simply watching on caused Hermione to realise just how heavy her own eyelids felt.

“This has been the longest day,” she said, pressing her head back against the sofa. “I haven't even had a chance to think about work. We should have more insight into Preston’s motivations by now.”

“Motivations.” Malfoy gave a hum. “He was a plain old serial killer?”

Hermione sent him a look.

“Cannibal? Bored? Nihilistic?”

“Are you just saying words and hoping something twigs?”

“I’m out of ideas and we’ve found nothing in his past. At least, nothing until we understand more about this professor.”

“I wonder if we should go back and observe his past ourselves?”

“And which moment in his seventy-something year life should we choose, Granger?”

She sighed. “He wasn’t a serial killer.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She couldn't. She also couldn’t bring herself to believe he was horrible for the sake of it, even where the professor was concerned. Hermione had a feeling. Or was her brief relationship with Preston clouding her ability to be impartial?

“Let’s reassess,” she said decisively. “What do we know about the memories he’s shown us?”

“They’re significant moments; though not all happy.”

“And the last is both a Horcrux and a shared memory. It didn’t look like a significant memory for both Preston and Edie, but perhaps it was?”

“Maybe we should go back? Maybe we missed something?”

Hermione detested the thought. It shouldn't be this difficult. “The death of their child and their dancing date, I understand, but why did he show us outrunning The Blitz?”

“Three of his four memories involve death in some way, and all of the assassinations, of course.”

“Death,” repeated Hermione. “You know, I only saw Preston for a fleeting moment in the forties, but he was petrified, dragging Edie through the streets. I don’t think he was showing us the death and destruction. He was scared.”

“What was he showing us then?”

“Or,” began Hermione, “what was he feeling?” She thought for so long that her view of the fireplace ahead went blurry and she forgot she had a sleeping child next to her. Or anyone, for that matter. Suddenly, she jolted forward with her realisation. “Love!”

Malfoy sent her a stern look, and they both held their breaths for a beat to ensure the children were still sleeping.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she sat back and swept gentled fingers through James’ hair. “It’s love. It must be.”

“I'm going to need a little more, Granger.”

“Their first love as teenagers in the forties, devotion to each other in the fifties, the pain of loving in the sixties, then…”

“Then the murdering of a professor?”

“There must be something to do with love there too—an affair, a love triangle.”

When Hermione finally retracted her gaze from the barren fireplace, she witnessed Malfoy’s doubt.

“Are you about to tell me love is the greatest magic of all?”

“Well, it is. That’s how Harry’s mother—” Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

“How is it that everything comes back to Potter?” muttered Malfoy.

“It's a declaration of love,” she whispered with the realisation. “They'll be together forever.”

The lines on Malfoy’s forehead deepened.

“It’s Edie,” said Hermione, her eyes rounding with the epiphany. “Their souls will be forever entwined… She's his final Horcrux.”

Chapter Text

Hermione and Malfoy arrived in a small wizarding town on the outskirts of Edinburgh, outside a charming brown-brick cottage with white dormer windows, two sets of chimney stacks, and a face of climbing plants slithering amongst themselves for the best position in the weak morning sun.

They took a gravel path between a tidy lawn, Malfoy strolling casually as Hermione powered forward. Moments like this were akin to waking up Christmas morning as a small child, or what she imagined the less academically inclined might have felt upon the first day of summer holidays. She had a giddy anticipation. Answers were within their reach and loose ends were ready to be knotted.

“You’re not going to accuse her of being a Horcrux are you?” asked Malfoy.

“I’m not going to accuse Edie of anything.” She sent him a glare. “We’re just here to have a conversation, aren’t we?”

“I haven’t yet seen your interrogation process, so I'm not sure what to expect. Remember, she’s likely still grieving.”

“What do you take me for?”

“The bad cop.” He winked. “Which makes me the good one, right?”

Hermione scoffed.

Before they reached the doormat, he snatched her hand and spun her in to see him. “Are you still annoyed?”

“I’m not annoyed.”

“Your little pout says otherwise.”

She jerked away from his grip and crossed her arms. “Why would I be annoyed? The Prophet only today called me a meddling harlot.”

He let out a gentle laugh. “Granger, I don’t think the Prophet has printed the word harlot for two hundred years—”

The door opened before Hermione had the chance to offer a retort. They were met with Edie Preston in purple robes and a small witches hat angled off a loose bun. Hermione had never witnessed her this close before. She could better see the permanently etched lines at the edges of her eyes and mouth, and her cheeks had a ruddy glow she’d rarely seen on a woman of her age. Perhaps most striking was her smile: gentle yet all-knowing. Had she always been that way, or was it because she held the information they needed?

“Professor Preston,” began Hermione, “we’re Aurors Granger and Malfoy.”

“I know who you are.” She clasped her hands beneath her bosom and deepened her smile so that her eyes pushed into half-moons. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Hermione and Malfoy briefly glanced at one another.

“Why don’t you two come in?”

They followed keenly, stepping into a room that told the story of a well-lived life: threadbare sofas, knitted throws, packed bookshelves wrapping the walls, and surfaces with self-spinning figurines. It was an organised clutter. They passed an odd assortment of clocks, all set for varying times and some without hands, then moved deeper into the scent of something homely like a rich bolognese.

“We’ll venture into the gardens,” said Edie as she bustled along. “Would you care for tea?”

As Malfoy answered, Hermione paused at a table along the wall to view a collection of photographs. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the replica of the gift from Preston that she held dear. Hermione wasn’t thinking when she tapped it with her wand. Her brow furrowed and thoughts whirred as she watched the image of a young girl appear, her arm held high, latched on to a dispossessed hand that twirled her like a ballerina.

Quickly, Hermione realised the moving hologram was surrounded by several frames of the same girl. All muggle images, except for one. A girl with tawny-coloured hair, perhaps no older than ten or eleven, looked up from the book in her lap to provide a soft smile, then hurriedly dipped her gaze. Her eyes were bright blue, piercing like Preston’s.

Malfoy, loitering nearby, cleared his throat. He nudged his head in the direction of Edie disappearing out into the garden and Hermione hurriedly followed along with her thoughts elsewhere. The Preston daughter had passed away, hadn't she? Hermione attempted quick sums to determine how old she would now be if they visited her birth in nineteen sixty-seven. Thirty-something... But it didn't make sense. Every photograph showed a child, not a teenager, and certainly no adult.

They emerged in a vibrant garden teeming with colour and took a winding path to a domed glass house. It was far larger than anything Hermione expected out the back of a modest cottage. The Preston home already felt more magical than not in the same fashion as The Burrow, but as Hermione entered into the heated hug of the greenhouse, the magic was ever apparent. She felt it crackle in the air. Felt it run along her skin.

The grand space was ripe with the scent of earth, filled with gentle light and crowded greenery: rows of Dittany, beds of long-stalked Alihotsy, and as they walked deeper, Mallowsweet dotted with orange flowers and the distinct scent of planted peppermint.

“Granger.” Malfoy’s elbow nudged her arm.

When she glanced up and found his gaze at the ceiling, Hermione needed to pull in a breath for the sight. Hundreds of blue butterflies fluttered above. They danced in the sun streams, swirled in the dust motes, clung to the warm glass at the very top and, closer to the ground, hovered in between the friendlier forms of plants.

Edie indicated for them to sit at a little round, white table in the centre of the stifling space.

“This is a beautiful greenhouse, Professor,” said Hermione, despite the fact she was having difficulty reconciling the idea of hot tea in the middle of a humid enclosure.

“Please, call me Edie.” She conjured a little blue teapot, then flicked her wand so that the liquid poured out precisely. Steam curled from three porcelain cups.

“We were so sorry to hear of your husband's passing,” said Hermione, watching Edie intently for her reaction; but her face held in a state of polite grace.

How was Hermione supposed to say this delicately? She opted for a lower volume, lest it sound like an accusation to certain people’s ears.

“But he's still here, isn't he?” she asked softly.

Edie dropped a sugar cube in her tea, then made the spoon spin on its own. “Did you know he was unwell?”

As Malfoy shook his head, Hermione said, “I recall he had a length of time away from work.” She refused to add the part where he never looked all too well after he returned.

“I’m surprised he never told you, Hermione. Dominic was so fond of you.”

The gentle curve of Hermione’s lips dropped away as she was met with a swift stab of grief. “When you say unwell…”

“Cursed.”

Hermione couldn’t help glancing at Malfoy, whose eyes narrowed.

“During his work?” he asked.

“Of course,” replied Edie. “But it was some years before he realised.”

“What kind of curse?” asked Malfoy.

The lines of Edie’s neck sharpened as she inhaled deeply. “We never discovered an answer to that question. It withered his life away; we knew that much.”

Hermione recalled the progressive thinning of Preston over the past several months: his body, his hair, his spirit… A man with a death sentence was a dangerous man. How had she failed to see?

“Did Potter know?” asked Malfoy. “Robards?”

“Not to the extent they should have.”

“There were no adverse event reports in his work files,” said Hermione. “No hospital records, no inclination that he suffered at all given his persistently stoic nature.”

Edie smiled. “He would have enjoyed hearing you call him stoic.”

The little personal recollections she added into their conversation rankled Hermione. She didn't need to hear that Preston was fond of her, or what he might think—she knew this. And she hated that she knew. Hermione fiddled with the arm of her teacup and set her gaze into the dark liquid, feeling too close to irrational irritability to continue her questioning.

“I hope you might answer Auror Granger's question,” said Malfoy. “He's not moved on, has he?”

A smile crept along Edie’s lips.

“Because he's here with you?” he asked. “In you?”

“Dominic had said you two were extremely clever.”

“Well, he did leave us a trail directly to you,” said Malfoy.

Edie's confirmation was all Hermione had wanted, and yet it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t understand. How could they have done this? Why? Was it all truly worth it?

Hermione’s words rushed out, desperate for answers. “I don’t understand. Do you not feel the dark magic? Do you not feel terrible? When Voldemort split his soul into pieces it made him a husk of the person he was.”

Edie's smile stayed. “And yet Harry Potter lived in ignorance for many years with a part of Voldemort's soul, did he not?”

“But…” She supposed Edie was correct, yet her apparent nonchalance irked Hermione. “It’s dark magic, for Merlin's sake!”

In her periphery, Malfoy’s gaze snapped her way.

Edie’s expression fell into neutral. “I feel his love, Hermione. That is all.”

“But what about the man he murdered to instil a part of his soul in you? Do you not feel guilt?”

Malfoy’s hand landed on her knee below the table. Gentle. Steering. She was about to get carried away—maybe she already had done. She has so many more questions.

The older witch appeared amused, her dark eyes sweeping back and forth between the two of them.

“I’ve reflected over the years, Hermione, but I cannot bring myself to feel guilt for the man who is the reason my daughter died.”

“Your daughter?” asked Malfoy. “Born in sixty-seven?”

“Our eldest, Edie. She was born in fifty-five.”

Hermione and Malfoy shared a look.

“Named after yourself?” Hermione asked, and Edie nodded faintly in reply.

The girl in the photographs. She recalled the lists they’d retrieved detailing Hogwarts staff and students, and the only Preston listed was Edie. Hermione had mistaken her for the Professor. But what was she to think? The wizard had said he had no children. How was it that she hadn’t doubted him more?

“Of course, I hadn’t realised at the time,” continued Edie. “I thought Professor Voss simply decided he was tired of the role and moved on from Hogwarts. It wasn’t until recently that Dominic showed me what he did.”

Hermione had far too many questions battling for the forefront of her mind. A second daughter? A child a Hogwarts professor had killed? And Preston had used the Time-Turner to show Edie her Horcrux creation?

“I only feel love,” repeated Edie. “Dominic didn’t want me to feel alone, and I’ll spend the rest of my life grateful that I can still feel him close. I can still feel everything. Every sweet emotion, every memory, every reason I fell in love with him.”

“You can feel Preston?” asked Malfoy.

“Every single day.” Finally, her expression cracked, her dark brows drawing in and eyes glinting. “And it’s the strongest in here—with his final form.”

“His final…” began Malfoy.

Edie angled her gaze skyward.

Hermione followed suit, peering up at the rabble of butterflies. “You mean to say he’s…”

“An Animagus?” finished Malfoy.

Suddenly, Hermione recalled how the light flickered in the Presidential Box at Lincoln’s assassination and she had thought it was a moth stuck near the lamp. The other missions had been too chaotic to notice such a small creature. Why hadn’t she noticed?

“He transformed as soon as he felt his days dwindling,” said Edie. “The curse that withered his life never seemed to affect him in his Animagus form, not until the end. Now between the curse and the Horcruxes he's far too weak, a fragment of the person he once was. He'll never return to the Preston we knew.”

Hermione heard a vaguely defeated exhale from Malfoy. Preston was still tethered to the earth, and not just via Edie. They both turned their eyes back to the sky. There was no telling which butterfly Preston was, every single one the same size and shade of blue.

“I hope this visit has answered your questions.” Edie abruptly took to her feet. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead.”

They stood, following Edie’s cue, all the while Hermione quickly took stock of whether they had indeed received all the information they required. The DMLE couldn’t detain her—she hadn’t committed a crime herself. And evidence for Edie as an accessory was near non-existent. After all, they had witnessed with their own eyes how she'd been oblivious to the professor's murder.

They were out the front door, Malfoy thanking Edie for the tea and time, before Hermione recalled another important question. As Malfoy went towards the road, she doubled back.

“Edie, wait—” She stopped the door an inch from closing, and when Edie swept it wider, she hurriedly asked, “Why did Preston do all of this just for us to find and destroy the Horcruxes?”

Edie again smiled that all-knowing smile, but Hermione knew she wasn't going to receive an answer, even before she said, “I'm afraid you'll need to ask Preston yourself.”

***

As soon as they appeared in Hermione’s flat, Malfoy smoothed a hand back through his hair, shaking his head. “I saw something blue fluttering about in New York and thought I was going bloody mad.”

“We both missed it.”

He began pacing back and forth, a palm held lightly over his mouth. “And the symbolism.”

“In what sense?”

“He used dead men walking for the Horcruxes, didn't he?”

“Oh.” It came out rather sadly. There was none of the triumph Hermione experienced at the end of a case. “What are we supposed to tell Harry?”

Malfoy crowded in close then attempted to slot a wayward curl behind her ear. “That we're in a consensual, loving relationship and he can take it or leave it.”

“Malfoy, you know perfectly well what I mean.”

“We tell him the truth,” he said with a vague shrug. “Tell him that Preston—as I said from the beginning, was messing with us—and two fragments of his soul remain.”

Hermione sighed heavily and looked away into the empty grate as she considered.

“You're telling me Good Girl Granger is hesitating?”

“Don't. Don't call me that.” She brushed his touch down and stepped back. “It's not black and white, Malfoy. We can’t raze the butterfly house with Fiendfyre or kill Edie, and what’s the point of her being in Azkaban?”

“It's dark magic.”

“But he's done this for love, not for something insidious.”

“He's murdered. Isn't that black and white?”

Hermione’s brows attempted to meet. She knew he was desperate to close this case, but his sudden inclination to care about the rules of law vexed her to no end.

“One man!” She flung her hand through the air dismissively. “A man who took away someone he loved.”

Malfoy rubbed at his chin, an assessing look in his eye. “You're surprising me, Granger.”

She crossed her arms. “I don't think we should tell Harry or put it in the reports.”

He squinted as though he couldn't truly see her. “Okay, now you're scaring me.”

“I just… I understand their desire to never be without the person they love.”

He viewed her through a tilted gaze.

“Don't you?” she asked quietly. “Do you not understand how he came to this decision? They have nothing but each other…”

Hermione knew what she was asking of Malfoy. She was asking him to consider his own feelings, to tell her that he wholly understood her ambivalence where the case was concerned. But she also didn't want to force his hand. She couldn't. Hermione opened her mouth to dispel the taut silence she had brought upon them, but Malfoy suddenly moved in and cradled her cheeks with breath-hitching care.

“I understand,” he said softly. His gaze swiftly intensified and, as she stared into the molten grey, she was already struck by the weight of what was to come. “Believe me, I understand. I’d take on the world if it meant spending the rest of my life with you.”

Hermione shaped her lips into a smile, but it was fleeting as Malfoy captured them with his own. He kissed her fiercely then, and she felt it. Felt his love and devotion and a beautiful, manic flutter in her chest. Felt the promise that he'd section his soul into pieces if it meant they could live out the remainder of their lives entwined together.

For the first time, Hermione truly understood wishing for forever. She detested time. She didn't want it passing or contracting or stalling. She needed it unending. If there were alternate timelines, she chose to believe that she and Malfoy were exactly like this in every single one, this love too important for just a tiny pocket of the here and now. Even if the past, present, and future existed only in her mind, even if time was nothing but a circle, or shaped by some omniscient power, she wanted this feeling to be infinite. Wanted to hold onto it in the same way Preston and Edie had done.

Hermione buried her head in Malfoy's chest and his voice arrived soft beside her ear. “I’m not sure if I’m doing this correctly, and I want you to tell me if I’m not. I’ve realised somewhere along the way that when love is unconditional it’s, well, it’s different to what I've known. I just hope I’m doing it right.”

“You mean loving me?” She pulled away to view him.

With his eyes both a little imploring and a little apprehensive, he nodded faintly.

“You’re doing it brilliantly.”

He smiled in a way she read as proud. “I'll leave it with you to decide what we tell Potter then.”

“About us? I think he knows."

Laughter cut from his chest and Hermione warmed at the sound. But she quickly recalled she had something she'd been meaning to tell him and it would turn this good mood. Knowing her luck, Cormac would break it to him if she let it go on any longer. She was just going to come out with it.

“I have an interview in the Magical Creatures department on Monday.”

At first, he didn’t appear to react. He stared, completely unmoving. Then he nodded succinctly, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Apparently that was all she was to receive.

“You know,” began Hermione, attempting to revert his sudden muteness, “if we'd just visited Edie at the beginning, like I'd said, we might’ve had this case completed weeks ago.”

The end of his mouth quirked. “But then we wouldn't have had all this fun, would we? We wouldn’t have had New York in December of nineteen-eighty.”

“The night John Lennon was assassinated?”

He shook his head lightly. “The night I knew it was forever.”

Hermione captured her bottom lip with her teeth to stifle her grin. But it quickly became a nibble of her lip.

Malfoy was standing there telling her everything she wanted to hear, talking about forevers, and all of a sudden her first thought was that his forever was meant to begin with Astoria in sixteen days’ time.

“Will you remember me when you've moved to another department?” asked Malfoy.

“Oh, shut up.”

He linked his hands at her lower back. “Maybe we should get matching tattoos, just in case.”

“Please stop being so dramatic.”

He nudged in beneath her jaw and kissed her throat. “Perhaps you should change your name to Granger-Malfoy, just to remind all in the vicinity of who you'll come home to.”

Hermione’s light laughter was cut short when she writhed under the gentle nip of his teeth working down to the slope of her shoulder.

His wandering fingers moved around the curve of her behind. “Or I'll just take Granger.”

Hermione grinned towards the ceiling as he snaked his fingers under the lip of her t-shirt and into the cup of her bra. She didn’t mind that suggestion. But she forgot it entirely as Malfoy rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know of a wedding date that's free,” he mumbled against her skin.

Hermione breathed a laugh, but the fresh reminder of his wedding pained her. “Your mother has found somewhere to live, hasn’t she? You mentioned a Black property? And what about your gold—did you attempt to move it to another vault? Did it work?”

He straightened to look her in the eye. “Enough talking about my mother while I’m trying to get into your knickers, Granger,” he said with the gravest expression, coaxing more of her laughter.

Late into the night, as Hermione struggled to come by sleep, she reflected on the fact that she had only once in her life received a wedding proposal—a joke one at that—and she wasn't disappointed that it ended with an orgasm on the kitchen floor instead of a ring on her finger.

***

Hermione hadn’t mentioned Edie’s last comment to Malfoy, and she was in two minds about telling him at all. Quite simply, she refused to be talked out of it. She wanted to see Preston and didn't need Malfoy’s warnings about the dangers of her past and present-selves accidentally sighting one another. She'd had experience with this scenario before. Above all, she just wanted an answer to her question—questions, now—before she determined whether or not to provide Harry the truth. Now, it was just a matter of when. When to catch Preston at the right time in the past, while similarly evading Malfoy in the past and present.

As they spent an evening in the Malfoy Library sorting books for Hermione’s overflowing shelves, Narcissa’s newly inhabited Black estate, and donations to the Hogwarts Library, Hermione tried to keep Horcruxes in front of mind—if only to ignore the new Prophet article that had today rattled her: Benedict Greengrass Expresses Contempt for the Golden Girl Standing in the Way of Tradition.

Entirely nothing Hermione had previously learnt indicated that Horcruxes could be used for love. No doubt it was magic of a dark variety, but the way Preston had employed it was inventive. She wanted to ask him about his processes, whether there was trial and error, and whether he held any reservations when he first decided to split his soul. Hermione knew it was all wrong, but she couldn't help her curiosity. It just all felt so distinctly different to Voldemort’s pursuit.

As they whittled down the books on the shelves, Hermione's thoughts turned to the single memory she possessed of herself, Malfoy, and Preston all together, and marked it off as a day in the past far too dangerous to visit.

It had been the morning they’d all moved into their very own offices. Hermione noticed Preston out of the corner of her eye as she hovered a painting against the wall, attempting to hang it above her sofa. Even from just the fleeting glimpse of him outside the doorway, she knew he was smiling. When the framed picture was successfully charmed to the wall, Hermione turned in time to witness Preston’s gentle smile spread into a toothy grin.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked, walking to meet him.

Preston chuckled lightly, then his eyes slid to the office next door.

Hermione rounded the corner to see the same view, only to catch her footing. It was Malfoy—nothing amusing about that. But she hadn't realised she was going to be sharing a wall with him.

Malfoy shaped an utmost serious expression as he concentrated on very accurately hanging a painting above his sofa. Hermione stepped backward, no longer bothering to concern herself with the wizard, but she soon heard him drawl, “What is it?”

He emerged from his office with an expression of gentle curiosity, which quickly morphed into something harsh as soon as he realised Hermione was there too.

“Just admiring the simultaneous precise portrait hanging,” said Preston.

Hermione and Malfoy exchanged heated glares while Preston appeared tickled by the sudden showdown. “When are you two finally going to partner on a case? You’re the most impressive Aurors we have.”

Hermione arched her brow. “Malfoy here doesn’t play well with others.”

“Me?” He barked a laugh. “Granger here thinks she knows everything and no one else could tell her otherwise. Gets in the way of good partnering.”

They both crossed their arms, as though words weren’t enough to show their distaste. A retort from Hermione was a very near thing until Preston took an audible inhale, readying to say something tension-severing.

“Malfoy, your office is looking a touch bare. We’ll have to do something about that. Tell me—” Preston swept a couple of fingers through the air, indicating for him to follow. “Do you like music?”

“What sort of music?” Hermione heard Malfoy ask as she meandered back into her own office.

“Have you heard of Fleetwood Mac?”

Hermione smirked to herself as she stood in the centre of the Malfoy Library with a book propped open in her arms. A fleeting interaction that had once seemed so innocuous now had the markings of a meddling man. Only now was it apparent the way Preston had watched them with a persistent amused expression, spurring them on with a suggestive question like warring children in need of playing nice. In hindsight, he appeared calculating. Was he already aware that in the future they’d be partnering on his Horcrux case? Was he the reason? She needed to ask him.

Hermione turned to share her thoughts with Malfoy, only to find that he’d disappeared.

Instead, she found Pansy sitting on the green chaise against the wall, one leg crossed over the other and a magazine open in her lap.

“Evening,” Pansy said distractedly as she read.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough to see you smiling to yourself like you’ve been chewing Alihotsy leaves.”

Hermione rolled in her lips to do away with her amusement. Malfoy’s voice travelled from somewhere in between the bookshelves, and whoever he was speaking to had a low, smooth quality to his voice. Blaise, if she was not mistaken.

Instead of searching for the wizards, she left her book with the mounting piles on the circular table and met Pansy on the chaise, whose attention was still firmly within the glossy pages.

“Wedding planning coming along well, then?” asked Hermione.

“It’s in the hands of my mother, so it’s going brilliantly.” Pansy turned a page and cocked her head the other way. “Mother and Neville are bonding over flowers, so it really couldn’t be going any better—he says hello, by the way,” she added, finally looking up from her magazine. “You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that Draco is absolutely wild about you. I’ve never seen him so enamoured. But I’m sure you know as much, don’t you?”

Her eyes jumped around Hermione’s face, as though desperate not to miss a minute reaction.

Of course Hermione knew he was enamoured, and yet she still asked, “Truly?”

“Well, of course, he wouldn't be giving this all up otherwise, would he?”

Suddenly, a thin line crested between Pansy’s defined brows, spoiling her porcelain smooth skin. It seemed she’d only just realised her words.

But it was too late.

Razor sharp guilt stabbed at Hermione. An unease so atrocious that she felt the sudden flutter of her heart against her ribcage and a spell of goosebumps along her arms. It wasn’t solely Hermione who recognised the absurdity of this all. It felt like everyone. The Daily Prophet, their friends, and she’d wager their gossiping colleagues.

Pansy snapped her magazine shut and angled in towards Hermione. “That is—I mean to say—”

“No, you’re right. It’s mad. Insane!” Hermione’s tone verged on panicked.

A faint crack of Apparition stole their attention. Theo, in pristine black robes, had arrived ready with a smile. He took a couple of sweeping steps towards Hermione and Pansy and then swivelled, dropping down between the two of them. He slid his arms around their shoulders, cinching them closer. “My two favourite girls.”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake.” Pansy brushed Theo’s touch away just as Malfoy emerged from between the bookshelves, Blaise close by.

Theo pulled his arm away from Hermione. “This is not what it looks like.”

Pansy tutted. “And you wonder why you can’t again earn his trust?”

Hermione was only vaguely aware of the jealousy spiking through Malfoy’s expression, too caught up on the horrid feeling left by Pansy’s remarks: the guilt constricting her throat and causing her face to flush.

After Malfoy took a single purposeful step forward, Theo jumped up and moved closer to the table hidden beneath piles of books. As the Slytherins delved into conversation about Pansy’s muggle magazine, Hermione stayed with her thoughts, gaze fixed on Malfoy. The simple sight of him surrounded by nearly bare shelves, upending his life and living space for her, caused her breaths to feel evasive. He said he'd take on the world if it meant spending his life with her. But taking on his predetermined world wasn't sitting well with Hermione. How was she ever going to find relief from this oppressive feeling?

Hermione tried to convince herself this was all meant to be. This turmoil would be worth it in the end because they were meant to be…

A new pop of Apparition startled her.

Narcissa materialised, drawing attention from all. She was in sleek blue robes, as beautiful and refined as the last occasion Hermione had seen her, but there were small lines of worry around her eyes.

“I need a word,” she said to her son. “Privately.”

Malfoy drew his shoulders back, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and lifted his chin defiantly. They all waited as he read her for a length, his expression inscrutable. The room was already cold and oppressive, something Hermione learnt to ignore during her time here, but now it felt as though all remaining life had been sieved away. Narcissa brought such a presaging presence.

“No,” Malfoy simply said.

“Draco, this is not the time to be obstinate.”

Hermione and Pansy took to their feet. Blaise pocketed his wand as though readying to depart, and Theo had almost turned on the spot when Malfoy's order arrived sharply.

“Everyone stay where you are."

Theo's movement stalled. Blaise set his gaze to the floor, and Pansy risked a glance at Hermione. Their bearings had all tensed. Tight jaws. Tight breaths. Perhaps Pansy heard her shallow exhales—or perhaps she knew what was to come—for she grasped Hermione’s hand where it hung at her side.

“Theodore,” began Narcissa, sending her eyes his way. “Blaise—”

“Do not address them,” Malfoy cut in. “They're staying. You can speak to me in their company, or don't speak at all.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth twitched at the end, as though she battled an edging sneer. “Very well,” she said in a tone fraught with pathetically concealed irritation. She sent her gaze directly to Hermione then. It was a pointed look. An apologetic look.

Pansy’s grip tightened and Hermione inhaled deeply, ready for a lance of fresh pain.

Narcissa turned back to her son. “The Greengrass family have informed me of some distressing news.”

The muscle flinched in Malfoy's jaw.

“They tell me Astoria is the victim of an ancestral blood curse and she is required to marry a pureblood for the sake of her life. Pertinent information we no doubt could have done with several months, if not years, ago.”

“So?” asked Malfoy.

Narcissa approached, eyes wide. Imploring. “Draco, do you understand that she will die without an eligible husband?”

“She can marry another pureblood.” His voice was brimming with anger. The veins and tendons in his neck were ropey. “I am not the single pureblooded male left in the wizarding world.”

“I am perfectly aware, Draco. However, if you were to marry Astoria, both families would benefit from the marriage.”

Hermione was dizzy. Her breaths were unattainable and hand clammy in Pansy’s. She knew it. She'd been counting down the days until the wedding, as though reaching the milestone would serve as some sort of permission to feel comfortable, to feel unburdened by this dreadful guilt. But now, as she was realising, she'd been counting down the days that she and Malfoy were afforded with one another.

“What was the point in ensuring I didn't die in the war so I could live my life out like this?” shouted Malfoy with a furious slash of his palm through the air.

“Everything I have done in my life has been for you,” Narcissa said gently. “It’s time that I ask you to return the favour.”

“No.” Draco shook his head. “No,” he repeated, as if the matter was settled. His inscrutable expression had well and truly fissured. He looked to Hermione and they shared a stricken look, his brows pulled in and chest churning with his irate breaths.

She wanted to run to him, but it wouldn't change their circumstances. She wished for a time and place when this marriage was not a persistent burden on their relationship, but that was an impossible ask.

In that moment, Hermione considered the implications of the death of a woman she scarcely knew, but who no doubt was loved by many and had by no means done anything deserving of losing her life. Was the death of Astoria worth Hermione’s future with Malfoy? She was reminded of Preston. Had it been easy for him to take a life if it meant eternal love?

Hermione clenched her jaw. How could she even have such thoughts?

There must have been a different way.

There had to be a different way.

There was no way…

Hermione slipped her hand from Pansy’s reassuring grip, catching the eye of all in the room. With her gaze locked on Malfoy’s, her voice arrived quiet, dampened by heartache. “You need to do what's right, Draco.”

Just as Malfoy emitted a desperate, “No!” Hermione spun on the spot.

Chapter Text

Hermione left Malfoy Manor with the Time-Turner grasped so tightly she thought it might shatter. Was this truly her cruel fate? Who decided she deserved this torment? She desperately needed answers.

With tears forging a path down her cheeks, she Apparated to a dim alleyway in North London, where she decided there was only one person who could give her what she needed.

The day she chose to visit Preston in the past was unimportant. A Thursday. The week he’d returned to work following his longest absence, and only one month before his passing. That day was the first opportunity they’d had to plan their new case together, which, now in hindsight, seemed an awful waste of time for a man who wasn’t long for this world. They had spent several hours in the meeting room that day, Hermione only breaking briefly to find a cafeteria sandwich and have a bathroom break. And that's when she took her chance.

By the time Present-Hermione stood in the Auror office, Disillusioned and impatient for her past-self to leave, she felt vibratory with anger and frustration. Her tears were barely contained, and she already knew her voice was going to fray at the edges. As soon as Hermione saw herself leave the meeting room, she rushed in.

In quick succession, she locked the door behind, removed her camouflage and shot off a relay of protective charms.

Her every question had melded into one. It seethed from her mouth as a single, desperate syllable, both an accusation and a plea for help. “Why?”

Preston glanced up from his work and removed his reading glasses. Instead of showing any semblance of confusion, he tipped his mouth up at the end, then his voice arrived the same brush of calm she had always known.

“I had been wondering when you might visit.”

“Preston.” His name sounded like a sob. Hermione gasped in a great inhale to steady herself and stepped closer. “Why did you do this to me? To us? You’re the reason I was partnered with Malfoy on the case, aren’t you? Why?”

“Hermione—”

“Why did you toy with us? Make us run through time and place just to discover and destroy your Horcruxes?”

Gentle amusement bled from Preston’s face. “Except Edie, correct?”

Hermione sighed impatiently through the drumming heartbeat in her chest. She nodded once. “How could you have used an unforgivable curse? Kill a man so coldly? You had to truly mean it.” She failed to care that her questions were in disarray. She needed answers.

His expression cracked with a sudden severity. “I certainly meant it, Hermione.”

Although she couldn’t bring herself to say as much, she could understand his rage. Ancient Hogwarts paperwork and a dusty old DMLE file reported Professor Voss was partial to corporal punishment, but they never found him guilty. His daughter Edie was only eleven when she died.

“Of course, the Professor was investigated, but they ignored his wildly outdated views about anything related to muggles—ignored that she was given detention due to bringing a muggle music record into class. Dismissed the welts on her back.”

An ache constricted Hermione’s breath. The files hadn't mentioned any wounds, nor anything to signify cruelty from the professor. She felt for the poor child. For Preston.

His angry exhales were the greatest force in the room.

But then Preston’s mask of fury slowly faded into his usual ease, and he no longer appeared a remorseless killer, but the same old stalwart of the DMLE. He showed the gentle and reassuring attention that had always comforted her.

“You used love,” said Hermione.

“Love can be a powerful force, but we both know that, don't we?”

Hermione cast down her gaze as tears threatened. But with a quick sniff, she drew her eyes up, ready to persist. She still hadn’t received her answers.

Preston’s voice arrived delicately. “My daughter was a bright girl, just like you, Hermione.”

She shifted on the spot due to the ill-placed compliment. She still held anger and desperately wanted to be angry at him. He was the reason she felt like her heart was tearing in two and her lungs were squeezed of air. He was the reason she was in this horrible position… wasn’t he?

“Do you understand that this was all meant to be?” he asked.

“No,” she snapped, her exasperation now at the surface. “Why was this meant to be?”

Preston sighed wearily as he took to his feet. “I’ve spent a countless number of days hopping through time to see if I could stop my daughter's early death. I time-travelled without a care in the world that I could change the fate of the future.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and took another step forward. “However, I quickly realised that when I changed one thing, the future was not affected—a fact that I perhaps realised too late, mostly because I refused to accept that a butterfly flapping its wings in the past does not cause a tornado in the future.”

Hermione frowned. Her heart beat wildly. “You mean to say nothing changed it?”

“Nothing.” His eyes trailed back and forth between hers. “I even chanced killing Professor Voss before he could serve my daughter the brutal detention that led to her death… but I could never catch him at the right moment; there was always someone in the way—a full classroom or Great Hall—or he’d seemingly disappear. An extremely elusive man.”

Hermione breathed a laugh at the absurdity of it all. This entire time she’d been treating the past like fine china, while Preston had been a raging Erumpent in the shop.

“Then I thought it was the fault of the Time-Turner—I just needed a different type to find an alternate timeline.” His eyes lingered on the apparatus. “The one in your grasp is not the first I’ve tried, but rather the fifth.”

She instinctively tightened her grip.

“But my daughter Edie always died, no matter what I said or did, no matter the impediments I pushed or calculations I undertook. There were never any alternate timelines, as I predicted.”

“You're trying to tell me we’re living a fated life?”

“I’m trying to impress upon you that it’s all written for a purpose, Hermione… right down to the unfortunate disappearance of Mr Flint.”

She deepened her brow. “Mr Flint?”

He shook his head as if to say ‘never mind’.

The notion of a predetermined future made Hermione uncomfortable. She suddenly felt powerless. Weren’t her decisions her own?

“Even the Horcruxes?” she asked. “You were meant to be forever tethered to this world, were you?”

“Imagine my surprise when I went forward in time, instead of backwards, and discovered that I finally killed the professor. After turning the thought over in my mind for years, I made it true. But if I couldn’t save my daughter, I needed it to be for a reason other than my broken heart, and holding on to the only love I had left seems like a good reason, doesn't it?”

If she was Hermione from several months earlier, before all the time spent falling disastrously in love with Malfoy, then she would have readily disagreed. Preston knew as much. That’s why she was on this case. That’s why she was thrown together with Malfoy.

“But what was the point in creating so many horcruxes when you only needed one?”

“I didn’t feel I could take a chance with just one, Hermione. For you to truly understand, I needed you to see how I used the magic, but also needed you to see how Edie and I loved.”

In just the way he no doubt intended, all the sweet, intimate, and trying times Hermione witnessed of Edie and Preston reeled through her mind.

“If I’d simply told you Edie was a Horcrux, what might you have done?” he asked.

It would have been an open-shut-case. His wife would be in Azkaban, and he knew as much as he stared at her with an assessing gaze.

“Magic,” continued Preston, “like life and love, is steered by intention. I wanted you to truly understand mine."

Their eyes held for a prolonged moment and she knew he read how he’d succeeded with his mission. If he'd simply written this all in a letter, she wouldn't have felt half as much for him, or his wife or daughters. She might not have even believed his intention. Incapable of saying as much aloud, however, she checked her watch to count the minutes before her past-self yanked on the handle of the door and wondered why it was locked when she certainly hadn’t left it that way.

Preston quickly snatched her attention. “You know what I've also realised during my travels?” He pulled a small square of parchment from his trouser pocket. “It's this scrap of paper that begins your adventure with Mr Malfoy.”

She eyed the insignificant, crumpled note held between his fingers. “Pardon?”

“I'm certain that if I didn't suggest you two work together on this case, that it would still become true, but it’s still nice to know where it all began, isn’t it?” He held the parchment up like it was a cheque for every galleon in the world. Precious. “As simple as that.”

“Simple?” Hermione let out a humourless “ha.” She shook her head as her throat ached for desperation not to cry. “You’ve put me in the middle of an arranged pureblood wedding.” Her final word trembled with a sudden onslaught of tears. “Now I feel like I don’t know myself without him, but there’s far too much in our way. It won’t work.”

He showed a tempered smile.

“How is this amusing you?” Tears streaked hot down her cheeks.

“Believe me, Hermione, I do not take pleasure in your pain, but rather, I’m so pleased to see you in love. I’ve personally found the trials throughout life only strengthened my relationship with Edie.”

“Strengthened?” Hermione gave a wet laugh. There was no stopping her tears now. She glanced away, shaking her head, considering how their relationship was anything but strengthened at this minute. It was flimsy and unsalvageable. Impossible. “Why us?” she repeated, uncaring for the way frustration rendered a crack in her voice.

His spread of a smile was slow, then eventually broad enough that his eyes creased at the sides, drawing attention to a mischievous glint.

It struck Hermione, then. Her eyes rounded. “You’ve seen my future, haven’t you?”

He stared, his smile persisting.

“And?” she pressed. “What am I supposed to do? What happens from here?”

“You have the answers at your fingertips, if you so wish.” He turned and dawdled back towards his chair. “Now, I believe you’ll return shortly, Hermione—past you, that is.”

She wasn’t going to receive the right answer from Preston, was she? He was evasive, drip-feeding her information in a manner that had only left her more frustrated. The fact she now understood where her adventure with Malfoy began—with the slip of parchment in Preston’s grasp—did nothing to allay her current heartache. What was she to do?

Hermione swivelled the knobs on the Time-Turner with a frustrated sigh, reflecting on the assorted emotions she had experienced in the past hour. Love and heartache, disappointment and uncertainty, and now… grief.

Apprehensively, she glanced at Preston and his kind expression as he patiently waited for her to depart.

This was the last occasion she was to see him. Perhaps it was something to do with her already charged emotions, but she felt the sadness that came with final goodbyes. Even after all he’d done. Despite everything he’d put her and Malfoy through, despite his morally abhorrent actions, she still felt such gratitude for the way he’d not only shaped her as an Auror, but as a person. He’d always given her the nudge she’d needed at all the right times. He was always a light in the dark. And now, in her present, he was gone. He was a fragment of a soul, and she'd never speak to the wizard again.

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly.

He rolled his lips in together in a sombre show.

“Before you go…” He stuttered in a deep breath. “How is she?”

“Edie?”

He nodded near imperceptibly.

“She seems content.” Hermione attempted a smile, but it flattened. “She visits you every day.”

“Good, good. And the DMLE, will they…”

Hermione considered the golden sand twirling in the Time-Turner. Thought about the fated nature of this all. It seemed to make some decisions feel impossible, while others she could determine so readily. Preston had ensured she worked on this case, not simply because of Malfoy, but because he entrusted the remnant of his life in her hands—the fragments of soul left earth-side with Edie. He trusted her to do right by him.

“I’ll ensure she won’t be punished,” she answered with a brief nod.

Preston, eyes now glistening, showed the pull of a smile. “Goodbye, Auror Granger. It’s been a pleasure.”

***

Sleep was evasive. When Hermione did sleep, she dreamt of a small girl that looked an awful lot like Preston’s daughter, whose hand she held as they travelled to the future. The future, according to Hermione’s subconscious, was an inescapable Malfoy Manor, all dusty, shadowed and without a door that allowed their escape. She'd lose the girl, then lose her nerve to continue on without her. She'd cry in her dreams, then wake with a sob.

Once, Hermione woke with horrendous guilt for changing her wards and closing her Floo, knowing very well Malfoy would be trying to get through. Twice, she woke up to Morgana the owl at her window, furiously tapping. Thrice, she woke to see the bird sleeping on the windowsill.

With the rotten bags beneath her eyes glamoured away, Hermione arrived at the Ministry and waded through the usual morning rush until she met her office. All the thinking about Malfoy she’d done the night before, and yet she hadn’t devised a plan for if she saw him. She had ignored the possibility. But of course it was inevitable. Immediate.

As soon as she entered her office, she found him perched at the edge of her desk, arms crossed.

Malfoy looked at her with enough heartache to knock her into her next life.

As Hermione waited for him to say something, her breaths became jagged. Why wouldn’t he just say something? He simply stood there with a slight crease to his brow, hurt claiming his whole face.

“I've decided we won't formally report Edie to the Ministry,” began Hermione, just to snap the silence, “and if you think we should do otherwise, then—”

“Hermione.”

Her name felt like a deep cut.

“I don’t care about any of that.” He moved closer and her heart beat erratically with warring love and grief. She ached to hold him. Feel his arms wrapped around her and experience the surety she always felt within. “I'm not marrying Astoria. I refuse.”

With her gaze on the faded Ministry carpet, Hermione shook her head. “I can’t live with the guilt of another woman dying because I was in the way. And your mother—”

“You're not listening to me,” he ground out, hand grasping towards her but then falling short.

As Hermione discovered his silver-grey eyes wetted, she struggled to grasp a breath. “I can't do this.” She made for the door quick enough that he couldn't snatch at her, mumbling, “I have an interview.”

She ignored the call of her name.

Ignored the missive that found her in the lift and followed her to the fourth level.

Ignored the Auror office and called it a day.

Hermione fell asleep in her work robes with a world-tilting delirium. A headache pressing into every side of her skull and a novel self-hatred for time spent crying over a man instead of revising for her interview. She had rabbited on to the Head of the Magical Creatures department, very likely to her detriment, and she was certain it was nerves from the lack of preparedness. How had she lost her focus like this? This opportunity was meant to be a step towards her greatest goal, and she’d done herself a disservice.

When she woke late afternoon with Ringo asleep nearby, she found Ginny beside.

“Malfoy sent me,” she said softly.