Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Exhaustion lived in Hermione’s bones. She was no stranger to it—in fact, she might have considered it a permanent part of her existence, had she not remembered a time when she’d indeed felt rested. 

Nearly a decade ago, she remembered a sleep so sound she wondered if it was even real. She could recall the momentary peace she’d found when the fate of the world was no longer a weight she was required to carry. At eighteen years old, she’d allowed herself that single night of worriless, weightless sleep. At that moment, what came next didn’t matter, only what they’d done, and she’d forced herself to accept that they were safe. 

In the morning, Hermione realised she didn’t know if she would ever feel safe again.

It was evening as Hermione hurried through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was returning to her office after Ginny had asked for a consultation regarding the possible use of an illegal Time-Turner. 

Much to their dismay, it seemed the device was being used to stalk and terrorize a witch. She trusted Ginny would handle the situation appropriately.

Hermione took the corridors least travelled, hopeful to make it to her destination without interruption. The department was a maze of offices, interrogation rooms, and meeting areas. 

She had almost made it to the reception hall, her office door in sight, when her hopes were dashed.

“Oi, Hermione!” 

She grimaced inwardly but managed a smile as she turned towards the room she was being called into. Harry and Ron sat alone at the table in the small gathering area. She could already tell they were buzzing, likely having closed the case they’d been working.

“What's got you two all smiles?” Hermione asked, despite her assumption.

“We were just talking about you—your profile of the Confundus robbery victims was invaluable. If you hadn't made the connection that the victims were earning money in the Muggle world, there’s no way we could have caught them in the act. We made the arrest this afternoon!” Ron explained.

“It was incredible! Ron set Dean up, with his dealings in the Muggle art scene he was the perfect target. We had him slip that he would be making a massive sale today while he was out at the Leaky last night. We kept him under watch and sure enough, they took the bait!” Harry was obviously still riding the high of another case closed. He was made for this.

“That’s wonderful—I’m proud of you both.” She said affectionately.

“Come celebrate with us! We were just about to grab some drinks.” Ron gestured to the hall Floo.

She hated saying no—hated disappointing them—but even managing this conversation felt like lifting bricks. She wished it was as easy as saying yes, she knew she denied their invitations too often. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with them, they meant the world to her. When Ron, Harry, and Ginny went straight into becoming Aurors, she knew she would join them eventually. She could never be apart from them for too long. 

She hadn’t wanted to be an Auror, but she wanted to help people, to protect them. 

After Hermione earned her Mastery in Magical Theory and Enchantment Law, she joined the DMLE as a consultant and volunteered her services in other departments throughout the Ministry.

“You know I’d love to, and I’m truly glad it’s wrapped up, but I’m absolutely knackered. I have yet another set of objects waiting to be cleared in my office, and if I don’t finish them tonight, I’m afraid I’ll use one to put me out of my misery,” she offered a weary smile, “rain check?”

They understood, of course. They knew her work was time-consuming, and she wasn’t lying—when she found out there was a collection of dark objects confiscated and, to her absolute horror, abandoned post-war, she began classifying and neutralising them in her spare time. She left the two men to enjoy their achievement. She’d lost count of the number of rain checks she owed them. 

Hermione nodded to the office receptionist, Melda Merkle, before finally closing herself in her office. 

Melda had made it known that she had noticed Hermione's tendencies towards late nights. Her office had a direct Floo connection to her flat, but Melda had caught Hermione asleep at her desk one morning and began to suspect she was working much later than she ought to. 

Ever since, Melda had begun staying later some evenings, always checking in with Hermione before she left for the night.

Sinking into her chair, Hermione took a deep breath. 

She had trouble sleeping. When it started, it seemed like everyone had trouble sleeping. They were all haunted by the war. Years ago, when most of them started doing better, and she did not, she realised she may have had a problem. A problem that she was far too busy and determined to be bothered by.

When Hermione continued her education, she was forced to take an interest in Occlumency.

When she began going days without sleeping, it seemed like her only option. She’d heard the accounts of Harry’s training and knew others who mastered the skill. She gathered every book she could find on the subject. A few weeks later, after countless doses of Dreamless Sleep and frantic practice, Hermione could finally dull the memories enough to fall asleep on her own. 

Occlumency couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing in her dreams, but she had long settled for a few hours of sleep at a time.

Taking in the set of objects and accompanied paperwork, Hermione grabbed the first recovery file from her desk:

Magical Artefact Recovery Report
ID: MMR-D/001047
Date of Confiscation: 18 February, 1999
Recovery Site: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
Protective Containment: Enclosed within a layered dragonhide casing

Item Description:
One antique galleon-sized coin of unknown mint, forged from blackened silver with etched runic markings not native to the Goblin mint system. The reverse side depicts the Malfoy family crest.

Cursed Properties:
Upon direct contact with exposed skin from any individual not bearing Malfoy blood, the coin induces severe, permanent burns. Immediate magical healing is ineffective, and scarring remains consistent with ancient branding curses. Prolonged exposure induces nausea and disorientation. Coin appears to resist Disillusionment and Summoning Charms.

Origin Notes:
According to Narcissa Malfoy, the object belonged to her husband, Lucius Malfoy. She offered the following statement under voluntary cooperation during house clearance proceedings:

“Lucius kept that wretched thing in his study drawer. Claimed it was a symbol of legacy. He never told me where he acquired it, only that it had been passed down. I was instructed never to touch it—not that I had any intention of doing so.”

Malfoy Manor ... glancing at a few of the other files, she found all the items in front of her had been recovered from the manor. 

Lightheadedness befell her as her muscles twitched in remembrance of the time she’d been there. She could almost hear Bellatrix—no, she wouldn’t go there—the memory was pushed aside before it could fully form. She envisioned a door closing, a door she only ever shut and never dared open.

Hermione levitated the dragonhide encasement and magically peeled it away to reveal the artefact. She knew better than to ever handle these objects without magic, especially with the sheer number of them that targeted Muggle-borns specifically. 

Performing a diagnostic charm, she recognised the enchantment that was combined with the branding curse immediately. While she wouldn’t be able to fully neutralise the object, she could rework the enchantment to make it less harmful. 

Once the additional enchantment layers were complete, Hermione reapplied the dragonhide casing and added a secondary safety seal before updating the report.

She repeated a similar process with the other objects in the set. She had just finished neutralising and storing a paranoia-inducing hand mirror when there was a knock at her door.

Melda stood in the doorway, “I’m leaving for the night.”

“Goodnight, Melda.” But Melda didn’t move.

“It’s a quarter past ten.” Hermione looked up to meet her disapproving gaze.

“Yes, thank you. I’m nearly finished here—I promise I'll Floo right to bed the moment I’m done.” 

She would, she was dangerously drowsy and doubted she could manage anything else. 

She didn’t choose to work late because of her abysmal sleeping habits—her work was important and people relied on her. 

Melda didn’t look like she believed her, but she left anyway.

There was only one object left. If she was quick enough, she could keep her promise by eleven. With swiftness on her mind and fatigue clouding her senses, she did not view the recovery report.

The artefact was contained in an Arcane Vault Case. Upon magical examination, she was curious to find that this had been the only object so far that had been warded beyond an anti-magic encasement. 

A layered anti-compulsion enchantment sealed the case. The warding was enough to remind Hermione to keep her wits about her as she reversed the enchantment.

Raising her wand, she carefully opened the case to reveal an opulent onyx collar. 

The object sat perfectly nestled in velvet, the collar itself was seamless and gleamed with shimmering emeralds. Hermione levitated the collar to cast the diagnostic charm. It seemed to sparkle on its own, without even catching the light. 

She couldn’t tear her eyes away—it was stunning, and yet something about it felt wrong.

The diagnostic revealed something fascinating—yes, there were layers upon layers of enchantments combined with what looked to be blood magic—but the manifestation almost appeared alive, as if she had cast the charm on a person rather than an object. 

Objects of sentience weren’t impossible, the Sorting Hat for example had sentient capabilities, but they were rare and often dangerous.

Hermione knew the best course of action would be to ward the object itself and replace it in the Vault Case with additional wards. She knew she had made a mistake in not reviewing the report, that she needed that knowledge to protect herself from what was floating in front of her. Floating—she was no longer levitating the object...  it was now floating on its own. 

She would have done exactly as she’d said if she had not heard it.

“Hermione.” 

It was only a whisper, but a dazed feeling washed over her. She could only listen.

“Hermione Granger. You are so tired. You may rest now.”

She was tired, she wanted to rest so desperately, but she had obligations, people to protect and care for.

“Let us carry it for you. He will take care of you. You will take care of each other. Let go.”

Hermione could feel the magic, she felt compelled to touch the collar. Her mind felt distant, and she knew she was being influenced, but she didn’t care. It felt like she was being spoken for. Who were “ us” ? Who was “ he” ?

“What are you?” She managed the question.

“We are silence and safety. We are fulfilment. Let go.”

Let go. Let go. Let go. 

It repeated in her thoughts like a chant. It echoed in her own voice, as if she was asking for it. A faraway part of her knew she shouldn’t, that a simple touch would mean more than she could comprehend. Its promises were sweet and warm, the air pulsed around her. She knew she shouldn’t touch it, but she did.

Her fingertips grazed the emeralds ever so slightly. The collar vibrated under her touch, opening an invisible clasp. She pulled her hand back at the movement, but it was too late—the touch was acceptance. 

The collar flew towards her, clasping itself around her neck. She heard one final thing before she heard nothing at all.

“At last.”

Chapter Text

The ground was cold. 

Hermione felt the chill through the clothes she put on that morning, the fabric of her leggings and jumper too thin to protect her. She wished she’d been wearing her Ministry robes that she was prone to forget on her office chair—she was trembling.

She was lying on her back as the shock hit her. Sitting up with a jolt, Hermione took a startled breath before scrambling to her feet. Reaching for her wand, she calmed slightly, finding it still attached to her thigh. She gripped the smooth wood, comforted by the feeling of control it offered her.

She remembered being in her office only moments before. She was at her desk, working through the set of objects... the collar. She lifted a hand to her neck, suddenly noticing the tightness around her throat. She felt the sharpness of the gemstones that had entranced her. 

Let go —it had told her to let go, and she had been stupid enough to listen to a damned whispering collar. She searched for a clasp or some way to remove it, but it was as seamless as it was before it attached itself to her. Alohomora had no effect. Of course, the collar was silent now. She would worry about removing it later.

Where had it taken her?   Her heart raced, taking in her surroundings. Eying the floor, Hermione shuddered in recognition. She had laid on this floor before. 

The room was empty now, purged of furniture. The massive fireplace beside her was unlit, it made the room seem even colder. Intricate stonework covered the walls, spanning high to the ornate ceilings. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room, reflecting moonlight in the darkness. The chandelier from her nightmares.

The collar had brought her to its origination—Malfoy Manor.

The collar must have been a portkey. That was the only reasonable explanation she could come up with, except she hadn’t felt the usual stomach-lurch of a portkey. She hadn’t felt anything, there had only been blackness. Yet, she couldn’t have travelled here on her own. 

Unless... was she imagining it? Surely she’d dragged herself back here often enough that it wasn’t an impossibility. She has been rather tired—maybe it was a terrifyingly realistic dream.

Hermione jumped as a door flew open, she raised her wand in alarm. A wand was pointed back at her—a hex nearly flew from her lips before she saw him.

“ Granger? ” A very real Draco Malfoy stood in front of her, looking utterly bewildered. This wasn’t a dream. 

She lowered her wand at his acknowledgement. 

Hermione and Draco Malfoy were not friends. She had seen him a handful of times throughout the years—Ministry events, charity galas, the occasional gathering with friends of friends. She recalled civil conversations and the lack of childhood hostility. 

That didn’t stop her from feeling a wave of irritation at his presence in current circumstances.

“Malfoy... what am I doing here?” It sounded sharp. She didn’t really mean the accusation.

“Do you think I was expecting you?” He asked in exasperation, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Obviously not.

“How did you know I was here?” She wanted to figure this out alone. She had no patience or desire to explain the situation.

“I heard you, the crack of your appearance could be heard across the manor. Even if I hadn’t—the wards were quick to notify me of uninvited company.” His emphasis on her missing invitation brought heat to her cheeks. She shouldn’t be here.

“I... apologise. I was working on something at the Ministry, and I suspect I mistakenly came in contact with a portkey that transported me here.” She didn’t want to detail her experience with the collar. 

“I imagine I can’t apparate, so I’d greatly appreciate an escort to your Floo. I’ll be out of your hair.” She was growing uncomfortable in the room, her breath picked up.

“That's impossible—there’s never been a portkey allowed past the wards. It’s rare for anything to bypass ancestral wards. You certainly shouldn’t have been able to.” He was sceptical. 

Wearing what she figured he considered casual pyjamas, he was in a black silk button down and trousers. She had never seen him in anything less than a pristine set of robes. He looked unusually soft—his seriousness somehow made it worse.

“Yes... well, I’ll absolutely investigate upon my return. I’ll be sure to send an owl with my findings.” She wanted to leave, the cavernous room was beginning to feel suffocating. She knew she would soon feel her muscles twitch or the ghost of a burn on her forearm.

“Where is this supposed portkey?” He wasn’t going to let it go, but she couldn’t stay in the room another second.

“Could we please continue this conversation elsewhere?” She was too tense to mask her desperation. Shaking with discomfort, she held a door shut in her mind. 

Malfoy seemed confused at her loss of composure—probably thinking the audacity to act in such a way when she was intruding in his home. Her eyes bounced around the room. She thought he might have pressed further had he not noticed her trembling—a look of realisation crossed his face. 

He remembered when they’d last been here.

“Right... I’ll show you to the Floo.” She followed his lead, his platinum hair a beacon in the night light. She felt immediate relief outside that miserable room. 

The stonework continued into the hallways. She knew it was late, but she still found the absence of lighting odd—the manor felt desolate. 

Even more strange, she thought she remembered Padma telling her about the grand renovations Malfoy had done after the war. He had supposedly hosted her and Blaise for drinks after their engagement. 

She was beginning to consider it had been a poor exaggeration, as what she saw was much more mournful than grand. 

There were empty spaces where portraits had once adorned the wall, hard stone under their feet where she would have expected extravagant carpets. There was no warmth—everything was grey.

They reached the Floo where there was finally a light coming from another direction. 

The look on Malfoy's face told her that he wasn’t going to let her leave without getting answers. 

All she wanted to do was collapse into bed. She couldn’t Floo into the Ministry until the morning, she’d have to Floo into London and apparate to her flat. She could solve the collar tomorrow.

“The portkey?” He asked. 

Before she could provide an answer, his eyes fell to her neck and he paled. He must have noticed the collar in the light. His face transformed into a scowl.

“Where did you get that?”

“I was working with a set of objects that were confiscated from the manor after the war. There was an... incident with the collar. I believe it is what acted as a portkey to the drawing room. What do you know about it?”

He looked reluctant to share but continued anyway, “I’ve only seen it twice. Once when the Dark Lord gave it to my father and again when my father gave it to my mother. She never wore it. I wasn’t told much about it, only that it was powerful,” he caught her eyes, “and dangerous.”

Great. What she wouldn’t do to travel back to earlier in the evening—to have accepted the invitation to the Leaky or gone home with Melda. Powerful and dangerous, just what she needed. 

She should have read the sodding report.

“It’s a peculiar item. I attempted to take it off earlier, but clearly, I wasn’t successful. I plan to research it further tomorrow and get help with the removal. I wouldn’t mind updating you.” She held his gaze. If it were her parents, she'd want to know everything. 

“Yes, thank you.” Malfoy seemed to finally accept the situation.

“Well, I’ll get going. I’m sorry again for the intrusion.” She stepped forward, grabbing the Floo powder. Malfoy nodded his acknowledgement.

For the first time since she arrived, the collar seemed to tighten. It was so slight she couldn’t tell if she was imagining it. Ignoring the sensation, she called out the name of the nearest public Floo to her flat and threw down the powder.

Nothing happened.

Malfoy eyed her with amusement through the dissipating cloud. “Alright?”

It wasn’t funny—it should have worked. “That was strange.” 

Taking more powder, she tried again. 

Again, Nothing.  

“There is something wrong with your Floo.” She told him, stepping out of the space.

Without a word, Malfoy took some powder, walked into the Floo, called the same location, and disappeared.

“There’s nothing wrong with the Floo.” He said, reappearing a moment later.

Hermione thought she might cry in frustration. The collar was now inexplicably tight, she struggled to swallow. She just wanted to go home.

“It's possible the collar is interfering with the Floo connection. Allow me to apparate you to the edge of the wards. From there you should be able to cross and apparate yourself.” He held out his arm. If he sensed her distress, he didn’t say anything.

She nodded and grabbed his arm.

They appeared at the front gate with a crack. The gate swung outward—it must have been spelled to automatically open at Malfoy’s presence.

She tried to take a deep breath, but it sounded strained. The collar warmed as she neared the boundary. Her instincts told her to tread carefully. 

Hermione lifted her hand and she met an invisible wall. It felt like pressing her hand against glass, only as she pushed, it got warmer. She pushed as hard as she could—yanking her hand back as the wall burned her.

“Granger, what is it?”

She couldn’t leave.

“I can’t... there is something blocking me.” 

Maybe she could dismantle the ward. She cast a diagnostic, but nothing registered. There was no wall. Yet, when she slammed her hand against it once more, it singed her. She hit it again, and again, and again.

Malfoy stepped forward, testing the boundary for himself. Of course—there was nothing there.

“The collar...” He tapered off. He didn’t know what to say. It was keeping her there.

She was tired. 

She’d been ensnared and mysteriously transported by an enchanted collar—and now she was trapped. Her panic ate away at her resolve, and she could hear the rattling of a door in the back of her mind. The collar felt like it tightened once again.

“Let go.” 

She looked at Malfoy to see if he’d heard it—the whisper. He made no indication.

Let go. Let go. Let go. 

The chant returned. It was urging her to feel—her exhaustion, her hunger, her helplessness. It burned through her. The voice continued. 

Let go. Let go. Let go. 

It forced memories upon her. The first time she woke up terrified and alone, the bitterness she felt being left behind while everyone else moved on. No— a door slammed. 

Let go. Let go. Let go.

Hermione turned away as she began to cry. 

She hadn’t cried for herself in years—every time she got close, she could send it away. Then, when she wished to cry, she couldn’t. The feeling wouldn’t return on command.

Hot tears ran down her face as she contemplated what she was doing. It was the events of the day—it wasn’t the collar's influence. She must have finally reached a breaking point. When had she last slept? It was last night, wasn’t it? 

“Do you want me to call Potter?” Malfoy asked. She didn’t want to look at him—too afraid he’d be horrified.

“No,” She didn’t want to bother Harry with this. He and Ginny were probably home asleep, she wouldn’t ruin their night. “No.” She said again—now hyperventilating. They should call someone, she needed to leave, she needed to be home.

“Granger, you need to breathe. What's wrong?” He gently grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards him. “Breathe.” He repeated. There was no horror in his eyes... it looked strangely like concern.

She was making a complete fool of herself in front of Draco Malfoy —of all people, and he was concerned. 

How wonderful. She was mortified.

“The collar—it’s too tight.” She tried to pull at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Malfoy brought a hand to her neck and slid a finger between the collar and her skin. “Look—do you feel that? There’s enough space for you to breathe, yeah?” He began to draw slow deep breaths, like he wanted her to do the same. She followed, matching his pace as best she could.

Somehow, it was easier. Had the collar loosened?

She finally managed to compose herself, breathing evenly. Good. She was okay. Closing her eyes for a moment, she focused on the now still door. She was okay.

Malfoy was still touching her. His finger had slipped from the collar, one hand was on her shoulder and the other on her arm. It was oddly comforting, but they were too close. 

“There is a document in my office that should provide some idea of what to do.” She blurted.

Malfoy nodded and removed his hands, offering her an arm instead. “Can I take you back to the manor?” 

She grabbed his arm in acceptance, and they were gone.

If she hadn’t been trapped on the manor grounds, she wouldn’t have thought they were back at the manor at all. The room they appeared in was the complete opposite of their previous walkthrough. 

She was immediately warmed by a fire—another massive fireplace, but this time it was lit. They were in a sitting room of sorts. 

There were two welcoming couches, ones she was sure she would melt into if she sat. The upholstery was fine, weaved with green and gold. There was gold everywhere—sconces, candlesticks, it was embedded in the walls.

Malfoy snapped his fingers and every candle in the room roared to life, brightening the space even more.

“Where are we?” She asked.

“The West Wing... I don’t visit the East Wing often.” She assumed the East Wing is where they’d been earlier. It seems Padma had been true in her claims of grandeur. 

“Mippy!” Malfoy called. 

The most posh looking house elf Hermione had ever seen popped in front of them. She wore a dress that certainly cost more than any clothing Hermione owned, and she could have sworn there was genuine gold around her neck.

“A pot of tea, set for two, please. Light honey. If you choose peppermint again, I shall have no choice but to despair entirely.” At his request, Mippy was gone.

“Was she wearing gold?” She was curious and a bit surprised. 

She hadn’t expected his elf to be abused and miserable—she had helped establish house elf rights, after all—but she hadn’t expected such finery either. 

“Don’t sound so shocked, Granger. She’s a part of my household—of course she is wearing gold.” He said as if it was obvious. He sat on the couch like he expected her to follow.

She couldn’t sit, she wasn’t confident she would be able to get up again. “I should make a call. The receptionist at the DMLE... ” She trailed off, considering the time. It was well past midnight.

“Granger, you just had a panic attack on my grounds over your temporary limitations to the premises. I won’t presume we know each other, but I would imagine that was unusual, yes?” He said it so matter-of-factly. 

It was hardly a panic attack, but she nodded.

“Is the collar still causing physical difficulties?” Now that she thought about it, the collar had returned to an unnoticeable state.

“Not at the moment.” She confirmed.

Mippy returned with tea. It smelled like jasmine—her favourite.

“Thank you, Mippy. Fabulous dress, by the way.” Mippy blushed at his compliment and then left them alone once more. “Please, sit.” Malfoy invited her to join him.

She resisted. If she could just get the report, this night could be over. She was about to suggest calling Melda again when he introjected.

“I heard it.” 

She froze.

“You heard what?” She needed him to clarify, to verify she wasn’t going mad.

“The whisper, it said to let go,” he looked uncomfortable, “why?”

Why? There were too many answers to the question. 

She wasn’t going to tell him that she felt like it had given her permission to cry, or that it had said the same thing before attaching itself and bringing her here. She wasn’t going to tell him what it had said before at all.

“I’m tired. I haven’t... it seems to know that I need to rest” She revealed, and even that felt like too much.

“You haven’t…?” He asked, but she wasn’t going to elaborate. 

When she didn’t speak, he continued. “I see. Well, it’s late. There is no one to call at this unreasonable hour, and the DMLE is effectively closed until the morning.” Malfoy sipped his tea.

She stared at him, unsure what he was suggesting. She had to leave. 

He offered her the second cup and again gestured for her to sit. She finally relented, needing to settle, if only for a moment. 

The tea was divine, and her suspicions regarding the comfortability of the couch were more than confirmed.

“You will stay here tonight—sleep and hopefully appease the collar. In the morning, we can contact whoever you’d like.” The offer had to be reluctant. 

She couldn’t stay here.

“You’re kind to offer, but I can’t stay here.” She had to refuse.

“As much as we’d both like to see you home, we must consider our options. You are currently unable to leave, we are dealing with an unknown magical entity of sentience with the possible ability of compulsion, and adequate help is not available until morning.” He was right, she knew he was right, and she hated that it made her feel incompetent.

“Alright, I’ll stay for the night. We’ll contact the DMLE first thing tomorrow.” She agreed, with no real choice.

“It's settled then. I’ll have Mippy show you to the guest suite.”

Mippy led her down a beautifully decorated hallway, struggling to suppress her excitement. “Mippy is so happy to serve a guest as beautiful as you miss. Master Malfoy hasn’t had a guest in ages. Did Miss enjoy her tea?”

“Yes Mippy, it was lovely—thank you.” The elf was quite endearing.

There was no time to go over the events of the day or to consider the more than unusual circumstances she was in. Hermione had barely changed into the pyjamas Mippy provided before she was fast asleep in the most comfortable bed she’d ever encountered.

Chapter Text

Every time Hermione awoke, she hoped for daylight. 

Waking up in the dark, early hours of the morning was dreadful. When she did, she had a routine to pull her away from whatever had torn her from sleep. She would get out of bed immediately. 

When choosing her flat, she knew she wanted a studio. She needed to be able to clearly see what occupied her space. From bed, she could easily make her way to the kettle to start tea. The action left little room for thought—start tea, run a bath, read a book. She had countless stacks of books around related to case research, Ministry projects, or personal endeavours. There was always something within reach.

When Hermione opened her eyes, she was met with morning light. The relief at the absence of darkness was short-lived. Her heart stuttered— where was she? It took a second longer than it should have to remember. Malfoy Manor. The collar. This wasn’t her flat. 

Her head rested on a feathery pillow, and she was enveloped by a cloud-like duvet. The sunlight filtered through a cream-coloured canopy threaded with gold over the bed. Stirring, she could feel the silk of the pyjamas and sheets on her skin—it was heavenly. Such comfort was a rarity for her. 

Her enjoyment diminished, remembering why she was in such a lush bed. Reaching for the collar, she was even more displeased to find that it hadn’t miraculously disappeared in her sleep. As much as she’d like to lay there and pretend none of this was happening, she didn’t linger. 

She had slept surprisingly well, her consuming tiredness and emotional outburst left her dreamless, as if her body simply gave in. She felt much more sharp and much less frazzled. 

She hadn’t spared a glance at the room the night before. The guest suite was far too fine for a guest room—or any room for that matter. 

Exiting the bed, her feet met the plush carpet. The room was designed for maximum comfort. Not only were the bed and carpet exquisite, there was an open ensuite displaying a large claw-foot bathtub. She could see bathing potions and sets of towels that she was sure would surpass anything she could dream of. She would have treated herself to a bath under different circumstances.

Beyond the ensuite there was a wardrobe and vanity that she surmised was stocked with anything one could need. There was also a bookshelf carrying a number of volumes that she wouldn’t get the chance to peruse. 

It was time for her to leave.

Changing into her clothes from the day before, Hermione grew nervous. 

She imagined any conversation with Malfoy would be rather awkward after yesterday. She cried in front of him and then proceeded to stay in his home. It seemed too intimate when they were no more than reluctant acquaintances—even with the magical interference.

Steeling herself to put the entire situation behind her, Hermione opened the door to the hall, only to jump back at Mippy’s appearance. “Good morning, miss!”

“Goodness Mippy, you startled me.” She said, a hand flying to her chest.

“Mippy apologises, Mippy was instructed to retrieve you for breakfast.” The elf turned down the hall, not waiting for a reply.

Breakfast? There was no time for breakfast. 

She needed to call the office, not only was the need for assistance dire, but they would also be wondering where she was. If her friends weren’t able to reach her at her flat, she knew they’d worry. She followed the elf anyway, assuming she would also be led to Malfoy.

The smell of maple hit her as she was brought to a sunny breakfast room. Two walls of windows made the room delightfully bright. 

A generous spread of fried eggs, crisp sausage, grilled tomatoes, and fluffy pancakes covered the table. A pitcher of syrup levitated next to the plates, ready to be perfectly poured on command. 

Malfoy sat at the head of the table, casually sipping tea as he read the paper. She wondered if it was today's issue of The Daily Prophet—there was supposed to be an article regarding recent magical curriculum developments she was eager to read, but her curiosity would have to wait. 

They had urgent matters to attend to, and he was still wearing his bloody pyjamas and house slippers.

Mippy pulled a chair out for Hermione, but she did not sit. “Malfoy, I’m ever so sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but we must make haste to address the issue on hand. I need to get that document as soon as possible.” She said, suppressing her ire.

“Good morning to you too, Granger. Sit and have a bite.” He didn’t look up from his reading. “Mippy, pour Miss Granger some tea, please.” Mippy did as requested.

“While I appreciate your continued generosity, you must understand the pressing occasion.” Her hands moved to her hips in an attempt to better convey her impatience.

Assessing eyes lifted from the paper and looked her up and down, “I understand perfectly. However, it is only half past seven, with another half hour to go before the DMLE can be reached. I’m sure it won’t harm you terribly to have a meal while we wait.” He put his reading down and grabbed a fork.

“I could call to see if anyone is in early, or call Harry...” she really didn’t want to bother him or Ron, they had enough to manage on any given day. Melda would be in the office on time, calling her would be less trouble. 

Her stomach rumbled as she watched Malfoy eat a forkful of pancakes. She was hungry. 

“Fine.” She conceded and sat at the table. 

She would call Melda at eight.

Making herself a plate of eggs and pancakes, Hermione tried to remember the last time she sat down for a meal that wasn’t at her desk. She was not surprised to find that everything was delicious. 

They ate in silence—not that she minded the quiet. She would much rather sit in a comfortable silence than endure whatever conversation would transpire between them. 

When he finished eating, he returned to reading. She was angling her head to read the upside down words facing her when he lowered the paper and caught her eyes.

“Granger, would you like something to read?” He asked.

“Um, no—no, I’m alright, thank you.” She shook her head and flushed. He went back to reading.

It had been well over a year since she’d last seen Malfoy. Other than the occasional mention from Padma, she scarcely even heard a word about him. After the war, his name had been frequent in the papers—especially after the passing of his parents. Most of the coverage was unkind.

Now, they sat across from each other, eating breakfast—as if it were ordinary.

Hermione held little animosity for him. They were children caught in a war. She couldn’t bring herself to hold anything against him or his mother after Narcissa lied to help them. 

She and Harry had testified on the Malfoy's behalf. Their support had spared them Azkaban, resulting instead in two years of house arrest. Lucius was not so lucky, he died in Azkaban after serving only a year of his life sentence. She was saddened when she learned of Narcissa’s death soon after.

Since completing his sentence, Malfoy had lived in relative obscurity. The only thing people talked about was the money he spent and his absence from society.

Over time, his reputation improved. He was no longer discussed with the venom reserved for former Death Eaters, but acceptance had never fully followed. Whenever she saw him, he was usually alone.

Malfoy stood abruptly, “I’ll meet you at the Floo in a few minutes. Do call for Mippy if you have any trouble finding it.” He left the room. 

She could find the Floo just fine.

It was time. If everything went smoothly, they could have the collar removed within the hour. She might just be able to make her appointment with the Department of Mysteries. 

First, though, she would have to neutralise it—the collar was far too dangerous to leave unguarded. In truth, her appointment was well-timed, the Department of Mysteries was the ideal place to secure the cursed thing. 

Yes—she would deliver the collar, the report, and all related findings. Let them sort out the rest. 

They could update Malfoy on the collar's composition. As curious as she was about its enchantments, she wanted little more to do with it. Still, there was no harm in requesting an update on its magical composition for herself. For educational purposes.

She would never admit it to Malfoy, but she called for Mippy’s assistance after her third wrong turn. The manor was a labyrinth of indistinguishable corridors and staircases. She wasn’t sure she could even find her way back to the guest suite without a guide.

As she stood by the fireplace waiting for him, the collar once again began to feel tight. Perhaps it was her focus on the object that made her too aware of the feeling—or maybe it was something else. 

The collar was too unpredictable. At times, it was completely unnoticeable, other times it unceremoniously reminds her of its existence with a squeeze or a whisper. There was no way to determine when it could activate again. 

She had to ignore it. It would no longer be her problem soon enough.

When Malfoy finally appeared, he looked more like the man she'd seen before—immaculate robes, perfectly styled hair, and a calm confidence that clung to him. There was something calculated in the way he walked, the way he spoke—witty, infuriating, and entirely self-assured. It was almost... attractive—not that Hermione would ever say so.

“Given your experience with the Floo yesterday, I believe it’s best I handle the call.” Hermione didn’t object, merely gave him the receptionist’s name and watched as he knelt beside the grate, posture crisp with practiced ease.

“Hello, this is Melda Merkle.” a voice came through the green flames.

“Good morning, Melda. This is Draco Malfoy. I’m currently joined by Miss Hermione Granger, who is in need of your assistance.”

“ Hermione? ” Melda sounded surprised.

“Yes—Good morning, Melda.” She replied, kneeling next to him.

“Thank Merlin! I knew there was something wrong when I arrived before you. I nearly called Potter. What is it?” 

“There was an incident last night after your departure. One of the artefacts I was working on... something happened, and I was taken to Mr. Malfoy’s residence. There is a recovery report on my desk. I need you to bring it to me. Tell the others that I’ve been pulled away, and I will be in the office as soon as I can.” She would tell them what happened eventually, but for now it was easier not to involve them.

“You want me to come to Malfoy Manor ?” She asked as if Hermione were insane. With recent events, she had not yet ruled out the possibility of insanity herself. 

“Just for a moment. I need that report—it’s absolutely vital.” She kept her tone even, hoping the urgency would be enough to deter further questions.

“Alright—okay, I’ll be through in a second.” The call ended.

“I wasn’t aware I’d be allowing others into my home.” Malfoy commented dryly as he keyed the Floo to permit Melda’s entrance.

“How else did you expect us to retrieve the report? She’s only here to deliver it.” He didn’t respond.

Melda popped through a minute later, report in hand. She immediately looked at Malfoy, clearly weary. He awkwardly nodded at her.

“I can’t thank you enough, Melda.” She said, grabbing the report from her.

Melda glanced between Hermione and Malfoy, “You’re alright?” 

She was hesitant to leave her.

“Yes, everything is fine.” She answered, a touch sharper than intended. The implication that she couldn’t handle herself—or that Malfoy was the threat—grated, even if it was born of concern. “You should head back to the department. I’ll be there shortly.” 

Seeing Melda in the Manor’s opulence made the entire situation feel all the more surreal. She hadn’t quite grasped how absurd this must look from the outside. She needed her to leave before she noticed the collar or thought to ask the wrong questions.

“Right—I’ll see you in a bit. Call if there is any trouble.” The Floo flared, and Malfoy closed the fireplace as soon as she was gone.

“I’m sorry about that. When I return, I’ll make sure she knows you were uninvolved.” She looked up at him, hoping to convey sincerity. She might not like him, but it was hardly fair to assume he was acting maliciously. Even if she had assumed the same just the night before in the drawing room.

“It’s no matter.” He said, eyes averted. “Let’s review this report, shall we?” 

She nodded and followed him down the hall to the sitting room. They resumed their seats from the previous night, and she spread the report on the table between them so they could read together:

Magical Artefact Recovery Report
ID: MMR-D/001113
Date of Confiscation: 18 February, 1999
Recovery Site: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
Protective Containment: Sealed within a reinforced Arcane Vault Case, layered with anti-compulsion wards.

Item Description:
Visual description provided by Narcissa Malfoy: A seamless collar of black onyx, weightless, encrusted with twelve polished emeralds set at equal intervals around the circumference. No visible clasp or opening mechanism. External diagnostic results: Emits faint magical resonance when in proximity to human magical signatures. Intricate layering of anti-compulsion wards. The object is assumed to exude residual sentience and enchantment density indicative of High-Order Cursed Artifacts. 

Cursed Properties:

Enchanted through blood magic to be keyed specifically to the Malfoy bloodline; in its current state, it recognizes only the Malfoy heir and its wearer. The collar is magically compelled to guide its wearer and the heir toward “true fulfilment.” The collar—called the Vinculum Impletio—translates to the Bond of Fulfilment. This means it will only release when both the wearer and the Malfoy heir achieve said state in tandem. The wearer is bound to the physical grounds of Malfoy Manor. All attempts to cross the estate boundary are met with debilitating magical resistance and psychic deterrents. The collar exerts subconscious influence over both the wearer and heir to facilitate fulfilment—the extent of the influence is unknown. Magical linkage requires that the Malfoy heir actively participate in the wearer’s fulfilment and vice versa; each other's own state of purpose bound together. Neither can progress without the other. The artefact is irremovable once affixed, impervious to all known unbinding spells, curse-breaking incantations, or magical interference.

Origin Notes:
According to Narcissa Malfoy, who surrendered the item willingly during Ministry clearance procedures, the object was gifted to her by Lucius Malfoy during the Second Wizarding War. Her recorded statement, provided under oath, is transcribed below:

“That collar—the Vinculum Impletio—should have never become what it is now. It frightened me from the moment I laid eyes on it. Lucius obtained it from the Dark Lord as a reward for one of those unspeakable tasks he never dared describe. He claimed it would protect us. Said it would ‘ensure fulfilment and legacy.’ But even he underestimated its power.

It spoke to me. I only viewed it once, and something about it was wrong. It wanted me to put it on. It tempted me with my desires. It promised me safety. It said that Lucius and I would do it together. I refused to wear it, I would not wear a thing that thought for itself, no matter what it could do for us. Nothing like that came without grave consequence.

Lucius used blood magic to bind it to the family. He collapsed for days afterward. Said the collar was ‘ours’ now. But I never looked at it again. I sealed it in a case and locked it in the vault. It is not just cursed—it is enduring. Alive in some fashion I will not pretend to understand. The Ministry should not attempt to destroy it. Do not open that case.”

An absolute silence followed. She couldn’t begin to absorb it. 

She reread the words— irremovable, impervious, bound. She read the report again, and again, and again . She had to be missing something. 

How could she be so reckless? 

The report was supposed to provide the solution. It couldn’t be, there had to be a way to remove it without any of this fulfilment nonsense.

The Bond of Fulfilment? What did that mean? And how could it possibly involve him ?

Malfoy was the first to break the shocked silence, “and you didn’t think to read this before opening the box?” 

His tone was insufferably patronizing. She wanted to be angry, to rail against his condescension—but he was right. For all her intellect, all her reputation, she had made a mistake with potentially irreversible consequences. 

She couldn’t admit her foolishness—not to him.

There had to be other solutions. They could call Melda back to inform the DMLE. Surely Harry, Ginny, and Ron would come. But for some reason, she didn’t want them there. Sometimes, they could be smothering. 

Years ago, when Viktor started seeing someone else, effectively ending their casual arrangement, her friends apparently thought she’d die of loneliness. They were wrong, of course. But their decision—that she couldn’t be alone—had led to weeks of unrelenting concern and interference. She couldn’t find a moment of peace. The hovering alone would drive her mad. 

No. She would need space. Quiet. Control.

Research. That was always where to start. Maybe there was a history of the collar before Lucius' acquisition. Perhaps it had been removed before. The record was only Narcissa’s account. 

And there was Padma—Padma she was the best in her field. No one was better with charms or enchantments, not even Hermione herself. If anyone could undo the enchantment, it would be her. There was also the added benefit that Malfoy was at least familiar with her. He would likely have to be involved. 

Malfoy. She still hadn’t responded to him.

“The report, it may not be entirely accurate. We should research the history of the Vinculum Impletio. There has to be another way.” 

He didn’t look convinced.

“I remember when my father brought it home,” he said quietly. “When he collapsed—my mother said he was ill, that he would recover. If the report is right... if he used blood magic like that—” He met her eyes. “You know how final blood magic is. If it’s bound us the way it claims, then there’s no removing it. We’ll have to... appease the collar. Or you’ll be trapped here.” 

He believed the report to be true.

Trapped.  

As all the possibilities ran through her mind, she hadn’t once considered what would be true if they couldn’t remove it. The word sank into her, deep and cold.

The Bond of Fulfilment. 

She wasn’t only bound to the manor. 

She was bound to Malfoy.

Chapter Text

There was nothing to say. She simply wouldn’t accept that they were powerless.

The collar was a weight. It choked her.

“Granger... if it’s research you need, my father's journals may provide answers,” he said, his voice cautious, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed her response. “I can bring you to his study, or the library. There’s bound to be some historical tomes with mentions of the Vinculum Impletio there.”

“You don’t think we’ll be able to remove it.” She said quietly. Her voice wavered despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

“I didn’t say that. If we can remove it or not, we’ll need to know more.” He didn’t snap or sound even slightly bothered. He was too calm.

Was that for her benefit or his own?

She could be calm. She had to be calm. With one deep breath, she collected her rising anxiety, placed it beyond a mental door, and shut it. 

Now was not the time to be emotional.

 “The journals,” she decided, “knowing precisely how your father manipulated the collar will set us in the right direction.” 

The report still sat in front of them. She grabbed it to cross-reference with their findings.

“Agreed.” 

The study was dark and dreary. It seemed to be another area left out of the renovations.

Malfoy pointed his wand at the desk in the middle of the room, wordlessly bringing several lanterns to life.

The light revealed that the study had indeed been left untouched. Unlike the drawing room, the furniture remained—stiff and undisturbed. The stale air led her to believe the room hadn’t been entered in a very long time. A book lay open on the desk, as if left abandoned mid-thought years ago. Yet no dust coated the surfaces—a sign of magical upkeep, perhaps.

Behind the desk, Malfoy whispered something too low for her to hear, unlocking a drawer. That must be where the journals were kept.

“His journal from 1996,” he smoothed his hand over the cover, “that’s when I saw him with the Dark Lord. When he would have enchanted it.”

Hermione joined him as he cleared space and sat down. Over his shoulder, she watched him flip through the pages. He had to be looking for a specific date.

He stopped on an entry dated the 17th of April 1996:

“The Dark Lord is pleased with my most recent contribution. At last, he has entrusted me with the object I asked for, an artefact from the old bloodlines, long thought to be lost. He called it by its true name: Vinculum Impletio. The Bond of Fulfilment.

Its craftsmanship is ancient, older than any Ministry registry. Its origin is continental, possibly traced to the Germanic, though it bears enchantments reminiscent of Grecian soul-work. The Dark Lord did not say how he came into possession of it. I did not ask. Asking for the collar was risk enough. One does not pry into the affairs of gods.

He bestowed it upon me not as a gift, but as a responsibility. Made it clear that this object was no trinket, but I already knew that.

I have begun modifications. With blood as conduit and lineage as anchor, I believe I can tie it to the Malfoy line. Not merely for control, but for protection. For legacy.

Should the unthinkable happen, this object may be our salvation. It will keep them safe. I will not let them be compromised. Not while I live. And not when I am gone.

I shall begin the bloodwork tomorrow. Narcissa suspects something already. She asked me why the east study reeks of iron. I told her I had been polishing silver.

Let her wonder. Some spells are not meant for delicate minds.”

The next entry was dated the 21st of April 1996:

“The bloodwork is complete. The collar has taken to our line with a hunger I did not anticipate. It responded to the ritual not like an object, but like a creature. It drank the incantation, fused with the offerings, and sealed itself with an unbreakable bond.

It cannot be undone. I know this. It has been impressed into our blood. I wove the seal myself, layered it with ancestral protections, dominance clauses, and a failsafe that even I cannot dismantle. The perfect protector.

I offered it to Narcissa. I told her what I’d done to ensure our family’s safety. What the object was capable of and how it was crafted to serve us. Our ultimate desire secured.

She looked at it once and refused. Said it felt wrong. Said it breathed. She was afraid to be controlled. To be a captive in our home.

She sensed my displeasure but did not reconsider. She sealed it away. A part of me wonders if she was right to do so. I fear I may have created something that should not be worn.

I heard it. The collars promise. Promises so sweet do not have a place in this war.”

An unbreakable bond. Another indication of a definitive sentence.

Malfoy went rigid in front of her—the first and only sign that any of this unsettled him.

“It’s consistent with the report. He must have told her of its properties when he offered it to her,” she confirmed.

He didn’t lift his eyes from the journal. Didn’t say a word.

It had to be hard for him—digging through his parents’ past, through the wreckage of the war. It was a hard time for anyone to revisit.

“Are you alright?”

She regretted the question the moment it left her lips. It sounded stupid. Insensitive. As if she hadn’t just read the words of his father damning them both.

Until now, she hadn’t considered him at all. Consumed by her own anxieties, she had only considered herself— her urgency, her inconvenience, her fate. 

But if they couldn’t find another way... she wasn’t the only one trapped.

No. He wasn’t alright. Neither of them were.

He gave a hollow laugh. “Discovering my father created the object that’s imprisoned you in my home wasn’t exactly on the day’s agenda.” 

“No,” she murmured, “I suppose it wasn’t.”

Lucius’ account wasn’t useless. It confirmed the use of blood magic and offered possible origins. It was something. A start.

“What happened before you came here?” He asked carefully, turning to face her. “The incident you’ve referred to—how did you come to wear the collar?”

Her vagueness would no longer suffice. It was a miracle that he hadn’t pressed sooner.

He deserved a modicum of the truth—she knew that. He’d been nothing but helpful since she’d arrived, even if he was thoroughly irritating about it. It was just that her experience felt rather… personal. Shameful even. The collar had bested her. It spoke of things she did not care to reflect on. It spoke of him.

“I’ve already told you—” 

He gave her a flat look. She hadn’t really told him anything.

“I was tired,” she admitted once again, “the collar was the last of a set of objects I was clearing. I wanted to be done. When I unsealed the box, I cast a diagnostic—but it didn’t just register enchantments or curses. It was… alive.”

He didn’t even blink at the revelation.

“I knew I should have resealed it, but then I heard the whisper. It said my name—as if it knew me. And then I couldn’t move. It sensed me. Knew I was tired. It promised me things,” she paused, revealing what it had promised— who —was something she couldn’t bring herself to say. 

“It wanted me to touch it. And when I did... I found myself on your floor and it around my neck.”

“What exactly did it say to you?” he asked, voice low.

“It’s irrelevant.” End of conversation.

He will take care of you. You will take care of each other.

That’s what it had said, among other things. She hadn’t known who he was—not then. Of course, she’d suspected Malfoy the moment she landed in his home. The report had only confirmed it. 

Each other's own state of purpose bound together. Neither can progress without the other.

The implication that her fulfilment relied upon on his care was preposterous. Likewise, she doubted he could possibly need anything from her.

Her purpose didn’t belong to a person. It belonged to the people. 

At Hogwarts, people assumed her excellence came from a need to prove herself. Being a Muggle-born meant she was viewed as less than. She couldn’t say that didn’t bother her—it did. But it was never about that. To her, knowledge was power. It was control. When it was her brain that helped the Chosen One defeat Voldemort, no one referred to her as a swot. Instead, she was the Brightest Witch of Her Age , the Golden Girl.

With knowledge, she could help people. Change what felt unfair to her. And more than that, she had. 

That was her purpose.

“You said there was a library?” she asked, already retreating into motion—back to what she understood. She needed answers.

Hermione gawked. Absurd didn’t begin to cover it.

Vaulted ceilings arched high overhead, their elegant ribs disappearing into shadow. The cool stone of the manor echoed softly with their footsteps as they stepped inside. Shelves climbed the walls like pillars in a cathedral. Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of books lined them. She’d only ever seen such a collection at the National Archive. 

Expansive stained-glass windows broke the long runs of shelving, casting coloured light across the room. The whole space seemed to glow, suspended between reverence and decadence.

It was magnificent.

She could lose herself in here. And if she did, she hoped she was never found.

“Don’t drool on the carpet,” Malfoy said wryly, watching her marvel at what he had known all his life.

She opened her mouth to retort—but to say what? That she wasn’t blown away? That she didn’t want to run her fingers across every spine and catalogue the entire collection by memory?

Better to say nothing.

He moved to approach a marble podium at the centre, its surface inlaid with etched runes. Tapping his wand on an embedded sigil, he spoke clearly.

“Repertum Vinculum Impletio.”

The podium responded with a low hum. An amber light emitted from the carvings, travelling down into the floor, and jutting towards the shelves. Several books flew into the air, slowly floating to pile onto a table below the window in front of them.

The enchanted catalogue system was… amazing. She had always admired Madam Pince’s index, but what she had just witnessed made it seem insignificant.

“Convenient, isn’t it?”

Was he trying to impress her?

“All of them are relevant to the Vinculum Impletio?”

In any other situation, the number of books would have thrilled her. She counted seventeen.

“Some will be more relevant than others,” he said. “But they all contain mentions.”

They’d have to read them all.

“Right. We should get started, then.”

After skimming the spines, she selected Enchantments Lost to Time . Given the collar was supposed to predate the Ministry registry, it seemed a logical place to start.

Malfoy reached for The Art of Sentient Spellwork .

Then he sat down next to her—not across the table, not at a polite distance, but next to her . Close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers. Close enough that she could smell him. Almond, with the faintest trace of peppermint. Clean. And unreasonably distracting.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, catching her glare.

She considered telling him to move. But they'd likely need to compare passages anyway. 

“No. It’s nothing.” She opened her book and began reading.

They had to find out if the collar had ever been removed prior to satisfaction, or at least discover its true origins. In her experience, studying the origins was the best way to decipher any complicated enchantment.

They read for hours. Every mention of the collar brought no new information. The same words surfaced repeatedly. Unbreakable. Irremovable.  

Yet, there was not a single recorded experience. The books spoke of the collar as if it were a myth. More of the same generalisations, but nothing to confirm the origins Lucius suggested. 

How he’d learned that Voldemort ever possessed it—or even that it existed—remained a mystery to her.

She needed proof it had been encountered before. And as if the library itself had heard her, her eyes landed on a spine stamped in faded gold: Encounters with the Forbidden: A Study of Dark Artefacts and Their Victims.

Chapter VII: "Willing Submission: The Case of Elenora Greaves, 1436 CE"

Among the earliest reliable records of the object now recognized as the Vinculum Impletio is the account of Elenora Greaves, during a period of intense regional magic conflict known as the Red Hollow Rebellions.

Greaves was with child at a time when magical women were being targeted by factional wizards attempting to harvest lineage-based magic. Having lost two sisters to forced siphoning rituals, Elenora feared for the survival of her unborn child and herself.

Records from a recovered journal, later authenticated and preserved in the archive at St. Augustyn’s Magical Repository, describe her encounter with an unknown witch who offered her “a way to bind what she loved most to fate itself.” The object in question was the Vinculum Impletio.

Elenora accepted the collar willingly, fastening it around her own neck in a private ritual of intent. From that moment on, no curse, hex, or tracking spell would touch her. A wizard reportedly attempted to breach her cottage’s wards and was killed instantly when he interfered with the collars will.

Upon the safe birth of her daughter six months later, the collar unfastened on its own and slid from her neck. Elenora buried it at the foot of an ancient standing stone said to be older than the Roman occupation.

Some historians cite this account as evidence that the Vinculum Impletio responds to deeply rooted desires and forms a magical contract accordingly. While her experience ended peacefully, the results of the Vinculum Impletio are known to vary.

The excerpt explained where Lucius might have got the idea to use it for protection.

Finally, a first-hand account. It may not have provided a solution, but it was a substantial lead. What it meant that it was powerful enough to kill—she tried not to think about the force that encircled her neck.

“Malfoy, look at this,” she said, passing him the book.

He read eagerly. Turning the page, he read the next account. His face quickly fell, looking ashen.

“And did you see this?” He said, turning the book back towards her. 

She read.

Chapter VIII: "Resisting the Bind: The Tragedy of Brida of Rookbourne, 980 CE"

Few documented cases of magical artefacts evoke as much sorrow—and as much caution—as the earliest known encounter with the Vinculum Impletio. The tale of Brida of Rookbourne, recorded in the oral traditions of the Rookbourne Hollow coven and later transcribed by Historian-Archivist Elfreda Mayne, stands as a harrowing example of what occurs when the collar is resisted.

Brida, a young healer, journeyed into the ruins of the village of Dunhallow following its destruction in the winter of 979. She searched for her missing lover, finding only his remains. It was there, amid the rubble, that she found the collar—pristine amidst the decay, nestled among the rubble. In the midst of her grief, she could not resist the collars lure.

Returning to her coven, Brida was not right. The collar felt like a prison in her anguish. For weeks, she ignored its whispers. Others began to notice her frantic demeanour. She said the collar wouldn’t stop, it demanded her participation. Demanded her desires. But the only thing she wanted was him, and not even the collar could bring him back.

Her coven grew worried, performing a ritual to release Brida. They thought she should be allowed to grieve in peace. The ritual was catastrophic. She screamed as the collar rioted her blood, refusing to let her go. She fainted under its power.

When she awoke, she went mad. Determined to remove the collar herself, she channelled something dark and viscous. No one could stop her as she cast the sinister spell. The collar only freed itself when her heart stopped. Her neck left smooth and unmarred, as if it were never there.

Brida’s story is often cited by scholars as proof that the Vinculum Impletio cannot be forcibly removed. Unlike other dark artefacts that seek to control, the collar seeks to fulfil—twisting need into contract. But when the wearer rejects that contract, the collar does not release. It resists. It endures.

Hermione swallowed painfully.

No. It couldn’t be. And yet—how many times could she deny what was happening?

She thought back on the times the collar had reacted. The first time—when Malfoy had taken her to the Floo. When she intended to leave. Then again at the gate, when desperation had gripped her chest. Each time, she felt it. It was urging her not to fight.

And that morning. She was certain she’d felt it stir just before they called for Melda. Melda, who’d brought the report she’d been convinced would be her release.

It wasn’t going to let her go.

“How could your father think to use something like this? And to give it to your mother?”

It was a poor thing to ask—misplaced. But she needed someone to blame other than herself.

To her surprise, he didn’t bristle. Didn’t leap to defend Lucius or insult her.

“We can’t be sure he understood,” Malfoy said, resigned. “The times were desperate. If he believed the collar could have protected us, that might’ve been all that mattered. He may not have read about Elenora Greaves. Or Brida.”

She didn’t respond—couldn’t as she thought of what it all meant.

It wasn’t in her nature to accept an unfavourable situation. There was always something to be done. Always a solution to be found.

She wanted to keep resisting. That stubborn determination had saved her life more times than she could count—had saved others, too. But it was the same determination that had killed Brida.

Panic was pointless. Emotions were distractions, unhelpful in the face of unsolved problems. But was there even a problem left to solve? A real choice?

Satisfy the collar, remain here forever, or die. 

No— there wasn’t a choice at all.

She would have to submit to the bond of fulfilment. And of all the impossible things she’d done in her life, nothing had ever felt so unbearable. So deeply exhausting.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, exaggerated, and the motion snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts.

“What?” she snapped at his annoyance.

“The wards have just informed me,” he said, voice clipped, “that your friends are currently banging at the gates.”

It was mid-afternoon, and she’d never arrived at the office. Melda told them what had happened. Where she was.

Avoidance was no longer an option. They were here.

Chapter Text

Malfoy sat stoically beside her, the subtle shifts in his posture the only sign of discomfort. Even she felt uneasy as Ron glared at him from across the room.

Harry, Ginny, and Ron sat silently, absorbing everything she'd just revealed.

After their unpleasant arrival, Malfoy had taken them to the sitting room.

They had appeared at the gates exactly as she’d expected. 

Harry’s brows were knitted in deep concern. The unexpected always unsettled him, especially when it involved the people he loved. And she was one of them. 

Ginny’s expression was less severe but equally worried. She wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Wouldn’t overreact.

Ron, however—he was furious. His face nearly matched the hue of his hair. At the mention of Malfoy, she suspected he’d wanted to bring the entire DMLE with them. He was likely the reason they all arrived with wands drawn.

As soon as they passed through the gates, chaos erupted.

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” Ron was the first to speak, of course.

Malfoy had stepped back, leaving her to face them alone. 

Before she could answer, Ginny’s voice cut through.

“Thank Merlin, you're alright. You are alright, aren’t you?” She asked, yanking her into a tight hug. Pulling back, her eyes scanned Hermione, searching for even a hair out of place. “When Melda told us where you were, I was sure she’d hit her head. I nearly called for a Healer before realising she was serious.”

“You gave her a real fright,” Ron added. “She thought you were being held against your will.”

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Why are you here?” Harry finally asked, his voice calm but strained.

“I know it’s his fault. What did he do?” Ron ground out through clenched teeth.

“We don’t know anything, Ron,” Ginny argued, “that is why we’re here.”

They were suddenly all speaking over each other. Hermione had yet to say a word.

Already, they were overwhelming her. The collar seemed to react at the thought—barely perceptible, a flash of warmth on her skin.

She felt the urge to run away. To go back to the library, where it was quiet. Where she could make sense of things.

Unconsciously, she backed away.

“I can assure you, I’ve done absolutely nothing.” Malfoy drawled from behind her.

Ron stormed forward—towards him. “Nothing? You expect me to believe Hermione is here by choice ? With you ?” He said it like the words tasted foul.

Malfoy didn’t back away.

“Believe whatever you like,” Malfoy said, plucking an invisible bit of lint from Ron’s shoulder. “But perhaps you should let her speak before making a complete fool of yourself.” He sneered. “Or maybe have a look at the pretty little collar around her neck.”

Ron turned to her. His gaze dropped to the collar. And she saw it coming—his posture hardened.

“Ron, don’t—” she and Ginny shouted at once. But it was too late.

Malfoy dodged the swing easily and, with alarming speed, drew his wand.

“ Stupefy! ”

Ron crumpled to the floor.

Malfoy calmly straightened his robes. “How about some tea?”

Later, once she’d Reinnervated Ron, Ginny had to drag him by his ear to get him to sit and listen.

Hermione told them everything. What happened in her office. What they’d read in the reports and journals. About Elenora and Brida. 

Mippy refilled their tea as she waited for them to say anything.

Ginny’s eyes flicked to the collar.

She’d warned Hermione countless times. Scolded her for working so closely with dark artefacts. Told her they shouldn’t be tampered with.

After what Ginny had experienced with Tom’s diary, her caution was more than understandable.

It was just, Hermione found working in her office easier. It gave her privacy. She didn’t want to worry about interruptions or prying eyes. Whatever she could move to her office, she did.

It had never been an issue. She wasn’t so careless… usually.

“Uh… wow,” Harry said, exhaling slowly. 

He looked at her like he needed her to confirm it again. That this was really happening.

“Yeah,” she said, offering a small nod.

“You can’t be stuck here,” Ginny shook her head. “There has to be something we can do. Some way around it.”

“No.” Hermione’s voice was firm. Final. “You heard me. It killed people who tried to interfere. I’m not risking anyone.”

“What are you going to do then? Sit around here and become best mates with Malfoy?”

“Ron, can you stop thinking about Malfoy for a single second.” she snapped, then took a breath. “I don’t know… I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Stay here, I guess. Not that I really have a choice.” 

When she turned, she found Malfoy already watching her.

“I told you it was his fault,” Ron muttered.

Malfoy looked away.

“Leave it,” she said sharply.

Ron hated him. He had long before the war and every moment since.

When they’d testified for the Malfoy's, Ron had refused. Claimed he didn’t remember what happened at the Manor.

Even though he once told her that he could still hear her scream.

Their relationship didn’t last after the war. He was content to put it all behind them. To follow Harry into whatever came next. Not that he didn’t grieve—he did. But he couldn’t understand why she kept busy. Why she chose further study instead of becoming an Auror with them.

He certainly hadn’t cared when she paced the room at all hours, unable to sleep, while he obnoxiously snored through the night without notice.

When she realised she preferred solitude to his comfort, she knew it was over. He deserved to be needed. And she wouldn’t let herself become a burden.

He hadn’t taken it well. Wouldn’t speak to her for weeks—not even for Harry’s birthday. It was an overreaction, but Ron had always been prideful like that.

Harry had ended it—locked them in a room until they sorted things out. She’d cried through her apology. Ron forgave her, even if he only pretended to understand. They couldn’t stand being apart.

Remembering the time they’d spent snogging was occasionally awkward, but their friendship never faltered again.

It was only in moments like this—when his pride showed itself in full force—that she ever questioned it.

How he felt about Malfoy shouldn’t matter right now. He was being an arse. And he knew it, too, because he didn’t say another word.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked—redirecting.

Ginny had asked earlier, but no one had waited for an answer.

Harry did. He always would.

Before him and Ginny had moved in together, she used to visit his flat in the middle of the night. Most of the time he was already awake. When he wasn’t, the sound of her appearance would wake him, and he would join her anyway. 

Sometimes they talked for hours. Sometimes she just rested her head on his shoulder and sat there quietly. Back then, he understood.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

It didn’t quite sound convincing, but Harry didn’t press.

There hadn’t been time to process anything. She was still reeling.

Just this morning, she thought she’d be back in the office by lunch, and now—

“Fine. We won’t try to remove it,” Ginny said. “But we can’t just leave you here alone.”

There it was. Poor Hermione , incapable of managing anything on her own.

“One of us can stay with you.” 

Malfoy winced. She did too—though only inwardly. 

They can’t stay here.

“I won’t be alone,” Hermione said, keeping her voice steady.

All eyes shifted to him.

“Alone with Malfoy,” Ginny clarified.

“Don’t forget Mippy,” Malfoy added smoothly.

The house-elf beamed from her corner, practically glowing with pride.

“See? Not alone,” she gestured between the two. “Besides, he has to be involved. He might be able to leave, but he’s as tied to this as I am.”

None of them looked convinced.

“I’ll have the Floo in the guest suite opened,” Malfoy said with a sigh. “I suppose you can grant access to whomever you like.” He shot them a disdainful look. “Even these three.”

“We can have daily check-ins until this is sorted,” she offered.

Ginny seemed to consider it.

“What if you need anything?” She pushed.

Hermione still wasn’t sure if she could make a Floo call. And saying she could just ask Malfoy definitely wouldn’t win anyone over.

“Mippy,” Malfoy said crisply, “please assist Ms. Granger with whatever she may need while she resides with us.”

“Mippy would be happy to serve Ms. Granger.” the elf said eagerly.

She was wearing a new dress today—a vibrant purple with tiered ruffles. It was rather adorable.

“I’ll have Mippy contact you if I need something,” Hermione said to Ginny.

That seemed to earn a small look of satisfaction.

Harry nodded his agreement. “Right. I’ll let Kingsley know you’ll be on immediate leave then.”

Leave? She couldn’t go on leave.

She volunteered her time across nearly every department. Her consultations were valued—sought after, even. There were files to review, appointments to attend, cases that required her insight.

She was needed.

Not that the Ministry would collapse without her. But she was trusted. Respected.

No one could replace her. If she didn’t do it, it wouldn’t be done.

“Absolutely not,” she said quickly, leaning forward in her seat. “Some of my responsibilities may have to be delayed or delegated, but I can continue working from here.”

“Hermione, you can’t,” Harry said gently, though the disbelief in his voice was clear.

“Of course I can,” she insisted. “Someone can bring me my books, my correspondences. Melda won’t mind.”

“It’s not about whether you can .” He shook his head. “If anyone could do it under these circumstances, it would be you,” 

“But you have to know Kingsley would never allow it,” he hesitated, then added, “with the collar’s full influence still unknown… your work would be compromised. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

His voice was soft. He knew this would be the hardest part for her.

And he was right.

She had been in denial from the very beginning—she’d rejected the collar the moment it clasped around her throat. Rejected what it meant.

But deep down, she understood what the Vinculum Impletio was asking of her. The one thing she felt utterly incapable of.

It wanted her unburdened. 

Only, she didn’t know how to exist without the intricate scaffolding of her obligations—her carefully constructed infrastructure of avoidance. Without the world beyond herself constantly demanding and distracting.

If her grip on herself loosened, even for a moment, she knew she would come crashing down.

She wouldn’t let that happen.

“Ward my office,” she said. It was the closest to acceptance they’d get from her. “Everything left is secure and can remain until I’m able to return. No one is to touch a thing. I don’t want anyone in there.”

It wasn’t only the artefacts. There were restricted files. Books that spoke of uncharted magics. Things even she shouldn’t have kept.

“Consider it done.” Harry said.

Hermione could trust that.

They hugged her goodbye. Harry and Ginny promised to come back the next day—though from Ginny, it sounded more like a threat, aimed squarely at Malfoy.

Ron was still glaring as he left. The threat was implied.

They stood in the foyer, watching the last swirl of green smoke vanish into the fireplace. She drew a deep breath—-her first since they’d arrived.

“That went well,” Malfoy remarked, far too cheerfully.

“I must say, having one member of the Golden Trio as an indefinite houseguest was unexpected enough. But to host all three? And the Weaselette?” He placed a hand to his chest in mock reverence. “My parents must be churning in their graves.”

Hermione might have laughed had she not felt entirely ill.

How could he speak about it so flippantly?

“It’s all quite the shock, I’m sure.” she said flatly.

Feeling fragile wasn’t new to her. She’d been standing on the edge of a cliff for so long, she’d grown used to the view.

In the beginning, the fear had been paralysing. Like she was one wrong move from an irreparable collapse. A breath away from the end.

So, she found anchors. She planned for everything. Every outcome. Every variable. And with each plan, there was another tether holding her steady. 

If she always had a plan, she would never fall. 

There was never a crisis that couldn’t be resolved. She was never without a next step. Never unprepared.

At least, until now.

The collar could act at any moment—make decisions for her. It was already doing so. Already keeping her here. Already taking things from her.

Ron had asked her what she was going to do. She was honest when she said she didn’t know. That was the problem, she didn’t know what to do, only what she couldn’t .

She couldn’t remove the collar. 

Couldn’t leave. 

Couldn’t work. 

Couldn’t do what was being asked of her. 

She couldn’t even think freely.

None of it—

She could do none of it without consequence. 

She was frozen.

A hand on her shoulder startled her from her thoughts.

“Granger?” Malfoy asked, tentative.

Had he said something before?  

It was like she had been somewhere else. Her heart thundered as she returned to herself.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You were just standing there. I asked you something, but you didn’t react. And then I heard…” he hesitated, his eyes fell to the collar, “it said she needs you .”

She turned away, flushing.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she mumbled.

“Where did you go?”

Great question.

She hated that he was part of this. That he would witness her unravelling. 

“I was thinking about what’s next,” she lied.

She hadn’t frozen in terror. Definitely not.  

“How about dinner?” he suggested, though they both knew it wasn’t what she meant. “It’s late, and we didn’t have lunch.”

Missed meals were part of her routine—not that he’d know.

It wasn’t deliberate. Like most things unrelated to her work, food simply didn’t make the list of priorities. It slipped her mind.

Padma loved to argue the point. Insisted that Hermione, of all people, ought to put herself first. Claimed that if the Ministry relied so heavily on her, she had an obligation to stay well. 

Padma was right, of course. Not that Hermione paid any attention.

She did, however, appreciate the snacks Padma would sneak into her desk drawers when she visited.

“Fine. We need to talk anyway,” she said.

“Yes, Granger. Let’s talk. ” He smirked.

Insufferable.

The spread was even more ridiculous than breakfast.

A whole roast chicken sat in the centre of the table, flanked by golden rosemary potatoes, fire-roasted carrots, buttered peas, and a dozen Yorkshire puddings. Personal gravy boats accompanied each setting.

It smelled divine.

“Mippy does know it’s only the two of us, doesn't she?”

“She likes to fill the table,” he said, as if this were typical. Maybe it was.

The dining room was nothing like the breakfast room.

Gone was the light and airiness. This space was carved from shadow and wealth.

The table—long enough for ten—was made of heavy oak. Each matching chair bore an emerald cushion, embroidered in gold thread. The walls were panelled in dark wood, making the room feel smaller. Intimate. Above them, floating candles cast a warm glow—a soft echo of the Great Hall.

Malfoy took his seat at the head of the table, like he belonged there.

Hermione moved toward the opposite end, but Mippy popped in, pulling out the chair beside Malfoy and vanishing the extra settings.

“Please sit, Miss.”

Well, she supposed sitting closer made conversation easier.

She took her seat with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Their plates were served for them. She didn’t mind.

“What precisely do you do at the Ministry?” he asked once they’d started eating.

Mippy returned to pour wine, and Hermione was grateful.

Casual conversation. She could manage that.

“I’m a consultant. Primarily at the DMLE, though other departments call on me.” She paused to take a sip of her wine. “My mastery’s in Enchantment Law and Magical Theory, so I assist in a variety of matters. Mainly, I examine cases with evidence of complicated magic or use of enchanted objects.”

“And is that how you came across the collar? I thought the recovered objects were stored at the Ministry.”

“They are.” She confirmed. “There’s a protocol for classification and neutralisation before anything is archived. A few months ago, I was searching for something for a case and found a series of unclassified items—leftover from the war, never catalogued. Someone must have let them slipped through the cracks in the midst of the mayhem.” 

She was still appalled by the oversight.

“It wasn’t safe to leave them in storage, so I had them moved to my office. There were nearly a hundred. I’ve been reviewing them ever since. The collection from the Manor was one of the last.”

“I see,” he said. “Interesting that you would take on the task rather than hand them off to those responsible. That’s not really in your job description, is it?”

Hermione did a lot of things outside her job description. If she wanted something done right, she was of the belief it was best to do it herself. 

Although, recent events suggested that approach had its flaws.

Her tone sharpened. “My position allows discretion in any matters related to my expertise.”

“And you’ve the time to take on just anything ?” he pressed.

“What exactly are you implying?”

They’d both stopped eating.

“I’m saying that you seem overworked,” he said plainly. “It was half past ten when you showed up last night, which means—unless Ministry expectations have become barbaric—you were working rather late. You said yourself that you were tired. Tired enough, apparently, for your enchanted leash to decide it was an emergency.”

His observation was… concerning.

“How I spend my time is none of your business,” she snapped.

He leaned forward, eyes steady. “The collar around your neck— the reason you’re here —depends wholly on discovering our deepest desires and what fulfils us. That makes everything about you my business until we find a solution.”

“If you think interrogating me about my schedule is how this works, you’re sorely incorrect.”

“Then please, Granger,” he said with a quiet challenge, “ correct me. ”

So she did.

“While I may be bound to your household, you do not preside over me,” she said, voice calm but resolute. “We’ve never cared to know each other, nor were we expected to. And yet—here we are. Bound by circumstance, not by choice.”

Her eyes met his without flinching.

“The things we have to do—we will do them together. Not at your command. Do not mistake me for someone you can intimidate. Try again, and I’ll happily demonstrate the difference.”

Malfoy didn’t even blink.

“Alright,” he said.

That’s it?

“Alright?” she echoed.

“Yes. Alright. We’ll begin tomorrow. The guest suite is yours while you’re here. I can open the Floo tonight—if you’ll allow me to accompany you to your rooms. As for your things, if you’d rather not wait for them to be brought, I’m sure Mippy would be elated to fetch them.”

At her name, Mippy appeared, nearly vibrating with excitement.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She might have preferred her friends bring them—but seeing Mippy’s eager face, she didn’t have the heart to say no.

With that, he walked her to her rooms. 

She would have to ask for a tour if she ever hoped to find them herself.

Chapter Text

The claw-foot tub was simply irresistible.

Hermione stifled a moan as she sank beneath the surface. The water was spelled the perfect temperature—hot enough to melt, not burn. The potion she’d poured surrounded her with a scent that mimicked Amortentia.

Amortentia smelled different to each person, reflecting whatever they found most attractive. It changed over time. She still remembered the last time she’d scented it—decadent chocolate and raspberry. Now, the sweetness was gone. In its place was lemon, and beneath it, a cool thread of peppermint.

Malfoy had recommended it.

He’d left only moments ago, after igniting the Floo. It was keyed to her now—she could open or close it at will. She hadn’t needed to ask. His only request had been that she never bar her friends without warning, especially if they were keen to send the entire Ministry storming in.

More surprisingly, he’d added that he wouldn’t be at breakfast. They were to meet tomorrow afternoon in the library.

She hadn’t the faintest idea what might be occupying his time. As far as she knew, he had no career. No responsibilities. If not for Blaise, she wouldn’t be sure he had a single friend. It would be a waste of time to ponder over his whereabouts. 

Relaxation was rare—a treasure she rarely let herself enjoy. Something to be savoured, as it always felt fleeting. Ephemeral.

She willed her mind to stay quiet. Focusing on the warmth instead—she felt the heat sink into her skin and settle in her bones. She let herself float, eyes closed, her head dipping beneath the surface. Underwater, she could almost pretend she was weightless. That she couldn’t tell where porcelain ended and water began.

It felt good. Too good.

She gripped the feeling, held it tightly. After the day she’d had, she deserved this, didn’t she? To feel good.

The problem with all good things is that they inevitably came to an end.

Her hand brushed her throat. The collar. A reminder of what the water couldn’t melt away.

She emerged with a small gasp. After a breath, she stood and stepped out. The tub drained instantly—leaving not even a droplet behind. Like she’d never been there at all. It seemed everything here was enchanted for convenience.

Opting for a towel over a quick-drying charm, she wrapped herself in its comfort. It would’ve taken a flick of her fingers, painless and fast. But there was something about a soft, plush towel that felt more lavish.

If she was going to be amongst luxuries, she might as well enjoy them.

Back in the bedroom, she froze mid-step.

Before her bath, she’d granted Mippy permission past the wards at her flat. She hadn’t expected to return to find nearly all her belongings scattered throughout the room.

The wardrobe stood open—her clothes hung and folded neatly inside. Her vanity arranged just as she liked it, down to her custom hair potions and Muggle products. Her favourite blanket slung across the back of the chair.

And the books.

She knew she owned many books. She’d been told, more than once, that she owned too many books. Ron had always joked he’d find her buried beneath them one day. Until now, she’d thought he was being ridiculous.

Off her shelves, their sheer number was both delightful and overwhelming.

Beside the existing bookshelf, towering stacks rose against every wall. Dozens of piles were pushed into any available space. Books covered nearly every piece of furniture. Only the bed had been spared. A single volume rested on the bedside table—the last one she’d been reading at home.

Perhaps she should have narrowed it down when she asked Mippy to bring her books.

As if summoned by thought, the elf appeared.

“Merlin!” Hermione yelped, clutching the towel tighter around herself.

“Apologies, Miss,” Mippy said, ducking her head. “Mippy came to see if Miss was pleased with her things.”

As endearing as she was, Hermione wished she’d learn to use the door.

“It’s alright, Mippy,” she sighed. “The books may have been a bit much, but that’s not your fault. Thank you for organising everything.”

“Mippy can bring tea before bed? Or a sleep potion, if Miss prefers.”

Sleep potion? That was an oddly specific offer for a houseguest.

“That won’t be necessary.”

They weren’t uncommon—much like Muggle sleep aids, they had their place. But magical ones came with greater risk. Taken too often, one might not be able to sleep without them. Abused, one might sleep forever.

Dreamless Sleep was the most notorious. After the war, overuse was rampant. Hermione had nearly become one of those cases herself—until she found alternatives.

No. She didn’t want a sleep potion.

Mippy skipped over to the bed and began turning it down. House elves thrived on service. Knowing that was the only thing that kept her from insisting on doing things for herself. She would hate to offend Mippy—even if she’d never get used to being waited on.

Shyly, the elf approached and held out a single conjured rose.

Hermione smiled. “How kind,” she said, taking the flower and lifting it to her nose. A classic red rose. Fragrant. Beautiful. “Thank you, Mippy.”

Mippy nodded, her small fists raised to her cheeks in delight. “Goodnight, Miss,” she whispered, and disappeared with a pop.

Hermione placed the rose on the bedside table.

She let the towel fall and rifled through the drawers, pulling out one of her dad’s old t-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts.

The bed called to her. She already knew it would be as comfortable as the night before. Just as she knew, sleep would evade her.

To sleep was to dream. And in dreams, her mind was free to go where it pleased. No matter how many locks and barriers she set, something always slipped through. A sound. A scream. A memory.

She didn’t know how the collar would react to a nightmare—and she wasn’t ready to find out.

Stay distracted. That was the strategy. Anything could trigger the collar: fear, anxiety, want. Avoiding it forever was impossible. But if she could figure out what to do when it happened, she might have a chance.

Her own library wouldn’t contain anything on the Vinculum Impletio. In Elenora’s account, she accepted the collar with intent. The contract was clear. Hermione needed to know more of her own acceptance.

Scanning the piles, she found her old books on meditation—a pursuit she’d long given up. Once, she believed silence might offer relief. 

That was before she discovered stillness was her enemy. That should she pause, the world would continue to move without her. She’d be left alone.

Still… maybe she could try again. Sit with herself. Find the hinge that would release her.

She opened the first book. The very first line read: “The key to meditation is letting go.”

Let go. Let go. Let go.

She slammed the book shut.

No—meditation wasn’t going to work.

What she wanted was information. To revisit the books from earlier. The manor library. If she could find it.

With the index, she could request anything. It’s not like Malfoy had banned her from roaming.

Charming herself feather-light, she slipped barefoot through the silent halls. She managed to find the familiar doors after several wrong turns.

The library looked just as enchanting in the moonlight. The books remained exactly as they’d left them— Encounters with the Forbidden still open to Brida’s account.

She resumed her place and began to read. And reread.

Eventually, she pulled more books—on spiritual fulfilment, self-discovery, personal purpose.

Reading was safe.

Answers were always just a few pages away. Time passed differently with a book in her hands. Hours could dissolve like sugar in tea. She could lose herself in stories—fiction or fact—and find comfort in knowing there was something to know.

She told herself, just one more.

Then another.

It had to be near morning when she said it again.

Just one more.

“Granger, what are you doing?”

Hermione jolted awake.

Her cheek was pressed against a suspiciously damp surface. She sat up and blinked blearily down at a book—the pages crinkled and unmistakably wet with drool.

Brilliant.

She wiped at her mouth, wincing as a sharp ache flared in her neck. When she turned, she found Malfoy standing over her, sunlight spilling across his face.

When had the sun risen?

“Well?” he asked, brow lifted.

“I was reading,” she said groggily, “and I must have… fallen asleep.”

She rubbed at her eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s the afternoon,” he replied, gaze drifting to the scattered books around her. “Mippy said you weren’t in your room for breakfast. Were you here all night?”

She considered lying—but the evidence was damning.

Judging by the exasperated look on his face, her silence had said enough.

“Merlin, Granger,” he sighed, “it couldn’t have waited? You should be resting.”

Technically, she had been resting. Just not in a bed.

She grimaced. She must look a disaster. Her hair, still tangled from last night’s bath, had likely dried in chaotic frizz. She was still wearing her dad’s oversized t-shirt.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she said, smoothing a hand over her curls. “I came for a bit of light reading before bed—”

He gave her a pointed look.

“—and I lost track of time.”

His eyes dropped to her shirt.

“What is Pink Floyd ?”

The name sounded foreign coming from his mouth.

“ They ’re Muggle musicians,” she corrected.

“And you’re wearing their shirt because…” 

He waited for her to finish the sentence.

“It’s not their shirt,” she paused, “It was my father’s,” she said softly.

She didn’t know why she said it. She didn’t usually mention her parents. Not to anyone.

“I’m going to go change,” she added quickly, already moving toward the door before he could say anything more.

“Have Mippy retrieve Potter while you’re at it.” he called after her. “I’d rather them not come barging in on us later.”

Once again, Mippy had to show her the way. Dammit.

Harry and Ginny came and went without incident.

Well— almost.

“I told Padma you were here,” Ginny said breezily. “And she said she’s going to have Blaise invite themselves over for dinner this week. To check on you.”

Hermione didn’t care for company—but she had wanted Padma’s expertise on the collar. So, she decided not to be annoyed.

Harry, again, asked if she was alright. And, again, she failed to convince him she was.

When she asked about work, they assured her not to worry. Kingsley had apparently been unconcerned. Said to take as much time as she needed.

Unconcerned . She scoffed inwardly. She supposed the Minister for Magic had more pressing problems than one cursed witch.

They agreed that one of them would check in at the same time each day. She hoped she could talk them down to less frequent visits by the end of the week.

She also hoped this would all be over by then.

Though, honestly, the chances were abysmal.

When she returned to the library, Malfoy looked thoroughly bored. Chin resting on his hand, he leaned against the table, staring blankly into space.

He straightened as soon as he noticed her.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled, brow furrowed in annoyance.

She stopped by the table, responding with a scowl of her own. He hadn’t had to wait.

His expression softened when she didn’t move to join him.

“I’m sorry… I’m just impatient,” he said, cringing like the apology had physically pained him. With a flick of his wand, he pulled out a chair for her. “Please. Sit.”

She did—but only because it was in their best interest.

Sitting with her arms crossed, she leaned back in her chair, aiming to look relaxed while also conveying her own impatience. He could start if he’d been waiting all this time.

Malfoy watched her closely. Assessing her, maybe. Or maybe he was just… nervous? 

When he finally opened his mouth, he shut it again. He was hesitating.

“Oh, for Circe’s sake, what is it?” she snapped.

“How are you?” he asked. The words sounded strained, like they didn’t come naturally.

It caught her off guard. That wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d braced herself for something more intrusive. Another interrogation. Maybe a lecture or debate. But this ?

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“I mean—” he exhaled, trying again, “—I want to know how you’re doing. I know we’re not friends, and I know I’m the last person you’d want to be stuck in this situation with—not that want has anything to do with it—but… you said it yourself. Bound by circumstance and all that.”

Unfortunately, she had said that.

“You also pointed out—quite sternly, if I recall—that we have to do this together. We have roles to play if wish to return to our lives as they were.” 

He said it like it really might be that simple. Work together. Play the game.

“You’ve figured out these roles, then?” she asked, brows raised

“Not entirely,” he admitted.

She saw two paths in front of her. 

The first—the easiest, at least logically—was cooperation. He was right, if they wanted this to end, they’d have to play nice together. Help each other. Listen. But she’d also have to listen to it . The collars whisper’s. Eventually, she would have to let go of something she didn’t know she could get back.

He will take care of you.

The words replayed. According to the collar, she needed him. But it had always been her . She took care of herself. Held herself together. To hand that responsibility over—to Malfoy —how could she possibly trust him?

The second path was avoidance. She was well practiced in that. It was easier to protect herself, to pretend. Easier to say she was fine than admit she wasn’t.

But if she kept pretending, if she played her own version of the game for too long, she might never leave. And eventually, the collar would do something—something she couldn’t take back.

She couldn’t risk that.

“All things considered, I’ve been better,” she said, then paused. How much truth was too much?

“But… I’ll be fine. Pending our plan of action.” She did not want him thinking she was prone to the hysterics he witnessed the night she arrived.

“Right—yes. Good,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about the times the collar reacted,” he went on. “Obviously, I heard it at the gates. And again after Potter and his groupies left last night.”

She nodded, ignoring his jab.

“You’ve felt it at other times, haven’t you?” he asked. His look told her there was no point lying.

She nodded again.

“There’ve been moments you’ve gone tense or quiet,” he continued. “What happens?”

He was rather perceptive. Uncomfortably so. Though, some would say the same about her.

“A flash of warmth. Sometimes a tightening.” She exhaled. “At first, I thought it only reacted when I tried to leave. But it also senses my distress.”

And shares it with him —she withheld that part.

“And what distresses you?” he asked.

Behind a locked door? Nothing. Unprepared and vulnerable? Everything.

Sometimes, it was people. As much as she worked against it, they were unpredictable. She didn’t always have the capacity for them. Their presence often set her careful planning off balance.

Other times, it was herself. If her focused slipped, she scattered. It would hit her in the form of a dream or dissociation. She’d fade away, and only the desperate need for air would bring her back.

“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

Malfoy gave a short, amused huff. “I imagine you don’t say that often.”

No. She didn’t. 

“Only recently, it seems.”

When she met his gaze, she saw it. Understanding. He knew what it felt like—to sit with the unknown and be haunted by it.

Draco Malfoy. A name that came with a reputation. A history. People didn’t need to know him to form an opinion—just as she had. An opinion that didn’t belong here.

Because this—this thing she’d just recognised in his eyes—she’d only ever seen it reflected in her own.

“You’re not the last person,” she said.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

“You’re not the last person I’d want to be stuck with,” she repeated. “I can think of far worse.”

Malfoy smiled. Not mockingly or to antagonise. It was genuine. 

The beauty of it unsettled her. Like it was a rare thing to behold—but she couldn’t say why.

“I’m sure you could,” he laughed.

She smiled back.

Then something occurred to her—something she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of before.

It wasn’t the concept the collar presented that felt impossible. Not really. It was the idea of facing herself . The fear of looking inward. She was absolute rubbish at untangling her own messes.

But she was excellent at doing it for others.

“What do you think it wants from you ?” she asked.

“The same thing it wants from you, I expect,” he replied.

That wasn’t what she meant, and she suspected he knew that. He was avoiding the question—just as she would have.

When they learned the collar couldn’t be removed, she’d started with what she knew. Control the variables. Contain the threat. She’d focused on herself. On what the collar demanded from her . 

But that had been a miscalculation.

She wasn’t the only one bound to discovery. The collar commanded both of them. Its demands weighed on both their shoulders.

Hers—and Malfoy’s.

And for the first time, she thought—maybe they could do this. 

Maybe it wasn’t completely hopeless.

Because Draco Malfoy had a problem—a need. 

And that , she could solve.

Chapter Text

When Mippy came to escort them to dinner, Hermione realised—only then—that she hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. She was starving.

Resuming their places in the dining room, they were greeted with a more modest spread—at least compared to what she’d seen.

“I asked darling Mippy to tone it down,” Malfoy remarked. “I think she was trying to impress you.”

Beef stew, spring salad, and fresh dinner rolls were more than enough to satisfy her. The only thing that could make it better—

“Mippy,” he called, “fetch a bottle of the 1976 Bordeaux, would you?” He paused, glancing at Hermione. “Do you enjoy wine?”

“Massively.”

“Make that two bottles, please,” he amended.

The elf approached the table, the bottles trailing obediently behind her. Handing Malfoy a wine opener, she floated them gently onto the table before vanishing with a soft pop.

Watching him twist the tool into the cork, Hermione felt her anticipation sharpen. She did love wine—especially when perfectly paired. The Bordeaux would compliment the meal beautifully.

He poured them both a generous glass.

“If there is ever a time to overindulge, I think tonight qualifies,” he said.

She more than agreed.

“Why use the corkscrew rather than magic?” she asked, curious. She always used magic.

He answered her question with one of his own. “Have you ever been to a winery?” 

“Once or twice. But they were Muggle establishments—of course they used the tool.”

“The tool is used at both Muggle and wizarding wineries,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Take a sip.”

She lifted the glass to her lips. The flavour was bold and layered. It unfurled slowly—first sweetness, dark fruits—cherry, maybe plum. The sweetness faded into something deeper—mahogany and spice. Her mouth dried, just enough to leave her wanting more.

“It’s exquisite,” she said, letting the taste linger.

“A bottle, sealed without magic, should be opened the same way,” he explained. “Otherwise, you risk changing the profile.”

This was her opportunity. Every conversation had been about her or the collar. If she wanted to learn anything about him, she needed to start asking the right questions.

“Are you some kind of Sommelier?” she asked.

“Hardly—drink enough wine in the right places, and you learn to appreciate quality,” he replied before taking a bite of stew.

“And where are the right places?”

“I’ve seen you at various galas and events,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve realised the wine selection is the only tolerable part of attending.”

She laughed. The events were dreadful. An evening of forced smiles, shallow conversation, and endless political manoeuvring. She only went when the presence of the Golden Trio was explicitly requested—which was too often. Even then, Harry and Ron had to drag her along. 

She’d never paused to wonder why Malfoy was there. Now that she did, she couldn’t come up with a reason. He couldn’t possibly have endured it all just for the wine.

“It certainly helps the time pass,” she agreed, taking another sip. “But why do you go to them at all?”

He didn’t work for the Ministry—she knew that much. Blaise worked in the Department of Treasury, perhaps he’d taken him once or twice. But she was almost certain she’d seen Malfoy arrive alone. Always lurking on the fringes, never speaking unless spoken to.

“When you donate millions of Galleons, you receive a lot of invitations,” he said dryly. “I usually decline, but some have been very… insistent.”

It could’ve been the wine, but the number made her dizzy. Knowing Malfoy was wealthy, and knowing he was wealthy enough to spare millions , were two very different things.

So he was rich and charitable.

She cleared her throat. “You’re a philanthropist, then?” she asked. Her voice came out hoarse. 

“In a way,” he said, smirking at her reaction. “Does that surprise you?”

“No,” it didn’t , “I just wasn’t aware.”

“And you shouldn’t be. I ask organisations to keep my donations anonymous—and I’d like to keep it that way,” he added pointedly.

She tried not to take offence. It’s not like she could go anywhere to gossip.

He refilled their glasses—glasses she hadn’t realised were already empty. At this rate, she’d be properly smashed before dessert. She reached for another roll.

“Yes—of course,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “But why are you telling me, then?”

He released a quiet sigh. “This won’t be much of a group effort if we don’t start sharing. Besides,” he added, giving her a devious look, “I’m expecting something in return.”

She arched a brow. “Expecting what, exactly?”

“Fancy a game, Granger?”

“Aren’t we already playing one against our wills?” she deadpanned.

“Ah—yes, but this one will aid our efforts. And it might even be fun.” He tilted his head, studying her reaction. “A question for a question. Truth for truth.”

That was her intention, wasn’t it? To ask him questions. To learn. But truths came with potentially disastrous consequences—especially with the thing wrapped around her neck.

“I can almost hear the gears turning in your head,” he quipped. “How about this—if either of us doesn’t want to answer, we can drink instead.”

Yes—this night was surely going to end with her pissed.

It had been a long time since she’d been truly drunk. The last time she allowed herself to reach that point, she ended up uncontrollably sobbing on the floor of her flat. Alone.

Not to say she didn’t drink at all. Social gatherings were too hard to bear without something to take off the edge. A glass of wine or two—just enough to get through the evening. But she always avoided going too far. A part of her was afraid she’d slip up again.

Tonight, she could take that risk. She had to, if she was to get what she wanted.

“Fine,” she relented. “But I get to go first. My last question doesn’t count.”

“As you wish.” He raised his glass, inviting her to begin.

“Why do you keep your philanthropy private?”

She thought she might already know the answer but wanted to hear it from him. She was tired of assuming things about Draco Malfoy.

“And I thought you’d start by asking my favourite colour,” he joked, then sighed. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m a social pariah.” His expression dimmed, just slightly. “My very presence has caused complaints. I can only imagine what they’d say if they named a building after me. I wouldn’t want my name affecting donations.”

If he were anyone else, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be revered for his generosity.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be that way if people knew the truth. No one could accuse you of wanting your name plastered everywhere if they found out you’d been donating in secret all this time.”

“You underestimate society. And I don’t care what they think of me.” He met her eyes levelly. “Swaying public opinion has never been my intention.”

“What are your intentions, then?” she pressed.

“Ah, ah, ah…” He lifted a hand, stopping her. “It’s my turn.” 

Hermione picked up her wine, already prepared to drink her way out of whatever question he’d planned.

“You haven’t even heard the question, and you’re already set to refuse me,” he observed, eyeing the glass in her hand.

“I’m a private person,” she said.

“Really? And you think I’m an open book?” he said flatly. “Privacy is counterproductive to our common goal.”

“Just ask your question.”

“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked. When she opened her mouth to answer, he added, “Other than reading.” 

Her mouth promptly shut.

There was no time for other hobbies. Reading was her respite. And even that was usually reading of relevance. She tried to think of something—anything else. Occlumency wasn’t a hobby so much as a necessary discipline. Anything tied to work was out of the question.

“Not particularly, no,” she admitted, surprised by how disappointed she felt. Her lack of leisurely pursuits had never bothered her before, but at that moment, she didn’t like how it made her look.

“Mm…” He made a soft sound, as if she’d just confirmed something for him. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice was light, teasing. That was good. 

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine—despite having already answered.

“Are we allowed to ask each other the same questions?”

“You can ask me anything you like,” he replied.

“Alright then—how do you spend your spare time?”

He contemplated her for a heartbeat before picking up his glass. “Cheers, Granger,” he said, and took a large swig, emptying it.

“That’s not fair!” she objected.

“How so?” He looked smug. “Am I not playing by the rules?”

He was—which only made it more infuriating. Even if she was smiling.

“I thought we were sharing,” she pouted, attempting to feign indignation. “Fine. It’s your turn.” 

“Don’t be cross. I promise to be more forthright going forward.” With a wave of his hand, their glasses filled again. “Now tell me—what is your favourite book?”

That she could answer without hesitation. “ The Tempest. Shakespeare.”

“How very Gryffindor of you.” 

“You’ve read it?”

“Of course I’ve read Shakespeare,” he said, sounding faintly offended.

When she asked him the same question, he’d actually answered this time. The Count of Monte Cristo.

They went on like that, question after question—some simple, some not.

“Who is your favourite person?” he asked her after they’d finished their meal.

She loved all her friends—equally. They were her family. All she had. But still, there was only one answer. One person she trusted above all. “Harry is my best friend,” she said.

“Ah—the Chosen One in all things.”

She couldn’t help laughing. 

The bottles were nearly empty—though neither of them had declined to answer a question since.

It no longer felt like a game. The deliberate questions had given way to something easier, more natural—just a conversation. Like they were friends. It was so normal… and, somehow, jarring.

“You don’t have someone special, then?”

The question struck a chord. So much so, she ignored the fact that it was technically her turn.

It would be easy to claim she didn’t have time for dating—that excuse usually worked. But in this case, it wasn’t true. She’d dated after Ron. Nothing serious, but she had. Ginny or Padma would insist some wizard they’d met was perfect for her. Sometimes she was asked directly by co-workers or old classmates. Occasionally, it was even pleasant. To share time with someone else and wonder: What if?

But the fantasy always ended the same way. When she was alone again, she remembered. The burden she refused to place on anyone else. 

Still, she sought to have certain needs met. There had been Viktor—among others. Fleeting, pleasurable distractions—they’d known what it was, that she had nothing more to offer. And it had been quite some time.

“No,” she said finally. “No one special.”

“And you?” she added, only now realising she should’ve asked that sooner. A partner would put them both in a very awkward position.

Could that be where he was this morning?

“Oh—no, not seeing anyone.” The reply came out rushed, almost like he was surprised she asked.

“Good. We won’t have any uncomfortable run-ins to worry about,” she said lightly.

He grinned. “Yes, that would have been… problematic.” He tilted back the rest of his drink and pushed out his chair. “Ready for dessert?” 

The meal had left her so stuffed she was bursting, but she wouldn’t refuse. There was always room for something sweet.

“Sounds lovely.”

He stood, offering his hand. “Fantastic. I’ll have Mippy deliver us some tea and cakes by the fire.”

She was grateful for the steadying grip when the room tilted slightly under her feet.

A single overlarge cushion sat in front of the fireplace, inviting them. She plopped down ungracefully, cheeks flushed from the wine and roaring heat. Malfoy sprawled beside her, his long legs nearly resting in the flames.

Silence fell between them—easy and warm. She closed her eyes, delighting in the gentle hum under her skin. This was what she missed. The soft haze between a little and too much. Her thoughts slowed, the ever-spinning wheels of her mind finally still.

Minutes later, a tray appeared before them. Jasmine tea and miniature cakes, perfectly arranged.

She poured herself a cup and sipped slowly, grateful for Mippy’s consistency. 

Amazingly, she wanted to continue their game. Not to pry more from him—but because she was genuinely enjoying herself.

As if reading her thoughts: “There’s no more wine to hide behind.”

“No, there isn’t,” she said. But the buzz in her veins made her brave. Like a question didn’t hold the same weight it might have an hour ago. Like she could say anything, despite herself. 

“Ask me a question anyway.”

She knew what he’d ask. The thing he’d been curious about since the night she arrived. The timing was perfect for it. She would have taken advantage of it herself had she still been determined to pry.

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” he asked softly.

The part of her that usually flinched away was absent. Fear dulled, replaced by a strange acceptance.

“I have insomnia,” she admitted. “Sometimes I can’t fall asleep. Sometimes I can’t stay asleep. It’s unpredictable.”

For the first time that day, she felt the collar stir. It didn’t tighten or burn—rather, it purred. Pleased and encouraging.

“Do you have nightmares?” he asked. 

She looked up. He was already watching her.

How did you know? The question lingered in her eyes. 

“A lot of people had them,” he answered gently.

His eyes fell to her neck. She wondered if he could feel it too—the collar’s influence curling around them.

“ Had,” she emphasized.

“Have you spoken to anyone about it? Sought treatment?”

She looked into the embers.

They’d all been encouraged to see mind healers after the war. But she hadn’t needed one to explain her symptoms. It was textbook. A trauma response. She’d read about it extensively, and not just for her own sake. The techniques were helpful for others. Just not her.

But what she’d endured with Harry and Ron… that wasn’t something anyone could dissect. And if Harry—of all people—could move on, surely she should be able to.

She managed. Occlumency may not have been a recommended method, but it helped. Enough.

Even with the collar purring at her throat, she wasn’t ready to say it all out loud. 

He seemed to understand. “You asked earlier what I do in my spare time,” he said. “I brew potions. My own recipes.”

She blinked. The revelation wasn’t remarkable. She remembered he’d excelled at the subject in school.

She waited for him to continue.

“There are some sleep potions I’ve created that might help you,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I haven’t taken a sleep potion in years. They’re too dangerous.”

“Not mine,” he said quickly. “They’re not like Dreamless Sleep. No addictive properties. No dependency.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve taken them?”

“Sometimes,” he said, not elaborating.

And suddenly, Mippy’s offer the night before made perfect sense.

Tempting. But still—she couldn’t take his word for it. Not because she didn’t trust him. But because… she couldn’t afford to not be sure.

“I’ll consider it, but I want to test it. Review the components myself.”

“Fair enough. The brewing room is off the study near the observatory. We’ll go tomorrow.”

She gave him a look.

“What?” he asked.

“There’s an observatory?”

He grinned. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice when you stumbled into the library last night.”

“I’m surprised I even found the library,” she huffed. “I’m not sure I could find my rooms now if you gave me a map.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’ve either followed you or Mippy each time.”

They laughed. Loudly, drunkenly.

“Then I clearly owe you a tour.”

“I’ll be hopeless without one,” she said through a yawn.

“Another item to add to tomorrow’s agenda.” He stretched out flat on his back. Eyes closed, hands resting on his chest, he released a yawn of his own.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. She’d always remembered him as strange.  All pointy and lanky. But now… he was something else. Toned, not lanky. Crafted, not sharp. He looked almost angelic, his platinum hair and pale skin glowing in the firelight.

She laid back beside him, their shoulders barely touching. 

Even the floor in this house was bloody comfortable.

“Did you enjoy the game?” he asked.

“The game was fun. But the wine was better.”

“Agreed,” he chuckled. “Will you sleep tonight?”

“Our favourite piece of jewellery won’t be pleased if I don’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She smiled. “Considering my near inability to move right now, I think I’ll manage.” 

She hoped she would.

He rolled to his feet with a theatrical groan. “Then it’s time for bed. Let me escort you—before you get lost and start nesting in the pantry.”

She was still smiling when they reached her door.

Inside, her walls of books greeted them.

He followed her in, amusement in his voice. “You do realise you already have a whole library at your disposal?”

“It was a miscommunication,” she said.

“Mippy can return them in minutes,” he suggested. “It’s a safety hazard.”

“It’s fine. One of them might be useful. Besides…” she looked around. “I like having them. Makes it feel like home.”

She walked to her bedside table and picked up the rose Mippy had given her, twirling it in between her fingers. A stasis charm had preserved each petal.

“Where did you get that?” Malfoy asked sharply.

She turned. His expression had gone cold. Angry.

“Mippy gave it to me last night,” she said slowly. “Is something wrong?”

His gaze locked on the flower—jaw tight, posture frozen. There was pain in his eyes. Pain she didn’t understand.

And then… nothing. His expression went blank.

“No. Nothing’s wrong,” he said, voice flat. “Goodnight, Granger.”

He turned and left.

And she was left alone, utterly confused.

But she knew one thing with absolute certainty. 

Malfoy had just used Occlumency.