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Chapter Text

May 2010: London

Hermione Granger was having an out of body experience in the doorway of a richly appointed vault under Gringotts Bank. The Lestrange vault. No, the Black vault. The Lestrange-Black vault? Her head was probably going to explode, and she didn’t care. 

“Er, Ms Granger? I’m sorry. Excuse me?” 

She had regretted taking this job from the moment her portkey dropped her in the International lobby of the Ministry of Magic. Her regret had deepened as she walked into Gringotts and forced herself into one of their stupid, absurd carts—hurtling through underground caverns where unpleasant memories threatened at every sharp turn. 

And now, in this vault, her regret was blossoming into a fulsome thing, an ocean rising fast around her legs and threatening to sweep her under. She’d been caught staring into the middle distance, surrounded by unfamiliar cases of jewels and a few neatly stacked piles of gold. 

“Okay. Take me through this one more time. Something was stolen.”

“Yes. Er…no. Maybe?”

“From the Lestrange vault.”

“Not the Lestrange vault. A Black vault. Which is actually a Malfoy vault now.”

“But you don’t know what it was.”

“Nothing is missing.”

“But there was a robbery.”

“We have the thieves in custody.”

“But they didn’t steal anything.”

“Er…not that we can prove. Yet.”

She was caught in one of those French absurdist plays. An unwilling Estragon. Or is she Vladimir? Maybe she’s Godot, finally arrived to bring the farce to its end. 

She pressed her fingers between her eyes and tried to focus. “We are standing in a Black vault that is not actually a Black vault, where a magical object that wasn’t here has disappeared in a robbery that didn't happen. And there are half a dozen Aurors standing around doing sod all—per standard procedure.”

“Right. Nothing was taken. Except something appears to be gone.”

The young man’s wizarding robes had lost their crisp promise somewhere between the meeting room in which he’d welcomed her and the decadent purgatory they now found themselves in. His eyes were steady and calm, despite his rumpled demeanor.

Hermione sighed. “I’m still on New York time, where it is currently 5am. So I’m going to need someone to explain to me, very slowly, what the fuck is going on and what I’m supposed to do about it.”

“I believe they want you to retrieve it.”

“The thing that wasn’t here that was stolen?”

“I heard someone say…misplaced. Like a clerical error.”

Her lips rolled in frustration. 

“Right. Misplaced.”

There was no broken glass, no sign that anything had gone amiss. The crime scene, such as it was, comprised nothing more than a group of bored looking aurors leaning against expensive glass cases under the watchful eye of several Gringotts goblins. The goblins eyed Hermione with particular suspicion, and she gave them a tired glare as an older man hurried over to her.

“Ms Granger! Finally! Simon Herding-Bother, associate director of Gringotts special security division.” 

He looked like a man who’d just spotted a life raft in the middle of the ocean, and shook her hand with enthusiasm. “I see young Mac here is already bringing you up to speed.”

“Indeed. Though I’m not confident we’re there yet.”

“For a witch of your calibre, I’m sure it won’t take long. Shall we?”

He gestured to the far side of the vault, away from most of the crowd.

“This is a matter of the utmost discretion, which is why we reached out to you. The sensitivity of the current moment simply cannot be overstated.”

And as he continued, she began to wonder if there was more to all of this than just a robbery.

—

Like many of her classmates, Hermione had struggled to find her place in the magical world after the war. She’d had grand ideas about implementing a series of comprehensive legal reforms, and dedicated herself to preparing for her NEWTS accordingly. Surely the chaos & disruption of Voldemort’s regime would leave fertile ground for new ideas to take root in, she’d thought. Surely there would be widespread support for improvements & efficiencies.

She had been bitterly disappointed. Her Gryffindor optimism clashed with the inertia of the bureaucracy, and all the trauma she’d collected at Harry’s side began to surface with unwelcome intensity.

She wasn’t the Golden Girl anymore, just someone who walked around with her face and her memories. 

Her first job at the Ministry had involved a great deal of…filing. As a junior assistant in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she was responsible for collecting and organizing the myriad records from the post-war trials of the Death Eaters and assorted pureblood toadies. 

She threw herself at the work with fervor, creating a new, modern file system for the DMLE and cross-referencing her paperwork with both the Department of Magical Games & Sports and the Office for International Magical Cooperation.

She’d been thrilled with the level of independence she was allowed, and had started drafting detailed plans for a DMLE division solely dedicated to financial crimes. 

But as her second year of Ministry employment came to a close, she began to realize that her project would never be given the resources or funding necessary to bring it to fruition. The Ministry liked the optics of having a bright, famous witch working in its halls, but had no intention of changing its ways. Her work was nothing more than a convenient way to keep her occupied and under control. 

As Hermione’s enthusiasm for her work began to falter, anxiety flooded the space left behind. 

Nightmares had been common for ages, of course, but navigating magical London became increasingly difficult. First she had a panic attack one afternoon passing by Ollivander’s Wand Shop. Then she needed a little ritual to soothe herself before she could enter the Leaky Cauldron. Her mind and body felt increasingly disconnected, until one day she found herself walking out of Florian Fortescue’s with a cone in hand, no money exchanged, and profoundly embarrassed when the young wizard behind the register had to chase her out of the shop to request payment. 

Her notoriety didn’t help. 

Neither did the loneliness of life outside of Hogwarts. 

Her mind healer suggested a change of scenery. She probably meant a week by the ocean, lounging with a book and eating dinner by candlelight. 

But Hermione didn’t do anything by half measures, and her anxiety had gradually morphed into something monstrous that couldn’t be fixed by sand between her toes.  

She enrolled in a 2-year cursebreaking mastery, quit her job and her flat, and left London without a backwards glance.

Goodbye to all that.

—

Simon Herding-Bother seemed eager to fill her in on the details that Mac had been avoiding. He was a shorter man with an officious air, and it was obvious he was hoping to win her approval by demonstrating his expertise.

“There have been rumors circulating recently. I was only just made aware of them, of course, because we don’t traffic in that sort of thing.”

“Rumors?”

He hesitated.

“Dark magic, Ms Granger. Sinister things with which you are of course familiar, but which an institution like ours wants no part in.”

“Of course.”

She made an effort not to roll her eyes. The last time she’d ventured this far into the Gringotts vaults, she’d escaped on the back of a dragon with a horcrux in hand.

“Tell me about the robbery. How did they manage it?”

“They entered via a vanishing cabinet that was being transported through the tunnels. We’re still trying to determine how the wards allowed it.”

Hermione’s mind caught for a moment. They’d entered a heavily warded building via a vanishing cabinet. And accessed a Malfoy vault. What were the odds? 

“How many people?”

“Three”

“So three people came out of a Vanishing cabinet into your tunnels. How did they get into the vault?”

“Unfortunate timing, really. Narcissa Malfoy’s house-elf was entering the Black vault with one of our most trusted goblins to retrieve some jewelry for Madame. They pushed their way inside but were apprehended almost immediately.”

“Gringotts security is unparalleled.” She hoped her smile looked disarming rather than sarcastic.

“The bad guys rush in, the bad guys are caught. Was anyone hurt or injured?”

“Only the thieves, Ms Granger. They did offer some resistance.” His grimace told her more than she wanted to know.

“You keep calling them the thieves, Mr Herding-Bother, but it sounds like they were simply intruders. Amateurs. Quite a lot of fuss but no harm done.” 

Had she really taken a portkey in the middle of the night to talk a Gringotts middle-manager down off the ledge? She’d been here for over an hour and was no closer to understanding why she’d been engaged, unless they thought her teenage exploits offered insights into preventing future Gringotts intrusions.

Herding-Bother replied with a frown. “I'm afraid we can't be confident of that. You see, we’ve recently added a new layer of security for a few of our most important customers. Extremely sophisticated, though still somewhat experimental.” 

Hermione’s interest piqued as the young wizard—Mac?—eagerly interjected.

“Goblin magic is very old. It’s powerful, but somewhat rudimentary. It keeps treasure in, it keeps undesirables out. It works best for goblin-made objects. And of course, it can be fooled.” He gave Hermione a knowing look.

“Our division is working to enhance the underlying security with the addition of more modern approaches. I’ve developed a system that monitors magical signatures, allowing us to pinpoint the type & strength of magic inside some of our high-priority vaults. It’s not enough to know that there are 3 wands in your vault. Now we can say with certainty that they are the same 3 wands that were there yesterday. It can even discern the difference between goblin-wrought gold and Muggle-mined gold.” 

His eyes lit up at this last detail.

“And you were tracking the magical signatures on the Black vault?”

“Indeed, Ms Granger. When Mr. Malfoy learned about what we were developing, he was quite eager to participate.”

Hermione turned towards Herding-Bother with a frown. “What does all this have to do with rumors and dark magic? Are you powering your new system with blood & shredded goblin souls?”

He looked taken aback, and she felt a brief surge of satisfaction at scoring a point in this ridiculous intrigue.

“Nothing of the sort. Mac keeps on top of the latest advancements from America and the Continent. The magic is perfectly above-board and extremely precise.”

He paused with a troubled look. “We have reason to believe that this vault was targeted, in particular, due to certain rumors that have been circulating. Load of nonsense, if you ask me. But there have been whispers…whispers among the wrong sort of people, you understand, about a weapon created by You-Know-Who and hidden away by Madame Lestrange.” 

“A weapon? What kind of weapon?”

“The stories vary. Some say it was something that amplified his power 100 fold. Others say it’s a device that can stop time for all but the wearer. A few stories are even more fantastic, but you get the idea.”

Hermione set her lips in a firm line. “That sounds like third rate Death Eater rubbish.”

Herding-Bother wobbled his head back and forth in an ambivalent way. “It may be, Ms Granger. I certainly hope so. But a lie everyone chooses to believe is virtually indistinguishable from the truth.”

He paused and looked past her with a pained look. “The problem, you see, is that the magical balance on the Black vault changed during the intrusion.”  

“The balance?”

Mac interjected quietly. “We maintain a tally of magic in addition to an inventory of objects and currency, based on the magical signatures. The amount of stored magic within the vault dropped considerably after the break-in, even though nothing appeared to be taken.” 

The older man nodded. “Something powerful was removed from this vault Ms. Granger, and the Ministry is having kittens about it.”

“Surely Malfoy can sort this out. It sounds like quite a mix-up, but I can’t believe he’s been sitting on a Dark artifact like that for nearly a decade without Gringotts or the Ministry noticing.”

Hermione tried to imagine Draco Malfoy, failed assassin and ferret extraordinaire, possessing a powerful weapon of Voldemort’s own design inside a vault that looked like Harry Winston’s Fifth Avenue salon. It staggered the mind. She wanted to go home. 

The older man looked thoughtful, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Mr. Malfoy has given us complete impunity to resolve this matter. No stone shall be left unturned. But he has no additional details to provide regarding the contents of the vault.”

Well then. She filed that away for further reflection. “What else can you tell me about the object that was stolen?”

She was trying very hard to line the pieces of this robbery up in her portkey-lagged brain.

“There’s really nothing much to tell. Mac can explain the arithmancy around its magical value, but otherwise we have no idea. It could be anything. The uncertainty is creating a great deal of unease and of course, spawning additional rumors. The Prophet is absolutely obsessed with the matter, printing all manner of outrageous fabulism. I’m sure it sells papers, since there hasn’t been a security incident at Gringotts in…quite some time.”

He had the decency to look away as he said it. 

“Minister Shacklebolt recommended you personally to help us resolve this as quickly as possible. Once the public knows you’re involved, I’m sure that will put a pin to the worst of it.”

Hermione felt a cold tingle creep up her neck to the back of her skull. “There’s really no need for that I’m sure.”

“I believe my superiors will insist, Ms. Granger. The current climate…well, any threat to the bank’s reputation is a threat we take seriously. I’m sure you understand.”

Hermione didn’t understand, but it was too early in the day for her to sort out the political implications of a botched robbery. Perhaps Harry would be some help.

“Of course.” She tried to keep her face neutral as a churn of anxiety crept into her stomach. Merlin, she didn’t want to be the poster girl for fixing whatever mess Gringott’s had got itself into. 

“Just one more question. You said the thieves entered the tunnels via a Vanishing cabinet. Who does the cabinet belong to?”

Herding-Bother’s face froze in an awkward expression. “Unfortunately the provenance of the cabinet is…somewhat obscure. But no matter. The cabinet is not the issue, as I’m sure you see. You must focus your efforts on retrieving whatever was misplaced from the Black vault.” He nodded to himself. “That will set everything to rights.”

Mac stepped forward with a tight smile. “I’ll be happy to escort you back to the lobby whenever you’re ready.”

—

Hermione stepped out of Gringotts into Diagon Alley and took a deep, steadying breath. Goblin stares had followed her as she emerged from the tunnels and walked carefully towards the doors. Kingsley’s message the previous day hadn’t mentioned the bank at all; she could only assume that was deliberate.   

She popped into the public owlery to send a note to Harry, then walked into muggle London deep in thought. 

Since finishing her curse-breaking mastery, Hermione had based her life out of New York, working for a consultancy that specialized in tracking down obscure magical objects. Her clients were wealthy, private, and often eccentric, but she didn’t mind. Life in America afforded her a level of freedom and anonymity she hadn’t known was possible.

The world of magical objects was fascinating, though often plagued with exaggerations that bordered on myth. Much of her work was deep research, spending entire weeks in various libraries and archives, looking for original sources or tracking familial connections. 

She had taken a particular interest in the work indigenous wizards were doing to identify artifacts lost during European colonization. Her studies in Belize and Malaysia had broadened her view of both the wizarding & muggle worlds, and allowed her to travel for months at a time. Hermione didn’t mind; staying in one place for too long often caused her a deep sense of unease. Moving from one project to the next, pursuing her quarry with single-minded determination—the years had flown by and she’d barely noticed. 

Unfortunately, her career had strained her relationships with her friends back home. She and Ron were rarely in touch, except perhaps for an owl at their birthdays. It was easier reaching out to Harry, whose work at the DMLE was sometimes similar to her own. She’d come back 4 years ago when he & Ginny married, but hadn’t bothered since. 

Thinking over her fractured connections to Britain’s wizarding world, Hermione wondered again why she’d been engaged for this job.

The facts that she’d been given simply didn’t add up. How was she supposed to identify this weapon that was supposedly stolen? Why were her new clients so focused on an object they couldn’t even identify, and so uninterested in the break-in that had actually occurred? 

Her mind kept drifting back to Draco Malfoy. His name was barely mentioned—yet he seemed to be up to his neck in the entire affair.

As she walked towards the Bloomsbury hotel, she reminded herself that this was just a job, and hopefully a short one at that. She’d take it piece by piece, and eventually she’d find exactly what she was looking for.

Chapter Text

Draco

“Alright you sad wanker. I’m here to listen to you gloat.”

Theodore Nott stepped out of the fireplace in Draco’s office and brushed his shoulders off with a deliberate flourish. “Five minutes. I’m being very generous. Better use it to your advantage.”

He dropped the Prophet on the desk and collapsed dramatically into a leather armchair.

Draco’s eyes were flat as he glanced up from a thick folio of paperwork. It was a miracle Theo had waited this long to pop in and take the piss. 

“Shall I use this time to discuss my general superiority? Or is there a particular accomplishment you would like me to elucidate?”

“Don’t be a git.” Theo waved at the goblins bobbing angrily above the fold of the front page. “This Gringotts faff is all over the paper. Just imagine my surprise —he blinked his eyes like an overeager ingenue—when I saw your name in the last paragraph.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. 

“Couldn’t find enough gold under the sofa cushions to keep your name out of it entirely? Or is this all part of the master plan?”

“Bold of you to assume there’s a master plan,” Draco finally replied. “My solicitor owled the Prophet with a statement as soon as we were notified about the breach. The facts are the facts.”

“Mmm, yes. And what are those facts again, exactly? My reading comprehension is shite.” Theo pinned him with a perceptive stare. 

Bloody hell. 

“Couple of punters had a go at the Black jewelry vault. The goblins did what the goblins do, and now the Aurors get to make some fun new friends. Business goes on as usual.”

Draco hoped his casual tone would be enough to satisfy Theo’s curiosity.

“Ah yes, business as usual. Wouldn’t want anything to disrupt that now would we?” Theo’s grin was cold and merciless.

He continued with glee. “The rumors around the Ministry are much better than the half-baked slop in the Prophet anyway. I heard there was a vanishing cabinet involved.”

Draco knew better than to Occlude in front of Theo. He hoped the sneer on his face seemed natural enough. “If that’s all it took to get past the goblins then I’m closing my vaults immediately.”

“No need to fret darling. I also heard Shacklebolt has called in an expert to get it all sorted. Some hired wand from abroad.” Theo’s eyes shone with delight.

Draco tried not to get his hopes up that this so-called expert would be better at their job than the clown car of buffoons the Ministry usually deployed. 

“Nice to see him finally acknowledge the mediocrity of Potter and pals. Are you giving me a chance to gloat about how I always knew he’d be absolute bollocks as an auror? The DMLE is a joke that even the Weasleys wouldn’t bother to sell.”

In typical Slytherin fashion, he was sprinkling bits of honesty in amongst his lies and evasions. Draco didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt.

“Nah mate. Just thought you’d like a chance to tell me how you pulled it off before the Ministry is halfway up your arse.” 

“And what did I pull off, exactly?” Draco affected an innocent tone. “I’m the victim here Theo! My vault was violated ! Absolute cretins putting their filthy fingers all over the family heirlooms. Shouldn’t you be offering to take me out for a drink to soothe my poor rattled nerves?”

Theo chuckled. “The aurors are crawling all over Gringotts like beetles on a pile of dung. The Prophet is screaming bloody murder and the Wizengamot is so scared, they couldn’t wank if you lubed up their hand and wrapped it around their cock for them.”

“I don’t know what the fuss is all about,” Draco snarled. 

Theo took on a serious tone. “Someone broke into bloody Gringotts! I rather admire the panache, if I’m being honest. But if there’s something missing too? Something leftover from the war? From one of YOUR vaults?”

Worry shadowed Theo’s face. “I just hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m not doing anything other than assisting the investigation as a concerned citizen and law-abiding wizard.” Draco leaned back in his chair and forced his shoulders to relax. 

“Well then, if that’s the way you want to play it.” Theo smirked, all traces of worry gone as his eyes danced towards the windows. “You coming round for drinks Friday?”

The Slytherins met for drinks every Friday at Nott Manor. It had started as a reliable way to see some friendly faces after a week in a decidedly unfriendly post-war wizarding world, but they’d kept with it even after they’d made their way back to respectability.

“Unfortunately I can’t. The Ministry is having a small do for high deposit holders at Gringotts.” Draco put a grimace on his face as he continued. “They say it’s to assuage our concerns , but I think they just want to make themselves feel better. Clap everyone on the back, tell us to get on with it and not make a fuss.”

He didn’t want Theo to know that he was secretly looking forward to having cocktails with an assortment of wealthy pureblood bigots. His plans hinged on encouraging certain thoughts & beliefs among his father’s former business associates.

“My invitation owl must’ve got lost in a storm.” Theo gave him an exaggerated wink and hopped out of the chair. “Right. I know you don’t want to hear it, but be careful. My constitution is far too delicate to make regular visits to Azka...”

A loud tapping at the window interrupted him. Draco opened the window to allow a puffed up grey owl to offer him a small roll of thick, creamy parchment.

“My mother,” Draco frowned. “Can’t imagine this is anything good.”

Theo laughed as he walked back towards the fireplace. “Good luck with that mate. Send us an owl, yeah?” He disappeared in a burst of green flames, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts.

—

Narcissa Malfoy was far too well-bred to send Howlers. Her sense of decorum, not to mention her desire for privacy, meant that she would never allow a piece of paper to scream at anyone on her behalf, including and especially her beloved son.

Nevertheless, Draco could feel her ire in every word on the page. 

“...when I was notified about this unfortunate incident…” 

“...dearest Mipsy, you can no doubt imagine my shock and concern…”

“...association with the Malfoy name. Surely you agree that…”

Draco sighed. It couldn’t be helped. 

He wandlessly vanished the parchment and turned back to the folio on his desk, thinking over what Theo had said. 

The Minister was bringing in a so-called expert to fix the mess he’d so carefully crafted at Gringotts. On the one hand, he was delighted. It meant his efforts were having exactly the desired effect. But on the other…it was a complication—a new variable in his schemes that he hadn’t accounted for. 

Draco opened a drawer in his desk protected by the strongest blood wards he knew and removed a small blue notebook. He picked up his fountain pen to query the person on his payroll most likely to have the information he needed.

“Heard the Ministry hired an expert to deal with the situation. What do you know?”

He waited a few moments until the notebook warmed to his touch. A new message appeared on the first page inside.

“The stories about the missing object have taken on a life of their own. They think they can put this to bed by reassuring the public it’s been found & destroyed. Brought in Hermione Granger from New York this morning.”

Draco felt his eyebrows go up in surprise. He’d expected a security expert, possibly from America but more likely Switzerland. Not a swotty antiques hunter. Once again, the Ministry managed to impress him with the sheer magnitude of their incompetence.

“Granger is going to hunt for the missing object then? Not review the vaults or evaluate the wards?”

“She’s asking a lot of questions. Most of them good ones. Hard to know where that might lead. Her job is to make everyone feel that this is under control.”

He thought for a moment, remembering Hermione from their years in school. Not easy to fool, that one. And not someone who gave up easily, even if she was insufferably smug about it. Potter got most of the credit for defeating the Dark Lord, but Draco knew who the brains of the operation had really been. He might be able to turn this to his advantage after all. 

“She is a know-it-all who makes everything her business. Give her some hints about the bank. Don’t make it too obvious. She’ll figure it out.”

“Can do.”

—

After the war, Draco had returned for a final year at Hogwarts. He needed the time to revise for his NEWTS—and to put himself back together, both mentally & physically. It had also been a condition of his probation. 

He’d been held in Azkaban for weeks after the final battle, alone in a damp cell convinced that his life as a young wizard was over. Night after night he tried to envision what his future could have been if he’d made better choices, then crumpled those dreams into dust, embracing his fate. Slowly, methodically, he had annihilated all of his hope, fear, and curiosity.  (He didn’t annihilate joy; that had already been destroyed by the Dark Lord.) Using the techniques he’d learned in his Occlumency training, he made himself an empty shell. It was easier to accept things that way.

When the door opened one day and his mother’s solicitor appeared, he was barely capable of registering surprise. 

Returning to Hogwarts meant returning to places that filled him with guilt and shame (the only two emotions he was feeling on a regular basis), but it was better than returning to the Manor. He kept mainly to his room, avoiding the Great Hall and the Slytherin common room as much as he could manage. Gone were the days of ordering Crabbe & Goyle to do his bidding in the name of serving the Dark Lord. He shadowed the halls like a ghost, only slipping into the library late at night to avoid other students.

Which is how, turning a corner close to midnight, he encountered Hermione Granger at one of the large library tables, surrounded by books and bathed in the eerie glow of a jar of small blue flames. She had her back to the windows, with a clear view of the aisles, and she’d quite obviously spotted him before he’d even realized she was there. 

“I hope you aren’t here to borrow my Arithmancy notes, Malfoy,” she said, sliding a book off the nearest stack. “I think I dissociated for the last half of the lesson yesterday, and I’m ready to give it all up as a bad job.”

He stopped, staring at her for a moment too long, before he cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. 

“I’m not sure what you mean exactly, but I didn’t expect anyone else to be here. Sorry to intrude.” 

He couldn’t believe she was talking to him as though they were picking up a conversation they’d been having over dinner earlier. It was almost worse than what he’d expected: angry silence.

“Maybe I should ask you for your notes instead.” She looked at him matter of factly, and he thought he could feel himself getting smaller under her gaze, even though it wasn’t unkind. 

“My penmanship may be excellent Granger, but I’m not sure I caught more than a few sentences myself.” It was a lie, but a gentle one—something to extricate them both from this awkward moment as painlessly as possible.

“Well, perhaps we’re both out of luck. But if you change your mind, I’d be quite grateful.” 

Draco had retreated from the library, too stunned to remember what he’d even gone there to look for. The next morning he penned a short note and attached it to a geminio of his Arithmancy notes. 

No gratitude necessary. You are owed more than this.

DM

—

He ran into her in the library often throughout the year, always alone and late at night. He never asked her why she was there, and she always greeted him as though meeting in the library after midnight was a perfectly normal thing for the two of them to do. 

And maybe it was, actually. Maybe the war had shifted what was normal for both of them, destroying all sense of ordinary expectations and leaving them cast ashore in a land that was at once utterly familiar and wholly foreign.

They weren’t friends, exactly. But they weren’t enemies either. Granger had set the new terms of their relationship from the start, and he had followed—reluctantly at first, wary of this new familiarity she had assumed. 

Over time their interactions became more practiced, more familiar, like a dance to which they both knew the steps. Talking to Granger wasn’t like talking to Theo or Pansy; she had a way of disarming him by being alarmingly frank yet vulnerable all at once. Sometimes he wondered if she was baiting him, testing to see if he’d fall back into his old patterns. He was confident she was prepared for anything in those moments, and part of him wished he could see her rise to the challenge. He thought he’d enjoy that, even if it were at his expense.

“Do you ever wonder,” she asked him one night, just weeks before they were to sit their NEWTS. “If our magic is limited by the scope of our language?” 

She was pulling books out of the small bag at her side; he had realized months ago that it was far more capacious than it had any right to be.

“Wittgenstein said that the limits of his language defined the limits of his world. I wonder if there are entire types of magic that are possible, for which we just lack the proper words,” she said.

Draco sat back, giving the matter some thought.

“Magic is, at its essence, an expression of our desires. A way to enact our will on the world around us. It is…power, though I know it’s indelicate to talk about it in those terms.” He shifted a bit, thinking about particular wizards and the way they had imposed their will on the world around them. “Perhaps we are only limited by our imagination, by what we can conceive of willing into the world. And maybe language is part of that, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of Wittgenstein.”

Hermione tapped the end of her quill on her parchment, deep in thought.

“You’d think that a limit of imagination would be a limit on power,” she mused, “but I’m not sure that’s the case. Sometimes I think wizards with limited imaginations are actually the most dangerous.”

She smiled then, as her mind raced from one thought to the next. “Perhaps I need to expand the scope of my desires, if I wish to expand the limits of my abilities.”

It was both simple and profound, said like that, and Draco was struck by the realization that Granger thought about magic in ways that were wildly different from anyone else he’d ever known. His magic was something he took for granted, like breathing; he had even resented it in some of his darkest moments. But she made magic seem wondrous in a way that had been lost to him for years. Like something full of light and possibility.

—

Once the term was ended, he’d lost touch with Granger along with most of his classmates. He had a year of mandated rehabilitation to complete, and he’d heard she’d taken a job at the Ministry. 

It was a colossal waste of talent, a mind like that at the mercy of so many wizards of so little imagination. He was glad to know she’d moved on to bigger and better things. 

But now…she was back. And she had landed right in the middle of all of his plans. 

Draco sat back and stared out the window, turning this latest development over in his mind and arriving at a surprising conclusion. The idea of having Hermione Granger’s attention on him didn’t bother him at all. In fact…it might be the most fun he’d had in ages. 

Chapter Text

In the watery grey light of a new day, Hermione’s latest project continued to disappoint. 

“Is that…is he speaking Bulgarian?” she asked, watching the interrogation through a one-way glass. 

A translation charm displayed a transcript of the interview on the wall next to her, though it was doing a particularly shoddy job.

“Slovenian, actually.” Harry said around bites of a scone he’d grabbed from the Ministry cafeteria downstairs. The crumbs were absolutely everywhere. “Took us awhile to figure that out.”

“Maybe you didn’t know that it was a bank you were trying to rob?” The auror on the other side of the window was trying a friendly approach with one of the three wizards apprehended from Gringotts. “I’m sure you didn’t realize the seriousness of what you were attempting to do.”

The man in chains waited until an eerie voice finished translating his question into something that might be Slovenian, then replied with few gruff words. The translation on the wall updated a moment later.

“I don’t care when you’re dancing about. I can’t do things.”

Hermione stared at the words and sighed. “Seriously? This is what you’re working with?”

Harry held his hands up in defense. “Not my case Hermione. Trowbridge in there has the lead. I’m only here because the Minister asked me to help you.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt had welcomed Hermione warmly that morning as she entered the DMLE wearing her visitors badge. It was an odd feeling, being back in her old office as an outsider. She found she didn’t mind it, especially when he made it clear that the DMLE was at her disposal. “Anything you need, anything at all, Potter & Robards here will be happy to provide,” Kingsley said.

Hermione thought they could start by providing her with a few decently competent wizards—perhaps someone who could cast a functional translation charm at the very least, but she knew better than to say that out loud.

“Alright then. Tell me about the suspects.”

“There’s a greasy one, a scowly one, and a young one. This is the scowly one. Trowbridge thought he might be overcompensating for a bowel-watering sense of terror—we could work with that—but I think he just doesn’t give a fuck.”

“Typical criminal masterminds,” Hermione replied. “Who’s the leader?”

“Probably the greasy one, we’re not sure. None of them are saying much.”

“And you got approval for Veritaserum?” Hermione knew that for a high profile case like this, they’d be fast-tracking every possible mechanism.

“Yeah, early this morning. Sunshine here got his dose awhile ago, but we think he’s an Occlumens. He’s giving us next to nothing.” 

“Bring in the young one. I want to talk to him.” Hermione only knew a few rudimentary interrogation techniques, but she thought the youngest of the group might be susceptible to persuasion.

Harry gave her a serious look. “You sure about that? We’ll be at this all day, I can send you the notes.”

Hermione made a dismissive sound in her throat. “You mean the pile of rubbish this translation spell is giving off? Don’t bother.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her and walked to the door, reappearing in the interrogation room a few moments later. Trowbridge seemed grateful to take a break, and within a few moments they escorted the suspect out of the room. Hermione noticed that he wasn’t wearing typical wizard robes, but something rather more form-fitting. Almost like muggle tactical gear. 

She didn’t know what she’d expected from the men who’d successfully compromised Gringotts. The next generation of Mundungus Fletcher? 

A few minutes later, Harry opened the door and pushed in a young wizard wearing the same form-fitting clothes. He was rather handsome, Hermione thought, and as he shuffled towards the chair in the center of the room, she couldn’t help but notice what Witch Weekly would undoubtedly call a cracking pair of Broom Thighs.

Suddenly, the tight-fitting clothes made a lot more sense.

Trowbridge opened her door, motioning for her to join Harry in the interrogation room. As he locked the door behind her with a loud click, Hermione took a deep breath before her anxiety could spike. This was just a job, just a few moments of her life, and she could walk out of this room at any time.

She raised her wand, and made a bit of a show casting finite incantatum towards the translation box on the far side of the room. 

“Hope you don’t mind me turning that off,” she said with a smile towards the man. “I don’t think we’ll need it.”

The young wizard watched her carefully, his eyes following as she leaned against the table in front of him. 

“I know this is rather unprofessional of me,” Hermione tried to look reluctant as she made her opening gambit, “but would you mind terribly giving me your autograph?” 

Before he could stop himself, the suspect broke into a large smile, his right hand reaching out instinctively for her quill before snapping against his chains. 

Harry glanced over at her with a start. “What are you talking ab…?”

“Quidditch Harry. This gentleman is a star player.” Hermione didn’t know that for a fact, but she knew every wizard’s ego loved a bit of buttering up.

“He plays Quidditch professionally, he speaks English, and he’s got himself caught up in an awful mess. Let’s see if we can help him out, shall we?”

—

An hour later, thanks to a bit more flattery and a healthy dose of Veritaserum, they were finally getting somewhere. 

The thieves were professional Quidditch players, all Durmstrang graduates, recruited by an unknown wizard to retrieve an unusual item from a vault inside Gringotts in exchange for a hefty pile of Galleons. 

“It’s a collectible,” Luka said happily, urged along by the potion thrumming in his veins. “I was told…something very special.”

“And why is it so special? What does it do?” Harry was taking the possibility of a new dark weapon extremely seriously. 

Luka looked confused. “I am not sure. It is large. Unique.”

“How large?” Hermione was still trying to understand the logistics of their plan. “And how were you going to get it out of the tunnels?”

“Big box. More than 4 meters long. But we would shrink it. It’s no problem.” He stared thoughtfully for a moment. “We would ride out on brooms. Good flyers, you know? But our brooms weren’t there.”

Harry looked up from his notes. “So you found the box?”

Luka shook his head. “No. There was no box inside the vault. I saw only cases of jewelry.”

“And you weren’t interested in jewelry?” Harry asked. 

“The job was the box.” Luka looked offended. “I am not some common thief.”

Hermione felt they were getting off track. “Right. So just a large box then? Any distinctive markings that would help you identify it?”

Luka grinned. “The box has a shark in it. We would recognize the shark. Big teeth.”

Harry jumped at this revelation. “You were stealing a shark? A live one?” She could see the memories of Nagini playing across his face. He was already thinking about strategies for the coming war against shark-wielding dark wizards.

Hermione had a sudden, sinking realization. “Do you mean a clear box? See through? With a large dead shark in it?”

“Yes. Just that,” Luka replied. “Get the shark box. Make it small. Fly out. Easy.”

Hermione sighed. “That is The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living . The Damien Hirst! You were hired to steal a Damien Hirst out of a Gringotts vault!” Once again, she had the sense that the universe was making a joke at her expense. 

Harry and Luka looked at each other in confusion. 

“Er…what’s a Damien Hirst?” Harry was doing his best. She still wanted to throttle him. 

“It is one of the most famous pieces of British art in the last half century,” Hermione hissed. “It is incredibly valuable but also entirely muggle.”

Harry looked skeptical. “I think we’re talking about different things, Hermione. A shark in a box isn’t art.”

Luka nodded in agreement. “Not art. Not death. Just a shark in a box.”

Hermione stared at the ceiling and wished for the hundredth time that her circumstances had allowed her to refuse this job. She could be back at her favorite table in the Butler Library. She could be enjoying the Cloisters, or walking along her favorite stretch of Riverside Park. She could be doing literally anything else than trying to explain contemporary art to two magical jocks in a room that felt smaller with every passing minute. 

“It is a meditation on the inevitability of death! A juxtaposition of preservation and impermanence! A searing critique of the role of capitalism in the world of art!” Hermione was practically shouting now. “And as far as I know it is still on exhibit at the Met where I’ve viewed it at least 3 times.”

She dropped her quill on the table in front of her with a huff and continued. 

“It is not sitting in a vault in Gringotts. And even if it were, I don’t know why anyone would try to steal it from here, when the Met and its shark and its utter lack of goblin security is right there.” 

This was a waste of time. Someone was having them on and she wanted no part of it. She stood up and took a deep breath.

“I’m going downstairs for a coffee.”

—

As Hermione walked through the DMLE bullpen, she allowed herself to mentally compose a few paragraphs of her hypothetical resignation letter. She wasn’t sure how to turn “I think you’re all being extremely foolish” into something polite and constructive, but she had the rest of the afternoon to figure it out. 

Promising herself that she would wrap this entire ordeal up as quickly as possible, she slid into the far corner of the lift—keeping back from a flock of inter-office memos—and reviewed the state of her affairs.

She had no original sources. That was her first major problem. When searching for a magical object, Hermione tried to rely solely on original sources to direct her efforts. Photographs, paintings, journals, wills, bills of sale—such things were usually a luxury, especially outside of major cities, but they could be the difference between success and failure. 

She didn’t have secondary sources either. No articles to reference, no descriptions to compare. Not even a book of children’s tales for her to pore over late at night. She never thought she’d work a job that compared unfavorably to that awful, tedious horcrux hunt, and yet here she was. 

The elevator swerved and lurched as Hermione allowed her mind to review everything she’d learned since yesterday. 

How could something disappear in a failed robbery, when all the suspects had been caught? Was there an accomplice they didn’t know about? Did they Vanish something in the moments before they were apprehended? 

The team at Gringotts was convinced that something had been removed from the Black family vault. And although the idea that it was a weapon seemed about as likely to her as a gentle embrace from Devil’s Snare, the interview this morning had convinced her that this was more than just a big misunderstanding. 

Someone had hired three professionals to break into Gringotts. She wanted to know how they did it, and more importantly—why.

Based on what she knew, she had a strong suspicion that that entire heist was just a cruel setup. Luka and his friends were never going to fly out of the bank with a shark in a box. But to what purpose? A distraction from the real crime? Why had the magical balance on the Black vault changed?

As she crossed the Atrium towards the cafeteria, Hermione worked to refocus her efforts. If she could run down the source of these rumors and help the Ministry discredit whatever loose talk was making its way around, that would buy her some time. If she could connect the rumors to this daft break-in—Merlin, how was she going to explain the bloody Hirst to Kingsley?—even better. And if she could find an opportunity to question Malfoy, maybe she could learn enough about the contents of that vault to figure out what had really happened.

“Hermione!” She turned to see familiar red curls darting towards her from beyond the fountain. 

“Percy!” 

It had been absolute ages since she’d seen the extended Weasley family, but Percy’s stiff posture and serious look hadn’t changed a bit in the intervening years. 

After her break-up with Ron the autumn after the war ended, she’d occasionally wondered if she had, in fact, pursued the wrong Weasley brother. Percy was intelligent and driven; he took his work at the Ministry seriously, and had quickly taken on more and more responsibility as special assistant to Shacklebolt. 

Hermione wasn’t sure if she’d ever find someone who could match her professionally or intellectually. But for a few months, in the depths of an acute loneliness that was exacerbated by her growing anxiety, Percy seemed like he might have potential. 

Until one afternoon at the Burrow, when he’d spotted her removing Molly’s not-insubstantial birthday gift from the pocket of her skirt. He’d immediately begun quoting the relevant portions of magical regulations, threatened to summon the Aurors himself (as though Harry weren’t sitting right at the end of the table), and was only brought to heel by George’s credible threats to charm every one of Percy’s work memos to include the foulest, most vulgar language possible. 

She had given up the dream of Percy that day, and gradually given up the dream of anything like an equal partner altogether. New York offered her a larger magical dating pool, as well as access to any number of interesting muggles she could share an evening with—or occasionally a long weekend upstate or even out in the Hamptons. Her research could be quite portable when the incentive of a beach house was involved.

Spotting Percy across the Atrium brought the sudden realization that it had been ages since she’d had a date. Or a shag. Or even so much as a crush. (Sad.)

“The Minister sent me with a message for you, but I just missed you upstairs.” He was panting a bit from jogging towards her. 

“Needed to clear my head a bit. Lovely to see you again, by the way. What did Kingsley want?” 

“He wanted me to invite you to an event tonight. You’re needed.” Percy emphasized this as though declining would cause an international crisis.

“Did your bartender cancel at the last minute? I make a mean G&T but I don’t think I could keep up with a crowd.” She hoped the joke would distract him while she thought of a good reason she couldn’t attend.

There were few things Hermione hated more than Ministry events, which were almost always a vile mix of arse-kissing and attempts to dig up blackmail material. She would no doubt be bored to tears for the entire evening, punctuated by moments where she was vaguely threatened, not-so-vaguely propositioned, or possibly both at the same time. 

Percy stepped in front of her, crowding her and keeping his voice low. “The Minister is coordinating with Gringotts on an event for the bank’s largest deposit holders tonight. There’s concern that if they lose confidence, the bank could collapse. Things are always on tenterhooks with the goblins anyway, but if the wealthiest vault owners start pulling out, that will cause problems. Problems for people like my parents, who can’t just move their gold into some Swiss or American bank.”

Hermione remembered the financial crisis that had started in New York two years prior. The magical world was largely spared, but several banks had collapsed like dominos until the American government stepped in to stop the bleeding. One of her previous clients had lost a large chunk of his fortune, which had been tied up in something to do with muggle real estate.

“You are needed to help reassure them that this is under control. It will go a long way, knowing that Hermione Granger is here to sort things out.” 

Percy stepped back to let her digest this new information.

Hermione was in no mood to be conciliatory, even if his mention of Arthur and Molly tugged at her heart. He was standing between her and the cup of coffee that she needed to act like a decent person. 

“Wizarding Britain still operates on the gold standard. The goblins don’t issue credit. We both know that if we permitted goblins to get into the debt collection business, there would be another war within weeks.” She knew a great deal about the magical banking system from her time at the DMLE. It was laughably simple in some respects, but arcane in many others. 

“Are you telling me that Gringotts doesn’t have enough gold in reserve to cover all their deposits?” If they were worried about a collapse, then some kind of shortfall must be involved. 

Percy narrowed his eyes at her and glanced around the Atrium to make sure no one had overheard them.

“I’m not saying anything of the sort. I’m simply telling you that you are needed at the event this evening. Reception room on Level 1, 7 o’clock sharp. Cocktail attire. This is not optional.”

Hermione felt a dull ache start up behind her eyes as she remembered the reasons she couldn’t go back to New York. Perhaps this event would give her a chance to put some of her new plan into action.

“Fine. I will be there to play the Golden Girl so that everyone can get drunk and feel good about themselves. But I’m only doing it because none of this is adding up. The robbery, the weapon, the bank, none of it! It is at best incompetence and at worst malfeasance.” 

She gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ll tell you what though. I’m going to get at the truth of all this, whether the Ministry likes it or not. If your ridiculous goblin bank falls apart anyway, that is not my problem.”

Hermione stepped around him and headed towards the cafeteria.

“And if Rita Skeeter is there I will hex her into next week and leave immediately. Those are my terms Percy. Tell Kingsley it’s that or nothing.”

Chapter Text

Nearly a decade in New York had taught Hermione the value of being fashionably late.

She knew her tardiness would annoy Kingsley & Percy, but she didn’t care. They needed her—or the beloved war heroine she played for the cameras in the Atrium—and she had needed half a vial of Calming Draught and an extra 10 minutes of mindful breathing. It would have to do.

Hermione had spent most of her life unable to acknowledge her own needs, whether they were physical, emotional, intellectual, or sexual. Her default mode was to just keep cracking on, keep moving, keep after the next goal. That was what was important, right?

Food, sleep, family, friendship, intimacy—she had been mostly incapable of recognizing all of those needs, first in the pursuit of assimilating into the wizarding world (plus academic achievement, obviously), then in the effort to defeat Voldemort, and then eventually out of mindsets so ingrained they were simply force of habit.

It had been humbling to sit in a beige chair staring out at a shabby stretch of Greenwich Village, repeating the words “I deserve to rest. I deserve care even when I haven’t been productive,” and to realize that she didn’t believe them. That she didn’t feel like she was allowed to be well-cared for if she hadn’t earned it by writing a well-researched memo (or at a minimum documenting a meaningful breakthrough in a list of bullet points).

Her mind healer had given her an assignment at the end of one of their sessions. “What would you need to accomplish, do you think, to believe that you deserve care? Write it down.”

It was an awful question, because it required her to reflect on everything she had—and hadn’t—accomplished up to that point.

She’d spent 3 days scribbling goals and lists and a few half-baked plans before she understood the point her healer was trying to make. It would never be enough, any of it. Not the NEWTS. Not the Order of Merlin. Not an apartment in a building with an elevator instead of 4 flights of stairs or a tenured position at Columbia. (Dreams!) There would always be something else just out of reach.

And that was when the real work of her healing had started.

—

Hermione was unhurried as she approached the reception room, allowing her heels to click on the polished marble floors in a steady, confident rhythm.

She’d draped a cashmere jacket over her shoulders with a subtle sticking charm, and her fine wool sheath dress skimmed over her curves thanks to perfect (magical) tailoring. Her wand was tucked into an invisible pocket, out of the way but easy to reach. The ivory dress practically glowed in the murky shadows of the Ministry after-hours; she’d worn it before to receptions for visiting scholars or the occasional date at a muggle wine bar. It wouldn’t win her any favor with the posh traditionalists who were being catered to tonight, but she didn’t care.

An auror stood at the door and nodded her into the large room, which featured several charmed windows along one wall and a gallery of awards and portraits opposite. She dimly remembered being here at the end of the war, standing next to Harry and Ron amid a torrent of flashbulbs and shaking hands with men whose fingers lingered in unpleasant ways.

Percy was waiting just inside, clearly impatient for her arrival.

“About time, don’t you think? There are some people we want you to meet.” He frowned at her dress and motioned her towards one of the tall tables scattered in front of the windows where Kingsley was standing with a group of wizards.

“Hermione. Such a pleasure, as always,” Kingsley said with a smile as she joined the table.

“Minister. Gentlemen.” Hermione tried to look friendly as she took in her surroundings. “You were so kind to invite me tonight.”

It was a very dull affair, she noted. Several dozen wizards and a bare handful of witches were scattered around the room, most wearing black or navy robes. No one seemed relaxed; there was no laughter from anywhere in the room. An air of unease seemed to hang about most of the groups, and almost everyone kept their voices to a low murmur.

“Ms Granger graciously accepted my invitation to help us resolve some of the lingering concerns from this week,” Kingsley offered. “You know she recently tracked down several enchanted items that originated with Gormlaith Gaunt. Remarkable work, really, to identify pieces that had travelled all the way from Ireland to…”

Hermione allowed her mind to wander away from Kingsley as he expounded on the highlights of her CV. No one seemed to want or expect her input, and while normally that would bother her, tonight she was happy to make the bare minimum of effort. The wizards standing around the table each seemed loathsome in their own peculiar way, and she kept her hand close to her wand.

She turned her attention to the people in the room, observing the hushed conversations and wishing she could ask Percy for their names without seeming rude. The robbery was still very much on her mind, along with the growing certainty that there was only one wizard capable of coordinating the break-in and evading suspicion.

Hermione spotted his shock of platinum blonde hair standing in a group of wizards in the far corner.

She’d expected Malfoy would be here tonight, though she didn’t realize he’d be holding court in much the same way Kingsley was. Half the room was subtly or overtly watching him as he spoke quietly with two other men. She wondered if they were discussing the robbery attempt or something else entirely.

It had been a long time since she’d thought about those strange nights in the Hogwarts library, chatting with a bully who had become something like a friend over her jars of bluebell flames.

They had both been lonely that year, struggling under the weight of everything they’d seen and done. She walked through the halls and the younger students stared, whispering with awestruck looks. Eyes followed her as she passed through the Great Hall or the Common Room. Assessing. Expectant.

It was exhausting being a curiosity.

She knew the looks Malfoy got were much worse, scowls and glares and the occasional hex from Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. He was in most of her classes 8th year, always sitting near the back and rarely answering questions.

When he came around the corner of the library stacks late one night, she was surprised to realize that his presence no longer evoked the anxiety it once had. She’d been relieved, in a way, to see someone who wasn’t desperately hoping she’d turn around and vanquish a dark wizard before their eyes. Someone who saw her as an actual person. Someone who knew what it was like to be scared.

Malfoy wasn’t a stranger to Hermione. He knew her, the real her, and even if he didn’t like her, she was running short on companions who could utter a complete sentence in her presence without falling into nervous giggles or awkward silences.

She’d decided to change the terms of their relationship on the spot, to move past everything and talk to him like an old friend—just to see what would happen. He’d played along, uncertain at first then more confidently later.

She wondered if he’d play along now, or if the intervening years and the events of the last week would have changed things entirely.

—

“…wouldn’t you agree, Ms Granger?”

She had allowed her thoughts to drift off towards Malfoy and lost the thread of conversation at her own table.

“About the robbery?” She tried to remember the last few words and fake her way back into the mix. “Quite the poor job, indeed.”

“What can you tell us about the weapon? Surely you’ve uncovered something?” A gruff wizard with a large mustache looked at her across the table with thinly veiled contempt.

She took a deep breath before she answered.

“With a case like this, I prefer to start with the facts, which include the suspects who were apprehended. I’d like to better understand how they achieved what they did, and why.” It was astonishing, truly, how easily people accepted “dark wizards” as a reason for all sorts of nonsense. Hermione found it lazy and incurious.

“The weapon is just a rumor at this point. I will run down the source of that rumor in time, and expose whomever is benefitting from sowing fear among our community.”

Kingsley shifted uncomfortably as she continued.

“If there is an item to be recovered, then I will recover it. An audit of the Black and Malfoy vaults may prove most illuminating.”

The gruff wizard made a dismissive noise in her direction. His thinning hair was pushed back in an oily comb-over that made her stomach turn. “Just as I expected. It’s more likely you’re here hunting for a husband than a missing weapon.”

She felt the room around her go very still as his accusation hung in the air.

“Of course, the best opportunities for match-making aren’t available to your lot. I assume that’s why you made do with tonight.” He chortled to himself as he picked up his drink. “Not that you’ll fare much better here, mind you. Even old-timers have standards.”

Hermione forced herself to look him directly in the eye. “Remind me again who you are? I don’t think I caught your name earlier.”

“Yewdall. Cuthbert Yewdall, chairman of the banking committee, as you are already aware.” His sense of self-importance was remarkable.

“Well, I’m sure an audit of the Yewdall vaults will also be most illuminating.” She heard Percy choke as Yewdall’s face heated with rage. “If you’ll excuse me, I haven’t had a chance to get a drink yet.”

Hermione turned towards the bar with a grimace, wondering if it would have been less trouble to skip this party entirely.

—

Draco

The evening was going to plan, albeit slowly.

None of the Gringotts goblins had bothered to show up to reassure their largest vault holders, a reluctance Draco was happy to exploit.

The mood in the room was sombre. The Minister’s friendly optimism was falling flat, while concerns and fears about the bank were running high.

“Are you going to tell us exactly what happened? The Prophet is hysterical but short on particulars.” William Pucey stood next to him with a thoughtful expression. He was one of the more reasonable members of the conservative voting bloc in the Wizengamot, and also one of the more intelligent. Occasionally Draco wished he could speak to Pucey honestly, but there was too much at stake. He couldn’t risk it.

It was a tedious business, all this scheming and plotting. He was doing the wrong things for the right reasons, and taking very little joy in the entire affair. It would likely leave him with more enemies, fewer friends, and another mark against his name.

Perhaps he’d go back to the Manor tomorrow for some time on the pitch. Flying always helped clear his head.

“And what about the rumors of a collapse? How could such a thing even be possible?” squeaked the shorter wizard on his left, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“The rumors of a collapse seem like nothing but nonsense, as do these stories about a missing weapon.” He sneered derisively. “A healthy fear of the Black heirlooms is always appropriate, I’ll admit. But the Dark Lord gets no credit on that front.”

It was time to shift the conversation without being too obvious. “Frankly, I’m beginning to doubt half of what the bank tells me. They claim something is missing, but they can’t identify what it is. They’ve offered little explanation as to how the thieves gained entry and even less in the way of reassurance that it won’t happen again. You know how secretive goblins are.”

He raised his eyebrows in an exasperated expression and continued. “Merlin knows they haven’t offered me any form of restitution for what happened. I’ve half a mind to be shot of the entire business.”

He took a sip of his drink to allow the implications of his words to sink in.

“Perhaps the banking committee should look into this further. We need more eyes on the goblins for plenty of reasons.” Pucey gave Draco a significant look.

“I’m sure it couldn’t hurt.” He tried to sound nonchalant as another piece of his scheme dropped into place.

“What about Granger?” The nervous wizard was sweating profusely as he glanced across the room. “Why is she handling this matter with the bank instead of the aurors?”

“She doesn’t matter,” Pucey responded. “If she fails, fine. If she succeeds, even better. Put the matter to rest, get on to other business.”

Draco had been so focused on his own table, he hadn’t noticed that the witch was now standing near the windows with Shacklebolt and his weasel assistant.

It was a shock to see Granger in person again, wearing a fitted white dress in a room full of austere wizard robes. Her dark hair tumbled in thick waves over her shoulders, and he couldn’t help himself as his gaze traveled down the length of her legs to a pair of pointed high heels. Gods, what he could do with those legs. Gone was the young witch with wild hair and eccentric accessories, replaced by the type of woman he saw stepping out of town cars on the streets of Paris. She looked lost in thought, barely paying attention to the wizards talking around her.

Draco felt an uneasiness settle in his chest as he realized the danger she was in—because of him.

He looked back at his companions with a frown. “Shacklebolt needs a hero or a scapegoat. She could be either, depending how this plays out.”

“You think Shacklebolt would use Potter’s Golden Girl as some sort of pawn?” Pucey snorted. “Too clever by half. The man doesn’t have a Slytherin bone in his body.”

“I think desperate men do increasingly desperate things,” Draco said. “And it’s only prudent to prepare for any eventuality.”

Pucey looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we should ensure she succeeds. Rob him of any chance to shift the blame for his many failures.”

Draco privately agreed, though he was unwilling to share his own plans with the men around him.

“Perhaps.”

—

He watched as Granger finally moved away from her table and walked towards the bar at the far end of the room. Several Pureblood wizards were harrumphing in outrage behind her, and he tried not to look too delighted as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his robes and headed in the same direction.

“Please tell me you’re the reason Yewdall looks like a walrus that swallowed a lobalug.” Draco leaned against the bar next to her as she studied the labels of two equally piss-poor bottles of wine.

“Malfoy. You look remarkably well for a man who was almost robbed this week.”

She looked up at him with a smile, and he felt a sharp pang of fondness as he took in her face after so many years. It was softer, somehow. But her eyes still glimmered with mischievous delight.

“Stiff upper lip and all that. Well done you.”

“Nice to see you too, Granger. I heard you’ve been causing quite a stir at the DMLE.” He took half a step back, suddenly conscious of how near he had been. All those conversations at a table in the library, yet he couldn’t think of the last time he’d been this close to her. It might have been that awful night at the Manor, a thought he put out of his mind immediately.

“So you’ve got eyes & ears in my old office? I should’ve known. Are you paying someone in the cafeteria to tell you about my scone preferences too?”

“No, but now that you mention it I probably should.”

“Cranberry or lemon. Anything but blueberry really.” She turned towards him fully, and he felt a twinge of excitement to finally have all her attention focused on him.

“The part I just can’t figure out is why,” Granger continued, taking a glass of white from the wizard behind the bar.

“Why you don’t like blueberry scones when they are clearly the superior flavor combination? Or why you are bothering to drink that swill?” Draco eyed her glass with distaste.

“No, why did you hire three Slovenian Quidditch players to break into one of your own vaults to steal a Damien Hirst of all things?” She pinned him with a piercing look over her wine glass, and he could see her mind working as she observed his reaction.

He ought to be scared that she’d put the pieces together so quickly. His little joke with the Hirst had seemed clever at the time, but of course she’d seen right past it. Bloody brilliant witch.

“Is this performance art, Malfoy? Jealous of all the fanfare Banksy is getting and want some of your own?”

He should deny it, deny everything, put on his cold, outraged mask and play dumb. But it had been so long since anyone besides Theo could even guess what he got up to. He didn’t have it in him. Not when she was standing right here with that searching expression, and he wanted…more. Just a little bit more of this. Whatever she would give him.

“I’d forgotten what these little chats were like, Granger. If you want me to put on a show for you, all you need to do is ask.” He was flirting shamelessly. It felt better than lying to her.

Draco continued with a smirk. “Since when are you more interested in Quidditch players than in cutting-edge surveillance and security? I thought a swot like you would’ve spent the day double-checking the arithmancy and suggesting 10 ways it could be improved.”

“I’m more interested in the vanishing cabinet, actually.” Granger looked pleased with herself, and he knew she’d noted his lack of a denial. “Didn’t have you pegged as a one hit wonder.”

Ouch.

“That detail hasn’t been published in the Prophet, you know. I’m surprised you’re telling me, since I’m not officially part of the investigation,” Draco said.

“And I’m surprised you’re willing to go to Azkaban just to give two fingers to a bunch of goblins!” Granger gave him an irritated look. “Though I understand the impulse, don’t get me wrong.”

“No one is going to Azkaban, Granger, not even the idiots who thought they could rob my vault.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s a World Cup year. I know you don’t care about the game but I assumed you at least made an effort to be well-informed. Slovenia will make it to the semi-finals or beyond. And they won’t let the DMLE hold on to two coaches and an up and coming Chaser just because some goblins got their feelings hurt.”

He was walking a razor’s edge here, admitting how much he knew about the men who’d entered his vault, but he didn’t want this conversation to end and he didn’t want her attention wandering off. He liked it right where it was. On him.

“The Department for International Magical Cooperation will make the necessary assurances that they will be punished quite severely once they return home.” His mocking tone made it clear that they would be anything but. “Luka will be back on the pitch by Wednesday.”

“Congratulations, you’ve committed the perfect crime. Nobody got seriously hurt, nobody goes to prison, while the bank and the Ministry are all in an uproar. So what am I doing here looking for something your psychotic aunt stashed away?”

Draco sighed in exasperation and leaned in closer so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“No one has less faith in the DMLE than I do, but as you are perfectly aware, the aurors crawled all over our vaults after the war. Anything and everything owned by my dear aunt was subjected to the highest levels of scrutiny. No doubt that also included her knickers drawer, which is terrifying on multiple levels.”

She gave a small laugh, and he felt a warm glow of satisfaction that he could turn his horrible aunt into a source of ridicule for her amusement.

“Besides,” he continued. “Bella was never one to play the long game. If she had access to something powerful and destructive, she’d have found an excuse to use it. There are a few cursed heirlooms, tucked away in velvet cases and surrounded by protective enchantments. Nothing else. Nothing touched by the Dark Lord.” He was growling in her ear now, and the sweet citrus scent of her hair was making it difficult for him to think clearly.

“But you already know that, don’t you?”

Granger seemed unaffected by his closeness. “Then why does the Ministry think that a weapon disappeared from your vault?”

“I have a few theories.”

“Anything you’re willing to share with the class?”

“Do your own homework, Granger. I’m sure you'll get there eventually.”

She laughed as she leaned back and looked at him with an arched brow. “I’m sure I will too. In the meantime, I’m going to have to make your life as difficult as possible.”

Merlin, but he wanted that. It was going to be a massive headache, of course, but it was the best news he’d had all week.

“I’m counting on it,” he replied with a smile.

She leaned in close and gave him a serious look. “I know you think your money protects you. You must have an army of solicitors and at least half the Wizengamot taking your galleons under the table. It’s quite the neat job, really, positioning yourself as the victim of this crime—but you haven’t fooled me. I know you’re the one making a mess for everyone else to clean up.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she looked around the room. “You are many things, Malfoy, but you’re not stupid or reckless. There’s something rotten about all of this, and you won’t be able to hide it forever. The truth will out.”

He took a deep breath as her words washed over him. She was right of course, though he wasn’t worried about the truth of his own actions. There were far worse things for her to learn, and the longer he could delay it, the better for all of them. For her, especially.

“Meet me in the security office at the bank on Monday. Four o’clock. I’ll take you through the Black vault myself. Any of my vaults. A full audit. You can stick your nose wherever you like, review all the inventory, transaction records, anything. I’m an open book for you Granger.”

She looked up at him with surprise as she considered his offer.

“Planning an accident that you can blame on the goblins? Am I really that much of a threat?”

“No, but I would like to take you out to dinner afterwards,” he said, watching her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Wear something nice. We’re not going for kebabs.”

She laughed and took another sip of her wine. “As though I could even imagine you eating dinner out of a tinfoil wrap.”

A throat cleared behind them, and Shacklebolt's weasel assistant stepped in just a little too close to Granger. The familiarity irked him.

“If you don’t mind, Malfoy, there are several other wizards who would like to meet with Ms. Granger this evening.”

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to monopolize so much of her time.” He wasn’t the least bit sorry, but it wouldn’t do to ruffle any more feathers tonight. “I’m very grateful, you know, that the Minister thought to bring Granger in to handle this. Shows excellent leadership.”

Weasley gave him a tight smile. “Of course.”

Draco tried to ignore the feeling of loss as they walked back across the room towards another table of idiots. Everything had just gotten so much better, but also infinitely worse.

Chapter Text

Regent’s Park was absolutely lovely on a Saturday morning in late May. The trees had fully greened out and the Avenue Gardens were carpeted in a riot of cheerful blooms despite the cloudy sky. London was doing its utmost to look like a picture postcard, with small flowers planted in a Union Jack and the Lion Vase surrounded by color.

Hermione didn’t take notice of any of it.

She jogged through the park deep in thought, listening to the steady thwap of her trainers against the pavement as she replayed the events of the previous evening.

Draco. Sodding. Malfoy.

She hadn’t expected him to approach her—hadn’t planned anything she might say to him. All of a sudden he was just there, his arm brushing against her back and his cologne smelling woody and expensive, talking to her in a way that was friendly but also more than just friendly. She’d barely known what she was saying as their conversation barrelled forward, and she’d surprised herself by blurting out the suspicions that had been growing in the back of her mind.

Malfoy had orchestrated the Gringotts robbery of his own vault. (Attempted robbery? Was he planning to fail, or failing to plan? She wished she could just ask.)

None of it made any sense, of course. Especially the way he’d looked at her, deep and searching and like he’d wanted to keep talking to her all night. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her that way, and she felt a shiver run up her spine as she recalled the mocking tilt of his lips when she’d promised to make his life difficult.

Well then.

Her mood darkened as she reflected on the other conversations that she’d been forced to join. Kingsley had been perfectly charming of course, but something about the entire evening felt off. An undercurrent of hostility ran through nearly every interaction; Yewdall’s bizarre accusations had been the most blatant example, but several other wizards had looked at her with a distaste she hadn’t encountered in more than a decade.

All the available evidence pointed to the dismal conclusion that post-war wizarding Britain had not improved in her absence. The fact that Malfoy, of all people, had been the bright spot in an otherwise grim ordeal added even more confusion to the mix.

She’d assumed he would keep his distance from her, either out of common sense or at the urging of his very expensive solicitors. Instead, he was keeping his enemies close enough to smell his aftershave. (Merlin, she had to stop thinking about the way he smelled.) It was very Slytherin of him, but she would make it work in her favor.

He hadn’t denied that he’d hired three poor sods to break into Gringotts—didn’t even seem fussed that she’d mentioned it. But when she’d brought up his aunt and the missing weapon…now that had been interesting. She could see his jaw tighten and the way his back stiffened like he was preparing to lodge a complaint with management.

Malfoy had an agenda of some sort, that much was obvious. But she was pretty sure it didn’t involve any of Voldemort’s knick knacks.

Unfortunately the prospect of visiting the Black vault again made her stomach clench. The idea of climbing into one of those carts with him, of all people, had her mind grasping for possible excuses. (Dragon pox? Too much.) She didn’t have a particularly good reason to be there, but she reassured herself that revisiting the scene of the crime might shake something useful out of his cool reserve.

As for dinner afterwards, she was quite sure he was just having her on. She’d pick up a takeaway on her walk back to the hotel, maybe from that curry spot she’d passed near Oxford Circus.

—

Later that evening, Hermione approached the stoop of Grimmauld Place with a bottle of sauvignon blanc in hand.

Staying in a muggle hotel meant she lacked easy access to the floo network, but she didn’t mind. She walked everywhere in New York anyway.

Ginny greeted her at the front door with a wide smile. “About time you came round. I was starting to think you were avoiding us.”

Hermione leaned forward to give her a hug.

“I’ve hardly been here two days! You sound like your mum.”

Ginny made a face as she closed the door. “She sends her love, by the way. Dad too. I dropped the boys off earlier so we could have some peace tonight.”

It was easy for Hermione to forget that Harry and Ginny were parents now. She knew it in an abstract way, from the photos they sent and the toys she could see piled around the edges of the sitting room, but it was still hard for her to believe. She’d been in South America when James was born and teaching a 12-week course when Albus arrived, so she hadn’t seen or held the tangible proof yet. They were just an idea to her, albeit an idea that seemed more real than the possibility of children of her own.

As she sank down onto the sofa, Hermione took a moment to appreciate how much the house had changed since those dreadful days during the war. The walls were covered in a soft paper, with dark rich colors on the trim and wainscotting. The furniture was overstuffed but appropriately wizardish, sporting various dark shades of velvet and a few discreet embellishments.

“Oh! I have a favor to ask. Can I stay here if needed? Something’s happened with my hotel room.” Hermione hated to be a bother, but she needed to ask before they got distracted with other matters.

Harry came in from the kitchen, frowning at her request. “Did someone try to break in? I thought you’d at least have some basic wards up.”

“That would be terribly rude to the muggle housekeepers. And no, nothing like that. They moved me into the corner suite. I think they’ve lost my reservation or something.”

Ginny gave her a confused look. “They lost your reservation by giving you a better room?”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know what they’re doing! My per diem definitely won’t cover it though. Just figuring out my options in case they decide to kick me out.”

“We’ve always got a guest room ready if you need it.” Harry took the bottle of wine and headed back towards the kitchen. “How did it go last night? Learn anything useful?”

It was too early to be getting into this conversation. Hermione had prepared at least 4 topics she could use to prolong the inevitable, but she couldn’t remember a single one at the moment she needed it.

“Something smells amazing. What are you making?” She tried to look relaxed, but she didn’t think it was working.

Harry stuck his head back into the room. “It’s just a roast chicken with some potatoes and veg. Molly sent dinner rolls too.” He gave her a look that said he knew she was dodging the question and he wasn’t going to let up. “Tell us about last night.”

“Well, I confirmed that your wizarding society is still rubbish. Not surprising but disappointing all the same. I was convinced that someone was going to call me a mudblood bitch, even in front of Kingsley. Cuthbert Yewdall is completely odious, as I’m sure you’re aware. And Malfoy hired the Slovenians to break into Gringotts.”

Harry gaped at her, the bottle of wine still in his hand.

“Malfoy did what?”

“The robbery. Or the fake robbery? I don’t even know what to call it.”

“And he just told you that over drinks in the Minister’s office?”

“Not in so many words, no. But he didn’t deny it.”

“Hermione, that makes absolutely no sense.”

“They came in from a vanishing cabinet, Harry. Forget about the weapon, which is just a rumor at this point, and look at the facts. Three wizards got past the wards into Gringotts. They weren’t trying to steal gold or magical artifacts, they weren’t trying to hurt anyone, they didn’t seriously damage anything, and they never made it out of the tunnel they arrived in.

“This is an elegant crime, carried out by an elegant person.” The more she’d thought about it, the more she knew it to be true. “The only vault compromised was Malfoy’s own.”

Harry set the wine on the side and started pacing.

“The only vault that we know about. Bloody hell. I’ve got to get back to the office, start filling out the paperwork. He could be out of the country by now!” He was beginning to spiral through the possibilities, each one worse than the last. “I can’t believe you just accused him without telling me first. You may have compromised the entire investigation!”

Hermione had known she couldn’t keep last night’s revelations from Harry. She was a terrible liar, and if it came out that she’d hidden what she’d learned, his sense of betrayal would be out of proportion to the cause at hand. Still, she’d hoped he would keep a calmer head about it.

“Just stop. You’ll never prove he hired those wizards, and even if you did, you have no idea why! He obviously didn’t hire them to steal from himself.” Malfoy had the means, but he didn’t have a motive. Not yet at least. “Don’t spook him. We don’t want to get his solicitors involved. He’ll just disappear behind a wall of money and we’ll never figure out what he’s up to.”

“Spook him! You’re the one who accused him of setting up the robbery!”

“And he didn’t care! He looked rather amused, actually. Whatever he’s doing, he seems confident he’ll get away with it.” She knew she was being stubborn, but she didn’t need Harry mucking up her plans.

Ginny was watching their back and forth with a thoughtful look. “I’m sorry, Malfoy was amused when you accused him of robbing the bank? Not what I’d expect from a posh twat like that.”

She leveled an appraising look at Hermione. “Were you flirting with him?”

Her mind flashed back to Malfoy whispering close to her ear, and she could feel heat begin to creep across her face.

“Definitely not. He was just another rich arsehole I had to speak to in order to make Kingsley happy.” There. That was the truth. Mostly.

Ginny wasn’t giving up though. “And what did Kingsley think when you accused Malfoy of orchestrating a break-in at one of the wizarding world’s most sacred institutions?”

“He was meeting with someone else at the time, Gin. I didn’t want to cause a scene, I—.”

“We should at least search his house.” Harry interrupted them as he continued pacing. “Something IS missing, after all. Maybe we can find some correspondence, something to connect him to the Slovenians. I can also get the records from International Travel, see if he’s taken any portkeys to Eastern Europe.”

“You want to search Malfoy Manor? Godric, that could take an entire month.” Hermione had done her best to forget the imposing estate where she’d been held and tortured all those years ago, but she knew an effort like that would take ages.

Harry shook his head. “Malfoy doesn’t live at the Manor. He has a house in the city, somewhere near Grosvenor Square.”

She nearly choked, it was so predictable. “Alright then. Turn it over, see what you find. Though I’ll warn you, he’s probably expecting it.”

Hermione doubted that anything useful would come of the search, but she wanted Malfoy to know he was under scrutiny.

“I’ll do it after we search this Rowle property up north for black market potion supplies.”

“It’s always back-alley potioneers or rogue werewolves with you lot.” She could feel herself gearing up for a lecture. “Never the wealthy or the well-connected.”

Harry sighed and tugged at the back of his hair. “Don’t start Hermione. Last month we shut down an illicit unicorn breeding operation in Snowdonia. Awful stuff. You can’t imagine the conditions.

“Some distant cousin of the Fawley family was practically minting galleons with it. The tipoff was just the location and the fact that he was making too much money too fast. We’d no idea what we were walking into.”

“That sounds awful Harry. I’m sorry.”

He sat down on the far end of the sofa and stared at the fireplace. “We’re always a step behind. Sometimes 10 steps behind. And I know that most of the wizards we catch, especially the ones selling the illegal potions,” he gave her a sardonic look, “aren’t even the real culprits. Just the hired thugs.

“I just want something to go right for once. Things have felt wrong for awhile at the Ministry. I couldn’t tell you when it started. Years ago, maybe. And I didn’t know you were coming back until you’d already agreed to it, and it seemed too late to say something.”

He looked troubled as he picked at the edge of his jumper.

“Is that why you’re so worried about the robbery? You think there’s something happening? Death Eaters?”

Harry rolled his lips and thought for a moment. “We do a better job keeping on top of muggle crimes now. We’ve even got an intern who’s obsessed with statistics.” He smiled at that, and Hermione was reminded of the Harry she’d known at Hogwarts—a younger man whose burdens still seemed new and novel.

“There’s no increase in disappearances, muggle or magical. No leader or anyone consolidating power. If it’s Death Eaters, then they’ve got a whole new tack, and that’s what worries me.”

“Do you think Malfoy’s involved?”

She struggled to believe that the man who teased her about her favorite scones was planning another war for blood purity in the wizarding world, but it would be foolish to ignore the possibility.

Harry shrugged. “Until this week, I haven’t thought about Malfoy in years. If you’d asked me what he was up to, I’d assume some combination of business, bribery, and blackmail. The typical stuff.”

“He keeps himself out of the papers,” Ginny added. “I always expect him to turn up in the photos from one of those pureblood society balls that are so popular now, but if he’s attending he’s paying someone off and staying under the radar.”

Hermione gave Ginny a sharp look. “Pureblood society balls?”

Ginny nodded. “They don’t call them that, of course. Just a lot of vague stuff about celebrating our heritage, repopulating the wizarding world, and strengthening old bloodlines. No one talks about muggles, but no muggleborns are invited.”

Harry sank deeper into the cushions. “Barely anyone else we know from Hogwarts has kids. The war generation isn’t giving the wizarding world babies.” He frowned with a far away look. “I think watching children die in their school gave everyone second and third thoughts about having kids of their own.”

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, each of them remembering the bodies laid out in the Great Hall. The friends and family they’d lost.

Ginny, bless her, helped steer them back to the present. “There’s an effort to make marriage and kids fashionable again, especially for the younger set who don’t remember as much of the war. The wealthy families are constantly throwing balls, hoping it will lead to grandchildren.” She gave a dark laugh. “My teammates are obsessed with the new rules of courtship.”

“Do I even want to know about this?” Hermione replied. The word courtship reminded her of a Jane Austen novel in the worst possible way.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I definitely don’t want to know about this.”

They had strayed far from the topic at hand, but Hermione didn’t mind. Despite her long absences, there was something comforting about the way she and Harry could always fall back into their rhythm, pushing and pulling and knowing exactly how the other was going to react. It was familiar in a way she didn’t know she’d needed.

“Everything felt wrong at the Ministry last night. Worse than I remember. Whatever Kingsley was hoping for, I’m not sure he achieved it.” She was trying not to dwell on some of the comments she’d overheard. “Yewdall accused me of hunting for a husband, but he seemed angry I was even there.”

“Only an idiot would be angry you’re here.” Ginny said with a confidence Hermione envied. “The Prophet is having a field day. Beloved war heroine returns with a polished American style—the fashion section did three columns on that sexy dress you were wearing.” She waggled her eyebrows in a suggestive way.

“Malfoy might be angry.” Like a moth to a flame, Harry was once again obsessing about his Hogwarts rival. “If you’re getting in the way of whatever he’s doing, it’s not safe. Maybe you ought to come stay here after all.”

“Just leave Malfoy to me for now.” Hermione fixed him with a stubborn look. “I’m meeting him at the bank on Monday to go through his vaults. He’s talking to me, and I want him to keep talking to me until I can figure out his endgame.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Are you absolutely mental? Going to see Malfoy at the bank he just robbed?”

Hermione snorted. “We successfully robbed Gringotts, Harry. Malfoy only managed to get three men past the wards, for reasons I still don’t understand but am extremely keen to figure out.”

“I’m still angry that you told him. And there’s no way he’s going to tell you anything else now.”

“We’ll see about that.” Hermione chewed her lip for a moment. “I’m going to need to do some background reading. Do you think it’s alright if I use the Ministry Archives?”

“Of course. Kingsley meant it, you know. Whatever you need.”

“I need food then, if that’s okay. And a glass of wine.” She smiled over at Ginny, “And I need to hear about these two little boys you popped out while I wasn’t looking.”

It was time she put the Malfoy mess out of mind, at least for one evening. Though maybe it’s not the mess you’re really thinking about.

Chapter Text

The wonderful thing about being a frequent traveler was the ability to make yourself at home nearly anywhere. 

Hermione breezed into the Gringotts special security office after lunch on Monday, nodded at Mac—who was busy reviewing formulas across three floating parchments simultaneously—and immediately commandeered an empty desk in the far corner. 

(Not quite empty, actually, but the offending boxes of files and unsorted parchment were shrunk, stacked, and tucked out of the way with a few crisp waves of her wand.)

On a wall at the back of the office, a large board displayed names in elaborate script, each accompanied by a series of numerical dials which occasionally whizzed and dinged, presumably charmed to reflect changes made to the vaults below. It was a clever bit of magic, highly visible and constantly calculating—like Ebeneezer Scrooge’s wildest dream come true. 

She made herself comfortable, settling in to review and update her notes alongside a copy of the Daily Prophet. 

The morning had been spent prowling through Diagon Alley; Hermione had visited several new shops and even weighed the risks of a quick jaunt around the corner to Knockturn. None of it would yield anything fruitful for her research, but she needed to re-familiarize herself with the small, strange economy at the heart of wizarding London.  

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Mac finally looked up from his parchment and seemed apologetic at the poor hospitality on offer. “Mr Herding-Bother has appointments for most of the afternoon, but his scheduler is there on the worktop if you’d like to set up a meeting."

“That’s quite alright.” She continued making notes from her observations that morning. “I’m supposed to meet Malfoy here later this afternoon. Thought I’d pop in and get some work done before we review his vaults.”

“Ah.”

“Does he come by frequently? Or have you managed to invent magical digital banking as well?” 

Hermione kept her funds in a large American bank; the app had a permanent home on the first screen of her mobile. She imagined Malfoy receiving an owl each morning with a balance sheet charmed to self-destruct in a puff of green smoke. 

“Mr Malfoy comes in occasionally if he has other business at the bank.” Mac approached her desk with a wary look.

“And was the vanishing cabinet being delivered to one of Malfoy’s vaults?” She finally looked up to give the young wizard her full attention. He seemed less relaxed than usual, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his shoulder. “There’s no point in continuing with this farce if the bank refuses to discuss the means by which the wards were breached.”

Mac took a deep breath, weighing his options before he responded. “I believe the cabinet was being delivered to an unregistered vault. We don’t discuss those matters publicly, but I’d guess that’s the reason we’ve not been more forthcoming.”

“And just how anonymous are your unregistered vaults?” She’d heard rumors of such things before, but to have it confirmed within the walls of the bank was an unexpected gift.

“Utterly and completely, at least to our office. I’d guess the number of higher-ups who can connect a private vault to its owner is shockingly small.”

“Which means someone knows the true owner of its destination, but they aren’t disclosing it.”

“It seems a safe assumption.”

Hermione paused to consider what that implied. Was the bank simply avoiding culpability? Or were they protecting someone?

“I know you must think we’re terribly backwards, especially compared to the Americans.” He was correct, of course. Gringotts had always made her uncomfortable, and discovering more modern approaches to wizarding banking in New York had only lowered her opinion.

“One of the main advantages to goblin banking is privacy. A secondary benefit, of course, is keeping peace with a race of aggressive magical beings, though there are certainly other ways that could be achieved. Goblins don’t care what’s in these vaults so long as they get the benefit of proximity to treasure. And the older families, especially, prefer a system that protects them from scrutiny. We are…discouraged…from keeping detailed inventory records.”

“Older families like the Malfoys you mean.”

Mac huffed a laugh and walked back to his desk. “You would think, but I’ve found it’s quite the opposite. Malfoy has volunteered his vaults for all sorts of experiments. If he’s hiding anything, it’s not here.”

Not for the first time, Hermione wished for a thick folder of background reading on Malfoy and his business dealings. Her knowledge was painfully thin; it felt like quite the disadvantage after she’d played her hand so openly on Friday.

She knew better than to press Mac further on the subject though. He was clearly a fan of Malfoy’s, and she’d rather he continue to confide in her about the bank’s secrets. She’d rectify the problem soon enough.

“So…what can you tell me about the arithmancy on the missing object?”

—

As the afternoon ticked by, Hermione found herself unable to concentrate on the tasks she’d planned. Mac had provided her with a thick folio, organized into no less than 8 sections, which described the Magical Net Balance Monitoring (MagNET) programme. It was a truly impressive system of magic—enough that she found it difficult to believe that one young wizard, even a particularly talented one, had managed so much complexity on his own.

The details about the missing object, however, were much less thorough. There were a number of calculations that described the change to the vault balance, but no indication about the type of magic that had been removed. Compared to the other notes she’d reviewed, it seemed almost sloppy. 

Her thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy, and an anxious buzz was settling into her stomach at the thought of being alone with him in his vault.

Would he continue to brazenly flirt to avoid answering her questions? Or had he finally realized the threat she posed to his plans? Her nerves continued to deteriorate as she cycled back and forth between Harry’s warnings and the intense look in Malfoy’s eyes as he’d leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

By the time the clock approached 4, she was in quite a state. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and tried to empty her mind as she went through some simple breathing exercises.

When she opened them a few minutes later, deep pools of silver-grey were regarding her from against the opposite wall. She gave a small start and reached for her wand. “Good Godric Malfoy! How long have you been here?”

Her cheeks heated at being caught unawares, and she felt her nervousness return as she stood up to gather her research. 

“Not long,” he said softly, as though trying to reassure her. “Come on, I know you’re eager to get your investigation started. Best bring your things. This office will probably be locked by the time we’re finished.”

They walked through the marble halls in an awkward silence, and as they approached a cart with a waiting goblin Malfoy took her hand gently. “Allow me.” He helped her into the cart and climbed in behind her, and she felt the warmth of his chest press into her back as they squeezed together. “This is always the worst part,” he murmured into her ear as the cart lurched forward and began to drop. 

Hermione barely registered the trip through the tunnels. She was too focused on ignoring Malfoy’s irritatingly attractive scent and keeping her body as rigid as possible, fighting the urge to relax into him each time they eased out of a sharp turn. It appeared that he was going to continue his friendly overtures, but she didn’t expect it to last. 

“I thought we’d begin with the Black vault.” Malfoy was offering her his hand again as the goblin approached the door.

“There’s a MagNET ledger inside that tracks the magical deposits and withdrawals. I had Mac set it up last year, but otherwise I never access this collection. It’s only my mother, when she needs pieces for various society functions.”

She stepped inside as the room brightened, a soft glow reflecting off the glass cases. Malfoy pulled a large book off the wall and brought it over to her. 

Page after page of dated notations tracked the activity of the vault, though the descriptions were suitably vague. Most of the items withdrawn or deposited were listed as “jewelry,” though a few were noted as “heirloom” or simply “decor.” 

Like the folio she’d reviewed earlier, it was neat and thorough. There was even a color-coding scheme, presumably for the various magical signatures that were being tracked.

“Why target this vault, and not one of the Malfoy vaults? Was it because you never use this one?” She looked over at him as she flipped to the most recent pages. “How many vaults do you have here anyway?”

“Four vaults total, including the Black heirlooms. And I don’t know why this one was targeted in particular.” 

She huffed a skeptical laugh. “And what about your unregistered vault? Does that make five?” 

He didn’t seem bothered by her accusation. “I see you’ve been talking to Mac. And to answer your question, no, I do not have an unregistered vault, though you’ll have to take my word for that. The goblins are notoriously secretive about such things.”

Malfoy brought out an ornate, linked bracelet and placed it carefully on a velvet mat next to the ledger. It looked silver, but it was almost certainly a more precious metal, maybe white gold or even platinum. 

“You should see the vault monitoring in action. Cast a charm on this. Something useful.”

Hermione raised her wand and gently said “reverto.” It was a simple spell to avoid losing precious things.

She watched as a new entry appeared in the ledger, highlighted in a soft shade of pink. It was accompanied by a series of arithmancy notations and labeled “jewelry.”

“And there you have it.” He picked up the bracelet and examined it, and for a moment she had the wild idea that he might reach over and fasten it around her wrist. Instead he smirked at her as he stowed it away in his pocket. 

Hermione looked through the ledger more closely. The previous entry listed a withdrawal of magic last Wednesday, but did not reference any type of object. It was highlighted in a deep mauve purple. 

“How did magic disappear from the vault without ever being deposited? I don’t see it anywhere else in the book.” She flipped through the pages, looking for the unique shade of purple.

“There must be a glitch in the system.” She let out a sigh of frustration. Perhaps the book had been altered in some way. It was a powerful magical object, but given enough time she could probably recover any missing entries. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to try to sweep this under the rug, Granger.” He gave her a challenging look. “I know you don’t give up that easily.”

She rolled her eyes and continued flipping through the notations. It was unexpected, getting direct access to proof of the theft. The ease with which he’d handed it over made her doubly suspicious.

“You can make a copy of the ledger, give it a closer look at your convenience. Perhaps you’ll notice something that the aurors missed.” 

She nodded and took another look around to avoid the intensity in Malfoy’s gaze. The room was beautiful—almost museum-like—and undoubtedly filled with a nearly priceless collection of treasures. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but only one that seemed important.

“What are you getting from this? Helping me, I mean.” 

She made herself look at Malfoy despite her apprehension about where this conversation would go. She didn’t think that he would resort to the bullying that had characterized their exchanges before the war, but she was prepared to be deflected with a sneer. 

“It’s obvious that you have a plan, and that you’re using yourself as some kind of bait.” 

She took a deep breath and continued. “You should be stalling me with your solicitors. Sending owls with refusals to cooperate. Offering to meet me next month and then repeatedly rescheduling. Not walking me through this ledger.” 

“It would be extremely difficult to talk to you if I did any of those things.” He leaned casually against the case but didn’t look away from her. 

Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. 

“And is that the next part of the plan? Getting me to help you with whatever you’re doing?” 

“No, the plan starts with an apology. And then dinner. And then ensuring that you can do the job that the Minister hired you to do.”

“This does seem like the perfect opportunity for you to return whatever is missing.” She still didn’t know whether the withdrawal noted in the ledger was intentional or an unhappy accident, though it was obvious Malfoy wanted her to see it for herself. “Was it the bracelet you just showed me? Are you sneaking it back in here using me as your cover?” 

He’d never be so obvious, but it was easier to continue her string of fruitless accusations than acknowledge the rest of what he wanted to say.

Malfoy sighed and crossed his arms. “We never talked about our history. Any of it. We used to talk about muggle philosophers and theories of magic and what McGonagall was going to do to the whole sorry lot of us. But never about the things that mattered.”

She shifted uncomfortably and looked away before she replied. “It was easier for me to just leave it in the past once we were back at school. Everything was so fresh and raw. I was…a mess, and I didn’t have Harry or Ron anymore. And I liked the game we played, pretending none of it had happened. It felt more real to me than almost everything else that year.

“I don’t care about the war, Malfoy. You were a victim, just like Harry. The adults in your life put you into horrible situations, and I don’t blame you for the choices you made.”

“And what about you Granger? You were a victim too.” His eyes were soft and a little bit searching.

“It wasn’t the same for me.” She’d spent a lot of time talking about this with her mind healer, who had suggested, more than once, that Hermione’s unwillingness to acknowledge the ways she had been manipulated was a defense mechanism that was no longer serving her best interest. She had never been able to forgive herself for what she had done to her parents—it all felt like a penance she deserved. “I had options that Harry didn’t have. I had a choice, even if I didn’t really understand the cost.”

“Is that why you moved away? Was that the cost?”

She could feel her pulse picking up under his scrutiny. 

He leaned both arms onto the jewelry case and studied the other side of the room. 

“I was an absolute prat to you in school. At first it was just ego, just wanting to get back at Potter. You seemed like an easy target, and cowards love easy targets.

“I was never as popular at Hogwarts as I thought I should be. I thought being a Malfoy would guarantee me adoration and attention, and when it didn’t, when I saw Potter and the rest of you getting it instead, I lashed out. Even fifth year, doing all that shit for Umbridge, I never felt like I got what I was owed.”

He swallowed and tilted his head back. “And then my father royally fucked up. The Dark Lord moved into my house. Talk about getting what you’re owed.”

She stared down at the cuffs of his shirt, examining the tendons along his thumb. He had beautiful hands. Elegant, strong. His signet ring looked polished but well-worn, covered in a patina of old money.

“No apology will ever be enough. But I am sorry, for everything. All of it. I can’t believe you even spoke to me again. Those nights in the library…it was like living someone else’s life for a little while. Someone who deserved good things.”

He sighed and turned back to her. “I know this is just temporary. You have a life somewhere else, and I never wanted to bother you. But I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time.”

She looked up at him, unsure of what to say. It had been ages since she’d thought about her childhood before the war. She’d kept her copy of Hogwarts, A History but hadn’t opened it in years. Those memories were from another person, another lifetime. 

“Thank you.” She was fidgeting with the corner of the ledger, unable to gather her thoughts. “It means a lot, and I can only imagine what it cost you, ego-wise, to say all that.” She grinned at him, wondering once again what Malfoy’s angle was in all of this. 

“I’m not going to back off, just because you apologized.”

“I’d be extremely disappointed if you did, Granger.”

Hermione made a copy of the ledger and tucked it into her bag, but declined his offer to review the Malfoy vaults. There were 3 of them, no doubt packed to the ceilings with gold and Merlin knew what else, and her body felt restless and ready to move. 

The more time she’d spent at the bank, the less interest she had in whatever had gone missing. If it were inside one of the other vaults—and it very well might be—then it could stay there awhile longer. 

It was Malfoy himself who was the real mystery, and she was more determined than ever to understand what he was playing at.

Once they emerged from the tunnels into a mostly empty lobby, he turned a scrutinizing eye on her attire.

“Should I cancel our reservation in favor of a pub dinner instead?”

She was wearing slim jeans with a pair of comfortable ballet flats, topped with a red v-neck jumper. It was as dressed up as she needed to be on most days, and it had seemed practical for climbing in and out of Gringotts carts.

“You weren’t serious about that.” 

“I would never jest about fine dining.” 

She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “Did you reserve a table for the night or an entire restaurant?”

“What do you think?” His eyes sparkled and his shoulders were relaxed. He seemed unburdened, somehow, after his apology in the vault.

“Alright. Give me a moment to get changed.”

She always had a few spare outfits in her bag, including a little black dress and a pair of heels. Her research kept her on the move, and it never hurt to be prepared. Transfiguration was absolute hell on clothes; they were never quite the same again afterwards, and she despised seams that refused to lie flat. 

The loo at Gringotts was paneled with ivory marble and offered a large mirror in which she could assess her results. Her black sheath dress had cap sleeves and an asymmetrical neckline, cinched at the waist with a narrow belt. She pulled her hair up in a twist that wasn’t too severe, and left a few stray curls loose around her face.

One swipe of lip gloss to look like she was making an effort, and she was ready to go.

Malfoy eyed her bag as she returned to the lobby. 

“I didn’t know Louis Vuitton offered undetectable extension charms.”

“Special edition. Very rare. Americans have a much more pragmatic attitude, you know. They aren’t illegal there.” She pulled her tote closer and smiled. “You wouldn’t believe what wizarding Houston is like—it’s practically an alternate dimension.”

He gave her a curious look that she didn’t recognize, then gently steered her towards the doors with a hand at her back. It had gotten late, and she realized they were the reason a skeleton crew of goblins was still working.

“Are you comfortable to side-along? I know where we’re going but I couldn’t give you the street name,” he asked.

“It’s fine.” It had been ages since she’d allowed anyone to apparate for her, but she’d rather take her chances with Malfoy than splinch herself in an unfamiliar alleyway.

They reappeared in a narrow mews, and she had a sudden inkling of where they were headed. One of muggle London’s poshest restaurants was tucked neatly between two side streets just a block off Charing Cross Rd. 

“Please tell me you aren’t about to confund the staff of The Ivy.”

“I most certainly am not. Richard would never forgive me.” Malfoy grinned and led her towards the nondescript doorway on the opposite corner. 

“We could have walked. I can practically see the Leaky from here."

“Smell it, you mean.”

She gave him a disapproving look, but she knew there was no heat in it. She’d been avoiding the Leaky for more than a decade now; it didn’t want or need her defense. 

Inside, the noises of the city faded away as they were enveloped in dark wood and vintage stained glass. She was relieved to see other diners at the tables along the windows as they were led to a plush green booth in a dark corner. Settling back as Malfoy ordered a bottle of wine, Hermione took a deep breath and tried to relax. Once again, he had managed to surprise her, and she felt ill-prepared to make it through the next couple of hours. 

“Why aren’t you teaching at Columbia this autumn?"

She looked up from the menu she hadn’t been reading to see Malfoy regarding her with a steady gaze. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You usually teach an anthropology course each semester, but you aren’t on the schedule for next term.” He gave her a serious look, as though he was genuinely worried about the career choices she was making.

She could feel the edges of her face heat in irritation. The absolute nerve of him.

“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.” This wasn’t a topic she’d been prepared to discuss, with him or anyone else. 

“Are you focusing on your research instead? Or do you have another treasure hunt lined up after this one?” 

That was one way to put it. 

“Is this why you wanted to have dinner? So you can ask intrusive questions and attempt to intimidate me with the personal details you’ve dug up?” She scoffed and set her water glass down with a distinct thud. “Congratulations on employing someone who can use a web browser.”

“I know how to use the internet, Granger.” 

A waiter interrupted them to pour from a bottle of red, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

Malfoy was asking her personal questions over a bottle of wine in a secluded restaurant corner. It wasn’t a date, exactly, but it wasn’t not a date either. She wondered idly if this was routine for him, taking a troublesome woman out for dinner in order to further his own elaborate machinations. As much as she disliked the intrusion, it was an opportunity she couldn’t squander. There was no reason to get shirty with him.

“I apologize. It feels unbalanced, how much you know about me when I know so very little about your life.” She’d try to offer him a little something of herself, to get him to open up.

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the basics. What do you do, besides count your enormous piles of galleons?”

“I turn my galleons into more galleons. Investments. Acquisitions. Occasional political maneuvering.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve diversified and modernized the Malfoy holdings. Nothing too exciting, but I’ve dabbled a bit in Silicon Valley. Limited partnership stuff.”

It was surprising to hear him discuss muggle finance so easily, but she supposed money was money. Wizarding Britain was terribly small, even with the help of magic it probably had a GDP equivalent to a sandbar off the coast of Brazil. Wealth like Malfoy’s could only come from capitalizing on the non-wizarding economy in some fashion. 

“Be honest with me, and don’t spare my feelings. I can take it.” She tilted her chin down and gave him an appraising look. “Are you a finance bro? Exactly how many Patagonia vests do you own, anyway?” 

He smirked at her but laughed in spite of himself.

“Fewer than you think but more than I am willing to admit. Besides, they’re quite useful on the quidditch pitch.”

“You still play?”

“Just a pick up match here or there. I work too much for a weekly.”

They paused to give the waiter their orders, and Hermione took a sip of the wine. It was rich but smooth, without any bitterness. Sophisticated, like the man who’d ordered it. 

In for a knut, in for a galleon. If he wanted to get personal, she wouldn’t hold back. 

“And is that why you’re not married as well? Working too much for a proper courtship?”

He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before responding. 

“Didn’t expect you to take an interest in courtship, especially these days.”

“I just thought you’d have a little Malfoy heir terrorizing the next generation at Hogwarts by now.” She tried to keep her voice light, but Harry’s words from the other night made it difficult. “The pureblood wife, the son, the family legacy and all that.”

He sighed and leaned forward, keeping his arms off the table but bringing himself as close to her as their seating allowed. 

“It’s been a very long time since I wanted anything like that. My family legacy is culpability and remorse and efforts to make amends. And that’s perfectly fine. I am grateful to have that chance, every single day. It is far preferable to the alternative. 

“But there’s no need to drag a family into it. I don’t want anyone else to suffer for my mistakes.”

She looked up at him then, and caught a flash of vulnerability behind his eyes. A loneliness that felt both familiar and vast, like a cold sea at dusk. 

“What did you mean before, about me taking an interest in courtship these days?” 

He sat back and glanced away, clearly torn about what to say. “It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that would appeal to you. That’s all I meant.”

She could sense him retreating behind his walls again, their earlier intimacy slipping away. 

“You owe me this one, Malfoy. What is this new obsession with courtship, and why do you not want to talk about it?”

She shook her head and frowned. “It’s like bloody first year all over again, everyone talking about things that are so obvious to them, only there’s no book I can read to get caught up.”

He gave a dark laugh and looked back at her. “You haven’t been into Flourish & Blotts since you got back? I’m sure there’s a large display of Cherie’s Rules for Genteel Courtship right at the front of the store.”

She had not, in fact, stepped into the bookstore that morning, which now appeared to be a significant oversight. It had seemed more important to seek out the new and unfamiliar. 

“A book about courtship doesn’t seem particularly ominous, unless you’re an eligible bachelor in possession of a large fortune. Oh wait, no wonder you hate it.” She’d discovered that she enjoyed teasing him, especially when he looked so very put out with her.

He reached for his wine and gave her a hard look. “None of this is about courtship, Granger. It’s not about love or marriage or gentle social graces. It’s about bloodlines and power and purity. It’s about properly breeding the next generation.

“They get the witches interested with all that tosh about bouquets and the language of flowers. ‘Oh, this one means innocence and this one means devotion and this is when his mother should invite you for tea.’ Then by chapter 4 they’re explaining the proper type of husband for respectable witches and the desirable qualities well-heeled wizards should look for in a wife and funnily enough, being born into a respectable wizarding family comes up multiple times.”

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, roughing it up in a way that she tried not to find attractive. “The ministry is trying to figure out what to do about the lack of wizarding babies. Incentives, is what they’re saying publicly. Hand out galleons for every child born. But forced marriage is what they’re talking about behind closed doors. Ministry mandated matches for every witch & wizard of a certain age. And do you know the one thing that’s holding them back?”

Her stomach dropped as she considered his words, and her voice barely came out in a whisper. “No one wants to force purebloods to marry muggleborns. But you can’t get the population numbers up without them.”

“We must preserve the family legacies, after all. And preserve the political careers of the wizards responsible.” He sneered in a way that was reminiscent of his younger self, but a mirror image of his old attitudes. The war had changed him—but it had failed to change wizarding Britain for the better. “Since they haven’t yet managed to get what they want by force, they’re trying a softer touch. For now.”

Ginny had said as much, though in a less cynical way. It was nauseating to realize how easily a bunch of old wizards could preserve the worst parts of their culture by selling a thin veneer of romance to young witches. 

Malfoy’s eyes were dark as he continued. “You’re going to think I’m self-serving when I tell you this, and I understand that you have no reason to trust me. But it’s not safe for you here right now. Not because you're a muggleborn, but because you are THE muggleborn. The Golden Girl.

“Half the wizards I know are speculating about why you’re really in London. There is a faction that worries you’re here to support the marriage laws as a means to end blood prejudice. There is another faction that worries you’ll oppose them out of spite, because you want old wizarding families to die out.”

It was difficult to imagine that her presence in old Blighty had any influence on politics. Wishful thinking, if she were being honest. Though part of her knew that it explained a great deal about how she’d been treated at the ministry on Friday evening.

“Let’s say for a moment that I believe you. Where do you stand in all of this, and what does it have to do with the incident in your vault last week?” she asked.

He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I believe you’re here because Shacklebolt asked you to do a job for him, and because you wanted to be somewhere else, at least for a while. But I don’t think he’s been entirely truthful with you, and I can only guess at his real motives.”

She watched as his thumb worried his signet ring, the only outward sign that he was not perfectly calm and composed. 

“I’ll give him credit, he didn’t let a crisis go to waste. Though I never expected that he’d get you involved.”

“So you support the marriage laws then? Is that what this has all been about?” She gave him a hard look, steeling herself for the truth. 

“Of course not. Why would I, an eligible bachelor as you put it, want the ministry meddling in my personal affairs? It’s not to be tolerated.” 

“You could always choose your own wife. I’m sure there’s a long list of witches who’d eagerly agree.”

He sighed in frustration, rolling his lips as he dropped his gaze to the table. “I am not putting my time or my galleons towards forcing witches into marriage beds or furthering the cause of blood purity in any way. I don’t care if the old families die out, including mine.” 

She found that somewhat difficult to believe, remembering the closeness he’d had with his parents and Narcissa’s willingness to do anything to save her precious son. But if he wanted to be married, he’d surely had ample opportunity. Her chest tightened when she thought about all the eligible witches Malfoy could choose from.

“Don’t be so naive as to think that I’m the bad guy here and your precious minister is going to protect the wizarding world from this abuse of power. Nobody knows where Shacklebolt stands on the marriage laws—there are new rumors and innuendo on a daily basis. Which has everyone on edge and jumping to wrongheaded conclusions, and,” he paused for emphasis, “which puts you in danger on all sides while you carry out this job he was so eager to hire you for.”

For a moment, she’d forgotten all about the vaults and her search. It seemed wholly unimportant next to the political issues Malfoy had just described.

“I had dinner with Harry on Saturday, and he didn’t think I was in any particular danger, except perhaps from you.”

Malfoy chuckled under his breath. “Good instincts, Potter. But absolute shite deductions.”

Hermione frowned. It hurt her heart a little, knowing that this rivalry hadn’t been put to rest in the years she’d been away. 

His expression softened as he looked up from the table. “Things are very…unpredictable right now. That’s the best way I can put it. But I’ll do whatever I can to ensure your safety. And I know Potter will too.”

“I appreciate that, though I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” She arched her brow at him. “I can take care of myself. I don’t spend all of my time locked in library basements.”

“No, only most of it,” he replied with a grin. 

—

Their meal arrived, and they spent the rest of dinner avoiding the existential issues of wizarding politics. 

She tried to draw Malfoy out on the topic of contemporary art, but he didn’t take the bait. When she mentioned seeing the Damien Hirst at the Met, he just smiled and said he preferred the Dutch masters. 

He wanted to know about her life in New York and elsewhere, something she would normally find refreshing & considerate, but which put her in the awkward position of trying to make her perfectly normal, incredibly satisfying adult existence sound…a little less boring and lonely. 

She talked about her work abroad, sharing a few (hopefully funny) stories about her curse-breaking mishaps among various wizarding cultures. Over the years, she’d slowly killed her urge to seem like the smartest person in any room, and now favored a dry retort over a long explanation whenever possible. She wished she could credit the change to her personal healing journey—a mixed bag overall with only a few notable successes—but it had actually been the surfeit of know-it-all men she’d encountered in New York who had opened her eyes to how…unattractive…that quality was. 

Malfoy, always more perceptive than she liked to admit, took note of the fact that her anecdotes mostly described solo adventures.

“Do you really love to travel, Granger?” he asked as they waited for the dessert course. “Or do you just prefer to be the one who leaves?”

It was an astute question that she deflected with a laugh. 

“You make it sound so dramatic. I can’t help that I have a tragic weakness for stuffy academics with artistic pretensions.” Truly, she was her own worst enemy. She’d suffered through more than one tedious Whitney biennial for the sake of having it off. “They’re only fun for a bit. No reason to drag it out.”

“So you like your relationships to have an expiration date?”

“I like to be…unencumbered.” She took a sip of her espresso. “Men slow women down. And I have a lot I want to accomplish.”

She tried not to think about what it might be like to have a man in her life who didn’t slow her down. Someone with elegant hands and a quick grin and a fondness for teasing her about her food choices. (Sticky toffee pudding was absolutely impossible to find across the pond, even if it was, admittedly, less sophisticated than the creme brulee.) Who would she need to become, to allow an entanglement to last more than a few months? The idea was equally thrilling & terrifying. 

In her final session with her mind healer in New York, they’d discussed the rather thin & insufficient excuses Hermione cited for upending her life—again—and moving on to the unknown. 

“Have you considered that you may be re-enacting a familiar pattern? That this is not about seeking opportunity but about feeling safe by avoiding anything that feels too permanent?”

“I suppose that could be part of it.” She’d plucked at the edge of her sleeve, avoiding eye contact as she repeated her own arguments in her mind for the thousandth time. Her apartment was already sublet. There was no turning back. 

“Maybe this next one will stick.”

—

After dinner, Malfoy insisted on getting her back to her hotel safely.  

She assured him it was only a short walk away, but she suspected that he knew that already. 

A quiet had settled over the darkened city, occasionally punctuated by a passing taxi or bursts of noise and laughter as a theater emptied onto the sidewalk. She felt her arms pebble in the chilly night air, and he offered her his jacket as they walked up Charing Cross in a companionable silence.

She found herself sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye, watching for his reaction as they passed a jaunty pub crowded with drunk muggles. He seemed perfectly at ease in the West End, keeping an eye on the street around them with his left hand in his pocket, no doubt in easy reach of his wand. His jacket surrounded her with that woody scent that was uniquely his, and she resisted the urge to bury her nose in her shoulder.

“Do you have plans on Saturday?”

He was looking over at her as they passed under the awning of a Chinese takeaway spot.

“I’m never sure where I’ll be needed. Why?” She didn’t have any commitments, but it was an ingrained habit to keep her availability ambiguous, lest people make claims on her time that they hadn’t earned.

“It’s my birthday Saturday. I’m having some people round to celebrate. Nothing too terrible, I promise. Not like the Ministry last week.”

She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered the large packages he’d received in the Great Hall every year.

“Are you inviting me to your birthday party, Malfoy?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” He looked awkward for a moment, like he wished he could take it back, and she found herself with a sudden, unexpected urge to reassure him.

“Alright then. But only if you promise there will be Jammie Dodgers or something equally embarrassing.”

His mouth gaped for a moment before lifting into a smirk. “You have the absolute worst taste in treats, Granger.”

“Don’t be a prat. Everyone loves a Jammie Dodger. You’re just too posh to admit it.”

They’d arrived at her hotel, and she gently removed his coat from her shoulders.

“Send your address to me at the DMLE. And thank you for a lovely evening.” She looked up at his eyes, strangely reluctant for the evening to end. It had been fun, having dinner with him. Even the trip to the vault had been surprisingly enjoyable.

Malfoy put a hand on her elbow and leaned down to her ear, sending a shiver along her spine. “Let’s keep the game going for a bit longer, shall we? And don’t forget to ward your door tonight.” His breath hovered for just a moment before he withdrew.

“Goodnight Granger.”

“Goodnight Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

“It sits between two pieces of bread. It is, therefore, by definition, a sandwich.”

“Nah, mate. The bun stays connected, so it’s not TWO pieces of bread, is it? Therefore it is NOT a sandwich.”

She had been trying to ignore the inane argument in the Ministry lift for at least 6 floors. It was just as tedious as the 15 times she’d heard it prior to today.

“Oy, Ms Granger. Is a hot dog a sandwich, or is it its own thing?”

The one trainee auror looked at her expectantly, while his friend blushed pink and looked down at his feet. They were just boys, really, their clothes hanging off their bodies at awkward angles. One of them still had pimples on his face. She knew she’d been that young once, but it was difficult to remember when, exactly.

Were these the type of young men trying to court witches at the pureblood balls, or were those only for the wealthy layabouts who didn’t need employment? Would they be forced into marriages by the Wizengamot’s political maneuvering? Maybe she should give them some sort of lecture—improve their minds (and their marriage prospects) with a bit of hard-earned wisdom. 

Alas, she couldn’t be arsed with the herculean task of leaving wizarding Britain better than she’d found it.

“In America, everyone agrees that a hot dog is a taco.” Hermione smirked as she stepped out into the hallway and walked towards the bullpen.

—

She’d spent the previous day ensconced in the Ministry Archives, pulling every reference she could find to the Malfoy family and their businesses. 

After that dinner on Monday evening (and the subsequent intrusive thoughts which she was doing her best to ignore) it had seemed critical to fill in the gaps in her knowledge. 

Ginny had been right; Malfoy kept himself out of the Prophet, although Narcissa was featured frequently at various teas and luncheons. She hosted numerous fundraisers for charitable causes, most of which were devoted to those injured or orphaned by the previous war. 

A brief obituary for Lucius had appeared in 2003. He had died in Azkaban, serving a 15 year sentence for his role in Voldemort’s second rise to power. She remembered reading the notes from his trial while filing them away, eons ago. The accounts of his raids on the homes of muggleborn witches & wizards had been particularly chilling. 

DMLE records for the Malfoys ended shortly after the war. Draco had completed his NEWTS as well as a year-long rehabilitation program, satisfying all the conditions of his release. She’d taken a moment to read the letter she’d submitted on his behalf, testifying to his refusal to identify them at the Manor. It sounded like something she’d composed—direct, thorough, a bit overbearing—but she couldn’t recall a single thing about the writing of it. Where had she been sitting? How had she felt? What did she do afterwards? The months after the war ended were mostly a blur in her memory.

Outside of the DMLE files (she’d been pleased to note that her filing system had been maintained all these years later), the references to Malfoy were extremely sparse. He was not in arrears with the tax department. He’d been party to a few property sales over the years, but otherwise there were few records about his business dealings. 

With little information available about Malfoy, she’d pulled a copy of an old Hogwarts yearbook and begun compiling information about his possible associates instead. 

Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Marcus Flint, Blaise Zabini. She had forgotten some of these witches and wizards existed, but they each appeared near Malfoy in various photos from Quidditch games or the dungeon common room. Crabbe was dead, of course, and Goyle was still in Azkaban.

Hermione cleared a few items off an empty desk and made herself comfortable. She’d copied a number of articles and files about the hodgepodge of Slytherins, as well as Yewdall and some of the other wizards she’d had the misfortune of meeting the previous week. She hoped she might find some clues to Malfoy’s motives if she looked closely enough, or at least better understand what had happened in the last 8 years. 

She spread the articles out in front of her and pulled a stash of highlighters from her bag, tapping one absently against her lips.

The problem with all of this research was that it required her to think about the one person she was absolutely resolved to NOT think about.

She was not thinking about his hands, and the way they’d held his wine glass like it was something delicate and precious. She was not thinking about his clothes, layers of fine wool which draped so impeccably across his shoulders, finishing at the perfect break in his trousers. And she was definitely not thinking of what she had glimpsed in his rare, unguarded moments—the softness behind his eyes, the way his arm instinctively reached for her every time they crossed a street or approached a doorway.

No, she was solely focused on his business, his associates, and his motives for compromising Gringotts. Nothing else.

—

“Godric’s balls, this case is one step forward and two steps back.” Harry appeared in the bullpen early that afternoon, looking frustrated. He paused when he noticed Hermione at her desk. 

“What happened to Murdoch?”

“Who’s Murdoch?” Hermione had been busy cross-referencing former members of the Slytherin quidditch team with the Hogwarts Board of Governors. 

“This is his desk.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind. I won’t be here long.”

Harry sighed and flopped down in a chair across the aisle. 

“We didn’t find anything at Malfoy’s house, though his steward offered to clean and press my robes multiple times while I was on premises. I thought he might be trying to spy, but I think he just enjoyed pissing me off.”

Hermione looked up to examine Harry.

“You don’t look so bad to me.” His robes had the same wrinkled, lived-in look they always did. “Was the fashion critique a step forward for the case, or just a step back for you personally?”

Harry grimaced. “I saw Robards on the way in, coming out of a meeting. He reminded me that our focus should be on finding the weapon and not, quote, on harassing the one person with zero incentive to steal something he already owned.”

“They’ve got proof Malfoy owns bits and bobs from Voldemort? Why not bring him in for that?” The ministry’s focus on a weapon was making her increasingly uneasy. “And why not share the details of the bloody thing with the person who’s supposed to find it!”

Harry sighed. “You know there’s no proof. And if there were proof it would be an admission that the department botched the job after the war, wouldn't it?”

“So is Malfoy the victim of a robbery, the victim of a slander campaign, the mastermind of an elaborate scheme with an unknown target, or an innocent bystander in someone else’s niffler hunt?” 

“All of the above?”

Hermione leaned back and massaged her temples. “You seriously didn’t find anything? No hidden vaults? No correspondence? No vanishing cabinet just casually sitting out in the parlor?”

“We checked every room. Every cabinet. Every drawer. We made a copy of his calendar, which consists entirely of lunches with his mother and the occasional Quidditch game.”

Harry pulled a packet of crisps out from Merlin knew where as he continued. “Garfield offered to show us where Malfoy hides his favorite sweets. That was as exciting as it got.”

“Garfield?”

“The steward?”

“No. I refuse to allow it.” 

She could not associate a large orange cat with Malfoy’s residence. (It had been several years since Crooks had passed, and she still missed his dear smooshed face.)

Harry smiled for the first time. “I almost asked him if he likes lasagna, but I was trying to remain professional.”

“I thought he was trying to piss you off? Did he change his mind and bribe you with sweets instead?”

Harry raised his eyebrows and continued shoveling crisps into his mouth. 

“I think he enjoys pissing Malfoy off even more.”

“We can unpack that later.” Hostile domestic help could be a useful angle. “What about my new favorite Quidditch player? Did you ask him about Malfoy?”

“I never got a chance. International Cooperation sent them home late Monday. I tried to object but Robards had already signed off. Trowbridge nearly lost his mind.”

“Guess it’s a shame I didn’t get Luka’s autograph. I hear they’re a favorite for the World Cup this year.”

“Where’d you hear that? And since when do you care about Quidditch?”

“I do try to stay informed, Harry.”

She leaned back, thinking about the invitation for Saturday night. There had been a message waiting for her yesterday when she checked in at the front desk.

93 Park Lane London
Saturday, June 5, 8pm

Don’t even think about walking, Granger. Floo connection will be open.

-DM

“Does Malfoy have an office elsewhere, or does he manage his conglomerate from home?”

She’d tried to find an answer in the Archives, but there was no address associated with his business concerns. She wondered if nosing around in the records of Magical Transportation would be a step too far.

“Most of the first floor is his office, plus a couple of guest rooms.”

“How many floors total?”

“Ground plus three. Massive place, sitting on the corner overlooking the park.”

She stood up suddenly, remembering something he’d said at dinner. “Did you see muggle computers anywhere? A laptop or a monitor in his office maybe?”

Harry leaned his head back and thought for a moment. “No, nothing like that. It would’ve stood out. I hardly ever see that stuff on raids.”

“I have an idea, but I need to get out of here to follow it up.” She gathered up her papers before grabbing her tote. “Will I see you at drinks tonight?”

Neville had heard she was back and wanted to get the old DA crowd together for the first time in ages. They were meeting up at a new gastropub in Center Ally, which—of course—was located out in Richmond.

“Probably not. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on and Robards wants me to run down some loose ends on that unicorn case. There may have been more wizards involved than we thought.”

“Alright, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She was eager to get out of the Ministry and onto the streets. It had been a few weeks since she’d allowed herself an afternoon at a cafe with internet access, but she needed to follow up on her suspicions.

She was nearly to the lifts when Percy stepped out with a determined look on his face.

“Just the witch I was looking for,” he said brightly.

Five minutes. If she’d just had a five minute head start she could’ve avoided whatever nonsense this was about. She’d been hoping to dodge Kingsley for a few more days after he’d put her through the wringer on Friday.

“I was just on my way out.” She pasted a pleasant smile onto her face and allowed her feet to continue edging towards freedom. “Need to follow up on some leads, you know. Keeping very busy.”

“The Minister had a meeting cancel. He wants to speak with you about your progress on the case.”

Hermione sighed and let her smile drop. “Can I send him a status report instead? I’ve got it drafted already.”

“No. It won’t take long. He’s got another appointment at the hour.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

—

Hermione sat at a small table in Kingsley’s office, ignoring the tea service in front of her as she attempted to extract meaning from the wash of jargon being sprayed in her direction.

He’d been speaking for several minutes with great enthusiasm, using a lot of words but saying essentially…nothing.

“…I’m sure you’ve come to the same conclusion, understanding of course that all parties involved must have their various interests satisfied, even if it does require a measure of compromise and diplomacy…”

When had Kingsley become such a tiresome politician? She didn’t think he’d always been this way. The years after the war had felt optimistic, if not quite energetic. Nevertheless, she remembered a man who was forthright, even blunt when the moment called for it.

“…but what’s most important is that we minimize any disruption to the day-to-day operations that wizarding families rely on, while assuring the public that the matter has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly looking for a response, so she nodded and murmured, “Of course, you’re absolutely right,” with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of gravity.

She needed to seize the moment, lest she spend this entire meeting listening to Kingsley talk about nothing and be forced to do it all over again before the end of the week.

“I was hoping we could discuss the background of my project. I haven’t had a chance to speak with Robards yet. He’s quite busy as you know, and I’ve been in the field a good bit. But I was wondering if you could tell me more about the rumors regarding the weapon. How long they’ve been circulating, for example, and how you connected them to the robbery.”

Kingsley smiled and reached for his tea cup. “Intelligence comes in via many secure channels, as you know, including field agents throughout the country as well as paid informants—”

“So you have an informant who was aware of the weapon? Or just the rumors? Did they provide any details that could be useful in my search?” she asked.

“Are you having difficulties with this matter?” He sat back and looked at her sharply. “I thought with your experience, you could overcome any obstacles.”

“I search for historical artifacts, Kingsley. Things with documented names, dates, owners. My work is based on primary sources, not rumors.” She could feel her voice rising to a shrill pitch, and she paused to recenter herself before she continued. “You’ve given me nothing to work with here. I have questioned the suspects. Visited the vault twice. And I reviewed the inventory ledger.”

“Inventory ledger?” His eyebrows raised in surprise. “What inventory ledger?”

“The Black vault has extra security measures. MagNET arithmancy tracking. It’s a sophisticated system that tracks the physical & magical inventory of the vault.”

“And the missing weapon?”

“Something went missing, but there’s no evidence that it’s a weapon. I’m half convinced it was an error in the system itself rather than a robbery.”

She let her words hang in the air, wishing she could take them back.

This would be the end of it. If the weapon didn’t exist, then there was no reason to continue her search. No reason for her to be here at all. Her throat felt thick and heavy with regret, but it was for the best. She had other plans, other places to be.

She’d be gone before Saturday. He wouldn’t notice her absence from his party.

“I’m confident that you will see this matter through for me, Hermione.”

She looked up in surprise at Kingsley’s serious tone.

“The wizarding world is at a pivotal moment. The forces of darkness continue to gather, and we must be prepared to meet them with strength. Everything, everyone is depending on us!”

“Harry and the rest of the aurors are doing an excellent j—”

He interrupted her, shaking his head. “They are too busy with the day to day, like this matter in Snowdonia. Can’t see the larger picture, feel the change that’s in the air.”

Hermione frowned, thinking back to her conversation with Harry. Were there really dark wizards gathering power somewhere? And how did that relate to the possible marriage laws and the rising popularity of pureblood culture?

“There is no one I trust more in this matter. I know you will do what is necessary to protect the innocent, and to ensure there is no disruption to the peace and prosperity we are currently enjoying.”

He tapped his hand on the table for emphasis before standing up.

“A weapon will be found. We will rally the public to our side and continue the fight against evil. It is absolutely critical.”

He gestured towards the door, and she knew she was being dismissed.

“I’ll keep you updated on my progress.” She had no idea how to do anything of the sort when she was no closer to understanding what she was looking for, but it seemed like the right thing to say as she hurried out the door.

The lift was blessedly empty, and she allowed herself a moment to breathe before gripping the rail tightly.

A weapon will be found. Surely he didn’t mean to imply…

But of course he did. She thought back over everything he’d said, all her questions that he’d ignored, his insistence on the importance of the project.

Kingsley didn’t care whether she found whatever had gone missing from the Black vault. He was working a political angle, capitalizing on rumors from Merlin knew where—and positioning himself as a beacon of safety and security in a world full of dark wizards.

He wanted to declare victory. By any means necessary.

A sour taste was rising in the back of her throat, the lift suddenly feeling too small to bear. She needed air. She needed to be outside.

This job was a scam, of one sort or another. It was terribly obvious now. Kingsley had engaged her under false pretenses, lured her away from her research, and set her up—either for failure or the worst kind of deceit. She wondered idly if he even cared which turn she took, if perhaps she was more useful to him as someone to blame for the rot that was slowly creeping through the wizarding world.

It was all going to end poorly, that much seemed certain. But she had never backed down from a fight, certainly not to save her own skin.

As tempting as it was to grab the next portkey to anywhere that wasn’t London, she had too many unanswered questions (along with a small but growing desire for retribution). No, she wasn’t giving up on this—not until she understood why.

—

Draco

Blaise leaned against the bar, glaring at him. It had been a difficult morning and an even worse afternoon, and his friend (and general counsel) had decided to pick a fight.

“This is beyond ridiculous. I could have prevented the DMLE from ever bothering you and you damn well know it.”

He’d been at his office on Cannon St when the red notebook in his pocket turned hot in warning. Garfield knew what to expect, and the aurors had showed up right on schedule—two days late to the fray. It had been a full week since the break-in at Gringotts, and they’d just got round to searching his house this morning.

He had expected the inconvenience of the aurors traipsing through his home, but he hadn’t anticipated Blaise’s anger.

“There was no need to prevent it—that would only make me look guilty. This has given a high polish to my victimhood while getting the DMLE absolutely nothing of value.” He picked up his firewhiskey, trying to ignore his irritation. Blaise was being protective. He should attempt to be grateful.

“Potter is onto you. Don’t think I don’t remember what happened the last time.”

Draco felt his chest twinge at the memory, his mind offering up a musty aroma punctuated by the coppery scent of blood. His blood.

“I am not in any danger from Potter.” He believed it as much as he believed most things. Garfield’s observations about The Boy Who Lived To Snoop In Draco’s Pants Drawer had been one of the only bright spots in his day.

…cute hair. Looks tired and in need of a good shag. (I volunteer!)…
…still wearing his heart on his sleeve, poor lad. So determined it breaks my heart. I want to make him cry…
…easily distracted by sweets. Maybe you can invite him round, and I can tie him up and cover him in pudding in the kitchen…

He should have known that most of Garfield’s thoughts about his former school rival would border on pornographic.

No, Potter was not the reason this day had gone to shit. He’d heard from his contact at the Prophet about the propaganda piece they’d be running for the Minister tomorrow, and it had put him in a foul mood.

Shacklebolt was playing a dangerous game, building up the rumors of a weapon and associating it with his vault. And he was allowing his enjoyment of Granger’s presence in London to distract him from thinking about his countermove.

“Do they know about your other offices?”

“Of course not.”

It was somewhat ironic: his mandated rehabilitation had required him to learn so much about the muggle world, it became an escape from the oppressive attention of the wizarding public after the war. He had an entire second life the ministry knew nothing about because their understanding of commerce was still stuck in roughly 1750.

Across the pub, a group of mostly Gryffindors was receiving another round of drinks and an assortment of sharable plates. He was sure at least a few of them had noticed him at the end of the bar, but it didn’t matter.

“Will you at least tell me what you’re playing at? If this is about the marriage law, I know you can buy the votes to stop it. Why are you fucking around with the goblins?”

It was an excellent question that he had no interest in answering, though it would be fun to tease Blaise with a few hints.

“Have you ever thought about where galleons come from?”

“Salazar’s sack, don’t turn this into a lecture on monetary policy.”

“Magic is no excuse for being incurious.” He frowned down at his drink. “The goblins are a fierce enemy, but they’re a more dangerous ally. Always willing to enable the darkest impulses of wizardkind for a few more piles of gold.”

“We’ve had enough war for one lifetime, mate. We don’t need another goblin rebellion.”

“I know. But if you think abou–”

Granger’s tangle of luscious curls appeared at the door, her hips swaying in an unfairly attractive way as she walked across the room towards the Gryffindors; his eyes couldn’t help but follow. As he watched her join her friends he could feel Blaise staring at the side of his face.

“Right, then. So…things are worse than I thought. Have you been talking to her?”

“None of your fucking business, Blaise.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. It is my duty to remind you, as your head solicitor, that she is here to retrieve proof that you have been in possession of a Dark artifact…”

“I have not been in possession of any such thing.”

“…and given that she is both terrifyingly intelligent as well as deeply familiar with the muggle world…”

“I really don’t want to hear it.”

“…she is, therefore, the number one witch you need to keep away from in order to maintain secrecy around your various business endeavors.”

“But that’s what makes it fun.” He smirked at his friend over his glass.

“Only you would call having a self-righteous Gryffindor princess nosing around in your affairs fun.”

“I told you, Potter is no threat to me,” he winked as he forced himself to look away from the large group, now standing to embrace their friend in turn. “And I like to keep my enemies close. Where’s your Slytherin spirit?”

“You don’t normally want to get a leg over your enemies, Dray.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, before bringing them together in a piercing look. “Merlin, is that why you wanted to try this place tonight? Are you stalking her?”

“I am ensuring that the minister’s chosen huntress remains safe during troubling times.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and looked over Draco’s shoulder with a frown. “I’ll be sure to note that when the subpoena’s arrive.”

Draco felt her warmth as she stepped up beside him—her soft, citrusy scent punctuated by something sharp. He breathed in deeply. She was angry today; he wasn’t sure if he smelled it or sensed it in her magic, but he felt it rippling around him, like a fire about to catch.

“Hello, Zabini,” she said carefully.

“Granger. Welcome back.”

He turned to look at her, surprised by how calm she appeared. Unlike Potter, she’d learned to keep her emotions off her face.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, hoping she’d linger for a few minutes before rejoining her friends.

“Make it a G&T?” She looked back at Blaise. “Could we have a moment? I’ll give him back to you shortly.”

Blaise nodded and took his drink out on the patio, where a group of attractive witches had been casting glances at him for most of the evening.

He was surprised she’d accept his offer so easily, and he idly wondered what she wanted with him as he spoke to the blue-haired wizard behind the bar. It seemed likely his shit day was about to get even worse.

“Is it me you’re angry with?” If he was going to receive a tongue-lashing, he’d rather get it out of the way.

“Why would you think I’m angry?” She gave him a challenging look that made his cock twitch in his trousers.

How was he supposed to answer that? Because I can smell it in your hair? Because my magic can feel your magic crackling under the surface of your skin? Because I’m keeping a dozen secrets from you, any one of which might make the tips of your fingers burst into flames?

“Just a guess. It’s been a terrible day. Maybe I’m hoping you had a terrible day too, and we can commiserate together.”

She gave a small laugh and glanced up at the bottles behind the bar. Soft golden light was filtering in from the windows, illuminating the dusting of freckles across her cheeks. She looked beautiful and fierce—capable of bringing him to his knees with a single word.

“I’m trying very hard to be angry with you, but I’m too angry with Kingsley to have any leftover to spare.”

His chest warmed at the fact that she was beginning to see through Shacklebolt’s platitudes and friendly demeanor. Circe damn the minister for his ridiculous schemes.

“And what do you want to be angry with me about?”

“How about Viridian Capital Group?” She pursed her lips and accepted the drink the bartender slid towards her. “I knew you were involved in muggle finance, but I didn’t realize you’d founded a bloody private equity firm.”

“It sounds so dirty when you say it like that, Granger. We’re long-term investors, not a bunch of strip and flip lads.”

He couldn’t help but feel pleased that she’d discovered his business in less than one week—this brilliant witch was smarter than the entire DMLE combined. The gold he kept in Gringotts was still impressive by wizard standards, but it was just a fraction of his overall wealth and the least interesting part of his portfolio.

She sighed and took a sip of her drink. “Honestly I can’t believe you run a business with muggle employees and everything. I have a million questions.”

“Hopefully nothing to do with taxes. I hire people to handle that.”

“And do you also hire someone to keep track of me?” She gave him a pointed glare. “I should’ve known I’d find you lurking here tonight.”

“It’s impossible to lurk in Richmond, Granger. This place practically repels the Dark Arts. Too many cheerful shop windows and charming cafés, not enough shadows. I am loitering at best.”

She smiled at him then, and he wanted to keep doing this all night. Sparring with her, teasing her, evading her questions while keeping a close eye on anyone who so much as glanced in her direction. He wanted to keep her all to himself for as long as possible, and he tried not to think about how limited that time might actually be.

“Tell me why you’re angry with Shacklebolt.”

She took a deep breath, opening and closing her mouth a few times before she answered.

“I’m starting to figure out why I’m here, and I don’t like it,” she said, absently turning her glass around on the bar. “And I don’t want to leave yet, even though I probably should.” She looked sad for a moment, and he wondered—not for the first time—what it might take to stop her leaving at all.

“Were you there for his interview with the Prophet?” She frowned at him and shook her head. “It’ll run tomorrow morning. All the usual rah rah stuff, uniting the wizarding world, defeating the forces of evil and so on. He’s trying very hard to recapture his glory days by pinning his hopes on you—and taking advantage of me.”

“Might be the other way around,” she grinned at him sadly. “Taking advantage of me, and hoping you do something stupid.”

“He can only wish,” he said with a huff. “If it makes you feel any better…Shacklebolt and his desire to locate this so-called weapon are not my main concern at the moment.”

He’d resolved to himself that he wouldn’t lie to her directly, not any more, and he was doing his best to hold to it. “I meant what I said the other night—I want you to do what the minister hired you for. Search for Dark artifacts, high and low. You can start in my vaults if you like. Maybe find something nice and cursed that the aurors missed 10 years ago. Something rare & fascinating.” Like you, he didn’t bother to add.

“I don’t need your help to do my job, Malfoy.” She pushed her weight off the bar, that strange sense of heat and magic surrounding him again.

He’d gone too far, suggesting his vaults, but the idea of her wandering around Knockturn Alley or sorting through the estates of old Death Eaters made his throat tight with anger.

“Of course not, Granger. You’ve got the aurors to do your dirty work for you instead.”

She scoffed and took a sip of her drink. “I’ve got better things to do than rifle through your cupboards.”

“Do you really?” He affected a bored expression.

Her eyes darkened. “You’re an idiot if you think your vaults can distract me from the fact that you went to a lot of trouble to get three men past the wards at Gringotts to steal exactly nothing.” She shook her head at him. “The so-called weapon is not my main concern at the moment either.”

“And just what is your main concern?” If she was running his name and address through various government databases, he had a pretty clear idea of what she was focused on.

She leaned over to whisper in his ear, breathing softly and making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Now where would be the fun in that?”

He knew he was being dismissed, and she picked up her drink and headed back towards her friends.

“I’ll see you Saturday, Granger.”

Chapter Text

Tucked away in her hotel suite with an assortment of poor decisions from the corner shop, Hermione forced herself through page after page of Cherie’s Guide to Genteel Courting.

It should have been delightful, spending a day in bed reading and calling it work, but her overwhelming desire to fling the book across the room stole all the joy from the endeavor.

She’d reluctantly purchased it along with several other books from the new “Wizarding Culture” section at Flourish & Blotts—all of which she planned to expense to the DMLE. The idea that she’d spent her own hard-earned funds on such tripe made her positively ill.

Protect. Preserve. Provide. Those were the purported cornerstones of the genteel wizard’s courtship effort.

“…the protection of the witch in question, both her person and her reputation, must guide every step of the courtship process…keeping in mind the importance of preserving wizarding culture…must demonstrate that he can provide—or exceed—the standard of care & enjoyment to which she is accustomed… ”

It was all so terribly dull. Predictable.

She let a wasabi crisp burn her tongue for a moment as she considered again what it would be like to remain involved with someone for longer than a few weeks. The thought had been coming back to her more frequently the last few days, surfacing in the back of her mind at inopportune moments.

Had she really never met the right person? Or had she just not bothered to try?

She had known after the war ended that a long-term relationship was impossible. Breaking up with Ron had seemed like the only sensible thing to do in the face of her overwhelming grief and anxiety. She had lost herself for awhile, physically and emotionally, in a way that wasn’t entirely healthy but which had felt necessary at the time.

New York had given her the fresh start that she needed. After what had happened with her parents…well, cutting ties with her old life was the only way she could manage under the burden of what she had done.

But her life in the city had also been a means of escape. She’d felt it for awhile, and could admit it to herself now. There was always something going on—more work to plan, more events to attend, more friends to meet, more exhibits to look forward to. She had pursued an endless supply of future possibilities…without ever working to secure something present.

No, she hadn’t really tried. She’d taken it for granted that she’d never extend her involvement much beyond the heady first blush of attraction—never negotiate over drawer space in someone else’s apartment, never meet their parents over the holidays. She didn’t want to explain why they would never meet her family, or why she preferred to travel in late December and welcome each year by ticking another country off her adventure list.

With a sigh, she flopped down on her stomach and picked up another book.

—

On Saturday evening, she stood before the large marble vanity contemplating her wet hair in the mirror. She’d skipped a bath to avoid wrinkling her skin, promising herself that if the evening went poorly she could always take refuge in the claw foot tub that had become her sanctuary over the last week.

The upgrade to her room had never been corrected, and her anxiety about the hotel’s mistake had been replaced by a paranoid sort of suspicion.

Was she really enjoying the undeserved fruits of a computer error? Or was she being provided for in a way that demonstrates care and consideration?

Now that she was thoroughly educated about pureblood courting customs, she was starting to see them everywhere—even in her own tedious work expenses, which was madness. Chiding herself for giving in to one of the most common types of cognitive bias, she worked a luxury hair oil through her long strands before whispering a gentle drying charm that she’d invented herself.

Since meeting with Kingsley on Wednesday afternoon she’d avoided going back to the ministry, keeping her nose in books when she wasn’t walking the streets of London.

She’d needed time to work through her thoughts and consider her next steps.

The minister’s motives now seemed disappointingly transparent. The article in the Prophet on Thursday had been a rehash of their conversation the previous day, with loud assurances to the wizarding world that he was ready to confront the forces of evil at any moment. What he lacked in specifics he made up for with bluster, and for now the Prophet seemed willing to advance his cause.

Malfoy, on the other hand, remained inscrutable—and infuriating. He was toying with her, and it was obvious he was keeping tabs on everything she was doing.

She’d discovered his private equity firm by combing through the public registry of UK corporations, though she hadn’t expected to find much more than a series of shell companies. The fact that he was comfortable enough in the muggle world to run a business there had been a shock.

She knew she ought to tell Harry, but something she didn’t want to examine too closely held her back.

It was only her curiosity about Malfoy’s double life that made her willing to go to Hyde Park to celebrate his birthday with a potentially hostile crowd of Slytherins. Gaining access to his home might give her more clues to understand his motives. So far, the robbery at Gringotts had brought him nothing but problems—his name in the paper, the public reminder of his family’s past association with Voldemort, as well as a thorough search of his home by the DMLE. She tried not to wonder whether he considered her presence an additional burden to tolerate.

What in Merlin’s name could be worth all of this to him?

The weather had finally turned warm, so she chose a dark, halter neck dress with a metallic sheen and a pair of thin, strappy sandals to wear for the evening.

She left her hair loose, but applied a bit of eye makeup as well as some lip gloss. If she was going to encounter the likes of Pansy Parkinson tonight, she’d rather be fully dressed for battle.

Outside her hotel the sun still shone brightly. Summer days were long this far north, and full dark was nearly 2 hours away.

She looked across the street and considered her options. Malfoy had urged her to take the floo, but she had no desire to walk into the Leaky Cauldron wearing muggle clothes to use the public fireplace. She could take the Tube and walk along the edge of the park, but the lovely weather convinced her she’d rather wander through Soho for awhile. Taxis would be readily available if she tired of negotiating the crowds of tourists.

As she turned down the steps she spotted a tall man with dark, curly hair watching her as he leaned against a low fence smoking a cigarette. His light grey suit was impeccably tailored, with a tasteful blue Half Windsor knot gleaming in the golden light. Her hand instinctively moved to the wand tucked into a hidden pocket of her dress, and he smiled as he raised his hands in a gesture of goodwill.

“If you’re going to hex me, make it something good. There’s a bloke on the memory modification team I rather fancy, and the story of how I was bested by Hermione Granger ought to at least get me a lunch date.”

He made a show of stubbing his cigarette out on a post before vanishing the filter, and stepped forward to offer his hand.

“Theo Nott, at your service.”

She shook his hand cautiously, and was surprised when he dropped a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

He looked different after so many years, but she recognized his name immediately. He’d been a quiet boy at Hogwarts, adept at avoiding notice by disappearing behind Malfoy and the other Slytherin bullies.

“Hello, Theo. Dare I ask why you’re standing outside my hotel on such a fine evening?”

“Fortune favors the bold.” His eyes held a glimmer of amusement. “And I’m responsible for escorting you safely to the party tonight.”

“That’s really not necessary.” She’d been looking forward to her walk, and had no intention of being forced into the green flames of a floo tonight or allowing this strange man to apparate her to Merlin knew where. “I’m perfectly capable of escorting myself.”

“You wound me, Granger.” He clutched his chest in a dramatic swoon. “What else is a wastrel like myself good for, other than looking handsome on the arm of a beautiful woman?”

“My grandmother always said that men are only good for two things. Accessorizing wasn’t one of them.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he gave her an appraising look. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“I’ll see you at the party, Theo.” She stepped around him then, looking up Great Russell Street and taking a few quick strides in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.

He joined her within a moment, walking just behind her with his hand in his pocket.

“Draco sent me with a car, though I’m also happy to walk you through town.”

“You drive?”

“Merlin, no. Lloyd drives. I recline in the back seat and pretend I’m in one of those movies where the CIA rushes the American president to safety.”

“I think you mean the Secret Service.”

“Yes, that’s much better. Mysterious AND dangerous.”

She noticed a long black car idling just ahead as Theo continued to chatter. The absolute nerve of the man. Malfoy clearly had no sense of boundaries, showing up at the Gryffindor pub night and now sending his friend like she was a parcel to be fetched. She had half a mind to jinx the wizard next to her and damn the consequences, but it was obvious Theo loved to talk, and she intended to get as much information as she could tonight.

“…and I’m the handsome lead agent that the President relies on and secretly wants to shag, driving around performing reconnaissance to protect the only man I—”

She turned to knock on the tinted window of the car, which slowly rolled its window down so she could peer in.

“Are you Lloyd?”

“Evenin’ miss.” The older man bobbed his head at her and turned down the volume on the match he’d been listening to.

“Can you meet us at the Devonshire Arms near Piccadilly in 20 minutes?”

Theo was watching her with a surprised expression. Did he really think drivers would be a novelty to her? Or was he uncomfortable with the idea that she was giving orders to Malfoy’s staff?

“Of course, miss.”

They continued up the street and Theo pulled another smoke from his pack. “How do you even know that’s the right car?”

She turned to him with a savage grin. “I don’t.”

—

Theodore Nott was just as infuriating as Malfoy, but in an entirely different way.

After 15 minutes of wandering the crowded pedestrian thoroughfares of central London, she’d learned a great deal about Theo’s taste in men, Theo’s favorite pubs, and Theo’s opinions about muggle movies. Frustratingly, she had learned nothing additional about Malfoy.

“Do you have any sort of gainful employment? Or do you spend all your time speculating about Vin Diesel’s sexual preferences?” She was desperately trying to avoid being drawn into a debate about a car chase franchise.

Theo just smiled and tapped his finger on the side of his nose. “I told you. Mysterious AND dangerous.”

His carefully cultivated demeanor of frivolity was beginning to wear thin.

It had been amusing at first, the Pureblood dandy act punctuated by eye rolls and frequent declarations of “shan’t!”—but he deftly maneuvered around each of her inquiries with well-practiced evasion, all while smiling and offering her outrageous compliments. He was probably an Unspeakable, or possibly an analyst for MI6. Either seemed likely.

“Theo, could you help me with something?” She paused on the sidewalk and looked up at her reflection in his aviator sunglasses.

“Anything for you, darling.”

“Cut the crap or shut the fuck up. You are wearing on my nerves.”

He looked chastened but didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry you lost a bet and were forced to abandon your club chair in favor of my company, but whatever this is,” she waved her hand back and forth in the direction of his person, “isn’t working for me.”

“I won the bet, actually, though my methods weren’t entirely above board.” His voice had dropped, the earlier affectations gone from his speech.

“What happened to the loser?”

He chuckled darkly. “Attempting to negotiate a truce between Pansy and Garfield. I’d rather face a horde of dark wizards than get between the two of them.” It was possibly the first honest thing he’d said to her all evening.

She continued down the sidewalk, navigating towards the pub by instinct and allowing the sounds of the busy street to soothe her frazzled nerves.

“I’m not going to let you take him, you know.” Theo was still speaking in his serious tone, and she wondered if this was just another mask he wore.

"Vin Diesel? Or the American president? Because I assure you, they’re both perfectly safe from me.”

“You know exactly who I mean. He’s paid his debt, reformed his thinking, salvaged his family name, and moved on from all that bullshit. I’ll not have you dragging him off for a trial because you decided you were bored and ready to settle old scores.”

They were talking about Malfoy, finally.

“I didn’t know Malfoy invited everyone holding a grudge against him to his birthday parties. Will there be a queue for the score settling? More importantly, will I get a piece of cake first?”

They stopped on a corner to wait for traffic, facing each other without any of the earlier pretense. Theo had a pained expression on his face, but Hermione could feel all the frustration of the last several days welling up now that a target had finally presented itself.

“Just how daft do you think I am, exactly? Daft enough to think that Malfoy has been hiding something left over from You Know Who? Do you think living in New York made me stupid? That I traded away all my brains for Manolo Blahniks? I know Malfoy is responsible for the break-in, Theo. And yes, I did tell Harry and no, the ministry does not seem the slightest bit interested. But more importantly, I do not think that Malfoy staged an elaborate break-in to steal a weapon from his own vault, because I am not a bloody idiot!”

“Granger, I—”

“And don’t get me started on Kingsley. He must think he’s so clever, dragging me here like I can just pull a dark artifact out of my bloody arse—”

“There’s no need to be un—”

“And the politics. Circe help me, the fucking politics. I have been forced to smile at the worst sort of Pureblood tossers while they ogle my bum and scheme to trap witches into unwanted marriages!”

“Well to be fair it is very lovel—”

“He owns a muggle private equity firm, Theo! What do I even do with that? Do you know what a private equity firm does? Because I absolutely do not and I once spent an extremely memorable weekend in Toronto with an economics postdoc from NYU!”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“He took me out to dinner at The Ivy! He showed up at the pub night in Richmond! Now he’s got me walking halfway across London to go to his birthday party—and I can’t even enjoy some silence to pretend I’m doing it for noble reasons! So don’t you dare accuse me of settling scores! Not when I helped keep him out of Azkaban in the first place!”

She stood there swaying slightly, dizzy from the effort of yelling and torn between the urge to run and the need to collapse— preferably into the decadent bathtub she’d forgone earlier.

Once again, she’d let her mouth run ahead of her brain and showed her hand—to a Slytherin, of course. It was an inauspicious start to the evening.

Theo pursed his lips in quiet contemplation. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Quite so.”

“You need a drink.”

“Yes.”

“Allow me.”

Lloyd was exactly where he’d promised to be, just up the street near the historic Soho pub. Theo opened the door for her as they climbed into the spacious sedan and lapsed into silence. She stared out the window as the city flew by in a blur of color and tried to gather herself before the evening got underway.

—

The car pulled over next to a large building just at the edge of Hyde Park. Several nondescript government signs were posted along the exterior walls.

“Muggles think this is an office for Revenue & Customs. They don’t want to be anywhere near it.” Theo chuckled as he held the door for her and gestured towards a mullioned entrance trimmed with elaborate wrought iron.

She felt the magic of the wards wash over her as she stepped through. The ground floor was mostly dark, and he guided her towards a small lift in the corner. It reminded her of the tiny pre-war elevators in New York, but with an extension charm for additional comfort.

As Theo closed the gate Hermione took a deep breath through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. She was actually here, in Malfoy’s ridiculously large house, and her anxiety was beginning to swell at the thought of being surrounded by a room full of strange witches and wizards—at least some of whom had wanted her dead or tortured during their school years.

She’d thought a great deal about this party, while simultaneously trying not to think of it at all. It suddenly occurred to her that she should have prepared some polite small talk, something she could say about herself that didn’t involve her job or the weather.

In a few short moments Theo opened the gate again and gestured her forward.

“The crowd’s a bit of a mix tonight. You’ll recognize some people from school of course, but there’s a group from the continent and even a few Americans about.”

They’d emerged in the corner of a large, open-plan living area that seemed at odds with the age of the building. A pair of cream sofas faced one another in a large seating area in front of a wall of charmed glass windows that overlooked the park. She noticed a vintage mid-century leather lounger in one corner near a fireplace that was glowing a faint green.

Small groups of people were scattered around drinking and laughing, and she thought she heard piano jazz playing in the background. Surprisingly, she wasn’t the only witch wearing a muggle dress tonight. The atmosphere was festive, relaxed, and surprisingly unwizardish. It did little to put her at ease.

“What’s the likelihood of me being hexed before the party is over? High, or very high?” She arched one brow at Theo and picked up a flute of something bubbly from a tray floating nearby.

“Are you planning to pick a fight over the refreshments?”

“Hardly. Just working through my usual threat assessment. Should I be more worried about Pansy or Garfield?”

“Pansy is the self-appointed hostess. She’ll ensure that the birthday boy’s special guest is treated with something close to respect. Garfield will do whatever he can to get under your skin. The harder he tries, the more he likes you. Draco banishes him to the kitchen during parties, but that’s only around the corner so he still manages to cause mischief.”

“What were they fighting about earlier?”

He gestured towards her drink. “Garfield wanted to serve prosecco first and save the champagne for later—start with something lighter on the palate. Pansy wants to serve champagne all evening.”

Hermione smiled and took a sip of her drink, privately thinking that Garfield had the right of it. The champagne felt a bit thick after the warmth of the day.

Theo seemed eager to join the rest of the party, but before they could take more than three steps Pansy appeared, leaning in to welcome her with a breezy kiss next to her cheek before surveying her from toes to hair.

“Damn. Blaise told me you looked good but I didn’t believe him. Now I’m out 20 galleons and I have to revisit all my previous opinions about halter necklines. How dreadful.”

Hermione wasn’t quite ready to embrace the woman who’d tried to offer Harry up to Voldemort, but she thawed a bit at the back-handed compliment.

“Making excuses for staring at my tits Parkinson?”

Pansy was wearing a sharply cut skirt and criss-cross top that Hermione vaguely recognized from a recent editorial spread. Miu Miu? Prada? One of the Italian houses.

Her dark hair was cut shorter than it had been in school, angled dramatically towards her jaw. She winked and gave Hermione a sly smile.

“You know I’ll never admit to it.”

Hermione glanced around, trying to think of a compliment she could offer, when she spotted Malfoy coming towards them from the other side of the room. He was dressed more casually than Theo, in a black blazer and a dark shirt with the top button left open. Her eyes caught on the hint of skin just below his throat, and she had a sudden, overwhelming urge to lick him right there.

“Pansy, please stop sexually harassing my guests. Theo, thank you very much. Now both of you, kindly fuck off.”

Theo gave a mock salute and stepped away as Malfoy’s familiar, woody scent surrounded her. She felt his hand on her lower back and swallowed thickly, suddenly conscious of how close he was standing to her.

“Sorry for sending Theo but I couldn’t get away.”

She felt herself leaning into him slightly, her body betraying her as she attempted to rally her anger from just an hour before.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I am extremely selfish, Granger. I’ll not have my birthday party ruined because you’re too stubborn to admit that dark elements are mobilizing even as we speak.”

Sarcasm dripped from his voice as he quoted Kingsley’s article from earlier in the week, but she felt a little tingle go up her spine at the thought that her absence could possibly ruin an evening for him.

“Maybe the dark elements could pick up some Jammie Dodgers on their way over.” She was taking in the details of a clever pyramid of sweets charmed to levitate above a richly decorated buffet table. Every so often an item would disappear, replaced by something new but equally delightful looking. “This lot seems much too refined for my tastes.”

“I’m sure we can find something that will satisfy you,” he said with a grin that sent a sharp jolt of anticipation to her stomach. He doesn’t mean it like that, she reminded herself. Surely not.

He led her over towards the windows, nodding to guests and exchanging a few words as they made their way through the room. The sun was piercing through the trees outside, but filtering charms softened the light and bathed the room in an ethereal, dusky glow.

“Honestly, I thought you wouldn’t bother coming.” He looked out over the park, a slight hesitance in his words. “I know your friends must be eager to see you while you’re here.”

“They are, but they’re also busy with their own lives. Harry and Ginny have two kids now, and Neville is at Hogwarts most of the time. I hardly see Ron anymore.”

He looked down at her face, his eyes intense. “And I thought you might still be upset with me, though I hoped your curiosity would win out. That you might be willing to talk to me some more.”

“Are you feeling neglected Malfoy?” She took a step towards him, drawn by his gaze and an urge to place her hand on his arm, his chest, anywhere she could feel his warmth again.

“Terribly neglected. And it’s my birthday, after all.”

“You poor thing. I’d better take care of you then.” Her tone was light, teasing, but she saw his jaw clench and his eyes darken, and she was reminded that they weren’t alone right now. His birthday party was all around them and she was monopolizing the man of the hour.

They were suspended there for a moment, staring at each other, until Malfoy shook himself loose with a sigh.

“Will you keep me company while I talk to these people I foolishly allowed into my home tonight?” He stretched his arms over his head, and she tried not to stare at the way his shirt tightened across his chest. “I swear they’re mostly tolerable, and you can hex them if they aren’t.”

—

Malfoy had a surprisingly eclectic collection of friends and acquaintances. She was having a lovely evening and feeling slightly put out about it.

In addition to the Slytherins—at least one of whom was always hovering nearby—there were several European researchers whose work she had followed in journals such as Pioneering Potions and Applied Charmwork, as well as a wizard named Wiggins from MACUSA who kept his back to the wall and was extremely vague about what he did, exactly.

A pair of French witches egged each other on sharing indelicate stories from their extended friend group, several of which sounded suspiciously similar to recent episodes of Real Housewives.

She was never far from Malfoy’s side as they gradually worked the room, though she tried to make her own introductions among the crowd. Part of her had worried that she was once again being used to make a point—about Malfoy’s rehabilitation, or his connections in the wizarding world—but few people were interested in exactly how she knew him. The last wizarding war might as well have been a century ago.

Most of the guests seemed to know one another, though it lacked the intimacy that she’d both expected and dreaded. Her presence was warmly welcomed but seemed unremarkable to the foreigners, who had trouble recalling how they knew her name in the first place.

Every so often she would catch Blaise or Theo studying her from across the room before abruptly turning away.

“I met Matias at uni, of all places.” Malfoy was speaking low in her ear as a tall, gangly wizard droned on about the venture he was trying to fund. “I was trying so hard to blend in, not make any mistakes that would fuck up my rehabilitation, and then he pulled a vial of Pepper-Up Potion out in the middle of the student centre. I was convinced I’d be back in Azkaban before the end of the day.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “You went to university? Where?”

“LSE. A two-year programme that didn’t require me to live on campus.”

“How did you manage something like that?” The London School of Economics was popular with international students, though she couldn’t imagine how Malfoy had passed the entrance requirements for what was almost certainly a graduate-level course of study.

“Money is its own form of magic, Granger.”

“But why a muggle university? You could have gone to France or Sweden for a mastery, or found a mentor anywhere on the continent without going to all the extra trouble.”

His infamy would have made further study in the UK difficult, but wealthy witches & wizards often undertook private tutelage with more accomplished practitioners in their chosen field. It was a luxury she hadn’t been able to afford, which was how she had landed on a mastery in Salem, Massachusetts as her best option.

Matias had fallen into a debate with the witch next to him, so they moved away to lean against the back of a low sofa.

“No one worth studying with would take me on as a student. I applied for a potions mastery in France, but my past made it impossible. Too risky to be seen catering to the wrong sort. The ministry wanted me rehabilitated, but they weren’t writing me glowing letters of recommendation either.”

After the war everyone wanted to be remembered as being on the winning side, regardless of what they’d actually done, and many had attempted to rewrite their own sordid history with scorn and judgement.

“My probation after Hogwarts included a bunch of muggle practicum stuff. Not very well done, mind you,” he gave a derisive laugh and gazed across the room for a moment.

“They’d forcibly retired this dotty old wizard from Misuse of Magical Artifacts after the war, and assigned him to be my tutor instead. He tried to take me to a bloody telegraph office—like the blind leading the naked.

“I had to meet him twice a week to do something outside the wizarding world. Eventually we managed to go to the movies. High street shops. Takeaway spots. And after a couple of months I found myself actually looking forward to it. It got me out of the Manor without the risk of someone hexing me—”

He paused at the look of horror on her face and shrugged. “It was better than the alternative, and I probably deserved it.”

She sniffed and frowned. “Disagree.”

“Anyway, eventually I started to get interested in the mechanics of how it all works. Tesco, the London Eye, the airplanes, the huge billboards. What’s it all doing, you know? Why is it like that?”

For the first time she imagined how the bright, noisy world of central London might appear to a parochial wizard. She tried to picture Malfoy eating McDonald’s in Piccadilly Circus and failed miserably.

“So you discovered twenty-first century capitalism. Good shout.”

“More like bathed in it. Reveled in it. Spent a few months absolutely mad for television. But eventually I realized it’s all about money, isn’t it? And I could take advantage of that. I had a vault full of gold even after the war reparations, and a lot of time and no other options.

“Everything was easier for me, in the muggle world. No hostility. No expectations. Once I had a credit card and knew how to queue properly, I had things I could actually do beyond staying at home and wondering if alcoholism was a better coping mechanism than full-time Occlusion.”

He sighed and squeezed the back of his neck, his pale hair ruffling lightly against his long fingers.

“Studying business and economics seemed like the next logical step, and I was always good at arithmancy. My tutor helped me pull some strings at the ministry and get the paperwork together. They thought it’d be…beneficial.”

Something in her chest ached at his story, at the loss he was careful to avoid naming.

Had Malfoy felt cast out after his trial? Or had he just been left behind like a bad memory? She knew what it was like to become unmoored from the world, to become a living, breathing ghost haunting a previous version of your life. Everything continued on as normal, but you remained adrift—superfluous even to yourself.

She’d been forced to seek a new berth, someplace she could become solid again. Real. Necessary. Apparently Malfoy had done the same.

His arm was warm under her hand as she reached over and finally touched him, his eyes drifting towards her mouth before he flinched back suddenly.

“Granger, you don’t ha—”

A loud crack startled them from the other side of the room, and she jerked her hand away as Pansy came around the corner following a large, garishly decorated cake levitating into the crowd.

The moment between them shattered, and Hermione carefully edged backwards as all eyes turned towards Malfoy.

“Alright you lot! Let’s get this over with.” Pansy’s eyes sparkled with delight as she brought the cake to a stop.

Several charms whizzed around the layers of candles and confectionery, popping and snapping as they projected a whirl of sparks and bright colors. Raucous shouts and cheers accompanied the noise of the cake, which produced a small fountain of chocolate in a final burst of magic.

Malfoy looked startled for a moment, then pushed his mouth into a pout.

“Is that all there is then? Last year there were sparkling charms AND those gossamer lights you know I like so much.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes and brandished her wand playfully. “Oh shut it. It’s chocolate ganache and more than you deserve. Happy birthday Draco! Dirty thirty! Make merry or some shit, but don’t expect me to sing.”

The room erupted in noise and laughter, and Malfoy smirked in satisfaction. It was obvious he was adored by his friends, who rushed in to clap him on the back and tease him about his whinging. He looked back at her for a moment, but she just raised her eyebrows and gestured him forward.

Grounding herself, she leaned back against the sofa and took a deep breath, focusing on the happy sounds of the party as her stomach clenched with a mix of loss and relief.

Having all of Malfoy’s attention was heady in a way that was difficult to navigate. She wanted to leave and she wanted to melt into his arms—at the same time, if such a thing were even possible—which frightened her more than she liked to admit.

Did he want to touch her too? Was he wondering what it might feel like to close the gap between them once and for all?

With a deep sigh, she set off to search for answers in the bottom of another glass of champagne.

—

“Do you think she realizes?” Theo’s voice was low and serious.

Rounding the corner of the buffet table, Hermione came to a sudden stop. She’d been taking her time with the enchanted stack of treats, carefully considering her options, when she heard the voices from the kitchen.

“Unlikely. She’s too busy digging through articles of incorporation to see what he’s doing.”

“He’s maintaining plausible deniability.”

“The thinnest veneer.”

“How does it end then?”

“Badly, would be the safe guess.”

A plate of petit fours trembled slightly in her hand despite her held breath.

“Patch him up in Ibiza bad? Or close ranks and hire a crisis PR firm bad?”

The hum of the party continued around her, but Blaise didn’t use words to respond to Theo’s question.

“Well, fuck.”

“I’m trying to prepare, but he’s not telling me shit.” Blaise sounded resigned, completely at odds with the otherwise festive atmosphere.

“Have you considered the possibility that this could actually turn out fine?”

“Fuck no.”

Ice clinked in glasses and cupboard doors closed as footsteps began to move her way. Her heart was racing, her throat thick with anxiety.

How could she have been so stupid? Foolish. Naive. Idiot.

She slipped down the darkened corridor away from the party, a mantra of self-recrimination echoing in her mind.

Malfoy was still occupied with cake and well wishes as she looked for an escape route. The lift stood in the corner, dimly lit, but she couldn’t bear to be trapped in such a small space with her lungs unable to fully expand.

Stepping into the shadows, she cast a quick Disillusionment charm on herself and looked around. A staircase lead down from opposite the lift, illuminated by a soft glow.

She tiptoed quietly downward as unwelcome memories from the last week with Malfoy played in her mind. He had been prickly at times, but also thoughtful and conscientious. He’d offered a heartfelt apology and made a show of opening his vaults to her, of taking her to dinner. He’d put his jacket on her shoulders.

The deceit rankled. Plausible deniability.

It was true, she’d had her head in books & archives for much of the week. For Merlin’s sake, she’d been busy working, while he’d been plotting. Blaise & Theo knew it, enough to speculate about the inevitable consequences. No wonder they’d been staring at her all night. Pathetic idiot.

The first floor opened up at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a large area that appeared public and impersonal. A long conference table dominated the space. Beyond, charmed glass enclosed a large office facing the park.

Malfoy’s office.

She could Apparate from here, or find the stairs down to the ground floor, but curiosity carried her forward towards the large wooden door. This was her chance, finally. Harry had been here earlier in the week, but it was obvious Malfoy had prepared thoroughly for the aurors’ search.

Even in the privacy of her mind she tried not to be uncharitable towards Harry and the DMLE, but she wasn’t at all confident that they’d searched thoroughly. There was at least a chance they’d missed something. Perhaps Malfoy had relaxed his guard once the search was complete.

A burning feeling of humiliation had settled in her chest, along with the white-hot desire to even the score. She wouldn’t be played for a fool again. Her wand was in her hand, casting a complex series of ward and curse detection spells before she had time to think twice about what she was doing.

Malfoy’s security was pragmatic and thorough, made up of several layers of wards interwoven with a few clever traps. She recognized both a sticking charm and a levitation charm as she carefully unwound each spell.

Once the wards were removed, she cast another diagnostic on the doorknob itself, unsurprised to find a particularly nasty hex lying in wait. He means business. Amateurs usually get caught this way. She tried not to feel impressed.

Inside the office she took a moment to allow her eyes to adjust. Ambient light filtered in from the windows, and she could make out a sofa before a large fireplace in addition to the large desk. Bookshelves lined the wall opposite the fireplace, containing a mix of art, objects, and reference material.

With the wards down, she didn’t have much time. Her wand quickly cast a wide net of detection spells around the room, focusing on the desk and the shelves. Several of the items on display lit up, but the most interesting results were around his desk. It was a gamble, ignoring the magical objects right in front of her, but going after whatever Malfoy kept close at hand seemed like the best strategy.

There was magic concentrated on one particular drawer. She could feel it nudging against her own, insistent but familiar, like the pressure just before the clouds open up and pour. Leaning down, she drew a set of runes with her wand before casting another series of diagnostics. Her eyebrows shot up at the results.

Blood wards.

Time was running out. Her focus narrowed on the problem at hand, her mind emptying of additional thought. Over the years she’d learned that overthinking in these moments only lead to mistakes and complications. Instinctively her breath settled into a calming pattern—steady, not too deep, in and out, the air sharpening her mind. First thought, best thought.

It wouldn’t be pretty or subtle, but she didn’t have time for anything else.

She drew a complex opening rune at each corner of the drawer, connected them with a linking spell, then built a magical channel from the drawer to Malfoy’s desk chair. The magic was crude and improvisational, but she held it steady as she stepped away from the desk, triggering her spells once she approached the fireplace.

Four small pops fired from the other side of the room. She felt the protective magic seize and quiver, before Malfoy’s chair exploded into pieces as the wards finally collapsed.

Stepping through the wreckage, she tugged on the drawer. Only two objects lay inside, barely visible in the dim light; a flat velvet box, and a small notebook.

Too pressed to be curious, she tossed both items into her bag and Apparated away.